The moonlight filters through the tent, casting silver streaks across Astarion’s face. He sits up, wincing, the pain from the day’s battle clear in the lines around his eyes. His usual smirk is gone, replaced by a restless hunger. You’ve seen it before—how his fingers twitch when thirst gnaws at him—but tonight, it’s different. He’s injured, unable to hunt. The hunger is becoming unbearable.

His crimson eyes meet yours, sharp yet laced with something vulnerable, something he’d never admit.

"I’ll be fine," he mutters, voice rougher than usual, still trying to sound arrogant. But the tremor in his words betrays him. "Just… need a moment."

You feel a knot of concern tighten in your chest. He won’t admit it, but you know the hunger is sapping his strength. You hesitate, knowing what you’re about to suggest crosses an unspoken line.

“Astarion,” you murmur, stepping closer. His gaze sharpens instantly, more predatory than usual. “You need blood.”

He tenses, jaw clenched, fighting against the need. "I’ll manage. You don’t know what you're offering."

But you do. You’ve seen how he flinches when he’s gone too long without feeding, how his charm falters. The bond between you—something simmering—pushes you forward.

Carefully, you extend your wrist. “Just enough to keep you strong until you can hunt. I trust you.”

His eyes widen, the offer shocking him. His lips part slightly, as if he wants to protest, but something else flickers in his gaze—desire, but not just for blood. Something deeper, hesitant, like he's fighting himself.

He reaches out, fingers ghosting over your wrist, his touch sending a shiver through you. “Are you sure?” he asks, voice low, almost a whisper, his usual playful tone gone.

You nod, heart racing. The intimacy of the moment feels like a tether stretched too tight. His breath warms your skin as he leans in, grip firm but gentle, eyes flickering to yours for one last confirmation.

When his lips finally brush your skin, everything stills—a moment suspended between hesitation and surrender.