[ In opposition to all higher thought, Gale finds himself transfixed by way the colour blooms on Astarion’s face, like expensive rouge, the barely there flush of health. Everything about Astarion has sharpened, like a blade set to Lae’zel’s wetstone. All his hard lines brought into relief by the ascendant sun.
Would your ichorous blood have the same effect? Unlikely, when the rot has nestled into his chest, netherese veins spiderwebbing from his heart-centre. More prominent now, after a sleepless night and week of hunger. He wants to reach out and touch, to see if his skin is as warm as it looks, sleep-soft, sex-rumpled, blood-fed, and his arm extends, long fingers outstretched —
Curled around the neck of the bottle, tipping cool liquid down his throat, a stray droplet running from the corner of his mouth to the orb’s trail along his neck and disappearing in the shadow of his jaw. ]
Mm. [ He tips the mouth of the bottle against his lips, like he might drink more before answering the obvious jibe. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. At the academy, he was known first for his dedication to his studies, then to his goddess.
Finally, a low counter, murmured against the glass rim — ] I should think I’ve indulged in enough debauchery on this plane and the next to do more than try, at this stage of my life.
[ True and not at the same time. Mystra has shown him pleasures few other mortals dare imagine, and he has served her with eager devotion, but the carnal simplicity of a human touch has eluded him since he was a young man.
Another sip, more to keep Astarion waiting than out of any desire to drink. Why should he have this, after all he’s tasted? ]
You seem — [ His lips purse, lidded eyes searching for the word in the darkened halls of his mind, senses dulled by exhaustion and lingering inebriation. He extends his legs and his knees creak, heels just barely finding purchase on the sand below. An assessing flicker of his gaze along Astarion’s lithe form, eyes flinty. One tap, then another, of the bottle against his parted mouth.
There. One brow arches, already asking why upon deciphering the nature of Astarion’s disposition. Bridled, like a horse reigned before an open field, thrumming with energy. Unable to disperse it. ] Stifled.
[ Pent up, in the common vernacular. How strange, after all that so-called debauchery. ]
[ Survival under Cazador's heel meant always seeking easy prey, the path of absolute least resistance for following deadly orders. There are a number of reasons Astarion pinned Tav down tonight, but one is that she isn't a puzzle box he'd have to tinker with, nor did she present him with a gauntlet to run or missiles to dodge in the courting of her.
Her top suitor, on the other hand, is somehow full of surprises. Perhaps Gale is the gauntlet, even though Astarion knows he's won this round; Gale has already implied he won't give up on Tav so easily, no matter how maudlin he may have looked when Astarion stumbled upon him.
Astarion can't help but feel the anticipation of the chase heat his stolen blood, wine-dark eyes fixed on Gale's lips against the mouth of the bottle, the liquid tracing a path down his neck that Astarion's fingers suddenly itch to follow. His tongue strokes over a fang beneath his closed lips, momentarily distracted. How would the wizard taste, compared to Tav? Just as alcoholic is the answer tonight, but humans always have a subtle difference in flavor, at minimum. Would he be dry, rich, sweet? Would he yield easily to a bite or fight back, muscles and skin taut beneath Astarion's fangs?
Gale is taking too long with the bottle, and Astarion doesn't particularly want any more, anyway. He strides -- with only a hint of wobble -- to the edge of the water, the sand cold and gritty beneath his feet. ]
Right. How silly of me, to forget you've fucked a god. [ Attention pinned on this plane and the next. He is, despite himself, curious about the finer details and the proximity to power, what that must have felt like; though Gale has fallen far since.
Astarion pulls his shirt up over his head, tossing another nasty look over his shoulder at Gale as he throws it back toward the rocks he's settled on. ]
Or, sorry, I suppose she's fucked you in more ways than one.
[ Astarion still intends to wash, even with an audience. Gale's observation snags on him, though; a wave pulls further in toward the shore than Astarion anticipated, soaking his pants above the ankle before it recedes. ]
How could I be stifled, after the night I've had? [ A deception check he might just fail, the way his voice goes a little tight, nostrils flaring as he turns his gaze back out over the water. ] In your words. I'm perfectly sated, in every way.
[ Astarion watches him, looking more the jungle cat than when he first emerged from the forest. A hunter’s gaze on — the bottle, surely. Not his throat. There’d be no reason for it, after feasting on Tav. Then again, there’s something wanting about Astarion. For all he plays the careless rake, he can’t be satisfied, tucked under the thumb of a vampire lord.
While Gale isn’t privy to the details, he witnessed the confrontation with the Gur in Ethel’s swamp and eavesdropped on the subsequent hissed exchange. A master in Baldur’s Gate, setting hunters on his tail. It bodes ill, though Gale can hardly judge or complain. Presently, Tav is complicit in his draining of precious resources, but she knows nothing of the true danger lurking behind his ribs.
Astarion’s second jeer sneaks past his light armour, all the deadlier for striking true. His posture stiffens. The alcoholic burn in his throat and ache in his chest urge him onward, unthinking. A brilliant flush rises from his throat to his cheeks, equal parts irritation and embarrassment. Why should he hold his tongue when Astarion’s is given to wickedness? ]
Do the mechanics of my dalliances interest you so? [ chin raised in challenge, eyes following his perfect curls to their stopping point, at the nape of his elegant neck. An expanse of pale skin below, marred by something unintelligible in the brightening light. Gale allows himself to look lower, for want of a less compelling (or god-forbid, sympathy-inducing) view, eying the slight swell of Astarion’s hip in his too-tight trousers. Impractical as every other aspect of this infuriating man.
Head thrown back, Gale polishes off the bottle and lowers it between his legs to perch on the sand. In his haste, he nearly misses the strain in Astarion’s voice, as taut as the line of his vertebrae. Nearly. ]
Sated and contented are rather different things, I find. [ sharply, ] When she fucked me, I certainly wasn’t running off after.
