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Helplessness Blues

Chapter 7: Misuse of Magic

Summary:

a thorough misuse of the charm to stabilize the orb and chekhov's safe word.

Notes:

lmao the word count, my god. i am so sorry. if this weren't using prompts, i'd probably have split this chapter into two, but oh well! enjoy the extra long chapter!

thank you so much to everyone who's followed along, commented, kudos'd, and engaged with this fic in any way! it has been such a blast to post for bloodweave week and i am so heartened by all the amazing work everyone else has put out. thank you to the organizers for setting this week up; it really became the perfect vehicle for this dumb idea, and i appreciate it!

for now, i'll be turning back to the post-game bloodweave fic i was working on before i paused to do this one (and god what a tonal shift that is), and also listening to Helplessness Blues and thinking of this version of them for a long while. i also have tons of other fic to catch up on and check out; we are so #blessed! thank you for reading and indulging me!

today's prompt: Misuse of Magic

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Astarion hadn’t thought they’d be back in this Mountain Pass camp again, so soon after being determined to move on from it. He wishes they were back here for the view, or to hunt his fill of game, or to find more murderous gith to take their woes out on.

Instead, they’re here so a raggedy old wizard, supposedly the best in the realms—as if Astarion could give a single fuck—can eat his way through their cheese stores and tell Gale his goddess wants him to blow himself up. It’s utterly ridiculous—Astarion had laughed out loud as soon as Gale spelled it out for the group.

He did not laugh for long, not when it became apparent that Gale was taking this nonsense seriously. He didn’t laugh when the cheese-pilferer did something to the orb to make it a more effective bomb; he seethed when Gale thanked him, saw him off, then told their gathered campmates that he needed a few moments alone to think.

And he’s certainly not laughing now, watching Gale up on their cliff—alone, the sun’s rays wavering around him, a small, slumped outline against the gorgeous surrounding scenery. Astarion watches him with his arms folded across his chest, waiting for Gale to come back; to laugh like Astarion had, and agree with him that this is all nonsense, that he would never follow such an absurd command.

That hasn’t happened yet. Astarion is starting to lose his patience waiting for it.

He’s also starting to lose his patience with Wyll, who keeps clearing his throat loudly as he passes Astarion by, looking between him and Gale pointedly.

“Do you have some sort of plague of the throat, Wyll?” Astarion asks icily the next time Wyll does it, turning his glare on him.

Wyll just gives him a friendly smile, ducking his head as if to tip his horns at Astarion. It’s charming in a way Astarion has absolutely no patience for right now.

“No. I just thought—”

“I didn’t ask. Unless you want to no longer have a throat, I suggest you keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“Don’t be a coward, Astarion,” Wyll says. Astarion puffs up at him, fury rising, but Wyll continues blithely, stubbornly. “We’ve all made our opinions heard—” Yes, they all had, very loudly; no wonder Gale wanted to be alone on their cliff. “—but yours is the opinion that matters most to him. Go talk to him.”

“He explicitly said he wanted some time alone.”

“And when have you ever done what Gale wanted without some sort of fight?” Wyll asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

Last night, Astarion’s mind unhelpfully supplies, and what an utter mistake that had been; he shakes that off quickly as his stomach turns at the thought. Wyll must see something stricken on his face, though, because his own expression softens.

“At least go and see where his head is, please,” Wyll tells him. “We’ve got time to do more convincing if we need to. I’ve rarely met anyone as devoted to his faith as Gale is, so I don’t think this is something we can just break him out of in a day—and if worse comes to worst, I promise to just knock him out with an Eldritch Blast when he tries to press the button, so to speak.”

Wyll gives Astarion a determined look, then ruins it by winking at him. Astarion sighs but nods; Wyll is right, of course, as he often is.

Gripped with worry, Astarion starts towards the cliff, eyes stuck on Gale’s silhouette. Truthfully, he’s been worried about Gale since last night, and any clarity into what’s going on in his head will be welcome right now. Elminster’s message cannot have helped matters, and Astarion is genuinely apprehensive as he approaches Gale’s drooping figure.

Gale doesn’t even hear him approach, apparently. When Astarion says “Hello,” in a soft voice, most of his usual lilt suppressed, Gale jumps a little, then turns with a startled chuckle.

“Oh—hello, Astarion. I’m sorry, I lost track of time. Are we heading out now?”

Astarion stares a moment, watching Gale fidget. He has his hands clasped together, his own fingers tangled, but they’re not still—he’s picking at one of his cuticles absently. Astarion can smell where the skin has torn and fights the urge not to snatch Gale’s own hands away from him.

Instead, he gives a short but gentle chuckle and says, “I think that’s up to you, darling. Are you—all right?”

Gale laughs back, and it’s all wrong. “I’m—I’m sorry. I’m holding us all up, aren’t I?”

“That’s not what I—”

“We should go,” Gale says loudly. He swallows hard and starts stalking across the cliff, back towards the rest of camp—where no one is even pretending not to be staring over at them, and Astarion bares his fangs at them all once Gale’s back is to him. “We should—to Moonrise Towers, then, as we’d planned before that, ah—interruption—”

“Speaking of which,” Astarion says before Gale can get too far; he grabs his arm for good measure, squeezing his forearm slightly. Gale stops, but doesn’t turn around. “What are you thinking, exactly?”

Gale is quiet; his arm is tensed beneath Astarion’s grip. “I—I’m not sure I can—”

“I know I said last night that I understand if you can’t talk about it,” Astarion says quickly, his voice lowered but no less urgent. “But right now, Gale, I—I do need you to talk to me.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“That has to be an absolute first. Try again.”

“This has nothing to do with last night.” Gale’s voice has lowered, too, and it sounds tight and cornered; his neck is flaring red, his shoulders stiff with discomfort. If this were last night, if they were in that conjured bed or tucked away in their tent, Astarion would pull Gale close and hold him to his chest, would pet his hair and tuck his face against his neck to cool it down. They’re not alone, though, all of camp staring at them—but gods is Astarion tempted to do it anyway, and he’s never before been tempted by such a thing.

Astarion settles for saying, “I don’t think the two are entirely unrelated. This is about Mystra; is it not?” He’d recognized last night for what it was at least a little bit, had seen all the signs that showed how little Gale was present in the end. From what little Gale has told him about his past, there was only one subject that could’ve taken over Gale’s thoughts like that—only one other lover.

And now that lover has kindly demanded that Gale kill himself. The timing would be funny if it wasn’t so dire.

