Transplant Shock: Ch 3/3 Acclimation
See Ch. 1 for Work summary and content tags.
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Gale
Astarion grabbed Gale's wrist and yanked him toward the door.
Gale dug his heels into the floor. "Wait—"
"No." Astarion spun, his eyes wild in the moonlight. "I have been patient. I have been understanding. I have endured your mother's house, our mutual ex's heroic return, and your childhood nemesis's—" A particularly enthusiastic moan filtered through the wall. "—vocal appreciation of Tav's technique. I am done waiting."
Gale caught Astarion's other hand, drawing him close. "I'm asking you to let me give you what you deserve."
"What I deserve is you on your knees as soon as poss—"
"Silk sheets." Gale pressed a kiss to Astarion's knuckles. "I promised you silk sheets and sitting rooms and a life of comfort. Not—" He gestured vaguely at the window, at the moonlit courtyard below. "—rutting in a roadside ditch."
If I can get the damn job, he didn't say. He'd get the job, or do whatever it took, to give Astarion what he deserved.
"We'll find another inn," Gale continued. "Or I can Teleport us back to the tower. The bedroom there has—"
"Fuck the silk sheets."
Gale blinked. "I—what?"
Astarion stepped closer. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face, the gleam in his crimson eyes. "I said fuck the silk sheets, Gale. I don't want comfort right now. I don't want proper." His hand dropped between them, palming himself through his trousers. "I want your ass wrapped around this."
Gale's mouth went dry.
Astarion was hard. Visibly, achingly hard, the outline of his erection straining against the fabric as he stroked himself. Gale's gaze fixed there, his tongue thick and useless, every coherent thought evaporating like morning mist.
"I want to show you something, darling. Well. Two things, really." Astarion's voice dropped to a purr. "The first—" Another stroke, his hips rolling into his own touch. "—is my cock, preferably in the next three minutes. The second..." A bitter smile curved his lips. "Well, the second is for after. If you've got a Teleport in you, then I want you to take us to the garden."
"The—" Gale's brain struggled to reassemble itself. "The garden? Mother's garden?"
"Trust me."
The plea cut through Gale's confusion. Astarion's hand was still moving, his breath coming shorter, and Gale was so aroused he could barely think. Maybe Astarion meant to take him to the barn—he'd been helping with decorations, perhaps he'd arranged something—
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the promise in those claret eyes.
Gale wrapped an arm around Astarion's waist, pulled him flush against his body, struggled to focus through the feeling of them grinding together, and spoke the words.
Reality twisted. His stomach lurched, the familiar gut-wrenching displacement of teleportation magic compressing them through impossible spaces. The inn vanished. Cool night air rushed in to replace it, carrying the scent of turned earth and growing things.
They materialized in the middle of Morena's apothecary garden, moonlight painting the geometric rows of herbs in silver and shadow.
Before Gale could orient himself, Astarion seized his hand and ran, towing Gale in his wake.
Not toward the barn. Toward the dark line of trees at the property's edge, where the manicured beds surrendered to wild forest.
"Astarion—what—where are we—"
Astarion didn't answer as they crashed through the boundary between cultivated and untamed.
The treeline swallowed them.
The moment they crossed into shadow, Astarion spun. His hands found Gale's robes, yanking at ties and clasps eagerly.
"Take it off," Astarion begged. "Now."
The robe fell. Cool air kissed Gale's skin. Astarion's fingers hooked into his waistband and dragged his trousers to his ankles in one smooth motion, and then, a blur of disorienting movement later, Gale was on his elbows and knees in the soft earth, damp loam pressing cool against his palms.
Shoes on, shirt falling around his shoulders, bare ass in the air.
Gods, yes. He shifted his knees further apart and arched his back in invitation, rendered shameless with want.
Astarion shoved his own pants around his ankles and knelt between Gale's spread thighs. Then spit-slicked fingers found his entrance and pushed in.
Gale gasped.
Astarion knew his body like a map he'd memorized by touch. Two fingers, crooked at the exact angle that made stars burst behind Gale's eyes, working him open. Gale's hips bucked back, chasing the pressure, and a moan tore from his throat before he could stop it.
He buried his face in his folded arms to muffle the sound.
A hand fisted in his hair and pulled.
"No." Astarion's voice was rough. "I want to hear you."
The grip was perfect—firm enough to sting and send sparks cascading down Gale's spine. His head arched back, throat bared to the canopy of leaves above, and another moan escaped him, louder this time.
"Good." Astarion's fingers scissored, stretched. "Still with me?"
"Yes—" Gale's voice cracked. "Gods, yes—"
"Your lube trick." The word came out desperate, half-laughed. "Cast it. Now."
The verbal component fell from Gale's lips on instinct, magic surging through him to coat Astarion's cock in slick conjured lubricant. Astarion pressed his wet dick against Gale's hip as he scissored his fingers wider. A longing to be filled, to feel the head of Astarion's cock pop past his rim and push home, drove every other thought from his mind.
"Please," Gale begged. "Please, Astarion, fuck me—"
Astarion inhaled sharply and released the air as a moan. His fingers withdrew, and then the blunt head of his cock was pressing against Gale's entrance. Astarion drove in hard.
The burn was exquisite. Gale's body stretched to accommodate him, not quite ready. The edge of discomfort sharpened every sensation until the pleasure became a blade. He cried out—too loud, didn't care—and Astarion bottomed out with a groan that vibrated through both of them.
Then Astarion draped over his back, a hand on either side of Gale's, and his hips began to roll and snap.
The smell of spring earth filled Gale's lungs with rich loam, crushed grasses, and the petrichor from the evening's dew. Above them, branches swayed in a cool breeze. Beneath his palms, damp soil squelched between his fingers. And behind him, inside him, Astarion fucked him with an abandon that stripped away every civilized pretense.
They'd been so careful for days. Helpful for Morena. Smiling through Hanna's condescension. Managing the spawn, managing expectations, managing the fragile illusion that they were normal, respectable, acceptable.
Here, in the wild dark, none of that mattered.
Astarion's teeth found the back of his neck—no fangs, not yet, but the pressure of a bite meant to hold him still as Astarion pumped his cock in and out of Gale's needy hole. Gale twisted, tilting his head, offering the side of his neck in wordless invitation.
A growl rumbled against his skin. Then sharp points pierced him, and Astarion drank.
The pull of blood leaving his body merged with the thrust of Astarion pounding inside of him. Pleasure and pain braided together until Gale couldn't distinguish one from the other, couldn't tell where he ended and Astarion began. His cock throbbed, untouched, swinging between his thighs with the force of Astarion's thrusts.
His orgasm crashed through him without warning.
Gale came with a shattered cry, spending himself on the forest floor, spilling across dirt and crushed vegetation while Astarion's fangs stayed locked in his throat. The waves rolled on and on, each pulse of blood drawn from his veins extending the pleasure until he was shaking, wrung out, empty.
Astarion's mouth gentled. His tongue swept across the punctures, sealing them, and he rested his chin on Gale's shoulder with a ragged breath.
"Gods." Astarion's voice was wrecked. "You taste so sweet when you come. Like honey and lightning and—" His hips stilled, though Gale could feel him still iron-hard inside. "—I could drink you forever."
