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Gale sits bow-legged on the desk of Balthazar’s private quarters in Moonrise Towers, with Astarion wedged between his thighs as he works the lock on the topmost drawer.
How in the Nine Hells had he found himself in this situation?
It pops open and he doesn’t dare look. Astarion’s reaction is enough to know that he’s already doomed.
“Aha! Surprising absolutely no one, that beastly necromancer was performing all sorts of experimentation up here. How exciting.”
This farce had begun when one of their companions had come up with the brilliant idea to celebrate their killing the unkillable Ketheric Thorm—one last romp before the road to Baldur’s Gate. And despite their exhaustion most everyone seemed to agree, perhaps still dripping with adrenaline the way that he was.
Several hours and a few scavenged bottles of Reithwin Red later, Gale was making a foolish bet with ‘one night of unequivocal deference’ on the line, more than confident in his ability to best their rogue at a game of Liar’s Dice.
He’d expected to be told to let Astarion rifle through his trunk, or to perhaps share his most embarrassing moments in front of an audience, not…
…Gods, was that a cage?
“I think now would be the time to mention—”
Astarion catches him by the jaw before he can finish. “Ah, ah. As much as I love when you show your soft little underbelly, do remember that this is meant to be a punishment.”
Heat blooms down Gale’s neck, and he tries not to notice that ruby eyes follow. “Right. Yes. Very good point.”
There’s a clattering of metal as Astarion skims his hand over the instruments, seemingly not willing to pull his attention away. Gale takes another swig from the wine and offers it without thinking. But it works somehow; Astarion’s eyes narrow, then refocus on the bottle’s lip, and it finally feels like Gale can breathe again.
For a moment, at least.
He soon realizes that now that their bottle of liquid courage is gone, there is nothing else to distract from the matter at hand. Astarion’s hand, to be specific, beginning to crawl up Gale’s thigh like a pale spider pursuing its prey. It catches on the hook peeking out from beneath his belt and makes quick work of it. The belt itself comes next, and it’s only when Astarion begins to unbutton his trousers that Gale snaps back to reality.
“Astarion!”
“What? Did you want to do it yourself?” He raises his hands innocently, though his fangs glint in the moonlight. “…Oh, Gale, if you’re offering to present yourself to me, I certainly won’t argue.”
And the bastard goes as far as to kick out the chair and sit back to watch.
Gale manages a lopsided smirk, head still sloshing with wine as he pushes his robe to the side. There are only two buttons to go, after all. It will be a rather short show.
Except once his pants are around his ankles, Astarion still just sits and waits.
“Go on.”
“Ah. You mean… the rest of it, then?”
“I suppose you can leave your rings on, if you’d like.”
Gale goes blank for a moment. He’d thought he lost a dare, not made a deal with a devil. “Just the rings?”
Astarion nods. “Can you manage that for me, darling?”
He’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or his audience that makes his face flush. But he’s more than sure that what Astarion has just given him is an order, despite the teasing quirk of his brow. Gale lets his fingertips dip below the waist of his smallclothes and glide along the edge, but then he must resort to awkward shimmying to slip them off without standing from the desk. He figures he can at least save himself some minor embarrassment if he doesn’t attempt to be… well, seductive.
This… isn’t a seduction, is it?
Gale begins to work on the fastenings along his chest, since they require a bit more dexterity than sliding off his underwear. Despite his state of undress, Astarion’s attention still hasn’t wavered from Gale’s face; he’d almost rather that he look at his soft cock than watch him struggle with these damned clasps.
Finally he manages, and he pushes his robe off with a huff.
He foolishly thinks that would have been enough, but the longer they both sit here staring at each other, the more uncomfortable he begins to feel. Astarion’s gaze is less curious and more calculating, and Gale can’t help but start to worry that he has put entirely too much trust in a man who he regularly sees maul wizards before they even manage a spell.
“Boots, too.”
Gale kicks them off and is finally left fully bare, save for his rings. He may as well be a chromatic butterfly specimen on display, fluttering hopelessly as he’s pinned by red eyes and left to squirm.
“Alright, what comes next? I hardly think you’ve had me disrobe for my own enjoyment.”
