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pixel7777 · 17 days ago

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Editorial Prerogative - A Bloodweave Fanfic

The full version of the beautiful artwork commissioned from the incredible misfitlunatic (https://x.com/misfit_lunatik or https://bsky.app/profile/misfitlunatik.bsky.social) can be seen in all its glory here.

🪶📜Astarion, making a whole meal of his trust issues, volunteers to beta-read Gale's in-progress historical chronicle of their adventures, intending to control his image and gather intelligence on his companions. Instead, their written exchanges through margin notes and editorial comments evolve into genuine intellectual discourse and unexpected intimacy.📜🪶

Read here below or on AO3!

Reader Beware: story features massive geeks perpetrating geekery until they finally manage to get it on. And then they are still geeks. ~14K words.

Work Content Tags: During Canon, Epistolary, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Consent, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Snark to Spark, Happy Ending, POV Astarion

This fic about beta-reading had amazing beta readers! Any remaining errors are my own 'editorial prerogative' (did you see what I did there?) at play. Thank you very much silent_as_the_grave, bashfulexe, and hiraethey for your time and help!

Like Gale in this story, I cherish feedback! I'd appreciate reblogs and replies 😁

Editorial Prerogative

The wizard had been at it for hours now, pausing only to reference other texts or mutter to himself about proper phrasing. Earlier, Astarion had overheard Gale telling Tav about his 'chronicle' of their adventures.

What was the wizard scribbling about him? That first day, with a knife at Tav’s throat and Gale ready to incinerate him at the first sign of treachery? His nature, his past, his… appetites? The mere thought made his stomach twist—was Gale immortalizing his every misstep for future generations to gawk at? Or, gods forbid, leaving him out entirely, a footnote overshadowed by Tav’s heroics and Gale’s arcane bravado?

Either possibility rankled.

He could nab Gale’s manuscript easily enough for a little peek—he never slept, after all, and the wizard did. A night or two of sly observation would reveal exactly where Gale tucked it away. But Gale insisted on scribbling new pages every evening, which meant Astarion would have to spend every evening sneaking off to steal the damned thing, then sneaking it back. He wrinkled his nose just imagining the tedium. Enough nights of cloak-and-dagger espionage, and Gale was bound to wake at an inconvenient moment. Much better to manage this legitimately—or at least with minimal risk of being blasted by a startled wizard.

Gale dipped his quill again, and moonlight caught the movement. The slight furrow in his brow, the way he mouthed words as he wrote them—all screamed scholarly perfectionism.

Astarion's lips curled into a smile. Of course. The wizard wouldn't be able to resist proper academic review, would he? Every writer needed a critical eye, especially one so devoted to accuracy and detail.

He shifted position, letting his gaze drift over the camp while his mind raced. What self-respecting scholar wouldn't jump at the chance for feedback? Especially someone who could offer such... unique perspectives on current events.

The more Astarion considered it, the more perfect it seemed. He could track exactly what Gale wrote about him, suggest helpful corrections where needed, and ensure the wizard's account painted him in an appropriate light. Astarion found it difficult to think past his current list of pressing and potentially disastrous emergencies, but there was a chance he would live a very long time. If Gale's narrative could be weaponized in his favor, this chronicle could make his long future more pleasant. All while appearing helpful and scholarly himself.

Astarion settled more deeply into his cushions, considering the angles. Tav had proven frustratingly immune to his usual charms—barely responding to his most practiced lines with more than a distracted smile before turning their attention back to Wyll. Always Wyll, with his tiresome heroics and his endless stories of saving orphans or whatever nonsense occupied would-be heroes these days.

Right on cue, Wyll's booming laugh carried across the camp. Tav had just handed him some sort of trinket—a child's doll rescued from gods-knew-where—and the warlock clutched it to his chest like it was made of solid gold. "This will mean everything to her," Wyll gushed, and Tav beamed at him with such nauseating earnestness that Astarion had to look away.

He'd chosen Tav deliberately. As the group's de facto leader, having them wrapped around his finger would have provided security when—if—Cazador found him. But perhaps he had been going about this all wrong.

His gaze drifted back to Gale. The wizard was still absorbed in his writing, absently running one hand through his already-disheveled hair. And really, this could work out even better. Gale was still thoroughly shattered by Mystra's rejection—he'd probably welcome any distraction that didn't involve discussing his romantic failures.

A scholarly partnership. Much more palatable than his usual methods—which, come to think of it, were really beneath him now—and likely more effective, more predictable, more interesting, more fun, with someone like Gale.

Astarion rose and crossed the camp with calculated nonchalance. "Still burning the midnight oil, I see."

Gale barely glanced up, quill still moving. "Mhm. Just trying to capture today's events while they're fresh."

"I couldn't help but overhear your plans for this little project." Astarion leaned against the desk, automatically positioning himself where the light caught his best angles. "A proper historical chronicle, you said?"

"Yes, exactly." Gale's quill paused mid-word as something in Astarion's tone finally caught his attention. He looked up, eyes brightening with interest. "Though I must admit, the scope is rather daunting."

"I imagine so. Particularly when it comes to the more... nuanced aspects of our adventures." Astarion examined his nails. "You know, I spent two centuries observing Baldur's Gate's political landscape. The sort of context that might prove invaluable to a historian."

Gale set down his quill. "Are you offering to contribute?"

"I thought perhaps I might review your drafts. During those long hours while you're sleeping—I only need four hours of trance, after all, and hunting doesn't occupy nearly that much time." Astarion gestured at the parchment. "I could note any inaccuracies, provide an independent perspective. That sort of thing."

"That would be..." Gale's whole face lit up. "Actually, that would be incredible. I really could use a fresh eye."

"Precisely." Astarion fought to keep the triumph from his smile. "I'd be happy to leave notes in the margins. For accuracy's sake."

"Yes, absolutely." Gale was already shuffling through papers, practically vibrating with scholarly excitement. "I can leave the latest sections here each night. Just... perhaps use red ink? To distinguish your comments from my original text?"

"Of course." The eagerness in Gale's expression sent an unexpected uneasiness through Astarion's gut. The wizard clearly took his offer at face value—pure academic collaboration, no ulterior motives.

He pushed the guilt aside. This was necessary. And really, he would be helping Gale create a better historical record. The fact that he'd be controlling his own narrative—and perhaps even the way Gale saw him now—was simply... a bonus. His consulting fee. It was a win-win, really.

"I should wrap this up soon anyway," Gale said, stifling a yawn. "The first few chapters are ready for review whenever you'd like to start."

"Wonderful." Astarion kept his tone light, casual, despite the triumph zinging up his spine. "I'll fetch them once you've retired."

He waited in his tent, listening as Gale shuffled papers and packed away his other materials. Only when the wizard's breathing had settled into the steady rhythm of sleep did Astarion slip back to the desk.

The manuscript sat neatly stacked, exactly as promised. Beside it waited a bottle of red ink and a fresh quill—thoughtful of Gale, really. Astarion didn't have a desk at his own tent, and it felt generous of the man to share his… domain with Astarion, although it was obviously sensible given their circumstances. The desk itself was organized chaos, scattered with reference texts and marked maps, all meticulously labeled in Gale's flowing script.

Astarion settled into the chair, oddly aware of occupying the same space where Gale had sat earlier. The cushion was warm. Had Gale enchanted it? For himself or for Astarion? He supposed he could enjoy it either way. He shifted, trying to ignore how strangely intimate it felt to be surrounded by Gale's books and papers, breathing in the lingering scent of ink and parchment and whatever herb the wizard used in his hair oil.

The first page bore Gale's precise handwriting, complete with numbered sections and footnotes. Astarion snorted at the dramatic opening lines describing his capture by the mindflayers.

The mindflayers struck without warning, their nautiloid vessel descending from the night sky like some terrible leviathan of legend. As a scholar of the arcane, I had of course studied accounts of these fell creatures, but no dusty tome could have prepared me for the horror of their presence. The very air seemed to congeal around them, thick with psychic malevolence that pressed against one's thoughts like a physical weight.

Trust Gale to turn even that horror into something almost poetic. The nautiloid crash wrapped up the first chapter, fairing similarly with particular attention paid to copious speculation about the mechanics of the helm.

But the next chapter fully drew him in. Here was their first meeting, when paths had coincided in the aftermath. Astarion leaned forward, dipping the quill in red ink as his eyes flew across the page. Time to see exactly how the wizard had interpreted those early days, and where his perspective might lack a certain nuance. Where it needed... adjustment.

Our peculiar fellowship formed under circumstances that could only be described as extraordinary. The crash of the nautiloid—that impossible vessel of the mind flayers' astral voyage—scattered us like seeds, each bearing our own bitter secrets alongside the parasitic passengers in our minds.

Really, darling? "scattered us like seeds"? A bit precious, don't you think?

The vampire spawn hiding among us proved particularly intriguing—a being of refined tastes and careful mannerisms that spoke to centuries of rigid self-control, yet harboring an almost desperate hunger for freedom.

I do not harbor anything "desperately," thank you very much. Though I'll grant you the "refined tastes" observation.

Astarion continued reading, his quill hovering over particularly egregious passages.

His skills at stealth and subterfuge proved invaluable during our early encounters. The precision with which he dispatched threats—silent and lethal as shadow itself—spoke of training far beyond mere noble upbringing.

Finally, someone notices. Though you might have mentioned how that "precision" saved your life at least twice.

