Chapter Text
It's only a matter of time before they find out that he's Vampire Spawn.
The four of them have already passed a smattering of exsanguinated corpses, and – despite their actions and demeanour and ceaseless bickering – his new companions aren't completely moronic. Astarion wouldn't be with them if they were.
When bloodless bodies continue to crop up wherever they go, fingers are eventually going to point at the red-eyed, sharp-toothed man who pulled a blade on them all in lieu of introductions.
Astarion can't see any of that going too well.
If he isn't immediately killed, he'll at the very least be kept at an arm's length. And, unfortunately, that prospect is coupled with being out of the loop when concerning matters of his own fate.
Astarion's had over two centuries of that. Now, when given his first taste of freedom, he isn’t going to meekly accept the cards at the top of his deck. He needs to make a… preemptive strike of sorts.
To put it simply, he needs an ally – someone sympathetic and perhaps a touch naive. And really, that only leaves him with one choice.
Gale of Waterdeep, former chosen of Mystra and bleeding heart extraordinaire, has been nothing short of a thorn in his side since the very first meeting.
When he isn’t trying to squander precious resources on the hopeless, or rambling about some grand arcane idea, he’s pushing back at every single decision Astarion wants to make. Worse yet, people listen to him. At the very least, they listen to him more than they listen to Astarion.
The thought of needing someone in any capacity irks him; it stings in a way he never thought he’d have to experience again. At least this time, it’s his choice.
Astarion's willing to serve as a fun little distraction from his lost love. Gale certainly doesn't have enough room in his heart, consumed by his Goddess and ex-lover, so any... attachment will be fleeting, which serves his purpose perfectly. Once the tadpole’s removed, Astarion won’t have need for him anymore, and he’s not at risk of causing any upset when he leaves.
For Astarion, Gale's something like an armour. With a powerful wizard on his side, he doesn't need to constantly look over his shoulder, terrified of whatever lingers in the darkness. He needn't remain vigilant in camp, either; not when he's wrangled such a well-liked, respected defender.
So – Gale gets a temporary distraction, and Astarion gets protection. It's a sensible trade, and it doesn't hurt that Gale’s easy enough on the eyes.
It starts in the Grove. Astarion needs some time to watch Gale, and pick up on what approach would best suit him. It helps that Gale is about as transparent as water; he picks up romance books, glances longingly at old married couples, and seems thoroughly charmed by Alfira’s dreadful love ballads. In the evenings, Astarion sometimes spies him summoning an illusion Mystra’s visage to gaze upon with doelike, wounded eyes.
In short, he’s doing a very poor job of holding it together. His first assessment was correct – Gale definitely needs a distraction. But Astarion has enough experience to exercise a degree of caution. Wounded people are notoriously difficult to predict. They latch on to the smallest of kindnesses; they hear a sweet murmur as a declaration of fidelity.
With this in mind, he opts to navigate this little game with more care than usual. He needs to carefully monitor Gale’s emotional reactions, just to fully guarantee that attachment, however misplaced or fleeting and rebounding in nature, won’t happen.
Once that matter is settled, he starts his pursuit in earnest, creating charming, engaging little moments that spark the unique excitement and uncertainty only found in the very beginning of a courtship.
He's observed that Gale likes the sense of wanting someone, and being wanted in return. It's a role Astarion knows how to play well. So, their time in camp is marked by quick, shy glances, paired with drawn out, purposeful touches of whatever limb is in easy access. It's all veiled in the flimsy excuse of reaching for something. In reality, it's a subtle, deliberate seduction.
At first, Gale truly believes that he needs access to some object, so he moves away, or even hands the item over with a vague, polite smile – a tad distant, but always disgustingly nice. However, gradually, Gale starts to catch on, like Astarion knew he would. It’s clear when Gale realises that these sets of behaviours aren’t random, and that they’re reserved exclusively for him.
His eyes, sharp and assessing, begin to track Astarion as he walks by. He starts anticipating Astarion’s touches, and while he doesn’t lean into them, he certainly doesn’t move away. Should Gale feel particularly daring, he risks some contact of his own – a feather-light brush of hand against hand as something is being passed. Beyond innocent, and hardly worth the fierce blush rising in Gale's cheeks after such a bold move.
He's nervous to talk directly to Astarion, words fast and laced with accidental innuendo that only furthers his embarrassment. He's shy about his touch, even blushes furiously at premarital eye contact, the scandalous minx – but aside from that, there isn't so much as a whisper of carnal interest.
Even amidst the optimistic, playful atmosphere of the Tiefling’s party, they don't so much as kiss. It seems that Gale also enjoys delayed gratification – the promising thrill of something, rather than the thing itself. More aptly, perhaps Gale enjoys denying himself things he could freely have.
