Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gale watched the pale elf as he sat uncharacteristically slumped by his tent. Astarion, always so poised, now looked undone—his usual effortless grace lost to exhaustion. His breath came in unsteady heaves, his arms draped over his knees as if even holding himself upright was too much effort.

It was to be expected. The Shadow-Cursed lands were merciless, leeching the very essence from all who wandered too long beneath their eerie gloom. But for Astarion, there was another, more pressing issue. What could he possibly feed on out here? Flora and fauna shriveled to nothing, and the few scattered souls who roamed these lands would never trust a vampire spawn lurking in the dark.

Gale exhaled slowly, resigned before he'd even made his decision. He approached, boots pressing into the brittle dirt, and the sound alone made Astarion shift, though he lacked the energy to sit up properly.

“If you're here to invite me to go stargazing,” Astarion muttered without lifting his head, “I’m not interested.” His voice still held its usual dramatic cadence, but there was no real bite to it—just exhaustion hidden beneath feigned indifference.

Gale crossed his arms. “When was the last time you fed, Astarion?”

That earned him a reaction. Astarion’s lips quirked into something resembling a smirk, though the movement took effort. “You offering me a nibble?” he asked, letting out a weak chuckle that cost him more strength than it was worth. His head dipped lower, as if the laugh had stolen what little was left of him.

Gale frowned. He had seen the elf wounded before, but this was different. It wasn't pain—it was depletion. A fire burning to embers.

“We need you at your full potential out there,” Gale reasoned, his tone measured.

That, at last, made Astarion peer up at him through pale lashes. The smirk remained, but there was something beneath it now—something wary, maybe even hopeful.

“It isn’t the worst idea,” Gale added, watching as those crimson eyes studied him.

“You’re serious?” Astarion asked, his voice threading between amusement and disbelief. His posture straightened slightly, a flicker of life returning to him as he searched Gale’s face for any sign of jest.

Gale held his ground. “As the plague.”

Astarion hummed, tilting his head back fully to look at him. The exhaustion was still there, but so was the flicker of something else—curiosity, anticipation, a hunger that wasn’t just physical. “I have wondered, you know,” he mused, the playfulness creeping back into his voice.

Gale’s brow furrowed. “Wondered what?”

“What you’d taste like,” Astarion said, his smirk sharpening just a little.

Gale’s breath hitched, and he instinctively ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he cursed himself for the moment it happened. “And what, exactly, do you think I would taste like?” he asked, hating the way his voice betrayed him—too casual, too intrigued.

Astarion hummed, rolling his head lazily to glance at the night sky as though contemplating. “Refined,” he mused. “Well-aged, like brandy or fine wine.”

Gale scoffed, folding his arms again in some flimsy attempt to shield himself from the sudden shift in atmosphere. “That’s an odd way to say ‘bitter.’”

Astarion grinned, teeth gleaming in the dim firelight. “You said it, darling.”

Gale sighed, already regretting everything. "Can you stomach it, for tonight?"

"Oh," Astarion started, making a dramatic show of shifting his weight as if to stand.

But the act crumbled as soon as he tried. His legs faltered beneath him, and for the briefest moment, his sharp, practiced elegance slipped—just enough to betray his weakness. Gale, ever the gentleman, reached out instinctively, fingers brushing the cool air between them before Astarion swatted his hand away with a hasty flick of his wrist.

"I'm quite fine, thank you," the elf muttered, as if sheer insistence could will the strength back into his limbs.

Gale arched a brow, unconvinced. "I have no doubt you are," he said smoothly, keeping his hand hovering just in case. "But I'm here nonetheless."

Astarion let out a breath that might have been a laugh, might have been frustration. "About that," he said, still catching his breath, "do you mind if we do this in my tent? I'm sure you'd be more comfortable in yours, but..." He waved a limp hand in the vague direction of camp, his usual flourish dulled by exhaustion. "It's so far away."

Gale hummed in thought, eyeing the elf’s tent, then him. "I'm sure your tent is no stranger to spilled blood," he mused. "Perhaps here is best anyway."

Astarion gasped in mock horror, a hand pressed to his chest. "I'm insulted. To think I would waste a single drop."

His performance was almost convincing, but the slight shake in his frame gave him away. When he extended a hand toward Gale—palm up, fingers curled ever so slightly in invitation—the wizard merely glanced at it before brushing past him, stepping into the tent without so much as a second thought.

Astarion huffed, trailing behind. "Well, that’s terribly rude of you."

Gale settled himself against a large cushion, watching as Astarion followed, though his steps were unsteady. The tent was dim, lit only by the glow of campfires seeping through the fabric, casting wavering shadows across the canvas. The air inside carried Astarion’s scent—something cool, like the crisp bite of the night air, layered with a faint trace of lavender and something richer beneath.

When Astarion finally stumbled inside, he took one look at Gale—his usual wit rekindled in his crimson eyes—and chuckled.

"You'll want to lay down," he murmured, voice smoother now, a return to his element.

Gale inhaled deeply, willing his nerves to steady. The whole thing was absurd, and yet here he was, offering himself up like a goblet of fine vintage. He pushed himself forward, adjusting, until his back met the cushion fully.

Completely surrendering himself to Astarion.

The elf hovered above him now, gaze flickering between Gale’s throat and his face, tracing every minute reaction. The moment stretched—thick with unspoken words, with the weight of this gesture.

Then, with deliberate slowness, Astarion leaned in.

Gale winced as Astarion’s fangs pierced his neck, a sharp, sudden sting like a shard of ice slicing into his skin. The pain was quick but deep, sending a shudder through him as the first pull of his blood left him dizzy. He forced himself to remain still, muscles tensed, resisting the instinct to flinch or pull away. The sensation was strange—intense, almost electric, as if something inside him was unraveling with every beat of his heart.

His breath hitched. A tingling warmth spread through his limbs, trailing down his spine like the remnants of a spell not yet fully cast. There was something oddly intimate about it—the weight of Astarion’s body hovering over his, the cool press of his fingers against Gale’s shoulder for balance, the way his lips parted just slightly around the wound—

And then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over.

Astarion wrenched himself away, gagging dramatically. His body heaved, his hand clutching his stomach as if the act of swallowing was its own kind of torment.

“That was horrid,” Astarion gasped between retches, his whole frame recoiling. Despite his suffering, he was still clearly fighting to keep the blood down—ever the perfectionist, unwilling to waste a single drop, no matter how vile. He let out a sharp hiss, fingers gripping at the fabric of his shirt as he forced himself to swallow.

Only then did he finally dare to look at Gale again, his expression caught between disgust and mild betrayal. “What in the hells is wrong with your blood? It tastes like bile.”

If it were any other time, Gale would’ve been mortified. The realization that he tasted awful—whether due to the Weave’s corruption inside him or some other arcane misfortune—was bad enough. But worse still was the thought that Astarion, lips so recently against his skin, now recoiled from him with such revulsion.

Gale swallowed hard, raising a hand to his neck. His fingertips brushed over the fresh puncture wounds, still pulsing with a dull sting, still slick with the memory of Astarion’s mouth against him. He should have been focused on the aftermath—the pain, the potential ramifications of his tainted blood—but instead, his mind fixated on that fleeting sensation.

On how badly he wanted to feel it again.

Perhaps he was just lightheaded.

Yes. That had to be it.

Surely.

Chapter Text

“I know this sounds weird…”

“I just don't think you understand the spell, Gale.” Halsin's deep voice was laced with amusement, though his hazel eyes remained patient. “You're not exactly food or drink.”

Gale let out a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I understand the spell, Halsin.”

The large elf studied him for a moment, then smirked, gaze flickering downward briefly before returning to Gale’s face. “Oh, I see.”

“Not like that!” Gale snapped, voice an octave higher than he’d meant it to be. A few of their companions turned their heads at his outburst, eyebrows raised in interest. He stiffened under their curious stares, wishing the ground would simply swallow him whole.

Halsin chuckled, clapping a reassuring hand on Gale’s shoulder. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, my friend.” His tone was light, but his eyes held an unmistakable glint of mischief. “I may have seen you slip into a certain elf’s tent the other night.”

Heat surged up Gale’s neck in a mortifying rush. He didn't know what was worse—the fact that Halsin, and likely half the camp, had noticed his late-night visit, or that they all undoubtedly had the wrong idea about what had transpired.

And the worst part? How quickly the previous encounter had ended.

“It’s… worth a shot,” Gale muttered, too defeated to argue against the implication. He sighed, forcing himself to meet Halsin’s knowing gaze. “If you would be willing?”

Halsin’s expression softened into something almost sympathetic. “I am not one to judge,” he said warmly, placing a broad hand against Gale’s chest. A soft glow emanated from his palm as he spoke the incantation, the magic thrumming gently through Gale’s body.

“I, of all people, can understand the allure of dark-dwelling elves,” Halsin added with a wink.

Gale could do nothing but swallow his groan of frustration. He could feel the eyes of their campmates lingering on him, judging him as he turned and made his way—once again—to Astarion’s tent. He was certain it looked scandalous, and at this point, he was too tired to care.

He lifted the tent flap and stepped inside. Astarion was draped across his dark red cushions, his pale chest stark against the deep hues surrounding him. The dim light of the lanterns cast soft shadows over the defined lines of his collarbone, the faint rise and fall of his chest deceptively human.

Gale hesitated. He hadn’t expected to hesitate, but the sight of Astarion laid out so effortlessly, the air of relaxed indifference he carried, left him momentarily at a loss for words.

“I’m not wasting away, darling, if that’s your concern.” Astarion’s voice was smooth, rich with its usual drawl, though his eyes remained closed. “I’ve gone far longer with a single drop to sustain me.”

Gale blinked rapidly, willing himself out of whatever spell the sight of Astarion had put him under. His voice came out awkwardly stiff, betraying his flustered state. “Wouldn’t you rather feel… satisfied?”

Astarion’s lips curled into a wicked smile, his fangs glinting in the dim light. Slowly, he cracked open one crimson eye, fixing Gale with a knowing look.

“Now that is quite the offer,” he purred. “I had no idea you had an appetite for anything other than your precious Weave.”

Why did everyone think that was what he was implying?

“No…” Gale cleared his throat, trying to compose himself, but the warmth creeping up his neck betrayed him. “No. I mean, I—”

Astarion arched a delicate brow, the corners of his mouth twitching with growing amusement. “As entertaining as this is, dear, do get to the point.”

Gale exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus. “Druids have a way of purifying food… or drink so it’s safe to be consumed,” he explained, watching as the vampire’s smirk faltered slightly. That was enough to make Astarion push himself up onto his elbows, his sharp gaze locking onto Gale’s face with renewed interest.

“You had Halsin cast it on you?” Astarion’s voice was quieter now, his teasing lilt giving way to something more measured, more careful.

Gale nodded. “I thought… it might help.”

For a moment, Astarion simply stared at him, crimson eyes unreadable in the dim light. His expression, usually so guarded beneath layers of wit and arrogance, softened ever so slightly as he took in the gesture.

“Why would you go to the trouble?” His voice lacked its usual playfulness, edged instead with quiet curiosity.

Gale swallowed. He should have had a ready answer, something glib or self-effacing, a quick deflection to lighten the moment. But as Astarion held his gaze, searching for a reason beyond what was so glaringly obvious, Gale found himself at a loss.

To undercut this moment would be an insult to them both.

And yet, the truth— that he wanted to do this for Astarion, that he wanted to be something more than a burden, more than a meal gone sour— felt too exposing, too raw to admit outright.

So instead, he shrugged. “An apology for last night,” he said simply. “It may not have worked at all, so don't get too excited.”

Astarion tilted his head, watching him carefully before letting out a small huff of amusement. “Oh, I do love a grand gesture.”

Gale extended his wrist toward him, feeling the slight tremor in his own fingers. Astarion hesitated only a moment before reaching out, his own hand cool against Gale’s skin as he drew his arm closer.

But instead of fangs, Gale felt the feather-light press of lips against his wrist.

His breath hitched.

He glanced down, startled, as Astarion lingered there for a heartbeat too long, his mouth barely brushing against his pulse. The gesture was so delicate— utterly at odds with the sharp, ruthless bite Gale had braced himself for.

Astarion’s lips moved against his skin as he murmured, “Thank you.” His breath was cold, but it sent a wave of warmth curling up Gale’s spine. “Even if it doesn’t work.”

Gale barely had time to process the words before Astarion’s mouth finally closed over his wrist. His teeth grazed against sensitive skin, lingering just enough to send a thrill of anticipation through him— before fangs pierced deep.

The pain was sharp, immediate, but not the same as before. There was something more measured in Astarion’s approach this time, a deliberate savoring of the experience.

Gale’s breath caught, his body tensing as a small, utterly humiliating yelp escaped him. He slapped a hand over his mouth, mortified by the sound, but Astarion didn’t seem to mind. If anything, his grip tightened slightly, holding Gale’s arm steady as he drank.

The slow, rhythmic pull of blood sent a strange, heady warmth curling through Gale’s limbs, tingling at the edges of his awareness. He tried to focus on the sensation— the subtle movement of Astarion’s throat as he swallowed, the cool press of his fingers bracing against his wrist— but the world was already starting to tilt.

That’s when it hit him.

The dizziness.

It rolled over him like a wave, his body suddenly feeling far too light, his thoughts slipping from his grasp like water through open fingers. He gasped softly, blinking hard to fight the haze creeping into his vision.

Astarion did not let go.

And despite the lightness in his head, Gale wasn’t entirely sure he wanted him to.

Astarion pulled back suddenly, his breath ragged as if stopping had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed. His lips were still parted, fangs faintly visible between them, a hint of crimson staining his mouth. He looked… dazed—or perhaps sated—his pupils blown wide as he exhaled unsteadily.

Gale swallowed thickly, his own pulse roaring in his ears, dizzy from more than just the loss of blood. The feeling of Astarion’s mouth leaving his skin left behind an aching absence, like a phantom touch he could still feel long after it was gone.

A single drop of blood, dark against his pale skin, trailed lazily up his forearm. Gale lifted his free hand instinctively, intending to wipe it away—

But Astarion caught his wrist again.

The grip was firm but not rough, a silent insistence rather than force. Before Gale could protest or even ask why, Astarion dipped his head once more, lowering his mouth to his arm.

Without hesitation, without warning, Astarion’s tongue flicked out, tracing a slow, deliberate path along Gale’s skin, following the crimson trail from wrist to elbow.

Gale inhaled sharply, his entire body going rigid.

It was not the same as the bite. The bite had been need—sharp, sudden, visceral. This… this was something else. It was measured, languid, purposeful. He felt every flicker of Astarion’s tongue, every warm drag of breath against his arm as the vampire carefully lapped up every remaining trace of blood.

Astarion's fingers tightened around Gale’s wrist, thumb brushing idly against his pulse point, a silent shh that sent something traitorous coiling in his gut.

By the time Astarion finally lifted his gaze, his expression was unreadable. There was no teasing smirk, no sharp quip ready to fall from his lips. Only a quiet satisfaction gleamed in his red eyes, something dark and unreadable lingering just beneath the surface.

He released Gale’s arm with an almost lazy finality, letting his fingers drag lightly along his wrist before pulling away completely.

“Much better,” Astarion murmured, voice still husky from the act.

Gale didn’t trust himself to speak.

His skin still burned where Astarion had touched him, where his mouth had been, where his tongue had—

He needed air.

And yet, he remained rooted in place, staring at Astarion like a man who had just glimpsed something he was not meant to see. Or perhaps something he desperately wanted to understand.

Astarion, as always, only smirked.

“Well,” the vampire drawled, reclining back into his nest of cushions as though none of this had just happened. “I must say, purified or not, you taste far more tolerable tonight.”

Gale exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to compose himself. “Glad to be of service,” he muttered, though the words held little conviction.

Astarion’s smirk widened, but he said nothing more.

Gale didn’t move, didn’t dare move, afraid that if he did, his legs might not hold him.

Because the dizziness had long since faded.

And yet, the feeling of Astarion’s tongue on his skin remained.

Lingering.

Unshakable.

Chapter Text

It had kept Gale awake for hours.

He had expected exhaustion to claim him swiftly—his body weakened from the blood loss, the familiar weight of sacrifice pressing down on him like a leaden shroud. And yet, sleep refused to take him. Instead, his mind circled the memory over and over again, chasing the phantom sensation that refused to fade.

The way Astarion’s tongue had glided over his skin.

Gale lay on his back, staring up at the sloping fabric of his tent, barely visible in the dim light of his flickering mage-hand lantern. The space was small but comfortable, a careful balance of necessity and indulgence—a bedroll layered with an extra blanket, a stack of tomes piled neatly beside his pack, a small enchanted orb hovering lazily near the entrance to keep out the night chill. Usually, he found solace in the quiet, in the gentle rustle of wind against canvas.

Tonight, however, silence was his torment.

His fingers trailed absently over his arm, tracing the place where Astarion’s tongue had been—where cold lips had pressed, where fangs had punctured, where breath had ghosted against his skin. The wound was long healed, sealed with a simple spell before he had even left Astarion’s tent.

And yet, the feeling remained.

A shiver ran through him, unbidden, as his thoughts spiraled. He had faced magic beyond mortal comprehension, wielded the power of the Weave itself, and yet this—a kiss, a bite, a whispered "thank you"—had unraveled him more thoroughly than any arcane force ever had.

It was maddening.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, trying to will his mind to focus on anything else. But the memory clawed its way back, relentless. The slow, deliberate drag of Astarion’s tongue, the way he had held Gale’s wrist so firmly, the satisfaction in his voice afterward.

Gale swallowed hard.

He had felt his own heart pick up in those moments, the rush of blood not from fear, not from the bite itself, but from something far more dangerous.

Desire.

He bolted upright, rubbing his hands over his face. No. No. This was absurd. Astarion was a vampire, and feeding was feeding, nothing more. It wasn’t a romantic entanglement, wasn’t seduction. It was need—practical, transactional.

And yet.

Gale exhaled sharply, curling his fingers into his blanket as he slumped forward.

He knew himself well enough to recognize an obsession when it took root. And Astarion? Astarion had just dug his claws in deep.

Sleep would not come for him tonight. Not when every time he closed his eyes, he felt the ghost of fangs against his skin.

Astarion reclined against the velvet cushions of his tent, his fingers idly tracing the edge of his bedroll as he stared at the canvas ceiling above him. The night should have left him feeling restless—hunger usually did—but for the first time in what felt like ages, there was a lingering satisfaction coiled in his chest.

Gale’s blood still sat thick on his tongue, the memory of its taste refusing to fade.

It had been awful, at first. That same acrid sharpness, the bitterness of something wrong deep in his veins. The way it had curdled in his mouth made him recoil—but only for a moment.

Because beneath that sourness, beneath the corruption that tainted every drop, there was something else. Something rich and intoxicating, something that sank into him like a slow, creeping warmth.

Astarion ran his tongue over his teeth, as if he could coax more of that sensation back. It had been just what he needed—more than mere sustenance, more than the weak, diluted meals he had been surviving on. Even tainted as it was, Gale’s blood had done something to him.

The hunger still burned within him, but it no longer clawed at his ribs with that same relentless, gnawing ache. He felt full. Stronger. Sharper.

And it wasn't just the blood itself.

Astarion tilted his head, lips curling as he thought of the way Gale had offered himself—hesitant but willing. No bargaining, no coercion, no desperate pleading for him to stop. He had chosen to do this, had gone out of his way to fix himself for Astarion’s sake.

That was… new.

He let out a soft chuckle, barely more than an exhale. “Foolish little wizard.”

He found his thoughts continually flitting back to Gale.

The way he had gasped at the bite, the way his pulse had jumped beneath Astarion’s lips. The way his fingers had tightened against his own arm, as though he were trying to ground himself against something dangerously pleasurable.

Astarion had felt it. The way the wizard had leaned in rather than recoiled. The way he had wanted it.

A slow, satisfied smirk stretched across Astarion’s lips.

He had felt Gale’s heart racing, and he was almost certain it wasn’t just from the blood loss.

The thought was enough to make Astarion rise, leave his tent, and stride over to Gale’s. The camp was silent, save for the occasional crackle of the dying embers from the main fire. The cool night air brushed against his skin as he moved, the distant sounds of nocturnal creatures rustling in the underbrush barely registering in his mind. He lifted the tent flap without hesitation, stepping inside.

He wasn’t surprised to find Gale awake.

The wizard sat upright, his silhouette outlined faintly by the soft glow of a nearby lantern. His tent was orderly in the way one might expect from a scholar—books stacked neatly beside his bedroll, vials and trinkets carefully arranged, his robes folded rather than discarded haphazardly. It smelled faintly of parchment and something herbal, like dried thyme or lavender.

“Astarion?” Gale’s voice carried a note of confusion, his brows knitting together as he took in the sight of the vampire spawn standing at his entrance.

Astarion arched a brow, already stepping further inside. “I’m sure you don’t mind,” he said nonchalantly, settling himself across from the startled wizard as if he belonged there.

In truth, he hadn’t quite thought this through. He had intended to come with purpose—something sincere, something honest. But now, sitting before Gale, the weight of his own reasoning felt lighter, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

“Is there something on your mind, Astarion?”

He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before his lips curled into an easy smirk. “I’m not quite full, you know.”

Gale blinked at him, his expression shifting from uncertainty to exasperation in an instant. “And you thought I had more blood on offer, is that it?”

“Well,” Astarion hummed, tilting his head. “You can heal yourself so… don’t you?”

Gale shifted where he sat, crossing his arms. “I may have been able to heal the effects as soon as it was over.”

“Well, see.” Astarion gestured vaguely, as though his point was already proven. “You’re basically a banquet.”

Gale’s face flushed, a reaction that Astarion caught with no small amount of amusement. His smirk deepened.

It was well into the night, the kind of deep darkness where even the most restless of their companions had long since drifted into slumber. But for those who weren’t asleep… how would this look? Two nights now, Gale had gone to Astarion. And now, Astarion had come to him. What conclusions would the others draw from this quiet exchange in the dead of night? Would they assume something lurid?

Would that be more or less humiliating than the truth?

Did Gale even know what the truth was anymore?

“However,” Astarion began, pulling him from his thoughts. “There’s still one slight issue.”

“Issue?” Gale repeated, skepticism creeping into his voice.

“You still taste… bad.”

Gale’s shoulders sagged, and he let out a long, weary sigh. “I thought the spell had worked.”

“Oh, it did.” Astarion waved a hand. “Whatever foul corruption runs through your veins no longer poisons me. Which, let me tell you, is a marked improvement from last time.” He leaned in slightly, watching as Gale shifted under his scrutiny. “But the taste? Still rather poor. Not completely offensive—I’ve had worse rats.”

“Thanks,” Gale muttered dryly.

Astarion leaned back, crossing his arms. “You’re a wizard, Gale. Surely you have something in that vast arsenal of spells to make your blood more palatable?”

Gale huffed, rubbing his temple. “I do know a cantrip that can imbue a different flavor to food…”

Astarion’s eyes gleamed. “Same-same.” He waved dismissively, as though that settled the matter entirely.

“I highly doubt it will work the way you want it to,” Gale countered, but even as he said it, he knew where this conversation was heading.

Astarion shrugged. “You didn’t think that druid spell would work either, and yet, here we are.”

Gale exhaled slowly, mulling it over. What was the harm in trying? If it failed, Astarion would have wasted nothing but his time and a bit of amusement. If it worked…

He hesitated, then placed his hand over his heart, muttering the briefest of incantations. A soft, almost imperceptible warmth pulsed beneath his palm before fading.

Astarion watched him with interest, leaning in just slightly, curiosity gleaming in his crimson eyes.

“Well?” he prompted, lips curling at the edges. “What did you pick?”

Chapter Text

Gale didn't know where he found the confidence to lean back so smoothly, tilting his head just enough to expose the column of his throat. His fingers swept through his hair, pushing it aside in invitation—an act so bold that his own mind barely had time to catch up with it.

Astarion didn’t miss the silent beckon. He never did. His smirk widened, sharp and knowing, as he moved closer. He was deliberate in his approach, crawling over Gale with a predator’s ease, his knees pressing into the bedroll as he all but straddled the wizard’s lap.

The air between them was tight with anticipation, thick enough to choke on.

Astarion leaned in, breath ghosting over Gale’s exposed throat. A shiver rippled down his spine, and Astarion felt it—Gale could see the satisfaction flicker in his red eyes. This was a game to him, wasn’t it? A routine. A careful, calculated process of seduction, wielded with the same precision as a blade.

Then came the bite.

Astarion’s fangs sank into Gale’s skin, piercing deep, the pain sharp and searing before it melted into something far more insidious. Warmth. A slow, unwinding sensation as his blood was drawn forth, spilling into Astarion’s mouth in slow pulses.

Astarion drank.

The taste—Gods—the taste. Gone was the sour, acrid wrongness that had tainted Gale’s blood before. Now it was rich, almost intoxicating. A hint of something decadent lingered on his tongue, a depth of flavor that sent a shudder through him, deep and primal.

His grip tightened where he had braced himself against Gale, fingers curling against fabric, against skin. His body hummed with satisfaction, with indulgence, with something dangerously close to pleasure.

And Gale—Gale felt it.

He bit down hard on his own lip to muffle any errant sounds, stifling the sharp breath that threatened to escape him. But his restraint came at a cost. His teeth tore into his lower lip, the skin breaking, blood welling at the edges before trailing sluggishly down his chin.

Astarion pulled away with a final, languid drag of his tongue over the wound, his chest rising and falling as if he'd just had the finest feast of his life.

Then his gaze flickered lower.

The sight of Gale’s blood—red and glistening against the soft glow of the lantern—made something dark spark behind Astarion’s eyes.

A thought crept unbidden into Gale’s mind, vivid and impossible to ignore. Astarion’s mouth on his once more, but not at his neck this time. His tongue sweeping over the crimson streak, catching it before it could fall.

The thought burned, shameful and unwanted.

But then Astarion moved—leaning in again, voice a low, murmured hum.

“Wouldn’t want to waste any.”

Gale barely had time to react before Astarion’s lips met his own, the press of them soft yet insistent, a slow, savoring motion as his tongue darted out, tasting him. The metallic tang of his own blood lingered between them, a sharp contrast to the silkiness of Astarion’s mouth.

Gale’s breath hitched, his fingers twitching where they lay at his sides.

Gale barely had time to register the sensation before something in him gave way.

Astarion was kissing him—no, devouring him, drinking in the taste of his blood like it was another indulgence meant for him alone. His lips were cool, impossibly soft, yet firm as they pressed against Gale’s. And for a moment, just a single, fleeting moment, Gale forgot himself.

His breath shuddered as his body betrayed him, instinct guiding him forward before reason could intervene. His fingers twitched, then moved—grasping, anchoring. One hand found Astarion’s shoulder, the other curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

The vampire responded in kind, pressing against him with renewed interest. His tongue flicked out again, sweeping along Gale’s lower lip, catching the last trace of blood before deepening the kiss, parting his lips with teasing ease.

Astarion tasted him. Not just his blood, but him—warmth and breath, hesitation and longing, all tangled into one intoxicating moment.

Gale let out a quiet, shivering sigh against Astarion’s mouth, tilting his head ever so slightly, opening himself up further to the kiss. He hadn’t meant to. It had been instinct, that same reckless curiosity that had driven him into the Weave, into magic, into every damn thing that had ever set his heart aflame.

And gods, this was fire.

Astarion hummed in satisfaction, the sound low, pleased, almost smug. His fingers trailed along Gale’s jaw, tilting his chin just so, deepening the kiss for a fraction of a second longer before finally—finally—pulling away.

Their breaths mingled in the space between them, shallow and uneven.

Gale’s head was spinning, his heart hammering inside his chest. The air around him felt too thick, his thoughts too tangled, as though he’d just been swept into a current he hadn’t seen coming.

Astarion studied him, lips still slightly parted, a wicked glint dancing in his eyes. Then, with a slow, satisfied smirk, he murmured,

“Well, that was unexpected.”

Gale swallowed hard, trying—and failing—to steady himself. He exhaled shakily, looking at Astarion with wide, bewildered eyes.

“…Was it?”

Astarion chuckled, quiet and knowing, and gods help him—Gale wanted to kiss him again.

Chapter Text

For a full tenday, Astarion fed on Gale every night. It had started as an arrangement of necessity, a means to keep the vampire sated, but it had become something else. Something that left Gale restless when the sun was high, something that made his skin prickle with anticipation as dusk fell.

He had been careful—mindful to ration his energy, to restore himself each time with a well-placed spell. The first night had been an experiment, the second a confirmation, but by the third, they had learned two crucial lessons. One: he had to Prestidigitate himself clean before every feeding, or Astarion would turn up his nose at the lingering earthy bitterness of his corrupted blood. And two: Halsin’s spell—the one that allowed Astarion to drink without consequence—only lasted three days before its effects wore off.

Gale had returned to the druid on the fourth night, face warm with embarrassment, asking for another casting. It had been humiliating, but necessary.

Halsin had granted it with an amused smile, making some vague comment about adventure and appetites—a remark so broad that Gale had nearly choked on his own mortification. He hadn't dared ask whether the elf had been referring to Astarion's hunger, his willingness, or Halsin’s own interests.

But the true embarrassment came later.

Because, by the fifth night, Gale had found himself waiting for Astarion.

By the sixth, he had begun to anticipate the way Astarion would lean in with that infuriating smirk, fangs catching the moonlight just before sinking in.

By the seventh, he noticed how each playful touch lingered longer than before, how Astarion’s lips would ghost along his skin for just a moment longer than needed. It was always framed as a jest—something meant to excite the blood, to make Gale’s heart beat faster. A joke, a trick, nothing more.

And yet, his hands had begun to linger too.

By the tenth night, Gale was the one seeking him out.

He had kept that fact in mind as he slipped from Astarion’s tent yet again, swallowing against the heat in his chest, the way his body hummed with a nervous energy that had nothing to do with blood loss.

It was just an arrangement. A necessary indulgence.

And yet, as he stepped into the cool night air, he found himself wondering—when had it become a craving?

Gale had told himself he wouldn’t let this affect him. That he could maintain balance, keep indulgence from turning into distraction.

But the next morning, standing amidst his companions as they prepared to break camp, he felt the weight of ten nights pressing down on him.

He was fine—or so he kept telling himself. But his limbs felt heavier than usual, his mind not quite as sharp, and he was keenly aware of Astarion’s presence at his side, the way the vampire’s gaze flickered toward him in brief, unreadable glances.

And then the attack came.

It happened fast—an ambush just as they reached the edge of a craggy ridge, the Githyanki warriors descending like striking vipers.

Gale’s fingers moved instinctively, conjuring fire before his mind had fully caught up. There was no time to analyze his fatigue, no time to dwell on the ghost of Astarion’s touch against his skin.

There was only the fight.

And yet, as a blade nearly found his side—one he barely managed to shield against at the last moment—he had a fleeting thought.

Had he been sharper yesterday? Had he been stronger before ten nights of surrender?

And, more troubling still—if Astarion’s hands found him again once the battle was over, would he be able to resist offering himself up once more?

Astarion kept glancing back at the wizard—the delicious and very fragile wizard. Every close call sent a fresh spike of irritation down his spine, every scrape and cut had his mind ablaze. He wasn’t sure what was more maddening: the sheer waste of it, precious drops of Gale’s blood spilled carelessly into the dirt, or the way its scent curled around his senses, rich and heady in the air.

