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Lorroakan’s spells grow more desperate and deadly with every utterance, and each is directed solely at Gale of Waterdeep. ‘Mystra’s Lapdog,’ he’d sneered only a few moments earlier, the ire and idol jealousy poisoning his thin attempt at boasting. It is only a testament to Gale’s prior influence, really—for the master of Ramazith’s Tower to stoop to such a petty jab.
And for the most part, Gale seems to keep pace easily. He is careful with his counterspelling, at least Astarion had thought—but as the battle progresses, he notices that Gale has begun to take more hits than not. The cuff of his robe is singed black, while his opposite shoulder hardens over with ice. He’s managed to keep his distance from Lorroakan’s little menaces, but their master’s attention seems fixated on Gale and Gale alone.
Another streak of color crashes through the air, but there is nothing Astarion can do for him from this distance. The most help he can manage is slinging his blades through the ghastly Myrmidon muck. Even that bothersome tiefling is more use from afar, though Astarion has to remind himself each time that Rolan intervenes that they are fighting for the same cause.
“Is that all that the so-called Chosen, Gale of Waterdeep, can handle these days?” Lorroakan’s voice is drenched in malice, and his next spell pools and swirls in his palm. “It’s no wonder then how Mystra tired of you so quickly. Elminster got a good century at least, but you? A sorcerer without his stamina is less useful than a tunedeaf bard.”
A thick, coagulated arrow, all but dripping blood-black, pierces Gale square through the chest. He doubles over as if it’s knocked the air from his lungs. It doesn’t even seem as if he’d made a move to dodge.
Astarion takes one shattering breath in his stead, and he carves his knives through a thick bough of the nearest myrmidon. It’s not enough to end it—and neither is Karlach’s axe, nor whatever holy-chirp of a spell Shadowheart can offer.
It’s the tiefling who does it, in some awful, ironic, moronic shift of competency. As if he’s suddenly remembered himself, a barrage of Rolan’s magic sparks and sears through his Master’s skull with all the messy, incendiary insubordination he can manage. And the next thing any of them know the battle is finished, and that bastard Lorroakan lays smoldering into his ugly rug.
Perhaps in a different scenario Astarion could find some satisfaction in this reversal of fortune. But it’s hard to think of some other bastard’s newfound freedom when his—well, perhaps not his partner, they really haven’t put a name on anything per se, but—his Gale is being set upon by someone now more than peer, less than enemy. The most terrifying combination for two academics.
The apprentice steps over the charred corpse of his master to offer Gale a steadying hand, and Astarion’s nails bite into his palm.
He can’t seem to cross the room quick enough to intervene, and “is he alright?” is all Astarion manages before they’re interrupted. He knows Gale will throw a fit over not being asked directly, but he also can’t rightly trust the man who has tried at every opportunity to throw himself onto the pyre to be honest about his condition.
“I’m fine,” Gale coughs.
“You’re burning up,” Rolan tuts disapprovingly, as if it makes Astarion see any less red.
“Did you see that missile? Of course I’m a bit warm. Just a little…” Gale trails off, clutching uselessly at his robes. “Warm, is all.”
Astarion quirks a brow. What a decidedly simple and not at all reassuring response.
Rolan seems to question it as well, and ugh, how he hates agreeing on something. At least if it had been one of their own keeping him upright he could count on Gale’s usual demeanour to belie any… battleground affections. But it certainly doesn’t help that the wizard seems somehow extra pathetic when beaten and bruised as he is now.
Astarion tries not to count the hand lengths between their touch and a wine-red stain coloring his sometime-lover’s collarbone.
No, he fixates on their conversation instead. The two discuss the matter of successorship, and it’s frustrating how easily Gale offers it to the tiefling. As if he’s got no glory to reclaim, or perhaps a life in Baldur’s Gate is such an abhorrent thought. At least he negotiates for the former bastard’s pocket change and the remains of his equipment, but Astarion can’t help but sneer when he’s told to help himself by someone who’d barely contributed. Rolan certainly wasn’t bruised and blackened the way the rest of them were.
