infatuation ☾ bg3 writings

ashes, ashes, ashes and little tricks - astarion x fem!oc (PART ONE)

astarion x fem!oc (cirice)

smut

!! predator/prey dynamics, semi-public sex, teasing

Cirice despised formal events. She hated the forced greetings with distant neighbors, and the performative nods and curtsies from powerful hands who offered nothing but feigned respect when they should have given her their all. She hated being eyed up and down by men who made her stomach turn sour, and hated even more the judgemental eyes of women who were curvier than she was... and far more beautiful. They all made her skin crawl – every single one – and she usually counted down the seconds until they were gone and it was over. The moment she stepped into a ballroom with Astarion's hand on the small of her back, the weight of expectation would settle around her shoulders and tighten like a vice around her neck, choking her until everything around her became loud and unbearable. She was supposed to wear civility like armor, to move like a queen in a kingdom of lesser creatures, to appear extraordinary in every gaze that lingered over her – show off her power as the Ascendant's wife instead of simply being it... It was only by miracle that her facade never splintered or cracked.

But tonight, Cirice didn't have to pretend to be any of those terrible things. Tonight, the Ascendant's Masquerade filled their palace's halls with strangers – masked and veiled figures who paid for entry into their home and left their identities at the door. And for once, hidden behind the face of a snow white rabbit, Cirice felt... alright. Dressed in layers upon layers of white and cream, her sharp collarbones cut like hollows above a smooth swatch of silvery satin. Her waist was drawn in tightly by a thinly-boned corset lined down the center with ivory buttons, and the magnificent skirt of her gown had been loosely tailored to her silhouette, with cascading, asymmetrical layers of frilled linens and hand-woven lace that swept across the floor and commanded the attention of every guest who passed her. Her neck was draped with strings and strings of saltwater pearls, her arms and fingers adorned in rubies and gold. Behind her disguise, she was no longer the Vampire Ascendant's bride, nor the cursed sinner abandoned by her maker. Here, hidden between layers of lace and pearls, she was a stranger – one of a thousand or more hidden behind a mask. The tiefling moved anonymously through the crowd of guests, free from the suffocating cloak of expectation, and the stares that followed her as she went were mere curiosities and admiring glances from strangers drawn to the mystery of the woman with the rabbit's face, rather than her grander, more serious reality. Tonight, for the first time in a long time, she felt like she could breathe. And it was exhilarating.

The Masquerade was a spectacle of shadows and elegance. Masked figures moved in a graceful tide across the hall, swirling and twirling with one another, and bright, golden candlelight flickered off of jeweled masks and intricate gowns. Everything around her was a pleasant blur. An orchestra played on the northern end of the hall – only the best of Baldur's Gate – and Cirice found herself drawn to the melodies that floated towards her, to the crescendo of the strings as the song met its peak, and the quick pluck of the lyre. She blended seamlessly into the buzz of the night, into her rabbit visage and white gown, and each pearl and piece of jewelry wrapped around her body gleamed as if they were a part of her as she floated through the sea of guests.

The mask she wore added to her allure. It covered the upper half of her face and left only her crimson-stained lips for show. Even her horns had been partially hidden by its tall ears. Her dark, kohl-lined eyes were visible through the masks' eye holes, and beneath the white leather they were sharp, playful, and utterly uncatchable while her feet carried her around the room.

Cirice had glimpsed Astarion twice already – the first time by coincidence, the second intentionally. He had decided to wear the face of a fox, and the deep onyx color of it was beautifully complementary with the dark material of his intricately-embroidered doublet. Their eyes had only met briefly the second time she'd spotted him lingering by a window overlooking the city below, a chalice of wine in his hand, before he'd given her a knowing smirk and slipped back into the crowd, leaving her only with the faintest tease of his presence, albeit from afar. She knew then what he was doing – it was a game he was all too good at – a careful dance of cat and mouse in a ballroom filled with a million secrets, and she would not be the mouse.