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Desperation had led Astarion to do many things in his life. Many of those he hated himself for, and many of those he wishes he could forget.
Paramount among them was allowing Cazador to save his life.
Even with his freedom potentially looming on the horizon, two hundred years of torture often made him wish he had been left to bleed out. An eternity of nothingness in the Ethereal plane would have been vastly preferable to degrading himself for scraps.
What Astarion had not expected desperation to lead him to was this .
Lying on his stomach on the floor of their wizard’s tent, surrounded by books and discarded parchment, Astarion really began to question if he had made the right move.
“Well?” Astarion demands. He can practically feel Gale’s eyes roving over his back, can feel the too-hot heat of his body as he looms over him to see better.
Gale makes a soft hum and paper rustles as he leafs through a book. “It’s written in Infernal,” he informs him softly, his tone carefully measured and betraying no emotion. “But the layout of the writing is interesting.”
“It’s circular,” Astarion says flatly. “How is that more interesting than it being Infernal?”
“I can’t read Infernal—“
Astarion scoffs. “Of course you can’t.”
“But. I know enough about magic and things like this to wager a guess as to why it’s in this orientation.” Gale sits back slightly, and the scratching of a quill fills the tent.
“Cazador never did have an eye for aesthetics. He has that incredible Gothic palace and he always seemed to prefer hard lines and geometric shapes.” Astarion keeps his tone flippant, trying to keep the rising panic out of his voice. He’d already had quite enough of devils for one lifetime.
More quill scratches. “Art Deco, I think it’s called.”
“Stay focused. What are you doing?” Astarion twists to look back at him, rising up on one elbow.
Gale furrows his brow and pouts when Astarion meets his eyes. “Lay back down! I’m copying the design and the letters so that I can study them and try to decipher it.”
Astarion doesn’t really mind lounging around here with his shirt off, but he doesn’t say that, and he certainly doesn’t read into his own opinion. Whatever tension he was perceiving was an assumed result of his own state of undress, and certainly not relevant to the other party. He lays back down with a humph, pillowing his cheek on his arms.
“You have a theory, then?”
“I hope I’m wrong, genuinely—“
Astarion laughs, “No, you don’t.”
“You keep stalling. If you want me to be more certain before I tell you, I understand,” Gale counters back. He’s bickering, but Astarion senses he means what he says. That level of concern is foreign to him, and Astarion has done absolutely nothing to deserve it.
“My apologies. Your theory, O Great Wizard, as to why I had to endure hours upon hours of a dagger tip in my back.”
Gale takes a deep breath, steadying. Astarion can’t really fathom why; it was not his skin that was scarred that night. “The fact that it’s Infernal— you know after dealing with Mizora and Raphael how devils love their contracts and deals. And the shape of it and the accompanying designs…”
Gale trails off, and shifts to set an open book in front of him. Rising onto his elbows, Astarion draws the tome close enough to read. The page has illustrations of several designs, all featuring foreign script in elaborate shapes. The page is titled Binding Rituals .
“It appears to be some sort of Infernal ritual component, as far as I can tell.”
“I’m a…component?”
“Yes. W-well no, obviously you’re much more than that. But this might make you one, as far as he is concerned.” Astarion feels Gale shift, leaning closer. His breath fans out across his spine, warm and ticklish. “May I touch you?”
Astarion is silent for several seconds. There’s too much going on, too much information, and Astarion has not been asked that question in a terribly long time.
“Do what you have to do,” he says finally. It doesn’t matter anyways.
Gale’s fingers press into the skin of his back, gently tracing over one small section of his scar to determine its shape. It’s something between clinical and affectionate— he treats Astarion with all the care of a lover but the brusque efficiency of a physician. For several long moments he alternates between touching and drawing.
Astarion tries to process the revelation. He tries to be outraged, but he finds the knowledge barely changes anything. His body was defiled when Cazador turned him, when he used it to lure countless people back to the palace, when Cazador took the blade to his skin in the first place. The damage was done, the trauma dealt and sunken in.
It didn’t change much— Astarion was going to kill him anyway. Having clarity on the specifics only gave him new ways to ache, new feelings of objectification. He was a tool, a lure, a spell component. He was no different than an alchemical compound or an expendable bauble for a spell.
He doesn’t realize Gale has stopped touching him until he misses the sensation. His quill scribbles rapidly, perhaps he’s now taking notes in his own hand. Astarion suddenly feels naked— like a specimen, laid out and pinned into a frame.
“Can I put my shirt back on?” He hates how tight his voice is.
“Oh gods, of course, I’m so sorry.” Gale hands it to him, neatly folded. “I was lost in my notes, I didn’t mean to leave you there uncomfortably.”
In his fumbling apology, Astarion finds an odd sort of comfort. In stark contrast to the way he’s been made to feel, Gale has made it abundantly clear that he cares. He keeps his eyes down as Astarion sits up and pulls his shirt back over his head, only glancing up when Astarion’s hands fall back to his side.
Gale, for all his stuffy academia and self-absorbed almost-god complex, treats him like a person. Gale, who bedded a goddess and almost matched her in ability, asked Astarion before touching him and apologized for making him uncomfortable. He’s not performing for Astarion’s sake, that much is clear. It’s simply the way he thinks to treat him.
He has gone back to his scribbling, glancing back and forth at a tome open on the floor. There’s no good way to sit and work like this, especially not for a man shaped like Gale. He hunches with one leg extended and the other bent, notebook balanced on his thigh and bottle of ink hidden between the gap in his thighs. At some point he’d pulled his hair back into a low bun, though strands still frame his face and threaten to get in his eyes.
Astarion finds himself struck by him, so unabashedly absorbed in this problem for Astarion’s sake. He doesn’t have the heart to tell him it doesn’t matter anymore, that the outcome is the same regardless— not when he chews his lip and furrows his brow and hastily tucks his hair behind his ear before his book falls off his leg.
