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It had been a long time since Gale felt that he was desirable.
In truth, it had felt like a long time since anyone noticed him at all, desire notwithstanding. A life of study and a brief stint with isolation was enough to render anyone invisible—and after so many missed social engagements, so many rejected invitations, Gale Dekarios may as well have been solid air.
But burning in the roaring campfire, Astarion’s hungry eyes seemed to devour him whole. He looked at him like a man starved.
It seemed almost unreal. Astarion could easily command the attention of an entire room if he so wished, with naught but a single flutter of his snowy lashes, a coy flash of his narrow waist.
Astarion almost certainly knew that he could have anyone he wanted.
Yet here he was, his lithe form now pressing him into his bedroll, rutting against his midsection, still slightly distended from dinner. His deft and dexterous fingers fumbled with the first silver clasp of his robe, exposing his soft, supple, unshaven chest to the sultry summer air in his tent. His pupils were blown wide, and his ears were flushing bright pink, all while his luscious lips pressed an enthusiastic succession of audible kisses around the glowing orb in his chest.
“Gods, you’re beautiful,” Astarion whispered, suckling on the stiff peaks of his tit, swirling slow, tormenting circles around his puffy, sensitive nipple. Reduced to a lethargic, whimpering mess at the overwhelming sensation of warmth pulsing within him, all Gale could do in response to the stimulation was moan. He whined and keened in desperation, squirming as he was overcome with ecstasy.
Astarion unlatched his lips from Gale’s tit, following the thick trail of hair between the mounds of his breasts, feather-like as they dragged down the soft curve of his stomach.
The lower his lips went, the more he instinctively sucked in his gut. His shallow breath hitched in his throat, and before he could push it back down, an embarrassing memory he’d willfully drowned deep within him surfaced for a gulp of air.
The first time he ever disrobed in Mystra’s presence, she laughed at him.
“What exactly am I meant to do with all this?” she’d teased, grabbing at the lower fold of his paunch, her eyes lingering dourly on his waistline before gravitating below, beholding the rest of his seemingly numerous faults.
He remembered how the magic in the air shifted in wild paroxysms as he tried to shrink himself, shield himself from her cold, celestial gaze, red-faced, breathing heavily, and dying of shame.
It felt like the weave was laughing at him too.
Gale swallowed the memory down as if it were bile in his throat. His body became rigid, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he felt Astarion’s tongue slip into his belly button.
Pale hands ceased their attentive kneading, and he looked up with a start.
“You’re tense all of a sudden. Is everything alright?” Astarion asked in a low, seraphic coo, his tongue flicking over his moist lips. He inched his way up the bedroll to press a single kiss upon Gale’s sweat-laden brow. He cradled his face in his icy grip, his fingers delicately pressing into the pliant flesh of his chin. The languid expression on his handsome face had been traded for worry. “What’s wrong? Is it the orb? Is this too much?”
Gale shook his head feverishly, his cheeks flushed. Half of him was eager to please. The other half selfishly didn’t want to stop him from touching his body so lovingly. “N-no,” he wheezed, “don’t stop. Please. I’m alright.”
Crinkled vermilion eyes darted to meet his lurid gaze. “As you wish, darling.”
Gale couldn’t help but notice the small, subtle ways his expressions differed from hers.
They were both always winsome, forever gorgeous, uncompromisingly perfect.
There was never a hair out of place on Mystra’s head. Her eyes were twin celestial pools, drawing him in with their otherworldly glow—but at times, he noticed her smile often seemed distant. Detached.
Sometimes, its serenity betrayed a twinge of disgust.
In contrast, an earnest tenderness bloomed in the corners of Astarion’s lips that made the light in his sanguine eyes shimmer like a sea of stars that would put even his own illusions to shame. He wanted nothing more than to tell him right then and there how much his smile meant, how dear his crow’s feet were to him—the ones he made a calculated effort to diminish—but Astarion’s concentration returned to kissing every inch of his skin, leaving his mind to wander freely once more.
He struggled to quell his now-complicated lusts long enough to remember the spell that had become a routine expectation every time he made love to Mystra: Alter Self.
The sensation of the spell enfolding his flawed body was difficult to forget. He was slimmed and shaped by the cool press of Mystra’s deft hands, molded like clay on a potter’s wheel until he resembled the shape she preferred. Chubby, pillow-like arms were made taut and sinewy. His pudgy belly shrank into an abdomen so chiseled, it would strike jealousy in the most masterful stonemason. Pulling from the ether, he forged himself a sizable cock—one that wouldn’t disappoint her.
