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“Kneel.”
Astarion is helpless, unable to do anything but obey as he stares into the face of his master - Cazador Szaar. He is naked before the man - no, monster . He doesn’t want this… but there is little point in protesting. It only makes Cazador’s mood worse in the end.
“I have decided,” Cazador says (with a casual tone that suggests he is merely discussing the weather), “That you have earned a meal. A proper one.”
Astarion’s throat tightens. His stomach is hollow - Cazador has barred him from food for nearly two weeks; not even granted him a rat to suckle dry. His brothers and sisters turned their backs on him, ignoring his pleas and insistences that Cazador would never know. He cannot blame them - he knows the punishment for helping him would be just as, or even worse than the punishment Cazador had seen fit to bestow upon him.
But now, his punishment is over.
Something in him screams that this is a trap, a trick. Begging him to not trust, pleading that he does not give into his base urges.
That voice struggles to overcome the sharp-toothed beast of hunger that gnaws insistently at his stomach. After two weeks without blood, Astarion is borderline feral. Every inch of his skin itches furiously. He needs to eat. Needs to feed. He will go mad if he does not, he is sure of it. Astarion trembles, doesn’t dare speak, doesn’t dare look up at Cazador. He doesn’t notice the biting pain of rough, cold flagstones on his knees, nor the way the branded poetry upon his back itches. All he can think of is how his stomach twists itself into knots of iron, and how badly he wants to untangle them.
It is then he scents it.
Blood. Freshly spilled. So fresh, in fact, it is not yet dry on skin.
A figure is bullied into the room, but Astarion does not look up. Judging by the muffled groans coming from above him, this person is gagged… and Astarion knows the sound of manacles when he hears them.
The smell of blood grows closer.
Only terror leashes Astarion now, who would otherwise pounce on this staggering, bleeding figure, lathe his tongue over the injuries, lap up whatever he could, whatever he is allowed, his hunger is so great…
“Go on,” Cazador says. Astarion’s vision is going fuzzy and red as the figure is forced to their knees before him. “You must be famished .”
He can scarcely believe what he is hearing. He may eat…? As soon as the gravity of the words sink in, Astarion pounces. Nails sink in, cut through fabric and flesh alike. The figure wiggles in panic, screams past its gag… but Astarion does not give in. He wrestles it into stillness and continues to drink. His teeth sink into yielding flesh, again, and again, and again.
For the first time in ages, Astarion is warm. Crimson heat - so dark it is almost black - drips down his chin with a syrupy slowness. For the first time in ages, Astation is sated . Cazador has never given him the blood of a mortal before… So desperate was the hunger, so deep the ache, that consideration of anything other than devouring what was laid before him before it could be snatched away… simply did not pass through the elf’s mind.
Now, his bloodlust sated, the red tinge to his vision clears. The hot blood cools on his forever-cold skin, the same way it cools on the unfeeling flagstones of the dungeon.
Lying in a pool of that rapidly cooling blood is Gale Dekarios.
It is difficult for Astarion to make out what happened through that blood. Oh, gods, there’s so much blood - and so little light in Gale’s eyes. He was so full, before - eyes so full of that infuriating cleverness, now glazed and empty. Well-practiced hands that know somatic components almost better than breathing, scarred from repeated spell use and abuse, now pallid and cold.
All of their warmth, all of their flush, seeping from the gaping wound where Gale’s neck once was.
It is all his fault.
Astarion screams.
Cazador laughs.
And laughs and laughs and laughs and-
“NO,” Astarion cries, sitting bolt upright in bed. He hates that he has no need to breathe, cannot feel the rush of blood through his ears as terror runs its course through him. His hands - freezing cold - grip the bed sheets so tightly that he swears they will tear. His back itches furiously, and he wants nothing more than to rend his skin from muscle, wishing it would grow back unscarred, unblemished. There is little time between his jolt awake and Gale bursting into the dark bedroom, hands crackling with raw, magical energy.
