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"What a delightful death we could have," Astarion ignores him, before he sways his hips and lines their cocks even closer together. |
Gale whines as Astarion reaches over to put his palms on top of Gale’s, guiding them to wrap around both of their cocks. He gathers up more spit in his mouth to drool over each one; they both shudder as they squeeze their lengths together, sticky cock against sticky cock, threads of precum connecting their heads during the seconds they separate. Their cocks slide together, slippery with Astarion’s spit and Gale’s precum, rocking jointly in an ungraceful motion. Gale’s clearly overly stimulated, but Astarion doesn’t let up, he can’t even if he wanted to – he is a man, no, a creature possessed – he pumps faster, rougher, and makes their cocks push up harder into their palms. |
"Astarion," Gale chokes out, and he sounds so wrecked, it’s almost enough to convince Astarion that he’s under the influence of the same spittle as well. Gale’s head hits backwards on his pillow, eyes rolling as Astarion’s wild stare burns deep into him, unable to look away from his face. "Ah, I can’t –" |
"You can," Astarion breathes, stroking and tightening their grips on their cocks painfully. "There’s absolutely nothing you can’t do. You’re the great Gale of Waterdeep. Bí buachaill maith, agus tar chugam." |
Be a good boy, and come for me. |
Immediately, Gale keens and his whole body lifts off, thick pearly streaks of his cum spraying across his stomach and chest. Astarion quickly follows with his own orgasm, panting, drooling over Gale, eyes fluttering with satisfaction. "There you go," Astarion breathes, milking Gale through his tremors, nearly unphased by the way his own muscles constrict and release like a spring. "You deserve it for being so helpful. My little laoch." My little hero. |
And even after Gale is done, when he’s shaking and cumdrunk from emptying himself, Astarion strokes his raw and still hard length against Gale’s softening cock, playing with the cum pooling between them. Astarion swipes his sticky fingers through their cum and brings them to his lips, sliding them deep into his mouth. He makes a show of lapping between his fingers, holding eye contact with Gale, who is so delightfully flushed he looks like he can barely breathe. Gods, he is so pretty like this. |
"When were you going to tell me you were so delicious?" |
Gale shudders in sensitivity as Astarion goes back to swirling his thumb over Gale’s cockhead, rubbing up and down their cocks. He’s so unbearably hard, he thinks madly that he’s going to have to slit his wrists and force some of his tainted blood into Gale’s mouth to make him understand. "Astarion, for the Gods sake," Gale stutters, trying to regain his coherency and attempting to pull away. "I’m not in an altered state like you – t-there’s nothing left from me." |
The utterly detestable thought of ignoring Gale crosses his mind, and Astarion is tempted to listen to it. To give into the sickly demand of his body. He thinks he would kill for it, could kill for it: to flip Gale over and hook his fingers around his pink lips and plunge his cock inside and fuck him deep until there’s nothing left, nowhere to go, until one of them – it doesn’t matter which – sobs from it, passes out from it. |
No, he thinks, horrified. |
Rational. Be rational. Think. |
It’s the spittle. |
He needs it gone, Astarion tells himself, it’s making him drag this out, glossing over the uncomfortable reality that’s bound to settle in between them after all is said and done. His jaw tenses as he looks down at Gale, nervous, jelly-soft, not anywhere near fucked out like Astarion desperately wants. |
"Fine, fine. I think there’s another way I could flush the rest out..." Astarion murmurs, eyeing Gale’s neck. |
"My blood? Let me remind you that it's not exactly a delicacy, Astarion." |
"It doesn’t matter – the weave magic pulsing through has to be strong enough to combat what’s in my body." |
"If you think you can choke it down," Gale takes a deep inhale. "Far be it from me to prolong your... condition. Intriguing to see how my blood interacts with yours, given the current circumstances, but don’t expect me to do anything if it happens to set you on fire, or something of the sort..." |
There is no gentleness to it – no trepidation like the night when Astarion first grazed his two tips against Tav’s neck. Hardly a second passes by before his sharp nails dig into Gale’s shoulders, pinning him down, fangs sinking into his neck with reckless abandon. Astarion draws in deep, greedy pulls of blood and Gale’s pulsing life source gushes into his mouth and down his throat, bizarre and laced with a sharp, arcane bitterness. He chokes after the first few gulps, pulling away to suck in air, "Hells –" |
Gale wobbles his head at him. Despite the pain in his neck, he’s concerned. |
"Astarion, are you–" |
