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Astarion: I gave my return to Baldur’s Gate a lot of thought. I never pictured this, though.
Gale: What did you have in mind? A quiet party, toasting your return with a few good friends?
Astarion: Less ‘quiet party with friends’, more ‘days of hedonistic debauchery’. But otherwise, yes.
Gale: Sounds like a recipe for disaster. But you know what? I’m learning to enjoy the taste of chaos. Count me in.
—
Astarion is finally dying.
This is the only possible explanation for how he feels right now—somehow, immortality has slipped from his grasp, and he now finds himself experiencing every moment of excruciating agony that the last two centuries had bestowed upon him, all in one brutal blow. His head throbs, his body aches, his mouth is dry and furred. Even his teeth ache, somehow.
He lifts his head and his vision swims, the room spinning sickeningly around him for a while until he can regain focus. He’s naked in someone’s bedroom, it seems. This isn’t unfamiliar territory, necessarily—back in the bad old days, though, he’d usually only been in one long enough for the necessary formalities before luring whichever unfortunate was with him to their doom. The curtains are blessedly shut, with the orange glow of sunset peeking from their edges. There are numerous empty wine bottles on the bedside table, along with a tube of lipstick. And, for some reason, there’s a green dress hanging from the light fixtures.
“What in all the hells,” Astarion says—or attempts to say. What comes out of his mouth is a rasping, bone dry approximation of words. It’s rather a surprise, then, when there’s an equally incoherent response from beside him.
Astarion rolls quickly, his reflexes moving faster than his self-preservation as his head lurches and his stomach rolls in response. When his vision clears, the first thing he sees is a stretch of golden skin, wrapped in yet more deep green satin like a gift.
Alright, fine, Astarion thinks. Not such a terrible situation—
The gift raises its bleary head, and Astarion’s headache gets much worse.
“…‘Starion?”
“Gale,” Astarion manages. “What the flaming fuck happened last night?”
“Urghn,” Gale says, eloquently. He runs a hand over his own face, blinking at the smear of lipstick that comes away with it. “Wha—Where ‘m I?”
“If you have no idea, darling, then I have no hope of knowing,” Astarion says. “Especially if you can’t explain your current getup.”
Gale looks down at himself and blinks for a while. “Why am I wearing a bra,” he says, eventually, and then the words seem to sink in and he glances down to spot the matching knickers snug on his hips. For some reason, there’s a baby blue garter belt stretched around one of his thighs, as well. “Oh,” he says.
“Oh, indeed,” Astarion says, trying not to arrive at the very obvious conclusion the situation is guiding him to. “Fuck, my head hurts.”
“Everything hurts,” Gale agrees, plucking uselessly at the garter so it twangs against his thigh. “Good gods above. Can… can you remember anything from last night?”
Astarion pinches the bridge of his nose. He can remember vague faces, noises, smells. Nothing concrete. Nothing that would tell him exactly why he’s woken up in bed naked with Gale, that’s for sure. “Not really,” he admits. “You?”
There’s a long pause from Gale, and then a groan. “Honestly, right now I can barely remember my own name without feeling ill.”
“Can you see my clothes anywhere?” Astarion says, determined not to be weird about it despite the circumstances. Gale flings a hand out towards the floor on his side of the bed, and Astarion pulls himself upright, steeling himself against the wave of dizziness so he can pick his shirt and breeches from where they’re scattered across the rug.
“Is… is my robe there,” Gale manages, and Astarion frowns as he scans along the floor.
“I can’t see anything other than that racy emerald number on the light fixture, I’m afraid, darling.”
“Oh, gods,” Gale groans.
“There’s a broken lute, though, for some reason,” Astarion says, puzzled, picking it up along with his shirt. It’s remarkably heavy for a lute, and he frowns, turning around to face Gale. “It’s solid wood? How is anyone supposed to play this.” He strums the dull metal strings, and the lute goes glank tunelessly.
Gale is gaping open-mouthed at him.
“Oh, don’t have a conniption, Gale, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” Astarion snips. Especially if what Astarion thinks happened last night actually happened, he doesn’t add.
“No, no, it’s not that, it’s. Um. You have something on you.”
“What? What’s on me?” Astarion starts turning, trying to look down at himself. “Bugs? Goo? Blood? A bug? Another bloody tadpole? Bugs?”
“It’s, ah.” Gale says faintly. “There’s a tattoo. On your left… your left buttock.”
“Oh, dear gods,” Astarion says, trying to twist to look at his own backside, only giving up when the dizziness becomes too much to bear. “What is it. What’s the tattoo. What. Gale, tell me what it is.”
The longer Gale speaks, the more obvious it is that he’s trying not to laugh.“It’s, um. It’s one of those ribbon phrases around a dagger, with flower decorations alongside it.”
“Gale, darling,” Astarion says, trying not to raise his voice even as his head throbs yet more viciously, “Tell me what it says.”
“No Brain, No Gain,” Gale says faintly, and Astarion wails into the broken, tuneless lute.
—
It turns out they’re just in a private room at the Elfsong Tavern, which has Astarion grateful for small mercies. He’s able to steal across to their usual shared room—conspicuously empty for the time of day—to pull another set of robes for Gale out of the travellers’ chest.
When he knocks on the door of their private room, Gale calls through the door: “Please tell me you found my robe.”
“What? No, but I got you a clean one.”
The door clicks open, just an inch, enough to show Gale’s bloodshot eye wide with urgency.
“No, no, no. I need to find the one from last night. It has immeasurable arcane power, I’ll never find the like again.”
“You probably have a dozen robes with immeasurable arcane power,” Astarion retorts, adding a plummy little sneer to the last three words. He holds up the replacement robe, and Gale snatches it from his grasp, pulling it quickly through the gap and then slamming the door shut again.
Then his voice comes through the door, muffled and moving: “There are no other robes like that one, it’s the one we acquired from the display case in Ramazith’s Tower. It’s imperative that we find it.”
Astarion snorts. “We? Sounds like a you problem.”
“As if this isn’t your fault!”
“Don’t blame this all on me,” Astarion snaps, defensively.
The door swings open. “Don’t blame this all on you?” Gale splutters. He’s dressed, but still has a faint smear of lipstick at the corner of his mouth. “Saer ‘Let’s Partake In Some Hedonistic Debauchery?’ You suggested this, and now we’re both missing a day of our lives, I’m missing some very important clothing, and we have no idea what humiliation awaits us downstairs.”
“I think you’ll find you were fully signed up to the hedonistic debauchery, if you recall,” Astarion retorts. “You encouraged it, even. ‘I’m learning to enjoy the taste of chaos,’ you said.”
“If I had known I’d end up like this—!”
Astarion snorts derisively. “Oh, come on, Gale. So you’re a little hungover and had an unexpected costume change. I have a tattoo. On my arse. I’d say out of the two of us, I’ve had the rawer deal.”
“That robe,” Gale hisses, “Is worth almost three thousand gold pieces.”
“Three thousand? That ugly thing? Gods below, what is it made of, Mystra’s armpit hair?”
Gale rubs his temples. “Look. We both have had an… eventful night. Let’s just go downstairs, find out where I left the robe, and get this over with.”
Astarion sighs. “Oh, fine, I suppose I’ll help. As long as along the way we find who committed this crime against my perfect porcelain skin, and why.”
As they walk down the corridor, Astarion flicks his eyes towards Gale, trying to appraise him without being too obvious. His neck is bite-free, both of the vampiric type and the merely enthusiastic, but that doesn’t really prove they didn’t knock boots.
If they did… Astarion supposes there are far worse people to tumble with. Gale is tolerably attractive—more than tolerable, in fact, if Astarion is being honest, he’s always enjoyed the novelty of how hairy humans are. And he has been a mostly charming companion on the road when he hasn’t been about to explode, even if he’s in a snit right now. But broaching the subject seems a little… gauche, in the circumstances.
Astarion clears his throat.
“Look. Gale. Just so you know, if it turns out, we, ah—“ His eyes suddenly fall on what Gale’s holding. “Why are you carrying the broken lute?”
Gale shrugs. “It has to belong to someone. Anyway, it might jog our memory along the way. What were you going to say?”
