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Wyll wakes to the cold edge of an ice knife against his throat and the sound of nauseous breathing.
He's had to get used to sleeping on his back, since the horns — it always felt too exposed, and now all those lizard-brained anxieties are made flesh in Rime's body weight on his chest, pinning him down; in his hand gripping his bound hair and the conjured blade against his throat. Wyll can feel the cold of it, enough to burn. Rime's expression, as humans are ever wont to study in crisis, is strange — equal parts adoration and animal bloodlust.
He hasn't cut him yet. That's good. That means he isn't totally gone. Wyll composes himself, in the seconds between seconds. He takes a breath. His Adam's apple bobs, nicks itself against the frozen edge.
“My love,” He says, and Rime flinches. Pain colors his expression like ink in water. “Is it a difficult night?“
Rime nods, mutely. His hands don't move, even still — one hand pulling Wyll's head back, exposing his throat, the other wreathed in hoarfrost, gripping the ice knife against his jugular. How long must he have stayed there, frozen on the very precipice, denying his urges their final satisfaction? Wyll can barely stand to think of it, but by the buildup of ice crystals on his white knuckles, just barely within Wyll's vision, it had been a while. Another heartbeat passes. Two. Wyll watches the battle play out on Rime's face, and he can only watch and wait for him to do the right thing. He knows he will. But it's the waiting that kills him.
Abruptly, Rime jerks away as if Wyll's flesh had turned to red-hot metal. Wyll doesn't understand what had happened until it's already over — there's a gasp, a short moan, and an explosion of cold that rolls over him, the very breath of winter. Rime is sprawled over his body, the knife dug into the ground inches from his face — and, as Wyll turns his head, he sees that he's driven the blade of it through the palm of his opposite hand, freezing himself to the ground. Wyll is close enough to see the blood shed by the impact, crystallized into a crimson crown around the wound.
"Oh, no, love, no, no, no,“ Wyll's voice cracks. He sits up; the embers of the fire sizzle at the edge of hearing, but to move to stoke them would require moving Rime off his lap, which might cause yet more damage. Would that the fires of his pact could burn so gently. He can only cradle his torso awkwardly over one knee, try to take as much of the strain off his frozen palms as he shiver-sweats and dry heaves, caught in the claws of one of his thrice-damned fits. Wyll's heart breaks to watch it. The curtain of his alabaster hair falls over his face and sticks to the sweat on his cheekbones like a fine lace veil.
“I'm sorry. I'm — I'm sorry—” Rime forces out around labored breaths. “Dreaming about you. Tasting you,” — there's a certain sound of that word that leaves little to the imagination, though still wreathed in desire so thick it would make a courtesan blush. “I shouldn't have even thought it. I should have — and now — and now —”
The rest of Rime's words collapse into a breathless sob. Wyll shushes him softly, cups his face with a hand. Rime's tongue flickers out to lick his teeth. Yet, still, he begs forgiveness, breaking himself upon the wheel of his own sadistic urges. Wyll could wager that even the most creative devils of Avernus would have difficulty rivaling this unique, personal Hell that his beloved found himself within. Rime shakes like a leaf in his lap, and a detail that had escaped Wyll before becomes apparent in the press of hardness against his thigh, unfazed by the agony he was surely in, or perhaps fed by it. A memory rises unbidden, Rime submitting to that wicked priest's ministrations in the goblin camp, the blood runing down his back and a flush riding high across his cheekbones, effort or... Wyll closes his eyes. Now was not the time to reflect upon that. Not when Rime wasn't in his right mind. And yet, some sick part of him responds in kind — some part of him that sees animal arousal in one he so loves and mirrors it, that cares little for the circumstance. This disgusts him more than Rime's grisly desires ever could.
“My love,” Wyll coos. His voice is low, soothing, as if what Rime was shivering through was only fever. He smooths his hair out of his eyes and face, pushes it back sweat-slick on his head. A clack of teeth; Rime snaps his jaws on nothing like a bad dog; like a scared dog. ”Is it a taste of me it wants, the beast at your door?” Rime's eyes widen. He nods. His cock, full of blood, twitches against Wyll's thigh. “I can do a taste, if it buys you peace for the night.”