Gale's muscles had gone liquid and for once he could find no words to express how he felt. The orgasm had been astonishing in its intensity, leaving his head swimming in a hazy bliss, but he had come so quickly. Too quickly.
But Astarion had not. Gale almost sobbed with gratitude. How had he known? How had he known Gale would want more? He wanted to ask but all he could manage was a mumbling string of I love you's between panting breaths and shivering pulses through his limbs as his ass still clenched around Astarion's cock.
"You're doing so well, darling, now just let up enough that I can move again, okay? Just breathe through it, and I'll give you what you need. That's it." Astarion dropped kisses on the back of his throat, in his hair, between his shoulder blades as Gale summoned the will to slow his breathing.
Astarion stayed panting in his ear and waiting, until Gale felt the clenching muscles in his ass relax again and the faintest hints of that longing return.
Astarion's hand found his and gave two taps against his knuckles.
Gale shifted his hand and tapped back twice. Yes. Don't stop.
Then Astarion started fucking Gale again, and Gale keened in helpless pleasure.
"That's it." The words came hot against Gale's ear. Astarion's thrusts found a new rhythm, slower but deeper, each stroke dragging over that spot inside that made Gale's oversensitive nerves sing. "Do you like me like this, Gale? Without the silk? Without the manners?"
Gale whimpered and rocked his hips backward in answer as Astarion fucked him for long minutes. His cock was stirring again, impossibly, his balls drawing up tight despite having nothing left to give.
"Are we still us in the dirt?" Astarion's voice cracked on the question, vulnerable beneath the filth. "Without the pretty accoutrements?"
"Yes." The word tore out of Gale. "Yes—always—please—"
"Going to be good for me?" Astarion's hand slid from his hair to his jaw, tilting his head back. "Going to come again? You'll be such a good boy, so open and willing for me, won't you?"
Gale sobbed something incoherent.
"Tell me." Astarion's hips snapped harder. "Are you going to be good?"
"Yes—" Gale was babbling now, the word falling from his lips on every breath. "Yes, yes, yes—"
The second orgasm hit him mid-word, seizing every muscle, his whole body convulsing around Astarion's cock. Barely a dribble left to spend, but the release rolled through him anyway—full-body, devastating, a wave that crested and crashed and left him wrecked in the best way.
Astarion drove in one final time and came with a broken moan, filling Gale with pulsing heat. He collapsed forward, draping over Gale's back, his weight pressing his wizard down into the cool earth.
They lay there, tangled and trembling, faces pressed to soil and leaves.
Gale's cheek rested against the ground. His breath came in ragged gasps. Somewhere above them, an owl called into the darkness.
Astarion's lips found the bite mark on his neck, pressing a tender kiss to the healing punctures.
Astarion pulled out with a slick sound. Gale hissed as his oversensitive body protested the sudden emptiness.
"Still with me?" Astarion's hand found his hip, steadying.
"Mmph." Gale's eloquence had apparently fled along with his higher brain functions. "Yes. Just—give me a moment."
"Here you go, darling." Astarion had retrieved his robe, spreading it next to him so Gale could collapse without pressing his thoroughly used backside into the mud. The thoughtfulness of the gesture, even now, made warmth bloom in Gale's chest.
He rolled onto his back with a groan, staring up at the canopy of leaves overhead. His limbs felt boneless. His mind floated somewhere pleasantly distant from his body.
"Right." He lifted a hand, summoning the will to cast. "Cleanup. Let me just—"
"Wait." Astarion caught his wrist. "Not yet."
Gale turned his head, squinting through the darkness. He could barely make out Astarion's silhouette. His pale hair caught what little moonlight filtered through the branches, the rest of him lost to shadow. "What?"
"Dancing Lights first." Astarion's tone was odd. Nervous, almost. "You can't see what I want to show you otherwise."
"There's more?"
"I did say two things, darling. You've had my cock. Now comes the second reveal. Such as it is."
Gale's brow furrowed, but he spoke the incantation. Four globes of soft golden light bloomed into existence, drifting upward to hover among the branches like captured fireflies.
The illumination revealed the full extent of their debauchery.
Astarion sat on a corner of Gale's robe, trousers bunched around his ankles above his shoes, his silk shirt hanging open and smeared with dirt. His softening cock glistened wet in the magical light. Mud streaked his knees, his palms, his brow where he must have tried to wipe away sweat.
Gale suspected he looked worse. His own trousers had tangled around his ankles, his shirtsleeves were absolutely caked in dirt, and spend cooled on his thighs and stomach. When he touched his face, grit scraped against his cheek.
They were filthy.
Astarion's lips twitched. "Quite a picture we make." He rose on unsteady legs, pulling up his pants over muddy knees and tucking himself away. "Come. It's just over here."
He extended a hand. Gale took it, letting Astarion haul him upright and pull his trousers up. His legs wobbled.
Astarion led him a little deeper into the wild tangle of the property's edge, where a collapsed stone wall had surrendered to creeping ivy. The dancing lights bobbed along overhead, casting shifting shadows through the undergrowth.
Then Astarion stopped, and Gale saw it.
A small hollow of disturbed earth, partially sheltered by overhanging branches. Neat rows of plants—no, not neat, but arranged. Deliberately placed in the soft soil, their roots carefully buried, their leaves reaching toward the gap in the canopy where sun would find them.
Purslane. Chickweed. Dandelion. Clover.
The weeds from Morena's garden.
"I know." Astarion's voice had gone wry, self-deprecating. "It's absurd. I've gone completely cracked in the brain, and I thought you should know before you commit to eternity with a lunatic who rescues weeds."
Gale said nothing. He couldn't. His throat had closed around something too large for words.
"I just—" Astarion crouched beside the little garden, running a finger along a dandelion's serrated leaf. "They'd fought so hard to live, hadn't they? No one planted them. No one watered them or nurtured them. They found their way on their own, grew despite everything, and then..." He gestured vaguely. "Pulled up because they weren't wanted. Tossed in a heap to rot."
The dancing lights caught the sharp angles of his face. The vulnerability there, for once unmasked.
"I know gardens need weeding. I understand the principle. I've killed people and fretted less over it afterward than I did while pulling up a few plants." A harsh laugh. "But I couldn't stop myself. It had been nagging at me all afternoon, and then Dal and Aurelia arrived early and everything felt—" He shook his head. "Crowded. Complicated. And I kept thinking about the fucking weeds."
He stood and shrugged elaborately.
"So here they are. Evidence of my deteriorating mental state." Astarion’s smile didn't reach his eyes. "In the interests of full disclosure to my affianced, before he binds himself to me forever."
The midnight bath. Understanding clicked into place. "You scrubbed off before coming back to bed last night in the attic."
"Obviously. I wasn't going to track half the compost heap into your sheets."
Gale studied him. The defensive set of his shoulders, the careful blankness of his expression. Astarion wasn't bracing for rejection. They'd been through too much together to think Gale would toss him aside for this. But he was waiting for something. Concern, perhaps. A gentle suggestion that this was an issue to discuss with a healer.
Instead, Gale took Astarion's filthy hand in his own equally filthy one.
