Chapter Text
On a cool Marpenoth evening in the year of 2025 DR, Astarion steps into a portal for the first time in half a century, and straight into a crowd of scantily-clad people.
Surprised shrieks ring out, to no one’s surprise. Magic is uncommon these days, dashing elven vampire spawn even less so. Astarion ducks from the screaming gaggle with murmured apologies and pushes through the group, finally coming up for air by the entrance to the stadium’s arena.
Hells.
Massive banners hang from towering walls. Familiar eyes smolder at him from beyond printed depths, though that’s as far as recognition goes. Astarion doesn’t know why he’s here—in bloody Calimport, of all places—, nor does he know what exactly he’s in for. But he does know that when an old friend calls, he’ll answer. After all, at the ripe old age of 772, he doesn’t have many of those left.
The missive had arrived a tenday ago, presented to him in the middle of the street by a silent courier. Two VIP tickets to a concert in Calimport and a scribbled invitation with instructions for portalling over. The band in question is Karsus, one of the biggest sensations in rock-and-roll. And as it turns out, Astarion happens to know their ever-so-charming frontman.
Even if they technically haven’t spoken in over a century.
He wanders the teeming mezzanines, searching blindly for… something. Is he meant to take a seat? Beyond arrival, he’s received no further instruction, and it’s starting to irk him. The stadium is packed, filled to the brim with people in warpaint, fishnet and ripped-up clothing. The smell of cigarette smoke hangs heavy enough that his eyes start to water. Barely repressing the urge to cover his nose, Astarion staggers towards a wall and right into none other than—
“Astarion.” The tiefling in front of him is familiar, though Astarion can’t quite place his finger on it. “As I live and breathe. You made it.”
Two hands come out to steady him. Astarion swats them away and squints at this strange tosser in wizarding robes. Magic is uncommon these days. These ugly, antiquated fashion abominations are even less so.
“It’s me,” the tiefling says, with exasperation. “Rolan. Remember?”
“Right!” Astarion snaps his fingers. “... not really, I’m afraid. Care to jog my memory a bit? Seven centuries of age will do that to you.”
He offers his most charming smile, but Rolan seems unimpressed. “That’s only two centuries older than I am. The Emerald Grove, 1492 DR. Reithwin again, a month later. Then Baldur’s Gate. I took over Lorroakan’s tower after you stabbed him in the arse.”
Oh, that definitely rings a bell. It all comes flooding back to Astarion. Who knew one held so much blood in their bottom? “Rolan! How have you not kicked the bucket?”
Perhaps its age, but where Astarion recalls it being wonderfully easy to rile him up then, now all Rolan does is smile wryly. “I have a very important task, see. As you might very well know.”
Astarion doesn’t, in fact, know, but Rolan gestures at one of the massive banners behind him, which is explanation enough. “Right,” he says again, nodding. “And where is this… task of yours?”
“It’s… somewhere.” Rolan glances around the stadium helplessly, then shakes his head. “I mean. He. He’s somewhere. Hopefully backstage and ready to perform.”
The latter is probably meant to be a murmured whisper of sorts, but Astarion has excellent hearing. Still, he’s grateful enough to keep his mouth shut, especially when Rolan guides him away from the sweaty crowds.
It takes a fair bit of pushing to get through the place. Someone shoves him roughly from behind and tells him to fuck off the path. Looking amused, Rolan steadies him. “What’s wrong? Scene not to your taste?”
“Stale body odour and sweat-stained polyester?” Astarion is incredulous. “What do you mean? I am perfectly at home here.”
“He guessed as much,” Rolan says wryly. “Follow me. We’ve arranged a private box for your delicate sensibilities.”
Ascending a side stairwell leads him to the uppermost mezzanine of the stadium. Entry to that ring is guarded by two hulking bodyguards. Astarion doesn’t even bother to hide his relief. It’s mercifully empty up here. He can finally breathe.
“For your lordship,” Rolan says sardonically, and Astarion holds up two fingers, even as he takes in the quiet. Now this is something he is familiar with. It’s like being at the opera, except with body odour instead of fine perfumes, and squealing fans instead of tasteful commentary. Those venues might be much smaller, but at least the queue for the bathroom doesn’t take a decade. And while this private box isn’t lined with marble and velvet, the cracked concrete is… clean. Sort of. At the very least, it has an unblocked view of the stage below.
