#professor gale x oc

[honeybeefae]

Behind the Screen (Professor Gale x Female OC)

Summary / College was expensive, living was expensive, and Tessa’s parents had left her ill-prepared for the reality. Part-time jobs were difficult for her to keep with her school schedule, her major was crushing her mentally and spiritually, and with no other place to turn, she found herself profiting from less-than-professional means. However, it paid the bills and she never showed her face so it was foolproof. Never had she encountered anyone who knew what she did after dark…until she met the new Evocation professor. 

This idea floated into my head and will not come out. I would love to turn it into a multi-part series if anyone is interested! I know it isn't my usual ACOTAR work but I wanted to explore this new obsession! This is a kind of “modern” BG3 universe where magic, the absolute almost takeover, etc., are still the same but in a more modern setting! Obviously this will have smut so you have been warned but I will include content warnings at the beginning just in case! I hope you all enjoy! This chapter is a little short but I wanted it to be sort of an introduction to the story! <3

WARNINGS: 18 +, Cam Girl Activities, Paying to watch, Mutual Masturbation

AO3 Link

Chapter One: Lights, Camera, Action!

The music is slow and low in Tessa’s room, the bass thrumming throughout her body as she slowly sways to it. She smirks tauntingly as her fingers dance over the most sensitive parts of her body, covered by flimsy lace that one of her loyal viewers had sent her a week ago. It was a rich purple, matching the intricate masquerade mask that adorned her face and kept her most tempting feature unattainable. 

“Gods,” She moans huskily, sitting in her leather office chair to face the camera before slowly spreading her legs. “This feels so heavenly against my skin, Gale. You positively spoil me….”

Her computer is the only harsh light in her room as the rest of it is filled with soft fairy lights. She watches the screen as he types, knowing it would be a long lengthy response. He had been one of her first customers during the whole endeavor and after a few months, Tessa knew all of his quirks. Well, at least the sexual ones. 

Tonight is another private showing for him. It was like clockwork, Sundays at 8 PM and Fridays at 10 PM. They would last at least an hour, sometimes an hour and a half, and would consist of her teasing him until she turned her taunts to her body. He had sent her so many pieces of lingerie and toys in the few months she had started that it was a little startling. Sometimes he wanted her to take the lead, doing what she liked, while other times it was a specific script for her to follow. 

Either way, she knew he would pay a generous amount of money for these private shows and even more on tips if she did a free live show. A small part of her always wondered what he was like, what he looked like, but she knew entertaining that would only lead to pain. He could be married and hiding this obsession or single and desperate. None were good options for her. 

But she was more than happy to entertain his fantasies for however long he would pay her. 

“You know I am to please, my darling. I knew the purple would look absolutely radiant with your skin. It is all I can do now not to finish too quickly for you, the vision you are. Perhaps we should move on to the main event, yes? I am painfully aching to see all of you again.”

A blush comes over her cheeks at his words, both poetic and yet so vulgar. From the way he typed, she figured he had to have some kind of proper background and be older. No man she had ever met that was her age talked like him. 

“Of course, my love.” She purrs, reaching over to her drawer to fish out a toy. Before the stream, she had debated which one to use as his taste seemed to change with the wind. However, there was one she could always trust would please him. 

It’s a rabbit toy, sleek black with a long and thick vibrator and an additional clit stimulator that sucks and pulses in time with the rest of it. She always has the best orgasms with it and had actually been using it when Gale first found her stream. Ever since it was one of his favorites. 

“A classic, dear. Show me how your pretty cunt can drench it…and keep the lingerie on.”

“Yes, sir…” She almost whimpers as she pushes aside the already soaked material of her panties, biting down on her bottom lip as the toy comes to life in her hands. It was like a Pavlov effect on her pussy as she feels herself clench around nothing, eager to fuck herself for him.

The toy slides with little resistance inside of her as the clit stimulator begins to work its magic immediately, her back arching as she moans. She can feel the urge to close her eyes and blindly find her pleasure rising but she forces them open, eager to see what her client has to say. 

After a few seconds, he begins to type and she can only imagine what causes the delay, her mind flickering to images of a faceless man stroking his cock to her body. 

“So needy, so wet.”

“I can hear that wet cunt over your music, naughty girl. Do I make you this wet?”

“Fuck yourself for me. Call out my name, let everyone around you hear you cry for me.”

“Fuck, Gale!” She whines as she picks up the speed of her thrusts, the movement causing her clit to rub against the nub perfectly. “It’s…it’s so deep and it feels so fucking good…”

Her breasts sway to the rhythm she has become a slave to, almost popping out of the lingerie as the chair underneath her squeaks from her shifting weight. She can feel her mask begin to itch on her face as she starts to sweat, itching to remove it just so it doesn’t distract her. 

Instead, she spreads her legs wider and throws her head back in bliss for him. 

“Oooooh shit, oh fuck me,” She gasps as she hears the computer ping rapidly. “Gale, gods, Gale, fuck me, fuck me!”

The dual stimulation is causing her vision to turn spotty as she hits her Gspot, her entire back coming off the chair as she goes faster and faster. She thankfully has enough sense to raise her head to view his chat, her heartbeat thrumming in her ears.

“That’s it, darling, such a good girl. Look at you squirm for me. Look at you degrade yourself for me.”

“I can tell you are close. I can see your thighs trembling with the effort to keep them spread, to keep that slutty pussy open for me.”

“Gods above, I wish you could see how much I am leaking for you. It is a mess that I would love to cover you in. A devilish, sinful masterpiece.”

“I won’t last much longer. I need you to cum. Now.”

His last message had only been sent a few seconds ago and she took it in stride, changing her position so that she was practically kneeling and fucking herself roughly. Tessa could feel the drool leaking out of her mouth as her whole lower half seemed to throb in need, the tingles starting to spread up her body as she felt her orgasm quickly approaching. 

“I’m gonna cum, oh gods, I’m gonna-” She couldn’t even finish the sentence as she did one final, harsh thrust into her cunt. It sends her over the edge, her hips mindlessly grinding down further into the vibrations as she clenches over and over on the toy. It felt like too much and not enough, her body craving something more. Something real. 

Gale’s name is the only thing she can chant as she rides out her high, one of her hands going up to squeeze and pinch at her breast to extend the pleasure. After a few moments, she starts to come down, switching off the toy with clumsy fingers and letting it slide out of her.

“Show me.”

She knew what he wanted. It was the same every time she finished. Tessa gives the camera a lazy grin as she reaches for the toy and holds it up, showing the shiny and creamy texture before she does the same to her pussy. 

“The things I’d do to taste you, sweet girl. A tempest of my very own. Thank you for the show.”

His words make her look away for a moment in shyness as if she hadn’t just given him a very risque show. She turns back to the camera and blows him a kiss, wishing him a goodnight before she ends the stream and shuts her laptop. 

“Wow…” Tessa murmurs to herself, taking a deep breath as she stands up on shaky legs. She reaches for her phone and turns the music to something more alternative, more her speed, as well as turning the lights back to their lighter color. 

And so begins her nightly ritual after becoming her alter ego, Tilly Tryst. The mask comes off and is safely tucked away along with the rest of her clothes and toys. She fixes her bed and lights her candles, heading to the bathroom to take off her makeup and anything else she wears for her job. It’s like taking off a costume for her, or maybe an actor coming off stage. 

The bath she draws is usually her favorite part as she bathes herself in lighter scents. If she cared to analyze, it would be abundantly clear that it was like she washing away her sins or her actions. However, that would mean moralizing her job and that was a road she did not want to go down right now. 

Her phone pings as her muscles relax under the water, reaching out to see who could be texting her so late. The notification wasn’t a text though but a deposit notification. Gale had left her another very generous tip on top of his private stream payment. 

Tessa wishes she had someone to talk about this with, to see if this was healthy or if she should cut ties with him. This entire cam-girl job wasn’t even something she wanted to be doing. It was forced on her…subject herself to this or drop out of college. She knew others would have done the same in her position. 

Blackstaff Academy is the best wizarding school on the Sword Coast. Plenty of wizards of considerable acclaim had gone here and she was determined to be one of them. Her parents didn’t support her in her endeavors though they had no problem when her brothers had gone here. It was a sexist ideology, a kink in their plans to marry her off to a family friend to strengthen their role in society, and they hated her for it.

Other wizards at the school had a support system, a childhood of magical nurturing that inspired them to become even greater, and money or assistance to pay. Tessa had a childhood of sneaking magical tomes from her father and brothers, a support system of only her grandfather, and no money to her tattered name.

This is her last resort and thankfully, it was supplying more than she needed. It not only paid for her books, supplies, and other needs, but also her food and her rent. She finally felt like she was on the winning coin of fate. The last thing she needed was her only source of income to stop, even if it might be a dangerous game. 

And while Tessa would never admit this to herself, let alone a friend, she got a small thrill from her work. To be anonymous and yet so fully exposed is a different kind of adrenaline, not to mention the attention. Especially from her favorite clients. It fills a void that she desperately tries to hide.

She felt needed, desired, and for someone who went most of her life feeling the opposite it was like a balm for her soul…even if the methods were a little unorthodox. 

The clock in her room chimes, signaling the late hour, and she sighs before hauling herself out of the bath. Her last “first” semester started tomorrow and by the looks of her schedule as well as gossip in the hallways, it was not going to be an easy one. 

Tessa wraps herself in a fuzzy towel and softly pads back into her bedroom, fishing out comfortable pajamas as she finishes her nightly routine. Doors locked, windows shut, curtains drawn, and most importantly her laptop was shut. The bed calls her name as she finally settles in and down for the night, closing her eyes and drifting off into a dreamless slumber. 

[senualothbrok]

Promise

Screenshot by @dolceaspidenera

Summary: Gale learns what it means to love and be loved.

Sequel to Progress - a Professor Dekarios x OC journey through mental illness and recovery.

Word count: 7.9k

Disclaimers: Non-18+, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, mental illness and recovery.

Trigger warnings: Mental illness, eating disorder, body dysmorphia. Please practise self-care.

AO3 link

She looks happy.

She is smiling at you. You are lying in bed, facing each other. Sunlight streaks through your bedroom curtains as dawn breaks. You have to remind yourself that this is not a dream. She is really, truly here.

She closes her eyes as you run your thumb over her freckles, which fan out like stars over the contours of her face. Your fingers dance over her arm, the dip in her waist, the curve of her thighs. She does not shy away from your touch, nor try to hide her flesh from you. Her grey eyes quiver.

“I love you,” she whispers.

You cannot tell whether it is your tears or hers that linger on your tongue as you melt into each other.

---

You can still taste her salt and sweetness as you lie on your back, your arm curled around her as she nestles into your chest. She smells like lavender, soap, and sweat, and you cannot get enough of her scent as you bury your nose into her dark, damp waves.  She is playing with the hairs that trail from your chest to your navel, and you shiver from the shadow of her fingers. She notices.

“It’s a new experience, having such an effect on a man. It’s quite…flattering.”

She looks up at you with a small smile.

You chuckle. “You don’t know half of the effect that you’ve had on me, Aurora. I’ve spent two years imagining this moment, and still, my fantasies scarcely touched the surface of the miracle that you are.”

She is blushing, shifting. You kiss her on the tip of her nose, where she has the tiniest scar. You are engraving her every mark on the shrine of your memory.

“So…” She clears her throat. “You’re saying that you’ve been lusting after me since the first day we met? Your eyes met mine across the lecture hall and you thought, ‘This is a maiden I long for’. One glimpse of me was enough to rouse the fire in your loins. Is that it?”

She is playful now, teasing. You are aflame with this new side of her that no one else has seen.

You laugh. “Perhaps I exaggerate. But if not two years, then twenty months at most. I fell in love with you very quickly, Aurora. Much as I resisted it, or denied it to myself.”

Her gaze is evasive now, as though she is embarrassed. You clasp her to you. You need her to know, to feel the truth in your words. She must understand what she means to you. What she has meant to you, all this time.

“I’ve been alone since Mystra cast me off. At times, it’s been immensely lonely. To meet you, a kindred spirit, a soul that touched mine so instantly … that happens very rarely in a lifetime, if at all. Let’s just say that my body and soul yearned for you like water in a desert.”

You do not tell her about the frenzy that so often overcame you, slumped over your desk or under these very same sheets, thinking of her. The appetites of a schoolboy that she restored in you, when those desires had been all but dormant. Some things are better left to the imagination.

She is quiet. You can feel the faint timbre of her heartbeat through your skin.

“These things fluster you,” you observe.

She nods, biting her lip.

“Why? Don’t you believe me?”

“No, Gale, it’s not that.” She shakes her head. “I just find it hard to believe that someone like you could feel that way about me.”

She takes a deep breath.

“When we first met, I thought I’d found my first ever friend. And even that, I struggled to believe. I didn’t want to admit to myself that… well, I didn’t know what love was. Besides, how could it be possible? You’re the best man, the most beautiful person, I’ve ever known.”

You have such an urge to answer her with your mouth, your tongue, your body. But she is hesitant, and you must wait until the doubt passes. You must help her understand.

“But that’s what you are to me, Aurora.”

A frown passes across her brow.

“You’re the one and only.”

You brush your lips over her forehead.  She sighs, her features softening.

“Also,” you add. “Little things that you did drove me wild.”

Something glints in her gaze. “Like what?”

She presses herself closer to you.

“Too many to count. The way you bit your lip, for one. How delicately you turned the pages of every book. The way your face lit up talking about an illusion or a poem you loved.”

You can feel a familiar ache building.

“The way you widened your eyes when you looked at me. Like that. What you’re doing now.”

You thought you were spent, but you are already hardening.  She runs her tongue over her bottom lip.

“So I’m driving you wild at this very moment?”

You move your mouth closer to hers. “Yes.”

“Well.” She tilts her head. Her hand begins to float downwards from your navel. “It would be cruel to stop at that.”

As you push yourself on top of her, she lets out a little moan.

---

“Are you sure I look acceptable?”

She is fussing at the waistband of her skirt, the buttons on her sleeves. She fidgets with her hair clips, smoothing and re-smoothing her bodice.

“Is this the sort of thing that your mother will expect? Or should I wear something more modest?”

You chuckle. “You’re hardly baring every inch of your flesh to the world, Aurora.”

“Is it too conservative, then? Should I-”

You move closer to snake your hands around her waist. She leans her forehead against your chest.

“You look perfect. Marvellous.”

“I don’t,” she murmurs.

“You’re breathtaking.”

You are playing with the fabric on her shoulder. It torments you, the trail of freckles that drifts down the curve of her cheek, disappearing on the edge of her neck, only to reappear on her collarbone and shoulder blade. Aurora’s freckles are like winding roads in an unchartered territory, waiting to be discovered. Instinctively, your mouth dips down to follow where they lead.

“Gale…”

She looks up, frowning.

“What are you doing?”

You are losing yourself. There is something about having her here with you, in the home that you have occupied for so many years with only Tara for company, readying herself to meet those you cherish most. You never thought such a thing would be possible. You are suddenly dizzy with love and desire. Your tongue swirls against her skin, yearning for more of her.

“Your mother and Tara will be here any moment.”

But you can hear how her breath is hitching. Her eyes are half lidded, her lips parted. That she cannot resist you only fuels your hunger. You slide your hand underneath her skirt. She trembles against it.

“They can let themselves in,” you rasp.

---

Morena and Tara cannot conceal their joy when they see you stumbling down the stairs. The flush on Aurora’s cheeks has not yet receded as you make introductions. It does not escape their eagle eyes, how you repeatedly clear your throats and smooth your clothes and hair. How you rub at your beard again and again. When Aurora bites her lip, the images that rush through your mind make you shift to find your centre. Morena and Tara glance at each other with glee as you sit, sipping at the lukewarm cup of tea that has been waiting for you.

“I’ve heard so much about you from Tara and Gale, dear.” Morena beams. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you at last.”

She clasps Aurora’s hand. Aurora’s eyes widen. She is surprised by your mother’s warmth, just as she was taken aback by yours. You remember that she has never known a mother to give anything but punishment.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs Dekarios.”

Morena huffs. “Please, let’s dispense with such formalities. You can call me Morena, and hopefully, one day, you’ll call me Mother.”

You choke on your tea, glaring at Tara as she tuts at you. Aurora strokes you on the back as you cough and sputter, trying to conceal her alarm.

“Mother,” you say when you can breathe again. “Will you have some cake? A cookie? Something to stuff your very empty mouth?”

“My dear son,” she chirps. “It’s so kind of you to worry over your mother’s happiness and comfort. In fact, it brings immeasurable joy to this old heart to see you in your current state. Just look at the two of you. Glowing, positively radiant, with love.”

She claps her hands together with a sigh. Tara joins in with a fluttering of wings.

“Now that I’ve seen you in person, dearest Aurora, I know that all of Tara’s reports are true. You and my son are perfectly matched. You’re a vision.”

Aurora’s cheeks are reddening. Pride surges through you as she speaks.

