Not said | Sylus
I'm in love with this man, and I wanted to introduce myself by writing something about him in the best way… fluffy and self-indulgent! I hope you enjoy the read, English is not my first language ;;
Likes and respoted are aprecciates!
It was crazy...
Yes, crazy. Because... How did you go from repudiating and fearing the infamous leader of Onychinus... to... to this?
His soft hair shook as he rocked his face to the left, settling his sleeping form better into your bed. And, clearly, as the mature woman you are and not at all affected by his celestial beauty, you did not annihilate the voracious impulse to shake your legs and slide your fingers through his pretty grayish strands.
You sighed, feeling out of place in your own home. In your own bed! With the curtains closed, somehow trying to wipe most of brightness of Linkon's sun, that your... Ally? Buddy? Lover...?
Gosh, you weren't even sure about that...
Yes, definitely, crazy.
You couldn't even try to figure out Sylus. No matter how hard you tried to collect each piece of his complex puzzle... Most of the time you felt at a dead end.
You blame his pretty voice, his sharp but gentle features, the damn way he pronounced your name, and how he acted when it came to you. God, his damn treatment of you...! That started being so cold, almost spiteful, as if with his words and behavior he will "subtly" (because the bastard wasn't subtle at all!) demand that you remember something he didn't even bother to explain.
The memories in your mind were confusing, blurry and melancholic.
It was strange...
You did not remember exactly that mysterious past, and your "first" meeting was undoubtedly bitter... And now, much to your regret, is the moment where you most feel that your relationship with him wanders on a different astral plane! Completely unrelated!
Because... What the hell were you two?!
There was something implicit there, something mutual that, for better or worse, neither of you had dared to utter. Plus, he completely contradicted himself at times like these. Where the words become extinct, the walls collapse and only that soft perfume of vulnerability remains that surrounds both.
When the cold, calculating and demanding leader became a mirage, leaving only a man... just Sylus.
When he laughed at your antics, and his pretty eyes crinkled in tenderness. Or when he poured honey from his lips, calling you affectionate nicknames that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter. The stolen pettings, where his fingers lingered longer than they should along your hair, those times when his knuckles subtly traced your shoulders and the sides of your arms, or those moments where he let his fingers protectively around your waist.
Moments like these... Where without warning he arrived at your apartment, and took over your bed. If you had a nickel for every time his actions nearly gave you a heart attack, chances are your wealth would begin to rival his.
"Can't you sleep?" His hoarse, sleepy voice startles you, tearing you out of the limbo of your thoughts.
"How could I? It's past twelve." You complain, to which he hums, slowly opening his eyelids.
And there it is again.
Those damn eyes... Those eyes that looked at you as if you were the most important thing to him, with absolute adoration. Full of that affection that made your skin tingle and your knees weak. God, how come this man who initially acted like a demon... Did it end like this?
Overwhelmed, you decided to look away.
His large hand cupped your chin with a firm softness, encouraging you to return your gaze to him.
"Yeah? Is that why you haven't taken your eyes off me?"
Damn.
At this point, it should no longer surprise you that he'll notice those things... But damn! That didn't make it any less embarrassing.
He must have noticed your embarrassment, because his sly smile widened.
"You were looking at me with such intensity that I thought you were going to pierce my face, kitten."
"I-I don't...!" Excuses die out in your tongue, there is no use arguing. You push his hand away and sigh. "Just... I was just thinking."
That gets his attention. He rests his face on his bent arms, and you try hard to pretend that it is something as banal to other mortals as settling into bed, they make it look so perfect, so ethereal, like a muse out of a painting.
It was driving you crazy.
"Yeah? And what were you thinking, pretty?"
Once again, you have to do your best to put on your best poker face to disguise the effect that their disgustingly (wonderful, perfect, amazing) cloying nicknames have on you.
"Nothing in particular..." Your lie is evident, especially by how you avoid his gaze and nervously play with the bedsheets.