It was distracting.

He should have been focused on the battle, but instead, every strike Gale barely deflected made his fangs itch, every wound the wizard suffered tightened something possessive in his chest. Astarion wanted to be at his side, wanted to run his hands over Gale’s skin and trace every wound—if only to determine how much had been lost.

Luckily, Lae'zel, Karlach, and Minthara fought like demons unleashed, cutting through the ambush before the Githyanki had the chance to do any real damage. Gale had been left bruised, bloodied, and panting, but he was still standing, still gripping his staff with white-knuckled determination.

Astarion should have felt relieved. Instead, his throat burned with hunger.

He forced himself to keep his distance as Shadowheart swept in, her hands already glowing with healing magic. The soft, celestial light of her spell made Gale’s skin look even paler, the lingering streaks of red all the more tantalizing. Astarion curled his fingers into fists. If he stepped any closer, if he touched Gale now, he wasn’t sure he could stop himself. He’d drink too deeply, lose himself in the taste, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing left for Shadowheart to heal.

His gaze flickered to the fallen Githyanki instead. It wasn’t his usual fare, but… well, beggars, choosers and all that. He crouched over a body, biting deep, expecting something alien, something unpalatable. But the difference was subtle—like the difference between beef and pork. Still rich, still deeply savory at its core.

It would be enough. Enough to quell the hunger. Enough to silence the insidious little voice urging him to push Shadowheart aside and claim Gale as his own.

Unfortunately, by the time they reached camp, any of Gale’s spilled blood would be long dried.

A pity, really.

As the last of the Githyanki bodies were looted and tossed aside, the group pressed on, weary but victorious. The road to Baldur’s Gate stretched ahead, and by dusk, they had set up camp on its outskirts, just far enough from the city’s imposing walls to avoid notice for the night. The scent of damp earth and distant salt from the river clung to the air, mingling with the smoke of a small, crackling fire.

Gale sat heavily on a fallen log, rolling his aching shoulders as exhaustion settled deep in his bones. His robes were stiff with dried blood, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to the wounds that Shadowheart had sealed but not cleaned. The remnants of battle clung to him like an unwelcome weight, and the thought of sleeping in such a state was unbearable.

He pushed himself to his feet, glancing toward the treeline. The sound of running water carried through the evening hush, a quiet beckoning.

He made his way toward the stream, slipping through the underbrush until the trickling water came into view. The stream was shallow, its cool surface glinting in the moonlight as it wove through the rocks and moss-covered roots. The sound of the campfire and murmured conversation faded behind him, leaving only the hush of water and the occasional chirp of a nightbird.

He crouched at the bank, rolling up his sleeves before plunging his hands into the cool water, sighing as it washed away the grime clinging to his skin. Dried blood swirled away in thin, red tendrils, disappearing into the current. With careful fingers, he worked the clumps of dirt and sweat from his arms, wincing slightly when he ran over a particularly deep bruise.

A gentle breeze stirred the leaves above, and for the first time that day, Gale allowed himself to breathe.

Chapter Text

Gale let out a sigh as he made his way over to Astarion’s tent, feeling rejuvenated enough to feed the vampire’s needs. The chill of the night clung to his damp skin, the earlier bath having done little to warm him against the creeping cold. He ran a hand through his still-wet hair, shaking off the last droplets before reaching for the tent flap.

As he pulled it back, the dim light of the campfire barely illuminated the figure inside. Astarion was already at rest—locked in a trance, but it was not a peaceful one. His face, normally composed, twisted in the faintest of grimaces, brows furrowing as some unseen torment rippled through his subconscious. His fingers twitched slightly where they rested over his stomach, curling as if grasping at something unseen.

Gale hesitated, caught between stepping back and intruding further. There was something deeply unsettling about the way Astarion moved, the minute shifts of his expression betraying a suffering he rarely spoke of. Curiosity warred with concern, and before he could talk himself out of it, Gale let his mind slip into the connection the tadpole offered.

A moment of hesitation—then darkness swallowed him whole.

All-consuming and cold. A deep, gnawing hunger curled through the void, primal and all-encompassing, demanding satisfaction that would never come. The memory of sunlight existed only as a cruel longing, distant and unattainable. He felt Astarion’s hands as if they were his own—raw, stripped, the sensation of exposed nerve endings crying out in silent agony. His limbs ached, muscles weak from prolonged suffering, and through it all, there was only one thought.

The taste of a plump, juicy rat.

Gale reeled as the sensation overtook him, horror clawing at his mind. The desperation, the atrophy, the overwhelming emptiness—he couldn’t withstand it. He tore himself away from the vision, snapping back into himself with a sharp inhale, as if breaching the surface after drowning in the abyss.

His abrupt departure must have jostled something in Astarion’s mind. The elf stirred, eyelids fluttering open as his breath hitched, pulling himself free from whatever nightmares plagued him. His crimson eyes, still heavy with trance-induced fatigue, landed on Gale.

“Hello, dear,” Astarion murmured, voice still thick with sleep. His usual sharpness was dulled, replaced with a hazy sort of awareness. He stretched lazily, exhaling a breath through his nose before adding, “I'm afraid I'm full.”

His lips curled into the ghost of a smirk, but Gale could still see the remnants of unease lingering in his gaze.

“You were… having a nightmare.” Gale muttered, unsure of how to broach the subject— or if it was even his place.

Astarion rubbed at his temple, his fingers pressing lightly against his skull as if trying to soothe the remnants of whatever had pulled him from his trance. His expression shifted as he pieced together the intrusion, a sly smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

"And you had a peek, did you?"

Though his tone was playful, there was an edge to it—something unreadable beneath the teasing lilt of his voice. Gale felt guilt coil in his stomach, twisting uncomfortably. He hadn’t meant to pry. Not really.

"Cheeky little wizard," Astarion crooned, stretching as he sat up, languid and unbothered despite the flicker of irritation behind his eyes. "But as I said before, I'm full. I have no need of you tonight."

Gale hesitated before speaking, measuring his words. "I had presumed so when I watched you feed on those fallen soldiers," he admitted, the words feeling heavier than he intended. "But I came anyway. I wanted to see you."

Astarion's smirk faltered, his amusement dulling as something else took its place. His crimson gaze swept over Gale, searching, weighing. Then, in a voice devoid of its usual flair, he asked,

"What's the point?"

The question was blunt, almost dismissive. Gale balked at it, caught off guard by the sheer finality of it. His jaw tensed, his pride bristling. "Sorry for bothering you," he muttered, already turning to leave.

But before he could step away, Astarion’s fingers curled around his wrist, not tightly, but firm enough to stop him. The touch was cool, his grip deceptively strong despite the feigned carelessness in his voice.

"I meant—" Astarion took a long breath, a rare thing for someone who didn’t need to. He seemed to steady himself before continuing, though his grip on Gale’s wrist remained. "It was only a matter of time before you wanted something from me in return."

Gale frowned, watching as Astarion’s usual arrogance slipped away, leaving something raw and uncertain in its place. His eyes—so often sharp and filled with mischief—seemed to plead with him, though for what, Gale couldn’t say.

"I was surprised by the gesture at first," Astarion admitted, his gaze flickering away. "Flattered, even, that you cared at all. But after the second night…" He sighed, his voice quieter now, nearly lost to the space between them.

"You’re not interested. Is that it?" Gale asked, perhaps too sharply, his frustration leaking through.

Astarion let out a breath of something like laughter, though there was no humor in it. "I spent years allowing others to use my body," he said, his voice deceptively light. "Using my own body to gain an advantage over others. A give and take—that is all I have to offer."

Gale’s throat tightened. "I don't want to use you," he mumbled, struggling to find his voice again. "I hadn't expected these feelings when I first approached you."

"You don't need to pretend it wasn’t on your mind." Astarion rolled his eyes, dismissive, unwilling to entertain the idea that Gale might have been genuine.

"I thought the bite would be more violent, painful," Gale explained, willing himself to remain patient. "I could see you were struggling, and no one else had taken the initiative. I wasn’t expecting the intimacy of the act."

"Neither had I."

Gale's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I’ve never fed on anything other than rats or animals before the nautiloid picked us up," Astarion admitted, voice quieter now. "It keeps you full, but never truly satisfied."

Gale studied him, his gaze searching. "You've bitten others before, though. I've seen it."

Astarion waved a hand dismissively. "The heat of battle is a completely different thing. Victims are usually unwilling, pulling away. It’s like a snack, not a meal. I'm lucky if I get a sip, let alone a mouthful. Feeding from you was an entirely different experience."

Something in his voice—low, careful—sent a shiver down Gale’s spine.

"I want you to keep feeding from me," Gale admitted.

Astarion sighed, exasperation lacing his tone. "There’s no need. The shadow curse no longer plagues this land. Besides, we’re so close to Baldur’s Gate I can practically smell the rats. And with the disasters our group seems to find itself in constantly, I'm sure I’ll have plenty of two-legged meals awaiting me too."

Gale held his ground. "I want you to feed on me."

At that, Astarion finally looked at him again, really looked at him. His crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable, something guarded.

"I… I enjoyed the feeling," Gale admitted, his voice softer now.

Astarion let out a short, humorless laugh. "I never took you for a masochist, Gale."

Gale swallowed, choosing his next words carefully. "That’s not what this is."

Astarion tilted his head, scrutinizing him. "I can’t offer you the closeness you want," he said finally, and for the first time, there was no mockery in his tone. Just quiet certainty.

Chapter Text

Three days of avoidance.

Their days were anything but quiet—nor were their nights, though not in any way Astarion enjoyed. One intrusion after another kept them constantly on edge. Githyanki raiders, wandering devils, and worst of all—children. Filthy, loud, and endlessly curious, tugging at his sleeves and asking too many questions.

It kept them busy. Distracted. It gave Astarion the perfect excuse to avoid Gale.

It wasn’t difficult. The wizard always seemed occupied—tucked away in his tent poring over tomes. Astarion had his own ways of keeping occupied. But despite the ease of avoidance, something gnawed at him. A feeling he couldn't quite shake.

He should have indulged Gale, kept up their nightly rendezvous. Not for his own sake—he was well-fed now, after all—but because... well, because he could see it now. The way Gale withdrew from the group, how his fingers hovered over his neck as if recalling the sensation of fangs sinking into his skin. He caught the wizard staring once or twice, gaze darting away the moment their eyes met.

Astarion had rejected many lovers in his time, had played this game a thousand times over, yet there was something about the way Gale had looked at him that night, something so raw and vulnerable, that unsettled him. He wasn’t accustomed to being wanted for anything other than his body. He wasn’t sure how to react when someone wanted more.

Meanwhile, Gale was determined to give Astarion space.

He had come on too strongly. He had not handled rejection well. And to top it off, he had been embarrassingly desperate.

The memory of his own words haunted him. I want you to feed on me. How pathetic he had sounded, all but begging for the vampire’s attention. Even now, he cringed at the thought, half-tempted to see if there was a spell that would allow the earth to swallow him whole.

And now, Astarion wouldn’t talk to him. Not that they had shared particularly long conversations before, but this silence was different. It was isolating. It pressed against Gale like an invisible weight, making him second-guess every glance, every unspoken word.

He should apologize. He wanted to apologize. But what if Astarion took it the wrong way? What if he saw it as yet another ploy to win his affections?

Astarion’s gaze lingered as Gale rummaged through their supplies, sifting through the meager collection of ingredients they had managed to scavenge. His hands moved with practiced ease, pulling out vegetables and herbs, setting them aside as he planned their evening meal. The flickering fire cast golden light over the planes of his face, catching on the wisps of hair that had fallen loose from his tie.

Astarion tried—tried—not to let his eyes wander.

And yet, they did.

He tracked every movement, every minute shift. The way Gale's fingers ghosted over ingredients before selecting them, the subtle flex of his jaw as he concentrated, the slow bob of his throat when he swallowed. The latter sent an unbidden jolt through Astarion, sharp and immediate. He realized then that he had not just been watching Gale’s throat—he had been staring.

And he didn’t want to stop.

His fixation was only broken when Gale let out a small, involuntary grunt of pain. The wizard had miscalculated while slicing a carrot, his knife catching the tip of his finger instead. Astarion’s breath hitched, his muscles tensing as he watched a single bead of crimson well up from the wound.

For the briefest of moments, he saw himself standing, crossing the short distance between them. He imagined taking Gale’s hand, bringing the wounded digit to his lips, letting his tongue sweep over the cut to capture that single drop of blood before it could go to waste.

But they were not alone.

Astarion exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to stand and turn away. He didn’t bother making an excuse, didn’t even look back as he abandoned the warmth of the fire. He couldn’t be near it anymore. Near him.

Inside his tent, he stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours. He listened—though he tried not to—as the others filled the space he left behind. They laughed, swapped stories, complimented Gale’s cooking. Even from a distance, the scent of his blood still haunted him, the memory of it lingering on his tongue as if he had already indulged.

Eventually, one by one, they retired for the night.

Only then did Astarion move.

He slipped from his tent in silence, the moonlight painting his pale skin silver as he crossed the camp. Gale’s tent was still dimly lit, the glow of a lamp casting long shadows against the canvas.

Astarion lifted the flap without hesitation.

Gale looked up, blinking in surprise. The flickering light softened the exhaustion in his face, but there was no mistaking the hesitation in his wide hazel eyes.

“I needed to see you,” Astarion murmured.

“You see me every day,” Gale replied, his voice tighter than intended. He winced at his own tone before immediately sighing. “Sorry. Go on.”

Astarion didn’t comment on it. Instead, he simply asked, “Can I stay here tonight?”

Gale’s brow furrowed. “Halsin hasn’t cleansed my blood in days. It won’t be good.”

“That’s fine.”

Gale still looked confused, but after a pause, he gestured for Astarion to come in. The vampire settled beside him, crossing his legs neatly as Gale adjusted his posture to sit up straighter.

“Are you okay?” Astarion asked, his voice softer now.

Gale studied him. “Why do you ask?”

“You cut yourself while preparing dinner.”

“Ah,” Gale exhaled, realization dawning. “So that’s why you left early?”

Astarion made a quiet sound of acknowledgment.

“I thought you’d be well fed, now that we’re in Baldur’s Gate.”

“That’s not the issue,” Astarion muttered, voice tight.

“Oh?”

Astarion hesitated, then exhaled sharply. Gale felt the familiar tug of the tadpole’s connection—a silent invitation. Astarion was letting him in, allowing him to see what had been plaguing his mind.

The image hit him like a bolt of lightning. The cut. The drop of blood. Astarion’s fingers curling around his wrist, bringing it to his lips, his tongue sweeping across the wound— tasting.

Gale’s face burned. A deep, visceral part of him wished Astarion had done it.

And then he realized—the connection was still open.

Astarion had seen his reaction just as clearly as Gale had seen his.

The two men pulled away from the link at the same time, breath catching, cheeks flushed as they stared at each other in stunned silence.

It was Gale who finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

“Can I kiss you?”

Astarion blinked. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Gale leaned in cautiously, stopping just inches away, searching Astarion’s crimson eyes for any flicker of doubt.

Astarion huffed a quiet laugh before rolling his eyes and closing the distance himself. His fingers wove into Gale’s tousled hair, tilting his head just so as their lips met. The kiss was softer than their first, slower. There was no hunger behind it, no biting or teasing—only the warmth of lips pressed together in quiet longing.

When they pulled apart, Astarion lingered, brushing his lips against Gale’s forehead in a whisper of a touch.

“I was happy to take full advantage of your generosity,” he murmured, his voice laced with something Gale had never quite heard before. “But I didn’t realize how much I craved connection as well.”

Chapter Text

Astarion was roused by the tickle of Gale’s hair against his nose, making him instinctively scrunch and recoil slightly. He blinked himself into wakefulness, only to be met with the steady rise and fall of Gale’s chest against his own. A slow smile tugged at his lips as the realization settled over him—where he was, where he had spent the night.

A warmth, unexpected but not unwelcome, bloomed in his chest. Without thinking, he leaned in, pressing his face against the wizard’s hair and inhaling deeply. The scent of Gale was unlike anything else—faintly bitter, the tang of his blood still present, but layered beneath the metallic notes was something herbal. The lingering ghost of crushed leaves, dried roots, and the potent dust of reagents collected along their journey. It clung to him like a second skin, woven into the fabric of his robes, his very being.

Astarion’s fingers curled instinctively, gripping at the soft material of Gale’s robe and tugging him closer. He inhaled again, slower this time, savoring the complexity of the scent. That bitterness—gods, he was beginning to enjoy it. Like a fine wine laced with wormwood, like something aged in dark oak, sharp and enticing on the tongue. It settled in his thoughts, burrowed deep, until all he could think about was tasting him.

"Are you sure Halsin’s spell has worn off?" Astarion murmured into his hair, voice low and rough with sleep. He wasn’t even certain Gale was awake enough to hear him, let alone respond.

A groggy groan answered him, followed by the sluggish brush of Gale’s hand grazing Astarion’s where it still gripped at his robe. "First thing in the morning?" Gale mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep.

Astarion hummed in amusement, shifting just enough to brush Gale’s hair aside, exposing the column of his throat. "I'm just a little hungry," he murmured, breath warm against bare skin.

Gale shuddered beneath him, his body tensing for half a second before he exhaled slowly, tilting his head back in quiet invitation. His fingers found his own chest, pressing lightly over his heart as he began to mutter an incantation—his voice carrying the odd, halting cadence of someone reciting a phrase in a language not quite their own. The spell felt foreign on his tongue, almost natural, but not quite.

Astarion’s keen senses picked up the shift immediately. That intoxicating bitterness dimmed, fading ever so slightly. He frowned.

“Halsin taught me the spell," Gale admitted, blinking sluggishly as his hand fell back to his lap.

As he moved to press his palm to his chest again, Astarion caught his wrist, stopping him with a gentle but firm touch. His voice dropped to a whisper, deliberate and coaxing. "I want to taste you as you are."

Gale barely had time to process the words before Astarion dipped his head, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his neck. The graze of his sharp canines followed, featherlight and teasing, a promise of what was to come. Then, with a sharp inhale, Astarion parted his lips and sank them into soft, yielding flesh.

Gale let out a sound—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, breathless and raw. It sent a shiver racing down Astarion’s spine, his grip tightening instinctively. Gods, the taste of him—rich and complex, potent in a way that sent a pulse of hunger straight to his core. And that sound. That lovely, ruinous little whimper.

He needed to focus. He needed to hold onto that thin, fraying thread of control. But Gale was warm beneath him, pliant and trusting, the scent of magic and life wrapping around him like a drug. Astarion forced himself to pull back, tongue sweeping over the fresh wounds in a slow, savoring stroke before trailing higher. He traced a path up the curve of Gale’s neck, all the way to the delicate shell of his ear. When he reached his earlobe, he caught it between his teeth, biting down just enough to send a shudder through the man beneath him.

No whimper this time—just a sharp inhale, too thick with sleep to be a proper moan.

Astarion smirked against his skin. Not quite awake enough yet, was he?

That wouldn’t do.

He moved lower again, lips brushing against Gale’s pulse point, trailing featherlight kisses back down his throat before sealing his mouth over the wound once more. Gale twitched beneath him, sucking in a sharp breath—then came the whimper, a little more broken, a little more desperate than before.

Astarion groaned softly, the sound muffled against Gale’s skin. That was all the encouragement he needed. His grip on Gale’s robe loosened just long enough for him to shift, sliding effortlessly over him until he was straddling his lap. He could feel the heat between them now, Gale’s growing arousal pressing against his own, setting fire to the space between them.

Gale looked up at the pale vampire, momentarily struck by the way the morning sun caught in his curls, turning them into a halo of silvery gold. His hair was an artful mess, tousled from sleep, soft strands falling over his forehead in a way that made him look almost angelic—if not for the sharp, mischievous glint in his crimson eyes.

"You’re beautiful," Gale murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them, barely more than a breath.

Astarion froze.

His teasing, his smirks, all of it halted in an instant as his expression flickered with something unreadable. His lips parted, but no immediate quip came to mind. Instead, a rare and unguarded blush crept up his neck, dusting his pale cheeks with the faintest shade of pink.

"What?" Astarion stammered, blinking rapidly, his usual composure crumbling.

Gale tilted his head, watching the shift in his features with quiet fascination. Astarion, the ever-poised, ever-flirtatious rogue—flustered. By him.

It was an odd sight. Strange, but not unwelcome.

The vampire's confidence had always been effortless, smooth as silk, finely honed over centuries. He was well-versed in the art of seduction, wielding charm like a blade. And yet, faced with a simple, unembellished truth—You’re beautiful—he faltered.

"You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen." Gale’s voice was steadier this time, more certain, as he reached up to trace the sharp curve of Astarion’s jawline with a single fingertip. His skin was smooth and cool beneath Gale’s touch, and he felt the vampire shudder ever so slightly.

Astarion's blush deepened, a rare sight that only made Gale want to touch him more. Before he could, Astarion caught his wrist, holding it in place. His grip was light but firm, keeping Gale’s hand against his cheek as if savoring the warmth. Slowly, he turned his head and pressed a kiss to the inside of Gale’s palm, letting his lips linger against the sensitive skin. Then he lowered his mouth to Gale’s wrist, brushing another kiss where the wizard’s pulse thrummed beneath his lips.

"You are sweet," Astarion hummed, the words a soft murmur against Gale’s skin. He leaned down, pressing a kiss against his forehead, lingering there as if reluctant to pull away.

"I'm sure you are no stranger to compliments." Gale tilted his head back, meeting Astarion’s gaze. Their lips were now just a breath apart. He could feel the vampire’s cool breath mingling with his own, could see the flicker of mischief behind his crimson eyes. "A high elf turned vampire… it is an alluring combination."

"So you are saying…" Astarion murmured, his voice a low purr. He closed the last of the distance between them, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to Gale’s lips before pulling back just enough to finish his sentence. "You would have been an easy target?"

"I—"

Gale never got to finish.

Astarion rolled his hips against him, and the sudden, exquisite friction shattered all trains of thought. A strangled moan escaped before he could stop it, his fingers gripping at Astarion’s sides as pleasure sparked through him.

The vampire chuckled, low and pleased, leaning in until his lips brushed the shell of Gale’s ear. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

"I think I have my answer.”

Chapter Text

Astarion moved with practiced ease, peeling back Gale's robes to expose the warm skin of his chest. The wispy, tattoo-like mark left behind by the absorbed magic of the Netherese Orb stood out against his skin, faint yet unmistakable. Astarion ran his fingers over it, tracing the delicate patterns as if memorizing them.

Without hesitation, he discarded his own shirt just as smoothly, the fabric falling away as he pulled Gale into another kiss. Their bodies pressed together, heat meeting coolness, the contrast making Gale shiver.

The taste of blood still lingered on Astarion’s lips—bitter and persistent. Gale could not understand why he insisted on drinking from him like this, without the cleansing spell to soften the taste. A simple cantrip would have masked the unpleasant tang, yet Astarion had refused.

The vampire’s hands tangled into Gale’s hair, weaving through the soft tousles before tugging them back gently, exposing his throat. Astarion's lips hovered just above his pulse, his breath warm against the sensitive skin.

"I am going to need you to heal yourself." His voice was low, almost a growl.

"Is the wound distracting you?" Gale teased. He recited the restoring incantation, a familiar spell flowing easily from his lips. A soft blue glow pulsed from his body as the wound sealed, leaving only smooth skin behind.

Astarion hummed approvingly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the newly healed spot. He felt the renewed thrum of Gale's pulse beneath his lips and let his fangs graze the skin without breaking it.

He trailed lower, following the elegant curve of Gale’s throat, the strong line of his collarbone, the slope of his shoulder. He tasted him with every kiss, slow and deliberate, savoring the warmth of his skin.

"I want to taste every inch of you," Astarion murmured between wet, lingering kisses. His voice dripped with hunger, though not the kind that came from blood alone.

Gale gasped softly as Astarion’s mouth explored him, his touch possessive yet teasing. He could feel himself growing harder, and when Astarion shifted against him, the pressure only worsened the ache.

Astarion smirked at the reaction, pleased. "I do not want to stop until you have forgotten your own name."

Gale let out a breathy chuckle between his quiet moans. "I do not think that is quite possible."

"Then I suppose we will be here a while," Astarion murmured between soft kisses, trailing lower as he parted Gale’s robes further, exposing more of the warm skin beneath. Only his trousers remained now, a thin barrier between them and what they both so clearly wanted.

Astarion let his lips linger just above the waistband, his breath warm and teasing. He nipped at the sensitive skin there, pulling a sharp gasp from Gale as his body tensed beneath him. The wizard’s hands found their way into Astarion’s hair, fingers tangling in soft curls, gripping with a desperation that sent a shiver through the elf.

"So impatient," Astarion purred, his voice dripping with amusement as he pressed another lingering kiss to Gale’s hip. "I did say I wanted to taste every inch, remember?"

Gale's fingers tightened their hold, tugging harder, urging him lower. Astarion let himself be guided, trailing slow, deliberate kisses downward until he reached the fabric that still concealed Gale’s arousal. He pressed a single, featherlight kiss there, enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. Gale bit back a frustrated groan, his breath uneven.

"What in the hells are you waiting for?" he all but pleaded, looking down to meet Astarion’s gaze.

Astarion smirked, eyes gleaming with something dark and wicked. "You are not at all worried about these?" He let one finger graze his fang, tilting his head in mock curiosity. "Most would show a bit more… hesitation."

Gale blinked at him, then let the thought take hold, releasing his hold of the elf’s hair. What would happen if Astarion lost himself? If those fangs pierced just slightly, if he bit down in the heat of the moment? Would it be excruciating or would it send him into some new realm of pleasure? Would he enjoy it either way? The idea sent an unexpected thrill through him.

"Would a drop of blood make you suck harder?" The words left Gale's mouth before he could stop them, his own boldness surprising him.

Astarion froze, his eyes widening in shock as if Gale had just proposed something utterly scandalous. For a brief moment, the vampire seemed at a loss for words, and if it were possible, he would have been beet red. Instead, a nervous laugh slipped past his lips, and he brought a hand to his forehead, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I have to say," he chuckled, voice tinged with something between amusement and incredulity, "I have never heard that one before.”

"I can't believe I am able to fluster you so easily." Gale laughed, his amusement only growing as Astarion continued to avoid his gaze.

"I'm not flustered," Astarion insisted, though the way he fussed with the loose curls falling over his forehead suggested otherwise.

"Sure," Gale teased, reaching up to twirl a lock of silver hair around his finger. "It's cute, regardless."

Astarion scoffed, but there was no real bite to it. Instead, a sly smirk curled at the edges of his lips. "Do you know a silence spell?"

Gale frowned in confusion and reached for his spellbook. "Not off the top of my head... why?"

That smirk widened as Astarion hooked his fingers into the hem of Gale's trousers, tugging them down in one smooth motion. As soon as the fabric slipped away, Gale's length sprang free, the cool morning air drawing a sharp inhale from his lips.

"I just don't want to wake the entire camp," Astarion purred, his voice thick with mischief as he let his fingers trail gently across his skin. “And I don't want to hold back.”

Gale flicked through his spellbook, almost frantically as Astarion's breath brushed against his length, threatening to unravel his concentration.

“Give me a second.” Gale said through gritted teeth so stifle his moan as Astarion’s tongue flicked across the sensitive skin. The wizard managed to read the incantation and recite it before he could be distracted further.

Silence.

He let out a satisfied moan as the vampire's mouth engulfed him entirely—the sound completely swallowed up by the spell.

With no sound, no other stimuli to focus on as his eyes rolled back, all he could focus on was the sensation of the vampire's mouth gliding up and down. He could think of nothing else as his continued moans escaped him silently. Gods it was glorious, he was glorious. The practiced way his tongue travelled in swirled motions, circling the head as he pulled up. Then how deeply he could swallow him up. Gale almost wished the rogue could hear the way he was undone by it.

Gale's hands moved from gripping the bedroll to gripping Astarion's hair once more. He felt the slight graze of a fang as the vampire tried to hold back a smile. Gale had to hold back the urge to buck against him, wary about catching those fangs again. But as Astarion moved a hand to grip him and move in tandem with his mouth, the will to still himself got looser and looser.

Especially as his release came, spilling into Astarion’s mouth, down his throat with a thrust so deep he felt the vampire struggle slightly in his grip. He released his hold on his hair, letting him pull back in a smooth motion.

Gale exhaled a shaky breath and reached for him, fingers grazing the hem of his lover’s clothes in wordless offering. But before he could return the devotion in kind, Astarion caught his wrists with a firm, steady grip.

His lips moved, soundless under the weight of the spell, and Gale barely had time to register the words before he was pulled forward into a kiss—hungry, claiming, filled with something too deep, too tender for words.

And just like that, the spell was forgotten.

Gale let himself melt into it, his body still trembling from the lingering echoes of pleasure, but his hands found purchase against Astarion’s bare shoulders, his fingers pressing into the smooth expanse of skin as he pulled him closer. He could feel the way Astarion’s fingers dug into his hips as if anchoring himself there.

The kiss was possessive, filled with something darker than affection, something desperate. Astarion kissed like a man starved—not for blood, but for touch, for connection, for the assurance that he was still here, still wanted.

When Astarion finally broke away, it was only for a fraction of a second before he was pressing more kisses along Gale’s jaw, his neck, his collarbone—mapping him with lips and tongue and teeth as if committing him to memory. His breath was cool against Gale’s heated skin, sending another shiver rippling through him as his mouth trailed lower, and lower still.

Gale had expected something teasing, another witty remark murmured against his throat, but instead, Astarion’s voice, quiet yet strained, carried a weight he hadn’t anticipated.

"Let me have this," Astarion murmured, his lips barely moving against Gale’s skin. "Let me keep this moment."

Gale stilled. His fingers tightened in Astarion’s hair, not to pull him away, but simply to hold him there, to keep him close.

"You already have it," he whispered. "You have me."

Astarion let out something between a sigh and a chuckle, though there was no real humor in it. He pressed one last lingering kiss to Gale’s throat before finally resting his forehead against his shoulder.

Chapter Text

Gale had been well aware of Lae’zel’s sudden and increased interest in him, even with the rather distracting presence of a certain elven vampire. He had worried that he had done something to gravely offend her, attracting her scorn. At least, that was what he had assumed. So now, finding himself alone with her at camp, his nerves were slightly on edge.

In an effort to avoid further provoking her, he had deliberately kept his distance, refraining from watching her too closely. But in doing so, he had also made it easier for her to creep up on him.

Without warning, Lae’zel seized his face with both hands, prying his mouth open with an almost clinical precision as she examined the inside of it. Her expression shifted from curiosity to disappointment.

“No fangs,” she muttered.

Gale jolted back, coughing and spitting as he swiped at his lips in sheer indignation. “Why in the world would I have fangs?”

“K’chakhi,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes as if it should have been obvious. “Your union with the vampire.”

“Union?” His voice pitched in disbelief. “Does everyone—”

“I thought a vampire’s strength might improve you.” She spoke as if thinking aloud, not bothering to elaborate. “Even if it meant you would become his vin’isk.”

“Vin’isk?” Gale repeated warily. “Wait, what do you mean ‘improve’?”

