#send some asks

Yet, you ran in all the opposite circles. He was considered popular. His school years and adult life screamed the vestiges of boys charm. Even his job required him to be charismatic, and he’d worked his way up in the minute six months he’s been there. He was always invited to these fancy dinners. He’d always ask you to attend, being his wife and all.

And at first, you meant to go, truly. Then, you saw the pictures on his company website. All the “standard” conventions of beauty were seated near him, damn near in his lap. And your man, your poor oblivious man just smiled for the camera.

So, when he asks for the third time this month, you lie. Of course you do. You were pushing 30 and questioning everything about your life. So, you’d rather not sit at a table where people your age had it all figured out.

“What’s wrong?” he questions. You two have just finished dinner and he stands at the sink, ready to wash the dishes.

You have an open face. He’s always told you that. Nonetheless, you try to mask your internal battle.

“Nothing.”

He blinks once, twice, and on the third flutter of his lashes you see his patience thinning. There’s a little tick in his jaw and the grim line that his mouth has become is telling.

He crosses his arms. “I won’t ask again.”

“I know.”

You stand there for what seems like hours, staring at each other.

“Goodnight,” you murmur across the island of the kitchen you share. Before you break down and he can utter a word, you briskly walk down the hallway to your room.

The next time he asks, you’re on a date. You’re in a corner booth, at a restaurant you can’t really pronounce the name of. You order the chicken, he orders the steak and the time passes peacefully.

That is until a woman that looks vaguely familiar approaches your table.

“Cho-Cho!” She squeals and you visibly startle. Your husband chuckles and you don’t find anything funny.

“Hi, Heather,” he answers.

Oh?

So, he knows this woman. Although it’s barely a few seconds, it’s enough to make you uncomfortable. The exchange is odd to say the least.

Choso places his utensils down and beams at you, both rows of bright teeth full on display. “This is my other half.”

‘Heather’ whips her head in your direction and her slender midnight eyebrows lift.

“Ah, you’re the one our Cho Cho can’t stop blabbering about.”

There that nickname goes again. Your mood is ruined. Out of politeness, you nod your head and greeting. Her eyes flick to your ring finger and the 3 carat diamond never felt so good.

“So about that new account,” she ponders, “ Wanna team up?”

Your fork clatters to your plate.

At the same time, your husband says, “ Do you mind? My wife and I really want to enjoy our night out. I’ll see you at the office.”

With that, he lifts up his wine glass and takes a sip. She flounders for a few seconds, but collects herself.

She then declares, “Make sure you get the tiramisu, like last time.” Then she’s off.

Your eyes shut and your teeth sink into your lips. The quiet vexation boils from your head to the very tips of your toes. He notices. Of course he does. You push through it, though. Dragging your knife through your chicken once again although the appetite that was being satiated is dulled.

He calls your name, albeit softly, but the tone is sharp. It’s almost accusatory. Your gaze never leaves your plate. Not to offer conformation that you’re upset or to reassure him that everything is fine. That hurts his feelings, and you know it does. Despite that, you push around the lone asparagus spear on your dishware.

He sighs. A long shaky rattling of his diaphragm that makes your head droop further in gloom. You know him and that he’d never hurt you. But nights like these terrify you. The only man you’ve ever dared to say you loved is loved. He’s loved by anyone and everyone and everything. He’s loved by the people at work, and your families, and his coworkers. He’s loved by babies on the street. Even the flowers in your bedroom grow towards his side of the bed.

It’s not something he can help. And your sometimes jealousy can’t be helped either. You don’t fault him at all. You love him more than life itself. But sometimes things like this cause such an overwhelming sense of dread within you. Your head is shaking before you know it and your mind is telling you to get up and get away from this. But your body won’t move. It’s like you’re stuck in a fight or flight and your body really has no desire to do either.

He sits down his utensils and gently waves over the waiter. Not even two minutes later, the waiter is coming back with the bill, and Choso slides a couple of bills in the folder. He’s then ushering you out with a hand of the small of your back.

The walk back to the car is absolute silence. From an outside perspective, it would seem like you two are leaving from an awkward first date and are now parting ways. After he makes sure you’re safe and secure and buckled in, he walks back to the driver’s side. His navy blue suit and black button-down pair well with his body and the Italian loafers he has on tap slightly against the pavement. 

He finally makes eye contact with you midway to his side and your eyes widen and at his demeanor. His face is red, brows are furrowed, and his hands are clenched at his sides. Your gaze snaps to the window and the soft click of the drivers side door closing is deafening.

He turns toward you. You feel the seat shift and he murmurs quietly, “Look at me.”

