corporeity | PSL — EXSANGUE

[ At once, the thread of tension holding Gale upright snaps and he sinks deeper, sat back on his knees. It’s not comfortable, but this never is. ]

I dare not imagine your depravity. [ murmured to himself, as he takes a bracer in each hand, testing the weight and power of the things. A fleeting thought: He ought to warn Astarion. It can be unsettling, to watch him rattle apart, arcane power dissembling into pure weave on his skin. It had been upsetting for Tara, at any rate, when his condition first demanded treatment.

It’s too late, the braces held to his chest like treasured things, silver glancing off the orb’s mark — then gone in a burst of violet light. His Netherese brand glows, vibrant from his sternum up the taut muscles of his neck. The force of it unbalances him, pushed deeper onto his heels, back arched and hands scrabbling for purchase. ]

Ah — hah, that’s a relief. [ It’s such a rapid, overwhelming act, that he stumbles in the come down. Never has he been so close the precipice. It was reckless to allow it, but for all his chatter, he’s never quite managed to put the pain of his arcane hunger into words. Even the danger, he fears he undersold, for want of a place in this group.

On a rush of an exhale, his entire body slackens. Gale blinks until he can see clearly again, dragging a hand through his beard and over his face, then carding back into his hair to soothe away the aftershocks. The effect of consumption is immediate, searing pain dulled to a manageable sting. ]

Thank you, Astarion. [ Surer, a warm flush where his cheeks had been sallow for days. ] You’ve — [ no idea? ] Well, I suppose you’ve every idea, what this means for me.

[ For a moment, the entire tent crackles with power. Astarion will be shocked if it hasn't lit a beacon for the rest of the party to discern exactly what's happening here; but he also knows from his own late night prowling that the flood of purple light must not be so conspicuous, or he'd have clocked Gale's mealtimes before now.

Astarion has watched more than a lifetime's worth of suffering--and pleasure, always in the service of pain--but the magic held in precarious balance in Gale's body is something new to behold. He feels like he's watching something vulnerable, and for once isn't dissociated around it.

Cracked open, he thinks, and his fingers flex against his knee. Somewhere, there's a goddess who once thought Gale a very interesting little ant, and now he's living with the profound consequences of one moment of her attention.

Can he blame her? Gale is lovely on his knees. So very human, despite his brush with the divine. But for all that Astarion covets power, the cruelty of the gods is something else. ]

It's different though, isn't it? [ Watching the color bloom again on Gale's skin, lifeblood that is his instead of something stolen. Astarion's expression is serious as he drinks him in, not masquerading as predator or charlatan. ] I can go quite a long while without blood. It's not pleasant, but it's possible.

[ Cazador loved to deny them. And when he wasn't denying them, they were fed worse than scraps. ]

I don't know what it is to be alive on the knife's edge of death. I haven't felt alive in a very long time.

[ It’s rather curious the way Astarion watches him now, alight with neither amusement nor disapproval. Gale finds that he has to look away, thumbing his earring as he turns to take in this space properly, for the first time. His senses return to him slowly, the metallic tang of blood coming from somewhere nearby — an unsightly mess, when Astarion seems to pride himself on his coiffed appearance outwith this space.

Absentmindedly, he hushes a spell that cleanses the area, stains dissipating, the smell of fresh parchment in the air. He catches Astarion’s gaze again only at the admission of understanding — there is but one explanation for why Astarion knows hunger intimately, and it twists his insides into brambles. Somewhere in Baldur’s Gate, there is a vampire lord waiting to reclaim him. Gale swears he’ll not find Astarion alone.

His expression shifts, neutral in his consideration of their similarities and differences. Strange, that Gale should be more alive for winding nearer and nearer to a permanent death, with Astarion stuck in limbo. No matter how his strength surges as he recoils from the jagged ledge, he always finds himself closer to the abyss than he was the last time, unable to regain lost ground. One storm, a rush of slanting rain to upset his footing, and he’ll fall. Even now, so freshly sated, a hollow ache builds in his chest. For all his cleverness, he is almost certainly running out of time. ]

I could show you. [ He taps his temple, indicating their connection. ] If you truly wished to know.

[ His tent suddenly smells very much like Gale--not just the crackling ozone from that surge of magic, but also parchment and warm, time-weathered skin. He wonders what Gale might look like, if he actually had years ahead of him rather than two potential time bombs inside, the orb and their shared problem of the worm.

