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sorceresssundries · 2 days ago

Text

Ruined

Pairing: Gale x Fem Tav

Summary: Regency Era AU! Tav is burdened by whispers of a cursed love life. Twice betrothed to promising men, only to lose them to tragic fates, Tav’s allure has become a point of fascination and fear. Intrigued, the recently arrived Mr. Dekarios pursues her despite the ominous rumours that surround her.

Warnings: Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Porn with Plot, NSFW

Word Count: 6K

A/N - this was written as part of a prompt challenge, the prompt was 'Let me ruin you.'

Tav was, yet again, compelled to endure the dreary monotony of another wretched ball. It was the seventh of the season, though indistinguishable from the first—or indeed from any that had succeeded it. The floral arrangements, while marginally altered, brought no true novelty. The pheasant, a substitution for last week’s goose, was hardly the culinary triumph the hosts had envisioned. Yet still, the gathered throng twittered and preened, as though this fête were the crowning glory of the season.

It was not.

She often found her thoughts wandering from the oppressive glow of chandeliers to the untamed wilds beyond the manicured grounds. There, she imagined herself letting her hair and laughter fall loose, and riding bareback through the weaving woods she often drifted to, lured by wildflowers and birdsong. Or even further, to the ocean where the waves beat and pulled against the shore and promised mystery and new horizons.

Her daydreaming and lack of refinement had often left her labelled as preoccupied, unladylike, vexing.. To those throughout her life who had attempted to curtail her tendency to wish for the unobtainable. Corsets and etiquette may have done their best to pour her into a shape worth enduring, but there were no rules nor laces tight enough to bind the wild beat of her reckless heart.

But here she was, bound again and bored again, at another repetitive show, for another repetitive year. Constantly torn between wanting to be wild and needing to be secure.

This season, like the last, had brought Tav yet another marriage proposal - her third in total. She accepted it with the quiet resignation of one who had grown all too accustomed to the inevitability of such offers.

Offers which, so far, had ended in tragedy.

Two seasons ago, she had been affianced to a fine gentleman of estimable rank and fortune. Their engagement was announced amid great fanfare, and society applauded the match as one of rare brilliance. Alas, before vows could be exchanged, her intended husband succumbed to a sudden fever, leaving Tav bereaved and pitied.

The following season, she accepted another suitor, a baronet’s eldest son, whose devotion bordered on zeal. Yet fate struck cruelly again: he fell from his horse mere weeks before their nuptials, his neck broken in an instant.

After the second tragedy, the whispers began. They followed her like shadows, flitting from one fan to the next, growing more embellished with every retelling. Some claimed her beauty was too perfect, a snare set by the Fates to lure men to their doom. Others murmured curses, of misdeeds from ancestors long ago visited upon the innocents of the present.

Whatever the tale, Tav was transformed in the eyes of society - from the most captivating of melodies, to the siren who used it to drown the besotted.

She was hoping that the third time would, indeed, be the charm many claimed it to be. The only reason she had accepted the invitation to this particular ball was due to the request of Mr. Rowle, a solicitor who spent most of his time in London and was in search of a wife to keep in his large house in the countryside.

He had asked for her hand, and she had accepted. It was to be announced later this evening.

Mr. Rowle was the kind of man who could hardly be described as remarkable. He bore the vigour of watered-down wine, and his presence filled every room he was in the way a stale breeze might fill a drawing room. Still, he had taken a particular shine to Tav after realising, quite astutely, that she possessed both beauty and a good name, with very little competition standing in her way. His appreciation for her was pragmatic, driven by the efficiency of her family’s connections rather than any deep passion.

Tav had no illusions. She knew what marriage meant in this world. Mr. Rowle, for all his mildness, was no different from the fiancées who had come before him—well-intentioned, perhaps, but uninspiring. A man who would offer comfort and stability, if not love.

He was aware of the rumours that surrounded her, but Mr. Rowle was not a superstitious man, and so after only a couple of dances and several conversations about the weather and the local wildlife, he had visited her home and made her an offer of matrimony. It was swift, practical, and utterly devoid of romantic flourishes. He had no grand speeches, no sweet promises, only a proposal that seemed as casual as the conversation they had shared over punch.

Tav had felt nothing. Certainly not elation, nor disappointment, nor even relief. There was nothing in Mr. Rowle’s offer that made her heart race or her pulse quicken. His offer was as placid and dull as his presence.

And yet, she agreed. Not out of a sense of duty or obligation, but because she could not think of a reason not to. The prospect of becoming a solitary wife in a large, empty house with a husband she did not love seemed no worse than the alternative—more of the same, the same crowded balls, the same endless parade of unremarkable suitors, the same stale expectations.

