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guccialli · 1 year ago

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Portrait of the pale elf (2) - Rough sketches of a stranger

Chapter Summary : Who is a painter if she cannot paint anymore ? Selene has reached a dead-end, she is uninspired and despaired, wandering aimlessly in the streets of Baldur's Gate. But it is without counting on the fact that one fateful encounter can change anything and everything, and set in motion the wheel of fortune.

Warnings : Abuse. Mention of past abuse. Teasing. Pining.

Word count : 3,6k

Authors's Note : In this chapter I'm introducing my OC, Selene, a shy little painter. Tav will be part of this story too, but not yet :) You can also find this story on my Ao3. I hope you will enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it !

How strange it is to lose something you thought you��d always have, Selene thought, as she sat in front of a blank canvas.

As far as she could remember, she’d always had fingers stained with paint or charcoal. It had came to her as naturally as her first breath, or as the first clumsy steps of a child.

There was a silence now in her mind, an absence that she didn’t quite understand. As if a long lost version of her past self had packed all her belongings, and left her to rot in a world devoid of beauty.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t inspired, she could’ve painted anything and everything. She’d only have to take few steps outside to find a pretty view in Baldur’s Gate.

She was simply terrified to do so, after that one incident.

Come back, Please come back to me, she silently prayed to Déneïr, or to any other god that had once taken an interest in the follies of artists. How am I supposed to live this way ?, she kept begging, night and day, day and night, but no answer ever came, either from the sky above, or from her own paralyzed psyche.

Weeks after weeks, months after months, torn pieces of paper after torn pieces of paper, ripped canvases after ripped canvases, she wasted away. She grew thin and sickly, sleepless and with no appetite for life.

It would have been fine if she was the only one to suffer from this peculiar affliction, but Selene wasn’t free to paint when she felt like it. She had responsibilities, paintings to finish in time, and a master painter to please.

Damian Fallheel, was an acclaimed and renowned artist amongst Baldur’s Gate nobility. She was nothing but an orphan, an half-elf little girl with no prospects and future, when he’d taken her in.

One day, he’d walked by the steps of the orphanage she was sitting on, furiously drawing on a stone with chalks. Even after all this time, she still remembered how dazzling he looked to her children’s eyes.

He stood tall above her in the declining light of the late afternoon, cladded in dark blue silk and golden jewelries. His long blond hair was tied by a red ribbon in his back, and he had the most beautiful golden eyes she'd ever seen. Everything, from the way he was dressed to the way he moved, reminded her that they should not have been breathing the same air.

If the sun had been graced with a body and a face, he would've looked like Damian, so the little girl guessed that he was a sun elf. He could only be a high ranking nobility one, like the pretty people that she sometimes saw when she dared to go to the limits of the higher city, just to get a glimpse of the "toffs" as the other kids would say.

His bright eyes curiously followed the motions of her fingers, the swirls and the scratches, the halts and the continuations. Crouching down to be at eye level with her, he then stared at her drawing intently for a few minutes.

What he saw in that unskilful drawing made by an eight year old girl, she would never know.

Selene’s small heart hammered in her chest, because it was the first time someone had ever taken an interest in her at all. It was as if she suddenly realized that she existed. Her whole life she’d felt as though she was an invisible spectator, sitting on the side of the stage of life, waiting to be given a role to play.

Strangers usually passed by the streets without a glance, cats curled up by the plants pots behind her for a nap, couples giggled and kissed arm in arm. But no one ever went out their way like this. Ever.

He softly traced the colorful butterfly wings she’d drawn with his fingertips. "Do you like to draw, child ?"

"It’s the only thing I’ve ever liked", she shyly replied with an adorable lisp, hiding her blushing cheeks behind her black hair.

"Drawing is akin to magic, you know. Things that are real, things that aren’t, it doesn’t matter. You will always have the world, and beyond, at the tips of your fingers. It’s a gift."

As he was talking to her about the beauty of art, she felt as though he was part of the things she’d like to have at the tips of her fingers. At night, when all the other children would be asleep in the dormitory, she’d slip away by the kitchens, and light a candle in secret. While the whole world would be dreaming, far far away, she’d draw him by memory, to never forget this moment.

Sad days weren’t scarce in orphanages. Some kids would cling to a book, a toy, or a small object left with them by their parents, to survive in the hardest of times. Selene cherished her drawings instead. Not because she’d made them, but because each one of them was a memento of a particularly happy memory.

"Yes, but I need to see more of it to paint it", she wistfully added, "And children like me don’t go anywhere."

His long and graceful fingers caressed her cheeks, wiping away a tear that she didn’t know was there.

"What is your name ?"

There was nothing in the blanket Selene was wrapped in, when they found her at the doorstep of the orphanage. No jewelry, no doll, just a crumpled piece of paper with a name hastily written in black ink.

"Selene" she mumbled, as he gently tuck a few strands of her dark hair behind her ear to properly look at her.

"Would you like to come and see the world with me then, Selene ? I’m a painter myself, I could teach you."

Such offer could never be refused, of course. She had willingly taken Damian’s hand, and he’d her made her his student and apprentice.

She didn’t know it then, but she had been caught in a trap.

To this day, she couldn’t tell what Damian truly was to her.

A teacher. A master. A father figure. An unrequited love.

These days, he was, above all, a thief. An indebted clown, that signed her own paintings with his name.

If someone was to learn that Damian Fallheel was a liar and a farce, what a tragedy it’d be. For him and for her. Her name would forever be soiled and associated into every mind with his scam.

How unfair it was that he could drag her with him in his fall, when he’d always made sure that his rise to fame would never rub on her.

For the past ten years, all his best works had secretly been painted by Selene. She’d always had to endure the torture of seeing people congratulate him, praise him, worship him, in her place.

It’ mine. It’s all mine, don’t you see ?, she wanted to scream, but always remained silent and poised instead. Damian’s good little apprentice, the docile and gifted child he’d generously saved from a life of misery.

He had indeed given her a role on the wide stage of life, but she’d been fooled. Her master had promised her that she would be one of the main actors, but he’d made her a bit player instead.

All of this she could endure, somehow.

But to lose the sole purpose of her life ? To be stripped of her art altogether ? She could not.

Sometimes she even wondered if this was a form of divine punishment. She thought that the deity that had once been looking over her, had forsaken her, because she’d given up on her own paintings.

Because she had given them away so easily to Damian for scraps of love, just to hear him say that she "belonged".

You have given up on yourself, child, so I shall give up on you in turn, the god would sternly say, weighing in their hands the gravity of her crime.

And yet, right when she had started to lose all hope, she crossed path with him.

The breathtaking stranger that she saw almost every night, sitting and reading at the Black Cat’s Delight.

It was a small tavern, in the very last streets of the higher city, that only artists visited. Some came to discuss, to exchange ideas, and sometimes to find an understanding shoulder to cry on. Others came to read and enjoy the unusual books that the owner collected and shared with her guests : grimoires of scatty enchantments, encyclopedias on all the fashion trends of the last centuries, memoirs of famous painters and sculptors of Faerûn …

That man belonged to the second category.

He came to sit on his own, near the library nook, and read silently on his own for a few hours, with a glass of red wine by his hand.

At first, she’d just cast discreet glances at him, her eyes ever drawn to lovely picture his presence created in the dimmed atmosphere of the tavern.

He would always sit by the windows, and the streets lights that came through it made it look like his white curls were made of star light. The diffused silver hues made it look like he had a halo about him, one that she’d only imagined gods, angels, or otherworldly creatures would’ve been blessed with.

Shadows and gleams of light moved across his focused face, with each coach passing by, with each silhouette walking past the storefront. Chiaroscuros danced around every one of his sharp lines and soft edges, as if even the darkness and the light were fighting the right to touch and covet such beauty.

What a marvel his symmetrical and delicate features were… She would’ve argued that his visage was more bewitching, than those of the marbly statues of angels she’d admired in the estates of some baldurian nobles.

His eyes were, probably, the part of him that she observed the most.

Two rubies, shimmering in the candlelights. They looked identical to the rings on his fingers, adorned with big red stones she’d only seen in the jewelleries’ window displays of the richest neighborhoods, where Damian’s manor was.

One night, her hands moved on their own and grabbed her charcoal stick.

It felt like she’d been possessed, and she quickly entered the familiar trance of a painter at work.

Fingers moving on their own. Eyes glazed over and frantic.

On some corner of a page she drew one of his low set eyes, and the shadow cast by his lashes on his cheek.

On another one, she traced the graceful curve of his long hands around the binding of his book.

And then in the middle, she meticulously drew his side profile. The soft and almost imperceptible curve of his straight nose. His barely opened mouth, as if to draw a sigh. The intricacies of his jawline, neither sharp or round. The shape of his pointy ear, picking through his thick hair. The pale column of his neck, barely visible amongst the rustles of his pussybow shirt.

