#schoolboy gale

[thelittlepinkwitchblog]

Blackstaff Academy - Waterdeep

•a tangent•

Okay so I was interested in what Gale's schoolboy days at Blackstaff Academy and what he would be doing (fk his ex don't even mention her, don't even think about her) (I've played DnD for almost 10 years and I've done a heist campaign in Waterdeep but never really looked into the academy) and here are a few interesting things I found out

Blackstaff Academy trained both Wizards and Sorcerers (I can imagine the hierarchical segregation now)

Pupils at Blackstaff were able to master more spells more quickly, due to the incredible resources and support the school provided

Like even when the pupils left to spread their wings, so to speak, the Academy would help them settle down and adjust to their new duties and responsibilities (now it was in the goal of limiting insurrection within the Academy but it's still nice okay)

Pupils at Blackstaff would not only be taught Arcane magic and spellcraft, but would also learn history, about the planes, general arcana and alchemy, as well as literacy and maths

It was also a priority to make sure that no student was treated badly or was not given "the opportunity to keep busy with studies" (I'll let you guys decide what that means...)

AND pupils would have access to unique and/or rare spells that were designed by notable members of the Academy or by the founder Blackstaff himself (spells like blackstaff, Khelben's dweomerdoom, Khelben's suspended silence, Laeral's cutting hand, and Laeral's silver lance)

Sources

Forgotten Realms Wiki

My husband who has been a DM for almost 15 years

[babyprime]

i had to draw my tav because he is SOOO so so pretty

his name is tavish highgate (half elf oath of the ancients paladin). hes a baldurs gate native, son of a seamstress who fell in with The Wrong Crowd before finding solace in the church of ilmater. VERY excited to travel with so many handsome men and will commit to absolutely any bit. VIOLENTLY autistic. astarion held him at knifepoint and he was SOOOOO normal about it.

[sky-scribbles]

Thinking about Gale's spellbook.

Not the old one, the one he carried when he was Gale, the Wizard of Waterdeep - a gorgeous, leather-and-silver bound thing that bulged with a lifetime's worth of accumulated knowledge. There were spells in there penned over wine and cheese with Elminster; in a flow state that bordered on the spiritual after a night with Mystra, remembering her instruction, the feel of her soul against his. That spellbook was the testament to his success, the proof that he had excelled beyond the excellent -

And then Mystra cut him off from the Weave, and it all become meaningless.

His own runes, rendered incomprehensible; beautiful spell-glyphs that turned from condensed power and knowledge to worthless pieces of art. He has to start anew, from the ground up - reforging his connection to the Weave without Mystra's guidance (without her, without), relearning schoolboy spells. Humiliatingly easy magic, the kind he used to do like it was breathing, except this time he has to study and work and try and try, Tara urging him on with firm but gentle words.

He learns different spells, now. Mage Armour, Shield, Magic Missile. Not the kind of spells that he'll ever need on a day-to-day basis; spells that'll keep him alive long enough when he makes an exodus to the depths of the Underdark, or the centre of some desert wastes, and goes supernova.

The new spellbook is a plainer thing, small enough to fit in a robe pocket (because extradimensional storage spaces are no longer things he can make with a thought). And then he's snatched by a Nautiloid, and... honestly, he'd swear that the spine just wants to hold onto blood-spatters, no matter how many times he cleans them out. The pages get spotted from all the times he's had to flick them open in driving rain; the corners get creased from being shoved in and out of his robes.

And absolutely nothing can protect it from the unstoppable force of his friends.

Karlach nearly sends the whole thing up in flames one night by gesticulating a bit too wildly. Wyll laughs too hard one night and sprays wine all over Gale's new notes on Abjuration. Scratch picks up the entire thing and runs off with it when Gale's back is foolishly turned, and it's only a stern talking-to from Halsin that saves the whole thing from becoming a chew toy.

Smiley cat faces, doodled on the pages in Yenna's untidy hand. A helpful comment from Karlach on the Fireball page: 'AKA FUCK YEAH LET'S GO!!!!' A few lines of Wyll's perfect handwriting, a memento from a long discussion about how infernal energies could enhance fire magic; a few observations from Shadowheart on warding enchantments. Some terse comments on psionic magic from Lae'zel that Gale finds himself weaving into his Shields, and they do seem to hold up a little better now. (Other hands on his spellbook! Touching the pages he carries close to his heart! The man he was would never have believed it.)

He thinks of them all, as he writes new spells. Counterspell, because nothing will touch them. Spells that will carry his people from danger and shield them from harm. He watches Astarion pace before the fire one night and inscribes Sunbeam with a cold smile of promise to Cazador; he glowers at Mizora over the edge of the pages as he ponders what spells would be best suited to killing a devil.

A wizard's spellbook, Elminster told him once, is a reflection of their soul. Gale of Waterdeep's spellbook was a marvel; perfect and polished and resplendant. Untouched by any hands but his own.

Gale Dekarios's spellbook is battered and beloved, covered on every page with the fingerprints of his friends.

[pleasuretrade]

several sentences sunday abandoned fic friday

ok @stereobone tagged me last time and i've been rly busy n fucked up so it's late but here is for u roooooo

wrote ~1500 words of this and then abandoned it for various reasons. probably like the second thing i ever started writing for mota, before i was even active on tumblr abt it. was gonna be a summary of a years-long escalation of what they started in flight school. and no idk if you actually had to continue combatives training in flight school and i refuse to research it

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

 Combatives was a given in Basic. Gale hoped he never had to use it, less scared of the high chance he’d die in the air or hitting the ground than he was of coming face to face on land with a nazi, not that he’d ever tell anyone that, ever, except Bucky eventually. Naivety and misplaced optimism told him that combatives training wouldn’t follow him into flight school, but of course he was wrong, as that’s where his optimism always got him.

 Naturally, he’d sparred Bucky first and frequently. They’d become fast friends and worked together well, despite all odds, and in the service that meant staying together. Becoming brothers was a valuable token, gave you a higher chance of staying alive; they’d drilled as much into every man. It was never lost on Gale, the way that his place in things had become interwoven with John’s, so much so that it could literally keep him alive someday. Buck and Bucky, dependent on each other and allowed to be so by Uncle Sam himself. It made the thing in Gale, the sick, confused thing, that much hungrier. He’d put a muzzle on it, tied it down with strong rope and a long stake, told it to stay, boy, stay, and told himself he had it under control.

↓↓↓↓↓↓

 They were grappling clumsily, Bucky always better at it, just broader and taller and stronger enough to have the physical upperhand. And all of the sudden it hit Gale like a freight train, like a stray dog snapped loose from its rope. John’s leg pressed between his, tangled, bones held tight, his arms around Gale like a vice, breath against his hair—Gale was hard in his trousers.

“Bucky,” he said lamely, meekly, pleading before he could stop, wanting this to be over before his friend realized what was happening.

“Yeah?” And John pressed his leg into Gale harder, spitting the word, amused and teasing like a schoolboy and definitely knowing.

 It knocked the wind out of him. The terror, the shame, the guilt, the arousal. Gale panicked, twisting like an animal, only the motion and the friction weren't helping, and Gale was letting John work him over in his attempt to escape, cock weeping a single bead of dampness that Gale felt like a rush of cold water. This was it, this was the end before it had really started, before Gale ever got over there and saw his first mission. He was going to be sent home, and his dad was going to send him to the sanitarium, and he wouldn’t have Bucky in his life anymore, wouldn't be Buck anymore.

“Bucky, stop.”

“Nothin’ to be ashamed of, Buck, happens all the time,” John said, grunting only a little, collected even as Gale struggled in his arms. Pressing into him like he wanted to drive a point home.

“Stop!” The sound punched out of him, desperate and getting angry.

 And finally John let him go, rolled off and threw up his hands.

-

 Gale was on his bed in their room, clothes still on and not about to be taken off. He would sleep in his clothes if he could, too ashamed to touch himself even just to take them off, too angry to remove a layer between his dick and the world. When John opened the door Gale already knew how it would go, how John was going to act like nothing happened, how it was going to be an awkward nothing, how it would sour their friendship even as they try not to let it. Or at least, he thought he knew.

 John finished scrubbing at his hair with a towel, tossing it on the edge of his own bed, and Gale had to do it now or he would never do it.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could manage at first, too many words churning in his head.

“Sorry for what?” And there John went, pretending nothing happened.

“Not gonna say it out loud, Bucky.”

 John scoffed. “Jesus, Buck, always so serious. A little wood isn't gonna scare me away, alright?”

 It made Gale boil, hot up from his neck and down across his thighs. How Bucky was so flippant about it. How he didn't understand. It wasn't a misfire, wasn't just his body reacting errantly to physical stimulation. Gale was sick, and he was sick for John, for Bucky. His handsome face, his dark curls, his confidence, but more so his kindness, the soft meat under his tough masculinity, all the things he kept hidden away that Gale was finally piecing together, bit by bit. Gracious even now, when he had no reason to be.

“It won't happen again.”

-

 The very next time they did combatives, it happened again. Gale had spent the hours leading up to it agonizing, churning, making a mental list of things that repulsed and repelled him so he could conjure them on command. He braced for a punch that he tried desperately to tell himself didn't have to be inevitable. Over and over, reminding himself that it wasn't normal, that there was no reason for his body to do it, spiders, frog eggs, soured milk, the bright red tinge of his father’s vomit that Thanksgiving when he was eleven years old.

 It was useless, in the end. Gale tried and tried to stay upright as they grappled, and then to stay on his knees when he couldn't, and then when that didn't hold he would simply give up, flop to his stomach, take the loss. Lost and lost and lost until their commanding officer noticed, brought attention to it with a sharp bite of reprimand that set Gale's body to burning guilt.

“Just warmin’ him up, sir,” John told him, covering for Gale easy as anything.

 Their CO cut them a sharp look and moved on, skeptical and suspicious in the way that Gale excelled at nearly everything and why wasn’t he excelling at this?

 John assumed the position, stance wide and braced low, hands out and eager. “Come on, tough guy, give it to me.”

And the words made Gale want to be sick, to keel over and vomit or orgasm, his dick getting ideas before the physical contact even hit, spiders, spiders, spoiled milk, frog eggs.

 Like he was looking for it, like he wanted it, John had him again in no time. Thigh wedged between Gale’s, pelvis pressed tight, the crease of his hip meeting where Gale’s hard cock strained in his uniform. “Bucky, I give, stop,” rushed out, a plea. And when John didn't give up, when he shifted against Gale, teasing, taunting, punishing, “John.”

 John’s mouth close to his ear, low, low, only for them to hear, almost a whisper as he shifted his body in something too similar to a thrust, “I like when you say my name.”

 Gale almost came in his trousers just as John released him, laughing, rolling off and patting the dust off of himself, smiling, satisfied. Sick in some way. But he couldn’t be sick like Gale. Could he?

[galedekarios]

references in gale's banter on selection

just thought i'd go through a few of his selection lines that stuck out to me.

Oh, what a tangled Weave we web!

reference to: "oh what a tangled web we weave" from a poem by sir walter scott:

"Like so very many of Shakespeare’s lasting observations, it’s  a beautifully expressed aphorism that uses just a few words to describe one life experience so perfectly, and is so true, that it enters into the English language and becomes one of its most powerful idioms – one that will last forever. ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave/When first we practice to deceive’ means that when you lie or act dishonestly you are initiating problems and a domino structure of complications which eventually run out of control. The quote is from Scott’s epic poem, Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field.  It’s an historical romance in verse, published in 1808."

the next one is is a play on a line from a shakespeare play:

All the world's my stage and you're just a player in it.

the play is titled 'as you like it' and the line appears in the following monologue:

"All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely Players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His Acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."

the next one appears to reference a poem:

The path less travelled.

i think this is in reference to the well-known poem by robert frost, 'the road not taken':

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

i think this ties in well with gale's wanderlust, his wish to explore different worlds and planes of existence.

the next one is a waterdhavian saying, which i already took a closer look at in one of my metas:

'Doth thy mirror crack?' Apparently not.

Early on in his learning of magic, the long-dead and locally famous first Lord (revered in Waterdeep for his role in establishing the city as it is today) Ahghairon said, "I am no wizard. I am a dabbler but no master of magic; it seems no mastery burns within me." These are famous words in Waterdeep, still known by most Waterdhavian children and all adults, and are oft referenced, as in the dry comment "No mastery blazing forth yet," or "A dabbler but no master, eh?" (Comments applied to skill trades and crafts, not just to magic use.) Tuezaera Hallowhand was a famous "lone cat" thief of Waterdeep in the 1200s DR who disappeared suddenly and is thought to have come to a violent end. She once robbed a wizard, and wrote this on his wall with a fingertip dipped in his favorite red wine: "I take things. You take freedom with your spells. Which of us is the greater thief?" This statement, too, is well remembered, and usually echoed in Waterdhavian speech by someone using the last (questioning) sentence of Tuezara's inscription.  Laeral, Lady Mage of Waterdeep for some years (when married to Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun), once publicly rebuked an overambitious wizard of the Watchful Order of Magists & Protectors thus: "If I hurl spells but think not of consequences, I am nothing. If I take lives but count not the cost, I am nothing. If I steal in the night and see not the faces of the devastated come morning, I am nothing. If I make decrees like a ruler but undertake none of the responsibilities of the throne, I am nothing. And if I do all these things in the name of the Watchful Order, I am less than nothing. Doth thy mirror crack?" These scornful words are remembered and used almost daily in Waterdeep even a century later, though almost never as the full quotation. Rather, someone will ask scornfully, "Doth thy mirror crack?" or "Hurl but think not?" or "Take but not count cost? Be nothing, then!" [source: waterdeep: dragon heist]

i think this one is very neat:

No gloom, all doom.

because i believe it references xan of evereska from baldur's gate 1. xan is infamous for his gloomy nature, often talking about his doom, the folly of the quest, etc. some of his lines include the following:

"We're all doomed! Run while we're still able." "If we are doomed to fail, could we at least do it faster?!" "Eh. Onward, to futility!" "We're all doomed." "Life is so hollow."

i think it's not so unlikely because gale also references other characters from the baldur's gate series and the forgotten realms overall, like elminster:

Elminster's not around, so might as well.

as well as halaster blackcloak, a mad mage residing in the undermountain in waterdeep:

I hope Halaster takes good care of Tara while I'm away.

as well as another character from the games, edwin odeisseron:

Don't make me go all Edwin Odesseiron on you.

edwin, a red wizard of thay, was a companion in baldur's gate 1 and 2.

