Chapter Text
Adorned with shades of red and gold, Raphael’s slice of hell possesses the same dramatic flare as he does. It’s tasteful, in a grand sort of manner, but the poor souls trapped in the House of Hope rather detract from any kind of aesthetic enjoyment. With each step, Gale’s hope that they might retrieve the hammer and return to the mortal plane unscathed dwindles. If he were still a devout follower of Mystra, he’d pray that Raphael doesn’t catch them red-handed, or some other nefarious foe doesn’t lurk behind the next corner. His heart hammers behind his ribs as they scour room after room, and he finds a small measure of satisfaction in the fact that Astarion appears to be robbing the devil blind, filling his pockets with jewels and soul coins.
Good. Petty revenge is still revenge.
He didn’t want Astarion to come here at all, not with Raphael’s previous insults etched forever in his mind. But had he tried to stop him, Gale’s misplaced need to protect would have been just that—misplaced. Astarion faced Cazador and survived. He could face anyone now. Watching his clever fingers pick infernal locks while a smile tugs at his lips only confirms that Gale was right not to protest.
His brows still wrinkles when he sees Astarion freeze in the face of Haarlep. Tav actually considers Haarlep’s proposition—at this point, it seems fair to say that Tav might be somewhat challenged when it comes to quick decision making. (Or declining sex? Gale never actually learnt who would have won that bet he’d made with Shadowheart back at the Grymforge.)
But what matters is that Astarion doesn’t shut down. That they dispatch the incubus, retrieve the hammer and rescue Hope, all without suffering much worse than a scratch. That they make it back to the portal.
Almost.
In a flash of red light, Raphael steps out of thin air.
“You.” The word is almost a growl. His face is twisted in a grimace of displeasure the likes of which Gale has not seen on it before. He snaps his fingers; Korilla and Yurgir materialise beside him, like some kind of bodyguards. Which they probably are.
“There are many things in your world that I loathe,” Raphael grinds out. “Litters of kittens, chattering children—the noise and the chaos of it all. In my world—in my house—there is order and there is decorum. You came here uninvited, and you stole from me. In doing so, you brought the chaos of your world into mine. I will not abide it.”
A laugh bursts from Gale’s throat unbidden. “Oh, I didn’t realise unsolicited entry troubled you. I would have assumed you condone such practice, seeing as you demonstrated it yourself. No?”
Raphael’s eyes flick his way; Gale holds his stare. Then the cambion’s gaze slides to Astarion.
Gale resists the urge to follow it with his eyes.
Astarion faced Cazador.
Astarion will be fine.
Nonetheless, Gale can’t pretend not to feel a sliver of relief when the impossible, intimidating tension in Raphael’s shoulders abates.
“Oh? The little mouse has grown a spine,” he says, voice dropping to a purr. “No longer hiding?” He looks back to Gale, then Astarion again. Gale again. “Hmm, you do have a different air about you now. No matter. In coming here unbidden, you have committed an error. I upheld my end of the bargain before, did I not? You would have been heroes, if you’d only dealt with me fairly. Instead, you’re not so different to doomed Karsus.”
Once, Gale would have faltered in the face of such an accusation. He would have. Or perhaps, in his hubris, he would have taken it as a compliment to be compared to the great ambition of the past, and yet imagined himself infallible where Karsus had faltered.
He would have fallen into the same trap, would he have not?
Now?
Now, he shakes his head. “I am nothing like Karsus.”
Raphael sighs as though this is all terribly boring to him. Perhaps it is. How old is the devil? How many downfalls of humanity has he witnessed?
“No?” He gestures at Tav with a curl of his arm, one smooth motion that starts at the elbow and somehow conveys more disregard for his company than his words. “Do not presume to tell me none of you harbour great ambitions? You are always but a choice away from over-reaching your limits and burning the world to ashes.”
Gale clenches his fists. “Then I will continue choosing the opposite.”
A grin spreads over the cambion’s face, all brilliantly white teeth. “I do like this new version of you. More’s the pity.” He turns to Yurgir. “Commander, you can salvage a trophy from these insects when I’m done with them.”