“Nothing, darling,” Astarion says. “Never mind. Let’s go.”
—
When they cautiously step through the doors into the main floor of the tavern, it’s as busy as ever; with parts of the city in ruins, there’s little left for the locals to do other than drink. As Astarion casts his eyes about for their companions, one of the tieflings—Lakrissa? Was that her name?—passes them.
“Well, if it isn’t our lovebirds,” she says, stopping in front of them with a tray of empty glasses in her hands. “I heard it was a beautiful ceremony. How hungover are you, exactly?”
“Shut up,” Astarion says, and then, “What do you mean, ceremony?”
Lakrissa stares at them for a moment, and then cackles with glee. “Oh, you’re fully not joking,” she says. “Oh, this is hilarious. Go find your blonde friend, she can tell you more, I’m not spoiling the surprise.”
“Thank you for being no help whatsoever,” says Gale, and Lakrissa winks.
“You got it, babes. You know, your hunky bear friend is having dinner at table six. Maybe he can fill in the gaps for you.” She sighs dreamily. “If I wasn’t already taken, I’d let him fill in my gaps, if you know what I mean.”
“Ew,” says Astarion, and then, “Thank you.”
Halsin is indeed at a table, mopping up stew with a slab of buttered bread. The smell turns Astarion’s stomach even more than usual. Halsin brightens as the pair of them shuffle onto the bench opposite him.
“My friends! Good to see you up and about—“
Astarion holds up a finger. “First things first,” he rasps. “Halsin, please would you be ever so kind as to cure our hangovers, otherwise there is a good chance Gale and I will vomit all over your shoes.”
“Good-to-certain, I’d say,” Gale chips in faintly, suddenly looking rather grey.
The corners of Halsin’s mouth twitch upwards. “I see,” he says, voice light and measured. “Well, we can’t have that. I only have one pair.”
He lifts his hand and the soft warm wash of Halsin’s druidic magic passes through Astarion: his head clears, the rolling nausea in his stomach stills. If Astarion wasn’t trying to avoid any further complications at this moment in time, he might have kissed Halsin on the mouth right there and then.
“So. How was the rest of your evening?” Halsin says, as he casts the spell on a similarly grateful-looking Gale.
“We don’t entirely know,” Astarion says.
“Oh,” Halsin says.
“We were hoping you could tell us exactly what transpired,” Gale says, brows lowering apologetically. “Illuminate the darkened spaces along the winding path of our memory, as it were.” Gale is clearly feeling better, as his sentences are getting much more flowery.
“Well, we started right here,” Halsin says, gesturing with a large hand at one of the larger booths to the side. “But I didn’t go with you once you all decided to carry on drinking somewhere else. One pub was quite enough for me.”
“Who else was there?” Gale asks.
“Shadowheart, Minsc and Jaheira,” Halsin says. “Poor Shadowheart was rather in her cups as well, by the time you all left. Nursing her battered heart, I suppose. I think Minsc and Jaheira were trying to cheer her up, and you two were… ah… determined to enjoy yourselves, shall we say.”
Ah, yes. For someone who had supposedly embraced loss for so long, Shadowheart had not taken Lae’zel’s departure with the Gith prince well. Astarion had felt rather sorry for her, even if taking up with an alien had never seemed quite like a recipe for domestic bliss in Astarion’s rather battered, cynical book. After stupidly trying and failing to seduce Wyll early on in their adventure, Astarion had opted to abstain from any entanglements with his fellow travellers.
At least, Astarion thought he had. He glances at Gale again, like he did in the corridor. He’s fifty percent sure they didn’t fuck.
Maybe forty percent, now he’s thinking about that emerald underwear again.
“Do you know where we went after here?” Astarion asks Halsin, shaking himself from his train of thought.
“I’m afraid not,” Halsin says apologetically. “But there are only so many drinking places still standing in the Lower City, surely?”
Astarion is about to say something cutting about country bumpkins, but Lakrissa stops by the table, another tray in her hand. “I’ve got two options for you here,” she says. “Coffee, or the hair of the dog that bit you. Either way, it’s on me, because you’re still the heroes of Baldur’s Gate, even if you look a bit pathetic right now.”
“I am never drinking again,” Gale says fervently, dropping the lute onto the table and taking a coffee from Lakrissa’s hand. “You have my gratitude, Lakrissa.”
“I’ll pass—I prefer to be the dog that bites, thank you,” Astarion drawls. But then as he speaks, some faint memory flickers in the back in his head:
A burly arm, outstretched to Astarion across the dark booth, the alcohol in the man’s blood dancing over Astarion’s tongue as he drinks. An arm belonging to…
“Minsc. That madman got me drunk on his blood, didn’t he?”
Halsin nods. “He was partaking of a Rashemi schnapps of some sort, and insisted you try it. When you said it wouldn’t taste of anything the traditional way, he got creative.”
“Oh, gods, I remember that stuff now,” Gale groans. “He insisted we drink shots of it. It tasted akin to if you could use raspberries to strip paint.”
Minsc or Jaheira, then, might have a better idea of what happened next. If Astarion and Gale can find them, that is. Astarion turns to Lakrissa: “I don’t suppose you know where our ragtag group of heroes went after we left here?”
“I didn’t hear you say at the time, but I can make a good guess,” Lakrissa says, pointing at the lump of wood and wire that Gale’s placed on the table. “I’m going to assume you won’t be able to tell me why you have part of the hanging sign for the Singing Lute?”
Gale and Astarion stare at the lute.
“That would explain why it isn’t very tuneful,” Astarion says.
“And I suppose that decides our destination,” Gale adds.
—
When they arrive at the Singing Lute, they hear the proprietor before they see him.
“You owe me! If the Flaming Fist weren’t up to their arses in mind flayer corpses right now, I’d get you done for criminal damage!” A half-orc is gesturing insistently between the man he’s arguing with and an empty metal bracket on the wall,
The man he is arguing with is—of course— large, bald, and partly purple. “Minsc owes nothing! You had the bards with the music and the merry making. If you inflame Minsc’s spirit, you must embrace the fire.”
“Oh, gods, do I have to report you for arson, too?”
Gale is the one to intervene, stepping up swiftly to the both of them. “I believe you might be looking for this, saer?” he says, holding up the wooden lute.
“My friends!” Minsc exclaims. “Boo feared you had perished, but Minsc knew you were not the pathetic weaklings Boo saw you as. And now you come to our aid!”
“Not you as well,” the half-orc groans, but he snatches the lute from Gale’s grasp. “Back to break something else, are you? Or slobber all over each other in front of my customers?”
“What?” says Gale, as Astarion cuts in smoothly with “I don’t remember there being any regulations against slobber in the Baldur’s Gate Civil Code, you know. But you have your sign back, so all’s well that ends well, yes?”
“Are you joking? This is a restaurant. A respectable establishment, not some two-bit flophouse! And you lot come tumbling in here demanding wine and dancing on the tables, and this one tries swinging from the—”
Astarion frowns to himself. There is the vaguest recollection of dancing, somewhere in the mire of his memories from last night: something lively played by fiddle, hands slamming on wood to keep time. The catch of an arm around Astarion’s waist as he spins, a sweat-soaked back against his own palm. And then tangling together in a heap as the music stops, Gale’s breath rough with laughter in Astarion’s ear.
Meanwhile, Gale is gesturing at the lute in the half-orc’s hands. “And here you are, saer, your sign returned. If I might work my magic, a few spells and you’ll be right as rain.”
Gale takes the lute back gingerly, and then with a magical flourish re-attaches it to the frame outside. Then he gestures towards the inside of the restaurant with a flash of pale blue light, and a set of conjured brooms begin to sweep the floor. It’s all very impressive, in that way Gale often is. It’s almost a little vexing how the dangling question of their tryst is putting Gale’s actions in a new light for Astarion; ordinarily he would have acknowledged Gale’s skill and moved on, but now he can’t help but take a little more time to enjoy Gale’s stance, the quick and competent way his hands move as he casts.
Ugh. Hopefully this isn’t going to be a problem.