She huffed, clearly impatient with his lack of understanding. “Vin’isk… a revrykal… underling.”

“A vampire spawn?”

“Precisely.”

Gale’s brows shot up in disbelief. “Astarion is a vampire spawn. He’s someone else’s rev-ree-kall.” He fumbled through the unfamiliar Gith word, completely mangling the pronunciation.

“Yes… the Cazador he spoke of with the devil. I remember now,” she mused. “A shame. So he cannot improve you, then?”

Gale blinked at her, still trying to make sense of what she was implying. “What do you mean ‘improve’?”

“You fall easily in battle and have no…” Lae’zel trailed off, searching for the right word. “Durability.”

“You thought becoming a spawn would improve my durability?” Gale asked, exasperated. “What part exactly? Being a slave to a master and bloodlust? Or needing to avoid the sun for eternity once the tadpoles are removed?”

“He's right,” Astarion’s voice came from behind him, making Gale’s chest tighten. “I wouldn't wish this existence on anyone.”

Gale turned to see the elf standing there, flanked by Karlach, Shadowheart, and Wyll. “Astarion—”

Before he could say anything else, Astarion turned on his heel and strode off toward his tent. Gale did not hesitate before following him. To hell with what everyone else thought or what they were already assuming about them. Astarion needed him. By the time Gale ducked inside, the vampire had already thrown his leather jerkin aside, slumping down into his cushions.

“You didn’t say anything wrong, Gale,” Astarion mumbled, rolling onto his side to face away.

“But you're upset.”

“I’m fine. You were right.”

“I know.” Gale knelt beside him, unsure if he could reach Astarion in this melancholic state. “I wish I wasn’t.”

“So I wouldn't be a ‘slave to my bloodlust’?” Astarion’s voice was flat, unreadable.

“So you wouldn’t be tied to Cazador.” Gale corrected him gently. Astarion turned back to look at him slightly. “So you could enjoy the sun without fear of turning into a mindflayer.”

“I could have both those things.” Astarion hesitated, his voice quieter now. “Raphael told me about a ritual that Cazador is planning to perform. It’s why he carved those scars into my back. If I perform it instead, I won’t need the tadpole to walk in the sun. I won’t need blood. I’ll be free of Cazador.”

“What kind of ritual?”

“It’s not important,” Astarion brushed him off.

“Of course it is,” Gale snapped, his frustration boiling over. “Something that powerful always comes at a great cost.”

Astarion exhaled sharply. “Seven thousand vampiric souls.”

Gale stared at him. “What?”

“The ritual sacrifices seven thousand vampire spawn to the archdevil Mephistopheles.” Astarion’s voice was carefully measured, but he refused to meet Gale’s eyes. “Cazador intended for me to be one of them, but now I am here.”

“And you're okay with sacrificing seven thousand people—”

“Spawn,” Astarion corrected him.

“Souls,” Gale emphasized. “For you to claim the power for yourself?”

"They're not innocent souls," Astarion argued, his voice tight with frustration. He knew this, believed it, yet the look on Gale's face made something uneasy stir in his chest.

Gale shook his head, the weight of his disappointment clear. "I can’t support this decision."

Astarion's expression hardened. "Fuck you," he snapped.

Gale tensed but didn't rise to the anger. He exhaled, the fight leaving his body as he studied Astarion’s face. "I don't think you should take Cazador's place in the ritual," he said, softer now but no less firm. "I don’t think you really want to, either."

Astarion let out a bitter laugh. "What else would I have?"

"Me."

The word landed like a stone between them. Astarion opened his mouth, then shut it again, something unreadable flickering across his features. He swallowed. "At night, maybe," he muttered. "In the shadows of Baldur’s Gate. Never in the sun."

"I'd spend a lifetime under the stars with you."

Astarion’s head snapped up, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. Gale had said it so smoothly, without hesitation, without calculation. Astarion should have been the one to say something like that. A pretty line, meant to seduce, to lull, to lower defenses.

Except it had worked on him.

The thought unsettled him in a way he hadn’t felt in two hundred years. Then that old, nagging instinct—the one that viewed every interaction through the lens of survival—whispered in his mind. Wouldn't a line like that be perfect to lure unsuspecting prey? To make them trust?

But Gale wasn’t prey. And Astarion wasn’t hunting him.

Chapter Text

Gale traced the fresh punctures on his neck with an unsteady hand, fingers ghosting over the delicate, already-closing wounds. The skin was warm beneath his touch, but no blood welled up, not even the slightest bead. Astarion had been meticulous, as always. Still, as he inspected his fingertips, his vision wavered, a subtle haze creeping into the edges of his sight.

He let himself feel it for a moment, the heady weight of blood loss pulling at him. The world swayed, just enough to make his limbs feel languid, his breath slower. There was something almost intoxicating about the sensation, the way it dulled everything else. But then—

A soft kiss pressed against his shoulder. Astarion.

The gentle brush of lips against his bare skin drew him back from the edge, grounding him in the present. It was a stark contrast to the sharpness of fangs that had been there moments before. The warmth of it lingered, more intimate than anything else the vampire had done tonight.

“Are you okay?” Astarion murmured, his voice low, his breath fanning over the sensitive skin he had just kissed.

Gale exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if testing his own body’s limits. “Of course,” he assured, and with a flick of his fingers, he whispered the familiar incantation. A soft bluish glow pulsed over his skin, and the dizziness lifted like fog dissipating in the morning sun.

“Good.”

The word had barely left Astarion’s lips before he struck again. No warning. A sharp pain, immediate and electric, then the deep pull of fangs sinking into his neck once more. Astarion moaned against his skin, a quiet, indulgent sound, and Gale felt it vibrate through him.

He gasped, hands clenching at the sheets as his body fought between tension and surrender. When Astarion pulled back, his breath was hot against the fresh wound, lips brushing against it as he whispered, “Heal yourself again.”

It wasn’t a request.

Gale obeyed, murmuring the spell again through a shudder, the magic rushing through his veins as he felt his body knit itself back together. He barely had time to adjust before Astarion moved.

This time, the vampire slinked lower, predatory intent gleaming in his crimson eyes. That smirk, sharp and knowing, sent a different kind of shiver through Gale.

They had stripped away their clothes long ago, but even bare, Gale felt exposed under Astarion’s hungry gaze. He propped himself up on his forearms, watching warily as the vampire took his time, like a cat toying with a mouse before the pounce.

Astarion started at his ankle, pressing feather-light kisses against the thin skin before nipping, his sharp teeth barely scraping. The sensation was maddening—playful, teasing.

Gale’s breath hitched as those kisses and bites trailed upward, slow and measured. Every touch of Astarion’s lips, every faint graze of his teeth, sent warmth pooling in his stomach. When he reached his knee, Astarion pressed his mouth there longer, letting his tongue flick out in a brief, tantalizing taste before moving on.

By the time he reached Gale’s inner thigh, the wizard was trembling, his body reacting on instinct. His head tipped back, a moan spilling free before he could stop it.

The kisses were fewer now, replaced by something sharper. The soft bites turned firmer, more insistent, until they weren’t soft at all.

Then—the sharp sting of fangs sinking in.

Gale’s moans melted into a groan, deep and raw, as the pleasure laced with pain sent fire racing through his veins.

When his bite had released, his tongue swept over the punctured holes, soothing the sting with a practiced flick. Astarion’s voice followed in a heavy, commanding breath.

“Heal.”

Gale exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to his thigh where the bite still throbbed. “I don’t have the energy to do this too many more times,” he groaned, but still, he repeated the incantation. The soft blue glow pulsed once more, warmth rushing through his veins as the dizziness ebbed.

Astarion shifted over him, fluid and graceful, straddling his lap with ease. The way he moved, so sure of himself, so effortless in his control, made Gale’s pulse stutter. He leaned in, his breath tickling the shell of Gale’s ear.

“Let me know,” Astarion whispered, his voice all silk and sin, “and I’ll stop.”

Gale shuddered at the way the words curled around him, how they felt like a promise and a challenge all at once.

Then Astarion pulled back, just enough to look into Gale’s eyes, his body still resting against him, all lean muscle and cool skin. One hand lifted, fingers trailing through Gale’s hair before brushing it back behind his ear. The gesture was unexpectedly tender.

Gale found himself utterly captivated, his breath caught in his throat. Astarion was beautiful in a way that was almost unreal. The sharp cut of his jawline, high cheekbones that could have been sculpted from marble, the delicate yet predatory curve of his lips. His skin, pale as moonlight, bore a faint, unnatural glow in the dimness, untouched by age, unmarred by time. His hair, silvery-white, curled just so, wild yet perfect in its disarray. And then there were his eyes…

“You’re just so beautiful,” Gale whispered, his voice barely more than breath, as if speaking any louder would shatter the moment between them.

Astarion chuckled softly, the sound low and rich. He tilted his head, lips ghosting over Gale’s cheek before pressing a fleeting kiss there. “I kn—”

He never finished. Gale pulled him in, hands curling around the back of his neck, fingers threading through his silken hair. The kiss was urgent, desperate, as if he were trying to drown in Astarion, to pull him closer, to keep him there. Astarion let out a surprised hum against his lips but quickly melted into it, parting his mouth just enough to tease Gale’s lower lip between his teeth.

When they finally parted, Gale’s lips were tingling, his breath uneven. Astarion didn’t pull away entirely, letting his forehead rest against Gale’s, their noses brushing as the wizard exhaled a ragged breath.

“Beautiful,” Gale whispered again, as if it were the only word he had left in his lungs.

Astarion smirked, but there was something different in his eyes now—sadness. He sat back slightly, shifting against Gale’s lap, his body moving with that same effortless grace. The shift sent another wave of heat rolling through the wizard, but he barely noticed, too focused on the flicker of something deeper in Astarion’s gaze.

“You really would have been so easy to lure back to Cazador…” Astarion purred, tilting his head as though studying him, lips quirking in amusement. His voice was playful, but there was a shadow of sadness beneath it.

Gale’s breath hitched, but he didn’t look away. Instead, he reached up, fingers ghosting over Astarion’s jaw, feeling the coolness of his skin beneath his touch.

“I’ll help you.”

Astarion blinked, momentarily thrown from whatever teasing remark he had been about to make.

“What?”

“I’ll help you kill Cazador.” The words left Gale’s lips before he could second-guess them. He closed his eyes briefly, as if bracing for what he had just committed himself to. When he opened them again, Astarion was still watching him, eerily still.

“Even if that means helping you take his place in the ritual.”

Astarion’s smirk faltered, just for a second. The mask slipped—just a crack. And in that moment, Gale swore he saw something raw flicker in his crimson eyes. Hunger, power, longing, doubt.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Chapter Text

“That was unpleasant,” Gale grumbled, panting as he leaned on his staff, surveying the wreckage left behind in the tower’s highest chamber. Shards of ice and scorch marks littered the floor, the last remnants of their battle with Lorroakan and his myrmidons. His muscles ached, and the residual hum of expended magic still lingered in his veins, leaving him drained but victorious.

Lorroakan lay motionless at their feet, his robes singed, his once-mighty staff now a lifeless relic beside him. Silence settled over the chamber, thick and heavy, before it was shattered by hurried footsteps.

Rolan came storming in, his face twisting in anger and disbelief as his gaze fell upon his fallen master. His hands curled into fists at his sides, barely containing his fury.

“What in the Nine Hells is going on?” Rolan demanded, his voice sharp with accusation. His horns caught the flickering light as he stepped closer. “What did you do?”

Astarion let out an exaggerated sigh, already exasperated. “The man was a cunt,” he seethed, stepping subtly in front of Gale. The movement was slight but unmistakable—an instinctive shield between the wizard and the fuming tiefling. Gale noted it with a flicker of appreciation but kept his focus on Rolan.

“He was…” Rolan started, hesitation in his voice before he forced himself to stand taller. “He was supposed to teach me. I was meant to become the most powerful wizard in Faerûn.”

“You were his apprentice, then,” Gale said, his tone shifting from weariness to understanding. “Take over the tower. Continue your studies. A wizard is only as good as their education.”

Rolan’s gaze flickered down to Lorroakan’s corpse. “He was a cruel man, and I took it. I accepted it as the price for greatness—the suffering.” His jaw clenched. “Why did I endure all of that, just for him to die now?”

“To take his place,” Minthara interjected, her voice cool and measured. For once, she and Gale were aligned. “Rise to the challenge and accept what fate has afforded you.”

Rolan’s grip on his own staff tightened, eyes darting between them before finally settling on Lorroakan’s fallen weapon. With steady hands, he bent to pick it up. The weight of it settled into his palm like an inheritance he hadn’t been prepared for.

“I owe you a debt,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, more controlled.

“We’ll collect on that,” Astarion replied smoothly, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “Don’t you worry.”

With that, they left Rolan standing in the chamber, the weight of his new future pressing down upon him.

As they stepped through the portal, finding themselves once more in the tower’s main hall, Gale slowed his pace. “I will meet you all back at the tavern,” he announced, glancing toward the grand bookshelves that lined the chamber. “Ramazith’s is known for its collection of rare tomes.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Astarion offered immediately. “Watch your back.”

Karlach snorted behind him. “Of course you will,” she teased before sauntering off with Minthara, leaving them alone.

As soon as the others were out of earshot, Astarion turned to Gale with a slow, predatory smirk. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, filled with mischief. “Don’t you dare heal all those pretty little wounds just yet.”

Heat crept up Gale’s neck, a blush blooming across his face. He glanced around the hall. “We’re not exactly somewhere private.”

“Then we’ll have to find somewhere,” Astarion murmured, his smirk deepening as he grabbed Gale’s wrist and tugged him toward a door off to the side of the grand staircase. He rattled the handle, finding it locked. With an exaggerated sigh, he crouched down, pulling a set of delicate lockpicks from his belt. His fingers moved with practiced ease, barely hesitating as he worked the mechanism.

With a satisfying click, the door swung open. “After you,” Astarion purred, pushing it open and guiding Gale inside.

Gale barely had time to close the door and weave an arcane lock over it before Astarion was on him. He pulled back the wizard’s tattered robes with deliberate slowness, revealing a constellation of cuts and scrapes from the ice myrmidon’s barrage.

Astarion hummed, admiring the damage before sweeping Gale’s hair away from his neck. He leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses to each wound, his lips cool against overheated skin. His fangs grazed over the marks, teasing, as though savoring the taste of spilled blood. The temptation was there—Gale could feel it in the way Astarion lingered, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly.

His hands roamed lower, fingers dancing over the bruises and scratches with an almost reverent touch. Each press of his lips sent a shiver racing down Gale’s spine. Astarion’s restraint was palpable, a thinly held thread of control as he relished every inch of exposed flesh.

And gods, it thrilled Gale to know that control was for his sake alone.

“You make it so hard for me to focus, you know,” Astarion murmured against Gale’s neck, his voice thick with something between longing and frustration. His lips brushed over a faint scratch, his breath cool against the warmth of Gale’s skin. “As soon as anything draws blood from you, I…”

He trailed off, his sharp teeth grazing over the sensitive skin of Gale’s throat—not biting, just teasing, as though savoring the thought.

Gale let out a breathless laugh, trying to suppress the shiver that ran down his spine. “I don’t know if I should feel more touched or worried.”

That made Astarion pause. He drew back just enough to meet Gale’s gaze, and for once, the usual mischief in his crimson eyes softened into something far more earnest. His expression was unguarded in a way it rarely ever was—vulnerability, sincerity, things Astarion so often buried beneath wit and indulgence.

“I don’t like to see you hurt anymore,” he admitted, voice quieter now, rawer. His thumb brushed absently over a bruise along Gale’s collarbone. “As fun as this is…”

Gale smiled, bringing a hand up to Astarion’s wrist, lightly tracing the veins there. “I have the means to heal myself,” he assured him. “Quite easily, in fact.”

Astarion’s fingers twitched, his jaw tightening. He exhaled sharply, clearly not satisfied with the answer. “And what if you don’t get that chance?” His free hand came up to cup Gale’s cheek, his touch uncharacteristically gentle, almost hesitant. “What if you die before you even have the chance to mutter an incantation?”

Gale held his gaze, sensing the deeper fear buried in Astarion’s words. The thought of losing him—truly losing him—wasn’t just a possibility in Astarion’s mind. It was a very real, very likely future, one that clawed at him with every battle, every reckless spell cast too close to danger.

“Well,” Gale mused, his voice deliberately light, “then I hope you find some way to revive me hastily before I level half the city with a posthumous magic surge.”

Astarion scoffed, but his lips quirked slightly at the corner. Gale took the moment of softened tension to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, lingering just long enough to feel the way Astarion exhaled at the contact.

“As for distracting you…” Gale murmured, his fingers slipping into the silver curls at the nape of Astarion’s neck.

He didn’t give Astarion the chance to respond before he kissed him—deeply, fiercely. It wasn’t just a kiss of indulgence, of playful teasing. It was a promise, a reassurance, a desperate craving to feel and be felt. Astarion melted into him, his grip tightening as he pulled Gale closer, as if the space between them was an unbearable thing.

When they finally broke apart, Gale’s forehead rested against Astarion’s, both of them catching their breath.

Gale’s voice was a whisper against his lips. “That seems like something you’ll just have to improve on.”

Chapter Text

“What are you reading?” Astarion’s voice was smooth as he joined Gale by the fire, the warmth casting flickering light across his pale features.

Gale cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious under Astarion’s gaze. He tilted the book slightly in his hands, debating whether to be honest or evasive. “It’s…”

Astarion dipped down, closing the space between them with an ease that was both casual and deliberate, his head tilting just enough to read the cover for himself.

“The Curse of the Vampyr,” he read aloud, his lips curling into something between amusement and curiosity as he straightened again. “Interesting choice. What in the hells could be drawing you to read that?”

“Re-reading,” Gale corrected, adjusting his grip on the book. “Truthfully, I found and read it not long after we started our journey with you.”

Astarion’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “By chance?”

“You weren’t exactly subtle.”

Astarion scoffed, tossing his hair back with a dramatic flick of his head. “I hid my true nature spectacularly.”

Gale gave him a pointed look before reaching out, his fingers brushing against the cool skin of Astarion’s face. With deliberate care, he used his thumb to lift Astarion’s upper lip, exposing the sharp point of a fang.

“You know we can all see these when you talk, right?” Gale murmured.

Astarion jerked his head back, scowling, his expression somewhere between irritation and embarrassment. “There’s plenty of reasons for sharp canines.”

“And the pale skin, the red eyes, sneaking away from camp at night when you thought we didn’t notice,” Gale added smoothly, watching Astarion’s reaction.

The vampire’s expression tightened. “We?”

“We all knew…”

“I see.” Astarion’s face twitched, his usual mask slipping for a fraction of a second before he schooled his features into something more neutral. But the way his fingers curled slightly against his thigh betrayed the tension creeping into his frame. The firelight cast deep shadows across his face, highlighting the lines of his furrowed brow.

Gale studied him. “Are you okay?”

Astarion let out a small, dry laugh, but there was no humor behind it. His voice was softer when he finally spoke. “You all kept me around, despite knowing what I was?”

Gale blinked, momentarily thrown by the vulnerability in Astarion’s tone. “What did you expect?”

“A stake through the heart, for starters.”

Gale huffed a quiet chuckle. “Perhaps it was the ‘cold beauty’ and ‘charm’ that spared you until we grew to trust you.” He lifted the book slightly, quoting its worn pages. “Perhaps none of us felt we could really judge you.”

“Really?” Astarion’s fingers skimmed the book’s cover before he plucked it from Gale’s lap. He let his eyes scan the page before him, then read aloud, his voice edged with something unreadable.

“And if the Beast finds a way into your home, flee. Leave love and family behind. You will not save them if you fight. You will not see them again. But they will see you, pale and smiling, calling them into the night.”

Gale’s jaw tightened slightly. “The book lacks nuance.”

Astarion exhaled a short, quiet breath—almost a laugh, but not quite. “You feel you can trust the beast of this fairytale?” His tone was less mocking now, more searching.

“I think I could defeat the beast of this fairytale,” Gale answered, the sudden steel in his voice catching Astarion off guard.

Astarion’s fingers twitched against the book’s spine. The shift was small, but Gale caught it—saw the brief flicker of something wary in Astarion’s eyes, the way his muscles tensed just slightly, as if expecting something. A fight. A threat. Something worse.

But Gale didn’t move, didn’t reach for a weapon. He simply continued, his voice even. “You’re not the monster you think you are, but Cazador is—and more.”

Astarion inhaled sharply, his shoulders going rigid.

“I am the monster.”

“Astarion…”

“That Gur,” Astarion interrupted, his voice suddenly tight. “The monster hunter that was looking for me.”

Gale hesitated. “He doesn’t know you.”

“But he does.” Astarion’s voice had dropped to something quieter now, rougher around the edges. “I didn’t recognize him before, but you could say it’s been on my mind.”

He paused, his fingers pressing just slightly into the book’s cover before he let his eyes close. A long, slow breath escaped through his nose, though it did little to loosen the tension in his frame.

“I stole his children. All their children. I brought them to Cazador to drain dry. A whole generation of their group, wiped out in one night.”

The fire crackled between them, filling the heavy silence.

Gale’s expression remained unreadable. “You were enslaved.”

“It was one of the few times I felt myself… enjoy it.” Astarion admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He still didn’t look at Gale—couldn’t bring himself to. Not yet. He was bracing for it, waiting for the shift in the air, the disgust, the condemnation, the certainty that he was irredeemable.

He swallowed hard, his voice hoarse when he finally added, “Gur took my future from me… so I took their children. I took their future.”

Gale sat in stillness, his gaze fixed on Astarion, who remained unnervingly quiet. The vampire’s usual sharp wit and calculated elegance had abandoned him, leaving behind something raw and unguarded. He sat rigid, hands clutched tightly around the book, as if it might anchor him against the weight of his own confession.

Gale should be horrified. He should feel revulsion, or at the very least, unease at what Astarion had admitted. But as he studied the elf’s face, the flickering firelight illuminating the tension in his features, Gale found something else entirely—regret. And it was not the regret of someone who had merely been caught, but of someone who had long since condemned themselves.

A single tear slipped down Astarion’s cheek, carving a slow path through the pale, pristine skin. The sight of it struck something deep in Gale’s chest, an ache that had nothing to do with magic or logic.

Astarion let out a sharp, uneven breath—a gasp, or maybe a quiet sob. Gale couldn’t quite tell. He only watched as Astarion brushed the tear away as if hoping to erase the evidence of it before it could betray him further.

“I cannot begin to imagine two hundred years of subjugation and torture,” Gale murmured, his voice low but steady. “Sometimes I forget just how unfathomably you have suffered.”

Astarion let out another sob, more unguarded this time, the sound barely above a whisper yet heavy enough to send a tremor through his frame. His fingers tightened around the book, knuckles pale and rigid, pressing it hard against his chest as if he could force himself to hold together by sheer will.

Another tear broke free, trailing down to his jaw before vanishing into the firelight. And still, he refused to look at Gale.

As gently as he could manage, Gale eased forward, moving with the careful slowness one might use when approaching a wounded animal. He wrapped his arms around Astarion, pulling him into a warm, steady embrace—one that was meant to reassure, to shelter, to remind the vampire that he was not alone.

Astarion remained rigid at first, his entire body stiff as if resisting an instinctual urge to recoil. For a moment, Gale thought he might pull away entirely. But then, bit by bit, the tension bled from Astarion’s frame. His sharp edges softened and finally—finally—he allowed himself to melt into the embrace, pressing his forehead lightly against Gale’s shoulder.

“You still trust me?” Astarion asked, voice quiet but laced with vulnerability.

“With my life, evidently,” Gale assured him, his tone light but unwavering in its sincerity.

Astarion let out a breath—halfway between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’s not exactly a good measure,” he pointed out, some of his usual dry wit creeping back in. “I’d be a fool to kill you, knowing what that orb would do.”

Gale chuckled, a genuine, warm sound, and gave a slight shake of his head. “I love it when you use logic to outwit me,” he said, his smile evident even in his voice. He nuzzled gently into Astarion’s hair, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of his head.

Astarion hesitated, and then, so quietly that only Gale could hear, he whispered, “I love you.”

Gale’s breath hitched, his heart stumbling over itself.

“Oh.”

Oh?

That was all he managed. Just one useless syllable, spoken with the elegance of a man who had just been struck upside the head with a frying pan. He immediately wanted to slap himself. Astarion had just told him he loved him, and all he could do was say ‘oh’

By Mystra’s divine wisdom, how had he ever managed to romance a Goddess in his youth? That was a bloody mystery to him now.

Gale almost felt like he needed to keep Astarion in his embrace, as if letting go would make the weight of his hesitation all the more tangible. If he held him a little longer, maybe the moment wouldn’t shift—maybe Astarion wouldn’t realize just how slow he had been to respond. Without thinking, he tightened his hold, pressing the vampire just a fraction closer.

Astarion stiffened.

A small, barely perceptible breath escaped him before he cleared his throat, a sharp sound cutting through the quiet. He pushed away, extracting himself from Gale’s arms with a careful but determined movement.

“I need a moment, Gale.” His voice was controlled, but his expression—Gale caught a brief glimpse before he turned away—was not.

And then he was gone, slipping back toward his tent with graceful, deliberate steps, his usual confidence barely masking the emotion that lingered beneath the surface. Gale remained by the fire, arms still half-curled around the space where Astarion had been, now empty and cold.

Then, without warning, a wave of heat pressed against his side.

Gale startled, turning sharply—only to find Karlach crouched beside him, her face unreadable despite her proximity. The flickering firelight danced across her muscled red frame, but her gaze was steady, serious.

“You two are so cute,” she said at last, her tone completely at odds with her grave expression.

“Oh, um…” Gale blinked, caught utterly off guard. “Thank you?”

Karlach didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk. Just stared.

And then, with slow, deliberate intent, she leaned in, her face level with his, her voice low and ominous.

“If you break his heart,” she murmured, her breath warm against his skin, “I’ll break your arms.”

Gale swallowed. Loudly.

Chapter Text

Gale let himself fall asleep alone that night, unwilling to disturb Astarion before he was ready. The absence of his usual presence beside him felt strange—a weight missing from his side, a coolness where warmth should have been. He didn’t reach out, didn’t try to coax the vampire back to him. He waited.

When he stirred in the depths of the night, blinking blearily in the dim glow of the dying fire, he found Astarion beside him after all. Not lying down, not truly resting, but caught in the trance-like stillness that served as his form of sleep. His sharp features were serene in the flickering light, lashes dark against his pale skin, mouth parted just slightly as if caught in some dream he would never tell Gale about.

Gale couldn’t help himself. With the gentlest touch, he brushed aside a stray curl that had fallen across Astarion’s forehead, his fingers barely skimming the vampire’s cool skin. And then, leaning in, he pressed the lightest, most careful kiss to the spot where his touch had just been.

A sharp movement—too fast to react to—cut through the stillness.

Astarion’s hand snapped up, fingers gripping Gale’s chin with an iron force, nails digging in just enough to sting.

“Ouch!” Gale yelped, jerking back, his heart lurching at the sudden shift.

Astarion’s eyes were wide, wild for a brief second before recognition set in. His grip loosened immediately, fingers trembling slightly as he pulled away.

“Sorry, sorry,” Astarion blurted out, frantic and breathless. “I forgot it was you. I forgot where I was.”

Gale rubbed at his chin, wincing slightly. “Who else would be kissing you in your sleep?” he shot back, the words leaving him before he could consider them.

Astarion flinched, just slightly, as if the sharpness of Gale’s tone had landed like a slap.

Gale sighed, already filled with regret. “Sorry.”

Astarion let out a bitter little laugh, shaking his head. “Gods, we’re pathetic. Constant apologies and missteps.” His voice was light, but there was something underneath it—something fragile.

Gale shifted closer, his voice softer this time. “How are you feeling?”

Astarion hummed, tilting his head slightly, a smirk creeping across his lips—too practiced, too smooth. “A little peckish, actually.”

Gale hesitated for only a moment before offering his wrist, rolling up his sleeve and holding it out, palm up. His gaze stayed fixed on Astarion’s face, watching for any flicker of hesitation, any sign of resistance.

But Astarion didn’t take it. Instead, he scoffed—then moved, faster than Gale could react. In one seamless, fluid motion, he straddled Gale’s lap, pressing him back against the bedroll with an effortless grace that made Gale gasp.

“Astarion?” he asked, uncertain, pulse quickening.

Astarion only smiled, leaning in, pressing his lips to Gale’s collarbone. His tongue flicked out, tracing lightly over the sensitive skin, his breath warm against it.

“Sorry, did you need time to cast a spell?” he whispered coyly, his voice dipped in amusement.

Gale swallowed hard, trying not to let his thoughts spiral. This was—this was not the moment for this.

“Are you sure this is what you want to do right now?” he asked carefully.

Astarion stilled. It was brief, barely more than a heartbeat, but Gale caught it. A flicker of something—uncertainty? Pain? The vampire’s expression shifted, amusement fading into something more raw, more vulnerable.

He pulled back, his face carefully blank, but Gale could see it now—the wound beneath the performance.

As it writhed beneath his eye, Gale felt the illithid tadpole stir, pulsing with an insidious hunger that was not entirely its own. It whispered of power—of the ability to peer into Astarion’s mind, to pry into his thoughts, to understand. The temptation was overwhelming.

If he looked, he could know why. Why Astarion had suddenly withdrawn. Why the moment had soured. Why his expression had shuttered into careful blankness.

He barely had to push at all. The tadpole leapt at the opportunity, opening the door into Astarion’s mind.

What he found was messier than he’d expected. Thoughts stormed and collided like waves in a tempest, chaotic and tangled, moving too quickly for Gale to grasp at any single one.

And then, they sharpened.

He’s bored of me.

He doesn’t want me.

Do what he likes.

The words struck him, not like a revelation, but a knife twisting deep in his gut. And then, just beneath it, quieter than the rest, more fragile—

Astarion’s voice, small, desperate.

I love you.

And in response—his own voice, clear as if he were reliving the moment—

Oh.

Gale gasped as he wrenched himself free of the illithid’s grasp, heart hammering as he returned to the present. Astarion was still straddling his lap. But the distance between them had never felt so vast.

The vampire was watching him, expression carefully composed—too careful. Too practiced.

Gale knew now. Knew that the blankness was not indifference, but armor. Knew that he had hurt him.

“I won’t leave you, Astarion,” he said, steady and sure. “Talk to me.”

Astarion’s lips parted, but no sound came at first. He hesitated, fingers twitching slightly before they clenched into fists against Gale’s chest.

“I—” He faltered, gathering himself before continuing, voice quieter now. “I need you more than you need me. I… care for you more than you care for me.” A bitter, humorless laugh slipped past his lips. “I let myself fall for you with no guarantee that you wouldn’t go running back to your Goddess the moment she called.”

Gale’s breath hitched. “Astarion—”

“In two hundred years,” Astarion murmured, shaking his head, “I have said those three little words many times before… and that was the first time I ever meant them.”

His voice was too steady, too controlled. But his hands were trembling.

Gale reached out, intent on cupping his face, grounding him, reassuring him—but Astarion leaned away, recoiling just slightly.

“I just wasn’t expecting it,” Gale admitted, voice softer now, full of regret. “I—”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Astarion interrupted, shaking his head again. “You don’t need to love me.”