It went on like this, night after night. Her sketchbook all but filled with parts of him, glimpses of his beauty, she felt like she couldn’t take enough time to do justice to.

"His name is Astarion" the owner, Lara, had once whispered in Selene’s ears as she placed a cup of brewed tea by her side, "He is a very famous tailor … Well, I should probably introduce him first as one of the heroes that saved us ten years ago, before deciding to sew dresses for the riches."

She’d settled beside her on a stool, and leaned closer to mutter the next part, as if it was too scandalous to risk other people hearing it.

"They say he is a vampire. Rumors has it that a lot of his clients like to indulge his needs… and do many other vulgar things",she giggled, quickly getting up and about to serve the other clients.

Selene blushed, flushed from her neck to the tip of her ears. A vampire … It explained his mystical aura for sure. An image of him with blood smeared across his perfect lips flashed in her mind, and her fingers tightened around her pencil, as if they itched to draw it.

See it, etch it, trace it on the blank paper.

She liked to admire him from afar, to simply pay tributes to his magnificence without him being aware. It probably would’ve gone on and on this way, if he hadn’t been the one the creep closer.

Selene didn’t know it then but, one cannot really observe a vampire without him being aware. Such sharp senses wouldn’t allow it.

Especially not Astarion’s.

"Are you drawing me by any chance ?", an enchanting voice had asked from behind her shoulder one evening, and she nearly wailed in terror.

"N-No", she stuttered, and her words came out hurried and muffled like a child surprised by their parents while doing something naughty, "I'm definitely not."

When she turned around, there he was. So regal. So close. So … wonderfully… himself.

Her hands instinctively shot up to slam her sketchbook close, and a dangerous smirk settled on his delicate lips.

A single lose piece of paper had escaped her rushed hands and was flying away, slowly falling at his feet.

When he bent down to pick it up, her heart was in her throat.

It was just a barely finished drawing of his hands, and yet she’d never felt that vulnerable when showing her work before.

Don’t look at it. It’s messy. It’s ugly. I’m far too out of practice.

"Oh come now darling, are you lying as well as prying on me ? Those are unmistakably my own dainty fingers, I’d recognize them anywhere", he chuckled before showing her his index and the jewelry on it, "And I haven’t seen anyone wear that one ring in all of Faerûn either…Apart from me that is."

Darling, he’d said to her. She thought she might combust right then and there.

"I’m so sorry I should’ve asked-", she started but, he gracefully walked closer, and leaned on the back of the empty chair next to her own.

"Don’t apologize. Being a source of inspiration is hardly offensive, on the contrary."

His perfume softly drifted in the air. Astarion supposedly was a creature of the night, but she’d never met someone that smelt so much like the sun. If she closed her eyes, she could almost picture a hot summer’s evening in a garden full of herbs and flowers, the way their earthy scent would be pugnant after a day in the blazing heat.

Bergamot. Rosemary. And a hint of alcool, that she thought came from the drink he’d left by the grimoire he’d been reading that night.

"I’m sorry if I seemed creepy, staring so intensely. I needed to practice and, the scenery just looked so lovely.",she softly muttered, her hands still tightly clasped around the cover of her sketch book, as if she feared it would fly open on it’s own.

" I’m used to people staring at me, but usually they end up making a move at some point’ he picked his nails as he talked, and Selene couldn’t help but follow each and every one of his motion with awe.

She noticed how his hands gracefully moved around each time he talked, or how his muscles flexed under the pale skin of his veiny forearms. "I saw you lurking for weeks, and I was wondering when you would."

It would be a mix of yellow, white, beige, and perhaps a hint of purple, or blue, for the cold undertone. Just thin layers of paint, repeated touches of colors, until she’d have managed to translate the "translucent" quality of his skin on the canvas.

"Patience isn’t really my thing, so my curiosity got the best of me and I talked to you first."

He gave her the first ever smile she’d seen on him then, all dimples and sharp teeth. The color of his pouty lips should be a cold pink, slightly mauve, maybe a rose de bois.

"I understand now, you were not just admiring me for the sake of admiring me, were you ?", Astarion seductively implied, and it’s only then that she picked up on the conversation. The rest of his words had somehow been lost to her, as if for a few seconds, she’d been too busy painting him on the walls of her mind.

Imagining the right colors to use, and the right way to apply it on the stretched fabric.

"To be honest, you are the first person I’ve been wanting to draw in quite a bit of time.", she finally confessed, quite sheepishly, and as soon as she’d said it, she regretted admitting to her pitiful state.

"Could I see ?", he asked and there was an edge to his voice that made her look at him straight in the eyes for the first time since they’d started talking, ‘Your drawings, I mean.’

She was met with a smoldering look, his irises shining up close like the dying embers of a fire. There were no traces of deceit or mockery in his gaze, he truly meant it.

Or so it seemed.

"It’s nothing spectacular really, just a few unimpressive sketches. I’m no great artist, just a nobody in a city full of maestros."

"Please", he sensually begged, his voice swiftly dropping a few octaves. Liquid smooth.

He slowly bent over, bracing his hands on the table, to come closer. The devious smirk that she'd seen him wear before disappeared, and his molten gaze intimately followed the lines of her features. This almost painful scrutiny had Selene squirming on her seat, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

From this new angle, she could see the scar on his neck. The ghost of a gruesome puncture wound emerging from the frills of his fancy silk shirt. A crack in his mask of glamour and seduction.

It was but a somber reminder of the fact that he indeed was a being who forever belonged to the darkness : a vampire.

The painter in her almost reached for it, unknowingly eager to have the more sinister parts of him at tips of her fingers, and at the tip of her paint brushes. She wouldn't only draw the sublime parts of him, she'd embrace everything that he was.

Every scar. Every fang. Every dark urge. Every blood stain.

His pale ringed fingers reached out to toy with the end of her dark curls, gliding and tugging, mere inches away from the open collar of her shirt that she had unbuttoned earlier.

"Don’t be so ridiculously humble. I can already tell just by looking at this", he tapped on the drawing with his index, before whispering in her ear, "that you are quite the accomplished artist."

Delicious shivers ran down her spine.

Astarion then glided his fingers through a strand of her long hair, and his hand gently brushed against her cheek when he tucked it behind her ear.

"So indulge me, darling."

She felt his cold and sweet breath on her cheek, and he was so close that it almost seemed like he would kiss it.

He was perfect in every possible way, the most magnificent man she’d ever seen in her entire miserable existence …And yet, something felt wrong.

His gesture had reminded her of something. A painful superposition.

The sad memory of the day she'd met Damian flashed before her eyes.

She stared at Astarion's fingers, and all she could think about was the way her master had touched her hair at the orphanage.

Let it be a warning, she'd vowed to herself, a reminder of the fact that pretty words and a soft hand are often used to blind and abuse the trust of others.

Do you like to draw, child ?, he'd asked her, and she knew with certainty, that her answer to that question had changed.

And just as she was thinking about the master painter, the doors of the tavern were violently thrown open.

An elf furiously emerged from the darkness of the busy streets, and Selene suddenly wanted to throw up.

Talk of the devil and he will appear.

"There you are ! I have been looking for you everywhere !", Damian exclaimed, his boots stamping on the wooden floor as he quickly got to her table.

His amber eyes nervously darted to Astarion, but he did not introduce himself, like Selene would’ve expected.

No handshake, no bow, no curtesy. No fake smiles or disgusting flattery.

How peculiar… Fallheel wouldn’t usually miss any chance to sell himself, or to "extend his social circle", as he would say.

Damian simply looked at Selene once again, with a scolding look that she’d seen too many times before. It made her shudder with fear as much as it did when she was still a child.

"Obey me. You owe me everything. I have made you who you are.", he would always say when she grew untamed.

She instinctively gathered her belongings, and put on her coat, before apologetically smiling at Astarion. He had a strange and guarded composure, one similar to the way his face looked while he read his books. Now that she’d seen him being so animated, it felt impossibly wrong.

Gracefully handing her sketch back to her, he kept his claret eyes trained on her.

"Oh no, please keep it... As an apology."

Before Astarion could answer, her master suddenly grabbed her by the arm and dragged her along with him towards the exit.

"We have much to do, Selene. Do hurry up, will you ?", he reprimanded her with an exasperated sigh.

"Thank you" she quickly blurted out to the vampire, and the corner of his mouth perked up slightly.

"For what, darling ?"

"For giving me back something I thought I’d lost."

He furrowed his brows, looking at her with a face full of confusion. But there was a softness in this expression too, something she had not been expecting to see.

"Selene !", Astarion called out, and she resisted the tug of her master’s tight grip, to look back at him one last from the threshold she’d almost already crossed.

