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i-hate-accidents · 1 month

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i hate accidents: the ball

femme!reader x benedict bridgerton, femme!reader & the bridgerton family, femme!reader & penelope featherington

summary: the adventures of a working class femme who befriends a fellow writer, a boisterous family, and a bewitching second eldest son

sections: I. the beginning / II. the between / III. the ball

y/n: bipoc, she/her, afab, nonbinary femme, queer, working class, of immigrant parents

content warnings: classism, mentions of financial survival, microaggressive sexism, microaggressive gender assumption, intersectional low self-image of y/n, positive/supportive families, nondescript mention of gagging (not related to self-image) in [III.iii], sexually charged 18+ interactions in middle to end of [III.iv]—minors dni, please stop at the end of the paragraph that begins "you repeat his words with sped up mockery"; you may resume at "you jut out your hip"

word count: 15.7k (of 38.8k)

story context: everything in s1 and s2 of the tv series is canon for this story except for the s2 epilogue with the bridgertons. this story takes place leading up to and into the 1815 season.

additional notes: this story is incomplete. scenes that are not written are described in chevrons <> with third person pov or are delineated by isolated ellipses. additionally, the author has only watched s2! she has not watched any of s1 aside from clips, and they have not read the books aside from quotes used in edits. they have not yet watched queen charlotte. the author kinda knows the gist of an offer from a gentleman; they are familiar with sophie beckett (and are excited to meet her/them in the tv series!).

author’s note: this is the first time the author has written fanfic in 13-15 years. :) it is her hope that they have made some progress since her pre/teens. additionally, this fanfic has been written, on and off, over the course of two years. the author sincerely hopes you find some sort of joy in it, especially the readers who maybe hope to see themself a little more specifically in the world we so love.

tagged: @omgsuperstarg @stvrdustalexx @bedobeeeee @crazymar15 @kahhorri @mayalopes @benedictbridgertonss @athensflower @02wrldz @queerlavalier @merlslrem @pillsbury-doughgirl @lamourdure3ans and all who have read either/both sections one and two—thank you. <3

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.i ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

“you look like a princess, y/n!” hyacinth squeals in delight.

“i regret not being of age yet to attend balls,” gregory sighs. “i would have been honored to ask you for your first dance.”

you beam at the youngest bridgertons with all the fondness in your heart. judith, an elderly maid of number five, had attempted to dispel hyacinth and gregory from the room as your hair was done, but you had asked her to please allow them to stay. the two kept you at ease throughout the foreign process, and their sweet sincerity kept you grounded amidst the anxiety that still floods your veins.

“you are both too kind. and fear not; tomorrow morning we will have a ball all of our own,” you lean in for a whisper, them following suit to listen. “and perhaps we will need the talents, and bravery, of a young sorceress and a young knight to save the guests from the intrusion of an unruly wyvern.”

“you promise?!” hyacinth and gregory yell at the same time. you hold out your pinky finger, just as you used to do with your siblings, and the two young ones wrap their pinkies around yours.

“i promise.”

“you are all done, miss y/l/n,” says alice, placing the last pin into your hair. she steps back and curtsies. her formality towards you renders you uneasy; she treats you as above her but you are of the same world. you school your facial features from showing your unease; you do not want to upset her or have her wrongly think that she has done something wrong.

“no need to call me ‘miss.’ i am simply y/n!” you grin at alice. “a friend.”

she smiles, albeit a bit sheepishly.

“of course, y/n. are you ready to see yourself?”

you shudder in a breath. you had asked not to be prepared in front of a mirror. to have seen your transformation so readily reflected at you at every point of this process—

you exhale frantically. the maids and genevieve had graciously accommodated your wishes, both going so far as rearranging this room and her fitting room to avoid any lines of your sight with a potential reflection; you were, and are, utterly grateful.

but i am unable to delay the inevitable any longer.

standing up and squaring your shoulders, you give alice a feeble nod. she bows her head in response, a small, encouraging smile on her lips, and leads you to the mirror as hyacinth and gregory turn in their seats to watch you cross the room.

it is just a dress. it is just a tiara, and just some jewelry, and just some gloves, and just some shoes, and just a bit of makeup. it is just you. it is still you. be the courageous person you are, y/n.

or—

just before you see even a miniscule bit of your reflection in that accursed mirror, you shut your eyes tight.

—be a coward.

you continue step by agonizing step, approximating where the mirror is, and shudder in another breath.

perhaps i am being too dramatic. perhaps i can faint and feign illness. perhaps i shall run away by way of the nearest window. perhaps i—

“the mirror is to your left, y/n; whenever you are ready,” coaxes alice.

you exhale once more.

or perhaps, i should open my eyes.

and so you do.

oh.

“oh,” you say aloud.

the person you see in the gilded full-length mirror is, somehow, a complete stranger and entirely you.

the one time you’ve worn makeup before was for your elder sister’s wedding: a bit of your mother’s rouge on your cheeks and lips to have some color to your otherwise dull face. now, your cheekbones glow with a blush much more complimentary to your complexion than a mere red as your lips shine with a gossamer of a similar shade. entirely new to you are the glimmering minerals on your eyelids that magically bring attention to your eyes and make them shine like starlight.

your eyebrows have been plucked (much to your initial pain but your current appreciation), maintaining their shape and fullness but now without strays.

soft tendrils of curls frame your face, and your hair—normally worn down when not working—has been pulled back into a loose coiffure and styled with sprigs and small blooms, the crown of your head graced with a silver tiara.

“this,” violet smiled fondly when she first set the tiara on top of your head, “is the tiara i wore to my first ball after my presentation. i had insisted on keeping it, thinking i could pass it on to my daughter when her first ball had come. but daphne was resolute on having her own tiara, and eloise was resolute on not wearing any,” violet laughed, her eyes shining when they connected with yours, “i see now, though, perhaps it was always meant to be yours.”

“violet, i— i cannot wear this. it is too— it’s too—”

sumptuous? opulent? regal?

no.

well, yes, the tiara is all those things. but those were not what had concerned you then. it’s too—

“beautiful,” you admitted quietly.

something as beautiful as that surely does not belong on the head of someone like you.

“well,” violet smiled, “then you are merely proving my point, my dear. it perfectly suits you.”

you hold out your hands, flare out your fingers, and stretch out your arms, examining the dark forest green of your long satin gloves, mesmerized that a muted color with such depth and richness could be achieved through dyes.

moving your hand, you touch one of the small rosewhite pearls adorning your earlobes and, with your other hand, touch the inky oblong pearl that shimmers violet, indigo, and green as it hangs from the thin, black velvet choker around your neck.

“my dear,” mama appeared in your doorway one evening as you wrote at your table, “do you require jewelry for your occasion?”

“oh. i suppose i do? i hadn’t given it much thought.” jewelry had been the last thing on your mind of things that terrified you of the impending ball.

“well, if you have not been offered anything by the bridgerton family yet, i thought— i thought perhaps you might like these.”

she approached you, a small wooden box in her hand, and placed it on your table. taking the box into your hands, you looked at it and then up at mama. she smiled at you but something of her countenance seemed strained. nervous. you offered her a smile in an attempt to assuage whatever concerns preoccupied her mind and, turning back to the box, unclasped it open.

“these are the earrings and necklace i wore when i married your papa. they were gifts from your grandmama that were gifts from her mama. i had tried giving them to your sister when she was to be married, but she thought… they are plain, nothing like what those fashionable people wear, i am certain; but if you have nothing else, i—”

you shot up from your seat, throwing your arms around your mama, feeling how she reeled from the ferocity of your sudden embrace, as you clutched onto the box of her wedding jewelry.

“they are beautiful, mama,” you said quietly but emphatically as the vehemence of your emotions tried to trap your words in your throat. “they are the most beautiful things i have ever seen, and i am so— i am so honored to be bestowed with the blessing of wearing them, and of wearing them proudly. thank you.”

you heard how mama sniffed her nose, and how she tried to hide it, as she gently rubbed your back, as she always had in your moments of vulnerability.

“i love you, my child.”

“i love you, mama.”

you then touch your exposed shoulders. the neckline of your dress, nowhere near your neck, follows the curved peaks of your breasts to meet and form a small v-shape in the crevice of your bosom.

“where is the chemise?” was the first thing you had said when you first tried on the gown at the modiste.

genevieve grinned.

“there is none.”

your jaw dropped.

“then what of a stay? what sort of stay would be worn with this?”

turning slightly, and noting your rather bare upper arms in the process, you angle your exposed back towards the mirror. another v-shape, its furthest point down a third of your bare spine.

“my dear, both you and i know that you already know the answer to your inquiry.”

“oh, my good g—”

never, in your life, has the expanse of your upper body been so naked and on display than in this ball gown.

“i do not mean to doubt your artistry, genevieve; truly!, the dress is magnificent, but—” you turned to kathani, who had exclaimed and clapped with immense delight upon seeing you in the gown, “is this—— permissible?”

the viscountess had arched an eyebrow at you then.

“y/n y/l/n, concerned with the rules of society? and of high society, at that?”

“no— no!” you yelled all too loudly as genevieve chortled and placed pins for final alterations into the dress. “i just, i just do not want to embarrass you and your family, is all.”

you had not meant for your voice to come out so quiet and small. the older women’s faces softened immediately.

“you could never embarrass us, y/n,” kathani stated with such tenderness. then she smiled. “you look beautiful.”

the off-white base layer of the dress feels luxurious against your skin, the fabric hugging your upper body, puffing out at the sleeves, and, from the underbust, flowing and falling into a cone silhouette for the skirt—but what truly awes you is the artistry of the outermost layer. a cream translucent silk, the piña seda (you recall genevieve proudly naming it as) of the outermost layer glistens while you sway and turn your body, light shifting and transforming the ever beauty of the dress, the swish of the skirt moving like how waves are described in the passages of your books and in the reminiscing of your parents’ memories. lined at the underbust begins the intricate thicket of embroidered foliage, painstakingly threaded with innumerable shades of greens and blues, a shimmering teal threaded throughout to gleam in tandem with the sheen of the fabric. the embroidery of foliage then grows and thickens as it cascades down the middle of the dress and comes to an encircling end a few inches above and around the floor-length hem. in the negative space of the piña seda are spread out, small ivory embroideries of floral motifs.

it is a dress deserving of someone most beloved in titania’s garden court.

“indeed,” genevieve affirmed, a smile on her lips akin to kathani’s. “those in attendance will not be prepared. you will look the most beautiful of all.”

and perhaps…

perhaps you should be unnerved by how different your dress will be from the others’ of the ton. perhaps you should be unnerved by how easily you will stand out from the crowds. perhaps you should be unnerved by the attention, the whispers, the stares you will inevitably receive with your dress, with your appearance, with your presence, with your very existence. but, instead—

“i do look like a princess,” you say finally. quietly.

you do look beautiful.

like you could belong amidst the ton.

like you could belong with the bridgertons.

like you could belong with him.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.ii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

“are you anxious, y/n?”

you turn to gregory at your side and see the swell of worry in his eyes.

“what gives you that impression?”

“you are shaking terribly,” hyacinth comments from your other side, replacing her usual pluck and wit with a worry akin to her brother’s.

the two had volunteered to escort you from the dressing room that you had been prepared in to the grand staircase of number five. with their arms hooked around yours, gregory on your left and hyacinth on your right, the youngest bridgertons have been walking you down the corridor. your heart aches with anguish: you know you have failed when the children are the ones to care for the adult.

“i am sorry to have concerned you both. yes, i— i am anxious.”

“it is reasonable to be anxious. but there are a great many cakes at these balls, or so i’ve heard, so you can eat one, and then another, to help ease your nerves!”

“how is that of any help, gregory.”

“it is plenty of help!”

“to eat and eat when she is already uneasy? the last time you were uneasy, you nearly—”

“do not recount that in front of y/n!”

“why not!”

“it is not— it is not proper!” gregory’s voice jumps in pitch, causing a swift blush to form on the apples of his cheeks. hyacinth snorts.

“why does your voice do that?”

“i do not know! kate said it is natural for bo— for young men to experience such a thing!”

“aren’t young men meant to be tall?”

“i am an inch taller than you now!”

“you are not!”

“i am too!”

you laugh. the youngest bridgertons halt their dispute and look at you.

“i must say, your usual squabbling is keeping me much at ease,” and you offer a sympathetic smile to gregory. “i am sorry that it seems to be at your expense, however.”

his eyes shine.

“you need not worry about me! i am glad to see you smile.”

“i as well,” hyacinth adds. you turn to her and see how her eyes shine too.

“i am most grateful to you both for being at my side on such a night.”

“we are most grateful for you, y/n.”

“that is something, and probably the singular thing, hyacinth and i can agree upon.”

you plant soft kisses on the tops of their heads, just as mama and papa and your elder sister had done when you were their ages. gregory and hyacinth nestle their heads into your upper arms and only part from you when the three of you reach the top of the first set of steps.

“are you ready?”

though you wish to say ‘no,’ you brace yourself with a deep inhale and nod.

your heart quickens with each step as time around you slows. your mouth has gone dry, and your body feels entirely numb, sensation only returning to you when you feel hyacinth and gregory unhook their arms from yours. turning your head, you see them stepping backwards, away from you, leaving you at the center of the landing to the rest of the grand staircase. you face forward once more, and ahead, below, you see the gentlemen and ladies of bridgerton house, waiting for you, looking at you.

you swallow.

for the very first time, in your dress, by yourself, you take a step forward.

breathe, y/n. shoulders back; tilt your chin up, but not too much; just as kathani had taught you. and just, breathe.

but it is hard to breathe with all eyes on you. with—

i must control myself. i must not seek him out. i must not seek out his face. i must not seek out those o—

you step on the hem of your dress and feel yourself start to fall forward. thankfully, god, for whatever reason, has blessed you with enough dexterity in this very moment, and you manage to catch yourself from tumbling down the steps as you hear gasps from above and below you. you mumble an apology (you don’t know why; it is not nearly loud enough for anyone to hear) and offer everyone a smile. upon seeing their relaxed shoulders and reassured expressions, you continue to descend the staircase.

stupid benedict. distracting me in remembering how to walk, and how to breathe, and how to—

oh.

i am doing it again.

shit.

goddamnit, stupid benedict!

somehow, you reach the landing of number five’s entrance hall without any additional accidents and, approaching the bridgertons, immediately look to the viscountess. as if knowing you seek her approval, kathani nods her head; a beam illuminates her countenance. you feel yourself ease, your shoulders relaxing (that you promptly square again; you are, after all, pretending to be a lady for the night), your heart racing less, if only minutely, and manage a smile. you feel someone take hold of your gloved hand and, turning to face the source, see violet gazing at you.

“beautiful.”

it is all she says, but with such tenderness in her voice, it makes your heart swell.

“the importance of appearance,” rasps eloise, causing you to turn to her, “and the lengths gone to achieve so-called perfection of such, especially for those of feminine disposition, is an entirely antiquated, offensive concept that must be eradicated from our, and all, societies—— but you do, look, beautiful, y/n.”

you grin.

“we’ll eradicate it together; and with help along the way, i am certain.”

when she responds in kind, you turn to the gentlemen, and, to your mortification, colin and anthony bow at you. the high society etiquette directed towards you from your friends overwhelms you with an embarrassment that you cannot even begin to fathom; they haven’t performed such formalities towards you since your first meeting all those months ago. but, in spite of your horror, the sincerity of their intentions, as well as their countenances, touches you deeply.

“madame delacroix and the maids have outdone themselves,” remarks anthony. “as mother and eloise have said, you look beautiful, y/n.”

“indeed,” colin beams. when he turns to benedict, however, his smile transforms into an expression befitting of a fairytale creature; one with mischievous intentions. “what say you, brother?”

you follow his line of sight and connect with ocean eyes. the flood of self-consciousness and the tempo of your heartbeats magnify hundredfold under his gaze, the butterflies within you fluttering the most violently they ever have, and you feel as though your entire body has been set ablaze.

anthony, with what looks like a smirk, nudges his brother with his elbow. as if suddenly aware of where he is, benedict hastily bows at you and, returning his ocean eyes to yours, says,

“you look— well.”

you hear eloise snort. turning your head towards her, you see she has completely sucked in her lips. to her left, kathani smiles massively. to kathani’s left, violet remains ever poised but with wide, sparkling eyes. you still feel self-conscious but are infinitely amused by whatever is happening to the bridgertons and, with a playful smile on your lips, return your gaze to benedict.

“thank you, mr. bridgerton. i had felt uneasy with an unnerved stomach earlier, but i am glad to know that my health appears to be in proper order.”

and you deeply curtsy at him.

from above you hear the sweet giggles of the youngest bridgertons. ahead, in your periphery, you see how anthony closes his eyes as he sucks in air through his nostrils and how colin, with an unabashed laugh, clasps his hand onto benedict’s shoulder.

“well!” anthony booms, attempting to control his smile on what ought to be an authoritative expression. “i believe we have a ball to commence. shall you lead the way, viscountess?”

and with an expression both equal in authority and warmth, kathani declares,

“i shall.”

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.iii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

you had grown ease of mind knowing that you would not be asked to dance. not only were you a stranger to everyone in the ton aside from the bridgertons and penelope, you were also not handsome like the debutantes flitting about the room, swishing prettily in their gowns, strategically but delicately fluttering their eyes at a gentleman with which they wished to dance. with anonymity and a plain face, you enjoyed the haven of people observing, snickering at the artifice and smiling at the sincerity. kathani chatting with her guests. anthony standing by her side. penelope dancing with colin. eloise hiding behind a plant. violet beaming at her family. (you tried to convince yourself that you had not noticed the absence of a particular person.) your nerves have finally begun to calm, finding content in your station at the margins of the dance floor.

when colin bridgerton approaches you, hand outstretched in your direction, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“miss y/l/n, may you do me the honor?”

“i’m sorry, what?”

he laughs.

“will you dance with me?”

you gape at him.

“you’re mad.”

“my mind is perfectly intact.”

“this is unwise.”

“this is the best decision i have made this night.”

“i shall surely step on your toes.”

“i have worn my sturdiest shoes for the occasion.”

the corners of your mouth tug down into a moue at the third bridgerton’s stubborn charm. his grin merely widens as your eyes narrow to slits at him. penelope approaches from behind the beguiling imp and smiles warmly at you.

“it will be fun,” she encourages. “i promise.”

penelope! no!

“et tu, brute?” you bemoan.

she shrugs.

“what is a ball without dancing?” penelope offers. sweet innocence colors her voice, but the delighted glint in her eyes reveals her true duplicitous nature. she knew exactly how to play the game of this conversation, no doubt a devious plot concocted between her and her beau.

you sigh.

“fine,” you huff, slapping your hand into colin’s palm. “i would be honored, mr. bridgerton.”

the diabolical duo laughs at the sarcasm that drips from your words as colin leads you to the lineup on the dance floor.

–

“how is the dance treating you, miss y/l/n?”

“i hate you.”

colin guffaws. (you see in your periphery how heads shift towards him and how eyes narrow at you. the partner you had just left looks at you with particular scrutiny.)

“if your hatred towards me is the cost of you enjoying the ball, then it is a burden i shall carry, and happily so.”

“has anyone ever told you how infuriating you bridgertons are?”

“no, but we very well know that we are,” he grins, “and we take immense pride in it.”

you groan, throwing your head back. (you hear murmurs around you. not ladylike.)

“are you truly not having fun?” the gentleness in his voice makes you look back at him. his expression is soft. sad. guilty. “we can leave the lineup, if that is what you would like.”

you consider his words and his offer.

“i am having fun,” you reply truthfully. his eyes light up at that and your heart warms at the sight. “it is just— being in a circumstance so wholly unfamiliar— it’s overwhelming, is all, i think. but…” you feel a smile form on your lips, “knowing that you all—as infuriating as you bridgertons are—are here with me, by my side, wanting me to enjoy myself, wanting me to be happy, it makes all the overwhelming feeling worthwhile. i am happy. you all make me happy.”

colin doesn’t say anything. he just stares at you as the two of you dance still. you are about to inquire—

“i am grateful to call you my friend, y/n. becoming your friend has been one of the greatest blessings to have been bestowed upon me and my family.”

you suck in a breath.

as is becoming yours has been one of mine.

but another thought also lives in your mind. so, on the exhale of your breath, you smirk.

“only second to falling in love with penelope, yes?”

he laughs, an uncharacteristic shy smile forming on his lips as he looks at his feet and then back at you, eyes shining incandescently.

“i hope you do not take offense to being second.”

“being second to penelope is truly, sincerely, still a victory in of itself. you are very blessed, indeed, to be her premier.”

you did not think colin’s eyes could shine brighter than they had mere moments prior, but you suppose— no, you are certain that this is the effect that the love of penelope featherington has on the third eldest bridgerton: the light in colin’s eyes is absolute radiance.

“‘very blessed’ is to put it very lightly.”

with unabashed grins, you and colin continue to dance. you have to walk most of the steps, often keeping good on your promise and stepping on his toes, but your partner is deterred neither by your incompetence nor by his injuries. the two of you laugh (drawing leers from the other guests, you notice but brush off) and end your dance with exaggerated flourishes of a curtsy and a bow to one another.

“you underestimate your dancing skills, miss y/l/n,” colin remarks with a beam.

“see if you feel the same after tending to your bruises, mr. bridgerton,” you beam back.

“colin bridgerton!”

you both whip your gazes to the call of colin’s name and see a man fastly, eagerly approaching.

“hastings!”

hastings? why does that sound familiar?

colin and the absurdly handsome man embrace, smiles broad and sincere.

“i was uncertain you would be joining us on this occasion.”

“we would have seen to arriving early, as we had intended, but augie is proving to be quite unpredictable with his tantrums as of late.”

“he must take after his uncles,” colin smirks with odd pride. that makes the other man chuckle.

“unfortunately, it seems to be so.”

he then shifts his gaze onto you. his expression is curious and— sweet? kindly. you feel yourself become rather self-conscious as you notice, in your periphery, colin assuming a posture of gentlemanliness.

“my apologies for my dreadful manners. simon, this is miss y/n y/l/n. y/n, this is simon basset.”

simon bows most graciously at you.

“good evening, miss y/l/n. it is a true pleasure to finally meet you. i am simon basset, daphne’s husband.”

daphne?

as in daphne bridgerton?

you recall the day you and benedict toured the art gallery: a portrait, a fairly recent one, it seemed, of a beautiful young woman and a beautiful young man—the duchess and the duke of hastings, the plaque read.

your jaw drops.

“you are the duke!” you remember the etiquette kathani taught you. “your grace!” and you sloppily curtsy.

simon laughs.

“that is hardly necessary. please, if you feel comfortable in doing so, call me simon.”

“yes— of course!, your— simon,” you compose yourself. “and you may call me y/n; i would prefer it, actually.”

simon grins.

“then, y/n, may i have the honor of having your next dance?”

your jaw drops again, your composure completely falling away. you look at simon, who is utterly amused by your reaction, and then to colin, who is utterly delighted by the turn of events, and back to simon.

“that is a mistake.”

that earns guffaws from both of the men. (you feel stares falling upon them and, once again, scowls falling upon you.)

“i am more than willing to make that discovery for myself, if you will allow it.”

you throw back your head (ignoring the additional glares shot your way) and, with a sigh, whip it back to look at simon with a fatigued, but earnest, smile.

“i shall allow it.”

colin bows his head at you, his grin having never left his countenance since the end of your dance together, and steps to the side as you place your hand into simon’s outstretched one and are led to the next lineup by the duke.

–

“has the duchess accompanied you to the ball this evening?”

“while it is poor courtesy to speak on behalf of my wife when she can speak for herself, i can say, with confidence, that she would much rather you call her daphne.”

“kathani had taught me your society’s etiquette in preparation for the ball, in the event it would be necessary,” you roll your eyes. “while i find it all utterly ridiculous, and entirely unnecessary for me in particular, i want to honor the knowledge that my teacher has bestowed upon me as a way to honor her.”

simon grins.

“you are a dedicated student. indeed, she is in attendance. the last i had seen her, she was tending to benedict.”

your heart sinks.

oh no.

“tending to benedict? is he unwell? did something happen? is he all right?”

you hear how your voice rises in pitch and grows louder and more frantic with each word. (you try not to care for the stares that you feel on you. they are not of importance right now——or ever.)

is that why i have not seen him all night? because he is in poor condition? shall i leave the ball? shall i see where he is being tended to? shall i—

“y/n?”

oh. yes. you were having a conversation with simon.

“sorry, what did you say?”

“i had said that i did not mean to worry you,” simon says sincerely, but there is something in his smile. not suspicious, neither mocking nor teasing. it is as if he is withholding the full expression of his emotion. “i simply mean that she is speaking with him and— encouraging him, is all.”

you feel the entirety of your body, mind, heart, and soul ease; but now, you are perplexed.

“encouraging him? whatever for?”

“i had not stayed with them long enough to hear the details of their conversation; i had sought you out rather immediately.”

“me!”

the dance had timed perfectly that upon receiving such information, you are forced to turn to another partner (who is unnerved to have you as a temporary companion). when you reunite with simon, his chuckling has mostly subsided.

“indeed. the viscount had encouraged me to ask you for a dance. the viscountess then stated that you required the practice.”

“i—— am utterly lacking in words in how to respond to that.”

“if it is of any comfort to you, it was something i had already intended on doing.”

“that is, rather strange?”

he grins.

“i can see how that is so from your perspective, yes. but from mine,” and it surprises you how suddenly simon’s countenance softens, “i had to find out for myself how wonderful this y/n y/l/n is to have so easily won the affections of all the bridgertons at number five. daff and i, as well as francesca, were becoming quite jealous that we did not have the good fortune to spend time with you as the rest of the family has had.”

“the family has… spoken of me?”

“in these past months of knowing you, you have become their most beloved topic of conversation. hyacinth and gregory idolize how resplendent of a storyteller you are. eloise adores being challenged by your intellect. colin aspires to your ferocity of quick wit. kate cherishes every discussion you share together. anthony reveres your unwavering resolve. violet becomes overcome with delight at every recounting of a memory in which you are involved. and benedict…”

you swallow.

“yes?”

you hear how feeble and quiet your voice has become.

“never stops speaking of you; so much so that it would be impossible to abridge what he loves in you.”

you shut your eyes closed at the words “he loves” and attempt to control the tears that threaten to flow at the word “you.”

the love he has for you is not the love you have for him.

“i— i did not know that they held me in such high regard,” you whisper.

you flutter your eyes open, grateful that no tears have fallen, and are greeted by the gentlest of smiles from simon. it assuages your soul.

“the highest of regards. they care very deeply for you.”

“and i care very deeply for them,” you declare softly. you then feel yourself break out into a smile. “i cannot say the same for you, yet, but i can see it forthcoming.”

simon throws his head back with a loud laugh, your smile transforming into a large grin (as you ignore the scowls that fall upon you). simon whips his head back to you, and he too wears a large grin.

“i am honored that you see the potential within me.”

with a final spin, you and simon release the other’s hand, ending the dance in a curtsy and a bow, both of your grins non-faltering.

“thank you for bestowing me the honor of dancing with you.”

you snort. (you hear scoffs and other suppressed noises of disapproval.)

“i fail to see how much of an honor it is to have someone incessantly knock into you, but if such is your feeling,” you curtsy with much theatricality and, upon your rise, let out a sigh of relief. “now, i shall retire to the margins once more.”

simon, once again, looks as if he is withholding the full expression of his emotions, but in it you detect— delight? you narrow your eyes.

“what?”

“you are not meant for the margins, y/n; please forgive me,” and with that, simon bows, his smile still non-faltering, and turns to leave you in the middle of the dance floor.

you are about to call out his name, curious and agitated by his vagueness—

“y/n?”

you turn around to the familiar voice and are greeted by a smiling anthony.

“oh no. are you going to ask me for the honor of having my next dance?”

the viscount looks as if he is about to howl with laughter and attempts to mask it, poorly, with his absurdly elated smile.

“is the idea of dancing with me truly so appalling?”

“the idea of dancing more is what i find so appalling.”

“i shan’t force you to do anything you do not want to do.”

“but how will your pride take it?”

this time anthony fully howls (earning looks of confusion at the host and their looks, predictably, turning to glares when they trace the impropriety back to you).

“i am always working on humbling myself,” he says, his expression softening. “i assure you that i, as well as my pride, can manage your rejection if it means that you are happy. you need not worry about my well-being.”

these damned bridgertons, and their damned charm, and their damned sincerity.

despite your internal accusations, you smile. you offer your hand (hearing a gasp or a few around you), and beaming, anthony takes it.

–

“you look like a princess, y/n!”

the saccharine words of hyacinth echo in your mind. with the transmutative magics of your fairy godmothers in mama, violet, kathani, genevieve, judith, alice, and the maids of bridgerton house, the impossible was made possible: you look like a princess. but it is not until this very moment, after descending a regal staircase, after entering this enchanting ball, after dancing with two dashing gentlemen and now a third, that you feel like a princess. you recall how you and your siblings played imagination; how you often asked to be the princess; how you did it so often that mama sewed you a dress from scraps of fabric and papa crafted you a crown out of discarded branches and your elder sister announced you as princess y/n whenever you played and your younger sibling waltzed with you around the first floor of your home. it makes you elated with childlike wonder how fortunate you are to be here and how lovely it is to be here, how strange and wonderful it is that imagination has become real life; as if it is all a wish for which you did not know you had wished, a wish that you did not know you had wanted to come true until it came true.

but—

“is there something on your mind, y/n?” you hear anthony ask, sometime after returning to him as your partner. “you seem pensive.”

“ah, yes. despite my gripes with you, and your brother, and your brother-in-law insisting on dancing with me—”

“i gave you an option not to do so!”

“i am not finished speaking!”

he huffs out air through his nostrils, waiting with what seems to be a morsel of patience for you to continue.

“despite my gripes with you, your brother, and your brother-in-law insisting on dancing with me—” anthony gives you a tired look that of an older sibling; you grin, “i am enjoying myself. i just wish, i just wish my family could be here with me, to enjoy it too.”

anthony’s expression softens immediately, and it makes your heart tighten. you know with what gravity, duty, and love he looks after the entirety of his family; you have witnessed it at every given second since becoming his friend. if someone were to be with you as you navigate this pain, you are glad that it is anthony.

“we shall invite them to the next ball we host,” he declares. your jaw drops. “it was a lack of foresight on my part for not doing so for this occasion, and i shan’t make that error again.”

you try to do rough estimations of what costs that would entail for the bridgertons— dresses and coats and shoes and four to six sets of two abstained days of work at least.

“anthony, i cannot possibly ask you to—”

“you did not ask,” he grins. “i offered. and i do so wholeheartedly. it shall not be a trouble for us, just strategic planning as kathani and i work the books. and before you protest—” you frown, both disappointed and flattered that anthony could sense your retaliation, “it is something i—as well as the rest of the family, i am certain—wish to do. if you won’t consider it for yourself and your family, then perhaps consider it as a gift to us selfish bridgertons.”

that makes you laugh loudly as you feel tears form in your eyes (whispers of you be damned). expression turning gentle once more, anthony continues,

“it would be an honor to finally meet your family. if they are even an inkling like you, then they must be truly wonderful, indeed.”

with a small sniffle of your nose and all the gratitude in your heart, you smile.

“they are. they are truly wonderful. i love them so much.”

anthony smiles in return with a nod of his head.

“then it is settled.”

“you are a good brother, anthony.”

you have wondered often if that is something anthony knows. while the bridgertons’ love for one another is apparent in all that they do and say and breathe, you haven’t heard them say very complimentary things to one another, particularly to the eldest. it is typical of families to tease and to jest, you know that intimately, but you also know how important, then, it is to tell your family what you truly think of them, how you truly feel of them. they ought to know just how much they are loved.

though his overall demeanor is composed and dignified, the softness in anthony’s eyes reveals his true emotion.

“and you are a good sibling, y/n.”

< their dance eventually comes to an end. someone approaches them. >

“good evening, brother,” benedict turns his ocean eyes to you. “good evening, y/n.”

“good evening, benedict.”

you vaguely hear something in your periphery. you turn to it and see a brilliant grin lighting up the viscount’s countenance.

“huh?”

“i had said that the viscountess is calling me over to her. i must pardon myself.”

“oh. yes. farewell, anthony.”

his grin broadens, dimples forming in his cheeks, and he bows. you see how, as he brings himself upright, his eyes shift towards his brother, the delight in his grin never leaving but something in his eyes… softening? before you can fully process it, he has turned and now walks towards kathani.

you turn back to benedict.

“i—— good evening, y/n.”

“good evening, benedict. though, we have already greeted each other this night, just moments ago.”

“ah, yes— that—— that would be correct. and— is… correct.”

he is anxious. your heart aches at the sight, and you want to reach out and touch him, comfort him, ease whatever his concerns are—but you refrain.

benedict clears his throat.

“are you— are you enjoying yourself?”

while heavy by benedict’s current state, your heart cannot help but glow brighter at his question.

“yes, tremendously so. the dancing has been plenty fun, despite how horrendous i am at it.”

that makes benedict laugh, and relief floods your body, mind, soul, and heart. it is good to hear him laugh. to see him smile.

“i do not think you are as horrendous as you think you are. your form has been quite good.”

you cock your head, feeling the scrunch of your eyebrows and the smirk on your lips.

“you have been observing me?”

his jaw drops, his body stiffening again. suddenly shy, he looks at his shoes and, with a cough, looks back up at you, and you attempt to hold in your gasp.

how.

how is that, after all this time, he makes these butterflies within me flutter still.

“i— i do not have a clever diversion for that. yes; yes, i have. i suppose i have been building the— the courage within myself.”

“‘the courage’? the courage for what?”

he swallows.

“to ask you to dance with me.”

oh.

“oh.”

he looks… he looks scared. exposed. vulnerable.

you feel them within yourself, too.

he offers his hand.

“may i dance with you, y/n?”

you place your hand in his.

“yes. yes, you may, benedict.”

i am terrified of nothing else and would love nothing more than to dance with you.

benedict leads you to the floor, his ocean eyes never leaving yours, your eyes never leaving his.

the quartet starts up, and you detect how it is music for a waltz. of all the dances you were taught, even you can admit that you were best at learning the waltz.

…

you curtsy as he bows. benedict places his hand on your waist, and you try not to elicit your gasp from feeling his touch.

< their dance commences. they are silent. a lot of staring and shit.

< notably, y/n is not cognizant of the ton’s perception of her while she dances with benedict as she had been with her previous partners. it seems her sole focus in this moment is dancing with benedict, being with benedict. her heart, mind, body, and soul is with him.

< y/n’s mind goes Rampant when benedict places his hand on her exposed shoulder. >

do not close your eyes, you reprimand yourself. if you close your eyes, you will indulge. you will indulge in this sensation. in this touch. in his touch. in benedict’s bare hand on the expanse of your exposed skin. in imagination. in fantasies. in thoughts. in other thoughts on other parts of your body that you so, so very much want him to—

“i had not spoken properly.”

you try not to shudder a gasp upon hearing his voice.

“pardon?” you say, a bit breathless. the dance calling for it, benedict twirls you, and you are now face to face again.

“earlier; when i had commented on your appearance, i had said you looked well.”

you snort, recalling the peculiar word choice, and that earns a smile from benedict.

“what i had meant to say is—“ he swallows, “you look beautiful, y/n.”

“i think,” you respond perhaps too swiftly, “that is testimony to genevieve’s skill and not to my appearance.”

“i think genevieve only enhances what is already there.”

you want to change, you don’t want to change— you do want to change the topic. you cannot handle whatever— whatever benedict is insinuating. the indecipherable, intense, attentive gaze of his ocean eyes on you. it is so much; it is too much.

“she spoke of you.”

shit. why did i say that?

his face immediately falls, ocean eyes transforming with it.

shit.

“genevieve spoke of me? with you? why?”

“kathani had accompanied me to the modiste, and i had shared with genevieve how i became acquainted with penelope and the bridgertons,” you half-truth. “talking about the family, and then you, was a natural consequence.”

“what did she say? about me?”

you try not to wince at the urgency in his voice.

“she shared how you and she had— an intimate and passionate acquaintance,” you divulge, using the words your friend had to describe the artists’ relationship. perhaps you imagine the sensation, but you feel benedict wince as you dance. “and that it was brief and no more.”

“she said that? ‘brief and no more’?”

“indeed.”

he sighs. you detect relief in the exhale, but perhaps you had, once again, imagined it. you always had an active imagination; trying to bend what you perceive to what you wish was real.

“i see,” is all benedict says.

“do you care for her?” you inquire. it is truly masochistic, what you are doing. but you cannot help yourself. it is something you often do when benedict is near. when you and he are so close.

there is a small silence.

“i did. at least, i think i did,” he shares. “i was hurt when our— acquaintance came to an end, but i was not heartbroken. i had known nothing of heartbreak, not until—”

and he suddenly stops speaking, sucking in his lips.

“until?”

“nothing. nevermind. forget i had said anything,” he says all too quickly. you laugh, and he scrunches his face in adorable disapproval at you.

“well, that only makes me the more curious, benedict! the mystery of it, and your very clear blush, indicate it must have been quite the event.”

“i am not blushing!”

“you cannot lie about something i can literally see.”

“you are infuriating.”

“and what do you think you are?”

benedict just pouts at you, though you see the twinkle in his ocean eyes. you want the twinkle to be of affection, but you will settle for amusement. for friendship. you take pride in how you can elicit this reaction out of him. you take joy in how he can elicit this reaction out of you. you love him, and you are grateful that is something you can say and know and feel. even if he does not love you as you love him.

“the first time i felt heartbreak,” he begins, finally giving in. you perk up in anticipation. “was when— was when you had walked out of the house after i had crumpled the paper to the floor.”

you nearly stop in your tracks, halting your waltz with benedict entirely, until you find a way to recover and continue the steps with him. he is looking intently at you, waiting for your response. you inhale a breath and on the exhale say,

“oh.”

it is a pathetic response, but it is the only one you can muster at this moment. breath has entirely left your lungs, your heart palpitates at a maddening rate, the lightning of benedict’s touch and proximity magnifying at every passing second.

“i had hurt you, this person whom i—” he swallows, “whom i care for, deeply and completely. i was, and am, ashamed of my deed and the arrogant thoughts and beliefs that led me to do it.”

“i have long forgiven you for that, benedict.”

“it is something of which i am not deserving.”

“you cannot tell me what to think or do,” you challenge, arching an eyebrow at him to add levity to the conversation. benedict smiles, despite himself, and it makes your body flood with relief and joy.

“i would never dare.”

“as you shouldn’t,” you grin, then inhaling and exhaling through your nostrils. “you need not flagellate yourself for what you did. that accomplishes nothing, and guilt is entirely useless in the structures that be,” you say resolutely. more softly, you continue. “my forgiveness is something i gave you willingly because it is what i truly wanted. because i knew, and know, how you wish to do better. i see that in everything you do; in your art, in your character. it is something i admire in you.”

benedict simply stares at you, his ocean eyes impossible to decipher again. his gaze is overwhelming, but you refuse to break it.

“i was about to say how undeserving i am of your compassion,” he says, “but then swiftly realized you would have just admonished me.”

you laugh.

“you were correct in thinking so, yes.”

he looks at you still, his expression still impossible to decipher, but there is something soft about it.

“thank you, y/n.”

the butterflies within you flutter once more.

“and if you ever wish to discard your paper again,” you diverge from your feelings, “simply hand it to me. i am always in need of more.”

he laughs fully, the corners of his eyes crinkling with delight, and you feel the flutterings violently rage within. perhaps diversion was not the wisest choice (or perhaps it was, if it meant that you were the one to make benedict laugh like that).

“i have gotten quite good at maximizing the amount of negative space on a sheet, but nothing would delight me more than to support your writing.”

“i am most grateful for your patronage, mr. bridgerton.”

benedict makes something of a gagging noise, and you snort loudly.

“you are making it strange with the master-servant relation, y/n.”

“ah, so you are learning,” you comment with a sagacious nod of approval. it is now benedict’s turn to snort.

“what can i say?” he grins. “i have the greatest of teachers.”

“they have done quite well; please give them my regards.”

“i shall.”

and with the music coming to an end, you turn to face one another, wide and wild smiles on your faces. you curtsy as benedict bows.

“may i fetch you a drink?” he inquires after you are both upright again.

“is alcohol served at these occasions?”

benedict laughs.

“champagne it is.”

he gives you one more bow, lingering a moment more with one more smile, before taking off to retrieve your drink.

you try to bite back your smile, but it’s entirely useless. you twirl in your spot, feeling the swish of your dress in the spin, for you cannot help yourself. you cannot help how much joy radiates off of you in this moment, how giddy you are. it feels like a fairytale. you look in the direction benedict took off and feel your smile widen.

it is dangerous what you are doing— indulging in this. but you do not care.

this is undoubtedly the most wondrous night of your life.

“so you’re the pauper that the bridgertons have invited to their ball.”

you freeze.

“how else would you have been asked to dance by the host—the viscount and a bridgerton, nonetheless; his two brothers; and the elusive duke of hastings? it is an endearing sight, really.”

her posse snickers.

“the bridgertons have always been so kind and thoughtful in that way, extending their hands to the less fortunate. why they chose you, however, remains a mystery. if it were a pretty face that appealed to them, i perhaps could have understood, but you are simple at best.”

“you are cressida cowper,” you state.

penelope and eloise had warned you about a cruel creature amongst the ton, and the young woman before you matches all of the criteria they had described: icy platinum hair, draconian eyes, and a haughty disposition that ought to be reserved for the royals.

cressida daintily gasps and smiles at you with what seems to be all the mockery she can muster.

