#m. gale

[juramentum]

FAR BE IT FROM GALE TO avert his eyes. (Or his heart, for that matter.) They grow impossibly rounder, softer at the edges, crows feet crinkling when a small smile graces his lips. Rolan may choose to look away and cast his gaze anywhere else but him—it changes nothing.

"How do you mean?" he asks, first and foremost, without expecting much of an answer. And Gale's voice carries with it that same, steady current cutting through every other part of him when he moves to intercept the other's distant attention by stepping into his sight.

"I have to keep my eyes on you, yes? So I can see you, Rolan. How am I to teach if I couldn't see what you were doing?" He knows that isn't what Rolan meant. But confronting the delicate underbelly of that very specific wound, Gale thinks, isn't something he should do quite yet.

There are times Rolan reminds him of himself.

"Here. Try opening your palm," he instructs, reaching out to coax Rolan's tightly wound fist to ease. "You must loosen your grasp and the need for control, allow the magic to concentrate in that small crevice between your fingers and the pads of your knuckles. Feel it grow. As if you're cradling and nurturing something precious. Something wonderful."

Gale's eyes flicker. Deep and earthen, searching for Rolan's. "You're getting lost in thought again, aren't you?" / @macabrehunter (x)

[juramentum]

you are making a terrible mistake. from laezel for gale! (if you dont do asks for by request muses then just ignore!!)

WITHOUT THE ABILITY TO READ MINDS, at least, not at a level so constant and intrusive as spells would allow him, an understanding between two different individuals of vastly differing sets of ideals and values tend to be rather hard to achieve.

At the moment, Gale has but the tadpoles to thank for. A common ground, one would say. Not the steadiest of grounds, but a ground nonetheless. He has trekked far more treacherous paths, he thinks. Toed on more pernicious ropes (and fallen down that great, fearsome height). What's another?

All things considered, Gale Dekarios is not a man who is so easily cowed off, at the very least, attempting.

Lae'zel is new, even to him: a wizard of renown just a little over one year prior, a well-rounded scholar, thank you very much, (though he recalls he might have dozed through a few lessons that would've helped him presently, and to think the consequences would come to him so far in the future), a once-Chosen-of-Mystra—none of these have offered him the chance to communicate so personally with a gith. And it is incredible, even if she happens to be chastising him at the moment.

"As terrible a mistake as any other, but none quite as horrible as what I've already accomplished in my past, I imagine." Gale offers a smile, arms folded behind his back as he rocks forward into her space before fixing his posture. "I understand you are eager to locate your creche, and trust me, I would love nothing more than to be able to rid us of the tadpoles—"

He lifts a finger in anticipation of her rebuttal, "—I am not apprehensive of your people's knowledge, Lae'zel. I simply think we should explore all of our options. All of our very limited options, might I add. We should get the help we're able, and the Archdruid sounds to be a man of esoteric wisdom."

[juramentum]

[ trace ] — Reos traces the outline of the orb with his finger. (For Gale @architaciturn )

THOUGH GALE IS WELL ACQUAINTED WITH the stifle of stagnant air that would often dwell deep in the corners of old libraries, it is, in practice, much different than that which inhabits the stone walls of a derelict forge buried centuries into forgotten memories of the Underdark. The absence of comfort is a sickly chill in his body, contrasting the heat they had gone through mere hours ago. Sweat dampens the cotton fabric of his clothes, sticky on his neck and into the dip of his heaving chest.

@macabrehunter suffocates him further with his presence.

Gale shivers when Reos traces the outline of the orb; an ever-present mark that coils deep into his very soul. His eyes close, wincing only when the slight shift of his own body aggravates a wound he sustained from an unforeseen scuffle.

It was meant to be a quick look. Then again, he should've known by now that nothing is ever a quick look beneath the scrutiny of Reos's adamant gaze.

Frankly, Gale has a hard time picturing himself saying no to that look.

"Alright, very well now. I understand your fascination with—deceptively destructive powers..." He swallows thickly, eyes cracking open, watching the way Reos's digit trails up along his collarbone before he catches his gaze. Gale breathes. "...I assure you I am no longer a voracious beast for magical artifacts and that the orb is stable, I believe. Given that Mystra won't change her mind."

[juramentum]

coming in pants﹕  sender  causes  receiver  to  come  in  their  clothes . (Reos/Gale @architaciturn )

IT WAS A MISTAKE BELIEVING civilisation would put a damper to Reos's handsy tendencies. The drunkards are loud—dancing to a badly strummed lute and subpar music (it's more akin to noise, at this point—though he supposes art is art, no matter how unpolished) and gambling their wealth away on the next table over. Waterdeep's taverns have always been preferable to the ones at Baldur's Gate. Gale can hardly call his opinion biased when it's simply true.

