#sneakfangs o5

[weavehearted]

he's about to make a comment about Tara reacting badly to Gale returning home bloody and dizzy regardless, but the sudden feeling of weightlessness stops his words in their tracks. it takes a moment too long for his liking to realize that he's been lifted, held snug in Astarion's arm like a babe. or a lover, some addled part of his brain adds, but he shoos it away before his body can betray him and say it aloud.

"A princess?" he at least has the strength to sound affronted, though he's been called much worse. "You're lucky I'm not at my best, or else I'd have some very choice words with which to argue." he talks a big game, but he's the one wrapping his arms around Astarion's neck with no fighting words against the idea of being carried all the way home. it was better than walking in his current state and, well, he would have to call himself a liar if he said he didn't enjoy the proximity.

an awful time to realize just how touch starved he was.

Gale busies his mind with thoughts decidedly very far from touch, focusing on the one thing that he could always count on to keep him grounded: magic. Astarion was right, of course; he would want to study the properties of his own blood. he knew the blood in his veins was special, forcefully infused with the very magic that made up the orb in his chest. he thought briefly to the Drow woman they had encountered at Moonrise. deplorable, detestable the way she hounded Astarion, but an excellent alchemist in her own right. the study of blood was far from Gale's own expertise, but he needed something to focus on, lest he lose his mind to the monotony of city life.

as they walk, Gale mumbles softly about the potential uses of magical blood, mostly talking to himself, although he knew Astarion had no choice but to listen. would he get annoyed, perhaps, at his drivel? the thought crossed his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to care. at this point in time, Gale felt like he had to ramble or else he'd fall head first into sleep.

it was one thing to be helped home, but to fall asleep on the way like a child over-tired after a long day? if anyone saw, he'd never live it down.

"I, ah, know it's not ideal," he speaks up after losing focus on his previous topic, glancing up at Astarion, "what with my blood being the way it is…but, should you ever find yourself hungry and unwilling to seek out another doner, you're welcome to, um, do that again. Perhaps while we're at home next time, but I digress."

There’s a moment where Gale not only cards his fingers through the soft, silvery ringlets on Astarion’s nape, but also poorly disguises a groan building in his throat. Astarion knows immediately he wants both things to happen again without the pall of a bloodletting, without artifice.

This clarity of thought, the world righted, his place in it so obvious, it's always a dangerous state. In these precious, rare moments when the mask falls, when he’s stripped of all pretenses until nothing remains but a friable man, Astarion fears. He fears, and he yearns—to card his fingers across Gale’s scalp, his brown locks the earth, his fingers the white roads. To show him it’s okay to let go, to be weak, to be vulnerable, to help Gale see how beautiful he is when he’s not trying to impress anyone, to wow them with his knowledge, or retain them with his usefulness.

Astarion knows Gale of Waterdeep. Yet in these fragile moments when time stills, shifts, where space becomes meaningless, boundless, he sees another man—not the wizard, not the archmage, not the Chosen of Mystra.

Gale Dekarios.

That’s who he yearns to know.

“Oh no no no, I did not drain you,” Astarion explains, smarmy, the pillar supporting them both. “Fond as I am of cats, I am not looking forward to a face full of tressym with her claws out, thank you very much.” Tara would kill him in revenge for killing her beloved Mr. Dekarios, of that Astarion has no doubt. “I might be a knave, but I am a gentleman.”

He pats Gale’s head twice, then touches his fingertips to Gale’s lower back to steer him apart from each other. “My beautiful princess,” Astarion laughs, voice full of delight, “You need your beauty sleep. It’s time I returned you to your tower.” It takes some maneuvering to pry Gale off his waist, but the wizard’s arcane blood left Astarion strong enough to do that and more. Gale shouldn’t be this light, it’s somewhat upsetting how easily he can lift Gale, how well the fully-grown wizard fits in his arms.

One arm under Gale’s legs, the other supporting his back. If Gale wants to wrap his arms around Astarion’s neck again, he may.

“I am feeling better, thank you for asking.” Funny how he’s enjoying this little jaunt as much as the draw itself. How warm he feels, of body and soul. “And because I know you want to know, worry not, I shall regale you with a descriptive account of your blood—Karsus’ effect included—when you’re coherent enough to write it down.” Because Gale will write it down. And then he'll get curious about the properties of his own blood, insist this is a venue they must explore, research.

Astarion can't wait.

