[ For all that Astarion is a practiced liar, he does mean to speak to Gale the next day. Except that their relatively steady pace of expedition accelerates, once Tav decides it's time to prioritize reaching Moonrise--and thus time to venture properly through the Underdark. Not only does Astarion not have an opportunity to speak with Gale alone, he doesn't get to witness any potential reactions to the mark Astarion's left on his throat. Gale is whisked off with the lead party while Astarion is stuck packing up camp and finding a suitable place for them to pitch their tents amidst volatile mushrooms (sentient and otherwise) and drow outposts.
Tav finds an arcane tower below the surface, which of course means the magic users are marched to investigate while Astarion is left with Lae'zel and Karlach to sharpen their blades and sort the party's rations. The monotony and the nervous twist in his gut are both miserable.
It also means he hasn't had a chance to loot anything fresh for Gale, nor has he been able to feed properly. Astarion's own hunger pangs are staved enough by the occasional bat and lizard, and he has to hope Tav will cede something from the party cache if Gale's catches up to him while they're gone.
Which additionally means Astarion is worried about Gale, beyond just considering him an asset. Which is part of the whole problem.
Finally, Astarion's roped into a short scouting venture while Gale is left behind to rest. They ambush a duergar camp, and Astarion returns aching and covered in blood, one bejeweled arcane ring slipped into his pack. By some small blessing, their own camp is near a warm underground mineral spring--perfectly safe, according to Halsin--and seeing as Astarion doesn't need to eat with the rest of them, he slips off to rinse himself of viscera.
He sheds his armor at his tent and most of the rest of his clothes along the way, down to his underwear by the time he realizes he's not the only one in for an evening bath. There isn't much room for modesty in the great outdoors (or great underground, as it were), so most of them have shared the bracing river topside at a polite distance apart.
Somehow, Astarion and Gale haven't yet. Different sleep rhythms, maybe, what with Astarion not actually needing any. But here he finds himself at the edge of a steamy spring, lit only by the strange bioluminescent plants of the Underdark, staring at Gale's naked back a few yards from him. Their first time alone in days.
Astarion knows how to be quiet, stick to the shadows; he could slip back to camp before Gale even had a chance to turn around and see that he has company. A week or two ago, he likely would have done just that and dealt with his own smell in the morning. But Astarion is tired, and--he's missed him, he realizes with an uncomfortable pang, and they do need to talk. And this is a terrible place for it, with Gale very naked and Astarion nearly there, but it's not like they have many better options down here. So Astarion clears his throat from the rock he's perched on at the edge of the spring, not shedding the last of his meager modesty just yet. ]
Mind if I join you? I'll try not to get blood all over your side of the bath.
[ As he told Astarion, Gale is an old hand at waiting. There’s no time for him to catch Astarion by the elbow and see how he’s faring, however much he’d like to — and that’s fine. It makes him all the more relieved to have left things on a note of appreciation, not one of uncertainty.
The first day after, Gale thinks he’s gotten away with the marks at his throat, until Lae’zel “compliments” his spell-casting against a bulette, suggesting that he indulge his carnal desires more often, if it improves his performance in the field so. Later, when Shadowheart falls into step beside him on their walk to the arcane tower, she asks him how it felt to kneel at another altar, and he nearly stumbles into a chasm. (Before he notices a flicker of unease in her eyes: They’re the only two people of faith in the party, he surmises, and if his most unshakable, undying devotion should falter... He assures her his prayers to Mystra have remained as they were before, a constant, a comfort. For his efforts, he receives a dry: Your goddess is a different sort of mistress than mine. Although she offers to heal the marks, he declines.)
Each night, when Astarion slinks off as he prepares the dinner, Gale watches him leave. With their divergent duties, there’s no time to talk, let alone offer his neck, to Astarion. He tells himself that’s good, that it allows his companion time to review the encounter on his own terms, but Gale longs to dip into those curls again and unspool Astarion’s tangled thoughts with a deft hand. He concluded back then that the dismissal wasn’t to do with him, but a thread of insecurity threatens to make it so. Besides, he can’t help but worry about the nature and quality of food hunted in the Underdark.
At the spring, Gale folds his clothes neatly on the rocky outcropping (beside his modest collection of soaps) and swiftly finds some relief. The hunger pangs have started anew, faster than they ever have before. A sign that the orb is gaining power as he loses it, marching inexorably toward his end. He dares to ask Mystra why in his nightly prayers and receives no answer.
Best not to think of that now, with heat surrounding him — and a familiar voice behind him. His back straightens, muscles tensing as the water runs rivulets down his spine. Unable to stop himself, he looks over his shoulder at Astarion. Oh, that’s a new ache, fond and wanting. A desire to have Astarion near again that lifts the set of his eyes and curve of his brows. ]
Not yours, I hope. [ His gaze flickers over Astarion’s person, checking for injuries. If he happens to notice just how lithe Astarion is, well — between the heat of the water and the sudden realisation of what he’s done, colour rises up his chest to settle high on his cheeks. He turns away again, busying himself with an attempt to tie his hair back, for want of anything else to do with his hands. ] Please — this spring is big enough for the two of us, and you’ll appreciate its warmth even more than I, though not by much.
[ He succeeds in tying his waves in a loose knot at the nape of his neck, any missing strands plastered to his skin by the steam. He hazards another glance over his arm, trying not to look hopeful at the sight of Astarion so near. His earring glints blue in the strange light, still secure above the twin scars of Astarion’s true bite. ]
I take it the duergar were not open to diplomacy. To be expected, with their taste for conquering. And having seen what carnage they inflicted on the Myconids, I can’t say I’m disappointed.
[ Gale doesn’t savour violence the way that some of their group do, but he can appreciate its necessity, in matters such as these. ]
[ Gods, he is beautiful. It's an unbidden thought that should dissipate easily enough, but instead catches in his throat just as Gale's earring catches the light, the bruise Astarion left the other night faded to the blue-green color of veins beneath skin. ]
Not much is mine. [ After a cleared throat, peeling out of his underwear and slipping into the warm green water. Astarion is losing his touch; normally he'd make a show of it, call attention to the way Gale's cheeks went pink, stretch his muscles under this flattering lamp-glow luminescence. It's not that he's ungraceful, but he feels figuratively stripped down after their last encounter and the subsequent space between, not quite up to the task of performing the rake.
Shadowheart patched them up well enough, but he still won't fully heal until he's rested, and Astarion feels the sting of an open slice on his ribs as it hits the water, aware also of a cut on his cheekbone. He'll have a better sense of the lay of the land once he cleans the rest away.
