PSL — EXSANGUE

[corporeity]

— TEXTS, PROMPTS, STARTERS

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[corporeity]

[ It’s awful, bitter jealousy tainting their connection. It’s everything Gale might have been able to give her, if he were braver. And still he latches onto irrelevant details, turning over the taste of blood in his mind, tongue pressing to the roof of his mouth.

Unfortunately, Astarion’s invasion shakes something loose. Reciprocity. Gale on his knees for his goddess against the shimmering backdrop of astral, head bowed in enthusiastic devotion. In place of salt and sweat, near cloying sweetness settles on his tongue. Chosen, the praise reverberating in his very core. Gale on his back, then — or is it suspended over infinity — arching at the impossible stretch of something inside him, pliable yet firm. He doesn’t think he can take it, but he can. He will, until she decides otherwise. A trust so complete, so sure, it envelops him entirely even as he shudders, overwhelmed.

He uses all his strength to push Astarion underwater, one hand curled in his hair (just like in the terrible vision) and the other slipping over his chest. At the same time, Gale shuts Astarion out of his mind, a door slammed in his face. ]

You have no right — [ To share that, to see what Gale’s mind conjures in answer. He yanks Astarion’s head up and to one side, grip harsh. ] She chose you, she trusted you, and you would risk her to spite me. [ with venom in every word: ] You’re lower than I thought.

[exsangue]

[ There's still water in Astarion's lungs as his vision suddenly shifts to an expanse of rippling twilight, the taste of honey-sweet rosewater thick on his tongue. Astarion is such a practiced liar, he's wondered if Gale was fabricating this relationship with his goddess, and he feels blinded by the truth of it, the weight of her -- terrible to Astarion, all-encompassing in her power, but that doesn't drown out the feeling of devotion and the pleasure at her praise.

Astarion is unmoved by being wanted, an object of desire to another, but to feel desire -- the blooming pleasure of being good for someone, of yielding, of being worthy overwhelms him more than the physical, even as his back arches beneath Gale in a helpless mirror of it, an aborted moan leaving his lips just as Gale drags him under.

He could drown. The thought is detached as the sharp twist at his scalp starts to numb, his lungs filling with water again. To need air is so strange, his vision going black at the edges, returning to the stars of the astral.

And then he's yanked unceremoniously back out, chest spasming as he tries to expel water from his lungs again, throat raw, like daggers are slicing inside him with every attempt at breath. ]

Oh, Gale. [ A rasping sigh, his breath catching staccato at the edge of it. His pupils are blown, wet bangs almost translucent as they cling to his skin, head lolling in Gale's grip as his vision swims. He hitches a seizing, delirious laugh, a hand clumsily finding purchase in Gale's tunic. ] I didn't think you had it in you.

[ The violence, he means, but he can't -- or won't -- offer that clarification. ]

[corporeity]

[ Gale can hardly process the sound that escapes Astarion’s pert mouth, too lost in the outrage piloting his limbs. (He’ll recall more clearly later, in the privacy of his tent tonight, exhausted and overthinking the events of the morning. A sound so desperate and wanting that it had to have been genuine. An echo of his own feelings or — )

Heat colours his neck, his cheeks, the tips of his ears, flushed with anger and embarrassment both. Beneath him, Astarion has never looked more alive. Not quite fearful but alert. Normally, he’s so faraway, voice lilting and distant despite the ever-present charm. Even so, Astarion’s choked breath and hoarse words bring him no pleasure. If anything, they expose the hollowness of this fight.

He tries to gain purchase in the sand, knees shifting, but only succeeds in stretching Astarion’s thighs wider, palm sliding the divot of his hip, bodies flush from top to toe as he slips. A soft sound escapes his throat. ]

[ His eyes dark with irritation. ] Oh, fuck off. [ They’re too entangled for him to disengage now, so he drags Astarion closer once more. ]

I’m done. [ Droplets fall from his shoulder onto Astarion’s flat stomach. With effort, Gale ignores them to focus on his too-wide eyes. Beautiful, despite his cruelty. ] Let go, and I’ll leave you be.

[ To wash, to drown. It matters not. ]

[exsangue]

[ Maybe it's the lack of oxygen to his brain, but Astarion almost likes Gale like this -- furious, acting on violent impulse. He's flushed with that fury, and maybe something else, and the inky tendrils that curl down Gale's throat seem to strain against his ruddy skin.

He catches that soft sound, Gale's hand -- cooler now, from the chill of the water and early morning air -- sliding over bare skin. Astarion's going to have to cut his pants off, once he gets out of the water. He feels drunker than he did before, somehow, between Gale's lightning magic and the water in his lungs, dizzy and blurred despite the fresh blood strengthening his body.

Astarion meets Gale's gaze, tongue flicking to wet his lower lip and being met with the grit of sand, taste of the river. Another rough breath of a laugh, his fingers gripping Gale's tunic tighter before he releases with a little push to his chest, attempting to right himself. ]

We should do this again sometime.

[corporeity]

[ As soon as Astarion releases (and shoves) him, Gale goes. It’s not an elegant extraction in the least, their knees knocking, but it does the job and gets him away.

Once upright, he quickly steps to the side, putting a nominal distance between him and Astarion – which he hopes communicates his disinterest in this farce. With difficulty, Gale peels his tunic from his skin and lifts it over his head, the fabric too heavy to bother wearing any longer, modesty be damned. A disgruntled huff slips from his mouth, at the sight of the sand-speckled heap in his hands. ]

Not bloody likely. [ said as Gale twists the soaked velvet, water splashing down to the riverbed. he cards a hand back through his hair, trying and failing to tidy the wet, curling strands. His fingers slip into the loosened waistband at his hip, testing whether he’s likely to lose his trousers en route to camp and deciding, mercifully, that he isn’t.

If he were half the wizard he once was, he could be dry with a flourish of his hand. ]

[ bluntly, ] I propose we forget this every happened.

[ A fair trade, given all they’ve said and seen this morning. Now, it’s difficult to storm off when you’re treading water, but Gale certainly tries. ]