[ 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. Itβs 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 β 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 heβs likely to lose his trousers en route to camp and deciding, mercifully, that he isnβt.
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 theyβve said and seen this morning. Now, itβs difficult to storm off when youβre treading water, but Gale certainly tries. ]
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
no subject
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.
no subject
Once upright, he quickly steps to the side, putting a nominal distance between him and Astarion β 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 heβs likely to lose his trousers en route to camp and deciding, mercifully, that he isnβt.
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 theyβve said and seen this morning. Now, itβs difficult to storm off when youβre treading water, but Gale certainly tries. ]