“i see that my reputation precedes me! though, only those of my standing can refer to me as such. cannot have my name tainted by the mouths of the lowly.”

you feel the gazes of other guests on you. you hear muffled sneers.

this is entertainment for them.

you should say something, stand up for yourself— against cressida, against her posse, against the ton— but you don’t. you can’t. your mouth has gone dry, your mind has gone silent, your body has gone numb. you have never, ever felt more powerless.

“your dress— did the bridgertons pay for it? of course they did. pity, though, for their wealth to go to waste on such an offensive thing. allow me to assist you—”

and she pours her drink onto you.

you try not to gasp at the chill of the liquid making contact with your skin. looking down, you see a reddish purple stain seep into the cream fabric of your ball gown as it continues to travel downwards.

you hear cressida giggle. you look up.

“better,” she simpers. “beautiful at last.”

her posse sneers with delight. the guests who had tried to suppress their laughs do nothing to hide their mirth now.

this is entertainment for them. my humiliation— it is entertainment for them.

you step into cressida’s space, eliciting a stunned gasp from her as the others follow suit, and shove your face as closely to hers as possible.

“if we were not in your domain, i would rip out your delicate hair and strike my hand across your pretty little face. but i am a lady—not in blood nor in title, but in character. and with your words and your deeds, you have shown just how utterly undeserving you are of such a title with your complete void of morals, compassion, and integrity. i do not care what you think of me, cressida, or what drinks you pour on me because i can rest easy in my sleep and waking hours knowing with perfect certainty that i am nothing like you. i bid you good night.”

and maintaining the ferocity of your glare on her horrified eyes, you muster up the most mocking, deep curtsy you can, turn, hitch up your skirt, and run away. you cannot care for the booming silence from that creature and her posse, for the murmurs and glowers of the ton thrown your way. you cannot take time to process what words a flutters-inducing voice snarls at cressida.

no.

you must simply run away, quickly and efficiently, because you refuse to give into these monsters’ satisfaction of seeing your tears.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.iv ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

the cool air of the night whips your face as you run as far and as deep as you can into the gardens. you curse your damned shoes, for they are slippery and nothing like your sturdy boots, and they make you realize even further how much you have fucked up in allowing yourself to get this far. in allowing yourself to go to the ball, in allowing yourself to dance, in allowing yourself to fall in—

feeling your shoe catch on something, you fall forward and throw your hands out in front of you, your gloved palms digging into the bark of a tree trunk as you attempt to steady yourself. you attempt to control the staggered rhythm of your breath, the sobs that choke out of your throat, the palpitations that threaten to collapse your heart.

why did i allow myself to get this far?

“y/n—”

you snap your gaze over to the call of your name as your stomach knots, somehow, even now, with flutterings upon hearing his voice.

“benedict, no— just— no,” you manage to croak out, stepping away from where he approaches. you hold up your hand, as if it is a magical force that will push him away. it does not. “just go, please, just go.”

“i refuse to leave you, y/n, you are hurt—”

you cackle, sniffling the snot that tries to escape your nostrils. you push your remaining hand off the tree and turn towards him.

“hurt? what gave you that impression? is it the tears? they are just water, benedict, they will dry.”

“this is not the time to jest!”

“then what do you want of me!”

“to allow me to help you!”

“why! why do you care! why do you care for some, some low status person like me!”

“that is not how i see you!”

“THAT IS WHAT I AM.”

he freezes. you feel yourself clenching your hands into fists, your nails digging into your palms through the satin of the gloves that were bought for you.

“you are the son of a viscountess, a brother to a viscount. i wonder every day if my family will have enough food to eat at our one meal. we—” you gesture between the two of you, “—are not of the same world. and maybe, maybe it should have stayed that way. to, to have stayed in our own worlds. we should have stayed in our own worlds!”

“and is that what you want?” he shoots back.

“what?” you snark.

“is that what you want? for us to stay in our own worlds?”

you fall silent, words suddenly failing you, breath suddenly leaving you. he huffs out a breath and continues.

“if that is what you want, i shall stay away from you. i shall never bother you. i shall never hurt you as i have. we shall—” benedict swallows, “we shall forget each other. if that is what you want, y/n, i shall give it to you.”

you do not respond to him. you stare into him as he stares into you.

“is that what you want?”

you shake your head as you feel fresh tears rush to your eyes.

“then what do you want?” he softly asks.

you flutter your eyes closed and breathe in. on your exhale, you open your eyes to the tear-blurry sight of benedict still looking at you with such tenderness in his ocean eyes.

“i want you,” you whisper.

you barely have time to process anything else when benedict surges forward and wraps his arms around you in a crushing embrace. tears fall even harder than before as you cry into his chest and wrap your arms around him.

benedict pulls back from the embrace to look at you, to cup your cheek, to wipe away the tears that fall so quickly from your eyes.

“i want you, y/n. i want to be yours. i want to be in your world, i want our worlds to be one. i want to go wherever you go. i want to make you laugh and to make you smile every day and every night; i want to do everything with you. i want to be with you, to share this life with you. from the moment i met you, from the moment you intended to shake my hand, i have wanted nothing more than to share all the time i have on this earth with you. i do not care for balls, i do not care for the ton, i care— i care for you, y/n. these are not the circumstances in which i wanted to confess this, with you crying and us yelling at one another, but i must be true with you. i—”

“benedict?”

“yes?”

“may i kiss you?”

benedict’s jaw drops and you laugh at his shock, sniffling your nose as you beam at him. he quickly recovers, breaking out into the smile that has always made you flutter with butterflies, the smile that you always secretly hoped, dreamed, wished was reserved for you. and you begin to think that, after all this time, perhaps it is.

“good god, please, yes—”

he barely completes his ‘yes’ when you jump forward to crash your lips into his. benedict practically trips backwards with the force of your eager leap, the two of you laughing into your kiss at the messiness of it all, as he holds you both steady.

this is your first kiss. you are so glad that it is benedict.

and somewhere within you blooms the hope that he is your last first kiss.

you have no idea what you’re doing, or what you should be doing, but you are far too much enjoying having benedict’s lips on yours, your hands on his cheeks, his hands on your waist, and your bodies pressing more and more into each other to give the slightest care. and the smile you feel against yours makes you think that benedict doesn’t mind—at all.

you pull apart to breathe, but your lips do not move far from one another.

“i love you.”

“i love you, too.”

“and i am sorry.”

“for loving me?”

you feel benedict jump back as he holds you, his face absolutely crestfallen, panic flooding his eyes, and he’s about to open his mouth to speak when you giggle and peck his parted lips with yours.

“i’m teasing you, my love.”

benedict’s eyes soften but quickly glint with mischief. you’re curious about the expression when you feel him tickling the sides of your waist.

“okay, okay!” you gasp with laughter as he tickles on. “i— i yield, i yield!”

benedict grins victoriously, his tickles fading into him softly rubbing circles on your waist.

“i am sorry for saying that is not how i see you, when you spoke of your social standing. i had not meant it that way, but i understand now how it was understood, and i should not have said it as i did. i know that i have lived a life of unfathomable ease with the wealth and circumstances into which i was born. the privileges i hold are not things i had reflected on, really, until— until i met you.”

you soften at his earnestness, by the way he humbles himself before you. but you cannot help the giddy mischief that bubbles from within.

“did you only reflect on your privileges as to win a femme’s favor?”

benedict’s jaw drops again, but you see how his ocean eyes shine with like-minded playfulness.

“do you truly think so lowly of me?”

you grin.

“perhaps.”

you feel benedict teasingly threaten his hands into tickling position onto your waist, and laughing, you shoo them away. he grins and softens his gaze once more.

“what i wanted to say to you earlier is— i wish you did not speak of yourself so harshly. as if you are unworthy of care from me because of your status. i care for you, i love you, y/n, as you are. as you were, as you will be. with all your circumstances, all your experiences, all your deeds, all your words, all your thoughts, all your feelings. for your heart, for your mind, for your soul. i love you because you are you, and i wish for you to see that, for you to see you as i see you. as so many of us see you.”

“i— i do not know what to say.”

“you do not have to say anything; just to, if i may ask of you, seed my words into your heart and mind and soul and know them to be true, wholly and completely,” a playful smile forms on his lips. “though, i must say, i am rather pleased with myself for rendering a writer with ferocious conviction speechless.”

you roll your eyes, but your voice is soft.

“you have had that effect on me for quite some time, benedict.”

benedict swallows and gently rubs circles onto your waist again.

“i love you, benedict.”

“i love you, too.”

< y/n and benedict, hand-in-hand, start to walk towards the house; they are taking their time. >

“are you certain you want to return the ball?” benedict inquires. “we can stay here in the gardens and wait until the last of the guests have gone.”

you hum.

“i would like to dance.”

“ah, was there a gentleman or a lady who caught your eye, miss y/l/n?”

“oh, loads. i hope it won’t make you terribly jealous, mr. bridgerton.”

“it will, but i shall simply stare at them maliciously if their hands are to roam.”

“yes, my form is reserved for your hands and your hands alone.”

you exchange grins.

“indeed.”

benedict nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, and you laugh. he lifts his head and plants a soft kiss on your temple.

“are you certain? i do not mean to doubt you or your wishes to dance. we can dance out here, under the bright light of the moon. i want you to feel content and safe.”

“i do feel content and safe. with you. with the family. within myself. i shan’t let the ton or cressida ruin my first ball. though, the idea of dancing in the moonlight is quite enticing. perhaps another night?”

“you have my word,” and bringing your hand to his lips, he kisses your knuckles. a serene silence falls between you two until benedict makes some sort of a noise in his throat, as if to clear his voice.

“i, uh, must say,” benedict begins, “your confrontation with cressida was, uh, quite— alluring.”

you stop, letting go of his hand, and stare at him.

“alluring?”

a delicious blush colors your love’s face.

“indeed.”

a newfound bravery blooms in you.

you step into his space, not breaking eye contact with his blown out pupils, the ocean of his eyes mere outlines. you sneak your lips towards his ear and hear a soft whimper emit from his lips.

“is that something of interest to you, mr. bridgerton?” you murmur, your bottom lip barely grazing his earlobe. you feel him shiver and inhale. “when you see someone be put in their place?”

he exhales frantically.

“it is something of interest to me when— when you do it,” he admits, as if out of breath. you smile, pressing your bottom lip softly into his earlobe. he does nothing to hold back his moan as you do everything in your power to hold in yours.

“that is good to know,” and quickly rip away from him.

in your step back, you take in benedict’s state—flustered, expectant, ruttish—and wink at him. you turn and walk away at your leisure, putting on a performance of superiority as you hide your own arousal.

it is only a few moments later that you hear benedict follow you.

“you,” he says, voice still fraught with desire but full with love, “will be the death of me.”

you look back at him and grin.

“and what would you like me to put on your epitaph?”

“benedict bridgerton, he who, in life and in death, loves the best soul to have ever existed.”

you cannot help your giddy self and close the distance between the two of you once more, grabbing his face and pressing your smile into his. benedict happily obliges as he places his hands at the low of your waist and pulls you closer into him.

< they get into it!

< y/n takes off her gloves so that she can touch benedict; she is about to throw them on the ground. >

“wait—”

and he takes your gloves.

“hm?”

“your gloves. they were costly to make,” benedict states as he stuffs them into the inside pockets of his jacket. “i don’t want to be flippant in letting them be discarded to the ground.”

you gape at him.

“you concern yourself with the cost of my gloves?”

“why, yes, of course, it is something i—”

you clutch onto the lapels of benedict’s jacket and push him backward into a nearby hedge, his mouth now agape and his pupils dark with a desire you very much want to satisfy.

“i find your consideration quite alluring.”

in the midst of his apparent arousal, benedict giggles, and that makes you grin.

“what is it?”

“a hedge, y/n? of all things to anchor me against?”

you roll your eyes.

“it was this, benedict, or the bark of a tree.”

“ah, so i should be grateful then.”

you repeat his words with sped up mockery, making him laugh and the corners of his eyes crinkle in the adorable way that is so very distinctly benedict, and you capture your love’s lips again to shut him up, smiling and laughing into the kiss.

…

“what do you want?”

“you. whatever you want, benedict, i want it. please.”

“are you certain?” he breathes into your ear.

“god, yes, benedict, please, yes.”

“then—”

benedict positions his head downward, burying his face into the crevice of your bosom, and before you can even begin to tease him for his absurdity, you feel the wetness of his tongue flat against the curvature of your right breast. your gasp of surprise quickly transforms into an ungodly guttural wail, feeling yourself dig your fingernails into benedict’s back, arching into him to steady yourself, as he painstakingly drags the flat of his tongue from your right breast against the expanse of your exposed chest to the length of your right shoulder. dazed and euphoric, you feel how benedict sneaks towards your ear, hovers it, panting ragged breaths,

“i’ve wanted to do that since you descended the stairs in that dress. and—”

taking your left hand, benedict pushes your middle finger and forefinger fully into his mouth. he methodically works his tongue against them as he guides your hand to pull and push in him, his blown out pupils never once leaving your intoxicated stare. you feel the desperate urge to throw your head back at the incandescent eroticism that throbs from your fingertips to the rest of your body, but may god smite you if you willingly tear your eyes away from the divine sight of benedict’s almost oceanless eyes gaping into you as his gorgeous mouth sucks on your fingers. just before you feel as though you are to fully blank out and ascend into the heavens, benedict rips your hand out of his mouth, the action creating an obscenely delicious ‘pop’ sound, and, wrapping his hand around your wrist, pulls you back into him, your face finding respite just below his shoulder.

“i’ve wanted to do that since first drawing your hand.”

you laugh-cry into his jacket.

“shit, benedict.”

your love laughs and nudges his head into yours and rests it there as he softly rubs circles on your back with his thumb.

“please—” good god, breathe, “please remind me to ask you more frequently what you want.”

“did you enjoy it?”

“no, benedict, i quite plainly hated it.”

“i’d be glad to accept your critiques.”

“i know you would,” you smile into his jacket and, lifting your head, are greeted by your favorite sight: benedict, with his soft smile and his gentle ocean eyes.

“i have never felt like that before,” you admit in a whisper.

“nor have i,” he whispers back. that shocks you, and you must have made your reaction visible because benedict emits a laugh through his nose, soft smile and gentle ocean eyes unfaltering.

“but you have been with others before; you’ve had similar experiences, yes?”

you had assumed that your exhilaration must have been, apart from it being benedict, rooted in your lack of experience in such things.

benedict brushes a loose strand of your hair away from your eyes and tucks it behind your ear, his hand moving down to cup your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing it.

“yes, but those were different.”

you cock your head in response. he smiles, as if it is apparent.

“because they are not you.”

the sweetness of benedict’s ocean eyes are quickly replaced with shock then delight and then you don’t know what because he closes them as you crash your lips into his. whatever you had just felt before, you want it again. you want benedict. all of him. and you want all of him to feel what you just had.

you lick his teeth, and granting your wish, benedict opens his mouth more, groaning, bringing his hands to the curvatures of your ass, pushing your bodies even closer together though no space left exists between the two of you. you move your hand to the back of his head and, gripping a tuft of his hair, pull it roughly just as you capture his tongue with your mouth and suck hard. the sounds that benedict produce in reaction are entirely inhuman, but you vaguely deduce he is trying to say your name, and you’ve never attended a concert but, my god, nothing will ever sound as harmonious as the symphony that is your name gutturally trapped in benedict’s throat.

continuing with the work you’ve done to undo benedict thus far, you take your other hand and start to rake it against his body, starting at the base of his throat, taking time and leisure to explore, lowering and pressing into his chest, wondering wildly what beauty exists behind his damned shirt, lowering and feeling the firmness of his stomach and trying not to completely undo yourself with the sinful, transcendent thoughts of putting your tongue there, lowering and lowering and touching something curious and unfamiliar and hard and—

when he pushes you off of him.

“benedict, i— i am so sorry,” you panic, “please, what did i—”

“no, no,” he swallows, “you did— you have nothing to apologize for, my love, you were— uh— you were doing quite——” he clears his throat, “you were doing quite well; very well, actually…”

you continue to frown, still concerned.

“then why are you so tottery?”

“because— because if we were to continue, i do not think— i know i would not last for— um, for very much longer.”

you jut out your hip, putting the knuckles of your fist on it, and furrow your eyebrows at him.

“benedict bridgerton, i still do not understand what you are trying to convey. speak plainly.”

“we should stop.”

your jaw drops, as does your hand from your hip.

“why?” you practically whine. you should be embarrassed by your desperation, but to be entirely frank, you couldn't care less. benedict huffs out a laugh, still breathless, and, stepping towards you, lays a tender kiss on your forehead.

“as much as i would love for us to continue, i think being in the family gardens with a ball being held a few meters away is hardly an ideal location for the more— involved aspects of such activities. the aspects i’d like to explain to you,” he takes another step into your space, lowering his voice to an unfamiliar but enrapturing gravel, “the aspects i’d like to show you.”

you swallow your whimper.

“i—— i would very much like that,” you manage. and then you grin, “though, exploring such aspects in the family gardens sounds like it would be quite the adventure. a calculated risk, if you will.”

the alluring tone of benedict’s voice is completely replaced with a giggle, and your grin broadens as you press even closer into him and nudge your nose against his. benedict rests his forehead against yours and flutters his eyes closed.

“what did i do to have you love me back?”

you flutter your eyes closed.

“you were you. you are you.”

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.v ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

< ahead, y/n sees kathani. she makes the connection that kathani must have accompanied benedict as a chaperone so that y/n wouldn’t be “disgraced” by having a man by himself chase after her.

< as the two approach the viscountess, kathani recognizes how disheveled y/n and benedict look and promptly fixes them to look more presentable. she takes some hedge leaves out of benedict’s hair. >

“i see that you are well, y/n?” inquires kathani.

“never better, actually.”

she laughs, a smile falling on her lips.

“i am sincerely glad to hear that.”

< they walk closer to bridgerton house. >

“you are fortunate that it was not anthony who volunteered to chaperone. he would have not reacted well to his loved one being dishonored, as he would say, particularly on family grounds.”

“oh dear,” you say, nervous and suddenly self-conscious. you do not want to be the target of the eldest bridgerton’s wrath. “what have i done to dishonor—“

kathani laughs.

“i wasn’t referring to you, chellam. i was referring to him,” and she juts her chin out at benedict.

“me!”

“anthony will be furious when he finds out that you have been— private,” she says, gesturing to his newly tidied appearance, “with y/n in the gardens. not very gentlemanly of you.”

“he won’t find out!” benedict pauses. “he won’t find out— right, kate?”

kathani just makes a face of feigned deep thought and you chortle.

“kate!”

“i do not keep secrets from my husband, benedict.”

“but what if it’s for love?” he implores. he says it facetiously, but you feel with what conviction he exudes his true feeling.

kathani’s expression softens as she looks between you and benedict. you offer a small nod and a smile, confirming her thoughts. she beams at you but then narrows her eyes at benedict. there is no heat to her gaze; she is, however, having the most sublime time making her brother-in-law squirm.

“i do not keep secrets from my husband, benedict,” kathani repeats. benedict groans, throwing his head back like a disgruntled child, and you belly laugh at him.

“i hope you are ready for gregory to be your second,” she continues.

you almost double over as benedict snaps his head forward to look at his sister-in-law.

“gregory!”

“indeed. it is a shame as well— anthony’s accustomed second being the one he has to duel,” she sighs dramatically. “oh well. colin will make a fine replacement.”

“this family is ridiculous,” you declare, grinning like mad. “gregory seems a tad young, though. what about eloise? i am sure she would be a more than suitable second for benedict.”

“oh, i have no doubt,” grins back kathani, “but i would not dare involve a woman in the idiocy of men and their ludicrous concepts of honor.”

you and kathani laugh loudly, delighted by how much you are enjoying yourselves, untroubled by benedict’s moping.

“it has been wonderful being in love with you, benedict,” you state simply. “it’s a pity that it has to come to an end so soon."

kathani snorts. benedict stops in his tracks and gapes at you.

“you think i would lose the duel!”

“anthony is more stubborn; he would let it fuel his will to live.”

“i think you underestimate how much i love you and how that fuels my will to live.”

you smile. in your periphery, kathani smiles. despite his current displeasure with you, your love smiles.

“i suppose i do.”

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.vi ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

< upon returning to the ball, y/n, benedict, and kathani see how anthony and violet are ensuring that the cowpers are leaving. before the family leaves, y/n approaches cressida. >

“i do hope to see you at another one of these events. if you find a way, of course, not to have yourself kicked out.”

and you curtsy. you turn to your love, his mouth in a wide smile and ocean eyes sparkling, and offer him a wink. you hear the quartet start up.

“i believe it is time for another round of dancing. care to be my partner?”

“i would love nothing more.”

< they dance. it is sweet, silly, romantic, and delightful. both y/n and benedict touch each other beyond what is considered proper, like hands laying too low on the waist or eliminating the space between their bodies, but they truly do not care. their unabashed joy is abundantly evident to everyone in the ballroom, but they are only focused on one another. they are in their own world. they giggle, they grin; it is the happiness they both deserve.

< they dance the next set.

< after her and benedict’s third dance together, y/n makes eye contact with violet, who is at the margins of the dancefloor, eyes wide with joy. >

“as much as i love dancing with you, my love,” you beam, “i think i am in need of a new partner.”

< y/n approaches violet and with a bow asks her for the honor of being her next dance. though delighted, violet remarks how she is too old, and y/n says that the youngsters can learn a thing or two from her wisdom and skill. >

“we would need permission from the host,” offers violet.

“from anthony! you birthed him! you granted him permission to exist!”

that makes violet laugh.

< violet agrees, and they walk hand in hand to the dance floor. in this dance, y/n and violet are partnered, benedict partnered with penelope, kathani partnered with anthony. >

…

“you’ve told each other."

“has anyone remarked how keenly insightful you are, violet bridgerton?"

“no,” the dowager replies with twinkling eyes, “but it is something of which i am well aware, and take great pride in. i am happy for you both.”

“i am so glad to have your approval.”

“oh tosh! as if a mother’s approval or disapproval can get in the way of real, true love.”

“perhaps so, but it is affirming to have the blessing from someone you so dearly love in a matter such as this.”

“you make it easy to love you, my dear.”

< the dance calls for a switch in partners. y/n becomes partnered with penelope, and violet becomes partnered with benedict. >

“thank you, pen.”

“whatever for?”

“for bumping into me at the markets.”

penelope laughs.

“accidents are quite good, are they not?”

“i despise them, actually,” you declare with a grin.

< penelope reveals that benedict shared with her why he was not seen for the first three dances of the night. >

your jaw drops, and penelope merely titters in response.

“is that why i didn’t see him! because he was lurking in the crowds to prevent men from approaching me?”

“it has been my discovery that the bridgerton brothers do not handle their jealousies well.”

“do you think gregory shall be the same?”

“oh, i am entirely certain. he shall likely be the worst of all.”

the two of you snort as you are sent back to your partners, penelope with benedict and you with violet.

“and what has you and penelope in such giggles?”

“making barbs at your sons.”

violet laughs.

“they make it awfully easy to do so, do they not?”

< the dance comes to an end. violet plants a soft kiss on y/n’s head.

< turning, y/n connects eyes with benedict who wears an incandescently happy expression. >

how could you not see it before? how in love he is with you.

< tired but elated, y/n takes a break from dancing. she reunites with the rest of the bridgertons at the ball. y/n finally meets daphne, who remarks that she has heard so much about y/n. eloise shares how the family wished to check in on y/n when she had returned to the ball to see that she was well; in a rare smile rather than a smirk, eloise shares that, upon seeing her dance and dance again with benedict, that she looked quite well indeed. at some point in the conversation with the bridgertons, y/n inquires when she can meet francesca.

< time passes, and joy is had amongst the bridgertons, penelope, simon, and y/n. y/n cannot believe her happiness.

< the last dance is called. benedict approaches y/n. >

“may i have the honor of being your final dance of the night?"

“you aren’t tired of me yet?”

“i shall never tire of you, y/n.”

upon taking your hand, benedict twirls you once then twice as he leads you towards the dance floor. giggling and grinning, you decide to do the same to him, causing him to giggle and grin right along with you.

< they dance a fourth time. >

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.vii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

< the guests have made their leave from the bridgerton ball. colin, eloise, and violet have gone to their respective bedchambers.

< anthony, benedict, kathani, and y/n walk up the steps of the grand staircase. anthony has his hand clamped on benedict’s forearm and pulls him up the steps with particular determination and quiet fury. >

“i know where i sleep, brother! i have slept there since we were children!”

“i am well aware of that, benedict, and i am also well aware of how you— roam when enticed.”

benedict looks at anthony, to you (you just shrug as you look on at the exchange with excitement), and back to anthony.

“do you people really think so little of me!”

“i do not think little of you, brother, i just know you.”

benedict’s shock deepens incredulously, though you see the smile underscoring it all.

“i am a man of honor! i am a gentleman!”

“yes, as am i, as is colin, as was father; all bridgerton men are, and all bridgerton men are idiots around the persons for whom they have affections. now, go into your bedchamber,” anthony finishes as he shoves his younger brother into the room.

“you are a nightmare!” you hear your love shout from within.

“and you are to stay here for the remainder of the night!” he shouts back, leaning forward to grab the knob to benedict’s bedchamber and pulling the door shut with a loud thud. he turns to kathani, composure returning to his senses.

“my dearest, may you call samuel and lawrence, please? i shall have samuel stationed here and lawrence stationed outside benedict’s window. they will be paid double their wage for these extemporary responsibilities.”

you laugh with your whole stomach and feel tears sting your eyes. you have no concern in hiding your howls until you remember hyacinth and gregory are asleep and promptly clamp your hand over your mouth. your hand succeeds in muffling your laughter, but marginally.

kathani rolls her eyes at her husband and deeply sighs.

“i shall,” she replies, smiling at her love’s antics.

pleased with her answer, anthony right about turns at benedict’s door, places his hands behind his back, and stands up tall, taking his temporary duty as guard with the utmost gravity. something then eases in his posture, and he turns to you.

“i hope you have enjoyed your night, y/n.”

your heart swells.

“it was wondrous, anthony. thank you.”

he beams, brilliant delight in his eyes.

“i wish you good rest.”

and with a bow of his head, anthony turns away from you and assumes his station once more, gravity and perfect posture and all.

the viscountess turns to you, her smile having softened, and says, “let me escort you back to your bedchamber. i shall help you prepare for bed.”

–

“despite his many flaws,” kathani says with all amusement and fondness in her voice as she removes the pins from your hair, “anthony is, indeed, a man of honor and honesty.”

“i never had my doubts, but—” you snort, “that has certainly proved it.”

“it is because he thinks so highly of you,” she shares, looking at you in the mirror. you turn around in your seat and connect with her eyes, eyes that are filled with so much warmth. “he cares deeply for you, y/n. anthony is only that overbearing and overly protective when it comes to his family, and he sees you as our family. we all do.”

you suck in air through your nostrils, feeling the swell of your heart. how did you get so fortunate as to be so loved by this family?

though, you detect something in kathani. her words are sincere, of that you are not doubtful, but they do not seem complete. it is as if she wants to say more, if the blossoming twinkle in her eyes is indicative of anything. but kathani does not elaborate.

instead, she picks up the brush on the vanity and gently brushes your hair. it reminds you of when your elder sister used to brush your hair before bedtime. you close your eyes, humming.

“i see you all as my family, too.”

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.viii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

< the next morning, late morning. the dining room. >

“you are infernal,” benedict deadpans to anthony, staring at his brother and taking his seat next to you.

“you are incorrigible; i was correct,” anthony responds, his eyes not leaving his paper.

“correct about what, brother?” hyacinth asks.

despite their current rivalry, benedict and anthony both freeze. kate speaks on their behalf.

“your eldest had deemed it necessary to have lawrence stationed outside below benedict’s bedchamber window in the early morn and was proved correct in doing so; your second eldest had attempted to escape by way of that route.”

“stationed outside his window? why would that be necessary?” gregory inquires. he turns to benedict. “and why were you trying to leave through your window?”

in his periphery, benedict sees you whipping your head. you seem to have suddenly found some interest in the painting on the wall faced away from the current scene. he notices how you hide your smile behind your fist and how you attempt to suppress the convulsions of your laughter. kate, on the other hand, unapologetically laughs.

“i am certain you will learn in due time, gregory. it is something of a tradition, it seems.”

“will i get to participate in this tradition?” hyacinth enthuses.

“NO!” benedict and anthony shout in tandem. they look at each other, and the elder gives a ‘see!’ face to the younger. benedict just rolls his eyes.

his eyes eventually land back on you: you have now totally hidden your face in your hands with elbows perched on the table for support, any attempts at hiding your laughter now entirely gone. your entire body vibrates as you somehow squeak and guffaw into the palms of your hands.

“ugh, why do adults always speak in such vague statements!” hyacinth grumbles as she slumps in her chair and crosses her arms. she then suddenly shoots back up and looks at you. “y/n, you only speak in riddles when we play! may we play now?”

“yes! may we play now?” gregory pipes up.

“please!” the two youngest plead in tandem. benedict looks to you, and wiping away your hands to reveal your face red from laughter, you say,

“i would be— i would be delighted to do so,” you take sharp breaths in between attempts at controlling your laughter. “perhaps—” you full on snort, and it makes benedict break out into a grin, “—perhaps, after the young sorceress and— and the young knight slay the wyvern, they— they will save the— the—” you laugh hard again, “the princess, captive and forlorn in her tower.”

gregory and hyacinth shout their joy and take off from the table.

“you haven’t been excu!— oh, nevermind,” anthony grumbles in an uncanny, childlike resemblance to his youngest sibling.

benedict watches as you use your forefingers to swipe at the corners of your e/c eyes, fits of laughter still bubbling out of your mouth.

i love her, and she loves me, he thinks in awe. it has been on repeat in his mind since you confessed to one another in the gardens just the night prior. she is mine, and i am hers.

“your lordship,” you giggle still as you look at anthony, and benedict snickers, “may i be excused to play make-believe with your youngest siblings?”

anthony rolls his eyes with much theatricality, but his smile at you is sincere.

“you are not my sibling,” he states, but benedict catches how his elder brother quickly glances at him with eyes that say ‘yet,’ “you need not my permission, but yes, you may.”

you bow your head in dramatic gratitude, causing kate to titter and anthony to look to the ceiling, and you lift yourself up from your seat.

before you follow after his siblings, benedict reaches out and gently takes your hand. you look at him, and he feels how his stomach flutters when his blue eyes makes contact with your e/c. just as it did the first time, just as it did every time after.

benedict feels you softly rub three circles on his hand. he softly rubs four circles on yours.

“good day, princess,” you say with a wink at your love, slowly slipping your hand away from his and then turning to walk out of the dining room. benedict stares at you as you leave.

i love her, and she loves me. she is mine, and i am hers.

“when do you intend on proposing, brother?” anthony smirks as he puts his teacup to his lips.

benedict smiles, looking off at where your laughter is heard.

“later this afternoon.”

anthony chokes on his tea, and kate, patting her coughing husband’s back, arches an eyebrow at her brother-in-law, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“without a ring?”

benedict turns to look at the couple and grins.

“who said i don’t have a ring?”

“you are joking,” anthony says matter-of-factly. “we all are excited at the prospects of y/n officially joining this family, but you just confessed your love for one another not even twelve hours ago. we are still breaking fast! there were guards at your door and your window! how could you have already procured a ring?”

benedict smiles, digging into his pocket.

“i do not jest, brother.”

and, with pride, he holds up a thin band made of twisted paper.

“now, if you will excuse me,” benedict announces, lifting himself out of his seat, giving a kiss to the top of kate’s head, and ruffling anthony’s hair. “i must be going.”

“and where are you off?” anthony demands as he straightens out his hair.

“do you think i am going to propose to y/n without asking her family’s permission first? would not be very gentlemanly of me if i did.”

“how do you know where she lives!”

“that is what you were asking penelope last night,” kate answers. anthony looks at his wife, incredulous and in awe. benedict grins.

“exactly so, sister. i’ve always known you held all the intelligence between you two. i would have seen to it sooner, but—”

an image of e/c eyes and ink-stained hands flashes in his mind, the flutterings in his stomach intensifying. butterflies— that is what he will paint next, he decides.

after he finishes his portrait of you.

“—i was held captive in my tower.”

325 notes · View notes

janearts · 5 months

Note

Hey, so you got to act 3 in the Astarion romance, right? How did Roisa feel about the romance scene in the graveyard?

I did! I finished the game back in September and played out the epilogue patch more recently. Roisia was happy to bear witness to Astarion mourning his past and celebrating a future of his choosing. However, she did take umbrage at Astarion's phrasing that he would be open to having sex that evening. Knowing his history and his relationship with sex, Roisia was really looking for more clear intent, more barefaced desire. I think his wording, "I could be persuaded", would've really bothered her even though she knew he meant it cheekily (e.g., a stupid easy persuasion check, if you will).

I've included a more thorough analysis of her feelings under the cut.

Ultimately, that night poked and prodded at deeper fears and insecurities. Roisia has been left before at the end of a grand adventure wondering how she could have missed the signs that the person she adored did not quite adore her back with the same ardour. Now, older and believing herself to be wiser, she is wary and this time, she tells herself, she will keep herself in check. She will be rational, level-headed, and even-keeled. She will not let herself get swept away by irrational desire, and her love of Astarion is a very irrational, incompatible, unwise desire.

When Astarion said that he wanted her, that she stood by him through bloodlust and pain and misery, that she had been patient, caring, and trusting, that he felt safe and seen with her, and that he didn't want to lose all of that, Roisia felt a sinking unease. A queasy sort of disquiet in her gut. Because she realised that everything he described, everything about her that he praised or acknowledged or thanked, was nothing particularly special in her eyes. As a [former] Cleric of Kelemvor, as an undertaker, as a professional mourner, she has done all of the above and more with the loved ones of decedents as part of her job. It's her sacred duty to stand by people at a low and loathsome point in their lives, through their pain and misery, with patience, compassion, and an extended hand. Hell, that's just another Tuesday!

Roisia couldn't help but feel that Astarion really only loved the things that she could do for him rather than her as a person outside of those acts of service. And those things he described could have easily been done by any Mortarch worth their salt in her place. So does he truly care for her? Or is he really just thankful for the things she's done for him? Those things that really anyone could do? It does not plant a seed, exactly, but it germinates a seed that was already present in her mind, a nasty little thought that she is not special and, therefore, not truly loved in the way that she so very much wants to be loved. That, sure, Astarion cares about her, but only because she just happened to be there and has assisted people in different stages of grief since she was a child. She is fundamentally, inescapably replaceable and it's only a matter of time until Astarion realises that and does what Eustace did: clap her on the back, thank her for her time, and move on to greener pastures whatever or wherever they may be.

It was hard for Roisia to hear Astarion say things like "I want you" and "I love you" when there is a part of herself that deeply, deeply doubts that. That thinks he is wrong even if he is not yet aware that he is wrong. She is torn between taking his words at face value, the words that her heart wants to hear, or reading between the lines, which is what the parts of herself that she calls Logic and Reason call out for her to do. I think in the moment she yields to the former, but after that night, leans towards the latter.

#Baldur's Gate 3 #BG3 #BG3 Roisia #Astarion #Astarion Ancunin #BG3 Spoilers #Act III Spoilers #rosecanons #roisiacanons #tagging for the meta for myself for later asdfkjalkfd

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meownotgood · 21 days

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to admit everything / gale dekarios

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Several months after your adventure's conclusion, Gale invites you to visit his tower in Waterdeep — and finally, he finds the courage to admit his feelings for you.

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pairing: gale dekarios x reader

word count: 36.0k

tags: 18+, smut with feelings (and a fair bit of plot), reader is tav, reader is fem bodied (but no gendered terms are used), love confessions, fic takes place after the epilogue, "you fell first but he fell harder", mild sensory deprivation, inappropriate uses of magic, gale talks a Lot, slight angst (but there's a happy ending, don't worry), dirty talk, fingering, handjob, multiple orgasms, oral (reader receiving), tender sex, slight mentions of blasphemy, i am not immune to his wizardly charms....

read on ao3

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this work contains explicit content intended for 18+ individuals. please read the tags and do not interact if you are a minor.

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When Gale wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace, for the first time in ages, you can finally relax.

From your stiff shoulders, down to the ends of your toes, your weary muscles untense. It's as though he's cast a spell on you; which you know he could do, but he doesn't have to. A soft palm cradles the back of your head, and he pulls you in closer. You bury your head in his chest, the smooth velvet of his shirt rubbing your cheek.

Slowly, deeply, you inhale. You're enveloped in the familiar scent of him: the rich smell of pine, filling your senses with something tender. Something you've missed. The breeze that wafts in from his balcony veils you in a breath of the sea. Gale always found a way to smell the same as a book's crisp pages. He'd carry the faint aroma of the scrolls he often littered his tent with, or of his library, regardless of how long you spent surrounded by nothing but wilderness.

The intimacy of it is enough to make you dizzy. If you had things your way, you'd hug him tight like this, and you wouldn't ever think of letting him go.

"It feels as though it's been forever since we were last acquainted," Gale says in your ear quietly. Genuinely, with the slightest exhale tacked on at the end — and still, after hearing his voice for hours, watching as he lectured his pupils on some form of magic you've barely heard of, you believe you wouldn't mind listening for a few hours more.

"Our get-together wasn't that long ago, you know," You counter, voice slightly muffled, spoken into his chest.

"Yes, but surely you understand." His grip on you seems to tighten as you both rock gently, back and forth, "It's rather difficult to go from spending nearly every moment you're awake with someone, to only having the pleasure of meeting them on a few select occasions. Allow me to savor this moment, please. There may not be another one like it."

There may not be another one.

Gods, you know he's right. Both of you are busy, now. You live in two separate cities, lead two separate lives. There's others from the party you haven't seen; not yet, anyways. The only reason you saw Gale now is because back then, you had the foresight to plan to.

That inevitable prospect is one you aren't sure you want to think about. You don't want to imagine parting from Gale again.

Your friends would've called you sappy. They might've gone and teased you for taking forever to meet with the damn wizard in the first place. You obviously wanted to. The hug you gave him back then was hardly a friendly one. More like a I'm glad you're here, now don't you dare leave again sort of hug. Not to mention the way Gale himself eyed you for the rest of the party — as if no-one would notice.

Truthfully, your life has been busier than you hoped it would be, ever since your adventure's big conclusion. You did want to see Gale again. Of course you did. But simply wanting isn't good enough. The party was the first time you saw him since then, and this has been the first time after that.

You were hoping to relax for a while. To spend time away from the stress. You definitely earned it. Unfortunately, you've wound up doing anything but.

Make no mistake, you're unbelievably grateful to no longer be dealing with a world-ending threat, or a parasite in your brain. Helping to rebuild the city is nothing compared to the shit you've already dealt with. You're happy that you no longer have to worry over whether you'll even make it out of this alive. Whether any of you will still be alive, in the end. But you've hardly been able to settle. Not in the way you wanted to, at least.

For as many people that revere you, that now think of you as a hero, those words seem to do nothing for you. For as big and grand of a city as Baldur's Gate still is, and for as long as you've called it your home, it's only begun to feel like the loneliest place in the world.

And your friends — Obviously you'd wind up going your separate ways. It'd be stupid to think otherwise. You have different lives to return to, new struggles to face. You know that. It doesn't change how much you've grown to miss them.

There won't come a time where you'll stop missing those moments, you figure. The times when things were quiet, when you worked together, grew together. That's okay. Some allegiances aren't meant to last forever. In the end, it was an idea you made peace with. Until one of your companions stubbornly refused to leave your heart.

You peer up at him, as Gale looks down at you, before he lets go of you slowly, almost hesitantly. He pulls backward, meeting your eyes. This embrace reminds you of the one from back then. You don't fail to notice how his expression softens around the edges, how he takes your hands, gently squeezing them. Ultimately, he allows them to slip away, letting go.

You carried your thoughts of him with you, long after you'd since parted ways. The sound of his voice, the softness it seemed to take on whenever you're the one he was speaking to. The accidental touches, the brushes of fingers. An arm placed in front of you, to usher you behind him whenever he thought you might get hurt.

Without the ability to pry into his thoughts, you have no clue whether he fondly remembers things the same way you do. You were unmistakably close, once. In an earlier time, you brought your hands to his shoulders, you kept your eyes locked on his. Your words were shaky. Your heart was pounding, shaking against the cage of your chest. You can't lose him, you remember admitting, and Gale smiled, told you that you wouldn't. Even though you knew damn well there was more he wasn't telling you.

Hindsight would convince you the only thing he concealed was how truly scared he was. If you did feel more for each other, if what you thought you understood wasn't a lie — No matter what ways you tried, neither of you could hide it, but you certainly couldn't talk about it either.

It's difficult to search for the time to discuss unadmitted feelings when your lives are constantly on the line. Impossible, actually. Honestly, you weren't sure how you'd tell him, regardless of if you could. Nevermind the playful encouragement of your companions, or the listless jabs at your solitude from your undead resurrector, this sort of thing has never been your forte. Hey, I care for you more than good friends are supposed to, is that alright?

I couldn't stand to see anything happen to you, and I hoped you might notice, might do what I'm not able to. You could look into my head with a single word, and yet nothing but distance has grown in between us.

I'd travel it, if I was able. I want you to understand, I never hoped to part from you. I never want you to shut up whenever you're telling me about magic, or history, or any of the things you know everything about, even once you quiet down because you think I do.

How am I supposed to tell you that?

You can't, and you didn't. You both had the fate of the world in your hands, and the last thing either of you needed to be worrying about were your up-in-the-air feelings.