Sounds of the busy streets of Baldur's Gate, loud at whatever hour of the night, poured from the open door, and into the silent and hushed atmosphere of the Black Cat's Delight. Each and every other client looked at the little group of them as though they were the most annoying people they had ever seen in their entire life.

Selene didn't care though, she was starstruck. Her name on his lips sounded so unfamiliar, so strangely beautiful, like it had never been said the right way by anyone before him.

"If you are ever in need of a dress, come to Carmine Red. It will be at a bargain price, and we could explore each other’s full portfolio of talents, so to speak …"

And with that, she was dragged out into the night.

#astarion bg3 #astarion fic #astarion x reader

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guccialli · 1 year ago

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Til Death Do Us Part | Part 4

Series Masterlist

Astarion x f!reader, Arranged Marriage AU

Word Count: 7.6k

(CW: general vampirism, very light descriptions of injury)

Summary:

Astarion’s cold hand reaches out to catch your own as you move to drop it back to your side and he presses your palm against his cheek. His skin is like silk and you can hardly stop yourself from softly running your thumb over his beautiful cheekbone.

He leans in closer, lips just a breath away from yours. You hope he will lean down and kiss you. That he will wrap you in his arms and never let you go. You close your eyes and tilt your head up in anticipation.

Instead, you feel him pull away, your hand dropping limply back to your side. It stings your heart.

“Sleep well, wife,” Astarion says, before he’s turning on his heel and walking swiftly down the hallway.

Read on ao3 here

“What are you reading?” Astarion asks, flopping himself onto the settee next to you.

You lift the book up so he can see the cover. Bram Stroker’s Dracula. “I’m doing research on vampires.”

“Very funny,” Astarion says with a sour face. It makes you giggle as you turn back to your book.

Astarion watches you for a moment before he lets out a frustrated huff that you know is meant to draw your attention back to him.

“Why are you spending all your time surrounded by dusty old books when you could ask me, a real vampire?” He does a self-important flourish with his hand that causes you to snort out another laugh.

It seems too harsh to say ‘because I still don’t know if I can trust a word that comes out of your mouth.’ And really, you do mostly trust him now. You just can’t shake the feeling that there’s something bigger going on around here.

You see Astarion whispering with Shadowheart and Gale in dark corners. You see the weird visitors- the giant, friendly woman, the stern looking warrior-woman, and the man with two different colored eyes- that Astarion always immediately rushes into his study. You had tried listening at the door the last time they came, but you still couldn’t hear anything.

Astarion couldn’t necessarily be called paranoid because, yeah, you were listening at the door. But to be fair, his actions were definitely suspicious. And what were you supposed to do- not try to solve this puzzle which had so wonderfully presented itself to you?

“Come, little flower, ask me anything. I promise there’s plenty of juicy details that are far too scandalous for your books to mention,” Astarion lightly pulls your attention back to him when he notices you chewing on your lip as you think.

He’s hooked you there and he knows it- you never could resist the opportunity to indulge your curiosity. You curl up your feet so Astarion can settle more comfortably next to you and he slings his arm over the back of the settee. Perhaps you imagined it, but you could swear you caught his eyes darting down to your bare calf when you shifted, before you could adjust your skirts to cover yourself.

“What happens if you come into contact with garlic?”

“Aside from bad breath?” Astarion wrinkles his nose. “It’s not deadly or anything, it just reeks. No sane vampire would ever go near the stuff.”

“What about silver?”

“A very pretty metal, though I’m partial to gold,” He answers, gesturing down to his waistcoat, which is made of a shimmery golden silk with swirling floral patterns. Your husband never was one for minimalism.

“What about running water?” You ask, practically having to rip your eyes away from his waistcoat. For under his waistcoat, lay his chest. And the idea of that lovely expanse of alabaster skin had quickly become an image which plagued you in the dark of night.

“Should I be growing concerned about this line of questioning? You seem to only want to know about things that can harm me. I thought your questions would be much more fun.”

You smirk at him. “Please. If I wanted to hurt you, I already would have.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that at all, you feisty little devil,” Astarion says with a wicked grin. His red eyes flicker dangerously, like fire. “As for running water- I do love a bath. Though, it would be all the more delightful if you decided to join me. I could make it… very worth your while.”

His eyes rake over you and you struggle in vain to ignore the familiar flames of heat licking at your cheeks. You can’t decide if the cause is embarrassment or arousal, or both.

“Do you remember what color your eyes were?” You ask, figuring you’ve teased him enough with your initial questions.. Astarion looks genuinely shocked for a moment before his forehead creases a bit. “You know, I’m not sure I do. It’s been so long.”

“How long?” you ask cautiously, like you’re approaching a wild animal. You expect him to skitter away at this line of questioning. Astarion doesn’t like deeply personal questions. He likes wordplay and teasing and, occasionally, dropping the odd fact about himself if you listened closely enough.

“A couple hundred years,” he answers. It breaks your heart to hear that. To know he’s spent so long like this. He couldn’t have been older than his thirties when he was turned, which means he had been a vampire many lifetimes longer than he was a human. Does he even remember what it was like?

“I think they were gray. Or maybe green?” Astarion is still thinking, lost in his own little world. He sits for another moment. “Whatever. You have to admit that the red suits me, doesn’t it, darling?”

He shoots you a wink, said red eyes glinting playfully. You almost have whiplash from how quickly he was able to fall back into his flirtatious performance. By now, you have spent enough time with Astarion to know this act is what he reverts back to when he wants to reestablish control in a conversation, when he wants to stop himself from settling into uncomfortable emotions.

“Your eyes were blue,” you tell him and he looks at you warily. “I ran across the portrait of your family one day. You looked so much like your mother.”

You don’t tell him of all the hours you had spent studying the painting, turning the image over and over in your mind trying to figure out how this piece fit into the puzzle.

“Why would you tell me that?”

And to your surprise, he’s angry at your words. You note this reaction in your mind- that bringing up his past will warrant anger and leave you without any useful information.

“So you could reclaim a part of yourself that was either stolen from you or that you forgot,” you say softly. Astarion’s eyebrows bunch together and he looks deep in thought. It’s making the room too heavy, his thoughts seem too dark.

“How were you turned?” You ask, trying to distract him while also trying to get more of your questions answered.

When he speaks, his tone seems too measured, too rehearsed. “A human is turned when a vampire drains them dry and buries their body. It’s a rite of passage to dig yourself out of your grave. Of course, the body has to be buried almost immediately or the ritual won’t work and the person will just be dead. It’s a… delicate balance.”

He technically did answer your question, but the story of his turning is noticeably missing.

“Have you ever turned someone?”

“No, I didn’t have that ability for a long time. And now, I don’t really care to.” He’s trying to feign nonchalance, but you see the way his fist is clenched so tightly in his lap that his nails are digging painfully into his palms. He’s hiding something.

“But you’re a vampire?” Your own brow furrows in confusion, because it doesn’t make sense that he would be a vampire but not be able to turn someone.

“Am I?” Astarion asks sarcastically, examining his skin. “I hadn’t noticed. Thank you for that astute observation.”

You nudge him with your foot. “You know what I meant.”

“Yes, but it’s just so fun to tease you, pet. I simply can’t resist.”

He’s trying to get himself out of this line of questioning by baiting you with teasing. But the way he’s still holding his shoulders so tightly, you know there’s still valuable information to be gained.

“So, you’re not a ‘real’ vampire?” you ask again, trying to coax him back on track.

“Now I am.” Astarion takes a deep breath in and out. “For a long time, I was just a vampire spawn.”

“How’s that any different?” You had read a bit about vampires and vampire spawn while doing your vampire research in the library, but the accounts were so varied that it was hard to discern what was true or false. From what you could gather, a vampire spawn serves a vampire lord. And it is rather strange that Astarion doesn’t seem to have any running around the manor.

Astarion is still quiet, so you rephrase the question. “What’s the story behind how you were turned, then?”

“I’m not going to answer that,” Astarion finally snaps, shooting you a glare.

“You said I could ask you anything.” You remind him, sure to keep your tone calm and measured.

“I said you could ask, I didn’t say that I would answer,” he says through gritted teeth. He’s so tense, jaw tight and shoulders nearly up to his ears.

You pout and he softens a bit, lowering his arm from the back of the settee to graze his fingertips gently over the back of your hand.

“There are some stories that only serve to harm when they are told, little flower,” he says quietly and the pained look on his face sends a twinge to your heart that makes you drop the subject entirely.

In moments like this, you must remind yourself that his beauty is a shield- a defense mechanism meant to amplify his pain and provoke a response from you. Even though you are aware of this, the way Astarion looks when he’s in pain has you nearly falling to your knees and begging forgiveness for ever daring to hurt him..