Astarion waits for a lull in his note taking before speaking. “You’re scribbling out an awful lot about my back. What’s it all say? ‘Subject has expansive planes of ivory skin and distractingly beautiful shoulders?’”
“I consider myself a much better poet than that, thank you very much.” Gale looks up at him, eyes warm and soft. He does a commendable job of not looking at Astarion with pity, as so many often do. “I’ve written down my immediate ideas, lest they escape me overnight. You know what the wisest always say: There is oft significant merit in one’s initial thoughts.”
“I think most people say ‘first thought, best thought,’ but I understand you are incapable of using so few words.” Astarion keeps the bite out of his tone, striving for friendly ribbing.
Gale smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ve started translating what I can into the common alphabet. Some words’ meanings I can infer— do you know that spell incantations are derived from all the languages of the outer planes? Abyssal, Celestial, Infernal, and what have you. As such, a handful of Infernal root words are familiar to me.”
“You’ve already translated it to common?”
“You sound surprised.” Gale says smugly. He sits up a little straighter under Astarion’s scrutiny.
Astarion is taken aback at his efficiency— or maybe he was lost in his own thoughts longer than he realized. “Impressed, let’s say.”
Gale beckons him closer, turning his notebook to face him. Astarion shifts forward, drawing his knees up to his chest, painfully aware of the size of the tiny tent and how gangly he feels in it. Heat radiates off of the wizard, unintentionally trying to warm Astarion’s cold skin. He’s flushed ever so slightly, the stuffy air of the tent bringing color to Gale’s cheeks and sweat to his brow. This close, Astarion can smell his blood, tainted as it is, flowing just beneath the surface.
“This word here, it has the root scend in it, which I believe means to climb. And here, I see it several times, lig or ligare . To bind. The only other one I am confident in, without a dictionary, is anima .” Gale moves his finger one word over, from ligare to anima . Astarion knows how to read, he reads plenty, and usually when words are next to each other, they have some sort of relation.
Finally, Gale finds his voice again, after trailing off. “ Anima means soul.”
“Oh, excellent. Binding souls. My soul, one would have to presume.” Once again, Astarion is numb to the revelation. Really, how could his body be a spell component without his soul being involved?
“But we shouldn’t be too hasty,” Gale says, searching Astarion’s flippant expression in a panic. “I just need to find an Infernal dictionary and I can translate it all. Context will certainly change—“
“Don’t bother, darling.” Astarion tries his best to convey sincerity. “I’ve learned quite enough.”
The wizards face crumples. “But, don’t you want to know what it all means?”
Astarion shrugs, ignores the way his skin feels too-tight and the intensity of Gale’s expression. “What will it change? I’m still going to kill him.”
“If there is some sort of ritual though, we might need all the help we can get to stop it.” He looks back down at his notes, skims over the page as if the language will simply come to him. “If you are the only missing piece… he’ll be hells bent on recapturing you.”
“You almost sound worried about me,” Astarion teases. The feeling is new and unusual, and he has no idea how to cope with it.
Gale heaves an exasperated sigh and finally begins gingerly setting his notes aside. He’s collecting his thoughts as he moves, stoppering the inkwell and laying his quill back in its velvet box. Books snap shut and are piled in the corners; Astarion grows uneasy, unused to Gale being silent for so long.
Eventually, Gale turns to face him, sitting on his knees. Hair continues to escape his bun, sticking to the sweat on his neck. “Astarion, we all want to help you. This is a very significant thing I can actually do to help you, seeing as I cannot feed you—“
“Do you think that’s what this is? That I’m here to take something from you?” Astarion is trapped, unable to get to the opening of the tent without knocking past Gale. Anger clouds his vision, rose colored glasses falling away.
“This is not transactional. Friends, comrades, whatever you’d like us to be, we help each other. I don’t think you a greedy monster. I know that it can be horribly difficult to expose a vulnerability to someone, especially as I didn’t think you were particularly fond of me. But you trusted me to solve this, and solve it I will.” Gale has an incredible penchant for looking like a begging puppy, his brown eyes pleading and earnest.
There is nowhere for Astarion to look besides right at him, but he has nothing to say. When he shifts, he can feel his shirt rub across his scars like sandpaper.
“You know that I can be… ambitious at times.” Gale speaks quietly, words coming out in a rush of air.
“To a fault.” Astarion tries to taunt, but it just comes out dejected.
“Yes. But it’s not entirely unfounded, I don’t think. With enough study, enough understanding, there may be a way to harness whatever this ritual is for your own purpose. Not only to defeat a great evil but gain incredible power in the process.” A beat passes, the concept hanging heavy in the air.
“You would share power like that?” Astarion asks, bewildered. He thinks of how they fought for the necromancy tome, all hard stares and curled lips. How now they’re inches apart, warm and vulnerable, considering sharing .
Gale shrugs. “I suspect the ritual is related to vampirism, a condition that I do not possess.”
“It sounds like a debt owed to a powerful ally.”
“It’s not transactional,” Gale reminds him.
Astarion blinks, narrowing his eyes. “What would you call it then?”
“Trust.”
Astarion breaks his gaze and stares at the floor of the tent and its ink-stained rug. To not just evade or thwart the ritual but take advantage of it— whatever power Cazador was coveting would surely be immense. What a cruel irony to take it from him, what an incredible gift it could be to have it.
Gale has bed divinity, almost grasped it himself. Together, they might be unstoppable.
“I suppose I won’t be able to convince you to leave it be, now that you have my scars copied down.” It’s a question, a test.
Gale picks up the notebook and hands it to Astarion. “Take it, if you don’t want me to. I will let it be if you wish.”
“You really mean it?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
It’s no wonder Mystra saw something in him. A man she could take and take and take from, when he was so incredibly willing to give.
Astarion puts the notebook back on the pile of books, leaning past Gale slightly to get it there. The motion makes Gale inhale sharply, his heart kick into override, and Astarion wishes he couldn’t perceive it, that he didn’t have to know the fear he put into people, no matter how much they argued to the contrary.
