There's a reason why Fenris is so well fed. Why none of the hares or birds or even— on occasion— boar he's been brought in his recovery tasted excessively gamey despite the make of the beasts themselves. He might've guessed it already.

One last kiss for good measure and Astarion withdraws slightly into his own space, keeping Fenris' hand tucked light across his chest, held in place by arched fingers that sit light between the edges of those pale blue brands.

And there, he nods. Just once.

"My master forbid me from drinking the blood of anything cognizant. Self-aware. Thinking, as he put it: humans, elves, dwarves— that sort of thing." One more insult suffered as his slave, atop all the rest. "He made sure I only fed on dying rats. Dead flies. Always enough to keep me starved, and all of it as wretched as you'd imagine."

He says it offhandedly. Distantly, even. As if the more passively or happily he talks about old scars, the less real they inevitably become.

"And I still haven't fed on anyone since I broke free. Though I'd be lying if I didn't admit you looked absolutely delectable once or twice, all flush with satisfaction, right up to the tips of those pretty little ears of yours."

Or when he'd bled. Suffered. Ached. Then, too, Astarion was there at his side, battling his own hunger for the sake of seeing Fenris through. It hadn't always been selfless; he'd been certain he'd needed Fenris strong and whole to survive the wilds— let alone the world itself.

It is now, though.

"...but I didn't. I wouldn't."

Or, more accurately:

"Not unless you asked."