“That’s very kind of you to say, Mrs- I mean, Morena. Your son is an exceptional man. I’m very lucky to be here with him.”

She interlaces her fingers with yours under the table. You almost wish that Tara and Morena would leave now, so you can keep showing her how exceptional you can be.

Tara and Morena exchange a look. As if on cue, they flash their teeth in a grin.

“You are such a dear.” Morena titters. “Now, I hope you won’t take offence in me pointing this out, but neither of you are getting any younger-”

You bristle, raising a finger. “Mother, may I ask where you’re going with this?”

She pushes your finger down instantly. “My son, I was coming onto the future for the two of you. Tara and I have been waiting for years for-”

“Oh Gods.” You stand, waving your hands around. “Look at the time. I didn’t realise how late it was.”

Morena narrows her eyes.

“Mother, don’t you have an auction or something to hurry off to?”

“I actually-”

You stare at Tara. “And Tara, don’t you need to escort my dear Mother to her next appointment, to make sure she doesn’t get lost? She can be ever so disoriented these days.”

Tara arches her back.

Confusion and panic brim in Aurora’s gaze as it flits between the three of you.  There is a long silence. You do not back down. Morena purses her lips and rises to her feet slowly.

“Yes,” she drawls.  “I’m in an awful rush. I’m so grateful that you reminded me.”

You give her your sweetest, most innocent smile. You embrace her, kissing her gently on the cheek. She squeezes your shoulder.

“Come on, Tara. Let’s leave the lovebirds to their merrymaking.”

---

“Your mother is…”

“Difficult? Wonderful? Awkward?”

“I was going to say persistent.”

You laugh, whether it is from relief, amusement, or fear, you are not sure.

You are sitting on the sofa in the library. Her head rests on your lap as you untangle the braids from her hair. You had hoped that her first meeting with the inimitable Morena Dekarios would not be catastrophic. From the way that Aurora giggles now, you are reassured that it was not. Though whether this was solely owing to your premature termination of the meeting, you cannot say.

“She likes you,” you remark.

Aurora sighs. “I hope so.”

“It’s clear.” You chuckle. “You would know if she didn’t.”

She nestles further into you. You trace your finger up and down her jawline. How is it possible for a heart to feel so full? Perhaps that is what makes you feel brave.

“What did you think of Mother’s question?” You clear your throat. “About the future?”

She tilts her head. “That depends.”

“On what?” you ask, a little too quickly.

She pauses, and the sorrow in her smile wounds you.

“On how long you can put up with me.”

You pull her up into you. You kiss her so deeply, so desperately, that your flesh aches from where it has touched her. She is shaking when you come apart.

“I don’t want a future that doesn’t have you in it,” you breathe.

She pants into your lips. “Neither do I.”

---

There are good days, and there are bad days.

You expected this. The doctors and nurses warned you. You are prepared for the worst. You told them that nothing could phase you, and you are determined. You love her, and you will do what it takes.

You are an intellectual. You can measure things in the abstract, and see things with an academic’s remove. You know that the good days outweigh the bad days. You can see how she is changing, growing. You can see the chains which she is fighting to break.

Aurora has never lived with anyone but her mother. She has never known freedom, and it is a struggle to adjust. She has shed her glamour, and for the most part, she no longer hides behind the shroud of loose robes. She is full of passion and apprehension as she takes on management of Mr Serpentil’s bookstore. She supplements her income by hosting poetry and novel readings with elaborate shows of illusion. She is building a life for herself, which comes with as many obstacles as gains. There is laughter alongside her tears, hope alongside her despair. Her tenderness for you overflows between and beyond the sheets.

The doctors had wondered if it was too soon, if you were moving too fast. You have only known each other for two years, they warned, and Aurora’s affliction is not for the faint-hearted. Such challenges break even the strongest and most well-established relationships. You rebuffed them. You feel like you have known her your entire life, and you cannot waste any more time. You have suffered much, lost much, and you do not take anything for granted. You want to spend every moment with her.

You want to share everything with her, to bare your soul to her so completely that there are no more secrets between you. You tell her everything about your past, even the things that cause you grief and shame. You give your whole heart to her. It is the only way you know how to love her.

But there are times when the weight of her condition is crushing.  When she hides from you, and cannot be touched. When she cannot speak of the fears that claw at her, and retreats to a place you cannot go. When she freezes at the dinner table, stifling tears that come later in bed, when she shrinks away from your embrace.

It does not touch your love, only your resolve.

You know that kindness can overcome the burdens that a person carries. You yourself had friends who stood by you when you were a walking apocalypse, a ticking time bomb. They never abandoned you. They did not leave you to die.

You know that knowledge is the weapon to face any challenge.

You must find a solution, a cure, for her affliction.

---

Birthdays are difficult for her. All they signify is the devastation of yet another wasted year. She has never celebrated them. Her mother certainly never bothered, beyond reminding her of her shame and failures.

So when her birthday comes, you decide to celebrate her as she deserves.

You do what you do best. You array the dining room with candles and floating orbs. You fill the room with the scent of flowers, covering the table with a velvet cloth of rich green, her favourite colour. You spend hours preparing a rich, three course dinner, making sure that you dress the plates just so. You set the piano playing songs that have made Aurora smile. You brim with nervous excitement.

Tara insists that you wear your deep blue doublet and shave your beard, so you look your best. You humour her by doing the former, but you ignore her latter suggestion. From the speed with which Tara leaves, you can tell she thinks this night will involve more than a simple birthday celebration.

When Aurora returns home from the bookshop, shock blooms on her face. You take her hand and lead her into the dining room, where she looks around in bewilderment.

“You did all this for me,” she breathes, her eyes dilated with gratitude and desire.

“Happy birthday,” you reply, drawing her close.

You stumble and sway as your mouths find each other’s. She tastes of peppermint and smells of sea wind. You come apart panting, flushed, and you pull away from her only so you do not burn the food that is cooking. You glimpse a spasm of anxiety on her face, so you pass her your gift as you make your way to the kitchen.

“Gale.” She takes the box from you. “You really shouldn’t have.”

She stands at the boundary of the kitchen door as she unwraps it. You have found first edition copies of the complete works of Lorazelle Staunth, one of Aurora’s favourite romance writers. It took you some wrangling, but you managed to convince a colleague, a distant cousin of Staunth’s, to get them signed by their author. It is difficult to focus on the gravy you are stirring as you watch her out of the corner of your eye. She gasps, beaming, turning each book over in her hands with wonder and reverence, murmuring to herself.

You grin. “You’re welcome.”

She strides into the kitchen, over the invisible border that she has always feared to tread. Your breath catches as she leans into your back and wraps her arms around you. She does not let go, even when you have to walk back and forth to gather the dishes together to serve. Nor do you have the heart to ask her to release you.

You have never loved anyone so completely. You have never felt such happiness.

When you eventually sit down to eat, you take for granted what it is that you are asking. It dawns on you, as her jaw clenches and she grimaces. She tries, so hard, smiling, thanking you, complimenting your efforts. Her cutlery clatters on her plate, her movements are laboured. She tries to follow the thread of conversation, even when her gaze glazes and her words become broken. But in the end, it is too much, and you know you have pushed her too far, too soon.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps.

When she retreats to the bathroom, guilt engulfs you. You leave the untouched dishes, blow out the candles, silence the piano. You follow her, standing outside the locked door, listening to her muffled cries. You want to ask her to let you in. You do not know what to do, what to say. You wait.

How could you have been so foolish, so thoughtless? How could you have caused her such agony? You, who have always taken pride in your wisdom, your keen powers of observation. You have pushed the woman you love off a precipice, because you were selfish and insensitive. She has every right to be angry. To decide that you love her poorly. That you are unworthy.

You should have known better. You must make it up to her. You must find a way.

“This is my fault, Aurora,” you manage. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I should have been more mindful… Please forgive me.”

The door creaks open slowly. Her eyes are swollen, her voice is hoarse.

“There’s nothing to forgive. You didn’t do anything wrong, Gale.”

She trudges back to the dining room, and you trail behind her. You can tell from her footsteps that she is exhausted. Adrift.  She gestures towards the table.

“Do you mind if we…”

You wrap your arms around her. She stands stiffly. She neither returns nor rejects your embrace. When you step back, she will not look at you.

“I don’t think I can give you what you need, Gale.”

You are taken aback by her words. Panic grows within you.

“What do you mean?”

She bites her lip, shaking her head.

“That’s not true, Aurora.” Your stomach lurches. “Please don’t say such things.”

She stares at you. There is something like coldness in her gaze, but you know it is not that. It is a wall of resignation, shame. There is bitterness in her voice, but it is not directed at you.

“You deserve someone who you can enjoy a dinner that you took such great lengths to prepare. Someone who’s grateful for all the amazing things you do. Someone who can receive the gifts that you give without reservations and certainly without…”

She swipes her hand towards the bathroom, the dining table, herself.

“…This. You deserve more than this shambles.”

“No, Aurora.” Your voice shakes like a plea. “No. I love you, what I deserve is-”

Her face twists.

“What if this is what it’s like, for the rest of my life? What if I can never sit beside you like a normal person and share such a wonderful meal that you so lovingly made? Will that be enough for you? Truly?”

You do not hesitate, not even for a second.

“Yes. Always. You’ll always be enough for me.”

She jerks her head back and forth. She knows you are being genuine, but there is dismay in her reaction.

“It isn’t enough. You deserve better.”

When you reach out to her, she turns away.

---

“Gale.”

There is uncertainty in her voice. She is flicking through the books and papers that clutter your desk as you look up from the letter you are furiously writing. When she last visited, Shadowheart told you about Sister Rose, a cleric at the House of the Moon, reputedly an expert in afflictions of this nature. You are bent on making her acquaintance as soon as possible.

“There’s an awful lot of research here about...”

You nod. She still struggles to give her condition a name.

“What about your own research? Your studies on Illusion?” She frowns. “Do you have time for…all this?”

It is true that you have put your own research on hold for the moment, but it hardly matters. You do not understand why both she and Tara have been asking you about this. You place your quill to one side and stand, crossing over to her. You place one hand on each shoulder, lowering your head to look straight into her eyes.

“This is my only priority right now, Aurora. If there’s anything out there that can help you be free of this burden, then I’ll find it.”

She winces. It stings you. All you want is to show her that you love and care for her more than anything. You do not understand.

“I think it might a bit more complicated than that, Gale.” Her gaze flickers away, then back to you. “I don’t think it’s an equation that can be solved with a simple formula.”

You search her eyes. She is withdrawing, you can sense it. Soon, you will not be able to follow. Desperation bubbles within you. You must show her that you can do it. You can help her.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way. There’s a wealth of knowledge that I’ve not even touched yet. We’ll find a way out of this together.”

Her features spasm. She closes her eyes.

“This isn’t your burden, Gale. It isn’t your problem to fix.”

You take her face in your hands. Her eyes are misted now, darkening. You feel helpless to stop the clouds that are coming.

“You’re the woman I love. I do this because I love you.”

She presses her hand against yours. It is so small, so cold.

“Gale, your research, your studies-“

“Nothing matters more to me than you.”

She makes a choked sound. There is anguish in it. You need to prove to her that it can be done, that you can find her the keys to freedom. She holds you, and you can feel her shivering slightly. She turns, and you watch, bereft, as she leaves the room.

---

You jolt awake on some nights, clutching your chest where the mark of the orb used to be. Pain still blazes through you after the nightmares, emanating from the orb’s phantom, ripping through every muscle.  You grit your teeth and clench the sheets, waiting for it to pass. You do not know if you are imagining it, or if there are traces of the orb which remain. Perhaps Mystra is not fully pleased with you, despite having promised her forgiveness. Perhaps you still disappoint her, and this is the only reprimand that she can be bothered to muster.

Your dreams are black and purple. Gossamer veils and black tentacles wind around you, flooding the chambers of your heart. You are a young boy behind a rose bush, and then you are a man stripped bare by a command, and you are on your knees, undone before the astral abyss. The goddess looms over you, pronouncing your judgment, and you are terrified and alone.

Every time you wake trembling, shouting, she is by your side. She holds you, her dawn light caressing your hands, your chest, your eyes. She cradles you, and her whispers are like healing spells. You are loved. You are safe. You are enough. You are still here.

You wish you could do the same for her, every time the darkness comes.

---

“The dancing figures, and then the dragons that you conjured… the battle that you represented with those floating lights… It was truly spectacular, Aurora, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

You have returned home with Aurora. Your hands are a flurry, and you can barely contain the excitement and pride in your voice. For almost four months she has been working with a collection of poets and playwrights to put together a showcase of their debut works. A small production, but a raving success. That only a modest crowd attended the performance seems to you the greatest injustice.

On the walk back, she has been smiling, nodding, making the occasional sound of agreement. But you can tell that she is not present. You tell yourself it must be post-performance exhaustion, frayed nerves. Perhaps she has not eaten or drunk enough. Maybe she needs more sleep. Her days have been long lately.

Yet there is something in her quietness that gives you pause.

“Aurora, are you alright?” You place a hand on her cheek. “Is something the matter?”

She shakes her head. “I’m fine, Gale.”

You can tell from the way that she hunches into herself, from the wall that has come up behind her eyes, that she is not fine.

“What’s wrong? Was it something I said?”

“No.” She turns away. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Aurora.” You take her hand. “Please, tell me.”

Her lip quivers. She starts and stops. “I can’t. I don’t…”

She closes her eyes. She pushes you away when you try to hold her. Sometimes, it is agonising when she withdraws. When you have shown her your whole soul, and there are parts of herself she hides from you. Tonight, it feels like a rejection. Perhaps it is not that she cannot give you everything, or that she fears to do so. Perhaps she simply does not wish to.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Your voice comes out flat, but inside you are breaking. The torment in her gaze is like a gash in your heart.

“No, I…” She balls her fists. “I just…”

You never thought you would ever wish to have a mindflayer tadpole again. But tonight, you remember how it was, to so easily join your thoughts to another’s, to share their memories and feelings, to see the world through their eyes. Tonight, you wish you both had a tadpole, so you could ask her to let you in. So you could understand her.

But perhaps she still would not wish to open herself to you.

“It’s alright, Aurora. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Gale…”

Old memories are coming to you now. Old wounds, from giving of yourself and asking, then failing to receive. Of waiting, fighting to become worthy. Of being shut behind icy walls, left with nothing but your lack.

“I understand if there are things you don’t wish to share with me.”

She steps towards you. “It’s not that…”

A flood has begun inside you now, and you feel like you may drown.

“I understand if you don’t feel like you can trust me. Perhaps I need to do more to earn your trust.”

She is shaking her head furiously.

“I know that I’ve failed on many occasions to be what you need me to be-”

“Gale, please stop.”

There is such an urgency in her words. You stare at her.  

“It’s not your fault.”

A tear rolls down her cheek.

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you… I just don’t have the words to tell you. Everything inside is just… a mess.”

There is a flash of light inside you. A wave of relief ripples amongst the flood.

“I want you to read my thoughts.”

You are speechless for a moment. You are considering what this means, what she is giving you. The weight of rejection that you no longer have to carry. The fear that you can cast out.

She nods at you, firmly, earnestly.

“I want you to know everything. Please, Gale. Cast the spell.”

---

When you read her thoughts, you see. You feel the anguish that jolts through her, watching the meaningless flirtations that are cast your way. The painted faces and willowy figures flaunted by younger women she believes are more worthy of your attentions. You hear the voices within her, screaming at her for the ways in which she differs from them. Her hair, lank and dark, her skin, blemished and rubbery. Bulges in her flesh where other bodies lay flat. Endless mirrors, laden with shame and anger twisted inwards like a blade, a barbed yearning to be different, better, beautiful.

He is so beautiful, the voice chants, and you are not. He will soon see, and grow weary of you. And then he will leave.

There had been a few women, after the performance, who had thrown themselves at you. You scarcely remembered them, they were so trivial, their chattering so absurd. You had never been one to fawn over such superficial things. Others may consider you attractive, but what of it? You have no eyes for anyone else but her.

But now you see, and you understand. You realise that the frequency of such incidents hurts her. It is not your fault, but she struggles nonetheless.

“Aurora.” You are afraid you might cry from the intensity of her pain. “There’s no one else. You’re the only one I see.”

You are not on your knees, but you feel as though you are begging.

“I love you. Only you. You must believe me. You must see it.”

You can tell how badly she wants to say yes. But she does not.

“What can I do to prove it to you?” you plea. “What more can I do to show you? Because I’ll do it. I’ll do anything for you.”

She takes your face in her hands. She looks at you with love and despair.

“You’ve given me everything, Gale. There’s nothing more you can do.”

---

“Thank you so much for seeing me, Sister.”

Her face crinkles as she smiles. She seems kind enough, but you are uncertain she will be able to give you more than the leading scholars you have harangued. But you are willing to try anything. Even an elderly cleric of Selune who has spoken to you for half an hour about gardening.