“This is as good as it gets,” Rolan says, when Astarion eyes the ancient chairs with trepidation. “It’s an old stadium, but it’s also the only one big enough in Calimport.”
Big is an understatement. “What’s the capacity of this place?”
“Fifty thousand, give or take.” Rolan gestures for Astarion to sit down, rolling his eyes as Astarion brushes it off carefully. “Oh, just sit down, will you? You can wash any dust off your fancy suit later.”
“This is dry-clean only,” Astarion informs him, though he does eventually sit gingerly atop the creased leather. Rolan wrinkles his nose, which is rather ironic, since he is, once again, in wizarding robes.
“Who wears white to something like this? Don’t you own jeans? And a t-shirt, maybe?”
“No,” Astarion says flatly. “Denim feels like cleric-blessed water against my skin.”
Rolan shakes his head again, which reminds Astarion exactly why they never really became friends all those years ago, despite having both resided at the Last Light Inn for a while. Still, if he’s not good for rousing conversation, perhaps he can give Astarion some answers.
Irritatingly, however, a faint ringing interrupts them. Rolan picks up the call, presumably catches wind of something less than pleasant on the other end of the line, then opens his mouth. Astarion waves him away before silent apologies can roll off the tip of his tongue. It’s fine. He’s sure Rolan will be back. The man is many things—and thankfully, responsible is one of them.
For now, all he can do is observe.
Astarion sits through the ear-grating music of two different opening bands. Alongside confirmation that he despises heavy genres comes the realisation that in his 700-odd years of existence, he’s never been to a rock concert. This one might possibly turn him off for good.
Overhead, the sun has set fully. The stage has cleared out, the lights are dimming. A couple of strummed chords echo through the speakers, inciting rabid screams from the audience.
Below, the mosh pit is heaving with people, the sloped seats filled with chanting fans. It’s so loud that the floor vibrates beneath his feet. The opening acts have departed, now. The stadium is thrown into utter darkness without warning—Astarion finds himself sitting just a bit straighter.
A singular voice rings out from the darkness.
“Calimport!”
The ground trembles with reverberating bass. The familiarity of that tenor makes his hair stand on end.
“It’s so good—“
Pulsing lights begin to flicker along the stage, a ripple that seems to rile the crowd further.
“—to be back!”
The last word is punctuated with a singular guitar chord. It reverberates through the airwaves, so loud that Astarion’s ears ring. Louder still are the people around him. Fifty-thousand voices, shouting in sync. It shakes him to the core.
“It’s been too damned long—”
They are chanting. It’s a name. Not the band’s, but one that’s familiar to Astarion, one he’s uttered a thousand times before. He feels compelled to shout it too, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.
“—since we last spoke.”
The stadium floods with blinding strobe, flashing shades of violet and blue and everything in between. The speakers explode with sound. Lightning arcs through the air, crackling and illuminating the endless night sky.
“But I’ve missed you—”
Everything seems to come on at once. It leaves Astarion reeling, blinking furiously as he fights through the dizzying stimuli assaulting his senses from every direction. But then the smoke clears, unpeeling layers of dissipating grey.
“—and I hope you’ve missed me too.”
Gale stares up at him with blazing eyes, and Astarion feels his undead heart stutter to a stop.
~`~`~
This is not the man he remembers.
In theory, Astarion knows what Gale has been up to recently. It’s hard not to, especially when his old friend is nothing short of a global sensation these days. His face graces the covers of countless magazines. His voice is constantly broadcasted over the radio. Even his arse is plastered on billboards, tastefully modelling the latest from upscale underwear brands. The latter had Astarion stopping short in the middle of the street, then walking headfirst into a glass door right after.
Musician. Celebrity. Rockstar. Astarion had been very much aware, albeit in a manner most detached. He’s not interested in this genre, and he hasn’t spoken to Gale in a while either. It’s admittedly mystifying that Gale has embarked on a career path so utterly uncharacteristic of him, but Astarion had chalked it up to some sort of sixth-Clone crisis.
