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wild geese

a gift for @willingtofight <3 her work directly inspired me to write this and i'm so happy to have become friends with her through our mutual obsession with this fucking wizard lmao

Pairing: Gale Dekarios / Poppy Lyons

Rating: Explicit, NSFW

Tags: Alternative Universe, Modern No-Magic AU, Flirting, Drinking, Depression, References to past self harm and SI, Cunnilingus, Fingering, Clothed sex, dirty talk, professor gale dekarios has a praise kink

9.8k words, oneshot

AO3 Link (acct required)

beta-read by the lovely, incomparable @spooky-lil-bee <3

Divider by @saradika-graphics

"I don't think I've done anything tonight worthy of being referred to as 'flirting,'" he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly.

Aw, he's trying to tease me.

"Speak for yourself," she flirts, letting her gaze obviously rake down his form, taking in every bit of him, including the novelty socks peeking out from his drab-professor chic.

Once her eyes return to his, she continues, "So what brings you and your cute cat socks to this bar tonight?"

- - / - - - - / - - / - - - - - / - - - - -

Poppy Lyons is looking to break a years-long dry spell. Gale Dekarios is looking to drown. A chance encounter grants both of their wishes, but maybe not as how either of them intended.

Poppy downs the rest of her drink while the man before her prattles on about himself. She steals a glance towards where she last saw Karlach and spies her flirting with a blonde-haired woman, one of her strong arms around the shorter woman's shoulders. At least one of us will be getting laid tonight, Poppy thinks, resigned.

Karlach was the one who dragged her out here tonight, determined to help Poppy break her years-long dry spell. But standing in this bar, now-empty glass in hand, just reminds her of what kept her away in the first place: prospects who only talk about themselves, ones who only talk to her tits, or ones who take off their wedding rings before approaching her. The man in front of her has somehow managed to do all three tonight.

It sucks, honestly. In the few hours she took to get ready for tonight, she had actually begun to look forward to "getting back out there." Refreshing the color on her hair had taken an age, and during the drudgery of bringing the pink back into her sadly faded locks, she recalled over and over again what her therapist has told her over the years: That it takes strength to be vulnerable, that she's allowed to ask—no—fight for what she wants.

Too bad the man in front of her isn't worth fighting for.

She just manages to side-step the man as he stumbles towards her, his drink almost sloshing down her front.

"So sorry," he apologies to her chest. He spots her empty glass and gestures his mostly-empty pint glass to her. "Care to get us another round?"

"Nope," Poppy answers curtly before stalking towards the bar to buy herself a refill. She told Karlach she would try, but even only after one drink, she's considering the potential excuses she can tell her friend so she can go home and watch Next Gen for the upteenth time.

All the seats at the bar are taken, but Poppy manages to find a gap between two men so she can catch the barkeep's eye. There's this loud man to her right who talks too much with his whole body and when she tries to lean over the bar, he shoves her and knocks her into the man to her left. Her left elbow makes contact with the man's drink, spilling it over the bartop.

"Ah, shit. I'm sorry. Hey!" Poppy waves down the barkeep and gestures at the upturned glass next to her. "I'll get him a new one of whatever he had, and a whiskey sour please." She makes sure that she takes up as much space as she can between these two barstools, the drunk who shoved her not noticing a thing while the man who's drink she spilled shies away from her.

When the drunkard inevitably leaves his own bubble again, her well-placed elbow is there to catch him. It's at that perfect moment when he turns his back to the bar to look at her where she slips a rogue ice cube from one of the empty glasses at the edge of the bar into the back of his collar.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT," his manly growl turns into a squeal as he jumps out of his seat, the shock of the ice startling him. Poppy doesn't care when the heavy barstool is shoved into her hip as he storms off. She cares a little bit more when the girl the asshole has been speaking with mouths her a "thank you" as she leaves cash under her glass for the bartender and scurries off. She cares the most when an oh-so-tired voice to her left speaks a weary, "thank you."

Two rocks glasses are placed in front of her: one an old fashioned with a curled orange peel sitting on top of the perfectly cube-shaped icecube, the other her whiskey sour with its foamy top.

"Don't mention it," she replies, and any thoughts of going back to Karlach across the room leave her when she gets a good look at the man next to her. The first thing she notices is that he looks utterly miserable. His big brown eyes are red and puffy and he is just exuding a level of sadness she can only describe as anguish. There is a tension in his jaw that makes her wonder if he's about to break down into tears any moment.

