[ In opposition to all higher thought, Gale finds himself transfixed by way the colour blooms on Astarion’s face, like expensive rouge, the barely there flush of health. Everything about Astarion has sharpened, like a blade set to Lae’zel’s wetstone. All his hard lines brought into relief by the ascendant sun.
Would your ichorous blood have the same effect? Unlikely, when the rot has nestled into his chest, netherese veins spiderwebbing from his heart-centre. More prominent now, after a sleepless night and week of hunger. He wants to reach out and touch, to see if his skin is as warm as it looks, sleep-soft, sex-rumpled, blood-fed, and his arm extends, long fingers outstretched —
Curled around the neck of the bottle, tipping cool liquid down his throat, a stray droplet running from the corner of his mouth to the orb’s trail along his neck and disappearing in the shadow of his jaw. ]
Mm. [ He tips the mouth of the bottle against his lips, like he might drink more before answering the obvious jibe. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. At the academy, he was known first for his dedication to his studies, then to his goddess.
Finally, a low counter, murmured against the glass rim — ] I should think I’ve indulged in enough debauchery on this plane and the next to do more than try, at this stage of my life.
[ True and not at the same time. Mystra has shown him pleasures few other mortals dare imagine, and he has served her with eager devotion, but the carnal simplicity of a human touch has eluded him since he was a young man.
Another sip, more to keep Astarion waiting than out of any desire to drink. Why should he have this, after all he’s tasted? ]
You seem — [ His lips purse, lidded eyes searching for the word in the darkened halls of his mind, senses dulled by exhaustion and lingering inebriation. He extends his legs and his knees creak, heels just barely finding purchase on the sand below. An assessing flicker of his gaze along Astarion’s lithe form, eyes flinty. One tap, then another, of the bottle against his parted mouth.
There. One brow arches, already asking why upon deciphering the nature of Astarion’s disposition. Bridled, like a horse reigned before an open field, thrumming with energy. Unable to disperse it. ] Stifled.
[ Pent up, in the common vernacular. How strange, after all that so-called debauchery. ]
no subject
Would your ichorous blood have the same effect? Unlikely, when the rot has nestled into his chest, netherese veins spiderwebbing from his heart-centre. More prominent now, after a sleepless night and week of hunger. He wants to reach out and touch, to see if his skin is as warm as it looks, sleep-soft, sex-rumpled, blood-fed, and his arm extends, long fingers outstretched —
Curled around the neck of the bottle, tipping cool liquid down his throat, a stray droplet running from the corner of his mouth to the orb’s trail along his neck and disappearing in the shadow of his jaw. ]
Mm. [ He tips the mouth of the bottle against his lips, like he might drink more before answering the obvious jibe. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. At the academy, he was known first for his dedication to his studies, then to his goddess.
Finally, a low counter, murmured against the glass rim — ] I should think I’ve indulged in enough debauchery on this plane and the next to do more than try, at this stage of my life.
[ True and not at the same time. Mystra has shown him pleasures few other mortals dare imagine, and he has served her with eager devotion, but the carnal simplicity of a human touch has eluded him since he was a young man.
Another sip, more to keep Astarion waiting than out of any desire to drink. Why should he have this, after all he’s tasted? ]
You seem — [ His lips purse, lidded eyes searching for the word in the darkened halls of his mind, senses dulled by exhaustion and lingering inebriation. He extends his legs and his knees creak, heels just barely finding purchase on the sand below. An assessing flicker of his gaze along Astarion’s lithe form, eyes flinty. One tap, then another, of the bottle against his parted mouth.
There. One brow arches, already asking why upon deciphering the nature of Astarion’s disposition. Bridled, like a horse reigned before an open field, thrumming with energy. Unable to disperse it. ] Stifled.
[ Pent up, in the common vernacular. How strange, after all that so-called debauchery. ]