It's not what he had expected, but Astarion can work with that, even if it means that it takes longer to garner Gale’s full support. Though, his most immediate concern proves to be something of a non-issue; when Astarion's true nature as Vampire Spawn is exposed, even without the tantalising promise of sex, Gale immediately leaps to his defence. Even amongst Lae'zel's insistence of his death – truly, there's no love lost between them – or Shadowheart's suggestion of quarantine, like he's diseased – Gale remains firm in his stance.
Whether this is a product of Astarion's slow manipulations or of Gale’s naive nature remains to be seen. Regardless, he was right to err on the side of caution; now that it’s officially confirmed their final destination will be in Baldur’s Gate, Astarion still has use of Gale’s affections. Even if said affection is slow to win.
They haven't gone further than shy glances and fleeting touches. It's a lot of nothing, an empty foundation that Astarion can't build much on. By this rate, it'll be months before anything exciting happens.
Which is why, when they finally reach the shadow-cursed lands, the swift change in Gale’s behaviour comes as a bit of a shock.
The entire place is foul. The air is thick and muddled with the essence of suffering, and even their torches struggle against the oppressive sludge of darkness. The battles they face are vicious and fast, every second being the hair’s breadth between survival and slaughter. They trudge across paths seething with rot and decay
Lae’zel and Wyll often stay behind in camp. Shadowheart, being the least affected, is the obvious candidate to lead through this thrice-damned place. Astarion’s often chosen to trail along, given the abundance of traps and locked doors, and Karlach, wielding her sharp, sharp battleaxe, brings in strength. If Astarion’s honest, he thinks Karlach’s brought along moreso for the sole purpose of lifting spirits – a personality hire, so to speak.
Gale, of course, is on the road almost as frequently as Shadowheart; he’s powerful enough to fell tens of foes with a word, justifying his earlier arrogance completely. He tears through enemies with a ferociousness the likes of which Astarion sees rarely. He heals their allies with a focused frustration, giving them the potions rationed to him, and taking on each quibbling bruise as a mark of personal failure.
And my, is he tense, like a coiled spring ready to snap.
These days, Astarion regards him with amusement and wariness in equal measure. It’s not a change he had anticipated – Gale really should stop surprising him – and he’s not sure whether he should push further or pull back.
But one evening, on the tail of a particularly brutal battle, something has shifted.
He feels the tension, thick and heady in the air. As Astarion’s being looked over by Shadowheart, Gale is watching him from a small distance, eyes dark and intense. He doesn't even cover himself in pretence. Plausible deniability has evaporated from the heat of that look. All that remains is a fierce, unspoken challenge.
Astarion ducks his head to hide his smirk. Finally.
It’s gratifying, to set a trap and watch as his prey willingly walks into it. He's not a patient creature by any stretch of the imagination, but he cannot deny that the long, drawn-out process of this seduction is infinitely more satisfying. Underneath this, the thrum of anticipation curls low and heady in his stomach.
As they head back to camp, Gale’s getting more and more keyed up. Astarion, never one to miss an opportunity, makes things worse – he comes close to Gale, dips his chin down and peers up at him coyly through his eyelashes, all under the pretence of asking for something. A health potion, a spell; small things Gale can easily provide. Things that grant Astarion the opportunity to stand near enough to feel the heat radiating off of his body, before adding distance between them. By the third time he does it, he swears he hears Gale curse very quietly under his breath. Astarion idly wonders how that soft, frustrated sound would feel when pressed against his skin.
When Gale approaches him later that night, torn between desperate want and useless propriety, Astarion simply smirks.
“Finally.” He says, pulling Gale into his tent. He finds that he means it.
When they kiss, it's as natural as the rise of the sun. Gale keeps a gentle, almost delicate grasp on Astarion's waist, a contrast to the raw hunger in his wanting gaze. When they part, Gale immediately seeks Astarion's eyes with an expression that could only be described as careful awe. He cups Astarion's chin with a cautious hand, tracing the sharp line of his jaw.
Astarion murmurs saccharine words he knows a romantic like Gale will enjoy. He whispers against Gale's ear about the shameless way his eyes have roamed over Astarion, lingering and needy. He draws from every phrase in his arsenal and sharpens them against the delicious whetstone of Gale’s want.
Gale shivers, blushes, his grasp against Astarion tightening just barely. It’s a very good reaction – but it's undermined by a quick shake of the head as Gale withdraws, just barely. "Don't say things you don't mean."
"I do mean them, darling." He coos, moves forwards, chasing after the warmth.
Gale sighs softly. He clearly doesn't believe Astarion, eyebrows furrowed with scepticism. With anyone else, Astarion would feign offence, perhaps even move to leave. But this is Gale, who knows him. It's Gale, who despite knowing him, still surrenders so completely to Astarion, looking at him with bright, trusting eyes.
He really should know better.
Astarion finds himself fiercely glad he doesn't.