At Gale’s side, Astarion mutters, “Funny way of showing affection, that.”
Yurgir grunts. “These insects struck me down beneath the Shadowlands. They’re worthy opponents. Their skulls will make fine trophies.”
Tav strides closer to the orthon, his hands twitching up towards the Orhpic hammer slung across his back. “I’ll give you a chance. Join the winning side. Raphael doesn’t stand a chance against us.”
Yurgir cocks his head to the side. For a moment, he seems lost in deliberation before he strides over to stand at Tav’s back. Hope giggles.
“See? They will save the world and smash you to smithereens.”
Raphael sighs again, loud enough to appear theatric. “It’s this charming naivety that makes your company such a joy to me. Hope, I’ll even forgive this little rebellion once you’re suitably chastised.”
“This isn’t a rebellion. It’s a revolt. I’m revolting!”
“Say what you will. It will only take a moment to finish you. Any final words? No matter. You will scream before the end, little mouse. Now … down comes the claw.”
~~*o*O*o*~~
The fight does not, in fact, take but a moment. and Raphael has more allies at his beck and call than just Yurgir and Korilla. What he does not possess is the inextinguishable urge to survive. He fights like the seemingly immortal devil that he perceives himself to be, while Gale’s group has reason to fight tooth and nail. Tav wields the hammer they need to save the world. Karlach can’t stand to spend a minute more than necessary in Avernus. Astarion is a blur of daggers and fangs and anger still, even though he doesn’t fight with quite the same murderous rage that made an appearance against Cazador. Then again, his grievances against Raphael must appear rather small in comparison to all that Cazador had put him through.
And Gale? Gale fights to protect. He fights to protect something worth keeping. All of them, yes, and the world besides. But mostly Astarion.
(Always Astarion.)
And when they finally drag themselves through the portal, covered in blood and viscera and gods know what other fluids, exhausted but alive, a strange lightness fills his lungs.
Alive.
He feels so alive, and he wishes to stay alive, too, to breathe in the fresh air every day.
It feels so good he wants to laugh and cry all at once.
He settles for kissing Astarion there and then, cambion blood on his face be damned.
~~*o*O*o*~~
Adrenaline from the fight still coursing through his veins, he pins Astarion against the door of their room as soon as they close it behind them.
(Close it. Lock it. Nobody will ever interrupt them again.)
He kisses not with hunger but with the feeling of light overflowing. He doesn’t take anything from Astarion’s lips—doesn’t lack anything, so what would he take? Rather, he feels so full that all he wants is to give.
Alive.
They are both alive.
They killed Cazador, and they killed a literal devil, and they’re still standing. Well. Leaning heavily against the door, but what are logistics in the face of the sheet overwhelming force of … love? Life? Is that what this is? Is that what he’s trying to share?
It might be, he thinks as he spells them both clean with a wave of his hand. It might be. But whatever it is, perhaps the definition matters far less than his desire, his need to hold on to this feeling tight. Tuck it away in the spaces between his ribs and carry it with him for the rest of his existence, in this life or the next.
He takes Astarion right where they stand, against the door, and comes with Astarion’s heels digging into the small of his back, with tight muscles clenching around him as the elf spills on him too.
~~*o*O*o*~~
The moon hangs bright above them as they curl up against each other on the roof. Astarion’s wearing one of Gale’s shirts. He murmured something about the size and the comfort of it when he put it on earlier, but Gale doesn’t care much for the reason.
“I like this on you.” He splays his fingers against Astarion’s chest, and Astarion lets out a soft hum.
“Of course you do, darling. I’m sure I make it look better than you.”
“That’s not the only reason why.”
Astarion’s eyes turn from the sky to Gale. “I know.”
“You do?”
“The collar gave it away long ago.”
Oh.
Heat rises to Gale’s cheeks. “I’m sorry about that. I really am. Knowing what I know now … Well. I really am sorry.”
One corner of Astarion’s lips twitches upwards. “Let’s just say we both made questionable choices and leave it at that. It’s all right now.”