He didn't think to bring his own soap, but much of the blood lifts from his skin with a gentle sweep of cupped hands through the water, turning it pink around him. It's a task that keeps him from staring openly at Gale, for the moment. ]
Talking didn't get us far, no. [ After he's plunged his head beneath the water and re-emerged, slicked his hair back out of his eyes and blinked the water from his lashes, his feet bringing him a few steps closer to Gale. Normally the carnage would have sated something in Astarion, but it did little for him today. ]
It does mean I found you something, though. For later.
[ Once the water ripples and stills, Gale dares to turn his attention on Astarion fully. Gods above, he’s all the more lovely for not trying. He forcibly walks his eyes to the water to keep from staring. Despite wishing to linger on fine lines and pale skin, he watches how the water pinks and disperses with an uneasy frown. Not much is too much, in Gale’s opinion. Their path grows ever more dangerous in pursuit of the Absolute. ]
Oh? [ He looks up to find Astarion nearer than before — and somehow softer, ragged edges sanded down by the day or their previous encounters. It’s riveting, how a droplet traces a path down his cheek, under his angled jaw. On refocusing, his gaze catches on the cut at Astarion’s face. An injury unworthy of Shadowheart’s time, when she no doubt had worse gashes to mend, but it makes Gale’s stomach twist to see it. A blade that close could have been fatal, even for a vampire spawn.
On instinct, he wades closer, tilting his head to check him for other injuries. Preoccupied as he is, it takes him a moment to process what Astarion means to offer him. An irresponsible fondness battles with buzzing anxiety for control of his features. His mouth curves high on one side in obvious appreciation, eyes crinkling. ]
That is most gratifying to hear. [ lightly, ] I’ll admit my hunger isn’t as easily satisfied as it once was. [ A development that he’d prefer to attribute to the tadpole, although he knows better. Nothing indicates that he’s more fatigued than usual, at least. ] On that note, how are you faring down here?
I can't say I particularly recommend cave skink blood, when there are other options. [ Astarion wrinkles his nose lightly, but his expression smoothes as Gale looks him over. He's quite conscious of the infernal scarring on his back, though Gale isn't yet circling him to see it, nor embracing him to feel the raised flesh. Always aware of his own angles, despite not being able to see them himself.
Now that they're close, and with Gale's hair pinned loosely back and out of the way, Astarion can't stop himself reaching for both bruise and bite mark on his neck. His touch is feather-light, hungry though he admittedly is, fingertips just brushing skin. ]
I did want to talk to you. [ And it's clear from his voice that he doesn't quite know how to do this--this being 'have an honest conversation'. ] Our arrangement is uncomplicated for me, but the rest...
[ Astarion's gaze flicks to Gale's sweet, earnest face and then down at the water as he lowers his hand, letting go of a soft huff. ] Most people are easy, you know. I give them whatever pleasures they desire and then march them off to the gallows, or--and this should have been your case--I lock in an ally who finds me both charming and useful.
[ Astarion waves his hand and then flicks some water nowhere in particular, frowning. ]
Only I can't just--sate you like I always do. And when you asked if I wanted you to touch me, I... [ His brow furrows, fingers curling in toward his palm. ] I did--I do--want something with you. And I can count on one hand the number of times, in hundreds of years of taking thousands to bed, I have actually wanted it.
And I don't...know what that means. Or how to proceed. If you even still want to, knowing I was perfectly ready to use you.
[ Despite the heat, Gale shivers as Astarion touches the dual marks at his throat, the way he’s been doing for days. Undeniable proof that something happened between them, every time he applies pressure to the tender bruises. His heart leaps into his throat, pulse quickening enough that he can only hope that the idea of vampires noticing such things is utter fiction. Gale can’t look away from him, transfixed by this new, somewhat worrying expression.
As soon as Astarion says but, Gale braces for a rejection. Having pushed for too much, too fast — it’s to be expected. Then there’s a shift in the air (or maybe that’s terrain changing beneath his feet), a seriousness that even Gale’s bloated ego doubts pertains to him. His mind snaps into focus, grasping at every word to contextualise it.
Astarion has spoken about Cazador before — at times blunt and at others, oblique. He’s said enough for Gale to construct an unerringly cruel picture of the man. Even so, the idea of Astarion dangled as a lure, in mind and body, stuns him. Something he knew to be true that he hadn’t comprehended in full. His stomach turns, conflict visible in his the purse of his mouth and downturned eyes.
I do want something with you, changes the tenor of this already-surreal conversation again, building to a brighter note than he anticipated. ]
I do want to. [ replied sudden and sure. Gale reaches out, fingers brushing Astarion’s before he takes one hand in both of his own. His voice lowers, like this is an admission just for them, even with the privacy afforded by the spring. ] And I haven’t wanted anything with anyone in quite some time.
[ Not since Mystra cast him out. He’s certain that Astarion (and everyone in their troupe) assumes as much, but it still feels significant to admit aloud. He squeezes Astarion’s hand, and his lips turn up a little. ]
If you want for anything, I should be so lucky to give it to you. [ He said that before, didn’t he? Strange, to think he meant it then and means it now. ] And if you don’t know what you want, then — well, I’m not sure I do, either, so we can figure that out together. [ A little abashed. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. ] Slowly.
[ Not his forte, in matters of affection, but he’s a quick study. ]
Slowly. [ Astarion repeats it, like he's feeling out the word. Many things about undeath have been slow, excruciating even, but his victims have always been an endless churn, a blur of faces and names he's long since forgotten.
He is responsible for their deaths, even under Cazador's orders. Astarion doesn't often ruminate on his body count; there are things he does relish about bloodshed, but he's in his body when he's killing in a way that he never has been during sex.
Astarion has felt present with Gale. Even with a mouthful of Weave-blood, the world shimmering around him, Gale was solid and real. If he lost himself it was in him, not...somewhere else, somewhere far away.
He looks down at their hands, at Gale's cupped around his, before blinking up at him, searching his face for performance or uncertainty and finding only honesty instead. ]
You are full of surprises. [ Softly, with some degree of genuine awe. He shifts closer, can feel the steam rising off of Gale's skin between them where the spring's heat meets the cool air of the Underdark. ]
I don't know what I want. But I think I would like to find out, with you.
Edited (i got too italics happy i gotta rein it in) 2023-12-24 05:24 (UTC)
Then that’s what we’ll do. [ Gale unhooks one hand to lift it between them, cupping Astarion’s jaw gently. Uncalloused fingers smooth over the apple of his cheek. ]
[ seriously, ] If we were in Waterdeep, I’d have taken the time to court you properly. Or I’d have tried, at least. [ Perhaps Astarion would have hated that, the possibility of artifice too great in an old-fashioned ritual. Or maybe he would have liked the careful build, its guiding steps — the presents, he’s certain would be appreciated, eyes crinkling at his private joke. ] My mother — and Tara — would be appalled that I’ve forgotten my manners, in the matter of you.
