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There's a dagger in Astarion’s hand, well-used and sharpened countless times, but the blade in and of itself isn't what gnaws at the edges of his mind.
No, it's Gale picking up this dagger and handing it to him, blade outward because of course that's how he'd handle it. Astarion should be more ashamed of himself for so readily taking it. That man has never held anything but a staff in his hands, he'd be willing to bet his life on it.
The cut it'd left in his ivory skin is long gone, but the sting and flash of red remains fresh in his memory.
It almost felt… good. And the way the blood had drained from Gale's face with widened eyes had been most amusing. He didn't want to hurt him, but he had, and Astarion had liked it. Perhaps being flayed and craved up for so many decades has taken its toll. Or maybe it's just the thought of such a tender soul harming him against his better nature.
Either way, he drifts to images of Gale sliding the edge of a knife along his skin, his back, his legs, his neck. The blood loss would surely cause him terrible hunger, but Gale would offer up his acrid blood in apology, and Astarion would accept, tainted or no.
For who is he to reject the tainted? The stained, the wounded, the scarred?
His fingers wrap around the blade of his dagger, and he squeezes. Light, and then barely hard enough to draw blood. Nothing. From his own hand it's merely a dull, uncomfortable sting, but imaging Gale's hands wrapped around his, forcing him to tighten his grip until blood spills from Astarion's pale palm and over Gale's has embers sparking in his gut.
Over two centuries old and still discovering new ways to be broken, even after Cazador's removal from the narrative. It's almost as impressive as it is sad.
The thought doesn't linger, replaced by ways he could get Gale to agree to such a morbid desire. Well, he supposes he could just ask. There's no need for duplicity, not anymore. But the fascination is deeply rooted beneath old scars, and perhaps they're better left alone.
Even as the thought crosses his mind, he shakes it away. The more he thinks about Gale's gentle, loving hands drawing blood from him, hurting him, the more he realizes how much he needs it.
Never has he been coy about his desires, but there's a first time for everything. It's awful. Twisting and contorting between wanting to forget altogether or chase this high for all its worth.
He's never told Gale he loves him– he doesn't know how. But what swells in his heart now as he turns the knife over in his hands must be what it feels like.
_
“You… you want me to…” Gales face goes pale, those soft, warm eyes of his widening, blinking, as he runs the words over as if he's missed something. He's so rarely dumbfounded, and it's rather cute to watch him struggle to form words. For once.
“You didn't hear me wrong,” Astarion says, his gaze firm, but he clenches his jaw and balls his hands into fists. Too vulnerable, too dangerous. His heart is unable to thrum in his chest, but he swears he can feel it pounding now. “I want this- no, I need it.”
Gale's eyebrows knit together as he looks at him, then to the dagger Astarion placed in his hands, then back again. There must be a thousand questions he wants to ask, but he voices none, expression morphing into something harder, focused.
“You're sure?”
“I'm sure.”
It's like a switch flips somewhere deep in Gale's mind– Astarion can almost feel it. He takes the dagger in his hand, stowing it in the belt of his robe as he reaches for the laces on Astarion’s top. Just like that. Just because he asked.
There's precious little Gale wouldn't do for him. He'd find it endearing if he didn't know it to be born from a tarnished altar of self-hatred. Yet he still takes from him what he knows is freely given. He consumes him slowly, lovingly– Gale doesn't even realize he's being devoured one bite at a time. They're no good for each other, not with his selfish hunger and Gale's need to be needed.
Astarion doesn't know what to do with it, with Gale. Holding back isn't something he knows how to do anymore. From the first time Astarion touched him, Gale could taste a familiar loneliness inside him, and that delicate sense of kinship had clawed its way into his chest to make its home there– a ravenous beast that will never be satisfied. There's a hollow space carved out of both of them, and he isn't sure if either can be filled without the scattered shards of the other.
He allows Gale to peel his shirt off, and he almost forgets why he's here, what he's asked him to do. The dagger at his hip glints silver moonlight, and now more than ever he desires to see what his own face reflects, how much he gives away without realizing.
