#the ginger writes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gingerbreadmonsters · 4 months

Text

better half

or: here comes the... um...

gn!reader, strong language and innuendo, good old-fashioned fluffy stuff. my undying love and gratitude to the gang over on discord who have kept me sane for the last two months or so - @zozo-01 @pinksparkl and @autisticempathydaemon i would be LOST without you!! a veritable tropefest of all my favourites - just don't ask me when it's set, i beg. astarion taking matters into his own hands in 20,700 words or less.

“No, no, do go on. And the marigolds?”

Dear gods.

“Well, they’re a fine variety, to be sure - and fresh as anything, just come in this morning from-”

It was the right thing to say - the man keeps talking, voice lifted slightly over the bustle of the market as he chatters on about petal density and stem texture and who knows else. You’re only half-listening, nodding along and making encouraging little noises whenever he starts to run out of steam, but you’re not really paying attention.

You’d only come to this damned city in search of some complicated magical artefact that Gale’s been wanting - according to him, there’d been an auction back in Waterdeep not long after he left, and the nobleman who’d bought it arrived back home here just a few weeks ago. As luck would have it, he’s throwing a party in a little less than a tenday’s time for a bunch of the city’s rich folk, so naturally you’ll be taking advantage of the distraction to quietly sneak in and steal the artefact when nobody’s looking.

Or at least, that had been the plan, until closer inspection had revealed some pretty nasty enchantments protecting the manor from intruders. Gale and Shadowheart had both had a look, and agreed that while they could probably break them, given enough time, it wouldn’t exactly be discreet - rather, it’d probably set half the house on fire or something equally ridiculous. You’d all been standing around a few streets away, trying to figure out a plan for how exactly you were going to pull this off, when-

Really, now. Did they teach you idiocy at wizard school, or did it just come naturally?

You’d turned, surprised - Astarion, appearing out of thin air and self-satisfied as ever, swanning past Gale with a dismissive flutter of his fingers. I don’t suppose you’d know, but some of us have actually been to parties before.

Ignoring the affronted squawking from behind him, he’d dropped an expensive-looking roll of paper into your surprised hands, before looking down at you expectantly. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be an invitation to the manor, addressed to some minor lord you’d never heard of.

How on earth…? You’d been shocked at his good fortune - what are the odds he’d run into someone carrying an invitation for a party that’s happening days from now? Where did you-?

All taken care of, darling, he’d said dismissively, even though you could see the smug smile tugging just slightly at the corner of his mouth. A word in the right ear is a wonderful thing. We won’t be interrupted, believe me.

It had been that sort of smile - you’d said a silent prayer for whatever poor soul he’d lifted the invite off of. ‘We’?

Please. As much as I’m sure Lae’zel would love to spend an evening hanging off my arm - he’d dodged the kick to his shins with infuriating grace - I think we both know that the answer is obvious.

He’d gestured to the paper in your hand - ah. You hadn’t seen that part.

What say you, dearest? he’d said with a bow, taking your free hand with a princely flourish and laying a delicate kiss against your knuckles. Shadowheart had rolled her eyes at Astarion’s antics, mouthing something at you from over his shoulder before turning to start herding the others back towards the tavern you’re staying at. Fancy an evening as my beloved?

Obviously, there was no way this could possibly go wrong. You’d replied with your best Astarion impression, gasping in theatrical shock and trying desperately not to laugh. You could at least ask me properly, you know.

We’ve no time for courtship, sweetheart, he’d groaned as if in pain, kissing further and further up your wrist, your forearm, your elbow. I simply must have you - and tonight, no less!

Tonight? At least wait ‘til we’re wedded, dear, you’d gasped in return, smacking him in the shoulder and utterly failing to hide your grin. I’ll have the ring first, then we’ll see.

Conniving little magpie. He’d said it like he’s any better, the bastard. Is that how I’ll win your heart, then? Dangling sparkly trinkets over your head, putting a shiny ring on your finger?

The others are long forgotten, vague shadows in the street. If it were from you, my lord? Nothing would please me more.

He’d raised a single, silver eyebrow, something unreadable sitting just behind his smile. Nothing, you say?

Well. You’d shrugged as he laughed at your faux-serious expression, looking him up and down with an exaggerated leer. I can think of at least one thing…

He’d been about to reply, but you’d caught sight of Karlach halfway down the street behind his shoulder, leaning over to Wyll and whispering something with a chuckle. At that distance, you hadn’t been able to make it out, but that’s what vampires are for - Astarion’s jaw had dropped theatrically with an indignant I heard that, you-!

An unapologetic middle finger from Karlach, and an outraged huff from Astarion as he took your arm and started after them. Defend my honour, won’t you, my love?

For sweet Astarion, paragon of innocence? Dragged laughing after him by the elbow, you’d not really had much of a chance to protest, but it’s not like you were going to anyway. Why, always.

Yesterday evening and today have been dedicated to prepping the pair of you for this little mission, and you really can’t tell if you’re more excited or terrified of the whole thing. Is it a bad idea? Yes. Is it a ridiculous solution to the problem? Yes. Are you going to do something that inevitably gets you both discovered and kicked out of the house empty-handed at best, or run through with something sharp at worst? Almost certainly.

That being said…

What’s the right way to put it? It’s not good for you, to be doing this. It’s not going to do you any favours. It’ll be nice at first, but when the glamour falls away, it’ll hurt even more than it did before.

You like him. Or maybe you don’t. Or maybe you’re scared of what liking him might mean, so you’re trying desperately to convince yourself that there’s nothing out of the ordinary about the way you like him. It could mean anything, the way your eyes always seem to fall upon him first. It could mean anything, the way any joke you tell isn’t funny unless he laughs. It could mean anything, how his voice makes your stomach drop and his smile makes your lungs hurt and his fingers on your skin make you want to tear your heart in half.

He’s something else entirely. The sting of his fangs in your neck, the comforting way he sits in the corner of your eye. This is going to destroy you.

For what it’s worth, the others have been doing some intelligence gathering on this nobleman that Astarion’s supposed to be. Wyll and Halsin ventured out to one of the nicer parts of town last night to see if anyone might have drunk enough to spill anything good, while Shadowheart and Karlach had been making the rounds of some of the… less respectable establishments to try and dig up what dirt they could.

According to their collective notes, he’s one of the younger sons of a relatively unknown house somewhere up north, and he was due to arrive yesterday on some sort of business for his father. It can’t be for anything too complicated or expensive, seeing as a wealthier house would probably have a more famous name, and likely wouldn’t want to be seen sending a fourth or a fifth son as a negotiator.

He seems to be a fairly private figure - no especially distinctive features, and no particular public scandals or habits that Karlach or Shadowheart could discover, which is definitely good news for Astarion’s cover. Gale didn’t recognise the name in a magical context, and Lae’zel hadn’t heard of them as a notable military house - altogether, it’s likely that they’re probably a merchant family that’s come into money through trade, as opposed something like land or banking or politics.

Unusually, he seems to have brought someone with him - the invitation is addressed to him and a nameless betrothed, but none of you have been able to find anything out about them whatsoever. Nobody’s seen them, or heard about them, or even seems to know their name. As far as the people of the city have let slip, they might as well have never existed. Astarion had even said as much when you’d asked him.

I mean, he certainly didn’t look the type, he’d said, grimacing faintly as he pictured the man he’d pickpocketed. I’m more than aware that travelling can be a thoroughly unpleasant business, but really. If he does happen to be affianced, as you say, then I do pity the poor creature - it was barely the afternoon and the man reeked of alcohol.

An easy target, then, you’d replied with a grin. Please tell me you left him with some gold for a place to sleep last night.

He’d made a face, waving a hand dismissively. Oh, don’t be ridiculous, darling. He’ll be halfway home by now, I expect, if the look on his face was anything to go by.

A few seconds had passed.

What? I’ve told you before, I can be very persuasive-

And the fiancé?

You’d been able to feel the headache coming on already. No. No, you didn’t.

…Ah. He’d had the good grace to at least look a little bit sheepish. I, um-

You mean you sent him home without the fiancé? Who I’m supposed to be impersonating? By this point, you’d had your head in your hands, already picturing the myriad of ways this could so easily go wrong. Who’s probably going to turn up at this stupid party and tell everyone that w-

No, no - none of that now, dear. It’ll be fine, I promise you. He’d not sounded entirely sure, but you’d grudgingly let him shush you, featherlight pressure on your shoulder. I’m sure this fiancé - you know, are we even sure there is a fiancé? That it wasn’t conjured up at the bottom of a bottle? The fool was practically pickled - I’m telling you, darling, it wouldn’t be out of the question.

I’ll pickle you in a minute, you’d grumbled, not entirely joking. If we die, I’ll kill you.

Oh, my love. I look forward to it already.

“You know, I had a gentleman come by, not half an hour ago, swearing up and down I’d got these confused with the peonies - peonies! Can you imagine!”

Startled out of your daydream, you’re left blinking back at the man in hapless confusion. “Sorry, come again?”

“Well, that’s just what I told him - but apparently…”

The flower seller launches right back into his monologue, and you’re starting to wonder if there’s a reason nobody was looking at this stall when you arrived. Curse these ridiculous noble types and their ridiculous fashions! Wyll had taken one look at your - admittedly somewhat slender - wardrobe and declared that none of it would do, either for the sin of being far too cheap or terribly out of vogue. Fortunately for your wallet, you’d collectively been able to cobble together something halfway decent out of bits and pieces your little group had thieved over the last few weeks.

Unfortunately, they don’t exactly fit too well, so you’ve been sent out to get it all tailored into something suitably expensive-looking to wear. Astarion, true to form, had jumped at the chance to take you shopping, although you couldn’t tell if it was because he’d been dying for the chance to indulge in a little retail therapy at your expense, or just all of the various trinkets and knick-knacks he’d be able to swipe from unsuspecting merchants.

Oh, and you mustn’t forget about our little ruse, dear. Who knows who might be watching?

And thus, you’re stuck at this damned flower stand where he said he’d meet you, trying desperately to avoid whatever increasingly-unsubtle flirtation the flower seller aims at you, and really wishing you’d brought a book. Maybe that would have distracted you from the horrible, twisting feeling in your stomach at the thought of what might happen when he does show up.

Is it going to be weird? Oh, it’s a stupid question - it was always going to be weird, doing something like this with him. Acting as though you’re faking liking him, pretending to have to pretend, the double-triple bluff. It’s bad enough as it is, heartstrings all stretched and sore from the weight of keeping it all inside - but to be allowed to indulge, just this once? Falling into the fantasy of what could never be, letting yourself believe for a long, golden moment that he might actually love you the way you dream of. You’re afraid you’ll snap completely.

To be honest, the waiting isn’t helping. He’d rambled something last night about having some sort of business nearby - what sort of bloody business could he possibly have in a town he’s never seen before? - and that he’d catch up with you by the flower stall by mid-morning at the latest.

Naturally, that means that it’s nearly midday and you still haven’t seen hide nor hair of him, one eye on the crowd as you stare absently at the colourful buckets of flowers. The noise of the market all around you, the sun in your eyes, the mild breeze that’s more hot than cold - you were right, you definitely should have brought a book or something, because where in all the hells is that blasted-

“There you are, dearheart!”

Your head whips to the right at the sudden weight of a cool arm around your waist, pulling you to the side. Surprised, you’re already reaching for the borrowed dagger at your hip, only to be met with-

“I - oh, darling!” Before you really know what’s happening, you’re swept into an uncharacteristic embrace, face-to-face with a slightly-harried, definitely-late, maddeningly-beautiful Astarion. Hurriedly, you paint on a smile, looking up at him with what you’re hoping reads as blissful excitement. “Back so soon?”

“Soon?” He takes you at your word, the bastard, like he wasn’t supposed to be here hours ago. “Oh, it’s never too soon to be with you, my sweet.”

It’s infuriating, how your heart stutters at the rakish grin he gives you as he says it, at the thought - fake as it may be - that he might actually mean it. Pressed against him like this, strong hands keeping you close as you steady yourself against his chest, it’s even worse than usual. Can he hear it? Does he know?

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the flower seller trailing off clumsily in the middle of his sentence, clearly now at something of a loose end. He settles for reaching down to adjust one of the displays, but you can feel his eyes on you even while he pretends to look away.