[ As either Tav or Astarion have decided to do, after a fleeting night of pleasure. An indictment of their apparent bond. Chosen for now isn’t chosen forever, after all. He would know. ]
[ Astarion looks back over his shoulder at Gale, aware of the figure he cuts in the nascent morning light: a spawn who can bask in the rising sun, deadly and alluring, stolen life thrumming beneath his skin.
Or not quite stolen, he supposes -- given, for once in his long undeath. Wholly unprecedented. But Tav's blood didn't taste any sweeter for it, and the more time passes after their tryst, the more she sours on his tongue.
Gale is blushing, rosy beneath his tan skin, and Astarion knows it's not just the wine. His gaze sharpens, lip curling even as Gale bites back. ]
More than a dalliance, wasn't it? [ Astarion stretches a hand out by his side, fluttering his fingers. ] Or you wouldn't be conjuring her godly visage by your tent in the evenings.
[ Gale's final barb nearly hits, Astarion's own wine-soaked reflexes just managing to parry him. He rolls his shoulders as he finds a suitable lie, voice pitched toward nonchalance. ]
Tav just had a little too much wine tonight. As have you, it seems. [ Astarion bends to cup water into his palms, his reflection absent from the golden ripples on the surface. He means to splash his face, but lets it trickle through his fingers instead, voice low and goading now. ] The richest red couldn't make up for the fact that I tasted her first, could it?
[ Gale has no retort for the mockery of his ongoing heartbreak, expression hardening. He rises to his feet, torn between throttling Astarion and leaving him to nip at nothing. ]
Of course it was. [ snapped back, offended that Astarion would ask even in cruel jest. There’s no denying his love, his devotion. His obvious ache for her sends a quaver through his voice: ] Mystra was — she is everything. [ All magic and all creation, the dwindling fire in his veins, the last gasp of hope in his heart. She will never forgive him, but perhaps she’ll look upon him again before the orb overtakes him.
With a rattling breath, he looks askance. Astarion is correct about one thing; he’s had too much wine. This bickering has no end, and yet Gale holds his ground, toeing off his shoes and bending over to roll his trousers to his calves.
Astarion’s words call him upright once more, as if yanked by a string. ]
[ sputtering, ] That’s not — she’s allowed to do as she wishes. [ First or fifth, he should be lucky to have her at all. Her kindness in the matter of his condition is already beyond what he deserves. His hands clench into fists at his sides. ]
My issue lies squarely with you, Astarion. [ steady now, even as the cold water bites at his ankles. Sobering. Clarity shines in his too wide eyes. A low accusation rumbles in his throat. ] You mean to use her.
[ For blood, for protection. It matters not. Are you so different? asks the voice of his goddess. He could be, he thinks, if he could muster the courage to confide in her, in someone, in anyone who might forgive him. ]
If no-one else sees you for what you are, know that I do.
[ Astarion hears rather than sees Gale's first steps toward the water, something dark curling with pleasure inside him at his successful goading. Sex may have felt rote and miserable tonight, but at least he still gleans a thrill from courting danger, egging someone else toward violence. What would the wizard do to him, if properly provoked?
There's certainly no pang of sympathy as Gale quivers for his goddess, who surely isn't watching and doesn't care. Astarion bled the whole pantheon dry in his early years with Cazador, offering everything, begging from coffin and cage and tomb. If any heard him, he was offered only silence in return.
Astarion sees Gale's watery reflection behind the empty space where his own should be, and finally turns to face him, expression cool as the blow glances off him entirely. ]
Oh, do tell, darling. What am I? [ Brows arching and head tilting in mock-curiosity, Astarion taking one step and then another in the water, closing the gap between him and Gale, gesticulating with his query. ] A monster, a charlatan?
[ He's slightly miscalculated the space between them, with the drag of the water at his ankles and give of the sand, and ends up hardly a breath away from Gale, his human heat and anger. Astarion holds that shifting ground, though, and holds Gale's gaze rather than backing up. ] I guarantee I've heard it all before.
[ This is what Astarion wanted, Gale knows it. To have his attention — his ire, and then slip a dagger into that angry wound. There were boys like him at the academy, handsome and pompous, tugging his hair and tripping him up.
A flicker of surprise passes over his features, when Astarion steps into his space, sunlight haloing his silver hair. Another crashing wave splashes up his trousers, but he remains unmoved.
Only his hand rises between them, fingers splayed against Astarion’s chest on instinct. Poised to shove or shock him, if he shifts any closer. Despite the sun’s glow and fresh blood, his skin sends a chill up Gale’s arm. ]
Have you now? [ Perhaps from his cruel master or his dissatisfied citizens, before he was turned. Gale can only imagine how Astarion might have revelled in that fleeting power, given the way he delights in humiliating others and views so many as below him. Gale imagines the Gur hunter would have wanted to kill him even if he hadn’t revealed himself. ]
It seems to me you’re nothing at all. [ A charlatan, a monster, whatever he needs to be in a given moment. He flicks out his free hand, a nebulous gesture to illustrate his point. ]
You’re like an mirror image — an illusion. [ explained with the superiority of someone who thinks himself far cleverer than his interlocutor. ] You attract attention just fine. [ His fingers curl, knuckles pressing into Astarion’s flesh, light yet there. ] But nothing sticks.
[ The sun crowns above Astarion’s head, and Gale squints into it. ]
[ Astarion rarely thinks more than a half-step ahead of himself -- partially because he hasn't had the luxury of making his own choices in the past two centuries. He's drunk and, in Gale's words, stifled, and his observations jam like a knife beneath Astarion's ribs, twisting to stick.
Because these words are less Gale's than an echo of Cazador, stretching Astarion on the rack, carving him open. You're nothing. The dizzy refrain as he sliced Astarion's skin into sick knots of scar tissue: you're my puppet, a shadow, a worthless, noisy, disgusting thing.
Astarion has swung his leg behind Gale's calves to knock him prone into the water before his mind catches up to the action. The river's shallow here, but people have drowned in less, and Astarion brackets Gale's thighs with his feet as the splash spatters his chest and face with startling cold, looming over him. ]
You know nothing about me, you pompous, privileged twat. [ Expression curled into an ugly snarl, fists curled at his sides as he spits, ] Desperate little dog yapping at his savior's heels, begging for scraps.