No rest for the wicked, I see.

a common idiom that originated from the bible:

No rest for the wicked begins as no peace for the wicked in a 1425 rendering of the Old Testament’s Book of Isaiah 48:22: “The Lord God said, peace is not to wicked men.” The sentiment is echoed in Isaiah 57:20, which in the King James Version reads: “But the wicked are like the troubled sea, when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt.”

another bible reference may be:

Seek and you shall find me.

You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart. 

from jeremiah 29:13.

more folklore than an idiom, but:

The witching hour.

Origins. The phrase "witching hour" began at least as early as 1775, in the poem "Night, an Ode." by Rev. Matthew West, though its origins may go further back to 1535 when the Catholic Church prohibited activities during the 3:00 am and 4:00 am timeframe due to emerging fears about witchcraft in Europe.

i couldn't find the poem in full, but i was able to find the line that references the witching hour:

Along whose banks at Midnight’s witching hour (So wayward Fancy dreams) aerial Beings pour!

another shakespeare reference is:

What fools these mortals be.

which is a line from a midsummer's nights dream:

“Lord, what fools these mortals be!” is used in Act III, Scene 2 of A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare. The line is spoken by one of the best-loved characters in the play–Puck. Here is the short quote in which the line appears in:  Captain of our fairy band,  Helena is here at hand,  And the youth, mistook by me,  Pleading for a lover’s fee.  Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be! Puck speaks this line to his king, Oberon, while the two are watching the four Athenian main characters lost in the forest. These four lovers, whose love affairs are at the center of the play, are behaving in a way that Puck finds foolish and amusing. It should be noted that Puck bears some of the responsibility for the complicated relations between Helena, Demetrius, Hermia, and Lysander. 

this one is, i believe, a dnd reference most likely:

May the dice roll in my favour.

i did however have the immediate association with alea iacta est:

Alea iacta est ("The die is cast") is a variation of a Latin phrase attributed by Suetonius to Julius Caesar on 10 January 49 BCE, as he led his army across the Rubicon river in Northern Italy. With this step, he entered Italy at the head of his army in defiance of the Senate and began his long civil war against Pompey and the Optimates. The phrase, either in the original Latin or in translation, is used in many languages to indicate that events have passed a point of no return. It is now most commonly cited with the word order changed ("Alea iacta est") rather than in the original phrasing. The same event inspired another idiom with the same meaning, "crossing the Rubicon".

Gone with the Weave.

this is a reach, but my mind always went to 'gone with the wind' (margaret mitchell's novel and the 1939 movie adaptation of said novel) when i heard it in the game.

nothing in depth here, i just wanted you all to know that, haha. (((':

A rough tempest I will raise.

this may be another shakespeare reference and this time it's from 'the tempest':

Prospero: Now does my project gather to a head: My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time Goes upright with his carriage. How's the day? Ariel: On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord, You said our work should cease. Prospero: I did say so, When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit, How fares the king and's followers?

on researching, i found a reddit post that also discusses this likely reference.

the last one i want to end the post on is:

Your knight in magic armour.

this line is still bugged and thus i couldn't find it on the wiki, but it's an assist line for a romanced protag.

it obviously referenced the knight in shining armour:

The present-day use of this phrase is, of course, figurative and refers back to the notion of gallant knights saving fair maidens in distress. The reality behind that imagery is dubious and it no doubt owes much to the work of those Victorian novelists and painters who were captivated by the chivalrous ideal of an imagined court of Camelot. Nevertheless, knights did wear armour and that worn by royalty and the high nobility was highly polished and did in fact gleam and shine. The earliest reference that I’ve found to the phrase in print dates from the late 18th century – in The British journal The Monthly Review, 1790, in a poem called Amusement: A Poetical Essay, by Henry Pye: No more the knight, in shining armour dress’d Opposes to the pointed lance his breast

but it also features heavily in art, across various periods in time, like these from john william waterhouse:

i did see someone on reddit also discussing the creator and destroyer line in reference to various deities throughout history, which i thought was interesting as well.

anyhow, thank you for reading! i may have overlooked something so feel free to add your own thoughts!

🖤

[loviatarsluv-old]

Request!

I posted details here, it’s for Gale!

https://www.tumblr.com/cherifrog/739699979425333248/anyone-else-interested-in-like-a-super-jealous

YUHHHHH now THIS is what im talkin about!!!!!!!

*cracks knuckles* lets get this party started shall we

(I am so sorry to be answering this literally a million years too late I’ve redone and rewritten this prompt like 100000 times but I finally like this version!!! so here we go!!!)

Gale x AFAB f!tav

rating: oh boy this one is certainly rated M for mature

CW: smut, inappropriate use of mage hand, rough sex, PiV, oral, gale being jealous and going absolutely FERAL

word count: 5.4k

let’s get itttt

If looks could kill, surely, Astarion would have been long dead— well, even more so— by now. 

Gale was never exactly fond of the pale elf from the start, and he was well aware the feeling was likely incredibly mutual— but gods, he swore he was beginning to actually hate him. 

At least, he hated the way he looked at her. The way he leered at her. The way he purred her name with that practiced and over-rehearsed seductive charm of his. The way he would lock piercing crimson eyes with Gale’s blazing umber ones as he cozied up to her at the fire with that deviant and knowing smirk on his stupid pointy face. The way she would smile at him the warmest, kindest, most hopelessly and adorably oblivious smile in response to the charlatan’s blatant advances. 

Maybe he did hate him, upon further reflection. If only for the last reason alone. 

Astarion would find any way to touch her and be able get away with it— his hand lingering on the small of her back as he passed her, touching her shoulder to get her attention, brushing hair out of her face when stray pieces fell over her eyes— all things that seemed innocent enough until you realized who was doing them and the devious smirk on his face when his gaze would meet that of the wizard that was surely plotting his second untimely demise. 

Though, he could hardly blame him. 

And Gale never got upset with her, of course, he knew it wasn’t her fault and honestly, he truly didn’t blame Astarion for wanting her— gods, who could possibly resist her? 

Certainly not Gale, not even if he tried; and he had tried, to no avail. Yet that didn’t quell his frustration toward the silver haired and equally silver tongued vampire for attempting to swoop in on what was likely the first real chance at mortal love he’d had in a very long time.

He’d spent the early days in their adventure together absolutely beside himself with how taken he was by her nearly instantly. He felt like a smitten schoolboy all over again when he thought about the feeling of her soft but strong hands gripping his as she pulled him from the stone by the nautiloid crash with most impressive ease, the way she looked at him with wonder and curiosity, and even a flicker of something else that he recognized as attraction because he imagined it was mirrored in his own face at the sight of her. 

It was then only worsened by the night that they channeled the weave together and the kiss she’d pictured them sharing— the way their limbs tangled and their lips pressed together softly, then passionately and fervently. Her fingers wrapped in his chestnut tresses and his hands gripping the fabric at her waist— that image will be burnt into the fabric of his mind forevermore, he’s certain. 

Not to mention, the way her pupils dilated and her cheeks flared and flushed a heavenly shade of pink at the way he praised her as she successfully mimicked the incantation and his motions. It was enough to have him panting and attempting to tame the straining erection in his trousers when he retired to his tent that night. 

He thought he’d mastered the art of managing to keep such thoughts like that at bay during his time of isolation as he tried to keep the orb sated and calm and very nonexplosive— but that was before her, after all.

It was pathetically easy at the time, considering his amount of interaction with other humans had gone from healthy to nonexistent entirely so he didn’t have much to think about aside from himself; perhaps when he was truly desperate or feeling especially lonely, he’d think about Mystra and the nights he’d spent in Elysium with her (literally and metaphorically). 

But now, any attempts to be chaste or think chaste thoughts were moot in her presence.

Especially after the night they shared under the stars in the wilderness of the Shadow Cursed Lands.

They’d hardly been able to go more than a few hours without some kind of touch in the days following that perfect evening— whether it be a hand on her lower back, or holding one of her much smaller hands in his as he helped her scale a wall or hop across a boulder that she was more than capable of managing herself. A stolen kiss when no one was looking. Or, if they were lucky, they could steal a few moments alone in some ruined and crumbling crypt where he could bury himself between her thighs and send a silent thank you to whatever gods had a hand in creating a creature as divine as her. 

That being said, they hadn’t been entirely discreet about their affections— not that they really wanted to be. Gale certainly had no reservations about making it known that he was claiming her for himself, despite his gentlemanly nature chastising him for it and reminding himself she was a person, not a prize to be claimed. 

He would never say that she was, anyway, do not mistake it— being raised solely by a woman such as the inimitable Morena Dekarios had beaten into his core that women were not to be claimed or to be owned but to be cherished and treated as your equal. He would never claim otherwise, he couldn’t. 

On the other hand, he was also acutely aware that his were not the only set of eyes that wistfully tracked her every move and every breath throughout the day within their strange band of wayward souls, and a very base part of him needed to send the clearest message he could muster without flat out verbally declaring that she was his. 

It was very unlike him, this sort of possessive and primal nature, but he couldn’t deny that a small fraction of himself that he usually shoved into the deepest recesses of his being loved it for that fact. It was a part of him reserved only for her, as she was the only one who’d ever been able to coax it out of him. 

And thus, he felt absolved of any guilt about the way he glared daggers at the side of Astarion’s head and pictured hurling a fire bolt at the undead man as he spoke to her in hushed tones across camp. 

At least he knew it wouldn’t kill him. Although, he’d probably slit Gale’s throat for singing his singlet in return. 

It was enough to keep the heat in his palm at bay for the time being. 

He tried to discreetly move close enough to hear their conversation, moving toward Wyll’s tent that happened to be just a few paces away from Astarion’s and disguising his intentions as simply having a chat over a glass of wine with the warlock. 

Wyll’s eyes light up as the wizard approaches, shooting him a dashing and very princely smile that he was certain had made many a maiden swoon in his younger years as the duke’s son, galavanting through ballrooms and dragging said maidens to the dance floor after either one too many glasses of brandy or none at all.  

���Gale, my friend! Fancy a glass of wine?” He kindly proposed, tilting the glass in his hand in Gale’s direction. 

Gale offers an almost genuine smile, nodding. “Thank you, Wyll. I think a hearty glass of wine is just what I need at the moment,” he laments with a sigh. 

Wyll disappears for only a moment before returning with a glass and wine bottle in hand. “That bad, huh?” 

Gale gratefully takes the silver glass and holds it out for Wyll to pour the rest of the Amnan Liquer he’d been holding onto since their escapades at the former Rosymorn Monastery turned Githyanki Crèche. 

He turns his body just enough to keep both his lover and the offending vampire in his line of sight, attempting to tune into their conversation and realizing that he can faintly hear the melodic hum of her voice, as well as the silky tones of Astarion’s. 

Firebolt. No, no. 

Wyll’s eyes dart between Gale, then Tav, then Astarion, his eyebrow raising. “Astarion certainly doesn’t lack in the gall department, I’ll give him that.” 

Gale huffs a bitter laugh. “Can’t fault him. As much as I want to.” 

Wyll gently bumps his shoulder into Gale’s with a reassuring smile. “One can’t always be a gentleman, Gale. I respect your restraint, but if I were you, even I would be cutting in on whatever it is that he’s doing with her. Love the fellow, but I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.” 

Gale goes silent, giving himself a moment to try to catch any of what was being said between them, only hearing the sound of her laughter intermingling with Astarion’s— and suddenly Wyll’s advice had become all the more tempting to follow. 

I could just go over there, he thinks. ‘Assert my dominance’ the old fashioned way. Or…

A wickedly devious idea flutters across his mind, and a smirk forms on his lips. Before he can realize it and stop it, Wyll’s tadpole connects to his, and Wyll snorts as he sees what debauchery Gale’s brain had concocted. 

“She’d have your arse in a second,” he jokingly warns. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

Gale wanted to listen to reason (Wyll Ravengard being the voice of reason, in this instance) and just do the diplomatic thing as he always did— but a part of him wanted to make a show of it all. To show her as well as everyone else the lengths he’d go to for her. 

He whispers a simple cantrip and waves his hand, blue light glowing from his palm as he calls for a spectral hand to appear before him. He eyes the mage hand for a moment, waving his fingers and watching it as it mirrors his movements with perfect accuracy. A rush of excitement passes through him as he ponders the possibilities, but debates for a moment whether he should— only to hear the lovely melody that was her laughter once again and his decision was sealed. 

He commands the hand to become invisible, the only way for him to tell it was still there was the very faint outline of it that you could only notice if you had been looking for it. He flicks his hand in her direction, commanding it to fly toward her. 

“Your funeral,” Wyll chuckles, taking a long sip from his chalice, eyebrows raised. 

The hand obliges, quickly floating to her but stopping just beside her. She shivers slightly as it grazes her bare shoulder, her head snapping in the direction of the sudden sensation. 

