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The end of the battle brings upon an uneasy silence. Astarion runs his hand over his mouth, smearing the blood of their enemies. He lightly kicks the corpse, just to be sure the fucker is dead. He rotates his shoulder that is still smarting from the arrow he’d taken to it earlier in the fight. The healing potion has filled in the flesh and left nothing but a dull ache.
The cave is dark but for an area still burning from alchemists fire and a few florescent fungi. He looks around, getting his barrings back after the long fight. He spots Karlach several feet away easily, the glow in her chest a beacon. Above Karlach, perched on an outcrop of rock, he sees Tav. She’s still crouched and nearly hidden in shadows. He only found her because of the way the red in her eyes reflects the light given off by Karlach’s chest.
He steps around a large stalagmite and discovers a cluster of corpses illuminated by a dropped torch. There are bits of rock scattered around, and he remembers hearing the crack of thunder magic echoing through the cave. Gale should be around here somewhere.
“Mystra, preserve me.”
Astarion turns toward the voice and finds Gale prone on his side, back to the wall, hair hiding much of his face. Astarion scoffs and pulls a greater healing potion from his supplies. “Mystra put a bomb in your chest.” He shoves the vial into Gale’s hands. “I don’t think she’s invested in preserving you, darling.”
Gale doesn’t move.
“Gale?” Astarion gives his shoulder a shake and gets a pained groan in response. “Fuck.” He brushes Gale’s hair out of his face and feels the way his skin is burning up, sweat beading on his forehead. He looks for whatever wound has Gale in such a state and finds the hilt of a dagger sticking out of his back. “Sorry about this.” Astarion grabs it and pulls. He can tell right away that it’s poisoned by the way that the blood clinging to the blade has turned a putrid shade of purple.
For all their bickering, Astarion likes the wizard. He’s not letting him die in a cave, taken out by some fungi smuggling bandits. He grabs Gale’s robe by the collar and hauls him into a sitting position.
Another pained groan and Gale opens his eyes. Astarion wonders how much the human can see with just the torchlight. Enough that Gale doesn’t put up a fight and leans into Astarion’s touch. “Drink,” he demands shoving the uncorked greater healing potion up to Gale’s lips.
Gale drinks. Astarion is fixated on the way Gale’s Adam's apple bobs as he chugs it down. The sigh of relief from Gale is something Astarion knows he won’t be able to get out of his mind. He knows the order in which he keeps his potions along his belt and has no problem finding his last antidote vial—he makes a mental note to mention it to Tav, their resident apothecary.
“This too,” Astarion insists shoving it at Gale’s lips. This time Gale has the strength and presence of mind to steady the bottle and hold it himself.
The empty vial is lowered, and Gale frowns. “Tav put a bit too much mugwort in this.”
“Did it work?”
“Yes.”
“Then no, she didn’t.” Astarion stands in a fluid motion and waits as his human companion uses the rock wall to keep himself steady as he climbs back to his feet, groaning and muttering about the damp of the cave not doing his knees any favours.
Tav and Karlach come around the corner, a necklace dangling off of one of Tav’s fingers as she inspects it. “You two alive over here?”
“The wizard got himself stabbed and poisoned,” Astarion says with a grin. He knows damn well that now Karlach and Tav will play bodyguard for the wizard for the rest of the day.
“You dick,” Gale whisper hisses at him.
Astarion’s laugh echos in the cave.
°
Half a bottle of Blingdenstone blush rests between them as they sit just outside of Gale’s tent. The taste is warm and fruity on Astarion’s tongue. The casual drinking doesn’t affect him but his drinking partner’s cheeks have a flush to them. Astarion can’t help his mind wandering to other reasons for Gale’s cheeks to be flushed like that.
Gale nearly spills his wine as he gestures with his hands as he talks. Astarion isn’t really listening. He’s fixated on the high collar of the wizard’s Poisoner’s Robes. They’re a favourite of Astarion’s. There is something about the subtle green that brings out more of the same in Gale’s hazel eyes.
Something, something, Waterdeep, blah, blah, blah, Mystra.
Astarion snaps to attention. Mystra. Under the full moon’s glow, the silver earring, a symbol of Mystra herself, glints. He can’t help the words that slip from his lips. “How are you so loyal to someone who cares so very little for you?”