“Is it?” Gale finds himself breathing more easily, but shame still curls in his belly like a starving beast. “And if … If I said it looked good on you? Not that I would ever—that is to say, I was wrong for making you wear it, and I shan’t pretend otherwise, but I cannot deny that I find the thought of you wearing a collar appealing. But I would never—”
Astarion kisses him, short and light, one hand on his cheek. “I know you wouldn’t force me. We could try someday. If it’s with you, I think it might even be … nice.”
“Really?”
“Someday.” A pause. “If there is a someday.”
“Of course there is!” Astarion can’t possibly believe that they’ll die now? “We’ve survived this far, we won’t die to the elder brain. We won’t.” Gale covers Astarion’s hand with his own and squeezes it.
Astarion averts his gaze. “That’s not …”
“Love? What’s troubling you?”
Astarion squirms free and sits up. He pulls his knees to his chest and looks somewhere in the distance. Gale follows suit, a twinge of fear in his chest.
“After the brain … When we’ll have got rid of the tadpoles in our brains and there won’t be a reason to stick close to the artefact anymore, will there still be an us?” His voice grows quieter. “I’d like there to be an us. I’d like us to be something real.”
Wings flutter and thump against Gale's heart, which is probably impossible, but for all he knows, he could have an entire swarm of butterflies in his stomach too.
“Look at me, Star,” he says, his palm coming to rest on Astation’s cheek, and Astarion does. “Of course there will be an us. I would like nothing more than to spend the future with you. I love you.”
Astarion opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His eyes glisten in moonlight, and he looks so distant, a mesmerising otherworldly creature. And yet he is Gale’s, Gale’s, and for a moment, Gale is struck by the desire to marry this man and proclaim his love for all the world to see.
(Let the world know how their cracks fit together.)
“I’ll have to go back to the darkness,” Astarion says at last, “when the tadpoles are gone. I’ll never be able to live the life that you’re used to.”
“The life I was used to was terribly lonely. I’d rather share it with you, whether we settle in my tower in Waterdeep or chase the sun together. There are ways, you know, and these past months have taught me that I don’t mind a life on the road all that much.”
Astarion stares at him, eyes wide and so very open that Gale almost believes he could see straight to the darkest corners of his mind if he tried. “You’re serious.”
Gale nods.
“You would do that. For me?”
“Astarion.” Gale shifts onto his knees and takes Astarion’s hands into his. “I would do anything for you.”
“You … I don’t know … I’m not particularly good at this, darling.” The faintest smile dances on Astarion’s lips. “Never had a relationship. But I want to learn how to do this”—he gestures between them—”properly.”
“We’ve come a long way, don’t you think? I’m sure we can walk the remainder of this road hand in hand.”
Astarion nods. Leans in and rests his forehead against Gale’s. “Thank you.” His breath washes over his skin like a soft caress. “Thank you for everything, Gale of Waterdeep.”
“Dekarios,” Gale says before he can think about it.
“Hmm?”
“I might as well drop the whole ‘Gale of Waterdeep’ business. A bit pompous, don’t you think? You’re now in the company of plain old Gale Dekarios—a most brilliant wizard of intentionally limited renown. At your service.”
“Gale Dekarios,” Astarion repeats slowly, as though he’s sampling how the words roll off his tongue. And Gale—Gale could listen to the sound of his own name on Astarion’s lips until the world burnt to cinders. “It suits you.”
He feels blood rush to his face, the telltale heat of a blush. “I would be honoured to introduce you to the rest of the Dekarios clan.”
Astarion pulls away, eyes narrowed a tad. Gale’s face heats up further under the scrutiny.
“You really mean that, don’t you?” Those lovely red eyes begin to widen. “All of that? You want to share your life with me. You want to be seen with me. You want me—”
“Yes. Astarion, yes. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. You are, simply put, astounding. Your resilience, your strength, your courage—you inspire me to be a better version of myself. I’d be so proud to call you mine, and—”
He’s yanked into a kiss. His lower lips hits one of Astarion’s fangs, and he groans, draws the sound out as Astarion sucks the broken lip into his mouth. Gale buries his hands into the elf’s hair, deepens the kiss, pulls him closer, closer—
Common sense wins over and he pulls back enough to pant against Astarion’s lips. “We shouldn’t—not on the roof—”
“You’re the—how did you put it—a brilliant wizard of intentionally limited renown?” Astarion’s fingers dig into Gale’s shoulder, and he licks at the broken lip again. “Magic us elsewhere then.”
