#he’s having a good time off in waterdeep doing whatever

[sharoscylla]

Ripley’s the coolest bitch at the Baldur’s Gate Midwinter Masquerade Ball and that’s a FACT, JACK

[thewritetofreespeech]

words: 1.3K rating: E pairing: Gale x Tav [pining stages of Act 1] summary: After so long of being unable to touch, Gale is finally able to experience physical intimacy for the first time in a long time. Even if it's just by himself. [ based off of a request for more details on the bg3 masturbation headcanons I did previously.]

---------------------------🟣----------------------------------

It had been a few hours now since Elminster had left. His old friend likely on the long journey back to Waterdeep, or whatever far parts of the realm ancient powerful wizards wandered off to.

Gale touched his chest for the first time in a while without total fear. The spell Elminster had put on him had worked. The orb felt less volatile than in the past. It was still there, laying heavy near his heart like a stack of bricks, but not like a stack of tinder boxes waiting to explode.

The knowledge of what this respite came with also weighed heavy on his heart. Mystra has asked that he make the ultimate sacrifice for the realm, and for her forgiveness. The latter of which was not guaranteed.

There had been a time during the beginning of his banishment when he would have gladly done as she asked. Blown himself up in spectacular glory. Opened every vein and let his life blood spill out to paint her likeness on an open canvas. He would have done anything for Mystra. But now….

Gale looked across the camp to where Tav was chatting with Lae’zel and Shadowheart. The three in a heated discussion from the looks of it, likely on what to do about the crèche and how to infiltrate it. Where they go next is of little concern to Gale, because it has no consequence for the damned, so he just looked at Tav as they tried to mitigate the argument.

Since that time in the Weave with them, Gale had been nearly fixated on their leader with a passion he thought only reserved for his goddess and books. But what he felt for Tav was so very different from those feelings. Where he revered Mystra he…respected Tav. Their strength. Their decisiveness. Their generosity to help and extend a hand to any in need. Their willingness to admit fault. He’d been beguiled, and the outer package did very little to help dissuade their spell.

Gale felt a tell-tale tightening of his pants beneath his robes as he continued to look and think on Tav, and was prepared to dampen those feelings down like always. With the orb he couldn’t risk any undo stimuli to his person; not with an ancient blight that wiped out civilization stowed away in his chest. But….that wasn’t an issue anymore, was it? The clock had stopped, as Elminster said, so he didn’t have to worry about blowing up. Just doing it at the right time, according to Mystra’s orders.

The wizard slipped back into his tent, unnoticed by anyone. He didn’t think that anyone would bother him right now. Assuming that Gale needed time to think in light of the circumstances. Which, he did, but not right now. There would be plenty of time to hyper fixate on his problems later. Right now, he wanted to test a new theory.

Unlacing his top tunic, he looking down his body towards his bulge now visible in his pants. Gale hesitated, but then slowly drew his hand closer to rub his palm over it. Instantly he moaned. It had been so long since he had felt the sensation of touch this way on his body. Depression and then fear drying up his libido like herbs on his balcony back in Waterdeep. But now a summer rain had come to refresh it. A reprieve. A chance to feel again. He didn’t want to waste it.

Removing the lacings on his pants as well, Gale opened his trousers and his cock sprung free. Seeming to know what was going on and more eager than its master to be touched again. He grasped the shaft and began to stroke himself. A burning tingle crackling up from his fingertip, down to the base, and up his spine. He forgot how good it felt to be touched. How long had it been since he touched himself?

With Mystra, their intimacy had always been noncorporeal. Mind altering. Mind shattering. But bodies completely removed from the process. He thought he didn’t need touch when he had the ‘touch’ of a goddess, so he did not imbibe in such activities. Then the option was taken away from him, and he could not imbibe. So he genuinely could not remember hold long it had been. Had it always been this good? Or was his long bout of abstinence merely the cause?

Gale couldn’t think more on his hypothesis as his hand sped up and his mind became soul focused on that feeling. He was beginning to pant. Drooling, even. He can feel that he was going to cum fast but doesn’t stop. His seed shot out in a long, thick ribbon on the side of his tent that he would clean up later, but he doesn’t stop. He needed more. Even as his cock twitched from having just came, it still cried out for more.

His other hand came up to touch his body. Play with his chest. Touch his nipples. He couldn’t remember how he used to like it before, and his fogged mind was not helping make decisions. His hand reached down into his pants as well to cup his balls, and Gale was cumming again quickly as he fondled himself. Still not enough.

Moving to take off all of his clothes and lay down on his cot, Gale attempted to calm his breathing as he slowed his hand. His cum acted as a lubricant now to help slide his hand over the still hard flesh. He hadn’t been able to jerk off this many times in a row since he was a boy.

As his hand slowed, the fog in his mind seemed to clear a little. Breaking way to the brightness of Tav’s face. He wondered how they would touch him. How those hands that gripped their weapon so tight, and the callouses at their palms, would feel against his cock. Gale whimpered at the thought. His hands were too soft to imagine it properly.

He thought of them being here, with him. Kissing them like he should have during that moment in the Weave. Touching their body as well as they moaned and whined under him. He could almost see it. Conjure it. But he would not insult Tav by making some malformed copy of them with magic. He wanted the real thing.

His fantasy continued until he came a third time, hot & sticky over his hand, and Gale seemed to calm down. Feeling finally sated for the first time in a long time. Who knew masturbation could be a form of self-care?

“Gale.”

The wizard jumped. His pliable peace ruined as he heard a familiar voice outside his tent. One he had just been fantasizing about moments ago. “Y-Yes?”

“I um…I just wanted to make sure you were ok. And see if you wanted anything for dinner?”

Gale was surprised as he didn’t realize how late it had gotten. “Oh. Dinner? No, not really. I can get started soon….”

“No, no! That wasn’t what I was asking. I can do it tonight. You just…if you need some time…we’ll be out here when you’re ready.”

He heard the shuffle of boots walk away from his tent. Their concern touched him. The clear worry in his voice over him pulling something in him that not only made his loins burn but his chest feel tight. But in a good way, not in the way this damned orb felt.

Gale decided then and there that he would not waste what little time he had left on wishes & fantasy. He would tell Tav how he felt. Then he could die without regret. He would just need to come up with a plan to tell them. Someone as beautiful, kind, and perfect as Tav deserved more than just a simple confession. The deserved the moon, the stars.

Gale’s eyes widened as he suddenly remembered a spell he’d created long ago. He’d have to remember how it was done but yes. Yes! That could work.

[tumbleweed-run]

To Distraction

(18+, Explicit)

Gale’s been busy the last tenday, to the point you’re wondering if he’s not bewitched. He’s spent most of his days and evening in his study face buried in some tome or another. When you’d asked him what caught his attention about two days into the obsession he’d tried to explain but had a fit of ‘idea’ mid explanation and wandered off. 

He’s not being unkind. You still get kisses when he wakes and whenever you wander into the room to see he’s at least eating and drinking. He still crawls into bed for a few hours every night and holds you close. He tells you he loves you when you walk in and out of rooms. He just isn’t present it seems. 

You love his focus and most of the time his drive to learn and understand all things magic. You understood this would happen, you’d seen it with the crown long before you’d ever set foot in Waterdeep. But you hadn’t realized just how much you’d miss him and his attentions. 

You’d be lying if you didn’t admit you also missed those attentions as well. 

In fact it’s been the entire tenday since the two of you were intimate. He barely sleeps as it is so propositioning him during the few hours your lying in bed together doesn’t seem the way to go. So you just haven’t been together in days. 

The idea sparks one morning as you’re perusing the shelves of his study while he’s completely lost within a book, the tea you brought him going cold on the desk. You find a book there. Not some archaic tome filled with the words of scholars but a rather modern little novel. A bawdy one at that. You surreptitiously slip it from the shelves and into your pocket. Though reasonably you probably could have told him you were taking it and he still wouldn’t have realized what you were doing. 

You spent much of the day reading Gale’s naughty little book of a lonely noblewoman and her black-hearted kidnapper turned seducer. It’s a raunchy book filled with explicit acts and does little to keep your mind from Gale. If anything, it makes the ache of missing him worse, well, it certainly makes the ache between your legs worse.

You’ve decided you’ve had enough. Gale is free to wrap himself up in whatever it is that’s caught his attention but not to the point he’s forgotten about you. 

That night you ignore your normal bedclothes in favor of a rather sheer nightgown. One better suited to a new bride on her wedding night. You’d felt silly buying it not long after moving to the city but it had been so lovely you couldn’t resist. Now you realize you’d given yourself an uncommon weapon against the loneliness you were feeling. 

When you slipped back into the study, Gale was writing something. He was surrounded by several candles to ward off the darkness of the evening, most of them close enough to pose a serious fire hazard to his clothes. 

“Good evening, my love,” He says, still focused on his desk. 

“Good evening,” you repeat, settling onto the little couch the two of you had dragged into the room.

Gale had wanted to make sure you could be comfortable in the room, give you a place to be when he was at the desk. It was a comfortable plush thing that was a dream to curl up on with a book or simply take a nap. More importantly, for tonight, Gale could see you from his desk. 

You rest back against the arm for a while, legs stretched out in front of you, watching him. No matter your apprehension about the sheer number of candles, the light did suit him unfairly. Then again you found most light suited him. 

You aren’t shy as you slowly begin dragging the hem of your nightgown up above your knees. Once it reaches your thighs you leave it rest, one hand continuing to trail upwards to your breast. You run a finger teasingly over a nipple coaxing it to hardness. 

Relaxing further back, you allow your head to rest on the arm of the sofa, no longer able to see Gale. Or see if Gale sees you. Even if he doesn’t right now, he will seen. 

You continue teasing your nipple, the hand on your thigh caressing gently. It’s not quite what you want. 

You want a much larger hand gently cupping your breast. You want its fingers, calloused from both weapons and quills, to be the ones gently pinching your nipple. Instead, it’s your smaller fingers making you gasp out loud as you do just that. 

Your other hand slowly makes its way up your thigh. You both do and don’t want to rush it, your toes curling into the soft cushion in agonizing anticipation. It feels a bit like torture to move so slowly but for every bit that this is for you it’s also for another reason. 

You close your eyes to resist lifting your head to see if he’s looking now. 

The thin fabric of your nightgown has been crumpled up to your waist. You draw up one knee and let the other fall open barely balanced on the sofa, baring yourself to the room. To him. 

You take a breath, trying to relax further. 

You slip a finger down in between your folds. You’re wet, you have been since finding that silly book. Or perhaps you have been for days because gods damnit why won't he touch you? Why has he somehow managed to ruin even touching yourself? 

Another breath. 

You imagine his hand, his fingers seeking out your clit to rub it in maddening little circles. 

You’re letting free shy little moans. The confidence you had in your plan is still there but its hard to undo a lifetime of modesty. 

It’s so easy to imagine it's him touching you while surrounded by so much of him. This room, even without Gale, would smell of him for years. 

You let your other hand drift to your ignored nipple. It’s already so hard that the fabric over your breast is pulled taut. You’re barely conscious of the whimper that is pulled from you when you flick your thumb across it. 

The fingers between your legs dip deeper, you press one inside of yourself. You can’t up but rock your hips into your hand, your one foot dropping to the floor to give you more room. You press your finger in as deep as the angle allows, moaning as the heel of your hand grinds into your clit. 

It’s the whisper of fabric against your leg that get you to open your eyes. 

Gale is standing above you. Eyes flicking between your hands as if he’s not really sure what he wants to watch the most. He’s looking at you with the same intensity with which you’ve seen him studying his books the last several days. 

Finally, finally, that beautiful brain is focused on you. 

He notices you watching him after a few moments. 

You boldly hold his gaze as you slip a second finger into yourself, the soft slick sounds brazenly announcing how wet you are. 

“Gale,” you whimper pinching your nipple.

He drops to his knees as if they’ve buckled out from under him at the sound of his name on your lips. You wince slightly for him. 

His gaze finally settles between your legs. He’s frozen that way for a second just watching you fuck yourself with your fingers. But then he reaches out and grabs your wrist, stilling your movements. 

“May I?” It’s more of a breath than a question. 

You consider being cruel and denying him his request but in the end it’s your own selfish desire for him that wins over. 

You slip your fingers out from between your thighs but before you can make any kind of decision Gale’s grip on your wrist guides them to his lips. 

Without hesitation and without shame he sucks them into his mouth. You both moan when he does. You can’t move, can’t think, as you watch him greedily clean the wetness from your fingers. 

Fuck, oh fuck.

You understand some things about men all of a sudden. 

He works on your fingers long enough that surely the only thing that could be left on them is his own saliva. Only then does he let you pull them from his mouth. 

He rests on hand on your knee and looks to you in silently pleading. As if there were any way you could possibly tell him no. 

You nod weakly. 

He positively dives into you with his mouth and the noise that comes out of yours is inhuman. 

He works on your clit with his tongue like a man starved. As if he’s decided the only thing that could possibly sustain him were your moans. He grabs your hips and drags you further towards him forcing your one leg to drape over his shoulder. 

You think you might die. 

You’re certain you will when he presses one of those fingers you were fantasizing about early into you. 

He’s near frenzied with how he fucks you with his mouth and fingers and yet no less skilled. 

Somehow in your fog you realize he’s moaning, his body rocking ever so slightly. And you realize, he’s touching himself as he devours you. 

It’s enough to push you over the edge. 

Your back bows and you can’t help but tangle your hands in his hair, drawing him even closer, grinding against his tongue and fingers as the waves of your climax take you. 

He stays there happily until you push him away, everything becoming too much all of a sudden. 

You’re panting as you reach for him and when you drag him to you, you find he is too. 

You kiss him until you no longer taste yourself. Until it’s just Gale on your tongue.

You reach down to grab him. Instead of finding him achingly hard he’s already beginning to soften. 

You pull back and raise an eyebrow. 

He clears his throat, a light pink color dusts his cheeks. “It’s ah, been a while,” he admits bashfully. 

“Who’s fault is that?” You meant it as a tease but the tone is just a touch to heavy for that. 

He has the decency to look properly chastised. You can see him mulling it over in his head before he abruptly stands tucking himself back into his pants. 

He nods. 

Then abruptly you’re lifted from the sofa. You squeak, arms flailing as you grab for his shoulders. 

“Allow me to properly make my amends,” he says searching your eyes. 

“I thought you just did?” You’re certain he did, even your imagination isn’t that good. 

Perhaps it's the way a candle flame catches in his eyes, or maybe it’s a flicker of mischief. “I believe I have several days to make amends for.”

[yourfriendowlbear]

Name Day

Astarion x gn!reader

Summary: It's your name day. Astarion wants to do something special for you.

today is my birthday, so I figured I'd write something a little self-indulgent

It’s your name day, and Astarion has been frantic

He doesn’t remember much about his life before Cazador, but he knows that birthdays are a big fucking deal for elves

And whether you’re an elf or not, he wants to do something. If you are an elf, it’s all the more important for him to celebrate accordingly.

He’s freaking out. What in the hells does he do for you? What in the hells can he get you? 

He’s more than happy to buy you anything–he’s more than happy to steal you anything, but you have everything reasonable that you could want.

Nothing seems good enough for you. He knows that you’ll more than likely love whatever he ends up with, but that doesn’t mean he’s cutting himself any slack.

He’s so desperate that he goes to Gale. He’s got ideas, but he’s just a vampire with limited resources and limited nighttime hours. He knows when he’s at a disadvantage, and though he’s loathe to ask for help, he isn’t willing to fumble this.

So he convinces you to visit Waterdeep and to drop in on your wizard friend, who has insisted on numerous occasions that you’re more than welcome at his tower any time.

It takes a few days, but Gale does manage to enchant something for Astarion to gift you. The wizard had helped him plan it, and he’d basically had to create the enchantment from the ground up. It’s beautiful, and he absolutely cannot wait to give it to you.

The day of your birthday arrives, and you’re at your shared home in Bloomridge, in the Lower City of Baldur’s Gate. The house–like many of the homes in the neighborhood–is built onto the side of the city wall. It’s small but not cramped, with a large, inviting kitchen, a cozy drawing room, and two bedrooms. Two balconies–one off the main bedroom, one off the drawing room–look out over the city and Grey Harbor.

Astarion is nervous, and he’s never been more glad to not have a heart, since it would probably give him away.

It’s evening. The two of you have just gotten up. You’re sitting out on the balcony, curled up on the outdoor settee. There’s a lantern hanging on a hook above you as you read. Astarion’s arm rests around your shoulders, a book clasped in his other hand. You’re nestled into his side, a barely held together ancient tome in your lap. Scratch lays on the ground in front of the settee, head on his paws.

A raucous laughter pierces through the foggy evening. Karlach and Lae’zel are the first to appear on the stairs.

Leave it to your merry band of misfits to disrupt the peace of your little neighborhood.

You’re off the couch and at the front door in a flash. Scratch gives a confused woof before trotting off after you. Astarion can hear you laughing as you let them all in.

By the time he can see you at the door, you’re being squeezed by Karlach. Gale stands, grinning, in the hall. Wordlessly, he nudges a package into Astarion’s hands.

Wyll has brought a cake. Lae’zel carries something that looks strangely like a sword wrapped in paper. Shadowheart has a little box.

As you lead them all in, Gale hands you a large bottle of Blackstaff wine.

You drink and laugh with these people who, over the course of only a few months, became your best friends. And as much as Astarion hates to admit it, he loves them for showing up for you.

Eventually, Karlach pushes you to open the presents they’ve brought. 

As expected, Lae’zel has brought you a Githyanki sword, a traditional gift for warriors on their name days. Shadowheart has brought you a necklace that she’s blessed.

Astarion saves his for last, sliding it into your lap when you’re laughing at something Wyll has said, your voices all a little louder from the wine. You look at him, a little confused, but you tear the paper off anyway.

You’re even more confused when you discover six stone tablets and wooden styluses inside.

Gale takes pity on you, and picks one up, using the stylus to write ‘happy name day, tav’ on one of the slates. You gasp when it appears on the other five almost immediately.

“So you can talk with everyone when you need to,” Astarion explains. He hates how soft his voice sounds, but gods above, he put a lot of thought into this. He so desperately wants you to like it.

But his fears evaporate when you launch out of your chair, your arms wrapping around his neck in a tight hug. 

He laughs and hugs you back, relieved that, for once, he could give you something nice, something you deserve, so that he could show you just how cared for you are.

[rosieofcorona]

All We Do Not Say

Hi beloveds! I have crafted a soft little Gale fic for you because it's my firm belief that everyone's favorite wizard deserves all the warmth in the world. 😌 Also on AO3, if you prefer. As always, thank you for reading. 💕

There was a time in his life that Gale could sleep anywhere, provided he had a good book and a space to sit down. 

In Waterdeep, he might wake in his armchair or on his balcony with the weight of an ancient tome still resting in his lap, or at his desk, his cheek pressed against parchment. The smell of it, of ink and lignin, would bring him back to his senses before his eyes were fully open, and he’d recall what he’d been studying, and begin reading again. 

At home, in his tower, he could do this night after night and still feel mostly rested come morning. 

But he is far from his tower, and farther each day.

Perhaps it is the orb that keeps him up as of late, with its insatiable, unnatural hunger, or perhaps it is the tadpole that wriggles and pulses impatiently inside his skull. Or it could, he supposes, be the simpler and less curable matter of aging– an affliction that seems, on occasion, more frightening than either of the others. 

Whatever the cause of his recent insomnia, it pulls Gale into a rather distressing cycle– he cannot sleep, so he cannot focus, so he cannot read, so he cannot sleep. 

Instead, he finds himself offering to keep watch over camp in the evenings, if only for the distraction. The far-off gibbering of a newborn gnoll, the crunch of foliage under goblin feet, an animal scream– each night a fresh and distant horror calls his mind away from greater threats, from illithids and tadpoles and gods.

It’s an odd remedy, he knows. But the alternative is lying awake in his tent, turning death over and over in his mind until the thought is worn smooth as a river stone. 

It works well for a time, keeps his mind on the present and off of some vague, future doom.

That is, at least, until they reach the Underdark. 

Deep beneath Faerûn, there is something profoundly disturbing about the lack of…well, everything. They find no grand cities or quaint little villages, few animals and even fewer people. 

No trees, no light. No sky. 

Most nights spent underground are so quiet that Gale may as well stay in his bedroll, staring up at a canopy of fabric, dark as the velvet earth above them. 

He thinks, It is like being buried alive, without even the stars to bear witness. 

On these nights he can feel the stones in his head turning over.

Even so, come the evening (or what he guesses is evening), Gale volunteers to stand sentinel for the fifth time in a tenday. 

He always asks them after dinner, when his companions are most likely to agree, after his cooking has warmed them and filled their bellies and made them want nothing more than to close their eyes and dream of somewhere, anywhere else. 

Tav is the only one who protests with any frequency, the only one who seems to notice that the circles under his eyes are half a shade darker than they were yesterday, when they were half a shade darker than the day before. 

Even on nights when she convinces someone else to take his place, he will relieve them after Tav has gone to sleep. 

It starts the same way every time. 

Gale walks the perimeter in an infinite loop, looking for life in the darkness, illuminated only by the fire in the center of their camp. It makes him feel like a distant planet, nearly untouched by the sun. How strange to think that he’d once felt like the sun itself. 

He continues in his orbit until the subterranean cold gnaws at his limbs. It bites down hard on his nose and ears and fingers, chases him back to the fire, back to the light. 

Hypnotized by the flames and their radiant warmth, he does not hear the quiet stirring in the tent beyond his own, doesn’t hear the soft approach of nimble feet. 

A voice comes to him out of the darkness.

“I hope you’re not keeping watch again.” 

“Mystra,” Gale gasps, startled, the goddess’s name invoked in equal parts a prayer, a curse.

“Forgive me,” Tav says, through a laugh she cannot help. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” If it were anyone else he might be annoyed, or even a little embarrassed– but the sound of her laughter bubbles like seafoam over sand, rushes over and around him. Coupled with the relief that she is not some dreadful creature of the Underdark, he finds it difficult to feel anything besides affection. 

“It’s quite alright,” he recovers, with a shake of his head. “You surprised me, that’s all.”

“Then I really hope you’re not keeping watch.” 

She is teasing him now, just lightly, a familiar spark of warmth behind her eyes. 

It is the same look she gives him when she brings him a new book, or when he cooks for her, or when he tells her about Waterdeep. It is the same look she gave him earlier in the day, when she had offered to brew him a tea that might help him to sleep.

Gale has trouble remembering the last time another looked at him this way, so interested and inviting and earnest. 

Perhaps, he thinks, another never has. 

“Are you alright?” Tav asks, when he’s been quiet for too long.  

“Of course,” he says with the sincerity of a promise, offered with a smile that he hopes will be convincing. “Just lost in thought.” 

There is a part of him that doesn’t want to leave it there, that wants to share his every thought with her, his every terror, every dream. She must know that there is more to it, must’ve learned by now to recognize when Gale isn’t telling her everything, but he is grateful that she doesn’t press him, never presses him. 

Instead she breaks into a grin and says, “You’re lucky I’m not a bulette.” 

“I’m lucky they’re not so light-footed. What are you doing up, anyway?”

“The cold always wakes me, sooner or later,” Tav sighs. “If I’d known it was so godsdamned frigid down here, I might’ve nicked a fur or two from the Zhent.” 

It’s Gale’s turn to laugh, though she’s only half-joking. 

She’s drawn near to him, to the flames, her palms outstretched, her fingers spread wide as if to grab hold of as much warmth as possible. 

“But it’s alright,” she continues, “So as long as I’m close to the fire.” 

“Any closer and you’ll be in it, I’m afraid. Perhaps I can help.” 

Tav tilts her head and quirks an eyebrow in a curious little expression. “Can you?”

“If you’ll allow me.” 

Gale turns to face her fully, and she mirrors him out of instinct. 

“Hold out your hands to me,” he says. “Palms together, just barely. Like you’re praying.” 

“Like this?” “Like that.” 

The spell is one his mother taught him, among the first he’d ever learned. 

He still remembers that winter in Waterdeep, when the snow fell hard and fast. When the ice in the harbor kept the ships at arm’s length and the frozen streets shone like glass. He was young then, six or seven, but even now he can feel his small hands in Morena’s, warmed by a word and a touch. 

Warm and fed, she used to tell him. That’s how you show someone they’re loved. 

Gale cages Tav’s hands lightly in his own, the way he might hold a butterfly. He pushes all thoughts of winter away and calls to mind the rippling heat of summer, an orchard grown fat with peaches, the silvery shimmer of sweat on skin. 

The rose-petal flush of a cheek cradled in a hand, her cheek, his hand…

“Calor aestas,” he says quietly, when the image comes into clear view. He feels the cold melt from her fingers, hears the comfortable sigh that follows. “Better?”

“Yes,” she murmurs. “Much.” 

She is looking at him now with an intensity he has not seen since the night he first showed her the Weave, all that time ago. The night he saw her thoughts laid bare, had all but felt her lips on his. 

Had she seen them now, the visions he had conjured? Had she felt him pull her close in his own mind?

Tav clears her throat softly and he comes back to himself, his heartbeat thrashing wildly in his chest. He realizes with some urgency that he has not let her go and pulls back suddenly, but not without reluctance. 