Gale stops mid-sentence, and Astarion chugs the rest of his glass of wine. Astarion would never have called himself ‘loyal’ to Cazador, no matter how long he did the man’s bidding.
Yet, Gale, the ex-chosen of Mystra, the ex lover of Mystra, still time and time again chooses to do her bidding. He’d been willing to blow himself up, talked down only by the combined efforts of Tav and Astarion.
An answer doesn’t come right away. Gale sets his glass of wine aside, and Astarion thinks that he’s going to call an end to their night. Instead, Gale sighs. “Things with Mystra have never been simple. She’s the Goddess of Magic.”
Astarion squints. “That didn’t answer my question.”
This time, Gale shrugs. “I love her.”
Present tense. I love her. Still. Always. Never stopped. Not even with a bomb in his chest. Astarion turns away from Gale. He can’t take looking into the man’s soft eyes while he speaks of another.
“She doesn’t love you,” Astarion spits the words. If Mystra’s hooks are deep in Gale’s marrow than Astarion will sink in his claws. He’ll make Gale a battleground. Feral and possessive, Astarion can’t handle the poisonous infatuation that’s been building as they’ve spent months on the road together.
Gale makes a dismissive sound. “She does, in her own way. She’s just mad right now.”
Astarion’s fangs ache in response. He wants to bite into something, feel fragile bones break and tendons snap. How can Gale defend her like this?
“Are you alright?” Gale asks softly.
It’s almost enough to make Astarion scream. Instead, he shakes his head. “You know, I’ve never had anyone care half as much about me as you do about that fucking Goddess of yours.”
“You’re wrong,” Gale whispers.
“Oh, go fuck yourself with your condescending bullshit!” Astarion snaps, bearing fangs as he turns on Gale. “You think Cazador cared for his favourite pet? You think any of those doe-eyed marks cared about me? They followed for the promise of sexual favours.” His laugh is dark and bitter. “I’m an idea, a bucketlist fuck—“
“I care about you,” Gale says, cutting him off.
Astarion rolls his eyes. “Not like that.”
He feels the warmth off of Gale’s body as he leans in closer, his hand planted on the earth behind them for balance. “I’d worship you if you’d let me.”
“You love her,” Astarion snaps.
“And I always will in some way,” Gale replies sadly. “She is the weave, I’m too entangled to ever have a clean break.” He’s purposefully slow as he raises his hand and oh so gently cups Astarion’s cheek. “But that does not mean I’m incapable of loving you.”
“You don’t,” Astarion says. The words are automatic, falling from his tongue. There is a spark, a seed, something new and bright between them but Astarion is so afraid to label it as love.
“I do,” Gale says easy as breathing.
“Prove it.”
Gale raises a brow. “How long are you willing to listen to me speak of all your finer qualities?”
“Maybe I’d rather you do something else with your mouth,” Astarion snarks back.
Gale smirks. “Consider it most enthusiastically done.”
Astarion surges forward and claims Gale’s lips. His hand clenches in a fistful of Gale’s hair, and he swallows Gale’s responding moan. His free hand starts on Gale’s shoulder and slowly trails down.
The dam unleashed, Astarion vies for control, tongue brushing against Gale’s, tasting the Blingdenstone Blush secondhand. A pang hits his chest with the realization that Gale isn’t touching him back. He pulls out of the kiss and finds Gale more flushed than before. He is panting. His eyes open a few seconds later, staring at Astarion with wonder.
Astarion feels unmoored. “You aren’t touching me.”
“You didn’t say I could,” Gale replies earnestly.
The power is in Astarion’s hands and it’s a heady, unfamiliar feeling. The hand in Gale’s hair loosens and trails across the rough hairs of his beard before settling to grip his chin. “Touch me,” Astarion demands.
Gale doesn’t move or speak and for a second, Astarion thinks he’s pushed too far, that he’s somehow shifted them into two pieces that no longer fit.
“Tent,” Gale says, his voice lower than Astarion’s ever heard it. “Get in the tent.”
They both scramble into the tent, a mess of limbs before their lips crash together once more. Now that Gale’s been given permission, Astarion feels him everywhere. They’re chest to chest, the weight of Gale over him, somehow keeping all his fractured pieces together. One of Astarion’s fangs catch accidentally on Gale’s bottom lip, and Gale’s fist clenches the fabric of Astarion’s shirt.