“I do anyway.”

Astarion froze. His breath hitched ever so slightly, his crimson eyes searching Gale’s face for any trace of a lie. And for just a moment, before he could school his expression back into unreadability, his eyes lit up.

Gale swallowed, heart aching. “Truthfully, I’m terrified.”

Astarion’s voice was quiet when he asked, “Because of what I am?” A beat of silence. “Because of what I want to become?”

Gale let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “The last time I was in love, I acted so foolishly that I put a volatile magical fragment in my chest.” He gave a bitter smile, glancing down at his own heart as if he could see the orb buried beneath his skin. “And the one I thought loved me in return… wants me to blow myself up with it.”

For a moment, Astarion just looked at him, blinking as he considered. Gale expected a sharp retort, some kind of sarcastic quip, but instead, to his utter shock, Astarion began laughing.

At first, it was just a soft chuckle under his breath, but it quickly swelled into something uncontrollable—full-blown hysterical cackling that left him gasping for air. His body trembled with it, his fangs flashing in the dim light, his hand clutching his stomach as if the sheer force of his laughter was physically hurting him.

Gale could only watch, bewildered, as Astarion rolled onto his back beside him, still laughing. The sound was breathless, desperate, like something had finally snapped inside him.

“We’re doomed,” Astarion wheezed, shaking his head, a lopsided grin still lingering on his lips. “We’re both bound to die.”

Gale let out a slow breath, still watching him carefully. “We’re going to stop Cazador.”

Astarion hummed in vague amusement, running a hand through his disheveled curls. “We can certainly try.” He exhaled, then turned his head just enough to glance at Gale. His voice softened, losing some of its bitter amusement. “And we’ll find a way to tame that orb in your chest.”

Gale let out a humorless chuckle, stretching his fingers idly against the fabric of the bedroll. “We can certainly try.”

Silence settled between them, not entirely uncomfortable, but heavy with all the unspoken things they had yet to say. The quiet of the night wrapped around them in quiet isolation.

Then, after a long moment, Astarion shifted, voice dropping to something almost hesitant. “Will you still help me take his place?”

Gale turned his head slightly, taking in the vampire’s carefully neutral expression, the way his fingers twitched slightly against the bedroll as if bracing for an answer he didn’t want to hear.

“I’m not thrilled with the concept of you sacrificing seven thousand souls in order to do so,” Gale reminded him, his voice gentle but firm. “But, I promised. If we can, we’ll do it.”

Astarion’s gaze flickered. “If we can?” he echoed, his voice measured. “And if not?”

Gale met his gaze without hesitation. “Then as I said,” he murmured, “I’m looking forward to that lifetime under the stars with you.”

Astarion stilled, his eyes searching Gale’s for something—doubt, uncertainty, a loophole. But he found none.

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but then he just let out a slow, uneven breath, rolling onto his side to face Gale properly. His fingers reached out hesitantly before brushing against Gale’s own, the touch fleeting, barely there, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want it.

“A lifetime under the stars,” Astarion repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. He huffed a small, breathy laugh.

Gale smirked slightly, shifting just enough for his knee to brush against Astarion’s. “I love you, too.”

Chapter Text

Gale kept his grip firm around Astarion’s hand, sensing the tension in the vampire’s shoulders as they approached the Gur camp. Three days. It had taken three days to convince Astarion to come here, three days of careful persuasion, of Wyll’s insistence and Gale’s own quiet reassurances. Even now, as they neared the heart of the camp, Astarion still radiated unease.

“I still don’t see what good this could do,” Astarion mumbled under his breath, his voice lacking its usual playful lilt. His gaze darted around, tracking every movement among the gathered warriors, like a cornered animal searching for an escape route.

Gale squeezed his hand again before they finally stopped before the Gur leader. She was an older woman, her face lined with age and grief, her short blonde hair tousled by the wind. The leather and plate armor she wore was worn, battle-tested, a testament to a life spent fighting.

“So, the impossible spawn walks among us in the blazing sun,” she said, her tone measured but sharp, assessing him with piercing eyes. “We’ve been looking for you.”

Astarion said nothing, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“When we sent Gandrel after you, we wanted to interrogate you, to discover how to save our children. Then, destroy you.” Her words were blunt, unforgiving. “But things have changed. You have changed. Is it true you left your master, that you broke the spell that binds you to him?”

Astarion hesitated, the rare uncertainty in his expression almost painful to see. “Well… I—I mean… Kind of.” He gestured vaguely, avoiding her gaze. “It’s a long story, honestly.”

“He is free,” Gale said, firm in his conviction.

“Free? Not while his master still lives,” she dismissed. “But he has perhaps earned a second chance. We've tried to save our children once already by attacking Cazador Szarr’s palace at first light. Even then, it was too well defended. But if his own spawn approached—someone he thought he could control—he would throw his doors open and welcome you in.” She stepped closer, voice lowering. “And once inside, you could do what we could not. You could save the children you damned.”

Astarion stiffened, the words striking something deep. His usual mask of sarcasm and bravado cracked, and for a moment, he looked truly vulnerable.

“You don’t know Cazador like I do.” His voice was quiet now, almost hollow. “He’s merciless. You want me to march into the lion’s den and save your children? But I promise you, they’re already dead.”

“How can you be sure?” the Gur leader challenged.

Astarion’s sorrow twisted into anger, his voice sharp with old wounds. “I spent two hundred years bringing him victims. Each and every one was whisked away to be fed on that night.”

“But you never saw him feed yourself,” she countered. “He could keep prisoners for days before killing them.”

Astarion faltered, but Gale spoke before the moment could slip away. “That still implies not every child has survived,” he pointed out.

The Gur leader’s face hardened. “If our children are truly gone, then we ask for blood. I’m sure you could understand that, spawn.”

Astarion exhaled sharply, the bitterness returning. “I suppose, yes… Revenge I can do.” He straightened slightly, his confidence returning, the gleam of bloodlust flickering back into his eyes.

But the Gur leader cut through it before it could take root. “You have lived a life of violence and sin,” she said, voice unwavering. “You have stolen lives, broken families, and caused immeasurable damage. Doing this will not right those wrongs.”

The confidence drained from Astarion’s face. He shrank back, lips parting slightly.

“If you're trying to encourage me, you’re failing abysmally,” he muttered, voice laced with bitterness.

“But it will be a start,” she said. Her tone softened—just a little. “You may still be redeemed.”

The word sat heavy in the air between them. Gale glanced at Astarion, watching the way his jaw clenched, the emotions warring in his crimson eyes.

Astarion didn’t answer. But he also didn’t walk away.

Gale took Astarion’s hand and gave the woman a nod, acknowledging and accepting this mission she had offered, and led Astarion away.

~~~

Astarion's fingers traced absentminded patterns along Gale’s arm, his touch light, almost thoughtful. The act of feeding had left him languid but not sated—his hunger had been dulled, not extinguished. The silence stretched between them, heavy and expectant, until finally, Astarion spoke.

“I feel like I need… something more filling before we confront Cazador,” he admitted, his voice quieter than usual. Not hesitant, exactly, but measured.

Gale, still catching his breath from the bite, turned his head slightly. “Like… a bear?”

Astarion let out a soft huff of laughter. “I’m not sure Halsin would be willing…”

“Astarion.”

“No, not a bear,” he said, rolling onto his back with a sigh. “Animal blood is like filling up on plain rice. I’m technically full… but I’m not… I don't know… another word for ‘full’.”

Gale frowned. “You want to drain someone completely?”

Astarion didn’t answer immediately, but when he did, his voice was steady. “We can find someone deserving if that makes you feel better about it,” he said, tilting his head to study Gale’s reaction. “But, yes.”

Gale felt his stomach twist, not with fear—never that—but with something else. Something uncomfortable, something that lodged itself in his ribs and refused to move. Guilt. “Why do I feel like you’re asking me?”

Astarion shifted onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “I guess I am.” His gaze was unreadable, but there was something searching in it. “I want your opinion. I will probably do it anyway, honestly.”

Gale exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Do you want me to condemn this? What do you want from me here?”

Astarion’s fingers brushed over Gale's, catching his wrist lightly. “I want to know you’re still on my side.”

“You know I am,” Gale said, though the words came out sharper than intended.

“Even if I kill someone more or less innocent?”

Gale hesitated. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say no. He wanted to believe he was still the kind of man who would flinch at the idea of condemning a life for the sake of another.

But the truth was, he had already decided once.

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “But you’ve already managed to convince me to sacrifice seven thousand souls so that you can walk in the sun for eternity.”

Astarion smirked, tilting his head. “So you’re saying you’re basically up for anything then?”

“No.” Gale’s voice carried a warning edge now. “I care about you. I don’t want you to die, or be sacrificed to Mephistopheles. If killing one more person before we fight makes the difference… why not?”

Astarion’s expression flickered, something unreadable passing over his face before he murmured, “You’d trade a life for mine?”

“Evidently, I’m willing to trade seven thousand and one,” Gale said, the words colder than he meant them to be.

Astarion let out a quiet chuckle, but there was something in his gaze that lingered too long. Something almost… admiring. “You’re as cold as me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Gale’s cheek.

Gale didn’t move, didn’t react, but he felt it—the shift in the air between them. The understanding. The quiet, terrible bond that had formed in the wake of too many impossible choices.

The thought crept in slowly, a whisper beneath the surface of his mind. At first, it was nothing more than an errant doubt, the kind that could be dismissed as caution, as pragmatism. But then it settled deeper, rooted itself in his ribs, and refused to be ignored.

Gale wondered if he had fallen back into a pattern—one he had thought he’d left behind. A pattern of self-sacrifice, of putting himself in danger not out of necessity, but out of something more insidious. Recklessness disguised as devotion. Hadn’t he done this before? Hadn’t he given too much, bled too freely, just to prove himself worthy of love?

And with that realization came another, darker still.

Was he making a terrible mistake?

He had convinced himself that helping Astarion ascend was necessary. That without it, Astarion would never truly be free. That it was power or death, and power, at least, could be wielded with purpose. But hadn’t he justified things before? Hadn’t he rationalized his own destruction in the name of something greater?

Astarion had already done so much to prove that he could be different from Cazador, but what if this changed him? What if, by helping him claim this power, Gale was not liberating him, but damning him?

He glanced at Astarion, at the sharp angles of his face, the way his crimson eyes gleamed with a hunger. There was something intoxicating about him, something that made Gale feel unmoored, weightless. But had that been what drew him to him in the first place? The danger of it? The way it felt to teeter on the edge of death as he allowed Astarion to hold his life in his hands.

His fingers twitched at his side. He had already sacrificed so much. His future, his past, his very sense of self. And now he was standing at the precipice of yet another irreversible decision.

Would Astarion thank him for it? Or, in the end, would he look back on this moment and curse him for his blind faith?

Gale swallowed hard, but the unease in his gut remained.

~~~

With Astarion out hunting the perfect victim, Gale found himself visiting somewhere he never expected he would—Sharess’ Caress. He moved with purpose through the lavish hallways, avoiding the various hosts and whores who beckoned to him with teasing smiles and honeyed words. The air was thick with perfume, wine, and candle wax, a blend that clung to his senses as he ascended the stairs.

He knew exactly where to go.

Reaching the door, he knocked once. It swung open almost immediately, revealing Raphael lounging within, as though he had been expecting him. The devil was dressed in his usual finery, sprawled across a chaise like a panther basking in the sun. His smile was slow, indulgent.

“So you’ve come to reconsider my deal,” Raphael purred, his voice a rich melody of amusement and arrogance.

“Not at all,” Gale dismissed the notion with a flick of his fingers, stepping inside. “I’m here to discuss Astarion.”

Raphael’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—mild interest, perhaps. “Who?”

Gale rolled his eyes, already exasperated. “The vampire spawn with the infernal ritual carved into his back. Who else?”

Raphael exhaled through his nose, reclining further. “Ah, that one. What of it?”

Gale didn’t hesitate. “What will happen to the one who ascends?”

Raphael raised a brow. “I’ve already explained this. They become the most powerful undead in the entire realm. Certainly one of the most powerful beings to walk the planes.”

“Sure, power, great…” Gale waved off his dismissiveness. “But what will become of their personality? Will they be the same?”

Raphael laughed, a deep, knowing sound. “Your pet spawn wishes to ascend, and you’re worried about his soul?”

Gale refused to be baited. “It’d be foolish to let him ascend if it turns him into a monster that turns on us. We’d be creating a new enemy.”

“True,” Raphael mused, his tail flicking lazily behind him. “And if not, you’ve gained a very powerful ally.”

“He’s already a powerful ally.” Gale’s voice was firm.

Raphael chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m not the one you’re trying to convince.”

Gale exhaled sharply through his nose. “You haven’t answered my question.”

Raphael’s smirk sharpened. He stood, slow and menacing, circling Gale like a predator savoring the moment before a kill. His voice dropped, rich with amusement.

“I think I have,” he murmured.

Gale didn’t flinch, meeting the devil’s gaze with steely determination. “Indulge me.”

Raphael’s eyes gleamed, his smile widening just slightly. “You want to protect the soul of your lover,” he mused, tilting his head. “And yet, you forget one crucial detail—”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a silken whisper.

“He has no soul to begin with.”

Chapter Text

“Did you have any luck on your search?” Gale asked, handing Astarion a silver goblet of wine as the fire crackled low between them.

Astarion’s fingers brushed his as he accepted the cup, but his eyes flicked away, scanning the small campsite with uneasy precision. Wyll and Karlach sat together across the fire, their laughter hushed under the veil of night, sharing a story or perhaps arguing gently about its details. Minthara, by contrast, sat apart—stoic, intense, eating slowly as though the act of chewing was part of some internal meditation. Her eyes, though seemingly fixated on the flames, missed nothing.

“You want to discuss that now?” Astarion whispered, voice low and smooth, curling like smoke.

“Minthara won’t mind. I doubt she’s listening.”

“I am,” she muttered flatly, spearing another bite of meat with her knife.

Astarion grimaced and looked away. “Wyll?” he asked, his voice still hushed, though his tone bore a sharper edge as he avoided looking at the new devil outright.

“He’s busy,” Gale said with a faint smirk. “Was that a yes or no?”

Astarion’s lip twitched, and he took a sip of the wine before murmuring, “Perhaps. He certainly won’t be missed. I was thinking… I could compensate his family—anonymously, of course.”

“He has a family?” Gale asked, surprised.

“He’s not going to be missed,” Astarion repeated, as if that settled it. “He’s cruel. They’ll be better off without him.”

“I see.” Gale lowered his gaze to the fire, though his thoughts stirred restlessly beneath the surface.

Minthara had shifted slightly closer, silent but unmistakably attentive now.

“Does he have children?” Gale asked, though he already regretted the question the moment it left his lips.

Astarion exhaled slowly through his nose. “One on the way.”

Minthara didn’t flinch. “His death should be slow and painful.”

“Agreed,” Astarion replied calmly, raising his cup in a mock toast. “One problem, however.”

“What is it?” Gale asked.

“He’s a Flaming Fist,” Astarion said.

Minthara scoffed. “You give a man a modicum of power and look what he does with it.”

That struck Gale harder than he expected. His hand drifted almost unconsciously to his chest, where the corrupted Weave pulsed faintly beneath his skin like a living ember. That raw, humming power—the tether to the orb, to the destruction he carried—was a reminder of how far he’d strayed from his god, from penance. He had defied Mystra’s judgment. Continued on, as if the warning meant nothing. As if his hunger for power could be justified through love and survival alone.

His throat tightened.

“Are you alright?” Astarion’s voice cut through his thoughts, warm and concerned, but with an undertone of suspicion.

“I’m fine,” Gale lied, massaging the back of his neck as if it ached. “I guess I’m just tired.”

Astarion tilted his head, studying him, but said nothing. Gale hesitated, then leaned in, close enough that Minthara couldn’t hear.

“Would you mind not feeding from me tonight?”

Astarion’s brows knit together, surprised by the request, but he nodded. Still, he caught Gale’s chin gently between two fingers before he could pull away and guided him into a kiss. Soft, unhurried, searching.

Gale melted into it for a moment, letting himself forget the weight on his chest.

“Ooo,” Karlach teased playfully from across the fire.

Gale broke the kiss with a small laugh, brushing Astarion’s cheek with a kiss of his own before standing. “Goodnight,” he murmured, and turned toward his tent.

He could feel Astarion’s eyes lingering on his back, and it made the storm inside him ache all the more.

~~~

When the last of the camp’s idle chatter died and the crackling fire dimmed to embers, Gale waited a few heartbeats more before moving. He held his breath as he quietly untied the flap of his tent and slipped out into the cool night air. His pack was already prepared—carefully, methodically—with scrolls, his staff, and just enough supplies to avoid raising suspicion. He moved silently past the others, each of their tents like sentinels in the dark, and didn’t exhale until he reached the tree line that marked the camp’s edge.

Baldur’s Gate’s lower city felt almost peaceful at this hour, the usual raucous energy tucked away behind shuttered windows and closed taverns. His boots echoed faintly along the cobblestone alleys, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to believe he was alone. That he had escaped. That he could do this, quietly, and no one would have to know the choice he’d made.

But that illusion shattered the moment someone behind him cleared their throat.

“And where might you be going at this hour, all alone?” Astarion's voice cut through the silence like a blade, calm but laced with warning.

Gale froze, his shoulders stiffening before he slowly turned around. The vampire was leaning casually against a lamppost, arms crossed, red eyes gleaming under the flickering light.

“I’m sorry,” Gale said quietly, guilt already tightening his throat.

Astarion stepped forward, gaze flicking over the staff in Gale’s hand, then to the bulging satchel of scrolls at his side. His jaw clenched.

“You promised,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice low but no less furious for it.

“I promised I would help you stop Cazador,” Gale whispered. “And I will stop him.”

“By yourself?” Astarion scoffed, his voice rising.

“Will you keep your voice down?” Gale hissed. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Oh, forgive me,” Astarion said, venom curling around his words. “Are you worried something might be lurking in the shadows? Something dangerous? How terribly ironic.”

“I’m doing this for you.”

“Bullshit,” Astarion hissed, eyes flashing. “You think I’ll become a monster. You don’t believe I can handle the power of Ascending.”

“I don’t think anyone can,” Gale countered, his voice quiet but firm.

Astarion began to pace around him, slow and predatory, like a caged animal. “You think he’ll go down so easily? That Cazador’s centuries of cruelty and cunning will just fall at your feet?”

“I have a back-up plan,” Gale murmured.

Astarion stopped dead, narrowing his eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’ll be a guarantee,” Gale said with a shrug that tried to look confident, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease.

“Oh, fuck off.” Astarion stepped forward, grabbing Gale’s wrist. His grip was strong but trembling, as if fury barely contained itself beneath his pale skin. “We were going to help each other survive. To be free. Why are you doing this?”

“I believe you have a soul,” Gale whispered, gazing into those crimson eyes.

“Don’t start spewing some kind of soulmate garbage,” Astarion snapped, voice faltering.

“I love you. I want you to still be you when we’re free.”

Astarion stilled. His expression flickered—pain, doubt, a longing he rarely allowed to surface. “That’s a pretty good line. I’ll give you that,” he sighed, shaking his head. “But I can’t let you do this. I want you to still be here when I’m free.”

Gale softened. In the moonlight, Astarion looked hauntingly beautiful—sharp angles bathed in silver, wounded eyes glowing with something fragile. “I do too,” Gale said, gently.

Astarion tugged him closer by the wrist, so close Gale could feel the cold of his breath. “Then stay. Wait for me to be ready.”

“Don’t ascend.”

“I’ll be a spawn forever,” Astarion said quietly, bitterly. “Forced to prowl alleyways at night again. No agency. No future.”

“Please, Astarion,” Gale breathed, his voice breaking.

“You promised me a lifetime under the stars…” Astarion whispered, almost mournful. “I want that with you. Truly.”

“But?”

“But I can no longer trust your promises.”

“Astarion—”

“I asked too much,” Astarion laughed to himself, joyless. “That was my fault. It was honestly a stretch of your moral compass to be involved with me in the first place.”

“What?” Gale blinked.

“Spare me the shock.” Astarion rolled his eyes, voice trembling. “I know you found my actions and whims to range from distasteful to downright evil. That’s why I was shocked when you offered to let me feed from you in the first place. Then to develop feelings for me? To help me ascend because you think I’m pretty?”

“It’s more than that,” Gale growled, yanking his wrist free only to seize Astarion’s shirt by the collar. He gripped it tight in both hands, dragging them nose to nose. “So much more.”

Astarion didn’t flinch. His voice, despite the closeness, was a dry rasp. “Yes, I’m also a poor, sad vampire boy—let me drape myself over a cushion and tell you my tragic tale of woe. You want to fix me, right? Make me whole? Murder and darkness will be my life forever… unless I ascend.”

“Or you’re cured,” Gale said, his words firm, laced with desperate hope.

“Cured?” Astarion scoffed, eyes wide with disbelief. “Surely you can’t be that delusional.”

“A skilled enough druid. Or cleric,” Gale said. “One with the right divine connection, the right artifacts… it’s not impossible.”

Astarion pulled back slightly, the collar slipping from Gale’s hands. His lips curled into a half-smile, half-sneer. “Sounds far too good to be true. A fairytale.”

“We have a lifetime to figure it out,” Gale said, his voice gentle—hopeful.

“Not if we die,” Astarion shot back, the bitterness creeping into his voice.

“Then we won’t.”

“I’m not the one heading out on a midnight suicide mission,” Astarion snapped, the restraint in his voice thinning by the second. “What if you leveled half the Lower City? What if your estimations were off and you took us all with you? What then, Gale? You’re no good to me dead. What am I supposed to do without you?”

Gale felt something twist in his chest—shame, affection, guilt, love—all tangling together until he couldn’t quite breathe. There was something raw in Astarion’s voice, something more vulnerable than he usually let show. This wasn’t flirtation or manipulation. This was real.

“I…” Gale hesitated, a flush creeping into his cheeks as his chest tightened with affection. “Can I kiss you?”

Astarion didn’t answer with words. He surged forward instead, crushing their mouths together with a hunger that made Gale's knees weak. One hand gripped at the front of Gale’s robes with desperate need, while the other slipped inside, fingers skimming the warm skin of his chest, searching for contact, for proof that he was alive and real and his.

Gale gasped softly, catching his breath between kisses. “Let’s go back to camp,” he murmured against Astarion’s lips—but then he dove back in, the taste of the vampire’s mouth addictive, intoxicating, full of a yearning he hadn’t expected.

When it was finally Astarion’s turn to pull away, his breath was hot against Gale’s jaw. “We’d better find somewhere soon,” he rasped, pupils blown wide with desire. “Before I let you take me right here in the alley.”

Gale blinked, then grinned, caught somewhere between awe and amusement. “Oh, I would be taking you, would I?”

“I hope so,” Astarion purred, eyes half-lidded, lips brushing against Gale’s ear now. “Unless you’d rather I pinned you to the wall instead.”

Gale groaned softly, heat sparking down his spine. “Camp. Now.”

Chapter Text

Gale’s heart thudded in his chest like a war drum, every beat vibrating through his ribs as he all but ran back to camp, trailing behind Astarion’s quick, determined pace. The vampire’s hand occasionally tugged at his wrist or cloak, urging him faster, his urgency infectious.

The moment they slipped into the privacy of Astarion’s tent, all pretense and restraint fell away. Lips found lips in a frenzied crash, hands scrambling to pull away layers of clothing. Boots were kicked aside, belts unfastened with impatience, robes and shirts tugged over heads or shoved down arms until there was nothing left between them but heat, breath, and skin.

Their bodies pressed together, flesh on flesh, mouths exploring mouths, necks, collarbones, and the curves of shoulders. Gale’s fingers splayed across the ridges of Astarion’s spine as he kissed his way down, slow but hungry, leaving heat and electricity in his wake.

“I want you,” Astarion gasped, his fingers threading through Gale’s hair as his head fell back. “I want you so fucking bad.”

“You have me,” Gale whispered, voice thick with lust. He brought both hands up to cup Astarion’s face, grounding them in the moment. “You can have me. All of me.”

There was a pause, Astarion hesitating for the first time. His mouth opened, then closed, and finally he asked, voice a little sheepish, “Do you—” He swallowed, trying again. “Do you have anything to make things a bit… easier?”

“Easier?” Gale echoed, still kissing his way down the vampire’s chest, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down his torso.

“Smoother… slipperier,” Astarion clarified, his voice low and a little breathless with need, but tinged with nervousness.

Realisation struck Gale like a gentle wave. He sat back on his heels, blinking. “We’re in your tent.”

“Well, I don’t,” Astarion huffed, his curls bouncing as he shook his head. Gale chuckled, amused despite the growing tension between them. “Don’t you have a spell for everything?”

“I might,” Gale said with a grin, shifting to press another kiss to Astarion’s chest. “But before I cast anything…” He looked up, more serious now. “Are you sure?”

Astarion met his gaze. There was no sarcasm, no flippant remark waiting on his tongue. Just quiet vulnerability, unguarded and rare. “I love you,” he whispered, voice so soft Gale almost didn’t hear it. “I trust you.”

Gale reached down, murmuring a soft incantation under his breath as he stroked himself. A subtle shimmer of magic coated his hand, conjuring a smooth, slick substance that made each movement glide with ease. He exhaled steadily, steadying his nerves, his eyes never leaving Astarion’s.

He leaned in, gently hooking his arms beneath Astarion’s legs and lifting them, careful, reverent. As he positioned himself and slowly pressed forward, he watched the elf’s expression shift—eyelids fluttering, lips parting in a gasp, pleasure breaking across his face like sunlight through cloud.

The sight alone nearly undid Gale.

“I need a moment,” he whispered, voice ragged as he fought to remain still, breath caught in his throat.

Astarion gave a breathless laugh, half-teasing, half-tender. “Is this your first time with a mortal, Gale?”

“No,” Gale groaned softly, trying to control himself. “The first man, perhaps. But not the first mortal.”

With a playful glint in his eye, Astarion gave a slow, purposeful roll of his hips. “I'm flattered to be your first, darling… but please—move.”

Gale didn’t need to be told twice.

He leaned forward, kissed Astarion’s throat, and then pushed in deeper, drawing another blissful sound from the vampire’s lips. He began to move, slowly at first, caught between caution and desire. A rhythm built, shaky and passionate, driven by need and affection more than finesse.

It didn’t last long.

Pleasure overtook him far too quickly, and with a strangled groan, Gale came, body trembling as he clung to Astarion like he was the only solid thing in the world.

“Fuck,” he panted, forehead pressed to Astarion’s shoulder. “Sorry.”

But Astarion only chuckled, drawing Gale into a soft, lingering kiss. “It’s alright, my love,” he murmured against his lips.

“No,” Gale breathed, voice low and trembling. He slowly withdrew, trying to steady his breathing as the lingering waves of sensation pulsed through him. Though spent, his body hadn't quite settled—his desire still simmered beneath the surface.

Gently, he lowered Astarion’s legs, then shifted position, straddling the vampire’s lap. With a wave of his hand and a murmured spell, a shimmer of magic washed over them—cleansing, preparing, resetting the space between them with a quiet elegance.

Astarion opened his mouth to ask something—perhaps to check if Gale was sure—but the words never made it out. As Gale sank down slowly onto him, they both exhaled soft moans, their voices mingling in the quiet tent—possibly

Astarion's hands found Gale’s waist, steadying him as he looked up with wide, reverent eyes. “Gods…” he whispered, watching in awe as Gale took him in, breath hitching as their bodies aligned once more.

“You’re… incredible,” he managed to say, though the words didn’t quite capture what he felt—how stunned he was by the wizard’s tenderness, his willingness to ensure Astarion also found release as well. There were so many times, so many nights where he was used to satisfy others and his own bliss was unimportant.

Gale leaned forward, brushing their lips together in a soft, affirming kiss. “So are you.”

Gale moved with a slow rhythm, adjusting to every shift, every breath they shared. Astarion's hands roamed his back, his touch alternating between desperate and hungry. Their lips found each other again and again—brushing, lingering, deepening—until Astarion’s breath began to stutter.

With a shudder and a sharp gasp against Gale’s shoulder, Astarion climaxed, his arms pulling Gale tightly against him as if afraid he might disappear. Gale held him close, letting the moment wash over them both in silence, broken only by the calming rhythm of their breathing.

He whispered a final incantation, the faintest shimmer of magic wrapping around them to clean away the mess of shared need and flesh. A warmth settled in the space where magic had been, soft and comforting.

Gale gently eased to the side, and Astarion followed without hesitation, curling into his chest as Gale tugged the thick blanket over them both. The tent fell into quiet stillness, the sounds of the city far beyond them now.

For once, Astarion didn’t speak. He just breathed against Gale’s neck, calm and content. Gale, fingers idly tracing patterns along the curve of Astarion’s spine, pressed a soft kiss to his hairline.

They didn’t say goodnight. They didn’t need to.

Chapter Text

When Gale awoke, the light of morning filtered softly through the canvas of the tent. It took a moment for his senses to orient—warm blankets, the faint scent of pine and parchment, the solid, familiar weight of another body beside him.

Astarion was already awake, propped slightly on one elbow. He stared at his outstretched hand, holding it up in the beam of sunlight cutting through a gap in the tent flap. The pale skin glowed golden in the light, and Gale watched silently as the elf flexed his fingers, turning his hand as though studying something foreign and miraculous.

There was a strange peace in his expression, a quiet wonderment that made Gale’s chest ache. He didn’t speak, didn’t want to interrupt the reverie.

Eventually, Astarion noticed his gaze and let his hand fall gently back onto his chest. He cleared his throat once, then again as if trying to smooth over the vulnerability that had slipped through.

"Oh." He coughed softly, eyes flicking to Gale’s. "Good morning."

Gale reaching out, fingers ghosting over Astarion’s sharp jawline, then tracing the faint laugh line that curved near his mouth. He followed the path up to the delicate skin between eye and temple, brushing over it with the kind of reverence one might give to a beloved painting.

He continued upward to the pointed tip of Astarion’s ear, earning the faintest twitch, before tangling his fingers through the elf’s tousled silver curls. He leaned in, pressing a slow, tender kiss to Astarion’s lips—soft and unrushed, a quiet promise rather than a demand.

"Good morning," Gale murmured as he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Astarion’s. "Are you okay?"

Astarion hesitated, his crimson eyes still a little dazed, half-lost in the unfamiliar sensation of sunlight warming his skin. For a heartbeat, he didn’t speak—just watched the light play across Gale’s features. Then he gave a slow, reluctant nod.

"I don’t know," he admitted quietly. "I want to stay right here—in this tent, in your arms, specifically—but we have, ugh… responsibilities.”

“Is that what we're calling revenge now?” Gale quipped, arching a brow.

“I’m being responsible by promising to kill Cazador instead of assuming his place in the ritual for my own personal gain,” Astarion replied primly. “Ergo, if revenge is the responsible thing to do… Doesn’t it count?”

Gale huffed a quiet laugh. “You have me there. I’m glad you've changed your mind.”

Astarion’s smirk faded into something gentler. “Honestly, I couldn’t care less about a couple thousand vampiric souls…” he trailed off, eyes flicking toward Gale. “But this exceptionally annoying wizard has managed to convince me to be with him.”

“Exceptionally annoying, am I?” Gale asked, feigning offense.

“You? No!” Astarion gasped theatrically. “Rolan. We’ve been seeing each other behind your back.”

“Oh, have you now?” Gale laughed, brushing his thumb along the sharp angle of Astarion’s cheek. “When exactly have you found time for that?”

“Every time we visit Sorcerers Sundries for scrolls,” Astarion said with dramatic flair, rolling his eyes. “Even through that magical projection, that tiefling thirsts for me.”

Gale chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “Well,” he said, leaning in until their noses nearly brushed, “he’ll have to fight me for you.”

Astarion closed the distance with a hunger in his kiss, one that curled heat through Gale’s chest and down his spine. His hands found Gale’s shoulders as he shifted, guiding them smoothly until he was straddling Gale’s lap. The vampire pressed down, grinding slowly against the unexpected morning wood beneath him—earning a low, surprised moan from the wizard.

Astarion caught that sound with his mouth, kissing him deeper, needier, until Gale had to wrench his mouth away just to breathe something other than Astarion’s breath.

“I might like to see that—depending on what kind of fight,” Astarion murmured, his lips ghosting along Gale’s jaw. “Either way, I end up with the stronger wizard at my side, don’t I?”

“I need you to stop talking about Rolan while you're on top of me,” Gale growled, voice thick and trembling as he dragged Astarion back into another kiss, rougher this time.

Astarion chuckled into it, the sound dark and delighted, especially when he rolled his hips again and felt the reaction it drew. “Have I hit a nerve, Gale?”

That wicked friction sent Gale’s head tipping back, eyes fluttering closed as he gasped—just as Astarion leaned in to sink his fangs gently into his shoulder. Just a taste. A sip. A tease. Gale’s breath hitched, a desperate whimper leaving him.

“Please…” he whispered, voice cracking. “Say my name again.”

Astarion pulled back just enough to let his tongue trace the trail of blood he'd left behind, then up along Gale’s neck until he reached his ear. His voice was a velvet whisper, full of heat and control.

“Gale, my love,” he purred. “Cum for me.”

Gale’s whole body trembled, his breath catching as the pleasure peaked and spilled out between them. He clung to Astarion’s hips, to his back, grounding himself in the weight and warmth of the elf above him as he came, shivering through the aftershocks as Astarion continued to buck his hips against Gale's firm hold.

Astarion leaned down to kiss him again—slower this time, full of satisfaction and affection—before murmuring, “You really are delicious.”

Gale could only groan, chest rising and falling beneath him. “I hope you’re planning to let me return the favor…”

Astarion smirked. “Darling, I’m counting on it.”

Chapter Text

The stench of mildew and rot clung to the damp air of the sewers, heavy and foul. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, echoing through the tunnels like a ticking clock. Astarion, Karlach, and Gale stood before the rubble-choked passageway leading to Szarr’s Palace, the quiet before the storm taut between them.

When Minthara finally emerged from the shadows, her boots slick with grime and a limp body slung over her shoulder, the tension broke like a snapped bowstring. With a grunt of effort, she let the unconscious man fall in a heap at Astarion’s feet, rolling her shoulder with a satisfying pop.

“Hurry up and drain him,” she ordered, her voice sharp and cold as steel.

Karlach shot her a look—brows furrowed, jaw set—but didn’t say anything. Not yet. She’d corner Minthara about it later, away from the others.

Astarion didn’t move at first. His crimson eyes flicked to Gale’s face, a quiet, searching moment passing between them—an unspoken question. Gale gave the faintest nod. Not permission, not encouragement, but understanding.

Astarion crouched beside the man and gripped the front of his shirt, fingers tightening in the fabric until his knuckles whitened. Another glance at Gale. Then he lowered his mouth to the man’s neck.

There was a wet, visceral sound as his fangs pierced flesh, and the man rasped weakly, throat fluttering in a last, panicked gasp. His body jerked once, then went still.

Karlach looked away, her expression tight with discomfort. She focused on a crack in the sewer wall, jaw flexing as she pretended not to hear the sounds of draining life. Minthara didn’t flinch—her eyes locked on the passage ahead, already calculating.

But Gale watched.

He watched the way Astarion’s shoulders trembled with restraint, how his jaw clenched as if fighting the instinct to gorge recklessly. He saw the way Astarion’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, not in pleasure, but in control. When he pulled away, blood slicked his chin and his breath came ragged.

The wizard stepped forward silently, reaching into his pouch for a cloth. He handed it to Astarion without a word.

Astarion took it, wiping his mouth carefully before tossing the bloodied cloth aside. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, voice flat, gaze fixed on the rubble as if he couldn’t bear to meet anyone’s eyes.

Gale laid a hand briefly on his arm. “Let’s.”

