[Right now, at least, that was likely the wiser of the two options. He already feels a bit exposed, and unexpected touch is... complicated on a normal day.
He works to get his shirt on, over his head, then one sleeve at a time.]
It's Infernal. [So much for saving this story for later, but that's all right. He can hew away all the raw parts.] Part of a contract Cazador made with Mephistopheles himself. All for a ritual that would grant him even more power than he already possessed. These scars... they indicate that I was to be made a sacrifice for that selfsame ritual.
I didn't know that at the time, of course. I thought he merely wanted to inflict pain because he could.
[...But it was probably that, too, for how long he dragged it out.]
A vampire making contracts with an archfiend? That can't end well for anyone but... [ He looks back at Astarion, now that he's finishes pulling his clothes on. Not only was he a prisoner, a slave, something lesser, but a sacrifice too? ] Gods, Astarion. I hardly know what to say except I'm glad the bastard's dead.
True enough. But that doesn't mean I have to like them.
[Said with a vaguely forced smile, but then he lifts a hand and waves that notion away. Astarion sits and works on slipping his boots back on.]
Ah, no matter. I'm bringing the mood down. It's over and done with, and what's most important is that I needn't deal with that man any longer. He died spectacularly, just so you know.
[His scars? Well, while he has no doubt they aren't quite as extensive as Astarion's--very few have scars that are--he is curious. He wouldn't mind seeing them... someday. If simply to drive home yet one more thing they have in common.]
Anyone who says revenge isn't worth it hasn't had anyone wrong them quite as spectacularly as what's happened to us. Lucky fools they are.
[Boots on, he twists in his seat to properly face Winter and grabs for his... very tiny glass.]
[ Help. The sudden absurdity of normal-sized, non-bat Astarion picking up the tiny shot glass his meal had been delivered in startles a laugh out of Winter. ]
You could order another one, I suppose. Unless you've a better idea of where to get a meal.
[He blinks at the suggestion, and suddenly that βUnlessβ¦β is a big neon sign flashing in his head. (If he knew what a neon sign was. Or maybe he does by now, I donβt know.)]
Certainly. [Heβll not turn that down. Heβs still hungry.] Where to, then?
[Ah, choices. The spa would be fine, though there is the small chance of someone walking in on them, not to mention he doesn't quite trust the whole affair after being turned into a bat.
Someone's room, however, sounds... dangerous, and he cannot quite reconcile within himself whether that would be good or bad. Well, maybe it doesn't matter, either way. He's getting ahead of himself. First and foremost, he would like to feed a little off the warlock, and be in a space where such an act of trust would remain sheltered and uninterrupted, and so-]
[ It's been a long while since he carried a sleeping Astarion there and deposited him on his couch. Long enough to feel like a small lifetime ago. And that was also due to a spa, wasn't it? How funny that things seem to have gone full circle.
Winter finishes off his drink, and gets up from his chair. ]
[Honestly, how does the spa keep getting them to this point. Astarion grins, then lifts up his very tiny glass and downs the remaining blood. Waste not, want not.]
We shall.
[Clack goes the glass back onto the table, and he stands.]
[ To the space floor! We won't deal with the particulars, it's safe to say they get there without issue. Winter beckons the other man into his room, gravity reasserts itself, and he shuts the door behind them.
Little has changed about Winter's room since the last time Astarion was here, though perhaps her might feel a bit more free to look around since he's no longer keeping his lack of reflection a secret. ]
How is it that even when we're trying not to have an adventure, we have one anyway?
[ He's making for the couch. Seems as good a place as any. ]
[Oh, while it's tempting to nose around, it doesn't seem like much has changed, and he can always do that after, can't he? He follows a few steps behind until Winter makes himself comfortable, then leans in with his hands on his hips, looking down at him with red eyes.]
An adventure without mind flayers, cultists, and something trying to kill me around every corner? Say it isn't so.
[That is to say: this is a much preferred kind of "adventure." Astarion takes a seat beside Winter.]
[ Neither of them are the conventional sort though, are they? Winter angles toward Astarion as well, that grin staying right where it is. Thankfully, with his penchant for wearing clothes with very open and plunging necklines, all he has to do is draw his hair back over his shoulder, bearing the pale expanse of his neck to the vampire. The ever-present coil of his tattoo slides elsewhere, gliding across his skin. ]
[There's something about a person bearing their neck so welcomingly for him that would make his pulse tick hard in his throat -- if he had one anymore. As it stands, a little thrill of anticipation jolts through him instead, though it's hard to tell if that's just hungry, predatory instinct, or the simple excitement of indulging in a rarity: getting to feed off of someone who's willing to be bitten.
His smile sharpens and he scoots even closer, one hand moving to brace itself on Winter's shoulder. He inclines in further, so close that his words fan over his exposed neck.]
It'll only sting for a second, darling.
[Given permission, he won't drag it out any longer. He's hungry, and he is dreadfully curious about how Winter tastes when there's more than just a drop of blood teasing his tongue, but instead a whole mouthful.