He hums, of course he doesn't believe you, in fact, you're sure he already gets the idea... But, as always, he gives you your space, followed with silent reverence the path you chose, and sticks to you with each of your decisions.
Instead, he pulls your arm and wraps it around you lazily, settling your face into his chest, barely hidden under a thin tank top. You can feel his nose on your hair, gently inhaling. Shame pulses through your bloodstream.
"Sy-Sylus...?!"
"Just pretend I'm one of your plushies and try to get some sleep." Sylus pronounces, and you perceive how drowsiness quickly takes over him. There's nothing you can do, not when those strong arms have you happily captive in their embrace. You can only huff and resign. You listen carefully to the pulse of his heart, as erratic as ever, even when he is in this calm state.
The haze of your memories returns to you for an instant. The smell of sulfur and blood, your fingers on a sword and his voice encouraging you not to stop pressing the dagger... Or else, there would be no turning back.
Absently, your fingers outline where the scar should be, unaware of the effect your touch has on it. He shivers, one of his eyes opens and you feel how his gaze shines with intensity, while he holds your wrist firmly with his fingers.
"Kitten..." He warns, and you lower your hands quickly. He laughs, that rich tone, snuggling back into you.
Once again, a sigh leaves your lips. You imitate him, burying your face in his chest, delighting in the persistent rumble of his heart and the manly scent of his cologne.
Yes, there was a lot he hadn't said... But his actions were very clear. And that was enough, at least for now.
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The astonishing failure of a simple plan
Astarion x f!Reader
Summary: Astarion tries to wrap his head around you, when a sudden tumult in camp occurs.
[AO3]
The concept of altruism had always been quite strange to Astarion.
Doing something solely for benefiting others, without one's own needs primarily in mind – how outrageously foolish.
And yet, he caught himself considering the idea more often since he had met you.
You, the soft-hearted soul who always seemed to stumble directly into the next best opportunity to solve the problems of complete strangers that would cross your way – gladly interfering with any sort of personal drama.
Although you and the rest of your travel companions had been infected with a tadpole to the brain, leaving you in desperate need for a cure to this rather urgent condition, somehow you would always manage to save a child from getting gruesomely killed by harpies, pick a fight with a powerful hag to rescue some random woman you just met or annihilate an entire camp full of goblins to ensure safe travels for a bunch of Tieflings – without at least demanding a proper compensation for all your troubles.
You just did those things, and it drove Astarion mad.
Perhaps one of the reasons for your undeniable saviour complex were the recurring thoughts that plagued you. You had once explained it as particularly dark urges, the impulse to hurt and kill spreading its roots inside your brain, evolving into a yearn to act out the most gruesome visions one could imagine. Gloriously kill an innocent to bathe in their blood, crush a squirrel to death with your bare fists or rip off a stranger's hand in need of help – malicious ideas that would otherwise never cross your mind.
The origin of these unwanted desires were unknown to you, but you sensed that it had to be connected to your past somehow – a part of you that had yet to be completely revealed. Of course, you had sworn to give everything in your might to resist them. And luckily for the life of your travel companions, you were mostly able to succeed.
Regardless of these murderous tendencies coming with your affliction, you were still the kindest person Astarion had ever met. A contradiction in itself, and yet you were – well, you.
Lately, Astarion had caught himself just perceiving you.
Taking in your soft expression as you were mindlessly humming a song to yourself, sitting barefoot by the river, hands elbow-deep in the cold water to wash your clothes, sticking this stupid little melody to his head for the rest of the day.
While resting at camp, he had watched you reading – one of your favourites, the lexicon of bird species in Faerûn – a terribly boring topic, but you seemed to indulge in the lengthy descriptions of a blue jay’s wingspan. You would fetch Astarion a caught smile between slowly turned pages, eyes half-closed, before eventually dozing off in the flickering light of the fire. He had barely been fast enough to catch the edges of your slipping book, saving it from landing in the dirt.
