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Astarion feigns nonchalance by picking at the non-existent pieces of lint on a cashmere sweater, grabbing it and putting it back almost instantaneously. “So, is she going to be there?”
Shadowheart gives him an exasperated glance. She’s tired of him. He doesn’t blame her. “Yes, Astarion. Of course, Lark will be there. Knowing Wyll and Karlach, she’ll be the guest of honor, no less.”
“Well, it’s only fair. We don’t get to see her much.”
The half-elf rolls her eyes at him. Astarion has half a mind to flick her on the nose. “This is getting a bit old, don’t you think?”
He points at the frilly summer dress she’s holding over her forearm. “You mean that thing, darling?”
She huffs. “You know exactly what I mean, you idiot.”
He does, unfortunately.
It was six years ago now that Astarion met Lark for the first time. Wyll was the one who introduced them, which isn’t surprising, considering what the circumstances of their meeting were.
It was her, the 5-foot 2 journalist, who wrote the article about Cazador Szarr; the enigmatic owner of the Crimson Modeling Agency: Lark’s article was the spark that ignited the fuse and landed Astarion’s tormentor in jail. Wyll had known about the goings on at Astarion’s so-called workplace, but without sufficient evidence, his hands were tied. Astarion knew that’s how things operated. Knowing who Wyll Ravengard was, Cazador would never have agreed to see him. But Lark was the blind spot he missed. The charming little thing that slipped through the cracks— and, eventually, into Astarion’s heart.
He remembers the first time they met. She had arrived at the pub right on time, hopping and skipping around as if there constantly was a song playing in her head that no one else could hear; as if life was merely a matter of dance. When she spotted him, she broke into a wild grin, one Astarion would have assumed reserved to her closest relations— but no. Extending her hand out to him, she said, “Lark Margolo Promise, at your service.”
From the way she carried herself, he had supposed she was a little bit of a maniac, always cheerful and smiling, head in the clouds. But when the time came for it and he started recounting his sorry tale she had listened not with pity in her dark burgundy eyes but with something else: determination. She would later tell him that it was only a few weeks after they first met and started getting to know one another more had she come to see his pain as unique: “Everybody goes through something,” she’d said to him and he had come to know her by then to the point where he didn’t even feel angry. “I’ve never cared about the people going through the stuff until I met you.”
And they came to share a secret, the two of them, that faithful night she took him to the facility Cazador was being held in; swiped a keycard and pressed her finger to her lips to signal him to be quiet. She had stood right behind him as he took his revenge and tore into his abuser’s throat. When it was all said and done, she hadn’t said a thing— not until the hotel room. No empty words, no pitiful apologies, no asking him if he was okay. She had simply held out her hand for him to hold and took him to a hotel to get cleaned up.
“Does Wyll know?” he asked, willing his voice to sound as steady as possible.
“No,” she said, crossing one leg over the other with such a lack of affect, like they were talking about the weather. “You and I are the only ones that know.”
“And when they find the body?”
“Cazador Szarr had a lot of enemies.” The way her tongue moved in her mouth as she said his name, voice filled with unadulterated hatred, made Astarion want to kiss her.
So he did. And she let him. They clumsily reached out for each other for a while, on the strange and creaky hotel bed, until her hand brushed against his groin in an attempt to move her arm out of the way, and he flinched at how soft and unwanting he was.
“It’s okay, Star,” Lark said, and he bit on his tongue so hard to fight away the tears. “You’re not ready for something like this.”
Since then, he’s had various partners— nothing long-winded, mostly one-night stands, a couple of second dates. But whenever he closed his eyes, it was her— it was her pliant mouth, soft and hot, her clumsy hands, her raspy voice. It’s okay, Star.
The night he killed Cazador hadn’t ended with their failed attempt, however. Lark had simply given him space, gotten ready to leave. Every nerve of his being screamed for her to stay, yet he remained silent. As she picked up her beaten up crossbody bag from the floor, something stumbled out of it.
A deck of cards, with rats on them.
She simply adores the creatures. He should have hated her just because of that.