“You don't know what you're promising me,” Rime says, less spoken and more spat , a moan through grit teeth. Wyll would give him that. How could he know? But it doesnt keep the sorcerer from twitching his hips against him, grinding himself against his thigh. If it were under better circumstances, Rime would be beautiful like this. No, that's not right. He's still beautiful like this — spread out over his lap, a vision all pale skin and the pearly flash of scales. They kiss the bony parts of his collarbones, his hips until they dip below his waistband of his sleeping trousers. He's bent, twisted over his self-inflicted wounds, hands clasped almost as if in prayer upon the ground next to him and still wreathed in ice. Rime pants like a dog, whines when Wyll shuffles his other arm to support his shoulders in his twisted position, and offers the meat of his hand to his hungry mouth. It's only fair, when Rime had already spilled blood to curb his impulses, that Wyll offer him blood in return. It is poetic, in a way. Wyll's life revolves around such exchange.
For all his self-loathing, Rime does not hesitate. His jaws snap again and this time they meet Wyll's offered flesh, in the meaty part opposite the thumb. Wyll feels his draconic bloodline in pointed canines digging deep into the dorsal muscle, grinding against the flexor and the little bone above it. Blood wells up around the bite, hot , makes Rime's teeth feel as much ice as the slowly-melting blade pinning his hands to the earth. The pain is expected. What Wyll doesn't expect is the way Rime lingers on the bite — he'd thought he'd lock his teeth and pull out a chunk of him, to be treated with a potion from his pack — one and done. Instead Rime whines, chews, blood wells up around his teeth. It hurts. More than he'd thought it would. Wyll grits his own teeth and bears it for as long as he needs him to, and his free hand cards through Rime's hair all the while. Soothing him. He needs him to know he doesn't hate him, more than he needs anything else in this moment.
“That's it. That's it. Take all the time you need.” His voice is tight with pain, and Wyll can't avoid that, but he can keep it soft, gentle, even if it wavers around the edges. Another hiccup, exhale. Blood bubbles and fizzes between those pearly teeth and Wyll's vision swims. There is a rhythmic jostling of his body, and he realizes Rime is rocking his hardness against his thigh. He schools his expression very carefully to allow it to pass like he hadn't noticed, but he does shift his leg to give him a better surface to rut against. Another breath comes out of Rime, then, a moan. Wyll connects the dots and keeps speaking.
“You can be sweet for me, see? All you needed was a little taste. You're good. You're being so good.” Rime moans again, soft, muffled by his ruined flesh. It strikes Wyll suddenly that all this is happening around the fire, so close to their companions sleeping — he doesn't think they've roused any of them, but it's a reminder to keep his voice low, to control the cries of pain that threaten in his throat as Rime chews against his meat and gristle. He can't threaten the image they have of their de facto leader — and yet, there is a selfishness. Neither can he threaten their image of himself. What a pair they made.
The tension seems to go out of his body in shivering degrees. He still shakes, but not so hard, tugs at his hands less. The beast inside him quiets, even as it ruts against his thigh, its appetites redirected. Distracted. After what seems like an eternity, Rime lets go. Wyll slowly pulls his hand away and blood wells anew as his teeth leave the sockets they carved for themselves, but otherwise, the appendage is remarkably intact. He can even still feel some of his fingers. Regrettably. His whole hand is a brand of pain.
”See?“ It comes out a little rough, strained — Wyll crushes the wound against his midsection to stop some of the bleeding, and Rime looks up at him desperately, hazy eyes wide. ”You can be sweet for me. This is hardly a scratch. You only did what you needed, and no more.“
”I hurt you,“ Rime moans, softly. His voice is wet with Wyll's blood. “I never should have come to you. I never should have let myself think about you like that, I —” He's still hard against him, pulsing with every heartbeat. Wyll tilts his thigh upwards and whatever Rime was saying dissolves into a hiccuped moan.
“Hush, love.” Wyll reaches out with the injured hand, cups his face with it, and as the crescent shape of the wound leaves its wet imprint against Rime's cheek, his eyelids flutter and he comes soft as snowmelt against his leg.
They are both in bad shape -- they will need potions, or to wake Shadowheart for healing in the worst case. But Wyll would keep for the minutes until the evening air melted the shell of ice around Rime's hands. Until the shaking stopped. Until his lover felt safe in his own skin again, even if just for a moment. He will hold him until then, if there was nothing else that could be done.