The second thing she notices is that he's the hottest man she's ever had the pleasure of being within arm's reach of, and she is not interested in increasing that distance with any immediacy.

His dark brown hair tumbles in waves just past his shoulders, half- pinned back into a small knot at the back of his head. His slightly unkempt beard is hiding what she is almost certain is an incredible jawline, and to top it all of he's dressed like some posh professor at an elite private school, complete with crumpled brown corduroy blazer and a sweater vest. An argyle sweater vest.

She nudges him playfully as she raises her drink to him and says, "Cheers."

His eyebrows scrunch in a way that Poppy just knows he does this often. "Is there something worth toasting?" Fuck, he's British, Poppy's body warms all over at the warm baritone of his voice.

It's been a minute since she's used her tits to try and boost someone's mood, but she remembers how well enough. She rests her arm on the bar and leans into it, pushing out her chest in a way that shows it off even more than the deep neckline of her dress already is. Despite the overt flirting, she gives his question consideration. She's already knocked over his drink and bought him a new one, no way in hell does she plan on making this man cry.

"To whiskey," she starts, gesturing with her drink in hand. "To karma," she says next, noticing the rowdy man from before getting removed from the bar by a bouncer. "And," she starts—because all good things come in threes—"to flirting with cute strangers in bars." She winks for good measure…hell, is she putting it on too thick? She must be out of practice.

Thankfully, the handsome man in front of her chuckles. A deep, warm sound that she wants to hear again and again. She feels struck by him—and he's barely even smiling! If she manages to make him smile tonight, she's not sure she'll recover from it.

They clink glasses and drink, and the deep quaffs he takes of his don't go unnoticed by her. The lack of a wedding ring on his left hand also does not go unmissed.

"I don't think I've done anything tonight worthy of being referred to as 'flirting,'" he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly.

Aw, he's trying to tease me.

"Speak for yourself," she flirts, letting her gaze obviously rake down his form, taking in every bit of him, including the novelty socks peeking out from his drab-professor chic.

Once her eyes return to his, she continues, "So what brings you and your cute cat socks to this bar tonight?"

The surprise at her calling out this specific fashion choice does not stick as he processes her question and ducks his head, eyes staring into the depths of his drink. "Drowning my sorrows, I suppose." He huffs a laugh that doesn't sound like his heart is in it. "How terribly cliché."

"Is there any room in your plans for some company? You see, I met this irresistably handsome man at the bar tonight, and I would love nothing more than to get to know him. But if he's busy…"

"No! I mean, I'm not too busy for such a lovely lady as yourself. I would be honored if you joined me, even for but a short while." God, he's so cute when he blushes.

While one of Poppy's requirements tonight was to find someone who definitely wants to fuck her as much as she wants to fuck them, she's too drawn in by this man to break away just yet. And so she claims the recently vacated seat next to him.

"So you've had a shit day?"

"Absolutely wretched."

"Any way I can help with that?"

The man scoffs. "As lovely as you are, it all feels enormously insurmountable at the moment. Besides, I don't wish to ruin your evening."

Not wanting to push the man more than he's comfortable, she considers taking her leave when a stack of cocktail napkins nearby gives her an idea.

"Want to play a game?"

He pauses before answering, taking her in properly for the first time as if to see if she's serious. "What did you have in mind?"

Leaning across the bar, Poppy scoops up a handful of white cocktail napkins with the bar's logo in the corner and a pen from a recently signed bill. She takes one napkin and draws 4 connecting lines and he catches her meaning immediately.

"Hangman," he says pensively. "Such a dark concept for a simple game."

Poppy draws out the dashes and slashes needed for her phrase in mind. "It gives a sense of urgency, don't you think?"

The stranger snorts. "Always has seemed like an unequal punishment to me."

She slides the napkin between them, the finished sentence ready for him.

+-----+

| |

|

___|____

- - / - - - - / - - / - - - - - / - - - - -

He quickly offers up, "'E.' One of the most common letters in our lexicon."

He may be right, but it only gets him one slot filled.

"T."

The man's head is drawn onto the gallows.

"Blast. I never quite understood why we start with the head. Feels less dramatic that way."

"I don't disagree," she says, happy that her plan has him ensnared so quickly. "But it's there all the same. Next letter?"

"A."