He thinks there’s more that happened last night, some of which he’s responsible for. He thinks that, if they get through this, he can do better—he wants to do better, now. They’d talked about what Astarion deserves, what he gets to decide, but now Astarion can’t stop thinking about what Gale deserves in turn, and he thinks it might be time to have a conversation about that.

Gale, his head now ducked, practically vibrating with tension, doesn’t seem to agree.

“I don’t want to discuss this right now,” Gale says. “It is what it is.”

“And what is it, exactly?” Astarion asks, his tone a little dangerous. “Tell me at least a bit of what you’re thinking of all this. Because if you’re thinking of what I think you’re thinking—”

“It’s Mystra’s will,” Gale says, and Astarion laughs out loud, as mean as he can.

“Oh, spare me—and fuck Mystra,” Astarion adds. That gets Gale to turn, his eyes darkening.

“Don’t. This may be hard for you to understand, but don’t—”

“It’s impossible for me to understand, and I’ll say what I damn well please,” Astarion says. Distantly, he remembers what Wyll said about Gale’s faith, about how this wouldn’t break in a day. But of course his temper chases that reasoning off, and he lets it flare out between them. “This is nonsense, Gale. You cannot be truly considering it.”

Gale is quiet again. Astarion wants to clutch at his shoulder and wrench him around. He wants to grab him by the hair and pull until he’s gasping for mercy, wants to crush a kiss against his mouth until he forgets who Mystra is. He wants to put him in his little mind palace, the good one, so he’ll be safe—from Mystra, from himself, but not from Astarion.

“I must,” Gale says in the end, and it takes most of the wind out of Astarion’s sails, dampens some of the fires of his fury. It gives away to despair, a bone-deep sadness, and true fear that sticks in his throat and makes his fangs itch to bite his way out of it.

“Gale,” Astarion says, horrified at how pleading he sounds.

But Gale shakes his head and finally looks back, his face softening, some of the tension and stubbornness fading. “Come on,” he says gently. “This isn’t the place or the time—we need to move on. We can talk more later.”

Astarion can hear that for the peace offering it is, false and placating—kicking the can of his own mortality down the road. Gale starts off again, tugging his arm from Astarion’s grip, and Astarion can only follow with his fists clenched at his sides, teeth gritted, desperate to kick back.

While they gather their things to leave this camp, hopefully for good this time, Astarion stews, fuming. When they walk the trail back to the Shadow-Cursed Lands, he thinks, running over all the misery they have ahead of them. He glares at Gale’s fake brave face, watches him touch his chest when he thinks no one’s looking; he doesn’t seem pained but curious, and some of that batty cheese idiot’s words come back to him.

He’d stopped the clock on the orb, Astarion remembers. Later, as they make their slow, plodding way through the Shadow Curse, on alert and shrinking against the darkness, Karlach nudges Gale and says, “All right there, soldier?” when he’s caught rubbing at his chest again.

“Oh, yes, quite so—despite everything, I feel physically fine. The orb is stabilized; it no longer hungers, no longer feels quite so volatile. It’s—different.” Astarion doesn’t miss the glance Gale shoots over at him—meaningful, almost fearful.

And he doesn’t miss the meaning, even as Karlach and Gale continue to chatter at each other, the brightness of their voices odd and almost wrong in the darkness of this place. Astarion thinks about it, thinks about what the orb being stabilized functionally means, and thinks of all of this mess.

He thinks, reluctantly, that he might need a new plan.

 

Astarion hates phase one of the plan immensely. It involves talking to Halsin, swallowing enough pride to choke a deep rothé. He makes his way to him at camp once everyone is settled in at the Last Light Inn; a few of their group are still up at the inn, chatting with the tiefling refugees or, in Karlach’s case, gushing over Jaheira. With Gale stationed at the bar, trying to talk some sense into Rolan, there’s ample opportunity for Astarion to slip away and talk to Halsin.

He doesn’t have to like it, though.

“I need your help with something,” Astarion says through gritted teeth. Halsin just smiles at him and gestures for him to go on. “I need—ugh—advice. If you can give it.”

Halsin nods. “I’m happy to advise you on whatever you need.”

“Of course you are. And if it’s about sex?”

Halsin doesn’t even blink. “That’s no problem at all. As I think you already know, I have a wide and varied expertise—”

“Ugh, shut up, I know—I’m regretting this already. Fine. Here’s the situation.”

Astarion explains while using as little detail as possible; he could be talking about two strangers named Hale and Bastarion, really. And then he rushes out questions before Halsin can make any annoying comments. To his credit—and he’s really built up so much credit with them just being nice; it makes Astarion sick—Halsin answers each question dutifully, carefully, and of course with complete kindness and consideration.

“Ugh,” Astarion says when he’s done. He hates that he knows what he has to do now, what he should’ve done a while ago. He hates that he wants to do it, that all this feeling is building up in him, as if he doesn’t have enough problems of his own—as if he hadn’t just had to make a deal with a literal devil, the parameters of which are still unknown, to handle those problems.

But really, and there’s little denying this now, Gale’s problems are Astarion’s problems, too. That’s what it means to try, he thinks. And he wants to do this right—or as right as it can be when he’s manipulating Gale with sex again; that’s a detail he hadn’t let Halsin in on. This time it’s for good, though, not his own nefarious purposes. It’s different.

“If you have any more questions—if, perhaps, you’d like for me to talk to Gale—” Halsin starts, and Astarion shakes his head almost violently.

“Absolutely not. This has nothing to do with Gale, remember? This is all hypothetical, with no basis in reality. Don’t forget that.”

Halsin smiles, but nods. “All right. Not a word to Gale.”

“Damn right. And I guess, since you were slightly helpful—I should tell you there’s a fellow up at the inn that they think might know something about this curse. He’s out of his mind and singing about someone named Crandall, Daniel—maybe Thaniel—”

Thaniel?” Halsin gasps, eyes wide and attentive.

Astarion waves him off. “Sure, that sounds right. Go on and talk to him, then.” Halsin hurries off, calling out thanks as if Astarion hadn’t clearly and purposely withheld that information in case Halsin could help him.

Stupid druid. Astarion hopes his sex wisdom is up to par, though, as he braces himself for phase two of his plan.

This phase is easier—scouting around for a tucked away room at the inn with an actual, real bed neither of them have to concentrate on to keep. Then it’s a matter of stocking it up with supplies and pulling aside one of those little tiefling urchins from Mol’s gang, promising to retrieve Mol—and surely it’ll be a stop on the way with this do-gooder brigade Astarion’s unfortunately taken up with, so it’s no matter to promise it; he’ll just make Wyll do all the work—in exchange for keeping people away from this particular room.