"Dandelion," he said, pointing. "The leaves are a digestive tonic. The roots can be roasted into a passable coffee substitute, and the flowers make an excellent wine."
Astarion's brow creased. "What—"
"Chickweed." Gale indicated the delicate white-flowered plant nearby. "Topical poultice for skin irritations, internal remedy for inflammation. Also quite tasty in salads, if you're the sort who eats salads."
"Gale—"
"Purslane." Gale bent to touch a thick, succulent leaf. "Highest levels of heart healthy oils of any leafy vegetable. The Calishite cooks prize it. And this—" He brushed a clover blossom. "Blood purifier, respiratory aid, and the honey bees adore it."
Astarion had gone very still.
"These plants aren't weeds by nature," Gale continued. "They're weeds by context. In mother's garden, they're unwanted not because they're inferior, but because they're stronger. Her tomatoes and basil can't compete. They need sheltering, protecting, constant intervention to yield their returns." He met Astarion's eyes. "The flaw isn't in the dandelions. It's in the other plants that can't survive without coddling."
Astarion frowned. "Oh. I didn't know any of that, though, when I perpetrated this lunacy. It was just…this feeling. A foolish fellow-feeling, I suppose."
Gale blinked back tears at the thought of Astarion's quiet pain in the darkness, his rescue trip while Gale slept, oblivious to his distress.
"You're not a weed in the context of our family, Astarion." Gale squeezed his hand. "Your resilience, your defiance, the sheer bloody-minded determination that kept you alive for two centuries—those are what I love most about you. I'm not ashamed of your history. I'm proud of it. Proud that you survived. Proud that you're here, choosing me, despite everything that tried to destroy you."
Astarion's throat worked, and Gale used their linked hands to pull him closer and wrap an arm around his waist.
"You belong," Gale said firmly. "To me, with me. And those you want to make part of our family—they belong too. Their strength isn't a flaw either." He lifted Astarion's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the muddy knuckles. "And neither is your empathy."
"Empathy." Astarion quirked a dubious eyebrow. "Is that what this is?"
"What else would you call it?"
A long pause. Then Astarion sighed, the tension draining from his shoulders, and leaned into Gale's side. "It's a bit awkward, isn't it? That my seedling empathy has apparently developed around purslane and dandelions rather than, say, my sisters."
Displacement, Gale thought, but for once he resisted the urge to lecture. "Growth starts somewhere."
"Yours is rather further along." Astarion's voice softened. "The rings for Dal and Aurelia. You anticipated that of course they'd want the sun too, without anyone having to ask. That's not seedling empathy. That's fully grown."
The words were meant as kindness. Gale knew that. But all he could focus on was the fact that the rings weren't ready. Weren't finished. Because he'd failed to—
"While we're confessing things," he heard himself say.
Astarion tilted his head.
"The reason the rings weren't done on time." Gale closed his eyes to force the words out without meeting Astarion's gaze. "I didn't have the coin to pay going rates for the components. Moonstone of that quality, silver thread with the right conductivity—it's not cheap. Tara's been bargain hunting for weeks. Selling off some trinkets from our adventures to cover the difference."
Shame heated Gale’s cheeks. He pressed on anyway and forced his eyes open again.
"If I'd secured the Blackstaff position already, the hiring bonus alone would have… I could have claimed research funds for the initial experimentation, justified the expense as academic inquiry, and—"
"Wait." Astarion pulled back, frowning. "Is that what this is about?"
"What is what about?"
"Blackstaff. The professorship. The entire—" He waved a hand. "—production. Is it about money?"
Gale struggled for the words to explain.
"I promised you curtains and sitting rooms and silk sheets," he managed. "A life of comfort. I mean to deliver on that promise, but the tower renovations drained our adventure funds faster than I'd anticipated, and I couldn't work while I was researching, and the enchanting supplies, and—"
"Gale." Astarion held up a hand. "Stop. Just—stop."
Gale stopped.
"You just finished telling me I don't need coddling." Astarion's tone had gone flat. "That you admire my strength. And yet you've been—what, exactly? Scrambling for a prestigious position to keep me in style?"
"I promised—"
"If we needed money, I could have gotten it a dozen ways. Theft, grift, mercenary work, selling information to the right people. Maybe a bit of tailoring work, if you insisted on legitimate employment." Astarion ticked options off on his fingers. "I've been lazing about while you did all the experimentation, assuming you were enjoying yourself, not realizing you were—" He broke off, running a hand through his hair. "Gods. How was I supposed to know? You never said."
"I didn't want you to worry—"
"And I thought you had some mad wizardly pile of gold squirreled away! The way you spent on magical components, on new clothes, on—" Astarion gestured at nothing in particular. "I assumed the Dekarios coffers were bottomless!"
"They're not." Gale's voice came out small. "Quite bottomless. There's rather a defined bottom, actually. Approaching visibility."
Silence stretched between them.
"I didn't agree to marry a golden goose, Gale." Astarion's voice softened. "I'm marrying a man who'll let me fuck him silly in the mud and whom I trust enough to show my secret garden of rescued weeds. A man who'll make a family with me. Who'll accept me—weediness and all—and have my back, and protect my right to choose."
He reached out, cupping Gale's mud-streaked cheek.
"That's you. It's always been you. Since our first kiss, I knew. The silk sheets were nice. The curtains were appreciated. But they were never the point."
Gale's eyes stung again. He blinked rapidly.
"I—" His voice cracked. "I thought—"
"I know what you thought. You thought you had to earn me. I told you once that I did not know how to be with someone who didn’t want to use me. Do not make me figure out how to be with someone who only wants to be used." Astarion smiled, crooked and fond.
Gale laughed. It came out wet.
"Is Blackstaff all about the money?" Astarion asked. "Your plan to fund my lifestyle? Because you know you could make more wizarding for hire. We could both make plenty adventuring again if it suited us. We don't need institutional prestige to survive."
Gale opened his mouth to protest, to explain, to justify—and found he had nothing.
"Do you actually want Blackstaff? For yourself, not for my benefit?" Astarion waited as Gale turned it over in his mind, examining it from angles he'd avoided for months.
"I don't know," he admitted. "It was my dream once. When I was the boy in the attic, surrounded by star charts and ambition. Blackstaff seemed like the pinnacle of everything I wanted to become."
"And then?"
"And then my ambitions ran in... loftier directions."
They exchanged a loaded glance. Neither of them said Mystra.
"Now..." Gale shook his head. "It seemed like the right-sized ambition? A return to what that boy wanted before everything went spectacularly pear-shaped. Safe. Respectable. Achievable. Prosperous."
"Those are not the same as wanted."
"No." Gale exhaled. "They're not."
Astarion's thumb stroked along his cheekbone, smearing dirt. "If it's what you want—truly want—we'll make it happen. If Hanna hasn't already given up her plot as a lost cause, we'll all rally. We'll scheme. We'll destroy her socially if necessary; you know how much I'd enjoy that."
Gale snorted.
"But if it's not what you want..." Astarion's voice gentled. "I didn't fall for 'Gale, Blackstaff Professor.' I didn't fall for 'Gale, Chosen of Mystra.' I fell for the disaster wizard who showed up with kindness and improbably good sex and the worst self-preservation instincts I've ever witnessed."
