[Gale's blood - hot as his breath, laced with the same magic coursing through his veins - pools beneath Astarion's nails as the wizard nods gently in his grasp, his hazel eyes as cloudy as Astarion's are fierce, demanding. He stiffens, struggling to move as his natural instinct - to maintain this moment, allowing it to last as long as possible - conflicts with the commands of his lover, the man who owns him body and soul. The heat between them is intoxicating, the scratches along his neck poisoning him with a desperate lust.
He nods again, murmuring.]
Anything- anything for you.
[Exhaling a heavy, husky groan, Gale begins rocking again, his breaths coming quicker with every thrust of his hips, the orb aglow in his chest despite its presumed dormancy. His voice returns, a distraction to keep him going.]
Let me worship you, Astarion. Let me —[another groan, one he swallows visibly, his throat bobbing from the effort]— let me throw myself upon your altar. Let me—
[Gale grinds his teeth as he reaches his own release, stars the same color as the morning sky forming before his eyes, but still he continues moving, pressing into Astarion for as long as he's able. It's only when he's truly exhausted, sweat slicking his skin, moisture dripping from his nose and beard, that he finally slows, his entire frame trembling; around them, he struggles to maintain the illusion, the conjured world unfocused and dotted with color.
He can't stop, though - not until he's told to do so. Either that will be the end of this play of theirs, or this night might be the end of him.]
no subject
He nods again, murmuring.]
Anything- anything for you.
[Exhaling a heavy, husky groan, Gale begins rocking again, his breaths coming quicker with every thrust of his hips, the orb aglow in his chest despite its presumed dormancy. His voice returns, a distraction to keep him going.]
Let me worship you, Astarion. Let me —[another groan, one he swallows visibly, his throat bobbing from the effort]— let me throw myself upon your altar. Let me—
[Gale grinds his teeth as he reaches his own release, stars the same color as the morning sky forming before his eyes, but still he continues moving, pressing into Astarion for as long as he's able. It's only when he's truly exhausted, sweat slicking his skin, moisture dripping from his nose and beard, that he finally slows, his entire frame trembling; around them, he struggles to maintain the illusion, the conjured world unfocused and dotted with color.
He can't stop, though - not until he's told to do so. Either that will be the end of this play of theirs, or this night might be the end of him.]