“It’s a tarot deck,” she had said.
“Do you believe in that kind of stuff?”
She shrugged. The strap of her tank top fell with the motion. Astarion wanted to chase after it with his teeth. “I like carrying it around with me.”
Whether it was to keep her around longer or something else entirely, he wasn’t sure, but he said, “Give me a reading, then.”
She looked at the door, and then back at him.
“Pick a card.”
He pulled a single card out of the deck she held out to him. A picture of a tall building and a rat at the base, the card said, The Tower.
“Is that a good thing?”
Lark had pursed her lips into a thin line, and Astarion had known it was decidedly not a good thing.
In the couple of years that followed, his life— or, unlife— somehow devolved into a different kind of nightmare— he wasn’t tortured and abused every godsdamned day anymore, not by anything other than his own mind, at least. It had been difficult to stay afloat; all of a sudden traversing the world alone, having to deal with the consequences of centuries of trauma. Wyll and the others had tried to be there for him, but there were times where even being looked at was unthinkable. The only person that didn’t make him feel this way was Lark— but he didn’t get to see her all that much. She was always busy.
She sent him blood sometimes. It was never directly from the source, much to Astarion’s displeasure. But in her texts she’d make it sound like she would have much preferred his fangs in her neck. He knew she only meant to tease him, but it made him ache nonetheless.
And now, he’s okay. Somewhat.
“Hello? I’m talking to you.”
Shadowheart’s voice brings him back to reality— and her face right in front of his. Her fringe looks messy.
“You need to trim those.”
“You mean you need to trim those.”
“You need to start paying me.”
“I’d rather not.”
He grins at her, and she grins back, sticking out her tongue. In their little friend group, Shadowheart is probably the person he’s closest to— being his roommate and all. It was a recent happenstance— rent was always getting more expensive. It was simply easier to share a space. Karlach and Wyll were obviously out of the picture, what with being married and all— although they would gladly have opened up their house for anyone, Astarion is sure. Gale was also not an option because he favored Waterdeep and Astarion, well, enjoyed his city— enjoyed Baldur’s Gate. Shadowheart, with her blunt, brutally honest nature and tendency to sulk, fit him perfectly.
“I am serious, though, Astarion,” she continues, and he flinches. “Don’t you think she deserves to know?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling.”
Shadowheart sighs, dramatic enough that it makes a few people around them turn and look. “It would make my life easier too. You’re no fun when you’re pining.”
“I don’t pine.”
“Yeah, right. And I don’t brood.”
“You most certainly—”
She shoots him a look, and Astarion shuts it, pursing his lips together. As she starts walking to the fitting room with a few different outfits dangling from her arm, Shadowheart says, “She deserves to know, and you deserve to be happy.”
Left alone to wait, Astarion wonders what makes Shadowheart think he’s not happy.
“I missed your pointy face so much,” Karlach grunts, squeezing Astarion even harder in her arms. He’s about to drop the vase of flowers he brought as a gift when Wyll swoops in and grabs them. He mumbles a silent thank you since speaking seems impossible without air in his lungs. Shadowheart hands Wyll a bottle of wine.
“You guys didn’t have to bring gifts,” Wyll says. Of course he does.
“They love us,” Karlach says, finally loosening her grip on Astarion.
Now that he can breathe again, he jumps in, “Not if you try to kill me every instance you see me.”
She smirks, warm and genuine. “You’re welcome.”
Astarion fixes his shirt while Karlach and Wyll lead him and Shadowheart inside. There’s music coming in from the living room, mixed in with the sounds of waves crashing on the beach outside, not too far from the house. The balcony doors are left open, letting in the warm night air, off-white linen curtains softly swaying. Astarion’s eyes wander around, searching.
“She’s over there,” Karlach whispers.
