Chapter Text
Astarion is kissing Gale into his mattress, and yet somehow, he’s the one who feels smothered. The room is suffocatingly hot. Something near his sternum prickles, like someone has reached into his chest and wrapped wires around his lungs.
And Gale is hard. Astarion can feel the press of it, right against his hip. Now that he’s noticed it, he can’t stop thinking about the way that his own cock has remained decidedly soft. Gale knows, he must, with how closely they’re tangled up in each other. But all Astarion needs is a little more time, surely. His frazzled nerve endings will settle down, his twisting stomach will quit making a scene, his dick will do its bloody job, and then Astarion can actually focus on enjoying Gale’s—
Astarion doesn’t need to breathe. It must be Gale who needs air, when Astarion suddenly feels Gale’s hand against his front, pushing him away.
So Astarion sits back. And refuses to acknowledge the swell of relief that rises inside him.
Gale’s big round eyes are more black than brown, at the moment, pupils blown as they are. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he pants for breath. His long brown hair fans out over the pillows, almost like a crown. He’s beautiful like this. He is gorgeous, and Astarion likes being the one to bring him to this point—loves watching Gale’s composure crumble and leave him fucked out and begging. When Astarion can actually get them that far, that is.
“Astarion,” says Gale, reaching up to cup Astarion’s cheek in his palm. His hand is warm. “Are you all right? Should we stop?”
The man is too fucking perceptive. Astarion despises it.
“And whatever gave you that idea?” Astarion scoffs. He takes Gale’s wrist, intending to push his hand away. But the thought doesn’t seem to connect to his muscles. Instead, Astarion’s hand curls tighter over Gale’s skin. They’d been about to cross the line into proper frottage just a few moments prior, and this simple touch is what makes Astarion’s undead heart flutter.
Nevermind that. He pivots—flashes Gale a smirk, and guides Gale’s hand to press against his lips. When Astarion speaks, his tongue almost touches Gale’s fingertips.
“I rather thought,” says Astarion, affecting a low purr, “that we were just about getting to the good part.”
But this only serves to make Gale frown. “I’m serious,” he insists, pulling his hand away. “Tell me honestly. Do you truly want to keep going?”
Astarion could just lie. He’s smiled and flirted and pleaded through the worst of encounters, even when the other person made him want to vomit. He actually likes Gale. This would be a cakewalk, compared to his old hunts.
But then. He actually likes Gale. Loves him, Astarion can even admit, in the safety of his own mind. Because Gale is like this: never pushing further than Astarion wants to go. Never expecting more than Astarion wants to give.
If only Astarion could just figure out what it is that he wants.
Astarion groans, and drops to the bed beside Gale. He stares up at the ceiling as next to him, Gale shifts, watching him. But not touching.
“I’m glad you listened,” Gale says eventually. “To me. To yourself.”
“Condescending bastard,” Astarion mutters. But he turns on his side and throws his arm over Gale’s torso, pressing his face to Gale’s shoulder.
Gale pulls him in closer. Astarion wills himself to stop shaking.
Gale doesn’t mention Astarion’s ridiculous breakdown. He hasn’t mentioned any of the embarrassingly numerous times that Astarion has shut things down, pulled abruptly away and left Gale wanting.
Why won’t Gale just get mad about it? Better to get it over with, than stew in all this dread.
Astarion finally works up the nerve to confront Gale, one day over lunch. It’s the least sensual setting Astarion could have chosen. The sky is bright blue outside, the sun streaming a few inches inside through the curtains, and no further. Dried leaves blow in through the window, carried by a cold autumn breeze. Gale is bundled up in a chunky knitted sweater, eating spoonfuls of the blood stew he cooked for them.
So there’s no pressure whatsoever. There will be no sense of expectation built from the words themselves, when Astarion broaches the topic.
“Gale?” Astarion asks, lowering his own spoon. Honestly, he’d be happy to lift the bowl to his lips and gulp down the stew like that. But he has the luxury, now, of partaking in meals like a member of civilization. Of taking it slow, knowing that the next meal is always guaranteed.