But it wasn’t fear, was it? The way his pupils dilated and the specific scent of his adrenaline… Astarion knew it was arousal, and perhaps didn’t want to admit it. It was embarrassing for Gale, to be so caught up by one of his traveling party. And it would be a catastrophic mistake for Astarion to allow it. He cared about his survival above all else, he didn’t want to jeopardize it.
He wanted to fuck him, beyond a shadow of a doubt. But he was smarter than this, more cunning, more experienced. He knew better than to let himself get hurt like this.
“Did he actually tell you it was a poem?” Gale asks, shifting to sit in a way that leaves the entrance of the tent accessible. He stretches slightly, clearly stiff from trying to ensure Astarion has space, and Astarion pretends he doesn’t see his shirt ride up on his stomach, a glimpse of olive skin and dark hair tempting him.
“He told me a lot of things.” Astarion says, picking at a thread in the rug. He interrogates himself mentally— he’s gotten what he wanted from Gale, free of charge, so is this attraction real? Or a conditioned response?
Is Astarion no more than a trained dog, unable to distance his behaviors from their learned triggers?
Gale wrings his hands awkwardly, glancing towards his books and pens, as if he were physically unable to not be writing or recording his thoughts. “Have you ever had poetry written about you?”
Astarion squints at him, trying to dissect his tone. “Not to my knowledge,” he says cautiously.
“A pity. You’d make a fine muse.” Gale smiles at him, open and easy. “If you don’t need me to translate any further, then perhaps I can remedy the lack of lyrics about you.”
Astarion laughs softly, well and truly caught off guard. He wasn’t expecting him to be so forward with his flirtations, and he finds that he enjoys it. In all his years, Astarion can’t say he’s ever been the one getting romanced. Meeting the wizard’s sparkling gaze, he says, “You’re playing a dangerous game, Gale.”
Gale shrugs, and gestures to the flap of the tent. “I don’t want to overstep. If you wish to go, I will not hold it against you.”
“What if I want to stay for purely academic pursuits?”
“Test me as much as you want, Astarion, but you’ll find me nothing but well-mannered.” His name drips off of Gale’s tongue like honey, and Astarion wants to taste it, to know the flavor of it when it’s gasped, when it’s pleaded.
The stuffy air of the tent is thick with tension. They could air it out, open the canvas flap and step outside, but Astarion is not often warm like this, and the feeling is a little intoxicating.
He could have this, and no one could take it from him. He could let Gale puzzle the ritual apart and harness it for him, he could sleep with him and keep him after. He could develop feelings if the inclination so struck him, and he did not doubt that their prowess combined would see them through to the other side of it.
“Do you write a lot of poetry, then?” Astarion indulges.
“I used to have more time for it, before I had to focus on feeding the orb, but the thing about art is that it does not always wait for you to have time for it. Sometimes it demands you lose sleep and scrawl lines of flowery prose out by candlelight.”
“I think that perhaps there’s a metaphor there.”
Gale smiles again. “Perhaps, though the best poetry leaves you with more of a feeling than heavy handed explanation. After devoting so much of my life to arcane texts where clarity is so mortally important, sometimes there is a comfort in ambiguity.”
“I suppose if I were to be your muse I would not want all my secrets bared. I’d rather the best things be kept just to you.” Astarion preens as Gale looks at him, feeling his eyes rove across him unabashedly. They’re several feet apart, even their legs a safe distance away from each other, and yet Astarion still manages to feel held by his attention.
“What are your best things, do you think?” Gale’s voice has taken on a rasp that makes Astarion shiver.
It’s a good thing he’s never been humble. “My hands, I’d say. They’re one of the only things I can really see, and I do work hard to keep them perfect.”
“Show me,” Gale asks, beckoning.
Astarion moves past the point of no return easily, eagerly . He wants this, the way he remembers craving dessert, the way it feels to pocket something shiny and expensive before anyone else can see it. He rises to his knees and crawls across the tent, smoothly straddling Gale’s lap. It takes some self control to not just touch, he wants to slip his hands under Gale’s robe and grope; instead he haughtily checks his fingernails before daintily presenting his hand.
The smile that twists Gale’s face as he tries to hide his delight at Astarion’s theatrics makes the vampire giddy. It’s so refreshing to be adored just for himself, with no reason to share or stay detached. Gale draws his hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to his knuckles, eyelids drooping seductively.
Astarion sneers, wide and predatory, making sure his fangs are on full display. He feels Gale inhale sharply against his hand, gently turning his wrist to kiss his palm. His eye contact never wavers, meeting Astarion’s grin head on. As his lips press into his skin, Astarion scrapes his nails through his stubble, ever so slightly cupping his jaw.
Reaching blindly, Gale finds his other hand, shifting his attention. Astarion keeps one hand on his face, stroking his cheek with his thumb, thinking about how easy it would be to put his fingers into his mouth.
“How do you see this going, little wizard?” Astarion drawls, enamored with the chaste kisses slowly creeping up his wrist.
“May I be honest with you?” His words are muffled by Astarion’s palm.
Astarion digs his fingers into his jaw just enough to tease, just shy of a threat. “You shouldn’t be anything else.”
Gale’s eyes flutter for a moment as he leans into Astarion’s grip. “It has been a long time since I have been able to lavish a lover singlemindedly, to take them apart and put them back together… My relationship with Mystra was not quite like that. And I suspect that it has been quite some time since someone has treated you to such attentions.” Both of Astarion’s hands wind up cupping Gale’s jaw, and Gale then holds Astarion’s hands with his own. “I’d like to attend to you, piece by piece, and make you feel as good as you possibly can. Nothing would bring me more pleasure.”
Astarion lets his eyes slip closed, the words soaking into him. “Poor little Chosen,” he teases, studying the faint lines of the orb as they trickle down from his under eye. “He doesn’t know how to do anything but worship .”
