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Astarion has seen a lot in his time. He's done it all. Well. Done them all. Half-orcs, dragonborns, tabaxi, etc. Even an aarakocra, once or twice. There were a few notable exceptions, of course. Gnomes were an absolute no, unless he was truly desperate. Nor was he stupid enough to try it on with, for example, a bugbear. He'd seen them out and about, of course. Even githyanki. That sword-toting asshole from the nautiloid wasn't the first gith he'd come across in his two centuries, though likewise, he hadn't been stupid enough to try and bed one. Nor did he have any particular interest in doing so.
On a purely professional level, however, he had… curiosities. When he had so very little control over his choices, he liked the variety of a new body to interrupt the endless rote of humans, elves and tieflings the streets of Baldur’s Gate afforded.
It was not a curiosity he was expecting to be piqued right now. Considering… well, everything.
Until now, his thoughts about the glitching portal had mostly amounted to keeping a very safe distance and watching the Gith and the Cleric bicker their way through deciding what to do about it. The old church had turned out to contain some kind of undead skeleton thing, after all, which had made itself quite comfortable at their camp, offered to resurrect them (not in any way useful to Astarion, unfortunately), and otherwise refused to lift a finger. Once he'd got over the initial shock, Astarion thought the bone man was hilarious. There was, he considered, a fair to middling chance that the portal would turn out to be equally entertaining. He just had no intention of standing close enough to find out.
He'd been vindicated, the moment a hand appeared. Of course there was a voice attached to the hand too, pleading for assistance. At each revelation, Astarion had taken a step further back. His instincts are excellent for this sort of thing, and a plea for help is nearly always a trap. He would know. He'd just used exactly the same method to pull a knife on Shadowheart. Not, of course, that he's ever going to mention that again. She seems the kind of cleric to hold grudges, and having pleaded his misunderstanding of the situation, Astarion considers himself largely forgiven - if not forgotten.
Shadowheart, probably because Lae’zel immediately warns her not to, grabs the hand and pulls. Nothing happens.
Lae’zel, scoffing on the sidelines, is far too easily taunted into showing off her ‘superior strength’ by helping.
Astarion watches idly as the two of them strain, digging their heels into the ground and yanking. It doesn't work. Instead, they both end up almost horizontal as they pull, feet slipping in the muddy ground. They're both making the most horrendous faces; they look like they haven't been able to shit for weeks.
Astarion can't help but laugh at them.
“Istik!” Lae’zel swears at him. “Assist at once!”
With a sigh, Astarion reaches out to grab one of her vambraces between his finger and thumb, maintaining as much distance from the portal as physically possible. He tugs, half-heartedly.
“Darling, I'm not sure we should concern ourselves too much, if they're inept enough to get stuck in this thing they're clearly going to be a liabi-”
Chaos descends.
Well, it doesn't really, although it certainly feels like it to Astarion. The portal, at last, gives up its contents. With a yelp, a huge great lump of something comes hurtling through, knocking all of them sideways like skittles.
Astarion is the only one who escapes being landed on, by dint of letting go and rolling away as fast as his highly honed reflexes will allow.
“Forgive me, I'm usually much better at this, hold on…”
Astarion stares, open mouthed. He'd come to rest in the dirt, and getting out of it would usually be his first priority.
Except the man who just emerged from the portal isn't just a man. Oh no. Currently, Shadowheart and Lae'zel are lying underneath the rich, chest-nut brown pelt of a horse- a horse very thoroughly attached to a human torso who has yet to shut his mouth even once.
“A centaur?” Astarion’s mouth acts before his brain. “An honest-to-gods centaur? Here?”
“Ah,” the centaur says, having scrambled to his feet about as gracefully as such a creature is capable of. “Yes, hello. My name is Gale-” he seems to want to say more, then stops. “Well, just Gale will suffice, I suppose. Say, but I know you, don't I? You were on the ship!”
Astarion gawks at him. Even several paces away, he has to look a long way up to do so.
A centaur. A real, actual centaur. Wearing, of all things, what seems to be a modified wizard's robe on the human part of its torso.
He didn't know centaurs often bothered with clothes. Perhaps this is why. It does look rather strange, especially paired with the saddlebags slung over his hind quarters.
“You too? How on earth did they fit you in a pod?”
The centaur, rather than being put off by his rudeness, only chuckles. It's a warm, rich sound, rather pompous.
“Well, far be it from me to suggest that any of us had a comfortable journey aboard that damnable ship, but it was a particular indignity, and indeed rather awkward, to find oneself crammed into such a contraption.” He flicks his tail, expressively, his hind legs, seemingly reminded of their recent confinement, pacing a little in the dirt. Astarion finds himself watching the movement with fascination.
He's never liked horses, of course. Wretched creatures. He can't say he's ever had much fondness for wizards either. But there's something about this person in particular that he cannot help but be fascinated by.
His own tail, of course, is beautifully cared for, as expressive as his hands and equally dexterous. The centaur’s is the exact opposite. Astarion cannot help but marvel at how instinctual that movement seems to be, how obviously ‘horse’ in all possible ways, and in such high contrast to the sophisticated, stuck-up air of the man staring down at him.
Glaring down at him.
“Perhaps you might introduce yourself?” Gale suggests. “Or are we all just going to stand here and gawk until you've looked your fill?”
Astarion, of course, will never be embarrassed to be found staring.
“Forgive me,” he purrs, smooth as ever. “It has been some time since I have set eyes on anyone as… striking as you.”
This does not have the intended effect. In fact, Gale responds as if, instead of flirting, Astarion had insulted him.
“Hilarious,” he deadpans. “I was going to suggest that we travel together, given that I suspect we are facing a similar conundrum. You were on the receiving end of an unwelcome insertion in the ocular region, were you not?”
To Astarion's surprise, it is Lae’zel who steps in.
“My name is Lae’zel, of crèche K’liir,” she announces. “These are my… associates, Shadowheart and Astarion. Have you any aptitude in battle, Gale?”
“I am a wizard of some renown,” Gale responds, cordially. “And I find that few men get up quickly from a kick to the face.”
Lae’zel, to Astarion's absolute astonishment, hums in apparent agreement. And that, apparently, is that.
-
Astarion would not have expected the centaur to have made firmest of friends with the gith.
For a start, they disagree fundamentally on the direction their journeys should be taking them in.
Lae’zel is absolutely committed to the crèche. To an almost worrying degree. However, she is firmly outvoted; especially now that they've gained a tiefling and a human man who has got himself cursed with horns. Not that Astarion cares either way, to be clear - he doesn't give two figs if it's Halsin or the Crèche who get rid of the tadpole, so nor does he care that Karlach and Wyll are both firmly in favour of finding the druid first.
Strangely, Lae’zel seems to hold this against them, which she does not with Gale, despite him being quite clear about his preferences.
Nor does she seem to hold any particular respect for his craft, though even Astarion has begun to admit - only to himself, of course - that Gale isn't just a pretty face.
Perhaps she admires his strength? Gale has, after all, taken to carrying more than his fair share of their equipment as they walk, having repurposed his old saddle bags. But the centaur, despite being unafraid to throw his bulk around in the heat of a fight, is unlikely to actively attack with anything other than magic. Something about his delicate ankles. Honestly Astarion hadn't been listening.
He finds it difficult to listen to Gale. It's the way he moves as he talks. The restless energy seems to almost radiate out of him, manifesting itself not only in the way he gestures with his hands, those shapely fingers crafting movement that is always firm and precise even when he's not employing his spell work, but also in the way he will shuffle his hooves around and flick his tail. If he gets particularly enthusiastic, or occasionally agitated, he's been known to piaffe.
It would be hilarious if it wasn't so damnably graceful.
Astarion could understand if Lae’zel admired Gale's strength, he thinks. There is something to be said about it; walking alongside a creature more than three times your size, who yet treats everyone with the greatest respect and deference. Most of the time, anyway. Astarion has found a particular delight in getting on Gale's nerves. He’ll stamp his hooves and swish his tail as he crosses his arms, completely undermining his attempts to remain above it all. There's something about the restrained potential in that irritation that Astarion cannot help but tease.
He's witnessed Gale slam a flank into a goblin to shove it off a cliff. Throw his shoulder against a bugbear to crush it into a wall. And on one particularly memorable occasion, Astarion had been trying to reach a hag and been stricken by poison, and Gale had leapt clean over him, not only reaching the hag in half the time, but sending her sprawling.
