[IN VENERE VERITAS; THERE IS TRUTH IN INTIMACY]
There is a profound holiness that can only be experienced in the circle of a lover's arms. Astarion does not know this.
He finds safety, but not shelter. The wavering sense of security that comes with having sidestepped a hidden blade while knowing the next strike is close behind. He is safe from you here, tucked neatly into your bedroll with a mouthful of blood and wine.
You swoon when he calls you. Lover. Pet. Dearest. The warmth under your skin tells him he’s done his job, set his hooks so deep you wouldn’t dare turn on him, but there’s always a chance. To do so now would be a killing blow for you, he thinks, and another nail in someone else’s coffin for him.
Are you stronger than that? He watches your chest rise and fall in the firelight, restless, placing his hand over your heart. Could you resist him, shake his crafted charms and discard him? Is he safe here, or should he wake you and whisper rehearsed pillow-talks until he’s sure you’re all his?
These lies are too easy, and they roll off his silver tongue and into your mouth with deadly precision.
Until they’re no longer lies, and he finds himself choking on all the words that stick to the roof of his mouth and cling to the back of his throat. He can’t spit them out, can’t pass them to you without confronting the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. You mean it when you kiss him, and your bedroll isn’t safe.
The inherent danger of it all is not a thrill. There’s something in your eyes that he craves, something raw and vulnerable that you’ve never shared with anyone else. Should he run? Kill you now and never look back?
Oh, but he’d miss you. He’d miss your kisses, the smell of your skin on his, the warmth of your bed. The fear he feels is nauseating; he’s made a fatal misstep, and he imagines he’s seconds away from meeting his end. You have your hooks in him, threaded between his ribs and rooted in his lungs, his heart.
He feels as though his veins are full of tar. Heavy and pulsing with too much effort, something he hasn’t felt in hundreds of years. The weight draws him down and into your arms and he’s drowning, panicking as your touch does exactly what he never wanted it to do.
But you circle your arms around his waist and hold him, nothing more. No wandering hands, no ulterior motives. You want nothing, even though he feels compelled to offer you something.
Or is this shelter? He wraps his arms around you and accepts the fate he's waving for himself. You are safe in the way a familiar bed feels invulnerable to the evils of the world, and you are shelter where he needs it most.