“It sounds like you’ve done considerable research into this condition, Professor Dekarios.”

“I have,” you confess. “But I’m aware that you have considerable practical experience in healing individuals with this affliction. And that’s why I’m here, to understand the methods that have given you such success.”

“Oh?” She rests her chin on steepled fingers.

“Yes,” you continue. “I’ve been trying to apply the recommended approaches, Sister, based on the latest advice from the House of Healing in-”

“Approaches?”

You nod. She considers for a moment, her brow furrowed.

“Professor Dekarios,” she begins. “Do you love your fiancé?”

“She’s not my-”

You stop yourself. She is more to you than even that.

“Yes. I do. Very much.”

“And do you show her that, with your words and actions?”

You are not sure where this line of reasoning is leading. But you are reassured by the gentleness in the Sister’s voice.

“Yes. I do.”

She leans forward in her chair.

“When she struggles, do you show her patience, kindness, and respect?”

“Of course.” You frown. You assume this is obvious. How could you not? “And I try, always, to broaden the limits of my understanding.”

She hums. “And when you speak to your fiancé, do you speak to her soul, or her affliction?”

You arch an eyebrow. “I’m not sure what you mean, Sister.”

“Do you truly see her? The truth of her person, beyond the hold that this condition has on her? Who she is, outside of this suffering?”

You remember the way she rocked against you as she wept, that first time she had let you visit her in the House of Healing. ‘This is all I am,’ she had said. ‘This is all I’ve ever been.’ It was not true then, and it is not true now.

“I do, Sister.”

She nods, then leans back again.

“Then you’re doing everything that you can do.”

That cannot be all. You cannot mask the exasperation in your voice.

“Surely there must be something more I can do. There must be a remedy-”

Something steels in her gaze. “May I speak frankly, Professor Dekarios?”

“Of course.”

She draws in a sharp breath.

“What your fiancé suffers from cannot be cured with a spell or a tincture, a scalpel or a course of medicine. She must walk herself through a tangle of vines, and cut them off one by one at the root. It may take her a few months, or it may take her a lifetime. But you can’t do this for her. Neither is it your responsibility to do so.”

She cuts you off before you can interject.

“You can’t cure her. All you can do is love her, and show her what lies beyond the vines. That’s enough, Professor Dekarios.”

Her smile is light, but her words are heavy.

“You’re doing enough.”

---

As soon as you open the front door, the smell of burning assails you. You rush into your home, leaping from room to room, calling out her name. Eventually, her voice comes to you from the kitchen.

You find her there, crouching on the floor amidst a scattering of broken china. She is holding a cloth around her right thumb, drenched in crimson.

“What happened?” you gasp.

You hurry to her side. As you fuss over her injury, gathering up the sharp shards around you, she tries to reassure you that she is fine, everything is fine.

“I wanted to make you something,” she explains. “Something we could share together – I wanted to try, to show you I’m getting better.”

She stares at her bleeding thumb, at the remains of the charred dish she could not prepare. You wrap your arms around her. You do not want her to be crushed by disappointment, feeling she has failed. You want to shield her from it all, forever.

“You have nothing to prove, Aurora.”

“But I do.” She looks up at you with whirling eyes.  “I don’t want you to run yourself into the ground, trying to fix me.”

“It’s not like that-”

“But it is, Gale. I love you, and I always will. You don’t need to earn it. You can’t fix me. You don’t need to.”

The words stick in your throat. You are overwhelmed by the knowledge that even in her distress, she has sought to give you comfort. To assure you of her love. In the light of her gaze, the shadows of your old wounds seem to fade.

“I’m not going anywhere.” The resolve in her voice fills you with hope. “And I’ll fight this until the end.”

She curls into you, and you cradle her head against your heart. You are not sure how long you remain there, still and silent, cocooned in each other. You become aware of her lips brushing against the exposed skin of your chest, drifting softly up the side of your neck, over the line of your jaw. You tremble as her tongue flutters on the bristles of your cheek. Her searching mouth opens to yours.

And then, all you can feel and taste and smell is her.

---

“Where did you learn all these things?”

You smirk at the question. Your body drapes over hers like a mantle. There is awe and mischief in her tone. Dusted with pink, her skin gleams with the after-effects of your passion. You cannot get enough of the sight.

“Aurora,” you chide. “A gentleman doesn’t speak of such things.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You aren’t always a gentleman.”

“I suppose not.”

You swipe your tongue around the peak of her nipple. She moans, batting you softly away as you laugh.

“But Gale,” she whines. “I’m curious.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, I am.” Those wide, bright eyes again. You can never refuse them.

“I’ll do my best to sate your curiosity,” you mumble into her neck.

She chews her lip. “I know there were a few others, before Mystra.”

“There were.”

She sighs as you nibble at her collarbone.

“But no one of note, you said.”

You hum, tracing your nose down her shoulder. “Forgettable. Distractions.”

“And then Mystra preferred things abstract, incorporeal…”

“She did.” You are following Aurora’s freckles again, down to the underside of her breast. You can feel the vibrations of her body.

“So how did you gain such proficiency in-”

She sucks in a breath as you lick at the spray of freckles around her navel, meandering down to her centre. Her hips roll ever so slightly. You are surging.

You grin as you look up at her. “I studied and practised.”

---

Your clasp and unclasp your hands behind your back. Your throat is dry, your chest a tangle. In a haze, you scan the smiling faces of all your nearest and dearest, gathered before you with eager anticipation. The scent of lavender drifts from the arch behind you, stilling your thoughts for a moment.

You had been planning to ask her. For weeks you had fretted over the words, the time and place. You had worried that it was too soon, too much. Your research told you that such events could often trigger an exacerbation of her affliction. You did not want to subject her to such agony. And though you knew her love and desire for you, fear still clung to you like your phantom orb. Part of you was still afraid she would not accept.

She had turned up at Blackstaff unexpectedly on your birthday. You had planned to take a stroll into the city together after your classes were over, but she wanted to give you a present before then. With wonder, you unravelled a collection of poems she had written. Entitled “Promise”, the first page was a dedication to you.

Her poems conjured the splendour of stars bursting. It did not take long for you to devour them all. And she had known you would, because the last line of the final poem ended: “Marry me.”

It is true that there were tears, and half-eaten meals, and broken mirrors. You tried to take on as many of the preparations as possible, to shield her from the stress. You reassured her that the wedding could be postponed or cancelled if she was not ready. You could not take away her fears about what she might wear, how she might look. Yet she had promised that she would fight, and fight she did. And now, you are here.

You can see your mother giggling as she whispers to your aunt and uncle, your cousins jostling keenly around them. Nurse Mona sits amongst a small group of druids and bards, Aurora’s closest friends. Elminster bobs his head to the rhythm of the lutist. Karlach glimmers with muted fire, grinning at you and waving. You wave back, extending your greeting to a beaming Halsin beside her. You glimpse Astarion and Tav, fiddling with each other’s collars, and Shadowheart examining a piece of parchment with Xan. Lae’zel watches and listens with silent pride.

It has been years since you have come together with your companions from the old days. Time and distance could not sever the bonds that formed between you so long ago. Yet their absence was a hole inside you that ached to be filled, until today.

To stand here, surrounded by these people you cherish so dearly, knowing you are loved and desired by her so completely – it is overwhelming. You are blinking, rubbing your eyes hard.  Wyll squeezes your arm behind you. You turn to face him.

“Remember what we talked about, Gale.”

You inhale sharply, running your fingers through your hair.

“Breathe…” Wyll chants. “Think: Calm. Composed. Dignified.”

“I am calm and composed,” you echo. “I am dignified.”

He nods sagely. “We have the whole day ahead of us.”

“And I can’t be a blubbering mess already.” You clear your throat.

Wyll chuckles. “If anyone can handle this, my friend, it’s you.”

In his gold-embroidered, midnight blue doublet, Wyll exudes courtly bearing. When he and Karlach had returned to Baldur’s Gate, it did not take long for you to rekindle your friendship.

“Thank you for being here, Wyll. I can’t think of a better man to stand by my side.”

His smile is warm as the summer sun.

“Thank you, Gale. The honour is all mine.”

---

When Sister Rose begins her opening remarks, you are barely listening. Your eyes have caught on a flurry of movement in the distance. Your breath hitches.

Tara flutters down the aisle, and comes to rest opposite you and Wyll. Your oldest companion, your most loyal friend. The one who cared for you when you had no one else. Now, she stands by the woman that you love as her most ardent defender, her confidante. You reach out to her. She nuzzles your hand with her cheek. Your vision is beginning to blur.

Everything around you dissolves as Aurora steps forward. She wears her dark waves like a crown. Her face glows in the sunlight, bare except for a flicker of blue kohl on her eyelids and a dusting of glitter on her freckled cheekbones. Her gown is a waterfall of stars at midnight, resting lightly around her waist, cascading around her as she moves. It is a masterful, delicate illusion, but it does not conceal her, nor temper her beauty. She strides towards you with the certainty of hope, the resolve of love.

The tears come, and you cannot stop them.

She does not take her eyes off yours as she approaches. You have never before witnessed such a miracle, nor felt a happiness so bright and raw.

You are both crying as she takes her place. There is a ripple of sighs from the crowd as Wyll passes you a handkerchief and Sister Rose presses a cloth into Aurora’s shaking fingers. You are laughing as you wipe away each other’s tears.

You take hold of her hands, and it begins.

---

“Here he is, the man of the hour.”

You dip your head at Astarion. Tav embraces you.

“I do apologise. I was making a beeline for you, but got accosted by a very merry Elminster, extolling the virtues of our cheese board in painstaking detail.”

“None of us have been able to get near it,” Tav laments. “Or dared to try.”

“Lovely cloak, Astarion. Very… vampiric.”

Astarion arches an eyebrow. “It was either this or not coming at all. Fashion is less important than not frying in the sun, I’m afraid, even for such a momentous occasion.”

You chuckle. “Thank you for coming.”

His fangs glint as he grins. Tav circles an arm around his shoulder.

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world, Gale,” Tav exclaims. “We’re so, so happy for you.”

“We just had the pleasure of your wife’s acquaintance.” Astarion takes a sip of wine. “I didn’t think I would ever meet someone so similar to you in every respect, yet not insufferable at all! Your wife is simply charming. An absolute delight.”

“Astarion,” Tav warns.

You titter. “I think I’ll take that comment in the spirit in which it was intended. She’s exceptional. Remarkable. I agree.”

“I can only imagine how many long and intense discussions you had in the library,” Astarion purrs. “Staring longingly at each other, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s-”

Tav jostles him. “Astarion, stop!”

Astarion cackles.

“What’s so funny?”

You flinch a little from the force of Karlach’s hug. Halsin, deep in conversation with a smiling Aurora, follows behind. She radiates with joy, and you have never wanted her more.

You clasp Halsin’s hand in greeting.

“Just to be clear, Halsin.” You plant a kiss on Aurora’s cheek, intertwining your fingers with hers. “My wife and I are quite happy with our relationship, as it is. Just the two of us.”

Halsin holds his hands up. “I wouldn’t presume otherwise, Gale.”

Aurora looks at you in confusion. You touch your nose to hers.

Karlach chortles. “You two are so fucking sweet.”

---

“So we’ll see you again next month?” Aurora asks hopefully.

“Of course.” Shadowheart takes the wine that you offer her. “I might end up staying longer at the House of the Moon this time. I’ll bring you those scrolls and tinctures that we discussed.”

Aurora’s eyes dance with delight.

“Will you bring the owlbear?” Karlach gushes. “Wyll and I have missed the little guy.”

“Perhaps that would be an opportunity for Xan.” Lae’zel glances at the child. “You wanted to make a sculpture of a great beast of Faerun, did you not?”

Xan nods thoughtfully. He scribbles something in his notebook.

“It would be a great opportunity for us, too, Lae’zel,” you muse. “To hear more of your jokes.”

Lae’zel twitches.

“And to learn about more unconventional uses of Githyanki psionics.” You catch Aurora’s eye, and she bites her lip.

“Observe, Xan,” Lae’zel remarks, gesturing between the two of you. “Waterdhavian mating rituals are indeed more refined than others in Faerun.”

There is the slightest lift of Lae’zel’s eyebrow. You clap your hands together and laugh.

---

How is it possible for a heart to feel so full?

You stand silently, bathing in the light of the stars, buoyed by the song of those you love around you. You search for her, and it does not take long to find her.

She lingers near the central table, admiring the intricate designs on the cake which your mother crafted with tenderness and zeal. Gently, she takes a small slice in her hands, lifting it to her lips.

She takes one bite, and then pauses. She takes another. She smiles.

Her grey eyes meet yours across the expanse. You bound towards her, and she squeals as you lift her up and spin her around. You can taste brandy and chocolate as her mouth glides against yours.

“I think it’s time to go,” you whisper.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's note: When I finished Progress, I thought it would be a standalone fic. But I was so in love with Gale and Aurora, and so wanted to give them a happy ending. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much for taking the time to engage with this story.

If you liked this fic, you can check out my other work here.

Please, feel free to reach out, I'd love to hear from you.

--

Read the sequel: Revelation

[prince-of-pleasures]

Gale does a lot of experiments on Zira, with Zira's permission, of course. Tonight, he has the incubus kneeling on a plush pet bed with his hands bound above his head and strapped to a winch set into the tower's rafters - so that he can be pulled to his feet if need be. Zira's tail is raised and a soft rope around his midsection keeps it up against his back, giving Gale access to his ass and cunt. He's interested in seeing just how many eggs of different types Zira can hold inside of him at once, prompted by the incubus once boasting that he's "made to stretch" and can "take anything". They'll start with chicken eggs, which he can summon in abundance, and then move onto something larger, working their way up to gryphons, and then perhaps even dragon eggs.

Though Zira, being a sex demon, is made to stretch so that he can take creatures much larger than him, he can't actually stretch indefinitely. That myth comes from the fact that he can change the size of his body, so he grows when the pressure inside becomes too much. Tonight, though, Gale wants him to stay his "default" size, at around 7 feet tall and slim of build, and Zira agreed. He will reach his limit, it may just take a long time. Fortunately, their schedules are clear for the next few days, so time is something they have in abundance.

Astarion is there, of course, as Zira's mate and beloved, reclining back in a plush, high-backed chair with his cock in his hands and a wicked smirk on his lips.

Gale is also hard, but he ignores it in favor of recording observations. At least until they're finished with the experiment, at which time Zira will be unleashed to ruin Gale, and Astarion will join in for the fun of it.

[dr-demi-bee]

WIP (soft of) Wednesday

Thanks for the tag @gale-force-storm! 🥰 With some encouragement/input, I'm sharing a snippet from a longer one-shot in progress. A Romance After - an alternate ending AU where Miri and Gale never confessed their feelings to one another during the events of BG3, despite both of them pining and falling hopelessly in love. It would catch up with them eventually- and when Miri grows frustrated by Gale avoiding her correspondence, things come to a head. Mutual Pining ~ Post Canon ~ Professor Gale, Adventurer Tav

Pairing: Gale x f!Tav - NSFW Heavily inspired by "Promise" by Laufey

"You're right. I do know," he says quietly. "That's why I..." He trails off for a moment, not sure how to finish that sentence. He is reminded sharply of exactly what he's been ignoring all this time. Feels that painful lurch of his heart in his chest. "I'm sorry. You deserve more than I've given you." "I am not trying to scold you, Gale." Miri sighs, then pinches the bridge of her nose. "I have been trying to be patient - to let you have space if you wanted it." She pauses, her expression full of tension, and Gale holds his breath. When she looks up to him, there’s a profound emotion he can’t name in her gaze. "But I needed to see you. I could not stand thinking our friendship would end- that it could end without..." "Without me telling you how I truly feel," he finishes for her. He sighs. Then Gale straightens, squaring his shoulders and looking her in the eyes, lips set with determination. She meets his gaze with something like surprise. He has to do this. Needs to tell her the truth. "You're right. I've been avoiding you for too long. I'm sorry I‘ve been so terrible about everything. I just..." Gale falters, suddenly at a loss for words. "No," Miri interrupts emphatically. She shakes her head, then softly says, "Without telling you how I feel." "I-" Gale's expression softens, brows raising with surprise. "...Oh." He looks back at her, his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes flit to the side, then down, as he tries to find the right words for this situation. He starts and stops several times, his mouth working without sound. "I... Well," he pauses again. "Are you saying...? Do you mean...?" She's quiet, hesitating, gazing at him with eyes full of unspoken affection and trepidation in equal measure. Almost uncharacteristically shy. "I love you," she finally admits softly.

[shewolfofvilnius]

Tiefling Siblings + Their Loves

Unless I keep writing Gale and Lia's adventures in/as [SPOILER] as continuing chapters (I MIGHT), I've basically finished writing the main bulk of the initial/main story for my fic Wild Magic. (Updating 2x/week until it's finished). If you haven't read the fic, basically Shar's back on her bullshit and in the process, Rolan's sister Lia gains wild and unpredictable magic surges - and the romantic comedy takes us all across the city AND to Waterdeep briefly.

