What meager control Pom had over his Souls buckles at Gale's playful grin; it breaks entirely at the wizard's request, desire blazing so hot that it feels like a furnace, melting the last vestiges of Pom's restraint. Under Gale's robe, his hand latches onto his trousers, stitches popping beneath his claws; his other arm circles Gale to pull him closer to the edge of the countertop and Pom himself.
His own body responds in kind, their proximity leaving the hunter aching for more and more, his appetite ever unsated. He barely manages to shuck off his outerwear, his coat and gloves tossed into an unceremonious heap on the kitchen floor. That leaves him in only his pants and the knit shirt he wears beneath his gear these days, its weave able to stretch whenever his frame struggles to maintain his human form. While it has saved him from ruining at least some of his clothing, it hits its limit quickly when he's feeling equal measures of vicious and voracious: his second set of claws tears through his knuckles above the first, carving paths in the feathery fur of Gale's torso as they seek purchase on the skin beneath.
Pom pulls in a breath, trying to smell blood, to make sure he hasn't hurt his partner - and that just floods his senses with that of pages and ink, lightning reaching from the sky, the inviting aromas he's come to identify as Gale's magic and natural musk. Color dots his periphery, vibrant hues seeping into the center of his vision, all trails leading straight to the man before him. It's unfamiliar how badly he wants Gale, and yet here Pom is so desperate that he can hardly think straight, all senses — both human and otherwise — attuned toward carnal, insatiable need.
He'd have Gale right there if it weren't such an awkward position, the counter making it more difficult than Pom would like to get his teeth on the wizard's neck. He pulls Gale closer again, hoisting him off the counter with all the strength his Souls allow. Gale's bulk from his own Soul has him weighing considerably more these days, but Pom is used to hauling around a horn bigger than himself across some of the most uninhabitable environments imaginable, and without all the ardor to fuel the fire in him. A countertop can only slow him down so much.
Those claws press into skin without rending it, and Gale feels like he's on fire. He sucks in a breath. Not from fear, though, no. He and his other soul are in agreement, electrified with want. When he was with Mystra, their relationship had taken place entirely on the Astral Plane, and though he had loved the cerebral experience of making love divorced from physical limitations, it had meant he had all forgotten what it could be like to touch someone else in the material realm. The sounds, the scents, the thrill of claws — the way some part of him wants Pom to draw blood. He'd always enjoyed the thrill of a little danger.
Pom lifts him off the counter, and Gale lets out a startled pop of laughter. No one has ever carried him anywhere before, not like this, and he tightens his arms and legs around Pom so he doesn't fall. That doesn't mean he'll make it easy, though, stealing another deep kiss.
"I love you, you know," he says when he pulls back. "If things were different, normal, then I'd say that with flowers and poetry, but... I need you to hear it, that's all."
That countertop might not have stopped Pom, but Gale manages it with a handful of words, catching Pom off-guard despite all his bravado; he comes to a halt halfway to the den, his gaze rising to meet Gale's eyes. It's not the first time someone has said they loved him: Purl used to say it to him, brushed it into his hair at night and wove it into the stories she read to him. Northly has done so a dozen times or more, exclaimed it loudly for everyone to hear. Pom can barely manage to murmur it to her in return; he's not sure he ever did with Purl, as she always knew.
But for Gale, it's different; it means something else, something more, something Pom doesn't really know how to handle for all its earnestness and the vulnerability it exposes within him. He can't even pretend as he's done in the past for people he both used and was used by just to make ends meet; he'd say whatever he had to say to them, knowing good and well it was as much a lie as his facade.
He can't do that to Gale. He promised to be honest, to be better; he wants to be. His eyes lock on the wizard in his arms, and though his pupils may be hidden behind his glasses, his brow knits with something akin to trepidation. He tries to conjure words, but they don't come, sticking in his throat like tar. Knowing he should say something to keep Gale from getting the wrong impression, the rest of his body speaks for him: his grip tightens around Gale, his shirt tearing as the fabric is pulled taut, his claws finally dipping their way into the flesh beneath. He presses himself to Gale's chest, holds him so tenaciously that he won't leave - can't leave.
"I don't—" He wets his lips, swallowing both the knot and the dragonblight welled in his throat. "Don't know how."
He doesn't have flowers or poetry, barely having a voice for himself. Gale needed Pom to hear what he wanted to say, and he needs Gale to do the same. A sober laugh escapes him, one buried between them; it's easier to speak once he's admitted it, the shame enough to wash away some of his fear.
