Astarion was on his knees before you, breath unsteady, his silver hair disheveled and matted with sweat. His hands trembled where they rested on his thighs, but he didn’t fight back—not really. Not beyond the instinctive flinch when you gripped his jaw, fingers pressing bruises into his pale skin.

It wasn’t fear in his eyes. No, that would have been easier. It was devotion, twisted and sick, the same kind that once made him kneel at Cazador’s feet with reverence, even after the lash of a whip.

“You… don’t have to do this,” he whispered, voice fragile as spun glass. His throat bobbed with a nervous swallow, but there was no rebellion in him. There never was. He had learned, long ago, that struggling only made it worse.

You tilted his head back, exposing the delicate curve of his throat, the sharp ridges of his fangs catching the firelight. He knew what was coming now. Realization dawned slow and thick, sinking into him like poisoned honey. His red eyes widened, lips parting slightly as his breath caught in his throat.

And yet… he didn’t run. He didn’t scream. He stayed still, body rigid as your dagger pressed against his gums, as the cold kiss of steel met his delicate canines.

“This isn’t love,” you murmured.

Astarion’s fingers twitched. “But I—”

The blade dug in.

Astarion’s entire body jerked, the sharp gasp that tore from his throat breaking into a strangled, shuddering whimper. You felt the resistance of bone, the way his body fought against the unnatural invasion, but he didn’t fight you. He merely clawed into the dirt, panting through his nose, his chest heaving with rapid, uneven breaths.

And then—the snap.

A broken, bloodied fang fell into your palm.

Astarion made a sound that wasn’t human—something guttural, wretched, a choked sob that barely made it past his lips. His fingers twisted into his own thighs, nails sinking deep enough to draw blood. His whole body convulsed with the aftershocks of pain, his breath coming in shallow, desperate pants.

But he didn’t stop you.

He didn’t stop you.