[ Before Gale can blink, he’s on his arse, pain lancing up his back and air rushing from his lungs. How in the hells? His head swivels up, half-delirious, as he processes what happened, coughing up salt water. A tadpoled spawn got the better of Mystra’s chosen, now gaping up at him like a fish. Anger threads through his veins, fiery as the the blight.
Little dog, isn’t that what the others called him? No, lapdog, kneeling at Mystra’s beck and call. Her plaything, grateful to be toyed with — and he’d thought them jealous until she — until she — ]
At least I know what I am. [ Hoarse from choking on air and water both. Gale grasps Astarion’s firm calf in hand, a shock coursing through his fingers as he yanks hard. He doesn’t think through where Astarion might land or the dangers of loosing sparks above the water. ] What I want.
[ Except he doesn’t, not really, beyond the retaliatory urge to do harm. It would be truer to say he knows what he deserves, which is nothing and no-one. ]
[ Astarion doesn't have the buffer of his freshly-pilfered drow leather to absorb any of the shock, and Tav's wine -- and his own anger, brewing black under his skin -- has muddied his reflexes, missing the small window in which to dodge Gale's hand.
He goes down hard, letting loose a stuttered gasp as the water conducts Gale's sparks in rippling arcs around them both, jolting through his hands and up his spine. Astarion's vision goes dark for a moment, feet and hands kicking up silt until he finds purchase by pinning Gale's elbow with one hand, half-straddling Gale's hips -- one knee at his hip, the other bracketing his thigh -- with Gale's legs splayed open beneath him.
He coughs up water and sand, spitting it in the direction of Gale's face as he finds his bearings. They're both soaked, still sparking, chest rising and falling heavily as Astarion catches his breath, a strange thing to have to do now. ]
I thought I was a tiger to you, sweetheart. [ He digs sharp nails into Gale's upper arm where he has him pinned, voice rough and dangerous, his other hand twisting in the heavy velvet of Gale's shirt as he attempts to yank him closer. There's blood in his mouth, and he realizes he bit his tongue when Gale shocked him, his hair dripping onto Gale's face and chest as copper sings through his teeth. ] Do you like watching me prowl?
[ The electricity runs agonising rivulets down his spine, a pained hiss splitting his mouth. He grasps for an anchor, blunt nails scrabbling for purchase on Astarion’s bare back. Gods below, when did he get so close? Blood-salt-spray on his cheek, red-moon eyes filling his vision.
One arm falls to seek purchase in the rocky silt and keep his head from going under again. His breath comes in shuddering gasps, chest rising and falling beneath the heavy dampness of his clothes. He feels them tighten as Astarion’s fist twists the thick fabric.
There he is, beautiful and terrible. Fangs bared. Honest, for once. Gale wonders if he’d dare bite into his jugular. If he did, would it hurt the same as the bile in his veins, or could it drown out the neverending burn by sapping the poison? He tries and fails to shift his pinned leg, aware of the blood-strong weight in Astarion’s limbs. Even above the crashing waves, he can hear the rush of blood to his ears, staining his cheeks, hot against the cool droplets flowing from Astarion’s hair. It floods his body, coursing through every limb, drawing lower and lower.
His heart races in turn, a new fear in his heart. On instinct, Gale brings a hand to bracelet his wrist, the threat of mutual detonation now at the forefront of his mind. ]
You — [ Gale’s private conversation with Tav, admiring and jealous and derisive. Astarion was listening by way of elven hearing, roguish subterfuge or ilithid invasion. He jerks his head so sudden and sharp that their noses crash together, exhale pained. Calm yourself. ]
Far more than I like the way you lie ever so prettily. [ Tongue carrying on without consulting his mind, bright eyes undimmed by the threat of proximity. ] Did you enjoy skulking about my tent last night?
[ His tongue darts out to swipe over his lower lip, too dry in the morning air. How long had Astarion been there? Has he listened to Gale before? He’s certainly paid attention prior to this evening, given his uncanny rendition of Gale’s late-night pining. ]
[ Astarion's grateful he shucked his own shirt before getting in the water, though he's aware of how much his leather chafes now that the shocks have ebbed, feeling coming back to fingers and toes.
It's not the wash he'd wanted, but something about it feels cleansing despite the silt between his toes, the river bed kicked up from their scuffle. It begins to settle around Gale beneath the surface, flecks of mica shimmering in the dawn light, his clothing looking heavy enough to pull him under if Astarion didn't have a firm grip on his tunic.
He's also panting, pink-cheeked, warm human fingers closing around his wrist and scrabbling at his back. Astarion may have just fed, but he's keenly aware of the quickened beat of Gale's heart, his own pupils going dark as he inhales his scent under that of the river. There's a crackle of ozone around them both, and he catches the wine on Gale's breath so close to his cheek as he tips his head, expression evening again. ]
I skulk around everyone's tents. You're not so special. [ It's only a half-truth; Astarion has been focused on Gale, in his courting of Tav. He shifts his weight, bearing down on Gale at the hip so he can't easily buck him off. ] And I'm far from the only liar in our little band of heroes.
[ Their anger — shared, Gale realises, by the tadpole — lowers to a simmer after the literal shock to their systems. It does not, however, loosen Astarion’s grip. If anything, he shifts to better pin his quarry, Gale’s breath stuttering in answer. If he mustered all that remains of his magic, he could send Astarion flying, but if he were to shore up that energy, it might trigger a worse, decidedly unintended retaliation.
For a brief moment, he indulges the possibility of wiping that smug snarl from Astarion’s mouth. Only the desolation of this entire corner of the realm seems like overkill. He settles for a warning spark, where his hand clutches at Astarion’s. ]
And yet it’s my words that you recall. [ Gale swallows hard, willing his heartbeat to slow even as he inclines his head, closer still. It occurs to him that this is the dearest intimacy he’s experienced since his folly. Pathetic. ]
Would you like me to lump you in with all the rest? [ Heroes, liars, it matters not. This isn’t about them. ] No, I think you rather fancy the role I’ve ascribed you. [ Tiger, predator, threat. ] There’s power in it, after all.