[ Gale hushes a spell under his breath, watching intently as the small cut knits itself back together under the arc his thumb. A hum of satisfaction, then, as if he’s been thinking about doing that since he spotted the shallow slash. ]
Ah, there you are. [ Rumbled low in his throat, equal parts fondness and self-satisfaction in the curve of his mouth. It would be too easy to kiss him, to push, but Gale only returns his wayward hand to the clasp of their fingers, lifting the back of Astarion’s hand to his mouth, a reverent kiss to his knuckles. ]
[ Astarion's initial impression of Gale - which feels like ages ago, now, despite Astarion's elven and vampiric relationship to time - sorely underestimated his charm. Romantics like Gale always felt like easy prey, and while it's hard to shake that instinct, Astarion is realizing how different these lines are from someone who's not just parroting them to sprinkle sugar over deadly poison.
Or maybe Astarion is just easy prey, now. He can hear Cazador's sneer in the back of his mind, how useless and pathetic Astarion would be to him now that he's been softened by sunlight.
Gale's kiss melts the cold of that thought, at least for the moment. If Astarion's gaze was far away, it's back with him at the brush of lips to knuckles. The tension in his shoulders loosens, and he slides a hand to Gale's chest, fingers splaying over his heart. ]
I may need to hear each and every step of how you would court me. In excruciating detail.
[ For a moment, Astarion is elsewhere, and Gale fights the urge to ask where he went, ever curious. What matters, he tells himself, is that he came back. And despite his reservations, he edges ever closer. Even with his cold blood, his splayed palm is a brand, seared over both the blight and his heart.
He releases Astarion’s hand, so that he’s free to touch as he likes. His own hands stretch out carefully, one settle at Astarion’s hip and the other tucking a wayward strand of hair behind his pointed ear. ]
[ with a grin, ] Well, to start, I’d have wined and dined you before all the rest — though I suppose there was dining, of a sort. [ on both their parts. A faint flush burns anew. ]
I most certainly would have shown you all of Waterdeep. It isn’t called the City of Splendours for nothing. [ with a wistful sigh, ] The gardens in the Castle Ward alone are unparalleled.
And your blood is an... intriguing vintage. [ Astarion drags the backs of his nails through the soft hairs on Gale's chest as he speaks, then traces the curling tendrils of his brand. Gale's hand is warm on his hip, the water and his words helping loosen some of Astarion's knots. Of which there are many, and Gale may eventually tire of untangling them; but for now, they're both present. He's going to try not to shrink from that.
Astarion's voice drops, draping his other arm over Gale's shoulders to rest a hand at his nape, fingers kneading at any tightness there. ]
One I'm keen to taste again, even without the backdrop of a moonlit garden. [ Though this small corner of the Underdark doesn't lack romance, all things considered. ]
[ The description of his blood knocks a full laugh from his chest, head tilted back. His grin fades into a sly smile after that, as they become more entwined. There’s something undeniably charming, about letting Astarion touch him however he likes after confessing to having unknowable wants after years of compartmentalisation and denial.
Whatever that something he desires is, Gale feels confident that he shares it. His eyes flicker over Astarion, gaze dark and anticipatory. ]
Oh, are you courting me now? [ He lifts his hand back to Astarion’s cheek, so his thumb can brush the corner of his mouth. Shyly — ] I’ll confess to having enjoyed it. Before.
[ After the initial icy sting. Even delirious with exhaustion (and shock, at having Astarion in his space), he remember the odd pleasure-pain of the bite. ]
[ Astarion hadn't realized how much he's been curbing his hunger since they ventured into the Underdark. Gale's looking at him like he wants a taste, and Astarion holds his gaze beneath his lashes, tipping his head so Gale's thumb presses to the center of his lower lip. He parts them just enough to graze teeth over the pad, tasting the salt of his skin and a dash of soap. ]
Is that so? [ It's his turn to catch Gale's wrist and press a kiss to his knuckles, murmuring against them. ] The pain turns to bliss quick enough, with the right touch. And if you enjoy the thrill of putting your life in my hands, well...that's its own treat.
[ Gods, Astarion is beautiful. Gale finds himself transfixed by his careful movements, mouth parting in awe just as Astarion’s opens under the press of his thumb. Teeth graze the whorl of his fingerprint, and his breath catches in his throat. ]
Plenty of works have been written on the effect, ah, adrenaline has on one’s person.
[ His lashes flutter as Astarion copies his earlier move. The right touch, indeed. Can’t help but think of the pulse point in his wrist and the corresponding vulnerabilities in his neck, shoulder, thighs. Clearing his throat — ] The frisson of excitement at baring one’s throat for a predator is to be expected. An exercise in risk, yes, but also trust, in this case. That is to say, I suppose I do. [ quickly, ] Enjoy that. Because it’s you.
[ Back at the goblin camp, Gale hadn’t understood why Tav bothered with the priest of Loviatar, a stranger. If Astarion weren’t his trusted companion, it wouldn’t have the same appeal. ]
[ Because it's you. Before they were all thrown together by their shared problem, trust was an unfathomable thing to Astarion; and he suspects the majority of their party have a very tenuous amount in him, borne solely of necessity. The feeling is mutual.
Gale vocalizing his trust strikes a tender part of him, and Astarion wonders if he trusts Gale. Most people would have an easy answer, wouldn't they? If someone saves their life enough times, they trust them. But there's still something in Astarion that shrinks from the idea, guarded and sharp-clawed.
Astarion walks his fingers a little down Gale's arm and presses his lips to the veins at his wrist, holding his gaze. Here's where they would drink from each other, were they proper vampires. His lashes lower, and he listens to the sounds of the Underdark, the water as it stirs gently around their bodies and the jump of Gale's pulse, his breath.
He kisses up his arm, tugging Gale closer. Their feet touch on the slick rock beneath them, torsos nearly flush. Astarion is trying not to fall into the familiar steps that take him out of his body, focuses on Gale to keep himself here: a man he knows, not a stranger, who smells like bergamot soap and clean skin. A man who trusts him.
Astarion presses his mouth to the curve of Gale's shoulder, breathes in. ]
[ Whatever modicum of trust, however slight and flickering, led Astarion to this closeness — in the wake of an honest admission of both interest and uncertainty — seems to be more than enough for Gale. Such hopeful sparks can be nurtured into flames, after all.
