[ Astarion likes that flirtatious concession more than he wants to admit, because nothing in this life has ever been his; not claimed nor conquered, and certainly not willingly given.
A desperate part of him wants to conquer, because then Gale will have to listen when Astarion tells him to stay. ]
Well, clearly it's mine through morning. [ His posture softening into the curve of Gale's body, limbs twining around him as he rests his head on Gale's chest, listens to the beat of his heart. Astarion may not need sleep, but it's easy enough to consider it in Gale's arms and his bed, that space-between where they can pretend neither of them will have to wake and be heroes, of all things. ]
Mm. [ He catches the slight evasion in Astarion’s phrasing, filed away for later. To be discussed in the morning, if he remembers this exchange as clearly as all that came before. Hard not to be distracted by the warm weight on his chest, heated by his touch alone.
Gale cards his fingers through Astarion’s hair, straying from their careful work only to soothe the tension at his temple and smooth the crease from his brow. At the back of his mind, he wonders: Has Mystra allowed him this as a final comfort? The last wishes of the dying, given only in exchange for his renewed devotion and ultimate sacrifice. ]
You’ll drink from me, won’t you? [ Tonight, as he drifts, or tomorrow, when Gale hopes to wake here, with a delicate hand on his chest and sharp teeth scraping his throat. ] It’s been too long.
[ A twinge of guilt, that his callousness kept sustenance from Astarion in this horrid place, bereft of wildlife. None of their companions stepped up to fill his role in the interim, or if they did, Astarion must have denied them. (Gale ignores the selfish pleasure he feels at that, when he would have viewed another bearing the bites like a lover coming to bed with lipstick on their throat.)
And after you’ve gone? His blunt nails drag against Astarion’s scalp. He’ll make arrangements. Wyll, maybe, in his kindness and heroism, though he hates the thought of it, even so. ]
[ Astarion can't help but lean into Gale's stroking like a contented cat, lashes lowered. It has been too long; the reminder seems to pull forth the weariness in his bones, very aware that the energy reserves he's been drawing from have long since run dry. Hasn't even had anyone to bite in the thick of battle, in this land of shadows. ]
I'll wake you with a nibble. [ Astarion lifts his gaze enough to watch as he curves a hand at the base of Gale's throat, letting go of a soft hum as his fingers cover the tendrils of his blight. ] Your throat does look naked without my marks.
[ Under Astarion’s hand, his pulse quickens. His long fingers, his razored teeth — madly, Gale thinks they belong there.
And emboldened by all they’ve done tonight (as well as the promise that Astarion will be here in the morning), he doesn’t shy away from it. ]
Feels that way, too. [ Bereft of the lovely ache, the visceral reminder of where he’s been, of who he’s been with. He already confessed to enjoying it in the Underdark, but it feels essential to reinforce, now that he lacks the same hunger. ] You’ve spoilt me.
[ As though it’s a gift. To Gale, it is. The first intimate thing they shared, the preceding incident to a tender kiss. ]
Have I? [ Spoiled is not the word most would use for the experience of being a vampire's go-to snack, but Astarion feels a surge of pleasure that Gale's chosen it. He has always been less-than as spawn: leagues less powerful than Cazador, less important, less worthy. Gale has been open about enjoying the bite, yes -- and his affection for Astarion -- but the intertwining of both still feels so fresh, after two hundred years.
Astarion feels the tender bones and sinew beneath his fingers, sweeping them up below Gale's jaw, the warmth of his pulse and scratch of his beard. ] Do go on.
That is to say — [ an inevitable stumble here, flush climbing his throat and heating the skin beneath Astarion’s fine hand. ]
It wouldn’t surprise you to know I rarely stop thinking. [ A self-deprecating chuckle. His fingers drift to the nape of Astarion’s neck, curling in the short hairs there. Sometimes, from the way Astarion looks at him, Gale thinks ge might be able to hear his pulsing, twisting thoughts as they spiral out of control. ] I can’t. [ A flaw in his brilliant systems that predates the orb and Mystra both.] But when you drink from me, everything quiets.