He glares at her. “Whatever are you—”
Then he spots her, leaning against the wall in the hallway off to the other end, holding a short glass of something— something strong, knowing her— talking to a pink-haired tiefling— one of Halsin’s friends, what was her name? Right, Nadira, he thinks. His eyes quickly take Lark in. She has let most of her hair down— it’s gotten longer. On the top of her head it’s tied into two slim pigtails, cascading and joining the rest of her dark gold strands. She’s wearing a mint green tube top with lily of the valley flowers embroidered on it. It’s quality work. Her midi skirt has matching embroidery, and the side-slit goes up to the top of her right thigh, the freckles that adorn her skin reminding him of constellations.
“You’re staring,” Shadowheart warns. He’s not sure he can look away.
Lark lifts her head and spots him instantly, a wide grin blooming on her face. She waves at him enthusiastically, but turns back to her conversation just as he’s about to wave back.
Wyll claps him on the shoulder, offering him a smile. “Let’s get you a drink, shall we?”
“Right. Thanks,” he mumbles in response.
Once he has a glass of wine in him (or two) it definitely becomes easier to let himself Lark-watch. Everybody else slinks off to somewhere— Karlach tries dragging him to do karaoke with her but settles for Gale instead, who has arrived fashionably late (pardon his tardiness, he says, traffic was horrendous, he has just arrived from Waterdeep not two hours ago, getting out of the airport was nothing short of torture), and Astarion has to make sure his smile is polite as the two sing along to the lyrics of Young Folks as loud as they can. Shadowheart, meanwhile, has settled down on the big L-shaped couch in the middle of the room, twirling a glass of red, smiling and chatting with Nocturne. Lark is still talking to Nadira. Something red-hot rises in his chest that he carefully pushes down— she knows he’s here, so why has she not come and talked to him yet?
Finally, after what has felt like eternity— and Astarion knows eternity— Lark makes her way toward him where he’s awkwardly standing by the balcony.
“Hi,” she says, short and simple. Hearing her voice makes his mouth go dry.
“Didn’t know you were that close with Nadira,” he blurts out.
Lark brings a hand to the back of her neck, almost… embarrassed. “Yeah, we… We’ve been on a couple of dates.”
That surprises him, for some reason. As if he expected her to… not date anyone. Why would he expect that? He certainly hasn’t set any rules like that for himself. Cursing his traitorous mind, and this weird feeling in his chest, he asks, “And how were they?”
Lark shrugs. He watches her bare shoulders, covered in freckles all over. “They were okay. I think I like her more as a friend. She’s a really good kisser, though.”
The anger and jealousy in him dissipate, as they laugh together. He wants her happy. He wants her laughter. He’s not sure if he can provide any of those. He wants to, but— “What about you?” she asks and takes a sip of her drink.
It’s easier to play the rake, to hide away. “You know that I’m a great kisser.”
She laughs again, sharp and boisterous, almost spitting her drink. He wants to make her do that again. And again. “That’s not what I meant, silly. I mean your dating life. We haven’t seen each other in so long.”
They haven’t. Yes, they text, and call each other sometimes. But Lark keeps busy, and Astarion doesn’t push. “Oh, you know,” he says.
“Do I?”
“Nothing as exciting as a few dates with a good kisser I like only as a friend.”
“Star!” she chides him with an adorable pout. Oh, how he would love to put his thumb against those lips. “You’re terrible.”
This, he knows. “Don’t worry, darling. I get around.”
“That’s not what I—”
A soft melody fills the room, and Lark’s eyes go wide. She looks childish, when she does that. Before he can say anything, she shouts, “I’m sorry, I’ll be right back!” and runs off to the karaoke station, grabbing a mic from Geraldus, and starts singing.
Astarion doesn’t know the song, but it fits Lark’s voice— the depth somehow making the melody even gentler. As she sings, she dances around Geraldus, as if they’re in a music video— the poor boy is so obviously flustered, it’s almost cute. She does have that effect on people.
It's as if we were the only two left in this world–
I just couldn't resist dreaming for a bit
Moonlight shining on the tips of our toes
The scent of a bouquet
Fingers grazing fingers
Lark stops singing as Geraldus continues the next verse, and her eyes search the crowd for a moment, landing on Astarion. She wiggles her brows at him, as if there’s a joke just between them, or a secret of some kind. There is none— not that she knows, at least.