Humans go so quickly. Spawn tend to be turned during their prime, and age never marks them thereafter. Astarion feels a tenderness he can't look at straight-on for the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of Gale's eyes, the faint wisps of grey at his temples. They make him real, and they make something ache in him, like thumbing a bruise.

Astarion might bristle at his territory being marked under different circumstances--because cleaning it means Gale noticed the filth, the familiar squalor he lets himself live in--but strangely, he doesn't mind this tonight. Their transaction is technically done, but he considers the offer, curiosity drawing him in.

Maybe more than curiosity. A desire for closeness, to not be left alone to brood in his clean, Gale-scented tent for the rest of the night. But he won't look at that straight-on, either. ]

Why not. [ Astarion extends a hand, even though they technically don't need to touch for this, his voice soft. ] We've given each other stranger things.

[ Part of him expects a rejection, despite the softness rounding Astarion’s eyes. Their scales have been balanced, for the time being. Anything else is surplus to requirements.

That Astarion seems intrigued by the very thing he sought to rid himself of — well, it’s a novelty. Confronted with Astarion now, Gale finds that he may have valued his humanity too cheaply. ]

True. [ His fingers catch on the mark at his throat, unable to keep his thoughts on track. ] But this will be less pleasant than my previous gift. [ His intoxicating blood doesn’t agree with him in the same way it does Astarion, to be sure. ]

[ Gale scoots closer. Without hesitation, he takes Astarion’s hand and brings it to the vee of his robes, pressing it flat against chest (over his heart, as well as the orb encasing it in blackest weave).

His eyes shutter — the tadpole seems pleased to be used, to invite another inside — and he tries to grasp the moments before the fall. A time of power that dwarfs his present weakness, unfettered by the blight. There. He’s so breathlessly alive, blood and Mystral weave coursing through his veins.

He turns the corridor in his mind and finds himself in a decrepit place. The bound book in his hand seethes, begging to be opened — a fragment of something too unreal to take shape in his mind’s eye becomes part of him before he can snap the tome shut. His face twists, in the present. The thing’s razored teeth, its demanding claws tear his insides, an unstoppable force that hollows him out, gorging on the weave until it can take the place of what was lost, leaving him near-death. The hunger rises alongside it, swift and all-consuming. His fingers curl around Astarion’s, holding his hand in place — suddenly, the memory of them threaded through his curls, silver-soft, supplants the nightmare. Just as quickly, Gale closes the door. ]

[ Astarion knows that this connection will leave an opening for Gale to root around in his memories, as well. Some of their party are quicker to share these things than others; Astarion would prefer to keep his own door under lock and key.

The momentary feeling of power is intoxicating, pleasure and strength coursing through him as if it were his own. Of everyone in their party, Astarion might understand Gale's fall the most--chasing undiluted power like it will change everything, having a taste and wanting more. Others might blame him for it, and Gale seems ever-ready to take whatever judgment is meted. Astarion, ironically, isn't one to judge.

But that pleasure is momentary. Aliveness is only truly felt when pinned against its opposite, and as Gale shares his own precipice, something in Astarion's mind unlocks itself, shudders forward.

The walls of a dark alley, stone spattered with his blood. Broken ribs, a lung collapsing, no god to answer or even bring him a swifter mercy than a slow succumbing to internal bleeding, bones splintered and puncturing everything soft inside him.

Only another shadow darkening the alleyway, and an even longer death ahead. Blood filling his mouth when he'd tried to call for help, blood in his mouth forevermore.

Their twin hunger is too much for a mind or body to hold. And then Gale's hand is an anchor, and they're back at the edge of the fire, fingers tangled in his hair. Astarion feels like he's had the wind knocked out of him as Gale slams their connection shut. ]

Just when we were getting to the good part.

[ The dry humor he'd normally inject doesn't make it past his lips. He doesn't move his hand from Gale's heart, knowing if he does his body will betray him, the tremor he's holding steady barely kept at bay.

His eyes are wet. He feels it, and so he keeps them shut, head bowed slightly between them. ]

[ Astarion is with him, slender fingers turning those cursed pages, until he isn’t. Until they’re both in an alley, gasping for air with punctured lungs. Gods above, he knows what that must be (when that must be). It’s different because Gale manufactured his end with his own wanting hands.

For Astarion to die so horribly, so alone, and find himself resurrected at the whims of another: There’s no reasoning for it. No higher purpose. It rankles, a bitter taste in his mouth. The gods care not for mortal woes. He knows that now.