“I shall make do,” she had resolved to herself, turning her thoughts away from her own desires.

Not that she particularly minded being on her own. In fact, she found her company much more invigorating than any other person she had socialised with all season - save, perhaps, one.

Mr. Gale Dekarios was a recent attendee to the events of the county, and was the subject of countless fluttering eyelashes, timid stares, and whispered speculations. Wealthy, strikingly handsome, and possessing an education that was the envy of many, he had recently taken up residence in the county after parting scandalously from his lover in the capital. A member of the nobility, it was said - though no one dared utter whose name, precisely - with whom he had been an illustrious paramour until he had, regrettably, fallen out of favour.

Quick-witted, and perhaps a touch too clever for his own good, Mr. Dekarios had the uncanny ability to sharpen a room’s attention merely by entering it. Tav had disliked him instantly. She rolled her eyes at the chatter of scandal that clung to him, noting how it seemed to polish his reputation rather than tarnish it.

The same clucking mothers who had pecked at her name until it was in tatters, pushed their daughters towards him at every opportunity. Hoping that a dance or a conversation would lead to a betrothal between the rich, educated former lover of a noble and their insipid waif of a daughter.

She certainly had no intention of tripping over herself to catch his eye.

Mr.Dekarios however, was not quite as sure-footed.

He was intrigued by the woman of substantial beauty who often seemed to flitter, disinterested at the corner of the gatherings. Filling her own glass, and tapping her feet to the music as she sat in solitude, thinking no-one could see the rhythm of her slippers beneath her gown.

He had asked about her almost immediately. Discretion was paramount, of course, so he made his inquiries with care, approaching a variety of confidants and acquaintances. Their answers, though varied, all carried the same shadowed thread.

She was a beauty, they said, as luminous as she was mysterious. Yet her allure was whispered to come at a cost. Twice, she had been betrothed, and twice tragedy had struck before vows could be exchanged. Both men, hale and hearty, had perished suddenly and unexpectedly. Fever claimed one, and a fatal fall took the other. Another one, some solicitor , was apparently rumoured to be next in line.

Some spun her tale with a touch of poetry, casting her as an otherworldly enchantress whose perfection ensnared mortal men. Others muttered more pragmatic warnings, hinting at curses, ill luck, or sins of her forebears.

Whatever the version, the message was clear: she was a woman to be admired from afar, not pursued.

And yet, after watching her, Gale found himself thoroughly unconvinced.

The first time he asked her to dance, she had declined with polite finality, offering no further explanation. It wasn’t rejection so much as dismissal, as though his request were little more than a passing inconvenience. He hadn’t been discouraged.

The second time, she wavered—her lips curving into a subtle smirk, her eyes alight with a glimmer of something that might have been amusement. Still, her answer had been the same. No.

The third time, however, her disbelief at his persistence had given way to reluctant acceptance. “I’m not sure this is wise,” she had said, even as she placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.

“Wisdom is overrated,” Gale replied, his grin laced with mischief. “But if it’s any consolation, I promise not to step on your toes.”

And so began the pattern that would define their every subsequent meeting.

Each time they danced, his hand held her waist with a touch that grew imperceptibly firmer, his dark eyes dipping lower, his gaze lingering longer. She told herself she imagined the faint stroke of his thumb against her gloved hand, yet each time the contact sent a spark rippling through her. For the first time, she understood the folly—and the wisdom—of feeling alight from something so small.

Unlike other partners, he eschewed the usual, droning topics of weather and the quality of the supper. Instead, he asked questions that surprised her. He wanted to know about her family, her thoughts, her opinions.

She had flirted and bantered, and he had laughed - beautifully, richly. A sound that disarmed her completely and, more often than not, drew her own laughter from her lips until her corset protested against the joy.

But beneath the growing warmth between them, a shadow still lingered. Tav couldn’t ignore it. Surely Gale, for all his charm, was not unaware of her reputation, the whispers that followed her like a darkness even beneath the brightest chandeliers. Surely he, like everyone else, knew of the misfortunes that had befallen those who dared to come too close.

Her curiosity eventually overcame her. One evening, as the music faded and the final steps of their dance drew them close, he lifted her gloved hand to his lips. His touch, light and brief, sent a shiver through her even as his dark eyes locked onto hers, steady and full of something she dared not name.

“I would like to pay you a call tomorrow,” he said softly, the intimacy of it wrapping around her like a caress.

Bemused, and emboldened by their growing familiarity, she could not help but challenge him. “Have you not heard, sir?” she asked, tilting her head with mock gravity. “Any man foolish enough to commit himself to me meets a grisly end. I am the curse of the county.”

