Work Text:
Gale awakes.
This is fine, normally. Gale will wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, as he is wont to do. Human bodies have needs, after all, like peeing, or drinking water, or wandering into the kitchen for a late-night snack.
This time is different, though. This time, there is an insistent ringing in his ears. A wire, made of pure Weave, has been tripped somewhere in the tower. Another moment's focus gives him the precise entrance - a window downstairs, the one in the breakfast nook facing the Sea of Swords.
Gale realizes a few things from this: first, that the intruder did not want to be seen or heard, and is therefore at least somewhat adept in roguish arts. Second, and more importantly, it's not his mother, Tara, or Astarion.
The latter trances beside him, chest bare with the summer heat, his ears twitching at Gale's movements.
My love, I hate to disturb you, but there's an intruder somewhere downstairs, Gale messages his husband, a magic whisper only he can hear. He feels, more than sees or hears, the elf's breathing still.
Noted, he whispers back through the spell, slipping silently out of bed. Gale makes no attempt to track his movements - he knows whatever Astarion has planned will work better if Gale has absolutely no idea where he is.
In the meantime, Gale rises from bed himself, heart in his throat. He isn't exactly inclined to cast fireballs in his own home. In fact, casting most spells at this point might be unideal, considering most of the ones he has prepared require a vocal component, and he doesn't want to show his hand to… whoever this might be. He grabs his purple silk lounge robe from where it hangs off the bedframe and quickly puts it on for at least some semblance of decency - he'd be wearing nothing but sleeping trousers otherwise.
Their home is eerily quiet, considering what he knows. He steps out of the bedroom, breathing a sigh of relief when he sees nothing amiss.
Gale enters his study and shuts the creaking door, before muttering another significantly more powerful incantation. The silver rings on his left hand shine as he gestures, and a moment later, he can feel an arcane link between himself and Astarion, wherever he is.
Anything? he asks silently, his thoughts a gossamer-thin strand of Weave that threads through the tower directly into Astarion's head.
One rogue, one monk, one wizard, and there's another armoured one with a sword the size of her body keeping watch outside, Astarion's voice murmurs in his head. Seems they're looking for something in particular, not average burgling. There's a pause before the elf's voice comes through once more: And they definitely heard the study door close just now. I keep telling you to oil those hinges.
Four of them? Gale's hand twitches in subconscious preparation for casting, and he finds the twisted form of Rhapsody where it lies ever-sharp on his desk. He slips it into his hand. And, now? Really? We've more pressing issues than my absentmindedness, he grumbles.
I'd give you about 20 seconds before they make it to the study. Keep the lights off, will you, darling?
Gale's steadying breath comes shaky and tense. He swallows, closes his eyes, and waves his hand.
The room is plunged into darkness. He blinks it back in a vain attempt to will himself some darkvision, and strains to hear the intruders - footsteps, whispering, anything. All he can do now is wait.
He hears the creak of the floorboards in front of the study door, and has just enough time to cast mage armor before the door flies open.
"Hello," Gale says, his voice steady, his eyes looking directly into the black hoods. He hears them stop.
The air is still. Gale's grip on Rhapsody's handle tightens imperceptibly. Though he is effectively blinded, he does still know where everything in his study is. He hopes that will suffice.
"If you'd like to keep unharmed," he says, "I'd suggest you make your way back from whence you came, with nothing in this tower changed. I'm quite sure whatever you're looking for is not worth the trouble."
There's an intake of breath and the shuffle of fabric.
"You're Gale of Waterdeep, one of the recent saviors of Baldur's Gate, aren't you?" a lady's voice speaks, light and calm, somewhere between awed and frightened.
Nearly a year since anyone has addressed him as such. "Indeed I am."
"We were sent here by our Queen to collect an object for her: a Ring of Sunwalking. You see, she's spent so long in the darkness that the light of the sun has grown taxing for her to remain in. We are her emissaries, her ladies-in-waiting, and we mean to help her see the sun again."