He snakes his fingers through Gale’s hair and forcefully yanks his head back, baring his neck again. Astarion’s teeth pierces the flesh once more, latching on and swallowing despite the intensity of it prickling down his throat like jagged shards of glass, driven solely by the way Gale’s blood thrums with furious energy. Small trails of blood drip out from his mouth, sliding down his chin as he desperately drinks and drinks. He delights in the whimpers it draws from Gale and rubs his cock against his stomach, angling for another release like an animal. Astarion feels like he could suck the very soul out of Gale, steal it for himself, fit it right within his chest; he wants to, he wants to, he wants to. When Gale slides a hand up his abdomen and wraps his fingers around his cock, a moan gurgles from Astarion’s throat, and his thoughts fizzle out as he completely surrenders to the feeling. |
His body surges forward with all the grace of a rabid creature as Gale pumps his cock vigorously and clumsily, biting down pained noises as Astarion sucks and sucks from the juncture of his neck. He groans something guttural, and then, he comes so hard his vision blacks out entirely. His cock shoots out ropes of cum across Gale’s body, marking his thighs and stomach, causing a sticky mess between them. |
The world finally, finally starts to slowly realign. |
He feels utterly weightless as he retracts his fangs from Gale’s tender flesh. They’re both perspiring profusely, sweat pouring from their bodies, panting against each other in the stillness of his tent. When his ears stop buzzing, he can hear Gale’s thundered pulse ringing a vibrant rhythm in his ears and – it’s beautiful. It’s so alive. Astarion doesn’t want to mourn the loss of it yet, holding on to that crackly feeling beating unsteady around him. He presses their chests and thighs together, bringing a trembling hand up, smearing what’s left of the blood on his jaw into his mouth, pressing it along his tongue and against his gums. |
"Your blood tastes so..." Astarion closes his eyes. He mulls it over, tracing around the ridges of his mouth, under the tip of his fangs. "It’s unlike anything I’ve ever had. I’m not sure what the right word would be. Nauseating. Or perhaps revolting?" |
"Don’t act like I didn’t caution you." |
"Rancid? Putrid? Could be used as a torture method for prisoners of war?" |
"Alright, you’ve made your point very clear. I sincerely apologize that my blood is not to your refined taste." |
"Hmm. Well. Taste can be acquired." |
Astarion leans his head in and licks at the wound, contemplating it as Gale shivers around him, a hand snaking up to his waist with a firm squeeze. |
"Don’t get ahead of yourself. If you think that’s happening again," Gale says, with the world’s worst conviction, "You’re sorely mistaken." He waves his shaky hand, muttering a spell quietly, and then, the both of them are clean from the mess they've made of each other. |
Even though he’s wired, Astarion’s simultaneously exhausted. He could retort something about how Gale should be afraid – should feel absolutely foolish – now that he’s gotten a taste of what it means to be filled with such special, arcane energy. Now that he knows how it feels to actually enjoy making someone come undone under him. That perhaps Gale has made an addict out of him, in more ways than one. |
He could tell him all that, and it would all be true. But he’ll settle for being honest about something much more mundane. |
"You know what was good?" |
"Do tell me, Astarion, I’m dying to hear all your revelations tonight." |
"For once, everyone was right about one thing. Your stew, darling, it was delicious, I’ll never doubt your culinary skills again." |
"Well, I already knew that, but I’m glad you’re admitting it. Maybe next time you won’t run away if I happen to offer you some sourdough." |
"Only if you leave the bread slicing to someone else," Astarion snorts as he draws away from the nape of Gale’s neck, exposing the fresh wound to air. He pushes himself off from his chest and falls to the side, draping his legs lazily around the other man’s legs, resting a head on his shoulder. |
"I’m completely drained – pun intended, " Gale mumbles, "And not too righteous to admit that I can't keep my eyes open..." |
There is so much of Gale in his veins that Astarion is sure that he will burst if he moves even an inch, that it will all leak out of his chest, a violaceous firecracker just waiting to erupt from every pore in his body. Yet it’s the way that his legs are gracelessly hooked around Gale’s thighs that makes it all die down. He wraps himself a little more around the sanctuary of Gale’s body, sinking into the embrace. There’s no chance that he’s getting up any time soon; he’s on a cloud, bathed in sunlight, and there’s no more scorching pain. Just warmth, and only the right amount of it. |
Three breaths are all it takes for Gale to slip into the realm of sleep, and Astarion stiffens at the unfamiliar concept of spending the night with him. "Gale," he whispers. |
Even his name fizzes on Astarion’s tongue. |
When Gale doesn’t stir, Astarion thinks it would be unkind to disturb him any further. Not that being kind really matters at all to him, but, well. I’ll blame it on the spittle in the morning, he thinks, hypnotized by the gentle, barely there rhythm of Gale’s heartbeat and the rapid torrent of magic coursing through his own veins. |
Before he realizes it, he slips away too. |
