Astarion has you on your back in your tent, the crimson of your blood glinting in the slant of moonlight coming in through your partially open tent. He had offered to stitch you up himself, after all, flesh couldn't be that different from fabric, right?

"See now, darling? This is what happens when you play hero, I told you to get behind me." he scoffed, rolling his eyes — albeit fondly.

But how could he be mad? The way you bite your lip to stifle a whimper, the sweet scent of your blood in the air. He could hardly resist the notion of spending all eternity trapped in this moment.