"That's a sad song, ain't it?" He exhales sharply as his long ears dip behind his head. "One man who ruined himself for love, and another who never learned how to love at all."
Pom very nearly freezes, and Gale can't particularly do anything about it, not when he's the one being carried. "You aren't required to say it back," he says, resting his hand on Pom's cheek. "I just needed you to know." Being the one who loves fiercely without having it returned is practically tradition for Gale at this point. He's not sure anyone ever returned his feelings with the same intensity he showed. Mystra looms largest in his memory, not merely because she was the most recent and not only because she was a goddess, but because his feelings for her were a, well, a gale, a storm, sweeping him out to sea to drown.
Pom is different, though. He suspects Pom has more trouble with the words than with the sentiment itself. After all, they're here, aren't they? It would have been easy for the other man to maintain an easy friendship, maintained just enough distance between them that Gale didn't notice it, keep the truth of himself and his life a secret behind fascinating lies. Pom had practice enough in that, and Gale has never been good at spotting that kind of deception in other people. He hadn't, though, and how there is no space between them at all, metaphorically or literally. Pom looks distressed at his own inability to answer in kind, but Gale thinks his feelings are clear throught his actions. Claws dig into his back, but the pain is less than what it would have been as a human, or perhaps just different, and he finds that some part of him likes it, skewing it into pleasure, his body reacting in unexpected ways.
Gale laughs, a little pop of surprised, sad sound. "It is a sad song," Gale agrees, "But it isn't over yet, is it? I think, together, we could change it, make something really beautiful."
Worried as he is about his own cowardice regarding his feelings, Pom finds himself relieved as Gale sees right through him. For all Pom's masks and lies and avoidances, Gale recognizes that he's utterly distressed at his inability to speak his mind, so accustomed to burying it all that he's left himself trapped in the hole he's made, the grave he's dug time and time again for the man he truly is - a man Pom isn't sure he ever knew to begin with.
But Gale knows him. Gale sees him, and that gives Pom hope he's never been able to hold for himself, not for very long. He never learned how to love properly, using it only for survival - both his and Purl's. It was a tool to get by, same as his other skills. He's always been a tool, allowing himself to be used long after he left his old life behind. Whatever he did, he did for Purl. He's largely done the same in the city - it was for someone else, one of his Imprints, or it was for himself with the sole purpose of surviving until he could get back home.
But he wants to do more than survive for a change. He wants more, more than anyone but Gale can give him. He pulls in a deep breath, smelling the sweat on the wizard's skin against him. Maybe he could learn for himself this time, Pom insists inwardly. It's still for his own survival, sure... but maybe it's for Gale's, too. They both need this - need each other.
So no, it's not like in the songs he usually sings at the Hub, romantic tales about easy love and happy endings for people who found each other right away. This isn't how it's supposed to be, two people finding solace in one another as they succumb to the monsters they're becoming and have, in some way, always been. However, Gale might be right, as he so often is: they can make a song of their own, something more beautiful than the dirges they've been dancing to their entire lives.
Pom arches his head upward, rubbing the side of his face against Gale's neck as he continues his way to the couch.
"I'd like that," he whispers into his skin. "I just hope you're a good teacher."
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His own body responds in kind, their proximity leaving the hunter aching for more and more, his appetite ever unsated. He barely manages to shuck off his outerwear, his coat and gloves tossed into an unceremonious heap on the kitchen floor. That leaves him in only his pants and the knit shirt he wears beneath his gear these days, its weave able to stretch whenever his frame struggles to maintain his human form. While it has saved him from ruining at least some of his clothing, it hits its limit quickly when he's feeling equal measures of vicious and voracious: his second set of claws tears through his knuckles above the first, carving paths in the feathery fur of Gale's torso as they seek purchase on the skin beneath.
Pom pulls in a breath, trying to smell blood, to make sure he hasn't hurt his partner - and that just floods his senses with that of pages and ink, lightning reaching from the sky, the inviting aromas he's come to identify as Gale's magic and natural musk. Color dots his periphery, vibrant hues seeping into the center of his vision, all trails leading straight to the man before him. It's unfamiliar how badly he wants Gale, and yet here Pom is so desperate that he can hardly think straight, all senses — both human and otherwise — attuned toward carnal, insatiable need.