“There. By the time they’re done, your restaurant will look cleaner than before we ever arrived,” Gale says, as the brooms dance across the floor.
“Don’t push it,” the half-orc says, but he doesn’t look quite as angry as he did 5 minutes ago.
“Can we take our Rashemen back now?” Astarion asks, and then takes Minsc by the elbow, guiding him away from the restaurant while Gale is still conducting the brooms.
“Boo thanks you for your aid, my fang-ed friend!” Minsc booms, but Astarion cuts him off before he can get on too much of a tangent as to what Boo does and doesn’t do.
“Minsc. Quickly, while Gale is over there. Last night, did it look like he and I might—?”
Astarion wiggles his hands and eyebrows, and Minsc frowns, nonplussed. Astarion makes a slightly more pointed and obvious gesture.
“Ah! Does Minsc’s vampire-in-arms not recall? Astarion and the wizard were quite the pair last night, dancing on the table to the music of the bards. A meeting of the minds! A meeting of the souls! Though, Minsc does not remember if there was also a meeting of the tongues.”
The hamster appears from wherever Minsc keeps the hamster, and snuffles into Minsc’s ear. Somehow, it manages to look rather pleased with itself.
“Ah,” says Minsc. “Boo says you must speak to Shadowheart about such matters. She will shine a light where Minsc cannot.”
Astarion narrows his eyes at the hamster. “You know something, don’t you?” he accuses.
The hamster cleans its cute little whiskers with its adorable front paws.
“You smug little—”
“What does the hamster know?” Gale says from behind Astarion.
“I, ah, was asking about your robe,” Astarion says, throwing a sharp look at Minsc that, for once, Minsc chooses to acknowledge. “Boo recommends we follow our trail of destruction and find Shadowheart. Which means next we should go to…” He looks entreatingly at Minsc and Boo.
“Ah, once the sourpuss here commanded us to leave, Minsc followed his wyclaran back to the Elfsong! But Astarion, Gale and Shadowheart made their way to somewhere with more opportunity for rowdiness… it was decided The Blushing Mermaid would not blink an eye at their making merry.”
“Oh, gods,” Astarion and Gale say, simultaneously.
—
“You’ve got bigger balls than I thought to just come swaggerin’ back in here,” Captain Grizly says as they saunter through the door.
“Thank you?” Gale says, and Astarion digs an elbow into his side.
“We’re not staying long, Captain. Just wondering if you might have seen our blonde friend.”
“And a very expensive wizard robe,” Gale adds, and Astarion elbows him again as suddenly every drinker in the local radius is paying much more attention to their conversation.
“I ain’t seen nothing,” Grizly says, which Astarion probably should have predicted. Clearly she’d made a good recovery from whatever the hag had done to her when stealing her face; she looks healthy and hale, if rather unenthusiastic to see them. “You probably lost ‘em both during that little stunt you pulled. If you hadn’t done me a favour the other day, and saved the city an’ all, I’d be tossing you both back out of here on your arses after the trouble you caused.”
She’s looking directly at Astarion for that last you, and Gale notices it as well, turning towards him with narrowed eyes. “What did you do?”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” Astarion snaps. “If I did, I wouldn't be here, would I?”
“Don’t act the innocent. Cheated Big Jeff at cards, didn’t you?” Captain Grizly says.
“What?”
“Rolled into here stinking like a brewery, the three of you did, carousing and galavanting. The pair of you sittin’ on each other’s laps. Then ordering the whole of our last batch of Hoots’ Hooch.”
“Hoots’ Hooch…? Oh no,” Gale says, and then his jaw snaps shut before Astarion can ask. But he’s remembering something, too: folding himself onto Gale’s lap, an arm around his shoulders, gleeful at the warmth of him. It could almost still be just friendly, if Astarion didn’t also remember his delight at every little hitched breath Gale made as Astarion’s weight shifted.
“Anyway, before too long Fangs here elbowed his way into Big Jeff’s game,” Captain Grizly says, “And got caught red handed with three extra aces up his fancy sleeve. You were five hundred gold up and everything. Never seen Big Jeff so angry. You owed him big time.”
Astarion wrinkles his nose. “First of all, are you sure that was me? Because I don’t get caught cheating. And second of all, who the fuck is Big Jeff?”
It’s Gale’s turn to elbow him as the temperature in the bar suddenly drops several degrees. “Big Jeff’s our mate. You asking for more trouble?” Someone else asks, and Gale holds his hands up placatingly.
“Not at all, esteemed colleagues. Simply seeking to make amends. Where might we find this, ah, Jeff of substance?”
Grizly snorts. “He’s been staying at Fraygo’s til his boat comes back in. Your funeral if you want to find him after what you did.”
“What? Why are we looking for him?” Astarion hisses at Gale.
“He might have my robe,” Gale hisses back. “What if you tried to pay back your debt with it? And we still haven’t found Shadowheart. She might be in trouble.”
“Oh please, as if Shadowheart would let herself get kidnapped by someone called Big Jeff,” Astarion says. “Can you imagine? I’d never let her live it down. I wonder if the name’s compensating for something?”
“Will you stop talking shit about Big Jeff?” Another drinker calls from across the bar.
Ok, perhaps something else is coming back to Astarion now: squeezing himself into a space at a crowded table, indistinct faces around him, waving his card hand around to distract his opponents as he gestures at Gale under the table. And then: the feeling of conjured cards dropping into his sleeve.
Good gods, no wonder he got caught. Hardly subtle. But Astarion is damned if he’s going to admit that in front of these reprobates: “I’ll stop talking shit, darling, the day someone makes me,” Astarion says instead, raising his middle finger in the general direction of the complaint.
“That’s our cue to leave, I think,” Gale says quickly, taking Astarion by the wrist as the atmosphere around them suddenly gets rather more sharp and pointy. Astarion’s middle finger is still up as he’s dragged towards the exit, and he can’t help but notice that Gale is trying not to laugh.
—
“Well, I suppose that explains why everything is somewhat a blur from last night,” Gale says, as they shuffle their way through the wreckage of Baldur’s Gate towards Wyrm’s Crossing. It’s getting late now, but the dark streets are still busy—Flaming Fist and City Watch pulling rubble into piles, dancing lights swooping over them to illuminate their work. “Minsc’s schnapps might have been strong, but not that strong. Meanwhile, I recall that hooch from Sharess’ Caress—one night I believe I saw a gnome drink some and then teleport themselves straight into the Chionthar.”
“How would I have had any, though?” Astarion says, frowning. “Minsc wasn’t around to offer himself as a liquid buffet by then.”
Gale glances at Astarion as they walk. “…You don’t know?”
Astarion rolls his eyes. “Obviously, darling, do try to keep up with our last five minutes of conversation.”
“Oh. Well, I thought you might—never mind,” Gale says. “Let us away to Fraygo’s before this Jeff character decides to skip town with my robe.”
“…Never mind what, Gale?” Astarion demands, but Gale is already striding forward with purpose towards Basilisk Gate.
—
“Oh, gods, not you again,” the halfling custodian says, as they walk in Fraygo’s Flophouse.
“I feel like I’m detecting something of a theme on our journey this evening,” Gale says. “Good evening Mister… Dashkent, wasn’t it? I remember when you helped us in our enquiries about poor Ffion.”
“Yeah, and your horned friend thought I was a dwarf,” Dashkent says, sour. “Thinking us shorter kinds are all the same. Tch!”
“Well, that’s all water under the bridge now,” Astarion adds quickly. “We’re looking for another friend. About yea high, blonde, big glowing spear, bit of an attitude?”
“Aye, I remember her,” the halfling says, then glares at the two of them. “She left after you two disappeared to canoodle in the privy together. Which you’re lucky I didn’t kick you out for.”
Ignoring Gale’s sudden coughing fit, Astarion takes a moment to gather himself and then asks: “I see. Did you see where she went?”
Gale chips in, hoarsely: “And do you happen to know if a Big Jeff is staying here?”
Dashkent jerks his head towards the bedrooms upstairs. “Dunno where your blonde lady is, most likely she went across the road, but Big Jeff’s up there. He don’t take too kindly to strangers, but do what you like as long as you don’t bleed all over the floors.”
