#im kidding sdkjfgnskjng maybe

[diaboeli]

halsin did partake in a cup of tea whenever he could afford to. a difficult feat out in the wilderness, where transporting supplies were concerned, but a druid made do. he wondered if the infusion of spearmint and honey would perhaps taint the natural flavour of his blood that astarion might prefer. if it would be detectable at all, whilst he was in such a deprived state.

he observes his every movement, the collapse and crawl that spoke to his desperation, the trail his eyes blaze along his skin seeking a throbbing vein. to see him so deprived is painful, and halsin tucks away the mental note to never see him be so underfed again. if he could help it. of course, astarion's circumstances toed the line of problematic when it came to people and their willingness or otherwise to intervene. however, no creature should have to endure such conditions if the means to avoid it was available.

his hands are pushed to the wayside, allowing room for the elf to make himself comfortable on his lap. astarion's hands are cool to the touch, in comparison to halsin's endless heat, those which see goose bumps arise in their stead. a part of him thinks to touch him in return, to lay his hands on his waist or to caress at his back in a bid to comfort. only, a thank you, places the thought on hold, catching the druid by surprise. no gratitude was necessary, but even so, astarion had struck him as the type to give as much sparingly.

it's a fleeting thing, between then and now― astarion's tongue laving over his skin as if to prepare for the veritable feast that sat underneath him. and then he bites. the sensation is cold, first of all, like a harsh pinch that won't relent. however, it ebbs quickly as the little elf feeds. it's not immediate, but he could fathom light-headedness at the very least should the feeding prolong.

his focus on the feeling gives way to sound. there's a distinct sucking noise in his ear, akin to sucking juice from one's fingers or slurping up the last few mouthfuls of soup. astarion draws blood through the punctures in his throat and moans as he does so. the delicate whimpers conveyed relief, as he trembled like a leaf in his lap, encouraging halsin to lay his hand on his waist. a thumb rubs circles over the charred attire, and when his head starts to throb, so too does the one in his pants. it's difficult to suppress it, the desire, what with the rub of a writhing elf atop him, moaning deliciously into his ear. still, it incites apprehension in the moment, albeit delayed as astarion's satisfaction had become his priority.

time enough has passed, in accompaniment with the budding desire that burns in the pit of his stomach, to see this feed come to an end. at least for now. his throat feels heavy, and it takes him a moment to gather his wits about him to speak.

“  astar... astarion? ” halsin clears his throat, and if need be, he would lift his hand to touch gently over white curls. “  are you sated? if you require more i would need to ... to replenish myself first. ” amongst other things.

HE HAD TO WONDER... WAS HALSIN STUPID? If not stupid, then did he lack any sense of self-preservation? Astarion had very little capacity to mull over the druid's motivations when he was offering himself up so willingly. For the first time in two hundred years he was allowed to zero all of his senses in on something thinking, something far larger than a rat or any other filth Cazador had ever stuffed in his mouth.

Of course he was fucking drooling. He could hate himself for it later.

To hear Halsin speak of cruelty as if feeding had ever been anything else - deprivation, disgust, degradation - very nearly made his jaw snap shut. It didn't, though. His senses were too thoroughly overwhelmed. He was too hungry after days of fighting, nearly dying, and getting blown up. (He was never letting Karlach live that down.)

Firstly there was sight: his eyes dilated and flickering rapidly over every exposed bit of skin to take in every distended vein and how they twitched and bulged with Halsin's movements. He was settling himself down, getting himself ready.

Then there was smell. There was nuance to this: the scent of a bear intermingled with the scent of a wood elf with blood thrumming beneath his skin that smelled heady with hints of something natural. Tea? Had Halsin been drinking tea recently? Perhaps the tannins would be in his blood. It had been so long since he could enjoy a cup of tea that he couldn't miss it per se, but he could crave it.

In his ears, though there were plenty of sounds around camp he might have picked up with his otherwise sensitive hearing, there was only thrumming. While he was aware of them too, the subtleties of Halsin's movements as he got himself comfortable and exposed his pulse - Gods, fuck, fuck, what a sight - were lost to the lurch of atria and ventricles as they closed and reopened. The lurch was followed by a solid thud displacing viscous fluid and dispersing it all throughout the druid's body. Blood. These two sounds repeated in concert with one another over and over again until Astarion was swaying on his feet to the beat of it as he approached.

Distantly he thought he must look feral like this. Perhaps even frightening. Astarion took the time wasted when he tripped over his own feet (be it from injury or hunger, he couldn't know) to scrub the back of his hand over his mouth. Limping a few feet further and stumbling again, he resigned himself to the fate of the pathetically starved spawn that he was and crawled on his hands and knees the rest of the way.

Right into Halsin's waiting lap, practically slapping his hands away to make space for himself. This whole display was fucking embarrassing, but it didn't matter because -

Cold hands touched Halsin's biceps and slid up along them. Feeling the muscles twitching beneath his touch, the subtle thrum beneath his palms. Astarion's hands swept back down, this time with only the pointer finger of his right hand returning. This was the side the druid had exposed for him, and he dragged his pointer finger along a particularly bulging vein slowly. Savoring the feeling of the vibrating signs of life his own body lacked. His eyes followed the motion of his finger until it reached Halsin's carotid and he was panting like a dehydrated dog.

The words left him, trembling and pathetic. Rehearsed and forcibly regurgitated a thousand times or more in some shithole palace that didn't matter anymore. "Thank you."

Astarion's hand dropped away, and as if on puppet strings he lurched forward with his jaw unhinged to land against the side of Halsin's throat. As much as he wanted to, memories of the lengths between feedings overtook him. Once again he was savoring the feeling, for the first time the sensation of a living thinking being thrumming against the softness of his own lips. His tongue swept over the artery he'd latched to as if testing it and his entire body shuddered.

He could almost taste it through the skin. Blood. Please, oh Gods, real blood.

His self control broke and so did skin. Fresh blood flooded his mouth and wetted his tongue, dragging a broken whimper up his throat as he swallowed. He sucked at the wound as if lost in it. He could taste the tea. Honey. Something else he couldn't name. Blood, blood, blood. Warmth and comfort washed over him like a hot bath. Every fresh gush with every pull against Halsin's throat had him whimpering and shaking in his lap. He was delicious. He never wanted to stop. He couldn't stop.

How long could he keep taking desperate gulps from this mountain of an elf? Certainly long enough that he was losing all sense of proprioception and interoception. He was simply a moaning, feeding, bloodied mess of a vampire spawn in a druid's lap. Right in the middle of their camp.