corporeity | PSL — EXSANGUE

[ Before Gale can think through what he intends to accomplish, he misty steps again, teleporting from his place feet from Astarion to snag his arm on a futile effort to shield him from what they’ve surely unleashed. Ultimately, he likely does more harm than good, legs now bracketing Astarion’s thighs, one hand splayed over a jagged rock beside them while the other still clings to his arm. Not quick enough to reverse their roles, he realises with a pang, worry hitting the back of his teeth, about to slip free —

When Astarion shoves him, and he squawks, undignified. ]

— your concern is too kind. [ throat made scratchy by the thick air, irritation obvious. He hacks in turn and shifts his hand from the rock to Astarion’s hip, hissing as the light armour scrapes against his palm. ]

[ Another mushroom bursts to his left, shimmering dust settling in his hair. He tries and fails to sit back — the abruptness of the effort calling him forward in a sudden burst of vertigo, head bent into Astarion’s shoulder. ]

Shit.

[ Spoken chiefly because he catches a glimpse of his sliced open palm between them, still not quite registering the extent of the trouble they’ve courted with their shared idiocy. ]

You idiot. Look where you've landed us!

[ Because if Astarion can pin the fault of landing them in further danger on someone else, he will. Even if he plainly started it.

It's either suffocatingly hot down here or Gale is suffocatingly hot on top of him. Astarion always runs cold, but it feels like they've plunged into a sauna, hip-to-hip in the dark with Gale's breath against his throat. His nostrils flare as he moves to shove him again, but as they do Astarion catches the scent of blood, fresh and close.

Gale's. Dark and wet in his palm, lit with an odd pink glow by the spores. ]

Oh. [ A low exhale, all Astarion manages as his fangs suddenly itch against his tongue, hand moving to rest on Gale's hip instead of pushing him away. ]

You’re the one who bloody —

[ Astarion jostles him, and Gale’s breath hitches with the movement. Heat blossoming between them, radiating outward from his palm, up his arm, through to the mark of orb, which pangs in answer. He feels both acutely aware of every limb and as if moving them would take significant effort, veins alighting with a similar burn to the orb’s fire. His processing slows, the lack of a follow up push only registering when Astarion’s fingers press into his hip. That feels — better, somehow. Sweltering heat turning to something brighter, sharper, more tangible.

He turns his head, nosing into Astarion’s throat. Breathing deep, as if that’ll slow his ratcheting pulse. ]

Astarion. [ A low rumble, thoughts returning to the initial spark of recognition, when he first saw the mycelium glow. He curls his fingers into his palm in an attempt to ground himself, tips coming away red. Even heady with proximity, he clucks his tongue in exasperation. ] I was trying to warn you.

Edited 2024-12-25 22:28 (UTC)

You didn't quite manage, did you? [ There's less of a bite to it, more of a rumble into Gale's hair now that he's distracted by the smell of blood, the quickened thump of his pulse.

The last time they were this close was back in the river, Gale holding him under. The slip of pleasure shared between their connection, Gale's real, for his goddess, Astarion's performed.

Astarion keeps his hand at Gale's hip but slips the other to his wrist, a loose hold, thumb resting on his pulse point and feeling the slickness of blood beneath. ]

You're bleeding. [ Astute. And undeniable that there's no real concern, there: just a quiet undercurrent of hunger. ]

[ He looses a huff of air, half-lost in Astarion’s shoulder. The acknowledgment of his inadequacy, however passive, smarts. Shame heats his cheeks.

Reluctantly, he tips back, attention fixed on their linked hands, the sweep of Astarion’s thumb over his thudding pulse — the trickle of blood that skids around his wrist. ]

Oh, am I? [ aiming for dry and landing somewhere breathless, ugh. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Astarion was eyeing up his wound like a choice cut, but he reminds himself of the inherent rot in his veins. Besides, he already offered Astarion his blood, in a particularly low moment. He needn’t embarrass himself further. ]

I don’t suppose you’ve a health potion on your person. [ His free hand slides over Astarion’s chest, ostensibly searching for the give of a pocket in his armour. And swiftly getting sidetracked by the thought of slipping under his layers and feeling his cool skin. ] I fear those mushrooms were… of a lascivious kind.

[ Astarion is only half-listening. He's not typically this distracted by a flesh wound - Gale has bled around him plenty, after all - but it's been a while since he's had the chance to savor a meal. ]

I'm afraid I'm all out. [ A lie. There's a small bottle tucked in his belt, but Gale's hands are searching elsewhere. Astarion doesn't even catch the word lascivious as Gale palms him through his leather. ]

But I can clean up some of your mess. [ There's such a strange note to the smell of Gale's blood - sour but sweet, wrong for a human. Astarion had focused on the scent of it beneath his skin, that evening on the monastery roof, but now it's brought to surface and Astarion's curiosity (and hunger) is getting the best of him.