Gale half-expects, half-hopes Astarion will sink teeth into his wrist, however impractical the subsequent ache would be for a wizard. Better to advise him elsewhere, even as Astarion’s mouth drifts higher and higher, until they’re in near perfect alignment. Gale brings his hand to Astarion’s shoulder in turn, sliding across damp skin to the nape of his neck. Not yet tangling in his hair, but an encouraging presence all the same. ]
The wrist is keenly important for delicate spell-work, though it affords me the best view. [ All unabashed fascination in regards to Astarion’s condition ñ, with a helping of sly appreciation for his looks. His tone lilts, a teasing mournfulness at work. ] A most terrible conflict of interest. [ clearing his throat, fingers curling and uncurling at Astarion’s hip. ]
I’d advise against the, ah, chest. The flesh atop and above the ribcage isn’t highly vascularized. And it’s prone to weak blood flow, besides. There are far more plentiful veins up the arms and across the shoulder. [ The very place Astarion murmurs against his skin, heat radiating front the point of contact. ] The more tawdry texts in my collection have a fondness for the inner thigh — which isn’t unfounded. [ His voice pitches a note higher. ] They’ve rather prominent arteries.
Gale. [ Astarion presses another kiss to his shoulder, and then the edge of his collarbone, quietly amused. ] How much thought have you given to the anatomy of a vampire bite?
[ It thrills him to think about, actually- whether Gale has looked into this since they met or if it's just one of his numerous points of interest. The many tender places you can bleed a human body, fast and slow, are second nature to Astarion after literal centuries of daggers and teeth. It's novel to consider the finer details.
Astarion's fingers trace back down Gale's chest and the lean muscle over his ribs, following his words, and at the same time he begins to walk Gale back toward the edge of the spring, to the smooth dark stone where Gale's set his collection of soaps. Assuming Gale cooperates (and his -1 Strength check rolls true), he hoists Gale into a seat on the ledge, calves still submerged while Astarion stands between his dripping thighs, at eye level with his chest. ]
Remind me to circle back to the fact that you have a collection. [ Astarion presses one hand to the small of Gale's back for support as the other trails down the dark hair at his outer thigh, not yet dipping inside. ]
[ When he had an entire day to press his fingers to fresh puncture marks and wonder if it felt as entrancing for others. Granted, they might have felt a tick more fear, in alternate circumstances.
For once, Astarion seems riveted by his lecture, following his words to the corresponding soft, vulnerable places on his body. It strikes him again just how visceral this encounter is, compared to everything he had with Mystra. ]
It’s only a hop beyond general anatomical knowledge. [ He quirks a questioning brow as Astarion starts to lead him — following until he backs into the hard stone. Oh. That’s a surprise. Not an unwelcome one, if the way his heart stops and starts is any indication. ]
Oh — [ Only half as surprising as Astarion daring to lift his not insignificant weight. Gale helps with a push, once he gets his palms flat on the ledge for leverage. Flushed from chest to cheek, utterly bare in a way he hadn’t anticipated, his expression cracks open. A little thrill straightens his spine, even so — proud of Astarion identifying and seeing through a desire.
His own curiosity and obvious interest in the proceedings outmatch his self-consciousness. The latter persists in small ways: How he cards a hand back through his hair, mussing it; the slight tension in his thigh, under Astarion’s spring-warmed hand. ]
You may. [ breathless, ] Do try not to kill us in the process.
[ No excitement, he says, and this is what he gets. ]
[ Astarion is half-hard at the sight of Gale, wet and flushed and vulnerable above him, though there isn't enough blood in his body at present to close that circle. It's heady, both the proximity to Gale's magic-soaked blood and the newness of not having tricked him into this, Astarion's survival not dependent on performance for once. ]
Spread your legs for me. [ His gaze is dark, voice going thick when Gale follows instruction. ] Good.
[ He is interested, perhaps despite himself, in the dark trail of hair beneath Gale's navel and what lies between his spread legs; but there is also something erotic about ignoring that for now, as Astarion anchors one hand at the divot between hip and thigh to keep him steady as he hitches the other leg over his shoulder.
He presses a kiss to the tender spot beneath Gale's knee, his senses tuning quickly to the jump of his pulse here, the thrum of blood beneath skin. Undue excitement indeed. Astarion adjusts his hold on Gale's leg, flicks his gaze up to his face. ]
You will be able to tell me if this gets properly dangerous for you, yes?
[ They’re so far from Astarion’s halting confessions of singular, albeit uncertain, affection. This isn’t Gale’s first time taking such pleasurable orders, but it is a first on this plane. And there’s no questioning where they are, or who he might serve as he parts his legs. The night air caresses his steaming skin, water droplets still trickling down his chest, following the arc of his spine, catching in the hollow of his collarbone. The shock of true desire in Astarion’s eyes is a balm to his old wounds, even as — no, especially as — it becomes a blatant hunger. No one has ever looked at him like that. Gale would remember, if they had.
Good. His cock gives an interested twitch, and he considers calling the whole thing off (but the temptation to take himself in hand would be worse, unsupervised). The noise that slips through his teeth as Astarion manoeuvres him into place is a needy thing. ]
I’m beginning to think you are dangerous for me. [ Shifting his weight to one hand, calf muscle flexing against Astarion’s back, Gale recalibrates. He brings careful fingers to the perfect bow of Astarion’s lips, emboldened by every point of taction gifted to him before now. It’s easier than he thought, to push two fingers inside, pressing down on Astarion’s tongue before straying to graze the point of a fang. With a note of wonder, ] And not for any of the reasons you should be.
[ If Astarion didn’t have other plans, Gale could get lost in this, the plush of his mouth. ]
[ steady now, ] I’ll know long before. [ The tell-tale burn of the orb, threatening to immolate him, is one he knows well. It’s faraway from the present, tender ache, as Astarion decides to trust him with this. ] And I’ll tell you. You have my word. [ Gently, he retracts his fingers and lifts to slide them back through Astarion’s silvery hair. ]
[ Astarion is ready with a sly of course I am at the accusation of danger, but then Gale presses two wet fingers to his mouth and all conscious thought evaporates.
It's far from the first time he's been wanted, but...to be wanted like this by someone who seems to care for him? Who knows what he is and what he's done, and isn't running? That part is entirely novel, and Astarion still has no idea what to make of it.
He makes a low sound in the back of his throat, not only permitting the intrusion but drawing Gale's fingers deeper a moment, tongue curling around them before Gale pulls back, a thread of saliva joining his fingertips to Astarion's reddened mouth.