And yet, in camp, Gale pretends he's not a brute at all. He cooks them dinner most nights. He flushes at the idea of bathing with them, insisting on doing so alone. Most commonly, when not delivering death either by hand or by hoof, Gale can be found folded up neatly by the campfire, his legs tucked under his well-groomed haunches and a book in his hands.
It befuddles Astarion. Lae’zel certainly scoffs at what she considers to be Wyll's ‘modesty’ about using his more brutish talents unless absolutely necessary. So why not Gale’s?
Unfortunately, Gale has very definitely noticed Astarion’s fascination with him. And instead of being flattered, like anyone sensible would be, he seems… irritated.
Today, for example. Astarion had attempted to strike up a conversation with Gale, only to be snubbed. Not even politely. Astarion had been so dumbfounded by the response that he'd just stood there, allowing Lae’zel to shoulder past him and resume her usual place by Gale's side, leading their small pack.
Shadowheart had pretended not to be laughing at him behind her hand.
“Shut up,” he growls. “I was trying to be friendly! I don't know why he hates me so much.”
“Maybe he can tell you're only interested in fucking him,” Shadowheart says, flatly.
Astarion gasps at her, pressing his hand to his chest.
“Shadowheart! How dare you even suggest such a thing.”
She raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him, to which he concedes;
“I want him to fuck me.”
She laughs, and then scrunches up her nose.
“Ugh. That's an image I did not need.”
“Speak for yourself, darling.”
He isn't overly bothered that Gale evidently isn't interested in satisfying Astarion's curiosity, in all honesty. No, what bothers him is…
Actually, he's not sure.
Silenced by the conundrum, he falls into step behind them, slowly increasing his pace so as to be within hearing range of their conversation as they walk. They are discussing, apparently, human courtship rituals.
“But how do you ascertain that your potential companion is suitable in strength and vigour, if not in combat?” Lae'zel exclaims.
“I do not believe most humans consider the martial ability of their suitors as their most important attribute,” Gale says, easily. “For you, of course, it is vital. But most humans - even most humanoids - do not live on the knife-edge of survival as the githyanki must.”
Lae’zel hums, in the kind of tone that suggests she is taking this in, and acknowledges it, but does not agree with the sentiment. That, in some fundamental way, this is the incorrect way of doing it.
“And what about you?” She demands.
“Me?” Gale startles, in much the same way as Astarion does. Is Lae’zel… flirting? “You mean centaurs?”
“What do you require in a partner?” Lae'zel presses. “Is it strength? Intelligence? What is it that challenges the race of the centaur to strive beyond an arrangement of mere sex to this… ‘something else’ that you describe?”
Oh hells, Lae’zel is flirting. She must be. Does she know she is? Does she even mean to?
Astarion sidles closer, utterly unable to allow this trainwreck of a conversation to happen without being able to relay the entire thing to Shadowheart later over a glass of wine.
“I'm… do you know, I'm not sure I can answer that,” Gale says, sounding both surprised and a little delighted at the prospect. “Like most humanoids, there is a certain level of belief in love and connection. That there are people whom you simply… attune to more, I suppose, than others.”
Astarion is going to hit them both.
If anyone else was having this conversation, it absolutely would be flirting. The thing is, he genuinely doesn't think they are. Either of them. There's nowhere near enough subtext going on, let alone any lowered voices or fluttering eyelashes.
…is there?
Oh Gods. Are they flirting… in earnest?
He wants to shake them both by the shoulders and scream that it's supposed to be silly, it's supposed to be fun, it's not supposed to mean anything.
It's almost horrifying. Astarion doesn't think he's ever seen this happen before.
He has to rescue them. Before they do something terrifying like… Gods, hurt each other’s feelings or some such nonsense. It would make travelling with them an absolute nightmare.
“But are they chosen for you by nature? By magic? Is it dictated by some sort of spell?” Lae'zel presses, oblivious to Astarion's sudden internal crisis. “If not based on rigorous testing, how can you be sure they will make a suitable partner?”
“You don't,” Gale says, quietly. “Sometimes, you don't know. And you get it wrong.”
His words are heavy. Laden with a feeling so deep that even Lae’zel seems to notice. Not one inclined towards comfort, however, she only sniffs.
“Well. Perhaps you would be better off if you challenged all of your prospective suitors to combat, then.”
Gale chuckles at that.
They're looking back and forth from each other and their path as they walk and talk. As he watches, Lae'zel pauses in her step. Then she holds her hand out, stopping Gale in his tracks.
“The ground is infirm here,” she informs him. “It will not hold your weight.”
Gale nods, and follows the path she leads around the edge of the path instead.
“My thanks, Lae’zel. Your skills of observation are unparalleled, and I suspect you just saved me from a very nasty fall.”
Astarion bristles, even as Lae’zel preens. Having checked over his shoulder to gesture to the others to avoid the spot, however, Gale spots Astarion in the process of catching up with them.
“Mind your step,” he warns. “Lae’zel spotted a-”
“Yes, I know, I can see,” Astarion interrupts, making a point of leaping gracefully around the soft earth, flicking his tail dramatically for balance. And panache.
Gale isn't looking. Instead, his gaze is fixed over Astarion's shoulder.
“The ground is unstable here!” He calls, his voice suddenly booming down the path and making all of Astarion's hair stand on end. “Mind your step!”
At a thumbs up from Karlach, he turns back to their path.
For a moment, the three of them walk in silence.
Then, apparently deciding not to bother himself over Astarion's presence, Gale continues their previous conversation.
“So how do the githyanki differentiate between a challenge from a prospective suitor and say, for example, a friendly sparring match?” He asks.
“You state your purpose,” Lae'zel says, immediately.
Gale does not blush. He does not stutter. He simply nods, thoughtfully.
“Of course, yes. How refreshingly straightforward.”
Astarion stares up at him. Then across at Lae’zel. Both of their expressions are completely calm. Not even a hint of emotion.
What the fuck is going on?
“You creatures of Faerun spend too much time dancing around one another. Simply say what you mean to say, and get it over with.”
“Indeed,” Gale sounds amused. “But then for what reason would the poets write their ballads, the bards their epics? Why would there be music, or art?”
“For war,” Lae’zel snaps. “And sex. Obviously.”
Astarion can't help but snort at that.
“You've got that part right,” he tells Lae’zel. “Most of the supposed ‘love’ poets are only writing about sex anyway. They just fancy themselves in love. It's not at all the same.”
Gale sighs. The shadow of his bulk over Astarion suddenly seems more present, the sound of his hooves striking the dirt heavier. Yet despite his displeasure, he does nothing.
“Then you have not been reading the right poets,” he tells Astarion. “I would be happy to introduce you to some true art, if you're so inclined.”
“Of course our bloody centaur likes poetry,” Astarion sighs.
It's supposed to be a tease. It's supposed to be light-hearted, one of his jibes that Gale shrugs off or flicks his tail at and ignores.
“What's that supposed to mean?” He demands, sharply. “I'm supposed to be somehow more connected with the natural world because I'm half beast, am I? You expected me to be a druid, perhaps, or an astrologer? Well I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I find the joy of poetry is equally an intellectual pursuit as a spiritual one.”
Astarion is about to snap back about it being more about the number of books holding Gale’s tent up than his spiritual connection to whatever magical bullshit he ascribes to when Lae’zel butts in.
“I'm surprised you are not more magically inclined for an elf, Astarion. Your kind are known for their innate ability, are they not? And yet you struggle with a cantrip.”
Astarion's head snaps around to her.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He snaps.
Lae'zel just levels her gaze at him.
“It was the only thing about elves I ever bothered learning. You must be a disappointment.”
In less than a moment, the dagger is drawn from his wrist. The draw and the attack are the same moment. With pinpoint precision, he slashes the holster from her hip. The sword tumbles to the floor before she can even make a grab for it.
“Not so much of a disappointment now, am I?” Astarion hisses, pressing the bite of the blade into her clavicle.
Her eyes are wide; but not afraid. No. Only furious. Astarion doesn't care.
“A measly little elf, getting the draw on a githyanki warrior? How embarrassing. What if your crèche heard about this?”
He tuts, as derisively as he can possibly manage.
Lae'zel, despite her temper being hot and her worldview stunted, is not stupid. She stands there, silently, glaring at him like she's trying to burn a hole in his skull.
It would probably be terrifying if he wasn't so used to so much worse.
“Now, little gith, here's a lesson for you. How about you don't go poking at other people's sore spots without having the skill to back it up, hmmm? Because if you dare to insinuate that my lack of magical ability is in any way my fault and not…” he swallows the words. “Not something that was taken from me, I will slit you from your throat to your gut. And I promise you that it will not be a misplaced gesture of affection.”