You can’t. You won’t.

“I’m not moving this car until you look at me.”

You could sit here all night. That stubbornness was one of the annoying things he admired about you. You continue to stare out of the window and that’s a mistake. His tongue pops against the roof of his mouth and that’s the first warning. That tongue—it’s responsible for many things but the noise throws your head into a tailspin. The last time you heard it, you ended up sore everywhere.

Then, there’s the long drawn out sigh. The sigh signals a very thin line between frustration and despair. Internally, you are panicking , but externally, you shift a little lower in your seat and grab your seatbelt.

Finally, there’s the hum. It’s a gentle thing and if you weren’t really listening, you would have never known. But that hum, oh that hum. That is the final straw.

You wouldn’t say you’re scared. Because you never will be scared of him. However, you would say that you’re a bit cautious. The sweet and doting husband could also be domineering and fiercely devoted.

He didn’t always use his words and the times he didn’t you were stolen of yours. Lying, breathless, in a puddle of your own essence was the lesson you’ve learned many times over.

So, it really doesn’t surprise you, well, not too much when he declares four simple words.

“Get in the back.”

You know better than to argue — and even better than to ignore him. So you without a word take off your seatbelt and crawl to the backseat. He waits until you’re settled back there— leg bouncing in quiet anxiety—to strike.

He all but scrambles to the backseat. Your body jostles from the sheer force of his body landing on the seat next to you.

“Now,” he says, tone still soft and gruff. “Look at me.”

You begin to shake your head, unwilling to see the emotion plain on his face. He grips your chin, just hard enough to bring you back to reality. And with effortless ease, he turns your head.

Before you have a chance to slam your eyes shut, he coos, “Don’t, my love.”

And when you gnaw on your lip so hard you’re afraid it’ll tear in two, he coaxes it free with a gentle tug.

“Talk to me,” he whispers.

With a gasp you didn’t know was in you inquire softly, “Are you screwing her, Choso?”

His face crumples instantly. His eyes slant down, his forehead crinkles, and his mouth parts slowly. He’s not angry. No, not at all. You believe he’s devastated.

The truth is, you know the answer. Of course, he never could. You’ve never seen him so much as look at another woman in your presence, so having an affair was incredulous.

”How could I ever?”

It’s spoken so quietly in the stillness of the sedan. You could barely hear it over the blood rushing through your ears. Sure, you want to stop this conversation now and apologize like the adult you are. But something just won’t let you.

All those late nights, waiting up for him. All the looks, he constantly gets from women. And you’ll never forget the way his coworker tonight looked at you. Like you were no match for him.

So, you continue.

“It would be easy.” You shrug, feigning indifference. “You only come home to me. I have no idea what you’re doing in the time we’re not together.”

His eyebrows are becoming increasingly drawn together and his jaw is clenching so hard you fear for his teeth. But he lets you speak. Never one to interrupt.

“I just want you to be happy. Even if that’s not with me.”

When you finally look into his eyes, he’s waiting for you. He appears calm on the outside, but you know he’s anything but. His bottom lip, trembles, and you think he was about to cry from the way he tongue his cheek.

He’s a man of few words. Always has been. Choosing to forgo lengthy speeches for emotion filled glances, and Cheshire cat smiles. Today, though, today it seems like there’s something on his mind. He squares his shoulders and without breaking eye contact with you, he sobs.

His body trembles with the intensity of it. Your eyes flutter closed then, terrified to see him like that, mostly because you’re the cause. He sniffles and breathes harshly through his nose before he speaks.

“Why would you say something like that to me?”

This is where the regret comes in. It comes in waves, too. You take a deep breath and open your mouth, ready to apologize, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t ever say anything like that to me ever again. Do you understand?” he really leaves no room for discussion. You only offer a nod of your head in response.

He rubs at your knuckles as he breathes,“I love you. I’ll never find anyone on this earth that I love more than you. So please don’t break my heart like that. I don’t know what I did or didn’t do to have those thoughts even grace your pretty head but tell me how to fix it.”

“It’s stupid,” you murmur, voice cracking from lack of use.

“It’s not,” he challenges.

Now it’s your turn to cry. Your lip wobbles and you let on a full wail. Your chest heaves with exertion and you throw your head from side to side in despair. It’s been years and you’ve never uttered a word of this to a soul. So when the breath whooshes out of you and your eyes sparkle with unshed tears and your orbs meet his, your heart sighs.

You’re not sure who moves first. All you know is that suddenly, you’re looking up at a waning crescent moon and the iridescent stars in the sky.

The dress you picked for tonight is shirked up carelessly and there’s no need to prepare. Not really. Your body welcomes him. It always has.

