[ 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: ]
[ Woozy with blood-loss, half-delirious with closeness, Gale doesn’t hesitate — his instinctive shyness all but subsumed. With one hand in Astarion’s hair and the other cupping his jaw, he complies enthusiastically. The metallic, electric taste in Astarion’s mouth must be his own blood. Whatever properties it has beyond its base, well, eroticism is lost on his human tongue. ]
You don’t have to ask. [ — when Gale would give him anything. It’s rushed out between kisses, too quick to be a falsehood. He licks the corner of Astarion’s red mouth before mapping its insides. A warm, wanting cavern because of him, his life force and magic coursing through Astarion’s veins. Hard not to give in to the possessive jolt, rattling his systems. It takes one more kiss and then another, to satisfy the urge. ]
Astarion — [ to get his attention, maybe just to say his name. ] — you haven’t even washed. [ Before getting distracted by Gale Dekarios, for reasons unknown and, frankly, unfathomable to him. Palms at Astarion’s shoulders, he gives a guiding push back into the water. They can’t go further than this, however much they want. Gale slips in after him, fumbling the landing with skidding limbs. Still backed against the rocks, he steadies himself on Astarion, a helpless laugh bubbling over. The water helps douse his desires, even as the wound on his thigh stings. ] Let me.
[ He tips back just enough to catch Astarion’s eye, one arm outstretched to grasp his soap. ]
[ Astarion groans into Gale's mouth, every point of contact blooming with pleasure between them. Prior to their entanglement, he wouldn't have taken Gale for a man willing to kiss with a mouthful of his own blood; but Astarion likes that he's full of surprises.
He lets Gale nudge him back into the spring, getting his footing as Gale splashes in, an arm reflexively looping beneath Gale's to keep him upright. There's a cloud of pink in the water around them, from the open puncture wounds on Gale's thigh, and it takes a significant degree of self-control to not let his hands wander back to it. ]
Washing the blood from me after I've just drunk yours? [ It's- sweet, somehow. So very Gale. Astarion wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood across it more than cleaning anything. He flicks his tongue over a fang, noting the red on Gale's lips, in his beard. It looks good on him. ]
[ Strange, how much things can change in a night. Even after Astarion allowed him to stay a while in his tent, Gale never thought they’d make it here — to the sort of closeness that can soothe the long-held hole in his chest, a balm to the loneliness of the last year. There’s a steadying arm at his waist, all lean muscles, and warm words washing over him. Let’s get you fed. They’re both going to eat well, if this arrangement continues. ]
Very generous of me, I know — or simply a clever plot to keep you here. [ Both, maybe. Soap in hand, he chucks Astarion under the chin, playful. Only Gale finds himself too tempted by his red mouth and its hesitant curve to go without for long. A quick peck shifts into yawning drags, too wanting. Every pang in his thigh serves as a reminder of where Astarion has been (where he might go, in different circumstances). It isn’t the first time he’s been left wanting, at the edge of relief, but it’s a different sort of ache, on this plane. Gale pulls away with obvious reluctance. ]
Bow your head. There — perfect. [ So Gale can lather in water and soap, hands winding and unwinding, thumb soothing circles at any knots of tension, fingers curling behind the tip of a pointed ear. He may bear the obvious marks of their tryst but Astarion isn’t unscathed — smelling of fresh orange and amber, of his tower in Waterdeep, of Gale. He smooths one hand over Astarion’s brow, holding it below his hairline to keep the soap from his eyes. ] Under the water now, hm?
[ Astarion isn't shy about enjoying being doted on, particularly now that he's sated for the first time since they left the surface. He lingers in Gale's kisses, licking into his mouth, lips curving smugly when Gale is so reluctant to pull away.
And there is something sweet about someone attending to all the spots Astarion can't see or reach, as Gale washes his hair. Astarion stretches languidly, bowing his head as instructed and shutting his eyes, Gale's fingers teasing out all his aches from a day of maiming and killing. He could get used to this.
Astarion submerges gracefully, working the soap from his hair before resurfacing right in Gale's space, slicking his hair back from his face and lingering with his arms held aloft, water dripping from lean muscle. Maybe he is up for showing off, a little. ]
[ If he’s a little surprised that Astarion goes along with this, he hardly shows it, too content to question a gift. His eyes track the path of a droplet along Astarion’s flexed arm, down his chest.