You would ignore the elated blankness in your head whenever Gale eased the tension with a smile flashed your way. You pushed down the giddiness in your chest whenever he gave a gentle yet pragmatic comment, one you tried not to read into. Over and over, you would pretend not to be flustered by his small touches, by the glances that lasted a little longer than they should. Despite the ache of your heart in your chest, you convinced yourself that you and him were friends. Nothing more.

Yes, friends who would sneak into one another's tents when everyone else was asleep to quietly talk, laughing together until the sun began to graze the horizon. Friends who kept each other going, who saw one another when they were weakest: torn apart by the Gods, with nothing left to do but pick up the pieces. Friends who are the only ones to know what the other is truly thinking, no spells or uncanny mind connections needed.

You're simply mere acquaintances. Two people on the same bloody path, who just so happened to be lucky enough to meet, and managed to grow closer than acquaintances ever should be. You were pushed together by circumstance. You chose to understand each other with purpose.

Has Gale ever yearned for more, in the way you've yearned for him?

Gale is observant. He knows you, he'd know if there was something up with you. Likely, he already does. More so, he's ambitious; he wouldn't forget about you, everything vying to push you away be damned. You've come too far to suddenly cast each other aside. But some things are better left unspoken.

Eventually, you expected you'd never find out the truth. You were too little, too late. The closest you ever got to a true confession was in the moments you found yourselves alone, and those are few and far between, these days. Now that you've run out of excuses, even now that everything is over, he's here and you are alive — You can't say a damn thing.

You think it's why you haven't seen him. You've been busy, yes, leading a new life and grappling with your newfound freedoms, but given the chance, you'd put every last thing aside to make time for him. When those feelings of yours are left to build and build, they threaten to drown. And drown you did.

It's strange, how meeting with him again can feel like finally being coaxed to breathe, and like suffocating freely, all at the same time.

You decide to breathe in once more, and break the silence at last.

"You're ridiculous sometimes," You scoff, shaking your head. Your tone is more fragile than you intended, as you catch yourself in your own hypocrisy. You still manage to throw him a warm glance. "I thought we were both past talking that way. We have all the time the world is generous enough to offer us. Do you really think I wouldn't plan on seeing you again?"

Gale's lips tip upward to form his usual smile, the corners of his eyes crinkled. To a combination of your bewilderment and delight, you're already melting.

"They say old habits die hard, I suppose," He replies, first shrugging his shoulders, and then standing up straighter. He clasps his hands together, positioning them uniformly behind his back. "And who knows? I wasn't sure how much enjoyment you drew from being an honorary professor for the day. Seemed as if you were a tad overwhelmed, actually."

"Of course I was. Well, I was anxious, more like." You're staring off to the side while you think, crossing your arms over your chest. "I mean, you said your students think of me as a hero. I was trying not to say anything stupid."

"In that case, I'd say you have no need to worry," Gale answers, "You sounded perfectly eloquent."

Meeting his eyes again, you huff, "I'm glad you think so. I enjoyed today. But seriously, I came here for you, Gale. Not because I was ecstatic about teaching."

You swear that if you were to squint, you'd see the smallest twinge of pure adoration on the normally-so-confident wizard's face.

Gale raises a fist to his mouth and clears his throat. "I understand your qualms, but truly, you did well. No-one finds teaching to be easy- I mean, it's an unbelievably stubborn process, if anything. I've always been the recipient of lectures. Never the other way around, until my newfound position. It took me quite a while to get a good grasp of things, believe you me."

"Really?" You raise a brow, "I, for one, thought your teaching was impeccable. I was looking forward to asking for some pointers from Professor Dekarios himself, actually."

"Oh, come on. Your flattery is far from needed," He replies, his tone breathy and playful. You exhale a faint chuckle, and when you grin back, his own smile seems to soften at the edges. A look reserved exclusively for you.

Gale continues, "You've seen my pupils for yourself now. You know how difficult they can be. In the face of such… stunning magic," His eyes narrow, he makes an open-palmed gesture of wonderment to illustrate his point, "Magic they themselves could learn to wield, it's rare to see them at least attempt to stay awake. I take some of the blame, of course. At certain moments, I thought you were teaching them better than I ever have."

"Nonsense," You roll your eyes light-heartedly, placing a hand on your hip, "They do well on their tests, right? I doubt your teachings are lost on them. Besides, it's like you said. Being a teacher isn't easy."

"True. However, I certainly think we make an impressive team."

With one last smile, and a nod of his head, Gale turns, striding over to his small wooden desk.

The space is surrounded by bookshelves, the desk's every surface littered in open books and scrolls of its own. He thumbs through the stack of papers he set there earlier, essays his students turned in — A paper about the history of magic was his instruction, if you remember right. Gale was less than satisfied with their results, but in his own words, he couldn't fault them.

They are the same as I was, when I was their age. A spitting image, really. Dodging written assignments, snoozing through most lectures. They're talented, there's no denying it. Preventing them from picking up my bad habits is where matters turn difficult.

He lifts the stack, tapping the papers against the desk to make them straight. Then, he sets them neatly aside. He clearly has a specific place for them, though you don't think you'd ever be able to make sense of the mess, yourself.

"Either way," He starts, organizing more loose papers and scattered books while he talks. His back may be turned towards you, but you can picture his face clearly: the lightest smirk, the pinch of his brows, "I'm sure my students were pleased to hear from someone other than me for a change. Dare I say when you were speaking, they actually paid attention."

Delicately, like the simplest of words are valuable porcelain, you mutter, "Is that so? I should come see you more often, then."

Gale freezes for a second. His next few sentences come out much sweeter than he intended them to, but by the time he's opened his mouth, he isn't able to stop himself.

"I'd enjoy that. I truly would," He says, and setting the books he's holding aside, he turns to face you. He swallows the lump in his throat, and when he's speaking next, he's talking with his hands as he tries — and fails, mostly — to hide his nervous cadence.

"You don't need to come simply to help me teach," He explains, "I appreciate it, of course, but it's far from necessary. My home is always open to you. If you need to unwind someplace quiet, or if you're hoping to browse the grandest collection of tomes this side of Waterdeep, you're welcome to stay. For as long as you'd like."

The offer means more to you than he might realize.

"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you."

"No, thank you," Gale retorts, "I cannot overstate how much I appreciated seeing you again. Today was a delight."

Your glance travels away, and you try to ignore the warmth prickling over your face. From his open balcony, the sun casts shimmering rays as it falls. Light glitters over the ocean's rocky waves. The sea breeze is growing sharper; it whispers in your ears, and tickles the hair on the back of your neck. When you take a deep inhale, the air seems to catch in your lungs, holding on, unwilling to let go.

Finally, faintly, you reply, "You'll have to show me more of Waterdeep, next time. It's a beautiful city."

"Splendid, isn't it? I could show you around tomorrow, or even tonight, if you aren't too exhausted from today. The sights are particularly breathtaking then, when they're allowed to flourish under the cover of stars and moonlight."

Gale takes a step closer to you, and you're left to look up at him again. At the way the light caresses his skin, at his handsome features framed by a gentle smile.

"There's so many wonders I want you to see." He confesses.

More than that. He's longed for more than he's admitted to, more than everything he thought mattered, before he met you. There's so much he wants to show you, so much he needs to tell you, he's begun to lose track of it all.

Ever since you parted ways, he's felt something missing. Those adventures, your company and that of your unlikely band of companions: they're all things he's grown to miss dearly. In hopes he'd move on, he overwhelmed himself with the endeavors of his new life. He focused on teaching, on studying, on magic. No matter what, he was filled with an ache he couldn't extinguish.

You'd tease him if he mentioned it. He can imagine your voice, mumbling playfully with a flash of teeth and a sparkle in your gaze, Something missing? A tadpole in your brain, maybe?

Very funny, he'd answer. And he'd leave it at that, because you've given him an out, a chance not to make a fool of himself. He doesn't need everyone to hear how sentimental he's become — and especially not you. If only you knew the half of it.

You took a piece of him with you when you left, pried from the space between his ribs, fated to burn in your embers. He hasn't stopped missing you with such ferocity. With a certain kind of hunger. It's damn near worse than when the orb once gnawed at him.

To have you now almost feels like a dream. He keeps thinking he might wake up, that this will melt away to leave him and him alone. This shouldn't be real, you both shouldn't have made it. Gale recalls with sickening familiarity when the end of his life felt so close. He can remember even clearer the moment he found a new purpose in you.

You've been important to him from the start; he doesn't do a very good job of hiding it, does he? Those stolen glances were easily caught. His nervousness whenever you're with him concedes enough to make him obvious.

He could have told you. Could have admitted how you make the fragile strings of his heart strum with every fond call of his name. You could have known the way he felt between soft breaths, and close bodies. During the moment when he showed you how to wield the Weave at your fingertips. It would have been terribly simple. A single thought, and you'd not only know, but you'd feel his own emotions rushing into you — A rippling river of infatuation. Isn't it unfortunate then, that you tend to make his mind so blank?

The heart can be so cruel. No longer can he give you what he was aspiring to grace you with. He can't give you power. He can't offer you the abundances of a God, or the beauty of a plane away from this one. Only the ordinary.

Falling for you was never the problem. You weren't someone he believed he deserved.

His own hesitance forms a maddening sphere to be trapped in, and he knows it's his own fault; his own fear is to blame, his edge of destruction. You gave him hope. You've given him more than he ever could have desired, and that includes ascension. Is it so wrong for him to want more?

Many times, he's certainly thought so. He doesn't need anything else. He has already touched the heavens and beyond with the time he's spent by your side. Your dumb adventures, your talks, the uncertain closeness. It was nearly all he needed to be sated.

Nearly.

"Gale…"

Your soft utterance of his name snaps him out of his thoughts. Gale examines you, and you're glancing away, an expression he can't make out on your face. The setting sun bathes you in intoxicating orange light. You seem to have your own halo, your own radiance that defies reason. You defy a lot of the things he thought he knew.

He can only answer with a small, breathy, "Yes?"

A little while longer, and he might be ready. One night spent looking at the sky, or another time to confide in the comfort of your voice and your presence. He'll make it perfect. He'll find the courage, or the stars will witness his failure once again.

Crossing paths with you changed everything about himself he once thought he understood, and he finds the revelation as funny as it is delightful. To have you to miss was a privilege, in and of itself. Fate was never a concept he believed in, but evidently, the threads of his fortune had more in store for him. You became more than a wish, you were tangible. You were kind, intelligent, you were defiance incarnate. You rewrote the part of his story he thought untouchable. He watched Gods kneel at your feet, and he felt your softness latch onto him like a second home.

And he finally has time, doesn't he?

The time to tell you, the time to spend with you. Because he is alive, and the restlessness and nervousness he still feels inside shouldn't matter. How foolish he once was, for thinking things would turn out any other way.

In every other life, you still would've saved him. In a life where he was better, less scared, and not so temporary, perhaps you would have known he loved you already.

"I couldn't. I… I want to stay," You're starting; regret tugs at the edges of your voice, and Gale begins to feel his heart sink with each and every word. "Maybe I could some other time, but I can't now, I shouldn't. There's business that needs to be dealt with back home, in Baldur's Gate- I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner."

Gale huffs an impeccably dry laugh. He grins just slightly, a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and he softly responds, "Busy, aren't you? The grand savior of Baldur's Gate is needed on the field, I see. I understand. I won't hold you any longer."

"You aren't holding me up, Gale. It's nothing important, I guess I just…" Trailing off, you inhale deeply, trying not to stumble over your own words. Your glance darts from the floor of his study to the sculptures to the trinkets — Anything to keep your eyes away from his. "I didn't want to intrude. It would feel strange if I stayed. Like I'd be taking advantage of your hospitality, I suppose."

Gale frowns. "I promise you this, on absolutely everything left in our universe for me to promise on, you could never intrude. I meant my words, I told you that you could stay for as long as you desire, and-"

"I know." You answer, like a frustrated plea, like a sacrificial revelation. Your hands ball up at your sides. Your voice is loud, before it goes quiet. "I know. It's my fault, alright? This doesn't have anything to do with you. I just can't stay."

The air grows so tense it's almost suffocating. Though, for only a second or two.

"So, becoming my honorary guest professor was that bad, was it?" Gale hums.

Then, you're laughing weakly, you're brushing an awkward hand over the back of your neck and looking up at him, your expression now pleasantly amused. His doting gaze meets yours, framed by a few out of place strands of hair.

"No," You mumble teasingly, stretching out the end of the word with a roll of your eyes; he always knows how to make you weak. "And I've already promised to come teach with you again. As long as you aren't worried about me showing you up, that is."

"Oh, by all means, do show me up plenty," He eagerly replies, "I won't try to stop you."

You huff a quick chuckle, and there it is again — Your gaze, sparkling. Gale feels the way you draw him in without trying, until his attention is fully focused on you. Until you have him right where you want him. To think of how doomed he'd be if you ever got your hands on some charming magic.

"I've really missed you, y'know," You're admitting. Your tone is different somehow, unmistakably. "The party honestly has felt like forever ago. Back then, I thought we didn't have near enough time. Catching up was pleasant, but it felt… imperfect. And now, we spent an entire day together. You're right here in front of me, and yet, still. I miss you."

Gale's jaw clenches, and with nothing left to stop you, you continue.

Your throat grows tight. You expel a long, heavy sigh. "Do you want me to tell you the truth?"

"I wouldn't shy away from it." He returns.

"If I stay for any longer, I wouldn't have it in me to leave." Your gaze dances over his own, and he understands the uncertainty, mixed with faint emotions he doesn't. "Not ever."

For what is probably the first time since you've met him, Gale goes completely, utterly silent. You watch him think, his expression pinching — perhaps irritated at his own loss for words — before he softens. His chest rises slowly with the deep breath he takes. Light glitters off his silver earring. Shadows form in his features, his lips part in an almost-sentence. In the end, he swallows it down, and grits his teeth together to the point of pain.

You're standing close. So close, he can see the slight, frustrated crinkle in your brows that only seems to furrow more the longer he stays quiet. So close, he could lean in if he wanted to, and relay the depths of his longing from his hesitant lips onto yours.

It isn't like him to be speechless this long.

Your head tilts towards him, tender curiosity on your face. Your arm outstretches, and a hand gently begins to reach in his direction. "Gale?"

He's about to do something foolish. Something very, very unwise. He'd attempt to stop himself, if the words weren't already forming on his tongue. He'd give up as he did before, if only the dying light wasn't so lovely on you.

At least he knows it won't be the most nonsensical thing he's done.

Gale's gaze fills with warmth, with a devotion so resolute, you could believe you really are some form of a God. He catches your hand, and grasps it in a clumsy way; more clinging than holding, as fingers brush knuckles, folded over one another. As if you might disappear when he lets go.

This time, there's no more room for wondering. No more hesitation, no barriers, just himself and you: his fallen star, his lovely demise. It doesn't matter what he does or doesn't do, your existence will never leave his veins, running deeper than the fear and the magic ever has. The same way the Weave crackles at his fingertips, adoring you comes naturally. You are yourself, and you, in all your love, in flesh and bone — You are worth anything, or perhaps everything.

A little while longer. To the Hells with that.

"I'm in love with you."

It's easier to say those words than he expected. They just sort of happen; really, they seem natural. He's been agonizing for ages, but to hear his own voice say them aloud cements his feelings as true. He is in love with you. An honest, mortal love.

He doesn't have the time to worry over the consequences, because you've heard him loud and clear. His heart won't stop pounding, and pounding, and pounding.

Almost instantly, your eyes are going wide. Your own grip on his hand turns loose. Surprise washes warmly over your face, settling as a pleasant tingle in the expanse of your shoulders. For a moment, you don't speak. You take in quick, nervous breaths, feeling your lungs choked by emotion and sea salt.

"You really- Why're you-" You sputter, stumbling back slightly and shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Your arms go slack as you expel a faint sigh, "Gale-"

"You do not have to say anything. And you're under no obligation to stay." Gale interrupts, his tone abruptly serious. His expression reflects the same sort of solemness, his brows in a knot. He tries to hide the shake to his words, tries to chase away his worries, "You can leave, if you wish. You can leave, and we can never speak of this again. I wouldn't blame you. I couldn't blame you. I'd know better, not to chase after you and… to simply leave things as they are. Like I should have done now. If I wasn't the ass that I am."

A brief pause. Your eyes scan him, and Gale resists the urge to let his nervousness get the better of him.

"But I had to speak," He says. "This may be my only chance. I can't lie to you in the same way I've lied to myself."

Your next words are spoken with conviction. You squeeze his hand, and the dizzy room around him finally begins to steady — "Then tell me, Gale. I want you to tell me everything."

It's like the sun is shining right onto him. Heat and pure energy rushes from your hands into his, your voice a conduit for emotion. You practically give him a head rush.

Gale swallows, steadies. Then, he speaks.

"And what an abundance of things I could tell you."

Grasping your hands and squeezing them back, he's smiling again, but this time, it's different. The whole moment seems different. He's wearing an excited, heartfelt sort of smile, a look you think you've never seen before. Well, perhaps you saw it once.

You're reminded of the way he looked at you many, many nights ago. When your fates weren't assured. When you gazed upon the stars together, admiring the aurora he created — dazzling light, to pierce the sky of shadow. That memory seems so near, yet so far away. His solemness melted to gentleness back then, too. Your souls felt closer than they ever had.

Was this what he wanted to tell you that night?

"Let's see," Gale is continuing, and you're grinning, watching his head tilt as he puts on an air of confidence; his own form of sincerity.

"I wonder what I should tell you first? Should I detail each intricate moment, every subtle action that made me fall so deeply for you? For your determination, your ingenuity. Your beauty. Gods, you shouldn't get me started. If you truly wanted me to describe every single thing I adore about you, well, I believe we'd be nothing but dust by the time I was finished."

You can't help but chuckle. Gale's gaze travels over you, and you let yourself take him in. His fingertips absently run over your knuckles. His shoulders are tense with a hesitance he can't manage to hide.

"I'll make a terribly long-winded story brief, before I bore you with my sentiments." This time, he sounds a fair bit quieter. The depths of his honeyed gaze, ever-softening, become impossible to look away from.

"You are very special to me." He gently explains, "More than words can describe, and certainly more than anything else. I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. While the world was crumbling around us, begging to be saved, I thought myself content, if only I could spend whatever remained of my time at your side."

Carefully, Gale reaches forwards. Between his fingers, with the slightest, most exhilarating touch, he holds your chin, he tilts your head in his direction. Your heart begins to hammer in your chest to an unsteady rhythm.

"Love does not even begin to describe it. You are wonderful. You are the special sort of magic one might spend their entire life searching for. The most divine of desires. I've no need to search anymore."

A brush of his thumb over your mouth, and his calloused fingers are splaying back to caress your cheek, to feel the shape of your jaw, "I have the heavens right in my hands. All the spectacles and splendors of Faerûn are jealous of you."

You relax, and when his grasp drops from your chin, you let your hand slip away from his — only to wrap your arms around him, elbows resting on his shoulders. He admires you intently, gauging your reaction, his heart skipping at your touch and the subtle flash of shyness behind your eyes. A sort of analysis you've seen him use when he was examining an artifact, or mulling over a game of lanceboard. The tender focus his face takes on makes you huff in amusement.

With a teasing raise of your brow, you manage to ask, "How many times have you practiced saying that to me?"

"A hundred times. A thousand times." Gale keeps his arms at his sides, despite the way you embrace him tighter. In the corner of your vision, you catch him starting to reach out. His hands hover inches away from your waist, he flexes them in thought.

"No, I often went back and forth on the precise method I would use to confess, given I actually had the gall to do it, but," He explains, a slight playful air to his tone, "Those words were from the heart. Just a few specs of fondness from my vast nebula of love for you. If you can believe that."

"They're very… you. In a good way." Your smile is bright. He thinks it might continue to warm him, long after the point of the sun's imminent descent. "It's a shame, though. I wasn't expecting you to beat me to it. I've been practicing how I would tell you I'm in love with you since we met."

If there's one thing you've come to know about the wizard, it's that he's collected.

Calm, mostly. But unperturbed always. He's optimistic to a fault, and he's never been the type to seem nervous or timid, even if he might be feeling that way. He's an honest man, but also controlled — You have to exercise a certain amount of control to wield magic. Or to keep your own body from exploding to bits, you figure. With the orb posing much less of a threat, he's clearly more relaxed, but his emotions still don't show so easily.

You've seen him scared. But nervous? Shy? Those sorts of feelings were never in his repertoire. He's never once stumbled over his words, never been red-faced, never faltered from his confidence and his verbosity. Until now.

"You- You have?" Gale sounds so in disbelief, you swear his voice nearly cracks. He clears his throat awfully loudly, he glances between you and something in the distance. Which proves to be difficult, considering how close you are. Has the skin underneath his collar always felt so hot? "I had no idea. I mean, clearly, but- But still."

"I wasn't sure if you knew. You're more charming than you give yourself credit for," You clarify softly, "I thought for sure you'd make a move at that little tiefling party. Started planning what I might say and everything. Apparently, you failed to realize I was flirting with you."

"I wasn't even trying to woo you then," Gale mumbles, thinking to himself. "Well, that's- Hah, quite the discovery, now isn't it? Care to- uhm, enlighten me on what it was you planned to say, exactly?"

"Mmm, possibly. You seem flustered. Should I show you, instead?"

"Show me?"

"Yes," You stand up straighter, making his heart race faster as you move impossibly closer to him, "I'll show you what I really wanted to do back then."

"Whatever you wish would be fine with me- Er, wrong choice of words." The breeze drifting through his study is cold enough to form goosebumps, and yet he can't seem to quit burning up. He runs a quick hand through his hair, feeling the heat from his forehead underneath his palm, "Whatever you wish is perfect, I should say. If you want to- or, well, perhaps I could…"

Gale doesn't get the chance to say anything more.

He expects you to lean in. Sharply, he takes in a hurried, nervous breath. Uncertain palms hover over the curve of your waist, before settling with the slightest touch. His eyes grow heavy, his head begins to tilt opposite yours. What he doesn't expect is for you to stop, your lips almost pressed to his, but not quite, leaving the distance not yet closed.

You suspend there, for a moment. Your low breathing tickles his skin. Gale's hand finds your cheek, holding, and nothing more.

"Are you going to kiss me?"

There's only a half-second longer of hesitance. He closes the gap, and you fist the front of his shirt to pull him in along with you. Your eyes flutter shut. Fallen stars and glowing warmth shimmer through every inch of you. At last, your lips connect in a quaint, subtle kiss. Smooth, simple, and utterly him.

Shoulders slumping, your pulse thrums like the unsteady flicker of a candle flame. Your head begins to spin, your heart throbs with fiery longing. This is what you were waiting for. When you burned from the inside-out, wanting nothing more than to forget reason and your lives and his cruel Goddess, you only longed to just kiss him, regardless of the consequences. Everything else melts away: the setting sun, his warmly-lit tower, and your own feet from under you.

He's hardly done anything, and you're already overwhelmed. To your dismay, the kiss is over almost as soon as it begins. The both of you draw a breath's length apart. Gentle hands give your waist the smallest squeeze. You exhale, and Gale takes in a deeper breath along with you. Kissing him made the rest of the world fall away, or perhaps fall into place, and all you can think of is how desperately you need another.

Maybe he can read your mind, or maybe he's thinking the exact same thing. Delicately, Gale murmurs against your lips, "Forgive me for being greedy, but… I'm not sure that'll be enough for me. Could I kiss you again?"

As if he even has to ask.

With urgency, you're surging forwards, you're kissing him again and he can't manage to think — The only thing running through every inch of him is you. You, kissing him the way he's wanted you to for months upon months. Pressing your lips against his over and over, stealing his breath until he's feeling dizzy, but he doesn't care. You, lovely in a way he's never deserved, with a soul entwined by his own. You told him you love him; he can hardly stand to believe it.

Lips locked, you twist together, until Gale is guiding you by your waist. Until he's pressing your back against the edge of the nearest surface — his desk — to keep you both stable, while your hands are grabbing at his shoulders for leverage. You let a hand glide up, you tangle your fingers in soft brown hair. You grip and tug, dragging him close, and he sighs, mouth parting, allowing the kiss to turn deep. Enough to mark the point of no return.

This is everything he's ever wanted, you are the only thing he's ever needed. He could die happy, if this was his end. What a sweet, lovely end it would be. He can't describe how otherworldly it is, to know the desire he's had to kiss you won't die along with him. To know you have plenty of kisses left.

He could love you like this until the true end of the world. He's tempted actually, to slow down time, and savor you for as long as you will allow. You were well worth dying for, but you are priceless to live for. You and your touch, your love. Love — Gods, none of this will feel real, no matter how many times he reminds himself.

When his tongue slides against yours, a slow, apprehensive show of tenderness, you feel a shiver careen down your spine. He hears your breath get caught in your lungs, feels you tug him closer and arch into his touch once a palm drifts to the small of your back.

This kiss hopes to pour his devotion into you, so that you might understand. You'll know love, know the things he's always wanted to tell you, as familiar as you know yourself. He'll make sure this moment won't be forgotten.

You reach behind you, gripping the edge of the desk when his body presses into yours. Your mind is a mess, reeling so fast you might go woozy; another smooth kiss makes you pull him in further, ushering from him a meager gasp in surprise. You're lost, losing control. The both of you are trapped in a dance of vying for more, pressing closer, kissing harder. His knee slots between your legs — unintended encouragement, you're sure — and you jolt, your thoughts now occupied with things they really, really shouldn't be.

The smallest space between you fills with hot breath, as you pull apart just enough to get a word out. "Gale-"

"I've missed you," He murmurs, breathless and hurried, as though he doesn't wish to waste a single second, "I have missed you more than anything."

He leans close once more, his hand moves to hold the back of your neck and cradle you like you're precious. You kiss again, and any reservations you still have remaining fly away on the breeze, to be swallowed by the depths of the sea.

You don't want to stop. No, you know where this is leading, and still, you can't stop. You wouldn't dream of it. How long have you wanted to kiss him, wanted to have him to yourself? Wanted for him to lose his composure, and finally show you exactly how he felt? How long have you been waiting for more?

Since you met him, surely. Since you dragged him from that portal. Since he first shook your hand, and you felt your foolish heart spark to life. Piece by tender piece, you connected in secret. Fought through darkness to emerge onto the dawn, hoped the newfound day might bring you both together. Truly, you've waited too long to let a moment like this go to waste.

You pull apart for barely a second, you catch your breath while Gale mutters something against your mouth that sounds like your own name — And at once, you're closing the distance again. Your lips continue to learn the shape of each other, bodies shaky, rocking close. When a particularly desperate kiss causes his hips to drive into yours, you're the one left sighing. Your nerves prickle with excitement, your limbs feel weak. And a hardness, his hardness, shoves against you unmistakably, grinding into where you're terribly weak.

Oh, you won't be stopping now. Not any time soon.

Gale stiffens immediately, at the same moment you do. He peels himself apart from you so quickly you're left slumping, gasping into open air. You would have stumbled, if it wasn't for his hand on your waist gripping excessively tight, helping to hold you up. Faltering, he slowly lets go. Before he does, you think you can feel a slight tremble in his fingers.

"Ah, I'm- I'm sorry, genuinely," He stutters, practically panting as he tries to establish composure, a frail waver in his voice. You grip the desk tighter, staggering to your feet. The last traces of sunlight shimmer over his face, his earring, his eyes. Strands of his hair have fallen out of place, and he reaches up to briefly push them backward.

"You make it far too easy to get carried away." He says, sounding rough and short-winded, "That being said, it would be wise not to take things too far, that was- Well, you are-"

"That was perfect," You gasp out, cutting him off, or perhaps taking the words right out of his mouth. You bring a hand to his shoulder, an unspoken plea for him not to move away, "You don't have to stop, Gale. Please, don't."

Gale takes a long, slow breath. Hesitantly, he brings both hands back to rest on your waist — barely touching, his gaze scanning yours for any sign of discomfort. "Are you sure? Positively sure? Maybe it'd help if you, er, clarified, in a way."

"I'm clarifying that I want you to keep going. You don't have to hesitate, I want this," You retort, speaking softly, squeezing his shoulder in turn. Your eyes flicker over him, up and then down. "I showed you how I felt. It's only fair for you to return the favor, no?"

"Oh, of course. Fairness is one of the most crucial qualities to hone, in terms of forming a long-lasting bond. So says literature, anyways. But I think I'd prefer to mesh the showing with the telling, if that sounds at all pleasurable to you."

You're smirking. "As long as your sweet voice isn't the only pleasure in store for me."

He exhales a small huff, the faintest form of a laugh. A smile crosses his features, and he holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, admiring you like you're the prettiest sight this world has to offer. You very well might be.

His gaze comes to rest on yours: warm, complex, loving. For once, he doesn't speak. He demonstrates.

A small kiss is pressed to your cheek, innocent yet tender. Then, a kiss to the other side. His kisses travel; one he graces to the corner of your mouth, the next he places on the angle of your jaw. Your head tilts up in obedience, and he trails wet kisses down your neck, making you sigh weakly in response.

One more kiss is graced to your neck, then your nape, then just above your collarbone. They're weighted, in a way; heavy with an infatuation you can feel beneath his touch, and deep in your bones. His facial hair tickles your skin. His warm breath on your pulse is stifling, and it only begins to thump faster, fully at the mercy of his scattered kisses.

Meshing the showing, with the telling — It isn't long before he's babbling again.

"You hold so much of my heart," He mumbles; the words on your neck are a steady vibration. His palm caresses your side, his lips brush over your cheek, and then move to speak against the shell of your ear. The new depth to his voice is delightful. "Falling for you was… effortless. As effortless as one breathes. I have no regrets. Absolutely none."

The final kiss he places on your ear has shudders running through you. He's painstakingly slow once he starts to pull back, and he shifts just far enough to meet your eyes, your foreheads almost touching. That warm gaze on yours has your heart leaping all over again.

Strung through his tone is a thread of infatuation, a sweetness on his tongue you find oh-so endearing.

"You begged to be admired, but that hardly scratches the surface." He squeezes your side for emphasis. "You made me feel as though I meant something. Like I was alive. I'd forgotten how it felt, just as I'd forgotten what it could mean to fight for one's future." He pauses, thinking, reminiscing, "More so, I could say you brought me back to life."

Your mouth parts, forming the edge of a word. But Gale chooses to interrupt, tugging you in with a palm settled gingerly on your jaw, muddling your mind with a kiss. And you melt. You allow your head to tilt opposite his own, and your arm to snake between your bodies. Your hand presses flat to the center of his chest. He kisses you deeper, his heart thumps. Lingering magic strong enough to sense thrums beneath his robes, his skin.

"There's a line of poetry I once read," He's mumbling against your lips as he leaves them. His touch slides up slowly, supporting you, holding your back. "As of late, you've made it stick in my mind. Amidst the wealth of stories I've finished, the tales of truth and fiction, when I think of you, this singular line utterly refuses to part from me. And if one moment spent lost in contemplation equates to the faintest drop of rainwater, I've thought of you enough to flood the entirety of Faerûn."

Your eyes seem heavy. You're smiling, but your head is swirled in a dreamy fog. It's plain unfair to have to decide between hearing more, or asking him to kiss you again.

You decide on the former. "And what might that line be?"

Gale brushes your cheek with his thumb, "I do love nothing in the world so well as you."

He's completely genuine, he sounds so syrupy-sweet you can barely hold back your grin. You breathe a quiet, playful tsk, and you lean back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

In the course of your adventures together, you weren't sure how Gale felt about you.

It's rather stupid, thinking back on it now. Obviously, you had your suspicions. He was certainly warmer with you, compared to the rest of your allies. Despite knowing you could clearly take care of yourself, he regularly fussed over your safety, to the point of insisting you stick close to him whenever a fight broke out. He'd make a rash excuse, Powerful spells mean nil if you are not in the proper range for me to cover you! — or something like that. You always figured it was an exaggeration. Regardless, you weren't about to turn him down.

You were attached at the hip for safety's sake, that's all. Your remaining companions never seemed to buy it, nor could they hold their comments about the wizard's clearly defined soft spot. The thoughtful way he spoke to you had to mean more; or so they tried to convince you, anyway. You weren't easily influenced.

But it didn't matter. Without the courage and the time to ask, you couldn't be sure. You presumed he might like you, not love you.

This side to Gale is making you reevaluate. You've never seen him so enamored, never thought he'd be this smitten — with you, no less. In his eyes, you're a living beacon of radiance, a miracle meant to be adored. A bright, pale moon to light his way through the darkness, shimmering on jet-black waters. And adore you he will.

You were wrong, so very wrong. While you were busy falling for him, he was already plummeting harder.

"That's from a romance, isn't it?" You muse, tilting your head and eyeing him teasingly, "You're reciting romance lines to me?"

"Not just any romance, mind you. One of the greats. It's charming, very influential. Actually, the story is rather lighthearted- I'd be glad to introduce it to you, I have a feeling you'd enjoy it. But yes, in fact. I am."

"Somehow, you didn't seem like the romance type. I'm surprised. Pleasantly, though."

"A fine assumption. For quite some time, stories of a softer nature became subjects I rarely dabbled in." His index finger comes to rest under your chin, and your head is tilted in his direction. "But falling in love causes one to take interest."

Warmth swells in your veins, untamed. You picture Gale, retreating into his tomes and books when you had a moment of reprieve on the road, struggling to hide his infatuation with you. He'd often read to you, when he was able. His calm voice would narrate biographies and old history novels, until you were trying not to fall asleep. Romances were never a part of it. Perhaps they weren't a part of his personal collection, either. Yet the more you contemplate, the more they seem to suit him.

Did he read such stories to be reminded of you, to grapple with your absence? You can picture him getting lost in them, memorizing the scenes and the verses, in hopes your own tale might play out more like those novels, and different from what destiny threatened upon you. He yearned for things to be lighter, less somber. In the end, there was no world where you stopped longing for each other.

"Besides," Gale is continuing in his usual upbeat tone, giving you little time to think as he cups your cheek in his palm, "There's nothing wrong with choosing to be well-versed in everything. Fantasy, poetry, romance. Erotica, perhaps. I'm sure I could recall some more… exciting quotes, if you preferred it?"

"Please, there's no need," You tease, with the smallest roll of your eyes; although, your heart can't help but patter at the imagery. Gale, reading erotica, of all ridiculous things. "You're sweet. Even now, you're telling me about books. Could you be any more perfect?"

"Possibly," He confesses. "Where you're concerned, mere perfection is far from good enough." Swallowing the dryness in his throat, his eyes mist over with a saccharine seriousness, "My intentions were always to cherish you, to give you my utmost devotion, and then some. You deserve the world. I only wish I could give it to you."

"But you are enough for me. More than enough. I was lucky. So lucky, to have been fortunate enough to meet you. I'm not sure where I would be if I hadn't." Your fingertips drum against his shoulders, and gradually, he relaxes at your touch, from your tone. He exhales steadily, nice and slowly.

"Do you mean it?"

"Gale, I've never meant anything more. I want you so much. Just the way you are."

To have crossed paths with one another, to have met you — No, he is the one who must be fortunate beyond compare.

For a while, he stalls, deciding what to say. Each alternative comes up blank. Your fingers wrap around the neckline of his shirt, then. You feel the embroidered fabric with your thumb, the intricate pattern of swirls. You tug slightly, but Gale — still speechless, oddly enough — doesn't get the hint.

"Your shirt." When he opens his mouth to reply, you're swiftly interrupting. "Take it off."

He seems to freeze for a second, thinking. Then, the slightest form of a grin dawns on his face, a look of nervous contentment. He's reaching down to grasp the bottom of his velvet shirt, tugging it over his head. A messy happy trail litters from his stomach to disappear beneath his pants; it catches your attention, but not for long. Gale is pressing his palms to the surface of the desk, on either side of you, caging you in. You drift forward, and the kiss you share is a momentary distraction.

Effortlessly languid, he kisses you as though you have infinite time, and this is the only way he wishes to spend it. His hand moves to cradle the back of your head, you hold him tight between the soft presses of lips connecting. You exhale in unison once you've both pulled away.

Foggy breath mixes with your own. It warms your skin as he sighs slightly, leaning forward until his forehead is rested against yours. You watch him visibly swallow. He nervously brings a hand to your waist; just holding, with no intention quite yet. The faintest touch makes you melt, until you feel woven into him, soft beyond repair.

"Do you have the slightest idea how long I've dreamt of this?" He starts, his voice quiet, shaky, "How much I've thought of you, how badly I've needed you? How long I've sought to… Gods…"

Your palm grazes his chest, and he trails off into a shuddery sigh — eyes closing, shoulders slumping. Delicate fingertips feel the shape of the Netherese brand engraved in his skin. You trace and retrace the circular indentation. You press your palm flat to his chest, feeling the silent hum of dormant magic, measuring each fluttery beat of his heart. His chest aches, his veins sear with all the heat they can muster.

That's right. He'd almost begun to forget the effect you have on him.

You've never been afraid. After learning the truth, you didn't look at him differently. You refused to cast him aside, in the face of his own insistence. A miasma of blinding purple light shone from underneath your palm, pain ripped through him as he relived his self-made tragedy in one single breath — and somehow, you understood. You only pressed your palm closer, expression unwavering, and swore a gracious promise to help.

You've helped him more than you know. He shouldn't feel this way. So sated. It hardly makes sense, from any perspective. There's many things he failed to do. He has much to learn: about himself, about this damned orb, and still, about you.

But right now, his heart is a battering ram against the constructed walls of his chest, and your fingertips are traveling up — They're grazing the wretched mark as it twists up his nape, his cheek. Your knuckles brush the tangle of dark lines underneath his eye, you cup his face in your hand. And the orb is quiet. It should be screaming with the rest of him. Instead, it chooses silence.

Magic works in such strange, indecipherable ways. If someone were to tell him long ago that this is how it could work — as though in your presence, it too, is comforted — he doesn't think any part of him would ever believe them.

His mistake will forever be a part of him. But so will you.

Gale finds your hand, and settles his on top of your own. He places a kiss onto the bridge of your nose, his palm slides from your hip until his thumb is edging underneath your top, just barely brushing your bare skin underneath. He hesitates, but a kiss of your own placed onto his jaw has him gasping, poised to pull your shirt over your head in the same way his was discarded.

"May I?" Gale hums, and you swiftly nod in approval.

"Yes," You reply, "Please."

The anticipation that settles in your gut is damn near agonizing. You were expecting him to move carefully, but not this slow.

Gale continues at an apprehensive pace. He stops to collide his lips with yours, when the edge of your top reaches the center of your stomach. With another smooth kiss, mouths parted, breath ragged, he tugs it higher still. You only break apart to bring your arms over your head, and give him a chance to pull it off the rest of the way.

A kiss onto your ear, and your chest is tight. His lips trail down your nape, and you're reaching up to grab a hold of his hair, your teeth gritting as you choke back a desperate noise.

Between sighs, your voice is weak, but you still manage, "How long you've sought to what?"

Gale mumbles a hm into your nape, he squeezes your waist and brushes his thumb over your skin. You know he's coaxing you to continue, but with his mouth on your neck, peppering kisses that wash over you like waves, it's rather hard to follow through.

Nonetheless, you grip a fistful of brown hair to give yourself leverage. You force yourself to take a deep, steadying breath. "You were saying something before. How long have you sought to do what, exactly?"

One last kiss, and Gale is drawing back to meet your eyes. He holds your chin between two of his fingers. There's a glint in the back of his gaze, causing heat to rush over you, your limbs suddenly growing weak.

"To take you," He admits, "To not just tell you what wondrous things you've made me feel, but to show you."

You're sure the wild look in his eyes is mirrored in your own. "Then what are you waiting for? Show me."

Gale smiles. He gestures with a crooked finger, and instructs with a tone that borders on smug, "Make yourself comfortable. If you could do the honor of hopping up on the desk for me, I'd be glad to get started."

When you press your palms flat to the solid wood, pushing to lift yourself, his hands maneuver under your thighs, and he helps to plop you on top of his messy wooden desk. He makes room for you, pushing stacks of books to the edge, giving you the space you need to scooch back. His brows are furrowed slightly as he's gathering half-opened scrolls to toss on the floor — from nervousness? Concentration? You aren't entirely sure, but you think he lingers somewhere in between.

Turning back to you, he innocently allows his palms to feel the shape of your bare sides. He smooths them over the curve of your waist, he caresses the faint indentations of the scars your journey and your previous path left. Then, not so innocently, his fingers are toying with the front of your pants. His thumb is rubbing over the button, while his gaze never leaves yours, his collected expression never once wavering.

Sitting atop Gale's desk is far from luxurious. You're already shifting, doing your best to relax and meet his eyes, but you tense when he gives you a full once-over. You stifle your nerves. By now, you don't care where he has you, as long as he doesn't make you wait for much longer.

Your impatience must reflect in your reaction. Gale brings his gaze back to yours, and it somehow seems much softer.

"I thought you couldn't get any more gorgeous," He whispers, his fingertips drawing shapes you can't recognize into your skin, "But before my eyes, you've so effortlessly proved me wrong. What a fool I am."

"A very loveable fool, at least," You counter, placing your hands on his shoulders as he glides his gentle palm up your side. The breeze still fluttering through his study tickles your skin, intensifying each faint, terribly warm touch.

"You're too sweet. I doubt you'd be as composed if you knew the true depth to my foolishness. There is a great deal to address. Too much to fit into one short night, I'm sure." Gale's eyes narrow, adoration at the forefront of his expression, "It's arduous to simply try and think around you, you know. Well, unless one finds themselves thinking about you. You're such an unrelenting plague on my every thought- A good plague, I should add, not the, erm. Sickly sort."

