corporeity | PSL — EXSANGUE

I want to. [ Trust you. It would be easier to tell a gentle lie than a painful truth, but for once the easy option dies on his tongue. Despite Astarion's instinct to lash out, still hovering on the edge of it, Gale tries to warm his hands. It makes him want to weep. ]

Fucking hells, Gale. I want to. [ Astarion bows his head between them, forehead touching Gale's as he closes his eyes. Every instinct that's kept him alive until now is telling him to detach, to run, to let Gale blow himself up to save the world, but he realizes now that he lost that option miles ago - back in the Underdark, when something akin to a confession left his lips.

So here he is, his heart tied to a living bomb. Foolishness. The tension in Astarion's shoulders sags, as Gale kisses his knuckles - from weariness more than relief. They're moments from Moonrise, seat of the Absolute. The only way to stall for time is not to move, and that was never an option. ]

[ It’s a sliver of hope, light slanting through the window, although Gale still can’t see another way forward. His nose nudges Astarion’s in his eagerness to encourage this closeness. Selfish to the last. A wanting, ruinous thing. To die is terrible enough — to die alone, so far from home — he shudders without knowing why. ]

I can work with that. [ Gale knows he deserves even less that what he’s given. He only releases Astarion’s hands to cradle his jaw. ]

[ with quiet urgency, ] I should have come to you. [ He dares not kiss Astarion the way he wants to, after all he’s done and may yet do, but his lips brush his brow, then his raised cheekbone. ]

The day Elminster came, I should have found you first, before licking my wounds. [ that, at least, is true. ] I am a brilliant wizard of international renown and a terrible fool, who has been alone in a tower for far too long. [ Thinking of others as more than precious, endangered things is new. His very existence remains a threat, with detonation in the cards. ] It’s only that, of late, I am a fool for you. [ His mouth quirks on one side, hesitant. ] A situation I much prefer, to be clear.

[ Astarion doesn't know if anyone has ever issued him an apology. If it happened before death, he can't remember, blotted out by time and cruelty. Though Gale doesn't say I'm sorry in so many words, it's still enough, for now.

There are words on his own lips that evaporate as Gale closes: I am a fool for you. Astarion has heard so many breathless confessions in his life, but they were all drunk, meaningless. Issued to a facade, a charlatan who only existed to fulfill whatever their fantasies of him might be. He still doesn't know what to do with Gale wanting him as he is, when Astarion doesn't even know the shape of himself beneath the shimmering cloak of deceit he's worn for so long.

He looks at Gale a moment, lip trembling, and then pulls him into a tight embrace; holds him fiercely and desperately, his face buried in Gale's shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. Astarion is quiet for a long moment, before he finds his voice again, muffled into Gale's robes. ]

We'll find another way. Any other way.

[ Gale has never seen Astarion’s eyes like this, unguarded because they’ve already been wrenched open with hurt. They’re bigger than he thought, or fuller, with depths otherwise hidden in a slanted gaze.

Not for the first time, he wonders why Astarion chose him, of all their companions. They both know hunger and service, but it’s not that — or not just that. Gale has never wanted to protect anyone more, to leave anyone less, and he doesn’t have the faintest idea how to do those things.

The embrace surprises him at first, but he soon returns it, one hand clutching Astarion’s waist and the other cupping the back of his head, stroking his hair. Gods, what would another way even look like, against their foe? ]

I’m sorry. [ hushed into Astarion’s curls in an attempt to hide the crack in his voice. Even Gale can’t say whether he’s apologising for what he’s done or what he intends to do. He presses another kiss to the crown of Astarion’s head, affection with nowhere to go. ]

Will you stay with me tonight? [ softer, ] I don’t mean to ask for anything but your company. [ even that is too much. ] Day will come all too soon, even in this place.

[ Astarion's mind is already searching for constellations of possibility, anything for Gale to hold onto as an alternative to the orb, but he's never been a planner. Maybe their illithid potential, or - again - Raphael, both gambles, the latter feeling more desperate and also more dangerous.