I thought I'd offer a pic of where everyone's kind of 'at' at the end of the story (early 1493DR). Lia and Gale are the main couple of the fic , while the overall arc follows Rolan and his soon to be wife, the semi-retired bard Tavaria (AND are getting a spinoff fic as Tavaria is tired of the city and wants to go back to the farm), plus Cal and Lae'zel, whose fling has gotten so serious it could shape the fate of interplanar politics - if Cal can mediate Rolan and Lia, the two factions of githyanki and the githzerai should be child's play.

[thechaoticdruid]

Sometimes I headcanon that after the events of BG3 Winnie multiclasses as a wizard in order to find ways to extend her human lifespan and honestly just because she wanted to be a wizard as a child and never got the chance.

So I can't help but picture her enrolling in wizard school and Gale ending up as her teacher. 😂

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Winnie: Gale! Gale! *Raises hand.*

Gale: *long sigh* No Winnie, there are no trolls in the bathroom.

Winnie: *slowly raises hand again.*

Gale: No you cannot go check.

Winnie: *pout*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gale: *Giving a lecture to the class.*

Winnie: *Winnie takes out a blinking magic device out of her pack and taps it.* Hello?

Astarion: *On the other end* Ah, my sweet little druid.~ How have you been fairing?

Winnie: Oh hey Star. I'm pretty good. Kinda bored though.

Gale: *eyebrow twitching as he stands in the background.*

Astarion: Gods, I miss you so much darling, you have no idea how dreadfully boring it is here without you.

Winnie: Awe babe....I miss you too 🥺

Gale: Ahem! Winnie can you please stop talking to your lover during class!?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gale: Okay does anyone have any more ques-WINNIE DON'T YOU DARE LICK THAT!

Winnie: *In wolf form, tongue inches away from a dead earth elemental.*

Winnie: *Proceeds to lick it anyway.*

Gale: STOP LICKING IT! STOP!

[coffeeandmagicaltales]

BLACK WEEK is here :-D

[mahiiimahiiii]

wip 1/2: office hours.

(the rizzard at work + lunch with the spouse)

Chalk tapped against the chalkboard as he sipped gently at a mug of tea and cleared his throat continuing with his speech. His hair was thrown back into a loose half up and down messy bun, staticky hair poking and prodding out like new spring buds. He wore a new suit vest, a stripped pattern with an argyle tie, and a light blue button down, paired with the same-colored magenta slacks. His tie pin was one of a crescent moon, (he had been on a theming kick recently). Today was on magic in other areas, written on the board were a couple pooled questions by the students. Does music automatically equal magic? How do paladin oaths work? Is It possible for magic to be innate?

He finished off his mug tapping at pages to read on the board, waving off the students and their cloaks that looked way too large for them. A stream of bobbing heads, ears and horns followed out the door. You had to maneuver around the groups of students, slowly moving their way out, a few stragglers lounging around the professor’s desk.

“I hope I’m not too late-“you approach him, setting the tin of food wrapped in a handkerchief onto his desk.

He beamed when he laid eyes on you, cheeks flushed a rosy hue. “you’re right on time, ill see you in the office, I just need to help a student with a spell pronunciation- then ill be with you.” He caught a finger under your chin, kissing your brow. His breath smelt of an earthy green tea, sweetened with honey, and the zeal of lemon juice that followed. He turned his back to you, helping the student to write it out phonetically. You heard his bright praise as the thick office door closed behind you.

the thick office door closed behind you.

The office- you remembered dearly, you helped assemble. A room with high ceilings, decorated with diagrams of spells and sheet music. One wall was clad with photos of his family, a portrait of the both of you front and center. Small linocuts of your companions sat on a bookshelf nearby, as well as tomes discussing your previous acts, which he so proudly showed off. He had asked for a new cupboard to house all sorts of dried teas, which he unhinged the doors of and installed onto the walls, framing them with delicate laces. It mirrored a little alchemical shop. The walls were a cozy and warm purple with white and brown accents. He had a little hearth and big windows facing the bay, a window ajar, the new tressym kitten may have gone out exploring. Tara the second, Gale called her.

The door creaked open as you admired the wall of portraits, you jumped within your shoes tail swishing in a slight panic.

“im sorry little love, have I frightened you?” he kissed your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist and swaying gently. His lips found their way up to the shell of your ear, nipping it gently. He spun you around, taking in your new sundress, yellow with pops of white blooms, a pair of lacy socks and brown kitten heels to match.

“you look positively divine- are you sure there wasn’t other intentions behind this?” he cocked a brow, the settled in features of his face creasing with mirth.

You’ll be completely honest with your feelings, jobs, children, life in general as led you two apart. Intimately it seems-

This you had no problems with, as gale had all the love in the world for you. He made sure to show his affections readily and often- with you in turn.

To this- you sheepishly nodded, tucking a curl behind your ear. “Perhaps there was motive… if you’ll oblige me of course.” Something new swirled into his eyes, a fiery spark of desire. He cracked a grin turning heel to the door. “Shame lunch will be spoiled then; I do have an appetite for something else in mind. And I wouldn’t be a smart man to waste an opportunity like this.” With a quick flit of his fingers a secure spell of arcane lock was cast

[megidonitram]

Everyone's Running From Something

(ch. 6)

A Baldur's Gate 3 University Professor AU

Rating: M

Quick Summary: Astarion and Gale are two University English professors precariously mentoring a troubled 19-year-old and falling in love.

💖Main Pairing : BloodWeave,(Astarion/Gale) 💕Side Pairings: Shadowheart/Nocturne, Karlach/Dammon, Wyll/The Dark Urge, Tav/Tav 💔Past Pairings: Gale/Mystra, Astarion/Sebastian, Astarion/Tav

<=Previous Chapter | Master List | Ao3 | Next Chapter =>

**Please see Master List Entry for Full Content Warnings**

⏰Chapter Warning⏰

none

Gale stepped into the administration office on the second floor to find a severe woman with slicked-back auburn hair typing away furiously at her computer. Her attention immediately snapped to Gale when the door swung shut.

“May I help you?” She sounded pleasant enough, but Gale couldn’t shake the feeling that he was annoying her.

“Yes, I, uh, I’ve locked myself out of my office, I was told to come find…” Gale looked back down at his phone for the name “Mizora?”

The woman smiled like she had scented blood and rested her chin on her hand. “Speaking.”

“Oh, excellent. Can you help me then?”

“Hmm, I don’t know…” she slammed one of her desk drawers open and pulled out a ledger. “Name and office number?”

“Um… Gale Dekarios, office B126.”

Mizora gave him a dubious look as she flipped rather leisurely through the yellowed pages of her ledger. “Hmm… That name doesn’t sound familiar. What subject do you teach exactly?”

“English?”

Mizora nodded, skimming down a line of office numbers with her finger. “…B1 is the English office block, but I can’t say I recognize you.”

“Well, I just started this semester…”

"Likely story." Mizora looked up from her sheet with narrowed eyes. “I’ll need your faculty ID card.”

“I’m, uh, afraid that’s with my office keys…” Gale admitted sheepishly. He held up his briefcase. “I’ve still got a few syllabi with my name on them, that should prove-“

“As an employee of Balduran University, you are required to keep employee identification on you at all times.” She snapped. “I have to assume all other forms of ID are fabrications.”

“I clearly didn’t mean to leave it in my office.” Gale let out an exasperated sigh. “What if you came with me, and I showed you my ID once you left me in my office?”

Mizora put a hand over her chest as Gale had just said something absolutely precious. “Dr. Dekarios… If that is your real name-“

“It is.”

“We’ll see.” Mizora flicked her wrist dismissively. “But if you are who you say you are, then surely you understand the particular faculty member you're sharing a space with is… shall we say, rather prone to turbulent romantic entanglements.” Her eyes shined with strange glee. “Surely you understand that I can’t just let a stranger into his office- That could be incredibly improper.”

Gale flushed an indignant shade of red. His heart jittered with some strange emotion. He didn’t much appreciate hearing these kinds of things about Astarion behind his back- it felt indecent. “I don’t know what you’re trying to accuse me of exactly, but I assure you we are just coworkers.”

“Not that it’s stopped him before… but you’re right, I suspect you’re not much of his type.” Mizora looked him up and down with appraising eyes that made Gale feel wholly undressed. “… You seem a bit old.”

A strange pit formed in Gale’s stomach, something like shame. “I don’t see how any of this is appropriate or relevant to the matter at hand.” He huffed. “Can’t you just-”

The office door swung open, and a young man with neatly laid braids cautiously stepped into the room, a manilla folder in one hand and a coffee cup carrier in the other. Mizora’s demeanor somehow got even more foul at the sight of him- a feat Gale wouldn't think her capable of if he didn't see it happen.

The young man glanced over at Gale. “Am I interrupting?”

“Oh, no-”

“Well, you’ve already barged in, Wyll. You might as well get it over with.” Mizora snapped.

He held out the manila folder, and Gale spied a sticky note stuck to the top of it that said, ‘Distribute to ALL liberal arts department chairs.’ “Dr. Silverwarden just wanted me to drop off the schedule for the athletics study hall-”

Mizora curled her nose like Wyll had offered her a dead squirrel. “Oh, is that harlot making students do her busy work for her now? Had a baby, and now she’s too good to walk to another building?”

“I was just- I offered-” Wyll opened his mouth to stammer out an answer, but Gale stepped in between the two of them before he could chicken out.

“That’s hardly an appropriate tone to take with a student.”

Mizora’s eyes flashed incandescent, and she fixed Gale with a look that probably should have turned him into a pile of ash. “Oh, are you going to tell me how to do my job now ‘Dr. Dekarios’? After you locked your keys in your office like an utter moron.” She snatched the folder out of Wyll’s hand and tossed it on a surface behind her. “Why don’t you leave before I call security and tell them that a strange man is trying to get into a department chair’s office?”

Gale threw his hands in the air like he was being held at gunpoint. “Alright, alright, I’ll leave.” He exited the office with Wyll hot on his heels.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, daunted by the prospect that he would have to track down Astarion somehow when Wyll tapped him on the shoulder. Gale startled like a trapped hare.

“I’m sorry, but are you trying to get into a locked room?” Wyll asked a trimmer of something tentative and excited in his voice. “Because I can help with that!”

Gale raised an eyebrow. He probably shouldn’t be asking a student to break the school code for him, but it wasn’t like he had any other options. “Alright, do you have a spare key?”

Wyll smiled precociously. “Something like that.”

Ominous. But Gale led him back down to his office nonetheless.

“So, you’re the new English professor?” Wyll asked. He handed his tray of coffee to Gale as they reached the office door so he could rummage around for something in his backpack. “If I’d known I was going to run into you, I would have gotten you a coffee too!”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can’t, with good conscience, ask a student to pay for my coffee.”

“I don’t pay for it!” Wyll assured him as he pulled a small nail file and a mangled bobby pin out of a side pocket. “I worked at the campus coffee house a couple of semesters ago, and the manager never deactivated my free drink code.”

Wyll wiggled the bobby pin into the lock, and Gale looked around frantically as he realized what was happening.

“Wyll, are you sure about this?” Gale muttered as a random student waiting in the hall glanced at them curiously.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Dr. Ancunín's the one who taught me how to do this!” Wyll stabbed the nail file into the lock and turned. There was a loud pop as the lock disengaged. “If you ask, he’ll probably teach you too. He says all the locks on campus were bought in bulk, so they all have a similar flaw that makes them easy to pick.”

“Why does Dr. Ancunín know how to pick locks?”

“He wouldn’t say.” He dropped his lock-pick tools back in their side pocket and pushed himself off his knees, brushing his pants off. “But it keeps me from having to ask Mizora when I need to get into a classroom.”

“She’s charming, isn’t she?” Gale handed the coffees back to Wyll. “Does she talk to everyone like that?”

A bitter laugh escaped Wyll’s lips. “No, I’m just her favorite, I guess.” He checked his watch and started a little bit. “Oh, I’m going to be late!” He slung his backpack over his shoulder and half-jogged back down the hallway. He paused before he stepped into the stairwell. “It was nice to meet you, Dr. Dekarios!”

***

G: What the fuck is her problem?

Astarion had to stifle a bark of laughter in front of the students trickling in. Xenia had slipped in at some point, settling in her usual spot: The back corner of the classroom, far from the notice of her peers or teachers. She was trying to skirt around Astarion’s notice too.

A: Did you get back in the office, at least? G: No thanks to Mizora.

Wyll stepped into the room with a sheepish smile and handed him a lukewarm to-go cup of coffee. “Sorry, I’m late.” He whispered.

Astarion took a long sip of his coffee. It was a blonde roast with a splash of milk -he wouldn’t usually bother with the milk, but the teenage baristas tended to burn their shots. “I suppose I can forgive you this once.”

Wyll laughed, but he was already scanning the classroom for someone else. Xenia looked up from the notebook she was pretending to scribble in and gave Wyll a little wave, a tentative smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Ah, so that was it.

Wyll sidled past the students in the front row to hand Xenia the second cup in his Coffee tray. They beamed at each other the way only school kids could as they talked about something mundane, like the weather or the walk-up from the dorms. Xenia toyed with the end of her braid while Wyll leaned closer and closer over the desk.

He would be good for her.

Better than the crowd Astarion had thrown himself into the instant he got out from under his dearest father’s thumb, at any rate.

Astarion conspicuously cleared his throat and motioned for Wyll to take his spot at the front of the classroom. “This is 1204 Sophomore Survey of Modern British Literature.” He fixed Xenia with a hard stare that she desperately tried to ignore. “If that is not the class you are expecting to be in, I highly suggest you make a swift exit now.”

A different student dozing off in the back of the class startled and ran out of the room.

There was always one every semester.

Astarion went through the same monolog he did at the beginning of every class. The rhythm and cadence were as familiar as a hymn. He grew up in London and graduated from Cambridge. His office hours were posted on the syllabus, but please try to schedule appointments beforehand. This course required a textbook, but most of the readings could be found online for free.

He turned the floor over to Wyll for about five minutes so he could explain what a supplemental instructor was, then closed out by letting a few students speak on what British literature they were familiar with, and as usual, most of them grumbled about how they had to read Shakespeare in high school and how much they hated it because they couldn’t understand the language. One girl threw up her hands in despair when he informed her that she would have to read Romeo and Juliet for a second time, but she was placated when he promised her there wouldn’t be any Chaucer (He wondered what sadist of a world lit teacher she had in high school that made 16-year-olds read middle English). One boy had a Welsh grandmother who loved T.S. Eliot and read him Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats when he visited in the summer. Astarion refrained from informing him that T.S. Eliot was actually an American.

But for the most part, the class had very little love for British authors—which wasn’t much of a surprise for a mixed major intro-level course—and nearly everyone was here because they had a humanities credit to fill. Really, the only one who wasn’t was probably Xenia… who was here because Wyll was here.

Astarion closed the class by assigning a short reading on the importance of literature studies that he already knew no one would read and dismissed the class. Xenia went for her usual speedy exit from the room, but Astarion headed her off at the pass.

“Just a moment Ms. Bellona, I need a quick word.”

She froze like a statue, and the football player behind her nearly tripped over her.

“I really don’t think I have the time,” she said smoothly. She was learning that she didn’t have to yield to her professors the way she did her high school teachers, but she didn't quite have the courage to openly disobey him yet. Ah, sophomores were his favorite.

“I won’t take up too much of your time.”

Xenia’s shoulders slumped, and she skulked over to his lectern, grumbling something under her breath.

“Oh, don’t be so sour.” Astarion scoffed. “You’re not in trouble.”

“Then why do you make it sound like I am?”

“That’s just his accent,” Wyll explained as he organized his stack of availability surveys to stick in his bag. “It makes everything sound more severe.”

Astarion rolled his eyes. “I will see you tomorrow, Mr. Ravengard.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Wyll made his way out of the room and paused at the door. “By the way, Lydia wanted me to let you know the study hall schedule is posted.” He said before disappearing into the hallway.

“Since when is he on a first-name basis with Dr. Silverwarden?” Astarion mused.

Xenia shrugged. “He calls Professor Cliffgate by her first name, too.”

“Yes, well, they’re technically colleagues now- It’s no matter.” He switched gears. “Xenia, dearest, why are you in another Sophomore literature class? You technically haven’t completed the first one.”

She went steely. “I’ve been thinking about picking up an English minor. My advisor said that it would go well with my current degree plan.”

“The advising office might be fighting over a singular brain cell, but I’m almost certain they would have told you to take a technical writing minor for a psychology degree.”

“What if I took up a literature minor because I like literature?”

“Then I’d tell you you shouldn’t waste your time.”

“Isn’t that a little hypocritical of you?”

“No, because I was already independently wealthy outside of my education choices. You should focus on a field where you can get a job.”