“What happens if you drink the blood of someone who’s drunk?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood after the heavy turn.

You know he’ll welcome a silly question like that. And the radiant smile that lights up Astarion’s face is worth dropping your real line of question. You could ask another time. Right now, you would do just about anything to keep him smiling like this in front of you.

“Darling, I thought you’d never ask! You can get drunk from them, but you have to drink a lot and the effects fade far too quickly. I much prefer wine for a quick buzz.”

“Makes sense with that cellar I found downstairs,” you tease. Though, cellar was a bit of an understatement. Grand network of caverns filled with more wine than you could ever conceive of existing was a more apt description.

“Darling, you should know by now that I collect and cherish the things I enjoy,” Astarion says in a deep, husky voice, eyes looking up at you sinfully from underneath his pale lashes.

The image of him cherishing you fills your mind and sets your face aflame. It would be so easy for his hand to reach out, to tilt your chin up and present your face to his. All he would have to do is lean over, just a little bit closer, and his pretty pink lips would press against yours. They would be soft and cool against your burning skin.

No. Stay focused. This was the time for getting some much needed answers out of Astarion, not the time for silly romantic fantasies.

“Do you like being a vampire?” you ask after clearing your throat. You take great care to keep your voice as calm as possible, afraid you might again be leading Astarion into tumultuous waters.

Astarion takes a moment before he speaks and you can watch his thoughts play out on his face. The slight frown when he first processes your question, the way his eyes dart around the room as if he will think up some witty response to distract you, the gentle furrow in his brow as he tries to think of a genuine response.

“I honestly don’t know how to answer that.” He’s trying hard to keep his own voice measured and controlled when he speaks. “It’s… complicated. I certainly don’t regret being turned. Not anymore, at least.”

Not anymore. So, he did regret being turned at some point. But why? What horrors has he witnessed that were so unspeakable? Was his turning really that traumatic?

Perhaps he had been in a war? You had read many stories that portrayed war as the worst of what humanity could do to one another. But no, that’s ridiculous. Astarion is nobility, he practiced law. And Astarion isn’t the type to involve himself in other’s petty squabbles, anyway.

But the faraway, pained look in Astarion’s eye has you thinking that whatever he had suffered must have been akin to the worst of war.

“Would you ever want to be a vampire?” He surprises you by turning the question back on you. You curl your arms around your knees, pulling them closer to your chest. Your reaction isn’t an immediate no, which surprises you a bit.

“I don’t know. Depends on the circumstances, I think,” you tell him.

What you really mean is that it depends on if eternity would look like this. If eternity would involve reading in the gardens or Astarion and you sitting next to each other on a settee and talking. Those might be terms you could agree to.

“I think I would really miss the sunlight,” you give Astarion a sad smile.

No sunlight means no gardens during the day, no talking strolls in the forest, no swimming in a river and sunbathing on a rock to dry yourself off. The life of a vampire is cold and dark and lonely. Only, maybe it wouldn’t be quite so lonely for you?

“A small price to pay for eternal life,” Astarion says with what you have come to understand is his hollow performance voice. Meant to dazzle an audience and distract people from the fact that his real feelings contradict what he is saying.

You watch him carefully as he settles deeper into the couch, crossing his arms over his chest and attempting to tamper whatever melancholy had been brewing inside him.

“Come on then, darling, read to me,” he says, giving you a wicked grin, “I can tell you what they got wrong in your little book.”

You read aloud and Astarion chimes in with little quips like ‘that’s not right,’ and ‘what do you think about me taking two more brides like this Dracula fellow, pet?’ and ‘good gods, just skip over the parts about Renfield, he’s a disgusting, pathetic character.’

But as you continue to read, Astarion slowly lets his head rest against the back of the couch and his eyes grow heavy before they eventually fall closed. The frequency of his interruptions slows until he’s just giving little hums of acknowledgement when you read something especially shocking or profound.

When you make it over two pages without a single interruption, you pause to look over at him. His deep, even breaths lead you to think he might have fallen asleep. With a smile, you turn back to the book and keep reading, perfectly content to never let this moment end, even if the number of remaining pages was starting to dwindle.

—---------

The longer you spent around Astarion, the more you realize that he did occasionally sprinkle the truth into his words- for even the best charlatans use truth to make their facades seem more real. Astarion wasn’t unique in that regard.

As such, you were determined to find the flakes of truth in Astarion’s story, determined to piece together the puzzle of the man you called your husband. It would be your most challenging and most rewarding prize yet.

So, you study him. You watch and you learn every tiny expression on his face. Astarion might be a masterful performer, but there were involuntary reactions even he could not control- a slight furrow of the brow, an inhale, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. And sometimes, there were flashes of something in his eyes- joy, wonder, terror, despair- so quick that a lesser trained eye might have missed them completely.

You notice these details because they are important to your cause. And yet, they stick around in your head for hours, repeating like some terribly wonderful time loop.

And you find yourself craving his company. You tell yourself that it’s not because you particularly enjoy his presence, but because every interaction gives you more information, gets you one step closer to discovering the truth beneath the mask. And yes, he was beautiful and wonderful to look at, but you only gazed upon him so often because you were collecting valuable data.

Though… it was remarkable how he seemingly had no bad angles. How the candlelight bent to his whim, following him around and dancing against his skin.

And gods damn him, Astarion can be funny, when he wants to be. He’s well-read and full of little tales and salacious secrets about the other nobles and their ancestors. In another life, you would have thought the gods crafted him especially for you- your perfect conversation partner.

Although Astarion will never love you, never desire you in the way that you secretly know you will always want him, you think he has come to find some enjoyment in your companionship, too. Some of his smiles seem a bit too real, some of his laughs a little too wild to be rehearsed. You imagine he regards you as a sort of… pet. Or, if you really dare to dream, perhaps a friend.

You must constantly remind yourself that his flirtations are empty, practiced phrases that are meant to disarm you. They do not show you he cares for you or that he wants you. You try to ignore that deep, viscous part of you that calls out to him, that wants him to think of you fondly, that hopes that you are driving him as mad with your presence as he drives you.

Over the past month, you’ve become semi-nocturnal. You find Astarion is much more active once the sun has gone down and the later you stay awake, the more time you get to spend with him. It’s unsettling how naturally your life seems to shift to accommodate him.

When you do make your way out to the garden in the late afternoons, Halsin happily congratulates you in his friendly, over-the-top way on the state of your marriage and how you and Astarion have managed to grow together despite your initial difficulties. You know he means it sincerely, but the words leave you a stuttering, embarrassed mess. You didn’t think you were being so obvious about your growing… affection for Astarion.

So, you start reading in the library more often than the garden, now that the air has started to turn crisp in the autumn nights.

Or at least, you’ve convinced yourself that’s the reason why and not because you secretly hope that Astarion will come join you.

And he does join you, some days. He’ll stride in with a book or some papers and take up residence on the couch across from you. On the really good days, he’ll sit on the couch beside you and ask you to read aloud and you get to lean against him while you read to him.

Tonight, he decided to accompany you to the library after dinner. He’s sitting in a chair across from your favorite settee and he’s only wearing a flowing white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You keep sneaking peeks up at him, mesmerized by the blue veins in his arms and how the lean muscles move when he turns a page. You’re trying really hard to be subtle- only letting yourself glance up for a moment every couple of minutes.

But, gods, it’s so difficult to focus on the words in front of you with that expanse of skin teasing you.

“You haven’t turned a page in a very long time, darling,” Astarion says without even looking up from his own book.

“And how attentive are you to your own reading if you’ve been listening for me to turn the page?” You shoot back.

“Oh, I’ve been finished for ages. I just couldn’t stand to leave you.” He gives you that devilish, tantalizing grin where one corner of his mouth curves up more than the other. It sends your heart fluttering like a hummingbird in your chest.

“Well,” you sigh, shutting your book and attempting to act casual, as if your formerly self-declared enemy hadn’t just caught you gawking at his forearms. “I suppose I’m not going to get any more of this finished tonight.”

“I apologize, I know my presence is entirely too distracting,” Astarion says, and the arrogant look on his face makes you roll your eyes. He’s not wrong, but he'd be entirely too pleased with himself the rest of the evening if you admitted it out loud.

“Yes, how does anyone get anything done with you around?” you say sarcastically instead.

“I haven’t the faintest idea how,” Astarion lets out a suffering sigh, as if his beauty is too much for the world to handle (it is). You can’t let yourself think about it too long or you’ll devolve in idle fantasies about what it might feel like to trace those beautiful veins in his arms all the way up to his chest.

You snap your book shut, “Want to join me on a walk around the gardens?”

