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He's stuck on guard duty. Again.
Not to say that he hadn't volunteered for it; it gave him time to hunt away from prying eyes. Additionally, he needed far less rest than the others, especially at night. Despite all of that, however, it would still be nice for one of the others to at least offer. A mere, ‘No, Astarion, let me keep watch tonight since you've done it for the past three days,’ would suffice. Wishful thinking, he supposes.
It especially rubs him the wrong way when the others refuse to go to bed at a reasonable hour. And by others, he does mean Gale, of course. For the past two nights, the wizard has stayed up reading by firelight. Reading! If he wanted to stay up reading and not be a well-rested contribution to their little adventuring team, then he could stay behind and guard their camp during the day! It was as if he was taking Astarion's generosity for granted. Perhaps he would volunteer Gale for guard duty tomorrow night…
At least the wizard is quiet when he reads—a rare occurrence for him. It’s nice to have a few hours of peace in which Astarion isn't being regaled with stories about how Gale once beat a fire mephit in an arm-wrestling contest or something equally as ludicrous. All things considered, however, Astarion really doesn't mind the company—silent or not. It's nice having an extra pair of eyes on his back during the night.
This night is especially dull. Astarion had already sated his hunger with the blood of a rather plump boar. The book he'd brought along with him had been ruined when a particular spellcaster decided to create water right above his head under the guise of extinguishing flames, and he's too proud to ask to borrow a book from the library Gale had brought with him. He can always purchase a new one from the next merchant he comes across, he supposes, but that does him no good at the moment.
He's bored. Even his own thoughts are beginning to tire him.
Astarion's had enough of the silence. He craves excitement, even if it comes in the form of some second-rate wizard’s book club.“Gale?”
The wizard peels his eyes from the page before him and lifts his gaze to him.
“What is it you're reading?”
" The Curse of Grahd,” Gale whispers in response.
“Mm, sounds… thrilling.” It doesn't. “What is it about?”
Gale has the audacity to bring a finger up to his lips and actually hush him! His eyes flicker over to Shadowheart, who stirs in her cross-legged trance. “Tomorrow, Astarion.”
His gaze returns to the book in his lap, and Astarion can feel his blood practically boil in his veins. He doesn't like being brushed aside, and he certainly doesn't like being quieted as if he is some child! As if a quiet conversation would wake the others; he's seen Wyll sleep through one of their bedrolls catching on fire! (The very same day his book had become water-logged.)
Astarion curls his lip at Gale but does not press the issue further. With a huff, he lays down in his bedroll and stares up at the night sky, his arms behind his head.
It's a pleasant night out, not a cloud to be seen. The sounds of chirping insects and crackling firewood fill the otherwise silent camp. Astarion rolls onto his side and allows his gaze to fall upon the next most interesting thing: Gale.
The fire is far enough away from the wizard that he is almost lost to the darkness, but he can still see the curve of Gale’s face highlighted in an orange glow, his lips occasionally mouthing the words before him. While not traditionally attractive, there is something appealing about the man. Astarion always has had a soft spot for those with dark hair. There is a certain charm to him. An eccentric charm, but charm nonetheless.
From this distance, Astarion can catch Gale's scent past the smoke with his heightened senses: sweat and whatever atrocious woody fragrance from Waterdeep it is that he wears. An odd feeling rises in his chest, and he forgets for a moment that he should mercilessly kick it back down.
Something hovers on dark wings at the edge of his mind—an idea. Whether the idea is of his own concoction or is a suggestion from that thing behind his eye, he is uncertain. But it does sound fun to try. It's something to occupy his time at the very least.
Astarion closes his eyes. His concentration narrows in on the wizard—he has no idea what in the Nine Hells he’s doing, if he’s being honest—and he attempts to open up his mind. Tries to draw upon those past experiences of when the tadpole had flavored his subconscious, what it had felt like. In the past, he had been able to draw upon its power by sheer accident, usually when he felt that he was in some sort of danger. During those other times, he could tell that it was the tadpole’s own curiosity giving that little psychic nudge. Yet this time, however, it’s all him trying to harness its power to sate his own devilish taunting.