“That includes you, too,” Astarion tells the urchin sternly, not liking the impish glint they all have in their eyes. “Or I’ll rescue Mol and then feed her to the nearest mind flayer. Do not test me, child.”

That dims the glint a bit; the child hastily agrees to help, and Astarion nods, satisfied. He doesn’t care for children, but the ones that scare up easily can be useful.

That last thing to do is to wait for the fires to die down, for his companions to drift back to camp, and the other occupants of the inn to clear off to their separate quarters.

“Coming, Astarion?” Shadowheart asks as she heads off, her eyes twinkling—she’s much too fucking smug in this horrible place, Astarion may start actively rooting for Halsin to snap and turn her into a tree before long.

“No, and don’t wait up,” Astarion tells her with his nose in the air, nodding over at Gale, still at the bar with a progressively slumped over Rolan. Shadowheart follows his gaze and softens a little.

“It’s an honor, what she’s tasked him with,” Shadowheart says, and Astarion starts to imagine feeding the tree Halsin will make of her into a sawmill.

“Don’t start with your cult shit, Shadowheart, I’m not in the mood. Death is no honor.”

“To be asked such a thing—”

“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t hesitate; I might even cheer you on,” Astarion says, gritting his teeth. He frowns, though, when he sees a flicker of—something, in Shadowheart’s gaze, dark and wavery. Then she hisses, clutching the purple glow of the wound on her hand.

“An honor,” she whispers in a trembly voice, and she shakes her head. “But Gale is powerful and resourceful. My Lady would know better than to waste such a fine mind. I hope you can make him reconsider.”

“I fully intend to,” Astarion tells her. He firms his resolve and spares Shadowheart only one more glance before stepping forward. He’s surprised to see how wistful she looks, still rubbing at her hand, even though it no longer glows purple.

That’s a good reminder of his plan, and moves across the inn to see it through.

“All right, little mages, I think that’s enough woe for the evening,” Astarion says, coming up to the bar and planting his hip against the side of it. The urchins running the bar—what a miserable little place, really—had long ago switched Rolan to water without telling him so on Jaheira’s orders, but he still looks at Astarion like he might be seeing four of him, bleary and miserable.

Astarion has very little patience for that, not when Gale is sitting there, still wearing his brave, false smile plastered on, a barely-touched cup of wine at his elbow. Astarion wants that smile gone, along with everything else Gale is wearing. He turns back to Rolan, reluctantly.

“Shoo, wizard. I have plans for my own wizard. Go find your people.” As Rolan slurs out some whiney complaints or protests, Gale glances over his shoulder and nods; then two tieflings come over and fit Rolan between them, each of his arms slung over their shoulders.

“Don’t do anything foolish, Rolan,” Gale calls over, shaking his head when Rolan turns back to snarl out something terribly rude in response. Astarion laughs lightly, his opinion of Rolan marginally improving, though he also wishes Gale would take his own advice.

Well, that’s why he’s here. “Come on,” Astarion says, and Gale drains what’s left of his wine and stands up, dropping a few gold pieces on the bar, much to the delight of the little urchins. Astarion finds his own urchin and nods in reminder.

Gale hesitates when Astarion leads him to the room he found, not towards camp. “Oh?” he asks as Astarion shuffles him in with a hand on the small of his back, snapping the door shut and locking it pointedly behind him. Gale looks at the bed—nothing grand, plain and unadorned, just big enough for two, and smiles as if Astarion has just brought him to a luxury pleasure palace. “What’s the occasion?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Astarion says with false brightness. He sits down on the bed and takes his boots off, patting the place at his side until Gale sits down and does the same. “I know you don’t want to talk about old Westminster’s—”

“Elminster, Astarion, come on.”

“I cannot even begin to describe to you how little I care what his name is, Gale. Be quiet. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but there’s at least one part of it we should—nay, we must talk about.” Astarion reaches out with one hand, working hard to keep it from trembling slightly; he doesn’t know why he’s so nervous, why the stakes feel so much higher than when he’d been doing this for his own safety.

Still, he manages, and a steady hand undoes some of the clasps on Gale’s robe and slips inside the gap that leaves, fitting below the wrap shirt beneath and stroking over his chest—exactly where the orb is. Gale sucks in a breath, tensing up a little.

“What part is that?”

“The orb is stabilized,” Astarion says, a jolt of true, lustful excitement jumping through him at the thought. He knows what that means, and surely Gale does, too, because his eyes widen and his heartbeat starts to quicken.

“Right, I—I hadn’t even thought of—”

“Of course you didn’t,” Astarion says, trying not to sound too annoyed; he thinks he fails because Gale sends a quick look, near guilty, at him. Astarion doesn’t care—he should be annoyed, because Gale was too busy contemplating his own suicide to think about the fact that—

“You can come, now. No danger of the orb exploding, at least not yet.” He cannot possibly help the annoyance in his voice then, laced also with bitterness. What Gale doesn’t know is that he’s lying, actually; the orb will never explode, not if Astarion has any say in it, and he fully intends to have as much say as possible. More than Mystra, certainly.

“Right,” Gale says slowly. His hand goes to his own chest, bumping over Astarion’s fingers—warm and slightly damp with sweat. “And that—you think I should—”

“Oh, yes,” Astarion says, tipping his head back with a slightly manic laugh. “Absolutely yes, you should come. As far as I’m concerned, Mystra has bestowed upon you a gift with this magic. I think we should use it to its full extent.”

Gale slumps a little at the mention of Mystra and Astarion files that away to use. This plan is going to require every tool in his arsenal; every little piece that Gale lets escape needs to be turned on him, for his own good. This isn’t a plan that Astarion can let fail.

“All right,” Gale says after a few moments, swallowing hard. Astarion peeks down at his lap and can see the thickening bulge there, allowing it to reassure him a moment. Gale wants this, at least physically; he’ll have to better establish the rest.

That is, unfortunately, why phase one of the plan was necessary. “First, though,” Astarion says, nervous again. “We’re going to set ground rules.”

Gale blanches, shame darkening his face. “Astarion, no, we don’t have to—”

“We do have to. This isn’t a fun game anymore, and just because the risk of the orb is mitigated, that doesn’t mean there aren’t still dangers.”

“If this is about last night, again, it was nothing you did, and I don’t need you to coddle me over it!” Gale sounds genuinely angry, and Astarion relishes that for a moment—he needs that anger. He just needs it pointed in the right direction for once.

“It is and isn’t about last night. Gale, you—I’ve been treated poorly and kindly by lovers before. I’ve been used and worshipped and—and everything you can imagine. But last night was—no one has ever taken the care you did with me. No one has ever cared that much.” This is all true, and the weight of it would be beating through his chest if he had a functioning heart.