Even with their tether snapped, Gale can’t imagine letting go of Astarion’s hand, kept safe in his grasp. He leans forward and lifts his other hand, hovering before he commits to the idea — the memory — that never left his head. His fingers thread through Astarion’s curls again, guiding him close enough that his forehead will tip into Gale’s shoulder, if he doesn’t resist the movement. It’s not quite holding. It’s not quite anything.

But he’s there, breath warm at Astarion’s ear. ]

That’s a low threshold to clear. [ In reference to this being the good part in comparison to…what? A prolongued, tortuous death? The shadow weave eroding your very essence? Gale avoids admitting to himself and Astarion both that it was absolutely good enough to be the place that he fled to on instinct. ]

[ Gale is being kind to him, tender with him. Astarion only knows one way for tenderness to end: his body at the end of a lure, dragging the sweetest morsels back to his master. He feels the unending march of that even now, even when there's nothing for him to obey. Impossible to imagine a different ending when you've never experienced one.

Astarion wasn't a good man in life. He's certainly not a good man now. Perhaps both of them deserve whatever consequences live inside them, and neither deserve sympathy. But he leans into this, anyway. Curls his free hand at Gale's hip as he rests his head against his shoulder, so close to the closed wound at his throat. He's still full from last night, but he listens to Gale's pulse all the same, perhaps to distract from the knowledge that his eyelashes are leaving Gale's robes a little damp. ]

Ha. [ It's all he manages for a moment, fingers flexing in Gale's hand. ]

It's strange to see myself, you know. In someone else's memory. [ Closest he'll ever get to a mirror, though Gale didn't show him much. ]

[ Astarion’s hand at his hip allows him to relax, just a touch. Gale’s desperate clasp loosens to a gentle hold, thumb arcing over his knuckles. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, exactly, only that he’s doing it — rusty as he may be in the physical plane, he’s not unfamiliar with such affection. ]

I hadn’t realised. [ That vampires and their spawn do lose their reflections, denied self-image. So much of the literature on the topic is tawdry. Few have known spawn and lived to write of it, after all. His fingers tap, tap, tap against Astarion’s hand, considering. A knot to untangle, a problem to solve. He has to stay his thoughts to keep them from running away from him, towards things Astarion hasn’t asked for. Stay here.

His chin drops, nosing dangerously close to Astarion’s hair. Just as soft as it was last night. A shade lighter, without the warmth of the fire to colour it. How much had Astarion seen, anyway? Just that moment of closeness, or the way Gale hadn’t been able to look away from his pale skin, wondering if all vampires were alluring or if it was just this particular one, teasing him so.

When he speaks again, his voice is a low burr. ]

Are you…as you imagined?

[ Gale's easy affection does make him want to crawl properly into his lap again. On the one hand, he hardly knows what to do with this--what are they doing?--but there's also a starving part of him that wants to lap it right up, keep Gale in his tent until morning.

Wouldn't that be the talk of the camp.

Astarion lifts his head, Gale so close that their noses nearly bump when he does. The spark is back in his eyes as he drags his thumb over Gale's hip, his lips curving. ]

Devilishly handsome? Irresistible? By your measure, at least.

[ Whatever sweet lull they’d fallen into has passed. Astarion returns to himself with remarkable skill and without preamble. The sudden pivot gives Gale a slight startle, eyebrows lifting.

It feels very much as though he’s been caught looking in the memory and touching in the present, doubly damned by his unsubtle desires. A hot flush rises from his throat to his cheeks, hyper-aware of Astarion’s hands on him. ]

You can’t have got all that from the back of your head. [ Although it means having to slip his hand from those lovely curls, he cuffs Astarion on the ear playfully to emphasise the point. ]

[ This is much easier for Astarion than the vulnerability they'd just skirted--no, not even skirted, that they had been in together. The shift feels dishonest, but Astarion has never been an honest man.

Though Astarion isn't faking interest. He'd nearly bedded a tiefling during the party after the whole Grove fiasco--the blacksmith helping Karlach with her engine, quietly handsome--but ultimately they just shared a few wine-drenched kisses in the woods and parted ways. He'd paid attention to the others that night, the way Tav and Karlach had slipped away together, Lae'zel pinning her sights on a flustered Wyll. Gale had remained alone.

