thirsted | SALTBURNT

[ a few days into the celebrations, after an unplanned trip to the bottom of the lake — ]

Are you feeling yourself?
There still appear to be transformative forces at work in the manor.

Transformative in what way?

[ aha. ]

Well.
There’s another vampire here who looks rather different than you or Armand, with his fangs out. To start.

And, on the subject of Armand, I’m almost certain he’s become a selkie or a merrow.

Well, you'll be glad to know I'm perfectly myself, with no more inclination to go into the water than I typically do.

What do you mean, "with his fangs out"?

With his fangs bared?

[ thinking this is about linguistics and subpar word choices for three, two, one — ]

That is to say, he bared his fangs and bit me. Without my permission, to be clear.

[ his garbage blood is spoken for!!! ]

I suspect he thought me weak prey, in my present state. Never have I been so glad to disappoint.

[ typing and deleting "YOU got bitten by some rando and you're asking if I'M alright?????" because more importantly: ]

I don't suppose you caught his name?

Far be it from me to call a stranger a fool [ sure jan ] but I would think that if one could sense the magical influence about you, it'd serve as a deterrent rather than encouragement.

[ because that's what he means by "in my present state," right ..... right ........... ]

Edited 2025-03-11 16:38 (UTC)

[ about that — ]

Yes, well, I did mention Armand for reasons beyond the illustrative.

Are you in our room, by any chance? I’m headed there now.

[ ideally to find Astarion and warm up in the shower, though he’ll easily prioritise the former if he’s gone elsewhere for the evening. ]

As I was saying, Armand wasn’t himself. I ought not to have approached, I know, but I thought I might help.

Needless to say, a spot of compulsion and a near drowning have reminded me of my more hubristic tendencies. I doubt I appeared very substantial, on dragging myself to the manor.

Apologies. To answer your question, a gentleman by the name of Spike.

[ please hold, he has to send some texts about this. ]

I am in our room. I'll go ahead and draw the bath.

[ 😔

after typing and deleting several pathetic replies, ]

That’s awfully kind of you.

[ Gale, already feeling somewhat chastened, enters via his own door. He’s still damp — at the roots of his hair, the left-hand pocket turned inside out, shirt clinging to his skin — so he quickly toes off his shoes by the entryway. There’s also the matter of his latest trouble, evident in the twin marks at his neck, a watery red track trailing down his clavicle.

A glance around confirms that Shadowheart (half-elf) isn’t around to witness this, at least. ]

Astarion? [ called out as he fishes the two eggs he retrieved before his swim from his other pocket, their sparkling prizes meant for Astarion. He cracks them open above his desk, accidentally splattering some of his notes, and sighs, as though that’s to be expected. ]

Edited (forgot stuff) 2025-03-11 19:45 (UTC)

[ He wonders, as he's drawing the bath, if he'd been too cold. If he should have been more forthright with his concern, the ultimate root of his tetchiness. The water, increasingly warm, pinks the skin of his palm. How cold it must have been in the lake. (Is Armand as cold as he is?)

The sound of his name breaks the increasingly downward spiral of his reverie, and he appears in the bathroom doorway in the next instant. ]

Oh—

[ The blood, the matting of his hair — Astarion can't help the exclamation, sincere concern clear upon his features as he crosses the room, his hands flying to Gale's face, his neck. He doesn't even notice the jewels glinting on Gale's desk, too distracted by the sheer state of him. ]

My darling. [ Then, his brow pinching, ] I ought to kill the both of them.

[ It’s hard for Gale to think of what’s befallen him today anything but his own fault, yet more divine punishment for his follies. He’d therefore understand if Astarion were upset with him, though it’s a relief that he doesn’t lead with it.

Gale melts into his hands, an instinctive surrender — the cool grip he’d imagined when his head went below the waterline, the only teeth he wants in his neck. He bends just so to nose into the hollow of Astarion’s throat, arms slipping around his waist to pull him close. All shivery skin and shuddery breaths, far more rattled than he let on over text. ]

Sorry. [ about the wet and the cold, maybe even the worry. ] That might not be necessary.

