Alone. That’s how he always felt. Surrounded by his brothers and sisters, surrounded by wretched, who got caught in his claws. Denying his master never was an option.

His gaze catches you, just for a moment. He sees the faint outlines of teeth on your neck. Like a necklace of stars, of pale moonlight. His fingers tangle in your hair, albeit his nails were too sharp to feel delicate, no matter how hard he tried to make his caresses soft enough.

Astarion enjoys watching you — he knows every line, from where your hair started to the soft underside, just beneath your chin.

As he draws closer, his gaze travels south, to the curve and swell of your body as it meets the covers. Astarion had not been one for poetry, nor had he spent much time in the company of bards for that matter. But when the morning dawned, and he found himself beside you, looking at the sun's first light striking your alabaster skin, he felt the weight of words leave their mark upon him.