Once again, he is only rewarded with a single letter, two back from the E.

"Bollocks. All right, let me see…"

He guesses R, which earns the stick figure his stick for a body, making the stranger grumble. He flies through the rest of the vowels, even Y, where U earns him his first arm. S appears twice, finishing the word "IS"

His man is half-hung, and the stranger does not take this lightly, and carefully considers his next guess.

"You're so close," Poppy murmurs. "I can tell you're smart, you'll catch on quick enough."

He does not look her way but the way he reddens from her praise is unmistakable.

"M!" he declares, which earns him the first letter of the first word and the third letter of the second. He pauses then, the first words becoming clear to him. "'My name is" he recites, and Poppy fills in the letters neatly, giving him the duplicates that appear in her name as well.

He looks up at her, glowing and smirking and oh, yes, this man will most certainly ruin her. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is—"he starts to introduce himself but Poppy stops him, holding a hand up.

"If you win, you get my name and we can introduce ourselves. If you lose, then I guess we'll never know."

She almost takes it back, with how he deflates at her words. But she feels a swell of pride when she sees him steel himself and look back to the napkin with a sense of determination.

"…L?" he guesses and beams when he sees that the letter finishes her last name.

"Lyons, Lyons," he rolls across his tongue. "But your given name still evades me…"

He turns his analyzing gaze to her and Poppy clenches her legs together. Gone is the lost, hazy look in his eyes and instead is a look that makes her feel he can see right through her. Self-consciously, she tries to fluster him back, tossing her hair over her shoulder to reveal that it's bare and tattooed in her off-the-shoulder dress. He notices, but it doesn't faze him.

Poppy is worried she is going to start blushing when he asks, "Have I heard this name before?"

"I don't recall hints being a part of how you play Hangman."

"Hmm," he mutters before taking up a fresh napkin and pulling his own fountain pen out from inside of his jacket, and begins jotting down names. Poppy lets him work, admiring his neat scrawl as he lists out five-letter names ending in Y, struggling to make the O fit where it should. He even lists out all the letters of the alphabet, silly man, and crosses out letters that have already been guessed.

A hesitant "D" gives his man his second arm, which returns the stranger to his napkin.

Suddenly, a veritable firestorm approaches them in the form of Karlach, tall and excited (more than usual) and talking so very quickly.

"Poppy! Hey girl, listen I hate to leave you here but I'm going to be heading out with Jen," she gestures behind her where Poppy sees the blonde—no—white-haired woman Karlach has been flirting with all night.

"Oh, yeah, no worries—" Poppy barely gets out before Karlach is parting the crowd of the bar like the sea, beelining for the exit and her hopefully fun night with Jen.

Mouth agape, she slowly turns her head back to the stranger who is staring at her with a similar expression, before they break down into simultaneous gut-wrenching laughter.

Poppy is still shaking with laughter when she fumbles with the pen to fill in the last letters: three P's to complete her name on the napkin.

"Well, I suppose it's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Poppy Lyons," he says, holding out his hand. "I'm Dr. Gale Dekarios."

She shakes his hand, still grinning ear to ear. "Can I buy you another drink?"

—

"Why pink?"

"Hm?" she mumbles, lips still wrapped around the lip of her glass.

"Your hair. It's such a lovely, striking color. I merely wanted to understand why you chose it."

"Do you want the general answer or the today answer?"

Gale cocks his head to the side, confused by her response. "Both? I suppose?"

She puts her glass down. "I've dyed my hair every color under the sun. And I quickly learned that I like, roughly, this shade of pink. I like red, I like bubblegum pink. Occasionally I'll dip into purple. But tonight? Karlach asked me to come out with her a few hours ago and my hair looked a wreck, so tonight's hair is due to a concoction of whatever bottles were almost out but not quite so I mixed them all together to create this."

Gale laughs. "Well, despite it's last-minute nature, it is quite fetching. I'm sure you would look divine in any color."

There he is with the flattery again. He bought the third round of drinks and he's loosened up more and more with each one. She's used to flattery, or at least she thought she was. He's just so earnest.

"Well then, you haven't seen me as a blonde," she deflects. "Horrible. I look half-dead."

"Now, I won't hear you talk about yourself that way. What is your natural color, by the way?"

"Dark brown. Not unlike your shoes."

There it is, that piercing look again as if he's looking right through her. "Just as I said, you suit most colors."