There is a small, pointed pause.
“Alright,” Gale's voice says, quiet but firm. “I think that's quite enough, Astarion. It was a misunderstanding. You can let Lae'zel go now.”
Astarion doesn't turn away from the gith for one moment. If he does, he suspects, he will get a knife to the gut. Lae'zel is holding herself with the unnatural stillness of one poised to strike.
“Not quite, darling,” Astarion says, with a pretence at ease. “I do have one more request. You see, Lae’zel, I'd rather you didn't duel our wizard. Despite those haunches he is rather squishy, and we do actually need him in one piece. So try not to go proposing with a little swordfight, hmm?”
He moves the knife, just slightly.
Lae’zel, apparently accustomed to being held at knifepoint, takes a steady, careful breath.
“I have no intention to,” she says, voice unusually quiet, but no less venomous than usual. “I swear on Vlaakith’s name.”
Well.
That, he can't argue with.
Carefully, he steps back. Removing his body before he slowly pulls the knife away.
Lae'zel stays where she is.
Astarion lowers the knife.
For a moment, they all stay remarkably still. Then;
“I liked that holster,” Lae’zel says. “It was very fine leatherwork.”
Astarion blinks at her.
And then, utterly unable to help himself, he bursts out laughing.
“I'll fix it for you,” he offers, when he's done. “Someone around here’s going to have leatherworking needles. We just have to find the right bastard to rob.”
-
Just as Astarion had made peace - of a kind - with Lae’zel, they'd rescued Halsin.
Everything about Halsin is… Gods, he's everything Astarion is not and it's driving him insane. He's thick-set, golden-skinned, built like a brick shithouse and with the kind of body Astarion wants to salivate over and won't allow himself to. He bears the scars of a life well lived and the imperfections are somehow more attractive, lending him an air of mystery. Even his tail is cute. How this bear of an elf ended up with such a small tail is anybody's guess, but it somehow suits him. It's a flat, fluffy little thing, nowhere near as elegant as Astarion's and only about a tenth of the length. But it makes his lovely behind look even plumper and Astarion fucking hates it. Hates Halsin. Hates that he's so at ease with himself and immediately friends with everyone without having to even try. His deep laugh, his quiet voice, his genuineness.
And alright, maybe he's a little bit peeved that Halsin has immediately hit it off with Gale.
They're supposed to be celebrating their success right now - or preparing to, anyway - but instead Gale and Halsin have decided that they, collectively, need another night of rest.
Astarion, having lost more of his already-limited blood than he can reasonably spare, hadn't been truly upset at the suggestion. Until, that was, he came back from his hunt, newly refreshed, and nearly stumbled on the two of them having what seemed to be a romantic walk in the forest.
He ducks into a bush.
The moment he does so he realises he's been incredibly stupid. If he'd just walked over to them like nothing was out of the ordinary, he could have passed it off as his own nighttime wanderings. Stretching his legs or something.
But hiding in a bush is bloody suspicious, even by his standards.
Oh, hells. Especially as, now he's looking properly, he can see that Halsin is resting an arm across Gale's…
He pauses.
Shoulders? But the horse-part’s shoulders. Where the human part of Gale's spine becomes the horse part of Gale's spine, so…
His back? Kind of?
Gods, Astarion knows absolutely fucking nothing about horses. Or centaurs. What he does know, however, is that Gale is somehow getting more dick than he seems to know what to do with, and Astarion is getting none.
Fucking typical. The one time he actually wants to get laid and he can't seem to make it happen.
He manages to sneak away without giving himself away, at least.
When he gets back to camp, despite the hour and how long a day they've had, the others are still up.
“How was your wash?” Shadowheart eyes him, suspiciously.
“Nonexistent,” Astarion snaps. “Evidently. Do I look like I've had a chance to clean up? Whatever that hag did to the water here, I want nothing to do with it. That stream is rank.”
Shadowheart snorts at him, but apparently accepts this excuse.
“Did you see Gale and Halsin?” Karlach asks, eagerly.
“No,” Astarion raises an eyebrow at her. “Why?”
“They went for a walk in the forest,” Lae’zel says. “Karlach is convinced they are having sex. I am convinced that they are not. Bets have been placed.”
“Hence why everyone is still up,” Astarion surmises. “Waiting for them to get back?”
“I bet twenty gold that they're fucking,” Karlach says.
Lae'zel huffs at her.
“You are very determined for someone who has been informed, repeatedly, that Gale's views on romance do not include participating in ‘casual’ sex.”
“He was turning you down politely Lae’zel.”
“I have not propositioned him.”
“Yes, because he put you off,” Shadowheart sighs. “Anyway, if anyone can take a centaur, it's a bear.”
Wyll coughs, at last, interrupting their pending argument.
“I'm not sure I'm comfortable discussing our friends’ love life in these terms. I'm not sure Halsin would appreciate it, and I know Gale definitely wouldn't.”
“It's just a bit of fun, Wyll,” Karlach teases him. “Hey, Astarion, what do you think they're up to?”
Astarion hums.
“I think they are having a long, deep, thorough…” he pauses, salaciously, “...conversation about their feelings.”
Even Wyll manages to smile at that.
“How much are you willing to bet?” Shadowheart asks.
“Astarion cannot be included in the bet,” Lae’zel snips. “He cheated.”
“Me?” Astarion yelps. “Lae'zel, I'm wounded! How could you think that?”
“Very easily. You returned from the forest from the opposite direction from the stream. The same direction that Gale and Halsin left in. If you did spot anything salacious you would be incapable of keeping it to yourself, and so, it is clear that you did not. Karlach, you owe me twenty gold.”
“Ugh, you're no fun,” Astarion grumbles, crossing his arms. “What's a little betting fraud between friends?”
“Did you at least hear what they were talking about?” Shadowheart presses.
“Shadowheart!” Wyll protests. “Gosh, I can't listen to this-”
“Oh I didn't hear anything,” Astarion flaps a hand at him. “Sit down, Wyll. Gale's probably just enjoying having a new sympathetic ear to listen to him whining about his ex-girlfriend.”
“His goddess,” Lae’zel puts in, sharply. “Unworthy though she may have been, it is not a situation to be sniffed at.”
Astarion rolls his eyes at her, but doesn't argue the point. Arguing with Lae’zel is liable to give him a headache, she's so twisted up in her own reasoning. Instead, he pulls his tail into his lap and starts combing through it, doing his best to clean out the dirt and dust of the day. At least he hadn't got any goblin blood in it. That really would have been a travesty.
He’s only halfway done when Gale and Halsin return from the forest. Astarion's hearing is sharper than the others; he's the first to look up.
Halsin’s expression remains rather calm, almost placid. Gale's, on the other hand, is tense.
“You're all still up,” Halsin says, as they approach the fire. “That's good. We have an important matter to discuss.”
His tone brokers no argument. Not even from Astarion.
“Perhaps we should make some tea, first,” Gale says. It's not a suggestion so much as a statement of intent, as he sets about filling the kettle with ‘create water’, and organising a selection of leaves to begin brewing.
“Would you like to begin, or shall I?” Halsin suggests, watching Gale.
“You may begin,” Gale says, not looking up from his work. “I believe it would help to provide some context.”
Halsin nods, and turns to the rest of them.
“I once spent some time with a herd of centaurs in the northern forests,” he begins. “It was centuries ago now, but I grew to know them well. In part, they are responsible for my interest in healing, and some of their techniques I still employ today. At first, when you rescued me today, I was too distracted to think much of it. But on the walk back to camp, I paid a little more attention to my new companions… and I began to suspect that there was something wrong.”
Gale snorts, tonelessly.
“I was mostly concerned that Gale was in pain. The way he moved was… stiff. It seemed to me that he was attempting to conceal some old injury or malady.”
“And you were not entirely wrong,” Gale says, at last. “But the cause of it is quite different. I do not move like a centaur, because I am not one.”
There is a small silence.
“Um,” Karlach says. “Don't get me wrong, Gale, you're the expert opinion here, but… if you're not a centaur, what are you?”
Gale's gaze flickers to Halsin, who dips his head, as if in encouragement.
“I was born human,” Gale says, eventually. “In fact, if questioned, I probably still consider myself human, although I think it's fairly evident that this is no longer the case.”
“No shit,” Karlach says, sounding awed. “I mean, sorry mate, it's just… wow.”
“Indeed,” Gale almost sounds amused, against his tiredness. “As you know, as a young man, I became Mystra's Chosen. You also know that I fell from favour, and was cast aside. My current situation is the reason.”