“So eager for round two? Hold on.”
A Dimension Door later, they roll onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and lips, breathing each other’s air. Gale tries to kick his boots off and fails, but the attempt startles a laugh out of Astarion, so it’s all right, it’s all worth it. His breath catches in his throat when Astarion slips from the bed and sinks onto his knees without so much as a prompt. He pulls Gale with him, up into a seated position, forward until Gale’s legs frame him on the floor. His clever fingers undo the laces of Gale’s boots, moving more slowly now, as though the task requires reverence and not just mindless tugging to allow for the removal of the offending footwear. Gale finds himself holding his breath. The care behind it, the—dare he say it—near worship, unravels something in him that he cannot describe, so he tips Astarion’s chin up to kiss him again.
He is … happy.
Astarion slips the boots off, then unlaces Gale’s trousers with the same slow, steady touch. The sight of him on his knees, willingly on his knees, sends Gale’s blood rushing down. He cups Astarion’s cheek and slips his thumb into his mouth; Astarion parts his lips to accommodate for the intrusion.
“You’re so beautiful. So good for me.” He presses down on Astarion’s tongue and pulls a soft moan from his throat. “Would you like me to fuck that pretty mouth of yours?”
A nod.
“Good boy.” Gale shifts one leg and forces Astarion’s knees apart with it; the elf’s cock is straining against the fabric already, and he seems completely pliant under Gale’s touch. Good. “Keep those there and open your mouth for me.”
He needn’t have said it. As soon as he pulls his thumb out and nudges Astarion’s lips with the tip of his cock, Astarion parts his lips further and swallows him down so deep that Gale can’t help but groan.
Fuck.
Astarion licks a spot under the head, and Gale moans again, grips those silvery curls, and pushes deeper still.
Astarion’s eyes widen, dark and unfocused.
“You with me, love?”
The nod he gets is the barest movement of his head.
“Good boy.” He traces Astarion’s cheekbone with his thumb; Astarion’s eyes shut, and Gale’s stomach flips in a rather odd manner at the overt display of trust. Slowly, he begins to move. Keeping his own eyes open becomes a struggle, but watching Astarion makes the effort worth it. The elf moans softly around the cock in his mouth and rocks his hips against Gale’s leg in what might be unintentional little thrusts. It feels—better than in the past. Astarion seems to be putting far less effort into it, and yet, it is better.
Not a performance. Not an attempt to impress. Something real.
“So good,” Gale manages between two rather loud exhales. “You’re so good for me.”
That coaxes a louder moan from Astarion and sends a shiver of pleasure through Gale in turn. Astarion does something with his tongue—or tries to do something, and it might be sloppy and haphazard, but Gale loves it nonetheless because this is Astarion surrendering without thought, without worry—this is right—
He nearly cums then and there. Perhaps he makes some kind of sound, or perhaps he moves in an unexpected manner—Astarion’s eyes open halfway, red peeking up through white lashes. Gale meets his gaze, holds it—
Pleasure washes over him, forces his lips to part around a low groan as he comes down Astarion’s throat. A droplet spills loose as he pulls out; Astarion’s tongue darts out to lap it up. Gale runs his thumb over the same spot.
“You did wonderfully, love. I think it’s my turn to spoil you now.” He presses his leg a bit more firmly against Astarion’s crotch as he tucks himself back into his trousers. “Is there anything you’d like?”
Astarion blinks. Slowly, lazily, like a cat waking from a nap in the sun. His lips are flushed still, a lovely faint dusting of red. He looks up at Gale for a moment, then down to the side.
“Hurt me,” he says quietly. “Please.”
Such soft words, and yet they knock the breath out of Gale’s lungs. “Love? You did nothing wrong. I’m offering you a reward.”