Focus.
Acquiesce, you vile thing!
A slight pang, a coldness in the back of his mind, spreads throughout his skull like melting snow.
The pang intensifies, and suddenly the back of his eyelids are painted with text bathed in the soft glow of firelight. His gaze drifts across the words—poetry. He’s reading a book through eyes that are not his own. A feeling of contentment and warmth washes over him.
Like that, the vision fades. Astarion’s eyes snap open and dart towards Gale, who is still sitting before the campfire, a book of poetry in his lap. The wizard’s expression mirrors his own: wild-eyed and mouth agape. His brown-eyed gaze meets Astarion’s red, and understanding flashes in his eyes. His eyebrows furrow with a look of admonishment.
What are you doing?
Astarion merely smiles in response.
Who, me?
Gale rolls his eyes before turning his attention back to his boring book of poetry. Yet Astarion cannot help but note the rigidity that he now holds himself with, his shoulders far too tense.
Well, that had been fun. Interesting, for certain. So he could harness the power of that wretched thing on a whim! He's seen it happen before, but never when he was just lounging about at camp. While it's no mindflayer telekinesis, it is something.
Perhaps, in time, he can learn to refine these little powers. Water the seeds and watch them grow. If it is the tadpole that is keeping him from burning to a crisp in sunlight, then he is very excited about the possibilities. The problem, however, is finding the way to water those seeds without them growing into some squid-headed abomination.
That can be tomorrow Astarion’s problem, he supposes. For now, he is over the moon with his newfound discovery. So many possibilities! No, he will not become reliant on the thing—not until he can safely sort out the intricacies of its powers without fear of breaking his own mind. At the same time, however, how can he discover those intricacies unless he experiments in the first place? Little things, perhaps. Certainly those would be safe. But where to start?
Another idea comes to him. Not a proper one by any stretch of the word, but nobody had ever accused him of being particularly high-principled.
With a glance around the campsite—everyone else is still asleep—Astarion goes to unfasten his breeches as quietly as possible before pulling out his manhood. He trails a thumb through the wetness gathering at the tip, trails that slickness down to reduce friction and begins to stroke himself, small enough movements as to not draw attention, until he's hard.
Once more, his focus narrows in on Gale and that brilliant mind of his.
It's easier this time. It doesn't feel as if he has to trudge through rivers of static before he can feel the pull of their tadpoles connecting. His eyes are honed in on Gale’s face, judging his reaction. He knows he's done it properly when the wizard’s eyebrows furrow and his attention immediately hones in on him. His lips part as if he is about to scold him before his eyes go wide.
A noise of surprise—had that been an actual moan? —leaves Gale’s parted lips instead, and he looks just as surprised.
Well, that is as much a success as any. Encouraged, Astarion, runs his thumb along the underside of his erection, teasing, and revels in the wave of delicious pleasure that runs down his spine.
Their eyes meet. A look of surprise and confusion and not the disgust he had originally anticipated flashes across Gale’s face before his eyes become half-lidded.
What in the Nine Hells are you doing?!
Shall I stop?
His grip tightens around his cock, and Gale all but doubles over. He rights himself with what looks like great effort, hand pushing against his knee, and with one hand he snaps the book of poetry closed.
...No. Continue. Please.
Gale, ever austere and arrogant, actually asking him to continue? Such a naughty thing! Astarion prides himself in his ability to read people, but never could he have expected this side from the man. Good; this makes it all the more fun.
The Adam's apple in Gale’s throat bobs as he goes to lay down on his bedroll, his book long forgotten. He shoots Astarion a quick look, one with the flavorings of a warning, before allowing his eyes to close. Gale sighs, all that tension finally leaving his muscles.