~~~

As they moved deeper into the stone corridors of the palace's secret crumbling dungeons, the air grew colder—thick with age, rot and blood.

Astarion’s steps slowed the further they walked. His usual swagger was gone, replaced by a growing sense of disquiet, his crimson eyes darting along the mold-speckled walls, the rusted chains, the iron doors that hadn’t groaned open in decades.

“I never knew any of this was here,” Astarion murmured, his voice barely a breath. He turned in place slowly, taking in the cracked frescoes, the faint scent of blood soaked into ancient stone. “All this time…”

He trailed off.

“Astarion?” came a voice. It was quiet, tremulous—fragile as glass. “Is that really you?”

Astarion froze, his entire body going rigid. His head slowly turned toward the sound, to the tall iron bars of a half-hidden cell tucked in shadow.

“No…” he whispered. His voice cracked. “You're dead.”

Gale stepped closer, peering into the gloom. The man behind the bars looked older than Astarion by decades, with tangled grey hair falling to his shoulders and eyes the same haunting shade of red. Carvings marked his chin—arcane sigils etched deep into his flesh, glowing faintly with residual magic. But worse than any of that was the emptiness in his eyes—like someone who had been hollowed out and never quite put back together.

“Who is he?” Gale asked gently, not pressing, just asking.

Astarion didn’t answer. He looked as though he couldn’t breathe, as if the very air in the dungeon had turned to ash in his lungs.

The man stepped closer to the bars. He didn’t seem to see anyone else—only Astarion.

“You were the one from the tavern,” the man said softly, his voice coated with disbelief and an undercurrent of sorrow. “You got me drunk. Spoke so sweetly. My name sounded like a lyric on your tongue.”

Astarion still didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His hands curled at his sides.

Gale put a hand on his back, grounding. “Astarion? Is this too much? Who is he?”

The vampire’s lips parted slowly, like the name was being dragged out of him. “Sebastian…” A shiver ran through him. “He was one of the first. One of the first people I lured back here—for Cazador.”

Sebastian let out a broken laugh that turned halfway into a sob. “You were my first kiss.” His voice cracked. “Then you destroyed me.”

Then, in a flash of desperation, he lunged forward, arms shooting through the bars. “You ruined my life!” he screamed, his voice reverberating down the corridor like a cry torn from a grave.

Astarion didn’t recoil. He didn’t move. His eyes were wide, his expression stricken. He looked like a man staring at the weight of his own sins, finally made flesh.

“I know…” he whispered. Just that. Nothing else.

The silence that followed pressed in like the stone walls themselves.

“How long have I been down here?” Sebastian asked, his voice barely above a whisper. It carried a tremble that made Gale's chest ache.

Astarion stood in silence, his mouth parted but no words came. His eyes looked haunted, locked onto Sebastian as if seeing him through a thousand memories—each one worse than the last.

Gale felt the urge to intervene, to soften the blow, to protect Astarion from having to speak. But he didn’t know the answer. He couldn’t shield him from this.

“170 years,” Astarion said at last, the words thick with guilt.

Sebastian’s eyes widened with silent horror. He backed away from the bars, shaking his head slowly. “My family…” he choked. “My friends… they're all gone.”

A silence followed—choking, heavy. Until Minthara’s sharp voice cut through it like a knife.

“We don’t have time for this,” she snapped, arms folded, posture tense. But Karlach was already glaring at her.

“Minthara,” she warned, her voice low. The drow flinched—not visibly, but something in her tone made her hold her tongue.

Minthara’s next words came with less bite. “The ritual could start at any moment.”

“Not without me,” Astarion said firmly, finally dragging his eyes away from Sebastian.

“He could have replaced you,” Minthara countered. “You know that’s possible. All of this—he might have moved on without you.”

“She’s right,” Gale added, voice steady. “But we can't just ignore the prisoners. Look around.”

He gestured to the cells—so many of them. Some filled with figures too thin to stand. Others rocking, whispering to themselves. Then, something caught his eye.

Across the corridor, in a small iron-barred cell, were children. Small figures huddled together. As Gale stepped closer, they all looked up in eerie synchrony. Their eyes glowed bright crimson in the dim dungeon light.

He stopped in his tracks, breath catching. “The Gur children…”

Karlach moved beside him—and when she saw, her face crumpled. “He turned them all,” she whispered, voice hollow.

“They’re as good as gone,” Minthara said. “It’d be a mercy to never let their parents see them like this.”

“That should be their choice, Minthy,” Karlach snapped, eyes still on the children. “Don’t decide that for them.”

Minthara said nothing.

“Let’s just confront him already,” Astarion said through gritted teeth. He hadn’t moved since speaking to Sebastian, but his body now trembled with something between rage and fear. “I don’t have time for all this.”

Gale looked at him and nodded. He’d come for Astarion. To support him. That hadn’t changed.

They made their way to the edge of the dungeon corridor, where a wide stone staircase descended into a vast chamber carved from obsidian and crimson-veined marble. The silence down here was unnatural—like the whole place was holding its breath.

At the center of the room was a massive round platform, surrounded by glowing sigils. A dark coffin rested in the middle like a throne of death.

Floating in a wide ring around the platform were six shirtless figures—suspended midair, each shrouded in pulsating crimson light. Threads of red energy stretched between them like a spiderweb, all converging on one point.

There, at the center, standing tall and regal beneath a pillar of bloodlight, was Cazador Szarr.

His long black hair glinted like obsidian in the dim glow. His fine robes shimmered in the glowing red light. He didn’t look surprised to see them.

He looked ready. And he was smiling.

They descended the stairs with caution, weapons drawn and magic coiled tight around their fingertips. Each step echoed with tension, the cold stone humming underfoot like a warning. At the bottom, Cazador Szarr waited, standing at the heart of his ritual like a king upon a throne of shadows. That smug smile curled on his lips like a weapon of its own.

“Who stands before me?” he called out, voice sharp and theatrical—pitched higher than expected. Gale’s eyes flicked toward Astarion in surprise, finally understanding why the vampire spawn had mocked that voice so many times before. “Is this truly our prodigal son?”

Cazador took a long moment to study Astarion's poised stance—tense, shoulders squared, daggers twitching in his grip.

“Do not slouch before me, boy!” Cazador’s smile vanished, replaced by a venomous snarl. “Have you no respect for yourself?”

“He has no respect for you,” Karlach spat, fire already dancing at her fingertips.

Cazador didn’t even acknowledge her. His focus remained locked on Astarion as he continued, each word sharper than the last. “Look at you. Crawling back after abandoning your family. You should be on your knees, begging for our forgiveness.”

Gale had heard enough. The sheer gall of this man—this monster—was too much. He stepped forward and held out a hand, his voice low and forceful. “Incendē.”

A beam of pure radiant light exploded from his palm, striking Cazador in the chest. Sunlight, unnatural and searing, erupted across his robes and skin. The vampire shrieked, clutching at his face as his flesh sizzled.

Temporarily blinded.

“Why did you do that?!” Astarion snapped, spinning on Gale. There was panic in his voice—real, raw. It made Gale flinch, if only for a heartbeat.

“Never mind,” Astarion muttered, rage overtaking him as he charged forward, daggers gleaming.

He reached Cazador in seconds, leaping at the stunned vampire. Just as he raised a blade to plunge it into Cazador’s throat, red energy—twisting like living chains—exploded from the ritual circle. It seized him mid-air and yanked him backward.

He froze, suspended, thrashing uselessly in the glowing tether—the same magic that bound his ‘siblings’.

“You truly forgot my power,” Cazador said, straightening, peeling burned flesh from his cheek as he glared through blistered eyelids. “You truly believed our bond as creator and creation was the only thing stopping you from killing me.”

“Ardē!” Gale cried, hurling another spell toward Cazador—but the fire sputtered and died mid-air. One of the skeletal mages behind Cazador raised a clawed hand, dispelling the fireball with ease.

“You are weak, my child,” Cazador continued, voice thick with disdain. “A small, pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything.”

Astarion grunted, trying to resist, but it was no use. The crimson magic held him immobile, his muscles trembling under the pressure.

“But today,” Cazador said, voice lifting as he raised his staff, “you finally do something useful. You will burn, and I will ascend.”

He drove the base of his staff into the ritual circle with a shuddering slam. The runes around the platform flared to life. Astarion cried out as he was dragged through the air—toward the one empty place in the circle of sacrifice.

His clothes were ripped from him in an instant, shredded by the force of the spell. The scar on his back—his brand—lit up with a red glow, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Gale!” Astarion yelled, voice cracking. “Get me out of this!”

Cazador raised both arms triumphantly. “Witness the birth of the Vampire Ascendant!” he shouted to the chamber.

“Ecce Dominus!” Cazador roared.

Chapter Text

As soon as the words left Cazador’s mouth—Ecce Dominus!—his form dissolved into mist, the red haze twisting upward like smoke from a dying flame.

Gale dashed forward, only to be violently halted midstep. His body froze as glowing sigils erupted around him in a cruel circle, locking him in place. A skeletal mage, standing just beyond the ritual circle, held one bony hand raised—fingers crackling with violet light.

Minthara didn’t hesitate. She shot forward with deadly grace, twin blades cutting down summoned wolves in her path as radiant light seared their flesh. At her side, Karlach let out a furious war cry that echoed through the chamber like a thunder. She charged the skeletal mage, sparks flying from her infernal engine as she slammed her flaming axe into bone and rotting robe.

The mage reeled, shrieking. The spell faltered.

Gale gasped as the arcane binds shattered, stumbling forward from the force of his own halted momentum. He surged ahead, reaching Astarion just in time. The vampire was still suspended midair, twisted in agony, the glowing red magic slowly dragging him back toward the circle.

Gale raised his hands and yanked Astarion downward with a desperate pull, the red threads snapping and vanishing like strands of smoke. Astarion collapsed into Gale’s arms, mildly disoriented, completely enraged.

“I’ve got you,” Gale murmured, holding him upright with one arm around his back. “He won’t have you.”

Astarion’s breath was ragged, eyes flashing with fury. “I’m going to kill him.” He shoved himself away from Gale, stumbling slightly as he took off at a sprint toward the swirling mist that was Cazador. “Summon daylight or something!” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Right,” Gale muttered. He raised his hand, palm facing the centre of the platform. “Dies Lux!”

A sphere of pure sunlight burst into existence above the ritual circle, radiating holy light in every direction. The mist recoiled immediately. Cazador was forced to reform, flesh blistering and peeling where the light touched him. He shrieked in fury, fangs bared.

“You wretched worms!” he snarled, and swung his staff of woe at Astarion. “Perē!”

A bolt of sickly green light shot across the platform and struck Astarion in the chest. He staggered back, clutching at himself. It hit Astarion worse than death. He felt his insides churn as if he were experiencing that pull to the grave again. Like he was melting six feet under the earth without his bones.

“Ut Pulvis!” Gale shouted. A shimmering torrent of golden energy lanced across the space, catching Cazador in mid-motion. The vampire gasped as pieces of his flesh began to crumble, flaking off like ash in the wind. But it wasn’t enough—he held together, snarling through the damage.

Cazador lunged with all that remained of his strength, aiming for Astarion’s throat—only to be intercepted. Minthara appeared behind him in a blur, and with a warrior’s cry, drove her blade through his back and straight out of his chest.

Cazador screamed—his form twisting violently before it dissolved into a beam of crimson mist. It shot across the chamber and slammed into the waiting coffin at the center of the ritual circle.

Silence fell.

“Is it over?” Karlach asked, eyes on the suspended spawn still caught in the red beams above.

“No,” Astarion growled, stepping toward the coffin with slow, determined steps. “He’s not dead yet.”

He shoved the stone lid aside with a screech of protest—dark stone grinding against stone. Inside lay Cazador’s shriveled body, curled like a corpse in mid-decay, but still faintly pulsing with undeath.

“No. No.” Astarion snarled, voice trembling with fury. “No healing sleep for you.”

He grabbed Cazador by the front of his robes and dragged him out, flinging the broken vampire lord to the cold stone floor.

“Wake up!” he bellowed.

Cazador’s eyes snapped open, glowing faintly red. “You treacherous little worm…”

“I’m not the one in the dirt,” Astarion spat, raising a dagger and pointing it at his throat.

“Now is your chance, Astarion,” Minthara said with a hungry smile. “Ascend.”

“What?” Gale and Karlach shouted in unison, both whipping their heads toward her.

“I can do this,” Astarion whispered, half to himself, staring down at the quivering husk of his master. Then he looked to Minthara, eyes blazing. “I need your help now.”

“Wait—wait!” Gale stammered, stepping forward, hands up to halt them both. “Karlach?”

Karlach gave a grim nod, then without ceremony hefted Minthara over her shoulder. The drow snarled and thrashed, cursing in a language neither man nor tiefling needed translation for, but Karlach held firm, hauling her away with brute force.

As their footsteps faded up the stairs, it left only Astarion, Gale, and the ruined form of Cazador.

“Astarion…” Gale began cautiously, voice low, uncertain. “Care to explain?”

“You made it clear that you wouldn’t help me,” Astarion said coldly, not turning. “I shouldn't have let Karlach come along.”

“What?” Gale frowned. “So you’d overpower me and ascend despite me?”

He caught movement from the corner of his eye—Cazador, trying to slither across the stone like the vermin he was. Gale rolled his eyes and flicked a hand.

“Ad Lapidē.”

Cazador froze, body locked mid-crawl, one clawed hand stretched toward the stairs.

“You can still help me,” Astarion said suddenly. His voice cracked—not quite a plea, but not a command either. A breath of hope, breaking through the anger. “Please.”

Gale stepped closer, shaking his head. “You don’t need to ascend.”

He reached out gently, but Astarion pulled his hand away.

“You can be better than Cazador.”

“I’m not as good as you believe I am,” Astarion said, still not looking at him. His voice was quiet now, hollow. “I never was.”

“You don’t need to be,” Gale replied softly. “But you are better than he ever let you be. Better than you think.”

Astarion’s shoulders trembled and sank. Something in his expression shifted—not weakness, but release. The battle was already over. What was left now was was an old deep wound.

From up the stairs, Karlach’s voice echoed down. “Can you hurry up and kill the bastard?!”

Minthara, still slung over her shoulder, was thrashing harder now, spitting fury.

Astarion didn’t answer. He just whispered, “Perhaps you’re right…”

He turned back toward Cazador, who was still locked in place, eyes wide with hate and fear.

“Drop the spell,” Astarion said quietly.

Gale hesitated—but only for a moment—then released the magic holding Cazador in place.

The vampire gasped, but before he could move more than an inch, Astarion was already there. He seized a fistful of Cazador’s hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat.

And then he began to stab.

Once.

Twice.

A dozen times.

There were no words—just screams. Raw, primal, wrung from a throat gone hoarse. It wasn’t battle rage. It wasn’t victory. It was centuries of torment boiling out of him in violent, sound-shattering anguish.

Blood sprayed across his chest, his face, his hands. Still, he kept stabbing. The dagger punched through flesh, shattered ribs, tore through organs that no longer mattered. Each strike was a scream. Each scream carried everything he'd never been allowed to express—fear, shame, agony, helplessness.

Again. Again. Again.

Until his strength gave out.

Until the dagger slipped from blood-slick fingers and clattered against the stone floor with a metallic ring.

He dropped to his knees beside what had once been Cazador, shoulders heaving. His chest rose and fell in rapid, ragged gasps. For a moment he just knelt there, shaking, covered in gore.

Then the first sob broke through. Sharp. Uncontrollable.

And then another.

He curled forward, arms wrapping around himself as if trying to hold himself together, but it wasn’t enough. The tears came hard—loud and gasping, his body rocking with the force of it.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t quiet. It was raw, exposed pain, centuries deep.

Gale dropped down to one knee at his side, silent. He didn’t reach for him—not yet. He only lowered himself to Astarion’s level, watching with quiet, steady presence.

Astarion turned.

Without speaking, without lifting his head, he leaned into Gale, pressing his face against his shoulder. His bloodied hands fisted into Gale’s robes, clutching him as if he might fall apart without something to hold.

And he cried.

Into Gale’s shoulder now—louder, messier, unrestrained. His body shuddered with every breath, every sob. It was grief and rage and relief all tangled together with no way to tell one from the other.

Gale didn’t flinch from the mess of blood or the weight of it all. He simply wrapped his arms around Astarion, drawing him in slowly, one hand curling protectively around the back of his head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

Karlach, finally releasing her grip, let Minthara down with a grunt. The moment her boots hit the floor, Minthara was storming down the stairs, her fury palpable.

Karlach sighed and followed, one hand still on her axe—just in case.

Minthara didn’t hesitate. She marched straight to Gale and Astarion and with one swift movement, kicked Gale hard in the side, knocking him out of the embrace.

Gale grunted in pain and stumbled to the side, catching himself on his palms.

Astarion’s reaction was immediate.

He snatched the dagger from the blood-slick ground and surged upright, his breath still ragged, his eyes red. He pointed the blade directly at Minthara’s face, his hand trembling but his arm steady.

“Touch him again,” was written in every tense line of his body. He didn’t speak, but the message was clear: he would kill her without hesitation.

Karlach stepped between them, raising her hands.

“Alright, alright—everyone take a breath,” she said firmly, though her tone softened as she looked at Astarion. “Astarion, put the dagger down. She’s not going to touch him again.”

Minthara didn’t flinch under the point of the dagger. Her eyes burned with righteous anger. “You fool,” she spat at Gale. “Do you understand what you've done? You squandered everything. He could have ascended! He could have led an army of his own spawn—been the master instead of the broken dog!”

“Enough,” Gale snapped as he pushed himself to his feet, brushing dust off his coat, voice sharp. “You speak of power as though it’s a gift freely given. Do you even know what he would have become?”

“He would have been free,” Minthara snarled. “Untouchable. A god among worms.”

“The cost was too high,” Gale said coldly. “I would not help him become the thing he fought so hard to escape.”

Karlach stepped more squarely between them now, eyeing Minthara. “He made the call, Minthy. You don’t have to like it, but it’s done. So cool off before someone else gets hurt.”

Astarion still hadn’t moved.

His dagger remained aimed at Minthara’s face. His other hand wiped furiously at the tears still streaking down his cheeks, smearing the blood in long red arcs. He was taut—every muscle pulled tight, jaw clenched, breath uneven. Not because he wanted another fight. But because if someone tried to take Gale from him right now, he would spill blood again without a second thought.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

He was a weapon waiting to be loosed.

Karlach placed a hand on Astarion’s shoulder. “You did it,” she said softly. “He’s dead. You’ve already won.”

Astarion didn’t lower the dagger right away. But he blinked. Once. Twice. His breathing began to slow. And finally—finally—his arm dropped to his side.

The dagger hung limp in his hand.

But his eyes never left Minthara.

The silence that followed was broken by footsteps.

Six of them—shirtless, slick with sweat, their skin still marked by the red glowing remnants of the ritual’s hold. Astarion’s siblings. The other sacrifices.

They approached hesitantly, their eyes shifting between each other and Astarion. One of them—a young elf with her pale white hair in a low bun—spoke first.

“Is it… over?”

Another, older, clutched at the place where the magic had once held him. “What are we meant to do now?”

Astarion didn’t look at them at first. He stood there, blood-soaked, still catching his breath, the dagger hanging loose in his grip. He looked down at Cazador’s staff, discarded near the cracked coffin. That grotesque, obsidian rod that pulsed faintly with power.

He finally turned to face the six. “I don’t care what you do,” he said flatly. “Live. Die. Kill each other or don’t. Just stay out of my way.”

They didn’t argue. One by one, the six began to drift apart—some collapsing to sit, others backing away, as if unsure whether they were truly free.

Karlach glanced over at them, then at Gale.

“That’s… not the end of it, is it?”

“No,” Gale said grimly. “There’s still the rest of them.”

Astarion knew exactly who he meant.

The seven thousand.

Seven thousand vampire spawn, including Sebastian and those gur children, locked in cells deep beneath the palace. All caught in Cazador’s twisted vision of ascension. All part of the plan that had died with him.

But not truly dead. Not yet.

Gale stepped forward, his voice low. “With Cazador’s staff, you could make the choice. End them instantly. Free them. Or…” He looked at the staff lying on the stones. “Trap them in there forever.”

Karlach’s jaw tensed. “Seven thousand people, Astarion.”

Astarion’s gaze dropped back to the staff. His fingers twitched at his side.

He didn’t reach for it.

Not yet.

He stepped forward. Just once. His boots echoed against the stone.

And then he bent to pick up the staff.

His fingers curled around the polished black shaft, the dark power humming into his palm. He looked down at it, eyes unreadable. So many years he had lived beneath it. So many centuries others had suffered inside its shadow.

Now, it was his.

And what he did with it…

Chapter Text

Astarion held the staff in both hands, staring down at it.

For a long, quiet moment, no one spoke.

Then he moved.

With a flick of his wrist and a guttural command, the magic surged outward from the staff—reaching far beyond the walls of the ritual chamber, past the platform, down through stone and shadow and barred gates.

Somewhere deep below, thousands of locks snapped open in unison.

He felt it like a weight shifting off his chest.

“It’s done,” he muttered, his voice raw. “They’re free.”

No one spoke.

Astarion didn’t wait for gratitude. He didn’t wait for questions.

“Can we just leave now?” he snapped, wiping what remained of blood and tears from his face. “I’m done with this place.”

He didn’t wait for agreement before stalking up the steps that had led them here. The others followed in silence—Karlach taking a deep breath as she exchanged a glance with Gale, and Minthara keeping pace just behind, her eyes down, avoiding everybody's but especially Karlach.

As they neared the exit to the manor grounds, they were met by a wall of people, about a dozen. The Gur.

Astarion came to a stop, and the others behind him tensed.

The woman they had met before stepped forward—broad-shouldered, cloaked in wolf pelts and leathers, her face painted in ash and sorrow. “Where are our children?” she asked, voice shaking with fury barely held in check. “You went inside. You killed him, didn’t you?”

Astarion said nothing.

“They were taken years ago,” another called. “By him. Where are they now?”

Karlach stepped forward slowly, hands raised to show she wasn’t a threat. Her voice was soft, but steady.

“They were… turned. All of them. Into vampire spawn,” she said. “They're heading to the Underdark now, where they can be safe.”

A strangled sound came from one of the Gur. A choked sob. Others broke into gasps, murmurs, some shouts.

“Safe?” One scoffed.

“They’re alive,” Karlach added, like it was the only small mercy she could offer. “They’re not prisoners anymore. He didn’t get to finish the ritual. No one did.”

“But they’re still spawn,” the wolf-pelted woman said. “Still damned.”

Astarion turned his back to them, jaw clenched. “So were we all.”

And with that, he kept walking.

Minthara paused, glancing between the grieving Gur and Astarion’s retreating form. She let out a long breath and stepped off the path. “I’ll speak to them,” she murmured. “We might still need strong warriors on our side.”

Karlach gave Gale a look that asked without words, ‘You’ve got him?’

“I'll go after him,” Gale replied softly.

Karlach nodded and peeled away to stand beside Minthara, already beginning to speak in calm, measured tones as the Gur pressed forward with questions. They needed to reassure, placate and ultimately win the Gur to their side for the coming battle against the mindflayer army.

Gale quickened his pace to catch up to Astarion, who was already a fair distance ahead—moving quickly, though not gracefully. His stride was tight, hunched slightly. Wounded pride and lingering pain battled across his body language.

They walked in silence through the sewers, the stench of mildew and rot hardly noticeable now. Astarion moved with mounting weariness, each step heavier than the last.

After another turn, Gale reached out and caught his arm.

Astarion turned, red eyes flashing—but it wasn’t anger. Not quite.

“You’re still hurt,” Gale said simply.

“I’ll live.” Astarion pulled his arm back, though not with force. “Isn’t that the point?”

“Maybe, but barely.” Gale gestured to the deep bruising just beginning to rise on Astarion’s torso, the blood caked on his whole body, the tight way he held himself. “You’re running on fumes.”

Astarion let out a sharp exhale and gave Gale a look—half annoyed, half resigned. “I don’t have another potion on me, I took them all.”

“I’m not offering a potion.”

That made Astarion pause.

Gale stepped a little closer, offering up his neck without hesitation. “You need strength. You can take it from me.”

Astarion’s expression shifted—apprehension flickering briefly across his face, but it melted quickly into something warmer. Familiar. The intimacy wasn’t lost on him, nor the comfort of it.

“You really don’t mind?” he asked, voice low.

Gale gave a soft smile. “Of course I don’t. You know that.”

Astarion hesitated a heartbeat longer, then stepped forward, hands resting lightly on Gale’s waist. He looked up into his face, gaze searching.

Then he leaned in, lips brushing over Gale’s neck before his fangs slid into skin with ease.

It didn’t hurt. Not anymore. Not between them.

Gale exhaled, steadying himself with a hand on Astarion’s back as warmth drained from his chest in rhythmic pulls. Astarion fed in silence, drinking just enough to dull the worst of the pain, to restore the control Cazador had shaken loose. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead briefly against Gale’s jaw.

“…Thank you,” he murmured.

“You don't need to thank me,” Gale replied, still holding him.