Gale freezes for a moment, praying she doesn’t catch on too soon. When she finally turns her attention back to Astarion, he relaxes, then motions for the hand to gently brush her hair over her other shoulder, causing her to jump and look again, her eyes narrowed as she scans the area. Her gaze lands on Gale, and he tries to remain composed but cannot hide the pleased smirk on his face. She furrows her brows, a look of confusion and suspicion on her face as she turns away once again. She still hadn’t caught on just yet, much to Gale’s delight. 

He continues once again, now commanding the hand to gently caress the back of her neck, the cool sensation of its spectral palm causing goosebumps to rise and her hair to stand on end. She sucks in a sharp breath, causing Astarion’s eyes to snap up to her.

“Everything alright, dear?” He hears Astarion ask, his signature shit-eating grin still on his lips. 

She nods, clearing her throat. “Mhm, sorry, I just— ah, got a bit chilly.” 

He cocks a brow at her. “I would offer to warm you, but I don’t think that I am qualified for the task,” he jokes, causing Gale’s jaw to clench. 

Firebolt. Ooh, better yet, Fireball. Ice knife. Lightning bolt, perhaps?

She laughs, then gasps once again as the hand has now relocated to the front of her, gently tracing the outline of her collar bone. It then follows the curve of the top of her breast, settling between her cleavage for a moment before continuing down further and further, grazing her abdomen before stopping just at the waistline of her breeches. 

“Gods, I shouldn’t be watching this,” Wyll grunts, shaking his head and allowing his gaze to drop to the ground.

She turns and shoots a piercing look at Gale, now fully aware of what was happening. He winks at her, before commanding the hand to continue its journey down her body, ghosting over the spot between her thighs. She squeezes her legs shut tight, in an attempt to quell the heat pooling low in her core despite her rising frustration toward Gale and her embarrassment. 

“Darling, do you need a blanket? Perhaps we could move into my te—”

“I’m fine,” She blurts, loud enough so that she knows Gale hears her, as she refuses to give in to his childish behavior. “What were you saying?” 

As Astarion continues whatever riveting story he’d been telling before she distracted him, she shoots Gale one last pathetic glance, not sure whether she was begging him to stop or keep going. He smirks, taking her pleading eyes as his queue to continue, moving the mage hand southward and grazing her blazing hot center. 

She sucks in another breath, this time a lot quieter, her head falling back that she attempts to play off as if she were simply looking up at the stars. 

Astarion’s head shoots up to look at her again, almost as if he were beginning to get frustrated.

“S-stars are bright tonight,” She stammers, eliciting a chuckle from Gale. He was enjoying this far too much to stop now. 

He wills the hand to press two fingers down right where he knows her clit is, reveling in the way her back arches at the sudden touch, right where he knew she loved it. 

Astarion’s eyebrow raises as he eyes her, her face flushed, her hair in disarray and her legs clamped shut tight. He was— unfortunately for her— very good at reading body language, even more specifically hers, and he was beginning to catch on to her predicament. His eyes dart over toward Gale who was not at all subtle with the devious smirk on his face as his hand continued commanding the spell.

“Your wizard is clever, I’ve got to hand it to him.” He smirks, stifling a chuckle. 

Her eyes go wide, the hot blush in her cheeks only increasing. 

“I’m going to kill him.” She hisses through gritted teeth, before twisting and facing Gale, who could not contain the triumphant grin on his face despite her very displeased expression. 

“Do it out where I can watch, won’t you, darling? I’m quite overdue for a good show.” He calls after her, watching her storm toward Gale, shaking his head and chuckling with delight.

Gale dismisses the spell as he spots her making a very angry beeline toward him, then crosses his arms behind his back innocently as she approaches him. 

“I warned you, you cheeky bastard.” Wyll grumbles, watching with anticipation and vaguely hidden amusement as she stomps toward the wizard beside him with murderous intent. 

Gale offers her a smile as she approaches, to which she only offers a grimace.

“Hello, my love. Feeling alright?” He says equally as innocently, in spite of the devilish grin on his face. 

She shakes her head. “Tent. Now.” 

He raises his hands in defense, shit-eating smirk ever persistent. “Your wish is my command, darling.” He draws out the pet name to mimic the way Astarion says it, earning a rather angry eye roll. 

He trails behind her as she continues her warpath toward his tent, his heart racing as he imagines exactly what he plans to do the second he gets her alone— he’d saved those thoughts for after Wyll’s tadpole’s connection broke from his own to spare him the filthy details. 

She ducks into his tent brusquely, the flap slapping closed behind her before he makes his own way in after her. He chuckles at her ire, and the fact that in any other situation he’d be on his knees begging her for forgiveness in response to her irritation toward him— but this time, he planned on using it much to his advantage. Fuel for the fire, so to speak. 

The second he enters the tent, her wild eyes are on him and she’s standing with her arms crossed over her chest which was still heaving, her face still completely flushed. 

“What the hells is wrong with y—” 

Her tirade is cut off by lips roughly crashing onto hers, her words being instantly smothered then swallowed by him and his tongue and the bittersweet taste of wine on his breath. She wants to fight back but finds her efforts moot as she instantly melts into him, allowing him to maneuver her exactly as he wishes. 

Rough but elegant hands grip her waist, pulling her body flush to his, enough for her to feel the erection straining to be freed from his pants against her lower stomach. The heat that had been coiling and pooling low within her had only reignited with a vengeance now, partially fueled by her anger toward him and mostly fueled by her ever present desire for him. 

His hands migrated to palm the swell of her ass, kneading the plush but still firm flesh that always caught his attention even in the worst moments such as the middle of a tense battle— something he almost felt the need to punish her for, even though it wasn’t truly her fault. 

His tongue explores her mouth hungrily as her hands move to begin undoing the buttons of his linen shirt, before one of his hands catches her wrist and holds it, lacing her fingers through his. He breaks the kiss, dark umber irises pooling with pure liquid lust and carnality as they meet her more perplexed ones. 

Leaving her unspoken questions unanswered, he unbuttons her pants with one hand, yanking them down her legs until she takes it upon herself to kick them off and discard them somewhere on the ground within the tent. He tugs at the bottom edge of her shirt, and she wordlessly grants him permission with only a small nod and a raise of her arms to afford him some ease in ripping it over her head and adding to the growing pile of clothes scattered across the floor of the small space. 

She’s lit only by the soft orange glow of the campfire leaking in through the crack of the tent flap that neither of them had bothered to seal, her skin radiant even in the dimness of the night. He drinks in her frame, eyes skimming along every contour of her body, every rounded edge and every sharp one— even the shadow she cast against the back wall of his tent was erotic, all hips and curves and the most heavenly structure. 

As if she’d been lovingly built by Sune’s own gracious hands. 

“Lay down,” he commands, pointing to the bedroll that he’d preemptively fixed and made extra comfortable with several more layers of blankets, pillows, and furs. “And spread your legs for me.” 

She obliges instantly, quickly but gracefully laying atop the nest of cotton and fur and velvet, her hair splaying around her head and framing her like a halo— only serving to make his already painfully stiff cock twitch against the fabric of his pants and a bead of precum leak from the tip. He feared he may not even be able to make it long enough to be inside of her at this rate. 

“That’s my girl,” he almost moans, his voice low and husky and reverent as he drops to his knees before her, moving to kneel between her legs. “My beautiful girl.” 

She blushes and shyly looks away, her bottom lip caught between her teeth to bite back a smile. He leans over her, gently gripping her chin with his fingers and moving her face back to look at him. “Eyes on me, my love. My love.” He drawls, dragging out his words in hopes that they’d have more time to sink into her precious mind that he cherished just as much, if not more than her wholly divine body. 

Gale was all together a typically patient man. He did almost everything meticulously and gracefully. He would spend hours studying a particular topic just to ensure that he’d get it right the very first time. 

Gale as a lover was no different. 

He’d spent hours and even days at this point learning everything he could about her body— every sensitivity, every weak spot, ticklish spot, every scar or freckle or blemish. The things she was insecure or shy about, the things that would send her eyes rolling back into her head. 

He had become a consummate virtuoso at worshiping her body and what granted her the most pleasure possible. He lavished her in it, bathed her in every ounce of bliss he possibly could until she could no longer speak, much less think properly. 

Tonight was no exception— though he was considerably less delicate than was typical for him, as he hungrily lapped at the heat between her thighs as if it contained the last drop of honey on the face of Faerun. He licked and kissed and sucked and drank in every bit of her essence he possibly could, not stopping even after she’d already come just to wring out every last bit of her pleasure for his own selfish need. The selfish need to taste her, to savor her. To devour her. 

He didn’t stop until she was a tangled mess of shaking limbs and clammy skin and teary eyes, and she whimpered his name like a plea. Whether it were a  plea to stop or to keep going was unclear for both of them. 

He lifted his face, his beard and lips drenched in her slick as he licked the remains of her off of his lips and fingers, causing her to clamp her legs together at the sight. He smirks triumphantly, knowing full well that she was nearing being entirely spent and yet she still wanted more. 

“Please,” she whimpered, leaning up (very unsteadily) to finish unbuttoning his shirt, her fingers fumbling with the buttons and the fabric. He relents and allows her to make her best attempt with her trembling fingers before he takes over for her, lifting it over his head and discarding the linen nearby. 

Her finger gently trails from the dark purple mark of the orb on his chest down the hard planes of his torso until she reaches the waistband of his pants, dipping her finger underneath and tugging at it. Her eyes meet his full of intent, and he feels the tadpole in his head stir as she tries to connect to him. 

I need to suck your cock. Please. 

His eyes darken as he looks at her, the image of her perfectly pink lips wrapped around him searing into his mind— whether it being his own thoughts or hers invading his didn’t matter— but he shakes his head, then severs the connection. 

She frowns, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout. He rubs his thumb along the swollen softness of it as he caresses her chin, tilting her head back slightly to get a better view of the elegant column of her neck. He had plans for the perfect and smooth expanse of the area between her jaw and her clavicle that he soon intended to enact. But not yet. 

“Naughty girl,” he chastises her, but not without a devious smirk and a hint of lustful playfulness. 

She whimpers again, sending goosebumps down his arms and the hair on them to raise on end. “Please, Gale. I want to make you feel good, I need to make you feel good,” she stammers, her eyes peering up at his, wanton and needy. 

It was enough to almost oblige her request, but he knew if her mouth came anywhere near his already all too sensitive cock that he’d come apart at the seams instantly, and that just wouldn’t do. 

“And I need to be inside of you,” he retorts, his voice soft but stern. “I need to claim what’s mine.” He nearly growls. 

Gentleman Gale reprimands him in his mind, but is quickly overtaken by Her Gale— the one that only answers to her and belongs solely to her. The one that hoped with everything in him there was also a part of her that was his and only his. 

Her mouth opens to speak, and he half expects her to yell at him and berate him for reducing her to a prize to be claimed— and is pleasantly surprised when she doesn’t. 

“Please. Please come here, please fuck me,” she begs, the rasp in her voice as she does nothing short of absolutely erotic. 

He needs no further instruction, and quickly removes his pants and undergarments, his erection springing free and already slick with his own desire. She eyes it with a hunger that he recognizes and has to ignore before the temptation to fuck her mouth grows any stronger. 

He presses his strong but gentle hand against her chest, slowly pushing her back against the pillows as he moves to position himself at her entrance, her legs wrapping around his hips and urging him forward impatiently. He taps the side of one of her thighs in warning, rubbing the head of his cock across her already soaked folds to further lubricate it and tease her. 

“Eager little thing, aren’t you?” 

She whines, her voice broken as if she truly might cry if she goes another second without him inside her. “Gale.” 

He chuckles darkly, once again pressing the swollen head of his cock at her entrance, slipping in as slowly as he can manage, mustering every bit of strength and willpower he has left not to just bury himself in her as deep as he can. 

“Tell me,” he commands, his voice low and gruff but still needy, almost desperate. 

She connects the dots instantly, knowing exactly what he wanted. What he craved. “I’m yours, Gale. Only yours.” 

She cries out in shock, slight pain, and pure ecstasy as he harshly snaps his hips into hers, his cock burying to the hilt in her velvet heat. 

Home. This felt like home. 

He knew that he probably should have given her more time to adjust to him, and it was something he’d surely feel guilty about later, but Her Gale wanted her to feel it tomorrow. He wanted her to be reminded of this moment as she goes on about her day through the ache between her legs as she walks, constantly reminding her who fucks her like this, who loves her like this. 

“My pretty girl, my perfect girl,” he chants, his words leaving his lips like a litany of prayer as if he were in a temple of worship. He’d always been a man of religion, but this was holier and more divine than anything he’d ever experienced— even sharing a bed with an actual goddess couldn’t compare. 

She throws her head back, her eyes shut tightly and she desperately grips at the pillows around her to ground herself, her neck on full display. He leans down to place wet kisses in a trail from her jaw to her collarbone, biting and sucking in very obvious spots that she’d be hard pressed to be able to cover in the morning. 

She writhes and moans underneath him, one of her hands moving to grip the back of his head and fist the hair at the nape of his neck, the sensation of her fingers tugging at his scalp blending from slight pain into pure pleasure earning a throaty grunt from him that rumbles in his chest. 

He feels her tighten ever so slightly around him, her walls clenching and pulsing in a sort of warning. He continues his pace, driving her closer and closer to the precipice. 

“Gale, I’m gonna—” 

“I know, sweet girl, I know,” he coos, leaning down and pressing his lips to her sweat slicked forehead, then whispering, “come for me, my love.” 

It wasn’t so much a demand as a desperate request, as his need to feel her come on him and to ride out the waves of her pleasure alongside her became almost devastating. 

To urge her on even further, he slipped a hand down and began to rub quick circles around her clit as he pounded into her until she saw stars— it wasn’t long before she completely shattered underneath him, tumbling into free fall off the edge of the best orgasm she’d ever had. 