The other day, he noticed you carefully picking flowers from the road, acting like it was the most important task on your schedule. Later, you would sit in silence, brows furrowed in concentration and hands busy with knotting them into a beautiful headband. A gift for Karlach, since you had sensed that she hadn’t been too well on this particular day.
A sickeningly sweet gesture.
And yet, so typically you. Affectionate, always looking after your dearest companions.
He remembered the feeling of you casually squeezing his shoulder after an exhausting battle, the concerned look you would give him as you noticed that he had been injured, and how you insisted on treating his wounds with the utmost care, not leaving his side before you made sure his bleeding had entirely stopped.
There was the sensation of your fingers gently forming circles through his white curls, while he had buried his fangs deep inside your neck, greedily gulping down the blood you had been willingly offered to him. The quickening of your pulse, the little shivers your body would give away as he was feeding on you.
Your thumb shyly placed against his brow, the tender movement as you traced his features. The sincerity in your voice as you described the outlines of his face to him, after he had shared with you that his lack of reflection had turned the image of his own appearance into a dark shape from his past. Profane vanity was all he had initially seeked from you that evening, listening to you calling him beautiful and stroking his ego, and yet there had been a certain intimacy resonating in that moment. You had described to him what the world would see when it looked at him – what you would see.
Astarion groaned and pulled his blanket up to his chin, almost covering his bottom lip with the thin woollen fabric.
Gods, how you irritated him.
How you had infested his mind with your nauseating goodness.
When you first met, Astarion had decided that precisely this outstanding character trait of yours should be your undoing.
You offered an easy prey, he had thought to himself in a blissful glee, as he imagined all the ways in which he would bargain your trust.
Luring and deceiving were practically moulded into him, therefore charming you appeared as easy as picking the lock on a broken chest. In order to survive under his former master Cazador, he had become an unwilling adept in these abilities.
Astarion flinched as the memory of his ruthless tormentor reentered his mind. Cazador had turned him into a vampire spawn almost two centuries ago and made him his slave, forcing him to a life in complete darkness and made him use his body to bring more than thousands of victims to him.
In order to deceive you, Astarion had formed a rather simple plan: Seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you would never turn on him – old habits that cemented over the past centuries had kicked in.
Therefore, it should have been easy with you. Instinctive. Following a pattern of studied behaviour, throwing his best lines at you until you would breathe his name between tousled sheets - leaving your body aching for him and trusting him unconditionally.
All he had to do was follow this nice little plan of his, deepening the selfish bond he aimed to create between the two of you in order to secure his safety. To get you on his side.
It should have been nothing more than an insurance. A simple transaction, so to speak: His honeyed words for your protection. Performing an act, yourself delightfully unaware of your leading role in this little play of his.
Well, and what else could it ever be? After all, manipulating others in order to get something out of them was the only way he had ever known.
And yet: with you, things had somewhat felt entirely different.
At least, his plan had evidently borne fruit by now: Not only were you voluntarily offering your blood to help him with his cravings after he had revealed his past of being a vampire spawn, you had also sworn to help him finding out the meaning of the scars on his back and dealing with Cazador when the time would come.
Still, instead of savouring his accomplishment he found himself distracted with his attempts to wrap his head around you.
Sometimes he wanted nothing more than to peek inside this little skull of yours, picking your brain until he would satisfy his curiosity with you and determine the reason why you were lingering on his mind of late.
He wanted to figure out what made him actually want to listen to the things you had to say, admire your wit when you would share a heartfelt laugh over one of your foolish jokes or why he would seek your company after a night spent in familiar solitude. And even worse: Why in the Hells he had caught himself enjoying how your face would light up after you had saved another unfortunate soul in need on your travels.
Astarion sighed and pushed his fingers to his eyes, hoping that pressing them shut would free him from his vexing thoughts, as a sudden noise distracted him.
The pounding of hurried footsteps and jumbled voices rose outside his tent, growing louder and faster.
He let out another disgruntled sigh.
Gods, what would it be now?
Whoever was roaming around your camp this late at night, screaming like an animal, better had a rightful reason to do so.
