During dinner that evening, a heavy goblet of blood is placed before Sylas, as usual. But you take one look at the goblets before you, and find one of wine, and one of... nothing.

You look across the table at Astarion, with his main courses served before him. He toasts his wine to you, and you can read the challenge in his eyes.

But you don't say a word.

If he's going to starve you, that's fine. The wine is enough.

So you smile, grab the empty goblet, and toast him back.

The next day, you're shakier. Your mood is quick to turn, and your jaw is permanently clenched around the servants.

You're hungry, and they know.

But they don't give you blood.

You wonder how long this game will last.

Sylas watches you warily from his seat at the dinner table. "Lilith, you must feed."

You bark out a laugh, only mildly delirious. "The tables have turned, haven't they?" Your head spins, and your throat burns. "Do I look terrible?"

"You look hungry. And your eyes... they're darker."

You straighten. "Darker? How much darker?"

"Darker."

Your hands clench into fists. You can't use Astarion's eye color as reference for your illusions. "What do they look like? Deep mahogany? Black?"

"Somewhere in-between?" He offers. "But does it matter? You need to feed. You don't look... good."

Astarion isn't present yet, though wine has been served. You take a sip, and it soothes your throat temporarily. "I don't think I'm allowed."

"How long can you last?"

"I don't know. Can vampires starve to death? Maybe this is his latest experiment."

His eyes dance over you. "Let me try to get you some."

"No." You smile at him. "Thank you, but believe me, you don't want to give him any indication that you want to play."

"Play?"

"The game, Sylas. It's always a game."

The wine only helps so much. You hardly get out of bed to prevent expending unnecessary energy, and you find that you're thankful that Astarion hasn't bitten you in days.

Tonight, the evening plays out as usual. You sit at your place at the table, and wine is served. You expect another empty goblet of blood, but you don't get it.

When Sylas is served his helping of blood, the same servant places a gilded plate in front of you, identical to the ones laid out before Astarion.

Your hand loosens from your wine as you stare blankly at the plate, because it's entirely out of place. And then your head jerks up at the sounds of struggle, and your eyes meet Astarion's.

"Please do remain seated, love."

Your legs lock into place as a young human male is dragged by his shoulders, his feet sliding on the floor. The two servants who hold him pause beside you, and you see the exhaustion on the man's face as his head hangs. His clothes are tattered, and worn.

"Please," he whispers, and you note his swollen, bruised lips.

"Astarion," you say, scooting as far away from the man as you can with the compulsion in play. "What is this?"

"I'm getting the sense that you're unsatisfied with your meals." Astarion begins to cut into the meat on his plate. "If you wanted a change of plating, you only needed to ask. We have all the means, my dear."

He gestures vaguely at the two servants. You jerk back immediately when one of them shoves the human's head onto your plate. The other peels back his collar, and reveals his neck.

Your nails dig into the wooden armrests of your chair, and your throat bobs with a swallow. You are not a godsdamn savage. "Don't."

Astarion plops a bite into his mouth. "Please. Dig in."

You watch one of the servants as he reveals a dagger and cuts cleanly into the man's throat. The human screams, his blood spraying onto the plate, and all over your robes.

The last time you had experienced true, fresh blood like this was when Sylas had been compelled to self-harm on this very table. You recall the sickly sweet smell of his blood, so similar to what's in front of you. The spray of it seeps through your robes, and your throat burns, and burns, and burns...

The blood in the goblet before Sylas is nothing compared to this. This is fresh, warm, and directly from the source.

Briefly, you manage to tear your eyes away from the gore, only to see that Astarion isn't watching you. His attention is on Sylas, whose eyes are wide, with hands clamped firmly on the edge of the table. Vaguely, you wonder how much of this is a test for him.

Your jaw aches from how hard you clench it, your teeth yearning to snap at the throat laid out so beautifully before you. Was this the reason you had been denied blood? Does Astarion take sick pleasure in watching you battle for control?

Your nails dig harder into your armrests. "Make me do it."