“Are you quite certain that you’re alright, Gale?” Just Gale? Since when are they on a no ‘Of-Waterdeep’ basis? “The tower has plenty of rooms, if you need a moment to—”
“Actually, we’ve already got a room booked for the evening.” Astarion cuts in, trudging across the room to make his displeasure that much more evident than it already was. Shadowheart snickers behind them, only to be shushed by Karlach, of all people. But he’s got so little patience left, and even less shame.
Gale looks at him with those— ugh! with those big wet eyes that scream ‘won’t you attempt cordiality? He’s a colleague, of sorts!’ And because Astarion is hopelessly, bewilderingly smitten with the man, he turns back to spit, “It was such a pleasure killing your boss, let’s do it again some time. Now, if you’ll excuse us,” before they go.
And go is truly an understatement. Astarion all but throws Gale over his shoulders the moment they cross the threshold into the city. He cuts through crowded alleys and children’s street games, losing the rest of their party somewhere along the way.
“—Astarion, slow down.”
He can feel Gale’s heartbeat beneath his fingers, thrumming wildly with every step. Astarion gnashes his teeth.
What is his pulse racing for? Or who? Was Gale really that anxious for attention that he could be so swayed by a gentle hand? A kind word?
What was he thinking, of course he was—it had worked just as well for Astarion those few weeks ago, hadn’t it?
An awful, sobering thought.
They reach the Elfsong in record time, but when they reach the top of the stairs, it isn’t their suite that Astarion turns to. No, instead he barrels headlong into the crime scene next door, and swiftly silences Gale’s protest with a wanton press of fang to throat.
Gale smells of sweat and herbs, ash and arousal. Astarion tries to swallow his frustration, but can’t keep it from his voice. “Am I not enough for you, darling?” He slips back into old habits, questions the sincerity of any gentle handling. It does not matter if it’s true, Astarion has already decided what it means. “Did I not kill quite to your liking, darling? That you had to heap your thanks upon that little brat instead?”
He bares his teeth, as if to remind Gale that he was a threat to him once, too. And he can be again.
“You misunderstand me,” Gale nearly melts into Astarion’s touch. His face is flushed, and there’s a thin sheen along his brow. “It’s not… I’m not—” His breath hitches as Astarion mouths, licks, chews a mark against his pulse. “Astarion, wait, you’ll—“ Another shiver, and he feels Gale’s cock stiffen against him.
He struggles for words again, and for just a moment Astarion allows his concern to show on his face. He leans forward, matching their foreheads together so his weakness won’t be seen.
“Astarion,” Gale pleads, and shaky hands try to find purchase in Astarion’s armor. “I’m sorry, I promise it’s—”
A wave of prickling heat begins to crawl up Astarion’s neck, light like a glancing touch, unprompted. He hasn’t felt it—the tadpole—in what feels like an eternity now. And never once from Gale.
But now, something begins to trickle in. What once was a brush of fingers becomes a desperate hold, tearing in the base of Astarion’s skull.
The spell.
Astarion feels Gale’s shame nearly swallow him whole, can feel him clawing at his robes. The hunger of the orb twists around Lorroakan’s magic and leaves a hollowed-out hole in the centre of his chest, then pools instead ichor-black in his stomach. Gale grimaces through the recollection, but doesn’t push Astarion out of his thoughts.
An outstretched hand—the immediate, knee-buckling rush—there is a humid haze blurring the edges of his memory, too full and hot and desperate to be touched. And then a flash of clarity when Astarion finally catches him by the arm, only to be pulled back, down, head spinning with want. An aching, endless emptiness as he’s pushed against the door.
If only Gale could see the way he looks right now—strands of dark hair clinging to his cheek, and pupils as wide as saucers. And they hadn’t even kissed yet.
Astarion huffs out a hollow, pitying laugh for them both. “Is that what’s got you all out of sorts, Gale?” He smooths a thumb across the wizard’s temple and Gale chases his touch on instinct. “A little sex spell?”
