finalflight | PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

[ 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.

[He is absolutely teasing him, driving up the anticipation just to be difficult — even if he knows, as a vampire, he’ll be the one to crumble to the temptation, just like an animal given to instinct.

But that’s fine. That’s expected. And, really, it’s part of the fun for now.]

In more ways than one, I hope.

[Speaking of tongues, Astarion decides to press his against Winter’s neck, a slow and warm lave upwards, halting just where he feels a pulse. The vampire isn’t going to be able to drag this out much longer, steadily becoming the author of his own undoing, but he can drag Winter down a little with him.]

Oh, in so many ways. That tongue of yours must be crafted from silver, my dear Astarion.

[ There's a little gravel in his tone, thanks to Astarion seeking to slowly pluck him apart with lips and teeth and tongue. All this teasing is going to give him ideas, and perhaps he'll give voice to them once they're done with each other tonight.

His pulse thrums under his skin, excited and anticipating, and, maybe, because some baser part of himself recognizes the nearness of a predator. That's thrilling, too. ]

[Oh, they’re going to unlock so many kinks in each other over time, aren’t they.

My dear Astarion. Words like a melody in his ears, never mind the slight rumble to the warlock’s tone — which is just as wonderful in its own right. And really, for all his teasing, that’s about all the delay he’ll allow himself. Just one more kiss placed where he can feel that pulse throbbing beneath the sensitive skin of his lips, warm and present and its tempo like a siren’s call—]

My darling Winter.

[He echoes back, but the words are barely free from his mouth before the brush of fangs are no longer a tease, but a reality. They lance in, too-sharp, quick and easy. The same as always: the feeling of something cold piercing, then a numbness to banish it all away. And for Astarion? The bloom of blood across his tongue, something wonderful to finally dull the hunger.]

[ My darling Winter. What beautiful words, what a beautiful sound, carried on the tail end of Astarion’s self-restraint. It makes his heart ache to hear it, and that warmth is soon lanced through with a bright bolt of pain that makes him gasp, makes his whole body arch into the vampire on top of him.

Oh yes, he has ideas.

But for now, Astarion has more than earned the right to have his fill. He was quite gallant earlier, even if he was also quite stupid. (Winter understands he has no room to criticize because he was also quite stupid, though the pounding in his head has long been forgotten thanks to good drink and good company.) If nothing else, he’s learned that there is a time for licking one’s wounds and a time to get lost in one another, and this is definitely one of the latter. Gods, he never wants Astarion to scare him like that again. ]

[The way Winter arches into him would indeed implant a few ideas in Astarion’s head, too, and maybe they do flutter around in the back of his thoughts distantly.

But there is so very little that will supersede the feeling of having his hunger sated, that pure bliss of how the warlock tastes on his tongue. Their bodies meeting urges out a sound of pleasure from Astarion, but everything is framed in pleasure right now while he feeds.

(To think that he was so close to losing this, to losing him—)

But as before, he knows when to stop. He takes a little more than the last time, but never so much that Winter suffers ~~more than a bloodless debuff~~ more than a woozy head from it. At some point, his fangs will remove themselves from being buried in his skin, leaving the vampire with blood-stained lips and the other with a neck gently weeping red.

He kisses that spot, gentle.]

Delicious as always.

[ Astarion is a gorgeous, gorgeous man, but there's something about seeing him with a smear of red on his lips that sends that beauty straight into the realm of otherworldly. It captivates him every time.

His fingers, still tangled in silver tresses, slide down to the vampire's neck, along the line of his jaw, where he oh so gently lifts his chin with a knuckle. His thumb traces over those crimson lips, smearing all the more. ]

Come here, darling. I need you.

[ And the reminder that they're both hale and whole and here. ]

[His chin lifts with Winter’s urging, and it’ll become easier to see the red on his lips, and how it smears with the warlock’s touch. Like pigment, dashed so delicately against his skin. A mess to most eyes, or even the dangerous visage of a predator, but between the two of them? It’s an otherworldly kind of intimacy, one that Astarion’s not entirely sure he’s experienced before he met this man.

I need you. How many times will he say things that make his heart dash against his ribcage? Astarion’s throat bobs as he sets his jaw, swallowing, feeling a different kind of want rise in him — not hunger, nor lust (though the undercurrent of that exists, too), but a different desire that gnaws at him, in need of filling. The kind that’s left a yawning void in him for centuries.

In the wake of this realization, he wonders what to do, just for a moment. If this will be another night of heated, physical intimacy between them, tangled up in each other until they’re little more than useless, sweaty messes before the night is through. And he’d like that, of course he would, but—

For a moment, he just wants something quiet, something to still this essence in time, belonging to no one else but them.]

I—

[But oh, he can’t articulate that. All he does is shift until their bodies press close against each other, looking down at Winter, propped up with his elbows bracketing him on each side. Red eyes inscrutable.]

Just like this. [“Like this”, as he eases himself down and places rest his head somewhere in the crook of Winter’s neck, eyes closing and taking in his scent. Hardly matters to him if it’s the same side that’s still eking a trail of blood.] Just for a moment.

Edited 2023-09-15 23:43 (UTC)

[ That moment, brief as it is in reality, stretches into a small lifetime for Winter, during which all sorts of thoughts race through his mind. Has he done something wrong? Is Astarion's wound acting up? What on earth could possibly be the matter?

Because what he expects is for the vampire to crash into his lips, for them to taste each other and move together and eventually get so lost in one another that there's no stopping until they're both spent. But instead, something else washes across Astarion's expression, something he can't quite put a name to, but it gives him pause all the same.

Just like this, he says, and settles to curl atop him, to just be close. It's a bit of a surprise, yes, but far from disappointing. It instills a different feeling in him entirely, warm and fond and soft. He... gods, this is a better reminder than he could have hoped for, having Astarion warm in his arms, head resting sweetly on his shoulder. The harrowing moments of earlier in the day now feel so far away in the face of his bliss.

He loops his arms around the vampire, angling his head to press a kiss to his temple. Perfection. ]

Take as long as you want.

PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

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