Astarion blinks again. A wrinkle forms between his eyebrows, and his hips still. “I know, I want … I want to try …”
Gale cups his cheeks and gently angles his face upwards again. “Look at me.”
Astarion does, and Gale swallows. Slowly, he traces the lines of his cheekbones. “Why are you asking for pain?”
Another one of those blinks. “I … You asked me …” The words come out in a drawl, but Astarion’s eyes are clear.
“I know, love. I just need to know why you want me to hurt you.” He needs to know that Astarion isn’t seeking a punishment for some perceived misstep. It doesn’t look as though he is, not with the way he’s looking at Gale now, the way his limbs remain loose, his expression open. And if that’s true, if Astarion is speaking from a place of genuine desire, is it all right for Gale to provide the pain? To enjoy the process?
He did hurt Astarion before. Those zaps must have been quite painful, and it went well regardless (though in hindsight, they should have discussed that beforehand too, should have discussed so many things. But they didn’t, and now they’re here, and Gale needs to know before his thoughts find themselves trapped in too many circles.)
As if he’s moving through honey, Astarion reaches up and covers Gale’s hands with his own. He speaks slowly still, but the drawl is fading. “I think it would feel good. With you. I want it to feel good.”
“You’re not asking me to punish you?”
Astarion tries to shake his head; Gale loosens his hold on him to allow the motion.
“I’m asking because …” Astarion grips his hands and averts his gaze to the side. “Well, you asked me, and I felt that I could. Ask you. I felt safe, asking you.”
Gale’s heart does some odd thing or another. Skips a beat, maybe, or adds one. He couldn’t really tell the difference anyway, and doesn’t care to try as he leans down and presses a kiss to Astarion’s lips.
(Safe.)
As he pulls back, he tips Astarion’s chin upwards again, searching, hunting for his gaze again.
“The moment you want to stop, we stop.”
Astarion nods.
(Safe—)
“Then stand up for me, love.”
He does. It’s Gale’s turn now to fight with the laces on his boots, and he takes his time, too—a mirror image. The kind Astarion can see. The kind that stares up at him with the love he deserves, the admiration, the worship even as Gale is about to wreck him—
(Safe, he feels safe with Gale—)
He guides one of Astarion’s legs free of the boot, then the other. Slides his hands up his shins, his thighs, all the way to his hips, and unties the laces there. He feels Astarion shiver, hears his breath hitch as his knuckles brush over his cock. A wet patch has formed on the fabric already. Must have formed when Astarion was on his knees, this turned on by swallowing around Gale’s cock, and, and—Gale is going to wreck him—
(—worship him—)
—make him scream, shatter, fall apart utterly, completely—
(—keep him safe, safe, safe forever—Astarion feels safe—)
He pushes Astarion’s trousers and underwear down. Presses a kiss to his swollen cock as it springs free, then stands to slide his hands up and divest him of his shirt. He sits back on the bed and allows himself to drink in Astarion with his gaze until the elf starts to squirm.
“Come.” He holds out his hand. Astarion takes it, and Gale guides him to bend over his lap. He rests one hand on the small of Astarion’s back; a slight shiver runs through Astarion’s body. The elf shifts slightly, then stills as Gale runs his other hand over his buttocks.
“Breathe,” Gale says.
And then he smacks him.
Astarion twitches. Tension travels through him, grips his limbs for a moment. A sigh escapes him, long and loud, and the tension bleeds into nothingness.
“Good?” Gale rubs the spot. The redness is already fading.
“Mmhmm …”
“Good.” He smacks the same spot again, and then the other side in quick succession. The impact knocks small sounds out of Astarion, and if Gale hadn’t come so recently, he’d have already hardened again. His fingers find their way to the back of Astarion’s neck and wrap around it. Squeeze it just so. Astarion pushes into it, arches his back to offer himself up even more, and Gale obliges.
The sharpness of the smacks collides with the softness of the elf’s moans, mixes into a blend that makes Gale hunger for more. Oh gods, Astarion was right, has always been right, about the side of Gale that wants this.
