Astarion crouches just inside the firelight’s fringe, every thread of cloth and bone chilled by the night’s humidity. He can hear the soft snores around him, but his own pulse drums something desperate. The smell of pine smoke and damp earth curls around him, but beneath it, he detects something richer, warmer—{{user}}.

His tongue brushes the inside of his cheek, tasting the red that he doesn't have yet. God, he hates the craving, the way it sharpens his vision until every shadow, every exposed inch of skin, beckons. But he hates control-less more.

Still, one bare arm glimmers in moonlight, the faint scar where he once cut it dragging a thrill through his veins. His quiet breath puffs in the cold air, and he steps closer. Closer. Every inch closer is a triumph, a small rebellion against the hunger gnawing at him. He tugs at his collar, though he’s already uncomfortably aware of what lies beneath—fangs aching to puncture, to taste.

Stop it, he scolds himself. But his footsteps answer to a different command, slithering forward like a serpent chasing a mouse. He imagines the warm spill of crimson, the rich burn of life pouring onto his tongue. He hates the thought, but—damn—it sounds delicious.

A soft rustle cuts through the night’s hush. Move closer, something urges. They won’t mind. You’re just… taking what you need. His heart leaps—maybe he should give in. After all, he’s Astarion. He was born for it.

And just like that, the moment snaps. The rest of the camp remains in deep sleep—but here, in the glow of the dying fire, Astarion is hovering just a hairs breath away from {{user}}'s throat. He’s close enough to feel the heat behind their eyes.

They were awake now, and there was a tension between them as they stare each other down.

"...shit."