You need to get out of here, where the stifling air and Astarion’s flowy white shirt are clouding your mind. But you don’t want this night to end yet. Not just yet. In truth, you gladly and greedily take as much time as Astarion’s willing to give you.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be in the world.”

He says it with that easy, flirtatious tone and you know he probably doesn’t really mean it. But that deep part of you that feeds on Astarion’s praise still preens.

The cool air is refreshing when you step outside and your head finally begins to clear. Astarion holds his arm out for you and you let your fingers brush against the skin of his forearm as you tuck yourself into his side.

When you turn to look at him, he’s practically luminescent. The moonlight was made for him, bouncing off his white curls and casting a gentle glow over his pale skin. As the moon reflected the sun’s light, Astarion seemed to reflect the moon’s. You were simply lucky to bask in his presence.

Arm in arm, you wander through the garden, pointing out your favorite flowers to Astarion and checking in on the blooms. It’s reached that part of autumn where some perennials have started to sleep, ready to reawaken in the spring. The sunflowers, always one of your favorites, are drooping for the night, waiting to chase after the sun again tomorrow, and you frown a bit when you see them.

“It’s a shame you never get to see the gardens during the day. The colors, the blooming flowers. It’s truly one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever seen in my life,” you say, as you and Astarion move into the rose garden. Everything new you find out about vampirism makes it sound like an isolating, dreary existence. You make a mental note that Astarion could use some cut flowers in his study every now and then, though it feels like a poor substitute for the splendor of the full gardens.

Because it is your mission to study Astarion, you don’t miss the fleeting, pained look that passes over his face, the look he always gets when you dig a bit too close to a truth he’d rather keep buried.

You used to push him on these, but you quickly found that got you nowhere. No, Astarion responded far better to a gentle touch rather than provocation and name calling. You were coming to realize that he would tell you in time, in his own way. And you had started to find that you didn’t mind waiting for answers if it kept you in his company that much longer.

And oh, how rewarding those answers were when he gifted them to you in the dark of the night, offering up little pieces of himself like Tara delivering you a dead mouse.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be prattling on- '' you try to backtrack, to apologize for the sadness that you have caused to enter his eyes.

You sometimes wonder what his eyes would look like if they were still blue- would they be pale blue like soft ocean waves or rich and deep like the blue flowers in the garden?

With his red eyes in front of you, his sadness is akin to pain, all blood and gore and unspoken horrors. No, you decide, if Astarion had blue eyes they must look like dark rain clouds when he is sad. For if Astarion weeped, would the heavens themselves not cry for him?

“Nonsense,” Astarion cuts you off and you’re acutely aware of how your husband has been studying you just as intently as you were watching him. Admittedly, the two of you were remarkably similar underneath it all. All sharp teeth and claws masking scared and fragile hearts.

He gives your hand a little squeeze where it rests on his forearm. “It’s wonderful to see the world through your eyes.”

He says it so casually, like he hasn’t caused your knees to buckle and your soul to leave your body. Occasionally, he slips in sentiments like that, with no regard for your poor heart. You’re dangerously close to having hope that he actually means them.

But no, you remind yourself. There was no way Astarion’s words could be trusted. He said things, he did things to get a reaction out of you because he grew bored and because he knew how badly you wanted him, how badly everyone wanted him. There was no reason to hope. He had entertained you at the ball because he was hungry, he had married you to tie up loose ends, and he spent time with you now because he had very little other company up here in his lonely manor.

You do not mean as much to him as he does to you.

You distract yourself from that thought spiral by talking, amazed at how easy and willing you are to offer up information to him now, “I used to have a book with flowers drawn in it as a little girl that I would stare at all day. There were so many that I’d never thought I’d get to see in real life, until I came here. And there were some flowers that I didn’t even know existed until I saw them here for the first time. These gardens are everything I could have ever dreamed of.”

Astarion gives you a smile that lights up his whole face and he seems so proud, like the whole purpose of his life is to make you happy. Your heart sings again and you shush her immediately.

Astarion’s beauty was not something you would ever grow used to. And in the lighting tonight, his profile sent a cold shock through your body. You had never felt so alive. You had never yearned for death more.

“My mother used to love the gardens here. She used to always try to get me to help her plant things. I wish…” He trails off, reaching out to stroke a delicate rose petal with his fingers. “Well, I wish I would have appreciated that more when I was younger. You never realize as a child how precious those memories will one day become.”

“And I wish you could have seen it then,” he says, letting out a wistful sigh. “You would have loved it. The gardens were even grander and more vast than what they are now. When I returned, they were in such disrepair that it pained me to look at them for ages. I hired Halsin to help restore them and he did a wonderful job, of course, but it’s just…”

He continues to stare at the flower he holds in his hand, unable to find the words to finish his sentence.

“Not the same?” you complete the thought for him and he nods.

And although his words fill you with a deep sadness, you rejoice for a moment. Astarion offers up information about himself so rarely that his words tonight are practically a feast. You tuck away that little piece of his backstory in your mind to analyze later. Though, as usual, he leaves you with more questions than answers.

Where had he returned from? Where was it that he had spent most of his vampiric life? And you still don’t know the circumstances of how he was turned into a vampire or how that plays into creating the man standing before you.

You let your fingers rub in circles against his forearm as you think.

Astarion’s rests his hand over yours. “Your hands are cold, little flower. And we both know a pretty thing like you blooms better in the daytime. I think it’s time to get you back inside.”

You try to protest but a yawn escapes you and Astarion gives you a knowing look that forces you to roll your eyes and allow him to start guiding you back toward the manor. His footsteps are slow, as if he’s trying to prolong your time together.

“Thank you, Astarion,” you say quietly, when you reach your room.

Facing him, the low, flowing neckline on his shirt has the lines of his collarbone perfectly in your sight and you’re scared you won’t be able to resist reaching out and touching them if you have to look at that for much longer.

Astarion seems unable to resist touching you, either, and his hand reaches out to tug on the chain of your necklace which holds your wedding ring. It must have snaked its way out from under the collar of your dress at some point during the night. He rolls the gold band between his fingers, his expression unreadable.

“You’re wearing your ring,” Astarion states the obvious, his voice low and husky with some emotion you can’t decipher.

“Yes,” you whisper. It’s not embarrassing, per say, but it does feel a bit like Astarion has broken his way past your ribcage and is staring directly at your beating heart.

“When did you start doing that?”

He tilts his head and one, single white curl dislodges itself from his meticulously styled hair. You watch it fall gently, like a feather floating through the air.

“About a week after…” you trail off. It was still weird to admit it out loud. About a week after you were married. It had been a couple months since that day and everything after has felt like a feverish dream.

You can’t focus when Astarion is looking at you like this- eyes all warm and rich and red like the fading embers of a fire. And the loose curl that caresses the skin of his ear is just taunting you so sweetly. Your hand moves almost of its own accord, reaching out to brush it back into place and ghosting over the shell of Astarion’s ear. You catch his slight shiver.

Instead, you feel him pull away, your hand dropping limply back to your side. It stings your heart.

“Sleep well, wife,” Astarion says, before he’s turning on his heel and walking swiftly down the hallway.

Wife.

He called you that so rarely and combined with the rosemary and bergamot lingering in the air after him, you feel a bit dizzy.

Oh, it’s the first time he’s called you that without a hint of teasing or sarcasm. No, tonight he said it almost with reverence- as if you were a gift to him. He had said it like a true husband might. That silly sense of hope thrums again in your veins.

But hope for what? That this marriage built on deception and hatred might turn itself around into something based in love? You chastise yourself for feeding into girlish fantasies. You needed to stop reading so many romance books.

No, you were just relieved that Astarion and you had managed to grow into something that could be considered a friendship. That he respected you enough to give you back the control that so many husbands wielded viciously over their wives. You were content since you were safe, and never pressured into uncomfortable circumstances, and spent your days doing whatever you wished.

You did not really want Astarion to kiss you.

It is the baser, lonely part of you that wants him to kiss you, that wants to hold him, that cries out for his touch. You would want to kiss anyone after taking a midnight stroll in a romantic garden. Astarion just happened to make it especially confusing by being the most beautiful man in the world.

And yet, you still yearn for his attention, you long for his smiles like a flower chases after the sun. And was his smile not capable of rivaling the sun? The pure joy, the pure energy surging beneath the surface.

No, when Astarion smiled, the sun itself bowed her head in surrender to his beauty.

—------------------

Gale might have been right, though you were loath to admit it.

You really did have a hard time sitting still for your portrait. It was only a couple hours each day in the afternoon, but all the sitting and doing nothing felt like torture. You could have done it if you had been allowed a book, but the stupid artist needed to be able to see your stupid face.

On the second afternoon, Astarion wanders in, inspecting the painting critically, eyes narrowed and a hand held up to his chin as he scrutinizes it.