“Let me show you. Please.”
“I like it when you beg.”
“Astarion.” His name is like honey, like chocolate, like wine. Something decadent, every syllable indulged. “I’ve already availed you of one of my talents this evening—“
“Cocky.”
“—and I am eager to avail you of another.”
Gale practically shakes underneath him, sweaty and desperate. He wants to pleasure Astarion, to let him lay back and enjoy, it’s clear that nothing would bring him more enjoyment. Astarion thinks about the eagerness with which he accepted his bid for help, how he sat dutifully with his tomes and pens, and for what? Because he wanted to solve a puzzle? Or because it was a friend coming to him for help, or because it was Astarion there, asking for his attention?
“You’ll look like a vision when you’re crying my name,” Astarion breathes, looming in close. “But I suppose we can save that for next time.”
Gale’s face stretches underneath his hands, his smile far too genuine for someone about to supposedly take him apart. Eyes sparkling, he asks, “Will you tell me if anything I do makes you uncomfortable?”
“I’m not so delicate, pet.” The immediate furrow of Gale’s brow annoys him. “But alright.”
Gale’s eyes flick to his mouth, and Astarion wonders how his stubble will feel against his own face. His tongue wets his lips and Astarion wants to know what he tastes like. He just has to let go, to give in, to take his pleasure.
The wizard’s hands are wider than his, fingertips slightly rough from the overuse of magic. He tenderly takes Astarion’s chin in his hand and draws him closer, and gods does Astarion like being led like this. He slips his own hands towards Gale’s ears and into his hair, sighing softly as their lips slot together.
Astarion has kissed more people than he cares to remember, but none quite like this. He had forgotten just how exhilarating the first several seconds could be, so full of tension and contradictory relief. Gale is so deliciously warm. He tastes like sweet herbal tea and spit, the flavor of chewed cheeks and bitten lips. Astarion’s fingers tangle in his hair, the tie long abandoned, thick locks slightly damp from perspiration.
Gale is so disgustingly human and Astarion is obsessed with it. He wants to lick the sweat from his skin and feel the coarseness of his hair and sink into the soft layer of fat hidden beneath his robes.
Teeth drag Astarion’s bottom lip into Gale’s mouth and he sucks teasingly on it. Astarion can’t help a small noise, pressing a little closer, letting Gale’s tongue slide against his. Stubble drags across his skin, and Gale’s hands drop to Astarion’s thighs, warm and heavy. He touches everywhere fleetingly; Astarion wants his hands to slow down and really grab him. But then they slip up under his shirt and bracket his waist, holding him in place, pacifying him.
Gale breaks their kiss sloppily, dragging his lips across Astarion’s cheek to kiss down to his jaw. If he wanted to roll his hips, he couldn’t, Gale’s grip surprisingly firm. It doesn’t stop Astarion from petting his hair, letting his hands dip under the collar of his robe and dragging his fingers along his spine.
“You are ethereal,” Gale breathes into his ear, teeth scraping along his neck. “I am sure you’ve heard every compliment there is to give, and none of them really could capture the truth.”
“Don’t let it stop you from trying, darling.” Astarion squirms against his hands, a little frustrated.
He gasps slightly, bewildered as Gale bites his neck teasingly, gently sucking skin into his mouth. Astarion knows he’ll bruise easily, borrowed blood jumping to the surface of his pallid skin. The unflinching confidence with which Gale marks him makes his head spin– distantly he knows that it could be easily magicked away, but after spending an hour tracing the marks left on his body by another man, Gale’s first instinct is to inflict his own brand of ownership.
“I’m going to take my time,” Gale murmurs in the tone one might give a warning. His fingers tighten around Astarion’s hips pointedly. “No amount of rutting or squirming will change my mind.”
Astarion sucks back a gasp as he immediately begins to suck another mark under his jaw. “Take your time if you must, but at least take it.”
The hot breath of Gale’s laugh tickles his skin and makes him shiver. His hands move, finally, and Astarion only keeps his hips still because Gale is pulling his shirt back off, mouth dropping to his collarbone as soon as it’s exposed.
“Look at you,” Gale sighs, dragging his hands up Astarion’s abdomen to his chest, fingers dancing along his sides. Astarion does look, peeking between his arms to see their skin in contrast. “At first glance you are carved from marble, perfection captured in stone, but stone does not flush down to its chest like you, it doesn’t react so endearingly when it's teased.”
To prove his point, Gale drags his hands over Astarion’s chest, the rough pads of his fingers rolling his nipples. Astarion’s hips jump involuntarily, and his nails dig into the skin at the base of Gale’s neck. He must be making some sort of face, because Gale smiles when he looks back up at him, and easily tips Astarion back forward to kiss him. He continues to touch as their lips slide together, exploring the dips and curves of his body blindly.
He isn’t gentle, prodding at his ribs through his skin and taking handfuls of him roughly. It’s almost academic, as if he needs to know exactly what the give of his muscles are and where his bones hold him up. He touches his back, tracing the shape of his shoulder blades and ignoring his scars, and catches Astarion’s tongue with his teeth and sucks it into his mouth so hard it stings and makes him drool.
Two can play at this game, or at least try to, and Gale permits Astarion to try to open his robe. Gale’s attention has made him slightly uncoordinated, though Astarion has more experience than he’d like in undressing people blindly. He manages to get his hands under his shirt, reveling in the warm skin that fills his hands.
He doesn’t get to touch for long, completely distracted as Gale breaks their kiss to let his lips trail down his chest. Sealing his mouth over a nipple, he slides his hands further down Astarion’s back, fingers dipping into his waistband.
Astarion whines, in pleasure and frustration. He want to touch Gale too, to get his shirt off and see the shape of his chest, press his fingers into his soft body. For every want Astarion has, he realizes Gale is indulging his own, mapping the vampire's body with every bit of curiosity he possesses. Perhaps it isn’t with parchment and pens, but he works his hands and mouth over him just as thoroughly, taking notes straight into his memory.
