Chapter Text
“Now, suppose that the whole of reality you see before you was little more than a bolt of silk and - Astarion, are you even listening?”
“To every word, darling,” Astarion purred, swirling his wine around in a crystal glass before taking a sip.
He was lounging back on a purple chaise in Gale’s tower - well, their tower now, he supposed - all the while his lover stood across from him wearing those same frustrated lines between his eyebrows. It wasn’t exactly a new look from Gale to Astarion, and so he was relatively unbothered by the whole matter.
Gale, on the other hand, was most assuredly not unbothered.
“You seem to be a tad more focused on your wine,” he pointed out, while Astarion let out a little huff of laughter.
“Well, you could forgive a man for enjoying a drink with a show.”
Such wasn’t exactly an uncommon sight within the living quarters of their tower in Waterdeep.
After surviving the horrors of the last several months - the Nautiloid, the Absolutists, and of course killing Cazador, their companions had generally split into smaller groups and scattered on the wind, often communicating with one another across vast distances using a wide array of methods from letters to magic.
Shadowheart and Lae’zel chose to stay in Baldur’s Gate together, their tensions turning to something strong, even perhaps a little beautiful if Astarion was being completely truthful. Shadowheart had written to announce the egg had hatched and she and Lae’zel were raising their son with all of the freedoms and choices they never had for themselves.
Karlach and Wyll traveled together to Avernus in search of some solution for Karlach’s failing engine - and to apparently hunt down Mizora. Who even knew if they would ever find success.
Minsc returned to the city, and Jaheira to her Harpers, while Halsin disappeared into the wilds and Minthara announced that she’d be leaving for the Underdark, seeing her new mission as the destruction of Lolth worship.
“When the corpse of one false god lies defeated at my feet, the prospect of another feels tempting,” she’d declared.
“She’s more likely to end up as someone’s rug,” Astarion muttered to Gale, who fixed him with a cold look.
Yes, that left Gale and Astarion together, a pair that truly embodied every bit the odd couple reputation they’d earned among their friends and companions. Known to bicker worse than Shadowheart and Lae’zel with very little kissing and making up in between, somehow they’d ended up rather enamored with one another.
Well, Astarion felt it wasn’t his fault. You couldn’t blame him. Gale really was just that easy, you know.
That was what he’d said to Karlach once, while she’d rolled her eyes and asked, “Is that what you really think about him, ‘Starion?”
“Why, yes, of course it is,” he’d answered with a smirk, but Karlach had only shaken her head.
“You’ll attract more flies with honey than vinegar,” Wyll remarked, an arm around Karlach’s waist.
But Astarion didn’t have anything smart to say to that, finishing his wine instead.
Indeed, somewhere along the way, Astarion had gone and started to develop a sort of fondness for the wizard, perhaps even a little affection. Misplaced gratitude, of course, after Gale had decided to insert himself into Astarion’s problems.
But the truth was that no one ever had before.
No gods, no heroes, no great do-gooders like Drizzt Do’Urden seeking to slay the great evil that was Cazador, lurking in Baldur’s Gate. Instead, he’d hidden in plain sight. And Astarion? Well, his captivity, his enslavement, his torture had been much the same.
There had been plenty of opportunity for someone wanting to save him to do so. It just never came, so Astarion had decided it never would.
Then the Nautiloid happened. His first taste of freedom, seized by the horns with no intention of letting go lest he land right back in Cazador’s brutal grip.
Then his being a vampire spawn became known to their companions, though he’d tried to hide it as long as he could, getting by while hunting gnolls, boar, whatever else he could get in the wilds of the Sword Coast.
Gale had been the one to step forward with a solution.
“I say we vanquish Cazador and do away with his foul hold on the people of Baldur’s Gate,” he’d proposed to Astarion one night, the wizard preparing their evening meal as usual while he drank alongside the man.
“Oh? And how do you suppose we do that?” Astarion asked bitterly.