He lazily slides his attention away from Sylas. "Hm?"

You don't want this guilt on your conscience. "Please."

He cocks his head to the side. "You know I love when you beg." He swipes his napkin over his lips, and leans back in his chair, his eyes boring into yours from across the table. You anticipate the compulsion, but it doesn't come. "But my dear, you are more than capable of feeding yourself."

The man is as good as dead. You're wasting time, and blood, and you're starving.

And that's it. Your self-preservation takes over, and your nails unhook from the armrests only for them to dig into the flesh before you. Your teeth puncture his neck, close to the cut of the knife, and you feed.

Every gulp soothes your throat—the sticky, heated blood settling within you. You drink, and drink, and drink, and—

You get nothing. The man is drained dry, most of his blood splattered on you, and on the plate. Your bite had been as precise as you could make it, but the servant had cut his jugular vein, meaning he had bled out most of his goodness before you had let your teeth sink into him.

The napkin on your lap is bloody, but you attempt to use it to wipe your lips anyway.

"Beautiful," Astarion says.

Nothing about it is beautiful. As you stare down at the human's mangled throat, and lifeless eyes, you feel savage. You have been reduced to an animal at the dinner table.

And the worst part is?

You are still fucking hungry.

You want to walk out of the dining chambers and clean yourself, but Astarion's compulsion holds true, and you can't move from your seat. But soon, when dinner is over, he comes up to you and tells you to stand. And you are pulled upstairs to your chambers.

When you stand before the bed, his fingers dance on the lapels of your stained robe. "You look stunning in red, love. What a performance."

You stare at nothing. "Performance?"

"One you shouldn't repeat amongst our friends when they join our dinners." He grins. "You might scare them away."

You don't quite understand how you're still standing. And you find that you have no energy for any of this.

But Astarion kisses you anyway. His lips are firm on yours, and then his mouth trails down to your jaw. He peels back your robes from one shoulder, and presses a kiss at your collarbone. He licks up the column of your throat, at the blood that has splattered there. "Gods, he was delicious, wasn't he?"

"You're cruel."

"Cruel? No." Your robes pool at your feet. "It's a matter of food presentation, and I am all for exploring."

"Don't take me like this."

Your braids are stained red, and his fingers reach behind you to undo them. "But I love you like this. Bloodied, bold, and... unhinged."

Your hands come up, and you want to push against him, but he holds your wrists together easily.

"It's a truly sinful feeling to bite down and feed on flesh, isn't it?" His eyes flash. "Addicting. It's a gift, darling."

"This is no gift." Your hair is finally loose behind you, and he drags you to bed. "Don't, Astarion."

"You must learn to accept your gifts graciously, my love. It won't do to be ungrateful."

Your body doesn't feel your own.

Perhaps it's because you don't fight back, though you know that you could. In any other circumstance, with any other person, you would watch in utter satisfaction as you burned the monster who had the audacity to touch you like this.

Or maybe your body feels foreign because you have momentarily surrendered ownership of your physical self. It's a sacrifice that earns you this sensation of blissful unfeeling. The numbness is an escape, and you are untethered. You hardly feel each scrape of his nails, or the brush of his lips. He whispers things that you don't comprehend. You're bent this way, and that, yet it barely registers.

You're far, far away from that body on the bed. And you watch, from the corner of the chambers—distant, solemn, and mournful.

You wanted for so long to believe that Astarion was oblivious to the damage he was inflicting. But now, you can't convince yourself of his ignorance. Every step, movement, and phrase is calculated, sharpened, and aimed directly at you. You are something to be provoked, tested, and brought to your knees. Tonight was yet another example of a game designed to push you over the edge.

As he puts his hands all over you, you have the chilling sense that he wants to hate you... and yet he can't truly commit to the role.

Is that why he insists you take pleasure in this? Is it why his fingers are determined, and poised on your clit—wanting, needing for you to break apart for him again, and again, and again? Does he build you up like this because he cares, as a considerate lover would? Or does he want to consistently prove to you that he controls your pleasure? And even now, he will ensure that you will crest, and crescendo for him as if he composes and dictates your very existence.