Gale slowly pulls back, kneeling between Astarion’s spread legs. His hand slowly trails down Astarion’s chest over the frills of his shirt. Astarion knows his role. He keeps his legs hooked over Gale’s waist and his hands together high over his head. “Use me.”
A little furrow in Gale’s brow appears. He goes from staring at where his own hand is on Astarion’s chest to looking into his eyes so deeply that he half expects the tadpole connection between them to activate. “I will do no such thing,” Gale whispers.
A lump forms in Astarion’s throat. He’s already cycling through the ways he can act dismissive, as if this was a joke all along.
“Let me worship you, Astarion,” Gale says with such bone deep sincerity that Astarion expects his long dead heart to beat again. Gale leans down, that delicious weight returning, quelling the anxiety in Astarion’s chest. “Let me love you,” he whispers against Astarion’s jawline. “Let me—“ the words fall away in favour of a tongue lapping against the age old puncture wounds in Astarion’s neck. Gale’s teeth graze against them like he can claim them as his own.
“Oh fuck.” The words are punched out of Astarion unbidden.
He feels the warmth of Gale’s fingertips as he toys with the hem of Astarion’s shirt. “Clothes on or off?”
“What the nine hells would we do with clothes on?” Astarion asks.
Gale rises up just enough to make eye contact with Astarion. “Do you really think I can’t please you with your clothes still on?”
A part of Astarion wants to see where it would lead, but he’s desperate for the skin on skin contact. “Off.”
Gale nods but the frantic energy they have with their mouths isn’t matched by his hands. No, Gale’s hands are slow, almost hot against Astarion’s cool skin. They’ve flattened, sliding up Astarion’s chest, fingers mapping out every inch of him. It’s all encompassing the way that Gale touches him, kisses him—Astarion can’t grasp a single stray thought. He is consumed, happily.
As Astarion takes everything Gale bestows upon him, he wonders how they’re both still dressed. Even with permission, Gale doesn’t hurry, his hands have only worked Astarion’s shirt up to his ribs where Gale’s thumbs sweep over the newly exposed skin. The kiss slows until Gale eventually drags his lips lower, a kisses his way along Astarion’s jawline. Astarion’s nails dig into Gale’s robes as the wizard’s tongue sweeps over the arch of his pointed ear.
It’s impossible to keep his breath steady, to appear even remotely put together. How could Gale manage to pull him apart so completely while they’re still fully dressed. By the Gods, he hasn’t even really done anything yet.
Gale pulls back, returns to that kneeling position and Astarion misses the warmth of his hands when Gale pulls those back too. Gale’s voice is low as his hands move. An evocation, Astarion realizes, a second before there are four glowing orbs lazily circling the tent.
“That’s better,” Gale says. “I want to see you.”
Humans can’t see in the dark. Gale wants to see. Astarion wonders what he looks like from Gale’s perspective. Sprawled out and panting despite not needing to breathe. He’s hard in his trousers. He hadn’t even noticed until now, too focussed on the taste on Gale’s tongue and the warmth of his exploring fingers.
The dancing lights make Gale look ethereal above him. It doesn’t last. It seems Gale doesn’t want to seem to be apart any more than Astarion does. One kiss, another. “Gods, you’re beautiful,” Gale whispers. His beard rubs against Astarion’s skin as he kisses his way down the vampire’s neck.
You’re beautiful. The words repeat over and over in his mind. He’s been called plenty of things in his time, usually derogatory from Cazador, occasionally more flattering from marks, but not beautiful. Never beautiful.
Gods, you’re beautiful.
Astarion clings to the words as Gale’s nose brushes against his neck when he shifts. Gale’s lips press feather light kisses along his collarbone. The white shirt is still only half rucked up Astarion’s torso, Gale simply skips over the fabric and presses a kiss to Astarion’s abdomen.
It’s nice. Soft. Sweet. Things he doesn’t expect nor expects to enjoy. He does. He reaches for Gale, threads his fingers through this long dark hair but doesn’t pull, doesn’t demand nor guide. Gale looks up at him, the dancing lights giving his eyes a blue tinge. He maintains that eye contact as he drags his tongue from bellybutton to the spot between his ribs. Finally, finally, Gale pulls Astarion’s shirt overhead and tosses it over a pile of books.