Astarion grins and sits forward in his seat, and Gale realizes that he has something silver held between his fingers.
He first thinks it is some sort of medical instrument—the studies of biology and necromancy tend to bleed into each other at a point, pun intended—but once he gets a closer look, it instead resembles…
Well. He’s never quite seen one in physical form, but the silver rod has a series of small bumps the full way down its length. And presumably Astarion intends to put it down his length.
A full body shiver wracks through him from spine to toes, and arousal stirs in the pit of his stomach. Gale is more than a little interested, though he’s not sure if revealing that interest will be to his benefit or not. He instead tries to keep his expression measured. Impassive. Very normal, and not at all buzzing in the brain.
“A valiant effort, but you seem to have forgotten that your little impartial observer act is very out of character.” Astarion lazily quips, “And if you already know what it is, then I must also assume that you already know what it does.”
His voice drips with sour honey, drawling heavily as he drags the metal pin against his tongue.
“So, Gale, be a dear and get yourself hard for me, won’t you?”
And gods, Gale’s hands move as if he’s been waiting for permission all this time.
There’s no attempt at modesty. He’s eager to oblige, and his strokes are plenty practiced—almost embarrassingly so. Gale takes himself in hand, his knuckle flexing gently until he finds the right pressure to be pleasurable.
He bites his lip and begins to rut into his palm. Soft, dragging pumps that build to desperation. He circles his thumb over his slit, swiping at the pooling dew and spreading it down his length. Astarion’s gaze is heavy on him, expectant, but Gale focuses wholly on the quickening swell of his cock.
It’s easy to fall into it, the buzzing of his head and the rhythm of his hand. There have been a fair few nights that Gale has indulged himself like this in recent weeks, where the thought of Astarion in the next tent over has crept into his touch. Where he would stifle his voice with the sleeve of his tunic as his fingers worked himself open, body too warm to match that of his imagined paramour.
If Astarion had heard him one of those nights, would they still be here? Or more worryingly, maybe he already had.
He pushes his sweat-slick hair from his eyes.
“How pretty.”
Hot shame burns up the column of Gale’s throat. He doesn’t think he’s ever been called that before, and he’s not sure how accurate it is. His shoulders are too broad to be pretty, and the scratch of his beard is anything but delicate. Yet he bucks his hips wantonly at the thought of Astarion calling him it again.
“Do you like that, pet?”
Gale nods, his words escaping him. He brings his heel up to try and improve his leverage, to widen his stance, only for Astarion to catch him by the ankle. He rubs circles into his skin and anchors Gale’s foot against the desk.
“Now, hands off.”
The sudden loss of friction is torturous. Gale hisses at the shock of cold air, and then again as Astarion presses the metal rod against his underside of his length, as if reminding him how deep it will go.
The ridges rub down, further still, only stopping once he feels the slight pressure of the tip against his bollocks. Gale fumbles backwards with a nervous laugh and a stack of books clatter to the floor.
“Ah, apologies!” He yelps, “It suddenly occurs to me how very… rigid metal can be.”
“That is one of its more notable qualities.” Astarion grins. He teases him with another gentle press, and slides his chair forward to sit between Gale’s thighs. “You had looked so excited that I thought that you were familiar, but perhaps you’re not as deviant as I’d hoped.”
He’d hoped?
“Of course I know of it, but I’ve only had—” There is a flash of recognition in Astarion’s eyes and Gale knows in an instant that he has plucked the thought straight from his mind. He can only hope that the memory wasn’t anything too… vivid. Gale clears his throat, a flush blooming across his cheeks. “And I much prefer to be considered interesting. I am plenty interesting.”
Astarion’s smirk sharpens to a point. “It won’t be quite the same, darling.”
He pops the rod back into his mouth, laving over the metal until it is covered with a generous slip of saliva. When he withdraws, a thin string still connects the tip to his tongue.
“The weave is pliant, adaptable. And this,” The rod presses into Gale’s slit just far enough to stop his heart for a moment. “is anything but. Now, stay still.”
There’s an agonizing moment of anticipation as Astarion looks up at him through heavy lashes, as if daring Gale to push him away. He doesn’t, and the reward for his obedience is further pressure, the rod slowly pushing deeper, halfway and then more, and Gale can feel his body fight against him. His toes curl, he holds his breath, he wants to look away but he can’t because dear gods the feeling is inexplicable, so he must try to commit every detail to memory.