His annoyance fell off immediately as he came to understand what the unfamiliar voices were yelling: Your name. Followed by pleas for help.
Before he even comprehended what exactly posed this sudden level of urgency, his feet had already dragged him outside in the dark, a cold breeze brushing against his skin.
“What is going on?” he heard his own voice meddling into the sudden tumult.
Then he spotted you: Arms and legs hanging lifelessly, brought down on your bedding by one of the Harpers he remembered from the Last Light Inn. You were followed by a few other Harpers who positioned themselves around your tent - they were desperately shouting for a healer.
An icy grip twisted Astarion’s chest as he stormed forward to reach you, stomping through mud and dirt.
“Is she hurt?” His voice broke as he saw your face. You were lying on your blanket, eyes rolling behind closed lids, cheeks all flushed and a thin line of sweat forming on your brow. You looked utterly terrible: Weakened and sick, seemingly in a feverish delirium.
Astarion had seen you wounded before, due to blood and gore being in the nature of your journey to free yourself from the tadpoles, but never like this: more dead than alive, not moving a single major muscle.
What in the Nine Hells had happened to you?
Astarion swallowed hard before he found his voice again and turned to the ones who had brought you in.
“What did you do to her?” he hissed, readying himself to grab the Harper next to him by the throat and shake him until his tongue would loosen. “Explain yourself, now!”
Before any of the men could open their agape mouths in response to Astarion’s daunting request, Shadowheart broke the heated atmosphere with a soft push to his shoulder and made way to kneel beside you.
“Let me see her.” She spoke quickly as she felt for your pulse and started to spread her hands protectively over you, encompassing you in a blue radiance. She was already casting a healing spell.
“Your friend, she… she was fighting a shadow creature, and it must have poisoned her,” the Harper that had carried you pressed between quivering lips. “We already sent someone to call for Isobel. She will know what to do.” As he met Astarion’s furious glimpse, he hastily added “They – they should be here any minute.”
Poison? Astarion wrinkled his nose. Indeed, your blood smelled different – somewhat tainted.
He focused his gaze back to you, suppressing the urge to slap that damned Harper straight across the face.
Instead of acting out this violent thought, he sank to his knees next to Shadowheart and carefully laid one hand on your cheek. You were burning hot and letting out ragged breaths between your cracked lips.
“I can cast my spells, but I am not versed in the toxins of the Dark”, Shadowheart declared with the most tensed look on her face, her magic still hovering over your body. “We need Isobel – fast.”
Another twist in Astarion’s chest. He racked his brain for a solution, his hand still held helplessly against your cheek. You were in need of healing, desperately, and more adept than Shadowheart could provide. His senses began to blur.
Through the pulsing sound of blood rushing through his ears he could only gather a few scraps of the enfolding conversation between the Harpers and the rest of your companions that had hurried to your aid.
It was enough to paint a picture of what happened to you: During your night watch, you had noticed a Harper being dragged away in the shadows and went immediately to his aid. With a few quick blows, you had managed to kill the attacking creature and save the unfortunate man from his demise, but for its final act it stroked you with its claw, leaving a deep scratch on your right arm – the source of the suspected poison that would flow through your veins.
Astarion bit the inside of his cheek, spilling blood. His mind was racing.
Of course you had gotten yourself in danger over saving someone else again.
In normal times, he would have loved to tease you for your foolish act of heroism and give you an “I told you so”, probably earning a defiant look from you while you would emphasise the importance of helping those in need.
Hells, he desired nothing more than to listen to your moralising if it meant that he could just hear your voice right now.
But instead of lecturing him on morality, you were still lying on your mattress, unmoving and probably on the verge of death, and he couldn’t think of a single way to rid you of this terrible state.
He felt numb. Useless. It made him sick.
A gut wrenching thought rushed over him.
What if you would die right now – just like that?
Before he could… Well, before he could do what exactly?
The image of your limp lifeless body with dead staring eyes entered his mind.
