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dnd_drow

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"Perhaps the weave has granted me a natural act of defense. A deterrent to all creatures who might wish to devour me." 
"Well, it didn't do you any good here, did it?" Astarion drawls, playing his part of disinterest. "Consider me deterred, darling. A carrion crawler would be a treat compared to your freakish blood." He tips his head backwards lazily towards the rest of the group fishing their arrows and swords out of fleshy goblin chests. "Somebody better tend to the soft little mage before he bleeds out." 
Gale clears his throat, maintaining his composure. "I can manage this just fine, thank you," he insists. "The sooner we distance ourselves away from this fetid pile of corpses, the better." 
His bloodied form taunts Astarion the entire time as they get back on the trail, his head full with the noxious scent, pouding at the back of his skull – he barely contains the urge to shove Gale into Shadowheart so she can heal him, but the mage is too stubborn in making a show of how able he is. When they finally reach their home for the night, the group splits apart, and Astarion does his best to maintain some distance without coming across as too disturbed, even as Gale’s blood still accosts him in the air. With his feet aching from the long day, Astarion settles on a log and pulls out his arrows to wipe them clean of any lingering fleshy bits. Tav and Karlach start gleefully comparing all the stolen fruits of their labor they’ve gathered from the day as Wyll and Lae’zel hover over them to stake a claim on any well-crafted weapons.  From the corner of his eye, Astarion sees Gale waving Shadowheart off, trying to step away to his tent, but her hand shoots out to pinch the fabric on his shoulders.  
"Don’t be stubborn," Shadowheart demands. "Let me see." 
"Ah, it’s just a scratch, really. Nothing I can’t sort out myself."
"Sit, Gale, or I might just have to tie you down." 
Gale’s face flushes at the idea, but he relents and settles down on the bench next to Astarion, who tightens his lips at the proximity of him. Get away from me, Astarion wants to snarl. The smell of Gale is— is horrible, it’s awful. And irritatingly fascinating. He focuses his attention on his arrows, fixating on making them completely spotless, ignoring the gooseflesh rising on his neck from the pungent scent filling his head.
Gale shrugs aside his blood-soaked robe. He doesn’t notice when it misses the bench and falls to the ground in a heavy crumple. But Astarion does.
Halsin pops up behind the two — he’s chosen to spend the night here, and Tav is eyeing him suspiciously fondly — towering over and eclipsing Astarion from their view. Gods, he is big – the sheer magnitude of the elf is staggering, leaving Astarion momentarily awestruck. 
"Might I suggest an alternative?" Halsin asks. "I am a healer of some renown, if I may cast aside modesty for a moment." 
Shadowheart considers this, and amidst their back and forth (with Gale flitting his eyes between them and wondering when they’ll decide to finally heal him already!), Astarion snatches up the garment discreetly and slips away. He doesn’t know why he does this— he wants to say he’s been compelled! That some mysterious force is urging him to do this! But that would be a bold-faced fucking lie. No – there’s an even worse reason – something innate, something primal that guides him to steal the damn robe. 
In the dim privacy of his tent, Astarion carefully unfurls Gale's bloodied cloak. He turns it over in his hands and presses his fingers into the wet fabric, the stains practically pulsing underneath his touch. He traces his fingers along the ridges and then raises them to his lips. Astarion’s throat goes dry. The smell of it sends a searing burn down his throat.
The idea of consuming the essence of magic itself is fucking tantalizing. 
But he takes heed of Gale’s warning. The wizard is many things – a love-bruised, disgraced prodigy being one of them – but an exaggerator? Hmm. Perhaps not. The blood is probably (no, definitely) vile, and Astarion is in no mood to try a sample and contend with the potential of vomit and the subsequent clean up. Still, it doesn’t mean he can’t just... ponder it. Heat pools in Astarion’s stomach as he contemplates the way it would feel to have an inkling of the power living in Gale’s veins, to claim a fragment of it for himself.
His cock twitches when his mind inadvertently takes it a step further: how Gale might sound pinned under him, how he might arch and drool as Astarion fucks him into the ground. To shut Gale up for once and claim him, bent over, hands tied behind his back, neck stretched out.. 
It sends his mind into a tailspin, and Astarion knows he needs to go back out there and toss the dirty, unsightly thing back on the ground.
Instead, he brings the cloak up to his nose and holds it close, breathing it in. Astarion is near intoxicated from the razor-sharp scent of it alone, barely aware of what he’s doing as he stuffs a hand into his pants, grabbing at his length. His cock springs free from its confines, exposing itself to the cool air. He strokes up and down, working it to a full hardness, then he holds his breath. An intense idea overcomes him. What is wrong with his brain? Why is he doing this? No answers come to his mind as he wraps the fabric around his cock. His hips buck against it, cock drooling precum into the soft friction of the velvet, mixing in with the blood. 