“Astarion,” he calls - his voice is sharp, but only with concern for his lover. Gale’s eyes are alight again, his cheeks flush with effort. “Are you alright? What’s happened?” Did Gale… stop what he was doing and sprint down the hall when he heard him call out?
Though their schedules were quite opposite, Gale had made every effort to make Astarion’s stay in his tower in Waterdeep quite comfortable. Some small renovations here and there, all of which would guarantee that light would not touch the vampire’s skin even in the most dire of circumstances.
And here that same wizard is, ready to defend him - and all that threatens Astarion is the shadows that still creep up and along his back from time to time, and unintentionally torn bed sheets.
Astarion blinks. He realizes he’s just been staring at Gale, open-mouthed, for a good fifteen seconds, trying to process the rapid chain of events that has happened. Before he can even muster a word, it seems the Wizard of Waterdeep already understands. His fingers no longer crackle with lightning, the smell of ozone begins to dissipate in the air, and the comforting and steady weight of a well-fed wizard depresses the side of the bed he seats himself on.
Ever since they’d begun to… well, tangle, Gale always had a maddeningly accurate sense of when something was wrong with Astarion. It’d gotten even more acute when Astarion had moved into the tower proper, spending more and more time together. Now as the wizard stares at him, he can’t help the creep of his pale shoulders up to his ears. He’d wanted to try sleeping - after 200 years of only being allowed to trance, it seemed like a nice thought. A childish ambition, he supposed. Occasions like this were why he rarely ever truly attempted sleep - too often, he was plagued with nightmares of his past torment. Too often he’d wake up shivering, remembering the glint of cruel light behind Cazador’s eyes, or the way his laugh sounded when bouncing off the echoing walls of his palace, his dungeon…
Gale doesn’t bother to speak, or demand an explanation. He knows the look in Astarion’s eyes when he sees it - more shadows, more ghosts to haunt their resting hours. He’s had plenty of his own to contest. Between Mystra’s disdain, the Netherese orb that gnawed at his very being, much less their abduction to the Nautiloid and the resulting adventures… it had taken much to make such trials into good times worth remembering. It was the people who had done so… but the road to Baldur’s Gate had been fraught with terrible troubles - even if they had made quite powerful friendships along the way.
Astarion had the distinct disadvantage of being forced into 200 years of impoverished servitude just prior to their abductions. Even the one kind thing the tadpole had done for him - let him experience sunlight - had been ripped away at the end of it all.
Banished back to the shadows, left to skulk in the dark all over again.
When the vampire comes back to himself, he realizes that Gale’s warm hand is resting atop his. Heavy. Present. Grounding. He is waiting, simply, for Astarion to indicate what he wants, what he needs.
Almost on instinct, Astarion begins to insist that he’s fine, just some silly nightmare that he doesn’t remember upon waking… but the memory of Gale’s pale face, spattered with red… pale upon the floor…
“I… had a nightmare,” he begins simply. Stupid, his internal voice groans, how insipidly childish you sound - but Gale does not bat an eye or offer judgment. He simply listens and waits for Astarion to continue. “... you were in it.”
“I was?” His voice is exceedingly gentle; Astarion hates that it makes him want to curl up in this ridiculous man’s arms. Instead, his grip on the bed sheets tightens.
“You… Cazador, he made me. I didn’t…”
“I see,” Gale responds softly - he knows that creep upwards of shoulders. Astarion talks very little of his past with Cazador, but any mention of the topic is generally quite morose and leaves Gale with his fingertips statically charged for a good many hours after the topic is brought to its conclusion. His arms move to wrap around Astarion’s pale shoulders. The vampire leans in willingly to tuck his face into Gale’s neck. He smells of soap, of leather and irises, and a touch of smoke… not to mention that tempting, teasing thrum of blood runs as an undercurrent to all of it. He smells far more appealing now, no longer poisoned body and soul by that terrible orb that hung over his head during their crusade against the Absolute. “It was a dream - a horrible one, inspired by pain from your past, yes - but he cannot hurt you anymore, my love.”
