[ His stomach flips, and his face flushes, tinged darker in the purple-pink glow of their surroundings. Irritation twists his mouth. Are you even listening to me? caught in his throat, stoppered by the way Astarion’s moonspun curls fall in his face, head bent almost reverently over Gale’s reddened knuckles. Oh.
He shifts on Astarion’s lap, not pulling away but seeking purchase, free hand sliding to tug his collar between his thumb and forefinger. The leather pulls taut, biding seconds that feel like aching minutes, as he looks from Astarion’s rubied eyes to his lips, unable to fathom that they were on his burning skin moments before.
Gale dips his nails in the open wound on his palm again, wincing slightly — though he doesn’t drop his gaze, watchful as he unfolds his hand, pressing a red fingerprint at the corner of Astarion’s mouth, then brushing the bow of his lips. ]
Don’t be cruel. [ By denying him healing — no, by offering and then not seeing it through, leaving him bereft as he was on the mountaintop. Or perhaps even by sinking fangs into his smarting injury. ]
[ Don't be cruel, Gale says, as if Astarion has ever been anything else. Shades of cruelty are all he knows.
And now Gale is teasing, smearing blood over Astarion's lips. His nostrils flare again at the scent, and before Gale can protest Astarion slides his tongue over the pad of Gale's thumb, lashes fluttering low as the taste of him blooms in Astarion's mouth, copper and acid and something sticky-sweet - the spores, still thick in the air around them.
Astarion has played seducer and charlatan longer than Gale's been alive, but there's part of him that isn't just playing, here in the warm dark. The hand at Gale's hip grips a little harder as he pulls Gale's thumb into his mouth, careful of his teeth for now, sucking the blood from it before pulling off. ]
[ Another hissed breath, as Astarion laps at his thumb. Not disgusted, then, or repulsed by the acrid taste of the rot inside him, if his drooping eyes and eager tongue are any indication. Relief floods him. Heat pools in his gut. He feels so unbelievably hot, even with Astarion’s cool lips on his fingers.
And he thinks about — droppinh his hand to his lap, parting his rucked up robes to find relief — absolutely not. Inappropriate. Unwelcome, to be sure, even with Astarion’s parted lips seemingly begging for more. Gale leans forward, pupils blown out. Driven by desire, not intelligence, when he slicks two fingers, pushing them into the plush on Astarion’s mouth. A light press against his tongue. A stray touch at the tip of one fang. ]
[ voice rough, ] How is it? [ The touch. His ichorous blood. He doesn’t know. ]
[ Astarion knows the steps to this dance so well, he doesn't miss a beat - just closes his fingers around Gale's wrist, then closes his eyes, drawing fore and middle finger further into his mouth.
Gale had shocked him in the river, electric current cutting bone-deep, and the taste of him holds some of that spark. The rot Gale has spoken of threads the aftertaste, but Astarion is a dead thing. There's rot within him too.
Astarion's fangs bracket both fingers, and he scrapes the point along them just enough to sting as he flattens his tongue and hollows his cheeks, creating suction, drawing them in nearly to the first knuckle.
He swallows, larynx bobbing as Gale's blood warms his throat, then slides his fingers from his mouth, slick with saliva and blood. ]
Hmm. [ Astarion looks up at Gale through his lashes again, pupils as dark as Gale's as he noses against his palm, nipping at the meat just below the first knuckle. Not yet delving into the wound itself. His voice rasps, ] Thinking of the sort of magic you could do with your fingers on my tongue.
[ Gale's dextrous hands, always flicking sigils into the air. The wound drips blood onto Astarion's armor, and Astarion suddenly wishes he could feel it on his skin, hips shifting beneath Gale's. ]
[ As Astarion takes his fingers, Gale chokes. His dusty flush becomes something of a permanent stain, mouth open and eyes transfixed. Of course he doesn’t answer Gale’s sincere question, but if it were truly so foul, he supposes Astarion wouldn’t be licking his fingers clean. ]
Astarion — [ emphasis in all the wrong places, hips hitching into the nothing, the barest friction of his robes. Good, when rutting into Astarion’s stomach would be shameful (he reminds himself of this thrice over, in the hopes his cock won’t twitch in interest). His hand stutters to Astarion’s shoulder, trying to steady himself. ]
Gods, what a line. [ A strangled sound, in the wake of Astarion’s hollowing cheeks, made more depraved by his hard angles. He wants to mock Astarion for his sloppy seductions, recycled lines from his attempt at wooing Tav and countless others before her, to be sure, but he can’t stop thinking about his fingers in Astarion’s mouth, playing his body like a lyre — ]
You — your mouth is more wicked than any I’ve known. [ He slides his free hand to the vee in Astarion’s leather armour, plucking at the clasp, suddenly possessed by the thought of more skin-on-skin and the relief it might promise. ] But I could think of better uses for my clever hands than holding your devilish tongue.