When the chorus comes, Lark takes over again, throwing her head back and singing the words as if her life depends on them. She’s very dramatic. He likes it.
Walking on broken glass barefoot
Drops of blood fall with each pang of pain
Please, trace those red footsteps and come find me
Perhaps it’s Astarion’s imagination; but just as she sings please, he thinks Lark looks right at him.
“How’s it going, Fangs?”
He would recognize that booming voice anywhere— and if it was anyone else giving him that nickname, he probably would have snarled at the poor soul. But it’s Karlach, and he does have a soft spot for her.
Before responding, he raises his glass at her. “It’s good to be here, Karlach.”
She gives him a mischievous smile. “I do have to wonder if you’d feel the same if Lark wasn’t here.”
“We’re all friends, aren’t we?”
“Sure we are. Some of us more than others.”
“Stop with the teasing and drink with me, will you?”
Karlach laughs. It’s confident and genuine— reminds him of Lark. “Okay, okay. Sorry. You’re just too easy to tease. Who would have guessed?”
Astarion quirks a silver eyebrow. “Guessed what?”
“That you could be such a lovesick fool.”
He should just roll his eyes, or snicker, or come up with some sort of witty but cruel remark. He doesn’t do any of it— just smiles at her. “You would know.”
“Of course I would! I, for one, happen to wear my lovesick foolishness as a badge of honor.”
“It looks good on you.”
“It’s not such a bad thing.”
Astarion looks at the tiefling with questioning eyes. She continues, “To be able to love. It can hurt, but it’s not a bad thing.”
Something rises up his throat— sharp and sour. He gulps it down with another swallow of wine. “Right. I’m sure you’re right, darling.”
Her warm eyes wander around his face, never settling on a spot. It seems like she has more to say, but keeps it to herself. “Enjoy the night, Astarion, will you? It’s so hard to get you all up here.”
With that, she leaves him be. Astarion doesn’t know if he feels relieved or disappointed.
He didn’t deny it, though, did he? That he is a lovesick fool.
Idiot, he chides himself.
“Did you like the song?”
He doesn’t have to turn to know it’s Lark who’s speaking to him— the way his stomach tumbles in on itself clues him in way before he actually set his eyes on her.
He’s quick, witty. “Yes, although I don’t know if I liked the song or the way you made the poor boy squirm.”
She quirks a brow at that. “Did I? Well, he is rather easy to tease,” she says, poking her tongue out.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I don’t get to just… let loose, these days.”
Astarion doesn’t know quite what to say to that— instead, he sips on his wine, looking at her.
“Anyway, sorry about earlier. We were saying…?”
What were they saying?
“Right,” she continues, eyes wide and brimming with amusement. “You were telling me how you get around.” She scrunches her face at the end, and Astarion isn’t sure if she’s making fun of him or coaxing something dangerous out.
“Do you need tips and tricks?”
“Ha! No. We all have things that work for us.”
Why does she sound almost… aggressive, all of a sudden?
“I guess we do.”
They stare at each other, for what seems like an eternity, and Astarion can’t hear the crowd anymore. It’s the beat of her heart, fast and sure, that fills his ears, that makes saliva gather at the back of his throat. Is she angry? Her face looks empty— devoid of emotion. Those eyes, dark and imploring, shining almost pink under the overhead lighting, could make him forget his own name, his own existence. What sweet relief that would be— true freedom. She could shape him into whatever she needs, and he would beg her for it, if only—
“Enjoy, then,” she says, turns around, and leaves.
Astarion doesn’t stop her— he starts walking the other way, just so he can not watch where she’s going.
Karlach is right— it does hurt. He isn’t sure how that could be a good thing.
He does what he does best— puts on a charming smile and gets to flirting.
It’s not difficult to see familiar faces around. Wyll knows a lot of people, and to Karlach, making friends is as easy as taking a breath. Astarion… Well, Astarion mingles within a lot of the same circles. He’s seen at least four people he’s had sex with already. He wonders distantly if Lark categorizes people the same way— people she’s fucked and people she hasn’t.