Astarion didn’t respond, but he lingered a little longer before stepping back, posture already a touch steadier.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, voice low.

~~~

The sun had long dipped below the horizon, casting the world in soft blue hues. Camp was quiet. Gale had only just dozed off when he felt a hand on his shoulder, gentle but insistent.

He opened his eyes to find Astarion crouched beside him, silhouetted in the flickering firelight. His expression was calm yet determined.

“Come with me.” Astarion asked softly.

Gale sat up at once, already nodding. “Of course.”

They left without waking the others, moving in silence through the winding alleys of the Lower City. Astarion knew the way without hesitation, his steps slower than usual but purposeful. Gale didn’t press him with questions, though concern flickered behind every glance he stole.

Eventually, they reached a small, cemetery, hidden behind a crumbling iron gate and low stone wall. The air felt heavier here.

Astarion walked until he came to a corner plot near the back, where the weeds grew thicker. Without a word, he dropped to his knees in the grass.

Gale stood a respectful distance behind, quiet and still, his presence gentle but concerned.

Astarion’s hands moved through the overgrowth, tearing away stubborn vines and tall grass until the weather-worn headstone beneath was revealed. The inscription had long since faded, but the shape of the marker was still familiar to him. He traced it with careful fingers.

“This is mine,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “My grave.”

Gale didn’t speak. He only listened.

Astarion took a breath—sharp and shallow. “Cazador turned me here. Right here, on this street. Gods, I remember the pain. And then I was… nothing. Gone.”

He ran a hand through his curls, breath trembling as he stared at the stone.

“And then I woke up. In a box. In the dark.” His voice cracked. “I thought—I thought I was in hell. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Dirt in my mouth. In my eyes.”

He paused, gripping the base of the grave marker tightly as his fingers shook.

“I had to claw my way out. I couldn’t tell up from down. I just… kept digging, hoping I wasn’t going deeper. And when I broke through, when I pulled myself up into the night—I was reborn as something monstrous.”

Gale stepped forward then, slowly, and knelt beside him.

“But you made it out,” he said gently. “You survived it all.”

Astarion looked at him, red eyes damp with the weight of the memory. “Sometimes I wonder if I really did. If I ever left that grave.”

“You did,” Gale said, his voice unwavering. “You did, and you are so much more than what he tried to make you.”

Astarion turned back to the stone, brushing his fingers over the dirt one final time.

Astarion sat in silence for a moment longer, his eyes on the worn gravestone as if seeing it for the last time. Then he exhaled and said quietly, “I’ve been dead in the ground too long. It’s time to start living again.”

Gale knelt beside him, his gaze steady. He reached over to pluck a wildflower from the edge of the path—small, pale purple, and gently fragrant. Without saying anything, he placed it at the base of the grave.

Astarion’s expression softened. He gave a small, lopsided smile. “Cute,” he murmured, watching the delicate bloom settle against the cracked stone.

Without another word, Astarion leaned in, pushing Gale gently down into the dirt.

Astarion's lips brushed Gale's, but as he shifted above him, one hand slipping to the edge of Gale’s robes, something in Gale's chest pulled taut.

He didn’t push him away. Not immediately. He touched Astarion’s face instead; fingers light, a stilling gesture.

“Astarion… wait.”

Astarion froze. His red eyes met Gale’s, amd they seemed worried. Worried about whatever it was that Gale would say.

“Did I—did I do something wrong?” he asked, tone laced with uncertainty.

Gale shook his head gently. “No. Well, yeah. Just… not right now, I guess.”

Astarion tilted his head, a shadow flickering across his face.

Gale sighed, glancing past Astarion’s shoulder—toward the headstone. The grave. The cold earth where Astarion had clawed his way free two centuries ago. “It’s been a long day. A monumental day. You killed the man who tormented you for two hundred years. You freed thousands of people from suffering… people you were forced to lure back. Seduce. Sleep with.” He faltered, then continued, voice quiet. “That weight doesn’t just lift because you’ve survived.”

Astarion was still. Too still.

Gale pressed on, choosing his words with care. “When we slept together the other night… I can’t stop thinking about it. Part of me wonders if that was just another distraction. A way to keep me from interfering with your plan to ascend.”

Astarion's jaw clenched slightly, but he didn’t speak.

“I don’t want to believe that,” Gale added, softer now. “I want to believe what we have is real. I want us to be real. But you’ve spent two centuries using your body to survive. And I… I’m not sure you even know how to want something just for yourself yet.”

The wind rustled through the cemetery grass. Astarion’s hands slowly withdrew from Gale’s sides.

“Do you want to end this,” he said at last, barely above a whisper. “Or do you still want to be with me?”

“Lifetime under the stars,” Gale said. “Remember?”

Astarion’s face crumpled, not in anger, but in relief and wounded understanding.

“I didn’t lie about loving you,” he said. “Even if I was planning to ascend despite you, the part where I love you—that was never a lie. Not with you.”

“I know,” Gale replied, sitting up now, brushing a hand through Astarion’s curls. “And that’s why I want to take this seriously. Not as something rushed because the world might end tomorrow. But as something we choose—on our terms. When it feels right. When you feel right.”

They were quiet a moment. Astarion looked down at the grave again. His grave.

“I wish I could magically erase what happened to you,” Gale said softly. “Unfortunately, I'm just not that powerful of a wizard.”

Astarion gave a small, wry smile. “Perhaps I should keep looking.”

“That was not funny last time, It's not funny this time.” Gale said, nudging him with a fond glance.

Astarion leaned into his shoulder, just briefly. “It’s a little funny.”

They didn’t kiss again. They didn’t need to.

They just sat there, in the cool hush of the cemetery night, two men alive and battered by the past.

Two men who could die any day now…

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered through in soft beams, casting golden light across their modest campsite. Shadows danced over bedrolls and mossy stones, while the scent of woodsmoke mingled with roasting mushrooms on the fire. A pan crackled quietly as Gale stirred its contents with one hand, the other propped on a bent knee.

“So,” Astarion murmured, swirling a chipped tin cup and sipping his tea with exaggerated casualness. “You want me to seduce Rolan.”

Gale's stirring slowed.

“Distract,” he corrected, voice even but edged. “I said distract, Astarion. I absolutely do not want you to seduce Rolan.”

Astarion arched a single, elegant brow. “But you do want me to use my body to do it?”

Gale pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “We both know he has a... certain fondness for you. A fluttering admiration, let’s call it. All I’m asking is that you speak to him. Distract him long enough for me to sneak into the basement of the tower. That’s it. Conversation. No body required.”

Astarion made a thoughtful hum and set down his cup. He rose with deliberate grace and padded toward Gale, barefoot on the dewy grass and mist-moist gravel. When he reached him, he tilted slightly forward, close enough for his breath to ghost along Gale’s jaw.

“Do you really think just talking will keep his attention, love?”

Gale froze. The spoon hovered above the pan, mushrooms sizzling quietly below. He could feel the chill of Astarion's breath, that familiar, maddening presence that curled around his senses and tugged at something beneath his ribs. He turned his head—too slowly—and made the mistake of looking at his mouth.

Astarion noticed, of course. His lips curved, and he bit the bottom one with leisurely mischief, crimson eyes glinting with amusement.

Gale’s cheeks flushed a rose-red that nearly matched the embers in the fire.

“I think it might do the trick,” he murmured, a touch too dignified, trying to right himself.

“And if it doesn’t?” Astarion teased, voice dipping silk-smooth. “What if I do need to use my body? What if I have to kiss him?” He leaned in closer, breath cold as ice. “Or worse?”

Gale exhaled, slowly, trying to gather composure he didn’t feel. “I sincerely doubt it will come to that.”

“Pity,” Astarion sighed, straightening with a dramatic stretch. “I am terribly good at kissing people into forgetting why they entered a room.”

Gale gave him a long, level look. “It won't be necessary.”

Astarion chuckled, satisfied, and flopped back onto the bedroll with theatrical ease. He laced his fingers behind his head, expression serene, like a cat who knew precisely how close he’d gotten to the cream.

Gale watched him for a moment, lips twitching despite himself. Their newfound desire to take things slowly didn’t stop moments like this from happening. Didn’t stop Gale from feeling.

But it meant holding that feeling back just a bit more.

He turned back to the pan, stirred once, and said, quieter this time, “Thank you. For helping.”

From the bedroll, Astarion hummed in reply.

~~~

Astarion leaned lazily against the balcony railing of Ramazith’s tower, the afternoon light slanting across his cheekbones, catching the pale curve of his profile like a well-staged portrait. His posture was relaxed, casual—calculated.

“So,” he said, voice honey-smooth, “The Wizard of Ramazith’s tower. Quite the step ul in the world, mm?”

Rolan gave a modest huff, hands clasped tightly behind his back. A faint blush colored his otherwise composed features Astarion could less so see the color against Rolan's already red hue, as much as he felt that rush of blood. “It’s… something. A lot of responsibility.”

“Oh, I adore responsibility,” Astarion drawled, the smile on his lips doing little to support the claim. “And that arcane cannon of yours—so large. Do you get to fire it often?”

Rolan’s blush deepened. “Only under very specific conditions. With authorization. And clear intent. I actually thought it might come in handy soon.”

“How interesting,” Astarion said, voice low, amused. He took a step closer, just enough to make the air between them feel warmer. “Though you really should be allowed to play with your toys more often.”

Below the balcony, Gale crept over the balcony-like platform. He'd used a potion of featherfall to safely jump down below, getting back up was the hard part. But he had found what he needed.

He moved with practiced silence—until his boot caught a loose tile.

Scrape.

The sound was barely a whisper, but Rolan stiffened. His head began to turn, sharp instincts kicking in.

Astarion’s eyes widened. No time to think. Just instinct.

He stepped forward, seized Rolan by the front of his robes—and kissed him.

Full, deep, and unapologetically possessive. Tongue and teeth. Heat and urgency. Everything he could to distract Rolan.

Rolan made a startled sound, muffled against Astarion’s mouth. His body went rigid, shocked. Then—hesitantly, uncertainly—he began to respond. A hand lifted, fingers twitching as if unsure where to land.

From the shadows below, Gale froze.

The sound of the kiss—wet, unmistakable—echoed in the silence like a slap.

His breath caught. His chest rose but didn’t fall. For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He simply stared at the figures tangled above him, lips pressed together, that familiar smirk on Astarion’s face warped now into something unbearable.

And then, just as quickly, his expression shut down.

A flicker of hurt passed through his eyes, sharp and brief, like a candle snuffed in a gust of wind.

He turned and slipped back onto the platform and travelled back through the portal to the shop below.

Astarion broke the kiss and stepped back with practiced finesse. He smoothed Rolan’s collar with a hand that hovered a second too long. “Forgive me,” he said lightly, voice a little breathless. “I simply couldn’t help myself.”

Rolan blinked, lips parted, eyes unfocused like someone who’d just stepped into a dream they hadn’t asked for.

“I… I should return to my duties,” he mumbled, backing away with a flurry of robes and awkward grace. “I have… duties. Urgent ones.”

He fled, footsteps uneven as he vanished into the upper halls.

Left alone on the platform, Astarion let out a long breath and sagged against the railing. He covered his face with both hands, pressing the heels into his eyes, as if trying to rub out the moment.

“…Shit.”

~~~

The shimmer of the portal spilled silvery light across the polished marble of Sorcerous Sundries as Astarion stepped through, boots landing with feline grace. The echo of magic still lingered in the air, fizzing like champagne. He scanned the quiet shop—and found Gale near the central shelves, spine too straight, feigning interest in a tome that could not possibly warrant the intensity of his stare.

Their eyes met.

And there it was.

That look.

Wounded. Controlled. Smoldering at the edges.

Gale’s mouth parted slightly, a breath drawn in like he meant to speak—but Astarion was already moving, hand lifted in dramatic flourish as he strode forward.

“Before you say anything,” he announced, “I desperately need something to wash the taste of—ugh—Rolan out of my mouth.”

He made an exaggerated gagging sound, wiping his lips on the back of his glove with mock disgust. “Truly vile.”

Gale blinked.

Then his jaw tightened, shoulders stiff with barely restrained emotion. “You didn’t have to use tongue.”

Astarion smirked. “You try improvising a distraction mid-panic while Rolan is eyeing you like a snack tray at a wine party. It was either kiss him or stab him—and it's important that he's still on our side.”

“Right,” Gale said, voice clipped. “The noble path. A real hero’s sacrifice.”

“I expect a statue,” Astarion said smoothly. “Maybe shirtless. Tasteful, of course.”

Gale’s fingers curled around the edge of the shelf. Frustration simmered just under his skin, but it wasn’t just that. It was the bite of jealousy, the ache of restraint, the unbearable heat of wanting something he’d promised not to touch.

But the promise cracked.

He moved in a blur—grabbed Astarion by the collar and pulled him forward.

Their mouths collided, fierce and hungry.

Astarion let out a muffled gasp, lips already parting as Gale surged forward, kissing him like it meant something. Like it burned. His hands fisted in Astarion’s coat, anchoring them together, mouth moving with fierce determination. Tongue swept against tongue, insistent, claiming. Washing away the taste of Rolan, replacing it with his own.

Astarion made a low noise in his throat—half surprise, half delight—and kissed him back just as hard.

“Better?” Gale asked, breath brushing Astarion’s lips, not pulling away.

Astarion laughed, soft and breathless. “Infinitely.”

He pressed in again, teasing a nip at Gale’s bottom lip. “Though now you’ve got me all riled up. Dangerous, really.”

He kissed Astarion again—slower this time, but no less sure.

Astarion finally broke the kiss with a soft sigh, his breath brushing Gale’s lips. “As intoxicating as that was, darling, I believe you were skulking about up there for a reason. Care to tell me what you learned before I start tearing your clothes off in the middle of the shop?”

Gale blinked, dazed for a heartbeat before his mind caught up. He stepped back slightly, smoothing his collar with a flustered breath. “Right—yes. Important. Focus.”

He leaned in, voice dropping low, vibrant with tightly-held excitement. “The Crown of Karsus. It's not just real, within reach—it can be restored. It’s a fractured artifact from Netheril’s apex, and with the Netherstones, I can use it. Reforged, it could—will—channel enough magic to rival Mystra herself.”

Astarion blinked slowly. “Mm-hm.”

Gale, undeterred, forged ahead. “The Karsite Shard in my chest—it’s not just a curse. It’s a fragment of what Karsus tried to bind to himself. And if I use that shard in tandem with the Netherstones—if I direct the Weave correctly, funnelling the threads together—”

“Of course,” Astarion said with a sage nod. “Funnel the threads.”

“—I can challenge Mystra. Not just as her former Chosen, but as an equal. Maybe even as her replacement.”

Silence fell like a dropped blade.

Astarion raised one perfect eyebrow. “Godhood, you say?”

Gale flushed, tugging at a cuff. “It’s… one possibility.”

Astarion tilted his head, the grin curling at his mouth sly and sharp. “You completely lost me at ‘remnant of Netheril,’ but you said it with such enthusiasm.”

“I—well—”

Astarion leaned in and kissed him again before murmuring against his lips, “Adorable.”

Gale let out a sound between a scoff and a sigh, the flush on his cheeks deepening.

“You’re just saying that because I talk too much,” he muttered.

“I’m saying it because I love that you talk too much,” Astarion said quietly. “Even when it’s incomprehensible arcane nonsense. You glow when you speak of it.”

But then—something shifted.

His smile faded, the warmth in his expression cooling like embers turned to ash. He stepped back, just once. Enough.

“Wait,” he said, voice harder now. “Ascend to godhood?”

“Yes—” Gale began, tone already shifting toward explanation, toward defense, but Astarion cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.

“No. No, see—this is the part where I stop you. Because I don’t understand half the specifics, but what I do hear is that you’re planning to seize ultimate power. And somehow that’s fine. But when I wanted to ascend? That was monstrous?”

Gale went still. “That’s—clearly different.”

“Is it?” Astarion snapped, voice suddenly brittle with emotion. “Because I seem to recall you had a great deal to say about my ambition. You didn’t stop me, insinuate I was cruel. Or—what was it? Ah yes. Manipulative.”

Gale’s mouth parted, but no sound came.

“I seduced you, remember?” Astarion said, cold now. “Used my body to distract you. That’s what you thought. That’s what you saw.”

Gale flinched.

Astarion’s breath hitched, but when he spoke again, it was with a rare kind of honesty. Low. Painful. “You made me feel that what I wanted made me a monster.”

“I’m on borrowed time,” Gale said suddenly, the words ripped from his chest. “That shard—it’s unraveling. I can feel it every day, pulling me apart. This isn’t ambition, Astarion—it’s desperation. Challenging Mystra might be the only way to survive, since she clearly will not help me. I don’t have the luxury of clean choices.”

Astarion stared at him, eyes unreadable.

“And whose fault is it,” he said quietly, “that it’s there in the first place?”

The words hung between them like a blade.

Gale’s mind went dark for a heartbeat. He wanted to lash out. Wanted to spit the words that would cut deepest—Didn’t you beg Cazador to turn you rather than face death? A death you brought on with your own arrogance?

But he didn’t. He swallowed the cruelty.

Instead, he spoke quietly, bitterly: “I don’t need to kill anyone to ascend. I’m only putting myself at risk if it doesn’t work.”

Astarion looked away, arms folding in tight. The flicker of hurt in his eyes was quick, but unmistakable. “And I didn’t want to be weak anymore. I wanted to protect myself. To never be used again.”

“I know,” Gale said softly. “And you won't be.”

Silence stretched. Heavy. Clogged with old wounds and things neither of them wanted to say aloud. Around them, the world carried on—flickering candlelight, murmured spells, distant footsteps—but it felt far away, muffled, irrelevant.

Then, at last, Astarion’s voice came, frayed and uncertain. “So what now?”

Gale exhaled slowly. “I don't know, but clearly we can't agree on anything.”

Astarion gave a small, dry smile. “Then you’d better decide whether you’re becoming a god—or just another man too scared to die.”

The door to Sorcerous Sundries slammed behind them as they stepped into the alleyway, the last of the candlelight spilling long shadows over wet cobblestones.

And then Astarion kissed him.

It came out of nowhere, fast and hot, lips crashing to Gale’s like a blow.

Gale reeled back a step. “You can’t just kiss your way out of this conversation!”

Astarion rolled his eyes and turned ahead a few steps, then pivoted back, smug. “Why not? It shut you up, didn’t it?” He closed the distance again, fingers curling in the collar of Gale’s robes as he leaned in for another.

Gale jerked his head back. “Stop that! We’re having a serious discussion.”

“Exactly,” Astarion said, exasperated. “I’m trying to make it bearable.”

“You’re making it worse!”

“I’m taking it seriously,” Astarion insisted. “Well—half seriously. But I’m also furious.”

“So am I!”

“Good. Then we’re even.”

Gale groaned, dragging both hands through his hair. “You should be on board with this, Astarion. This could benefit both of us!”

“But it benefits you most,” Astarion snapped, suddenly sharp again. “You think your terrible ideas are noble just because you’re desperate.”

“I—!” Gale tried, but was cut off as Astarion seized him and kissed him again—rough, breath hot, needy.

Gale shoved him back—not hard, but firm. “You can’t keep doing that!”

Astarion’s grin curled, feral and wicked. “Stop me.”

Gale’s heart thundered. “I want this—us—to mean something. Beyond just… this.”

“Stop pretending you don’t want this side of me.”

The air snapped taut—and then Astarion surged forward, fangs gleaming. He pressed Gale against the alley wall, breath ghosting over his throat.

“Astarion—”

“I need a taste,” he growled—and sank his fangs in.

Gale gasped, back arching, fingers clenching in Astarion’s coat. The pain was sharp, but familiar now—drowned almost instantly by heat, by want, by that dark, heady haze that always followed.

Astarion drank—and drank.

“Stop,” Gale gasped, but the word was breathless, half-hearted.

He sagged as Astarion held him tighter, one hand flat against Gale’s chest, grounding him as the world swam.

It wasn’t until Gale’s knees buckled that Astarion froze.

He pulled back like waking from a trance, eyes wide, mouth wet and red.

“Gale?”

Gale swayed in his grasp, clinging to Astarion’s coat. “I… think that was too much.”

Astarion’s face collapsed. “No—no, gods, I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t going to—but I—”

“I know,” Gale whispered. “Just… not here. Help me?”

Astarion was already wrapping an arm around his waist, guilt flooding his face like stormlight. “Of course. I’ve got you.”

They slipped down the alley together, one pale figure supporting the other as the city pressed on around them.

~~~

When Gale stirred, the first thing he felt was the weight in his limbs—an oppressive heaviness, as though his blood had turned to stone. Every breath carried the echo of last night’s pain, a slow, pulsing throb that curled through his veins like smoke. But it wasn’t the ache that struck him first.

It was the quiet.

Not silence, exactly—but that aching, hollow kind that clung to the corners of breath and memory. Morning light filtered through the canvas walls of his tent, washed in grey—thin and listless, like it didn’t dare touch him.

Astarion sat beside him, utterly still. His hands were folded in his lap, knuckles pale, fingers twisting over and under each other with unconscious tension. He looked like he’d been carved from worry.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice low. It carried none of its usual lilt—no velvet, no mischief. Just raw, exposed quiet.

Gale turned his head with effort. “Barely,” he rasped, managing a tired smile.

Astarion didn’t return it. His gaze was pinned to some fixed point on the ground, distant.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “About last night. I went too far. I know that.”

Gale opened his mouth to speak, but Astarion lifted a hand—gentle, almost pleading—and continued.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice thin as candle smoke. “And maybe… maybe you were right. About us. About how fast it’s all been. About the things I do when I feel like everything’s slipping away. The way I act when I think you're slipping away. I can't bear to have you mad at me, even when I'm just as furious… because what if you leave?”

Astarion’s breath hitched. “I used you. Again. Not to hurt you—not on purpose—but that doesn’t matter, does it? I keep hurting the one person I… love. And if I can’t stop myself from doing that, then maybe…” He swallowed. “Maybe you’re better off without me.”

The words hit with the force of a blow. Gale felt the breath leave his lungs.

“Don’t—” he tried, voice frayed.

But Astarion was already rising. “Rest, Gale,” he said, gently but firmly. “Please.”

He didn’t wait. He didn’t touch him. Didn’t kiss his forehead or whisper something to soften the ache. Just turned and slipped through the tent flap, the soft rustle of canvas the only farewell.

Gale lay still, staring at the empty space beside his bed—the place where Astarion’s shadow had lingered.

And then, quietly, it began.

The tears came slow, threading from the corners of his eyes, down his temples, soaking silently into the fabric beneath him. He didn’t sob. Didn’t shake. There was no dramatics to grief, only the steady, unbearable ache of something breaking.

Chapter Text

~2 Days Later, House of Hope~

They didn’t find Hope all at once.

They found her in flickers.

The first time, it was a shimmer of light at the end of a long, blood-red hallway. The second, a breath of maniacal laughter, echoing through the bones of the House itself. By the time they reached the foyer, her image had solidified—barely. A ghost formed from memory and magic, standing barefoot on the cracked marble floor, eyes wide with haunted hope.

“You came,” she whispered, as if speaking too loudly might shatter her. Her form pulsed like candlelight in wind, translucent but tethered. “Oh, I knew you would. I dreamed you would.”

Karlach stepped forward first, as always. “Who are you?”

The spectral woman turned to her, smiling with a mad kind of grace. “Hope. Hope! That’s what they used to call me. Hope. A name, a promise, a leash.” Her gaze swept across the rest of them. “And now—you. So full of light. Even the broken ones still shine.”

“I can’t touch the chains,” she said softly. “Not anymore. But I can show you where he’s hidden the key.” Her hand stretched, fingers pointing through the cracked doorway. “The hammer. You’ll need it to break what he bound. The Orphic Hammer—it sleeps in plain sight. Locked. Guarded. Waiting.”

“Then let’s go,” Karlach growled, already marching ahead.

But Hope’s form flickered again, voice trembling. “There’s… one more thing. Before the vault. Before the truth.” She turned, her eyes suddenly glowing brighter. “You’ll have to pass through him. Through the boudoir. He guards the password.”

A door pulsed with heat at the end of a crimson corridor, etched in infernal sigils that almost moved if stared at too long.

“Who?” Gale asked, though he already knew.

Hope didn’t answer. She just looked at him. Then at Astarion. Then back again.

Inside the boudoir, Haarlep waited. Reclined. Smiling.

Hope’s form flickered behind them one last time, lips barely moving.

“Someone must pay, oh how wretched. Wretched and ugly!"

Then she was gone.

The boudoir was drenched in velvet and sin.

Candlelight flickered from walls that pulsed like living skin, casting long shadows over a bed far too large and a throne far too deliberate. Perfumed smoke coiled in the air—sweet, cloying, intoxicating.

And there, sprawled across a divan with all the lazy arrogance of someone who knew he was desirable, sat Haarlep.

He looked exactly like Raphael. Eerily so.

Down to the tilt of his head. The way he licked his lips when he smiled. The crimson gleam in his eyes. Only his voice betrayed the difference—silken and slippery, with a musical lilt that curled like smoke.

“My my,” Haarlep purred, rising with a slow, sensuous stretch. “Visitors. Brave, beautiful, and doomed. What a gift.”

No one spoke.

He prowled forward, bare feet soundless on the lush carpet, dragging his fingers down his own chest in mock ecstasy. “Tell me—are you here to beg, to barter, or to offer yourselves on bended knee?”

Karlach folded her arms. “We’re here for the hammer. We know you have the key.”

Haarlep smirked. “Of course you are. And of course I do. The real question is: what are you willing to give me in exchange?” His eyes glittered as they slid across each of them—lingering on Karlach’s strong shoulders, on Wyll’s proud stance, on Astarion’s pale throat, on Gale’s hands. “I don’t take coin. I don’t want favors. I want pleasure. Real. Willing. Delicious.”

Wyll cleared his throat. “Surely there’s another arrangement—”

“Oh, darling. You don’t arrange with me. You surrender.”

The air in the room shifted, thicker now. Pressed against skin and soul alike.

Haarlep licked his lips. “One of you. One night. All of you. Body and breath. Or you leave empty-handed.”

Silence stretched, taut and prickling.

“Let’s talk outside,” Karlach muttered, already moving.

They exited the room quickly, the boudoir sealed behind them.

In the corridor, Karlach paced. “There has to be another way.”

“I could try stealing it,” Wyll offered. “A distraction, a charm—”

“No charm’s going to work on that thing,” Astarion muttered, jaw tight. His voice trembled with revulsion. “Gods. The way he looked at us.”

Gale glanced at him.

Astarion wasn’t just disgusted. He was rattled.

Gale had seen that look before. In Cazador’s house.

Karlach was still listing options, but Gale wasn’t listening.

He turned to Astarion, watching the lines of tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists, white-knuckled and distant.

“I’ll do it,” Gale said.

The group went still.

Astarion’s eyes snapped to him. “What?”

“I said, I’ll do it.” Gale’s voice was quiet, but steady. “We need the hammer. We don’t have time to fight our way through every corner of this place. And we need the key.”

Karlach shook her head. “Gale, you don’t—”

“I do.” His eyes never left Astarion’s. “It’s the best option.”

“I’ll be right there,” Astarion said, finally.

Gale turned.

Astarion's voice was flat, but underneath it trembled a wire-thin thread of something raw. “If you change your mind—if he tries anything—I’ll carve the bastard open myself. We can take it by force. You know that.”

Gale nodded once. Quiet. Heavy.

But neither of them said what they meant.

The boudoir hadn’t changed, but it felt different when Gale stepped inside again. The heat clung to his skin. The air carried the faint scent of lilac and blood.

Haarlep stood beside the massive bed now, arms outstretched as if receiving a lover, his smile stretching wider with Gale’s return. “Ah, the brave one. The offering.” He glanced past Gale, eyes twinkling. “And the watcher. Delicious.”

Astarion lingered by the door, leaning back against it like he belonged there, like he didn’t care. But his jaw was set like marble, and he didn’t blink.

Haarlep waved a hand. “Clothes. Off. I want to see what I’ve won.”

Gale’s throat tightened.

He reached for his cloak, undoing the clasps with trembling fingers. Tunic, boots, trousers—each layer felt heavier than the last. His skin prickled with the cold of exposure, but he made no sound.

He didn’t look at Astarion.

He couldn’t.

When he was bare, Haarlep circled him slowly, fingers trailing just above skin, drinking in every inch with his eyes like a collector admiring a rare painting.

“Such tension,” he cooed. “But you carry it so well, darling. You’ll be magnificent once you surrender.”

Gale said nothing.

He felt hollowed out. Like his ribs were too far apart and the air was scraping his lungs raw.

Behind him, Astarion didn’t move.

Haarlep leaned in, brushing his lips just behind Gale’s ear.

He whispered. “This is power in its purest form.”

But Gale didn’t believe him.

Behind him, Astarion stood still as stone, arms crossed over his chest. The moment had arrived—Gale would do this so Astarion wouldn’t have to.

Haarlep’s eyes glittered as he drank in the sight, motioning Gale to lie back. “So obedient. So lovely. So... desperate.”

Gale lay down stiffly, the silk cool against his back. Haarlep straddled him at once, warm and heavy, claws ghosting over his chest. The cambion’s magic pressed against him like a drug—arousal, artificial and overwhelming, seeped into every pore. Gale’s body responded without permission, his breath catching, blood stirring.

“You’re already aching,” Haarlep whispered, nosing along Gale’s jaw. “Do you want it that badly?”

Gale grit his teeth. “I want the hammer.”

“Then give me something worth the secret.”

Fingers slid lower, a palm wrapping around him with a practiced stroke. Gale gasped—humiliation flaring in his cheeks, made worse by the knowledge that Astarion saw everything. Saw him like this. But Gale didn’t pull away.

“I’ll give you what you want,” he said hoarsely. “But know this—”

His eyes found Haarlep’s, voice steeling.

“You can have my body,” Gale said, “but not my mind.”

For the first time, Haarlep faltered.

Just for a moment.

Then he grinned. “Oh, I do love a little resistance.”

With a snap of his fingers, Gale’s arms were pinned above his head—not by rope, but by invisible force, magic curling like vines. Haarlep wasted no time, slicking himself with a conjured sheen and pressing forward, the intrusion sudden and sharp.

Gale bit down hard on a cry. His body arched, not from desire but from the sting of powerlessness. Haarlep moved with lazy confidence, slow thrusts designed to wear down, not to please. His claws gripped Gale’s hips with bruising force.

Astarion’s presence behind the curtain burned at Gale’s skin. He didn’t have to look to know his expression—fury, pain, restraint. This was for him. Let it be enough.

Haarlep leaned down, breath hot against Gale’s ear. “Still so defiant. I could crack you open like a book.”

“You’ll find blank pages,” Gale hissed. “I won’t give you anything more.”

“Oh, I’ll take what I please.”

The air was thick—too warm, too sweet, perfumed with magic and the scent of sweat and power. Gale’s body was pinned beneath Haarlep’s, every movement deliberate, every touch designed to unravel. The cambion’s hips rolled with a cruel grace, setting a rhythm that was slow and maddening.

Gale’s breath came in ragged bursts, shame licking at his throat with every thrust. He hated how his body responded—how traitorous heat pooled low in his gut, how the moan that slipped from his lips wasn’t entirely unwilling.

He kept his eyes on the ceiling. Not on Haarlep. Not on Astarion.

But he felt both of them—Haarlep above, pushing him closer to the edge, and Astarion behind, watching.

Watching everything.

“Look at him,” Haarlep purred, voice soaked in smug delight. “He’s watching you fall apart. Do you think he’s jealous? Or just disgusted?”

Gale clenched his jaw.

“You’re shaking,” Haarlep whispered, claws teasing his throat. “So close. Let go. Let it happen. Let me make you come, little wizard.”

Gale shook his head weakly, fighting the tide rising in his belly. But Haarlep was tireless, merciless. He shifted, hand sliding between their bodies, fingers stroking Gale, pumping that climax out of him. His thrusts deepened and quickened.

Gale bit his lip so hard it bled.

And then—he broke.

With a choked sound, he came hard against Haarlep’s stomach, body arching, helpless. The climax stole his breath, left him dazed and wrecked, every limb loose and trembling.

Haarlep slowed, then stilled. He withdrew, languid and satisfied, and stepped away from the bed.

“I do adore a good ending,” he murmured.

Gale lay there, trembling. Not from pleasure—but from everything else. The violation, the weight of sacrifice, the unbearable knowing that Astarion had seen it all.

Then something strange happened.

Haarlep’s body shimmered—his skin shifted, his face morphed. Before Gale could sit up, he was staring at himself.

Not just himself. A perfect mirror.

Every curl, every line, every scar and softness reproduced with eerie precision. And when Haarlep spoke, it was his voice that answered.

The magic didn’t stop there—Haarlep moved like him, smirked like him. Even the cadence of his words felt familiar, terrifyingly so. The imitation was flawless.