Another press and Gale whines, pathetic. He’s got half a mind to tell Astarion to hurry up because he’s already on edge, and his nails scrape at the desk for some inkling of control.
Astarion clicks his tongue and continues. A cool hand holds Gale’s thigh as the rod sinks its final few ridges into the tip of his cock, then brushes his knuckles down the length as if admiring his work.
“Good boy.”
Gale keens with the praise, his head swimming in want. Astarion laughs at him.
“I thought you might like that.”
He’s breathless, “Am I really so obvious?”
“Oh absolutely.” There’s no hesitation in his answer, in fact Astarion dips even closer. His breath ghosts across Gale’s length and he swears that he can almost feel a fang. He hates how the thought makes his cock ache.
“Is this,” Gale catches his breath, “quite enough?”
Astarion hums, amused. “Darling, we haven’t even gotten started.”
It’s Gale’s turn to laugh, even though the slight shake of his body around the rod sends sparks across his skin.
The hand on his leg guides him wider; Astarion nips down his stomach, through the soft trail of hair from navel to the root of his cock, and he foolishly believes that he’ll be touched again. Gale tries to remember the last time he’d had a lover’s mouth on him—at least long enough to hesitate—only for Astarion’s attention to continue lower.
Astarion’s tongue is warm where his hands are not, almost smothering. He breaches Gale’s entrance and continues forward for what feels like too far, too much all at once. Gale groans as he is worked open with practiced ease, and he eagerly lets himself be devoured.
Just as quickly as it started, it’s gone. His hand moves to bury itself in Astarion’s hair and guide him back, but then there’s a flick of tongue and press of teeth along his upper thigh.
Fangs sink through flesh as if willingly, lovingly split, and Gale offers no further resistance once Astarion begins to feed. He can feel the flow of magic being pulled through his veins, simmering with something vile and powerful that threatens to drag him over the edge.
The loss of his sense, himself, the weave, is overwhelming, yet his instinct is still to urge Astarion on. He tries to arch into his mouth, but the grip on his thigh turns bruising.
“ Stay,” Astarion’s voice slithers and curls around his consciousness as thought instead of sound, and suddenly it’s so easy to obey. Gale lets himself be still, even as the warmth of blood drips down his thighs, even as his cock feels close to bursting.
He wants to touch himself but doesn’t dare, and so the miserable, maddening quaking in his legs continues.
“Astarion.”
There’s a hum against his skin, and the quirk of a brow. So he’s listening, at least.
“I don’t wish to dis—” Gale hisses, chuckles, “distract you, but I’m quite close.”
Astarion pulls back. Blood paints his mouth scarlet and his eyes are wild, blown out like an animal. It takes him a moment to focus on Gale’s face, and as Gale opens his mouth to repeat himself, the words finally seem to click.
“Are you? Well we can’t have that.”
One thumb moves to staunch the flow of blood while the other presses firm on the decorative flare at the head of the rod. Astarion matches the slow, crawling curl of his smirk with his fingers wrapping around Gale’s shaft. He lets the sound slip free as he strokes lightly, only to then push it back inside to the hilt.
Gale feels his senses falter, and he almost thinks he’s slipped into something Astral. But no, this is different from anything he’d ever experienced with Mystra.
This arousal is all-consuming, radiant heat pressed directly into his body with delicious, terrible precision. It’s real, physical, all of it; the scrape of Astarion’s nails and heat of his breath against Gale’s skin. His heart is racing and his muscles ache, he is drunk and alive and he absolutely loves it.
“Look at me, Gale.”
Gale meets his gaze expectantly, eagerly, and Astarion seems to search his face for something unsaid. He takes the thumb from Gale’s wound, still slick and scarlet with blood, and pushes between Gale’s lips.
He licks it clean, then lets his mouth hang open. See?
“Oh, that’s perfect.” Astarion rewards him with another long, slow press. “You’re doing so well, darling. My pretty, pathetic little pup.”