That's the wizard. She's obviously hiding something, Astarion's voice murmurs in Gale's head. Gale resists the urge to roll his eyes.
"Right. Of course. Which Queen is this?"
"The Queen of the Night."
The title gives Gale pause. Shar is Mistress of the Night… a Queen would imply someone with greater standing, which means that either this lady is dangerously close to stepping on some powerful toes, or already has enough power to warrant the title herself. Unless it's some kind of mistranslation from Elvish, or even Sylvan? His dealings with the Feywild have been few, if any, but if memory serves, they have (or had) some kind of Queen of Darkness.
Either way, Astarion is right: they are absolutely hiding something.
"Why come in the night as I sleep like common burglars, then? Someone so esteemed as a Queen has every right to ask for these things properly and politely. I'm afraid you've put the wrong foot forward, diplomatically."
"Well, unfortunately, we can't leave without it," a second lady's voice, smooth, deep, and skeptical, comes from somewhere to his left. She had moved considerably already, and he hadn't noticed at all, curse this darkness.
Gale straightens his back. "Then it seems we are at an impasse," he says, eyes darting in the second lady's direction.
The air lies thick around them. Gale feels his muscles tense minutely, and his grip on Rhapsody shifts. If these so-called emissaries do anything untoward, he will invoke his Bladesong.
"If I may," Gale begins, his currently useless eyes settling in the direction of the first woman who spoke, "You said you serve the Queen of the Night. Now," Gale holds up a finger with his free hand. "That is quite the vague and lofty title. I'd rather like to know more, if I can."
A wave of silence passes over the room. As Gale looks around, his heart drops - though his eyes have adjusted, he can't see anyone but the vague shape of one lady - that first lady - in front of him. When had the other two slipped off?
"Our Queen holds domain over the night," she says, "over the shadows that stretch in the corners of graveyards and battlegrounds, where the veil between the dead and the living stretches thin as gossamer."
Now that smacks of the Shadowfell. Shar does not reside there, though its desolate wastes and storms are undoubtedly her realm - no, this Queen of the Night must be someone else, some other powerful being who made her home there.
"Well. That seems rather… shadowy." Gale's eyes narrow despite the dark. "I hate to invoke her name, but Shar does not seem like the type of goddess to let an upstart noble take such power from her. Are you sure she hasn't noticed?"
"Shar clings to her darkness and secrecy like a child with a blanket," the first voice says, her voice traced with indignity. "The Mistress of our Queen's Night can live in ignorance all she likes. The Queen has no need for clinging to her loss as she does, and so has no quarrel with her."
And yet she can't come in person to, oh, I don't know, ask for it politely? Astarion thinks at Gale. Did I ever tell you about my other husband, the tarrasque named Jonathan?
"Right. Now, obviously, I don't have the whole picture, as we aren't exactly friends, but allow me to walk you through my train of thought. You come into my home, fully intending to burgle me, at the behest of a being who, for one reason or another, can't come in person. A powerful being, who, despite her lofty title, somehow hasn't garnered the attention of a goddess nearly as primordial as Ao himself.
"Now, I will grant you, distance may very well be a factor. However, if you were, as you believe her to be, a powerful pseudo-goddess, wouldn't you send a sign of some kind? A calling card, or your own personal presence, given the importance of the situation?
"Might she be less powerful than you've been led to believe? Might she be fallible, just as she is apparently susceptible to sunlight?" Gale pauses, hoping that these ladies might see reason. He really doesn't want to have to kill them.
Gods, Astarion thinks, if I wasn't literally in your thoughts, I would've completely believed you hadn't just bluffed your way through that.
Bit of a gamble, assuming that my complete lack of knowledge on their Queen meant that she isn't all she's cracked up to be, Gale admits.
Seems to have worked. Who knew wizards could be so good at bluffing?
I learned from the best.
Before the other wizard can say anything else, Gale looks in her direction, hoping he catches her eye despite the darkness. "As a fellow student of the Weave, I implore you, look closer. You and I both well know that there are many beings who flaunt themselves as deities when they are nothing more than overambitious mortals, grasping for power at the expense of all else, even those close to them."