Astarion doesn't particularly want to discard Gale, and he also doesn't know what that means; or what it means to want to linger with him even if they're not fucking. It feels dangerous to think about that right now, so instead he makes a displeased noise as Gale cuffs his ear, disentangling their threaded fingers so he can splay that hand properly against Gale's chest, thumb drifting under the vee of his robes and rubbing against skin. ]

Why don't you tell me what you see, then. In generous detail.

[ Even without the warmth that should accompany it, the feeling of Astarion slipping his hand beneath his robes, brushing over his heart-centre, heats his skin.

With his hands free, he shifts to sit back more comfortably. Because if he doesn’t mishandle this — a real possibility — he might get to stay for a little while. Gale has always liked this part most of all, the closeness that comes after intimacy of any kind. His hands find Astarion’s hips, tentative then sure, and Gale pulls him onto his lap. It’s more comfortable than leaning over each other, and it’s much easier to see Astarion like this, besides — vaulted above Gale just so. ]

A bard would do you more justice. [ At once teasing and self-deprecating. Ever dutiful, Gale does tip back to regard Astarion. Mildly, then — ] You’ve seen your hair. [ And felt just how much Gale wanted to run his fingers through it then and now. ]

I don’t know how you get it like that without a mirror. [ Mumbled half to himself, when Gale only bothers to brush his hair or tie it back, depending on the task at hand. ] It frames your face nicely. [ Softening all his hard, macabre angles. ] And at the risk of encouraging your vanity, you are — striking. [ Handsome seems inadequate. He clears his throat. ] I was trying very hard not to look at you today. [ A silly thing to do and a sillier thing to admit, when he doubts Astarion noticed. ] Which amounts to same thing as just looking.

[ Because he was so conscious of it, all stray thoughts turned to the exact thing he was avoiding. Astarion had his attention, regardless. ]

[ There is a small and private part of Astarion that doesn't want a bard's embellishments, anyway. Gale's lap is warm--the second time in one day they've found themselves in this position--and as Gale pulls him closer, Astarion winds his arms around his neck, nails very deliberately brushing the bite mark on their way to his nape.

He's watching Gale's face as he speaks, and despite his practice following a thread of compliments to easy preening, Astarion finds himself following the tug of truth instead. Exceedingly dangerous, and not something he's used to. ]

Oh, I noticed. [ The not-looking. He does smile a little, fingers trailing back to the bite at his throat, though his gaze holds Gale's. ] I thought perhaps you regretted this.

[ A little thrill up his spine, at the feeling of Astarion touching the bite mark, intentional or not. He tries not to think about how much lighter he feels at having someone — at having Astarion — nestled close. Before Mystra and the orb, he’d been a social creature. A tactile one, even. The sudden (and eventually unavoidable) implosion of his person has led him to curtail all but his most essential relationships. ]

You noticed. [ As if that possibility hadn’t crossed his mind. He hadn’t thought that he would be caught in the act, certainly, or that his bashfulness might make Astarion doubt his intentions. It seems doubly foolish now, with Astarion touching the bite again. On purpose, surely. The apple of his throat bobs. ]

I’m not quite accustomed to… [ He tries and fails at a gesture to explain his jumbled thoughts. Could say he’s the courting kind, so this is all out of order, but that would imply they’re travelling towards an end beyond… mutual satiation. ]

But I don’t have any regrets. [ Nevermind that he almost did, by the riverside. He cants his head obligingly, even though Astarion might only mean to keep touching his bruised throat. ] And I wouldn’t be opposed to continuing, as we are.

[ If Astarion were honest, he'd offer that he's not quite accustomed to all of this, either. The teasing and seduction, yes, but the pillow talk before they've shared more than a brief kiss? Anything he experienced like this in his life before death has long been blotted out by everything that came after.

He presses his thumb lightly to one puncture wound, the jagged-edged skin and broken blood vessels around it. ]

Continuing our mutual arrangement? [ Which Astarion very much wants, obviously. He brushes Gale's hair back over his shoulder, gaze flicking to meet his again and then lingering at his lips. ] Or the other part.

[ There is a strange novelty to only being able to go so far with this man, a challenge to drawing out the tease. And maybe--though he's not looking at this directly, either--there's something that feels safe about not being able to just fuck Gale and discard him. The rules are different, and learning new steps to this dance means Astarion can actually be present in it, for once. ]

[ His lashes flutter as Astarion increases the pressure on his wound, a pleasant sort of ache. Rejection seems unlikely at this stage, but Gale is an observer, by nature, assessing Astarion’s expression, his answers, for clues as to how he should proceed.

The way Astarion looks at him now is wanting, unaided by bloodlust or desperation. Had Mystra ever regarded him with anything so open, so human? He blinks the thought away, focusing on the nails playing at raw skin, the red eyes that he suddenly thinks of as warm instead of warning.

Interesting, that Astarion considers their intimacy to be separate from the deal. A relief, though he hadn’t realised it worried him until now. ]

The agreement. [ His lips turn up a little, almost sly. ] And the other part.

[ As he speaks, Gale is already leaning up to prove it. He catches Astarion’s cheek in his hand, jaw sharp in the cup of his palm. There’s still that ever-present hum of nervous energy around him (nothing to do with the orb, and everything to do with Gale). It quiets a bit, when he kisses Astarion soundly, numerous possibilities fizzling and settling into a singular action. ]

[ It's a treat that Gale is the one to initiate this kiss, his palm warm and mouth warmer. Astarion wonders what Gale's history is like, illicit affair with a goddess notwithstanding; he's certainly not bad at this part, Astarion melting easily against him as he returns the kiss, arms looping back around Gale's neck.

With both of them sated, Astarion is considerably more lucid tonight. He lets a fang graze Gale's bottom lip as he parts his own, savoring the taste of him as he winds his fingers into the soft hair at the nape of Gale's neck, tugging lightly.

When he surfaces, it's only to turn his attention elsewhere, lips and teeth--careful with his fangs, always, a habit kept from luring prey--grazing the stubble at Gale's jaw. ]

So. [ Astarion noses just beneath Gale's ear, pressing his mouth there before murmuring. ] How much am I allowed to rile you before we risk leveling a city?

[ For the first time, Gale is aware enough to realise Astarion is good at this, intentional where Gale is instinctual. His breath stutters in Astarion’s mouth, adjusting to angles (and teeth) much sharper than he’s accustomed to before he gets the hang of it, pressing back harder in answer.

He slips an arm around Astarion’s waist to wind him tighter, hand fitting into the divot of his back. Astarion wins a soft sound, for kissing him somewhere new. ]

Nothing below the belt, as they say. [ Trying for humorous as he noses into Astarion’s hair, without the air in his lungs to back it up. His other hand catches on Astarion’s collar, rubbing the worn fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Stuck, for a moment, in consideration over whether it would be ill-advised to undo the laces of his shirt. ]

[ With a sudden air of seriousness, ] I won’t risk you, if I feel any instability. [ lighter, then. ] So you can do as you like, fangs and all. [ seeing as Astarion seems inclined to using his teeth, if nothing else. ]

Fangs and all, hmm? [ Gale's arm tightens around him and Astarion brackets Gale's hips with his thighs, their bodies flush. Gale's like a furnace compared to Astarion, and Astarion wishes fleetingly that he could remember what it's like to share body heat, keep each other warm in the dark.

Astarion's already marked him, though Gale's hair and the collar of his robe seemed to mask the evidence of their arrangement today. He's always most aware of a pulse, first and foremost, but his lashes flutter as he catches the scent of Gale's hair-- Astarion expects Gale to smell like a musty library, but there's a startling warmth and sweetness, like fresh citrus and amber.

He tucks his hair behind his shoulder, thumbs idly at the earring in Gale's opposite ear as he bites a sharp little kiss below this one: careful not to break skin, but suckling hard enough to bruise. Where everyone will be able to see it, in the light of day. ]

[ Impossible not to think of Mystra, however briefly, as Astarion toys with her symbol. He knew, in those first few weeks after she cast him out, that he should remove it. The wizarding community spread news of ruination swiftly, his rising star burnt out (though they knew not why). Anyone who saw him would think the glint of silver a pathetic relic. Still, Gale has clung to the possibility of forgiveness — or at least, undying devotion, as a lifeline. To forgo her symbol now would be to give up on reclaiming what he once had forevermore.