Warm hands slide over his skin as they have many times before– gentle and comforting. Astarion arches into his touch, a contented pet eager to receive affection. They grab lightly at his hips, smooth up his sides, his chest, thumbs brushing lightly over his nipples. His breath hitches, so soft he can't be sure if Gale hears it at all.
If there's any indication, he misses it as Gale leans in to kiss him, soft lips brushing tenderly against his own. Warm. In body, in soul. The word befits Gale in every way imaginable, and he's always been oh so cold. He can't remember what it's like to be warm, but Gale reminds him. Does he want Gale to share that warmth, or does Astarion want to steal it all for himself?
Astarion opens his mouth to tell him to get on with it, but Gale hushes him with a finger at his lips. He blinks at him, but says nothing, something stirring in his core.
“Come,” Gale says, patting the tops of his thighs, and Astarion obeys him without question, straddling his hips as he comes chest to chest with him. Gale's hands find his back, soothing up and over old scars until his fingers find the soft curls of his moonlight hair. Gale presses him gently into the crook of his neck, and Astarion clings to him like it's the only natural thing to do– fingers catching in the loose fabric of his shirt, drinking in his parchment and rosewater scent.
It's all intoxicating enough for him to miss the subtle sound of Gale pulling the sharpened blade from his belt. Icy steel grazes his lower back, and the way he tenses and gasps isn't lost on Gale. “Astarion, are you-”
“I’m fine. Don't you dare stop.” Fingers dig into his clothes even tighter, his voice gritty and growling. Gale breathes out, a subdued sigh that's hot on his skin, but he seeks no further reassurance.
Familiar, cold and stinging, the edge of the dagger bites into his skin, shallow but just enough to hurt, just enough to make the stale crimson of his blood spill over. A small moan passes his lips– as much as he's craved this he could never be sure he’d truly enjoy it, not until Gale made the first claim to his skin. It's far better than he could have imagined, and somehow worse than he'd feared.
“More.”
Pressed against him like this, he can feel Gale’s heart pounding against the cage of his ribs, feel his breathing get heavier. The blade plays across his skin, the tip dragging up and across his back with only enough pressure to leave a weak and fading mark. Astarion squirms a little in his lap, and Gale is ever the mind reader.
“Shh, be good for me won't you?” The tenderness of his words makes Astarion want to melt into him, biting his lip instead of whining. For all his apprehension, he certainly enjoys teasing him. Every brush of the blade has him shivering, and oh how he wants to bare his fangs and bite into Gales supple neck.
But Gale is merciful, of course he is. He drags the blade earnestly across his shoulder, fresh, electric pain jolting through him, and the noise he makes this time is wrecked and broken. If he wasn't already hard, he definitely is now, and being so close to Gale, he must feel it.
Red streaks down his back in delicate lines that Gale smears over milky skin as he struggles to pull him closer. Gale presses his lips to Astarion's neck, his palms slick with blood as he licks up his throat with a hot tongue. His grip on him goes slack, and before he can question why there's a firm hand on his chest, pushing. Astarion falls on his back into the soft pile of fur and pillows Gale adorns his tent with, the passing thought he might ruin them with blood stains lingering for only a moment before Gale is looming over him. There's a bloody handprint left on his chest– something he likes the sight of more than he thought he would. Looking to Gale, he's almost incapacitated by the sheer wave of lust that crashes over him– his gaze is dark and bottomless with two fingers at his lips, licking away some of the cold blood painted on them.
Suddenly, he thinks he might grasp some of the appeal so many seem to see in a blood drinking monster. There are a thousand ways he could tease him for this. The sheer absurdity of a human drinking a vampire’s blood isn’t lost on him, but the words lodge in his throat. He can only think about how much he wants to see him do it again, how he tastes on his tongue.
“My blood might not be to your taste but…” Gale licks another finger clean, and it goes straight to Astarion’s cock. “You’re rather sweet, I must say.”
A weak chuckle finds his lips. “Is that so? What a waste.”
There's nothing stopping other vampires from feeding on one another, but it amounts to a zero-sum game, and the blood is never as rich as what comes from a still beating heart. It's not something that happens.