“Aren’t professors supposed to encourage students to follow their passions?”

“If you’re trying to follow your passions, my dear, there are easier ways to spend time with Wyll.”

Xenia turned red from her neck to the tips of her ears. “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She huffed, zipping up her jacket as if Astarion could literally see into her heart. “We’re just friends- He’s helping me get back on the fencing team in the fall, that’s all!”

Astarion raised his coffee cup to his lips, swallowing back the dregs at the bottom. “Does he buy coffee for all his friends, then?”

Something vexed and nervous swam in Xenia’s dark eyes, and she hurriedly tossed her cup into a nearby trashcan. “He bought you coffee too, by that logic-”

Astarion held up a hand to silence her. “Don’t even imply that.” He scolded. “Wyll brings me coffee because I’m technically his boss, and he likes going above and beyond. I suspect he brings you coffee because he likes to see you happy.”

“I think you’re just reaching.” Her voice wavered in a way that made Astarion feel a little guilty for pushing.

“Maybe, but I’ve watched a lot of students catch crushes in my tenure.”

Her jaw tensed, and her gaze drifted out the window for a brief moment. “Is this all you wanted to talk about?”

“You’re already in a precarious situation regarding your student finances. I just thought I should say something.” Astarion shrugged. “I’m not trying to upset you.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I can take care of myself.” Xenia’s voice was flat and irritated. She slipped her finger under the pad of her messenger bag’s strap and adjusted it into a more comfortable position on her shoulder. “I guess I’ll email you if I have any questions about my work.”

“Alright, have a good afternoon.” Astarion let her leave, then let out a deep sigh.

Idiot kid.

He went to gather his lecture notes when Gale called. He thought about letting it go to voicemail -whatever it was could probably wait the 5 minutes it would take to get back to their office- but something about the situation nagged him a little bit.

He picked up.

“Do you miss the sound of my voice this much?”

“I- uh, what?” Gale sounded panicked on the other end.

“Is something wrong?”

“The faculty lounge is flooding.”

Shit.

[chopper-witch]

Me kicking my feet and giggling thinking about my character in the Tomb of Annihilation campaign meeting Gale in 1494 at University of Suzail because he started teaching there (because who tf at Blackstaff would genuinely want him back I say with all the love in my heart) and she finally got back from her expedition.

[nocoffeeforoldmen]

WIP Wednesday (thursday???)

aka Gabby has no self control and keeps writing silly big stories about her Tav and Gale and never finishes them akaka (Winnie the bish?) I've been messing around with a modern college professors/neighbor meet cute with some background Shadowheart/Karlach and Astarion/Halsin AU

And anyway, here's part of the 4k words I wrote yesterday 🫣

“You’re not from around here, are you?” she wondered, pushing a lock of hair back from her shoulder. 

“Guilty, on that front,” he agreed. “I hail from the City of Splendors itself, Waterdeep.”

“Hm, that makes sense, I suppose,” she quipped. Across the table, she reached out to grab the bottle of wine. Left-handed, he noted to himself. For just a second, his eyes slid down to the curve of her breast in the dress. His nostrils flared before he quickly grabbed his napkin to drape across his lap, not wanting to let on that he had thought about her chest more often than was probably appropriate for friendly neighborly relations. “You have an air about you.”

His brows furrowed. “And what sort of air might that be?” he wondered, hoping to not be offended by whatever came next. 

She shrugged, grabbing his glass. “I don’t know,” she mused with a smile. “Proud, I suppose.” The next thought came with a bit of pondering as her eyes studied him. “A little show-boaty if I’m honest.” The glass tipped slightly to the side as she poured a generous amount of the pale golden liquid into it. “You also have a magnet of the city’s crest on the bumper of your car.”

He accepted the glass from her with a nod. “An astute observation,” he commended, leaning back in his chair. “A bit wounding to one’s ego but that isn’t to say you’re incorrect.” 

“I’ve been told I tend to get a fairly decent read on people.” She sipped at her wine, satisfied with his response to her jabbing. “I also may have done a little background searching on you after you followed me to the gym.”

“For the last time, I was in no way following you,” he countered, swirling the wine around in his glass. “That particular gym happens to be the most conveniently located to where we live.”

“Another likely story,” she said simply. There was still a whisper of a grin on her lips. “Or perhaps you’ve got some sort of weird thing for sweat and musk.”

He snorted, pushing back the gazing he had done toward her when she would return from her runs on particularly warm mornings. Drenched in sweat. Clothes clinging to every muscled curve of her body. Shimmering in the early morning light. “Whether or not I find myself enticed by your musk will be a secret I take to my grave, I’m afraid,” he replied with an exaggerated sigh.

[senualothbrok]

Progress

Gif by @dolceaspidenera

Summary: When you start your studies at Blackstaff Academy, you expect a battle with your demons. But the last thing you expect is to fall in love.

A slow burn, Professor Dekarios x OC journey through mental illness and recovery.

Word count: 10.6k

Trigger warnings: Mental illness, eating disorder, childhood trauma. Please practise self-care.

Disclaimers: Non-18+, angst (with a happy ending), slow burn, hurt/comfort, mental illness and recovery.

AO3 link

The sequel to this fic is Promise

This is progress, you think.

It is your first day at Blackstaff Academy, and you are standing in the entrance hall. Your body rattles with each shallow breath. Your robe hangs off you, limp and heavy. But you have made it. You are here.

You step into the bustling corridor. You can tell immediately that you are older than most of the other apprentices. Many of them look like fresh faced teenagers, giggling and buoyant. Despite the gruelling nights of failed spells and tear-stained scrolls, you cannot make up for all the time you have lost. Your mother never fails to remind you of this, and you will never forget it. It will be at Blackstaff as it has always been. You will remain apart, a stranger. Alone.

Yet, something inside you flickers. And as you step inside the lecture hall, you know: this is progress.

No one seems to notice as you find a seat at the back of the room. You are well-practised, flitting through overlooked corners. It is second nature, to loiter in the shadows while others claim the light. It brings you comfort to remain hidden.

It is the first time you lay eyes on him. Gale Dekarios, Professor of Illusory Magic. The pride of Blackstaff. Once Chosen of Mystra, who defied her order for sacrifice. Former archwizard, who fought alongside the hero of Baldur’s Gate. The stories of him reached even you in your confinement. From the legends, you expect a giant, towering with glory, bubbling with power and mastery. And though he is undeniably handsome, you are surprised at how otherwise unremarkable he seems.

He is robed in a muted violet, his arms clasped behind his back. He stoops ever so slightly, making him look shorter than his average height. Grey threads through his dark and tousled hair. Faint wrinkles frame his brown eyes. And when he speaks, he does not narrow spiteful eyes which demand obedience. He does not dole out proverbs that drip in arrogance. Instead, his words are the passionate dance of an artist in love with his creation. His gestures are lithe and tender, his smiles warm and earnest. Poetry peppers his wit.

He is not like any of the wizards your mother has brought home. He is not what you thought he would be.

Two flaxen-haired girls near you whisper and blush. You see the effect that he has on your peers, and part of you longs to feel something so light, so trivial. You cannot remember the last time you felt such a stirring. And later that day, you notice their envious glares when you are told that Professor Dekarios will also be your personal tutor. You learn that he will be responsible for your well-being during your time at Blackstaff.

You instantly feel a pang of pity for him.

But you brush it away. After all, you are making progress.

-----

It is bitterly cold on the day of your first meeting. He invites you into his office, which envelopes you in its warmth. You are backfooted by the way he beams as you take the seat he offers you, by how enthusiastically he passes you a tray of homemade cookies. You politely decline as always, despite  your anxiety that it will offend him. You mother’s warnings and curses still ring in your head every time you choose not to eat or drink as others do. So you are grateful when he shows no hint of annoyance or judgment.

But why would he? He does not know you. To him, you are a normal, healthy apprentice, full of hope and promise. He has no reason to suspect otherwise.

He falls into his chair with a sigh. You look at him across his cluttered desk. It takes a moment to remember that this man is the renowned Gale of Waterdeep. Seeing him up close, you are surprised by his age. It is not that you were expecting an ancient like Elminster of Shadowdale. But you had thought a man of his accomplishments would be much older than you. Instead, there could scarcely be a decade between you.

Then again, the years have not been kind to you. Without your glamour, you could probably be mistaken for his peer.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Away from the crowd and the lecture hall, his voice is softer, his tone lower. You do not think you have ever seen such a genuine smile from a wizard. It is not difficult for you to return it.

“The pleasure is all mine, Professor. I’m honoured.”

He waves his hand – whether from irritation or awkwardness, you cannot tell.

“There’s no need for all that. The honour is in fact mine.” His gaze is wide and bright. “I fought to have you on my personal tutor list. I was blown away by your application. It’s not every day that an applicant can coherently and wittily refer to Halaster, Elminster, and Calliope in one breath. Nor was I expecting such an eloquent treatise on the beauty of the Weave and the primacy of creativity and imagination in illusory magic.”

You feel unmoored. Your application had been a risk. In a fit of desperate rebellion, you had done away with everything that your mother had insisted on including. All those puffed up platitudes about power, potential, pride – none of that had been yours. In a mad bid for freedom, you had felt a frenzy to show Blackstaff who you truly were, for better or worse.  

Your mother was, predictably, furious when she found out. You could not avoid her ire, even when you shut yourself up in your room. You had almost wished you were back at the House of Healing, where she could not burst into you whenever she wanted, for whatever she wanted.

When you were accepted into Blackstaff, your mother spared no time in impressing on you that it was the strings she pulled that had granted you entrance. Your application was paltry, and it was only by her efforts that you had succeeded. You did wonder at this, given her tenuous connections as a distinctly mediocre wizard, her brittle and fading charms. But she persisted, as always, in taking credit for the things that you toiled for. It wore you down, after all these years.

Now, you turn his words over, searching for the hidden blade in them. You wait for the pulling of the rug, the customary insult. But they do not come.

“Your demonstration, too. Truly remarkable.”

You had not realised that he was there, when you conjured a canopy of stars above the examiners. The illusion had collapsed moments too soon. It was a failure. You seethed and ripped at yourself for weeks. You were expecting rejection, and then the tide of punishment that inevitably followed. But instead, you are here, powerless in the face of his praise.

He sees your confusion as you struggle for a response. But he misunderstands its nature.

“I was hiding at the back of the room,” he explains. “It isn’t generally conducive to applicants’ nerves, to have me there with the other examiners.”

He grimaces, as if his fame and reputation pain him.

“I digress. My point is, I think you have an artist’s hand and a poet’s mind, fundamentals in excelling at illusion. And I, for one, am extremely excited to see you progress.”

Sincerity is not unfamiliar to you. Brutally honest lashings about your deficiencies are the backbone of your existence. But the kindness and sincerity in his eyes are so alien that you must battle to regain your centre. He does not move his eyes from you.

“Thank you,” you manage. “Truly, Professor. I’ll do everything I can to make sure I’m worthy of your high regard.”

He tilts his head. He pauses, as if weighing his words carefully.

“Your mother has sent word to me,” he begins. “She’s been at pains to assure me that your time out of education doesn’t in any way detract from your aptitude. That you’re deeply penitent about your failures.”

You almost flinch. You did not realise your mother had spoken to him. You are suddenly seized by panic. What has she told him? What does he know about your past? Does he know about the Darkness?

“She says you’re eager to rid yourself of all shortcomings, and will do anything to fulfil your as yet wasted potential. She says that’s why you’re at Blackstaff.”

A frown creases his brow. His voice hardens.

“In return, I’ve been at pains to assure her that your aptitude is not in question. Your continued resilience in the face of considerable adversity only adds to your exceptional nature.”

He holds your gaze with a candour that suspends your breaths. For an instant, you feel seen, and it terrifies you.

“I’ve been extremely forthright with her. Any more references to penitence and past failures will be promptly rebuffed.”

His brown eyes are firm and gentle at the same time. You have no words, no actions that can capture the singularity of what he has done. You wonder how many times he has accomplished something that no one else has, then spoken of it as though it were nothing. How many times he has extended himself to help a stranger for whom no one else would have cared.

You want to thank him, but you do not know how.

“I’m sure my mother didn’t like that,” you say instead.

He chuckles. “I think the esteemed Professor Dekarios has gone down a notch or two in her estimations. But alas, I’ll survive.”

You share a moment of laughter. It lights a candle deep inside you.

“If I can do it, you definitely can.”

-----

You are accustomed to casting a glamour over yourself when you are in public places. You had started doing it at your mother’s insistence, and continued as you could not bear her shame. Eventually, the tentacles of that shame closed so completely over your heart that you could scarcely look in the mirror without it. It felt impossible to see yourself and keep breathing.

But at Blackstaff, you are surrounded by adept wizards, the cream of the crop. They will be instantly attuned to your glamour. They will see through to your core. It seems a futile waste of energies you could be better applying to your studies, which are your only focus now. And your mother is not around to berate you for failing to maintain the illusion. So you drop the disguise.

It is so hard, but then so easy. You let your dishevelled waves fall freely over your unpainted face. You rub at your kohl-free eyes with reckless abandon. You pick at your chapped, bare lips. You try not to poke and prod at the flesh hidden under your loose robes.

Freedom flutters in your heart, and you cherish it, though you know it is fleeting.

You finish your breakfasts, most of your lunches. You do not skip your dinners. You keep your mirrors uncovered. You only glance, never look. You try and keep your mind occupied when you are not in classes or studying. You promise yourself that one day, if it is in your power, you will pay back the debt that your mother lords over you. She has paid for your studies at Blackstaff, but you are determined to repay her with interest.

So you take a job at as assistant at Serpentil Books and Folios. Despite the jaw-dropping price of the treasures within, your income is meagre. The owner, Mr Serpentil, is gruff and cantankerous. It takes some convincing for him to take you on, but he seems reassured by your credentials as an apprentice at Blackstaff. The shop is dusty and dim, and you must squeeze through overflowing shelves and tight corners to sort through the books, scrolls, maps and other curios that you have never seen before. You can bury yourself in them when there are no customers. Amidst the centuries of knowledge, you are so hidden as to be nothing. It is perfect.

One rainy weekend, you are sorting through tomes at the back of the shop when you hear a voice you recognise. You peek out around the corner of the bookshelf. Your eyes meet a green feline gaze and a shudder of grey wings flecked with gold. A windswept and familiar face follows, eyebrows raised.

You realise that this is the first time he has seen you unglamoured. You wait for confusion, discomfort, displeasure. But there is only joy.

“Aurora,” he exclaims. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“Professor.” You step out, patting the dust off your robe. The thick swirls assault your nose and you sneeze.

“Bless you,” comes a matronly drawl.

You struggle to hide your excitement. This must be Tara the tressym, Professor Dekarios’ companion. Just the other day, you had overheard the second-year apprentices gossiping about her in the corridor. She had been summoned by the Professor when he was but a child. Once, she swiped a snoozing student so hard that she had a scar on her chin for weeks.

He follows your gaze, smiling softly.

“Aurora, may I introduce you to the inimitable, the one and only, Tara. My oldest friend and most faithful companion. I’m sure you’ll have heard some rumours about her. Rest assured that not all of them are true.”

Tara smirks.

Since you were a child, you have dreamed of meeting a tressym. You have never dared, nor had the requisite skill, to summon one on your own. But you are so overjoyed to meet one today that you worry whether your enthusiasm is maybe a little disturbing. You temper yourself.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tara.”

“And Tara, this is Aurora. As her name suggests, she’s a shining light amongst my current cohort of apprentices.”

Praise, so casually given. Devoid of malice, free of conditions. You shift awkwardly.  Tara looks you up and down with large, appraising eyes. They are not without warmth.

“It’s lovely to meet you, dear. Do you work in this fine establishment?”

You nod. “I do, when I’m not studying.”

“That’s quite the commitment,” he remarks. “Quite the schedule you’ve set for yourself.”

You detect a hint of concern in his voice. You deflect.

“I just love knowledge so much, I can’t get enough of it.”

He clasps his hands together. “A woman after my own heart.”

As you speak, Tara’s gaze flickers back and forth. You can almost hear the wheels of her mind turning. If it were not an unforgivable intrusion to read her thoughts, you would do so.

“But can I help you with something?” you ask. “Is there something I can help you find?”

“Ah, yes!”

Tara sighs, long and loud, as he retrieves a leaf of parchment from the folds of his robe. He holds it out to you. You squint at a list of twelve, maybe fifteen, esoteric book titles. You marvel silently at the range of his interests – from first edition magical tomes and philosophical treatises to ancient recipe books. Your heart stirs to see a number of sonnet anthologies that you recognise.

“This is quite the list, Professor. Your collection must be a sight to behold.”

He seems to glow with your admiration. “I appreciate that you may not have all of these, but whatever you can find, I’ll take.”

“And any discount you could offer would also be appreciated,” Tara adds.

“Tara!” He spins towards her.

