finalflight | PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

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.

[As long as he wants. He doesn’t know how long that is, how long it should be, to allow this feeling of simply being close to wash over him. Would that he could stretch it out into infinity and let it fill that cavernous void hollowed out in him over the wretched centuries of his life. Maybe he could forget. Winter is good at making him do that — forget.

When the warmth of his kiss is pressed against his forehead, Astarion gutters out a breath, a wan little smile hidden away on his expression.]

Hardly. I wouldn’t keep you here all night.

And why not?

[ Winter can think of worse places to spend the night, such as... well, alone. This is nice in a way that's wholly unexpected yet seems so natural, so perhaps going back to his own tent feels like the less desirable thing. ]

[Because, truthfully, he doesn't know what to do with a moment like this overlong. For as much as he would like to get lost in it, and humor the idea that the world can hang still, much like he remains stilled in Winter's embrace, it is such a strange, alien concept that he cannot dwell on it. Cannot indulge in it as much as he wants to, when uncertainty regarding… feeling still looms like a pall.

So, Astarion enjoys the quiet and comfort selfishly. Perhaps for even a length of time that might be called indulgent.

But eventually, he will sever it and move on—]

Because…

[I don't know what this is.

Instead, he shifts, finally, raising his head and trying to meet Winter’s gaze with a purposefully sharpening smile.]

Because me, boring you to death? I think not.

[With the lilt of a man trying his best to shove whatever moment that was back into the passage of time:]

Besides, our last little nighttime dalliance was cut short. [Because Winter was bruised and tired and needed the rest.] We need to make up for lost time. Don't you think?

[ Oh, he would hardly call Astarion boring. He knows so much and yet so little about the vampire, and no matter how lengthy the time spent in his company, he finds himself always desiring to come back for more. He wants to know this man so badly, to piece together all of the fragmented pieces of what makes him… him. To that end, he thinks sitting in silence is just as meaningful as the time they spend talking or tumbling into bed together.

The moment of quiet lasts longer than he thinks it might, but it is broken all too soon, before Winter can really grasp the feeling that winds its way through him like a lazy coil of smoke. Astarion is once again looking at him, with a look that is no doubt purposefully designed to rekindle that spark of desire. It does its job, and Winter’s lips curve into a smirk. ]

Mm, how could I argue with that?

[ So saying, he slides a hand to the back of Astarion’s neck and tugs him down for a kiss. He’ll not say no to getting lost in each other tonight, not after it all almost went horribly wrong earlier. He’ll cherish this, in whatever form it takes. ]

[And so lost in each other they’ll become. Astarion always finds it so easy to do so, wrapped in comfort and pleasure alike. Winter almost makes it easy to feel safe in his presence — a sentiment that lingers even as lust eventually takes over fully, and they properly while the night away via the distraction of each other’s bodies.

The wee hours of the morning will come all too quickly.]

PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

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