Chapter 1: Blood Work
Chapter Text
Every time he tranced, Astarion saw it: his steady hands carving up Cazador’s back, followed by that singular, glorious instant when his tormenter exploded into thick red mist before his eyes.
His finest moment.
He awoke as he usually did, with a throbbing erection.
It’s good to be me, he thought.
An instinctive affirmation. It was more a force of habit than the truth these days. The truth was that he was totally, completely, unbearably, mind-numbingly bored. There was only so much to do in his palace. He shrugged off the corpses of whatever nameless fucks he’d bedded the night before—some tiefling and some half-elf, both completely drained of blood—and reached for his cock.
The dried leavings of old cum and desiccated pussy juice crumbled away as he pulled feverishly at his foreskin, counting the tugs. One. Two. Three. Four. In his mind, his former master grew wide-eyed, fearful. Astarion bit his lip and gave the head of his cock a slight squeeze each time his hand slid across it.
He could hear Cazador’s high-pitched screams and see the sweat pouring down his back and arms as he faced his end. Astarion thumbed his wet slit, imagining it was that same fluid, or perhaps the tears he shed when he began begging for his life.
Thirteen. Fourteen.
When the screams turned to whimpers all those years ago, Astarion had licked along the wound he’d carved. His master’s blood—metallic and strong—was delectable. It tasted like victory. He swallowed a lump of spit in the back of his throat and pretended it was a gulp of Cazador, rich and heady.
Twenty-two. Twenty-three.
“Fuck you,” Astarion groaned as he spilled two scant beads onto his stomach. He snarled into a huff as he noticed one of the corpses staring at him with listless eyes, then shouted toward the hallway. “Godey! Come clean up this mess!”
Typically, his servant was at the ready with a cumrag. But Astarion didn't hear the signature click-clack footsteps of skeletal toes on marble halls. He frowned.
I suppose I'll give him a moment before I have him shattered to bone fragments.
He was left in silence with his thoughts, and that was the most boring thing of all.
The next thing to cross his mind was something that crossed the mind of millions before him.
I should make some spawn.
There'd been big plans for them, after all. Create an army of loyal servants, plunge the Sword Coast into darkness, go on a spree of violence and bloodshed.
It wasn't all that appealing to Astarion, though, as it would take a whole lot of effort. Theoretical planning was better than actual planning. Laying low was easier and safer. And so, with five hundred and some odd years of vampire ascendancy under his belt, all he had to show for it was exactly what he'd acquired from Cazador. Nothing more.
What the fuck is taking Godey so long?
An explosive, slamming sound clued him in that something was wrong. He hurriedly pulled on a pair of black velour track pants and shambled out into the hall of his palace.
The east wing was blindingly bright.
Where a huge portrait of Vellioth once hung, there was open blue sky and a pile of rubble. Plumes of powdered mortar slowly settled toward the floor. The palace’s signature, sour smell of death had been usurped by semi-fresh Baldurian air, tinged with exhaust smoke and sun-baked sidewalk piss. Jutting out from a large chunk of wall was a crushed skeletal arm, its boney fingers twitching. That answered what happened to Godey.
As Astarion coughed on the dust of centuries-old collapsed stone, there was the harsh sound of heavy machinery shifting and reversing.
—BEEEP—BEEEP—BEEEP—
Sneering, he twirled in place, turning himself into mist that could fly overhead and survey the scene from above.
The street behind the east exit had been blocked off with orange cones. There was a wrecking ball, along with a bulldozer, a few excavators, and a dump truck—all in active use. His home was quite clearly being demolished.
Amongst a sea of yellow-hatted construction workers, Astarion spotted the white hardhat of the human foreman and floated his way.
In a misty flash, he reappeared as himself, in his velour pants and no shirt.
“What in the sweet hells do you think you're doing?” he asked.
The foreman eyed the ‘NO FEAR’ tattoo across his chest, no doubt in awe of the message it conveyed. He spat a glob of tobacco onto the ground before answering gruffly. “City’s demoing this building for not being up to code.”
“Up to code!?”
“There's been a notice on the door for six months.”
Astarion whined. “What door? Do you know how many doors this palace has? More than you've seen in your life, probably.” He indignantly pulled up his waistband. “You can't just demolish someone's home.”
“The city owns this home,” the foreman corrected. “Whoever owned it before never paid the property taxes.”
“When did they start collecting those!?” Astarion griped.
Clearly assuming he was some sort of squatter, the foreman rolled his eyes. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes to gather your belongings and go. If you stay in there as the building collapses, that’s on you.”
A short “eugh” escaped Astarion's mouth as he considered his options. Massacre every last construction worker and cause a whole lot of hassle for himself when he had to then massacre a slew of Flaming Fist and nosy Harpers, or evacuate the castle he'd been living in for five centuries and hadn’t left in a very long time.
The latter option was much easier, and he was always likely to go for what was easiest.
Astarion shot the workers a middle finger, then made his way back inside. There, he considered the directive to gather his belongings. There were so many—oil paintings and ornate sculptures and the realm’s finest cutlery—but he didn't particularly give a shit about any of them.
He grabbed the essentials. In his duffel bag, he packed some changes of clothing, a squeeze bottle half-full of sea green hair gel, an eye mask, a retro brick cell phone, a few odd scrolls, and the only item he owned that stirred any kind of feeling: a knee-length red cape. It was a gift from someone forever lost to him, and he paused in agonizing thought for just the shortest moment before stuffing it in next to some flip-flops.
It was best not to think about it. There was no going back, only forward.
Remembering his looting days, he shoveled a few silver cups and trays into his bag, just in case he needed to buy something and couldn't find an ATM.
He threw on the fuzzy track jacket that matched his bottoms and tucked a very cool chain wallet into his pocket. It was made to look like it was spattered with blood, and it tickled him to use it in front of would-be victims. They never suspected a thing, the idiots.
All he had to do then was decide where to go.
His first thought was the labyrinthian palace basement, but most of it had collapsed during the construction of a subway line that ran between the upper and lower city. What remained was damp and perpetually loud from the rattle of passing trains.
That wouldn't do. Not only were his elven ears sensitive to the sound, but they were also sensitive to the moisture. Since his ascension, none of the normal means of harming a vampire affected him, but there was still a risk of fungal infection from hanging out beneath the city for too long.
No. For the first time in ages, Astarion would need to venture into daylight. Thinking he was smart enough to figure this out as he went along, he grabbed his bag and went for the door. The front door. The door to which any supposed notices of demolition should have been plastered.
From the doorway, he took one last look at the inside of the palace—at heavy, dusty curtains, at herringbone wood flooring that bore signs of water damage, at the peeling red and gold wallpaper on needlessly high walls. For five hundred years, this had been his grandest possession, and for two hundred years before that it had been his brutal, unwilling home. Aside from a few scant months of camping, he didn't know anything else.
There had probably been a time when he wanted to know something else, but he couldn’t remember.
Stepping out into the bright morning, he spotted a piece of yellow paper on the door.
NOTICE OF DEMOLITION
It was dated two months earlier. He really had missed the damned thing entirely.
🩸🩸🩸
Seven thousand souls rotted in the hells to give Astarion the ability to withstand sunlight, but it turned out he didn't really like the daytime all that much. Every time he’d gone out in the last few centuries, he’d ended up with a terrible sunburn. Once, there was even a rash.
Gone was whatever short-lived thrill he’d gotten from the sun during his tadpole era.
Nighttime was best for prowling. Nighttime was best for hosting parties and orgies. Nighttime didn't make him hold a hand above his eyes for shade and squint as he tried to read the apartment listings in Baldur's Mouth Gazette.
There were so damned many of them, and they were much more expensive than he'd anticipated. He sat on a bench in Bloomridge Park, experiencing sticker shock.
1 BR UC near bloomridge
8000/mo, 1 yr lease,
1st and last month due at signing
55-4589-1112
Nearby, there was a group of young children playing frisbee with a dog. With all the shrieking and barking, Astarion found it difficult to focus.
“Do you mind!?” he shouted, then dramatically ruffled his newspaper.
Studio near BGU
6000/mo +utils, must prove
15x monthly rent as salary
55-9912-6617
ROOMMATE WANTED
to share a 3br flat with 5 chill gnomes
4000/mo
56-3938-2244
“Ergh,” he groaned to himself. “Gnomes.”
ESTATE FOR RENT
25000 gp monthly
call Braydyn Jannath
55-2828-1985
That one seemed promising. He always did like the Jannath estate, poltergeists aside. Astarion flapped the newspaper shut, glowered at the still-playing children, and marched over to the nearest Counting House ATM.
He entered his PIN—1492, the year he'd been reborn as the most powerful vampire in existence—and tapped the button to view his account balance.
At the number on the screen, Astarion coughed. “What!?”
50gp
That couldn't be right. He'd been investing for five hundred years.
Sure, there had been some slight financial missteps—betting heavily on pets.com and Blockbuster Video, purchasing hundreds of thousands of gp worth of Beanie Babies and a timeshare in the Moonshae Isles—but these days Astarion had an accountant who knew what he was doing. There were things called NFTs, and he really didn't understand them but he'd been assured they were rare and valuable. His—an NFT from the Bored Harengon series featuring a harengon wearing sunglasses and a propeller cap—was the rarest and most valuable of all. He should have been swimming in cash, according to his accountant.
Astarion pulled out his phone and dialed Piddle Capital.
“—BRR–BWA–BEEP—The number you dialed cannot be reached.”
“Eugh.” As he angrily stuffed his phone back into his duffel bag, Astarion vowed to have his accountant flayed alive. If he could ever get ahold of the bastard, and if he could find someone willing to do a flaying. It wouldn’t be him, of course (too messy).
Cursing under his breath, he began thinking. He could make something work. He had those silver cups and trays, after all, and he had a key to Cazador's old vault in the Counting House. As he recalled, it held some valuable items.
After hoofing it down there and arguing with the clerk at the front desk for forty-five minutes over the legitimacy of his claim to the vault, Astarion finally gave up, turned himself into mist, and snuck inside to retrieve his former master’s belongings.
The sum of it was: a single heavy crossbow and some tacky jewelry. Not even enchanted. Just jewelry. And he was fairly certain some of the gemstones were fake.
At the GP-4-Stuff pawn shop down the road, the store’s seedy tiefling proprietor agreed.
“These are almost worthless,” they said.
As if it weren’t bad enough that Astarion was availing himself of an establishment so far beneath him. The place had all the charm of that Blighted Village he’d once visited, and half as good inventory management. It smelled of mildew and paint thinner. Now the owner had the nerve to tell Astarion his wares were worthless?
“These are antiquities!” he insisted.
“They are,” the tiefling agreed. “Worthless antiquities. I can’t even sell the crossbow in city limits.”
Astarion sighed and pulled the silver cups and trays from his bag. “What about these? I can assure you they’re real silver.”
The tiefling inspected them and confirmed they were.
“All in all… 250gp.”
Astarion stared blankly. “250gp.”
“250gp.”
He needed more money, stat.
If he hadn’t ascended, he’d have been able to murder the owner without being spotted by any of the shop’s dozens of security cameras. Unfortunately, being caught on tape was a side effect of being visible in mirrors. It wasn’t worth the hassle. He’d find another way.
At almost precisely the moment Astarion exited that shop, a delivery truck drove by with a suspiciously convenient ad plastered to its side.
VAMPIRE BLOOD WANTED
EARN 1000gp FAST
That was promising.
🩸🩸🩸
In a dark waiting room, ambient spa music twinkled through the speaker system.
Astarion sat, arms grumpily crossed, as a flat-screen on the wall lit up—yet again—with the same fucking introductory video. It began with shots of still lakes and peaceful wheat fields. A calming voice spoke over shots of swaying palm trees and oceanside umbrellas.
“Welcome to Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center. For over four hundred years, Araj Oblodra has been unlocking the secrets contained in vampire blood—”
He was well aware, having been the first gods-damned vampiric blood donor all those centuries ago. His lips had even tasted the blood of Araj Oblodra herself. Its foul tang remained a potent memory amidst so many potent memories.
More imagery flashed across the screen. There were half-elven and human children running around a playground, and one little dragonborn being pushed on a swing by its parents. It was trite. It was boring.
“—and it’s not just blood. Vampiric sperm, unwanted fat and more can be donated and used to create life-saving drugs and supplements to improve longevity in short-lived species.”
There was a shot of some orc in a bathtub, luxuriating in bubbles.
Astarion rolled his eyes.
“Your immortality is a gift, and thanks to Araj Oblodra, it's one you can share with others.”
On screen, visibly elderly half-elves and tieflings ran some sort of track and field event, as if they were much, much younger.
“Thank you for choosing Araj Oblodra. We hope to see you again and again.”
Astarion hissed a little as the door opened, flooding the room with bright white LED lighting.
“Finally,” he griped. “Can you hurry up and take my damned plasma now, or do I have to sip complimentary water and watch this fucking video for another hour?”
“It’s important our donors are hydrated,” said the young human woman assigned to assist him through his first-ever donation.
She walked him out of the vampiric donor waiting area to an intake desk in the facility’s main room, where more common creatures donated their plasma. This area was much less relaxing: a wide open expanse of checkerboard vinyl flooring, with several cluttered desks staffed by visibly tired employees in white lab coats. Their duties were multiple, apparently, and included both administrative and medical work. One of them kept coughing, and that—aside from the buzz of the overhead lights—was the only ambient sound.
On the side of the room opposite the row of desks were the stations where donations took place. Dozens of reclined plastic chairs, all occupied by desperate members of every species. What they all had in common was that they needed the money.
Astarion noticed a deep gnome amongst them and scoffed as he took a seat across from his intake specialist.
“Ugh. You’ll just take any old blood, won’t you?”
She disagreed. “We actually have a very thorough screening process. First thing’s first, I need to verify that you are in fact a vampire. Could you hold out your index finger?”
“When do I get to donate my sperm?” Astarion wondered. “The video said that pays even more?”
The woman’s response was a recitation of some company line. “Vampires are eligible for additional types of donation only after completing a successful plasma donation, as it’s our easiest procedure.”
“I’d think jizzing in a cup would be pretty damned easy,” Astarion noted.
“There’s actually a milking device…”
He cringed, then begrudgingly jutted a finger toward her. The woman clipped some sort of plastic gadget onto his fingertip. It pricked him and beeped.
The woman sighed like she’d seen this a thousand times, and grabbed a clipboard full of paperwork. “You’re not a vampire. You’re not even a vampire spawn.”
“Excuse me?” Astarion scoffed, aghast. “I’ll have you know I’m the vampire ascendant. Five hundred years ago, I completed the Rite of Profane Ascension and became something more powerful than—”
“According to your blood screening, you’re not even a dhampir.” She removed the clip from his finger and slapped a small pink bandage across the tiny bead of blood.
“I am so. A vampire, that is. Not some lowly dhampir.” His voice lowered and he bared his fangs. “Would you like me to drain you so that you can confirm?”
This was just perfect. Apparently his ascension rendered him so special he no longer shared a phenome with other vampires.
She rolled her eyes. “We’ll take a donation of standard elven plasma. It pays less, but—”
“How much less?”
“50gp,” she said.
“Oh, well that’s not too large a difference—”
“No, it only pays 50gp. Total. Elven blood is common.”
He stared at her. “50gp?”
“Mhm.” She nodded. “Do you want to donate or not?”
Since he only had 300gp to his name and the Jannath Estate rented for 25000gp monthly, Astarion agreed. He’d have to come up with a better strategy than donating his blood five hundred times a month, but for the time being he needed any gp he could get.
“Okay, I need you to answer some questions. You’re at least 100 elven years old, correct?”
“I’m 740,” Astarion said.
“Okay, good. And you haven’t donated plasma in the last two days, correct?”
He glanced around the room, noting the misery on the faces of everyone donating. “I’ve never done this before and I hope not to do it again.”
“Have you traveled outside of Baldur’s Gate in the last two tendays?”
“No, I haven’t left Baldur’s Gate in… years.” He really thought about that for the first time and realized how pitiful it seemed. He could go anywhere and do anything, and he’d stayed right where Cazador had left him centuries ago.
“Have you had sex with any dragonborn in the last two years?”
“No, I haven’t slept with a dragonborn in… a long time.” Another painful thought.
“Okay then! I just need to see your ID and we’ll get you into a chair.”
Astarion blinked a few times. “My what?”
Chapter 2: The Checkup
Summary:
Gale decides to catch up with an old friend.
Notes:
I'll probably mostly post this story on Tuesdays, but I'm too excited to introduce Gale so have chapter 2 early...
Chapter Text
Things were going swimmingly for Gale of Waterdeep.
At 567 years old, he was in his prime. Sure, his long, wiry beard had lost nearly all of its color and he now had an abundance of body-wide wrinkles, but he was still a wizard of great renown. A weave anchor. One of Mystra’s chosen. Very well-behaved. Very special.
She hadn’t chosen him for a mission in some time, though, and Gale found himself getting antsy.
Not that he had a problem whiling away the hours. An archwizard’s life was inherently an intellectual one. There were always books to read, documentaries to watch, spells to develop, and alchemical experiments to conduct. But adventure—honest to the gods, staff-wielding adventure—held a certain thrill that he longed for. Combating evil wizards in Thay. Dodging enslavement in Menzoberranzan. Evading the Dragon Queen of Skelkor. He’d seen and done so much over the centuries, gotten his hands in some real messes.
It had been a long while, now that he thought about it.
Gale was tending to the many, many potted plants on his balcony when he found himself looking around wistfully.
“Where did the time go?” he wondered aloud, surprised as ever by the cracks of age in his own voice.
Waterdeep had changed a great deal in his lifetime. It seemed like just yesterday that it was sailboats coming and going from its docks, not oversized yachts loaded with Highberry and Ravengard heirs on holiday. It wasn’t long ago that the tallest building in town was Blackstaff Tower. These days, it existed in the shadow of skyscrapers—a wholly unimpressive blip, its magic subsumed by the power of corporate capital.
Any day now, Gale was sure Mystra would have another quest for him. Something of realm-wide importance. Something with a spot of danger to it, perhaps.
“What the fuck are you doing?” asked a harsh, brusque voice. “Sounded like you were talking to yourself.”
Tara-22 strutted out from the bedroom, dramatically stretching her tortoiseshell wings.
“Aha,” Gale turned to the tressym and stumbled over his words, flustered. “I'm afraid you've caught an old man doing what old men are wont to do.”
“Pissing blood?” Tara-22 asked.
“No. Reminiscing about the past.” Gale took a seat on his spotless outdoor sofa. For good measure, he cast prestidigitation on it anyway, rendering it even more spotless. One could never run out of cantrips, after all. It just made good sense to be certain.
“Thinking about other Taras?” Tara-22 asked. She made a dramatic, sarcastic “pfft” sound before hopping onto the sofa to join him. “I'm hurt.”
Since she mentioned it, Gale began doing just that. His mind conjured images of his childhood friend and the many clones he'd created over the years. At first, their personalities were identical to the original Tara’s, but over centuries…
Not wanting to upset her, he shook his head. “Not this time. I was merely recalling my days of adventure. I fear they may be behind me.”
“They should be,” Tara-22 jibed, batting a paw at his weak knee through his robe.
Gale rubbed at said knee. “Elminster adventured well into his 1400s. I'm barely at midlife.”
Tara-22 tilted her head. “If you’re bored, you can scoop my litter box.”
“Very funny,” Gale said.
Tara-22 crawled onto his lap and looked up at him with big yellow eyes. “Gale, if you want to go on an adventure, go on an adventure. No one’s going to stop you.” She lifted her head high. “Just don’t expect me to tag along. There’s a new season of Pigeon Island coming out this tenday and I’m going to binge the hells out of it.”
Gale considered her words.
His directive from his goddess was simple. Stay in Waterdeep and await further instructions. Gale knew from experience that bad things tended to happen when he disobeyed.
The boredom, though, was nagging.
“I'll ask her,” he said, gently picking up and moving Tara-22.
She yawned and curled up on the sofa for a nap.
With a series of pops and creaks, Gale rose to a standing position. With a few more snaps and cracks, he made his way inside and down a flight of stairs.
His library had grown over the centuries. At first glance, it was a simple room with four simple walls lined with bookshelves. However, when he stepped to the center of the room and chanted “sinum mundi” the space expanded. A little pocket dimension, just for literature.
This was also where he kept a special sending stone for conversing with Mystra. It wasn’t meant to be used trivially, but Gale didn’t consider his ennui to be a trivial matter. With a few strokes of his fingers across its purple surface, his vision flooded with white light. His mind and soul drifted to Elysium to formlessly commune with the goddess of magic.
Mystra’s voice boomed. “Gale of Waterdeep. I thought my guidance for you was clear.”
“It was. I was just hoping to speak with you about something that's been on my mind.”
“I'm very busy, Gale.”
“I'll be quick as a tabaxi!” he assured her.
There was irritation in her voice. “Go on, then.”
“I've not been chosen for any missions in some time. I believe it's been—”
“Thirty material plane years,” Mystra said.
“Indeed,” Gale said. “I've been wondering if perhaps there's been an oversight, or—”
“Do you think I make oversights?”
“Oh, ah… of course not. It's just that without practicing my skills on a regular basis I fear they'll begin to slip and when you do call upon me next—”
“You're a Weave anchor. Your only task is to stay alive and protect the sanctity of the Weave.”
“A very important task and an honor,” Gale assured her. “Though, if I could make a request…”
Mystra grew impatient. “What, Gale?”
“Would I be remiss to set out on an adventure of my own then? Since you have no immediate plans for me?”
“You don't need my permission to…” Mystra seemed both confused and perturbed. “Have you literally been waiting in Waterdeep all this time? I said ‘await further instruction’ not ‘cease living your life.’”
“I've been awaiting—”
“By Elysium,” Mystra said. “Get out and do something.”
Just like that, Gale was back in his library.
He ignored some mild urinary leakage and readied a teleportation spell.
🩸🩸🩸
Baldur's Gate had nothing on Waterdeep. Its slums were more numerous, as were its potholes. But the Gate filled Gale with a sense of nostalgia. One of his greatest achievements—defeating that Netherbrain and saving the entire realm from Illithids—took place at High Hall.
Naturally, that was the first place in the city he went.
It was the only building in Baldur’s Gate that looked the same as it did five hundred years earlier. Mostly. Its elegant spires and sturdy buttresses were still intact, but there were a lot more wires weaving in and out of the massive fortress. It had electricity rather than candle-lit chandeliers. There were rusty fire escapes along its stone walls.
A stunning architectural achievement, High Hall drew crowds. As Gale stood idly near a bench watching the sun reflect off its stained glass windows, several tour groups breezed by. Baldurian schoolchildren, Amnians, visitors from the Astral Sea… It was crowded.
There was a gift shop now. That was a new development since Gale had last visited, so he made a quick stop for a souvenir teacup and a bottle of ginger ale (to his chagrin, they did not carry prune juice).
Toting a little plastic bag with his memento inside, Gale ambled along the sidewalks of the Upper City. Its high-end shops offered little that appealed to a wizard of his age—mostly crop tops and luxury perfumes that didn’t hold a candle to good old-fashioned aurumvorax oil and clove. There was a magic shop, but it was unfortunately not of the Mystran variety. Instead, it sold an array of smooth stones that were decidedly not imbued with Weave but were meant to be inserted into the snatches of the rich and famous.
Gale’s legs were beginning to tire when he spotted a familiar face amongst luxury shoppers. White curls that hadn’t changed much in five hundred years; they just looked a lot greasier due to whatever cheap modern product the elf had been using.
“Astarion!” he shouted.
His old friend heard him through the crowd. His oldest friend, he realized, now that Elminster had passed on. Astarion turned—looking as youthful as ever—and covered his eyes with his hand, no doubt due to being sensitive to the bright Baldurian sun.
“Astarion!” Gale said again as he approached. “No rest for the wicked, I see.”
Astarion spoke through gritted teeth. “Gale. It’s certainly… something to see you again.”
Gale roped his velour-clad form in for a friendly hug, through which Astarion squirmed. “It’s been ages since we last chatted. So, how go your plans to rule the entire Sword Coast?”
Astarion pulled away and held his head high, ignoring a bit of dusty debris that fell from his hair as he did so. “I'm biding my time.”
Gale put a hand to his beard and curled his fingers into it as he spoke jovially. “Five hundred years is quite a bit of biding. If I didn't know better, I'd say you haven’t been trying.”
He didn’t mean anything cruel by it. Just a good-natured jibe between old friends.
Astarion stepped closer. His eyes narrowed. “And what the fuck have you done, Gale? Stand around tickling your low-hanging balls as everything goes to shit?”
That was harsh, and it hit too close to home. Gale always wanted to do more.
“My responsibilities are many,” he said, defending himself.
Astarion sneered. “Been a real weave pillar of the community, have you?”
“Weave anchor,” Gale corrected.
“Nobody gives a shit.”
With that, Astarion stepped into the small shop he'd been heading toward in the first place: Greater Restoration, a wellness store.
Gale followed. “You’re in an uncommonly difficult mood.”
Inside, dark wood shelves and tables were covered in handmade soaps, artisanal body washes, and luxury bath salts. “It’s not uncommon when you’re around.” Astarion picked up a fancy, heart-shaped bar of soap and gave it a sniff. “Eugh.”
Gale ignored the abundant bath supplies. “Let’s not argue over vocabulary if something’s bothering you. I am always ready and willing to lend an ear or—if need be—a helping hand.”
Astarion eyed him up and down. “You. You’re bothering me. Now go.”
“No,” Gale said, wagging a finger. “I can tell that’s not it.”
“Sweet hells,” Astarion griped. “If you’re going to linger, could you at least illusion yourself back into your youth so I don’t have to look at your paper-thin skin or that rat’s nest you call a beard?”
Gale took a step back. “Aging is a sign of a life well-lived.”
“Well-lived?” Astarion laughed.
“Yes, well-lived—”
“And what do you have to show for yourself?”
Gale raised an index finger. “My survival ensures the continued existence of the Weave.”
“Mhrm, and? Where’s your palace? Where are your descendants?”
“Where are your spawn?” Gale countered.
Astarion sneered at him. “Where are your lovers?”
Gale tilted his head and smiled smugly. “I have taken many lovers.”
“And where are they now?” Astarion asked, hitting Gale where it would sting.
It did sting. Aside from Mystra, whom he'd long ago learned not to call a lover, none of his life’s great romances had stuck around.
Gale found himself standing inside a luxury toiletries shop, frowning.
Astarion disregarded him and focused on yet another foul-smelling bar of soap. This one was an unsettling, yellowish grey color. “What in the hells are they putting in these things?”
The display was labeled ‘Vampire Soap.’
He waved an employee over and continued griping. “These all smell like shit. Do you have anything in bergamot?”
The worker—a half-elven woman in a pantsuit with a slicked-back bun—chuckled shamingly. “Bergamot hasn't been fashionable in two hundred years. You're right to look at the vampire soaps, though. They could do wonders for those crow’s feet around your eyes—”
Gale snickered a little as his friend threw a fit.
“I do not have crow’s feet!” Astarion stomped his feet as his nostrils flared. “But if I did, they'd be the most appealing ones in Baldur's Gate! I certainly don’t need your overpriced flotsam.”
He stormed out of the shop, soapless.
Gale marched after him, sipping at his bottle of ginger ale.
“Why are you following me?” Astarion snapped, coming to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk.
“I thought we could catch up,” Gale explained. “I've not seen your palace in ages, and I'd love to take a gander at what you've done with—”
“You don’t need to.”
“You can’t indulge an old friend for—”
Astarion interrupted. “We are not friends!”
That was more hurtful than anything. He and Astarion had known each other for over five hundred years. While they’d had their disagreements on a number of subjects (whether the people of Faerûn deserved to be subjugated, for instance), they had met up every few decades and it was always enjoyable. Especially so on one very strange, LSD-enhanced occasion in the 1960s.
Gale had a feeling that something was very wrong with his friend (and they were friends). It wouldn’t do him any favors to press Astarion on the issue, though. He had always been aggressively stubborn. And a bit stupid, if Gale was being honest.
There was sure to be some other way of finding out what troubled him, other than relentless questioning. Perhaps a bribe.
With that in mind, Gale watched as Astarion walked away.
🩸🩸🩸
A few hours later, Gale stood at the entrance to a familiar palace, holding a bottle of Ithbank and a bag of carryout from Sauceman Chorizo’s. To his surprise, there was a yellow sheet of paper tacked to the huge, splintery door.
NOTICE OF DEMOLITION
When Gale stepped inside, it became apparent that said demolition had already begun.
Above him was a clear view of the smoggy, light-polluted Baldurian sky—a consequence of a portion of the roof having been turned to rubble. Beneath his feet was a thick layer of dust that he kicked up as he cast Light and walked deeper into the castle.
It certainly explained a lot about Astarion’s mood. Losing one's home, however dreadful, couldn't be easy.
Gale hated this place, and he never understood why Astarion stayed after securing his freedom. Certainly there was some joy in seizing something that had previously been his master’s, but there was too much miserable history to allow it to ever become a comfortable residence.
On a good day, it smelled like a butcher’s shop. On a bad one, it smelled like all the meat had rotted and a pack of gnolls had moved in.
“Astarion?” he called out.
No reply.
Room by room, Gale made his way through the palace.
There were two corpses in the boudoir, each with two streams of dried blood trailing down their neck. Unfortunate, but understandable and expected in a vampire’s lair. In the hall, a skeletal hand twitched from beneath a pile of stones. Gale ignored it and continued searching for Astarion.
The spawn quarters had been turned over in a fit of violence long ago—axes taken to its beds, firebolts cast upon their debris. His friend most certainly wasn't there. He never would be.
Gale opened the door to the favored spawn quarters and found it full of old Beanie Babies—their little plastic-protected tags keeping only that part of them from being coated in dust. It was a veritable hoard of plush toys, with such creatures as April the Rabbit, Otto the Owlbear, and even Scoop the Pelican.
He shook his head and moved on.
In the ballroom, the floor still bore huge bloodstains and some skeletal remains from a fight that took place ages ago. Gale was there. He remembered confidently downing a werewolf with chain lightning. There was still a scorch mark on one of the fireplace corbels. He could almost smell the burning oak.
“Astarion?” he asked uselessly, getting the distinct impression that his friend had moved on.
Before he could investigate further, Gale was forced to move a huge pile of debris in one corner of the room. The telekinesis involved gave him momentary pause. It strained him, forced him to catch his breath.
He really was getting old.
Beyond the pile was Cazador's old office. It hadn't changed in any remarkable fashion, but Gale couldn't help but investigate the books piled high on the desk.
The Bhaalspawn Saga, Parts I through VI. Accounts of the Bhaalspawn Crisis. Bhaal’s Downfall.
It seemed to Gale that Astarion still hadn’t gotten over certain unfortunate events. Even worse, he’d been reading self-help books like How to Stop Worrying and Start Conquering and Seven Habits of Highly Effective Vampires.
Looking at the unhappy little pile of literature, Gale decided that Astarion needed an adventure as badly as he did.
He just needed to find him.
Chapter 3: In Vein
Summary:
Astarion thinks about the past and tries to plan for the future.
Notes:
I said Tuesday, but sometimes Tuesday comes early.
This chapter brings the first of many flashbacks. I hope you enjoy piecing together 500 years of history as much as I do. <3
Chapter Text
1492 DR:
When an invitation to a reunion party arrived on his doorstep, Astarion felt a mixture of emotions: confusion and surprise, a bit of nostalgia, but mostly irritation.
He took it out on Godey by removing the skeleton’s feet and making him prance around the palace on his tibiae and fibulae for a tenday.
It had only been six months since the Netherbrain’s defeat, and Astarion hadn’t had time to complete any of his plans. He hadn’t even turned anyone into a spawn yet, as he hadn’t found a single creature worthy of serving him. As he looked at the letter from Withers, he cursed his high standards. When the others inevitably asked what he’d been up to, all he’d be able to say was “orgies.” He supposed he could demonstrate his newfound ability to summon armies of ghouls and werewolves, but he’d sort of forgotten how to do so. It just hadn't held his interest or attention.
At the very least, he could be the best-dressed attendee, so that’s where he devoted his energy, sneaking into Facemaker's Boutique and stealing the finest outfit money couldn’t buy.
There wasn’t much competition. Since Lae’zel had been consumed by Vlaakith and his mad love had gone missing—presumably killed by Bhaal for his disobedience—there were few other attendees.
On the evening of the party, Astarion observed them as a cloud of mist for a while.
Withers had very little to say.
Shadowheart’s passion for Shar was more annoying than ever. She did look phenomenal in Viconia’s old robes, though. He made sure to mist right past her ample cleavage for a close look.
Minthara had been spending her days in the Underdark, plotting to retake her home and enact revenge on the Spider Queen. She was disinterested in anything but the wine, clearly counting down the minutes until she could return to what she had been doing.
And then there was Gale ‘I’m going to become a god’ Dekarios. He’d shown up with his fucking tressym, and from what Astarion could gather he’d surrendered the Crown of Karsus to Mystra like the obedient little pet he was.
Astarion dramatically turned solid right in front of him, showing off his elaborate black and red embroidered outfit. The stitching was precise, the thread made from actual gold wound around a silk core. There were priceless rubies inlaid at the buttons.
Gale, meanwhile, looked like an underpaid professor in some hastily hewn purple number with sleeves that were far too loose. His chest was exposed just enough that everyone could see that his orb was gone. That was on purpose, no doubt. Some flex of moral superiority. He always did think he was better than the rest of them.
“Astarion,” he said without a hint of surprise.
Astarion motioned at him, his face contorted with disgust at how common Gale looked. “What’s this?”
“What’s what?”
“Is this the appearance of a god?” Astarion wondered.
Gale chuckled. “My ambitions are not quite so high these days. I’m currently teaching at Blackstaff, though I’m not sure for how long. Adventure does call to me.”
Astarion’s eyes narrowed. “You had the Crown, you fucking idiot.”
“And now it’s safe with my goddess.”
He was infuriatingly dim-witted. Not one god’s plans were in mortals’ best interests.
Astarion shook his head. “What made you change your mind?”
“Our little adventure, believe it or not.” Gale explained. “As you know, I don’t feel good about what happened to the Grove. I feel awful about it actually. I realized I went along with that evil act because I was afraid and directionless without Mystra’s guidance. Afterward, I watched as Lae’zel and Shadowheart found peace with Vlaakith and Shar. Meanwhile, disobedience against Bhaal caused—”
“Don’t,” Astarion warned. That wound was still fresh.
“It’s perfectly understandable that you’re still hurt by what happened. If you want to discuss it, we can—”
Astarion huffed. “The only thing I’m hurt by is being forced to interact with you. Fuck off, Gale.”
“You came to me…”
“Yes, well.” Astarion felt his face heat with anger. “I’m fucking off then!”
With that, he turned back into mist and drifted away—past Minthara’s glower and Shadowheart’s spectacular rack—right back to his palace.
He only heard about what happened at the party afterward much later.
🩸🩸🩸
Astarion hated his stupid bat form. It was slower moving than his misty form, less stealthy, and he knew that he smelled like guano. But when it came time to rest under a Baldurian bridge, doing so as a tiny mammal hanging upside down was more ideal than making his bed amongst the terazul addicts shambling about beneath him. At least like this, no one would see him. The most powerful vampire in existence, reduced to homelessness like all the unfortunates that Baldur’s Gate had left behind.
He’d tried sneaking into the Jannath estate to squat there, but the mansion’s security system caught him. Annoyed by the screeching sirens and not wanting the hassle of exterminating a slew of Flaming Fist, he’d wandered off.
The staff at Elfsong laughed in his face when he tried to rent a room for 300gp. Apparently his entire life’s savings wasn’t enough for one night’s stay these days.
For hours under Wyrm’s Crossing, he simply hung there and pined for things that were centuries gone. Not things, exactly. A dragonborn. Peculiar feelings.
To Astarion, this was proof that he never should have trusted or relied on anyone. Sentiment was a weakness. All it had ever done was hurt him.
Eventually, the pining passed and he did his best to mull over options for his current predicament.
He could try to find some other abandoned property with less security, but everything of the sort would be out in Rivington or farther. Unsuitable. He could murder a family and take their home, but then the cover-up would take too much effort. He wouldn’t be getting a job. No, that was beneath him.
What he wanted was that sweet, sweet Oblodra money. The idea that his blood and sperm were inherently valuable just by virtue of being his… that felt right. Getting paid for being a peak specimen. He deserved that.
Unfortunately, he needed a government-issued ID first, and Astarion had no idea how to navigate the process of getting one. Everyone he asked told him to use the internet, which was something his ancient cell phone absolutely could not do.
How much is a new phone? he wondered. Probably more than—
Before he could register what was happening, something huge came hurtling toward him, blackening his vision.
Whatever it was struck him.
His entire rodent-like body seared with pain as something heavy and hard slammed into his furry torso. He lost his grip on the bridge above and began falling—dazed, wings twitching rather than flapping in the breeze. Not quite unconscious, but unable to do anything but watch the ground grow closer.
The next thing he knew, he’d been caught. Thick fingers gripped around him, squeezing his body with such force that it bulged between them. Blood dripped from his teensy mouth and Astarion couldn’t quite will himself to turn back into his normal form. Everything was hazy. He’d gone delirious.
In front of him was some crazed human’s mouth, opening wide.
He was aware of just enough to realize that some tweaked-out terazul addict was about to consume him. That wouldn’t do. But he couldn’t exactly stop it. His wings were heavy. His head bobbed from side to side. He may have been concussed.
The mouth seemed to grow bigger as his helpless body was pulled toward it. When the heat of the human’s breath reached his face, he concentrated as hard as he could on changing his form. Nothing happened except that he emitted a pitiful squeak.
The world grew hotter and darker.
“Excuse me,” called an aged voice. “I believe you’re trying to eat a good friend of mine. If you’ll let him go, you can have this takeout from Sauceman Chorizo’s. I assure you it’s much more palatable to a human tongue than bat meat.”
Astarion didn’t need to see an old man in a wizard robe to identify fucking Gale.
The next thing he knew, he was safely on the rocky ground, still dizzily swaying.
As his mind slowly returned to him, Astarion thought he would have rather been eaten than rescued by Gale. Gods, that fucking wizard was going to be so smug about this.
There was a loud crack of some joint or another as Gale knelt down and scooped Astarion into wrinkled hands that smelled of licorice. Gale groaned as he rose back into a half-hunched standing position.
In defiance, Astarion squeaked angrily and flapped his wings, freeing himself from Gale’s grasp and willing his body to return to its elven form.
“Don’t touch me,” he sneered when he was a person once more.
“You were pelted with a rock and nearly eaten. A ‘thank you’ wouldn’t be out of order,” Gale said.
“I had everything under control.” Astarion spat some blood onto the ground then adjusted his jacket. “How did you find me?”
Gale’s eyes lit up and Astarion knew an annoyingly long tangent was coming.
“It’s quite clever, actually,” Gale said, tooting his own horn. “A standard Locate Creature spell can only find a creature located within a thousand feet of one’s person. While I could have roamed Baldur’s Gate recasting such a spell until it found you, that would have been both tedious and disagreeable to these old legs.”
“Get to the point,” Astarion said.
Gale sighed. “Yes. Well. It’s a spell of my own invention. Gale’s Sanguine Locator. Using a creature’s blood, I’m able to track it down so long as it’s within a hundred miles.”
“And where did you get my blood, Gale?”
“I found it on the corner of a self-help book in your office. You should be more careful when you’re turning pages to avoid papercuts.”
“You broke into my house!?”
“I did no such thing,” Gale said with offense. “The front door was unlocked and several of the walls were missing.” His expression and voice alike softened to show concern. “Why didn’t you mention you’d lost your palace?”
“Because that is none of your gods-damned business, Gale.”
Gale ignored him and inquired further. “Do you have nowhere to stay? No one in Baldur’s Gate you can lean on in times of—”
“Shut up,” Astarion snapped. “As if it’s not bad enough you’ve been rifling through my things. For the love of the hells, stop your yammering.”
“Ah. Lashing out again, I see.” Gale wandered over to a large rock and seated himself, then began patting the space next to him, beckoning Astarion to follow. “Have a seat.”
Astarion dramatically groaned, but obliged. He really had nothing better to do.
“I think it’s wonderful you’re reading books about self-improvement,” Gale said. “I know you’ve struggled with understanding and expressing your feelings, and…”
Astarion stopped listening; he was too distracted by the fact that the area around him smelled vaguely like onions and eggs.
—pbbbt—
He buried his head in his heads. This was it. His life couldn’t possibly get more embarrassing than living under a bridge and receiving pep talks from a geriatric wizard whose bowels were so loose he didn’t realize he was farting.
Gale continued. “I’ve been doing some thinking of my own lately, about how readily idleness of body can become idleness of mind. Until earlier today, I hadn’t left Waterdeep in thirty years. Not since—”
“Don’t,” Astarion cautioned.
“You’ve stagnated, just as I have,” Gale said, arrogantly explaining Astarion's own feelings to him. “Being forced from your home must feel like a terrible loss, but I believe you’re looking at an opportunity.”
“An opportunity for what?”
“For adventure!” Gale beamed, and for the shortest second his honest smile was almost contagious. Almost.
Astarion frowned. “I don’t want to go on a fucking adventure. I want the Jannath estate and a swift return to a life of indulgence.”
“The Jannath estate? The one with all the poltergeists?”
“It’s not haunted anymore,” Astarion said. “At least I don’t think it is for 25,000gp monthly. Either way, I want it.”
“But consider the forbidden jungles of Chult or the uncharted waters of the Glimmersea. I’m sure you’ve never seen—”
“I don’t give a solitary shit about the Glimmersea.”
“Well, until you have enough money for that estate, you’re going to need a place to stay. If you’d like, you can make use of my tower in Waterdeep while I’m away.”
“Absolutely not. I’ll not be spending my days with Tara-20 binge watching The Secret Lives of Sharran Wives in the City of Splendors.”
“It’s Tara-22 now, actually,” Gale said.
“What happened to 20 and 21?”
“Old age and flying into a passenger jet engine, respectively.”
“Eugh.” Astarion grimaced. “I'd say sorry for your loss but I'm really not.”
Gale breezed right past his flippant remark. “Is there anything else I can do to help you?”
Astarion considered that. As much as he hated to admit when he needed help, he did.
“Yes, actually. Do you know how to get an ID?”
“What do you need an ID for?”
“None of your business,” Astarion sniped. “Do you know or don't you?”
“I’m not well-versed in the Baldurian process, but I’d check online if I were you.”
Astarion scoffed. “Fuck the internet. It’s worthless.”
“It’s not worthless. Using the internet, you can connect with anyone on Toril.”
“I don’t even want to connect with you. I’ve been”—he threw up a set of air quotes—“online. The images took an eternity to load, the asshats on eBay wouldn't pay up, and some idiot on a web forum kept insisting that vampires aren’t real. I used a few colorful words to explain why they were wrong, and the next thing I know I’m banned?”
Gale squinted. “When was the last time you…”
“Can you get me an ID or not!?”
Gale sighed and waved his hand in circles. A faint purple glow appeared in his palm, then vanished, leaving behind a plastic ID card. He handed it to Astarion.
“It’s not legal,” Gale said, “but it should hold up to minor scrutiny.”
Astarion studied the card. The image of him was flattering (as all images of him were), but some of the details seemed a bit off. “Five foot nine? I’m five eleven and you know it.”
“You’re shorter than I am.”
“Like hells,” Astarion scoffed.
Gale conceded on that point. “Well, perhaps not now, but in my prime…”
“You could have at least put vampire for species, not elf.”
“I thought you might have need to conceal your condition,” Gale said.
Astarion scoffed. “Whatever. It’s fine.”
He could almost certainly find another way of proving to Araj Oblodra's Plasma Donation Center that he was a vampire. Draining a body in the lobby, perhaps.
“Again,” Gale said, “A ‘thank you’ wouldn’t be out of order.”
Astarion would sooner die again than thank Gale for anything. He certainly wouldn’t allow himself to be in a position to owe that wizard.
“Consider us even,” Astarion said, tucking the ID into his chain wallet.
“Even…?” Gale wondered.
“Mhm.” Astarion spoke smugly. “Back when we were tadpoled, the group wanted to leave you behind after you wouldn’t stop crying about the Grove. I convinced them you had your uses, in spite of always wanting to consume our boots and lockets.”
Gale's brow furrowed. “That doesn’t sound like you at all. It sounds like you’re inventing a reason not to owe me a favor.” He held out an assuring palm. “There’s no need. Friends help friends, and no favors are owed in any direction.”
Astarion snarled. “We are not friends.”
“If you say so,” Gale said in a dismissive tone that made Astarion want to bite him.
Oh, but his papery skin would get caught in my fangs.
“I’ll be setting off for Port Nyanzaru then,” Gale said, not moving from his seat. “I intend to find out whether the rumors of an enormous dragon turtle are true. One last thing before I leave—”
“Yes, I’m sure I don’t want to join you.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.” Gale reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a scroll. “I found someone in your dungeon.”
“What? There hasn’t been anyone kept in the dungeon since the ritual…”
“Rutrum!” Gale said, reading from the scroll.
A very small, very angry quasit appeared.
“You!” she shrieked, pointing a sharp claw at Astarion.
“Eugh,” he groaned. “That’s right. I forgot about Shovel.”
Gale had left him that scroll centuries earlier so that he would always have company if he wanted it. As if Astarion couldn’t find perfectly good company to bleed dry all on his own.
“Forget Shovel!” Shovel angrily poked his shin through his track pants. “Summon Shovel to do some fisting. Leave Shovel in the basements in a cage. Never talk to Shovel! Never feed Shovel!”
“Do you have anything to say to Shovel?” Gale wondered, looking every bit like a disappointed grandparent.
Clearly he wanted Astarion to apologize to the disgusting creature. Instead, Astarion leaned forward and looked her in her big black eyes as he spoke.
“Fuck off, Shovel.”
Fully intent on donating plasma, Astarion leapt from the bench. As he walked away, he heard Gale sighing and Shovel muttering something about a “fucking asshole.” As if vampires ascendant concerned themselves with the opinions of cheeky quasits.
🩸🩸🩸
With his Gale-issued ID card in hand, Astarion made his way back to Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center, where he agreed to accept the rate for standard elven plasma (50gp).
For two hours, he awaited his turn in the non-vampiric waiting area. There, he didn’t get the luxuries of free bottled water, dim lighting, and relaxing spa music. Instead, there was fluorescent lighting, a bunch of coughing deep gnomes, and the music of Billy Joel, pumped in through crackling speakers.
It was mind-numbing. While other patrons scrolled their phones, Astarion was forced to resort to reading years-old magazines sitting on an end table.
There was The Baldurian, Elves’ Health, and—of course—Entertainment Tendaily.
All of it was shit.
He had a plan, though. A nice, simple plan, inspired by some chatter he’d heard under the bridge. First, acquire a small amount of capital. Then march over to Baldur’s Downs Racetrack and Gaming Resort and gamble his way into a fortune at the barbu or chuck-a-luck tables. Astarion was no mathematical genius, but he was certain that if he went there with 500gp, he could easily walk away with 50,000gp or more.
He supposed he could have simply asked Gale for some money and that doddering old fool would have given it to him, but swallowing his pride and begging for assistance simply wouldn’t do. It disgusted him enough that he’d asked for help getting that ID card. He most certainly could have figured out how to get one himself.
Astarion was a strong, independent vampire who needn’t rely on anyone. It wasn’t safe to do so. Entrusting others with his well-being was a surefire path to heartbreak and misery. He’d been there. It still hurt. No, he could do this himself.
In addition to being his own effort, whatever he did to reclaim his rightful spot in the Upper City needed to be easy, quick, painless.
Relaxing on a little plastic chair was easy. Laying his forearm across the armrest was easy. Allowing some underpaid staffer to shove a needle into his vein was easy. The pain was minimal, certainly less than that of asking for help.
He sat there for just under an hour, pretending to read a well-worn copy of Good Hearthkeeping, but really staring at all of the other donors as the machine next to him whirred and separated plasma from his blood.
They were a despicable lot, all of them, and Astarion couldn’t wait to hit it big and put this behind him. It was only a matter of time. He had everything he needed to make it happen.
He didn't need anyone else.
Chapter 4: Red Handed
Summary:
Gale gets a taste of adventure!
Notes:
I’d like to extend a big thank you to everyone who’s been reading and commenting. I know Ascended Astarion is a tough sell, but I’m determined to make an enjoyable read out of him.
Remember when I estimated this would be 12 chapters? I’m now guessing 20. What can I say? I am what I am.
Chapter Text
1517 DR:
Twenty-five years after the defeat of the Elder Brain, Gale visited Baldur's Gate for the first time since. This occasion was much more somber than victory over the Absolute: Jaheira’s funeral. Out of respect for the long-serving High Harper, Gale made his way to the Lower City to attend what was a lovely, moving ceremony.
Astarion, naturally, did not. Even if he were inclined to do so, a gathering of heroes was no place for a vampire—no matter how ascended.
Gale had meant to check in on him over the years, but an archmage’s life was a busy one. There were always artifacts to gather or spellplagues to be deterred. He'd simply never found the time. Until just then.
Well after sunset, Gale wandered toward Szarr Palace. He found his former traveling companion perched on the roof, drinking mermaid whiskey straight from the bottle.
“Astarion!” he called out as he misty-stepped to his side. “It's been too long.”
“What in the hells are you doing here?” Astarion asked, eyeing him with contempt.
Gale offered a small wave. “Just thought I’d stop by and say hello.”
“Well, you’ve said it.” Astarion motioned with his free hand as he sipped more whiskey with the other. “Move along, then.”
That was no way to greet an old friend.
“Is something the matter?” Gale asked.
Astarion laughed sharply and loudly. “What could be the matter? I have everything I ever dreamed of. Power. Freedom. A palace. All the blood and sex I want, when I want it.”
Gale dropped down to sit on the cold roof next to him. “Not to insinuate that you’re being dishonest, but rarely have I come across someone drinking alone on a rooftop because they were in good spirits.”
“Well, now you have,” Astarion said dismissively.
In spite of his tone, Astarion was looking out on the city with a doleful gaze. His irises were just a thin band of red around dilated black pupils that shone in Selûne’s light. His face seemed almost crumpled.
Gale was determined to get to the bottom of it, and he had an idea where to start.
“I know you miss—”
“Was it really as bad as you said in your letter?” Astarion asked, interrupting. He tended to do that any time someone tried to utter the Bhaalspawn’s name.
Gale nodded as he recalled the reunion party, where Astarion's former paramour showed up to attack—snarling, spitting, and pissing himself all the while. In one particularly hideous and unforgettable moment of bloodlust, he'd taken a bite out of Withers.
“It was awful. He was unrecognizable. You’re lucky you left early.”
“I don’t know about that…” Astarion took another swig of his drink and stared toward the harbor. “He might have killed me instead of Shadowheart.”
Gale couldn’t tell whether those two thoughts were meant to be connected. If so, his friend was in a terrible state of mind. “Astarion, do you need to talk through some things perhaps?”
Astarion burst into a hard snort. “Fuck off.”
“I mean it. If—”
“Fuck. Off. Gale.”
There was no use arguing with him when he was like this, so Gale only sighed. “As you wish, but should you ever need a listening ear, I’ll be here.”
With those words, he rooted around in one of his robe pockets and handed over a small rock. It was polished smooth, with a faint, abstract rendering of a humanoid face painted on its surface.
“A sending stone?” Astarion scoffed, testing the weight of it in his palm.
“I'm serious,” Gale said. “Send me a message at any time and I'll be eager to respond.”
“That desperate for a friend, are you?”
Gale smiled at him. “I already have one.”
“We are not friends, Gale.”
“Time will tell.”
Astarion tucked the stone into his jacket.
🩸🩸🩸
The dragon turtle of Port Nyanzaru turned out to be nothing more than a myth. Having spent two days searching the sea and talking to gossipy Chultans, Gale was left with nothing but the scent of salt water in his nostrils and an aching in his heart.
He sat on the docks outside a seaside tavern, gazing out at distant cargo ships from his little cafe table. There was an industrial odor to the air, courtesy of beeping, backing forklifts unloading wares from the harbor. Patrons chattered loudly about the latest rumors (apparently pterafolk were demanding legal protection for their unattended egg clutches). Seagulls cried out as they searched for discarded frites. Somewhere in the nearest jungle preserve, a tyrannosaurus roared. Overall, Chult was a dirty, noisy place.
It was noisier still with Gale’s companion joining the cacophony.
Shovel slammed down a pint of tej, sending a good bit of the amber liquid flying.
“You feeds Shovel poison?” she asked.
The quasit was standing on the chair opposite Gale, looking directly into his eyes with disgust.
“It’s not poison,” Gale explained for the third time. “Tej is a traditional Chultan beverage made with fermented honey and buckthorn. Similar to mead, but lower in alcohol content and different in its—”
“Tastes like shit!” In a swift sweep, Shovel's clawed hand batted the glass off the table. It clinked across a few feet of dock before falling into the water.
Gale sighed. He was beginning to understand why Shovel had ended up in Astarion's dungeon.
But he had to bring her along. Adventure wasn’t adventure without someone to share it with, however grotesque and off-putting a creature they may be.
He really wished Astarion had come. They could have been discussing books, reminiscing about their past meetings, or—
“When's we gonna do some fisting?” Shovel asked loudly.
Several patrons turned their heads. Looks of disgust, horror, and in one instance arousal spread across their faces.
“Aha.” Flustered, Gale addressed the crowd of diners. “Apologies! My cheeky companion is not a wordsmith but an amateur fighter. She's quite excited for her next bout.”
“Amateur!?” Shovel’s eyes narrowed.
“Well, you're certainly not a professional with that behavior,” Gale chastised.
Shovel's voice drew low and mocking. “Behave, Shovel. Quiet, Shovel. Turn invisible and steal a box of tissues, Shovel.”
That last one was oddly specific.
“I'm sorry, what?” Gale asked.
The quasit made a loud hacking sound then spat a thick green gob onto the dock below. “Masters are all shit to Shovel.”
“Who asked you to steal tissues?”
Shovel sneered. “Fancy prick in fuzzy trousers.”
Gale found that curious. In all the years he'd been friends with Astarion, he'd never known him to outsource his thievery.
“When was this?” Gale asked.
“Lots of times. Shovel steals the tissues. Shovel steals the hair gels. Shovel steals the Oasis records. Shovel steals the nicest outfits in Baldur’s Gates. Thirty years of steals and all Shovel gets is a cage in the dungeons.”
A heavy feeling came to the pit of Gale's stomach. Until their chance meeting in an Upper City soap shop, thirty years ago was around when he and Astarion had last seen each other, at the height of the Second Bhaalspawn Crisis.
Gale knew that his friend had been somewhat reclusive ever since—understandably so—but he hadn't realized the severity. He still didn't, but he intended to find out. Sending stones had unfortunately gone out of fashion and he didn’t have Astarion’s cell phone number, so he’d need to return to Baldur’s Gate.
“Shovel, have you ever been to Waterdeep?” Gale asked.
“City of Splendors?” Shovel shook her head. “Shovel never gets no splendors.”
“You'll love it there,” Gale said, readying a teleportation spell.
“What’s you mean—”
With a wave of a sparkling blue hand, Gale transported Shovel back to his tower. Tara-22 would either befriend her or kill her with a fireball, and he was perfectly fine with either outcome.
He had more important things to worry about. His dear friend was in trouble.
🩸🩸🩸
On Gale’s second visit, there was even less of Astarion’s palace remaining. Every bit of roof had been removed, and thanks to some Baldurian rain the dusty marble floor had been soaked such that a layer of paste-like mud coated every inch of it.
Effortlessly flying over the mess, Gale surveyed the scene. He had an idea, sprung from something he’d spotted under some rocks during his last visit, but he struggled to find the same pile of rubble. There were so many piles of rubble, after all. Plus, the palace layout was truly incomprehensible. Astarion had once described it as “designed by a moron,” though in five centuries he never took the time to remodel said moronic design.
From the huge velvet curtains to the ripped, gold-framed portrait of Vellioth leaned against a corner, the palace filled Gale with a deep sense of sadness. Sure, he himself had spent the last thirty years in isolation, but he’d done so surrounded by things he loved. Thick books, abundant plants, an alchemy lab, and a series of beloved tressyms.
He desperately hoped Astarion had something—anything—other than… this. And he knew just who to ask in order to find out.
After a bit, he found it: a skeletal arm, still twitching. He knew it belonged to Astarion’s tormentor-turned-servant, Godey, and that he could make that kennelmaster talk.
Gale landed in the muck with a splash, then cast telekinesis to move pieces of palace wall out of the way. What lay beneath was an unsettling pile of twitching bones with no intention behind their movements. A detached pelvis wobbled. Skeletal fingers gripped at nothing. A foot bounced up and down like it was meaning to walk. Loose vertebrae shook and rattled like dice at a thabort table.