No. You didn’t deserve to die. You couldn’t die. Not like this. Not now, not ever, not from saving a goddamned Harper.
Then you whimpered.
Silent, almost inaudible, but enough to set Astarion ablaze.
The urge of punishing every single one who had dared to lead you to harm overcame him like a ruthless wave crashing shore. He wanted to cut open, to rip apart and to send everyone into eternal hell.
Fire took over his crimson eyes as he bared his fangs, the look of a predator on his pale face, ready to curse those wretched Harpers or worse, as another quiet sound spilled from your lips.
“As… Astar... ion…?”
He froze.
His name – spoken as gentle as a flicker of moonlight glistening through leaves. Not moaned in lust or used to denounce him in anger – just… him being called, in the most faintest way.
He felt his eyes wet before he even knew it, his mouth opened for a split second only to his lips pressing it shut again, forcing himself to blink before a single tear could make its way down his cheek.
You sounded so fragile. So ... in need of him.
“Asta...rion?”
His chest twisted again.
He wanted to whisper words of comfort to you, chanting them over and over like a prayer, assuring you that everything would be alright.
“Don’t speak,” he managed to breathe in a cracked voice. “I’m here, my sweet.”
Your eyes were still closed and moving fast underneath your lids. You spoke in a fever, and he could sense that you were in pain.
Astarion brushed a strand of hair off your sweaty brow, using just the tips of his slender fingers. A most careful touch, as if a hint of deeper force would break you.
Then, there was no more sound coming from you.
“Hells, where is that goddamned cleric? If she doesn’t arrive here any second, I’m going to drag her over myself-” Astarion’s voice was nothing more than a helpless plea. He sounded way less threatening than he had wished for, almost spilling those tears he had to hold back, and seconds before bursting if there would be no aid for you right now.
“No need to shout, my friend. I’m right here.”
Isobel. Finally.
A fire in his stomach again.
How dared she sound so calm, considering your condition?
With haste, Isobel knelt between him and Shadowheart and opened her pouch, revealing a set of different sized bottles. She began to examine you with concentration, lifting your eyelids to look at your pupils, checking your vitals and thoroughly inspecting the wound the monster had inflicted on you.
Astarion gritted his teeth in anticipation, a thick lump forming in his throat.
“Will she be alright?” he eventually demanded, his voice cracking like a violin out of tune, but Isobel ignored him and silently continued her treatment.
“Astarion, I’m worried about her too, but I think we shouldn’t disturb Isobel right now,” Wyll interfered softly and squeezed his shoulder.
Taken aback, Astarion pressed his lips together. Of course Wyll would be the voice of reason in a situation like this, but unfortunately he wasn’t wrong. Isobel was the most profound healer available, an expert on the shadow creatures - and unlike himself, she offered the possibility to save you.
“As I thought,” Isobel mumbled after a minute that had felt like eternity and opened one of her potions with a loud plop. “She will need this.”
She then put her thumb on your chin, carefully opening your mouth and pouring in a dark liquid, before she continued to clear your wound.
Astarion eagerly watched her hands treating you with expertise, still not laying his gaze off you.
“I gave her a powerful antidote,” Isobel began to explain calmly as she spread a colourless balm on your torn flesh. “Such poison needs fast treatment. Fortunately, if dealt with in time, it can still be cured. I’m glad I was able to aid your dear friend before it made its way through her entire body. Otherwise… It most likely would have been fatal.”
Astarion’s muscles tightened and his stomach turned. You almost died tonight.
Isobel seemed to notice his tension, so she quickly added “With this antidote, she will be completely fine in the morning. Her fever might continue through the night, but I promise that there is no more reason for concern.”
“Are you completely sure of that, Isobel?” Shadowheart asked, seeking out reassurance that the treatment truly had succeeded.
“I swear by Selune, she is not at risk anymore. The antidote freed her from the poison and the balm will heal her wound,” the cleric responded confidently. “Her body will do the rest.”
The tight, dark blanket that had wrapped around Astarion’s chest began to loosen up.
