finalflight | PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

[He watches as Winter leans back, watches the whole frame of him look towards the sky that isn't present so deep underground. Appreciates the slope of his pale neck, in a way that is somehow, miraculously, not related to the hunger that is always, always gnawing at his core.]

Only "on the right track"?

[He says, almost to himself. Winter really is striking-looking; darkly beautiful in that way of his. It makes something dangerously fond clench in his chest.]

Then tell me, what am I missing?

[ Winter angles his head, ever slight, in Astarion's direction. A bit of his hair cascades from his shoulder in a dark wave. ]

A good question. It's not something I've ever thought about, either.

[He arches a brow, a little amused by the reply. Uncertain if he should be surprised by it, though.]

Really?

[To him, this is less indicative about being a romantic at heart, and more how one perceives their future. How you want to spend it, how far you can peer down that path. For Astarion, well, there are obvious reasons why this has never been a consideration in his mind. What is a serious, committed relationship, and can you eat it? ~~If you're a vampire, I guess you technically can.~~]

Not anything you ever thought to see in your own future, hm?

Not really.

[ Obviously Winter cannot hope to match Astarion in sheer numbers, but he's done more than his fair share of sleeping around, with no real purpose other than a bit of fun. ]

I guess I wouldn't be opposed, given the right partner, but I've never been out looking to fall in love or settle down.

[Perhaps so. But even a "bit of fun" is a step above what seduction has turned into for this vampire. Sex is only ever a tool, an essential part of his repertoire. It gets people doing what they want him to do, going where he wants them to go.

Not unlike how he's used it with Winter, to draw him close enough that he'll want to keep him protected, so that he's not just seen as a vampire that needs a stake through the heart should he suddenly not be useful to these traveling party. He has to mean something to the warlock, or it all counts for nothing. Even if they're both probably aware of this fact, at least to an unspoken degree.

And so. There is something about "given the right partner" that shouldn't make him feel... disappointed the way he does. It's expected, and they're talking about obscenely unlikely hypotheticals, anyhow. But it still settles strangely in the pit of his stomach.]

I can't help but wonder what "the right partner" means to a man with a lifestyle like yours.

[A thieving criminal. (Fond.) But thieving criminals settle down once in a while, don't they? Well. He wouldn't know.]

[ The thought had crossed his mind that Astarion could be using him. Trying to draw him in so deeply that he has no choice but to keep him by his side, but then days like today happen and have him rethinking everything. It's not very self-preserving to throw oneself in front of a monster.

And even now, these moments that they sit together and talk, sharing memories and secrets and jokes and, yes, even talk about obscenely unlikely hypotheticals, feel... genuine. Surely they must count toward something real, whatever they might be to each other. ]

I couldn't tell you that, either, since I've yet to find them.

[ So he says, but there's a moment where his gaze lingers on Astarion just a moment too long, searching for the answer to a question he's yet to ask. Or have I? ]

[No, and then there days like this one, where he's thrown himself into bodily harm for the sake of another, where he's gotten angry at Winter for doing the same for him. There are moments that do feel sincere, and the enjoyment derived from them very much so. Astarion looks forward to these talks, kept to themselves under the blanket of night (or the caverns of the Underdark), and more and more he realizes that isn't necessarily because he wants to sate the hunger perpetually living inside of him.

And then there are moments like precisely now, where Winter says such things and raises his eyes to meet his own, an unspoken question hanging between them. Astarion feels like he's had his heart gently scooped out and put on display between them; that foreign openness of vulnerability, something he doesn't know what to do with. Doesn't know how to approach it. It's almost... embarrassing.

Yet he finds he can't look away.]

...Well. You'll tell me once you do, won't you? I'd like to know for myself.

[Oh gods, what's wrong with him?]

You'll be the first to know.

[ There's a softness that's creeped its way into his tone, like this particular agreement is a secret best kept between the two of them. Their gazes hold for a long moment more, and Winter wonders if it's appropriate to lean in and kiss him after all that. The notion is tempting, though he has no idea what kind of signals he'd be sending given the track of their conversation.

The track of their— oh, boy. How did they get here after talking about his patron? Just like that, the moment seems to have passed, and Winter is once again settling back to cast his eyes up at the dark. ]

If you've any other questions — not related to my love life, thank you — now's the time.

