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Have you really been calling a muddy isle ‘camp’ for the past tendays? Your room at the Mermaid is shabby, but it has a bed—a real bed. And curtains.
Said bed is taken by Astarion, who’s leisurely reading a novel while you make arrows for him; he’s certainly not going to make them himself.
“Where did you find that again?” you ask, setting your knife aside for a second.
He turns a page and finishes reading the sentence before answering you. “It was lying on the side of the street, clearly discarded.”
He stole it. Wonderful .
You shift your focus on the knife in your hand and resume fletching, leaving Astarion to his smutty literature. He lowered himself on the bed to let the light hit his face; he looks just like a cat—or a cold-blooded reptile—lazing in the sun.
Cute . He’d probably shudder if he could read your mind—and he can , so you should think about something else, but he finally lowered his guard around you, and when his enjoyment is genuine it gives his features a soft, almost boyish charm.
You try to focus on making some more arrows, but the knife in your hand becomes less precise the more you strain your eyes.
“Ow.” It slips on a knot in the wood and grazes your skin. The shallow cut doesn’t hurt, but it’s going to—
Astarion’s pale hand reaches for your wrist; he absentmindedly guides your injured finger to his lips.
You blink, once. His eyebrows raise as he turns another page.
He would have never touched you without ulterior—yet very welcome—motives before. What changed?
When you press your finger on his plush lips, the corner of his mouth curls upwards.
“Almost done,” he says, turning the final page. You retract your finger and he licks his blood-smeared lips. Barely enough to be considered a taste, yet he does not beg for more.
“I waited two centuries to read the second volume.” With a heavy sigh that betrays some fondness, he closes the novel. “The series is just as bad as I remember it.”
Your gaze falls on the bare-chested pirate on the cover, tangled in a passionate embrace with a loosely dressed noblewoman. “I did not know you were into… smutty novels.”
“We all need our guilty pleasures.” The self-important gait he wears like a shield is back.
Does he think you’re that gullible? Does he truly believe that you’re too blind to notice the change in demeanor?
“You can drop the act, you know.” An eerie calm makes your voice sound chilly.
Astarion drops his novel and sits on the bed; he looks ready to fight or flee, but you don’t want him to do any of those things. You’ve been around him enough to see the charming mask crack and splinter, but he still dons it. “I don’t know what you mean.”
You’re in Baldur’s Gate. He can’t lose his true ally, his only one. He can’t lose you.
“You don’t need to pretend you enjoy my company.” His jaw clenches. “I gave you my word, didn’t I? I will help you crush Cazador, whether you act pleasant or not.”
“How long have you known?”
Does Astarion know that when he is scared, he lowers his head and makes his eyes look like those of a doe?
“Ever since we spent the night together.” He was about to flee the scene, leave you naked in the woods. Was he feeling remorseful, you wonder, or perhaps ashamed?
“You are a weakness.” He spits the words like they’re venom. “That’s exactly the sort of thing Cazador can and will exploit.”
Seeing him being honest is refreshing and you can’t help but smile—or attempt to, at least. “I thought I was vampire fodder.”
“Levity does you no favour.” He snarls, speaking in a low, scratchy voice. “Soon you’ll realize the depth of fear that only a true vampire can evoke.”
“You’re right.” You push the chair from the desk, ready to end the conversation. “I’ll know soon enough.”
Astarion looks mortally offended. “ How dare you. Here I am baring my heart to you and you just… leave?”
You frown. How was he ‘baring his heart’, exactly?
“All I know is that I got called weak .”
“Not weak, a weakness.” He crosses his arms after correcting you. “A weakness of mine , I should add.”
You hum, letting him continue.
“Yes, at the beginning I wanted to wrap you around my little finger.” Astarion sighs. “I needed someone that would do my bidding.” He sounds most displeased. “Everything was going according to plan, then I had these—” He gesticulates over his chest.
“The thought of enthralling you is now most repulsive. I am most repulsive, I hate what you turned me into.”
“What did I turn you into?”
He deadpans. “A being ready to torment himself over—” His entire face twists in disgust. “—your approval.”
“Aw.”
He looks mortally offended once again. “That’s your reaction? I throw myself at your feet and all I get is an ‘aw’?”
Leave it to him to make a tragedy out of something sweet; you should have expected a reaction like that from someone enraptured by a bodice ripper.
You lean on the bed to thread your fingers in his silver hair. He lets you, despite looking affronted by the gesture.
Cute .
You leave a kiss on his forehead and part from him to observe his reaction.
There’s a first for everything—it’s the first time you manage to make him flustered.
Of course, it only lasts a moment.
“Ew. Do it again.”