[The grip at the back of Gale's head moves to his shoulder, bracing. He doesn't want to push Gale away, doesn't want to end this. It hasn't been perfect so far, but it's been good, it's been what he wanted—but now the echo of Cazador's voice is in his ears, the nightmare that's haunted him for centuries. The sting of the knife, the way it burned when he cut over and over again.
Astarion squeezes his eyes shut against it, trying to block it out, push it away, bury it where it belongs, but stay here, present, with Gale in the end. He can feel himself started to drift, the sweet bruising touch of Gale's lips to his skin already fading into a cottony miasma of distance. He bites down on his lip, hard enough for his fangs to draw blood, hoping in some twisted way that the pain will help.]
no subject
[The grip at the back of Gale's head moves to his shoulder, bracing. He doesn't want to push Gale away, doesn't want to end this. It hasn't been perfect so far, but it's been good, it's been what he wanted—but now the echo of Cazador's voice is in his ears, the nightmare that's haunted him for centuries. The sting of the knife, the way it burned when he cut over and over again.
Astarion squeezes his eyes shut against it, trying to block it out, push it away, bury it where it belongs, but stay here, present, with Gale in the end. He can feel himself started to drift, the sweet bruising touch of Gale's lips to his skin already fading into a cottony miasma of distance. He bites down on his lip, hard enough for his fangs to draw blood, hoping in some twisted way that the pain will help.]
Hells—just let me have this—