Astarion pulls a face. “Just to check in again, are we quite sure we want to bother someone who I tried to cheat out of five hundred gold while off my tits on blood and booze?” he pleads to Gale. “How would I have even given him the robe in the first place if you were wearing it? It’s not like I would have stripped you naked in the middle of the Blushing Mermaid. Unless you like that sort of thing.”
“Astarion.”
“We could do literally anything else. I will make you a new robe with my bare hands. It’ll look better than that ugly thing did. It was beige. What self-respecting wizard wears beige?”
“Astarion!”
“Oh, fine, let’s get this over with.”
—
To his credit, Big Jeff is quite large: a hulking half-orc barbarian type almost too long for the shabby bed he’s sprawled out on, cleaning his nails with a knife. When he spots Astarion, his eyes narrow, and he stands from the bed, the top of his head just about brushing the ceiling of the flophouse.
“What’s all this then? You here to cause more trouble?” says Big Jeff, looming.
“Oh, perish the thought, darling,” Astarion says. “I just wanted to… drop by… and perhaps discuss our misunderstanding from last night.”
Big Jeff scowls. “Oh, no no no. Don’t you come crying to me now about it. Far as I’m concerned, we’re fair and square, so don’t try your fucking luck.”
“We are?” Astarion says, surprised, but then coughs, redirecting. “I mean. Yes. Obviously we’re fair and square, darling.”
“Excuse me, but we are very much not ‘fair and square’,” Gale says immediately, pushing past Astarion on the stairs to look up at the half-orc.“Look. Mister… Jeff. I don’t know what my friend here told you, and he’s very dreadfully sorry about the trouble he caused—“
“Is he?” Astarion says, and Gale’s elbow lands in the same tender place it found in the Blushing Mermaid.
“—but what he gave you wasn’t his to give away, and I am willing to clear his debt with you in return for it back. Surely that’s a reasonable exchange?”
Big Jeff squints at him. “Don’t know what the two of you have going on but we had a deal. Ain’t like you can go back on it now, anyway.”
“There must be some kind of amicable agreement we can reach? Be reasonable.”
“I got what I wanted, and that’s the end of it,” Big Jeff insists. “Are we gonna have more trouble?”
“What are you going to do with a robe, anyway?” Gale says, desperately. “Beige is hardly your colour. Please, saer.”
Big Jeff stares at Gale for a moment and then says, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“What?” Gale says.
“What robe?” Big Jeff says, forehead wrinkling.
“I told you!” Astarion crows, wheeling around to look at Gale, flinging a hand in Big Jeff’s direction. “I told you it didn’t make any sense that I gave it to him. I think this robe thing is entirely your fault and you were just looking for a way to blame me instead.”
“Why would I do that? And if that’s the case, how did you make up for cheating at cards?” Gale snaps back.
“What, you don’t remember?” Big Jeff says.
“I am getting so tired of people asking me that! Clearly not!” Astarion shouts, and then he catches himself as Big Jeff starts to loom slightly more aggressively than before. “I mean… ah… I’m afraid the events of last night are somewhat patchy to us both, so you might have to fill us in on the finer details of our agreement.”
Big Jeff is suddenly smiling very wide and toothily. “You think I’m just some sailor trash, don’tcha?” He says. “And maybe I am. But I’m an aspirin’ artist, as well. And to make up for the trouble you caused, you let me practice my art on you.”
“Ohhhhhh,” says Gale, and then a horrible, stomach-dropping moment later, Astarion realises too.
“You’re the one who tattooed me?! Who put this hogwash on my beautiful skin?! No Brain, No Gain?”
“Well, that bit was your idea,” Big Jeff says.
“No I didn’t,” Astarion rejects this information instantly. “It’s awful. I hate it. Make it go away.”
“Well, that answers that little mystery,” Gale says. “Honestly in all this to-ing and fro-ing I’d forgotten about it.”
“Excuse me? You’d just forgotten about this blight on my skin? This is a much more important and urgent issue than your gods-damned robe.” He wheels round and points at Big Jeff. “Take it back. I don’t want it anymore.”
“Tough fucking luck,” Big Jeff says, and picks up the knife he’d been using to clean his nails. “Last I heard, tattoos was permanent. And if you want us to still be fair and square, I’d turn your little faerie arse around and go bother some other honest sailor.”
“I refuse to be left with some riffraff’s scribbles—”
“Who you calling riffraff?”
“Well!” Gale says suddenly, voice bright as he claps his hands together. “I’d say all’s well that ends well, here. Come along, Astarion, let’s continue our quest.”
Just as Astarion is about to pull out a knife of his own, Gale catches him by the arm and Dimension Doors him into the privy.
Astarion yanks his arm back, scowling: “Excuse me! I was busy!”
“And now you’re not.”
“Do you practice being that smug, Gale, or does it just come naturally?”
“Oh, calm down,” Gale says. “I’m just getting you away from that half-orc before you do something foolish.”
Astarion looks around at their new locale. “Not quite the moment for round two, is it, darling? Or whichever number it might be.”
“Hush,” Gale snips back, latching the door shut. It’s dim and cramped in here, the two of them knee-to-knee even with Gale angled awkwardly over the wash basin.
“I could have easily stabbed him,” Astarion complains. Suddenly he feels rather strange: “He drew on me, Gale.”
“Yes, and you almost cheated him out of five hundred gold.”
“You helped me!”
Gale blanches. “What?”
“You conjured extra cards for me. I remembered when we were in the Blushing Mermaid.”
“Oh,” Gale says.
“Anyway, I only almost cheated him,” Astarion says. He’s thinking about the tattoo too much now and his chest feels tight. Has it always been so warm in here? “I didn’t actually cheat him. He caught me. And in return I have—I have a permanent mark on me—”
“Astarion,” Gale says quickly. “I put us in here because I have a theory. Has the tattoo hurt you at all today?”
Astarion pauses, trying to think through the sudden panic. On reflection, he hadn’t really thought about the tattoo again at all until Big Jeff had mentioned it. “What? No, but I’ve had other things on my mind. What does it matter?”
“Tattoos usually take a tenday or two to heal on mortals, depending on size and complexity,” Gale says, carefully. “However, you are a vampire spawn, and recently tadpole-free, too. Your innate regenerative abilities will have returned to you, along with other talents. You haven’t felt any pain from the tattoo at all, all evening—and not only that, I have a feeling that if I looked at your, ah, your posterior right now, it would be perfectly unmarked.”
“Oh.”
Gale reaches out, touching fingers to Astarion’s arm carefully. “And if there are any remnants, I’m sure a little bit of magic would help them on their way. If I may?”
“Well. I suppose you might as well check.”
There’s some lingering sense of familiarity in being in here with Gale, and Astarion at least trusts the man not to make this a whole thing. Which means turning around and slipping one hip of his trousers down is only somewhat humiliating instead of entirely. Instead of screaming, Astarion angles his hip towards Gale with a coquettish wink.
“Well? Is it there?”
“It’s gone! I’m right, as usual,” Gale says, triumphant. “No tattoo. No marks.”
Astarion lets out a breath he didn’t need to hold, righting his clothes quickly.
“For once, some good luck,” he says, looking anywhere but at Gale. “Thank goodness I had you here, darling, to help me out of my trousers.”
The last sentence doesn’t come out quite as facetious as Astarion had hoped, and Gale seems to notice, his eyes flicking up to meet Astarion’s own. “If it helps,” he says, after a moment, “I can, ah, even the score somewhat. Since I helped get you into this trouble in the first place, I can share a memory of my own to make up for it.”
Astarion looks up at him, curious. “Oh?”
“You were asking, before, about how you could have had some of the hooch if Minsc had already left…” The way Gale’s face is colouring is suddenly answering a lot of questions, and the lingering traces of Astarion’s panic fade as he focuses on Gale’s words.
“Oh. I didn’t think I…” Astarion says, gesturing at Gale’s unblemished neck, the still-present orb.
“You did, just… not somewhere other people could see,” Gale says, and then taps lightly against the inside of his thigh through his breeches.