Astarion sits, quietly, as Gale explains. They all do. It's a story almost too unbelievable, and yet. It's just too detailed to be a lie.
“The book was not what it seemed,” Gale says, eventually. “Perhaps it never had been. Perhaps the centuries had changed it. But when I opened it…” he gestures helplessly. “It is very difficult to describe what happened. I suppose that it attempted to consume me. I managed to stop it, but by then, I had become… slightly untethered from reality. And the magic which had once been contained in the book was now contained… in me.
“Of course Mystra would have nothing to do with me once it became clear how corrupted I had become. It has taken me a year of isolation and intense study to be able to maintain this form reliably and consistently. The others I find tend to be unstable, not to mention less useful-”
“Hang on,” Astarion interrupts. “Other forms? What other forms?”
“Oh,” Gale unfolds his legs, and gets to his hooves. “Yes, perhaps this would be easier to demonstrate. Now, there's no need to be alarmed. I assure you, I am perfectly in control.”
And, so saying, he… shifts.
There's no other word for it. Astarion has met a few changelings and shapeshifters in his time, not to mention witnessed a few ‘alter self’ spells wearing off, and this is… nothing like that. Instead of moving through an intermediary shape between two forms that is somewhat a combination of them both, Gale’s entire lower half vanishes in a small ‘poof’ of magic. For a moment, there is only a dark cloud of smoke, thick with something that almost sparkles, almost like oil. A sheen of iridescence. And then Gale is…
“A yuan ti,” Wyll says, breathlessly.
Gale coils his new tail carefully, evidently a little unsteady on it. It’s a much smaller form than the centaur. With his lower half the body of a snake, Gale is nearly the same height as the rest of them.
The scales shimmer in the firelight, a deep, emerald green that belongs to no species of snake that Astarion has ever seen. There is an interesting pattern of what seems to be banding, however. The thick splotches of colour curl around Gale's hips, the colour fading into skin at his navel as the scales peter out along the line of what would once have been his Adonis belt.
“Exactly,” Gale nods. “Although I'm afraid I've grown rather accustomed to having four legs, so perhaps… ah, let me-”
With another little poof, and a cloud of magic, Gale’s lower half reappears as the torso of a lion.
“There,” he sighs, in evident relief. “Apologies, the magic is rather fickle.”
He shakes himself, the lion’s tail flicking, paws flexing and retracting his claws before cautiously settling into a fairly similar sitting position to his usual centaur’s seat.
He is, however, a good foot smaller than he usually is. For once, if Astarion stood beside him, they might actually be of a similar height. Actually, Gale might even be shorter.
“A lamia,” Halsin nods. “How curious. We did not get as far as discussing the shapes you are capable of taking. Are there limits?”
“The magic struggles to hold some forms more than others,” Gale agrees. “I have yet to prove a thesis on why. I have been able to assume the temporary form of animals that are mammalian, insectoid, even aquatic - but none that do not already exist in a form that you might describe, I suppose, as ‘half-humanoid’.” He winces. “It's a clumsy term, I'm working on it. Suffice it to say that whatever the other half of me is now made of, it refuses to take the form of anything humanoid. Not only can I not assume a human form, but I cannot take the hindquarters of a dragonborn, an elf, or even a faun. It seems to have a distaste for any form of bipedalism. But, as I was saying, other than that, the only limit seems to be that the resulting creature must be extant. Though I can assume the form of a creature we would recognise as a drider, or a siren, I cannot will my lower half into the form of a sheep. The closest I can manage is a bariaur.”
Halsin is chuckling now, evidently enjoying the show.
“You're handling this very well, Gale, I must say,” Shadowheart puts in.
“I have had a year or more to adjust,” Gale admits. “I cannot say I handled it with great equanimity at first, but. Losing Mystra's favour was a far greater blow.”
“Of course,” Lae’zel is nodding, as if this is a perfectly reasonable attitude to have. “I would rather die than disappoint my goddess.”
Gale sighs.
“Indeed. Though truthfully, sometimes I think that dying would have been too easy. When the alternative is living with the consequences of my hubris, well.”
“While you yet live, you have a chance at redemption,” Lae’zel says, fierce as always. “Do not squander it.”
“I have no intention of doing so,” Gale says, with all seriousness. “Well. That's the gist of the situation, I suppose. Anyone have any questions?”
“So many,” Karlach says, immediate, eager with her curiosity. “Can you change whenever you want? Does it take up energy? Does it hurt? Can you use it in a fight?”
“Karlach,” Gale laughs. “One question at a time, please.”
-
Astarion sits, uncharacteristically quiet, while the others ask their questions. Gale makes no promises about his ability to shapeshift being of any use to them in battle; the change of his weight and centre of gravity is more likely to cause him to fall over than, as Karlach was obviously envisioning, taking a line of goblins out with a well-timed slap of his yuan ti tail.
He explains, too, why he chose to remain in centaur form for the majority of the time; a mixture of practicality and familiarity. While centaurs were unusual in Waterdeep, and in Faerun in general, they weren't totally unheard of. Nor did they carry the social weight that a drider would. A centaur form was strong, and fairly well-balanced, and as a child Gale had grown up around horses and mostly knew how to look after his new-found hooves and pelt as a result. Most importantly, however, it was the first form that Gale and the strange creature that either consumed him or became him managed to maintain for any period of time. And, as adjusting to any new form was a complicated and difficult process, it was the one he dedicated the most time and effort to improving.
Not so very long after that, the others begin to take their leave. Lae'zel first, then Wyll. One by one, they peel away. Gale stays. Until it is just he and Astarion sitting by the fire.
“So,” Gale says at last. “What questions did you have that you couldn't ask in front of the others?”
Astarion grins at him.
“What the fuck does the inside of your tent look like?”
He doesn't expect Gale to take that question seriously. But, though a little surprised, Gale considers his answer.
“I suppose there's no harm in showing you,” he says. “If you're that curious.”
“Deadly, darling.”
So, apparently entirely unaware of the undercurrent of Astarion's interest in his tent, or perhaps interest in seeing it, Gale gets to his lion’s feet, shifts back to the centaur through a cloud of magic, and then gestures for Astarion to follow him across the camp.
Gale’s tent is…
Astonishing. Of course, the lucky bugger had somehow managed to keep hold of the contents of his saddlebags when he was kidnapped, unlike the rest of them who had mostly had to scrounge up, steal, and even pay for their shelter and bedrolls.
Gale's tent is nice on the outside. The inside, however, is another world entirely. Literally. It's like Astarion’s stepped through a portal. For a moment, he stops in the tent flap and just gapes.
“I know,” Gale says, somewhat abashed. “You'll forgive me for not showing anyone sooner. I find reminders of the power one was once capable of wielding have a tendency to embitter one.”
Astarion takes two steps forwards, and is barely inside.
The tent is lined from wall to wall with bookshelves. They're packed tight, the overspilling tomes packed in any which way.
There's a desk, and a lamp, and instead of a bed there is a huge, circular mattress on the floor. It takes Astarion a minute to work out what it is because it's so covered in pillows.
“Likely not the stable you were expecting,” Gale says, wryly.
Astarion cannot, for once, summon the ire to be irritated with him.
“Why would I have assumed you would sleep in the straw?” He mumbles, turning slowly to take in the bookshelves fully.
“I don't know,” Gale snips. “For the same reason you were amused to find me a purveyor of poetry, I assume.”
Astarion turns to him; temper rising, his tail flicking back and forth. For once, he does not bother to hide it.
“You have picked up every book we have come across in this wretched little adventure,” he snipes. “Without bothering to ask if perhaps some of us, with less wizardly expertise and academic acumen, might also appreciate some of the finer arts, even if we have no intention of wasting days writing essays about them in a desperate bid for the approval of crumbling old men with more beard than brain.”
There is a moment of taut, expectant silence. And then, Gale bows his head. An acknowledgement.
“It seems I owe you an apology, Astarion. I… have misunderstood the situation entirely.”
Still irritated, Astarion simply turns away from him with a ‘humph’.
“Did you happen to find anything interesting while doing your plundering? Are you willing to share your spoils, or will you make me resort to petty thievery to find anything worth my time around here?”
“You may borrow anything you like,” Gale says, immediately; just as Astarion had hoped he would. “I assume I can trust you to treat my books with care and consideration?”
“No, I was upset with you for stealing all the books because I was intending to use them for kindling,” Astarion huffs. “Yes, Gale, I know how to treat a book. No bloody use to anybody with pages curled and covers trampled, are they?”
It wasn't actually why Astarion wanted to see Gale's tent, but in lieu of getting laid, it is an acceptable outcome.