He needs to rest before he can look at this properly, worn down from the day, even though he feels time slipping from them as they speak.

Astarion is loathe to release him, but they don't need whichever Harpers are on watch to witness any more of this private moment than they likely have already. He lets go of a shaky breath against Gale's shoulder, then pulls back enough to look at him. ]

Yes. Of course. [ He hadn't fully appreciated that they have the exceedingly rare gift of private rooms here, stormy as he felt earlier, but he is grateful for it now. His gaze sweeps Gale's face, taking him in, wanting to memorize the lines of it while also feeling the ache of doing so. Lifts a hand to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind his ear, lingering at his cheek. ] We have a few hours, at least.

[ Relief floods his face, loosening the tense lines of his brow and mouth. With concerted effort, he stops himself from unravelling and telling Astarion all, the extent of his affections trapped in his throat. ]

We do. [ Gale drops his chin so their noses can brush, still not seeking anything but contact. ] And a proper bed, if you’d share it with me. [ It feels important to speak plainly, after all Astarion has confessed. ]

[ sheepish, ] It’s not my four-poster in Waterdeep, but it’s closer to what you deserve than my tent. [ Though he’s had the privilege of awaking to Astarion there, too, after the occasional nap. Fingers tangled in his hair, mouth soft at his throat. A miracle made flesh. ] And I’ve wanted so very badly for you to be the last thing I see before I sleep and the first, when I wake. [ softer. ] It’s you I think of then, anyway.

[ Not Mystra, not since the night Astarion admitted to his uncertain desires. ]

[ Astarion doesn't know what to do with words like this, with a confession that sounds like it's meant for someone much sweeter, much kinder than him. He's heard it all before, but none of it meant anything before Gale. He never would have imagined they'd wind up here, when they found each other by the fire that night - bound up in something much bigger than a simple arrangement between party members.

And Astarion doesn’t know how to articulate what Gale is to him - because there has never been anyone like him. The belief he could have anyone like him, anything like this died inside Astarion long ago.

So he kisses Gale, in lieu of words. Not a charlatan's kiss but a real one, soft and a little unsteady. ]

I like your tent, you know. Soft pillows, endless reading material. [ His hand sweeps down Gale's neck to the collar of his robe, tugging at it lightly. ] Smells like you, which is preferable to shadow-cursed musty bedsheets.

[ The kiss is enough, for Gale. Astarion may not whisper the same poetry that he favours in the quiet of the night, but he shows his care in other ways. He keeps coming back, ducking under his tent flap and falling into step beside him, a consistent presence unlike all who came before. Gale chases the contact with a kiss at the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, all the more wanting for not knowing how long he’ll have this.

He snags Astarion’s hand in his, tugging him along as he steps back, toward the inn. ]

Like me? [ too pleased by the idea that Astarion might prefer that, if only in comparison to cursed linens. ] I could conjure a bed more to your tastes, if that’s the sticking point.

Like you. [ Astarion echoes it, low, as they walk back inside, where the others are sleeping. His nerves still feel frayed, as they have since Gale received his death sentence and they entered this forsaken place, but gods, he is ready for rest. Privacy. An impossibility in his previous life and a rarity in this one.

There's a key for one of the spare rooms in his back pocket, and they're greeted by quiet darkness as he unlocks it. There are two twin beds with trunks for their belongings at the end, separated by a dusty nightstand. Astarion swipes a finger through the dust, rubbing thumb and forefinger together with a wrinkle in his brow as he looks back at Gale. ]

Have you been able to conjure a bespoke magical bed this whole time? Don't hold out on me, then.

[ Like you. Such a small thing that has his heart racing and cheeks dimpling all the way to their room. ]

It seemed presumptuous to offer. [ and his power has waned, though he tries to keep that quiet. A few nights prior to his sentence, Astarion witnessed him practicing a spell that was once as effortless as breathing, instead sparking and sputtering out in his worn hands.