“You don’t breathe, and your heart doesn’t beat,” Gale muses, “But your skin still prickles and you’re incredibly twitchy. I can feel you jump every time I do something you like; you’re like an instrument to be played.”
“Play me, then,” Astarion whines. “Or let me play you.”
“Stop turning my metaphors against me,” Gale laughs. “Besides, aren’t I playing you?”
He grinds the butt of his hand against the front of Astarion’s trousers with no warning, and Astarion can’t help but yelp and buck into the friction. He knows he was aroused, the feeling suffusing every inch of his body, but he’s achingly hard. It would be so easy to get him off like this, Gale’s hand around his length and his mouth on his chest, that he’s nearly gone enough to ask for it.
Gale pulls back slightly, eyes darting around the tent. “Let me make you comfortable.”
Astarion lets himself be led and moved, seeing as Gale immediately rewards him by divesting himself of his shirt. His eyes rove over him unabashedly, drinking in the curve of his body and the folds of his skin as he shifts in the tight space. The stabilizing of the orb has been good to him, keeping weight on his body better than when they pulled him out of the sigil outside the grove. It still mars his chest and snakes up his neck, but it’s of little import to Astarion, who finds himself far more focused on the dark hair that dusts Gale’s chest and stomach.
It must only be a matter of seconds, but he finds himself desperately missing the heat of Gale’s body, especially as he allows his trousers to be tugged down and tossed away. The weight of Gale’s gaze is nothing compared to his hands, though it still makes Astarion shudder the way it practically dissects him.
“When I manage to figure out that ritual,” Gale says slowly, finally putting his hands back on Astarion, sliding his palms up the tops of his thighs, “And you can see your reflection again, I want to touch you like this in front of a mirror, so that you might see what I can see.”
He presses hard over Astarion’s hip bones, once again bracketing his hands around his waist and holding him firmly. With Gale above him like this, hair tumbling around his shoulders and face flushed with excitement, Astarion gets a heady taste of what is to come.
“How many times can I make you finish before you have to ask me to stop, I wonder?” Gale’s hands dig into his sides, the weight of him making his bones creak in protest, and Astarion arches into his touch, clutching the throw pillow above his head.
“I’m not quite as resilient as your previous female lovers. I’m also not a deity.” Astarion suspects this is a losing argument in every regard, but he’s nothing if not argumentative.
“Four?”
“Gods, Gale–”
“Three, then.” Gale grins as Astarion scoffs. He settles himself between Astarion’s thighs, blanketing himself over him as he brings their faces close. His weight knocks the air out of Astarion’s useless lungs, even as he holds himself up on his elbows. “I’ve seen you perform frankly supernatural feats of acrobatics, surely you can handle an extra orgasm or two.”
Astarion rolls his eyes, preoccupied with finally touching him. He traces the seam between their bodies, slides his hands over his sides and up to his shoulders, digs his nails into olive skin as Gale dips to kiss him again. Astarion’s hips twitch up and he’s met with the hard line of Gale pressed against him, just as aroused. His head swims with possibilities– surely Gale’s stamina is not so good as to fuck three orgasms out of him. His tongue drags over his teeth, dexterously avoiding his fangs, and he imagines his mouth on him, lips stretched around his length as he holds him down with that punishing grip.
“I’m so glad you love this,” Gale says into his mouth, teeth catching on his lip. “You were made to be touched like this, worshiped to pieces. The way you jump and gasp when I press into the most mundane of places… I won’t lie and say the thought isn’t making me a little possessive.”
Astarion was made to be possessed, he thinks. Freedom suits him, but he has no idea how to exist in the world without some sort of twisted relationship to tether him. Gale is perfect. He’s ambitious and ruthless, and when he can focus his energy on something other than moping about Mystra, he has the makings of true power. And Astarion is happy to take, greedy to get everything he has to give, and if one day it suits him to cut Gale loose, it will be after he’s let the wizard make him truly unstoppable.
If Cazador had actually bothered to see Astarion’s potential beyond his body, maybe they could have been allies. But the answer is black and white to him now; Astarion will easily take his place.
He’s lost in the heat of their mouths and the pressure of Gale’s body as he thinks, but then Gale is pulling away and sitting up, bringing him back to the moment. With no preamble he urges Astarion’s underwear off and he’s relieved to let it go. His fingers trace the soft insides of his thighs, purposefully avoiding his cock. He touches and teases, and ogles him openly, committing him to memory. Slipping his fingers between his thighs, he traces down to the curve of his ass and then between, finger brushing over his hole.
“I’m going to devour you,” Gale says so quietly that Astarion nearly misses it. He hooks his hands under his thighs, incessantly urging him to turn over. Astarion is loathe to not get to see him, though his promise hangs heavy in the air, and he rolls, tucking his thighs underneath him. Gale’s hands immediately drag up the backs of his thighs and over the swell of his ass. In this position, Astarion is on full display, scars and all, but he doesn’t flinch away from Gale as he traces over his spine.
Gale’s warm breath between his thighs is the only warning he gets before his tongue laves over his hole. Astarion groans into the pillows beneath him, arching his back further. He licks, slowly testing the muscle, pressing into him bit by bit. His fingers idly trace over Infernal letters at the base of his spine, teasing numb skin. When Astarion’s body gives, he presses his tongue into him eagerly, wet noises muffled by their bodies.
He pushes it into him as deep as he can, teeth digging into sensitive skin and his beard scraping between his thighs. More moans escape Astarion; they’re softer than his ‘usual’, though they’re genuine. There is no way for Gale to know that, though they delight him nonetheless, making him hum and smile against him.
The sensation itself is delightful, moisture and friction and pressure where he wants it, but it's the sounds Gale makes that drive him really insane. Soft noises of contentment and obscene slurping fill the tent, and for however badly Astarion wants to be embarrassed, pleasure shoos it away.