The sight is an incredibly tempting one for him. Gale, the long-winded and obnoxious storyteller, essentially submitting himself to him and whatever pleasures he can bring. The idea is enough to stoke the flames in his belly all the higher.
The floodgates that are Gale’s mind open to him, and Astarion has to hold back a groan as his own pleasure—their combined pleasure—intensifies tenfold. In that moment, they are one. One mind, one body. His pleasure, their pleasure. A collective.
The new sensation blanketing his brain is almost too much. He wants to bask in the warmth just as Gale is, but he doesn't foresee the wizard daring to touch himself when there's even the slightest possibility of them being caught. So is his burden. Astarion summons the motivation to continue stroking himself, faster now because gods it's too good. Each twist of his wrist, the grazing of a thumb over the head, is like pure lightning burning through his nerves, too much and not enough all at once. The fingers of his free hand dig into his bedroll, and Astarion has to bite his lip almost to the point of drawing blood to keep himself quiet.
Gale's face is something to behold. The man has given up all pretenses of masking his pleasure, and his mouth hangs open, eyebrows upturned. Astarion doesn't miss the way his robe-clad shoulders and chest heave with each heavy breath. And all of this without even touching himself! He looks absolutely sinful, and it takes all of Astarion’s willpower not to go over there and sink his fangs into his neck. The hot butter smell of lust coming off of his skin, that rapid heartbeat, is almost irresistible.
Gale’s eyes open, and their gaze meets. His eyes are all pupil and the reflection of flickering flames. His bottom lip trembles slightly. There's a look of desperation in his eyes, and without saying a word Astarion understands.
I'm close…
Well, that had been fast. Not that he's complaining; he's dangerously close himself. With newfound determination, Astarion quickens his strokes. His cock is practically dripping, and each movement of his fist makes a lewd squelching sound that he is far too gone to even care about. He is being anything but subtle at the moment; gods help him if someone dares to wake up…
Gale’s fingers clench into his bedroll and his eyes suddenly roll back into his skull. He indolently thrusts forward, back arching, and his hand clamps over his mouth in desperation. The resulting surge of ecstasy that crashes into Astarion is far too much for even him to handle.
Gale…!
Astarion’s hips buck into his fist, and a cry is ripped from his throat. Pleasure twists his voice, and the whine is far louder and higher pitched than he had intended. White-hot euphoria, more intense and all-consuming than anything he has ever felt, more pleasurable than a belly full of hot blood, explodes in his core. The sensation is only intensified by Gale's continual climax, who he can barely hear cursing under his breath past the buzzing that fills his ears. That euphoria is all he can feel for several blissful moments—moments that feel like hours.
One mind. One body. All of this and more.
When Astarion finally regains some semblance of composure, he's trembling—as is Gale, apparently. The mental connection between them had been lost at some point in there, leaving behind a faint static in his mind. His body buzzes with a pleasant clarity, yet still he is tired. Far, far more tired than he has felt in a long time, more so than that first night on the nautiloid ship. His limbs feel heavy, and Astarion can barely muster the strength to clean himself up and refasten his breeches.
The wizard does not appear to be faring much better. He looks as tired as Astarion feels. He has yet to move, and sweat-slicked stands of dark hair cling to the sides of his face. He shifts somewhat in a feeble attempt at adjusting his robes.
His expression is one of disbelief and heat, his cheeks flushed pink. Gale swallows hard before running his hands over his face, into his hair in an attempt to brush it aside.
Their eyes meet once more, yet no longer can Astarion read the emotion behind his gaze. Knowing Gale, it is probably something along the lines of we are not to talk about what just happened. Or perhaps that is just Astarion projecting. Who can say, really?
With a groan, Astarion pushes himself up into some semblance of standing; he’s decided that it’s officially time for Lae’zel to keep watch so that he can, ideally, just lose himself in a trance for the next three days to recover...