“But he can ,” Astarion groans against Gale’s skin, “That monster is dead, and still it’s as though I were under his thumb, at his every beck and call.” He tries not to whine when Gale’s warm hand skims over the scarred pattern upon his back. “This is ridiculous-”
“The only ridiculous thing I have been able to take note of is the expectation you’re putting upon yourself,” Gale says. His hand comes to rest on the back of Astarion’s neck. What was once a warning, or even punishing gesture from Cazador, had now taken on an entirely new meaning with Gale. The wizard’s dexterous fingers squeeze in a comforting gesture. Astarion feels his crawling skin settle oh-so slightly as Gale’s thumb skims over the nape of his neck, glides over a small and deliciously soft white curl. “Cazador hurt you deeply, and for a very long time. It will take time for you to recover from the damage he inflicted on you.”
Astarion scoffs. “Of course, darling, because the world is so historically patient when it comes to -”
“The world does not matter,” Gale says. His tone is gentle, but firm as he interrupts Astarion. “All that matters is the people around you and their patience. I am more than capable of extending you the patience you need. You can afford to - or rather, deserve to - extend yourself the same courtesy.”
Astarion’s breath hitches as he feels Gale squeeze again, feels his body spark with need. Sex is now no longer a chore, or a tool to get what he wants, but something he enjoys. He would find himself embarrassed about the matter, were Gale not so eager to indulge him as frequently as he does. His hands are still heavy and hot against his cool skin. Astarion craves the warmth, wants to feel Gale’s soft body bracketing his own as he lets the wizard ruin him.
“Gale,” he huffs, and the wizard is already using a mage hand to undo the laces of his shirt cuffs. “I-I want-”
“You’ll have it,” Gale murmurs back, “Remember. Patience, my love.”
How in the godsdamned hells can Astarion expect to be patient when Gale Dekarios is right there, and touching him the way he is? Perhaps he’s wrong. Perhaps he is crueler than Cazador. Gale does so love to insist upon patience. It seems to be his favorite virtue in the bedroom, particularly when he had the vampire’s prick trapped in his hand. Astarion whines again, pressing hungry kisses to the exposed flesh of Gale’s neck. That earns him another chuckle for his efforts.
Eventually, Gale manages to undo all the infuriating ties of his undershirt, untucking it from his pants and banishing it to the floor. He surges forward and begins to kiss Astarion at a steady, reasonable pace - and if he hadn’t already been frustrated by then, he most certainly would be now. Astarion paws at the front of Gale’s pants, tries to fumble the buttons open, but the wizard is surprisingly quick on the draw. His hand locks around Astarion’s wrists, pinning them gently to the headboard above them. Those soft brown eyes flicker for just a moment. A silent ask - is this permissible - before he continues.
Astarion swallows down the nerves and nods weakly.
Gale resumes kissing him, this time trailing down his neck and chest… as far down as the grip on Astarion’s wrists will allow him to go. His teeth, while not as sharp as his lovers, nip at Astarion’s pale collarbone.
“You are mine now,” Gale growls, hot against Astarion’s neck. “Not his. Mine to protect. Mine to cherish.” The words send shivers down the vampire’s spine. He is flush and fully hard now. Wants Gale to wrap those practiced fingers around his aching cock and stroke him to completion. Wants to feel the heat of his breath all over his pale, cold skin. Astarion has not been alive for over 200 years - Gale is the first person to make him feel alive again.
“Darling,” Astarion huffs. He plasters on a smile, tries to hide how desperate he is for Gale’s touch, Gale’s mouth, Gale’s everything. “It’s unbecoming of a gentleman to t-tease!” The stammer is involuntary, brought on by the gentle graze of his love’s teeth and lips and tongue over his nipple. The only spot on his body that was more sensitive was his ears. Oh gods , if Gale kissed his ears, he’d be done for.