“Hm?” Gale looks up at him with those warm brown plaintive eyes. Astarion’s concern must show on his face, because Gale mirrors it, frowning just slightly. “What is it? Is it something I can help you with?”
Gale is too godsdamned kind.
“Doesn’t it bother you that we have so little sex?” Astarion bursts out, before he can lose his nerve. “I can tell you want more. Why don’t you ever ask me to take care of it?”
Gale looks at him for a moment, expression turning terribly soft. He puts down his own spoon and reaches across the table. Not touching Astarion’s hand, but nearly.
“You’ve answered your own question,” Gale says. “If sex would be a chore that I’d need to ‘ask you to take care of,’ it’s no skin off my back to avoid it entirely. I’m perfectly satisfied with our current arrangement, I assure you. More than satisfied—overjoyed just to be with you, in whatever form that may take.”
If Astarion were drinking less diluted blood, he knows he would be blushing. “How positively saccharine,” Astarion says, without enough bite to mask the warmth in his voice. “Though that doesn’t change the fact that I keep stopping us right when you’re getting aroused. I would think you had a thing for edging, except the point of that is usually to come eventually.”
“Ah,” says Gale. Clearing his throat, he tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “That’s—well—I’m not opposed to—” Astarion almost laughs “—but you really needn’t worry about me. The spirit truly is content, the flesh simply…responds to you with alacrity, I’m afraid.”
“Indeed,” says Astarion, a little flattered, wishing that was the only thing he felt. He glances away. “And then I keep leaving right when I’ve worked you up, so I don’t understand how the spirit remains content after all that denial.”
When he looks back up, the corner of Gale’s mouth has quirked up in a warm smile. “It’s as I said: if you don’t want sex, then that’s that. I love being your partner,” he says firmly. “As long as you’re happy with what we have, then so am I.”
“…I love being with you too,” Astarion murmurs. “I don’t even hate sex, at least with you.” He rests his hand on top of Gale’s. “I like being close to you.”
“If intimacy is what you want, we needn’t have sex for that,” says Gale. “There’s a whole array of activities at our disposal, is there not? What is it to strike sex from that list, when we can just as easily—”
Astarion makes a frustrated noise. “Yes, I know, all right? Cuddling or what have you is just fine and dandy. But I don’t…”
It takes him a long moment, to figure out how to articulate it. To even understand what he’s trying to say in the first place.
“…I don’t want sex to be another thing that—that was stolen from me,” Astarion admits at last. “I suppose that I appreciate a good orgasm as much as the next person. And I really do love seeing you mindless with pleasure. Even if I’m never the one who craves it, I still want to be able to have sex with you.”
To have the freedom to.
He has to wrench the words from his chest. They leave him almost physically drained, his whole body strung tight as he stares down at the table. Yet they sound small and pathetic, laid out in the cool, bright air of Gale’s kitchen.
Gale’s expression has fallen into something horribly sympathetic. Astarion hates him. Astarion adores him.
“In that case,” Gale says. “Then we can figure it out together. Like we always do.”
Astarion stands. Gale pushes down on the table to steady it when it rocks slightly at the abrupt movement, and only gets as far as a startled “What—” before Astarion is leaning down to kiss him, softly.
The breakthrough comes when they’re reading in Gale’s library. Their library, Gale tries to insist, now that they’re living together, although it really is Gale’s library, packed to the brim with a lifetime’s collection’s worth of books—everything from stuffy academic textbooks to maudlin volumes of poetry to overwrought pretentious fiction of all genres. And, occasionally, some interesting bit of nonfiction, or a rather compelling novel, that Astarion actually enjoys reading.
Astarion is sprawled on the couch beside Gale, leaning back against the armrest with his legs draped over Gale’s lap. He didn’t mean to get invested in this book in particular—he’d just seen the title The One that Got A Thay during their last trip to the bookshop, cackled at it to Gale, and purchased it with the sole intent of tearing it to shreds.