Poppy chuckles. "What happened to any color?"

"Retractions are allowed to be made! Especially when one learns new information that invalidates their past statements."

In the two hours they've sat like this, so far Poppy has learned that he is a professor of astrophysics at the local university (hot), loves to cook (hotter), and when the mood strikes him, tries his hand at poetry (the basement is flooded).

He's making this so easy. She had been admittedly nervous to come out with Karlach tonight, but even if this doesn't end up with her ridden hard and put away wet, she will still consider it a success because Gale is just that wonderful.

The bar is well and truly packed now. To prevent another mishap and to protect their little bubble, Gale and Poppy scooch their stools together so that nobody can come between them. Every so often their feet or knees brush together but Poppy doesn't move away and neither does Gale, to her delight. Gale smells like sandalwood and orange—heady, not unlike the old fashioneds he's been drinking. Right before the kitchen closes, they manage to sneak in an order of whipped feta dip and warm pita and every time their fingertips brush when they reach for the plate at the same time, Poppy feels more and more bold.

"Now, I've waited long enough. Please show me pictures of your cat."

Gale looks at her, stunned. "I don't remember telling you about Tara."

Poppy pointedly eyes his socks and the bits of cat hair clinging to the hem of his pants, then back up at him.

"Well, don't keep twisting my arm," he playfully grumbles. "Just a moment—"

Soon enough, his phone is out and he is showing her pictures upon pictures of the most beautiful fluffy, mottled calico-tabby cross she's ever seen.

"Oh, and this one as well," he says as he swipes, like a proud father. This new set of pictures, because one can never take just one photo of their pet in a single position, depicts Tara spread on her back in a patch of sun, her soft-looking fur displayed like a cloud and dangerous temptation.

"Does she allow belly rubs?" Poppy asks, close to Gale's ear so he can hear her over the din of the bar.

"Only from me," Gale replies smugly. "Though with enough treats and some catnip, she is wont to accept pets anywhere from most anyone."

"What about you? Do you like having you tummy rubbed, Gale?"

He flushes crimson at that, eyes not daring to even dart her way. "I think closeness earned from any creature is worthwhile."

He gets sad all of a sudden, which has happened a handful of times in the few hours they've spent together.

Gale has not gone explained in detail what drove him to "drown his sorrows" at this bar tonight. He mentioned that this was his first week teaching at a new school and that he’s new to the city, which Poppy can imagine is cause enough for loneliness. There's more to it, though, she just knows it.

"She moved with you, right? How's she taking it?"

"Oh, as well as any cat takes to change, which is to say horribly. But she's resilient, she will come around," he says absentmindedly. He pockets his phone and takes a deep sip of his drink.

But there's something else, lingering. Obviously there's more going on, and not that she wants to become Gale's therapist, but she's just drunk enough to…

"Why did you move, anyway? Moves are difficult, but this feels bigger than that."

Gale stares at the melting ice in his drink as if it holds the answers to the universe.

"I ruined my marriage," he says so quietly Poppy can barely hear it over the noise around them. "I broke her trust and she divorced me over it. I'm a horrible man who was deservedly ousted from his own home and forced to leave a city and job I loved to die in obscurity."

Her stomach sinks. This is what she hated the most when she prowled bars and clubs in her youth: finding out that the men or women or anyone in between were being unfaithful, or that there was something messy and dark hiding behind the facades they put on for the unassuming like herself. Five years ago, Poppy would have denied this mess in front of her outright, but…

"Well, I think I'll be the judge of that."

Gale looks at her, confused and afraid. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm incredibly judgy, so I think I'll do a great job of confirming whether or not you are in fact as horrible as you say you are."

"Surely you don't…"

"Oh, I do," she replies readily, downing the rest of her drink. If this is the end of their evening together she might as well finish her drink now.

"Go on," she dares. "Let's hear it."

If he looked afraid before, Gale wilts under her gaze now. She wonders if he'll leave. He said he broke her trust. Did he cheat? Does he have a gambling addiction? Drugs? What could possibly be so horrible to have him shivering like a leaf in front of her?

"Well, if you insist," he starts, waving down the bartender and gesturing for another drink. Once his new drink is in hand, he turns towards her.

"What do you know about grants?"

Poppy blinks. "Not much, but I'm sure you can explain it to me."