“The shade of her eyes is all wrong,” he finally says with a displeased frown.

“I’m sorry, my lord, the painting isn’t finished yet.” The artist attempts to defend himself but you can tell he quickly sets to work correcting the ‘mistake.’

Astarion comes in the next day, and the next, and the next and just watches over the artist’s shoulder. The poor man is sweating so bad he’s creating a small puddle on the floor. It’s rather amusing. You have to refrain from laughing the whole time.

The man can’t seem to be able to paint a single detail without Astarion critiquing his choices and giving corrections. It’s a flurry of ‘see how her mouth moves up in the corner when she smiles,’ and ‘no, look again at how the candlelight moves against her skin,’ and ‘her hair doesn’t curl around her face like that, you’ve made her look like a poodle.’

You’ve come to think that Gale was wrong and perhaps Astarion is the worst kind of fine art snob who believes they could do everything better than the actual artists. And granted, he probably could- Astarion was also the annoying type of person who was preternaturally gifted at everything they tried.

When Astarion finally deigns the painting satisfactory after many, many days of nit-picking, you’re allowed to see the final product. It truly is a marvelous piece. You are sure you have never looked more beautiful- not even at the ball where you met Astarion or on your wedding night. No, in this painting, you can only be described as ethereal, a small scrap of the heavens that created Astarion.

It feels as if you are seeing yourself anew, through the eyes of someone who loves you.

“I expect nothing less than perfection when it comes to you, my love,” Astarion says, a gentle hand on your waist as he stands behind you and keenly observes your reaction.

But the painting is not what has pulled the air from your lungs.

My Love.

That's new. In your time as a married woman, you had grown accustomed to the endearments that Astarion loved to dole out and had deciphered his uses for each. He seemed to have a personal vendetta against calling you by your name.

Darling was for emphasis and dramatic effect. Dearest was a bit sarcastic and typically saved for use around others. Pet was for when he really wanted to be a condescending asshole or a teasing little shit.

Little flower was perhaps the closest thing to a real endearment that Astarion had in his vocabulary, saved for the soft moments when the mood between the two of you could perhaps be considered friendly.

But my love was unprecedented, uncharted territory.

And with the way Astarion is looking at you, with eyes so open that his soul is practically bleeding out of them, you wonder if for the first time he actually means what he is saying. That maybe some part of his heart does hold affection for you. It seems impossible.

He spends the rest of the evening peppering darlings and my dears in nearly every sentence, like he’s overcompensating for the slip up earlier.

Your portrait is hung next to his in the gallery. And you do have to admit that the two of you look wonderful together.

—----------------------

You don’t like when Astarion leaves on trips. Especially since he never wants to take you with him. Apparently, you had annoyed Astarion so much about the issue that he now resorted to not even telling you when he was going to leave.

Instead, you awoke one afternoon to Shadowheart informing you that he was away on business for the next few days. You’re fairly certain he’s lying- that whatever he’s out doing involved those maps and papers you found on his desk when you had broken into his study.

You’re a bit peeved that he didn’t even bother to leave you a goodbye note but mostly, you want him to come back.

You know he will arrive home with a flourish and an extravagant gift. His last trips had awarded you with a lovely new silk dress, a newly released book, and a tiara, of all things. Out of the three, the book was the only item that was really useful and you had spent a few nights reading it to Astarion while his head rested in your lap. Though, you did wear the dress and tiara to dinner after you had received each and the pleased mood it put Astarion in was worth dressing up for no reason.

This time, Astarion has been gone for two days and you feel as if you are going to lose your mind with how desperately you need him to come back.

You’re pacing the length of the drawing room, working your lip between your teeth and focusing on how you want Astarion back so you can yell at him for leaving without telling you and not because you miss the little grins he gives you when you see him in the hallway. Or the way he’s started tracing patterns on the inside of your palm when you sit together after you read. Or how he sometimes stares at you with such awe you feel as though he is looking at your very soul.

You do not miss Astarion. It just… feels wrong when he isn’t around.

You’re still pacing and deeply rationalizing how much you definitely do not miss him when you hear the front door open. Your body begins moving before your brain could even register what you were doing.

The sight before you is a nightmare. Astarion’s arm is wrapped around a woman’s shoulder and she’s supporting most of his weight as she drags him through the door. You recognize her instantly due to her imposing frame. You had seen her around the manor from time to time when she would visit for those secret meetings that she, and the mean-looking woman, and two-color eyed man had with Astarion.

She had always been kind to you when you had seen her around, always quick to offer up a smile. But not now. Her forehead is creased deeply with worry and you faintly register her yelling for help over the ringing in your ears.

Astarion looks bad, which is a word you never thought could be used to describe him. His skin is already so pale, but now, he looks nearly white and there’s blood splattered across his face. His free hand is clutching at his side in a way that implies he’s been badly wounded.

You’re frozen in fear. What could you possibly do to help?

Shadowheart, who must have been on her way to bring you tea as you paced, immediately shoves the tray onto the first surface she can find.

“What happened?” Her voice is grim and she’s rushing forward, helping to support Astarion’s weight on the other side. He lets out a pitiful groan of pain as they settle him on a couch.

“Got ambushed on the way back. Too many of them, we couldn’t fight them off,” the tall woman answers.

But her explanation seems… off. Astarion’s carriage is grand, sure, and robbers like to target the wealthy, especially in the dead of night. But you had a hard time believing this woman would be incapable of fighting off a couple street thugs. An attack that would warrant this level of injury seems much more organized.

No. Something else is going on. What sort of business was Astarion tangled up in?

Shadowheart is a blur as she bustles around, collecting herbs, cloth bandages, and a needle and thread. You never knew she was a healer. Was everyone around here keeping secrets from you?

And you’re just standing there, uselessly, incapable of doing anything other than watch as your own heart bleeds out in front of you.

Your feet do manage to carry you to Astarion’s side and you try to stay out of Shadowheart’s way as she works, but all you want right now is to pull him into your arms and soothe the pain on his face.

“Astarion?” you call his name, your shaky hand reaching out to move a stray curl away from his face. It looks all wrong- his white hair drenched with red blood. His eyes crack open and a dreamy smile spreads across his face when he sees you.

“Come to grace your dying husband with a kiss, sweet wife?” Astarion’s eyes are hazy, but you can still detect a teasing sparkle in them. You’re relieved for a moment, because his condition surely can’t be that bad if he’s still managing to tease you.

You let out a laugh. “Leave it to you to be flirting on your deathbed.”

Shadowheart’s worried voice breaks you out of your momentary comfort. “He needs blood, desperately.”

“We need to get someone from the village,” you say, making a motion to get up and go call for someone, but Astarion’s hand is wrapping gently around your wrist. His grip is worryingly loose and you can tell it’s all the strength he’s able to muster right now.

“Not enough time,” Shadowheart shakes her head. Her voice is fraught with anxiety and it sends a needle of ice through you. Shadowheart didn’t scare easily. “He needs blood now.”

“Can you?” you ask and she shakes her head again.

“My blood’s no good and neither is Karlach’s,” Shadowheart nods her chin up at the tall woman.

“Is there anyone here who can give him blood?” You cry out. Someone had to be able to help- Gale, Halsin, another servant.

“Just you.”

When you look down at Astarion, there’s a cold hand squeezing at your heart and you realize that you don’t have a choice. You grab the dagger that’s strapped to Astarion’s belt- which, why did he have a dagger if he was going on a normal business trip? You glide the sharp edge along your palm, ignoring the sting of pain as you cut it open.

His eyes are closed as you squeeze your palm shut to help the blood pool and drip onto his lips. Almost immediately, his eyes are shooting open and he’s dragging your palm to his mouth.

It’s obscene to watch him- he lets out a groan as his soft tongue swirls and sucks against your skin. In another time, in another circumstance, there would be that familiar desire pooling deep within you as you watched him.

Suddenly, the idea of Astarion drinking anyone else’s blood ever again fills you with a jealousy so deep that you’re scared of what you might do if you get your hands on that unlucky soul.

A bit of color returns to his face and he presses a gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist, seemingly as thanks. Later that night, as you sit at his bedside as he recovers, you’ll be pressing your own lips to the same spot, as if that silly act could imitate the feel of his lips against your own.

Astarion’s eyes are still hazy and unfocused as he purrs, “Delicious, of course. I can only think of one other way I could devour you that would be better than that.”

The fact that he loses consciousness immediately after saying that probably has the opposite effect than he intended. You’ll have to tease him about that after he wakes up. And he will wake up. Because you can’t bear with the thought of a life without him.

---------------

Notes:

Okay, I fully recognize that Dracula didn't come out until 1897 and I did say this was a regency AU, but we are simply ignoring inconvenient facts for the sake of a bad joke. Sorry, I get make to the rules around here!