"Improbably good?"
"Don't fish for compliments; it's unbecoming." But Astarion was smiling. "My point is—I'm not sitting around waiting for you to achieve some milestone before I can be happy. I'm happy now. I chose you when you still had a bomb in your chest. I'm glad our circumstances have improved since then. But I'd have you just as you were then. You must know that."
The words sank in slowly, filling cracks Gale hadn't realized existed.
"I want to think about it," he said finally. "Blackstaff. What I actually want versus what I think I should want."
"Take all the time you need."
"And we should talk more. About what kind of life we want together. Openly." Gale gestured at the weed garden, at their disheveled state, at the absurdity of the entire evening. "Teenage wank stashes and midnight weed gardens aside, these seem like the sort of things fiancés should discuss before committing to eternity."
"Agreed." Astarion leaned in, pressing their foreheads together. "Full disclosure. No more hiding. Even the embarrassing bits."
"Especially the embarrassing bits."
Their lips met. The kiss was soft, and Gale melted into it—
—and then pulled back, sputtering.
"Ugh. That's a lot of mud," Astarion spat.
Gale laughed, wiping his mouth with the back of an equally muddy hand, which accomplished nothing useful whatsoever. "Can I please clean us up now?"
"You may." Astarion stepped back to give Gale room to work. "But I don't want to go back to the inn."
"No?"
"The walls are thin, Tav's stamina, as we both have cause to know, is legendary, and I refuse to spend the rest of my night listening to Hanna Kumar's sex sounds." Astarion wrinkled his nose. "Besides—you conjured a bed out of nothing once. In the middle of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, with darkness pressing in on all sides and undead lurking in every shadow."
Gale remembered. An act of romance in the darkest of days.
"Could you do it again? Here? It would be romantic, don't you think?"
Gale looked around. The wild hollow, untamed and unmanicured. The little garden of rescued weeds. The canopy of stars visible through gaps in the branches above. The dancing lights still bobbing among the leaves like patient guardians.
"It would," he agreed.
The Prestidigitation came first—a whispered word, a gesture, and the mud and sweat and other fluids vanished from their skin and clothes. The relief was immediate. Astarion sighed as the grime disappeared. He primped his curls back into place with clean hands.
Then Gale reached deeper, pulling on threads of creation magic that hummed beneath the surface of reality and guided them to snap around the clarity of his internal vision. The bed materialized. A proper mattress, thick and yielding, covered in layers of soft blankets. Pillows plumped into being at the head. The frame grew around it, simple wrought iron that gleamed in the magical light.
Astarion's breath caught.
"Not silk sheets," Gale said. "Since that seems to have become an unfortunate symbol of our misunderstandings. But comfortable enough for one night under the stars."
"It's perfect."
They fetched Gale's robe from where it had been left at the site of their tryst, and Gale cleaned it as well. They undressed, piled all their belongings at the foot of the bed, and climbed in together. Gale dismissed the dancing lights with a thought. Darkness rushed in, softened by the moonlight filtering through the leaves.
Astarion's head found his shoulder. The night sounds of the wild wrapped around them—rustling leaves, distant owls, the whisper of wind through branches. Cool fingers interlaced with his own.
They held on tightly.
Gale
For the second morning in a row, Gale woke with Astarion in his arms.
This time, though, the crimson eyes were already open. Watching him.
"Good morning, darling." Astarion's smile was soft in the early light. "You drool in your sleep. Did you know that?"
Gale's hand flew to his cheek, found it dry, and narrowed his eyes at the quiet laughter that followed.
"Cruel," he muttered. "Waking a man with lies."
"I'm waking you with kisses." Astarion leaned in to prove it, his lips cool and unhurried against Gale's sleep-warm mouth. "The teasing is merely a bonus taste of my inimitable humor."
The top layer of blankets were damp with morning dew, but beneath them the conjured bed remained warm and dry. Sunlight filtered through the branches overhead, dappling Astarion's pale skin in shifting patterns of gold and shadow.
Something stirred against Gale's thigh. Not subtle.
"I see you've brought a guest to our morning conversation," Gale murmured against Astarion's lips.
"I've been waiting very patiently for you to wake up." Astarion rolled his hips in lazy demonstration. "Reward my consideration?"
They shifted onto their sides, facing each other. Gale whispered the incantation for conjured slick, and Astarion used his hand to press their cocks tightly together, sliding his hand up and down their joined lengths in long, unhurried strokes.
The sunlight caught Astarion's silver curls and turned his pale skin luminous. And the sight of it reminded Gale of Dal's demands the night before. The cure. The question of whether he should have offered one without being asked.
His thoughts must have shown on his face.
"Out with it." Astarion's hand never stopped its rhythm. "What's occupying that magnificent brain of yours that isn't our cocks on this very fine morning?"
"Nothing. It can wait until—"
The grip loosened to something teasing. Maddening.
"Astarion—"
"I can do this all day, darling." The stroking slowed further. "Talk to me."
Gale groaned. "It's about the cure. Dal's question. Whether I should have asked you, instead of waiting for you to—"
The grip tightened again, rewarding.
"No." Astarion's voice was certain, his hand moving with renewed purpose. "You shouldn't have."
"But—"
"I don't know what I want." The words came out uneven as their pleasure built. "That's the honest answer. Maybe one day I'll... think of it the way Dal does. Want what she wants. But right now—" He gasped for breath to finish his thought. "—right now I don't."
Gale's hips rolled into Astarion's grasp. He used a knee to make a gap between Astarion's thighs and reached past his balls to massage Astarion's taint. Astarion moaned in pleasure but managed to keep talking.
"What you said last night," Astarion continued, his rhythm growing ragged, "about my vampirism being part of me. About not wanting to change me without my... my consent." A small laugh. "Gods, if you'd asked before I sorted through all this weed business, I might have said yes. Trying to be a perfect rose instead of a—a dandelion. And then I'd have regretted it once I actually—fuck—once I actually worked through my feelings."
They were both close now. Gale could feel it in the tension of Astarion's thighs, in how his balls drew up tight against his wrist.
"I love your body," Gale gasped, "exactly as it is. The coolness of your skin. The strength. Your bite—" He lost the thought as pleasure crested. "But I'll love you however you choose to be. I swear it."
Astarion's hand flew, and they tumbled over the edge together—spilling over pale fingers, onto conjured sheets, gasping into the morning air.
For a long moment, they lay tangled and breathless.
Then Astarion raised his head and grimaced at the state of the blankets.
"We have an entire day of work ahead of us," he said. "And I refuse to face it without a proper bath."
Gale laughed, gathered their damp belongings from the foot of the bed, and Teleported them directly from the conjured bed into the real one at the Darling Dahlia.
The copper tub, it turned out, was exactly large enough for two.
***
The rest of Thirdday passed in a blur of arrivals and shared work.
Their friends descended on the Dahlia and the homestead in groups. Karlach arrived first, bursting through the barn doors with Wyll at her side and immediately demanding someone hand her something heavy to lift. At the end of their adventures, Wyll had chosen to accompany Karlach to the hells rather than stay with Tav, whose interests continued to wander where Karlach's did not.
