[ They’re teetering at an edge they’ve neared before, but Astarion has never pulled them over — and Gale hasn’t urged him to, since that first night, when trembling fingers curled around his wrist.
This feels different. Electric, like the zip of magic down his spine. At the tug on his robes, Gale undoes the cinch that holds them in place, letting Astarion manoeuvre him until his left sleeve falls from his shoulder. His mouth curves, smile helpless and fond. ]
[ steady, ] You have me, Astarion. [ The natural corollary to I have you. But for how long?
An aching kiss aims to settle any shared nerves. His grip finds Astarion’s hand, guiding it to settle over the orb as violet light filters through the cracks in their fingers, then shifting to find his heart. Beat after beat rises into the cup of their hands before Gale lifts them again to find the pulse in his throat, hammering under the skin, audible in his ears. Only when he feels the tension ease in Astarion’s arm does he give his hand a parting squeeze. ]
Is there something you want? [ A low tease. Lashes kissing his cheek, mouth parted as he arches beautifully: Astarion is wanting in a way that isn’t choreographed, its end unknown to him. Gale drops his hand to Astarion’s lithe waist, rucking up his shirt — fingers straying to the divot of his hip, splaying over the flat of his hairless stomach, dipping into the slight give of his navel. Can’t help but slide his palm higher, then, until his thumb brushes over a pert nipple. ] Here, perhaps?
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This feels different. Electric, like the zip of magic down his spine. At the tug on his robes, Gale undoes the cinch that holds them in place, letting Astarion manoeuvre him until his left sleeve falls from his shoulder. His mouth curves, smile helpless and fond. ]
[ steady, ] You have me, Astarion. [ The natural corollary to I have you. But for how long?
An aching kiss aims to settle any shared nerves. His grip finds Astarion’s hand, guiding it to settle over the orb as violet light filters through the cracks in their fingers, then shifting to find his heart. Beat after beat rises into the cup of their hands before Gale lifts them again to find the pulse in his throat, hammering under the skin, audible in his ears. Only when he feels the tension ease in Astarion’s arm does he give his hand a parting squeeze. ]
Is there something you want? [ A low tease. Lashes kissing his cheek, mouth parted as he arches beautifully: Astarion is wanting in a way that isn’t choreographed, its end unknown to him. Gale drops his hand to Astarion’s lithe waist, rucking up his shirt — fingers straying to the divot of his hip, splaying over the flat of his hairless stomach, dipping into the slight give of his navel. Can’t help but slide his palm higher, then, until his thumb brushes over a pert nipple. ] Here, perhaps?