[He knows by now when to draw the line. When taking a little more threatens to become too much more, even if instinct will always, always whisper in the back of his mind to continue. To keep feeding. Because why should he stop when the taste of Winter is absolutely exquisite, when his warmth flowers across his tongue, fills his mouth? A banquet, when for centuries he's only had to make due with scraps.
It will never be easy to stop. But at least it's routine, and he trusts himself to halt base instinct if only for the simple fact that killing Winter would be the opposite of ideal.
The warlock’s hand slides into his hair, and though every sensation is so middling compared to slaking his hunger, it registers softly against his scalp. He understands its meaning, knows that Winter is still recovering from a harsh round of battles like they all are; the vampire won’t be selfish, he won’t be greedy. Not tonight.
He raises his other hand and rests his palm flat against Winter's shoulder, a reply in kind: Don’t worry. And like this they remain, until Astarion’s pragmatism, holding steadfast, tells him that’s enough. He pulls back, a smile tilting his lips, and they're stained a bit with Winter's blood.]
Not too much this time, since you've had such a rough day.
[They all have. But it's easy to jokingly display himself as the gracious one here, and not the one literally feeds on the lifeblood of others.]
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It will never be easy to stop. But at least it's routine, and he trusts himself to halt base instinct if only for the simple fact that killing Winter would be the opposite of ideal.
The warlock’s hand slides into his hair, and though every sensation is so middling compared to slaking his hunger, it registers softly against his scalp. He understands its meaning, knows that Winter is still recovering from a harsh round of battles like they all are; the vampire won’t be selfish, he won’t be greedy. Not tonight.
He raises his other hand and rests his palm flat against Winter's shoulder, a reply in kind: Don’t worry. And like this they remain, until Astarion’s pragmatism, holding steadfast, tells him that’s enough. He pulls back, a smile tilting his lips, and they're stained a bit with Winter's blood.]
Not too much this time, since you've had such a rough day.
[They all have. But it's easy to jokingly display himself as the gracious one here, and not the one literally feeds on the lifeblood of others.]