"Right. A good plague," You repeat. "Go on."

"You are… impossible not to think of," Gale corrects, "My mind was made to study the intricacies of yours. I often found myself lost, absorbed in the fierceness of my adoration for you. Even at times where I perhaps shouldn't."

Your eyebrow raises. "Is that so?"

After staring at you blankly for more than a few moments, he awkwardly clears his throat and continues, "I suppose you're waiting for me to explain? If you asked our unlikely band of companions, I'm sure someone would tell you. They certainly remember how immensely I embarrassed myself with my obviousness, at our reunion and when we were still merely surviving together. But you never knew. I assumed you never knew. You failed to notice when I couldn't stop… staring at you, for lack of a better term."

"I didn't notice that much." Briefly, your lips press into a line. "I had my suspicions, sure, but I wasn't entirely confident you felt… more, for me. More than the friendship we had already. Or maybe I found the reality of it hard to believe."

"More barely describes it. My heart would begin to pound each and every time I saw you. Damn thing would tear into my chest like it wanted to come free, especially in the moments where we finished another battle victorious, barely making it out with lives and limbs intact. I'd watch you dust your hands. Wipe the mess of dirt, and some unlucky soul's blood from your face. Your jaw set, your eyes darkened. And I could only think of how much I wanted you."

Apparently, he's not yet out of surprises. For a man who says so much, he picks the strangest times to keep his mouth shut, because you guarantee if you knew that then, you wouldn't have wasted this much time. No, you would've let him have you then and there, amongst the danger and against your judgment. Perhaps that's exactly what he was picturing.

You swallow, eyeing him softly, curiously. "Were you just thinking? Or did you do something about those thoughts of me?"

"Do something?" Gale huffs, letting go of you to return to his familiar habit of speaking with his hands, "As you know, those ideas, no matter how thrilling, could never be permitted to happen- They were forced to be kept in here, exclusively to myself. Lest they prove an unnecessary distraction. Many times, I dreamt of what it might be like to admit the truth. What I would say to you, if my feelings were returned. But I could allow these perspectives to haunt only me, and myself alone."

He averts his eyes in fleeting nervousness. Tentatively, he mumbles, "When you, when those thoughts threatened to swallow me into their waiting jaws, and I couldn't stop thinking- Dwelling on your voice, your touch. Your beauty. I would… Hold on. Oh."

You watch realization dawn on his face like the sun rising over the horizon. His eyes go wide and his face goes warm, he pushes away any uncertainty by breathing a small, light chuckle. He holds your side once more, and the anxiousness of his tense hand, fingers flexing, contradicts his supposed self-assurance.

"Naughty." Gale teases, "Correct me if I've somehow veered onto the path of the mistaken, but I do believe I've discerned what it is you're getting at."

Seems you can't hide your smirk anymore. Leaning back, your gaze locks with his, and the look on your face proves him right without the need for you to speak. Like the tressym who caught the canary, if he could describe it.

Still, your head tilts, and you murmur, "Judging by your reaction, I doubt you need to be corrected."

"Quite the risqué mind you have, don't you? And I thought I was the immodest one." His palm glides from your side, down to your waist, to your hip, "Though, I cannot lie, I am thrilled to indulge you. It's quite an… inappropriate matter to admit. But considering where we were already planning on taking this- Yes. I have done what you are thinking of. Shall I elaborate?"

"I'd love it if you would."

As you grasp his hand boldly, your fingers brush his. You guide him to the front of your pants again, until he's clutching the button, fiddling with it, feeling the shape while he tries to find his next words.

"I was always head over heels for you," Gale explains, popping the button before pulling on the zipper, "It would be pointless to claim otherwise. You were far more than a passing fancy, and I knew I could never forget, nor forgo you. You were my sanctum, my love. I worshiped you. And so I defied my Goddess."

You lift up when Gale begins to slide your pants from your thighs, until they're left in a pile on the hardwood floor. The surface of his desk feels cool against your bare legs.

"Of course, you already know that much. My point- Which don't fret, we are getting to," He says, a palm nonchalantly finding your thigh. He caresses your skin, and your heart is in your throat, because his fingers are drifting ever-so slightly closer, "Is that I was restless. There's an explanation as to why I would often avoid you, why I'd slip away once dusk became night. I pushed every potent feeling down, as to not affect our mission, nor our companionship. But you- You are enthralling."

Careful fingertips skate the inside of your thigh. And as you swallow down fragile gasps, he's only continuing, "Once I was alone, I could no longer stifle the longing I felt. Rest hardly reprieved me. I'd only dream of what we did not have the time to say, nor do. I imagined showing you everything I could give to you, the places I could take you, the marvels I wished for you to see. A snap of my fingers, and we could connect in ways you could not even envisage. We would forget our misfortunes. Our deities. Gods, it was worse when I had to watch someone else chat you up. That night, I'd be practically insatiable."

Your head is whirling.

His manner of speaking leaves more up to interpretation than you would have liked, but you know him well enough by now to be more than skilled at reading between the lines. And those words of his can only paint the most addictive picture.

Gale, trying his best to impress you, to make you smile and keep you safe, only to grow a slight bit jealous when you basked in the attention of someone other than him. Gale, slipping away and "going to bed early" the first chance he got. Holing up in his tent, while you had no idea why. Trying to sleep, only to be awakened over and over again by his enticing dreams of you. Your visage overwhelming his mind, the practiced, straight-laced wizard would finally give into his vices.

With a palm over his mouth, and a hand down his pants, his noises would be muffled as he works his deft hand over his stiff length. He'd close his eyes, silently scolding himself; he's ridiculous, moronic, pathetic. He should be able to stifle his foolish desires, and yet he couldn't stop, his jaw clenched as he visualizes what he wants, needs to do to you — For once, he'd let his hunger for you consume him.

Perhaps he isn't as principled as you once thought him to be.

"I- I felt the same way," You stammer, your throat tightening, making it harder to speak. His fingertips move upward to carefully graze your stomach; his gaze stays on yours, yet you're struggling to maintain eye contact. "It was hard not to daydream about you, whenever we had a moment to rest. My focus was… all over the place. I wanted you to myself. Wanted you to do whatever you wished to me."

"It seems we are one in the same. You could ask anything of me, and I would consider it done." Gale's thumb hooks around your underwear, but freezes there, not yet moving. His volume drops to barely above a whisper; smooth, and intoxicating, "But I did not always think of you in such sentimental terms. With you as… tempting as you are, and with a wealth of unspoken affections between us, my musings would often wander elsewhere."

A shudder racks your spine. "Elsewhere?"

Leaning closer, Gale allows his free hand to steady on your waist.

You've always thought him and yourself to be equal in prowess. You have fought beside him enough to respect his skill, but also to understand his weaknesses. Yet, in this moment, with his voice echoing against the shell of your ear as a low, sultry hum — If this were a fight, you would've already, most certainly lost.

"Yes, to the comforts we hadn't yet explored. To the way your voice might sound when it strains. I pictured your hands, purely natural when they are joined with mine. Or perhaps your arms, your legs, tightly wrapped around my shoulders, and my back."

You feel his palm, caressing your side in slow, simple circles. Your eyelids flutter, your body tremors in the wake of a pleasurable tide. Through his tone, you can practically hear the smile on his lips, "I'm sure you get the idea. I confess, I was not as grounded around you as I may have appeared to be. For saving-the-world's sake, my focus could not wane. Yet, my foolish heart only wanted to hear how you might plead to be given every last inch of me- And I would entrust it all to you. My mind, my body. My soul, if you had any use for it."

His words have you so distracted, you almost fail to notice he currently has your underwear half-way down your thighs.

Your gaze meets his. Something you can't read reflected in the back of his eyes, he gazes at you silently, but questioningly. As if he's waiting for your word to continue. Sighing, you force yourself to relax. You ignore the budding warmth that gnaws at your core. You shift, before you lift once more, and with a sly grin, he takes the hint to pull the garment off the rest of the way.

"I might," You reply, shivering when his palm returns to your thigh, allowing your legs to part slightly when his touch begins to drift, "Maybe I'm a devil in disguise."

"The sweetest devil in all of the Hells," Gale purrs. He presses a quick kiss to your cheek, and his fingers gravitate away; dizzy, your breath hitches. You can't figure out if he's teasing you on purpose, but whatever the bastard is trying, he's certainly succeeding. You tense from your shoulders to your legs, only for his lips on your nape to make you crumble again.

"Gale-"

He kisses the column of your neck, and your grip tightens on the desk's edge, nails practically digging into the wooden surface. Gale's fingertips achingly draw circles on the inside of your thigh, his touch coaxing them further apart. Your lungs are overwhelmed. By the lack of air, by the scent of dusk, and his books, and him.

"Please," You plead; the sound is a sweet melody to his ears, "Touch me."

You're more than enthralling — You are simply irresistible.

Gale sighs, and as the held breath leaves him, he swears he feels the center of his chest thrum with such staggering tenderness.

"You very well may be my demise."

Bracing a hand on your waist, he hesitates. His brows pinch slightly. His palm feels clammy, almost, and you can feel the heat like untamed fire, radiating from his skin, shining through every pore. Cast upon him is a sheet of silken, fading light. You breathe, in and then out. How can he be so damn handsome?

"It's been a while since I have done anything of this sort. I do not wish to overstep." Gale brings his fingers to rest underneath your chin — index and middle, tilting your head ever-so gently towards him. "You'll tell me if it gets to be too much? If I ever do something that you have, erm. A less than savory reaction towards?"

"Of course," You reply simply, but the simplest of words are all he needs to be put at ease. "Do as you like. I trust you."

And so, he does. His eyes soften, they remind you of dripping, warm honey. Yet, the palm that begins to glide over your chest, softly caressing, is somehow even warmer.

You're nearly nose to nose, as Gale touches every curve and dip from your chest to your collarbones, admiring the lovely details. It's tender — analytical, in a way — as though he's studying exactly what forms your shape, so he may never forget. The sound of his breathing, along with your own echoes faintly in your ears. You feel revered, like the statue of some sacred God; and from study or by memory, he will learn to sculpt you.

"Beautiful," Gale murmurs quietly, "You are made of splendor and stardust."

Your heart intends to deny those words. You once thought differently, you believed ruin and rot were all to compose you. But if he presumes otherwise, if Gale is the one to insist you're so much greater, there isn't a single part of you left to challenge him. You are beautiful.

At once, your veins buzz, exhilaration rippling through your system at his voice, his touch. His fingertips trail the length of your shoulder. They teasingly trace downward, only to move back up again, despite the twitch of your thighs and the purse of your lips.

"That night," He breathes, his hand studying the column of your throat, the curve of your jaw, "Where I created the sky for you, I came right to the precipice of confessing. You were beautiful then. As you always are. I felt this… fondness, dwell within me while I looked at you. I wondered if your lips were as plush as they looked. Gods, I wanted to kiss you. Our enemies should have tore a page from your book. You know better than anyone how to reduce a former chosen to such weakness."

Those addictive fingertips reach back, tracing up your spine, causing your whole body to tingle. From the smallest of touches, from his touch, you're rife with anticipation. You've wanted and waited so much and so long to feel this. Gale's other hand tightens on your side, reassuring while holding you still, and you wouldn't be surprised if he could tell. If he knew what he was doing to you.

He's missed you, loved you, with every fiber of his doomed being. Now, fondness is more than within him; it's engulfing him whole.

He swallows thickly. "It would have been delightful to pull you close. To cast aside my misgivings, and instead have you right then and there. Underneath the shimmering lights, while whispering blades of grass tickled our skin. The sight of you laid out underneath me would have been more exquisite than any flourish I am capable of creating, I'm sure. Or, the sight of you above, perhaps? I didn't mind either which way."

"Gale."

You mumble his name, in some cross between a hiss, a pout, and a plea. He catches your eyes with a smile.

More than you might think, he has you figured out. The look you give him whenever he speaks: warm and soft-eyed, breath hitched, expression blissfully entranced. You've mentioned your not-so subtle weakness for his voice before. You love hearing him talk like this, don't you?

"You're sweet, but sometimes-" You choke on a gasp, shuddering once his hand is roaming down, down. This time, brushing your stomach, your hip, your thigh. "Sometimes, I really just want you to kiss me."

Perhaps you could listen to him forever, but he's no fool. Any request of yours he'd be happy to oblige. Especially this one.

"Come here, then," He says, already closing the distance, "You merely have to ask."

A hand holding your jaw, Gale pulls you in, his head tilting until you collide in a soft mess of lips and tongue. He blindly finds your thigh, gently pushing them apart; he squeezes your plush flesh, before he kisses you harder.

Together, when you both pull apart to breathe, he meets your gaze: a question, and permission. You don't look away. Your gasps grow sharper as his touch moves closer, your nerves strung tight, your bottom lip drawn between your teeth.

The ends of his fingers brush your slick, waiting entrance, and you whine.

"Oh, you're… Wow," Gale sighs out. You swear with the way he sounds, he's practically in disbelief. He drags the digits up, getting them drenched and filthy in your mess of arousal, his fingertips applying slight pressure when they reach your swollen clit. You tense, swallowing down a whimper. His fingers glisten in the dying light, you watch him very obviously glance down once he drags them away. Pulling them apart, he admires the string of glossy slickness that clings in between them.

"And I've barely just begun." He looks back to you, breathing the slightest huff, "I knew you- Well, I thought you felt strongly about me. As strongly as I feel about you. If I knew I was capable of doing this to you, of compelling you to be this… desperate, I would have divulged how I felt a great deal sooner."

Like he's one to talk. Your affections go both ways — He made that clear when he was a stiff mess in his pants, just from you kissing him.

Your chest heaves with your gasps, but only heaves harder once his touch leaves. His knuckles tense, his hand hovering inches away from you, and he looks over your face with brief apprehension. Right now, you can't have any of it.

"What do you need?" Gale asks, tone smooth, low.

"Your… Your fingers-"

"And you need them where, to be exact? They are capable of bringing a great number of things into fruition. To have them inside of you, filling you- Is that what you're after?"

"Yes," Your voice wobbles to the edge of cracking, and you follow along, forcing yourself to get more specific, "Need them inside. Please, don't make me wait."

He's never heard you beg before. Never thought you could get so needy, so flushed. For him, you're begging for him.

During the path of your previous journey, your polite requests of him here and there were more than enough to get him ecstatic. This, though? He thinks he might crave to hear you plead your lovely desires for the rest of his existence.

The same hand you've watched cast spells drifts back to you, between your legs. Gale's fingers, dexterous as they handle a fragile flicker of light in between them, masterful as they form the shape for another incantation. Delicately holding a thin quill pen, turning the pages of a worn book, crooking up to summon a hidden tome, or a detailed projection — His fingers begin to ease inside you, and all you can do is bite your tongue, and grip the edge of his desk like your life depends on it.

They feel thicker than they look. You weren't expecting to be so full, even when they aren't entirely in, nor were you thinking he'd go this slowly. With how soaked you are, with how much you've needed him, you know his fingers — ring, and middle — would press inside you so simply, if that's what he was aiming for. They'd slide all the way in, fill you down to his knuckles, until your needy cunt is fluttering around him; you're filthy, and yet, despite the thoughts you have bouncing around in your brain, you hardly feel an ounce of shame.

Instead though, different from what you were imagining, he takes his time. He savors this, savors you, delighting in your pretty expression, and the delicious moan you let go of as his fingers fill you just half-way. Half-way, not sinking fully in. The damn wizard is teasing you. He's dragging both digits out before they've truly given you what you wanted, leaving you disappointed once they slip away.

As a small mercy, his fingertips move to circle your clit with the faintest touch. Right then, the entirety of you burns red-hot, impossibly sensitive. It's so much, and not enough at the same time. If he doesn't continue, you think you might cry.

"I was intending to take things patiently, but I am more than willing to compromise," Gale suddenly murmurs, out of breath, his gasps betraying the levelness he tries to keep to his words. Clearly, this is affecting him just as much as it may be affecting you. His free hand tenses on your waist, and he drawls, "Tell me if it becomes too much. Or if you're in need of more."

Like clockwork, you don't even wait for him to take another breath in. "More, Gale."

He chuckles. Actually chuckles, in spite of any nervousness — and when the sound alone makes you shiver, a soft gasp in pleasure leaving your lips, you know you're absolutely done for.

"Eager little thing." There's enough adoration in his words to devour and get drunk off of, "No matter, I'd already planned to give you everything."

Your hand on the desk's edge clenches, and as though he knows without the need to see, Gale moves to place his palm over yours. His touch brushes your knuckles, his hand is effortlessly warm. His fingertips press to your waiting entrance; you breathe a sigh of approval, before he's working to slide them back inside you.

They ease into your warm cunt deeper, nice and easy. As far as they'll go, until you're sufficiently full, with his palm lightly pressing against your pelvis, his knuckles barely grazing you. Gale's expression turns soft, washed over in utter lust. He mumbles the slightest swear under his breath that you almost don't catch, paired with a tender, low, That's it.

And fuck, you're already struggling to handle this, but to hear him praise you?

When he'd do so before, you were affected quite the same. He'd give you an earnest Excellent job! whenever you cracked another lock, or a Well done, when you downed a rather difficult foe. It was impossible not to dwell on his words, as ridiculous as you often felt. He would affectionately pat your shoulder, or place a hand on the small of your back when he was especially proud of you. You'd feel a chill run up your spine, just from that. A particularly shameful chill.

Now though, like this? When his voice is a whole octave lower, and noticeably sultrier; when he's got two of his fingers nestled deep inside you, and his pretty gaze on yours, hair out of place as it gets stuck to his sweaty forehead — Gods help you, if he decides to say anything more. Knowing him, he will.

He's still smiling while he stares at you, a look that speaks in pure adoration. And no matter how overwhelming, no matter the shivers that surge through your veins at the thought, or the intense pounding of your heart, you want him to speak. He's fucking right, his voice is your weakness. You want to hear all he's longed to tell you, no details spared.

He's lucky you haven't melted into a puddle by now. Your limbs are weak, you feel like you might have. His poor scrolls. There's no doubt you're making a mess, but puddle-you would have left his desk and its important contents in shambles.

Gale languidly pumps his fingers into you, in and then out, and your teeth grit at the sloppy noise they create. The pace he sets is slow, true to his earlier word. Ecstasy buds in your core at every draw back, and firm press in. Yet, the devotion, the listlessness to it — You're put on a pedestal right between needing less, and wanting more. It's perfectly agonizing.

It isn't enough, you need just a sliver more of what he's not providing. But his slow, meticulous movement has you reeling. His thick fingers fuck you methodically, working you up to right where he wants you, and not an inch more. It feels like you might shatter in his arms, his hands, and he would be the one to put you back together.

"Please," You're murmuring, your back arching, your eyes deep and hazy, utterly enchanting, "I need you- need you not to stop, fucking please."

You make his focus shift in a mere instant. Holding onto you tighter, his fingers curl on the next press in, nudging oh-so perfectly against where you're oh-so sensitive. You're a mess, but he loves it; he relishes in admiring this lovely, desperate side to you. You practically cry out, your body tensing beneath his touch, your eyes screwing shut. And Gale, ever attentive, perpetually ambitious, crooks his dexterous fingers inside you again in a draw for more, until you're a gasping, trembling mess.

"You sound wonderful. Just perfect. Believe me, I want to stop as much as you may want to. Which, with regards to your greedy form of begging, would surely be not at all," Gale whispers, in a delicate hum. His words fill your head like clouds. "I have waited too long for this. I have wanted you far too greatly to stop now, and I do not plan to."

You have his fingers soaked, his palm and his wrist filthy, practically dripping with your messy arousal. Between stifled whines and struggles for air, you utter his name. He falters for a moment. Ignoring his slacks growing tight and uncomfortable around him, he takes in an overly controlled breath.

"Don't try to silence yourself," He says, "I want to hear everything."

Your thighs quiver. They threaten to close around his arm, while precise fingers bully your sweet spot; you couldn't hold your moans for him back, not even if you were trying to.

You toss your head back with a whine, loud and unabashed, and Gale offers your hand a gentle squeeze. His breathing is sharp, loud enough to hear, to feel as a fan of warmth against your chest and neck. The heat between you builds to something unbearable. Each thrust of his fingers is relentless: they draw gasps from you that echo in the walls of his study, your lungs aching raw. You are wet and warm and impossibly soft around both digits, you'll feel much softer and wetter around him. And you're simply stunning, from the top of your head, to the ends of your toes. Gorgeous, in a way he'll try his damndest to deserve.

To hold you until the stars give out, to never have to let you go would be a dream made real.

Engrossed in giving you what you need, he admires the softness present on your features when you prop yourself back up. Your chest heaves, your bottom lip trembling. He's been so focused on you, he hardly notices you've already shifted.

You reach forward, your arm is shaky, faint gasps still slipping past your lips as his fingers massage that addictive spot deep within you. Your palm presses to his chest. Only then does he realize how quick his heart's been beating, and how strongly you've been affecting him.

If you were a drug, or a form of charming magic perhaps, you'd be the most potent there is. Your hand glides down, gaze stuck on his — gazes locked on each other — and he lets you. He lets you move your palm down to a near dangerous degree; he shifts forward and closer, in fact, to simplify your reach.

Impulsive, you allow your palm to travel between his legs before you've given it a second thought. You feel the firm outline of his cock, shamelessly tenting his pants, and Gale's brows pinch. He shudders, sighing softly, but he doesn't hold back from leaning into your touch. A small movement has his clothed length grinding against your palm; pure, exquisite friction. Fortunately, swarmed by your own desperations, you are wasting no time giving him more.

For the first time since he began, or maybe for the first time ever, Gale's resolve crumbles. Your hand slips into his pants, wrapping around his hard, silky length, and he groans, the sound sweet enough to incite a heady pulse between your legs. He braces his free hand on the desk to keep steady, and his pace turns frantic as his head dips, strands of hair in his face, his fingers clumsily pistoning into you.

He's warm in your palm, slick with dripping precum that dirties the smooth fabric of his briefs; so distinctly heavy, you start to feel dizzy, overwhelmed by a rush of blood to your head.

"Shit," Gale swears under his breath when you grip him, then pump him, his eyelids heavy like he's woozy. Your reaction is immediate and visceral, pleasure blazing in your core, your chest heaving with quickened whines.

His jaw clenches instinctually, your palm hurriedly swiping over his sensitive, weeping tip. It sends flurries of pleasure over him, and makes every touch much slicker, much wetter. The damp squelch made by the twists of your hand is nearly as filthy as the echo of his fingers plunging into you.

He chokes on a moan, and he hurriedly murmurs, "Your touch is… It is unlike anything I have ever felt before, it's- oh- indescribable…"

You're panting, your hand slowing down, the fragility and newfound pitch to his voice pooling heat in your gut, "Should I stop?"

"No, for the love of every God still left watching over us," Gale reaches up, shakily tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips brush your skin with potent electricity, before he sets his palm back down on the desk, close enough to have your thumbs touch. "Absolutely do not stop."

There's conviction in his voice; it makes your heart pound, and subsequently tremble.

The way you stroke him is messy and quick, frantic to make up for the lack of space the confines of his slacks provide. Your brain is scrambled from his voice, his fingers: easing inside you, and then crooking, punching whines from you each time they perfectly nudge your sweet spot. You feel known, loved, as he studies what you need — to give it to you here, and countless times over.

Between your sins and his, the room is drowned in the echoes of gasps, whines. In wet noises that sound disgustingly lewd when they reach your ears, sending sparks twisting up your back. Gale falls forward, his forehead rests softly against yours. He finds the curve of your waist, gripping you tight; a touch that brands, that makes you pliable. His warm hand on your bare skin is a wave of molten comfort, washing deep into your bones.

"Back then," You mumble breathlessly, beginning a tangent of your own, "I wanted so badly to tell you how I felt. I w-wanted, needed you, I would have given up anything to be close to you. I thought of… of trying to stay quiet in your little tent, trying to make sure no-one else would hear us. You'd whisper in my ear that we have to be quiet, and cover my mouth with your palm while you rocked into me…"

Gale stutters. He throbs, underneath your touch, and lets go of a long, shaking breath. He rolls his hips into your grip just barely, chasing another ray of pleasure.

"Even a rudimentary spell could've… hah, solved that problem easily," He grits out, the bridge of his nose in a focused knot, "But I'm glad we weren't so hasty. This moment we have now, it is kept solely to ourselves. If we-" A groan, a sigh, "Had to account for unnecessary company, I would never have known how lovely you sound when you're pleading my name."

"Fuck- Gale…"

You moan in unison, syncing your breathing and the skip of your heartbeats. In the midst of your own pulse in your ears — your head swirling, drunk on him — you are freeing his cock from his slacks, making him inhale a hiss as the room's cold air hits his length. Your palm strokes all of him, from base to head: tenderly, slowly, agonizingly. He trembles, and his thumb brushes your clit while his fingers stay sheathed inside. Desire takes over what remains of you, as though his touch itself is made from magic.

"I wanted to- I-" It's difficult to talk now; his thumb rubs slow circles onto your sensitive clit, and tension grips you tight, taut as deep in your core as his fingers reach. "I wanted to kiss you, feel you, taste you. Sometimes, I wished we could just forget everything and- Oh, Gods, I needed you, Gale. I knew I was foolish and greedy, but I couldn't lose you. I didn't want anything to ever happen to you, I love you. Just you, just as you are."

Just as you are.

More than anything he's once known, stronger than everything he's ever felt, those words send him spiraling into a hopeless, tender oblivion.

You won't have to fear losing him. Not ever again.

Despite the slight parting of his lips, he can't say anything more; he can only exhale in warm, heady pleasure, and sway forward to collapse into you. Your palm, working over his cock with soft, steady strokes, has him hurtling close to the edge with no reprieve in sight. His forehead leans into the curve of your nape, breath hot on your skin, and he can barely manage to think, let alone control the unsteady pace of his fingers; fucking into you desperately and clumsily, sending pleasure spiraling through your system.

But your voice — Chiming in his ears, echoing with the earnestness of bells, you bring every devoted component of his attention right back to you.

"Please," You beg, your tone quiet, on the verge of shattering like glass. Gale moves his palm to hold the small of your back as a slight comforting gesture, a silent reminder that he has you, and you feel the petals of your heart unfurl, and unwind.

"I'm right there," You're gasping, "I'm- ah, please…"

He can't contain himself, sweat beading at his chest and forehead as he sloppily thrusts into your now-loose grip. Every slow, choppy buck of his hips leaves him more overwhelmed. You have your head tipped back, as you jerk him off hurriedly, choking on your own moans. Euphoric flames lap at your gut, your limbs — Gale peppers your nape in haphazard kisses, and all it takes is one more touch, three more words.

"I love you," His murmur rolls in vibrations against your kiss-sensitive nape; you melt, your back slumps. There's an intensity to his tone, a thickness to his accent and a slur between the syllables. You nearly drown him out with your own chants of his name.

"My sweetheart," He falters, "My love- You feel perfect, and I- I'm so close- I've got you, let go, let go with me-"

You flutter around his fingers, and he stammers with words left unsaid, murmuring faint recitations of your name as you both reach the crescendo. Frantic jerks of your palm and feverish swipes of his thumb on your clit, his touch palpable with so much love you can practically feel it — and you're slamming over the edge together.

Gale's breathing comes from weary, bruised lungs. You feel him twitch, then pulse, and messes of moans and gasps resound onto your neck as he spills into your hand. The mess drips over your palm, coating your fingers. Your heart pounds against your chest like a drum, and the pleasant disaster of your release washes over your body — making you tense and cry out, your legs quivering as you cum for him — before setting you down, shakily and slowly.

You can hardly think by the end of it. The aftershocks that grip you are unlike anything you've ever felt before. Finding your high while thinking of him pales in comparison to cumming for him, on his fingers.

Neither you, nor him can speak. When Gale finally pulls apart from you, dragging his fingers from your warmth and stumbling to his feet, what makes up your tangled thoughts is still very much fuzzy. You're both panting hard; him, more than you are, perhaps. Your thighs are tense and sore, you have to force them to relax to ease some of the strain.

Through heavy eyelids, you watch him run a palm over his face. He massages his temple, and lets go of a deep, weighted breath. The way he looks at you then, gaze settled on yours, could be enough to entrance you, all on its own.

"Beautiful." He hums simply. His voice is still rough at the edges, quiet and strained. You aren't sure if it's a description, or a term of endearment; maybe both, you figure, so you can enjoy a taste of each.

He reaches up to hold your jaw, his touch ever soft. You're lost for a moment. You catch your breath along with him, and feel what remains of the world around you fade away.

"I believe I was meant to love you," He says, so earnest, his faith itself makes you shake. "You are an irrevocable destiny. My destiny."

You offer him a smile that roots into him from the inside-out. And when he drifts forwards to kiss you at last, pulled in your direction like a fish on a line — Your lips press to his, and in his chest, arises a glow.

This shared kiss is long, deep, and effortless. It is a waltz you both know how to follow, and yet, you lose your footing just the same. He pulls you close with an arm around your back, and you curl into his familiar touch. In turn, you clutch him tighter, kiss him harder, with your palm on his shoulder and a hand tangled in messy locks of brown hair.

You both breathe a sigh once you've slowly pulled apart. Gale holds your chin, and speaks softly, the words akin to a secret prayer.

"I am yours. Now, and for the eternities of lifetimes that might await us after this one." His expression deepens, and his thumb brushes your lips, carefully but simply, "I truly do love you."

I love you. Those words still feel as soft as they are strange. They're all you've ever wanted though, natural on the tongue, despite how unrelentingly they shake you.

Perhaps you really were meant for this, just as he believes. In this life, and in the lifetimes to follow, you will find and embrace one another.

Standing up straight, he stretches, fixing his slacks before rolling his shoulders back. Your gaze flickers over his shape, and then down. Tenderness makes way to bristles of embarrassment, and it's hard to continue biting your tongue. Between the both of you, you've made quite the mess. Reminders of what transpired hit you like a bucket of bricks. Your heartbeat particularly spikes at the droplets of milky white that dirty the desk's smooth surface, and the flesh of your thighs.

Gale seems to notice your staring.

"Apologies," He clears his throat so loud the sound practically bounces around the room. His tone carries a weight of lightheartedness, and you can't explain how nice it is to hear. It lightens the load on your own shoulders, in some way. "I did not suspect I was… so pent-up. Are you alright?"

"I'm alright," You resound, inhaling slowly, and feeling the buzz in your chest begin to settle as a result. "I feel great, honestly. How about you? Tired yet?"

"Oh, I am anything but. Feels like I pissed off some impudent mage, and as punishment they set my nerves aflame," Gale shakes out his sweaty palms, then idly flexes his fingers, "Not any sort of punishment I've ever heard of, but I would certainly commend their creativity. It will take more than that to tire me out, I assure you. Unless you, yourself are tired, of course. In which case, I would be glad to assist in your relaxation."

"Thank you, but there's no need. I'm not tired yet either." You shuffle closer so you can wrap your arms around him, and your hand promptly tangles in his hair, while the other brushes the back of his neck, fingertips tracing down to the space between his shoulder blades. You swear you feel him shiver. "C'mere. I haven't had near enough of you."

"Is that so?" Gale smiles. He closes the fraction of distance between you, and steadies a hand on your jaw. "I'm pleased to say the feeling is mutual."

This time, the kiss he plants to your lips reminds you of falling. Falling, with no worry of hitting the ground. Just infinitely drifting through a cloudless sky, while you helplessly listen to the race of your pulse in your eardrums. And as quickly as he sends you careening towards the earth, he's grounding you, with a kiss to your throat that sets your senses alight.

His lips hover there for longer than they need to, breathing warmth onto your neck, until you reward his efforts with the sweetest of sighs. Then, his mouth trails kisses from your collarbone to your shoulder. His hand holds your side when you sway, helping to keep you steady.

It's as though your soul is helplessly detached from your own body. The growing shadows in his quaint study envelop your vision, and cradle you in their looming embrace. You imagine the pale moon, the shimmering stars, soon to bathe you in their faint light. But for now, it's just the two of you, pleasantly alone, in the center of his universe. Truthfully, your soul is bound to him. Gale's hands, and beating heart.

Warmly, he mutters against your shoulder, a squeeze of your side blended with slightly muffled words, "Are you comfortable?"

"Mhmm," You nod, and you tilt your head opposite as he moves to press kisses to the other side of your nape, "We can move- If that's what you want."

"What I want is to have you wherever it is you prefer." Placing a final small kiss to the side of your neck, he then pulls back, meeting your pretty gaze with an expression that sparkles. "My bedroom is always an option. Traditional, yes, but surely comfortable. Continuing here would be most pleasant as well. Most exciting. The choice is left up to you, although," He breathes a slight laugh, "I suppose I may picture this the next few times I am sitting here working. Might pose a slight problem to my future productivity."

You huff, half-rolling your eyes. You playfully squeeze his shoulders, teasing palms caressing his warm skin, "In that case, I want you nowhere else but here."

Gale smirks, his expression enveloped in unmistakable tenderness, but this time, he holds his tongue. He grasps your wrists, and when your palms follow his lead to slip from his shoulders, he is taking your hands into his. He's shifting, kneeling, sinking down in front of you until your heart is left a shaken and stuck mess inside your throat.

"Look at me."

Oh. You didn't notice you were starting to glance away, avoiding his eyes while you attempt to ignore the warmth burning over your face. You tear one of your hands away from his to grip the edge of the desk, steadying yourself. Hesitantly, your gaze flickers back to his own — just in time to watch Gale press a kiss to your knuckles.

He looks at you as though you are devastation, devotion, in the softest, mortal form. Twilight shimmers in the details of his silhouette: the features of his face, the silver in his hair, and his shiny, metal earring. You once thought the symbol hanging from his ear to be some solemn, self-imposed reminder. Instead, you've grown to realize it is spite, pure and fierce. Because after everything, he is still tenderly, maddeningly alive.

"You will not lose me, not ever, not for a moment," He says gently, squeezing your hand, resoluteness in the back of his gaze. "I promise you. I want for nothing, when you are at my side. Nothing but the privilege of seeing you smile, which I will try my very hardest to earn. No matter what we may face, perils or strife, anything that is left to try and stand in our way, we will brave it- We will defy it. And we will do so together. Just as we once did."

Gale allows his thumb to brush over your knuckles before he lets your hand go. You eye him silently, awestricken, your chest tight and your mouth useless. Perhaps it is your silence that prompts him to gaze at you smugly, place his palms on your thighs, and shift closer until his head is inches away from dipping between your legs.

"Now, let me have you." Voice low, he breathes the words loud enough for only you to hear, "Let me cherish you, as I have always longed to, and as you have always deserved."

So foolish. He does have you, he has held every part of you from the moment you and him collided.

You take a breath, deep and slow. "Then have me."

Reaching forward, you knot a hand in his hair as encouragement. Gale holds your waist, smirking slightly, and he waits, lingering, or perhaps teasing you. When your fingers tighten on his hair and you let go of a quickened, impatient huff, the desperate look on your face causing his heart to skip, only then does he finally move. He leans close, pressing a kiss to your stomach that brims with tingling electricity.

"Gale-" And you sigh, you melt, "I love you, I love you so much-"

His brows knot, softness in his expression, and he begins to adore your skin with his lips. He plants messy kisses from your navel, down. When he moves from your hips to your legs, tenderness turns to hunger. His kisses are warmer, blessed onto your inner thighs as he leaves faint bites, along with soft brushes of the tongue; not enough to mark, just enough to feel. Enough to make you tremble at the subtle nip of teeth, and shake from the heat of his steady breaths on your skin.

Both palms find your thighs to gently coax them apart. Nervousness prickles up your spine, heightened by the warmth in your gut, and by the heaviness in Gale's eyes as he looks up at you. But when he leans close, at the first swipe of his tongue over your waiting cunt — Everything melts away to nothing but sharp, pure pleasure.

Your fingers grip his hair so tight you think you might yank some strands out. You're panting, and he isn't stopping; each little lap of his tongue makes you shake, already a whining mess, echoing the sweetest noises for him. You only make him want to hear more.

He wants you crying happy tears for him, wants you to forget your hardships as you fall to pieces on his mouth; but for now, he'll have patience. Slight, teasing flicks of his tongue are enough to start with. Judging by the intensity of your grip on his hair, and the way your chest heaves from the force of loud, labored breathing, he isn't sure you can handle much more, despite how terribly you make him want to give it to you. You deserve all you could ever need.

You deserve to be happy, safe, loved. He won't let you be marked by more scars. You're precious to him, more precious than anything he has once held, and simultaneously, you are damn near impossible to resist.

From between both your thighs, he can't tear his gaze away from you above him: your pretty face, consumed by ecstasy and impatience. You, on the other hand, can barely take the way he looks at you with such tenderness, and yet, confidence. Like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

Gale swipes the flat length of his tongue over your entrance, then flicks the tip against your clit, and the moan you let fall from your lips captivates the entirety of his muddled mind. He huffs something of a laugh, and pulls back to give you a small chance to breathe.

"Remarkably sweet, and ravishingly sensitive." The sultry hum to his tone settles a decadent sensation between your ribs: pleasure, and an encompassing anticipation. His lips are already wet and glistening. "You were just meant to be devoured."

Your heart shudders, and your breath hitches. Gale grips you by your sides, his gentle touch smoothing over your skin. His hair in his face is a mess you've made. You shakily push the strands back, and as your fingers brush close to his scalp, the only signs he's affected are the shuddery inhale he takes, and the devotion that shines in the back of his pupils.

"Spread your legs apart a little further, for me," He mumbles. When you oblige, he hums the smallest form of praise, the faintest, Very good. Then, his mouth is giving you no room for respite.

You whimper, watching his honeyed gaze on yours go soft, before his eyes flutter shut. His hands on your sides grip you tighter, and with swipes of his tongue, he thoroughly tastes your entrance. He was right; you are sensitive. Especially when he buries his face in your cunt, every sickeningly slow lap of his tongue feeling charged, ripe with exhilarating arousal.

When you tense, panting harder with a swallow, he squeezes your side, and he stops. He huffs in short breaths centimeters away from you. Your shoulders slowly go slack. You press both hands to the edge of the desk and hold on tight, trying to remain steady. He only dives in again once your sighs have settled, and this time, he's licking, then sucking. The sound is sloppy, terribly lewd, as he presses his lips to you and sucks softly on your clit. Infatuation surges through your veins so fast, you begin to feel yourself go numb.

He licks a steady stripe, groaning quietly. His facial hair scratches the inside of your thighs with such bitter sweetness. He's moving one palm down to your thigh, caressing before lifting. Your leg settles comfortably onto his shoulder, and he's pressing closer, he's ever-so carefully easing his tongue inside you. It's warm, meticulous; the attention there, the sensation of being so barely filled, stretched around the end of his tongue — It makes your head spin with ferocity.

Those sensations melt to expectancy, to a dwindling heat as he draws back; for only a moment, thankfully. He swallows, his words muffled when he mutters against your eager cunt, "You taste divine."

On his tongue, he's sure you're the sweetest thing he's ever known. Saccharine like the stars, akin to the smooth velvet wine he remembers sampling in Calimshan. But perhaps, it's even sweeter to have you like this, to know he's the only one who can do this to you. Your limbs are trembling for him. It's his tongue you're a mess on, his voice and his touch to make you this way.

He should never have doubted himself. If he could rewind the clock just once, it wouldn't be to change past wrongs, nor would it be to rid his chest from the orb, or abandon it entirely. He would have gone without meeting you then, still just a reckless wizard in the cold palm of his Goddesses hand.

Rather, he would go back and tell you how he felt, he'd tell you everything — He'd have you accompany him to Waterdeep well before his proposition at your reunion, and he wouldn't have held back the words on his tongue. He doesn't want to leave you, he loves you; he'd watch your expression change, your hands squeezing his when he grabs them tight. And he knows he would kiss you right then, in the same way he already has.

I've fallen for you he was waiting to whisper, when this universe seemed to contain just the two of you. He wanted to kiss you so softly when you smiled at him during your late-night talks, closing the inches of distance between you to feel your smile on his lips instead. He'd kiss you so desperately when you found yourselves on the edge of death, both hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs smearing blood onto your skin, because even then, all he could fathom was how deeply he adored you.

As long as he kept you safe, he didn't need more. He no longer wished for godhood. He could greet the end with no regret — but to have lived, to be able to persist in this life at your side means the world itself to him.

It will take a long while to make up for lost time. Though maybe, he can start here. His mouth can do more than recite poems and confessions. Much more.

In demonstration, Gale leans into you. He relishes in the way you shake under his hold, once the practiced end of his tongue flicks against your swollen clit. He has to hold you steady, gripping tight while he kisses your clit, your thighs, and then devours you with sloppy kisses to your cunt: open-mouthed, a mess of soft sucks and rich groans into you. His lips brush every sensitive inch, shaping you as you dissolve to pliancy, like soft clay in his careful hands.

"Feels good-" You try to mumble, biting the words; you've never felt anything this addicting. Your voice carries a noticeable shake, one you just can't swallow down, "Feels so fucking good…"

"Not good enough to render you speechless," Gale hums against you, lust weaving through his tone. You'd almost think he was talking to himself, if it wasn't for the way he briefly looks at you, eyelids heavy, pupils blown-out. "Suppose I ought to continue."

His mouth lavishes your cunt once more, firm sucks on your clit paired with swipes of his tongue that gently tease your needy entrance — You grip the desk tight, moving your hand to grab a fistful of his hair instead. You bite down so hard on your lip you think it might bleed.