As Gale’s mouth acquaints itself with the flesh that had not yet been touched, Astarion floats on the feeling of adoration. It’s heady and unfamiliar. He worries about his lack of active participation, but the anxiety can’t take root, not with Gale looking so content as he kisses over Astarion’s ribs.
The sudden swirl of Gale’s clever tongue around Astarion’s nipple is enough to make him grab Gale’s hair again. Gale groans and repeats the pattern before flicking his tongue. There is a graze of teeth and Astarion has the horrifying thought that he might just come in his trousers. He’ll never hear the end of it. It doesn’t stop him from rutting up against Gale hard enough to feel the webbed pattern of Gale’s robes.
“Gale!”
Gale raises his head enough to make eye contact. “Hmm?”
“Pants,” Astarion says? Orders? He’s strung out and hopes that Gale understands. The warmth and weight of Gale moves away, and Astarion whines.
“Off?” Gale asks. His fingertips graze just over the fabric of the waistband.
“Yes.”
No one in the history of ever has taken so much time and care unlacing someone’s trousers, Astarion is sure of it. The bastard manages to not so much as graze Astarion’s cock while he’s at it. Astarion has half the mind to curse the wizard out, (the other half of his mind wants to beg and plead for something, anything to push him from this maddening plateau.)
Astarion pushes himself up onto his elbows and lifts his hips when Gale gives Astarion’s trousers a pull. He stares at Gale while the wizard pulls them down slowly. It’s because he’s so focussed on Gale that he sees the way that Gale eyes his cock hungrily, Gale’s tongue darting out to wet his lips.
While Astarion pictures Gale’s lips wrapped around his cock, Gale instead kisses Astarion’s thighs, being every bit as thorough as he was with kissing Astarion’s chest. He keeps moving down, pulling the trousers, kissing the newly exposed flesh as he goes. Has anyone ever kissed his knees before? It’s a stupid little thing Astarion finds himself getting emotional over. Gale shimmies back, pulling the trousers from one leg, then the other. The trousers along with his socks are tossed over near his shirt.
Astarion is entirely naked and sprawled out on the bedroll under dancing lights in Gale’s tent. Yet, somehow, Gale is still dressed in the thick construct of the Poisoner’s Robes. It does something for Astarion that he can’t quite explain. Gale’s hand grabs Astarion’s ankle, raises it and presses a kiss to the bone. Gale looks like he’s the one being bestowed a gift, lost in the act of worship.
“Astarion,” Gale whispers, his eyes still closed.
Astarion swallows hard. How does his name sound like a prayer? “Yes?”
“Roll over for me,” Gale requests.
Astarion’s moving before he regrets it. Lying on his stomach, he hisses as his cock is pinned under his weight and on the fabric of Gale’s bedroll. He knows that Gale is moving over him, (it’s Gale, it’s Gale, it’s Gale,) but he doesn’t expect the hand reaching above him that grabs a pillow,. Gale sneaks a kiss to his cheek before drawing back again.
“Lift your hips,” Gale says.
Astarion does as requested and is rewarded by the satin feel of one of Gale’s luxurious pillows. He ruts into it just once before threading his fingers through his own hair. What is he doing? What is Gale doing? Somewhere behind him, over him, unseen. (It’s Gale, it’s Gale, it’s Gale.) There is an expectation with the position—a favourite of Cazador. Usually the angle of his hips would be more severe, ass up, face down, hand on his neck—
The seed of a memory can’t root. Not with Gale’s lips kissing the back of his calves. Not when Gale is massaging the tension in his thighs. Not as Gale’s tongue drags over the curve of his ass.
“Astarion?”
“Yes?”
Gale’s fingers dig a little into his hips. “The…your scars…may I touch them, or is that uncomfortable for you?”
They’re a memory of Cazador, of cruel torture. If the blade hadn’t been bad enough, he’s been reduced to a ritual piece. No one has ever asked before. Astarion’s hardly had the autonomy to consider it before now. He mulls it over, not feeling rushed by Gale, not when his fingers are drawing little designs on his lower back. They don’t hurt, he’s not even that sure the scarred area has much sensitivity left. The memory of Gale’s teeth against his neck makes the decision for him.
“You can.”