Your mechanics work, as they always do. Perhaps he compels you, or doesn't. In the aftermath, the pleasure has burned through you, and you're left quivering and breathless beneath him.

Collapsed on top of you, Astarion's forehead rests on your bare shoulder. You are back in your body, and you feel the soreness of your limbs, and the slickness of your inner thighs. His fingers are curled in your hair, and there's a soothing rhythm to his caress, and momentarily, you're brought back to many locations all at once.

An inn so old, and desolate you hear every creak and step of the patrons above you. The bed is stiff, and uninviting, but you're warm anyway.

A sandy beach where the bonfire towers over your camp. You can see flames dance even a distance away from your tent. There is an arm around you, and a smile on your face.

The unsettling Underdark, where you're nestled closely against a body, in a bedroll that isn't yours.

In all of these places, you're lying with someone's hand tangled in your hair, stroking gently, as if to lull you into a trance.

You know who he is. He feels like the man on top of you, his scent so achingly similar.

"You know," you whisper now, "I always wonder if there's a part of you that's still in there."

You don't know if he hears. He probably does. But his fingers merely continue to circle in your hair.

Eventually, he moves off of you, and your eyes close when he blows out the candles. Exhausted, and drained, you trance.

The next morning, you jerk awake. Astarion is gone, and when your eyes fall to the crumpled covers, your skin instantly begins to crawl. There's a sudden bout of nausea that jolts you to sit. With hands clawing at the sheets, you scramble out of bed.

There wasn't a single part of you that wanted to be touched last night. The shame from your savagery at dinner had been one thing, but—

On your feet, you're disgusted by the bed, the bloodstains, and yourself. You loathe your nakedness, and you pull a discarded blanket from the ground over your body. When a servant peeks into the chambers, you hastily tell her to fetch you Eliza.

You sink to the ground at the front of the bed. Your legs are tired, and useless. Your bones are stiff, and painful against the floor. You feel so, so dirty.

When Eliza comes in, you demand for a bath, which she prepares wordlessly.

Before you step into the steaming water, you tell her with a tremor to your voice, "Change the sheets. I want clean sheets."

You hardly look at her when she leaves, and you wait until you're sure that she's gone before letting the blanket drop.

In the bath, you scrub at your skin until you're raw and close to bleeding. Whatever oils are in the water burns as you scrape the washcloth against your body over, and over, and over again.

Eliza's footsteps echo in the large chamber as she approaches and sets folded clean sheets on the bed. "Let's wash your hair, Mistress."

You flinch away immediately when she tries to grab at your scalp. Protectively, you gather up the strands over one shoulder, the ends submerged in the water. Hoarsely, you reply, "No. I can do it."

She only nods, and hands you a wooden comb before leaving.

Slowly, as you work on the knots, you notice how light your hair is getting, which is interesting, because you've been imprisoned in darkness for so long. The color had always been a silver blonde, but now, the silver shines brighter, and whiter. Dead, and dying hair. The more you're this creature, the whiter it will get, you imagine.

Eventually, Eliza returns with a large goblet, which she places on a small table by the bath. "Master says to drink."

You drop the comb into the water as every part of your being is drawn to the blood. The sweet, inviting smell fills your senses, and fuels your raging hunger. Perhaps you have unconsciously learned to never refuse a meal. Hadn't that been the point of the game? You grab the goblet and take a sizable sip.

Immediately, your hand rises to your mouth. Your stomach twists, and you feel utter revulsion—at yourself, at what you've allowed to be done to you. No matter how much of your skin you scrubbed away, you feel tainted, and sullied. Used, and broken.

You take one look at the four-poster bed before you, and the goblet slips from your fingers. You can barely make it over the side of the tub before you retch it all out.

Thank you for your reviews! I guess my email notifications were magically disabled, so I never saw them until now.

Follow me on Tumblr: bludazey