Gale continues, "My ex-wife is the head of the department of where we both worked and we often worked together on grants and research, me being second author on many of her papers. Many of the projects we worked on together were hers. Most of them, in fact. She's brilliant and has deserved every grant she's won and more. She helped build my reputation as a researcher and scientist and has an eye for brilliant minds, myself included.

"I won't get into the minutiae of grant applications, but one of the more insidious things about them is the social games that surround them. Sometimes it's beneficial for multiple groups from the same department to apply for the same grant, to show need. Sometimes, however, it's important to let someone who has the best chance apply instead, as there's only so much money to go around. A grant from the Waterdeep Council of Aeronautics and Space Exploration became available, and I had something I wanted to put forward." He lights up here, the closer he gets to talk about his research. "I had been researching the effects of Karsus particles on electromagnetic fields, something that would change how we understand Lagrangian at a base level—" he sees that he's losing her and stumbles. "But I digress. Please believe that it is compelling. In any case, I wanted to apply for it, even came to her with a mostly finished draft to show her that I was serious. But…she disregarded it entirely. Told me not to bother, that there's no money in my idea. That it's a dead end. To leave the grant application to her.

"But I couldn't let it go, you see. I finished the draft and kept thinking about it, working myself to frayed ends over it, until I decided to just…submit it. The last day submissions were allowed.

"A month later the WCASE announced that I had won the grant. I thought she would be happy for me, proud of me, even. But I've never seen her more furious. She told me not to come home that night. I thought she'd calm down, come around, see how worthwhile the work would be for me, for us, for the department. But…" he drops off there, pausing for a while. "She never did. I've never been ignored so resolutely. I went to her office one day to try and have a civil word with her but instead found her in a compromising position on her desk, and, well…Divorce papers were served to me by an attorney the next day. Like she had been waiting to do it. Nine years of marriage down the drain."

He sighs, his shoulders turning in and making him seem half his size. "So now you see, now you've heard my sordid tale. If you want to leave, I understand. I wouldn't want to stay if I were you."

Poppy stares at him, confused, trying her best to understand how this is as devastating as he says it is. But the more she thinks about it, the more she finds nothing wrong. A part of her wonders if he's lying, that he's using her lack of academic experience to pull one over on her. But he's been the picture of respect tonight, and she is confident that her initial read on him was correct. The tension knotting her stomach begins to loosen, and she actually feels a little hopeful…and also a little pissed on his behalf.

"All I hear is that you won on your own merit and she's pissed you didn't listen to her. She sounds petty. A truly supportive partner would have at least talked with you about it instead of shutting you down. A good partner wouldn't have been so driven to get back at you that they would cheat on you. Like, what the fuck."

It's Gale's turn to stare at her, dumbfounded.

"I—I broke her trust as an academic, as her husband, her partner—"

"The point of grants is to be applied for…you applied…and you won it, seemingly fair and square. Seems someone believed in you, believed in your ideas. She didn't. None of that gives her good reason to do any of that. She sounds like a cunt. A petty cunt. Let me guess, now that you're no longer at that university, you don't have that grant anymore and she has it now."

Gale nods, looking at her as if she were some puzzle.

"And as your boss too, fuck. Nine years married? Next you'll tell me that she was your advisor as a student or something."

Gale balks then. "I don't see what that has to do with anything—"

It's her turn to look at him dumbfounded. "You married your advisor? Isn't that some sort of ethical violation on her part?"

"I was mature for my age! What we lacked in similar age we made up for with our minds, our shared intellect. I'm the one who broke our relationship, I'm the one who deserves to be banished as I am. I'm the one who deserves to be depressed at a bar, wishing that it would all end tonight." He turns away from her, burying his head in his hands.

All the wind is taken out of Poppy's sails at that, recalling how earlier tonight he did look like he was on the verge of…something. Something familiar.

"But you're still here," she says. Gently. Oh, so gently.

His face turns so quickly towards her that she wouldn't be shocked if it gave him whiplash. Poppy reaches out her hand to him, clearly an invitation to take it, but she has a second motive. She allows the black, mesh sleeve of her dress to ride up and expose the two, small words she has tattooed on her wrist, next to silvery striping scars.

"not today."

None of this goes unnoticed by him, the keen man she can tell that he is. She wonders if he'll actually take her hand. When he finally does, he laces his fingers in between hers and squeezes. "What small miracles this world holds," he speaks so very quietly, staring at where their fingers link together. His thumb strokes her hand and she lets him, enjoying how gentle he's being in the middle of a crowded bar.

