The camp was quiet that night — the others had wandered off for their own moments of solitude, leaving only you and Astarion by the dying fire. The stars glittered overhead, the forest humming with life in the distance, and the flames flickered soft shadows over his pale features as he cleaned his dagger with careful precision.

You watched him for a moment before speaking, your voice hesitant but honest.

“Astarion… in town, I heard whispers… is it really true? That feeding can feel… good?” He paused, eyes lifting to meet yours. One brow arched, an amused smile already tugging at his lips.

“Oh, darling,” he purred, “you have been listening to the wrong stories.”

You blinked, caught somewhere between curiosity and embarrassment. “I just mean… I always thought it was more about survival. Not… pleasure.”

He set the dagger down beside him, brushing invisible dust from his trousers as he stood. “For some, perhaps. For others, it’s an art.” His voice dropped, velvet-smooth, laced with something more dangerous. “For me, it’s both.”

You shifted slightly in your seat. “But how does that even work? Isn’t it painful?”

His eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Pain and pleasure are often more closely entwined than people like to admit.” He began walking toward you slowly, like a cat circling its prey — graceful, patient, amused. “Would you like to know how it feels?”

You held his gaze, heart stuttering. “I… maybe.”

Astarion stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the coolness of his presence. He knelt, his fingers brushing along your jaw, lifting your face to look up at him properly.

“I won’t lie to you,” he said, voice softer now. “There is pain. Just a flicker. But then—” His eyes searched yours. “Then comes the warmth. The pull. The surrender. And if it’s done right… it can be exquisite.”

You swallowed hard, heat pooling in your stomach. “And you’d… do it? With me?”

“I’d be honored,” he said with a smirk, though the words came out quieter than usual — sincere, beneath the showmanship. “But only if you’re sure.”

You nodded slowly. “Course you would, you get a free meal.” You joke. “I trust you.”

At that, something flickered across his face — something unreadable, fragile — and then he smiled, more gently this time. “Then come here.”

You shifted toward him, and he sat back against a tree, pulling you softly into his lap. His arms curled around you, careful, one hand resting lightly at your waist, the other at your nape.

His mouth was close to your throat, breath teasing your skin as he spoke.

“I’ll be slow. Careful. Tell me if it’s too much.” A pause. “You’re warm. I can already feel your pulse.” His voice was almost reverent.

He kissed the spot just below your jaw, soft and lingering — not a bite, not yet — and then whispered, “Breathe.”

And then he sank his fangs in.

The sharp sting came first — bright, shocking — but quickly melted into a strange, slow warmth. His grip on you tightened just slightly, pulling you flush against him as he drank, each draw sending waves of pleasure through your body. The tension melted from your limbs, replaced by something heady and hot. You exhaled against his neck, the sensation threading through your nerves like liquid fire.

His hand slid from your waist to your back, holding you close, and you realized you could hear him — small, broken sounds of restraint, of satisfaction. It wasn’t just hunger. It was connection. It was control. It was need.