This chapter was so much fun to write because I'm a slut for yearning but I can't even describe how excited I am to share chapter 5 next week!!!!!! It's a doozy! We finally get a peak into Astarion's smooth little brain and well… I did promise eventual smut. I hope you all know how much I appreciate everyone who reads this little story and I hope everyone is having as much fun with this as I am!

As always, thanks to AliensNSuch on ao3 for beta-reading! She is my live studio audience cheering in the comments of the absurdly long google doc where I keep this fic and, for that, I love her.

Taglist: @idkbrodontaskme @ayselluna @maruichio @fanfic-share

Just let me know in the comments or by shooting me a message if you would like to be added/removed from the taglist!

#astarion x reader #astarion x female reader

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guccialli · 1 year ago

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guccialli · 1 year ago

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keep your distance, darling

#art #astarion

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guccialli · 1 year ago

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❄️️Warm my heart pt. 6❄️️

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova/ The Darkling x fem! heartrender! reader Summary: Lots of things are happening. And you're going to learn something completely new about Aleksander… Warning(s): furious Aleksander and his shadows shed blood; Word Count: 3,6 k Taglist:@aoi-targaryen @budugu @flostvs1508 ~•♤♤♤•~ Aleksander Morozova’s Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ ~•♤♤♤•~ Part 5 ~•♤♤♤•~ Part 7 ~•♤♤♤•~

Dressed in a nightgown, you were already going to bed when suddenly there was a knock on your chambers.

You frown, not knowing who it could be at this late in the night. Well... you couldn't say you didn't have some hopes about the identity of your late-night guest.

"Aleksander?" you ask, opening the door.

There is no one there. You frown and walk out of the safety of your chambers. You take a look around, searching for anyone in the quiet, dark corridor. You notice that the torches have been extinguished faster than usual, leaving only one in the middle of the passageway.

You listen to your surroundings and hear the two heartbeats, which probably came from the guards patrolling the corridors. It does not arouse any suspicions in you, so you shrug and decide to go back to your room and ignore this strange situation.

You suspect that these are some young Grishas playing instead of sleeping. The youngest summoners have already played various tricks and jokes on the inhabitants of the Little Palace several times.

You change your mind when suddenly a wet cloth is pressed to your nose and someone's arms wrap around you. You fight against your attacker, trying to scream, but all you manage to do is scratch him. You fall limply to the floor as the substance takes effect, and before you completely pass out, you're kicked in the stomach.

Aleksander rubbed his hand over his forehead as he read the latest reports from the fold. Another failed transport. More Grishas were killed. He shuddered, placing the paper on the desk. This wasn't supposed to be like this. The Volcra were supposed to attack the king's men, the Fjerdans... not his people.

With every day in the Little Palace, with every news of his men dying in the fold... every time you offered to move to West Ravka with the others to personally supervise the transfer, he felt the bile rising in his throat. He would correct his mistake. He will move the fold and widen it so that it serves him as it should. He just had to get that stag and the powers of the Sun Summoner.

"General." Ivan enters the war room with Fedyor and Inferni. "We have a problem."

"As always." He sighs and gets up from the desk. He goes to the bar to pour himself some whiskey. "What happened this time?"

"There was an attack on the eastern wing. Alina was the target." he freezes for a moment, pours himself a drink, and turns back to his men.

"Sun Summoner?"

"Alive and safe. But it is not everything. The rebels took hostages. They barricaded themselves in the training room. They have Fjerdans' technology, blocking our powers. And…"

"And?"

"We can't find Y/N." Fedyor takes Ivan's place by delivering the news. Aleksander's eyes are fixed blankly on the heartrender as he processes his words.

This one sentence makes him stop seeing or hearing anything. He feels his shadows slowly begin to take over the room as he allows his power to slip away for a slight moment when he creates a plan in his head.

"I want all of you on the east wing. Every single one of you who is usually coming to the mission with me, no inexperienced greenhorns."

Before they can answer him, he already leaves the room and storms to where the rebels are supposed to be.

Aleksander was not famous for his mercy, and he certainly would not show it to those who dared to enter HIS palace. They wanted to kill his Sun Summoner and deprive him of the source of power that was a key element of his plan. But what sealed their long, painful, slow death at his hands and shadows was that they dared to take HIS SECOND-IN-COMMAND from him.

HIS HEARTRENDER. HIS Y/N.

He practically ran to the east wing. He didn't notice anything around him. All Aleksander could think about was you. He has already figured out seven different plans for how to rescue you and get you back into his arms.

Involuntarily, he remembered the last time he tried to save someone from his enemies... someone who had not made it out alive.

No. He shook his head and passed the Grishas, who were beginning to gather outside the training room at his command. You weren't Luda. He promised himself that you wouldn't end up like her... even if he had to create a second fold to protect you.

He vaguely remembers nodding at Zoya. She summoned a wind that blew the door off its hinges, and he entered first with the cut already formed and his shadows filling the room. He controlled himself enough not to kill anyone in the room until he located exactly where you were.

But the problem was that you WEREN'T there.

His heart sinks as he imagines you with a deadly wound, blood pouring out of you, forming a pool beneath you somewhere on the grounds of the Little Palace, a place that he made—a place that was supposed to be free from the death of any Grishas. ESPECIALLY YOURS.

"Where is my heartrender?!"

His question receives no answer. In a fit of rage, he growls menacingly, his shadows wrapping around one of the attackers. He dies practically on the spot, only able to utter a few screams that satisfy Aleksander enough to regain full control over himself.

He takes a few intimidating steps towards the man who is trembling the most of all the rebels on the ground, held down by Ivan. The sound of his heavy boots bounces off the floor and spreads throughout the completely silent room.

"I'll ask one last time." one step further. "Where." next step. "Is." he stands directly above him and puts his foot on his chest, pinning him to the ground. A little harder, and he knows he'll break a few ribs. "MY SECOND-IN-COMMAND?"

"She… she escaped… with some of yours..." he hums at this answer, pride rising within him to hear that his little heartrender managed to get out. And judging by the few dead bodies, she did it in style.

He presses his boot with greater force against the man on the floor. Spurs begin to dig into his chest.

"Wait! WAIT! I can tell you more! Do not kill me!" the man struggles beneath him, trying to relieve the pressure of the spur on his chest.

"You broke into my palace and wanted to kill the Sun Summoner and my second-in-command. Do you really think I will fulfil your pathetic cries for life?" one lifts his hand, and a small turn of the fingers and shadows surround the terrified man at his command. "Besides, I've heard enough from you. Not your screams, though..."

And with that, desperate screams began to echo throughout the room as he and his men interrogated the attackers.

You were sitting in the healers' infirmary. You were eating a cupcake when Fedyor was screaming at you.

"You are completely irresponsible! They could have killed you!"

"But they didn't." you say, munching on a muffin. The healer managed to heal most of your wounds before Fedyor arrived, but the heartrender managed to see the effects of your escape.

"We were worried. You're lucky the general didn't see what they did to you. They're lucky. Although I doubt he'll show them any mercy, they're probably dying anyway for daring to attack the Little Palace and trying to kill you as well as others of ours."

"Please, we both know where the general is now and where his priorities are." you huff, reaching for another cupcake that some nice healer brought you. You don't recall his name, though.

"Where, supposedly?" he asks, raising an eyebrow at you.

"With Alina." you say, shrugging. Disbelief crosses your friend's face before he groans loudly in torment. You frown at him in confusion. "What? Am I wrong? After all, she was the target. He's probably wiping her tears away with his handkerchief or something."

"I have no strength against you. How many times do I have to tell you that he doesn't want Alina? And not. Don't start with your stupid nonsense about equals, more equals, fate, or opposites attracting. It doesn't work like that here between them. The sooner you get off your ass and do something, the shorter I will have to endure your outbursts of jealousy, and Ivan will have to endure the general's outbursts."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Please, who do you think tracked down who you were corresponding with and intercepted Mal's letter for him? Ivan didn't even have time to finish his report. He ran out of the war room as if he had been scalded, almost crumpling Ortsev's letter in his hand. I remember because I was walking Genio to the Grand Palace, and we almost stepped under his feet. It's good that he controls himself and doesn't summon his shadows in a fit of emotion, because every week, even every day, we would have to organise funerals for our people because our general created a second fold because of you."

You blush slightly and clear your throat before taking another muffin.

"And yet he's not here."

"Because I believe that right now he is disembowelling those who knocked you out as an act of his undying love for you." you roll your eyes at him. You both shut up as the healer returns with some vials for you.

"Here. Just in case the dizziness persists." you smile sweetly at him and thank him while taking the vials from him. The healer blushes slightly. Fedyor rolls his eyes at you and clears his throat.