And Gale seems to sense the truth in it, eyes scanning his face desperately, looking stricken by whatever he finds. “I’m sorry, and I’m glad,” Gale whispers eventually, nudging the tips of his fingers below Astarion’s palm on his chest so he can hold his hand, squeeze it. “But I don’t need—”

“You deserve the same kind of care,” Astarion tells him through gritted teeth. “I told you I wanted more, wanted something real with you—this is part of that. Yes, we both get off on the danger, and we’ll find more of that—there will be no shortage of it on the rest of this journey, certainly. But in this—there can’t be the sort of danger of truly hurting you in this. I won’t abide it.”

Astarion had thought arguing this would be feel wrong, ring false, another act he’d have to put on; hearing Halsin lecture him had certainly given him that impression, rolling his eyes through it. But he finds that every word that leaves his mouth feels real, true; it’s right, to do this.

Gale still seems stricken; he’s squeezing Astarion’s hand very tightly, as if he’s afraid Astarion’s going to walk away. But Astarion has to convince him that’s not what’s happening, that the very opposite is happening. This is going all in. This is building something real, or at least trying to.

“What we want from each other doesn’t have to change,” Astarion says carefully. “What you like, what I like—we’ll still have that. We both want it. It’s just how we go about it—how we make sure we’re both okay. We do need that, darling.”

Slowly, Gale exhales, certain lines of tension dropping from his frame. He tugs Astarion’s hand away from his chest and holds it in his lap, squeezing gently this time, not clutching quite so tightly.

“Ground rules, then,” Gale says eventually, almost sounding sulky. Astarion fights back on a smile.

“Yes. I’m not saying we have to negotiate everything, ugh, this is already tedious enough—but I want guardrails in place. And one of those is—we need to pick a word for us to use whenever we want to stop.” The Halsin suggestion rankles, but it’s probably a good one.

Gale still seems a bit sullen, but there’s an undeniable look of interest in his eyes, too. “Can’t we just say so if we want to stop?”

Astarion knows by now when Gale is arguing just to argue—and truthfully, he’d made the exact same argument to Halsin. That means he has good reasoning lined up. “It’s better to pick something specific to fall back on, something we can both use. It’s simpler, easier, and safer.” Apparently, he adds mentally, but he doesn’t say that. He’s trying to be good.

There’s more than just interest in Gale’s eyes, now; something like amusement has joined that interest, and keen perception. Astarion’s almost relieved to see that, and he’s reminded that Gale had known from the very beginning about Astarion’s initial plan. He’d seen through all of Astarion’s tricks and acts and claims, and he hadn’t even let on that he knew. He’s more aware and more devious than Astarion has previously given him credit for; he’ll have to keep that in mind, going forward.

And it means that Gale probably has some sense of what Astarion is doing here. He hopes the fact that he’s entertaining this anyway is a good sign. Truthfully, this is not a plan that can succeed without Gale’s buy-in.

He’s doubly relieved when Gale says, “Fine, then. Let’s a pick a word. Did you have anything in mind?”

“Sussur,” Astarion says, and gives a light chuckle at Gale’s blush. “Yes, I miss your crown too—but since we don’t have the real thing to shut things down, let’s invoke it if we need to.”

“This all seems rather silly,” Gale says, a bit grumbly, and a part of Astarion agrees. But then Gale says, “I don’t want you to—just because I had a hard time last night doesn’t mean I want you to go easy on me now. I want—I like everything we do.”

“Gale,” Astarion says, his tone a bit dangerous. “When have I ever gone easy on you?”

“I don’t want you to start now. I don’t want my—issues—to change things between us.”

“I told you things wouldn’t change that much. I just want to keep you safe.” When Gale opens his mouth to whine some more, Astarion snarls out, “Both of us should be safe. Stop being so stubborn.”

Though that’s like asking Gale to stop breathing, which is particularly difficult for humans, he does quiet down. “Anything else?” he asks petulantly, and Astarion hides a grin.

“We’re also supposed to talk through everything we want to do before we do it; go over the different scenarios, desires, dislikes, that sort of thing.” Gale opens his mouth again, surely to protest, and Astarion cuts him off quickly. “I don’t think that’s necessary tonight, however. What I want to do to you is very simple: I’m going to make you come again and again and again, until I decide I want you to stop, or you use your word. Any objections?”

“Absolutely not,” Gale says quickly, eagerly, and truthfully.

Without further warning—Halsin doesn’t know everything, really—Astarion leans over and kisses Gale firmly on the mouth, hard and unyielding. He puts the same force into it as he always does, hoping to reassure Gale—he’s still here, he’s still himself, he still wants Gale the exact same way.

He just loves him, too, probably.

And he’s afraid, desperately so now, of losing him. Gale’s response to the kiss goes a little way towards reassuring him in turn; he yields to it readily, opening his mouth up to Astarion and letting him take control just as easily as he ever has. Astarion wonders if Gale knows there’s strength in that—in wanting what he does, the way he does, and not letting his own pride get in the way of having it. He doesn’t know if Gale would see that as strength; before all of this, before knowing Gale and knowing even more about him, Astarion wouldn’t have.

He does now, though. Astarion admires Gale and feels honored to be the one to indulge him in this. He’s going to do a better job of it from now on, and hopefully for a long time.

“Mm,” Astarion says, breaking the kiss with a sigh, admiring Gale’s slick, plumped lips, the sheen of some of Astarion’s spit in his beard, messy and lovely. “We are good at that. Now, let’s see how good I am at making you come. Take off your clothes and get on the bed, pet.”

Gale is as eager as ever to obey, stripping his clothes quickly with trembling hands. Astarion almost expects to see the telltale purple glow already, used to it by now; he wonders if he can ignore it now, if the glow itself is inconsequential as a result of Mystra’s magic.

Well, he’ll just have to find out, Astarion thinks with a shuddery wave of excitement.

The excitement flares when Gale is naked, crawling onto the bed. Astarion can’t help himself; he ignores his own lack of nudity, deciding he can deal with that later, to crowd Gale against the covers, an arm around his thick waist, running down over his hips until he can flip him easily onto his back.

He looks over Gale’s cock, hard and bobbing under his gaze, and smiles at it. “We’ll be well-acquainted tonight, my little friend,” Astarion says, and Gale laughs.

“You’re already pretty familiar. Fond, too. Ah.” Gale jerks in place as Astarion gives his cock an open-handed tap, not lightly. The brief flash of pain on his face, twisting his features, gives away to real relief, and he looks up at Astarion with such reverence that Astarion simply has to slap his cock again, a little harder this time.