Gale looks up at him through heavy lashes. “I can’t ask you to. You’re… upset with me. And we haven’t…”
“Things change, darling.” Astarion is surprised at how easily the words come, but he nips his way up to Gale’s earring. Perhaps he’s simply relieved at being almost-asked. Perhaps there’s some pride that Gale has thought of him throughout it all. “And right now the thought of marking you up as mine sounds plenty enjoyable.”
The only thing that keeps Gale upright are his fingers curled between plate pieces. Astarion’s hands tangle in the side-laces of Gale’s robe, and they fumble their way backwards to the bed. He skims his fingertips over the bulge, and Gale whines “Don’t be cruel,” in his annoyance. Which only makes him want to do it more, though surely his wizard knows that.
When Astarion digs his fangs into the soft flesh the resulting jolt wracks through them both, courtesy of their coalescing consciousness. He plucks the last string open and Gale arches up into his touch as the robe falls to the side, the fabric of his underthings already soaked through with spend.
From only a little necking? Oh, Gale of Waterdeep is truly in trouble.
It’s not so simple to divest himself of his armour, so Astarion settles for slipping the most of it halfway down his thighs, and he bites the finger of one glove and pulls it free. Gale watches without even an attempt at modesty, whimpering when cool flesh finally grazes across his stomach. He’s furnace-hot and oh-so-mortal, as the gash bitten just beside his carotid begins to ooze onto the sheets.
Thank the gods that the bed linens had already been changed. One crime scene was plenty enough foreplay. Two was… probably a bad habit to get into.
“Say something.” Gale catches him by the wrist, “It’s too… quiet. It’s very unlike us.”
Astarion laughs. He’s not wrong. “What would you have me say? How much I loathed to see you hanging off someone else? Or maybe how darling your cock looks peeking out from beneath your hem?”
The hesitation answers enough. He holds the heel of his palm against Gale’s cockhead and smears fresh spend through the dusting of coarse hair that trails down from his navel. Gods, this foolish man would be the second-death of him.
“Oh, is this all it takes to get you off, Gale of Waterdeep? A little,” he punctuates the word with a tightening curl of his hand, “teasing? Who could have imagined that my bashful wizard has been begging for a firm hand and foul mouth?”
“There’s always been—” Gale hiccups as his legs are spread. With one hand he tries to hide himself from view, while the other twists itself into the sheets behind him. “The others are always nearby, and it’s not as if I can just ask.”
“Why not?” Astarion works Gale’s cock with steady, spinning pressure, “Don’t tell me you’re too shy, love, or that you’ve got some silly virtue to protect.”
Gale shudders into his touch again. There is a firm set to his brow, even as he arches. He opens his mouth to speak, but Astarion decides he doesn’t want to hear the answer.
“Whatever you’ve got rattling around in there can wait until tomorrow.” He skims a hand through Gale’s hair, gentle enough for now. “For now, you’ll just follow my lead. I ask, you answer.” And then, a laugh, “For once.”
“I certainly hope it’s only—” Astarion slips closer, splits Gale’s attention as he traces a nail up along his shaft, and he can feel the wizard’s legs shake in anticipation of another release. But it’s a glancing touch—his thumb and forefinger slip together, tightening firm around his cock before sinking back down to keep him waiting.
Because, well, Astarion is still a little spiteful.
Gale begins to protest; he whines, even dares to buck his hips. But the moment his lips part to speak he seems to slip back docile into Astarion’s touch.
Astarion rewards him with another lazy kiss, another slow, easy, dragging pump. As if to say good boy, and glaze that desperation over just to see how long that he can stand it.
And then another moment passes, still, and Gale’s heartbeat begins to race again. Astarion places the next kiss below his jaw, and then smears another against his scarlet throat.
With every drawling stroke, he can feel Gale’s consciousness reach for his. Oh, see how much he hurts? How much he aches? He claws for him both body and mind, and yet Astarion still sets the pace so slow it’s hardly touching at all. For such a cold caress to somehow please him, Gale must truly be a glutton for his punishments.