Gale walks the short length of the room, assessing what they have to work with, and sighs. ]

Come here, I’ll need your help. [ It’s not at all the same magic lesson he gave Tav, when he curls an arm Astarion’s waist to pull his back flush to Gale’s chest. Their slight height difference means he can tuck his chin over the ridge of Astarion’s shoulder with ease. Gale extends his hands in front of them, coaxing Astarion to mimic him. ]

Follow my lead. [ A quick, twisting gesture and hushed words at his ear, all for Astarion to imitate. ]

[ Tension Astarion didn't know he'd been holding drains from his shoulders as Gale loops an arm around his waist, warm against his back. He flutters a sigh, wanting to melt into him more than pay attention, but he does as Gale asks all the same.

Astarion's never made much use of his own inherent magic, the vein that flows from his elven heritage, vampire or no. It's almost strange to tap it now, to tug the thread that connects him to something greater - that connects him to Gale, in this moment. ]

[ There’s always intimacy in channelling, particularly when augmented by another. The Weave bears down on them — a soft, encouraging presence. The scent of rosewater and ozone in the air, something sweet settling on the tip of the tongue. ]

You’re a natural. [ All warm assurance, coupled with a soft kiss under his ear. ] Hold onto that feeling. [ Something like comfort washing over them, encouraged by every point of connection: Their mental link, their closeness, their magic. ] Close your eyes.

[ Both to aid Astarion’s concentration and to indulge his own proclivity for a reveal. The process may interest him most, but it’s the prestige that wows an audience. ]

There. [ Spellcasting finished, he wraps his arms around Astarion fully. ] As much as I’ve enjoyed our nights spent under the majesty of the celestial canvas, there’s something to be said for the comforts of home.

[ Weathered floorboards have warmed to a polished, honey brown. The dire twin beds have disappeared, a lush four-poster (like the one Gale spoke of) in their place. Every grey has been replaced a richer hue, the kind they both prefer when given a choice. And there isn’t a speck of dust in sight. ]

[ It's a different sensation from sampling the Weave through Gale's blood. That's one-sided, in a way, Gale giving unto him; this is a sweetness that threads through them both, joins them so intimately it makes Astarion wonder if he's ever known intimacy at all before this moment.

He'll take the flattery, too, even if it's untrue, closes his eyes and bathes in it like a cat in a sunbeam. Astarion's seen Gale cast illusions before, but they're intangible things, so he doesn't know what to expect when his eyes flutter open again, hands resting atop Gale's beneath his sternum. ]

Oh. [ It's an awed, involuntarily sound as he takes in the room they've conjured together, and loathe as Astarion is to leave the warmth at his back he does need to touch, disentangling himself so he can smooth a hand over the plush duvet. Then hops up onto it, the mattress taking his weight easily, though he scarcely believes it. ]

We make quite the team, don't we?

[ A helpless little laugh, more out of fondness than any amusement. He releases Astarion with a reluctance both playful and sincere, fingertips brushing until the last moment. Gale hangs back, then, watching Astarion test their fine handiwork until his eyes crinkle. Even staring down the barrel of his holy mandate, he has to wonder: What could possibly be more worthy of his time — his attention, his devotion — than this? ]

That we do. [ Not quite tentative, after all this time, but still careful in his approach. He settles beside Astarion, their shoulders bumping as he splays his hands on the comforter. ]

Though we may have overshot the mark, in terms of pillows. [ There are rather a lot, stacked at the head of the bed. Most likely a result of his taste for creature comforts and Astarion’s inclination to hoard rare luxuries. ] Or not, if we’ve need of a very soft barricade.

[ Astarion looks over his shoulder at the veritable fort they've created against the headboard and shakes his head, all seriousness. ] It's perfect. Completely necessary amount of pillows.