“A waste? Perish the thought.” He says with a wry grin. Gale dips his head down, kissing at his collarbone before reaching the fresh crimson on his chest, dragging a wet tongue up the mess of it.
“Gods!” He's unable to hold it back. Of all the things he's ever imagined Gale doing, partaking of his blood wasn't one of them. Is this how all the victims of his kind feel before they're devoured? He can think of much worse ways to go.
Gale doesn't linger, pulling back with the dagger in hand. It traces edge to edge along his jaw, down his neck and along the vein that should be pulsing with life. It would surely kill him, but he wonders how it would feel to bleed out under hands that cherish and reverie him so.
There's no expertise in the way Gale wields the blade, but the deliberate passion that exudes from him more than makes up for it. Another hot flash of pain ignites across his chest, raw and euphoric, and Astarion arches his back, moaning softly. His head spins, and he's not sure he's ever felt like this before– afraid of what’s to come while throbbing full body with the need for more. It's not dissimilar to how he'd felt locked inside that castle of fabricated indulgence for countless nights he wishes he could forget. But no one was there to coo gentle words in his ear then. No one watched the ruby beads spill over his skin with such rapture. He was a piece of meat to be cleaved, carved and flayed like an animal. Nothing more. But this. This is an act of worship unto a god.
Gale follows the blade with his tongue, soothing the fresh wound, and Astarion’s hand winds around the back of his neck. He purrs as Gale licks up every list drop of him like he’s one of the best things he’s ever tasted. His ribs flare up next, Astarion's head tipping back as his mouth falls open to cry out.
“Are you alright?”
“Fine.” There’s a shake in that single word, a frail fear that Gale might hold him down and take whatever he wants from him. It’s nonsense, Gale would never do such a thing, and he doesn’t know why the thought is laced with a faint disappointment.
Above him, Gale’s heavy gaze takes in the sight of his bloody torso, tracing the trails of blood with his fingertips. He paints a masterpiece across his skin in red, and as many times as he’s been called a work of art, he’s never felt it until now. Blood is something he craves, needs, but he’s never thought it beautiful. Spilled over malice, pooling in agony, dripping with fear. No, it's never been pretty, just an angry, vibrant red.
Now though. Now it’s Gale pulling his soul from his body and soaking his hands in it, tasting it on his tongue and taking part of it for himself, and he relishes each moment, like his blood is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. It isn’t just something to be drawn in torture or anguish. It's a part of him, a part Gale treasures like any other.
“You're beautiful,” Gale says breathlessly, still looking his body up and down. Never have those words been so sweet, for Gale means them with the whole of his heart.
To be known so deeply by anyone is frightening. Part of him wants to shy away from his gaze, but he knows he cannot hide from Gale like he's hidden from himself.
Here, in this fluttering moment, what bursts in his chest can only be one thing. He's been sinking in it for weeks, since it had first soaked into his skin and simmered there. Now it roils with passion, burning up his throat and demanding freedom.
“Gale, I-” He can't. Not these words. Not now. They would be his ruin, a confirmation of just how much power Gale holds over him. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, locking the words inside him, trying to swallow them.
A pause. Gale waits for him to continue, but he doesn't. “Do you want me to stop?”
No. Gods no, but the twisting in his belly and the tightness in his chest are unbearable. Tears well in his eyes, and gods dammit, his composure is no match for this. The cuts on his body throb, raw and stinging. For the first time in almost two hundred years he thinks he can remember what it feels like to have a beating heart.
“Astarion?” Warm hands cup his cheeks, and those wet, worry-filled eyes swallow him whole.
“What is it? Did I-”
“No.” it's all he can bear to choke out, or his traitorous tongue will surely spell his end. He can't take the way Gale dotes on him with such pure sincerity.
“What is it?” Why does he always have to sound so warm? It's intolerable, it's infuriating. It's what he loves the most about him. What isn't it? He can't answer now, with his tight chest and molten belly.
“Don't stop, please.”