“I am well aware of your fascinating history.” His lips twitched, a grin threatening to break free. “It reminds me of certain females of the animal kingdom who are known to murder - and occasionally devour - their partners after the union is complete. It seems you either possess exceptional efficiency or lack the intelligence to at least wait until the marriage contract is signed.”

“Intelligence?” She arched a brow, her smirk sharpening. “Sir, I lack the patience.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding with exaggerated sagacity. “Then perhaps next time, you ought to choose a suitor whose company you can bear for long enough to secure the contract.”

“If I find such a man,” she countered with a smile, “I shall let you know at once.”

His laughter rang out, warm and unguarded, sending a strange ache through her chest. It had quickly become her favorite sound—a sound that made the rest of the world fade, if only for a moment.

But the following day, when he arrived at her home, she turned him away.

Not because she wanted to. On the contrary, she found herself hovering near the window long after his carriage had departed, her hands gripping the sill as though it might steady the tumult inside her.

No, she turned him away because she understood the danger of marrying for passion in a world where she was not allowed to express it.

And somewhere deep down, buried beneath her rational mind and resolute exterior, there lingered a fear she dared not voice. The rumors, as wild and swirling as they were, had taken root in a corner of her heart. No matter how much she dismissed tales of blood curses and ancestral magic as foolishness, the whispers of society were insidious. If you are told something often enough, if you hear it echoed and embellished in every corner of every room, the ability to believe it burrows cruelly and stubbornly into the softer places of the soul.

It didn’t matter that no proof existed, nor that the very idea was absurd. The possibility, however faint, was enough to haunt her.

And the thought of such a fate befalling Gale—his dark, knowing eyes dimmed, his laughter silenced, his warm hand gone cold—was too cruel to consider.

She accepted Mr Rowle’s proposal the very next day.

And so here she was, at the ball where it was to be announced, once again folded up into manageable pieces, and ended up feeling so confined it became difficult to breathe properly, let alone laugh or flirt or, god forbid, enjoy oneself.

She thought once more of the woods and the ocean, of a freedom she would never find, and it all became too much.

She slipped from the crowded room, the clamour of prattle unbearable, and wandered aimlessly through a labyrinth of endless, identical corridors. The monotonous expanse seemed to stretch without end, until, at last, she stumbled upon an unoccupied alcove. With a soft, relieved sigh, she surrendered to the cool solidity of the wall, allowing herself the rare indulgence of slouching heavily against it. The breath she released felt as though it had been held captive not just for hours, but for the entire length of the season itself.

Her reprieve, however, was fleeting.

“Miss Taventon,” came a familiar velvet voice, “I was hoping to stumble into you.”

It was a cruel challenge, to maintain both eloquence and ire in the presence of someone so devilishly handsome. Yet, she resolved to rise to the occasion all the same.

“A pleasure Mr. Dekarios,” she replied, her voice carefully even. Her eyes flicked down the corridor behind him, searching for signs of life. It was, to her dismay, empty. The usual din of aimless chatter was absent - ordinarily a blessing, but now a vexing reminder that to be alone with him, even for a moment, was to court the sort of scandal that clung like burrs to one’s reputation. She lacked both the energy and inclination to untangle herself from such a mess.

“Perhaps we may continue this discussion elsewhere,” he offered, wanting to protect her decency but not at the expense of losing the pleasure of her company. His interactions with her had become a sparkling rarity he would loathe to let slip between clumsy fingers.

His eyes caught the faint light of the sconces, their gleam too knowing, his half-cocked smile far too disarming. Indeed, Tav found herself wholly disarmed. Her wits scattered like leaves in a strong wind, and she could scarcely think clearly enough to determine what she ought to do—or say.

Before reason could intervene, her hand shot out, taking hold of his arm with a firmness that startled even her. She pulled him into the nearest room without so much as a word of explanation.

The door clicked shut behind them, and they found themselves within a study, low-lit and mercifully empty. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, the scent of leather-bound tomes mingling with faint traces of cedar and ink. An extravagant writing desk stood as the room’s centerpiece, the only witness to their impropriety.

He was so close, gazing down upon her, the scent of plummy wine and heat simmering upon him. A dangerous thought flitted through her mind. If she so chose, she need only rise to the balls of her feet and kiss away the smile that played so smugly upon his lips. What might it taste like - that peculiar blend of arrogance and charm? Would it be sharp and bitter, like unripe fruit, or unexpectedly sweet, a slow trickle of late-summer honey?

The notion startled her, sending a betraying flush to her cheeks. To taste his superiority - to swallow it whole, to let it nourish her own fire - was a thought too bold, too improper. She stepped back abruptly, the motion breaking the spell his gaze had woven around her. The weight of his eyes remained upon her, unrelenting, as though he could divine the secrets she so desperately sought to hide.