“I hope,” he swallows, trying to compose himself. “I hope it helps you sleep.” 

“Do you want me to stay up with you?”

Yes, he thinks selfishly, Yes. Stay up with me, stay close to me, always. 

He shakes his head instead. “You should rest while the spell holds.”

“And how long is that?”

“As long as I’m able to concentrate.” 

He will think of her hands and their pull on a bowstring, their pluck of a lyre, their grip on a sword. How they weave her own magic, how they cradle a book. How they felt clasped in his, soft and cold. 

A focus worth holding, at last. 

“Only if it’s no trouble,” she says. 

“None at all.” 

Gale is grateful that he manages to stop himself, for once, from saying the rest of the thought as it enters his head. I would think of you anyway, magic or no.  

Tav takes his hand in hers again, this time to squeeze it fondly.

For a moment, he feels that if he were to die just now– from the orb, from the tadpole, in the jaws of a hungry bulette– it would all have been worth it, for this. 

“Thank you, Gale.”

Her smile is warmer than any summer he remembers, brighter than any star he can name.

[freaky-deaky-cookies]

Can we get a Gale x fem or gm reader who like dot where cutesy/silly pajamas? Like they show up wearing bunny or fruit patterns camp clothes? (Or whatever pattern you want.) thanks!

Gale x GN Reader who wears cutesy/funny pajamas!

After the battle with the Neatherbrain, and dealing with Mystra you and Gale are finally getting some much needed rest. Tonight marks the first night that the two of you will share in his tower in Waterdeep. After a good hot bath, you decide to bring out your comfiest pajamas. You saw them in the market, while getting some much needed groceries for the tower, and could not pass them up. They are so soft! They are a very pretty shade of purple adorned with the cutest white bunnies and to top it all off, you even convinced the shopkeep to throw in a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers.

As you walk towards yours and Gale’s shared room you hear him humming to himself while preparing for bed. You tap on the doorframe to avoid startling him. Once he turns and sees what you dressed yourself up in, an unmistakable shade of red consumes his face. 

“Oh Tav! What a beautiful sight you are.” Gale says walking towards you. “Do you like them? After everything that has happened, I think some extra comfort is necessary.” You smile at him. “I cannot say I disagree, my sweet, at moments like this I feel as if time stops and it is only us in this world.” Gale whispers to you as he pulls you into a quick kiss.

“I must say, we have to go back to the market tomorrow! I’m almost jealous!” Gale jokes. “Whatever you wish, my love, in fact you may look even better than I do in them” you giggle. 

With a plan in place for tomorrow, you both crawl into bed. A blissful sleep takes you both, as you cuddle in one another's arms.

[amorgansgal]

When Shall We Meet Again?

We're at part 4 of this ongoing fic and I am having a blast! If you've not read part 1 (Practice Makes Perfect), part 2 (A Bitter Pill to Swallow) and part 3 (Such Sweet Sorrow) I'd recommend it. We're now following the events of BG3 if you squint because obviously you and Gale have history and there'll be a lot of things he either won't hide from you or will reveal sooner, so I'm messing around with the timeline and dialogue just a little bit. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Gale x Fat Female Reader/Tav

The whirling vortex of what had been a sigil sparked and hummed with magic and it seemed that neither you, Astarion nor Shadowheart were particularly willing to touch it. Given all that had happened you could hardly blame anyone. 

“Perhaps we could poke it with a stick,” you suggested and Astarion chuckled drolly. 

“I doubt that would help matters much!”

“Look, why don’t you touch it, and I’ll heal you if you need it,” Shadowheart suggested.

“And if I get blasted to pieces?” you asked. 

“We’ll make sure to pick them all up and put you back together! Parasite tadpole and all!” Astarion said.

You rolled your eyes, but perhaps that age old Waterdeep Academy curiosity got the better of you and you gave it a tentative poke with one finger. The magic fizzled up your arm like a bolt of electricity, it sent both a rush of excitement and sharp needles of pain dancing through your skin and blood. You shook your hand to get rid of the sensation and then were all too surprised when someone else’s hand suddenly appeared from the deep black pit of the sigil. 

“A hand, anyone!” a disembodied voice called out. Strangely, their voice was oddly familiar, but you couldn’t quite place where you knew it from. You frowned, trying to think why it rang a bell. But nothing came to mind. You did your best to calm the magic first, trying to get a control of it before touching it.

“Whatever you’re doing is working wonders!” the stranger cried out in encouragement and you smiled a little at the praise. But now it was time to try and free said stranger, so you grabbed hold of the hand and pulled. The magic had a strong hold on them, but then like a plug being released from a sink, they suddenly came loose and you were bowled over backwards as said person landed on you with a heavy thud.

“Ooof!” you exclaimed. 

“Gods, I am sorry, I’m usually better at this,” he said, getting off you and offering you a hand. You managed to sit up and look at him, but it suddenly hit you where and why and how you knew him. Gale. Gale Dekarios. It felt unreal to see him again, but you’d recognise those brown eyes anywhere. He was still handsome, even with age lines around his eyes and mouth, and with a few grey hairs in his chestnut brown hair. Truth be told, you thought he looked better than when he had been a youth, somehow he had grown into his face more. You weren’t quite sure if the same could be said for you! You realised you were still sat on the ground, eyes fixed on him, while he awkwardly held out his hand. Did he not recognise you? Had he forgotten you?

“Hello,” he greeted you cheerfully, offering the hand again. “I’m Gale of Waterdeep.”

“Y/N are you going to get up or do you plan on making things as awkward as possible?” Astarion muttered.

Gale’s eyes suddenly filled with recognition, which was quickly followed by a tremulous mix of excitement and apprehension. “Did you attend Waterdeep Academy?” he asked, you managed a nod and he beamed. “Y/N! I never thought I’d see you again, but you look well. Very well… barring the tadpole in your head I imagine. Do you remember me?”

“Yes, of course I do, Gale.” You took hold of his hand, not wanting to leave him hanging any longer and he helped you to your feet. He was still holding your hand and gave you a warm smile as his eyes scanned your face. 

“How was Neverwinter?” he asked. “I did write to you, but I guess… I guess you were busy.”

“Good, good…” you said, then trailed off into silence. You didn’t know what to say. What you could talk about with Gale. It had been so long, but all the same complicated feelings had rushed back in a matter of seconds. You remembered the kisses you had shared, his head buried between your legs… Oh gods, the tadpole connection! You immediately tried to think about anything else.  

“We saw a lot of mountains!” you exclaimed. Astarion snorted with laughter and Gale smiled politely, though you could see there was just a little hint of pride and heat in his gaze.

“Sounds fascinating,” Gale said. 

“Not that I don’t love crashing a clearly messy and emotionally fraught reunion, but would you care to introduce us, Y/N?” Astarion prompted.

“Of course, sorry,” you muttered, your cheeks felt hot and you apprehensively tugged on your neckline. “This is Gale, he and I attended Waterdeep Academy together. Gale, this is Astarion and Shadowheart.”

“I thought it may be prudent to speak with you before any other awkward situations arise,” Gale said, when you finally made it back to camp and the others had gone on ahead to their own tents or bedrolls for the evening.

“I’m sorry Gale, I didn’t mean to think of the past and you in that way-”

He raised a hand. “Not at all, I don't mind. Hells, if anything I’m rather flattered I was memorable in that way! It’s just that… well… I know that I ruined what could’ve been a perfectly good friendship and made you feel that you had no choice but to run. I’m sorry, I was a young, stubbornly romantic fool that couldn’t see the harm in what he was doing. It was never my intention to make you feel uncomfortable, but I did and I want you to know I’m a very different Gale to my stupid 20-something self.”

You smiled, a lot of time had passed and you knew what Gale had done was never done out of maliciousness. You held no il-will against him. “It’s alright Gale, we’ve both grown and changed, though I appreciate the apology. I’m sure we can still be friends.”

His eyes crinkled at the corner when he smiled and you felt your heart flutter. “I would like that,” he said.

“We’ve got a lot to catch up on,” you said and began walking with him towards the campfire. “Last I heard you had been chosen by Mystra and allowed to visit her hallowed halls, that must’ve been something! What was it like?”

You glanced over to Gale, but instead of seeing his usual excited expression and thrilled smile in getting to talk about something he was passionate about, his brow was furrowed, his eyes lost to the past and his mouth was a tight line. You felt tempted to reach out and touch his hand to bring him back to the present, but you stopped yourself.

“Oh it was something alright,” he muttered. He looked back up at you and gave a grim smile. “It is late and you are probably tired, I’ll find a spot to set up my bedroll and we’ll speak further in the morning.”

Honestly, the dismissal surprised you more than anything. He seemed so excited to find out you were someone he knew from his past, but now he was quickly scurrying away from you and being oddly secretive about what had occurred during the years you’d been apart. You frowned, you could guess it had something to do with Mystra, but you couldn’t imagine she was displeased with him. Gale had always worked so hard and been so dedicated to becoming the greatest archmage the world had ever seen. Why would Mystra not want him as her student? But you decided to not press matters further and instead took your spot by the fire.

You recognised the woman he had summoned in the palm of his hand. She glimmered beautifully, the magic sparkling in the low evening light and forming the easily recognisable face of the goddess Mystra. She had statues all over the Waterdeep Academy campus and many students carried pendants or medallions with her face or symbol carved into them. Gale was entranced, his eyes fixed on her, though you could see a glimmer of pain in his gaze as he looked upon her.

“Gale,” you murmured and he jumped, quickly dismissing the magic and putting his hand behind his back, as though he were a child caught sneaking biscuits from a jar.

“Oh! My! You startled me!” he said. “I…uh… I was miles away.”

“That was Mystra,” you pointed out.

“Yes… yes, it was.”

You waited to see if he would offer an explanation, but he only looked at you and the silence stretched on. The campsite was quiet, the only noises were the chirp of crickets, the gurgling of the nearby river and Scratch gnawing on a bone.

“What happened with her?” you finally asked.

Gale gave a nervous, sheepish laugh. “I… well, I’ve told you about the orb.”

“Yes,” you prompted. Your heart had bled for him when you realised what an awful secret he carried with him and how he had finally come to you, desperate for any magic item you might carry to soothe the dangerous magic that had lodged itself in his chest. You’d gladly parted with a necklace that gave the wearer the ability to misty step - given that was already a spell you could do, you saw no reason to keep it - but it had bothered you how Gale had been cursed by such magic. And it bothered you more by how guarded he was being with you when you just wanted to help figure out how to rid him of said curse.

“Well… I left out some details…” And with that he explained all, told you how much he idolised Mystra. How he had been her student, had been inspired by her and then become her lover. You flinched at that. Gale had said you two could be friends and you hadn’t pushed for anything beyond the occasional little flirtatious remarks you both partook in, but somehow… knowing he had shared the bed of a goddess… how could you compete with that? Whatever flicker of desire he had once held for you, must’ve surely been doused by Mystra’s grace and beauty. 

And he had wanted to impress her, to please her, to be everything to her. He wanted to show her that he could do anything, that he could handle more power and so he had pursued the fragmented, broken weave - thinking it would convince her and she would be so utterly amazed and impressed by him, that she would be swayed and give him more magic. His words sent a shiver down your spine, there was something dark and foreboding about the way Gale had greedily snatched for greatness, even if he had good intentions initially. You got the sense he had gone after the missing bit of weave more for his own benefit than Mystra’s.

“And then she left me, abandoned me, the orb lodged in my chest. She wouldn’t speak to me, she wouldn’t answer me when I called upon her. Tara was going here, there and everywhere to find magical items that it could feed upon. But I knew it was getting more and more impossible. I was determined to make my way to the Underdark and wait down there, wait for my end, away from civilisation, away from anyone I could hurt.”

You were left reeling, you knew Mystra could be harsh at times, downright cruel at others, but you hadn’t expected her to be so callous and to risk so many lives. You suddenly felt angry. Not only at Mystra abandoning Gale and leaving him to his fate. But how she had in effect risked the lives of everyone around Gale’s tower. He couldn’t know for sure when his orb might explode and what if he had wiped out the entirety of Waterdeep? Was Mystra perfectly fine with the idea that he could’ve killed thousands and destroyed one of her most beloved cities that dedicated itself to her worship and trained dozens of aspiring wizards, just because her previous chosen had made a mistake? A stupid mistake, but a mistake nonetheless.  That wasn’t to say Gale was entirely innocent in the situation. He’d been foolhardy and overly ambitious, but you still felt bad for him. Especially as he had locked himself away for years, pushing away all of his friends and colleagues. How lonely he must’ve been.

He sighed heavily, but then looked up at you and smiled. “But now… now I’m here and you’re here, and it does feel good to see you. I hadn’t realised it, but I missed you. Missed you so ardently. You have this lovely small smile that you do when you think no one is watching, but I see it. And it brings me such joy.”

Your cheeks flushed at Gale’s warm gaze and the sweet sentiment in his voice at noticing something you felt was rather insignificant about you, but it sent your heart racing. You exhaled slowly and tried your best to focus on what had been discussed prior.

“Why didn’t you tell me about all of this? Why didn’t you write to me?” you asked. You would’ve come to help, or at least keep him company or looked for magical items with Tara, maybe even tried to find a cure.

Gale managed a sad smile. “You’d ignored my previous letters. I didn’t exactly have the impression you would’ve dropped everything to come and help the foolish boy who got too excited at the very first glimmer of romance and love.”

“Gale, you were still my friend, I would’ve helped no matter what.”

He gave a shrug. “Not to mention I still had some hope that Mystra would forgive me and writing to an ex-flame didn’t seem the best way of winning her forgiveness.”

You scowled at the mention of Mystra again. Gale seemed so utterly convinced that she would be petty enough to not grant her forgiveness if he had anything to do with someone he’d had a previous relationship with. She had seemed intent on both abandoning him and leaving him without any source of comfort or aid from anyone else he knew.

“But, let us think on other things,” he said, suddenly enthusiastic and cheerful. “Do you remember how in one class we learnt to channel the weave all together?”

You thought back on that class. It had been an incredible class and your professor had told you to tread carefully, to not pry into someone else’s thoughts and be careful what you yourself transferred across to them. You’d been paired with Nira and even without any romantic feelings it had still been an intense experience, a feeling of being pulled together, the weave entwining around you, becoming a part of you, becoming you and the other person and every person in that room. You had looked over to Gale, who was with Hortense, to see the girl’s face redden and her furtive smile made you wonder what he had thought about. Only later did you figure it out. 

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, how about we do that again? Give us something else to think about than Mystra!”

“You want to channel the weave - something Mystra controls - in order to not think about Mystra?” you pointed out.

“I want to channel the weave to remember what channelling the weave felt like and also remember my happy school days with you.”

“We didn’t channel the weave together-”

“No, but we got on, didn’t we? You beat me at alchemy, remember? I sometimes made you laugh, if memory serves. I read to you at the beach.”

You hesitated. He had made you laugh, though he’d made a good many people laugh and you hadn’t thought he had wanted to make you laugh in particular. You remembered your days off, where your study group would all trek down to the beach, following the sandy cliff path through bracken and heather, dust covering your shoes and the gorse scratching your clothes or bare legs. When you arrived at the beach you would watch the others swim, too nervous to take off your clothes and see the scorn in your friends’ eyes. Gale had often kept you company during that time, though he had mostly read his books. You had just thought he hadn’t cared much for swimming, though you liked hearing him read bits of the books aloud to you and when he asked for your ideas on the topics, it was a good way to pass the time there. It had been nice to talk to him like that, though you had been very shy then and couldn’t quite believe Mystra’s chosen deigned to speak to you.

“Very well,” you said and gestured for him to begin the magic.

It was entrancing, the weave flowed around you both, a purple stream glimmering and shivering, merging and folding, expanding and withdrawing. You reached out to touch it, the edges fizzed with different colours - blues and greens and silver and little sparks of black and gold. As your eyes followed the ever moving river of magic, you finally looked back at Gale, his eyes were fixed on you and he smiled. The weave swirled within you. Had you always been so close to him? You felt him in the weave, connected to you, part of you. It felt like a dream and yet also, so real and present and here. He was here and you were here and the weave was pulling your souls together. Gale was looking at you, drinking you in, his eyes were soft and dreamy and his lips were parted, and you imagined kissing him, tasting him again, feeling the warm brush of his beard against your cheek, his hands drifting down your back and waist and holding you close to him again.

Gale’s eyes widened and you realised all too quickly that you had transferred that thought, that you had let him know you had dreamt about the last kiss he had given you and that you fantasised about him kissing you now. You felt his surprise, but it was swiftly followed by a rush of his elation. Did he want you to kiss him? You cut the connection, pulling away and the coldness of the night enveloped you, after the warmth and security of the weave it felt empty and hollow. He was still so close to you, if you wished you could have bridged the gap and kissed him, instead you looked down to your feet, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled. 

“Don’t be,” he said. “Like I said, I’m not the foolish youth you once knew. It was a pleasant image and I don’t resent you for sharing it with me. It was most pleasant in fact, most welcome. I had feared for a long time you still might resent me for what happened at the Waterdeep Academy and I wouldn’t blame you for it-”

“Resent you? Gale we were both young and silly and overwhelmed by every new emotion. You’ve apologised for what happened, more times than I can count and you’ve been nothing but good and kind and respectful now. I’d be a fool to resent you.”

“Well…” he gave a shrug, then looked at you, seemingly content to stay where he was. Then finally he asked, “Is it very bad I want to kiss you right now?”

You blinked in surprise and then pressed your lips tightly together, trying not to reveal your excitement at the thought. Your heart was pounding in your chest. “I wouldn’t have thought I could compare to a goddess. I certainly didn’t compare to most of the women at the academy.”

Gale’s expression flickered quickly from outrage to distress as though he was appalled you would think so little of yourself. “What do you…That’s insane… Have you seen yourself?” he demanded.

“Yes, if anything I’ve seen a little too much of myself and if you recall it was part of the reason why a good many of my classmates thought the idea of you courting someone like me was absurd!”

Gale’s frown remained and he exhaled slowly as though calming himself, but his hand balled into a fist. He was silent for a moment, until he said, “I think you beautiful, whether you see that or no, and I never cared what anyone else thought nor did I think it absurd I would fall for a woman who was gentle, sweet, kind, caring and so smart. So wondrously and impossibly smart.” 

You had to look away from his gaze, you were so touched by what he said and now your mind was racing with ‘what ifs’. What if you hadn’t rejected him at the Academy? What if you hadn’t run away to Neverwinter? What if you had pursued a relationship with him? Would he have become Mystra’s lover? Would he have got an orb lodged in his chest? Would you both be here now with tadpoles in your heads?

“Sorry, that was too much, wasn’t it? But you are all those things and there’s no expectation on my part for you to say or do anything-” Gale rambled on and you knew there wasn’t any point in denying how you felt about him, especially if still felt the same way about you. You closed the gap and pulled him into a kiss, your hand curled into his hair and he let out a little soft groan. His hands cupped your face and he met your kisses with the same intensity and passion as he had when you were younger.

When you finally broke apart he didn’t demand you come to his bed, just stroked your cheeks. “You are perfect, you’ve always been perfect. Anyway, best I head to bed, don’t want to excite the orb too much! Goodnight,’ he said and gave you one last kiss, before heading over to his tent.

[gingerbreadmonsters]

better half

or: here comes the... um...

gn!reader, strong language and innuendo, good old-fashioned fluffy stuff. my undying love and gratitude to the gang over on discord who have kept me sane for the last two months or so - @zozo-01 @pinksparkl and @autisticempathydaemon i would be LOST without you!! a veritable tropefest of all my favourites - just don't ask me when it's set, i beg. astarion taking matters into his own hands in 20,700 words or less.

“No, no, do go on. And the marigolds?”

Dear gods.

“Well, they’re a fine variety, to be sure - and fresh as anything, just come in this morning from-”

It was the right thing to say - the man keeps talking, voice lifted slightly over the bustle of the market as he chatters on about petal density and stem texture and who knows else. You’re only half-listening, nodding along and making encouraging little noises whenever he starts to run out of steam, but you’re not really paying attention.

You’d only come to this damned city in search of some complicated magical artefact that Gale’s been wanting - according to him, there’d been an auction back in Waterdeep not long after he left, and the nobleman who’d bought it arrived back home here just a few weeks ago. As luck would have it, he’s throwing a party in a little less than a tenday’s time for a bunch of the city’s rich folk, so naturally you’ll be taking advantage of the distraction to quietly sneak in and steal the artefact when nobody’s looking.

Or at least, that had been the plan, until closer inspection had revealed some pretty nasty enchantments protecting the manor from intruders. Gale and Shadowheart had both had a look, and agreed that while they could probably break them, given enough time, it wouldn’t exactly be discreet - rather, it’d probably set half the house on fire or something equally ridiculous. You’d all been standing around a few streets away, trying to figure out a plan for how exactly you were going to pull this off, when-

Really, now. Did they teach you idiocy at wizard school, or did it just come naturally?

You’d turned, surprised - Astarion, appearing out of thin air and self-satisfied as ever, swanning past Gale with a dismissive flutter of his fingers. I don’t suppose you’d know, but some of us have actually been to parties before.

Ignoring the affronted squawking from behind him, he’d dropped an expensive-looking roll of paper into your surprised hands, before looking down at you expectantly. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be an invitation to the manor, addressed to some minor lord you’d never heard of.

How on earth…? You’d been shocked at his good fortune - what are the odds he’d run into someone carrying an invitation for a party that’s happening days from now? Where did you-?

All taken care of, darling, he’d said dismissively, even though you could see the smug smile tugging just slightly at the corner of his mouth. A word in the right ear is a wonderful thing. We won’t be interrupted, believe me.

It had been that sort of smile - you’d said a silent prayer for whatever poor soul he’d lifted the invite off of. ‘We’?

Please. As much as I’m sure Lae’zel would love to spend an evening hanging off my arm - he’d dodged the kick to his shins with infuriating grace - I think we both know that the answer is obvious.

He’d gestured to the paper in your hand - ah. You hadn’t seen that part.

What say you, dearest? he’d said with a bow, taking your free hand with a princely flourish and laying a delicate kiss against your knuckles. Shadowheart had rolled her eyes at Astarion’s antics, mouthing something at you from over his shoulder before turning to start herding the others back towards the tavern you’re staying at. Fancy an evening as my beloved?

Obviously, there was no way this could possibly go wrong. You’d replied with your best Astarion impression, gasping in theatrical shock and trying desperately not to laugh. You could at least ask me properly, you know.

We’ve no time for courtship, sweetheart, he’d groaned as if in pain, kissing further and further up your wrist, your forearm, your elbow. I simply must have you - and tonight, no less!

Tonight? At least wait ‘til we’re wedded, dear, you’d gasped in return, smacking him in the shoulder and utterly failing to hide your grin. I’ll have the ring first, then we’ll see.

Conniving little magpie. He’d said it like he’s any better, the bastard. Is that how I’ll win your heart, then? Dangling sparkly trinkets over your head, putting a shiny ring on your finger?

The others are long forgotten, vague shadows in the street. If it were from you, my lord? Nothing would please me more.

He’d raised a single, silver eyebrow, something unreadable sitting just behind his smile. Nothing, you say?

Well. You’d shrugged as he laughed at your faux-serious expression, looking him up and down with an exaggerated leer. I can think of at least one thing…

He’d been about to reply, but you’d caught sight of Karlach halfway down the street behind his shoulder, leaning over to Wyll and whispering something with a chuckle. At that distance, you hadn’t been able to make it out, but that’s what vampires are for - Astarion’s jaw had dropped theatrically with an indignant I heard that, you-!

An unapologetic middle finger from Karlach, and an outraged huff from Astarion as he took your arm and started after them. Defend my honour, won’t you, my love?

For sweet Astarion, paragon of innocence? Dragged laughing after him by the elbow, you’d not really had much of a chance to protest, but it’s not like you were going to anyway. Why, always.

Yesterday evening and today have been dedicated to prepping the pair of you for this little mission, and you really can’t tell if you’re more excited or terrified of the whole thing. Is it a bad idea? Yes. Is it a ridiculous solution to the problem? Yes. Are you going to do something that inevitably gets you both discovered and kicked out of the house empty-handed at best, or run through with something sharp at worst? Almost certainly.

That being said…

What’s the right way to put it? It’s not good for you, to be doing this. It’s not going to do you any favours. It’ll be nice at first, but when the glamour falls away, it’ll hurt even more than it did before.

You like him. Or maybe you don’t. Or maybe you’re scared of what liking him might mean, so you’re trying desperately to convince yourself that there’s nothing out of the ordinary about the way you like him. It could mean anything, the way your eyes always seem to fall upon him first. It could mean anything, the way any joke you tell isn’t funny unless he laughs. It could mean anything, how his voice makes your stomach drop and his smile makes your lungs hurt and his fingers on your skin make you want to tear your heart in half.

He’s something else entirely. The sting of his fangs in your neck, the comforting way he sits in the corner of your eye. This is going to destroy you.

For what it’s worth, the others have been doing some intelligence gathering on this nobleman that Astarion’s supposed to be. Wyll and Halsin ventured out to one of the nicer parts of town last night to see if anyone might have drunk enough to spill anything good, while Shadowheart and Karlach had been making the rounds of some of the… less respectable establishments to try and dig up what dirt they could.