This time, the silence is heavy, halting, like time itself slows.
"You have given me much to consider, Gale of Waterdeep," the wizard's light voice admits quietly.
Gale is about to wave the lights back on when the latent Weave in the room warps with something fell, something dark, something suffused with shadow. "Inveni Sole Peditis Anulo," the dark wizard invokes, attempting to locate the ring. Her hood shifts as she looks upward, quizzically. "It's upward," she warns, stepping backward.
Gale knows exactly where the ring is, of course, and so does Astarion. If the elf wasn't so damn good at hiding, it would be glinting on his right ring finger.
Upward? Gale wonders to himself suddenly. Why would Astarion be-
There's a flash of something behind Gale, and he realizes it's the metal of a dagger as it slashes through his robe and into the surface of his left arm. Rhapsody rings as his Woven song begins. He tries to dodge the next slice, but it's too dark, and it nicks him again. He hisses in pain.
The next thing he knows is - well, nothing, for a terrifying moment. The monk punches him right in his core and all at once the world coalesces into that single point of ringing pain, and his already limited vision swims. He stumbles back, and his free hand grips the side of his desk for balance.
"Citius," Gale hears from above. He looks around blindly, and there - the telltale rush of a Haste spell taking effect, and a flash of glowing red eyes.
He's seen this dance before. He's heard it time and time again. Less so these days, in their relative domestic bliss, but he still remembers the dashing, terrifyingly effective rogue he fell in love with.
The glint of Astarion's dagger flashes against the glow of the Weave forming the dark wizard's next spell. Its casting fizzles out, leaving only the sound of her breath being forced from her lungs, followed by a horrible thud.
Astarion's dagger slices through the air, and Gale hears something whiz past his ear and sink into the body of the monk. She hisses in pain, and glowing red eyes rush toward her at a supernatural speed.
Gale yelps, feeling a sharp stinging in his thigh as another dagger slashes at him from underneath the desk. The rogue, he thinks at Astarion.
The only response he gets is a feeling of cold, calculated rage.
"Who the fuck-" the monk yells, her arms a flurry as she attempts to hit Astarion. Gale gets flashes of images, blurry from the vampire's hasted vision: she manages to nick Astarion's cheek and attempts to stun him, too, but he shoves her hand to the side where her fingers hit the meat of his chest, instead. He uses her arm's momentum to throw her off balance and grapples her in place.
"Don't think I don't see you down there, rogue," Astarion spits, his words dripping with venom, before piercing his teeth into the monk's neck. Gale hears her choke on her own blood filling her throat, hears her flesh being torn asunder, and hears Astarion sigh like a predator after a meal.
Part of him wishes his heart was racing more at the danger they're in than at Astarion's satisfied moan, but beggars can't be choosers.
Astarion reaches for the rogue hiding under the desk and yanks her up by her black cloak with unnatural strength, pulling her onto his dagger. It sinks through the cloak partway into her studded leather armor, catching her flesh. She wiggles her way out of the worst of it, but still hisses as the blade pierces her skin. He lets go, slinking backward into the darkness, her answering swipe all but unheeded.
Gale waves his free hand and summons the Bladesong once more. The hearth in the wall flares to life at once, a single source of bright light, and Gale pinpoints a weak spot in the lady's armor as soon as he can see. Rhapsody cuts into the juncture between her arm and body, twisting into her. Blood drips onto Gale's hand, coating it red. She screams in pain.
As the blade is pulled from her body, her eyes dart around the room, taking in the bodies, the blood, and the doors. Two exits, one on either side of the room - one to the rest of the tower, and one to the balcony facing the Sea of Swords.
Taking a chance, she lunges for Gale. He was not expecting this. He tries to twist away from her, but she latches onto Gale's robe, his lapels trapped in a vice grip. Dragging Gale with her, she dashes for the double balcony doors, shoves them open with her shoulder, and forces Gale against the balcony's railing, facing the interior.