Dammon's genius and Avernus's own blueprints had finally yielded a functioning repair a month ago, allowing Wyll and Karlach to return to the Gate and make a home together there. The infernal scars on her chest no longer vented smoke.
Gale was glad his friends got what they wanted.
Karlach swept Gale into a hug that threatened to crack his ribs and declared the engagement "the best news since I punched Zariel in her smug face."
Wyll, well loved and visibly lighter for it, shook Gale's hand before being dragged away by Karlach to help hang lanterns.
Jaheira arrived from Baldur's Gate with Dammon, Barcus Wroot, and Minsc in tow. She surveyed the half-decorated barn with a critical eye.
"You require someone to coordinate," she announced, not asking. "As a very special engagement gift, I will coordinate. You two are looking very well together. Do it over there, please."
And so Gale and Astarion, having been relegated to the sidelines, spent their time in the kitchens with Morena and Tara.
The most dramatic arrival came at midday, when a red dragon landed in Morena's front yard and deposited Lae'zel and Shadowheart—Gale mostly thought of her as Jen now—before launching back into the sky with a roar that summoned Gale and Astarion to greet their newest guests.
"Voss sends his regards," Lae'zel announced, striding toward the house with her hand resting on her sword hilt as though she expected the engagement party to require tactical intervention. "The war against Vlaakith proceeds well. I have three days before I am needed."
Jen followed at a more measured pace, her white-dyed braid swinging against Selunite robes. She caught Gale's eye and smiled—a rare, genuine expression that transformed her sharp features.
"She's been counting the days," Jen murmured as she passed. "Don't tell her I told you."
Halsin arrived last, portaling from the former Shadow-Cursed lands with the Hallowleafs, Dame Aylin, and Isobel.
"Your mother's gardens are exceptional," Halsin told Gale, genuine admiration in his voice. "The biodiversity of her compost heap alone—"
"Please don't talk to Astarion about the compost heap," Gale interrupted. "It's a sensitive subject."
Halsin's brow furrowed, but he nodded agreeably and went to help with the final tidying of the gardens and arranging of bouquets and wreaths.
Through it all, Hanna Kumar drifted at the edges. The previous night's events had clearly rattled her. She kept glancing toward Tav with an expression caught somewhere between mortification and reluctant interest. Her usual pointed observations emerged blunted, distracted, until Madam Kumar arrived to lend her own hands to the preparations, and the remaining fight went out of Hanna.
Gale supposed he'd get his professorship, if he still wanted it.
By evening, the barn had transformed. Fairy-fire lanterns cast shifting rainbow light across polished floors. Tables lined the walls, waiting for tomorrow's feast. The stage stood ready for music, for speeches, and for whatever chaos the night would bring.
At the Darling Dahlia, their whole party took over the taproom. Dal was caught in conversation with Halsin about the medicinal properties of Underdark fungi, unable to escape his genuine interest long enough to poke at Astarion, much to Gale's relief.
Then Aurelia took the stage.
The first notes from her lute silenced the room. When her voice joined in—a rich alto that seemed too large for her slight frame—everyone stopped their conversations to listen.
She played for an hour. Old ballads, silly drinking songs, a haunting melody in Chondathan that made several patrons weep into their ale. The applause, when it finally came, was thunderous.
Later, when the party began to disperse toward their rooms, Gale caught Astarion's eye. A silent question.
Astarion glanced toward their suite, where the thin walls would transmit every sound from the neighboring rooms. Tav was already steering Hanna toward the stairs with unmistakable intent.
"The barn," Astarion said flatly.
They slipped away into the night.
"I suppose," Gale said as they climbed the ladder to the hayloft, "You're angling for a 'roll in the hay.'"
"I will push you off this ladder."
Gale was undeterred and continued to pun aggressively just to aggravate Astarion and make him laugh until he rode Gale's cock like a temple dancer and Gale could pun no longer.
Afterward, picking straw from his hair while Astarion adjusted his rumpled clothing, Gale reflected that perhaps silk sheets were overrated after all.
***
Fourthday dawned bright and warm.
Gale spent most of it in Morena's kitchen, sliding prepared dishes into ovens, dressing salads, and conducting the final symphony of culinary logistics that would feed all their guests. His friends wandered in and out—stealing bites, offering commentary, getting underfoot in ways that somehow made the work lighter.
As sunset approached, the kitchen emptied. The guests who had spent the day in the Dahlia's taproom, or who were arriving from Waterdeep, made their way to the barn. Dal and Aurelia arrived shortly after true darkness fell.
And the party began.
The tables groaned under tureens of soups, platters of roasted pheasant, three kinds of bread with herbed butter, salads dressed in Morena's signature vinaigrette, and enough pie to feed a small army. The fairy lights shifted their color to suit the mood of the songs the band played in the background.
Gale surveyed his domain with deep satisfaction from his chosen vantage to the side of the stage.
"You're preening," Astarion murmured at his elbow, a goblet of warmed pig's blood cradled in one elegant hand.
"I'm savoring the fruits of our labor." Gale gestured toward the tables packed with guests. "Look at them. Happy. Well-fed. Celebrating us."
"Well, who can blame them? We're a couple for the ages, darling."
Across the barn, Halsin had cornered Dal near the punch bowl, standing close enough that Dal had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Gale wondered if his former adventuring companions just had an instinct for bedding troublemakers, or if they were choosing their targets deliberately, to keep them out of Gale and Astarion's hair.
"She's behaving," Astarion observed, following Gale's gaze.
"Suspiciously so."
"She wants the ring." Astarion's tone was matter-of-fact. "She'll maintain this veneer of civility until you hand it over, and then she'll launch her campaign to push you toward archmage status so you can cure us properly."
"You think so?"
"I know so." Astarion took a sip of his blood. "She's patient. She's strategic. And she's absolutely certain she knows what's best for everyone."
Gale considered this. "I do plan to continue advancing my magical skills. On my own timeline."
"I know."
"And if that timeline happens to align with what Dal wants—"
"Then she'll claim credit, and you'll let her, because you're irritatingly magnanimous." Astarion's shoulder brushed against his.
"As long as you know your choice is your own, I can manage Dal's machinations. The sunlight might soften her. Given time."
"Optimist," Astarion said fondly.
"Realist. She's spent centuries in darkness. The warmth will work on her whether she wants it to or not."
Before Astarion could respond, a familiar figure approached through the crowd.
Hanna Kumar had dressed for the occasion in severe navy robes, her Blackstaff pin prominently displayed. Her hair was pulled back with its usual precision, but something in her bearing had shifted since the previous night. Less certainty. More caution.
"Gale." She stopped before them, her gaze flicking briefly to where her mother sat beside Morena, before settling on Gale with determined focus. "Might I have a word?"
"Of course, Hanna." Gale smiled—genuinely, without effort. "What can I do for you?"
She straightened, adjusting her lapel pin in that familiar, reflexive gesture. "I wanted to inform you that I've decided to recommend your application for approval at the next committee meeting. Given your... unique experiences and the potential value of your research to the Academy, I believe the institution would benefit from your expertise."
The words emerged stilted, rehearsed. She was waiting for something. Gratitude, probably. The acknowledgment of her power to grant or withhold this prize.