According to their collective notes, he’s one of the younger sons of a relatively unknown house somewhere up north, and he was due to arrive yesterday on some sort of business for his father. It can’t be for anything too complicated or expensive, seeing as a wealthier house would probably have a more famous name, and likely wouldn’t want to be seen sending a fourth or a fifth son as a negotiator.

He seems to be a fairly private figure - no especially distinctive features, and no particular public scandals or habits that Karlach or Shadowheart could discover, which is definitely good news for Astarion’s cover. Gale didn’t recognise the name in a magical context, and Lae’zel hadn’t heard of them as a notable military house - altogether, it’s likely that they’re probably a merchant family that’s come into money through trade, as opposed something like land or banking or politics.

Unusually, he seems to have brought someone with him - the invitation is addressed to him and a nameless betrothed, but none of you have been able to find anything out about them whatsoever. Nobody’s seen them, or heard about them, or even seems to know their name. As far as the people of the city have let slip, they might as well have never existed. Astarion had even said as much when you’d asked him.

I mean, he certainly didn’t look the type, he’d said, grimacing faintly as he pictured the man he’d pickpocketed. I’m more than aware that travelling can be a thoroughly unpleasant business, but really. If he does happen to be affianced, as you say, then I do pity the poor creature - it was barely the afternoon and the man reeked of alcohol.

An easy target, then, you’d replied with a grin. Please tell me you left him with some gold for a place to sleep last night.

He’d made a face, waving a hand dismissively. Oh, don’t be ridiculous, darling. He’ll be halfway home by now, I expect, if the look on his face was anything to go by.

A few seconds had passed.

What? I’ve told you before, I can be very persuasive-

And the fiancé?

You’d been able to feel the headache coming on already. No. No, you didn’t.

…Ah. He’d had the good grace to at least look a little bit sheepish. I, um-

You mean you sent him home without the fiancé? Who I’m supposed to be impersonating? By this point, you’d had your head in your hands, already picturing the myriad of ways this could so easily go wrong. Who’s probably going to turn up at this stupid party and tell everyone that w-

No, no - none of that now, dear. It’ll be fine, I promise you. He’d not sounded entirely sure, but you’d grudgingly let him shush you, featherlight pressure on your shoulder. I’m sure this fiancé - you know, are we even sure there is a fiancé? That it wasn’t conjured up at the bottom of a bottle? The fool was practically pickled - I’m telling you, darling, it wouldn’t be out of the question.

I’ll pickle you in a minute, you’d grumbled, not entirely joking. If we die, I’ll kill you.

Oh, my love. I look forward to it already.

“You know, I had a gentleman come by, not half an hour ago, swearing up and down I’d got these confused with the peonies - peonies! Can you imagine!”

Startled out of your daydream, you’re left blinking back at the man in hapless confusion. “Sorry, come again?”

“Well, that’s just what I told him - but apparently…”

The flower seller launches right back into his monologue, and you’re starting to wonder if there’s a reason nobody was looking at this stall when you arrived. Curse these ridiculous noble types and their ridiculous fashions! Wyll had taken one look at your - admittedly somewhat slender - wardrobe and declared that none of it would do, either for the sin of being far too cheap or terribly out of vogue. Fortunately for your wallet, you’d collectively been able to cobble together something halfway decent out of bits and pieces your little group had thieved over the last few weeks.

Unfortunately, they don’t exactly fit too well, so you’ve been sent out to get it all tailored into something suitably expensive-looking to wear. Astarion, true to form, had jumped at the chance to take you shopping, although you couldn’t tell if it was because he’d been dying for the chance to indulge in a little retail therapy at your expense, or just all of the various trinkets and knick-knacks he’d be able to swipe from unsuspecting merchants.

Oh, and you mustn’t forget about our little ruse, dear. Who knows who might be watching?

And thus, you’re stuck at this damned flower stand where he said he’d meet you, trying desperately to avoid whatever increasingly-unsubtle flirtation the flower seller aims at you, and really wishing you’d brought a book. Maybe that would have distracted you from the horrible, twisting feeling in your stomach at the thought of what might happen when he does show up.

Is it going to be weird? Oh, it’s a stupid question - it was always going to be weird, doing something like this with him. Acting as though you’re faking liking him, pretending to have to pretend, the double-triple bluff. It’s bad enough as it is, heartstrings all stretched and sore from the weight of keeping it all inside - but to be allowed to indulge, just this once? Falling into the fantasy of what could never be, letting yourself believe for a long, golden moment that he might actually love you the way you dream of. You’re afraid you’ll snap completely.

To be honest, the waiting isn’t helping. He’d rambled something last night about having some sort of business nearby - what sort of bloody business could he possibly have in a town he’s never seen before? - and that he’d catch up with you by the flower stall by mid-morning at the latest.

Naturally, that means that it’s nearly midday and you still haven’t seen hide nor hair of him, one eye on the crowd as you stare absently at the colourful buckets of flowers. The noise of the market all around you, the sun in your eyes, the mild breeze that’s more hot than cold - you were right, you definitely should have brought a book or something, because where in all the hells is that blasted-

“There you are, dearheart!”

Your head whips to the right at the sudden weight of a cool arm around your waist, pulling you to the side. Surprised, you’re already reaching for the borrowed dagger at your hip, only to be met with-

“I - oh, darling!” Before you really know what’s happening, you’re swept into an uncharacteristic embrace, face-to-face with a slightly-harried, definitely-late, maddeningly-beautiful Astarion. Hurriedly, you paint on a smile, looking up at him with what you’re hoping reads as blissful excitement. “Back so soon?”

“Soon?” He takes you at your word, the bastard, like he wasn’t supposed to be here hours ago. “Oh, it’s never too soon to be with you, my sweet.”

It’s infuriating, how your heart stutters at the rakish grin he gives you as he says it, at the thought - fake as it may be - that he might actually mean it. Pressed against him like this, strong hands keeping you close as you steady yourself against his chest, it’s even worse than usual. Can he hear it? Does he know?

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the flower seller trailing off clumsily in the middle of his sentence, clearly now at something of a loose end. He settles for reaching down to adjust one of the displays, but you can feel his eyes on you even while he pretends to look away.

He doesn’t suspect something, does he? No, he can’t - why would he even be suspicious? He doesn’t know that this isn’t real.

Astarion must notice too, diving down to kiss your cheek so lightly that it almost tickles - you make the mistake of letting the involuntary laughter show on your face, and immediately regret it when it means he goes right back in for another one. Then another, then another, dipping you further and further back and smothering your protestations in kisses that shouldn’t feel as good as they do.

“Wh-hey, hey - darling!” Embarrassed, you struggle against him, trying to escape his hold, but it’s no good - he’s just too strong. “We’re - this is hardly the time-!”

He relents slightly at that, bringing you back upright and turning you around to face back towards the flower stall, before draping himself over your back and locking his arms once more around your middle. Somehow, it’s even worse than before - now you can definitely see the awkward flower seller, trying not to stare at the absolute mess that you two must be right now.

“Mmm, my apologies for the interruption,” Astarion mumbles against your throat, thoroughly unrepentant, and you can feel him smile as he kisses over the soft, tender space where his fangs normally go. “You were saying?”

You wrack your brain, but there’s nothing there except the swirling, flustered mist that fills your mind whenever he gets this close. What would you say, if this were real? Blindly, you reach for something to say - anything, that might get him off your case. And your neck.

“Did you, um-” You pause, stumbling over the words slightly. He probably doesn’t want all and sundry knowing what he was up to before he arrived, and he probably isn’t going to admit it anyway. Better to just make it part of the charade from the start.

“Did you find anything good?”

“Mm, nothing much,” he hums, fingers tracing tiny spirals across the front of your shirt. “A little bit of this and that, you know how it is.”

Okay, great, a total non-answer. Good to know that he’s really trying to make this act believable.

  “Very well. Keep your secrets.” You turn your face away in faux-offence, before softening with a smile as a petulant hand comes up to turn your chin back towards him. “Did you at least get everything you wanted?”

“Really, dear,” he huffs, soothing the blow with a barely-there kiss against your temple. “Can’t a man have any secrets from you?”

Gods below, he’s up to something. If your brain wasn’t too busy melting into goo, you might even wonder what it is - alas, you just have to settle for discreetly elbowing him in the ribs.

“Of course not,” you reply matter-of-factly, even though the words make your heart ache just a little bit. If only it were true. “What’s yours is mine, and all that.”

“How could I forget?” Sweet hells, he says it so softly, like he’s trying to make it hurt. “As if I could ever be free of you, my love.”

You roll your eyes, even as you lean back into his chest - you’re vaguely aware that you were supposed to be doing something, but you’ll be damned if you can remember what it is. “You make it sound so appealing, you know.”

“Do I? It’s not on purpose, I assure you.”

You gasp, hand limp against your forehead in a mock-faint. “Rude.”

“All part of the plan, darling,” he says, nonchalant, and it’s ridiculous how it does actually make you feel better. “For a prize as lovely as you? I have to find some way of keeping you all to myself.”

You’re about to respond when the flower seller clears his throat awkwardly, evidently not really sure what to do with the pseudo-couple flirting incessantly in front of his stand - you jump slightly at the reminder, feeling weirdly like you’ve just been walked in on.

Astarion, meanwhile, remains annoyingly unfazed - when you turn to look at him, he’s… smiling? No, not quite. It’s less of a smile and more of a smirk, but not his usual one - and yet you can’t quite put your finger on why it’s different.

“Go on, then,” he prompts you, nudging you gently in the side. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend here?”

“Right, right, um-” Shaking your head slightly, as if to clear it, you smile as brightly as you can at the flower seller. Fuck, what did he say his name was again? “Love, this is - oh, this is…”

“Osric, sir.” The man comes to your rescue, tipping his cap in Astarion’s direction with a friendly smile. “Pleasure to be of service to you both.”

True to form, Astarion meets him with a flat, haughty stare, seemingly unimpressed. “Charmed. Now, sweetheart, I believe we were just on our w-”

“Ah - just a moment.” He recoils ever so slightly at the interruption, a tiny tremor that you feel but don’t see. Got him. “I might like to look a little longer.”

It’s only really for show, but you make a point of umming and ahhing over the display, surreptitiously stepping on the toe of his boot as you do it. If he’s going to try and empty your wallet today, as you’re sure he will, you’re not going to let him have all the fun.

“Really. If you want me to buy you flowers, pet, you only have to ask.” Astarion shakes his head indulgently as he catches your drift, rolling his eyes at the young man behind the stall in pretend commiseration. “Trust me to find the one creature in all of Faerûn who’d rather I spend my fortune on dahlias than dinner.”

You twist slightly in his arms without looking away from the flowers, one hand slipping idly up to cradle his jaw as the other drifts over the box of tulips. “But you do it anyway.”

He sighs, exasperated and achingly fond in a way you wish he meant, turning to press a gentle kiss to your palm. “Yes, I do it anyway. Fool that I am.”

You’re forced to step slightly to the side as a lady comes up beside you and starts chatting to the vendor, which gives Astarion the perfect opportunity to dial down the act a little bit. It’s hard work even for you, and you’re not even really faking it - you can only imagine how annoying it must be, having to do all this with someone you’re not actually in love with.

For some reason, though, he doesn’t. Instead he seems to double down, swaying the two of you lightly from side to side as you examine the flowers on display, cold hands warming with your body heat as they smooth absentmindedly up and down your sides.

“Tempted by anything, darling?”

A classic line - somehow, it makes the whole thing easier. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and you know exactly what he wants to hear. “Oh, plenty,” you say, not even trying to hide your grin. “Nothing fit for polite company, though.”

You don’t even have to turn and look - your mind’s eye is enough to see the faux-outraged face he’s making. “Do I look like polite company to you?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

The lady accidentally bumps you with her bag as she walks over to look at some of the other displays, and you can’t be sure, but it almost sounds like you can hear Astarion muttering something under his breath. “I don’t think you want me to answer that, you know.”

“Mind if I answer for you, then?” He waits for you to nod, cautiously curious about what he’ll say, before lifting a blasé hand to the flower seller and beckoning him over with a lazy wave.

“Six of the roses, if you will.”

“Certainly, sir,” the vendor replies with a nod. “Right away.”

What?

Utterly bewildered, you watch detachedly as Astarion points to the colours he wants, some comically cliché blend of red and pink and white. He can’t be doing what you think he’s doing. “What in - what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

A sideways glance, faintly bemused. “Pardon?”

You should probably be more embarrassed about the way you’re tripping over the words, but you’re more concerned with wondering if he’s actually, genuinely lost his mind. “I don’t need - it’s fine, let’s just-”

"No, no, you're right, six won’t do." He’s unmoved by your futile attempt to drag him away, free arm locking around your waist to keep you trapped against his chest as he corrects himself to the flower seller. "Make it a dozen."

“Astarion!” you hiss, as quietly as you can so that nobody overhears. “This is - you can’t just-”

“I’ll have you know I certainly can,” he replies, producing a handful of coins out of nowhere and casually dropping them into the flower seller’s palm. Absentmindedly, you notice that he’s wearing more rings than usual - your eye is drawn to a particularly lovely gold one on his left hand that you haven’t seen before. “In fact - oh, would you look at that? It seems I just have.”

You - he - you’re going to m-

“Do close your mouth, sweetling,” he sighs, eyes bright with concealed mischief, one elegant finger pressing up under your chin. “It’s dreadfully unbecoming.”

Sweetling. You’re going to strangle him.

The excellent retort that you were surely about to give is cut off by the flower seller, bouquet in hand and clearly very amused by the whole situation. “There we are - a dozen roses, compliments of your gentleman friend.”

He’s certainly no gentleman, but that’s hardly the worst of his crimes. Hateful, traitorous creature, that scheming villain, tormentor of your mind and thief of your heart.

“Excellent taste, sir,” the vendor says innocently over your shoulder as you lean forwards to take the flowers from him. “They’re some lovely blossoms, those!”

“Mm, aren’t they just?” Damn it all, you know what it means when he uses that voice - when you turn around, his eyes flick back up to yours with a shameless grin. “And the flowers are rather pleasant, too.”

“I - you-!” Oh, you could just smack him for that - you can guess what he was talking about, and it certainly wasn’t a bouquet. The vendor hastily stifles a laugh behind you as you glare daggers at Astarion, sorely tempted to take a swing at him. “When I get my hands on you-!”

Cackling wildly, he dances out of the way with an annoyingly dignified sidestep, bidding a quick farewell to the flower seller over his shoulder before looping his arm around your waist and sweeping you away further into the market. “Careful there, petal. We wouldn’t want the whole town to know about where you’ll put your hands on me, would we?”

You’re going to kill him. You’re actually going to fucking kill him, and nobody is going to blame you.

“Come now, darling, no need to look so glum,” he murmurs, leading you gently through the crowd. “Don’t you like them?”

Irritatingly, you can’t actually say you don’t. The roses really are stunning, each one beautifully rich in colour, all soft, velvety petals and long, elegant stems wrapped in thick paper. They’re also far too expensive for him to be wasting money on like this, but you know exactly what he’ll say if you try to protest.

Instead, you settle for honesty. Staring down at the delicate flowers in your hands, you let yourself believe, for just a single second, that they mean what you wish they would mean. That he gave them to you because he loves you, rather than as a prop for a foolish charade - that the kiss marks burned into your skin spell devotion, instead of duplicity.

“They’re gorgeous,” you say. “Thank you, my love.”

A sudden, scuffing sound from close by - next to you, Astarion suddenly lurches forward slightly, fingers digging almost painfully into your sides for a fraction of a second before relaxing. If it was anyone else, you’d say he’d just stumbled over his own feet. But this is Astarion you’re talking about, fleet-footed master of thievery and rogue extraordinaire, so that can’t be what just happened.

There’s a momentary pause, before-

“You’re very welcome, dearheart.”

He says it softly, low and unusually sincere. You don’t want to think about why. “And for what it’s worth, I do think your blossoms are really rather lo-”

“Alright!” You cut him off before he can finish the sentence - that’s quite enough about your blossoms, thank you very much - and practically drag him after you, bouquet cradled in the crook of your arm as your other hand reaches down to grab his. “No need to lay it on too thick, now.”

He doesn’t stop laughing until you’re almost there, magnanimously letting you pull him along with a shocking lack of complaints. The tangled streets that surround this part of the market are something of a maze, but before long you’re standing outside the tailor’s shop that you’ve been tasked with finding.

Thankfully, it doesn’t look like it’s too busy inside. There’s a few people working, but it’s not as packed as you’d feared - with any luck, it’ll mean that they’ll have the time to work on your requests, rather than just rejecting you outright.

“Ah - just a moment, dear.”

Your hand freezes on the door, and you turn to see Astarion fiddling with a hitherto-unseen pouch of some kind. It looks like leather, and the way he’s holding it makes it look like there’s something delicate inside. How odd. Did he steal it? You don’t recognise it.

“I have a little something for you that might help with our…”

He trails off, eyes not quite meeting yours, gesturing awkwardly with one hand as he tries to find the words. “Our little arrangement, shall we say.”

“Really?” Intrigued, you step away from the door and back to his side. “What is it?”

No reply. Instead, he takes your hand in his and holds it flat, before upending the contents of the little bag into it and letting you see for yourself.

“I do hope it fits.”

It’s just a prop. It’s just part of the disguise, and he would have done it for anyone. Your mind doesn’t stop, your heart doesn’t ache. It doesn’t mean anything, the lovely engagement ring sitting innocently in your palm.

“I…”

Wordless, you can only stare. Perhaps a more critical eye would call it plain, but to you it’s nothing short of beautiful, a tasteful gold band with a delicate tear-shaped ruby in the centre. It looks new, polished and pristine in its finish, not at all like any of the rings you’ve picked up on your travels so far. There’s something inscribed inside the band, but the letters are quite small and difficult to make out - is that Espruar?

Of everything about it, that’s probably the strangest thing. As much as it stings to admit it, at the end of the day it’s a fake ring, so why bother having it engraved at all? Nobody’s going to see the inside except for you.

He can’t possibly have bought it. He just can’t have. Creature of luxury though he is, he’d never waste money on something so… so frivolous. He must have stolen it. That’s the only explanation. He didn’t know it was engraved when he took it, so it doesn’t mean anything at all. And in any case, he’ll probably want it back when this is all over - you’re sure it’ll fetch a lovely price when he’s sold it by this time next week.

You’re interrupted in your examination by Astarion, discreetly clearing his throat, and oh, hells, your face feels like it’s on fire.

“Here. Let me.”

Ever so sweetly, he takes the ring from your hand and slides it carefully onto your finger. Head bowed, gaze fixed on his task. He’s so close. If he looked up, right now, you could almost be kissing. You’d only have to lean forwards a tiny bit.

The thought sends a shiver right through you that you try to hide - but true to form he notices anyway, pulling his hands away like it’s his cool touch that startled you, and you mourn the loss as soon as he does it. He’s right that the metal is cold at first, but it quickly warms with your skin, and you smile as you realise that he’d guessed correctly. Slim yet sturdy, a reassuring weight. It fits perfectly.

“I…”

Sunlight. Washing him in gold, filling the street with light, sparkling on your finger. Vaguely, you remember thinking something about a ring earlier, but you can’t quite remember what it was.

“Let’s get you inside, darling,” he says, and something in his voice aches in a way you can’t describe. “We can’t have you catching a cold out here.”

The bell above the door rings cheerfully as he pushes it open for you, one hand on the small of your back to steady you as you step inside. It’s a tiny little place, jam-packed with all manner of fabrics and half-mended garments - you’re barely able to get the words sorry, it’s kind of last-minute out before the no-nonsense lady by the counter is ushering you back behind a curtain, plucking the roses out of your hands, and pulling it shut with a brisk nod and instruction to the assistant there to help you get dressed.

You can vaguely hear Astarion being pelted with questions as you retrieve the bundle of clothes from your bag. Now that you really look, it’s obvious that some of this stuff has suffered somewhat over time, what with all the fraying seams and threadbare patches, but all things considered it’s not that bad. With a little bit of love, you should be able to decently pass yourself off as the minor noble you’re supposed to be.

It’s lucky that Astarion has such expensive taste, magpie that he is. He’d managed to come up with a reasonable ensemble last night with relative ease, thanks to the various spoils he’s picked up while you’ve all been travelling. His doublet is a little bare, though, so he said he was going to see if they could embroider something for him.

Ordinarily, you know he would have done it himself. He tries not to let on, but you’ve seen him picking through his little sewing box - yes, he does have one and no, he refuses to admit it exists - at camp in the evening when he thinks nobody’s looking. Perhaps the others haven’t noticed how his clothes seem to magically repair themselves overnight after a fight, or perhaps they just don’t care to comment. Either way, he’s certainly more skilled with a needle than you’d first thought, but life on the road doesn’t exactly lend itself to fine embroidery thread. He almost certainly doesn’t have any, or at least not enough, and he’s far too proud to ask if anyone else happens to.

He really is very particular about how he looks, and you suppose it makes sense. Considering all that’s happened to him, the monstrosity of his servitude… well. It’s hardly a surprise that any measure of control, even over something as seemingly trivial as the shirt he wears, might be intoxicating. If he wants to dress himself in nice things, however gaudy or over the top they might be, then he may as well. Hopefully, nobody out there is getting on his bad side about it.

Actually, now that you think about it, it’s probably not the best idea to leave Astarion unsupervised in a room full of people who you need to like you. Hastily, you start changing a little faster, in what little space there is behind this curtain - clothes like this are so complicated that the assistant back here has to help you, but there’s so little room that you’d almost rather be alone. At the very least there’s no shouting from the rest of the room yet, but you know what he’s like. No point in risking it-

“-haah-!”

“Darling, are you quite alright in there?”

Wincing, you emerge from the cramped little corner, fully dressed and clutching your banged elbow. You can’t move all that fast, seeing as some of these clothes are a fair bit too small, but it doesn’t really matter. The lady has you up on the riser in the middle of the room, and you’re swarmed by a handful of shop assistants armed with pins and measuring ropes, all chattering away about letting one seam or another out, let’s put darts in here, this’ll need covering up, I see what you mean about the sleeves…

To be honest, you’re not really paying attention, content to have them just get on with it. Wyll had said that this place deals with rich types all the time, so you’re sure they know what they’re doing far better than you do. Astarion, meanwhile, seems to be having the time of his life lounging in his little chair and making snide comments here and there, occasionally getting up and pointing at various bits of you that need embellishing - you’re strangely reminded of a child playing dress-up with a favourite dolly.

“Lift your arms a moment, if you please.”

The tailor gestures for you to raise your arms at your sides, so you do. Her voice is nice, sweet and smooth like honey, and you idly follow her instructions as she tells you how to move. Some of the assistants have gone off to sift through fabrics, but most of them are still clustered around you, honeybees to a flower.

How long have you been up here again? You’re surprised there are any bits of you they haven’t measured yet.

Your mind starts to drift as they keep picking at you, but fairly soon it catches on one of the girls closer to the front of the shop. She’s strikingly beautiful, all fine features and gentle grace, pointed ears peeking out of long, silky hair that reaches all the way down to her slim waist. She hasn’t come over to you, and at her bench it looks like she’s working on a doublet of some kind, so it makes sense that she’s talking to Astarion. It makes sense, because she’s probably asking what he wants embroidered on it.

Yeah. Yeah, that’ll be why she's standing so close to him, so she can hear every detail of exactly what he wants. She’s smiling so much and laughing at every little thing he says, because she wants him to feel welcome here. She’s guiding him away from you and closer to her workbench, so that he can make sure that she’s embroidering the right pattern.

It makes total sense. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“And if you could just turn this way, please?”

Only it doesn’t make sense, because you know for a fact he’d never be caught dead in that particular shade of coral pink - it clashes horribly with my eyes, don’t you think? - and he’s never liked that type of slashing on the sleeve.The laces are in the wrong style, and the length is all funny. Astarion wouldn’t wear anything like that, not even as a disguise. It’s garish and tacky and altogether far too tasteless. It can't belong to him.

So what in all the hells does that girl think she's doing?

Astarion, for his part, doesn’t seem too fussed about her - rather, he looks to be fairly entertained. It’s fine, though, right? He’s probably just humouring her, isn’t he? To say nothing of the way his fingers flex at his side, like he wants to reach out and touch her, or the way his gaze fixes on her face like he can’t bring himself to look away.

It’s fine. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter - and it’s hardly your place to tell him what he can and can’t do, anyway. This whole thing is just a ruse. He doesn’t know how much you wish it were true, and he doesn’t need to know. If it hurts, that’s your own fault.

Besides, he’s probably just looking for some fun, right? He’s never exactly been shy about it. He flirts with everyone, but it’s not love that’s on his mind - and you’re not stupid enough to think he’s any different when it comes to this. Whether it’s out of boredom or hedonism, it isn’t because he wants to make you feel good, and it isn’t because he’s just so friendly. It’s because he wants something.

You’re not so naive to think he might actually mean the things he tells you, pretty though they may be. When he says he wants you, when he says he wants to please you - every time, it’s as charming as it is frustrating. Charming, because you think you’d give anything for it to be real, for him to like you - desire you - care for you the way you do him. Frustrating, because you know that someone like Astarion would never bring himself to settle for someone like you.