But that's not the thought which currently occupies his mind. Reos has clearly decided to take advantage of their environment—full of people that could hardly pay attention to their own shoes, and separated from their companions.

The scent of sweat and booze are only overshadowed by Reos's musk where he's sat close, drinking ale undisturbed while his hidden hand's busy working at Gale's cock through his trousers beneath the table. The wizard, hardly tipsy and not even a third into his drink, certainly looks the part with how red he's been becoming, eyes shut, biting at the inside of his cheek.

It wasn't a sudden progression. Reos knows precisely how to rile Gale's desires, stoke the flames, press his buttons—with inching fingers that began from the knee. A thick, hot hand rubbing and squeezing his thigh, massaging the dip of his hip. The heat crawled closer, teased at his half-formed bulge until Gale's grip on his mug tightened and his cock was rock solid. (The shift in Gale's expression must have been what urged Astarion to drag Wyll away by the elbow, unbeknownst to him—if not Reos's pointed look at the spawn.)

His heart's racing a mile a minute. Someone could be looking, Mystra forbid someone watches him. They might come to know the shameful act he's indulging in, perhaps even who he is. A humiliation to the renown that is Gale of Waterdeep. For once, he's glad he isn't in his hometown with how he's giving into the quick, skillful palm stroking his shaft, making him leak a wet spot into his briefs. Gale flushes further under those piercing, emerald eyes that are watching him over the rim of a tankard.

At least, he will never meet these folks ever again, he thinks.

As if sensing Gale's mind wandering, Reos becomes merciless. It nearly makes Gale forget where he is, and holds onto a sliver of composure just enough to swallow the moan into a quiet whimper. Though he doesn't topple, it's a near thing.

Gale's breathing quickens. He bends over his mug, loose hair hiding most of his face, glancing at the rustle of the obscured indecent movements. Pulses of painful arousal ache alongside the build of pleasure as his leg twitches, small noises that only Reos has privy to escaping Gale's bitten lips. He's curling in, knees drawn together, burying his mouth into his palm when the orgasm coils and tightens—

A great shiver shoots up his spine. Gale spills, hot cum painting the inside of his trouser. His hips buck when Reos squeezes his cock, lips parting silently. He's panting, sweat dotting his temples, and Reos doesn't stop stroking.

"Wait—" Gale's voice cracks, scrambling to hold the offending forearm. Reos stops, as Gale knows he would. Glazed, honey eyes lift with a flutter of downturned lashes to lock their gazes together. The answering, ravenous look staring back at him causes his guts to clench and flip and his ears to warm, his nerves to come alive. Gale can only swallow audibly and tilt his head to allow for space when Reos leans, mouth hovering by his ear, commanding him to follow—dripping with the promise of a thorough fucking just around the (quite literal) corner.

[juramentum]

“do you truly think so little of me?” (Astarion / Gale @architaciturn )

FOR A STUDIED SCHOLAR SUCH AS HE, very little comes as a surprise to Gale. He would have read it once in a book, if not heard it in passing—knowledge as obscure as ceremorphosis, and as niche as netherse magic. Most people wouldn't catch him tripping over his own toes when it comes to matters of intellect.

Matters of the heart, however, is a little more complex.

Astarion's question causes both of his brows to shoot upwards. Gale looks at him, puzzled by the spawn's intention. Was it an accusation? Or a genuine hurt? Perhaps teasing? He can't tell. Not yet, anyway.

"Have I done anything to indicate that I think so little of you?" he asks as they trudge along the rocky path, hands folded behind his back. "Now, I understand that I may hold a few prejudices here and there. Forgive me if I've slighted you." Gale hums thoughtfully, glancing at the sky before his attention returns to Astarion. "You are... well... the first vampire spawn I've had the pleasure of knowing personally. Usually, your kind I read in books, maybe encounter rarely and they never end very well for them. But I am open to learning, and corrections."

Gale smiles. Friendly. He rubs his chin and places his hand over his heart, tilting his head forward. Keen to listen.

"So tell me, was there anything in particular that brought this on, Astarion?"

[juramentum]

❛ let’s do something about that mouth of yours. ❜ (Astarion / Gale @architaciturn )

NOT A DAY GOES BY WHERE these sort of remarks aren't flung from Astarion's side of the road—or tent, depending where they are—over to Gale, only for the same sentiment to be returned. This tends to volley back and forth for some time once they start. It's entertaining, Shadowheart quipped a few days ago. Like watching two puppies bicker at one another.

For one, Gale doesn't think he should be likened to a pup. Astarion, even less so.

"Oh, really?" he says, stretching out the syllables with a forward tip of his head. "Do what, precisely? I think, Astarion, between your mouth and mine, yours pose a little more problem. Especially with how sharp those dainty little fangs of yours are."