14 Works by positivejam
Listing Works
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“I am not eager to throw myself upon another altar for naught but scraps in return.” Gale steels himself with a deep breath. He speaks his peace to the wilds and the cosmos rather than his lover's face. “And yet. Marble skin, silver tongue... eyes like Moonsea rubies. Oh, you cast a fine altar, Astarion.”
With two discerning appetites, a deal to keep each other fed is the one thing that ties Astarion and Gale together. But the proverbial collar slips all too easily around Gale's throat, the lead feels right in Astarion's unchained hands, and both men think they've bested the other in a game neither should be playing.
In any case. As the greats say in lanceboard: there is no shame in losing to a stronger foe.
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igni ferroque by positivejam
Fandoms: Baldur's Gate (Video Games), Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
08 Dec 2024
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The sheep looks to his shepherd.
The shepherd's hands tremble in the dark.
Two eyes, dark and shiny as sea glass, bulge and blink as Gale brings the knife to the offering’s throat. The battle rages on and the babe bleeds upon Athena’s boots. Let it take, he prays, let her hear.
“My. What do we have here?" Gale hears a soldier’s voice in place of his Goddess. "Two little lambs left upon the altar?”
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Or: A Greco-Roman Bloodweave AU
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Every God needs a Chosen. One day the greatest painters of Faerun would capture Gale with his.
The Seduction of Dekarios. The maiden in the river, bathed in holy light across underdark waters. The God whispering promises in her ear. The forging of new love, in fires of the only mortal left on this plane with ambitions as great as his once were.
Minthara Baerne with blood still on her teeth as she kissed him and, one day, said yes.
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When their heartbeats settle and the city's smog gives way to sparkling tavern ales and joyous laughter, the Iron Throne's saviors seek revelries to forget the responsibilities that still weigh heavy on their shoulders.
Gale's palm lingers in Shadowheart's. There's a hesitancy there, wrapped up in promises of silk and kisses sweeter than any mead.
Upstairs in the Elfsong, Astarion’s fingers brush Jaheira’s as they share a hookah pipe and turn-of-the-century tales– waiting to tease the two eager knocks at their doors.
All four find their bliss bathed in smoke.
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Meg narrows her eyes at Hypnos. “Care to give me any more of your helpful advice?”
It’s bait. Maybe they both know it. But, godsdamn it all, he’s bait. Because while taunting Zag is all well and good Meg aches for someone to fear her. And Hypnos looks so damn sweet when those sleepy eyes go wide.
“Sure do! If– if you see the Prince drawing his sword–” He’s a little breathless, now, a little shrill and frightened. Her favourite part of the dance. “Consider getting out of the way?”
Or: Megaera has some frustrations to work out. Hypnos, as always, is eager to help.
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Kept, a rational voice in Gale's mind would remind him when they pressed gifts into his hands. You are a kept man in a devil's tower, nothing more.
But it’s Shadowheart that helps him dredge the Chionthar. It’s Minthara who pulls the crown from the deepwater muck. And it’s Astarion who places it upon his head.
Another gift. No. A reward.
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There will always be the dark of Shadowheart, lurking just beneath the waterfall of his wife’s soft white curls. Gale sees her in the firm hand of the wolf tamer at the edge of the forest and in the quiet whispers of is this too much when she sees him in pain.
But on occasion– when the animals are fed, the roses tended, and some kinder deities than the echoes of their pasts smiles upon them– there is an eclipse.
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Gale is used to catching the eyes of the otherworldly. It shimmers like oil over water in the corners of one’s vision. It’s only he’s accustomed to getting an answer back: soft, feminine and tucked gently behind his ear.
Whatever follows him now offers no such comforts. There are nights he feels eyes heavy on his back in the dark of his study, only to turn and find himself alone. And there are mornings, still, when shadows pass over the candle by his bed the moment he wakes– as if some presence had been watching him from his bedside.
Isolated in his tower, Gale is less alone than he thinks.
Series
- Part 2 of Netherese Duality
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To Gale, working with Gortash is a bitter pill he must swallow, but one he can chase with the sweetness of the Crown in his capable hands.
To Astarion, it’s pure hedonism and power. It’s a section of the city in the palm of a pair of new gauntlets. It’s blood from a populace who will never tell him no again, and it's Gale at his feet.
But the aloof housecat often thinks itself a ruler on high over the loyal pup, even when they both wear the master's collar and eat his of scraps.
Enver has come to enjoy their meals together.
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Phantasmal Psychology by positivejam for prince_of_fics
Fandoms: Baldur's Gate (Video Games)
14 Feb 2024
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Lord Astarion holds grand masquerades that are attended by the finest of the Gate. He samples the populace like wine; finding a taste for fat blooded noblemen and soft academics. And he kills with impunity, now– once slitting a beggar’s throat who had kicked up dust on his finest boots.
So why does sad little Professor Dekarios still elude him so?
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The courier’s vice was not in shiny red caps and chips. The woman who crawled out the grave– against all accounts, against nature– craved something just as aberrant as she was. Something that made her think men like him should kneel before her. Something that lingered in laser rifle ozone and bloody red sand.
The courier wanted the same thing as every milk-toothed warlord crushed under the Legion did.
Power.
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“Whatever happened here?” Astarion teases, coming face to face with Gale. He makes a show of looking him up and down, one slender finger against his own lips in faux concern.
Gale makes a growl of annoyance around his gag. He gives one pointed tug to his bound wrists and flicks his eyes upwards as if to say is it not obvious?
“Trapped? Oh, but that can’t be it. Astarion says, mouth dropping open as if he’s just noticed the binds. “I seem to recall you saying you had everything quite in hand.”
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“You're sure you’re ready for the role?” Nyssa teases. “Studied up? I can’t imagine there are too many books about infiltrating drow temples.”
Gale fiddles with his collar and leash, pinching it between his forefingers in a way that shouldn’t be distracting but is.
“Perhaps not specifically. You see, the problem about writing on drow society is one often does not make it up from the Underdark to hand pages to publisher. Of course there are many…less researched volumes. Of hapless men and leather-clad matrons. But I told Shadowheart I would be a gentleman, so that is all I will say on the more sordid parts of my education. You’ve nothing to fear.”
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“You carry me well,” his orb murmurs, finding its voice. What was once a strange echo of whispers has settled into something rich and baritone: something more befitting the dark, decadent marks upon Gale’s skin. “So curious. So clever. So…hungry.”
There is a throb in his gut at the word hungry. The pain of a man starved for days, stomach distended and left wanting. Gale drops both hands and rolls on his side with a groan. He feels the distinct sensation of nails scraping through his hair and it takes him a moment to realize they are his own. Petting. Soothing.
“So feed, Gale. Feed me. Feed…us.”
Series
- Part 1 of Netherese Duality