[ Power and protection in being the hunter, not the hunted. Desired, but not wanting. Gale brushes against the thin veil shielding their minds from one another, his present view blurring through their connection. It’s more of an impression than a picture: the fear pressing under his tongue, the outrage fizzing behind his teeth, the heat pooling low in his gut (anger, maybe, or something else). All he needs is for Astarion to chase their tether or snap it, to divert his attention long enough to reverse their positions — ]
[ Another small jolt of electricity through their fingers, a tickle compared to the last but it still manages to rattle Astarion's bones, his grip on Gale's tunic slipping.
He opens his mouth to respond, but then Gale is pressing in. Using the tadpole to connect them, and Astarion feels the animal fear and fury in Gale and something else, familiar base pleasure coiling tight between them.
That would be interesting if Astarion weren't startled by the attempt to pry. He forces Gale out before he can get much further than the reverberating shock through his bones, a flicker of his displeasure with the whole night, not just this, the feeling of still being caged, even now, even with the sliver of safety he's won. ]
[ It’s all Gale needs to free his leg and slam his hand against Astarion’s chest, throwing all his strength and weight into rolling him on his back. Even in the shallows, Astarion will take on water from going under.
His tunic bunches higher, lower back exposed to the breeze. Between the alcohol and the water, there’s a chill in his bones already. ]
Hah — [ There’s no untangling himself, at this stage, and he ends up pressed between Astarion’s legs and flush against him, hand pressing his sternum until he can lift his head. He doesn’t have time to mimic Astarion’s hold on him, so he revels in the fleeting win while he can. ]
[ breathless, ] Not so nice to be spied on, is it.
[ Even without the rising sun, there was a time not so long ago when being in a flowing river such as this would have ended Astarion, water burning his flesh like acid. He opens his eyes underwater as it rushes into his mouth and nose, Gale a blurry silhouette atop him, haloed by light, sound muffled below the surface.
It all comes roaring back into focus as he thrashes beneath him to lift his head, chest seizing as he chokes on water, violently coughs it up. Gale's stomach is bare, slick and warm against his, their legs tangled, hips flush and while Astarion struggles to find the air to retort, he opens the connection between them.
To show Gale Tav on her back in the moonlight, skin flushed and bare, a bite pinprick-wet at her throat. The taste of her blood in Astarion's mouth, and then the copper threads with the salt of her cunt as he laps between her trembling thighs, her sighs and moans, her fingers twisting in his hair.
And then Astarion spits river water into Gale's face again, breath rattling as he catches it, the thread between them still open. ] There. That what you wanted a taste of?
[ It’s awful, bitter jealousy tainting their connection. It’s everything Gale might have been able to give her, if he were braver. And still he latches onto irrelevant details, turning over the taste of blood in his mind, tongue pressing to the roof of his mouth.
Unfortunately, Astarion’s invasion shakes something loose. Reciprocity. Gale on his knees for his goddess against the shimmering backdrop of astral, head bowed in enthusiastic devotion. In place of salt and sweat, near cloying sweetness settles on his tongue. Chosen, the praise reverberating in his very core. Gale on his back, then — or is it suspended over infinity — arching at the impossible stretch of something inside him, pliable yet firm. He doesn’t think he can take it, but he can. He will, until she decides otherwise. A trust so complete, so sure, it envelops him entirely even as he shudders, overwhelmed.
He uses all his strength to push Astarion underwater, one hand curled in his hair (just like in the terrible vision) and the other slipping over his chest. At the same time, Gale shuts Astarion out of his mind, a door slammed in his face. ]
You have no right — [ To share that, to see what Gale’s mind conjures in answer. He yanks Astarion’s head up and to one side, grip harsh. ] She chose you, she trusted you, and you would risk her to spite me. [ with venom in every word: ] You’re lower than I thought.
[ There's still water in Astarion's lungs as his vision suddenly shifts to an expanse of rippling twilight, the taste of honey-sweet rosewater thick on his tongue. Astarion is such a practiced liar, he's wondered if Gale was fabricating this relationship with his goddess, and he feels blinded by the truth of it, the weight of her -- terrible to Astarion, all-encompassing in her power, but that doesn't drown out the feeling of devotion and the pleasure at her praise.
Astarion is unmoved by being wanted, an object of desire to another, but to feel desire -- the blooming pleasure of being good for someone, of yielding, of being worthy overwhelms him more than the physical, even as his back arches beneath Gale in a helpless mirror of it, an aborted moan leaving his lips just as Gale drags him under.
He could drown. The thought is detached as the sharp twist at his scalp starts to numb, his lungs filling with water again. To need air is so strange, his vision going black at the edges, returning to the stars of the astral.
And then he's yanked unceremoniously back out, chest spasming as he tries to expel water from his lungs again, throat raw, like daggers are slicing inside him with every attempt at breath. ]
Oh, Gale. [ A rasping sigh, his breath catching staccato at the edge of it. His pupils are blown, wet bangs almost translucent as they cling to his skin, head lolling in Gale's grip as his vision swims. He hitches a seizing, delirious laugh, a hand clumsily finding purchase in Gale's tunic. ] I didn't think you had it in you.
[ The violence, he means, but he can't -- or won't -- offer that clarification. ]
[ Gale can hardly process the sound that escapes Astarion’s pert mouth, too lost in the outrage piloting his limbs. (He’ll recall more clearly later, in the privacy of his tent tonight, exhausted and overthinking the events of the morning. A sound so desperate and wanting that it had to have been genuine. An echo of his own feelings or — )
Heat colours his neck, his cheeks, the tips of his ears, flushed with anger and embarrassment both. Beneath him, Astarion has never looked more alive. Not quite fearful but alert. Normally, he’s so faraway, voice lilting and distant despite the ever-present charm. Even so, Astarion’s choked breath and hoarse words bring him no pleasure. If anything, they expose the hollowness of this fight.