But the book turned out to be surprisingly adequate, all things considered.
“So this is how it ends,” said Vothik coldly, almost to himself. He moved across the room, the lichen-hued torchlight casting shadows over the planes of his pale face. “I suppose it was foolish of me to think that you might have come in useful.”
“Is that really what you think?” demanded Isord. “That I was lying about the garden?”
“You betrayed me,” snapped Vothik. “All of it was a lie. Of course it was. Your amulet—”
Isord clenched his jaw. He flexed his hands in their manacles, weighing his options. Then he said, “Fine. If you don’t believe me, then fine. I’ll take it off.”
Vothik stared at him. Isord lifted his hands to his neck, unclasped the amulet, and kicked it across the dungeon floor.
The air around Isord hummed back to life, free from the sussur flower’s aura. Immediately, Vothik misty stepped into the cell and closed a mage hand around Isord’s throat.
“You fool,” snarled Vothik. “You would discard your last line of protection, locked in an archmage’s dungeon? I could kill you right now.”
“You won’t,” said Isord steadily.
Vothik’s expression twisted. He cast two more mage hands, pinning Isord’s wrists to the wall above his head.
“You fool,” he said again, wretchedly.
Then Vothik leaned in and pressed his mouth to Isord’s.
“Oh, Gale,” says Astarion, grinning. His eyes scan down the page. “Listen to this. ‘Isord’s knees threatened to buckle. He felt lightheaded from the mage hand still squeezing his throat.’ Is this where you get all of your delightfully creative ideas? The mage hands were quite a bit of fun, I simply must remind you to use them again.”
When Astarion looks up, he sees a slight blush suffusing over Gale’s face. Gale lowers his book. “Firstly, I haven’t ever choked you—”
“Pity,” Astarion drawls, which Gale steadfastly ignores.
“—and secondly, not this novel in particular,” Gale says. “But, well, I admit I am…familiar with books of this genre.” His voice is mostly steady—but his blush slowly deepens as he speaks. “All of the arcane-focused erotica tends to share the same broad strokes, no pun intended.”
“Is that so,” says Astarion lightly. “No need to play so coy—you do remember telling me about those kinky little tomes of yours. After fighting off those horrific Shadow-Cursed undead, no less.”
“Right,” says Gale, only the slightest hint of embarrassment coloring his tone.
“So you have a collection of these, then?” Astarion says, gesturing idly with his book. “Which of these shelves houses them all, I wonder? Or do you keep a selection in your bedroom? I suppose that after I leave you all hot and bothered, you shut the door behind me, lie back with some smut, and slip a hand down your trousers?”
Astarion is mostly teasing. Not to say that he doesn’t smirk in satisfaction when Gale does, in fact, swallow roughly.
“…I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Gale says. He ducks his head, his hair falling in a curtain over his face, obscuring his expression. “I simply…I’ve never been so deeply affected by anyone before.”
“Now why do you sound so tortured about it?” Astarion sits up, leans forward, and brushes the hair back from Gale’s face. Gale’s mouth is pressed in a tight line. “Just because I keep getting squeamish doesn’t mean you have to share any of my hang-ups, darling. And besides…” Astarion hesitates, biting his lip. Glancing away, steeling himself, before he meets Gale’s eyes again. “I don’t dislike the thought. Actually, I’m rather intrigued.”
Astarion imagines it: Gale, sprawled supine on his bed, trousers shoved down to his ankles. Perhaps a mage hand or two, holding a book up for him. His real hands occupied, one shoved up beneath his velvet pyjama shirt, the other palming his cock through his underwear. Taking himself to the edge with no one’s touch but his own.
“Yes,” says Astarion, after a long moment. Gale’s blush is creeping down his pretty throat. “Perhaps let’s shelve this conversation for a more opportune occasion, shall we? Far be it for me to keep you from your reading.”
Astarion opens up his own book once more. But even as he continues to read about the necromancer and berserker’s dungeon tryst, he feels Gale’s eyes on him the entire time.