She cries out a jumbled mess of I love you and I’m yours with his name sprinkled throughout as she reaches the peak and dives off the edge, her hips rocking upward into Gale’s as he continues to fuck her through her orgasm. He feels himself quickly approaching his own finish line, the feeling of her cunt pulsing and hugging his cock tighter and tighter driving him further and further. 

A few more thrusts and he was done for, spilling everything he had in her and grunting her name as he came, the entire fiber of his being ripping apart and repairing itself as he went limp above her, barely having enough strength to brace himself with his hands on either side of her head as he gripped the pillows so that he doesn’t crush her under his weight. 

They both fall silent apart from the sounds of their breathing steadying and slowing to a calm and regular pace, the only other sounds being that of the distant crackling of the fire and the even more distant sounds of their companions still wrapping up for the night and preparing for bed. 

Her eyes flutter open to find his in the dim light of the fire, her hand reaching up to caress his cheek. He sighs and leans into her touch, turning his head to place a kiss to the center of her palm, the coarse hair of his beard scratching her skin and tickling it, making her giggle quietly. 

“I’m still mad at you, you know,” she jokes, causing him to nibble at the skin of her palm playfully. “That wasn’t funny, Gale.” 

He smiles and reaches for a rag to clean her up with. “I had hoped this would serve as an adequate apology.” 

She sucks in a breath as he pulls out and rubs the rag across her still sensitive and throbbing core, her hips bucking upward slightly with some discomfort. “You expected to fuck me into complicity?” 

He chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest as he finishes cleaning her, then tosses the rag aside and lays beside her, pulling her onto his chest. 

“Not exactly,” he says, earning a disbelieving grimace from her. “I am sorry, for what it’s worth. I just— I don’t think you realize that seeing the way he interacts with you and the way you interact with him is nothing short of agonizing for me.” 

She saw the hurt in his eyes even in the dark— the ache and the gnawing need for reassurance. She understood it all too well, as she’d done the same when the topic of Mystra would get brought up in the earlier days of their relationship. 

“There is no other set of arms I’d rather have wrapped around me right now than yours. There is no other company I’d rather share in the way I share in yours. Don’t you know that?” She asked, shifting so that she’s leaning over him, his big brown eyes resembling those of a puppy being told it was a good boy. 

“I am yours, Gale Dekarios,” she whispers. “Body and soul.” 

Relief and pure elation smoothed out the concern from his features. He pulled her closer to him, until she was mostly on top of him and her head rested on his chest and he could press a long kiss against the top of her head, breathing in her scent and shutting his eyes, both of them drifting into a peaceful slumber. 

[galebrainrot2024]

Last Light Inn Gale

I was thirsty tonight. NSFW18+ Minors DNI

Summary: This picks up in the Shadowed Lands from Gale's POV where he tells Tav how hot they are after battle. Light banter from fellow companions Karlach and Shadowheart. Features Gale *ahem* enjoying himself, thinking of Tav once they reach Last Light, right before he goes to sleep.

There is nothing quite like it, the chemistry when two bodies yearn to become one. The way one’s cells quake with anticipation, excitement, and fear - fight or flight kicking in. The way the body responds to the voice of their lover, or one yet to be. 

“Hello?” Tav was waving a hand in front of Gale’s face and he started, rejoining reality before his face turned crimson. He had been deep in thought, admiring Tav as they dodged, attacked, and ravaged their foes once again. His mouth was dry, his knees weak... he felt like a schoolboy again. It was not yet two days prior Elminster had found them, delivering Gale’s fate. 

Now instead of having lifetimes ahead of him, Gale had mere months at best. To once have so much time, to have it violently ripped from you, is a dreadful fate. Becoming one of the faceless, though, forever trapped in a melded wall of unclaimed spirits… no. Gale could not endure such a fate. He hated being rushed, hating feeling as if he had so little time to do what he wanted but he knew that was simply a fact. Now was not the time for inaction. Suddenly the words came tumbling out, like a bad batch of Hundur sauce. 

“It’s quite thrilling, to fight off such grim creatures as this region throws at us. Especially being at your side,” he paused for a moment, considering his next words, “I once… read a book that explained in some detail the effect a brush with danger has on one’s desire for… other forms of stimulation.” He swallowed though his mouth was dry, “Have you ever read anything on that subject?” 

Tav blinked at Gale rapidly and suddenly he wondered if he should have said anything at all. He had been so confident Tav felt something towards him… the late night conversations around whatever tome he was reading, the way she would collect various herbs and fresh vegetables where she could to give him a wider range of ingredients for their meals. He was so sure of it, so sure that his statement would not be misplaced. 

He was suddenly very aware of the looks of shock on Shadowheart and Karlach’s faces. He bit down on the inside of his lip, a nervous habit and swayed a bit on his feet before relief sunk into him as Tav spoke: “I’m not much of a reader,” she said softly, but with a knowing glint in her eyes that made Gale’s heart flutter, “But I’ve seen some very informative diagrams.” 

Informative diagrams. Gale cleared his throat, shifting to conceal his growing arousal. Thank the gods he was wearing a loose robe.”You have? Oh…” he took a deep breath, a smirk toying at the corner of his mouth, “Then might I suggest we pool our knowledge. No sense in letting valuable, first hand experience go to waste, after all.” He tried to steady himself, his brain not quite grasping yet that Tav had indulged him. That she had accepted him. “Perhaps it’s just the thrill of our near-undead experience talking, but standing at your side through such darkness and disrepair,” Gale’s face softened, his lowered voice cool, “it only makes me want you more.” Before he pained the remainder of their companions anymore he continued, quickly - it was unwise to linger here in the Shadowed Lands when reprieve was so close ahead. “Unfortunately this is neither the time nor the place to indulge in such feelings. So, we must be patient and push all such thoughts aside… for now. Did you need anything else?”

Tav froze, seemingly bewildered. Gale worried if he had said the wrong thing, wondered if he still had her favor until he saw the blush that spread across her cheeks, just kissing her skin. It seemed somehow more radiant in this blueish, dark night. 

Although his imminent death lay ahead, Gale knew when the moment was right, he would tell Tav everything. He couldn’t bear to face the notion that Tav would never know the depths of his thoughts, his ardor, his adoration of her. Every waking moment he spent with her he felt more and more alive, more so than it seemed at times with Mystra. He would share it all with her - it needed to be perfect. And, the only way to perfect anything is to practice. 

“Gale - did you just,” Shadowheart breaks the awkward silence lingering between the four as they began the short journey to Last Light Inn. “I’m sorry, did you just tell Tav you wanted to have sex with her by citing a book?” Shadowheart chuckled mockingly, though not out of malice. Gale took it as him replacing the brother she never had, or could remember so he didn’t let it bother him too much. 

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Gale said and the way Karlach began to crack up made his ears burn even though he knew they did it in jest. Gale took most of their joking in stride compared to some of the other, more volatile companions, and so he was often the source of everyone’s humor. The light banter they threw at him was doing some good, anyway, or at least Gale knew that’s what Tara would think. “Besides, it’s more than I can say for either of you.” 

He paused for dramatic effect, his tone teasing though serious, “I know who each of you is pining for. You all think I’m not listening when I’m sitting and reading my book as you sit and drink around the fire late into the evenings…” Gale turns around to face them and smirks, one of his eyebrows raised, “Just because I have a book in hand doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy indulging in people’s personal lives. So, unless you’d like me to recommend how you should approach each of your yet to be lovers, I suggest we change the subject.” 

Tav interjected jarringly, “Is Mystra always such a demanding goddess?” They were nearly to Last Light Now and Gale was pulled violently to a different train of thought. 

“Erm,” he felt as if he couldn’t remember a thing about Mystra for a moment before continuing, “She expects those who seek to use the Weave to do so honestly, and with respect for its potential to destroy, as well as it’s potential to save.” He paused for a moment, thinking carefully before choosing his words, “I doubt she’s asked many of her followers to blow themselves up. That’s a fate she’s bequeathed exclusively to me. She wouldn’t ask such a thing if it weren’t our only means of survival. However much she’s annoyed at me.” 

Gale heard Karlach begin to ask, “So, Tav, are you going to let the wizard“ and Tav began to speak over her, louder. It made Gale grin, the butterflies in his stomach almost overwhelming him. If he could, he would take her here and now. But there was still so much to do and he needed time to get it right. 

“How are you feeling,” Tav gazes into his eyes in a way that made him stop walking for a moment before collecting his thoughts. “It can’t be easy, facing the possibility of death…” 

Even this made Karlach and Shadowheart stop snickering, and Karlach chimed in. “As someone with loads of experience on the matter, I find it best to focus on the positives. What good will it do robbing grief from the future? The future isn’t here yet.” Gale felt a surge of both regret and relief as she said this, entirely forgetting for a moment that they shared similar plights, similar fates. Karlach and Tav talked about it often, how Karlach wanted to face the end of her existence, but Gale had only just learned of the task he was given.

Gale was terrified. Hearing Karlach’s generous advice gave his spirit a gentle nudge in a more optimistic direction, even if by a hair. “Oh, well, you know me-“ Gale said, catching back up to Tav “ever the optimist. The truth is, I was living on borrowed time already. Consuming those items would only have kept the orb sated for so long. If anything, I feel more at peace than I have in months. At least now I knew my death will have purpose. It won’t be a distant ‘bang’ in the footnotes of history.” 

“Damn, that’s beautiful mate. Truly poetic.” Karlach says, “We will both go out with a bang, you can count on that. But before that happens,” she inhaled in such a way you’d think she was delivering difficult, somber information, before saying, “it looks like.. we need to get laid.” 

Gale immediately looked to Tav for her reaction and they locked eyes. His breath hitched and he felt as if he would suffocate, but there was not time to say anything further. They’d arrived and their welcoming at the inn was lukewarm at best. 

** 

Everyone had settled for the evening, scattered throughout the property. Tav was busy gathering information from Jaheria and speaking with the Tieflings who made it to Last Light. Gale knew Karlach wouldn’t be telling any of the others about what he said because she was too busy flirting with Dammon - upon their arrival, they found him to give Karlach's engine the second upgrade she deserved and now she was on a similar mission. It made Gale chuckle a bit to himself, wishing her the best. But what of Shadowheart?

She won’t share because, well, he thought to himself, she’s Shadowheart, first and foremost. Second, She is a Cleric of Shar. Secrecy and discretion may as well been invented by them.

His thumb grazed his lower lip nervously, unwilling to bank on Shadowheart’s absolute silence. It took a moment before he found her, standing by the water and idly drinking a bottle of wine on her own. “May I?” He said, sitting beside her. 

Shadowheart smirked, “Please,” she took a long gulp from the bottle, turning to Gale and offering it to him. He held up a hand, polity declining. 

“Although I would love to indulge I.. have quite a lot on my mind and would be terrible company. I just wanted a moment of your time, if that’s alright with you.” 

“What if I said no?” Shadowheart looks back out onto the water, grinning. Gale shifts uncomfortably, never quite sure where their relationship stood. The only people she seemed to open up to were Tav and Astarion, to Gale she was a particularly difficult book. “You don’t need to ask, or tell me anything. I can be discreet. Besides,” she giggles and little from the wine and hiccups once, “It would be no fun for me at all if I couldn’t hold this over you. You think I’d hand this power over to everyone else?” She scoffed, “Not a chance. You have nothing to worry about, your secrets safe with me.” 

“Thank you,” Gale said it like a prayer answered, “I appreciate your discretion, truly. And if you’d like any practical advice on how to…” 

“Go.” Shadowheart held up a hand, glaring at him, “Before I change my mind.”  

** 

Gale was in his bedroll, had somehow finessed his way into his own room while his companions were bunked together. He realized it was likely because no one felt like debating with him for hours about the merits of Wizards needing exceptional amounts of alone time to best prepare their bodies and minds for battle without distraction. 

Tonight, though, Gale’s thoughts drifted. For the first time, he allowed them to go to Tav, the old fashioned way - through the sheer power of imagination. He knew he wanted to worship her, to taste the bud between her thighs as his last meal, to caress every curve and supple inch of her skin. 

Before now, before learning of what task lay before him, he only partially indulged the storm of desire that brewed in him, to be with her in every sense of the word. Too much excitement and he worried the orb would destabilize. Now that it had been put to rest, if only momentarily, the need to act on his desires returned in full force. Primal urges hadn’t been an issue in his isolation.. or even early in their journey, for the matter. But Tav was so generous, so compassionate even to those she hardly knew… the way she smelled, the sound of her laugh, even how downright unpleasant she was every morning until she ate something. It drove him wild, the yearning for her deepening by the day. 

He felt that familiar thrum between his thighs, blood pulsing as he twitched to life, he poured some water and unscented oil onto his palm before slipping a hand between his undergarments to grab his erection. 

Gale sighed, thinking of Tav’s lips, what it would be like to kiss them. What she will taste like. He thought of exploring her body and mind within the weave, bestowing pleasure upon her through every sense, in a tantric, almost surreal experience. He moved his hand slowly, deliberately against his erection as he thought then about taking Tav traditionally, in his less than worthy mortal body, but…. oh… to feel the warmth of her skin against his… to kiss and lick down her neck…to her chest to taste those pillowy breasts... to bite her nipples gently before licking and kissing lower… He was moving his hand urgently against himself, his back arching a bit, biting down on his lip, completely lost in the idea of her. He thought about licking across her hip bones and caressing her inner thighs, spreading her legs to taste the sweet nectar that lay between. To become intimate with every fold, every layer, to taste her so fully with his tongue swirling and pulsing into her as his hands gripped her waist.