“Whoever said I was a gentleman,” Gale says back. He is, of course, Morena would kill him if he were anything but. Still, in moments like this, where he has Astarion pinned, hard, and near begging from just a few simple touches… why wouldn’t he relish in the sight of a man so often aloof to others brought to his knees?
Gale’s free hand moves upwards to caress Astarion’s jawline. Eventually, his thumb catches on Astarion’s lower lip. It only takes a slight bit of force to ply his mouth to open… and he enjoys the way Astarion shivers at the contact. The soft pad of Gale’s thumb traces the sharp point of his fangs with the same care one would check the sharpness of a kitchen knife.
Astarion does his best to speak, but only garbled sound manages to weasel its way from his throat. Gale chuckles darkly in response and slides back up the elf’s body to breathe hot and hungry whispered sweet nothings into his ear. Astarion’s toes curl - he knows the gathering bead of pre-come on his cock will turn into a steady drip if Gale keeps at this. No speech will be possible - he’ll just be a shivering, trembling mess by the end of it.
He usually is, when Gale has his way of it.
Astarion does not have the chance to protest through sound or word before Gale whispers the incantation for Mage Hand, and with a deft twist of his fingers, uses it to hold Astarion’s wrists in place.
Mage Hands cannot hold much, and do not have an iron grip. They play like this because Astarion has endured far worse without the possibility of relief. It is a security measure for the both of them - Astarion feels secure enough to be restrained but knows he can easily escape the hold should he wish. Magical bonds are far easier to manage than physical ones - though this one does come with the detriment of maintaining concentration to keep it around. Still, it is worth the extra effort for Gale, to know that if Astarion panics, he can be free in less than the blink of an eye.
“Beautiful,” Gale murmurs against Astarion’s ear. He catches the tip of it between his teeth and grins as the elf’s hips buck. The smile only grows wider as Astarion hisses and keens as quietly as he can, not wanting to give Gale the upper hand.
Gale always enjoys seeing how long the pretense will last until it crumbles under the weight of desire.
With his hands secure, Gale is free to kiss his way down Astarion’s body, to explore his pale flesh with a careful touch. He takes his time, occasionally catching Astarion’s hips with a firm grip to settle their intense and involuntary bucking.
Though his breath is hot against Astarion’s groin, Gale does not indulge the vampire by pressing his lips to the aching tip of his cock. Instead, his mouth continues to explore. Still, he relishes in every noise, every pained whimper, every hiss of frustration. Astarion often reminds him of the stray cats - cold and distant, slow to trust… that is, until shown the slightest amount of genuine affection without expectation of anything in return.
Gale always preferred cats.
“Gale,” Astarion pants, “Please.”
“Please, what?”
Normally, Astarion would throw an arm over his eyes at this point - but with both of his wrists occupied, he settles for turning his face to hide it in his bicep. Had he been a mortal, his face would have been cherry red by now. He hides his face because he knows that Gale is grinning like the smug bastard he is above him. Triumphant that he has tamed him once again.
“Please. Touch me. Fuck me. I don’t care. I just. Need. To come. ”
“As you wish.”
Gale reaches over to the bedside table, and procures a small vial of oil. They have done this song and dance many a time before, and Astarion knows how to take cock. That doesn’t stop the sparks from leaping along his spine the first moment Gale’s finger breaches him. Stretches him. Prepares him. There is such love and tenderness in every stroke, such selflessness in it despite Astarion being restrained and begging for it in the end.
Gale eventually adds a second, and then a third finger. He strokes Astarion’s prostate until his cock is constantly dripping in anticipation of touch. He is slow, and patient, and waits until he knows Astarion is ready - not a moment before.
In the beginning, Astarion had a tendency to rush things, and little regard for his own comfort. Gale had been more than delighted to remind him how truly good sex could be - not what it had been under the cruel shackle of Cazador.
Gale himself has been aching - confined to the layers of his smalls and pants. It is difficult to force himself to pull away from Astarion, but he does so knowing the reward will be so much sweeter. He waves a quick somatic component - oil stains can be a chore to get out of fabric - and swiftly undoes the front placket of buttons on his pants. He shucks them off as quickly as he can, the smalls taken swiftly with them.
