finalflight | PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

[ 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.]

[ Oh, Astarion is going to be the death of him one of these days. The vampire's breath fans across his skin, making his pulse jump all the more in anticipation of the sweet sting of fangs piercing his skin... only for him to change tracks entirely.

Not that Winter is complaining, mind. He makes a low sound into Astarion's mouth, leaning in to return the kiss with just as much eagerness. He slides his fingers into Astarion's hair, where they will probably stay even when Astarion inevitably turns his attention back to his throat. ]

[It would be a shame to be boringly predictable, after all, and Astarion thinks going in for kiss first and bite later is certainly enough to keep the other on his toes. (And maybe, bafflingly even to himself, a simple kiss sounds just as delectable as a bite.)

Winter’s touch makes a shiver run down his spine—now there’s a line he should use on him later—but the vampire responds only by deepening the kiss, urging his mouth open just enough to let him slip his tongue in, exploring. Warm, connected.

They’ll get to the bite. He just wants this indulgence first.]

[ It is a nice change of pace from the usual, even if there is something about tasting his blood on Astarion's lips that he finds enticing in its own right. He parts his lips for Astarion without much prompting, exhaling a low, pleased little sigh as their tongues mingle.

His free arm catches Astarion around the waist, and being as they're already sitting here on the floor of Astarion's tent, it's so very easy to just lay back, dragging the vampire on top of him. ]

[And Astarion is happily dragged down alongside him until he finds the weight of his body pressing warmly onto Winter’s. It’s only then he breaks their kiss, pulling not entirely gently at his lower lip as he does so.

He braces himself up on an elbow, looking down at him. The way the dark waves of his hair spread out around him, contrasted against his pale features.]

Has anyone ever told you how absolutely stunning you are?

[ For a man supposedly risen from the dead, Astarion is so warm atop him, their bodies slotting together beautifully under the vast, dark canopy of the caverns above. ]

Maybe once or twice. [ Or several times. He knows what he looks like. ] But I think I like it best coming from your lips.

[Once or twice. No, definitely several times. Astarion has eyes, you know.]

Mm. [He dips his head down lower until their foreheads touch, playful in both his indulgence and barely reined-in hunger.]

Stunning. [And then the vampire angles his head again and eases downwards, tilting at an angle murmur against his jawline.] Beautiful, even.

[ Gods, Astarion needs to stop being so cute or Winter's going to be in trouble! (He's already in trouble.)

He wasn't all bluster earlier. The compliments, things he has heard many times before, all strike him differently coming from Astarion, carried on that tone, breathed out against his skin. They travel through his whole body like electricity. ]

Mm.

[ Fingers flex against Astarion's scalp, his other hand curling into the folds of his shirt at the small of his back. ]

Go on.

[Cute? What do you mean cute? He's being rakishly dashing. Probably.

Jolts of excitement run across his nerves, Winter's touch always doing things to him, and Astarion's own wretched heart beats a little faster in his chest. His shirt pulls against his skin as it bunches up in the warlock's touch, but it just causes his smile to brush against his skin even more sharply as he trails his mouth down. Down to where the jawline transitions properly into the slope of his neck.

No bite just yet, but the sharp-edged tease of one; fangs whispering against the other's flesh as he speaks.]

Perfectly clever and wonderfully criminal in just the right amounts. Hm... knows well how to use that tongue of his.

[ No, the forehead touch was distinctly cute. The rest, however? Definitely rakishly dashing.

Astarion is for sure teasing him, no doubt trying to see how long he can hold out before he finally has to clamp down on pale skin to feed, but Winter likes it. Likes the brush of Astarion's mouth along his jaw, his neck, the subtle scrape of a fang that sends a thrill through him. He curls his fingers tighter in Astarion's hair, encouraging. ]

Hells. I can think of someone else who's far too good with his mouth.

PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

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