[ 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. ]
[ In some ways, Gale is delightfully easy to fluster, and that might be a part of why Astarion likes him. But Astarion doesn't anticipate this reaction to his name, the way he goes a little shy. ]
Hm. [ Astarion lifts Gale's chin, as if appraising him. He knows - perhaps too intimately - what a name means to a powerful wizard, feels a twin magnetism and revulsion toward the trappings of it. Astarion has been spawn and pup and vermin more than his own name, these past two hundred years. ]
You can be whomever you like with me. [ Releasing Gale's chin, twining their fingers instead. ] We can even play pretend, if you're into that sort of thing.
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
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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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
Hm. [ Astarion lifts Gale's chin, as if appraising him. He knows - perhaps too intimately - what a name means to a powerful wizard, feels a twin magnetism and revulsion toward the trappings of it. Astarion has been spawn and pup and vermin more than his own name, these past two hundred years. ]
You can be whomever you like with me. [ Releasing Gale's chin, twining their fingers instead. ] We can even play pretend, if you're into that sort of thing.