No, he thinks, he knows she doesn’t— she has… issues when it comes to activities of the carnal nature. Issues not too different from his own, although she prefers— chooses— to build a wall around herself, rather than dive into it the way he does— because the body remembers, remembers and hers is so soft, softer than his—
Astarion pushes the thoughts away, trying to focus instead on the man standing before him: his name escapes him now. Definitely belongs to the people he’s fucked category— his teeth remember his skin, cold and wet and prickly like a plucked chicken, but he blanks on the man’s name. It might be the too—many glasses of wine he’s had. Or maybe the one he’s holding right now is doing it. Who knows.
“So yes, it definitely hasn’t been that long,” the man grins. Astarion doesn’t remember what they were talking about. He just grins back, wide and hungry. The man’s heartbeat picks up. He thinks of Lark, how it would feel to have the side of his face pressed against her chest— listening, listening— for her to card her fingers through his hair, tell him what makes her heart beat. What makes her stay alive.
“What about you? What have you been up to?” the man asks.
I’ve been hungry, Astarion wants to say.
From the corner of his eye, he sees it— the disappointment on her face. Why is that? He hasn’t done anything wrong. They’ve never talked about this: the feelings of it all. So when he sees Lark walk up to him, right as this man whose name he still can’t remember (what in the hells was it really?) brushes the tips of his fingers on the back of his arm, pull a strange face and immediately turn around to stomp away, he freezes. Panic rises up his throat, he could rip the poor fucker’s hand off. Instead, he ignores the man’s question and follows after Lark.
Astarion maneuvers around groups of people drinking and chatting; he swears he can hear Shadowheart laugh at something wherever she is (if Lae’zel made it, that would explain things), but he doesn’t stop to look at anyone. Past the living room and the kitchen, at the back of the house, there are several bedrooms, and the more he walks down the corridor, the quieter it gets— away from the party, away from their friends, away from the warmth of bodies and veins. It’s quiet here, but cold, too.
He stops in his tracks in front of one of the rooms— the door is open, the lights are on; he can see the balcony overlooking the beautiful beach down the hill. Lark stands there, one hand on the banister, hair dancing in the soft breeze. He steps inside, not trying to be sneaky— at the sound of him putting his glass of wine down on the small table in front of the massive bed, she flinches, but doesn’t turn to look. Astarion notices the bottle she’s holding with one hand— half empty.
“Lark,” he says.
She doesn’t respond— doesn’t grace him with one, perhaps. He frowns— invisible to her.
“Lark, what’s going on?”
She brings the bottle up to her face, tips her head back. Watching something in the night.
“What was that just now?”
“What was what?” Ah, there she is— voice steady and unfazed.
“You ran off.”
“Did I?”
He rolls his eyes. “Didn’t you?”
“I thought I was giving you some privacy.”
The sharp edge to her tone— he recognizes that. She’s annoyed with him.
“You sound very pleased about it.”
She sighs. “It doesn’t matter whether I’m pleased or not.”
“Were you looking for me?”
A pause— she tips her head back further, taking a fuller sip of the bottle. “I was.”
“Well. Here I am.”
Lark brings the bottle down, holding it by the neck, tapping it against her hip. The seconds stretch into an infinite silence as he waits for her to say something, anything— there is no solace in the sound of crashing waves, no comfort in the song the cicadas are singing.
“Are you lonely, Star?”
“What?”
She still doesn’t turn to look at him. Her gaze seems fixed on a distant point in the horizon, where the moon paints its silver light over the sea, each wave a fold of glitter over darkness.
“I get lonely, sometimes. So lonely. Like my own body is gnawing on itself, just to prove to me that I’m alive.”
That, Astarion knows— an altogether different kind of hunger.
“Why did you run off?” He hates how desperate he sounds— pathetic, weak. He’s the lonely one.
She goes silent again. Tap, tap, the bottle goes against her body. Anger bubbles up in his chest.
“Why does it bother you? To see me with someone else?”