He doesn’t suspect something, does he? No, he can’t - why would he even be suspicious? He doesn’t know that this isn’t real.

Astarion must notice too, diving down to kiss your cheek so lightly that it almost tickles - you make the mistake of letting the involuntary laughter show on your face, and immediately regret it when it means he goes right back in for another one. Then another, then another, dipping you further and further back and smothering your protestations in kisses that shouldn’t feel as good as they do.

“Wh-hey, hey - darling!” Embarrassed, you struggle against him, trying to escape his hold, but it’s no good - he’s just too strong. “We’re - this is hardly the time-!”

He relents slightly at that, bringing you back upright and turning you around to face back towards the flower stall, before draping himself over your back and locking his arms once more around your middle. Somehow, it’s even worse than before - now you can definitely see the awkward flower seller, trying not to stare at the absolute mess that you two must be right now.

“Mmm, my apologies for the interruption,” Astarion mumbles against your throat, thoroughly unrepentant, and you can feel him smile as he kisses over the soft, tender space where his fangs normally go. “You were saying?”

You wrack your brain, but there’s nothing there except the swirling, flustered mist that fills your mind whenever he gets this close. What would you say, if this were real? Blindly, you reach for something to say - anything, that might get him off your case. And your neck.

“Did you, um-” You pause, stumbling over the words slightly. He probably doesn’t want all and sundry knowing what he was up to before he arrived, and he probably isn’t going to admit it anyway. Better to just make it part of the charade from the start.

“Did you find anything good?”

“Mm, nothing much,” he hums, fingers tracing tiny spirals across the front of your shirt. “A little bit of this and that, you know how it is.”

Okay, great, a total non-answer. Good to know that he’s really trying to make this act believable.

“Very well. Keep your secrets.” You turn your face away in faux-offence, before softening with a smile as a petulant hand comes up to turn your chin back towards him. “Did you at least get everything you wanted?”

“Really, dear,” he huffs, soothing the blow with a barely-there kiss against your temple. “Can’t a man have any secrets from you?”

Gods below, he’s up to something. If your brain wasn’t too busy melting into goo, you might even wonder what it is - alas, you just have to settle for discreetly elbowing him in the ribs.

“Of course not,” you reply matter-of-factly, even though the words make your heart ache just a little bit. If only it were true. “What’s yours is mine, and all that.”

“How could I forget?” Sweet hells, he says it so softly, like he’s trying to make it hurt. “As if I could ever be free of you, my love.”

You roll your eyes, even as you lean back into his chest - you’re vaguely aware that you were supposed to be doing something, but you’ll be damned if you can remember what it is. “You make it sound so appealing, you know.”

“Do I? It’s not on purpose, I assure you.”

You gasp, hand limp against your forehead in a mock-faint. “Rude.”

“All part of the plan, darling,” he says, nonchalant, and it’s ridiculous how it does actually make you feel better. “For a prize as lovely as you? I have to find some way of keeping you all to myself.”

You’re about to respond when the flower seller clears his throat awkwardly, evidently not really sure what to do with the pseudo-couple flirting incessantly in front of his stand - you jump slightly at the reminder, feeling weirdly like you’ve just been walked in on.

Astarion, meanwhile, remains annoyingly unfazed - when you turn to look at him, he’s… smiling? No, not quite. It’s less of a smile and more of a smirk, but not his usual one - and yet you can’t quite put your finger on why it’s different.

“Go on, then,” he prompts you, nudging you gently in the side. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend here?”

“Right, right, um-” Shaking your head slightly, as if to clear it, you smile as brightly as you can at the flower seller. Fuck, what did he say his name was again? “Love, this is - oh, this is…”

“Osric, sir.” The man comes to your rescue, tipping his cap in Astarion’s direction with a friendly smile. “Pleasure to be of service to you both.”

True to form, Astarion meets him with a flat, haughty stare, seemingly unimpressed. “Charmed. Now, sweetheart, I believe we were just on our w-”

“Ah - just a moment.” He recoils ever so slightly at the interruption, a tiny tremor that you feel but don’t see. Got him. “I might like to look a little longer.”

It’s only really for show, but you make a point of umming and ahhing over the display, surreptitiously stepping on the toe of his boot as you do it. If he’s going to try and empty your wallet today, as you’re sure he will, you’re not going to let him have all the fun.

“Really. If you want me to buy you flowers, pet, you only have to ask.” Astarion shakes his head indulgently as he catches your drift, rolling his eyes at the young man behind the stall in pretend commiseration. “Trust me to find the one creature in all of Faerûn who’d rather I spend my fortune on dahlias than dinner.”

You twist slightly in his arms without looking away from the flowers, one hand slipping idly up to cradle his jaw as the other drifts over the box of tulips. “But you do it anyway.”

He sighs, exasperated and achingly fond in a way you wish he meant, turning to press a gentle kiss to your palm. “Yes, I do it anyway. Fool that I am.”

You’re forced to step slightly to the side as a lady comes up beside you and starts chatting to the vendor, which gives Astarion the perfect opportunity to dial down the act a little bit. It’s hard work even for you, and you’re not even really faking it - you can only imagine how annoying it must be, having to do all this with someone you’re not actually in love with.

For some reason, though, he doesn’t. Instead he seems to double down, swaying the two of you lightly from side to side as you examine the flowers on display, cold hands warming with your body heat as they smooth absentmindedly up and down your sides.

“Tempted by anything, darling?”

A classic line - somehow, it makes the whole thing easier. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and you know exactly what he wants to hear. “Oh, plenty,” you say, not even trying to hide your grin. “Nothing fit for polite company, though.”

You don’t even have to turn and look - your mind’s eye is enough to see the faux-outraged face he’s making. “Do I look like polite company to you?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

The lady accidentally bumps you with her bag as she walks over to look at some of the other displays, and you can’t be sure, but it almost sounds like you can hear Astarion muttering something under his breath. “I don’t think you want me to answer that, you know.”

“Mind if I answer for you, then?” He waits for you to nod, cautiously curious about what he’ll say, before lifting a blasé hand to the flower seller and beckoning him over with a lazy wave.

“Six of the roses, if you will.”

“Certainly, sir,” the vendor replies with a nod. “Right away.”

What?

Utterly bewildered, you watch detachedly as Astarion points to the colours he wants, some comically cliché blend of red and pink and white. He can’t be doing what you think he’s doing. “What in - what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

A sideways glance, faintly bemused. “Pardon?”

You should probably be more embarrassed about the way you’re tripping over the words, but you’re more concerned with wondering if he’s actually, genuinely lost his mind. “I don’t need - it’s fine, let’s just-”

"No, no, you're right, six won’t do." He’s unmoved by your futile attempt to drag him away, free arm locking around your waist to keep you trapped against his chest as he corrects himself to the flower seller. "Make it a dozen."

“Astarion!” you hiss, as quietly as you can so that nobody overhears. “This is - you can’t just-”

“I’ll have you know I certainly can,” he replies, producing a handful of coins out of nowhere and casually dropping them into the flower seller’s palm. Absentmindedly, you notice that he’s wearing more rings than usual - your eye is drawn to a particularly lovely gold one on his left hand that you haven’t seen before. “In fact - oh, would you look at that? It seems I just have.”

You - he - you’re going to m-

“Do close your mouth, sweetling,” he sighs, eyes bright with concealed mischief, one elegant finger pressing up under your chin. “It’s dreadfully unbecoming.”

Sweetling. You’re going to strangle him.

The excellent retort that you were surely about to give is cut off by the flower seller, bouquet in hand and clearly very amused by the whole situation. “There we are - a dozen roses, compliments of your gentleman friend.”

He’s certainly no gentleman, but that’s hardly the worst of his crimes. Hateful, traitorous creature, that scheming villain, tormentor of your mind and thief of your heart.

“Excellent taste, sir,” the vendor says innocently over your shoulder as you lean forwards to take the flowers from him. “They’re some lovely blossoms, those!”

“Mm, aren’t they just?” Damn it all, you know what it means when he uses that voice - when you turn around, his eyes flick back up to yours with a shameless grin. “And the flowers are rather pleasant, too.”

“I - you-!” Oh, you could just smack him for that - you can guess what he was talking about, and it certainly wasn’t a bouquet. The vendor hastily stifles a laugh behind you as you glare daggers at Astarion, sorely tempted to take a swing at him. “When I get my hands on you-!”

Cackling wildly, he dances out of the way with an annoyingly dignified sidestep, bidding a quick farewell to the flower seller over his shoulder before looping his arm around your waist and sweeping you away further into the market. “Careful there, petal. We wouldn’t want the whole town to know about where you’ll put your hands on me, would we?”

You’re going to kill him. You’re actually going to fucking kill him, and nobody is going to blame you.

“Come now, darling, no need to look so glum,” he murmurs, leading you gently through the crowd. “Don’t you like them?”

Irritatingly, you can’t actually say you don’t. The roses really are stunning, each one beautifully rich in colour, all soft, velvety petals and long, elegant stems wrapped in thick paper. They’re also far too expensive for him to be wasting money on like this, but you know exactly what he’ll say if you try to protest.

Instead, you settle for honesty. Staring down at the delicate flowers in your hands, you let yourself believe, for just a single second, that they mean what you wish they would mean. That he gave them to you because he loves you, rather than as a prop for a foolish charade - that the kiss marks burned into your skin spell devotion, instead of duplicity.

“They’re gorgeous,” you say. “Thank you, my love.”

A sudden, scuffing sound from close by - next to you, Astarion suddenly lurches forward slightly, fingers digging almost painfully into your sides for a fraction of a second before relaxing. If it was anyone else, you’d say he’d just stumbled over his own feet. But this is Astarion you’re talking about, fleet-footed master of thievery and rogue extraordinaire, so that can’t be what just happened.

There’s a momentary pause, before-

“You’re very welcome, dearheart.”

He says it softly, low and unusually sincere. You don’t want to think about why. “And for what it’s worth, I do think your blossoms are really rather lo-”

“Alright!” You cut him off before he can finish the sentence - that’s quite enough about your blossoms, thank you very much - and practically drag him after you, bouquet cradled in the crook of your arm as your other hand reaches down to grab his. “No need to lay it on too thick, now.”

He doesn’t stop laughing until you’re almost there, magnanimously letting you pull him along with a shocking lack of complaints. The tangled streets that surround this part of the market are something of a maze, but before long you’re standing outside the tailor’s shop that you’ve been tasked with finding.

Thankfully, it doesn’t look like it’s too busy inside. There’s a few people working, but it’s not as packed as you’d feared - with any luck, it’ll mean that they’ll have the time to work on your requests, rather than just rejecting you outright.

“Ah - just a moment, dear.”

Your hand freezes on the door, and you turn to see Astarion fiddling with a hitherto-unseen pouch of some kind. It looks like leather, and the way he’s holding it makes it look like there’s something delicate inside. How odd. Did he steal it? You don’t recognise it.

“I have a little something for you that might help with our…”

He trails off, eyes not quite meeting yours, gesturing awkwardly with one hand as he tries to find the words. “Our little arrangement, shall we say.”

“Really?” Intrigued, you step away from the door and back to his side. “What is it?”

No reply. Instead, he takes your hand in his and holds it flat, before upending the contents of the little bag into it and letting you see for yourself.

“I do hope it fits.”

It’s just a prop. It’s just part of the disguise, and he would have done it for anyone. Your mind doesn’t stop, your heart doesn’t ache. It doesn’t mean anything, the lovely engagement ring sitting innocently in your palm.

“I…”

Wordless, you can only stare. Perhaps a more critical eye would call it plain, but to you it’s nothing short of beautiful, a tasteful gold band with a delicate tear-shaped ruby in the centre. It looks new, polished and pristine in its finish, not at all like any of the rings you’ve picked up on your travels so far. There’s something inscribed inside the band, but the letters are quite small and difficult to make out - is that Espruar?

Of everything about it, that’s probably the strangest thing. As much as it stings to admit it, at the end of the day it’s a fake ring, so why bother having it engraved at all? Nobody’s going to see the inside except for you.

He can’t possibly have bought it. He just can’t have. Creature of luxury though he is, he’d never waste money on something so… so frivolous. He must have stolen it. That’s the only explanation. He didn’t know it was engraved when he took it, so it doesn’t mean anything at all. And in any case, he’ll probably want it back when this is all over - you’re sure it’ll fetch a lovely price when he’s sold it by this time next week.