He bends his head slightly and brings Gale's hand to his mouth, just a sweep of his lips over bloody knuckles. Barely a touch, barely a taste. He flicks his gaze to Gale's face, eyes dark as he gauges his reaction. ]

[ His stomach flips, and his face flushes, tinged darker in the purple-pink glow of their surroundings. Irritation twists his mouth. Are you even listening to me? caught in his throat, stoppered by the way Astarion’s moonspun curls fall in his face, head bent almost reverently over Gale’s reddened knuckles. Oh.

He shifts on Astarion’s lap, not pulling away but seeking purchase, free hand sliding to tug his collar between his thumb and forefinger. The leather pulls taut, biding seconds that feel like aching minutes, as he looks from Astarion’s rubied eyes to his lips, unable to fathom that they were on his burning skin moments before.

Gale dips his nails in the open wound on his palm again, wincing slightly — though he doesn’t drop his gaze, watchful as he unfolds his hand, pressing a red fingerprint at the corner of Astarion’s mouth, then brushing the bow of his lips. ]

Don’t be cruel. [ By denying him healing — no, by offering and then not seeing it through, leaving him bereft as he was on the mountaintop. Or perhaps even by sinking fangs into his smarting injury. ]

[ Don't be cruel, Gale says, as if Astarion has ever been anything else. Shades of cruelty are all he knows.

And now Gale is teasing, smearing blood over Astarion's lips. His nostrils flare again at the scent, and before Gale can protest Astarion slides his tongue over the pad of Gale's thumb, lashes fluttering low as the taste of him blooms in Astarion's mouth, copper and acid and something sticky-sweet - the spores, still thick in the air around them.

Astarion has played seducer and charlatan longer than Gale's been alive, but there's part of him that isn't just playing, here in the warm dark. The hand at Gale's hip grips a little harder as he pulls Gale's thumb into his mouth, careful of his teeth for now, sucking the blood from it before pulling off. ]

[ Another hissed breath, as Astarion laps at his thumb. Not disgusted, then, or repulsed by the acrid taste of the rot inside him, if his drooping eyes and eager tongue are any indication. Relief floods him. Heat pools in his gut. He feels so unbelievably hot, even with Astarion’s cool lips on his fingers.

And he thinks about — droppinh his hand to his lap, parting his rucked up robes to find relief — absolutely not. Inappropriate. Unwelcome, to be sure, even with Astarion’s parted lips seemingly begging for more. Gale leans forward, pupils blown out. Driven by desire, not intelligence, when he slicks two fingers, pushing them into the plush on Astarion’s mouth. A light press against his tongue. A stray touch at the tip of one fang. ]

[ voice rough, ] How is it? [ The touch. His ichorous blood. He doesn’t know. ]

[ Astarion knows the steps to this dance so well, he doesn't miss a beat - just closes his fingers around Gale's wrist, then closes his eyes, drawing fore and middle finger further into his mouth.

Gale had shocked him in the river, electric current cutting bone-deep, and the taste of him holds some of that spark. The rot Gale has spoken of threads the aftertaste, but Astarion is a dead thing. There's rot within him too.

Astarion's fangs bracket both fingers, and he scrapes the point along them just enough to sting as he flattens his tongue and hollows his cheeks, creating suction, drawing them in nearly to the first knuckle.

He swallows, larynx bobbing as Gale's blood warms his throat, then slides his fingers from his mouth, slick with saliva and blood. ]

Hmm. [ Astarion looks up at Gale through his lashes again, pupils as dark as Gale's as he noses against his palm, nipping at the meat just below the first knuckle. Not yet delving into the wound itself. His voice rasps, ] Thinking of the sort of magic you could do with your fingers on my tongue.

[ Gale's dextrous hands, always flicking sigils into the air. The wound drips blood onto Astarion's armor, and Astarion suddenly wishes he could feel it on his skin, hips shifting beneath Gale's. ]

[ As Astarion takes his fingers, Gale chokes. His dusty flush becomes something of a permanent stain, mouth open and eyes transfixed. Of course he doesn’t answer Gale’s sincere question, but if it were truly so foul, he supposes Astarion wouldn’t be licking his fingers clean. ]

Astarion — [ emphasis in all the wrong places, hips hitching into the nothing, the barest friction of his robes. Good, when rutting into Astarion’s stomach would be shameful (he reminds himself of this thrice over, in the hopes his cock won’t twitch in interest). His hand stutters to Astarion’s shoulder, trying to steady himself. ]

Gods, what a line. [ A strangled sound, in the wake of Astarion’s hollowing cheeks, made more depraved by his hard angles. He wants to mock Astarion for his sloppy seductions, recycled lines from his attempt at wooing Tav and countless others before her, to be sure, but he can’t stop thinking about his fingers in Astarion’s mouth, playing his body like a lyre — ]

You — your mouth is more wicked than any I’ve known. [ He slides his free hand to the vee in Astarion’s leather armour, plucking at the clasp, suddenly possessed by the thought of more skin-on-skin and the relief it might promise. ] But I could think of better uses for my clever hands than holding your devilish tongue.

PSL — EXSANGUE

HUGE OVERSIGHT

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