He tries to gain purchase in the sand, knees shifting, but only succeeds in stretching Astarion’s thighs wider, palm sliding the divot of his hip, bodies flush from top to toe as he slips. A soft sound escapes his throat. ]
[ His eyes dark with irritation. ] Oh, fuck off. [ They’re too entangled for him to disengage now, so he drags Astarion closer once more. ]
I’m done. [ Droplets fall from his shoulder onto Astarion’s flat stomach. With effort, Gale ignores them to focus on his too-wide eyes. Beautiful, despite his cruelty. ] Let go, and I’ll leave you be.
[ Maybe it's the lack of oxygen to his brain, but Astarion almost likes Gale like this -- furious, acting on violent impulse. He's flushed with that fury, and maybe something else, and the inky tendrils that curl down Gale's throat seem to strain against his ruddy skin.
He catches that soft sound, Gale's hand -- cooler now, from the chill of the water and early morning air -- sliding over bare skin. Astarion's going to have to cut his pants off, once he gets out of the water. He feels drunker than he did before, somehow, between Gale's lightning magic and the water in his lungs, dizzy and blurred despite the fresh blood strengthening his body.
Astarion meets Gale's gaze, tongue flicking to wet his lower lip and being met with the grit of sand, taste of the river. Another rough breath of a laugh, his fingers gripping Gale's tunic tighter before he releases with a little push to his chest, attempting to right himself. ]
[ As soon as Astarion releases (and shoves) him, Gale goes. It’s not an elegant extraction in the least, their knees knocking, but it does the job and gets him away.
Once upright, he quickly steps to the side, putting a nominal distance between him and Astarion – which he hopes communicates his disinterest in this farce. With difficulty, Gale peels his tunic from his skin and lifts it over his head, the fabric too heavy to bother wearing any longer, modesty be damned. A disgruntled huff slips from his mouth, at the sight of the sand-speckled heap in his hands. ]
Not bloody likely. [ said as Gale twists the soaked velvet, water splashing down to the riverbed. he cards a hand back through his hair, trying and failing to tidy the wet, curling strands. His fingers slip into the loosened waistband at his hip, testing whether he’s likely to lose his trousers en route to camp and deciding, mercifully, that he isn’t.
If he were half the wizard he once was, he could be dry with a flourish of his hand. ]
[ bluntly, ] I propose we forget this every happened.
[ A fair trade, given all they’ve said and seen this morning. Now, it’s difficult to storm off when you’re treading water, but Gale certainly tries. ]
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
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Would your ichorous blood have the same effect? Unlikely, when the rot has nestled into his chest, netherese veins spiderwebbing from his heart-centre. More prominent now, after a sleepless night and week of hunger. He wants to reach out and touch, to see if his skin is as warm as it looks, sleep-soft, sex-rumpled, blood-fed, and his arm extends, long fingers outstretched —
Curled around the neck of the bottle, tipping cool liquid down his throat, a stray droplet running from the corner of his mouth to the orb’s trail along his neck and disappearing in the shadow of his jaw. ]
Mm. [ He tips the mouth of the bottle against his lips, like he might drink more before answering the obvious jibe. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. At the academy, he was known first for his dedication to his studies, then to his goddess.
Finally, a low counter, murmured against the glass rim — ] I should think I’ve indulged in enough debauchery on this plane and the next to do more than try, at this stage of my life.
[ True and not at the same time. Mystra has shown him pleasures few other mortals dare imagine, and he has served her with eager devotion, but the carnal simplicity of a human touch has eluded him since he was a young man.
Another sip, more to keep Astarion waiting than out of any desire to drink. Why should he have this, after all he’s tasted? ]
You seem — [ His lips purse, lidded eyes searching for the word in the darkened halls of his mind, senses dulled by exhaustion and lingering inebriation. He extends his legs and his knees creak, heels just barely finding purchase on the sand below. An assessing flicker of his gaze along Astarion’s lithe form, eyes flinty. One tap, then another, of the bottle against his parted mouth.
There. One brow arches, already asking why upon deciphering the nature of Astarion’s disposition. Bridled, like a horse reigned before an open field, thrumming with energy. Unable to disperse it. ] Stifled.
[ Pent up, in the common vernacular. How strange, after all that so-called debauchery. ]
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Her top suitor, on the other hand, is somehow full of surprises. Perhaps Gale is the gauntlet, even though Astarion knows he's won this round; Gale has already implied he won't give up on Tav so easily, no matter how maudlin he may have looked when Astarion stumbled upon him.
Astarion can't help but feel the anticipation of the chase heat his stolen blood, wine-dark eyes fixed on Gale's lips against the mouth of the bottle, the liquid tracing a path down his neck that Astarion's fingers suddenly itch to follow. His tongue strokes over a fang beneath his closed lips, momentarily distracted. How would the wizard taste, compared to Tav? Just as alcoholic is the answer tonight, but humans always have a subtle difference in flavor, at minimum. Would he be dry, rich, sweet? Would he yield easily to a bite or fight back, muscles and skin taut beneath Astarion's fangs?
Gale is taking too long with the bottle, and Astarion doesn't particularly want any more, anyway. He strides -- with only a hint of wobble -- to the edge of the water, the sand cold and gritty beneath his feet. ]
Right. How silly of me, to forget you've fucked a god. [ Attention pinned on this plane and the next. He is, despite himself, curious about the finer details and the proximity to power, what that must have felt like; though Gale has fallen far since.
Astarion pulls his shirt up over his head, tossing another nasty look over his shoulder at Gale as he throws it back toward the rocks he's settled on. ]
Or, sorry, I suppose she's fucked you in more ways than one.
[ Astarion still intends to wash, even with an audience. Gale's observation snags on him, though; a wave pulls further in toward the shore than Astarion anticipated, soaking his pants above the ankle before it recedes. ]
How could I be stifled, after the night I've had? [ A deception check he might just fail, the way his voice goes a little tight, nostrils flaring as he turns his gaze back out over the water. ] In your words. I'm perfectly sated, in every way.