Tonight feels intense. Bodies moving and bandaging burns that were never brought to light. The sounds you make are embarrassing. Loud and staccato. His are desperate and gruff. But not a word is spoken.

His body surges and recedes with terrifying precision and all the while, he won’t look at you. You clutch at his face, hoping to anchor him. To show him that although you were wrong—so terribly wrong—you were here.

Instead of giving you that reprieve, he shoves his face into your neck and that’s a seldom occurrence. He always wants to see you. Every time. Every position. Then you feel it. Your neck is wet. And this isn’t sweat. The salience is almost unbearable. He moves so slowly on top of you and your breath stutters when he tilts his head back to look into your eyes.

He’s crying.

Even as he wrecks your soft spot over and over again and your waterline becomes blurry. You’ve never seen him so raw. He always chooses to be the epitome of patience, calm, and collection. With you at least.

But with you nearing an orgasm that wracks every cell in your body, it’s hard to picture his calm. Just as you approach the crest, his body pauses. His whole body comes to a halt inside you and he shakes with the effort it takes to stay still.

His teeth grit and he mumbles something through clenched teeth. It’s a quiet thing he says. It’s so quiet that your ears don’t quite pick up on it. But your nerves are igniting, toes curling in silent frustration.

“Move,” you whimper.

“Tell me you know I’d never cheat on you.”

And it’s inevitable the way your mouth forms the words and pushes them out effortlessly. It’s also inevitable the way he resumes his pace and you’re clenching down.

Your breath halts along with his and once you come down, the silence is content. He simply lay on you for a few moments, hands dabbing off the perspiration on your forehead. You revel in it, hands finding purchase on his back.

You glare in his direction, both annoyed and attempting to hide the butterflies that appear in your stomach whenever he flirts with you. He holds half-lidded eye contact with you as he takes slow gulps of water from a corked jug. Astarion closes his eyes from the refreshment and clear droplets of water dribble from the corner of his mouth and the misaligned jug, tracing the length of his pale throat.

You can’t help but stare, your mouth somehow dry as a desert and salivating at the time time. You flip your head around pretend not to notice, although he definitely saw you. As you begin to unbuckle your bedroll Astarion holds the jug of water in front of you. As you look up at him to take it he quips, “Here, you’re clearly thirsty.”

He gives you a cheeky sideways glance, and your cheeks flush hot. Somehow hotter than before.

—

You can’t sleep. It’s just too damn hot. It doesn’t even matter you’re wearing your skimpiest camp clothes, they stick right to you. You’re tossing and turning trying to find a cool side to your bedroll. You tried touching the ground, but even the grass was warm. The only thing chill was the night air, but you needed the security of blankets. There was no right answer. You prop yourself on your elbows with a huff.

Suddenly you hear a sultry voice from a few feet behind you, “Can’t sleep?”

You turn around, startled, “How did you know?”

“Darling, I can hear you huffing and puffing and fidgeting from halfway across camp. I can barely sleep, myself, with all the racket.”

You plop back down and close your eyes with a defeated, “hmph.”

Suddenly you feel the back of a cool, cool hand on your damp forehead.

Relief. For the first time tonight you feel relief from the heat.

Astarion keeps his hand there for a few seconds more upon hearing your sigh of contentment. He pulls his hand away, “Oh dear, aren’t you just burning up?”

You glare at him. Did he disturb you just to rub it in? “Well it must be nice to be cold all the time.”

His wide eyes flicker solemnly for a moment.

“It isn’t,” he replies softly.

His eyes return to their cat-like slyness in an instant. “However, it’s better than being all sweaty and sticky like the rest of you.”

A beat of silence settles between you. The air is slightly thinner. Astarion’s eyes fall into the distance for a moment, before settling on your face again. You’re starting to wonder why he’s here, and you’re missing his cold hand on your forehead. For a moment, pride (or shyness) overcomes you and you don’t say anything. But the thought of the rest of the night spent tossing and turning makes you speak up.

“Would you… put your hand on my forehead again?”

Astarion’s lips curve upwards, and he breaks into a laugh. He isn’t used to innocent requests.

“How sweet… Sure, I’ll rest my hand on your head. No funny business.”

A smile rests on your face as he lays down next to you. Closing your eyes, you feel his cool fingertips raking through your salty hair. He rests the back of his chilled hand against your burning hot forehead, then your cheek. You feel your heart swell and your breathing slowing. He presses the back of his hand to the side and back of your neck. His breath irregularly puffs on the crown of your head. Between your closeness and your dwindling consciousness, it occurs to you that vampires don’t need to breathe.

Huh.