He opens his mouth, bearing his fangs. And then they sink in, sharp and stinging at two points. Like pinpricks of ice lancing through. And then... just a dull ache, and then a dull nothing, as Winter begins to slowly bleed into the vampire's mouth.]
[ There's something about the edge to Astarion's expression that Winter finds thrilling. A bit of the predator come out to play. Perhaps if they hadn't already established quite a bit of trust between them, that look would set off more alarm bells. As it stands, though, he doesn't think he has anything to fear, here.
He angles his head, humming a little at the warm puff of breath against his skin, and then with no further ado, the sudden, cold sting of being bitten. Winter gasps a little, caught off-guard by the chill, his hand coming up to curl into Astarion's shirt at the small of his back.
The numbness that seeps in next is a bit strange, but there's still something to be said for the body pressed so close to his in, the slow drain of that which keeps him alive. Oh, hells, he could get to like this.
[He feels that pull at the back of his shirt, a bit of tension born of the surprise of being bitten. He expects it, and he hums a little against the warlock's throat as though to say, yes, he knows, but it'll recede soon.
And it does, of course. Winter won't feel much of anything except for maybe the pressure of his lips and tongue as he drinks and drinks deep. His lifeblood filling his mouth, flowing against his palate. He tastes...
(Ah, gods. He tastes divine. This was a very good idea.)
That said, he won't drink too much. Though he's peckish, he's also been fed well during his time in this hotel, and the animalistic urge to take too much has remained more dormant than usual.
...But, also, you know. He's not done yet. His free hand raises and splays against Winter's chest, part reassurance, and part just to feel his heartbeat.]
[ Even with the pain having ebbed, Winter is keenly aware of the vampire's mouth on him. It makes his pulse flutter, something Astarion no doubt feels against his lips and fingers both.
In the history of... ever, has anyone ever thought that offering their neck to a vampire would be a good idea? Surely not, but Winter has, and he can only think that this was a very good idea indeed.
He exhales, a low sigh that somehow takes the shape of the other man's name. ]
Oh, Astarion.
[ Somehow, their encounter beneath the mistletoe feels woefully lacking compared to the strange intimacy of this moment. It's not good for him to want this to continue, and he knows that, but he'll certainly want to do it again. ]
[Often, willingly feeding a vampireβs not a good idea. They might just come back expecting more. But maybe in this case, thatβs not necessarily a bad thing for either party.
The way Winter tastes, the way his pulse flitters just beneath his skin. Even the low rumble of his chest as he sighs out his name. Itβs really, truly sublime, and his fingers curl a little tighter into his shirt. Oh, he would very much like to extend this encounter longer than what would be wise, but that would eke into dangerous territory for Winterβs health, and Astarion will not risk that, no matter how pleasurable this is. No matter how much it sates his appetite.
So, eventually, but sadly, he does retract himself, slipping his fangs out and lifting his chin. Astarion swallows the remnants of Winterβs blood down, his look hazy. But absolutely satisfied.]
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He works to get his shirt on, over his head, then one sleeve at a time.]
It's Infernal. [So much for saving this story for later, but that's all right. He can hew away all the raw parts.] Part of a contract Cazador made with Mephistopheles himself. All for a ritual that would grant him even more power than he already possessed. These scars... they indicate that I was to be made a sacrifice for that selfsame ritual.
I didn't know that at the time, of course. I thought he merely wanted to inflict pain because he could.
[...But it was probably that, too, for how long he dragged it out.]
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A vampire making contracts with an archfiend? That can't end well for anyone but... [ He looks back at Astarion, now that he's finishes pulling his clothes on. Not only was he a prisoner, a slave, something lesser, but a sacrifice too? ] Gods, Astarion. I hardly know what to say except I'm glad the bastard's dead.
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An "ascended" vampire skulking about Baldur's Gate in broad daylight? No, it would have been awful.
[He scoffs, but then offers a shrug.]
I may be free, but I'm marked forever with these scars of the past. I suppose you might call that poetic.
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But as to the rest, he offers a soft smile. ]
We all bear such things. Yours just happen to be visible.
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[Said with a vaguely forced smile, but then he lifts a hand and waves that notion away. Astarion sits and works on slipping his boots back on.]
Ah, no matter. I'm bringing the mood down. It's over and done with, and what's most important is that I needn't deal with that man any longer. He died spectacularly, just so you know.
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[ His scars, he means. He doesn't have many, but he was stabbed in the back once upon a time. That sort of thing leaves a mark. ]
And I don't doubt that he did. Anyone who says revenge isn't worth it is a liar.
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Anyone who says revenge isn't worth it hasn't had anyone wrong them quite as spectacularly as what's happened to us. Lucky fools they are.
[Boots on, he twists in his seat to properly face Winter and grabs for his... very tiny glass.]
...This had seemed like so much. [As a bat.]
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You could order another one, I suppose. Unless you've a better idea of where to get a meal.