Her lips parted, but no words formed. What could she possibly say to shatter the charged silence that hung between them? She felt unmoored in a storm she was unprepared for, swirling with curiosity, and something perilously close to longing. Yet even in her disarray, she knew that silence was a weapon she dared not wield for too long.

“I hear you are betrothed,” he said first. His tone was peculiar, sharper than usual, edged with something she could not readily name. “My sincerest congratulations.”

For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw the faintest flicker in his expression - hurt, perhaps, or resignation. But the mocking tilt to his words fanned her anger, quick and volatile.

“If your intention is to bait me with sarcasm or false pleasantries,” she snapped, indignant, “then I can assure you, your ire is wasted.” Her cheeks flushed with the heat of her temper. “You have very little appreciation of my position, and I will have no judgment from you, nor from anybody else.”

Her voice trembled on the edge of breaking, her hot-blooded nature betraying her as usual, and she felt the familiar sting of tears threatening to spill. She turned her face away, willing herself to regain control, furious that he could provoke her so easily.

“I apologise,” he said, gentler now. “If I have upset you, I assure you, it was never my intention.”

He reached out then, instinct overriding reason, his hand hovering in the space between them. He longed to trace the line of her jaw, to gently guide her gaze back to his. He lived for those moments when her eyes met his, those fleeting seconds when the world fell away and he could lose himself utterly in their depths. To be this close to her yet deprived of that connection felt like an unbearable cruelty.

But just as quickly, reason caught up with him. He hesitated, his hand faltering mid-air before he let it fall back to his side. He thought better of himself—of her—and allowed her the space she sought, even if it meant she kept her face turned from him, her eyes averted, her expression unreadable.

“If that was not your intention, sir,” she asked “then what is?”

He hesitated once more, caught between decorum and the desperate urge to speak the truth. If her engagement was to be announced tonight, as rumour suggested, this moment might be his last chance—his last opportunity to tell her what had remained unsaid for far too long.

In the silence, her eyes once more found him, too curious and impatient to be coy.

“My intention… was to make you aware of my feelings for you. It is no use, I can hide them no longer, and if this is my final opportunity to make them known then.. I would be a fool not to take it.”

If he expected her to be flattered, he would be disappointed.

“I see.” She said, whilst waiting for her thoughts to arrange themselves into a suitable order. “And you have decided to make this confession, alone with me? On the night of my engagement? How noble of you, sir. How thoughtful.”

He had the decency to blush a little, “I did not mean to.. I did not think..” “No, because you have no need of thought. You may act as and how you please with little to no repercussions upon your indelible reputation. What is one more scandal to the mystical and ravishing Gale Dekarios? It would surely only further your allure, to have talk of another lover notched upon your no-doubt dwindling bedpost.”

“Now, hold on..”

“No. I shall hold no more. This is perhaps my final chance for a match, as limp and uninspiring as it is, it is still a match. I do not have the luxury of flitting my way across ballrooms and wearing scandal like the latest fashion. My name is muddied, and my future with it. This engagement is my chance at a comfortable and secure future, do you understand?”

“It is strange, my lady, as secure and comfortable are not words I would have associated with you, or your future.” For one so intelligent, Gale Dekarios often demonstrated the wit of a backwards ass.

“And what words did you associate with my future? Ruined? Destitute? Cursed? The only curse that has befallen me is the one that prevents me from charting my own course. You think I wish to marry that man? I assure you I do not.”

“Stubborn is the word I would use! And infuriating!” His voice was rising to meet hers. “You ought not to worry about the match” he remarked, exasperated. “This time you are bound to vex the poor soul into an early grave”

“Yes, I am vexing! I have been told many times. And I am stubborn, I am glad of it. Because if I am not then I am meek, and if I am not curious then I am stale, and if I am not passionate then I..” she could feel the words crack in her throat, truths she did not want to admit were being spilled from her like poisoned wine “then I am ruined. Not the ruin that this stagnant, monotone tribunal has decreed, but truly ruined. The kind of ruin that steals the sun from my skin and the fire from my soul. That straightens my curls along with my spirit and leaves me pale, faded, and hollow.”

She was blazing, alight, and so achingly, achingly tired of it all.

“The ruin they speak of, the one they condemn with such piety - freedom, passion, love without boundaries or permission - that is no ruin at all. That is a privilege. One that you are entitled to, sir, but I am not and now never will be. I crave to be so ruined.”