Yet these same abilities served to conceal his true nature from us, a deception that might have proved fatal had circumstances aligned differently.

Oh, that's rich coming from the man carrying a magical bomb in his chest. At least my secret wouldn't have obliterated half the Sword Coast.

Astarion skimmed past several pages of Gale's theories about the tadpoles—all premature speculation without proper data. The wizard had filled entire pages with arcane formulae and references to obscure texts—none of which would matter once they actually understood what they were dealing with—and he noted as much.

His attention caught on a new section about their mysterious camp guest.

Withers presents an enigma worthy of deeper study. His apparent mastery over death itself suggests connections to powers beyond our current understanding. While his services prove invaluable, one must question the price of such assistance.

The skeleton's ability to maintain our camp's location across vast distances implies either incredible magical prowess or access to ancient technologies we've yet to comprehend.

Or both. Have you noticed how he always appears precisely when needed, yet never seems to actually travel with us?

Astarion sat back, tapping the feathered quill against his lips. Gale's observations about Withers were surprisingly astute—he'd clearly been paying attention to details Astarion himself had noted but hadn't shared. Perhaps the wizard's chronicle might prove more valuable than expected, beyond mere image control.

He dipped his quill again, adding one final note before finishing:

We should compare notes. Over wine, perhaps? I promise not to bite.

Astarion stared at his last note, quill hovering as he considered the impulse to strike through the words. The flirtation had slipped out—an old habit, really. He'd spent centuries using charm as armor, wielding it like he now wielded his daggers. Even now, when he'd meant to keep things purely academic...

But scratching it out would only draw attention. Questions. And truly, the prospect of discussing their observations over wine didn't sound terrible. Gale's writing showed genuine insight, even if his prose needed work. Perhaps Gale wouldn't make much of it anyway.

He set the quill aside and stretched, careful not to disturb the organized chaos of Gale's workspace. The desk had become a familiar space over the past hours—comfortable, even. Strange how the wizard's scholarly clutter felt almost welcoming.

Astarion gathered the marked pages, sliding them carefully into the protective folio Gale used. He weighted them down exactly as he'd observed the wizard doing earlier, ensuring nothing would scatter in the night breeze.

His throat tightened—he'd need to hunt soon. But first, everything had to be perfect. No carelessness that might make Gale hesitate to share future drafts.

With one last glance at the desk, Astarion slipped away toward the forest.

* * *

Astarion leaned against a tree at the edge of camp, watching Gale scribble frantically. The wizard hadn't properly written in days—just hasty notes between battles, ink-stained fingers marking his urgency to capture details before they faded. Their promised wine and discussion never materialized, pushed aside by the constant demands of survival.

The past few days had been a blur of stealth, combat, and gathering intelligence. The ruins of a village crawled with goblins, their crude camps dotting the landscape like festering wounds. Each encounter brought them closer to finding Halsin, but left little time for scholarly pursuits.

He had caught glimpses of Gale's newest notes—rough sketches of goblin fortifications, hurried observations about their strange devotion to the Absolute, tactical assessments of their numbers and capabilities. All practical, nothing like the flowing prose and careful analysis of his earlier work.

The parchment Astarion had annotated sat untouched in its folio, carefully preserved despite their rushed camp relocations. He'd seen Gale glance at it occasionally, a slight smile touching his lips before duty called him away again. The wizard clearly wanted to respond to his comments—Astarion had caught him reaching for his quill more than once, only to be interrupted by some new crisis.

It was maddening, really. Here he'd crafted the perfect opening for deeper investigation into Gale's thoughts, and instead they were crawling through mud and blood, tracking a missing druid. Though he had to admit, watching Gale fling spells with precise fury was its own kind of fascinating. The wizard's academic nature masked a surprisingly vicious approach to combat. Astarion liked it.

Astarion watched Gale pull fresh parchment from his satchel, arranging his writing materials with practiced efficiency. The random goblins had been dispatched, the hag dealt with, and the blighted village seemed clear of immediate threats. Finally, a proper evening for chronicling. His fingers itched to see what observations the wizard would make about their recent skirmishes—and more importantly, about that business with the Necromancy of Thay.

He'd snatched that book right from under Gale's nose, hadn't he? The wizard's disappointment had been palpable, though he'd covered it with polite grace. No doubt that incident would warrant several footnotes and perhaps a biting observation or two about the distribution of magical artifacts within the party.

Best to give Gale space to write without hovering. The wizard composed more freely when he thought himself unobserved, and Astarion needed to feed anyway. The deer in this area were plentiful, if a bit gamey for his taste.

"Don't wait up," he called to no one in particular, though his eyes lingered on Gale's bent head. The wizard's quill was already flying across the page, completely absorbed in his work. Perfect.

Astarion slipped into the shadows beyond camp. A few hours of hunting would give Gale plenty of time to document their recent exploits. And perhaps, if he was lucky, to process his feelings about losing that book to a mere rogue with no formal magical training.

When Astarion returned to camp, he found fresh pages waiting on the desk. Gale had even left a bottle of wine. He recognized the vintage as one he'd mentioned enjoying during their last proper conversation.

Settling in the chair, he uncorked the wine and lifted the first page. Gale's familiar script flowed across the parchment, still carrying traces of sand from the hasty drying powder.

The diplomatic acumen of our leader continues to impress. When confronted with three ogres checking for brands of the Absolute, Tav opted for negotiation rather than combat. Their astute observation that the ogres were underpaid and underappreciated led to a remarkable employment negotiation.

Oh, is that what we're calling it? I distinctly recall Tav offering them "all the goblins they could eat" as a signing bonus.

The resulting arrangement has secured us formidable allies, though I confess some ethical concerns about the terms of their compensation.

Darling, they're ogres. They were going to eat someone anyway. At least now it's goblins instead of travelers, and the goblins are dead either way.

Astarion smirked at the next passage, which detailed their unfortunate timing near the windmill.

Our tactical infiltration of the ruins was somewhat compromised by an unexpected encounter with an amorous hobgoblin commander and his ogress paramour. While the resulting combat was brief, the psychological impact of interrupting such an intimate moment cannot be understated.

You've missed the best part—the look on Tav's face was priceless. Perhaps this scene could benefit from illustration?

In truth, Astarion had most enjoyed Gale's face during the hilarious encounter, and wondered if he could manage to observe Gale's expression when he read Astarion's commentary on this bit.

The rescue of Barcus Root earned several paragraphs of Gale's most precise prose, complete with footnotes about the historical significance of windmills in torture techniques.

Astarion paused, wine halfway to his lips. He was actually enjoying this—not just for the intelligence gathering, but for the genuine pleasure of adding his observations. How quaint.

Astarion turned the page, eager to see Gale's take on their exploration beneath the alchemist's shop. The account was unusually dry—just facts about the layout, details of the mechanisms they'd bypassed, and a catalog of items discovered.

The chamber contained several items of note, including a tome of necromantic magic originating from Thay. After discussion, the party determined the book's optimal allocation lay with our roguish companion rather than myself, despite my expertise in matters arcane.

The clinical tone set Astarion's teeth on edge. Where were Gale's usual meandering footnotes about Thayan magical theory? His typical asides about the historical significance of finding such a tome in a simple alchemist's shop? Most importantly, where was Gale's actual indignation at Tav's decision to give the book to Astarion? Astarion couldn't glean insights about Gale's state of mind if Gale were deliberately hiding it.

The rest of the passage continued in the same detached voice, lacking any of the wizard's usual flair for dramatic description or academic passion. No mention of the way Gale's fingers had lingered on the book's spine before passing it over, or how his scholarly mask had slipped for just a moment.

Astarion dipped his quill in red ink, considering his words carefully.

My dear chronicler, your attempt at objectivity is painfully transparent. Where's that florid prose I've come to expect? The fascinating personal reactions which readers of a first-person account will expect? I do believe you're censoring yourself on my behalf.

He paused, then added:

Perhaps we should discuss this over that wine we keep postponing? Your tent or mine—I promise to bring the book.

The invitation felt dangerous somehow, more revealing than his previous notes. But he couldn't resist the opportunity to draw out Gale's true thoughts on the matter. After all, what good was reading an eyewitness historical account if the historian refused to include his actual perspective?

Astarion's invitation hung unanswered in the margins. Days passed, then weeks. Gale always had a reason—spell preparation, research, tactical planning with Tav. The excuses were perfectly reasonable, yet rang hollow.

The wizard's avoidance became a subtle dance. He'd duck into his tent whenever Astarion approached with the manuscript, leaving fresh pages or collected edits on his desk instead. Their paths crossed constantly in camp, yet somehow never quite aligned for that promised discussion.

Still, their written exchanges deepened. Astarion found himself spending hours crafting the perfect cutting remark or clever observation, just to see Gale's reaction. He'd position himself carefully in camp, pretending to sharpen his daggers while actually watching Gale read through his latest comments.

The varying sleep patterns of our group present both tactical advantages and social challenges. The distribution of watch duties must account for individual requirements and capabilities.

Your snoring presents a particularly fascinating tactical challenge. I've heard owlbears with quieter sleeping habits.

The wizard was expressive when he thought himself unobserved. His eyebrows would arch at particularly biting criticism, and sometimes he'd bite his lip to hold back laughter at Astarion's more outrageous suggestions. Once, Gale actually snorted aloud at Astarion's detailed critique of his purple prose regarding their encounter with the Myconid colony.