“Godey?” he asked.
There was no reply from a cracked skull that sat with its slack jaw trembling.
“Hmm,” Gale pondered aloud. “I suppose you may need to be re-formed in order to properly be yourself.”
His hands manipulated the weave in mid air, casting telekinesis like he was conducting an orchestra. First, he stabilized the feet. With each successive sweep of a hand or curl of a finger, a bit of Godey’s skeleton floated to where it belonged.
Gale hoped he wouldn’t have to cast Animate Dead when he was finished, as Mystra disliked necromancy quite a bit. Its use wasn’t forbidden exactly, but he avoided necromantic spells whenever it could be helped. Best to stay in her good graces, after all. He still bore the shame of what happened when he hadn't.
Piece by piece, he reassembled the skeleton.
“Finally,” Godey said when his skull was reattached to his spine. He stretched his jaw, causing a loud pop. “Please tell me that tiresome rat is dead.”
Gale tilted his head. “You mean Astarion?”
Godey nodded.
“He's alive and, well, not well per se but—”
Godey groaned and took a seat on some rubble. “You should have left me disassembled.”
Gale responded with a puzzled look. “It can't be that bad serving Astarion, can it? Certainly no worse than Cazador.”
“Are you kidding?” Godey scoffed. “Cazador gave me so many delicious victims to play with.”
Realizing his faux pas, Gale regarded Godey with a penitent stance. “Apologies. I forget that your standards for good behavior differ so widely from my own. If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly does Astarion have you do, if not torturing anyone?”
“He tortures me, for starters,” Godey complained.
“Well, you did flay him when he was a spawn…”
Godey huffed. “Physical torture is nothing. I have no nerve endings.”
“Then what does he do that troubles you so?” Gale wondered.
“Have you ever listened to Collective Soul for seventy-two hours straight?”
“I can’t say that I have,” Gale said, “though my own musical tastes are much more old-fashioned. In my view, nothing beats an Amnian concerto or a Menzoberranzan motet.”
Godey sighed. “He also makes me give him manicures.”
“He won’t be making you do anything now,” Gale said. “He’s moved on from here.”
“Thank the hells. If I could, I’d have done the same ages ago.”
Gale cocked his brow. “Can you not leave?”
“I’m bound to this palace,” Godey explained. “Have been since Eravask the Forebear animated me, will be when it’s gone.”
“Well, that will be sooner rather than later. This palace is being demolished.”
If Godey had a tongue, he would have been salivating at the prospect. That was clear in the eager tone of his voice. “Good. I hope the next palace on this ground has a larger kennel with more implements.”
In all likelihood, what would actually be built on the site was a mixed-use, grey and beige 5-over-1, with a Sauceman Chorizo’s on the ground floor and overpriced apartments above.
Gale didn’t mention that. Not out of kindness; he hardly sympathized with Godey. He was, however, eager to leave, so he brought up the subject he’d come to investigate in the first place.
“Does Astarion ever leave the palace?”
“Not often. Every tenday or two to feed,” Godey said. “Once to get another tattoo.”
“Oh, he's got something other than ‘No Fear’ now?” Gale wondered.
Godey nodded. “A tramp stamp.”
That wasn’t a good sign. He didn't need to know what the tattoo said to know his friend was in a wretched state.
Gale wished Godey all the best in his being bound to an unending existence in a singular location and prepared to cast Gale’s Sanguine Locator using a scrap of self-help book he’d kept in a robe pocket. Astarion needed help, and Gale needed an adventuring companion. He wouldn’t take no for an answer this time.
🩸🩸🩸
After casting his spell, Gale found himself in an unfamiliar location. Baldur’s General Hospital. Bright lights, beeping implements, and vague intercom announcements filled the chemically clean air.
Paging Doctor Thorm—Third Floor—
For a brief moment, Gale worried that his friend had been injured, that perhaps he’d had a bite taken out of him by another bat-hungry bridge dweller.
In front of him wasn’t Astarion, though, but a set of double doors. To their side was an informative little plaque:
Blood Bank
It was immediately apparent to Gale what had happened, and he slouched with relief. Astarion had donated his blood at some point, and the hospital was nearer to where Gale had cast his spell than Astarion himself was. A flaw in the spell, perhaps, but one that could be remedied with a bit of fine-tuning.
He went misty-eyed. To think that his friend was kind enough to go through the trouble of donating blood to those in need was heartwarming. Gale had always sensed there was good in Astarion, buried under the many layers of rage, trauma, regret, despair, hostility, arrogance, laziness, vindictiveness, and cynicism. He’d seen the smallest glimpses of it over centuries.
There was a prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box that was Astarion Ancunín. Not that Cracker Jack boxes contained prizes anymore; it was too unprofitable for parent company Fraygo-Lay. These days, the gift at the bottom of the boxed treat was a meager QR code that could be scanned to watch a RealmTube video. Gale took a long moment to reminisce about the good old days of plastic rings and mageball cards before refocusing on his friend.
He needed to find that caramel-coated vampire.
Alas, Astarion’s generosity was a hindrance in locating him. Thankfully, Gale had cooked up yet another locator spell during his period of solitude in Waterdeep.
He teleported back to the defunct palace, ignored the sound of Godey singing "Wonderwall," and began looking around.
🩸🩸🩸
With his next locator spell, Gale was transported to the parking lot of a grimy strip mall in the Outer City. He landed in the middle of a cavernous pothole, and—if not for a swiftly cast Gaseous Form—he’d have been taken out by a roaring dualie going twice the posted speed limit.
“Fucking wizards,” complained the duergar driver as he swerved.
Gale re-solidified on the sidewalk and took a gander at the vast, flat stretch of shops. The metal awning that protected patrons from the elements was bent and rusted through in spots. Most of the signage had faded, and there were several vacant storefronts for lease.
Right between a shop offering payday loans and a liquor store was the only facade that seemed to have undergone any upkeep in the past decade: Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center.
Gale peered through the glass door and spotted Astarion. His friend was sitting in the waiting area, legs crossed, using his obscenely long fingernails to leaf through a copy of Elves’ Health.
He burst through the door. “Astarion!”
Astarion pulled the magazine up over his face. He could be silly like that.
There was an empty seat next to him, so Gale shuffled over and dropped down into it. It had been a while since he’d been seated, and he let out a little groan of relief. He may also have farted; he wasn't sure. It could have been the squeaky vinyl chair.
“Go away,” Astarion muttered as he set his magazine on a table.
Gale ignored his request and pondered out loud. “Well, this explains why my Sanguine Locator took me to Baldur’s General earlier.”
“If your spell didn’t work, how did you find me?” Astarion asked.
“Ah.” Gale pulled a pair of crusty blue briefs from his robe. “Gale’s Seminal Locator.”
Astarion reached for his underpants. “Give those back.”
“I think not.” Gale swiftly tucked them back into his pocket. “I may need to cast the spell again later.”
“Fine. Keep them. Get your jollies by sniffing my briefs and wishing you were still healthy enough for sexual activity. Just go away.” Astarion made a sweeping motion toward the door.
Gale eyed him quizzically. “Are you embarrassed for some reason? To donate one’s plasma is a noble act. It’s deeply beneficial to trauma patients, as well as—”
“A-stare-eon?” called a tiefling intake nurse. In one of her blue hands was a clipboard, and in the other was a pen, which she was using to skim some paperwork. “Did you bring a friend?”
“Astarion,” he corrected, rising from his chair with a heavy sigh. Glowering at Gale, he added, “We’re not friends.”
The tiefling glanced from one man to the other. “But you brought him along, right? For the buddy bonus?”
Gale squinted at Astarion. “You’re getting paid for this?”
Astarion squinted at the tiefling. “There’s a buddy bonus?”
She nodded. “For each referral, Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center pays an additional 100gp.”
“Hrm.” Astarion regarded Gale with a calculating stare before turning back to the tiefling. “There are no restrictions about humans who are ancient?”
Gale objected. “I’m hardly ancient—”
Astarion continued, speaking over him. “He won’t keel over or turn to dust from having his plasma drawn? Not that I’d care—”
“Our process is perfectly safe for all ages. He will need to pass a health screening to make sure he’s still producing enough plasma, but that shouldn’t be an issue.” She turned and addressed Gale directly. “Judging from your hat, you’re an archmage, correct?”
“Indeed. However—” Gale raised an index finger. “I’m actually ineligible to donate due to a youthful folly involving a bit of Karsite Weave.”
“Your blood is still orb-tainted?” Astarion gawked. “Eugh. You just had to be worthless, didn’t you?”
Gale tutted. “I wager you’d be ineligible as well, if there were any precedent for vampires ascendent. There’s no telling what your blood is capable of.”
The tiefling stared at him. “Did you say he’s a vampire?”
“Yes?” Gale turned to Astarion with a scolding look. “You didn’t tell them?”
Astarion laughed. “On the contrary. I’ve been trying to tell them, but their stupid little blood screening keeps coming back negative for vampirism. I’m getting the elf rate.”
The tiefling was suddenly very interested. She looked at Gale with anticipation. “Would you be willing to sign a formal statement acknowledging Astarion’s vampiric nature? An archmage's attestation is as valid as a doctor’s note.”
“I suppose I could,” Gale said. He was going to make it worth his while, though. He looked Astarion directly in his eyes. “If you ask nicely.”
“Gale, just sign the damned form,” Astarion said.
“That is not how to ask nicely,” Gale chastised.
It may have been in bad taste to extort manners out of someone who was homeless and desperate for a pittance of 100gp, but Gale had a feeling this would be good for Astarion’s character. So he insisted, staring at the vampire and waiting for the magic word.
Astarion groaned. “Gale, would you please just sign the damned form?”
“Was that so difficult?” Gale wondered.
The pained expression on Astarion’s face said it was.
Before long, Gale was sitting in an intake booth, staring at an attestation of vampirism. The rate for vampiric plasma was apparently 1000gp per donation, a significant bit more than the 50gp paid to elves. With just his signature, he could help his friend. As a plus, Astarion would most certainly owe him a favor for this.
Gale signed without hesitation.
Chapter 5: Drained
Summary:
No matter the era, Astarion has things under control. He doesn’t need anyone else.
Notes:
Thanks again to everyone who’s been reading and commenting. <3
Parts of this chapter broke my heart a little, I’m not going to lie. Comedy is sad sometimes. But don’t worry, there are still plenty of chuckles. I remain as ever: committed to the bit.
Tip: This chapter looks best with my style applied.
Chapter Text
1592 DR:
Astarion was very much not enjoying the direction his life was going, if it could even be called a direction. The fact that it had been one hundred years since his ascension put him in an uncharacteristically reflective mood. He had everything he'd ever wanted, and it felt empty. A vampire could only have so many orgies and drink so much blood. A palace could only accumulate so many bribes from immoral patriars. Every power, every perk meant nothing.
At the same time, the idea of changing anything was unfathomable. Cazador had worked for centuries to obtain exactly what Astarion had. This was it. He was living the dream, or at least he ought to have been, and it kind of blew.
After a whole lot of drinking, he did the unthinkable. He grabbed a sending stone that had been tucked into his underwear drawer for decades. It rested beneath a familiar red cape, and Astarion swallowed hard as he pushed the fabric aside.
This was a terrible idea, he knew, but he had no other ideas. Rolling around on his wine-splattered bed, he gave the stone a short rub between his thumb and index finger.
“Ga-ale,” he slurred into the musty palace air.
The lines on the stone’s face began to glow blue.
No one else had ever given Astarion one of these before. He realized he had no idea how sending stones were meant to work—whether he was supposed to wait for a reply or just keep rambling on and on or what.
Because he was drunk, he did the latter.
“Gale, where are you? I'm bored and I want to have a chat.” He huffed. “Not that I need you, of all people. I can entertain myself. It's just that you were around back when… well, I don't know who else to talk to about this sort of thing. Minthara would sooner enslave me than talk to me.”
Astarion flopped onto his back and made himself comfortable as he continued, holding the stone firmly in his fist.
“Anyone else who might understand is sort of… well, dead. Not that I regret killing the other spawn. Every last one of those miserable bastards is better off in the hells.” That would have included him, if Cazador had completed the ritual, but he didn’t stop to think about that. “It's just… I thought there'd be more. I don't know.”
Having evidently heard him talking, Godey poked his skull through the doorway. “Need something?”
“No, and if you interrupt again I'll have you shattered, you insolent, fleshless cur!”
There was a muttered “asshole” as the skeleton slinked away.
Astarion sighed and continued talking to his special rock. “I'm not unhappy. I'm not happy, though. I'm not really anything, come to think of it. I wake up, I partake in some depraved activity or another, I trance. Then I do it again. I don't know what more I could possibly want, but I think there's something missing.” He heard how pathetic that sounded and changed his tone, adding a heavy huff. “I know there isn’t anything missing. I’ve achieved perfection. What could possibly be missing? I think some filthy Gur may have cursed me or something. You can remove that sort of thing, can't you? You do still owe me for saving your hide in that fight against Balthazar.”
He was bluffing, but he was also certain Gale wouldn’t remember the fight clearly. Humans over a hundred years old were notoriously scatter-brained, even if they were archmages.
“Anyway, when you get this… you're welcome to stop by.”
It took a lot out of Astarion to extend that invitation.
But Gale never came.
1735 DR:
Astarion was minding his own business in a bathtub full of bergamot-scented water that had long run cold when there was a PWOOF sort of sound behind him. He groaned and pressed his pruney fingers against the tub before deciding it wasn’t worth the effort to look over his shoulder.
“If you’re a monster hunter who’s come to kill me, at least let me have a wank first.”
They showed up every so often, and with his ascendant powers Astarion didn’t have to try very hard to defeat them. There was no fun in it. A shame, really.
“No such visitor, I’m afraid.” Gale’s voice. Instantly recognizable, even after two hundred years.
“Eugh.”
Having no desire to let Gale see him naked, Astarion turned himself to mist, floated behind a room divider, and emerged re-solidified, wearing the finest fashion of 1492. The nicest jacket he owned, the same one he’d worn to that reunion party, with its golden threads and ruby buttons. It was beginning to look a bit rough around the edges, despite Godey’s repairs, but it wasn’t as though Astarion had been expecting a visitor. He made a mental note to punish Godey for not keeping 200-year-old fabric in mint condition before focusing on Gale.
“Gods, you look like shit,” he said immediately.
In truth, Gale looked fine. His floppy little wizard hat was stupid, but he looked great for a human of his age. Being an archmage apparently slowed his decline, and by quite a bit. His hair had gone completely grey and the wrinkles around his eyes were more pronounced, but he was handsome. Strikingly so. Astarion would sooner have died again than paid the arrogant bastard a compliment, though.
Gale shook his head. “That’s not a very nice way to greet a friend.”
“What are you doing here?” Astarion asked, rolling his eyes.
“You called.”
Astarion blinked a few times. “I what?”
“Using the sending stone I gave you,” Gale explained, pulling his own from his robe. He gave it a gentle rub between his fingers and it relayed a message.
Astarion’s own voice spoke at him, with an echoey sort of cadence. “Gale, where are you? I'm bored and I want to have a chat. Not that I need you, of all people. I can entertain myself.”
It cut out there. Apparently sending stones had a message limit of twenty-five words. Gone were all of the humiliatingly heartfelt words that came after. A blessing and a curse.
“I sent that 142 years ago!” Astarion snapped.
“Really?” Gale’s face turned red with embarrassment. “My sincerest apologies.”
Astarion got close to Gale and accosted him. “Your sincerest apologies!? What if I’d been in terrible danger, hrm? Would you be sending your sincerest apologies to my ashes?”
“I thought you didn’t need me,” Gale said smugly.
Astarion snarled. “I don’t. I just think that if Baldur’s Gate were about to collapse in on itself, you’d want to prevent that sort of thing, and 142 years is an abysmal response time.”
“I was on a different plane of existence,” Gale explained. “One where time flows differently. When Mystra calls upon me to fulfill my duties, I've no choice but to—”
“A different plane of existence,” Astarion scoffed, crossing his arms for emphasis. “You look like it.”
“What in Mystra's name is that supposed to mean?”
Astarion mocked him, puffing his voice up to sound like a Waterdhavian scholar. “What in Mystra's name—do you hear yourself?”
“Why are you so upset?” Gale asked, his head tilted in bewilderment.
“I’m not!” Astarion said, sounding deeply upset.
Shockingly so, even to himself. But Gale had no right to intrude on his life after ignoring him for so long, to discover the state of his palace without warning, to realize he’d never changed a thing or created a single vampire spawn for himself; that he was, in a word, pitiful. It was all incredibly obvious, and Astarion had been laid bare enough during his years with Cazador. He had no desire to be vulnerable before Mystra’s most submissive little plaything.
“Astarion,” Gale said softly. “I’m no expert in matters of the heart, but it’s my belief that yours is still broken. You’ve never taken the time to wrap your mind around the tragedy that—”
“Shut up,” Astarion blurted. “We haven’t spoken in two hundred years, you self-righteous bastard. Don’t act as if you know me or what I’ve been up to.”
Gale pointedly darted his eyes around the room. “Not much, from the looks of it.”
Astarion felt his ear tips turn hot. His words flowed hard and fast. “Go fuck yourself, Gale. You think you’re so immensely talented that you can stroll in here after two hundred years with a panacea for all that ails me?”
“Something does ail you then…”
Astarion pointed at the bedroom door. “Get out.”
“Please talk to me,” Gale begged.
“How many times have you made that exact plea to your bitch goddess?”
He could have sunk his fangs into Gale’s neck and drained him right then, just for the audacity that rotten bastard had shown to visit him out of nowhere. Now he was begging, trying to lower Astarion’s defenses. Not a chance.
“Please,” Gale repeated.
Astarion pointed to the exit again. “Out.”
“As you wish,” Gale said with a sigh.
He turned to leave. In the doorway, he stopped and spoke without turning back to Astarion.
“I’m sorry I failed you this time. I’ll check back in with you again later, and I’ll keep the stone in case you ever want to talk—”
“I won’t. It was a mistake. One I won’t be making again.”
“If you do,” Gale said, “I promise to respond.”
“Get out.”
1745 DR:
Astarion supposed he was a fool to make the same mistake twice, but he’d been lying in bed for three tendays straight. Even Godey, who was under strict orders to continue removing and reinserting his own teeth until told to do otherwise, was becoming concerned, mumbling something about “—tllk-tsssh-shmbdy—” from his cage in the corner.
There was a distinct waft of undeath in the air from a dearth of bathing and perfuming.
Astarion knew things were bad. He’d missed several meetings with Baldur’s Gate’s most corrupt elite, neglecting to bribe them out of hunting him by draining their rivals. He hadn’t hosted an orgy in months. There was no sex act he hadn’t performed, and there was no thrill in any of them, so he just didn’t see the point.
He couldn’t be bothered to get up. It was all so damned hollow.
Something needed to change, but what… he had no idea.
In his nightstand was a stone—one he’d pondered using over and over again—and he didn’t need to leave the bed to get ahold of it. It was but a brief stretch of his arm, one he groaned through. Soon he lay on his back, stroking the stone’s cold face. Twenty-five words. That’s all he had. He erred on the side of being dramatic, figuring his recipient would respond to that sort of thing.
“Gale,” he choked. “I sleep, but cannot rest. I live, but cannot die. I am eternal and I grieve. Help me. Please. Come here and help me.”
It wasn’t just dramatic; it was the truth.
Astarion’s fingers gripped the stone tight as he curled up on his side awaiting a reply.
None ever came.
🩸🩸🩸
Astarion never forgot how it felt to be jilted by Gale, or how he’d sobbed through his sheets in desperate despair for an additional tenday. It marked a turning point in his life. In it, he’d gotten definitive proof that other people couldn’t be relied on, that they only helped if and when it was convenient for them. Even the realm’s most simpering do-gooders.
His late beloved dragonborn taught him not to bother with love. Gale reinforced that all personal connections—even the most middling ones—were worthless. People gave when they expected to receive, and that was that.
As he’d done with everything else, Astarion had talked himself through his great melancholy of 1745. When he got out of that particular existential funk, he held the largest orgy Szarr Palace had ever seen. It was glorious. He came sixteen times that night, including once from getting fingerblasted by a crawling claw.
His mind lingered on that night as he once again prepared to rest under Wyrm’s Crossing, with an empty 500gp bottle of Cristal at his side (he figured he deserved to splurge a little after his plasma donation). Since the terazul addicts that shambled about had a proven taste for bat meat, he begrudgingly remained in his elven form. He did, however, secure a private space for himself in a rocky outcropping. All he had to do was push a few shopping carts full of someone's personal belongings off a cliff.
“Lovely little campsite, this,” said the realm’s most agitating voice.
Astarion wasn’t alone. Where he once couldn’t get ahold of Gale if his life depended on it (and it didn’t), he now couldn’t get rid of the old bastard. His eyes flicked open and he shot up from the soft bedroll that had eaten up the rest of his plasma donation money.
“Stop following me,” he snapped.
Gale ignored him, as always. “A bit chilly out here.” He pointed at a small log. “Ignis.”
“I am perfectly capable of casting firebolt if I want a fucking fire.” Astarion emphasized his point by petulantly kicking the log away so that it would roll down a cliffside strewn with plastic shopping bags and tattered cardboard boxes.
Gale's voice took on a lecturing cadence. “Perhaps what you want isn't what you need.” He followed that statement by telekinetically bringing the log back into place and setting it ablaze again.
With a series of loud popping and cracking sounds, Gale then lowered himself to the ground and took a seat next to the campfire. He popped and cracked some more as he forced himself cross-legged.
“Oh, that's ghastly,” Astarion complained. “Can't you clone yourself or something? There’s no fixing that face of yours, but at least your joints wouldn’t sound like wogglims and your balls wouldn’t hang all the way to Halruaa.”
“I'm perfectly content showing my age.”
“But not butting out of my business.”
“Astarion,” Gale pleaded. “I know I haven't always been the best friend to you, but we are friends. There's thrill in roughing it, to be sure, but you've always found more joy in life’s luxuries than its challenges. Why stay here under this bridge when you could come with me?”
“On an adventure?” Astarion mocked.
Gale shrugged. “Or to Waterdeep. My tower has an array of amenities that I think you'd find—”
“No,” Astarion said sharply.
In his mind, he replayed those instances of Gale letting him down. There was no way in the hells he’d ever allow it to happen again.
“Give it a chance,” Gale insisted. “I don’t want to say you owe me for signing that attestation, but…” That’s exactly what he was saying.
“If anything, we’re even,” Astarion said.
“Even…?”
Astarion held his head high. “You still owed me for saving your hide in that fight against Balthazar.”
“I don’t recall that,” Gale said, casting suspicion on the lie.
Astarion clicked his tongue. “Perhaps you should look into getting some neurological scans. Dementia is so tragically common in humans your age. They could set you up in a nice facility with BINGO nights and all the tapioca pudding you can gum down.”
“There’s no need for you to be so rude.”
“There’s no need for you to be here.”
They stared at each other across the campfire, and for one blissful moment he thought Gale might finally shut the fuck up.
“I’m here because I want to—”
Astarion lost it. “You’re here because you’re bored!” Words slipped through his lips faster than he could consider what he was saying, and he meant every one of them. “For five hundred years, I’ve kept peace with the authorities of Baldur’s Gate. I’ve defended myself from monster hunters, harpers, overzealous adventurers, paranormal investigators, tax collectors, and a Bhaal-forsaken slayer. I have never once needed you, and I never will.”
“Astar—”
“I despise you. Once again you burst into my life when it suits you, thinking of yourself as some sort of savior. You’re not. I don’t need saving, and if I did it sure as the hells wouldn’t be you who lived up to the task. You’re nothing but a pawn to an increasingly irrelevant goddess. Meek. Subservient. Clueless. You can’t even control your own bowels.”
Gale’s eyes had gone wide and damp, but Astarion didn’t let that deter him. He wanted Gale gone, and for good.
“Go ask the weave’s top cunt what to do with your time and stop wasting mine.”
“If that’s how you really feel—”
“It is.”
Gale didn’t say more. He raised a trembling hand into a circling gesture and cast some sort of teleportation spell. PWOOF.
In the blink of an eye, he was gone, and Astarion’s makeshift little camp got much quieter.
Unfortunately, the junkies under the bridge continued howling through the rest of the night.
🩸🩸🩸
At Araj Oblodra's Plasma Donation Center the next morning, Astarion finally got a moment of peace as he was attempting to earn the funds to take care of himself.
As he was now eligible, he’d returned to donate his vampiric sperm for 5000gp. Just five wanks and he’d have enough to rent the Jannath estate for a month. He could easily maintain his preferred lifestyle by doing nothing more than masturbating.
If he had any uncomfortable thoughts about dhampir being created from his seed, he buried them deep inside. It wasn’t as though he’d ever need to interact with his children, after all. And 5000gp was 5000gp.
The donation room was lovely. A private suite with dim lighting, a plush little loveseat with a plastic cover, and a huge flat-panel television. Astarion sat on the squeaky seat with his dick out over the waistband of his track pants, flipping through the available video options.
|
Amateur Vampire Learns How To Suck A submissive undead slut drains her master dry (18 mins). |
 |
| Amateur Vampire Learns How To Suck | |
| Beefy Duergar Uses 5x ENLARGED cock on Halfling Heinie | |
| Two Druids One Cub | |
| Githyanki Slut Solos Tiefling Horn | |
| Busty Deep Gnome Cumshot Surprise | |
| Waterdeep’s DOCKING Ward: Wizards Touching Wands | |
| Drow Twins Drain My Balls | |
| Four Kobolds Run Train on Barely Legal Half-Elf | |
| Couple Ravishes Ochre Jelly - HOT N MESSY | |
| Simulacrum Surprise: DP’d By My Own Cock | |
| Horny Tief Takes His Own Tail | |
| Menzoberranzan Matron Instructs You | |
| Step-Orc Dommy Pegs Elf Twunk | |
Next to him were a pump bottle of lube and the milking device the intake nurse had told him about. It was a metal box about two feet in size, with a series of knobs, dials, and lights on its face. Inside was the chamber where his cum would be collected, along with whatever gadgets were required to keep it room temperature. On top was a long length of medical grade tubing, attached to what could only be described as a single-use fleshlight. A cylinder of hard black plastic with a neon pink silicone hole at its face.
The device hummed at a low volume, like a pleasant white noise machine. Everything had been tuned to the appropriate settings, according to the nurse. All he had to do was shove his hard cock into the fucksleeve and enjoy.
Astarion decided that he didn’t need any of the porn on offer to get himself there. He’d seen it all. Thinking of the most glorious moment of his life—usurping Cazador’s ritual—he became instantly hard.
“I made you to be consumed,” Cazador had said, right before he begged on his knees.
Consume this, you stupid fuck.
He lubed up and slipped his dick into the tight sleeve as he recalled his former master’s agonized screaming and the way blood flowed so beautifully from his quivering back.
It felt alright, for a moment. The same vaguely enjoyable sensation as fucking any other toy or real humanoid hole. Not as good as his own hand, but sufficient.
There was a loud clank from the machine, and the pleasant whirring became a loud grinding sound as some mechanism kicked into action. The sleeve tightened around his cock, holding it into place with a vise-like grip. No longer could he thrust into it. He was locked in as a vacuuming sensation pulled at him. Softly at first, like a flumph’s blowjob.
Then it really went to town.
—CLANK—WHRRRRRrrrrRRRRRrrrrrr—
Astarion braced himself, digging his claws into the plastic sofa cover and instinctively raising his hips trying to ease the pressure. It didn’t work.
“Sweet hells,” he complained as he was contused and clobbered by the cockmilking contraption.
Rough as it was, the machine was effective. It swiftly pulled an orgasm from Astarion, and he watched as his sticky semen traveled through coils of plastic tubing into the metal box.
It didn’t stop sucking.
“—hnn—aaugh—”
Not one intelligible word came from Astarion’s mouth as the device did its job and continued draining him. Terribly overstimulated, his cockhead burned and his balls ached as another load went flying into the tubes.
CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.
The machine didn’t stop.
“—frrrrrrr—gods—”
Astarion grabbed the plastic portion of the milker and tried to pull it away from his agonized dick, but even the strength of an ascendant vampire was no match for Araj Oblodra’s semen pump.
There was a big red help button on the wall next to the door, but it was unreachable. Astarion was trapped in place on that couch, getting sucked for every drop he was worth. Sweat beaded down his face and soaked the armpits of his track jacket. He was shaking. He gripped into the couch so hard that one of his acrylic nails snapped off, and he would have cursed that if he could have formed a proper word.
“—ggggrrrrrrrrgggaahhshshshshsh—” was all that escaped his lips as tears streamed down the sides of his face.
While the wretched machine ignored the concept of a refractory period, Astarion thought for the briefest moment that perhaps he should have listened to Gale and taken the old bastard up on his offer to stay in Waterdeep. Then he thought: fuck that. He could take care of himself. He was taking care of himself.
Half an hour and twenty hot loads later, the machine clicked off. The pleasant whirring returned as Astarion’s cock was relinquished. He slumped back into the sofa, gasping and shaking. Glancing down, he noticed that his cock was a miserable shade of purple.
It would heal. Everything always healed.
Chapter 6: Bleeding Heart
Summary:
Gale enjoys visiting Menzoberranzan.
Notes:
Welcome back, dear readers (I have a cute nickname for you all, but I can’t reveal it until we reach a certain point in this story).
Heads-Up: That ‘Past Gale/Minthara’ tag comes into play in this chapter. There’s smut in the flashbacks, and if you know anything about Minthara you can imagine the kinds of things she does to him. It’s all consensual, though.
Click for Specifics (Spoilers)
Minthara domming Gale, including rope binding, boot licking, whipping, insults and degradation, object insertion, orgasm denial, and pegging.
P.S There may be a slight delay on the next chapter, as I'm traveling this weekend.
Chapter Text
1492 DR:
As he stood on the bank of the Chionthar, Gale also stood at a moral precipice. He glanced down at the orb in his chest—calmed, for the time being, thanks to his goddess—then out at the water.
Illithid ships screamed through the sky as they crashed and burned, rendering the river’s surface orange and choppy. Somewhere beneath, he knew, was the Crown of Karsus. Shattered, but it was his to claim and reforge, if he wanted it. A source of unfathomable power.
At least one of his companions thought he should seize it, revive the power of Netheril, and assert his godhood.
“A shame about our companion,” Minthara said, not conveying an ounce of actual concern about Bhaal’s vengeance. “He did not have what it takes to control the crown. We do.”
Gale gazed at water that flowed to the Sea of Swords, whose currents could carry him back to Waterdeep. “I certainly could claim the crown...”
“You hesitate,” Minthara sneered.
“Yes.” Gale swallowed.
Minthara took hold of his sleeve and turned him to look into her displeased eyes. Their red was more fiery than ever, her brow more severe. “Since Moonrise, I have made it clear to you what I want. Control. Power. To become Absolute. I have been open about my ambition because I cannot work with those I do not trust.” She added, pointedly, “And I cannot love those who lack ambition.”
Theirs had been a strange relationship, if it could be called one. Mostly she insulted him and he aimed to prove her wrong—savoring the mildest acknowledgements as if they were major victories, certain that one day she might actually praise him. That she’d just said the word ‘love’ was a significant development, even when it had been referred to in the negative.
As much as he wanted to be loved, though, Gale wasn't convinced. He turned to watch a disgraced, drooling dragonborn use every last bit of his willpower to shamble away—followed by a desperate vampire rambling about how the Absolute’s power had been in their grasp.
Was defying the gods worth it?
“Has turning from Lolth worked in your favor, Minthara?”
“I did not turn away from Lolth,” she scolded. “In my moment of greatest need, the spider queen abandoned me.”
“Still…” Gale couldn’t quiet his doubts.
Minthara knew exactly what they were, and she tried to talk him through them. “With or without Mystra, you are as great a practitioner of magic as anyone I’ve ever known.”
“You’ve never complimented me before,” Gale noted.
“There has never been a need to.”
Now there was. She needed him to follow through and seize the crown for her own benefit.
Gale shook his head. “Mystra is magic. I’m nothing without her.”
“She has made you believe that you need her. That is what the gods do.” Minthara spoke with the passion of someone who had everything to lose. “In truth, she is not so different from the Absolute. She infests your notion of the Weave, just as the Absolute’s voice infested my thoughts. You will realize soon how little you need her, or you will die subservient, mourning a life that held no meaning.”
Gale understood what she was saying, but he couldn’t make the sentiment stick. Not after decades of worship, duty, and ill-fated romance. In all the times he'd failed Mystra, his goddess had never failed him. Even when she'd left him alone in his tower for a year, it was with good reason. The orb in his chest was quieted, thanks to her. She'd first offered him redemption, and then a chance at living again. She had his best interests at heart.
He resolved not to fail her again, and to return the crown.
1562 DR:
With three arrows sticking out of his shoulder, Gale stumbled through a thin gap between stone doors and fell to his knees, wheezing.
“Fifteen minutes,” Minthara declared. “Not your best. Have you grown sloppy, wizard?”
She looked the same as ever, strong and fearsome in skintight leather that revealed exactly as much as she desired. The expression on her face was one of amusement and annoyance alike.
Gale sputtered. “The longbowmen along the east stalagmites were a nice touch. Very well-hidden.”
“Answer my question.”
“I, ah… I don’t believe I’ve grown sloppy, no.”
He was in Menzoberranzan to avoid just that. Having been fired from Blackstaff for missing too many classes on official Mystran business, Gale still needed to occupy himself when his goddess didn’t have tasks for him. A partner would have been ideal, of course. Romantic at heart, he’d always dreamt of proposing to some lucky soul, of building a life together in his tower. But he could place no one above Mystra, and anyone he’d ever wooed had swiftly tired of coming in second. To everyone but his goddess, Gale was unreliable.
Loneliness was a small price to pay for Mystra’s favor—something he felt lucky to have after the orb, the Emerald Grove, and his near coup against the Faerûnian pantheon. For her, he remained well-behaved and a little bit bored.
Minthara, at least, was always willing to keep him sharp.
Though whatever semblance of a relationship they had ended the moment he returned the crown to Mystra, Gale was always welcome in Minthara’s reclaimed ancestral home—if he could make it through all the obstacles it took to get to her. There were more each time he visited.
She stepped around him, her hard boots clacking against the palace floor. Leaning closer, she took hold of one of the wooden shafts and pressed the arrow deeper into his shoulder.
Searing pain coursed through his body, and Gale let out a stuttered groan.
“A—a little help, please?”
Minthara laughed cruelly. “Do you think I would lay my hands on someone careless enough to be struck three times in the same way?”
“I need healing…”
Her response was simple.
“Beg.”
He did that night, and many nights after.
1745 DR:
CRACK.
For the tenth time, the whip struck Gale’s back.
For the first time, he yelped.
“Already broken?” Minthara mused. “Unsurprising.”
“My a–apologies, Nightwarden.”
She stood behind Gale, as usual, where she could scrutinize every bit of him and he could see almost none of her—only the shine of her boot when she nosed it under his lips and demanded he lick its earthy toe box. For the majority of their time together, Minthara was a cruel ghost, existing in touch and sound only. The cold, stiff leather of her whip when it struck his tender back. The sharp agony of long fingernails breaking skin. The pull of rough, scratchy rope.
Gale was fully naked, bound wrists to ankles, ass in the air and face against a freezing stone floor. He liked it. The danger, the thrill of the unknown, the chance to please.
“Only resilient wizards earn their release,” Minthara asserted.
He whimpered into some grout. “Yes, Nightwarden.”
She whipped him again—a hard CRACK right where his back met his ass. Gale gritted his teeth and held back any reaction to the pain. He wanted very much to earn that release as his stiff, leaking cock bobbed between his legs.
Minthara approved. Her thick, greased-up strap-on pressed against his hole.
Gale was eager for it, ready for Minthara to split him open and have her way with his body. He just had to be a good boy and not make a peep.
But as she teased forward, stretching him at an agonizingly slow pace, another voice filled the room—one muffled by layers of bulky fabric.
“Gale.” It was Astarion, sounding painfully desperate. “I sleep, but cannot rest. I live, but cannot die. I am eternal and I grieve. Help me. Please. Come here and help me.”
Minthara cackled. In the movement of her laughter, she slipped out of Gale's hole.
CRACK.
The whip struck again. Punishment for the interruption.
“You brought your sending stones with you?” Minthara asked, adding a disdainful tut. “So desperate to feel wanted.”
She wasn’t wrong. The tone of Astarion’s voice—seemingly sincere in its distress—filled Gale with a sense of satisfaction. He’d been right all along. Something was wrong with that cantankerous vampire, and Astarion had finally called on Gale to fix it.
“I should, ah, probably be going—”
“Nonsense,” Minthara declared. “An immortal vampire is in no danger. He said himself he cannot die, and we both know Astarion is one for melodrama.”
Gale wriggled fruitlessly against his restraints. “Perhaps. I should at the very least respond, though. It's common courtesy, and I did make a promise.”
“You wish to have your stone?” Minthara asked evilly.
There was hard clacking as she walked to where Gale's robe was piled on the floor. Harder clacking marked her return to the space behind his ass.
With no warning, there was a hard, cold object against Gale's hole. Minthara easily pressed the sending stone through his rim. The magical artifact sent a chill racing up his spine.
“That,” Gale groaned, “is extremely ill-advised.”
“So is bending over backwards to tend to those who despise you.”
She wasn't just talking about Astarion, if she was talking about him at all. Every time Gale visited Minthara, he found himself on the receiving end of as many insults as fat artificial cocks. This was a common one.
The source of her ire remained, as ever, Gale's goddess—Mystra, who'd ruined the drow’s plans for total domination. That he still served her infuriated Minthara to no end, but it did make the sex better, somehow.
“Mystra doesn't despise me,” Gale corrected, scooting his ass back as much as he could manage as he egged her on. “She's made me a Weave anchor.”
Minthara snarled. “Someday you'll see how ephemeral an honor that is, and how little she's bestowed upon you.”
“Unlike you...?”
“Indeed. I’ve given you more sound advice than you’re capable of comprehending.”
He stretched again as Minthara slipped her cock inside him, burying it slowly to the strap and holding it there.
The stone was pushed somewhere deep within Gale, to the point it became imperceptible. That was a problem for later. For the time being, he enjoyed the fullness of the thick drow-made dildo—satisfying and painful in equal measure. But there was no movement.
“If I were to keep you like this, how long would you wait before resorting to magic to take what you want?” Minthara asked.
Gale countered with a question of his own. “How long would you be content to sit on your knees just to make a point?”
“One does not make it to my age in Menzoberranzan without enduring far worse than cockwarming a strap inside a wizard.”
“Test me, then,” Gale said.
“Very well.”
She tested him for hours on end—so many hours it may have been an entire day, spread there in agony with his kneecaps screaming and his asshole stuffed.
In the back of Gale’s mind was his need to respond to Astarion’s message. He couldn't forget what with the sending stone lodged somewhere in his bowels, but since it had taken him 142 years to reply the last time, he wagered Astarion could wait a day or two. He was immortal, after all.
“You could so easily secure your pleasure,” Minthara said eventually, “and yet you wait for my permission. This is why I'll enjoy your body, wizard, but I will never respect you.”
“You want me to disobey you?” Gale wondered.
“I want to know whether you can.”
Gale hesitantly edged himself forward, pulling away from the toy in his ass, then pushing back toward it to fuck himself ever-so-slightly.
SMACK.
Her palm slapped his ass.
“Move once more and I’ll make sure you never come again in your life.”
“But you said—”
SMACK.
“Do not speak another word until I permit it.”
For hours more, Gale didn’t. Delirious from hunger and thirst and with screaming joints, he remained obedient. It was easy.
Out of nowhere, Mystra’s voice boomed in his mind. “Gale of Waterdeep. You are needed in the Astral Sea.”
That was all Gale needed to hear.
“Dolor,” he murmured, flicking his wrist.
The ropes binding him disintegrated and he flew up into a standing position, leaving Minthara confused as she rose to join him. Her strap-on bounced a bit as she put her hands on her hips. The first good look at her he’d had in ages, and it was a thrilling one. If only he could stay and enjoy it.
“Found your nerve?” she wondered, almost sounding impressed.
“Mystra calls.” He summoned a mage hand to jerk his cock to completion at the same time he motioned for his robe to float it across the room to himself. “Qua dico facto.”
Watching him spill onto the floor, Minthara’s face warped into a brutal sneer. “Pathetic.”
“I have my duties and you have yours,” Gale said, pulling his robe on.
There was an awkward discomfort inside him as the sending stone shifted within his body.
“Expello te,” he said, banishing it to another plane of existence.
The relief was instant and palpable. Gale wouldn’t get a chance to respond using that sending stone (since it was now in a realm populated only by space hamsters), but he told himself he’d pop by Astarion’s palace when he was done with whatever Mystra needed from him. It wouldn’t be long, he was sure.
“Some day you’ll see the folly in being at her beck and call,” Minthara warned. “Of being at anyone’s.”
“Then I should stop acknowledging your requests as well, the next time I’m here?”
“Hrm.” Minthara smirked. “You’re welcome to try.”
🩸🩸🩸
Once again, Gale stood in the Jewel of the Underdark. As part of the modern world, Menzoberranzan looked a lot different than it once had. Massive skyscrapers spanned from the cavern-confined city’s floor to its ceiling, spreading wider at their bases and tops to give them the appearance of stalagnates or stretched out spider webs.
Everything was brightly lit these days, with LEDs of all colors overwhelming the natural fungal lighting that had all but vanished as a result of a changing Underdark climate. Over the hustle and bustle of drow and driders coming and going there was an ever-present hum from the roof of the city’s cavern. Menzoberranzan’s vent system was always active, pumping deadly carbon dioxide to the surface world and bringing much-needed oxygen in to refresh the stagnant, smog-filled air.
There was a time when standing at the city’s center filled Gale with a thrilling sense of danger—a time when he’d be hunted for sport just for being an unaccompanied male. Alas, Menzoberranzan had undergone some progressive reforms. All of its citizens were now equal in theory, though those with more coin benefitted accordingly.
After a quick stop at Tier Breche for a souvenir teacup, Gale scooched past a matron walking three pet spiders on leashes to get to the entrance of Qu'ellarz'orl, the city’s highest ledge that housed Menzoberranzan’s most noble nobles. It was where all the old money maintained their palaces, and where somewhat wealthy settlers from the surface built tacky mansions because their money went further in the Underdark.
A web-patterned antimagic dome prevented Gale from teleporting directly into Minthara’s ancestral home: the Great Mound, the heart of House Baenre. So he walked—past homes with waterfall pools, massive privacy mushrooms, and eight-stall garages—to the oldest estate at the middle of the plateau's edge.
The security knew him. Just a nod and Gale was allowed in.
Once inside, he exchanged pleasant waves with some of the housekeeping staff and made his way to the kitchen. It was there, with a large window overlooking the city, that Minthara liked to take her coffee and cigarettes.
He found her with her eyes locked on her phone screen, topless, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants and a purple ball cap embroidered in white to read: Preserve Menzoberranzan Society.
“Minthara,” Gale said. “You don’t look a day over eight hundred.”
They’d long since given up on their psychosexual rendezvous, but a compliment was always welcome, in Gale’s experience. And this was a genuine one. She was remarkably well-preserved for her age.
Minthara glanced up from her phone’s huge font to scowl. “You, on the other hand, look absolutely dire. It goes to show once again that there is no reward for service to the gods.”
“Now, now. There’s no need to bring up old grievances.” Gale cautiously took a seat across from her.
“Then allow me to raise new ones. Menzoberranzan has gone straight to the hells. Letting in surface dwellers by the clutch.” She scoffed. “I saw on DrowBook that they’re eating our spiders.”
“How’s Zoori?” Gale asked, trying to change the subject from unfounded rumor to family.
Minthara butted her cigarette in an amber ashtray, then immediately lit another. “I cannot fathom that a drow so lamentable is my daughter. Not after I chose my mate from the finest breeding stock House Xorlarrin had to offer.”
“She’s studying in Uruth Ukrypt these days, right?”
“Oh, yes. A history major.” Minthara spat the words. “She now tells me she holds no attraction toward drow women and intends to become an orcish tradwife. This never would have happened if Menzoberranzan had upheld slavery.”
Gale frowned. “I’m deeply sorry.”
“Enough of my mistakes. What sort of error has brought you here?”
“Must it be an error?” Gale wondered offendedly.
Minthara stared daggers. Her lip curled. She didn’t say a word.
Gale sighed. “The loneliness of middle age has—”
“Old,” she corrected.
“Yes.” Gale cleared his throat. “The loneliness of old age has taken its toll. I’ve had no one for company but my tressyms for the last thirty years, and I fear my isolation may have ruined what few friendships I had.”
Minthara tilted her head. “When have you ever had a friend other than Elminster?”
“You and I are friends,” Gale said.
“Ha,” Minthara said in lieu of laughing. “No. Who else?”
“Astarion,” Gale said.
That drew actual laughter. Uproarious, hearty laughter that came from so deep within Minthara that she began hacking, wheezing, and clutching at the thin skin of her bare chest.
“Good one,” she said when she finally settled.
Gale looked at her with wide, sad eyes, preparing for her to mock his failures. “What’s so funny about that?”
“Astarion is a friend to no one,” Minthara said simply. “He never freed himself from Cazador enough to make room for anyone else in his life.”
“He killed Cazador,” Gale reminded her.
Minthara glowered. “Do you think me senile? I’m aware. I was there. But what purpose does Astarion have that does not involve his former master? He claims his title. He claims his palace. He performs the exact role Cazador trained him to perform. Things may have gone differently if the Bhaalspawn had listened to me and taken control of the Absolute, but as it stands now… Astarion clings to the only life he knows. He is no more free of Cazador than you are of Mystra.”
Gale resisted the urge to complain about the comparison, instead remaining focused on Astarion. “I tried to help him with a… problem he’s having. He turned me away and called me clueless and subservient.”
“And you prove him correct with every word.” Minthara took a long sip of her coffee. “For centuries, you came to me when your goddess would not guide you, demanding my firm hand.”
“My sexual proclivities are irrelevant to—”
She didn’t let him get another word in. “Now that I’ve stopped giving you what you desire, you seek another’s direction.”
“I don’t need to be given direction,” Gale said.
“Then why are you here?”
“I’m not sure where else to go,” Gale admitted.
Minthara’s mouth tilted into a wicked smirk. “Do you want me to tell you?”
That drove her point home.
“No.” Gale shook his head. “I needn't be told what to do. Not by you and not by Astarion.”
“Good. Say the same for Mystra and you’ll have finally learned something.”
That was a step too far, and Gale would not spurn his goddess so. But he would ignore the clear instructions of his closest friend to “fuck off.” Whether Astarion wanted his help or not, Gale was going to give it to him.
Chapter 7: Dripping with Disdain
Summary:
Astarion receives some news about his semen and learns more about soap.
Notes:
Hello again and thanks for sticking with me through the webweave. As always, I adore all kudoers and commenters. Please feel free to speculate about the Dark Urge’s name in this universe, as I’m not sure I’ll ever give him one in this story. Maybe it's Gary. Idk.
P.S. I'm serious about that gruesome tag. We're earning the Explicit rating in this fic.
P.P.S. I've added a 1994 Soapstarion playlist if you want to set the vibe for this flashback.
Chapter Text
1994 DR:
Even though it was a normal Secondday afternoon, none of the shops in the Upper City were open. At best, the little plastic signs on their doors were turned to read ‘CLOSED.’ At worst, they were boarded up entirely, as if their owners expected looting. Astarion—who could never be bothered to keep track of current events to find out why weak mortals felt their lives were endangered—traipsed about under a black parasol, trying to find a barber to snip his hair into the peak of fashion: The Rachel.
Then the unthinkable happened.
A familiar PWOOF sound came from behind him, causing his ears to perk and his stomach to roil. The last person he wanted to see, hear, or smell was Gale Dekarios. With a sigh, Astarion turned and—
It wasn't Gale.
Standing in the middle of the sidewalk was a large white dragonborn in black padded armor. The scales on his face were spattered with blood both old and fresh, and he snarled, bearing his equally bloody teeth. After five hundred years, Astarion hadn't forgotten that handsome and deranged visage. But his late beloved was supposed to be dead, killed by Minthara and Gale at the reunion party he'd skipped out on centuries earlier.
Astarion swallowed hard, as if that could stop his heart from pounding. “You—”
No words emerged from the dragonborn’s mouth. His head jerked violently to one side as a deep hissing sound strained from his throat. A series of loud, unnerving cracks came next as his bones snapped and his body reconfigured itself. The armor split and fell to the ground. Limbs stretched and grew and soon Astarion was gazing at a huge, grotesque monster with four clawed arms; an emotionless, insectlike face; and huge spikes scattered about its body.
Bhaal’s chosen had returned, in slayer form.
For too many nights over the centuries, Astarion had dreamt of being reunited with the only person he’d ever loved—the one who’d so briefly resurrected his cold, dead heart. Not like this, though. Never like this.
Seeing that monster in the street broke Astarion in a way he didn’t realize he could be broken. He dropped his parasol and stood completely frozen and slack-jawed outside a wellness shop.
The slayer screeched, roared, and growled—seemingly all at once—as it bounded toward Astarion. First, a quick sprint. Then a deadly leap.
His beloved dragonborn had once asked Astarion what they were to each other.
Aeterna amantes, he’d answered. Lovers forever. Until the world falls down.
Astarion didn’t move as the slayer closed in on him. Head spinning, he entered a dreamlike daze, wherein everything in the world may as well have fallen. None of it was real. None of it could be. Not the street that was empty except for a discarded Dunkaroos container tumbling around in its gutter. Not the pounding ache in his chest. Not the monster with piercingly vacant black eyes staring right at him.
It sure as the hells felt real when he was slammed against the sidewalk, and when razor-sharp claws shredded right through his denim vest and tank top. Bhaal’s chosen was more powerful than an ascended vampire, apparently, as those claws tore deep into Astarion’s gut.
Blood poured from the gashes, and Astarion was certain he felt some solid organs slip out with the fluid. He wasn’t watching to confirm that, though. His eyes were strained shut as his lips trembled around gasps.
Astarion’s mind took him back to the night Cazador turned him into a vampire spawn. Then, like now, he lay on the ground along some Upper City street, bleeding out. Then, someone had been there to ‘save’ him. Now there was no one. He supposed it was poetic or symbolic or something like that to go out the way he did the first time. This was where his second life would end, at the hands of the one he loved. He wouldn’t beg to live as he had all those centuries ago.
Aeterna amantes. Let it fall down.
Just as the pain of evisceration dulled to nothing but background noise, there was another PWOOF. Astarion’s eyes snapped open at the sound, just in time for the slayer to slobber some foul drool across them.
“Fulgor!”
A familiar voice reached Astarion’s ears as a bolt of lightning hit the monster tearing him apart. Its electricity flowed through the slayer, stiffening its limbs, then bounced to Astarion, shocking his body back into full awareness. He could smell his own flesh sizzling—putrid but savory, like an overcooked deep rothé steak.
Gale had cast Chain Lightning, of all things.
“Fuck–ing—idiot—” Astarion gasped out, his words shaking with the buzz of electrocution.
The barely damaged slayer roared and turned its attention to Gale.
Astarion blinked through the spit in his eyes, pushed some lumpy organs back into his abdomen and held them in place, then rolled onto his side so he could see what was happening.
In the middle of that Upper City sidewalk, Gale was about to be slaughtered. He was far too old to be fighting something like Bhaal’s chosen all by himself. His mind was sharp, but his spellwork had grown slow and sloppy. A glowing forcefield around Gale grew fainter and fainter as the slayer clawed at it, over and over.
Astarion watched Gale make failed attempts at casting Finger of Death, Dominate Monster, and Forcecage. After the last one, the slayer swiped a hand at Gale that broke through his Shield spell and swatted him thirty feet across the street.
Wheezing at having the wind knocked out of him—and also because he was so gods-damned old—Gale crumpled against a boarded up jewelry store, chin against his chest. He couldn’t utter the words he needed to protect himself from an incoming attack.
There was about to be one, if Astarion didn’t do anything about it. The Bhaalspawn crouched, ready to pounce, and Astarion had a choice.
Fun as it might have been to watch that insufferable wizard die to his own incompetence, Astarion felt it would be far more fun to rub it in his face that he'd been the one to save him.
His insides still seeping and his mind screaming, he transformed himself into mist. Adrenaline carried him toward his ex, and spite carried him further—spite at having spent the past five hundred years loveless, at having not conquered Baldur’s Gate let alone the entire Sword Coast, at being abandoned at a watershed moment in his life.
The monster’s gaping maw revealed rows upon rows of deadly fangs. Astarion slipped between them and drifted right down a wet throat that smelled of metallic blood and half-digested viscera. His vampiric instincts told him where the creature’s heart was. It beat deafeningly loud, thrumming through every particle that comprised his misty form.
Astarion flew deeper into the creature, past tissue that reeked of rot and ruin. When the moment was right—when that rhythmic thumping was behind just the right esophageal wall—he solidified and punched through it. Cramped in a smothering cavity too small for his solid form, he tore his former lover’s heart out of place.
It beat its last, and Astarion let out a violent, feral scream. He hadn't ever heard anything of the sort come from himself. It was shocking, but it didn't last long in the stifling space.
Then he was mist again, flying to safety out the collapsing creature’s nostrils.
In the street, Astarion became solid once more. His clothes were soaked with blood, his skin shone from saliva and digestive fluids, and his hair was tinged pink and matted to his face as he staggered—arms pressed tight against his gut to hold himself together—across the street toward the fallen wizard.
Age notwithstanding, Gale looked much better. He sat there pale, sweating, and with a small amount of blood trickling down his forehead from where his head had cracked against the building’s brick facade.
Astarion fell right next to him, panting.
“You saved my life,” Gale gasped.
“Mhm—”
Gazing at the corpse in the middle of the road, Astarion couldn’t articulate anything more. His voice disappeared into a hitching, rasping sort of sound as tears erupted from his eyes in a flood. He was shaking, not from being eviscerated but from what else had transpired.
In a rare moment of vulnerability, he allowed his despairing head to fall on Gale’s weak shoulder. There, he cried—the hard sort of crying that saw snot gushing from his nose and choking gurgles babbling from his throat.
It was the first time in centuries anyone had seen the level of agony he was capable of feeling, and it was fucking Gale Dekarios of all people.
He tried to express himself. “You said—dead—”
“We did kill him,” Gale said. “Bhaal resurrected him, along with countless others.”
Astarion had no idea what he was doing, but he grasped Gale’s hand and squeezed it tight as he continued sobbing. For a moment, they stayed like that. It was almost a breakthrough.
“I'm sorry,” Gale said, joggling himself free, “but I have to go.”
“Don’t,” Astarion pleaded. He wasn’t sure what he needed exactly, but he knew he needed something. Someone. Anyone. Even the rotten bastard next to him—who’d let him down on every possible occasion—would suffice.
But apparently there were Bhaalspawn all over the Sword Coast, wreaking havoc from Luskan to Candlekeep, and Gale had ‘a duty.’
Astarion was left alone with his thoughts, and he retreated into those as well as his palace. His grief was his to deal with alone, as always. As everything was.
🩸🩸🩸
Astarion knew he'd soon be able to spend his days in Lady Jannath’s Estate. Following a huge, hearty breakfast that cost 350gp (he felt he deserved a treat), he confidently strolled into Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center, tapped at a touchscreen to check in for his next sperm donation, and waited.
And waited. And waited. And waited.
He was seated in the vampiric waiting area, so at least he received a free bottle of water and didn’t have to look at desperate kobolds and disgusting deep gnomes, but the length of his wait was unacceptable. Especially when he had to keep listening to that damned introductory video that played on a loop.
“Your immortality is a gift, and thanks to Araj Oblodra, it's one you can share with others.”
“Some gift,” Astarion griped aloud.
His nose caught a whiff of something foul, and he brought the armpit of his track jacket to his face to confirm what he suspected: he was beginning to stink. He made a mental note to use some of his earnings on soap and cologne before resuming daydreaming about stabbing Cazador.
When the intake nurse finally opened the door, it was with a frown. She looked like someone about to break bad news.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Astarion said, rising from his squeaky vinyl chair. “My cock’s hard and it’s not going to milk itself.”
“I’m afraid you’re no longer eligible for sperm donation.”
Astarion blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The fertility clinic rejected your donation,” the nurse explained.
“What? You didn’t say that was a possibility.”
“Well, we’ve never encountered an infertile vampire before. It seems your sperm are only compatible with gnome eggs, and a survey of gnome clients found them particularly repulsed by your donor profile.”