Astarion concentrates on staying quiet even with his tent being the furthest away from the others, what with the others still unpacking from the day and chattering about, but the sensation has him hissing. It becomes a mission: there’s urgency in the way he moves, anger even, to come as fast as he can. He arches into both hands and fucks into Gale’s cloak, struggling to keep his breath steady amidst the strange, charred scent that fills the air. 
The sight of Gale’s blood coating around Astarion’s cock gets him off so fast that he’ll never have the gall to admit it, and he allows himself a quiet grunt as his cum soaks into his fabric wrapped fist. When his orgasm dies down, Astarion bites out a humorless chuckle. Well, he thinks flatly, I really need a bath now.
He also somehow really wants to eat still, he realizes, his stomach churning despite dining on bugbears and goblins. 
Astarion remembers some boar tracks on the trail east of the camp and doesn’t spare another second –  he grabs the cum soiled cloak and throws it into his sack, along with a change of clothes and a fresh jar for any extra blood. Not that he ends up needing it — Astarion is particularly vicious about his meal, for not only does he drain the boar completely dry, but he makes an utter mess of it too: ripping apart its neck and clawing its chest open for no reason at all, other than that he simply can.
An hour later, he emerges from the woods, freshly bathed and belly bloated. The camp is quiet now, save for the sounds of an owl hooting nearby and the gentle licks of the campfire’s flames. Everyone has gone to bed, eager to start a new day. Everyone except for Gale, who’s tracing his steps in circles to find his missing cloak. It's no ordinary cloak; it's his absolute favorite one, he can’t help but grumble to himself.
"Did someone really just toss it away?"
Astarion skulks up to him from the shadows, causing Gale to lurch with surprise, hand flying to his chest. "Oh!" 
"I washed it for you." With zero grace, Astarion throws the cloak at Gale, damp, but now clean of cum and blood. 
Gale catches the garment, eyes furrowed as he untangles it with delicate care. His eyes scan it over to see if Astarion has perhaps messed with it – which, well... 
"You know, I really could’ve just used my magic to clean it."
"I was gagging at the foul odor, waiting for those two to finish with you, so it was either that or burn it in the fire. Gods know I would not be able to handle you drone on about how you missed such an antique article of clothing."  
"I’m going to go ahead and choose to believe that you were just being uncharacteristically thoughtful, Astarion, so for that, I will thank you." Gale waves his hand to the bottle of wine nestled up against the log. "Care to join me for a drink? Tav swiped this vintage red and it feels far too selfish for me to finish the bottle myself." 
Astarion purses his lips. "Why not," he replies, grabbing a goblet and letting Gale fill it halfway with the wine. "What’s so special about this cloak anyway? Surely not because it’s in fashion." 
Gale proceeds to yap on and on about why the cloak is so near and dear to his heart, how his mother had painstakingly sewn it herself, and Astarion actually sits there and listens to the whole thing while he sharpens his dagger with a whetstone in between sips from his chalice. The worst realization of the night is not that he needs to keep his distance from an injured, bloodied Gale from now on (lest his brain gets carried away with the notion of devouring and fucking Gale again), but that Astarion finds him... endearing? 
Tonight, Gale cooks entirely without any magic.
Karlach and Lae’zel return from hunting with a bountiful sack of rothe meat, fresh for the hearty stew that Gale intends to prepare for their supper. 
"You'll see," Halsin tells him, igniting the fire beneath the cauldron as Gale extracts an assortment of spices and herbs from a weathered wooden box. "To appreciate the experience of cooking with only your bare hands – without any arcane assistance - it's a fresh perspective, a new joy." 
"I believe you," Gale acknowledges, tenderizing the meat with a small mallet. "That’s not to say that I completely understand the appeal of taking the longer route. Work smarter, not harder, eh? Multitasking is a wondrous thing! Back in my tower, I could have the pot simmering, a pin kneading dough for my bread rolls, and savor a delightful cup of earl grey – all without worrying about keeping a watchful eye on it." 
Halsin smiles, rising from the floor. "Well, here, you are not alone. There are many eyes to assist you." He proceeds to enlist some of the others to help out with chopping vegetables, setting up plates and silverware on makeshift tables. Astarion is relaxed and reading as this goes on, taking in the last of the day’s sunrays. (Warmth hasn’t lost its novelty – it never will.) 