“Even the most accursed creatures have a weakness that may be exploited,” Gale answered, but Astarion had just rolled his eyes.
“If it could be done, I assure you, someone would have by now.”
He hadn’t been willing to hear any argument otherwise for a time, focusing instead on trying to survive.
Of course, Gale had to insert himself into that problem as well.
“It’s not exactly a human blood equivalent,” the wizard explained, “But you may find this draught to be sufficient in soothing the pains of your hunger.”
“Fake blood,” Astarion sneered. “How delightful.”
He drank the imitation blood concoction out of desperation that night, surprised by just how satisfying it truly was. Not exactly the same as a boar’s blood - rather, a little sweeter, a little more delicate.
“I’d offer you my blood, but then I’ve been told I taste quite foul,” Gale had quipped one night, while Astarion only laughed.
“I’ll let you know when I’m feeling that desperate, darling.”
Darling, he’d called Gale, for the first time that night before they were set to approach the Creche.
Perhaps it wasn’t just Gale who had been the easy one.
Indeed, Astarion had truly fallen in love with the wizard, though he’d only ever admit it to one person. And maybe Tara. And a few of their companions, for good measure.
Turns out most anything was possible.
Including forging a domestic life with the wizard he formerly couldn’t stand but was now, well, in love with for better or for worse.
Hmph. Domestic.
The word sounded like a joke when applied to the likes of Astarion, but much like a feral cat, Gale had gone and domesticated him, teaching him the ways of tower living, caring for thousands of books, and the culture of Waterdeep.
And, of course, the basics of the Weave, an ever-favorite of Gale’s to try to impress some knowledge onto Astarion. But then again, it was much easier to apply paint to a crow than a lesson on magical principles to the vampire spawn.
As Gale was learning now.
“Now, supposing that all of reality was merely one bolt of silk of incomprehensible size, then we exist akin to the interlacings of the silk thread. Now the Weave- Astarion. This is important. Pay attention.”
But Astarion was pouring himself another glass of wine, only fixing Gale with an innocent who, me? expression he was sure the wizard couldn’t resist.
Rather, his wizard was growing rather tired of these constant interruptions.
Gale had made it his mission to try to pass on some of his knowledge regarding the inner workings of the weave to Astarion. After all, even the most stubborn of imbeciles could quite easily learn all manner of cantrips so as to improve the comfort of their lives. Why shouldn’t Astarion?
“Because I find all things relating to magic painfully boring,” Astarion had once said by way of explanation, but it was only an excuse.
He had been plenty interested in the inner mechanisms of Gale’s magical experiments when it came to his blood substitute - and of course, his enchanted ring of daywalking.
Cheesy, yes, but it had been the ring Gale used to propose with. And Astarion had laughed at first in utter disbelief, saying “You must be joking.”
They couldn’t stand each other. Why on earth would Gale ever want-
But the hurt in Gale’s eyes hadn’t been hidden from Astarion’s view, tugging on his cold, dead heart. No, that hadn’t been what he wanted, nor what he meant.
Of course he had come to fall in love with Gale - how could he not? But even then, even in the peaks of his joy stemming from slaying Cazador, Astarion could hardly conceptualize the reality that was Gale loving him back.
“Why me?” He’d asked in a much softer, much more vulnerable voice.
“Why shouldn’t it be you?” Gale had answered with his own question.
Astarion wondered if Gale ever regretted that in moments such as this.
“I am paying attention,” Astarion retorted, sipping his wine and lounging back on the loveseat, kicking off his boots and resting his feet against the purple velvet ottoman he’d recently reupholstered, much of Gale’s furniture well-used and in need of a good face-lift. “But this would be far more interesting if you would just move it along to the demonstration, darling.”
Gale scowled.
“Theory is essential for understanding the principles behind the demonstration, you know.”
Astarion waved him off.
“Yes, yes, as you keep telling me.”
And Gale just sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. But Astarion tutted his tongue, taking another sip of wine.
“Careful, darling. You’ll give yourself wrinkles, and then you’ll look like an old man dating an unconscionably young, handsome thing.”