Gale hears the clanking of heavy armor before he sees the woman wearing it cross the threshold into the study over the rogue's shoulder. She wields a great obsidian-black sword in her hands, and only skids to a stop when she notices the precarious position her ally placed herself in.
The momentary pause is all Astarion needs. He slinks out from the shadows that had gathered by the door and slices into the underside of the fighter's knee, throwing her off-balance.
This is the first time Gale has seen Astarion since yesterday. His hair is tousled, mussy in a way he never lets anyone see. His alabaster skin is splattered crimson, shining in the low moonlight from the open balcony doors. Blood drips from the sides of his mouth.
Gale feels his traitorous little cock twitch.
"Voco," the elf murmurs, a familiar incantation. Then, as quickly as he appears, he pulls back, deftly moving away from the fighter's space.
Gale's focus shifts back to the rogue still manhandling him and tries desperately to worm his way out of her grip, but she keeps him pinned. She rips a piece of her cloak off, already torn from Astarion's dagger, and shoves it into his mouth before he can react. She quickly takes a rough rope from her belt and ties it through his mouth, forcing the cloth to stay. He's spun around until he's nearly bent over the railing, and the fell rogue tugs on the rope, hard. His head is wrenched back, his cry muffled in the makeshift gag. Before he knows it, his arms are bent at the elbows, his wrists pulled between his shoulder blades and harshly tied with the same rope, forcing his body to arch uncomfortably backward. Rhapsody drops from his twisted hands and clatters onto the floor.
Gale breathes hard through his nose, still trying to wiggle his way out of the restraints, when the fighter speaks.
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," Gale hears her say, her voice flat and matter-of-fact. "Death can't stop us - we'll just return to our Queen. I'm much more worried about what will happen to your wizard. So drop your pointless weapons, and we can talk."
There is a moment of stillness, and Astarion reaches out to Gale with their connection.
You alright, darling?
A bit preoccupied and entirely incapacitated, he sends back, but for the most part, yes.
Suddenly, the fighter roughly grips the restraints behind Gale's head and leans him over the railing until most of his body dangles over the sea. He can't look anywhere with the way his head is pulled back, only forward at the coastline of Waterdeep, at the sea glittering silver in the moonlight.
I take that back, he says in Astarion's head.
He hears movement.
"The hard way it is, then," the fighter resigns, letting go of Gale.
He feels a terrifying moment of weightlessness, and then a sudden, hard yank back onto the balcony. There's a frankly impressive crrrack, and Gale is suddenly thankful he's gagged as he moans and melts into the cold tile, having felt his spine properly stretch for what he's fairly certain is the first time in years.
He twists over on his side to watch as the fighter yells a battle cry, and discovers Astarion standing above him, bent like a cat ready to pounce, dagger in hand. The other rogue is nowhere to be seen, having disappeared during the attempted dialogue. The fighter swings her greatsword, but the strikes go wide as Astarion dodges to the side, up the wall, and above her on the low ceiling, staring down with bright, sharp red eyes.
Gale feels the rope around him tighten, tear, then slack open. His neck and wrists ache in relief, and he looks over to discover Rhapsody floating there, tattered rope beneath it. It flips midair, held by a deft, invisible hand, then presents itself handle-first.
As soon as Gale grips his dagger once more, Astarion snarls and leaps down onto the fighter. He catches her by the shoulders and flips off of her, landing on his feet behind her on the opposite side of Gale. He reaches around before she can react and slices his sharp claws into her neck. Blood splatters onto Astarion's hand and Gale's front, staining his already ruined lounge robe, and her body falls to the ground with a clank.
Astarion catches Gale's eyes, his own glowing and dangerous.
Gale shakes his head, ignoring the sudden rush of blood to his cheeks (and further down), and focuses just long enough to hear the creak of one of his floorboards. He spots the rogue attempting to make a swift escape.
"Non movere!"
She is stopped in her tracks, her joints stuck mid-movement, her body held in place by the Weave itself. Her breath comes shallow, the spell so potent it keeps her lungs from expanding as they should.