Her chest heaved as she finished, her final words hanging in the air like a dare. She was certain he would turn and leave her, that her outburst was too wild for a gentleman of his stature to bear. It would hurt her, for him to turn, but it would not destroy her. She was made of obstinance and wildfire. She would endure.

But he did not turn. He stood there, gazing at her with an expression she could not read and a patience she did not understand.

“Then let me ruin you.”

She was a match struck.

Before she could form a reply - before she could even think - he crossed the small space between them in one deliberate step. His hand rose to cup her cheek, his palm warm against her flushed skin. The touch was surprisingly gentle, belying the fire burning in his gaze, and for a moment, she thought he would simply hold her there, suspended in this unbearable torment.

But then his lips were on hers, and the whole world tilted.

The kiss was no delicate brush of affection. It was a collision. His lips claimed hers with an urgency that stole her breath, leaving her reeling.

She should have pulled away, every rational thought in her mind screamed that she must. But instead, her hands betrayed her, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, the only thing keeping her upright.

His hand cupped the back of her neck, strong and steady, his fingers threading through her hair as he tilted her head to deepen the kiss. When his tongue swept against hers, the shock of it sent a jolt through her, every nerve in her body alight. She met him with equal fervor, her tongue pressing against his in a rhythm that had been desperate to know. A low, primal sound rumbled from his chest, vibrating against her as he pressed closer, his body warm and solid against hers.

The moan sent a shiver through her, and she felt herself leaning into him, her fingers tightening their grip as though afraid he might pull away. But he didn’t. His other hand slid to her waist, strong fingers splaying across the delicate fabric of her gown as though he might anchor her to him.

She could feel the heat of his breath, could taste the faint hint of wine on his lips, and the sheer reality of it overwhelmed her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat a chaotic echo of this is madness.

And yet, she couldn’t stop.

Her body betrayed her again, arching toward him. When his lips parted from hers, moving to trail a line of fire along her jaw, she let out a shaky breath, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Gale,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking his name might shatter whatever fragile spell had woven itself around them.

But he only paused for a moment, his lips hovering just above her ear as he spoke, his voice rough and low. “Tell me to stop.”

She opened her mouth, the words poised on her lips. But no sound came.

His forehead rested lightly against hers, his breath coming fast and uneven.

“Tell me to stop,” he repeated, his voice low, rough, and trembling with restraint. “And I will. But kiss me again…

She opened her eyes to find him staring at her, his gaze searching, as though he feared he had gone too far. But there was no condemnation in her expression, only a fire that mirrored his own.

He paused, as though steadying himself, “Kiss me again, and know that I am done. That I am yours. That I will ruin you for all others but me—and me for you.”

His words unraveled something deep within her, loosening threads she had clung to for far too long. She felt her breath hitch, her resolve wavering as she stood on the precipice of something she could not yet name.

“Yours?” she whispered.

“Everlasting”

The weight of his promise pressed against her, both a burden and a liberation. She knew the cost of stepping over this threshold, knew what it would mean to claim him as hers and to give herself in turn. And yet, in that moment, the world beyond the walls of the study—the rigid rules, the whispered judgments, the life that awaited her—seemed so distant, so inconsequential.

Her hand rose of its own accord, trembling as it brushed against the collar of his coat, tracing the fine fabric. She felt the sharp intake of his breath, and it emboldened her.

She kissed him, branded him, a kiss to end all others.

A sound escaped him then, something between a sigh and a growl, and before she could say more, his tongue was against hers again.

He broke away briefly, his lips hovering just above hers, his breath warm against her skin.

“There will be no going back,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion.

“Good,” she replied, her fingers curling tighter into his coat. “I have no wish to.”

His hands were large and practiced upon her corseted waist. He knew that he would not be able undo her now the way he wished to. He wanted to rip the strings and restraints that bound together the softness of her body. What a waste, what a crime, to tighten and pull together someone as vivid and iridescent as her. To compress her heavy breaths and even heavier laughter into a space too small to hold it. He wanted to hear her, unbidden and unbound. Taste her, full and soft and naked beneath him.

His eyes swept over her, lingering on the curve of her throat where pearls pulsed teasingly, the flush that painted her cheeks, and the slight parting of her lips as she fought to catch her breath. What need did a creature like her have for silk, satin, or pearls? They were dull imitations of beauty, mere adornments trying to mimic what she carried so effortlessly.

It was her—the way her skin caught the light, the way her hair fell in wild waves when she let it loose, the way her laughter could ripple through a room and silence even the most biting of whispers—that made those lifeless things shine. They owed their luster to her, mere shadows granted brilliance by proximity to the source. Just as he felt by being close to her.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he murmured, his voice low and rough with longing.