And then, Haarlep-as-Gale turned back, his eyes glinting with something cruel and amused. “You said I could have your body,” he said, smiling.

He gestured at himself, mockingly elegant—then, with slow theatrical flair, he let his hand trail downward. Down the chest that matched Gale’s precisely, past the curve of the stomach Gale knew too well, until his fingers wrapped around himself with a gasp of exaggerated delight.

Gale felt it.

The touch—warm, sudden, wrong—sparked through his body like a live wire, his breath catching as sensation bloomed in parts of him he no longer controlled. His knees wobbled.

“No,” he whispered, voice shaking.

But Haarlep only grinned wider, stroking languidly, slowly, each movement deliberate and luxuriant.

Every pass of Haarlep’s hand sent jolts of pleasure up Gale’s spine, sickening in its disconnect—like being trapped outside his own body, forced to watch while someone else wore his skin and wrung responses from it.

He turned his face away, breath hitched, shamed by the sound of his own half-suppressed moan.

Behind him, Astarion’s silence was deafening. Gale didn’t dare look at him. Couldn’t bear to see the expression he imagined there—rage, confusion, betrayal… pity.

“You’re exquisite,” Haarlep said, voice silk. “Even in protest.”

His pace quickened. Gale’s hands clenched at his sides, his body trembling with resistance, but every nerve ending betrayed him—pleasure building like heat in a sealed room, thick and airless.

And then—climax. Violent. Stolen. Painful. His body shuddered as Haarlep reached the edge in his form, and the pleasure tore through Gale like a wave crashing against a cliff.

He cried out. Not from pleasure. From loss.

From the final insult of being pushed over that edge without consent.

When the trembling stopped, Haarlep looked radiant—flushed and glittering in the afterglow, still wearing Gale’s face like a mask.

“You gave it to me,” he said, licking Gale’s taste from his lips. “And I took it. Beautifully.”

Then his expression sobered, just slightly, and in Gale’s voice—his exact inflection—he said, “You’ll find the answers you're looking for in the safe behind the portrait over there.”

Gale stood, shaking, jaw locked, throat raw.

And all he could think, as his stolen body leered back at him, was how much weight those words had truly carried:

You can have my body

He stepped closer, their faces almost touching. “You think sacrifice makes you pure. It doesn’t. It just makes you mine.”

And then, with a snap of his fingers, he vanished—leaving behind nothing but the echo of his laugh, and the sound of Gale’s own voice lingering in the air.

In the silence that followed, Gale couldn’t bring himself to look at Astarion.

Not yet.

Because what he’d given up hadn’t just been his body.

It had been the last piece of something sacred—something Astarion had once held close.

And now it was gone.

~~~

The Elfsong Tavern was quiet.

The door to the bath chamber creaked shut behind him.

He stripped mechanically. His clothes smelled faintly of brimstone and sweat, of the House of Hope. Of him. He balled the fabric and tossed it aside as if distance could make the memory less suffocating.

Gale lowered himself in slowly, the heat blooming over his skin. He reached for the sponge, dipped it in soap, and began to scrub.

His arms first. Then his chest. His throat.

He scrubbed harder.

Over the invisible marks Haarlep left. Over the fingerprints that still burned like brands. Over the faint smear of blood where he'd bitten his lip to keep from crying out.

The sponge tore. He switched to his nails.

His skin turned pink, then red. His breath grew shaky, the movements more frantic.

He scrubbed until the water clouded red.

Until it hurt.

Until it still wasn't enough.

When he finally stopped, his hands were trembling. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as he slumped forward in the tub, curls plastered to his forehead, shoulders heaving.

He dressed in silence, fingers sluggish as he tugged on his robes. He walked barefoot back to the common room, still damp, raw patches blooming across his forearms where the skin had broken.

He didn't expect to see Astarion.

But there he was—seated in a corner, glass of untouched wine in hand, staring into the hearth like it might reveal a future he no longer believed in.

His expression wasn’t scornful. It wasn’t angry.

It was worse.

He looked lost.

And when Gale’s gaze met his, just for a second—when he saw the way Astarion’s lips parted like he wanted to say something and couldn’t—the dam inside him cracked.

Gale turned away sharply, retreating to the shadows of the stairwell. There, in the dim flicker of candlelight, he leaned against the wall and slid down to sit on the steps.

And he cried.

Not loudly. Not messily. Just silent tears, sliding in twin lines down his cheeks, falling to the fabric of his robe, leaving dark spots like ink on parchment.

He pressed a fist to his mouth to keep from making a sound.

He didn’t know if the ache in his chest was shame, or grief, or simply the feeling of something inside him breaking.

But it was quiet.

And he didn’t want to be heard.

~~~

Astarion didn’t move at first.

He just sat there, eyes still fixed on the hearth even after Gale had broken their gaze and turned away. The echo of that look lingered like a ghost—a flicker of grief barely contained, shame raw and bleeding just beneath the surface.

Astarion downed the rest of the wine in one long pull, not tasting it. It burned going down, sharp and bitter. He set the glass aside with a soft clink and stood.

He already knew where Gale had gone. He could hear the faint, stifled hitch of breath down the hallway, past the shadowed stairwell. A place you went when you didn’t want to be found—but secretly hoped someone would come looking.

He found him there, half-curled on the steps, shoulders hunched. Head bowed. Pale fingers pressed tight to his lips to smother the sound of crying that still trembled through his chest.

Astarion froze in the doorway.

He knew this.

The feeling of filth under your skin. The desire to scrape it all off, inch by inch. The quiet tears when no one could see you—because if they saw, they’d know just how much it had cost you.

The first time he had given his body to survive, he hadn’t wept. Not at first. That had come later when the numbness cracked open just enough to let the horror in.

He hadn’t wanted anyone to touch him after that. Hadn’t wanted to be perceived at all.

And now, watching Gale on the steps it made something twist painfully in his chest.

He wanted to go to him. To kneel. To pull Gale into his arms and whisper, You’re not dirty. You’re not broken.

But the moment stretched. His feet remained rooted.

Because he wasn’t sure if Gale would want him close. Not after what they’d said. Not after what he’d seen.

And yet—

Gale made a soft, shuddering noise. A small, broken inhale. And that was all it took.

Astarion stepped forward, quiet as a shadow. He lowered himself onto the step beside Gale, not touching him yet—just close enough for Gale to feel his presence.

He didn’t speak right away. He let the silence settle. Let the sound of Gale’s breathing steady with the rhythm of his own.

And then, softly, tentatively, he asked, “May I?”

His hand hovered just above Gale’s shoulder—open, offering.

Gale didn’t speak. Didn’t look at him.

But slowly—after a breath, and another—he nodded.

Astarion sat beside him without a word, close enough that their knees nearly touched, but he didn’t reach out again. Not yet.

Gale’s body was trembling, though he tried to hide it. His hands, clenched tightly in his lap, were red-raw and scored with thin scratches. His sleeves stuck slightly to the wounds. The faint copper tang of blood lingered in the air.

Astarion’s nose twitched. He looked down.

Slowly, he reached out and caught Gale’s wrist—not to grip, not to restrain, just to see. He pulled back the sleeve with careful hands.

And there they were.

Angry welts. Torn skin. Pain that had come from within, deliberately inflicted.

As though Gale had tried to scrub himself away entirely.

Astarion’s throat tightened. His eyes began to sting.

"You should have let me do it," he whispered, voice thick and low.

Gale turned to him, confusion and grief swimming behind his bloodshot gaze. “Do what?” he asked hoarsely.

Astarion met his eyes—and there was nothing teasing in them, nothing deflective. Only sorrow. Only honesty.

“You should’ve let me fuck him.”

Gale blinked. The words hit like a slap, jarring and too raw to process all at once.

“I’ve done it before,” Astarion went on, voice barely above a whisper. “For years. For centuries. When I had no choice. When it didn’t matter. When I didn’t matter. I could have done it and felt… nothing.”

He looked away, swallowing hard. “But you. You’re still… you. You haven’t been hollowed out by it. And now look at you.”

His fingers ghosted over Gale’s forearm, over the wounds left behind not by Haarlep, but by his own desperate hands.

“You gave him your body because you thought that would protect me. You sacrificed yourself, when I could’ve borne it easily.”

“I didn’t want you to have to,” Gale said, voice cracking.

“I already have,” Astarion snapped, pain flashing in his eyes. “Don’t you see? I spent two hundred years being used, and I told myself it didn’t matter. That I was above it. But watching you—watching him break you—”

His voice failed. He took a shaky breath.

“I would have done it for you. Without hesitation. If I knew what it would cost you and I thought I could protect you from that.”

Gale looked away. His jaw clenched, but tears rolled silently down his cheeks.

And this time, when Astarion reached for him, Gale didn’t flinch. Didn’t fight it. Just let himself be held.

Gale shifted, just enough to press his forehead against Astarion’s collarbone. His breath was warm and damp against the hollow of his throat.

And then, barely audible—barely there—he whispered:

“I love you. I won’t let anyone touch you like that again.”

Astarion froze.

A quiet, aching truth that slipped out before Gale could stop it. Vulnerable. Raw.

Astarion’s eyes fluttered closed. His arms tightened around Gale—not to possess, not to claim, but simply to hold. To be there for him.

And then he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Gale’s forehead. His lips trembled against his skin, shaking with the effort it took not to fall apart entirely.

Not to cry harder than the man he was trying to comfort.

“I love you too,” he breathed, voice tight.

Chapter Text

Gale stirred in his sleep, breath catching as something warm and weightless brushed against his ribs.

Fingers.

Soft. Searching. Sliding across his skin like the trailing edge of a dream.

A shiver ran down his spine. His hips shifted against the mattress, a quiet sound catching in his throat—half sigh, half moan. There was heat, pressure. A mouth, against his throat. His body responded before his mind did: welcoming, yielding, aching. His head tipped back on instinct.

Gods, Astarion…

But when he opened his eyes, the warmth of it vanished.

He was alone.

The sheets were tangled around his waist, damp with sweat. The chill of the Elfsong Tavern crept in through the window slats, and his room was dark save for the flicker of a dying candle across the table.

His hands trembled as he ran them down his own chest. But it hadn’t been his hands, not before. He still felt it—those ghostly touches. Intimate and wrong.

He sat up sharply, breath quickening. He was alone.

But his body hadn’t gotten the message.

Fingers. Again.

Slow, deliberate. Trailing over his chest, down his stomach. Calloused, then smooth. Shifting textures. Shifting touch.

The hands didn’t stop.

Invisible now. Inside him, somehow. Palms dragging along his thighs, teasing places no one should be touching. Places that still felt raw.

Gale let out a broken sound—half denial, half plea—and pressed both hands against his own skin, as if he could scrub the sensation away.

But he knew this feeling. He’d felt it before.

Not during the act, not when he surrendered to Haarlep—but after, when Haarlep slipped into his skin like it belonged to him. When Gale had felt every stroke of that false body, every cruel mimicry, as if it were happening to him still.

It was happening now.

He doubled over, clutching the edge of the bed, breath coming in ragged bursts. There was no mirror nearby—but if there had been, he imagined he would have seen his own face smirking back, lips parting in pleasure that didn’t belong to him.

And somewhere—wherever that creature had taken his stolen flesh—Haarlep was using it. Touching it. Being him.

Gale gritted his teeth, hands fisting in the sheets. His heart hammered with shame and fury and something colder than either.

He had said the words. You can have my body.

And Haarlep had.

Still did.

He hadn’t even realized he was crying until the tears hit his hands, warm and silent.

“Stop,” he whispered into the dark, as if the House of Hope might somehow hear him.

But it didn’t.

The touches continued—slow, mocking, unrelenting.

Gale’s stomach lurched.

The phantom touches intensified, maddening in their precision—his own body a battleground he couldn’t escape. His skin burned with sensation, his mind splintering beneath the weight of pleasure he hadn’t consented to. Couldn’t stop.

He barely made it to the washbasin in time.

The retching was sudden, violent. He clung to the basin like a man drowning, his body wracked with dry heaves and the bitter taste of bile in his throat. Cold sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, his knees buckled beneath him.

The commotion stirred Astarion immediately.

He was across the room in seconds, bedclothes still tangled around his legs, voice sharp with panic. “Gale?”

He dropped to his knees beside him, reaching instinctively—hand at Gale’s shoulder, another ghosting toward his back.

“Don’t,” Gale hissed, swatting his touch away with a trembling hand. “Don’t—touch me.”

Astarion flinched, the rejection hitting him harder than he expected. He pulled back instinctively, hands lifted as if in surrender, though his eyes were wide with worry. “You’re shaking,” he said, softly. “Gale, what's happened?”

Gale didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He just sat there, hunched over the basin, fingers curled into claws around the rim. His breath came in wet, ragged pulls. The phantom touches had stopped—or maybe they hadn’t. Maybe they’d just settled into his bones. The aftershocks, the memory of hands that weren’t his, in a body that was.

“I can still feel it,” Gale whispered, finally. “Even now. It’s him—he’s still using me.”

Astarion froze.

The implications sunk in like a blade between the ribs.

“You mean… Haarlep?”

Gale nodded, barely.

Astarion’s throat worked around a hundred things he wanted to say. None of them felt right.

So instead, he knelt beside him in silence. Close, but not touching. Waiting.

Letting Gale choose.

The silence dragged.

Gale’s breathing slowed but didn’t steady. He stayed hunched over, hands white-knuckled on the basin, jaw clenched like he was holding back another wave of sickness—or something worse.

Astarion watched him, the tight line of his shoulders, the flicker of shame and fury in the twitch of his mouth. And so, carefully, he broke the silence.

“I know this isn’t what you want to hear,” he began, his voice low and measured. “But when it happened to me… when I couldn’t stand to be in my own skin—I used to pretend I wasn’t.”

Gale didn’t respond, but he didn’t push him away this time either.

“I used to tell myself: you’re not here. You’re not you. You’re a thought. A whisper. Wind through leaves. Something light. Something untouched. Not flesh. Not blood.”

His hands stayed in his lap, clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. “Sometimes I imagined I was far away—on a rooftop in Baldur’s Gate, or beneath a tree I passed only once. Or in a library I made up just for myself. With books that didn’t exist.”

He risked a glance at Gale. “It helped. Not a lot. But… enough to get through the night.”

Gale let out a ragged breath. Not quite a sob—but close.

“I know it’s not advice exactly,” Astarion added, softer now. “But it’s what I had.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but no longer empty. Gale finally spoke, hoarse and barely audible.

“Tell me about the library.”

Astarion blinked.

And then, gently, he did.

He told him of velvet cushions, of gilded staircases that wound into nowhere, of books that hummed like lullabies when opened. He described an enormous fireplace that never smoked and a chandelier made of stars.

He spoke until Gale’s breathing evened out, until the tension in his frame melted enough that he could sit back on his heels. Not okay. Not whole. But here.

Together.

In the space between memory and make-believe.

They made their way back to bed in silence, save for the quiet rustle of sheets and the occasional sniffle Gale didn’t bother trying to hide. Astarion didn’t press. He simply guided him gently, crawling in beside him with a practiced, protective ease. His arms curled around Gale’s shoulders like a shield, his body a warmth pressed steady against his back.

As sleep overtook Gale, Astarion pressed soft, reassuring kisses to his hairline, his temple, the crown of his head. Not to provoke. Not to seduce. Just to be there. To be real.

When morning came, it did so slowly—light sifting through thin curtains in lazy shafts of gold. Gale stirred first, blinking blearily, disoriented but warm. Safe.

Astarion was awake, though his eyes were closed. Resting.

Gale shifted just enough to see him more clearly, their faces now inches apart.

“…Thank you,” Gale whispered, the words raspy with sleep and something harder to name. “For staying.”

Astarion opened his eyes. Met his gaze. And nodded.

Then, like a tether snapping, the quiet closeness broke.

They both pulled back—just slightly. Not cold. Not even strained. But with the mutual, unsaid awareness that whatever softness had passed between them in the night belonged to the dark, and morning was something else entirely.

Astarion rose first, stretching, reaching for his shirt.

Gale sat up more slowly, pressing his palm to his forehead as if trying to ground himself in the present.

No words followed. Just the subtle tension of boundaries being redrawn.

Today had far more in store for them than his own demons.

~~~

The air in the Astral Prism shimmered with psychic energy—dense, coiled, and humming with suppressed conflict. Even here, with the Elder Brain momentarily held at bay, it was like trying to breathe underwater.

They stood in a half-circle beneath the pulsing astral sky, their boots weightless on the slick, mirrored stone floor. The Emperor hovered just above them, mindflayer form glistening with otherworldly grace, his tentacled visage unreadable but his voice calm and grave.

Behind him, suspended in eerie stillness, Orpheus hung from his shimmering chains—proud even in restraint, eyes burning with furious clarity.

"You were brave," the Emperor said, voice echoing inside their skulls like a ripple in still water. "But bravery alone is insufficient. The Elder Brain cannot be unmade by willpower or steel."

A cold silence followed.

"We need both halves," the Emperor continued. "Mind and Might. Aberration and Astral. Me… and Orpheus."

Lae’zel’s grip on the Orphic Hammer tightened. Her knuckles were white.

"You kept this from us," Wyll said sharply, stepping forward. "You knew we’d fail. You let us walk into that."

"It was a test of resolve," the Emperor replied coolly. "You needed to see the truth for yourselves."

Lae’zel growled low in her throat. “Lies. All you’ve ever done is deceive and manipulate.”

Gale stood near the back, quiet, shoulders stiff. His gaze flicked between the Emperor and the chained prince, calculating. He could still feel the ache of magical exertion from the failed confrontation. They all could.

Lae’zel stepped forward, raising the hammer slightly. Her voice shook with a mix of purpose and fury. “Release him. I will not let his strength rot away for your games.”

“You would risk it all,” the Emperor murmured. “Free him, and he may kill me. You lose the mind. The Elder Brain wins—unless we work together.”

Everyone was silent then. The weight of the decision pressed down like a stone. Two powers. One path forward.

Then the Emperor said, more softly now: “You need both of us. One cannot replace the other.”

Astarion, unusually quiet, shifted beside Gale. His crimson gaze drifted up to Orpheus, then back to the Emperor. “I assume there's another option you're not telling us,” he said, voice silk-soft and deadly. “That seems to be your pattern, so why not tell us everything?”

The Emperor didn't flinch. “One of you could become illithid, complete ceremorphosis.”

Lae’zel’s breath was sharp. “I'd rather die.”

She raised the Orphic Hammer again.

Gale closed his eyes for a moment. He could feel the tainted weave tremble in his chest. Everything they'd endured—it had led here.

The Emperor’s voice pressed into his thoughts again, colder now. “Choose.”

The silence stretched.

And the hammer hung, suspended in Lae’zel’s trembling hands.

The Emperor’s voice lingered in their minds like the echo of a tolling bell.

“Choose.”

The weight of the Orphic Hammer sagged in Lae’zel’s hands, but she held it fast—waiting, perhaps, for someone else to make the decision for her.

Then Karlach stepped forward.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

Everyone turned.

Her eyes were steady, clear with resolve. “If that’s what it takes. If someone has to turn into one of them to use the Netherstones, let it be me.”

A pulse of silence followed her words.

“Karlach, no.” Gale’s voice was immediate, firm—not a plea, but a command. He stepped between her and the Emperor, eyes flashing. “You don’t understand what you’re offering.”

She blinked. “I do. I’m already running on borrowed time, Gale. This furnace inside me is going to burn me up either way—if I can make that count for something, if I can end this—”

“No,” Gale snapped. “Not like that.”

Astarion glanced between them, silent.

Gale’s voice dropped, bitter and low. “Do you think Minthara would let us live if we let you do this to yourself?”

Karlach’s mouth opened, but no words came.

“You don’t get to martyr yourself just because it’s convenient,” Gale said, quieter now. “Not for us. Not for anyone.”

A long pause.

Wyll touched Karlach’s shoulder gently, grounding her. She looked away.

Lae’zel still hadn’t moved.

“Then what’s left?” Astarion asked, low and cold. “The Githyanki prince, or the tentacled tyrant?”

The Emperor raised his hands—peaceful, poised, inhuman. “This is your decision. But if you waste any more time, there may not be one left to make.”

The silence between them stretched—too long.

Lae’zel's eyes darted between Gale, Karlach, the Emperor... then finally to Orpheus, hanging limply from his shimmering chains.

“I grow tired of indecision,” she muttered.

And before anyone could stop her—before anyone could even shout—Lae’zel lifted the Orphic Hammer above her head and brought it crashing down on the shimmering stones projecting the Astral chains.

A blast of psychic force rippled through the chamber like a storm breaking against stone. The light of the chains shattered—fragments of raw magic sizzling into the air as the bonds holding Orpheus dissolved with a ringing crack.

The prince collapsed to the floor, gasping, eyes wild and alive.

The Emperor screamed—a twisted, shrieking noise that tore through their minds more than their ears.

“You fools!” he snarled, body contorting, psionic energy lashing the very walls. “You’ve condemned us all. Do you think Orpheus will wield the stones for you? He will see you as traitors. As meat.”

No one moved.

The Emperor turned his back on them, his form flickering. “Then figure it out yourselves,” he spat, and vanished—folding out of existence like the edge of a dream.

The silence afterward was oppressive.

Orpheus slowly rose, regal even in his raggedness. His eyes, golden and fierce, swept across the party.

“You have chosen... boldly,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of centuries.

“But the path ahead remains unchanged. One among you must become what you most revile. A mind flayer.”

The words were iron.

Gale stood frozen. Astarion exhaled sharply, his face unreadable.

Karlach took a step forward again. “Then let it be—”

“No,” Gale said, eyes locked on Orpheus now. “There has to be another way.”

But they all knew the truth. The Elder Brain waited. The Netherstones pulsed like cursed hearts. And the cost of survival had not changed.

Only who would pay it.

A silence fell again, thick with grief and inevitability.

Orpheus turned his gaze from Gale to Lae’zel, then slowly to each of them in turn. There was no hatred in his eyes, only the grim calm of someone who had known all along that this moment would come.

He exhaled.

“So,” he said, voice low, ancient, resolute. “It shall be me, then.”

Lae’zel’s breath caught. “No—” She took a step toward him. “No, you were to defeat Vlaakith. You are free.”

Orpheus gave her a faint, sorrowful smile. “Freedom is not the absence of sacrifice, child. It is the right to choose who we become—for the good of all.”

From the shadows of the room, he knelt and picked up a discarded astral tadpole—its body still pulsing faintly with vile potential.

Lae’zel lunged forward, but Astarion held her back with both arms, murmuring, “Don’t. It’s too late.”

The prince of the githyanki held the squirming parasite in his hand for a beat, studying it as if trying to memorize the last moment of who he was.

Then, with a deep breath, he pressed it to his temple.

It pierced his flesh like a hot blade through silk.

The change began immediately.

Orpheus screamed—a sound that was both a roar of defiance and an agonized wail. His body convulsed, muscles locking, veins rising beneath his skin like cords. His jaw cracked unnaturally wide, eyes rolling back as his form twisted. Tentacles burst from beneath his cheeks, writhing wetly in the air as bone reshaped itself beneath skin. His golden armor warped around the transformation, seams straining to hold together.

Lae’zel sobbed aloud, torn from within. “No my prince!”

Orpheus couldn’t answer. His voice was gone—swallowed by the monstrous process reshaping him.

It was not quick. It was not clean.

It was a desecration of body and soul—yet endured willingly.

And when it was over, what rose before them was no longer Orpheus—but something other. Mind flayer. Warrior. Martyr.

He stood, swaying once, then firmed. His voice came now—not with words, but directly into their minds.

“Let us end this.”

~~~

The air was cold as they stepped out of the Prism’s veil and back into the war-torn streets of the city.

Lae’zel trembled, leaning into Wyll’s side, though her grip on the Orphic Hammer was still iron-strong. Wyll, ever the steadfast knight, wrapped an arm around her, steadying her even as his own heart thundered from what they had just witnessed.

And then came the sharp, familiar hum of a githyanki blade unsheathing.

Kith’rak Voss stood before them, flanked by a pair of elite gith warriors, his expression carved from stone. His eyes locked instantly on the mindflayer in their midst—and narrowed.

“Traitors,” he growled, voice ringing with fury. “You would desecrate the prince of our people so? You killed him and raised this abomination in his place?”

Lae’zel took a step forward, lips parting with a half-formed protest, but the creature behind her raised a hand.

A moment passed. Then, softly—inside their minds—came the voice of Orpheus.

“Voss, my old friend.”

Voss froze.

The githyanki warriors with him exchanged uncertain glances, unsure whether to strike or kneel.

Orpheus stepped into the light, his new form draped in the tattered remnants of his regal armor, his tentacles curled close to his face, like he knew how monstrous they appeared.

“No...” Voss whispered, breath catching in his throat. “What have you done?”

“I have done what must be done,” Orpheus answered. “To wield the stones, to stop the Elder Brain—we need one foot in the darkness. I have given mine.”

“You are gith,” Voss snarled. “We are sworn to rid the planes of the illithid scourge—not become it!”

“I am still gith,” Orpheus said. “I chose this. For you. For our people. For all people. When it is over, I will put an end to myself.”

Voss staggered back half a step, blade still raised but wavering now.

“No honor remains in this path,” he hissed, grief and fury entwined. “Only ruin.”

“And yet,” Orpheus said, eyes gleaming with unbroken resolve, “we are still standing. We still have a chance to win. That is more than I had moments ago.”

Lae’zel stepped beside him, her face wet with tears but defiant. “He is still our prince. And I will follow him. To the end.”

Voss looked between them—at the hell hardened tiefling, the trembling gith warrior, the vampire spawn, the warlock, the wizard.

Then, finally, at the mindflayer who had once been his friend.

His hand lowered.

“Then we walk this damned road together,” he said, voice hoarse. “And may we survive it.”

He turned on his heel, barking orders to his warriors, retreating into the shadows of the crumbling city.

~~~

The wind stirred ash and dust across the cobbled square where once laughter echoed and markets thrived. Now, it was a war council.

From the shattered balconies of the High Hall to the scorched flagstones underfoot, Baldur’s Gate was bruised and breaking—but not yet fallen. Not while they still stood.

Gale counted them, almost in disbelief. Some faces he knew too well now. Others were only stories and silhouettes on the edges of his memory. Yet they were all here.

Volo adjusted his cravat nervously, quill twitching at the ready. Rolan stood with a cocky grin, and Dammon fashioned armour to the owlbear—no longer a cub.

Zevlor stood ready as a hellrider once more. Aylin, radiant and terrifying in equal measure, stood just behind Isobel, whose soft hands trembled around her holy symbol. Yurgir loomed like a shadow just beyond them, silent but leashed—for now.

Valeria hovered close to Nine-Finger Keene, both watching the gathering with sharp, practiced eyes. Withers, Mol, Ulma, The strange Ox, Voss, Jaheira and Halsin, Ulder Ravengard, Florrick, Barcus Wroot, Arabella, Minthara, Shadowheart, Karlach, Wyll, Lae’zel, Orpheus.

Astarion was near, watching Gale.

And Gale stood at the center, shoulders squared under the unbearable weight of everything they had endured.

He swallowed hard and turned to address them all.

“So this is what we are,” he said. “Not an army. A tapestry of survivors. Of the broken and the brave. But together, I think we are more than enough.”

The air shifted—charged with the promise of something final.

The city below was quiet for now. Too quiet.

The wind carried the scent of smoke and blood, distant fires flickering across the skyline like a final heartbeat. They stood just beyond the last threshold—heroes and sinners, lovers and monsters, each marked by what they’d survived, and what they were about to risk.

Karlach pulled Minthara aside, their armor brushing in a quiet clink of steel and leather. Minthara, ever composed, blinked in mild surprise when Karlach cupped her face with both hands and kissed her—not rough, not urgent, but with the kind of soft desperation that made even the air go still. Minthara blinked again when it ended, dazed, then smiled. She kissed Karlach back, this time hard enough to leave them both breathless.

Nearby, Shadowheart had fallen into her parents' arms. There were no words, only the quiet sounds of grief and hope and gratitude mingled in the way her mother cradled her and her father kissed her hair.

Lae’zel was pacing, agitated, hammer in hand, muttering to herself in Gith. Wyll approached with quiet patience, letting her circle until she finally stilled. Her eyes searched his, wild and uncertain, and then she grabbed his collar and pulled him into a kiss so fierce it felt like a declaration of sorts. When she pulled away, she touched her forehead to his. No words. Just breath.

And then there was Gale.

He stood apart, his expression carefully guarded. He could feel Astarion’s gaze on him, hesitant, uncertain. The vampire was watching him like he might break apart if touched—like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to ask for anything.

Gale turned toward him slowly.

Their eyes met.

And then, without a word, Gale closed the distance. Gently. Purposefully. He reached for Astarion’s hand first, then leaned in, pressing a soft, steady kiss to his lips. Astarion froze for half a breath, then melted into it, one hand curling behind Gale’s neck, the other resting on his chest—right above the orb's swirling mark.

When they parted, Gale whispered against his lips, voice barely audible:

“I hope that isn't our last kiss. I'd gladly take a thousand more.”

Chapter Text

The Elder Brain loomed above them like a god, its tendrils twitching as if dreaming of vengeance. The air around it pulsed with psychic static, thick enough to choke on. The battle still raged in the ruins below, but here at the heart, time seemed to crawl.

Gale collapsed to one knee, blood smearing his palm as it struck the stone floor. His breath hitched, raw and shallow. Astarion was at his side instantly, hands trembling as he yanked a potion from his belt and uncorked it with his teeth.

“Don’t you dare,” Astarion hissed, tipping the contents to Gale’s lips. “Don’t you fucking dare die now.”

The potion burned down Gale’s throat, a bitter flood of warmth that did little to ease the gnawing ache in his chest. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first—until they found Astarion’s. The vampire’s hands lingered at his jaw, holding him steady.

“I’m fine,” Gale rasped. “Just… winded.”

“Bullshit,” Astarion whispered. “You’re barely holding yourself together.”

“Not the first time,” Gale muttered with a crooked smile. “I'm sure I've seen worse.”

Lae’zel was pacing near the edge, sword still slick with brain matter and guts. Minthara knelt down, fixing a strap on her armor for the final fight. Orpheus, who stood tall despite his grotesque transformation, seemed ready—more than any of them were.

And then Gale looked up.

At the Brain.

The awful grandeur of it. The Crown of Karsus pulsed atop it, beating like hearts. And something clicked. An arcane itch at the back of his mind. A possibility. A desperation.

His voice was quiet when he spoke.

“I could detonate it.”

Astarion’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

“I can still use the orb in my chest to blow the whole thing up..”

“You’re in no condition to stand, let alone perform suicidal explosion,” Astarion snarled.

Gale’s lips twitched. “At least the point isn't to survive the act anyway.”

“Gale...”

“It's still an option.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

“Astarion?” Gale asked, voice hoarse.

Astarion stared at him, something pained flickering behind his eyes. “Yes,” he whispered. “I know it is, but I don't even want to entertain it.”

Gale’s hand found his. “I can ensure no one else dies. Zevlor… Florrick… they're gone. I don't even know what has happened to Jaheira or Halsin.”

From across the chamber, Orpheus turned—his tentacled form casting an impossibly long shadow. “There may be another way,” he said. “But your method… it would be final.”

Lae’zel raised her chin. “A warrior’s end.”

Astarion shook his head slowly. “Or maybe just the end.”

Gale looked up once more at the Elder Brain, its terrible grandeur stirring some ancient dread in his soul.

“I need to brace myself,” he said softly. “If I do this… I'll have one chance.”

And in his bones, he already knew—this wasn’t a sacrifice he was willing to make.

The ground trembled beneath them. The air reeked of burnt flesh and psionic ozone. All around, the dead lay in still heaps—friend and foe alike.

At the base of the brainstem, the pulsing core of the Elder Brain loomed like a grotesque heart, throbbing with power. It called to them in whispers now, like a tide pulling at their minds.

Gale stood just beyond its reach, bloody, breathing hard, and staring.

“No,” Astarion said sharply, voice cracking through the chaos like a whip. He took a step forward, blood streaked across his temple, his armor scorched. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Gale didn’t answer at first. His eyes were locked on the brain, and his trembling fingers flexed at his sides. His shoulders rose and fell with labored breaths. Then, slowly, he turned—just enough to face Astarion.

“I can end it,” he said hoarsely.

Astarion shook his head, furious and terrified. “Gale, don’t be all heroic. Not now. Not like this.”

Gale stepped closer, until only inches separated them. His body swayed slightly from exhaustion, the blood loss catching up with him, but he lifted a hand and rested it on Astarion’s cheek. The tremble in his palm betrayed him.

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Astarion’s, their noses brushing, breath mingling.

“Do you really think we have any chance of winning?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Astarion closed his eyes. For a long moment, he was silent. The weight of all they’d lost, all they were about to lose, hung between them like a storm.

Finally, with a ragged sigh, he whispered, “I don’t know, really. We’ve survived everything so far. Why not?”

Gale gave a small, broken laugh. It didn’t sound like hope. It sounded like surrender.

Astarion gripped Gale’s hand tightly, pressing it to his chest. “Please. Not this. Not you.”

But Gale had already made his choice.

He pulled back with a quiet, apologetic smile.

Gale began to turn, when Astarion moved.

It was fast—so fast Gale didn’t even see the blow coming. Astarion's fist collided with his temple in a sickening thud. Gale's eyes rolled back, and he slumped instantly, legs giving out beneath him.

Karlach caught him with a grunt, arms wrapping around him just before his head hit the stone.

“What the fuck, Astarion?” she gasped, looking up at him in shock.

Astarion stood there, panting, his hand still clenched into a trembling fist. His eyes never left Gale’s unconscious face.

“I couldn’t let him do it,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “I can't.”

He knelt beside Gale, brushing a blood-matted curl from his forehead, and pressed a swift kiss there. Then he stood and turned to the stem of the brain.

Karlach stared for a second longer, then nodded grimly and handed Gale off to Aylin, who had already spread her radiant wings. “Take him,” she said. “Get him out of here.”

Aylin gathered Gale into her arms as if he weighed nothing, her expression solemn. “I will keep him safe, then I'll come back.”

With a powerful beat of her wings, she soared upward.

Astarion stood tall again, alone now at the foot of the brain. His daggers gleamed red with reflected light, his lip curled in defiance.

“Shall we?” he hummed.

