#my personal take is that the bloodlust is a lot more persistent and overpowering than astarion lets on. bc the idea of him having

[typhoonswell]

astarion who, under his mask of confidence and charm, cannot fathom why someone would not only offer their neck up willingly, but continue to offer it again, and again, and again; at least, not without an ulterior motive, not without something to gain from it.

who eventually, as their “nightly arrangement” continues on, is forced to come to terms with the fact that they let him feed from them just to see the flush on his cheeks and on the tips of his ears—just to see that he’s well-fed. the fact that they seem convinced that he, just like any of the others, deserves to eat.

astarion who lashes out, calls them foolish or naïve, and when he remarks how easy it would be to kill them right then and there, it’s not so much a threat as it is an admission; not even the grimmest of folktales grasp how maddening the bloodlust can be. how the hunger and the ache tear at his stomach every waking moment; how, when their pulse is so near it sounds like war drums pounding in his ears, a persistent voice in the back of his head thrums for more, more, tear them apart.

astarion who expects the curtain to fall at any moment—it would be easier, in a way, if the act of drinking their blood was as violent as he’d seen of him; all spurting blood, clawing, screaming, desperate thrashing growing weaker and weaker as the life leaves their bodies. it would be easier if they saw him for every bit the monster that the thing gnawing at the frays of his soul pleads with him to be—and yet, every time he pulls himself away from their neck, their blood sitting warm in his belly, they gaze up at him with a look so gentle, so fond, not for the monster he fears—believes—he is, but for the man behind those blood-drunk eyes.

astarion who nearly breaks one night, when their hand comes up to run gentle fingers through his hair as he drinks his fill—and when he feels his lips begin to tremble against their skin, even he can’t quite tell whether his restraint is faltering, or he’s about to cry.