"Now," Gale says, walking closer until he's in full view of the rogue, the blood of her allies covering his body, "we can do this, as your friend said, the easy way, or the hard way."
The muscles across her body tense and release in an effort to struggle against the magical binding, but it's no use. Gale shakes his head. "It's a shame, really. You all had every chance to leave."
Astarion steps forward, forcing the rogue's head back in a mirror of what she had done to Gale not moments before, exposing her neck. He leans forward, bent over her like a vulture over viscera, their only points of contact his hand at her head and his sharp teeth itching to pierce her pulse.
"I'm not unreasonable, though," Gale says, watching as gentle trickles of blood bead from where Astarion's fangs have begun to puncture her. "If I stop holding you here, and you relax, your death will be painless - even pleasant. You can even tell your queen that I am willing to parlay with her."
The rogue's eyes shift from panic, to resignation, and finally to acceptance.
Gale drops the hold, and the rogue, true to her gaze, slumps against Astarion. He holds her just steady enough to lower her gently as he himself sinks to the ground, then bites into her neck.
Astarion drinks as he stops concentrating on hasting himself, taking his fill of her blood as lethargy fills his bones.
"Well," Gale says after a moment, once his husband has finished his meal and regained his faculties. "That was… eventful."
"Are you alright, darling?" Astarion asks so, so softly, despite the bloodlust still pulsing in his eyes. He pushes the body aside and rises, then gingerly takes Gale's hands in his, pulling him closer to inspect the crude rope burn on his wrists and mouth.
"Yes, my love, I'm fine," Gale says, his heart still racing, suddenly struck by the way Astarion's fingers trace around his wounds. Those hands, still covered in blood, so gentle with him, something that should be a paradox, lie so clearly and simply before him.
Feather-light touches trace up his left sleeve until Astarion reaches the wounds on his upper arm. "Pity," his husband murmurs, voice dark. "I liked this robe on you."
Astarion slips the ripped robe off of Gale's shoulders, and his breath turns to a hiss when the fabric is peeled away from the gash in his arm.
"Did that hurt?"
Gale winces as Astarion inspects the soft flesh of his arm. "Mm. Stings a bit," he admits quietly. Astarion hums lightly in response.
Unhindered by the purple fabric of his lounge robe, blood begins seeping gently down his bare arm. The bleeding has subsided to a trickle since the scuffle, which is good. Ideally, he wouldn't have been hit at all, but it's nothing he can't sleep off fairly easily.
Astarion ducks his head to run his tongue along Gale's arm, catching the slowly dripping liquid.
"Can't have any of this go to waste, can we," he says, his voice caught somewhere between reverence and restraint. Gale's next breath comes shakily, and he locks eyes with Astarion as he licks and kisses down his arm. Astarion gently places a kiss on his sensitive wrist, watching him as his tongue darts out to taste his reddened skin. Gale swallows, unable to look away from his lips.
The vampire pulls him closer and kisses him like a man starved, his tongue tasting Gale's lips, snaking past them to savour him. Gale can taste the iron of his own blood on Astarion's tongue, and he can't help the noise that bubbles out from the back of his throat.
Astarion in turn surges into him, his bloodstained hands guiding Gale until he's pushed up against the wooden post in the center of the study, skin against blood against skin.
Their movements against each other are frantic, electric, eager, gasping. Gale feels Astarion's cock through his trousers as he grinds against him, and he feels his own twitching every moment that passes, every second he breathes in Astarion's scent, bergamot and rosemary and earth and iron.
Astarion kisses Gale's neck, licks his pulse point as Gale's heart threatens to beat out of his chest. He runs his tongue along Gale's collarbone, from his shoulder to the barely-there scar where hungry magic once surged, and lingers there for a moment, breathing Gale in like air. Gale shudders, his chest aching with a surging hunger all on its own.
He sinks to his knees and nuzzles into Gale's crotch. The wizard's breath hitches. Astarion breathes in through his nose, drinking in the scent of Gale's arousal. He opens his mouth against Gale's trousers, his bloodied fangs catching on the fabric. Gale's legs threaten to give way.