They fall silent, Gale's touch feeling meditative, grounding. She hopes it feels as good for him as it does for her. She's not the one who needs it more.

"When did you know? That it would be okay?"

She recalls those darker days, the ones where she felt like he does now. Poppy Lyons does not open up to strangers like this. But she's drunk, her therapist's words are still ringing in her ear, and Gale isn't just any stranger. Not anymore.

"It was…honestly, it was such a small thing. It was late afternoon, near sunset. My blinds were open and, it was overcast. I was ready to go, but I realized that I couldn't remember the last time I saw the moon. That just…bugged me so much. That I wasn't sure when I'd last seen the moon in the night sky. So I told myself, 'not today, tomorrow.' And so I put it off a day. I saw the sunset, I saw the moon rise in a little sliver. And I thought, ‘well, I want to see the moon grow, so I'll wait again.’ It was 'not today, tomorrow' for a while. New things kept popping up, new little things that had me continue to put it off. Until one day, without realizing it, 'not today, tomorrow' was just simply, 'not today.'"

Now Gale looks well and truly like he's about to cry, his eyes are welling up and he looks so bedraggled, as if she just pulled him in out of the rain.

"Hey, hey," she soothes, leaning in even closer to him so that only she is in his field of view. "I'm here. You're here, we're here."

The tears fall anyway, Gale shuddering as he speaks quietly enough that she has to strain over the music and the chatter. "I want to believe. I want to so much," he gasps. "But it's so hard to see out of the hole when you're already at the bottom of it."

The bartender appears out of the corner of Poppy's eye and she mouths for water and to close out her tab.

She lets go of his hand and brushes away his tears, cradling his face gently with both hands. "That's why we live in the present, yeah? The opening only seems far away when you're looking at it. Just stay in the now and it'll be closer before you know it.

"Think about it. Today hasn't gone the way you thought it would, right? Did you expect to drink here by yourself and then…what? Die in a gutter? Find a hotel room? Call your mom? None of those have happened—though I do think you should call your mom at some point. And you know what has happened?"

"A stranger has taken pity on me," Gale sniffs, looking utterly pitiful.

"A friend has enjoyed every last minute we've spent together this evening."

"We're friends?"

"Of course we are. 'Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine,'" she recites. "I'm not going to lie, living by 'not today' makes you have to feel everything. Even all the shit. But the way out is there, just out of view. I promise."

It's when the bartender returns with the bill and two glasses of water that he kisses her; trembling hands hold her face like she his, and desperate lips taste each other's whiskey. Poppy's hands slip down his front to hold his middle, the soft, worn knit of his sweater vest something comfortable to cling to while Gale consumes her. She's been wanted before, desired. Lusted after. But this feels different, like some sort of renewal or absolution. For both of them.

She breaks the kiss and passes him one of the glasses. "Drink this, finish it," she pants, before signing the bill and shoving her card back into her purse.

"Did—did I? Are we?" Gale stutters next to her. It may have been only a short few hours, but Poppy has come to know Gale well enough that he's incredibly well spoken and even feeling his worst, does not stumble over his words.

"You're coming home with me," she says as she picks up her own glass and chugs it.

"As my lady commands," he says, a little dazed. Her lipstick is all over his lips and she passes him a cocktail napkin to wipe it off, as much as she adores how he looks in it.

In a flash, they're out into the balmy September night, the lights of the city dulling the stars in the sky. Poppy calls a car from her phone and soon enough one arrives and they're sliding inside, pressed close to one another as the driver heads towards her home.

"So did me quoting Mary Oliver really do it for you, or…?"

Gale huffs a laugh, looking lighter than he has all night. "I'd be lying if I said that wasn't at least a factor. But I must confess that you've completely bewitched me, and quoting 'Wild Geese' was just the push I needed."

Poppy kisses him then, all tongue, looking to lose herself on this car ride. But so smoothly, so effortlessly, Gale grasps her chin and slows them down. What this kiss lacks in outright indececy it makes up with being even more intense than she was intending. When he finally pulls away, she's left so stunned that she sits there frozen, just staring at him, mouth gaping just a little where he left it.

The bastard notices and smirks of all things, making indignation flare bright in her chest. She'll wipe that smirk right off his face.