If he had a beating heart, Astarion suspects it would be thundering right now, heavy against his ribcage. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat— no success.
Lark’s silence frustrates him. Her feigned nonchalance. He thinks of their conversation again, from years ago, how she told him she rarely cared about the stories she told; how people’s maladies held little importance to her because everyone had one of their own, if not more. Was that all there was to it? But he knows why she bothered to even do what she did, even when she found herself not caring. She has said it just now. An alcohol-addled admission, perhaps, but she doesn’t lie to him. She is lonely. She has been lonely all her life.
“Why do you care, Lark?”
“Star,” she starts. Finally, turns her head to look at him over her shoulder. There’s a lovely flush to her cheeks, as if bitten. Astarion swallows again, waiting for her to speak. “Of course I care. I love you.”
Oh, she sounds so distant. Makes him— makes him feel cold. Chilled to the bone. “Not in that way,” he says, as if that means something.
She finally turns to face him. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, fidgety. Her thumb draws small circles on the neck of the bottle she’s holding. “Do you love me, Star?”
Does he even know what love is? He has loved her for so long. But the words just don’t come out— because he’ll hurt her. He’ll hurt her, because that’s what he does; a nocturnal creature constantly on the hunt, and worse, she’ll let him, she’ll ask for it, and what Karlach said be damned— it isn’t a good thing. It hurts, and how is that a good thing?
She doesn’t seem disappointed by his lack of response as she drinks her fill again. His eyes wander around the room. On the bed, there’s a small pile of her belongings— keys, phone, a small bottle of perfume, and… Astarion immediately recognizes the tarot deck, from all those years ago— the one with the rats on it. Lark and those wretched animals.
He feels tired, angry. His voice is frayed when he says, “Give me a shitty reading.”
She huffs. Not quite a chuckle, but close. When she walks into the room to grab the cards from on top of the bed, Astarion can see goosebumps on her bare arms. Maybe she got cold, standing on the balcony. He doesn’t know how to feel— could he even warm her up?
“Sit,” she says, taking one of the seats at the small, round table. It’s a laminated blue— the kind of kitsch thing Karlach likes. He obeys and sits down across from her.
As she shuffles the deck, Lark watches him intently, and suddenly he remembers his glass of wine, reaching for it just so he can have something to do with himself under her gaze. Once he’s downed the drink in one go, she places the cards on the table and pushes them toward him. “Cut it in two.”
He does. She has placed the bottle of wine by her feet (now bare, he notices) and he points to it with his chin. “Can I?”
She passes it to him. Astarion doesn’t bother pouring it into his glass.
The deck is shuffled again, her hands moving quickly. Then, she spreads the cards out in front of him.
“Pick three.”
“Why three?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not an expert. I’m just good at bullshitting.”
That makes him smile. Perhaps his first genuine one all night. “Go ahead and bullshit then, darling.” He points at three cards by tapping on them once, watching her as she puts the rest of the deck to the side. Placing the three he chose neatly between them, she looks at him again with something unrestrained in her eyes. She looks a little wild, uncontrolled— a little like when she was singing earlier.
“What’s your question?”
What does Lark feel about me? What do I feel about her?
“Do I have to say it out loud?”
Lark shakes her head— no.
She flips the cards around, revealing them. Tilts her head. Curious.
“Nine of Swords, The Star, Ten of Cups.”
He stares at the one in the middle. The Star. On the card, there’s a white rat holding a bright yellow star.
“So?” he drawls. “Am I finding my prince charming anytime soon?”
She scoffs, and taps on the third card, twice— Ten of Cups. “Seems to me you’ve already found them.”
It’s his turn to tilt his head. He doesn’t say anything— waits for her to give him his shitty reading.
“This one’s usually a negative card,” she says, pointing at Nine of Swords. “But with the rest, I don’t know. Maybe you have some fears around something— something that keeps you up at night. Usually it’s much worse in your head than it actually is.”