“Repulsed by my…?” Astarion fumed. “Those ungrateful specks should be so lucky.”
“Per the contract you signed, we’ll need the 5000gp you were paid for your donation returned.”
That was every bit of money he had in his bank account. More, actually, on account of some bad luck with scratch-off lottery tickets.
“I spent it already,” he said.
“Then your next five plasma donations will go toward your debt,” said the nurse. “Alternatively, you could repay it all today with a digit donation.”
Astarion’s eyebrow quirked. “A what?”
“Araj Oblodra will pay 250gp per digit.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Fingers and toes,” the nurse explained.
“What about them?”
“We remove them at the knuckle.”
“What in the hells do you use those for?”
“Stem cell research,” the nurse said quickly.
Astarion wasn’t very smart, but even to him that seemed suspicious. Still, he had plenty of experience having parts of his body hacked off. It had happened often enough under Cazador, and he knew that his fingers and toes would grow back quickly. Probably faster than ever, now that he’d ascended. It was the easiest way to pay his debt.
He agreed, and soon he was in some back room, lying naked on an autopsy table while the same nurse equipped gloves, goggles, and a mask.
“Are you even qualified for this?” Astarion asked. “Doesn’t amputation require a surgeon?”
“Due to the immortal nature of vampires, vampiric surgeries are largely unregulated,” the nurse explained. “Each staff member at Araj Oblodra is trained to perform an array of tasks. Tomorrow I’ll be cleaning the milking machines.”
When she pulled out a small bonesaw, Astarion gawked. “Aren’t you going to at least knock me out? Toss me a potion of angelic slumber?”
She shook her head. “For our purposes, sedatives have an adverse effect on the flesh.”
“Wonderful,” he muttered, not interested enough to ask about Araj Oblodra’s intended purposes.
The nurse pulled a large metal clamp around to one side of the table and brought it down on Astarion’s hand to hold it in place with a firm, icy grip.
“I can get all four fingers at once, but I’ll have to do the thumb separately,” she said.
“Mhm,” he said in agreement.
“Do you want me to count down, or…?”
“Just carve the damn things off,” Astarion snapped.
The serrated edge of the saw ripped through his flesh and began working its way through bone. While blood spurted from his hand, Astarion once again considered Gale’s offer. Instead of being strapped down and hacked apart, he could be wandering around Amn, listening to an elderly, incontinent wizard ramble on about souvenir teacups. Alternatively, he could be sitting in a tower in Waterdeep, binge-watching trash television with a cloned tressym. All he had to do was humble himself.
Fuck him, he thought as the back-and-forth motion of the saw made a ZRR–ZRR–ZRR sound that resonated through his body. Gale was a prick who’d always found some way of letting him down, even when Astarion had expected nothing.
There was agony in four fingers, stinging and sharp, followed by the pain of exposure—of raw bone, muscle, and sinew being exposed to the clinical air of the plasma donation center.
The nurse tossed his fingers into a medical-grade cooler. She then globbed some pale green goop from a tube labeled Healing Word onto his finger stumps and began sawing at his thumb.
ZRR–ZRR–ZRR.
Astarion glanced around the room, trying to focus on anything but the amputation. Along one wall, he noticed a row of photographs. A decent size—maybe 8x10—each one showed a happy vampire with its fangs visible as part of a toothy grin. Above the portraits were bubbly cardstock letters spelling out:
Wall of Soaperstars!
“What’s a soaperstar?” he asked casually.
“It’s another donation scheme.”
With a ZRR–ZRR–ZRRK, Astarion’s thumb fell off.
The nurse applied some more goop. As she wrapped the entire stump hand with gauze, she explained. “Soaperstars are donors who underwent saponification four or more times in a calendar year.”
“And that is?”
She moved the clamp to his other hand as she continued, her voice unusually perky for the subject matter. “Most corpses putrefy, or decompose. In rare cases, though, they undergo saponification—”
“Meaning?”
“They turn into soap.”
Astarion spoke through gritted teeth as his muscle fibers were shredded and his bones sawed through once more. “Soap?”
ZRR–ZRR–ZRR “Not exactly soap. Not in nature, anyway. It’s a waxy sort of casing. But since vampires are technically corpses, some experiments have been run—” After another ZRR–ZRR–ZRRK, she tossed four more fingers in the cooler. “Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center has patented a streamlined process whereby vampires are suspended in a liquid, alkaline solution with a few other chemicals until saponification occurs. The resulting soap is then scraped from the body, which heals back to its original state, and then melted and molded into bars of soap that promise anti-aging health benefits for non-immortals.”
It suddenly dawned on Astarion what that damned soap shop in the Upper City had been trying to sell him. Those bars had gone for 250gp each.
An idea turned over in his mind.
“How much does saponification pay?” he asked as the nurse sawed off his other thumb.
“Let’s see… We take a third of the body, so a 75 kilogram vampire like yourself could net 25 kilograms of vampire soap, or about 250 bars… that would pay 25,000gp.”
While she moved the clamp to one of his feet, Astarion did the math in his head—poorly. He reckoned that 250 bars of soap would retail for 50,000gp, which meant that he’d only be paid half of the profit. That seemed a bit of a ripoff. But if he finally got around to creating some vampire spawn, he could send them all to Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center and be rewarded handsomely.
As if she could tell he was scheming, the nurse interjected. “Before you ask, we only accept donations from true vampires, not vampire spawn. The latter is highly unethical.”
“Unethical?” Astarion nearly spat. “You’re chopping my toes off to repay a sperm debt!”
“To which you consented. Vampire spawn cannot consent.” ZRR–ZRR–ZRRK.
It must be nice, Astarion thought, to be a vampire spawn in the modern world, where people at least pretended to give a shit about the ethics of eternal servitude. He scoffed as he was globbed with more clotting goop.
“How long does saponification take?” he asked.
“Two weeks, from start to finish.”
“Eugh. How boring.”
“You’d be asleep for that—” She glanced at his pointy ears and realized her faux pas. “Or rather, in a trance.”
Astarion watched her move the clamp to his other foot. “So I pass out in a vat of chemicals and come to two weeks later well-rested and with 25,000gp?”
ZRR–ZRR–ZRRK. “It would take your body an additional week to heal from the scraping.”
“Let’s do it,” he said immediately.
He could take that 25,000gp to Baldur's Downs and be a millionaire by Eleasis. By Highharvesttide he'd be completely re-established in the Jannath Estate. Baldur’s Gate’s premier vampire lord, back where he belonged.
It wasn’t as though he’d miss out on anything by missing a few weeks. Such a timespan was ultimately meaningless to an eternal life measured in centuries. Pain was also meaningless, as he’d already experienced the worst his life had to offer.
“We’ll have to wait for your fingers and toes to regenerate, but I’ll get you signed up as soon as we’re done here.”
He had this under control.
🩸🩸🩸
Some of Astarion’s money had gone toward a proper tent—one which a terazul addict agreed to build on his behalf for just 50gp. Using his stump hands and his teeth, he was sort of able to close the flap. Enough to keep the vagrants out, anyway.
Bored and fingerless, he transformed himself into a small white bat. At least in that shape, he was still whole—not missing an equivalent bit of wing or anything like that. He didn't really understand it, but he appreciated that in bat form there was no lingering pain.
He also appreciated a peculiar bit of bat anatomy. Namely, that his tiny mouth could reach his tiny—but generously sized for a bat—penis. As he hung from the highest support bar in his tent, Astarion bobbed upward, rapidly flicking his tongue against his stiff purple cock.
It felt nice and it was something to do to pass the time. There really wasn’t much else.
But as his diminutive balls throbbed with the pleasure of impending release, the telltale sound of his tent flap opening made him stop and gawk. His mouth was still around the head of his cock when Gale entered the tent.
“Apologies,” Gale said, swiftly averting his eyes.
That stupid fuck was holding a gods-damned bouquet.
Astarion squeaked angrily before dropping to the tent floor and transforming back into his normal self. He tucked in under a blanket in hopes of hiding the condition of his hands and feet, then yelled at Gale from under the covers.
“I told you to leave and not come back!”
“I know,” Gale said, “but I must stop listening to others and listen to my own gut, which is telling me… well, it says you need my help. It’s a lucky thing you’re still in this same tent. My seminal locator spell first took me to the dumpster behind a fertility clinic—”
“Fuck. Off.”
Gale held the bouquet toward Astarion, who made no movement toward the carnations and lily of the valley wriggling in his face.
“I despise flowers. They’re bright, gaudy, and overrated.”
Gale responded in jest, with an annoyingly smug smile. “You have three things in common then.”
It wasn’t Gale’s best banter, but it was better than his holier-than-thou act.
“What do you want?” Astarion asked.
“To apologize, and to liven this place up just a bit.” Gale shook the bouquet again.
May as well get this over with.
With a severe scowl on his face, Astarion raised his arms up over his blanket to display his unbandaged hands. His regeneration was already starting to do its thing, and short, ghostly pale nubs jutted out from the goopy sludge spread across his seeping wounds.
“By Mystra,” Gale gasped, retracting the bouquet and tossing it to the tent floor. “What happened to your fingers?”
“I donated them for money.”
As he knelt down to his cracking knees, Gale’s sanctimoniousness came through in just one word. “Astarion—”
In no mood for a lecture, Astarion crossed his arms in front of his chest and huffed. “They're already growing back. Any day now I'll have pulled myself up by my bootstraps and into the Jannath Estate.”
“Astarion—”
“Don't ‘Astarion’ me. You're just upset that I can take care of myself, without your help. Ruins your need to be a very special boy.”
Gale repeated his name anyway. “Astarion, I realize I've let you down on several occasions. I am deeply sorry for that, but I'm offering my aid now. There's no reason to be so stubborn.”
Astarion scoffed. “There's all the reason in the world not to accept your ‘help.’ The moment Mystra calls, you'll dick off again.”
“Yes, my goddess comes first,” Gale said rudely. “Do you really think your feelings are more important than divine orders?”
“Fuck you,” Astarion snapped.
Gale rolled his eyes. “Very mature.”
“Fuck you harder.”
Gale patted Astarion’s leg through his blanket. “In any case, you have little to worry about this time. Mystra hasn't called upon me in thirty years. Not since—”
“Don't.”
Gale made a pointed look as he continued. “Not since the Second Bhaalspawn Crisis. Not since I very nearly got myself killed helping you.”
“I saved you,” Astarion sneered.
“Two things can be true.” Gale sighed. “I'm all but retired, Astarion. I have time now for things and people I've neglected.”
“Oh, thank the gods,” Astarion mocked. “Now that Gale of Waterdeep has been cast aside, he finally deigns others worthy of his attention. The time to show your gratitude was thirty years ago.”
Gale shook his head. “I cannot believe you’re still angry that I left Baldur’s Gate to combat an army of Bhaalspawn. I was helping people.”
“I’m not angry that you left,” Astarion said. “I’m angry that you never came back. Same as every time I tried using that fucking sending stone.”
“I had orders.”
“And I had no one!”
He left his outburst at that. Gale didn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing about his miseries, or of hearing Astarion say something dramatic but true like “I’m in a hell of my own making and there’s no escape.”
“You have me now,” Gale offered.
Astarion petulantly flopped onto his side. “I’m going to bed. I need to recuperate.”
“Then I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk.” With a wave of his hand, Gale conjured a holographic bed for himself. His body made a wide array of sounds as he lowered himself onto his back on its glowing surface.
Astarion never did fall into a trance. When Gale was loudly, obnoxiously snoring a few hours later, he reached his spindly little finger tendrils into the wizard’s open robe. They flopped around like wet noodles as they secured their targets: a sheet of paper and a pair of cum-stained underwear. If Gale couldn’t track him by blood or semen, he probably couldn’t track him at all. Astarion just needed to sneak out and relocate, and he’d be rid of Gale for good.
Chapter 8: Rumors Circulate
Summary:
Gale tries to locate Astarion using the power of the Internet.
Notes:
Hello again, Soaperstars! As always, I appreciate your support and your comments. This week I have some artwork for you. First is a piece by me depicting 1990s Astarion.
Click to see Astarion with The Rachel.
Next up is a piece by badmarilyn, who speculated about Astarion’s tramp stamp. I haven’t actually decided on his canon tattoo yet, but I love this so much.
Click for Astarion’s lower back tattoo.
I’ve also created a playlist for 1994 Astarion that I’ve now embedded in the previous chapter, and a playlist for 1969 Astarion that you’ll see below if you want to set the mood.
Chapter Text
1969 DR:
Things hadn’t always been strained between Gale and Astarion. Over the centuries, they’d met up for plenty of perfectly cordial lunch dates. So long as Gale avoided bringing up sore subjects like Bhaalspawn or asking deep questions about Astarion’s goals and interests, they got along just fine.
He was surprised to receive an invitation to Astarion’s palace, though, and he had no idea what to expect as he cast Knock on a locked set of iron doors to make his way inside. Deep within Gale, there was a desire for Astarion to ask for his help again so he could redeem himself in Astarion’s eyes. Given the chance, he could prove himself an excellent friend. He knew he could.
It was as dank and mildewy as ever, and there was the waft of death that always pervaded, but there was an additional whiff to it: that of low-quality marijuana smoke.
Gale found his friend in the boudoir, slumped on a brown and orange striped velveteen lounge chair. He’d feathered his hair and was sporting high-waisted red trousers with mustard pinstripes; they matched an equally mustard button-down with the top three buttons undone to expose his pale chest. Next to him, on a pick-shaped side table, sat a crudely fashioned bong.
“Gale,” Astarion said through a series of coughs.
“Is that Godey?” Gale asked of the bong.
It was clearly a skull that had been shellacked and had a glass tube inserted into its parietal bone. Rather grim.
“He’ll be fine,” Astarion assured. “I can’t get rid of the magical bastard.” He leaned forward and patted an identical chair on the other side of the table. “Go on. Sit.”
Though this was all very suspicious, Gale obliged.
“Can I get you anything? There’s some pineapple upside-down cake, I think…”
It was highly uncharacteristic of Astarion to offer food, or anything but his company really.
Gale shook his head. “I’d like to know why I’m here, if it’s all the same to you.”
Chuckling softly, Astarion pulled from his shirt pocket a sheet of perforated paper. Between each of its perforations was a small square stamp bearing the image of a bright yellow smiley face.
“I need a sitter,” Astarion said with a grin.
“A sitter?”
“LSD, darling,” Astarion crooned. “Supposedly it’s a life-altering experience, but it’s advised to keep someone close by in case something goes wrong. Godey’s a bit preoccupied being a bong, and I can’t stand the sound of Shovel’s voice.”
“So you summoned me all the way from Waterdeep to watch you get high.”
“Well, yes. Clearly you’re not busy or you wouldn’t have shown up.”
Gale sighed. “How long is your trip supposed to take?”
“Hard to say. There’s not exactly another ascendant vampire anyone’s ever tested it on. Could be twelve hours, could be a few minutes.” He laughed and puffed up his chest. “It could fail to do anything at all due to my unparalleled vigor.”
“If I’m called away…”
Astarion made a pbbbbt sound with his lips. “If you’re called away, I’ll chalk it up as another of your disappointments and survive, like I always do.”
Gale didn’t love that he was thought of as so unreliable, but he supposed it was fair.
“What do I need to do?” he asked.
“Just sit there,” Astarion directed. “If I try something overly stupid, stop me. If I need a snack, summon one. That sort of thing.”
“Keep you safe, then,” Gale said, summing it up.
Astarion sneered. “I can keep myself safe. You know what? Forget it.”
“I’m already here,” Gale said. “I’ll do it.”
A pair of red eyes scrutinized Gale. Astarion opted not to object any further, apparently, since the next thing he did was tear a tab from his sheet of smiley faces and gingerly place it onto his tongue. His face twisted in disgust at the taste of it.
Then—as the sounds of psychedelic music filled the room from a record player in the corner—they sat and waited for something to happen.
“So, what have you been up to for the past decade?” Gale asked.
“Shhh,” Astarion directed, putting a finger in front of his mouth.
Gale furrowed his brow. “I suppose talking to you isn’t part of sitting you then?”
“Shut up. If I want something from you, I’ll ask.” As those words emerged, there was a sudden shift in Astarion’s demeanor. His pupils blew wide and his head swayed slackly from side to side. His fingers gripped into the armrests of his chair as he secured his bearings.
Staring at nothing, he began softly muttering something. By the sound of it, Gale guessed that the words were Draconic in origin, but he wasn’t familiar with the specifics.
“—irthiski—noachi—er-rasvim—”
Astarion got quiet then, as well as sweaty. Beads of salty fluid rushed down his flushing face, neck, and exposed bit of chest.
“You,” he said, looking directly at Gale.
“Am I meant to respond now?” Gale wondered, somewhat sarcastically.
Astarion stepped out of his chair. For a moment, he held his arms out wide, palms-down, as if he was trying to steady himself on the completely still floor. Then he hobbled toward Gale, and dropped into an awkward lean—his knees against the edge of the seat between Gale’s legs, his hands in the crooks of Gale’s elbows and his face so far forward their noses were almost touching.
He backed up only slightly, blinking rapidly. One of his hands traveled from Gale’s elbow to the side of his face and began grasping at the hairs of his beard.
Gale’s head tilted with concern. “Are you alright?”
Astarion put a hand on Gale’s cheek. “Gods, you’re beautiful.”
“Astarion?” Gale asked.
He was certain that his friend was out of his mind. No one had complimented Gale on his appearance in over three hundred years. Least of all Astarion, who’d always taken every opportunity to insult him for aging.
Perhaps it was a case of protesting too much to avoid expressing his true feelings. More likely, Astarion was imagining Gale as someone else.
Until that moment, Gale had never considered anything deeper than friendship with Astarion. In light of Astarion’s drug-driven confession, though, Gale was forced to acknowledge that he found him attractive. Just about everyone who ever met him did, even when he tended to dress in the worst fashions any era had to offer. There was a good reason so many had been lured to their deaths by the piercing eyes and mischievous smirk in front of him.
Those features drew closer once more as Astarion climbed onto Gale’s lap. He settled sideways, such that his legs draped over one arm of the chair. His arms, meanwhile, wrapped across Gale’s shoulders and around his neck.
He leaned in close, and Gale felt the hairs of his beard yield to the force of Astarion’s chin. Cool, soft lips grazed against his own lamentably dry ones. Just barely.
Gale turned his head to the side to dodge a kiss he was sure wasn't meant for him.
“What’s my name?” he asked.
“Darling—”
“Astarion,” Gale chided.
Astarion grabbed him by the beard and roughly pulled him back to face him. “Gale.”
Their eyes met in understanding. He did know what he was doing and who he was trying to kiss.
Realizing that, Gale swallowed. It was still probably wrong to let this go anywhere, given that Astarion was high on psychedelics. But in a sober state, Astarion was too stubborn and had too much pride to discuss his feelings. This was a rare opportunity, like the one Gale had missed with those sending stones, but it was also a dangerous one.
Beneath Gale's robe, his cock pressed against his trousers.
“I don’t want to compromise our friendship,” he choked out.
“What friendship?” Astarion laughed.
“We are fr—”
With a quick press of his lips, Astarion shut him up.
“Kiss me,” he said, the words entering Gale’s mouth as their lips separated then came together once more.
Gale was helpless to resist. The closest he’d come to romance in the last few centuries was an on-again, off-again submissive arrangement with Minthara. She had called him many things (mostly “wizard” and “disappointing”), but she had certainly never called him “beautiful.” Nor had Mystra, even at the heights of their relationship just before his folly. His goddess’s preferred terms for him had been “my chosen” and “dear prodigy.”
He kissed Astarion back, gripping his hands into the sides of Astarion’s narrow, nylon-clad waist and squeezing in time with his tongue’s prodding. It was thrilling. Gale hadn't felt so alive in ages.
Astarion tousled Gale’s hair, clawed into his back and shoulders, and continued muttering incomprehensible words that smelled like weed and tasted like iron.
“—irthiski—noachi—er-rasvim—”
“What does that mean?” Gale asked between kisses.
“Just sweet nothings,” Astarion said dismissively before taking a playful bite at Gale’s lower lip.
Gale supposed it made sense that Astarion defaulted to Draconic terms of endearment, but he wasn’t sure he liked it. Most likely it was an innocent affectation. They could discuss its use later, after this evening had concluded in whatever way it was set to conclude.
He had high hopes for that.
As their lips smacked together and their tongues mingled, Astarion grabbed Gale’s hand and slid it into the crotch of his high-waisted trousers, pointedly showing off his thick, hard cock. Without a second thought, Gale pulled it free and began stroking Astarion—teasing his foreskin and thumbing his wet slit.
Long-dormant sensations returned to Gale. In Astarion’s warm, drugged-out eyes, he saw genuine affection, something that had been missing for so long. It must have been since his Blackstaff days that he felt this wanted.
As they kissed and he continued working Astarion's cock, Gale felt he owed some compliments.
“You are a vision—” he slobbered out “—unparalleled beauty—power—”
Astarion thrust upward into his clenched fist and purred. “Gods, I love your scales.”
He didn't seem to realize he'd said something wrong.
Gale suddenly felt very heavy, as if he could sink through the lounge chair. The whole time they were kissing, Astarion had been seeing him as his long-lost dragonborn. Worse, it was a deliberate betrayal. Astarion knew enough to call Gale by his name to manipulate him into touching him, and then he’d retreated into his own little world—a world in which he was making out with someone he actually cared for, someone he truly thought was beautiful.
Of course it was a lie. Astarion hadn't even liked Gale's looks when he was in his prime, let alone now that his hair was a wiry grey and his left eye was cloudy from a cataract.
In an instant, Gale teleported himself out of the chair, leaving Astarion to drop down into its seat. He stood forlorn in the doorway, wiping some spit from his mouth and beard with the sleeve of his robe.
Astarion stared across the room, puzzled. “What’s wrong?”
Despite the initial manipulation, he may have actually believed Gale was his ex at this point; there was no telling what the drugs had done to him.
Gale had half a mind to stand up for himself and start an argument, but that would have been both painful and fruitless. He had another half a mind to stay and talk Astarion through what was still clearly substantial grief over his mad love.
But he didn’t do either of those things.
“I have to go,” he lied. “Mystra calls.”
🩸🩸🩸
Gale awoke to the sound of a bird chirping, immediately followed by its shriek of terror as some unseen terazul addict honed in on their breakfast. He stretched his arms to a loud CRACK, then seated himself on his conjured mattress to a series of softer creaks.
Words escaped his lips with a slight groan. “Good morning—”
There was no one there to receive them.
He thought perhaps Astarion had left to get breakfast, but that notion was soon quashed by the absence of Astarion’s duffel bag and the presence of a note, scrawled across the torn out copyright page of a self-help book.
You’re old and ugly and I hate you.
Don’t look for me.
-A
The handwriting was sloppy, as if Astarion had gripped a pen between his teeth and written it with his mouth instead of using his noodly regenerating fingers. Gale immediately reached into his robe for his locator spell supplies and found them pilfered.
“Oh dear,” he said quietly.
With no blood or semen on hand, he’d need to locate Astarion some other way. Obeying his friend’s instructions was not an option this time. Gale was determined, not just to prove that he was a good friend to Astarion, but that—contrary to what Minthara said—he could easily exercise his own free will. He was an adventurer in his own right. Not all of his accomplishments over the centuries had been on Mystra’s behalf, just the vast majority of them. Just all the ones that mattered most.
He shook his head to clear his doubts. This mattered too. Astarion may not have been the kindest person in the realms, but it almost seemed fated that he’d been kicked out of his home just as Gale had been granted permission to leave his. And now Astarion had left him a missing person’s case, just when he had been craving excitement and adventure.
Full of determination and pluck, Gale cast Prestidigitation to clean himself and set out to locate Astarion the old-fashioned way: through sleuthing.
🩸🩸🩸
His first stop was the Lower City Public Library. A huge round building with an all-glass facade, it stood where Sorcerous Sundries once had—before the magic supply shop had been driven out of business by Sears, which was itself driven out of business by the internet.
As Gale stepped inside, the scents of old paper and lingering cigarette smoke made him feel right at home amongst shelves upon shelves of old paperbacks and hardcovers. He could easily lose himself in those dusty tomes for hours.
Sadly, the library had seen better days. Due to the lack of consistent funding that plagued most Faerûnian libraries, its reading tables and chairs were from the 1970s and were looking worse for the wear. The thin, multicolored carpet tiles covering the floor were coming up, exposing grey cement beneath.
At the front desk was a halfling woman wearing a lot of tweed—evidently the only employee in the place. There were no other patrons except for one dicey looking zombie huddled at one of a handful of public access computer stations. Every so often, the creature coughed.
“Can I help you?” the halfling asked, eyeing him from top to bottom.
“Ah. Perhaps.” Gale doubted she’d be able to do something he couldn’t, but he stepped toward the counter anyway. “I’m trying to find an old friend’s cell phone number.”
She put a hand over her heart. “Aww, that’s sweet.”
“Is it?” Gale wondered.
The halfling stepped around the desk and began walking toward the computers. “Let me show you how to use the internet…”
“I’m familiar with the internet,” Gale said.
“Mhmm.” The halfling’s tone was almost condescending as she directed him to take a seat.
One of the biggest drawbacks to being an aged human was the way some people—anyone who wasn’t aware of his wizarding prowess, really—treated him like a helpless relic. Gale could have cast an illusion on himself to appear younger, but his appearance was the only proof he had that he'd accomplished anything. His thinned skin and liver spots symbolized five centuries of faithful service to Mystra and the Weave.
The halfling continued, speaking very slowly to make sure he understood. “So, this right here is the monitor. That’s the keyboard and that’s the mouse. You’ll be using those to control what you see on the screen.”
Fifteen minutes of needless instruction later, Gale was surfing the web. He made his way over to Ask.com, reminisced about how it used to be called Ask Jeeves, then searched ‘Astarion Ancunín Baldur’s Gate.’
Some website called RealFastPeopleSearchNow purported to offer exactly what he was looking for: a detailed background report, including Astarion’s phone number. Gale closed out a few huge ads, entered Tara-22’s credit card information, and the profile appeared.
Astarion Ancunín
Species: Elf
DOB: 16 Flamerule 1252
Address: 1 Bloomridge Way, Baldur’s Gate
Status: Single
All of that information was correct, so Gale wagered the rest was accurate as well. There was a landline number (useless in the face of the palace’s demolition), but tucked beneath it was a cell phone number.
Gale pulled out his flip phone and dialed his friend.
“Hello?”
A deep voice emerged booming from his phone’s speaker, and Gale had no idea how to turn it down. All he could do was hold the phone out in front of himself to ease the strain on his ear as he confronted the imposter on the other end.
“You’re not Astarion. Who are you?”
“I’m his assistant, Doug,” said the voice.
“I’ve never heard of you,” Gale said, rather annoyed. “Do you know how I can get ahold of Astarion or not?”
“I can take a message.”
That wouldn’t do.
Gale rudely hung up.
Feeling clever, he returned to Ask.com and searched for the phone number he’d just dialed. Beneath several ads, all of the results were on web pages for High Hall, specifically the office of the Grand Duke.
🩸🩸🩸
Once again, Gale found himself at High Hall. Instead of standing outside staring at its architecture and browsing the gift shop, though, he teleported himself right into the middle of a grand chamber where a meeting of the Council of Four was underway. Seated around a large wooden table were three Dukes that Gale didn’t recognize, and Baldur’s Gate’s long-serving Grand Duke himself: Jeb Gortash, the awkward, bespectacled half-elven great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson of Enver Gortash. He wore a cowboy hat indoors for some reason.
“A wizard. Great,” griped one of the nameless Dukes, a grumpy and possibly drunk kobold. He stood to leave, as did the others.
“Gale of Waterdeep,” Jeb said, almost sounding impressed. “Son of a gun.”
Gale beamed. “You know who I am. Wonderful. We can get right down to business then.”
Jeb shook his head, chuckling. “I didn’t think he’d send a dang wizard on his behalf.”
Gale seated himself in one of the vacated chairs and eyed the Grand Duke with confusion. “Send me…?”
Settling in his chair, Jeb spoke like he was getting through some formality. “You can tell him it wasn't personal. Demolishing his palace just seemed like the only way to send a message after he ignored us for almost a year.”
“A message…?”
“Tell him to do his job,” Jeb said snidely.
“I’m deeply befuddled,” Gale said, leaning on the table. “I searched for Astarion’s phone number and it called your office. Can you help me find him or not?”
Jeb stared at him with a dopey expression. “He didn’t send you to threaten me?”
“I don’t make a habit of threatening politicians.” Gale squinted. “And why would an ascendant vampire need to outsource his threats?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jeb said, punctuating that with a clap of his hands.
He’d revealed too much, though. Gale just wasn’t sure what.
“Fulgor.” Gale held up a fist, around which lightning crackled.
At the implied threat, Jeb sighed then immediately blabbed. “None of us have seen him in decades, okay? There’s this little shithead quasit comes by. We give her the list of targets to drain. They die, and in turn we keep adventurers from sniffing around his palace. Except our targets… they haven’t been dying lately.”
“What sorts of targets?”
“Oh, you know. Criminals. Scumbags. The occasional loudmouth protester.” Jeb motioned to a bar cart. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Gale ignored him and came to a conclusion. “You’ve been using Astarion to get rid of political opposition.”
“Use is a strong word. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. Every city has at least one vampire lord. Waterdeep has Artor Morlin, does it not?”
“It does,” Gale acknowledged.
“We find it's better for Baldur’s Gate to have one with absolutely zero ambition of his own.”
Over the centuries, Astarion had made it sound like he was some sort of mastermind, blackmailing and manipulating the leaders of Baldur's Gate into leaving him alone. Really, he was a pawn to them, and a complete joke of one at that.
Gale felt like he’d uncovered some small piece of a puzzle, but he had no idea what the complete picture was meant to be. He put a hand to his chin, pondering.
All of this would have made for a huge scandal if the information got out, but Jeb didn't seem bothered at all. It was as if he knew Gale wouldn't say a word.
“You care about him,” he said.
“I do…”
Gale wasn't a whistleblower or a hero. He was a Weave Anchor and a good friend.
“So you really have no idea where I might find him,” he said sadly.
“Well, I didn't say that now, did I?”
Chapter 9: B Negative
Summary:
Astarion gives saponification a try.
Notes:
Hey, Soaperstars! I appreciate each and every one of you. Now would be a good time to double-check those tags. Astarion's not going to have a good time in the soap chamber.
Aside from the warning, I bring you two interpretations of 1960s Astarion from the last chapter: one by me and one by badmarilyn.
Expand for my art.
Expand for badmarilyn’s art.
Update: There is now art of this chapter at the end.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
1297 DR:
As the heavy stone sarcophagus lid scraped into place, Astarion cried out uselessly. A small voice from a small vampire spawn. Being entombed wasn’t the most brutal punishment he’d faced under Cazador, but it was especially upsetting. He’d never been one for enclosed spaces. Digging himself out of his own grave had been a nightmare; this was worse.
Rough stone surrounded his naked, supine body, affording him only enough room to twist to one side or the other—not enough to make a full rotation.
He had no idea what had come over him at that tavern. It was all going according to plan. Find a gullible target, seduce said target, bring them back to the palace for his master to drain dry. But the young human he’d flirted with had been charmingly shy. His hesitant kisses were sweet in their awkwardness. Something about it all compelled Astarion to let him go, to give that man a chance that he himself never had.
It wasn’t as though he’d returned to the palace empty-handed. He brought back a perfectly suitable replacement: some beefy half-orc with perfume that smelled like roses. Still, when Cazador found out that Astarion had let someone leave his arms, he was furious.
There’d been a beating. There’d been insults. Typical. It all washed over Astarion.
Then there was the sarcophagus, which didn’t. The confined space reeked of must and mold, along with Astarion’s own waft of undeath—it became more and more prominent as he lay in the draftless space.
For the longest time, he panicked. His cracking voice begged and pleaded—first for Cazador’s mercy, then for “someone, anyone” to let him out, and finally to the gods. As many as he could think of.
“—Corellon, please, I’m still an elf—”
“—Helm, I sure could use your protection about now—”
“—Ilmater, you’re supposed to alleviate suffering, right?”
The walls of his tomb felt closer and closer, and his pleas grew increasingly desperate.
“—Sune, goddess of beauty, perhaps you’d be interested in preserving mine—”
“—Kelemvor, I’m technically dead, so if you’d like to shuffle me off to the Fugue Plane—”
“—Bhaal, give me the means to murder Cazador and I’ll kill anyone in your name—”
Time passed, and Astarion got as far as gnomish deity Garl Glittergold before giving up and relying on himself. His dirty hands reached upward, and he began clawing at the lid. Unlike his coffin, it did not give. Instead, he scraped his fingertips raw. One by one, the nails peeled off, dropping onto him and revealing wet red skin that began to bleed as he kept raking his useless fingers against unyielding stone.
His feet were equally worthless. Kicking at his enclosure did nothing but break every one of his toes. He screamed some more. He wept. Nothing happened but the passage of time.
So much time.
He passed some of it playing with his severed fingernails, juggling them in his hands or pinching them between his abraded fingers and scratching the faintest lines into the sarcophagus wall.
Astarion sucked the scabs from his fingertips and drank what little blood trickled from them. He spent hours, maybe days, rolling the dried clots around on his tongue, pressing them against his teeth, pretending their ferric tang was from real prey. Anything to pass the time.
Darkvision only made matters worse. He could see that there was nothing to see. Nothing but walls and thinning, dehydrated skin that drew tighter and tighter across his ribs.
He muttered to himself, over and over. They may have been proper words at one point—more futile pleading, more worthless prayers—but as days went by and the crypt air filled more and more with the smell of his own rot, Astarion lost almost all sense of reason.
At some point, he began tearing his hair out, one strand at a time. He did so precisely, working from the back of his neck to the top of his forehead. There was plenty of time for it, and then some. When his gorgeous mane lay in a pile on his chest, Astarion balled it up and began gnawing on it. The crackle of dry tresses between his teeth must have been a soft sound, but it seemed as loud as a banshee in the surrounding silence.
When he was done eating his own hair—over the course of hours, days, or weeks, there was no telling—Astarion filled the silence with more sobbing, notably quieter than before. He was weak. His stomach twisted and writhed. His limbs turned heavy.
After enough time, he lost the strength to even move.
From then on, Astarion wasted away in silence.
🩸🩸🩸
Gazing at the saponification tank at Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center, Astarion couldn’t help but think back on his year-long entombment. Centuries had gutted the feeling from it all, until he remembered it in the same way he remembered most things: a series of facts and a vague comprehension of emotion. It happened, and he didn’t enjoy it.
He stood—holding a small modesty towel in front of his genitals—over a sleek, white pod with a series of tubes coming and going from its base.
“You’re certain I’ll be unconscious?” he asked, hesitating to step inside.
A nurse stood on the other side of the pod, fussing with some settings on a tablet. “On rare occasions, the injection of Angelic Slumber wears off prematurely, but we do monitor brain activity. Should yours become overactive from waking too soon, your pod will open and you’ll be re-sedated. At worst, you might be aware of your saponification for a few hours.”
“And that would feel like?”
“It’s been likened to sleep paralysis.”
“Hrm.” Astarion pondered. Once again, he considered that he needn’t do this. He could simply leave the building and go to Gale’s tower in Waterdeep. There, he most decidedly would not be turned into luxury soap to be sold to the wealthy. But he pictured Gale sitting there in the Waterdhavian sun, smugly satisfied, certain he was a ‘good friend’ and bragging about his charitable behavior.
Fuck him.
Astarion could take care of himself, and he was going to. He stepped into the comfortably padded pod and laid back against a vinyl pillow.
“You’ll feel a slight pinch,” the nurse said, sliding a needle into his arm and taping an IV line into place. The tubing ran through the wall of the chamber and to an injection port on the other side. “I’m going to put you under now. Once you’re out, we’ll close the lid and the pod will fill with Araj Oblodra’s proprietary saponification fluid.”
“Get on with it then,” Astarion said, ready to come out on the other side of this and claim the Jannath estate.
A sharp chill in his arm soon spread through his body, making him aware of all of his veins’ little tributaries. His vision hazed. As the chamber lid lowered, he began to feel weighed down, like he couldn’t lift a finger let alone a limb. There was a trickle near his feet and for a moment Astarion worried. He was supposed to have been knocked out before the fluid entered the pod, after all. But it was only a slight delay, and he nodded off—dreaming dreams of stabbing Cazador—before the liquid even reached his ankle bone.
As it turned out, that small deviation from the process was a terrible omen.
When Astarion awoke, it wasn’t in the recovery room with a fresh layer of rejuvenated skin and a glass of cucumber water at his side. It was in a hell of his own making, encased in a shell of his own flesh, paralyzed by his own warped limbs. Stuck. Utterly stuck.
This wasn’t right. It wasn’t his body.
His lungs were filled with fluid, and since a thick, waxy crust covered his nose and mouth, there was no way to clear them. Nor was there any way to make a sound, to alert someone to his predicament. He didn’t need to breathe, sure, but he could still feel like he was drowning. The burning pressure threatening to burst from his chest made a convincing case. But there was no movement, no chance at relief. Nothing but the burn in his lungs and a faint fizzing tingle all over the rest of him as a proprietary blend of chemicals worked toward the concretion of his body’s skin and fat.
There was nothing for his eyes to see either, as they too were sealed shut. He tried in vain to blink, and his mind couldn’t even connect to the nerves of his eyelid. They were lost to saponification. There was nothing but existence—completely still and completely terrifying. He remembered then—he really remembered—what it felt like all those centuries ago.
Only the sound of his dead heart kept him company. Not the pleasant THUMPTHUMP of a living, drinkable creature, but an agonizingly slow and intermittent paTHUMP. Every time he got used to the quiet, there it was again, taunting him with its off-rhythm beat.
paTHUMP!
Astarion reminded himself what the nurse had said: that he would only be aware of his state for a few hours, at most. If he could survive an entire year of entombment, he could survive a few hours of this. Certainly. Probably.
It sure as the hells felt like more than a few hours. Long enough to reflect, at least, and Astarion hated earnestly thinking about himself more than he hated anything.
Some vampire ascendant he made. He had no spawn. He had no palace. He wasn’t plunging the Sword Coast into darkness as he’d once sworn to do; he was submerged in an alkaline solution being turned into fucking soap. It would have been a case of the mighty falling, but for that he’d have to have been mighty in the first place, not a coward who’d stuck with what he knew for five centuries.
This was miserable. He was miserable.
Once again, he reminded himself that he didn’t have to do this. He existed trapped in his own body and quasi-drowning out of his own volition. His stiff skin burned for his own stubbornness.
The emptiness continued, for hours, days, or weeks. There was no way of knowing, and it was agonizing. His flesh kept tingling. His heart kept irregularly beating.
paTHUMP!
Astarion missed his mad love. More than that, he missed the promise they’d held together—the idea that possibilities were limitless. Oh, to be a parasite-addled spawn again. He remembered thinking that if he could walk in the sun, he could do anything.
Time had rendered its verdict on that. Though he’d been able to tolerate sunlight for five centuries now, he could do nothing but watch the years pass and pine for a better life, too unsure what it would take to make such a thing real.
He didn’t want to be in this pod, trapped in his own body, but he didn’t really want to be outside either. There was nothing for him anywhere—just endless sadness that ascension hadn’t fixed.
Astarion had it all, and he had nothing.
Eventually, he was able to make himself trance through the feeling of drowning. Off and on, in listless cycles. Whether awake or at rest, he wasted away in silence.
🩸🩸🩸
Astarion came to with at least one of his senses restored. While his eyes were still glued shut and his mouth was soaped over, someone had taken the liberty of scraping his nose and ears clear. The former meant his lungs were free of fluid, and he no longer felt like he was drowning. The latter meant he could hear someone speaking to him.
Because there was no justice in the realms, that person was Gale.
What in the hells is he doing here?
Unable to move or see anything, Astarion was forced to listen to the realm’s most irritating old man lecture him.
“—lucky for you I arrived when I did, and that the Council of Four keep tabs on you. You’d only been under for two days when you woke up, and those people had no intention of sedating you again. You’d have been stuck like that for another week and a half—”
Gale had prematurely taken him from his pod, no doubt rendering his profits moot. Along with Gale’s scolding, there was a backdrop of some painfully dull Amnian concerto, tinny and most likely played through a gramophone.
“—not sure what you were thinking, or if you were even thinking—”
Astarion felt anger rising within his soapy shell. Gale had ruined his plan for earning money, just like he ruined everything else. Now he was acting like he’d done him a favor, like he was some sort of hero. Astarion tried to mutter a complaint about it, but all that emerged was a wheezy sound from his wax-caked nostrils.
“—ah, of course!”
Something scraped between his lips, cutting into their sensitive surface. Astarion tasted the salt and iron of his own blood, and he was furious.
“Fugging—idiot—” he hissed through stiff, waxy lips. The words emerged sounding heinously dopey, as his tongue was swollen and waxed to his lower gums.
“I believe the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you.’”
“—fugg—you—” A curiously bitter liquid hit Astarion’s tongue next. More Angelic Slumber. “—suvabitch—”
🩸🩸🩸
The next time Astarion awoke, it was in a comfortable bed, atop a pile of plush pillows. Every inch of his body felt like it was on fire. He glanced down and realized he’d had all the soap sheared off, leaving behind garish red muscle blotted with pale patches where his skin was beginning to regenerate. In a few particularly gnarly spots like his left knee, he’d been carved down to the bone.
Instinctively, he reached for his face, stinging both his cheeks and his fingers in the action.
There was a rancid smell to the room around him, like a hard aged cheese mixed with an alkaline, soapy odor. He forced himself into a seated position and groaned.
The source of the smell was his own corpse wax. His sloughed-off leavings were piled in one corner of the room—greyish yellow and looking like an ochre jelly speckled with melted candles. At least Gale hadn’t disposed of it. Perhaps he could sell it to Araj Oblodra yet.
Everything else in the room was in perfect order, from the four-poster bed on which he rested to a huge mahogany wardrobe to the sheer curtains that flowed from open balcony windows.
As a salty breeze stung his skin, Astarion realized that he was outside of Baldur’s Gate for the first time in centuries. This was Gale’s tower in Waterdeep.
Astarion considered stepping out of the bed, but just touching it with his skinless palms sent sharp pain coursing through his body. So instead, he transformed into a small white bat. As expected, that form was separate and unharmed. In it, he flapped his way out of the room and into a pristine stairwell. Portraits of Taras 1 through 22 covered the wall, each in a thick golden frame.
There were familiar voices coming from below, so Astarion flapped his wings toward them.
In Gale’s very clean living room, he found two creatures loafed on a white couch, their gazes fixed on a modest-sized television in front of them. Between them sat a bowl of popcorn.
Astarion poofed back into his elven form and grimaced at the feeling of hardwood flooring against his peeled feet.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Pipe down!” called an angry tressym. Tara-22, presumably. “I’m watching my stories!”
“Shithead!” added the quasit next to her. Shovel.
On screen, three black-haired women were arguing passionately about whether to kick some unseen offender out of a group chat called Nightsingers.
“Where’s Gale?” Astarion asked, more quietly.
Shovel turned to him and snapped. “Go buy the Oasis records, Basket. Find me some tracksuits, Basket. Tell me where to find my boyfriend, Basket. Don’t have to answer to you no more.” For emphasis, she blew a raspberry out her lips.
“Who the fuck is Basket?” Astarion asked.
“I am,” said the quasit formerly known as Shovel. “The nice kitty said I could change my names. Start fresh. Not have to deal with you.”
With a heavy sigh, Tara-22 used her paw to tap the pause button on the television remote. “I’m not a fucking kitty.”
“And Gale’s not my boyfriend,” Astarion added.
“Well, he went to the farmer’s market,” Tara-22 said. “You can venture out into public to find him, you can take that revolting form of yours upstairs, or you can sit quietly and watch the fucking show.”
“Don’t let him stay,” Basket complained.
Tara-22 reassured her. “Only if he’s quiet.”
Astarion took a painful seat next to them. His leaky, seeping flesh left a pink stain spreading across Gale’s white couch, and he had half a mind to stick with that agonized form just to make a bigger mess. “Secret Lives of Sharran Wives?”
“Yeah,” Tara-22 said, pressing play. “Turns out this bitch Liz believes in the Dark Moon heresy. Now hush.”
As usual, Astarion did what was easiest. He turned back into a bat and settled in to watch some reality television alongside the other trashy creatures, to waste away in silence.
Notes:
The incredible parkouringrabbit commissioned this piece from art-by-ady:
Expand for the couch potato trio.
Chapter 10: Clot in the Act
Summary:
Gale tries to show Astarion that he cares.
Notes:
Hello again, Soaperstars! We’re having fun this week, I promise. No entombments. Only some mild angst and vampnapping.
Thanks again to all who kudo or comment. You make me feel like I'm not just shouting into the air.
P.S. I was definitely wrong about the chapter count (shocking). We're looking at 20-some probably.
P.P.S. I may miss next week's update due to working on 3 separate holiday exchange gifts.
Chapter Text
Waterdeep boasted the Sword Coast’s largest open air farmer’s market, and no matter how many times Gale went, he never ceased to find something wonderful. Nested between Trader’s Way and Bazaar Street, the market consisted of hundreds of stalls, carts, loosely organized vendor tables, and humanoids dealing goods out of the back of their pickup trucks.
Sounds of roaring generators, chattering customers, and pushy salesfolk filled the air, along with smells of exhaust smoke, overused fry oil, and indeterminate body odors—some sweet, some savory, all exhilarating.
The market was open 24/10, and the cost to rent a space varied based on peak shopping hours. During the day, one could find more profitable stalls boasting essential and luxury goods. After dusk, there were more niche products and snack carts preying on those with the nighttime munchies.
Gale liked to get to the market right around sunset. If he timed it right, he could be there for a vendor changeover—gathering some cooking essentials from the reputable sellers and then miscellaneous alchemical ingredients and spell supplies from the disreputable ones.
There were non-magical products of an unsavory nature as well.
He stood, stroking his beard as he looked down at a long table covered with a white tablecloth. Atop it were an array of colorful silicone tubes. Squishy little masturbators and stroker toys had been handcrafted to meet the needs of any horny cock; they were designed to look like mouths, beaks, pussies, cloacae, assholes, and at least one blowhole. Gale had tried nearly all of them.
“What’s this one?” he asked of an exception, holding up a scale-patterned tube. Its upper half was green while the bottom half was red. Surrounding the opening were two large, upward-facing teeth, made to graze the lucky dick sliding between them. “Sarrukh?”
“Yuan-ti broodguard,” corrected the vendor—a disinterested halfling with long auburn hair and a less auburn pencil mustache named Hilpos.
“I’ll take it,” Gale said. “And a dragonborn mouth as well.”
“250gp.”
While Gale rooted around in his pockets for coins instead of just using a debit card, the halfling began wrapping the sex toys in tissue paper.
“Reptilian fan?” Hilpos said offhandedly, tucking the strokers into a paper bag.
Gale shook his head and handed over the money. “Just an enjoyer of new and novel experiences. The dragonborn is for a friend.”
“You buy masturbators for your friends often?” Hilpos asked.
“First time, actually,” Gale said. Assuming the vendor wanted to know more, he continued. “My oldest friend is going through a bit of a rough patch. He lost the love of his life, his home, all of his fingers and toes, twenty percent of his body mass, both of his tattoos—”
The halfling stared at him slack-jawed before interrupting. “And you think yoinking his hog is going to help?”
“I’m not sure anything can help him, to be quite honest.”
Hilpos shrugged. “Well, lemme know if this does. I can put it on an ad or something.” They spread their hands wide as they workshopped a slogan. “Fuck these toys and feel only joys.”
Gale knew it wouldn’t be that simple. He was far from stupid. Quite intelligent, really. One of the sharpest wizarding minds in the realms, if he was feeling humble. But he did hope that bringing Astarion an array of goods from the farmer’s market would prove that he cared. If he could prove that, perhaps Astarion would stay for a while. If Astarion stayed for a while, he might begin to feel better. More importantly, Gale might be able to persuade him to go on an adventure.
🩸🩸🩸
Back at the tower, Astarion certainly didn’t look like someone who’d be adventuring any time soon. As a small white bat, he sat on one end of Gale’s long white couch, in a pinkish puddle of body fluids—remnants of his leaking, partially healed elven form. His wings were huddled in front of his furry little torso, and where their thumbs met they held a piece of popcorn in place, which he nibbled at.
Next to him sat the quasit Basket, on a pile of foam that her elbow spikes had liberated from the couch cushions. Next to her sat Tara-22, paws crossed in front of her as she relaxed.
“I’ve returned,” Gale announced, telekinetically floating several bags of goods over to the dining room table. “Happy to report that they had your favorite tressym nip at the Familiars and Fineries stall. As for you, Basket, I found you a new poo scraper so you can stop clogging the—”
“Shhh!” Tara-22 hissed.
Gale stepped around to see what they were watching. “Ah, Sharran wives. You know, I once adventured with the Mother Superior of a cloister in Baldur’s Gate—”
“Boooo!” Basket tossed a popcorn kernel at Gale’s face. It smacked his nose and bounced away, landing underneath the coffee table, where it would presumably stay forever.
Tara-22 tapped the pause button. “Gale, you know I consider myself to be a classy tressym. I love you, but if you don’t shut the fuck up and let us watch this, I will be using my claws in places you don’t want to feel them.”
Gale held out his palms in a show of surrender, then grabbed a paper bag and eyed the bat. “Astarion, when you have a free moment, I’ll be upstairs in the library. I picked up a few things for you as well.”
The only response from Astarion was an angry squeak. When Tara-22 unpaused the show, he stared intently at the screen, more interested in the drama of the Night Church than what Gale had to offer.
While Gale waited for his friend to join him upstairs, he passed the time at his desk, scanning the latest issue of Otiluke’s Digest. Its pages begged subscribers to ‘read online’ but Gale loved his paper editions. He had the realm’s most impressive collection, going back over a hundred years. On rare occasions, he sent them out to academics as part of an interlibrary loan network. A kobold in Neverwinter still owed him the 8 Kythorn 1973 issue, and Gale spent more than a few minutes thinking about that—making a mental note to revisit it later.
After absorbing articles on such thrilling topics as the unfair use of Longstrider in sports, as well as a shocking tale of Create Undead gone wrong, Gale found that he was still alone. Astarion, it seemed, was in no hurry to come upstairs and talk to him.
He reached into his bag, pulled out the Yuan-ti broodguard, and scrutinized it.
The stroker was soft, almost velvety. A far cry from what an actual Yuan-ti broodguard would feel like, the scales and fangs were for appearance only. They lacked the roughness, the sharpness, the danger. The shimmery silicone flexed to his touch. It wasn’t particularly arousing, but the thought of facing an actual Yuan-ti broodguard was—of being younger, of feeling imperiled. Gale felt his trousers tighten.
Astarion’s not around, so might as well.
He swiftly summoned a pair of mage hands to part his robe. In his desk drawer was a bottle of basilisk oil. He retrieved it and poured a generous amount into his handcrafted sex toy. A cucumberlike musk wafted toward his nose.
According to an article he once read in TARM Magazine (Toril Association of Retired Mages), masturbation was good for heart health. With his knuckles cracking, Gale gripped the Yuan-ti broodguard sleeve and slipped it around his cock.
The fit was a bit too snug, but not unbearably so. It wasn’t long before Gale was working himself at a pleasurable pace. His natural hand quickly became sore and tired, so he surrendered the toy to one of the mage hands and leaned back in his seat to relax and enjoy.
In his mind, he invented a thrilling moment of forbidden romance in which he was at the mercy of the normally submissive creature. Perhaps in a dank, dark cave, where he could breathe in the fetid smell of hatching eggs. Gale shut his eyes and imagined that the broodguard’s thin, forked tongue flicked in and out of his urethra, that its yellowed, hooked teeth grazed his cock, threatening to bite down should he displease it.
He wouldn’t displease it, though. It wanted his seed, and it would have it.
Gale let out a throaty groan as he emptied into the silicone sleeve.
“It still works!” exclaimed a delighted voice. “Your dick, I mean.”
Gale’s eyes bolted open to spot the intruder.
Standing in the doorway was Astarion, looking better than he had before, but nevertheless awful. An extremely pale, wet layer of flesh covered his body now, and his veins were clearly visible through it. At his chest and neck, deep red muscle showed through the thin membrane. At the sides of his head, his hair was beginning to grow back in thin little patches that made him look like a human trying to hold onto the last vestiges of his youth instead of just shaving and going bald. The only article of clothing he wore was a pair of light blue, striped pajama pants, stolen from Gale’s wardrobe.
With a sigh, Gale cast Prestidigitation on the mess he’d made and tossed his stroker into a drawer. His mage hands restored his dignity, closing his robe before disappearing into thin air.
A sour, wound-like smell hit Gale’s nostrils as Astarion stepped closer and held his translucent hands wide. “Well, I’m here. What did you want?”
All things considered, this didn’t seem like the best time to mention that he’d bought Astarion a sex toy. Instead, Gale slid across his desk a large glass bottle with a swing-top lid, filled with viscous red fluid.
Astarion opened the bottle and gave it a discerning sniff. “Boar blood?”
“Organic, cruelty-free boar blood,” Gale clarified.
“Eugh. The cruelty is what gives it flavor.” Astarion took a begrudging sip, which swiftly turned into a series of begrudging gulps. In no time, the bottle was empty, and he was wiping his bloody lips on the back of his gauzy palm. “As expected, it’s shit.”
“Regardless of the flavor profile, it should help you regenerate faster. As should this.” The next bottle Gale scooted across the table was a Potion of Supreme Healing.
Astarion traded his empty blood bottle for the healing potion and chugged. There was an instant and obvious improvement, as Astarion’s skin thickened and the redness vanished. A few new hairs sprouted from the top of his head. He was still quite pale and the veins were still visible in spots, but it was a start.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting to gloat now,” Astarion said, setting the empty bottle on Gale’s desk.
“I could,” Gale said. It was tempting, but he resisted.
“How’d you find me?” Astarion asked.
“Your associates at High Hall have been keeping tabs on you.”
Astarion didn’t ask how much Gale had gleaned from Jeb and the others. All he offered was a doleful “wonderful.”
For a moment, they simply stared at each other.
Astarion broke the silence by pointing an accusing finger at Gale. “You had no right to remove me from that pod. I was this close—” his fingers transitioned into a pinching gesture “—to 25,000gp. I could be recuperating in the lap of luxury right now!”
Gale shook his head as he remembered how out of it Astarion was when he pulled him from the saponification chamber. He’d cast Detect Thoughts (something he tried not to do often) and found his friend’s mind panicked, terrorized, and haunted by memories of both his entombment and his dead lover. Half of Astarion’s thoughts had been more akin to screams.
“You were in agony,” Gale noted.
Astarion laughed. “So what?”
“That shouldn’t be something you’re accustomed to laughing off.”
“Go fuck yourself. Er… I suppose you already have…” Astarion held his head high as he tried to come up with another insult. “Go fuck a deep gnome.”
Astarion was clearly trying to downplay this, but Gale remained disturbed. It occurred to him that his friend was an even bigger liar than he knew. There was the arrangement with Jeb and the Council of Four, for starters. Now this. If Astarion could pretend he was unbothered by being turned into soap, he could pretend he was fine with anything. The sadness that Gale knew lingered within Astarion may have been more oppressive than he’d ever imagined. He’d seen only the smallest glimpses over the centuries—a despairing sending stone, a slumped body against his shoulder after a fight—and he had no idea how to get at the truth.
“Astarion. It’s not healthy to dwell on the past like you do.”
“Excuse me?” Astarion asked, tilting his head.
“When you were saponified, I detected your thoughts.”
“Is that so?” Astarion sneered. “Well, first of all… fuck you. Second, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Gale spoke grimly. “You two were together for two months, over five hundred years ago.”
“And Mystra stopped astral-pegging you in 1490, yet you obey her just the same.”
“She is my goddess.”
Astarion flopped into a comfortable chair opposite Gale. “She’s a twat.”
“We’re talking about you,” Gale said, leaning forward across his desk. “And why you think you’re better off turning yourself into soap than asking for help.”
“Your idea of help is useless,” Astarion said, dismissively waving a hand.
“That doesn’t explain why you refuse to befriend others.”
“You detected my thoughts. You tell me.”
Gale answered that in earnest. “You’re afraid of being close to anyone after what happened at the Netherbrain.”
Astarion’s lip curled with anger. “I fear nothing.”
“Then why haven’t you ventured past the walls of Baldur’s Gate until now?”
“I’ve been content,” Astarion huffed.
He simply wouldn’t stop lying.
Frustrated, Gale loudly cleared his throat into his fist, using his old mannish cough to disguise a spellcasting gesture.
“Did you just cast Friends on me, you fucking knob?”