She released herself from his grasp to a noise of frustration, before stepping back until the back of her legs met with the solid wood of the grand writing desk. It was covered in papers, books which held little interest. He wished to throw them all to the floor, nothing that lay upon that desk could ever possibly be as entrancing as even the thought of Tav laying splayed across it - spine arched and back rising.

“Show me.” She said.

She perched upon the desk, and his breath was ragged and eyes hungry as she lifted her skirts tantalisingly slowly, inch by inch, revealing her feet, her ankles, her calves. How hard he was, just from the sight of her ankles. He wished to kiss each part of her she was unveiling, parts he had imagined in his dreams night after night. Pushing his tongue against her insole, running along the delicacy of her ankle and up her calf. Further and further and further up until his teeth could grace her stocking clasps and he could finally indulge in the scent of her greatest intimacy.

He fell to his knees before her, in lust-induced worship. He had found a Goddess made mortal, and he wished to venerate her with sermon and satisfaction until her divinity returned. He would offer his mouth - tongue and teeth and words, upon every altar she owned. Purl hymns and benediction into the slick heat of her sacred cunt until she offered him blessing after blessing in return.

His hands gripped her thighs, lifting her closer to him as his mouth claimed her. He wanted her to fall apart against him, to know that no other would ever worship her like this, with such complete surrender. Her cries filled the room as he licked and moaned and devoured, and when she trembled beneath him, he knew he had her.

But the fire blazing between them refused to be sated.

He rose to his feet in one swift motion, his hands gripping her hips as he pulled her flush against him. Her skirts were rucked high, her bare thighs wrapping around him instinctively. She reached for him, her fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers until she freed him, her hand wrapping around the hard, pulsing heat of him.

“We do not have to...” he groaned, desperately clinging to the last vestiges of proprietary, to throw a lifeline despite drawing himself.

She needed no lifeline from him. Gasping, she positioned him against her, and kissed him hard as with one rough, claiming thrust, he buried himself inside her. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, her head falling back as he filled her completely. The desk groaned beneath them.

He drove into her with a raw, relentless intensity, his hands gripping her hips as he pulled her closer, deeper, with every thrust. The sounds of their coupling filled the room—her breathless cries, his low growls, the slap of skin against skin. She was everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever dreamed, and he would have her again and again until she knew it.

Her legs tightened around him, her heels digging into his back as her body arched against his. She met him thrust for thrust, her hands clutching at him as though she feared he might disappear. She was wild, untamed, and he was utterly at her mercy.

“Gale,” she gasped, her voice rippling with pleasure.

He kissed her messy and feverish, a clash of teeth and tongues as their passion spilled over. He swallowed her cries as her body tightened around him, her release ripping through her with a force that left her trembling in his arms.

He followed moments later, his own release crashing over him like a tidal wave. He held her close, his forehead resting against hers as their breaths mingled, their bodies still joined. The room was silent save for the sound of their ragged breathing, the scent of their lovemaking hanging heavy in the air.

She smiled up at him, her eyes alight with mischief and satisfaction. “And here I thought you were a gentleman.”

A chuckle rumbled from his chest, low and warm, as he pressed a tender kiss to her temple. “One cannot always be a gentleman,” he murmured, his voice thick with amusement.

Her gaze drifted over the room, taking in the disarray they’d left in their wake—papers crumpled and askew, books knocked from their orderly piles, and an inkpot that had tipped, its dark contents staining the pristine wood and smearing across important-looking documents.

“We’ve made a mess,” she said, her tone somewhere between scolding and delight.

“More than a mess,” he replied, his disarming smile lighting his face. “Ruined, I would say.”

Her laughter spilled into the room, bright and unrestrained, and he caught it in a kiss. His lips brushed hers softly at first, then with growing fervor as if he could never quite get enough of her. Reluctantly pulling away, he began the task of tidying her up, his hands reverent as they smoothed her disheveled skirts.

He knelt before her, fastening her stockings with a devotion that made her heart race. Each clasp was accompanied by the soft press of his lips to her thighs, a mixture of penance and unrepentant indulgence. When her hair pins were hopelessly scattered, he did his best to tame her curls, his fingers clumsy yet endearing as he pinned them back into something resembling order.

Satisfied—or at least as much as either of them could be—he sank into the grand leather desk chair, its creak breaking the quiet. With a gentle tug, he pulled her onto his lap, cradling her against him. His hands roamed her back and waist, languid and adoring,

“There is a packet ship,” Gale said, “Leaving from Falmouth in three days' time. We could be on it.”

She stilled, her lips barely parted, and her gaze lifted to meet his. “A ship?”

“Yes,” he replied, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, a smile that resembled a promise. “A fine vessel. A friend of mine—Wyll, a duke’s son—will be aboard. The Nautiloid. We could go together. You and I.”