“Please—” it slips from him without thinking, but then he can’t stop, “Astarion, please. I’m so— ah, sorry, I can’t—” His balance falters, his body shakes, even though he tries so desperately to stay still. He’s so close that it’s painful, and each shock of agony just works to drive him farther into blissful madness.
Astarion pulls the tip of the rod, just a few small breaths of relief but enough to have him hoping. “Keep your eyes open and watch.”
Gale barely manages before he’s sent keening again. The drag is slow and deliberate, and just as the rod reaches the head of his cock Astarion pauses.
“You are not permitted to finish until I say so.”
Gods, this bastard means to kill him, doesn’t he? But he nods anyway, because he’ll agree to anything if it means more, more— whatever this is.
Astarion draws the sound out with a roll of his fingers, and Gale has to clench his thighs to keep his orgasm from overtaking him immediately. He curses beneath his breath, but manages somehow.
He feels empty, and after a few shameful moments he almost asks for it back. The only thing that stops him is Astarion’s hungry stare roaming up his body; Gale swallows when it lingers on his throat, only for a sudden, slick touch over his cock to split his anticipation.
“Careful, wizard. I might have a taste for you now.”
Astarion dips close, and at first Gale thinks he’s angling for a kiss. He isn’t; of course not, he’s only staking another claim over his body. There’s the pinch of a fang as Astarion bites his earlobe, but it’s only a kitten-tease of aggression, a way to remind Gale of his mistress’s ever looming presence before ruining him again.
He shivers, arousal pooling heavy in his stomach at the thought. “Well, you know I’m always willing to sate an appetite.”
The axis of the world turns when Astarion pins him back to the desk with a snarl. “At least what you lack in self-preservation, you make up for in enthusiasm. Now will you please shut up.”
Gale yelps as two fingers are shoved inside his mouth, but shock quickly melts to simple instinct against his tongue. He lavishes attention around, over, between the digits, and Astarion grinds his hip against Gale’s cock.
The return of contact quickly has him reeling again, even more so with the added friction of the fabric. His attempt to arch is cut short by Astarion’s other hand catching him by the waist with clear intent; however, he’s not held down.
Instead, his palm slides debaucherously down Gale’s back and lifts, leaving him helpless to do anything but moan as his early spend is smeared between his legs, cold finger prodding at his entrance.
“I really was not planning on this.” Astarion works him open easily, though perhaps it's more accurate to say that Gale is exceedingly pliant in his hands. He repays every curl of Astarion’s fingers with more wanton suckling against the ones still hooked in his mouth. “But there is quite a charm to a proud man begging me for… well, anything.” His voice drops low, liquor-smooth and just as intoxicating. “So go on and tell me what you want, Gale of Waterdeep.”
Astarion knows what he’s doing, using his name like that—but it works, of course.
Because Gale is proud. He’s proud and vain and drooling, desperate to be good. Astarion pulls his fingers away—both sets, the villain!— and Gale’s tongue is left lonely and babbling for him. “I want you to— ah, gods,” He quickly loses focus when he feels Astarion’s clothed cock press against his thigh, “want you to touch me again.”
“Is that all?”
“No! No, not all, touch me and you are welcome to seek your own pleasure in my body, if you’re ah- amenable.” Gale tries to force a smirk, though he’s sure that his lust-addled mind can only manage a lopsided smile. “Though if you do, I—I would also need— want to have the rod again, I must admit that I wouldn’t last very long without it.”
He hears Astarion chuckle beneath his breath. Hopefully a good sign.
“And how will we keep you quiet?”
“I trust you’ll get creative.”
Astarion straightens up above him, gaze heavy-lidded and glossy, “It seems that I am feeling exceedingly generous this evening.” His thumb falls to Gale’s bottom lip and guides his mouth open, as if considering. “Don’t get too used to it, darling.”
A good reminder, he thinks, as Astarion’s other hand pulls at the ties of his trousers and slides himself free. Gale tries not to stare, but of course he’s curious. Not in a comparative way, though. Merely because of what he’s offered. Surely.
His body looks otherworldly—starkly pale when pressed against his own skin and exacerbated by the slitted moon-lighting. Astarion’s cock is already hard, and his length is flush against his glutted stomach as he leans close to wet the sound with Gale’s tongue. He even bothers to wipe the drool from him before thrusting his fingers back inside.