Our encounter with the Myconid colony presented a unique opportunity to observe a complex fungal society. Their method of communication—the release of specialized spores creating a shared consciousness—demonstrates remarkable evolutionary adaptation. The resulting telepathic rapport manifests as a symphony of thoughts, though the experience might be likened to an especially enthusiastic group hug for the mind.

A "group hug for the mind"? Darling, you were high as a cloud giant’s sky-castle on mushroom spores. The only "symphony" was your giggling while trying to pet Shadowheart's hair.

The sound of Gale's laughter had sent a rush of satisfaction through Astarion that lingered for hours.

Gale's responses appeared regularly—thoughtful rebuttals, acceptance of suggested edits, and even playful counter-arguments. But that section about the Thayan tome remained untouched, a conspicuous gap in their otherwise comprehensive collaboration. The clinical tone stood out even more now, contrasting ever so sharply with Gale's increasingly engaging writing style elsewhere.

Astarion found himself reading and re-reading their margin conversations, tracking the subtle shift from academic discourse to something more intimate. Gale's formal footnotes had evolved into personal asides, sharing opinions and observations he never voiced in camp. The wizard was far more candid on paper than in person—except about that damn book.

Astarion watched Gale set up his writing materials as they set up camp near the blighted village. Their final expedition had yielded surprising treasures—including that curious amethyst from the well. His fingers traced the spine of the Necromancy of Thay, anticipating Gale's written reaction to their discovery of its key.

The wizard had been particularly quiet during that encounter, his usual commentary conspicuously absent as Astarion declared his intention to unlock the book's secrets himself. Now that they were heading to Moonrise Towers, surely Gale would want to document this significant development in their journey—and perhaps finally address the tension around the tome.

Instead of settling into his usual writing routine at camp, though, Gale approached Astarion's tent directly. He carried a bottle of wine in one hand and wore an expression Astarion couldn't quite read.

"I believe we have an outstanding appointment to discuss certain editorial matters," Gale said, holding up the wine. "Unless you're otherwise occupied?"

Astarion's carefully prepared remarks about the amethyst scattered like startled birds. He'd imagined a dozen ways this conversation might finally happen, but none quite matched the reality of Gale standing there, waiting for his response.

"Well, this is unexpected," Astarion said, leaning against his tent post with studied carelessness. "I'd almost given up hope of collecting on that promise."

His fingers itched to reach for the book, to use it as a shield or bargaining chip—but something in Gale's direct gaze made him hesitate. Their written exchanges had shifted something between them, created a space where masks seemed less necessary.

"Your tent or mine?" Gale asked, echoing Astarion's long-ago invitation.

"Yours," Astarion said quickly. Too quickly. He covered it with a flourish toward Gale's tent. "You've the better furniture, after all."

Gale's tent welcomed them with its familiar scholarly clutter—stacks of books, scattered scrolls, and that ridiculously comfortable reading chair Astarion secretly coveted. The space smelled of ink and parchment, with undertones of arcane components.

Gale poured the wine, his movements measured yet somehow uncertain. He handed Astarion a glass, their fingers not quite touching in the exchange.

"I've been meaning to discuss—that is to say, I've observed—" Gale cleared his throat, started again. "The Necromancy of Thay."

"Ah." Astarion settled into the reading chair, feeling quite smug at the chance to try it out. "I was wondering when we'd address that rather clinical passage in your chronicle."

"Yes, well." Gale paced a tight circle, wine sloshing dangerously in his glass. "I've been researching similar texts, you see, and the contents are often... particularly unpleasant. Designed to inflict maximum suffering before giving up their knowledge. And given your previous experiences—"

Astarion's grip tightened on his glass. "My what?"

"I mean no offense," Gale said quickly. "But you've endured more than enough horror for several lifetimes. I worry that delving into such dark magic might... reopen old wounds."

The wine turned bitter on Astarion's tongue. He'd prepared arguments about his right to the book, about the tactical advantages of understanding such magic. He'd even rehearsed a few cutting remarks about Gale's obvious desire for the tome.

But concern? For him?

"I—" Astarion found himself without words, a rare and uncomfortable state. "That's why you've been avoiding this discussion? Not because you want the book?"

"Of course I want the book." Gale settled into the chair opposite, his expression earnest. "But I've had time to consider, and perhaps it would be best to set it aside. For now."

Astarion's jaw clenched. First Tav's rejection, then the others' constant suspicious glances, and now this? He'd thought at least Gale understood his need for advancement, for power. The wine glass creaked in his grip.

"How magnificently patronizing." He kept his voice light, though acid burned beneath the words. "Shall we lock it away with all the other dangerous toys? Keep the spawn from playing with sharp objects?"

"That's not—"

"No? Then what exactly are you suggesting? That I'm too fragile to handle a bit of dark magic?" The words tasted like ash. He'd worked so hard to appear strong, capable, worthy of trust. And here was Gale, trying to take away perhaps his only real advantage.

"I'm suggesting," Gale said carefully, "that I'd rather not see you suffer needlessly. These texts are notorious for extracting a terrible price from their readers. The knowledge they contain—"

"Is power. Power I need." Astarion caught himself, smoothed his voice back to silk. "Power that could benefit us all."

Gale leaned forward, his face so damnably sincere it made Astarion's teeth ache. "I wouldn't deny you power. Never that. I only..." He ran a hand through his hair, scattering loose strands. "I find myself concerned. For your wellbeing."

Astarion froze. The admission hung between them, heavy with implications he wasn't prepared to examine.

"That is to say," Gale added hastily, clearly reading something in Astarion's expression, "as my editor, naturally. Can't have my primary source of objective feedback suffering adverse magical effects. Think of the footnotes I'd miss."

The silence stretched too long. Astarion's grip on his wine glass loosened as he processed Gale's weak attempt at humor.

"I only meant—" Gale stumbled over his words. "If you're determined to unlock the book's secrets, that's your choice to make. But would you consider letting me be present? As a precaution? These texts can be... unpredictable."

Their eyes met across the cluttered space of the tent. Something unspoken passed between them—concern, understanding, perhaps more. Astarion's throat tightened with an unfamiliar sensation. He looked away first, unable to maintain contact under the weight of whatever this was becoming.

"Fine," he said, aiming for dismissive but landing closer to relieved. "If you insist on hovering."

"Now?" Gale asked.

Astarion retrieved the book and amethyst from his tent. The skin binding felt greasy against his fingers, hungry somehow. He and Gale sat on the bedroll in Gale's tent as Astarion inserted the amethyst into the cover and the book opened for him at last.

The process was excruciating. Each page fought him, magic lashing out with memories of pain and darkness. But Gale remained steady beside him, watching, occasionally steadying Astarion's hand when it shook too badly to turn a page.

The wizard's presence anchored him through the worst moments. No judgment, no criticism—just quiet support and the occasional murmured encouragement.

It was... nice. Different. Just someone watching out for him, with no agenda beyond keeping him safe.

When the third page yielded its secrets, Astarion closed the book with trembling fingers. "Well," he managed, "that was certainly an experience."

Gale's hand hovered near Astarion's shoulder. "Are you—"

"Perfectly fine." The lie came automatically, though his hands still shook and dark spots danced at the edges of his vision. Perhaps Gale had been right about the book's defenses. His back burned where phantom knives had traced familiar patterns, and his throat felt raw from screaming he hadn't actually done.

"You don't look fine." Gale's voice held no judgment, just that damnable concern again.

"Well, I am." Astarion forced his fingers to release their death grip on the tome. "And I've gained… well, something. I know how to speak with the dead now. I just know—isn't that strange? I think putting myself through that… whatever that was—I'll be stronger resisting similar attempts to overcome my will in the future."

He started to stand, but the tent tilted alarmingly. Gale's steady hand caught his elbow, keeping him from stumbling.

"At least finish your wine first." Gale pressed the forgotten glass into his hands.

Astarion accepted, using the moment to collect himself. The wine helped, washing away the taste of remembered terror. When he could trust his legs again, he rose more carefully.

"This was a gift," he said, meeting Gale's eyes. "I won't forget it."

He meant the support, not the wine, and from Gale's expression, the wizard understood. Before either of them could say something unfortunate, Astarion slipped out into the night air.

His own tent felt hollow after the warmth of Gale's. He sat the wooden plank that served as his bed, turning the necromantic tome over in his hands, unsure what to make of the evening—or the confused tangle of emotions it had stirred up.

* * *

Astarion traced his fingers over Gale's latest annotations, the wizard's precise script filling the margins of yet another chapter. Their written exchanges had grown more frequent as the landscape changed around them, the verdant wilderness giving way to twisted shadows and blighted earth.

The pages had become a refuge of sorts. Here, safely confined to ink and parchment, they could maintain their usual wit and banter without the awkward tension that now plagued their face-to-face interactions. Astarion lost himself while crafting the perfect cutting remarks about Gale's overwrought metaphors, and the wizard responded in kind with increasingly elaborate defenses of his prose style.

He shifted in Gale's chair adjusting the manuscript to catch the lamplight. A fresh comment caught his eye—Gale questioning his edits to the account of a particular skirmish with some shadow creatures. Astarion's lips curved despite himself. The wizard had a point about the improbability of that particular acrobatic maneuver, but he wasn't about to admit it.

A movement across camp drew his attention. Gale sat by the camp's central fire. The flames caught his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair fell forward as he put away the things from dinner. Astarion looked away quickly, focusing on the pages before him.