He grinds his hips upward before Gale says anything more, searching for relief he knows will leave him wanting. A soft moan, and a hand goes to Astarion’s hip, holding him steady as Gale moves with him in turn, hard cock grinding against his. The air is heavy with the scent of iron– Astarion can almost taste it. His head is light, swimming and obscured with a thick fog of bliss. Again. Again. At his hip, at his collarbone, Gale marks him in blood, and though these wounds will heal, he'll never forget how such tender hands had taken him apart.
Fingers tease the waist of his trousers, and they're gone before he can process through his blood letted daze. Bare before Gale as he's been many nights before. He thought himself a master of deception, but Gale's seen him through from the start, and now he's peering deeper still, into the most jagged edges of his existence.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.” Astarion breathes the word like a prayer, like maybe this isn't about his rent skin or pretty blood. It never was.
Gale leans close and teases his lips against Astarion’s, just shy of a true kiss. Icy steel grazes down the side of his cheek, and a shiver wracks Astarion’s body. It would be the easiest thing in the world for Gale to plunge it deep into his neck.
It's foolish to trust anyone with even the mundane, but to willingly put your life in someone else's hands is more than trust. It's blind faith.
Their lips touch in earnest, Gale gifting him a searing kiss. A hand works between them, and when Gale touches his aching cock, Astarion moans into his mouth. “Eager are we?”
“For you? Always.” The words leave a smile on his face, half delirious from pain, blood loss and pleasure. He's not sure what sort of desire burns hottest in him now. Gale could flip him over and fuck him, grip his hips with bloodied hands and use him for all he's worth, or he could keep opening him up until his body is nothing but scarlet artwork for Gale,s eyes alone.
All tempting in equal measure.
The decision is made for him as Gale pushes his legs nearly as far apart as they'll go, kneeling between his thighs. He looks good like this, better still when his mouth is stuffed full and his doe eyes grow wet with tears. But that's not why he's there. The red tinged edge of the dagger plays at Gale's lips so it can slide along his tongue and fuck.
Gods above. His cock twitches, and for a moment he fears he might come completely untouched. As if in wordless warning, the sharp tip of steel grazes the length of his cock and Astarion whines, tensing so strongly his legs tremble.
All the while, Gale is enraptured by every reaction he earns from his body. There's raw power in his eyes, commanding and deep in a way Astarion has never seen. He likes it.
“You're perfect.” Tender words from a tender mouth that can't be anything but true.
Gale doesn't ask him if he wants more, if he wants him to stop, for he knows the answer. He always did. Lips on his inner thigh, the flick of a tongue so gentle and soft that the red-hot flash of pain that follows makes him wail.
He's floating, suspended in thick, cloying fog he could sink into and lose himself forever. Then, another brush of something on his cock, and he's back in his body, eyes wide as Gale kisses the tip of him, flicking his tongue. He waits for Gale to take him in his hot mouth, but he doesn't.
Squirming, Astarion bites at his bottom lip, a myriad of pleas ready to spill out of him. Even in this, even so worn down and pliant in another's hands, he cannot allow himself the simple vulnerability of wanting. He'd asked him for this, and that was more of his heart than he ever wanted to show.
He was sure he'd cut off his hand before reaching for anyone's affection ever again, it's never brought him peace or happiness. Maybe that's still true, for he can never hold enough of Gale in his hands to ever be satisfied. But perhaps that tremendous desire alone will be enough to see him through.
A light touch on his cheek, his lip– Gale's stained hands cup his cheeks and Astarion looks him in his too soft eyes again. It almost feels like home, or rather what he thinks home should feel like.
“What do you want, Astarion?”
There he goes, picking at old wounds again. Except this time, Astarion doesn't have the will nor the desire to resist him. He holds pain close, like it's all he's made of, and still, Gale lingers at his side.
“Use me.” For everything he's worth, in any way he wants. He will give Gale everything, down to his blackened soul.
Gale looks down upon him with a somber fondness so genuine it makes Astarion's dead heart ache.
“No.”
No.
No? He must have said that to hundreds of people over the years, and the response was always the same. But not Gale. Not this poor lovesick fool. Fool. As if Astarion is any better. There's little use in denying it now. The gates had burst open long ago, and he hadn't bothered to close them. Only now when he looks up to find Gale has wandered inside does he realize the mistake he's made.