“I wasn’t aware that you were either of those things,” Gale said cooly, while Astarion laughed.
“Oh, where is Tara to call you on your lies,” Astarion crooned. But Tara was sleeping in her nest, far from the cacophony of this magic lesson quickly going wrong.
It wasn’t the first time that Gale had struggled to get through any sort of explanation without Astarion’s sarcasm throwing his plans off track, so perhaps he only did what he did out of some sense of irritation.
He clapped his hands together, calling upon the arcane energy he was able to access within the weave, then uttered the incantation as he thrust his intent into the space directly before Astarion.
“Venia truvane.”
As if emerging from the very fabric of the weave itself, a ghostly, spectral hand appeared exactly where Gale had intended, one which he could manipulate using little more than his mind - and the guidance of his dominant hand.
“Finally you’re getting to- now, what in the sweet hells do you think you’re doing?”
Gale had used the mage hand to swipe the wineglass right out of Astarion’s hand, setting it gingerly on a table just behind the loveseat on which he was reclined.
“Just making sure you’re not distracted. Now, where was I?”
But his elven lover only looked aghast.
“If you’d just asked me, darling-”
“Now, now,” Gale responded, using the mage hand to form a fist with an index finger extended, wagging it back and forth at Astarion, “Let’s not play all innocent. I know you well enough by now.”
“Is that right?” Astarion asked with a roll of his eyes, resting his chin against his hand as he considered the spectral hand.
But Gale was only just getting started, using the hand to gently push Astarion back against the loveseat, stroking under his chin with but a single finger as though he was a cat.
In his own mind, Gale quite often compared Astarion to a cat.
“Now, you’re going to pay attention, and you’re going to learn something by the time I’m through with you,” he declared, stroking down his partner’s chest with the arcane extension of his own hand. He could feel some things, faintly, connected through the weave as he was to this magical hand, and he could feel the firm and broad landscape of Astarion’s chest.
But this was less for his own pleasure, and more a tool of positive reinforcement for his lover.
“Aren’t you forceful,” Astarion smirked, though that smirk was quickly bitten back and lost in a hoarse groan as Gale caught one of those pale little nipples at his lover’s chest between two spectral fingers. Now, this was just as much for the purposes of, well, providing some positive reinforcement as it was a way to ensure that he’d pay attention, but that didn’t mean that this couldn't have been for their own extracurricular enjoyment as well.
And Gale rarely had the opportunity to take charge like this, to bend Astarion to his desires. Rather, he was the one being bent and contorted in every which way, made to voice the most unflattering sounds while his lover crowed his amusem*nt at his sensitivity.
Mountains existed in the gaps between their sexual experience, and Astarion never failed to lord his expertise over the much less experienced Gale. So it was only fair that he took back power wherever he was able.
And for what it was worth, Astarion certainly seemed receptive, arching his back against the greedy touch of the spectral hand and looking up at Gale through half-lidded eyes, an amused smirk at his lips.
“By all means, darling. I remain your captive student,” Astarion purred, though all suavity was lost in an instant, his elven lover visibly biting his lip as that translucent hand switched to teasing his other neglected pale nipple, too tight and near painfully sensitive as the swollen little nub was rolled back and forth between those fingers. But even through this arcane conduit, Gale knew exactly how to stoke that fire burning in his groin, the flame of arousal and desire that otherwise made Astarion an obedient student.
Somewhat.
Because Astarion was nothing if not impatient, reaching down to palm himself through his trousers while the mage hand tormented those delicate little nipples of his, but Gale was swift to put him in his place. He caught that disobedient hand using the spectral extension of his own, showcasing the true might of its arcane strength to Astarion.
“Woefully unfair,” his lover protested, but Gale ignored him.
This time, Astarion knew better than to move from where Gale had left him, a pliant little doll all too eager to be touched and caressed and pleasured. For all the times that he was the one taking the dominant role in their love life, why not Gale for once?