“Is this how you want your first orgasm in over a year to happen?” Astarion asks, stroking Gale’s cock idly before slapping it again. Gale bucks up into it, groaning, his thighs already quivering. Astarion looks for the purple glow instinctively and has to chase away the image of Shadowheart’s wound for a brief, unhappy moment. He focuses on the task at hand, sliding his fingers down to stroke over Gale’s balls before slapping them, too. “Getting all worked up while I hit you?”

Gale’s panting now, undeniably aroused. Astarion is fairly certain he can’t come like this; he’s aware of and has used Gale’s limits for pain to control his orgasms for a while now, and they’re on the edge of them. He gives his balls one more hard tap for good measure, then kneels on the bed to lean down over Gale’s groin.

“I don’t think so,” Astarion answers for him, and then he puts his mouth over Gale’s cock without any further warning.

Talking this all out may be the healthy way to go about things, but it would’ve taken away the shock he feels running through Gale’s body, the little shout he gives, entirely caught off guard. Astarion grins around his mouthful and enjoys that a moment—he will never get enough of surprising Gale and being surprised by him in turn. He hopes they have years of surprising each other.

He sets about surprising Gale with an excellent blowjob, deepthroating him carefully and casually until Gale is muffling shouts into his fist up above. He pulls up, smirking, and says, “Don’t move; if you fuck my mouth I’ll stop and hit you until you go soft,” and lets the real warning in his voice dance with sweetness, fondness.

It makes Gale shudder all over even as he nods eagerly, frantically. Astarion ducks down and gets back to it, enjoying the weight of Gale’s cock in his mouth, the perfect fit of the head stretching his throat. What really does it for him, of course, is the way Gale obeys—he doesn’t move, hips straining as if held by invisible hands. They’re not; they’re only held by Gale’s will, his eagerness to please.

And gods, but that makes Astarion strain his pants, regretting not taking them off now.

He sucks Gale off expertly, testing the strength of that will, coming up not for air but to let teasing praise drip from his slicked mouth. “You’re doing so well,” Astarion tells Gale, rubbing his hands over his shaking thighs. “I can taste how close you are.”

“Please,” Gale whimpers, and Astarion all but preens; he’s already got Gale begging. It’s going to be a good night.

He lets his hand take over for a while because he doesn’t want to swallow Gale’s first orgasm; there will be more than enough for that before the night is over, and he seems close enough for that to be a concern. Gale’s eyes are wet with need, his entire frame shaking, hands clenched at his side. Astarion keeps him going, no stopping or starting, only pausing briefly to slick up with oil—both hands, to keep things efficient.

Astarion wraps one hand around Gale’s cock and uses the other to tease at his rim, slipping a finger in when Gale rocks minutely down on it with a whimper. He laughs, a little nasty, and adds a second finger quick enough that the stretch will burn—that makes Gale toss his head back, groaning like he’s been punched.

“I’m—I’m—” Gale pants, a warning in his voice. It’s delicious and desperate, and Astarion kisses his inner thigh for it, twists his hand over his cock; he scissors his fingers.

“I know, my dear. You’re so close. Are you going to let go for me?” There’s a faint purple glow now, not quiet as urgent or strong as it usually is, but Gale’s eyes flick down to it, and there’s delicious fear in them. “You are,” Astarion tells him, firmly, taking the matter in hand the way Gale craves. “Come on. Come for me.”

Gale’s eyes flutter shut and he rocks down on Astarion’s fingers, tensing up. He shakes his head, though, voice shaking. “I—I don’t know if I—”

“Of course you can,” Astarion tells him. “You will. I’m not going to stop you; just let go.”

“I—oh, hells, that’s so—I can’t—”

“You can,” Astarion all but growls out. “Do it, Gale. Come for me.”

He can see the push and pull of Gale’s desire and fear, can see the tug-of-war happening between his mind and cock. Astarion doesn’t know if he can bully Gale’s first orgasm out of him yet, but then he has another idea.

Sending a silent apology to his own taste buds, Astarion leans in. He presses against Gale’s prostate, three fingers in him now; he twists his hand over the head of his cock with the exact, precise firmness he likes, a too-tight squeeze that has Gale keening.

And then Astarion opens his mouth and bites the soft meat of Gale’s inner thigh, letting his foul blood well up over his tongue.

Gale screams, hips bucking again, back arching in a way that looks painful. He’s coming, of course—Astarion picks up his head hurriedly to watch, stroking him through it, resisting the urge to spit. For a few wonderful, suspended moments, the horrid taste falls away and all Astarion can feel is his own answered bloodlust, spiked up by the sight of Gale falling apart in front of him, spurting heavily and messily all over his chest and belly for quite a while.

When he slumps on the bed, chest heaving, Astarion lets go of his cock only to stroke over his belly, running his hand up to his nipples and tweaking them until Gale flinches. He does not remove his fingers from inside Gale even as he shivers around them, twitchy and oversensitive.

“That was wonderful,” Astarion says, with a little tap to Gale’s prostate to make him jolt and whine. “Such a good start. How did it feel?”

“‘mazing,” Gale slurs out, which makes Astarion laugh a little.

“Words are already hard for you, hmm? Good; that bodes well for the rest of tonight.”

Without further ado, Astarion pulls his fingers out of Gale and undoes his own trousers with a hissed sigh of relief. He kicks them off with his briefs, whips off his shirt to follow, then kneels naked between Gale’s spread, sprawled legs, shifting his ass up. Gale still hasn’t caught his breath and he keens as Astarion angles his cock and pushes it in, wrapping Gale’s legs around him and pressing his hip bones into the soft, round flesh of his ass he bottoms out.

“There we go,” Astarion says with a grunt once he’s fully seated. He holds Gale’s hips and squeezes them, and pointedly doesn’t move. “Now, I’m sure you want another—go on, then. Chase your pleasure.”

It takes a few tries, some groans, his feet braced on the bed and a pillow placed under his back, but eventually Gale works up to a decent enough rhythm of thrusting down on Astarion’s cock. The angle is intentionally difficult, and Gale’s rough movements rock the bed ominously, but watching him struggle makes Astarion’s cock leak, his gut tighten, and his groans are approving.

His words, though, are chiding. “Come on; you can do better than that. Was one orgasm enough? Are you done for another year?”

Gale whimpers, movements going frantic and needy, sloppier. It’s so fucking good; he feels amazing on Astarion’s cock, and the grind is slow and clumsy enough that it squeezes him perfectly.

Astarion sighs in contentment and says, with nothing but love in his voice, “This is pathetic, pet. You can do better than this.”