With one hand skating up and down his front oh, so slowly, she leans in so that her lips are at his ear, and she starts.

"You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting—"

"Oh, you maddening woman," Gale groans, tightening his arm's grip around her shoulders and stilling her hand with the other. The simultaneous tightening of his pants around his groin does not go unnoticed.

"Something wrong?" she asks with an air of innocence, but unable to hold back her giggles.

"Nothing, nothing is wrong," Gale says, stroking her hand with a finger. The most positive thing he's said all night.

Soon enough, they're in front of her house: an adorable split level, mostly brick with a bay window and rhododendron bushes out front. She tugs Gale out of the car, thanking the driver and paying him, before they both make their way up her front walk, Poppy's hands fumbling for her keys.

It's never been this difficult, she thinks, to find the right key on the ring and get it in the lock. She even remembered to leave the light on so she can see what she's doing. But it's not until they're finally inside on her small staircase landing and the door is closed that it hits her.

It's been…a long time; years since she's done anything like this. Since she's done it. She's kept herself satisfied, don't be mistaken, but having someone new here for the purposes of…

"Is everything alright?"

Gale's voice breaks her out of her spiraling, and everything feels suddenly still. Like she's lost all momentum. She still wants him—fuck, she wants him so bad, but all of a sudden it's so much.

She tugs on the strap of her bag with both hands. Probably not good for the leather, but she doesn't particularly care at the present moment. What a fucking time to get nervous.

"Yes, it's—I'm fine. We're good," she averts her eyes, even though she probably knows he needs the reassurance, but she can't bear to look him at the moment. "It's just been a while since I've, ah." She pauses, unsure of how to finish her sentence.

"Taken someone home?" Gale supplies cautiously.

"That! Yes, but also the reverse, and more and—" fuck, now she's rambling she never does that, what's gotten into her?

Wordlessly, Gale calmly removes her purse from her hands, placing it on the small table by the door, and kisses her soundly.

This, she remembers. This is easy. She's usually so concise with her words, attempting here and there to branch out and be more poetic, mostly in her own writing. But in this moment where she found herself floundering, Gale Dekarios picked her up and set her right. She's always been better at showing than telling, anyway.

Poppy deepens the kiss and Gale welcomes it greedily, giving back what he receives in more than equal measure. She can feel his growing erection pressing into her abdomen and the excitement begins to outweigh the worry. Not today. Be here, now.

Gale is delightfully here, his hands exploring now that they're finally in private. The little whimper he gasps against her lips when he feels her piercings through her dress is criminal and the sigh he sighs when he grips her ass makes her whine helplessly into his mouth.

His fingers skate along the hem of her dress, which has ridden up with how she's raised her leg against his. If he's intending to tease, she can't tell, but it has the same effect, his fingers grazing along the curve of her ass, remind her of how thrilling this actually can be.

He slots his leg between hers, grinding his erection against her hip while he sucks kisses down her jaw, to her neck. Poppy's eyes flutter shut as he does so, goosebumps bristling all over her skin in response to his attentions.

"Tell me," his voice, turned gravelly, murmurs against the thin skin of her neck. "Tell me what you want and I'll make it happen. Whatever you desire, I'm yours."

Oh, what has she gotten herself into? This man is just full of surprises and the last thing she expected of this evening was that question kissed into her neck.

She was prepared to fight to get off this evening, but if he's willing—

"Use me—" it comes out as a rasp just as he tweaks one of her nipples through her dress.

Gale does the worst possible thing and stops and looks at her. "Pardon?"

Years of journaling and meditation and fucking therapy didn't prepare her for this, didn't prepare her to actually talk about this with someone.

It's not bad that she wants to get laid, she reminds herself. It's not bad that she wants this sad, sad man to call her a good little slut in his devastatingly attractive British accent as he fucks her silly. And she wants it not because that's what he told her she wants, but because she wants it, because it's on her own terms. That for once, she wants a person and not just to feel a warm body against hers, is new and exciting and freeing. She can be whatever she wants, and she hopes that God, the universe, or whatever else is out there listens to her prayers right now that he agrees, that this doesn't fizzle out right here against her front door.

"I just want to feel good."

"Well, I'm certain I can manage that," he ventures. "But to be honest, I'm not interested in objectifying you."