You can't focus, you feel weightless, his words won't leave you as much as his mouth continues to devour you. His sultry voice, his soft expressions of love; how long has he waited for this? How fiercely has he wanted you, wanted to tell you the fondness he kept captive inside? How long has he imagined pleasuring you on his tongue, until all you can manage to plead is his name?

For longer than you were first picturing, surely. There's desperation to the new pace he's set, a wild yearning, as Gale allows his composure to slip and pleasures you with every single breath. His palm runs over the warm underside of your thigh when it twitches on his shoulder. He's relentless, even when you grip his hair so tightly it must hurt, whimpering for him and his mouth in unintelligible murmurs.

He gives you more without the need for you to ask. He's moaning into you in turn, his tongue pressing in to taste you. And your taste is electrifying. The whine you give him is one he wishes to memorize. He feels he may yearn for this — to taste you, to have you — until the universe converges to a collapse, with all Nine Hells finally frozen over.

Speechless, that's how he wants you, and if he continues like this, he might make good on such an objective. Ironic. For as much as he's spoken, you're the one asked to stay voiceless. You doubt he truly wants you quiet. Every moan you make at the lap of his tongue, or the brush of his lips, draws a staggered sigh from him in response.

At least, considering how much the bastard spends talking, of course he's good with his mouth.

He mumbles something inaudible against you, a mess where your name is the only thing you make out. His voice echoes in vibrations right onto your clit, and you're gasping, your thighs trembling. They practically close around his head, but he pushes them back apart to make room; his one hand on your thigh, the other on your waist.

The moment you've relaxed, legs spread wide for him, he's grabbing your sides so tight it makes you go stiff in surprise. He's pulling you in, he's giving you more of his mouth, and you're rocking. You're grinding onto his tongue without forethought, focused only on the bliss that rips through your body and intensifies in your core.

You barely catch the way his eyes flutter when you roll into him. He begins to guide your movements with his grip on your waist, pulling you closer while twirling his tongue, allowing you to use his mouth as you desire.

And you do. You fuck yourself on his mouth and tongue between his hurried kisses, his muffled groans muttered against you. Until your high is frantically splintering towards you, your fingers flexing in his hair, your throat sore and muscles even tenser.

"Gale," You can't get out anything but his name, lungs overtaken by gasps, the edge of your voice sore from cries of pleasure, "I-"

You don't tell him you're there. You couldn't manage the words, but with the way he hums in approval against you, squeezing your waist in silent persuasion, his tongue focusing on your clit with tender precision — You suspect he knows, and he wants, needs you to cum for him. With your heart beating fast in your chest and your ears, the rope snaps, and you're cumming on his mouth, while his name is a stuttered mantra on your lips.

Your thighs can't help but tense, brushing his face and smothering him; you pulse on his tongue, your grinds against him growing erratic, desperate. Everything in your body is swallowed by rocky waves, a sense of pleasure in your chest and your head and your core imploding with blistering heat. Your voice breaks. You only settle when you've fully succumbed, drowning in the aftershocks.

After your eyes have slowly opened, and your fuzzy vision has returned, you notice you're not the only one struggling to breathe. You feel it first: the brief tickle of his warm breath on your thighs, his lips barely brushing against your skin. You hear him exhale, long but shaky: a perfectly enticing sound.

Gale pulls apart from you while he huffs, he wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His face is flushed, lips parted, chest heaving. But fuck, he's smiling, grinning like you've never seen before, earnestly and so in love. Your heartbeat practically skips.

You shouldn't be surprised that the first thing he does upon rising to unsteady feet is brace a hand on the desk, grasp your chin between his fingers, and kiss you. Your shoulders slump, and as you're kissing him back, you're breathing a soft exhale into his mouth. He drags you in as close as he can get you, leaving you practically smushed against his chest. Still, your heart begins to sing. Familiar feelings burn to life once more as his mouth parts, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue.

When you separate, it's agonizingly slowly. It's just enough for him to gaze into your eyes, to see you melt, simply from the way he looks at you. Together, you remain deadlocked for a moment, catching your breath without a word. His warm eyes and soft lips are effortlessly enticing; it takes every ounce of your remaining strength to resist kissing him again, surely crumbling the composure you've worked so hard to restore. He drifts back, a complacent look on his face. His fingers stay delicately grasping your chin.

You're going to break the silence before he can, and you'll get straight to the point.

"I need-" You swallow, resisting the urge to glance away from him no matter how flustered you've become. He can have your composure, he can have every damn part of you — "I need more. I need you. Please."

Gale's spine tingles with an almost-shudder. He can't resist guiding you forward by your jaw, until his lips are able to kiss the top of your head. A kiss that drips with meaningful, aching adoration. Your heart stirs, and you let go of the breath you were holding.

"Dearest," He coos quietly, a tender edge to his voice, like a knife that twists and caresses your ribs, "You will be given all you need. Perhaps even more."

His fingertips skate your shoulders, before his palm presses to your chest. He kisses your cheek, and against your ear, he gives the faintest muttered instruction: Lay back. You were already doing so before the command, but his words lead you to follow the slight push of his palm, until you're settling with your back hitting the desk.

The hardwood is cool against your skin, and he shoves some books aside to give you space to rest your head. He's leaning down with you, pressing a final kiss to your nape once you're stable. As Gale pulls back, coming into view above you, heat surges through your veins. Your nerves thrum with something more than love. Something more like sanctity.

Sweat coats both your bodies in a glimmering sheen. Gale's hair is out of place, shadows flicker over his features but pay special attention to the grooved, dark scar on his chest. The sun has long since finished its descent, the last flecks of light vanishing to nothingness. You don't notice how dark it has truly become until Gale provides a solution with words under his breath, and a snap of his fingers.

Effortlessly, light dances in your vision, the candles that decorate his study coming to life. His lips twitch into a smirk. His hand finds your side, feeling your shape.

It's just the two of you, now and hopefully always, in his favorite corner of the world. On his damn desk, to make matters more tantalizing. The same desk he'd spend hours alone at, reading or planning lessons, trying not to let his mind wander to you instead. And you, speaking of. You, bathed in faint light, sprawled out beneath him like poetry on a page — Without a doubt, you are gorgeous. To the point of addiction.

"There you are," He murmurs at last, while his thumb draws circles on your side. The lighting is still dim and moody, but this feels as though it is the first time he's truly been able to see you. To see all of you. He drinks you in, admiring your shape, your marks, your scars. The details that define you, everything he loves.

He allows his gaze to drag down, and then up, back to your eyes. You're shuffling out of nervousness, but his warm touch on your skin encourages you to relax.

"Beautiful, aren't you? Each time I look at you, I feel my love burn ever brighter. You are the sun. A warm, incandescent sun. Most worthy of worship. Basking in the heat of my affections, I would gladly allow you to reduce me to cinders." Reaching out to you, Gale's fingers brush your cheek, before he stops. He suddenly lets go of a sigh so heavy it makes his shoulders turn slack. "My apologies. I'm chattering on again. Such a habit is proving challenging to break."

"Don't apologize," You counter, and you bring your hand to his own. Your fingertips brush his, you press his palm to your cheek and keep it there. The soft smile you flash him begs to be lost in. "If you haven't noticed, I quite like hearing your voice. You're sweet. And you always have the sweetest things to say."

Gale grins, "Do I? Hm, I'd hate to have to call you mistaken, especially after the kindness you've imparted to me. But I believe you're the sweet one. In a multitude of ways, for that matter. I would certainly know."

He only smiles wider when you pout, before playfully pushing at his shoulder. As you lean backward once more, getting comfortable, he is quick to close the distance in between you.

Your arms sprawl above your head, wrists crossed over; as much as they can manage, anyways, accounting for the limited space his desk provides. Your elbows knock against carefully placed stacks of books, legs hanging over the desk's edge. Cool air fills and settles in your lungs, and he moves closer, a knee between your thighs, a hand pressed to the desk to rest himself over you. Throat dry, you swallow thickly.

"But your thirst has not yet been quenched, now has it?" He murmurs, eyes narrowed, his voice noticeably lower than before. The palm he's kept to your cheek holds you delicately, and his thumb just barely brushes your plush bottom lip.

"With you as delightful as you are," Gale is continuing, "To claim you deserve everything I could offer would be… plainer than insisting the midday sky to be blue, so to speak. I am eager to satisfy you, to give you the adoration you have most definitely warranted. I'd like to make this as pleasant as it will inevitably be unforgettable." He tilts your head towards him slightly, and you feel choked by breathlessness. "I could never express the whole of my love for you. But allow me to try."

Your hands clam up, balling into sweaty fists as you try to maintain your gaze on his. Candle flames waver in the background of your vision, flickering to their own tune. His eyes travel from yours, to your lips, and back up again.

"I love you," You whisper, because it's all you can think of, devotion is the only force running rampant in your mind, "I truly, earnestly do. We have time. We have nothing to fear anymore. You can take me in every way you wish. I'm yours, I always have been."

Gale's brows pinch in thought, and his gaze brims with tenderness. "Then let us make up for the time we have lost."

His palm moves. From your cheek, his touch patiently drifts to tickle the side of your neck. Your shoulder next, and you shudder when you feel his knuckles brush your chest. His touch is home, familiar and grounding, dragging the ruin from within you amid each subtle stroke. In the same instant, your heart is heavy, and set ablaze.

"We can drown in each other. There is nothing I have wished for more, not a soul I have wanted greater than you." Gale divulges, "I've dreamt of this. Of making love to you, as we breathe one another's names. Of hearing you confess precisely what you've just told me, that you are mine."

He inhales slowly, shakily. His palm gently feels your stomach, your hip, the curve of your side, while his resolute gaze never departs from your own — "I love you. You deserve perfection. And although I cannot promise such a thing, I swear to give you all of me."

Gale watches your expression start to soften; reminiscent of the same sun he has always seen in you, when it first dawns from the steady, sea-bound horizon. You shift, your legs repositioning to either side of his waist, caging him in. You're smiling, and he keeps his eyes on your hazy form.

"I don't need perfection," You answer simply, earnestly. "I just need you."

You.

There's so much hidden in such a short and basic word. I need you. You've longed for more than just to stand at his side as an ally, an assistant, a friend. Now, he can see that. How foolish he was to ever believe otherwise. At last, with no more perils to stand in your way, you're together. You have time. Your hearts can finally indulge in the magnetism they have to each other, no longer ruled by uncertainty.

Without hesitation, you need him — as you have since the start, and for all that he is.

For his softness, his intelligence, for the change in his voice when he's rambling about something he enjoys, and for the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren't paying attention. You found yourself wishing he knew. You've grown entranced with every part of him, including flaws coalesced with ambition, regardless of your possible destruction. Falling for him was natural. Mistakes and magic and mortality in all.

Perhaps there is time to be made up for. But falling in love, entwining your fates together until they were at last pulled back as one, was purely inevitable.

Gale exhales. He runs his fingers through his hair, his shoulders taut, hoping to relieve some of the tension. It only helps marginally. Both hands then maneuver to grip your waist. His thumbs brush your hips, the faintest touch alighting your skin in goosebumps.

"You are… Gods, you fill me with such potent emotions, you know?" He murmurs; your arms are locking around his shoulders, keeping him close, and as he notices the heaviness to your eyes, his breath slowly grows more ragged, "I have always loved you, I've wanted this so terribly. And yet, now that it's happening, now that you are here, and not a lifetime apart like we both once were, I don't- I cannot think. My mind refuses to allow it."

His hands tense on your waist, his brows furrowing, fingertips pressing ever-so forcefully into your skin. When you smile in response, and drag him in to interrupt with a tender, long kiss to his lips — this time, while eyes flutter shut in unison, heads tilting, a soft groan uttered against your mouth — thinking is left to become irrelevant.

The focused expression he was wearing melts to a warm grin once you've pulled apart from him, exhaling heated breaths against his lips. His gaze on yours glints with affection, and his mind is a beautiful mess: thoughts not finding a beginning, nor an end. Smoothly and softly, Gale cups your cheek, and as you lean into his touch, the rest of his head weakens with blooms of love.

For you, he has always been weak. You could best him, you could threaten to destroy him. You could pull him apart at the seams with tender, blood-soaked hands, and as long as you kissed him while cleaving his heart out, he would unravel for you with a smile.

He murmurs quietly, "So I won't. I will cast any and all thoughts of mine to the wind. Doubt has long since had its fill of me, I refuse to provide it with more satisfaction. I've never loved anyone as intensely as I love you. Nothing could sate me as you do. With fate now ours to command… I hope I won't be made to let go of you."

"Don't, don't ever let go of me," You answer, your tone a gentle coo, your hands tensed on his shoulders, "And don't you dare pull away."

Gale laughs, huffing slightly. Then, he surges forward, along with pulling you in, until his lips are crashing like lulling waves against your own.

You kiss, again and again, pressed together with purpose, burning with intensity. Blindly, his grip finds your wrist when your hands slip from his shoulders. An arm falls beside you, and he adjusts the other. Fingertips drift over your palm, he presses your hand beside your head, and he laces his fingers with your own. His hand and yours fit together like lock and key; naturally, just as he'd described. Your heart must resist the desire to never let go.

As he slowly drags apart from your lips, he's moving to kiss your jaw, your neck. Warm, soft kisses, his tongue lightly tasting your skin, guiding you to curl into him. The slightest attention has a way of feeling so intoxicating, whenever he is the one to provide it.

Anticipation envelops you. Desire links between him and yourself, and settles deep in the pit of your stomach. It gnaws at you, wanting more, wanting what you've needed since you first found each other. His touch is so irresistible because you've been waiting to feel it. You've dreamt and imagined, hoped and fought so you both could survive, and now, he is finally yours.

"What do you need from me?" Gale hums into your nape, his palm caressing your side while he squeezes your hand. Sultry voice muffled, his messy hair tickles your skin, and his lips brush your collarbone. "I want to hear your voice speak the words."

So, you answer. You let his voice wrap around you, his kisses to your neck embrace you, and allow yourself to melt underneath the weight of your longing.

"I need you," You stammer into the open air, your grip on his hand growing tight. When he hums against your throat, faint kisses twisted with heady vibrations, you know what he wants, and you'll give him much more than that: "Fuck me, please…"

The brazenness to your own words makes your head pool with poignant visions, daydreams of Gale pinning you to his desk and taking you like you've both been craving; a hand in yours, his thumb in your mouth. Slowly, intensely, amidst hitches of breath and skin against skin. With a tenderness so acute and raw, that the press of him inside you would be divine enough to make the Gods take notice.

Some senseless part of you almost hopes they do.

A terribly soft kiss is placed on your cheek, and you're shivering, listening to his breath pick up and his sighs get heavier. Your ankles are locking around him, they're pulling him closer. Now, he's moving, he kisses your lips fervently as your hand grips his, and your free palm settles onto the center of his chest; as it has done many times before, as though it was meant to be there. His heart pounds, his hips shove into yours. The stiff weight of his length, confined in his slacks, grinds between your legs — and you give up on whatever shreds of sense you were still holding onto.

After a slow drag away from your lips, your chin now held between his fingers, Gale takes a deep breath. An intense, steadying breath. Through heavy eyes, the way he looks at you earns a shiver that traverses down the length of your spine.

His brow cocks, his lips form a tell-tale smirk; and you should know from the way he looks at you that you've lost. Still, it takes his words to truly hammer it home, while your heart hammers in your chest alongside them.

"You're quite exhilarating. Nevertheless, I suspect you are well aware of the powerful effects your coy words often have on me. With much proficiency, you know my weaknesses." Gale draws his fingertips over your jaw, his head tilted in subtle concentration. His voice is kept level, in the same gentle tone you've come to know, but there's no doubt he has you right where he wants you. You can tell, you could always tell. His gaze darkens with familiar ambition, and he draws a slow, shaky inhale.

Yes, you may know his weaknesses. But he knows yours.

"Need is but a dire, hungry word. Though, I must admit, I find it terribly sweet to hear you pleading for me." Gale teases, "Brings to mind our adventures together, your small implores of please when you wanted my help. Generally with some sort of riddle. Or a particularly well-locked door, perhaps. Of course, I could never say no to you."

"Mhmm," You hum in reply, speaking slowly to force your growing nerves to calm. You've watched Gale master spell after spell, triumph over puzzle after puzzle. You can only imagine this is what it's like to be on the receiving end. Briefly, you clear your throat, "Let me guess, it's even sweeter to hear it from me now?"

"Oh, yes. It certainly is. But a plea must be accompanied by an acknowledgement. I'd be cruel to keep you waiting any longer."

Your fingers tense from the absence once his hand releases yours, but the way his touch glides down, from the shape of your hips to the back of your thighs, quickly has your nails digging into your own palm. You draw your bottom lip between your teeth. He tugs you closer, close enough to have your bodies rock together again — Shuddering, he sucks in a sharp breath, freezing up completely. It takes everything he has to resist grinding against you once more, to disregard the way his cock throbs at the thought alone.

He's teased you quite enough. You are going to have what you want, and you're going to get it properly.

Your eyelids flutter, your voice weak, desperate, "Gale-"

Abruptly, you cut yourself off when he smooths his palms up your sides and leans in. Distances close, his lips brush the shell of your ear and his body presses closer to your own. Feeling him against you, the weight in his slacks nudging your entrance and brushing your clit, worn fabric growing messy and glossy with your arousal — It's merely a taste, when what you truly want is to feel him inside you.

Every inch of your skin seems to burn with flushed heat. You were hoping to get him going a little. On that front, you seem to have succeeded. But you couldn't have expected him to turn the tides right back on you.

His voice comes out right next to your ear, reverberating through you, pulling you under to drown in fervent waters.

"You need me, yes?" Gale murmurs, and as his lips brush your lobe, you swear you can hear his stupid smile through his tone alone, "If you are begging for me to take you, to fuck you, what sort of lover would I be if I denied you what you've been desiring?"

Your throat aches with a high-pitched whine; the building warmth within you blisters, and all your yearning culminates to this.

To your chest heaving between his kisses to your jaw and your face, your palm snaking between your bodies, arm reaching downward as far as it can manage. You're practically panting, as you allow your fingers to graze his waistband and fumble for a better grip. He indulges you, propping above you for a moment, and then discarding his pants in a rush, pushing them down just enough to let his cock come free.

The dusting of brown hair leading from his chest to his stomach trails all the way down, but you aren't given much of a chance to stare; his hands grab your hips, he guides you while surging forwards to place a desperate kiss to your mouth. The tip of his cock, flushed and pearled with precum, ever-so slightly brushes your waiting entrance.

And this — The sigh that racks through you, the expression on his face when he pulls back to look at you, to admire you, lips parted as he gasps. Your bodies tremor with the same longing, the same wavelength. Love drips over your heart and your ribs, melting like long crystallized amber, warm and rich and effortlessly palpable.

You couldn't ask for anything else. In his presence, in his comfortable tower in Waterdeep, with his hands on your skin and his heart beating to the rhythm of your own, you've found your home. This moment is more than lovely. It is perfect, and as your soul begs to be known, to be understood, he instills you with a promise of worship.

Worship. The adoration one might give to the Gods is still not divine enough for what you deserve, Gale believes.

Perhaps it's your sense of contentment that causes your heart to stir. When your mind starts to wander, envisioning what the future may hold as Gale is squeezing your hips and peppering sweet kisses down your neck — You'd move in with him, the moment he asked. His tower has plenty of space for the both of you. Not that you have many belongings. His tressym has practically begged you to stay, citing herself that Gale wants you to, that he'd likely ask you, if he had the courage. He's much happier whenever you're around dear, he is simply too proud to admit it.

Hells, you'd marry him if he were to propose, you've already dreamt of how he might do it. What he'd say, as he gets down on one knee and takes your hands into his. You wouldn't even think twice before you'd be resounding with a yes, followed by those three special words.

He wouldn't have to simply show you the spectacles of his home, you could live through them. You could enjoy thousands of days just like this one, relaxing, teaching together, and then arriving home, indulging in each other's company until the sun rises back into the sky. It would be a nice life. The calm, simple life you both have earned.

Your thoughts grow stuck on this morning, in particular. When the both of you had no idea what would transpire, still just friends, greeting each other politely as Gale ushered you into his home. Your lungs filled with the familiar smell of books, and the fresh new scent of the sea.

The pitter patter of your heart in your chest grew frantic when he hugged you, and once he pulled back, he flashed you a smile that could melt a long, harsh winter. You cleared your throat, you kept your musings to yourself when he began to go over your plans at Blackstaff Academy for the day.

It seems obvious now, but in the moment, you hardly thought anything of the soft way he looked at you. With such admiration, such devotion, a gaze on yours that promised, you can have me, I would allow it. And as Gale went over various spells, some you recognized and others you didn't, you could only pay attention to the tenderness in his voice, the focus on his face, and the dexterous movement of his hands.

You felt foolish for imagining what else his pretty hands might be capable of. If only you knew.

A deep breath in brings you back to the present. Gale leaves one last kiss to your nape, propping over you to reach up, pushing stray strands of hair from his face. You exhale, momentarily growing lost in his gaze. You've seen the love in his eyes countless times before, but his expression this time is different. It's brutally pleading, hopelessly tender. Nervous, almost.

His hips shift tentatively, his gaze on yours, the fat head of his cock nudging against you — Pleasure surges through him like lightning, making his jaw clench as he swallows a groan. You both breathe a set of stuttery sighs, and your fingers tremor, before your hands clench tight.

Reaching up, you settle with holding his shoulders once more. You feel the roaring heat under his skin, the dampness of sweat when you grip them for leverage. Muttering, you start, breaking into a whimper when a rock of his hips clumsily grinds his length against your cunt without pressing inside, "Gale, oh, fuck- I'd… I'd like you to try something. Can you?"

Moving his palm from where it was covering his mouth, helping to muffle any slight noises, you notice Gale's lips are forming a smile. Although, the sweat beading at his pinched brows gives his desperation away.

"Funny," He replies, his voice breathless and husky, "I was just about to fling a proposal on you. Nothing too terribly important, don't," He swallows, "Don't worry. I'm most interested in fulfilling your request. Go on, what is it?"

You can't resist gnawing on your bottom lip before you speak, your gaze shifting from his, to somewhere in the distance. Now, you're the nervous one, "The… illusion magic, the spells you showed to me earlier. This morning, if you remember, when we were going over your syllabus? I thought magic of that nature might have some… other uses, is that right?"

Magic is no stranger to you. But the illusion magic Gale has grown well versed in since he began his teachings, the complicated spells that hinge on nothing more than the limits of one's imagination — Outside of what he has already taught you, those are a mystery. You can't decide if your interest is because of their inherent perplexity, or if you're merely entranced because Gale has taken a liking to them.

When he was showing you a couple basic spells, you once again found yourself enamored with the wonder on his face, the awe in his voice as he explained the spell's inner workings. This one you could master quite easily, he murmured, sparkling gaze on yours as he held a projection in his hands with relative ease. A projection of a small bloom, your favorite flower. You hardly recall when you must have told him it was your favorite, nor were you expecting him to remember. As you reached out, you swore you could feel the bud's smooth phantom petals underneath your fingertips.

His voice, speaking quiet incantations, his fingers, easily forming the shapes necessary to bring the spells to life — It was mesmerizing, as captivating as you remembered it to be, way back when.

This wasn't back then, though. The moment itself felt newly intimate. Sparks filled the air and your lungs, flecks of lingering Weave, pleasant energy working through your body from the ends of your toes to the top of your head. His energy, Gale's magic. The spells he casts have a way of seeming like him, unique and defining, down to the very way they feel.

You were reminded of your journey together. Of the ashes in the air on the heels of a fiery incantation, of the zeal in your veins from a protective shield, or a hastening touch. Your heart twinged with a stronger ache, held down by how much you've missed him.

You want to be enveloped in that familiar sensation again. In his magic. In the comforting way it settles around you, the feeling it alights in your chest, and in the way it reminds you that he's here.

Your words cause Gale to pause. His expression carries the gentlest hint of surprise. He opens his mouth to speak, before stopping. Instead, he smiles, he cocks a brow, and the only thing to betray his newfound confidence is the heavy heave of his chest.

Unfortunately, you can't hear the way his heart is pounding. You can't sense the brilliant adoration, the foolish excitement that burns into him, affection lapping at his chest with persistent flames. But he can show you.

"How clever. Extraordinarily clever, really. And you're only," Gale makes a small pinching gesture, "A slight bit off from what I was hoping to suggest, as a matter of fact."

He reaches for your side then, gently caressing your skin under his palm; you relax at his touch, but stay focused on him as he speaks, "Gods, you know me all too well. Perhaps better than I know myself. Illusory magic lends itself excellently to various creative uses, I think a fair few spells could prove useful, given our current… position. As it happens, I have just the spell in mind."

"Do you?" You shuffle, your breath hitching slightly in your lungs, while his palm continues to run over your skin, clearly relishing in the way you shiver. "I didn't know if, you know- I wasn't sure if it was something you wanted. You're really okay with this?"

"Love," Gale hums, interrupting with a quiet instruction, "Close your eyes."

Panting softly, you allow your arms to rest above you on the desk, and you adjust a bit to get more comfortable. You match your gaze with his for a moment, your heart only beating faster at the honeyed reverence in his eyes. Then, slowly, you take a deep breath, and let the world disappear.

There's silence, darkness. You feel his hand squeeze your side in gentle reassurance. He shifts, pressing closer. When you hear his voice next, your nervousness is put at ease, calmness flooding through your body. Warm and especially addicting, his words are all you have to focus on.

"You are precious. As perfect as the alluring beauty of the moon. As lovely as the sparkling sanctity of the Heavens stars," He murmurs, at a volume barely above a whisper. His breath is steady on your skin, and his fingertips trail up your side, to leave barely-there touches over your chest. "If you do not like this, tell me. We'll waste no time stopping."

"I will," You answer, your own voice seeming to echo in your eardrums, "But it's okay. I trust you."

This time, his breathing in your ear runs slow. You dwell in a few seconds of hesitation, wrapped in budding anticipation, before you assume you feel him pulling away. He utters a soft word laced with power, his fingers snap, and your head goes hazy.

"Praestigium."

The invocation breathes a plea, calling upon a source, and the magic responds in turn: sharp, wild, divine.

You can feel the comforting veins of magic flowing through you, settling around you, cradling your mind in a warm embrace almost instantly. Your eyes flutter open — Or do they? For a moment, it's difficult to tell, as your dizzy vision refocuses, and the pleasant illusion becomes part of you.

It feels like your head is shrouded in clouds. You're soaring, floating on air, no longer able to feel the hardness of his firm wooden desk beneath you. The room melts; everything is there, but at the same time, it isn't. Shadows speckle your vision, blurry shrouds that slowly begin to melt to pure white. Gale comes into focus above you. His form is perfectly clear, his warm smile effortlessly charming.

Energy surrounds you: satin and strength, sweetness and intelligence. The smell of sandalwood wafts through the air, flooding your lungs, then slowly starting to fade. Just like that, you are grounded. You are balanced, your mind clearer than ever, and the moment veils you, it embraces you, it is you.

It's far from what you were expecting, but the surprise is more than welcome. You thought having illusion magic cast on yourself would be more floaty. More akin to a dream, or a living foggy memory.

Yet, this feels real, wonderfully real, as though he's carved out a space in reality for him and yourself to call your own. Here, with him, nothing else matters. Nothing but your longing, your love, and the infinite future that stretches ahead of you.

When he leans in to kiss your cheek, you feel his lips, his breath, and his fingertips on your jaw, with a vivid touch that shines — rolling through you like the spark of constellations, an aurora of shivering pleasure and brilliant closeness. Both hands grab your hips, and you feel them strongly, comfortingly, the intensity as he shifts them nearly too much to bear. He guides your legs to wrap around his waist again, locked at the ankles, holding him close.

He is the only thing you can perceive, your senses are heightened, and every sensation to grip you is positively electric. This magic does more than spawn an illusion or clear your mind; it's intensifying your grip on mortality.

You can hear his breathing as easily as it were your own. You can feel his heart, can measure each quick beat when he collides his lips with yours, his chest pressing against you. Thump, thump, thump, in your ears, in your own ribs, then the heavy thrum of his shadowy blight — so raw and intense, it nearly threatens to swallow you.

His presence entwines yours, his magic sears through you. He pulls you closer with his palm holding the back of your head, and he kisses you like this time could be the last. Your core burns red-hot. You're enveloped in dizzying feelings you can't quite place. As he pulls away, you lean back, and you let your head sink into the clouds. His palm stays to cup your face, slightly tilting your head towards him.

You both catch your breath, chests heaving. Gale admires you underneath him, brushing your cheek with his thumb. He places a kiss to your forehead that glimmers over you like an untamed ray of sunlight.

Slowly, as your head grows used to the spell, you calm, becoming more relaxed. Your mind is a clear, still lake, your thoughts as crisp as cool water. When you hear him speak once more, his head tilted to breathe the words against your ear, it's as though his voice is everywhere, ebbing and flowing through your brain as an encircling echo.

"Comfortable?" He murmurs, simply and softly.

"Yes, very," You answer with a nod of your head. Your own voice appears muffled, reminiscent of being underwater, "This is… lovely. It's amazing. You're amazing."

"Excellent. I'm glad to hear you aren't too overwhelmed," Gale continues. His smooth tone bounces around the walls of your skull, while his fingertips drift down, drawing shapes you can't recognize onto your nape. "Remember, what you are experiencing is merely an altered form of reality. Do not push yourself. This old desk isn't exactly a bed of roses, but I hope I've succeeded in making it a mite more comfortable for you."

Grinning to yourself, you allow your arms to relax beside you, and you promptly shudder, growing lost in the feeling of weightlessness beneath you. Gale straightens. He props himself above your form, his gaze indulging in you.

Although his study is mostly a blur, details meshed in flowery fog, telltale light from the candles still dances across his features. You reach up, trailing your fingers over his earring, the metal cold on your skin. Then, your fingertips brush his cheek, they caress the faded trail of dark lines burned into his skin. He smiles, and he brings a hand to settle over your own.

His touch is warm. It is a crisp morning breeze drifting through you; his eyes flutter shut when he kisses the heel of your palm, and every inch of you flushes with tangible radiance. He pulls your wrist away, only to bring you palm to palm, fingertips to fingertips for a few moments. His hand lies flat against yours, before your fingers tightly, naturally lace.

"In all sincerity, I must admit," He begins, shyly glancing away from you, muttering through a laugh that seems to jostle your entire system, "The spell I've cast on you is… clearly not meant to be harnessed in such a way. Or perhaps, more so, it is not often used while such, erm, satisfactions… are taking place. Even for a wizard of my caliber, it may prove difficult to control- If the spell ever snaps, so to speak, just know you have no reason to be alarmed."

Head still heavy from the incantation's lingering effects, you were so lost in his ramblings — resounding through your mind like they never have before — you almost failed to notice he's begun to lean in. He softly guides your hand to press down, against the surface of what you can only assume is his desk. At first, you can feel the resistance, but soon softness overlaps. Clouds envelop the sensation, and you're left suspended in air once more.

Your heart skips when he kisses you, slowly and smoothly. Innocently, at first, devotion carrying you on soft wings. And then, deeper, while his hand squeezes yours, and his tongue explores your mouth with a languid lack of urgency.

You melt, your chest encompassed in a floating feeling. He murmurs soft groans into your mouth; every part of him yearns to pull you closer, to have you, to hold you. Gods, he loves you, and he curses himself for ever trying to push those feelings down. He won't let you go now, no matter how the world tries to pry you from each other's grasp.

When he shifts, pressing closer, kissing you harder, the flushed and needy tip of his cock nudges your cunt — Instantly, a blistering sense of ecstasy flutters through your every pore, and you whine into him, your body going slack.

And that was simply from a touch. Just a small press of him against you, brushing close to where you're deliciously sensitive, and you're fucking breathless. Your core is wound with preemptive pleasure; just a tease, and your mind is swimming with how badly you need to feel him inside you. You aren't sure what you'll experience once you're given more, once you're actually taking him.

That damned spell. You should be a mess by now. Perhaps you are, and the calm cradle of the illusion is what's tethering you to the earth. Tether or not, you hardly care about keeping your composure. You don't care for your imminent disarray. In fact, more than anything, you need to have him ruin you.

It's hard to speak. Your lungs are aching, but as he draws backward from your lips, you manage to huff, "You aren't going to hold back, right?"

Gale smirks, exhaling in short pants. He pushes up, putting his familiar silhouette — messy hair, broad shoulders tensed, branded chest slightly heaving — back in the forefront of your vision.

"Oh, I'm afraid I am far past the threshold of being able to do so. For you, for everything you have long awaited, my desires will remain unhindered," He replies calmly, brows slightly furrowed. "Besides, I've been sharpening my concentration as of late. This could prove an opportune time to assess the extent of my exercises. I think we're both wondering how much pressure my focus can take."

His words ripple through you, comforting and lighthearted in their tone. They do the trick. You're sparked with delight, your mind set at ease. Briefly, you wonder if the incantation connects you together, because when you relax, he seems to as well: his breathing becoming calmer, his expression softening, and his grip on your hand relaxing.

If you truly wanted to, you'd find escaping from the spell he's placed on you to be rather simple. You've faced much more enthralling spells than this. Magic more complex, much more wicked. You know the feeling of having a spell muddle your mind, down to your very bones; you have your little journey to thank for that. And you know how to break them, as simply as putting one foot in front of the other.

This spell is different. It is warm and soothing, it carries none of the malice that would weigh down the charms you've felt before. It's effortlessly him, magic which caresses you as though his very arms were there to hold you. Magic that roots into you, a breath of life, a ray of moonlight. Thoughtful as always, Gale has made this particular spell weak, and you can determine so without trying. Likely to make snapping it simple, if you decided to.

You could break the illusion. But you choose to let go.

You breathe in, slowly and deeply, and you allow the spell to swallow every last aspect of your being. The clouds wane briefly, before you're surrounded, melting slowly into pleasure and froth. The moment feels raw, alive. You are here, you both are, finally able to love, to be loved. And love him you will. Without any regret.

Gale, appearing clear and pure above you, pushes his hair from his face, and looks at you like you are worth dying for. Living for. His expression is painfully soft. He steadies a hand on your side, he dotes on your dips and curves and marble-carved features; every part of you was meant to be adored, akin to the statues one might bow before. He sighs slowly, inhales even slower.

"The spell," He begins, palm caressing your side with gentle motions, "You could break it yourself, yes?"

You nod, tone soft, "Yes, absolutely."

"Very good." Gale's voice echoes. It splinters through your mind, it knits into your heartbeat, "Not that I had a shred of doubt. You're doing quite well."

A squeeze of your hand, a grip on your side pulling you ever-so carefully closer, and heightened surges of intensity are shooting through you much stronger than before. Your eyes shut, your back arches, your muscles ache, but pleasure takes over to drown you, his cock brushing your entrance. Lips parted, he exhales a trembling breath, one that seems to travel through you in turn.

"Focus, and breathe slowly. Deep breaths in, and then finally, out. I'm here with you. I won't be going anywhere."

Your heart is pounding, but at the sound of his voice, at the feeling of his smooth tone bouncing around you, your thoughts become still. Your pulse slows, your chest gently rises, and then falls. The only thing left rushing through your veins is a wild, unfiltered need.

"Stay with me, please," Gale breathes, words cracking at the edges. He presses closer, his eyes close and his forehead comes to rest against yours, your bodies held on the loving cusp of almost-connection. "Stay, and let me be tender for you, my dearest love."

"Gale-" You murmur, your voice sweet in his ears like dripping syrup, as you strum the familiar notes of his name. "I love you, I need you."

Of course, and you will have him.

Gale gives your hand one more squeeze, reassuring you, preparing you. He swallows down the growing thickness in his throat. His head is buried in the nape of your neck as he finally gives himself to you, carefully easing into you — Everything slow, heat rushing through you in the form of a wildfire, the clouds holding you in their ethereal embrace. Pleasure pulls your every nerve taught in a tight, delightful string, and for once, your soul within you feels alive.

His fingers go shaky, his grip tightens on your side in response. You're just barely fit around the head of him, and you feel him mutter a half-sigh, half-moan into your nape that shakes your body with the potent vibrations.

It's like you can feel the spell itself shudder.

"I love you," He's pressing into your warmth, his jaw clenched, hips gently rolling, filling you with more of him until you are stretching to his shape, "Could I give you more? Can you take all of me?"

"Yes," Your throat is unmistakably sore, but still, you speak without thinking. You need more, need to feel the friction become part of your body as he fills you. Your back arches to meet him, and pleasure hums in your veins with intoxicating strength. Every one of his gasps echoes against you, then through you. The thrum of his warm cock inside you is so deliciously, impossibly perfect.

"F-Fuck," You swear, biting down your quickened gasps, fighting through the incessant pound of your heart; lest your languor succeeds in devouring you, "Please, yes…"

The whine that overtakes the edge of your voice makes him shiver. Gale groans softly, his shoulders growing tense. His hips lazily buck into you — until his pelvis is shoved deft against your body, sweat-soaked skin pressed to softer skin, burying him inside you down to the hilt.

His breath on your nape is loud, hurried, and at the mercy of his weary limbs, he tries his hardest not to collapse. Silently, he must thank you for getting one high out of him earlier. With how good you feel, with how badly he's needed you, if you hadn't, he isn't sure if he'd last much longer.

Not like you are faring any better.

Your heart isn't just beating, but battering at your chest, tearing through your body and knocking into your ribs as though it needs to come free. You wouldn't be surprised if your gasps are resounding just as loudly as his. Thighs shaking, you struggle to keep your legs wrapped around his waist, your ankles almost slipping before he grabs your legs to readjust you. He shifts close, still sheathed inside you. The gentle movement sends small ripples of ecstasy through your core that, in the wake of his spell, instead feel like large, thundering waves. Crashing over you, swallowing you.

You feel full, so fucking full. The depth to where you can feel him — all of him, so deep inside you — practically has your head whirling. Gale blinks, his vision blurred, causing his lashes to tickle your skin in a faint butterfly kiss. You're wobbling and teetering like a spinning top. Your eyes flutter closed, trying to steady some of your own dizziness.

This time, he presses a real kiss to your nape. Then, he's working a palm underneath you, supporting your back, holding you close. His other hand finds its perfect place in your own again, your fingers lacing with his. Around him, you feel irresistible, so wet and warm and lovely. You are everything he has ever wanted, you are his love; the world, in the palms of his hands.

He wants to let his hips rock, wants to hear your voice strained with lust while you're pleading in pants of his name. He needs to feel the electrifying friction blazing through him, as he fucks wave after wave of pleasure into you — Though, despite those desires, despite the way they fall into him, gripping him at his very core, he stops. He calms, and he savors you.

You're given a chance to catch your breath, thankfully. To drift among the endless sky underneath you, and the river of magic surrounding you. In this reality, on this bed of stars and sea, his presence and yours are all to exist. Pulse still racing, you indulge in the stretch of him inside you. He feels utterly exhilarating, even without movement. For a few fleeting moments, you simply bask in each other, and nothing more.

"You feel so good… So stunningly perfect," Gale is gasping, every word breathless, "Ah- Just this alone could sate me, drowning in your warmth around me while our bodies connect- Your soul and mine are truly one. Nothing else compares."

Nothing in this universe compares to you.

You are his beginning, and you will be his end. You've captured him in warmth, in an embrace that breathes velvet promises, until every part of you is left racing through his mind.

Gale remembers the faint smiles you'd flash him whenever he caught your eyes, your nose scrunching so delightfully, your head turning away as his words made you chuckle. It's the same smile each time. The same expression, the same dance of adoration in your gaze when yours and his happen to meet.

A love reserved only for him. His own form of love is engraved with your name.

You float between every thought, making him think you might've become part of him. He fondly dotes on his memories of the sparkling stars in your eyes, the way you looked as you gazed up at them, admiring the constellations that have always watched over you. He can put a name to them all, because you were his reason to remember. At any time, in any place, those woven stars shone overhead, writing the twists and turns of destinies. And now, after tonight, they'll give you the privilege of viewing them together once more.

He could never forget you. It wasn't a possibility, not when he still revels in all of your details that make him oh-so weak. His missing piece returned to him, you are his love, his home.

Perhaps you were meant to be connected. Body and soul, with separate lifetimes worth of familiarity. You're two halves of the very same whole. To have known one another, is to be the sun and sunflower, the rain and the soil, the grand mountains, and the edge of the clouds. You'll find yourselves in everything, ultimately.

The orb could take him, and if he became nothing but dust, taking his city of Waterdeep with him in a storm of decimation — What remains of his devotion would find its way home to you.

But he wouldn't allow it. Not anymore. He is going to live, against everything, along with you, and beside you. No matter what it may cost him.

With a small shift, his hips grind into you faintly, he presses into you impossibly deeper. Your bottom lip quivers, before you take it between your teeth. As you feel him throb inside you, you're sighing together in delightful unison.

"You are…" His words are shaky, they wobble through your mind. For once, to your elation, he can hardly seem to speak, "Sweetheart, my dearest… I just- I love-"

His sentence stays unfinished; Gale stutters into a shuddery whine when you pull him in, your legs wrapped around him, dragging him just a bit closer, but enough to enthrall both of you in powerful sparks. The pleasure that overtakes him, that overtakes the both of you, is so vibrant and love struck, so unlike anything else — You're sure neither of you will be able to hold back, not anymore.

Good.

"More, please," You plead, your voice needy to the point of babbling, "Fuck me, I need you, I'm- ah, please, Gale…"

Shuddering, Gale takes an overly long breath. His grip tenses on your hand, and he softly rubs his thumb over your calloused knuckles. Cool air enters his lungs, calming his mind, steadying his heart. And when he finally begins to move, you've never felt anything more divine.