And, having realised he's offended Astarion, however minimally, Gale is much more attentive to him than he might previously have been. To the point that Astarion finds himself seated amongst Gale's small mountain of pillows, attempting to get comfortable.
“Sleeping as a centaur is not comfortable,” Gale says, pointedly. “Having two ribcages to contend with makes it nigh impossible. I was hoping Halsin would have some suggestions, but alas, it seems that this is the norm for natural born centaurs too. I believe sometimes they lie in piles in order to alleviate the stress on the spine, but as I have yet to meet another…” he shrugs.
“What about your true form?” Astarion asks.
“My… true form?”
“You said you have to force the magic to take a shape.” He slides towards Gale, cushions tumbling out of his way. “What do you look like when you don't?”
“Aha,” Gale ducks his head, like he isn't a good three feet taller than Astarion right now, like it's going to hide the delicate little flush across his cheeks. “I don't think you want to see that.”
“I don't think you should presume what I do and don't want.”
Astarion has almost completely closed the distance between them. Gale is watching him now. There's something in his expression; a lowering of his eyelids, a widening of his pupils. Interest. Oh, Astarion has him in the palm of his hand now. And he's going to get exactly what he wants.
“What do you want, Astarion?” Gale asks, his voice low. It's deep. Astarion can almost feel it in his chest. In his loins.
“I want to see you,” Astarion says. Slowly, he reaches out, and places the pad of his finger at the very top of Gale's robe. “Take this off,” he commands.
There is only a moment’s hesitation.
Then Gale’s careful fingers go to the clasps of his robes. The purple outer robe falls away, pooling over his withers and tumbling off his shoulder, leaving him only in his wrap shirt. That, Astarion can undo himself. A simple tug at the tie has the whole piece of fabric falling away. Revealing, at last, Gale's naked torso.
Astarion's questing fingers find the edge; the line where Gale's soft, smooth skin begins to become his soft, smooth pelt, his olive brown skin become chestnut brown hide. Astarion studies the way it feels under his hands. Tense; poised. As if to flee. But flee where?
He looks up, and Gale is watching him. Brown eyes blown wide, confusion almost completely obscured by fascination.
“What are you doing?” Gale says, at last.
“Exploring,” Astarion flashes him a grin. “You really wouldn't know, even this close, that there was anything wrong with you.”
Gale nods, as if not entirely sure whether to be offended.
“Show me,” Astarion asks, again. “I want to see you, Gale.”
Gale looks like he's about to protest, again, when Astarion finally flattens his hands across Gale's stomach, tracing the shape of his muscles across the plane of his skin.
And Gale shudders.
“Oh,” Astarion breathes. “How long has it been since anyone touched you, sweetheart?”
“Don't,” Gale says, breathless. “Don't…”
Astarion raises an eyebrow at him.
“Don't… what? Touch you? Or call you sweetheart?”
When Gale doesn't respond immediately, Astarion makes to take his hands away - but Gale's hands land on his. Holding him in place.
“I'm no sweetheart,” Gale says. And yet there's something uncertain about it.
“Aren't you?” Astarion considers, slowly rubbing circles in Gale's skin, just underneath his nipples. Taunting. “You could be a sweetheart for me, I'm sure.”
Gale's intake of breath is sharp; almost a gasp. But he does not move away. If anything he seems to lean closer. Astarion is leaning in now too. The anticipation of it is so thick in the air he can almost taste it.
“You don't know what I am,” Gale says, slowly, almost begging. “You don't want the creature I've become, Astarion. You could have anyone, anyone at all, you don't want this… thing.”
Astarion sighs, and yanks Gale closer. He could just say ‘yes, I do’. Maybe Gale would believe him. Maybe it would even work.
But for some reason, he doesn't.
“Let me make this as clear as I can, Gale,” he says, instead. “Look at me.”
And, at long, long last, he bares his teeth.
For a moment, Gale is utterly silent. And then, to Astarion's relief, he smiles .
“I wondered when you were going to tell us.”
“What?” Astarion hisses.
“We met a gur hunter in the swamp the other day,” Gale says, conversationally. “Well, I did. I was looking for interesting components, after we killed that hag. He said he was looking for a vampire spawn named Astarion.”
If Astarion’s blood wasn't already pretty much temperate, it would have run cold.
“Ssssh,” he shushes Gale quickly, trying to tamp down the panic. “Let's not have another whole camp meeting to announce our dirty little secrets, thank you.”
“Nobody else heard,” Gale assures him. “I had my suspicions, of course, but this hunter confirmed them. I'm rather sorry to say that his profession that he'd been sent to fetch you were among his last words.”
Astarion's heart doesn't beat. This, he thinks, is very much a boon right now. If it did, Gale would have just caused it to stop.
“You killed him?” He hisses. Surprised, yes, but a good bit more impressed. He hadn't thought Gale had it in him.
“I did,” Gale admits, gravely. “I didn't quite intend to. I thought perhaps I'd knock him out, but you know how it can be with magic, sometimes. I may have misjudged how many magic missiles the situation called for, and… well, I didn't think anyone who sent a hunter after you had good intentions.”
“Not exactly, no,” Astarion surmises a little dustantly. “Cazador would have sent him. My master.”
“Cazador Szarr?” Gale frowns. “Not a name I associate with anything good.”
Astarion laughs, once. It's a hollow, bitter laugh.
“No, I imagine not. I can tell you far worse, if you care to hear it.”
Gale's expression is considering. His lovely brown eyes akin Astarion’s face, as if looking for the correct answer.
“Only if you want to tell me.”
Astarion almost laughs at that.
“No,” he says. “No, Gale, I really don't. Especially not now. Now that we're finally-” his hands, never quite having relinquished Gale, slip back down to his waist. “I don't get to choose, Gale. For two hundred years, I was whatever he wanted me to be. So, don't tell me what I can and can't want. I haven't been allowed to want anything for so long.”
Gale's chest is rising and falling, his gaze fixed on Astarion, even as his fingers are playing against Gale's skin, tracing patterns across his lower back.
“Let me want this,” Astarion says. “And if you want it too… let me have you.”
Fuck, the noise that Gale makes at that almost undoes Astarion completely. It's an achingly needy little whine. So beautifully desperate. Astarion's barely even touched him yet. Oh, he's going to beg so beautifully.
“In theory,” Gale says, a little breathlessly. “In theory, if I wanted this, but I wasn't sure if I would… be comfortable in what you consider my ‘true’ form…”
Astarion raises an eyebrow.
“I'm listening.”
“Well,” Gale swallows. “The centaur is rather… unwieldy. And if you prefer to, as you rather coarsely put it, ‘take me’... I admit, I have been very curious about certain aspects of the forms I've been experimenting with. If you wouldn't find that too off-putting?”
“Gale,” Astarion laughs. “I think I can say, with conviction, that I will be into pretty much anything you want to try. Whatever this is, knowing that you're not entirely what you seem,” he takes a deep breath. “Well. I wanted you before. Now I think I'm going out of my mind with it.”
Gale swallows, apparently surprised by this. But he nods, once, short and tight.
“I… yes. Right. Just one moment, then.”
Carefully, and perhaps a little reluctantly, Gale removes Astarion’s hands from his waist. Astarion watches curiously, wondering what exactly is about to happen. Then comes the flash, now familiar, the momentary glimpse of the swirl of magic, deep and black and thick with glitter - and then Gale is lying on his back.
“A siren,” Astarion gasps, delighted. He's already on his knees, crawling over the fresh expanse of Gale's lower body. Not dissimilar from the yuan-ti, in the way his scales fade into the lower part of his torso, but wildly different in colour and width. The siren tail is shimmering, a purple that at times seems an indigo, at others a lilac, and in the flickering light of Gale's magic lanterns, occasionally has shades of pink, teal blue, and even silver. It's one of the most breathtakingly beautiful things that Astarion has ever seen.
“Incredible,” he breathes.
Gale only watches him approach. It looks like there are words poised on his lips. A hesitation has held them there. Something apologetic, no doubt, or wanting to quantify or explain, and Astarion frankly just doesn't care.
Not when Gale is laid out underneath him like this, having given himself up to Astarion. Not when the edge of his fins are rippling, as if in anticipation. He's not even sure Gale knows he's doing that.
Astarion reaches out, tracing the very tip of his finger along the edge of a fin. To his delight, it immediately ripples more vigorously, the edge of it almost seeming to wrap around one of his fingers as if in caress.
“Oh,” Gale says, with barely a whisper of breath. “Fascinating.”