Tara twitches. “Mr Dekarios, man cannot live on books alone. Some of these works are ridiculously overpriced, and this establishment is not known for being kind to one’s purse. I will not allow you to go without bread for a book again, despite your nattering.”

He huffs, embarrassment flushing on his face. He flashes you an apologetic smile. Laughter ripples through you. It comes so naturally. You wonder why that is.

“I’ll do the best I can, Tara. I think there are a few buttons I can press with Mr Serpentil.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Tara chirps.

You turn and make your way to the poetry section. Behind you, you can hear them bickering in hushed tones.

“I have a good feeling about that one,” Tara declares.

You busy yourself with the list, but the flame within you burns a little brighter than before.

-----

You rarely spend your meetings with him discussing your studies. With the exception of the initial divination classes, you have no issues. And between lectures, assignments, demonstrations and your work at the bookshop, you barely have time for the Darkness to take hold. For the first time in years, you sleep deeply and without interruptions.

You have never had a friend. There was never a time or a place. Rarely was there anyone around you who was not a doctor or a nurse, hired help or your mother. Occasionally, there might be a suitor of hers, an ex-husband, a victim. And even at the odd times that you found yourself among peers, you could never let your guard down. You could never show anyone who you were underneath the glamour, the silent shroud. The threat was always too great.

So you do not know how friendship feels, but you wonder whether it feels something like this.

You speak to him without fear. He does not mock or dismiss you. Each time you speak, he is not simply waiting for you to finish. He does not store your words up like arrows to throw back at you later. He listens, and he remembers what you say, even when you forget. You laugh, sometimes with him, other times at him. You do not need to force the smiles which bloom on your face when he is near.

It does not hurt when he gives you guidance and instruction, even when it is firm and comprehensive. There is no punishment shackled to it. The gifts of his wisdom and knowledge come lightly, without the burden of conditions and demands. There is no disgust in his eyes when you tell him where you fall short and what you lack. When he speaks of his passions and you speak of yours, there is a river that flows between you. You can float in it, and you do not drown.

But he is your teacher, not your friend. It is his job to speak to you, to feign patience with your mediocre company. He is paid to take an interest in your pitiful life, so he can mould it into something worthy. You remind yourself of this each time your meetings go on longer than your allotted hour. When you start to share books and discuss them over unscheduled chats in his office. When he appears at the shop increasingly often without a list, browsing the shelves with recommendations and tenuously related anecdotes. When he stays until closing time, and walks back to Blackstaff with you, always matching his pace to yours. You remind yourself again and again.

He Is your professor, and you are his student. He does not know you, not truly. And he is a mystery to you. You are not equals, and never will be. And perhaps it is better this way. No one who saw the full measure of you would have the stomach to remain. Your life is a testament to this fact.

Yet there are times when you wonder. You had been certain that what you had with him was not exceptional. That it must be the same for the other apprentices.

“What’s he like as a personal tutor?”

Sitting in the lecture hall, an auburn-haired apprentice is gossiping with a freckled boy in the row in front of you.

“Professor Dekarios?” The boy wrinkles his nose. “He’s a bore. All he wants to do is talk at length about the syllabus, and all the amazing things I can learn if I focus on the ample opportunities at this illustrious institution. Snore.”

The girl snickers. “Not half as interesting and smooth as he looks, then.” She tuts. “I was expecting some spice and drama. The man lay with a goddess and bested a Netherbrain, and all that he wants to talk about is the curriculum? Disappointing.”

There is a gulf that soon forms between the man you see and the man the other apprentices talk about. And you cannot help but notice how his gaze darts towards yours across the lecture hall with a shared, secret knowledge. Each time a student shows up late, and he thanks them profusely for taking precious time out of their schedule to join him. Each time he begs a pupil to share the pearls of wisdom they are chattering about to their neighbour instead of following the thread of his lecture. You have to stifle a snort each time he delivers his most severe warning of all.

“The orb within me could level this entire city if it detonates. If I hear another one of you say they ‘just haven’t had time’ to practice this week’s spells, I have a very real concern about Waterdeep’s safety.”

Professor Dekarios would no more put an innocent in danger than your mother would embrace you in a genuine outpouring of affection. It is absurd, but the other apprentices fall silent each time he makes this threat. It is a source of endless amusement for you, and you can tell from the glint in his eye that it is for him too.

-----

You are sitting cross-legged, taking stock of all the tomes on the lower bookshelves. Tara is licking at her paw languidly beside you. Behind you, he is surveying the section on histories, making the occasional remark to himself. Mr Serpentil has gone for a meeting, so you can chat freely without repercussions.

“What did you think of Felaar Tanil?” he asks abruptly.

His invitation is a welcome interruption. You have been scribbling long and arduous author names in the half-darkness for hours. You turn to face him.

“I liked his work. Very heroic, very rousing. I think I prefer love poetry, though.”

“You’re a romantic.” He titters.

“I suppose.” You consider a moment, twirling your quill. “It’s hard for me to imagine something that I’ve never experienced. So it fascinates me. Without poetry, love would be a complete and utter mystery to me.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You’ve never been in love?”

A few months ago, you would have been unnerved by such a question. The intimacy of it. The directness. But with him, it does not feel like an intrusion, only a natural topic of conversation. You shake your head.

“Well, certainly not the kind of love that the poets speak of.”

What you know of love is confined to a boy who had insisted you take on the likeness of a different girl every time you touched, and a man who had baulked in the morning when your glamour slipped. A pointless and painful endeavour. Poetry is more than sufficient.

“I have no frame of reference…” You run the feathers of the quill over your cheek. “But I always imagined true love to be something like channelling the Weave. That sense of being fully seen, completely known, held in your lover’s embrace. Souls touching, flowing into each other as one.”

He is staring at you with an intensity that gives you pause.

“What? Have I said something foolish?”

To your relief, he laughs. His soft gaze drifts over your face.

“No, Aurora. I just never thought I would hear that sentiment from the lips of another.” He scratches at his chin. “That, too, is what I once thought love was.”

Tara hums. She has been so quiet you thought she had fallen asleep.

“Mr Dekarios knows full well that there’s a difference between the love of a mortal and the love of a goddess, Weave or no.” Her face is stern, but her voice is tender. “To be loved for who you are and not the magic you command becomes a tad more complicated when the Weave is involved.”

He is frowning now, lost in thought. You are not sure you understand what has passed between them, but it is not your place to ask. You turn back to the parchment and tomes.

“Aurora,” Tara asks after a while. “When do you finish at Blackstaff?”

A strange change of subject, but you answer nonetheless.

“In a year and a half. Assuming I pass my exams.”

Tara grizzles.

“Is there any chance you could complete your studies sooner?”

“Tara!” His voice is sharp, flustered.

Tara ignores him.

“Only that Mr Dekarios is quite-”

He is a flurry at the corner of your vision.  His hand darts out to drag Tara away into a corner. There is a clamber of claws and wings, a cacophony of meows and muffled hissing. When they return, he is pink-cheeked, Tara smug but silent. You want to know what she would have said, but it is as though the conversation never happened.

You do not see Tara at the bookshop again.

-----

One afternoon, you stop by his office to return a book on Githyanki psionics. The door is ajar, and you nudge it open. He is sitting at his desk with his face buried in his hands, breathing heavily.

“Professor? Are you well?”

He looks up, and you are struck by the exhaustion in his sunken features. When his eyes meet yours, his face lifts and brightens. You tell yourself it is a trick of the light.

“All the better for your visit.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Come in, please. Close the door behind you, if you would.”

You enter with uncertain steps. You place the book on his desk. He nods in acknowledgment.

“Have a seat, Aurora.”

You lower yourself into your usual seat opposite him. You are troubled by the shadows on his brow. For the first time, you have a desire to be closer.

“Is something the matter, Professor?”

His smile is so weary. “Nothing new. Which makes it all the more taxing.”

You know that truth better than most. And perhaps you are not quite friends, but you reach out to him anyway. You feel a cord tethering you to him that you find hard to break.

“A problem shared is a problem halved,” you offer.

His eyes glisten like the earth after rain as he regards you.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve shared my troubles with anyone but Tara.” 

His words are heavy with longing and loss. You realise, all of a sudden, that he is lonely. You recognise the devastating weight of that emptiness. It is the air you breathe.

You do not need to tell him. You do not know how, but you can tell he senses it.

“It wears you down,” he starts. “In the morning, the pupils demand to know how you could have betrayed Mystra. Not once, but twice. Mad for power, they say, fanatical with ambition. Then in the afternoon, they question your weakness. You could have seized the power and become a god. You gave all of that up for this? What a waste. What a disappointment.”

He has never told you directly about his dealings with Mystra or the defeat of the Absolute. But you know enough from the legends, the rumours, Volo’s second-rate autobiography. You have heard enough to imagine the burden of being Mystra’s Chosen, the trappings of a compulsion to seek ever greater heights. You know the anguish of being discarded like a used lover, and being mocked for giving up an ambition that would destroy you.

“It’s never enough.”

Those three broken words. Your anthem.

You do not stop to think about whether it is improper. All you can think of is the quivering of his voice as he bares his soul to you. It is a mirror from which you do not look away. You can endure your own suffering. But for someone like him to carry the same load – you cannot bear it.

In your confinement, what you had most wanted was a hand to hold. That is the yearning you remember now, as you take hold of his hand across the desk.

“You aren’t like them.”

His fingers tremble under yours. You cannot read the expression on his face.

“They’ll never understand. They’ll never understand what was done to you, what you lost. Your goodness. Your kindness. The depth of your sacrifice. They’re not capable of it.”

Your words are as jumbled as your thoughts, but they flow out of you like the tide breaking against the shore.

“You’re not like the other wizards. You’re…singular. There’s no one like you. There never will be.”

His gaze is a whirlpool. You are aware of his slender fingers interlacing with yours. You do not know what to do with the burning in your chest, the heat that travels up your neck. You jerk your hand back, your breath catching. Your legs straighten of their own accord. They carry you to the door without warning.

“Aurora…”

He is standing. There is panic in his voice, frozen in his face.

You look away. You cannot process what has just happened. You have no frame of reference for it.

“I’ll see you later, Professor,” you murmur as you leave.

-----

“Have you never felt the lure of power?” he asks.

You are reflecting together on Elminster’s musings about Karsus’ folly. He is in a sombre mood today, plagued by something that you cannot see. Over steepled fingers, he stares into a mass of scrolls on his desk.

Since your last encounter, he has avoided looking you in the eye. There is a strain between you now, like a coiled band tightening. You cannot understand what has happened. You cannot lose what you have. So you force yourself not to think of it. You pretend it never was.

“Not truly,” you admit.

He seems disappointed by your answer. You do not wish to mislead him. It is not quite the whole truth. You decide you can show him this part of yourself now. After what he has told you, it is safe.

“My father left us when I was a child. He took my brother with him. They were necromancers. I think my father dabbled in divination too. My mother was furious when they left. Not because she loved them, or cared about our family, but because she missed out. All of that power at their fingertips. All the things they could do. Instead she was left with me, an ugly duckling stuck in her own dreams, with no assets except a penchant for illusion. Imagine her disappointment. What a burden to bear.”

A burst of laughter overtakes you. It is perversely funny, to think about your life this way.

“Still, I wouldn’t change it. I’ve had enough power-obsessed tyrants for a lifetime. The story’s always the same. People never change. Wizards certainly don’t. I never wanted to be like them, and I never will. Even if I spend the rest of my life conjuring fickle, beautiful illusions that no one sees. Even if I’m a failure, a husk of wasted potential. Even if I’m never enough.”

You do not tell him about the one thing you would change. You would be rid of the Darkness and its clutches. You would be free. A vain hope.

“Aurora.”

He is watching you now. There is no more fear and tautness. He does not turn away when you return his gaze. It holds you, deep and full. There is a heat in it which stokes the flame inside you. You cannot ignore it. You do not know how you will ever ignore it again.

“Would you believe me if I told you you’re extraordinary, just the way you are?”

You would not. But a fire is blazing through you. It aches to say yes to him. For him.

You smile. “I can try, Professor.”

“Please.” He takes a shaky breath. “Call me Gale.”

-----

It begins as it always does. Missed breakfasts. Half-eaten dinners. Coverings on mirrors, and sleepless nights. You fight the shadows as they come. You resist the urge to restore your glamour. You take your meals in the dining hall. And for a while, you think you are making progress.

There are times now when you sit with him in silence. You look at each other across his desk, or between dusty bookshelves, and the feeling that swells inside you has no equal. It is sharp and wet and red, and when you look away, it is like a rending. An absence.

But you are terrified. You are distressed by the thoughts that take you unawares. The bristles on his jawline. The dark dip of his cupid’s bow. The stray strands of brown hair that fall over his eyes as they float over your mouth. The tingling of his fingers intertwined with yours. You flee, but the thoughts haunt you, bringing others in their trail.

When you were with him before, you did not dwell on the hoarse timbre of your voice. You did not worry over the wrongness that permeates every part of your body. You were not paralysed by the things you could not prove to him. You did not stand before him cowed by the ways in which you fall short.

It had been different with him. But now, everything has changed.

The shadows loom over you, and you struggle to outpace them. You arrive late to his class for the second time. You try to be discreet, lurking at the back of the lecture hall, but he catches your eye regardless. He does not make his usual terse announcement disguised as a jest, and you do not know why you warrant special treatment.

When the class is over, she approaches him with a question. You recognise her from your divination class. She is immaculate, outspoken, often called on for demonstrations. A natural talent. Her golden hair is set in elaborate braids which accentuate her high cheekbones. She bites her lip, widening her sapphire eyes as she listens to him. He is grinning, laughing, and you watch her throw back her shoulders in a confident display of the masterpiece that is her supple form.

You leave the lecture hall.

You cannot rise from bed on the morning of your next meeting. It is the first day at Blackstaff that you take no meals. You stare and stare into the mirror, pressing your fingernails into your soft cheeks, the bulge of your arms, your misshapen thighs. You lie on the floor, seeking out the points of your bones through your rubbery skin, crying when you cannot feel them.

But you persist. You must. You rise the next day. You go through the motions of your routine. You cannot miss another class or another meeting with him. But you miss breakfast. You are trapped between the mirror and the door, harrowed by your own reflection. You are desperate, tormented. You must leave the room. But you cannot as you are. You are a travesty.

So you do what needs to be done. You cast your glamour.

------

“Aurora?”

You stare at him.

“Are you alright?”

You are walking back to Blackstaff from the bookshop. He is holding the crook of your arm. As you come to yourself, you feel the firm grasp of his fingers. You register concern in his eyes.

“Do you need to sit down?”

You are not sure. There is a throb in your head as the spots in your vision recede. You struggle to hold onto the images before you.

“What happened?”

He frowns. “We were walking along and you stumbled.”

It has begun, you think.

“Did I faint?”

“You looked like you were about to.”

You nod. You move your arm away from his touch. He steps back reluctantly.

“I’m alright, Professor.”

You cannot bring yourself to call him Gale. It would be an admission. A miscalculation. Something lurches in his gaze. You cannot identify it.

“You don’t look well. And recently, you haven’t been yourself.”

You shake your head. You muster your most reassuring tone.

“I’m just tired. There’s no need to worry.”

“Aurora.”

There is earnestness in his every look, kindness in his every word. It hurts you. You look down at your feet.

“Over the past weeks, I’ve noticed something wrong. I’ve not wanted to raise it-”

The walls of dread spring up within you. Your reply is well-practised.

“I apologise for the slippage in my attendance, but I assure you-”

“I’m not talking about that.”

There is an urgency in his voice. Something in the twist of his features tells you that he knows. You must end this conversation now, before it is too late. But his next question winds you.

“Why have you recast your glamour?”

You cannot speak. You knew he would have noticed, but you had not expected him to mention it. Shame and terror chokes you.

He has drawn closer. He searches your face.

“Did you think you needed to? Do you believe you need to hide yourself?”

You turn away. “Please, Professor-”  

“You don’t need it.”

You need him to stop.

“Please-”

“You’re beautiful, just the way you are.”

Something wrenches inside you. You cannot bear the tenderness in his gaze, the hidden things which he cannot see. You cannot manage a polite goodbye. You retreat.

-----

You cannot face him after this. You struggle to face anyone. It is a small mercy that the semester draws to a close.

You can feel the Darkness in your pores now. The shadows wrap around you like a cloak. It is only a matter of time before you are no more.

You have been at Blackstaff for a year. A year of progress. A year without a word from your mother. A year of not-quite-friendship with a man who has no equal. Soon, she will descend on you with her lashes of scorn and I-told-you-so’s. Soon, you will be back where you started, and it will be like none of this ever happened. Like his footsteps never graced the ruins of your life. You are mourning already.

When the end of year ball comes, your confinement has all but begun. You leave your room only for your shifts at the bookshop. It takes almost all of your energy to maintain your glamour and a semblance of composure. You yearn for more than mouthfuls of fruit and water, more than disturbed fits of sleep. But that yearning is fading as the Darkness sinks its tendrils into you.