And Gale treats his scars with the same tenderness that he’d cared for the rest of him.
Astarion pillows his face with his arms and tries to steady his breath. It doesn’t seem possible that he could be this worked up when Gale hadn’t even touched him with explicit sexual intent yet. Instead, Gale is mapping out the infernal contract on his back with his lips and tongue.
Gale kisses his shoulder, his neck then his nose brushes against Astarion’s ear. “Are you okay?”
The delicious combination of weight and warmth of Gale is against his back and Astarion isn’t sure he’s been better in his whole life. He nods. “Yes.”
A drag of Gale’s hot tongue on the shell of his ear has him grinding back against Gale hard enough to finally feel his cock through those thick robes he’s still somehow wearing. The warm weight is gone and Astarion whines, looking over his shoulder, worried he’s somehow ended this.
Gale shushes him. “Easy.”
“Aren’t you going to fuck me?” Astarion asks through clenched teeth. He wants. “What are you still doing fully dressed?”
The bastard smirks. “Astarion, how am I to worship you fully if I’m distracted by my own pleasure?”
“Are you just going to kiss me until I come?”
That earns him a little head tilt, Gale’s lips pursing. “Could you come from just me kissing you?”
“Don’t you dare take it as a challenge,” Astarion says, baring his fangs.
Gale laughs. “I won’t. Or, at least not tonight I won’t. I had other ideas.” The warm weight returns, and Gale’s nose brushes along the column of Astarion’s neck. “I want you to listen very closely,” the deep whisper cutting right to Astarion’s core. “What I planned may be vetoed at any time. You want this to stop, it stops. You’re uncomfortable with anything we are doing, we stop. You do not agree to anything you don’t want, you do not agree to something out of some sense of quid pro quo.”
The words dig under his skin, sharp as a blade. “Gale—“
“I mean it, Astarion. I will love you within your limits, whatever they may be.”
Astarion sits with the stern sincerity in Gale’s voice. “Okay.”
“Promise me,” Gale says.
“I promise,” Astarion whispers back.
“Then here is what I’m thinking,” Gale says syrupy slow and Astarion hangs on every word. “I’m going to kiss you here.” Gale’s fingertip touches Astarion’s right shoulder. “Then here”—he drags his finger along a circular section of the contract—“here”—the divot on one side of his lower back—“here”—his upper ass cheek. Gale huffs out a little laugh. “You have three little freckles here”—his fingers trace a triangle—“I’m going to kiss them all.”
The wizard is a fucking dork, and yet Astarion is still strung out as hell on every word. It would be embarrassing if his traitorous heart didn’t want to hold Gale in it forever.
“And here”—his fingers slip between his cheeks and press against his hole. Astarion squirms, unable to keep his hips still, both shocked by the touch, and the pleasure the very idea of having Gale’s talented mouth there. “I want to spend a lot of time right here.”
“Please,” Astarion begs. “Please, I want it, please, Gale, please, please, please—“
The kiss on his shoulder settles him. Lips work over the circular section of the contract. A open mouthed kiss, tongue lapping at the divot on his lower back. Astarion spreads his legs in anticipation as Gale’s talented mouth makes good on kissing all three freckles. He feels Gale shift around. Astarion looks over his shoulder, it’s an awkward angle, but he sees Gale lying in the space between his legs.
Hands grip his ass and spread him. There is a split second of feeling all too exposed before he sees the hunger in Gale’s eyes. The first hot wet drag of Gale’s tongue over his hole has him lost. Astarion gives up looking over his shoulder and sprawls. He surrenders to Gale, surrenders to the waves of pleasure, surrenders to being worshipped, surrenders to being loved.
Everything keeps compiling onto his pleasure. It’s not just the way Gale’s tongue twists, curls, pushes and flicks, but also the hungry wet noises he makes as he feasts. Those hands that are more accustom to holding a book are gripping Astarion’s cheeks like a lifeline, and he’s quite sure that he’s never going to be able to look at Gale’s hands the same way again.
The satin pillow is soaked in precum. Saliva coats his hole and is dripping down his balls. Gale is relentless with his lashing tongue. His beard is rough against Astarion’s skin and he hopes that he’ll feel it later.
He hears Gale panting, feels the hot breaths against his hole, before Gale dives back in and is pressing his tongue inside. Astarion curses, claws digging into the bedroll, hips bucking against the pillow that feels so divinely soft against his dripping cock.