The rest of the group buzzes as everyone waits for Gale to work his culinary magic. Tav can’t help but hover over Gale’s shoulder with curiosity (" The onions I found weren’t too moldy?’ they ask), asking how everything is coming together and Gale is so enthusiastic about it all that his big eyes seem to just sparkle with delight — and ugh – isn’t he just adorable . Astarion buries his nose back into his book – some terrible pulp erotica he’s picked up somewhere – not at all interested in the commotion around him. 
When supper's finally prepared, the group gathers with hungry anticipation. Moans of delight fill the air as they all dig into their meal, and Gale looks particularly satisfied with himself. "You’re right, Halsin," he says, holding his bowl on his lap, surveying them all. "Something special about tonight’s dinner indeed."
"It is acceptable," Lae’zel muses, staring thoughtfully into her quickly emptying bowl. Wyll grunts with admiration, his mouth full of food. 
"Why even bother trying to be the greatest wizard of all time?" Shadowheart jokes. "You’d make a fine house husband with the way we’re all fawning over this meal. I mean, Halsin is practically in an otherworldly state right now," and she nods at Halsin who’s finished his meal so quickly that he’s just sitting there with a satisfied smile. 
Karlach shoves in a mouthful of potatoes with gusto. She looks at Astarion with a sorrowful shake of her head. "Aw, Astarion, it’s too bad you vampires don’t need to eat, you’re missing out on some culinary genius here." 
He looks up from the pages of his book and lifts an eyebrow at the mess on the corner of Karlach's lips. "Well, I can still enjoy the flavor of something, if you’re curious about that; though I have a taste for the luxurious – and a meal made with the leftovers of near rotten produce is not exactly something that appeals to me. But! You know. I’m sure it’s very good. To a plebian without a refined palette." 
Gale offers a good-natured rebuttal. "I admit, I don’t exactly have the farmer’s market available to me right now, but I think I’ve done an all right job with what I was given."
"Oh come off it Gale, this is the best meal I’ve had in ages." She points accusingly at Astarion with her spoon. "And nothing about you is luxurious right now," she says, making a face at the word, "You’ve been wearing the same doublet for the last week."
Astarion scoffs and straightens up in embarrassment at her comment.
"Try it. I dare you to try and tell me it is not fucking delicious." She grabs the book from his hands, squints her eyes at the cover, and pushes her bowl towards him.
Gale looks at him somewhat expectantly with those damned puppy eyes and the entire party is now goading him to try it, so— Astarion decides he’ll humor them. It’ll be funny when he’s correct about the food being perfectly average.
He takes a spoonful from Karlach’s bowl and brings it to his lips. The moment the stew touches his tongue, his flat expression changes and his eyes widen. It’s an unexpected delight. It’s savory and rich and perfectly seasoned and damn it, where did he learn to cook like this? In truth, Astarion hasn’t thought about "real food" in so many years. In the moments where he was at a tavern scoping for victims or entertaining Cazador’s guests at a ball, it never crossed his mind to indulge just for the sake of flavor – it would’ve felt like a cruel, pointless delusion to partake in when he was so starved of blood.
And though the stew does nothing to sate his true hunger; it’s a bittersweet joy, a tugging reminder that at one time, he could’ve been here as another version of himself, filling himself up on a meal made with such careful tenderness. The corners of his lips curl upward as he takes another bite, and then another. Gale, who’s watching him with anticipation, practically beams with satisfaction. 
"Was I wrong!?" Karlach exclaims, slapping at her thighs with enthusiasm. 
"You’ve forgotten a key part of this meal," Gale says, reaching over to the wooden trunk acting as a serving table. "You have got to try it with some of the bread, the crunch makes it a perfect little bite." He reaches for the loaf, slicing a portion for Astarion. But before he’s done with it, the blade slips from his fingers, nicking his thumb in the process. He tsks, and blood quickly wells up from the cut, a droplet falling onto the ground as he brings it up to his mouth to suck the rest away.
"Ah, and this is why magic is a man’s best tool, in and out of the kitchen." 
Gale wipes his finger on his pants and swaps to the other hand to hand Astarion the piece of bread, but Astarion is stiff and locked onto the sight of the petite ruby droplets rising from the tip of his thumb. He blinks, and Gale looks down at his hand, then raises his eyes back to meet Astarion’s. When he opens his mouth to say something – no doubt something unhelpful and insufferable – Astarion cuts him off.  
"It isn’t that good," he snaps, not letting the look on Gale’s face stop him from getting up from his seat and slamming the bowl down on the wooden trunk. "I think it's time I go get my real dinner." Astarion needs to eat something, anything . With heavy, tense steps, he storms off, disappearing into the forest. 