“…Show me?” Astarion says, his voice suddenly a little hoarse and breathy, and Gale stares at him for a moment before nodding. He unlaces his breeches, hesitating before pushing them down his hips and—
“You’re still wearing the knickers?” Astarion blurts before he can stop himself, and Gale’s face is immediately aflame as he hisses in reply.
“You didn’t bring me any new underwear! It was either these or nothing.”
“Gale of Waterdeep,” Astarion croons. “You little hussy. Well, they’re certainly your colour.”
“Look, do you want to see the bite or not?”
“Yes. Yes, absolutely,” Astarion’s reply is immediate.
Gale pushes the waistband of his breeches down further, to mid thigh, and—well. Astarion clearly didn’t take any prisoners last night, did he? The twin punctures are healing well, but they’re as deep as can be, and a halo of purple bruising surrounds them.
It’s the hottest thing Astarion has seen in tendays and he doesn’t even remember causing it.
Before he can stop himself, Astarion reaches out to press his fingers lightly against the bite; Gale makes a pained little hum, but doesn’t flinch away.
“Did I hurt you?” Astarion murmurs.
“Not in, ah. Not in a way I minded,” Gale says, and his voice has a roughness to it.
“What do you remember?” Astarion’s fingers are still on Gale’s ruptured skin.
“Bits and pieces,” Gale says. “Piling in here with you. The pain. Your face—”
His mouth snaps shut, and Astarion grins toothily.
“Oh? My face how, exactly?”
“You are enjoying yourself entirely too much,” Gale grouses, as if Astarion can’t see how nicely Gale is starting to fill out those little knickers.
“We have to take our joy where we can in these troubled times, darling. Come along, Gale, indulge me.”
“…Your face when you pulled away,” Gale says, eventually. “My blood on your lips… you looked like you’d just won a prize.” Gale clears his throat and then adds: “Then you said I tasted awful, like if brandy could go mouldy, and laughed until you snorted.”
Astarion pokes the bite mark for that and Gale hisses, slapping Astarion’s hand away and then pulling his breeches back up over his half-chub. “I hope you’re satisfied,” he says, still sounding surly.
“Oh, not even close, darling, but we can work on it,” Astarion grins. Then he feels the smile drop from his face as he decides to embrace the inevitable. “Ugh. Look, Gale. I suppose we should… talk about—”
“Not yet,” Gale says quickly, blushing again. “Robe first. That later. And I think I know where to try next—Dashkent said that Shadowheart went ‘over the road’, and there’s only one place that could mean.”
—
Somehow by instinct the pair of them draw to a halt as they cross the street to Sharess’ Caress, taking a moment to appraise the building from the outside.
“I’ve had the odd flash of memories from the other places we’ve been,” Astarion says, “but I’m getting nothing for this place. Are you?”
Gale shakes his head grimly. “That’s worrying me more than the places I do recollect,” he says. He takes a deep breath, and then nods to himself. “Very well. Let us step once more into the unknown and unremembered. Hopefully for the conclusion to this sorry tale.”
The brothel is as busy as can be this time of night, and it takes Astarion a moment to peer between the drunk mercenaries and dancing girls to spot a flash of white hair at the table. He reaches for Gale’s arm.
“Over there. I believe that may be our beloved bitch.”
Shadowheart is sat hunched over a cup of tea. Her hair is a silver bird’s nest, her face is grey and her eyeliner is streaked halfway down her face. It takes her a moment to react to their call when they approach her table, and when her eyes meet Astarion’s, she groans.
“Just leave me here,” she says, putting her face in her hands. “Whatever it is, you don’t need me. Leave me for the crows to pick over.”
“And good evening to you too, darling. How is my favourite little raincloud?” Astarion says, pressing his lips to her cheek in a messy kiss so that she groans and shoves his face away. Hangovers are funny when they’re not happening to Astarion, and Shadowheart is so very easy to tease.
“Piss off, Astarion. How are you both so chipper?” Shadowheart grouses. “You had far more to drink than I did, and I feel like death warmed up.”
“We had Halsin work his magic for us. I’m glad we found you,” Gale says, earnestly. “I was beginning to get a little worried. Where have you been?”
Shadowheart gaze suddenly slides away from them both, the faintest hint of colour coming to her cheeks. “Well. Here, mostly. After I parted ways with you, I… I spent the rest of the evening with Irenya.”
“Irenya? The barmaid who was scamming that drunk Fist?” Astarion’s grin suddenly threatens to split his face. “I see how it is. Feeling a little lonely after our favourite bloodthirsty alien decided to take off, darling?”
Shadowheart glares at him. “Oh, sod off. Like you’ve never had a sad drunken rebound fling.”
Astarion pats his hair with one hand. “I haven’t, actually—at least, not that I remember. But I understand the spirit of the occasion. And I would never judge.”
“Yes you would,” Gale and Shadowheart say, simultaneously.
“We’re getting off topic here,” Astarion says quickly. “Shadowheart, darling. Do you happen to know why Gale woke up sans robe this morning, and avec a delightful slinky green dress?”
“You don’t remember?” Shadowheart says, turning to look sharply at Gale.
“If I remembered, we wouldn’t be asking you.” Gale says, wearily.
Shadowheart splutters a laugh. “Wow. Now I’m really glad I didn’t have any of the hooch. I may not remember much of my training in the cloister to avoid poisons, but I took one sniff of that stuff and my body tried to run away.”
“So you remember everything?”
“Well. Most of it, yes. I was still rather drunk.” Shadowheart points towards the stairs up to the brothel’s playrooms. “We need to go see Naoise. I might vomit going up the stairs, but it’ll be worth it for the end result.”
They knock on the door to the Nymph’s Grotto this time, and there’s a moment before it opens; behind Naoise, there are two softly snoring women in a naked tangle. “Oh, it’s you again,” she says when she sees Astarion and Gale, though for once it’s merely curious instead of accusatory. “Welcome back to paradise. Did you come to return my outfit?”
“What?” says Gale.
“My outfit. The green dress and lingerie,” she says, serene as ever.
“Quick precursor question to that,” Gale says, slightly more strained: “Do you happen to know why I woke up wearing your clothes?”
Naoise’s perfect brow lightly creases in confusion. “Because we swapped clothes, of course. I have your robe in my wardrobe if you want it back.”
Astarion starts cackling before he can even hear Gale’s response, though the dark red quickly spreading across his face is a pretty clear indication without words. “Oh, my goodness gracious. All that running around Baldur’s Gate for your precious robe, darling, and you decided to do a little outfit switcheroo all by yourself? No theft, no fault of mine—just a costume change with a wood elf half your size with twice the bust.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Naoise says. “He filled it out very well, I thought.”
“Har har, yes, it’s all very funny,” Gale grits out, as Shadowheart snorts behind him. “If we could move on, then we can finally put this whole matter to bed. Which is exactly where I should be right now anyway.”
“Move on? I just walked miles for this nonsense, I demand at least five minutes more gloating.”
Gale splutters. “You agreed to help me! We approached the search in a logical way based on the information we had at the time—”
“Which turned out to be a load of old rubbish—”
“Will you lot shut up?” one of the women calls from behind Naoise. “You’re ruining our afterglow.”
“Sod your afterglow! I need my vindication,” Astarion calls into the room, and Shadowheart shushes him.
“I should attend to my paying customers,” Naoise says, with the closest Astarion has ever heard to irritation in her voice. “You, wizard. Bring me back my dress and underwear, and you can have your robe. It’s not really my colour, anyway. Or anyone’s colour.”
She closes the door on them, and Shadowheart clears her throat as they stand in the empty corridor together. “So… vindication aside, I’m guessing this means you don’t know why Gale swapped outfits with Naoise, then, Astarion,” she says.
Astarion frowns. “‘Why’? Clearly he was as drunk as a patriar and thought it was a good idea at the time.”
“Well, you’re not wrong,” Shadowheart says, but there’s a smile managing to spread across her still-grey face; the fact that it’s there even amidst her hangover is a very bad sign. “But it was partly your idea. You said that Gale needed to look the part.”
“The part for… what, exactly?” Gale says.
Shadowheart presses the tips of her fingers to her mouth.