Seeing him in person, however, is something else entirely.
His hair runs wild, longer than it’s ever been. The tattoos adorning his bare arms are definitely new. A wide smile splits his face, sweat already dampening glistening skin. The massive screens above the stage amplifies it tenfold, from the loose tank barely clinging to his torso, to the trailing droplets that disappear beneath the lace-up front of his leather trousers.
Oh, gods. Astarion has never been this grateful that he doesn’t need to breathe.
A jaunty rhythm starts up, the band’s bassist playing in sync with the drummer behind. Astarion doesn’t recognise them, doesn’t really care to either—it’s obvious that Karsus is carried on Gale’s back alone. And judging by the way the crowd screams his name, he’s not the only one who feels that way.
“A warm welcome indeed.” Gale’s voice is breathless, mouth barely grazing the mic. “Oh, be still my beating heart!”
A dual-necked guitar hangs around his neck. He raises both palms, and two flickering mage hands come to rest atop the bottom fret. The crowd’s fervour grows in tandem with the quickening bass track. And finally, the stage comes alive.
The opening riff rings the vaguest of bells. He’s heard this song before, as one does with hugely popular music. Still, to hear it live is something else altogether. The stage is on fire. Gale burns with energy. The stadium is screaming before he even starts to sing, and when he finally does—
Reality seems to fall away beneath his feet.
Post-production can make anyone sound good. Astarion is a musician himself, he knows that very well. But with nothing between them but a humid, fall evening, each drawn breath echoing unfiltered through the mic, it’s obvious that Gale can, in fact, sing. His voice shifts between ranges, each word wrenched out with devastating ferocity, carrying through the air with enough presence to rile up the audience. They sing along in a cacophony of screams, but nothing quite drowns him out.
The first song is over, far too quickly. Gale laughs freely into the mic, shaking his hair out of his eyes. His chest heaves from effort, shirt already soaked through with sweat. The wide grin on his face, however, says it all.
He’s having a great time. And—damn it all, but so is Astarion.
“How are we feeling tonight?”
His voice is roughened as he speaks. The crowd yells out its assent. Gale pulls out a cigarette and leans slightly offstage.
“Did anyone get a lighter past security?”
Laughter rings out around him. Hands reach out from the audience, grasping blindly as he walks the perimeter of the stage. Faintly, someone shouts out their undying adoration. Another screams their need to taste his sweat. Try as he might, Astarion simply cannot reconcile this man with the buttoned-up and bookish wizard he’s known for five centuries.
“I suppose not.” Gale chuckles, then conjures a flame on the tip of his finger. “No worries. I’m nothing if not well prepared.”
He sounds the same, at least. Same eloquence, same measured cadence. Though, not once in his wildest dreams would Astarion have ever envisioned him willingly filling his lungs with poison, then blowing out smoke in a long, lazy plume.
“Now, this next song is a personal favourite.” Gale tosses the barely-burnt stick to the ground, grinds it beneath a boot. His voice goes sinfully low as he presses his lips up against the mic.
“Worship,” he breathes out, lids fluttering. “With me.”
Everything after seems to pass in a blur.
Each song flies by. The music captivates him, as does the band’s energy. Astarion finds himself leaning against the railings, as though that can somehow bring him closer to the stage. As comfortable as his seat is, he can’t help but wonder how things are like on the ground, right where Gale is.
His antics are unmatched. Gale runs about the stage, flirting with his bandmates as he croons into the mic. Each intricate riff is perfectly executed. His mage hands never falter. At some point, one of them flies from his guitar and towards the trailing laces of his trousers—with a wink, Gale swats it away.
He does it all without missing a beat, singing and playing and casting in perfect tandem. Lightning splits the air with each upbeat riff. Fire rains down onto the stage and dissipates into hot mist. Intricate illusions paint the cloudless skies above. More than mere performance, it’s art. Astarion never wants this to end.
Gale really knows how to work the crowd.