You’re interrupted in your examination by Astarion, discreetly clearing his throat, and oh, hells, your face feels like it’s on fire.

“Here. Let me.”

Ever so sweetly, he takes the ring from your hand and slides it carefully onto your finger. Head bowed, gaze fixed on his task. He’s so close. If he looked up, right now, you could almost be kissing. You’d only have to lean forwards a tiny bit.

The thought sends a shiver right through you that you try to hide - but true to form he notices anyway, pulling his hands away like it’s his cool touch that startled you, and you mourn the loss as soon as he does it. He’s right that the metal is cold at first, but it quickly warms with your skin, and you smile as you realise that he’d guessed correctly. Slim yet sturdy, a reassuring weight. It fits perfectly.

“I…”

Sunlight. Washing him in gold, filling the street with light, sparkling on your finger. Vaguely, you remember thinking something about a ring earlier, but you can’t quite remember what it was.

“Let’s get you inside, darling,” he says, and something in his voice aches in a way you can’t describe. “We can’t have you catching a cold out here.”

The bell above the door rings cheerfully as he pushes it open for you, one hand on the small of your back to steady you as you step inside. It’s a tiny little place, jam-packed with all manner of fabrics and half-mended garments - you’re barely able to get the words sorry, it’s kind of last-minute out before the no-nonsense lady by the counter is ushering you back behind a curtain, plucking the roses out of your hands, and pulling it shut with a brisk nod and instruction to the assistant there to help you get dressed.

You can vaguely hear Astarion being pelted with questions as you retrieve the bundle of clothes from your bag. Now that you really look, it’s obvious that some of this stuff has suffered somewhat over time, what with all the fraying seams and threadbare patches, but all things considered it’s not that bad. With a little bit of love, you should be able to decently pass yourself off as the minor noble you’re supposed to be.

It’s lucky that Astarion has such expensive taste, magpie that he is. He’d managed to come up with a reasonable ensemble last night with relative ease, thanks to the various spoils he’s picked up while you’ve all been travelling. His doublet is a little bare, though, so he said he was going to see if they could embroider something for him.

Ordinarily, you know he would have done it himself. He tries not to let on, but you’ve seen him picking through his little sewing box - yes, he does have one and no, he refuses to admit it exists - at camp in the evening when he thinks nobody’s looking. Perhaps the others haven’t noticed how his clothes seem to magically repair themselves overnight after a fight, or perhaps they just don’t care to comment. Either way, he’s certainly more skilled with a needle than you’d first thought, but life on the road doesn’t exactly lend itself to fine embroidery thread. He almost certainly doesn’t have any, or at least not enough, and he’s far too proud to ask if anyone else happens to.

He really is very particular about how he looks, and you suppose it makes sense. Considering all that’s happened to him, the monstrosity of his servitude… well. It’s hardly a surprise that any measure of control, even over something as seemingly trivial as the shirt he wears, might be intoxicating. If he wants to dress himself in nice things, however gaudy or over the top they might be, then he may as well. Hopefully, nobody out there is getting on his bad side about it.

Actually, now that you think about it, it’s probably not the best idea to leave Astarion unsupervised in a room full of people who you need to like you. Hastily, you start changing a little faster, in what little space there is behind this curtain - clothes like this are so complicated that the assistant back here has to help you, but there’s so little room that you’d almost rather be alone. At the very least there’s no shouting from the rest of the room yet, but you know what he’s like. No point in risking it-

“-haah-!”

“Darling, are you quite alright in there?”

Wincing, you emerge from the cramped little corner, fully dressed and clutching your banged elbow. You can’t move all that fast, seeing as some of these clothes are a fair bit too small, but it doesn’t really matter. The lady has you up on the riser in the middle of the room, and you’re swarmed by a handful of shop assistants armed with pins and measuring ropes, all chattering away about letting one seam or another out, let’s put darts in here, this’ll need covering up, I see what you mean about the sleeves…

To be honest, you’re not really paying attention, content to have them just get on with it. Wyll had said that this place deals with rich types all the time, so you’re sure they know what they’re doing far better than you do. Astarion, meanwhile, seems to be having the time of his life lounging in his little chair and making snide comments here and there, occasionally getting up and pointing at various bits of you that need embellishing - you’re strangely reminded of a child playing dress-up with a favourite dolly.

“Lift your arms a moment, if you please.”

The tailor gestures for you to raise your arms at your sides, so you do. Her voice is nice, sweet and smooth like honey, and you idly follow her instructions as she tells you how to move. Some of the assistants have gone off to sift through fabrics, but most of them are still clustered around you, honeybees to a flower.

How long have you been up here again? You’re surprised there are any bits of you they haven’t measured yet.

Your mind starts to drift as they keep picking at you, but fairly soon it catches on one of the girls closer to the front of the shop. She’s strikingly beautiful, all fine features and gentle grace, pointed ears peeking out of long, silky hair that reaches all the way down to her slim waist. She hasn’t come over to you, and at her bench it looks like she’s working on a doublet of some kind, so it makes sense that she’s talking to Astarion. It makes sense, because she’s probably asking what he wants embroidered on it.

Yeah. Yeah, that’ll be why she's standing so close to him, so she can hear every detail of exactly what he wants. She’s smiling so much and laughing at every little thing he says, because she wants him to feel welcome here. She’s guiding him away from you and closer to her workbench, so that he can make sure that she’s embroidering the right pattern.

It makes total sense. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“And if you could just turn this way, please?”

Only it doesn’t make sense, because you know for a fact he’d never be caught dead in that particular shade of coral pink - it clashes horribly with my eyes, don’t you think? - and he’s never liked that type of slashing on the sleeve.The laces are in the wrong style, and the length is all funny. Astarion wouldn’t wear anything like that, not even as a disguise. It’s garish and tacky and altogether far too tasteless. It can't belong to him.

So what in all the hells does that girl think she's doing?

Astarion, for his part, doesn’t seem too fussed about her - rather, he looks to be fairly entertained. It’s fine, though, right? He’s probably just humouring her, isn’t he? To say nothing of the way his fingers flex at his side, like he wants to reach out and touch her, or the way his gaze fixes on her face like he can’t bring himself to look away.

It’s fine. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter - and it’s hardly your place to tell him what he can and can’t do, anyway. This whole thing is just a ruse. He doesn’t know how much you wish it were true, and he doesn’t need to know. If it hurts, that’s your own fault.

Besides, he’s probably just looking for some fun, right? He’s never exactly been shy about it. He flirts with everyone, but it’s not love that’s on his mind - and you’re not stupid enough to think he’s any different when it comes to this. Whether it’s out of boredom or hedonism, it isn’t because he wants to make you feel good, and it isn’t because he’s just so friendly. It’s because he wants something.

You’re not so naive to think he might actually mean the things he tells you, pretty though they may be. When he says he wants you, when he says he wants to please you - every time, it’s as charming as it is frustrating. Charming, because you think you’d give anything for it to be real, for him to like you - desire you - care for you the way you do him. Frustrating, because you know that someone like Astarion would never bring himself to settle for someone like you.

“Face this way for a second, please?”

Even men like him need a change of pace. When he makes faces at you across the campfire when Gale starts rabbiting on about his magic tricks, when he presses his lips against your neck for just a second before he bites, when he softens every practised line with a flick of his wrist and a teasing smile. You know what it means. It means he knows he doesn’t have to pretend, doesn’t have to play the fool with you - he’s not worried about getting you into bed, because he knows you know he’s out of your league.

He doesn’t want you. He trusts you to not want him either. And you, idiot that you are, thought you’d go ahead and ruin that by falling in love with him. How much worse could it be?

He’s your friend, loath as he is to admit it sometimes. You can’t bring yourself to hurt him with the admission - the part of you that knows he doesn’t come to you for sex, and the part that can’t help but wish he did. If he’s looking for somebody to warm his bed tonight, why would he ever waste time talking to you?

Yeah, that’ll be it. That dull ache deep inside, soaking into all the soft parts of you, watching the man you love give in to a girl he met fifteen minutes ago. And you can’t blame him at all, because it’s your own stupid crush that’s got you into this mess. The pain isn’t his problem. If you were the sort of person he could love, then maybe you wouldn’t have to hurt this way - but you’re not, so you can’t complain.

Gushing, sloshing, seasick. It’s not like he’s actually in love with you.

He’s turned slightly away from you to face her, so you can’t see exactly, but it looks like he’s… smiling? And look, he’s beckoning her closer, leaning down as if he might have a secret to tell her, and if you didn’t know better you might think he was just about to-

“Darling!”

Both of them whip around to face you, and neither of them are as good at acting as they think they are. The girl is breathing hard, pretty lips stretched into what you’re sure she hopes is a convincing grin, and you’ve seen enough of Astarion’s fake, hasty smiles to know when you’re looking at one.

You hadn’t really thought about what you were going to say next - blindly, you scramble for an excuse to get his attention back. “Won’t you come and help me choose?”

“Choose what, my love?” The girl scurries back to her bench as Astarion looks pointedly down at her, but you can still see how she watches him walk over to you, wide-eyed and flushed even as she tries to go back to her work. “Are you finished already?”

Fortunately, one of the assistants comes over to you at just the right moment, holding out a hand to help you down off the riser. Astarion clearly notices what she’s doing and offers his hand to you as well - and if it’s a sick sort of pleasure that runs through you as you deliberately ignore him, taking the assistant’s hand instead of his, then that’s nobody’s business but yours.

(In the corner of your eye, as you step down, he looks almost… well, it doesn’t matter. The moment has passed.)

“The sampler’s on the table, when you’re ready,” says the assistant to you, bowing slightly before vanishing behind a table piled with rolls of fabric, and you take a shallow breath as she leaves.

“The - um, the embroidery. You can pick.”

Your voice is small, too small, and you can’t quite meet his eyes as you say it - by all the hells, you’re pathetic. Don’t let him know, don’t let him see what this curse of a crush does to you. Weighed down, one hand that’s so, so heavy.

“Are you sure, dear?” Something dangerously close to worry crosses his face, just for a moment, but that can’t possibly be real. “Wouldn’t you rather decide for yourself?”

“It’s fine.” You shake your head and smile as best you can, already starting to step backwards towards the curtain where your ordinary clothes are. Anything, just to get yourself out of this for a second. “I’m sure you’re better at this than I am.”

He nods stiffly, eyes narrowed, and lets you go. You’re obviously not off the hook just yet, but there’s nothing he can say in front of everyone in here - gratefully, you take the reprieve and disappear back behind the curtain. It’s almost certainly your imagination, but you could swear you feel his eyes on you the whole way, burning through the back of your skull, setting your skin alight.

It’s only after about thirty seconds before you realise the problem at hand, and you can’t help but swear under your breath at the thought. This fucking outfit - you can’t even reach half of the buttons and laces that keep it on you, and this time there’s nobody back here to help you. Trying on your own will be pointless, seeing as you’ll probably just get yourself even more stuck, and if you go back out there now, you’ll have to face-

“Let me.”

Another lie. You should have known.

Quiet, slipping unnoticed behind you, cold hands searing through the layers of silk and velvet that separate you. Inch by inch, button by button. As always, he sees right through you.

“Careful,” you say, trying not to notice how hollow it sounds. “You and I, all alone. People might talk.”

He scoffs, and it’s something like lighthearted. “What would they say? Heavens forfend, I should spend a little time with the love of my life.”

Does he have to be so cruel about it? Stinging, smarting, lemon juice in the cut.

“I’m told that said time is normally meant to be spent fully clothed.” His fingers work their way deftly across your back, unbuttoning and unlacing all the pieces of your silken armour, and you fight to keep your voice steady. Whose idea was it to put you in this many damned layers again? “You’re a wicked man, my darling.”

“Oh, certainly,” he replies, and you don’t have to look to feel the careless shrug he gives. “Can you blame me? Between you and a second-rate sampler, I know which is the better view.”

“Depends how much you like embroidered flowers.”

“Not at all.”

“Then I commend your choice of entertainment.” The final button comes undone, and you gesture over your shoulder for him to step back outside. “That’s everything.”