“If you didn’t like that, you really won’t like—” Gale reached into a pocket to fondle some spell ingredients “—fac ut dico.”
“What spell is that?”
“Suggestion,” Gale said. “Useful when dealing with difficult people.”
Astarion crossed his arms. “I suggest you go eat an entire Bag of Holding’s worth of dicks.”
Gale remained focused on the somewhat unethical spell he’d cast. He really did hate using magic that affected a person’s mind, but he told himself it was for the best, and that five centuries of stubbornness was more than enough. “I suggest you talk to me about your ex, since that’s clearly what you’re most stuck on.”
Encouraged (but not completely compelled!) to speak, Astarion sighed. “I just wish I knew why he turned on Bhaal. The brain was right there for the taking. All he had to do was stab the Emperor and it would have been ours. Everything would have been ours. Now it would be near impossible, and who even wants to rule over this shithole anyway?”
Gale swallowed. “Do you really want to know why he changed his mind?”
“What?” Astarion asked, blinking rapidly. His eyes narrowed. “How would you know?”
“He confided in me once.”
“Bullshit,” Astarion blurted. He followed that by scrutinizing Gale with darting eyes, trying to find dishonesty in his face. His judgment remained skeptical. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” Gale said.
He didn’t relish dredging up the past, but Astarion’s openness (suggested, not compelled) was a rare opportunity—one he wouldn’t squander this time. He couldn’t if he was going to help his friend.
“It was you,” Gale said sadly. “Embracing Bhaal was easy for him. Watching you change from who you were to who you are now was not.”
Astarion snapped, his voice breaking into a tantrum. “Who I am now is the most powerful vampire in existence! Who I am now is the vampire lord of Baldur’s Gate! He encouraged me to usurp that ritual while you and Lae’zel were boo-hooing about how it’s wrong to—” he threw up some dramatic air quotes “—seek personal glory or—” more air quotes “—sacrifice 7000 lives.”
“Be that as it may, he liked you better before your ascension.”
“No,” Astarion spat. “You’re putting your words in a dead man’s mouth, you despicable cretin.”
“I’m not, and I can prove it.”
Gale tinkered around in his desk drawer for a moment and pulled out a small idol, carved from stone to look like a stereotypical archmage. He stepped around to the other side of his desk and put a hand on Astarion. With a brief incantation—“sinum mundi”—they were both transported into a pocket dimension.
This one was a long hallway. Its walls were solid oak, carved to be as overly decorative as possible. Art deco sconces cast a warm glow on a considerable length of elaborate purple and gold carpet that seemed to stretch on and on forever in either direction. Every few feet there was an oak door with a long plate brass doorknob. In the center of each door at about eye level was a golden plaque.
Astarion put his hands on his hips. “What in the sweet hells is this?”
“My Hall of Memories,” Gale said, gesturing broadly. “A record of my entire life. All 567 years of it.”
“Including all the masturbation?”
Gale ignored his remark and explained. “Normally, the spell Encode Thoughts only turns thoughts tangible for eight hours or so, but I dabbled a bit over the years and came up with a way to store them permanently, in case the effects of old age began to cause a loss of memory.”
Astarion scoffed. “In case?”
“You’re being awfully snippy considering I rescued you.”
“I didn’t need rescuing! Nor do I need you suggesting things.”
Tiring of his friend’s grumpy attitude, Gale lost his sense of decorum. “Do you want to see the damn memory or not?”
He blushed a little at his outburst, but it got the point across.
Astarion scowled through a nod, so Gale guided him to a room labeled 1492.
Inside were shelves upon shelves of small glass jars that glowed blue with the energy of the memory strands residing within them.
The shelves were organized by month, and Gale stepped toward Flamerule. He rotated the creaky shelf until he found exactly what he was looking for: a glass jar like all the other glass jars, containing a glowing blue strand, reminiscent of a ribbon. This one was coiled around itself.
Gale uncorked the bottle and plucked the strand, pinching it between his fingers. He held it toward Astarion, who eyed it with contempt.
“What am I supposed to do with it? Eat it?”
“Just touch it,” Gale advised.
Squinting, Astarion slowly reached out and touched the other end of the strand. It instantly and obviously worked. As he stood there being taken back to a private conversation on the roof of Elfsong Tavern, his face lowered. His eyes went still and glassy. Under the light of Selûne’s Tears, there was a confession.
I ruined him, the dragonborn had said.
The ascension was rather distasteful, but he’s not so bad.
I let him turn me into his consort. Nothing more than a spawn.
There have been worse lapses in judgment.
He’s become an arrogant sthyarli. Imagine being stuck by his side for eternity. That’s to be my fate now, unless…
What are you planning to do?
Something foolish.
When Astarion released the strand, he seemed small and wounded from confronting his past.
Gale placed the memory back on the shelf and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t touch me,” Astarion said, twisting away toward the door. “How in the hells do I get out of here?”
Gale touched his idol again—“sinum mundi”—and they were back in the library.
From there, Astarion stormed off.
🩸🩸🩸
Gale couldn’t walk as quickly as an angry vampire, even one in as poor physical shape as Astarion. Thankfully, though, he could grant himself flight. He floated down the sidewalks of Waterdeep, calling out for his friend.
“Astarion! Where are you going?”
“Fuck. Off.”
There was no further reply from Astarion, no matter how many times Gale called for him. He didn’t even bother countering the passersby who uttered “eew” and “gross” at his pale, sunken body and patchy hair. It soon became apparent where he was going, though, as he slowed down at a busy intersection in the Trades Ward.
In a prime corner location stood an Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center. Through the shop’s windows, Gale could see dozens of economically desperate Waterdhavians reading magazines and scrolling their phones while they waited.
“You can’t be serious,” he said. “You’re going to saponify yourself again?”
Astarion ignored him and stepped toward the door. “It’s my body and I’ll turn it to soap if I want to.”
“You just want to be knocked unconscious again and hope it sticks this time, don’t you?”
Astarion whipped around to face him. “What I want is my business.”
It was Gale’s business now. He was resolved to help Astarion, no matter what it took. Even if it meant taking him to Waterdeep against his will. Even if it meant casting spells like Suggestion. Even if it meant—
He snapped his fingers and teleported them both back to the tower. Right back where they were before, in Gale’s library.
Astarion snarled. “So I’m not allowed to leave now?”
Gale casually took a seat behind his desk. “Not until you talk to me.”
“Why would I want to talk to you?”
“You need to talk to someone. I don’t see why it can’t be me.”
Astarion rattled off some reasons, raising a finger at a time to count each one. “You kidnapped me, you cast mind control spells to make me talk to you, you showed me that the only person I ever loved didn’t like me at all, and now you’re holding me hostage!”
None of that sounded great when he laid it out like that.
“You’re my oldest friend.”
Astarion added a fifth finger to his counted complaints. “We’re not friends!”
“I did get you the blood and the healing potion,” Gale tried. “Oh, and this—” He rooted around in his bag from the farmer’s market until he found the other artisanal stroker.
Astarion blinked. “A pleasure sleeve?”
“Handcrafted,” Gale noted, wagging the thing at Astarion.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Astarion said.
At least he was talking.
Chapter 11: Donate the Player
Summary:
Now more than ever, Astarion is sick of Gale’s shit.
Notes:
Welcome back, Soaperstars! Apologies for the brief delay. I had a dark urge to write Luigi Mangione RPF. I’m all better now (unlike a certain UnitedHealthcare CEO), but with the holidays my schedule may remain wonky for a few weeks.
As always, a big thanks to kudoers and commenters. <3
Chapter Text
Loath as he was to admit it, Astarion found Gale’s tower to be much nicer than sleeping in a tent beneath Wyrm’s Crossing. It was climate controlled, for starters. A bit too warm on account of Gale’s aging body and decreased circulation, but still preferable to being out in the elements. There was running water, a sizeable larder, and plenty of trash television to binge watch—and boy did he watch a lot of trash television over the course of the forty-eight hours it took to finish healing and regrow his hair.
The amenities made him long for the Jannath Estate more than ever. There, all of the same could be his, but in a much more favorable location and without a wizard who wouldn’t stop yapping.
Gale wasn’t the only problem. He wasn’t even the primary problem. Following a one-sided shouting match during which Astarion had insulted everything from Gale’s one freakishly long eyebrow hair to his century-long sex drought to his noxious farts, Gale had sulked off to his bedroom to be alone.
Astarion could have escaped afterwards, were it not for the small matter of the simulacrum assigned to watch over him and make sure he didn’t leave the tower. All night long, a youthful, holographic blue version of Gale breathed down Astarion’s neck. Not real breath, of course, but it was programmed to mimic Gale’s snoring. Very irritating.
It was at Astarion’s side when he awoke from his trance, and its noncorporeal hands jutted out through his chest from what seemed like a failed attempt at spooning him.
“Good morning!” said NotGale.
“Eugh,” Astarion groaned as he sat up in bed. “Don't touch me, Gust.”
It mimicked him and floated into a seat. “As an illusion, I am incapable of physical contact, but rest assured you can call me Gale and there will be no confusion on my part.”
“In your dreams, Gust.”
“I do not dream,” Gust corrected, “and your attempts at insulting me by diminishing my name to a mere gust are futile.”
Astarion allowed his head to thump against the headboard. “Do you ever shut the fuck up?”
Gust beamed. “At my creator’s behest, absolutely. However, in addition to helping with anything you require, the original Gale has instructed me to keep you engaged in conversation. I’m to inform him of any emotional breakthroughs.”
Thinking about Gale, Astarion’s eye twitched. That motherfucker had dropped a horrible bombshell on him (that his late love despised him) and then outsourced his offer of friendship to a damned hologram.
“And what's he doing right now?” Astarion asked.
Gust shut its eyes in concentration for a moment. “He’s watering the tower’s many plants.”
That was perfect. Because Gale insisted on doing his gardening ‘the old-fashioned way,’ it would take his arthritic hands hours to tend to the greenery scattered across seven floors. Astarion had an idea.
“Am I permitted to leave the tower if you come with me?”
“Where do you want to go?” Gust asked. “I've been instructed that Araj Oblodra's Plasma Donation Center and Juicy Couture are strictly off limits.”
“I was thinking the farmer's market.”
Gust seemed thrilled. “We can most certainly go there! Did you need some artisanal blood? Perhaps some hand-stitched clothing to get you out of that tracksuit?”
Astarion scowled. “What's wrong with my tracksuit?”
“It's a bit out of fashion.”
“You're wearing a damned robe!”
Gust raised a finger in objection. “I'm not wearing anything, as I am an illusion.”
“Shut up,” Astarion hissed as he stepped out of bed. “I'll not be buying anything.”
“Then why do you wish to visit the farmer’s market?” Gust asked as it floated into a standing position.
Astarion eyed the shiny, greyish yellow mound of corpse wax in the corner of the room. “I have some soap to sell.”
🩸🩸🩸
The Waterdeep farmer’s market was cramped, packed tight with mortals who smelled like devilweed and wheezed as they shuffled about en masse.
“I can't believe he pawned me off on a simulacrum,” Astarion complained, eyeing an empty vendor slot. Someone—the owner of Bespoke Yolk, per the label on the ground—hadn’t shown up for their 10-to-4. That left a vacancy.
“Simulacrums can interact with the world,” Gust corrected. “I am but a humble illusion. Though I can't say I blame Gale for leaving you in my care. You did unleash a barrage of insults on him, including remarks about the hang of his testicles that were quite frankly uncalled for.”
Astarion chuckled to himself thinking about that one before focusing up.
He had a plan. A nice, simple plan. Sell the soap, rent the Jannath Estate.
Lacking any of the appropriate equipment to set up a stall, Astarion pulled his sloughed off soap from his duffel bag and dropped it onto a folding chair he stole from an elderly yarn vendor who was too old to chase him.
He didn’t have a permit, and he didn’t care. Bespoke Yolk’s stall was his now. Using his dagger, he shaved a bit of soap from the mound like it was gyro meat on a vertical broiler.
“Artisanal vampire soap!” he called out.
The hologram stared at him, puzzled. “What are you hoping to accomplish?”
“Look around,” Astarion said, gesturing at the thick crowds.
Waterdhavians—at least the ones at this farmer’s market—had a crunchy sort of look to them, all braids and Nature Valley bars. Their canvas tote bags bore slogans like ‘Shop Small’ and ‘Good Vibes Only,’ and they were just begging to be filled with holistic products whose benefits were wholly unproven.
“I know an easy mark when I see one,” Astarion said, “and this place is full of them.”
“But what do you need the money for?” Gust asked.
“To catch a train home and rent the Jannath Estate.”
“You’re still on that kick?”
Astarion stared into its puppylike glowing eyes. “It’s not a kick. I need a home, and I want that one. It’s suitably luxurious and meets my needs.”
“You presently have a home.”
“What, Gale’s?” Astarion laughed. “I’d sooner explode like Cazador and the spawn than stay with that pompous ballbag.”
“I don’t think you’re being fair,” Gust said.
“Of course you don’t. You’re him, just… blue and not geriatric. Did he make you younger on my account? Because it truly doesn’t make me like you any better.”
Gust shook its head. “It’s not about liking me. Gale felt that giving me a youthful appearance would help separate the two of us and perhaps make you more inclined to speak to me.”
“Well, he’s a moron.”
Gust nodded. “Be that as it may, should you leave Waterdeep, I’ll have no choice but to follow. Gale is quite insistent on keeping tabs on you.”
“Do whatever you must, Gust.” Astarion seethed about his incidental rhyme. “At least you won’t smell like rotten eggs and joint relief cream when you’re watching me have a wank.”
“You really hate him,” Gust assessed.
“Yes,” Astarion said confidently.
The simulation looked to be wounded by that, and Astarion didn’t give a shit. If he could remain unmoved by a miserable pout from Gale—someone to whom he’d poured his heart out on more than one occasion—he could most certainly handle a bit of sorrow from Gust, the archmage’s off-brand replacement.
Astarion didn’t have to look at him much, though. The people of Waterdeep were just as gullible as they looked, and soon there was a crowd of customers seeking a more youthful appearance.
He held his disdain close to his chest and answered their questions with aplomb.
“Was this soap ethically sourced?”
“Of course. I made it myself.”
“You’re a vampire?”
He bared his fangs.
“How are you out during the day?”
Rather than taking the time to explain the Rite of Profane Ascension and that he was one of the most prolific mass murderers in history, Astarion answered that question with a fib. He held out his hand, displaying the Szarr family ring he’d kept for centuries as a dark souvenir. “Ring of sunwalking.”
“Do you take SunmelonPay?”
He had no idea what that was or how to deal with it. “No, I’m cash only as banks don’t tend to, erm, treat vampires very well. They have a tendency of seizing our assets.”
The shoppers believed him. More than that, they felt compelled to help an allegedly oppressed creature by buying slivers of his hydrolyzed fat at insane prices.
At first, Astarion was going to ask for 100gp per slice since Greater Restoration had been selling more visually appealing bars for 250gp each. But he soon realized he could charge just as much as the wellness store. He didn’t even have to put the stuff into cute little molds or scent it with oils. The filthy pile of ammonia-smelling vampire soap was ‘all natural’ and therefore better than anything processed. So said the prevailing logic anyway.
All in all, he managed to sell 150 waxy little slivers of himself before exhausting his soap supply. The money was heavy in his duffle bag, and he had to remove a bottle of hair gel to make room for it.
With his funding secured, Astarion made his way to the train station, tailed by the copy of Gale.
🩸🩸🩸
“How exciting,” Gust said, admiring the view of Trollbark Forest as it passed.
They were in a luxury train car, which was appointed with solid oak paneling, red velvet seats, and sturdy tables for high-class dining. Astarion had given the window seat to the illusory wizard in hopes it would shut the thing up for the duration of the ride.
No such luck. Instead, the rotten hologram (who’d somehow required a paid ticket despite not being real) spent its time pontificating about the history of railways, the origins of the different teas on board, the finer points of forestry—
“Did you know that Trollbark Forest is home to the Sword Coast’s most prolific stand of scrub pines?”
Astarion scowled. “No, and I can’t imagine anything I could give fewer shits about.”
Not taking the hint, Gust continued. “The mighty scrub pine has been used medicinally for ages as a treatment for everything from tuberculosis to hemorrhoids.”
“Hemorrhoids?” Astarion pondered. “I can use them to get rid of you then?”
Gust waved off what it thought was a joke. “Pish posh.”
“Can you please just shut up?”
“I’d think your spirits would be higher,” Gust said. “You’re in a luxurious train car on your way to your new home. A mansion, no less. Surely that enlivens you.”
“I’ll feel enlivened when I’m tucked in my comfortable bed, trancing my life’s successes with you nowhere in sight.”
“If that’s the case and you’re truly content, I’ll be out of your hair in no time,” Gust said.
“What do you mean if?”
“Sometimes a treasure chest is a mimic in disguise.”
Astarion frowned. He’d show that illusory motherfucker.
🩸🩸🩸
After paying for a very large dinner aboard the train, a damage deposit, his first month’s rent for the Jannath Estate, and some basic furnishings from IKEA, Astarion had a whopping 2000gp left in the bank. He immediately began thinking about how he’d earn the next month’s rent.
If he could figure out Araj Oblodra’s proprietary formula for saponification, he could turn some of the drifters beneath Wyrm’s Crossing into his spawn and have a veritable soap farm. Assuming Baldurians were as stupid as Waterdhavians (and he knew first-hand that they were), selling spawn leavings at the farmer’s market would have the Jannath Estate furnished to new heights of luxury.
As it was, the place looked pretty sad.
Four spacious floors, two grand staircases, a kitchen that could cater a wedding… all of it was painfully, glaringly empty—except for a handful of decorative, immovable skulls on pedestals.
Astarion sat on the floor of the master bedroom holding an allen wrench and suffering the degradation of assembling his own furniture. Propped against one wall was a foam mattress, still expanding from being unpacked, and he was trying to build the bed on which it would sit.
Gust stood nearby, observing, when it chimed in. “You know, if you were to ask Gale for some help, he’d gladly give it to you.”
“I’m sure he would,” Astarion said dismissively. “Some time in the next two hundred years.”
“I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that you’ve also been a bad friend to him.”
“We’re not friends.” Astarion scoffed, then narrowed his eyes into a squint. “And how so? I saved that idiot’s life during the Second Bhaalspawn Crisis. At great cost to myself, no less.”
“Have you forgotten the time you took enough LSD to imagine he was your dragonborn lover and tried to manipulate him into sleeping with you?”
“Please. That would have been good for him. Gods know the man hasn’t been laid in a century, and that was Minthara toying with him. He should have been so lucky as to get dicked down by this.” Still holding the allen wrench, Astarion gestured broadly at his peak form.
“He’s terribly lonely, you know…”
Astarion resumed assembling his furniture. “Did he tell you to say that so I’d feel bad for him?”
“No, I think he’d be upset if he knew I said a word about it.”
“What exactly are you, that you can go against his will?”
“I told you. I’m an illusory copy, created to observe and assist you—”
“Yes, yes. I get it.” He really didn’t, but he had a wicked idea. “Suppose it would make me more inclined to speak with you if you told me all of Gale’s deepest, darkest secrets. Would you?”
“I believe I’d have to,” Gust said. “Gale offered me no stipulations other than to stay at your side, engage you in conversation, and prevent you from visiting either Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center or Juicy Couture.”
“Wonderful,” Astarion said, affixing a leg to his bed. “How many people has Gale slept with in his life?”
“Inclusive or exclusive of Mystra?” Gust asked.
“Well, she hardly counts as a person now, does she? I mean real people. Humans, elves, half-elves, dragonborn… gnomes, technically...”
“Thirteen,” Gust answered confidently.
Astarion cleared his throat. “Thirteen? In five hundred years?”
“Five hundred and sixty-seven years,” Gust corrected. “Most were during his Blackstaff days. There were a handful of long-term relationships after your Netherbrain adventure, but none of them panned out and so he routinely returned to Minthara for release. He did visit a brothel once in the 1970s, but found it wasn’t to his tastes.”
“Which are…?”
“Gale isn’t one for casual entanglements. You probably could have guessed that. Without a connection of some sort, he’d prefer taking care of his own needs via magic.”
“Mage hand up the ass?” Astarion wondered.
“To start with.”
“Evard’s Black Tentacles?”
“And more.”
Astarion cocked his brow. “Sounds to me like he’s got the loneliness under control.”
“Do you?” Gust asked in earnest.
“Excuse me?” Astarion stopped turning his wrench. “I am not lonely. I’m reclusive. It’s part and parcel of being an all-powerful vampire bent on world domination.” He'd read all about it in Seven Habits of Highly Effective Vampires.
“It would do no good to interrogate you, so I’ll simply point out that I know everything Gale knows. You needn’t inflate your plans.”
Astarion frowned. “I’m not inflating anything. I’ll get around to it. I have eternity. One’s 700s are meant for sowing their wild oats.”
“You’re not doing that either,” Gust noted.
“Eugh. How do I get rid of you?”
“Only Gale can unsummon me.”
“Could he at least make you a proper simulacrum so you can help assemble this bed?”
Gust put two fingers to its temple as it focused on communing with Gale. “He seems to think if I’m made corporeal you’ll find a way to kill me.”
“Damn,” Astarion muttered.
Gale knew him too well.
“I can have him teleport here, if you’d like.”
“No!” Astarion barked. “I’ll assemble everything myself.”
🩸🩸🩸
When everything was put together, Astarion hopped into bed and lay flat on his back, prepared for a nice, comfortable trance. Since Gust wouldn’t leave his side, he’d directed the illusion to curl up in a corner of the room like some sort of pet.
It complied, of course.
There was little rest to be found, though. As soon as the lights were off, the noises began. Eerie sounds that would have startled a lesser occupant. Astarion recognized them as the phantom wails of ghosts, and he rolled his eyes.
“I’m trying to trance, you stupid, dead bastards.”
“You,” hissed a masculine voice.
Out of nowhere, a ghostly figure of a man with chin-length hair appeared at the edge of Astarion’s bed. Dressed like some sort of old-timey peasant, the spirit crossed his arms.
His voice echoed as he haunted Astarion. “You killed me.”
“Who in the hells are you?” Astarion asked.
“You killed me,” the voice repeated.
“I’ve killed a lot of people,” Astarion noted, rising to a seated position. “You’ll need to be more specific.”
“Oskar Fevras—”
Astarion hummed. “Not ringing a bell.”
“I was held captive by some Zhent. I begged you to free me. Instead, you cast a firebolt on an oil barrel and blew up everyone in the cave.”
“Oh!” Astarion smiled thinking about it. The explosion had been glorious, like so many things had been back in those days. “Erm… sorry for your loss?”
“You killed me.”
Astarion sighed. “What is your point?”
“You think I’m going to let you rest in my home?”
“Last I checked, it was the Jannath Estate, not the Fevras Estate,” Astarion noted.
No sooner than he finished speaking, another ghost apparated onto the scene. This one was a woman in a long dress with flared sleeves and massive, gaudy shoulder pads that had never once been in style. Meant to resemble peacock feathers, perhaps, they looked more like clusters of bedazzled genital warts. Lady Jannath, presumably.
“Oskar, how many times have I told you to go haunt somewhere else?”
Oskar pleaded with her. “This was to be my home! We were to be married!”
“I married three times, and not once to you!”
“Could you both shut up?” Astarion snapped.
“Excuse me?” Lady Jannath said, aghast. “I may not want Oskar here, but I certainly don’t want you here. A filthy vampire, sullying my home.”
“What’s all the ruckus?” echoed a third voice. Some dead Flaming Fist in a full suit of armor.
“New resident,” Oskar griped.
“And why are you back?” the Fist asked Oskar.
Astarion slammed his hands down on his cheap foam mattress, in time to his words. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
All three ghosts stood there, staring at him with contempt in their eyes. At once, they began making exaggerated haunting sounds. ‘OoOoOoOoOo’s and indistinct moans filled the air.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Astarion turned to the fake Gale in the corner. “Gust, play white noise.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re not a real person. Instead of speaking like Gale, make some charming ceiling fan sounds or something to drown out these assholes.”
“This is my home!” Lady Jannath complained before adding, “oOoOoOoO!”
“I’ll help if I can join you in bed,” Gust said. “Sitting in the corner like this is degrading.”
“You’re not real.”
Gust pouted, and Astarion relented.
“Fine,” he said, digging his fingers into his sheets. “You can float around in bed. Just muffle these damnable ghosts.”
Gust floated up next to him, opened its mouth, and began emitting a pleasant whirring sound.
For a moment, there was a volume battle, with ghosts and the illusion competing to see who could make the loudest sounds. Gust’s white noise prevailed, and at some point the ghosts wandered off, disgruntled and still arguing about where Oskar should haunt.
The quiet didn’t help Astarion rest, however. Agitated, he tossed from one side to another, onto his back, onto his stomach, back to a side—
“Can I help you somehow?” Gust asked, temporarily ceasing the white noise.
Astarion mocked the illusion to its face. “What would you do? Sing a little lullaby?”
“If it would help, I can.” Gust paused in thought. “Do you want me to summon the real Gale?”
“Why in the hells would I ever want that?”
Gust didn’t answer, but countered with another question. “How often do you struggle to fall asleep like this?”
“Elves don’t sleep, you moron.”
“Apologies.” There was a sincere look on Gust’s face as it inquired again. “How often do you struggle to fall into your trance like this?”
Astarion couldn’t say “all the damn time.” That was too pathetic. Instead, he answered “more often than I’d like,” which came across just as pathetic. Why in the hells did he disclose that to an illusory copy of Gale, of all things?
Melancholy came over him, as it had all those centuries earlier when he tried using a sending stone to call for help. It hit just as it had back in 1994, when he killed the only person he’d ever loved—who, it turned out, despised him. His chest felt like it was burning and ready to burst.
“Not now,” he said quietly to himself, aiming for composure.
For some reason, his repressed emotions didn’t obey. His thoughts reminded him that he had exactly what he’d told himself he wanted: hard-earned money and the Jannath Estate. It was another place he could bury himself in solitude, albeit with some ghosts instead of Godey. Here, he could remain the vampire lord of Baldur’s Gate. He’d have to pick up killing targets for Jeb and the other dukes, of course, lest they demolish this home like they had Szarr Palace. But that was a small matter. He ought to have been thrilled.
Instead, dampness seeped from his eyes. Astarion had everything he wanted, and there wasn’t even fleeting joy to it. He was alone—either ignored, feared, or despised by all except some stupid Waterdhavians at a farmer’s market and a quincentenarian wizard who never shut the fuck up. This was his eternity.
A rasping sound escaped his lips as he wept.
Gust seemed deeply concerned. “Astarion? Should I get—”
“Don’t you dare—” he hissed, the words trembling as they emerged.
“Astarion.” Gust’s voice aged into a wavering one. Right before Astarion’s eyes, his blue glow faded and wrinkles formed as he shifted into a real, solid person. A familiar waft of menthol filled the air.
“No, no…” Astarion pressed his palms forward to keep Gale at a distance. “I don’t want you. Leave the illusion.”
“It’s been me all along,” Gale said softly. His thin, spotted hands gently took Astarion’s wrists and pushed them back toward his body as he moved in closer.
With his darkvision, Astarion could clearly see the cloudy cataract in Gale’s left eye. He could make out every laugh line, every eye and forehead wrinkle—all those supposed “signs of a life well-lived.” He could pick out that one stupid eyebrow hair that extended beyond the others. He despised this man, and wished he were someone else—anyone else.
But there was no one else.
Gale moved in close and wrapped his feeble arms around Astarion.
As much as he wanted to try and as easy as it would have been, Astarion couldn’t find it within himself to resist. He shut his eyes to avoid being seen, to try and keep his misery to himself.
“Just go away,” he snapped. “That’s what you’ll end up doing anyway.”
Gale held him as tightly as his weak arms could. “Not this time.”
Chapter 12: Deep Cuts
Summary:
Gale tries to cheer up his best friend with a day at the circus.
Notes:
...and we’re back! I hope everyone had a lovely, drama-free holiday season. If you didn’t, maybe you can find some cheer in these two being absolute morons.
As always, your kudos and comments are my lifeblood, so thank you. <3
Chapter Text
It was getting ridiculous.
For several days, Gale had done everything he could to cheer up Astarion. He’d conjured not only some furniture but an array of wares to fill the Jannath Estate, from soothing oil paintings of sea turtles to fresh Luskan pastries to the huge, flat-screen television in front of which the vampire sat.
‘Sat’ was a misnomer. It was really more of a depressed lean, with Astarion slumped against a sofa armrest, drooling out nearly as much kobold blood as he was drinking from a metallic pouch with a tiny plastic straw. He wore nothing but tighty whities and a half-secured fuzzy bathrobe—dark red, to hide the multitude of stains he’d accumulated.
Ever since they’d shared one measly hug, Astarion had been despondent, as though showing a crumb of vulnerability was the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
Approaching the sofa, Gale tried once again to bring some joy to his friend.
“Astarion!” He punctuated the name with a clap of his hands. “The weather outside is divine. What would you say to a picnic in Bloomridge Park? It’s not far from here. A bit of sunlight and some fresh air might do wonders for you.”
“Fuck off,” Astarion mumbled against his fang-chewed straw.
As if there weren’t already enough cries for help coming from Astarion, he was watching cable news. On the BOO Network, some blonde, perky-titted half-elven anchor was relaying the latest.
“—shocking footage out of Waterdeep this morning. A human man was hit by not one, not two, but three semi trucks and lived to tell the tale. This despite appearing to have been completely flattened by the vehicles. Viewer discretion is advised for the video you’re about to see—”
On screen, aerial footage showed the human walk out into traffic like he was playing an ill-conceived game of Frogger. A loud HONK preceded his absolute destruction, or at least what should have been. The puddle of goop reformed itself behind the blinking hazard lights of the truck that had just hit it, and the human went on his merry way, only for it to happen again. Then one more time.
“—the gentleman, who has been identified as Arlo Moonglow, has released no comment—”
A picture of the man in his solid state flashed on screen. He was lightly tanned, with blond dreadlocks and a soul patch. For just a moment, Astarion tilted his head and squinted at the screen, as though he recognized something about him.
“—some are comparing this to the improbable footage we showed last month, in which a halfling woman from Baldur’s Gate survived a gruesome werebear attack—”
Gale’s mind, which had actively solved a crossword puzzle every day for the last twenty years to keep itself sharp, began to make some connections. Astarion donated blood in Baldur’s Gate and shortly thereafter someone survived what should have been a fatal accident. Then he went to Waterdeep and shortly after he sold half his body in soap, the same thing happened. Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center did brag about ‘sharing immortality’ but then… it had been in business for centuries and people still regularly died. Even the rich. It was probably mere coincidence.
In any case, the petty details of strangers’ lives were irrelevant. Astarion was miserable. He hadn’t even touched his artisanal masturbator since arriving in Baldur’s Gate, and Gale was the only person on Toril who could do anything about it—just like all the other times he was the only person who could do anything about it and had failed.
Not this time.
“Astarion, please.” Gale leaned down to grab the remote from the coffee table. His knees let out a hideous cracking sound as he turned the television off. “You have to get out. Some adventure would put the pep in your step—”
Astarion didn’t emphasize a single word as he droned. “I don't want to go on a fucking adventure. I want to die.”
“That’s a rather large leap, don’t you think?”
“What else is there?” Astarion asked, just barely shooting him a brief look of contempt. “I’ve seen and done it all.”
“Then kill yourself already,” jeered the ghost of Oskar Fevras from a corner.
“Oskar!” Lady Jannath’s ghost chastised. “I told you to get out of my damned house!”
Ignoring the spectres, Gale took a seat next to Astarion on a very comfortable cushion.
He put a hand on Astarion’s knee and spoke over the slight hissing sound that came from his friend’s mouth as a result. “You haven’t created a legion of spawn or taken over the entire Sword Coast yet.”
“What’s the point?” Astarion groaned.
“It’s what you’ve always wanted.”
“Not when there’s no one to rule it with.”
“Well, that would be the point of the spawn,” Gale noted.
“Yes, of course. Make some slaves so they can usurp me like I did Cazador.” Astarion grunted, then slurped up the last of his blood and tossed the foil pouch to the floor. “I peaked five hundred years ago.”
They were at an impasse, and Gale wasn’t sure what to do. Given Astarion’s history of enslavement, it was important he be afforded the independence to figure things out on his own. On the other hand, he was a moron who’d shown himself incapable of doing so, time and time again. If he wouldn’t take care of himself, someone had to do it.
Gale readied a teleportation spell.
🩸🩸🩸
In an instant, they were in Rivington, at the same traveling circus that had been in Rivington for nearly five hundred years. There was a brief, fifty-year span during which the Circus of the Last Days moved to another plane of existence and the huge lot had been occupied by a K-Mart and then a call center, but that ended when the building fell into disrepair and was left to collapse, killing three urban explorers and a cobalt dragon in the process. It had been a realm-wide scandal at the time.
“The gods-damned circus!?” Astarion yelped, loud enough for several circus goers to stare, though they may have also been staring at his open robe.
“I wagered we could start small…”
Due to necromantic shenanigans, Lucretious was still running the place with an army of undead servants. She didn’t seem to recognize Astarion or Gale, even though they’d once lugged all the pieces of a dismembered clown back to her for a subpar reward. Deciding that Astarion’s outburst was inconsequential, she disregarded him and honed her focus on some zombies being trained for acrobatics.
That was just as well. Gale’s energies needed to remain with getting his friend to enjoy himself again.
“As I recall, you had a lovely time here once,” he said.
“I had lovely company.” Astarion bitterly kicked the gravel at his feet.
“Look,” Gale said, gesturing emphatically at a snack cart. “Pickles on sticks!”
“Take me home,” Astarion demanded.
Gale stood his ground. “No.”
“Fine.” Astarion exhaled sharply and transformed into a small white bat.
When he began flapping away, Gale sighed and pointed a shaking hand in his direction. “Amicus animales.” Those words commanded the bat to stop and stay. Gale did hate resorting to compulsion, but desperate times…
The air filled with stirred up gravel dust as Astarion transformed back into himself.
“Fuck you,” he sneered.
Gale was swiftly losing his patience, something that only ever seemed to happen around Astarion. He motioned for the tantalizing snack cart once more. “Just get a damned pickle on a stick with me.”
“I’ll shove a pickle on a stick up your ass, you prick.”
Astarion wanted Gale to leave. That much was clear.
Gale knew that he had earned and deserved his friend’s ire, but he was determined that this time wouldn’t be like all the others. He wanted better for Astarion. By chance, he was also deeply bored and had nothing better to do.
Using the faintest wave of telekinesis, he tugged Astarion along toward the cart and ignored the grousing that came from his friend as a result.
“Two pickles on sticks, please,” he asked of the kobold running the cart.
“What kinds?” asked the kobold, motioning with its eyes to the cardboard menu taped to the front of the cart.
“I, ah…” Gale’s face tilted with bewilderment. “What’s a vampire pickle?”
It was quite pricey compared to the pickled cucumbers, pickled carrots, or pickled sausages.
The kobold shrugged. “Don’t ask me. They come frozen from Sysco. Upper City toffs seems to think they’re healthier than regular pickles.”
Upper City toff cuisine seemed right up Astarion’s alley, so Gale placed an order. “One cucumber pickle for me and one vampire pickle for my friend here.”
“I’m not hungry,” Astarion scoffed as Gale paid for their pickles.
“Must you be contrary at every turn?”
“I don’t know,” Astarion sniped, “must you drag me around Rivington because there’s nothing worthwhile in your life?”
He had the look on his face—dangerous eyes and snarled lips—that meant he was about to unleash another string of insults. But the kobold interrupted by handing over two pickles on sticks. Gale’s was a perfectly normal-looking, plump pickled cucumber that was almost as girthy as his favorite artisanal masturbator.
Astarion’s, meanwhile, was not.
“Oh dear,” Gale said, taking the vampire pickle and displaying it to his friend.
It was a lithe humanoid finger, turned a sour yellowish green from its pickling brine, on a stick no bigger than a toothpick. Making it more repugnant was the sharp acrylic fingernail still attached at the tip, chipped with black nail polish.
Astarion balled his fists and snarled. “That is my gods-damned finger!”
“You’re sure?” Gale asked, still extending the thing toward him.
“Yes. I can recognize my own hacked-off fingers, Gale.” Astarion grabbed the stick. Scrutinizing his lost digit, he fumed. “Those rat bastards at the plasma center told me they use the donations for research when they’re really selling them to become circus snacks!”
“Perhaps they were stolen?” Gale offered. Turning to the kobold, he asked, “You’re certain these came from Sysco?”
“Yeah. Why? You insinuating something about kobolds?”
“No, of course not,” Gale said apologetically.
Astarion, meanwhile, nibbled at the frayed bottom of his pickled finger. “Eugh. I don’t even taste good.”
Gale curiously eyed his snack. “Could I…?”
“Are you serious? You want to eat me?”
“Want is an exaggeration,” Gale said. “I’m merely curious. We could swap—”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re not going to finish it,” Gale noted.
“So what? It’s mine to discard.” With a dramatic flourish, Astarion tossed his dismembered finger into a nearby trash can. “I’ll have someone’s head for this.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll be back at the plasma center in no time, trying to turn yourself into soap for next month’s rent.”
“That doesn’t preclude having someone’s head!”
Rolling his eyes, Gale seated himself on a bench and began nibbling at his own pickle. It was delightful—salty, sour, refreshing, and crisp. A bit too crisp. He felt his dentures wobble in his mouth. It had been a while since he’d last cast Gale’s Gallant Gum Glue, so he recast it.
Astarion, who sat against the trash can, derided him for it.
“For fuck’s sake. Just clone yourself already.”
“I’ve told you. I’m perfectly content to show my age.”
“Why?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Gale countered.
“Because you’re falling apart and you still have centuries left to live as a Weave pillar—”
“Weave anchor.”
“Oh, who cares?” Astarion stepped away from the trash, and a sticky rope of chewing gum stretched with him before snapping to hitch a ride on his robe. “There are almost no limits to what you can do, and yet you use your powers to sit around gardening and jerking off.”
Gale swallowed a bit of pickle. “One could say the same to you.”
“Hardly,” Astarion said, holding his head high. “I don’t garden.”
That remark got a small laugh out of Gale.
Astarion’s next one did not.
“It’s a built-in excuse, isn’t it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you look and smell like shit, it’s easy to understand why you’re alone. If you were still in your prime, you’d have to admit the problem isn’t on the surface. It’s who you are.”
Gale didn’t think that was his motivation for remaining aged, but it still didn’t feel good to hear.
“We’re not so dissimilar,” he offered. “Tired, a bit lonely…”
“Yes, your glory days are behind you as well. Now let me go home to have a nice sulk about it.”
Gale shook his head. “That’s one difference between us. Though things haven’t always gone to plan, I believe there’s still plenty of joy to be had, and adventure—”
A waft of three-day-old Axe Body Spray emanated from Astarion as he leaned in close. “Say the word ‘adventure’ one more time and I’ll stab you with your pickle stick.”
“I’m only saying there’s hope for you yet,” Gale said as he chewed.
“Yes, many good centuries of donating myself to become snack food.”
“You’re rather adept at stealing.”
“I was, before they started putting cameras and security systems everywhere. Now it’s a huge pain. I should have remained a spawn. They don’t show on film.”
Gale finished his pickle, tossed the stick into the trash, and tried a new line of inquiry. “What about all those self-help books you’ve been reading?”
“What about them?”
Groaning, Gale rose from the bench and stretched his arms behind his back in hopes of cracking his tight spine. “They’ve not offered any insight you found useful?”
“None whatsoever.”
Gale contorted a bit, but the crack never came.
“Would you mind?” he asked, expecting nothing of it.
Heaving a heavy sigh, Astarion put one hand on Gale’s shoulder; then, reaching behind him, slammed the other against his back.
CRACK.
“Thank you,” Gale said. “That was much gentler than Tara’s approach.”
Astarion glowered, but there was very little fire behind it.
Things were quiet for a bit after that. They stepped toward a stage to watch the reanimated corpse of Dribbles tell more modern but no less terrible jokes, mostly about traffic and air travel. One particularly heinous punchline was Astarion’s last straw.
“Why don’t vampires do very well on dating apps? Because they suck at introductions! Wa-hey!”
“I should kill him,” Astarion griped before turning to walk away.
He really was all talk, and yet he wouldn’t talk about anything that truly mattered.
Gale sought a different approach. In another area of the circus was a wise dryad who’d once told him he should end things with Minthara before she killed him outright. That same dryad had told Astarion that he and his dragonborn had a rare, but perilous love.
“Excuse me,” Gale said, hobbling toward her vine-covered booth.
The ageless Zethino spoke breathily. “Gale of Waterdeep. I’m glad to see you’ve ended things with the drow.”
Astarion interjected. “Oh, she dumped him, on account of his lack of ambition.”
“A trait you know all about,” Gale snapped.
“A lover’s quarrel,” Zethino said, transitioning into a sales pitch. “I could take the two of you on a journey to discover whether it’s a temporary spat or a sign of impending doom.”
Gale corrected her assumption. “We’re not lovers. Merely old friends.”
“We’re not even friends,” Astarion corrected in turn.
“You’ve wept in my arms.”
“And you’ve farted on me in your sleep. It doesn’t mean I’m your toilet.”
“Gentleman, please,” implored the dryad. “We can settle the question of your friendship.”
They looked at each other, Gale imploringly and Astarion deploringly.
Gale handed over 100gp, and in an instant they stood at the base of a waterfall, one man on either side, with a large wet log bridging the stream. They knew the drill. For each question answered correctly, they could take one step toward the other.
Zethino, who was standing next to Gale, directed her first question to Astarion. “If Gale were given a choice, what food would he be?”
“Dry-aged deep rothé.”
Gale tutted. “I’m sure you meant that as a dig, but the joke is on you, my friend. Dry aged meats are quite delicious. Flavorful and tender.”
Puzzled, Zethino waved Astarion forward.
“When is Gale happiest?” she asked next.
Astarion answered snootily. “When he’s meddling in someone else’s affairs.”
“I don’t think that’s right,” Gale said, though he wasn’t sure what answer he would have accepted as the truth. Perhaps something about wine and a good book, or adventuring. Either seemed fairly trivial.
Zethino held out a palm to direct Astarion to stay put.
Her next question was a doozy. “What is Gale’s greatest flaw?”
Immediately, Gale began overthinking his own existence. His mistakes were numerous.
Noting just that, Astarion laughed. “Where do I begin?”
“With sincerity,” Zethino said.
From the middle of the log, with hard-dripping water plastering his curls to his forehead, Astarion answered. “Gale’s gravest flaw is remaining beholden to a goddess who doesn’t give a shit about him. It’s the source of all his other flaws, except perhaps the flatulence. He knows it’s true and sticks with the divine cunt anyway because he has no faith in himself.”
How could he have faith in himself? He was a failure as a friend, a lover, and a scholar—as everything but an archmage.
“You’re not wrong,” Gale said sadly.
Unfortunately for him, he could see no alternative to devoting his life to Mystra. Devoting it to himself was a flawed proposition—one likely to end in Netherese follies or worse.
Zethino broke him out of his reflection. Though he’d taken another step forward, Astarion was still only midway across the water, and it was Gale’s turn to answer questions.
“When is Astarion happiest?” she asked.
“I don’t think he’s ever been happy.”
“I have so!”
“Name one time,” Gale insisted.
Astarion didn’t, and Zethino waved Gale forward.
“What does Astarion desire more than anything?”
Gale searched his own feelings and projected them. “I think… a chance to start over.”
“I’ve already started over at the Jannath Estate,” Astarion said.
“And you hate it.”
Zethino motioned Gale forward. He was close enough to get a good look at Astarion’s face now, and he observed it carefully. Astarion’s eyebrows were lifted slightly, and his scowl erred more on the side of a frown.
“What is Astarion’s deepest fear?”
Gale looked deep into Astarion’s shiny eyes as he answered. “The same as mine, I wager. Living forever in the shadow of his past.”
In response, Astarion’s pupils darted away.
“Take a step closer,” Zethino directed.
As Gale did, his boot came down on some slick algae. He made an undignified yelping sound and fell toward the water. Before his mind could catch up and cast something to protect him, a clawed hand caught him by the sleeve of his robe.
It was a small gesture, just like the back cracking, but it was a gesture nevertheless.
“Thank you,” Gale said softly.
“Fuck you,” Astarion said, even more softly. “Watch where you’re going.”
With a wave of the dryad’s hand, they were back at the circus—slightly damp, but no worse for the wear.
“I’m not sure what exactly your bond is,” Zethino said, “but it does seem to be a strong one. Tend carefully to it.”
Astarion harrumphed. “That’s the most generic advice I’ve ever heard.”
Still, he seemed to contemplate it. It was much easier for Gale to lead him around the next few parts of the circus—no telekinesis or animal command required.
Gale had a feeling that Astarion was trying to emerge from his self-imposed shell. He didn’t draw attention to it. He simply took him to a bard, a sword swallower, and a juggler—showing him the world he’d been avoiding for so long. They even stopped at the souvenir stand so Gale could get a Circus of the Last Days teacup.
None of it was impressive, and Astarion jeered quite a bit. But he liked that sort of thing. For him, to be a menace was to be alive. If it took booing an underpaid acrobat to bring Astarion a small semblance of joy, Gale wasn’t going to judge.
Against all odds, they continued enjoying the circus, though Gale had to stop more times than he’d have liked to take a rest on a bench.
During one break, Astarion opened up, just the slightest bit.
“Gale—” he said quietly.
“Yes?”
“Suppose I did want to get out and explore beyond Baldur’s Gate. Where would I even start—”
His voice trailed off as the world around them vanished, replaced by a pleasant void. Gale was nothing but his mind and soul—the form preferred by his goddess.
Mystra’s ethereal voice boomed. “Gale of Waterdeep.”
“Ah. Now isn’t a very good time…”
“The needs of the Weave do not follow your schedule,” she noted.
“Fair. My apologies. What do you need?”
“All magic is once again in peril.”
“And you need my help,” Gale surmised. “A battle on the Astral Plane, perhaps? An alchemical solution to combat a magic wasting disease?”
“No,” Mystra commanded. “Return to Waterdeep and the safety of your tower.”
“You’re sure? I’m quite capable of—”
“Return to your tower. Stay alive. That is your directive.”
“I’m merely stating that—”
“I am not interested. You have your instructions.”
That was his purpose these days: exist, not thrive. The instructions made him instantly miserable, but what was the alternative?
“Very well,” he said.
Back in the real world, Astarion leaned in inches from Gale's face, staring at him.
“Did you just have a stroke?”
“No. Mystra summoned me to Elysium. She wants me to return to my tower in Waterdeep to protect the Weave from some imminent peril.”
Astarion scowled. “Of course she does.”
“Come with me,” Gale begged. “Please.”
He could tend to the Weave and his friend at once.
Astarion crossed his arms. “No.”
“There’s no reason you can’t.”
“And there’s no reason you can’t choose to stay here rather than abandon me again.”
“The Weave is more important than you can fathom,” Gale said, shaking his head. “Without magic—”
“What? Without magic, the world might be a shithole where rampant homeless binge terazul, the government is run by corrupt nepo babies, and vampires sell their body parts to survive?”
“I’m sorry, but it is my duty as a wizard.”
For a moment, Astarion seemed smaller, but he quickly puffed himself up with more disdain. “Whatever. It’s just as I predicted. Go on then. Get out of my sight.”
“Do you want me to take you home first?”
“No. I can find my way.”
Gale stared at him. Noticing the slight pout of his lips and the curve of his brow—small tells that he was hurting—he tried to soften the blow. “You’re welcome to stop by any time. As soon as I hear word that the crisis has passed, I’ll come for you. If you give me your cell phone number, I can—”
Astarion waved a wrist. “Fuck off.”
🩸🩸🩸
Back in Waterdeep, Gale sipped some prune juice from his souvenir teacup.
He was doing his duty, as he’d always done, but protecting the Weave didn’t bring its normal sense of satisfaction. It actually felt awful. Tending to his plants had proven a worthless distraction, as had the Yuan-ti broodguard masturbator sleeve.
Some television time with Tara-22 and Basket didn’t help matters. The tressym and quasit were once again sharing popcorn on the couch, this time to Golden Girls reruns.
Gale settled in next to them with his drink.
“How are you two faring?”
“Shhh,” Tara-22 chastised. “You know how I feel about my stories.”
Gale quieted. In no time, he found himself gazing at Dorothy’s white curls instead of enjoying the show’s timeless humor. It was too familiar.
Getting out and about with a friend—even one who sort of hated him—had brought Gale more joy than anything in the last thirty years. He eyed the dozens of plants and the cloned tressym that kept him company before. His stomach lurched at the sight of the tower’s tall stone walls, and the thought of being in its confines for another three decades or more.
He couldn’t live like that any longer.
Besides, he was an archmage, and a seasoned one at that. He could take care of himself, whether in the sanctity of a well-fortified tower in Waterdeep or a haunted estate in Baldur’s Gate. Mystra hadn’t checked in on him during his last bout of solitude. Surely she wouldn’t check in on him again. If she didn’t find out, he wouldn’t need her forgiveness.
Gale accidentally dozed off on the couch, spilling prune juice all over his robe, but when he awoke it was with a sense of purpose.
He wished Tara-22 and Basket well as he vanished once again.
🩸🩸🩸
With a box of blood-filled chocolates in his hands and an array of apologies prepared in his mind, Gale appeared in the middle of the Jannath Estate living room. Nervous, to be sure, but it hadn’t even been a full day since he left his friend at the circus. Surely Astarion would recognize how quickly he’d returned and if not forgive him at least be willing to hear him out.
Instead of Astarion, though, what he found was a mess.
The couch lay torn and overturned, with Astarion’s filthy bathrobe strewn across its spilling foam. A full blood pouch sat on the carpet, slowly leaking out a spreading red stain. Also scattered across the floor were some pellets of bat guano.
It looked a lot like there’d been a struggle.
Hearing some faint groaning, Gale silently flew upstairs to the master bedroom, his glowing hand at his side, poised for combat.
There, on the bed where he’d once consoled Astarion, were two ghosts getting busy.
“Yes! Gods, yes!”
Lady Jannath was astride her Flaming Fist lover. In a chair observing them sat the ghost of Oskar Fevras, pulling at his phantom cock as he was cucked from the great beyond.
“Excuse me,” Gale interjected.
“Busy!” called Lady Jannath over her shoulder.
“Impero tibi,” Gale said with a swish of his hand.
By his command, the ghosts stopped fucking and turned to face him.
“You can resume this business when you tell me what happened to Astarion.”
“He left,” Oskar said curtly, his mind-dominated hand hovering just above his ghastly cock.
Lady Jannath offered further explanation. “He was curled up on the couch sobbing again when a group burst in and hauled him away.”
“How many? Who were they?”
“Didn’t ask. Don’t care,” Lady Jannath said. “My home is mine again.”
“He didn’t put up a very good fight,” Oskar added.
“Did they say anything?” Gale asked.
Lady Jannath shrugged. “Something about soap.”
Chapter 13: Go with the Flow
Summary:
Astarion hits rock bottom.
Notes:
Art Update: The iconic Nivasi drew Astarion at the circus with his blood pouch. Expand to check it out and then go read Hellfire & Damnation. You won’t regret it.
Click for Nivasi's Art.
Content Warning: Astarion meets Araj Oblodra.
Click for spoilers.
She’s a creep who touches him in ways he doesn’t want. It doesn’t go beyond clothed touching.
As always, I am deeply grateful for your kudos and comments. Without further ado, have some more sad (but sometimes funny) old men.
Chapter Text
1492 DR:
A lot happened at Moonrise. The merry band of tadpole-infected misfits had seen Ketheric Thorm’s immortality up close. They’d discovered there was a giant brain somewhere beneath the building. They’d found their newest ally, Minthara, being tortured in the dungeon.
Then there was the drow blood trader, Araj Oblodra. She’d barely been a blip as far as the day’s events were concerned, but as the group of adventurers settled in to camp in an empty level of the building, Astarion couldn’t stop thinking about his interaction with her. His tongue still seemed to fizz from it.
Biting Araj, as the vampire-crazed drow desired, had been the path of least resistance—far less difficult than any number of despicable things he’d done over the centuries. The potion she’d handed over in exchange really had made his dragonborn lover stronger. Astarion had felt it when they hugged and made up following a small freakout on his part. Powerful fingers dug deeper than ever into the soft flesh of Astarion’s lower back.
He was overreacting, he knew. No one ever said he had to bite the damned woman. It was his choice. He wasn’t coerced. And yet he couldn’t help but feel as though he had been, by the very person he’d professed to have fallen for.
It’s your choice, but we could really use the potion.
Despite the evening’s conversation ending in a reconciliatory hug, none of it sat right. The noxious taste of the drow’s blood lingered in his throat, even after he’d chugged an entire bottle of Suzailian Sweet to drown it out.
Astarion sat on a pillow in his tent, unsettled.
He was missing something, some critical understanding of why exactly he felt so awful. He just did what he’d always done: experience a moment of disgust, then push through. At least this time someone other than Cazador had benefited from the exchange—someone he cared about, who cared deeply about him. Those were his exact words.
I care about you. Deeply.
A shadow blocked his light as someone stepped in front of the tent’s entrance.
“Are you alright?” Gale asked.
Astarion looked up and studied Gale’s face. The two of them weren’t exactly close, but Gale was earnestly concerned. So it seemed, anyway. Two hundred years of nothing but curated interactions made it hard for Astarion to tell. That was the crux of what bothered him about his lover’s words: that he just didn’t know whether they were true.
“No. I don’t think I am.”
“Anything you wish to talk about?”
“With you? No.” Astarion shook his head at the same time he reconsidered. If he was going to be a free person, he had to learn to exercise that freedom. It couldn’t hurt to get a second opinion. In fact, it might help. With a sigh, he confessed. “I feel awful.”
Gale knelt down, blocking Astarion’s exit. “Because of that blood merchant?”
Astarion nodded. “I didn’t think twice when the moment came, but now I can’t get it off my mind. It’s been so long since I’ve had to decide what I want.”
“I’m not unfamiliar with regret and doubt,” Gale said.
“Eugh.” Astarion fussed with a tassel at the corner of his pillow. “Is this how you feel about that stupid little druid grove?”
“And more,” Gale said quietly, his faintly glowing orb saying the rest.
An oppressive silence fell between them. Astarion sure as hells wasn’t equipped to talk through his feelings, and he didn’t imagine Gale was either. The man had just spent a year doing nothing but eating artifacts and jerking off in his tower.
“He shouldn’t have told you to do it,” Gale said finally.
“He didn’t,” Astarion said, frowning. “It was my choice.”
It had to have been. He wasn’t a slave any more.
“Far be it from me to intrude, but”—Gale made a pointed glance toward the dragonborn resting next to the campfire—“after so long, perhaps what you need is a friend, not a lover.”
“Hrm.” Astarion considered it. He had no idea what a friendship even looked like. “I’ve held more people than I can count—an infinite parade of lovers—but a friend? I can’t think of a single one.”
Gale extended a hand. “Well, I’m not sure how long I am for this world, but so long as I live and breathe… you can consider me your friend.”
Astarion took his hand and gave it a weak shake. “Thank you. I think I’d like that.”
Before they could further discuss their friendship, Minthara’s voice interrupted from across the camp. “Wizard! Your services are needed.”
“Try and get some rest,” Gale said, giving Astarion’s hand one final squeeze before leaving to get his ass wrecked by Minthara.
When he was alone again, Astarion thought about ending his romantic partnership. If even Gale could see how bothered he’d been by Araj Oblodra, surely his lover should have seen it and shouldn’t have even suggested he drink from the woman.
But Astarion had about as much faith in Gale’s friendship as he had in the gods. Even the best wizards—ones who didn’t have bombs in their chests—had a tendency of dying. His lover, meanwhile, was more powerful than ever. He would ensure Cazador met a gruesome end, and if there was a way to usurp Cazador’s ritual, he’d help Astarion realize it.
In hindsight, there may have been some gaslighting going on in his relationship. More than anything, though, Astarion feared going back to the life he’d led before—licking the floors of Cazador's palace clean, flaying himself, being a passenger in his own body. A bit of incidental unpleasantness was much better than an unending volley of it.
With fear in his heart, he made a choice to stay.
Aeterna amantes. Lovers forever. Until the world falls down.
1994 DR:
The world sure fell the fuck down.
Astarion was thankful he didn't have a tail like some disgusting tiefling or kobold, but if he did it would have been tucked between his legs.
Having murdered his mad love in the streets of the Upper City, he hobbled home, too exhausted to even turn to mist, the gashes across his stomach still seeping ichor through his tank top. His jean vest was ruined, soaked with Slayer viscera. His hair was matted to his head with the same.