All of a sudden something Lakrissa said, which seems like hours ago, comes back to Astarion.“Shadowheart, we got told about a beautiful ceremony. What beautiful ceremony?”
“…You don’t know,” she says, carefully, through her fingers.
“Wait, what’s this?” Gale says, frowning. “What did Lakrissa say?”
“You both don’t know.”
Astarion pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shadowheart. Darling. It has been a very trying evening traipsing around the Lower City trying to find a three-thousand-gold robe that Gale apparently just gave away as part of a fun game—”
“Look, you don’t have to bring it up again and again—” Gale tries to interject, but Astarion is on a roll.
“—While being ritually humiliated by every Tom, Dick and Hraknar that sees fit to remind us of what we did or didn’t do last night. If you could see fit to look into what’s left of your blackened heart and just tell us what the flaming Evereskan fuck we did last night…” Astarion takes a deep breath, “…it would be appreciated.”
Shadowheart takes a breath, and Astarion sees what little of his life he remembers flash before his eyes as she starts to speak.
“Alright. Picture the scene,” Shadowheart says. “Sharess’ Caress bar. Me with a barmaid on my lap. You,” She points at Astarion, “with him on your lap.” The finger swivels to indicate Gale. “Very cosy, very friendly. Then, a man walks by and bumps into Gale while the two of you are talking about something or other.”
“Oh, gods,” Astarion says.
“You, Astarion, decided to defend Gale’s honour, even though Gale is—at this point—pissed as a newt and didn’t even feel anyone bump into him. The stranger decides to imply that he would be a better match for Astarion anyway. Astarion declares that there’s no-one else for him, and I take the chance to remind you both that you aren’t even together.”
“Ah,” says Gale.
“The pair of you refuse this information and say you’re meant to be. And I joke that you should get married if you’re so devoted after four pubs and some hooch, and everyone thinks this is hilarious, including you.”
“What,” Astarion says.
“Gale said he needed a wedding outfit, and pointed at Naoise and asked her to swap clothes if he gave her two hundred gold,” Shadowheart carries on. “So she did. Put some lipstick on you too. And then we found you something old, new, borrowed and blue - a stocking garter of Nym the drow’s, bought new but made of vintage spider silk.”
“Excuse me?” says Gale.
“And then I, ah—”
Shadowheart pauses, looking away. Both Gale and Astarion, who are now both as pale and grey as she is, lean forward.
“What did you do, Shadowheart?” Gale asks, faintly.
“I said you should seal the deal at the Stormshore Tabernacle,” Shadowheart says. “Since I received my powers from Selûne now, and all, I could marry you both in front of her statue.”
There’s a pause.
“Shadowheart,” Astarion says carefully, “Are you saying that Gale and I got married last night?”
“…Only under Selûnite custom, I think?” Shadowheart says, and then keeps babbling: “I mean. Probably not even then. We could ask Aylin and Isobel, I’m sure they’ll say it doesn’t count. Look, it’s not like we did it properly. It was a joke! It was funny.”
“No, I’m pretty sure having a religious ceremony in a religious building in Baldur’s Gate, with a cleric, counts as a legal marriage under the civil code,” Astarion says, more hysterical with every word.
“What, really?”
“Yes! Shadowheart, what the actual fuck?”
“Look, I was drunk too!” she says, defensively. “And I needed the laugh. Also, Irenya said weddings always put her in the mood.”
“Well that’s just weird,” Astarion says, and is about to go on another tirade when he notices Gale is looking very pale again.
“…Next to Mystra’s statue.” Gale says, his voice even smaller. “We got married in the Tabernacle? Next to Mystra’s statue?”
“Well, yes,” Shadowheart concedes, “But that wasn’t really the point. I’m sure she wasn’t paying attention.”
Gale puts his face in his hands and mumbles into his palms: “I need another drink.”
—
At that point it had felt wise for the pair of them to beat a hasty retreat before any other unpleasant truths unfolded, and Astarion had let Gale return the private room at the Elfsong alone while Astarion made a few enquiries of his own. Finishing off a few pigeons along the way certainly helped to settle his nerves, too. By the time Astarion returns it is well past the wrong side of midnight, but Gale still opens the door when Astarion knocks.
“Hello, darling husband,” Astarion says, and winces at Gale’s expression. “Sorry. Too soon?”
“Ha,” Gale says, but he lets Astarion in anyway. He’s clearly been busy; whatever chaos the two of them had wrought the night before is tidied away, and he has the green dress in his hands, neatly folded. He looks at it, not saying anything, as Astarion slinks into the room.
“So I sent a little note to Wyll’s dear old dad,” Astarion says, to cut through the awkward silence. “Reminding him how we saved his life, and all. And asking for his advice as a civic leader on a… hypothetical situation regarding wedding ceremonies. I wasn’t expecting an answer until morning, but I suppose justice never sleeps? Or something like that.”
“Oh?” Gale says, looking up.
“Turns out my legal knowledge is, ah, somewhat outdated, and any marriage in Baldur’s Gate these days has to be registered at High Hall to count in the eyes of the law. Religious or not.”
“Ah,” says Gale, visibly sagging with relief as he sits down on the edge of the bed. “Well, that’s something, I suppose. Though whether it counts in the eyes of the gods might be an entirely different question.”
“Isn’t it always?” Astarion drawls. “But at least the divorce from a metaphysical union doesn’t need quite so much paperwork, I imagine.”
“It certainly didn’t in my quite specific experience,” Gale says archly, but the corners of his mouth are turned upward. He stays perched on the end of the bed, quiet; after a moment of hesitation, Astarion walks across the room and sits next to him, the mattress faintly creaking as he adds the extra weight.
“Sooooo,” he says, at length, and Gale laughs properly this time.
“So,” he echoes back. “Quite the eventful evening.”
“You know, I don’t think I can pick which part I hated most,” Astarion says, airily. “The hangover, the having to talk to so many of our fair city’s residents, Minsc, or the part every time where someone said ‘what, don’t you remember?’. Why would we be asking if we remembered? Honestly.”
“I was talking about the evening before, but you’re not wrong,” Gale says.
“Ah,’ Astarion says. “Well, that too.”
Gale looks down at the floor for a long moment, and then back up at Astarion. “…I don’t know how much you remember of the night, now that we’ve more-or-less completed our little fetch quest, but it seems we were rather cosy, most of the night,” he says.
“Oh, so now you want to talk about it, darling?” Astarion drawls, arching an eyebrow, but Gale just meets it with a level look, and Astarion huffs and ditches the drawl. “Alright, fine. Yes, it rather seems we were. I don’t think there are too many other conclusions that we can draw from waking up naked with one another after spending most of the night either sitting in each other’s laps, getting intimate in privies, and literally marrying one another.”
“…Do you remember it at all?” Gale asks, hesitantly.
“I honestly don’t,” Astarion says with a sigh. “Everything from Sharess’ Caress onwards is still a void in my memory, it’s rather vexing.”
“For me as well,” Gale says. “Though for what it’s worth, of what I do remember, it involves a lot of laughter. Of ours, I mean. Even when we were hightailing it out of the Blushing Mermaid.”
“I can’t believe you helped me cheat at cards. And you enjoyed it!”
Gale smirks. “I’m not above a little trickery in the name of fun. And I think we did! Have fun. Recreational fun, to be specific, not casual innuendo, though I suppose—”
“Gale, you’re babbling,” Astarion snorts, but carries on after a moment. “I rather think we did, too. Before now, even. We had our fair share of horrors the last few months, but your company was never one of them. Even when you wouldn’t shut up.”
Gale huffs a laugh. “A frequent occurrence in my existence, alas. But… ahem. I’ve come to appreciate your company a great deal, too, Astarion. Even when you get me into trouble. Perhaps even especially when you get me into trouble—I wouldn’t have gone along with your ideas of ‘hedonistic debauchery’ otherwise.”
They both fall silent again, and Astarion glances towards Gale, his eyes falling on the faint purple veins running from his eye down towards the orb. Astarion has always rather enjoyed the look of them, in an odd way.
“Sort of a shame, really,” he says, carefully, and Gale looks up, eyes wide and wet in that way they often are.