Let Astarion experience what it might be like to soak up pleasure as he deserved.
But Gale didn’t see it that way, palming with the spectral hand at his lover’s groin in a way that was all too dominating, possessive, and greedy. He watched a head of platinum hair fall back against the couch, a broken moan dying between those perfectly plump, pale lips, and he felt the growing presence of his arousal beneath the fabric of his trousers.
It was actually quite satisfying, almost humorous.
Despite Astarion’s airs of rebellion and disobedience, all acts he put on in his flirtations, Gale was in control now, and he was going to take advantage of every minute that he had the vampire spawn under his spell.
“Now, where was I?” Gale asked himself, undoing each button of Astarion’s trousers one by one as he spoke, ignoring the way his lover’s hips bucked against the mage hand. “Now if you suppose that all of reality could be compared to an incredibly massive, impossibly thick bolt of silk cloth, then the weave is the thread which forms up the greater woven fabric. Are you paying attention, Astarion?”
“Yes,” he gasped, fingers digging into the soft cushion of the loveseat, watching with a perplexed sort of arousal as the spectral hand pushed down his trousers and withdrew his half-hard length.
“What was the last thing I said?” Gale asked, experimenting with his control of the hand, those translucent fingers stroking down the sensitive shaft of Astarion’s co*ck, knowing from experience that all it took was just a little teasing to have him standing at attention.
But Astarion just let out a frustrated sound, his eyes screwed tightly shut, legs spread as he let himself be properly undone by Gale and his magic hand.
“All the world’s a bolt of fabric and the Weave - ah - the Weave is the thread,” Astarion snapped, brushing his hair back with one of his hands while the other continued to grip the loveseat cushion, his fingernails scraping against the velvet fabric.
Gale couldn’t help a smile.
Finally, it seemed like he had figured out the correct process by which he might be able to educate his dear lover on the finer details of magic.
“I’m rather impressed, Astarion,” Gale declared, using the mage hand to slowly stroke back up his shaft, translucent thumb stroking along his sensitive swollen glans flushed a delicate rose color and weeping clear beads of precome down the bulbous head. “You were paying attention after all.”
“Gale,” Astarion hissed, baring the full length of his fangs while Gale continued to stroke him to full hardness using only an arcane touch. But he continued on, unbothered.
“Now, when you use cantrips or spells, there is very little need to memorize any given incantation,” he continued, pausing only to enjoy the way Astarion moaned, his hips weakly thrusting up into the spectral hand’s grasp. “Why do you think that might be?”
“You’re just - f*ck, Gale - making it up, I suppose?” Astarion’s frustration was apparent, while Gale continued, unbothered by his distress.
“Not in the least.” He responded evenly, though that hand was nothing if not relentless as he continued to touch Astarion exactly the way he knew his lover to enjoy, delicate against his glans while providing just enough variation in grip along his shaft in long, languid strokes. “Rather, the incantation itself is transmitted directly to the user via the Weave. So the Weave remains not only the thread that binds the whole of reality, but also the conduit through which any practicing user of magic might access such gifts.”
But Astarion only moaned his response, his head having fallen back between the two cushions of the loveseat, chest rising and falling in haggard, wrecked breaths, his body much like a bottle of fermented mead being shaken and shaken and shaken until he was set to explode.
His thighs trembled, quaked, his hips bucking in little aborted jerks against Gale’s spectral touch, all the while his voice rose and died in faint little sounds meant only for his throat and not for anyone else to actually hear.
And Gale had him.
Truly, he was at his lover’s mercy. Simply set to be tormented all the while lectured on as the captive audience he was, a captive audience of one for a man who loved little more than to hear himself talk for minutes at a time, completely uninterrupted.
Well, there was one thing he loved more.
And he was certainly doing that, now, wasn’t he?
“Gale,” Astarion gasped, almost as though it was a warning.