Astarion dips his head as Gale threads those fingers through his damp hair, lashes low as he noses into Gale's thigh, breathing in. Gale's hair is sparse here, skin soft and warm, risen in gooseflesh from the cooler air. Astarion feels that he could well and truly devour him as he kisses his way up his inner thigh, courting danger by the time he finds a spot to sink his fangs in, a clean, deep bite. ]
[ Whatever Gale said about the wrist affording him the best view, he recants. Nothing, not even Astarion’s red mouth around his fingers, could improve upon this: Astarion bending into the vee of his thighs (so close to where he wants but can’t have), teasing or searching (cat-like) for the right spot. An exercise in patience that has Gale’s hips twitching as Astarion brushes up against danger. Gale rakes his fingers through Astarion’s hair, nails dragging against his scalp, more and more pleased by every curl that slips free. It’s something to focus on, besides, with his blood rushing south.
As Astarion uses his teeth, Gale’s gentle tangle abruptly becomes a tight hold. An encouraging pressure, even as he gasps. The same pin-prick that he felt by the fire recurs. A celestial warning, perhaps, or only his imagination. The splaying of one’s body on another altar is behaviour unbefitting Mystra’s Chosen — but Gale is a discarded thing. ]
Gods above. [ Such tender flesh aches more than his neck, icy pain chased by stinging pleasure. It’ll settle, he knows, when Astarion drinks enough to blur his senses and pull him under. Already, the throbbing ache draws his focus, quieting his myriad thoughts (of Mystra, of their companions approaching, of the undying agony in his chest that spreads like rot). A slight shudder, and he tips his head back. ]
[ Astarion's been right at the edge of some of Gale's stormier spells, lightning arcs and rolling thunder he's woven in and out of to deal a killing blow. Easier to navigate than fire, in some ways, but the static always makes his hair stand on end, knowing one errant step could mean a bolt that sends him straight to his maker. Again.
Sinking into Gale's blood isn't unlike being pulled toward the eye of the tempest. Astarion makes a low, pleased sound akin to a purr as his lashes flutter, drinking deep.
He's been inside so many people, but none like this - none so deadly and invigorating as Gale. The hand at Gale's hip clamps tighter, enough to leave bruises in the shape of his fingertips, feeling the life flow back to him even as it leaves Gale. ]
[ There it is, the calm that comes with a slowed pulse and lidded gaze. He drags his hand through Astarion’s hair, untangling any knots, fingers straying to soothe the concentrated line of his brow and brush his temple, too tender for what they’re playing at. As if Astarion is the one giving and not taking, tonight.
Gods, the sound he makes — felt more than heard — vibrating against his skin. ]
Good. [ Slung low and even. It’s been days since Astarion fed from him, and only the occasional graze has robbed him of blood since. He can take it. Quieter — ] Perfect. [ His hand cradles against Astarion’s skull, an encouraging push. ] Keep going, Astarion.
[ Under the twin pressures of Astarion’s hand at his back and nails digging into his thigh, his back arches (seeking something he can’t have), hips hitching as much as they can, in Astarion’s firm grip. ]
[ No one has ever praised him like this. Not once, in life or death - not with any meaning behind it, not in a way that mattered. No one who praised him for his performance ever knew his name, and the man who owned him only ever bruised and bled him and ground his body into graveyard dirt for his efforts.
With the flood of warm, potent blood coursing through him, it's almost too much, almost cracks Astarion open: does pull another noise from him, a keening one as Gale presses him closer.
He wants to be good, he wants to be perfect. He wants to be more than he's ever had the chance to be, is so hungry for it in this moment.
Astarion doesn't need to breathe, but he still pulls off of Gale after another long drink with a gasp, his eyes dark and pupils blown, mouth wet with blood that drips down his chin and into the clear spring. Unhooking Gale's leg from his shoulder, he pulls himself out of the water, hands and knees bracketing Gale's hips and thighs before a hand finds his jaw, his face, surging up to meet him, breathlessly: ]
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
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Tav finds an arcane tower below the surface, which of course means the magic users are marched to investigate while Astarion is left with Lae'zel and Karlach to sharpen their blades and sort the party's rations. The monotony and the nervous twist in his gut are both miserable.
It also means he hasn't had a chance to loot anything fresh for Gale, nor has he been able to feed properly. Astarion's own hunger pangs are staved enough by the occasional bat and lizard, and he has to hope Tav will cede something from the party cache if Gale's catches up to him while they're gone.
Which additionally means Astarion is worried about Gale, beyond just considering him an asset. Which is part of the whole problem.
Finally, Astarion's roped into a short scouting venture while Gale is left behind to rest. They ambush a duergar camp, and Astarion returns aching and covered in blood, one bejeweled arcane ring slipped into his pack. By some small blessing, their own camp is near a warm underground mineral spring--perfectly safe, according to Halsin--and seeing as Astarion doesn't need to eat with the rest of them, he slips off to rinse himself of viscera.
He sheds his armor at his tent and most of the rest of his clothes along the way, down to his underwear by the time he realizes he's not the only one in for an evening bath. There isn't much room for modesty in the great outdoors (or great underground, as it were), so most of them have shared the bracing river topside at a polite distance apart.
Somehow, Astarion and Gale haven't yet. Different sleep rhythms, maybe, what with Astarion not actually needing any. But here he finds himself at the edge of a steamy spring, lit only by the strange bioluminescent plants of the Underdark, staring at Gale's naked back a few yards from him. Their first time alone in days.
Astarion knows how to be quiet, stick to the shadows; he could slip back to camp before Gale even had a chance to turn around and see that he has company. A week or two ago, he likely would have done just that and dealt with his own smell in the morning. But Astarion is tired, and--he's missed him, he realizes with an uncomfortable pang, and they do need to talk. And this is a terrible place for it, with Gale very naked and Astarion nearly there, but it's not like they have many better options down here. So Astarion clears his throat from the rock he's perched on at the edge of the spring, not shedding the last of his meager modesty just yet. ]
Mind if I join you? I'll try not to get blood all over your side of the bath.
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The first day after, Gale thinks he’s gotten away with the marks at his throat, until Lae’zel “compliments” his spell-casting against a bulette, suggesting that he indulge his carnal desires more often, if it improves his performance in the field so. Later, when Shadowheart falls into step beside him on their walk to the arcane tower, she asks him how it felt to kneel at another altar, and he nearly stumbles into a chasm. (Before he notices a flicker of unease in her eyes: They’re the only two people of faith in the party, he surmises, and if his most unshakable, undying devotion should falter... He assures her his prayers to Mystra have remained as they were before, a constant, a comfort. For his efforts, he receives a dry: Your goddess is a different sort of mistress than mine. Although she offers to heal the marks, he declines.)
Each night, when Astarion slinks off as he prepares the dinner, Gale watches him leave. With their divergent duties, there’s no time to talk, let alone offer his neck, to Astarion. He tells himself that’s good, that it allows his companion time to review the encounter on his own terms, but Gale longs to dip into those curls again and unspool Astarion’s tangled thoughts with a deft hand. He concluded back then that the dismissal wasn’t to do with him, but a thread of insecurity threatens to make it so. Besides, he can’t help but worry about the nature and quality of food hunted in the Underdark.