He does, he does. He wants it, craves it, needs it, and Astarion wants it too, so he gets to have this, they get to have this. Spots of colour build on Astarion’s pale skin. Linger there longer and longer, as Astarion keens and pushes into the touch whenever Gale rubs the worst of the sting away.
“How is this?”
“Mmngh …” In place of an answer, Astarion rocks his hips against Gale’s leg. A small, hesitant motion. Almost a question.
Gods, the response he evokes in the elf is nothing but the sweetest addiction.
“Words, love.”
“Yesss, good. More …”
Gale takes a moment to run his hand over the top of Astarion’s thigh. Down his leg as far as he can reach, then up again. “More?”
“Please.” The breathlessness in Astarion’s voice adds to the heat in Gale’s loins.
“Good boy,” he says, and oh, his voice has dropped to a tone that makes Astarion shiver in response. He raises his hand and lets it fall on the apex of one pale thigh.
Astarion yelps. His feet scramble for purchase, his balance tip, and one of his hands grips Gale’s ankle and squeezes.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” Gale says, rubbing the spot he’s just hurt. Astarion’s hips twitch, but he keeps rocking against Gale, grinding against Gale so desperately. An image of a night months ago flits before the wizard’s eyes.
An echo, but so very different. So much better.
They’re so much better.
(They stand at the beginning again, together. A different start. A different journey. A freefall into something new that Gale will never get enough of.)
“Please.” The word toes the line between speech and a gasp.
“What do you want, pet?”
“A-agai—aah! Mmmh!” The pitch rises as Gale obliges; his hand falls on Astarion’s other thigh this time. He feels Astarion clawing weekly at his leg. It might bruise, but then they’d both bear the marks. The thought makes his cock twitch as it strains to grow hard again.
“Gale …” Astarion taps his ankle, then digs his fingers into it again. “Please. I—I—” He sucks in a shaky breath. “Close, I’m close. Please.”
“Not yet.” Smack.
The momentum drives Astarion’s hips against Gale’s and drags a whine from his lips.
“Hold out for me, love. Can you be good for me and do that?”
“I … I don’t know …”
“Hmm …” He lets go off Astarion’s neck and runs his hand down the length of his back and up again. Rubs little circles between his shoulder blades. The other hand, he slips between the elf legs and wraps around the base of his balls. “Maybe I can find something to help you with that.”
Astarion lets out a startled little mewl.
“Good?”
“Good,” he echoes, a little slow, a little slurred.
Gods, but Gale loves that.
(He gets to have this, has somehow done something to deserve all this—)
He lets go of Astarion, bends down to grab one of his discarded boots, then straightens again and proceeds to pull the laces out. Astarion grabs the edge of the bed and tries to peer over his shoulder.
“Just getting something to replace my fingers there,” Gale says, and Astarion slumps back against his leg. He lies still, just breathing, breathing, and his ribcage ebbs and flows with the motions like waves against the ocean shore.
Good.
Breathing is good.
He discards the boot as soon as he’s got the lace free, then spells it clean. Astarion lifts his hips willingly, or tries too; his feet slide against the floor. But it’s enough. It’s everything, to see him offer himself up like that.
(Trusting, safe—)
Carefully, Gale loops the string around the base of his cock, then his balls.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, squeezes Astarion’s hip for a moment, then smacks him again. Again. Again. Does it harder still, lets the intensity build up until Astarion’s moans blend into one long melody. Then he stops, rubs the curve of his buttocks to soothe the pain. The skin is no longer cold, no longer pale. Astarion is so … alive under his touch—flushed to the tips of his ears, panting, moaning, trying to grind against Gale still, and Gale forgets to breathe for a moment.
He is so in love.
So. Unspeakably. In love.
His fingers dip between Astarion’s legs, trace the string where it loops around the base of his balls, then travel further up.
“Voco arvina,” he murmurs, because acquiring any other form of lubricant would include moving, and he is not moving now, thank you very much. The only thing he is intent on doing is working Astarion open and driving him mad with pleasure and need, and so he presses a slick finger against his entrance. Rubs the tight ring of muscles once, twice, and slips his finger inside.
The pitch of Astarion’s whimpers rises. The sound turns into a sigh a moment later, even as he pushes his hips backwards.
