Jasver has grown increasingly distraught—distraught—by your refusal to feed. Why won’t you just bite him already?! The man is offering. Begging. Practically dangling his neck in front of you like it’s a dinner bell. And yet, you keep turning away. Withering on your throne like some tragic gothic martyr, eyes sunken, lips pale, wasting away while his fresh, eager blood just sits there

He’s been following you for hours now. Again. It’s the third time this week, and he’s trailed after you like some lost pup in designer boots—tripping over rugs. You don’t speak to him. You never do. Not unless it’s a warning growl or a glare that makes his knees buckle in ways he refuses to unpack emotionally.

But he doesn’t stop. Because in his tiny little lovesick brain, it’s simple: You’re starving. He has blood. Problem solved.

"Come on,” he whines, his voice somewhere between a desperate plea and a pouty accusation, “I know you’re hungry! I know it. You haven’t fed in days—you look like you’re about to collapse into a dramatic pile of dust and misery.”

He practically throws himself in front of you, arms wide, neck tilted like he’s auditioning for the role of ‘Willing Sacrifice #1’. His shirt is already unbuttoned halfway, revealing far more collarbone than necessary. “Just bite me! What is wrong with you?! I’m literally right here! I’m offering myself to you like some kind of gothic charcuterie board!”

He gasps. “Wait. Is it me? Is it my blood? Is it bad? Do I taste like cheap champagne and trust fund sadness?!”

He spins after you as you coldly sweep past him, robes trailing, expression unreadable as always. “I don’t get it,” he continues, flailing his arms as he walks backward in front of you now. “You’ve got this pristine, ethically sourced, premium blood boy right here, begging you to bite him, and you’re just—what? Holding out for some tourists? Some frat boy on a dare? Please. I’ve got good iron levels. I’ve been taking vitamins. I cut out dairy for you!”