He'd have Gale right there if it weren't such an awkward position, the counter making it more difficult than Pom would like to get his teeth on the wizard's neck. He pulls Gale closer again, hoisting him off the counter with all the strength his Souls allow. Gale's bulk from his own Soul has him weighing considerably more these days, but Pom is used to hauling around a horn bigger than himself across some of the most uninhabitable environments imaginable, and without all the ardor to fuel the fire in him. A countertop can only slow him down so much.
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Pom lifts him off the counter, and Gale lets out a startled pop of laughter. No one has ever carried him anywhere before, not like this, and he tightens his arms and legs around Pom so he doesn't fall. That doesn't mean he'll make it easy, though, stealing another deep kiss.
"I love you, you know," he says when he pulls back. "If things were different, normal, then I'd say that with flowers and poetry, but... I need you to hear it, that's all."
no subject
But for Gale, it's different; it means something else, something more, something Pom doesn't really know how to handle for all its earnestness and the vulnerability it exposes within him. He can't even pretend as he's done in the past for people he both used and was used by just to make ends meet; he'd say whatever he had to say to them, knowing good and well it was as much a lie as his facade.
He can't do that to Gale. He promised to be honest, to be better; he wants to be. His eyes lock on the wizard in his arms, and though his pupils may be hidden behind his glasses, his brow knits with something akin to trepidation. He tries to conjure words, but they don't come, sticking in his throat like tar. Knowing he should say something to keep Gale from getting the wrong impression, the rest of his body speaks for him: his grip tightens around Gale, his shirt tearing as the fabric is pulled taut, his claws finally dipping their way into the flesh beneath. He presses himself to Gale's chest, holds him so tenaciously that he won't leave - can't leave.
"I don't—" He wets his lips, swallowing both the knot and the dragonblight welled in his throat. "Don't know how."
He doesn't have flowers or poetry, barely having a voice for himself. Gale needed Pom to hear what he wanted to say, and he needs Gale to do the same. A sober laugh escapes him, one buried between them; it's easier to speak once he's admitted it, the shame enough to wash away some of his fear.
"That's a sad song, ain't it?" He exhales sharply as his long ears dip behind his head. "One man who ruined himself for love, and another who never learned how to love at all."
no subject
Pom is different, though. He suspects Pom has more trouble with the words than with the sentiment itself. After all, they're here, aren't they? It would have been easy for the other man to maintain an easy friendship, maintained just enough distance between them that Gale didn't notice it, keep the truth of himself and his life a secret behind fascinating lies. Pom had practice enough in that, and Gale has never been good at spotting that kind of deception in other people. He hadn't, though, and how there is no space between them at all, metaphorically or literally. Pom looks distressed at his own inability to answer in kind, but Gale thinks his feelings are clear throught his actions. Claws dig into his back, but the pain is less than what it would have been as a human, or perhaps just different, and he finds that some part of him likes it, skewing it into pleasure, his body reacting in unexpected ways.
Gale laughs, a little pop of surprised, sad sound. "It is a sad song," Gale agrees, "But it isn't over yet, is it? I think, together, we could change it, make something really beautiful."
no subject
But Gale knows him. Gale sees him, and that gives Pom hope he's never been able to hold for himself, not for very long. He never learned how to love properly, using it only for survival - both his and Purl's. It was a tool to get by, same as his other skills. He's always been a tool, allowing himself to be used long after he left his old life behind. Whatever he did, he did for Purl. He's largely done the same in the city - it was for someone else, one of his Imprints, or it was for himself with the sole purpose of surviving until he could get back home.
But he wants to do more than survive for a change. He wants more, more than anyone but Gale can give him. He pulls in a deep breath, smelling the sweat on the wizard's skin against him. Maybe he could learn for himself this time, Pom insists inwardly. It's still for his own survival, sure... but maybe it's for Gale's, too. They both need this - need each other.
So no, it's not like in the songs he usually sings at the Hub, romantic tales about easy love and happy endings for people who found each other right away. This isn't how it's supposed to be, two people finding solace in one another as they succumb to the monsters they're becoming and have, in some way, always been. However, Gale might be right, as he so often is: they can make a song of their own, something more beautiful than the dirges they've been dancing to their entire lives.
Pom arches his head upward, rubbing the side of his face against Gale's neck as he continues his way to the couch.
"I'd like that," he whispers into his skin. "I just hope you're a good teacher."