[ Gale isnβt the sort to attend a place like this, all low light and enticing whispers. Not out of any sort of judgment, mind, more a lack of interest β he so rarely falls for others, crawling from one all-consuming devotion to the next. His latest (and greatest) folly has been over for year now, though the damage it wrought remains, dual pangs in his chest and heart. Dates end before they start. Set-ups fizzle out. Few support him through it, and the ones continue to do so have finally tired of his melancholy. Fair enough, he supposes, with his heavy gaze weighing them down, and dour asides sapping the verve from many a conversation.
When he agrees to this β an attempt at breaking his rut β hands grasp his shoulder, encouraging, and he briefly thinks it will be good for him, after all. Nice, to be close to another warm-blooded creature, after sequestering himself for months. A hope he clings to right up until a hostess places a delicate hand in his, guiding him to his room and brushing her lips over his earring. She lilts a reminder of all thatβs been paid for, all he could enjoy, in his ear. His stomach flips, not anticipatory but uneasy. He can leave at any moment, he knows, but heβd hate to let the others down β or waste someoneβs time. Gods, he ought to have cancelled earlier, rather than inconvenience someone terribly.
When he enters the suite, the door clicking shut behind him, he sees a lithe figure slipping off their outermost layer, silver hair stark against the warm hues of the decadent room. A lush four poster, a sizeable bookshelf (for what purpose?) enough of a bath to welcome two or three or β he lifts a hand to his face, one eye peaking through the vee of his fore and ringfinger. ]
Ah, you donβt have to β apologies.
[ Already flustered, which bodes well for the night, doesnβt it. Gale dresses smartly, if unassuming. A tailored waistcoat of rich plum meets dark trousers. The dip in his starched collar exposes a faint trail of chest hair and a lined, circular tattoo, almost iridescent in the near dark. ]
[ Dalyria tells Astarion that tonight's client should be easy: a human whose friends booked him for the full night, no special requests. Astarion knows better than to think that means easy ββ more likely he'll wait until they're behind closed doors to share his nastier proclivities, and they'll have to see if the dungeon is free.
Best case scenario, he'll be snoring by midnight and Astarion will be able to settle in with a book until morning.
Astarion's securing a red-jeweled earring, still wearing his dark velvet dressing gown just before the door clicks open. He slips out of the dressing gown before turning to look at his client of the night, knowing how effective the reveal for this particular outfit is from the back: a black-and-gold embroidered corset and top with billowing white sleeves, cinched at the wrist. He's considerably less covered on the bottom, just a thong and garter set dripping with red jewels, holding up sheer white stockings.
Astarion turns, expecting the man to be gaping like a fish as they all do, and instead he ββ appears to be covering his eyes. He blinks a moment, assessing his quarry: mid-30s, handsome? (difficult to really tell behind the back of his hand), dressed like he has the money to pay for whatever he likes without necessarily flaunting it.
Astarion's gaze flicks to the tattoo, mildly intrigued but not enough to linger there, before crossing the room, all perfumed smiles as he takes the hand Gale doesn't have over his eyes, clasping it between his own.
Smoothly, ]
Don't worry, darling. We have all night to discuss whatever you need. [ Astarion wonders if they've sent him a virgin ββ not unusual, and all the more likely to be done quick and passed out early in the evening. He trails a manicured finger down the hint of exposed skin beneath his collarbone, tilting his head. ] Whatever you desire.
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
WALKING DOWN THE STREET.
When he agrees to this β an attempt at breaking his rut β hands grasp his shoulder, encouraging, and he briefly thinks it will be good for him, after all. Nice, to be close to another warm-blooded creature, after sequestering himself for months. A hope he clings to right up until a hostess places a delicate hand in his, guiding him to his room and brushing her lips over his earring. She lilts a reminder of all thatβs been paid for, all he could enjoy, in his ear. His stomach flips, not anticipatory but uneasy. He can leave at any moment, he knows, but heβd hate to let the others down β or waste someoneβs time. Gods, he ought to have cancelled earlier, rather than inconvenience someone terribly.
When he enters the suite, the door clicking shut behind him, he sees a lithe figure slipping off their outermost layer, silver hair stark against the warm hues of the decadent room. A lush four poster, a sizeable bookshelf (for what purpose?) enough of a bath to welcome two or three or β he lifts a hand to his face, one eye peaking through the vee of his fore and ringfinger. ]
Ah, you donβt have to β apologies.
[ Already flustered, which bodes well for the night, doesnβt it. Gale dresses smartly, if unassuming. A tailored waistcoat of rich plum meets dark trousers. The dip in his starched collar exposes a faint trail of chest hair and a lined, circular tattoo, almost iridescent in the near dark. ]
βI meant to call ahead.
no subject
Best case scenario, he'll be snoring by midnight and Astarion will be able to settle in with a book until morning.
Astarion's securing a red-jeweled earring, still wearing his dark velvet dressing gown just before the door clicks open. He slips out of the dressing gown before turning to look at his client of the night, knowing how effective the reveal for this particular outfit is from the back: a black-and-gold embroidered corset and top with billowing white sleeves, cinched at the wrist. He's considerably less covered on the bottom, just a thong and garter set dripping with red jewels, holding up sheer white stockings.
Astarion turns, expecting the man to be gaping like a fish as they all do, and instead he ββ appears to be covering his eyes. He blinks a moment, assessing his quarry: mid-30s, handsome? (difficult to really tell behind the back of his hand), dressed like he has the money to pay for whatever he likes without necessarily flaunting it.
Astarion's gaze flicks to the tattoo, mildly intrigued but not enough to linger there, before crossing the room, all perfumed smiles as he takes the hand Gale doesn't have over his eyes, clasping it between his own.
Smoothly, ]
Don't worry, darling. We have all night to discuss whatever you need. [ Astarion wonders if they've sent him a virgin ββ not unusual, and all the more likely to be done quick and passed out early in the evening. He trails a manicured finger down the hint of exposed skin beneath his collarbone, tilting his head. ] Whatever you desire.