Gale was shaking now, the urgency at which he stroked himself growing, moaning as he thought of her, wishing his hand was hers. Wishing that she was here with him now. His eyes rolled back as he thought of Tav bent over a bed, he ensuring her comfort and desires being met before thrusting into her, slow and deliberately at first and then with ferocity, imagining how warm she would be, how wet… how eager… how her pussy would grip around his erection, hungry for him, and how he would push deeply to please her. About how they would share both their minds and bodies, how he would tell her how much he adored her, how beautiful and sexy she was as he claimed her entirely, lightly biting her supple flesh while his fingers would explore every inch of her and all at once Gale cries out, “Gods above, oh fuck,” and he erupts, his dick twitching sporadically as the familiar sticky wetness fills his hand and cloth. Gale breathes heavily, dizzy, his face hot, and cleans himself properly before lying back down. 

As Gale drifts into a less than restful sleep, he wonders how glorious the experience will be if it felt so extraordinary just imagining it. 

[swifty-fox]

chapter 7's gonna be fun

Sometimes, sitting in this chair, Gale feels like a schoolboy called to the principals office. Or how he assumes it would feel. He’d been a well-behaved child, and the only times he’d ever found himself in a chair in front of the principal it had not been him that was in trouble. But under the not-so-stern scrutiny he feels picked apart, placed on a glass tray and thrown under the bright light of a microscope. 

He picks at his cuticles, both thumbs gone chapped and bloody, the skin swollen, red, puffy, skin flaking off in spots that will turn to agony if he tugs on them. Gale places one thumb between his teeth, nibbles away the temptation of the peel. The string of saliva left upon separation is tinged pink. 

“How are you doing today, Gale?”

“I don’t want to answer that.”

Helen sits back, crossing her legs, “And you’re under no obligation to.” 

“Have you ever had venison?” he asks, “Not– not the stuff you get at the grocery store. Real Venison.” 

She shakes her head.

“You taste it. You taste everything the deer’s ever eaten. Sweet from berries, and a tang from the bark the strip in the winter. My dad got one year that’d been feasting in a copse of bur oaks. You could taste it, taste the nuttiness. That they’d gone a little sweet and fermented.” 

“Did you go hunting with your father often?”

“No,” Gale huffs, a bit of a smile that felt anything but pleasant. “No, he said I was too soft.” 

The clock ticks on the wall, a soft mechanical heartbeat. Gale times his breaths with it. 

He picks at his thumb again, “I dreamt about it again last night.” 

To her credit, Helen doesn’t react. And she doesn’t speak either, which Gale is grateful for. He feels a bit like he’s walking across an iced-over puddle at the moment. The barrier barely thick enough to shoulder his weight, cracks spreading out like lacework. He has to tread carefully.

“I dreamt about the dog. And the field.”

[vampirizzm]

soooo, i felt like writing something bloodweave related because i have brainrot. will post more if people are interested.

astarion is a wild magic sorcerer in my playthough, so i tried my best to enhance the rivalry whilst making gale slightly less condescending...

slightly nsfw.

Nestled in the Cup of Mystra’s Palm

The familiar scent of rosewater hangs thick in the air when Astarion returns to camp, his hair damp and tousled from a stolen moment at the river, droplets clinging to his skin, catching the faint light of the campfire. The secluded grove is quiet, the fire a solitary glow with only Scratch curled up beside it, dozing in the fading warmth. With exhaustion tugging at his bones, Astarion makes his way toward his corner of camp, his bedroll calling to him.

As he passes by Gale’s tent, the scent of rosewater deepens, thick and cloying. A soft lilac light spills through the cracks in the canvas, shimmering like mist, and a faint, whispered chant drifts through the still night air.

Astarion pauses, intrigued.

What delightfully asinine ritual could that wizard be performing at this hour?

He knows full well that Gale will loathe the intrusion, knows just as well how much the wizard values his privacy. But that only sharpens his desire to press forward. A smirk spreads across his lips as he slips quietly into the tent, not bothering to disguise his entry.

Inside, Gale remains oblivious, wholly absorbed in his incantation. He moves with practised grace, his arms flowing in smooth, precise motions as he shapes invisible strands of the Weave. Astarion watches, arms crossed, noting the way Gale’s mouth forms each word with searing intent, his pronunciation sharp and deliberate, a spell woven not through just magic but sheer force of will.

Astarion’s gaze trails over the wizard, captivated for a brief moment as he imagines that carefully honed tongue trailing down his skin, teasing the pointed tips of his ears, exploring the warmth of his mouth. The thought sends a spark of heat rushing through him. For a rare instant, he feels his own cheeks flush.

Unable to help himself, he clears his throat.

“Bui i nathr—”

Gale jumps to his feet, his summoned spectre dissipating in a haze of lavender smoke. “Astarion.” His eyes narrow. “How long have you been standing there?”

Astarion leans casually against the tent frame, smirking. “Long enough to see you fawning over Mystra like a smitten schoolboy.”

Gale’s face reddens, and he clears his throat, his practiced poise faltering. “I was practising an incantation. Nothing more.”

“Please,” Astarion drawls, amusement dancing in his voice. “You were thinking of her in ways that go far beyond mere magic.”

Gale’s eyes shift, embarrassment flickering beneath his annoyance. “Magic is… everything to me,” he murmurs. “I’ve been in touch with the Weave for as long as I can remember. There’s nothing else like it.”

“Oh, obviously,” Astarion says with a lazy grin, feigning disinterest. “But that hardly justifies your pining over a mere apparition.”

“What can I say?” Gale shrugs, looking uncharacteristically shy. “She’s Mystra. Sometimes I feel this… need to see her, to weave fantasy into reality. Mystra is magic. As far as I’m concerned, she is creation itself.”

Astarion scoffs, soft but pointed. “How narrow-minded. Magic is more than Mystra. She’s just a vessel of Ao’s control.”

“Pish posh,” Gale replies, brushing the barb aside. “One may as well deny the mother’s womb as the cradle of life. You simply don’t understand.”

Astarion gives him a dry smile, his eyes glinting with a hint of challenge. Gale continues, undeterred. “No painting or sculpture could do her justice—only the very fabric she’s made of. The Weave itself. There’s nothing like it. It’s like music, poetry, and beauty intertwined, flowing through every sense.” He pauses, looking at Astarion with an unusual vulnerability. “Is it like that for you?”

“So melodramatic!” Astarion chuckles. “It’s different for me. Not quite so… intense. Perhaps it’s a control thing. You wizards toil endlessly for what I have naturally.”

Gale lets the jab slide, his lips twitching into a slight smile. “Then allow me to show you what I mean. We could reach into the Weave together.”

Astarion raises a brow, intrigued despite himself. “By all means.”

“Then follow my lead.”

As Astarion positions himself next to the wizard, Gale’s movements become slower, more deliberate, his hands drawing strands of invisible magic with elegant precision. Astarion mimics the motions effortlessly, comparing the raw, instinctual power he wields with that of Gale’s practised control. Together, they shape a soft orb of light, glowing faintly as it hovers between them.

“Ah-Thran Mystra-Ryl Kantrach-Ao,” Gale intones, his voice resonant and otherworldly, the words seeming to echo within the walls of the tent. Beside him, Astarion’s voice joins in harmony, threading his essence into the magic.

When the spell is complete, Gale’s eyes are alight with exhilaration. “We did it! We’re channelling the Weave—together.” He turns to Astarion, breathless. “Does it feel different for you now?”

Astarion hesitates, a flicker of rare vulnerability slipping past his carefully crafted mask. “Yes… it’s like poetry. Erotica, even.”

“That it is.” Gale replies softly, a blush staining his cheeks.

The Weave connects them more deeply, their minds unfolding to each other like the pages of an open book. Astarion feels a pang of unease, and instinctively tightens his guard, focusing instead on the pulse of passion that radiates from Gale. The wizard’s defences are down, and in an unguarded moment, Astarion catches a torrent of Gale’s imaginings, vivid and raw.

Astarion’s fangs pressed against the wizard’s throat, Gale’s hands tangled in his hair. A flush colouring both their cheeks as they pull each other close, consuming each other, pleasure and pain blurring into one fierce, unstoppable force.

The image lingers, and a grin spreads across Astarion’s face.

Oh—this he can work with.

In response, Astarion sends his own image drifting through the Weave—a vision of his tongue tracing a slow, possessive path down Gale’s body, claiming each inch with meticulous intent, marking him as his own. He adds a wink, an unspoken admission that the slip was entirely deliberate.

“Oh. My.” Gale’s voice cracks, a blend of embarrassment and something more.

Astarion moves closer, his gaze darkening, fingers trailing lightly over Gale’s flushed cheeks. The wizard instinctively steps back, his hands rising in a defensive gesture. Now, with his arms positioned away from his body, he has no way to conceal the clear evidence of his arousal.

Astarion laughs—a low, wicked sound, his tongue flicking over his fangs as his pupils dilate, blown wide with desire. He lowers his head, leaning in close to purr into Gale’s ear.

“Perhaps next time,” he murmurs, his voice a silken promise, “we could share more than just the Weave with each other.”

Before Gale can respond, Astarion pulls away, savouring the lingering flush on the wizard’s cheeks. As he strides out of the tent, he feels Gale’s eyes following him, lingering on his waist, tracking the movement of his hand as he lowers it to palm himself lightly, letting the wizard know just how much he’d enjoyed their little exchange.

In the quiet of the night, Astarion settles onto his bedroll, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

Yes, this could be… interesting indeed.

[teeth-farie]

Arcane Hunger

Gale Dekarios/Duck(named tav)

Notes: I wrote this a while back but never posted it, oops! This is based off the idea that sorcerers can transfer magic to others, if only briefly. My tav is a sorcerer/barbarian multiclass dwarf! I don’t usually post my oc/canon works, so I do hope you all enjoy it.

Tags: pining, act 1, frottage, Gale being desperate, Astarion being nosy and catty

Ao3 link

——

Nothing could have prepared him for an ache like this. Artifacts weren’t cutting it anymore, and the suffocating clench of the orb's jaws only tightened around him. It would only be a matter of time until it eats at the last sliver of his sanity, and he can only hope he’s far isolated when it erupts. 

It would have been so much easier to accept his fate if it weren’t for his companions, or rather, his leader. Gale thanked the stars when Duck had allowed him to stay even despite his looming, explosive threat of the orb. Even more so when he finally invited them into his space, showed them the enchantment of the weave; where they melded their mind to his, the cool comfort of their desires, a timid kiss shared and hands brushing together. He had snapped the connection in surprise, a flustered pink to his cheeks. Exhilarating it was, to have such a powerful ally fancy him so. The necrotic swell of magic in his chest responded almost angrily, nearly gnashing at his soul as his heart had quickened and his palms sweat like a lovesick schoolboy. 

The wizard had never thought he’d fall for a sorcerer. A petty rivalry to be sure, a jealousy for a natural talent he studied so arduously for–though at the state of their wild and untamed magic, he couldn’t find himself to be too envious. 

One thing he could, however, was the organic accumulation of weave just under their fingertips, ripe and primed to destroy with just a snap of their fingers. If he had that, he would never fear the arcane hunger that consumes him so viciously. 

The days are growing longer with the party’s journey to the Mountain Pass and his knees are as weary as his resolve is fierce. Duck leads the party through the thickets of wilderness, mud squelching beneath boots and grass slick with morning dew. Gale stops to catch his breath when they look over the map, much to Astarion’s teasing. 

“Need a rest, Grandpa?” The spawn snickers.

“Please, I’m centuries younger than you.” The wizard counters. 

“Perhaps that’s why you’re so boring.”

Gale glares and Duck clears their throat. “We’re nearly to the Shadowlands now, we ought to set up camp or we’ll be drained by the time we get there.” 

“Chk! We waste precious daylight, fretting around the muck like lost babes.”

“The Shadowlands will still be there tomorrow, Lae’zel! If I do not get my beauty sleep there will be hells to pay.”

“Your hells hold no threat to me, spawn.”

“Enough.” Duck groans, putting the map back in their pack. “We’ll rest for the night, we need it.” They offer Gale an understanding look, as if he was in need of fretting and fussing. These days, he’s wondering if that’s the case. Their word is final as they speak it, regardless of any complaints grumbled. He finds his sights glued to the back of their head, slivers of their face on the trek back to camp. Their hair is shorter than it was when they first met, incredibly so. Gale supposes that experiencing your first death at the hands of a ghoul would evoke some physical changes, not to mention the mental terror of a soul ripped from one plane to another. He remembers the day sourly, the fear that clenched his chest as tight as the hunger had. At the very least, he was glad they recovered so quickly, albeit with the scarred reminder across their eye. 

He finds himself thinking more on the way back to camp, the thoughts clouding his once organized mind even as he set up his bedroll for the night. If Duck was brimming with so much magic power, surely there could be a way to…transfer it, shouldn’t there? It would be an intimate ordeal to ask of them, who knows what would be needed for that kind of trade. Briefly, he thinks of skin-on-skin contact, but then starts to feel his heart beat too quickly for the orbs' liking. The sharp throb is enough to calm any wandering thoughts, forcing him back to cleaner observations.

Gale looks out at the campfire from the shelter of his tent, singled and secluded. Everyone circles around the fire tonight, the cook pot empty and stomachs full. The gnawing in his chest distracts him from any kind of nutritional hunger, his only focus on the arcane penance. Their leader is amongst them, to his surprise. Typically, Duck didn’t favor larger crowds, but he supposes that this is a situation that forces you from your comfort zone. 

The warm orange-yellow light of the crackling fire across their face like the paintings he saw back home in Waterdeep. He wonders after everything is said and done, where they’d go. He hopes they'd give him a visit, if he made it that long. 

Duck’s head turns from the group and finds him in their line of sight, an expression almost like confusion written on their face. The lively conversation continues without them when they excuse themselves, Gale’s heart pounding when he realizes they’re coming over to him. He must look a mess, all frazzled hair and tremoring hands. 

“You never ate.” They say, scrunching their nose and pushing their glasses back up the bridge of it. He watches the action intensely. “I wasn’t able to save any, but I could try to make you something?”