More wounded than his body and clothing was his pride. He'd cried—hard, heavy tears accompanied by wailing—not merely in front of Gale but against his creaky, Icy Hot-patched shoulder. Worse, he'd begged the rotten bastard to stay, as if he needed him. As if he needed anyone.
He didn’t, least of all a flaky wizard who’d rather spend any given moment kneeling at Mystra’s divine groomer feet. And Gale still insisted they were friends.
Fuck him. Fuck this whole stupid fucking world.
When he got back to the palace, Astarion slammed the door shut and dramatically barred it, catching a splinter in his thumb in the process.
“Godey!” he shouted.
The skeleton’s feet quickly click-clacked down the hall. Godey—who’d previously been tarred and feathered and thus had the appearance of a dead bird on the side of a road—greeted him with a deferential bow.
“Yes?”
“Take off your armor. I'm going to beat the shit out of you.”
Godey sighed, tossed his helmet to the floor, and began stripping down to his sticky, feathery bones. “Of course. May I ask why?”
Astarion ignored his query. “You can cast Disguise Self, can't you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Make yourself look like Gale of Waterdeep.”
“I don’t know who that is,” Godey said.
“Sure you do. He's popped in a few times over the centuries. Although I do suppose you were fashioned into a bong the last time he was here. Eugh.” Astarion pointed a spinning finger at him. “Just… be an old human wizard.”
Godey cast the spell, and soon there was a picture-perfect copy of Elminster Aumar standing in front of him, complete with a severe look on his face and a set of big naturals on his chest.
“No tits, unfortunately. Purple robes. Brown eyes, not blue.”
Godey adjusted his appearance accordingly.
All elderly humans looked about the same to Astarion, but he still had cause to complain. “Not quite so… I don't know. Put a little dimple at the bridge of the nose. Make the eyes wetter. He’s… I hate to say cuter than that, but cuter than that.”
Godey altered his appearance again.
The result was close enough, if a bit uncanny, and Astarion lunged forward, tackling the facsimile of Gale to the floor. Straddling his waist, Astarion balled up his fists and began pommeling him. It didn’t feel quite right—all boney and bloodless and his knuckles sticking to bits of tar—but he kept going.
Blow by blow, Astarion took his frustrations out on the fake Gale.
A jab to the jaw.
“We were supposed to be friends.”
A right hook to the cheekbone.
“I hate you.”
His next jab would have shattered the real Gale’s nose. Instead, it met the sharpest part of Godey’s skull and cut Astarion’s knuckle.
“I hate you.” Another. “I hate you.” Another. “I fucking hate you, you stupid bastard.”
If there was a way for this to be therapeutic, Astarion missed it. Godey didn’t bleed. He didn’t react to Astarion’s punches at all, as he was a skeleton with no nerve endings.
“Make it look real,” Astarion demanded, grabbing Godey’s sticky shoulders and shaking him.
Godey altered the wizardly facade to include bruises and open wounds, to show the illusion of knocked out teeth and blood streaming from his nostrils. Astarion brought his fist down a few more times.
“Stupid—fucking—Gale—”
It didn’t make him feel any better. Instead, he became disgusted with himself—not for pretending to beat the shit out of an elderly man, but for being so worked up. It wasn't as though Gale had ever been a friend to him before. Of course he’d leave again on ‘business.’ It was stupid of him to have ever thought Gale might stay and help him get over what had happened. Absolutely witless.
He didn’t need help getting over it.
“Fuck this.” Astarion dismounted Godey and plucked a feather from his own arm. “I’m going to sit in my bedroom and listen to Collective Soul. If you interrupt, I’ll have you shattered.”
2004 DR:
The next time Astarion felt such intense disgust with himself was a few tendays after Jeb Gortash’s inauguration as Grand Duke.
After being holed up in his palace for a decade mourning the fact that he’d killed the only person he ever loved, he was surprised when Godey presented him with an invitation to a fundraising gala for the Black Hand party. No one had invited him to that sort of thing in ages.
A decade was long enough to hide, he thought. Barring any more horrifying resurrections, his mad love wasn’t going to get any less dead. It was about time he got out and mingled with the city’s elite once more, weaving tales of years gone by and relishing all the juiciest gossip. He could only imagine what those reprobates were doing with the so-called “internet.” If it turned out to be an orgy, well… even better. Getting his dick sucked dry would be good for him.
Since he’d be out of the house anyway, Astarion booked an appointment to get his ‘NO FEAR’ chest tattoo touched up and to add a second tattoo to his body: a tramp stamp bearing the words ‘that’s hot’ surrounded by sparkles and bats. It was the catchphrase of The Simple Life star Paris Hilton, and he found it to be a positive affirmation. Overcoming a deeply traumatic incident and getting back out into the world? That was hot. He could do it.
With jazzed up ink and a snazzy new outfit—a loose black suit worn over his bare chest, paired with a pair of shiny gold loafers and matching chains—Astarion made his way to High Hall for what he expected to be a raucous affair.
It was a shakedown.
On arrival, three burly bodyguards ushered him to a dark, private room. Astarion could have taken them all out, but that would have drawn attention. All the self-help books said that highly effective vampires were stealthy about their kills, so instead of snapping necks and draining everyone, Astarion took a seat at an ornate desk covered in dinosaur action figures and Oreo cookie crumbs.
Seated behind the desk with one cowboy boot kicked up onto it was Jeb Gortash.
Baldur’s Gate’s newest Grand Duke was wearing a navy suit and an unblemished Stetson.
“Well, if it ain’t the Vampire Lord himself,” he said, lowering his leg with a folksy chuckle.
“Eugh,” Astarion whined. “I was actually looking forward to a party for once.”
“I thought you might be,” Jeb said, tipping his hat. “My apologies for the deception.”
Astarion fussed with some dust under his acrylics. “What do you want?”
“Can I get you a drink?” Jeb asked instead of answering. With a smile, he gestured to a minibar in the corner. “I’ve got pert near anything you can think of. Whiskey. Wine. Exotic bloods.”
He was schmoozing, and Astarion wasn’t interested. Loudly and more clearly annoyed, he repeated himself. “What do you want?”
Jeb shrugged. “It’s been brought to my attention that there are other vampires who’d love to claim Baldur’s Gate as their territory.”
“I’m sure there are.”
“Tell me why I shouldn’t let them.”
Jeb was trying to blackmail the realm’s only ascendant vampire. It was utterly adorable, and Astarion laughed. “You can let them try.”
“I thought you might be overconfident.” Jeb pulled something silly out of his desk: what appeared to be a Gondian .45.
“Really? A gun?”
“A superweapon,” Jeb specified. “Capable of dealing radiant, fire, force, and electric damage all at once. Blessed by some clerics of Ilmater, no less, for maximum effectiveness against the undead.”
“It won’t work,” Astarion said confidently.
Without hesitation, Jeb called his bluff, firing a plasmalike blast that hit Astarion’s right arm.
It tore through his flesh, rendering it sizzling and smoking, sending shooting pains throughout his nervous system. It hurt like the hells. In all his years, Astarion had never felt anything like it. The stinging made him nauseous. The nauseousness made him dizzy. He let out a sort of glurp sound and began drooling blood. It felt worse than anything Cazador had done to him, and even worse than being eviscerated by Bhaal’s slayer.
He sat stunned, the bone of his arm fully exposed.
“It’d be a real shame if someone armed your competitors with these,” Jeb said.
Astarion sneered, showing off the blood on his teeth. “Good to know the Gortash family is still developing heinous weapons. Some things really don’t change.”
“Oh, but we can change a whole heck of a lot. You and me, together.”
“What do you want?” Astarion asked again.
“I want a vampire lord who’ll play ball. One who’ll choose his meals wisely.”
He meant his political opponents, of course.
Astarion had no desire to team up with a fucking Gortash, especially one as stupid as Jeb. His arm was already regenerating, a sign that the superweapon wasn’t as powerful as the Grand Duke imagined. Astarion could still kill them all, one by one.
On the other hand, he was afraid to say no to the path of least resistance. Why cause a scene and declare war on Baldur’s Gate when he could be comfortable in his own home, watching Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie bale hay on a farm? All for the low price of murdering some people who were probably also assholes?
With bile in this throat, he agreed.
🩸🩸🩸
Astarion couldn’t believe he’d done it again—that he’d tricked himself into thinking Gale might actually give a shit about him. At the circus, he really thought they’d bonded, sharing their miseries as well as pickles. Gale seemed to understand him for a change.
Well, obviously he fucking didn’t, because the old bastard had left again.
It was just like Jeb Gortash always said:
Fool me once, shame on… shame on you. Fool me… you can’t get fooled again.
Astarion was a fool, but he couldn’t even make himself angry about it anymore. As he sat in a small room at Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center, he could feel nothing but numbness, both physical and emotional.
He was in a reclined vinyl chair, his arm tubed up and a plasma donation machine pumping hard next to him. Apparently he owed the company quite a bit as a result of ‘stealing’ its soap. He’d already been milked fourteen times for his semen, and his fingers were only half grown back from being hacked off for pickling. Now the hucksters were draining him of every drop of plasma in his body while he just stared blankly.
A poster in front of him on the wall read ‘DONATE ME BECAUSE I’M BEAUTIFUL’ with a picture of a cartoon blood cell, smiling. The words seemed to scramble before his eyes as the machine sapped him of his energy.
DO HATE ME BECAUSE I’M SO AWFUL
“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered to himself, fully aware of how pitiful he was being.
There were so many things Astarion could do. He could turn into a bat. He could turn into mist. Unlike any other vampire on Toril, he could walk in the sun and cross running water and survive a stake to the heart. What he couldn’t do was find a reason to care.
If things had been different and his mad love had sided with Bhaal in the end, Astarion knew he probably wouldn’t be ruling the Sword Coast. That was only a blip in Bhaal’s plans to murder literally everyone on the planet. But at least in that world, Astarion would be dead, not cozying up to a tyrant for the non-prestigious title Vampire Lord of Baldur’s Gate, and not subsequently failing said tyrant and getting his home demolished due to a major depressive episode.
After two hundred years of pure shit, all he wanted after Cazador and the Netherbrain was to take it easy, and he couldn’t. Everyone who’d ever really known him had betrayed him, so all he had was his loathsome, paranoid self. He didn’t even have his gods-damned Beanie Babies anymore, let alone a friend. It wasn’t as though he could go out on the town and start making some in his seven hundreds. He’d never trust anyone enough, and no one in their right mind would trust him.
So he sat there, letting his body be used. It didn’t matter.
Hopefully soon they’d turn him into soap again, and he’d have the privilege of being knocked unconscious, however briefly. He could do that over and over. Maybe one day he’d wake up feeling different, with a newfound lust for conquering or for raucous parties. He’d had his slumps before and he’d always bounced back. He could do it again. Maybe.
This time felt different.
There was pressure behind his eyes, as if his body wanted to cry but either couldn’t figure out how it worked or didn’t think it was worth it anymore.
The machine clanked and came to a stop.
A waft of some powdery floral perfume overwhelmed the room as the door opened. It wasn’t the nurse who’d hooked him up to the plasma donation machine. This was a special visitor, instantly recognizable by her wrinkled grey skin and intense frown. The same face that appeared in brochures and commercials for Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center. The company’s namesake, Araj Oblodra.
“You,” he sneered, because he felt he had to.
“Astarion,” she said, her voice almost seductive but more asthmatic due to her advanced age. “It’s been so long since I’ve had the pleasure.”
“I thought you lived in the Underdark with all the other matriarchal old cunts.”
“I do, but you’re worth a special visit to the surface.” After her final word, Araj licked her cracking lips.
Astarion sighed. “Please get to your point.”
Araj approached and trailed her fingers down the length of Astarion’s arm. “You’re more magical than I ever dreamed. The only vampire ascendant on Toril. Your blood—” Her words were whisper soft as she plucked the line from his vein and watched the fluid flow down his forearm. Her touch went lower and caressed the sensitive surface of his regenerating fingers. “Your digits.” Her fingers kept moving, sliding across his thigh toward his tighty whities. “Your sperm.”
He flinched as she squeezed, and again when she leaned in close enough he could smell the cheap Menzoberranzan liquor in her breath.
“Your saliva,” she said, her lower lip just barely grazing his.
“I could kill you,” he said weakly, turning away.
“Yes, you could, or—” She drew the word out as she took a step back. “You could take me up on the offer I’m about to make you.”
Astarion didn’t answer. He simply stared.
Araj went into a spiel that seemed practiced for shareholders. “Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center has cornered the immortality market. Our products are sold in all of the wealthiest neighborhoods. People swear by vampire soap, vampire pickles, and vampiric blood transfusions.”
“And?”
She leaned in again, smiling. “It’s all marketing. They don’t actually work. At least they didn’t until you came along. You’re one of a kind, Astarion, and I don’t want your gifts going to any old Waterdhavian at a farmer’s market.”
“You want them for yourself,” he surmised.
“Precisely. I don’t need the competition, for starters. It’s also not lost on me that as a drow I’m approaching my expiration date.”
“You already have my plasma and sperm to do with as you like.”
“And there’s a lot I’d like to do with it, believe me,” she said lecherously. “But here’s the trouble, Astarion. The immortalizing effect of your various fluids seems to be temporary.”
“How would you know?” Astarion wondered.
“You may have heard about a halfling who survived a werebear attack? She was one of your plasma recipients. Upon further experimentation, I’m afraid the poor thing passed on.”
“You killed her.”
“Not me personally,” Araj said, unbothered. “The point is, I want to make an exclusive arrangement with you.”
He scowled. “The only arrangements of yours I’m interested in are your funeral arrangements.”
A tiny, petty laugh popped from between her lips. “Yes, I’m sure you have to say something like that so you’ll feel you were properly persuaded when you end up agreeing.”
“Agreeing to what?”
Araj held out her palms. “An all-expenses-paid trip to Menzoberranzan. Room, board, all the blood you can drink, and all the trash entertainment you can enjoy. All you have to do is give me a little nip every so often. With your saliva in my bloodstream, I’ll be immortal.”
He could still vividly remember how vile she tasted, the way her toxic blood lingered on his tongue for days. But he also remembered the last five hundred years. The next five hundred could be worse, living under a bridge or struggling to keep a home.
“I won’t have to donate anything else?” he wondered.
“That’s right. When you’re not biting me, you can spend your time however you see fit. And—” Araj got a dark look in her eyes. “—if you’d prefer not to do anything at all, you’ll be welcome to use the stasis chambers. Rest up. Feel better.”
Astarion had heard a lot of bullshit, and this sounded like bullshit.
For seven hundred years, he had been used. By Cazador. By endless patriars. By the only person he ever loved. By politicians. By the wizard who called him “friend.”
He didn’t want to be used anymore, but he didn’t know how to do anything else.
Forging a path forward was unfathomable. Biting Araj Oblodra was the path of least resistance.
So he agreed to do it again.
Chapter 14: Coagulate to the Party
Summary:
Gale tries to rescue Astarion from Araj Oblodra.
Notes:
Once again, I love you all. <3
Chapter Text
1492 DR:
Laughter, clinking glasses, and the music of three discordant fiddling bards echoed throughout Elfsong Tavern, even in the quietest corner where a group of adventurers had gathered.
“To me,” Astarion said smugly.
He was sitting beside his dragonborn, raising his glass in a toast.
“To you?” Shadowheart scoffed. “I've just become the Mother Superior.”
“Yes, well you're welcome to toast to yourself, darling. This toast is for me, Toril’s first and only vampire ascendant.”
Astarion put so much flourish on those last two words that it bordered on parody. Still, taverns were for drinking so everyone raised their glasses and drank.
Beside Astarion, his Bhaalspawn lover seemed genuinely annoyed.
Gale, who was seated between Shadowheart and Minthara—and bound to the latter by a collar and a short leash—eyed Astarion curiously.
“You're happy then?” he asked.
Polishing off his wine, Astarion choked on the last bit as he broke into a laugh. “I can finally taste wine after two hundred years. Of course I'm happy. Though I'll be happier when I'm ruling the entire Sword Coast.” He turned and planted a condescending kiss onto the tip of a white snout. “You're going to sit nicely in my lap, perhaps naked, as I give orders to our nocturnal horde from my palace throne. Bhaal's army will be an unsurpassable dowry. I cannot wait for you to claim it.”
In response, the dragonborn rolled his eyes and excused himself in a huff.
Gale perked with interest, and Minthara tugged him back into place.
There was nothing wrong with enjoying a bit of subservience, but something told Gale that Astarion's lover wasn't very happy with their new dynamic.
“Perhaps you should go after him,” Gale said, wishing only the best for the relationship.
Astarion blew him off. “No. I don’t follow anyone anymore. He'll come to me.” He added, much more darkly, “He has no choice.”
“Can I have my toast now?” Shadowheart griped.
Minthara held up a glass. “To Shadowheart, the most formidable of devotees to her worthless goddess.”
Some bickering followed, but Gale was more interested in Astarion. He watched as the vampire ascendant drank his wine, smiling and boasting.
In his eyes was the most vacant expression Gale had ever seen.
🩸🩸🩸
The expression in the photograph was anything but vacant. Taken in 1987, it showed Astarion and Gale at the Sea Gate Cinema, just after exiting a showing of Dirty Dancing. Gale looked about the same as he did now. Astarion, having binged on some potent cocaine, had wide eyes and blown pupils. His hair was swept high to one side and hairsprayed perfectly into place to complement his pastel pink linen suit. His mouth quirked into a smug smile.
Like many evenings, that one had ended with Gale being called to duty by his goddess. But before he departed, Gale had asked a theater usher to snap the polaroid as a memento of friendship. He’d held onto it ever since.
At Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center, he wiggled it at the receptionist.
“You’re sure you haven’t seen him?”
The halfling shook her head. “Nope.”
Gale’s heart raced. He was already on edge from leaving Waterdeep in defiance of Mystra’s orders, and being a customer service specialist’s worst nightmare only made matters worse. Still, he had to inquire further. It was for his best friend. His only friend he hadn't cloned.
“Could you ask someone else? A manager? Please. It’s urgent.”
With a sigh, she hopped down from her stepladder and stepped into a back room.
Gale’s sharp mind had been entertaining two theories as to who kidnapped Astarion from the Jannath Estate. Either Jeb Gortash was in need of another political assassination, or Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center was punishing him for walking away with their contractually bound soap.
A brief visit to Jeb confirmed only that the long-serving Grand Duke was a moron. Gale had found him relaxing in a jetted hot tub with a ‘vampire’ interviewing to become the next Vampire Lord of Baldur’s Gate. Gale politely pointed out to Jeb that the vampire in question was actually a con artist wearing colored contact lenses, then went on his merry way.
Araj Oblodra’s Plasma Donation Center was the best lead he had left.
Gale tried hard to focus on the cheerful posters on the wall and not the fact that he’d disobeyed his goddess for the first time in over five hundred years for the sake of someone who kept insisting he hated him. No, it was best to focus on the present.
One poster showed a cartoonish dating app with a big green check mark indicating a match. Next to it were the words: ‘You’re somebody’s type!”
Gale sighed and fidgeted with his robes.
Emerging from the back room, a severe half-orc whose name tag only read ‘Manager’ stepped closer, unamused.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for my friend,” Gale said, once again wiggling the photograph.
The half-orc took the picture in his fingers and studied it. “Oh, that guy’s not allowed to donate here anymore.”
“He’s not?” Gale wondered.
“Nope. Order came all the way from the top.”
With that, the half-orc handed Gale his photo and walked away.
All the way from the top.
Gale frowned.
“Now, if there’s nothing else I can help you with…”
“Actually, there is,” Gale said, coming up with an idea on the spot. “I’m in need of some sperm.”
🩸🩸🩸
Astarion was in the Underdark.
Following a 1000gp transaction and just a bit of magic, Gale once again stood atop the Qu'ellarz'orl ledge. He wistfully eyed Minthara's palace—the home of so many cherished memories—as he made his way past it to the Oblodra Estate.
Once he let himself feel it, the thrill of disobedience was as strong as the thrill of adventure.
Every bit of this place was familiar, but being there when he wasn’t supposed to be left Gale buzzing with energy. His nervousness had broken into something different. Each home wasn’t a mere structure, but a taboo.
You’re not supposed to be here, they seemed to whisper to him.
As a result, he tottered along with a throbbing erection between his legs where normally only his pendulous balls would hang. It was uncomfortable, exciting, and everything in between.
The Oblodra family had been among Menzoberranzan's elite for centuries. Once, a truly grand palace had stood at the location of the Oblodra Estate—an ominous thing with twisting spires and stained glass windows depicting murderous spiders.
But history happened as it tended to do, and the Oblodra ancestral home had been razed during the family's brief exile for conducting illegal blood experiments. When the dust settled, Araj had built in its place what could best be described as a poor drow's idea of what a rich drow should live like.
Now generations of Oblodras lived in a giant golden spider covered in mirrored windows. Its eight legs extended vertically, each containing four or five stories of apartments and experimentation chambers. In the middle of the towers was a courtyard and mushroom garden. Spiral staircases in each spider leg led up into the body of the spider: a massive living space where everyone could gather for dining or for watching the Blood Bowl. The spider’s head at the top of it all was where Araj Oblodra spent her days lording over the rest of her family.
Gale had seen it all on an episode of MTV Cribs, which had been a favorite of Tara-21 (rest her soul). In person it was somehow even gaudier.
Surrounding the spider was an antimagic dome just like the one around Minthara's home. A security system designed to look like webbing.
Out front, a large sword spider stood chained to a post, its razorlike legs shining everywhere but where they were coated with dried blood. When Gale walked by, it tried to lunge at him, snarling and drooling out a mixture of saliva and venom.
“Mind your manners,” Gale said to the beast before stepping up to the central courtyard. His cock, meanwhile, pressed hard against his trousers at the danger.
A directory was posted to direct visitors to the appropriate location, conveniently listing the eight legs and all of their residents. Most were filled with the names of Oblodras or their servants, but Leg 7 had a recent edition, handwritten on a strip of blue painter’s tape rather than etched on a plaque like all the others.
Astareon Ankyn
For a short while, Gale lurked near the door.
His chance for entry came when a young, distracted whippersnapper wandered out of Leg 7, gazing stupidly at their cell phone the entire time. Gale then slipped through the open door and ambled upstairs until he reached the appropriate place, clutching his chest and wheezing.
Knocking at the door garnered no reaction, so Gale tried to cast Knock. Unfortunately, the antimagic field around the estate prevented it. He knocked manually. Again.
“Door’s unlocked,” mumbled a voice within, so Gale helped himself.
Despite the space being small, it was richly appointed. There was a substantial, full bookcase loaded with volumes Gale recognized, a well-stocked bar, and a large flat-screen television blaring Secret Lives of Sharran Wives. Everything a wayward vampire ascendant needed to get by.
Where there weren’t floor-to-ceiling windows, ample wood paneling covered the walls of the cozy studio. A large round bed sat perfectly made, but for Astarion sitting atop its pristine spidersilk sheets. He’d been provided a new robe—a silky golden one that matched the bedding—and that was all he wore. He groaned audibly when he realized who’d entered his home.
Shutting the door behind himself, Gale wasn’t really sure where to begin.
“You finally used your fleshlight!” he tried cheerfully.
Astarion sat confused, a streak of dried blood decorating from the corner of his mouth to his chin. “Are you congratulating me on having a wank?”
“Merely stating that I was able to cast Gale’s Seminal Locator once more.”
“I took back my cum-crusted underwear. How did you have a sample to—nevermind actually, I don’t want to know. I’m about five minutes from passing out, so you’d best tell me what you want and make it quick.”
“Five minutes from…?” It then dawned on Gale that there was a huge orange bottle of pills on the nearby nightstand.
“Better yet, just leave. It’s what you’re best at.”
“I came to apologize,” Gale tried, stepping closer.
Astarion ignored him entirely, instead going off on his own tangent. “When Araj said there'd be stasis chambers, I imagined something a bit more… stasis chamber. But a nice bed and some Elfbien does the job just fine, I suppose.”
“Sleeping pills?”
“The good ones that work on elves,” Astarion said with a grin.
Gale leaned against the edge of the bed and tried to refocus.
“I’m sorry I left,” he said.
Astarion’s face hardened. “I’m sure you are.”
“But I came back, and now I’m here to rescue you.”
The words came out much more patronizing than Gale had intended, and Astarion reacted as expected.
“Do I look like I’m in need of rescue?” He gestured at the room around him. “I have everything I could ever want. Blood. Wine. The ability to be knocked out for days at a time.”
“And in exchange…?”
“I give an old drow a few cheap thrills,” Astarion said, making a dismissive gesture.
“Araj…” Gale said.
Astarion simply nodded.
Gale recalled Astarion’s reaction the first time he drank from Araj Oblodra—the aftermath of anger, uncertainty, and fear. Astarion had been disgusted with himself, and horrified by the thought of ever doing something like that again. Yet here he was with the remnants of Araj’s foul blood caked to his face, preparing to drug himself into unconsciousness to cope.
“Are you happy with this arrangement?” Gale asked.
For a brief moment, Astarion hesitated. But his voice conveyed not even a shred of doubt. “Of course. Without lifting a finger, I have free rein of an entire palace. There’s even a spa upstairs with the best cucumber water I’ve ever had in my life.”
Gale tried to cast Detect Thoughts on his friend, and once again remembered that there was no magic use within the building. He’d have to rely on his existing knowledge of Astarion, as well as his wits.
“You should come with me,” he said.
Astarion laughed. “I’m sure you think so. You’d love nothing more than for me to drop everything to follow you on an adventure. I don’t follow. I haven’t in five centuries.”
“You followed Araj down here!”
“We made a contractual agreement,” Astarion corrected hazily.
“Oh, for—” Gale rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “You’re ridiculous. You’re—”
Asleep. Astarion’s head tilted to one side and he drooled as the pills took effect.
With a heavy sigh, Gale pulled at the bed’s golden sheets until Astarion was under the covers, safe and warm. He then took up residence in a nearby recliner and started watching Secret Lives of Sharran Wives, just to see what the fuss was about.
“I was raised Sharran,” said some black-haired woman with excessive vocal fry. “That means I’m good at secrets and manipulation. But I’m really good at making tater tot casserole!”
Gale must have nodded off quickly, because the next thing he knew the Sharran wives were gone, and the slick-haired Gith of Cosmic Shore were in a club yelling at each other.
“You can stay and get your ass beat or you can stay and get your fucking ass beat, istik.”
The noise made Astarion stir.
“Turn that down,” he whined into a pillow.
Gale lowered the volume and chuckled. “I remember when raucous parties were your preferred pastime.”
Astarion snorted and sat up in bed. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been involved in orgies as recently as just a few months ago. The night before they started bulldozing my palace, I slept with, erm… I think it was a half-elf and a human. I’m not sure.”
“I wasn’t critiquing you,” Gale said. “Merely making conversation. And they were a half-elf and a tiefling. I saw the bodies.”
Astarion’s voice offered as much condescension as he could muster. “Aww, your crossword puzzles are working to keep your memory from completely failing you. How nice. Now go make conversation somewhere else. I already told you I’m not leaving.”
He reached for his bottle of pills and gave it a hard shake, ranting to himself. “How many of these fucking things does it take—” Cracking the bottle open, he dumped a few pills directly into his mouth and swallowed in a loud, off-putting gulp.
Gale’s ass let out an equally off-putting –pbbbt– as he lurched off the recliner and approached the bed. It was tall and he struggled, but somehow managed to hop on top next to his friend.
“Astarion,” Gale said, trying to sit upright and instead hunching forward as a sharp pain shot through his lower back.
“Don’t ‘Astarion’ me,” Astarion said with contempt. “You smell like beans.”
To ease his complaining joints, Gale rolled onto his back and turned only his head toward Astarion. “You and I are a few centuries overdue for a long conversation.”
Astarion rolled his eyes and let out a bitchy exhale.
Gale continued. “You’ve spent the last five hundred years alternating between acting like Cazador and falling into despair because you don’t actually enjoy living like he did.”
Astarion crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Preposterous.”
“It’s not,” Gale said. “It’s the truth.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I do. Better than anyone. I don’t know what it is you want in life. I’m not sure you know either. Whatever it is, though, I know it’s not this. You don’t want to be a slave to—”
“I’m not a slave,” Astarion hissed. “I can walk out of here any time I like.”
“Not to Araj. You’re a slave to your own expectations of what a vampire ascendant should be.”
“You’re one to talk, Mr. Weave Pillar.”
“Weave anchor,” Gale corrected, “and yes I am one to talk.” His next words emerged slow and weighty. “I’ve made a mess of my life just as you have. I’ve ruined romances, friendships, and a career in service to Mystra. Unfortunately, I have just one calling, but you…” His tone grew envious and he watched as Astarion regarded him with interest. “You could be anything, Astarion. Nothing binds you to dressing in terry cloth tracksuits and turning your nose up at the world.”
In his sleepiness, Astarion almost looked vulnerable.
“I don’t know how else to be,” he said softly, a single tear working its way down his cheek.
His eyelids fluttered a few times, and he was out again.
Gale turned the television to Wheel of Fortune, a personal favorite. The next time he awoke, it was to a sharp fingernail poking at his shoulder.
“Stop snoring, you oaf!”
A choppy gurgling sound choked out from Gale’s throat as he fully came to. His gums followed that with a loud smacking sound as he moved his dentures back into place.
“Eugh.” Astarion was astride Gale, hovering over him with an open robe and an expression of disgust.
“Astarion?” Gale grimaced at where his leg was pinned. “That’s rather painful.”
Astarion sighed and moved off of Gale, but continued looking him in the eyes. There was a hint of something desperate there.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
Gale stared at him. “What?”
“Are you happy, Gale? You must have asked me a dozen times over the years and I’ve never asked you, so… are you?”
Gale considered it. “I wouldn’t say happy, per se, but I’m satisfied. Without my efforts over the years, who knows what sort of state the Weave would be in.”
Astarion squinted. “And that’s good enough for you?”
“It has to be,” Gale said.
To think otherwise was to open his mind to doubts that were poisonous—doubts that led to things like a Netherese orb in his chest and partaking in a massacre at the Emerald Grove. He had to trust in Mystra, for his sake as well as everyone else’s.
Astarion threw his head back and sighed. “You’re a fucking idiot.” He let his head fall back down so he could look Gale in the eyes. “You don’t have to be bound to Mystra. You could clone yourself and start your life anew, twat goddess be damned.”
“I’m not sure why we’re talking about me when you’re the one who’s become a live-in blood boy to a deranged drow matriarch, unless… you’re afraid to loosen your chains by yourself and you want me to go on that journey with you.”
Astarion snarled. “I fear nothing, and I’m certainly not aiming to go anywhere. Not with you, not with anyone. I’m staying right here.”
Gale frowned. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Astarion. I can’t expect you to forgive me, but I also can’t let you stay here like this. You’ve been alone and miserable long enough.”
“Well, you can’t make me leave.”
“No, but I can stay.”
Their eyes held for a long gaze.
“No one ever stays,” Astarion said bitterly.
But Gale did. He stayed as Astarion ranted and raved about everything from Secret Lives of Sharran Wives to the declining rhinestone quality on the asses of Juicy Couture track pants. He stayed as Astarion downed another handful of pills. He stayed as Astarion dozed off, finding honesty only in delirium.
“I wish I could undo the last five hundred years…”
While Astarion had a bunch of Elfbien in his system, Gale’s only excuse for falling asleep over and over was his age. It simply couldn’t be helped. The room was warm, the bed was comfortable, and Pat Sajak’s voice was soothing.
When he next awoke, Gale felt an instinctive rush of terror. Something was on him, touching his stomach, and he was vulnerable, lying on his back without his magic.
He settled when he realized it was Astarion, nestled in next to him, his head in Gale’s armpit and his arm tossed over his belly. He was gently snoring, his eyelids twitching just slightly as he finally hit something resembling REM sleep.
A mumble broke through. “...brain is… ours for the taking, love…”
Dreaming about his dragonborn. Still. After so many years.
First, there was a pang of jealousy. Gale wished anyone had ever felt such affection for him. Then his heart sank, knowing this was what Astarion saw in him too: someone clinging desperately to a past that wasn’t all that good to begin with.
He thought about the first time he saw Mystra—or rather, felt her presence. Just eight years old, wrapped up in an ethereal blanket that seemed to encompass all the energy in the universe. He knew then exactly how he’d be spending the rest of his days, and he’d done just what he planned (minus keeping her romantic affections). It had to be enough.
But was it?
His nostalgia drew the attention of his goddess. The warmth and power hit him once more—stronger than ever, even in the magical void of the Oblodra home—and soon he was nothing but his soul, occupying nothing.
“Gale of Waterdeep.”
“Yes?”
“I told you the Weave was in peril and to return home.”
“I’m aware,” Gale said.
“And yet you’re in the Underdark, making yourself even more defenseless than usual. Why?”
“My friend needs me.”
“You have no friends,” Mystra said confidently.
That was partly her fault, and it stung.
“Perhaps not, but I want to.”
Mystra’s tone turned into the aural equivalent of an eyeroll. “Go home, Gale.”
Gale didn't want to.
To ignore his goddess was to be disgraced and possibly stripped of Weave Anchor status, but to return home was to commit to loneliness. Gale wasn’t happy, and he wasn’t sure knowing that the Weave was safe was enough anymore. If he could believe that Astarion—a verified idiot—could change, Gale reckoned he should be able to believe in himself.
“No,” he said.
“No?” Mystra asked curiously.
“I’ll go home as soon as I can, but I won’t drop everything for this.”
He felt her seethe as she replied, “Very well. Let us hope the universe is as forgiving as you are.”
A series of hard pokes to the shoulder harshly welcomed Gale back to Menzoberranzan.
“Did you die just now?” Astarion asked.
“Mystra spoke to me again,” Gale said.
Heaving a heavy sigh, Astarion pointed at the door. “Go on then.”
“I told her I’m staying.”
Astarion’s eyes widened. Gale knew that his own had done the same; they had no choice in the presence of the sort of fear he now felt. Fear of the unknown. It was slightly arousing.
“What?” Astarion asked.
“I’m staying,” Gale repeated, swallowing his nerves. “I know it doesn’t make up for all the times I’ve let you down, but I’m staying.”
“For how long?”
“Until you’re happy.” Gale’s voice lowered. “One of us should be.”
For a moment, the facade of the vampire ascendant dropped, and Astarion looked like the sad, terrified spawn he met all those years ago. “Gale, I—”
A loud slam interrupted what may have been heartfelt sentiment. Gale would never know, as a pair of drow kicked in the door to Astarion’s room.
“Excuse me,” Astarion huffed. “I don’t remember inviting you in—”
“He’s not allowed in here. Araj’s orders.”
One of them shouted something in Ancient Drow. The word for ‘stun’ if Gale wasn’t mistaken—
It hit him and he froze in place, leaned against a pillow. The two drow were wizards and they were somehow able to cast magic within the confines of an antimagic dome. Power like that should have been impossible for anyone but their goddess. It made no sense.
Gale’s brain seemed to swirl within his skull as he gazed at the men. They were coming for him. Their dark grey faces grew closer, illuminated a shade of purple by their hands glowing with magic. He supposed they could have been using Shadow Weave, but it didn’t feel like shadow magic. It felt like the warmth and comfort of his own. It felt like Mystra’s.
He tried to call upon it himself, but there was nothing. No connection.
Something constricted Gale. Invisible tendrils like vines or ropes tightened around him from chest to shin. He was stunned, bound, and doomed. He heard an asthmatic wheeze slip through his lips as one of the tendrils punctured his thin skin and began worming into his gut.
It was pure Weave, no doubt about it. Warm. His goddess’s touch. The drow must have corrupted her magic somehow. He hoped they’d corrupted it somehow. To think that somewhere in the universe there was a form of magic unknown to him was not bearable. It called into question everything.
Muffled words were exchanged, and a spray of red fluid splashed Gale in the face. It was hot, and it tasted of iron where it dripped into his gasping mouth.
It happened again, and suddenly everything was clear. Whatever had been constricting him vanished, and Gale sat up to see the two drow dead on the floor in expanding pools of blood, their throats slit.
His own stomach was leaking blood, albeit much more slowly.
Astarion sat next to Gale on the bed, using the golden sheets to wipe the blood from under his acrylics. He glanced over at Gale’s wound.
“Disgusting.”
“Astarion, did you…?”
“Save your life? Yes.” Astarion hopped off the bed and extended a hand to pull Gale from it as well. “We should probably go. If Araj doesn't like you being here, she certainly won't like my having murdered her kin.”
Gale accepted the hand and grimaced when his feet hit the floor, nearly collapsing on his weak legs. Astarion steadied him with his hands.
“Apologies,” Gale said, rasping. “I’m a bit weak at the moment.”
“You’re always weak.”
Gale glowered at him. “I’m especially weak in an antimagic field.”
“It didn’t seem to bother them,” Astarion said, glancing at the corpses on the floor.
“Yes,” Gale said with a tremble to his voice. “I noticed.”
Astarion regarded him carefully, no doubt readying some insults.
But none came.
“Well. No sense worrying about it just yet. You need healing. Surely there’s a hospital somewhere in this shithole town.”
“No need for that,” Gale said. “I know where to go if you’ll…”
Astarion nodded and helped him out the door, grabbing his duffel bag on the way. He also helped him down the stairs, out into the streets of Qu'ellarz'orl and over to the familiar seat of House Baenre.
When they got there, Minthara was sitting outside chain smoking in her usual attire: grey sweatpants, no shirt, and a purple Preserve Menzoberranzan Society ballcap.
“Wizard,” she drawled.
“Apologies for not calling first, but I’m in a bit of a spot…”
Minthara smirked. “I can see that.”
“Some healing would go a long way…”
She pointedly eyed Astarion before returning her attention to Gale. “Tell me, wizard. When I said you were permitted to visit, did I also say you were welcome to bring along any vagabonds you encountered along the way?”
Astarion rolled his eyes. “Just heal him, you cow.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, you’re walking around with your udders out.”
Gale chastised him with the tone of a disappointed elder. “Astarion.”
Minthara, though, developed a wicked smile as she laid a glowing hand on Gale.
“Welcome to House Baenre,” she said.
Chapter 15: Cell Mates
Summary:
After 500 years, Astarion notices a change in Gale and struggles with the feelings that result.
Notes:
Welcome back! Astarion is a gross little freak in this chapter, but you all knew that about him already.
Chapter Text
When Gale was sleeping, the idiot made two noises: a croaky wheeze and a rapid-fire popping sound. Astarion didn’t wager either was a sign of peak human health. More importantly, the sounds were annoying.
Minthara—the joy that she was—set them up in the smallest guest room in her estate, and so Astarion lay on his back on a degradingly small double bed, mere inches from where Gale was sawing logs. He jutted his leg to the side to kick him in the shin again.
—Krrrrrrrk—krk—trp—brk—
The damned wizard was unwakeable.
Astarion couldn’t blame him, really. He also wanted to rest after listening to Minthara rant and rave about the failures of modern Menzoberranzan for hours (third sons no longer being purged was of particular concern). That was on top of the four-hour game of Risk she’d forced them into, which she won handily. Then there was the traditional drow meal of pyrimo fish and fungus noodles. The ghastly flavors of that one still lingered on Astarion’s palate, even after he’d washed them down with two whole bottles of wine.
He unleashed another fishy belch and groaned.
Next to him, Gale emitted an equally fishy fart. He was capable of three noises, it seemed.
It was just one night, Astarion reminded himself. Thanks to Minthara, Gale was all healed up and in the morning they’d make a break for… somewhere. Perhaps back to Waterdeep. There wasn’t exactly a plan, aside from ‘avoid getting murdered or kidnapped by pissed off associates of Araj Oblodra.’ That definitely meant leaving the blood merchant's neighborhood and it precluded returning to the Jannath Estate.
Astarion considered that he was trusting Gale not to walk away and return to Mystra with his low-hanging balls between his legs. Historically, trust had been a mistake, but something really seemed different this time. While he was brushing his fangs, getting ready for bed, he’d caught Gale pressing a hand to the room’s window and gazing regretfully at the cavern walls outside. The man always had that pathetic, wet puppy sort of look to him, but it seemed especially miserable. Noteworthy, even.
He didn’t ask about it, of course. It wasn’t his problem.
The snoring, though, was. He kicked Gale again, this time with so much force he heard something crack.
“Wake up!” he shouted.
“—Krkrkrk—starion?”
“I can’t trance for a damned second with you gasping your dying breaths over there.”
Gale coughed a few times. “Don’t you have any more Elfbien?”
“No, I downed the whole bottle when I realized I had to share this tiny bed with you. It seems the effects have already worn off.”
“I’m sorry,” Gale said. “I can get up and do some crosswords to stay awake if you’d prefer…”
Something about that statement struck Astarion. He, an immortal ascendant vampire who didn’t even need to sleep, was asking a walking euthanasia ad to sacrifice on his behalf. There was a pang of something in Astarion’s stomach that he hoped was from the fungus noodles but he suspected was from something else.
He sort of… cared. Just a little.
As much as he hated Gale—and he did hate him—he somehow cared enough to keep him from being murdered when he could have stayed in a blissful, drug-induced stupor at Araj’s house. Just as he'd cared enough to keep him from slipping off a log at the circus.
“I, erm…” Astarion couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “You should rest. I don’t really need it. I’ll just jerk off or something.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive,” Astarion said.
In no time at all, Gale was out again.
—Krrrrrrrk—krk—trp—brk—
Equal parts bored and annoyed by his own chivalry, Astarion was ready to pass the time. With his eyes glued to the room’s web-patterned ceiling, he slid his tighty whities down slightly and grabbed the artisanal dragonborn fucksleeve. He spit on his hand to lube up his cock, then jolted a little with shock as he slipped it inside.
It wasn’t the dragonborn fucksleeve. He’d accidentally grabbed the Yuan-ti Broodguard, with its thin, forked tongue and curved fangs.
The masturbator wasn’t unpleasurable, but it was Gale’s—no doubt misplaced by the near-dementia wizard.
Astarion glanced over at the man snoring and pooting puffs of fishy ass air and considered that the fucksleeve around his cock was that disgusting bastard’s sloppy seconds. He didn't really feel like rooting around to find the other sleeve, though. Too much effort for a few seconds’ pleasure.
Surely Gale had prestidigitated the thing. That would mean it was as good as new.
He pulled the sleeve away, brought it closer to his face, and hacked a big wad of spit inside. Then curiosity got the better of him. With far more enthusiasm than was warranted, he brought the Broodguard’s mouth to his nose and gave it a sniff.
Aside from his own fish and wine-scented spittle, there was another scent in there: a bleachy, musky hint of semen. Any illusion Astarion had of the fucksleeve being clean was shattered, but for some reason his cock throbbed.
He added that to the long list of things that were wrong with him. Then he gave the tube one more long, fascinated sniff before returning it to his groin and stuffing his cock inside.
—Krrrrrrrk—krk—trp—brk—
While the interior ridges worked his shaft beautifully, Astarion shut his eyes, bit his lip, and tried to think about carving up Cazador. Instead, the image his mind conjured up was his cock in Gale’s ass. Not the past-its-prime pucker of the old bastard snoring next to him, but the Gale he first met, the one who looked age-appropriate for someone with Astarion’s unparalleled beauty to fuck.
He almost tried once. Well, twice, if getting high on LSD and trying to pretend Gale was his late dragonborn lover counted. Astarion didn’t imagine it did.
Only once did he actually try to fuck Gale. It was at that goblin party. Astarion thought someone who could launch fireballs and create daylight with his fingertips would be a fine mark. Seduce him, get him to help kill Cazador, yada yada yada… Easy.
Fortunately, Minthara swooped in before he could make that particular mistake. Astarion was left seducing the only person he’d ever loved, and the rest was history.
While he stroked his cock at a quick pace, Astarion pictured that little campsite. There was a nice shack across a stream, occupied only by a magic mirror. He imagined he’d taken Gale back there, gotten him on all fours, and elicited delicious little whimpers as he fucked him senseless.
He knew the kinds of sounds Gale made when he was getting fucked hard. The sounds of Minthara abusing his asshole rang out across many a campsite.
—Hnnnngh—gods—yes—Astarion—
It was clear as could be in his mind. They were fucking in full view of the mirror, and Astarion watched Gale's jaw clench and his eyes roll back in his head. He watched sweat bead on his forehead and his breaths come hard and heavy.
Astarion groaned a little as he made his last few plunges into Gale’s tight, wet hole. His release was small but powerful, the force of it more alleviating than he'd imagined it would be.
The sleeve let out a squishy squelch as Astarion removed it and tossed it to the nightstand. He then sank into his pillow to bask in the shameful aftermath of what he'd just done.
Not helping matters, Gale was still moaning. It hadn’t been Astarion’s imagination at all.
—Hnnnngh—starion—agggggh—
Whatever erotic dream was going on in Gale’s mind reached its conclusion. He twitched and came in his pants, then got right back to snoring.
—Krrrrrrrk—krk—trp—brk—
🩸🩸🩸
Lest he end up in yet another major depressive episode, Astarion tried not to think about the fact that he and Gale had both nutted while thinking about each other. He pushed it to the far reaches of his mind, alongside things like basic empathy and misunderstood lyrics to that “Cherry Cola” song by Savage Garden.
In the morning, he got up, went to the bathroom, and jerked off in the shower with dignity—once again thinking about Cazador exploding into bits of viscera as he spurted down the drain.
When he stepped back into the bedroom, Gale was seated at the edge of the bed, using his cell phone. Though he held the bricklike device next to his ear, it was clearly on speakerphone based on how loudly it blasted the entire conversation.
“The whole tower?” Gale asked, aghast.
“I grabbed the most important shit I could find on my way out,” Tara-22 said, “but what the fuck are we supposed to do now?”
“You’re a wizard in your own right. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
“Not going backs to the vampire,” Basket hissed in the background.
“It won’t come to that,” Gale assured.
“I'm gonna get a room at the fucking Ritz-Ravengard,” Tara-22 declared. “Rent Wrestlemania, call room service, the works. Then not pay the credit card bill.”
“You do as you see fit. Do keep me updated, though.”
A harsh dial tone followed.
“What was that about?” Astarion asked, taking a seat next to Gale.
“It seems someone has burned down my tower,” Gale said with a frown.
“Revenge for murdering Araj’s wizards?” Astarion presumed.
“I would imagine so,” Gale said. “There are so many safeguards, though. Enchantments. Abjuration spells. Necromantic barriers. Only a wizard more talented than I would be able to break them and do any damage.” He added with a waver in his voice, “There are no wizards more talented than I am.”
“How humble,” Astarion said indifferently.
“I don’t mean that as a boast, though it is a source of pride. Ever since Elminster died, I’ve been assured I am the most powerful wizard in the realms.”
“Assured by Mystra?”
Gale nodded. “I need a moment to seek her guidance.”
Astarion’s posture became guarded. “What for?”
With a soft expression, Gale put a wrinkly hand on Astarion’s shoulder. “I’m not leaving you. I meant what I said before. But yesterday I watched two drow cast magic under an antimagic field. Today I found out my impenetrable tower has been penetrated.”
Astarion’s mind lingered just a bit too long on the word ‘penetrated.’
“Something suspicious is happening,” Gale concluded.
“Fiiiiine,” Astarion sighed. “Dial up 1-800-NONCE-GOD. I’ll be downstairs telling Minthara her shower pressure is shit.”
Because he was a deceptive asshole, Astarion didn’t go downstairs. Instead, he lingered right next to the door with his pointy ear pressed against it.
He soon realized he couldn’t actually hear a conversation taking place on another plane of existence between two non-corporeal entities and sighed.
Just as he was stepping away to find Minthara, he did hear something on the other side of the door. Soft, wheezy sniffling. Gale was crying.
Two options presented themselves to Astarion: go back in there or walk away.
The strange tugging feeling in his stomach returned, twisting him in knots. It was odd, considering he’d most certainly already shat out Minthara’s hideous mushroom pasta before his shower wank. There was nothing else on his stomach.
It was as he’d feared. Astarion was having feelings again.
Furious, he stormed downstairs.
🩸🩸🩸
While he’d never stopped feeling things like indignance, existential angst, and regret, Astarion had long ago stopped holding feelings toward other people. In his experience, caring always ended in pain.
He’d cared about that stupid Gur case he lost back in 1296, and what did that get him? Murdered in an alley and turned into a slave, that’s what.
He’d cared about being the best spawn he could be, and did it earn him any leniency from Cazador that first decade of his unlife? Absolutely not.
Caring enough to let a sweet young man named Sebastian escape his grasp got Astarion entombed for a year in 1322, only for Sebastian to end up recaptured later and murdered anyway. An exercise in futility.
Caring about the career trajectory of Oasis had likewise been a mistake.
Then there was his mad love. Astarion had grown to care so much during their short-lived relationship that it ate at him for centuries. It still did, if he was being honest. If he were to look at the Deathstalker Mantle in his bag too long, he’d find himself despairing over what could have been.
It was best to cut any sort of feeling off at the root.
Caring about a flatulent old wizard who’d consistently let him down for centuries didn’t even make sense. There was no reason he should give a shit about Gale. They weren’t friends. They’d never been friends. They would never be friends.
In hopes of reinforcing that opinion, Astarion decided to be a prick.
When Gale finally made his way to the kitchen at his slow, hobbling pace, Astarion loudly changed the topic of conversation, as if there had been any conversation between himself and Minthara in the first place.
“Sooooo, what made you stop fucking Gale?” he asked.
She flicked the ashes from her cigarette into an amber ashtray. With an annoyed glare, she glanced from Astarion to Gale and back. “Boredom.”
Gale seemed unaffected.
Astarion prodded further. “Oh, but wizards can do all sorts of things in bed, can’t they?”
Minthara scoffed. “As if I would ever permit a wizard to do anything to me.”
Gale’s spacy demeanor didn’t change as he took a seat between Astarion and Minthara. There was a plastic clamshell container of stale mushroom danishes on the table, and he reached in and grabbed one, wordlessly stuffing his face.
The sounds of an old man loudly gumming at a tacky treat were repugnant, and Astarion sneered at him.
“Gods,” he griped. “Do you need someone to blend that into a liquid for you? Maybe mix it with an Ensure shake?”
Minthara stopped herself from snorting.
After a few bites, Gale looked like he was about to cry again. Possibly the flavor, but more likely something to do with the sniffling Astarion heard before. He watched Gale with interest, and Minthara in turn watched as Astarion's scowl faded to a look of concern.
“Agh!” Gale yelped, tossing the pastry back onto the table.
“Is something the matter?” Astarion asked.
“My damned dentures came unglued again,” Gale said quickly, like it was an excuse. He scooted his chair out with a loud BRRRRT and stepped away with a sigh. “I’ll be back.”
While Gale made his way outside to cast some magical gum glue, Minthara stared unnervingly at Astarion from across the table. “Go to him.”
Astarion laughed. “No.”
Her brow furrowed. “Are you under the impression that was a request?”
“I’m not some soft simp like Gale. I’m the vampire ascendant,” Astarion said haughtily. “You don’t get to order me around, no matter how hard you shake your fossilized funbags.”
Minthara leered at him. “Caring for another is not soft, Astarion. It is one of the hardest things a person can do. I know your instincts are worse than a third born son’s, but you would do well to heed them, just this once.”
“What makes you think I want to…?”
“Go.” She pointed to the door.
🩸🩸🩸
Outside, Gale wasn’t fixing his gums. He was seated on an adirondack rocking chair, swaying only slightly as he gazed out at the standstill traffic and heavy smog of Menzoberranzan.
“I take it things didn’t go well with Mystra,” Astarion offered, plopping into a similar chair.
Gale shook his head. “Apparently there’s another form of magic she’s closed off to me.”
“As punishment for the orb incident, or…?”
“I don’t know. I was only told it’s not for me.”
“It’s not for you?” Astarion squinted. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know, but it's different from the Karsite Weave. That was closed to everyone, for good reason. This is clearly open to some assorted drow.” Gale looked up as a flock of flying spiders passed by, and became lost in thought. “You know, I was just eight years old when I met Mystra.”
“Yes, I’ve heard all about how you were a child prodigy. I still think it sounds like sorcery.”
“I assure you, there’s no magic in my bloodline. Just a gift for studying, for all the good that’s done me.” Those last few words rang heavy.
It occurred to Astarion that this would probably be a good time to be a friend to Gale, if he wanted to, but he wasn’t really sure what that looked like. “Gale, you seem a bit… erm…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, as he didn’t know what he was going for.
Heaving a heavy sigh, Gale pushed himself out of the rocking chair and stepped toward the edge of Minthara’s anti-magic barrier. “I do need to fix my teeth…”
He performed a quick spell and headed back inside.
Tailing him, Astarion couldn’t help but think he’d failed in some unmeasurable way. Worse, he couldn’t suss out why he should care. If anything, Gale deserved to be let down in the way he’d let Astarion down so many times over the years.
Then again, his contempt for everyone else in existence had only ever led to a dreadful, boring life that culminated in selling his body to a drow woman he despised, so perhaps it was time for a change.
“Wait,” Astarion said, grabbing Gale by the shoulder in the foyer.
There was a loud creaking sound as Gale turned to face him. “What?”
Astarion’s lips curled into a scowl as he settled on some words that seemed right, taking far too long to force each one out. “I’m… sorry that happened to you. It sounds… very bad.”
Gale responded as if Astarion’s words weren’t half-assed, barreling toward him and roping him into a hug that smelled like mentholated cream and decaying books.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
A confusing mix of emotions swirled around in Astarion. Concern. Disgust. Dread. Part of him wanted to violently shove Gale away, but he thought about what he might have wanted centuries ago when Gale failed to answer his sending stone, or in 1994 when Gale left him at the scene of his mad love’s murder.
Astarion hugged him back.
🩸🩸🩸
Upstairs, Minthara hadn’t left the kitchen table. She was ignoring her cold cup of coffee and scrolling through DrowBook.
“Wonderful,” she said loudly. “Immigrants have opened an Amnian restaurant in the Bazaar.”
“Is that so bad?” Gale wondered.
Astarion pulled out a seat for him, and Gale dropped into it.
Minthara ignored the kind gesture and continued her rant. “Each day there are fewer establishments serving traditional Menzoberranzan cuisine.”
“A small miracle,” Astarion sniped, taking the seat next to Gale.
“This all started when we got rid of the gold standard, if you ask me.”
“No one did,” Astarion jibed.
Gale turned the conversation to an area of his own interest. “Minthara, about the Oblodras…”
“Abysmal family,” she said quickly.
“Do you know anything about the wizards they employ?”
“The Oblodras do not work for what they have. They scheme and cheat and drain resources like the parasites they are. If there are wizards in that gold-festooned abomination they call a home, I assume they were hired from SpellSafe.”
Gale tilted his head, puzzled. “SpellSafe? I’ve never heard of that.”
Minthara laughed. “Funny.”
“I’m not joking…”
“Hrm. I suppose you wouldn’t have been pitched it...” Minthara stood, and it took a moment for her tits to settle at her waist as she stepped toward a cabinet drawer.
She tossed delivery menus and old sauce packets onto the counter until she found what she was looking for, buried beneath it all: a brochure for SpellSafe, which she handed to Gale.
Gale picked it up and held it close to his face, but the print was too fine and he lacked the magic to cast whatever he normally used to see better.
“Astarion, could you…?”
Astarion took the brochure and began reading. “Has a wizard or sorcerer ever bothered you?” He glanced at Gale and smirked. “For over thirty years, SpellSafe has been providing home security solutions for Faerûn’s wealthiest and most powerful citizens. Our services include: installation of anti-magic fields, personal pocket dimensions for storing valuable items, glyphs of warding, and planar-bound guard elementals. But wait, there’s more! SpellSafe also employs a legion of mages. For an additional fee, you and yours can have the realm’s most powerful wizards at your beck and call. Empowered by synthetic Weave, these wizards can perform feats impossible to wizards who draw upon the natural Weave…” Astarion realized what he’d just read and stopped. “Oh.”
“Synthetic Weave!?” Gale exclaimed. “Mystra told me there was powerful magic closed to me. She didn’t say it was created for profit.” He leaned in, trying to read the pamphlet. “Is there contact information on there?”
“There’s an office in Candlekeep, but I don’t recommend we go storming a building full of turbowizards since you nearly died the last time—”
“You’re right.” Gale shut his eyes.
Having no idea how to comfort someone who’d been betrayed by the goddess they worshiped for five centuries, Astarion patted Gale’s shoulder and spoke like he was being forced to. “There… there?”
Gale responded with the realm’s saddest, weakest smile, so Astarion imagined he was doing a pretty good job.
They didn’t get any more time to bond, though, as two more drow wizards stepped into the kitchen, seemingly from nowhere.
“You dare trespass in my home?” Minthara sneered.