At the spring, Gale folds his clothes neatly on the rocky outcropping (beside his modest collection of soaps) and swiftly finds some relief. The hunger pangs have started anew, faster than they ever have before. A sign that the orb is gaining power as he loses it, marching inexorably toward his end. He dares to ask Mystra why in his nightly prayers and receives no answer.
Best not to think of that now, with heat surrounding him — and a familiar voice behind him. His back straightens, muscles tensing as the water runs rivulets down his spine. Unable to stop himself, he looks over his shoulder at Astarion. Oh, that’s a new ache, fond and wanting. A desire to have Astarion near again that lifts the set of his eyes and curve of his brows. ]
Not yours, I hope. [ His gaze flickers over Astarion’s person, checking for injuries. If he happens to notice just how lithe Astarion is, well — between the heat of the water and the sudden realisation of what he’s done, colour rises up his chest to settle high on his cheeks. He turns away again, busying himself with an attempt to tie his hair back, for want of anything else to do with his hands. ] Please — this spring is big enough for the two of us, and you’ll appreciate its warmth even more than I, though not by much.
[ He succeeds in tying his waves in a loose knot at the nape of his neck, any missing strands plastered to his skin by the steam. He hazards another glance over his arm, trying not to look hopeful at the sight of Astarion so near. His earring glints blue in the strange light, still secure above the twin scars of Astarion’s true bite. ]
I take it the duergar were not open to diplomacy. To be expected, with their taste for conquering. And having seen what carnage they inflicted on the Myconids, I can’t say I’m disappointed.
[ Gale doesn’t savour violence the way that some of their group do, but he can appreciate its necessity, in matters such as these. ]
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Not much is mine. [ After a cleared throat, peeling out of his underwear and slipping into the warm green water. Astarion is losing his touch; normally he'd make a show of it, call attention to the way Gale's cheeks went pink, stretch his muscles under this flattering lamp-glow luminescence. It's not that he's ungraceful, but he feels figuratively stripped down after their last encounter and the subsequent space between, not quite up to the task of performing the rake.
Shadowheart patched them up well enough, but he still won't fully heal until he's rested, and Astarion feels the sting of an open slice on his ribs as it hits the water, aware also of a cut on his cheekbone. He'll have a better sense of the lay of the land once he cleans the rest away.
He didn't think to bring his own soap, but much of the blood lifts from his skin with a gentle sweep of cupped hands through the water, turning it pink around him. It's a task that keeps him from staring openly at Gale, for the moment. ]
Talking didn't get us far, no. [ After he's plunged his head beneath the water and re-emerged, slicked his hair back out of his eyes and blinked the water from his lashes, his feet bringing him a few steps closer to Gale. Normally the carnage would have sated something in Astarion, but it did little for him today. ]
It does mean I found you something, though. For later.
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Oh? [ He looks up to find Astarion nearer than before — and somehow softer, ragged edges sanded down by the day or their previous encounters. It’s riveting, how a droplet traces a path down his cheek, under his angled jaw. On refocusing, his gaze catches on the cut at Astarion’s face. An injury unworthy of Shadowheart’s time, when she no doubt had worse gashes to mend, but it makes Gale’s stomach twist to see it. A blade that close could have been fatal, even for a vampire spawn.
On instinct, he wades closer, tilting his head to check him for other injuries. Preoccupied as he is, it takes him a moment to process what Astarion means to offer him. An irresponsible fondness battles with buzzing anxiety for control of his features. His mouth curves high on one side in obvious appreciation, eyes crinkling. ]
That is most gratifying to hear. [ lightly, ] I’ll admit my hunger isn’t as easily satisfied as it once was. [ A development that he’d prefer to attribute to the tadpole, although he knows better. Nothing indicates that he’s more fatigued than usual, at least. ] On that note, how are you faring down here?
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Now that they're close, and with Gale's hair pinned loosely back and out of the way, Astarion can't stop himself reaching for both bruise and bite mark on his neck. His touch is feather-light, hungry though he admittedly is, fingertips just brushing skin. ]
I did want to talk to you. [ And it's clear from his voice that he doesn't quite know how to do this--this being 'have an honest conversation'. ] Our arrangement is uncomplicated for me, but the rest...
[ Astarion's gaze flicks to Gale's sweet, earnest face and then down at the water as he lowers his hand, letting go of a soft huff. ] Most people are easy, you know. I give them whatever pleasures they desire and then march them off to the gallows, or--and this should have been your case--I lock in an ally who finds me both charming and useful.
[ Astarion waves his hand and then flicks some water nowhere in particular, frowning. ]
Only I can't just--sate you like I always do. And when you asked if I wanted you to touch me, I... [ His brow furrows, fingers curling in toward his palm. ] I did--I do--want something with you. And I can count on one hand the number of times, in hundreds of years of taking thousands to bed, I have actually wanted it.
And I don't...know what that means. Or how to proceed. If you even still want to, knowing I was perfectly ready to use you.
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As soon as Astarion says but, Gale braces for a rejection. Having pushed for too much, too fast — it’s to be expected. Then there’s a shift in the air (or maybe that’s terrain changing beneath his feet), a seriousness that even Gale’s bloated ego doubts pertains to him. His mind snaps into focus, grasping at every word to contextualise it.
Astarion has spoken about Cazador before — at times blunt and at others, oblique. He’s said enough for Gale to construct an unerringly cruel picture of the man. Even so, the idea of Astarion dangled as a lure, in mind and body, stuns him. Something he knew to be true that he hadn’t comprehended in full. His stomach turns, conflict visible in his the purse of his mouth and downturned eyes.
I do want something with you, changes the tenor of this already-surreal conversation again, building to a brighter note than he anticipated. ]
I do want to. [ replied sudden and sure. Gale reaches out, fingers brushing Astarion’s before he takes one hand in both of his own. His voice lowers, like this is an admission just for them, even with the privacy afforded by the spring. ] And I haven’t wanted anything with anyone in quite some time.
[ Not since Mystra cast him out. He’s certain that Astarion (and everyone in their troupe) assumes as much, but it still feels significant to admit aloud. He squeezes Astarion’s hand, and his lips turn up a little. ]
If you want for anything, I should be so lucky to give it to you. [ He said that before, didn’t he? Strange, to think he meant it then and means it now. ] And if you don’t know what you want, then — well, I’m not sure I do, either, so we can figure that out together. [ A little abashed. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. ] Slowly.