He loves him.
It's something he knew, but never has it burned so hotly in his chest.
He loves him and it's cruel to harbor such devotion in his mangled heart, but the fantasy floods through his veins in a fervor that verges on prayer. His fingers thread in his dark, tousled hair and he claims his mouth, licking past his lips to taste himself on his tongue– a bitter iron that's anything but the sweetness Gale insisted upon.
When Gale pulls away from him with half a gasp between their lips, Astarion moves to chase, but a hand firm on his chest stops him. “Astarion,” his voice is low, breathless and gravel filled. “Please, let me worship you with the exaltation you deserve.”
The words are breathless, brimming with devotion, and Astarion wants to sound teasing in reply, but he isn't so sure he sounds anything but desperate. “Is that not what you've been doing?”
Gale's smile is too gentle, his eyes too loving and soft for someone like him. Astarion can barely stand to look at him. “Let me do it the way I want to.”
Yes, of course. Please. He wants to say, but his throat is tight, and words build and overlap until he can make sense of nothing. “Fine,” is all he manages, a whisper under held breath.
He's not sure what he expects, but there's a tautness to his body that he can't seem to unwind. Gale takes notice before he does, his hands smoothing up his legs and sides, thumbs rubbing circles into his skin. The red of his life essence still spills across his body as Gale comes to pause at the gash across his chest first, fingers tracing the clean edge of the wound.
Then it's warm, no, hot where he touches him. “Te curo.”
The wound mends, his skin healing with only smeared red proving it was ever there. He winces, a half whine that he bites short. It doesn't sting in the same way steel on flesh does, but it's like Gale is tugging on invisible sutures– pulling him back together in a manner both aching and soothing.
It's easily in competition with the knife for how it makes him feel.
“Forgive me, healing magic is not my specialty, though I think you'll find it satisfactory enough.”
“No, it's… good.” He's no stranger to healing magic, but the circumstance changes everything. How many times was he carved and flayed, only to be made new again for the knife? The sensation might as well be a new one– fresh water to the embers flaring in his wounds, flushing the pain with the final hisses of dying flames.
Gale's slower on his next target, deliberately allowing only the smallest amount of weave to flow from his fingertips. A trickle of relief that's delightfully torturous. His torn skin knits back together one thread at a time, a lingering heat leaving him with the facsimile of living flesh.
A kiss at the corner of his mouth, and he moves on. Until he's holding Astarion in his arms to reach his back, until there's not a mark left on his fair skin. In his veins, across his skin, in his heart. He's allowed Gale too deep inside of him, and how could he not? In his eyes, Astarion is holy– something worthy of veneration in his godless existence.
He needs someone to worship with tongue and touch, and Astarion will never deny him that indulgence. In this, he's his to adore.
“Gale,” It's a plea for one last favor as a sharp tooth grazes Gale's ear. There's not a scratch left on him, but he aches all the same. The thirst that forever parches his throat almost pales in comparison to his desire to be touched. It takes every ounce of his strength to not simply take himself in hand and fuck his fist. But that's not the image that lingers in his mind.
And Gale knows it, knows him like someone might know their favorite book– the nuances, the details, the flow of each word to the next. His hand slips between them, palm pressing against the underside of his cock. Astarion sighs lightly at the much-needed contact, rolling his hips to seek further relief.
“You've lost a lot of blood Astarion, are you s-”
“Shut up.” He'd find his concern cute if he wasn't steeped in lustful delirium.
Gale clings to his thin mask of control as he takes Astarion by his hips and moves in time with him. A poorly concealed moan escapes him– he's just as worked up as Astarion is. How much of this was built on the foundation of his pain, he wonders.
Astarion kisses him as he reaches to grab at Gale through his trousers, slipping his tongue inside when he gasps. He can taste nothing but himself. Gale's tainted with him, and he enjoys the thought more than he imagined.
The hand on his cock moves, and he's near to growling in protest until he sees Gale tugging on the laces of his pants. His breathing is unsteady, heavy against Astarion's lips. How he'd love to swallow every last breath.