[weavehearted]

Gale's heartbeat picks up speed as he leans into his neck, threatening to burst from his chest. it’s nervousness mixed with excitement mixed with hesitation. like anyone with anxiety, he could have talked himself out of this, changed his mind, but that wouldn’t do either of them any good. he needs to do this. for Astarion’s sake and…for research. probably. he’ll tell himself it’s mostly for learnings sake, but his rushed mumble of I trust you before Astarion sinks his fangs deep into his neck says otherwise.

it does hurt, as promised, like icy daggers plunged into his skin, enough to make him suck in a breath. but Gale is no stranger to pain and he’s felt worse, much worse. if this is what he needed to put up with to keep Astarion at his best, then he would. again, and again, and again. the initial sting of pain fades as Astarion’s mouth closes around the wound and Gale lets himself get lost in the moment.

beneath the haze, the ache in his neck, his heartbeat loud in his ears, there was that heat again, pooled so familiarly in his abdomen. almost instinctively did a hand find its way to the nape of Astarion's neck, fingers threading very loosely through soft white strands of hair. he fights back a groan, succeeding in keeping it mostly silent-- he knows Astarion can feel the vibration of it against his lips.

why? Astarion was the one lost in bliss, enraptured as he supped upon the essence that kept Gale alive. so then why was he so excited himself? it hurt and the feeling of his own blood leaking down his neck (Astarion always was a sloppy eater, try as he might) was chilling, despite its warmth. but the soft, wet noises as Astarion sucked at his skin was enough to make him shiver.

and all at once, Gale realized.

Astarion wanted him. he wanted Gale as he was, very mortal and very flawed. he wanted Gale as someone who saw his kindness, his patience, his willingness to work on himself. he wanted Gale so entirely, right down to the cursed blood racing through his veins, a constant reminder of a mistake so monumental he feared he'd never recover.

Gale felt wanted, and that alone was ecstacy. he tells himself the hot tears welling up in his eyes were from the pain, nothing more.

Astarion pulls away then and the absence of his lips feels almost wrong. his eyes widen as he studies the vampire, sees his own blood staining his face, dripping from his lips– he looks beautiful, hauntingly so, a newfound energy in those crimson eyes.

Gale lets his head drop unceremoniously upon Astarion's shoulder, suddenly much too heavy to keep upright, and is silently thankful to the arm supporting him. between his previous wound, of which the pain had subsided in favor of the stinging at his neck, and the blood oozing from twin puncture wounds, he felt quite woozy indeed. 

it is his turn to nuzzle into Astarion's neck, breath hot, cheeks flushed, skin burning. the coolness of the vampire spawn's skin was a welcome feeling against his fevered flesh, a lifeline to help him fight his lightheadedness. fascinating, really, how quickly the human body could be drained. he thinks nothing of their proximity, brain a hazy mess, and wraps his arms very loosely around Astarion’s waist, an approximation of a hug. it’s for support, he thinks. he doesn’t trust his legs to keep him steady.

“Thank you? I think.” was that a compliment? it sounded almost like one, but as much as he doesn’t trust his body, he also doesn’t trust his brain to comprehend anything properly at the moment. “I think, also, that I need to stand here…for a second. I do hope you’re feeling better,” he murmurs, “at the cost of all the blood in my body.”

an exaggeration, of course, one he follows up with a hearty chuckle not unlike a man who had one too many drinks.

Gale always cared, hasn't he? Despite the rest of their companions finding the vampire spawn off-putting, it was always Gale who tried to bridge that gap, to include him in camp life despite his curse. It was a strange sensation to sit at a table with mortals, to dip a spoon into a bowl of blood—warmed, seasoned blood, because of course bland slop wouldn't do when the wizard was in charge—and eat like a normal person.

Astarion, too occupied with the enormity of their task at hand and shell-shocked from his sudden freedom, hadn't understood what the gesture meant then.

He does now.

"Ha, ha ha," nervous laughter. So good at lying to himself, so good at ignoring his body's needs. Gale's right—Astarion hasn't eaten in days. His last feeding left him uneven, warier. To leave the safety of Gale's apartment felt foolish, pointless when what prey existed outside were sour animal blood or human marks he would need to seduce. Neither choice sounded appetizing to Astarion anymore. So, in typical fashion, he ignored both.