[ Not his forte, in matters of affection, but he’s a quick study. ]
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He is responsible for their deaths, even under Cazador's orders. Astarion doesn't often ruminate on his body count; there are things he does relish about bloodshed, but he's in his body when he's killing in a way that he never has been during sex.
Astarion has felt present with Gale. Even with a mouthful of Weave-blood, the world shimmering around him, Gale was solid and real. If he lost himself it was in him, not...somewhere else, somewhere far away.
He looks down at their hands, at Gale's cupped around his, before blinking up at him, searching his face for performance or uncertainty and finding only honesty instead. ]
You are full of surprises. [ Softly, with some degree of genuine awe. He shifts closer, can feel the steam rising off of Gale's skin between them where the spring's heat meets the cool air of the Underdark. ]
I don't know what I want. But I think I would like to find out, with you.
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[ seriously, ] If we were in Waterdeep, I’d have taken the time to court you properly. Or I’d have tried, at least. [ Perhaps Astarion would have hated that, the possibility of artifice too great in an old-fashioned ritual. Or maybe he would have liked the careful build, its guiding steps — the presents, he’s certain would be appreciated, eyes crinkling at his private joke. ] My mother — and Tara — would be appalled that I’ve forgotten my manners, in the matter of you.
[ Gale hushes a spell under his breath, watching intently as the small cut knits itself back together under the arc his thumb. A hum of satisfaction, then, as if he’s been thinking about doing that since he spotted the shallow slash. ]
Ah, there you are. [ Rumbled low in his throat, equal parts fondness and self-satisfaction in the curve of his mouth. It would be too easy to kiss him, to push, but Gale only returns his wayward hand to the clasp of their fingers, lifting the back of Astarion’s hand to his mouth, a reverent kiss to his knuckles. ]
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Or maybe Astarion is just easy prey, now. He can hear Cazador's sneer in the back of his mind, how useless and pathetic Astarion would be to him now that he's been softened by sunlight.
Gale's kiss melts the cold of that thought, at least for the moment. If Astarion's gaze was far away, it's back with him at the brush of lips to knuckles. The tension in his shoulders loosens, and he slides a hand to Gale's chest, fingers splaying over his heart. ]
I may need to hear each and every step of how you would court me. In excruciating detail.
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He releases Astarion’s hand, so that he’s free to touch as he likes. His own hands stretch out carefully, one settle at Astarion’s hip and the other tucking a wayward strand of hair behind his pointed ear. ]
[ with a grin, ] Well, to start, I’d have wined and dined you before all the rest — though I suppose there was dining, of a sort. [ on both their parts. A faint flush burns anew. ]
I most certainly would have shown you all of Waterdeep. It isn’t called the City of Splendours for nothing. [ with a wistful sigh, ] The gardens in the Castle Ward alone are unparalleled.
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Astarion's voice drops, draping his other arm over Gale's shoulders to rest a hand at his nape, fingers kneading at any tightness there. ]
One I'm keen to taste again, even without the backdrop of a moonlit garden. [ Though this small corner of the Underdark doesn't lack romance, all things considered. ]
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Whatever that something he desires is, Gale feels confident that he shares it. His eyes flicker over Astarion, gaze dark and anticipatory. ]
Oh, are you courting me now? [ He lifts his hand back to Astarion’s cheek, so his thumb can brush the corner of his mouth. Shyly — ] I’ll confess to having enjoyed it. Before.
[ After the initial icy sting. Even delirious with exhaustion (and shock, at having Astarion in his space), he remember the odd pleasure-pain of the bite. ]
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Is that so? [ It's his turn to catch Gale's wrist and press a kiss to his knuckles, murmuring against them. ] The pain turns to bliss quick enough, with the right touch. And if you enjoy the thrill of putting your life in my hands, well...that's its own treat.
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Plenty of works have been written on the effect, ah, adrenaline has on one’s person.
[ His lashes flutter as Astarion copies his earlier move. The right touch, indeed. Can’t help but think of the pulse point in his wrist and the corresponding vulnerabilities in his neck, shoulder, thighs. Clearing his throat — ] The frisson of excitement at baring one’s throat for a predator is to be expected. An exercise in risk, yes, but also trust, in this case. That is to say, I suppose I do. [ quickly, ] Enjoy that. Because it’s you.
[ Back at the goblin camp, Gale hadn’t understood why Tav bothered with the priest of Loviatar, a stranger. If Astarion weren’t his trusted companion, it wouldn’t have the same appeal. ]
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Gale vocalizing his trust strikes a tender part of him, and Astarion wonders if he trusts Gale. Most people would have an easy answer, wouldn't they? If someone saves their life enough times, they trust them. But there's still something in Astarion that shrinks from the idea, guarded and sharp-clawed.
Astarion walks his fingers a little down Gale's arm and presses his lips to the veins at his wrist, holding his gaze. Here's where they would drink from each other, were they proper vampires. His lashes lower, and he listens to the sounds of the Underdark, the water as it stirs gently around their bodies and the jump of Gale's pulse, his breath.
He kisses up his arm, tugging Gale closer. Their feet touch on the slick rock beneath them, torsos nearly flush. Astarion is trying not to fall into the familiar steps that take him out of his body, focuses on Gale to keep himself here: a man he knows, not a stranger, who smells like bergamot soap and clean skin. A man who trusts him.
Astarion presses his mouth to the curve of Gale's shoulder, breathes in. ]
What else would you bare for me?
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Gale half-expects, half-hopes Astarion will sink teeth into his wrist, however impractical the subsequent ache would be for a wizard. Better to advise him elsewhere, even as Astarion’s mouth drifts higher and higher, until they’re in near perfect alignment. Gale brings his hand to Astarion’s shoulder in turn, sliding across damp skin to the nape of his neck. Not yet tangling in his hair, but an encouraging presence all the same. ]
The wrist is keenly important for delicate spell-work, though it affords me the best view. [ All unabashed fascination in regards to Astarion’s condition ñ, with a helping of sly appreciation for his looks. His tone lilts, a teasing mournfulness at work. ] A most terrible conflict of interest. [ clearing his throat, fingers curling and uncurling at Astarion’s hip. ]
I’d advise against the, ah, chest. The flesh atop and above the ribcage isn’t highly vascularized. And it’s prone to weak blood flow, besides. There are far more plentiful veins up the arms and across the shoulder. [ The very place Astarion murmurs against his skin, heat radiating front the point of contact. ] The more tawdry texts in my collection have a fondness for the inner thigh — which isn’t unfounded. [ His voice pitches a note higher. ] They’ve rather prominent arteries.
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[ It thrills him to think about, actually- whether Gale has looked into this since they met or if it's just one of his numerous points of interest. The many tender places you can bleed a human body, fast and slow, are second nature to Astarion after literal centuries of daggers and teeth. It's novel to consider the finer details.