These... thoughts had been occurring more frequently lately. Intrusive little observations about Gale's hands, his voice, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. In the past, Astarion would have known exactly how to proceed—a carefully calculated seduction, another conquest to be manipulated and discarded. The very idea turned his stomach now.

He had no other template for desire, no framework for whatever this unsettling attraction might be. Better to ignore it entirely. Focus on the safety of their written discourse, where physical proximity couldn't muddy the waters of their intellectual sparring.

Astarion dipped his quill in red ink and began composing a particularly scathing critique of Gale's latest philosophical tangent. This, at least, was familiar ground. He could lose himself in the comfortable rhythm of their literary fencing match and pretend the rest didn't exist.

Astarion flipped to the next section, where Gale's neat script filled the page:

The Last Light Inn stands as a testament to the power of Selûne's blessing, maintained through complex abjuration resonance. The metaphysical architecture of Isobel's protective wards demonstrates an intricate understanding of lunar phases and their correlation to planar barriers. Of particular note is the way the silvery radiance...

For someone who claims to write for posterity, you've managed to make sanctuary sound absolutely tedious. The contrast is what matters—a bastion of safety amid endless shadow. Save the technical treatise for your next symposium.

...The mathematical precision required to maintain such a barrier suggests years of careful study and preparation, likely drawing from ancient texts preserved by the Church of Selûne...

Oh yes, I'm certain future generations will be riveted by the arithmetic of salvation. Perhaps mention how it felt to step inside? The relief of finding light when all hope seemed lost? No? More equations then?

Astarion smirked as he turned the page, finding Gale's account of their encounter with the "surgeon" of Reithwin town:

Our investigation into the source of the Shadow Curse led us to confront one of Ketheric's agents, a deeply disturbed individual who had perverted the healing arts. While the exact nature of Ketheric's involvement remains uncertain, the evidence suggests...

Evidence suggests you've developed selective amnesia, my dear wizard. Have you forgotten how I avoided a battle for all of us by talking the man into slaying himself? Now that's the kind of detail readers want.

The theological implications of Ketheric's actions require careful consideration, particularly regarding the balance of divine power in the region...

Theological implications? The man turned an entire region into a nightmare, and you're pondering metaphysics? Sometimes I wonder if you actually experienced any of this or just read about it in one of your dusty tomes.

He dipped his quill again, adding:

Though I suppose I should be flattered that you've managed to make even my finest moment sound like a lecture at the College of Lore. Quite a gift you have there.

Astarion finished his notes on the newer pages, capping the ink with more force than necessary. He flipped back through the manuscript, searching for the section about their encounter with Elminster. Finding it, his jaw clenched.

The Sage of Shadowdale's appearance proved fortuitous, offering vital intelligence regarding the nature of our adversary. His message from Mystra herself provided clear direction for our efforts against the Absolute...

Astarion's fingers tightened on the page. Astarion had filled the margins of this section with vitriolic commentary about Mystra's manipulations, comparing her to Cazador in explicit detail. He'd outlined exactly how she groomed young wizards, used their devotion, and discarded them. He'd particularly emphasized how she'd cultivated Gale's obsession from childhood, only to send him on a suicide mission.

Yet Gale had addressed none of it. His newest draft remained unchanged—still that same reverent tone, still treating her "mission" as some grand destiny rather than the calculated disposal of an inconvenient ex-lover.

The red ink from his previous notes stood stark against the parchment, a furious indictment that Gale had simply ignored:

So the great Mystra collects pretty young mages, fills their heads with dreams of glory, beds them, then sends them off to die? And you are defending this?

Astarion's quill hovered over the page, tempted to write it all again, larger this time. But what was the point? Gale clearly preferred his delusions about divine purpose to facing the truth about his goddess's machinations.

He traced one finger over Gale's unchanged text, fighting down the urge to tear the page to shreds. The familiar rage at seeing someone else trapped in a Master's web of lies burned fiercely. But Gale couldn't—or wouldn't—see the parallel between Mystra's manipulation and Cazador's control. He'd rather die believing he'd chosen his fate than admit he'd been shaped into a willing sacrifice.

Astarion shoved the manuscript into its folio. What was he doing, getting invested in someone who'd already chosen their path to destruction? He'd spent two centuries under Cazador's thumb—he wasn't about to watch someone else march willingly toward their doom, no matter how fascinating their written exchanges had become.

Better to maintain distance. Keep things professional. Academic. After all, hadn't he originally approached this project to manage his image? When had it transformed into caring about Gale's welfare?

Across the camp, Gale finished with his tidying and stood, presumably heading to his tent to sleep. Astarion's fingers twitched with the urge shake some sense into him. To demand how someone so brilliant could be so wilfully blind about their own situation.

But Gale's tent meant privacy. Intimacy. The kind of closeness that made it harder to ignore the way Gale's presence affected him. No, that conversation would be dangerous—for multiple reasons.

Perhaps Tav could handle it instead. They'd already tried talking Gale out of his martyrdom once before. Maybe with the right leverage, the right arguments... Astarion could provide some choice phrases about divine manipulation, let Tav deliver them without the complicated baggage of whatever was developing—or not developing—between himself and Gale.

Astarion watched Gale disappear into his tent, the blue fabric swaying closed behind him. The lamp inside cast the wizard's shadow against the canvas—a dark silhouette bent over his trunk.

His throat burned. Usually, a good hunt helped clear his head of such distracting thoughts, but the Shadow-cursed lands offered no such relief. No rabbits darted between the twisted trees, no deer grazed in the blighted fields. Even the rats had abandoned this cursed place.

He checked his supplies, counting the bottles of blood tucked away in his pack. Three left. He could do without—had done so for most of his life—but it would be another irritant grating on his nerves. He would ration as best as he could while the party wasted time chasing down lost (almost certainly dead) parents and playing with creepy children.

Astarion settled onto the wooden plank that served as his bed, arranging the thin blanket around himself more from habit than necessity. The familiar discomfort of hunger gnawed at him as he closed his eyes, preparing for what would undoubtedly be another restless trance.

* * *

The party trudged back into camp, boots caked with the muck of Reithwin Town and depressed from the events of Moonrise Towers. Astarion's skin still crawled from their encounter with that insufferable drow. He needed a proper wash, fresh clothes, and most importantly, to forget the entire ordeal.

But Gale made straight for his writing desk, barely pausing to dump his pack.

"I'll take first watch," Wyll offered.

"Excellent. And dinner?" Shadowheart asked.

"Also Wyll," Gale called over his shoulder, already pulling out fresh parchment.

Wyll's protest died under Shadowheart's glare. "Fine. But tomorrow—"

"Yes, yes," Gale waved vaguely, ink already flowing.

Astarion settled on his usual perch, watching Gale's quill dance across the page with unusual urgency. Normally the wizard labored over each word, consulting references and muttering to himself. But now he wrote as if possessed, barely pausing for more ink.

Strange. Their routine typically involved Gale cooking dinner and then writing late into the night before retiring, leaving the pages for Astarion to review in privacy. This feverish pace was new. Intriguing.

Astarion had just resigned himself to wait when Gale suddenly stopped, gathered the fresh pages, and marched over.

"I need your input. Now. Before I continue."

"What, no beauty rest first? How irregular of you." Astarion tried to mask his annoyance with humor. Could the man not give him a few minutes of distance before making him relive the whole unsavory encounter?

"This can't wait." Gale thrust the pages forward. "I need to know if I've captured the, ah, nuances correctly."

"Nuances?" Astarion arched an eyebrow. "Of what, precisely?"

"The encounter with Araj. The political implications. The, um, historical context of drow-vampire relations in Baldur's Gate."

It was a terrible excuse. Gale knew perfectly well that Baldur's Gate's drow population was minimal, and Astarion's knowledge of them even more so.

"Historical context?" Astarion drawled. "How fascinating that you'd need that particular detail at this exact moment."

Gale shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. "Yes. Well. Will you read it or not?"

Now this was interesting. Gale was many things, but abrupt usually wasn't one of them. Whatever drove this urgency, it wasn't academic accuracy.

"Oh, very well." Astarion plucked the pages from Gale's hands. "Since you're being so charmingly mysterious about it."

Astarion settled back against the log and began to read as Gale retreated. His eyebrows rose higher with each paragraph. This wasn't Gale's usual measured prose at all—no footnotes, no academic distance, not even proper punctuation in places. Just raw, unfiltered fury poured onto the page.

He'd completely skipped their confrontation with Ketheric. Nothing about finding Minthara again. Instead, Gale had filled pages with increasingly creative invectives about Araj Oblodra.

The absolute gall of this creature, Gale had written, to demand such intimacy from someone who had clearly refused. Her presumption that Tav could simply order Astarion to perform such an act speaks volumes about her own twisted relationship with consent.

The next paragraph contained several crossed-out words that looked suspiciously like swearing in the old Thorass language.

I cannot fathom why Tav didn't simply let us dispose of her after such a display. The way she kept pressing, kept trying to manipulate the situation—disgusting. Utterly revolting.

Astarion's throat tightened as he read on. Gale had captured every micro-expression, every subtle tension in his shoulders when Araj wouldn't take no for an answer. But rather than clinical observation, the writing blazed with protective rage.

Astarion's refusal was admirably firm, Gale had written, and I find myself quite proud of how he handled the situation, though I shouldn't have expected anything less.