He’s so lost in the sensation of it all that he nearly forgets Gale’s challenge; right up until Gale wraps his hand around his neglected cock. Astarion muffles a whine into the pillows beneath him, hips bucking into his touch involuntarily. It’s impossible to focus on either sensation. The friction up and down his length vies for attention, Gale’s hand warm and soft and novel. But as soon as he shifts his attention to his hand, Gale’s tongue delves deep and his beard rubs his skin raw and he can feel a bead of drool slip down between his thighs.
Astarion has no concept of how much time passes, and while it feels like a blissful eternity, Gale is plenty skilled enough with his hand to bring him to the edge quickly. Something like panic surges in Astarion’s chest— his first orgasm with another person in so long, a person of his choosing, and it feels a little anticlimactic, doesn’t it? It’s just his hand, it’s just his mouth—
His body disagrees. Pleasure does not stop mounting as he frets, and it makes his climax catch him entirely off guard. He spasms, and he bites into the pillow beneath him to muffle his wail. The white hot sensation numbs him all the way to his fingers and toes, the muscles in his abdomen tightening almost painfully.
And Gale is relentless . He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, his mouth and hand working in tandem until it’s clear that Astarion has nothing left to give in that moment, cock twitching in his grasp. Vaguely, Astarion is thankful for the pillow hiding his face, certain his carefully constructed demeanor has been momentarily shattered. He braces for a sticky-cold mess when Gale lets him
lower his hips to the floor, and finds it magicked away, the blanket clean and soft beneath him.
Gale’s hands never leave him, sliding up the backs of his thighs to massage into his lower back. He fits his fingers into the space between each rib and clutches, he traces his thumbs over Astarion’s scars, and the unspoken feeling of possessiveness surges through him again— Astarion can imagine his pinched brow and brewing rage as he studies the marks designed to objectify him.
It’s unclear how long his reprieve is in that space after; Astarion doesn’t sleep and he will not trance here, but he does something in between, letting Gale touch him everywhere. Every inch of Astarion’s skin has a sour and aching memory embedded in it, and he prays to no one that the imprints of Gale’s fingers replace it enough for him to rest.
“Let me turn you over,” Gale says softly, breaking the thick silence in the tent. Astarion follows his urging hands, and before he can fret about the state of his face or the mess of his hair, Gale is lowering his own lips to his chest, pressing kisses across his pecs and sucking more marks in next to his nipples. If Astarion were more worried about reciprocity he’d feel bad for Gale, dragging the head of his leaking cock across Astarion’s thighs.
A slight shift of Gale’s body and he’s pressing Astarion’s thighs wide between his hips. He never stops kissing, though his hand trails between their bodies, slick fingers finding Astarion’s hole. Astarion has no time to question where the oil came from or if he's even ready. Gale looks up at him with overeager eyes and finds his answer in Astarion’s bewildered face, and he slowly pushes one finger into him.
Astarion remembers his hands, bringing one to cover his mouth and the other to claw into Gale’s shoulder. Gale hisses a laugh, prying his nails from his skin and intertwining their fingers. He pins their hands to the floor, letting the heat of his palm soak into Astarion’s. He presses a second finger into him, his rim giving easily to the intrusion. He’s not even hard again, though his body does flush with interest.
Gale leans forward to kiss him right on his furled brow. “Relax. Does it feel good?”
Before Astarion can articulate a snide remark, Gale’s fingers brush past that spot inside of him that makes him surge with heat. He makes some sort of undignified squeak, and Gale makes sure to press his fingers there again, again, again .
“Are you trying to torture me?” Astarion finally manages to wheeze out, words muffled by his hand.
Gale pokes a third finger at his entrance but doesn’t push it in just yet. “Is it torture?” He asks softly.
Astarion’s body sings with overstimulation, but he finds he doesn’t hate it. He’s been overstimulated like this before, body stretched too wide and forced to give pleasure convincingly enough to lure his mark, but it’s never like this. His every nerve is attended to, played and stretched and touched until it burns with numbing heat, but he doesn’t really want it to end.
He opens his eyes to glare at Gale petulantly, and winds up making direct eye contact as he presses his third finger in. The wizards eyes sparkle with affection and mirth; he was truly gaining something out of making Astarion pant and whine like this.
“Is it torture?” Gale asks again. His lips are red and wet and he licks them again anyways.
Astarion lets himself groan, only half exaggerated. “Of a particular kind.” His thighs try to twitch closed involuntarily, blocked by the mass of Gale’s body. “I’m not complaining.”
“A rare treat.” Gale looks down over Astarion’s body, eyes flicking from hickey to hickey like he was following a map. Astarion was half surprised to find himself half hard again, cock drooling onto his hipbone. “That’s it. I knew you could give me more.”
The filthy praise paired with another brush of his prostate makes him jump, eyes snapping shut as he covers his mouth. Astarion had trained himself to be lasciviously vocal, singing his moans for anyone who wanted to hear them, though now through the thin fabric of Gale’s tent he knew it would be far far too loud.
The sudden shifting of Gale’s body was a mystery to him as he focused on swallowing his sounds and not becoming entirely unmoored as he was fingered wide open. It all snapped into focus as Gale’s shoulder pushed his thighs open and he licked a hot stripe up the bottom of Astarion’s cock. Astarion’s hands fly to tangle in Gale’s hair, not to push or pull but simply grip .
“Show me what you need,” Gale whispers, hot breath promising the wet chasm of his mouth. “I can handle it.”
Gale doesn’t wait for Astarion to do anything, perhaps he knows he’ll be struck with indecision, and continues licking and kissing up and down his length. Teasing, Astarion realizes, when he never actually fully takes him into his mouth. He grows harder under his attentions, and frustrated enough, he catches Gale as he’s licking at his sensitive head and pushes him down.