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While Gale isn’t privy to the details, he witnessed the confrontation with the Gur in Ethel’s swamp and eavesdropped on the subsequent hissed exchange. A master in Baldur’s Gate, setting hunters on his tail. It bodes ill, though Gale can hardly judge or complain. Presently, Tav is complicit in his draining of precious resources, but she knows nothing of the true danger lurking behind his ribs.
Astarion’s second jeer sneaks past his light armour, all the deadlier for striking true. His posture stiffens. The alcoholic burn in his throat and ache in his chest urge him onward, unthinking. A brilliant flush rises from his throat to his cheeks, equal parts irritation and embarrassment. Why should he hold his tongue when Astarion’s is given to wickedness? ]
Do the mechanics of my dalliances interest you so? [ chin raised in challenge, eyes following his perfect curls to their stopping point, at the nape of his elegant neck. An expanse of pale skin below, marred by something unintelligible in the brightening light. Gale allows himself to look lower, for want of a less compelling (or god-forbid, sympathy-inducing) view, eying the slight swell of Astarion’s hip in his too-tight trousers. Impractical as every other aspect of this infuriating man.
Head thrown back, Gale polishes off the bottle and lowers it between his legs to perch on the sand. In his haste, he nearly misses the strain in Astarion’s voice, as taut as the line of his vertebrae. Nearly. ]
Sated and contented are rather different things, I find. [ sharply, ] When she fucked me, I certainly wasn’t running off after.
[ As either Tav or Astarion have decided to do, after a fleeting night of pleasure. An indictment of their apparent bond. Chosen for now isn’t chosen forever, after all. He would know. ]
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Or not quite stolen, he supposes -- given, for once in his long undeath. Wholly unprecedented. But Tav's blood didn't taste any sweeter for it, and the more time passes after their tryst, the more she sours on his tongue.
Gale is blushing, rosy beneath his tan skin, and Astarion knows it's not just the wine. His gaze sharpens, lip curling even as Gale bites back. ]
More than a dalliance, wasn't it? [ Astarion stretches a hand out by his side, fluttering his fingers. ] Or you wouldn't be conjuring her godly visage by your tent in the evenings.
[ Gale's final barb nearly hits, Astarion's own wine-soaked reflexes just managing to parry him. He rolls his shoulders as he finds a suitable lie, voice pitched toward nonchalance. ]
Tav just had a little too much wine tonight. As have you, it seems. [ Astarion bends to cup water into his palms, his reflection absent from the golden ripples on the surface. He means to splash his face, but lets it trickle through his fingers instead, voice low and goading now. ] The richest red couldn't make up for the fact that I tasted her first, could it?
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Of course it was. [ snapped back, offended that Astarion would ask even in cruel jest. There’s no denying his love, his devotion. His obvious ache for her sends a quaver through his voice: ] Mystra was — she is everything. [ All magic and all creation, the dwindling fire in his veins, the last gasp of hope in his heart. She will never forgive him, but perhaps she’ll look upon him again before the orb overtakes him.
With a rattling breath, he looks askance. Astarion is correct about one thing; he’s had too much wine. This bickering has no end, and yet Gale holds his ground, toeing off his shoes and bending over to roll his trousers to his calves.
Astarion’s words call him upright once more, as if yanked by a string. ]
[ sputtering, ] That’s not — she’s allowed to do as she wishes. [ First or fifth, he should be lucky to have her at all. Her kindness in the matter of his condition is already beyond what he deserves. His hands clench into fists at his sides. ]
My issue lies squarely with you, Astarion. [ steady now, even as the cold water bites at his ankles. Sobering. Clarity shines in his too wide eyes. A low accusation rumbles in his throat. ] You mean to use her.
[ For blood, for protection. It matters not. Are you so different? asks the voice of his goddess. He could be, he thinks, if he could muster the courage to confide in her, in someone, in anyone who might forgive him. ]
If no-one else sees you for what you are, know that I do.
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There's certainly no pang of sympathy as Gale quivers for his goddess, who surely isn't watching and doesn't care. Astarion bled the whole pantheon dry in his early years with Cazador, offering everything, begging from coffin and cage and tomb. If any heard him, he was offered only silence in return.
Astarion sees Gale's watery reflection behind the empty space where his own should be, and finally turns to face him, expression cool as the blow glances off him entirely. ]
Oh, do tell, darling. What am I? [ Brows arching and head tilting in mock-curiosity, Astarion taking one step and then another in the water, closing the gap between him and Gale, gesticulating with his query. ] A monster, a charlatan?
[ He's slightly miscalculated the space between them, with the drag of the water at his ankles and give of the sand, and ends up hardly a breath away from Gale, his human heat and anger. Astarion holds that shifting ground, though, and holds Gale's gaze rather than backing up. ] I guarantee I've heard it all before.
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A flicker of surprise passes over his features, when Astarion steps into his space, sunlight haloing his silver hair. Another crashing wave splashes up his trousers, but he remains unmoved.
Only his hand rises between them, fingers splayed against Astarion’s chest on instinct. Poised to shove or shock him, if he shifts any closer. Despite the sun’s glow and fresh blood, his skin sends a chill up Gale’s arm. ]
Have you now? [ Perhaps from his cruel master or his dissatisfied citizens, before he was turned. Gale can only imagine how Astarion might have revelled in that fleeting power, given the way he delights in humiliating others and views so many as below him. Gale imagines the Gur hunter would have wanted to kill him even if he hadn’t revealed himself. ]
It seems to me you’re nothing at all. [ A charlatan, a monster, whatever he needs to be in a given moment. He flicks out his free hand, a nebulous gesture to illustrate his point. ]
You’re like an mirror image — an illusion. [ explained with the superiority of someone who thinks himself far cleverer than his interlocutor. ] You attract attention just fine. [ His fingers curl, knuckles pressing into Astarion’s flesh, light yet there. ] But nothing sticks.
