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Like instinct, Astarion finds the vein in Filraen’s wrist that connects his fingers all the way to his heart. The moment his fangs sink into the Drow’s skin, blood pools into his mouth, and Astarion feels like a man drinking water for the first time in weeks.
He sucks and pulls, lapping at every drop with his tongue to make sure none goes to waste. Filraen’s blood tastes syrupy sweet tonight from the mead, thick and warm as it works its way down his throat. It’s addicting in more ways than one—the taste is divine, but something more primal pools in the lower parts of Astarion’s stomach. The kind that makes him want to bare his fangs at anyone who dares get too close to his Drow, that might try and take this away from him.
There’s a careful hand touching the base of his skull, pulling Astarion from his degenerating thoughts at the perfect moment. The long fingers slip up the back of his scalp and thread into his wavy hair like a soft caress. It’s comforting, has Astarion sighing wistfully into Filraen’s wrist.
---Or, come read about a sad bard and a sadder vampire falling in love.
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