He almost struggles in his rush, shifting Astarion atop him. One of his arms wraps around his waist to keep him close, and Astarion curses when his cock presses against his own.
“And you were calling me eager,” Astarion teases with a sharp flash of teeth.
Gale chuffs at him. “Well, what can I say? You always look the most ravishing in red,” he says, grinning.
Astarion opens his mouth to quip back, but Gale's fingers wrapping around the both of them leave the words hanging unsaid. All it takes is a couple of slow strokes from base to tip to tell him he isn't going to last for long. His remaining blood is electrified, desperately searching for an outlet.
“Gale, I'm not going to-”
“I know.” He interrupts, breathy and focused on every pump of his hand around the vote of them. Sighing, Gale's head tips back, the column of his throat an invitation he hasn't the will to refuse.
His fingers trace the nape of Gale neck, and then thread in the waves of his dark hair. Gale gasps, something light and barely there, but doesn't protest. Astarion’s grip isn't a tight one, tugging just enough to keep him in place. He leans into him until he can almost feel the pulse of his heart upon his lips, the rhythmic thumping almost in time with his strokes.
This is exactly where Astarion would stop time forever if given the power. Wet with his own blood, a white-hot burning in his core about to erupt, his lips on Gale's vulnerable throat as he chases both of their release with an unsteady hand. It's all raw and passion and perfect.
But he can't, and his body is giving way to instinct– turning him into something wild and primal.
“Ah-!”
Hot and wet, bitter and sharp. Gale's blood spills into his mouth as his fangs pierce his delicate skin. His motions stutter, fingers squeezing tighter, his whole body locking up in adverse reaction. But his mind catches up with his body, and he melts, eager to be devoured.
His precious prey, for him and no one else. Not even a god could tear him from his jaws, and he hopes Mystra wishes she could.
“Astarion-!”
Gale barely chokes out his name as his thighs tremble. Between the heat of fresh blood in his mouth and Gale's wrecked moan, they both come undone. It's in slow motion– a growling wine, a sharp whimper, fangs clamping harder. Astarion bucks into his grip as the slide of his hand goes slick with cum.
He pants into the crook of Gale's neck, not even sure when he'd let up on his bite. He kisses at the fresh wound, soothing it over with his tongue. Gale’s chest is heavy and heaving as he comes down and catches his breath.
Astarion leans on him, his body, his heart aching. His hand is over Gales chest, feeling the strong pulse of his life just below the wretched magic carved into him.
“Was that…”
“Everything I wanted?” Astarion pulls back to look at him, his face dampened by a thin sheen of sweat. “Yes, and more.” Much more.
There's a question Gale's turning over in his mind, he always has the same look when he's thinking what to say. “Could I ask… why?”
This was coming since he'd so much as offered his blade, but he still isn't sure he's ready for the question. Because the leash is in his hands. Because Gale's careful reverence could never be more stinging than loving. Because he wants to feel. Because he wants his heart back.
“Because you'd stop if I asked you to.”
It's so very natural for words of wisdom and reassurance to pour off of Gale's tongue, but now he says nothing, looking at Astarion with all the tender understanding in the world.
He'd told him once that he could be better than his master. That he could be more, and if course he was, is, but not in the way Gale had meant it. He can live. Live without a still beating heart, without the thief of time on his shoulder. Life has not forgotten him, it still holds him in his hands without reason.
Maybe it's time he reached in turn.
Baptized in his own blood, he can let go. He can create himself anew.
“Thank you.”
Gale doesn't miss a beat with his reply, leaning to touch their foreheads together. “You needn't thank me, whatsoever you desire I'm here to provide.”
“God's, if you get any sweeter, you might just make me sick to my stomach.” He rolls his eyes at him, but a still unfamiliar ease takes hold of him.
“Too sweet or potently bitter, take your pick.”
Leaning back, Astarion's hands side up his shoulders, his neck, and his face, cupping it in both hands. His beard is rough on his palms, and the hair tucked behind his ears is soft and wavy.
“Hm, both, I think.”