He wouldn’t have been upset if Gale had choked, but the fact that he manages to take him down so easily makes his stomach turn pleasantly. Despite the pressure from Astarion’s hand on his head, Gale moves on his own, bobbing in time with his fingers still working at Astarion’s hole. Astarion soaks in his heat, eager to sap it from the warm mouth surrounding him, chasing the friction of his tongue with his hips.
Another little shove of Gale’s head down with a little twitch of his hips rewards him with a choked gurgle. Drool slides down between his thighs onto Gale’s fingers, messy and perfect. Astarion pulls on his hair hard, out of sheer curiosity, and Gale fights it, keeping his mouth on Astarion. His brows pinch in pain, or maybe pleasure, and he blinks up at Astarion through damp lashes.
The moment is electric, pleasure swelling once again in his strung out body. Gale’s fingers press into his prostate and he hollows his cheeks around Astarion’s cock— lips stretched obscenely and brown eyes watery and blown. It’s good, it’s so good, Gods when was the last time Astarion received attention like this?
Astarion’s second orgasm is wrung out of him, and he clamps his hand over his mouth to keep from screaming. He may not have even needed to— the sensation flies through him to the point his wail may have become silent. Gale’s teeth hit his pelvis and his fingers still with the crushing pressure of Astarion’s body, but they’re pinned right where they need to be. All he can hear is stolen blood rushing in his ears and the faintest thrum of a heart, Gale’s heart, as he comes.
Not a moment of reprieve is given. When he can hear again, Gale’s fingers are gone and he’s sitting up, murmuring praises like a prayer. “You’re doing so wonderfully,” he tells him as he settles back between Astarion’s thighs. “I had hoped you would fall apart like this for me.”
Astarion has half a mind to protest, to ask to stop now, but he’s losing his grip on rational thought in the most delicious way. Why would he want to think about anything other than the way he can feel Gale’s cock hard and eager against his thighs?
“Look at me, Astarion.” His tone is firm and commanding, gentle despite brokering no room for argument.
Astarion lifts his head from where he’d tossed it back into the pillows and looks.
Gods above does he look . He soaks in the vision of sweaty olive skin flushed red, of dark hair dusting the rounded shape of his stomach and his chest. The image of the orb swirls up his neck and up to his face and finally Gale looks a little desperate— he’s plenty debauched, beard soaked in his own drool, but his teasing has finally all crumbled away to sheer desire.
“Are you ready?”
Astarion’s throat is dry, and his voice shakes when he speaks. “Not in the slightest.”
Gale laughs breathlessly, smile splitting his face. Astarion wants to shy away from the raw affection that broils in his chest but finds he simply cannot. Gale asks, “Do you want me to stop?”
“Absolutely not.” Astarion says, ignoring his body's plea for rest.
“Good,” Gale says, and it’s nearly a growl. He moves as soon as the permission is given, lining himself to press in, in, in .
Astarion’s body gives easily, practically sucking him further in. There’s no burn from the stretch; Gale is not small but Astarion is well prepared, better prepared perhaps than he has ever been.
As Gale bottoms out, he lets his body fall forward, bracing one hand on Astarion’s chest. It would knock the wind out of him if he had any to give, instead his ribs just creak under the pressure. He rolls his hips slowly, sighing as he feels every inch of Astarion’s body as he slides in and out. The pleasure is numbing to Astarion, the way one's body adjusts to a warm bath or the pressure of a massage. It’s pleasant, and intimate, and Astarion starts to drift.
The sudden swell of magic across his skin jolts him to attention. Gale’s hand on his chest pulses with lime green light, some sort of effect soaking into Astarion’s body. The incantation meant nothing to him, and the effect was indiscernible once it was gone. He blinks blearily up at Gale, trying to meet his eyes through a curtain of hair.
“Protection from Poison,” Gale pants. Suddenly his hand is gone and he brings himself even lower, trapping Astarion’s soft and sensitive cock between their bodies. It’s clear that he is struggling immensely to control himself, hips twitching occasionally as they grind slowly into him. “I want you to bite me.”
Astarion’s almost too dazed to process the information, and he’s definitely too far gone to consider the consequences. He brings his hands up to Gale’s back and pulls on him until his shoulder is close enough to his mouth. He should be taunting, making snide remarks about sick fantasies and humiliation, but they’re lost as his tongue tastes skin and sweat.
His mouth opens on a moan as Gale rolls into him and he lets the momentum drag his teeth across his skin until they catch. The bite is sloppy, tearing more than puncturing, and he props himself up onto an elbow to seal his mouth over the wound. Sour blood spills onto his tongue— though it tastes less like bile and more like sucking directly onto an unripe lemon. Astarion’s nose crinkles, but as soon as the blood moves past his taste buds his body knows that it’s sustenance all the same.
It keeps him latched on, drool pooling in the corners of his mouth in reaction to the tartness. The blood clears his head and brings feeling back to his extremities. Digging his fingers into Gale’s back, he claws him impossibly closer until all Gale can do is barely nudge his hips against him. The wizard pants heavily in his ear, Astarion hears the pain slip out of his voice and give way to that empty numbness.
The flavor of the blood aids his self control, making it easier to pull himself away when he’s had enough to brighten his senses. The wound oozes as he pulls away from it, and Astarion let’s it. He watches it drip into Gale’s chest hair and mix with his sweat and he feels a little delirious, as if he’s suddenly too in his own head rather than completely out of it.
“Gods, that’s fascinating,” Gale huffs, propping himself back up to work his hips again. The slight shift in angle drags him along Astarion’s prostate, the sensation lighting every nerve inside of him on fire. “I thought it would hurt more.”
“I can make it hurt more,” Astarion bites out, the words not even half of a threat in his fucked out tone.
Gale ignores him, sitting up fully to hold Astarion by the hips and drag him into each thrust. “And look at that,” he rasps. “The blood went just where it needed to go.”