Something warm bloomed in Astarion's chest. He'd been ready to deflect questions about his reaction, to laugh off the whole incident. But Gale had seen. Had understood.

Had been angry on his behalf.

The writing deteriorated further into personal commentary about Araj's parentage and probable relationship with various Underdark creatures. It was messy, emotional, and completely unlike Gale's usual work.

It was perfect.

Astarion looked up from the pages to find Gale had vanished from the campfire. A quick scan revealed lamplight flickering in his tent. After a moment's consideration, he slipped over to their stores and liberated a particularly nice Sembian red—the kind Gale favored when deep in his cups. The rest of the party watched him cross to Gale's tent, but he ignored their stares.

"Knock knock," he called softly, unable to actually rap on the canvas.

"Come—" Gale cleared his throat. "Come in."

Inside, Gale perched on his bedroll, having made an absolute disaster of his hair. His fingers twisted in the ends of his sleeves as he watched Astarion enter.

Astarion settled beside him, close enough to share the wine but not so near as to crowd. He uncorked the bottle and poured generously into their cups. Gale accepted his with visible relief, taking a long swallow.

"So," Astarion said, tapping the pages. "I can see why you might want feedback before adding these particular... observations to the official record."

Gale's shoulders hunched. "I shouldn't have shown you. It was unprofessional. I'll rewrite it properly—"

"Don't you dare." The words came out sharper than intended, and Astarion took a measured sip of wine before continuing. "It's refreshing to see you write without stuffing every sentence full of footnotes and qualifiers."

Astarion traced the edge of the parchment, weighing his next words. "Perhaps this particular passage isn't suited for your grand historical chronicle. But..." He folded the pages with careful precision. "If you've no objection, I'd like to keep these."

Gale's eyes widened slightly. "You would?"

"Mm." Astarion slipped the pages into his vest pocket, next to his heart. "It's rather remarkable, isn't it? How well we've come to know each other through ink and paper."

"I was just thinking the same." Gale's fingers drummed against his cup. "Though that makes it all the more frustrating that I still—that is to say—" He took another fortifying sip of wine. "There are still considerable gaps in my understanding of, well, certain matters. Particularly regarding how to... that is, what might be welcome or unwanted in terms of..."

Gale's usual eloquence abandoned him entirely as he rambled on, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. "The last thing I'd want is to make you uncomfortable with any unwanted advances or assumptions about—not that I'm making assumptions! Or advances. Unless they'd be welcome. Which I have no way of knowing, hence my current..."

Astarion felt his smile growing wider as Gale continued to tie himself in verbal knots. The wizard who could lecture for hours about the minutiae of magical theory was completely undone trying to navigate this conversation. It was, against all odds, utterly charming.

Astarion indulged a wicked impulse to let Gale continue stumbling through increasingly convoluted sentences. This brilliant, powerful man who could probably level the camp with a thought was sitting here blushing and babbling like a schoolboy, all because he was worried about making Astarion uncomfortable.

Astarion watched Gale spiral deeper into his verbal maze, now fretting about consent and boundaries and "not wanting to be anything like that presumptuous drow." The wine in Astarion's cup caught the lamplight as he swirled it, considering.

He'd surprised himself today, hadn't he? That firm "no" to Araj had felt... right. Natural. After centuries of being unable to refuse anything, he'd found his voice. Found his limits.

But knowing what he didn't want was only half the equation, wasn't it? The other half sat right here, working himself into knots trying to be considerate of Astarion's feelings.

"—and I would never presume to—"

"Gale." Astarion set his cup aside. "I need you to choose me."

Gale's mouth snapped shut, eyes wide.

"Not as some temporary distraction while you wait for your goddess to take you back." The words spilled out, sharper than intended. "And certainly not if you're still planning to martyr yourself for her at the first opportunity."

Astarion's fingers clenched. "I won't… invest in someone who's already plotting to abandon me."

Astarion's throat tightened as Gale continued to stare, mouth working silently. The silence stretched painfully, and Astarion's carefully constructed walls began to rise again.

"Though if you're worried about how… this might affect my editorial contributions—" He forced a light tone, reaching for his familiar armor of wit. "I can assure you I'll be every bit as ruthless with your purple prose if we... if certain advances were made and accepted." He paused, weighing his next words carefully. "I cannot make any promises beyond trying right now, but I would like to. Try."

Gale's surprised laugh broke the tension. He set his wine aside with deliberate care, and Astarion's couldn't pull his gaze from the serious look in Gale's eyes.

"Very well then." Gale's voice was soft but certain. "I choose you. Mystra can find someone else to blow up."

The words hit Astarion like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Everyone who'd ever shown interest in him had wanted something—his body, his skills, his submission. Even Araj's recent attempt to "offer him blood" had been about using him, treating him like a toy to be passed around at her whim, rented by her alchemical prowess.

But here was Gale, casually tossing aside his divine destiny, his life-long obsession with Mystra, all for... him. Just him. No conditions, no demands, no expectations beyond what Astarion was willing to give.

Joy bubbled up, wild and unfamiliar. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt anything like it.

"Stay tonight?" Gale asked, voice soft. "Just to rest. Nothing more than you're comfortable with."

Astarion hesitated. The offer was tempting, but old habits died hard. "I don't sleep."

"I know. But you could trance here. If you wanted."

The earnest hope in Gale's expression melted Astarion's remaining resistance. "Well, I suppose your cushions are more comfortable than mine. Alright. After your dinner, then."

They emerged from the tent to find Wyll's attempt at dinner nearly ready. Shadowheart's knowing smirk made Astarion bristle, but Gale's steady presence at his side kept him from snapping at her.

"About time," Wyll called from the fire. "Hope you're hungry."

"Starving," Astarion drawled, earning a quiet snort from Gale.

The stew was barely edible—Wyll had somehow managed to both burn and under-season it if the general consensus was to be believed—but Gale seemed oblivious and Astarion couldn't eat it anyway. He focused on the way Gale's knee pressed against his as they sat, the brief brushes of their hands as they reached for and passed wine and food among the party members.

Gale hadn't stopped smiling since they'd left the tent. It transformed his entire face, softening the worried lines around his eyes. Astarion caught himself staring more than once, but surprisingly didn't feel the need to hide it.

When the others began drifting toward their tents, Astarion followed Gale back to his. Inside, they faced each other awkwardly until Gale gestured around from the reading chair to his bedroll.

"Whereever you're most comfortable."

Astarion considered his options. He could maintain some distance. But Gale's warmth beckoned, and for once, Astarion allowed himself to want.

In the end, after a stupid amount of awkwardness, he settled against Gale's side, tension melting as strong arms wrapped around him. Gale pressed a gentle kiss to his temple.

"Good night, Astarion."

Astarion tilted his face up, catching Gale's lips in a soft kiss. "Good night, Gale."

The kiss lingered on Astarion's lips as Gale's breathing slowed and deepened beside him. Such a simple thing, really—just the brief press of mouths, no heat or urgency behind it. Yet his mind kept circling back to that moment, analyzing every detail. The slight roughness of Gale's beard. The way Gale's hand had cupped his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. The soft sound of contentment Gale made when they parted.

Gale shifted in his sleep, arm tightening around Astarion's waist. The wizard radiated warmth like a furnace, his heartbeat steady against Astarion's chest. The sound should have made him thirsty—it frequently did, with others—but in this moment it felt... comforting. Like a lullaby.

Astarion nestled deeper into the embrace, savoring the novel sensation of being held without ulterior motives. No demands, no expectations, just the simple happiness of closeness. When was the last time anyone had touched him like this? Had anyone ever?

The thought should have been depressing, but somehow it wasn't. Not with Gale's steady breathing in his ear and strong arms around him. Not with the memory of that kiss still lingering on his lips.

His racing thoughts gradually settled as the night deepened. The familiar patterns of meditation beckoned, and for once Astarion didn't fight them. He let his consciousness drift, secure in the knowledge that he was, perhaps for the first time in centuries, truly safe.

His last coherent thought before slipping into trance was how perfectly they fit together, like pieces of a story neither had known was incomplete.

* * *

Astarion emerged from his trance hours before dawn, finding himself thoroughly entangled with Gale. The wizard had wrapped around him like a vine, one leg thrown over his hip, face buried in Astarion's neck. Their position left no room for modesty—or denial about the way Astarion's body had responded to the intimate contact.

His erection pressed insistently against the soft curve of Gale's hip. The friction sent sparks of pleasure through him with each tiny movement, making it difficult to think clearly. When was the last time he'd felt genuine desire, untainted by calculation or necessity? Even his attempted dalliance with Tav had been strategic rather than passionate.

This was... different. Dangerous, perhaps. There were no scripts to follow here, no carefully crafted personas to hide behind. Just raw want, as honest as it was unexpected.

Gale shifted in his sleep, unconsciously pressing closer. The movement dragged a quiet gasp from Astarion's throat. Gods, but it felt good. Too good. He should extract himself, retreat to safer territory. But Gale's warmth surrounded him, tempting him to stay, to wake the wizard with kisses and see where this newfound hunger might lead.

The choice was terrifying. Exhilarating.

Astarion impulsively traced his fingers along Gale's jaw, admiring how peaceful he looked in sleep. "Gale," he whispered, voice rougher than intended. "Wake up, darling."

Gale stirred, eyes fluttering open. Astarion watched as awareness dawned, followed by a sharp intake of breath as Gale registered their entwined state. A flush spread across Gale's cheeks, and Astarion felt a corresponding press of heat growing against his own hip.