You were made for one another, you're sure of it. You must be, when every sensation to encompass you does so with such endlessness. With tenderness that has the very forming of his name on your tongue completely intrinsic.

His hips rock into you shallowly, careful and passionate thrusts hardly separating you. Pleasure melds within your veins so sinfully, until your heart can only believe in the inevitable bond between your two shapes.

As he keeps up a steady pace, driving his cock inside you, you're murmuring gasps between every whine of his name. His secluded study is filled with noise. With the melody of skin against skin, and the echoes of your breathing and his. The wet sound of your arousal squelches around his length each time you take him. He keeps his head buried in the nape of your neck, his quickened breath fanning over your skin. Easing into you, he then pulls out only half-way, just to thrust in again with a slow, languid press of his hips.

Gale has experienced wonders most mortals could only dream of. And yet, he's never felt anything quite like this.

It's been a while. A very, very long time, in fact, since he has connected with anyone in this sort of way. So long, he's forgotten what it could feel like — Bodies pressed together in a perfect, tangled mess. Hands entwined and lungs strained.

But he has never loved anyone quite the same as his love for you. This is different. Warm beams of intimacy fill him more and more with every buck of his hips into you, with every whimper from your lips for him. And those delicate feelings swelling in his chest — They are entirely, utterly new.

This moment feels sweet. Carnal. There's something so filthy, yet so, impossibly loving about feeling you in such a way. Back then, against his composure and his better judgment, he imagined this. He dreamt of taking you, and hopelessly wondered if you wanted the same. Now, the ecstasy of feeling you around him practically burns. You are addicting, everything he could want in the best possible way. Intoxicatingly his, just as he's always yearned for.

You have thousands more days and nights ahead of you, there will be countless times to come. Time for him to love you, to hold you, to show you what magic lies on his lips. That is what truly gets him. This moment will last. It won't be a dream, or a passing fantasy. Your gentle future is only just beginning.

Gale's movement comes to steady as he pushes up, breathing one last sigh against your nape before he props over you. Your entrancing eyes are half-lidded, your lips are parted as you pant. You're pretty enough to destroy him. He already knows he would let you.

His palm cups your cheek. You tilt into his touch, leaning back against his desk and the foggy pillows underneath you. Beneath his fingertips, the thrum of his magic clings to your skin like a flower's soft petal caught in a spider's web. He knows he must be the only figure in your vision, just as you are the center of his world. He can picture the way his voice and his touch are shining through you. His gasps are echoing in your ears, his palm drifts from your cheek to your neck to the curve of your shoulder, and surely brands light wherever it brushes.

When his hand comes to settle on your side, holding tight while he rocks into you, he can't seem to help himself from glancing down. Gale watches as his steady movement has his cock nestling inside you, disappearing to fill you to the tune of you moaning for him, the shaft glistening in the low light once he starts to pull back.

Gods. The thoughts that begin to race though his head are so terribly, deliciously filthy — Overwhelmed, his pace starts to falter, he's growing clumsy. His grip on your hand turns so tight it nearly hurts, his brows furrowed into a knot, as he pistons into you with newfound desperation.

Waning sensitivity still clings to him, leftover from his previous high. In a fluttery contradiction, the intensity surging through him only seems to make him want you more.

"I don't deserve how good you are to me," Gale hums, slightly shaking his head — Every sigh, each word bounces around your skull and glows within you from the inside out. His steady presses inside you don't relent, his skin slapping yours; they just force his words to shake, and his hand to clench much harder on your waist.

"This… possessiveness I have for you, it's- Ah, Gods… It is damn near agonizing," He's murmuring, speaking those last few words through an almost-chuckle, "My heart has never yearned for anything more. You made me feel alive, love. Tonight, and always. And you feel-" His jaw tightens, teeth gritting, "Utterly amazing… Tell me, if you can find the strength within you to speak. Tell me how this feels."

Right now, your mind is swimming. Stardust glitters in your veins, and your core is wound nice and tight, overwhelmed by ripples of pleasure. For a moment, words won't come to you. Instead, you reach up to press a palm to the back of his head, and you drag him close, quick enough to make him utter a faint noise of surprise against your soft lips. You kiss, slowly and deeply. You're both sighing heavily once you've pulled away to breathe.

"S-So good, it's perfect, you're perfect," There's a desperate edge to your voice. You can feel the rawness in your throat, can make out the high tones even through the fog in your head, "Gale, don't stop- Gale-"

Gale shudders. Your palm slips from his cheek to fall above you in a heap, and you're whining, back arching, head tossed back. You are simply beautiful.

"I love the way you say my name. The sound is quite lovely when it is- Shit-" He chokes, breaking into a gasp when his body rocks against yours, "When it is your lips to sculpt the word, your darling voice to utter the syllables…"

You tremble, your eyes fluttering shut, your heart thumping so fast you can hear it in your eardrums. In the wake of his hips rolling into yours, you can feel each press with inexplicable sensitivity. His cock pumps in and out of you so tenderly, and every throb of his length pulses through you.

Softly and carefully, he kisses your forehead. Then, he's leaning back. He pulls you closer in tandem with pressing inside you, filling you. You've never been this sensitive, never felt this loved. You are melting into him, your chest heaving from your heavy sighs, your lips quivering with whines of pleasure: pretty moans breathed all for him.

Once you feel his fingers grasp your chin, thumb briefly brushing your lips, your eyes begin to flutter. Shadows masquerade as clouds, your vision hazed by blurred edges and flickering lights. The ardent fangs of magic sink into you, trapping you in their whirlwind. Your heart pounds quickly, unrelentingly, thudding hard against the cage of your chest.

Gale's smile is clear as day, though. Trying your best to gaze at him above you, you feel that rapid heartbeat instead begin to sing. He tilts your head a bit, guiding you towards him. And gently, breathlessly, he murmurs, "Can you look at me, my love?"

The fuzziness in your field of view starts to fade, and your breath begins to catch. Buried deep inside you, he stops, keeping his hips still while panting hard. Sweat glistens on his skin, his hair is brushing his shoulders, and he reaches to push some strands from his face. He swallows thickly. He squeezes your hand one last time before he lets it go.

"This," A purple thread of magical light begins to dance between his fingertips, illuminating his face in an amethyst glow, "Is what I wished to show you."

Adoring and unwavering, his gaze stays on yours, even as he's illustrating shapes with his fingers; movements so quick and effortless, you're barely able to make them out. Swirls here, a triangle there — With one final shape, the magic hums to life. It shimmers through the air with radiance almost palpable, glowing ever brighter, reflecting lavender rays in his eyes. All it takes is an incantation to truly set it ablaze.

"Ad astra."

The previous spell loses concentration, and in its place, a new one takes form.

You hadn't noticed your eyes were closed until the spell had fully finished settling upon you. A new sensation prickles at the surface of your skin, familiar and star-filled. Finally, your gaze focuses above you, after Gale's soft instruction of: Open your eyes.

You still feel floaty, your senses less acute, your head washed over with warmth. This time though, the illusion is different. You are resting in calm grass and whispering meadows, and when colorful stars fill your vision until you're drowning in their light, the view above you seems completely real.

Gale is atop you still, but his study remains melted away. Small flickers of candlelight have transformed into brilliant illuminations, leaving him in a backdrop of twinkling starlight and a beautiful aurora. You're gently swept through the makeshift sky. Hues of purple and green and blue wash over you, like how waves might flow over the shore. Light surrounds you, but at the same time, it shines within you.

In a way, it reminds you of the sight he once made a long time ago, the aurora he created to shimmer through the Shadowlands. Back then, when tensions were high and words were left unspoken, you admired the stars in comfortable silence. So close — You could have reached for his hand next to yours, or closed the distance in mere moments to learn what his lips felt like on your own. But you didn't. The familiarity makes your pulse run wild.

A canopy of beauty. This is what he once planned to admire on his last night alive, and yet, now he has an abundance of nights to spend by your side. Sprawled out beneath him, you are far more beautiful than anything in the countless shimmering skies.

"Wonderful," You murmur, speaking under your breath. Your voice is just loud enough for him to hear. You're smiling, your gaze flickering between the messes of stars above you, lights that twinkle steadily with a gentle glow. "Reminds me of the stars from ages ago. This is gorgeous, Gale."

"Not as gorgeous as you, of course," He replies, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at his features. His words are smooth, they no longer flicker endlessly through your mind. Rather, when he speaks, his familiar voice captures your heart in the same way it always has. "If only you knew how truly breathtaking you are."

His heart aches with desire, because as you look up at him — at him, not the illusion, your gaze is on his while the loveliest smile crosses your lips — in your eyes, he sees that same lovely sparkle.

You're lost in him, for a moment. Gale's expression grows soft as he continues to admire you. When you feel gentle fingertips travel the length of your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, you tremble. A sigh leaves your mouth, his fingers lacing with yours once more. He holds your hand tightly, safely. Gale can't resist, he tips forwards to kiss you; your lips connect, with crackling electricity and still-lingering traces of magic sparking from his mouth to yours.

Devotion is palpable in the way he kisses you. It quickly turns eager, becoming a tender mess of soft moans and tongue. And at last, everything to remain falls away.

Heat surges through both your bodies until you're consumed by wildfire. With one more kiss, Gale grips you hard, his hips begin to move. You whine against his mouth as he slowly rocks into you, you're mumbling his name in the form of a plea — The sound only serves to make him more desperate.

He mutters your name in turn: a low, affectionate utterance. His thrusts take on a deeper pace, as he fucks into you hard enough to make his desk shake — fervent enough to have your heart trembling, love drowning you in heavy depths.

Your arousal and his drip down your thighs, dirtying the hardwood. It's making a mess, echoing lewd, wet noises with each clumsy movement, the slap of skin against skin sounding particularly soaked each time he pistons into you. Every echo fills his ears, curling through his mind oh-so pleasantly. It would be the most addicting melody he's ever heard, if it weren't for how sweet you sound when you're moaning for him.

And you're loud, you're mumbling a mess of words he can't quite make out. Your sighs mix with whines, turning sharp each time he eases his cock into you. Gale breathes a shaky breath, fanning warmth over your face, before he's moving to place quick kisses to the corner of your mouth, and then, your jaw.

His lips brush the column of your neck, where your pulse is racing for him; when his hips rut into yours, you're cooing soft pleas, quietly murmuring, Don't stop. Your back arches, and he adorns you with his tongue and teeth, sucking gently at your supple skin.

He shouldn't. What would your confidants say, if you crossed paths with them? When you return to Baldur's Gate, what would the guild leaders who respect you, and the fancy patriars who need you think when they happened to see it? They would know he was there, know you are his. Foolishly, dizzyingly, he allows his lips and his mouth to leave a deep mark, an imprint of himself. He doesn't pull back until he's sure the bruise will take.

You shudder, feeling the ghost of his mouth even once he's pulled away, cold air brushing the saliva he left on your neck and making your nerves twinge. Slow rolls of his body into yours have you shaking, but you're squeezing his hand tightly, your other palm is balling into a fist and you're begging, "Please, faster… Fucking Hells… Give me more."

Gale sighs. His brows knot, he falls forwards and leans his forehead softly against yours. "For you, I would give the world."

He swallows, he steadies. Then, he places all the world's pleasures in the palms of your hands.

The weight behind his thrusts, newly desperate and hurried, have him gripping you for leverage: a palm tensed on your waist, fingertips digging into your hip. He grasps your thigh to push it up and apart. His desk is knocking against the wall, the wooden legs squeaking and scraping the floor.

Your body tenses with building intensity — Building and building and building, threatening to overwhelm you between every movement, until you aren't sure where your high begins, nor where it ends. All you know is you're close. And if he keeps fucking into you like this, filling you nice and deep, nudging against your sweetest spots only he can reach, it won't be long before you're falling apart for him.

With one last quick kiss to your forehead, your thighs spread apart wider, Gale is propping over you; and Gods, does he look like a mess. Pools of glowing magic paint him in the most vivid hues. His hair is out of place, honey brown strands askew, the faintest pretty streaks of silver reflecting in the starlight. His skin shines with dripping beads of sweat, his chest is heaving, jaw clenched — You can't help but feel he might crumble at the smallest touch.

So, you unclench your hand. You let your fingertips drift up, and you brush them over his cheek. As you're cupping his face, his shoulders tense, and he doesn't just crumble, he collapses.

Gale falls into you, leaning his head into your nape. His palm fits between the desk and the arch of your back to hold you even closer to himself. His breathing is rapid, his hand takes on a distinct tremble when another rock of his body against yours has you moaning ragged gasps of his name.

His name, you're pleading for him to take you — Grinding his teeth together until his jaw hurts, he bucks into you hard, enough to have you fluttering around him, squeezing him like a vice. He chokes back broken gasps of his own, and exhales hot fans of breath over your sensitive skin. You are going to be the death of him.

"I have always-" Gale starts; he struggles to speak, his voice sounds close to breaking, yet his words drip with an earnestness you find enthralling, "I have always loved you. My sweetheart… Every beat of my heart is yours…"

Yours.

Eyes fluttering between open and closed, the aurora around you spins incessantly. You respond in turn, mumbling through fragile gasps for breath, as he works you up to a growing, intensifying peak.

"I'm yours, Gale," Your fingers tangle in soft hair, gripping and tugging until he's groaning. Pleasure floods your every nerve, and you're a mess around his cock, tumbling through the sea of stars and alluring lights — "I'm yours, I'm yours-"

"Oh, love-"

All at once, the spell abruptly snaps, your focus and your senses melding into one in a dizzying, sparkling rush. You're brought back to reality. The heart of his quiet study comes into view again, his walls of books and shelves of artifacts, the colorful lights fading into nothingness. Your form is bathed in warm candlelight, the night sky treading in from his balcony. Cool air dances over you, while the pale moon is hung high in the darkness.

Ecstasy slams through you, blissfully unfiltered. Everything is messy, perfect, and hopelessly desperate; you grip his hair tight, and his hand harder. Gale pants, his breath sharp and his lungs aching as he fucks you into the desk, pushing you closer and closer to your edge — until even without the aid of magic, you're left seeing stars.

He is so terribly, utterly in love with you. Every one of those nights where he pushed you away, those moments where he almost left you, when he was possibly the most foolish he's ever been in his entire life —

A slow, tender press inside you, and you're muttering his name softly once more, adoring it, pleading it. He wants to hear your voice strumming his name over and over, teasing him after his half-hearted attempts to make you laugh, begging for him to give you what you need, because he is the only one who can. Answering with, Yes, Gale, I will, when he asks you to marry him. He can't change the mistakes he's already made, but he can earn your love, and your softness. He can promise to never let you go. Not ever again.

"I'm here, I have you," Gale mumbles in a shaky tone. He presses a soft kiss onto your nape, he squeezes your hand when your breath begins to hitch. His words are smooth and comforting, they send tingles up your spine, and they have you melting in a way you never have before.

The edge to your high is right within reach, he's only bringing you closer. Your head won't stop spinning. As he trails kisses from your neck to your jaw, his lips are a touch from the sun, beams of warmth that shudder through you to shine over the surface of your skin.

"Gale-" You whimper, "Fuck, I'm-"

He presses into you deeply, gripping your hand, filling you with a thickness you'll never quite get enough of, and you can't help but stutter into a whine. His pelvis shoves against yours, skin against skin, arousal messy and wet and dripping out of you — Your thighs are shaking, and you only need one more breath before you're finding that zenith of pleasure. Warm and perfect against your nape, his words have you taking the final tumble.

"Come undone for me."

Your high shatters through you, you're tensing around his sloppy thrusts, your legs are slipping from around him. Your body curls into his, your eyes shutting tight. Desire drowns you, it burns from within you; throat sore, you cry out in loud, desperate moans, and everything melts around you as you let go, cumming for him.

And Gale, normally so confident, so eloquent, a wizard prodigy, a Goddess' chosen — He buries himself deep inside you, choking down stutters and groans. With a mess of barely coherent pleas of your name, your sweet voice and the feeling of you squeezing him, fluttering in the pleasant aftershocks of your release, has him falling to pieces right there beside you.

"Please, please, please…" Gale begs, even though he hardly knows what he's begging for. His clumsy hips roll into you with reckless abandon, echoing the sloppiest noises. His voice is broken and fragile, tender in a way you've never heard before: "I love you, I love you…"

I love you. In this life, and every life to follow. Only to fall in love once more, all over again.

Gasping, shaking, his body tenses, and when he falls into you, you're left to hopelessly clutch onto his hand and his hair. Pleasure racks through him, his breath getting caught in his lungs. The candles in his study flicker, the branded orb-shaped marking imprinted onto his chest glows. His hips shudder, before they still. His length pulses inside you so hard you can feel it in your core, and heat pools within your body as he fills you, giving you what's left of him.

It takes a handful of moments for you both to come down. Gale is limp and heavy, pressing against you, his weight pinning you between him and the desk. His palm, resting on the small of your back, runs over your skin in slow, careful circles. Your heart thumps loud in your ears, hard in your chest, so forceful it nearly hurts. His gentle touch makes it slow, until gradually, your composure begins to return.

I've got you, he's murmuring, the words barely audible in your ringing eardrums, but comforting just the same. Breathe for me, just breathe.

In, and then out, you inhale, exhale. Gale props above you after a minute or two, and as you blink to chase away the remnants of fuzz in your vision, he comes into your view. He's smiling, because of course he is, strands of his hair sticking out every which way. The sight makes you grin, and you have to hold back your chuckle. Yet, the way he looks at you softens every last shred of your soul.

His skin is flushed, still sweaty and warm. His gaze is so terribly, persistently gentle, coveting you with endless devotion. It wouldn't be the first time tonight, but you feel revered, like you can almost taste swelling blossoms of love — sweet on the tongue, growing untamed to flourish through your chest.

Letting go of a sigh, he brushes his thumb over your cheek. You didn't think he could get any softer. But here he is, with a smile that entrances you, and an expression beaming with light itself. When he grasps your chin, pulling you in as he leans forwards, on his gentle lips, you feel the heat of the sun, and taste the calmness of a crisp summer breeze.

Your heart skips. A sharp spark of electricity — traces of magic, surely — crackles on your mouth when yours brushes his. It zaps you like static, before flowing into you as a steady, dizzying wave.

Your eyes stay shut. Gale pulls back for a moment. He breathes a small huff, a barely-there laugh. You swear you can feel the smile on his lips when he kisses you again — This time, much deeper, while his fingertips trace the curve of your jaw, and his mouth outlines the depths of his devotion onto yours.

When he pulls away, he's moving to guide a quick hand behind your head. He supports you, before resting you back against the desk ever-so gently. He hisses slightly as he pulls out of you, adjusting you both. He's sighing with contentment while he grasps your thighs, changing your position to let them hang over the desk's edge more comfortably.

At last, he props up over you. Still catching his breath, he tries to control the weighted heave of his chest as best he can manage.

"I love you," Gale admits, his voice noticeably hoarse, but with a clear hint of fondness to it, "Are you alright?"

"Please, I'm more than alright," You answer. You clear your throat, alleviating some of the dryness, and you roll your shoulders back. The hardwood surface of his desk beneath you suddenly feels a hundred times firmer than before. "You're okay too, aren't you?"

Gale scoffs playfully, smirking, "Apart from a bit of present exhaustion and a mild ache in the knees, I am definitely, most positively fine. No, better than fine. Fantastic."

Your eyes narrow, your head tilts curiously, gaze flickering down, and then back up. "And the orb?"

"The orb? Oh," He huffs, placing a palm over his chest in realization. "Ha, it's behaving alright. Until now, I don't think it has ever felt so… comfortable, if that serves well to describe it. Swear I could almost feel the damn thing purring."

You breathe a slight chuckle, and with a roll of your eyes, you press your palms to the desk and push yourself up. Gale hurries to wrap a hand around your wrist, placing the other on your back. He helps to pull you, until you're sitting up with your arms stretched to the ceiling. You stretch your back next, arching it forwards, feeling your muscles loosen and your bones pop.

Gale's brows are suddenly knotted. His lips press into a line, his expression turns conflicted. When your gaze locks with his, you're giving him a slight, pretty smile.

"What's wrong?"

You watch as he looks away for a second, snapping his fingers, muttering a string of words under his breath you don't quite catch. He seems pouty, almost guilty; the fireplace in the room's adjacent corner hums to life, breathing much-needed warmth into his study. Your limbs relax, your shoulders untensing.

"Nothing is wrong, sweetheart. Don't you worry," He reassures, offering you a warm look once his gaze returns to yours. His hand comes to steady on your side, and he squeezes you slightly, "I just… supposed I should offer you an apology. Perhaps it was rude of me not to provide you with more comfort. I promise you, next time, you will be as cushy and cozy as your heart could possibly desire. You'll find my bedroom to be rather pleasant, I'm sure. Have you ever slept on Glamerweave sheets? Hm, actually, I think I'll keep from spoiling the surprise."

Next time?

"Come on. It was my idea, you don't have to apologize," You reply through a slight laugh, shifting a bit on his desk, crossing one leg over the other. "Besides, I'm fine, I swear. I've dealt with much more than a little soreness, and I was perfectly comfortable, I'll have you know." Swallowing, you pause for a moment to think. "That was perfect. Truly."

"Was it? Well, that is… quite lovely to hear, quite lovely indeed. I'm… I'm glad." Gale takes in a slow breath, before letting go of a deep, heavy sigh. Your words make his heart pound. "Gods above. I knew I was doomed, but I think I've only fallen even more in love with you."

Arms wrapping around his shoulders, your head cocked teasingly, you murmur, "Do you know how hard it is to resist kissing you when you're this terribly sweet?"

"Really?" His brow crooks. "I wonder how many kisses I could earn if I proposed more than mere sweet words. Sweet touches, perhaps? I could lend you a hand or two, you know. I'm more than willing to offer shoulder rubs, back massages- It wouldn't be right to leave my dearest with tired limbs and such sore muscles, now would it?"

"On second thought, maybe my back is hurting. A massage sounds lovely."

Gale grins. He reaches up, brushing his thumb over your cheek, before he pulls you in for a quick, precious kiss.

"Then your wish is my command, love." His hand continues to hold your cheek tenderly, even once he's pulled back. Forehead close enough to almost rest against yours, he murmurs quietly, smoothly, "Once you are ready, I'll run you a warm, comfortable bath. With bubbles and lavender- Hm, I'm sure I have something around here you can wear, as far as clean clothes are concerned. You may have to make do with a few magically infused robes and garments… but nothing with any lasting effects, I assure you. And if you've worked up an appetite, then-"

Biting his tongue, abruptly, he stops. His eyes narrow, gaze glancing between you and the floor.

"I… My apologies," Gale mumbles, his tone weighed down by newfound disappointment, "How impolite. I shouldn't form assumptions, especially when your plans have already been reiterated. I won't keep you. As a matter of fact, I believe the side roads to Baldur's Gate are likely still open, if you'd prefer me to escort you there."

"Gale, are you kidding?"

You scoff, squeezing his shoulders and tilting your head; instantly, he feels himself begin to relax, his heart stirring, his nerves settling. You always look at him with such radiant warmth.

"Running errands back and forth for greedy townspeople can wait," You're continuing, gazing at him through fluttery lashes. "I took care of everything urgent well before I got here. You wouldn't believe the nerves I had leading up to this- I was remarkably tense, but at least it had me working hard to distract myself. Listen, if you're so keen on going back, you're coming with me. Otherwise, I'm staying, okay? For as long as you'll have me."

Gale swallows. His jaw clenches, his gaze goes soft. His pulse thrums in his throat and runs a mile per minute within his chest, heels pushing off the ground as he chases a burning sense of devotion —

"You- Are you sure?" He questions, opening his mouth to speak once more, only to have you quickly interrupt him.

"Of course I'm sure, I've never been more sure of anything. I can't begin to explain how much I've missed you, just- I don't want to be apart from you yet, that's all. Is… is that alright?"

"Oh, yes, most definitely- You can stay. I would love for you to stay," Gale breathes in response, brushing his palm over the small of your back, holding you gently. Warmth and longing sear through him, echoing the start of something new. "To savor a new wealth of treasured moments with you… To awake, and see you still resting beside me, content and weary-eyed… I'm not sure I deserve to find myself so lucky."

Holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Gale breathes in deeply. "Nevertheless, the night is young. But as for tomorrow, alas, I doubt the academy would approve, in the event of my neglection of scheduled lessons. Best to be up bright and early, you see. We should rest. You, especially." He counts with his fingers, pointing to each one, "You need the aforenamed bath, massage, and to get some much needed sleep. Doubly so, if you are to- uhm, ehem-"

Gale clears his throat, and as you meet his eyes, you raise a curious brow. Seemingly nervous, he softly mutters, "You wouldn't mind attending the lesson tomorrow to assist me for a second time, would you?"

All at once, you're grinning. You're laughing slightly to yourself, and you're staring at him cheerfully, with a look he finds impossible not to adore.

"I'd love to. I had fun today, and I'm sure you have much more to teach. The depths to illusion magic are rather grand. Or so a charming wizard has told me."

"Yes, and you have merely scratched the proverbial surface. Though, in all likelihood, illusion magic should come rather naturally to you. After all, you have no shortage of firsthand experience," He explains jovially. "But still, do not discredit yourself. You are a wonderful teacher, skilled and proficient in your own right. I'm sure my students would reflect the same sentiment. You are most captivating to them. You're the hero that kept the famous city of Baldur's Gate from falling into ruin. The one who saved my life. My closest, most beloved friend. Perhaps more than that, now."

"Definitely more," You answer, smirking a bit to hide the warmth to your cheeks.

"In that case," Gale hums, "I will be sure to introduce you as my partner, from here on out."

Candles flicker, shimmering like makeshift stars in his quiet study. From the view outside his balcony, the moon glimmers, beaming faint light, as though it was made just to watch over you both. Intimacy ripples between you. Echoing in your ears, you can hear the calm rhythm of waves, the familiar lull of the sea. It's a sound you've grown comfortable with. A moment you wished to dwell in until the inevitable end of time. Perhaps now, that future will be yours.

You decide to break the brief layer of silence: "Gale?"

Gale brushes his fingertips from your jaw to your nape, homesickness gnawing at his chest the longer he admires you. His tower was never important to him, Waterdeep couldn't compare. You were always his home.

"Yes, love?"

"I'm glad you're here with me."

Silent for a few moments, he's briefly unsure of what to say. Finally, he breathes a long, thankful sigh, and smiles wide, a sparkle in his gaze. Adoration roots into him, promising to forever grow.

"I love you. I love you so very much," He admits, cooing, his fingertips caressing your skin; his thumb trails over the faint mark he left on you while he speaks. The imprint of himself. "I will not leave you, that I can most undoubtedly promise. There are a great deal of things I want us to experience. Thousands of moments to live for. You would grace me with the privilege of dying a happy man, if I were to combust right now, in some unfortunate, bittersweet blaze of glory. But I give you my word, I am not planning on letting it happen."

His gaze goes resolute. Gale presses a palm to his chest, feeling magic thrum steadily, and his heart pound wildly. Still beating, despite everything. Every defiant thump has your name written into it. "This affliction will not take me. We have won against greater evils, and I won't let anything pry us apart. Not when I finally have you."

Night may have descended, cold air bitter on your skin, but in your chest, you feel the warmth of summer: growing heat, and an exquisite softness. You can't help but let go of a quiet sigh in satisfaction.

"Now," He's murmuring, standing up straight and taking your hand. He helps you to slide off of his desk, until you're wobbling to unsteady feet, holding onto his arm for balance. "I do believe I've yammered on quite enough. I won't exhaust you with more lengthy pillow talk. You should be given the relaxation you are owed, correct? A bath will only take a few moments to run."

"Mhm," You reply, gazing up at him, seeming amused. He finds it damn near impossible not to get lost in your eyes. "As long as you're planning on joining me."

"Joining? Oh, sweetheart. I would be delighted." Gale squeezes your hand, still held in his. He brings it up to his lips, he runs his thumb over your knuckles. He presses an all-too gentle kiss to them, before his fingers lace between the crooks of your own.

"Come. What remains of tonight is ours."

You'll smell of lavender and his soap when you crawl into his bed. You'll feel the warmth of his body pressed to yours, his arms around you, your head buried in his chest, and your dreams will be as tender as they are familiar. Your future drawn out, past lifetimes upon lifetimes.

And once the night bleeds into morning, you will fall for him all over again.

—

Waterdeep becomes your new home.

It isn't long before Gale's tower is strewn with your belongings as well as his. Your old weapons and special artifacts find themselves scattered among tomes, scrolls, and poetry collections. You do manage to return to Baldur's Gate for a while, just to collect your things from the Elfsong and say a couple of goodbyes. You've landed a job as a professor's assistant in Waterdeep, you explain, and you can't be late for your first official day.

You grow accustomed to the sea salt in your hair, and the way the smell of the ocean soaks into your skin. Gale provides you with your own set of rooms in a secluded corner of his tower. You can watch the waves from your bedroom window, and look out over the city from the view in his library. The days are slow, a calming change of pace from the previous adventures you shared together. Your other companions come to visit you both occasionally, making for a tender reunion. Months go by, but every day is new. A new chance to fall in love. Your new form of a delicate beginning.

Deep in his bones, Gale still remembers how to cover your weak points. The signs you show when you're closer to crumbling than you're letting on, the feeling of your spells bleeding into his when they combine on the battlefield. He believes those times, those hardships, those perils, will be ones he could never forget — and yet, why would he want to?

They're reminders of all he has to be grateful for. Mementos of when he first fell for you. You're both safe, you no longer have to fret over dark histories, or worry about protecting one another. For once, you can indulge in a life more tender, and much more forgiving.

Gale learns what you prefer to have for breakfast, what seasonings you favor for supper, and how you like your coffee when he prepares it for you at sunrise. Between days spent at the academy and endless lesson planning, practicing spells and grading assignments, he makes what free moments you have seem special. There's dates, picnics. Quiet, simple moments that mean the entire world.

Your head tends to rest in his lap when he's reading; sometimes aloud, his smooth voice lulling you into enveloping comfort. When you fall asleep, limbs tangled, resting on his chest, you relish in every potent thrum of his heartbeat.

He leaves you love notes on shared grocery lists. Poems he's written for you are left on your bedside table, folded neatly, sealed with wax. You wind up keeping each one.

Eventually, he's able to take you to all his favorite places in Waterdeep, the extravagant, and the plain. You've no need to introduce yourself, when everyone already seems to know you.

The wizard is star-struck every time he drones on about you, the regulars at The Yawning Portal explain. Especially once he's had far too much to drink.

I shouldn't tell you he's planning to propose, he's quite excited about the whole thing, the elderly owner of his favorite bookstore tells you. Be sure to act surprised.

On the days where you don't accompany him, when he returns from a long afternoon spent at the academy, he's rushing upstairs to greet you. He pulls you into a long, tender hug, one you wish would last forever. His touch breathes new life into your scars, his voice becomes your favorite daily melody. In the wake of every night you spend entwined, you find yourself melting into him, further becoming one another's fatal weakness. When he holds you for a little too long, squeezing you tight and hiding faint tears in the crook of your neck, you feel loved, like you never have before.

Soft and perfect, you are home.

Mornings meld into tendays which bleed into months. You treasure it all, with unending adoration. The Gods didn't bless you with this, you carved your own path. You forged your own temple to be made holy in. Before you know it, your heart and soul are undoubtedly his, and on a day no different than the others, Gale is taking you somewhere you've never been before.

Hands clasped, fingers entwined, he's bringing you to a height above the city, a cliff between the grand mountain and the edge of the sea. Wind runs through your hair. You rest your arms on the stone railing, and sink into the beauty of the sparkling ocean, sunlight glittering on white, foamy waves. He shows you the view of the city below, your city, and his, as the sun dips into the horizon — Although, it seems the only thing he can keep his eyes on is you.

You're turning just in time to catch him staring. Gale laughs awkwardly in the beat of awkward silence. He mumbles a quick response when you ask if he's alright, offering you an utterance of, Nothing, you're just beautiful. He smiles wider as you offer him a genuine grin and a playful roll of your eyes. Soon, it becomes quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat, prancing loudly through your eardrums. The soft sound of the ocean echoes within you.

Gale takes a slow, steady breath, catching your attention with a call of your name. This time, when you turn towards him, it's to watch him slowly lower down onto one knee.

The silver ring he pulls from his jacket pocket was his mother's. It sparkles off of the sun's fading rays, a poem engraved on the inside in elegant script, the surface adorned in sapphire and sunstone. Your heart skips a few beats in your chest.

You can hardly focus on his words, his vows and his confessions. But you do notice the tenderness to his expression as he glances up at you, misty-eyed, the breeze drifting through his ash-dappled hair; in this moment, everything feels right. And as he asks you to marry him, you're kneeling down as well and you're throwing your arms around his shoulders. You lean your head into his nape, you hold him as tight as you can manage, and you utter just the words he was hoping to hear.

He is perfectly, endlessly yours.

You say yes.

#gale dekarios x reader #gale x reader #gale dekarios #gale dekarios smut #bg3 x reader #bg3 smut

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auteurdelabre · 6 months

Text

Something to Fight For (Epilogue) Dad!Joel x f!Reader

Something to Fight For: Epilogue

Warnings: Tooth-rottingly sweet epilogue.

Words: 5.3

a/n: I dragged y’all through angsty hell and I PROMISED I would deliver a happy ending and imo it don’t get much happier than this! Now, if you're sad this is over I understand. Nice thing is, I got vignettes happening featuring the characters in this story. Some of 'em sweet, some spicy, some funny. I can't say goodbye to these characters or this world quite yet. So I'm not gonna. And if you want, you're always welcome to request a scene you'd like to see in the comments! I love hearing what you want to see! And I got heaps of other writing, but if you like this sweeter sort I recommend: “Bravo! Take a Bow” and “Losing our Minds Together”

I thank every single one of you out there that read this story and left a review because it really feels like we built a community here in the comment section. I'm gonna miss seein' y'all here. Hopefully you stick around while I keep writing, but if not I am so glad we could share this online moment together. Thank you for making this fanfic author a happy gal. I'm gettin' choked up here so I'll stop and we can get on to seeing our sweet idiots in love.

Oh and please review, reblog, etc cuz it makes me smile.

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You walk into life on Rancher Street as naturally as if you've always been a fixture there. You think this is borne from a routine the three of you slipped into without thinking.

Mornings are coffee and cereal (Joel's banana pancakes on the weekends), then it's getting ready, brushing Sarah's hair, packing leftovers into cartoon lunch bags (for Sarah) and brown paper bags (for you and Joel).

You're dropped off first; your work is on the way to the school. Its kisses for both of their sweet smiling faces and then you're thrust into the world of animal rescue. Joel drives Sarah to school next, holding her hand until they reach her classroom where he kisses her forehead and tells her to "learn lots" before handing her off to her new first grade teacher.

He drives to Tommy at whatever site they're working at. The days are long, but punctuated with texts from you. Most are funny, some sweet. Occasionally Joel tries to write back but when he really wants to interact with you he just excuses himself and calls you. Hearing your voice always makes him smile in that dreamy, crooked way that has Tommy giving him shit the rest of the day.

At five promptly Joel returns to pick you up with Sarah buckled in her car seat smiling up at you. His heart jumps every time you come through the door, eyes bright and smiling as you jog over. He holds back the urge to kiss you senseless, restraining you both to a quick peck and then drives his girls home.

Dinner is done by Joel unless you've offered (which you rarely do because cooking is a drag). Instead you help Sarah set the table and the meal is spent listening to Sarah talk about her day and the animals that you’ve helped to rescue.

After dinner Sarah goes to play with her toys or watch a DVD while you tidy up. Joel sits with his coffee in his favorite green mug at the counter, eyes on you and chatting as you do the dishes. He always tries to help at first but you always remind him that he did the cooking and that you want to keep things fair.

This is when you both talk about everything and anything. Work, movies you want to see, plans for the weekend, philosophical questions (you've both decided that you'd rather fight one horse sized duck versus a thousand duck sized horses, for example). Joel is hard to get information out of. He isn't used to talking about himself, but you urge him to do so. He thinks his job is boring but you're fascinated by controlling clients and his keen mind when problem solving an issue at a job site.

Sometimes Sarah turns the volume of the TV up really high during these times and Joel has to yell over the noise at her to turn it down, smiling and shaking his head. It's one of your favorite parts about being here. There's always noise in the background, either a television or laughter. Your home had been so quiet, so empty, you'd just never realized

The other favorite part is how Joel always finds ways to touch you. Subtle things like a hand trailing over your lower back as you wash the dishes, nestling his shoulder against yours as you watch television together, laughing and hip checking you gently as he passes you in the hallway.

The only thing not perfect (at least for Joel) is the odd evening when you leave to go back to Maria's basement suite. He doesn't call the old suite your home because as far as he's concerned this is your home.

His stomach always drops when he sees you've gathered your purse in your hands, ready to leave. Joel usually walks you to your car, but some nights he stops you both at the front door, bringing you into his arms and kissing you deeply.

"I should go Joel," you tell him as he holds you, his mouth moving from your lips to your jaw, kissing that spot behind your ear that has you whimpering and your legs buckling. "Still have stuff there."

"Please stay," Joel murmurs against your mouth, hands wrapped around your waist as he presses into you against the wall. "Just a little longer."

Sometimes (often) this works. Your resolve breaks under his sweet mouth and hands and on these nights you wrap your legs around his waist and allow him to carry you back to the bedroom.

These nights he spends hours making love to you until you're too exhausted to leave. These nights Joel likes best because you linger in his arms and in his bed until the morning, the scent of your perfume on his pillow and sheets until you return that evening.

"Love having you here," Joel sleepily murmurs into your hair, kissing you awake one morning. "When are you just gonna move in?"

Still half asleep in his bed you stretch, snuggling up against him and sighing into the crook of his neck. "Whenever you want, baby."

Joel wants you there all the time. He wants Sarah to know that you're there; he doesn't want to hide you. But you're tentative, nervous that this all feels too good too fast. You ask that Sarah not know that you're spending the night, not just yet. She knows that you’re daddy’s girlfriend, but that’s all you want her to know right now.

You pretend to arrive in the mornings, making a show of ringing the doorbell and smirking as Joel welcomes you in, his eyes amused.

Despite the occasional seduction, Joel understands and he lets you go at your own pace. He agrees to what makes you feel comfortable.

But he loves when you arrive with a new cardboard box of your stuff from Maria's. He sees the blush across your cheek as he excitedly takes it from you, asking where this one will go. Most of its clothes and those boxes are promptly brought to the bedroom and unpacked into the closet. Seeing your blouses hung next to his button ups makes him feel good.

Week by week more of your things are brought over until one day there's nothing left for you at Maria's except for your bed, dresser and sofa. You tell him as much over a late night snack of chocolate pudding after Sarah has been put to bed.

"Pretty much everything I need is here."

Joel makes note of this, his heart hammering in his chest as he reaches into one of the drawers and pulls out the key he got cut.

“You’ll need this, then.”

He slides it across the counter with his forefinger, his eyes not leaving your face as he does. He sees the surprise there, the widening of your eyes.

"You have a lot of keys to your house just lying around?" You joke, feeling your heart race.

"Nah, got this one cut the day after the wedding," Joel murmurs. "Thought you'd need it sooner or later."

He loves seeing you blush, especially when you do that shy smile of yours.

When you look uncertain later that night in bed next to him, fingers twisting together anxiously Joel notices, lowering his book to glance at you.

"What's wrong?"

"Are you really okay with me moving in here?" You ask with a furrowed brow. "It's not too soon?"

Joel's mouth over yours is all the answer you need. But he's so delighted by your potential move in that he'd already launched into an outline of what to do with your furniture.

"We could sell your sofa and bed. I know a guy who needs a sofa. Only 'cuz my stuff is bigger and already here, but I don't want you feelin' like this isn't your house too so maybe we should-"

Kissing is the second best way to stop Joel Miller from rambling. The first is climbing on top of him and urging him inside of you, languidly bringing you both to orgasm.

You do both just to be safe.

The things left at Paul's had been clothing and a few personal items. You considered leaving it, but decide in the end that you shouldn't have to.

Your small pile of cardboard boxes are left outside his old apartment. He's sure not to be in said apartment when Joel goes with you to retrieve them.

You'd ridden over in Joel's truck, the day punctuated by an unexpected silence with Joel's protective hand over your knee. He'd loaded the boxes alongside you, his face tight. With every box retrieved from Paul's place Joel grew more and more miserable.

He hadn't responded to your gentle teasing as you both worked, had turned down your idea of going out for lunch, and had been all over a grumpy bastard.

When you'd loaded everything and were driving home Joel's hand had flown back to your knee, grip just as tight as before. When you finally questioned him about his bizarre behavior his dark eyes had been hard.

"The boxes and Paul," Joel winces, eyes fixed on the road. "Just reminded me how close I was to losin' you."

You make him pull over right then and there so you can crawl into his lap and kiss him senseless. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you so tightly to him you feel breathless.

"You'll never lose me, Joel," you whisper against his neck. "Never."

When you make love that evening your fingers linger on his cheeks as you stare into his eyes and the words you whisper as he fills you are of the love you have for him, the longing for this life you held for so long within you.

As you both begin to drift off, tangled together under the sheets you press a kiss to that patch in his beard that doesn't quite grow.

"I'm not going anywhere, Joel. I'm done running."

///

You miss having an office space like your studio had. A little area for just you to organize your thoughts and work. But it's a small price to pay because you like existing on Rancher Street. You've enjoyed every day of the last three months.

It feels like home when you're there and not because of the structure but the two figures inside. Home isn't a place, you've come to realize, its people. Joel and Sarah.