He hums quietly in acquiescence, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he just turns to face away. The rustle of fabric is loud in the sudden silence as you step out of your outfit, skin burning with the closeness of him - as you reach past him to the pile of your ordinary clothes, careful not to accidentally touch, you can feel the coolness of his body in the air. A shadow on the wall, drinking in the heat of you.

“It looked like you were having fun.”

It’s a normal thing for you to say, in a normal tone of voice. Easy, casual, teasing in the way a friend might be. Judging from the way he tenses, spine stiffening ever so slightly, you very nearly manage it.

“Did it?” he asks, and there’s something in his words that you can’t quite figure out. “From a distance, perhaps.”

“You know, I think she likes you,” you sing as you pull your shirt back over your head, poking him in the shoulder to disguise the fact that the note is slightly sharp. “How’s that for a scandal?”

“Hardly her fault.” He makes a show of preening himself in front of the invisible mirror, inspecting his nails and raking a practised hand through his hair - if your tongue didn’t taste so sour, you’d laugh. “An occupational hazard for a gentleman such as myself.”

See, if you weren’t already so stupidly infatuated with him, you’d keep pushing. If you were just a perfectly ordinary, entirely platonic companion, that’s what you’d do. So you say it, and you try your best to ignore the horrible churning feeling that settles in your stomach as you do.

“You ought to go back to her,” you muse, as lightly and sweetly as you can. “If you asked, I’m sure she’d make time for a private fitting.”

To be entirely honest, the innuendo isn’t your best work, but that’s not the problem here. It’s a perfectly ordinary comment for you to make, a normal sort of joke that he really should have been expecting. So then, why…?

Astarion freezes, unnaturally still, one hand still tangled in his curls as the words register. Maybe it’s magic, or maybe it’s just your blood running cold - either way, the temperature between you plummets until you could swear you see your breath turning to mist in the air, frozen solid with the chill.

“A pri- sorry, a what?”

It’s a good thing you’re mostly dressed by now - he turns back to face you with an almost comically incredulous expression, looking for all the world like you’ve just told him you’re thinking about asking Lae’zel for ballet lessons. “And why in all the hells would I want to do that?”

“Well, you know…” Your hand waves clumsily in place of words you can’t quite say - surely he knows what you mean. “I won’t stop you, if you want to stay and let her, um… ”

“What?”

It’s a thoroughly bizarre situation, watching the gears turning uselessly in his brain. Normally, you’ve barely had time to think of the innuendo before he’s already said it, and you were expecting this time to be no different. What’s changed? Isn’t that what he was after?

“Darling, you don’t - I didn’t-”

Wait. Oh, shit, don’t say it’s true. You’ve got this totally wrong, haven’t you? He must have genuinely liked her, must have wanted to speak to her - you know Astarion well enough to know that he won’t waste his precious time on somebody he doesn’t care for. That’ll have been why the girl was so close when you saw them speaking, and it’ll be why he’s so confused now. Shame blooms deep and bitter in your stomach as it finally dawns on you - gods be good, he must really think you’re an idiot now, accusing him of trying to solicit some torrid affair when he just wanted to have a chat with someone h-

“Um… excuse me?”

Both of your heads whip towards the voice coming from just outside the curtain - one hand instinctively flies to the still-undone front of your shirt, while the other darts out to cover the sudden flash of light in the corner of your eye. Astarion nearly jumps a foot in the air at your touch, uncharacteristically on edge, but he lets you push the half-drawn dagger back into the sheath at his hip regardless. As much as he might protest, whoever’s speaking probably doesn’t need to be greeted by several inches of sharpened steel.

“Yes?” he snaps, and you notice that he’s moved slightly to put himself between you and the curtain. “What is it?”

“The alterations, sir,” the voice replies. “We can’t start without the, um… without the actual garments.”

Right, yeah, that does make sense. Astarion looks at you as you swallow down the furious humiliation bubbling in your throat, but you can’t look back. Turning around, you’re just reaching for the pile of clothes on the floor when-

“Five days should be more than enough, yes?”

Fortunately, you have the presence of mind not to shout as the world blurs around you, cold hands shoving you gracelessly through the curtain and out into the room proper. Stumbling over your undone boots, you barely avoid tripping headfirst into the poor tailor’s assistant standing just outside.

“I, uh - well, we’ll do our best, sir, but-”

“Excellent.”

You can only watch as Astarion grabs the pile of clothes and dumps them into the woman’s arms along with a sizeable handful of gold, before practically lifting you off your feet and carrying you out of the shop entirely. The elvish girl from before looks up with wide eyes at the kerfuffle, but he swans past without even sparing her a glance.

“Right, then. I suppose we’ll be seeing you all soon, won’t we, sweetheart?”

He’s gone mad. Absolutely mad. It’s the only explanation you can think of, head spinning from the speed, dazed and dizzy as he coos the words down at you - there’s just enough time to catch the confused assistant’s eye and point to one of the nicer embroidery patterns on the forgotten sampler as he whisks you past it, before the door swings shut behind you and you’re back in the sun-bathed street outside.

(Numbly, you realise that you’re holding your bunch of flowers again, tucked loosely into the cradle of your arms, and that your bag is slung over Astarion’s shoulder along with his own. When did that happen?)

Silence. Thorns, crawling up your throat, greedy stems clawing their way out of your soft, bloody mouth. Everything tastes like roses.

“Well, then.”

Your voice is remarkably calm, if you do say so yourself. Red sunlight, dancing on the wall every time you move your hand. It’s cold.

“Love, I-”

“Let’s just go.” He recoils slightly at the undertone of venom in your voice, cutting him off, but it doesn’t send more than a faint twinge of regret through you. The more you play this game, the worse it gets - you’ve already put your foot in it once, and you’d rather not do it again. “You don’t have to pretend when it’s just us. I won’t make you.”

Anger and embarrassment bubble in your chest, a sour cocktail that sears a hot flush all down your cheeks and your neck as you extricate yourself stiffly from his hold. It’s useless to try and hide it, but there’s something small and shameful inside that forces you to turn from him anyway, quick steps down the street.

Upset over nothing, you’re making a scene. You won’t cry, you won’t, but you could if you wanted to - clutching the flowers to your chest like they might stop him from being able to hear the rattle of your heart against your ribs, from knowing the heat of your blood as it soaks through your skin.

“You couldn't make me do anything.”

He's quiet, bitter words flung at your back. You slow down, but don't stop.

“Yeah.” Oh, if only he knew how much you wished you could. “I know.”

Sunlight bears down on you, no relief from the fierceness of its glare. Perhaps that's what this has always been about. Selfish from the start, always looking out for yourself, and just too afraid to admit it. This whole fiction you’ve created, that you’ve allowed yourself to indulge in. A puppet strangled in its own strings, a control freak in love.

He doesn't love you, and it burns that you can't make him - so here you are, playing house like a spoilt child, forcing him into the charade. Sweet hells. You really are pathetic.

Cool fingers, warmed by the sun, lock around your wrist.

“I always said you were a fool, you know.”

It’s so kind of Astarion, to really twist the knife like this. “Thanks.”

“No - no, not-” He cuts himself off with a frustrated groan, tugging you towards him and sighing when you still won’t look at him. “I didn’t mean-”

“It doesn’t matter, alright?” you snap. “It’s fine.”

“But it’s not fine, is it?” he retorts, louder than you think he meant to be. “It’s not fine, and it does matter, because I - I’ve-”

Stone shifts beneath your feet, lightheaded, vertigo. The tadpole.

I’ve hurt you.

He’s in your head, flat pressure against the bubble of your mind. Not pushing, just waiting. A quiet street in the middle of town.

Please. Let me show you.

You want to. Dear gods, you want to, but even now you know that out here, this won’t be good for either of you.

“Not here,” you say out loud, shaking your head. “Not like this.”

He looks a little affronted that you don’t reply in his mind, but acquiesces all the same. “Where, then?”

“Just…” A woman and her son turn down the street behind him, walking hand in hand towards you. They look well-off, to say the least, and you quickly thread your arm through Astarion’s like the lover you’re supposed to be. You can never be too careful. “Inside, at least.”

Not refusing, just postponing. Ever the gentleman, he gestures forwards with a little bow, eyes closed in mock-deference. “Lead on, dearheart.”

After a little bit of walking, inside turns out to be one of the taverns you’d passed on the way here - not the one you’re staying at, but one that might be acceptable for a couple of your supposed stature. It’s only the early afternoon, so thankfully there’s not too many people inside. Astarion goes off to get something to drink while you settle yourself at one of the tables, slightly out of the way and hopefully where nobody else will be able to overhear you.

He’s gone for a little while, coming back with a pitcher of wine and two cups. One for you, one for him, and you watch as he pours them both with a generous hand.

“Any good?”

He takes a tentative sip, pretty lips twisting into a telltale grimace. “Same as ever, I’m afraid.”

“That’s my love,” you sigh, light and airy as you take the offered cup. Contrary to what he’d have you believe, it’s actually fairly nice, much sweeter than you were expecting. “Always such a picky eater.”

“Oh, darling, we’ve been over this,” he moans, betrayed, gently kicking your shin under the table. “Not picky, dear. Particular.”

“Particularly difficult to please, you mean.”

“Difficult? Hardly.” That predator’s grin, sharp fangs in the low light. “I can think of a few ways you could please me, if you’re so inclined.”

You shrug, swallowing another mouthful of wine. “No accounting for taste, it seems.”

“There’s something I’d like to taste, certainly.”

“Somehow, I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing any more.”

He laughs as you roll your eyes, knocking his cup against yours in a poor mockery of a toast. “The story of my life, my sweet. The story of my life.”

The air between you feels a little warmer than it had before, sitting across from him like this, like it’s just another ordinary day. He looks a lot more relaxed than he had outside, and you suppose you must be the same. Dancing in and out of each other’s words, the familiar rhythm of your back-and-forth.

A bunch of roses, lying next to you on the windowsill. This is… nice.

Is this better?

Astarion’s voice is an echo in your head, ripples on the surface of the sea. You look around, but it’s fine. Nobody’s watching.

He reaches across the table, palm face up. Your hand slides into his so easily, fingers brushing over his wrist, the imagined pulse of an undead heart.

Go on, then.

Your mouth tastes like oranges.

Show me.

The world shimmers and swims around you, iridescent like a soap bubble, melting into something new. The chill of the early morning, weak sunlight not yet enough to warm the street that you find yourself remembering.

“Good morrow, sir. Can I help you?”

A haughty mask, concealing the nerves beneath.There’s nobody else in the shop, early as it is, and it’s an enormous relief - you get the strange feeling that if this strange new heart could race, it would.

“I have a rather… urgent request, I suppose.”

“Urgent, sir?” The man behind the counter looks intrigued, smoothing down the front of his apron, and looking altogether far too cheery for such an early hour and his only customer. “How so?”

Unbidden, the scene twists before your eyes in a blur of sunlight, the cold feeling of impatient anticipation swirling through you like ink in water. Vague impressions of the town rush past you, smoke and sound and life as the sun rises in the sky, before you’re suddenly stepping through exactly the same door as you were a minute ago.

“Ah, sir.” The same man as before, a little less neat than he was several hours ago, the sound of hammering metal louder than you’d like. “You’ve been well since last I saw you, I hope?”

Restless, nervous, fighting the urge to fidget like a child. “Yes, yes, quite. Do you have them?”

“Aye, sir. Just a moment, if you please.” The blacksmith in front of him walks over to the side, rummaging through a drawer full of little leather bags. “Oh, it was good of you to write it down for us - we make a lot of posy rings here, sir, but not so many in Espruar, you see.”

He finds the one he’s looking for, soft brown leather with a drawstring, and carefully empties its contents to be inspected. A familiar ruby ring, scarlet fire in the blacksmith’s palm, and a lightly-patterned gold band that you now realise you’ve already seen before, as the hand it adorned paid an unknowing flower seller for a dozen roses.

Both rings are engraved inside, and your borrowed brain supplies the words with no small degree of pleased satisfaction. Amorie ent vivas est ma vie, proclaims the ring that now sits on your finger, ubi amor ibi fides the one that Astarion kept for himself.

“All to your satisfaction, I hope?”

“Hmm?” Astarion’s mouth replies but you can feel that his mind’s far away, curled up warm and content in some possessive, instinctive corner of your shared skull. “Oh, yes… lovely stuff, certainly.”