"Astarion," Gale began, voice husky with sleep and something more. "You're... we're..."

"Quite the predicament, isn't it?" Astarion murmured, trying for his usual nonchalance. But his voice was too tight, too breathless.

Gale shifted slightly, enough to look into Astarion's eyes. "What do you want, Astarion? What do you need?"

The question caught him off guard. No one asked what he wanted. Not Cazador, not the countless pawns in his games of seduction. He was a tool, a plaything, not a participant with preferences.

But Gale was asking, waiting patiently for an answer. And gods help him, Astarion wanted... something. Anything. Everything.

Gale must have seen the confusion in his eyes. He reached up, cupping Astarion's cheek. "Would you like me to leave it alone? Or would you like to explore this further?" He pressed gently against Astarion, sending another jolt of pleasure through him. "I would very much like to make you feel good, Astarion. To focus on your pleasure."

Astarion swallowed hard. "I... I want..." He trailed off, unsure how to voice the desperate need building within him.

"Tell me," Gale coaxed softly, thumb brushing Astarion's cheekbone. "My hand, my mouth, my body—what do you want, Astarion?"

The words sent a shiver down Astarion's spine. No one had ever offered him such a choice before. And he found, to his surprise, that he knew exactly what he wanted.

"Your mouth," he whispered, barely able to believe he was asking. "I want your mouth on me, Gale."

Astarion's eyes widened at his own audacity. But Gale only smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye. "As you wish."

Gale cast a hasty spell, and a dome of silence enveloped them. Then he leaned in, capturing Astarion's lips in a searing kiss. Any lingering hesitation dissolved under the onslaught of sensation. Gale's mouth was hot and demanding, his hands roaming boldly over Astarion's body.

Astarion moaned into the kiss, arching into Gale's touch. His sleep shirt was in the way, and he tugged at it impatiently, wanting skin-to-skin contact. Gale seemed to read his mind, breaking away just long enough to strip off his own shirt before attending to Astarion's. Soon, both shirts were discarded, forgotten on the ground as their mouths found each other again.

Astarion's hands wandered over Gale's bare back, relishing the feel of warm skin under his fingertips. He mapped the contours of Gale's spine, the subtle shifts of muscle as the wizard moved above him. Gale's lips trailed down Astarion's neck, sparking pleasure wherever they landed. He nipped gently at the juncture of Astarion's neck and shoulder, earning a sharp gasp.

Their hips rocked together, the friction sending sparks through Astarion. His control slipped, desire coiling tighter with each touch, each kiss. His breath came in ragged gasps as Gale's mouth worked its way down his chest, pausing to lavish attention on his nipples.

By the time Gale's mouth reached the waistband of his sleep pants, Astarion was already dripping with need. He could feel his desire slicking his belly. He bucked his hips involuntarily, seeking more contact.

Gale looked up, eyes dark with desire. Astarion had seen Gale's eyes narrowed in thought, sharp and fierce in the middle of combat, soft and cow-eyed when they had spoken of their feelings, but never like this. Knowing, wanting, undone with passion.

With gentle movements, Gale pushed Astarion's sleep pants down, baring him completely. Then Gale was settling between his legs, kissing Astarion's thighs and palming him gently before cupping his balls.

Gale stroked his thumb over Astarion's balls, sending a jolt of pleasure through him. Astarion's breath hitched, his body tensing in anticipation. Gale's hand was warm, his touch firm yet gentle. He pressed just behind Astarion's scrotum, applying a steady pressure that made Astarion's eyes roll back.

"Is this alright?" Gale asked softly, looking up at him with those dark, desire-filled eyes.

Astarion could only nod, words failing him. It was more than alright. It was overwhelming, consuming. He spread his legs wider, inviting more.

Gale smiled, a sweet, almost reverent expression. "You're incredible, Astarion," he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Astarion's inner thigh. "Every part of you is perfect."

Astarion's head spun at the words. Perfect. He'd been called many things, but never that. Not like this.

Gale took his time, exploring Astarion's body with a thoroughness that left him gasping. He licked and kissed his way up Astarion's shaft, his tongue hot and wet. Astarion's hips bucked, seeking more, but Gale held him down, his hands strong and steady.

"Patience," Gale whispered against his skin.

He took Astarion into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive tip. Astarion's hands fisted in the bedroll, his body trembling with need. Gale's mouth was heaven, his touch divine.

All the while, Gale's thumb continued its steady strokes and his finger pressed rhythmically. Astarion panted, his body coiling tighter with each lick, each kiss, each sweet word murmured against his flesh.

Gale's eyes flicked up to meet Astarion's, and the raw hunger in them sent a thrill through him. This was real, raw, unscripted.

"Gale," Astarion gasped, his voice barely a whisper. "Please..."

Gale hummed in response, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through Astarion. He took him deeper, his head bobbing slowly, his tongue working magic.

"You taste so good," Gale murmured, pulling back just enough to speak. "Like sin and sweetness all at once."

Astarion's head fell back, his body writhing under Gale's ministrations. It was too much, too good. He could feel his control slipping, his body racing towards release.

Gale seemed to sense it, his movements becoming more focused, more intense. He took Astarion deep, his throat working around him. His finger pressed harder, the pleasure cresting.

Astarion's breath came in ragged gasps, his body tensing. He was close, so close. And Gale was right there with him, his eyes locked on Astarion's, his mouth and hands working in perfect harmony.

"Gale," Astarion gasped again, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm... I'm going to..."

Gale hummed in encouragement, his eyes never leaving Astarion's. And that was it—that undid him. With a cry, Astarion came undone, his body shaking with the force of his release.

Astarion shuddered through the aftershocks as Gale's mouth gentled, working him through the last waves of pleasure. Even as he softened, Gale continued to place delicate kisses along his length, each touch sending tiny sparks through his oversensitive flesh.

Finally, Gale pulled back. His expression was pure self-satisfaction—that particular brand of smugness he got when successfully casting a difficult spell. He settled between Astarion's thighs, resting his cheek against Astarion's belly and looking up at him with twinkling eyes.

"Well," Gale said, grinning. "That was rather spectacular, wasn't it?"

Astarion huffed a laugh, reaching down and running his fingers through Gale's disheveled hair. "Aren't we pleased with ourselves?"

"Mmm, shouldn't I be?" Gale pressed a kiss to Astarion's hip. "The sounds you made were quite encouraging."

"Insufferable." But Astarion couldn't keep the fondness from his voice. He traced his thumb along Gale's jaw, feeling the wizard's smile against his skin. Then he noticed Gale's obvious arousal still straining against his sleep pants. "What about you, darling? What would you like?"

"Oh, don't worry about—"

"Let me take care of you," Astarion purred, running his fingers through Gale's hair and then tugging gently. He wanted to wipe that smug look off Gale's face—or at least match it with one of his own.

Gale caught his hand, bringing it to his lips. "Actually, I had something else in mind." His eyes sparkled with mischief as he shifted the tilt of Astarion's hips. "If you're amenable?"

Astarion allowed himself to be repositioned, curiosity piqued. Then Gale's hands were on his ass, spreading him open, and—oh. The quick press of lips against his hole sent a jolt through him.

Gale pulled back slightly. "Only if you like that sort of thing." A wicked grin spread across Gale's face as he darted his tongue out, the quick, teasing flick against Astarion's sensitive rim sending electric shivers up his spine. The warmth of Gale's breath ghosted over his exposed flesh as the wizard pulled back just enough to catch his eye, one dark eyebrow raised in silent inquiry. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing, and the smugness radiating from him made Astarion want to both kiss and throttle him. Instead, he found himself caught in that questioning gaze, his own body trembling with anticipation for what might come next.

Heat pooled in Astarion's belly. He absolutely did like that sort of thing, when done well—and he was deeply convinced Gale knew how to do this well—though he couldn't resist teasing. "My, my. This seems rather focused on my pleasure again."

"Trust me," Gale chuckled, the sound rich with promise. "I'll get as good as I give, in the end." He reached for his nearby bag, rummaging until he produced a vial of oil. "But first—ground rules. If I tap twice anywhere on your body, I need verbal confirmation to continue. Three taps from either of us means stop immediately, no questions asked. Understood?"

Astarion nodded, already anticipating what was to come. "Crystal clear, darling."

Gale set the vial of oil nearby and pulled off his pants before settling back between Astarion's legs, his eyes locked on Astarion's.

"Ready?" Gale asked, his voice low and husky.

Astarion nodded, spreading his legs wider in invitation. Gale leaned in, his breath hot against Astarion's flesh. He placed a soft kiss on his cheek, then another on his inner thigh, teasingly close to where Astarion wanted him most. Then, finally, Gale's mouth was on him, his tongue circling his rim, slick and hot and perfect.

Astarion gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily. Gale's hands steadied him, holding him open as his tongue worked its magic. He licked and sucked, his movements slow and deliberate, drawing out each sensation until Astarion thought he might scream from the pleasure of it.

Gale pulled back slightly. "Alright?" he asked, his voice rough with desire.

"Gods, yes," Astarion panted, his body already craving more. "Don't stop, Gale. Please..."

Gale grinned, his eyes dark with lust. "As you wish."

He dove back in, his tongue pressing against Astarion's entrance. Astarion's breath hitched as Gale's tongue slipped inside, the sensation overwhelming. He could feel his body opening, welcoming the intrusion. His cock twitched, already hardening again with need.