Ha, he thinks. Lark continues, “It can also refer to past trauma. But then here’s you.” She picks up The Star between her pointer and middle fingers, holding it next to her face to show him. “This card is about hope. And healing. It’s fitting, no?”
“Is it?” he interrupts.
“You don’t think so? That’s fine. You’ve always given me hope.”
Something cracks open inside him. He drinks more wine to fill it up. “I don’t know about that.”
“You’ve done the most difficult part of healing over the years, Star.”
“And what would that be?”
“Staying true to who you are.”
She puts the card back down on the table, staring at the last one. Her gaze is intense, thoughtful. “Ten of Cups,” she mumbles.
“Prince charming?” he jokes.
She shoots him a glare. “This one’s about happiness. Fulfillment. Of the domestic kind.”
“Pardon?”
His reaction seems to amuse her, judging by the way she starts laughing. “You know, a loving relationship, stability, all that good stuff.” She clears her throat. “It’s one of the most positive cards.”
That’s good. That’s a good thing— something that doesn’t hurt. But— “How does that answer my question?”
“You never told me what it was.”
Would it really be so horrible? “What do you feel about me?” he asks, after a moment.
Lark blinks at him. Looks at the cards. There is magic in her veins— hard to control. She seems to think it over. Maybe she’s a much better fortune teller than she realizes. “I just told you,” she says.
It’s Astarion’s turn to look at the cards.
“I don’t mean the reading,” she speaks again, barely above a whisper. Turns her head away, goes into hiding.
“I don’t quite understand.”
“I love you, you know. I think I have, since that night in the hotel.”
Lark’s admission makes him dizzy. He has always admired this about her; her ability to not run away. Astarion, on the other hand, wants nothing more than to bury his head in the sand. Good thing there’s a beach right outside.
“And you— you are so loved, you know?” she continues, eyes wet and glassy. “This house? All of the rooms have sun-blocking curtains. Wyll and Karlach put them up just in case you’d want to come and stay. People ask me about you all the time. Gale. Lae’zel. They all care about you so much.”
What is this, he wants to ask, but the words don’t come out, airless as his lungs are at the moment.
“But,” Lark sighs, “I would like to think it’s different, for me. The way I care about you, I mean. That’s why I ran off. Why I was angry. Do the cards answer your question?”
He stares at her, dumbfounded. What use is running away? All those years ago, when he had kissed her— Astarion wants that softness again.
When he stands up abruptly, his chair slides on the floor, but Lark doesn’t seem to find it funny— instead, she gets up, too; taking the few steps she needs quickly to come stand right in front of her, and Astarion always finds himself surprised how short she actually is— peering up at him through dark, heavy lashes with slightly parted lips, the only star he’s ever seen in his night sky. His pants feel tight around him, uncomfortable.
“Can I kiss you now?” she asks.
She doesn’t have to ask— but she does, and he is grateful for it.
He forgets to respond, though, because he’s already kissing her.
She tastes utterly perfect, the way he remembers— bitter, like wine and water and greenery. Her skin is warm to his touch when he cups her face in both hands, a gesture so gentle, it surprises him— he doesn’t expect it from himself. But it feels natural— she fits into him so naturally.
Lark makes a sound when he slips his tongue inside her mouth. Puts her hands on his shoulders as if to steady herself, and he feels just as fleeting— as if he could levitate. He doesn’t remember having felt like this— definitely not during his years under Cazador’s thumb, but not when he was alive, either.
His hands start wandering around her body as their kiss deepens, his chest vibrating with sounds he never thought he could make without intention. At the end of his downward journey, he pulls her to him, grabbing the soft flesh of her ass, the squeeze he gives eliciting a delicious gasp from her that he drinks in. He presses himself to her, grateful for the pressure of her body against the aching in his front. With a gentle nudge, she pushes him, breaking the kiss.
“Bed,” she says, panting.
It’s a blur— Lark throws whatever she had on the bed to the floor, and they shed their clothes like snakes shedding their skin. Astarion looks up at her, straddling him with her strong thighs on either side, and begs her to move.