[Given the nature of what they're talking about, a kiss would indeed bring an influx of mixed signals, jumbling everything up in his mind, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad, either.

Maybe.

But the moment passes, here and then gone. Winter settles back as though to punctuate that ending, and Astarion, too, feels the need to bookend it with... something else. Anything else.]

I... [Anything else. What? Reset, Astarion.] I, ah, have been wondering about one thing. The markings on your skin...

[Yes, that'll do.]

I can't help but notice that they... wiggle.

[ He was wondering if that was going to come up, but even so, he plays a coy. ]

Do they?

[ Said as the tendril curling around his neck does more than just merely "wiggle". It full-on moves, sliding over his skin, unraveling from his throat to slide up the side of his face instead, one impossibly dark strip of ink, if that's what it truly is, caressing his cheek. ]

[Oh, yes, that is definitely more than "wiggle." That is absolutely making sinuous motions across his skin. We've gone from wiggling to full-blown caressing, lads, and one day this will probably unlock something in Astarion.

But for now, he watches with obvious curiosity, and even more surprise that the tendril can move that way at all.]

Oh, you know. Just a bit.

[Winter please.]

Why is that.

Why? I couldn't say. I guess this is what happens when you get a hug from a space cephalopod while you're in the midst of dying.

[ Remember the other night, when Winter had blandly told Astarion he lacked a third arm to tend to his failing bandages? That's not entirely true. That's not true at all, actually.

The tendril laying flat on Winter's cheek shifts, lifting away from his skin, where it inexplicably goes from two-dimensional to three. It's still black as pitch, but like this... the light from the now-dying fire seems to get sucked into it, an endless void dotted by the bright points of distant stars.

The now very real tentacle manifesting out of Winter's skin waves. Cheeky. ]

They leave a bit of themself with you.

[okay so THIS is where I should have used the kink unlocked gif

He's fairly certain he's seen a tentacle or two in Winter's repertoire of warlock magic, but it's another thing altogether to watch the inky black--what he once thought were tattoos, unimaginative as he was at the time--rise from his skin and become an actual tentacle. An impossibly dark tendril that seems to absorb all light that draws too close to it.

Astarion's speechless for a half-moment, blinking.]

...Oh.

[Yes. Oh.

Help, the first thing that he can think to ask is:]

Can I touch it?

[ Yes, and where do you think the ~~thorn~~ tentacle whip comes from? It's hard to tell in the moment, of course, that Winter's "tattoos" are sliding off his body to manifest in a real capacity.

It's quite ironic that Astarion teased him about tentacles earlier when he's had them the whole time. Perhaps now the vampire will notice a bit more easily when his tattoos are not precisely in the same place from day to day.

Help that question tho. ]

If you want.

[ The tentacle pulls away a little more, so that it's adjoining with Winter somewhere on his shoulder instead of on his face, and reaches for Astarion. ]

[Listen, he's curious, and the question slipped out before he could stop it. Have no doubt he will be making a note about the arrangement of Winter's "tattoos", and how they slightly change day-to-day, now that he's aware of what they actually are.

With a strange ease, the tentacle moves from the warlock's face to shoulder and reaches for him as requested. Astarion isn't sure what to expect, but he did ask for this, and there's no hesitation in the gesture of reaching out in turn, fingers gently extended to meet the tentacle.

What's it feel like?]

[ ~~Always knew you were a freak, Astarion.~~

The tentacle is cool to the touch, a little slimy, perhaps, and as it coils curiously around Astarion's fingers, it suctions lightly to his skin, pulls away, and then coils again, almost as if exploring. With the way it moves, it's hard to tell if it's a part of Winter or some independent entity. ]

[~~He's a vampire, of course he is.~~

Cool and slimy. All right. So much more solid than just inky shadow. Normally, he's not sure if this is a sensation he would normally gravitate to, but there's something about it being connected to Winter that eschews any instinctive aversion to the coiling, the exploration.

He turns his wrist, just so his palm is facing up, and spreads his fingers a little, just in case the tendril actually wants to explore the planes of his hand.]

Is this you moving, or...?