Gale's tongue fucked him slowly, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through Astarion. Gale tapped twice against his thigh.

"More," Astarion gasped, his hands fisting in the bedroll. "Gale, I need more..."

He could feel his control slipping, his body coiling tighter with each movement. And yet, he loved this feeling of control—of directing Gale, of guiding his own pleasure.

"Like this?" Gale asked, his breath hot against Astarion's flesh. Before Astarion could respond, Gale's tongue was back, pressing deeper, pushing into him faster.

Astarion's breath hitched "Yes," he gasped. "Yes, like that."

Astarion sank back and rode the waves of pleasure for some time as Gale worked him, his body opening eagerly. Astarion's hips bucked upward, seeking more contact as a desperate whine escaped his throat. When Gale paused, tapping twice against his thigh in silent question, Astarion couldn't stop himself from begging.

"More," he pleaded, voice rough with need. He could feel himself flushing, the borrowed blood in his system rushing to color his pale skin. "I need... I need more inside of me."

Gale pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire and something softer, something Astarion couldn't quite name. Gale poured the oil over his fingers.

Gale's fingers circled his entrance, slick and smooth against his heated flesh. Astarion pushed back against the touch, craving more. While his fingers stroked, Gale put his mouth back to work, sucking one of Astarion's balls into his mouth, rolling it gently with his tongue.

Astarion cried out, his body jolting at the intense sensation. Gale's finger pressed into him, slow and steady, filling him perfectly. He could feel his body stretching, accommodating the intrusion. It was intense, overwhelming, and exactly what he needed.

Gale's mouth released him, moving to place soft kisses on his inner thighs. He nipped gently at the flesh, sending sparks of pleasure-pain through Astarion. All the while, his finger moved in and out, fucking him slowly.

"You're so tight," Gale murmured, his voice rough with desire. "So perfect, Astarion."

Astarion could only moan in response, his body coiling tighter with each thrust. Gale's mouth moved back to his balls, sucking the other one into his mouth. The sensation was intense, almost too much. But Astarion craved it, craved more.

Gale tapped twice against his thigh. Astarion nodded eagerly then gasped a yes, remembering their rule about confirmation. Gale's finger slipped out, leaving him feeling empty. But then, two fingers pressed against his entrance, circling, preparing.

"Ready?" Gale asked, his voice husky.

"Yes," Astarion panted. "Gods, yes, Gale. More."

Gale's fingers slid in, the stretch burning slightly. Astarion welcomed the sensation, his body opening to accommodate them. Gale's mouth moved up, kissing his hip, his stomach, his chest.

Finally, Gale was above him, his fingers still moving slowly. Astarion reached up, pulling Gale down into a fierce kiss. He could taste himself on Gale's lips, and it sent a thrill through him.

Gale moaned into the kiss, his fingers picking up speed. Astarion's hands roamed over Gale's body, feeling the firm muscles under smooth skin. He reached down, wrapping his hand around Gale's cock.

Gale groaned, his hips bucking into the touch. Astarion stroked him slowly, matching the rhythm of Gale's fingers. The sensation of Gale's cock in his hand, hard and hot, sent a wave of desire through him.

Gale pulled back from the kiss, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Astarion," he whispered, his voice rough with need. "You feel so good to me. Does this feel good? Is it good for you?"

Astarion could only moan and nod in response, his body on fire with sensation. Gale's fingers curled inside him, hitting a spot that made him see stars. He cried out, his hand tightening around Gale's cock.

Gale's hips bucked, his breath hitching. "Astarion," he gasped. "If you keep doing that, I won't last long."

Astarion grinned, a wicked curve of his lips. But he didn't stop, didn't want to. He wanted to feel Gale come undone, wanted to know he was the cause.

"Isn't that the point, darling?" he purred, his thumb circling the sensitive tip of Gale's cock.

Gale paused, his breath hitching as Astarion's thumb dipped gently into the slit. His eyes locked onto Astarion's, a hesitant, almost vulnerable look in their depths.

"Astarion," he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. He tried again, his voice soft. "Can I... Would it be alright if I... came inside you instead? I want to be inside you."

Astarion's stomach flipped at the question, at the raw need in Gale's voice. He nodded, his own voice barely a whisper. "Yes, that would be… yes."

Gale's eyes fluttered closed briefly, a soft sigh escaping his lips. When he opened them again, they were dark with desire and something softer, something that made Astarion's chest ache.

Gale's fingers began to move again, scissoring and twisting to stretch him gently. Astarion stroked Gale lightly, matching his pace, drawing out soft gasps and whispered curses from the wizard. He could feel Gale's cock twitching in his hand, could feel the way Gale's body trembled with restraint.

A third finger joined the others, the stretch burning slightly. Astarion welcomed it, his body craving more. He rolled his hips, fucking himself on Gale's fingers, his own cock leaking onto his stomach.

Gale's eyes were locked onto the sight, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Gods, Astarion," he murmured. "You're so beautiful like this."

Astarion preened under the praise, his body flushing with heat. He wanted more, needed more. He was about to beg, to demand that Gale fuck him properly, when Gale pulled his fingers out. Before Astarion could protest, Gale gently unwrapped Astarion's hand from Gale's cock, slicking Astarion's hand with oil and placing it instead on Astarion's own length.

Astarion stroked himself lightly, his eyes never leaving Gale's. Gale watched him while he poured out more oil and stroked himself to spread it. Astarion found himself smiling at Gale and Gale smiling back as they touched themselves and watched each other for several long moments. Then Gale leaned over him again and lined himself up, the tip of his cock pressing against Astarion's entrance. Astarion could feel his body tensing, anticipating the intrusion. He held Gale's eyes, seeing the reflection of his own need mirrored back at him.

Gale pushed in slowly, the stretch burning, the sensation overwhelming. Astarion's breath hitched, his hand stilling on his cock. Gale paused, his eyes searching Astarion's face. "Alright?" he asked softly.

Astarion nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "Yes. More, Gale. I need more."

Gale's hips flexed, pushing him deeper. Astarion could feel his body opening, accommodating Gale's length. It was intense, almost too much, but he craved it, craved more.

His hand began to move again, stroking himself as Gale sank into him fully and began to move, slowly. Their eyes were locked, their breaths coming in sync. It was intimate, raw, real. And it was terrifyingly beautiful.

Gale shifted, adjusting the angle of his hips. Astarion gasped as Gale's cock hit a spot inside him that sent sparks shooting through his nerves. "There," he panted, his hand tightening on his own cock. "Right there, Gale."

Gale smiled, a soft, intimate curve of his lips. He shifted again, settling into a rhythm that hit that spot perfectly with each thrust. Astarion could feel his body coiling tighter, the pleasure building with each movement.

Their lips met in a fierce kiss, all tongues and shared breath. Astarion stroked himself in time with Gale's thrusts, his body trembling with need. Gale's hips moved faster, his cock fucking Astarion deeply, while he whispered to Astarion tenderly.

Astarion moaned into Gale's mouth, his free hand grasping at Gale's shoulder, his back, any part of him he could reach. Gale's skin was slick with sweat, his muscles taut under Astarion's touch.

"Gale," Astarion gasped out between kisses. "It's good. You're so good."

Gale's breath hitched, his hips stuttering. "Astarion," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "You feel incredible. I'm close, love. I'm so close."

Astarion's heart—or the memory of it—swelled at the endearment. He tightened his grip on his cock, his body chasing release. "Me too," he panted. "Gale, I'm right there with you."

Gale's thrusts picked up speed, his hips moving faster, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside Astarion with each movement. Astarion's body tensed, his breath coming in short gasps.

Their mouths met again, their kiss sloppy and desperate. Astarion could taste the salt of Gale's sweat, could feel the wizard's heart pounding in his chest. He stroked himself faster, his body racing towards the edge.

"Come with me, Astarion," Gale whispered against his lips. "I want to feel you come around me."

Astarion moaned, Gale's words sending a shiver through him. His body tightened, his cock pulsing in his hand. He was right there, right on the edge. And Gale was there with him, his breath hitching, his body trembling.

"Gale," Astarion gasped, his voice barely a whisper. Their eyes locked, and in that moment, Astarion felt connected, truly with someone, for the first time in centuries. And it was that look, that connection, that sent him tumbling over the edge.

His orgasm hit him like a storm, his cock pulsing in his hand as he came undone, his cum painting the space between their bodies. His body clenched around Gale, his muscles tightening as waves of pleasure crashed through him and zinged up his spine.

Gale groaned, his hips stuttering as Astarion's body gripped him tightly. "Astarion," he gasped, his voice rough with need. His hips moved faster, fucking Astarion deeply as he chased his own release.

Astarion could feel it, could feel Gale's cock swelling inside him, could feel the pulse as Gale came, filling him with hot, liquid warmth. Gale's hips jerked, his body trembling as he rode out his orgasm, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Astarion watched Gale's face as he came—eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack with pleasure, all that clever wit stripped away to raw need. Beautiful. His to witness. His to have.

"Say it," Astarion demanded, voice rough. "Tell me you're mine now."

"Yours," Gale gasped, still shuddering through the aftershocks. "Only yours, Astarion."

