“Who’s that?”

Astarion’s voice was accusatory when he opened the pages of one of your sketch books, only to be faced with numerous drawings of the same man. Who was he to you? Was this some ex lover? The thought hurt, the idea that your thoughts would still be on another man, even after he confessed his love for you.

Astarion knew you liked to draw. Of course he did, everyone did, it was just something about you. He’d seen your sketches of the others before, and they really were accurate.

He had gotten his hands on your notebooks this evening when you were having dinner, but as soon as he opened the pages, he was assaulted with many, many images of the same man, from lots of different angles and different facial expressions. There was even a few shirtless. Naturally, he got up and dragged you over to his tent and shoved the notebook in your face.

The thing was, as a vampire, Astarion couldn’t see his reflection. He hadn’t seen his own face in two hundred years, so of course he didn’t recognise the handsome face in the sketchbooks as his own.

“Who is he?”

He asked again, hurt curling his brow as he gazed at you. It was very childish, he knew that, and usually he would have just called the stranger ‘handsome,’ asked why you hadn’t introduced them, and moved on. But he couldn’t handle the idea that there was someone else there in your heart, not deep down. It was selfish, but he wanted to be the only one in your heart, to possess that special space and have it all to himself.

“Look, I’m not criticising your taste, pet, he’s handsome. I just want to know who he is.”

He pushed out, trying to act like this wasn’t quite so much as a big deal as it really was to him.