"I could smell you," Astarion murmurs. "I could smell you dripping with want the whole night, even as you slept." Gale's mouth falls open, his eyes unfocusing. He feels his little cock throb into Astarion's mouth through the fabric still covering it. Astarion drags the flat of his wet tongue up the front of his pants and Gale exhales shakily. Astarion keeps him in place, that supernatural strength that had torn flesh just minutes before, used to ground, to caress, to hold.
After a moment, once Astarion is fairly certain his dear husband won't collapse above him, he lets go, sliding his hands up Gale's hips to tug at his waistband. Gale reaches for the post behind him for balance as the vampire carefully tugs down his trousers. The wound on Gale's thigh smarts as the fabric is pulled off and away, and he gasps at the feeling, at the way it makes his cock throb. Astarion licks one wet, warm, salacious stripe up Gale's folds, making him shudder, then leans back.
"Ruin me."
Astarion opens his mouth, expectant, looking up at Gale like he wants to devour him, to drain him dry, to take him apart.
Gale kicks his trousers the rest of the way off and exhales, clearing his mind just enough to gesture and mutter an incantation. His petite cock swells into a full uncut one, already wet from his arousal.
"Gods, it's big," Astarion murmurs, his breath uncharacteristically hot against the covered head of Gale's transfigured cock. Before he can reply, the vampire licks a stripe up its underside, and Gale's hands grip the wooden post at the sensation.
"Is it? It's- feels like it's been a while since I've cast that spell," he manages, his voice already unsteady. It is, now that he looks at it - it's a bit longer than Astarion's, and considerably thicker.
Astarion takes Gale's cock in his bloodstained hand and immediately puts it in his still warm mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip, stroking its length with his hand. Gale quivers and moans above him, can feel himself getting harder in Astarion's sinful mouth, in his deft hand, under his ruby gaze.
The rogue's eyes flutter closed as he focuses on Gale's cock. He closes his lips around Gale, then pulls back, gently suckling the tip. Gale's hand moves to caress Astarion's face for a moment, and he discovers that his own hand is lightly splattered with blood, too. His thumb smears some into his husband's white hair, and Astarion leans back, his lips opening until only the flat of his tongue cradles the head of Gale's dick. His eyes reopen, red and dark and gorgeous. Gale feels himself shudder underneath their intensity.
Though Astarion's eyes no longer glow, Gale feels them bore into him, observe him, see him, how vulnerable and naked he is, how deeply he trusts and loves. His chest tightens at the feeling. He still marvels at the impossibility of it all, how everything clicked together in just the right way for Astarion to be the one he loves, and the one who loves him back.
It's not like this is new, really. They've done this bit before - magic in the bedroom is par for the course for any self-respecting (well-) mage, and this spell alone has been cast many a time in their tower. Astarion has sucked him off like this a few times, too, and looked at him like he painted the sky, and Gale's done the same. They've had heartfelt conversations and made love and fucked hard in equal measure… but something feels different this time. It's like every feeling is multiplied - the heat, the lust, the love. Was it the fighting? Is it the pain, the adrenaline? Gods, whatever it is, it feels incredible.
I can hear you, Astarion's voice rings in his mind, gentle, ravenous. You're thinking awfully loudly, clever love.
Gods. The telepathy spell, of course. Gale had all but forgotten about it.
A tremor rushes through his body. He feels so warm, so taut. The wooden post stands cool and rigid against his naked back. I want- I need, Gale sends to Astarion, bereft of eloquence. It takes effort, like he needs to focus to get it across.
He hears Astarion huff, feels the rush of hot air against his pelvis. Let me indulge.
Astarion relaxes his jaw and Gale's cock sinks into the wet heat of his mouth. Astarion pulls back, catches his husband's gaze one last time, then pushes forward, his hands moving to grip the soft flesh of Gale's thighs, leaving room for Gale to enter into him completely. It isn't long before something tenses inside Gale, warm and insistent.