Gale shakes his head. “Oh, you needn’t fuss over me like that, I’ll be just fine.” 

“Are you sure? You haven’t looked very…well, lately.” They don’t mean it the way that insecurity tugs at his chest, certainly, but it’s a reaction he can’t help. 

“Ah…that’s just my own hubris at play.” He sighs out, hand instinctively clenching his shirt over his chest. 

“Would more magic items help?” Duck queries, sitting down beside him, already rifling through their pockets for some kind of trinket. 

“No, no, that’s quite alright,” his hands hover over theirs, assuring. “It would do me no good, and it would waste your hard earned treasures in the process.” 

Their hands pull out of their pockets and brush against his, the faintest of touches, but one that triggers a shiver down his spine—pure, unfiltered magic zapping against his flesh. It feels energizing and lulling at the same time, a jittery spread across his body that soothes the ache in his chest just the smallest bit. Even then, just the smallest taste of their magic quelled the fires quicker than any banged up magic ring or tarnished locket. 

He shudders and they pull their hands to their chest, an apology dangling from their tongue. “I’m so sorry, my magic just does that–”

“No, it’s ok. I actually...ah, I think that may have helped?” Gale reaches his hand up to his chest, fingertips brushing over the inky, indented scars of his orb. He feels it fizzle in acknowledgment, distracted, soaking in the concentrated weave. 

Duck’s brows furrow in concern, head tilting just so, inquisitive enough to make him feel warm in the cheeks. He’d rather not be fussed over, coddled like a runt, but something about them makes him feel a queer kind of way. Too often he’s let them tend to his wounds when he could have himself, relished the way their calloused fingers pressed healing balms into his skin, leaning into their touch in ways only a lover should. As far as Gale was aware, they didn’t have anyone waiting for them.

Not that he obsessed over the prospect of their love life, he thought of it a totally normal amount, most certainly. 

“I could give you more?” They offer, holding their hand out again, an offer poised over the center of his chest. 

The orb lurches in his chest at the mere suggestion, tearing at the very fibers of his being, his soul, a deep hunger settling behind his ribs. “I couldn’t-” he still protests like a hiss between his teeth, fist clutching his chest.

“You can, you must.” Duck reiterates, a command, not a suggestion. They speak with a strict edge of urgency, cutting through his pleas like the blade they wield. 

Gale looks past them, eyes flicking to the campfire. The others remain unaware of their leader's disappearance, for now. His stomach churns at the thought of any of his companions bearing witness. 

“…alright, b-but privately, yes? I think this has proven to be a rather intimate ordeal,” he stammers, pawing at the tent’s opening. Gods, he hasn’t felt this nervous since he was a sweaty palmed teenager grasping at the threads of weave Mystra graced him with. 

This, however, is real. They’re real, not a figment of a goddess who would never love him, but a true flesh and blood person. Within them he sees life, warmth, desire. 

The inside of his tent shades a cool blue over their bodies, moonlight filtered through the tough cloth. Gale feels his heartbeat in his ears, wiping his palms on his trousers. 

Duck inches closer, kneeling and lifting their right hand up. A faint pulse emanates from their palm and they close their eyes, focusing in on it. He watches, bewitched, etching the image of them into his mind. The round slope of their nose, wired glasses set atop the bridge, dark eyelashes flush against full cheeks and framing the wrinkled creases of their eyes. His eyes flit lower, to their lips, and a great sense of yearning settles like a heavy rock in his gut. 

Their magic first feels like a sharp bristle when they press their palm to his chest, but then it smooths into a warm embrace. It seeps into the starved maw of the orb, soft tendrils of gold glowing between the skin of their palm and Gale’s chest. 

He can’t fight the groan of pleasure, squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment, relief deep seated into his bones. 

“Ah, I’m dreadfully sorry,” he breathes, swallowing the lump in his throat and meeting their eyes. “I-I don’t know what’s come over me—“

“But it’s helping, right? Do you need a moment?” Duck begins to pull their hand back and he grabs their wrist, needy, desperate. 

“Please, stay, I’m alright.” Gale pleads, cheeks flushed and lips parted. Duck hums softly, clearing their throat, face warm and heart pounding. 

“It’s like…ahh, instant relief…” the wizard mutters, leaning closer, driven on instinct alone. “Thank you, thank you,” 

“Ha…” Duck shifts on their knees, mouth dry. Gale can taste the uncertainty within their magic, but amongst it he also feels want, the same pull he felt when sharing a moment in the Weave with them. It's bliss, serene and beautiful, his body consuming their magic in a deep act of devotion and dependence. He curls into them like a touch starved dog, holding their hand in his own, his knees brushing theirs. Any further and he’d be all but falling into their lap, not that he could find it in him to complain, not at all. 

They look up to him, illuminated by the glow of their own mana. Ethereal, heavenly. Gale was a man of faith, too often invested in those unworthy of his worship. But here, now, he has never wanted to commit himself so wholly, not even when caught in the throes of Mystra. 

He can’t help himself when he cups their face instead, he can’t help himself when he surges forward, pressing his lips to theirs. Surely, he can’t help himself when he straddles their thighs, a sound of unfiltered hunger rumbling from the back of his throat. 

And they’re kissing him back, they’re holding onto his shoulders, fingers clutching his shirt. His heart blooms with desire, warmth bleeding from his soul into theirs, pouring over with affection. Their mouth moves inexperienced, sloppy—he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Duck’s teeth catch on his lower lip and he groans softly, whispering a hushed, ‘yes’. 

“I’ve wanted this, you, for so long,” Gale sighs like a siren's song, babbling beside himself. “I know in the Weave you gave me that- that wonderful image b-but I didn’t think…” 

They’re not good with words, even if he would tell them otherwise- so instead they kiss him again, holding him like they were trying to bleed all of their affection into him. 

It does the trick, and Gale is melting back into them, biting back a low moan. He pulls away, reluctantly, to push his leather bound books off his bedroll, hastily propping up pillows with a sheepish grin. 

Duck crawls forward, hands embarrassingly sweaty and heart pounding up in their skull. Gale pulls, beckons, and they fall into his lap, a short ‘oof’ before he’s kissing them again. 

They straddle his lap, finding purchase on his camp shirt, the crushed velvet of it softer than anything they had ever owned. 

“I’m sorry…I’m heavy…” they get out between kisses. “I can get off.”

Gale shakes his head immediately. “Nonsense,” he indulges himself when he grabs their thighs, fingers sinking into fatty flesh and muscle, a sensation he longed to feel since he first (accidentally) spied them bathing in the river—naked and wet, goosebumps from chilled night, dripping down a stout, voluptuous body—

“Mmmph,” he moans against their lips, legs widening beneath them, the weight of their lower half settling on his groin. It doesn’t go unnoticed by them, and they draw in a tight breath at the thought. 

“Quiet,” they whisper to him. He nods enthusiastically, pressing his lips together in a thin line. 

Only a soft rustle of fabric is heard as Duck leans up, cheeks hot to the touch as they begin to unbutton their blouse. Gale’s eyes are glued to the exposing midriff, pawing at their hips like he was no more than a hormone riddled teenager. 

They look down to him, his hair splayed across the pillow underneath, eyes wide and wanting. He would give his entire being to them, his own heart on a silver platter if he weren’t a dead man walking. 

Instead, he grips and grabs, massaging his fingers into their hips as they free the last button and shed their shirt. They fight the reflex to fold their arms over their chest, instead bracing their palms against his.

Gale draws in a breath, almost dizzy with arousal, zeroing in on the heavy swell of their breasts, nearly pouring from the cups of their brassiere. Pinned beneath them like this, he notices just how small he is. 

There’s the logistical height differences between the two that debunk that statement, yes, but length wasn’t his thought. The orb drained him in more ways than one, his weight being one of them. He’s long since been the healthy, powerful man he once was- now he is sickly thin, the purple hued tendrils sapping the nutrients from his body, both magical and organic. 

Duck is thick, stocky, built for strength and durability. He can feel it under his hands, the muscle beneath the fat. Their hands are already so large, it’d be no big feat to wrap their hands completely around his waist- his throat. 

The dwarf slides their hands under his shirt, timid, cautious. Urgently, Gale pulls at the offending garment, tugging it off himself with a stifled grunt. Warm, calloused palms follow and he breathes a sigh of relief, eyes fluttering shut. He feels just right, beneath them like this, body soft and liquid with pleasure. 

They shift in his lap, a strained sound emitting from his chest in response. He drinks in the sight of them, lips parted and eyes lidded. He follows the curve of their lips and the jagged, torn patch of scarred flesh across their eye. The way the heat of their cheeks makes their skin sweat, beads he longs to chase with his tongue. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, hips shifting beneath, chasing the feeling of them. 

They don’t reply to it, averting their gaze in fact, but shimmying their hips regardless. Gale hisses softly, grasping for purchase on their belt loops. He’s sure they can feel how hard he’s become, pressed stiffly against the soft mound between their thighs. Cloth against cloth, he can still feel the delicious drag of friction. 

“You’re so good to me,” he whimpers, hushed. “A little firmer, please?” 

Strong legs lock against his sides, their hands braced against his frail chest as they grind down into his lap, rubbing against the thick line of his erection. 

First, he gasps, a breath drawn in thinly- and then comes the loud, aching moan. Both go still, and so does the distant chatter from the campsite yards beyond. 

Duck clamps their hand over his mouth, silencing him with their palm. He goes dizzy, eyelids fluttering, shuddering exhales from his nose. A beat passes, then two, and the conversation picks back up, unbothered. They breathe a sigh of relief and look back down at him. 

Gale puckers his lips behind their palm, kissing the center fervently. He follows when they pull their hand away, his fingers curling around their wrist.

“Silence me,” he whispers, barely a sound. 

Delicately, he kisses their fingertips, his tongue pressing between the digits when he takes them into his mouth. He must look no better than an average copper whore, sucking on their fingers to muffle his petty whines. 

They haven’t moved, seated still against his aching cock, pressing deeper down his throat. He wiggles, writhes, weakly bucks his hips from underneath, searching for more friction. They bounce, just slightly, in his lap, and it’s enough to make him gurgle behind their fingers. 

They breathe heavy, flushed cheeks and sweaty flesh, tracing the lines of his orb with their opposite hand. He yearns, starves, positively aches from his very core. Gale thinks he could die happy, beneath them like this, touched and seen—

The tent flap rips open with a quick thwip, exposing the pair to the moonlit camp. 

“Oh my gods, I was right, they were having sex!” Astarion cackles, “or rather, trying, it seems. Really, I was hoping to see more skin, it sounded like a pair of stuck pigs in there!” 

“Get out!” Gale yelps, instinctually covering himself with his arms, embarrassment festering in his gut. He hears a distant call of ‘leave them be, Astarion!’ along with a wolf’s whistle from the campfire. 

“Darling, you hardly got a room, there’s nothing for me to get out of! Trust me, I think I’ve gotten my fill of whatever…finger-sucking debacle this is, anyways.”

Duck has hurriedly pulled their shirt back on, face red and tears of embarrassment rising to the surface. Gale can’t stop them from rushing out of the tent, nearly pushing Astarion aside in the process, a scoff in turn as the dwarf escapes in shame. Guilt consumes him, finding no trace of them when he peers out of the tent. 

“Now, look at what you’ve done!” The wizard hisses. “I sincerely hope that was just the tadpole’s doing, to cause you to do something as disrespectful as, as exposing our leader!”

“Please,” Astarion rolls his eyes. “Don’t try to scold me when you still have a pillow over your lap.”

“That’s-!”

“Enough!” Lae’zel stomps up behind Astarion, taking a fistful of his shirt collar and pulling him back. “Enough of this nonsense chatter! We waste our breath squabbling amongst each other. In Crèche K’liir, disputes are handled by blade, if you both would like to solve this childish squawking.”

Both men grumble in defeat, Astarion smoothing the ruffles of his shirt in upset. 

“You. Spawn, you’d do better not to stick your fleshy nose where it does not belong.” The githyanki sneers, jabbing a pointed finger into Astarion’s chest. Gale laughs triumphantly at the elf’s scolding, before the woman turns her ire back on him. 

“And you. I knew wizards were cowards, but allowing your own mate to be defiled by such an act? I would not put your incompetence on display, istik.

Chk! If you both do not end this conflict, I will end you.” 

Gale spends the night alone in his bedroll, a dangerous cocktail of guilt and shame festering in his stomach. He spends a long while thinking, reenacting it all behind his eyelids as his fingers pick the frayed edges of his bedroll. Things he could have said differently, things he could have done differently—including and not limited to a gag with how tremendously he blew their cover. Gods, what a fool he’s become since his infection!

He misses them already. The warmth of their body, the taste of their mouth. The image of them almost soothes his mind, as if they were caressing his face once more. 

He sees them again the morning after, packing their bag for the day's adventure in silence. A great longing grips his chest, and if he had been a bit braver, he would have gone over to check on them. Instead, they catch his gaze, and he feels a chill run down his spine. No, perhaps that wouldn’t be the best idea, bravery aside. 

He regrets. He most certainly does, he’d be a fool to claim otherwise. Gale wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t want him any more, if the night before was a mistake they longed to forget. 

They take him along on the road even despite his errors, albeit walking in silence. Regardless, they still watch his back, being there to catch him when he inevitably trips over his own feet from the nerves. 

He doesn’t deserve them, he truly doesn’t, not when he’s proven himself to be such a selfish wretch. 

And yet, he still looks to them when they find Elminster on the mountain pass, the beckoning darkness of the Shadowlands ahead almost seeping past the wooden warning signs like tendrils. The message his old friend brings is no less grim. 

Gale still hopes for comfort, if only in his final moments. 