Six months ago—six days ago—Gale would have given it to her. He would have smiled too widely, thanked her too effusively, promised to be a credit to the Academy. He would have let her feel magnanimous in her mercy.
But Hanna had missed her moment.
"That's very kind of you, Hanna." He met Astarion's eyes rather than hers and found nothing but support in them before he turned back to Hanna. "But I'm afraid I'll be formally deferring my application."
Hanna blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Deferring. Withdrawing it from consideration, at least for now." Gale gestured vaguely with his wine glass. "I've realized my current research demands my full attention. Private commissions, independent study, that sort of thing. The institutional constraints of Blackstaff just aren't a good fit for me at this stage of my career."
Hanna's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "But the position—the prestige—you've been pursuing this for months—"
"I have." Gale nodded agreeably. "And I've reconsidered. Priorities shift. I'm sure you understand."
She didn't understand. That much was plain from the way her hand kept reaching for her pin, adjusting something that didn't need adjusting. All her careful maneuvering, her bureaucratic leverage, her plans to make Gale grovel for approval—none of it mattered if he simply declined to play.
"I... see." Hanna's voice had gone thin. "Well. If you change your mind—"
"I'll be sure to reapply through the proper channels." Gale's smile never wavered. "Do enjoy the party, Hanna. The blackberry tart is exceptional, if Karlach hasn't finished it."
He turned away and took Astarion’s goblet from his hand, placing it on a nearby table. Then he settled one hand at the small of Astarion's back and guided them both toward the dance floor.
The band shifted into something slower, and Gale pulled Astarion onto the floor. Other couples made space—Wyll and Karlach, Lae'zel and Jen, Isobel and Aylin. Morena watched from the refreshment table with Tara perched on her shoulder, both of them wearing identical expressions of smug satisfaction.
"You really don't want the professorship?" Astarion asked as they moved together. "You're not just... performing indifference to spite her?"
"I really don't want it. Not right now." Gale spun them past Halsin, who was now teaching Dal some sort of wood-elf folk dance with more enthusiasm than grace. Dal seemed charmed. "I want to research at my own pace. Perhaps pursue work we can do together. I think we make a remarkable team, and I think I'd rather spend my days with you than in a classroom. At least for the next bit."
"How terribly romantic."
"I thought so."
The music swelled, and Astarion let himself be dipped to scattered applause from their friends.
When the song ended, the hired band announced a short break. Before the silence could settle, Aurelia climbed onto the stage with her lute.
The first notes rippled through the barn, and conversations died mid-sentence. Her voice rose—that impossible alto—weaving through a ballad about lovers separated by war and reunited by starlight.
Gale watched his guests fall under her spell. Even Dal had stopped lecturing Halsin, her rigid posture softening almost imperceptibly as her spawn-sister sang.
By the third song, Cal and Lia had moved to the edge of the stage, conferring with Rolan in low voices. When Aurelia finished—to applause that shook the rafters—they approached her with obvious intent.
"They're offering her a job. Bard in residence at the Darling Dahlia," Astarion murmured. At Gale's raised eyebrows, he clarified "Vampire hearing."
Gale studied his fiancé. "How do you feel about that? Having her here in Waterdeep?"
Astarion considered. Aurelia was nodding at whatever Cal was saying, her red eyes wider than Gale had ever seen them.
"Relieved, actually." Astarion's voice was thoughtful. "Aurelia needs... someone to follow. She's the eldest surviving spawn, you know." Gale had not known. "She was Cazador's long enough that I'm not sure she knows who she is without someone telling her. It's not healthy, but it's where she is. And if she's going to attach herself to a strong personality regardless, I'd rather it not be Dal. Cal, Lia, and—apologies, darling but it's inevitable with the proximity—your mother will be much better for her."
"Mother will fuss over her constantly."
"Morena will teach her to follow her passions as she taught you to follow yours." Astarion's lips twitched. "It's not freedom, but it might be the next step before freedom. A gentler master while she learns she doesn't need one."
Across the barn, Aurelia was shaking Cal's hand with visible confusion and growing enthusiasm. Morena had already descended on the group, no doubt offering opinions about repertoire and performance schedules.
The band returned, launching into something lively that sent guests flooding back onto the dance floor. Gale caught Tav's eye across the room—they were leaning against a support beam, watching Hanna fumble through small talk with Jaheira, looking quietly pleased with themselves.
"One more dance?" Gale said, extending his hand.
Astarion took his hand. "As many as you'd like, my darling."
The fairy-fire lanterns shifted to gold as the music swelled, painting everything in warm, celebratory light. Their friends spun around them—this chaotic garden of family and former rivals and complicated siblings, all the weeds and flowers tangled together in something that shouldn't work but somehow did.
Gale pulled Astarion closer.
"I plan to abuse the privilege."
Astarion - Epilogue
The tent canvas rippled in the evening wind as Astarion sank down, inch by burning inch, onto Gale's cock.
His eyes fell closed. His head tipped back. His mouth dropped open as he breathed through the stretch—slow, hissing inhales that did little to prepare him for the relentless pressure splitting him apart.
He was certain the expression on his face was hardly flattering. Probably something between constipation and religious ecstasy. But he wasn't going to do anything about it, because right now he was rather occupied being impaled on his husband's frankly unreasonable cock, and because he'd learned—through months of patient repetition—that what Gale needed from him wasn't polish.
It was the opposite.
Gale needed to be shown, over and over, that Astarion wanted him so much that he couldn't put on a show. That the pleasure was too all-consuming for performance. That every contortion of his features was genuine and involuntary and real.
Which was true. So Astarion let his overwhelm reshape his face however it wanted.
His thighs burned. His hole stretched wider than should be comfortable. The head of Gale's cock pressed against places inside him that forced his hips to stutter. Astarion breathed and bore down through it, sinking lower, feeling gravity do most of the work as his body slowly, reluctantly yielded.
Eventually—finally—his ass met Gale's hip bones. His balls, already slick with a rivulet of precum, touched Gale's groin. He settled his full weight down and let out a shuddering exhale as his eyes fluttered open to the peaked canvas above.
The tent was modest. They'd set up camp in a sheltered hollow between two hills. But it was theirs, and it was warm, and it contained his husband's cock currently reshaping his insides, so Astarion had no complaints.
Beneath him, Gale was panting hard. His hands gripped Astarion's hips with white-knuckled intensity, clearly resisting every instinct to thrust. Even so, he managed the check-in—two quick taps against Astarion's hip bones.
Ready?
"Not yet," Astarion murmured. "Give me a moment."
He needed the pause. Needed his body to stop tightening quite so desperately around the intrusion, needed the sting to fade into something closer to pleasure. Gale was—well. Generously proportioned was the polite term. Hung like a centaur was what Astarion usually said when he wanted to watch Gale turn interesting colors.
He tipped his head forward to look down at his husband.
Gale's hair was in spectacular disarray from Astarion's pawing earlier—he'd spent a good twenty minutes just running his fingers through those chestnut waves while Gale opened him up with patient, slicked fingers. Now it spread in a wild tangle across the bedroll, catching the faint glow of the magical lights Gale had conjured in the tent's corners.
They'd layered two bedrolls beneath them, but the ground was still hard under Astarion's knees.