Seemingly satisfied, the blacksmith tips the rings back into the little leather pouch, exchanging it for no small sum of gold from your own pocket. The rings are hidden away, safe in the depths of Astarion’s bag, and he’s quick to turn on his heel to leave.

“A good day to you, sir.”

From what brief glimpse you catch, the man looks a little taken aback at your hasty exit, but this body doesn’t really care. The sun outside is high overhead as you pull the door open, and you feel yourself waving your hand vaguely over your shoulder. Whatever. There are far more important things to think about.

“Yes, yes. And to you.”

After all, you’ve got a date to keep.

“You see?”

As quickly as it came, the scene disappears around you - blinking, you’re once again sitting opposite Astarion, gentle pressure as his thumb rubs slowly back and forth across the backs of your fingers. “I wouldn’t just be late for no reason, dear.”

You can’t really tell how you feel, to be honest - strangely vulnerable, but pleasantly comforted all the same. Knowing he’d gone to all that trouble, for something that you’d thought was just a stolen trinket…

“Elvish?” you ask, eyebrows raised, relishing the way his head dips just slightly to the right like he wants to hide his face but knows he can’t. “You’re getting awfully sentimental in your old age, you know.”

“I - you!” If he could blush properly, would he? As it is, you can just about catch the faint flush of blood - your blood, taken last night up in his bed, while everyone else was still downstairs in the tavern proper - spreading high across his cheek. “Mouthy little thing, aren’t you?”

You shrug, hand slipping out of his to exaggeratedly inspect your nails, not even trying to hide your grin. He really does set you up perfectly sometimes. “Never had any complaints.”

He laughs, low and surprisingly sweet, and reaches absentmindedly for another mouthful of wine. “Don’t sound so sure, sweetheart. I’m sure I’ll get a noise complaint or two out of you yet.”

Bold words for a man who’s barely even seen your bed, let alone set foot in it. “Well, when you learn how, let me know.”

“Darling. Chance would be a fine thing.”

He takes a sip and apparently remembers how bad the wine was the first time - his expression sours, and you very kindly don’t point out that it looks a lot like the face Lae’zel gave him when she caught him absentmindedly licking blood off a dagger she’d grudgingly lent him after a particularly nasty fight a few weeks ago.

(Astarion assured you at length that it had been a very long day and he’d only been having a snack, and really wasn’t it an honour, a real compliment, that he thought her blade to be so immaculately kept that he’d even want to lick it?)

(Shadowheart had not been pleased. Astarion’s not allowed to borrow things from Lae’zel any more.)

While he’s busy making various disapproving - you won’t say endearing, you won’t - little noises about his curse of a drink, you slide the ring off your finger and hold it up in front of your face. It’s warm from the heat of your hand.

Turning it this way and that, idly admiring the way the light plays off the shiny metal, the flaming flicker of the ruby. Hells, it really is beautiful.

Gold band, red stone. Amorie ent vivas est ma vie.

“‘To live in love is my life.’”

He’s watching you, slowly swirling the wine in his cup with one elegant hand. The words are even prettier on his silver tongue, ringing metal like a bell.

“I thought…”

Distantly, a floorboard creaks. Dust, floating in the afternoon sunlight.

“I thought it made sense.”

Carefully, he twists the ring off his own finger, and presses it into your palm. A simple pattern of vines and leaves, curling around the band. Ubi amor ibi fides.

“You should’ve let me pay.”

He frowns. “What?”

“You paid,” you say. “For this. Those flowers. My clothes. You didn’t have to.”

“Really?” It’s almost shameful how your heart stutters when he meets your gaze, even if it’s only so he can roll his eyes at you with a dismissive smile. “Come now, dear. I have to spend my ill-gotten gains on something, don’t I?”

“There are far better things to sp-”

“No.”

His hand comes up to grasp your wrist, tugging it towards him until he can press your fingers to the side of his throat. His ring is heavy in your other hand, knocking against the one already on your finger, clicking against the inside of the band.

“No, there’s not. And if there were, you wouldn’t get to tell me what they are.”

If he’s going to be stubborn about it, so be it. “Clothes that you’re not going to wear are the best things you can think of to waste money on?”

“Do you think about me not wearing clothes that often, darling?” It’s your turn to roll your eyes this time, definitely ignoring the way you can feel the vibrations of his voice through the skin, the purr in his voice as it dips low and tempting. “Naughty.”

“I’m just saying that you don’t need to throw money away by - mmf!”

Astarion mutters something under his breath you don’t catch, before there’s the sudden rush of air past your face and a blunt strip of pressure against your stomach, pulled forwards until you’re half out of your chair. It takes your brain a second to figure out why your words aren’t coming out any more - there’s something in the way - he’s so close - oh, he’s kissing you-

Fingers going slack, a quiet thud as his ring hits the table. Neither of you hear it.

Without even thinking about it, you’re already melting against him, hand sliding up from his neck to tangle softly in his hair as the other braces your body against the table. Ah, that’s what that pressure is - the edge of the table is digging into your middle where you’re leaning forward over it, but you don’t really care. You’re far more focused on the sharpness of his fangs as they dig into your bottom lip, the insistent grasp of his hand as he cups your jaw, the faint sweetness of wine that still sits on his tongue.

“Shut up, shut up,” he mumbles into your mouth, “I don’t care about the damn money, you heinous little ingrate, I - mmm, I just want you to stop being so - so-”

The rest of his words are lost in a frustrated hiss that absolutely shouldn’t be as hot as it is, and you wince as the tadpole behind your eye squirms sickeningly when he breaks the kiss. His right hand is still holding your wrist, warm with your body heat, and he groans as he slumps back into his chair and bows his head, pressing the back of your hand to his face. Something reverent, something sacred, saint and devotee.

Just let me be good enough, he thinks, words floating in the dark water of your mind. Tell me I’m good enough for you.

Your jaw tightens. Why does he have to be so vicious with it? That’s not the problem.

Then what is?

He can’t see it, but even so, you’re not going to cry. How could this be what you want? I can’t - I’m - Astarion, you deserve m-

Gods, how stupid can you be? he spits, freezing venom splattering your skin. I know, alright? I know! I deserve more, I deserve better, all these fucking things you won’t stop telling me - has it ever crossed your empty little mind that I might want to actually have the things I apparently deserve?

If he was looking at you, you’re sure it would be with a scowl. I deserve love, or so I’m told. Yes?

Of course.

Then let me have it, dammit!

He takes a deep breath that you feel more than hear, a thin veneer of calm stretched over the words he wants to say. Darling. Dearest. Sweetness. I am in love with you.

Well, that’s… that’s, um…

Hm. You don’t really know what it is.

A strange shiver races through you, giddy with nerves and bitter excitement. He can’t mean it, can he? This can’t possibly end the way you want it to, he can’t possibly be saying - saying that, of all things.

…Right.

Try not to sound so pleased about it, dear, he mutters. I’m only pouring my heart out for you here.

Well - well, yes, but-

He finally looks up at that, interrupting the stammering jumble of words falling out of your sort-of-mouth, handsome features slightly soured with annoyance. But what, exactly?

You don’t…

Pinned in place by his stare, all you can do is faintly shake your head. You don’t have to lie because you think it’s going to make me feel better. It’s not your fault, alright? It’s not.

You’re desperately fighting the urge to flinch. He deserves to know, but it’s a painful admission all the same. I said before, you don’t have to pretend. You’re not a - a prop, or a toy, or anything like that - and I shouldn’t have made you do all of… All of this. I was just being selfish.

Thin, sharp words, papercuts all the way up the inside of your throat. It’s for the best.

Selfish? Astarion laughs harshly, somewhere between outraged and hysterical. Are you serious?

I mean, I - I just…

He’s gone mad. Absolutely mad. All you can do is watch in confusion as he smiles, sweet at first before it turns manic, dissolving into some sort of - well, the only words that come to mind are giggle fit, which sounds much cuter than he’d probably like, but it’s true. Even the damned tadpoles give up, connection splintering and falling away as he loses concentration and falls back into his chair - anyone looking would think you’d got him with Tasha’s Hideous Laughter or something, it’s that bad.

“I’m in love with an idiot,” he manages to choke out, “an actual, bona fide idiot!”

Such a charmer, your Astarion. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Any time, darling,” he laughs, one hand on his stomach and wincing slightly as he sits up - belatedly, you realise you should probably sit down again before people start to stare. “I’m here all week.”

His little fit of laughter seems to be a little more under control - you can’t help but melt at the pretty smile that still lights up his face, even though you’re still not quite sure what was so funny. “My love, my love - traveller of the realms, slayer of monsters, and proud owner of the thickest skull south of the Spine. Gods, it must be safe as houses in there - that tadpole of yours is really very lucky, dear.”

“A rogue and a comedian,” you reply dryly. “Don’t quit your day job, I’d say.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you are my day job, darling,” he says, nonchalantly picking up his cup again - he doesn’t drink anything, though, and you’re starting to think it’s just because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.“In case you’ve forgotten, I do have a rather vested interest in keeping you alive long enough to get rid of our…”

Apparently, he’s decided now is the time for him to start being subtle about your collective situation. He waves his hand awkwardly towards his head with his cup, wine sloshing loudly but - thankfully for his doublet - not spilling. “Of certain mutual friends we seem to have acquired lately.”

Well, you’ll play along if it makes him happy. “See, it all comes out in the end,” you sigh, wiping away an imaginary tear. “Marrying me for my famed tadpole-killing expertise. What a fairy tale, hm?”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he picks up his ring from where you’d accidentally dropped it on the table, and slips it back onto his finger where it was before.

“Yes. Yes, I…”

Astarion trails off, eyes slightly unfocused, and you get the feeling he’s trying to find the words for something.

“That’s what it was.”

The floor tilts beneath you, a wriggling pulse behind your eye.

“That’s why I did this.”

He meets your eyes. A silent question, or maybe an offering. No laughter - something small and vulnerable in its wake that you can’t quite name, raw and aching, hollow bones like a bird.

You nod. A whirling blur of colour, and all at once the world is a tailor’s shop a few streets away, awfully cramped and thoroughly too noisy.

“Let’s get you inside, darling. We can’t have you catching a cold out here.”

This whole your-mind-his-body thing really is incredible - you can feel the smile spreading across his face as he holds the door open for past-you, even though you obviously can’t see it from here. Unfamiliar muscles forming a familiar expression. It’s weird.

A flurry of questions that you’re not really paying attention to, your new eyes lingering on the shape of your real body as it disappears behind a drab-looking curtain on the other side of the room. Astarion’s hands, fishing a doublet out of his (your?) bag and handing it off to some wretched assistant or other, but not before making it very clear that it is to be embroidered in gold, not silver, to match with his betrothed.

The boy he’s given it to scurries off with a nod, and something flickers deep inside - instinctively, you try to look down, but the memory of Astarion’s body doesn’t let you. Oh, it felt good when he said that. Something lighting up in your chest, fluttering and fizzing, a still heart that dreams of beating.

“What can we help you with today, sir?”

You’re still not entirely au fait with this whole mixed-consciousness thing, but it’s gradually getting easier to let Astarion’s mind talk over yours, relaxing into the gaps to watch the memories like you would a play. Well, it’s sort of like a play. It’s more like an opera, really, or you might say a pantomime if you were feeling especially mean - he’s as theatrical in his head as he is out loud, and it’s absolutely fascinating to realise that this really is how he sees the world.

Some woman or other comes over and starts chatting away, steering him over to a chair on the other side of the room, a little closer to the riser. She offers him a drink, but you see him wave it away - it’ll hardly do to be distracted when there’s time to be spent with you. There’s so little time to be alone nowadays, what with everyone else always clamouring for your precious attention. He’s not about to spoil such a golden chance by filling his head with wool.

(The sentiment is unexpectedly sweet, and inside his head where nobody can see, you can't help but smile like a fool at the thought. He likes spending time with you, he wants to spend time with you. With you!)

He can still hear you changing, cloth rustling behind the curtain, so he gradually tunes back into - gods below, is this blasted woman ever going to stop for breath? She’s still twittering on about… well, he’s not been paying attention, so he doesn’t actually know, but it’s probably not that important.

“Just alterations, sir? Or embellishment as well?

