The scars that were etched into his flesh were painful reminders of the horrors he’d endured under Cazador’s ‘care’.

Every time he shed his top, the sickening proof of his master’s control was bared for the world to see.

Astarion hated it. He hated Cazador. He hated the torture that had been inflicted upon him simply for the meagre attempt at becoming Ascended.

You made him feel…safe.

‘Safe’ wasn’t a word Astarion was accustomed to, often it came with brutal punishments or a sick catch. But you were truthful, sincere, kind, beautiful.

Astarion rolled over onto his side, half awake from the sheer anxiety. He’d been so vulnerable tonight, let you have him in a way he only ever used to manipulate. You had his sincereness, his oddly gentle side. And you’d cradled him after like he was worthy of such tenderness.

But that heat of the moment had caused him to forget about the nasty runes on his flesh. When you asked, the vampire tensed.

“It’s nothing, my dear” he assured tiredly, rolling back over to face you, eyes swarming with unshed tears, glistening with buried fear. “Get some sleep.”