“Patience,” Gale says, slowly, slowly moving his finger back and forth. “I’ll give you everything you need, love. All you have to do is take it.”
“More …”
He hooks the fingers, searching. A twitch that curves Astarion’s spine tells him he’s found the spot, so he rubs it with quick little motions that make Astarion grab at his shin again. He coaxes another moan or two from the elf before he slows down and works in the second finger instead.
The pressure around his shin increases, concentrates in little spots of pain.
“G-gale …”
“Yes, love?”
“Lemme see you. Ah, please—”
“Of course.”
Astarion makes a soft sound of protest when Gale slides his fingers free. Slowly, he helps Astarion stand, takes the opportunity to stretch out his own stiff knees for a moment, then guides the elf to straddle his lap. Astarion slumps against him almost immediately, his weight against his shoulder, his cock throbbing against Gale’s stomach now.
Gale runs a fingertip down its length. “How does it feel?”
“Aches,” Astarion gasps against his shoulder. His fingers dig into the fabric of Gale’s shirt.
“Too much?”
“No … No, I …” Astarion tries to bury his face into the crook of Gale’s neck; his breath washes over bare skin, and Gale shivers. “… good …”
“Good boy.” Gale slips his slick fingers back inside the elf and squeezes his ass with the other hand. On instinct, Astarion’s legs try to close, but in vain. He’s helpless like this, spread open and malleable like clay in Gale’s hands. Gods, none of his fake sounds, none of his carefully crafted expressions and poses could ever compare. But this? For this, Gale would let the world burn down to ashes.
He teases Astarion open, works more grease in even as it drips down on the floor between his thighs. Hooks his fingers again until Astarion claws at his chest and mewls in strings of broken words. Adds the third finger and fucks him, the ache in his arm be damned, because he wants to make him scream, wants to see his eyes roll back, see him drown in pleasure.
“Mnnnh—plaahs,” Astarion moans weakly against his neck, “nnnhh …”
The next rub over his prostate has him shudder, and when Gale smacks the abused skin of his ass cheek again, he starts to tremble and doesn’t cease. One more smack. Then Gale slides his fingers free to a quiet whine. Astarion tries to chase them, perhaps on instinct as his body protests the emptiness.
“Shhh, love. I just need my hands free for a moment.” He starts untying the string. “You’ve done so well for me, pet, so well.”
He throws the lace to the side and slowly slides his fingers deep inside him again. The other hand, he buries in Astarion’s usually perfect curls. They’re a mess now, but Astarion is beyond caring, and Gale adores them like this anyway.
“Good?”
The only response he gets is a whine. Astarion rocks his hips weakly, his movements uncoordinated, trying and failing to meet Gale’s thrusts in time.
Good. Good.
“You can bite if you’d like,” he murmurs.
Astarion mouths at the pulse point, his lips warm and wet. Trembling.
Gale groans.
Fangs pierce his skin. A sharp pang of pain, a rush of ice. Two puncture wounds in his neck that break through so much more than skin.
His grip on Astarion’s hair tightens, his hand speeds up, brushing the elf’s prostate every time, and Astarion whines and sobs against his neck, grinds his hips down ever more urgently.
“Come for me, love,” Gale says—asks—commands. Something hot and greedy pools inside him at the thought of making Astarion come untouched for him again (it might be a thing, it is a thing, the sheer fact that he can do that makes it a thing). The pain, the sounds, the imagery—it all blends together. “Come for me.”
Astarion whimpers against him, claws at his shoulder—his spine arches backwards, the contraction of his muscles trying to force his head away from the blood, and it’s only Gale’s grip that keeps him there as he finally screams into the bite and his cock twitches, come spurting over his belly, over Gale’s, and his body shakes violently again and again.
Gale relaxes his grip and slides his hand down the length of Astarion’s back. Down and up again. Down and up.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you, love, you did so well.” A quick Prestidigitation, and he wraps his other arm around Astarion as well, pulls him close, holds him close. Turns his head so his chin comes to rest above Astarion’s ear. “I love you.”