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
no subject
He shifts on Astarion’s lap, not pulling away but seeking purchase, free hand sliding to tug his collar between his thumb and forefinger. The leather pulls taut, biding seconds that feel like aching minutes, as he looks from Astarion’s rubied eyes to his lips, unable to fathom that they were on his burning skin moments before.
Gale dips his nails in the open wound on his palm again, wincing slightly — though he doesn’t drop his gaze, watchful as he unfolds his hand, pressing a red fingerprint at the corner of Astarion’s mouth, then brushing the bow of his lips. ]
Don’t be cruel. [ By denying him healing — no, by offering and then not seeing it through, leaving him bereft as he was on the mountaintop. Or perhaps even by sinking fangs into his smarting injury. ]
no subject
And now Gale is teasing, smearing blood over Astarion's lips. His nostrils flare again at the scent, and before Gale can protest Astarion slides his tongue over the pad of Gale's thumb, lashes fluttering low as the taste of him blooms in Astarion's mouth, copper and acid and something sticky-sweet - the spores, still thick in the air around them.
Astarion has played seducer and charlatan longer than Gale's been alive, but there's part of him that isn't just playing, here in the warm dark. The hand at Gale's hip grips a little harder as he pulls Gale's thumb into his mouth, careful of his teeth for now, sucking the blood from it before pulling off. ]
no subject
And he thinks about — droppinh his hand to his lap, parting his rucked up robes to find relief — absolutely not. Inappropriate. Unwelcome, to be sure, even with Astarion’s parted lips seemingly begging for more. Gale leans forward, pupils blown out. Driven by desire, not intelligence, when he slicks two fingers, pushing them into the plush on Astarion’s mouth. A light press against his tongue. A stray touch at the tip of one fang. ]
[ voice rough, ] How is it? [ The touch. His ichorous blood. He doesn’t know. ]
no subject
Gale had shocked him in the river, electric current cutting bone-deep, and the taste of him holds some of that spark. The rot Gale has spoken of threads the aftertaste, but Astarion is a dead thing. There's rot within him too.
Astarion's fangs bracket both fingers, and he scrapes the point along them just enough to sting as he flattens his tongue and hollows his cheeks, creating suction, drawing them in nearly to the first knuckle.
He swallows, larynx bobbing as Gale's blood warms his throat, then slides his fingers from his mouth, slick with saliva and blood. ]
Hmm. [ Astarion looks up at Gale through his lashes again, pupils as dark as Gale's as he noses against his palm, nipping at the meat just below the first knuckle. Not yet delving into the wound itself. His voice rasps, ] Thinking of the sort of magic you could do with your fingers on my tongue.
[ Gale's dextrous hands, always flicking sigils into the air. The wound drips blood onto Astarion's armor, and Astarion suddenly wishes he could feel it on his skin, hips shifting beneath Gale's. ]
no subject
Astarion — [ emphasis in all the wrong places, hips hitching into the nothing, the barest friction of his robes. Good, when rutting into Astarion’s stomach would be shameful (he reminds himself of this thrice over, in the hopes his cock won’t twitch in interest). His hand stutters to Astarion’s shoulder, trying to steady himself. ]
Gods, what a line. [ A strangled sound, in the wake of Astarion’s hollowing cheeks, made more depraved by his hard angles. He wants to mock Astarion for his sloppy seductions, recycled lines from his attempt at wooing Tav and countless others before her, to be sure, but he can’t stop thinking about his fingers in Astarion’s mouth, playing his body like a lyre — ]
You — your mouth is more wicked than any I’ve known. [ He slides his free hand to the vee in Astarion’s leather armour, plucking at the clasp, suddenly possessed by the thought of more skin-on-skin and the relief it might promise. ] But I could think of better uses for my clever hands than holding your devilish tongue.