“Hmm?”
“That we don’t remember,” Astarion says. “I wouldn’t have minded taking one last souvenir from this odd little adventure, if the souvenir involved… well.” He leans towards Gale. “If the souvenir involved you.”
Gale’s mouth drops into a little open circle of surprise, and his gaze drops briefly to Astarion’s lips.
“What if,” Gale says slowly, “We have one last hurrah before the divorce. Since we didn’t really get to appreciate the first hurrah, so to speak.” He clears his throat. “If you’d like to, that is.”
Astarion feels a grin spread across his own face. “…I suppose we were rather cheated, weren’t we? It would only be fair.”
“Exactly. Fair,” Gale says, and Astarion can hear the sudden flutter of the man’s heart in his chest. Something about it feels oddly familiar.
“So what I’m hearing is that my bride wants to be deflowered for a second time, to make it count,” Astarion says, cheekily, and isn’t expecting Gale’s face to flush quite that dark, quite so quickly. “Oh. Do you like that, Gale? Do you want to be the maiden, having your virtue sullied?”
“Astarion,” Gale says, and it’s half chastisement, half encouragement. And when Astarion places one hand on Gale’s knee and starts to slide it slowly up his thigh, Gale doesn’t protest in the slightest.
“Are you quite sure,” Gale says, his voice high and breathy. “I’d never want to presume, so soon after—”
Astarion rolls his eyes, not wanting to think about exactly how Gale was going to finish that sentence. “Darling, I’m a grown man. Two centuries older than you, in fact. I know you’ve seen parts of my tragic backstory from far too close a vantage point, but you’re just going to have to trust me when I say I want this. Want you.” He grins when he adds: “My blushing bride.”
“Oh, gods, I shouldn’t like that so much,” Gale says, screwing his eyes shut.
“Oh, I think you should like it just as much as you do,” Astarion says, delighted, and then inspiration strikes. “In fact, perhaps that little outfit you borrowed from the nymph ought to see some action again.”
“Astarion,” Gale says again, and this time it really is scandalised, but he still doesn’t pull away. “I have to give that back!”
“I’ll buy it from her at double the price,” Astarion says promptly, then slides his hand higher. “Come on, Gale. Be my pretty girl? For me?”
“Fuck,” says Gale, emphatically, and if that single obscenity isn’t victory Astarion isn’t sure what is.
—
Oh, and doesn’t Gale look a vision, once he’s permitted Astarion to turn around again? Clearly he has altered the sizing with magic because the dress clings in all the right places, smooth satin framing the hirsute swell of his tits, skimming along his thick thighs. He stands awkwardly in front of Astarion, his arms half-thrown across himself as if for cover, but there must be something in Astarion’s expression that encourages him, because his arms drop to his sides even as he blushes.
“Delicious,” Astarion breathes, stalking closer to Gale. “What a gorgeous bride. I have just one finishing touch for you, darling.”
Gale makes a breathy little sound as Astarion plucks the long-discarded lipstick tube from the side table and saunters over to him. His lips part automatically when Astarion grips his bearded jaw, and isn’t that a lovely thing to discover?
A careful drag, top and bottom, and now Gale’s lips are painted red. “Gorgeous. What a pretty girl,” Astarion says, and he means it. He throws the lipstick to the floor, and then his hands reach for Gale’s hips, sliding gently along the satin.
Gale swallows. “You are you sure you really—”
“Yes, I really do want to fuck you, Gale of Waterdeep,” Astarion says—and it’s true, it really is. Astarion could walk away right now if he wanted to and Gale would let him with naught more than an evening’s embarrassment, he’s sure of that. But Astarion doesn’t want to walk away. “I want to fuck you in this room, right now, while you wear this dress. Is that alright with you?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely. More than alright, in fact,” Gale replies breathlessly, and Astarion leans forward and presses his lips to Gale’s painted pair.
Gale doesn’t waste any time, his mouth falling open with a warbling little noise so that they’re kissing with tongues almost straight away. They slot together so instantly and comfortably, with such delightful synchronicity, that Astarion suddenly knows for sure they have done this before. Gale’s hands had been hanging uselessly at his sides, but now one slides against Astarion’s cheek and the other draws soft circles against his waist, and even that gentle touch is enough to fan the flames of Astarion’s desire. He glides his hands along the dress’ smooth satin so that he can handfuls of Gale’s ass—and oh, now where in the world had the wizard been hiding this?
Astarion backs Gale towards the chest of drawers until they thud against it, still kissing him, and then he finally lets go of Gale’s ass just to tug at his thighs. “Up. Onto the dresser,” Astarion demands.
“Really?” Gale says with a breathy laugh, but he doesn’t refuse, shuffling himself onto the dresser while Astarion crowds into the space between his parted legs.
“Tell me, darling. Before your wedding day, did anyone touch you like this?” Astarion purrs, running hands up Gale’s thighs until the skirt wraps above his knees.
“Never, saer,” Gale says, and Astarion grins, delighted that Gale’s thrown in his lot with their little roleplay.
“Don’t you worry, my dear, I’ll be ever so gentle with you. I’ll treat you so sweetly,” he croons, leaning to kiss Gale’s bare collarbone where it’s framed in silk.
“Well, you don’t have to be gentle, necessarily,” Gale says, pretence at innocence cast aside in an instant, and then hisses when Astarion’s teeth graze at his skin. “Oh, hells, Astarion—”
“Now that’s no way for a lady to talk,’ Astarion says against his throat, and he undoes the ties of the halter neck on Gale’s dress, dragging the front down past Gale’s chest. The bra underneath has clearly been altered too, fitting neatly against Gale’s chest, and Astarion admires it for a moment before he shoves his hands underneath to pull Gale’s tits out of the cups. Gale moans as he does, and then again when Astarion pinches his nipples.
It’s novel, the control—to take what he wants, nothing more and nothing less. Novel, and addicting. Astarion can feel something that might be his own arousal, but it’s a low simmer in the background, easy to ignore.
“What a dirty girl,” Astarion murmurs, “to like having her tits played with. Does my bride like that?”
“I do,” Gale moans, and Astarion rewards him with another pinch, rolling Gale’s nipples between fingers and thumbs until Gale’s squirming. Then he turns his attention back to Gale’s thighs—dragging his hands up them under the dress and delighting in the soft, furred flesh under his hands, how it breaks out in goosebumps at his touch. His fingers reach the bite from last night, and Gale lets out another little hiss—half delight, half pain. Astarion can’t stop smiling, he finds, as he swipes his thumb over the marks oh-so-gently before moving away.
“Hitch up your skirt properly for me, my sweet,” he says, between running hot, wet kisses up the length of Gale’s trembling throat. “Show me your pretty little knickers again.”
“Good gods,” says Gale, sounding almost hysterical, and then he’s tucking the hem of his dress further up his thighs with shaky hands. When it lifts over his hips, Astarion can see the awkward fit of the knickers around Gale’s burgeoning erection, the top of his cock peeking out of the seam. His hairy thighs and belly frame everything delightfully, and Astarion pauses to admire the picture for a moment.
“Be a good girl and keep holding the dress up for me, darling,” Astarion says, and Gale—gods above and below bless the man—moves to trap the hem of the dress between his teeth, gagging himself in the process.
“Oh, I’m going to have fun with you,” Astarion breathes, and then kneels down so he can fit his lips and tongue against Gale’s cock straight through the knickers. Gale makes muffled little whimpers through the satin as Astarion takes his time to suck and lick, soaking the fabric with his spit. His hand finds its way to the bite mark on Gale’s thigh again, and this time it isn’t a gentle touch: as he runs his tongue along the length of Gale’s cock and finally curls around the head, he presses down hard, and Gale makes a garbled, pathetic, needy noise that Astarion will commission a bard to replicate in song.
“Oh, did you like that?” Astarion says, laving his tongue over the delicate underside of the head and then cruelly pulling away. “Does that mean my good girl wants my mouth on her?”
Gale squeezes his eyes shut the way he had when Astarion had first started to tease him, and Astarion presses on the bite mark again viciously. “Ah-ah-ah! No hiding, darling. Eyes open.”
