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Tango wrings his hands anxiously, which, Etho thinks, is a really funny look paired with his whole evil vampire lord getup. “You’re sure about this?” he asks. “Like, a hundred percent positive.”
Etho shrugs. “Yeah, why not? We can call it payment for the gunpowder, if it makes you feel any better.” He shrugs off his coat and tugs down the collar of his shirt, exposing his neck and most of one shoulder. “C’mon, bite me.”
And, after a deep breath, Tango leans in, and does.
Etho closes his eyes at the sensation of fangs piercing his skin. He’d admittedly been a little skeptical at this whole prospect—sure, Scar had raved about how good it felt to get his blood drank, but Scar is kind of a freak about that sort of thing. Etho has never super been into pain or anything, so he came into this fully expecting to get the satisfaction of helping out a buddy, and maybe the ability to leverage some free keys or shards or whatever game currency that Tango ended up deciding on for this season of Decked Out.
Surprisingly though, it does feel good. Once the initial sting passes, there’s a pleasant buzz that spreads from the bite in his neck and travels through his veins, making his whole body feel a warm and relaxed and a little tingly. He hums, leaning closer to Tango, and lets the other man hold up most of his weight.
And then, Tango begins to drink in earnest, and Etho’s breath whooshes from his lungs.
Visions dance before his eyes. Narrow stone halls that wind beneath mycelium roots. A looming citadel and the icy crypt beneath. A towering mountain, an ominous manor, and a haunted, decrepit village. Searing lava, frigid snow, and murky water. The heavy grunts of ravagers, the whispery cackle of vex, the low roar of Wardens. Hordes and hordes of zombies and spiders and witches pouring in from every possible direction. Himself, dying and dying and dying again, and every time he dies the dungeon drinks its fill but is never satisfied, always hungry—
“Hhh– Hi, there,” Etho stutters out, and it comes out way more breathless than is remotely dignified. “You’re, uh. Getting a bit of a headstart this season, aren’t ya?”
Tango—or Tango’s body, at least—makes a noise that almost sounds like a purr as he continues to drink Etho’s blood. The dungeon’s emotions sing through him, resonating in Etho’s bones.
Power, that Our avatar might move swift, that he might manifest Us mighty and true. Blood, from Our champion, so sweet, so freely given.
Etho lets out a dazed laugh. The blood loss is starting to really get to him. Black spots dance across his vision. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “Yep, tha’s me,” he slurs. “Champion.” He lets his eyes droop shut, a lazy smile drifting across face. “‘s good to see you too.”
He dies, and the dungeon drinks its fill once again.
When he respawns on the bed that he’d had the foresight to set beforehand, Tango is fussing over him, wringing his hands again.
“Sorry about, uh, all that,” he says, sheepishly wiping his face clean of blood. “The dungeon got a little excited to see you.”
Etho rubs his neck; the mark from Tango’s fangs has already vanished, healed up during the respawn. “Yeah, I could tell,” he chuckles. “Well, I know it loves eating me, but how did I taste to you?”
Tango grins. “So good,” he sighs, a little dreamily. “Like, wow, really good. You know, if you ever wanna do this again some time—” He waggles his eyebrows in an attempt to be enticing.
Etho smiles back under his mask. “You know what? Sure. Anything for my favorite dungeon.”
Tango pouts, and Etho relents.
“And my favorite dungeon master, of course. So, same time next week?”