[ which isn’t much of a protest, really. Has anyone ever fought for him like this? The sentiment touches him. He thinks of August swearing to end those who took Nick, of his own anger when Matt confessed to having accused Astarion, while he was alone. It’s an extension of the love they have for each other, so unlike the passive appreciation he’s known until now. ]

Perhaps it’s enough to be returned to you — with air in my lungs and blood in my veins. For the most part.

[ Pretty sure there’s still water in the former, and he’s lower on the latter than usual, but in principle. ]

Edited 2025-03-12 08:24 (UTC)

[ Astarion reacts to the chill and damp not unlike a cat, his shoulders rising on instinct before he allows himself to fully relax into Gale's embrace, his arms winding — confident, hardly ginger — around the wizard's neck.

The sensation of Gale's fear, so clear in the unsteady pattern his breath takes against the curve of his neck, is enough to shock some clarity into him. He'd been disappointed, before, when Gale had returned from the woods with a stab wound in his gut, unable to believe that someone as clever wouldn't be able to keep himself from such trouble, but the cleverness isn't the point. It had been his instinct toward kindness, at least in the case of Armand, and as for Spike, well. That hadn't really had to do with Gale at all.

So, ] I'll be the judge of that, [ is all he mumbles, soft instead of fiery, into the crown of Gale's head, holding him tight a moment longer before loosening his grasp just so to nose against the other man's cheek. He's already sent a few scolding messages, after all, and he's hardly about to let what he's recognizing as not Gale's fault to go unpunished. ]

But it's more than enough, for now. [ And, with a prompting press of his hand, ] Come. You'll catch cold if you stay like this.

[ A not quite laugh, puffed into Astarion’s neck as he squirms. He’d pull away, chagrined, if not for all they’ve faced together already — crypt dust on his brow and ReSculpt sunken into Astarion’s skin. That knowledge (and the tightness of Astarion’s embrace) assure him of his place here, heart slowing and breath evening. Safe in the circle of his arms. He’ll not protest Astarion’s protective instincts any more than that, pleased to be the recipient of such care. ]

That you will.

[ Ceding the anger that he struggles to stoke himself, relieved for another to hold onto it when he can’t any longer. His mouth quirks faintly, as Astarion nuzzles his cheek, catlike in his affection. ]

Ah — quite right.

[ Though it’s only reluctantly that he releases his sweetheart, chucking Astarion under the chin in final thanks for his attentions (knuckles lingering there, admiring his sharp jaw and the moue of his mouth). Unsure whether he deserves a kiss, after holding Armand in the water, but wanting one anyway.

For now, he follows Astarion to the bathroom, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt and the still-soaked roll of the sleeves at his elbows. The foggy warmth of the space takes the edge off immediately. And it’s a mercy that Gale can only see the blurred outline of his person in the mirror rather than the drowned reality. Standing alone, even though a shy glance over his shoulder reminds him Astarion is there, unseen in the glass (as if he could forget). He untucks his wet shirt with some effort and waits a heartbeat — for Astarion to stay or go — before raising it overhead. Rather than waste time folding it, he wrings it out above the sink. ]

[ Every touch is almost easy, like it comes from some parallel life in which they've always shared space like this, always known how to navigate around each other. From time to time, it jolts him as much as the lake water does, not to such an extent that it's ever really palpable but— like he's suddenly aware he's in a dream. Except it's not a dream, everything as real to him as the circle of scars on his back.

Were it a fantasy, he's not sure he'd feel his skin prickle as Gale pulls off his shirt, though he stays in the bathroom, turning off the taps after checking the water temperature, flicking a few warm droplets from his fingers. He can see the shape of Gale's shoulders in his peripheral vision, and for all that his gaze lingers — he's handsome even like this, Astarion's fancy prompting an assessment that borders on rugged — it strikes him very suddenly that Gale is hardly about to get into the bath with his trousers on.

It accounts for the moment he stands completely still, like he's lost his train of thought entirely, before actually turning to face Gale, keeping his gaze focused on his face, and just his face. Well, perhaps his chest, for a moment, though the tattoo on his skin helps jostle Astarion's attention back into place. ]

I could go.