She grinds down on him, once. Whatever sound he was about to make gets stuck in his throat. He puts his hands on her hips, wanting to guide, but she brings her face closer to his, eyes dangerous. She places her fingers on the column of his throat, tracing the line of it when he swallows.
“Star, what do I feel about you?”
Oh, he wants to ruin her. “You love me.”
“Hmm,” she hums, fingers pressing down. His throat constricts, a delightful pressure building, sending jolts of pure pleasure to his cock.
“Does that make you happy?”
Happy, he thinks. He hasn’t known the meaning of it for a while. But right now, like this— all he has wanted is to make her happy.
“Yes.”
She wraps her hand around his throat, slowly. Reverent. Her hair looks darker in the dim light of the room— honey and shadows. His breath hitches, insides growing taut the firmer her grip becomes.
“Ten of cups is a gorgeous card, isn’t it?” she asks. Even with the rats, he thinks— yes, yes, because it’s yours, and my love for you would fill thousands more.
“Lark,” he rasps. No need to conceal his despair. He tries to buck his hips upward, and she understands his plight, surely— grinds down again, dragging herself over him, covering him with her slick.
“I know. You’ll be good for me, won’t you?”
He likes this side of her— wild and unhinged. He nods.
Reaching down with her free hand, Lark positions him before starting to inch down, torturously slow. His grip on her hips is bruising, but he doesn’t rush her. Lets her make a mess of him. He’s already a mess inside— all this love he doesn’t know what to do with. No— he knows now, that it’s a good thing.
When she takes him inside fully, Astarion’s eyes roll back; the pressure under her fingertips combined with how tight and warm she is on—
And he moans, and she does, too. It’s beautiful, the way she sounds. The way she takes her pleasure, alternating between lifting her hips up fully before sinking back down again and grinding back and forth; the way she balances herself, one hand splayed out over his chest.
He feels it— the coil about to snap. He holds on to her like a lifeline. She must feel it, too— pulls him up by the shoulder so she can crash her mouth to his.
“Inside, please,” Lark says against his lips.
There are stars on the back of his eyelids when he fills her up. She screams his name, and an incoherent string of star, star, star.
Hope and healing, he thinks.
Astarion flips her to her side, laying both of them down with her back to his chest, and putting his nose up against the nape of her neck, inhales her scent— her sweat, her perfume, the blood that sings in her veins. He licks at the small hairs there, and a little below, between her shoulder blades. She squirms against him, and he shushes her, gentle, caring. Brings one hand to her core and drags up, up, until he finds her clit. She yelps when he pinches between two fingers, then starts drawing slow circles, feeling her throb. His tongue trails back up again, and without warning, he bites down.
Though Lark lets out a surprised gasp, the way she gets wetter and warmer under his fingers tells him how much she’s enjoying this. There, he thinks, I have hurt you. Is it a good thing?
This bite isn’t usual— it’s not for feeding. Astarion can taste her blood, yes; it is even better like this than having her send him bottles and bottles filled with it (ten of cups, ten of cups). But this is a mark, a branding; finally his, she thrashes under his grasp and he takes great pleasure in it.
“More, Star, please,” she begs, her voice hazy and distant. Unlatching his fangs for a mere second to lap at the rather painful looking wound on her back, he bites again closer to the side of her neck instead; this time drinking her in heavy gulps, each pull eliciting a higher-pitched moan from Lark until she starts shaking, shaking, closing her legs together to trap his hand in between, bringing his other hand up to cup her breast. He’ll have to taste her there, next— but the night is long, and they have time.
As her breathing calms down, Astarion pulls away, placing an open-mouthed kiss right to where he bit her for the second time.
“I love you,” he finally says, the words fitting comfortably inside the crooks of his teeth, under his tongue.
His phone chimes, from the pocket of his pants, wherever they are now— he doesn’t even consider getting up. When morning comes, he will see that it’s a text from Shadowheart that reads please close the godsdamned door. It will make Lark laugh and kick her feet, which he will then hold, hold, hold.
For now, she just turns around to face him, bloody and shiny with sweat. “I know,” Lark says.