finalflight | OPEN POST; [ ASTARION / BG3 ]

[ The flattest look. He can't very well fix the failing dressing on his wound by himself. ]

I've not got a third arm, Astarion, and everyone else has rightfully gone to bed.

[ Also wow?? So what if he has a scroll hoarding problem? It's not like he's a wizard and he can just eat them to learn whatever the hells magic is in there, and he's certainly not going to feed Gale any more magic than he asks for, thanks.

In any case, while Astarion is busy rifling his way through Winter's pack, he reaches over with his good hand to work the bandage free, though he keeps it held there for a bit so as not to bleed all over the place. Apart from the scrolls, there's more or less what anyone would expect to find in there. Clothes, herbs, sooooo many keys, the odd set of lockpicks, and on and on. ]

Try the front pocket.

[ That would have been nice to know a bit earlier. ]

[The complaint was half-hearted at best. It is twice as difficult to dress a wound on its own, and everyone else has gone to sleep with the hope of feeling renewed, refreshed, and far less sore come morning. In Winter's case, whenever he deigns to sleep, far less bleed-y.

(Again, a pleasant assault on the senses. He doesn't even have to look at the state of the man's arm to know that the wound would be eking red if Winter hadn't good enough sense to put pressure on it. His gut twinges with desire and hunger, the two always intermingled — but (for now), these wants are old friends of his, and he can set them aside for a minute or two.

While he searches in the front pocket, apparently.)]

You couldn’t have mentioned that before I started rifling through your rusted key collection? Honestly, do you need to keep every single one you find? Seems a bit excessive.

[It seems their local warlock has a hoarding problem, but it’s probably fine. Astarion finds the fresh bandages quickly enough once directed to the correct spot, and he sets the pack down and moves closer to the other. His crouch falls into a sit with his knees pressed to the ground and his legs tucked beneath him. He unravels the roll.]

Especially when you have me.

[ He can’t imagine the smell of blood – of his blood, in particular, and this close, too – is doing much to help Astarion’s self-control, but the other man’s had a lot of time to learn restraint. Winter can appreciate that he’s just carrying on as if it isn’t a problem, for the moment. Like he doesn’t know how this conversation is likely to end.

The warlock gives him a mild look in response to his jabs about his hoarding, again.. One never knows when a key will come in handy, though he can certainly concede the Astarion’s skills are quite useful. ]

And just how, pray tell, did you get so good at picking locks in the first place?

[There is only one way this conversation will end if Winter wants to be kind instead of torturous. But they can both play like things are fine and normal, and that the crimson threatening to stain his arm a second time doesn't sear into his periphery, or sing in his ears.

Astarion swallows, his throat bobbing. But otherwise, he remains diligent in cordoning off a clean portion of bandages and tearing them free from their roll.]

What, haven't you been told? Lockpicking is a prerequisite along the road to becoming a magistrate.

[Clearly not true. His smile remains, though he does pause, tone dipping a little lighter as he gives a less flippant answer.]

One's path in life becomes a bit more... unlawful, shall we say, when your priorities shift towards seducing and luring unwitting nobles towards their untimely demise.

[So, you know. You pick up skills that you wouldn't otherwise have dreamed of centuries past. You live in the shadows; you do terrible things, and you learn how to do them quietly.]

And besides, what's more alluring than someone who can slip into places where they definitely shouldn't be, hm? Now... let me see your arm.

[ The look he gives Astarion very much says "Do I look like the kind of person who knows thing one about being a magistrate?" Because he certainly does not. Winter is rough around the edges, well-spoken and polite only when it suits him (which is more often, these days, what with having to rub elbows with so many various and sundry folk), even if he'd still rather lie his way through most interactions. Charismatic, but only in a way that covers up the otherness about him that starts to needle at most people if they spend too long scrutinizing him.

In that way, perhaps he and Astarion are not so different. ]

Ah, so it's alluring when you do it, but it's breaking and entering when I do it.

[ But he dutifully lifts the ruined bandage away, angling his body to offer Astarion his arm. The wound is still trying to bleed, though it's slowed some. ]

[Mm, yes, there is a cordiality about Winter that feels cursory at best. Not that he wears it unwell—no, he’s seen just how much politeness he can utilize when necessity calls for it, often as it is—but perhaps because they are so alike in their oddities, at least in this, Astarion can see it for what it is. A veil. A reliable one, but diaphanous and easily tossed aside when unneeded.

Not that it matters to him one whit. The politeness works when they’ve (sometimes frustratingly) decided to play nice as a group; and when it crosses over into the realm of lying, it’s not like Astarion isn’t well-versed in that to some degree, either.]

That just means you lack… [He gestures idly with a hand, bandages flopping about.] …a certain flair. Don’t worry. We can’t all be as talented as me.

[Again, that tilting smile, but his eyes linger on Winter’s face no longer than they need to. Instead, it’s time to tend to that very temptingly bleeding arm. He gingerly takes him by the wrist with his free hand, holding his forearm closer and examining the wound. Not quite weeping; what a shame.