Astarion tried for a sultry smirk but ended up biting his lip as his ass spasmed around the hot, thick length of Gale's cock. The movement sent a fresh wave of too much and not enough warring through his nerve endings.
"You know," he managed, breathless, "taking your magnificent cock is quite the challenge. I really ought to get an award for it."
Gale blinked up at him, pupils blown wide and face flushed. His brain was clearly too overwhelmed with desire to process the setup. "An... award?"
"Mm. For my efforts." Astarion shifted his weight experimentally, savoring the way Gale's breath caught. "I'm very lucky, you see, that there is an award."
"There is?"
"Of course." Astarion clenched deliberately this time, watching Gale's eyes roll back. "The award is having your magnificent cock in my ass."
The laugh that punched out of Gale was half groan. "That was terrible."
"You love me."
"I do." Gale's thumbs rubbed circles on Astarion's hip bones. "What are you planning to do with your award, now that you have it?"
Astarion tested a roll of his hips.
The drag was intense—Gale's cock pulling against the stretched ring of muscle, the thick head catching on every sensitive ridge inside him. When it pressed against his prostate, he made a sound that was definitely not dignified. The pressure sparked through him, satisfying in a way that made his toes curl.
But his thighs were trembling. The position was demanding, and he'd been holding himself carefully still for long enough that his muscles were starting to protest.
Gale noticed. He always noticed.
His hands left Astarion's hips. He made the new gesture—a complex series of finger movements he'd developed somewhere before Triboar—and two shimmering, translucent hands materialized in the air beside them.
Gale's Helping Hands. Two Mage Hands for the price of one, and substantially stronger than the original spell. Since they'd returned to adventuring, Gale's power had been growing in leaps and bounds, fed by constant use and creative necessity. He'd invented several new spells along the way, but this one was Astarion's personal favorite.
For obvious reasons.
The magical hands slid beneath his hip bones, taking his weight as he lifted up enough to let Gale's cock pull almost entirely free. Just the head remained inside, stretching him open. Astarion let himself sink back onto the conjured support with a sigh of relief.
"Better?" Gale asked.
"Much."
Gale's real hands stroked up and down Astarion's thighs—long, soothing passes that worked out the tension until the trembling stopped. Then he planted his feet on the bedroll, knees bent, and looked up at Astarion with dark, wanting eyes.
"Ready?"
Astarion nodded.
The first thrust punched the air from his lungs.
His head fell back. His eyes fluttered shut again. His hands, which had been braced on his thighs, went loose and dangled at his sides as Gale set a pace that was steady and deep and relentless. The Helping Hands kept him exactly where Gale wanted him, supporting his weight so that every upward snap of Gale's hips drove his cock directly into Astarion's prostate.
His face probably went weird again. He couldn't bring himself to care.
Who could be fussed about expressions when it felt this good?
He relaxed fully into it—let the pleasure wash over him in waves, let his body be used exactly how Gale wanted. Each thrust punched a grunt from his throat as the thick head of Gale's cock caught on that sensitive ridge, coming and going, the friction building into something molten and inevitable.
It was decadent. Far more decadent than the finest sheets in the finest tower in all of Waterdeep.
"You feel incredible," Gale breathed. "Like you were made to take me like this."
"Fl-flatterer." The word came out broken. "Keep—ah—keep talking."
"I think about this constantly. When we're tracking through the mud, when we're fighting off bandits, when you're haggling with merchants who don't know the value of what they have—" Gale's voice was ragged but somehow still managing full sentences, the bastard. "I think about getting you alone. Getting you like this. Watching you fall apart on my cock."
"More. L-like that. Keep going."
Gale did.
They fucked for a long time after that—long enough for Astarion to lose track of minutes, long enough for the magical lights to flicker and resettle as Gale's concentration wavered. The pace varied: fast and desperate, then slow and grinding, then building again as they murmured affections and check-ins between gasps.
Good?
So good.
Harder?
Yes—there—perfect—
Eventually, Gale's thrusts grew erratic. His hands found Astarion's thighs again, gripping tight.
"Do you want to come as badly as I do?"
Astarion managed a laugh. "What do you think?"
"I think—" A sharp thrust that made stars burst behind Astarion's closed eyelids. "I think yes. Untouched, or shall I...?"
The question hung in the air as Gale continued his relentless pace. Astarion considered it, turning the options over in his pleasure-fogged mind. He was spoiled for choice, really.
"Hands," he decided. "Your hands."
Gale obliged immediately.
One hand wrapped around Astarion's cock, the grip tight and sure. The other cupped his balls, tugging with exactly the right pressure—they'd spent months learning each other's bodies, and it showed. Astarion's own precum slicked the way as Gale stroked him in counterpoint to his thrusts, sensation layering on sensation until Astarion couldn't tell where one pleasure ended and another began.
It didn't take long after that.
"Close," Astarion warned, the word barely audible. "I'm—"
Gale dismissed the Helping Hands.
Astarion dropped—his full weight slamming down as Gale bowed upward with a broken cry. The sudden depth, the angle, the way Gale's cock pressed hard against his prostate while Gale's hands kept working him—
He came with a shout that probably scared the wildlife for miles around.
Ropes of cum spurted up and rained across Gale's belly, catching in the dark hair there, painting his chest in streaks of white. Astarion didn't care about the mess. Couldn't care about anything except the way his body was pulsing in waves, the way Gale was twitching inside him, the way warmth was flooding his insides as Gale poured himself into Astarion.
He folded forward when Gale released his cock, collapsing onto Gale's chest, uncaring that he was smearing his own release between them. His body kept twitching—oversensitive, wrung out—and each spasm made Gale groan as the stimulation met his own post-orgasm sensitivity.
They lay like that for a while. Breathing together. Gale's heartbeat slowing.
Astarion drifted, awareness fuzzing at the edges, until Gale's hands stroking up and down his spine brought him back into focus.
"You there?" Gale murmured against his hair.
"Mm.."
He pulled off with a wince—Gale's cock sliding free of his well-stretched hole, followed by a trickle of cum. The usual cleaning spell followed, Gale's fingers tracing the necessary gestures, and the mess between them vanished.
Astarion rolled Gale onto his side, one hand sliding down to rest against the curve of his ass.
"Let's get this out of you, shall we?"
He pressed two fingers to the spot just behind Gale's balls—the external trigger point—and felt the faint hum of magic respond. Inside, the stimulator would be releasing its grip, the enchantment that held it snug against Gale's prostate finally relaxing.
Morbinder's Marvelous Egg had been marketed as "dwarven engineering meets elvish enchantment," which sounded like nonsense but had apparently delivered on its promises. No flared base, no harness, no risk of popping out or shifting in too deep during vigorous activity. Just a smooth, egg-shaped device that anchored itself exactly where it needed to be until someone told it otherwise.
"Ready?" Astarion asked, and at Gale's drowsy nod, he eased two fingers inside to hook the retrieval loop and draw the toy free. "How was it?"
Gale made a contemplative sound that ended in a soft grunt as the widest part stretched him briefly before slipping out. "Not as good as getting fucked properly. But a very welcome addition while topping. I can see why you didn't haggle much."