Across the sea. How many nights had she stood at her window, gazing out beyond the carefully manicured hedges, imagining the vast, untamed expanse of the ocean? How often had she dreamed of a ship’s deck beneath her feet, the wind twisting her hair into wild hurricanes, no land in sight—only water, only freedom?

Her breath quickened, her thoughts racing, but he continued, seizing the moment. “I had planned to leave earlier. The tedium of society was wearing unbearably thin. I long for further study, for exploration.” He paused, his voice softening as he lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her palm. “But I stayed. For fleeting moments in your company, for the hope of something more.”

Her heart swelled and twisted in equal measure. “And you are not afraid? That becoming my companion will pull you towards an early grave?”

He laughed softly, the sound rich and warm as he cupped her cheek. “Afraid? No. I could think of no better way to end my days than by your side.” His gaze grew serious, intense. “No supposed curse you bear frightens me. I think your suitors thus far were simply not of strong enough disposition to keep your wild flames stoked. And so, they burned out. As many would.”

“And you,” she asked, arching a brow, though her voice was edged with a smile, “are not at risk of combusting, I suppose?”

“I’d like to hope not,” he replied, his grin returning, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth as though to trace the smile that bloomed there.

“So, Mr. Dekarios,” she began “if I do board this ship with you, if I cast off everything I know and chart my own course, what will we find there?”

His smile softened, his hand falling to hers, their fingers lacing as though they had always belonged together.

“Adventure”

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 #gale bg3 #gale baldur's gate #gale fanfic #Regency AU

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whispersleo · 2 days ago

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MY TASTE IN MEN

This was supposed to be a warm-up meme sketch, but I started writing the comparisons seriously, so here’s the post...

Astarion and Illario

They become "villains"/bad guys as a response to trauma.

They use their beauty and body to deceive and objectify themselves to get what they believe they want.

They have suffered physical, verbal, and emotional abuse that would break anyone.

They don't want to see themselves as victims, nor show—they hate feeling—weakness. They want to be stronger and crave power at any cost.

They display superiority toward others when their entire lives they have been beneath or in someone's shadow.

They have become so accustomed to lying and manipulating that I doubt they even know their true selves.

They approach someone who welcomes them with open arms, all the while thinking about how to use that person.

They fall to pieces if you show them genuine affection and love, what it’s truly meant to be.

They would kill for you.

They are my wet rats; they have no body hair.

I think, after all, they do enjoy sex—it probably involves unconventional things.

What they want and what they need are VERY different things.

I can fix them.

They have a strange relationship with blood.

They would betray you if it meant saving their own lives.

Showing vulnerability is the last thing they want, and strangely, it's what would save both of them from becoming monsters.

I have a weakness for men who try to kill me. You're screaming for me to fix you babe.

This could end very badly or very well.

They are charming and it is easy to fall for their lies instead of seeing beyond that mask.

People see them as "dumb" when they are tremendously intelligent. They may not be textbook smart, but they know how to read people, ask the right questions at the right time, they wait for the opportunity and always analyze the situations they find themselves in. People call them "dumb" because it's easier to accept it instead of the complex idea that a character can be smart but a moron at the same time.

They won't be jerks to you, but they'll probably treat the waitress on the date poorly if she fucks up something.

They are the kind of person who is worth being romantically with, but to get there you have to take off their mask and that in itself is a great effort.

They definitely want to be someone's first choice, for once in their lives.

Deep down, all they want is adoration, love and respect.

I want to hold them and tell them that they deserve to be loved without any ties or conditions to that love.

Gale, Emmrich and Lucanis

They are sweet by nature, kind souls despite all the pain they've been through.

Showing kindness is what makes them strong.

Once they fall in love with you, they are lost.

They have enormous insecurities.

They feel the weight of the world on their shoulders all the time.

Great facial and body hair.

They have a strange relationship with death.

They have a huge heart that yearns to love.

I would feel very proud to introduce them as my partner. Like yes this good man loves me, isn't that amazing?

They have self-destructive tendencies.

It makes me blush to hear them laugh because it’s the most precious sound in the world.

I would feel safe with them around.

They would die for you.

Gale and Emmrich

They are professors, and I DEFINITELY don't feel an incredible attraction toward men who can teach me interesting and unknown subjects in depth (of course, that DOESN'T turn me on).

They are the smartest and kindest in this room.

They love to show and share their studies and knowledge with anyone willing to listen.

They are patient.

They know how to listen.

They offer their opinion when you clearly didn't ask for it.

Too many times they want to help or give advice without being asked.

They've had many partners, but they love you a lot, and that willingness to learn how to love again is one of their most beautiful qualities.