[ The sun crowns above Astarion’s head, and Gale squints into it. ]
so sorry/you're welcome for this ucky face icon
Because these words are less Gale's than an echo of Cazador, stretching Astarion on the rack, carving him open. You're nothing. The dizzy refrain as he sliced Astarion's skin into sick knots of scar tissue: you're my puppet, a shadow, a worthless, noisy, disgusting thing.
Astarion has swung his leg behind Gale's calves to knock him prone into the water before his mind catches up to the action. The river's shallow here, but people have drowned in less, and Astarion brackets Gale's thighs with his feet as the splash spatters his chest and face with startling cold, looming over him. ]
You know nothing about me, you pompous, privileged twat. [ Expression curled into an ugly snarl, fists curled at his sides as he spits, ] Desperate little dog yapping at his savior's heels, begging for scraps.
it’s an honour to give an angy cat face back
Little dog, isn’t that what the others called him? No, lapdog, kneeling at Mystra’s beck and call. Her plaything, grateful to be toyed with — and he’d thought them jealous until she — until she — ]
At least I know what I am. [ Hoarse from choking on air and water both. Gale grasps Astarion’s firm calf in hand, a shock coursing through his fingers as he yanks hard. He doesn’t think through where Astarion might land or the dangers of loosing sparks above the water. ] What I want.
[ Except he doesn’t, not really, beyond the retaliatory urge to do harm. It would be truer to say he knows what he deserves, which is nothing and no-one. ]
tru luv
He goes down hard, letting loose a stuttered gasp as the water conducts Gale's sparks in rippling arcs around them both, jolting through his hands and up his spine. Astarion's vision goes dark for a moment, feet and hands kicking up silt until he finds purchase by pinning Gale's elbow with one hand, half-straddling Gale's hips -- one knee at his hip, the other bracketing his thigh -- with Gale's legs splayed open beneath him.
He coughs up water and sand, spitting it in the direction of Gale's face as he finds his bearings. They're both soaked, still sparking, chest rising and falling heavily as Astarion catches his breath, a strange thing to have to do now. ]
I thought I was a tiger to you, sweetheart. [ He digs sharp nails into Gale's upper arm where he has him pinned, voice rough and dangerous, his other hand twisting in the heavy velvet of Gale's shirt as he attempts to yank him closer. There's blood in his mouth, and he realizes he bit his tongue when Gale shocked him, his hair dripping onto Gale's face and chest as copper sings through his teeth. ] Do you like watching me prowl?
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One arm falls to seek purchase in the rocky silt and keep his head from going under again. His breath comes in shuddering gasps, chest rising and falling beneath the heavy dampness of his clothes. He feels them tighten as Astarion’s fist twists the thick fabric.
There he is, beautiful and terrible. Fangs bared. Honest, for once. Gale wonders if he’d dare bite into his jugular. If he did, would it hurt the same as the bile in his veins, or could it drown out the neverending burn by sapping the poison? He tries and fails to shift his pinned leg, aware of the blood-strong weight in Astarion’s limbs. Even above the crashing waves, he can hear the rush of blood to his ears, staining his cheeks, hot against the cool droplets flowing from Astarion’s hair. It floods his body, coursing through every limb, drawing lower and lower.
His heart races in turn, a new fear in his heart. On instinct, Gale brings a hand to bracelet his wrist, the threat of mutual detonation now at the forefront of his mind. ]
You — [ Gale’s private conversation with Tav, admiring and jealous and derisive. Astarion was listening by way of elven hearing, roguish subterfuge or ilithid invasion. He jerks his head so sudden and sharp that their noses crash together, exhale pained. Calm yourself. ]
Far more than I like the way you lie ever so prettily. [ Tongue carrying on without consulting his mind, bright eyes undimmed by the threat of proximity. ] Did you enjoy skulking about my tent last night?
[ His tongue darts out to swipe over his lower lip, too dry in the morning air. How long had Astarion been there? Has he listened to Gale before? He’s certainly paid attention prior to this evening, given his uncanny rendition of Gale’s late-night pining. ]
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It's not the wash he'd wanted, but something about it feels cleansing despite the silt between his toes, the river bed kicked up from their scuffle. It begins to settle around Gale beneath the surface, flecks of mica shimmering in the dawn light, his clothing looking heavy enough to pull him under if Astarion didn't have a firm grip on his tunic.
He's also panting, pink-cheeked, warm human fingers closing around his wrist and scrabbling at his back. Astarion may have just fed, but he's keenly aware of the quickened beat of Gale's heart, his own pupils going dark as he inhales his scent under that of the river. There's a crackle of ozone around them both, and he catches the wine on Gale's breath so close to his cheek as he tips his head, expression evening again. ]
I skulk around everyone's tents. You're not so special. [ It's only a half-truth; Astarion has been focused on Gale, in his courting of Tav. He shifts his weight, bearing down on Gale at the hip so he can't easily buck him off. ] And I'm far from the only liar in our little band of heroes.
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For a brief moment, he indulges the possibility of wiping that smug snarl from Astarion’s mouth. Only the desolation of this entire corner of the realm seems like overkill. He settles for a warning spark, where his hand clutches at Astarion’s. ]
And yet it’s my words that you recall. [ Gale swallows hard, willing his heartbeat to slow even as he inclines his head, closer still. It occurs to him that this is the dearest intimacy he’s experienced since his folly. Pathetic. ]
Would you like me to lump you in with all the rest? [ Heroes, liars, it matters not. This isn’t about them. ] No, I think you rather fancy the role I’ve ascribed you. [ Tiger, predator, threat. ] There’s power in it, after all.
[ Power and protection in being the hunter, not the hunted. Desired, but not wanting. Gale brushes against the thin veil shielding their minds from one another, his present view blurring through their connection. It’s more of an impression than a picture: the fear pressing under his tongue, the outrage fizzing behind his teeth, the heat pooling low in his gut (anger, maybe, or something else). All he needs is for Astarion to chase their tether or snap it, to divert his attention long enough to reverse their positions — ]
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He opens his mouth to respond, but then Gale is pressing in. Using the tadpole to connect them, and Astarion feels the animal fear and fury in Gale and something else, familiar base pleasure coiling tight between them.