He can’t recall later how many carcasses he leaves out there in the woods, or even what kind of animals had the misfortune of being found by him  —  perhaps some rabbits — but he remembers that he drinks, and drinks, and drinks, until the only feeling that remains is a piercing ache deep within his belly. That’s one way to keep your appetite in check, he supposes. 
In all honesty, Astarion’s not even hungry. But he figures it can’t hurt to eat one last big meal before they make it to Grymforge and into the Shadow-Cursed lands where they’ll be stuck mucking about in for Gods know how long. 
He slips away from camp to skulk around the caves near them, unfamiliar with the territory and wary of all the strange little creatures hopping about. He scopes over the area to ensure there aren’t any poisonous spores floating in the air and wracks his mind over his mental notes to remember what animals Tav had told him to avoid out here, and that’s when he smells it: a plump spider nestled away in a small cavern. 
Sure, Astarion is used to mammals, having sworn off the idea of insects completely since his newfound freedom, but it smells positively mouthwatering, and there’s no rules, no person, to tell him what he can and cannot eat – or do – anymore. 
He considers the spider, looking over it not once, not twice but three times just to consider its viability, and he decides that it is perfectly suitable for a meal. He descends on the creature without any resistance whatsoever – it seems like it is sleeping, or sluggish, but Astarion can hardly question it as he drinks from it, mind clouding over from the craving he has for it. The spider’s ichor is a peculiar blend of something sweet and milky and almost sour, and Astarion drains it all from the creature until it shrinks away to a withered husk of its former glory.
There’s a mild cramp at first as the blood courses through him slowly, and he chalks it up to simply overindulging – he’s gotten somewhat used to gorging himself over the past few weeks, like a youngling set loose in a kitchen full of sweets. But with each passing step, Astarion feels an unfamiliar, searing warmth spreading from his stomach, a sensation that grows increasingly intense. He swallows through his prickly throat, trying to focus on his steps to navigate his way back. 
He’s hot, and gods, it is a foreign sensation, is this how it normally feels? He doesn’t remember. But better question is – why is he so fucking hot? Astarion starts to burn up as if scorching needles are being threaded through his veins. The heat is centered in his face at first, making his pallid skin flush with a ruddy hue as it snakes through his chest, twisting through his tendons; then, it is everywhere inside, the worst of it contained within flames coursing down his thighs, threatening to send him sprawling to the ground. The pain coils through his body, the intensity of it rising higher and higher as he trips over the tangled roots of plant life.  
Astarion makes it to the camp, but just barely. 
He stumbles back in a daze, mouth fuzzy as if stuffed to the brim with cotton, eyes delirious as he searches the camp for the tiny basin Shadowheart found earlier to dunk himself in. I just need a bath, he thinks dizzily, a nice, cold bath. 
With hazy vision and a throbbing head, he finally spots the tub, hidden in a little corner around the camp. There's a tiny moment of relief as he hobbles toward it. His hands tremble as he gets closer, ready to dive into it even with his clothes on. But as Astarion approaches, his focus sharpens, and he realizes that someone is already in it.
"Get out," Astarion demands. 
The water swishes as Gale swivels his head around to look at him. He raises an eyebrow. "I took you as a man with more manners than that, Astarion. I only just got in and I would greatly appreciate not being rushed." 
"I’m not joking around, Gale, get out of the tub," he says, his fingers twitching at his sides. He’s always lamented the lack of warmth in his body, but now it just seems like a particularly cruel joke that he feels like he’s been set on fucking fire. Astarion lets out a sound of frustration as his hands lunge into the water, unable to wait for Gale, and not caring that it's warm. His movements are frenzied as he splashes water onto his overheated face over and over, gasping as the liquid does nothing to soothe his skin. 
Gale leans back with a baffled expression as Astarion’s fingers plunge around in the water. Beads of sweat trickle down his neck. "Shit," Astarion says, wiping his face dry with his sleeve. He flicks his eyes back at Gale, actually taking in the sight of him sitting in the tub (the sight of his soft chest, his surprisingly broad arms) and he stumbles backwards when his cock twitches and his stomach lurches at the scent of him. 
He smells so good: a whirl of black tea, mugwort, hints of acacia, woody and clean – "Shit." 
He runs his shaking hands over his face and looks away, breathing deeply to try to calm himself down. To try and make sense of the savage feeling building underneath the thin barrier of his embarrassment. 
"Something is wrong with you. What in the hells did you do, Astarion?"
Gale’s voice brings him back to looking at him, but thank Gods — Astarion’s not sure if it is magic, or if his sense of time is off or if Gale is simply more dexterous than he seems, because he’s out of the tub and fully dressed in his robe, adjusting the collar back into its proper position.