“I… I’m glad that she’ll be alright,” was all he managed to vocalise as the adrenaline slowly faded from his body.
“Thank you, Isobel,” added Gale, who had been nervously walking up and down your tent as Isobel had tended to your condition.
Even Shadowheart, a devoted follower of Lady Shar, spared a few words of gratitude towards the cleric following her sworn enemy’s beliefs.
A general sense of ease took over from the strained atmosphere that had prevailed just a moment ago.
“She needs rest and quiet now,” Isobel claimed and gave a telling look to your companions and the assembly of Harpers that gathered around your tent.
An unspoken demand that it was time to give you some space now.
*
“I will stay with her,” Astarion announced to Shadowheart and the remaining group after Isobel and the Harpers had left for the Last Light Inn. There had been a quick discussion if you should have been brought with them, but eventually it was decided that you were more safe in your own bedroll than being dragged through the shadow infested lands again.
“Are you sure, Astarion? I’d be more than glad to watch over her myself,” Shadowheart responded, not hiding her surprise over his proposition.
Even if Astarion wasn’t sure about anything in particular right now, he felt the pressing need to remain by your side until you would open your eyes again, ensuring that Isobel had spoken the truth and the threat had passed.
“Well, I won’t be able to get some more rest tonight anyway, so I might as well just stay over here,” he attempted in a more indifferent manner. “Besides, her tent is by far the most comfortable one our excuse for a camp has to offer, and I’m looking forward to indulging in some peace and quiet after all of this night's terrible trouble.”
Karlach listened to his explanation in slight amusement and gave him a supporting nod. Liar, her smiling face said.
“Well, if you’re sure, and there are no objections… Then it’s fine with me, I suppose,” Shadowheart replied with a raised eyebrow. “But promise to shout for me if something’s the matter, will you?”
“Gods, would you please give me some credit here, you mother hen. I got this,” Astarion said and rolled his eyes. On the inside, he was still shaken up, and he could only hope that the slight pitch in his voice wouldn’t give him away. “So hush hush everyone, off you go now. Get in some beauty sleep, as you all are evidently in need of it.”
“Chk!” Lae’zel interfered in the most angry whisper she could muster. “Leave Astarion to look after her for the night if he insists. I’m certain he knows the fate that will await him should she come to harm under his supervision.” Lae’zel’s very own way to express that she came to care about you.
“Charming as ever,” Astarion replied at this implicit threat, still holding no intention to move merely an inch from his spot next to your bedroll.
“You see, Shadowheart? There seems to be no need to worry about our dearest friend,” Gale added with a slight chuckle. “I suppose she’ll be in good hands for tonight.”
Shadowheart let out a grunt and readied herself to leave with the others, but not before she would lay one last gaze on you, ensuring that you had not gotten any worse over the last few minutes.
*
Astarion watched your chest rise and fall in a soothing rhythm.
What a mess this night had been.
From the moment the Harpers had brought you in it had been like a heavy weight violently crushing his chest over and over, turning him into an angry, scared wreck, and the pressure only began to wear off by now.
Realistically, he knew that you were safe and the danger had passed. But then, why was there such an uneasiness lingering on him?
He had been scared in his life before, probably more times than he could recall, and yet… The fear over losing you tonight had shifted something in him.
You had called for him in your feverish delirium, as you were lying helpless and in pain.
It was an image hard to shake off.
Astarion sighed, when he noticed that you were still in your armour. There was no way in Hell he would let you sleep in this reeking dirt-covered piece of cloth, so his dexterous fingers began to peel it off, piece by piece. Carefully not to wake you, he stored your armour aside, until you were lying in your undergarment. Then he took your blanket and wrapped it around you.
With another gentle motion, he let his finger stroke along your brow, brushing over the dampness of your skin. You were still feeling hot.
His nose wrinkled as he pulled down his sleeve to cautiously wipe your sweat away. There was no need to get up to fetch some extra cloth, and he would be perfectly capable of cleaning his shirt the next morning.