To call the establishment a tavern was overly generous. |
The dark stone room, located in the cellar of a dodgy inn, was smoke filled and dimly lit by the hearth and the melting candles scattered around the surfaces of the tables. The air hung heavy with the smell of spilled beer, mildewed straw, and the bar’s unwashed patrons, who filled the room with a cacophony of shouts and laughter. |
Long wooden tables ran parallel across the span of the room, surrounded by stools and ladened with dirty tin bowls and mismatched mugs for ale. The mugs were in constant motion as the drunken men threw them back, slammed them down, and began refilling them once again. |
Wiping her hands on her grease stained dress - handed down from her mother - the lone serving girl of the establishment moved at a frantic pace. |
She ferried flagons back and forth from the bar, barely flinching the burning drops that spattered her arms and hands as she ladled steaming stew out of the cauldron simmering over a wood burning stove. Her movement throughout the room was a well rehearsed dance that she practiced every night. Stepping around outstretched legs, batting away groping hands, all the while balancing the food and drink for the bar’s demanding customers. |
She ignored the painful growls coming from her stomach, tried not to stare into the cauldron of stew or at hunks of bread for too long. |
Perhaps tonight one of the customers would forget to finish their meal in their drunken stupor, as some of them were prone to doing. |
Perhaps she could wolf down the lukewarm leftovers without the barkeep noticing, instead of pouring it in the slop bucket kept by the back door. |
Learning how to read people, learning how to discern a belligerent drunk from a violent one, was a hard-won lesson working here. It was second nature to scan the tavern and pick out the individuals that may prove to be a problem after a few drinks too many. |
Two regulars, a man and his friend who were a constant thorn in the girl’s side, were posted in their usual spot. They were already wildly drunk, and seemed to be on the lookout for her, or for another potential target to fixate on. |
The girl hated serving them. |
Where most men may be bawdy and touchy when drunk, these two were downright lecherous. She gave them a wide berth and only passed their table when absolutely necessary, to avoid their hands slipping up her skirt and the disgusting remarks they would murmur at her. |
On this particular night, however, the girl noticed a newcomer that caught her attention. |
Her workplace was located on the risen road and was no stranger to travelers. But the snow of winter had barely thawed from the ground, and he was one of the first to pass through for the season. He sat quietly in the corner, back against the wall, with a faded travel cloak still wrapped around himself, even after hours of drinking. The fact that he never pulled his hood down drew her suspicion at first, but when she noticed a strand of white hair curling down his brow she understood. |
She knew that this tavern was no place for a high elf. |
The elven man was quiet, and polite, only speaking to the girl to ask for more wine (he ordered by the bottle) and thanking her every time she brought him more. He had the affectation of a high born Baldurian, and the etiquette to match. Not many of his station deigned to stop at this humble village in their travel - preferring to stop at Waukeen’s Rest, which was better suited for finer taste - but she had heard similar accents from the well dressed travelers that passed by on the road. |
Unaccustomed to interacting with the upper classes so closely, her curiosity got the better of her. She found herself glancing his way every chance she could get. |
His face was well hidden by his hood, but when he glanced around the room she could make out a strong aquiline nose, the same pale color of the moon. She caught a glance of a furrowed brow from some angles. A bit of lace poked out from the faded sleeve of his clothes, undoing the work of the humble disguise that he had so carefully dressed himself in. |
A flash of color like that of the sea caught her eye as she delivered a third bottle of wine to his table. He was absentmindedly flipping an ornate ring, topped with an huge cerulean gem, from knuckle to knuckle, staring at the wood of the table in front of him. The girl could tell that he was a thousand miles away. |
"A bowl of stew for you, saer?" |
She gently laid a hand on the elven man’s shoulder to get his attention, and couldn’t help to notice that he was unusually cold. No wonder he was keeping his cloak on, despite the roaring fire going in the hearth across the room. He was chilled to the bone. |
He stiffened at the touch and flinched away, unable to contain his surprise. |
"Oh! Hm - no, no, nothing else for me, darling. But thank you." |
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a silver piece, which he placed on the table next to her. Tipping her head in thanks, she leaned over and grabbed the coin and the empty second bottle. From this angle she couldn’t help but notice a leather coin purse poking from his cloak’s pocket, and the glint of gold within. |
