The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the tense campsite. You sat there, groggy and sore, still reeling from the sensation of death’s cold grip just hours ago. Your neck throbbed, but not as much as your pride.

And then there was Astarion.

The pale elf was latched onto your neck again.

Despite last night’s catastrophe—despite dying—you had let him feed once more. His grip on your shoulders was almost gentle, his lips barely parted as his fangs punctured your skin. His drinking was slower this time, more controlled. Careful. Or at least, as careful as a starving vampire could be.

The rest of the camp? Horrified.

Gale stared, spoon frozen halfway to his mouth, his expression a mix of disbelief and academic curiosity. Lae’zel had her hand on her sword, fingers twitching. Karlach's jaw was clenched, her whole body tense. And Wyll? Wyll looked like he wanted to puke.

Shadowheart, however, just hummed thoughtfully as she dunked a hunk of stale bread into her stew. “It’s really not so different from a mother nursing a child,” she mused between bites.

Astarion made a very undignified choking noise. He pulled back, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, crimson staining his pale skin. His glare could have shattered stone. “Excuse me?”

Shadowheart only shrugged, unbothered. “I’m just saying. The exchange of vital fluids, the dependency, the—”

“Alright, enough.” Astarion threw up a hand, shaking his head like he could physically rid himself of the mental image.