"I –" Astarion scoffs, indignant at the idea that this is a result of his own actions. "I didn’t do anything. I had dinner. That’s– that’s all I did."
"And what exactly, pray tell, did you eat? Were you mindful of all the animals that Tav said you could feed from?"
"Of course I was, I’m not a nitwit." But he hesitates when Gale squints his eyes at him. "I found a spider." 
"A spider? Is that a frequent occurrence for you? Imbibing on the blood of arachnids? I admit, I lack extensive knowledge about vampire diets, but it doesn't seem to be particularly suitable –"
"It smelled good ," Astarion replies defensively, his voice cracking under an increasing sense of panic. "So I drank from it. As I am wont to do." 
"And how did it taste? What did it smell like?" 
"It was – oh, I don’t know, milky? Bizarre in hindsight, but it was strangely appetizing. And — come to think of it, it didn’t even stir when I approached it." 
Something goes off in Gale’s brain and his eyes open with understanding. "Succubi spittle perhaps," Gale remarks as he scrutinizes Astarion's increasingly haggard appearance. "If my understanding of the fluid is correct, it's something one should be very wary of."
"Get to the point, Gale."
"You consumed tainted blood from a spider that was likely dying from the effects of succubi spittle. That is... very bad."
"Clearly – what’s going to happen to me?" Astarion chokes out, taking a step towards Gale. There’s a furious, irritated rash blooming now all over his skin, going down his torso and disappearing under the trousers that are stretched tight against his body. "I feel like I’m going to rip my skin off."
Gale doesn’t seem nearly as alarmed as he should be as he cups his chin with his fingers and thinks. "The longer this spittle is in your body, the sooner you are bound to deteriorate. From what I’ve read, you’ll eventually find yourself reduced to hallucinatory, almost euphoric state, and if you’ve consumed a high enough concentration of it – you could move on to causing bodily harm to yourself, perhaps even death; which could happen through a few methods, such as incessant scratching or–" 
"Enough!" Astarion silences Gale with a wave of his hand. "I’ve heard enough! I'm going to Shadowheart." 
Astarion’s stomach twists and turns as he moves past him with urgency, but the mage’s fingers shoot out like a bolt, wrapping firmly around his wrist. The touch sends an electrifying surge through his body and straight to his cock, making him recoil from Gale in shock. 
"Fuck," Astarion hisses. He glances down at his pants and can see them straining. And if Gale notices, well, he doesn’t comment on it.
"I’m afraid she can’t help you with this – well – unless... Ahem, allow me to clarify. There isn’t an antidote for this particular affliction, not in the form of a potion or spell, anyway. But you’re lucky, the cure is quite simple. You need to..." 
Gale chooses his next words carefully. 
"Well, normally, you could bed someone and be rid of it. So, essentially, in a manner of speaking, you need to flush it out of your body immediately." 
Astarion narrows his eyes, letting the insinuation sink into his brain. 
"I see. Well. If you’ll excuse me."
"Right." Gale steps to the side, scratching at his head.  
An agonized groan escapes from Astarion on his second step. The world swirls around him, and he loses balance, crumpling to his knees. His arms tremble as he tries to maintain his precarious balance. "This can't possibly be how I meet my end! This is far too pitiful for me."
"My fanged friend," Gale bends down slightly to grasp his shoulders, unaware that his touch makes his cock pulse with precum. His voice stirs something fizzy in Astarion’s stomach, his brain swoops, and he can’t help it – he moans . Astarion tries to push the invading thoughts out of his brain, but they beat back at him, filling his mind with images of ripping away Gale’s clothes, shoving him into the ground, stretching him out – 
"No need for the dramatics. I can help you back to your tent, but after that, you’ll need to muster the strength to combat this condition." 
Never in his life – even throughout the endless forms of torture he’s endured under Cazador’s hands – has Astarion ever felt like his cock might rot and fall off, but he’s certain he’ll have to prepare a eulogy for it now. It takes everything in him to not reach out and grab Gale to ravage his mouth, his stomach twisting in agony at suppressing his urges. With desperation, he tugs at Gale's robes. 
"I can’t feel my legs." 
He heaves a cough, and then a deafening ringing weighs down in his ears. Gale’s lips are moving but there’s nothing coming out of them. Astarion’s mind glazes over so quickly that he’s hardly aware of being carried back to his bedroll, where he ends up sprawled on his back. Throbbing, white-hot lust singes through his body and coats deep in his core as he sucks in rapid breaths of air. His eyes clench shut in agony when the unbearable itch moves through his body and settles on his thighs.