“Face this way for a second, please?”

Even men like him need a change of pace. When he makes faces at you across the campfire when Gale starts rabbiting on about his magic tricks, when he presses his lips against your neck for just a second before he bites, when he softens every practised line with a flick of his wrist and a teasing smile. You know what it means. It means he knows he doesn’t have to pretend, doesn’t have to play the fool with you - he’s not worried about getting you into bed, because he knows you know he’s out of your league.

He doesn’t want you. He trusts you to not want him either. And you, idiot that you are, thought you’d go ahead and ruin that by falling in love with him. How much worse could it be?

He’s your friend, loath as he is to admit it sometimes. You can’t bring yourself to hurt him with the admission - the part of you that knows he doesn’t come to you for sex, and the part that can’t help but wish he did. If he’s looking for somebody to warm his bed tonight, why would he ever waste time talking to you?

Yeah, that’ll be it. That dull ache deep inside, soaking into all the soft parts of you, watching the man you love give in to a girl he met fifteen minutes ago. And you can’t blame him at all, because it’s your own stupid crush that’s got you into this mess. The pain isn’t his problem. If you were the sort of person he could love, then maybe you wouldn’t have to hurt this way - but you’re not, so you can’t complain.

Gushing, sloshing, seasick. It’s not like he’s actually in love with you.

He’s turned slightly away from you to face her, so you can’t see exactly, but it looks like he’s… smiling? And look, he’s beckoning her closer, leaning down as if he might have a secret to tell her, and if you didn’t know better you might think he was just about to-

“Darling!”

Both of them whip around to face you, and neither of them are as good at acting as they think they are. The girl is breathing hard, pretty lips stretched into what you’re sure she hopes is a convincing grin, and you’ve seen enough of Astarion’s fake, hasty smiles to know when you’re looking at one.

You hadn’t really thought about what you were going to say next - blindly, you scramble for an excuse to get his attention back. “Won’t you come and help me choose?”

“Choose what, my love?” The girl scurries back to her bench as Astarion looks pointedly down at her, but you can still see how she watches him walk over to you, wide-eyed and flushed even as she tries to go back to her work. “Are you finished already?”

Fortunately, one of the assistants comes over to you at just the right moment, holding out a hand to help you down off the riser. Astarion clearly notices what she’s doing and offers his hand to you as well - and if it’s a sick sort of pleasure that runs through you as you deliberately ignore him, taking the assistant’s hand instead of his, then that’s nobody’s business but yours.

(In the corner of your eye, as you step down, he looks almost… well, it doesn’t matter. The moment has passed.)

“The sampler’s on the table, when you’re ready,” says the assistant to you, bowing slightly before vanishing behind a table piled with rolls of fabric, and you take a shallow breath as she leaves.

“The - um, the embroidery. You can pick.”

Your voice is small, too small, and you can’t quite meet his eyes as you say it - by all the hells, you’re pathetic. Don’t let him know, don’t let him see what this curse of a crush does to you. Weighed down, one hand that’s so, so heavy.

“Are you sure, dear?” Something dangerously close to worry crosses his face, just for a moment, but that can’t possibly be real. “Wouldn’t you rather decide for yourself?”

“It’s fine.” You shake your head and smile as best you can, already starting to step backwards towards the curtain where your ordinary clothes are. Anything, just to get yourself out of this for a second. “I’m sure you’re better at this than I am.”

He nods stiffly, eyes narrowed, and lets you go. You’re obviously not off the hook just yet, but there’s nothing he can say in front of everyone in here - gratefully, you take the reprieve and disappear back behind the curtain. It’s almost certainly your imagination, but you could swear you feel his eyes on you the whole way, burning through the back of your skull, setting your skin alight.

It’s only after about thirty seconds before you realise the problem at hand, and you can’t help but swear under your breath at the thought. This fucking outfit - you can’t even reach half of the buttons and laces that keep it on you, and this time there’s nobody back here to help you. Trying on your own will be pointless, seeing as you’ll probably just get yourself even more stuck, and if you go back out there now, you’ll have to face-

“Let me.”

Another lie. You should have known.

Quiet, slipping unnoticed behind you, cold hands searing through the layers of silk and velvet that separate you. Inch by inch, button by button. As always, he sees right through you.

“Careful,” you say, trying not to notice how hollow it sounds. “You and I, all alone. People might talk.”

He scoffs, and it’s something like lighthearted. “What would they say? Heavens forfend, I should spend a little time with the love of my life.”

Does he have to be so cruel about it? Stinging, smarting, lemon juice in the cut.

“I’m told that said time is normally meant to be spent fully clothed.” His fingers work their way deftly across your back, unbuttoning and unlacing all the pieces of your silken armour, and you fight to keep your voice steady. Whose idea was it to put you in this many damned layers again? “You’re a wicked man, my darling.”

“Oh, certainly,” he replies, and you don’t have to look to feel the careless shrug he gives. “Can you blame me? Between you and a second-rate sampler, I know which is the better view.”

“Depends how much you like embroidered flowers.”

“Not at all.”

“Then I commend your choice of entertainment.” The final button comes undone, and you gesture over your shoulder for him to step back outside. “That’s everything.”

He hums quietly in acquiescence, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he just turns to face away. The rustle of fabric is loud in the sudden silence as you step out of your outfit, skin burning with the closeness of him - as you reach past him to the pile of your ordinary clothes, careful not to accidentally touch, you can feel the coolness of his body in the air. A shadow on the wall, drinking in the heat of you.

“It looked like you were having fun.”

It’s a normal thing for you to say, in a normal tone of voice. Easy, casual, teasing in the way a friend might be. Judging from the way he tenses, spine stiffening ever so slightly, you very nearly manage it.

“Did it?” he asks, and there’s something in his words that you can’t quite figure out. “From a distance, perhaps.”

“You know, I think she likes you,” you sing as you pull your shirt back over your head, poking him in the shoulder to disguise the fact that the note is slightly sharp. “How’s that for a scandal?”

“Hardly her fault.” He makes a show of preening himself in front of the invisible mirror, inspecting his nails and raking a practised hand through his hair - if your tongue didn’t taste so sour, you’d laugh. “An occupational hazard for a gentleman such as myself.”

See, if you weren’t already so stupidly infatuated with him, you’d keep pushing. If you were just a perfectly ordinary, entirely platonic companion, that’s what you’d do. So you say it, and you try your best to ignore the horrible churning feeling that settles in your stomach as you do.

“You ought to go back to her,” you muse, as lightly and sweetly as you can. “If you asked, I’m sure she’d make time for a private fitting.”

To be entirely honest, the innuendo isn’t your best work, but that’s not the problem here. It’s a perfectly ordinary comment for you to make, a normal sort of joke that he really should have been expecting. So then, why…?

Astarion freezes, unnaturally still, one hand still tangled in his curls as the words register. Maybe it’s magic, or maybe it’s just your blood running cold - either way, the temperature between you plummets until you could swear you see your breath turning to mist in the air, frozen solid with the chill.

“A pri- sorry, a what?”

It’s a good thing you’re mostly dressed by now - he turns back to face you with an almost comically incredulous expression, looking for all the world like you’ve just told him you’re thinking about asking Lae’zel for ballet lessons. “And why in all the hells would I want to do that?”

“Well, you know…” Your hand waves clumsily in place of words you can’t quite say - surely he knows what you mean. “I won’t stop you, if you want to stay and let her, um… ”

“What?”

It’s a thoroughly bizarre situation, watching the gears turning uselessly in his brain. Normally, you’ve barely had time to think of the innuendo before he’s already said it, and you were expecting this time to be no different. What’s changed? Isn’t that what he was after?

“Darling, you don’t - I didn’t-”

Wait. Oh, shit, don’t say it’s true. You’ve got this totally wrong, haven’t you? He must have genuinely liked her, must have wanted to speak to her - you know Astarion well enough to know that he won’t waste his precious time on somebody he doesn’t care for. That’ll have been why the girl was so close when you saw them speaking, and it’ll be why he’s so confused now. Shame blooms deep and bitter in your stomach as it finally dawns on you - gods be good, he must really think you’re an idiot now, accusing him of trying to solicit some torrid affair when he just wanted to have a chat with someone h-

“Um… excuse me?”

Both of your heads whip towards the voice coming from just outside the curtain - one hand instinctively flies to the still-undone front of your shirt, while the other darts out to cover the sudden flash of light in the corner of your eye. Astarion nearly jumps a foot in the air at your touch, uncharacteristically on edge, but he lets you push the half-drawn dagger back into the sheath at his hip regardless. As much as he might protest, whoever’s speaking probably doesn’t need to be greeted by several inches of sharpened steel.

“Yes?” he snaps, and you notice that he’s moved slightly to put himself between you and the curtain. “What is it?”

“The alterations, sir,” the voice replies. “We can’t start without the, um… without the actual garments.”

Right, yeah, that does make sense. Astarion looks at you as you swallow down the furious humiliation bubbling in your throat, but you can’t look back. Turning around, you’re just reaching for the pile of clothes on the floor when-

“Five days should be more than enough, yes?”

Fortunately, you have the presence of mind not to shout as the world blurs around you, cold hands shoving you gracelessly through the curtain and out into the room proper. Stumbling over your undone boots, you barely avoid tripping headfirst into the poor tailor’s assistant standing just outside.

“I, uh - well, we’ll do our best, sir, but-”

“Excellent.”

You can only watch as Astarion grabs the pile of clothes and dumps them into the woman’s arms along with a sizeable handful of gold, before practically lifting you off your feet and carrying you out of the shop entirely. The elvish girl from before looks up with wide eyes at the kerfuffle, but he swans past without even sparing her a glance.

“Right, then. I suppose we’ll be seeing you all soon, won’t we, sweetheart?”

He’s gone mad. Absolutely mad. It’s the only explanation you can think of, head spinning from the speed, dazed and dizzy as he coos the words down at you - there’s just enough time to catch the confused assistant’s eye and point to one of the nicer embroidery patterns on the forgotten sampler as he whisks you past it, before the door swings shut behind you and you’re back in the sun-bathed street outside.

(Numbly, you realise that you’re holding your bunch of flowers again, tucked loosely into the cradle of your arms, and that your bag is slung over Astarion’s shoulder along with his own. When did that happen?)

  Silence. Thorns, crawling up your throat, greedy stems clawing their way out of your soft, bloody mouth. Everything tastes like roses.

“Well, then.”

Your voice is remarkably calm, if you do say so yourself. Red sunlight, dancing on the wall every time you move your hand. It’s cold.

“Love, I-”

“Let’s just go.” He recoils slightly at the undertone of venom in your voice, cutting him off, but it doesn’t send more than a faint twinge of regret through you. The more you play this game, the worse it gets - you’ve already put your foot in it once, and you’d rather not do it again. “You don’t have to pretend when it’s just us. I won’t make you.”

Anger and embarrassment bubble in your chest, a sour cocktail that sears a hot flush all down your cheeks and your neck as you extricate yourself stiffly from his hold. It’s useless to try and hide it, but there’s something small and shameful inside that forces you to turn from him anyway, quick steps down the street.

Upset over nothing, you’re making a scene. You won’t cry, you won’t, but you could if you wanted to - clutching the flowers to your chest like they might stop him from being able to hear the rattle of your heart against your ribs, from knowing the heat of your blood as it soaks through your skin.

“You couldn't make me do anything.”

He's quiet, bitter words flung at your back. You slow down, but don't stop.

“Yeah.” Oh, if only he knew how much you wished you could. “I know.”

Sunlight bears down on you, no relief from the fierceness of its glare. Perhaps that's what this has always been about. Selfish from the start, always looking out for yourself, and just too afraid to admit it. This whole fiction you’ve created, that you’ve allowed yourself to indulge in. A puppet strangled in its own strings, a control freak in love.

He doesn't love you, and it burns that you can't make him - so here you are, playing house like a spoilt child, forcing him into the charade. Sweet hells. You really are pathetic.

Cool fingers, warmed by the sun, lock around your wrist.

“I always said you were a fool, you know.”

It’s so kind of Astarion, to really twist the knife like this. “Thanks.”

“No - no, not-” He cuts himself off with a frustrated groan, tugging you towards him and sighing when you still won’t look at him. “I didn’t mean-”

“It doesn’t matter, alright?” you snap. “It’s fine.”

“But it’s not fine, is it?” he retorts, louder than you think he meant to be. “It’s not fine, and it does matter, because I - I’ve-”

Stone shifts beneath your feet, lightheaded, vertigo. The tadpole.

I’ve hurt you.

He’s in your head, flat pressure against the bubble of your mind. Not pushing, just waiting. A quiet street in the middle of town.

Please. Let me show you.

You want to. Dear gods, you want to, but even now you know that out here, this won’t be good for either of you.

“Not here,” you say out loud, shaking your head. “Not like this.”

He looks a little affronted that you don’t reply in his mind, but acquiesces all the same. “Where, then?”

“Just…” A woman and her son turn down the street behind him, walking hand in hand towards you. They look well-off, to say the least, and you quickly thread your arm through Astarion’s like the lover you’re supposed to be. You can never be too careful. “Inside, at least.”

Not refusing, just postponing. Ever the gentleman, he gestures forwards with a little bow, eyes closed in mock-deference. “Lead on, dearheart.”

After a little bit of walking, inside turns out to be one of the taverns you’d passed on the way here - not the one you’re staying at, but one that might be acceptable for a couple of your supposed stature. It’s only the early afternoon, so thankfully there’s not too many people inside. Astarion goes off to get something to drink while you settle yourself at one of the tables, slightly out of the way and hopefully where nobody else will be able to overhear you.

He’s gone for a little while, coming back with a pitcher of wine and two cups. One for you, one for him, and you watch as he pours them both with a generous hand.

“Any good?”

He takes a tentative sip, pretty lips twisting into a telltale grimace. “Same as ever, I’m afraid.”

“That’s my love,” you sigh, light and airy as you take the offered cup. Contrary to what he’d have you believe, it’s actually fairly nice, much sweeter than you were expecting. “Always such a picky eater.”

“Oh, darling, we’ve been over this,” he moans, betrayed, gently kicking your shin under the table. “Not picky, dear. Particular.”

“Particularly difficult to please, you mean.”

“Difficult? Hardly.” That predator’s grin, sharp fangs in the low light. “I can think of a few ways you could please me, if you’re so inclined.”

You shrug, swallowing another mouthful of wine. “No accounting for taste, it seems.”

“There’s something I’d like to taste, certainly.”

“Somehow, I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing any more.”

He laughs as you roll your eyes, knocking his cup against yours in a poor mockery of a toast. “The story of my life, my sweet. The story of my life.”

The air between you feels a little warmer than it had before, sitting across from him like this, like it’s just another ordinary day. He looks a lot more relaxed than he had outside, and you suppose you must be the same. Dancing in and out of each other’s words, the familiar rhythm of your back-and-forth.

A bunch of roses, lying next to you on the windowsill. This is… nice.

Is this better?

Astarion’s voice is an echo in your head, ripples on the surface of the sea. You look around, but it’s fine. Nobody’s watching.

He reaches across the table, palm face up. Your hand slides into his so easily, fingers brushing over his wrist, the imagined pulse of an undead heart.

Go on, then.

Your mouth tastes like oranges.

Show me.

The world shimmers and swims around you, iridescent like a soap bubble, melting into something new. The chill of the early morning, weak sunlight not yet enough to warm the street that you find yourself remembering.

“Good morrow, sir. Can I help you?”

A haughty mask, concealing the nerves beneath.There’s nobody else in the shop, early as it is, and it’s an enormous relief - you get the strange feeling that if this strange new heart could race, it would.

“I have a rather… urgent request, I suppose.”

“Urgent, sir?” The man behind the counter looks intrigued, smoothing down the front of his apron, and looking altogether far too cheery for such an early hour and his only customer. “How so?”

Unbidden, the scene twists before your eyes in a blur of sunlight, the cold feeling of impatient anticipation swirling through you like ink in water. Vague impressions of the town rush past you, smoke and sound and life as the sun rises in the sky, before you’re suddenly stepping through exactly the same door as you were a minute ago.

“Ah, sir.” The same man as before, a little less neat than he was several hours ago, the sound of hammering metal louder than you’d like. “You’ve been well since last I saw you, I hope?”

Restless, nervous, fighting the urge to fidget like a child. “Yes, yes, quite. Do you have them?”

“Aye, sir. Just a moment, if you please.” The blacksmith in front of him walks over to the side, rummaging through a drawer full of little leather bags. “Oh, it was good of you to write it down for us - we make a lot of posy rings here, sir, but not so many in Espruar, you see.”

He finds the one he’s looking for, soft brown leather with a drawstring, and carefully empties its contents to be inspected. A familiar ruby ring, scarlet fire in the blacksmith’s palm, and a lightly-patterned gold band that you now realise you’ve already seen before, as the hand it adorned paid an unknowing flower seller for a dozen roses.

Both rings are engraved inside, and your borrowed brain supplies the words with no small degree of pleased satisfaction. Amorie ent vivas est ma vie, proclaims the ring that now sits on your finger, ubi amor ibi fides the one that Astarion kept for himself.

“All to your satisfaction, I hope?”

“Hmm?” Astarion’s mouth replies but you can feel that his mind’s far away, curled up warm and content in some possessive, instinctive corner of your shared skull. “Oh, yes… lovely stuff, certainly.”

Seemingly satisfied, the blacksmith tips the rings back into the little leather pouch, exchanging it for no small sum of gold from your own pocket. The rings are hidden away, safe in the depths of Astarion’s bag, and he’s quick to turn on his heel to leave.

“A good day to you, sir.”

From what brief glimpse you catch, the man looks a little taken aback at your hasty exit, but this body doesn’t really care. The sun outside is high overhead as you pull the door open, and you feel yourself waving your hand vaguely over your shoulder. Whatever. There are far more important things to think about.

“Yes, yes. And to you.”

After all, you’ve got a date to keep.

“You see?”

As quickly as it came, the scene disappears around you - blinking, you’re once again sitting opposite Astarion, gentle pressure as his thumb rubs slowly back and forth across the backs of your fingers. “I wouldn’t just be late for no reason, dear.”

You can’t really tell how you feel, to be honest - strangely vulnerable, but pleasantly comforted all the same. Knowing he’d gone to all that trouble, for something that you’d thought was just a stolen trinket…

“Elvish?” you ask, eyebrows raised, relishing the way his head dips just slightly to the right like he wants to hide his face but knows he can’t. “You’re getting awfully sentimental in your old age, you know.”

“I - you!” If he could blush properly, would he? As it is, you can just about catch the faint flush of blood - your blood, taken last night up in his bed, while everyone else was still downstairs in the tavern proper - spreading high across his cheek. “Mouthy little thing, aren’t you?”

You shrug, hand slipping out of his to exaggeratedly inspect your nails, not even trying to hide your grin. He really does set you up perfectly sometimes. “Never had any complaints.”

He laughs, low and surprisingly sweet, and reaches absentmindedly for another mouthful of wine. “Don’t sound so sure, sweetheart. I’m sure I’ll get a noise complaint or two out of you yet.”

Bold words for a man who’s barely even seen your bed, let alone set foot in it. “Well, when you learn how, let me know.”

“Darling. Chance would be a fine thing.”

He takes a sip and apparently remembers how bad the wine was the first time - his expression sours, and you very kindly don’t point out that it looks a lot like the face Lae’zel gave him when she caught him absentmindedly licking blood off a dagger she’d grudgingly lent him after a particularly nasty fight a few weeks ago.

(Astarion assured you at length that it had been a very long day and he’d only been having a snack, and really wasn’t it an honour, a real compliment, that he thought her blade to be so immaculately kept that he’d even want to lick it?)

(Shadowheart had not been pleased. Astarion’s not allowed to borrow things from Lae’zel any more.)

While he’s busy making various disapproving - you won’t say endearing, you won’t - little noises about his curse of a drink, you slide the ring off your finger and hold it up in front of your face. It’s warm from the heat of your hand.

Turning it this way and that, idly admiring the way the light plays off the shiny metal, the flaming flicker of the ruby. Hells, it really is beautiful.

Gold band, red stone. Amorie ent vivas est ma vie.

“‘To live in love is my life.’”

He’s watching you, slowly swirling the wine in his cup with one elegant hand. The words are even prettier on his silver tongue, ringing metal like a bell.

“I thought…”

Distantly, a floorboard creaks. Dust, floating in the afternoon sunlight.

“I thought it made sense.”

Carefully, he twists the ring off his own finger, and presses it into your palm. A simple pattern of vines and leaves, curling around the band. Ubi amor ibi fides.

“You should’ve let me pay.”

He frowns. “What?”

“You paid,” you say. “For this. Those flowers. My clothes. You didn’t have to.”

“Really?” It’s almost shameful how your heart stutters when he meets your gaze, even if it’s only so he can roll his eyes at you with a dismissive smile. “Come now, dear. I have to spend my ill-gotten gains on something, don’t I?”

“There are far better things to sp-”

“No.”

His hand comes up to grasp your wrist, tugging it towards him until he can press your fingers to the side of his throat. His ring is heavy in your other hand, knocking against the one already on your finger, clicking against the inside of the band.

“No, there’s not. And if there were, you wouldn’t get to tell me what they are.”

If he’s going to be stubborn about it, so be it. “Clothes that you’re not going to wear are the best things you can think of to waste money on?”

“Do you think about me not wearing clothes that often, darling?” It’s your turn to roll your eyes this time, definitely ignoring the way you can feel the vibrations of his voice through the skin, the purr in his voice as it dips low and tempting. “Naughty.”

“I’m just saying that you don’t need to throw money away by - mmf!”

Astarion mutters something under his breath you don’t catch, before there’s the sudden rush of air past your face and a blunt strip of pressure against your stomach, pulled forwards until you’re half out of your chair. It takes your brain a second to figure out why your words aren’t coming out any more - there’s something in the way - he’s so close - oh, he’s kissing you-

Fingers going slack, a quiet thud as his ring hits the table. Neither of you hear it.

Without even thinking about it, you’re already melting against him, hand sliding up from his neck to tangle softly in his hair as the other braces your body against the table. Ah, that’s what that pressure is - the edge of the table is digging into your middle where you’re leaning forward over it, but you don’t really care. You’re far more focused on the sharpness of his fangs as they dig into your bottom lip, the insistent grasp of his hand as he cups your jaw, the faint sweetness of wine that still sits on his tongue.

“Shut up, shut up,” he mumbles into your mouth, “I don’t care about the damn money, you heinous little ingrate, I - mmm, I just want you to stop being so - so-”

The rest of his words are lost in a frustrated hiss that absolutely shouldn’t be as hot as it is, and you wince as the tadpole behind your eye squirms sickeningly when he breaks the kiss. His right hand is still holding your wrist, warm with your body heat, and he groans as he slumps back into his chair and bows his head, pressing the back of your hand to his face. Something reverent, something sacred, saint and devotee.

Just let me be good enough, he thinks, words floating in the dark water of your mind. Tell me I’m good enough for you.

Your jaw tightens. Why does he have to be so vicious with it? That’s not the problem.

Then what is?

He can’t see it, but even so, you’re not going to cry. How could this be what you want? I can’t - I’m - Astarion, you deserve m-

Gods, how stupid can you be? he spits, freezing venom splattering your skin. I know, alright? I know! I deserve more, I deserve better, all these fucking things you won’t stop telling me - has it ever crossed your empty little mind that I might want to actually have the things I apparently deserve?

If he was looking at you, you’re sure it would be with a scowl. I deserve love, or so I’m told. Yes?

Of course.

Then let me have it, dammit!

He takes a deep breath that you feel more than hear, a thin veneer of calm stretched over the words he wants to say. Darling. Dearest. Sweetness. I am in love with you.

Well, that’s… that’s, um…

Hm. You don’t really know what it is.

A strange shiver races through you, giddy with nerves and bitter excitement. He can’t mean it, can he? This can’t possibly end the way you want it to, he can’t possibly be saying - saying that, of all things.

…Right.

Try not to sound so pleased about it, dear, he mutters. I’m only pouring my heart out for you here.

Well - well, yes, but-

He finally looks up at that, interrupting the stammering jumble of words falling out of your sort-of-mouth, handsome features slightly soured with annoyance. But what, exactly?

You don’t…

Pinned in place by his stare, all you can do is faintly shake your head. You don’t have to lie because you think it’s going to make me feel better. It’s not your fault, alright? It’s not.

You’re desperately fighting the urge to flinch. He deserves to know, but it’s a painful admission all the same. I said before, you don’t have to pretend. You’re not a - a prop, or a toy, or anything like that - and I shouldn’t have made you do all of… All of this. I was just being selfish.

Thin, sharp words, papercuts all the way up the inside of your throat. It’s for the best.

Selfish? Astarion laughs harshly, somewhere between outraged and hysterical. Are you serious?

I mean, I - I just…

He’s gone mad. Absolutely mad. All you can do is watch in confusion as he smiles, sweet at first before it turns manic, dissolving into some sort of - well, the only words that come to mind are giggle fit, which sounds much cuter than he’d probably like, but it’s true. Even the damned tadpoles give up, connection splintering and falling away as he loses concentration and falls back into his chair - anyone looking would think you’d got him with Tasha’s Hideous Laughter or something, it’s that bad.