[ The end of the thought ticks up, half question and half uncertainty, as much about whether he's wanted here in this immediate moment as it is a vocalization of his own surprise. It feels as though they've skipped around a little, falling into bed with each other before becoming intimate in that way, before seeing each other undressed. He's seen a naked body before, hardly anything to blush at, and yet— he does, anyway, the tips of his ears touched with pink as he hovers by the tub. ]

[ He hears the water slow to a drip, but not Astarion’s footsteps trail after it. He’s still there, then, watching Gale for the short window of time that Gale can’t — or won’t — watch him. Stalling, he twists the fabric until it seems pointless to do so any longer. When he finally risks turning back, he catches Astarion’s wide eyes, and they’re — well, they’re looking. Gale knows, when he typically takes the role of the keen observer.

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, equally unprepared for the logical next steps of disrobing after he hangs his shirt on the door. Better to assess the situation. His attention flits over Astarion’s features, made elastic by surprise, then to the tips of his ears. Gale doubts the high colour has anything to do with the heat; no more than his own, a flush that follows the same path as the leylines of the orb. Climbing his chest, neck, cheeks. ]

You could.

[ Agreement, though it’s a touch strained (by the drowning, obviously). Merely acknowledging the escape route where he might have previously guided Astarion toward it, in the early stages of their courtship. His tongue runs along the back of his teeth, peaks out briefly, over his lip. ]

[ softer, ] Or you could stay.

[ Watch. Sit. Whatever it is he desires. His previous overture I only want it if you do of a piece with with Astarion’s I want you to want what you want — however haltingly, in whatever manner suits him, roundabout or circuitous or otherwise. Another pause, awaiting an indication of how to proceed until he realises that, unless Astarion floats away, it’s up to him.

Right. His pulse stutters and quickens, no longer sluggish from the cold. He ducks his head, relieved for how his hair falls in his face. Hands working the clasp of his trousers, trembling at the first attempt, and tugging them down on the second. It’s just — a body, isn’t it. His dreadfully human, imperfect person, not at all on par with Astarion’s eternal loveliness or Mystra’s otherworldly beauty. A sideways glance, to check whether Astarion looks any paler than usual (or disinterested or lost or —). His thumbs hook into his briefs, and he slips them off. A Rubicon, crossed, just like that. Like every touch, kiss and look that preceded it. ]

— hah! [ already halfway in the bath, arms braced on the rim. ] I should have known you liked it scorching.

[ A return to form, thinking of all the times he’s had to wipe the bathroom mirror clean to shave in the mornings. ]

Edited 2025-03-13 22:14 (UTC)

[ In the split second Gale glances at Astarion as he undresses, he'll find the vampire with his cheeks red and ears slightly flattened by nerves, once again staring.

There's no point in pretending that he's not interested — or that he doesn't find Gale beautiful. (He has to remind himself of that, that he wants to look.) That's unusual in and of itself, though he doesn't currently have the wherewithal to notice it; he's shown himself to be a vain, preening creature, perfecting the coif of his hair and the set of his smile in order to seduce, but he's rarely thought about beauty the other way around — in no small part because it's not enough to really entice him, on its own. But he's already peeked into the contents of Gale's heart and found more treasure there than he's ever found in any deftly picked chest, which would be enough even if he didn't look like that.

(What he doesn't think about — or rather, what he suppresses — is the more intimate aspect of it, the vulnerability of nakedness and the typical overture toward sex that it serves. It's fine, it's just a step, and Gale's been so patient—)

He only looks away as Gale's briefs come down, busying himself with finding a little stool to bring to the tub's side. Granted, it's a gambit that only works so long, as he immediately glances over, half-crouched, at Gale's exclamation. I should have made it colder dies on his tongue, replaced by a laugh (pressed forward as he realizes that silence will be ice cold, here) as his hands, suddenly a little shaky, finish positioning the stool and he turns to take a seat upon it.

Is it want (the very real matter of how well-endowed his sweetheart is), or the natural flutter of a besotted heart? Are the two mutually exclusive? ]

You'll get used to it, [ he says, though he hardly sounds confident. Any bravery he feels is, arguably, redirected toward meeting Gale's gaze as his fingers wiggle in the direction of the tap. ]

Shall I—?

@waterdeep

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