“We’re not here for you,” one of them said. “That wizard is harboring something that belongs to Araj Oblodra.”
Gale stood to address them, and there was a rare flash of anger in his foggy eyes. “His name is Astarion, and he doesn’t belong to anyone.”
Echoes of a conversation five hundred years old rang out in Astarion’s mind. One between a dragonborn and Araj Oblodra.
I assume he belongs to you?
Yes. All mine.
Well, I hope you don’t mind sharing him for just a moment.
“Say that again,” Astarion said to Gale, ignoring the impending fight.
Gale squinted. “You don’t belong to anyone?”
That felt right.
Astarion leapt forward, tackling one of the wizards to the ground. With a peppy growl, he dove straight for the bastard’s neck and bit in.
The other wizard attempted to mutter something, to cast some spell to stop Astarion, but Minthara slit his throat with a butcher knife before he could. While Astarion drained one wizard dry—his blood was a bit shroomy for Astarion’s tastes—Minthara went on a stabbing spree against the other, dropping to the floor beside the corpse and stabbing it posthumously a few dozen times for good measure.
When she stood up, her wrinkly tits were spattered with crimson and a huge grin spread across her face. “I haven’t killed in ages. I’d almost forgotten how good it feels.” She added, bitterly, “The things outsiders have taken from Menzoberranzan…”
Gale eyed the corpses. “They must have traced my magic when I stepped outside to fix my dentures.”
“We should leave,” Astarion offered.
“Why?” Minthara asked, her eyes wide with bloodlust. “I hope they send legions.”
“I don’t think Gale’s heart can take that,” Astarion said.
“If I teleport us, they’ll follow,” Gale said.
With a grunt, Minthara tossed Astarion a set of car keys. “Here. Keys to the Plymouth Laser out back. It’s the worst of my vehicles.”
“Thank you,” Astarion said with a sarcastic bow.
“Good luck,” Gale added. “I hope you get to kill as many wizards as you’d like.”
“As do I,” Minthara said, smearing blood from her breasts under each of her eyes.
Slowly—excruciatingly slowly—Astarion and Gale made their way to a purple coupe that had been parked long enough for mushrooms to begin growing beneath its frame. Glowing blue, they curled upward around the bottoms of the doors and from within the wheel wells.
Gale's hand shook as it reached for the passenger side door. Astarion impatiently shoved past him and yanked the door open, releasing a cloud of musty spores he hoped weren't toxic, then shoved Gale into the vehicle.
He hurried around the car to take the driver's seat.
Inside, Gale was clearly still upset, even after reclining his seat so it was almost flat and putting some dreadful ragtime music on the radio.
“Better?” Astarion asked, cranking the heat for Gale's frail, aging body.
Gale quietly nodded.
Astarion had only stolen cars a time or two in Baldur’s Gate and barely remembered how to drive, but he did have a fake ID card and driver’s license, thanks to Gale.
As he pulled away from the city, aiming for a surface-Underdark connector, he tried cheering up his companion.
“You realize what this means,” Astarion said, casually running over a large endangered spider.
“What?”
Astarion laughed darkly. “We’re going on an adventure.”
At that, Gale smiled.
Chapter 16: Grab a Pint
Summary:
Astarion and Gale leave the Underdark and get margaritas.
Notes:
Yes, I updated the chapter count. Sue me. This one should be final, though. Everything is fully outlined. <3
Chapter Content Warning:
Expand for Spoilers.
Drunken misbehavior, Oasis lyrics.
Chapter Text
The purple Plymouth Laser puttered along at half the speed of the cars around it—not because it was falling apart, which it was, but because Astarion complained that pressing his foot down on the gas pedal was exhausting. He took a “foot break” every twenty minutes or so to remove his Skechers and massage his aching toes.
Gale had no idea what he'd gotten himself into, but he didn't mind the leisurely pace. He actually managed to doze off a few times in the gloomy serenity of the Underdark, but each time he did Astarion drove over the rumble strips at the side of the road to jostle him.
“Just resting my eyes—” Gale mumbled each time, as if it were an exoneration for some unwritten crime.
When they finally reached the surface, somewhere near Silverymoon, it was almost sundown. Gale spotted something familiar, a huge silver structure glistening in the orange-purple light of dusk: a Mystran Megatabernacle.
It comprised eight huge triangles reaching into the sky. Like the points on her star symbol, each spike represented one of the eight schools of magic. Pilgrimage sites for clerics and other true believers, there were a few such megatabernacles scattered across Toril, but Gale had never managed to make his way to one. He’d always been preoccupied putting in actual work on behalf of his goddess.
The place was still a few miles out, but clearly visible due to its massive size.
Gale glanced toward Astarion, who was scowling before he ever said anything.
“We should stop in,” Gale said.
Astarion groused. “You’ve got to be kidding me. She betrayed you.”
“I mustn't jump to any hasty conclusions about that.”
“Hasty?” Astarion choked. “There’s a second Weave out there being sold to insane drow matriarchs!”
Gale raised a finger in objection. “Time and time again, I’ve shown flawed judgment.”
“You're not wrong there,” Astarion interjected.
Gale continued. “Without all the facts, I cannot presume Mystra is in the wrong here.” Astarion yawned loudly, and Gale pivoted. “That’s beside the point, though. I cannot cast any spells without drawing the attention of Araj’s wizards for hire. At a Mystran Megatabernacle, I’ll be able to reach her via the ambient Weave surging throughout the building. A simple prayer. Slip in and out, unnoticed.”
“To what end?” Astarion asked.
“To learn more about this synthetic Weave,” Gale explained. “To find out whether she had a role in its creation and why I’m barred from its use. To explain our situation and potentially subvert the thing. It’s possible Mystra would like to see this Weave gone, as I do, and that I’m not permitted to access it for my own safety’s sake.”
“Eugh. Didn’t you want to see the Darklake or something?”
“We drove past it earlier,” Gale said, a bit hurt that Astarion hadn’t paid attention to his lecture about toxic salt ponds and agricultural runoff.
“We did?”
“It dried up a few years ago…”
“Whatever. We're not going. Surely there’s some place with souvenir teacups that isn’t a gauche shrine to the bitch goddess of diddling kids.”
A wave of sadness came over Gale as he realized the fate of all his souvenir teacups, but they were hardly the most important matter.
“Astarion,” he chided. “Since you won’t kill Araj—”
“It’s not that I won’t,” Astarion hissed. “It’s that if I do, it will become a whole thing. The woman has more money than the gods. There will be more wizards, Flaming Fists, mercenaries for hire… It will never stop until I'm lynched in the streets.”
“Right. Since you won’t kill her, I think the first thing we need to do is find a way to get you off of her radar. A better understanding of this synthetic Weave may help with that.”
“Or I could just abandon you,” Astarion said flippantly. “They tracked you down, not me. I could slip into some busy city like Luskan and Araj would never find me.”
“They found you at the Jannath Estate.”
“Okay, I’d need to go a bit further then. Perhaps Osse.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“No.” Astarion sighed and pulled the car onto the freeway shoulder for another foot break. “I’d have to find a place to rent, a new source of income… it would be exhausting.” He stretched a bit, rotating his ankle to relieve the stress of having to accelerate.
The indolence of it struck Gale.
“Astarion, am I here just to keep you from having to work for a living?”
Astarion waved his hand in a ‘kind of’ gesture. “Well, I did have an arrangement with Araj that you sort of ruined.”
Already jaded by SpellSafe, Gale’s heart sank. The day before, he thought he’d truly rescued Astarion, and that they were making up for centuries’ worth of broken friendship. He’d been prepared to devote himself fully to the repair of said friendship. They'd hugged!
Sitting there, he realized it may never have been friendship at all. Really, Astarion only ever wanted Gale around when he could use him—for companionship or a bonus at the plasma donation center or a fake ID. Gale’s needs had never come into it, and now his simplest request—to stop at a megatabernacle—was being denied.
Minthara was right. He couldn’t help but be at someone’s beck and call, and he never received much of anything in turn. At age 567, he had nothing to show for himself.
Gale tried to open the passenger door but couldn’t figure out the locking mechanism. His weak fingers ended up picking at a tiny plastic nub near a corner of the window.
“Come on,” he muttered to himself, feeling his throat tighten with stress.
“What are you doing?” Astarion asked.
“Letting myself out, if I could just—”
Astarion reached across him and pulled the nub. There was a loud KRKCHT sound, and Gale was able to open the door and step outside.
Huffing, Astarion hopped out of the driver’s side and joined him.
Cars and trucks whizzed by and cold, dead grass crunched beneath their feet as Gale stepped away from the Laser and Astarion followed.
“What’s wrong now?” Astarion asked, annoyed.
“I thought you actually cared…”
“About what?”
“About me,” Gale said bitterly. “I always was foolish, I know.”
Determined, he picked up his pace, aiming to learn more about the synthetic Weave.
“And where do you think you're going?” Astarion asked.
“I'll walk to the tabernacle…”
Astarion stepped in front of him. “It’s still a mile out. We’re in the silver marches and the sun’s going down. If you don’t die of overexertion you’ll freeze to death before you get there.”
“I don't see how that's a bother to you,” Gale said, pushing past him.
He almost immediately tripped on an icy hole in the ground. Astarion was swiftly at his side, maneuvering under his shoulder to stop his calamitous fall.
“What’s gotten into you?” he asked.
Gale freed himself and stood with dignity. “I’m beginning to see how you see me. Not once in five hundred years have I asked for anything from you, and the one time I do…”
“You have no idea how I see you,” Astarion said, a touch of anger bubbling beneath the words.
“Yes I do. As a pathetic old man to be used or otherwise ignored.”
“I don’t think you want to bring up being ignored, Gale,” Astarion said, threatening Gale with a recap of his many mistakes over the centuries.
“My failures don’t make what I’m saying untrue.”
“Eugh.” Astarion put his hands on Gale’s shoulders and held them firmly in place. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Say what?”
“I do—” Astarion seemed to be choking back bile as he spoke “—care.”
Gale wanted to believe it. He really did, but he had doubts. “You’ve been telling me you hate me this whole time.”
“Well, I do,” Astarion huffed, removing his hands from Gale’s shoulders. “You annoy the piss out of me. You're self-righteous and overbearing and you smell like onions. That doesn’t mean I want to see you suffer under the yoke of the nonce queen. You, eugh…” His last words were a mumble. “...drvbrdr…”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You deserve better,” Astarion said, looking agonized about it. “You don’t need Mystra.”
“You’re worried I’m going to leave again,” Gale assessed.
Astarion scoffed and held his head high. “I don’t worry about anything.”
“It’s always something selfish with you,” Gale said.
“Well, yes. I am still an evil vampire, Gale. I'm selfish and petty and rude. You’ve known me for five centuries.”
“Have I?” Gale wondered, feeling decidedly less confident.
Astarion stared him down. “Don’t take your disappointment with your goddess out on me. If you thought we were friends yesterday, I’ve done nothing today that ought to have changed your mind. I meant it when I… hugged you.” With a sigh, he added, “I’ll take you to the damned tabernacle. Just get back in the car.”
🩸🩸🩸
The parking lot outside the Mystran Megatabernacle was vast. There was easily space for thousands of cars, just to account for the increased traffic on Lady Day and Gods’ Day. On an ordinary Fourthday evening, it was almost empty—an immense swath of Toril, flattened for nothing.
Astarion pulled into a spot near the front labeled ‘Wizards Only.’ Religious rock music blasted through tinny speakers perched above a massive set of double doors, both made of stained glass to form Mystra's eight-pointed star when they came together.
In front of the megatabernacle was an unmanned information booth and some huge, digital signage.
WORSHIPING MYSTRA
EVERY DAY
11 AM - 5 PM
Gale frowned as he walked up a ramp and approached the stained-glass doors. As expected, they didn’t budge.
“Sorry, folks,” said a cheery halfling emptying a trash can. “You’re welcome to come back in the morning.”
Astarion tried charming him through deception. “Erm, we’re traveling. We won’t be back around—”
“There’s a hotel with an attached Applebee’s if you need a place to crash.” The halfling pointed to the other side of a divided highway. “We have a group discount code.”
Astarion glanced up, eyeing the security cameras surrounding the building, then looked to Gale. “Do you want me to break in? Because that’s going to be a lot more trouble than it’s worth… and there is the Applebee’s…”
Gale shook his head. “We can get a room and come back tomorrow.”
🩸🩸🩸
The sign in front of the Tuck Inn said ‘VACANCY’ so the pair gave it a shot, despite any reservations about the building’s crumbling 1970s facade.
It was four stories of minimalism with simple balconies accessible by flat metal doors in shades of teal, mustard, and rust.
The inside didn’t look much more promising. Wood paneling abounded, as did avocado-colored velvet seating. It had the sort of vibe that brought to mind asbestos, but Astarion was immortal and Gale supposed a little exposure wouldn’t hurt at his already advanced age.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” asked the half-elf working the front desk.
“We are but two weary travelers in need of a room for the night,” Gale said.
Astarion rolled his eyes and rephrased. “Two beds.”
The half-elf took a deep breath, preparing to be yelled at by her newest customers. “I’m sorry. We have a few large tour groups staying with us right now. The only room we have left is the Honeymoon Suite.”
“You’re joking,” Astarion said dryly.
“I’m afraid not. The rate is 500gp per night, and it’s a two-night minimum stay.” She added, cheerfully, “It does come with a voucher for two free margaritas at our on-site Applebee’s!”
Gale hummed. “Well, if it’s all they have…”
He pulled out one of Tara-22’s credit cards, and they were soon enjoying the comforts of an enormous, ground-floor suite that had seen much better days.
It was dark—the lone window being covered with thick red drapes and the only light source being a tattered incandescent lamp—and surprisingly cramped considering it was meant to be a suite.
Everything was out in the open, from the plastic rose petal adorned king-sized bed with a cracked mirror on the ceiling above it to the glass-doored shower to the heart-shaped jacuzzi. One teensy closet in a corner hosted the toilet, the only private area in the room.
“Well, I can’t wait to see your sagging balls,” Astarion said drolly.
“You’ll not be forced to look,” Gale sniped.
Wood paneling ruled the walls here as well, along with copious amounts of love-themed decor: giant candy hearts in pinks and reds, vases full of fake red roses, and a tile mural of a cupid right behind the bath. Above the bed was a neon pink sign that buzzed and flickered the words ‘Let’s get naked’ in an almost unreadable cursive font.
“Why don’t you have your own credit, anyway?” Astarion wondered, eyeing a minibar containing high-priced bottles of lube, condoms, and elixirs of vigour.
Gale flopped onto the room’s rickety king bed and moaned with relief at being able to stretch out. “I did once. Unfortunately, being called away on interdimensional travel tends to ruin one’s credit. Most banks won’t lend to wizards anymore, and Mystra prefers it that way. She doesn’t like us besmirching her name by accruing late fees.”
Astarion stopped fondling sex supplies and stared at him. “You know, it’s sounding more and more like she hands down rules just to fuck with you.”
He just didn’t understand the importance of the Weave. The real Weave anyway.
“Astarion, I know your opinions on the gods. We must agree to disagree.”
“How naive can you be?” Astarion snapped.
“It’s not naivete. It’s faith.”
“They’re the same, as far as I can tell.” Astarion squinted and approached a wood-paneled box sitting on a nightstand next to the bed. Reading from its label, he sounded confused. “Magic fingers comfort and relaxation…” He rustled around in his jacket pocket and inserted 1gp into a slot atop the box.
—VRRGRRRGRRGRRRGRRRGRRR—
The entire bed shook aggressively and rattled, throwing itself into sideways vibrations. They were powerful enough that Gale was quickly thrown from the bed. He landed face-down on some deep mauve shag carpeting that had a nostalgic whiff of cigarettes and dust.
“Astarion,” he groaned.
“Sorry,” Astarion offered, coming around to the other side and helping Gale to his feet. “Do you need an elixir of vigour? An Applebee’s margarita, perhaps?”
“No, but I think I’ll have some time in the jacuzzi before we get dinner. May the jets ease the suffering you’ve caused my hips.”
While Astarion fussed with his hair in front of a mirror, Gale hobbled over to the tub and turned the knob for hot water. Aside from a loud creaking noise, nothing happened.
“Wonderful,” he groaned.
Astarion waved an elixir of vigour at him.
“I’ll be alright,” Gale said, declining the potion.
“Why are you so gods-damned stubborn?” Astarion griped. “Just drug yourself and feel better.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the way I feel. Aging is—”
“A sign of a life well-lived and so on and so forth. I’ve heard you. It’s still stupid.” Astarion sighed. “Let’s go get some food before you faint.”
“I’m not particularly hungry…”
“Of course you are,” Astarion insisted.
Gale noticed the slightly chipper lilt to Astarion’s voice, and shot him a knowing grin. “You seem oddly excited about this Applebee’s, Astarion.”
“Well, I’ve never been to one,” Astarion said, moving toward the door.
Gale approached him with a smile. “Are you finally discovering the joy of adventure?”
“You’re going to discover the joy of my fangs in your neck if you don’t shut up.”
In little time at all, they were seated in the Applebee’s, where bright lights, screaming children, and loud music ruled the day. Theirs was a booth big enough for six, and Astarion sprawled out on one side, kicking his legs up and enjoying the full length of the bench. Gale, meanwhile, sat like a normal, civilized person across from him as he ordered some black coffee and a grilled salmon meal.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Live a little, Gale.” Astarion held the drink menu in his hands and gestured back and forth between it and their server. “One of each of the margaritas. And a 10gp chum bucket while we’re at it.”
Gale looked at the menu’s image of that—a large plastic bucket ‘big enough to share with your chums!’ full of some blue liquid—and shuddered.
“I’m not aiming to lose my wits,” Gale said.
“It’s five hundred years too late for that, darling.”
While the context was rude, Astarion hadn’t called Gale that in ages. He knew it didn’t mean anything. It was just part of who Astarion was. Still, it was nice to be “darling” and not “you old prick” for a change. Perhaps his friend really was trying.
“One margarita,” Gale agreed, ordering from the server. “Prickly pear, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
The server glanced at Astarion, expecting him to change his demands.
“Oh, I still want everything I ordered,” Astarion said, laughing. “And the, erm…” He gave the food menu a half-hearted glance. “Deep rothé steak. Rare. So rare it’s dripping.”
“Sides?”
“I don’t give a shit,” Astarion said, waving the server away.
Soon, Astarion was five margaritas and half a chum bucket deep in liquor. On the table in front of him were an untouched side salad and a pile of steamed carrots. The juices from his steak stained a trail from the corner of his mouth down his chin as he slurred, still chewing.
“You know what I missssss?”
“Your dead love?” Gale guessed. Having abandoned his overcooked salmon, he was on his third prickly pear margarita, which he suspected the bartender was watering down for his sake. They were disgustingly sugary, but he couldn’t seem to stop ordering more.
“No,” Astarion said, leaning over the table. “Not him. I missssss—” He hiccuped, assaulting Gale’s nostrils with the chemical odor of blue food coloring. “Tadpoles.”
Gale eyed him curiously. “You miss having an illithid parasite in your head?”
“No, stupid. The… being free to do… stuff…”
Gale didn’t follow. “You’re free to do whatever you’d like now.”
“You don’t get it,” Astarion hissed, sinking back into his seat.
“No, I’m not sure I do…”
“Things were… different then…”
In his drunken state, Astarion was being completely honest, but Gale couldn’t quite figure out what his friend was trying to say.
“Could have been… different…”
Before Astarion could explain, the evening took a turn with some loud microphone feedback and a half-orc announcing that it was time for “Fourthday karaoke.”
“Yesssss.” Astarion forgot all about reminiscing. The setup was in a corner of the dining room, and he nearly fell out of the booth beelining for it.
Gale accepted his fourth prickly pear margarita and watched as his troubled friend knocked a kobold out of the way and stepped up to be the first at the microphone. An overly simplistic beat flowed through the restaurant’s speakers, drowning out clinking glasses and rowdy drunks.
Astarion slurred into the microphone, which was appropriate considering the song he’d chosen was by Oasis. “Maaaaybe I don't really wanna knowwww / How your garden grows / 'Cause I just wanna flyyyyyy—”
He was not a particularly good singer, but it did seem that Noel and Liam Gallagher’s music spoke to him on some weirdly personal level. Astarion laid into the performance with dramatic facial expressions and a hand clutching his chest. “Laaaately, did you ever feel the pain / In the morning raaaain / As it soaks you to the bone?”
Gale simply watched and sipped, absorbing the music that Astarion had used to torture Godey for three decades.
Astarion reached maximum passion at the chorus, stumbling over himself and knocking a half-empty glass from some poor goblin’s table with his wild gestures. “Maybe I just wanna fly / Wanna live, I don't wanna die / Maybe I just wanna breathe / Maybe I just don't belieeeeve / Maybe you're the same as me / We see things they'll never see / You and I are gonna live foreverrrrrrrr”
While Astarion continued singing, Gale felt something nudge his shoulder. It seemed an older elven gentleman in the next booth wanted his attention.
“Hey, where’d you hire him from?” the elf asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“That little hottie at the mic. I've been thinking about paying for my own date some time, but I’ve only heard bad things about Holes4Olds. It’s tough to get any attention when you start to look like we do…”
Gale was aghast. “He’s not… that is, it’s not a date. We’re old friends.”
“Oh. Too bad for you,” said the elf, chuckling.
Embarrassed, Gale turned back to the stage. He watched as Astarion continued belting trite lyrics, his hair bouncing along to his movements.
“Maybe I will never be / All the things that I wanna be / Now is not the time to cry / Now's the time to find out whyyyy—” He stared directly at Gale, pointing in time with the beat as he hit the next lyrics. “I think you're the same as me / We see things they'll never see / You and I are gonna live forever—”
Gale’s heart thumped in his chest, and a terrible feeling came over him as he once again considered that he might be attracted to Astarion. It was something he’d always pushed to the back of his mind after the LSD incident of 1969. The most twisted of fantasies, appropriate only for the occasional wet dream.
As his cock struggled to rise against the alcohol in his bloodstream, Gale found himself ashamed. All Astarion needed was the same thing he needed: a friend.
🩸🩸🩸
Friends could masturbate next to one another, apparently.
When they got back to the room, Gale immediately climbed into bed and tried to fall asleep. But as he stared at the mirror above the bed, he noticed that Astarion was rifling through his duffel bag and pulling out his dragonborn masturbator sleeve.
“Astarion,” Gale warned.
“Ohhhh. Here.” Astarion’s voice was still sloppy drunk as he tossed the yuan-ti broodguard sleeve to Gale.
Gale eyed the crusty toy (he could have sworn he’d cleaned it up after its last use). “Perhaps you could take your business to the bathroom…”
“You want me to masturbate on a toilet?” Astarion asked, aghast.
“Better than right next to me.”
“Pfffffft,” Astarion said, his lips spitting to the sound. “I jerked off next to you last night.”
Gale’s eyes widened. “You what?”
“I thought you knew.”
“I thought you’d excused yourself to the bathroom.”
“Well, I didn’t. So this is nothing new.” Astarion hopped into bed and pulled his track pants down just enough to expose his thick cock.
Gale swallowed and did his best to hide his eyes behind his hand.
Out of nowhere, Astarion’s hand pulled Gale’s away. He moved in close and looked Gale in the eyes with a bright expression. “I have an idea.”
“You’re drunk,” Gale noted, both for Astarion’s benefit and his own restraint.
“Yesss, exact–ly.” Astarion frowned at his semi-soft cock. “We see who can get off first in spite of all the margaritas and blue chum in our systemsss—”
“I don’t think a masturbation contest is the best use of our time…”
“Oh, live a little,” Astarion whined. He then hit Gale with words he knew he couldn't resist. “Consider it an adventure.”
Gale gazed into curious red eyes. “What are the rules?”
“Erm…” Astarion’s face scrunched as he thought something up on the spot. “Loser has to drink the cum.”
“His own, or…?”
“Both,” Astarion said with a grin.
Gale began unfastening his trousers. “You’re on.”
What came next was a bizarre, uncomfortable competition. Both men lay on their backs, clothed but with their cocks out and stuffed into silicone sleeves, looking up and occasionally making eye contact via the mirror above the bed.
Astarion grunted loud and hard as he tugged violently and fought to keep his cock hard.
Gale—who was beginning to think the bartender gave him no alcohol at all—had no such problem. He fucked into his crusty masturbator with ease, taking it slow.
Climaxing was another matter, though. Gale felt it build a few times, but he couldn’t quite get himself over the edge. His mind kept deciding to have scruples and remind him that this was terribly wrong. Astarion was drunk, and he was sort of taking advantage.
“Aha!” Astarion yelped, his body stiffening. Throwing his head back, he finished inside the dragonborn fucksleeve. He sat up, carefully peeled it from his cock so as not to spill anything, and then turned to Gale with a wicked smile twisting across his face.
So much for taking advantage.
With a sigh, Gale splashed the inside of his toy.
Like Astarion, he sat up and removed his masturbator.
“Bottoms up,” Astarion said, handing him the dragonborn.
Gale brought both sticky tubes to his mouth, shut his eyes, and chugged the thick, warm liquid. It wasn’t all that bad, if a bit chum buckety.
Immediately, the constant soreness to which he’d become accustomed eased. He rolled his shoulders and they didn’t crack. He squeezed the artisanal masturbators and the joints in his fingers didn’t hurt.
“Oh, that’s nice actually,” he said, stunned. “I feel a century younger, at least.”
“You’re welcome,” Astarion said, still slurring. “You know, it’s ff–funny. I drain someone of blood, they die. I take just a little, they can no longer die. I give you a few drops of cum, you regain your vitality. If I were to fuck you, you’d probably have a heart attack and die.”
That was a dangerous prospect.
Gale gaped at him. “Astarion, you don’t want to…?”
“Noooo. It’s just funny is all…”
With that, Astarion fell to his side, passed out hard.
Gale pulled a fuzzy red blanket over his friend and settled in for his first pain-free night in ages. There was no chance it would also be guilt-free.
Chapter 17: Just His Type
Summary:
Astarion experiences some post-nut clarity.
Notes:
Tags have been updated. ;)
There's some referenced past abuse in this one, but nothing too intense.
If you want to play a game, see if you can spot the homage to Star Trek.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
1492 DR:
One moment, Astarion was face down, getting railed in a pool of blood, a debaucherous celebration of his mad love claiming his rightful place as Bhaal’s chosen. The next, he was huddled in a little Undercity nook, avoiding a return to camp.
The sex was rougher than usual, and Astarion had mostly blocked it out.
He sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, shivering a bit from the cool underground breeze whipping at his blood-soaked face and hair. In his mind, doubts arose about his own happiness. The only thing worse than making a poor decision was admitting to it, though, and Astarion refused. He had a path forward in Cazador’s ritual. He knew he did.
Weak footsteps approached, accompanied by the smell of old books and vanilla. Fucking Gale.
“Astarion, are you alright?”
“Of course I am. Why would I not be?”
Gale had seen them going at it over Orin’s gore pile. Everyone had. “I’m concerned about your relationship…”
“Oh, that’s rich,” Astarion said with a hearty scoff. He righted himself and pointed at the collar around Gale’s neck, placed there by Minthara. “You’re one to talk.”
“I’m not the one going around claiming I’m in love,” Gale noted. “You are.”
“Well, I am,” Astarion said, standing to meet Gale and holding his head high. “Perhaps someday you’ll know what it’s like.”
“What do you like about him?” Gale asked bluntly.
Astarion laughed and lavished praise. “What’s not to like? He’s handsome. Strong. Generous.”
“Is he?”
“Well, he gave me this little number.” Astarion flashed his red cloak, made redder with bloodstains. “We’re going to rule the entire Sword Coast together.”
Gale’s hesitant gaze was full of suspicion. “Astarion, are you certain what you’re feeling is love?”
“What else could it be?” Astarion asked.
Gale didn’t have an answer for that, and neither did Astarion.
🩸🩸🩸
Everything was pink and loud. Astarion awoke with a screaming headache and the sense that the Honeymoon Suite was too gods-damned bright under the whirring light of the ‘Let’s get naked’ sign above the bed.
Bzzt—bzzt—bzzt—
The neon tube behind him wasn’t the only thing humming. Across the room, Gale had already begun showering, and he was mumbling some old-timey tune under the patter of water.
Hmm, hmm, hmm, by the river—
Astarion sat up in bed and squinted a few times to clear his vision. The sight that greeted his refreshed eyes was a hideous one. In the exposed, glass-walled shower was the soapy body of a 567-year-old human.
Gale was holding onto a safety bar with one hand while the other strained to reach his knees with a lathered-up washcloth. He was bent forward slightly, with his backside facing Astarion. Once a delectably round bit of cake, Gale’s ass had—over the span of centuries—shifted and drooped into soggy flatness, textured only by deep wrinkles at the bottom of the cheeks and thick white hairs sprouting from the crack.
Hanging beneath his withered rump were Gale’s balls, which sat wrinkled and liver-spotted halfway down his thighs. Mercifully, they were hairless, but for a long moment, Astarion stared at them in horror. He’d come awfully close to having to drink the dusty cum creamed up by those low-hangers, and why? Because it had been easier to get shitfaced and try to express himself through Oasis lyrics than to have anything resembling a proper conversation between friends.
Not that he and Gale were friends, or that he wanted to have a conversation. Certainly not. Having no idea what he wanted, he defaulted to being an asshole.
“Good gods!” he yelped theatrically.
The shower made a squeaking sound as the water shut off.
“Astarion,” Gale said apologetically, emerging and quickly wrapping himself in a towel. “Sorry. I thought I’d sneak a shower in before you awoke.”
“And now I’m scarred for life.”
He’d never get the image of Gale’s shriveled ass cheeks out of his mind.
“How are you, ah, feeling otherwise?” Gale asked, casting a concerned glance.
Astarion eyed an Applebee's To-Go margarita bucket that had been left out at room temperature all night.
“I had two chum buckets and eight margaritas, Gale. How do you think I feel?” He hopped off the bed and began rifling through his duffel bag in search of a new outfit. What he found first were two crusty masturbator sleeves. “At least I didn’t have to drink your fetid jism.”
“About that,” Gale tried. “It’s probably for the best that we let that little rendezvous slip into the annals of history. Put it behind us, if you will.”
Astarion crooned. “I’ve already forgotten it, darling.”
Immediately, he regretted letting a “darling” slip. It was instinctive, and he was hung over. What he meant, he told himself, was “you knob.” There was certainly nothing darling about a quincentenarian who guzzled cum from a silicone tube.
Rooting through his bag, Astarion decided on the perfect outfit for visiting a Mystran Megatabernacle. Amongst his tighty whities and Juicy Couture tracksuits were a plain white crop top meant for sleeping and a stick of red lipstick meant for luring. Together, they were perfect for a low-effort craft project.
“Gale, wait in the hallway,” he demanded as he approached the shower with his things.
A short bit later, Astarion emerged showered, in track pants and his crop top—now hastily scrawled in lipstick with the word ‘Mystra’ encircled and a big slash through it.
“Really?” Gale wondered. “You’re that petty?”
“You’ve met me, yes?”
Astarion wasn’t sure why his distaste for Mystra was so much greater than that for the rest of the Faerûnian pantheon, and he didn’t want to examine it.
“You cannot set foot in the Mystran Megatabernacle wearing that.”
“Says who?”
“Me?”
Astarion burst out laughing. “The day I let you order me around will be the day I die for good.” With that, he slapped Gale on the back of his shoulder. “Come on.”
“Ow,” Gale said, wincing.
“Cum wearing off?” Astarion wondered.
“Unfortunately,” Gale sighed.
“If you ask nicely, I may let you sup it directly from the source later.” As the words left his mouth, Astarion’s eyes widened. “I’m joking, of course.”
But he wasn’t sure he was. Somewhere inside him was a perverse little idea—a tiny fragment of a notion, barely a blip, clearly an intrusive thought, best to forget about it…
He imagined Gale could suck the hells out of a cock if he removed his dentures. The man sure liked to flap his tongue enough for it.
Disturbed, Astarion hurried back into the honeymoon suite and chugged the remainder of his room temperature margarita before setting out.
🩸🩸🩸
At 11:00 on the dot, there was already a sizable, diverse crowd making its way through the doors of the Mystran Megatabernacle. High elves, deep gnomes, and everything in between piled in, chatting and ogling the scenery.
Astarion and Gale approached the information booth.
“Hello!” said a cheery blue tiefling. “Here to worship Our Lady of Spells?” She then noticed Astarion's shirt. “Not looking to start any trouble, I hope.”
“Never,” Astarion drawled.
“I'm trying to convert him,” Gale said, attempting to explain why a wizard would cohort with someone who hated the mother of all magic.
“Ah.” The tiefling smoothly transitioned into a sales pitch. “Did you know the best way to spread the gospel of Mystra is by making a monthly donation? Just 25gp monthly can convert up to three future worshipers.”
Gale's face flushed. “No, ah, thank you.”
She handed him a folded piece of paper. “Here's a tabernacle map. There are several donation bins set up inside if you change your mind. We do take SunmelonPay.”
They stepped through the stained-glass double doors to be greeted by Mystra's divine presence. Instead, they were greeted by a gift shop.
Per the map, the Mystran Megatabernacle was divided into eight huge chambers, one for each of the giant prongs visible on the exterior. The gift shop occupied the entirety of the first prong.
Under blindingly bright lights were an array of useless mementos, arranged in a clutter such that there was no easy pathway through the shop.
There were mugs, shot glasses, beer steins, and flasks bearing Mystra's name or nonsensical catchphrases like ‘Weave Me Alone.’ Owlbear, tressym, and griffin plushies were piled high to appeal to kids, while magnets, keychains, and snow globes sat on shelves at enormous markup for their parents.
There were souvenir teacups, of course, but having no home to return to, Gale skipped purchasing one.
“Wow, this sure seems holy,” Astarion remarked, plucking a Slinkee from a discount bin and discarding it just as quickly. He moved on to some cheap plastic star earrings.
“They have to earn money to maintain the facility somehow,” Gale insisted.
As they moved past the checkout counter, though, he noticed something that left him baffled. A sign next to some chewing gum packets read:
Synthetic Weave
Access Sold Here
“Excuse me,” Gale said to the plastic-looking, vacant-expressioned half-elf at the counter. “What's this about synthetic Weave?”
The half-elf eyed his robes. “Interested in beginning your spellcrafting journey?” She slid a pamphlet labeled ‘MAGIC AND YOU’ across the counter. “Weave as a Service starts with introductory level spells. You’ll have access to three cantrips for just 100gp per month.”
“I’m an archmage,” Gale said, taking offense that she didn't recognize that fact by his hat. “You mean to tell me you’re supplanting study and bestowing the powers of the Weave in exchange for money?”
The half-elf scratched her head. “Um… I guess you don’t need it then?”
Gale turned to Astarion, aghast. “There’s no way Mystra would endorse this sort of thing.”
Astarion’s eyes were locked on some souvenir name license plates. “They have Ashlynnn with three n’s but not Astarion. What is this world coming to?”
“Are you even listening?” Gale snapped.
“Yes, Gale. My non-decaying brain is capable of multitasking. They’re selling Weave access. Who cares? It’s not like sorcerers work for it either.”
“But they don’t pay for it. 100gp for cantrips I could do when I was eight years old?”
“100gp monthly,” the half-elf butted in.
Gale was terribly worked up, and they’d barely explored the building at all.
Astarion put a hand on his shoulder and guided him toward the exit. “The RealDoll working the counter doesn’t know anything but how to make a sales pitch, so let’s move along and see what else there is in this shrine to noncery.”
The next chamber was a historic timeline.
THE HISTORY OF MAGIC
A maze of walls guided the pair through a set path (there was no way to skip around it). It began near the dawn of time, when a spat between Shar and Selûne led to fragments of their combined energies forging Mystryl. Turn by turn through tight corridors, Astarion and Gale made their way through Mystryl’s death due to Karsus’s Folly and the coming of a new Mystra.
Gale pointed out a few very special magical events in which he’d taken part, but Astarion wasn’t listening at all. His mind was preoccupied trying to sort out what he was doing willingly hanging out with an ambulatory fossil.
He snapped into paying attention only when Gale began to loudly gripe.
“Look at this!”
At the end of the History of Magic was another pitch, on a plaque just above a donation bin.
Due to a low sorcerer birth rate and a declining interest in the study of spellcraft, magic aficionados began looking into alternative means of spreading the Weave. That’s how Weave as a Service (WaaS) was born. Using a mix of natural Weave and proprietary Gondian technology, the Mother of Magic can bestow her gifts to more Faerûnians than ever.
“Well, I guess you can stop feeling guilty about all those Gondians we let drown.”
Gale just shook his head.
There was a chorus of voices coming from the next chamber, but since Gale’s aged prostate was approximately the size of a Netherstone, he had to make a quick stop in the bathroom first.
Astarion stood outside the door, twiddling his thumbs and listening to Gale’s stream start and stop half a dozen times.
“Do you need help in there?” he jibed.
Gale coughed in response. “No.”
The strangest thought crossed Astarion’s mind then—that if Gale had said “yes,” he would have gone in there and held his cock for him. There was something deeply wrong in his brain.
When Gale finished, they moved into the third chamber of the Mystran Megatabernacle, where there was apparently a performance every hour, on the half hour.
As they walked in, the show was already underway. A large choir dressed in purple and blue gowns stood staggered on bleachers at the back of the stage, bouncing, clapping, and singing.
This little Weave of mine
I’m gonna let it shine
This little Weave of mine
I’m gonna let it shine
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine
“Oddly enough,” Gale said, “I prefer your rendition of Oasis.”
“Of course you do,” Astarion hummed. “I have the voice of a celestial.”
Gale softly snorted.
They took seats near the back of the packed auditorium, on waxy pews that shone under the dancing lights flitting around the room.
When the singing stopped, a human cleric with huge, offensively bright veneers stepped to the center of the stage, his arms wide.
“Do you all have faith in Mystra?”
The crowd cheered and shouted affirmatively.
“Thanks to her, what are you?”
“One with the Weave!”
Gale didn’t participate in the call and response. He seemed befuddled by the entire thing. His face twisted in further confusion—it was almost endearing, Astarion lamented—as a group of people in disparate costumes ambled onto the stage and began a performance.
“I’m Karsus!” shouted a kobold in green robes.
The audience jeered.
“I’m going to steal the powers of Mystryl for myself!”
“Oh no!” said the chorus behind them.
On stage, there was a calamity as the cast members unleashed a slew of low-level spells for dramatic effect. Mage hands, color sprays, and minor illusions gave the impression of a great battle for the sanctity of the Weave.
A dragonborn woman draped in elegant blue and white fabric stepped up to ‘Karsus’ and held a palm forward. “Not so fast!”
“Mystryl sacrificed herself to protect the Weave,” said the cleric.
“This is all a bit oversimplified,” Gale complained under his breath.
On stage, a dramatic funeral was held for Mystryl, and the crowd made “awww” sounds.
“It was very sad,” the cleric agreed. “But a new goddess arose! The wizard Midnight ascended to godhood, and she’s been our Mistress of Magic ever since!”
“You will be the new goddess of the Weave,” said someone dressed as Ao.
“It is a privilege and an honor,” said the show’s Mystra: a dwarven woman with a thick beard.
“What does Mystra do for us!?” shouted an audience plant.
“With her guidance, we are able to channel the Weave, my friends.” The cleric smoothly transitioned into yet another sales pitch, pointing at one audience member after another. “You can cast spells. You can cast spells. You can cast spells!”
Some dead-eyed workers began pacing the aisles, collecting donations in buckets.
When Astarion glanced to his side, he saw a Gale who was crestfallen. With each new chamber of the megatabernacle, he seemed to become more melancholic.
Worse, Astarion cared about that. Watching Gale’s faith crumble bit by bit wasn’t nearly as entertaining as he thought it should have been. Instead, he felt… bad. He glanced down at his lipstick-marked shirt and frowned.
The choir started on their bullshit again.
I’ve got faith, in the Weave
Goin’ where the Weave will take me
I’ve got faith, in the Weave
I can do anything
“Alright,” Astarion said, rising and slapping the pew in front of him. “I can’t take any more of this. Have fun on your spiritual journey. When you’re ready to go, I’ll be outside.”
“You’re leaving?” Gale asked quietly.
If that was meant as a request that he stay, Astarion didn’t acknowledge it.
“Outside,” he repeated. “Whenever you’re ready. Possibly back at Applebee's getting day drunk if you take too long.”
🩸🩸🩸
Astarion turned the key to Minthara’s Plymouth Laser and backed out of the parking space with haste, squalling the car’s tires and nearly running over a halfling.
Sure, he told Gale he’d be in the parking lot, but there were more important matters to attend to. Namely, Astarion was freaking the fuck out. After two days alone with Gale, he was pouring his heart out through Oasis songs, calling the old fucker ‘darling,’ and giving a shit about Gale’s busted prostate and crisis of faith.
It was almost as though they were friends or something.
In his panic, he just started driving. Past the Tuck Inn and its attached Applebee’s, past a vast swath of nothing, past a herd of giant sheep. He drove and drove, stopping only to stretch his feet in between staring at the pavement in front of him.
“Shit,” he said to himself during one such stop. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
As Astarion curled his tired toes over the scratched metal of a guardrail, he paused to think.
He had nowhere to go and nothing to do, so why was he running?
If Araj caught up with him, no one but Gale would ever go looking for him. He knew that old coot would stop at nothing to free him, and for some reason it bothered Astarion to think that if the situation were reversed, he might do the same.
It was almost as though he actually wanted a friend.
Of all his complaints about Gale over the years, the chiefest one was that the man was never there when Astarion was at his lowest.
Astarion realized he was doing the exact same thing: abandoning Gale in his time of need. It made sense, though. He was an evil bastard who’d be ruling the Sword Coast someday. Definitely. Maybe.
Who was he kidding? He just wanted to watch bad television, jerk off, and drink margaritas.
And he wanted company while he did so. Specifically Gale’s company. Astarion supposed he actually liked him a bit.
What Gale deserved was some good petty revenge for all those times he either refused Astarion’s call or left and didn’t return. What he needed, though, was the same thing Astarion had needed over the years: for someone to be there for him.
Making an illegal maneuver through a median, Astarion turned the car around.
🩸🩸🩸
As Collective Soul blasted through thirty-year-old speakers courtesy of 97.6 WHUMP FM, Astarion pulled back into the tabernacle parking lot in a determined but dismal state.
For hours, his mind had been replaying past interactions with Gale. They'd hugged. They'd kissed. They'd cried in each other's arms. For two nights in a row, they'd masturbated in the same bed.
That magical motherfucker hadn’t been very reliable over the years, but he was the only person Astarion had ever trusted. He couldn't even say that about his late dragonborn; they'd always been scheming, with and against each other. It was thrilling, but probably unhealthy in hindsight.
Even if he hated Gale, he’d trusted him enough to call for him, over and over.
Now he wasn't sure he hated him.
He suspected something else—that all of his disappointment in Gale had come from what they hadn't done together, from how different their lives might be if Astarion had seduced him at that goblin party, or if Gale had just fucking shown up when Astarion sent that sending stone message. It might not be a good life, but it would certainly be a different one.
With his mind racing, Astarion made his way through seven sections of the megatabernacle (including a second gift shop and an interactive zone where visitors could get their ‘Weave Potential’ tested) to find Gale at the last: the actual temple. He was the only person there, as the megatabernacle was closing in fifteen minutes. Everyone else who was still in the building was happily browsing for souvenirs.
On the floor in front of a huge marble statue of Mystra, Gale knelt on his knees. At his side was a little souvenir bag. He might have been stuck there, based on the grimace on his face.
Astarion approached and realized Gale was staring forward at Mystra's stone ankles, motionless, his cold eyes seemingly shell-shocked.
“Heyyyy,” Astarion tried.
There was no response.
“I'm assuming it didn't go well…”
Still nothing.
Gale may have died, for all Astarion knew. To find out, he dropped to his own knees and faced his decrepit companion.
“Talk to me, pet.”
Pet? Oh, that was worse than “darling.” Astarion reminded himself that what he really meant was “codger,” and that he was simply under a lot of stress due to losing his home, being turned into soap, and fleeing Araj Oblodra.
Gale made a pointed glance at the statue. His whisper bordered on incomprehensible. “She's been using me.”
“Well, yes. You're a weave anchor.”
“For synthetic Weave.” Gale’s voice broke a little as he said it.
“What?”
“I've been holding up a for-profit scheme for thirty years and I didn't even know...”
Astarion gawped. “Why does the mother of meddling with minors need money?”
“She doesn’t, but the more Weave users there are, even synthetic ones, the stronger her power amongst the pantheon. She summoned me from the circus and again in the Underdark because I was close to finding out…” Gale stopped staring at stone ankles and met Astarion’s gaze with glossy eyes. “All those times I failed you to do her bidding…”
Gale was feeling guilty, as he should. Astarion ought to have luxuriated in it.
“Water under a bridge,” he offered instead.
Gale’s nose made a honking sound. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” Astarion realized. “I once placed my faith in someone I shouldn’t have, and it’s made the last five centuries torturous. As much as I want to… I can’t blame you for making the same mistake.”
At that moment, they seemed to really see each other: two awful people who'd been made more awful by circumstance and by misguided feelings of love.
“Astarion, are you saying…”
“I forgive you for being a shit friend, yes.”
Gale sniffed. “Thank you. I forgive your, ah… attitude.”
Astarion playfully scoffed. “What attitude?” He then rose, offering his hand. “Come on. Let’s get you back to a comfortable bed before Wheel of Fortune.”
The skin of Gale’s hand was thin and weirdly chalky. When Astarion pulled, Gale let out a hitched, doddery shriek and dropped back to the floor.
“Gods, my knees are stiff,” he griped. “I can’t even bend them.”
“How long have you been sitting on the damned floor?”
Gale grunted. “Too long.”
Further attempts to extricate Gale from the floor resulted in awkward wobbling, spinning, and the wizard eventually collapsing into a wheezy heap.
Astarion offered two solutions. “Well, I can pick you up and carry you, or I can restore your vigour with the healing power of my jism. I don’t think you’d enjoy the process for the latter, though…”
“You might be surprised.”
Astarion blinked rapidly. “I was being a smartass, Gale.”
“I wasn’t.”
Still blinking like there was crypt dust in his eyes, Astarion stood flummoxed. “Are you sure?”
Gale nodded. “A much-needed victory for us both. I regain some of my youthfulness and you receive some world-class pleasure.”
“World class?” Astarion laughed.
“I know what I said.”
With that, Gale pulled the slimy, salmon-tone dentures from his mouth and tucked them gently into his souvenir bag. His neck cracked as he turned his head up to gaze at Astarion with eyes equally full of expectation and cataracts.
“You always were a freak, weren’t you?” Astarion hummed, reaching for his track pants. He slipped a hand inside and pulled out his semi-hard cock, letting it flop over the velour waistband.
Gale wasted no time lurching his mouth forward and drawing Astarion inside.
There was an uncomfortable tickle where the long, wiry hairs of Gale’s beard scratched the base, but all in all Gale wasn’t bad at sucking cock. His weak tongue still knew where to stroke. His toothless, wet gums had as interesting a texture as the yuan-ti broodguard.
Soon, Astarion was fully hard and enjoying himself. He just had to ignore the oniony smell that always seemed to float around the wizard (Was it the flatulence? Something in his beard?).
Gale’s nostrils flared and there was a sharp rattling sound as he breathed through the motions. Back and forth—kllkllkllk—back and forth—kllkllkllk—
Having fucked far more repulsive creatures, Astarion was able to ignore the sounds too.
What he couldn’t ignore were Gale’s shifting eyes. They kept darting past him, and Astarion realized Gale was watching the statue of Mystra.
He grinned evilly.
“That’s right,” he said, pushing Gale’s stupid hat off his head and running his fingers through a rat's nest of coarse white hair. “Suck my cock in front of your goddess. I’ll give you more than she ever has.”
There was a gurgling sound at Astarion’s groin.
It seemed the words went over well. Gale quickened his pace, slurping up Astarion like he was applesauce or some sort of drinkable yogurt product.
The vacuum of his edentulous mouth was a delight of hot, wet pressure.
Astarion reached back and slapped Mystra's marble shin.
“Yes, Gale. Forget your goddess.” He said the word like it was a slur.
Gale glugged and moved faster, working with a shocking amount of enthusiasm.
Astarion had suspected Gale could give a good gummer, and he was right.
Tension built throughout Astarion's body, especially in his balls, which bounced over and over against Gale’s scratchy beard. He was actually going to come.
“Do you want a world-class load, Gale?”
There was a vaguely affirmative mumble.
Feeling more than a little bit weird about it, Astarion let the pressure release—as a sharp burst that coated the back of Gale’s throat.
Gale drank Astarion down as eagerly as he would prune juice. His tongue lingered at the slit, eager to capture every last drop of the invigorating fluid.
Once he had, an off-puttingly loud gulping sound followed. Then Gale smacked his lips. It was disgusting.
It worked, though, and soon Gale was standing in front of Astarion, rolling his shoulders and putting his teeth back in.
“Thank you,” he said cheerfully.
Thanking someone for dropping a fat load in their mouth seemed a bit odd, and Astarion squinted. “You’re… welcome?”
Astarion couldn’t stop staring. In addition to the spring in Gale’s step, there was a marked improvement in his appearance. After swallowing some of Astarion’s medicinal spunk, his eyes were less cloudy and his wrinkles less pronounced.
For just a second, Astarion could almost picture Gale as he was when they met—the way he looked when Astarion wanked thinking about him a few nights earlier. He could almost smell the vanilla and old books rather than onions. His slobber-sticky cock was still flopped over his waistband, and it twitched again.
Gale met his stare in kind. He looked like he was about to say something, and Astarion was sure the same dopey, slack-jawed look was present on his own face. He had the sense that this wasn't something they could swiftly put behind them like the jerk session.
Choosing to ignore the opportunity for self-reflection, Astarion motioned at Gale's souvenir bag.
“What did you buy?”
“Some hot cocoa powder for myself, and ah—” Gale rooted around in crinkly plastic for a moment before pulling out a lump of black fabric and handing it to Astarion. “For you.”
Astarion unfurled it to reveal a souvenir t-shirt. In plain white text, it read:
I WENT TO THE
MYSTRAN MEGATABERNACLE
AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS
LOUSY T-SHIRT
“Oh, it's perfect,” Astarion said. “Though it could be amended to say ‘and a killer blowjob.’”
Gale smiled. “Killer?”
“Mhm…”
“Put your cock away!” shouted some unfortunate dragonborn worker entering the temple. They tapped their walkie-talkie. “We need a cleanup crew at the statue again.”
With a guilty blush on both of their faces, Astarion and Gale beelined it out of the megatabernacle.
Notes:
I've illustrated Astarion's little outfit, which you may have already seen if you follow me on Tumblr.
Expand for art
Chapter 18: Dazed and Transfused
Summary:
Gale confronts his goddess, his past, and Astarion's hole.
Notes:
Welcome back, Soaperstars. There’s some timeline overlap with the previous chapter in this one, so hopefully you remember what happened last time (a temple blowjob). Other than that, please enjoy some Old Man Yaoi. We've been waiting 70k words for this.
Chapter Text
A few hours earlier:
Gale supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that Astarion abandoned him. After all, it was what he himself had done over and over again. Still, it hurt, and he moved languidly through the remaining chambers of the Mystran Megatabernacle.
In the Interactive Zone, some halfling attached what looked like metal clothespins to his fingers and analyzed them through a laptop.
“It looks like your Weave potential is low, but with enough time and effort, anyone can improve. Such is Mystra’s will.”
“Low potential… such is Mystra’s…?” Gale snapped. “I am an archmage!”
“Prove it,” dared the halfling.
“Well, I can’t right now, as I’m avoiding the use of magic to obscure my location.”
“Likely story, old man.”
Gale scooted his chair backward with a frown. “I don’t have to listen to this.”
“I’ll be here when you want to learn about increasing your Weave potential!”
In the next chamber, the walls were lined with digital screens. Each showed the zoomed-on face of a Mystra worshiper espousing their favorite things about their goddess. All of the audio played at once, making it nearly impossible to sort out what any one video was saying. The overall message, though, was clear: Mystra was good.
After yet another bathroom break, Gale found himself in the tabernacle’s sixth chamber.
The Youth Room was laid out with brightly colored chairs and tables full of puzzles and games. In one corner, the arcade game Weave Hero had a line of youths waiting for a turn to pretend they were casting spells using plastic buttons on a fake magic wand.
Gale gazed at them for a long moment, taking in their laughter and youthful jibes at each other—not because he particularly wanted children of his own, but because the possibility had been lost to time like so many others. He was just an old wizard, and that’s all he’d ever be.
Pensive contemplation wasn’t the purpose of his visit, so Gale moved along.
He found himself in another tacky gift shop, much like the first. This one, however, had a larger array of t-shirts for sale, including one that immediately stood out:
I WENT TO THE
MYSTRAN MEGATABERNACLE
AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS
LOUSY T-SHIRT
It brought to mind Astarion in his hand-decorated crop top, which in turn brought an odd smile to Gale’s face. Blasphemy shouldn’t have been as charming as it was when espoused by his oldest friend, and yet.
That’s all they were. Barely friends, at that.
He had gotten a nice mouthful of Astarion’s ejaculate from an artisanal masturbator, though. Perfectly warm and salty, it had rejuvenated his weary body. The effects had all but worn off, and a part of Gale wished for another taste.
Astarion had been very drunk for that event, Gale reminded himself. Guilt tugged at his heart. There was no way Astarion wasn’t embarrassed by what they’d done. He’d just never admit to it, since he never admitted to much of anything.
Hoping it might make up for their little indiscretion, Gale bought the shirt (as well as a tin of hot cocoa for the hotel room).
With a souvenir bag in hand, he reached the temple at the building’s end.
There, towering over a room full of pews, was his goddess. A marble statue of Mystra, complete with a long gown that exposed one shin, flowing locks, and a large eight-pointed star behind her. She was gorgeous. Perfect. Worthy of worship.
Gale shook his head. He couldn’t fall back into bad habits. Mystra had a lot to answer for.
He stepped close and knelt to the floor in front of her. It was enough. The goddess sensed his presence, and soon Gale was formless—nothing but a shapeless soul in the ethereal plane of Mystra’s domain.
“Gale of Waterdeep,” she said smugly. “You’ve come to a temple seeking forgiveness?”
“I’ve done nothing that needs to be forgiven.”
He could feel her disappointment. “Why are you there then?”
“I need to inquire about this synthetic Weave that’s closed to me. If you’ll permit me to tap into its power, I’m sure I could dismantle this wretched sacrilege.”
Mystra seemed curious. “And why would you think I’d want that?”
“These worshipers, they’re making a mockery of—”
“They are worshipers, Gale.”
“Earned through payment.” Though his voice was really just his thoughts, Gale laced them with righteous indignation.
His goddess was unbothered. “The people trust in money above all. No one believes that anything free is worth having. But they see a gain from their payments, and they believe.”
“They’ve been misled.”
“It makes no difference,” Mystra told him. “With more worshipers than ever, my power grows. When I am strong, both the natural and synthetic Weave are strong. As someone who channels the Weave, you should be happy.”
Gale realized then. “You helped create it.”
“And you help keep it going, my Weave anchor.”
His formless essence suddenly felt like it had been condensed.
“For… I… I’m anchoring the synthetic Weave?”
Mystra’s exasperation came through. “I suppose there’s no sense in trying to hide it now. Yes. Once Elminster died, you were the only one with enough power to be useful. You’ve been anchoring the synthetic Weave for the last forty years or so. There are others now, but you are a large part of something important.”
“All those times you ordered me to go home… to abandon my only friend…”
“There were some nearby incidents involving synthetic Weave, yes. As its foremost anchor, you couldn’t be compromised. I also knew if you found out about it, you’d behave like this.”
“Like I’ve been betrayed, you mean.”
Mystra scolded him. “Don’t be dramatic, Gale. The sorcerer birthrate is almost nonexistent, warlock pacts are treated like Netherese Prince scams, and no one wants to study for decades to become a wizard anymore. They just want to pay and get what they want. I’ve done what I must to survive and protect magic.”
“While I’ve languished.” Gale mulled it all over. “My life has been in service to a sham, and I’m not even permitted to use the spells my continued existence contrives.”
She was getting sick of their conversation, and it showed. “I did not lie when I said you were the most powerful wizard on Toril, Gale. Your role is the same today as it was centuries ago. If you were happy to uphold the sanctity of the Weave then, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be now.”
Feeling shocked and small, he had no idea what to say. His goddess—the object of five centuries’ worth of worship, his former lover—really saw no difference between fostering magic and selling it to the highest bidder.
“For what it’s worth,” Mystra said, “I’ve asked those SpellSafe wizards to stop pursuing you.”
