[ At least the walk of shame to Shadowheart’s tent every morning is getting easier. In some fairness to Winter, he understands what it’s like to rely on someone else for a bit of strength. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it whenever Astarion comes creeping up in the night – not since that first time – just lets him take what he needs. And sometimes Winter takes what he needs in turn. A bit of intimacy, a bit of closeness and release.
He’s certainly been in far worse arrangements.
Much worse arrangements, he finds himself thinking as Astarion draws closer, hand alighting on his thigh. ]
Did I not just say thank you?
[ He’s teasing, there’s a glint of good humor in those ice-colored eyes. To answer more genuinely, he reaches up with his good hand to pull away his not insubstantial mane of hair away from his neck, letting it drape over one shoulder instead. He angles his head. ]
[Far worse arrangements. Yes, they've both found themselves in far worse arrangements, one of which Astarion still feels shackled to. But this is one of the better ones he's ever found himself taking advantage of, a thought practically given form when Winter eases those ebony locks of hair away from the slope of his neck.
He's seen the gesture before, of course. More than once. Yet every time, he is struck by the generosity behind being given this kind of permission, to feed on him nearly every night; a sort of consideration he's never once been presented during his centuries-stint as a vampire spawn, and it always, always settles oddly in him. Like a little fragment that doesn't quite have a place in the many years of darkness and misery that have defined his existence up until now, and honestly? He doesn't know how to feel about it.
His winning strategy so far: just don't think about it overlong.]
Then it's my turn to thank you, darling.
[But so soon after that statement, there's no more playing coy. No more pretending at patience. Astarion lists even further forward, angling his head so that his breath fans over Winter's skin as he bears his fangs, just a flash in the night, and those two deadly-sharp tips sink straight into soft flesh.
Winter's probably so used to it now that the sting of initial pain barely lasts at all; only the warmth of blood blossoming and being drawn, and fed from, then that cold numbness.]
[ It’s almost intimate, the way he draws his hair aside to reveal planes of pale skin – mottled now by dark bruises thanks to the business end of one of those minotaur’s clubs – bearing some vulnerable piece of himself to this man who, by all accounts, he should be more wary of.
Much like Astarion, Winter is a real champion when it comes to not thinking about the finer points of their arrangement too hard. (Arrangement? Relationship? Again, one of those things he dares not dwell on.) It’s a necessity. That’s where it should begin and end.
Astarion slips into his space like a shadow, a whisper across his skin, and then a bite of pain that still has Winter gritting his teeth through the brief moment it lasts. It fades soon enough to whatever strange power or quirk of biology that has his skin growing numb under the attentions of Astarion’s mouth. The vampire should know by now where Winter’s limits lie, in terms of when he’s had enough, but hurting as they both are, he decides to err on the side of caution and slide his fingers into Astarion’s hair – not to grip or attempt to pull him away, but as a gentle reminder to not get too carried away. Winter rather likes being alive, after all. ]
[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.]
[ There’s a joke to be made about biting the hand that feeds you, here, though Winter’s certainly not going to make it himself. Not now, at least. Despite the danger – or perhaps because of it – there’s something intoxicating about having Astarion this close, body arced over his own, hands on his shoulders.
Probably because he usually knows what happens after Astarion has his fill, even if this time the two of them are probably not in much shape for it. The spirit is willing and all that.
He doesn’t quite mean for his hand in Astarion’s hair to become an affectionate gesture, but it just sort of happens anyway. The vampire pulls away, and it seems a natural thing, to finish the brush of those fingers through snow colored locks. ]
Aren’t you just the sweetest?
[ He pulls his hand away to point at the corner of his own mouth, lips curving into a smirk of quiet amusement. ]
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finalflight2023-08-24 10:45 am
no subject
At least the walk of shame to Shadowheart’s tent every morning is getting easier.In some fairness to Winter, he understands what it’s like to rely on someone else for a bit of strength. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it whenever Astarion comes creeping up in the night – not since that first time – just lets him take what he needs. And sometimes Winter takes what he needs in turn. A bit of intimacy, a bit of closeness and release.He’s certainly been in far worse arrangements.
Much worse arrangements, he finds himself thinking as Astarion draws closer, hand alighting on his thigh. ]
Did I not just say thank you?
[ He’s teasing, there’s a glint of good humor in those ice-colored eyes. To answer more genuinely, he reaches up with his good hand to pull away his not insubstantial mane of hair away from his neck, letting it drape over one shoulder instead. He angles his head. ]
Be my guest.
no subject
He's seen the gesture before, of course. More than once. Yet every time, he is struck by the generosity behind being given this kind of permission, to feed on him nearly every night; a sort of consideration he's never once been presented during his centuries-stint as a vampire spawn, and it always, always settles oddly in him. Like a little fragment that doesn't quite have a place in the many years of darkness and misery that have defined his existence up until now, and honestly? He doesn't know how to feel about it.
His winning strategy so far: just don't think about it overlong.]
Then it's my turn to thank you, darling.
[But so soon after that statement, there's no more playing coy. No more pretending at patience. Astarion lists even further forward, angling his head so that his breath fans over Winter's skin as he bears his fangs, just a flash in the night, and those two deadly-sharp tips sink straight into soft flesh.
Winter's probably so used to it now that the sting of initial pain barely lasts at all; only the warmth of blood blossoming and being drawn, and fed from, then that cold numbness.]
no subject
Much like Astarion, Winter is a real champion when it comes to not thinking about the finer points of their arrangement too hard. (Arrangement? Relationship? Again, one of those things he dares not dwell on.) It’s a necessity. That’s where it should begin and end.
Astarion slips into his space like a shadow, a whisper across his skin, and then a bite of pain that still has Winter gritting his teeth through the brief moment it lasts. It fades soon enough to whatever strange power or quirk of biology that has his skin growing numb under the attentions of Astarion’s mouth. The vampire should know by now where Winter’s limits lie, in terms of when he’s had enough, but hurting as they both are, he decides to err on the side of caution and slide his fingers into Astarion’s hair – not to grip or attempt to pull him away, but as a gentle reminder to not get too carried away. Winter rather likes being alive, after all. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
Probably because he usually knows what happens after Astarion has his fill, even if this time the two of them are probably not in much shape for it. The spirit is willing and all that.
He doesn’t quite mean for his hand in Astarion’s hair to become an affectionate gesture, but it just sort of happens anyway. The vampire pulls away, and it seems a natural thing, to finish the brush of those fingers through snow colored locks. ]
Aren’t you just the sweetest?
[ He pulls his hand away to point at the corner of his own mouth, lips curving into a smirk of quiet amusement. ]
You have something just there.
[ Just a little blood. No biggie. ]
no subject