Astarion giggles at him, utterly charmed and not bothering to hide it.
“Well, aren't you just darling?”
Gale is flushing slightly now, that pink tinge brought back to his cheeks.
“Astarion, if you're going to tease me, I may very well change my mind about th- ah!”
Astarion had pressed his fingers against the scales covering Gale's hips, tracing down into the centre where the scales seem to fold away into one another. They ripple under his hands, a delicate, almost soft layer over thick, strong muscle.
“I just want to make sure that my little scholar knows he can take notes if he wants to,” Astarion grins, cheekily, settling closer to Gale's midriff, trailing his greedy fingers away from the slit where Gale so evidently wants them, back to stroking gently over those delicate little fins. “I won't be offended. In fact, I'd rather you conducted this experiment most thoroughly.”
Gale's breathing fast now, watching Astarion with eyes so dark they're almost black, his tail undulating gently but insistently between Astarion’s legs where he's got Gale pinned.
“I assure you, I am making very comprehensive observations following the ethnographic method of-”
Much as Astarion likes Gale's voice, he likes stealing it more. It's easily achieved. All he does is bend down, and flick his tongue against the slit between Gale’s scales.
He tastes incredible. It sparks over Astarion's tongue like he's somehow tasting stardust. Something sharp, almost unreal, that must be the magic. Then, underneath that, the true musk of him. Thick and heady, a cocktail of something utterly unlike anything Astarion has had before, and immediately, utterly addictive.
Slightly curious and devastatingly aroused, Astarion immediately dips back in, eager for more. Gale’s body accepts him readily, folds of skin parting under the gentle pressure of his eager tongue. Astarion follows this exploration with his fingers, tracing the now-wet edges of the scales in deeper, past his first knuckle, then the second, with no resistance at all.
“Oh, you're deep,” Astarion whispers, appreciatively. “Are you going to take all of me in one go, you ravenous thing?”
Gale moans. His tail almost writhes, except Astarion has him pinned, essentially wrapping all his limbs around Gale's new form. Instead, Gale’s wriggling only serves to grind his smooth, textured scales against Astarion's aching cock, now damp through his trousers. He can't help but hiss at the pleasure of it, grinding down into the soft, thick flesh that is rippling against him in waves.
“Astarion,” Gale’s voice is shaking, already. Astarion's barely even finished mapping the shape of the edges of whatever this vulva-adjacent genitalia is, let alone had a chance to discover it properly.
“Yes, sweetheart?” He croons, slowly working his finger in and out of Gale in keeping with the way Gale's thrusting his hips up against him.
No protest to being called ‘sweetheart’ this time, he notes. Gale is learning.
“I think, that there's a- that I have a-”
Astarion hums, moving his thumb to rub in slow, deliberate circles.
Gale throws his head back and moans.
“A clit?” Astarion suggests, happily, still grinding his hips gently against Gale’s restless, rippling scales. “I had noticed. You've opened up for me, sweetheart. Like a flower blossoming. Don't you want to see?”
He pulls his thumb away, just for a moment, and Gale looks back down his body to Astarion with more pleading than anything else- though in doing so, he seems to catch sight of himself.
“...gosh,” he says, after a moment. “That is very… prominent.”
Astarion giggles, and leans down to kiss the tip of what is, it turns out, less of a clit, and more of a micropenis. He swirls his tongue around the gorgeous little digit before taking it in his mouth.
It fits perfectly. Gale’s a satisfying weight between his lips, where can curl his tongue under it and flick over the top of it without stretching too hard, sealing his lips around it to suck, gently at first, until Gale is practically fucking up into Astarion's mouth. As much as he can with Astarion pinning him down by the hips, anyway.
Not that Astarion is trying very hard. He adores this wanton creature he's reduced proud, upright Gale to. So quickly, too. With every twist of Gale's hips, every thrash of his tail, Astarion rolls his hips, sending sparks of delicious pressure up his spine as he works his tongue, dragging more of those deep, guttural moans from Gale's throat and the strange, addictive ichor from his throbbing cock.
Before they get much further, however, Astarion pulls away, licking his lips with relish.
“What are your observations so far?” He asks, settling over Gale's tail with his arms crossed, looking up at Gale, propped up against his cushions, through his lashes.
For a moment, Gale only breathes.
Then;
“The siren anatomy is particularly fascinating,” he says. His voice is steady, as if giving a lecture. Not at all like Astarion was just fucking him with his tongue. “In what reading I have done on the subject, it seems that the practicalities of a siren’s reproductive capabilities have been overlooked.”
“Indeed?” Astarion presses the tip of his tongue back into the slit, and Gale quivers at his touch. Evidently not as unaffected as he seems. There is a swelling of something in Astarion's chest at that; the realisation that Gale is trying to conceal just how aroused he is. Adorable. And a challenge that Astarion is pleased to accept. “You weren't expecting this, then?” He presses his mouth around Gale's neat little cock again, humming contentedly at the taste.
“No,” Gale says, his voice quavering. “I have spent very little time in this form, as I lacked access to appropriate volumes of water when locked away in my tower, so-”
He gasps, again, as this time Astarion slips his fingers back inside as he curls his tongue.
Gale is wet now. Slick with a combination of his own arousal and Astarion’s saliva. Gale takes three of his fingers eagerly, clenching down around him.
That's never something that Astarion's personally found pleasurable before. Oh, fingering people is fun, in its own way. But this - the feeling of Gale around his fingers is more than hot, slick flesh. There's something else to it. It quavers on the edge of reality. It's physical, yes, the tightness of his muscles, but… there's something ethereal to it too. Something that Astarion is pretty sure Gale doesn't know is happening. It makes his fingers tingle, almost as if his nerve endings are made more sensitive from exposure to whatever Gale's really made of, now. Astarion can't help but thrust his fingers a little deeper, craving more. That rawness of feeling, like something as essential as life itself is rippling along his skin.
It's what he tastes like too. That's what's so delicious; that taste of something powerful. It pulses under the surface of Gale's scales, alive and greedy, thick with magic, barely held back from exploding out of Gale's skin.
Astarion craves it. Never has he tasted anything more satisfying. It's as if this is what he truly craves, when he wants for blood. It's that essence, barely more than a shade of an aftertaste when he bites down on a creature's neck, that courses full and flush through Gale's very being. Undiluted, and everything Astarion has ever needed.
“Oh, gods-” Gale moans, before cutting himself off.
Astarion grins, knowing Gale can likely feel the shape of his smile against his scales, but reluctantly pulls his mouth away.
“No need to be quiet, sweetheart,” he purrs. “If nobody else knew what we were doing at first, they certainly do now.”
Gale shakes his head, eyes locked on Astarion's, flicking to his sopping wet mouth if only for a moment.
“Listen - can you hear the noise of camp?”
Astarion cocks his head. In truth, he's been distracted from the moment he stepped inside. And who can blame him? No wonder he's been so fascinated by Gale this whole time. His teeth itch, not with the need to bite, but to have his face buried back in Gale’s slit.
But now, he notices the quiet.
“It's a spell,” Gale explains. His cheeks are flush, his hair falling in his face, sweat beading on his brow; but his voice, he keeps steady. “Woven through the fabric.”
“You naughty thing,” Astarion crows, delighted, twisting his fingers in Gale’s slit and curling them, just to see if Gale’s expression changes. It does; his eyes flutter shut, his jaw going slack.
“How often have you used that in the last few tendays of our adventure, you dirty little whore? Fucked yourself with abandon, knowing that none of us could hear?”
“I haven't,” Gale says, quite seriously, though the words are panted between thrusts of Astarion's fingers.
“Really?” Astarion frowns. “Why? Darling, I'd have been abusing that every single night if I'd known.”
“Ha,” Gale chuckles. “Well. You can abuse it now.”
“Oh I will,” Astarion grins. “In a moment, though. I'm taking this study very seriously, you know. You should know what you taste like.”
So saying, he pulls his fingers free, at which Gale whimpers . Such a lovely, pitiful sound. Gods, Astarion wants to wreck him. Slowly and thoroughly. Until he's utterly ruined Gale for anyone else. Especially his bitch goddess. Imagine, not wanting this. Honestly, Astarion can't. Gale is so beautifully compliant, so fascinated and fascinating.
Astarion presents his sopping fingers to Gale’s lips. Without having to even be told, Gale opens his mouth, eager, and simply waits for Astarion to put his own fingers in.
“Perfect,” Astarion croons. “Oh, sweetheart, you're perfect for me.” He presses his fingers down carefully on Gale's tongue. “Taste. Go on.”