He flinches at Gale's commanding voice, hating himself for it. Pushing past discomfort, that knee-jerk reaction of fright, Astarion focuses on the wizard's words, remembering him to be kind. "Truly?" Take what you need. A tall order when Astarion knows he could drink the wizard dry, and still it wouldn't sate him.

Well, then. Best to do this now before he loses his nerve, or Gale changes his mind.

Suddenly, tenderly, Astarion brushes hairs away from Gale's eyes. "It's going to hurt," he warns with cold fingers on his warm skin, cradling the back of Gale's neck as he lines up his fangs to avoid the carotid artery beneath. "I'm sorry."

The wizard's skin smells incredible. Kitchen herbs, dusty paper, clean cat fur. Homely. The virile coarseness of stubble. He could stand here and nuzzle Gale's neck for eternity.

It doesn't last long enough, his hunger won't let him. Astarion’s canines pierce Gale's flesh, two ice-hot needles sucking, swallowing despite the intensity of this foulness prickling down his throat like broken shards of glass. It smells, tastes sour. Sour and acidic. The astringent liquid coats his entire mouth with the same staying power as an industrial cleaner. Sharp, arcane bitterness. Gale’s blood thrums with furious energy.

So, this is the Karsite Weave. This is Karsus' Folly.

But like many spells after being scrutinized for too long, the illusion falls apart. Karsus' hunger in Gale's blood dissipates, yields to Astarion's own hunger. Now it's just Gale in his mouth—a golden brown-hued brandy drank in front of a crackling hearth, espresso con panna paired with an ancient, yellowed tome. Astarion knows then, as the blood drips down his throat and pools lowly in his stomach, that it will be a herculean effort not to drain the wizard dry. Astarion wants to crawl into Gale's veins, drink him up from his very heart.

First, the euphoria of clarity blood always brings, then the anger at being denied his true nature for so long, and finally, the lust. Oh gods, the bright-hot lust, from his fangs down his throat and chest, settling as a boiling heat in his belly. He's burning up from the inside out. It's too much, yet he can't stop.

He's going to kill Gale. He can feel the wizard's heartbeat behind his teeth. It's horrifying. It's beautiful.

It has to stop.

Mind hazy and full of bloodlust, Astarion pulls off, holding onto the wizard with an arm tightly under his pectorals. "Gods, Gale," he moans, full of wonder, unsure if the wizard's so light because he's drained to a husk, or because his vampiric strength returned now he's had his fill, "You have the most disgustingly, deliciously complex blood in all of Faerûn." There's gore all over his face, a crimson rivulet dripping down one side of his mouth. But he looks sated.

"Bravo, Karsus."

Happy.

[weavehearted]

never has he seen Astarion look so…desperate. between travel companions and wild animals, they kept Astarion well fed on their journey to keep his strength up. if Gale could get his hands on enough blood, he would even go so far as to serve it alongside the rest of the camps meals, to keep him from feeling left out.

but this? the look in his eyes was frenzied, animalistic, anguished. even his voice sounds strained as he pleas with his entire being for permission. the blood is already beginning to cool and dry upon Astarion's hands– does he intend to lick them clean?

Gale's not sure why at the moment, but there's a stirring of warmth deep in his belly.

"Astarion," he said his name like a command, firm and with a leveled authority. "Look at me. All you ever needed was to ask. Especially before it gets this bad. If you're this hungry, you should have more than scraps." He gestures to Astarion's hands, where surely there was only enough blood gathered to tease him, not sate him. Fidgeting slightly in place, Gale attempts eye contact again. "Take what you need. I can handle it."

Astarion shakes like a leaf. His hands are in front of him, frozen, slick with Gale's blood. "I—" He can't stop staring at the crimson, so stark against his pale fingers. "Oh gods, I—"

He wants to lick all this blood right up, get the webbing between his fingers, under his nails, the blood clinging to the creases of his palms. Needs to. But he can't. Try as he might, Astarion can't will himself to do it. Is this part of his curse? Like crossing a threshold, he needs Gale's permission? Why? What's changed? Is it the blighted Netherese magic? Has the loss of the tadpole left him with a craving for Netherese bile?

"Gale," he swallows thickly, "Please pleasepleaseplease let me drink this." He swallows again, groaning in pain or perhaps pleasure, Astarion can't tell anymore. "If I don't, I'm going to—" Die? Yes, yes, he's going to die. Astarion's never wanted something as much as this in his life. The moth and the flame, the nail and the hammer, the vampire and the sun—he doesn't care. Astarion needs to taste this, now.