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Hands reach out from the audience, grasping blindly as Gale walks the perimeter of the stage. Faintly, someone shouts out their undying adoration. Another screams their need to taste his sweat. Try as he might, Astarion simply cannot reconcile this man with the buttoned-up and bookish wizard he’s known for five centuries.
“Now, this next song is a personal favourite of mine.”
Gale tosses the barely-burnt stick to the ground, grinds it beneath a boot. His voice goes sinfully low as he presses his lips up against the mic.
“Worship,” he breathes out, lids fluttering. “With me.”
Five hundred years of freedom has prepared Astarion for anything. Except, as it turns out, his old friend Gale somehow ending up as one of Faerûn's hottest rockstars.
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“He saw me, where Mystra didn’t.”
It’s late now. Astarion sits with Gale beneath the starless night and watches him polish his sword. A slip of the blade draws blood; unfazed, Gale brings his finger to his lips, and tastes it with naked rapture. In the waning moonlight, the rot is more obvious than ever before. It snakes past his waistband, branches over his throat.
Astarion hums softly. “Bhaal?”
A nod. “He saved me.” Gale shuts his eyes. “He talks to me. Listens to me, understands me, believes in me, rewards and respects and adores me.”
A pause. Overhead, the wind is silent.
“He loves me. And in turn, I grant him my devotion.”
In search of a cure for the tadpole in his head, Astarion encounters Bhaal's newest Chosen, and finds himself biting off far more than he can chew.
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“Gods, I—” Astarion swallows visibly, throat bobbing. “I—”
“I know.” Gale bats his eyelids. Reties his scrunchie, rests his palms on Astarion’s trembling knees, then slips two sly fingers through a rip in his jeans. “Your turn?”
“Please.”
Astarion’s response comes without hesitation. Gale leans forward, catching his zipper between two teeth, before dragging it down, fishnet and denim.
“So many have used me,” Gale rasps. “But you’re all I’ve thought about tonight.”
A hitched breath.
“Darling,” Astarion murmurs, thumbing his lower lip. Gale whines, tongue darting out to lick his finger.
Darling. Oh, that’s a new one. Gale likes that.
Gale couldn't be happier with his friends, his little froyo shop, and his after-hours... ah, proclivities. That is, until a certain red-eyed elf shows up and throws a wrench in his carefully crafted plans.
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“And what does it take?” Astarion finds himself asking. “To sate you?”
“It depends.” A muscled shoulder goes up in an elegant shrug. “I like to be taken. And I’m very, very good at it.”
Astarion’s breath catches in his throat. “Is that it? You like to be… full?”
“In more ways than one.” Gale is drifting closer now, his pupils black as the turbulent storm raging within Astarion. “I like feeling open. Loose. There is a certain exhilaration to having the spend of many dripping out of you.” He pauses, eyes fluttering shut, a soft sigh escaping him.
“Quite nothing like getting your prostate pounded to incoherency, wouldn’t you agree?”
Astarion had anticipated many things on his upcoming semester exchange to Blackstaff Academy. Falling irrevocably for the resident campus bicycle was not one of them.
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The hand removed itself from his forehead. “Temperature is normal,” Gale announced, before using its fingers to gather some stray drool that had trailed down Astarion’s jaw. Before Astarion could register the pitiful jolt of arousal at the sudden skin contact or the sheer absurdity of what Gale was doing, Gale had stuck its fingers in its mouth.
“What the —”
“No new bacteria detected,” Gale went on, “Ruling out food poisoning.”
“Oh, Gods,” Astarion groaned. “And to think that these things are what’s sending our workforce into a tizzy. What next, 'droid? Are you about to give me a rectal examination too?”
“There is no need for one at the moment,” Gale said, confused. “Unless you are seeking prostate stimulation—”
“No!”
Amidst the softly thrumming melancholy of a dystopian, cyber-punk city, former corporate-rat Astarion Ancunín, who has long since lost the will to live, finds himself in possession of a G-413 or "Gale" - an amnesiac android who, strangely enough, enjoys living.
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In order to perfect Stoney’s nude statues, Boney takes his wife out to conduct some hands-on research.
aka. mud mephit porn