Right, right she’s asking about what he wants them to do. Fine, fair enough. “Family legacies, sent by a rather poorly-informed relative, I’m told. See to it that it’s appropriate for evening, and that it matches mine.”

“Certainly, sir. We’ll do our best for you and your… friend - um, companion? Companion.”

Seriously? The nerve. Friend. Well, perhaps it’s a little rude for her to be presuming anything, but he can let it slide just this once.

“Betrothed, actually,” he says, casually running his left hand through his hair and enjoying the satisfied pride that fills him as her eyes focus on the ring on his finger. “Something of a recent development, but certainly not an unhappy one.”

“Ah, is that so?” she says with a smile, much more genuine than before. “I’m sure there’s quite the story there.”

He shrugs, and you can feel how much effort it takes to make it look like he doesn’t care. “Well, it’s not for a lack of trying, I assure you.”

“Oh, my brother was just the same,” the woman replies, like she’s known him for years. “I couldn’t tell you how many times he asked his wife to marry him before she said yes - you know, I told him she’s far too good for him, didn’t I?”

She shakes her head, sighing fondly, and your borrowed heart twinges at the thought of this woman, this glimpse of an ordinary family with ordinary troubles. “But he wouldn’t give up, oh no, I’ll marry that girl yet, Ros, just you wait and see, and now they’ve been married for - ooh, must be going on eight years? Nine? Happy as a clam, he keeps her, and there’s not a man this side of the Spine who loves his wife more.”

“I commend his fortitude.” Astarion tips his imaginary cap to the woman, and it’s so stupidly charming that you could just scream. Bless this ridiculous elf you’ve had the fortune to fall in love with. “I shall have to live up to his example, clearly.”

“Well, obviously your circumstances are a little different, sir, but I should very much hope so,” she says. Her mouth opens, like she’s just thought of something she wants to say, but-

“-haah!”

Astarion’s head snaps towards the curtain where your voice came from, room blurring with the speed, half-out of his chair in an instant. What’s wrong? Who’s hurt you?

“Darling, are you quite alright in there?”

The curtain that hides you swishes as a hitherto-unnoticed assistant pulls it aside, revealing you in all your stolen finery, and the woman - has he actually asked her name yet? Did she say it? - turns to usher you over. “My congratulations to the two of you. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

“Yes, I…” Astarion trails off, and something in his voice feels like candle smoke, trailing up into the sky. Wistful. “Thank you. I rather think we will.”

(It’s incredibly sweet that he was so committed to the role, even when you weren’t there. Isn’t he a gem?)

She leads you across the floor, and… oh dear. It really doesn’t fit, does it? Well, that’s what you’ve come here to fix, after all.

It’s an eclectic mix, to be sure, but he supposes that’s what you get when you’re just stealing for fun, rather than to order. You’re all stiff and awkward when you walk like the underpieces are all slightly too small, and the rest of it is all oddly proportioned, sleeves heavy but cut too short, laces pulling tight in some places and hanging slack in others.

As dire a situation as it might seem, with a fair amount of elbow grease, he’s sure it’ll turn out wonderfully. The colour is lovely against your skin, and the embroidery is rich and detailed, gold thread twisting and curling around your body, over your shoulders, your chest, your waist…

Dear gods, he wants to know what it feels like. Raised stitches under his fingers, trailing across your body, pressing delicately until he can feel the soft give of your skin beneath the treacherous cloth that separates you. Would it be warm with the heat of you? Would you want him to know?

That’s my darling.

The sinful, stolen thought blossoms in his mind like sweet honeysuckle, out of control, filling his mind with that heady, giddy scent. Look at you, little love - aren’t you a picture, dearest? Mine, all mine.

His teeth ache, biting back the words as they threaten to tumble right out of his mouth. I want you, let me want you, I want to want you. Just right, just right. Pushing himself out of his chair for something to do, palms itching with the loss of you, restless energy thrumming in his bones. I want this to be real. So beautiful, let me hold you, soft and lovely. Spoil you, spoil you, sweets for my sweet. Honey, honey, honey…

(Sorry, wait - that’s what he was thinking?)

(You - you don’t…)

It’s a wonder he’s able to string words together as he watches you, admiring every angle as you turn, the bubbly taste of gleeful shame as he spots the places where everything’s just slightly too tight, revealing just a little bit more of you than it should. Is that wrong? Because if it is, he doesn’t care. He’s far too busy enjoying the way your eyes seem to glitter in the golden light from the window, the way he can see your chest rise and fall with every breath, slightly shallower than normal as you fight not to rip any of the ageing side seams.

The staff in here are mercifully receptive to his suggestions, clearly appreciative of his discerning eye and tasteful sensibilities. One of the stupider ones tries to say something about replacing the neckline with some hideous striped monstrosity, and he takes a grim sort of pleasure in thoroughly rejecting that particular brainwave - same with the one who seems to be advocating for a sort of avant-garde asymmetrical sleeve thing, that looks less like a fashion statement and more like it’s already been chewed by that little owlbear. Twice. Honestly, it looks ghastly.

He’s just about to say the thing about the owlbear out loud - the others won’t get it, but it’ll make you laugh, so it’s worth it, really - when there’s this… this voice.

“Oh, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

No. No, no, no. He knows that tone.

The laughter falls from his lips as his gaze flicks to the left, to be met with some waifish elven girl standing altogether far too close for comfort. She smiles when his eyes meet hers, in a way that’s just slightly too pleased to look as demure as she thinks it does. “I don’t believe we’ve met…”

“Quite.”

He’s terse, tension locking him in place and filling his voice. The girl’s hand comes up to just barely brush against his elbow, so lightly that he doesn’t even really feel it - but even that is enough to make him jolt, instinctively jerking away and one hand drifting towards the comforting weight of the dagger at his hip.

“Would you come with me a moment, sir?” she asks, undeterred, delicate fingers twisting in her hair and swishing it back over her shoulder - obviously, almost embarrassingly coy. “My workbench is just over here, but there are more rooms this way if you’d rather talk in private.”

Ugh. She’s not even subtle about it - he doesn’t need any sort of elevated senses to be painfully aware of what she wants. Her heart’s fast, eyes bright, breathing a little too hard. It’s almost comical. He’s been faking the exact same thing for longer than she’s been alive.

“And what, exactly,” he spits, “could I possibly have to say to you?”

She laughs - laughs! Normally, the vitriol dripping from his voice can clear a room in seconds, especially combined with the crimson glare that he’s currently levelling at her. Apparently, though, this idiot girl is an exception to the rule.

“Your doublet, sir? I’m an embroiderer, sir, and…”

If she fiddles with that ridiculous hair any more, he’ll cut it clean off and take her fingers with it - does she not see the way he’s desperately trying to keep his hand away from his dagger? “Well, I’d hate to disappoint you, and you seem like the sort of gentleman who’s very knowledgeable about all sorts of things…”

So she’s stupid as well as vain. Dear gods, darling, pick a battle.

“Do I look like I want to talk about embroidery?” He resolutely turns his back and tries to focus back on you, still as lovely as ever up on your little perch. “Do excuse me. My betrothed requires my attention.

“Oh, no need to trouble anyone else, sir.”

Forget the hair. If she makes that infuriating giggling noise again, she’ll be lucky to leave this room with a head.

“I’m sure we can find something to talk about…”

Her hand comes to lay lightly at his elbow again, and that’s it. That’s it. You’re going to have to apologise to that woman from earlier for him, because he’s about to stab this pathetic little worm right in front of everyone, and he’s not even going to feel the tiniest bit bad about it.

She lights up as he turns to face her properly, beckoning her a little closer with a single finger. It soon turns to horror as she sees the predator’s grin that splits his face, the façade of politeness cracking like a duck egg, fangs unashamedly on display.

“Shall I tell you a secret, little elfling?”

(You’ve always known that Astarion’s attitude to murder is a little unconventional, but murdering someone for the crime of threatening a relationship that isn’t even real? His head spins with the euphoria of the kill-to-be, and you’re dizzy with how much he wants it. Is it bad, that he likes the taste of her fear? Is it worse, that you like it too?)

The girl freezes on the spot as he leans in, something sharp and brittle in the way she trembles but can’t force her feet to move. Shivering, shuddering, perfect glass splintering like ice. A prey animal. This is going to be fun.

“There’s a funny thing that always seems to happen, to people who try to get in between my darling and I.”

“It - sir, I - I didn't-”

He laughs over her, dark and wicked, already salivating at the thought of what’s to come. Ooh, you could just kiss him.

“Don’t worry, little madam, I’ll give you a clue. It starts with please, sir, I’m sorry, and it rhymes with I don’t want to d-”

“Darling!”

It’s you - sharply, he pivots on his heel to face you, hurriedly smoothing his expression back into a slightly more pleasant, we are in public, Astarion, stop looking so bloody murderous all the time smile. The swarm of people around you has dissipated some, and it’s nice to finally have an unobstructed view of you. “Won’t you come and help me choose?”

“Choose what, my love?” Bless you, bless you for the excuse to abandon this grasping little wretch. He fixes the terrified creature next to him with one last self-satisfied smirk for good measure, enjoying the way she gasps and trips over her own feet as she stumbles away, before letting the magnet in his chest pull itself gleefully back to you. “Are you finished already?”

Some hapless assistant comes drifting by, clearly not noticing him, and holds out a hand to help you down off the stand. Well, that certainly won’t do - does nobody in this accursed place know that he’s engaged to you? Because he’d thought he’d made it really rather obvious. The ruby on your finger glitters in the light, and he thinks about the words he knows are pressed against your skin, a secret promise.

Amorie ent vivas est ma vie. It’s only right, it’s only fair. How could anyone ever look at you and not know that you were made to be loved? You were made to be doted on, kissed and held and adored like the precious thing you are - spoilt absolutely rotten, thoroughly and entirely, toothache and cavities.

You deserve love, so much more than he could ever give you, but by all the hells, does he want to try. This stolen, golden day isn’t nearly enough.

Perhaps he’s tipped his hand a little too far this time, but it’s true, it’s true. Ubi amor ibi fides, where there is love there is faith. Two hundred years of blood, cracked open on the altar, a broken heart that can’t afford to cry. He’s been abandoned by gods before. A faithful sunflower, ever turning to face you, held blissfully captive in your gravity. All that love that lights your path, that fills your world - would you let it be his, poor and pitiful as it is? Divinity. The crackle of a campfire, truth is faith is you.

Why, then…?

Don’t you notice it when he reaches out to you, palm upturned to help you down beside him? Weren’t you expecting him? Surely, surely he’s not done such a poor job as your fiancé that you didn’t think he’d want to hold your hand, that you’d choose some random shop girl over him.

I thought - I just-

Silently, he watches on as you step down from the riser, the phantom warmth of your hand in his. Does it matter? Of course not, of course not - how could you know that it even matters to him at all? You probably just don’t want to trouble him, or maybe you really didn’t see. It’s his own fault, after all, for trying to find meaning in the very charade he’s brought upon himself.

But I’m here, his traitor’s heart whispers, confused. Won’t you let me help you? What did I do?

So caught up in his own puzzled musings, he barely even notices it when the assistant mumbles something and runs off. The too-loud beat of your heart, the too-quiet sound of your breath, echoing through his skull.

“The - um, the embroidery. You can pick.”

Shit, shit, what’s wrong? You won’t even look at him now, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder, and you sound all - all sad…

“Are you sure, dear?” He won’t push it, not out here in front of everyone - no matter how much his empty arms ache to hold you, press his mouth to your temple, smooth away the tiny, worried creases in your skin with his thumb. “Wouldn’t you rather decide for yourself?”

“It’s fine.”

It’s worse than he thought. Before he can even do anything, you’re already backing away from him - inch by inch, step by step, like he won’t notice if you move slowly enough. You’re scared. “I’m sure you’re better at this than I am.”

You’re afraid - no scent of your blood in the air, no lingering taste of magic, but he’d know your fear anywhere. Fingers trembling ever so slightly, eyes forgetting to blink, pulse beating against your skin like a drum. Did someone hurt you? Say something to you? Fuck, he must have missed something. Who was it? Who was it? Tell him, and he’ll have them turned inside out before you can s-

The thought hits him like an arrow, cold shock spreading through his chest before it turns to horrified pain. He dismisses you with a nod that surely must look as wooden as it feels, unable to take his eyes off you as you scuttle away behind that damned curtain - but in his head he’s still half a mile away, replaying the last ten minutes in his head over and over in search of the thing he must have done wrong. One hand unconsciously comes up to his chest, just to make sure that the crater in his ribs hasn’t bled all over his front.