[ His other hand flattens, a possessive pressure at the small of Astarion’s back. ]
And after, it — the marks. [ The ones he couldn’t stop touching the first time or the second, caught in the act while they trailed behind Tav. ] It’s proof of what happened. That it happened with you. [ Not Mystra, nor anyone else. His gaze swivels up, searching the lush canopy above them for purchase as he decides whether to embarrass himself further. His fingers drum against Astarion’s spine, stalling. ] It’s like you’ve staked your claim. [ Oh, god. Hastily — ] Or something like that.
[ Says the man who delighted in being called Chosen, who still wears the earring Mystra crafted from purest weave and bestowed upon him as a token. A mark, for all to see. ]
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
no subject
A desperate part of him wants to conquer, because then Gale will have to listen when Astarion tells him to stay. ]
Well, clearly it's mine through morning. [ His posture softening into the curve of Gale's body, limbs twining around him as he rests his head on Gale's chest, listens to the beat of his heart. Astarion may not need sleep, but it's easy enough to consider it in Gale's arms and his bed, that space-between where they can pretend neither of them will have to wake and be heroes, of all things. ]
no subject
Gale cards his fingers through Astarion’s hair, straying from their careful work only to soothe the tension at his temple and smooth the crease from his brow. At the back of his mind, he wonders: Has Mystra allowed him this as a final comfort? The last wishes of the dying, given only in exchange for his renewed devotion and ultimate sacrifice. ]
You’ll drink from me, won’t you? [ Tonight, as he drifts, or tomorrow, when Gale hopes to wake here, with a delicate hand on his chest and sharp teeth scraping his throat. ] It’s been too long.
[ A twinge of guilt, that his callousness kept sustenance from Astarion in this horrid place, bereft of wildlife. None of their companions stepped up to fill his role in the interim, or if they did, Astarion must have denied them. (Gale ignores the selfish pleasure he feels at that, when he would have viewed another bearing the bites like a lover coming to bed with lipstick on their throat.)
And after you’ve gone? His blunt nails drag against Astarion’s scalp. He’ll make arrangements. Wyll, maybe, in his kindness and heroism, though he hates the thought of it, even so. ]
no subject
I'll wake you with a nibble. [ Astarion lifts his gaze enough to watch as he curves a hand at the base of Gale's throat, letting go of a soft hum as his fingers cover the tendrils of his blight. ] Your throat does look naked without my marks.
no subject
And emboldened by all they’ve done tonight (as well as the promise that Astarion will be here in the morning), he doesn’t shy away from it. ]
Feels that way, too. [ Bereft of the lovely ache, the visceral reminder of where he’s been, of who he’s been with. He already confessed to enjoying it in the Underdark, but it feels essential to reinforce, now that he lacks the same hunger. ] You’ve spoilt me.
[ As though it’s a gift. To Gale, it is. The first intimate thing they shared, the preceding incident to a tender kiss. ]
no subject
Astarion feels the tender bones and sinew beneath his fingers, sweeping them up below Gale's jaw, the warmth of his pulse and scratch of his beard. ] Do go on.
no subject
It wouldn’t surprise you to know I rarely stop thinking. [ A self-deprecating chuckle. His fingers drift to the nape of Astarion’s neck, curling in the short hairs there. Sometimes, from the way Astarion looks at him, Gale thinks ge might be able to hear his pulsing, twisting thoughts as they spiral out of control. ] I can’t. [ A flaw in his brilliant systems that predates the orb and Mystra both.] But when you drink from me, everything quiets.
[ His other hand flattens, a possessive pressure at the small of Astarion’s back. ]
And after, it — the marks. [ The ones he couldn’t stop touching the first time or the second, caught in the act while they trailed behind Tav. ] It’s proof of what happened. That it happened with you. [ Not Mystra, nor anyone else. His gaze swivels up, searching the lush canopy above them for purchase as he decides whether to embarrass himself further. His fingers drum against Astarion’s spine, stalling. ] It’s like you’ve staked your claim. [ Oh, god. Hastily — ] Or something like that.
[ Says the man who delighted in being called Chosen, who still wears the earring Mystra crafted from purest weave and bestowed upon him as a token. A mark, for all to see. ]