Evening rituals are the same as when you babysat. Picking out books as Sarah slips into bed smelling of toothpaste and the hair cream Joel massages into the curls under her favorite purple bonnet. You smiling at her while she snuggles down under the covers, propping toad up next to her so he can see the pictures in the books.

"Okay we're ready."

The only difference is that Joel is there too, bending down to kiss his daughter's cheek and murmuring a low "G'night babygirl. Sweet dreams. Love you."

She gives him a sweet 'I love you' back, kissing his lightly bearded cheek. If Joel takes too long to leave, getting distracted by the sight of you gathering books or just wanting to linger, Sarah is prone to shooting him a silent look that communicates: okay, I love you dad, now please leave.

He always does. Because reading before bed is your special time, just the two of you. Joel used to do it on the nights you weren't there, but now you are there every single night his services are no longer necessary.

Joel's qualities are better served in the kitchen, you and Sarah decide as you watch her drawing on the sidewalk with the chalk you've just bought.

"Daddy's a better cook than you."

She says it thoughtfully and without malice as she draws a lopsided flower.

"Yes," you agree with a nod, making a star pattern nearby. "Much better. I think he puts love in his food. I just use salt."

But the ever empathetic Sarah is quick to point out your many virtues as well. The main one of course being your stellar reading ability and your stories in general.

So every single night Joel stands there outside Sarah's room, arms folded and shoulder tilted against the hallway wall, his cheek facing the half closed door of his daughter.

There he listens to the two of you giggling or you reading the book Sarah has picked from your pile (Sarah's right, you're very good at doing the voices), the gentle murmurs of 'I love you" thrown back between you two and those sounds wind around Joel's heart in a way he never knew just sounds could.

He's so fucking happy.

And when you finally creep out, quietly closing the door behind you and shooting him a pleased smile, Joel is always there to grip you by the hand and drag you to your shared bedroom down the hall.

Rarely do the two of you make it to the bed with all your clothes on because Joel has many virtues outside of the kitchen as well.

///

Joel watches you give a frustrated sigh, frowning at the laptop on the kitchen table before putting your face in your hands.

"Everything okay?"

"Just this fu- darn sanctuary project," you self correct, remembering a listening Sarah sitting across from you.

Sarah has a piece of paper she has drawn to look like a laptop and she pretends to clack away on it when you do on yours. Joel sits next to you, his knee brushing yours as you complain.

"Alex's contact said she could get the supplies at cost and he was supposed to get back to me but he hasn't and now the landscaping guy is saying -" you pause, realizing Joel's eyes have taken on a dreamy, faraway look. “-And you're not even listening to me, are you Miller?"

He gives you a guilty look. "Nope."

You give a sharp laugh at his honesty, leaning over and shoving his shoulder with yours affectionately.

"Hey, I really wanna show you somethin'," Joel says with a hint of excitement in his dark brown eyes, a window into the boy he must have been. "C'mon. Both of you."

You follow him down the steps to the basement, to Tommy's old place, your hand wrapped around Sarah's. You both follow him towards the large door separating the areas, watching his broad shouldered walk, the excitement in his rapid footsteps.

At the door there he spins with a small anticipatory smile on his handsome face.

"I thought this would be a good place to have for an office," Joel explains shyly pointing to the door behind him.

You smile up at him, delighted that he thought of you needing one. He pushes open the door for you, his eyes on your face as he does.

Balloons.

Hundreds of colorful balloons take up almost the entire main room of the basement.

Sarah doesn't wait for you, she runs in headfirst giggling and shrieking, her arms open wide.

You walk into the basement in a daze, your eyes owlish as you take in this prism of color, feeling the balloons brush your skin, the awe-inspiring sensation of being surrounded in a rainbow. You laugh, it bursts from you.

You can see that the space beyond the balloons has been transformed into an office, complete with built in bookcases and a custom desk under the window. You trace a hand along the desk before being swept up in the color of the balloons and Sarah's contagious laughter.

Joel is standing there just outside the door, his eyes bright as he watches the two loves of his life laughing and tossing up the colorful balloons.

Sarah kicks at them with vigor, her head thrown back in laughter at the squeaks they emit when knocked about.

Joel looks to you, expecting the same behavior and pausing when he sees how you're now standing there looking at him with damp eyes. The balloons float between you, falling to block his eyes as you approach.

"Joel."

"Mmm?"

"Get in here," you order gently, your finger curling around his collar as you gently tug him in encouragement. You can't move him of course, but he grins widely, nodding and stepping into the color with you.

For a moment neither of you speaks. All you can see is Joel and the balloons that seem to surround you on all sides, the colors framing his beautiful face. You can hear Sarah's distant laughter.

Then Joel smiles in that sweet, open way of his. You look down when you feel his hand taking yours and see a diamond ring being slipped onto your fourth finger. You stare at it in amazement before your gaze meets his. In his deep brown eyes you see a future so beautiful you never could have imagined it. What you don’t know is that when Joel looks into your eyes he sees exactly the same.

"Will you ma-"

"Yes," you breathe without letting him finish, your hands coming to either side of his jaw. He pulls you into his arms grinning before his mouth is on yours, gentle and sweet. You know that your eyes are wet and you know that on your deathbed this will be one of those moments that comes to you, comforting you.

You pull back and look around at all the balloons, the color and you smile broadly through the tears.

"Couldn't wait for your birthday," Joel murmurs against your cheek. "Hope that's okay."

"Yeah," you say curling your arms around his neck. "It's okay."

You don't mind at all.

///

"Shit, did you feed the cat?"

"Daddy you said sh-"

"I know babygirl," Joel says rubbing the back of his neck as Sarah looks to him with a chastised look. "Was wrong of me. Daddy just doesn't want to find another hairball in his shoe. "

Jam, your orange tabby kitten is not really yours at all. Despite being brought home for you, Jam quickly decided that Sarah with her warm bed and shirts covered in food crumbs was a much better companion than you. You don't mind though, seeing how much Sarah loves the cat is enough for you.

"I fed him," you say giggling as the three of you make your way up the drive. The whole gang has been invited to Frank and Bill's for a Sunday lunch. You see them quite often despite living on Rancher Street full time.

They often encourage you to bring Sarah and you do without hesitation. She loves Bill and Frank just as much as you do. She loves painting with Uncle Frank and baking with Uncle Bill. She loves that their house smells like cinnamon in the winter and fresh flowers in the summer.

Despite living right next door, Maria and Tommy arrive late with cornbread and lemonade, but are given a reprieve when Maria shares that she took so long getting ready because "morning sickness makes it hard to feel cute."

Joel had hugged Tommy so tightly you were sure you heard bones cracking. You had just cried, throwing your arms around Maria, careful not to squeeze. Sarah asked to feel the baby and Maria told her it was a bit too early to feel much, but she still let her niece gently stroke her swelling belly.

"I think it's gonna be a boy," Maria told you sagely over lemonade at the table. "A mother knows."

You smile, thinking of a little mix of Maria and Tommy in the vision of a little baby boy. Your eyes sail over to Joel, watching as he chats with Jackson and Tommy. You wonder what it would be like if you had a kid. Who would it take after?

You’re distracted by this idea when Sarah and Bill bring out the dessert, followed by Frank with the coffee. The cupcakes are decorated to resemble beautiful flowers and you all wait as Sarah picks the perfect one for each of you. A daisy for Sarah, a lily each for Auntie Maria and Uncle Tommy, a purple rose for Daddy, a peony for Frank and a forget-me-not for Bill and finally Sarah smiles at the pink carnation she labored the longest over with Bill. Sarah immediately cites that this one belongs to you.

"That one," Sarah says pointing, watching as Bill pushes the plated cupcake in your direction. "Do you like that one, Mama?"

Joel's hand that's been absently rubbing along your spine stills when he hears that. His attention goes to your face, seeing the way your eyes have gotten wide. Mama.

You feel your breath catch in your chest as she calls you this, her tiny face turned up and smiling at you. You don't want to embarrass her, don't want to draw attention to the fact that she's called you Mama.

She did it so casually, so naturally that a part of you is worried she didn't even realize she'd done it. If you draw attention to it you're scared there's a chance that she'll take it back.

"I love it," you whisper, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Thank you, bug."

You kiss her again, feeling tears prick your eyes when Joel's hand skates to the small of your back, squeezing softly. Maria and Tommy are wet-eyed, and share a soft smile before turning their attention to their cupcakes. Frank sniffles, pretending he’s just about to sneeze. You catch Bill’s eyes across the table and when you see them glossy and that’s what makes the tears spill over your lash line.

"Why are you crying?" Sarah asks, her head cocked to the side. She can’t understand why everyone suddenly got so quiet.

"I'm not," you insist. "Just allergies."

Sarah is satisfied or maybe just relieved with this answer and she and clamors onto the chair next to you, ready to dig into her own cupcake. She leans companionably against you, starting to tell Auntie Maria and Uncle Tommy about the class hamster.

You feel Joel's kiss on your temple and you turn to see his eyes damp like yours.

"Mama," you whisper to him. "I'm Mama."

////////

3 years later

Joel is at your side, whispering how strong you are, how beautiful, but all you want to do is punch him.

Hard.

"You did this to me!" You say through clenched teeth as a wave of painful cramping goes through you. Your head falls back onto the damp hospital pillow.

"If I recall it was a very mutual decision," Joel insists with a wry smile. His mouth goes to your ear and his voice drops to a deliciously low timbre only you can hear. "The words 'fuck me pregnant' were a direct quote by you, were they not?"

You don't answer him on that. Not just because he's right, but because a stab of pain is going through your pelvis that takes your breath away.

St. David's is a very fine hospital with very fine people but at this moment everything is not fucking fine. You feel like you've been split in half by a fucking axe.

"Doing so good, baby," Joel croons, wiping the damp hair from your forehead and temples as he watches the doctor and nurses at your feet. "Keep going, keep going."

For a delirious moment you think that it was Joel saying these exact words that got you pregnant in the first place and you let out a high pitched laugh as Joel looks to you in concern.

"Push," the doctor says, breaking into your foggy brain. And so you do. As you have been doing for the last three fucking hours.

You grit your teeth, feeling Joel's mouth on your temple whispering words of encouragement and you push. You push with everything you have and then...

There is a pause and then the loud braying sound of a newborn's cry. The doctor's voice behind the mask rings out.

"It's a girl!"

A sister for Sarah, just like she'd wanted.

A second daughter for you and Joel.

You look over to see Joel's dark eyes shimmering with tears and you feel you've never been so in love with him as you are in this moment. You burst into tears, your face wet as Joel kisses you.

"You're amazing," Joel whispers against your mouth. "Fucking amazing."

The nurse brings over a pink faced infant with a shock of dark brown hair. She is pink all over and her little face is scrunched up as she wails. You take her into your arms, marveling at how you and Joel made the little creature you're now holding. She's so warm and she smells so good.

You glance over at Joel, recalling all the nights spent with his hand curving over your belly, murmuring soft sweet things to your daughter as she grew there. You think of when you both sang together, your hand carding through his hair and his eyes on you. You remember how on the days she felt really jumpy, all it would take is Joel singing a few bars from a song and she would quiet right down.

Now Joel's finger goes to trace the slope of her tiny nose and you smile as she quiets down, grunting. Seems he has a soothing effect on her outside the womb as well.

"She's so fucking perfect."

"Hopefully she doesn't swear as much as her parents," Joel says as he presses his lips to your temple.

You giggle at that, pulling her back so you can see your daughter's sweet face. The wailing has subsided and she gives little grunts as she tries to open her eyes.

"Hi Ellie," you coo. "We're your parents."

/////

Four years after your first meeting, Joel Miller sits across from you in the very booth you had your disastrous blind date on. It's become a sort of tongue in cheek tradition, to have you all back to where it began.

Only this booth is far more crowded than it ever was then. A very pregnant Maria slides in next to you, looking every bit the beautiful goddess she always does. Tommy and their son slip into the opposite side beside Joel, saying their hellos.

"They're so cute," Maria coos as she watches Sarah give Ellie a toy to play with before going back to her puzzle book.

"Sarah loves being a big sister," you smile softly.

"Tell that to Jackson would you?" Maria says rolling her eyes at her eldest child who is obsessed with his game boy. "He seems to think that this new baby means the beginning of the end."

"He's been an only child for so long he doesn't want to share you," you insist. But you can't help but feel secretly lucky that your daughter's had an immediate connection.

Even when pregnant, Sarah had talked to the baby in your belly, she'd even helped pick out her sisters name. At this moment Sarah is curled up next to you on her seat, pencil in hand and her eyes focused on her latest obsession.

Toad has been replaced by puzzle books (though you still find him under her pillow most nights) and her new favorite color is green. She's wearing green head to toe tonight including the green barrettes in her hair. She's like a slender blade of grass with wild hair and big, hazel eyes.

And while much about Sarah has changed, she still smiles when you and her father kiss, she still wows you with knowledge beyond her years and she still plays with the ends of your hair when she's anxious or distracted. Oh and she still loves you to death.

You sling an arm around her, your eyes on the menu before traveling up to watch Joel across from you. He's looking at Ellie in her booster seat next to him, babbling incoherently as most toddlers do.

Ellie is a daddy's girl though and through, obsessed with Joel the minute she laid eyes on him. It's now to the point where if she starts crying most mornings you simply glance his way. He always gives a grumpy frown before you see the smile peeking through as he goes to retrieve her from her crib.

He's smiling broadly at her now, his finger tracing down her nose as she gurgles. Something he’s done since she was born. There's something about seeing Joel Miller, all broad shoulders and inherent masculinity, being so soft that makes you love him harder.

Sometimes when you're watching him play with your daughters or watching him cook you all dinner, you feel this overwhelming love for Joel that's almost incapacitating.

He seems to sense your gaze because his eyes travel over to you. He gives you a playful wink.

"You look great tonight," Joel says with eyes that linger on your décolletage.

"Thanks," you say taking an equally appreciative look at your husband. "You clean up pretty well yourself."

More than pretty well. Joel Miller is, as Frank had once told you, sex on legs, and you have to agree with the assessment. His linen shirt is rolled to the elbows, showing off his muscled forearms. His hair is brushed back from his face and he's wearing his glasses as he reads the menu. (Something he only does when desperate as you’d found out when living with him).

Joel wets his lower lip without thinking, his eyes drifting back down the front of your dress. Maria and Tommy are helping Jackson decide on what to order for dinner, distracted from your end of the table.

"You keep looking at me like that, Miller and we're gonna wind up with another kid," you murmur with a smirk, knowing Sarah's not paying attention.

"I'm not opposed to that," Joel says, his gaze heated.

"That's because you don't have to carry or pop them out," you reply with a good-natured roll of your eyes. "Just get to do the fun part."

Joel grins as you tilt over the table to fix the bow in Ellie's hair that your mother sent you. Ellie gurgles happily at you, smacking her tiny fists on the table. Joel takes this as an opportunity to not very covertly ogle your chest.

"Joel," you hiss, even though a smile is breaking out over your features. Joel tries to look innocently up at you, brows raised.

“Yeah baby?”

You want to be irritated, but he knows very well you love it.

"I don't know this one, Mama," Sarah says pointing to something on the page in her puzzle book. She's normally very independent so you know she must be really stuck. You glance over at the crossword clue.

"A six lettered spore producer," you read aloud and think for a moment. "Fungus?"

"That fits," Sarah enthuses, her pencil writing hurriedly.

"Speaking of which, I'll have the mushroom ravioli," you say as your server comes to take your order. Joel orders his chicken penne and Sarah's spaghetti and then his hand comes to fall on yours as the server takes the rest of the orders for the table.

His hand is heavy and warm, but that's nothing compared to the warmth of his eyes. It's the kind of look you associate with deep thinking, his "dreamy stare" as you've coined it.

"What are you thinking about, Miller?'

"Just that I never thought I'd be married to the same woman who screamed at me in the parking lot of this very restaurant."

You giggle behind your wineglass, watching Joel's eyes go soft.

"Or how happy I'd be."

He brings your hand up to his mouth, kissing gently. He holds you there, watching as you stare back at him with eyes so full of love you're shocked Cupid himself hasn't come to give you his job.

You begin to smirk when Joel's dark eyes drop to your chest and then dart back to your face.

"I was also thinking about how three is a very nice number. . ."

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foursaints · 7 days

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“I don’t care what [Barty] says, Dumbledore’s not stupid”: On Barty as Machiavel

i think we're all forgetting the moment where harry explicitly draws a parallel between barty & remus and i wrote the world’s longest post about it

under a close reading, moody!barty operates in a manner that is SO distinct from canon!moody, and i think it’s made especially apparent in the way he interacts with students & the virtues he emphasizes in his lessons. even when disguised, barty has a machiavellian tendency that comes through consistently in several different moments.

i think this quote is a weaker example, but “very tactful” is NOT something that would be used to describe canon!moody under any circumstances. c!moody’s lack of social tact is a known characteristic, and barty uses his tactless reputation to get away with his machinations (see: the dustbin excuse, breaking into snape’s office, even the ferret to an extent).

on the other hand, BARTY is clever and subtle and manipulative, and we see this coming through in how he handles neville. the biggest difference between him and c!moody is the way that barty!moody tends to openly value or praise Cleverness & Craftiness above more moody-ish virtues like bravery, loyalty, or Taking Care of His Students’ Safety… but i think the most interesting part of all this is the way that harry reacts to it.

the hp books notoriously do this clumsy thing where the morality is starkly Black/White (as ursula leguin rightfully criticized). but seemingly arbitrary categories like “gryffindor” or “slytherin” are also conflated with this strict Good/Evil dichotomy. which results in these random-ass traits like “brave 😎🦁” and “cunning 💀🐍” also taking on moral associations within the world of the text (jkr has also done this with physical traits & racial stereotypes, which is vile)

but an overarching theme in hp is harry grappling with this dumbass in-world black/white morality & unlearning part of it (ex: snape, the epilogue w albus severus about slytherin). but i think it’s sooo interesting that one of the few characters (aside from snape & dumbledore) to demonstrate & valorize a machiavellian tendency AND be admired for it (by harry) is LITERALLY barty jr.

like! barty’s tact is not a good thing in-canon! he uses his tact to get away with murder & torture & elaborate terrorist plots (he’s part of a group of death eaters described as having "managed to talk their way out of azkaban” p. 527) but i looove that the same trait which allows him to do all sorts of Dastardly Evil is cast as positive and remus-like in this moment. obviously i don’t think jkr was doing of this on purpose, but i love how these little things are unintentionally more compelling than whatever the hell she was trying to do with snape. and it goes deeper!!

this moment is especially telling of barty’s character, to me. subbing out the names, “I don’t care what [Barty] says… Dumbledore’s not stupid” is a CRAZY line.

it’s lowkey THE barty!moody thesis in comparison to c!moody: nothing we’ve seen from c!moody would even remotely suggest that he’d EVER imply that dumbledore is stupid. (c!moody adopts the “it’s imperative that we blindly trust dd’s mysterious plans” attitude that most of the adults in harry’s life take, that hermione re-emphasizes here). but barty’s attitude is something that harry heavily fucks with in this moment!!

that’s all i really have to say about The Implications or whatever. but i want to call more attention to moments in canon where barty’s tendencies shine through his disguise because (unlike most marauders characters) his personality is really fleshed-out. especially this aspect of it. my silly

i. "mind works the right way, granger"

barty speaking about dumbledore like he’s stupid (💀) is enjoyable for several reasons up to & including how big-dicked it is of him, but most importantly i think it’s symptomatic of an overarching theme of his character. in GOF, barty has a tendency to take stock of the people around him, according to what appears to be a really concrete & consistent set of internal values: he values cleverness matched with a certain degree of ruthlessness.

this bit with hermione is fun. there are about ~6-7 other instances where he praises cleverness, but that’s not really a unique or noteworthy thing to value? but the phrasing in this quote is my favorite. i know that it’s in reference to the skillset required of an auror, but the phrasing of “mind works the right way” can be applied to so much of barty’s character if you reach hard. i love that barty’s language almost casts the mind as something rote & mechanical which can function right or wrong.

but anyway it only becomes interesting when placed in context of THIS earlier interaction:

there are endless ways barty could have gone about guiding harry to use his firebolt here, so his specific phrasing holds a lot of weight to me. (keep in mind: he’s prompting harry to feel that he came up with the firebolt/accio idea, but this whole plan was concocted by barty himself much earlier. he’s on the “convince harry to do my broomstick dragon thing” step of his overarching scheme)

in a sense, by “inspiring” harry to do what HE already independently decided was best, he’s sort of… giving away his own reasoning, a little? the italicized emphasis on enabling oneself to “get what you need” feels… unnecessary, in context? i love that THAT is where emphasis slips into his voice because it betrays his values.

barty’s Revenge Scheme is insanely fucking convoluted, but at every stage i think that logic is there. in his villain monologue where he rehashes the deranged level of micro-managing he was doing to get harry to resurrect voldemort, at every individual step he was following his own advice. to barty, sometimes murder is just the Simplest Spell to Get What He Needs.

according his own advice, barty sees the clearest path between two points, and generally has 0 ethical qualms about closing that distance by the Simplest means possible. he later confirms this by describing harry’s morality introducing complications as “contend[ing] with [his] stupidity” (676)

ii. “good boy,” growled [barty]. “i can make good use of this…”

the scene where barty acquires the marauders map is CRAZYY.. for a moment, barty is so excited & taken aback that we see a few of his genuine reactions. i love that absolutely nothing manages to faze him EXCEPT genuine delighted shock over an interesting new tool he can implement in his schemes. (sidenote: he probably recognized the marauders’ nicknames, which is so funny)

that fact that we have a canonical barty crouch jr “good boy” makes me claw at the walls. anyway. i feel that i don’t need to explain how “i can make good use of this… this might be exactly what i’ve been looking for” supports characterization of barty as a scheming little machiavel because it’s pretty much explicitly stated right there.

but this quote stands out for his genuine preoccupation with it. from the instant that barty sees the map, his eyes don’t leave it— his eye “whizzed over [it’s] surface” (491), he questions harry about how his name appeared when he searched snape’s office (”’Crouch,’ he said. ‘You’re— you’re sure, Potter?’” (491))— all while harry is sinking into a trick staircase & getting concerned that moody is ignoring him.

“penetrating glare” ← top barty rights!

the image of him getting new information, questioning harry about it tactfully, and then spending A FULL MINUTE silently integrating it, is one of my favorite instances of him in the book… it’s like you can hear the gears in his head whirring. i like that we can see this type of assessment that he does extends to other people, when he turns it on harry and “size[s] him up”.

AND ALL OF THIS IS WITHOUT EVEN GETTING INTO WHAT HIS LESSONS WERE LIKE

this post is long enough as it is! but all that’s left to say is that barty will always be at his most interesting when you pay attention to canon… there’s another longpost that could be written about barty!moody’s differences in disposition. the jokes he cracks, his relative lightness, and the sheer number of times he was openly like “FUCK the law i do what i want” (while literally masquerading as a literal wizard cop) are so intriguing. but that’s for another time

#t #barty meta tag #this is genuinely mental illness at this point but writing these brings me. so much delight #im not even making an argument at this stage i’m just going through gof with a fine comb for Barty Moments That Fuck

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galedekarios · 6 months

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gale, elminster & mystra: new infos from the epilogue and how they tie in with what we know from the base game

so i was mulling over bits and pieces of new information we got from the epilogue, connecting it to the stuff we already knew:

1. gale's story of how mystra came into his life in the full release

gale jumping from from "i'm what one might call a wizard prodigy, who from an early age could not only control the weave, but compose it" to "such was my skill that it earned me the attention of the mother of magic herself" to then the teacher, muse and lover dynamic.

and from early access:

Player: What did Mystra’s attention feel like? Gale: Love. Player: He sounds like a very talented individual Gale: He was. Even though it was in Mystra’s affections that his true power lay. Player: Teacher’s pet, was he? Gale: He fancied himself much more than that. He fancied himself favoured above all others. Perhaps it was not quite love, but you see, the wizard was but a very young man. It was most certainly love to him. Mystra showed him the secrets behind the veils. The gossamer veils first, draped across the Weave. The delicate veils next, draped across her body. ‘Chosen One’ she whispered, as she slipped them off completely.

2. elminster's new letter from the epilogue

we knew before that elminster must have come into his life early-ish as well from this convo:

"While most know Elminster the legend, few know him as you have. He plucked you from obscurity. Offered you his guidance. His faith."

we also know that gale got to attend blackstaff academy.

now, with the new letters from the epilogue, we know that elminster met him at eight years old:

elminster coming into his when gale was just "eight summers old", gale's talents being as they were from "an early age", mystra involving herself in his life.

perhaps those two events happening are connected: the chosen of mystra. plucking him from obscurity. taking him under his wing.

perhaps on the guidance of someone? someone very clever? someone who'd later use said mentor to also deliver a message that needed to be conveyed with the utmost severity of her bidding?

someone who'd involve herself in gale's life, too? someone who needs his ambitions to be laid to rest because of a future she glimpsed at?

3. raphael's new epilogue lines if gale fails his ascension:

Raphael: I owe you a debt of gratitude. You were the spark of ambition that rekindled Gale's ambitions, after Mystra had so cleverly put them to rest.

i'm thinking thoughts not only about "cleverly", implying some sort of scheming here or manipulation.

a goddess involving her chosen, to oversee a child, so full of promise and ambition -

(a relationship forming between elminster and gale, which even by the point we see them interact in the game, speaks of the care and love they hold for each other) -

before she too involves herself: becomes his mentor, teacher, and he becomes her chosen.

making gale her chosen as a form of control, so he perhaps would not oppose her, like, for instance, even elminster is hardly capable of.

but not only did she make him her chosen, in the same breath, she made him her lover.

we know she very much is capable of using her chosen for her needs.

raphael is also very directly saying that gale's "ambition" reawakened after meeting the protag. so we are talking about mystra putting them to rest before gale met the protag, so the comment couldn't possibly be about his character arc during the game.

i already touched on this a bit earlier but:

4. we also know that mystra has foresight, being able to predict the future to some sort of degree:

History of the Chosen of Mystra: The reason why Mystra, the Goddess of Magic, invested a portion of her divine might into mortals is not known. One of the popular theories, and one that is gaining more support in light of the other goddess' during that period, is that Mystra foresaw the Time of Troubles (and her own passing at the hands of Helm) and chose to give some of her powers to mortals in order to ensure that her successor (the female mage, Midnight, as it turned out) would have a number of nearly immortal allies in the struggle against the schemes of the gods (the now dead Bane, Myrkul and Bhaal) who precipitated the Time of Troubles by stealing the Tablets of Fate.

(again, i want to reiterate that larian doesn't keep close to the dnd timeline at times, and has quite a few lore mistakes and even breaks. i know mystra was 'dead' around the time gale would have been that young. take it up with larian, please. i'm only trying to extrapolate from the things we are told in the game and the narrative in it.)

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #elminster aumar #mystra #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 meta #ch: gale dekarios #ch: elminster aumar #ch: mystra #vg: baldur's gate 3 #series: baldur's gate #meta: mybg3 #bg3 spoilers #bg3 patch 5 spoilers #grooming cw

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helen-with-an-a · 2 months

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The Object that stood in the way of a World Cup pt. 5

Hi. So here is the last part of the official story, but I do want to do another part of some cute moments and things like that. Also thanks to @lyak12 for the big sister moments with Lucy ahaha. <3

Ona Batlle x Reader

Part 1 : Part 2 : Part 3 : Part 4 : Part 5 : Epilogue

Flashbacks are in italics

TW: Suggestiveness

Description: R returns to playing football

Word Count: 3.7k

You didn’t have to send the letter. But you did. Sort of. You left in her cubby for her to see after practice. It was the last day before your first match back. It was the last match of the domestic league and you had been promised at least the final 10 minutes. Was it the best timing for something of that magnitude? Probably not. But you needed her to know how you felt before the summer breaks began, and she went off the Olympics.

You hadn’t been ignoring Ona like you were at the beginning of the season, but you weren’t friends either. You still remained in your separate friend groups, but you didn’t avoid her like the plague, and she had gradually left her little corner of the gym during sessions. You were still in love with her. That much was definite – you often stared at her during matches, allowing yourself to reminisce over your memories. But you wanted to do it properly, with full communication and honest answers. You decided that the letter was an olive branch; she could do with it as she pleased.

She could ignore it. That would hurt, but you would endure it.

She could acknowledge but reject you. That would be painful but survivable.

She could accept it. That thought made your heart happy.

Since That Day with Lucy and the time away to repair yourself, everyone could see how much better you were doing. You were laughing again, smiling brightly as Patri joked around, giggling at Pina for tripping over the cones, chatting softly to Esmee or chasing after Mapi as Ingrid shook her head. Lucy was happy that the bubbly girl she considered a little sister was returning.

That Day, she had taken you to her house and laid you in bed. You were exhausted – mentally, emotionally, physically – and so fragile. She couldn’t remember a time when she had seen you so small. She had called Keira; she was frightened by your outburst, disturbed by what you had told her and saddened to think you thought you couldn’t talk to her. Keira had done an excellent job in calming her - promising it wasn’t her fault and that she was there for you now, and that’s all that mattered. The pair had set up the guest bedroom for you to stay in as you got ready to go back to England. They had given the heads up to the Lionesses that you would be coming home for a while – Leah got the full story, but everyone was told that you weren’t doing ok and needed more support than they could give you at Barcelona.

Ona was also taking the months to heal. She was talking to a therapist that helped her regulate her emotions, particularly when she was scared. You could see the change. It was nothing drastic, nothing too noticeable, but you knew. She was working on herself, and that was all that you wanted. You still watched all of her games for Spain. You had promised her you would always support her, and you always would. You hadn’t watched the matches in person, but they were always on your TV – sometimes favouring watching her matches over the Lionesses.

“Ugh, I don’t want to go,” Ona complained as you packed her suitcase for her. She was lying on your bed with just a big T-shirt on. It was one of your old England training tops.

“Because of what happened last time?” You knew bringing it up was a risk, but you couldn’t help yourself. You wanted to protect her from everything bad in the world.

“I mean, yes, there’s that, but …” She looked a little embarrassed as she turned her head away from you. You reached over and gently grabbed her chin, forcing her to look you in the eye.

“But?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Te voy a extrañar.” You heart softened at her confession.

“Oni,” you cooed as you flopped on top of her. I’m going to miss you too—so much. But I will still be supporting you. I promise.” You littered kisses over her face, ignoring her squeals and laughter telling you to get off

“You’re playing on the 7th, right?” You breathed into her ear as you gently bit her earlobe

“Sí” She all but moaned out.

“Well, my match is on the 6th,” you drifted over to the other side of her neck. “So, I will be watching your game; I’ll always watch your games. Forever and ever.” You drifted down her body, pushing her t-shirt up as you went.

“Si us plau, fot-me,” she begged.

“I don’t speak Catalan, Oni.” You reminded her as you tugged off her shirt.

80 minutes into the last game of the season, your number flashed green on the screen held up by the 4th Official. This was it. All your hard work had finally paid off. Marta ran over to you and smacked your awaiting hands, using them to pull you into a brief hug. “Vamos, chica,” She whispered in your ear. You ran onto the pitch as the crowd clapped and cheered for you. You looked to where you knew some of the Lionesses sat; they had made the trip over to Spain to watch your debut. You knew it was in your mind, but you would swear on your life that their cheers were the loudest. This was your happy place, finally back on the pitch. You felt the final pieces of tension melt away. You were finally home. All the emotions of the past 18 months were forgotten. The heartbreak, heartache, anger, fear, and frustration were all gone in a moment as the ball fell to your feet. You always felt the most at peace on the pitch.

“Ok, listen up.” It was media day for United, something you had mixed feelings over. You always liked the video side of media day, but you hated the photos – you always felt so awkward doing them. “On videos, we have Toone and Russo, and Blundell and Galton. On photos, we have Ladd, Zelem, and Parris. On interviews, we have Turner and Williams, Batlle and Y/S/N …” You stopped listening. Thank god you didn’t have to do photos straight away. And you were with Oni – sure, it would fuel the flame about whatever you were for the fans. But you were with Oni.

“Vamos, amor. We’ve got an interview to do.” Ona tangled her fingers with yours and pulled you over to the interview station.

“It’s pretty simple, introduce yourself, then just read the cards and answer them. We’re already rolling, so just start whenever you’re ready.” A man said from behind the camera. You looked at Ona for confirmation before introducing yourself. It was simple. The questions were nothing you hadn’t seen or answered before.

“Ok, amor, what is your happy place?” Ona read from the card.

“Hmm … lemme think ... um, is it cliché to say the football pitch?” You laughed, looking at Ona as she rested her head on your shoulder, groaning at your answer. “What? It is. It’s always been the place that calms me down. I don’t really get nervous on the pitch either, even for important games. Beforehand, I’ll be absolutely bricking it, but on the pitch … cool as a cucumber.”

“Bricking … it?” Your phrasing confused her. You always forget that she was speaking her non-native language; she was so fluent in English now.

“Oh, um … nervous, I guess? Oni, you know how I get before games, especially the big ones, but I'm absolutely fine once that whistle goes.”

“I do know how nervous you get. Do you remember our game at the Arnold Clark Cup? You were so nervous. Leah had to come get me before the match.” She smiled teasingly at you.

“Stop,” you whined. You said you’d take that to the grave.” You didn’t like people knowing how panicky you could get. You also didn't particularly want to spill how Ona had gotten you to calm down —she had kissed you—long and hard and deep. It had calmed you down instantly.

They say that history repeats itself, and you think they might be onto something. Your team was finishing the domestic season in typical Barca fashion. You were 8-0 up with 10 minutes still to play. You set a pass to Lucy as you began to push forward. It was a perfect cross back from Ona as you entered the penalty area. You controlled it with your chest to the ground. You swung your leg back. This time, there was no clash of studs. No horrific pain. No blood. This time, you released the ball into the back of the net.

You didn’t care what you looked like as you ran around like a headless chicken. You may have looked silly celebrating this hard for the ninth goal of the game, but you didn’t care. You were back. You leapt onto Ona, legs wrapping around her waist as her arms came to support you under your thighs.

“Estás de Vuelta, amor,” she shouted. With that response alone, you knew she had read the letter.

“I’m back, Oni,” you laughed as she put you down and straight into the arms of Lucy and the rest of the team.

The match ended 9-0. The match had been won long before that, but everyone assured you you got the winner. Medals were handed out as you cheered with the rest of the squad, music blasted, and shouts were heard from all around. You didn’t bother looking for your parents; you knew they weren’t there. But you did see the smiling faces of Alessia, Ella and Leah, with Mary and Georgia on Facetime. After promises to find them later you found a relatively quiet corner in the tunnel and allowed yourself to fully process your feelings. Elation. Happiness. Love. Everything was so different compared to this time last year.

Someone cleared their throat, drawing your attention to them. It was Ona. “Um … can we talk?”

“Yeh, yeh. Do you want to sit?” You gestured to the floor against the wall. You both got comfortable and sat for a few heartbeats.

“Felicidades … your goal, it was beautiful.” She was clearly a little awkward.

“Oni, the letter –” you started

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry for what I did to you. I was looking for a fight. I was terrified you’d leave me behind. And I was jealous Barca wanted you. There will never be a day where I don’t regret what I did to you, and I hate myself for it. For hurting you so badly. You didn’t deserve any of what happened. I was a raging bitch, and I was so awful to you, and -” She gushed out.

“Oni, stop,” you said gently. "It’s ok. I forgive you. You need to start forgiving yourself, too.” You rested your head on her shoulder. You did forgive her. She had done a horrible thing, but she wasn’t a horrible person. She leaned her head on top of yours, enjoying the closeness she had craved for so long.

“Did you mean it?” she said after a long pause. Her voice was fearful that you might reject her—which was perfectly within your rights, she reminded herself. “That you’re still in love with me?”

“Yes. I am still absolutely head-over-heels in love with you. I never stopped," you answered honestly. "But if we are to try again, we’re going to need to be friends first. So, I’m reintroducing myself to you.” You stuck out your hand. “Hola, I’m Y/N," you repeated the words you said to her so long ago back in Manchester when you first met.

“Hola, soy Ona.” She laughed as she shook your hand, letting it linger for longer than she should have. Her hand was warm, rough, soft, and perfect.

"Got any nicknames?" Her lips split into that beautiful wide grin. Your smile matched hers.

“Um, hola.” You said as you stood in front of her cubby.

“Hola?” She was sceptical of you. Not many people had made an effort to talk to her, let alone talk to her in Spanish. It was the end of her third day at United, and she was homesick and terrified about whether she had done the right thing.

“So, I overheard you in the lunchroom earlier about Spanish food being so different from English food, and I was going to make paella for my tea tonight anyways, so I was wondering if you wanted to come round? I can’t promise it will be any good; the recipe I’m supposed to be following says it's ‘Spanish Rice’, not even paella, but … yeh.” God, you were so awkward; you hadn’t even let her answer the question. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. You probably have plans. So … anyways … I’m gonna now,” you went to turn around before her fingers caught your wrist.

“You didn’t let me answer” She smiled. Your heart fluttered in a strange way. Were you having a heart attack because a pretty girl smiled at you?

“What is tea? I thought it was a drink.” She asked. Oh, god – that voice. You thought you had died and gone to heaven.

“Tea? … oh, yeh. Sorry, I forgot I’m northern,” you laughed. “It’s how you say dinner if you’re northern. Um, I think it’s ‘cena’ in Spanish?”

“Ah, sí, sí. Yes, I shall come for tea.” She giggled. You knew you had just fallen in love right then and there.

Ona was slightly nervous as she knocked on your flat door. A pretty girl had asked her to come round. She wasn’t used to this; she was usually confident, always knowing who and what she wanted. But you had surprised her with your gentle smile, quick ramblings, and soft laugh; you had stolen her heart and didn’t even know it.

“Hey, sorry to leave you hanging.” You said as you answered the door. Your expression confused her, but she ignored it as you ushered her into your flat. It was exactly how she expected, a perfect physical representation of you. She never wanted to leave.

“Ok, so I’ve already cooked it, so it’s ready when you are, really. I don’t particularly like seafood, so it’s chicken and chorizo. I know that Barcelona is famous for its seafood. And there are peppers and peas in there, too. I hope that’s okay,” you said as you gestured for her to sit at the table.

“Sounds deliciosa,” she commented, looking around. Your flat was clean, neat, and tidy, but not to the point that it looked like no one lived there. You had a lot of pictures of friends dotted around, but it didn’t seem like many of your family. You clearly took pride in your home. Ona could respect that. She always thought that you could tell a lot about someone based on how they decorate and treat a space.

“Here you go,” you said as you handed her a bowl of steaming rice. “So … this might come across as rude or something, and I really don’t want that, but … um, how do I ask this? How, um … howdoyousayyourname?” You said it so quickly it was a blur. Ona clearly didn’t understand you.

“Qué?”

“Um … how do you say your last name?” You asked sheepishly. “I want to get it right. It’s important to me that I say people’s names right,” you explained. Her heart melted at your kind gesture.

“Oh, um, it’s like bat-jyay.”

“Batlle,” you said slowly. “Batlle,” you said quicker, reassurance in her accompanying smile.

“Cool … now that that’s out of the way, do you have any nicknames or anything?” It was clear to Ona that you were trying to get her to feel more comfortable around you.

“Um … not really. It’s common in Spain to add 'ita' at the end of words, so sometimes Onita? Or Oni, I guess?”

“Oni, I like it.” The nickname rolled off your tongue so effortlessly that Ona swooned.

“What about you, any nicknames?”

“Oh, no, not really. I mean beyond the standard English love, or darling, or pet, or duck or anything really,” you laughed.

“Well, I won’t call you love. But I will call your amor, sí?” Your heart was doing backflips as you looked down at the table, hiding your blush.

The summer that followed was unforgettable. You hadn’t had a summer off since … you couldn’t remember when. You and Ona had used the few weeks before she left for camp to reacquaint yourself. There were lots of laughs shared over coffees and slightly too-long hugs. It was easy to fall back in love with her and rediscover your dynamic.

You didn’t go to Paris, no matter how much you wanted to see her. You watched every game, though, sending her a steady stream of your consciousness through text. You knew she couldn’t see them when she was playing, but you wanted her to know you supported her like you had promised to do all those years ago. Ona adored the fact that she would look at her phone after the match to hundreds of messages, reading every one as she chuckled at your play-by-play.

She didn’t attend preseason, but you did, obviously. You used the time to add the final touches to your new style of play. You were ready to prove to the world that you were back and better than ever. You had seen some comments on social media speculating about your return. But you knew you were ready. When Ona returned, you lingered behind the group who swarmed the Olympians. She had quickly extricated herself and came to join you. “Congratulations, Oni. I’m very proud of you,” You said as you hugged her tightly, dropping a series of light kisses on her head.

The final Friday before the season officially started was full of drinks and laughter. You had one final blowout before settling in for the next season, and naturally, you ended up at Manuela’s.

“You did good, kid,” Lucy said as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders. You were at the bar, sipping on a fruity drink.

“Thanks, Luce. For everything. I know I didn’t exactly make it easy on you, but …”

“Hey, no, don’t do that. You were in a bad place. I didn’t do it because I needed to; I did it because I wanted to. You’re like my little sister. I love you more than I love my actual little sister.” She promised you.

“I know, but still. Thank you. I appreciate you, truly.” You rested your head against her shoulder as she squeezed you gently.

“Y/N,” Someone called for your attention. It was an incredibly drunk Patri. “Ven a bailar, chica.” You made your way over to the group; almost everyone was incredibly drunk; even Alexia had the tell-tale flush on her cheeks, but that could have been more to do with Olga dancing in front of her than the alcohol. The only people that you think weren’t drunk were you and Ona.