[ He darts a quick kiss to Gale's shoulder before sliding back on the bed so he can lie on his side upon the pillow heap, chin in hand so he still has just the right view of Gale. The most magical thing in this room, bar none.

It's hard to kill the instinct to turn on the charm, slip an easy mask on, one Astarion's worn for centuries now. He has to still himself, focus his gaze on Gale's hand spread on the comforter, the lines at the corners of his eyes that tell of a life lived. Reminding himself it's Gale in the room with him, not a stranger. Not Cazador.

Astarion is quiet a moment, working out what to say. What he lands on may sound like a line, but it's honest. An awful habit he's picked up, being around this man. ]

You're perfect, you know. [ Astarion smoothes his hand over the space on the bed beside him, then pats it. ] Come here.

[ It’s perfect, you’re perfect rings in his ears, a recursive loop that denies all logic and sense. The look on his face is almost wounded by the compliment — by the steadiness in Astarion’s voice that he’s come to know as sincerity. However much he’d like to shy away from it, Astarion is here. Gale may be so much less than the man he was before (a chosen, an archmage), but Astarion acts as though he still might be enough.

Gale follows him. There was never a chance he’d do otherwise. ]

Here? [ Beside Astarion now, leaning in to press a kiss under his jaw and a hand to his chest, guiding him back. All vibrato, like a laugh about to bubble over. ] Or here? [ Another kiss to his cheek as Gale slips a leg between his, knee digging into the bedspread. Tangling their limbs more than anything else. His hands curl into the blankets, holding his weight aloft when he ducks his head, as if he means to kiss him properly, their noses brushing — ]

Mm, no, here. [ A slight tip to the side lands a chaste kiss around the corner his mouth. In sotto voce, ] You must be more specific, Astarion.

[ The view Astarion has of Gale now is so different from that first meeting after the nautiloid. There's some split path, a branch they never took where none of this happened between them -- where Astarion never got to see these private smiles, the teasing, his warmth.

All of this is light and sweet, his hands and lips, but something threatens to spill over inside Astarion, a tremulous thing. He catches Gale's jaw with both hands, gaze searching. ]

Here. [ He lifts up to kiss him, teeth catching at Gale's lower lip as he slows him from his quick pecks, lingering before pulling back, breathless. ] Again.

[ There’s a moment where Astarion is looking for something — and Gale can only assume he finds it, based on his firm hold; the sudden, then slow press of his mouth. Something sparks in his chest, at the thought, and Gale makes a soft sound against the bow of his lips. Astarion hardly finishes asking him for more when Gale responds, instinctive in his desire to meet any halting want and up the ante — opening his mouth, pushing in closer.

For all that Gale’s thoughts can run away from him, splintering into multiple threads, he also possesses a single-minded focus, typically reserved for his work. One kiss after another, again and again. He winds his hand through Astarion’s hair, tugging his head back to murmur low, ]

As many times as you like. [ Gale tucks his nose against Astarion’s cheek and kisses along the ridge of his jaw, following it to the curve of his ear and gently biting down on the pointed tip. ]

[ Astarion knows every step to this dance. He knows how to flatter, how to charm, how to seduce; he knows the erogenous zones of humans and elves and tieflings, knows how to fake all the right sounds at the right moment. He knows what people want from him, what they see and expect when they look at him.

It should have been simple with Gale, but Gale has thrown off Astarion's steps from the beginning. The threat of detonation has always been there, just behind Gale's ribs -- poor planning, Astarion, at the choice to pursue the near-dead wizard for a back pocket ally. Worse planning to want him, but Astarion hadn't thought he was still capable of such things.

It isn't just wanting him, or -- maybe it is, and Astarion has just never known what it is to truly want another person. They've both known hunger, but that's a hollowing thing, claws that carve from the inside out. This is a blooming, or perhaps an untangling: Gale's fingers and lips finding knots Astarion didn't know existed, that he hasn't been able to see.