“I’m in love with an idiot,” he manages to choke out, “an actual, bona fide idiot!”

Such a charmer, your Astarion. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Any time, darling,” he laughs, one hand on his stomach and wincing slightly as he sits up - belatedly, you realise you should probably sit down again before people start to stare. “I’m here all week.”

His little fit of laughter seems to be a little more under control - you can’t help but melt at the pretty smile that still lights up his face, even though you’re still not quite sure what was so funny. “My love, my love - traveller of the realms, slayer of monsters, and proud owner of the thickest skull south of the Spine. Gods, it must be safe as houses in there - that tadpole of yours is really very lucky, dear.”

“A rogue and a comedian,” you reply dryly. “Don’t quit your day job, I’d say.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you are my day job, darling,” he says, nonchalantly picking up his cup again - he doesn’t drink anything, though, and you’re starting to think it’s just because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.“In case you’ve forgotten, I do have a rather vested interest in keeping you alive long enough to get rid of our…”

Apparently, he’s decided now is the time for him to start being subtle about your collective situation. He waves his hand awkwardly towards his head with his cup, wine sloshing loudly but - thankfully for his doublet - not spilling. “Of certain mutual friends we seem to have acquired lately.”

Well, you’ll play along if it makes him happy. “See, it all comes out in the end,” you sigh, wiping away an imaginary tear. “Marrying me for my famed tadpole-killing expertise. What a fairy tale, hm?”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he picks up his ring from where you’d accidentally dropped it on the table, and slips it back onto his finger where it was before.

“Yes. Yes, I…”

Astarion trails off, eyes slightly unfocused, and you get the feeling he’s trying to find the words for something.

“That’s what it was.”

The floor tilts beneath you, a wriggling pulse behind your eye.

“That’s why I did this.”

He meets your eyes. A silent question, or maybe an offering. No laughter - something small and vulnerable in its wake that you can’t quite name, raw and aching, hollow bones like a bird.

You nod. A whirling blur of colour, and all at once the world is a tailor’s shop a few streets away, awfully cramped and thoroughly too noisy.

“Let’s get you inside, darling. We can’t have you catching a cold out here.”

This whole your-mind-his-body thing really is incredible - you can feel the smile spreading across his face as he holds the door open for past-you, even though you obviously can’t see it from here. Unfamiliar muscles forming a familiar expression. It’s weird.

A flurry of questions that you’re not really paying attention to, your new eyes lingering on the shape of your real body as it disappears behind a drab-looking curtain on the other side of the room. Astarion’s hands, fishing a doublet out of his (your?) bag and handing it off to some wretched assistant or other, but not before making it very clear that it is to be embroidered in gold, not silver, to match with his betrothed.

The boy he’s given it to scurries off with a nod, and something flickers deep inside - instinctively, you try to look down, but the memory of Astarion’s body doesn’t let you. Oh, it felt good when he said that. Something lighting up in your chest, fluttering and fizzing, a still heart that dreams of beating.

“What can we help you with today, sir?”

You’re still not entirely au fait with this whole mixed-consciousness thing, but it’s gradually getting easier to let Astarion’s mind talk over yours, relaxing into the gaps to watch the memories like you would a play. Well, it’s sort of like a play. It’s more like an opera, really, or you might say a pantomime if you were feeling especially mean - he’s as theatrical in his head as he is out loud, and it’s absolutely fascinating to realise that this really is how he sees the world.

Some woman or other comes over and starts chatting away, steering him over to a chair on the other side of the room, a little closer to the riser. She offers him a drink, but you see him wave it away - it’ll hardly do to be distracted when there’s time to be spent with you. There’s so little time to be alone nowadays, what with everyone else always clamouring for your precious attention. He’s not about to spoil such a golden chance by filling his head with wool.

(The sentiment is unexpectedly sweet, and inside his head where nobody can see, you can't help but smile like a fool at the thought. He likes spending time with you, he wants to spend time with you. With you!)

He can still hear you changing, cloth rustling behind the curtain, so he gradually tunes back into - gods below, is this blasted woman ever going to stop for breath? She’s still twittering on about… well, he’s not been paying attention, so he doesn’t actually know, but it’s probably not that important.

“Just alterations, sir? Or embellishment as well?

Right, right she’s asking about what he wants them to do. Fine, fair enough. “Family legacies, sent by a rather poorly-informed relative, I’m told. See to it that it’s appropriate for evening, and that it matches mine.”

“Certainly, sir. We’ll do our best for you and your… friend - um, companion? Companion.”

Seriously? The nerve. Friend. Well, perhaps it’s a little rude for her to be presuming anything, but he can let it slide just this once.

“Betrothed, actually,” he says, casually running his left hand through his hair and enjoying the satisfied pride that fills him as her eyes focus on the ring on his finger. “Something of a recent development, but certainly not an unhappy one.”

“Ah, is that so?” she says with a smile, much more genuine than before. “I’m sure there’s quite the story there.”

He shrugs, and you can feel how much effort it takes to make it look like he doesn’t care. “Well, it’s not for a lack of trying, I assure you.”

“Oh, my brother was just the same,” the woman replies, like she’s known him for years. “I couldn’t tell you how many times he asked his wife to marry him before she said yes - you know, I told him she’s far too good for him, didn’t I?”

She shakes her head, sighing fondly, and your borrowed heart twinges at the thought of this woman, this glimpse of an ordinary family with ordinary troubles. “But he wouldn’t give up, oh no, I’ll marry that girl yet, Ros, just you wait and see, and now they’ve been married for - ooh, must be going on eight years? Nine? Happy as a clam, he keeps her, and there’s not a man this side of the Spine who loves his wife more.”

“I commend his fortitude.” Astarion tips his imaginary cap to the woman, and it’s so stupidly charming that you could just scream. Bless this ridiculous elf you’ve had the fortune to fall in love with. “I shall have to live up to his example, clearly.”

“Well, obviously your circumstances are a little different, sir, but I should very much hope so,” she says. Her mouth opens, like she’s just thought of something she wants to say, but-

“-haah!”

Astarion’s head snaps towards the curtain where your voice came from, room blurring with the speed, half-out of his chair in an instant. What’s wrong? Who’s hurt you?

“Darling, are you quite alright in there?”

The curtain that hides you swishes as a hitherto-unnoticed assistant pulls it aside, revealing you in all your stolen finery, and the woman - has he actually asked her name yet? Did she say it? - turns to usher you over. “My congratulations to the two of you. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

“Yes, I…” Astarion trails off, and something in his voice feels like candle smoke, trailing up into the sky. Wistful. “Thank you. I rather think we will.”

(It’s incredibly sweet that he was so committed to the role, even when you weren’t there. Isn’t he a gem?)

She leads you across the floor, and… oh dear. It really doesn’t fit, does it? Well, that’s what you’ve come here to fix, after all.

It’s an eclectic mix, to be sure, but he supposes that’s what you get when you’re just stealing for fun, rather than to order. You’re all stiff and awkward when you walk like the underpieces are all slightly too small, and the rest of it is all oddly proportioned, sleeves heavy but cut too short, laces pulling tight in some places and hanging slack in others.

As dire a situation as it might seem, with a fair amount of elbow grease, he’s sure it’ll turn out wonderfully. The colour is lovely against your skin, and the embroidery is rich and detailed, gold thread twisting and curling around your body, over your shoulders, your chest, your waist…

Dear gods, he wants to know what it feels like. Raised stitches under his fingers, trailing across your body, pressing delicately until he can feel the soft give of your skin beneath the treacherous cloth that separates you. Would it be warm with the heat of you? Would you want him to know?

That’s my darling.

The sinful, stolen thought blossoms in his mind like sweet honeysuckle, out of control, filling his mind with that heady, giddy scent. Look at you, little love - aren’t you a picture, dearest? Mine, all mine.

His teeth ache, biting back the words as they threaten to tumble right out of his mouth. I want you, let me want you, I want to want you. Just right, just right. Pushing himself out of his chair for something to do, palms itching with the loss of you, restless energy thrumming in his bones. I want this to be real. So beautiful, let me hold you, soft and lovely. Spoil you, spoil you, sweets for my sweet. Honey, honey, honey…

(Sorry, wait - that’s what he was thinking?)

(You - you don’t…)

It’s a wonder he’s able to string words together as he watches you, admiring every angle as you turn, the bubbly taste of gleeful shame as he spots the places where everything’s just slightly too tight, revealing just a little bit more of you than it should. Is that wrong? Because if it is, he doesn’t care. He’s far too busy enjoying the way your eyes seem to glitter in the golden light from the window, the way he can see your chest rise and fall with every breath, slightly shallower than normal as you fight not to rip any of the ageing side seams.

The staff in here are mercifully receptive to his suggestions, clearly appreciative of his discerning eye and tasteful sensibilities. One of the stupider ones tries to say something about replacing the neckline with some hideous striped monstrosity, and he takes a grim sort of pleasure in thoroughly rejecting that particular brainwave - same with the one who seems to be advocating for a sort of avant-garde asymmetrical sleeve thing, that looks less like a fashion statement and more like it’s already been chewed by that little owlbear. Twice. Honestly, it looks ghastly.

He’s just about to say the thing about the owlbear out loud - the others won’t get it, but it’ll make you laugh, so it’s worth it, really - when there’s this… this voice.

“Oh, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

No. No, no, no. He knows that tone.

The laughter falls from his lips as his gaze flicks to the left, to be met with some waifish elven girl standing altogether far too close for comfort. She smiles when his eyes meet hers, in a way that’s just slightly too pleased to look as demure as she thinks it does. “I don’t believe we’ve met…”

“Quite.”

He’s terse, tension locking him in place and filling his voice. The girl’s hand comes up to just barely brush against his elbow, so lightly that he doesn’t even really feel it - but even that is enough to make him jolt, instinctively jerking away and one hand drifting towards the comforting weight of the dagger at his hip.

“Would you come with me a moment, sir?” she asks, undeterred, delicate fingers twisting in her hair and swishing it back over her shoulder - obviously, almost embarrassingly coy. “My workbench is just over here, but there are more rooms this way if you’d rather talk in private.”

Ugh. She’s not even subtle about it - he doesn’t need any sort of elevated senses to be painfully aware of what she wants. Her heart’s fast, eyes bright, breathing a little too hard. It’s almost comical. He’s been faking the exact same thing for longer than she’s been alive.

“And what, exactly,” he spits, “could I possibly have to say to you?”

She laughs - laughs! Normally, the vitriol dripping from his voice can clear a room in seconds, especially combined with the crimson glare that he’s currently levelling at her. Apparently, though, this idiot girl is an exception to the rule.

“Your doublet, sir? I’m an embroiderer, sir, and…”

If she fiddles with that ridiculous hair any more, he’ll cut it clean off and take her fingers with it - does she not see the way he’s desperately trying to keep his hand away from his dagger? “Well, I’d hate to disappoint you, and you seem like the sort of gentleman who’s very knowledgeable about all sorts of things…”

So she’s stupid as well as vain. Dear gods, darling, pick a battle.

“Do I look like I want to talk about embroidery?” He resolutely turns his back and tries to focus back on you, still as lovely as ever up on your little perch. “Do excuse me. My betrothed requires my attention.

“Oh, no need to trouble anyone else, sir.”

Forget the hair. If she makes that infuriating giggling noise again, she’ll be lucky to leave this room with a head.

“I’m sure we can find something to talk about…”

Her hand comes to lay lightly at his elbow again, and that’s it. That’s it. You’re going to have to apologise to that woman from earlier for him, because he’s about to stab this pathetic little worm right in front of everyone, and he’s not even going to feel the tiniest bit bad about it.

She lights up as he turns to face her properly, beckoning her a little closer with a single finger. It soon turns to horror as she sees the predator’s grin that splits his face, the façade of politeness cracking like a duck egg, fangs unashamedly on display.

“Shall I tell you a secret, little elfling?”

(You’ve always known that Astarion’s attitude to murder is a little unconventional, but murdering someone for the crime of threatening a relationship that isn’t even real? His head spins with the euphoria of the kill-to-be, and you’re dizzy with how much he wants it. Is it bad, that he likes the taste of her fear? Is it worse, that you like it too?)

The girl freezes on the spot as he leans in, something sharp and brittle in the way she trembles but can’t force her feet to move. Shivering, shuddering, perfect glass splintering like ice. A prey animal. This is going to be fun.

“There’s a funny thing that always seems to happen, to people who try to get in between my darling and I.”

“It - sir, I - I didn't-”

He laughs over her, dark and wicked, already salivating at the thought of what’s to come. Ooh, you could just kiss him.

“Don’t worry, little madam, I’ll give you a clue. It starts with please, sir, I’m sorry, and it rhymes with I don’t want to d-”

“Darling!”

It’s you - sharply, he pivots on his heel to face you, hurriedly smoothing his expression back into a slightly more pleasant, we are in public, Astarion, stop looking so bloody murderous all the time smile. The swarm of people around you has dissipated some, and it’s nice to finally have an unobstructed view of you. “Won’t you come and help me choose?”

“Choose what, my love?” Bless you, bless you for the excuse to abandon this grasping little wretch. He fixes the terrified creature next to him with one last self-satisfied smirk for good measure, enjoying the way she gasps and trips over her own feet as she stumbles away, before letting the magnet in his chest pull itself gleefully back to you. “Are you finished already?”

Some hapless assistant comes drifting by, clearly not noticing him, and holds out a hand to help you down off the stand. Well, that certainly won’t do - does nobody in this accursed place know that he’s engaged to you? Because he’d thought he’d made it really rather obvious. The ruby on your finger glitters in the light, and he thinks about the words he knows are pressed against your skin, a secret promise.

Amorie ent vivas est ma vie. It’s only right, it’s only fair. How could anyone ever look at you and not know that you were made to be loved? You were made to be doted on, kissed and held and adored like the precious thing you are - spoilt absolutely rotten, thoroughly and entirely, toothache and cavities.

You deserve love, so much more than he could ever give you, but by all the hells, does he want to try. This stolen, golden day isn’t nearly enough.

Perhaps he’s tipped his hand a little too far this time, but it’s true, it’s true. Ubi amor ibi fides, where there is love there is faith. Two hundred years of blood, cracked open on the altar, a broken heart that can’t afford to cry. He’s been abandoned by gods before. A faithful sunflower, ever turning to face you, held blissfully captive in your gravity. All that love that lights your path, that fills your world - would you let it be his, poor and pitiful as it is? Divinity. The crackle of a campfire, truth is faith is you.

Why, then…?

Don’t you notice it when he reaches out to you, palm upturned to help you down beside him? Weren’t you expecting him? Surely, surely he’s not done such a poor job as your fiancé that you didn’t think he’d want to hold your hand, that you’d choose some random shop girl over him.

I thought - I just-

Silently, he watches on as you step down from the riser, the phantom warmth of your hand in his. Does it matter? Of course not, of course not - how could you know that it even matters to him at all? You probably just don’t want to trouble him, or maybe you really didn’t see. It’s his own fault, after all, for trying to find meaning in the very charade he’s brought upon himself.

But I’m here, his traitor’s heart whispers, confused. Won’t you let me help you? What did I do?

So caught up in his own puzzled musings, he barely even notices it when the assistant mumbles something and runs off. The too-loud beat of your heart, the too-quiet sound of your breath, echoing through his skull.

“The - um, the embroidery. You can pick.”

Shit, shit, what’s wrong? You won’t even look at him now, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder, and you sound all - all sad…

“Are you sure, dear?” He won’t push it, not out here in front of everyone - no matter how much his empty arms ache to hold you, press his mouth to your temple, smooth away the tiny, worried creases in your skin with his thumb. “Wouldn’t you rather decide for yourself?”

“It’s fine.”

It’s worse than he thought. Before he can even do anything, you’re already backing away from him - inch by inch, step by step, like he won’t notice if you move slowly enough. You’re scared. “I’m sure you’re better at this than I am.”

You’re afraid - no scent of your blood in the air, no lingering taste of magic, but he’d know your fear anywhere. Fingers trembling ever so slightly, eyes forgetting to blink, pulse beating against your skin like a drum. Did someone hurt you? Say something to you? Fuck, he must have missed something. Who was it? Who was it? Tell him, and he’ll have them turned inside out before you can s-

The thought hits him like an arrow, cold shock spreading through his chest before it turns to horrified pain. He dismisses you with a nod that surely must look as wooden as it feels, unable to take his eyes off you as you scuttle away behind that damned curtain - but in his head he’s still half a mile away, replaying the last ten minutes in his head over and over in search of the thing he must have done wrong. One hand unconsciously comes up to his chest, just to make sure that the crater in his ribs hasn’t bled all over his front.

Broken heart, punctured lung. Are you afraid of him?

A low, stifled curse from the other side of the room brings him back with a jolt, and without really realising it, he’s already ducking through the curtain. Fingernails catching on velvet, still air, floorboard that creak underfoot. Something about forgiveness or permission, or one of those other things he never remembers to ask for.

“Let me.”

Quick fingers skimming across your back, undoing buttons, untying laces. Flashes of a thousand others in your place, pushed haphazardly to the back of his mind, gritting his teeth to stay, stay, stay. Seams tearing, lace ripping, buttons scattering across the floor - but that’s not right, he’s here with you, and you - and you-

“Careful.”

A quiet sort of affection, creeping up on him, the gentle blade that slots between his ribs and begs to stay buried there. Greedy, guilty hands, craving to ruin you, only knowing how to destroy. Protective, possessive, cursed for sure. Dread. Satisfaction, thick, dark blood smeared across his face, the carnage of his feast painted down your neck. The softness of your body, curved against his chest - desire, rich and syrupy, honey-sweet and terrifying in its sincerity.

“You and I, all alone. People might talk.”

I wish they would, whispers something in his head. I wish they knew - and I wish you knew too.

You feel your shared mouth open, but he doesn’t let you stay any longer - before past-him can reply, the scene dissolves into mist and falls away, leaving only Astarion looking back at you across the table.

“Clear enough for you, darling?”

The words crackle against your senses slightly, electric. You nod, left in something of a daze.

“Quite.”

You don’t say anything else, for a little while.

(Absentmindedly, you take a sip of your wine. It’s still not great, but it’s better than nothing.)

He’s on edge, fidgeting slightly in his seat, but it barely registers - your head is swirling with everything you’ve seen, everything he’s shown you. So he - so he had wanted this? It hadn’t been… everything he’d said…

It doesn’t make sense. How could he be so stupid?

You’re not good to love - you’re not good at love. Someone so precious, something so treasured. What could you possibly give him that he couldn’t find elsewhere? What do you have that he hasn’t seen a thousand times over?

You don’t know how to help him, or even where you could start. He ought to have someone he can trust with all those deepest, darkest parts of him, who understands him the way he doesn’t even know he needs, who knows just what to say, just when to listen. Someone confident and funny and kind, someone with the sort of love that’s warm and all-encompassing - a sunny summer’s day, a lighthouse in the storm. Sturdy, dependable, honourable. Safe. He deserves safe.

Instead, all you’ve got is a silly, reckless crush, a clumsy, gangly, unpracticed thing that you barely even know what to do with. Can you even call it love? Would he recognise it, if he saw it? Some trembling, pathetic infatuation, the best your body can do, thin and liquid in the marrow of your bones. Not blood, just water, filling but not full. Nothing that would satisfy him.

It’s not fair, it’s not fair. He’s lovely and he’s wicked and he’s clever, he’s cruel and he’s sweet and he’s made for so much more than you.

“I, um…”

He’ll thank you later. Not out loud, obviously - this is Astarion you’re talking about, after all - but he’ll know this is all for the best.

“Well, I’m very flattered, but…” Carefully, you arrange your face into what hopefully looks like sympathy, rather than pity. He’s clearly not in his right mind - he needs to think this is you offering to fix this together, rather than you letting him down gently. “Maybe this isn’t th-”

“Oh, for the love of - for once in your life, will you take the fucking hint?”

Reeling, your jaw drops as he practically shouts the words at you, hands slamming down onto the table with a thud.

“I didn’t even-!”

“No! No, you didn’t!” The tadpole in your head writhes as his mind opens to you once again, white-hot and shaking with rage. Does he even know he’s doing it? “Because you gave me that big, sad, I’m-so-sorry-I’m-so-useless look as you opened your silly little mouth, and I knew exactly what you were going to say!”

Snarling, biting, this must be what it’s like to be hunted by him. “So here’s what’s going to happen, darling - I am going to tell you what’s going on here, and you are going to sit there and listen, yes?”

Snap, snap, snap - he clicks his fingers insistently in front of your face when you don’t reply. “Yes?”

“Yes, mother,” you grumble, thoroughly chastised. “Listening.”

He narrows his eyes at the name, but lets it slide. Apparently, he’s got bigger fish to fry here.

“I am not a child.”

A thousand sarcastic replies flit through your head, most of them involving some variant of you’re right, a child wouldn’t be such a messy eater, but the murderous look he gives you as you open your mouth tells you that now might not be the time.

“I don’t need you to choose things for me. I don’t need you to tell me what to do,” he spits, fingernails biting into the wooden surface of the table. “I have had enough, of other people giving me orders, deciding things for me - do you hear me?”

His voice, low and bitterly cold. “You don’t get to be my master.”

There’s nothing you can really say to that, so you just nod, feeling slightly sick. Where’s he going with this - gods, what have you done?

“Oh? So you do understand!” he cries, throwing his hands up in the air in apparent frustration. “So it’s finally dawned on you, has it? You’re finally going to let me do what I want, is that it?”

“Yes,” you choke out, voice thin and cracking. “I - yes.”

“So if I told you I wanted to - to write a book about the uselessness of lockpicking, or let Gale turn me into a frog, or dye my hair purple, or something, you’d believe me? No matter how out of character you thought it was? You’d let me do it, even if you thought I’d lost my mind?”

There’s not even space to get a word in edgeways - he’s really, properly ranting now. “Or if I said I wanted to, um - oh, I don’t know, rob a bank, or run for mayor, or go into business writing terrible Sylvan love poetry - you’d believe me, yes? You’d say to yourself, oh, that Astarion, he’s big enough and bad enough to know what he wants, wouldn’t you?”

Another nod, a little bit more confused this time. Faerie love poetry? “I would.”

“Oh? Is that so? My, you sound awfully confident.” He feigns shock, one hand splayed mockingly across his chest. Sarcastic, almost jeering, a theatrical gasp.

“I must be so lucky, hm? To have someone who knows me so well, who trusts me to do whatever I want? Respecting me, caring about me, telling me that what I think matters?”

Something moving very fast - wine spilled all over the table with a clatter, a curse, a crescendo. “Well, then, dearheart - why can’t you seem to keep it in your ridiculous little head that I am in love with you?”

A beat.

“And before you say it - no, it’s not a joke, or whatever fool excuse you’re busy coming up with,” he snaps, pointing an accusing finger at you like it’ll keep the words from forming in your head. “I’m cruel, dear, but not that cruel.”

Sighing, he flicks his hand and the dripping, crimson wine stain soaking his sleeve disappears.

“Do close your mouth, sweetling,” he murmurs, reaching slowly across the table, pausing just before he can touch your face. “What did I tell you, hmm?”

“About my open mouth?”

Your voice is weak and the joke’s not your best, but you lean forward, letting him graze his fingers lightly across your jaw. “Not to make promises I can’t keep.”

“Gods. I really have taught you well.”

Words spill unbidden into your mind like oil, writhing in what might be fury or terror. Crawling into the strange, empty space that lies between you, dark and filled with agony, out of your body and inside your head.

Know me, see me - what a joke, that I should want to be seen at last, and by you, of all people. Are you there? Are you listening?

A thousand tiny moments, rushing past you in the current of his madness. You couldn’t make me do it, can’t you see? You couldn’t force me to love you - I have no need of force, not for you! It’s no pretence, it’s no game.

You couldn’t make me, but I did it anyway because it’s real, it’s all been real - why can’t you believe me? Do you think me so spiteful, so cruel, that I would do that to you?

Walls collapsing, worlds colliding. Where you go, he follows - always a step too slow, reaching out a second too late to find your hand already gone.

The words you think I wish to say, the pity and the scorn and the endless mockery that you imagine fills my head when I look at you. Is that what you want? Am I to be nothing but a hapless instrument of your own self-hatred, your own monstrous thoughts spilling from my lips, poisoning you with every word, every kiss?

My love, he wails, my love, my love. You’re so cruel to me.

Is this still only in your mind? The air is thick and close, seeping heavy into your skin. You make me sound so hateful, full of spite and loathing, bent on your destruction. Do you think me incapable of love - of loving you?

Tell me, savage darling of mine - tell this vicious, twisted creature that you say you see before you. Why can’t you believe that I could ever be in love with you?

Ragged, fevered fingernails tearing at the brickwork, half-mad with wanting. Ageing silk, soft and fragile as it frays. A whimper that might be a screech that might be a howl.

Why did I have to be a monster? he sobs, voice splintering and cracking - a phantom hand, all claws, desperately searching for your ankle. Couldn’t I have just been a man? Couldn’t I have just been in love with you for my own sake, because I care for you more than anyone I’ve ever known?