[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

[guessimherenowtoo]

@onyxsboxes said: I’m really intrigue and excited by both, but i’ll go with 🏍 (i still need to catch up with the last chapters of Worth knowing 😅😊)

(In response to this emoji wip game post)

And even though the vast majority of this wip is currently unseen I didn't cheat, I just wrote these three sentences to share just for you!

Marge stares at the two of them for long moments, washed out dusty blue with the coming on of evening, the sky still too bright for porch lights but gone too dim for any lingering golden hour sun to line them. Like this, they’re not quite so opposite, Bucky’s pale and black to Gale’s golden, everything about them both awash in the same sort of soft nothing, equalized. They don’t look apologetic but there’s a sort of chagrin in the set of their shoulders, in their eyes as they both look up at her through their lashes, schoolboys waiting to be scolded or rewarded for their boldness and apparently ready to take either – it’s that willing patience more than anything that makes her snag a jacket and her handbag off the hook behind the door as she says, “Yep. I’ll try riding with Bucky tonight.”

[spookyjuicefiction]

Violets & Plums: Astarion/Tav, Part 2

Part 1 Masterlist A/N: no thoughts, just bitchy vampire man and his Big Feelings

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

In spite of his nagging uncertainty regarding what had happened between he and Tav the night before, Astarion emerged from his tent that morning in the best mood he'd felt in ages. His mind felt clearer than he could ever remember, and he could hardly even feel the scratching of his thirst in his throat. He only wished he didn't have Tav's blood to thank for it. He hated feeling like he owed her something.

Still, her willingness to allow him to drink from her boded well for his plan to seduce her into submission. With his newfound strength, he was ready to turn on the charm and entice her to his bed for a different purpose this time. And, well, if he could get a little blood out of it as well, then the deal was all the sweeter.

He was happily busying himself by packing up to head out for the day when Karlach's voice cut through the morning quiet around the campsite: "Gods, what in the hells happened to you?"

He turned to look. Tav had just emerged from her tent, and she really did look like hell. She was unusually pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her hair hung limply around her face and her shoulders sagged. Astarion winced slightly at the sight, knowing it was likely due to blood loss from his overindulgence.

"Didn't sleep well," she grumbled, helping herself to a scoop of scrambled eggs at the campfire. Shadowheart and Gale, who were eating nearby, exchanged a worried look that Tav did not miss.

"I'm fine," she insisted, "no need to worry. Had.. a headache that kept me up last night, that's all."

Astarion smirked to himself. That's one way of putting it.

If Tav was insisting she was fine, Astarion was not about to spoil his good day feeling guilty about her. He walked in the front of the party for once, cracking jokes and making witty commentary. He did not realize what a wide departure this was from his usual petulant brooding in the back of the group until Shadowheart fell into step beside him that afternoon.

"You're unusually cheerful today," she remarked. "Any particular reason?"

"Well, darling, the sun is shining, there are so many people that need killing, and I am exceedingly good looking. What more does one need to be cheerful?"

Shadowheart huffed out a laugh. After a moment, she asked, "there wouldn't be any particular reason why you're full of boundless energy and Tav is so exhausted she can barely walk, is there?"

"What?" He asked too quickly. "Why would you ask that?"

"No reason, just an observation," her voice intoned innocence, but Astarion could see impishness in her eyes and playing at the corners of her mouth.

He frowned, irritated. "I don't know what you're insinuating, darling, but in case you forgot: all Tav and I ever do is argue. We don't spend a lot of quality time together."

She rolled her eyes and scoffed. "Please. Haven't you ever heard how schoolboys taunt and tease little girls when they have a crush on them?"

"A crush?!" Astarion's voice came out higher pitched than he would've liked. "What an asinine and juvenile notion, even for you." He snorted. "I assure you, I wish Tav nothing but pure misery for the rest of her days."

He saw the half-elf roll her eyes again. "If you say so, Astarion."

"I do say so," he snapped, and then sped up so that they were no longer walking in step. So much for not spoiling a good day.

It only got worse when Tav insisted they would help two idiots find their sister who was apparently taken by a hag, and this led them through the nastiest, most putrid bog Astarion had ever seen. Every day he missed Baldur's Gate more.

"Who cares about some brat? If she went to a hag, that sounds like her business," he complained through gritted teeth as foggy bog water splashed over his boots.

"Hags perverse magic. They're foul creatures. The people of this area won't be safe until she's disposed of." Tav led the group now, apparently undeterred by the unpleasantness of their walk.

"Goodness, I've never heard you so vicious!" Astarion brought his hand to his heart in mock shock. "I guess the kitten does have claws."

"Tav is right. We can't let this hag get away with using magic to lure innocents into false deals," said Gale, and Astarion rolled his eyes. Of course that bookish fiend would rush to her defense. He wanted to shoot an arrow into his stupid hair.

"I look forward to cutting her down. It has been many days since we've seen combat," Lae'zel hissed, cracking her knuckles. "I ache for battle."

"Well, I don't," Astarion sniffled. "I ache for a massage and a nice bottle of brandy."

"Perhaps we should rest for lunch and gather our strength before we charge in with weapons blazing," piped up Wyll, indicating a dry-looking hill that would suit. The others mumbled agreement and made their way up to the spot, fanning out to sit on rocks and pull food out of their packs.

Astarion settled on a large, fallen tree on the edge of the clearing and pulled an apple out of his bag and began to peel it, so as to appear that he was eating. To his chagrin, Tav sat on the other end of the log, shooting him an annoyed look.

"Must you always complain?"

But something had caught Astarion's eye and he turned to take it in: a man was approaching their group, and he seemed to be heavily armed. Being the closest to him, Astarion and Tav rose quickly to intercept him.

"Greetings," the man said with a good-natured smile that immediately set Astarion on edge, for some reason. "Forgive the aroma. Powdered iron-vine, and old hunters' trick. Most monsters will think twice before making a meal of me."

Ugh. Astarion wrinkled his nose. "You're a monster hunter? I'm surprised. I thought all Gur were vagrant cutthroats." He could hear the rest of the party's footsteps approaching behind him. Tav shot him a withering look.

"Ignore the elf, he talks too much," she told the Gur, turning back to him. "What sort of monster are you hunting?"

"A vampire spawn," Astarion stiffened, narrowing his eyes, "but I fear he's gone to ground. I am hoping the hag of these lands can help me flush him out, if I can afford her blood price. When I saw your group, I thought it was best to warn you. His name is Astarion, and he may be very, very dangerous."

"Indeed," Tav cut in, taking a step forward. She had noticed Astarion's hands moving toward his daggers. "And what will you do with this 'Astarion' if you find him? Kill him?"

"No," the man replied. "My orders are to take him back to Baldur's Gate. My people wait for me there."

Tav cleared her throat. "Well, we thank you for your warning. We'll be sure to keep a sharp eye out."

The Gur nodded. "Safe travels, then." He gave a wave to the group at large and headed away down the hill. Nobody moved until he was out of sight. Then Tav turned to look at Astarion, and he was sure everyone else was also.

"Well, I guess that's the cat out of the bag, then," he said, turning to face them. "Surprise?"

No one said anything for a minute. Finally, Wyll was the one who broke the silence.

"Well, mate, I'd say we've all got our hangups. As long as you keep your fangs to yourself, I see no harm in carrying on as things have been."

"Agreed," Shadowheart said, and Gale nodded along.

"If you so much as bare your teeth in my direction, I will not hesitate to slice you open from sternum to groin." Lae'zel, obviously.

"Now, there will be no need for any groin slicing," said Astarion raising his hands innocently. "I haven't tried to bite anyone so far, have I? Well, I would've bitten Karlach if it wouldn't have melted my perfect face off."

Karlach laughed at that and wiggled her eyebrows. "What you wouldn't give for a taste of Mama K! But you're alright with me, Fangs. No hard feelings."

All eyes turned to Tav. Of course, thought Astarion, no decisions can be made without her final approval.

"Then we're all settled. Now, finish up so we can go hunt some hag."

Astarion could only stare as everyone made their way back over to their packs. That was it? No one wanted to fight him? No one had given him over to the Gur? Wyll had called him mate? He was completely dumbfounded. What game were they all playing? Were they all actually insane, or did everything else, including vampirism, seem normal in comparison to the tadpole problem?

The whole ordeal set his teeth on edge for the rest of the day, swearing they were whispering to each other about him behind his back. But nothing had changed at all, aside from Karlach calling out "nice one, Fangs!" when he struck the hag with a particularly good shot during the battle. When they made camp that night, no one even moved their tents further away from his.

Astarion couldn't stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. He stood tensely outside of his tent door pretending to read a book, but staring over the pages at the others to catch them conspiring, Thus, his heckles were already raised when Tav picked her way over to him.

"So, what do the Gur want with you, do you reckon?"

What are we, bosom buddies now? "How the hell should I know?"

"You must have some idea."

Astarion sighed and closed the book.

"I expect Cazador sent him."

Tav's eyebrows shot up. "You think so?"

"I know so." Astarion frowned. "It's very like him to send a... message like that." Noticing Tav's confusion at this admittedly vague explanation, he continued, "It was Gur who attacked me the night Cazador turned me. Sending one after me now has to be some kind of sick joke. He's reminding me that I'll never be free of him. That he can still reach me."

Tav sighed. "Tadpoles, mindflayers, goblins, and now vampires. We've got quite a bit to contend with."

"Then why didn't you just turn me over to him then, and save yourself the trouble?" Astarion snapped. She looked taken aback.

"No, Astarion, that's not what I meant. Why would I turn you over to him?"

He scoffed dramatically. "To finally rid yourself for good of all of my complaining that's so annoying to you? I don't know, why wouldn't you? He's a monster hunter, and I'm a monster."

"Because you're my friend!" She threw up her hands.

Her stared at her. "I'm your what?"

She stared back. "My friend. Aren't you?"

"Am I?" She looked hurt. "I - well, I hadn't really... yes, I suppose," he amended, and she offered a small smile. Cautiously, she took a step toward him. He looked around at her and tried to resist the urge to step back, wary of what she might be about to do. To his great shock, she slowly lifted her arms and wrapped them around his shoulders, pulling him against her. She was giving him a hug.

"You're not a monster. A spectacular bastard, maybe, but not a monster," she murmured in his ear. He could feel her breath tickling his neck, making his hair stand on end.

Astarion didn't know what to do. He couldn't remember ever receiving a hug before. Carefully, he brought his hands up and pressed them so gently across her back that he was scarcely touching her. He felt her body shake as she chuckled and pulled away.

"We'll work on it. Goodnight, Astarion."

The second she turned away from him, Astarion made a beeline for the trees. He hadn't needed to breathe in 200 years, but suddenly there wasn't enough air. The camp was too crowded, although he was more than ten feet away from where anyone else was sitting. As soon as he hit the tree line he broke into a run, pumping his legs as fast as he possibly could. His brain felt like it was short-circuiting, synapses long dead suddenly lit up and firing at random.

He was overloaded with sensation: the warmth of her body, the curve of her against him, the low hum of her voice in his ear, the chill of her breath on his skin, the scent of her - her perfume, her blood, overpowering him, incapacitating him. The memory burned through his mind white hot, scorching him from the inside out like the sun would have prior to the tadpole.

The tadpole. Finally, he slowed his pace, dropping to his knees. He had reached the lakeshore, and he placed his hands palm down in the sand, trying to ground himself. The tadpole must be the reason the sensation was so powerful - it was amplifying the memory, playing out all the sensations in overdrive that shock had blocked out initially.

He squeezed the sand in his hands and took deep breaths, even though he didn't need to. The sensation was calming anyway. This intense reaction to receiving a fucking hug was scaring the hells out of him. He settled back into a crossed-leg position and stared out over the lapping lake water and didn't move again until the sun rose the next morning.

It wasn't the hug, he realized, that scared him. The hug had been... well, incredible. The first soft and gentle thing he could even remember in his life. No, the thing that scared him was being seen. Being seen by her. She saw him so clearly that he didn't even know why he bothered trying to keep the mask on. The only time he'd ever had the upper-hand over her was the moment they first met - ever since then, she'd read him as easily as if he'd opened his tadpole to her and let her see him laid bare. He had been wrong to assume that she was trying to manipulate him, but she'd done it all the same. Every mean-spirited joke, comment, or action had been a roadmap to his pain, and she had landed a critical hit to the heart.

"Because you're my friend."

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

He tried to return to camp with as much subtlety as he could muster, wanting to avoid any questions about his absence the night before. There was no reason to continue to pretend to join the group for breakfast, so he set to packing up his tent, pointedly keeping his back to a certain friend of his. He was so anxious, however, that the task took little time at all, and he was left wringing his hands while the others took their time tearing down.

He risked a glance at Tav, and almost immediately regretted it when his stomach did some kind of sick fluttering that he had never experienced in his living dead memory. She was brushing the sleep tangles out of her hair and pulling it up for the day while laughing with Karlach about something. The sunlight caught her jewelry, making it twinkle, and he skin was flushed from her mirth. Had she always been so pretty? Certainly she'd taken some beauty potion in the night. Or perhaps he'd never really looked at her properly before.

Her body was supple, smooth and curvaceous. As a sorcerer, she didn't need to have the rippling muscles of Karlach or Lae'zel, but she was no weak, wilting flower either. He had seen the solid way she handled herself when she trained with Lae'zel. Most impressively, she walked with ease and confidence, even in the face of men twice her size. Astarion wondered how many creeps had regretted messing with her in the streets of Baldur's Gate after she fixed them with one of her most murderous stares, conjuring pure static shock between her fingers. As she swept the hair off her neck, he noticed the puncture wounds from his biting her, and the sight made him swell with pride. Mine.

The word sprang to his mind as intensely as if someone had shouted it in his ear. He shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to clear it. What the fuck was wrong with him? Didn't he hate Tav?

She caught his eye and smiled at him, and his stomach did a somersault. It seemed, despite his best efforts, he most certainly did not.

Part 3

[starlightweave]

wip word train

thanks for the tag @window-on-the-west!

rules: for each letter of the word you’re given, share an excerpt from a WIP that starts with that letter. My word is STAR.

First 3 excerpts are from The Bitter and The Sweet, my Gale/Silmarien fic; 4th excerpt is from an as of yet untitled, stupid ass fic about Gale & my Tav Isidro being bros and bringing out the worst mischievous schoolboy tendencies in one another by getting into a snowball fight

S - Starlight maiden. A name that should've been insufferably high elven and pompous, but as she stood before him, the Weave swirling feather light around her, the gems like stars across her brow, looking for all the world like a high born elven maiden plucked from Evermeet, he could not argue with the loftiness of her name.

T - Tears clung to her lashes, but her expression was set, and with the stars on her brow and the glow of sunset behind her, Gale felt himself prostrate before a highborn elven maiden on the shores of Evermeet. A woman who could destroy him – or create him anew.

A - And then one night, just two days before the city, he woke with a start, finally putting the pieces together: the Weave, the power, his quicksilver skin – divinity. 

R - “Race you outside!” Isidro shouted, shoving Gale hard to gain an extra few precious seconds for a head start, sending him toppling over the couch with an indignant yelp. Isidro leapt over him, cackling; Scratch barked excitedly and ran after his master. 

tagging @oryndoll and your word is GREEN

[captainlilyuniverseworld]

Never Gonna Give You Up

Next Part in Willingly Unwilling (Can't believe we're already at 9 🤯)

Summary: Gale wants to forget Mystra but can't. Astarion helps.

It’s stupid and he should leave. He should not be sitting here in the tabernacle with Mystra’s shrine in front of him. He is admittedly a little drunk. Astarion may have collected and burned everything in the palace that reminded him of Cazador and his siblings but he left the wine cellar intact. And it’s very good wine. Gale finished the first and is working his way through a second bottle. 

The floor is cold and hard and his back hurts from leaning against the stone bench behind him. His neck hurts from the angle he’s held it in for so long. Peering up at Mystra’s statue. He missed her and he shouldn’t. He should be mad at her. He should be forgetting her. 

She’d tossed him aside. She’d left him with a hole in his chest that no matter how much magic he gave, he sacrificed, it just took and took and took. She made her forgiveness contingent on blowing himself up. He had the crown of Karsus within his grasp. All he had to do was reach out and take it. But then she’d dangled the cure right in front of him. 

“Bring me the Crown of Karsus and I will heal you Gale. I will restore you to your rightful place as an archmage. As my chosen.” 

And what did he do? Caved like the doe eyed schoolboy he’d been all those years ago. 

And she’d cured him alright. He had all the magic and power at his fingertips and then some. The only evidence of his folly, of his mistake, the evidence that something had been mildly wrong with him was the scared reminder on his chest. 

He drank more wine. He needed to leave. He needed to get up and leave and forget her but he can’t. She’s taken up too much space in his head. In his heart. And he shouldn’t be thinking these things knowing that he would come after him. 

Because it wasn’t a matter of if, it was a matter of when. Not after the earlier conversation they’d had. 

“I just don’t understand why you’re so against the idea,” Astarion watched Gale brush his hair in the mirror. “One little bite. One little drink and eternity is yours.” 

“I never said I wasn’t against it,” Gale replied. 

“Are you scared?” Astarion sat up. “Because it’ll only hurt for a bit. I’ll make it as painless as I can. I never want to hurt you, you know that.” 

“I do. I know, and it’s not, it isn’t out of fear,” Gale shook his head. He didn’t know what it was. He set the brush aside and started to pull his hair back. His fingers brushed his ear and his hand stilled. 

It was empty. It was still an odd feeling. It’d been less of a request and more of a demand from Astarion. He caught his gaze in the mirror and looked away just as quickly. 

“Surely you are not still beholden to your former goddess?” Astarion asked as he walked over to him. “The ex-lover who asked you to kill yourself for her. Who dangled a cure for that bomb in your chest in order for you to hand over a crown that by all rights, could and should have been yours? Are you?” 

He put one hand on Gale’s shoulder the other coming around his front, fingers stroking his cheek. A few inches over and those delicate fingers would be around his throat. It’s funny how much Gale would prefer that. 

“Of course not,” Gale reached up and put his hand over Astarion’s. “Why would I when I have you?” 

“Always so predictable.” 

Gale straightened and swallowed the mouthful of wine he’d been drinking. He didn’t have to turn around, or look over his shoulder, but he did. Astarion is standing near the doors with his arms crossed over his chest. 

It must have started raining because his hair’s wet and plastered to his forehead. Even with the dim lighting of the candles he can make out the man’s expression. He’s not angry like Gale would have expected. But he is upset. He’s hurt. 

“I thought we’d moved past this running away and getting drunk,” Astarion walked over. “If it’s not the Elfsong, or the Blushing Mermaid, it’s here.” He looked around. “The shrine belonging to your ex lover.” 

“...I’m not getting drunk…” is the point Gale makes. “I’m drinking…but not getting drunk.” 

That doesn’t make it better but it doesn't make it worse. 

“Do you still love her?” Astarion asked. 

“Of course not,” Gale answered. “I told you. I don’t love her anymore.” 

“Then why the fuck are you here?” Astarion stood in front of him. “Why do I have to find you here in front of her? Staring at her like some lovesick puppy?”

The rain is louder now. Thunder breaks up the sound every so often. Astarion is looking down on Gale and Gale is looking up at him. And his eyes are wet. From tears? From the rain? 

“I…” Gale doesn’t have an answer for him. Because he doesn’t want to be Astarion’s spawn? Not now. Not yet. But it isn’t as if he really belongs to Mystra anymore now does he? But if he becomes a spawn. Astarion’s spawn it’s the same thing. No longer beholden to a mistress but to a master. 

When Astarion touches him, his fingers are cold but gente. His eyes are soft. “Poor thing. You say the words but struggle to believe them yourself. She really has you in a chokehold doesn’t she? That’s why you came here isn’t it?”

Continue Reading

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

Never Ask A Woman Her Age

In which everyone's favorite tiefling wizard is awkward around the woman who convinced him to stay in the grove. SFW.

Rolan found the dwarven wizard who convinced him, Cal, and Lia to stay in the grove incredibly frustrating.

The most frustrating.

How dare she walk around like that, telling people how to live their lives and be that beautiful?

NO.

How dare she be so stubbornly self-righteous and stunningly gorgeous?

NO. NO. NO.

Beside him, Lia sniggered. “Uh oh, I think Rolan might like our new friend.”

“Aw, the grump has a crush? That’s so adorable.”

NO.

He crossed his arms over his chest and totally did not pout. “Crush? What are we, twelve?” Thirty summers. I’m thirty summers and acting like a schoolboy.

“Well, I’m certainly not!”

As he glanced down at her, Rolan’s cheeks burned. Don’t say something stupid. Don’t act like a fool. Act like the brilliant wizard you are, not the lonely man from Elturel.

The dwarf smiled at the trio, her companions not far behind her. The half-elf is speaking to Dammon while the pale elf and Gale of Waterdeep are…flirting? Arguing? Both? “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you or interrupt.”

Lia grinned. “No, you’re good.”

LIA.

“I don’t believe I introduced myself earlier. I’m Louisa.” She held out her hand for Cal to shake, but then each of their heads turned towards Astarion, who had begun to laugh.

“Daaaaaaaaaaarling, you need to tell them who you really are.” He said with a wink, causing the pretty lady to frown.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Louisa shrugged. “He’s right. I’m Lady Lousia Wildheart of Baldur’s Gate.”

Smiling, Cal shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, my lady.” The dwarf returned his smile and then shook Lia’s hand.

Rolan, however, stood frozen.

She’s a noble.

She’s a wizard.

Her mother, if I remember correctly, is the head of Wildheart Ironworks and her clan.

I—

Lia elbowed him and growled, “Rolan!” before gesturing to her. “Say ‘nice to meet you.’”

Unfortunately for him, his mouth opened without any thought.

Because I have no thoughts.

Only her.

Only those emerald eyes.

“Heh, if you’re not twelve, then how old are you?”

Cal and Lia’s mouths hung open.

“ROLAN, YOU DON’T ASK A WOMAN HOW OLD SHE IS! WHAT THE HELLS IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?!” Lia shrieked, smacking Rolan in the chest as Cal was doubled over in laughter.

I’m such an idiot.

How…how did I fuck this up?

Why did I say that?!?!?

To his relief (not sure if it’s relief or embarrassment, frankly), Louisa was also laughing. Hysterically. I made her laugh. That’s a good start…after the bad start. “Oh my fucking gods, you’re too much!” Hands on her hips, she looked up at Rolan and giggled. Fucking hells, she’s adorable. “I’ll be one hundred and one in a few months, in case you’re wondering.”

That only made Cal laugh harder and then Lia joined her brother.

Fuck.

Shit.

Piss.

Zurgan.

FUCK.

“I always knew Rolan was into older women.” Cal teased.

CAL.

Her gaze still on Rolan, the dwarf giggled, wiping her eyes from ALL THE LAUGHING!!!! “Gods, you three are too much. I should get going, but I’ll see you later?” Me? “Rolan?” Me!!!!

“I, um, yes. Of course, my lady.” He mumbled as he wrung his hands. “Later.”

With the cutest fucking wave I’ve ever seen FUCK, Louisa turned and walked towards her group. After a few moments, they were gone. Presumably to save some puppies.

“Ooooooh, Rolan’s got a date later!”

“Remember Rolan, don’t act like a wizard with a stick up your ass. TOO LATE!”

“Cal, can you believe our little Rolan is all grown up and having a date?”

“Aw, they grow up so fast.”

Rolan’s fists were balled at his sides as he absolutely did not pout. Again. “She’s a wizard! She probably has books for me! STOP LAUGHING!!!!”

They did not, in fact, stop laughing.

And did not for some time.

***

Later, Rolan discovered, involved meeting Lousia in a small cove at the edge of the grove. In her camp clothes (a gray dress that shows off her considerable…assets), the dwarf was sitting on a rock and swung her bare feet in the water, looking up when she heard him approach.

“Rolan! Hello, please join me!” She waved, smiling warmly at the tiefling.

Join you.

Yes.

I can do that.

I can join you.

I can…not act like a fool…

He nodded and sat next to her. On a rock. My poor behind. “I, um, I want to apologize for earlier—” Rolan began but was interrupted by her shaking her head.

“No, it’s alright! Honestly, it was just really funny.” She’s still smiling. She’s so pretty. “It’s also something I needed after the last few days, so thanks.” The smile that apparently makes my heart skip a beat soon disappeared as her gaze returned to the water. “Can I count on your discretion, Rolan?”

“Of course.”

She sighed. “My companions and I were kidnapped by mindflayers, and we were…well, infected.” Louisa quickly turned to face him, taking his hands in hers. Those green eyes are pleading with me. What, dear lady? “But none of us are exhibiting symptoms. We hoped to speak with Master Halsin, but apparently those adventurers left him behind when they ran. Shitheads.” Her shoulders then sagged. “Sorry. It’s all been very frustrating.”

Rolan raised an eyebrow. “I would be shocked if it weren’t, my lady.” He quipped. Yes! Yes! She’s smiling. “And it, erm, goes without saying that if there’s anything I can do, then please tell me.”

Louisa briefly laid a hand on one of Rolan’s, giving him a few pats before folding her hands in her lap. A quiet “thank you” emerged from her as her gaze turned towards the night sky. “You know, I’m reminded by something lovely my dear friend Urianger once said about the stars in the sky. Would you like to hear my butchered version of it?” She giggled, bright green eyes full of life and love and an appreciation for the simple things…OF COURSE I WANT TO HEAR YOU SPEAK. On any topic anywhere, my lady. He nodded, not trusting myself not to sound like a lovesick fool. “A sea of shimmering stars. Diamonds strewn across a raven gown, boundless and beautiful. Tis an exquisite sight. Calm and gentle…and forgiving…” She shook her, grinning. “He’s more of wordsmith than I am, clearly.”

Rolan stared down at the dwarven woman and felt his heart beating in his chest. What he wanted to do was to grab her beautiful face and kiss her soundly, whispering reassurances to her. I’ll listen to you speak on any subject. “Please, both the words and recitation were marvelous. I quite enjoyed it, my lady.”

Her freckled cheeks blushed pink. A delicious shade of pink that I’d love to kiss… “Thank you!” She then happily…delightedly…spoke of her travels and adventures. She wants to write a book or edit her journals to publish in multiple volumes, but she believes no one would be interested?!?!?! No one would care?!?!? No one would read it?!?!?!

I WOULD.

As he was about to respond to her saying several of tutors described her writing as “completely unserious,” she tilted her head to the side, wincing.

No no no no don’t transform. Please. Stay with me…

The longest three seconds of my damn life passed, and then she smiled. “Sorry, that was Karlach via tadpole. Dinner’s ready, but…the next time we’re by this way again…would you like to hear some more stories? Or…” fucking hells the little nose wrinkle again. She’s going to kill me. “Whatever you want.”

Not for the first time this evening, his heart began to race.

Gods, don’t say “whatever you want.”

Because what I want…

I want…

“Rolan? There’s no pressure or anything, okay? I just like talking to you, and you seem really nice and—”

He stood quickly, startling her. Holding out a hand, Rolan murmured, “Yes, my lady.”

With a soft chuckle, she stood and took his hand. “To what?”

Shit.

She’s teasing me.

Well, I…I…

“Ahem, to spending more time with you, my lady.”

Rolan swore that when their gazes met, his heart fluttered at her perfect smile. Sweet but teasing.

The promise of things to come, I hope.