The movement is matched by the slight stretch of the rod as it enters him again, and Gale groans. He can feel every ridge, every slow, persistent press. Static crawls up his spine, and his back arches.
“Breathe.”
He hadn’t even realized. Gale manages a breath, and in the next moment the sound is buried fully in his cock.
“Good boy.”
Gale feels heat flare down the column of his throat and bucks his hips, only for Astarion to waste no time in pinning them back to the desk.
If provocation had been his intent, it had worked. Astarion’s cock brushes against the underside of his own, and he brazenly gropes over Gale’s chest, his sides, his thighs, fingertips digging hard enough to bruise, intentionally so. It’s a tempting idea to have a reminder of their tryst, a mottled field of blue and purple blooms to match the threads along his neck, though he’s sure that suggesting it will only end in teasing.
Astarion finally sinks himself into the warmth of Gale’s body. The few moments it takes for him to adjust are his only reprieve, as each press deeper is already too much, his arousal caught between the fullness of his own cock and the spreading sensation of Astarion inside of him.
The moment Astarion finds his pace, his attention returns to painting Gale’s chest in rosy heat. He’s in no position to complain. Fangs scrape lightly across his collarbone and then drift higher still, tracing the line of his jaw until he can feel what must be Astarion’s lips behind his ear. It’s so light—and nearly affectionate—that Gale can’t quite tell what he’s trying to resist: kissing or smelling him. Both outcomes make him blush just the same.
“Astarion—” His voice is reverent, however unintentionally, but Astarion silences his worship with a swift press of his thumb. Gale feels his mind begin to overflow; there’s no room for anything but searing want, and his last rational act is to reach out, gasping his shattering thoughts through the tadpole.
“Good, so good, I’m close, please, Astarion.”
Astarion’s hand wraps around Gale’s cock and he’s not sure if it’s mercy or a new torture, and as one hand draws the sound from him the other follows with a firm, teasing stroke.
And then stops.
His orgasm is desperately close as Astarion traces along the ridge of his cockhead, then brushes his fingertip over his slit.
Gale swallows, waits. Then finally lets his eyes drop to meet Astarion’s.
“Well done. You can finish.”
It is sweeter than any summer fruit or honeyed word. Gale spills in ribbons across his stomach, cum dripping down Astarion’s knuckles as he strokes him through the aftershocks.
He sighs as the tide of his arousal finally begins to ebb and sensitivity prickles over his skin, but Astarion doesn’t seem to notice. His touch is electric against him, and he almost recoils as Astarion’s hand makes another languid pass down Gale’s shaft. He must feel him shudder, though if he does, it doesn’t make him actually stop.
“You—”
His breath is stolen by a sudden thrust, and he looks back to Astarion only to find him thoroughly bewitched by the mess smeared between them. He brings a finger to his mouth and takes a curious taste.
“Better than your blood, at least.”
A spark of indignity flares in Gale’s chest. He once again opens his mouth to respond only for Astarion to bury himself back into his body. It leaves him thoughtless for another moment, too consumed with the way they fit together to manage anything other than a stuttered “o-oh!”
Astarion hums, either pleased or plotting as his lip curls into a saccharine smile. “Gale, darling…”
Plotting, definitely. Though Gale is hardly in a position to rebuke him. Astarion withdraws, but only to spread the slick from his hand down his own cock. In the next moment he’s returned to him, and the hand that guides them back together trails from Gale’s hole along the heft of his inner thigh. He pulls him back to the edge of the desk, then holds the wizard’s knee in place around his waist.
Gale can already tell that this change in position will be his undoing, but part of him welcomes it either way. It’s not as if he needs the tadpole to understand that Astarion is still wanting, and Gale is nothing if not a generous lover. Though for all his bravado, Gale’s legs buckle as Astarion’s rhythm builds to a crescendo, hissing through the sudden tightness and sinking his nails into the wizard’s hips for leverage.
“Gods!”
Hands quickly catch him by the hair.
“Try again.”