Astarion shouldn’t be surprised to discover that the spell has already eased its target open, another embarrassment. Just the slightest press already has Gale’s legs falling wider, and another small swell of anger rises in Astarion’s chest. His hands switch, and Gale ruts against the palm of his leather glove with a darling little whine as Astarion’s attention slips low, back down between his legs, and spreads his fingers.
“What a foul little spell,” he says, though his words are only punctuation for the prodding of his hands. One finger is almost effortless, though the second earns a huff. “So impatient, darling.” He gently teases, tightens his grip around Gale’s cock. “Forgive me for not delighting in another man’s handiwork, weave or not.”
“He’s already dead, Astarion.” Gale helpfully reminds, “And a terrible spellcraft. If it were one of mine—“ His voice catches, his toes curl, and Astarion finally finds that lovely little spot. “I’d—it would be… much quicker, let us leave it at that.”
Astarion does chuckle. Gale of Waterdeep can’t even manage to be fingered humbly, how unsurprising. He presses a firm touch again, and Gale reels back.
“If magic is the only thing on your mind, dearest,” His whole body is in a clench, and he squirms in a desperate need for friction. “If you’d rather talk of other wizards, their expertise or lack-thereof, well…”
“No, of course not, I was just…” Gale prattles on as a third is added, the fullness seemingly a salve, only to jolt back to himself as Astarion precisely curls each finger one by one. “Just—! Ah, it was only a moment, I didn’t think—”
“For once, you didn’t?” Astarion’s voice is colder than he intends, though perhaps it’s venom better spit elsewhere. “Just because I can’t whisper pretty incantations doesn’t mean I’m any less capable of punishing you, darling.”
“I’m sorry.” Gale says so simply, pride be damned. “Astarion, I sh-should have said something.” He bucks his hips, and Astarion pushes him back down, his palm pressed firm against the wizard’s cock to keep him still and unsatisfied.
“Say it again.”
Gale swallows, trying desperately to find his footing on the mattress, to gain some small leverage so that he can look his lover in the eyes as he pleads. But Astarion holds him splayed so that he can’t manage.
Spread fingers twitch, all the more dreadful in their near-stillness.
“I’m sorry, Astarion.”
Astarion licks his teeth. It’s a thrill in itself, to be on the other side of the whimpering for once. To be the one to make it feel better, He feels his own hardness strain as Gale repeats himself, his name, sorry, so sorry, and the liquor of it eases the wizard wider, ready.
“How sorry, Gale?” Astarion bites at his ear, and one by one pulls his fingers almost free, then gives a final playful spread. Gale shudders when they’re finally replaced with the head of Astarion’s cock, and there’s another unspoken sob of relief. “Oh, darling, you’re burning up. Just keep going, I’m sure I’ll forgive you eventually.”
“Astarion, please,” He presses dry kisses along Astarion’s cheekbone, tips his head to watch every fraction of Astarion’s movement inside. “You know I don’t, wouldn’t, be… It would have always been you, or no one.”
“Even with all those extra rooms in the tower?” The thought alone makes him dig his nails into the heft of Gale’s stomach, sink into his heat. “Or perhaps you’d have suffered alone in your bed, your Goddess peering out at you from the Tabernacle window?”
Astarion’s tadpole squirms as if to offer understanding, but the wizard sputters his way through another try. “It isn’t—wasn’t, I don’t believe he intended…” The breathless way he searches for his words is almost cute, but even Gale must realise that it’s not what Astarion wants to hear.
The warmed skin of his hand slips beneath the heft of Gale’s thigh and lifts ever-so, angling, pressing him further and harder into the mattress. Gale makes a little noise of protest, at least until the pleasure hits.
“Or—! Ah, perhaps you’re… you’re right.”
Astarion feels his lip curl, the crest of the cruel wave. His grip tightens, and so does Gale around him.