“How generous,” Gale said bitterly.
“You’ll be troubled no further. I've expressed to them the importance of your life in nurturing the Weave, and the importance of Astarion in nurturing you.”
“The importance of…?”
“Return to your friend, Gale of Waterdeep.”
She almost sounded like she cared, but Gale knew she never did.
Back in the temple on his aching knees, he wept.
🩸🩸🩸
Gale returned to the Honeymoon Suite in agony. Not physical pain, thanks to Astarion's curative cum, but deep emotional trauma that giving a quick blowjob on a temple floor couldn’t lessen.
Lying comfortably on his back, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the bed. It captured his interest more than Wheel of Fortune, which was playing on the room’s television.
“J?” Astarion griped at the screen. “Who chooses the letter J?”
Gale ignored his friend, staring instead at how 567 years had really caught up with his body. The dark circles beneath his eyes were deep and striated with more wrinkles than he could count. His brow was caught in a permanent furrow, its stark lines making him appear indignant, even when all he was feeling was sorrow. His lips were thin. His pupils were cloudy.
Sure, he still had a full head of hair and a distinguished beard, but it was rough and straw-like as he stroked a withered, dark spotted hand along the underside of his chin.
What lay beneath his robe was worse, he knew. There wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t wrinkled or sagged. Astarion had called it ‘scarring’ when he caught a glimpse of Gale taking a shower.
Gale gazed at the ceiling with nothing but contempt for his reflection. Five centuries gone, devoted to a goddess who’d used him. He always told himself it was worth it to live a lonely life, if it protected the sanctity of the Weave. Instead, his sacrifice had enriched a bunch of unscrupulous assholes and alienated him from the world.
Time passed in a haze of word puzzles and indistinct chatter.
Astarion sat next to him, saying something or another, but Gale couldn’t hear any words through his own soft sobs. Crying didn’t make his reflection any more appealing. It just rendered him wet in addition to ugly.
“Gale, are you listening?” Astarion poked his shoulder and gestured to the hotel phone in his hand. “I said I’m ordering Applebee’s to-go. Do you want anything?”
“No…” Gale barely choked out his response.
“Well, I’m going to get you the Big Clucker and a brownie bite.” Astarion spoke into the phone. “Yes, add the Big Clucker and the brownie. I don’t give a shit which sides. Also, three of your chum buckets. Yes, the name on the card is Tara-22… no, that’s not the start of the card number. The name is Tara-22 Dekarios. 4466 123—”
Gale stopped listening again.
He hadn’t fallen into despair so heavy in ages—not since he was trapped in his tower due to the orb. Those miserable days saw him failing to eat, sleep, or do anything but feverishly read books in search of a cure. In the end, it turned out Mystra could have offered him salvation all along.
“I should have known…” he murmured.
“Hrm?” Astarion had hopped off the bed and was throwing on his track jacket, getting ready to leave for their carryout order.
With a sad sigh, Gale sat up and looked at his friend. “I should have known better than to trust Mystra. She’s always hidden things from me, but I… I gave up everything, and now I have nothing.”
“Give me ten to fifteen minutes and you’ll have a Big Clucker.”
“You’ll have to excuse me for not finding much funny right now.”
Astarion heaved a heavy sigh. “Gale, you’re the one who told me there’s still joy to be had. Adventure and such. You can still clone yourself, you know.”
“I don’t trust my abilities,” Gale confessed. “Under my cloning, Tara went from being a reliable and refined companion to someone who binge watches reality TV and leaves crumbs all over.” When Astarion made a face, he added, “No offense.”
“None taken.”
Gale continued. “I’d been keeping my Hall of Memories in case I ever needed to clone and restore myself, but I fear that’s gone now that the tower’s burned down.”
“You’re not giving up,” Astarion said matter-of-factly.
Gale flopped onto his back once more. “I may as well.”
Astarion crawled across the bed and hovered his face over Gale’s. Snarling, he said, “I’m going to go get our dinner and when I come back you’re going to be ready to eat it.”
“Or else what?” Gale wondered.
Astarion curled his upper lip to show off his fangs, then chomped pointedly. “I’ll bite some life back into you.”
For some reason, the idea of that stirred Gale’s loins.
As Astarion walked out the door, Gale thought about sucking his gorgeous cock again and being sucked in return. He imagined those sharp fangs piercing his neck—no, his inner thigh. He would look down between his legs and see soft white curls bouncing. He’d hear hard slurping and feel the combined euphoria of youth and bloodlessness wash over him.
It was wrong. It was exactly what Araj wanted from Astarion: to treat him like an object. His mind’s moral objection didn’t stop Gale from unfastening his trousers and beginning to stroke himself, though. A slow but steady pace.
His thoughts returned to the megatabernacle, to memories of Astarion ramming the back of his throat beneath the shadow of his goddess, to the thrill of thinking he’d be caught any moment.
He had loved every bit of being face-fucked by his best friend—even the soreness.
Gale was still masturbating when Astarion returned with two large takeout bags dangling from his elbows and his arms wrapped around three chum buckets. The room key was wedged between his teeth, and he spat it onto the floor as he made his way into the room.
“Glad you’re feeling better,” he said offhandedly.
Gale froze and covered his cock with cupped hands.
Astarion laughed, setting the pile of Applebee’s food on a nightstand. “Don’t stop on my account. I’ve already seen everything.”
This was humiliating.
“I can’t,” Gale murmured, ducking his head.
“Yes, you can.”
At that, Astarion leapt onto the bed, causing its vibration-ready base to shake just a little. His lithe fingers reached into Gale’s beard and firmly grasped a clump of hair. He used it to pull Gale’s chin upward, forcing him to make eye contact.
“I—”
“You can.”
Before Gale knew what was happening, he was obeying. Astarion released his beard.
His hand had barely begun working his cock when Astarion’s dark tone put him over the edge.
“Come all over yourself, Gale.”
A few soft spurts landed against his robe, and he swiftly cast Prestidigitation to remove the stains.
Astarion chuckled, then spoke curiously. “You’re using magic again?”
Gale sat up and began cracking his masturbation-sore knuckles. “Mystra informed those drow that I’m not to come to any harm. Nor are you.”
“Hrmm,” Astarion said deviously. “You could have cast Flight or something back in the temple, then, couldn’t you? To get up off the floor? You didn’t have to suck me off.”
“I, ah… I was a bit overwhelmed obviously. Not thinking clearly.”
Astarion fussed with the food on the nightstand. “Don’t be modest. You wanted to drain my cock in front of her.”
“Perhaps I did…”
“And we’re both happier for it.” Moving on, Astarion tossed a foam container onto Gale’s lap. “Your Big Clucker.”
Gale opened the container to find a grilled chicken sandwich on the world’s flattest brioche bun. Thick mayo leaked from beneath the meat, and there was half a paper-thin tomato slice sticking out from above. To the side, in a little plastic container, was some applesauce. He tried not to let Astarion see how excited he was about that particular side.
“What did you get?” Gale asked.
“Nacho Mama’s Nacho Platter,” Astarion said, opening his own container to reveal a pile of tortilla chips that were soggy beneath liquid cheese, sour cream, and a mound of browning guacamole. The dish was garnished with shredded iceberg lettuce, a few specks of tomato, and jalapeños sliced entirely too thick to be enjoyable.
“Astarion…”
Things between the two of them were quickly becoming strange, and Gale struggled to figure out what he wanted to say.
“Just eat and enjoy,” Astarion said, shooting a glance at the television where Jeopardy! was beginning to air.
🩸🩸🩸
One chum bucket and numerous trivia questions later, Gale was stuffed full of chicken and applesauce, reminiscing about his younger days—days of adventure with Astarion and the others.
“Do you remember that hag who cast all the insect plagues?” he asked.
“Ethel!?” Astarion cackled. “How could I forget? I nearly got knocked down a chasm trying to destroy her magic mushrooms. Eugh, and the smell.”
“I don’t know about you, but I was itching for days.”
“Yes! They bit my unmentionables. It was awful.”
“Shame about that child she ate…”
Astarion shrugged. “Eh. It would be dead by now anyway.”
That brought Gale back to the present.
“I would be too, if not for Mystra.” He loudly slurped at some melted ice at the bottom of his chum bucket, then set the drink aside. With a sigh, he glanced up at the mirror then down at his weak hands, folded in his lap. “I should have done more for myself when I had the chance. Now I’m a decaying husk with false teeth, no home, and one friend I didn't summon myself.”
“Well, all of that’s true,” Astarion said, “but it doesn’t mean you’re done for.”
Gale despaired. “Look at me.”
Astarion avoided doing so, casting his gaze instead at the wood paneling on the wall.
“See?” Gale said, resting his case.
Wordlessly, Astarion slipped off the bed and made his way over to the erotic minibar. He scooped up everything on the shelf, returned to the bed, and dumped it all out—lubes, condoms, single-use cock rings, arousal creams, boner pills, and elixirs of vigour.
He then crawled toward Gale, pulled his robe open, and began undoing his trousers.
“What are you doing?” Gale asked with wide eyes.
“I sort of like you,” Astarion admitted. “I don't like seeing you like this.”
“Like…”
With a spread of erotic accoutrements sitting next to them on the bed, Astarion spoke softly, almost kindly. “I can’t give you my heart, Gale. It rotted centuries ago. But I can make you feel better, if only for a moment. Like you did for me.”
Gale pushed Astarion’s hands away, but it was minimally effective. They moved about an inch, and lingered near his once again swollen cock. “Astarion. You never stopped treating your body like a thing to be used, whether for soap or servicing Araj, or… I can’t let you—”
“It's all I have.” Astarion put a hand to his heart. “There's nothing else worthwhile here.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” Astarion said quietly, reaching for a bottle. “It’s alright. I had my chance to be someone once. If I’m going to aimlessly limp through the rest of my days, I may as well do what I’m good at.”
Gale tried to eke out further protest, but in the presence of a gorgeous elf touching him where no one else had in half a century, he was powerless to resist. He gave in, just as he would have back in 1969 if Astarion hadn’t complimented his scales.
With just half a smile on his face, Astarion tipped an elixir of vigour into Gale’s mouth. Gale gulped it and gagged.
It tasted like licorice and had a grossly sandy texture, but it was effective. Gale could feel strength coursing through himself. For the first time in ages, he squeezed his fists and felt actual pressure against the meat of his palms.
His cock throbbed as Astarion freed it from his trousers. It was the only part of his withered body exposed.
“Looks may fade, but a fat hog never does,” Astarion hummed.
Leaving his anti-Mystra shirt on, Astarion slipped his track pants off in a swift movement.
There was nothing underneath, and Gale stared stupidly.
—SPLORT—
Cool, wet lube drew a short gasp from Gale as it drizzled down the length of his cock. And then Astarion was on top of him, bearing down with a groan and surrounding Gale with tight pressure.
His cock was inside his best friend. His only friend. It was thrilling, but somewhat troubling.
Astarion began moving up and down, slowly. “This is all I can do for you.”
Gale ogled his perfect, pale stomach and the sharp grooves running from his hip bones toward his flushed cock. “Astarion, that’s not true…”
“Please take it, Gale,” Astarion said, his eyes shimmering slightly in the pink glow of the neon sign behind the bed.
There was no question that Astarion knew what he was doing. His body twisted and writhed delectably as he began riding Gale in earnest. His perfect cock bobbed in time with his movements. But his face was blank.
“Astarion,” Gale wheezed.
Using every bit of strength the elixir had granted him, he sat up. His hands found the small of Astarion's back and held tight.
Ignoring the hardness pressing against his stomach, Gale risked a crick in his neck to look up into Astarion's empty eyes.
For too long, Gale had been a passive participant in his own life. He'd been at Mystra's beck and call. He'd been at Minthara’s. He didn't want to lie there and let his only friend listlessly ride his cock. Gale was supposed to be doing things for himself, adventuring and exploring and…
“Astarion, you are witty and resilient and when you want to be… kind. You’re well-read, beautiful, and genuinely fun to be around. You’re undeniably perceptive. You—”
Astarion laughed nervously. “What are you doing?”
“Telling you all the reasons I like you and am going to bed you properly.”
“You’re what?”
Gale waved his shaking fingers. “Qua dico facto.”
His hand moved upward, telekinetically lifting Astarion off of his cock, then to the side, moving him onto the bed.
Astarion landed in a seated position. He held himself up on his palms and wriggled his hips from side to side on the sheets, looking enticing beneath the glow of the ‘Let’s get naked’ sign.
“Do you mean to say you’re going to blow my back out, Gale?” he teased. “You still have that in you?”
Gale wasn’t sure he did, but he could put a few things to his advantage.
“Pro para occhio.” Haste. “Armis.” Mage armor. “Macte vertute.” Enhance endurance. “What would you like me to look like?”
Astarion eyed him quizzically. “Pardon?”
“Before I undress, I can disguise myself as anyone or anything you desire.”
Astarion considered the offer. “As tempting as it is for me to say Drizzt Do’Urden in his heyday, I think you need to be yourself for this. That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“I’m repulsive,” Gale noted.
“I’ve had worse.”
“You can have anything you want.”
“Maybe I want you.”
They shared a long, stunned glance. It continued as Gale—with his abilities enhanced—leapt from the bed and undressed. There wasn’t a hint of disgust on Astarion’s face as Gale exposed his wrinkled chest, his flabby stomach, his drooping balls, and his varicose-veined legs.
Astarion offered half-nod, and Gale rejoined him in bed.
“I can take this off if you want,” Astarion said, pulling at the side of his shirt.
“Please do,” Gale said. “I don’t want to think about her at all.”
“Oh, I like that.”
In an instant, Astarion was completely nude. It was absurd. Since he’d lost his awful tattoos to saponification, he looked every bit like a carved statue. He was gorgeous. Perfect. Worthy of worship. Gale, meanwhile, tried not to look up at the mirror, lest he catch a glimpse of his senescent form.
Astarion’s nipples were perked, and Gale’s first move was to dive face-first toward pallid skin that smelled of bergamot and sickly-sweet Applebee's well liquor.
“Don’t kiss me,” Astarion warned, quickly dodging Gale's lips and leaving him at his side. “I don’t… enjoy that sort of thing anymore.”
Remembering their ill-fated makeout session in 1969, Gale found himself disappointed.
“But I can make love to you?”
Astarion grinned. “I’d prefer it if you fucked me.”
Gale regarded him with a mixture of befuddlement and awe.
“Go on, old man,” Astarion said, tapping Gale’s bicep. “Show me what you've got.”
Determined to do just that, the first thing Gale did was cast a few mage hands to assist himself. While he settled between Astarion's legs, the hands floated through the air above the bed and began caressing Astarion—massaging his arms and chest, scratching his scalp.
Soft, almost uneasy moans stuttered through Astarion’s lips, and Gale wondered when anyone last showed him anything resembling affection. It had to have been his Bhaalist love, which was tragic.
Astarion bit his lip a little as he swayed with the magical touch of the mage hands. Already, his expression was a far cry from what Gale had seen straddling him. It seemed Astarion loved being doted on, being cared for. Gale had failed to show that he cared too many times over the years. No longer.
“You’re gorgeous, Astarion.”
“I know.” Astarion scoffed playfully. “Less complimenting. More fucking.”
Gale’s real hands weren’t very sensitive to touch anymore, but they gripped Astarion’s thighs and spread them high. He slid toward Astarion’s already stretched hole and lined up his cock.
“Are you ready?”
Astarion answered flippantly. “You’ve already been inside me, Gale. Chop chop.”
With an oldmannish grunt, Gale pressed forward, savoring the squeeze of his friend’s ass around his cock.
He had no idea what this meant for their friendship.
Astarion let out a long, soft moan as Gale filled him completely.
“You’re alright?” Gale asked.
“More than.” Astarion was rolling his neck, luxuriating in the touch of a mage hand that thumbed his cheek. His arms spread wide, and his fingers tangled in soft, nacho crumb-coated sheets.
Gale imagined Astarion was picturing his long-lost love, but he was okay with that. This wasn’t about the two of them, after all. It was about Gale proving he could still get on at his advanced age, and about showing Astarion he needn’t be used—that he could be properly adored.
He did adore him, Gale realized.
“Tell me what you like,” Gale said.
Astarion snorted. “Sex.”
“I want you to have what you want, Astarion. Really. Tell me what you like.”
“This,” Astarion whispered. “You.”
There was even more vulnerability in Astarion’s voice than in the fact that he was spread out like a starfish beneath Gale. Gale didn’t exactly believe Astarion—who could really want him in his present state?—but it was nice to pretend.
“Then you’ll have me.”
Invigorated, Gale had no trouble at all fucking like a man a third his age. The pumping made him a bit sweaty and he was fairly certain his heart was beating oddly off-rhythm, but that was nothing when Astarion was beneath him, moaning explicitly.
“Mhm—just like that, pet—”
The moaning continued under the strangest circumstances. Astarion was looking—no, staring—directly up at the mirror, where there was undoubtedly a heinous view of Gale’s saggy ass flapping about. Gale could only imagine how his wrinkled folds shifted with his movements.
Astarion remained perfectly turned on. The head of his cock glistened with arousal.
Still, it made Gale feel self-conscious. He preferred the idea of Astarion being blissed out, eyes shut, imagining whatever made him feel best. With that in mind, he directed one of the mage hands to the wooden box near the bed. It slipped 1gp into the slot.
—VRRGRRRGRRGRRRGRRRGRRR—
“Ohhh,” Astarion purred, his eyes leaving the mirror so they could meet Gale’s as he smirked. “A little something extra for us, hrm?”
As best as he could, Gale moved in time with the vibrations, trying not to notice how the loose skin on his arms shook with them.
“Is that good?” he asked as he thrusted away.
Astarion let out an impish sigh. “I’ve had better.”
That might have hurt Gale’s feelings, if he couldn’t tell Astarion was being coy and just wanted to get dicked down harder.
Gale called for two of the mage hands to assist his own. Together, they forced Astarion’s legs back until his knees were touching his shoulders. With the shift, Gale’s cock could push deeper.
A sweet whine broke through Astarion’s lips.
“How’s that?” Gale asked.
“Perfect.”
“Is there anything I can do to—”
“I want more,” Astarion moaned.
There wasn’t any more. Gale was already burying his thick cock inside Astarion, over and over. Not one to ignore a request, though, he had an idea.
With a huffed “engorgio,” he cast Enlarge on his own dick.
The sound that came out of Astarion was downright lewd—half whimper, half shout, all pleasure at being stretched to fit a massive cock.
“I’m going to fucking come—” he yelped through trembling lips.
Gale’s next few movements were hard.
—BZZT!—CLANK!—
The combined force of Gale’s turbocharged fucking and the magic fingers massage bed knocked the ‘Let’s get naked’ sign right off the wall, revealing a hole that peered into the next room. Gale paid it no mind. There could have been someone peeking through; he’d never have known. His focus was on watching Astarion’s face contort with pleasure as his muscles spasmed around Gale’s cock.
“Come all over yourself, Astarion.”
“Gale—” Astarion gasped as he splashed his stomach.
The short burst was almost disappointing, until it was followed by a veritable flood. Not one sound that came out of Astarion was intelligible as he continued coming in waves, digging his fingers into the sheets all the while. Hyperspermia was an elven trait Gale had heard about, but not one he’d ever experienced. Apparently Astarion had been thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Gorgeous,” Gale said at the sticky white glaze that pooled in Astarion’s folded stomach and dripped over the edges of his hips.
“—mhrmmmhrhgh—” Astarion mumbled through the last few spurts of his orgasm.
Still thrusting, Gale was close himself. “May I—”
Astarion’s voice hit the same growling tone that made Gale finish before.
“Fill me,” he demanded.
Gale tensed, all over—from his bunioned toes to his permanently furrowed brow. His heart may have briefly stopped. Gods, it had been ages, and being set to explode left him equal parts thrilled and terrified.
There was nothing but relief and satisfaction as his enlarged cock emptied inside his friend.
When it was over and he was gasping for air, Astarion’s smooth legs trembled in his hands.
“That was excellent,” Astarion muttered, glancing at the felled neon sign.
With a loud squelch, Gale pulled out and let Astarion’s legs fall. For just a moment, he watched his thick release seep out onto the bedding—an exquisite little memento of what he’d just done. Maybe he shouldn’t have been proud of himself, but he was a bit. Over the hill as he was, he'd proven he could still lay pipe.
He scooted forward so that his face was above Astarion’s stomach, then moved in.
“I said no kissi—”
Gale didn’t have kissing in mind. He just didn’t want to waste a bit of Astarion’s miracle spooge. With an eager tongue, he began lapping up every salty drop he could get.
Snickering, Astarion relaxed and let him have at it. While Gale slurped up his spend, Astarion lazily grabbed another chum bucket and brought its wide flexible straw to his mouth.
Gale’s tongue moved in broad swipes around Astarion’s navel, across the cool skin of his stomach, along his sharp hip bones. Kissing Astarion was sorely tempting, but Gale somehow managed to avoid doing so. He simply licked and licked until he could find nothing more.
When he was finished, Gale wiped his sticky lips against the back of his hand and glanced up at Astarion feeling more cum-drunk than he’d ever felt alcohol-drunk (someone at Applebee’s was seriously watering down the chum buckets).
“Holy shit,” Astarion said, wide-eyed.
Gale swiftly moved away to give his friend space. “What?”
Without saying a word, Astarion pointed up at the mirror.
When Gale’s eyes followed, his own familiar face greeted him.
This time, it was framed by brown hair.
Chapter 19: Heartache
Summary:
Astarion experiences the morning after. Trouble brews at the Applebee's.
Notes:
We’re back, and Astarion is developing *gag* feelings.
My posting schedule may be a little wonky for the next few weeks, as I have some event one shots to finish and a vacation coming up. But rest assured: I remain devoted to Soapstarion and Old Man Gale. They might be my favorites, actually.
Mild Content Warning:
Click for spoilers.
Gale experiences a medical event in this chapter. Dubiously consensual cum feeding follows to save his life.
Chapter Text
Astarion awoke from his trance on his back, with Gale’s dried cum itching between his ass cheeks and the wizard draping an arm across his stomach as he snored loudly against Astarion’s chest.
—Krrrrrrrk—krk—trp—brk—
This time, it wasn’t a major annoyance. Instead, it was… charming?
Already, the youthful brown hair Gale had gained from slurping up Astarion’s jizz was beginning to grey. One such strand draped across his forehead. Astarion brushed it back into place with a thumb, then took a long moment to stare.
It was Gale, all right. The infuriating wizard who liked talking more than he liked himself. The same rotten bastard who’d been unreliable for centuries. The man whose balls dangled to his knees and whose face had more wrinkles than an intellect devourer.
Gale. The only person he’d ever trusted enough to ask for help. The first person he’d snuggled to sleep in over five hundred years. The deceptively pitiful old man who somehow knew just how to hammer Astarion’s prostate to make him gush cum in previously unknown quantities.
He actually liked Gale, and he’d admitted it to his face. The thought made his stomach churn worse than the Applebee’s nacho platter had. Astarion had liked someone exactly once, and it had turned into something more before turning into tragedy. If it happened again—and it wasn’t even a dashing, beefy dragonborn but a wheezing, flatulent human—he might die of shame.
—Krrrrrrrk—krk—trp—brk—
Above the headboard, a red cloak hung from a bent nail that could no longer support a heavy pink neon sign. It was a makeshift cover for the hole in the wall they’d created by fucking. Astarion glanced at it, then back to Gale.
His stirring caused Gale to do the same, to the tune of an obnoxiously loud yawn.
“G’morning,” Gale said through a second yawn as he pulled away from Astarion.
“Morning,” Astarion said with false cheer. “How would you like your daily dose of spunk?”
Gale frowned as he rose to a seated position, stretching and popping. “We should talk about yesterday.”
Astarion joined him in sitting up. “Must we?”
“I can’t help but feel I’ve been terrible to you,” Gale said.
There was pity in his eyes, and that was infuriating.
“Don’t,” Astarion warned.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t start presuming you know what’s best for me again. I enjoyed myself. You enjoyed yourself. It doesn’t need to be any more complicated than that.”
Gale’s response was ghostly quiet. “I think it already is…”
If Astarion wasn’t mistaken, Gale glanced at the hanging cloak, just as he had. Then their eyes caught on each other’s.
“Why didn’t you want me to kiss you?”
Astarion had little desire to share that information, but since the previous night was the happiest he’d felt in half a millennium, he felt compelled. Something awful was happening to him.
“This may come as a shock to you, but sex means very little to me. The first time I kissed someone because I wanted to, though…” He still remembered the feeling of scales against his lips, and it lent a wistfulness to his voice. “I felt the way I think people are supposed to feel during sex. It was euphoric. I couldn’t get enough.”
“And you don’t want to feel that again?” Gale asked curiously.
“I don’t want to be wrong again.”
Astarion’s chest tightened. It had been five hundred years and he was still reeling from the betrayal, even as he basked in the afterglow of getting fucked by his supposed friend. He didn’t want to think about the fact that the previous evening’s sex had actually seemed meaningful for a change—that he’d felt something as Gale’s attentive hands pampered him on that hokey, vibrating hotel bed.
“Anyway, do you want some of my home-brewed anti-aging cream or not?”
“I’ll pass,” Gale said.
Astarion’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll pass? Do you enjoy having arthritis?”
“I care about you,” Gale said. “Not the fact that your, ah, emissions are a fountain of youth. If another encounter between us should naturally arise, that’s all well and good, but I won’t be treating your semen like medicine to be supped whenever I have some minor aches and pains.”
Astarion didn’t understand. This was a mutually beneficial arrangement that Gale was turning down. A great gummer for the realm’s only vampire ascendant, and comprehensive joint relief for its loneliest archmage.
“What’s wrong with you?” he snapped before bursting into an exaggerated impression of Gale. “You never stopped treating your body like a thing to be used, Astarion.” He huffed and continued. “I can’t have a simple blowjob without you philosophizing about it. Once again, Gale of Waterdeep knows everything!”
“I don’t,” Gale said softly. “I don’t know much of anything beyond magic. But I know I care about you, and I want to show you that.”
Astarion’s voice lost its bravado. “And how do you intend to do that?”
Gale smiled. “By treating you well.”
Astarion had no idea what that meant because no one ever had.
🩸🩸🩸
With the aid of a very frustrated hotel maintenance worker, the hole in the wall was repaired and the heart-shaped jacuzzi in the Honeymoon Suite worked once more. Astarion settled into the hot, bubbling water with a suspicious look on his face.
“How does turning the two of us into cum soup improve matters?”
Gale was already sitting in the bath, completely naked, balls presumably scraping along the textured bottom. He winced. “You haven’t cleaned your backside yet?”
In exasperation, Astarion flourished a hand toward the ceiling. “You said we’d be getting in the bath! Did you expect me to pre-clean before cleaning?”
“What did you do the entire time I was downstairs booking the room for an additional night?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Astarion said sharply.
The implication was that he’d done something debaucherous, like masturbate into Gale’s spare robes. What he’d really done was ruminate over the utterly bizarre situation he found himself in—actually looking forward to spending more time with someone. This old fucker, of all people.
Gale rolled his eyes and waved a twinkling hand to cast Prestidigitation on Astarion and the frothy water alike. There was a sudden jolt of energy around Astarion’s asshole, and he huffed in complaint as he glanced over his shoulder, as if he could see the invisible magic that had stripped the Gale glaze from the crack of his ass.
“Excuse you,” he said, settling in on a bright red seat.
“Try to relax,” Gale breathed as he leaned back in his own seat, bracing his neck with a rolled up towel against the rim of the jacuzzi.
He was fully aged again, and his white beard was long enough that it dipped beneath the water’s surface. Agitated by the bubble jets to bounce in front of Gale’s peachy flesh, it had the appearance of prepackaged ramen noodles boiling in a pot of salmon oil. Gale’s liver-spotted face didn’t look much more appealing behind it. The bags beneath his eyes were devastatingly deep, and there were far too many wrinkles surrounding his thin, dry lips.
But something other than revulsion turned over in Astarion’s mind. Not that he wanted to kiss those thin lips—gods, no—but something else entirely.
Sitting there with his eyes shut and his mouth curled into a pleasant smile, Gale looked at bliss. Astarion felt his own resting bitch face lighten in response. He was… glad to see Gale happy.
“Eugh,” he said out loud.
“Is something the matter?” Gale asked, not bothering to open his eyes.
“No,” Astarion said, quickly covering for himself. “I was just thinking about how many disgusting couples have rubbed their genitals together in this tub. Do you think the crack team at the Tuck Inn really do a thorough job cleaning it? They covered a hole in the wall with a damned neon sign.” He smacked his hands against the water’s surface. “I'm going to catch something.”
Gale finally opened his droopy eyes.
“You can’t catch any diseases,” he said drolly.
“Not true,” Astarion griped. “I once caught a fungal ear infection from hanging out in the Tourmaline Depths too long.”
Gale stared at him in disbelief. “Once in seven hundred and fifty years?”
“It was deeply traumatic.”
“You’re deeply dramatic,” Gale corrected.
Astarion groused and splashed some water about. His eyes scanned the hotel room, from the heavily shellacked, peeling door to the wood paneling on the walls to the restored neon sign above the bed that still demanded ‘Let’s get naked.’
They had that part down, at least. Astarion tried not to stare at where Gale’s massive hog bobbed beneath the water’s surface.
“What am I meant to be doing?” he asked.
“Relaxing,” Gale said with a sigh.
Astarion couldn’t, though. Not with his mind running faster than a tabaxi. Even a pulsing jet of water to the taint couldn’t ease the dread growing within him. His feelings toward Gale were familiar. Awfully, disturbingly familiar. He imagined what might have happened had he not dodged Gale’s initial attempt to kiss him the night before.
What would it have felt like? Gale had been juiced on elixirs and spells. Perhaps his cracked and broken lips would have felt soft and supple as a result. Maybe they’d have been dry and rough and Astarion would have liked it—like that time he got fingerfucked by a crawling claw. Perhaps Gale's lips would have forged a trail from Astarion’s chest up his neck. They certainly would have felt warmer than his own body. Would ear stuff have been on the table? What would that disgusting, wiry beard have felt like brushing against his chest and neck as he surrendered to a kiss on the lips?
“Shit,” he muttered, low enough that Gale’s ancient ears didn’t pick up on it.
Between his legs, his cock stirred.
He was very hard, and even more confused. Astarion knew that he couldn't just fall for anyone who was the slightest bit nice to him. It was unreasonable. Gale wasn’t even that nice! The man had failed him innumerable times over the years, and Astarion had not only forgiven that but had somehow found it within himself to like the rotten bastard.
Anything more than liking him was wholly unacceptable.
—Krrrrrrrk—krk—trp—brk—
Yet there he was, gazing longingly at an ancient wizard who’d just dozed off in a jacuzzi.
“Fuck,” Astarion whined under his breath before reaching for his erection. “Going to treat me well. You don’t know the slightest thing about treating me well.”
Having thrown that small hissy fit without Gale noticing, Astarion began tugging at his cock. He needed to clear his head, so he leaned forward slightly to make the tub’s jet point directly at his hole rather than his taint. An orgasm would set him straight, he thought. He'd just picture Cazador dead and get on with it.
With the water pressure pulsing back there, his mind imagined Gale was behind him, his practiced tongue alternately circling the rim and plunging forth, tasting him. Astarion didn’t even bother imagining Gale young. He pictured him as he was, his rough beard scratching Astarion’s thighs. If it were real, he’d back his ass up in Gale’s face and let those tough tresses exfoliate his skin.
Astarion really didn’t want to be imagining that. Gale was right in front of him, passed out. The old coot was disgusting. Hideous. Decrepit.
He was sweet. Attentive. Shockingly good at sex.
“Fuck,” Astarion sighed again.
Against his will, he bit his lip and quickened his pace, rocking his body to add variety to the way Gale’s tongue—no, the water jet—caressed his asshole.
—Krrkrkkkk———kkrk—————
Sudden, strange noises disturbed his masturbation. The tempo of Gale’s snoring was off, and Astarion perked with curiosity.
He cleared his throat and took his hand off his submerged cock. “Gale?”
————rrrrrr———rrk!—rrk!
No, that didn’t sound right at all.
“Gale!” There was too much worry in his voice, and Astarion scowled even as he rushed across the jacuzzi to see what in the hells was the matter. “Wake up!”
But Gale had stopped making noises entirely. He’d stopped moving. If he was breathing, it was only just barely. His body was slack as Astarion put his hands on its shoulders and shook.
The man needed medical intervention, and Astarion only knew of one sort.
“Shit.”
Thinking quickly, he stood up in the tub and began yanking at his cock like it was a matter of life and death. He’d never produced as much cum on his own as Gale had managed to extract from him—and wasn't that a terrifying thought—but he hoped what he could tug out would be enough.
It arrived in three short spurts, right into his palm.
Astarion didn’t take any time to enjoy the release. He moved his sticky hand to Gale’s face and shoveled his salving semen into his possibly dead companion’s mouth.
There was a hard, oldmannish cough, and Gale jolted forward, confused.
“Astarion?” he wondered, smacking his spend-coated tongue.
Without thinking, Astarion slapped him across the face. Not too hard, but enough to get the point across. Whatever the point was.
“Fuck you,” he said, storming out of the tub and throwing on his fuzzy track pants.
He was furious, and he didn’t want to know why.
Gale stepped out of the jacuzzi perplexed, seemingly unaware that he may have just died. He approached the bed where Astarion had flopped, face-down. “What happened?”
“You’re old and ugly and I hate you,” Astarion grumbled into the bedsheets he balled between his fists.
There was an awful sense of dread building inside him. On the other side of the room, the jacuzzi continued gurgling. Astarion’s stomach mimicked it as he realized something: losing Gale would hurt, and it would hurt more the longer Gale stuck around.
Gale took a seat next to him, dripping water all over the bed. “What did I do wrong?”
“Just die already. Leave. It’s what everyone does.”
“What?” Gale sounded only slightly hurt.
Astarion rolled over and looked at him, revealing the disgraceful tears that filled his own eyes. “You nearly died from some warm water. You won’t clone yourself. You won’t let me keep you healthy with regular cumshots. If you want to go, go. Wave your balls at Mystra in Elysium.”
“I’m sorry,” Gale said. “The hot water must have done a number on my low blood pressure. I don’t think I died, but merely fainted…”
“I don’t care,” Astarion snapped, crossing his arms as if that could protect him from making a fool of himself. He was a damned fool, so easily won over by almost nothing at all.
Gale put a hand on Astarion’s shoulder. “Thank you for helping me.”
Astarion shut his eyes and huffed words he didn't believe. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” Gale said calmly. “You hate your past, and you don’t want your future to resemble it.”
“As if you know what I want.”
There was a kind glint in Gale’s eyes and hope in his voice. “I think I might, but I want you to tell me.”
Having no clue what he really wanted—and being unwilling to suss it out—Astarion couldn’t do that. But he could at least be honest. That had served him well over the past few days.
He sat up and spoke quietly. “I'm sorry. I don't hate you or wish you were dead.”
“I know,” Gale said with a chuckle. “I’m all too familiar with your lashing out. I've been your friend for five centuries.”
“How do you feel about five more?” Astarion asked.
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment before Gale finally answered.
“I’m not sure how well it will work, but I'll clone myself if it means that much to you.”
“You mean it?”
Gale nodded. “I’ll need to gather some supplies, and it does take a few months for a clone to become fully formed, but… if you want me younger, then younger you’ll have me. A facsimile of me, at least.”
Astarion reached out and touched Gale’s damp, bristly beard. His hand settled at Gale’s jaw. “It’s not that I want you younger. I just… want you alive is all.”
Oh, this was awful. One minute, he was calling Gale “darling” and “pet” and the next he was pouring his heart out. He knew exactly what was happening, and he hated it. There was only one thing he could think of doing to cope.
He needed some margaritas.
🩸🩸🩸
Because there was nowhere else to get margaritas in close proximity to the Tuck Inn, Astarion and Gale once again found themselves at Applebee’s during dinner rush. This time, it was trivia night, which brought a youthful joy to Gale’s tired face.
“Can we?” he asked.
Astarion shrugged. “I don’t give a shit.”
He didn’t. Not about the trivia anyway, which was done “the old-fashioned way” to ensure no one cheated using their smartphones. They registered their team under the name Cantrip You Up (Gale chose it) and sat side-by-side in a wide vinyl booth. Not so they could be close to one another, but so they could both easily fill in their answer slips and review the scoresheet.
They did sit rather close together, though, as they shared a chum bucket with two straws—close enough that Astarion could smell the Old Spice that Gale had spritzed all over his robe to disguise his oniony musk. Astarion, meanwhile, was wearing the souvenir t-shirt Gale had gotten him, and he’d sprayed both it and himself with Axe body spray. To an outside observer, it might have seemed like a date. Astarion pretended that it didn’t feel like one as he binged on boneless wings and acted as a bystander to Gale’s love of knowledge.
The old bastard’s memory was shockingly sharp.
Astarion didn’t really know much of anything. He just sat on the outside of the bench so he could run the answers to the host and save Gale the exertion. Over and over, he couriered correct answers across the room. By halftime, Cantrip You Up was in the lead, just ahead of Wisdom Tiefs and Waterdeep Dish Pizza.
The host was a gnome with a smug, know-it-all voice. She presided over trivia night from the bar itself, where her microphone was rigged to the speakers throughout the restaurant.
“Alright, it’s time for the second half of the game. Points are now doubled. First question. During the First Netherese Empire, what were magic wielders called?”
“Ooh!” Gale’s eyes lit up as he scrawled ‘Arcanist’ onto a slip of paper.
Astarion couldn’t help but smile, which caused the wings and liquor in his stomach to roil. Once again, he was genuinely happy to see Gale happy, and that was just about the worst thing he could imagine.
That is, until he handed over the slip of paper and the gnome laughed. “Of course you got this one right. Your partner was alive during the First Netherese Empire.”
Astarion scowled. “He’s not my partner, and you won’t insult him again.”
The gnome rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay. Sit down.”
Not wanting to cause a scene before he finished his wings, Astarion trudged back to the booth. Gale noticed his changed demeanor.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Astarion scooted in close. “I don’t like that gnome.”
“You don’t like any gnomes,” Gale noted.
“True, but I especially don’t like this one.”
Gale was puzzled. “Why?”
Realizing that ‘she was mean to you’ would have been one of the most humiliating things he’d ever said in his life, Astarion pivoted. “Her pants are too short. Too long to be capris. Too short to be ankle length. Honestly, it’s embarrassing.”
Gale shook his head and sipped at the chum bucket.
“During the First Netherese Empire, what were magic wielders called?” The host paused for effect. “They were called arcanists. Arcanists. Only one team got that right, and I think you all know which one.”
There were chuckles from around the room as every other trivia team looked in their direction.
“A round of applause for Toril’s eldest man and that hard-working elf from Holes4Olds.”
Before the host even finished that sentence, Astarion’s face heated. He snarled, baring his fangs for a room full of drunks who either didn’t notice or didn’t care. They just laughed and laughed, as if he couldn’t slaughter them all wholesale if he wanted.
Something touched his thigh and Astarion jerked to look. It was Gale’s hand, and it squeezed him gently (the only strength it was capable of without elixirs or spells).
“It’s alright,” Gale said. “You’ve certainly said ruder.”
“Yes, but I’m allowed to.” Astarion lowered his own hand onto Gale’s and gave it a short squeeze before removing it from his leg.
“There’s no need to cause a scene,” Gale said, clearly wanting to continue his game in peace.
Astarion stepped out of the booth and grinned evilly. “On the contrary. You still have a ways to go in learning to stand up for yourself, my dear.”
Dear? Sure. He might as well at this point, since he was en route to kick a trivia host’s ass for disrespecting his partner. He cracked his knuckles, ready to enthusiastically wring a gnome’s neck.
“Try not to kill anyone,” Gale said weakly, like it was an obligation.
“Security!” the gnome called out before Astarion could get anywhere near her.
A half-orc stepped in front of him, breathing microwaved spinach and artichoke dip hard and heavy in his face.
“Go back to your seat.”
Astarion smiled. “Say please.”
“Sit down!” shouted a different voice.
Something whizzed by his head and Astarion turned to see that a trivia-hungry patron had thrown a bottle of Chultan Fireswill his way. The bottle smashed somewhere behind him.
“Ow!” exclaimed someone else—some poor tiefling from Wisdom Tiefs who’d been nailed in the horn by the flying bottle and was picking glass shards out of their hair.
It all went straight to the hells from there.
One of the tiefling’s friends stormed across the room and tackled the first patron. More bottles began flying across the room. Astarion winced as one barreled right for his face, but it stopped just shy of his nose and floated in the air—a faint red glow keeping it suspended.
He turned back to Gale and saw him holding up a similarly glowing hand, casting telekinesis.
With a wider grin than before, Astarion plucked the bottle from the air and smashed it over the half-orc’s forehead. He then turned to mist to dodge any payback, and floated himself around the back of the U-shaped bar to sneak up on the awful trivia host.
“Boo,” he said as he materialized on a barstool next to hers.
“By Garl Glittergold’s glimmering gonads,” the gnome huffed. “Learn to take a joke.”
“Jokes are funny,” Astarion said with a sneer.
Nearby, the half-orc bouncer was busy trying to break up a fight between three kobolds and an aarakocra. From every direction there was shouting and shattering glass. Apparently the drunks at a remote Applebee’s didn’t require much motivation to throw down. Just a whole lot of watered-down beverages.
Those who weren’t tussling were holding their phones up vertically, taking amateur videos.
Astarion got his hands under the gnome’s arms and hoisted her into the air, holding her over his head like someone playing with an infant or a cat. He hoped it was at least as embarrassing as developing feelings of affection after five hundred years of loathing someone.
With ease, he chucked the gnome over the bar, right into the dozens of bottles of liquor at its far end. Shelves snapped and fell at the impact, and a cascade of bottles tumbled to the floor, clinking and shattering.
The gnome crumpled to the floor in a pile of glass and liquor, groaning.
Astarion admired his own restraint at not killing her before sneakily extending a leg to trip the half-orc and then prancing right through the growing bar brawl back to Gale.
He was tucked quietly in the booth under a Globe of Invulnerability, enjoying some mushy steak fries with a copious amount of ketchup.
Astarion slipped into the globe and sat next to him.
“You’re a nightmare,” Gale said gently, somewhat teasingly.
“Mhm. Thanks for the help. That bottle could have left an awful scratch.”
“Any time,” Gale said as another glass bottle ricocheted off the globe over their heads.
They shared the remainder of the fries as they watched the fight spread through the entire restaurant. A hollyphant flew above the crowds, pelting random patrons with foodstuffs and watching with glee as the victims pinned it on other restaurant goers. One victimized dragonborn pulled a table from the floor, held it in front of herself, and barreled forward through a dozen Mystran missionaries who were waiting to be seated, knocking their innocent, besuited bodies to the floor. It was captivating.
Astarion and Gale’s blissful snacking didn’t last long. The gnome, sporting a gushing head wound, stepped closer and pointed right at their table.
“He started it!”
“Get out of my restaurant,” demanded a stern duergar. “You two aren’t welcome in this Applebee’s ever again.”
“Oh, who cares? Your chum buckets are half water anyway.”
On his way out the door, Astarion turned and shouted so everyone in the restaurant could hear. “They’re watering down the chum buckets!”
That further enraged the crowds.
🩸🩸🩸
Astarion and Gale were laughing their asses off when they got back to the room.
“Did you see the harengon with the queso?” Astarion asked.
“I did,” Gale wheezed.
The tiny creature had dumped an entire vat of it over someone’s head.
“I only wish someone had slipped in the puddle,” Astarion said with a sigh.
Gale shook his head. “I do hope no one was seriously hurt.”
“You would. I did spare the gnome for you.”
“Much obliged.”
Gale’s knee let out a loud pop as he bent slightly so he could hop up onto the bed. He scooted onto his back and sighed with satisfaction at finally laying flat for the first time in hours. “You know… when I said I wanted to go on an adventure, getting into a fight and subsequently being kicked out of an Applebee’s wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
“You loved it, though,” Astarion crooned, gracefully leaping next to Gale. He landed casually on his side and propped his head against his arm like he was awaiting juicy gossip.
“I’m enjoying myself,” Gale admitted. “More than I thought possible.”
“Me too.”
Astarion would have left it at that, but Gale never could stop yapping. With a hard groan at the exertion of rolling, he turned to face Astarion.
“I’ve been lonely for so long that I’d forgotten what it’s like not to be.” He reached a shaking hand for Astarion’s. “I’m sorry you and I didn’t reconnect sooner.”
“So am I.”
A lingering gaze followed, and Astarion felt like Gale’s eyes were boring a hole through him. Gale knew what was going through Astarion’s mind. He had to know.
Something like shame worked its way into Gale’s expression. He lowered his head. “Astarion, I need to confess something…”
“No, you don’t.” Astarion pleaded against it.
“I—”
“Don’t,” Astarion said firmly. “I enjoyed myself. You enjoyed yourself. It doesn’t need to be any more complicated than that.”
He knew it already was, but they went to sleep without addressing it.
Chapter 20: A Positive Experience
Summary:
Gale is in love with his best friend. Meanwhile, the Applebee’s fight goes viral.
Notes:
Art Alert: I drew Astarion and Gale in the jacuzzi from the last chapter.
Expand to enjoy these old men.
The very lovely wisdomcaster also drew them on their little non-date at Applebee's. You can see the fellas sharing a chum bucket on their tumblr.
Important: I’ll be on vacation for the next three weeks, so TBD whether I post anything. It depends on how bored I get in hotel rooms at night. Hopefully this chapter leaves you with a good taste in your mouth until the next. There's plenty of Old Man Yaoi. <3
Chapter Text
When Gale awoke the next morning, it was with a start as he realized Astarion was both staring at and touching him. Nothing lewd. Sitting next to Gale, Astarion was simply twirling a finger through his white chest hairs with a mesmerized expression on his face.
“Astarion,” Gale yawned, bringing himself to a seat with a loud SNAP of his back or hips (it was difficult to say which). “What are we doing?”
Astarion stopped touching him and worked through their plans out loud. “Well, hotel check out is at noon and we’re banned from the Applebee’s, so I wager we’ll hit the road and look for lunch. I believe you wanted to return to Waterdeep and check the wreckage of your tower?”
“That's not what…” Gale shut his eyes for a moment in thought. When he opened them, he took Astarion's hands in his own and spoke softer and with hesitation. “What are we doing?”
Astarion knew exactly what Gale meant, and he let out a complaining sigh. “I don't know, but isn't it nice not to know?”
For Gale, who'd devoted his entire life to knowledge, it was not.
He was, quite stupidly, falling in love with his best friend, and he believed the feeling was mutual. The evidence was in Astarion’s hesitation to talk about it.
It didn't have the makings of some great romance. There had been no love at first sight. No one had swept anyone off their feet. But Astarion understood Gale, and Gale liked to think he understood Astarion. More than that, he appreciated him. There was no one on Toril that Gale would rather have been spending time with.
Gale's mind became preoccupied with a romanticism that had laid dormant for ages. He began thinking of potential gifts for Astarion (perhaps a custom Juicy Couture tracksuit?). When he dreamt the night before, it was of kissing Astarion, softly and slowly. He was getting a bit ahead of himself, he knew, but that had always been his way.
What he was meant to do about his feelings, Gale had no clue. Astarion had an aversion to something as simple as kissing, let alone the word Gale was thinking.
Love. He loved his friend—a man who needed a friend more than he needed anything. Gale had promised to be that friend for him, and now he was imagining long walks on beaches.
They were at a strange little impasse.
Gale supposed he just had to endure—to prove that he wasn't going to leave this time—and eventually Astarion would allow himself to admit his obvious feelings.
Then again, it had taken Astarion five hundred years to concede that his previous relationship had been bad for him. He was a bit stunted, to be honest. There was a good chance they could spend the next few centuries as friends who sometimes slept together.
That wouldn't be the worst fate, but Gale could imagine better.
He sighed. “I suppose it’s alright not to know—”
His pondering came to an abrupt end as Astarion began fussing with his pajama bottoms.
“What are you doing?” Gale yelped.
Astarion looked at him like he was stupid. “I'm horny and you've got morning wood. It seems our interests have aligned once more.”
Torn between really wanting to fuck his best friend and needing to feel like he was the person in the room with scruples, Gale reached out and held Astarion’s hands in place, just above his freshly revealed cock.
“You're not just trying to de-age me again…?”
“I can swallow my own seed if you don't want it,” Astarion groused, “but one way or another I'm coming this morning. Do you want it to be with your cock in my ass or not?”
Gale’s face warmed. “Pro para occhio.” Haste. “Armis.” Mage armor. “Macte vertute.” Enhance endurance.
“That's the spirit,” Astarion said, moving to straddle Gale and squirting a glob of thick, cool lube onto his stiff cock.
Gale shuddered at the chill of it, then again at the squeeze of Astarion’s tight rim as he lowered himself. Astarion took Gale’s cockhead in no time at all, then moved slowly down the length of the shaft. Once again, he hadn’t bothered to prepare himself for Gale’s generously sized prick, and he gritted his teeth a little as he bore down.
“Are you alright?” Gale asked.
“Better than,” Astarion said smoothly. “It takes more than a fat hog to hurt me.”
“You’re allowed to take time to prepare yourself, you know.”
Astarion seemed caught off guard by that. He blinked rapidly, shaking any pesky thoughts away. “I’ll… keep that in mind for next time.”
“Next time?” Gale wondered.
“What can I say? You have a nice cock,” Astarion said, slowly beginning to ride it, teasing Gale with the movement and pressure of it all.
“You have a nice… everything…”
Those words weren’t smooth, but the ramblings of a distracted wizard. Astarion was stunning, and Gale knew he was gawking stupidly at a beauty he most definitely didn’t deserve.
Reaching forward, he brought his hands to where Astarion’s hips and thighs met and thumbed at the crease there. Astarion’s skin was silky, possibly the result of being very recently regenerated post-saponification. A swell of pity and guilt bothered Gale, and he tried very hard not to think about it as he thrust up into Astarion.
Whether Gale deserved him or not, Astarion deserved to feel adored. He needed it.
With that in mind, Gale summoned some mage hands again. Two of them groped Astarion’s stomach, chest, and shoulders—crackling lightly as they glided across his perfectly smooth skin. Two more wedged in between Astarion’s ass and Gale’s thighs, squeezing Astarion's cheeks each time he lowered himself onto them and otherwise gently caressing his balls.
A final mage hand gripped Astarion’s cock more firmly than Gale ever could. As it slid his delicate foreskin up and over the head, Astarion began to leak. Gale watched his slit glisten in the pink lighting of the ‘Let’s get naked’ sign.
“Let me know if you want anything different,” Gale offered.
“This is perfect,” Astarion said, at first in his most confident voice. With a slight hitch, he repeated himself. “Perfect.”
Gale worried Astarion might slip away again, but he didn’t. His hands came down on Gale’s furry chest, where he used them for leverage to ride harder and faster. It wasn’t merely for mechanical advantage—at least, Gale didn’t think so. Astarion’s face held the same curiously fascinated expression it was wearing when Gale woke up. His fingers splayed and folded in the hairs, and he actually smiled as he rode Gale's cock.
Relaxed moans slipped through soft, pale lips.
If Gale wasn't mistaken, Astarion was genuinely enjoying himself.
So too was Gale. The squeeze and stroke of Astarion's ass had Gale's balls tightening and his cock throbbing. He knew he wouldn’t last long.
Despite all the spells he’d cast on himself, Gale wheezed as his breaths quickened.
Astarion slowed. “Are you alright?”
“I am. I merely, agh—”
“Oh, I see.” With a wicked grin, Astarion slammed himself down on Gale's cock.
“Astarion—”
“Go on,” Astarion trilled, repeating the harsh slam of his ass. “Come for me, pet.”
With a term of endearment on the table, Gale was done for.
The next time Astarion took him in completely, Gale came. He gasped and watched Astarion grin as he unloaded a few hard bursts into his best friend's ass.
“Mhm. Perfect.”
Astarion shimmied a bit and reached for an empty chum bucket on the nightstand. Sitting on Gale's wilting cock, he held the drink container in front of himself, leaned back, and let the mage hand work him to completion.
Chum buckets could hold thirty-two fluid ounces and Astarion damn near filled the thing as he finished with a series of gentle moans.
When he was empty, he handed Gale the container full of warm, sticky cum.
“Your cum bucket, my dear.”
More endearment. Gale snickered at the gesture, but accepted the bucket. Before dismissing his mage hands, he had them pile another pillow beneath his back to lend him enough of an incline that it was safe for him to drink. Then he began sipping Astarion's spend from a thick plastic bendy straw. It was salty and slightly bitter, but honestly better than any of the drinks he’d tried at Applebee’s.
Astarion, meanwhile, moved off of Gale's cock and glanced toward his own backside. Harrumphing, he grabbed a worn red cloak and wiped some cum and lube from his ass, then chucked the cloak across the room before settling in next to Gale.
“If you’d like, I can cast Prestidigitation.”
“Hrm?” Astarion realized. “Oh, no. That was more about the cloak than the mess. I rather enjoy feeling you leak from me.”
Gale blushed hard as Astarion moved in to cuddle.
He was sweet about it, snuggling close and nuzzling his nose against the side of Gale's neck. His fingers once again tangled in Gale's chest hairs.
Gale didn't understand the fascination, but he wasn't bothered by it. His free hand found the small of Astarion's back and rubbed there, just slightly.
It was then that a small sniffling sound came from Astarion.
“Did I hurt you?” Gale asked with worry.
“Not at all,” Astarion mumbled. “Quite the opposite, actually.”
“Astarion…”
“Don’t make things complicated.”
“Is there anything you need?” Gale asked in lieu of confessing his feelings.
Astarion paused. “Time.”
Gale squeezed Astarion's lower back as well as his arthritic hand could. It hurt less than usual, thanks to the soothing spend he was slowly sipping.
A bit of mischief came over Gale that just might have been Astarion rubbing off on him. He moved his cum bucket toward Astarion's face.
“Would you care for a sip?”
Astarion snorted, loud and hard. “It's all yours, darling.”
🩸🩸🩸
As the Plymouth Laser puttered along the winding roads of the Evermoors freeway, its stereo blared.
You’re listening to 98.6, the Pleasure Zone! Playing the best of the 70s, 80s, and 90s!
“I haven't heard one song from the 90s so far, you rotten bastards.” Astarion kept talking to the radio like it could hear him.
Gale, looking and feeling a few hundred years younger, found it utterly charming. He sat behind the steering wheel, his renewed eyesight allowing Astarion to finally be the passenger princess he'd always wanted to be.
When the next song came on, Astarion beamed with giddiness.
Today is gonna be the day
That they're gonna throw it back to you—
Under most circumstances, hearing Oasis’s “Wonderwall” was far from desirable, but it made Gale happy to hear Astarion mumbling along.
By now you should've somehow
Realized what you gotta do
I don't believe that anybody
Feels the way I do about you now
Gale had been checking his rearview mirror every five to eight seconds, as recommended in most driver’s handbooks. On one particular glance, he became suspicious.
“Is that car following us?”
“Hrm?” Astarion had his seat reclined and his bare feet kicked up onto the dashboard. He’d been fussing with his fingernails in an attempt to get Gale to stop at a nail salon for some sort of ‘fill-in.’ Gale didn’t get it. The nails looked fine.
“That black sedan,” Gale said. “I’m fairly certain I saw it at the hotel, and it’s been behind us ever since.”
With a bored sigh, Astarion leaned forward to check the side view mirror. “Lots of people drive toward Waterdeep.”
“I’d like to see what happens if we exit,” Gale said.
“Perhaps to a nice little nail salon?”
“I don’t see any of those…”
In the distance, there was a large round shape reminiscent of a mollusk. A fallen nautiloid. Between it and the road was a tall, brightly lit sign reading ‘Chuff’s Diner.’
“You mentioned something about lunch,” Gale noted.
Astarion exhaled loudly. “Fine. If you sing along.”
There are many things that I would
Like to say to you
But I don't know how
“Come on, Gale. I know you know the words...”
Completely willing to sing for this man, Gale cleared his throat.
When the chorus kicked in, they belted it out together.
“Because maybe
You're gonna be the one that saves me
And after all
You're my wonderwall—”
It was at that moment—when the lyrics to an overplayed Oasis song pulled at his heart strings—that Gale realized he was in even deeper than he thought. He exited the freeway and pulled into the parking lot of Chuff’s Diner, unfollowed by the black sedan. When the song finally and mercifully ended, Gale actually considered whether Astarion was his wonderwall.
He hoped Astarion was thinking the same.
