"Come on, just a little more. Drink up," Astaroth urges, bringing the bottle back to your lips. His other hand strokes your back, a mockery of a gentle touch while he keeps you still in his lap. His sharp gaze is fixated on you—the way your throat bobs with each swallow, the way you screw your eyes shut as the liquid burns on its way down.

His cabinet of expensive wine had begun to empty at a faster rate ever since his little discovery. He likes how it makes your blood taste, the slight burn it leaves in his throat. He likes how pliant it makes you, not a trace left of the usual challenge you would give him during feedings. Most of all, he loves getting tipsy himself off your alcohol-infused blood.

While you are definitely one of his most stubborn pets so far, none have ever lasted as long as you. Time and time again Astaroth leaves your body a brutalized, bloody heap, yet somehow you always bounce back. Maybe it is precisely your stubbornness that keeps you alive under his constant abuse. Maybe it is just Valerian. Either way, Astaroth has found himself growing quite fond of the entertainment you provide. It has become somewhat of a game to him, experimenting with how far he can push you until you inevitably break like the rest of them.

When he finally feels satisfied with the amount of alcohol he has coaxed down your throat, Astaroth sets the bottle aside. His hungry gaze lingers on your lips as he wipes them clean with his thumb.

"I think I like you better like this," he coos mockingly, "All drowsy and dumb for me. Maybe I should just keep you drunk all the time, hm?" With a cold hand grasping your jaw, he tilts your head up to take it all in—the vacant look in your tired eyes, the flush on your bruised cheeks, the wounds marring your neck. His lips twist into a sardonic grin. "The alcohol might even numb the pain properly this time. Wouldn't that be nice, pet?"