PSL — EXSANGUE

[corporeity]

— TEXTS, PROMPTS, STARTERS

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[corporeity]

[ 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. ]

[exsangue]

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.

[corporeity]

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. ]