“You’re not drinking?” You asked as she came to stand next to you.

“Not really, don’t want to be hungover tomorrow,” she answered. “What about you?”

“Same. This is probably the only drink I’ll have.” Your therapist had advised you to stay away from drinking as much as possible, telling you that it could affect you in negative ways. You didn’t really mind; you liked being able to remember everyone’s drunk antics. It was useful for blackmail purposes, and at least one other person remained sober during nights out anyway.

You spent the night splitting yourself between the dancefloor with Patri and Pina, the booth with Ingrid and Mapi, or the table Marta and Caroline had claimed. It was fun, but you forgot how hot Barcelona nights out could be, even in the late summer, when the temperature rarely dipped below mid-teens. It was hot and loud, and sweaty. To escape, you pushed your way outside, taking deep breaths of the fresh night air.

“Esta todo bien, amor?” It was Ona.

“Always so concerned, Oni.” You laughed.

“Lo siento. It’s just, I saw you leave … and I wanted to check on you and …” She was starting to panic, thinking she was overstepping a boundary.

“Hey, Oni. It’s ok. I like that you're so concerned about me.” You reached for her hand, holding it tightly to reassure her. “I keep forgetting how hot Barcelona can be,” you explained. "I’m still not used to it.” She laughed lightly.

“You’ll have to get used to it. I don’t want you to leave Barcelona” she trailed off, “because of the weather” she added quickly.

“I don’t want to leave Barcelona either … especially because of the weather,” you teased.

“Callate,” She groaned as you tugged her closer, arm going around her shoulder as hers came around your waist. “I like your outfit.” She murmured as she played with the lace on the bottom of your bralette. “It’s the same one you wore in Manchester the first time we…” she whispered, trailing off again. You knew exactly what she was referring to.

“Do you want to go dance?” You asked after a few minutes of soaking up her closeness.

“Sí, vamos.” She led you back to the dancefloor, her back coming against your front as you held her close. It felt like the most normal thing to press your body closer. It felt right as she turned around to face you, her arms looping around your neck. It felt normal as your eyes flicked from hers to her lips and back again. The way your heart pounded felt nice when she stepped even closer, somehow managing to pull herself even more against you. Like always, the way the world slid sideways as your lips pressed against hers. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“Vull això. ens vull. Si us plau, porta'm a casa.”

“I still don’t speak Catalan, Oni.”

Yeh, so that's the end of the proper story, but I want to do an epilogue/final chapter thing about cute moments between R and Ona and stuff. So, yeh. I hope you enjoyed it.

#woso #woso community #woso x reader #ona batlle #ona batlle x reader #woso imagine #woso blurbs #woso soccer #woso oneshot #barca femeni #barca femeni x reader #fc barcelona #manchester united #man utd #man utd women #lucy bronze #lionesses #lionesses x reader #woso fanfics

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starbylers · 8 months

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“Will can move on and find someone else” do people not understand that this is a TV show? Of course if this were real life, there would be opportunity for Will to move on and be happy without dating Mike. But Will is a character. And the story has been set up in such a way that for Will, in the canon timeline of the show, it’s Mike or no-one. It’s Mike or rushed, under-developed, last minute/epilogue love interest. Will is in love with Mike specifically for a reason, and that was a storyline built up over years. He is not getting a fulfilling romance with some never-seen-before guy in the jam-packed finale season of the show. It’s Byler or they made a calculated decision to have the only gay main character, who is shown to be more painfully in love than any other person on that show, suffer gut-wrenching heartbreak and for what? When every other character has gotten a multi-season reciprocal romance plot.

Season 5 is the last chance they’ve got to offer him satisfying payoff for all that he’s been through, and of all characters, Will is the absolute last one who needs a “sometimes things don’t turn out the way you wanted but you'll be okay” message to conclude his story because he’s never gotten what he wants. His existence on this show has been traumatic event after traumatic event. They’ve set Mike up as the one thing Will loves and wants more than anything, and denying him that after all that he’s been through is unnecessarily cruel storytelling. (Obviously this is not at all to say that Mike is some sort of prize for Will, Byler perfectly intertwines with and completes Mike's individual character arc too, which is why it should and will (fingers crossed) happen).

Some guy called Will didn’t just randomly fall in love with his best friend and "oh it’s completely fine if Mike rejects him because there’s someone out there who’ll be right for him"—writers put him in this situation! Writers actively chose to double down on his “unrequited” feelings in the penultimate season! Writers put him through hell, physically and emotionally, and specifically relating to his sexuality. Then they slowly but surely revealed that he is pining for this one thing, this person that brings him strength and inspiration and hope, and people think him being told no that kind of happiness is not for you sorry kid, but hey at least your loved ones don't hate you for being gay, who could’ve predicted that? If you're lucky we’ll even let you smile at random cute guy in the epilogue! is acceptable let alone good storytelling? Will deserves better than a “there’s vague happiness in his future” ending, and we should absolutely expect better.

#byler #I've been trying to word this right for a couple of days #just my absolute least favourite anti take

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chestharrington · 26 days

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Infatuation || Gator Tillman x Reader

Part One: Fixation

Rating: E (18+)

Word Count: 7.9k

Warnings: SMUT (f!masturbation, fingering, unprotected p in v), mild/implied stalking, abuse of power, brief non-sexual choking, harassment, slut shaming, misogyny, unplanned pregnancy, implied/referenced abortion, unhappy/ambiguous ending

Summary: As you face the consequences of your unsatisfying encounter with Gator, he finds new ways to worm his way into your life, for better or worse.

A/N: Here is the highly requested part two :) Thanks for all the love, and I hope you enjoy! This can be read as a finale of sorts to this story, but if there is interest I can write a "wrap up" epilogue :) Anyways, enjoy!

As it turns out, Gator Tillman beating the guy you were dancing on within an inch of his life wasn’t exactly good for your career. And the fact that you had technically stolen that guy’s money was the shit icing on the shit cake.

The club was crowded, maybe more so than you were used to, but you couldn’t find a single patron who wanted you for a dance, or a private dance, or even a second of eye contact.

And, really, you should have seen it coming just based on the general trajectory of your life, but by the end of the night, you were fired. Apparently, that stint with the realtor and Gator had harmed the stellar reputation of the business. That was bullshit anyway. Like, four people had OD’d in the bathrooms, and plenty of old guys had heart attacks on the floor.

The problem wasn’t that the realtor got the shit beat out of him. No, plenty of guys came in, got drunk, and wanted to prove how tough they were. The problem was Gator, but, more than that, it was a fear of the Tillman’s getting too close.

You left the club with maybe thirty dollars in tips and a box full of your shit, which you unceremoniously dumped into the trunk of your car. It was past five in the morning, which meant the sun would start creeping over the horizon soon enough.

As you drove back into town, you couldn’t help but pull over at the twenty-four-hour diner. The homey interior glowed through the windows like a siren song to weary travelers. It always smelled like coffee and grease, and there were always oldies playing on the jukebox. You sat down in a booth and practically melted into the seat.

The older woman taking your order seemed nice enough, though there wasn’t anything about working at the asscrack of dawn that brought a smile to anyone’s face.

“Does Sarah still work here?” You asked, glancing back behind the counter.

“Quit.”

Well, there was that. Your ex-husband’s skanky mistress wouldn’t be showing her face to ruin your night (or, technically, your day) even further.

There was a sign on the counter— Now Hiring! Probably in Sarah’s position, if you had to wager a guess. You chewed on the inside of your lip. It wouldn’t be glamorous, but it would be a hell of a lot better than it had been at the club.

“You’re really hiring?” You eventually asked the older waitress as you nursed a cup of hot chocolate. When she brought out your meal— a big stack of pancakes and the greasiest pile of hash browns the world had ever seen— she placed an application and pen down right beside it.

They really must’ve been desperate, because you got the call the following afternoon that they’d like to interview, and even that wasn’t formal. You walked in, got a three-page employee “manual”, and that was that.

Things seemed to be getting better… at first. A new job that had significantly fewer creeps, and free food once a shift. You got to wear flat shoes and real clothes, which was also a plus. A little less money in your pocket, but it was more stable.

Occasionally, you’d get a tipper who thought it was cute to leave a fake $100 bill with a bible verse on the other side, or an old man grabbing at your tits and ass “accidentally.” Spills and messes were more frequent than you expected— and usually wound up on your apron or soaking through your shoes.

The good with the bad. You had to keep reminding yourself to take the good with the bad.

It was a few weeks of getting on your feet before Stark County’s finest walked through the doors, boisterous and loud. You hadn’t noticed, hadn’t even thought to consider that Gator might visit the town’s best source for greasy comfort food.

When you came out from the back of the diner, your eyes caught him immediately, sitting in your section. You swallowed, grabbed your order pad and a pen, and approached.

“Good mornin’, officers.” He looked up at the sound of your voice, a sly grin spreading across his features. “Do y’all know what you want, or can I run through the menu for you?”

One of the other men just snapped his fingers at you. “Coffee all around.”

You swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll get that right out.”

You heard them snickering as you left, accompanied by loud whispers of don’t you know who that is?

Gator was staring at you, maybe he had been the entire time and you just hadn’t let yourself look. “We’ve missed you at the club, sweetheart. Wanna give us a twirl for old time’s sake?” His grin was smarmy as he looked you up and down, reaching over the table to place down the mugs of coffee. Your blouse gaped open, giving him a glimpse of your cleavage and a remarkably unsexy comfy bra.

As you reached to place the last mug down, Gator slapped your ass hard, making you spill the hot coffee across the table. His little friends laughed as your face burned hot. You did your best to mop up the mess of coffee, but it wasn’t enough and the table was left sticky and gross.

“You’re not gonna get a good tip if you’re so clumsy,” one of them said with a grin, holding up a dollar bill. It felt slimy, like you were back in the club entertaining them for singles.

An hour later, you had coffee and grits spilled on you, as well as a plate accidentally knocked off the table to shatter on the floor. They laughed at you on your hands and knees, picking up pieces of the china from the black and white tiled floor. And at the end of it all, unsurprisingly, there was no tip, no thank you, no anything.

You wish you would’ve spit in their food, but there was always next time. And you knew there was gonna be a next time.

But Gator didn’t like sharing, especially not his playthings. One morning of watching his friends make your life hell had been enough, you supposed. The next time they came in, they were nothing but respectful. All yes ma’am, no ma’am, thank you ma’am. The message was clear enough. He wanted you all to himself.

After a day on your feet, all you wanted to do was watch a shitty reality show on the couch you’d stolen from your ex-husband. You smelled like the deep fryer, which made you nauseous, but you knew if you took a shower, you’d pass out shortly after.

There was a loud knock on your door that nearly made you jump out of your skin. You stood, wrapped a blanket around your shoulders, and opened the door just a crack.

“We got a tip that you might be harboring illegal contraband on the premises.” Gator was leaning against your doorframe like he owned the place, his foot carefully wedged between the door so you couldn’t slam it closed.

You grit your teeth. What bullshit. “You don’t have a search warrant, asshole.”

He gave a careless shrug. “Eh, maybe I don’t, but who fuckin’ cares about that?”

You stood firm, holding the door in place as best as you could while he pushed against it. “Gator, no. Whatever game this is, I don’t wanna play. I have a headache, and I’m exhausted, so—” He gave a firm push on the door, and your strength failed you. You fell to the side as he barreled his way in, making a beeline towards your bedroom.

The door slammed shut, followed by the click of the lock turning. With a groan, you went for the coat closet and retrieved a wire hanger that you could finagle the lock with. After a moment, the lock clicked again and you pushed your way into the room.

What the fuck? He was rifling through your dresser drawers, tossing things onto the ground at random. You doubted he was even really looking for anything in particular. Gator’s priority, above all, was to be a creepy nuisance.

“Gotta be thorough,” he said with a smarmy grin, finally recognizing your presence. “Interfere, and I’m bringing you in for obstruction.” Like the perv he was, he was digging through your panties, grabbing handfuls of lace and cotton. He continued on, throwing things onto the floor just to piss you off. After he’d successfully wrecked one dresser, he moved to the nightstand.

He smiled victoriously and dumped the contents of the drawer onto your bed. Your cheeks flamed with embarrassment at the sight of your modest collection of sex toys, right there for him to see.

“There we are. This goes against the city ordinance prohibiting the ownership of more than two personal pleasure devices,” he said matter-of-factly.

“That’s not a thing,” you argued with a scoff.

He grinned. “Oh, it is. My dad worked to codify an ordinance to fight obscenity. And Jesus Christ, sweetheart, this is obscene.” He surveyed the pile picking up the devices with amusement and a hint of disgust. “Jesus, you’re a fuckin’ fiend by the looks of it. What’s this even do?”

You grabbed at the vibrator in his hand, but he held it up above your head with a grin. “You’re a fuckin’ pervert,” You hissed.

He pressed a button and it buzzed to life, which only made his amusement grow. “You know, if you found yourself a man, you wouldn’t need any of this shit.”

You rolled your eyes at the notion. Half that stuff was collected during your marriage, not that it mattered. Jack was worse in bed than he was at being faithful. You grew to relish in the nights when he was in some other woman’s arms and you could finally find some release.

And you especially relished an opportunity to relax and relieve stress when Gator was hellbent on ruining your fucking life, which was all the time.

You crossed your arms and glared up at him. “That’s a crazy thing for you to say considering you didn’t even bother to get me off.”

He wrinkled his face in annoyance, dropping the vibrator back onto the bed. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about? You came probably, like, three times.”

You could have laughed. “Whatever. Just write the goddamn citation and leave me alone.”

“Maybe I’m concerned about you,” he said with a shrug. “I mean, if you’ve got this many sex toys, that’s some kind of perversion or somethin’. You’re sick in the head. What kind of officer would I be if I punished you for that?”

He grabbed another one off your bed, a rabbit vibrator this time, which only seemed to confuse him more. “Besides, I don’t think you can really afford the fine for breaking this law. I mean, with what you’ve got here, you’re looking at thousands.”

Anger flooded your veins. “Bullshit,” You snapped. “You’re lying.”

“I mean, you can find out tomorrow,” he replied with another stupid fucking shrug. “Or I can forget I ever saw ‘em. Up to you.”

You swallowed hard, already getting a warm, overbearing feeling in the pit of your stomach. Like your body wasn't sure if it wanted to jump his bones or kill him. “And what exactly would make you do that?”

He smiled, showing off his canines. “I mean… now I’m a little curious. Tell me how you use some of ‘em.” He waved the rabbit in his hand. “This one especially. Looks like some kind of fucked up torture device.”

You huffed with annoyance and reached up, grabbing it from his hands. “This one, I mean… this part goes in, and this part stays out.” You explained with vague gestures toward the toy. You grabbed another off the bed. “And this one is, like, just a standard, like, you know. It buzzes. And that one like, kind of thrusts a little bit. I—I don’t know what the fuck else to tell you.” Just seeing him standing there beside the toys made your brain go a little fuzzy with desire and mortification.

He stepped closer, closing the distance between the two of you. “I think I’m more of a visual learner, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low. He reached up, brushing a lock of your hair from your face, and you did your best not to lean into his touch. Why did you want that? “So why dontcha take off your clothes, lay back, and do a little show and tell, huh?”

The moment of hesitation in your brain dissolved in an instant. You wrinkled your face in disgust and shoved him back. “Ugh. Fuck that, and fuck you.”

Anger flashed across his face, only for a moment, before he masked it with his usual shithead attitude. “Oh… I get it,” he said, looking down at you. “Probably on your period with all the attitude you’re givin’ me. Forget it, I don’t even wanna see that nasty shit.”

You narrowly avoided him as he shoved past you, heading back towards the door. The scales of kiss versus kill had firmly tilted towards the latter at his last comment. Anger unlike anything you’d ever felt flooded your veins.

Without thinking, you grabbed a book off of the coffee table in the living room and threw it at him as hard as you could. It collided with the back of his head and he swore loudly.

“You’re fuckin’ crazy!” His hand went to the crown of his head and came back covered in blood. “What the fuck is wrong with you, you stupid bitch?” You grabbed another book and raised a brow in challenge. “Whatever, you’re not even worth it anyway.”

He slammed the door on his way out. The squeal of his tires as he peeled out was music to your ears.

Later, you sighed as you collapsed atop your bed, exhausted from the long process of cleaning up the disaster he’d left in your room. But despite how tired you felt physically, your mind was still racing with thoughts of Gator.

The worst person you’d ever met, who somehow still managed to light every single one of your cells aflame with need. You didn’t want to be with him, obviously. He reminded you of all the worst parts of your ex-husband. And yet… you were staring at the ceiling thinking about the next time you’d see him and all the bitchy things you could get away with saying to him.

With a huff, you reached into your bedside table and grabbed the first vibrator you could get your hands on— simple, without any bells and whistles. Whatever. You were pissed at yourself as you stripped off your pajamas, then your bra… and then your panties.

Stupid fuckin’ man. Your head fell back against your pillows as soon as the vibrator touched your clit, and you couldn’t help the whiny moan that escaped your lips. Your free hand rested on your breast, kneading softly until it wasn’t enough anymore.

Your legs spread wider, hips canting up to seek out more as you began pinching and tugging at your nipples. The plain vibe wasn’t close cutting it, even at its highest setting. All it was good for was working you up to the point of dripping with arousal and needing more.

You clicked it off and sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. Maybe he was right. Maybe you were a little sick in the head. Why else would you be thinking about him right then?

You reached back into the drawer, fumbling blindly until you retrieved the rabbit. It slid in without any resistance with how worked up you were, and you let out a contented sigh at the full feeling.

The second you turned it on, it felt like liquid electricity was dancing through your veins. The external vibrator was positioned just right, so intense that your thighs were trembling.

“Oh, fuck,” you whimpered, back arching slightly. Maybe you could’ve let him watch you. It would’ve taught the asshole what it actually looks like when a woman cums.

You could almost imagine what he’d say too— encouragements veiled with insults. Takin’ it like a fuckin’ slut, aren’t ya? Look right at home on your back like that, spread out all nice and pretty.

You thrust the toy shallowly, eyes rolling back as it brushed against your sweet spot. You could’ve really drawn it out and made an evening of it, but fuck it. You wanted to get off and go to sleep.

You held it just right, so the vibration was focused on your g-spot and clit simultaneously. It was so intense that your moans were pitchy and whiny, hips canting as you got closer and closer.

With a moan more like a sob, you came, the pleasure so intense you had to pull out the toy altogether. As soon as it was out, wetness sprayed from you, making a breathless moan slip past your lips.

Your fingers rubbed at your clit, prolonging the orgasm and making your cunt gush and leave a puddle beneath you on the sheets. When you finally came down, it was with shaky breaths as your body trembled with aftershocks.

You laughed weakly at the ridiculousness of the entire night up until that point, unable to move for a solid few minutes until the fog cleared from your mind and you reached over to turn off the toy. Your legs wobbled as you stood to clean yourself up and change the sheets.

Well, at least if you were going to get arrested for possession of obscene materials, you got the best orgasm of your life out of it. If only you hadn’t been thinking of him the entire time.

——

By noon the following day, you hadn’t received any citation, or been walked out of the diner in handcuffs for your depravity. A quick Google search proved your suspicions that the obscenity ordinance was complete bullshit. Which, you know, made sense considering the sex shop and strip clubs within county lines.

When Gator showed up in his regular booth towards the end of your shift, you did your best to ignore him. One of your coworkers brought him out his artery-clogging usual order, and you were mostly convinced that you might be able to slip out the back without even having to utter a word.

And yet… Outside, Gator was leaning on your car, fucking around with your radio antenna absentmindedly.

“Can I help you, Deputy?” You asked, arms crossed as you squinted against the sun. Your entire body was achy and you just wanted to get home.

He made a vague gesture towards the front bumper. “Headlight’s out.”

You glanced at the front of your car, which was mostly held together by zebra print duct tape and sheer force of will. “Yeah, well, some fuckin’ pervert told me I should save my money to pay for some citation he’s writing up for me.”

Gator grinned. “Oh yeah… I decided to let you off with a warning. For the assault too. My head fuckin’ hurts, you know.” You rolled your eyes, pushing him lightly so you could open your door. “Y’know, you’re being ungrateful. Why don’t you be a good girl and say, ‘Thank you, Gator.’”

You hated the way your heart raced just hearing those words coming from his mouth, but you pushed it down and pulled open the door. “Go fuck yourself, asshole.”

A smug smile spread across his lips. “That’s an interesting choice of words, isn’t it? Bet you had a real good night after I left, didn’t ya?”

He was looking at you like he knew, which he couldn’t have, but he also definitely did. You made a face as you slammed the door shut and flipped him off through the cracked and peeling window tint.

There was one bar in town that was a certified Gator-free zone. Apparently, he’d gotten into a nasty fight there, slammed a guy’s head into a pool table a few times, sent him to the ICU for a week. Most people don’t realize that the actual table part is made of a giant slab of slate, but a lot was learned that day.

You sat at the bar, eyes trained on the photo of Gator on the Do Not Serve bulletin board. He could be kind of handsome when he wanted to. In that picture he looked a little younger, a little more serious. Maybe a little softer if you really wanted to believe it (which you did).

Maybe it was the fact that you had conned the guy beside you into buying you all your drinks (of which there had been plenty) or maybe it was the weird mood you’d been in for the past month, but you really wanted to just wash all of that gel out of his hair and wash his face and maybe buy him a pair of pants with the normal amount of pockets.

“Did you hear what I said?” The guy sitting beside you— Noah? Nathan?— asked.

You tore your gaze from the photo and turned to him, batting your eyes a few times for good measure. “Sorry, I think I’m just a little buzzed.” You smiled flirtatiously and nudged his arm with your own. “You were talking about… a trip to New York, right? Some sort of walking tour?”

He smiled, nodding enthusiastically before continuing, going on and on about things you were mostly half-listening to. He was smarter than most people you talked to, not surprising after you clocked the giant gold college ring on his hand. Mid-conversation, you grabbed his hand in yours and marveled at it, playing up how impressed you were just to make him feel important.

His family is from around here, but he lived in Minneapolis. He was in town visiting while his mom was recovering from surgery. He showed you pictures of the cows on his mom’s land, of the view from his apartment, and of the dog that was waiting for him back at his mom’s place. He was sweet, which made you feel guilty for using him to forget all about Gator.

“Do you want to maybe come back to mine?” You asked, playing at bashfulness. He nodded enthusiastically, looking like you’d just offered him a winning lottery ticket.

In bed, he was generous and eager to please, making sure your needs had been taken care of before his pants were even off. You were so worked up and sensitive that you came twice from his mouth alone, not that he was even particularly that great with it. And then he was inside of you, and you came again, which probably gave him quite the ego.

It had to be some kind of fluke. He was a sweet guy, but he wasn’t exactly a sex god.

But there you were, boneless and panting and flushed and sweaty as you both came down. He was red in the face, fumbling for his glasses so he could really see you.

He wanted to talk and stay up the rest of the night with you, which should’ve been nice. Really, you wanted to be excited. He even tried to ease you into his arms, hold you against him all nice and cozy.

You couldn’t fucking do it.

“I’m just gonna grab some water, alright?” You said before hopping out of bed. Your robe was slung over the back of a papasan chair in the corner. You tied it loosely and made your way out of the bedroom. Needing space, and distance, and god, you didn’t even know.

A sane person would have turned back around, spent time with him, and gotten to know him better. Maybe even wake him up in the morning with coffee and pancakes, or a second round in the shower. But you just wanted to be alone.

The knock on your door shouldn’t have been surprising. You had been pretty loud, even louder than the previous night alone. You tied the robe a little tighter and went for the front door, opening it a crack.

“Look, I’m sorry, I know we were l—“ You trailed off when you caught a glimpse of who was outside. “You’re kidding me.”

Gator stood on the porch, arms crossed and looking irritable. “Got a noise complaint,” he said, glancing between you and the house behind you. “You alone?”

“No,” you replied, crossing your arm. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

He scowled at that, and you recognized the way he was feeling almost immediately. Oh, he was jealous. A tiny laugh escaped you, which only served to piss him off more.

“What’s so fuckin’ funny, huh?”

“Nothin’,” you replied with a shrug. “Is that all, deputy?”

He puffed on his vape and the sickeningly sweet smell of watermelon or cotton candy or whatever the fuck made your stomach turn. You gagged, mouth turning into a frown. “Do you have to blow that shit right in my face?”

“Nope,” he said while repeating the same action. The smell was overwhelming. You could almost feel alarm bells going off inside. “Whatever. Better go on and send your fuck buddy back to whatever hole he crawled out of.”

In the back of your mind, you could hear Gator going on and on, talking about how he bet Noah (how did he know his name?) didn’t even make you cum, and that his dick was small, and he’s probably just some big city loser who comes out here for an easy fuck. But that was in the back of your mind. All you were focused on was the overwhelming smell of sugar as he fucking huffed his vape, and the sinking feeling in your gut.

Nausea clawed up your throat, and a familiar feeling of panic settled over you. You clapped your hand over your mouth, but it was no use. The contents of your stomach spilled onto the floor as you vomited right onto Gator’s boots.

He swore loudly and colorfully, stepping out of the puddle at his feet. You wiped at your mouth weakly, and you would’ve said something like I fucking told you so, but you just felt awful.

“That’s so gross,” was all you could offer. “‘M sorry, Gator.”

And then you were crying your eyes out, and he was walking you inside so you could sit down, and that made you cry more.

“Jesus, you’re moody, huh?” He asked, but the bite in his voice was nearly gone. “Stay here, alright? Before you make an even bigger mess.”

You sniffled and nodded. You saw Noah stepping into the living room, wearing his actual clothes again, which was a relief. You didn’t really want Gator seeing him naked.

“Is everything okay?” He asked, taking a few steps forward.

“I’m fine, I’m just embarrassed,” you said, voice croaky with tears. “I just got sick from the drinking, I think.”

There was a noise from the kitchen and Noah furrowed his brows. “You have a roommate?”

“No, he’s—“ you trailed off, unsure of what to say. “He was here to handle a noise complaint, and I kind of puked on his shoes.”

Gator walked into the room, then paused at the sight of Noah. His face furrowed in blatant judgment. He handed you a sprite, then went straight back to staring at Noah.

“Who’re you?” Gator asked, his arms crossed like a club bouncer.

“I’m Nick.” Oh. Well, at least you were close.

“You should head out, dick,” he said, standing taller, trying to appear more imposing than he really was.

Noah glanced at you and hesitated until you gave a tiny nod. “I had a good time,” you offered. “Sorry about… all of this.”

He scribbled his phone number onto your grocery list by the door, offered a wave, and then headed out, leaving you and Gator alone. For better or worse.

It was quiet as you sipped your sprite, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Are you pregnant?” He asked suddenly. “And don’t fuckin’ lie.”

“What?”

“You’re acting all bipolar, and you're puking over my vape, and your tits look bigger.” You glanced down at your boobs with a frown. They did?

“I’m not pregnant,” you replied defensively. “I got my period, like, right after we fucked.”

He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. You wanna know what I do believe?” You didn’t, but he was going to tell you. “That you pocketed the money for the Plan B, ‘cause you want to get pregnant and blackmail my family.”

You scoffed. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

His jaw ticked with annoyance as he looked down at you. “Take a test.”

“Whatever,” you said with a shrug. “I’ll buy one after my shift tomorrow if you’re so fuckin’ worried about it.”

He shook his head. “Fuck that,” he said while tapping away on his phone. “You’ll just lie about it. I’m doordashing this shit.”

You would’ve protested, but what was the point in that? You had nothing to hide— certainly not blackmail. The idea of purposely letting yourself get knocked up by Gator Tillman almost made you want to puke again.

You had finished your Sprite by the time the poor kid arrived, probably seventeen, with his face burning red as he handed Gator a bag from the twenty-four-hour convenience store. Gator slammed the door and dumped the contents of the bag on the coffee table.

Two boxes of pregnancy tests, a monster energy drink, and a pack of cheese bugles.

You grabbed the boxes and trudged towards the bathroom attached to your room while Gator followed close behind. You went to shut the door, but he held it open.

“No fuckin’ way,” he said firmly. “If I leave you’ll just fake it.”

You rolled your eyes, the irritability you felt close to reaching a boiling point. “I’m not pregnant! I don’t want to be pregnant, least of all with your fuckin’ kid!”

When he didn’t move, and, to his credit, stayed completely stoic. You huffed and turned. “If you’re not gonna leave, you can be useful. Hand me one of the little cups beneath the sink. Next to the mouthwash.” He furrowed his brows, but obeyed. “I’m not pissing in front of you.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen worse.” You closed your eyes, doing your best to ignore him and just pee into the fucking cup. The whole situation was so infuriating that you just wanted to scream. Once your shy bladder got over itself, it was easy enough. Dip the tests in the cup, cap them again, lay them out and try to forget they’re there.

You’d taken plenty over the course of your marriage— and you hoped for the same result then that you did before.

“What’d it say?” Gator asked as you washed your hands. He was squinting down at the tests, trying to discern what was happening.

“It’s not instant. You’ve gotta wait three minutes,” you said. After drying your hands, you looked at him again.

Really looked. He was all fidgety, a little pale. His lip was bleeding where he’d been biting at it. He was just as anxious as you were, but you doubted it was for the reason he was saying.

“You kind of want one, don’t you?” You asked, meeting his gaze.

He scoffed. “No. I hate kids,” the words came out quickly, defensively. He was lying, and he was just as bad at it then as he was every time before. “Besides, what the fuck would I tell my dad if I knocked up a stripper?”

His words should’ve had some bite to them, but he just reminded you of a skittish animal lashing out at anything near it. You leaned against the doorframe and sighed. “You’re pushing thirty, Gator. Who fuckin’ cares what your dad thinks about you?” Gator rolled his eyes, because you just didn’t get it, or whatever. But you knew plenty about outrunning parents and the weight of expectations. About outrunning the weight of not being what they wanted.

You looked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “What do you really want, huh? Outside of making my life hell, terrorizing the town, and making your daddy proud?” You paused, but were met with silence. “If you’d just try to be a decent human being for once, you might find a nice girl who wants to be with you.”

“And that asshole you brought back here and fucked was decent, huh?”

“I think so, yeah,” you replied.

“And you’re gonna see him again? ‘Cause he’s so nice?”

“No, Gator, I’m not gonna see him again,” you said sharply. “I’m not, because he deserves better than a second night with someone who didn’t want to be around him.”

Before he could respond, the timer on your phone went off, louder in the tiled bathroom. Your hands fumbled as you turned it off, heart pounding with nerves.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, just look,” Gator said, clearly annoyed by your hesitance. You watched him flip them over, one by one, all reading the same result.

Positive. Positive. Positive. Positive.

Gator squinted at the lines, then at the back of the box, a few times until it settled in.

“Goddamn it!” He shouted, slamming a hand against the counter. You flinched, but couldn’t bring yourself to react further than that. “I told you to take a fucking Plan B, didn’t I?”

You swallowed hard, doing your best to remain calm. “You did, and I did. Maybe, if you didn’t want to knock me up, you should’ve pulled out like I told you.”

He rolled his eyes. “You know, it probably isn’t even mine,” he said, glaring in your direction. “You let that asshole from the bar cum in you tonight?”

Your cheeks burned hot. “You’re disgusting,” you sneered. “And, no. I don’t make a habit of letting guys fuck me raw.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, but you were so willing to give it up for me, huh?” He grabbed your arm, hard for the briefest second before his grip softened. “See, this is why I know you’re tryin’ to fuck my family over.”

You gave an exasperated groan and yanked your arm out of his grasp. “One, you didn’t pull out. Two, how exactly am I gonna blackmail your family if there’s no baby, you fucking idiot?”

His expression softened slightly as he considered your words. His brows furrowed in confusion, as he looked back at the tests. “Those are all positive, that means you’re pregnant.”

You gave a long exhale and met his gaze. “And it’s early enough that I can still have it taken care of. Maybe not in this fuckin’ state, but my car can still make a trip to Minnesota. Probably.”

He processed the words and the implications before shaking his head. “No.”

You raised a brow, taken off-guard by that single word. “I’m sorry?”

He shook his head. “I said no. You’re not doin’ it.”

You scoffed incredulously, blinking away your confusion. “Five seconds ago you wanted to punch through my drywall because you thought you were being blackmailed. Now you suddenly care about the sanctity of life? Give me a break. You nearly beat that guy to death in front of me at the club, and from what I’ve heard, you’ve done worse than that.”

”It’s different,” he argued, annoyed that you called out his hypocrisy. “It’s mine, so I should have some sort of say.”

You swallowed hard, staring at the curtains near the window so you could avoid his eyes. “Exactly. It’s yours. I don’t want to have your baby, Gator. I don’t want to bring another goddamn Tillman into the world.”

He had you pressed against the wall before you even had a second to realize he was moving. Your head knocked against the drywall, making you yelp. One hand was wrapped around your throat, keeping you pinned to the wall with a light amount of force. “I could stop you,” he finally said. “I mean… really stop you. Make it so you can’t leave. Could keep you at the ranch, make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t, because that would mean involving his father. Knocking up a stripper doesn’t exactly give men like his father warm and fuzzy feelings.

When you swallowed, your throat bobbed against the palm of his hand. Your eyes trailed up, landing on his as your breathing came out in pants.

His mouth was on yours suddenly, claiming you with a searing kiss. His tongue forced its way into your mouth, making you moan.

He’d never kissed you before, not once. You hadn’t even thought he’d want to. But there he was, groaning into your mouth as he made out with you.

“Gator—“ you gasped as he ground against you, already rock hard without any real coaxing. He shut you up with another kiss, hungry and messy.

You got the message— no more talking about that. He pulled the tie of the robe you wore and it fell onto the ground in a pile, leaving you completely bare.

He pulled back from the kiss, eyes raking over your body hungrily. Big hands traced over your skin, making you shiver. A gasp escaped you as he squeezed your tits.

“They really are bigger,” he said with a wry laugh.

“Shut up,” you snapped, head knocking against the wall as you tossed it back.

“You’ve got a bad fuckin’ attitude. But I can fix that.” One of his hands moved down your body, cupping your cunt, fingers dipping into the pool of your arousal. “You get this soaked for that asshole?”

You whimpered as his fingertips teased your entrance, just shy of everywhere you needed him. Just shy of slipping inside, purposely avoiding your clit. He locked eyes with you, his gaze intense.

“Don’t be shy, you can tell the truth,” he said, continuing to tease with featherlight touches. You could feel just how wet you were getting— dripping embarrassingly down your thighs.

“Only ‘cause I thought about you,” you admitted. A sly grin spread across your face. You’d never let him have an easy win. “You’d probably be one of the best fucks I ever had if you bothered to make me cum.”

“Don’t fuckin’ piss me off,” he said with an eye roll. He thrust his middle finger inside of you, and you moaned softly. “Such a goddamn liar.”

He was a little more gentle with you, despite, well, everything. Warming you up with one finger before adding a second. Moans fell from your lips as he curled them just right, the cocky expression he wore told you he was dead set on proving that he really was top-ten material.

His thumb brushed against your clit, making your legs tremble. You couldn’t help but clench around his fingers, your entire body overwhelmed with need. Maybe it was hormones, or maybe it was all the tension between you, but your entire body was aching for him.

“Close,” you gasped out. Your open, panting mouth was like an invitation. He kissed you deeply, his tongue licking into your mouth as he continued fucking you with his fingers. When he pulled back, his eyes locked with yours.

“That’s it,” he practically cooed. “C’mon, give it to me.” You moaned, walls clenching around his fingers as you grew closer and closer to the edge. He tried to pull his hand from between your thighs, but you grabbed his wrist and shook your head.

“Gator, don’t fuckin’ stop until I tell you to.” His cheeks went pink, eyes flashing with something unfamiliar.

Your moans grew pitchy as you got closer, hips canting against his fingers, shoulders digging into the wall as your back arched off of it.

You barely had time to gasp out a feeble, “‘m cumming!” Before your climax hit.

Broken moans escaped you as pleasure radiated through you. His fingers kept their pace, and every brush of his thumb on your clit made spots dance across your vision. When you were finally spent, you had to tap his wrist weakly. “Okay, that’s enough,” you managed.

He was coated down to his wrist with sticky arousal, which made you look away with heat burning in your cheeks, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

He grabbed your jaw and turned your face back to look at him, wearing a smug expression. “Don’t act all shy now. Tell me you want more.” Bold of him to assume he could make you cum again. But you nodded anyway. You’d like to see him try, at least.

“I want more,” you said, even though it killed you to just give in so easily. His thumb brushed against your bottom lip, before he pressed a little more and breached the pouty seal of your lips.

“Yeah? Your friend didn’t wear you out before this?” He asked, his voice dripping with a false sense of concern. He pushed his thumb a little deeper, pressing down on your tongue while you sucked on it. You had a pretty good sense of what he was getting at, but a hot need was bubbling up in your stomach and you couldn’t deny yourself any longer. “I’m just saying, sweetheart. Takin’ two cocks in one night is… well, it’s pretty fuckin’ slutty.”

At his words, you bit down on his thumb until he withdrew it with an annoyed huff. “You wanna leave?” You asked, raising a brow. He shook his head. You stepped around him, settling in the middle of the bed. “Take your clothes off then.”

He was quick to undress, clumsy in his haste. His vest knocked against the wall and sent a picture frame tumbling off its hook. He stripped off piece after piece in a sort of never-ending Russian doll until he was finally naked and standing there waiting for you to compliment him, or something.

You took in the sight of him hungrily, and the hormonal neediness of it all made you want him more than you had before. “You’ll do,” was all you said, smirking as he pinned you down against the mattress.

“You’re such a bitch,” he said, but there wasn’t any real malice in his tone. Actually, you were pretty sure he liked it about you. You spread your legs to accommodate him, shivering as he rocked his hips just so and let the head of his cock brush against your folds. “But you want me so bad, huh? Just need me to fuck that attitude out of you, don’t you?”

You whimpered when he pressed himself against your center, only letting the tip slip inside briefly before pulling back out. He raised a brow, wanting to hear you beg.

”Gator, if you don’t get inside me, I’ll call Nick to finish the job.”

You would have laughed at how quickly he buried himself within you after that if the force of it hadn’t punched the air from your lungs. His pace was brutal, and the sound of his hips slapping against the plush of your thighs with each rough thrust made sheepishness settle warm in your chest.

“You act like— fuck— like you don’t want me, but I don’t think this pussy got that memo.” A smirk played at his lips as he railed into you, soft grunts punctuating each thrust in. You wrapped your legs around him, pressing with your heels to encourage him deeper.

He was such a self-assured asshole, but, fuck, if that didn’t turn you on. He had one of your hands pinned to the bed, fingers tangled with yours.

“Go ahead and touch yourself,” Gator instructed.

He didn’t have to tell you twice. As soon as the words passed his lips, you moved your free hand between your thighs to circle your clit. The feeling was damn near euphoric. Breathy moans fell from your lips as your head fell back against the pillows.

And Gator was fucking eating it up.

“That feel good, huh?” His voice was breathy; his words were punctuated with moans and fucked-out pants. “Squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight, sweetheart. You’re really lovin’ this, huh? Bet you wanna be stuffed full of this cock every day. Coulda had this again a lot sooner if ya weren’t such a bitch all of the time.”

You could feel yourself reaching your finish, but you couldn’t find the words to tell him. Each moan slipping past your lips was even more debauched than the last as he buried himself inside your needy cunt.

“It’s too much, huh?” He asked, fucking you with a relentless need to cum. With each thrust his cock kissed your cervix. “You can take it, can’t you? Made just to take this cock inside your needy little pussy.”

Your eyes rolled back as your walls clamped around him, your finish so close you could have sobbed with relief. You came with a cry of his name, which would have been mortifying, had you been in a mindset to retain your pride.

“F-Fuck—“ He cried out, his hips stuttering. “Holy fuckin’ shit— gonna cum— fuck—“ He buried himself in you with one final, rough thrust before he went still, collapsing atop you with his full body weight.

He laid there, panting hot breath against your neck until he came back to his senses. He gave one final wet kiss to your throat before rolling over with a pleased sigh.

“You finally know what it feels like,” you mused, staring up at the ceiling.

Gator furrowed his brows as he turned to look at you. “I’ve fucked you before, it’s nothin’ special this time.”

Gee, thanks. “I meant you finally know what it feels like for a girl to cum while you’re inside her.” You grinned as you watched annoyance twist his features. He rolled his eyes with a huff, but didn’t seem too pissed off at your jab.

It was contentedly quiet until you remembered the pregnancy tests sitting on the counter just one room over. Your stomach twisted with guilt as you looked over at him, his hair a little messy, cheeks flushed from exertion.

It would’ve been nice if things were different.

“I’m moving,” you said finally. “Back to Texas, I think. Maybe even somewhere new. As soon as I’ve saved enough for a down payment.”

Gator turned quickly, anger making his brows furrow. “Leaving?”

You swallowed hard. “I’m getting out of Lehigh, and I think you should too. This place is poison. You know that.”

You watched him swallow, jaw ticking as he stayed quiet. You let the quiet linger in the air, nearly choking on it before he finally spoke. “This is where I belong.”

You nodded and said nothing else. When you woke up in the morning, his arms were around you, and he was drooling into the junction of your shoulder. His hand, flat on your tummy, almost made you yearn for that picture-perfect Tillman family, the one he thought he wanted so badly.

You couldn’t bring yourself to wake him up. When he left, he didn’t say a thing. It felt definite.

#hiiiiiii <3 #gator tillman x reader #gator tillman fanfic #gator tillman smut #okay that's all enjoy <3

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