By the time the encore kicks off, he has discarded his shirt into the audience, which some lucky fan will probably frame up on a wall. He barely falters even though Astarion thinks he must be exhausted at this point. He gives it his all, hands flying masterfully over the fretboard as he sings hoarsely into the mic. The last song of the night ends on a flourish, Gale holding up his guitar with a worn smile on his face.
“Thank you, Calimport!” His voice echoes around the stadium, as do the ensuing cheers. “You have been incredible!”
The stage goes dark once more, and the crowd erupts for the last time tonight.
The applause is deafening. Astarion claps along too, shouting louder than he ever has. The world seems to have shifted on a monumental axis. His blood still thrums with adrenaline. His ears ring in an endless loop. And when Rolan bursts into the box and invites him backstage, well—
Astarion doesn’t even think to say no.
~`~`~
His heart pounds as he’s led through the harshly lit hallways, Rolan nodding amicably at the people that pass them by. Astarion hears Gale before he sees him.
“Great show,” Gale is saying, presumably to the crew. “Immaculate work. Well done, all of you.”
Rounding a corner, Gale’s face lights up as he spots them. He’s a veritable mess; there’s no other way to describe it. Eyeliner runs down his face, sweat covers his flushed skin. His hair has been pinned into a haphazard bun, but even that doesn’t do much to maintain order. The cluttered hallways part as he makes his way through, some people patting him on the shoulder as he ambles past.
And though Gale takes it all in stride, his eyes remain fixed firmly on where Astarion is standing.
“Astarion!” He clears his throat as his voice cracks, presumably from overuse. “You made it.”
It’s all even more unnerving up close. “You called,” Astarion tells him, hoping he doesn’t sound as graceless as he feels. “Of course I’ll answer.”
“And I you,” Gale says warmly, stepping just a bit closer. He smells of sweat and static, that lingering scent of ozone that usually comes with magic. Astarion can’t help but go in for a hug, even if it will almost definitely ruin his clothing.
“It’s good to see you again,” he says. Gale is warm, so warm that he doesn’t want to let go. He also is in dire need of a wash, but Astarion decides against voicing that. The man has, after all, been on stage for over two hours.
“Follow me.” Gale is the first to pull away, leading him down another hallway and into an empty dressing room. A leather couch occupies one end, a dressing table the other. Guitar carrying cases and racks of clothing lie scattered around the space. Gale winks at him, then closes the door. “Away from any prying eyes and ears.”
“Planning something nefarious?” Astarion asks dryly. Gale laughs at this, easy and loose.
“If only. Alas, I don’t quite possess the luxury of privacy these days. As you might very well know.”
He laughs again, this time somewhat self-deprecatingly. And honestly, Astarion… doesn’t know. Keeping up with what Gale does isn’t high on his priority list. Admittedly—that much might change today.
“Of course,” Astarion says anyway, and it seems to suffice. Inside, he watches as Gale downs a bottle of water, then uncaps another and empties it over his head. Astarion is too busy trying not to gawk to realise that he’s now been offered a third.
“No thanks,” he says, because even if Gale makes his mouth go dry, he’s a damned vampire. Shrugging, Gale tosses it onto the couch.
“Did you enjoy the show?”
“It was… different,” Astarion admits. “But I did, actually. You were phenomenal up there.”
Gale looks smug. “I know. I was the one who asked Rolan to invite you.”
“About that.” The room is untidy enough that Astarion doesn’t know where to sit. In the end, he settles for perching on the armrest of the couch. “Why am I here, exactly?”
“Oh, there’s time for that later. Why not catch up a bit? Ruminate on old times?” Gale looks at him hopefully. “No?”
“I’m not patient enough for that,” Astarion tells him, and Gale smiles wryly.
“Fair enough. I’ll make it quick.” He leans against the dressing table, arms folded with weary acceptance. “Off like a band-aid, one might say. I require assistance. Simply put, my work has… stagnated, as of late. Rolan suggested seeking out some form of rejuvenation, and well. You came to mind.”
It’s flattering that Gale thought of him, more so that he’s even aware of what Astarion is up to these days, but Astarion sees a glaring issue. “Darling. You do know what I do, don’t you?”
“Of course. You’re a highly accomplished pianist and composer.”