Please, my darling, I beg. Don’t make me this way.

You…

You don’t know what to say. Formless, faceless in this imagined space between - how would you speak, even if you tried? What words could reach his heart, could soothe this pain?

Whatever you say next, it can’t be a lie. Not again. He’ll know.

Paralysed with fear, but why? You like him. You want him, want to love him - and here he is, telling you that he feels the same. What’s the problem, then?

I’m scared.

The edge of the cliff, crumbling away beneath your boots. You know how to want love, but you don’t know how to do it - what does that even mean, for people like you two? How does it even work?

You don’t know what you don’t know, and it’s terrifying. Foolish and inexperienced - won’t he be ashamed of your clumsiness? He always seems so… so capable, so much bolder than you are. Confident, if a little too arrogant, and a healthy dose of vanity on top of that - ever unshaken, ever above it all. And yet, even in the moments when the act stretches too thin, when you can see it for the charade it is, it doesn’t matter. Astarion’s still miles beyond you, braver than you could imagine being.

He always seems to have an answer, he always seems to know. You’re embarrassed that you can’t match him.

I won’t - I can’t-

But that’s not all, is it?

He’s so precious to you. He matters, more than he thinks and more than you’ll admit, and he’s in pain. You don’t want him to be in pain. But you’re afraid that your love, weak and unpracticed as it is, won’t be enough to stop it.

Is it because you don’t want to see him hurt, or because you don’t trust yourself not to hurt him? He should want more, he shouldn’t settle for you. Selfish, lazy you, wanting but never deserving, complaining but never really trying. All these ugly, shameful parts of you that he must not know, or else he never would have said any of this.

Surely, he can’t know. Nobody could know all these things about you, and still pretend to love you the way he does.

And yet…

He says he doesn’t suffer fools, and you’ve seen him threaten to stab enough of them that you know it’s true. He says he doesn’t waste his time on things he doesn’t care about, that he doesn’t bother with anything he doesn’t like, and yeah, those also seem to be threatened with stabbing on an alarmingly-regular basis. So maybe it’s more about the propensity for knives than any particular economy of affection, but even so - you still believe him, don’t you?

He’s a liar. It’s the one thing he’ll always tell the truth about. But now, knowing what you know, you’re starting to think that’s not quite right either.

It all comes back to fear. Scared that it’s not true, that he’ll change his mind, that he was lying the whole time. Scared that you’ll be hurt, that you’ll hurt him, that he really is as cruel as he thinks he is. Can you do it? Trust him when he says you’re enough for him, that you’re what he wants? Trust him, when he says he means it?

It’s too much.

Your messy, sticky heart. A breathless, fluttering creature, laden with roses and sick with love.

I don’t want to get it wrong.

A cool hand cups your cheek, and the world comes back to you.

Stinging, your eyes open - weren’t they already open? - to find Astarion close, much closer than he was before. While you weren’t looking, he must have moved, but how on earth did he…?

“Steady on, darling. My eyes are up here.”

However he did it, Astarion looks down at you from where he’s perched in your lap, sitting sideways across your legs with one arm around your shoulders to keep himself balanced. Slowly, he coaxes your face up from the floor to look at him, fingers pressing into the softness of your cheek.

“Ah, that’s better. There you are.”

He doesn’t look angry, as you’d feared. Maybe pleased is the right word? No, that sounds too much like self-satisfied - not reverent, that’s too grand, and not proud either. It’s something softer than just happy, something contented and uncharacteristically tender. Charmed, perhaps.

Slightly awkwardly, you quietly clear your throat. Your body hasn’t cried, but it feels like your mind has, and the gap between the two is kind of disconcerting.

“I’m sorry.”

Astarion tilts his head, pretty eyes faintly confused, but you carry on. “It’s just a bit… you know. There’s a lot.”

Your hand stutters as it waves stiffly through the air in front of you, like that’ll somehow help you say what you mean. Everything that’s happened today, everything you’ve done, all summed up in some inept little gesture in your lap.

Luckily, he seems to understand well enough. With a sigh, he leans forward until his head is resting on yours, pulling you gently towards him to settle your head against the curve of his throat, safe in his embrace. Without really realising it, your arms find his middle, settling loosely around his waist in return.

“You know, I think I’ve changed my mind,” he says slowly, fingers tapping idly against your skin. “I think we do have time, after all.”

Bemused, you frown against his shoulder. “Time for what?”

Another memory, teased out of your brain by the tadpole. A sun-filled street, and a plan that couldn’t possibly go wrong.

What say you, dearest? Fancy an evening as my beloved?

Even now, you find yourself smiling at his overblown antics, the cocky flick of his wrist as he took your hand and kissed it. You could at least ask me properly, you know.

We’ve no time for courtship, sweetheart… Did he sound quite so mournful the first time? Or do you just remember it that way? I simply must have you - and tonight, no less!

“Let me ask you again, darling,” the real Astarion asks you. Well, with his chin resting lightly on top of your head, he more so asks your hair, but the meaning is clear. “Properly, this time.”

“Mmm…”

Is it a tiny bit mean of you, to make him wait? Probably, but he likes it when you’re mean. “You’ll have to convince me…”

“Oh?” Of course, he plays along, with a smirk that you don’t have to see to recognise. “Then set the scene for me, dear. However shall I win your hand?”

It takes a few long seconds for you to settle on an idea, fingers absentmindedly tapping against his back. This is nice.

“Tell me how it’s supposed to be,” you say, warm words against cold skin. “Tell me how this should have gone.”

“Well, it wouldn’t start like this, certainly,” he declares, tracing tiny, maybe-unconscious circles on the floor with the toe of his boot. “I wonder how we would have met? Something grand, I’m sure…”

He makes some gesture you can’t see, painting the picture in the air. “Perhaps a ball, or a gala, the kind they have in the Upper City - ooh, maybe in the foyer of an opera house or a theatre or something.”

“How… refined.”

“Oh, it would be terribly dull, I assure you,” he replies. “You’d have been to a thousand of these things before, and you’d be bored out of your skull.”

You can’t help but laugh at the way the words fall out of his mouth, full of longing and yet totally blasé. “And you’d save me from it, I assume?”

“Naturally.” Astarion runs a practised hand through his hair, adjusting himself in your lap slightly so he doesn’t fall. “I’d catch sight of you across the room and be utterly captivated by your beauty, darling. Then, I’d bring you a glass of wine and make some excuse to get you talking, and we’d spend the rest of the evening being absolutely awful about everyone else there.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Oh, you can’t help yourself - you have to stretch up a bit awkwardly, but you lean up to kiss his cheek, just once. Maybe twice. “Then what?”

He hums, deep in careful consideration. “I suppose I’d have to - oh, we’d both be living in the Upper City, by the way - I suppose I’d have to find your family’s home the next morning.”

“Bold, don’t you think?” you ask with a grin. “It’s barely been half a day since we met.”

He scoffs. “Like that would matter to me. They might show me into the drawing room, but they wouldn’t let me see you - I fear I might make quite a scene, you know. I’d stay as long as I could, waiting for you to come downstairs, and I wouldn’t leave until I’d begged permission to court you properly.”

The image of Astarion in all his finery pops into your head, perched defiantly on the sofa in the lavish drawing room of some imagined townhouse in Baldur’s Gate, arguing with the maid as she tries to shoo him away - it’s so ridiculous, and yet so absolutely him. Who else would turn up on your doorstep and elbow his way into the parlour, setting himself in the middle of the furniture like he owns it, and refusing to leave without an offer of courtship from the family?

“And what’s so funny about that?” He pretends to be affronted as you muffle your laugh into his shoulder, but there’s no heat in it. “Don’t tell me you’d keep me waiting, now.”

“Never, my love,” you proclaim, thoroughly charmed. “Once I heard the racket from downstairs, you wouldn’t be able to keep me away.”

“Racket - you think I’d be making a racket, darling? In what world?” he gasps. “I’ll have you know I’m the very picture of politeness. Very subtle. You wouldn’t even know, unless I wanted you to.”

“Right, right, subtle…” You nod exaggeratedly, taking in his perfect look of offended outrage. “And I assume that’s why the picture of politeness is sitting on my lap and trying to get his hands up my shirt in the middle of a tavern?”

Cold hands freeze against your sides, skin against skin, and you grin. Got him. “Nice try, though. I was almost convinced.”

“Of my subtlety? I’m sure I could persuade you...” He raises an eyebrow down at you, gaze dark with half-hidden promise. “You don’t think I could be quiet?”

“I’d be disappointed if you were. You mean you wouldn’t let me hear you?” You’re deliberately disappointed, a little whiny in the way you know he understands - a familiar dance, made all the sweeter by the fresh excitement of this new air between you. If he wants to play the game, you’ll play too. “Besides, I thought you liked it loud.”

“Oh, I do,” he breathes, one hand sneaking out from under your shirt, index finger pressing softly against the underside of your chin to keep your eyes on him. “Especially when you’re the one offering, darling.”

See, now you're speaking his language. “Who said I’d offer you anything?”

“Please. You wouldn’t get the chance, dear,” he scoffs, unfairly handsome in his arrogance. “Offering it to me? No, no. You’ll be begging me, pretty thing, and you’ll like it.”

The way he shifts to resettle himself in your lap is certainly no accident, and you really have to fight to keep your gaze up - you can just about keep looking at his face, but you can’t quite stop yourself from staring at his lips as he continues. “So how about it, hm? Would you be loud for me, my sweet?”

“I - well, I…” Your thoughts melt into nothing as the hand under your shirt slips just barely higher, words stuttering and faltering on your tongue. Curse his stupid face, curse his awful voice, curse his ridiculous hair and his strong hands and his pretty smile and his sweet kisses…

“Mm, I think you could be,” he muses, smug like the cat that’s got the cream. “I’d ask you very nicely, you know. And you’d be good for me, wouldn’t you? If I asked you nicely?”

The tadpole twitches behind your eye, the heat of something liquid and indulgent, a tantalising taste. Half memories, half dreams. Clever hands keeping you close in the middle of a crowded market, pulling you into a side street, pressing you hungrily up against the brick. The swish of a soft curtain, voices just outside, quiet now, darling, or do you want them to hear? Soft and warm and sweating, a trail of fabric in your wake - closer and closer, snatched up in his arms and - and-

Words, you have to say words - dizzily, your hazy mind latches onto whatever it can find. “Nicely?”

“Yes, honey. Nicely,” he sings through a wicked smile, faintly condescending in a way that really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. “That’s right, sweetheart. Very good.”

He knows he’s got the upper hand and he’s just trying to get a rise out of you, that’s all. You’re not going to fall for it, you’re not. Was it always this warm in here?

“Look at you, darling. Feeling a little hot, are we?”

The flash of fangs as he presses the back of his free hand to your cheek, blessed coolness, before sliding it down your neck to toy with the collar of your shirt.

“You should have said something, poor thing. I know a way we could cool you down.”

He looks thoughtful for a second, expression pensive before it melts back into a smirk. “Well. Maybe not straight away. But I’d get you out of all these layers, at least…”

Promises, promises. Your hummingbird heart, fluttering out of control. Graceful fingers picking at your collar, digging playfully into the softness of your waist, skimming across the skin. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it…

“You want to do this here?” If you sound a little more out of breath than normal, which you’re not saying you are, then that’s neither here nor there. “Whatever happened to biding your time?”

“It’s your many charms, my darling,” he replies, endearingly - um, infuriatingly ready with a comeback, leaning down to kiss just beside your eye. “A man can only resist so long.”

“Bastard.”

“Mm, I love you too.”

The self-satisfied look is quickly wiped off his face by the bitterness of his wine - he takes one last sip before disgustedly dumping the rest of his cup into yours. “Gods, this stuff is vile - let's be off, darling, before anyone tries to palm another bottle off on us.”

Pushing himself up off your lap, he turns back with a neat little bow, palm upturned to help you out of your chair. “Delightful as the company may be, life is far too short to spend it drinking such dreadful wine.”

“This from he, the undying.”

“And I wouldn't waste another second of my undeath on it,” he sniffs, pulling you gently to your feet and brushing imaginary dust from his shirt. “I’ll have you know, being dead is no excuse for subpar drinks.”

“Your idea of a nice drink is human blood, dear,” you reply dryly as you pick your roses up off the windowsill, paper crinkling in your hands. “I’m not sure you're exactly an authority on the matter.”

Astarion rolls his eyes as he picks up his bag, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Touché, my love, touché.”

He leads you back through the tavern, stepping across to hold the door open for you. The barkeep lifts a hand in farewell, and as you go to do the same, something glitters in the sunlight coming in through the open doorway.

It’s true, it’s true. Sweet relief and incredible terror all at once, resolving into something bright and brave and fizzing. Where there is love, there is faith. Is this what stories feel like? Wanting and wanted, a kiss that’s a dance that’s a promise.

Thin gold, red light. Amorie ent vivas est ma vie.

“...Darling? Hello?”

Startled out of your reverie, you look up just as Astarion raises an eyebrow, amused, motioning towards the door. “Some time today, my sweet.”

“Right, right, yes…”

Hastily, you duck out of the doorway and step out onto the street, bathed in the warm light of the late afternoon. Astarion follows, offering you his arm with a flourish, and you take it gladly.

“Where to next, then?” you ask, falling easily into step.

He shrugs, gesturing in front of the pair of you with a wry smile. “Why, wherever the road may take us, of course! We’re free as birds, dear - the very world is our oyster.”

“Back to the others then.”

“Well, yes.”

“Thought so.” Wordlessly, you turn to head back through the market, a little less noisy than this morning but still busy enough. “Unless you were planning on throwing even more of your money at the flower boy, that is.”

He gives you a playful nudge, discreetly shifting you both to the right to dodge a man walking the other way with an enormous crate of apples. “Don’t tempt me, dear. Five minutes to acquire the necessary funds, and you’ll be walking home with more than an armful of roses.”

“Planting me a garden, are you?”

“You’ll have a veritable meadow, my sweet,” he replies like it’s nothing, grand as you like. “As many as there’s room for, and one more for good measure.”

His free hand reaches across to yours, lifting it to his lips and kissing it like a prince from a storybook - it’s almost embarrassing how much it gets to you, and you’re sure he can hear your heart speeding up at his touch. “You’d never buy perfumes or oils again, if I had my way - in fact, you’d be hard-pressed to wash the smell of roses off of you, my love.”

Oh, you can’t let him off that easily. “They’d be roses, would they?” you ask, thinly feigning disinterest, although the effect is somewhat lost when you have to speak up a bit to be heard over the woman hawking fish just behind you. “So cliché.”

He lets out a tortured sigh, pained expression on his pretty face. “It happens to the best of us, I’m afraid.”

“You’re right, it does,” you muse. “Can’t imagine why it’s happened to you, then.”

“Oh, you-!”

He makes a grab for you, but you’re already gone, slipping out of his grasp and away into the crowded market, ducking through the gaps between the stalls and laughing as he chases after you. “Get back here, you villain!”

It’s a doomed endeavour - you know he’ll catch you, but you run anyway. Weaving in and out of the crowd, he’s never far behind. Fingertips that just barely brush the back of your shirt, shouted threats that grow more and more ridiculous each time you twist away.

“When I catch you-!”

If he wanted to, he’d have you in an instant, but it’s not about that, is it? The chase, the catch, the game. It’s the one you love to play, and you love it even more when you lose.

“There you are, darling.”

Rose petals flutter in your wake, a ruby glitters on your finger. Cold hands pull you close, and the sky, the sky, the sky.

masterlist

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

[theskeletonprior]

I left my awful soul-sucking job so my writing commissions are now open! Looking for a brainrot cure? Got a story that won't write itself? There's a way. Drop me a line! I'm especially good at nailing character voices, hurt/comfort, polyamory, and subtle moments of intimacy. While I don’t mind writing intimate scenes, I don’t accept graphic NSFW requests, non-con, or underage. When in doubt, just check in with me first! You can message me here on Tumblr, or email me at theskeletonprior@gmail.com. The hellsite, as I'm sure you know, does eat asks and such sometimes, so if you don't hear back, don't be afraid to reach out again!

Price List (CAD)

1000 words for $20 1500 words for $35 2000 words for $45 Pro rate for writers these days is $0.08 per word, so my commission rates are an absolute steal. Our dollar is also a little bit trash here in the land of maple syrup and poutine or whatever, so if you happen to trade in eagle bux, even better for you! My commissions help me pay for things like sertraline, funding for my ongoing effort to be reunited with my beloved husband, the occasional good meal, and resources for my work as a professional Dungeon Master (I can't believe that one either). So hire a dead guy, and help support a queer creative. I also donate any tips to Gaza Funds.

If you’re looking for a longer work, feel free shoot me an email at theskeletonprior@gmail.com and we’ll chat. Words are what I do.

Work Samples

You can read all my Tav Tales to date here on AO3, but here are some of the highlights.

To Live in Infamy (2k Durgetash)

The morning, Enver is lucky enough to have pants on. The Slayer snaps his chains as it comes screaming into the daylight, barrelling out of the bed. The force of Infamy’s awakening sends Enver rolling onto the floor, narrowly missing being crushed by the bedframe. He’s tangled in their sheets, and already lamenting that they’ll need to be replaced. This silk had come all the way from Waterdeep. That’s his first thought, even with his heart pounding in his ears. He struggles to free himself, but the Slayer isn’t coming for him. There’s the acrid smell of half-cast sorcery, and then the screaming starts. When something warm and wet splashes onto him, soaking through the sheets, Enver hopes it’s blood. The crunching of bones and the smell of bright copper gives him a little hope that it’s not something worse. It wouldn’t be the first time a would be assassin emptied their stomach or their bowels in terror before the Slayer. Enver unrolls himself at last, leaning back on his elbows to enjoy the show, even as the blood—and thank goodness it is blood—soaks through his nice sheets. The mess quite nearly defies description.

Callus (2k Tav/Astarion/Halsin)

“Oh, my dear, what a miserable turn of events.” Astarion kisses Lukan’s hair gently. “I could probably catch up with him, you know. Plenty of good alleyways in this end of town to drag him into, get him acquainted with my nice new boots. Sturdy enough to kick a man entirely to death.” “You got new boots?” Lukan can’t help a watery smile, desperate to redirect the conversation. He doesn’t want Thindulion killed. It had been bad enough to bury his mother, and as much as he wants to hate his father for abandoning them, he hates the thought of being orphaned even more. And now he knows he has a sister, and he couldn’t put her through that. “That’s beside the point,” Astarion says. “I’m asking if a little spot of patricide might cheer you up.” Lukan shakes his head. “It’s not like that,” he says. He wants to try to make light, to play along with Astarion’s flippant turn of phrase, but it’s just too heavy. It doesn’t go unnoticed. “I might have another idea, in that case,” Astarion tells him. “Why don’t you have a sit on the bed, get those boots off, and I’ll be back, having done precisely no murders, I promise.”

In the Spider’s Parlor (3.5k Tav/Kar'niss)

She peers over her shoulder at him and then rolls her head, exposing more of her neck. Suddenly his need, that wretched appetite, is not as hideous as it has been, he feels no disgust for what he wants, for the curse that makes him want it. There’s only this moment. He nips lightly, slipping his arms around her, embracing the warmth. He reaches out with his forelegs, feeling her, holding her securely as he had done that first time. He’s heard the sound she makes when letting blood, and now he knows it for what it is. Pleasure. His purr rumbles low in his chest, but he never bites, lapping softly at the thin rivulet of blood that wells from where he’s nipped her, one delectable drop at a time. Solinore reaches up, one hand tangling in his hair, relaxing in his grip. “What you ask of me, is yours,” Kar’niss says, applying pressure to the nick he’d made to stop what little bleeding he’d caused. “You sure?” she asks, playfully. “I could ask for another ride on your back. Or…” He knows what that smirk implies. “What you ask of me,” he says again, “is yours.”

[hurkules]

Gale Headcanons with some NSFW ones below the cut

He loves kissing. He will never be a peck and go kind of man. Every kiss is deep and full of love. He’ll kiss your hands, your arms, your neck, your legs, your stomach, your back, and especially your lips. The two of you get carried away quite easily and before you know it, it’s been an hour of just kissing

Gale loves when you play in his hair. Whether you’re mindlessly running your fingers through it and massaging his scalp or purposely find your way into it during more intimate moments, he loves it. His eyes instantly close and he’ll hum (or moan) in pleasure

He’s touchy. Somehow, someway, he will touch you. Holding hands is fine and lovely, but he’d rather link arms or have his hands around your waist. If you’re leaning into him, he’s satisfied

Speaking of touching, he loves having you in his lap.

Gale is sickeningly romantic. He’s all about grand gestures and professions of love. Nearly everyday he finds a new way to say “I love you.”

He likes to lay on your chest especially after s rough day. In the past, he’d spend his time poking around in the library or cooking his feelings out. Now, he’ll crawl into your arms and lay his head against your chest

He always brings you back little gifts and trinkets. “I passed this on the way home from the academy, and I thought you’d love it” he’ll say with a grin

Since being in waterdeep, you’ve taken up baking. As a result, he’s started to gain a little weight. He’d never complain about it because everything is delicious, he’s glad you’ve found something to enjoy (he was worried about leaving you in the tower alone so often), it’s a simple fix, and he’d never turn down something from you especially when you’ve worked so hard

He shows you off. If you make him lunch, he’ll go around showing everyone what his lovely partner made. He jumps at the chance to introduce you as his wife/husband

He’s a crier. He cries at the wedding. He cries on the honeymoon. Sometimes, he cries just thinking back. He’ll hug you and through tears he’ll admit “I’m so grateful to you. I was a man long gone, and, somehow, you brought me back.”

He’s not a good dancer but he never resists when you pull him towards you giggling. When he noticed how much you love dancing, he does practice in private with a mirror image. After a while, he can follow along with you pretty well.

He unironically does a big dip and kiss and often.

Yes, he will make love to you in front of the fireplace and the piano will play a melody in the background.

He will also make love to you on the balcony. If you’re well versed in magic, you’ll cast a spell so one can see or hear you. If you’re not, he’ll cast the spell. At night under the full moon is your favorite. He’s more than happy to pleasure you any time of day, but his favorite time is at sunset. He just thinks you look so incredibly beautiful in the light with how the sun reflects off your skin

The two of you will never make love at the academy but he will definitely sit you on his desk and make his way between your legs. He’ll lock the door and cast the silence spell from before and he’s going in

We all know that when it comes to intimacy, he’s more of a giver than receiver. The man loves being between your legs. He hates quickies because he likes to take his time and admire you. He wants you to feel as much pleasure ad possible and quickies feel disrespectful. It feels like you’re a toy to be used and discarded, and you mean so much more to him than that. Despite that, he will find time to make you see stars from oral, give you a long loving kiss, and then return to whatever he was doing, elated that you’re satisfied

He loves all of you equally but he is a boob guy. Wear a low cut a shirt and he’s tripping over his words and struggling to maintain eye contact.

He can’t hide his attraction and he’s not ashamed of it. Even with this, he always asks permission. A gentle “May I?” while kissing you before moving to your neck. A breathless “is this okay?” as he’s lowering himself and kissing your legs.

Sex is slow and gentle with Gale. He likes to take his time with you, so nothing is ever hard and fast. If you wanted something rougher all you’d have to do is ask but it’s not his first instinct.

He’s pretty vocal during intimacy. He grunts, groans, and the occasional moan. Mostly, he talks. He for sure talks you through it and loves complimenting you throughout the whole ordeal.

[thecubspeaks]

[finished my gale/durge run, had a lot of feelings, had to exorcise them in fic!! feat. me reusing postcanon gale ideas from other fic bc some things are just canon to me]

They wake in a tent, again.

It rained in the night and the air feels cool and fresh, with an achingly familiar smell. This is where her life as she recalls it began, she realises. Maybe forever the smell of the Chionthar and the trees in this place will make her feel the way the smell of Morena’s house does for Gale. Like a first home.

Gale is curled up next to her, still asleep, his wheezy snoring announcing that he has caught a cold. He happily blames his students, so Izar does not point out how—she’d never use this word to his face—fragile his health has been since the feverish weeks of study to repair the crown, since Mystra took the orb.

She kisses his cheek and stretches, about to change out of the clothes she fell asleep in and try to look presentable when she hears a strange swooshing noise from outside.

She hurries out just in time to see a huge portal, wreathed in hellish flames, Wyll and Karlach just stepping through. Karlach sees her and looks sheepish.

“No goodbyes,” Karlach says, jabbing a finger at Izar as if to physically ward her off. “I can’t take it. And I’m going to see you all again so soon, we’ll just feel stupid.”

“No goodbyes, then,” Izar agrees. “See you soon. Skewer a cambion for me.”

Karlach laughs. “I’ll dedicate my next murder to your dad.”

And before Wyll can launch into whatever speech he clearly seems primed to make, Karlach grabs him by the collar and hauls him through the portal.

Jaheira and Shadowheart have emerged as well, and watching them watch Karlach leave, the bright and smiling Shadowheart of the past evening seems to disappear, replaced for a moment in expression and posture by the Shadowheart Izar first came to know, frowning and uncertain, warring silently with feelings that she cannot bring herself to name.

She sees Jaheira see it, too, sees her seem to log it away to be dealt with soon.

“Come on, then,” Jaheira says. “It seems our host has provided breakfast.”

“I can’t believe you’re still on your feet, crow,” Izar says, coming to join them at the table, freshly laid out with a vast spread of delightfully greasy food. “I saw you laying waste to that bottle of Blackstaff.”

“Just barely,” Jaheira says, shovelling some bacon unasked into Shadowheart’s plate. “But I know an old Druidic trick."

"Is that trick a Restoration spell?" Shadowheart asks dryly.

Jaheira winks. "Clever girl. Now, cub, where is that husband of yours? Did last night finally do him in?"

“He’s still asleep,” Izar says. “Leave him for now, I’ll wake him before you go.”

“Should we make sure the others are still alive?” Shadowheart asks. “I know Astarion left before dawn.”

And Lae’zel’s projection faded not long before they all collapsed into sleep. Withers eventually noticed Minsc's accidental hostage, and he and Jaheira insisted that he return the poor man home. Halsin emerges from his tent just a few moments after they sit down. Minthara—

“I would prefer not to see another surface sunrise, if I can possibly avoid it,” she said, and Izar could not help but notice that only she had been cornered for this covert goodbye. “Farewell, godling. I… am not sure how we will see each other again, or when. Human lives are frustratingly short.”

“It’s why we’re so good at getting things done,” Izar replied. “You don’t have enough friends to just start leaving some behind. I’ll see you again, Minthara. Soon.”

“Hm.” She smiled. Just faintly. “Goodbye, Izar.”

“I hope all is well?” Halsin rumbles as he sits. Izar suspects he must have cast some restorative magic on himself as well, given the serenade he was drunk enough to offer them all late the night before. “I must depart soon, I fear.”

"We should, also," Izar says reluctantly. "Though Gale won't forgive me if I don't insist you all come visit Waterdeep. I'll make sure you see more than just Gale's library-- I get the mate's rates at the Yawning Portal now."

"Ha!" Jaheira grins. "Drag him down the pit for an adventure now and again, do you?"

"Well-- no," Izar admits. "Fun as that would be. He hasn't been entirely well. Never has been while we've known him, I suppose, but-- much of the orb's damage can never be undone, and it turns out losing it has an effect, too."

"I... maybe I should come to Waterdeep," Shadowheart says. Izar notices she is rubbing the back of her hand. "I've never been. My parents say the House of the Moon is quite spectacular. I doubt they would be up for the journey, though..."

Halsin and Jaheira exchange a look that Shadowheart doesn't see. Before Izar can say anything, her mind prickles with the gentle request of Gale's Message spell, and she lets him in.

Feeling a bit poorly, my love. Can you make my farewells?

Izar pushes back from the table. "Gale's up. I'll be right back."

She ducks under the tent flap and is greeted with the trumpeting sound of Gale blowing his nose.

"Urgh. Sorry about that. You didn't need to come, I'll just..."

"If you want to go back to sleep, we'll go home," Izar says, moving at once to sit down on the bedroll beside him. "You'll do better with a warm bed. But you'll regret not saying goodbye first."

"Oh, I can send along a projection," he sniffs, waving a hand. "It will look and sound rather better."

Izar laughs. "You don't think we've all seen each other in worse states than this? Now you're just sulking. Come on."

"My love, please." He scrubs his hands over his face. "I don't... well, one can't help wanting to cut an impressive figure at a gathering like this. And everyone has, you know-- surviving Avernus, battling in the Astral Sea, helping to rebuild Baldur's Gate. To be a mere professor and his wife can hardly compare."

"Speak for yourself," Izar says. There's a time she would have been offended, but she knows him too well now. "I'm proud of us. Less than a year ago, both of us would have much preferred not to be here-- or anywhere-- at all. Starting from there, just being here alive, and wanting to be, is really quite the triumph. And our friends know it."

Gale is silent a moment, then shakes his head with a smile. "Right as always. Well, let me at least try to tidy myself up a bit..."

Izar ducks out of the tent to give Gale a moment. She sees both Halsin and Jaheira in quiet conversation with Shadowheart, whose expression is warring between determination and distress. Izar's not-yet-so-old instincts flare: she should see what they're saying, she ought to know what's going on. But the moment passes, and she knows better. She waits until Gale emerges from the tent, sneezing into his handkerchief. It draws the attention of the others, naturally, and Shadowheart-- looking relieved at the excuse to break away-- comes hurrying over.

"You surely didn't think we'd all just leave without saying goodbye," she says.

"I'm always being told I think too much of myself," Gale says. "I decided for once I shouldn't presume. I must say, I'd rather hoped my sorry state would blend in with the aftermath of all your revelry last night, but you're all looking terribly fresh. Where did all that wine go, in that case?"

Shadowheart rolls her eyes. "Really, the two of you! Magic can be used for more than explosions and hunting prey, remember?" She raises a hand illustratively, and is shines with silvery light. Then she presses it to Gale's chest.

The pallor fades from his face almost at once, and he brings a hand to his throat in surprise.

"Oh." His voice sounds normal again. "Why, thank you, Shadowheart."

"My pleasure." Her gaze drifts down to her own hand. "I think that's the first spell I've cast since the battle."

Gale lays a hand on her shoulder, and she lifts her eyes to meet his gaze. Something passes between them, some kind of understanding, and after a moment, she looks to Izar, too. Once the truest of believers, all abandoned by their gods. All standing, still.

Shadowheart clears her throat. "You know, Jaheira was just saying she'll go visit Reithwin with Halsin, and perhaps make her way north, after. Even as far as Waterdeep, perhaps. I-- well, she's pestering me to come along, and goodness knows if we let her go off on her own, none of us will hear from her again for months at best."

Gale tightens his hand on Shadowheart's shoulder, an affectionate squeeze. "It would mean the world to us to have you."

"Well... we'll see." But over Shadowheart's shoulder, Izar sees Jaheira's self-satisfied smile.

They breakfast, Halsin gently telling Shadowheart how welcome her parents would be in Reithwin, how much it would mean to have someone help restore the town's old traditions of worship. Gale tries to wheedle an invitation to the Harpers' secret library out of an unrelenting Jaheira. The late autumn sun is bright and clear. Izar breathes in the smell of home.

[ladyofrosefire]

Hello! I want to know more about Iris' post game with Shadowheart and Halsin! Do they settle? Do they travel together?

Bit of both!

I... am still picking my way through the end of the game so that I finish this fic I'm writing instead of leaving it in the WIP drawer forever and ever, BUT.

Iris did not, despite being easily able to do it, try to talk Shadowheart into saving her parents. When you have the ability to talk anyone into pretty much anything (and have used that ability to kill several people), you do start keeping your mouth shut around people you like making difficult decisions. So in the aftermath, the two of them go adventuring and exploring and, when they get tired, they go to Reithwin.

Rebuilding is going to take a lot of time and a lot of effort. Sure, there are buildings still mostly there, and with a real community effort, 6 months could do a lot, especially with magic (there's a druid spell called Move Earth that could be very helpful for digging foundations). So Halsin mostly stays, although they would tempt him away for shorter excursions. And, I imagine, they occasionally bring people in need of safe places to the town.

Between adventures, they rest. Resting does include Shadowheart helping the healers (...turning the House of Healing into something OTHER than a horror show full of Sharran iconography would be rough, but it does have a good base to be functional again) and Iris stepping in mostly to help with whatever school is set up.

Maybe they stay for a week, at first. Iris brings out her violin at the Last Light and gets people dancing. Shadowheart takes them both down to the beach for a swim. Iris and Halsin find out Shadowheart has no memory of ever trying to roll down a hill, which has to be addressed. They set off on another adventure. They come back. They stay a little longer. Iris starts collecting beginner music books. Shadowheart finds a wolf pup. Halsin sets a small house aside for them. Winter arrives, and they settle in by the fire. They retrieve Halsin from the room at the Last Light where he set up and find out they're going to need to build a bigger bed. Iris smacks herself in the thumb with a hammer, which is mostly just annoying since she has two healers in the room with her.

And, eventually, they stop leaving. Not entirely— they still go out looking for people who need to find somewhere to land, and Iris goes to get more books or more music, or they go visit their friends. Someone sets eyes on Waterdeep, and they have to blast them out of the sky. But the house gets a garden and chickens and cats and a cow, and Iris starts teaching music lessons (much to everyone else's horror. Early days of violin. Small children with drums.) and people stop teasing Halsin about when he's going to build a house for himself.

I also like to think that Shadowheart picks up maybe two levels of druid at some point. She'd share Circle of the Moon with Halsin, and yes she would be able to turn into a wolf, but mostly she rides around on people's shoulders as a little white cat. Occasionally, Iris will use the charge from the Corvid Amulet to join them. It becomes a fairly common experience to watch a bear trundle by with a cat on his back and a raven perched between his ears.

[tumbleweed-run]

Could Gale ever be Poly?

Situationally. Yes

Am I the person who wrote an entire post about Gale being a jealous (rightfully so) man? Yes.

But hear me out, in the aftermath of BG3, as long as we took everyone's "good" route. I could see him eventually agreeing to a 3rd. Not just any but very specifically Astarion. And while this is partially bloodweave brainrot I assure you I have considered it.

It wouldn't be easy for either of them, and realistically Tav. But Gale would start out as the main, Astarion and Tav are just BFFs. Astarion learning that love can be without strings.

They invite him to Waterdeep, away from the city and it's memories but also towards a potential Vampirism Cure/Day walking spell that doesn't involve becoming Cazador. Because Gale would be the most qualified to find that cure. And I bet his tower is easily traversed in the daylight hours without risk to Astarion.

It could just stop there, the three of them happy.

But we're discussing a triad.

I think the first crossroads towards romance would actually be Gale/Astarion. Astarion would still be himself and while his innuendo and flirting is generally accepted as just Who He Is and no one pays it mind. Maybe Gale off handedly agrees to whatever entendre that is proposed, as a challenge or just truly "yes I would agree to doing this dirty thing you've joked about." Astarion would be

at first. Mostly from shock but then he'd dwell on it. Tav and Gale aren't shy with touch, with each other or him. He's regularly hugged and cuddled, sometime's he's even the initiator. It's not uncommon for Gale to emerge from his study after hours to find them curled up on the same couch each immersed in their own thing.

Gale's probably the first one to be surprised by his own lack of jealousy when he happens upon the scene for the first time. But it just becomes the norm. And when Tav is off working on their own thing it eventually becomes common to find Gale and Astarion knee to knee in the study, each with excessively large tomes, leaning over one another because they're both working from BOTH books.

So that first time Gale is blatantly like "yeah lets do that" Astarion is struck by the fact that... he actually might want to. But he's reluctant because Tav's (and admittedly Gale's) friendship is unexpectedly more important that anything as fleeting as 'romance' or 'lust'.

But Tav is 200% on board when the conversation get brought up by Astarion (in the 'ahaha you wouldn't believe...' way). They love both these idiots, albeit in different ways, and wouldn't mind. Even if it was just Gale&Astarion.

But it would never be JUST those two because of how deeply both men care for Tav. Whatever they build to becomes normal. Maybe all three sleep in the same bed, Astarion position on the outside so he can sneak off when he's done resting. Maybe they just constantly find each other making overlapping decisions about future adventures or where to look for a rumored cure.

Part of the reason why this works is Gale and Astarion are not dissimilar. They face their trauma with different takes but it's deeply embedded in who they are and how they'll approach life forever more. While Gale is 100% willing to try and give Astarion more autonomy than he's ever dreamed of, believing that 'if you love something set it free' line. Astarion would spend a lot of time trying to get Gale to see and accept that while he made mistakes he was far from the villain in his story. Tav would spend most of that time trying to run around thwarting miscommunication and reigning in Astarion's god-killer urge despite also wanting very much to punch Mystra.

So while I think both men deserve to be 100% the center of someone's affections, I also believe they could eventually find a healthy trio dynamic.

(and also do whatever the faerun equivalent of an eiffel tower is to tav regularly)

[ilanorgratvol]

Rough tempest they will raise - Part 12

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11

For the first time during their forced journey, Talia felt relief as if a huge boulder that had been pressing her to the ground, not allowing her to breathe freely, was removed from her shoulders. The curse was gradually leaving these lands, laughter and bird song were heard more often around. More often, the sun began to break through the clouds, warming those present with its warmth. Gale was recovering, thanks to Shadowheart and the regular dressings that Talia made with unnatural patience and focus.

The tieflings, having went through hell both literally and figuratively, were getting ready to set off. The road to Baldur’s Gate turned out to be more difficult and unpredictable than they initially expected, and they did not want to waste any more minutes. Talia went out to the gates to say goodbye to Rolan and his siblings.

“So, Talia, our brother told us about your friendly fight,” - Cal smirked, squinting his eyes, - “Though I think he might have seen it in a dream.”

Rolan raised an eyebrow, glancing at the sorceress. Trying to maintain the most serious face possible, she replied:

“Actually, your brother quite skillfully defeated me in that fight. A rare success for a wizard, I must say.” - She looked at Rolan, who nodded his head gratefully. Her own words seemed to make her ponder something for a second. - "Rolan, where did you get that robe?"

“This old thing?” - He passed his hands over the robe as if dusting it off, - “It’s all I have left from my father. Why do you ask?”

“You do know that this is a sorcerer’s robe, right?” - Talia carefully ran her fingers over the metal overlay covering almost the entire chest of the tiefling. It was battered, like the robe itself, but still shone under the emerging sun rays.

“Hard to tell. My father left us long before I could ask him about it. And judging by what my mother said afterwards, I wouldn’t be surprised if he stole it,” - Rolan clearly didn't enjoy this conversation. Cal and Lia exchanged anxious glances.

“Well…” - Talia smiled slightly, not removing her hand from his chest, - “Whatever the case, I would advise you to listen not only to your teacher and what is written in books but also to this.” - She nodded gently at his chest.

“I...” - The tiefling seemed a bit taken aback, - “I’ll try.”

“Find us when you get to the city.” - Lia approached and took Talia’s hand warmly, - “We could really use a friend who can finally shut this grumbler up.”

The sorceress smirked slightly and nodded to them as they finally set off, continuing to tease each other.

“Do you think encouraging such beliefs’s a good idea?” 

Talia turned around at the familiar voice. Gale stood slightly behind her, arms crossed over his chest. He was dressed in his usual brown trousers and a white shirt.

“Don’t doubt him,” - the sorceress frowned disapprovingly.

“Don't get me wrong, I don’t doubt his skills. Just his new teacher. In Waterdeep, they say Lorroakan is quite the cad; even worse as a teacher.”

The sorceress just shrugged: 

“Well… then we’ll have to doubly hope that Rolan listens to my advice. And speaking of new…” - Talia smirked mischievously, - “I have something for you.”

“New? In these lands?” - The wizard tilted his head, squinting slightly, - “I’m afraid the newest thing you can find in these lands is us. And I don’t want to bring up the issue of age, but…”

“Just follow me…” - Talia sighed slightly irritably and walked back to the entrance of the tavern. The wizard followed her with interest.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Talia was sitting casually on a chair, her legs thrown over the table. She methodically sliced pieces from an apple she was holding, putting them into her mouth directly from the knife.

“Are you quite certain I’ll look acceptable in this?” - came a hesitant voice from behind a dressing screen at the other end of the room.

“Anything's better than your old one,” - the sorceress glanced at the old purple robe, still covered with dried blood, carelessly thrown under the table.

“Fair enough,” - grunts and rustling of clothes continued from behind the screen, then the wizard finally emerged. He spread his arms to the sides, - “Are you sure about this?”

Talia, who had been focused on her apple, finally looked up. Gale was wearing a dark blue robe adorned with silver embroidery. Its shortened sleeves highlighted his arms, and a deep cut almost left nothing to the imagination, showing the upper part of his slightly hairy chest where the sphere rested.

The sorceress froze for a moment, staring at him unblinkingly, audibly swallowed a piece of apple, and almost squeaked in an unnaturally high voice:

“Yep.”

The wizard seemed unaware of this and continued to fidget, trying to adjust the collar of the robe and get used to the new feeling:

"I appreciate the finer things, but don't you think this is a bit much? Especially considering I've been on the battlefield more often than at receptions lately..."

"On the contrary," - the sorceress dismissed, - "In a few days we'll be in Baldur's Gate. And something tells me that your eloquence and appearance will be just as useful as the ability to incinerate a handful of goblins with a wave of your hand."

"I hope you're right. Imagine how foolish I'd look in battle wearing this, all covered in blood and sweat…" - the wizard continued adjusting his robe, paying no mind to the sorceress. She, in turn, was clearly absorbed in fantasies she had no intention of sharing.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days later, the group finally reached the city. Even before they crossed the city gates, the bustling and active suburbs provided a welcome contrast to the desolate lands they had been traveling through for so long. Of course, the mood was somewhat dampened by the number of refugees fleeing from the army of the Absolute, which was slowly but surely advancing towards Baldur’s Gate. However, the solidarity, determination, and willingness to help each other somewhat warmed the companions' hearts and allowed them some respite. Karlach, not without effort, convinced Wyll and, surprisingly, Shadowheart, to visit the local circus; Astarion, Tav, and Halsin headed to the local brothel, eliciting disapproving looks and grumbling from the wizard about some people not knowing their limits; Talia had her expectations about Gale's attire confirmed when they encountered the disgruntled owner of a large estate who was unwilling to let refugees stay the night. Eventually, they managed to negotiate with him, and Talia believed that half of their success was due to the wizard's appearance. The other half was his eloquence, but the sorceress preferred not to dwell on that.

"Are you sure you didn't enchant this robe?" - Gale, not without a touch of smugness, smoothed the garment over himself while standing near the mansion. - "I must admit, it gives me a particular sense of confidence."

"It's called growing a pair, Waterdeep," - Talia smirked, beginning their usual banter - something they were both so used to that it seemed they had forgotten how to communicate differently.

"I assure you, there's nothing wrong with my manhood," - the wizard responded, raising a finger habitually. But realizing where the conversation was headed, he blushed slightly and added, - "Anatomically speaking, of course."

"I haven't had the pleasure of verifying that..." - the sorceress replied, distractedly looking into the crowd moving toward the city gates. A strange feeling, bordering on intuition or the premonition of something terrible, suddenly washed over her. She kept scanning the crowd, not fully understanding what had caught her attention. She turned to the wizard. He stood there, a corner of his mouth slightly curled into a smile, his eyes narrowed.

"Are you saying… what I think you're saying?" - He tilted his head slightly, accepting the unintentional challenge the sorceress had thrown.

"All I'm saying is, see you at the camp." - Talia lost focus completely and headed toward the market, waving at the wizard in farewell. - "Sorry, I just have to… just sorry." - She quickly blended into the crowd, leaving Gale alone.

Talia herself didn't fully understand where this oppressive feeling had come from, driving her feet forward through the market crowd. She turned her head from side to side, as if searching for something or someone, as if somewhere deep in her mind there was already the realization that something was ready to catch up with her, but she couldn't grasp it. A strange feeling, a tingling at the edge of perception, a stirring of the Weave inside her body, seemed to be drawing her toward something. She continued scanning the heads of the crowd when she suddenly saw what she had been looking for. 

At the corner of one of the buildings ahead stood a man. His gaunt face, gray eyes, and overall sickly appearance contrasted with his evidently strong, though slender, body hidden beneath a dark cloak. He had sharp facial features, thin lips, a similarly thin, slightly elongated nose, and a sharply trimmed gray beard framing his chin. Talia froze for a second, catching his gaze. He seemed to shiver slightly, as if from the cold, and a small lock of his white hair fell over his cheek from under his hood.

Talia abruptly dashed forward, trying to make her way through the crowd to where the stranger had stood. The broad shoulders of passersby kept blocking her view. She cursed, trying to shove them aside. By the time she reached the spot, the man was already gone. Breathing heavily, she looked around, hoping to find some trace. Then, closing her eyes for a moment, she tried to sense any magical trace, indicating he had used a portal or a door in space. Nothing. Talia opened her eyes, frowning—nothing. But that couldn't be—there always had to be something. A trace, a whisper of magic left behind when someone used it to disappear. She knew the feeling intimately, the way magic lingered in the air like the fading scent of smoke after a fire. But here, there was nothing. It was as if the man had simply vanished into thin air without a trace.

Her chest tightened with frustration, a sinking feeling settling in her stomach. This wasn't the first time she'd felt this way—so close to finding something, only for it to slip through her fingers at the last moment. The sense of familiarity gnawed at her. Could it have been him? Could it have been Nathaniel?

She swallowed hard, pushing down the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. If it was Nathaniel, then he was close. Closer than he'd been in years. The sorceress took one last look around—no trace. Disappointed, she had to admit there was little she could do. The recent sense of lightness was gone, and Talia trudged back toward the camp, feeling that all-too-familiar heaviness in her heart.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This time, the camp was set up in the ruins of an old fortress that had recently served as a forward post near the city. Now, with the Absolute advancing closer every day, all forces had been relocated behind the city walls, leaving the fortress abandoned.

Upon returning to the camp, Talia sought solitude atop one of the towers, accessible only by a hastily constructed ladder. Sitting on one of the crates left behind by the soldiers, she gazed out at the city below, her eyes cloudy and unfocused. The streets and homes gradually lit up as night descended. A half-empty bottle of bitter wine swayed gently in her hand.

Talia felt a restless itch - the urge to drop everything and rush into the city, to search every alley and corner, to find no rest until she saw her brother again. She was so close, closer than she'd ever been. But she continued to sit on that damned crate in the damned camp, not moving an inch.

As the minutes stretched into hours, the city’s lights flickering like distant stars, Talia's grip on the bottle tightened. She knew she was on the edge of something monumental. For years, her every breath, every step, had been haunted by the need to find him, to confront what he had become. But now, when she was finally on the verge of that confrontation, she was almost ready to forget about it; to forget everything that had been the meaning of her life for so long, for... Talia gave a bitter smile to herself. For a wizard who was on the brink of sacrificing himself for the fleeting hope of earning a goddess’s forgiveness. And if not that, sooner or later the illithid tadpole would take over. No, Gale wasn't long for this world. So why couldn't she find the strength to leave? She knew perfectly well why…

She took another swig from the bottle, the bitter wine burning her throat, and blinked back tears that threatened to spill. Below her, the camp was quieting down, the sounds of laughter and conversation fading into the chilly evening. The others were resting, preparing for what lay ahead. But for her, there was no rest. Only this gnawing emptiness.

"Here you are!" - Gale grunted slightly as he climbed up the ladder to the tower. - "Are you all right? You haven't said a word all day..."

Talia quickly wiped her eyes and forced a smile: 

"I'm fine. I just needed to... get away."

The wizard frowned slightly, but seeing her state and the bottle in her hand, he decided not to press further. He sat down beside her, hunching over slightly and lacing his fingers together in front of him on his knees: 

"Looking for the truth in wine?"

"Something like that," - Talia replied, holding the bottle out to him.

Gale took the bottle, took a couple of sips, and immediately started coughing, his face scrunching up in disgust: 

"Gods, I hope the truth isn't as bitter as this swill!"

Talia remained silent, her expression speaking volumes. She turned her head, glancing over at the wizard, as if hoping to find the answer to her unspoken question in his keen eyes. Her gaze fell on the earring that glinted slightly in the torchlight.

“Why do you still wear Mystra's symbol? After everything she’s put you through…” - Talia reached out, attempting to remove the earring herself. Gale merely smirked, squinting slightly, and gently stopped her by placing his hand over hers.

“A common misconception among those who weren’t properly trained in the art of magic,” - he said, pausing as he removed the earring himself and placed it in his palm, holding it out for Talia to inspect more closely. -  “This isn't Mystra’s symbol, as people tend to believe. It’s a symbol of magic itself. You see…” - He pointed to the center of the symbol, a small but brilliantly shimmering diamond. - “This is the Weave - the source of all magic, as far as we know.” - He traced his finger along the earring. - “And these rays that emanate from it represent the eight schools of magic - eight rays, eight schools.”

Talia leaned in, listening carefully:  

“You wizards... always need to organize everything into neat little boxes, don’t you?”

Gale smirked slightly before his expression took on a more nostalgic tone: 

"Indeed, we do. But you know what? I'm learning to enjoy the taste of chaos."

The sorceress tore her eyes away from the earring in his hand and turned to him. There was a playful spark in his eyes, as if he wanted to convey something deeper than what appeared on the surface. Talia’s hand instinctively covered his palm, the one holding the earring. Her body seemed to move closer on its own…

"A wizard, Tally? Really?" - Gale’s voice suddenly turned unnaturally cold and sharp. His hand tightened, causing her pain. - "I always knew you had too soft a heart, but to stoop so low as to lie under a wizard?"

Talia recoiled, trying to free her hand from his death grip. It was useless. She watched in horror as Gale’s body twisted unnaturally, as if all the bones in his body had broken at once. Within moments, her brother sat before her instead. His slight smirk contrasted sharply with the coldness in his eyes as he tilted his head, measuring her with his gaze:

“Don’t be sad... I thought you were looking forward to this. A little family reunion!" - He sneered maliciously, yanking her hand and forcing her closer.