But still crimson in places where his blood had smeared against soaked bandages and skin.]

I’d say this needs a bit of cleaning first.

Flair. I see.

[ He’ll stick to good ol’ breaking and entering in that case.

The warlock doesn’t mind being selfish either – in fact he’d prefer it – but he didn’t get where he is (was?? His life before this whole tadpole business almost feels like it belonged to someone else) by not realizing when it’s beneficial to play nice. Being owed a favor can go a long way.

(So, this whole business for the myconids better pan out, or he’s going to be so annoyed.) ]

Are you volunteering yourself for that duty as well? And here you didn’t strike me as the type to fuss.

[ As if it’s not obvious that if he gets an infection, it will also be Astarion’s problem. At least he has a skein of water handy, and offers it over. ]

Oh, but I am. But only when it comes to certain indulgences.

[He just called Winter an indulgence, but it's not too far from the mark. There is an impatient part of him that wants to ask if he might clean this excess blood away with his lips, his mouth, but a lot of good that would do to stave off a possible infection. And since no one else in this strange little party is quite as open to Astarion sampling from their veins in the night, that would present a problem.

The taste would be ruined. And they can't have that. He might as well go out hunting for wild boars again, instead.]

And an indulgence, you are.

[He takes the skein after pulling out a clean cloth from Winter's bag, wetting it and bringing it to his skin, wiping away the quickly-rusting red. Astarion is fastidious when he is allowed to be (though he isn't one to shy at being splattered with blood or grime, that feels like the norm these days), and he works slowly and carefully.]

Even this tiny bit [of blood, he means] smells wonderful. It would be a shame to have it otherwise ruined simply because you can't be bothered to clean a wound.

[ Astarion really is out here saying the quiet part out loud, calling him an "indulgence" straight to his face, but what else could they really be? They're on borrowed time, and the clock is rapidly ticking down.

Sure, they all probably care about each other, in a "we need each other and it's better if you have my back" kind of way. But any more than that is asking way too much given the circumstances.

Right? ]

It was clean. Until it started bleeding again.

[ And whose fault is that? ]

In any case, if you're hoping for a little something for your troubles, I'm sure that can be arranged. Just mind the bruises.

[ Of which he has many. Fucking minotaurs. ]

[Given the circumstances, asking for more than that is too much — at least insofar as Astarion is concerned, and he’s readily convinced himself of that for now. His budding relationships with their ragtag group—even from a purely platonic perspective—have officially run longer than any he’s possessed in centuries. It’s a low bar to clear. But once they’re done with this nasty tadpole business, what then? With the threat of Cazador still looming over him like a pall, how might he still cling desperately to his freedom? To some even small facsimile of safety?

Will these people still have some use for him then, just as he has use for them now?

Well. Best not to linger on those thoughts right now.]

“I’m sure that can be arranged”, he says. So transactional. As though you don’t enjoy it.

[It’s like a shard of dull ice in the neck, fading into numbness, a vampire’s bite. Pragmatically, no one should really enjoy offering their lifeblood to a predator whose baseline state is, in some way, always hungry. But there’s something intimate and titillating about it, too, for both parties. A trait that’s done nothing but work in his favor.

He flips the cloth to the corner that’s still dry, cleaning up excess moisture from Winter’s forearm. Astarion then brandishes the bandages again, beginning to wrap them around and around the wound. Taut, but not too taut.]

Now, you know I’m always gentle. [is he tho] Unless told otherwise.

And give you the satisfaction of admitting it? Perish the thought.

[ One corner of his lips quirks at that. It's no secret, not to Astarion if not the whole camp by now, that Winter rather enjoys himself when Astarion comes to call. Though, the blood is really ever only part of it.

He dutifully holds still while Astarion finishes his bandaging, and once done, he gives his arm a little flex — but having learned his lesson, he takes care not to reopen anything or mess with the dressing. ]

Thank you, Astarion.

[Blood is a large part of it for Astarion, though even he will admit that it's not the entire draw of visiting Winter in the dead hours of the night when they've made camp. ~~Has the poor guy has been walking around with the Bloodless debuff for ages now?~~ It is, of course, simply fun in a way that draining the blood out of rodents was not — where that was desperate and demeaning, this slakes a more innate, predatory drive of a vampire.

And, sometimes, when Winter is awake through a round of blood-draining, it leads to more scandalous indulgences than just a midnight meal. Necessary in the art of seduction, yes, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. Of course he does. Just look at the man.]

You’re quite welcome. [—he says as he places the bandages back in Winter’s bag, setting it aside and properly out of the way.]

Now, then… [But after that? He’s drawing in closer, a hand drifting to his thigh as he leans in, smirking darkly.] Do I get my thanks?

[ ~~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.

[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. ]

You have something just there.

[ Just a little blood. No biggie. ]

(( BOOP ))

OPEN POST; [ ASTARION / BG3 ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject