corporeity | PSL — EXSANGUE

[ Gale knows that this is monumental for Astarion, with everything they’ve discussed to this point — how they’ve held off on any intomacy beyond where they started. A comforting weight in his lap, a clever tongue in his mouth. Still, the reality of Astarion coming apart in his arms has them winding tighter on instinct alone. ]

It’s alright. [ Lips brushing his temple, encouraged by how Astarion leans into him for comfort, not away. ] You’re alright.

[ A rushed cantrip wipes his hand clean before he catches Astarion’s quivering jaw in hand. Gale kisses him with surety, as if he can will the superfluous breath back into his lungs. He only tips back enough to murmur, ] You were wonderful.

[ The kiss brings Astarion back to earth, the now-familiar taste of Gale beneath the salt on his tongue. Another dizzying spark at realizing he knows the shape of Gale's mouth with his eyes shut the way he's never known another, never had the chance.

Astarion relinquishes his grip in Gale's hair, turning in his lap on shaking knees to cup his face, kiss him deeply. ]

Thank you. [ He's at a loss for anything but that. Smoothing a thumb over Gale's brow, his cheekbone so he can look at him through a blurred veil of tears. Kissing where he's touched, and the darkened veins beneath his eye. ] Thank you, darling.

[ As Astarion shifts up and around, Gale grips his waist, supporting him. Any sliver of doubt disappears the moment Astarion takes his face in his hands, certainty in his touch. The earnestness of his thanks makes Gale’s chest rise abruptly, cheeks already heated with arousal when the sight of Astarion (unravelled, debauched) renews his flush.

He quiets, then, letting Astarion get his bearings. Only the kiss to the netherese vein marring his face pulls a startled sound loose. Every tendril of the blight burns, like skin rubbed raw. His eyes slip closed as he gives into the feeling of Astarion soothing him in turn. ]

You’re very welcome. [ voice low and scratchy, like he ought to clear his throat. ]

[ Astarion has never been a healer, has always brought death with his hands rather than any sort of kindness. With the blight beneath his fingers, stark against Gale's skin, he wishes otherwise-- wishes he could pull it out and make him whole again. Impossible things.

He's still not quite steady, pleasure and release suffusing his limbs. This should all be second nature to Astarion, but as he said before, Gale has somehow made it new. He settles more firmly in Gale's lap, nosing into his hair and breathing him in as he slides his palms down his chest and stomach, finding the fastenings of Gale's robes at his waist between them. ]

Shall I touch you? [ His voice still thick, dipping beneath parted fabric to cup Gale's cock through his pants. Another act he knows like breathing, with a thousand practiced lines to accompany it, but Astarion doesn't want to feed Gale his leftovers. He presses a kiss beneath his ear, teeth grazing skin. ] I would very much like to, for what it's worth. Because it's you.

[ They’re back where they started, a comfort in the familiarity of the position. Gale sweeps a hand up Astarion’s back, fingers splayed over his scars like he might be able to protect the tender skin from further wounding.

A barely restrained twitch of his hips, as Astarion finally touches him, all slender fingers and sharp teeth. Impossible not to think of all the places that Astarion’s fangs have been. Astarion has even seen his cock before — has done everything except touch it, when he left a crescent shaped bruise high on his thigh that Gale revisited for days. There’s a flash of that memory, through their connection, the ache Gale has for him obvious then and now. ]

It’s worth rather a lot. [ Because it’s you on a recursive loop in his skull. Chosen once more by someone who could have anyone — but whose criterion for selecting him is far different than the last. Not power, weak as he is now. Not brilliance, when he can only see one path forward, surrounded by the dark on all sides. The voice that sounds all too much like his goddess asks, then why? ] Please.

[ It's so strange to think back to the first night Astarion fed from Gale, the realization he wouldn't be able to properly seduce him because of the orb. The frustration, but also the strange relief of it, knowing he couldn't just barter his body to secure an alliance; and how swiftly they became intimate, either in spite of or because of it.

Now, there's a twist of grief that comes with the reason they can touch, all at the whim of Gale's cruel goddess. Gale deserves so much more than certain destruction, and Astarion is hellbent on finding another way.

Astarion kisses his neck as he undoes the fastenings of Gale's pants, the memory of wet skin and hot blood surging through him and their connection. The way Gale had looked at him that night, laid bare and longing. He makes a soft sound as he slides his hand beneath the waistband of Gale's underwear, just feeling the weight of him against his palm, head already slick with want. ]

How long has it been since someone touched you like this? [ Low against Gale's ear, fingers curling around his cock and giving it a slow, sure stroke. ]

[ Gale has never been skilled in matters of deception or evasion. With too wide eyes and elastic features, telling of every pang in his heart. The tadpole has only exacerbated this character trait, inviting others to look upon his thoughts, which so often outpace his words.

It’s a good memory for the both of them, at least. Gale threads his fingers through Astarion’s curls just the same as he did that night and the first. A surge of affection through their bond. ]

What a question. [ hoarse with desire, even as he stalls. He’s incapable of brevity, despite the lack of air in his lungs. Eyes shuttering, his elaboration chases a shuddery exhale: ] Ah — a long time.

[ Sheepish, almost. Of course Astarion is good at this. His clever fingers have picked impossible locks and slung arrows with terrifying precision. He sweeps a hand down Astarion’s back until his knuckles brush the knot at the base of his spine. ]

Before my folly. [ A walking apocalypse makes for a selfish lover. Better that he remain apart from all who might have cared for him, while he resisted the inevitable. ] And that which preceded it. [ Even when Mystra made pieces of herself corporeal, it was nothing like this. ]

[ Truly a long time, for a human. Gale must be close to Astarion's age when he died, Astarion realizes; which makes him wonder how young he was when Mystra courted him. If courted is even the right word for what she did to this man.

Astarion would take her down, if he could, and briefly follows the thread of imagining what kind of power he would need to do so. Strong enough to defeat Cazador must be close to strong enough to defeat a goddess. They'll get there.

Astarion bites a kiss beneath Gale's jaw, then presses a softer one to the bruise. Pulls back enough to look at Gale, flushed and wanting beneath him. Beautiful. ]

I wanted you, back in the Underdark. [ Maybe the first time he felt the stirring of that want without a mask slipping into place. Astarion withdraws his hand, pressing the other to the center of Gale's chest to push him back into the pillows. ] To taste the salt of your blood, and then press my lips to your cock -- to hear the sounds you would make for me.

[ His gaze is dark, hungry. Astarion doesn't have a cantrip to ease friction, nor oil by their bedside, so he catches Gale's chin with the hand that had been stroking him, before pressing middle and forefinger to the seam of his lips and uttering a word: ] Suck.

[ Since the Underdark? That’s — a long time, in the compressed span of their relationship. As long as Astarion’s felt something real for him.

Cock hard and bereft, Gale follows the push of Astarion’s hand back, pliant in his trusted hands. Curious, besides, brows arched in obvious interest. His hand releases Astarion’s hair to trail up his arm, flexed to hold him down. A wonder of lean muscle and sinew. ]

Astarion. [ Both playfully and genuinely scandalised, words unevenly pitched. His other hand slips lower to anchor on Astarion’s thigh, grip tightening in reaction to Astarion’s teasing. ] Your silver tongue is filthier than I dared imagine. [ And he did conjure fantasies, on the lonelier nights in his tent. ] I might have risked implosion, if your perfect mouth had divulged those wants before now.

[ Ever the fool, but he can think of no one he’d rather entertain.

Astarion, however, seems to have better use for his wagging tongue. His eyes fall open as he processes the request, mouth parting on instinct before his thoughts cohere. An enterprising idea, he might say, if he weren’t already canting his head to adjust the angle, lips closing around Astarion’s clever fingers.

A look of unguarded want on his face, he lavishes attention around, over, between the slim digits. His hand slides down to bracelet Astarion’s wrist, unsure of his own intentions but wanting to touch him, always. ]

There's so much more where that came from, darling. [ Please stay to hear it, he doesn't say. Please don't go.

His chest rises on a breath when Gale does as asked, mouth slick and gaze scalding. Astarion had tucked himself back into his underwear, pants still unlaced, and feels a near-painful twinge of interest at Gale's eager submission. His body's fairly quick recovery notwithstanding, Astarion isn't so sure he can emotionally weather another round on his end tonight. Gale has unraveled him so sweetly, he wants to curl into him to be put back together. ]

You're so good for me. [ Echoes of each other, murmured. Astarion hadn't realized how much they both need the same thing, in some ways; maybe still isn't quite conscious of it. He withdraws his fingers from Gale's mouth, dipping in to kiss him deeply before Gale even has a chance to catch his breath, his hand slipping low between them again to squeeze his neglected cock. ]

[ His lashes flutter, at the praise. Something Gale knows he likes, generally, but finds himself surprised by the effect it has in this context. He groans around Astarion fingers, savouring the sensation of calloused pads on his tongue — head tipping up as they withdraw, as if to follow them. A soft, pleased sound when he receives a breathless kiss instead, open-mouthed and wanting.

He tangles a hand in Astarion’s hair, the other at his hip urging him closer. Gods, they can’t be close enough. How had he coped without this, even for the scant few nights they spent separated by shadows? ]

Astarion — [ For want of anything intellectual to say that might show his appreciation, every sigh lost in another needy kiss. ]

I’m not going to last. [ seeking the sharp bend of Astarion’s jaw, so he can drag his mouth along smooth skin, shuddering sweetly. ] In your, ah, all-too-capable hands. [ The slicker, firmer slide on his cock is nearly overwhelming, after going so long without the messiness of human intimacy. Unfamiliar heat coils in his belly, visceral and wanting. ]

Let me hear you. [ His own voice hitching at the press of Gale's mouth to his jaw, finding a rhythm in his strokes, wondering at the heat of him in his hand.

Astarion wants everyone to hear him: their companions, the shadows, the gods. Mystra. Wants them to know Gale is more than a piece to be played on a lanceboard, that he belongs with someone here. ]

[ In most things, Gale would never hope to be quiet. In this, a tryst in the real, their companions and hosts rattling walls apart, it’s — a consideration. But Astarion asks to hear, when he has allowed himself to want for little and request even less, until now.

Gale muffles a gasp in Astarion’s shoulder first, cock already leaking, before he lets his head fall back on the pillows. Throat bared, eyes glazed, hands still roving. One splays over Astarion’s pale chest, where his heart should beat, while the other grips his arm, anchoring. His hips buck into Astarion’s hand, one, twice, and he comes with a broken cry. ]

[ A possessiveness coils through Astarion as Gale comes for him -- for him, because of him. When it came to his victims, Astarion never lingered in the afterglow: always cleaned himself up and moved on to the more grim stage of their entanglements.

The moment Gale comes, Astarion holds a hand steady at his hip and lifts the dirtied one to his mouth, meeting his gaze through lowered lashes as he licks his fingers clean, echoing Gale in a murmur: ] Perfect.

[ And then he dips his head to Gale's chest and stomach, tongue laving everywhere Gale's made a mess of himself; dragging over his navel, teeth grazing a nipple. A mean thing to do when he's likely extra sensitive after he's just come, but Astarion's never been nice. ]

[ This time, Astarion is the steady counterpart to his overstimulation. It’s been so long since Gale dared touch himself, let alone allowed anyone near, that he rattles apart under the intensity of their closeness, every touch and word washing over him. Perfect, despite his damnation. Unworthy, in every sense of the word. Half-wounded, half-transfixed as Astarion doesn’t still, nails firm at his hip. ]

Gods. [ Mouth parted in surprise at Astarion’s display, aftershocks rolling down his spine, all the way to his cock as Astarion licks him clean. As if he can’t get enough, undeniable proof of desire, and Gale reflects the feeling back, swiftly winding an arm around Astarion. ] Astarion — [ A whimper cuts off whatever he intended to say, fingers threading through dishevelled curls, thumb straying to the tip of his ear. ]

You are sin itself. [ Breathy but admiring, as he comes down from the high that Astarion teases revisiting. ] But you must have mercy on a mere mortal, prostrate at your devilish throne.

I'm no devil, darling. [ His voice low, amused before he presses another lingering kiss to the center of Gale's chest, beneath the orb. Astarion's brow creases with a shiver at the touch to his ear, catching Gale's wrist so he can twine their fingers and kiss his knuckles, murmuring against them. ] Or I'd have claimed your soul all for myself by now.

Haven’t you already? [ teasing, though there’s a low undercurrent of truth. He had thought it would be easy, to obey Mystra’s summons and speed to the end he was already nearing. But the closer he finds himself to the precipice, the clearer Astarion’s voice rings in his ear, calling him back from the ledge. We’ll find another way. Any other way. The kiss to his blight echoes it.

Gale edges toward the unsayable again, confession climbing his throat. Astarion looks at once soft and too-pleased, equal parts tender and wanting. In lieu of saying it — of saying anything more — Gale tugs on their linked hands and tightens his arm around Astarion to hold him close, nose buried in his curls. ]

[ Astarion likes that flirtatious concession more than he wants to admit, because nothing in this life has ever been his; not claimed nor conquered, and certainly not willingly given.

A desperate part of him wants to conquer, because then Gale will have to listen when Astarion tells him to stay. ]

Well, clearly it's mine through morning. [ His posture softening into the curve of Gale's body, limbs twining around him as he rests his head on Gale's chest, listens to the beat of his heart. Astarion may not need sleep, but it's easy enough to consider it in Gale's arms and his bed, that space-between where they can pretend neither of them will have to wake and be heroes, of all things. ]

Mm. [ He catches the slight evasion in Astarion’s phrasing, filed away for later. To be discussed in the morning, if he remembers this exchange as clearly as all that came before. Hard not to be distracted by the warm weight on his chest, heated by his touch alone.

Gale cards his fingers through Astarion’s hair, straying from their careful work only to soothe the tension at his temple and smooth the crease from his brow. At the back of his mind, he wonders: Has Mystra allowed him this as a final comfort? The last wishes of the dying, given only in exchange for his renewed devotion and ultimate sacrifice. ]

You’ll drink from me, won’t you? [ Tonight, as he drifts, or tomorrow, when Gale hopes to wake here, with a delicate hand on his chest and sharp teeth scraping his throat. ] It’s been too long.

[ A twinge of guilt, that his callousness kept sustenance from Astarion in this horrid place, bereft of wildlife. None of their companions stepped up to fill his role in the interim, or if they did, Astarion must have denied them. (Gale ignores the selfish pleasure he feels at that, when he would have viewed another bearing the bites like a lover coming to bed with lipstick on their throat.)

And after you’ve gone? His blunt nails drag against Astarion’s scalp. He’ll make arrangements. Wyll, maybe, in his kindness and heroism, though he hates the thought of it, even so. ]

[ Astarion can't help but lean into Gale's stroking like a contented cat, lashes lowered. It has been too long; the reminder seems to pull forth the weariness in his bones, very aware that the energy reserves he's been drawing from have long since run dry. Hasn't even had anyone to bite in the thick of battle, in this land of shadows. ]

I'll wake you with a nibble. [ Astarion lifts his gaze enough to watch as he curves a hand at the base of Gale's throat, letting go of a soft hum as his fingers cover the tendrils of his blight. ] Your throat does look naked without my marks.

[ Under Astarion’s hand, his pulse quickens. His long fingers, his razored teeth — madly, Gale thinks they belong there.

And emboldened by all they’ve done tonight (as well as the promise that Astarion will be here in the morning), he doesn’t shy away from it. ]

Feels that way, too. [ Bereft of the lovely ache, the visceral reminder of where he’s been, of who he’s been with. He already confessed to enjoying it in the Underdark, but it feels essential to reinforce, now that he lacks the same hunger. ] You’ve spoilt me.

[ As though it’s a gift. To Gale, it is. The first intimate thing they shared, the preceding incident to a tender kiss. ]

Have I? [ Spoiled is not the word most would use for the experience of being a vampire's go-to snack, but Astarion feels a surge of pleasure that Gale's chosen it. He has always been less-than as spawn: leagues less powerful than Cazador, less important, less worthy. Gale has been open about enjoying the bite, yes -- and his affection for Astarion -- but the intertwining of both still feels so fresh, after two hundred years.

Astarion feels the tender bones and sinew beneath his fingers, sweeping them up below Gale's jaw, the warmth of his pulse and scratch of his beard. ] Do go on.

That is to say — [ an inevitable stumble here, flush climbing his throat and heating the skin beneath Astarion’s fine hand. ]

It wouldn’t surprise you to know I rarely stop thinking. [ A self-deprecating chuckle. His fingers drift to the nape of Astarion’s neck, curling in the short hairs there. Sometimes, from the way Astarion looks at him, Gale thinks ge might be able to hear his pulsing, twisting thoughts as they spiral out of control. ] I can’t. [ A flaw in his brilliant systems that predates the orb and Mystra both.] But when you drink from me, everything quiets.

[ His other hand flattens, a possessive pressure at the small of Astarion’s back. ]

And after, it — the marks. [ The ones he couldn’t stop touching the first time or the second, caught in the act while they trailed behind Tav. ] It’s proof of what happened. That it happened with you. [ Not Mystra, nor anyone else. His gaze swivels up, searching the lush canopy above them for purchase as he decides whether to embarrass himself further. His fingers drum against Astarion’s spine, stalling. ] It’s like you’ve staked your claim. [ Oh, god. Hastily — ] Or something like that.

[ Says the man who delighted in being called Chosen, who still wears the earring Mystra crafted from purest weave and bestowed upon him as a token. A mark, for all to see. ]

PSL — EXSANGUE

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