Talia winced from the pain and anger, resisting his grip as much as she could. Nathaniel mockingly pouted as if in feigned offense:

“What, are all your kisses reserved for the wizard? No kiss on the cheek for your brother?”

“I’ve got something for you, but it’s definitely not a kiss…” - Talia snapped out of her shock, preparing to strike him with lightning. But he was faster. With a swift motion and a whispered incantation, he summoned a dimension door right in front of them. Shoving Talia through it, he disappeared behind her. The magical door closed with a heavy sound and vanished into thin air as if it had never existed.

[theconstellationprincess]

A continuation of my last story (This) about Gale of Waterdeep, wizard extraordinaire and occasional regressor

-

Upon waking up Gale felt a great deal of peace and relief, until the events of the previous night washed over him and then he was anything but peaceful. He had regressed in front of Astarion, babbled about his stuffed cat and then demanded the vampire read to him until he fell asleep. Astarion was probably outside at that moment, telling everyone how pathetic he was, how much of a burden he was. Gale stood up, looking down at himself and feeling overwhelmed with shame and embarrassment. He quickly changed into his robes, shoving the onesie he was wearing (along with his other supplies) into its designated chest. He left the tent, scanning for Astarion the moment he was outside. 

“Hello Gale.” Gale jumped, whirling around to see Astarion, leaning against a tree next to his tent. He didn’t look particularly disgusted or angry, which gave Gale some hope.

“Astarion,” Gale greeted breathily, clutching his chest. “You sneak.” He accused playfully, “You’re going to give me a heart attack.” Astarion huffed a laugh and grinned.

“You need to be more perceptive,” Astarion teased back. Gale wouldn’t have really called them friends, but perhaps he misinterpreted. Astarion was being so kind to him, but perhaps it was just because he was worried about Gale blowing him up more so now than ever after Gales… strange behavior the previous night.

Gale cleared his throat and straightened his posture, making direct eye contact, despite the fact he hated direct eye contact, with Astarion so he’d know Gale was serious. “I wanted to talk to you about last night.” Eyes squeezed shut and then gaze averted, eye contact was far too much.

“Whatever about?” Astarion replied, amusement clear in his voice. Did Gale really have to say it?

“I wanted to give you my sincerest apologies." Gale began, picking at his nails as he struggled to find the words to explain. “It was not my intention to- to force you to take care of me. Not that it wasn’t appreciated, of course! I wasn’t in a right state of mind and-“ 

Astarion cut off Gales anxious babbling with a finger pressed over Gale’s lip. Gale shut up immediately. “Whatever are we going to do with you, hmm? I don’t do anything I don’t want to, not anymore. I was quite happy to care for you while you were… indisposed, shall we say.” Gale blinked a few times, titling his head in confusion. Why would it make Astarion happy to listen to him babble in a high pitched voice?

“But-“

“And I would be quite happy to do it again, should the opportunity arise. Now, shouldn’t you be making breakfast?” With that Astarion strode off into the woods, and as if on autopilot, Gale began preparing breakfast. He had gotten no answers, but it didn’t seem like Astarion would be revealing his secret, so small mercy’s.

///

It was half a tenday later when Gale regressed again. It was like a switch had flipped and he was finding it far more difficult to force down the need to regress. While the regression was involuntarily, he could still push it back for a little while before everything became too much and he regressed again. It ended up being Tara, the real one that is, who caused his regression in the end. He had summoned her simply for the purpose of the company, for his other companions were celebrating their recent victory with wine and dancing, neither of which Gale was in the mood for. 

Having Tara curled up in his lap made him feel safe, content. Tara understood his regression, oftentimes more than he did, so she picked up on the fact he was in need of a push towards the headspace. It happened before Gale even realized what she was about to do- she booped his nose. Gale paused, going cross eyed to look at her paw, and then erupted into giggles.

“Tara!” Gale squealed, “What are you doing? Silly Tressym!” Tara did it once more for good measure and then flicked her head towards the chest she knew contained all the things he would want when small.

“Helping you, Mr. Dekarios.” Tara purred in response. “You should get changed into your softest clothes, and I will read to you.” Gale scrambled to comply. Tara had noticed that he often struggled to read to himself while small, and it only took a story or two before he was completely regressed, and likely asleep.

She was not anticipating a quiet knock on an external post of the tent. “Gale,” A voice called. Which one was it? Was it the one Gale had spoken to her about, the one who was familiar with her pet’s regression? “May I enter?” 

“Are you Mister Astarion?” Tara asked instead of answering. If he was, then she’d ask Gale, who would almost certainly say yes, otherwise it would be a quick and strict denial.

“I- what? Yes but-” Tara stopped listening, instead refocusing on Gale. She purred when she noticed the outfit he’d chosen, the Tressym onesie that he had sewn himself. Gale looked at her when she began to purr, smiling happily at her contentness. He clearly hadn’t noticed her conversing with the vampire spawn.

“Would you be alright if Mister Astarion joined us?” Tara asked him, pushing her head into his hand when he offered it. He scratched her chin, eliciting another purr. With eyes suddenly much brighter, Gale nodded excitedly. A pacifier sat comfortably in his mouth, making Tara wonder how old he was feeling. Gale didn’t generally have a specific age, so they work qualitatively in older, young, or younger. She was pretty sure he was falling under the younger category.

“You may enter, Mister Astarion.” Tara called towards the tent flap, jumping up onto Gale’s shoulders. Astarion entered the tent in a fluid motion, eyes hard until they landed on Gale, upon which they immediately softened. Gale grinned at him, immediately beginning to babble about the book Tara was going to read for him, and Tara watched with narrowed eyes as Astarion appeared to become genuinely interested in what Gale was saying. She watched for as long as it took for her to understand that this Astarion truly meant no harm to her pet, and that he was actually rather good for the man. Good, Gale was in desperate need of more friends.

Once Gale had tired himself out talking about the book, Tara hopped off of his shoulders and weaved around his legs, purring slightly as she herded him towards the mountain of pillows and blankets he had. Gale collapsed onto the pile with a giggle, squirming around as he tried to get comfortable. Once he had settled she turned her attention back to the elf, narrowing her eyes at him and flicking her head towards the blanket pile. He looked confused for a moment before he too settled down into the cozy space, with Gale immediately squirming his way over to him so they could cuddle. Astarion looked unsettled, briefly, but the look disappeared just as quick as it had come. Tara filed it away for later and flicked open the book Gale had wanted to have read to him, beginning the story much to the delight of Gale, and to her surprise, Astarion. He looked invested, not as much as Gale, but interested enough that she took note of it as well.

She only had made it 2 chapters in before Gale had dozed off, face squished against Astarion’s chest. Astarion looked sleepy, but was not asleep, so Tara continued reading the book until he entered his trance, which was at the end of chapter 5. She purred happily upon seeing the two, peaceful and together. She tugged another blanket over the top of them, not wanting them to grow cold as the night continued, and curled up next to Gale, for he was far warmer than the elf.

She would need to do some more digging on Astarion, but for now she was content to let him rest with her kitten.

[glitterandmoondustofficial]

And Onto Further Stillness

Chapter 26

Notes:

Characters: Gale, Yrelia Rating: Teen Warnings: Implied sex Notes: I know. I updated again so soon, but I'm recovering from surgery and have had nothing to do but lay on the couch and write. I really, really wanted to write something so sweet and warm between the two of them. Something nice and fluffy and no silly drama. Honestly, now that Yrelia's family plot is done for there will be so much more cute stuff. It's what they deserve.

Gale hummed as he woke up slowly. He smiled in the light from the window. It was comfortable, in this bed in the inn he had chosen. A warm hearth, comfortable feather bed, cozy quilts, and, the most important thing, Yrelia at his side.

“My love,” he said with a smile and closed eyes. “I must say that every day I wake up to you, is a blessing indeed.” He reached over for her, expecting to feel her wonderful body, but was left with an empty bed. “Lia?” He called and opened his eyes. She was gone. “Yrelia?” He called again. He sat up and looked around the room.

Deep down he knew it was ridiculous to get anxious over Yrelia not being in the room, but a very deep fear struck his heart. Just the tiniest bit of apprehension over his love not being there as he woke up. Rationally, he knew that Yrelia wouldn’t run off. He knew that she loved him and she enjoyed her life with him. Sometimes it was a bit hard to believe. Someone so special wanting a life with him? It seemed unreal.

He blinked when the door opened and then relaxed when he saw her walking into the room. She wore comfortable walking pants and a black long-sleeved shirt. Her hair was in a loose braid, lit up beautifully by the firelight. Her black hair that shone purple in the right light. She held two mugs of what Gale assumed was coffee.

“Good morning,” she said with a smile. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did. Although, I was left somewhat lonely this morning.”

Yrelia chuckled. “Oh, I am very sorry for such a grievous offense, my love,” she said as she walked towards the bed. She set aside the mugs on the nightstand and smiled at him.

Gale leaned towards her and kissed her lips. “I suppose, I can forgive such an offense this time.” She grinned when he kissed her again. He stretched and rolled out of bed. He yawned and stood in front of her, wrapping his arms around her and burying his nose in her hair. 

She chuckled and hugged him. “You’re holding on tight this morning,” she commented. “Did you have a bad dream?” He sighed, because of course she noticed right away. “Gale?” She pulled away and looked up at his face.

“Forgive me, my love,” he mumbled, “I’m afraid I can’t stop myself from being…anxious at times.”

She smiled softly. She leaned in and kissed him. “I’m not going anywhere.” She kissed him again. “Now, why don’t you get dressed? That way you can drink some coffee, before we hit the road. We should be in Waterdeep by sundown if we leave soon.” She took his face in her hands and planted a loud kiss on his bruised nose.

“Of course, my lady. I will do whatever it is you desire. Whether it’s in the kitchen, on the road, or in our very comfortable bedroom.” He grinned when she laughed. “You are…” he kissed her lightly, “...the most stunning, smart, and alluring creature to have ever graced this realm. Why, I’d love nothing more than to pull you back into this bed and show you how much you mean to me.”

She laughed again. “Beloved, you can sweet talk me all you want, but you need to get dressed.”

He kissed her instead. He wrapped his arms around her back and kissed her sweetly. She giggled. “I love you,” he whispered to her lips. He kissed her again, savoring the taste of her lips. He palmed her back, pulling her against him. He deepened the kiss, tasting her the way he would a deep red wine. He was tipsy from the taste of her tongue that reminded him of coffee and cinnamon.

And it was all the sweeter when she responded enthusiastically. She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in his hair. He broke the kiss and buried his face in her neck, nipping just below her jaw. He grabbed her hips, pressing his fingers into the fabric of her dress. She breathed his name, and it was so melodic that Gale swore she had to have been an angel sent down from the heavens. 

“Gale,” she murmured with a tone so heavy with arousal. “Beloved.” She let out a pleased breath, as his lips brushed against her ear.

“Yes, my love?” He breathed in her ear. She pressed her fingernails into the back of his neck and a soft hum sounded from her throat. He kissed her lips and then took her bottom lip in his teeth. She let out a breath and pulled her lips away from his. She stared at him through half lidded eyes, her fingers pressing into his skin, as he began to pull the shirt off of her body. She sighed, a moment of clarity in her eyes, going through every argument and protest that she had, and then threw them all out of the window and pushed him onto the bed.

“Don’t look too pleased with yourself.”

“Lia, you should know me better than that by now,” Gale said with an accomplished grin. He held her hand as they walked towards Waterdeep. He could see it in the distance, they were so close to home. “Of all the numerous subjects I am adept in, I think pleasuring you is within my top five greatest accomplishments.”

She let out a loud snort. “You’re shameless.”

“And you don’t even have a counter argument! I believe my point has been made, my beautiful love. Alas, we were confined to a bedroom that was not our own, so perhaps, when we are home and alone, I can properly take care of your needs.”

“Gods above, Gale.” She giggled when he let go of her hand and wrapped his arm around her. He kissed the side of her head and she giggled again. “I love you,” she said right as he kissed her lips.

He hummed against her lips. “I love you, too.”

She grinned at him and kissed his nose. “Your nose looks better today. Does it still hurt?”

“It is mildly painful,” he said and pulled away from her. He grabbed her hand and held it firmly. “However, your kisses have been just the balm I’ve needed to carry on with the injury.” He smiled at her giggle. “I am happy that I was the recipient, rather than you.”

Her brows knitted together with a worried smile. “I would have been fine, Gale. They targeted you because they wanted to hurt me.” She sighed. “They knew hurting someone I love would do far more than simple physical violence towards me.” She squeezed his hand. “When Cyr was growing up, they would try to hurt him because they knew it would upset me. They didn’t care about Cyr, but they hated me.” Gale frowned at her. “Oh, don’t give me that look,” she said and smiled at him. “I’m alright now, and we never have to see them again. I don’t think I’ll ever go back to Baldur’s Gate.”

Gale sighed. “Baldur’s Gate is important,” he reasoned and she looked at him curiously. “It is where we met.” She blinked. “I will always hold the city dear to me, despite the trauma surrounding it. I will, however, do whatever it is you wish. If you say you no longer wish to return to the city, then we will never step foot into the city limits again.”

She smiled. “You’re a good husband, you know that?”

“It is nice to see my efforts recognized.” Yrelia laughed.

“I don’t want to return. My home is with you, in Waterdeep. There’s nowhere else I want to be.”

Gale smiled. “And you are certain?”

“Well,” she stopped walking and let go of his hand. He turned and watched her. “I suppose that all depends.”

“And what does that depend on, my love?”

She grinned. She stepped up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Do you love me?”

He blinked. “Of course, I love you! I love you more than anything.”

Her grin grew. “And do you want me with you in Waterdeep?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my love, but-”

“And,” she interrupted, “would you like it if we were to live together for the foreseeable future?”

“With certainty! And for the unforeseeable future, as well. But, Lia-”

“And,” she interrupted again, “do you want to marry me and spend this life and the next by each other’s sides?”

“I want that more than absolutely anything in all of the realms.”

She grinned and leaned in to kiss his lips. “Then I’m certain.” She kissed him. “ You are my home, Gale. I will go wherever you go.” She hugged him tightly. “But for now, let’s return to the city we love.”

Gale smiled and hugged her. He closed his eyes and fought off his tears of joy. “I love you,” he whispered. 

Yrelia pulled away and took his face in his hands. “I love you, too.” She brought him in and kissed his forehead. “Now, let’s go home. My feet and ankles are in desperate need of a soak.” She grabbed his hand and started to lead him along.

“I concur,” he agreed, “my knees have been aching awfully during our trip. I believe that we will need some sort of extravagant relaxation day for the two of us before we return to our delightful daily routine.”

Yrelia watched him with a soft smile as he spoke to her about home. About home cooked meals, spiced wine, comfortable blankets, and fuzzy socks. He mentioned sleeping in until after sunrise, and then teased her about rolling around in bed until late morning.

Oh, he loved her. He unapologetically, inexplicably loved Yrelia Rosewood and her freckles, her smiles, and her wrinkles. The grey strands of hair that he wrapped around his fingers and her hips that were so fun to grab while she straddled him. He loved her voice, her mind, her stunning blue eyes. Her courage, her hope, her resilience. 

How did he become so lucky that someone like her, someone so incredible that she saved the Sword Coast, would come to love him? He was some once powerful wizard, who offended the goddess he loved by his insecurities and hubris. By his need to gain more knowledge, gain more power, and finally gain the love he so desperately wanted. 

But she took his hand and kissed it. She told him that she had never been as happy as she was when she was with him. She promised him a future, she promised him love, happiness, and arms to enter when he was tired. 

And all she wanted was to be loved in return. 

“Ah, my love!” A broad grin grew on Gale’s face as Yrelia approached him. She smiled at him as he took her hips in his hands, pulling her in and kissing her forehead. It earned them a disgusted scoff from beside them. He went to argue, to say anything about the annoying teasing that some of his companions threw at him, but Yrelia kissed him softly instead. She smiled at him and nuzzled his nose.

“Beloved,” she said so sweetly and he instantly melted in her embrace. He liked that pet name for him. She said it so confidently, leaving no room for doubt that he was hers. 

“My love,” he murmured, desperately wishing to taste her lips again. Moreso her skin. Perhaps even that sweet spot between her thighs that made her shake and pull his hair. 

“Come with me,” she said with that same sweet smile. She released him from their embrace and took his hand. He dutifully followed her.

“What adventure are you taking me on this time?” He teased.

“Nowhere extravagant, I assure you.” 

He followed her to the roof of the tavern. She sat down, her feet dangling off the roof as she watched the dying sunlight in the distance. He sighed with a small smile. He sat next to her, their hips and shoulders touching. He breathed a very calm breath, staring at the purple and pink sky, watching the blackness of night and the sea of stars start to fill what was left behind.

Yrelia wrapped her arm around his and rested her head on his shoulder. He began the faintest of blushes. It was all a bit ridiculous. Thirty five and blushing like a school boy would in front of his crush. He had been with others, he had been with an incredibly significant other, but those others weren’t Yrelia. 

Yrelia, with her black hair and pretty blue eyes. With her freckles that were on her skin like stars in the sky. Her sweet voice that said his name so softly, so full of adoration that Gale could hardly comprehend it. It was as if it was a different language; his own name foreign to him when it came from such satin lips.

She was breathtaking. She had a dazzling smile and a precious heart. One that he would be beside himself if he ever broke. He loved her. He had never loved anyone with the intensity in which he loved her. Looking upon Mystra, and then seeing Yrelia afterwards, it was clear who truly made his heart skip a beat.

“It’s hard to believe,” Yrelia said softly, breaking his thoughts, “that there’s impending doom as we watch the sunset.”

Gale sighed, leaning his cheek against the top of her head. “It is,” he agreed. “Although, there have been plenty of events that have been hard to believe these past months.” 

A soft chuckle came from her throat. “Seems like you have something specific on your mind.” He hummed. “Oh? Well, share with the class.” She pulled away from his shoulder and looked up at him with her dazzling blue eyes.

He stared down at her soft face. Her scar on her jaw. Her pretty, long eyelashes. He leaned in and rested his forehead against hers before kissing her delicate lips. He took her waist in his hands, squeezing gently, pressing his fingers into the fabric of her shirt. She smiled against his lips, kissing him with as much gentle enthusiasm as he was. 

She tasted of wine. Of a deep cherry red, that stained her tongue and lips. He could get drunk off of the taste of her tongue, he could lose himself to her touch. He had done so. Over and over he would so willingly get lost in her. Is this what true love felt like? Such genuine affection meant only for him?

She pulled away slowly, pressing her lips against his bottom lip before smiling at him. “I love you,” she said and he wanted to kiss her again.

“I love you, too,” he murmured instead, still high on her kiss. It felt right to kiss her. It felt like he was supposed to be in her arms. He had spoken to his goddess, to his ex-lover, earlier that day, and he had been so nervous to do so. He looked upon what he once thought was the epitome of beauty, the answer to all of his questions, every one of his desires, and he found her…lacking.

Lacking in beauty, lacking in comfort, lacking in the soft intimacy of a nervous and warm first kiss. She was his goddess, she would always be there, but…she was just that. A goddess. Someone he would invoke for his skill, but she wouldn’t have his love nor his lover’s devotion. Mystra had gone from an unequal beauty that Gale could never hope to compare to just…a distant god. Someone in the astral plane watching him invoke the weave to fight this evil. 

And Yrelia…

Yrelia was magnificent. She was tender, she was gentle. She smiled at him with enough warmth that Gale was certain he would be comfortable when winter arrived. He had decided earlier that day, when he returned from Mystra’s domain and saw Yrelia waiting for him, that he would ask her to return to Waterdeep with him. 

He would need to…work out the logistics and wording on how he would ask her. He was good with words, good at talking. He could easily write a poem and present it to her; sweet words of love and devotion. Then again, he had the tendency to put his foot in his mouth. She excited him so easily, that he just spoke until he realized that perhaps he had spoken too much.

“You have something on your mind,” Yrelia said with a knowing smile. “You’re usually not so silent.”

“Ah. Perhaps I’ve realized that I have spoken far too much recently, instead of listening to the voice of reason.” 

Her brows twitched in confusion before relaxing. A comforting smile graced her lips and she leaned in and kissed his nose. “You did listen, though, and I think that’s what matters.” She kissed his forehead. “And I’m grateful that you did. I…” her lips twitched, clearly trying to find the right way to say he didn’t disappoint her, “...I’m happy with what we are,” she continued, “and I’m happy with you, as you are.” She smiled. “I love you, Gale. Thank you for loving me.”

His eyebrows rose before relaxing. “I hardly need gratitude for doing something as easy as loving you,” he said and she grinned. “Between you and me, I fell rather quickly. It’s almost embarrassing how easily I fell into your arms.”

She laughed. “Oh, don’t be silly. I think it’s wonderful how earnest you are.”

He grinned and kissed her. She giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him with fervor. Gale’s heart leapt in joy and he realized that he truly wanted to live. He wanted nothing more than a life with her.

And he swore to whatever god that listened he would make sure that happened.

Gale smiled at the sunset, blinking out of his memory. He held Yrelia’s hand as they walked in silence. They were both exhausted from their trip. They were ready to go home and collapse in their bed. Gale looked up above him, the dark blue of night with its shining stars. He turned his gaze to his tired partner and smiled.

“My love,” he called her softly.

She looked at him and smiled. “Yes?”

“I’m quite curious.” Her brows rose and her smile grew. “I know exactly when I had decided that I would do my best to convince you to make the journey home to Waterdeep with myself.” She hummed. “Did you…ever have a moment as such?”

“I did.”

He waited for her to continue, staring at her so full of curiosity and eagerness. She didn’t continue and that curiosity started to buzz in his head. “My lady, it’s not kind to tease me like this.”

Yrelia laughed. “But it is fun!” She laughed again when he sighed. “Beloved, it’s embarrassing how early I wanted to be whisked off to wherever you would be.” She sighed when he stopped. “I remember,” she said and wrapped her arms around his neck, “after our first night together, when we were laying with each other, I had realized I never wanted to be apart from you.” She kissed them. “So, there’s your answer. Satisfied?”

“I am.” She smiled at him. “For now.” 

She scoffed playfully. “My darling, I fear you are slipping into your old habits!” She teased and grabbed his hand. 

She started to walk forward and he happily followed her. “Well, my love, there is something you could do that would easily remedy my insatiable personality. Now that we are close to our lovely and comfortable home, I can practically see your incomparable bare body in the serene, picturesque moonlight. Hm. I really should take up painting.”

Yrelia snorted loudly. “Gale, I don’t think Tara would appreciate a naked portrait of myself in her home.” She sighed. “Nor would my brother or your mother.” He hummed in protest. “You also see me naked every day. It’s not as if you’ll forget what I look like.”

“Ah, you see, my love. There are times where you have left me alone in our tower where I desperately miss the feel of your bare skin against mine. Only a perfect portrait would ever suffice. For example: you enjoy, for some reason or another, camping in the wilderness while on hunts! Shall I suffer withdrawal then? Would you truly put me through such torture?”

Yrelia threw her head back and laughed. “Oh my gods, you are incredible.”

“Oh, I am aware.” Yrelia snorted.

In just two and half hours, after the sun had long dipped below the horizon and the sky was dark with the winter stars in the sky, they arrived in the city of Waterdeep. Gale took a deep, satisfied breath as he looked around. The stone streets, the magic flames in the lanterns, the beautiful drift globes throughout the city. There was the scent of the weave in the air, the scent of home. He felt so vigorous, despite the long trek home from Baldur’s Gate. 

Yrelia smiled in the drift globe light, her face was soft with comfort and intimacy. She looked so happy to be back home, in their city. She sighed softly and then let out a short laugh as Gale practically leapt forward, pulling her along towards their tower. She laughed behind him, as they ran home. The stars, the fires, the drift globes lit their way, practically racing down the street to the Sea Ward. 

Snow softly fell from the sky. Quiet, white snowflakes drifting onto the ground, falling into their hair and his beard. The chill of night didn’t even seem to bother the two of them, too busy with the thrill of being home. They did get some curious stares, but they didn’t care. They were so thrilled, so damn happy, that they had made it safely home. They would be able to see their family again. Tara would lecture them about being inappropriate. Morena would ask them about grandchildren. Lillian would steal Yrelia away for gossip. Even Cyr would be welcomed back with open arms if an apology was on his tongue.

They reached their home and stood in the entryway. Their neighbor looked out the window and called to them with a wave. They grinned at him and waved back before looking at each other. 

Gale chuckled and turned to Yrelia. She smiled up at him, looking at him as if he really was the amazing wizard he thought himself to be. Her soft gaze was only matched by the breaths coming from her soft lips. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. Their breaths, that were coming out in little clouds, mingled together. He slowly brushed his lips against hers. A soft and slow kiss as the snow fell onto the street.

Yrelia wrapped her arms around his neck and Gale pulled her in closer. He kissed her with everything he was, everything he had. He loved her. He loved her more than he ever thought possible. They pulled away from each other slowly, resting their foreheads against one another’s again. They breathed deeply, catching their breaths after such a slow kiss. Yrelia rubbed her nose against his and he smiled, staring at the woman he couldn’t possibly live without.

He let out a hot breath and released her body. He took her hands in his and then kissed her forehead. She giggled softly and squeezed his hands, following him into their home as he walked through the front door.