In learning how to read people, the girl had also developed an eye for which patrons could be an easy target. |
Men with money to spare were often more careless with it, and when ale was involved it made them easier still. |
Picking up an extra silver or giving back short change on occasion was a practice she had developed over time, much to her chagrin. The drunken patrons were never the wiser, and she could feign ignorance if someone caught on. No one expected a tavern wench to be good at math. And she made herself believe that it was well deserved, for what she put up with. |
Despite those justifications, the exhilaration of getting away with these petty acts always dwindled into shame over the course of the night. |
Over time, though, the temptation of extra coins had her sneaking nimble fingers into coat pockets. |
Of course, she never took more than she needed, and she only snuck into the pockets of the men that looked like they had something to spare. |
And this elf looked like he had more than enough to spare. |
He wore a match to the ornate ring on his ring finger, just as ostentatious as its twin. The lace sleeve, the posh accent, the purse full of gold. Surely he wouldn’t be left destitute if she slipped a few coins from his pocket. |
Just one would be a month’s wages for her. She could go to the apothecary and buy more tinctures for her younger brother, who had been wracked with a wet cough for most of the winter. She could buy bread for her family, maybe even buy a bowl of the steaming stew that had been making her salivate like a hound all night. |
Besides, the elf was deep into his cups at this point. He was halfway through his third bottle and had the telltale sway of a drunken stupor. |
Not too long after, he flagged her down for a fourth, the ring still dancing back and forth across his pale knuckles, the leather purse still peeking at her from the folds of his cloak. |
Plucking back through the outstretched legs and ambling drunkards, she delivered the next bottle of wine to the elven man’s table. She probably didn’t mean to jostle his shoulder with her hip. And if she did, she would never admit it to herself. |
A heavy clink sounded as the turquoise ring hit the table. It sang as it rolled off of the table, and the elf dove in its direction to follow the reverberating clinkclinkclink as it bounced across the floor. |
In this moment, he leaned in the opposite direction of the girl, unknowingly offering up the leather purse resting at his hip. |
In this moment, the serving girl saw her chance. |
Quickly, boldly, she slipped her fingers into the lip of the purse as the elf blindly rummaged under the table. The tips of her fingers pinched two - no three! - golden coins with ease, barely brushing the lip of the leather pouch. |
Even more quickly, almost impossibly so, a pale hand darted back and clasped around her wrist in a vice-tight grip, with enough force to make her gasp. |
She jumped, trying to pull back, only for the pale hand to tighten its grip with an unyielding strength. She drew her look of horror up from her wrist, only to find the piercing stare of the ruby eyes appearing from under the elf’s hood. |
He slowly straightened from his search under the table, the escaped golden ring now safe in his opposite hand. Gone was the sway of the drunken stupor he had been in moments before. |
Seeing the horror on the girl’s face, the grip loosened considerably, but did not free her. |
"You’ll have to be better than that to get the jump on me, sweetling," he mused, |
"I will admit that I am much slower than usual, though." |
This was said more to himself than to the girl. |
As she finally got to take in the vision that was this elven man’s face. |
She had admired the faces of men before, stealing glances at some of her neighbors and the men that traveled by on the main road from time to time. But none of them, not even the most handsome that she could remember seeing, could ever come close to the elf in front of her. He was like a painting come to life, like a beautiful sculpture of marble had come to life, dressed itself in expensive clothes, and seated himself in front of her. |
Her cheeks flamed as he examined her, taking in her sunken cheeks and tattered apron. She felt like an insect under a magnifying glass. It shamed her that this fine man had her at a disadvantage, that he was seeing the sorry state of her appearance up close. |
But more importantly, she had been caught with a hand in a wealthy customer’s pocket. A single word from this man could have her tossed out onto the street, her employment and wages forfeit. The shame was the least of her worries if her brother did not get better, if they could not buy the medicine he needed. |
Before she could sputter out her apologies, beg his forgiveness, try to wrench her wrist away and flee from the table, her mortified silence was interrupted by a telling rumbling from her stomach. His eyes darted to her midsection, then back up to her reddened face. |
"You’re hungry." |
A statement, not a question. |
The girl prayed to the gods for mercy, to strike her dead on the spot. She nodded. |
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