Just a bite, gentle, with human teeth, and Astarion feels a kick of heat in his gut, impossible as the warmth of the sun on his skin. His hands have found Gale's waist, the small of his back, legs spread to accommodate the solidity of Gale's thigh between them. Astarion doesn't know what move to make, where to put his hands. The soft, surprised sound he makes against Gale's shoulder isn't for show. ]

Gale. [ His hips hitch a little, a helpless desire to slot their bodies together, and Astarion feels a bloom of shame with that; the lack of control, from something so simple. He also doesn't want it to stop. ]

[ Normally, Gale lets Astarion lead the dance. A solid weight in his lap, warmed only by proximity. Fangs marking his neck, wrist, shoulder, thigh at his leisure. Gale has always had a talent for both accepting what he’s given and overreaching.

Humans are such wanting creatures, Mystra had told him once. It’s true of them in general and of Gale, in particular, though he surmises there’s more to it, in this moment, with Astarion hushing his name like a prayer. ]

Good. [ For all Gale obviously twists himself up in his head, Astarion falls into mind-traps of his own, but maybe this helps. It feels essential and effortless to encourage him now — to approve of that want, unfurling amongst the brambles in his chest, and coax it into the light. ] You’re good, Astarion. [ Astarion’s legs have fallen open, an invitation Gale has rarely dared to imagine, and one he answers by angling his knee to part them wider. ]

I have you. [ Gale kisses the reddened tip of Astarion’s ear to prove it before ducking under his jaw. Fingers curl around the pointed shell, protective as the weight the settles over him, indulging that abortive hitch with a deep roll in return. ]

Again. [ His name, that sound. The scrape of stubble then teeth as Gale sucks a mark under the hinge of his jaw to match the fresh and fading bruises that have decorated his neck for weeks. ]

[ You're good, Astarion. He isn't, he isn't. So long as he isn't good, so long as he isn't a hero, Astarion can live with himself and all the terrible things he's done, both in Cazador's name and just because he could. Astarion wants to twist away from Gale's kindness even as it cracks something open, a keening thing inside of him. His eyes squeeze shut, a hand pressed between Gale's shoulder blades as their hips slot together, a friction he can't stop himself from seeking out, arching up to meet him.

If Gale continues to unravel him like this, Astarion doesn't know what will be left. ]

Gale. [ On a stuttered breath, his cock stiffening with the hot-wet of Gale's mouth beneath his jaw, the knee between his thighs, the solid weight of his body. Him, here, not gone. Astarion pushes his free hand beneath the vee of his robes, clumsier than he likes to be, wanting to pull them open, palm searching for the beat of his heart. ] Gale, I --

[ They’re teetering at an edge they’ve neared before, but Astarion has never pulled them over — and Gale hasn’t urged him to, since that first night, when trembling fingers curled around his wrist.

This feels different. Electric, like the zip of magic down his spine. At the tug on his robes, Gale undoes the cinch that holds them in place, letting Astarion manoeuvre him until his left sleeve falls from his shoulder. His mouth curves, smile helpless and fond. ]

[ steady, ] You have me, Astarion. [ The natural corollary to I have you. But for how long?

An aching kiss aims to settle any shared nerves. His grip finds Astarion’s hand, guiding it to settle over the orb as violet light filters through the cracks in their fingers, then shifting to find his heart. Beat after beat rises into the cup of their hands before Gale lifts them again to find the pulse in his throat, hammering under the skin, audible in his ears. Only when he feels the tension ease in Astarion’s arm does he give his hand a parting squeeze. ]

Is there something you want? [ A low tease. Lashes kissing his cheek, mouth parted as he arches beautifully: Astarion is wanting in a way that isn’t choreographed, its end unknown to him. Gale drops his hand to Astarion’s lithe waist, rucking up his shirt — fingers straying to the divot of his hip, splaying over the flat of his hairless stomach, dipping into the slight give of his navel. Can’t help but slide his palm higher, then, until his thumb brushes over a pert nipple. ] Here, perhaps?