In some strange way, they know how to fight when I think they're meant to be treated with care and delicacy or they'll break (just kidding).

Oh, and by the way, both of them are mages—guess it's sexy that you can do a bunch of magical things...

They are nerds even when it comes to sex and I love that. Of course I don't know anything about anatomy, do you want to explain that to me, professor?

Astarion, Illario and Lucanis

They have killed more people than I should feel comfortable with.

"The hands that cradled your face and tilted it upwards to kiss your forehead are soaked in unfathomable quantities of blood." But they cradled me, yes?

They are trained assassins, and that raises some questions about my own morals.

Why do we kill?

What does it feel like to take a life?

What does it feel like to hold the weapon with which you snatch away the last moments of someone who was as human as you and me, who had desires, fears, aspirations, who didn’t want to die?

What kind of superiority do you think you have to do that and see your target as nothing more than a simple cockroach?

How can you sleep at night?

Do those thoughts torment you, or are your dreams sweet as if you hadn’t done anything wrong?

How do you decide that someone deserves to die, my love?

Would you kill me like you've killed so many if, in some way, you believe I deserve it?

Don’t you think the sins you see in others, in those you kill, are also your own?

I LOVE characters with complex morals, it's so sexy. Yes, baby, kill a few more, let's bathe in the blood of our enemies or anyone who opposes us, let's dance with their corpses, I love you.

I know they are flexible.

Astarion and Emmrich

A date in a cemetery? Sure! Wait, why am I excited to do it on a grave? Ugh, I hope this doesn’t awaken another weird fetish in me...

I can't stop thinking about blood and corpses in a way that's too pleasant.

Their sense of fashion is superior.

They always carry a brush with them, in case they get a little messy in the middle of a fight.

I think both of them can sew pretty well.

They have a strange desire to become some kind of superior being, and that could end very well or very badly.

There’s some strange necromancy here.

They love to read, and that's very cute.

Gale, Illario and Lucanis

Their long hair gives me years of life, I want to run my fingers through it, caress it, comb it, pull it, I love it.

Maybe I like their hair because it's like mine, but either way.

I love drawing them.

Thinking about them makes my brain jump in my skull.

I just want to take away all your pain.

They have been emotionally abused but they cannot recognize themselves as victims, because they feel love for their abuser and the abuser loves them in a horrible way, the way only a mother's love could twist you.

DEFINITELY MOMMY ISSUES.

(This becomes more complex thinking about the relationship between Mystra and Gale / Zara and Illario and Caterina but that needs a whole power point presentation).

Gale and Lucanis

Canonically, they are THE wife material.

They are soft and loving once you’re with them.

They know how to cook and do any domestic task you can think of.

The house/camp is always in perfect condition thanks to them.

They look at you like you are the most precious person in the world.

I want to get them pregnant.

They have the saddest, most puppy-like brown eyes that make you love them instantly.

Their face screams for kisses and affection.

I know that between your arms is the warmest place in the world and that I could fall asleep to the sound of your beautiful heart.

I would distract myself by running my hand through their beards and remove any white hairs I found (without them asking me to).

Lucanis wins points for speaking spanish but Gale also wins points because let's remember that he is a professor.

Astarion, Gale, Illario and Emmrich

Absolutely freaks in bed BUT they can be vanilla if you ask them pretty please.

Lucanis

This man is virgin and demisexual like me so I think I would feel extremely comfortable knowing that there is no pressure to do "it" and that he is a man who values company beyond pleasure, calming one of my biggest insecurities.

Not saying the others here can't value company is just... Yeah just sex isn't for me now. And that has ruined many of my relationships. So it gives me more peace of mind to think that my lover can also be a virgin like me and none of us have that expectation.

I'm not saying that the others here would pressure me to do it either. I don't think any of them would. But I know that they can see it as something important in the relationship and there's nothing wrong with that.

Mph-mph.

Gale

He is MY wife.

I have his name tattooed on my arm like branded cattle and I love it.

I have 500 hours on Baldurs and I always start a game again just to hear him breathe.

His relationship with his ex wouldn't create insecurities in me because I already have them so nothing new.

I fear that this man has taken my expectations to a place that cannot be reached by "real" men and I will die alone bUT happy to have met a fictional character written as beautifully as him.

I want to fall asleep while he reads me a book.

He has a cat that talks and has wings, I love her.

I love men who just can't shut the fuck up.

I'm sure his mom would like me and you have no idea how important that is to me HAHAHA my mother-in-laws (except one) always hated me so I would like to feel welcomed in a home for one damn time.

I love him.

I can always like other characters but none as incredible as you, Gale.

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