“How sweet of you to finally play along.” He buries his laugh beneath Gale’s ear, his lover’s cue next to it. “You’ve always got such bothersome flies about, darling. Sucking up,” He punctuates his faux-protest with a slow, shallow thrust, “all the air around you.”
Gale squirms, gasps—it’s hard to tell what is spell and what’s just Gale, what’s the result of restless nights spent just a length apart. Astarion quickly learns to appreciate the way his wizard’s shame flushes skin scarlet when he sinks back onto him. A shuddering breath, a half-cocked smile, even as his legs shake. “I never quite… imagined you to be the jealous type, Astarion.”
There is something to be said about jealousy, Astarion thinks. How much he loves to win, to feel, and isn’t that all jealousy is? And isn’t it—isn’t he—lucky to have a pretty prize wrapped around him, anxious for his touch?
And he obliges, generously. Astarion’s hands wander from thigh upwards, carving little crescents into whatever scar or crease he happens upon, as if the marks along Gale’s neck won’t be enough a warning.
“Well, there’s quite a difference between others approaching you and you hanging off of—” Astarion can hardly bite back the venom, even if it’s all pretend. It’s odd, exhilarating to care so much. His thumb notches into the muscle beneath Gale’s jaw, and he angles his gaze away. “If you are going to cling to anyone, love, it should be me.”
It knocks Gale from his teary-daze, the word, but Astarion won’t let him look straight-on. He can hardly believe he’s said it either, but now it echoes unfamiliar between every breath and thrust and touch.
So much touch, warm hands raking through his hair and the meeting of their bodies, the way Astarion’s hands linger around Gale’s throat, how lovely the steady beating of his pulse beneath those two little bites.
Gale arches up to meet him, and lets their shared vices indulge, tighten; he offers him the trust that Astarion had been so eager for.
He loves him, he thinks, underneath all the bluster and bravado. For as much as he wants for Gale to be just his, Astarion must have given him a bit of himself somewhere along the way. And it’s almost a relief that he hadn’t noticed until now because maybe that meant that it was freely given, some feeling that he hadn’t painted up to please anyone but himself, but that Gale had taken just the same.
Astarion’s touch finally brushes up the curve of Gale’s neck. His thumb traces up the tense muscle slowly, while the other fingers sweep back the few locks of sweat-soaked grey that have worked loose from his writhing.
Gale’s cheek falls against his palm. His eyes are closed—perhaps out of modesty, though just as likely exhaustion—and he mouths another apology into the heel of Astarion’s hand as he spills over himself again, desperately.
His movements slow to match Gale’s little shakes, to watch the way his breathing evens out for just a moment of clarity.
Only for his brat of a wizard to sigh and cant his hips again. “Don’t… stop on my behalf, Astarion.” Gale dares a glance back up at him, still heavy-lidded, “I’m still,” doe-eyed, “plenty…” feverish, Gale thinks, the word slipping through the tadpole as honeyed as his tongue has ever managed.
Astarion huffs a laugh. Of course he won’t be satisfied alone.
“Oh darling, I can tell.” He presses a teasing bite to the inside of Gale’s knee. They fall wide again. “I won’t accept any critique of my stamina, after all is said and done.”
Gale is pretty and eager and his alone, and Astarion holds him still against the bed as he finishes inside again. There’s a lewd smack of skin—his armour has long since been discarded—and he rocks them through the aftershocks.
Gale’s been filled and fucked through thrice already, and his cock is spent and soft, dribbling out the few tears he can somehow manage whenever Astarion pulls him back to the edge of the mattress, or when fangs catch against the corners of his lips.
“Gods,” Gale keens, arches up to chase his kiss. Astarion smirks.
“I almost think you’re trying to keep me jealous, Gale.”
His hand wraps around Astarion’s wrist, and the warmth is in his voice, too. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps, he says.” Astarion rolls his eyes as if he’s got an audience. Between the thin walls and astral pleading, he may as well assume they do. “Well, you’re awfully lucky I’m so forgiving.”