It takes him a second too long to reply. ]
A requirement, for my vocation. [ Preening, under the glow of praise for one of his most prized abilities. ] And I’ve hardly shown you all they can do.
[ He hooks an arm around Astarion’s waist, winding him closer. Under the new rules of their engagement, he knows better than to let his hands wander, only just brushing against the ridges of Astarion’s spine.
They really ought to return to camp before someone (Lae’zel) assumes Gale has drowned. ]
You know, [ hushed, as though someone might overhear them. ] for a moment there, you seemed rather sure of what you wanted. [ A sincere thread of introspection that he suspects Astarion will twist away from, so he adds, ] I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please.
[ Astarion would like to see all they can do, though being pulled closer is a good start. He drapes his arms over Gale's shoulders, deftly tugging his hair out of its cute little bun just so he can drag his fingers through the damp strands. ]
Well, you're lucky. I don't make a habit of asking nicely. [ True that Astarion might have shied from a more earnest conversation about this, had Gale not softened it with a tease. He tilts his head, a foot sliding up Gale's calf beneath the water as he murmurs. ]
Kisses are an easy thing to want from someone who tastes so sweet.
[ I’m sure you don’t make a habit of doing anything nicely sits on the tip of his tongue, stalled by the touch to his leg. It’s as if Astarion is designed to ruin his capacity for intelligent thought. The fresh wound at his thigh pangs, a reminder of all he would let this man do, if he dared to want it. ]
[ clearing his throat, ] That’s quite the line. [ A little delighted, maybe, that Astarion is bothering to use it on him, when he’s already so deeply entangled. His voice lifts in interest, ] Do I taste sweet, or is it my blood that has all the flavour?
[ When his tongue darts over his lower lip, something metallic lingers. He wonders, finally, whether Astarion may have bloodied his face, in his rush (!) to kiss him. Wetting his free hand, he cups his own jaw to dampen his beard, a pink droplet circling his wrist before it runs down his arm. ]
[ It's tempting to just follow the tease, a thousand practiced lines ready to roll off of Astarion's tongue. Instead, he watches Gale wet his beard before gently stilling his wrist, then taking his chin in hand, thumb pressed just beneath the bow of his lower lip. ]
You are a sweet man, Gale Dekarios. [ His voice soft, earnest. Private, as well, for all that water on stone echoes around them. ] Perhaps unexpectedly so.
[ Gale stills for a long moment, whirring thoughts and ever-shifting limbs frozen by Astarion’s words as much as his hands. Even more unexpected than Astarion paying him a sincere compliment — sweet, has anyone ever thought him sweet, with his damnable ego — is the use of his name. His actual one. A tender feeling blossoms low in his chest.
If not for Astarion’s hand at his chin, he’d duck his head. As it stands, he casts his eyes downward. ]
Perhaps. [ slowly, ] No one calls me by that name anymore, you know. [ Only Tara insists upon it. ] I’ve been Gale of Waterdeep for some time now. As long as I’ve been Mystra’s chosen. [ a faint wince, as he corrects himself. ] Longer, now. Cuts a finer figure, doesn’t it?
[ An archmage of considerable renown, the youngest graduate in Blackstaff’s hallowed history, Gale of Waterdeep. ]
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
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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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You don’t have to ask. [ — when Gale would give him anything. It’s rushed out between kisses, too quick to be a falsehood. He licks the corner of Astarion’s red mouth before mapping its insides. A warm, wanting cavern because of him, his life force and magic coursing through Astarion’s veins. Hard not to give in to the possessive jolt, rattling his systems. It takes one more kiss and then another, to satisfy the urge. ]
Astarion — [ to get his attention, maybe just to say his name. ] — you haven’t even washed. [ Before getting distracted by Gale Dekarios, for reasons unknown and, frankly, unfathomable to him. Palms at Astarion’s shoulders, he gives a guiding push back into the water. They can’t go further than this, however much they want. Gale slips in after him, fumbling the landing with skidding limbs. Still backed against the rocks, he steadies himself on Astarion, a helpless laugh bubbling over. The water helps douse his desires, even as the wound on his thigh stings. ] Let me.