That does prompt a more energetic round of thrusting. Gale’s cock, never having softened, bounces frantically against his belly with every frenzied movement, and Astarion laughs at it and palms it lightly, giving it one more little slap.

When he feels himself edging close but doesn’t feel the same signs from Gale, he sighs and pulls back and out, relishing Gale’s protesting groan. “Hush, now,” Astarion says, giving his ass a smack and kneading the fat there. “Enough whining.”

He grips Gale’s hips and flips him again, cackling a bit when Gale automatically arranges himself on his hands and knees like the natural slut he is. “Fine,” Astarion says with another sigh, loud and bored. He fits his cock at Gale’s hole and works it in roughly, thrusting in and out quickly. “If you wanted to be fucked like a dog, all you had to do was say so.”

And so Astarion takes over, fucking Gale with hard, unforgiving thrusts, rocking his entire body across the bed. Gale goes back to his most desperate, needy sounds, dropping his forehead to the bed and panting out loudly.

Astarion fucks him until he reaches around and feels his dripping cock, wrapping his hand over it and tugging, hard. He waits for that telltale tension, keeping himself in check through his own sheer force of will, and pulls Gale’s orgasm out of him with careful precision, hand and cock working him in tandem.

He pauses only for a moment, listening to Gale keen again, listening to it fading into ragged breaths and pants. And then he starts fucking him again, even harder.

Oh, that’s—oh, please, it’s—” Gale babbles messily, frantically, the words devolving into hurt noises in the back of his throat before long.

“Hmm?” Astarion says absently, not pausing. “Need something?”

“It’s—it’s too much—”

“We can stop if you want to use your word,” Astarion says, gentling his voice a little, trying to let Gale know that’s a real option. He knows, though, that Gale won’t use it, and feels only a little bad about taking advantage of that; it’s the only way Gale will learn it’s okay to use it, after all.

As predicted, Gale shakes his head. He’s clenching the covers in his hands so tightly it looks like that hurts, too. And in Astarion’s hand, still curled loosely, Gale’s hardening again.

Of course it’s too much. It’s gluttony after starvation. Astarion remembers how he felt the first time he’d drained that wild boar near the nautiloid crash site; the first time he could remember feeling sated in 200 years. He’d felt a little sick after, like he’d taken too much, but beyond that was undeniable satisfaction, so overwhelming and heavy that it almost hurt in the best way.

He’s certain that’s how Gale feels now. The thought of sharing that with him, along with the perfect feeling of Gale clenching compulsively down on his cock as if flinching, puts Astarion over the edge, and he comes with a long groan, stayed fucked into Gale to fill him up.

Astarion holds off on pulling out, instead taking Gale down with him onto his side on the bed, hand still tight on his cock. Gale is squirming on him, restless and breathless, and Astarion shushes him, giving him a warning squeeze around his cock, still half-soft.

“Shh, stop that, pet. Be good.” That earns him more stickiness spurting over the head of Gale’s messy cock, and he grins against his neck, whispering in his ear. “Just be still and keep my cock warm until I’m ready to fuck you again.”

Gale whines but does go still; Astarion doesn’t let go of his cock to keep him honest, stroking it idly and persistently. Astarion kisses his warm, sweaty neck, letting his teeth scrape there just to make Gale jump—and then low, desperate words, pleading and small.

“Will you—can you bite me again?”

The shallow wound on Gale’s thigh is nearly dried now, and the thought of that foul blood on his tongue again is vile to Astarion—but Gale hardly ever asks for things when they do this. Astarion can feel how much he wants it, too, the desire shaking through his body with light, shocked tremors. It feels so good against him, and Astarion sighs and gives Gale’s cock a few hard tugs, nodding against his neck.

“If you’re good—and if you can come again from me fucking you, then yes.”

Gale lets out a breathy sigh of something like relief, shivery excitement. He snuggles back in Astarion’s hold and mumbles, “It might be—it might take me a while.”

Astarion laughs and kisses him again. “It’s a good thing I can fuck you all night, then.” He’s getting harder at the thought, filling Gale up again, and it’s no time at all before he’s thrusting into him once more, each thrust a long, slow and torturous grind into him on their sides.

And soon enough, Gale is whimpering, his cock filling Astarion’s hand. It must be sore; Astarion thumbs over the leaky head and lets his thumbnail scrape gently through the slit, making Gale yelp a little and twist in Astarion’s hold. He fucks him through the feeling, praising him when the tension builds, slow as it is. When he feels Gale tensing up familiarly, clearly close to his third climax, Astarion holds one leg up to fuck him harder, pushing his own spend deeper into him.

He bares his fangs and sinks them into Gale just as he feels him starting to come. He’s more prepared for the taste this time and so it’s not as bad—it amuses Astarion to think he might acquire the taste of Gale, and resolves to make certain he has the time to do so.

Gale goes limp and breathless; he’d spurted much less for less time, and he shakes when Astarion rubs it all over his cock, whining out. “Hush,” Astarion huffs, pulling his fangs out, gently licking the bite spot, and then picking up his own pace and fucking into Gale hard.

This is more for Gale’s benefit than his; he doesn’t want to come again yet, knowing that’ll probably be it for him for the night. He pulls out as he feels the pleasure build up fully and squeezes his thighs together, smirking as he feels Gale doing the same against Astarion’s hand still wandering at his groin.

“Please,” Gale murmurs, voice thick and wet. “I can’t—it’s too much.”

“Remember your word,” Astarion says. “That’s how I know it’s not really too much, pet. Unless you use that—I’m going to keep going.”

Gale groans, and he’s moved onto his back like a damp, wrung-out rag, limbs flopped around him. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat; every part of him is loose except his thighs, still trying to flinch away from Astarion’s touch.

“We can stop if you truly want us to stop,” Astarion tells him. He still knows the answer, but he lets Gale think about it a few moments, wondering how far he’s slipped yet, if he can think properly. And he’s not surprised when Gale shakes his head, opens his thighs—he feels a rush of fondness, of admiration, something like real, true love for him at the sight of those open thighs, that soft, abused cock.

“Good,” Astarion says. He strokes Gale’s hair back from his face, cups his cheek until he gets a small, weak smile, Gale’s eyes heavy-lidded and half open to still brighten up at him. “Very good, love. We have a lot of time to make up for, don’t we? And I have a treat for you.”

Astarion leans up Gale’s body to perch on his chest, knees tucked under his armpits on either side, enjoying the tickle of hair and stronger scent of his exertion. He picks up his cock with one hand and uses the other to brace against the wooden headboard, and laughs as Gale figures out what he means to do and lights up.