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Besides, it is a bit ridiculous, this tiny glass.]
Ha. You did offer your neck.
[Joking! Unlessβ¦]
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I did, didn't I?
[ He's quiet a moment, considering, then, ]
What do you say we get out of here?
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Certainly. [Heβll not turn that down. Heβs still hungry.] Where to, then?
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[ Just, you know, stay away from the fountain. ]
Or, alternatively, my place. Or yours.
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Someone's room, however, sounds... dangerous, and he cannot quite reconcile within himself whether that would be good or bad. Well, maybe it doesn't matter, either way. He's getting ahead of himself. First and foremost, he would like to feed a little off the warlock, and be in a space where such an act of trust would remain sheltered and uninterrupted, and so-]
Your room, then. Why not? I'm overdue a visit.
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[ It's been a long while since he carried a sleeping Astarion there and deposited him on his couch. Long enough to feel like a small lifetime ago. And that was also due to a spa, wasn't it? How funny that things seem to have gone full circle.
Winter finishes off his drink, and gets up from his chair. ]
Shall we?
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We shall.
[Clack goes the glass back onto the table, and he stands.]
Off to your very floaty floor for a bite.
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Little has changed about Winter's room since the last time Astarion was here, though perhaps her might feel a bit more free to look around since he's no longer keeping his lack of reflection a secret. ]
How is it that even when we're trying not to have an adventure, we have one anyway?
[ He's making for the couch. Seems as good a place as any. ]
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An adventure without mind flayers, cultists, and something trying to kill me around every corner? Say it isn't so.
[That is to say: this is a much preferred kind of "adventure." Astarion takes a seat beside Winter.]
We have fun. That's the important part.
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You lead such a charmed life, my dear Astarion.
[ A grin, gaze tracking the vampire as he sits down well within Winterβs wingspan. ]
We do have fun. Itβs my hope that we keep on having fun, however we like.
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Of course, Winter. With any luck, this will be the start.
[βThis.β A vampire feeding on him. Not a conventional idea of fun, but certainly a creative one.]
Only one way of finding out.
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Go on, then. I'm all yours.
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His smile sharpens and he scoots even closer, one hand moving to brace itself on Winter's shoulder. He inclines in further, so close that his words fan over his exposed neck.]
It'll only sting for a second, darling.
[Given permission, he won't drag it out any longer. He's hungry, and he is dreadfully curious about how Winter tastes when there's more than just a drop of blood teasing his tongue, but instead a whole mouthful.
He opens his mouth, bearing his fangs. And then they sink in, sharp and stinging at two points. Like pinpricks of ice lancing through. And then... just a dull ache, and then a dull nothing, as Winter begins to slowly bleed into the vampire's mouth.]
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He angles his head, humming a little at the warm puff of breath against his skin, and then with no further ado, the sudden, cold sting of being bitten. Winter gasps a little, caught off-guard by the chill, his hand coming up to curl into Astarion's shirt at the small of his back.
The numbness that seeps in next is a bit strange, but there's still something to be said for the body pressed so close to his in, the slow drain of that which keeps him alive. Oh, hells, he could get to like this.
(He already does.) ]
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And it does, of course. Winter won't feel much of anything except for maybe the pressure of his lips and tongue as he drinks and drinks deep. His lifeblood filling his mouth, flowing against his palate. He tastes...
(Ah, gods. He tastes divine. This was a very good idea.)
That said, he won't drink too much. Though he's peckish, he's also been fed well during his time in this hotel, and the animalistic urge to take too much has remained more dormant than usual.
...But, also, you know. He's not done yet. His free hand raises and splays against Winter's chest, part reassurance, and part just to feel his heartbeat.]
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In the history of... ever, has anyone ever thought that offering their neck to a vampire would be a good idea? Surely not, but Winter has, and he can only think that this was a very good idea indeed.
He exhales, a low sigh that somehow takes the shape of the other man's name. ]
Oh, Astarion.
[ Somehow, their encounter beneath the mistletoe feels woefully lacking compared to the strange intimacy of this moment. It's not good for him to want this to continue, and he knows that, but he'll certainly want to do it again. ]
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The way Winter tastes, the way his pulse flitters just beneath his skin. Even the low rumble of his chest as he sighs out his name. Itβs really, truly sublime, and his fingers curl a little tighter into his shirt. Oh, he would very much like to extend this encounter longer than what would be wise, but that would eke into dangerous territory for Winterβs health, and Astarion will not risk that, no matter how pleasurable this is. No matter how much it sates his appetite.
So, eventually, but sadly, he does retract himself, slipping his fangs out and lifting his chin. Astarion swallows the remnants of Winterβs blood down, his look hazy. But absolutely satisfied.]
Mmn. Delectable.
[His lips are stained a bit red.]
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is this where we warn for inevitable nsfw
yeah,
INEVITABLE NSFW THEN
nO ONE LOOK
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love a reason to use this icon
it is nice to look at thank you
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