Astarion's fingers trace back down Gale's chest and the lean muscle over his ribs, following his words, and at the same time he begins to walk Gale back toward the edge of the spring, to the smooth dark stone where Gale's set his collection of soaps. Assuming Gale cooperates (and his -1 Strength check rolls true), he hoists Gale into a seat on the ledge, calves still submerged while Astarion stands between his dripping thighs, at eye level with his chest. ]
Remind me to circle back to the fact that you have a collection. [ Astarion presses one hand to the small of Gale's back for support as the other trails down the dark hair at his outer thigh, not yet dipping inside. ]
May I?
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[ When he had an entire day to press his fingers to fresh puncture marks and wonder if it felt as entrancing for others. Granted, they might have felt a tick more fear, in alternate circumstances.
For once, Astarion seems riveted by his lecture, following his words to the corresponding soft, vulnerable places on his body. It strikes him again just how visceral this encounter is, compared to everything he had with Mystra. ]
It’s only a hop beyond general anatomical knowledge. [ He quirks a questioning brow as Astarion starts to lead him — following until he backs into the hard stone. Oh. That’s a surprise. Not an unwelcome one, if the way his heart stops and starts is any indication. ]
Oh — [ Only half as surprising as Astarion daring to lift his not insignificant weight. Gale helps with a push, once he gets his palms flat on the ledge for leverage. Flushed from chest to cheek, utterly bare in a way he hadn’t anticipated, his expression cracks open. A little thrill straightens his spine, even so — proud of Astarion identifying and seeing through a desire.
His own curiosity and obvious interest in the proceedings outmatch his self-consciousness. The latter persists in small ways: How he cards a hand back through his hair, mussing it; the slight tension in his thigh, under Astarion’s spring-warmed hand. ]
You may. [ breathless, ] Do try not to kill us in the process.
[ No excitement, he says, and this is what he gets. ]
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Spread your legs for me. [ His gaze is dark, voice going thick when Gale follows instruction. ] Good.
[ He is interested, perhaps despite himself, in the dark trail of hair beneath Gale's navel and what lies between his spread legs; but there is also something erotic about ignoring that for now, as Astarion anchors one hand at the divot between hip and thigh to keep him steady as he hitches the other leg over his shoulder.
He presses a kiss to the tender spot beneath Gale's knee, his senses tuning quickly to the jump of his pulse here, the thrum of blood beneath skin. Undue excitement indeed. Astarion adjusts his hold on Gale's leg, flicks his gaze up to his face. ]
You will be able to tell me if this gets properly dangerous for you, yes?
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Good. His cock gives an interested twitch, and he considers calling the whole thing off (but the temptation to take himself in hand would be worse, unsupervised). The noise that slips through his teeth as Astarion manoeuvres him into place is a needy thing. ]
I’m beginning to think you are dangerous for me. [ Shifting his weight to one hand, calf muscle flexing against Astarion’s back, Gale recalibrates. He brings careful fingers to the perfect bow of Astarion’s lips, emboldened by every point of taction gifted to him before now. It’s easier than he thought, to push two fingers inside, pressing down on Astarion’s tongue before straying to graze the point of a fang. With a note of wonder, ] And not for any of the reasons you should be.
[ If Astarion didn’t have other plans, Gale could get lost in this, the plush of his mouth. ]
[ steady now, ] I’ll know long before. [ The tell-tale burn of the orb, threatening to immolate him, is one he knows well. It’s faraway from the present, tender ache, as Astarion decides to trust him with this. ] And I’ll tell you. You have my word. [ Gently, he retracts his fingers and lifts to slide them back through Astarion’s silvery hair. ]
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It's far from the first time he's been wanted, but...to be wanted like this by someone who seems to care for him? Who knows what he is and what he's done, and isn't running? That part is entirely novel, and Astarion still has no idea what to make of it.
He makes a low sound in the back of his throat, not only permitting the intrusion but drawing Gale's fingers deeper a moment, tongue curling around them before Gale pulls back, a thread of saliva joining his fingertips to Astarion's reddened mouth.
Astarion dips his head as Gale threads those fingers through his damp hair, lashes low as he noses into Gale's thigh, breathing in. Gale's hair is sparse here, skin soft and warm, risen in gooseflesh from the cooler air. Astarion feels that he could well and truly devour him as he kisses his way up his inner thigh, courting danger by the time he finds a spot to sink his fangs in, a clean, deep bite. ]
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As Astarion uses his teeth, Gale’s gentle tangle abruptly becomes a tight hold. An encouraging pressure, even as he gasps. The same pin-prick that he felt by the fire recurs. A celestial warning, perhaps, or only his imagination. The splaying of one’s body on another altar is behaviour unbefitting Mystra’s Chosen — but Gale is a discarded thing. ]
Gods above. [ Such tender flesh aches more than his neck, icy pain chased by stinging pleasure. It’ll settle, he knows, when Astarion drinks enough to blur his senses and pull him under. Already, the throbbing ache draws his focus, quieting his myriad thoughts (of Mystra, of their companions approaching, of the undying agony in his chest that spreads like rot). A slight shudder, and he tips his head back. ]
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Sinking into Gale's blood isn't unlike being pulled toward the eye of the tempest. Astarion makes a low, pleased sound akin to a purr as his lashes flutter, drinking deep.
He's been inside so many people, but none like this - none so deadly and invigorating as Gale. The hand at Gale's hip clamps tighter, enough to leave bruises in the shape of his fingertips, feeling the life flow back to him even as it leaves Gale. ]
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Gods, the sound he makes — felt more than heard — vibrating against his skin. ]
Good. [ Slung low and even. It’s been days since Astarion fed from him, and only the occasional graze has robbed him of blood since. He can take it. Quieter — ] Perfect. [ His hand cradles against Astarion’s skull, an encouraging push. ] Keep going, Astarion.
[ Under the twin pressures of Astarion’s hand at his back and nails digging into his thigh, his back arches (seeking something he can’t have), hips hitching as much as they can, in Astarion’s firm grip. ]
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With the flood of warm, potent blood coursing through him, it's almost too much, almost cracks Astarion open: does pull another noise from him, a keening one as Gale presses him closer.
He wants to be good, he wants to be perfect. He wants to be more than he's ever had the chance to be, is so hungry for it in this moment.
Astarion doesn't need to breathe, but he still pulls off of Gale after another long drink with a gasp, his eyes dark and pupils blown, mouth wet with blood that drips down his chin and into the clear spring. Unhooking Gale's leg from his shoulder, he pulls himself out of the water, hands and knees bracketing Gale's hips and thighs before a hand finds his jaw, his face, surging up to meet him, breathlessly: ]
Please kiss me.
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