“Classical composition,” Astarion emphasises. “Markedly different from hard rock.”
“You’d be surprised at the similarities they share,” Gale offers, clearly unfazed. “Besides, composition knows no bounds. This could be as stimulating for you as it would be for me.” Still, Astarion’s doubt must be evident, because Gale adds, “And I’ll reimburse you for your time, of course. Any price; you only need to name it.”
It’s a moot offer. Astarion already knows he will agree to all this. He doesn’t even intend to take Gale’s coin in return.
“All this could have been a letter or a phone call, you know,” Astarion tells him anyway, and Gale’s smile only widens.
“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?”
He can’t fault that. And it is nice that Gale has invited him out here tonight, has asked him to his face. It’s quite thoughtful of him, honestly. Still—something tells Astarion that’s not all there is to it.
“You wanted to show off, didn’t you?” Astarion says, but it’s all affectionate, because they’ve been friends for centuries at this point, and if that doesn’t warrant a bit of ribbing, he doesn’t know what will.
“You were at the concert yourself.” Gale says, looking sly. “Wouldn’t you too, if you were me?”
Arrogant bastard. Astarion hates how much he likes it.
“I don’t know.” He inspects his nails with exaggerated boredom. “I’ve seen better, honestly.”
Gale clutches his chest. “Straight to the heart, I see. You do know how to wound a man.” Still, he’s smiling as he says this, which makes Astarion smile back, until they’re both grinning at each other like utter idiots. “Oh, Astarion. I’ve missed you greatly.”
“I can’t say I feel the same about you,” Astarion sighs, and Gale only laughs harder. “You don’t need to butter me up. I’ll help you.”
“Will you?” For a man with endless resources at his fingertips, Gale really shouldn’t be looking so relieved. “Oh, that’s fantastic! We have much to discuss, of course—”
“At another time.” The door flies open, Rolan sticking his head into the room. “Gale, meet-and-greet. Chop chop, let’s go.”
“Already?” Gale looks dismayed. “But Astarion only just got here.”
He sounds a bit petulant about this, which is also a new development to Astarion, though judging by the way Rolan takes it in stride, it seems he’s been this way for a while now.
“Yes.” Rolan doesn’t budge. “You can flirt with your vampire later. Right now, you have sweaty hands to shake and bare chests to sign.”
They weren’t flirting, but at this age, Astarion doesn’t care enough to correct him. It’s no sweat off his back if people want to assume he’s pulled a rockstar. “Go on. We can talk after.”
“I’d love to,” Gale says warmly, right as Rolan interjects with, “He has an interview to run for after. Calimshan Quarterly, to be exact.”
Gods, Astarion wants to lean forward and give Rolan a rough shake.
“You can have five minutes,” Rolan relents, when Gale’s face falls visibly. His eyes soften a bit before his tone goes sharp once more. “But no more than that.”
“Fine, fine.” Gale waves him off, then springs up and locks the door behind his departing… friend? Manager? Astarion assumes it's a mix of both. Suddenly, in the stark lighting of this ancient dressing room, Gale looks very, very tired.
“No rest for the wicked, it seems,” he sighs. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We can continue this conversation at a later date. Perhaps over dinner? I would very much like to catch up with you. It’s been far too long.”
“I already agreed to help you. You don’t have to wine and dine me.”
“As I’m well aware, but…” Gale looks away, and suddenly, Astarion is finally reminded of the bumbling, semi-charming fool that he’s grown to know and adore for so many years. “You’re my friend.”
This, Astarion understands. He himself doesn’t have many of those he can fully trust. Gale is perhaps one of the only few.
“Only your friend?”
He can tell the moment his insinuation lands. “Astarion.”
“What?” Astarion holds up both hands defensively. “You have five minutes. Don’t act coy with me, now.”
Something in Gale’s eyes darkens. “Let me use my mouth, and we’ll only need one.”
Now this is definitely familiar.
On-and-off, throughout the years. Astarion can’t count the numbers of times they’ve fucked, but it’s enough to convince him that Gale has always been one of the best partners he’s shared a bed with. And a couch. Sometimes, the library. Once, in a bathroom stall in a tavern in Waterdeep, and another, in Gale’s office, back when he taught at Blackstaff. Now, Astarion can think of one more location to add to that list.