“Oh, you do love a cock in your mouth,” Astarion sighs out as he thrusts down into Gale’s opened mouth, groaning at how good it feels. Gale sucks him immediately, all reticence and exhaustion forgotten, and for a while Astarion just lets him enjoy himself, enjoying how much he’s enjoying himself, letting that feeling rock through him in waves of pleasure.

He glances back and grins; Gale is feebly, valiantly getting hard again.

Astarion rewards him for that by starting to fuck his mouth, gentle at first, then picking up steam as he usually does and roughing Gale up with it.

Gale’s eyes flutter all the way shut, either in overwhelm or bliss or both, and takes it as beautifully as he always does.

The sight of him is really what gets Astarion too close to the edge to avoid it this time. The little dribble of blood on his neck, running over the wispy marks from the orb; his swollen lips stretched perfectly around Astarion’s cock, a precise and careful hole for him to fill. And every glance back to his cock, hard again despite all of its brutal treatment tonight, because he just loves sucking cock that much. It’s exquisite; Astarion doesn’t know how he got so lucky to find someone like Gale.

He pulls out and fists his cock once, twice, before the disappointed noise pulled from the back of Gale’s throat sends him over the edge with a loud gasp. He comes over Gale’s face in quick, frantic pulses, taking care to splatter his still open mouth and hanging tongue, his beard and neck so the blood trail turns pink.

It’s a wonderful, beautiful look for him. “Oh, my dear,” Astarion breathes out. “I could just eat you up.”

“Please,” Gale gasps, licking his lips. Astarion sweeps his fingers through the mess on his face and feeds him more, groaning when Gale sucks on his fingers eagerly. Then he groans around them, tensing, and Astarion looks back to see him coming in a messy, erratic drip, not very much at all.

“Oh, that was pathetic,” Astarion says, delighted and impressed. He laughs and presses down on Gale’s tongue, cutting off his whines, then scoots down to cup his cock once more, making him give a weak shout. “Surely you can do better than that.”

“I can’t,” Gale says, but he knows as well as Astarion does that he’s going to make him.

And so Astarion sets to the task of playing with Gale—lying on his side next to him, stroking and fondling his cock, shoving a few fingers up his ass and massaging his inner walls, stretching his sore and puffy rim. He enjoys working Gale up again, enjoys how genuinely difficult it is—how Gale’s cock is fighting him and bowing to him in turn, plumping up quite in spite of itself, a desperate, wanting thing.

Astarion wants Gale to realize that this is who he is—this needful, greedy mess, begging, always wanting more. Mystra never understood that, he knows; she couldn’t have if she’d punish him the ways she wants to for his folly. But Astarion does. Astarion loves this part of Gale, wants to play with it forever, to push him and bully him and love him into getting everything he wants.

He wants Gale to want forever.

Gale is panting out more protests, even as Astarion reminds him how to stop this. “I’ll stop whenever you want me to,” he says, giving Gale rough strokes, not nearly slicked enough. He could get more oil and make it easier, gentler, but that’s not what either of them want, he’s sure. “Say the word and it can be over.”

Gale’s head whips from side to side, those shocked tremors going through him again. He doesn’t say the fucking word, and Astarion loves and hates him for it.

“You know I’ll stop, hm? You know it. Last night, you told me I decide how this ends—well, tonight you decide. You can say the word and it’ll be over.”

“Please, please,” Gale gasps, bucking up and away from Astarion’s touch, like he can’t decide where to go. He seems feverish again and Astarion loves being his Underdark sex spores, pumping his cock harder and unrelentingly.

“You know your choices. You can come for me again, and again, until I get bored with it.”

“I can’t!”

“Or you can say your word. Come on, Gale. Use your word; I know you’re good at that.”

“I don’t—I need—” His words die on a particularly vicious twist from Astarion’s hand, working his cock ruthlessly.

Astarion watches him, a dark pleasure filling him, love and resentment and pity and admiration all swirling within him. He takes a breath and doesn’t let himself wonder for long if he dares to say this next bit.

He lowers his voice, dark and dangerous. “Would Mystra stop, if you asked? Has she ever done anything you asked? Has she ever given you what I have? Has she ever loved you like I—”

A few things happen at once, then. Gale’s back arches, his hips flying off the bed, and he comes, dry and painful, clawing at the bedcovers beneath him. He shouts something garbled and rough as Astarion works him through the orgasm, and it’s only when he’s slumped back down on the bed that the word registers, coming quick and frantic and repeated: “Sussur, sussur, sussur!”

Astarion’s stomach clenches and he lets go of Gale at once, a heady combination of fear and elated triumph swooping through him. He moves up the bed carefully, gently, and whispers, “Gale, it’s okay, it’s over. It’s okay.”

His heart breaks as Gale mumbles out, “Sussur,” one more time before he falls quiet, head lolling back. Astarion draws nearer, not touching him yet, and waits for Gale’s eyes to slit open and look up at him.

“Can I touch you?” Astarion asks. “To hold you, to make you feel well, not to—it’s over, Gale. I promise.”

Gale nods, swallowing thickly, and moves tentatively, wincing, into Astarion’s hold, his arms wrapping around Astarion’s hips, chin digging into Astarion’s thigh. Astarion runs his fingers through his hair, gently working through the sweaty clumps of it, and wraps his arm across Gale’s shoulders, holding him tight.

They sit like that in the dark for a while, the fire burned down low, the quiet timelessness of this cursed place surrounding them. Astarion hums as he strokes Gale’s hair, wipes away tears, scratches gently and rubs at his back. Gale only slumps further against him.

Astarion thinks, with surprising reluctance, about the final phase of his plan. He’s supposed to be doing it now—when Gale is broken down and desperate, has submitted to Astarion’s insistence that he protect himself. Here is when Gale will be most agreeable, biddable, can be manipulated, and Astarion is desperate to do that. He almost laughs when he thinks about just how drastically the tables have turned on him; all of this started to get Gale invested in him, but now Astarion can think of few things he’s more invested in than Gale.

Now, Astarion is supposed to lean down; he does that. He’s supposed to brush Gale’s hair gently behind his ear, and does so carefully, his fingers nudging that damnable earring of his for only a moment. Gale tenses when they do, and only relaxes when Astarion moves his hand away.

Astarion is now supposed to extract from Gale a promise—a true one, something real—that he won’t use the orb once they find the heart of the Absolute. He opens his mouth and has to clear his throat once, twice, knowing he’ll get the promise, knowing Gale will do it to please him, while he’s in this mindset. Here, now, Gale will do anything for Astarion—he’ll live for Astarion if asked.

The words catch in his throat, and Astarion closes his mouth, swallowing hard. He sits up a little, shifts, and Gale clutches at him tighter. And then the next words Astarion says are nothing close to what he’s supposed to say.