Gale stares at Astarion, almost unblinking, the intensity of it fucking electric. He's thorough; Astarion watches, enraptured, as Gale's tongue flexes around his fingers, finding every crevice, licking up every drop of his wetness with eager abandon. Until, at last, Astarion pulls his fingers away.
“And?” He presses. “Describe the taste to me.”
Gale’s staring at him, panting open-mouthed. His lips are slick, a little pink, as if they've been kissing. Suddenly, Astarion wants that more than anything. He shuffles up Gale’s body, just slightly, until he's sitting over the exact point where Gale's torso becomes his tail. Under his cheeks he can feel the divot of Gale's slit, the little lump of his cockhead emerging from it. Wet and weeping. All for Astarion. Oh, and making an absolute mess of his trousers.
Perfect.
Gale still hasn't answered. So Astarion leans down, and presses his tongue into Gale's mouth instead. Licking along his bottom lip, hunting the residue of Gale's strange, sparkling taste like a drunkard chasing the last of his drink.
Gale's hands had been curled in his cushions. Astarion had let him leave them there; he liked that Gale didn't seem to want to touch him without permission, made how urgently he wanted Astarion perfectly clear in other ways. But now, Gale's hand is curling up behind his head, pulling him closer. And then Gale is kissing him back. A desperate, deep kiss, the wet slide of their lips and tongues haphazard at first but growing bolder, finding a rhythm. In it, Astarion can taste him again, that embering swell of corrupt magic and life force and that taste of what it would be to live -
Gale presses his tongue, very deliberately, up against one of Astarion's fangs.
The burst of blood is divine.
That's the only way Astarion can think of it; like he's somehow, after all these years, found a way of transcending the dirty, mortal planes of his reluctant existence.
He moans, helplessly, devastated when Gale pulls away.
For a moment, they stare at each other. It seems that they've moved beyond words; Gale is rocking up into him, and at last Astarion has lost all patience for teasing.
“Stay there,” he commands, and pushes himself up on his knees. Gale sits up with him, their hands finding Astarion's belt at the same time. Astarion slaps him away, gently.
“Keep your hands to yourself, sweetheart,” he warns. “Until I tell you you can touch me.”
Gale nods, returning his grip to the cushions, watching with rapt attention as Astarion stands, slipping himself free from his trousers and tossing them aside. He's welcome to stare; Astarion's quite used to it. He finds he likes being under Gale's appreciative gaze. He stands there a little longer than entirely necessary, making a show of considering how to go about this.
It is going to be a somewhat interesting challenge, given that Gale doesn't have legs to move out of the way. Everything that Astarion wants to get to, however, seems to account for this; it's very forward-facing. His main consideration is going to be leverage.
“Right. Shuffle up, sweetheart,” Astarion pats his hips, grabbing a cushion to shove underneath his lower back when Gale gets the idea.
“Thank you,” Gale says, hazily, as if from a hundred miles away. Astarion pauses, having repositioned himself straddling Gale's midriff.
“Have you done this before?” He asks.
“No,” Gale seems to come back to himself, if only for the purpose of sassing Astarion. “I thought I'd made that quite clear.”
Astarion rolls his eyes.
“You're a wizard, aren't you? Come now, I was experimenting with Corellon’s Blessing years before I was supposed to be, are you telling me you never once considered using a little spell to have someone fuck you?”
Gale shakes his head, still grinning a little.
“Considered it, yes. But the opportunity never arose.”
Astarion practically purrs. Gods, a virgin too? Gale was made for him.
“Aren't you just the perfect little treat? Don't worry, darling, I'll take good care of you.”
“I know you will,” Gale says, a hint of something almost reverent in it.
“Are you ready for me, my sweet?”
“Yes,” Gale says, immediately. “Gods, yes, Astarion, I'm ready. Please.”
Astarion shushes him, gently, teasing the head of his cock at the sensitive scales lining his slit for just a moment.
Gale's hands fly up to his sides, but then flutter away again, remembering his orders.
“Good boy,” Astarion whispers, trying desperately to hold onto his composure. He leans forward, slowly, sinking into him as slowly as he's capable of being.
That strange, sparkling sensation that was so good on his fingers is something else entirely on his cock. Hells, it's so good. Like every single one of his nerve-endings is singing with life.
He has to pause. He has to, or for the first time in decades he'll lose himself in it. In how good it feels. How new, how unlike anything he's ever done before, how fucking electric a feeling it is to be choosing this, enjoying it, loving every fucking second.
But he needs to make this good for Gale, too. Otherwise this might be the only time they do this.
And that is a future Astarion cannot live in. So he holds himself back, teasing slowly and deliberately, working in a little at a time and keeping the gentle, rolling pressure up against Gale’s gorgeous little cock.
But then Gale whines, so pitifully, once again motioning as if to grab for Astarion's arm and then stopping himself.
“What is it?” Astarion asks, gently. “Tell me what you want.”
“Kiss me,” Gale begs, like a confession. “Please, come closer, come deeper, come to me-”
There were barely inches between them anyway, but Astarion gladly does as asked. Gale's body welcomes him as he slides home, slick and ready and wanting.
It is, Astarion imagines, somewhat like being swallowed whole. Perhaps by the astral plane. All he can do is gasp as Gale wraps his arms around him and pulls him close. And Astarion doesn't tell him off for it this time. Instead he revels in it; the way Gale shudders against him before kissing him, so carefully, like this is their first kiss and Astarion isn't buried hilt-deep in him with his vision sparkling at the edges. He can feel Gale's cock pressing into the very slight, very soft thatch of pubic hair that is all Astarion has ever been able to grow.
“Gods,” Gale pants. “Astarion, you are… my gods, that's… sublime.”
As punishment for being so wordy when he's supposed to be getting fucked, Astarion rolls his hips, pushing up into Gale's cock.
And Gale throws his head back and shouts.
“Fuck, Astarion, I-” he takes a deep breath. “This is making it very hard to concentrate on holding a form.”
“Oh dear,” Astarion says, with absolutely zero emotion. “So this wouldn't help then?”
He pulls back, experimentally, then thrusts back into Gale. It backfires on him a little. Evidently it feels good for Gale, if the soft, pitiful little grunt he makes is any indication, but Astarion has never felt anything like it. He can't help but grab for Gale’s hip, the skin and scales shuddering and trembling under his fingers as he grips them, using it to thrust deep and long. He has better control than this, he does, but fuck Gale makes him lose it all.
Gale gasps.
“If you keep doing that, Astarion, I’ll lose- I’ll lose control of my-”
“Do it,” Astarion urges, almost growling. “Let go of it all. Let me see you, Gale. I want to see you.”
“I can't,” Gale hisses, even as his fingers are curled into Astarion's back, urging him on, meeting his every thrust with an eagerness almost verging on desperation. “Astarion, I can't, you won't -”
“I want you,” Astarion reminds him. “All of you. You've seen everything I am, haven't you? Show me, Gale. Show me.”
Gale hauls him back down for another kiss, his tail thrashing wildly in the blankets and cushions behind them. Astarion chases the taste of him, trying to envelop himself in the feeling of starlight at the seams of his world, the dizzy, heady, delicious weight of the magic surging and pulsing under his skin.
As they kiss, he can feel the way Gale is coming undone around him. The feeling, pulling pleasure from every one of his nerves, is beginning to creep over his skin.
When Gale pulls back, at last, to breathe, Astarion realises why.
The siren tail is gone. In its place is a thick black lump of… something. Something utterly indiscernible. It doesn't seem to be dark so much as swallowing all of the light. His own tail is vanishing into it, and the ripple of pleasure up his spine as it does so is the most incredible he has ever felt.
“Sorry,” Gale gasps, “I'm not- I can't -”
Astarion shushes him, hurriedly.
There's almost a line, where Gale's torso ends and this… something begins. He traces his fingers along it, enraptured. Gale's skin is so human, so completely ordinary, and yet here, just a finger’s-width away, he becomes something utterly otherworldly.
At last, Astarion runs his hands down, and plunges his fingers deep into the void. It welcomes him. Almost like fur, it is soft; or perhaps, rather, it gives him the impression of being held. Of being safe.
“Incredible,” he breathes. “Look at you. Look at yourself, sweetheart. This was what you didn't want me to see?”
Gale is breathing heavily, his gaze fluttering across Astarion's expression.
“You're not scared of me,” he says, quietly. “You're not horrified?”
“Scared of you?” Astarion almost laughs. “Darling, I've seen the very worst of what people are capable of. This is nothing like any of that.” He curls his fingers in the blackness that is Gale, revelling in the sensation. “This is… You are something else entirely.”