Gale’s eyes open, his face newly aflame, and Astarion grins at him.
“Now, I’ll ask you again. Does my good girl want my mouth on her?”
Gale nods rapidly, his mouth still full of satin.
“See? That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Astarion says, and then reaches to peel the knickers down Gale’s hips, Gale’s cock springing free as he does. It’s pleasantly thick in a way that Astarion knows would do some delightful things inside him, but tonight’s not the night for that.
He sucks Gale down, curling his tongue around the head and then dipping into the slit, and another wave of déjà vu washes over him; well, he doesn’t blame Last Night Astarion for wanting to do this too. He tastes salt and sweat and pre-come, and can sense the pulse of blood within. Gale is making little hitched moans in time with the bob of Astarion’s head, and when Astarion impulsively drags red lines down Gale’s thigh with his free hand, he makes another of those delicious garbled noises. Astarion presses the mark again, and when Gale’s hips thrust upwards into his mouth Astarion swats Gale’s thigh with an open palm, the pair of them moaning at the sound of it.
Astarion indulges himself, enjoying Gale’s cock in whichever way strikes his fancy and dealing out little slices of pain to accompany the pleasure. Which makes it almost surprising when Gale’s noises suddenly become a lot more urgent and Astarion has to pull away so as not to end this whole thing far too early. When Astarion stands up, Gale looks delirious, lipstick and drool smeared on the green satin in his mouth, and Astarion can’t help but pull the dress out of his mouth to kiss him thoroughly.
“Astarion,” Gale breathes, when they part. “That was—I—thank you.”
Astarion laughs. “How very polite of you, but we’re not done yet, darling. Let’s get you on the bed, hmm? On your hands and knees, I think.”
“Hells,” Gale says, and scrambles to comply, the dress falling back down over his hips briefly until Astarion crawls onto the bed behind him and rucks it back up to his waist. He grabs at Gale’s ass with both hands again, then swats at his left cheek just to hear Gale gasp again.
“Astarion,” Gale says, and then gasps in rising pitch when Astarion’s fangs scrape firmly against his backside. Astarion grins again, kissing the same spot in a tease, and then trails kisses towards the furl of Gale’s entrance. “Oh, Astarion, please—”
“Please what, darling?” Astarion says, against Gale’s skin. “What does my blushing bride want?”
Gale mumbles something into the sheets in front of him, and Astarion swats him again. “Louder, darling! Make me proud.”
“If you would—please, saer—” Gale is tripping over his words, and Astarion thinks he knows why; he reaches between Gale’s thighs for the bite mark, and presses down on it with relish.
“If you don’t tell me what you want, my sweet, you won’t get it,” Astarion says, delighted. He feels almost drunk on power.
Gale shifts and tenses, clearly fighting himself, before he relents with a shiver and says in a shaky voice: “Please, Astarion. Please. Make me— make me wet.”
“What a good girl,” Astarion says, adrenaline singing through him with Gale’s capitulation, and he laves a flat, wet tongue over Gale’s hole—gripping one cheek of his ass so hard Astarion hopes it leaves finger marks. He sucks and licks and fucks his tongue into Gale, revelling in every desperate, filthy noise he drags out of the other man.
Eventually, he pulls away, affectionately spitting on Gale’s hole one more time and circling a wet thumbtip into him, before asking casually: “So what are the chances we have some oil in here from last night?”
Gale shivers beneath him, his voice fragile and reedy: “Mm, ah—good-to-certain, I would say, I found some when I was tidying—oh, hells, Astarion, keep doing that, please.”
“I will, darling, I will. You’ll get as many fingers inside you as you want, hmm? And you’ll come like that when I tell you to? Like a good girl?”
“Yes, yes please,” Gale moans.
It takes some effort to move away from Gale to fetch the oil, but it’s so very worth it to be able to slide one slick finger properly into Gale, then two. Gale is delicious like this: tight and hot and wet squirming and panting, trying to angle his hips so he can rub his cock against the sheets. Astarion pinches the bite mark in retaliation, and Gale wails.
“Hells, Astarion, please—saer, please—”
“None of that. You’ll come when I say so.” Astarion pushes his two fingers deeper, crooking them, and Gale groans deep from the belly in a way that makes Astarion smile savagely. He fucks his fingers in and out of Gale a few more times then slides a third into him; a tight fit, but worth it for how Gale reacts.
“Oh, Astarion, yes, like that—”
“Filthy girl,” Astarion says with relish, still moving his fingers indulgently inside Gale’s body. “Being taken on her wedding night, skirt up around her waist, three fingers inside her. You’re so wet now, darling. I’m sure I could slide right inside if I wanted to. But this will do just fine, for now.”
Gale presses his head into the sheets and rocks it from side to side, acceptance and refusal all at once. His thighs shake, and it’s a wonderful sight. “Hah—yes—please touch me—”
“Oh? Am I not touching you now?” Astarion croons, but he only lets Gale squirm for a moment before he catches his other hand around that lovely cock and strokes it in time with the thrust of his fingers. There’s barely another moment to enjoy the sight, and then Gale is coming messily through Astarion’s fingers onto the bedsheets with a long groan.
Gale collapses onto the bed as soon as Astarion pulls his fingers out, but he takes only a few great, heaving, mortal breaths before he rolls onto his back. Astarion, almost by instinct, clambers closer, mantling over Gale like a beast with prey. Gale is a beautiful mess: the dress nothing but crumpled come-smeared satin dangling around his waist, the bra askew, the lipstick Astarion had put on him smeared down his chin. Most compelling of all, his soft brown eyes are damp and shining, as if he’d been overcome with emotion. Astarion had almost been content to leave Gale rent asunder and ignore his own pleasure, but the sight of him like this suddenly has Astarion feeling wild, his cock throbbing in his confines in a way that feels rather too close to the edge.
Gale reaches out to him wordlessly, one hand landing on Astarion’s hip to guide him closer, and it’s Astarion who is scrambling to comply this time, shoving breeches and underwear off so that he can plant knees either side of Gale’s neck. Gale opens his red-stained lips and accepts Astarion’s cock like a gift, wet eyes fixed upwards reverently as he lets Astarion fuck his mouth. Gods, it’s too much, after so little, and Astarion is losing control far more quickly than he would have imagined.
“Gale,” he says stupidly, all his smug chatter washed away with the wet warmth of Gale’s tongue, and Gale blinks up at him beatifically, his hands moving on Astarion’s hips to encourage him. “Gale, I’m going to come, and I want it to be all over your pretty face. Is that alright?”
Gale makes a desperate sort of noise around Astarion’s cock, nodding as best he can in the circumstances and closing his eyes, and Astarion only has time to pull back and gasp “Yes, my good girl—” before he’s coming messily across Gale’s lips and chin.
Gale’s eyes open again and he smiles, delighted, lipstick and come all over his face, and Astarion has to hang over him taking heaving breaths he doesn’t need for a while, taking in the sight. Then he reaches down and collects some of the mess with a thumb, and Gale opens his mouth obediently, ready to clean up.
“You are a delight,” Astarion says, as he feeds Gale his come smear by smear. “How did we not do this before now? I can’t believe I could have had this the whole time we were in mortal danger and I didn’t know.”
Gale laughs, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip. “I think we rather had other things on our mind before now that took priority,” he says. “Giant brains, godly conspiracies. Probably for the best that we waited til the last possible moment.”
Astarion makes a face at this. “Not the very last moment, I hope.”
Gale looks away. “Well. Now that our own little personal mystery has been solved, I have some business to attend to with the Crown. And possibly some explaining to do to Mystra, assuming she cares a jot that I accidentally got married in front of her. And then, eventually, I suppose I shall be making my way back to Waterdeep. And I assume you have… your own endeavours to persue.”
“Mm, yes, I suppose I should go and find the spawn in the Underdark. Eventually,” Astarion echoes, and then trails a finger down Gale’s neck, down his sternum, casually weaving it through his chest hair. “How soon is ‘eventually’, would you say?”
Gale turns to look at him, and the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “As long as we care to make it, I suppose.”
Astarion grins. “In that case, how would you feel about a few more nights of hedonistic debauchery?”