“I’m going to clean you up,” Astarion whispers as another plan utterly fails. “Just let me get—I set up a basin with a rag and bit of soap; it’s warming by the fire.”

“Don’t go,” Gale murmurs, and Astarion traces the resulting blush across his face.

“Just a moment, my dear. You’ll feel so much better.” He still holds Gale a little while longer, though, for his own sake as much as Gale’s.

But he does get up eventually, making an inward face at Halsin—gods, he probably owes him a pot of honey or something. Maybe he’ll make Wyll find his friend Crandall, that should be a good repayment. He picks up his supplies and turns dutifully back to the bed, where Gale is curled up on top of the covers, looking at him blearily.

Gale gestures over himself and says, “I can—” and blinks when Astarion snarls, “No, no magic.”

“All right,” Gale whispers. He submits to Astarion washing him just as readily as he submits to everything Astarion does to him, watching him carefully, almost curiously. He stands on shaky legs when Astarion tugs the top layer of blanket off the bed, then allows himself to be pressed below the lower layers, weak and shaky as a new fawn. He moves into Astarion’s arms as soon as he opens them, and sighs once they’re lying in bed together, warm and clean and tangled up.

“This is nice,” Gale says eventually, almost surrounding surprised. Astarion laughs a little and holds him close, shaking his head.

“You’re easy to please, wizard.”

“Sometimes,” Gale answers, shaking out on a yawn. He blinks a few times; Astarion can feel the displaced air from his eyelashes, little flutters, then swallows audibly. “Astarion?”

“Yes?”

Gale takes a deep breath. He twitches like he might want to turn, but then shakes his head and stays with his back to Astarion, pressing his forehead into Astarion’s looped over wrist.

“Do you really love me?” Gale whispers, and Astarion closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against the back of Gale’s neck.

“Yes,” Astarion whispers back, frowning around the word, hoping Gale realizes that it’s true, and it’s incredibly annoying.

There’s more he could say, more he probably should say. They should talk about him bringing up Mystra, how far that went and if it was too far. There may be apologies owed. Astarion still wants a promise, though he thinks, rather hysterically, of what Wyll said: maybe it can’t happen in a day. Maybe he just has to make sure he uses the time they have wisely.

Astarion doesn’t say any of that. And Gale, the wordiest wizard in the realms, doesn’t say anything more than, “Oh. All right.”

“All right,” Astarion repeats, a little bewildered.

He waits for more, anything, but Gale’s breaths even out in the next instant, and he’s asleep in seconds. Astarion chuckles softly and shakes his head, holding Gale tighter to him. He watches him sleep.

 

Astarion doesn’t mean to actually trance all that much, and for this reason—when he wakes, he’s alone in the bed, and that makes him sit up in true alarm. He has no idea of the time, how close to morning—there is no morning in this godsforsaken land—but that’s not his first concern as he looks wildly around the room, panic gripping him tightly.

“I’m here,” Gale says softly, and Astarion spots him by the window and breathes a huge sigh of relief.

Gale has shrugged on his robe but hasn’t tied it; it hangs loose on him and makes him seem smaller within it, a sad little puddle of wizard in the only chair in the room. He’s staring out at the light of the Moonshield, wistful and thoughtful.

He probably doesn’t want to be disturbed, but Astarion doesn’t know how to do anything but disturb him. So he crosses the room quickly and drops naked in his lap, prompting a small “Oof,” sound that he ignores.

“Nice view?” Astarion asks, leaning up between Gale and the window. Gale gives him a small smile.

“It just got better.”

“Oh, you flatterer.”

That earns a chuckle from Gale, and he shakes his head. He wraps his arms around Astarion with a sigh and drops his head down on his shoulder; Astarion runs his arm up Gale’s back in soothing pets.

“Can I show you something?” Gale asks, and Astarion nods.

“As long as I don’t have to move.”

“You don’t. Just let me—here.”

One-handed, the bloody showoff, Gale strokes his arm through the air around them until their little room in the inn falls away. Between one blink and another, he and Astarion are now sitting together on a padded bench on a balcony at sunset. When Astarion turns to look, he sees a busy harbor, beautiful endless sea, and knows where they are immediately.

“Waterdeep,” Astarion says softly, and Gale nods.

“Waterdeep. I—this is my favorite spot. And since we started this—yes, even that first time, even after all we’ve done to each other—this is what I kept imagining for us. Sitting here, like this, looking out over the water, being near each other.” Gale swallows hard; he’s stopped looking at the view, has ducked his head down on Astarion’s shoulder again. “No orb, no tadpoles, just—watching the sunset.”

“Well, not to put a damper on things, but if I don’t have the tadpole, I won’t be able to watch the sunset.” He smiles when he feels Gale chuckle against him.

“Good point.”

“And if—if you use the orb, of course, you won’t be able to watch the sunset,” Astarion adds, faux lightness in his voice. When Gale doesn’t respond, doesn’t chuckle, he pokes at him and adds, fighting to keep his voice steady, “Because you’ll be dead.”

Gale sighs. “I know.”

“For a goddess who doesn’t deserve your devotion.” Not like I do, he adds, but he falters, too curious about what Gale might have to say to that.

It takes a quiet moment, but then Gale says, very softly, “I know.”

Something shifts in Astarion, loosening up; he lets out a breath he doesn’t need just to feel the lightness, the tentative notes of relief. “Good of you to catch on,” Astarion says, but he can’t keep the shakiness out of his voice this time, and Gale squeezes him gently in response.

They fall quiet again, still sunk in the illusion. Astarion enjoys it, reveling in the hope he feels, until he can’t help doing what he always does and poke at it—just in case.

“So what is this, then? What are you showing me?” he asks, pushing Gale pointedly.

“A dream, maybe?” Gale says. He looks up, meeting Astarion’s gaze, and gives him a knowing smile. “A promise, perhaps.”

“I like the sound of that,” Astarion says, smiling back. But of course Gale’s not done talking.

“It could be the future, something to hope for at the end of all this. A future I’ll live for.” There’s a note of determination in his voice then, stubbornness that Astarion wants to crow about.

“Go on.”

“A fantasy,” Gale says, heat warming up his brown eyes; he shifts restlessly under Astarion.

Astarion shifts back, leaning against him, with a happy sigh.

“Oh, I like that one,” he says, and he shoves his hand between them to make a blatant, rough grab at Gale’s cock, smiling at the hiss of pain that elicits. “I am excellent at making all your fantasies come true.”

Notes:

and then they fuck over the balcony of gale's wizard condo; the end. 😌 until next time!

Notes:

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