Broken heart, punctured lung. Are you afraid of him?

A low, stifled curse from the other side of the room brings him back with a jolt, and without really realising it, he’s already ducking through the curtain. Fingernails catching on velvet, still air, floorboard that creak underfoot. Something about forgiveness or permission, or one of those other things he never remembers to ask for.

“Let me.”

Quick fingers skimming across your back, undoing buttons, untying laces. Flashes of a thousand others in your place, pushed haphazardly to the back of his mind, gritting his teeth to stay, stay, stay. Seams tearing, lace ripping, buttons scattering across the floor - but that’s not right, he’s here with you, and you - and you-

“Careful.”

A quiet sort of affection, creeping up on him, the gentle blade that slots between his ribs and begs to stay buried there. Greedy, guilty hands, craving to ruin you, only knowing how to destroy. Protective, possessive, cursed for sure. Dread. Satisfaction, thick, dark blood smeared across his face, the carnage of his feast painted down your neck. The softness of your body, curved against his chest - desire, rich and syrupy, honey-sweet and terrifying in its sincerity.

“You and I, all alone. People might talk.”

I wish they would, whispers something in his head. I wish they knew - and I wish you knew too.

You feel your shared mouth open, but he doesn’t let you stay any longer - before past-him can reply, the scene dissolves into mist and falls away, leaving only Astarion looking back at you across the table.

“Clear enough for you, darling?”

The words crackle against your senses slightly, electric. You nod, left in something of a daze.

“Quite.”

You don’t say anything else, for a little while.

(Absentmindedly, you take a sip of your wine. It’s still not great, but it’s better than nothing.)

He’s on edge, fidgeting slightly in his seat, but it barely registers - your head is swirling with everything you’ve seen, everything he’s shown you. So he - so he had wanted this? It hadn’t been… everything he’d said…

It doesn’t make sense. How could he be so stupid?

You’re not good to love - you’re not good at love. Someone so precious, something so treasured. What could you possibly give him that he couldn’t find elsewhere? What do you have that he hasn’t seen a thousand times over?

You don’t know how to help him, or even where you could start. He ought to have someone he can trust with all those deepest, darkest parts of him, who understands him the way he doesn’t even know he needs, who knows just what to say, just when to listen. Someone confident and funny and kind, someone with the sort of love that’s warm and all-encompassing - a sunny summer’s day, a lighthouse in the storm. Sturdy, dependable, honourable. Safe. He deserves safe.

Instead, all you’ve got is a silly, reckless crush, a clumsy, gangly, unpracticed thing that you barely even know what to do with. Can you even call it love? Would he recognise it, if he saw it? Some trembling, pathetic infatuation, the best your body can do, thin and liquid in the marrow of your bones. Not blood, just water, filling but not full. Nothing that would satisfy him.

It’s not fair, it’s not fair. He’s lovely and he’s wicked and he’s clever, he’s cruel and he’s sweet and he’s made for so much more than you.

“I, um…”

He’ll thank you later. Not out loud, obviously - this is Astarion you’re talking about, after all - but he’ll know this is all for the best.

“Well, I’m very flattered, but…” Carefully, you arrange your face into what hopefully looks like sympathy, rather than pity. He’s clearly not in his right mind - he needs to think this is you offering to fix this together, rather than you letting him down gently. “Maybe this isn’t th-”

“Oh, for the love of - for once in your life, will you take the fucking hint?”

Reeling, your jaw drops as he practically shouts the words at you, hands slamming down onto the table with a thud.

“I didn’t even-!”

“No! No, you didn’t!” The tadpole in your head writhes as his mind opens to you once again, white-hot and shaking with rage. Does he even know he’s doing it? “Because you gave me that big, sad, I’m-so-sorry-I’m-so-useless look as you opened your silly little mouth, and I knew exactly what you were going to say!”

Snarling, biting, this must be what it’s like to be hunted by him. “So here’s what’s going to happen, darling - I am going to tell you what’s going on here, and you are going to sit there and listen, yes?”

Snap, snap, snap - he clicks his fingers insistently in front of your face when you don’t reply. “Yes?”

“Yes, mother,” you grumble, thoroughly chastised. “Listening.”

He narrows his eyes at the name, but lets it slide. Apparently, he’s got bigger fish to fry here.

“I am not a child.”

A thousand sarcastic replies flit through your head, most of them involving some variant of you’re right, a child wouldn’t be such a messy eater, but the murderous look he gives you as you open your mouth tells you that now might not be the time.

“I don’t need you to choose things for me. I don’t need you to tell me what to do,” he spits, fingernails biting into the wooden surface of the table. “I have had enough, of other people giving me orders, deciding things for me - do you hear me?”

His voice, low and bitterly cold. “You don’t get to be my master.”

There’s nothing you can really say to that, so you just nod, feeling slightly sick. Where’s he going with this - gods, what have you done?

“Oh? So you do understand!” he cries, throwing his hands up in the air in apparent frustration. “So it’s finally dawned on you, has it? You’re finally going to let me do what I want, is that it?”

“Yes,” you choke out, voice thin and cracking. “I - yes.”

“So if I told you I wanted to - to write a book about the uselessness of lockpicking, or let Gale turn me into a frog, or dye my hair purple, or something, you’d believe me? No matter how out of character you thought it was? You’d let me do it, even if you thought I’d lost my mind?”

There’s not even space to get a word in edgeways - he’s really, properly ranting now. “Or if I said I wanted to, um - oh, I don’t know, rob a bank, or run for mayor, or go into business writing terrible Sylvan love poetry - you’d believe me, yes? You’d say to yourself, oh, that Astarion, he’s big enough and bad enough to know what he wants, wouldn’t you?”

Another nod, a little bit more confused this time. Faerie love poetry? “I would.”

“Oh? Is that so? My, you sound awfully confident.” He feigns shock, one hand splayed mockingly across his chest. Sarcastic, almost jeering, a theatrical gasp.

“I must be so lucky, hm? To have someone who knows me so well, who trusts me to do whatever I want? Respecting me, caring about me, telling me that what I think matters?”

Something moving very fast - wine spilled all over the table with a clatter, a curse, a crescendo. “Well, then, dearheart - why can’t you seem to keep it in your ridiculous little head that I am in love with you?”

A beat.

“And before you say it - no, it’s not a joke, or whatever fool excuse you’re busy coming up with,” he snaps, pointing an accusing finger at you like it’ll keep the words from forming in your head. “I’m cruel, dear, but not that cruel.”

Sighing, he flicks his hand and the dripping, crimson wine stain soaking his sleeve disappears.

“Do close your mouth, sweetling,” he murmurs, reaching slowly across the table, pausing just before he can touch your face. “What did I tell you, hmm?”

“About my open mouth?”

Your voice is weak and the joke’s not your best, but you lean forward, letting him graze his fingers lightly across your jaw. “Not to make promises I can’t keep.”

“Gods. I really have taught you well.”

Words spill unbidden into your mind like oil, writhing in what might be fury or terror. Crawling into the strange, empty space that lies between you, dark and filled with agony, out of your body and inside your head.

Know me, see me - what a joke, that I should want to be seen at last, and by you, of all people. Are you there? Are you listening?

A thousand tiny moments, rushing past you in the current of his madness. You couldn’t make me do it, can’t you see? You couldn’t force me to love you - I have no need of force, not for you! It’s no pretence, it’s no game.

You couldn’t make me, but I did it anyway because it’s real, it’s all been real - why can’t you believe me? Do you think me so spiteful, so cruel, that I would do that to you?

Walls collapsing, worlds colliding. Where you go, he follows - always a step too slow, reaching out a second too late to find your hand already gone.

The words you think I wish to say, the pity and the scorn and the endless mockery that you imagine fills my head when I look at you. Is that what you want? Am I to be nothing but a hapless instrument of your own self-hatred, your own monstrous thoughts spilling from my lips, poisoning you with every word, every kiss?

My love, he wails, my love, my love. You’re so cruel to me.

Is this still only in your mind? The air is thick and close, seeping heavy into your skin. You make me sound so hateful, full of spite and loathing, bent on your destruction. Do you think me incapable of love - of loving you?

Tell me, savage darling of mine - tell this vicious, twisted creature that you say you see before you. Why can’t you believe that I could ever be in love with you?

Ragged, fevered fingernails tearing at the brickwork, half-mad with wanting. Ageing silk, soft and fragile as it frays. A whimper that might be a screech that might be a howl.

Why did I have to be a monster? he sobs, voice splintering and cracking - a phantom hand, all claws, desperately searching for your ankle. Couldn’t I have just been a man? Couldn’t I have just been in love with you for my own sake, because I care for you more than anyone I’ve ever known?

Please, my darling, I beg. Don’t make me this way.

You…

You don’t know what to say. Formless, faceless in this imagined space between - how would you speak, even if you tried? What words could reach his heart, could soothe this pain?

Whatever you say next, it can’t be a lie. Not again. He’ll know.

Paralysed with fear, but why? You like him. You want him, want to love him - and here he is, telling you that he feels the same. What’s the problem, then?

I’m scared.

The edge of the cliff, crumbling away beneath your boots. You know how to want love, but you don’t know how to do it - what does that even mean, for people like you two? How does it even work?

You don’t know what you don’t know, and it’s terrifying. Foolish and inexperienced - won’t he be ashamed of your clumsiness? He always seems so… so capable, so much bolder than you are. Confident, if a little too arrogant, and a healthy dose of vanity on top of that - ever unshaken, ever above it all. And yet, even in the moments when the act stretches too thin, when you can see it for the charade it is, it doesn’t matter. Astarion’s still miles beyond you, braver than you could imagine being.

He always seems to have an answer, he always seems to know. You’re embarrassed that you can’t match him.

I won’t - I can’t-

But that’s not all, is it?

He’s so precious to you. He matters, more than he thinks and more than you’ll admit, and he’s in pain. You don’t want him to be in pain. But you’re afraid that your love, weak and unpracticed as it is, won’t be enough to stop it.

Is it because you don’t want to see him hurt, or because you don’t trust yourself not to hurt him? He should want more, he shouldn’t settle for you. Selfish, lazy you, wanting but never deserving, complaining but never really trying. All these ugly, shameful parts of you that he must not know, or else he never would have said any of this.

Surely, he can’t know. Nobody could know all these things about you, and still pretend to love you the way he does.

And yet…

He says he doesn’t suffer fools, and you’ve seen him threaten to stab enough of them that you know it’s true. He says he doesn’t waste his time on things he doesn’t care about, that he doesn’t bother with anything he doesn’t like, and yeah, those also seem to be threatened with stabbing on an alarmingly-regular basis. So maybe it’s more about the propensity for knives than any particular economy of affection, but even so - you still believe him, don’t you?

He’s a liar. It’s the one thing he’ll always tell the truth about. But now, knowing what you know, you’re starting to think that’s not quite right either.

It all comes back to fear. Scared that it’s not true, that he’ll change his mind, that he was lying the whole time. Scared that you’ll be hurt, that you’ll hurt him, that he really is as cruel as he thinks he is. Can you do it? Trust him when he says you’re enough for him, that you’re what he wants? Trust him, when he says he means it?

It’s too much.

Your messy, sticky heart. A breathless, fluttering creature, laden with roses and sick with love.

I don’t want to get it wrong.

A cool hand cups your cheek, and the world comes back to you.

Stinging, your eyes open - weren’t they already open? - to find Astarion close, much closer than he was before. While you weren’t looking, he must have moved, but how on earth did he…?

“Steady on, darling. My eyes are up here.”

However he did it, Astarion looks down at you from where he’s perched in your lap, sitting sideways across your legs with one arm around your shoulders to keep himself balanced. Slowly, he coaxes your face up from the floor to look at him, fingers pressing into the softness of your cheek.

“Ah, that’s better. There you are.”

He doesn’t look angry, as you’d feared. Maybe pleased is the right word? No, that sounds too much like self-satisfied - not reverent, that’s too grand, and not proud either. It’s something softer than just happy, something contented and uncharacteristically tender. Charmed, perhaps.