"High praise." Astarion cleaned the stimulator with a whispered cantrip of his own—one of the few bits of magic he'd picked up over their recent months together—and tucked it into its silk pouch. "We'll have to experiment with the settings next time."
"There are settings?"
"According to the instruction scroll, yes. Seven of them. Size, vibration patterns, intensity levels, that sort of thing." Instructions were normally Gale’s sort of thing, but Astarion had plans for this little device. He’d learned it was new, made in Citadel Adbar, and hadn’t found its way south to the major markets. Yet.
Gale blinked sluggishly, but the academic curiosity was already breaking through his heavy-lidded haze. "We used it wrong? Just putting it in and not activating anything?"
"We've used it conservatively. Always time to work up to more. It stayed in place, though, despite your exertions?"
"Perfectly positioned the entire time. Didn't shift once. I'd love to know how they managed that. Some kind of spatial lock keyed to internal pressure, perhaps? Or a charm that responds to the wearer's intention to keep it seated..."
They arranged the blankets and pillows into something approximating a nest as Gale theorized and Astarion plotted importing more of them to Waterdeep. After they’d given this one a thorough testing of course. There was more than one way to make one’s fortune on the road. Exotic sex toy imports might make their short list.
The bedrolls overlapped, the wool blankets layered for warmth, and Astarion's silk-lined travel pillow (because he refused to rough it entirely) provided a comfortable surface for his head. Gale pulled him close, and Astarion went willingly, fitting himself against his husband's side like he'd been designed for it.
The tent was cozy despite the chill outside. Between their handy haversacks and Astarion's bottomless trunk, and Gale's Unseen Servants to handle the hauling, they had everything they needed to set up a proper camp each night. It was hardly deprivation, but there was still something freeing and fun about it all.
It turned out that materials for seven thousand magical rings could make quite a dent in even the deepest coffers. Even with Rolan and Leon agreeing to help with the actual crafting. When the coin ran thin, they'd had a choice: steady employment in Waterdeep, or hitting the road again.
The road had won.
"Do you think we're close?" Gale asked, his voice drowsy. "To the cache?"
Astarion considered the clues they'd pieced together from the journal of a very dead adventurer. They'd found it for sale in Neverwinter, where they'd gone to sell the loot from their previous quest. Hill with a clump of trees like they're giving you the middle finger wasn't exactly precise cartography, but it was supposed to be south of Calling Horns.
"Another day east to reach the town, maybe? Then south into the hills."
"We could stick to the road. Spend a night at an inn in Calling Horns, resupply, then head south properly."
"Or," Astarion countered, "we cut cross-country south of the road through the hills. Perhaps we'll spot it along the way."
Gale hummed thoughtfully. "Cross-country it is. Though if we end up fighting more trolls, I'm blaming you."
"I'll accept that blame. Let's see how high you can upcast fireball these days."
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the tent stakes. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.
"I should check in with Aurelia," Gale said, not moving. "I still have a spell left, and we haven't talked to her in a bit."
"Should you? It's late."
"She'll have performed for that noble party. She mentioned they were arriving today—potential patrons for a tour."
Astarion made a vague gesture of permission, and Gale fumbled for the components he needed without actually getting up. The Sending spell required minimal movement, which was fortunate given how thoroughly Astarion had tangled their limbs together.
The reply came thirty seconds later. She'd performed three encores. One of the nobles had commissioned a ballad about his great-grandmother's heroic stand against orc raiders. She was fairly certain she'd be receiving formal patronage offers by morning.
"Good for her," Astarion murmured after Gale relayed the message.
And he meant it. Aurelia had flourished under Cal and Lia's steady guidance—and, yes, under Morena's enthusiastic meddling. She still needed someone to follow, but she was learning to choose her leaders more carefully. To recognize the difference between devotion and submission.
"What about Dal?" Gale asked. "Have you heard from her recently?"
"Last tenday. She's back at the hospital in Baldur's Gate." Astarion carded his fingers through the hair on Gale's chest. "Apparently my heroic reputation and the ring made it possible for her to practice medicine again. She's keeping busy establishing some kind of reign of terror over the interns."
"That does sound like Dal."
"She still pesters you for a Wish, doesn't she?"
Gale sighed. "Monthly, like clockwork. Though I think the sunlight has softened her somewhat. She's less... urgent about it."
"Mm." Astarion considered his complicated spawn-sister, with her rigid certainties. "Perhaps that, and the puzzling attentions of Halsin."
"I still don't understand that pairing."
"Neither do I. But then, I suppose we don't make much sense to someone looking in from the outside either." Astarion pressed a kiss to Gale's shoulder.
"I disagree. We're extremely well suited."
"Yes, the bookseller's stalls are full of vampire-wizard romances."
"It's called opposites attract. And it's extremely popular."
Astarion laughed. "One of your favorite tropes, I suppose?"
"Obviously."
Astarion had spent two centuries forced to be whatever his master wanted. Then he'd spent months learning to be whatever would make him safe. And then considering how he could be what Gale's family wanted. And now, finally, he was learning to just... be.
It helped that Gale didn't want him to be anything. Not a polite society house-husband hosting dinner parties in the tower. Not a reformed villain proving his worthiness through good deeds.
Gale wanted him. Weediness and all.
"I'm glad," Astarion said quietly, "that you don't expect me to stay home and arrange flowers while you go off professoring."
"I don't think professoring is a word."
"It is now." He propped himself up on one elbow to look at Gale properly. "I mean it. I'm glad we chose this. The road. The uncertainty. I think I'd go mad if I had to be respectable all the time."
Gale's smile was soft in the dim light. "I can't imagine anything worse than a predictable life right now. The idea of knowing exactly what every day will bring, of having everything scheduled and planned and safe—" He shook his head. "I spent years chasing the approval of others. No, not just approval. Esteem. Admiration. And it nearly killed me."
"To be fair, many things have nearly killed you. Are still trying to kill both of us, on the daily."
"True. But academic politics was shaping up to be the most tedious of them. I want to chase rumors and hunt treasures and get into terrible situations that require creative problem-solving. I want the journey more than the destination."
"That's very philosophical."
"I'm a very philosophical man." Gale stretched to press a kiss to Astarion's cheek. "Tower, tent, inn room, forest floor—I don't much care where we end up each night, as long as we're having fun."
Astarion considered the list. Tower: comfortable but confining. Tent: practical but rough. Inn room: pleasant but often distressingly public. Forest floor: memorable but muddy.
"I agree. Though I'm ruling out your attic bedroom, for what it's worth."
Gale laughed. "That's fair."
Tomorrow they'd break camp and head cross-country through the hills. They'd search for a clump of trees arranged in an obscene gesture, hopefully find the abandoned cache, and then turn toward home for the winter. Months of crafting and reading and gossip-collecting and, yes, more loud adventurous sex awaited them.
Spring would bring new rumors. New treasures. New terrible situations requiring creative solutions.
Astarion was looking forward to it.
"Good night, husband," Gale murmured, already half-asleep.
"Good night, husband," Astarion replied.
Outside, the wind howled. Inside, wrapped in blankets and warmth and the steady presence of someone who wanted him exactly as he was, Astarion closed his eyes and let himself drift toward trance.