"Oh, fuck, m-my love," Gale stutters aloud, his body tensing, "I'll- I'm- If you keep-"
Astarion stays right where he is, saliva building around his lips, dripping down his chin as he sucks, as his tongue rolls along the underside of Gale's cock. His hips jerk forward of their own accord, held steady only by Astarion's unnatural strength.
Let go, love. Let me taste you.
Gale trembles, his world narrowing to the heat of Astarion's blood-lined mouth. He rides the precipice until he's spilling onto his tongue, into his tight throat. Astarion moans around him as he comes, a hum that resonates through him as pleasure permeates his whole being.
Astarion pulls off, and Gale gasps at the cool air hitting his wet cock, as it pulses weakly, still leaking cum onto Astarion's lips. His body shakes from his release, his knees wobbling. His hands land on Astarion's shoulders in warning.
"Shh, I've got you," Astarion coos, his voice rough and wrecked from Gale's cock, holding Gale steady. Gale lets himself gently fall into Astarion's bloodied arms, where he can relax, where he can be vulnerable, where he is safe.
As his body settles between Astarion's legs, his own legs bent loosely around Astarion's torso, his wet cockhead rubs against Astarion's abdomen, smearing cum on his skin. Gale rests his head in the crook of Astarion's neck, trembling from all the sensations. Astarion holds him, caresses him, rubs his back as he comes down from his high.
He isn't sure when he dropped concentration on alter self, or when they started kissing again, but he finds that he can taste himself in Astarion's mouth, bitter and salty and sweet and faintly of Woven ozone. He pulls back slightly to watch Astarion chase his lips with his own, and he can't help the laugh that bubbles from somewhere deep in his chest.
Astarion's answering growl falls into a chuckle as he pushes Gale onto his back fully, climbing on top of him to kiss and lave at his neck, his legs slotting perfectly underneath Gale's. He lifts Gale's legs up and out of the way, but-
"Ow," Gale hisses, the wound on his thigh smarting now that the adrenaline has subsided.
"You didn't tell me you had another cut on your thigh," Astarion frets, gently pushing Gale's thigh back until his knee is nearly against his chest.
The position, though allegedly out of worry for his wellbeing, does nothing to allay Gale's redoubling arousal. "You didn't exactly give me a chance to mention it, my love."
Any attempt at pretending Astarion's intentions were out of concern disappears as he laves around the slash like it's the folds of Gale's cunt. Gale's leg recoils automatically - it's painful, still an open wound, but for the love of Elysium, he's a grown adult man who's just ejaculated so hard he dropped concentration on a spell that's meant to last an hour - he should not be getting this wet this quickly at getting a stab wound licked.
Oh, gods, is he into it?
Astarion bends over Gale's legs and begins kissing down the back of his thigh, matching Gale's incredulous stare with an unyielding one of his own.
"I can still hear you, Gale," Astarion sings, teasing, unserious, his lips and tongue inching closer and closer to Gale's cunt.
"Gods above," Gale mutters despite himself, feeling a gush of wetness drip out of him at the sound of Astarion's voice.
The tip of Astarion's tongue flicks along his folds, and Gale whimpers. He flattens his tongue against Gale's little cock, and he throbs into Astarion's mouth, still impossibly warm from the fresh blood coursing through him.
"You are, hn, absolutely insatiable," he says, blinking back the blinding pleasure to try and keep lucid enough to watch Astarion.
"As if it's my fault," Astarion pouts between licks.
"How is it anyone's fault but yours? You're the one who's drinking me ten ways to the nearest tenday," Gale manages, his breath catching on itself.
"You give yourself to me so well, though," Astarion says, easily slipping a bloody finger into Gale's cunt.
Any remaining words die on his tongue. A distant part of him is absolutely certain there is no way this is in any way safe, but Gale can't bring himself to care, not with the exquisite pain and pleasure, not with the way Astarion's finger presses so gently inside him, never insistent, always chasing pure ecstacy for him.
"Show me what it feels like," Astarion purrs, both aloud and through their mental connection, his voice soothing, filling Gale's head until it's the only thing there. "Let me feel you."
