That yelp prompts Cehd'ra into letting go, hands coming together to form another gesture. Attacking the monster this close is risky...but the sound of He Ming's voice makes him hesitate, letting the magic dissipate. He isn't being hurt, at least not yet, and now that Cehd'ra lets himself be still for a moment he realizes the same thing. The monster could be hurting them quite easily, and while he's not happy about being grabbed and pinned to the floor the tentacles aren't doing anything more than holding them.
"...yes," he answers, frowning and turning his face away from the tendril smearing slime over his cheek. The useless struggle has left him panting and while he doesn't relax in the thing's grip he at least remains mostly still. "It--ngah?"
The tip of a tentacle hooks itself in the corner of his open mouth, tugging at his cheek and darting past his teeth before he can clench them shut. Cehd'ra flinches, bracing himself for something foul...instead the mucus tastes unexpectedly clean. A little salty, like...
Well, it doesn't taste horrible, but Cehd'ra still doesn't think he wants it in his mouth and shakes his head, reaching to try and pull it away. Meanwhile He Ming's shirt is stretched and pulled at, the tip of that tendril finding the collar and peeking out, flicking back and forth along He Ming's neck before curling away to grip the cloth instead. The monster seems to be thinking, tugging He Ming's shirt first one way and then another, stopping whenever it feels too much resistance to try a new angle. Eventually it figures out up, lifting He Ming's shirt up over his head before letting go, the fabric now bunched behind his shoulders.
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"...yes," he answers, frowning and turning his face away from the tendril smearing slime over his cheek. The useless struggle has left him panting and while he doesn't relax in the thing's grip he at least remains mostly still. "It--ngah?"
The tip of a tentacle hooks itself in the corner of his open mouth, tugging at his cheek and darting past his teeth before he can clench them shut. Cehd'ra flinches, bracing himself for something foul...instead the mucus tastes unexpectedly clean. A little salty, like...
Well, it doesn't taste horrible, but Cehd'ra still doesn't think he wants it in his mouth and shakes his head, reaching to try and pull it away. Meanwhile He Ming's shirt is stretched and pulled at, the tip of that tendril finding the collar and peeking out, flicking back and forth along He Ming's neck before curling away to grip the cloth instead. The monster seems to be thinking, tugging He Ming's shirt first one way and then another, stopping whenever it feels too much resistance to try a new angle. Eventually it figures out up, lifting He Ming's shirt up over his head before letting go, the fabric now bunched behind his shoulders.