[ With eyes closed, Astarion can feel Gale's pulse like a magnet beneath his palm; flowing from this heart that's fed him, quenched his thirst for all these weeks. Still pumping blood, still full of life, despite the black hole at the center that could so swiftly snuff them all out.
He looks at Gale again, eyes heavy-lidded as he guides their hands to his throat. Astarion hasn't fed from him since they entered these lands, but this close, robe slipping from Gale's shoulder, Astarion can see his faded bite marks, peppering his skin like stars.
Astarion used to use that tired line, your freckles are like constellations, darling, on half his swooning quarry. He'd never actually seen it, until now: scars pinprick-white against Gale's skin, a map of Astarion's making. The parallel to Cazador lurches briefly in him, until he remembers the way Gale has bared his neck for this willingly, time and time again.
Astarion's almost lost in that reverie, fingers tracing Gale's bites, until Gale slides his shirt up his stomach, thumb brushing a nipple and making his breath hitch, lashes flutter. ]
Gods, you're worse than I am. [ With something like delight - awe, even - threading his words, stomach muscles taut as he finishes what Gale started, tugging his shirt up and over his head. His hands find their way right back to him: one at the nape of his neck, threading through soft hair, the other slipping beneath his loosened robe again. He hooks a leg over Gale's to pull him closer, the laces of his leather pants suddenly feeling far too tight for comfort. ]
Do you want me? [ A question he's asked countless times and has never cared about the answer to, until now. He means for it to have that easy, seductive slant, and instead it comes out sideways: breathless and vulnerable, far too honest. ]
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He looks at Gale again, eyes heavy-lidded as he guides their hands to his throat. Astarion hasn't fed from him since they entered these lands, but this close, robe slipping from Gale's shoulder, Astarion can see his faded bite marks, peppering his skin like stars.
Astarion used to use that tired line, your freckles are like constellations, darling, on half his swooning quarry. He'd never actually seen it, until now: scars pinprick-white against Gale's skin, a map of Astarion's making. The parallel to Cazador lurches briefly in him, until he remembers the way Gale has bared his neck for this willingly, time and time again.
Astarion's almost lost in that reverie, fingers tracing Gale's bites, until Gale slides his shirt up his stomach, thumb brushing a nipple and making his breath hitch, lashes flutter. ]
Gods, you're worse than I am. [ With something like delight - awe, even - threading his words, stomach muscles taut as he finishes what Gale started, tugging his shirt up and over his head. His hands find their way right back to him: one at the nape of his neck, threading through soft hair, the other slipping beneath his loosened robe again. He hooks a leg over Gale's to pull him closer, the laces of his leather pants suddenly feeling far too tight for comfort. ]
Do you want me? [ A question he's asked countless times and has never cared about the answer to, until now. He means for it to have that easy, seductive slant, and instead it comes out sideways: breathless and vulnerable, far too honest. ]