He doesn’t expect a coherent response, and doesn’t receive one, but Astarion squeezes his shoulder weakly for a moment, and that’s enough. It’s everything. This moment, this moment—he’s holding the pieces together, Astarion is letting him hold the shards of him together—
(Safe.)
“I love you,” he repeats, as though mere words will ever be enough for the entire galaxy inside his chest, but Astarion nuzzles at his neck, whimpering against his skin, and Gale thinks that perhaps the enormity of his feelings might be understood after all.
He slides his hands down and under Astarion’s thighs, so he can keep hold of him as he stands. His joints protest, but he manages regardless, turns around, and slowly lowers Astarion onto the bed. The elf clings to his shirt, keeps his legs wrapped around Gale even when the mattress takes the brunt of his weight. If this is what he wants, Gale will give it to him, always, always. He manages to drag a blanket halfway over them before he wriggles one arm under Astarion to hold him closer still. With the other hand, he strokes Astarion’s messy curls away from his face.
“I’ve got you, love,” he says, would say it a hundred times if necessary, so long as it will help Astarion ride out the aftereffects of pain and pleasure combined. The elf is trembling under him, convulsions gripping his exhausted body and knocking soft moans out of him. They bleed into sobs, and a single tear trickles down his cheek.
Gale kisses it away. Astarion wraps his arms around Gale in response; his fingers dig into the muscles around Gale’s spine and he clings to him like his life depends on him.
“You did so well. Anything you need, love?” He runs his hand through Astarion’s hair again, again, again, keeps repeating the motion as Astarion’s eyelids flutter and slide shut.
“Just—just you,” Astarion manages.
“I’m here, I’m staying right here.”
“You … You’re …” Astarion shifts, and Gale feels the motion against his cock.
Ah. That. He’s hard, of course he is, and of course Astarion can feel it when there isn’t even enough space between their bodies for air to pass through.
“I’m fine,” he says.
Astarion opens his eyes a fraction and makes a soft questioning noise.
“You helped me to the most wonderful orgasm before, and I could have fucked you if I’d wanted to.”
He gets a hum in response. Red eyes close again, and that must mean Astarion believes him.
(Safe.)
Slowly, the shivers cease, the sounds die down, and Astarion’s breathing evens out. He looks so relaxed. Vulnerable. Blissful. “Love you,” he murmurs, and drags Gale down for a kiss.
~~*o*O*o*~~
He carries Astarion to the bathtub, carries him as though his back isn’t in danger of giving out. But that doesn’t seem like such a bad price to pay when Astarion clings to him still, drinking in the contact like he did blood.
He washes Astarion gently, untangles his hair, and allows himself to just hold him afterwards. The water is warm, Astarion is warm from absorbing its heat, and Gale’s heart hasn’t felt this warm his entire life. He traces Astarion’s collar bone absent-mindedly, which makes the elf hum and relax into him, back pressed against his chest. The skin underneath his fingertips is smooth and soft, and Gale could spend eternity mapping out the details of Astarion’s body. His fingertips travel upward, follow the column of his neck, run over the puncture marks and up to Astarion’s ear.
Astarion sighs softly. “I suppose it might be worth revisiting the idea of a new accessory. At least it would cover those up.” He waves a hand at his neck.
“You don’t need to hide any part of you.”
“Maybe not, but I wouldn’t mind putting your mark over his.”
Gale presses his lips to a spot behind Astarion’s ear. “Nor would I, but whatever you decide, I want you to be happy.”
Astarion tilts his head to grant easier access, catches Gale’s hand, and presses his cheek into his palm.
~~*o*O*o*~~
It ends with the Netherbrain.
With fire and rain.
The possible end of the world floating above them.
No.
It starts with the Netherbrain.
With Astarion’s hand in his as they stare their fate in the eye. Astarion’s lips on his, pale curls in his grasp, and a soft smile.
It starts when they part, and Gale realises he isn’t afraid, because they’ve overcome everything else so far, have fallen through cracks and patched up their hearts, and a Netherbrain is not going to come between them and the rest of their lives.
This is their beginning, not their end.
(It starts with a gasp, in the dead of night.)