“My, my! There it is,” she’d cooed when she first saw the real thing. Girlish and cruel, the tormenting, pealing sound of her mirthful giggles rang loud in his ears, and like droplets of poison, they tainted the overfilled chalice of his arousal with sudden panic. “Oh... I thought you were still soft.”
It didn’t matter how he felt—a goddess was giving him the time of day, and he would prove himself to her at any cost.
Mystra gave him form.
Mystra made him functional.
And now, he had lost everything she had ever given him—form, function, and her favor.
Gale wasn't sure why he hadn’t simply cast the spell before Astarion entered his tent.
Perhaps a foolish part of him had been hopeful he wouldn’t need it this time—a gross miscalculation on his part. Panic swelled in his chest as he felt Astarion’s hot breath on his aching cock. Filled to the brim with the blistering heat of arousal, it strained against the stretched fabric of his damp trousers.
The ethereal threads of the weave swirled tantalizingly at the tips of his fingers, entreating to be cast, rippling in hot waves. It was wishful thinking, but if he manipulated them fast enough, perhaps Astarion wouldn’t notice his body transforming.
But just as quickly as his lips parted to speak, his tongue fell mute. Familiar arcane words were locked behind his teeth like he’d never spoken them. The choreography of his hands was a chaotic mess in his mind. His muscle memory failed him, atrophied from disuse.
An esteemed archmage—the youngest of his ilk, to boot—should not have labored half as much as he was. Even a neophyte could cast Alter Self if they applied themselves—he himself mastered the art of transmutation early in his studies, at the tender age of eight.
Hells, with how often his goddess had made him cast it, it should have been second nature—even now, that he was this.
Now, it was far too late.
“You’re already dripping, darling,” Astarion murmured in a low, lusty tone. He slowly rubbed the damp spot between his legs, eliciting a small moan. “Poor thing. I haven’t so much as even touched you yet! Let’s change that, shall we?”
Love poured from his eyes as he looked up at him.
He felt himself clench. This had to be a joke—a cruel one.
As Astarion expertly undid the laces of his pants with his teeth, Gale abandoned his earlier hopes and braced himself for the elf’s familiar tittering giggle to follow suit.
But it never did.
Instead, he carried on, dipping his tongue into the slit of his tip, eliciting a soft gasp with each stroke. He licked a dew-like bead of pre-cum before it dripped down the base of his shaft. He ran his hands up and down the length of his thick, hairy legs with reverence, inching towards the plush layer of fat burying his tiny cock, pawing at the soft flesh of his thighs—but without warning, he paused.
Astarion gazed up at Gale with red-rimmed eyes.
“Is everything alright, love?” Gale asked, immediately anxious.
“Gale, I—what if—what if I’m not what you want after all? What if I disappoint you?”
Gale’s eyes widened incredulously. “What are you on about? How could you ever disappoint me? Look at you! And look at me! If anything, I’m the one who should be worrying about disappointing you! Gods, I’m surprised I haven’t already, now that my little secret’s out.” He felt his face grow hot, fighting back his inclination to cover himself with his sheets.
Astarion laughed half-heartedly. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re the one who can’t see their reflection. You know you’re gorgeous, right? That wasn’t all just talk.”
“Now you’re being cruel,” he snorted sardonically. “You look like you’ve been sculpted out of marble.”
“Cruel? I—do you honestly think anything I’ve said or done tonight is cruel? Believe me, I know cruelty. I can be cruel, I know what it’s like to be treated like—” Astarion trailed off mid-sentence. His face hardened, and his eyes grew misty, and for a moment, he seemed to be miles away from their little tent in the wilderness.
“Gale,” he finally muttered, his voice tight and thin as he wrapped his arms tightly around himself, reaching for the textured, waxy ends of the scar tissue on his back. “Do you...do you think I’m vapid?”
Aside from Astarion’s weeping, the only sound between them was the polyphonic chirping of crickets in the reeds by the Chionthar. The air seemed colder as the choked embers of the campfire signaled its death.
At that moment, Gale understood Astarion more than he hoped he could through his usual anthropological means of study.
He was not alone—not the only one who was made to feel inferior.
Breathlessly, without thinking, he leaned forward to kiss him. Their lips brushed together for a moment before pulling away, barely touching, breathing their hot breath into each other’s mouths as their heads pressed together. Gale ran his fingers through Astarion’s damp, white curls, and Astarion’s hands dug into the softest part of his waist, tracing the pale, lightning-shaped stretch marks that streaked across his stomach like shooting stars.
“Don’t be silly,” Gale whispered, nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder, pressing a kiss into his collarbone as he blinked away tears. “I think you’re perfect.”