🩸🩸🩸
Sadly, the interior of Chuff’s was no longer a Nautiloid. The vessel had been gutted, and its interior replaced with standard diner decor: black and white checkerboard flooring, vibrant red pleather dining booths, speckled laminate tables, and cheap pendant lights. Despite the ‘No Smoking’ sign on the door, it smelled of decades’ worth of tobacco, as well as grease and just a hint of illithid larvae.
“Hello!” said the halfling at the host stand. “Table for two?”
Gale nodded. It was a simple interaction, but it struck him. Usually, people working in customer service stared him in the eyes and spoke slowly, like he was stupid just because he was old.
He wasn’t physically old at the moment, though. As he settled into a squeaking red booth next to a window, only his knee popped—and only slightly!
Astarion scooted in next to him. Apparently they sat on the same side of dining booths now, regardless of whether it was trivia night.
They accepted menus from a tired tiefling server.
“Something to drink?” asked the server.
“What sorts of margaritas do you have?” Astarion wondered.
“Um… none? We don’t serve alcohol…”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. A bottle of Evian, then.”
“Is tap water okay?”
Astarion shut his eyes and exhaled loudly. “Fine.”
“And for you?”
“Ginger ale, please,” Gale said.
The server nodded and stepped away.
Watching Astarion trace his perfectly fine acrylics across words on the menu, Gale couldn’t help but feel awful. For five centuries, Astarion had been alone in his miserable palace, reading self-help books, binge-watching trash television, and ordering useless garbage from QVC. He’d reached out to Gale on too many occasions, and…
The diner seemed to fade as Gale got into his own head, wondering how long ago he and Astarion could have begun sitting, singing, and sleeping together. He’d been a complete fool devoting himself to Mystra for so long. How much had he missed out on?
Pale fingers snapped in front of his face. “Please tell me you didn’t just have a stroke.”
“What?”
“I asked if you wanted to share an order of onion rings.”
“Oh, ah…” Gale tugged at his robe to straighten it. “Sure.”
Astarion scowled. “It wasn’t Mystra calling again, was it?”
“No, I was merely ruminating on the past.” Gale set his menu on the table and gazed into Astarion’s eyes. “I’m truly sorry for everything.”
“I already forgave you.”
“Yes, but—”
“Gale, you’ve had your cock in my ass. Shut up about the past.”
Gale obliged, but lowered his head. His thoughts lingered on centuries lived, but he knew Astarion didn’t want to hear about those.
“I like the decor,” he said instead.
Astarion considered the tin signs, vinyl records, and signed photos of dead celebrities that covered the walls. “It’s no Applebee’s, but it’s alright—wait a minute.” His eyes lit up as he noticed something across the room: a black box with a strip of blue LED lighting around its edges, labeled YourTunes. “They have a jukebox!”
A puff of air escaped Gale’s mouth. He shook his head.
“Order me a steak, rare,” Astarion said as he skedaddled.
The server returned with drinks and Gale placed their orders, picking applesauce for one of Astarion’s sides in hopes of converting him into a fan. He knew Astarion had been successful at the jukebox when a lovely 1950s number by The Crickets was displaced by the lackadaisical distorted guitar of Collective Soul’s “Shine.”
“I thought for sure you’d pick Oasis,” Gale said when his friend returned.
“As if I’m a one note person?” Astarion scoffed playfully. “I’m hurt.”
“You were over there for a while…”
Astarion grinned. “I set it to play their entire debut album.” His smile faded as he noticed something outside. “I think you may have been right about that car.”
Parking in the lot was a black sedan that looked awfully similar to the one that had been following them on the highway. Its heavily tinted windows revealed nothing of its occupants.
“They must have taken the next exit and circled back,” Gale said.
“Who’s they?”
“I can only assume Araj’s people, unless there’s someone else after you.”
“Well—”
“Astarion,” Gale said scoldingly.
Astarion responded with a dismissive wave. “Who can keep track of all their enemies, really?”
“How many can you think of?”
“Oh, you know. I still get some pissed-off Gur on occasion. Then there are the adventurers who can’t mind their own business and let an ascendant vampire live in peace. There’s Gortash, who had my home demolished to punish me for neglecting his kill list. I have an outstanding tab at Blushing Mermaid for about ten thousand gp. Some surviving relatives of the spawn I sacrificed tried to sue me a while back, but the Baldurian legal system made that go away. I imagine they’re still angry.”
“Is that all?”
Astarion laughed. “I’m fairly certain I ran over an endangered spider back in Menzoberranzan, so potentially all of Drow society. If Godey were ever free, he’d probably try to kill me. So might the people in this diner when they realize we’re only on our second Collective Soul track out of fourteen.” He put a hand to his chin, pondering some more. “Shovel despises me.”
“Basket,” Gale corrected.
“Honestly, Gale. It’s probably easier to list who doesn’t hate me.”
“I don’t,” Gale said quickly.
Astarion chuckled. “I know. You have thirty-two ounces of my spunk in your stomach.”
“Indeed. Were it not for your semen’s restorative effects, I’d need to take something for indigestion after drinking all that.” Gale stopped himself from going on about his digestive ailments, choosing to focus instead on his friend’s self-esteem. He put a hand on Astarion’s thigh. “More people would like you if you let them get to know you.”
A cold expression fell across Astarion’s face as he pushed the hand away. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not. You’re—”
“Gale.”
“I don’t understand,” Gale said with a sigh. “You love compliments.”
Astarion’s voice darkened. “I’m not meant to be put on a pedestal. I know what I am… a vain, petty creature prone to violence. People are right not to like that.”
“You’re honest, charming, full of both wit and whimsy—”
“You’re the only person on Toril who thinks so.” Astarion took a sip of tap water and scowled at the glass. “I think you’re delusional, personally.”
Gale fought against that notion. “I think you’re afraid I’m right, and that you’ve missed out on five centuries’ worth of potential friendships while you wallowed in solitude.”
Astarion let out an indignant puff of air. “Fuck you.”
“I’m right then.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“No, you never would.”
The server interrupted the silence that followed, serving onion rings to start. The beer-battered appetizer bites were crisp, but unfortunately they were also very nearly burnt.
“Applebee’s would never do this to me,” Astarion complained.
“They did water down the chum buckets, though.”
“At least they had chum buckets!” Astarion took another sip of tap water and emitted a harsh whine. “It tastes like fish piss.”
Gale adjusted his dentures. “I do wish my teeth would grow back with regeneration.”
“And I wish my scars hadn’t. We get what we get, I suppose. Like fish piss.”
Due to the sensitive nature of Astarion’s back scars, Gale had been trying not to bring them up, but since Astarion had, he wagered it was a fair topic for discussion.
“It is fascinating,” Gale said. “When you were saponified, your epidermis and dermis were lost, as it’s the subcutaneous fat that renders into soap. That’s why you don’t have your tattoos anymore. It’s quite strange that your scars would return.”
“Well, Cazador did use an enchanted dagger,” Astarion reflected. “Honestly, the scars don’t bother me too much. They’ve been a part of my body for as long as I can remember. I do miss my tattoos, though.”
“Perhaps we can stop somewhere and you can get a new one.”
Astarion grinned maliciously. “Will you get one too, Gale?”
“Aha.” Gale waved the question away. “No. That’s hardly my cup of tea.”
“I don’t know. Until very recently, bar fights weren’t your cup of tea either.”
Gale considered that. “You know what? I am learning to enjoy the taste of chaos. Count me in.”
“If you get some Mystran symbol, I will fight you.”
“Do you really think I would? After everything?”
Astarion answered quietly. “I don’t know…”
He still didn’t trust that Gale had chosen him over Mystra.
That hurt, but it struck Gale as fair. All he could do was remain at Astarion’s side and—hopefully, eventually—prove his devotion. He could also articulate it…
“I will always be a wizard, but I’ll no longer be serving her blindly—”
As yet another Collective Soul song flooded the restaurant, there was a loud, collective groan from patrons and wait staff alike.
One guest walked over to the jukebox, saw something on the screen, and shouted out loud. “Oh, come on!”
“What did you do?” Gale asked, redirecting his train of thought.
“I paid for the ultra premium song boosts,” Astarion said, laughing through his words. “No one can override Collective Soul unless they pay fifty gp for a subscription.”
“I thought you were broke.”
“I still have two thousand gp to my name from soap sales, even after renting the Jannath Estate and buying all that IKEA furniture.” He winced. “Eugh. What a waste. And I had to build it!”
“You don’t want to go back there?”
“Why would I?” Astarion gestured at the tray of burnt onion rings, then at Gale. “I have everything I need right here.”
That may or may not have been sarcasm, but Gale suddenly felt much warmer. His loins stirred as intensely as they had when he was a much younger man. He really, really wanted to make another attempt at confessing his affections.
Thankfully, the server stopped him by returning with their meals: meatloaf with mashed potatoes and applesauce for Gale, and a rare steak with the same sides for Astarion.
Astarion blew out a loud sigh. “Applesauce? Really?”
“Don’t criticize it until you’ve tried it.”
“Fine.” Astarion put one scant spoonful in his mouth. “It’s shit.”
“You haven’t even swallowed it yet!”
“I’m not sure about human biology, but my taste buds are on my tongue, not in my throat.” Astarion held his head high. “It’s shit.”
While Astarion spent the next few minutes complaining about his steak being overcooked and there being garlic in the mashed potatoes, Gale happily dug into his own meal.
About midway through his plate (two Collective Soul songs later), a beefy human wearing a black suit approached the table. He was clean cut, with a sharp, angular face.
“You,” he said in a harsh tone, pointing at Astarion.
Astarion was gulping down some more of the applesauce he allegedly hated, and he drooled a bit as he looked up. “Hrm?”
“My friend here has PTSD and Collective Soul is a comfort to him,” Gale blurted.
In a flash, Astarion’s face whipped toward Gale’s. “Are you serious?”
“I’m enjoying my meatloaf,” Gale explained. “The last thing I want is to get into another fight right now.”
The man stared at them, blinking. His voice emerged in a thick, folksy accent. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re not here about the jukebox?” Astarion asked.
“I’m here on behalf of Jeb Gortash.”
Astarion frowned. “How did you find me?”
“Gortash always has eyes on you. To be honest, though, we lost track of you somewhere in the Underdark. Would’ve been fired for sure. That viral Applebee’s video was a lifesaver.” He gestured at the free side of the booth. “May I?”
“Eugh.” Astarion turned to Gale. “Can we kill him?”
“Astarion.”
Astarion poked at his overcooked meat. “What? You’re not actually enjoying this food, are you?”
“Let’s just hear him out,” Gale advised.
“Thanks,” the man said as he slid into the booth.
“Make it quick,” snapped Astarion.
“In short, Jeb wants you back.”
“Back in Baldur’s Gate?”
The man nodded. “Exactly. He’s having the worst luck finding a new vampire lord. He says he can make the arrangement more attractive for you this time.”
Astarion’s face scrunched. “More attractive how?”
“He’ll pay you for starters. Let you stay in the recently vacated Silvershield Estate.”
“It’s not haunted, is it?”
“Not in the slightest.”
Gale frowned. Astarion had just said he had everything he needed, and now he seemed to be genuinely contemplating a return to Baldur’s Gate to kill Gortash’s political opponents in exchange for a luxurious life of laziness—
“I’ll pass,” Astarion said sharply.
The man let out a nervous chuckle. “You’ll… pass?”
“I’ve entered a new phase of my life,” Astarion declared. “I’m sowing my wild oats.”
“Eating applesauce at a diner?”
Astarion spoke through gritted teeth. “Yes.”
The man held out his palms, practically begging for a deal. “Is there anything he could add to sweeten the deal enough to change your mind?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, shit.” The man patted the table before extracting himself from the booth. “Appreciate you hearing me out anyway.” He handed over a business card. “You change your mind, give me a call.”
Without looking at it, Astarion wedged the card into his pile of mashed potatoes.
“Astarion?” Gale asked hesitantly.
Astarion’s eyes stared right into Gale’s. “I meant what I said. I have everything I need.” Before any further sentiments could be exchanged, he scooted his plate toward the middle of the table. “Let’s get out of here, shall we?”
“Just a moment,” Gale said before wolfing down his last bite of meatloaf.
🩸🩸🩸
The pair exited Chuff’s much fuller than they’d entered. Gale was aging back into his digestion problems, and he rubbed at his gurgling stomach as they stepped toward their car.
A small crowd had gathered near the vehicle’s trunk, and Gale caught just the tail end of some passionate conversation.
“I was here first!” shouted the same Gortash affiliate from before.
Arguing with him were two parasol-wielding drow women in spidersilk armor.
“A human male could never conduct a proper kidnapping,” one said.
“What in the hells are you people doing?” Astarion asked dramatically.
The group turned to face him.
“They’re here to kidnap you,” the man said. “On behalf of Araj Oblodra.”
“He’s here to kidnap you as well,” one of the drow women said, pointing back.
Astarion put his hands on his hips. “Well, you can all fuck right off.”
“Mystra’s orders were perfectly clear,” Gale interrupted, directing his ire at the drow.
“Mystra’s orders apply to wizards. Araj employs an array of talented individuals like ourselves, and she’s not willing to let you”—she gestured at Astarion—“get away with breaking a contract.”
Astarion moved a hand to Gale’s bicep and gave it a little squeeze. “Can we kill them now, darling?”
Murder wasn’t Gale’s preferred course of action, but he was ready. His fingers crackled with electricity as he prepared to cast chain lightning on the lot of them.
“You’re going to let us get in our car and leave,” he said, hoping to avoid killing.
“Like heck,” said Gortash’s associate, reaching into his jacket and withdrawing what looked like a Gondian .45.
He fired before Gale could zap him.
In an instant, Gale hit the pavement, the electricity in his hands completely dissipating under the obvious effects of Wizardsbane Oil. That wasn’t all, though. Some combination of enchantments left Gale feeling like a flaming sphere had punched straight through his stomach.
Lying on his back, he tilted his head forward to observe a dark, swiftly spreading stain on the front of his robe. He’d been shot right in the middle of his torso. Things looked bad.
His head hit the pavement, and Gale stared up at the sky. The vapor trail of a passing airplane became his focus as he waited for either Mystra’s intervention or his own death.
“I’ll rip your fucking throats out,” Astarion hissed.
Gale only heard the ensuing scuffle. There was another gunshot, some growling, rapid-fire slapping, a gurgle and an incoherent shout—
Suddenly, his view of the sky was obstructed by the concerned face of his best friend, who had knelt down next to him.
Astarion slapped the side of Gale’s face, not hard but to make a point.
“Stop almost dying.”
He then moved his hand up to his own face and dragged a fang along the surface of its palm to draw blood. Then there was pressure against Gale’s wound. Astarion was offering a makeshift sort of transfusion.
“Breathe, Gale.”
The blood loss was too fast—much faster than Astarion could alleviate. Gale’s vision darkened at its edges. He heard his breaths grow shorter and shorter, and they took on a rattling sound as he struggled to stay alive.
Endorphins quickly took care of the physical pain, but Gale grieved. He wished he’d had more time free from Mystra’s yoke. He wished he’d had more time with Astarion, that he’d been able to tell him how he felt.
“Okay, new approach…”
Pale lips hovered just above Gale’s. Gale looked up into concerned red eyes.
Astarion spat, and a wet glob landed in Gale’s moustache.
“Shit,” Astarion said, then, “Fuck it. For the record, this doesn’t mean anything.”
Gale’s thoughts shorted out as Astarion’s lips locked against his. It wasn’t romantic at all. Astarion just spat and drooled applesauce-flavored saliva into Gale’s mouth for what seemed like ages, pumping him full of lifesaving fluid flecked with steak shreds until Gale could see clearly once more.
When he was healed, he bolted upright to see that Astarion had in fact ripped the throats out of all three of the would-be kidnappers. The pavement was drenched with enough blood that it filled a small pothole.
Gale rasped. “You saved me.”
“Yes, well, the kiss…”
“Didn’t mean anything,” Gale said. “I heard you.”
For a moment, their eyes engaged in an awkward dance, making and then quickly dodging eye contact, over and over. It ended when Astarion put his hands on Gale’s cheeks.
“It didn’t mean anything. This does—”
Astarion moved in and kissed Gale properly, with smacking lips and a tongue that gently probed to find Gale’s. His hands held Gale’s face firmly.
There was definitely blood twisting through his beard hairs, but Gale didn’t care. They were having a momentous breakthrough in the parking lot of a roadside diner.
Gale wanted nothing more than to kiss back, but he thought better of presuming.
When there was a brief break in Astarion exploring his mouth, he gasped. “Astarion?”
“Shut up and kiss me back.”
Naturally, Gale did.
Chapter 21: Blood Thirsty
Summary:
Astarion and Gale make big plans.
Notes:
...and we're back!
It's not Tuesday, but it's been long enough. I'd like to say I'm refreshed from vacation, but really I'm very tired. Anyway, content warning for sincere conversation in this chapter. I promise there are still plenty of jokes as we near the finish line. <3
Chapter Text
1969 DR:
As the LSD wore off, Astarion felt like shit. He'd had a nice, simple plan: imagine interacting with (and fucking) his dead love one last time for closure. Using Gale as a stand-in, however, had resulted in Astarion being abandoned mid-trip.
Mystra called. She always did.
From there, Astarion stopped seeing his dragonborn in Gale's place because Gale wasn't there. Alone, he began imagining the walls of the palace closing in on him, their musty stones and peeling strips of groovy wallpaper inching ever closer to his throbbing head. He felt phantom fingers pulling his hair with a vice-like grip and heard Cazador's voice, as clearly as ever.
You are mine, boy.
He wasn't. He reminded himself that he wasn't over and over as he sat naked on a shag rug with his arms wrapped tight around his knees. It was merely a bad trip.
Knowing that didn’t make it any better. Even with his eyes shut, he could see thousands of colors. He didn't even know there were thousands of colors. Swirling and spiraling, they somehow added up to a faceless, formless version of Cazador, and the colors mocked him. Words seared directly into his mind.
You are mine.
Some vampire ascendant he'd turned out to be, beaten by a bit of acid.
Astarion held himself tighter.
Everything always came back to Cazador. He routinely masturbated to the thought of his former master exploding. His best dreams involved killing the bastard. His worst ones, on the other hand…
He felt the carpet turn icy cold, and his whole body shivered as frigid tendrils of shag carpeting pierced his bare skin in thousands of micropricks. Beneath him wasn't the only place that stung. The scars on his back ached suddenly and sharply. One stroke at a time, it was as if they were being carved anew. It had taken Cazador hours to finish those marks, and Astarion dreaded the thought of his trip taking hours to resolve itself.
Overwhelmed by it all, he wept.
Thankfully, he'd fashioned Godey into a bong, so there was no one around to see him in this state, with bloodshot eyes and snot streaming across his lips to a dreadful wheezy sound.
As he shook and sobbed and tried to think up ways of pulling himself back to reality, he cursed Gale. That pathetic old bastard couldn't even stick around to get laid for the first time in a century. He was that far up Mystra's ass.
Astarion’s stupid plan hadn't worked. Instead of closure he'd received some awkward, wet kisses and a stark reminder: he’d once felt something special, and had since lost some part of himself that could never be regained.
He vowed never to kiss anyone again.
🩸🩸🩸
Fifty-five years later, he changed his mind.
The kiss in the parking lot of Chuff’s Diner didn't last long before a crowd gathered to survey the murder scene and the bloodsoaked old men making out on the asphalt. Several of them recorded the scene using their cell phones, no matter how many malicious stares or hissing sounds Astarion shot their way.
Thinking it best to get out of there, Astarion and Gale piled into the Plymouth Laser. Gale drove them down a few remote country roads until he could pull off into a patch of gravel next to a field of moon corn.
Though it wasn't a long car ride, Astarion's mind screamed at him the entire way. He had no idea what he was doing with Gale or why, but the gentle smacking of their lips had stirred something in him—something he'd forgotten long ago. For reasons he couldn't fathom, he wanted that man, carnally and otherwise. He scowled at the tent in his sweatpants.
It wasn't that all of the cum and spit had Gale looking almost like he had when the two of them first met. No, that wasn't the reason he’d changed his mind about kissing. Astarion found that he genuinely didn't care whether or not Gale was a geezer. Ancient or middle-aged, he was the same person, and Astarion wanted him, deeply. Old or young. Hot or not. Smelling like parchment and vanilla, or like onions and beans.
Gale glanced over his shoulder. “Should we get in the back? It's a bit roomier—”
Astarion nodded vigorously. “Yes.”
With that, they hopped out of the car to hop right back in.
The backseat wasn't much roomier than the front, but it was at least one flat expanse of dusty cloth and pleather, uninterrupted by cup holders or shift knobs.
They scooted in, knees knocking against the backs of the seats in front of them, and half-turned to face each other.
Astarion dove for the side of Gale's supple neck, peppering it with kisses and tactfully refraining from biting into the smooth skin. He could hear Gale’s quickened pulse throbbing beneath.
“You're gorgeous,” he whispered into Gale’s ear before nonchalantly yanking his earring out and throwing it into the floor well so he could kiss his ear too.
“That explains your sudden interest…” Gale said, almost sadly.
Astarion pulled away and looked him in the eyes. “It’s a perk to be sure, but at this point, I’d kiss you even if you were a walking corpse.”
“Would you really?”
Astarion hummed in affirmation. “I can't help that my bodily fluids make you look like an Amish George Michael. If I could keep my tongue out of your mouth long enough to let you age again, I'd show you.”
Gale’s expression brightened.
With cornstalks as their only audience, the two of them began making out again.
It was strange. Gale's breath was warm. His tongue was slow and gentle, not overly eager but nevertheless passionate in its own way. He held Astarion’s shoulders firm, massaging them slightly.
Astarion, in turn, cradled Gale's face between his hands.
They just kept kissing. There was something comfortable about sweeping his tongue across Gale’s dentures. As new as it was, it was almost as if they'd done it a thousand times. If the past had been just slightly different, they probably would have.
Gale's beard hairs were much softer now than when they were white and grey, and Astarion couldn't help but thumb at them as he kissed and sucked at Gale’s lower lip.
When he eventually pulled away to gasp for air, Gale chuckled. “I feel like a teenager again.”
Astarion couldn't relate. “I don't remember ever being one.”
“Not at all?”
Briefly, Astarion's vision clouded as he recalled everything he'd spent centuries trying to forget.
He shook his past away. “I don't remember anything before Cazador.”
Gale looked at Astarion as if that was the saddest thing he'd ever heard. His fingers slid down Astarion's arms and then squeezed his hands.
“A chance to make new memories then.”
“I suppose so,” Astarion said with a smile.
Behind it was utter dread.
As a rule, Astarion didn't like other people. Other people ignored what was happening to him in Cazador's palace for two hundred years when they most certainly knew. Other people lied about their intentions and left when he needed them most. Other people used him for his body, his vampirism, his blood. No, he didn't like anyone—least of all Gale.
He kissed him again anyway, tasting a tang of ketchup from the diner meatloaf and something mintier that he supposed was magical gum glue.
Somehow, the tomato-mint backwash of Gale's saliva tasted right.
Gale had been a terrible friend, but maybe he was never meant to be a friend. Maybe he was meant to be something else. As their tongues tangled and they groped each other's arms and backs, Astarion's stomach roiled.
The soft swipes were making him sick.
His ex came to mind, with his beefy arms and scaly snout. Kissing Gale felt better than kissing his mad love ever had, and those blissful feelings had gotten him exactly nothing in the end. When—not if—things with Gale eventually went south, the fall would be even harder than five hundred years of depression naps, meaningless orgies, and reality TV.
Kissing Gale felt so good that it hurt. It was dangerous.
How much lower, he wondered, could he fall? Memories of being turned to soap turned over in his mind—unable to move or speak in that dreadful pod, terrified and wishing to die. Just like his entombment. Horrors always repeated themselves.
Astarion mumbled against Gale's lips. “We should have done this five hundred years ago…”
He tasted salt and pulled away. To his horror, it was from him.
Tears streamed from his eyes, and with nowhere else to hide them, he swiftly buried his face in Gale's long beard, utterly ashamed. Coils of hair wormed their way between his pliant lips, and Astarion coughed them out as he cried. The vampire ascendant, reduced to this. Even in freedom, there was somehow always a new low.
“Astarion?” Gale's voice was gentle.
“I can't do this again. I can't. It ruined me last time...” Astarion couldn't bring himself to explain exactly what he meant, but Gale almost certainly understood.
“You're afraid.”
One of Astarion's go-to lines was that he feared nothing. Instead of dropping falsehoods, though, he nodded against Gale's chin, and an affirmative squeak worked its way out of his mouth. It was thoroughly embarrassing, but then he'd already laid himself bare. There was no going back to a time before Gale fucking Dekarios understood the extent of his despair.
Part of him didn’t mind. He liked Gale, and he liked the way Gale treated him these days.
If only Gale had listened centuries earlier, when Astarion sent that sending stone. He tried to feel bitter about their past, but at the same time soft, weak hands kneaded his lower back through his velour jacket.
“This isn’t like last time,” Gale said.
Astarion perked up to pay attention.
“I know I haven't been the best friend to you,” Gale said, “but I would never hurt you on purpose. Unlike your ex, I've no plans for either world domination or self-destruction.”
Astarion snorted, but it was half sniffle.
Gale lowered his head. “I could tell you how I feel about you, but you don't want that.”
“I know exactly what you'll say.”
“Do you?”
Astarion’s voice hitched slightly. “I'm not ready to hear it.”
“That's alright.”
“Is it?” Astarion snapped, accidentally launching a bit of spit at Gale’s face with the words. “Is it alright to be five hundred years past my enslavement, living as the most powerful vampire on Toril, and still be stuck on some asshole I dated for a few months?”
Gale moved a hand from Astarion’s back to wipe the spit from his cheek. “Do you miss him?”
“No,” Astarion realized. “I don't even miss feeling as I did back then.” He gestured toward Gale, then himself. “This feels better.”
“And that upsets you?”
It did. Fighting every protective instinct not to let Gale know him better, Astarion bit his lip as he tried to find the words to explain why.
“I, erm… I don't think I'm capable of making good decisions. Every time I choose something, I choose wrong.” He scoffed with indignation. “Except my tattoos. Those were perfect.”
In truth, he even had some second thoughts about his long-lost tramp stamp.
Gale shook his head. “The same feeling kept me tethered to Mystra all this time. After the orb and the Emerald Grove, I didn't feel I could trust myself.”
“And now that you know the nonce queen is a lying cunt, you trust yourself?”
There was a quaver to Gale's voice. “I'm not sure, but I'm trying. I've stagnated for long enough.”
“So have I,” Astarion said, somehow caring less about that than about Gale.
For five hundred years, Gale had been all but alone, leaving the solitude of his tower only to do Mystra's bidding, seek cheap thrills with Minthara, or—on rare occasions—meet up with Astarion. That he actually sought out the latter in spite of how cruel Astarion was to him showed how miserable he must have been.
Astarion knew how fucked up it all was, but until their most recent adventure together, he'd never realized just how alike he and Gale were. Two lonely souls, terrified of facing the consequences of their actions.
In the cigarette-burned backseat of a rusty Plymouth Laser, they stared at each other.
“We're quite the pair,” Gale said.
“Whatever we are…”
“Friends?” Gale tried.
“Friends don't fuck.”
“Soulmates?”
“Don't push it,” Astarion warned. He then took the opportunity to make one of the worst topic transitions of all time, artlessly brushing a hair out of his face. “I do like the ‘mate’ part of that, though…”
With that, he tried to pull a smooth maneuver and get himself on top of Gale. What really happened was that Gale ended up on his back with his knees scrunched up pointed at the cabin roof, and Astarion ended up on his knees next to Gale's ass, bonking his head against the rear windshield and his feet against the door any time he tried to move.
“Oh, to the hells with this,” he griped, unlatching the door nearest the cornfield so Gale's legs could stretch out and dangle beyond the confines of the car.
He then moved atop Gale, dick to dick, with his own feet outside the cabin as well, and continued kissing him.
“Wrmrwrr,” Gale mumbled.
Astarion pulled away from him with a loud smack. “What?”
“You’re my wonderwall.”
He'd actually been paying attention.
“Oh, I like you,” Astarion purred.
Some urge compelled him to reach for Gale's hands. They came together smoothly, and their fingers entwined at each of their sides while they kissed some more.
Obviously, their cocks were hard, but they only incidentally grinded against each other. They were both too deeply focused on the kissing, the handholding, and the whispering of small affirmations.
Disgusting, Astarion thought.
He was doing the thing he thought he never could and told himself he never would: he was actually falling for Gale. It was grotesque. It was wrong. It had to be wrong, because Astarion was only capable of making bad decisions.
“My wonderwall,” he whispered into Gale's mouth.
And fuck, he believed it.
He stopped and stared, his face hovering just a few inches above Gale’s, fangs intentionally bared.
“If you leave again, I’ll fucking kill you.”
Gale didn't take the threat seriously. “So long as you want me, I'll be here.”
“I want you,” Astarion said with desperation in his voice.
It was embarrassing and he hated it, but he let the feeling go.
His lips smashed against Gale's again, then began ravenously roaming. He hissed and groaned as he kissed along Gale's neck and parted his robe.
“No undershirt today?” Astarion tutted, eyeing Gale's thick, hairy tits. “How scandalous.”
He kissed and sucked at a chest that smelled faintly of mentholated ointment and dried blood. Making his way lower on Gale's body, he was forced to drop one foot outside of the car. It landed with a crunch on some gravel while the other planted itself in the floor well.
Astarion leaned in and kissed a bit of belly that rolled just over the edge of Gale's trousers, then undid them to unleash what was swiftly becoming his favorite fat hog of all time.
It had been ages since he'd put a cock in his mouth. After his ascension, his sexual exploits mostly consisted of watching others fuck and then draining them of their blood. Sometimes he let them service him—as Gale had been doing so wonderfully—but never the other way around. It was never supposed to be the other way around. When he killed Cazador, he vowed never to serve again.
And yet, his lips found the base of Gale's cock and kissed that too. He was pretty bad at keeping his resolutions, he realized.
Gale grabbed Astarion's hand and thus his attention. Their eyes met, and Gale's scrutinized Astarion.
“Are you sure you want to…?”
He cared enough to ask.
Disgust filled Astarion as he answered honestly. “I want to make you feel as good as you’ve made me feel.”
Gale slackened his grip. “Alright then.”
And so Astarion began sucking his first cock in centuries—attached to the thickly pubed groin of the most annoying wizard he'd ever known but was for some gods-forsaken reason falling for.
Naturally, he started at the head, and his jaw popped loudly as it stretched to accommodate.
“Eugh,” he griped against Gale's velvety foreskin before proceeding.
“You can stop at any time,” Gale said.
Astarion scowled directly at Gale’s slit—“I know that”—and pressed forward.
It was more of a challenge than he'd imagined. It ought to have been like riding a bicycle, he thought, if he'd ever learned how to do that. What he had done was suck thousands of cocks over the years, to mostly good reviews.
Centuries of sexual sloth left him out of practice, though, and he was unable to get much at all into his mouth. As he struggled to choke down more, his lips tapped against Gale’s shaft in awkward, shaky motions reminiscent of a pet fish sucking dried food flakes from the surface of its tank. It was a struggle, and not nearly as enjoyable as he'd hoped. He grumbled as his jaw popped once more.
Astarion wanted this. He loved the look of Gale's cock, the smell of his musk, and just about everything about the man, but each time he tried to take him deeper he gagged and let out an awful hacking sound.
Things went on like that for a few agonizing minutes, until it became clear that Astarion's stuttering pace wasn't working for Gale either. Before long, his massive hog began to soften.
Humiliated, Astarion tried to fluff things up, bobbing his head along the squishy, shortened length and hurriedly flapping his lips at it.
In his rush to make something work, one of his fangs snagged on Gale's shaft and drew blood. Just a tiny spot of a fine, A-positive vintage that almost made the embarrassment worth it when it hit Astarion's taste buds.
He wasn’t the only one who liked it, though.
Gale let out a lurid moan. His cock perked.
That made Astarion stop, remove his drooling mouth from Gale, and stare at the blushing face of his companion.
“Gale,” Astarion said in singsong. “Are you aroused by being hurt?”
Gale blushed as he shook his head. “Not exactly, I’m merely excited by the possibility that something could go wrong.”
That explained what the weird fuck had been doing with Minthara over the centuries. Astarion had always assumed he was just really into failing to please powerful women.
Astarion pondered. “When you invited me to go on an adventure, were you hoping it would be a horny one?”
“I truly wanted your friendship,” Gale said, babbling into a half-apology. “I am, of course, delighted by that friendship seemingly becoming more, but it wasn't any sort of goal of mine. If, ah… all of this stops now, I'll still be happy to have your friendship. It's well more than I've earned, and—”
Astarion shut him up with one word. “Gale.”
He eyed the tiny trickle of blood making its way down Gale's erection, then Gale’s rosy face.
“Would you like it if I bit you?”
“I, ah…” Gale stalled, clearly holding back.
“What’s wrong, my dear?”
Gale swallowed audibly. “I don't want you to view me the way you view Araj or the marks you brought back to your palace…”
Astarion exhaled a sharp puff of air. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. I know you're not horny for any old vampire. We've known each other for half a millennium. If you'd like a little nibble, you can say so.”
“I would,” Gale said quietly.
Astarion grinned. “So would I.”
His bared fangs moved toward Gale's succulent thigh. With a swift but gentle movement, they buried into soft skin. Gale moaned again as the numbing effect of the bite kicked in and Astarion began drinking from him.
Astarion had always imagined Gale's blood would be foul, but it was quite the opposite. The tiny sample he’d tasted before hadn’t exposed the full breadth of flavor to it. There was no trace of the Netherese blight that once infected every bit of Gale. Instead, notes of aged brandy and cinnamon rendered it highly drinkable, and Astarion joined Gale in moaning with pleasure as he slowly gulped it down.
He pulled away just long enough to praise his companion. “You taste divine.”
Before Astarion could even move a hand toward Gale's cock to help him along, there was a stuttering gasp and Gale exploded all over his own stomach.
“Oh,” Astarion said, chuckling at the thick fluid clumped in tangles of stomach hair.
At least some form of sucking on his part was able to get Gale off.
“You can keep going,” Gale said quickly.
“Can I?” Astarion asked, amused.
Gale’s hands pushed down on Astarion's shoulders to guide him. “Please.”
Astarion reached into his track pants to free his own cock and began stroking it slowly as he supped from Gale's bloodstream.
“I'm all yours,” Gale said. “Body and soul.”
Feeling too enraptured by the blood to complain about how strongly Gale was coming onto him, Astarion kept sucking—small, deliberate gulps that extended his meal.
He could have stayed latched onto Gale like that forever.
It was hardly the perfect setting for this, parked on gravel next to a corn field, but Astarion was sure he'd never felt better. Maybe when he killed Cazador, but he didn’t want to think about that. His head seemed to be filled with air, robbed of everything but joy.
His cock, meanwhile, throbbed.
He was getting close when the loud crunching of four tires on gravel made him stop.
“For fuck’s sake,” he griped, tucking his dick away.
Gale, who'd been blissed out in relaxation, furrowed his brow with concern and hastily covered his cum-coated belly with his robe. He sat up dizzily, planting his palms on the seat and swaying a bit from blood loss.
“Who is it?” Gale asked.
“I'm not sure,” Astarion said, stepping his other foot out of the car and standing to meet their visitor.
He helped Gale out of the car and braced his wobbly body against its side.
“You're alright?”
“Oh, yes,” Gale said, reaching into his robe and fussing with his trousers to fasten them. “My thigh is already healing.”
While some asshole took their time getting out of a black Mercedes sedan, Astarion grabbed Gale by the beard to pull him close and kiss him again—swiftly on the cheek. Then again on the lips, taking the time to nuzzle their noses together afterward.
Shit, he thought. I’m in love.
Before he could fully absorb that, a half-elf in a black suit hopped out of the vehicle and approached. “Astarion?”
Astarion turned and huffed. “Do you mind? I'm trying to experience personal growth over here.”
“Apologies,” said the half-elf. “I’m here on behalf of—”
“Gortash,” Astarion assumed, based on the outfit.
“Well… yes.”
“Get fucked.”
“You haven’t heard what I have to say.”
Astarion stepped forward, instinctively putting himself between the half-elf and Gale. “And you haven’t seen what happened to the last one of his goons who tried to drag me back to Baldur’s Gate. The aftermath isn’t far, if you’d like to stare at some gore in a parking lot.”
The half-elf reached toward his pocket, perhaps for a phone or a folded up note, but Astarion didn’t wait to find out. It could have been another of Gortash’s superweapons, and he wasn’t about to let the fucker fire it. He lunged forward and swiftly snapped the man’s neck, letting his body fall to the ground with a thud.
“It seems as though Gortash doesn't take no for an answer,” Gale said, coolly observing the corpse on the gravel.
That was true, and Astarion was sick of it. He just wanted to hang about with (and fuck) Gale. Unfortunately, thanks to centuries of inherited wealth and a family that made better investment decisions than Beanie Babies, Gortash had an endless supply of hired help. Astarion could be chased around by his people for eternity.
He put his hands at his hips. “Honestly. We need to kill Jeb. Araj too, but that could prove tricky with all of her damned mages…”
Gale squinted. “We?”
“You will go with me, won't you?”
For a long moment, Gale pondered on it, stroking his beard in consideration.
Astarion waved a hand in front of him. “Gale?”
“It’s one thing to disobey Mystra. It’s another to… well, I haven't chosen a charge for myself in centuries.” A sigh of either relief or shock followed. “Gortash has been ruling for over twenty years, and he's been having his political opponents murdered to stay in power. Someone should do something about him…”
Indifferent to reasons for killing Gortash that weren’t ‘he keeps pestering me,’ Astarion impatiently tapped his foot against the ground. “Mhmm…”
“I think… well, it would benefit Baldur's Gate…” Gale was clearly struggling.
“Do you think it's worth doing?” Astarion asked.
Gale nodded. “Yes.”
“You don't need Mystra's direction to do something meaningful.”
“And what if it sends Baldur's Gate into total disarray?” Gale’s eyes shifted with his thoughts.
“Then maybe Baldur's Gate needs to be in disarray.” Astarion was shocked by the ever-so-slight passion in his own voice. “You've seen the wait times to donate plasma. You've seen what it looks like beneath Wyrm’s Crossing. It costs 25,000gp a month to rent a house haunted by cuck ghosts. Baldur's Gate is a shithole.”
“It’s not our decision to make…”
Astarion challenged him. “Whose is it then? No opposition survives for long. Jeb thinks he's untouchable.”
That got through. Gale swallowed his objections. “Let’s prove him wrong then.”
“Is that your final answer?” Astarion teased.
“Yes. Let’s kill Gortash.”
“After I nut,” Astarion said, reaching for his waistband.
Chapter 22: Just Sanguine
Summary:
Gale takes Astarion back to Baldur's Gate.
Notes:
I can’t believe this story is over already. I feel like I just started it yesterday. A big thank you to all the soaperstars who’ve stuck with me on this strange, Oasis-filled journey. Your kudos and comments give me just enough serotonin to persist in a dystopia.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Gale offered to teleport himself and Astarion directly to High Hall, but to his surprise Astarion declined. It seemed that his friend companion partner soulmate wonderwall actually really enjoyed being driven across scenic Faerûn.
Astarion’s fangy smile as he jeered radio hosts and other drivers was infectious, and Gale found himself smiling and laughing more than he had in centuries. That had been the case ever since he and Astarion left the Underdark. Brief existential crisis aside, each day brought more joy than the one before it.
There was a small pang of regret that they could have been doing this so much sooner, but it was enough that they were doing it now—enjoying the breeze as it came in through cracked windows, singing along to the worst hits of the 90s, sharing an extra large fountain beverage from a gas station, reaching across the cabin and massaging an arm or thigh…
He loved Astarion, and it was clear Astarion loved him. The words would come eventually.
They headed directly to Baldur's Gate, stopping only so Gale could suck Astarion's cock to fix his eyesight so he could continue driving, and once to try the chum buckets at a different Applebee’s (they were still watered down, according to Astarion).
Sixteen hours later, they arrived at their destination.
Somewhat aged from the journey, Gale rolled his neck and stretched his creaking shoulders as he looked up at the grand stone arches and stained glass windows of High Hall. He swallowed a nervous glob of spit, trying not to think too hard about carrying out something as serious as a political assassination of his own accord.
It was worth doing, though. Even if Astarion’s motivations for wanting the man dead were selfish, Jeb Gortash was cut from the exact same cloth as his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. Baldur’s Gate had experienced nothing but corruption and decline under his tenure, and the political opponents he’d had murdered numbered in the dozens. Gale didn’t need Mystra’s orders to understand that, or to take action.
“I’m surprised Jeb doesn’t have any antimagic fields,” he said, making conversation.
“Oh, he thinks they cause cancer like windmills.”
“Windmills don’t—”
“I know that,” Astarion snapped. “I’m telling you what Jeb believes.” He added an aggrieved huff. “How stupid do you think I am?”
“I don’t think you’re stupid. Stubborn, yes. A bit erratic and out of touch with your emotions, but—”
“It was a hypothetical question!”
Gale knew what Astarion’s shouting was about, and it wasn’t Gale’s blunt words. The more nervous Astarion was, the more he lashed out. And he had good reason to be nervous as they approached the stairs to Jeb Gortash’s office. Gondian superweapons, for starters.
Two guards—one on either side of the staircase—held said weapons low across their hips, seemingly ready to let Gale and Astarion march right past.
“He’s been expecting you,” said one of them.
Astarion swiftly snapped the guard’s neck before he could say another word.
“They were letting us through!” Gale yelped.
All of the action rightfully alarmed the other guard, who raised their gun.
“Impero tibi,” Gale said, sending the guard tumbling to the floor and into a gentle slumber.
“I suppose that works too,” Astarion said with an almost-nervous sigh.
Gale frowned. Astarion was Astarion and a certain amount of murder was to be expected, but this was wholly unnecessary.
“Can we please not kill anyone we don’t have to?” he asked.
“Eugh. First you tell me to get out into the world and enjoy myself, and then you tell me I can’t haphazardly murder anyone I wish. Honestly, Gale, which is it?”
“I—that is—” Gale stammered.
“I’m fucking with you, my dear.” Astarion touched his palm to his chest. “Hand on my heart. I won’t kill any more underpaid staffers.”
“Much appreciated,” Gale said, “but why did you kill that one?”
Astarion avoided his gaze for a moment before meeting it with upset eyes. “To be honest, I sort of panicked thinking he might hurt you.”
Glancing at the corpse crumpled on the floor, Gale found himself strangely flattered and utterly speechless. “I, ah—”
“Come on,” Astarion said, pressing forward before Gale could gather his sentimentality.
As they approached Jeb’s office, there was chatter coming from within. Two distinct voices, making indistinct words.
Astarion backed up against a wall and put a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, then a hand to his pointy ear to demonstrate that he was listening.
Gale silently sidled up next to him and tried to listen in as well, but—lacking Astarion's elven hearing—he couldn’t make out the words that were making his companion frown. He whispered “auditus” under his breath to cast Clairvoyance.
A conversation beamed directly into his mind, loud and clear. It was between Jeb Gortash and none other than Araj Oblodra herself. They were conspiring.
Jeb’s faux folksiness came through first. “—heck. I’ve just been using that idiot as a hitman, and he’s been a walkin’ talkin’ Fountain of Youth all this time?” He tssked at himself.
“Precisely,” said Araj Oblodra’s disdainful drawl.
“So what’s the plan?”
“My wizards won’t do the job for which I hired them,” Araj complained. “Mystra’s orders. Capture the vampire, and we can both share in his gifts. I’ll even find you a new Vampire Lord for going through all the trouble.”
“Just to be clear, by sharing in his gifts, you mean…”
“Immortality,” Araj said, her ancient voice hitting a note of arousal. “He’s not much of a fighter. Get him sedated in a pod somewhere and he’ll stay.”
“He’s already taken out a few of my men,” Jeb noted.
“Mine as well,” Araj said. “I blame his friend. Someone simply needs to slit that wizard’s throat while he sleeps and everything will be easy from there.”
“Working together, I think we can do that.”
Gale caught a flash of ire in Astarion’s eyes.
He knew that his own eyes responded in kind at Jeb’s next words.
“That vampire is as good as ours.”
Gale’s expression darkened, and he marched right through the doorway. No hesitation. “His name is Astarion, and he doesn’t belong to anyone.”
Jeb looked up from behind his desk. “What are you—?”
Astarion’s confused voice chimed in from the doorway. “Gale?”
“Parvum,” Gale hissed, casting Reduce on Jeb’s cowboy hat.
It tightened and shrank around the Grand Duke’s head, and didn’t stop. Gale squeezed a fist to focus, and the diminishing Stetson became as stiff and sturdy as a sword.
“Heck,” Jeb said, then “arrrrrrrrrggggghaaaaaaa—” as his head was squished like a grape.
His eyeballs burst from their sockets. With a loud pop, his skull cracked and imploded. The hat shrank to its final size atop a dripping pile of bone fragments, brain matter, and blood that slumped in an ergonomic office chair.
Shocked by himself, Gale breathed hard and heavy.
“Gods, that was hot,” Astarion said, almost moaning as he put a hand on Gale’s shoulder. “I’m not even mad you did it and not me.”
The only problem left was Araj, and—having just witnessed the Grand Duke’s head being crushed—she shrank in her seat. Astarion set his fierce red eyes upon her.
“I’d like to take care of that one,” he said.
Gale gave a short nod. “By all means.”
“There’s no need for that,” Araj said, wide-eyed.
With a wicked grin, Astarion drew his favorite blade: Rhapsody, the same intricate, enchanted dagger he’d used to carve up Cazador. He played with it, tossing it back and forth and flipping it around in his hands, taunting Araj.
“I could drain you to death, but I have a feeling you’d like that.”
Holding a menacing look on his face, he moved toward Araj, positioning himself right in front of her, gripping the back of her chair with one hand and his blade with the other.
She looked up, afraid. “Astarion, let’s talk about this.”
“I’m done talking to you. I’m going to do what I should have done five centuries ago when I first drank your rancid blood—”
“Think,” she blurted.
Despite his bravado, Astarion hesitated.
“My money could keep you comfortable forever,” Araj said. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To live a life of easy comfort?”
Astarion glanced at Gale with a look that made his heart flutter.
“I am comfortable.”
Then he got to work stabbing Araj to death. It only required the first two plunges of his blade, but another dozen followed for good measure, and Astarion ranted and raved as he stabbed. “—for making me drink your blood—for turning me into soap—for your shitty sedatives that don’t even work—for kidnapping me from the Jannath Estate—for not having any good porn in the milking room—for trying to hurt my Gale—”
Gale warmed and blushed at being thought of as Astarion’s.
By the time Astarion finished, his white t-shirt was soaked red. He turned to Gale hissing through gritted teeth, his blade trembling ever-so-slightly in his hand.
“I should have done that to Cazador,” he said, rasping. “I bet that would have felt good.”
“Are you saying sacrificing him to Mephistopheles didn’t?”
Astarion’s face scrunched up. “No. I’m just saying this would have felt good too. Equally good. To rid myself of him entirely, not take his place and…” His voice quieted as his mind caught up to his mouth. “Maybe things would have been better…” He frowned and went silent, clearly not wanting to explore that train of thought.
“Things are alright now,” Gale assured him.
Astarion tucked his dagger away. “They are.”
“Did you mean what you said before, about being comfortable?”
“Yes,” Astarion said before balking at the sentiment of it all. “Now let’s get out of here, shall we?”
Gale reached for Astarion’s hand, and his own, wrinkled one was readily accepted.
They strolled out of High Hall together.
🩸🩸🩸
After murdering Jeb and Araj in one fell swoop, Gale was ready to return to Waterdeep and check on Tara-22 and the ruins of his tower. First, though, Astarion insisted on a pit stop at Inker Nayzeem’s—in spite of Gale pointing out that he was preparing to clone himself and that any tattoo would last for a few months at the most.
“I don’t care,” Astarion said. “You promised.”
At the tattoo parlour, they received matching ‘Wonderwall’ tattoos. Gale got a tastefully small tattoo on his left wrist, while Astarion had the word plastered above his ass in a huge font, right where ‘that’s hot’ used to be.
It wasn’t Gale’s favorite experience of all time, but he had in fact promised, and he was making good on his promises these days. Even if they were stupid ones.
🩸🩸🩸
The two of them were all bandaged up when they approached a familiar street in Waterdeep.
To Gale’s confusion, he was not greeted by a pile of rubble. His tower was just fine, still standing at seven stories in the shade of the much taller apartment buildings that surrounded it.
“Some fire,” Astarion mocked, pointing out the obvious.
Ready for an explanation, Gale marched inside, where Tara-22 lay curled up in front of Basket on the couch.
“Tara!” he exclaimed.
The tressym slowly raised her head, unbothered by his chastising tone. “About fucking time.”
“You told me our home was razed to the ground.”
“To get you to come home,” Tara-22 said. “We were watching Food Network, and I was telling Basket about your famous seafood stew, and we both agreed you needed to come home and make it for us.”
“You could have simply asked!”
“Yeah, but this was more fun.”
“Do you know how terrified I was?” Gale shook his head, tutting. “Not to mention all the souvenir teacups I could have purchased but didn’t because I thought I had no home in which to store them…”
Basket dramatically rolled her eyes. “Are you going to makes the soups or not?”
“I…”
Astarion crooned. “If it’s worth all this trouble, I’d like to try it myself.”
Gale hesitated. Three voices called for the same thing, but it wasn’t what he desired (he’d had the overcooked salmon when they stopped at Applebee’s, and didn’t want any more fish).
The trait that had caused him the most grief over centuries was holding others above himself. The last thing he wanted was to replace his worship of Mystra with serving everyone else blindly.
“I… I actually think I’d rather make stout stew, to be perfectly honest.”
“Wonderful.” Astarion flopped onto the couch and kicked up his feet. “I’ll be looking forward to it, darling.”
As Gale made his way into the kitchen, Tara-22 huffed. “His seafood stew is better.”
“Maybe, but I trust Gale.”
Hearing those words coming from Astarion’s lips, Gale smiled.
There was a balance to be struck between taking care of those he loved and taking care of himself. With that in mind, he got to work chopping vegetables, searing meat, and boiling broth.
Just a few hours later, everyone gathered around a table to enjoy, and Gale was reminded of memories from ages earlier—back when his mother used to host dinners in Waterdeep for their friends and family. He’d always imagined doing the same when he got older.
A cloned tressym, a rude quasit, and an ascendant vampire weren’t the sort of company Gale would have imagined having back in those days, but he appreciated them now as they dove into his savory, thick stew.
“Gale, this is delicious,” Astarion said. “Better than anything Applebee’s ever served me.”
Tara-22 lapped up a bit from her bowl. “The seafood stew is better.”
Basket brought her bowl to her face and drank it all down—chunks and all—without stopping.
“Eugh,” Astarion said at her gulping noises.
“Hells,” Gale said.
His gum glue had come loose again, and a bit of shredded beef had worked its way between his dentures and gums. The scratch of the piece tormented him, and he gracelessly pulled his teeth out so he could remove the offending particle.
Astarion stared at him, aghast. “Well, there goes my appetite.”
“It didn’t bother you in the Mystran Megatabernacle,” Gale noted.
“Well, no. I wasn’t trying to eat then. But staring at your dentures on top of Basket gurgling like a hag’s cauldron...” Astarion sighed and pushed his bowl away. “When you clone yourself, you’ll get your teeth back, won’t you?”
Gale put his teeth back in and adhered them with another round of Gale’s Gallant Gum Glue. “Yes, but again, it takes a few months to—”
“You want a clone?” Tara-22 blurted through a full mouth.
“Tara?” Gale asked.
The tressym swallowed. “I’ve got some clones ready to go in my room. Just say the word.”
Gale squinted. “Why do you have clones of me at the ready?”
“You do the same for me.”
🩸🩸🩸
A short time later, they stood in Tara-22’s trashily decorated room, staring at a clear glass cylinder. It was tucked away in her closet, about seven feet tall and full of what Tara-22 said was brine. Inside the fluid stood a pale, dead-eyed version of Gale, his long brown hair swaying like seaweed in the tank.
“His dick looks smaller,” Astarion complained.
“I assume it’s the shrinkage from the brine,” Gale said.
Astarion crossed his arms. “If your clone’s hog isn’t massive, I don’t want it.”
“It’s identical to Gale,” Tara-22 insisted. “Minus a few feet of beard length, but that will grow in quickly enough.”
Astarion harrumphed and turned to Gale, looking worried. “Are you sure you want to do this? Jokes about your dentures aside, I don’t mind your withered husk.”
“Thank you,” Gale said sarcastically.
“Really,” Astarion said, his tone completely serious. “I intend to keep you pumped full of enough cum that you rarely see a liver spot, but when you do I’m fine with it.”
“This isn’t for you,” Gale said. “Well, not entirely. I’d be lying if I said making sure you don’t feel used for your semen isn’t one of my motives. Primarily, though… I don’t want to think about all the years I wasted on behalf of Mystra any longer. I want to start over.”
“You’ll have to get your Wonderwall tattoo redone...”
“It will be of the highest priority,” Gale promised.
Astarion eyed the clone. “So how does it work?”
“The difficult part is creating the clone in the first place,” Gale said, turning to Tara-22. “Do I want to know where you found a diamond large enough to be used in the spell?”
She laughed. “No, you do not.”
“From here,” Gale explained, “I simply need to transfer my soul into that body. And for good measure—” He waved a hand and a small stone idol appeared in his palm. “This allows me to access everything in the Hall of Memories you and I visited together, and I’ve added our recent exploits so… we’ll be able to make sure I’m fully myself.”
“Just younger and less likely to die from a hot tub...”
“I didn’t die!”
Astarion ran a hand through Gale’s long beard.
“I’ll almost miss this version of you,” he said.
“If you find that you do, I can always cast an illusion to be elderly for an evening for variety.” Gale’s eyes lit up. “Or you can enjoy my wrinkles again in a few centuries, should you stick around.”
“Let’s not plan that far ahead, love.” Astarion didn’t seem to notice what he’d said.
As Gale prepared the spell, he chose to gloss over his companion’s choice of words. Astarion would really say it someday, when the moment was right.
In the meantime, he muttered “movere spiritum.”
The next thing he knew, Gale was drowning in saltwater, bashing his fists against glass as he couldn’t utter the words he needed to teleport out of the tank.
He saw Astarion shouting at Tara-22, and then Tara-22’s mouth moving just so that—
Gale wheezed, spitting water and catching his breath outside of the tank. When he looked down, he saw his more aged body folded over on the floor with a large brown stain on its backside.
“Not perfect,” he said, “but everything seems to be in order.”
“And you’re you?” Astarion asked, getting in his face and narrowing his eyes.
“I’m me,” Gale assured.
Astarion tested him with a trivia question. “During the First Netherese Empire, what were magic wielders called?”
“Arcanists!”
Astarion questioned him further. “What song did I play on the jukebox at Chuff’s diner?”
“You played an entire Collective Soul album, but you’ll have to forgive me for not remembering what it was called.”
“Hm. Yes. I suppose I can forgive that.”
“Flatus,” Gale said, flourishing a hand to cast Gale’s Beautifying Blowdryer on his nude form.
There was a standing mirror in Tara’s room, right next to a Playboy bunny cat bed. Gale stepped over to it to get a good look at himself, chomping down on his very real teeth, bending his non-creaking knees, and turning to observe his more enticing shape.
Astarion slapped his thick, firm ass.
“No, I was right before,” Astarion said. “This is much better.”
Gale chuckled.
“So what’s next?” Astarion asked, casting a hopeful gaze Gale’s way. “Aside from a whole lot of fucking...”
“I’m told The Secret Lives of Sharran Wives airs tonight, if you’d like to settle in and watch that.”
“Hrm.” Astarion put a hand to his chin. “I sort of… liked the open road…”
Gale grinned. “Astarion Ancunín. Are you saying you want to go on an adventure?”
“Don’t push it, Gale,” Astarion snapped. “But… yes.”
“Where to?”
Astarion dawdled. “I don’t know. I’ve never been to Athkatla…”
“I have, but I would go almost anywhere for my dearest friend.”
“We are not friends,” Astarion said softly, before moving in for a kiss.
Notes:
That’s all, folks. I absolutely adore Soapstarion and Soap Gale, so it might not be goodbye forever, but it’s goodbye for now. I do hope they’re enjoying Athkatla.
If you’re a fan of angst mixed with comedy, I’ve just started my next longfic: Barely Skating By, in which Astarion joins the cast of Starlight Express. If your tastes are darker, you can subscribe to me and be notified when I post my next grim thing (it won’t be long, I can't help myself).
Thanks again for reading! <3
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bluebeebalm on Chapter 1 Mon 30 Sep 2024 09:56PM UTC
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