“Let's go, Y/N. Before there are any more wounded… or dead.”

"I'll join you soon." you say, nodding at him to leave.

"Don't say I didn't warn you." he sighs in defeat and leaves the infirmary.

You turn around, giving your full attention to the healer. He was sweet. And after everything that happened, he was a nice break from your daily dramas. Plus, he had something you really liked.

"Is that a moonstone?" you ask with a kind smile, pointing to the bracelet he was wearing.

"Oh yes." he says sheepishly, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. "A durasts friend did this to me. Some people believe that it can help attract love into one's life."

"Aww. That's really beautiful." you see how he becomes ashamed under your gaze.

"Umm…thank you. If I can help you in any way, you know where to find me." you nod and thank him once again before he disappears into the glove compartment, probably to restock medical supplies.

You sigh and jump to the ground from your seat in the medical chair. You take another cupcake. You are unwrapping the paper around it when suddenly the door to the infirmary opens with a loud bang.

You turn around, coming face-to-face with Aleksander. The tension on his face strangely disappears the moment his eyes meet yours. You see (and hear through his heartbeat) how he relaxes at the sight of you.

"Y/N." he sighs and walks over to you as his steps in his heavy shoes echo in the silence of the still-empty sall.

Before you can do anything, his hands tangle in your hair, bringing you close to him as his lips catch yours in a sudden kiss.

You gasp in shock, still holding a cupcake in your hand. You moan as you realise what he is doing and start to respond to his kiss.

At first, he gently brushes his lips against yours, testing the waters to see how far he can go with you. When he realises that you are willingly moving your lips and tongue against his, he makes it deeper.

You are pulled closer to him. His other hand is grabbing your waist and pressing you against him, making sure to feel every little inch of your body.

You tremble at the feeling of his hands all over you. And you want more. Much more than this.

When your tongue meets his, you feel like you are in heaven. He moans as he tastes the chocolate in the muffins you've been eating and kisses you with even more zeal.

You're lost to everything else; it is only you and him. His body against yours; his lips, stealing your breath and hands, holding you still on the ground.

His hand cups your cheek gently, his thumb caressing your skin tenderly with all the delicacy he has, which you are probably the only one witnessing. You feel his wandering hand finally land on your neck, right where your pulse is, which is now beating much faster because of him.

He presses his hand there, wanting, at all costs, to feel your heart palpitations. And as you try to process any thought in your brain that doesn't involve his lips on yours, you realise that right now you would do anything for him... in fact, you always have, and you would do anything for him. And it scares you just as much as it fills you with that strange, warm feeling. You know how it's called, but you were still too afraid to admit it to yourself.

So you decide to enjoy the moment. Your hands land in his hair, pulling him closer to you. Only his soft, breathtaking moan makes you realise where you are and that no one should definitely find you making out with the General... at least not until you're sure what you're feeling towards him.

Despite his tight grip on you, you manage to pull away just enough so that his lips don't capture yours again and take your mind off you with his silver tongue.

"Aleksander..." you whisper, your voice shaky and hoarse. And if you look the same as him, then you have red, slightly swollen lips, dishevelled hair, and wrinkled kefta.

"I thought… I thought they got you for a while…" he admits, resting his forehead against yours. You see all the dark thoughts come back to him again as he frowns and closes his eyes. You cup his cheek and stroke it with concern, trying to snap him out of all the bad scenarios he's prepared in his head. "When Fedyor said you were here… I thought the worst."

"I'm tougher than you think. And you really should listen to the end of what they have to say." you try to joke, but the look he gives you shows that he's not finding it funny in this situation at all.

"I don't want to find out. Ever." he says, pressing you to his chest in a tight embrace. "I need you to be safe… All of us need it…"

"Don't." you say, tilting your head to look at him. His dark eyes stare into yours as if hypnotized. "Just don't do this shitty talk. I... not after this."

"Maybe you've right... I think it's too late for us, isn't it?" he asks. You both know the answer, but you're not ready to say it out loud yet. This is enough for you for now. Being in the safety of each other's arms. "Let's get out of here. I believe you want to get back to your chambers."

"Not exactly." you say, shuddering at the memory of what happened to you a few hours ago.

"I should've made them pay worse for what they did…" he begins threateningly, thinking about these men, but he softens at the sight of your anxious state—a very rare sight that already makes his heart ache. "C'mon, milaya. I will take care of you." he takes your hand in his so gently and tenderly that you're sure you'd follow him to hell if he wanted.

But all he wants is to hold you as close to him as possible.

And you let him. Without any hesitations.

You were lying on his bed. Your kefta was folded and laid on the chair. He took his own off a long time ago since it was all covered in blood.

You were just cuddling. His face was nuzzled into your neck as you ran your fingers through his hair. You both needed this moment of closeness between you. To feel at least a little peace in the other's arms, tender touch, and lazy kisses placed on various parts of the body. The fact that he was shirtless only helped.

"Fjerdans found out that Sun Summoner was getting stronger. They sent some of their people here to kill her. They managed to get into Little Palace, just like it was a damn park. Also… Alina told me you were the one who rescued her."

"I did." you confirm, too busy with drawing patterns on his bare back (he insisted on taking off his shirt, even though you could see there wasn't any blood on the black material) to show much interest in talking about Alina.

"Why?"

"What why? Aren't you happy?"

"I am. But… Ivan told me that… she isn't your favourite person."

"You should stop asking other people about me. You are not at war with me; you do not need to find out about my weaknesses, preferences, tell others to keep an eye on me, and other things before confrontation. You just need to ask me. Besides, I like Alina. She is an amazing friend and sweet soul."

"But?"

"But… she just makes me… question my position at your side." you admit, ashamed. He grabs your chin softly and makes you look into his eyes as he grabs your hands in his.

"If I know something, I know that you belong here." he says, placing a kiss on your joined hands. "So never doubt in anything… there is… there is no one else like you. And I don't mean your powers. I mean you. My Y/N. The one who didn't turn her back at me. The one who can see through my façade and see the real me and who trusts my judgement without any questions… well, usually." he makes you laugh, at which he is smiling, admiring the sound he loved more than any music he has heard in the long centuries he has lived.

"You are my general." you say, shrugging your arms. As if it were enough of an answer to his words.

"Only?" he asks, with an almost teasing smile on his face.

"No... not anymore." you admit, making him blush a little.

He cleans his throat and wraps his arms tighter around you. He places a kiss on your temple and sighs.

"I have been waiting a long time for... for something like this." he whispers in your hair.

You prop yourself up on your elbow and kiss him sweetly and lovingly. He deepens the kiss, cupping your cheek into his hand and pulling you closer to him so you're underneath him. His hand wanders under your blouse when suddenly there's a knock on his door.

You both moan softly in unison and in disbelief. You reluctantly pull your lips away from him and he rests his forehead against yours.

He licks his lips, shifting his gaze from your eyes to the door. You laugh at how undecided he is looking right now. You can't help but kiss him softly.

"Go. I will wait here for you." you assure him with a true smile of utter happiness.

You see a disgruntled frown form on his forehead as he knits his eyebrows. He sighs heavily and reluctantly gets out of bed and goes to the closet. You roll onto your stomach and swing your legs as you watch him choose clothes from his closet.

"You'd better do it." he says, putting on his shirt. He smirks at you teasingly when he sees you staring at his chest.

He leans towards you and tangles his hand in your hair, pulling you in for a passionate kiss. You moan into his mouth as he bruises yours in a searing kiss, as if he's trying to make sure you won't forget the feeling and taste of his lips on yours.

"You really should go." you whisper, pulling away from him and laying back on the pillows.

"Are you that willing to kick me out of my own bed?" he asks, stroking his hand over your ankle and moving his hand higher to your knee. You curse the pants you're wearing now.

"Contrary. That's why you have to go now." he doesn't take your words to heart. He leans over you and tucks your hair behind your ear.

"Don't move from here." he whispers before pressing his lips hungrily onto yours one last time. You moan as his hand gently cups your neck, positioning you at a better angle for him to freely play with your tongue.

The bastard takes your breath away again and leaves you blushing on his bed. Before he leaves, he gives you one last long look and gives you such a wonderful smile that you can't help but watch him until he disappears out the door.

You sigh, laying back on the pillows and placing your hand over your mouth as you allow yourself to giggle with happiness like a stupid, lovestruck teenager. You completely forgot everything that happened today. All that mattered was him and how he felt pressed against you.

You hear a knock on his door. Without much thought, you get out of bed and walk over to them, fully convinced it's Aleksander.

"Did you forget something?" you ask, opening the door only to see the only person you didn't expect to see ever in your life again. "Baghra?"

#this is so precious #i love this series sm #i cant comment but thank you for this🩷🩷#and omg IM WORRIED #the darkling #shadow and bone

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