[ 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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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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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.