So, he takes what he is given. When Astarion reaches for him, Gale yields willingly. He doesn't recoil like he should as Astarion's hands curl into the fabric of his robe, deft fingers focused on unfastening and removing. He leans closer, allowing their foreheads to nearly touch.
Astarion should be revelling in Gale's trust – it's what he aimed for, after all – but instead, he's unsure. Apprehensive. He pushes down the feeling, focusing on the warmth of Gale's skin, the measured rhythm of his breath.
His gaze flickers between Astarion's lips and eyes, watching him. Anticipating, hoping even, but not expecting. As Gale’s hands gently coax Astarion‘s shirt open, the touches are slow; hesitant. Even when initiating contact, he’s still letting Astarion lead. So, Astarion allows Gale to undress him, trying not to smile when Gale reflexively folds his clothes.
The bitter bite of the night’s coldness is soon overshadowed by the bliss of skin-to-skin contact as Astarion leads Gale to lie on his back. Even as Astarion hooks his legs against Gale’s, parting his thighs, they remain almost entirely flush at the chest.
He isn’t able to heat the slick lubrication that he pours against his hand, so he offers a word of warning and a wry apology. Gale quivers against the cold intrusion, but – he relaxes. He breathes, hard and steady, eyes glazed over with the oscillation of pain and pleasure as Astarion carefully preps him.
Astarion takes more time than perhaps needed. The last thing he wants to do is cause any real pain, so he teases. His fingers knead at skin, chasing after each open-mouthed groan torn from Gale’s throat, until Gale begins to get visibly impatient. Even then, he keeps his touch fleeting and quick for a long few seconds, testing just how ready Gale is for this.
When it's clear Gale is prepared, physically and mentally, he withdraws completely. With one hand, he positions himself. Again, he waits -- this time, until Gale meets his eyes.
Then, slowly, he pushes himself in.
The moment stretches, a silent dialogue of look and touch. Astarion’s lips part slightly with the intention of words following, but all that escapes him is a rough gasp, one that he buries in the crook of Gale’s neck. It evokes a delectable little shiver, one that Astarion feels more than sees.
Astarion forces himself to still, allowing Gale to adjust -- needing to adjust himself, calm himself against the bliss of hot and tight and wet. He takes the time to press soft, open mouthed kisses against Gale’s shoulder, running his hand soothingly against the soft expanse of Gale’s trembling chest as he murmurs whispers of praise. He waits, until Gale nods and reaches for his hand.
It’s one bit of contact that Gale seems to earnestly crave, so Astarion allows it. He lets Gale’s hand intertwine with his own, palm against palm.
The outside world ebbs away into insignificance, the tentative silence punctuated by the rapid, uneven rhythm of their breathing; by small, sharp exhales and sweet moans.
Astarion reaches his peak first, waves of pleasure coursing through his frame as he groans, muffling the sound against Gale’s skin. He takes a minute to gasp in steadying breaths he doesn’t need, slowly pulling himself out.
The moment he recovers, he meets Gale’s gaze.
Gods, his eyes – a curious, complicated blend of affection and evaluation. But then, upon Astarion’s inspection that look vanishes; the analytical edge softens into a strange acceptance.
What Astarion wouldn’t give in this moment to know just what Gale’s thinking, and why.
Astarion kisses the corner of his mouth, nips Gale’s bottom lip – not hard enough to break skin, but enough to earn a pleased hiss. He brings Gale to his climax with his skilled hand, eyes fixed on Gale’s as he does. He meticulously catalogues each reaction, each blissed flutter of eyelashes, takes in the way his back arches beautifully.
When Gale’s breathing settles into something less frantic, expression still glazed with the remnants of pleasure, Astarion shifts back, intent on finding something to clean them both off. It earns him a muttered protest, and then a quiet spell. Then, Gale's glancing at Astarion with something akin to optimism. It takes him a second, but Astarion eventually deduces the meaning and inclines his head, before settling his weight against Gale's chest.
As the very first stirrings of dawn creep its way into the small gaps of his tent, Gale smiles at him, warm and sleepy. He’s struggling to keep his eyes open, but seems content in trying to stay awake just to watch the expressions flicker across Astarion's face. Gale's hand is placed over his, thumb curled to soothingly trace the lines of Astarion’s palm. Soon, he succumbs to the pull of sleep, dipping his chin on Astarion's shoulder.
Something in Astarion's chest catches, and tugs.
He can't remember the last time he's been with someone throughout the night. It certainly hasn't happened since he had been made Spawn. Every interaction was dictated by survival, every second spent in service another.
Yet, in the sanctity of his tent, there is no Cazador to take this moment away. Instead, Astarion's allowed to sap Gale's warmth, to hide in the tranquillity. Hesitantly, he turns his hand, allowing their fingers to interlink.
By the time Gale awakens, Astarion will be gone.