The room’s cool air does little to shock him out of arousal - he is flush with it, his own tip glistening with desire. One hand grabs the vial of oil again, tipping it into his upturned palm. Pale, cool liquid drips on his palm but warms quickly from the heat of his hand.
The friction of stroking it over his aching cock warms it even faster.
Astarion is panting at this point, his body trembling with need. Gale hums as he leans over him - crowding him, pressing his soft and warm figure to the lean, cold body beneath him.
“I have you,” he murmurs softly into Astarion’s ear. He positions himself... and presses in.
Gale never gets tired of the feeling of entering his love, primarily because the noises he makes in response are ones he would like to capture and keep with him forever.
Astarion keens. His legs are already wrapped around Gale, trying to hold onto him for dear life. He knows when Astarion needs to cling to him, knows when he needs someone to hold onto the still-mending pieces of the man who once was, and the man Gale knew he could become.
The mage hand is banished without a second thought, and Astarion’s arms fly to wrap around Gale’s shoulders, pulling him in for more kisses. Gale hums with delight against his lover’s mouth, but takes his time sliding in fully. Astarion deserves gentleness, Astarion deserves patience, Astarion deserves for someone to show him how much they adore and cherish him.
Astarion is convinced that Gale Dekarios will do his head in for good.
He is infuriatingly slow with his movements, not in any sort of rush. Never mind the fact he is burning with lust, and Gale is treating it as though they are taking an idle stroll down a street somewhere.
Eventually, Gale seats himself fully inside Astarion. They are locked in a tight embrace, Astarion smothered by Gale’s weight and warmth and smell.
“Don’t go,” Astarion babbles, “Don’t go. Stay.”
“I’m right here,” Gale murmurs to Astarion, “I’m not going anywhere. I swear it.”
They remain like this for quite a while, with Gale rocking idly against Astarion and earning moans and gasps for his teasing. Astarion’s toes are curling at the infuriatingly slow pace. This is torture, and Gale knows it.
So Astarion takes a slight risk, and nibbles at Gale’s neck… just to spur him on. Perhaps even a reminder that he is no slave to his hunger… even with the hot undercurrent of blood rushing beneath his nose, he can control himself.
He is not a monster.
Gale groans. So this is the game Astarion wants to play? He will indulge him… at least for now.
The wizard picks up speed. Gone is the gentle rocking of their hips, the sound of flesh striking flesh (coupled with their moans of pleasure) fills the room. Astarion clings tighter to Gale, digs sharp nails into shoulder blades, and holds on for dear life.
Gale would not have it any other way.
The teasing has made both of them exceptionally sensitive. It does not take long for Gale to climax, groaning his bliss into Astarion’s sensitive ear. Astarion joins him soon after - coming untouched… if one does not count the friction of Gale’s stomach rubbing against the vampire’s hard and aching cock.
Sweat cools between them but Gale does not dare pull away. Instead, he presses his damp, flush forehead to Astarion’s, relishes in the closeness of his lover.
“I love you,” he murmurs softly. He peppers Astarion’s face with tender kisses, smiles as he makes his lover squirm. “So much.” Astarion does not reply - but Gale sees him say ‘I love you too’ in the way he holds him close, in the way his face tucks into Gale’s neck.
They lay like that for a while, Gale using a brief cantrip to clean the both of them up when he finally must pull away because he has gone soft. He wraps Astarion up in his arms once more, and pulls the blanket over them both.
Gale’s lips find Astarion’s temple as the vampire settles into the embrace, his shoulders no longer tight against his ears. Instead, he is comfortably curled up in his lover’s arms. Astarion’s pale lashes flutter as he lets himself relax into the sensation.
Gale knows he can’t rid Astarion of the monsters that haunt him… but he’s more than content to banish them back to where they belong, as many times as his lover might need.