When did he start chanting Gale’s name? The chant is only broken by a long moan that Gale works out of him with a few quick strokes of his tongue.
How long is he expected to hold out? Doesn’t Gale want to fuck him? To use the hole he’s loving oh so well?
He buries his face in his arms. “Gale, I can’t”—he squirms away only for Gale to grab his thighs and pull him back with a growl. Oh fuck. He’s going to come. Can he? Can he? “Gale, please!”
“Take your pleasure, Astarion,” Gale says, his thumb taking the place of his mouth occupied just moments before, never letting him go without stimulation. “Come whenever you’re ready, whenever you want, you’re in control.” He spreads Astarion’s cheeks and dives back in.
Astarion rides the waves of pleasure, listening to his body and letting it react. He’s safe with Gale. And isn’t that a novelty? Feeling safe during intimacy. He ruts into the pillow, the luxurious fabric feeling so fucking good against his hard, aching cock. He reaches back and grabs a fistful of Gale’s hair and doesn’t just hear but feels the reverberating moan it elicits.
It’s impossibly good, the dual sensations that he rocks between. His teeth clench as he gets closer to the edge. Gods, he wants to come. So close. So close. So—
He tenses, his cock throbbing between his abdomen and the pillow. He screams wordlessly as he comes. Release has never been so all encompassing, never so violent. He thrashes with the relentless waves of ecstasy, waves and waves and waves of it, and distantly thinks that he might have kicked Gale in the process of trying to get more, yet avoid it at the same time.
The world feels like it’s collapsing on itself and remaking itself anew. He’s panting, sucking in greedy gulps of air like he actually needs it. One more lap of Gale’s tongue over his hole has him shivering and boneless. He releases the death grip on Gale’s hair and just lies there in a pool of his own spend, unable to find the will to move.
Distantly, Astarion feels Gale’s lips working their way up his body once more. Lips on his shoulder, hand on his arm, Astarion let’s Gale roll him onto his back. A kiss is bestowed upon Astarion’s temple before Gale is once again working his way down Astarion’s body, tongue lapping at his abdomen.
Astarion makes the mistake of glancing down his body to see Gale licking his come off his skin. He groans and drapes his arm over his eyes. That’s an image that will be burned into his memory forever.
“I can clean your cock with my tongue or a cloth, which do you prefer?”
That’s is a sentence Astarion never expected to hear. He lifts his arm just enough to peek down at Gale who is looking right back, lazily tracing designs with his fingertip on Astarion’s hip. Endless patience, waiting, waiting, waiting, for Astarion to choose.
“Your mouth,” Astarion says weakly. His cock is soft and sensitive when Gale’s tongue drags along it. Once again, Astarion covers his eyes with his arm. He can’t get hard again so soon, but each time Gale’s tongue licks more come off Astarion’s cock, it feels so good he starts to doubt that. Another lick. Another.
Astarion curses under his breath and drops his arm from his face. Gale looks so serene in service of him. At last, Gale bestows a kiss to the tip of Astarion’s cock, and Astarion can’t help but giggle at the gesture.
Gale crawls back up so they’re face to face. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
His feelings are fluttery little butterflies he can’t seem to put names to. “I came on your pillow,” Astarion finally mutters in response.
Gale’s hum sounds a little like laughter. His robes are too rough against Astarion’s sensitive skin when Gale stretches and grabs another pillow that he tucks under Astarion’s head. “Anything else you’d like?”
In the back of his mind, Astarion knows he should be doing something to return the favour but he feels boneless and heavy. He just turns his head so he and Gale are nearly nose to nose. Gale looks…content.
“Your robes are rough,” Astarion complains. “Take them off.”
Gale’s eyes narrow, like he’s trying to figure out Astarion’s intent. After a moment, he does as asked, standing to get the textured robes off. Astarion discovers that Gale isn’t wearing anything underneath. Fangs ache to bite, it has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the swell of Gale’s ass. Gale drapes the robes over a chair before turning around.
Astarion has seen Gale naked before—sure it was when they were bathing in a spring, totally perfunctory and non-sexy—but it’s different now. There are the feelings, big, joyous, swelling feelings but also Gale’s hard and that’s new. Astarion is staring. He knows he’s staring. He can’t stop staring. Gale’s cock is hard, thick, and must have been dripping something fierce in those robes as it glistens under the dancing lights.