You wind through the thrumming crowds celebrating in the courtyard. The apprentices are draped in their finery, with drinks in hand and delirious grins. It is early evening and the ball will soon be underway. You see the girl from your divination class, blonde curls bouncing, arrayed in a form-fitting gown of emerald splendour. You are a stooped scarecrow amidst a rainbow of frills, lace, velvet, and silk. You hide your face as you pick up the pace, already breathless.

Mr Serpentil had frowned when you offered to work on the night of the legendary Blackstaff ball. But when you assured him there would be no tomfoolery, he did not push further. Annual inventory and stock take is not a task for the light hearted, and he would rather be at the Yawning Portal than coated in dust and cobwebs.

It is a struggle to climb ladders and catalogue tomes, scrolls and maps, with only a sputtering candle to light your way. A few times, you almost fall, or you must wait, doubled over, for a dizzy spell to pass. But you cannot bear the sights and sounds of frolicking apprentices basking in their beauty, enjoying a freedom that you would be deluded to dream of. So you flee from Blackstaff to the darkness of the bookshop, where all that surrounds you is the scent of book dust and a solitude that has no significance.

You are alone, and soon, you will be no more.

You are vaguely aware of the passing of time; two hours, and then three. You ward off the false promise of sleep. Then there is a tapping. You ignore it at first. It is a figment of your longing, a mirage formed by your hope. But it becomes a rattling, then a knocking. You step out from behind the bookshelves. Your breath hitches when you open the door.

He stands before you. His earth-brown eyes burn with a warmth that spreads from your core to the tips of your fingers. In the dimness, he glows in purple velvet, his hair falling around his face like vines. His chest heaves, his lips part. His fingers ripple like waves.

“Professor,” you say. It is almost a whisper.

For a while, you simply stare at each other. You let yourself linger on every line, every dip and curve. You breathe in the scent of sandalwood and scrolls that swirls around him whenever he is near. You must learn it all now, before you lose it all later.

“Why…” You struggle for words. “The ball…”

He is shaking ever so slightly.

“I needed to see you.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. His hands flutter. He looks away and back at you. He starts and stops. You have never seen him in such a state. There is pain, desperation. Need. You are afraid.

He sees it immediately.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, backing away. “This was… foolish. Inappropriate. I should never have…” He grimaces. “This was a mistake, Aurora. I’m sorry. I’ll leave you in peace.”

He turns. His gait is jolting, laboured. He is receding from you into the night.

Maybe it is because you want to feel something that is not hunger and fear. Or maybe there is still an ember inside you that will not be snuffed out. A flame that he ignited, that you do not wish to die.

“Gale,” you call out.

His name rolls off your tongue like it is a secret part of yourself. Your hand reaches for his.

“Don’t go.”

When he turns back to face you, the cloud has lifted from his features. A smile has broken on his lips. You have never seen anything so beautiful before.

-----

“It’s very dark in here.”

With a flick of his wrist, he conjures four floating orbs that hover around you. You are embarrassed that you have not done this, but it would be beyond your limited energies. You do not want to admit this to him.

You gesture towards a small nook you have carved out amongst a clutter of books and scrolls.

“This is a very poor alternative to the Blackstaff ball.”

He chuckles. “Not to me. I’d rather be sandwiched between these bookshelves than between drunk apprentices bragging about cantrips you can use in the bedroom.”

You raise your eyebrows. “The conversation I have to offer is much less scintillating, I’m afraid.”

Your fingers are still prickling where the two of you have touched. An ache grows within you is from the closeness of him. You struggle to break his gaze when his eyes meet yours.

“I beg to differ,” he rasps.

You clear a space on the floor for him. He lowers himself beside you with a groan, rubbing at his knees and his back. It is so strange to see the famed Professor Dekarios in a dust-streaked doublet, cramped and cross legged on a bookshop floor. Yet to have him here beside you tonight feels as familiar as a memory.

“I think I might need to do more stretches if we’re to keep meeting like this.”

You laugh. It radiates in his eyes.

There are many things that lie unspoken between you. But tonight, they are like a canopy of stars. They are there, and you need not cling to them, nor hide from their reach. You lean your head back against a bookshelf. You want to remember this moment, when you have nothing left.

“I haven’t been very good company lately.”

You are not sure if it is an apology or a confession. He tilts his head.  

“Not so. I would take your company over any other. Every day. Any time.”

The back of his hand flickers against yours from where they rest, side by side. He clears his throat.

“Sometimes, I forget that you’re…”

He trails off. You recognise the look in his eyes as something like hunger, but not the type that defines the order of your days. It is a starvation of sorts, searching for release as his gaze flits across your burning cheeks, the quivering of your lips. You can hear the drum of your heart beat, chasing his laboured breaths.

Your eyelids flutter. You feel faint, but it is not what you are used to. It is like you are drunk, drifting towards each other in a stupor. You feel the caress of his nose against yours, the ghost of his breath on your mouth. His forehead presses against yours, his hair tingles on your skin. You draw together and apart, struggling against the tide.

“Can’t,” he murmurs.

You wrench away. You are panting, lost. You are not sure if your glamour is still in place. You press your hand to your mouth, your stomach lurching as you stand.

He stands with you, bereft, frenzied. And as you stare at him in silence, you wonder how you will survive the Darkness when you have bathed in his light.

-----

You refuse to see him at first. The nurse tells you each time he visits. He comes the day after your admission, then twice a week, at the times of your allotted meetings. He leaves books and letters. He passes messages via your doctor. But you cannot bring yourself to face him. Not after everything that has passed.

You cannot understand why he persists. ‘Because it is his job,’ the Darkness replies. ‘Because if you fail, it reflects badly on him.’ So, in a lucid moment, you ask the nurse to send a message back to Blackstaff. They can send you the materials. You will study. You will not fall behind.

It is futile, and you know it. The Darkness consumes you whole. Nothing but bones remains.

“You should see him,” the nurse says after three weeks.

You know Nurse Mona well. She has been at the House of Healing since you were a teenager. You have seen more of her than your father and brother combined. Life is a series of facts for her, with no room for ambiguity.

“It’s clear he cares deeply about you.”

You bury your face into your pillow. “That’s the problem.”

She takes you by the shoulders. She can be gruff, and you flinch as she turns you to face her. Tears are gathering in your eyes.

“I don’t want him to see me like this.”

She shakes her head, sighing.

“He already knows you’re here, and he keeps coming back. Why don’t you give him a chance?” 

-----

You sit in the visiting room. It is cold and colourless, but it cannot temper the warmth of his bronzed skin and searching eyes. Across the table, he looks out of place. You feel ashamed to have brought him to such a void.

Gone is your glamour and your billowing robe, the walls behind which you have hidden. You battle against the feeling of your tunic and skirt laying snug against your skin. It is necessary, they say, to accept your form. You struggle to meet his eyes, not to cover your unglamoured face. You know its every bloated blemish, and the knowledge is an agony. You stand before the mirror with Nurse Mona every morning, sobbing at what stares back at you. You sit with her at every meal, tearing yourself apart.

They tell you this is progress. But you do not believe them.

“You don’t need to come here, Professor,” you begin. “You have better things to do.”

You do not know why your voice comes out strained and harsh. You do not wish to sound ungrateful.

“I’m sorry.” You look down at your hands. “I didn’t want it to come to this.”

He makes a strangled sound. There is anguish in his eyes when he looks at you. You cannot bear it. Not the pity. Not the burden of your suffering. You cannot inflict this on a man you hold so dear.

“Please.” You stand. “You don’t need to visit.”

His eyes widen. You had missed them so desperately – their brightness, their gentleness. You look away.

“Aurora-”

The promises spill out of you instinctively. Anything to get him away from this place, away from you.

“I’ll get back to my assignments as quickly as I can, and I’ll come back as soon as-”

“Listen to me-”

“-I can get cleared by the doctors-”

“Aurora-”

“-and I should be back in time for exams-”

“I don’t care about all that!”

You flinch. You have never heard him raise his voice. He stands unsteadily and crosses over to you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice is a broken plea. Part of you yearns to reach out to him, to give him the shattered pieces of your heart. But that part of you is smothered in the Darkness. You do not know whether it will survive.

“There’s a lot about me that you don’t know.”

He lays a hand on your arm. “I know you well enough to-”

You pull away. “You don’t.”

You gesture around you, to your face, your belly.

“This is me. Damaged beyond repair. Worthless. Wasted potential.”

He is shaking his head furiously. You scoff.

“You’ve known me for scarcely a year in my three decades of sorry existence. Years upon years of this and much worse than this. And you think just because we shared of a moment of…” You grimace. “You think that because of that moment, you know me?”

You turn away from him.

“This is all I am. It’s all I’ve ever been.”

You expect him to remain silent, leave the room and never return. That is what you had hoped for. It is what you know. No one has ever seen you as you are and chosen to remain.

But he does not.

“This isn’t who you are.”

His certainty stirs an ember within you. You stare at him.

“At times when you can’t see it, I’ll be there to remind you.”

Your chest heaves. You cannot understand the miracle of this man and why he is here with you in the Darkness. All at once, you remember how it felt to be warmed by his flame.

He looks down, then back up.

“What’s between us…”

He inhales sharply.

“The…affection… that lies between us. Is it genuine? Have I misunderstood…”

Doubt quivers in his voice. You had thought it was clear, that you had failed to hide it. Suddenly, you realise that he, too, has been afraid. You cannot allow it.

“Gale,” you breathe. “You are singular. To me, you’re…”

You cannot find the words. But you do not need to. His eyes glimmer. He takes your hand. Slowly, gently, he presses it to his heart.

“Then do your worst. You can hurl insults at me. You can shout and scream curses to drive me away. You can refuse to see me when I visit, ignore my letters and messages. Do what you will. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Hot tears cloud your vision. When he takes you in his arms, you do not fight it. You do not worry over whether your frame is too soft or too hard under his touch. You do not think of your messy waves as he nestles his nose into your hair. You lean into his chest and weep.

-----

When she comes, he and Tara are already with you. As usual, she appears in your room without warning. All the better to backfoot and humiliate you.

Her hair is more red than auburn this time, her lips plumper, her cheekbones more jagged. You had forgotten how obscene her cleavage was, set against her petite frame. She leans over to plant air kisses around your ears, shrinking from touch, as though it still disgusts her.

You brace yourself. It is not difficult to maintain your composure with her, even when she twists the knife. Decades of practice and conditioning have prepared you for little more than this.

When you glance at him and Tara, though, you can see that they are not so inclined.

“Professor Dekarios.” She holds her hand out to him. “It’s lovely to meet you in person at last, after our lengthy and… lively… correspondence.”

His handshake is brisk, his jaw clenched.

“I must say, I’m very surprised to see you here. I’d heard rumours about your devotion to your studies and teaching, but this goes well beyond the demands of the job, surely.”

She arches an eyebrow, scanning the room.

“The nurses tell me that you often keep my daughter company as she…convalesces.” She narrows her eyes. “My daughter isn’t a rare talent who needs a special kind of nurturing. Neither are her…charms… so remarkable as to warrant special attention. Unless…”

She purses her mauve lips as she examines him from head to toe.

“I suppose when you’re accustomed to five course banquets, you might sometimes enjoy a nibble from a market stall.”

He bristles.

“Don’t worry, Professor.” Her teeth flash. “I can be very discreet.”

She lays a red-nailed hand on his arm. He jerks away.

“Madam.” His voice is so low it is almost a growl. “If you’re insinuating that there’s anything improper going on between me and your daughter-”

Her laughter is like nails on a chalk board.

“Oh? Am I to believe that you’re here with my errant daughter for her fine company alone?”

“Mother.” You stare at her. “Please give it a rest. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

She smirks. “Darling, to say the pot is calling the kettle black doesn’t even come close. Just look at yourself.” Her powdered face twists. “I should have known you’d disgrace yourself again. I don’t know why I bother.”

His brow darkens. Tara’s wings twitch.

“Your daughter is kind, wise, and intelligent.” His fingertips spark. “She’s exceptional in her resilience, magical aptitude, and good character. If she hadn’t been systematically poisoned by the rhetoric of those far inferior to her, she wouldn’t be facing these obstacles.”

It takes a moment for your mother to register what has been said. She is visibly shaken. She is not used to being challenged, much less on the subject of your welfare. No one has ever cared enough. A vein pulses on her temple.

“Are you suggesting that I-”

He keeps his voice level. “I’m not suggesting, Madam. I’m observing.”

Her alabaster cheeks turn crimson. A part of you is terrified at the onslaught that is coming. You fight the instinct to hide from her rage.

“How dare you-”

Tara’s wings dart out like shields as she hisses. Your mother gasps.

“Gods! You vile creature. I’ll file a complaint. I’ll destroy you, you cast off-”

His eyes glint with a sideways smile.

“Feel free to do your worst, Madam. I’ve faced down much more formidable foes than your good self and lived to tell the tale.”

She seethes. “I’m taking Aurora out of Blackstaff immediately.”

“Aurora is an adult, who can choose whether or not she wants to continue at Blackstaff. And I believe she has no intention of dropping out.”

He glances at you.

You shake your head. “I do not.”

“Then I’ll stop paying –“

“Her fees are already paid up, I’m afraid.” He shrugs.

She is shouting now. “You ungrateful-“

“That’s quite enough, Madam,” Tara drawls. “There’s no need to disgrace yourself any more than you already have. You can either leave quietly with your dignity intact, or I’ll summon a nurse to escort you off these delightful premises. Failing that, I could summon a portal to drop you in the middle of nowhere. Which would you prefer?”

After your mother has left, you gaze at him across the room. You are not entirely sure what he is bickering with Tara about. His face is flushed as he laughs at her. When he meets your eyes, a burst of lightning blazes through you. It takes all your strength not to bound over, take his face in your hands and kiss him.

-----

You had always fought the Darkness alone. You never wondered how it would be to do so with someone at your side. Not an observer, pointing out your failures at every turn, but a friend. A companion.

It is not easier, but it is different. When the Darkness comes, you have a hand to hold, and someone to hold out a flame. Someone who sees who you are and does not look away.

You miss months of classes, but he brings you notes and study plans. When you are able, he gives you lessons and demonstrations. It is impossible at first. So much of your mind has been consumed, so much of your energy lost. But together you wait until you are ready. When your feet are back on solid ground, and you can roam beyond the reflection that you see in the mirror. And when you can channel the Weave again, it is like recovering a lost part of your soul.

You are too far behind to reach the goals that you set for yourself when you first started at Blackstaff. It would be folly to expect top marks in your exams. It will be a challenge enough to pass them. He tells you this, again and again. It is still a battle to accept that this is enough, but it is a fight that you feel you may win. You are beginning to think those goals were never yours, anyway.

When you withdraw from him, or push him away, he waits. You are baffled by how he waits, even when your fear subsumes your hope. You learn from Tara that he has amassed a collection of books about the Darkness which he has digested from cover to cover. He has sought out the leading healers and medics to discuss how to overcome it. Sometimes, when you think of all this, you cry.

There are limits to his understanding.  He is an avid cook, a passionate gourmand. He aches to share this with you. That he cannot causes him unspoken sorrow. In the later stages, when meals become easier, he brings you homemade treats. He has good intentions, but they lead to disastrous results. You promise him that you will try, and you will keep trying. That is more than enough for him.

You often sit in silence, looking at each other. A bond like yours does not need words to express it. You have a frame of reference to understand that now.

-----

“Oh.”

Your blurred vision is clearing. You lift your head.

“Did I fall asleep?”

You are curled up in an armchair. He sits facing you, smiling as you wake.

“Gods, I’m so sorry,” you yawn.

He chuckles. “There’s no need for apologies. I’m well aware of the effect my ramblings have on people.” 

“No.” You straighten. “I’m so sorry, Gale. My sleep at the moment, it’s-”

“There’s no need.” He watches as you rub the mist from your eyes. “Besides, it’s quite marvellous, watching you sleep.”

“Gods.” You cover your face with your hands. “What did I do? Did I say something?”

He titters. “You did no such thing.”

You groan.

“You truly didn’t. You just slept peacefully. A wonderful, beautiful sight.”

You shift, fussing at the creases on your skirt.

“You see beauty in strange places.”

He tilts his head. “I see beauty where it’s brightest.”

It is not an easy subject for you. You know he senses it. Perhaps he feels that you are ready. You are not sure if you are.

“I think you believe that beauty is an alignment of facial features and limbs. A collection of aesthetically pleasing curves and angles. That’s what most people mistake beauty to be.”

You frown. “What is it, if not that?”

He leans forward. Passion surges in his every word.

“An alignment of the soul,” he breathes. “A fullness of character. Virtue. Goodness. Heart. No one who witnesses true beauty can live on unchanged.”

You sit quietly for a long while. He holds you with his gaze, gentle, boundless.