Astarion knows what he means, swallowing back a gasp as his now full cock smacks against his stomach as Gale folds him over. It’s nearly painful— his body should not have anything left to give and yet it aches for release once again. The weight of Gale’s hungry eyes press into Astarion’s body and he arches his back; Astarion wants Gale to look.
Perhaps vanity isn’t any better than using his looks for survival, but Astarion likes being selfish. To do what he wants, to take what he wants, to care about his appearance for his own sake, none of it makes Astarion a good man but it makes him free. He throws his hands above his head and stretches, soaking in the way Gale ogles the long line of his body and letting it pleasure him anew.
Gale’s hand wraps around his length and he hisses, body bucking to his grip despite how the overstimulation sears his skin. He murmurs little praises in time with his hips, soft “That’s it,” and “There you go,” filling the air of the tent. As hard as Astarion tries to muffle himself, the slap of skin on skin is undeniable, loud and lewd in his ears.
“You’re going to come one more time for me,” Gale tells him, undeniably a command.
Astarion squirms, neither away or closer. He tries to formulate a snappy retort and just winds up gasping out, “Oh fuck .”
He has the distant thought that Gale’s stamina is admirable considering how long he held out. His pace slows to steady grind, adjusting Astarion’s hips and searching for that spot inside of him. It feels fruitless and clumsy and frustrating until he finds it and Astarion spasms, the pleasure shooting through him like a crossbow bolt.
It might be minutes, it might be hours, it’s probably only thirty seconds, and Gale pummels into that spot, letting the motions of their bodies work Astarion’s cock into his fist. His orgasm builds slowly; Astarion has no idea when he actually starts coming and what the lead up or let down is, the whole sensation boiling through him. His body has nothing left to give, a pathetic bead of come dripping onto his chest.
As soon as Gale is satisfied with his results he lets himself go, fucking into him with short erratic thrusts until he’s doubled over, wheezing out a groan that could have been so much louder. Astarion laments that he can’t see him, his eyes only perceiving a blur of skin and hair and the tiniest smudge of blood.
Gale extricates himself from their embrace carefully, lowering Astarion’s hips to the floor before laying down beside him. As soon as Astarion is lucid enough to process their continued proximity, he stiffens, blinking to focus his eyes.
“Are you alright?” Gale asks, sensing his hesitation. “Was it too much?”
“No— well, yes, but no.” Astarion stammers awkwardly, trying to articulate through the fog in his mind. “You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t usually… do this part. After.”
“It isn’t after,” Gale says, letting his hand rest on Astarion’s abdomen. “Not until you’re comfortable.”
Somehow this is the most nerve wracking part. Normally his pants would already be on and he’d be telling them where to meet him next time. Astarion takes a steadying breath he doesn’t need and turns to bury his face into Gale’s chest. Gale’s arm falls over him naturally, bracketing him in, hand resuming its idle tracing across his scars.
“This is novel for me as well, you know.” Gale’s voice rumbles against his face through his chest. “There’s really no post-coital snuggles with a goddess.”
Gale smells so mortal it makes Astarion’s teeth ache. His blood thrums lemony-sweet beneath salty skin, the whole musk of him disgustingly enticing. Does he smell like old paper and ink down to his core, or does someone make obnoxious wizard-themed colognes?
A beat passes in silence. Astarion saps as much warmth from Gale as he can. He won’t trance here, as heavy as his eyelids are, and he focuses on sensation to keep himself focused. When he shifts he can feel bruises on his chest and the sore ache of his hole. Gale’s spend is sticky and wet between his thighs, and sweat dries cold on his skin.
“How long does the spell last?” Astarion asks, lips dragging across the swell of Gale’s pec.
Gale cups the back of his head and holds him in place, as if trying to push his teeth right into his skin. “Long enough,” he promises.
Astarion teases, letting his fangs scrape but not catch. “You taste like sour lemons. Or grapefruit.”
“What does everyone else taste like?”
“Blood.”
“Ah—“ Gale attempts to say something insightful, and is interrupted by Astarion licking a long stripe up to his neck.
Astarion nuzzles into the tender flesh there, lets Gale’s rabbit-quick pulse beat against his nose. “It’s not as dramatic as everyone wants to make it sound— it’s a curse through and through. But maybe when you sort out this ritual business for me, blood will taste like wine or chocolate or something else nice.”
“We don’t actually know what the ritual is for—“
“I wonder what a god’s blood tastes like,” Astarion muses. Gale stops breathing. “You’ll have to let me taste it someday.”
His fangs pierce right across the dark tendrils of the orb, his mouth immediately filling with that bitter-sour flavor again. It’s still metallic and gamey beneath it all, and he doesn’t really need it— but Gale wants it, and after his extended performance of dismantling any respect Astarion had for himself, he needs to claw some power back for himself.
He only drinks for a moment, just until he can feel Gale go lax beneath him, still wholly unprepared for that acrid taste on his tongue. The wizard still shudders beneath him, the aftershocks of arousal coursing through him.
“You are quite the feral beast to tame,” Gale tells him as Astarion laps at the wound and kisses his neck, hand fisted in his hair to keep him close. “I’m sorry that he did so much to you, to make you like this.”
“And I am sorry that she neglected you so much, to make you run your mouth like you love to.” Astarion drags his lips through Gale’s beard, trying to decide if he likes the sensation.
“You weren’t complaining about my mouth a few minutes ago.”
Astarion groans in annoyance as he surges up to kiss him. He can taste himself on his lips, come and drool and desperation, and he knows Gale’s blood is still in his mouth to be kissed back into his body. Gale’s hands clutch him, tangled in his hair and splayed over his scars, clinging to him like a promise.
This is different, Astarion thinks, sucking Gale’s tongue into his mouth. This is better.
Gale tastes like spit and come and the promise of power, and his blood tastes like lemon and poison and a brush with godhood, and Astarion will drink down every last drop if it means he can be free.
He ignores the stirring of his dead heart for the delicious prick of Gale’s lower lip on his fang. Desperation has lead Astarion to do much, much worse.