[ The tendril continues its slow explorations, sliding over his palm, tracing its lines. Eventually it curls gently around his wrist, not so much holding as resting there. Winter, who has been watching this, flicks his gaze up at Astarion with a small smile. ]

It's me. They've been a part of me for the better part of a decade now, so it's practically second nature.

Ah.

[He remains holding his wrist up, now with a tentacle gently curled around it. Knowing this, there's now an odd amount of intimacy implied in this gesture, unconventional as it may be.

A beat.]

So we're holding hands.

[It's a joke, but also, is it. They technically are.]

[ There's a beat on Winter's end as well, before the absurdity of the moment catches up to him. Ha can't help but laugh, and like Astarion had gifted him earlier, it's bright and genuine. ]

I suppose we are.

[ In response, the tentacle wriggles, squirming around Astarion's wrist in a little squeeze, and then, at last, it lets go. It withdraws back to its place on Winter's skin, living ink that coils back around his throat. ]

Maybe don't mention that to Lae'zel. If she gets so much as a whiff of tentacle, she'd probably run me through.

[And what a reward it is, that laugh. It's bracing, yet drags Astarion down into the warmth of shared, absurd moment with no hesitation, grinning and laughing a little in kind.]

I wouldn't dream of it. You're too important for me to risk it.

[Too important to him. For a myriad of reasons starting to split off from the main one: a source of blood, a source of protection.

But Astarion is tired, now, of second-guessing the things he says, the things he muses silently to himself. No, right now, he will drive home the point that this warlock is important to him because of the warm blood flowing through his veins, and he leans in, looking at him with dark, crimson eyes.]

You taste too good for me to lose you over a misguided tentacle. [what a sentence] Think you could... invite me for another bite tonight?

[ What a sentence. But it's hard to get too caught up in the absurdity while Astarion draws closer, looking at him with shadowed eyes. That look never fails to send a little thrill through him, and he's certain that Astarion knows that too. It's why he wields it with such deadly precision.

He reaches up, with his actual hand this time, and brushes the back of his knuckles along the side of Astarion's face. The smile curving his lips holds something fond, but an anticipatory sort of heat, too. ]

I think I could. I do owe you, after all, for saving me.

[In that case, Astarion all but sets the empty wine bottle aside, letting it tilt over and roll away to a forgotten part of their little camp space. It frees up that hand to reach for the warlock, snaking it behind his back to urge him forward, closer.

He tilts his head into his touch, eyes never leaving his face. This is, indeed, another tool in his kit, these hungry, bedroom eyes. But the desire is sincere, so much more earnest than the countless others he's laid with ever since he fell under Cazador's control. There's true affection there beneath the heat, and even if he isn't entirely sure how to show it, it somehow makes all the difference.

Makes it feel like this isn't all just for self-preservation.]

You do. [astarion, he saved you, too] And you need to keep me strong, just in case I need to come to your daring rescue a second time.

[ There's something different about the way Astarion looks at him these days, though Winter perhaps can't put a name to it now, he knows how it makes him feel. it makes that warmth constrict in his chest again, threatens to take his breath away. Astarion is a beautiful man, no doubt about it, but it's this look that captivates him most of all.

When he laughs this time, it's less a bright, clarion thing, and more of a low rumble that vibrates in his chest. ]

Well then, my daring savior... [ and of course, he reaches up to guide his hair away from his neck, head angling to give Astarion better access to the long, pale line of his throat. ] I'm all yours.

[How easily the mood shifts from playful to a simmering heat. A hunger, and in more ways than just a desire for blood. He hears it in Winter's tone, and Astarion does not hesitate to let it show in every little detail of his own frame. His expression, his smile, the way he moves. A guileful predator on the prowl.

And like so many nights, his prize simply awaits him, that pale tract of Winter's neck ever so inviting. He draws in closer; he's sure he can hear his pulse ticking beneath his skin with equal anticipation.]

I love to hear it.

[The idea of Winter belonging to him and only him is a wonderful thought. Paired with those words, his breath is warm on the warlock's skin, and he might can anticipate a bite at any moment now--

Except, Astarion rises up just enough to kiss him ardently on the lips first, indelicate and eager, pressing in with want. Consider it a compliment that he'll set aside his gnawing hunger for a few heated moments of this first.]

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