Slightly awkwardly, you quietly clear your throat. Your body hasn’t cried, but it feels like your mind has, and the gap between the two is kind of disconcerting.

“I’m sorry.”

Astarion tilts his head, pretty eyes faintly confused, but you carry on. “It’s just a bit… you know. There’s a lot.”

Your hand stutters as it waves stiffly through the air in front of you, like that’ll somehow help you say what you mean. Everything that’s happened today, everything you’ve done, all summed up in some inept little gesture in your lap.

Luckily, he seems to understand well enough. With a sigh, he leans forward until his head is resting on yours, pulling you gently towards him to settle your head against the curve of his throat, safe in his embrace. Without really realising it, your arms find his middle, settling loosely around his waist in return.

“You know, I think I’ve changed my mind,” he says slowly, fingers tapping idly against your skin. “I think we do have time, after all.”

Bemused, you frown against his shoulder. “Time for what?”

Another memory, teased out of your brain by the tadpole. A sun-filled street, and a plan that couldn’t possibly go wrong.

What say you, dearest? Fancy an evening as my beloved?

Even now, you find yourself smiling at his overblown antics, the cocky flick of his wrist as he took your hand and kissed it. You could at least ask me properly, you know.

We’ve no time for courtship, sweetheart… Did he sound quite so mournful the first time? Or do you just remember it that way? I simply must have you - and tonight, no less!

“Let me ask you again, darling,” the real Astarion asks you. Well, with his chin resting lightly on top of your head, he more so asks your hair, but the meaning is clear. “Properly, this time.”

“Mmm…”

Is it a tiny bit mean of you, to make him wait? Probably, but he likes it when you’re mean. “You’ll have to convince me…”

“Oh?” Of course, he plays along, with a smirk that you don’t have to see to recognise. “Then set the scene for me, dear. However shall I win your hand?”

It takes a few long seconds for you to settle on an idea, fingers absentmindedly tapping against his back. This is nice.

“Tell me how it’s supposed to be,” you say, warm words against cold skin. “Tell me how this should have gone.”

“Well, it wouldn’t start like this, certainly,” he declares, tracing tiny, maybe-unconscious circles on the floor with the toe of his boot. “I wonder how we would have met? Something grand, I’m sure…”

He makes some gesture you can’t see, painting the picture in the air. “Perhaps a ball, or a gala, the kind they have in the Upper City - ooh, maybe in the foyer of an opera house or a theatre or something.”

“How… refined.”

“Oh, it would be terribly dull, I assure you,” he replies. “You’d have been to a thousand of these things before, and you’d be bored out of your skull.”

You can’t help but laugh at the way the words fall out of his mouth, full of longing and yet totally blasé. “And you’d save me from it, I assume?”

“Naturally.” Astarion runs a practised hand through his hair, adjusting himself in your lap slightly so he doesn’t fall. “I’d catch sight of you across the room and be utterly captivated by your beauty, darling. Then, I’d bring you a glass of wine and make some excuse to get you talking, and we’d spend the rest of the evening being absolutely awful about everyone else there.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Oh, you can’t help yourself - you have to stretch up a bit awkwardly, but you lean up to kiss his cheek, just once. Maybe twice. “Then what?”

He hums, deep in careful consideration. “I suppose I’d have to - oh, we’d both be living in the Upper City, by the way - I suppose I’d have to find your family’s home the next morning.”

“Bold, don’t you think?” you ask with a grin. “It’s barely been half a day since we met.”

He scoffs. “Like that would matter to me. They might show me into the drawing room, but they wouldn’t let me see you - I fear I might make quite a scene, you know. I’d stay as long as I could, waiting for you to come downstairs, and I wouldn’t leave until I’d begged permission to court you properly.”

The image of Astarion in all his finery pops into your head, perched defiantly on the sofa in the lavish drawing room of some imagined townhouse in Baldur’s Gate, arguing with the maid as she tries to shoo him away - it’s so ridiculous, and yet so absolutely him. Who else would turn up on your doorstep and elbow his way into the parlour, setting himself in the middle of the furniture like he owns it, and refusing to leave without an offer of courtship from the family?

“And what’s so funny about that?” He pretends to be affronted as you muffle your laugh into his shoulder, but there’s no heat in it. “Don’t tell me you’d keep me waiting, now.”

“Never, my love,” you proclaim, thoroughly charmed. “Once I heard the racket from downstairs, you wouldn’t be able to keep me away.”

“Racket - you think I’d be making a racket, darling? In what world?” he gasps. “I’ll have you know I’m the very picture of politeness. Very subtle. You wouldn’t even know, unless I wanted you to.”

“Right, right, subtle…” You nod exaggeratedly, taking in his perfect look of offended outrage. “And I assume that’s why the picture of politeness is sitting on my lap and trying to get his hands up my shirt in the middle of a tavern?”

Cold hands freeze against your sides, skin against skin, and you grin. Got him. “Nice try, though. I was almost convinced.”

“Of my subtlety? I’m sure I could persuade you...” He raises an eyebrow down at you, gaze dark with half-hidden promise. “You don’t think I could be quiet?”

“I’d be disappointed if you were. You mean you wouldn’t let me hear you?” You’re deliberately disappointed, a little whiny in the way you know he understands - a familiar dance, made all the sweeter by the fresh excitement of this new air between you. If he wants to play the game, you’ll play too. “Besides, I thought you liked it loud.”

“Oh, I do,” he breathes, one hand sneaking out from under your shirt, index finger pressing softly against the underside of your chin to keep your eyes on him. “Especially when you’re the one offering, darling.”

See, now you're speaking his language. “Who said I’d offer you anything?”

“Please. You wouldn’t get the chance, dear,” he scoffs, unfairly handsome in his arrogance. “Offering it to me? No, no. You’ll be begging me, pretty thing, and you’ll like it.”

The way he shifts to resettle himself in your lap is certainly no accident, and you really have to fight to keep your gaze up - you can just about keep looking at his face, but you can’t quite stop yourself from staring at his lips as he continues. “So how about it, hm? Would you be loud for me, my sweet?”

“I - well, I…” Your thoughts melt into nothing as the hand under your shirt slips just barely higher, words stuttering and faltering on your tongue. Curse his stupid face, curse his awful voice, curse his ridiculous hair and his strong hands and his pretty smile and his sweet kisses…

“Mm, I think you could be,” he muses, smug like the cat that’s got the cream. “I’d ask you very nicely, you know. And you’d be good for me, wouldn’t you? If I asked you nicely?”

The tadpole twitches behind your eye, the heat of something liquid and indulgent, a tantalising taste. Half memories, half dreams. Clever hands keeping you close in the middle of a crowded market, pulling you into a side street, pressing you hungrily up against the brick. The swish of a soft curtain, voices just outside, quiet now, darling, or do you want them to hear? Soft and warm and sweating, a trail of fabric in your wake - closer and closer, snatched up in his arms and - and-

Words, you have to say words - dizzily, your hazy mind latches onto whatever it can find. “Nicely?”

“Yes, honey. Nicely,” he sings through a wicked smile, faintly condescending in a way that really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. “That’s right, sweetheart. Very good.”

He knows he’s got the upper hand and he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, that’s all. You’re not going to fall for it, you’re not. Was it always this warm in here?

“Look at you, darling. Feeling a little hot, are we?”

The flash of fangs as he presses the back of his free hand to your cheek, blessed coolness, before sliding it down your neck to toy with the collar of your shirt.

“You should have said something, poor thing. I know a way we could cool you down.”

He looks thoughtful for a second, expression pensive before it melts back into a smirk. “Well. Maybe not straight away. But I’d get you out of all these layers, at least…”

Promises, promises. Your hummingbird heart, fluttering out of control. Graceful fingers picking at your collar, digging playfully into the softness of your waist, skimming across the skin. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it…

“You want to do this here?” If you sound a little more out of breath than normal, which you’re not saying you are, then that’s neither here nor there. “Whatever happened to biding your time?”

“It’s your many charms, my darling,” he replies, endearingly - um, infuriatingly ready with a comeback, leaning down to kiss just beside your eye. “A man can only resist so long.”

“Bastard.”

“Mm, I love you too.”

The self-satisfied look is quickly wiped off his face by the bitterness of his wine - he takes one last sip before disgustedly dumping the rest of his cup into yours. “Gods, this stuff is vile - let's be off, darling, before anyone tries to palm another bottle off on us.”

Pushing himself up off your lap, he turns back with a neat little bow, palm upturned to help you out of your chair. “Delightful as the company may be, life is far too short to spend it drinking such dreadful wine.”

“This from he, the undying.”

“And I wouldn't waste another second of my undeath on it,” he sniffs, pulling you gently to your feet and brushing imaginary dust from his shirt. “I’ll have you know, being dead is no excuse for subpar drinks.”

“Your idea of a nice drink is human blood, dear,” you reply dryly as you pick your roses up off the windowsill, paper crinkling in your hands. “I’m not sure you're exactly an authority on the matter.”

Astarion rolls his eyes as he picks up his bag, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Touché, my love, touché.”

He leads you back through the tavern, stepping across to hold the door open for you. The barkeep lifts a hand in farewell, and as you go to do the same, something glitters in the sunlight coming in through the open doorway.

It’s true, it’s true. Sweet relief and incredible terror all at once, resolving into something bright and brave and fizzing. Where there is love, there is faith. Is this what stories feel like? Wanting and wanted, a kiss that’s a dance that’s a promise.

Thin gold, red light. Amorie ent vivas est ma vie.

“...Darling? Hello?”

Startled out of your reverie, you look up just as Astarion raises an eyebrow, amused, motioning towards the door. “Some time today, my sweet.”

“Right, right, yes…”

Hastily, you duck out of the doorway and step out onto the street, bathed in the warm light of the late afternoon. Astarion follows, offering you his arm with a flourish, and you take it gladly.

“Where to next, then?” you ask, falling easily into step.

He shrugs, gesturing in front of the pair of you with a wry smile. “Why, wherever the road may take us, of course! We’re free as birds, dear - the very world is our oyster.”

“Back to the others then.”

“Well, yes.”

“Thought so.” Wordlessly, you turn to head back through the market, a little less noisy than this morning but still busy enough. “Unless you were planning on throwing even more of your money at the flower boy, that is.”

He gives you a playful nudge, discreetly shifting you both to the right to dodge a man walking the other way with an enormous crate of apples. “Don’t tempt me, dear. Five minutes to acquire the necessary funds, and you’ll be walking home with more than an armful of roses.”

“Planting me a garden, are you?”

“You’ll have a veritable meadow, my sweet,” he replies like it’s nothing, grand as you like. “As many as there’s room for, and one more for good measure.”

His free hand reaches across to yours, lifting it to his lips and kissing it like a prince from a storybook - it’s almost embarrassing how much it gets to you, and you’re sure he can hear your heart speeding up at his touch. “You’d never buy perfumes or oils again, if I had my way - in fact, you’d be hard-pressed to wash the smell of roses off of you, my love.”

Oh, you can’t let him off that easily. “They’d be roses, would they?” you ask, thinly feigning disinterest, although the effect is somewhat lost when you have to speak up a bit to be heard over the woman hawking fish just behind you. “So cliché.”

He lets out a tortured sigh, pained expression on his pretty face. “It happens to the best of us, I’m afraid.”

“You’re right, it does,” you muse. “Can’t imagine why it’s happened to you, then.”

“Oh, you-!”

He makes a grab for you, but you’re already gone, slipping out of his grasp and away into the crowded market, ducking through the gaps between the stalls and laughing as he chases after you. “Get back here, you villain!”

It’s a doomed endeavour - you know he’ll catch you, but you run anyway. Weaving in and out of the crowd, he’s never far behind. Fingertips that just barely brush the back of your shirt, shouted threats that grow more and more ridiculous each time you twist away.

“When I catch you-!”

If he wanted to, he’d have you in an instant, but it’s not about that, is it? The chase, the catch, the game. It’s the one you love to play, and you love it even more when you lose.

“There you are, darling.”

Rose petals flutter in your wake, a ruby glitters on your finger. Cold hands pull you close, and the sky, the sky, the sky.

masterlist

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

#baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #bg3 astarion #bg3 tav #ginger writes #gingerbreadmonsters

179 notes · View notes