“Lay on me,” Astarion says.
The wizard raises a brow. “Excuse me?”
“You’re warm,” Astarion replies. It’s not a lie, it’s just not the whole truth of why he want’s Gale’s delicious weight on top of him. “Please?” He pouts. “Will you lie on me? I’m cold.”
“I have blankets,” Gale says, looking around.
“Gale,” Astarion whines his name.
“Okay, okay, fine,” Gale replies.
It takes some time to adjust their limbs so they’re both comfortable, and Gale seems to be trying to keep at least some of his weight off of Astarion, but he wraps his arms around Gale and pulls him close. Eventually, Gale relaxes in his arms, his face buried against Astarion’s neck.
It would be relaxing if not for the raging erection between them.
“Gale?” Astarion whispers as he drags a couple of his fingers up and down Gale’s back.
“Mhmm.”
“Look at me.”
Gale rises up onto his elbows to look down at Astarion questioningly.
Astarion reaches up and brushes some of Gale’s hair back and tucks it behind his ear. The glinting earring, a symbol of Mystra momentarily taking away from their moment.
“I want you to come.” He shushes Gale when the other man goes to speak. “I want you to come on me. You’ve shown me your worship, you’ve made me your altar”--he rises up enough to press his forehead to Gale’s—“now give me your offering.”
Astarion revels in the shocked little gasp from Gale’s lips. He looks a little dazed by the demand but takes it to heart. He pushes back up onto his knees between Astarion’s legs, and almost like he expects to be stopped, lightly touches his cock while keeping a questioning eye on Astarion.
“Yes,” Astarion whispers and Gale’s hand tightens around himself. Astarion knows what it’s like to have his thighs held by those surprisingly strong hands. He can only imagine how good they’d feel around his cock, he makes do with watching Gale stroke himself.
“Beautiful,” Gale mumbles staring at Astarion. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?” While he had said it earlier, now it takes root in Astarion’s heart. Gale strokes himself faster. “You don’t have to—“
“I love you,” Astarion says before Gale can second guess himself.
The responding groan is filthy. “Say it again,” Gale pleads.
“I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you.”
Gale tenses, moans, and strokes himself faster just a second before Astarion feels ribbons of hot release on his chest. Gale curses low under his breath, fucking his fist, the last of his come dribbling over Astarion’s soft cock which gives a valiant, rallying twitch. They’re both panting staring at one another
“I’ll get a cloth,” Gale says softly.
“Can’t you just”—Astarion waves his hands around a little in a poor imitation of casting—“magic.”
Gale raises a brow. “You want me to prestidigitation my come off you?”
“Yes and then I want you to lie on me again,” Astarion says. “You really are warm, and I like it.” And it’ll keep him from using Gale’s come as lube and jerking himself off. While another orgasm would be nice, he finds himself more contented by the idea of holding Gale in his arms while they both rest.
He feels the magic like a soft breeze against his skin as Gale casts prestidigitation. The warmth and weight of Gale returns. Astarion feels safe, loved, and deeply pleased. He brushes his fingers along Gale’s jawline, Gale following the silent direction when Astarion lightly grasps Gale’s jaw and pulls him into a kiss. The frantic energy of before is lost to something soothing but strong, an pouring of emotions in nothing but a brush of lips.
“I love you,” Gale says.
The wizard is a sap, but Astarion will let him have this moment. “And I love you, darling.”
Gale shifts a bit until he has his head rested on Astarion’s chest. Absentmindedly, Astarion combs his fingers through Gale’s long hair, caresses over the shell of his ear—that fucking earring—and like Gale just knows, he unclasps the back and pulls it out of his ear. He presses the earring into Astarion’s palm and nuzzles into his chest.
Astarion isn’t sure what to do with the symbol of Gale’s goddess, but the fact that Gale not only removed it but gave it to Astarion isn’t an empty gesture.
The dancing lights dim, flicker, and then wink out of existence. Gale’s sleeping. The earring is something to contemplate another day. Astarion reaches out for his pants and tucks the earring into the pocket, after all, both hands are for holding his wizard.
His wizard.
Get fucked, Mystra.