“You mean that,” Gale says. It's quiet; almost surprised. He's looking up at Astarion with those lovely brown eyes, like he truly doesn't understand what it means to be wanted.
“I want to continue,” Astarion says, bluntly. “Do you? Do you want to keep having sex? Because I have never been more turned on in my life.”
“Like this?” Gale questions, though this time, there seems to be less confusion in it, and more a consideration of the possibility. “I… suppose I don't know how.”
“Darling, what happened to my keen little scholar?” Astarion leans back into him, with a purr. “Finding out is half the fun.”
For yet another endless, torturous moment, Gale hesitates.
“You're sure?”
“I've never been more sure of anything,” Astarion says. He'd intended it to be sultry, sexy. Instead it comes out a little bit desperate. Almost like a plea.
When was the last time he wanted this? On his own terms? For himself?
It's a moment of madness, he’ll claim afterwards; and Gale will smile at him, fondly, and pretend to agree in the way that Astarion knows mean he's being humoured.
But it is a moment of madness. It's like the fraying need of this has finally snapped something in him. He reaches out with the tadpole.
Perhaps Gale is mad too, because he allows it. That careful wizard’s mind, so well-crafted and well-trained, caves at the barest brush of Astarion's presence.
And everything collapses into itself. It only lasts for a second. It might as well be forever.
Astarion wants. He aches and aches with it, and he lets Gale hear it. All of it.
There's the way this feels, of course; the way the arousal seems to be prickling along his skin, hot and urgent, Gale's presence all around him and the strange, unfathomable and perfect unfamiliarity of the way he feels, all of his magic somethingness pressed up against Astarion's skin.
But there's more, too. The initial shock of his attraction to Gale, having not felt it for so long. He hadn't even realised that was what it was, at first. He'd been pretending and parroting the feeling for so long, the original had been entirely eclipsed by it. The amusement of indulging it, once he realised. The frustration of it growing, of Gale continually brushing him off and it only making it worse. Astarion's initial resolution to sleep his way into winning someone's favour being thrown by the wayside because Astarion had finally, reluctantly, had to concede that fuck it, he only wanted Gale, and if Gale didn't want him then he couldn't be bothered with any of the rest of them.
The way Gale moves in a fight. The fucking godawful, fascinating contradiction of the power, the strength, that he sets aside, choosing kindness. Genuine kindness, not the front that Astarion had been wearing to keep them from throwing him out. Astarion doesn't understand it. He can't understand it. But he wants it.
Astarion sees their shadows in each other. The way Gale bristles when he's treated as strange, because he can't hide it the way Astarion can. The way he wears it with stubborn pride, a petty dignity that Astarion finds amusing and enviable simultaneously. The way he doesn't allow it to change him; that he is still their camp cook, the wordy scholar, a full personality, sometimes even more so, in the face of the surprise and straight up stupidity that sometimes greets it. It makes Astarion want to scream with frustration.
They're so different.
They're so much the same.
Astarion had wanted to see if he could take Gale’s centaur cock even before they found out what he was, but now Astarion knows he's something else, the fascination has become an almost desperately pressing need.
Gale is beautiful. Otherworldly. Unlike anyone Astarion has ever met before, which is fucking saying something.
And Astarion wants him. Wants more than to fuck Gale, too, something that goes deeper, digging wider with claws in his chest… but that scares him, and he can barely brush over the thought on his own, let alone when Gale is watching, and-
And Gale is kissing him.
The tadpole connection is severed, partly by Astarion's sheer shock.
And then Gale pulls away.
“Sorry,” he breathes. “I- it's a surprise, to be sure, but a welcome one. Most welcome indeed.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Astarion blusters, suddenly feeling exposed for the first time since he walked into Gale's tent. “Now shut up, before I make you.”
Instead of taking offence, Gale reaches back towards him- to the tadpole.
And Astarion sees… himself.
The feeling that comes with it is difficult to discern; reluctant amusement, wounded pride, confusion, sometimes even embarrassment - but more than that, a tentative interest.
Smatterings of memories;
Astarion sitting by the campfire, laughing over a glass of wine with Shadowheart–
Astarion making bets with Karlach, a challenge shouted across a live battlefield–
Astarion cheating horrifically while wrestling with Lae’zel, and his utter indignance when she doesn't let him get away with it–
Astarion standing by his tent, evidently bored out of his fucking mind, flicking his knives off his fingers with terrifying competence–
–and all of it infused with a warmth Astarion hadn't expected.
Not from Gale, who turns away from him, who never flirts back, who is-
– afraid of Astarion's sharp tongue, the derision that cuts deeper than the rest of their companions. Gale has never been wanted so openly, and he loves it and craves it and hates it in the same breath, because he wants Astarion to see him more than a creature, more than a thing to be fucked –
– Astarion would be disappointed to know what he truly is. A creature so broken, so horrifying in its otherness, to a man as beautiful as Astarion Gale’s mere existence is almost an insult –
– Astarion, who he does not know how to reach–
Astarion hisses, and the thread between them snaps. The clash of the way they see the world too intense, too fraught, too… everything.
“Oh,” Astarion says.
Gale is staring up at him, his eyes wide. Soft, too. Like he's bared his underbelly and is expecting to be kicked.
“We seem to have been misunderstanding one another-” Gale begins. Before he gets any further however, Astarion surges forward, pinning him to the cushions by his wrist, rolling his hips against the strange, wonderful, perfect sensation of whatever the fuck Gale is, and claims his mouth in a bruising kiss.
“I am going to fuck some goddamn sense into you,” he growls. “Then we can talk about this. Agreed?”
Gale opens his mouth, closes it again, and nods.
-
“Gaaaale!”
Astarion singsongs his way down the stairs of the tower, wondering what form he's going to find his husband in this morning.
Much as Astarion loves his strange, shapeless cloud of terror, and much as Gale is coming to tolerate it after months of Astarion's badgering, it is a somewhat less practical way of navigating their daily lives.
Now that they're both tadpole-free and settled, however, Gale has begun experimenting a little more. He's still most likely to be found as a centaur. To the wider world - and most importantly, his new role as a tutor in Waterdeep - that is how he presents himself. That's plenty complicated enough a situation to have to explain already. But at home, in their own space, he's begun experimenting.
Astarion thinks it's cute that Gale claims it's for academic pursuit. Not that he doesn't make a fascinating subject of study, of course. But what Astarion enjoys ‘studying’ about Gale's various forms, Gale does not consider appropriate material for publication.
“In the kitchen, my love!”
Astarion rounds the final turn of the spiral staircase with a whirl–
And Gale catches him.
“Hello my sweet,” Astarion purrs, surprised and delighted to be met by Gale almost at his head height. That's more common now too–much as it amuses them both that Gale often has to stoop to kiss him, it's a much more pleasant experience if he doesn't have to.
Making use of it, Astarion holds his husband in that kiss for quite some time. Letting his hands wander under Gale's slightly modified shirt to his hips, he feels a soft, light pelt of fur. Not one he recognises. Intrigued, he curls his tail out from under his long skirt and around Gale's leg.
Evidently gathering what he's up to, Gale pulls away from Astarion's tongue to grin at him.
“Alseid,” he declares, insufferably smugly.
“Show me,” Astarion demands, pushing him backwards to get a better look. Obedient as always, Gale turns in a little circle.
His pelt is autumn-gold, dappled with white spots, far smaller and more delicate than the horse. His legs, too, are slimmer, his hooves small and neat, and at his rear a tiny little white tail is wagging with pleasure.
It's a new one. Astarion is absolutely fucking delighted.
“You're gorgeous,” he declares, jumping off the bottom step to throw his arms around Gale's midriff, stroking his fingers along the muscles back of the deer. “Look at you, you clever thing!”
“Astarion,” Gale protests, cheeks pink, as if he didn't know exactly how Astarion would respond to this and actively sought his reaction.
“My lovely wizard,” Astarion coos, unrepentant. “My beautiful cloud of netherese goo.”
That makes Gale laugh, properly.
“You do know how to flatter a man,” he teases, though his own arms have come to rest over Astarion's shoulders, his gaze fond.
“I do,” Astarion agrees. “Now take your shirt off, I want to see properly.”
“Astarion,” Gale chuckles, batting his hands away. “I'm in the middle of cooking!”
“So? You have a new form, you knew this would happen–”
“I have no intention of splattering hot sauce over my bare skin, my love.”
“Who said you'd be cooking once you took your shirt off?”
“I did, because I am hungry, you menace.”
Astarion gets his way. He usually does.