It’s easy. Convenient. It started on the road to Baldur’s Gate, and never quite ended. They don’t always do it when they meet —sometimes, either one of them happens to be in a relationship, or perhaps the mood simply isn’t right— but it has happened frequently enough to become routine at this point. It’s sex, casual and comfortable. It works for them both.
“Not after the number of cigarettes you’ve shoved in there today,” Astarion tells him, and Gale huffs a bit, looking insulted, though he grabs Astarion by the tie and crushes their mouths together.
Gale tastes terrible. Of stale nicotine, covered up poorly with spearmint and acidic coffee. Astarion can’t help but lean into it.
“But you will kiss me,” Gale demands roughly, then hoists himself up onto the dressing room table. They’re doing it like this, it seems.
They lose half a minute unlacing Gale’s stupid leather pants, then another half trying to inch them off his legs. Astarion doesn’t wait before he’s spitting on two fingers and shoving them up Gale carelessly. Judging by the way Gale’s cock jerks between them, he’s into it.
Interesting.
“Hurry,” Gale urges. “Two and a half minutes to go.”
It’s not always gentle between them, but it’s usually somewhat civilised. Gale is made for fine pillows and silken sheets, which Astarion tries to abide by. But in this musty old room, with his eyeliner still running and his hair a tangled mess, it somehow feels right to grab him by the hair and pull their lips together, finger-fucking him quick and dirty.
People change, after all. And Gale, though obviously still the same person, seems markedly different somehow.
“Go on.” Gale arches a little, eyes sliding shut in pleasure. “I’m ready.”
Astarion’s cock aches as he draws it out. It’s so hot that he’s sweating, but undressing himself is too much effort. His suit is ruined, anyway. Gale is so damned filthy that proximity enough suffices.
A quick rummage in his suit pocket with his free hand comes up empty. Shit. He knew he forgot something.
“Condom?”
“Don’t have one,” Gale moans, swearing softly as Astarion crooks his fingers. “Don’t care.”
This is irresponsible. Because it won’t be the first time they’ve done it without protection, but Gale is… different. Seems different. Astarion doesn’t know where exactly he has been, or what’s been inside him. Doesn’t know if he’s even clean, or if this is about to become the worst damned mistake of his life. He’s undead, not infallible. Modern day disease is terrible. And healing spells don’t quite exist any longer.
But the alternative is walking away, from the fogging wall of mirrors in front of him, from the way Gale writhes so exquisitely around him. He catches his own reflection in the glass, pupils black with lust, and just like that, Astarion knows he can’t say no.
“Fuck it,” he whispers, and throws Gale onto the couch.
Gale goes startlingly easy, flailing slightly as he’s tugged off the dressing table, then collapsing into the leather with his legs spread. He takes it in stride, tugging at his exposed prick with a cocky grin and without an inch of shame—at least, until Astarion spreads his thighs wide and slides home without pause.
“Ah—“ Gale winces. “Oh, that’s—“
“Too rough?” Astarion makes to pull out slowly, but then Gale shakes his head, crossing his ankles behind Astarion’s back as he struggles to open up around the cock inside him.
“If I don’t walk away with bruises,” Gale tells him. “We’re never doing this again.”
And Astarion laughs at this, because he’s never heard a lie so blatant before. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” he says, cradling Gale’s cheek. “We both know this isn’t the last time we do this.”
Then he spits on Gale’s cock and begins to fuck him.
It’s different, too, the way he takes Astarion. There’s more desperation, a certain wildness that’s always been there, hovering in the periphery of his fine upbringing.
Astarion sees bits of this same wildness in this version of Gale too, the edges and ridges that this lifestyle has carved into him. It’s far less restrained, now, unabashed and unashamed. And Gale isn’t vanilla, Astarion knows that much, but there’s always been a certain decorum to his countenance that holds him back from more. A wall, of sorts.
“Tell me how it feels,” he says, slowing, and Gale exhales shakily.