Not that Gale had been mindful of heeding most warnings. No, he was far more the type to decide that any risk was his alone to bear. From taking fragments of the weave into his own hands - and his own body - to falling in love twice with beings who, by all intents and purposes, held the power to do him untold harm.
But then again, there had been harm with Mystra.
With Astarion, Gale knew he didn’t have to throw himself at his feet to know that he was loved, that he was worthy, and that he was an equal.
“Trying to cut our lesson short, are you?” Gale asked, using the spectral hand to squeeze the base of Astarion’s weeping, swollen co*ck, his lover’s frustrated whines falling on deaf ears.
“Would you just get to the point already? ” Astarion hissed, biting his own lip and tasting blood.
“Yes, yes. Where was I?” Gale paused, though not entirely ceasing the way he conducted Astarion’s body for his own pleasure, a single singer stroking up and down the flushed length, standing perfectly at attention and serving to make quite an attractive sight.
He’d never exactly been with a man, not before Astarion, though there certainly had been an interest here and there. Perhaps his initial interest to the vampire spawn came as a result of Gale trying to convince himself that he truly did feel nothing for Mystra, or perhaps it was more to do with Astarion’s continued flirtations, seductions, lingering gazes and touches that seemed perfectly designed to drive him mad with attraction.
In a way, it was. Astarion had pegged his survival on securing a spot beside Gale’s bedroll, desperate for a protector more than he sought an equal ally. After all, he’d never had one before - why shouldn’t he try to trade Cazador for someone else?
Gale couldn’t say he didn’t understand, once he realized Astarion’s motivations. He’d never once faulted him for his choices, either.
They all made impossible choices in order to ensure another day of living.
“Ah, that’s right. Now, I’ve only offered you a simplified explanation of the Weave. Rather, you’ll find that this silk bolt that makes up our reality is the result of the labors of a dozen skilled artisans. Who do you think those artisans might be?” And with Gale’s words, that spectral hand once more wrapped long fingers around that swollen rubescent co*ck, his lover raking both hands through his hair as he arched back against the loveseat.
“f*ck if I know,” Astarion offered in a breathless voice.
“You’re not even going to guess?” There was no hiding the disapproval in Gale’s voice, the implicit threat to just leave Astarion there, co*ck hard and leaking clear beads of precome, but with only his own hand to guide himself to release.
Not even Astarion could resist the rewards of playing his role in this game of theirs, so he wagered a guess, the first thing that came to mind in order to try to please Gale.
“The gods?” He offered in a wrecked voice, though he didn’t see the way Gale’s gaze softened, the way a fond smile found its way to his lip.
“Exactly right,” Gale answered, pleased, impressed, and deciding he’d teased Astarion for long enough. “I suppose you’ve earned your reward now.”
And before Astarion could even say a word, that spectral hand proceeded to take the vampire spawn apart piece by piece, mirroring Gale’s actions, a practiced hand that knew exactly how to touch his lover, exactly what he enjoyed and what made him come.
A languid rhythm of even strokes, up and down with that translucent fist over his hot and wanting co*ck, thumb swiping right over that delicate and sensitive glans that weeped clear precome, all the while he worked the sticky beads of Astarion’s lust down that velvet-soft length.
He knew every inch of Astarion’s body by this point, from the taste of his co*ck to the sensitive skin of his thighs, how he liked to be caressed and kissed and held, how he needed to be touched and sucked and f*cked in order to come just as he deserved.
Gale would never tell him, but as far as he was concerned, Astarion deserved the world.
Even if he was going to tease the man a bit before actually going and giving it to him.
Astarion’s voice was like a pleasant sort of background music, all delicate pitches and breathy moans and sighs, groans like bass muffled behind his fist, all raising in the most delightful crescendo in time with Gale’s control of this spectral hand.
And without another warning, he watched as Astarion’s mouth fell open and he finished right in the fist of the mage hand in three harsh contractions, back near arching entirely off the loveseat before he collapsed into a spent heap upon the cushions, chest shuddering, flagging co*ck stickyand flushed against the thigh of his trousers.