That would be interesting if Astarion weren't startled by the attempt to pry. He forces Gale out before he can get much further than the reverberating shock through his bones, a flicker of his displeasure with the whole night, not just this, the feeling of still being caged, even now, even with the sliver of safety he's won. ]
Don't you dare--
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His tunic bunches higher, lower back exposed to the breeze. Between the alcohol and the water, there’s a chill in his bones already. ]
Hah — [ There’s no untangling himself, at this stage, and he ends up pressed between Astarion’s legs and flush against him, hand pressing his sternum until he can lift his head. He doesn’t have time to mimic Astarion’s hold on him, so he revels in the fleeting win while he can. ]
[ breathless, ] Not so nice to be spied on, is it.
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It all comes roaring back into focus as he thrashes beneath him to lift his head, chest seizing as he chokes on water, violently coughs it up. Gale's stomach is bare, slick and warm against his, their legs tangled, hips flush and while Astarion struggles to find the air to retort, he opens the connection between them.
To show Gale Tav on her back in the moonlight, skin flushed and bare, a bite pinprick-wet at her throat. The taste of her blood in Astarion's mouth, and then the copper threads with the salt of her cunt as he laps between her trembling thighs, her sighs and moans, her fingers twisting in his hair.
And then Astarion spits river water into Gale's face again, breath rattling as he catches it, the thread between them still open. ] There. That what you wanted a taste of?
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Unfortunately, Astarion’s invasion shakes something loose. Reciprocity. Gale on his knees for his goddess against the shimmering backdrop of astral, head bowed in enthusiastic devotion. In place of salt and sweat, near cloying sweetness settles on his tongue. Chosen, the praise reverberating in his very core. Gale on his back, then — or is it suspended over infinity — arching at the impossible stretch of something inside him, pliable yet firm. He doesn’t think he can take it, but he can. He will, until she decides otherwise. A trust so complete, so sure, it envelops him entirely even as he shudders, overwhelmed.
He uses all his strength to push Astarion underwater, one hand curled in his hair (just like in the terrible vision) and the other slipping over his chest. At the same time, Gale shuts Astarion out of his mind, a door slammed in his face. ]
You have no right — [ To share that, to see what Gale’s mind conjures in answer. He yanks Astarion’s head up and to one side, grip harsh. ] She chose you, she trusted you, and you would risk her to spite me. [ with venom in every word: ] You’re lower than I thought.
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Astarion is unmoved by being wanted, an object of desire to another, but to feel desire -- the blooming pleasure of being good for someone, of yielding, of being worthy overwhelms him more than the physical, even as his back arches beneath Gale in a helpless mirror of it, an aborted moan leaving his lips just as Gale drags him under.
He could drown. The thought is detached as the sharp twist at his scalp starts to numb, his lungs filling with water again. To need air is so strange, his vision going black at the edges, returning to the stars of the astral.
And then he's yanked unceremoniously back out, chest spasming as he tries to expel water from his lungs again, throat raw, like daggers are slicing inside him with every attempt at breath. ]
Oh, Gale. [ A rasping sigh, his breath catching staccato at the edge of it. His pupils are blown, wet bangs almost translucent as they cling to his skin, head lolling in Gale's grip as his vision swims. He hitches a seizing, delirious laugh, a hand clumsily finding purchase in Gale's tunic. ] I didn't think you had it in you.
[ The violence, he means, but he can't -- or won't -- offer that clarification. ]
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Heat colours his neck, his cheeks, the tips of his ears, flushed with anger and embarrassment both. Beneath him, Astarion has never looked more alive. Not quite fearful but alert. Normally, he’s so faraway, voice lilting and distant despite the ever-present charm. Even so, Astarion’s choked breath and hoarse words bring him no pleasure. If anything, they expose the hollowness of this fight.
He tries to gain purchase in the sand, knees shifting, but only succeeds in stretching Astarion’s thighs wider, palm sliding the divot of his hip, bodies flush from top to toe as he slips. A soft sound escapes his throat. ]
[ His eyes dark with irritation. ] Oh, fuck off. [ They’re too entangled for him to disengage now, so he drags Astarion closer once more. ]
I’m done. [ Droplets fall from his shoulder onto Astarion’s flat stomach. With effort, Gale ignores them to focus on his too-wide eyes. Beautiful, despite his cruelty. ] Let go, and I’ll leave you be.
[ To wash, to drown. It matters not. ]
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He catches that soft sound, Gale's hand -- cooler now, from the chill of the water and early morning air -- sliding over bare skin. Astarion's going to have to cut his pants off, once he gets out of the water. He feels drunker than he did before, somehow, between Gale's lightning magic and the water in his lungs, dizzy and blurred despite the fresh blood strengthening his body.
Astarion meets Gale's gaze, tongue flicking to wet his lower lip and being met with the grit of sand, taste of the river. Another rough breath of a laugh, his fingers gripping Gale's tunic tighter before he releases with a little push to his chest, attempting to right himself. ]
We should do this again sometime.
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Once upright, he quickly steps to the side, putting a nominal distance between him and Astarion – which he hopes communicates his disinterest in this farce. With difficulty, Gale peels his tunic from his skin and lifts it over his head, the fabric too heavy to bother wearing any longer, modesty be damned. A disgruntled huff slips from his mouth, at the sight of the sand-speckled heap in his hands. ]
Not bloody likely. [ said as Gale twists the soaked velvet, water splashing down to the riverbed. he cards a hand back through his hair, trying and failing to tidy the wet, curling strands. His fingers slip into the loosened waistband at his hip, testing whether he’s likely to lose his trousers en route to camp and deciding, mercifully, that he isn’t.
If he were half the wizard he once was, he could be dry with a flourish of his hand. ]
[ bluntly, ] I propose we forget this every happened.
[ A fair trade, given all they’ve said and seen this morning. Now, it’s difficult to storm off when you’re treading water, but Gale certainly tries. ]