For a while, Astarion would just watch over you, mustering your relaxed face and ensuring that your breathing continued steadily. You seemed to be in a calm sleep, still feverish, but evidently better looking than the moment you had been brought in.
The next morning came to his mind. Perhaps he might attempt to prepare your favourite food for you, a simple but apparently very delicious berry porridge. Not that he had any particular experience on the matter, since his culinary needs were restricted to blood these days, but if someone like Gale was able to cook it, he surely would be too. Maybe he would surprise you with the dog or the owlbear for some morning snuggling in bed, as you seemed to never spend a single day without indulging in some pets on your journey. Well, he probably should bring in both. Oh how delighted you would be, waking up to these furry little beasts, he thought with a grin.
Then it hit him.
Shit.
His nice, simple plan with you had truly and utterly fallen apart.
What should have been nothing more than an insurance for his safety, a way to rid himself of the tadpole in his brain and offer him a powerful ally to face Cazador some day, had developed into something he never experienced before.
He genuinely cared about you - more than he thought himself to be capable of. You had become most precious to him, and he felt the urgent need to be honest with you.
You were incredible, and you didn’t deserve to be lured into a selfish alliance.
You deserved something real.
He wanted things between you to be something real - even if he didn’t know what real looked like. After all, charming and deceiving others was the only way he had ever known. Forming a sincere connection and being close with someone posed an entirely new and remarkably scary sensation. But maybe, with you…
Your faint voice brought him back from his thoughts.
“Asta...rion?”
His face softened, not as an act of will, more like a reflex.
You looked at him with half-open eyes, sounding still a little weak.
He bowed his head closer to you and spoke softly, letting his thumb brush gently over your cheek.
"There you are, my little fool. Getting ourselves in trouble over our constant need to do something heroic again, weren’t we?”
“Mh… Is that so?” you asked in a raspy voice, offering a weak smile through glistening eyes underlined with dark circles, your hair pressed damp to your skull. “And you saved me, I suppose?”
Astarion’s heart grew tight with adoration. To him, you had never looked more beautiful.
“I’m afraid not, my dear. Actually, you have been poisoned by a shadow creature, so you were in need of a more adept healer. Isobel treated you.”
“Mhm.. How bad was it?”
He thought for a moment, the fear he had felt rushing over him for a split second and piercing his chest like ice.
"Well, not as bad as it could have. I’ll spare you the details for tomorrow.”
“That’s… good.” You hummed, sounding drowsy and still a little feverish. Then, you gave a soft plea. “Astarion… Would you… stay with me tonight?”
There it was again, a pull at his heartstrings.
Gods, you wicked little thing.
“Of course, my darling. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”
A promise, unimaginable honest had it been another time, with another person, but this was now, and this was you.
He gave another gentle press to your hand, carefully intertwining your fingers with his, as if to underline his words.
"Thank you,” you whispered, eyes closed for a second before you let your gaze meet his again. Another quiet mumble. "Could you... hold me please?"
Astarion was overwhelmed by your vulnerability for a second. He wanted nothing more than to provide you comfort, to make you feel safe, but didn't know if he should give in. Even though you had often shared your bedroll these days, this somehow felt more open, more intimate.
Before he realised what he was doing, he swiftly lifted off your blanket to slip underneath and laid his arm around your waist, pulling you in close.
He could feel your hand on his chest. Your head gently resting on his shoulder, fingers loosely clutching around the end of his collar. Your warm body against his cold.
Astarion let his fingers gently caressing the small of your back.
You were breathing steady, already seeming to doze off again. A soothing calmness came over him.
“I hope… I didn’t worry you too much,” you mumbled, more asleep than awake.
Astarion bit his lip.
“Well…” he said and cleared his throat. “I managed.” A complete understatement of events, but this was also a confession for another day. “Rest now, my love.”
Astarion continued to gently stroke your back, his lips turning into an affectionate smile. He never thought his heart to be this full over the failure of such a simple plan.
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