“I think I’ve seen it,” you say at last.

He brushes away the tear that slides down your cheek. “As have I.”

----

It is your last day at Blackstaff.

You are sitting in the courtyard, watching the wind whistling through the trees. You have just received your results. Never before have you received such a scattering of marks, some almost acceptable, others dangerously low. But you have done it. You have passed all of your exams.  

Your highest mark is in Illusion. Perhaps that is predictable, given your interest and his assistance. Yet it still gives you joy, pure and true. It is a labour of love, with its own reward. But that is not the only reason why you feel so proud.

You close your eyes and listen to the fragile rhythm of your heart. You have made it. You are still here.

“I wondered where you were.”

You open your eyes. You had not heard or sensed his approach. He is a vision in deep blue, glowing in the sun. His robe swirls around him as he sits beside you on the bench.

“Canapes and cloying wizards aren’t really my cup of tea.”

He hums. “I don’t blame you. I did my rounds and made my escape as soon as I had the chance. I only hope no one comes searching for me. I’ve given a speech or two already.”

You chuckle. Birdsong caresses your ears. The smell of freshly cut grass and sandalwood fills your lungs. Your soul is full of light. In this moment, you are at peace.

He laces his finger through yours.

“I don’t think I need to say it, but I’m so very proud of you.”

You are smiling as you gaze at him. This man who has seen you as you are and does not find you wanting. This man who does not need magic to read your thoughts or feel your yearning. Your truest friend. The other part of your soul. The meaning of love.

“So what’s next for you? You’re free as a bird, the world’s your oyster, so on and so forth.”

His eyes dance, his hands are a flurry.

“Infinite possibilities,” you sigh. “The sky’s the limit.”

“Etcetera etcetera.”

“Well.” You pause. “I think…”

A stray leaf flies into his hair. You untangle it with your fingers and blow it back into the wind. He watches you, rapt, like you have made a miracle.

“I think I’d like to try one of your cookies.”

His laugh is a caress. “That can be arranged.”

You turn his hand over, tracing your thumb over the lines of his palm. His breathing stills for a while.

“Is there anything more you’d like to do with your newfound freedom?”

You bite your lip. You press his hand against your cheek, savouring its warmth.  

You do not need to tell him. He already knows. It blooms on his features, smouldering in his eyes. You have never felt more certain about anything. You are no longer afraid.

You do not care if anyone can see. You fall into him as he draws your face to his. When your lips meet, it is as though they have touched before. Your tongues find each other’s in a dizzying flurry of wet heat. You are lost in his sweetness and musk, the softness of his hands, the roughness of his beard. You melt into each other in a stupor of halting breaths.

“Move in with me,” he whispers.

You do not need to answer.

------------------------

Read the sequel: Promise

Author's note: If you've made it to the end of this fic, thank you so much for reading. I am so grateful, and I hope you enjoyed it and got something out of it. This is the first time I've felt so vulnerable posting a fic - I'm not sure if this story will mean anything to anyone out there, and I know it's a hard read. But I had to get it out, and I hope it gives you something. Please, if you can, leave me a comment, it would be so special to hear from you.

If you liked this fic, you can check out my other work here.

[unparalleledtomes]

Quiet Reverence (18+)

AO3 Link

Pairing: Gale x OC Female Character

Summary: Professor—and Mrs.—Dekarios needs to grade papers, but her husband's intent on torturing her instead.

Warnings: vaginal fingering, inappropriate use of mage hand, smut. minors dni.

Word Count: 719

A/N: hi, everyone. apologies in advance as this is my first bg3 piece and i have no dnd experience. but i fell in love with yappy rizzard and here we are. also, huge shoutout to @lenavis and @verai-marcel for beta reading

-------------------

Gale lifts his middle finger, a flick of his tongue given before he turns the page.

The Blackstaff Academy reading room is all but abandoned at this hour, nothing but the smell of mahogany and thousands of spines aglow with the soft amber of firelight. Mage hands, silent and focused, sort books or drift toward the ceiling to retrieve tomes for yawning students, and Gale watches one soar behind Noa’s head.

She squirms in her seat opposite him, a mess of half-graded papers in front of her. An ink blotch bleeds through the pages from her stilled quill head and she pinches the bridge of her nose with her other hand, every breath a struggle.

He quirks a brow and the quill snaps.

Two fingers of his summoned mage hand curl between her legs, its torturous worship buried beneath her teaching robe. When she glares at him he only wears a smug grin, eyes on her as he flips another page. For a moment the world disappears, her pupils swept to her temple before she exhales and blinks the world back into existence. She bites her lip, barely enough time to catch her breath before he commands the fingers deeper.

She jolts. The chair scrapes across the hardwood and draws attention from a stray apprentice two tables over. She meekly raises a hand in silent apology and he turns back to his book. Her eyes land back on Gale. The bastard softly chuckles into the pages of his tome.

She inhales a deep and choppy breath, glancing over her shoulder as the hand continues its affections. The wrist curls toward her slender body, its heel grinding against her clitoris in tandem with those slow, experienced fingers. Beneath the table Gale runs his boot up the length of her calf, his fingers frozen on an unturned page.

She closes her eyes and mouths, “Stop it.”

He smirks, and turns the page.

She exhales and balls fistfuls of her robe, straightening in her seat with a subtle swirl of her hips, as if to wriggle free from the pleasure between her legs—but with another inhale she opens her eyes to meet the licks of firelight in his, and is undone completely.

The smallest noise spills from her parted lips. Pleasure charges like chain lightning through her veins and she grips the edge of her seat with enough force to splinter it, a crack buried in the sound of her laboured breaths. She can’t help but envision Gale’s skin pressed against hers, their bodies tangled on a bed somewhere as his lips meet the dew on her neck, the gentle sting of teeth on her earlobe when he whispers, “Gods, you’re beautiful.” The fantasy wrings out another release.

He folds the book shut with a puff of satisfied laughter, patiently waiting for her return.

By the time her eyelids flutter open, the reading room is too hot, her robes too itchy, and she curses everyone and everything that forbids her to ravage him. Her eyes flit to his and for a moment they merely watch each other, eyes locked until they trail over every inch of skin the other plans to kiss first.

Neither dare to peel their gaze off the other, or hear the apprehensive footsteps that shuffle toward them. “Mr. and Mrs. Dekarios?”

Noa blinks first, glancing at the halfling with an armful of tomes and a curious look. “Yes?”

“I hate to impose, but we are closing momentarily.”

She glances at the clock hanging above the entryway, its pale face wide as a distant moon and about to strike one a.m. “Of course, our apologies.”

“No need to apologize. I’d just hate to see two of our most revered professors earn a scolding from the librarian.”

She and Gale share a knowing grin and thank the assistant for her warning, allowing her to shuffle back between the bookshelves.

Tomes snap shut around them and wisps of smoke curl from several hanging braziers, the odd one extinguished as if by magic. Noa watches the students who stagger to their feet and make their way through the double doors, her limbs still too rubbery to join them.

Gale rises, reaching out to her with a grin. “Need a hand?”

“...You’re going to pay for this.”

“Gods, I hope so.”

[shewolfofvilnius]

Tav(aria)/Rolan: 11/10 No Notes.

Gale/Lia: 12/10 Oh ye gods.

(and yes I DO have an idea regarding Cal but it requires more brainstorming on how to get there but I haven't forgotten about him.)

[mumms-the-word]

in honor of that one post I can’t find for the life of me that’s like “not Gale with Tav but Gale with the Blackstaff librarian” please have this snippet of a thing I will never finish you’re welcome

Gale x fem!OC, no tags, just two academics being snarky with each other

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

When Gale approached the library, he found his way blocked by several—no, many whispering students and annoyed-looking professors all blocking the way. They were pressed as far as possible in tight packs around an open doorway, the library visible beyond, but not a single one would go inside.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, looking at one of the students he recognized.

“Oh! Professor Dekarios, it’s the new librarian. She just arrived today and she’s not letting anyone into the library.”

“No one? That seems a bit antithetical to the point of a library, don’t you think?”

“She says she’s reorganizing,” another student broke in, looking delighted by the chaos. “She’s already thrown out anyone who crosses the threshold and is threatening to seal the doors if anyone else enters to disturb her.”

“Is that so,” Gale said, raising his eyebrows. She sounded horrible. He couldn’t help but picture a matronly old woman, set in her ways, her hair in a strict and severe bun of gunmetal gray, jowls nearly to her shoulders. “Well, allow me to have a word with her.”

His announcement, though spoken at regular volume, sent a wave of tittering and excited whispers over his students. He ignored them as he waded between them to get nearer the door. One of the other professors saw him coming and quickly arranged the students around the door to get out of his way.

“You’ll not get through to her, you know,” his colleague warned. “She’s on a rampage in there and she seems to have focused all her magical study to the art of marching people directly out of her space.”

“Then I’ll try to be diplomatic and charming,” Gale said, a spark of his old hubris coloring his smile. He stepped over the threshold and into the library.

It was utter chaos, for lack of a better word. Nearly every shelf was empty of books, completely bare, while mage hands with dusters and cloths were busy dusting and cleaning the centuries-old wood. The books themselves were arranged in stacks of no real order or sense, some just three books high but many others towering as nearly as high as the first landing of the four-story room. Solitary books flew through the air at random intervals, coming to rest on top of one stack or another. The towering busts and statues of previous Blackstaffs and other wizards of note were also being thoroughly cleaned, though their bases also served to collect all the furniture in the room, apparently, save for the tables that were all but groaning under the weight of stacks of tomes. Gale had never seen the library in such a state of disarray.

No sign of the enigmatic librarian, though. He ventured further inside, glancing here and there to try and find her, again picturing the strict, no-nonsense older woman with a face like thunder.

At last he found a younger woman floating midway up a three-story set of shelves, her open robes billowing gently as her flying spell kept her aloft, her trousers tucked into her knee-length boots. She pulled a book from the shelf and turned it to examine the title on the spine, and then opened it to the first several pages.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I’m looking for the new librarian?”

She sighed and snapped the book shut with one hand, turning to peer down at him with a frown. “Yes?”

“The new librarian. Is she about?”

She looked at him as though he were being willfully deaf. “She’s floating approximately three feet and seven inches above your head, saer. Can I help you or are you simply here to complain about my methods like everyone else that has made it past those doors today?”

Gale blinked. “You? But I thought—”

“Did you need something, Professor?” she asked, cutting him off. “I’m assuming you’re a professor and not a student, since you’re wearing the academic stole and all that. Is there a book you require?”

A quick flash of irritation passed through him at being interrupted, but he quelled it. He’d traveled with more abrasive people in the past, he reminded himself, who were also prone to interrupt.

“Not one in particular,” he said. “I’m here to discover…well whatever it is you’re doing in here.”

“Whatever it is I’m—Oghma guide me,” she muttered. She sent the book floating away with a flick of her wrist and lowered herself to stand in front of him. “I am cataloguing. What does it look like?”

Gale paused. Now that she was properly before him, he couldn’t help but notice that she was rather lovely. And young, for someone put in charge of the entire library of Blackstaff Academy. She was several inches shorter than him, but that didn’t stop her from frowning up at him behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, her dark hair swept up into a mass of tight curls at the back of her head. Little curls were escaping here and there to frame her face or trail down her neck, but she didn’t seem to notice. Behind her glasses, her eyes were a curious shade of green and gold, the color changing slightly as she shifted her weight and a soft shadow from one of the shelves fell over her. The rest of her was still bathed in the warm light of early afternoon, a shade that complimented her dark olive skin.

She looked particularly irritated now and Gale realized he had been staring, rather than answering her question.

“I, um…” He quickly tried to recall her answer, and as he did, it struck him how ludicrous it was. “Sorry. Cataloguing?”

“Yes.”

“This library was already catalogued. Thoroughly.”

“Correction,” she said, turning to pick up two books from a stack and glance at their titles. She sent them floating away in different directions. “This library was already poorly catalogued. I’m cataloguing it properly.”

She walked away, moving to another set of shelves that she hadn’t yet touched. Gale followed after her, speaking as he went.

“With all due respect, it looks as though you’re doing a great deal of unnecessary shifting around. The current system has served us well enough these past, oh I don’t know, three or four hundred years or more. There’s no reason to change a system that works.”

“So I’m to believe we should just let old systems lie rather than improve them with new ones?” she asked, tucking a few books into her arms. “Come now, saer, that goes against the very spirit of academic and magical progress. And you call yourself a professor?”

“I am a professor,” he said, irritable. “Professor Dekarios. And I have enough sense to know that Mordenkainen’s Magical Theory Across the Twin Worlds goes in the M section.” Here he grabbed a book from the shelf right before she could collect it, holding it up as if it were proof.

“In the old system, perhaps,” she said, snatching it from his hands. “But in this new system it will go under section 300, subsection 20, sub-subsection 4 point 17 for non-practical magical theory from authors located outside the realm of Toril—”

Gale’s jaw dropped. “Non-practical? How—”

“—and I’ll thank you to cease disturbing me so I can put it in its proper place,” she finished with a huff, blowing some of her curls from her forehead. She sent the book away, arcing it high over his head so he couldn’t make another grab at it.

“Now see here,” he said, struggling to remain diplomatic.

“No, Professor Dekarios, you see here,” she said, bowing up and shifting her books to one arm to poke a finger in his chest. “Blackstaff Varja has tasked me with the revitalization and re-categorization of this library, a job I take very seriously, and I won’t have pompous, big-headed wizards swanning about telling me how to do my job!”

Gale could barely get the words out. “Pompous? Big-headed? Madam, you—”

“If you require a specific tome to study, by all means, let me know so that I can locate it for you, but if your business is simply to bother and berate me then I’ll be forced to eject you from the premises.”

“Eject me? You wouldn’t dare.”

“You wouldn’t be the first, I assure you,” she said, her eyes flashing.

He shook his head, irritation warring with something like awe in the face of her ability to be unrelentingly annoying. “You are—infuriating. How will the students and faculty here get any study done if all the books—” he pulled another one from the shelf, using it to gesture, “—are in the wrong places?”

“They will learn,” she snapped, reaching for the book, but he held it high overhead, just out of her reach. She nearly crashed into him, nose-to-chest, reaching for it. She quickly stepped back with another huff. “Return The Many Multiple Uses of Mordenkainen’s Magnificent Mansion to me at once.”

“Only if you put it back in the M section,” he said, keeping it aloft. “Where it belongs with the other Mordenkainen works.”

“But Mordenkainen didn’t write—oh for Oghma’s sake.” She slammed her armful of books down on a new stack and snapped her fingers, whispering a spell he didn’t catch. The book tugged away from his hand. Surprised, he let it go, and it flew directly into her waiting arms.

“I think that’s quite enough library time for you, Professor Dekarios,” she said sharply, hugging the book to her chest. “You are to be banned from this library for the remainder of the evening. Good day, saer.”

“You can’t—”

But apparently she could. All of a sudden he felt the back of his robes pull taught, as if an unseen hand were grabbing his robes like a tressym might grab the scruff of their kitten’s neck. The force pulled upward, nearly lifting him off his feet, and he was forced to take several awkward steps away, back toward the entrance of the library.

“I—you—unhand me!” He struggled against the hold as was about to cast something to dispel the magic when he felt something suspiciously like an invisible boot give him a kick on the arse. “Hey!”

“Good day, Professor Dekarios,” he heard her say behind him.

He was forcibly pushed out through the open doorway, nearly falling over into the waiting crowd of wide-eyed students. He adjusted his robes in a hurry, ready to march back in there and try again, but the library doors shut with a loud bang and soon the magical sigils to an arcane lock illuminated the surface.

No one would be getting inside now.

There was a hush behind him as he stared at the library doors, hot embarrassment turning his ears pink while his pride, unable to suffer total defeat, looked for ways to make light of the situation or diffuse it. After a moment, someone started to snicker and it caused the entire waiting audience to struggle to hold in their delighted snickers and giggles.

“Well,” one of his colleagues said, folding their arms, but Gale held up a hand with a sigh.

“Don’t,” he said. “The mortification speaks for itself.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’re the sixth faculty member she’s done that to today,” they said, unable to withhold a chuckle. “Though out of all of them, you’ve lasted the longest.”

“And we’re to endure her being our new librarian?” Gale asked, as other professors began to shepherd away the students, reminding them of their homework and studies. “Is it too early to consider a new teaching placement?”

His colleague just laughed and walked away. Gale was left standing in the hallway, watching the arcane lock sigils glow and glimmer against the wood of the door.

He wanted to be angry, even offended. The entire re-categorization of a library as old and complex as Blackstaff Academy’s would spell chaos and slow down every pursuit of study for months. But as he watched the sigils, as his minds eye placed him back among the stacks of books and empty shelves, his memory lingering on one dark curl resting against the curve of the librarian’s olive-toned neck, another bouncing at her temple, he realized he wasn’t exactly angry or offended.

He was intrigued.