[ With eyes closed, Astarion can feel Gale's pulse like a magnet beneath his palm; flowing from this heart that's fed him, quenched his thirst for all these weeks. Still pumping blood, still full of life, despite the black hole at the center that could so swiftly snuff them all out.

He looks at Gale again, eyes heavy-lidded as he guides their hands to his throat. Astarion hasn't fed from him since they entered these lands, but this close, robe slipping from Gale's shoulder, Astarion can see his faded bite marks, peppering his skin like stars.

Astarion used to use that tired line, your freckles are like constellations, darling, on half his swooning quarry. He'd never actually seen it, until now: scars pinprick-white against Gale's skin, a map of Astarion's making. The parallel to Cazador lurches briefly in him, until he remembers the way Gale has bared his neck for this willingly, time and time again.

Astarion's almost lost in that reverie, fingers tracing Gale's bites, until Gale slides his shirt up his stomach, thumb brushing a nipple and making his breath hitch, lashes flutter. ]

Gods, you're worse than I am. [ With something like delight - awe, even - threading his words, stomach muscles taut as he finishes what Gale started, tugging his shirt up and over his head. His hands find their way right back to him: one at the nape of his neck, threading through soft hair, the other slipping beneath his loosened robe again. He hooks a leg over Gale's to pull him closer, the laces of his leather pants suddenly feeling far too tight for comfort. ]

Do you want me? [ A question he's asked countless times and has never cared about the answer to, until now. He means for it to have that easy, seductive slant, and instead it comes out sideways: breathless and vulnerable, far too honest. ]

[ An easy laugh in answer, rumbling low in his chest. Astarion touches him like he can’t keep away, like he’ll never get enough. The pleasure from that alone heats him from the inside out. Gale has been held — valued — but no one has found every marred part of him as entrancing as Astarion.

His breath stutters on a exhale as Astarion winds him closer, impossible to ignore his own half-hard cock despite his best efforts. He shrugs out of his sleeves to allow Astarion’s hands to wander, robe pooling at his waist. Suspended above him, mesmerised by those uncharacteristically open features, his reply comes without hesitation. ]

Yes. [ It seems inadequate, even with all the feeling he packs into the word, unable to keep the ache from his voice or the tremor from his hand, anchored at Astarion’s hip. ] More than anything. [ More than he wants to do the right thing — the thing he must do — but his own desires are irrelevant, aren’t they? Compared to the needs of the realm, of Mystra. Gale blinks the sheen of conflict from his eyes before it becomes something tangible. ]

You must know — I didn’t think I could want anyone like this, until you touched me. [ A quiet confession, nearly lost as he ducks his head to kiss the centre of Astarion’s bare chest. For so long, every desire led back to her, tangled in the sparkling strands of her Weave. Power, beauty, favour. He certainly never imagined any of his companions as prospects, with a broken heart and ticking bomb weighing him down. Astarion was a faraway thing until he kissed Gale soundly. ]

[ More than anything. There's a selfish, greedy part of Astarion that wants to bind Gale to those words, hold them tight when the moment of truth comes. Even with Gale here, touching him, it's near-impossible to believe he can have this; whatever waits for them at Moonrise is too close, and the night threatens to slip through his fingers.

Gale's kiss warms the skin over Astarion's unbeating heart, his words knocking something else loose in him -- a fortress crumbling, and Astarion hadn't known how heavy its walls were until now.

They've been too raw tonight for any of Astarion's easy quips to roll off his tongue in response to Gale's confession, lines about how good he is with his hands, his irresistible touch. He watches Gale quietly a moment, instead; finds his hand to thread their fingers at his hip, the other tangled in his hair. ]

I thought this part of me was dead. [ Mirrors of each other. Voice soft, awed. ] I've never --

This should be so easy, when I've done it a million times before. But you've made it new.

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