“Dammit, Astarion.” He bears down, already touching himself messily. “Hells. You know I’ve missed this. Now—gods, ah—hurry, I need to bloody come—”
As though on cue, someone pounds at the door. Astarion glances up. “Gale, the—”
“Locked.” He barely falters. “Don’t care if it isn’t.”
That wall seems to have shattered, now.
“Gale! I said five minutes!”
“Ignore him.” Gale’s breathless now, eyes rolling back beneath kohl-stained eyelids. “Harder, don’t you d-dare stop—”
“Gale!”
“In a—ah, t-there—minute!” To Astarion, he leans in closer, “That’s how l-long you have to make me—oh, yes—come.”
He punctuates it with rising hips, as though he can somehow coax Astarion deeper inside him. Sweat drips down his forehead, soaking the fabric of Astarion’s rumpled jacket, gleaming against the matted hair on his stomach. His cock slaps roughly against his belly with each thrust, hard and pink and oh-so-pretty. There’s a tattoo right above his base. It says ‘WORSHIP’.
Astarion flicks it. “Demanding, are we?”
“That’s my s-song,” Gale groans, breathless in his rapture, “You—oh—pillock.”
Astarion strokes him messily. “So I shouldn’t touch you?”
“Fuck,” Gale exhales, arching into his touch, and the unexpected expletive is enough to shock Astarion to the edge, his orgasm taking him by surprise as he spends himself deep inside Gale with a strangled cry. It’s swallowed once more, by that obscene mouth that reeks of cigarettes, that infuriating smile that he knows he’ll come back for. Gale gasps in shock, reaching down to feel where they’re joined, where Astarion is already leaking out, and Rolan bangs his fist on the door once more.
“Gale! Are you coming or—“
“Coming,” Gale shouts back, then shudders exquisitely, spilling over that ridiculous tattoo as a wail slips free from bitten lips. The force of it slackens him, hair falling in tangles like a messy curtain, forehead knocking harshly into Astarion’s shoulder. Gale pants against his skin as he rides it out, then cries lowly as Astarion bites his neck.
“Please,” he moans.
Gale’s blood is bitter, tinged with an odd flavour. It’s not entirely unpleasant, but unlike anything he’s ever had—herbal, almost. Astarion doesn’t drink as deeply, still sated from his last meal, but it’s enough for Gale to shiver, little gasps of pleasure slipping free as he leans into the bite. It’s a treat for Astarion, too. He can’t recall the last time he drank from anything but a prepackaged blood bag.
Barely has Gale come down does he slide off promptly, eyelids fluttering as spend leaks out from between his thighs. His knees buckle beneath him; stubborn, Gale grabs at the sofa to steady his trembling legs.
“Gale.” Astarion scrambles up. “Are you alright?“
Gale waves him off. “And to think we could have been doing it like that for five centuries.”
“Better late than never,” is all Astarion can respond, and Gale laughs, pinking up slightly as the movement makes more come puddle beneath him. Astarion winces in sympathy. “Do you need help with cleani—oh.”
Gale is already pulling his pants back on, laces loosely done up over his soaked, spent cock. Astarion can only watch, open mouthed, as Gale ambles towards the door, somehow with a swagger in his step despite the newly acquired limp to his gait.
“I’m quite alright,” he says.
Nothing can really be seen through the leather, but the knowledge that Gale is still dripping with him, is blatantly walking out that way… hells. Astarion is appalled at himself. Something so uncouth really should not be so attractive.
“Naughty pup,” Astarion says eventually, but even that sounds flat to his own ears. At some point, he’ll accustom himself to this new version of his oldest friend. That day, unfortunately, is not today.
“Just a little something to remember this by.” Gale winks at him, a vision of unfiltered debauchery. Two fingers come up to press the wound on his neck, already scabbing over. “At least, until we meet again.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Astarion tells him. And though Rolan looks as though he’s contemplating throttling the both of them when Gale finally pulls open the door, a stagehand chases him down as he’s leaving the stadium, and presents him with another message.
This time, all that’s written is an address, portal instructions, and a wonky black heart in crumbling eyeliner. Infuriatingly, it puts Astarion in an embarrassingly chipper mood for the next few days.