Astarion makes it equally impossible to linger in his reverie, with a teasing bite-kiss marking tender skin, and his own choked-off groan approving the act. All-consuming devotion to his goddess seems incongruous with his present choices, which have now led to an obvious indication of his — entanglement with Astarion. A discordant pang isn’t enough to waylay him, however, when he does want for someone else for the first time in a long time. This is different. More human, ironically, despite Astarion sapping his warmth and baring his teeth. ]

You are a possessive creature, aren’t you. [ He huffs a laugh in Astarion’s ear, giddy as a schoolboy, before pressing a kiss into his hair, then another at his temple. ] Surprising no one. [ Except perhaps Astarion himself, who may not realise how he comes across, which is all the more amusing. Emboldened, his fingers tug Astarion’s laces free, so his can slide a palm over his lovely collarbone. ]

What am I to say, when someone sees your handiwork? [ Coy, though he does wonder how Astarion wishes to appear to the others. ]

[ Astarion's had nothing to possess in a long, long time. There's a truth to Gale's light observation that might shift the ground beneath Astarion's feet, were he to take a moment to properly sit with it.

There was no room to want when he was at Cazador's beck and call, when he existed for his master and his master only. He's never wanted most of his marks, was rarely in the room with his body as he bedded and betrayed them. But he doesn't have to betray Gale, and he doesn't think Gale is likely to betray him, and he doesn't quite understand the enormity of what that could mean.

Astarion laves his tongue over the mark he's just left and then huffs a soft breath against Gale's neck, pulling back enough to look at him as Gale undoes the laces of his shirt. ]

I'd tell them to get their own wizard to chew on. [ He leans in to kiss him more fervently, open-mouthed and hungry as he cups Gale's jaw in his hands. ]

[ Whatever he expected in response to his playful teasing, it isn’t this. It’s one thing to think of Astarion as possessive in general — unwilling to part with his stolen trinkets — it’s another entirely for it to be turned on him, specifically.

His stomach does a little flip, at Astarion claiming him so easily. tell them to get their own wizard, like he might want to have and keep Gale, despite his mistakes. Before he can turn that realisation over his hands, he’s being kissed again, held firmly in calloused hands. His breath stops and starts, all his whirring thoughts blinking out. Then, he kisses back with ardor, licking into Astarion’s mouth, groaning as he brushes the tips of his fangs. At some point, he tangles his fingers in Astarion’s hair, his shirt all but forgotten. He tugs hard when he has to pull back a tick for air (thinking so very stupidly that it’s unfair Astarion doesn’t need to do the same). ]

Astarion — [ Because he can’t help but say something, and there’s little else on his mind as he surges forward for one kiss after another. Greedy for affection, after so long without it. The heady rush of arousal suffuses his veins as he runs a hand up and down Astarion’s side and squeezes his hip, feeling the clench of thighs in his lap. Dangerous. ]

Astarion — do you want — [ Words rushed between kisses along Astarion’s jaw, then mouthed down his neck. ] I can’t, but if you wanted — [ His thumb dips into Astarion’s waistband, communicating where his words have failed him. If Astarion would like to get off, Gale can oblige him. ]

[ Something's becoming tangled in him, what his body knows of this dance and what his heart actually wants. The thought of his heart, dead weight between his ribs that hasn't stirred in centuries-- It's like he's standing on the highest precipice he's ever known with no way to know if he'll survive the fall.

It's one thing when Astarion can pleasure someone else, can ensure that he's--useful, that he's not disposable. It's another entirely when someone wants to pleasure him, and Gale is so earnest, so warm, his kisses burning against Astarion's throat. ]

I-- [ Astarion has forgotten his lines. There's desire, actual desire thrumming in him when he'd truly thought this would just be transactional. Could have been, had he been able to concentrate attention on Gale and divert it from his own needs--needs he doesn't even know how to look at, let alone articulate.

It's almost embarrassing, the shift from easy seduction to whatever this is, Astarion's fingers gently catching Gale's wrist as he gives the slightest shake of his head, his voice soft and a little small. ]

I think I need a moment?

[ For a brief moment, Gale thinks he’s managed to strike Astarion speechless for the right reasons. the tension in his back, the catch in his throat, and the hand, tentative at his wrist, disabuse him of the notion. Gale tips back immediately. It reminds him of how this started, with the feeling of Astarion’s wet lashes against his robes. Perhaps their disaffected rogue isn’t so unfeeling after all. ]

I — yes, of course. [ Expression careful in its neutrality, though his eyes are his tell, as always (concern widening their set). He untangles his fingers from Astarion’s hair to drop back to his collar, a space that’s touching without touching, the fabric wrinkling between his thumb and forefinger. Not disengaging entirely, for fear of conveying rejection in place of understanding. ]

However long you need. [ He allows Astarion to guide his wrist away before flipping his hand, fingertips grazing Astarion’s palm. ]

PSL — EXSANGUE

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