There is no focusing, no effort expended to bridge the gap between them. Astarion bends down to blanket Gale's little cock with his warm, wet tongue, his free hand teasing around Gale's open wound.
So wet, so good for me, Astarion's thoughts swim in his head, a drop of ink in a glass of still water. All at once, the connection opens, and Gale feels Astarion's tongue as if it was his own, kissing and licking and tasting himself, sweet and salty and his, all his.
Gale's mind swirls with pleasure. So good, he echoes back. He feels Astarion's undead heart reel and soar in response to the praise, and his own beats warm with affection in his chest. Gale's fingers brush through Astarion's bloodstained, ash-white locks, pulling him closer, his body almost aching, pleading, begging for more, for Astarion, more, please, need you, want you, love, please-
The vampire tears himself away from Gale's core and Gale whines. "Wh- I was-"
"I know, I know, I feel it, fuck, just hold on a little longer, darling," Astarion says, sounding every bit as breathless and desperate.
When they kiss again, Gale is almost overwhelmed. He can taste himself, his cum and his slick and his blood swirling into an intoxicating cocktail on Astarion's tongue. He can taste how Astarion tastes him, pomegranate and dry brandy and lavender. For a brief moment, he thinks he might be able to remember to try that when he's not high on adrenaline and lust, but Astarion's trousers are undone and his cock twitches in his hand as he guides his tip into Gale and it's suddenly quite hard to think of anything at all.
He feels the head of Astarion's cock sliding into him twice over, once at his entrance and once at Astarion's cockhead as if it was his own. He feels how wet he is, how easily Astarion slides into him, how hot his cunt feels throbbing around Astarion. Gale's hand folds itself through Astarion's bloodsoaked curls, pulling him down to kiss him, to sing ecstasy into his mouth, to let his fangs catch on his lips and draw fresh blood.
Astarion kisses his lips, then down his beard, his hips settling into a heavy rhythm as he breathes into the juncture between Gale's shoulder and neck. Gale is so warm he almost misses the telltale cold numbness of his vampire's bite, so lost in pleasure that the dull ache only heightens his senses. The dual feeling of Astarion filling him up and drinking him in makes him wonderfully lightheaded, and he shakes in Astarion's arms, gasping for breath as he tightens around Astarion's perfect cock and comes, his own little cock throbbing swollen and untouched but for the rhythm of Astarion's hips.
"Gale- Gale, I-" Astarion warns. Gale feels him falter as they both feel Gale's orgasm rush over them through that telepathic strand of Weave.
"Go, yes, please, want it, want you, all of you, please, love, 'starion, fuck-"
Gale isn't sure his first orgasm ever stopped, but the second one hits him even harder as he feels Astarion come inside him twice over, feels his cum fill him up, feels his cunt tightening around Astarion's cock, feels and hears Astarion's moan resonate in his bones, heat and pleasure spreading through every inch of their flesh.
Gale feels Astarion's thrusts slow, and he looks up, his eyes taking a moment to focus.
It's rare to see Astarion like this (blood notwithstanding), his ears and cheeks and chest fully flushed in the warm light of their fireplace. His ruby eyes shine with bliss. His chest heaves with effort.
It's a damn good look on him, Gale thinks, a bit deliriously.
"Gosh," Astarion says after a moment, aloud and in their minds. Gale giggles.
"Come here, my beautiful vampire."
~
They're in the bath, cleaning off the last bits of their uninvited guests, when Astarion grins, his (now clean) teeth glinting in the candlelight.
"The way that woman tied you up gave me a few ideas," Astarion admits, waggling his eyebrows.
"Aah, I see I was not alone," Gale nods, mildly amused. "We'd have to fine-tune it, I think. Bit too painful and haphazard, the way she did it. I also think you'd wiggle out far too quickly for it to be any fun."
Astarion mock-scoffs, holding a soapy hand up to clutch at nonexistent pearls. "Who said anything about me being tied up?"
"I did," says Gale, matching Astarion's impish look.