infatuation ☾ bg3 writings

tessellate - bloodweave

this fic is inspired by this piece of art i saw on twitter by user s0calledlass:  https://x.com/s0calledlass/status/1774600663756071132?s=46&t=0zHu9AN1h0I5BlfiCGjcwg

astarion x gale

smut

!! dry humping, grinding, anal sex, anal fingering, top!astarion, bottom!gale

Astarion can't rest.

It's the second night since he and the rest of his party moved their belongings into the upper floor of the Elfsong Tavern, and the second night in a row that he's been reduced to tossing and turning and counting the knots in the wood that make up the ceiling just to occupy his brain while the seconds tick by. Restlessness is a cruel curse, especially in a place where he should be experiencing anything but restlessness...

It's as if the mattress is too soft. The snow white sheets feel like sandpaper against his skin despite the thread count being the nicest fabric he's touched in weeks, and the huge room is far too quiet. He and his companions have been sleeping on dirt, day after neverending day, and somehow that had felt more comfortable to him than this – though it wasn't like the vampire ever remembered what it had felt like to sleep on feathers and thread.

Not like the others can.

They sleep in their borrowed beds like they haven't experienced rest in a tenday, curled up tight and as if they've casted Feign Death upon themselves. And apart from the constant drone of voices from drunken patrons down below, the Elfsong itself is still. Almost eerie in comparison to the liveliness of when he'd shared a bottle of Esmeltar Red downstairs with Shadowheart and Gale and laughed with Wyll about past memories of cheekily-induced tavern brawls.

Having a solid roof over his head feels nice, but he's already begun to not look forward to having the last lantern extinguished for the night.

Karlach snores softly from her bed only a short distance away and Astarion hasn't heard as much as a peep from anyone else in a long while. But there is one other person who can't seem to find rest within this new atmosphere...

The wizard whom he's gradually grown to enjoy sharing his personal space in proximity of – at a healthy distance, of course, but nearness nonetheless.

Gale.

He tosses and turns in his bed, fighting with the sheets in an ongoing battle that has recently left them draped in a ball over his hips with limbs splayed in every direction like a seastar and a limp wrist hanging over the side of the mattress into open space. Usually Astarion envies the man for his magic-like ability to fall asleep whenever and wherever he so desires, but tonight he almost feels a relief in knowing he's not the only one incapable of drifting off.

The vampire lies on his side with his back to him, listening as the other turns over for the thousandth time and adjusts the sheet once again that he tore from where it was tucked so neatly under the end of the mattress. He listens carefully, mapping out his position and the little shifts he makes in desperation of comfort with his ears alone. Something to do... A little game.

Gale moves and he must be on his stomach again if the heavy sigh that escapes from his lungs is any indication.

Part of Astarion wants to look. Just to make sure that he's right or momentarily give himself something to do, so he maneuvers onto his opposite side and rests his head of silver curls on the inside of his bicep – a makeshift pillow that isn't so unbearably plush.