Astarion marveled at the words, spoken with such earnest abandon. He pulled Gale down for a messy kiss, tasting the salt of sweat on his lips. Gale slumped forward, his weight pressing Astarion into the bedroll, his cock still buried deep inside him. The wizard's skin was flushed and damp with exertion, his dark hair falling in his face as he scattered feather-light kisses across Astarion's chest. Each press of his lips felt like a benediction—reverent, tender, almost innocent compared to what they'd just done. Astarion's hands found their way to Gale's shoulders, neither pushing away nor pulling closer, just holding on as if to anchor himself in the moment.

When Gale finally withdrew, they both gasped at the same instant—a shared, breathy "ah" of loss and sensitivity. Their eyes met, and Astarion couldn't help but smirk at their synchronized response, even as his body clenched around the sudden emptiness. Gale fumbled, managing a weak gesture. The sticky mess between them vanished with a shimmer of magic.

Astarion waited for the familiar crawl of shame to surface, that centuries-old reflex of self-loathing that always followed intimacy. The edges of it whispered at his consciousness—

"So," Gale murmured against his neck, "any editorial commentary on my performance? I do value your critical analysis."

A startled laugh escaped Astarion's throat. "Are you actually asking me to grade you?"

"Well, you've been quite thorough in your other assessments." Gale's hand splayed open on Astarion's chest, stroking softly. "I'd hate to miss an opportunity for academic discourse."

"Academic discourse?" Astarion arched an eyebrow. "Darling, if you want me to critique your technique, we should establish proper parameters for peer review."

"Ah yes, of course." Gale propped himself up on an elbow, eyes dancing. "Shall we start with methodology?"

The creeping darkness receded further as Astarion found himself grinning. "Your approach was..." He paused dramatically. "Adequate."

"Adequate?" Gale's mock offense was delightful. "I believe I heard rather more enthusiastic feedback in the moment."

"Perhaps a practical demonstration of improvements is in order?" Astarion stretched languidly before fixing Gale with an imperious look. "But first, hold me properly. I refuse to conduct this evaluation without appropriate accommodations."

Gale's smile softened as he gathered Astarion close, arranging them so Astarion's head rested on his chest. "Better?"

"Marginally." Astarion nestled closer, feeling unexpectedly safe in the circle of Gale's arms. "Though I may require extensive testing to be certain."

Gale's chest rumbled with laughter. "Extensive testing? Well, as a dedicated scholar, I could hardly refuse a request for thorough investigation."

Astarion hummed contentedly, tracing a finger along Gale's collarbone. The wizard's skin was warm against his cooler touch, and he could feel the steady thrum of Gale's heartbeat beneath his ear.

"Though I must point out," Gale continued, his fingers carding through Astarion's hair, "that proper research requires multiple trials under varying conditions."

"Does it now?" Astarion smirked against Gale's chest. "And I suppose you've already devised a testing schedule?"

"Naturally. Though we may need to adjust for... spontaneous variables."

Dawn's first light began filtering through the tent walls, casting everything in a soft golden glow. Astarion noticed but felt no burn, protected as he was by the tadpole's gift. Still, old habits died hard, and he pressed closer to Gale's warmth.

"Spontaneous variables?" Astarion affected an academic tone. "How very unscientific of you."

"Sometimes the best discoveries come from unexpected directions." Gale's voice was growing drowsy, but his arms tightened protectively around Astarion. "Like finding love in the margins of a manuscript."

Astarion's breath caught at the casual mention of love, but Gale just pressed a sleepy kiss to his temple and continued stroking his hair. They lay there as the morning light grew stronger, trading quiet murmurs and gentle touches, neither quite ready to face the day ahead.

* * *

Later that evening, Astarion watched Gale stir the pot over the campfire, the wizard's movements mechanical after a draining day. The day's revelations about Ketheric's past had left them all subdued. Another noble life twisted by circumstance—it felt sadder than Astarion cared to dwell on.

His fangs ached. These cursed lands offered nothing to hunt, and he was tired of rationing bottled blood. He uncorked another vial, grimacing at the stale taste. At least it took the edge off.

Gale served the others before retreating to his usual spot with his writing materials. The familiar scratch of quill on parchment filled the evening air. When Gale finally set aside his writing, he approached Astarion with an endearing mix of confidence and shyness. "I thought perhaps we might retire together first? The editing can wait until later."

"Eager to continue our other research project?" Astarion smirked, but his teasing tone couldn't quite mask his pleasure at the invitation. "And here I thought you were devoted to academic pursuits."

"I'd say this qualifies as field research." Gale held out his hand.

Astarion took it, but guilt suddenly twisted in his gut. He had to come clean. "I should tell you something. About why I originally offered to review your writing."

"Let me guess—you wanted to control how you were portrayed? Perhaps gather intelligence on the rest of us?"

Astarion stiffened. "You knew?"

"I suspected." Gale's thumb traced circles on Astarion's palm. "But your feedback was genuinely helpful, and I rather enjoyed where our collaboration led. Unless you regret—"

"No," Astarion cut in quickly. "No regrets. Though I'm beginning to think you're far more cunning than you let on."

Astarion allowed Gale to tug him back to Gale's tent, and they sat on the bedroll. Astarion noticed the wizard's hands fidgeting with the edges of his robes. Fascinating—Gale hadn't shown a trace of hesitation last night. Perhaps he was one of those who needed time to warm up each encounter? Astarion found himself holding back too, uncertain how to navigate this unfamiliar territory of a second night. He'd had more first nights with someone than he could count, but no second nights, none that he could remember anyway.

"I've been thinking," Gale started, then paused to adjust a stack of books that didn't need adjusting. "That is to say, I couldn't help but notice—well, observe really, in a purely academic sense of course—that the Shadow-Cursed lands have been particularly lacking in, shall we say, sustenance options for your specific dietary requirements."

Astarion blinked, trying to parse through Gale's nervous rambling. "Are you attempting to discuss my eating habits?"

"Yes! Well, sort of." Gale's hands stilled. "I've been remiss in my duties as camp cook, haven't I? Everyone else gets hot meals, while you make do with whatever you can find or brought with you."

The academic veneer cracked, revealing genuine concern underneath. Astarion's eyes flicked away at the care in Gale's voice.

"What I'm trying to say is—" Gale touched his own neck. "I think with the orb stabilized, well… I'm offering. If you'd like."

The words hit Astarion like ice water. Fresh blood. Willing blood. His fangs ached at the mere thought. He'd been denied the blood of thinking creatures so long, trained himself to reject even the possibility...

"You don't know what you're offering," he managed.

"I believe I do." Gale scooted closer. "I trust you."

Those three words scattered Astarion's thoughts completely. Trust. From someone who knew exactly what he was, who he had been. His gaze fixed on Gale's pulse point, watching it flutter beneath tanned skin.

Two firsts in one night. The thought drifted through his mind as he struggled to form words past the hunger suddenly roaring through him.

Astarion's attention snapped back to the present as Gale produced a scroll from his robes with a flourish.

"Lesser Restoration," Gale explained, setting it carefully on the cushions beside them. "Just in case. And I've been reading about proper recovery techniques—fascinating stuff really, though the texts are woefully lacking in practical application data. But the theory suggests that proper hydration and rest afterward are crucial. Not that this is any sort of transaction, mind you. The blood isn't payment for—well, for anything we've done or might do. Or for the editing either. Which has been invaluable, truly, but this is entirely separate from that arrangement—"

A smile tugged at Astarion's lips as he watched Gale's hands wave through increasingly elaborate gestures. The wizard's nervous rambling was oddly endearing, especially given how commanding he could be in other situations.

"—and I want you to know that while I'm certainly amenable to continuing our other activities, there's absolutely no expectation or obligation tied to this offer—"

Astarion moved before he could overthink it, sliding onto Gale's lap with practiced grace. The sudden motion cut off Gale's stream of words, his eyes widening slightly.

"Darling," Astarion purred, "you're talking too much." He caught Gale's mouth in a deep kiss, swallowing whatever response the wizard had been about to make.

Astarion broke the kiss, pressing his forehead against Gale's. "Tell me again that you're mine."

"I'm yours." Gale's breath ghosted across his lips.

"Not Mystra's." Astarion's fingers curled into Gale's robes. "Mine."

"Yours." Gale's hands settled on his hips. "Only yours."

"And if anyone tries to take you from me?" The words slipped out before Astarion could stop them, vulnerability raw in his voice. "If Cazador—"

"I'll incinerate them to ash." Gale's tone hardened with an edge Astarion had rarely heard. "Sixth level fireball should do it, or—" He twisted, reaching for his scroll case. "I have a disintegrate spell in here somewhere that would work even better."

Astarion caught his hand, tiny sparks tickled his throat with something that felt dangerously like joy. "That's quite alright, darling. I believe you." He pressed his lips against Gale's mouth, delighting in how eagerly the wizard responded.

He found it all deeply gratifying. Following their many shared notes, his meticulous corrections and commentary, Gale had at last mastered the art of perfect responses. Maybe his role as a critic held more rewards than he'd initially thought.

Armed with red ink and centuries of snark, Astarion had set out to control his narrative—and lost control of his heart instead. He supposed if someone had to write his story, it might as well be Gale.

Though of course, he reserved editorial prerogative. Writing romance was tricky, and Gale's prose tended to be purple even when describing the most mundane activities. Astarion smiled into Gale's kiss as Gale pulled him closer. There was no need to worry. He was sure that between the two of them, they'd manage to get the ending right.

#bg3 #astarion #gale of waterdeep #bloodweave #myfic #bg3 fanfic

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