infatuation ☾ bg3 writings

where blades have been - astarion x fem!oc

The events alluded to in this ficlet are those that occurred in the previous chapter "make me feel it". I would suggest reading that one if you want the story behind the scars being discussed in this chapter. 

The antechamber was alive with the soft rustle of expensive fabric and the gentle tug of intricately-spun ribbons. All around Cirice, the quiet murmur of spawn padded about, working in careful tandem to fit their vampiric Mistress into her gown for the Court of Shadows happening in the ballroom just one floor below. Beautiful silk the color of rich oxblood wrapped around her body, draping her tall, slim form with a grace that was elegant yet dark, and so very true to the dangerous allure of the open doors welcoming the wealthy and powerful from all around into the one and only Crimson Palace.

Astarion stood not far away, watching from the threshold to their bedroom, as the spawn tended to her, watching over the rim of his crystal glass to ensure they did not ruin the garment or upset his partner with their incessant poking and prodding and pulling. His eyes glinted in the low light and were filled with a familiar satisfaction of seeing her adorned in such finery. He'd insisted on this gown – a striking piece that plunged low at the neckline and put a long swath of pale skin on display between the fabric's dramatic folds. It was beautiful. Meticulously tailored. And obviously custom ordered by the Ascendant himself, if each individual gemstone and detail designed to capture the attention of any pair of eyes that rolled in her direction was any indication. It fit her like a glove and clung to every smooth curve and pointed ridge on her hell-touched silhouette, and there, framed perfectly on either side by the silk, was the scar.

It ran from the dip between her collarbones and down past her rib cage, separating the two planes of her chest until it ended abruptly at her navel. A pale, straight line that also served as a constant reminder of that night – the one night where she'd been unable to sleep, plagued by demons of the past and the deep, twisting urge to feel. She'd been vulnerable enough to ask him for a taste of fear, and he had indulged in her desires. And between emotional fits of pleasure and pain, he'd scarred her in return.

The golden candlelight from a hundred little candles catches on its uneven edges, highlighting the thin parts that never quite healed as pretty as the rest. It's a permanent mark of their shared violence, their unyielding bond, it mars her pale flesh as a constant reminder of her fragile vulnerability.

Astarion's gaze glues itself to her chest in that dress, then it drops lower and lingers there. His expression darkens with something intense and almost possessive. His eyes burn like scorching flames upon her skin and she chooses to ignore him. This is not the place nor the time to spit venom at his inability to control himself.

The Ascendant suddenly chooses to step closer and out of the threshold, gliding through the focused path's of working spawn to trace the raised line of her scar up close, as if he was seeing it for the first time. Cirice barely moves a muscle, holding herself still as an oak, and continues to allow a lowly spawn to twist the silk ribbons along her back.

"You chose this dress on purpose," Cirice murmurs after a while of his ogling, her crimson-painted lips curling downwards into a slight grimace as she looks upon his distracted gaze through the gold-embellished mirror. "Didn't you?"

His smile comes slow, wicked, and he floats in closer, his lithe hands coming to rest on either side of her waist as he leans in, his breath warm against her neck. It was a feeling she'd never get used to. "Perhaps," he whispered, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine and through to the pointed tip of her tail. "How could I resist? It's not every day you allow me to show off my handiwork."