“Astarion,” Gale keens back, “Astarion, please slow down for ah— a moment. I can’t—”
“Don’t be so humble, Gale. I’m quite sure you can.” Astarion winds his fingers further into graying locks, pulling taut until Gale’s throat is bared. “You have been so good for me, my dear.” His smile is adoringly cruel, fangs bared and lips spit-softened, and both are soon pressed upon Gale’s pulse. “Don’t tell me you don’t want your reward.”
The desk shakes with him. He does.
Gale holds Astarion close with the hook of his knee. He wants it, he wants him, surely the desperate beating of his heart is enough of an answer.
He can feel his laughter before he hears it, though it is quickly buried by a swipe of tongue and teeth, climbing the column of his neck with every thrust until he’s licked the tear tracks from Gale’s cheeks.
Astarion is close enough to kiss, and Gale is finally too fucked senseless to resist his more romantic nature.
He catches the other man by the jaw with both hands, a marvel of cold marble sculpted soft, and holds him still, arching his own back to match their mouths together.
Gale expects to be pushed away immediately, but he isn’t. That in itself spurs him on further, and his tongue swipes greedily at the ridge of Astarion’s lip, a silent plea for permission that is thankfully granted with little resistance. He deepens their kiss with a moan as Astarion’s hands continue working his oversensitive cock, somehow already hard and dripping-slick again.
Astarion adjusts to kiss him harder. An efficient way to silence any protest.
Gale’s shoulders hit the wood again as one leg is thrown over Astarion’s shoulder.
He is close, he must be. His pace is relentless even though his strokes are unsteady, and he chases his breathless end with more and more insistent pressure. He seeks to overwhelm Gale fully, wholly—to pluck the thought of Mystra from his chest even if it means digging it out with his own hands.
Astarion buries himself into Gale’s body with reckless want and Gale returns every kiss in kind, at least until his tongue is split by sharpened fang. The thin cut stings awfully, raw and metallic, and Astarion finally shudders his release deep inside him.
Gale’s cock aches with every touch, and the warmth that blooms up his spine tips him into orgasm again, his own a mere pittance of seed that is quickly swiped up his sternum and spread as Astarion’s palm splays over the orb possessively.
“What a pretty picture this makes.” His voice is rough but full of feeling, though which one exactly is difficult to tell. “You’ll forgive me if I take a moment to commit it to memory.”
Gale huffs out a small laugh, his blush already crawling up his ears. “Already forgiven.”
Astarion’s mouth quirks into a small grin. The room echoes with their laboured breath, but neither makes a move to break the silence. They just stare at each other, expressions shifting further towards unreadable with every passing moment.
Gale doesn’t even notice that he’s bitten his lip to bleeding until Astarion’s focus drops, and he darts his tongue out to clean the wound before his vampire friend gets the wrong idea.
“It’s not that bad.” And then, “My blood, I mean. Perhaps you are just pickier than you realize.”
Astarion’s laugh is bright and sharp, and Gale feels static sparking in the air around them. It’s not his usual laugh, he realizes, and a fresh pang of affection throbs in his chest.
A dangerous thought, but a foolishly human one.
However just as quickly as he’s had it Astarion has begun to move apart. Gale shivers, the loss of him just as shocking as the chill of night against his sticky skin. So he does what he does best in situations of questionable outcome, and begins talking.
“…Should I consider my obligation fulfilled, then?”
Astarion waves him off with a noncommittal sound, sweeping the remaining contents of the instrument drawer into his pouch. He won’t look at him. Gale starts again.
“You’ve got a rather interesting idea of punishment, Astarion. I’m not sure whether to think I’ve gotten off too easy or quite hard, if you catch my meaning.” He laughs at his own joke, which at least is enough to earn him a scoff beneath Astarion’s breath.
“I’m sure there will be other occasions where you’ll be in need of discipline, darling. Though just how quickly will all depend on you.”
“Will it?” Gale hums in faux-deliberation. After a moment, he shifts up to his elbows and reaches for the hem of Astarion’s shirt, calling his attention to the streak of wet already seeping the fabric.
“Well.” Astarion considers the small stain, then smirks. The shirt is discarded in the next moment. “What was that you said, darling? Too easy?”
Surely their disappearance has already been noticed by now, he thinks. What difference would another round make?