[ He tips back just enough to catch Astarion’s eye, one arm outstretched to grasp his soap. ]
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He lets Gale nudge him back into the spring, getting his footing as Gale splashes in, an arm reflexively looping beneath Gale's to keep him upright. There's a cloud of pink in the water around them, from the open puncture wounds on Gale's thigh, and it takes a significant degree of self-control to not let his hands wander back to it. ]
Washing the blood from me after I've just drunk yours? [ It's- sweet, somehow. So very Gale. Astarion wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood across it more than cleaning anything. He flicks his tongue over a fang, noting the red on Gale's lips, in his beard. It looks good on him. ]
Let's get you fed after this, darling.
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Very generous of me, I know — or simply a clever plot to keep you here. [ Both, maybe. Soap in hand, he chucks Astarion under the chin, playful. Only Gale finds himself too tempted by his red mouth and its hesitant curve to go without for long. A quick peck shifts into yawning drags, too wanting. Every pang in his thigh serves as a reminder of where Astarion has been (where he might go, in different circumstances). It isn’t the first time he’s been left wanting, at the edge of relief, but it’s a different sort of ache, on this plane. Gale pulls away with obvious reluctance. ]
Bow your head. There — perfect. [ So Gale can lather in water and soap, hands winding and unwinding, thumb soothing circles at any knots of tension, fingers curling behind the tip of a pointed ear. He may bear the obvious marks of their tryst but Astarion isn’t unscathed — smelling of fresh orange and amber, of his tower in Waterdeep, of Gale. He smooths one hand over Astarion’s brow, holding it below his hairline to keep the soap from his eyes. ] Under the water now, hm?
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And there is something sweet about someone attending to all the spots Astarion can't see or reach, as Gale washes his hair. Astarion stretches languidly, bowing his head as instructed and shutting his eyes, Gale's fingers teasing out all his aches from a day of maiming and killing. He could get used to this.
Astarion submerges gracefully, working the soap from his hair before resurfacing right in Gale's space, slicking his hair back from his face and lingering with his arms held aloft, water dripping from lean muscle. Maybe he is up for showing off, a little. ]
You do have clever hands, don't you?
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It takes him a second too long to reply. ]
A requirement, for my vocation. [ Preening, under the glow of praise for one of his most prized abilities. ] And I’ve hardly shown you all they can do.
[ He hooks an arm around Astarion’s waist, winding him closer. Under the new rules of their engagement, he knows better than to let his hands wander, only just brushing against the ridges of Astarion’s spine.
They really ought to return to camp before someone (Lae’zel) assumes Gale has drowned. ]
You know, [ hushed, as though someone might overhear them. ] for a moment there, you seemed rather sure of what you wanted. [ A sincere thread of introspection that he suspects Astarion will twist away from, so he adds, ] I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please.
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Well, you're lucky. I don't make a habit of asking nicely. [ True that Astarion might have shied from a more earnest conversation about this, had Gale not softened it with a tease. He tilts his head, a foot sliding up Gale's calf beneath the water as he murmurs. ]
Kisses are an easy thing to want from someone who tastes so sweet.
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[ clearing his throat, ] That’s quite the line. [ A little delighted, maybe, that Astarion is bothering to use it on him, when he’s already so deeply entangled. His voice lifts in interest, ] Do I taste sweet, or is it my blood that has all the flavour?
[ When his tongue darts over his lower lip, something metallic lingers. He wonders, finally, whether Astarion may have bloodied his face, in his rush (!) to kiss him. Wetting his free hand, he cups his own jaw to dampen his beard, a pink droplet circling his wrist before it runs down his arm. ]
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You are a sweet man, Gale Dekarios. [ His voice soft, earnest. Private, as well, for all that water on stone echoes around them. ] Perhaps unexpectedly so.
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If not for Astarion’s hand at his chin, he’d duck his head. As it stands, he casts his eyes downward. ]
Perhaps. [ slowly, ] No one calls me by that name anymore, you know. [ Only Tara insists upon it. ] I’ve been Gale of Waterdeep for some time now. As long as I’ve been Mystra’s chosen. [ a faint wince, as he corrects himself. ] Longer, now. Cuts a finer figure, doesn’t it?
[ An archmage of considerable renown, the youngest graduate in Blackstaff’s hallowed history, Gale of Waterdeep. ]
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