It started with an old book. You’d found it buried in the corner of a long-forgotten ruin — its leather cracked and flaking, the pages crumbling at the edges. The text inside was dense, archaic, and full of ancient vampire customs. Astarion had been reclining nearby, pretending not to listen. But the moment you read the words aloud — “…a physical claiming ritual, meant to bind a mate in body and blood…” — his head tilted, and he was suddenly all ears.

“Oh dear,” he drawled, standing and sauntering over like a cat who’d heard the rustle of a mouse. “I’d nearly forgotten about that little tradition. Such a bloody mess. Literally.”

You turned the page, curious. “You know it?”

“Intimately,” he said, voice low and honeyed as he leaned over your shoulder, eyes skimming the words. “Though I’ve never done it myself. Too serious. Too permanent.” He straightened, brushing nonexistent dust from his shirt. “And I never particularly fancied the idea of being… attached to anyone.”

You glanced up at him, heart skipping a beat. “But you’ve thought about it?”

He hummed, pretending to inspect his fingernails. “Maybe once or twice. In theory. The ritual is… intense. The vampire chooses someone—marks them with a bite that doesn’t fade. It’s placed somewhere significant—above the heart, the inner thigh, the throat—and it binds them. Blood and will.”

You swallowed. “So it’s not just some romantic gesture.”

“Oh no,” he murmured, stepping closer again. “It’s ownership. Declaration. A vow with teeth.”

“And you’ve never done it?” you asked, quietly now.

He met your gaze then — really met it — and something in his eyes shifted. The usual amusement dimmed, replaced by something heavier. Warier. Honest.

“No,” he said. “Never wanted to.”

“Oh.”

His lips curved — slow, sharp, knowing. “Until recently I suppose.”

You tilted your head. “Who?”

He smiled like a man ready to start a fire just to warm your blush.

“You,” he said simply, voice a velvet blade. “Who else?”

Your breath caught.

The smirk returned in full, but it couldn’t mask the flicker of vulnerability just beneath it. “Surprised, darling? I’ve seen centuries of flesh. But you—” his hand lifted, brushing just under your chin, tilting your face up toward him, “—you’ve made me think about permanence. About marking something as mine. Not for survival. Not for show. But because I want it.”

You were trembling before he even touched you. “Yeah? If you did… where would you… mark me I mean?”

He backed you toward the bedrolls, it wasn’t with force — it was with purpose. With promise. Every brush of his fingers was slow, reverent, claiming.

He knelt above you, lips at your neck, then your collarbone, then directly above your heart.

“I could do it here,” he whispered. “Right where your heart beats hardest for me.”

You swallowed, breath shaking. “Do it.”

He froze — only for a second — then growled softly in your ear, “You really are dangerous, my sweet… You sure?”