~~~

When Gale woke, it was to the sound of distant shouting and the thick, overwhelming scent of blood in the air.

His head throbbed—a blooming ache where Astarion's fist had struck. The sky above him was pale with daylight, streaked with smoke. He was on the ground, lying on a bedroll hastily laid out among a triage of wounded. Cries of pain and the murmur of healing incantations filled the air like a dirge.

Panic gripped him instantly.

He sat up too fast, swaying with nausea, and scanned the field. Not the front lines. Not the brain. The injured surrounded him—soldiers and allies and strangers alike. And beside them all, walking slowly among the wounded, was Isobel.

She was radiant and grim, hands glowing with gentle silver light as she knelt beside a torn soldier and whispered words of restoration. She looked up as Gale staggered to his feet.

“You need to rest,” she said softly. “The others—”

“Where are they?” he cut in, his voice hoarse. “Astarion? Karlach? Lae’zel?”

Isobel’s expression faltered just for a moment. She crossed the distance to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding.

“They’re still fighting.”

Gale’s stomach dropped. “No. No, I was— I was with them. I was going to—” He looked at his hands, like he could still feel the Weave thrumming beneath his skin. “Why am I here?”

“Astarion,” she said simply. “He made sure you got out. Aylin brought you to me—”

Gale shook his head, staggering a few steps away from her. “No. No, he shouldn't have. This was my choice. I was ready—”

“You were exhausted,” she said. “You were bleeding out. You could barely stand. You would have failed.”

He turned away, breath shuddering. Somewhere, past the smoke and the sky and the clamor of war, the battle was raging. He had no idea if they were winning. No idea if they were even alive.

He could feel his heart pounding in his ears. Useless. He was utterly, utterly useless.

He didn’t even notice the tears until they were already streaking down his face.

He dropped to his knees in the dirt, fists clenched.

“I should be there,” he whispered. “I should at least be with them.”

And all around him, the battle raged on—just far enough away to be unreachable.

Suddenly, the sky tore open in a cascade of sickly light.

Gale gasped, clutching his ribs as a pressure—a psychic scream—rippled outward from the north. Everyone around him flinched or cried out, even those too wounded to stand. It echoed in the mind more than the ears, a deep, resonant sound of something ancient unraveling.

And then, silence.

A vast, still silence that didn't belong to the battlefield. It was the silence of something ending.

He scrambled to his feet, legs shaking beneath him. He turned toward the source—toward the city’s heart where the Elder Brain had been tethered like a dark star to the Realms. His heart was thundering.

The clouds had parted, the netherstorm above the battlefield dissipating into tendrils of gray. And where once that roiling abomination loomed, there was nothing. No tentacles. No psychic weight. No brain.

Only a rising column of light and falling debris.

Gale stared, his hands trembling at his sides.

It was over.

A choked breath escaped him, caught between a sob and a laugh.

Please, he thought. Please, let them be alive.

His mind was a whirlwind—all of them could be dead right now and he would have no idea. He could be the only one left out of their motley crew.

Gale pressed a hand to his mouth, blinking fast against the stinging in his eyes.

They had done it.

But he wouldn’t believe it—not truly—until he saw Astarion again. Until he touched him, heard his voice, held him in his arms and knew, without question, that they had survived this together.

His eyes fixed on the horizon, still searching. Still hoping.

And in his heart, a fragile, aching prayer repeated with every breath:

Come back to me.

Chapter Text

The city was in shambles—broken stone, scorched earth, and the scent of smoldering ruin hanging thick in the air. But the skies were clearing. The wind no longer tasted of ash and fear.

Gale stumbled through the wreckage of the lower city, his boots slipping in mud and blood. His limbs still trembled from the healing Isobel had forced into him. It didn’t matter. None of it did—not the ache in his side, not the cuts he hadn’t bothered to bind. All that mattered was reaching the pier.

He crested the hill leading down to the riverfront and stopped short.

They were there.

Wyll, leaning heavily on Karlach, both of them battered and bruised. Lae’zel was speaking to Voss, voice hoarse but proud. Orpheus stood apart, watching the horizon in grim silence.

And Astarion.

Astarion was standing.

Bloodied, his shirt torn, a gash along his temple crusted with dried blood—but alive.

Gale's breath caught. He staggered forward, half-running, and then—just before he reached him—he stopped.

Astarion turned at the sound of his approach, lips parting as if to speak.

Gale didn’t let him.

He surged forward, wrapping his arms around him in a crushing embrace. A sob broke from his throat as he buried his face in Astarion’s shoulder.

“You asshole,” he said, voice shaking.

Astarion chuckled, weakly. “Hello to you too.”

“I thought—I didn’t know if—” Gale couldn’t finish. He just held tighter. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Astarion exhaled shakily against him, hands coming up to grip Gale’s back, trembling slightly as if he too hadn’t allowed himself to believe this moment would come.

“Me too,” he whispered. “How's your head?”

“Gale chuckled slightly, “It's fine, I'll be fine, thanks to you.”

They stood there, clinging to one another amidst the wreckage and rising light, the tide of the world finally ebbing away.

A sudden cry of pain tore through the pier. Karlach stumbled, collapsing to one knee with a metallic groan, her armor hissing as smoke began to curl from beneath it. A flickering light glowed from the seams in her breastplate—veins of infernal fire pulsing with deadly heat.

“Karlach?” Wyll was the first to move, but Minthara was faster.

She dropped beside her, hands already on her shoulders. “What’s happening—?”

“My heart,” Karlach rasped, teeth gritted. “It’s burning me up. This is it, Minthy. This is where it ends.”

“No.” Minthara’s voice cracked with something raw, something afraid. “No, not now. We just won.”

Karlach gave a pained, crooked grin. “It’s okay. I’m okay. Dying here… surrounded by people I love—it’s a damn fine ending.”

Minthara shook her head furiously. “You don’t get to say goodbye. Not yet.”

“There’s no time.”

“Then come with me,” Minthara pleaded, voice rising with desperation. “We’ll go to the hells. You can keep living.”

Karlach blinked at her, stunned. “You’d—Minthy, no. You don’t belong there. And I'm—I'm free now.”

Minthara’s eyes filled with tears, and she clutched at Karlach’s burning armor despite the pain. “What is freedom if you're dead? What is this victory if you’re not in it with me?”

Karlach’s breath hitched, fire and smoke curling from her lips. “It’ll be worse down there, Minthy. You know that. It’s pain and war and—”

“I don’t care.” Minthara’s voice broke. “You've given me something worth fighting for. I’ll burn beside you if that’s what it takes.”

Karlach stared at her for a long moment. The fire surged again, searing through her chest, and she cried out—but this time, she didn’t resist.

“You sure?” she whispered.

Minthara nodded, tears running down her cheeks. “I’d rather burn with you than live without you.”

Karlach’s hand, trembling and blistered, cupped her cheek. “Then come on, babe. Let’s raise a little hell.”

And in a flash of heat and light, with a roar like a forge catching flame, the two vanished—swallowed into the infernal winds. The smell of scorched skin lingered in the air, and where they’d stood, only smoke and scorched wood remained.

No trace of Karlach. No trace of Minthara.

It hit all at once.

“The tadpole...” Gale murmured, his voice barely a whisper.

Astarion was still in his arms, trembling faintly, blood-slicked and panting with exhaustion. He frowned, confused. “What?”

“It was protecting her,” Gale said, throat tightening. “The parasite. It was suppressing the engine. That’s why she lasted so long—why she didn’t burn. And if hers is gone—”

Realization hit him.

Astarion’s eyes widened. His body jerked.

And then the smoke started—thin tendrils rising from his skin, curling from the edges of his collar, his gloves, his hair.

“No,” he choked. “No, no, no—!”

He tore himself from Gale’s grip, staggering back with mounting horror. His hands clutched at his face as the sun reached over the horizon, the first touch of dawn breaking through the mist.

His skin sizzled.

“Astarion!” Gale reached for him again, but Astarion recoiled, nearly tripping over a broken plank on the dock.

“I have to—shade—I need—!” he rasped, sprinting with unnatural speed toward the edge of the pier, toward the shadows cast by the remnants of the Nautiloid, smoke pouring off his shoulders like incense.

By the time Gale caught up to the edge, Astarion had collapsed in a heap under the hull’s wreckage, huddled against a sliver of darkness, shaking violently.

His beautiful face was contorted in a raw mix of pain and fear.

Gale hovered at the edge of the shadow, one hand half-raised, torn by the distance between them.

“…It’s gone,” Astarion whispered. “The protection. The damn parasite. It’s gone.”

Gale’s voice was hoarse. “We can find something. Some way to—”

Astarion shook his head, staring at his blistered fingers.

“I’m a creature of the dark again,” he said, a bitter smile on his lips, cracked and trembling. “Just like before. Worse, maybe. Because now I know what it’s like to walk in the sun again.”

Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes.

Gale lingered in the shadows a moment longer, watching Astarion curl tighter into himself like a wounded animal. The vampire nodded faintly when Gale asked if he’d be alright—though his eyes never lifted from the dirt, from the faint scorch marks on his hands.

Gale swallowed hard and forced himself to turn away. There were others. There was still more to do.

The pier was quiet now, the clamor of celebration dulled by the pain of cost. The others were scattered, some helping the wounded, others simply sitting in stunned silence.

And at the edge of the pier, framed by the wreckage of war, knelt Lae’zel and Orpheus.

The illithid form of the prince was barely holding shape—his transformation incomplete, grotesque. His psionic presence was frayed at the edges, held together by sheer will. Two massive red dragons loomed beside him, their wings folded in solemn stillness, expressions unreadable.

“Lae’zel,” Orpheus said, voice echoing in her mind more than aloud. “It must be you.”

Lae’zel stood tall, blade in hand, eyes rimmed red though not a single tear had fallen.

“You must finish what I began. Free our people. Destroy Vlaakith.”

He extended a glistening, trembling hand toward her. “My dragons are yours. My legacy is yours.”

She bowed her head briefly. “You honor me, Prince.”

He smiled, in that subtle, mind-bending way a transformed being could. “No. You honor all gith. By surviving.”

She stepped forward slowly, and he lowered his head to her sword.

“I will make it swift,” she said quietly. “You have my word.”

Orpheus closed his eyes.

With one clean stroke, she severed his head.

There was no scream. No sound at all, save the sharp breath she drew in after, shoulders trembling.

The dragons roared, not in rage, but in grief. A sound that cracked the sky.

Gale stood still, a silent witness to it all. His heart ached for her, for all of them. Victory always came with a cost. And in the hush that followed Orpheus’ death, Karlach forced to return to the hells, Astarion forced back into the shadows, the victory somehow felt… emptier.

He turned, looking back toward the shade where Astarion hid. Toward the camp where others were recovering. Toward the path forward, uncertain and wide.

There was still more to face. But at least now, they could begin.

The dragons took to the sky with a thunderous beat of wings, sending dust and ash spiraling into the air. Lae’zel and Wyll sat astride them like the war-forged champions they were—one of blood and blade, the other of fire and oath. Gale shielded his eyes as they disappeared into the horizon, swallowed by cloud and fading sun.

There was nothing more to wait for.

The pier emptied behind him. Grief hung in the air like smoke, acrid and suffocating.

He turned, feet dragging with the weight of everything he had seen, everything he had done. He moved through camp like a ghost—past broken weapons, bloodied bedrolls, the haunting hush of a world that had stopped fighting and was now only trying to breathe.

It took him longer than he expected to find Astarion.

He wasn’t by the tents or under the awnings. Not near any of the scattered shelters others had erected for shade. No. Gale eventually found him beneath a stack of overturned crates and splintered barrels tucked into the deepest shadow the camp offered. A place even the sun dared not trespass.

“Astarion?” he said, voice low, tentative.

There was no answer.

He crouched down, peering into the crevice. Then he saw them—burned hands, trembling. The gleam of tear-tracked cheeks. A body curled in on itself like something hunted.

Astarion had wedged himself into the smallest space he could find, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, as if trying to disappear completely.

When Gale moved closer, Astarion flinched hard and recoiled further into the dark. His voice came out broken and bitter:

“And now I go back to being a rat. Scurrying around in the dark.”

Gale’s heart twisted. The pain in Astarion’s voice wasn’t just physical. It was the echo of centuries. Of cruelty. Of a life stolen and then, for a time, almost his again.

Now, the sun had taken it back.

He knelt by the crates, not reaching yet, not speaking just to fill the space. Only listening. Letting the silence hold them both, until the tightrope of Astarion’s control frayed.

Only then did Gale speak, voice hoarse.

“…You’re not a rat.”

Astarion scoffed weakly but didn’t move.

“You’re not the dark thing Cazador made. Not what the sun has tried to take. You’re—” Gale’s throat closed. “Beautiful, funny, and surprisingly sweet.”

He finally reached in, carefully, fingertips grazing the edge of Astarion’s wrist. Burnt skin flinched—but didn’t pull away this time.

“I don’t need the sun to see you, Astarion,” Gale whispered. “I never did.”

A moment passed.

And then Astarion turned his face just slightly, eyes shimmering in the gloom. A breath, unsteady. A swallow.

“…You found me,” he murmured, the words almost inaudible.

“I always will,” Gale said.

Chapter Text

By nightfall, the streets had emptied into silence. What few survivors remained kept to themselves, tending wounds both seen and unseen. The world was quieter now. The kind of quiet that felt like an echo—of what had been lost, of what could never be again.

Gale found Astarion still nestled in shadow, but this time, he didn’t flinch when Gale reached for him. He allowed himself to be drawn out, step by hesitant step, until they stood together in the silver hush of the fading day.

The walk back to the Elfsong was silent.

The inn was almost unrecognizable—emptied of its usual patrons, of song and laughter and life. Only dust motes floated in the moonlight, drifting like forgotten memories. Chairs were overturned. Glasses left half-full. A stillness hung over the place that neither of them disturbed.

They weren’t staying long. Just the night. Just long enough.

Gale lit the candles in the bath chamber and filled the basin with warm water, pouring in what few herbs and salves they had left from their stores. Astarion sat on the edge of the tub, wordless, watching his scorched hands like they belonged to someone else.

“You should get in,” Gale said gently.

Astarion didn’t argue. He simply allowed Gale to help him undress, wincing only slightly as the clothes pulled away from tender, burned skin. When he slipped into the water, a long breath left his lips, though it wasn’t quite a sigh of relief.

It was more resignation.

Gale knelt beside him, carefully tending the burns, rinsing away the dried blood and grime. He worked in silence, his touch always feather-light. He didn’t speak until he felt Astarion’s fingers relax slightly beneath his own.

“I never properly thanked you,” Gale said quietly, “for stopping me.”

Astarion didn’t answer at first. His eyes were distant, staring at the surface of the water.

“You would’ve died,” he finally said. “You would’ve chosen to die.”

“And you didn’t let me.”

“No,” Astarion murmured, voice low. “Because for once… I couldn’t bear to lose something I wanted to keep.”

Gale swallowed thickly, looking down to mask the emotion that welled in his chest.

Once the wounds were cleaned and salved, Gale helped him out of the bath and into soft clothes, wrapping him in a blanket as he guided him gently to bed. Astarion didn’t protest. He moved like a man sleepwalking—numb, distant, quiet in a way that unsettled Gale more than any shouting or tears could have.

He sat beside him, brushing damp curls from Astarion’s forehead.

“Are you in pain?”

Astarion gave the barest shrug. “Not really. Not the kind that matters.”

That broke something in Gale. But he didn’t push. He only stayed. Let his presence be the answer to the pain Astarion couldn’t yet speak.

They lay together in the quiet, the Elfsong breathing soft and hollow around them. No music. No ghosts. Just two men, scarred by gods and devils alike, trying to find something like peace in the aftermath.

Astarion didn’t cry. Not that night.

But Gale could feel the tremor in his body as he fell asleep in his arms.

And he held him a little tighter.

~~~

The Elfsong Tavern was quiet, the kind of stillness that followed tragedy—like the world itself was holding its breath. Light filtered in through the stained-glass windows, muted and warm, but it didn’t reach the corner room where they’d taken refuge. No sun would touch Astarion here.

He sat curled near the hearth, bare-chested, his shirt discarded after Gale had cleaned and redressed his wounds the night before. The burns hadn’t worsened—but they hadn’t healed either.

Gale knelt beside him, careful not to crowd him.

“You’re not healing,” he said gently.

Astarion didn’t look at him. “I noticed.”

“You need to feed.”

A slow, derisive laugh escaped Astarion’s lips. “Are you truly suggesting that after last time?”

“I trust you,” Gale said softly.

“I nearly drained you, Gale.”

“And yet here I stand. Mildly anemic, maybe.” He smiled, trying to cut through the tension. “You didn’t mean to hurt me.”

Astarion still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “And what if I do it again?”

“I trust you.” he repeated.

Gale’s words hung there, unchallenged.

“I’d rather it be me,” he added, quieter now. “If you’re going to feed, I’d rather it be me. Not some passing traveler. Not some fresh-faced refugee with no idea what they’re offering. Me.”

“…You’re certain?”

“I am. I mean, if I do die this time, at least it’ll be from something poetic. A tragic vampire lover. I can see the ballads already.”

That got the smallest, broken laugh out of Astarion. “You’re a fool.”

“And you’re starving. Come on.”

Gale tilted his head slightly, baring his throat.

Astarion hesitated. His hands shook as he reached out, brushing Gale’s hair aside, then slowly, he leaned in.

He was gentle. Careful. His lips pressed first to Gale’s neck in a kiss, barely there, and then—he bit.

Gale gasped, body tensing, but it wasn’t pain that made his breath catch. It was the heat. The thrill of it. There was a pulse of something deep and carnal and holy all at once. Astarion drank carefully, each pull controlled, and Gale’s hands curled into the fabric of Astarion’s trousers just to stay grounded.

A soft, helpless sound escaped him.

Astarion stilled immediately. “Gale—?”

“I’m fine,” Gale panted. “I’m fine. Don’t stop.”

Astarion did as asked, drinking just enough to take the edge off. When he finally drew back, he closed the wound gently with his tongue, then lingered there—forehead pressed to Gale’s skin, like a confession.

“You moaned,” he whispered, voice shaking.

“I did,” Gale admitted, breathless. “And I meant it.”

Astarion made a noise like he didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. “Gods, I missed you.”

“I never left,” Gale whispered, reaching to cup his cheek.

They stayed like that, forehead to forehead, blood-warm and trembling.

Gale eased back, breath still catching in his chest. His pulse fluttered wildly under the surface of his skin, but he smiled.

“I’d go broke on healing potions just to have you bite me all day,” he murmured, brushing his fingers lazily through Astarion’s tousled hair.

Astarion chuckled, the sound hoarse and real. “Careful, darling. I might take you up on that.” He pulled back just enough to meet Gale’s eyes, his lips glinting red. “Bleed you dry, then patch you up with your own coin. Sounds like the ideal romance to me.”

Gale gave a soft, tired laugh. “It’s the hottest thing I’ve heard in weeks. I might allow it.”

Astarion’s smirk softened into something more vulnerable, though his tone stayed light. “I’ll try not to leave you completely an invalid.”

“You’re sweet like that.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

Their eyes lingered, no need for anything more right now. The pain was still there—old wounds and fresh ones both—but for the first time in what felt like days, there was quiet between them. Not the heavy silence of grief or guilt. Just… quiet. Comfortable. Warm.

Astarion leaned in again, pressing his lips to Gale’s forehead with a reverence that belied the teasing. “Thank you,” he whispered.

They stayed curled together in front of the hearth, soft light flickering over their bodies. Whatever came next, they’d face it—if not as they once were, then maybe as something new. Something slowly healing.

He spoke after a beat of silence, voice quieter now. “The Crown of Karsus is still out there.”

Astarion stirred slightly. “Still out where?”

“Bottom of the ocean,” Gale muttered. “Sank with the rest of the crumbling wreckage after you destroyed the Elder Brain. Gods only know what else is down there now. But the Crown... it’s just outvof reach.”

Astarion tilted his head, watching him carefully. “And you're thinking about retrieving it.”

“I could,” Gale said, slowly, like tasting the idea. “There are spells. Rituals. Or... I could tell Mystra. Tell her where to find it. Leave it to her judgment and hope... hope she forgives me.”

There was no bitterness in his voice—just resignation. Tired and distant, like someone looking too long at a wound he’d stopped pretending wasn’t there.

Astarion was silent for a moment. Then: “Do you want her forgiveness?”

Gale’s eyes closed. He didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Part of me does. Part of me still kneels before her in dreams. Still thinks of the Weave as a thing she gifted me... not something I am capable of wielding without her. But another part of me—” He looked at Astarion. “Another part wants to bury it. All of it. Let the Crown rot where it lies. Let Mystra never hear my name again.”

Astarion didn’t try to offer an answer. He just reached for Gale’s hand and laced their fingers together.

“Then maybe you wait,” he said softly. “Until you’re not trying to make amends to a god anymore. Until you’re choosing it for you.”

Gale exhaled, not quite a laugh but close. “You give surprisingly sound advice for someone who once suggested I imagine myself as an incorporeal cloud to cope with trauma.”

Astarion smiled faintly. “That’s because sometimes dissociation works, my dear.”

Gale let the silence stretch for a time, watching the way the firelight kissed the edge of Astarion’s pale jaw. He looked better now—fed, cleaned, wrapped in fresh clothes. But there was a stillness behind his eyes that hadn’t quite left.

“So,” Gale murmured, running his thumb along the back of Astarion’s hand, “what will you do now? Return to the Underdark? Check in on all seven thousand spawn you released?”

Astarion let out a dry, amused sound. “Ugh, please don’t remind me. Seven thousand half-feral emotionally constipated and bloodthirsty creatures. I'm sure they’re thriving.”

Gale chuckled softly. “They might surprise you.”

“You’re probably right. It might even be nice.”

"So," Gale said, voice quiet, "you’ll go to the Underdark, then?"

Astarion glanced at him, a flicker of a smile playing across his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. "Someone has to. Seven thousand spawn let loose into a world that’s hated them for centuries. If I don’t… who will?"

Gale nodded, lips pressing into a thin line. "And I’ll go after the Crown," he murmured. "Retrieve it. Offer it to Mystra. Maybe... if I’m lucky, her forgiveness will come with a way to soothe this damn orb once and for all."

Astarion tilted his head, something unreadable in his expression. "You'll still seek her forgiveness?"

"I have to believe something good can still come from all this," Gale said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Otherwise, what was any of it for?"

A pause stretched between them—long and quiet and full of memories.

Astarion looked away again. "And that's the only reason you want to see her?"

Gale laughed, soft and warm. "Are you jealous?"

Astarion scoffed. “I am far more beautiful, I have no reason to be jealous of her.”

The quiet stretched again, this time gentler—softer than silence had any right to be. Outside, the sky was bleeding into dawn, the kind that only came after sleepless nights and too many battles survived by sheer will.

Gale looked at Astarion, really looked at him—his pale skin still marked with faded burns, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and thoughts too heavy to voice. And yet, in all of it, he was still breathtaking.

"I don’t know what this is," Gale said quietly, "or where it’s going anymore. But I do know I’m not ready to say goodbye to you… not completely."

Astarion didn’t speak, but his gaze flicked up to meet Gale’s. That guarded look again, the one he wore like armor. But it faltered now, just a little.

So Gale leaned in—slowly, carefully—as if the moment itself might shatter if he rushed it. His lips brushed Astarion’s, a question wrapped in tenderness.

And Astarion answered.

He kissed him back, mouth warm and trembling, fingers brushing lightly against Gale’s jaw like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch him.

When they pulled apart, Astarion rested his forehead against Gale’s for a heartbeat. "Come back in one piece, wizard," he whispered. "So we can figure out what this still is."

Gale smiled, eyes burning. "Count on it."

Their foreheads stayed pressed together, breaths mingling, hearts pounding in reluctant harmony. The room around them—the entire top floor of the tavern—was still and shadowed, claimed just for them. No locked doors. No eavesdropping companions. Just space. Just quiet. Just them.

The silence between them was no longer awkward—it crackled. Charged with all they’d said, and the many more things they hadn’t. Fingers brushed again. This time they didn’t drift apart. They clung.

Gale’s hand slipped to Astarion’s waist, resting on bare skin beneath his shirt. “We don’t have to rush,” he murmured.

Astarion’s mouth curled into something between a smirk and a wound. “Darling,” he said, voice low, “it's not like I can go anywhere until the sun goes down anyway.”

The kiss was slow—but hungry. Lingering, as if tasting the words they couldn’t say. Astarion pressed Gale back, guiding him up without force—just the surety of someone who knew he was wanted. Gale followed without protest, letting his back hit the edge of a plush velvet couch.

“I’ve imagined this,” Astarion murmured, biting gently at Gale’s lip, “again and again. Finally alone with you. No interruptions. No watching eyes. No need to stay quiet.”

His hands were already at Gale’s clothes, stripping away layers with steady purpose. Gale’s breath caught as he was laid bare, each piece of clothing lost to the floor like it meant nothing.

Then he sank to his knees.

Gale’s hands clutched the back of the couch as Astarion mouthed at his thighs, licking a path up the inside with infuriating patience. His cock twitched, aching, as Astarion finally wrapped lips around the head and sucked.

“Astarion—” he gasped, knees nearly buckling.

“Mmm,” Astarion hummed around him, pleased, one hand gripping Gale’s hip to steady him while the other stroked him slowly. He took him deep, not all at once, but enough to make Gale moan low and broken, biting his lip to keep from shattering too soon.

When Astarion finally pulled back, his lips were wet and pink, and his expression was devastating—desire sharpened by control.

“Turn around,” he said, voice like silk wrapped around something razor-sharp. “Hands on the couch.”

Gale obeyed. He braced himself over the back of the couch, spine arching instinctively as Astarion stepped up behind him, still mostly dressed—shirt open, trousers halfway undone.

The first sound was Astarion spitting into his hand.

The second was Gale’s helpless moan when slick fingers found him, circling and pressing in. No fanfare. No pretense. Just a filthy, honest rhythm that made Gale’s legs shake and his face burn with heat.

“Is this okay?” Astarion murmured, voice close at Gale’s ear.

“Yes,” Gale gasped. “Gods, yes.”

Astarion chuckled, and the sound was dark, delighted.

He didn’t tease long. Didn’t draw it out like a performance. When he pushed inside, it was slow—but sure. Deep. Gale’s hands clawed at the couch, a choked breath escaping him as he was filled, stretched, the ache just right.

“Fuck,” Astarion hissed, voice ragged.

They moved in a rhythm that was anything but gentle—controlled, yes, but intense. Astarion’s hips snapped against Gale’s ass in a punishing rhythm, not cruel, but needy. Like he was trying to carve this memory into both their bones.

And Gale—Gale took it with trembling reverence, gasping with each thrust, pushing back against him greedily.

“Harder,” he begged. “Please, just—don’t stop.”

Astarion groaned and obliged, snapping his hips harder, angling just right until Gale cried out, head dropping forward.

They didn’t stay at the couch. At some point, Astarion pulled out, guided Gale down to the floor, dragging him into his lap and sinking in again with a groan of pleasure and satisfaction. He kissed Gale like a man starved—like he could drink the magic out of him.

They fucked like the day was endless. Against the couch. On the floor. Gale straddling him, Astarion seated and panting as Gale rode him slow and sweet, then fast and frantic. Hands everywhere. Kisses trailing sweat. Whispered things they couldn’t say in the weeks passed.

“You’re mine,” Astarion whispered at one point, clutching Gale’s waist, driving into him from below. “Even if you leave—today, you’re mine.”

“Yes,” Gale gasped. “I’m yours.”

And when they came—together—it was loud, unashamed. Astarion spilled inside him with a snarl, hips jerking as Gale clung to him, cock spilling between their stomachs as his world shattered.

They collapsed onto the tavern’s rug in a tangle of limbs and breathless, shaking silence. Astarion didn’t let him go—not right away. He kissed Gale’s forehead, his temple, the tip of his nose, like marking territory.

Eventually, Gale found the strength to speak. “I'm going to miss you.”

Astarion’s voice was hoarse. “You'd better.”

They stayed there, tangled, slick and warm on the tavern floor, for what felt like nothing compared to the months they would now spend apart.