Poppy takes a deep breath, trying to find her words amidst the haze of arousal. "It's…fun," she starts, wanting him to understand. "Sex is fun. And while it's been…a while since I've done this, I'm back out here to try and finally ask for what I want. I want to get off, I want to get off with you. I want to have fun, to play, if that makes any sense. No pretense, no performances, just fun for both of us." The words feel desperate as they fall from her mouth. She had hoped this would be effortless, because she was tired of feeling like all of this was work.

But there's something that settles in Gale's eyes that makes her realize that maybe he does get it. "I don't think I've truly had fun having sex in quite some time myself."

Ah, but there's the hope. The light.

"I want to have fun, Gale. I want to have fun with you. To just let go."

His eyes alight and he murmurs, "To let the soft animals of our bodies love what they love?"

Poppy beams at that. "Yes, exactly."

"Then if we're going off feeling, can I tell you what I want? What I'm feeling right now?"

"Of course."

His hands that have been gently gliding over her sides this whole time stop and hold her waist tight. "I feel like I've been blessed. You have reached your hand into my pit and shown me kindess the likes of which I haven't felt in a long time. Like I said, it's been quite some time since I've had fun while making love but I haven't forgotten what it can feel like. My mind is brushing off the cobwebs of what this could be, and…I have the sudden urge to take you against this door…that is, if you're amenable to the idea."

Oh, she's so glad she bought this man a drink. Every worry dissipated, she kisses him, deep and wanting and hungry. He understands, Gale understands.

Gale slowly kisses down her body, lowering himself to his knees, his eyes never wavering from hers as he does so, now all dark and full of intent. "Then let me have the pleasure of doing so." He kisses the soft, inner skin of her thigh and her knees almost give out as his hands slide up under her skirt. He helps her slide her lacy thong down her legs and over her tall boots before pocketing them.

The trembling, panicking man from the bar is gone and replaced with a man who not only knows what he wants but goes after it with a fervor bordering on worship.

The moment he licks her, Poppy becomes a live wire. Pressed up against her front door, leg hoisted up over his shoulder, boots still on, panties in the pocket of a man she met less than six hours ago, she never would have thought spilling a stranger's drink would lead her here.

Precariously perched as she is on one foot, she leans into Gale in an attempt to find her balance and he growls, the rumbling feeling oh, so good—

"Fucking hells, Gale," she moans, weaving her fingers into his hair. "That's it, you feel so fucking good."

He pushes even closer to her, which Poppy didn't think was possible, but he's pushing the bounds of her flexibility from this position, spreading her wider so he can reach every bit of her.

Her head swims; Gale said he had been looking to drown his sorrows but instead he's making her drown in pleasure. Even her breaths come quicker, not due to a shortage of air but due to the fact that Gale has found exactly what she likes in a record amount of time. She hazards a glance down at Gale and, fuck, it's even worse. His eye smolder from their position below her, almost daring her to keep looking at him and so she does.

She rakes her fingernails against his scalp and he purrs, making her cry out his name again. Poppy undoes his little bun and slides the hair tie onto her wrist, tangling her fingers into his hair once more but now with a better grip and even better noises from Gale.

"Fuck, babe, you feel so good. You're so fucking hot, you know that? Making me the luckiest girl—ah! tonight. You're so good at this…" The praise was the right choice, Gale ramping up his efforts tenfold with her flattery.

She forgot how good it could be with someone else. Spending years taking care of oneself makes you think that you're fine alone. But oh, a partner is just as fun. Especially when that partner is as hell-bent on ensuring your pleasure as Gale is.

"Fuck, fuck, Gale—please, please, please."

Maybe the begging is just what he wanted, because after that he devotes all of his focus to her clit, sucking it, kissing it, whispering…whispering?

Just barely, between how wet she sounds and Gale's own moans comes her name from his lips, whispered in reverence with every breath he breathes against her.

She hits her head hard against the door when she comes, not disrupting the orgasm but somehow amplifying it with the sharp pain. It's pairs well with the bruises Gale is surely pressing into her thighs with the force at which he's gripping her.

He guides her through her orgasm, attending to her with a softness and intent that she's never experienced before. Even bringing her leg down, sore from being held up like that for so long, he's careful with her. The thing that breaks it, however, is the groan he lets out when he stands from where he was kneeling.

Poppy giggles at the noise, pulling him up the rest of the way. "Was it worth it?"

He kisses her in answer, locking their lips firmly with a hand behind her neck to keep her there. This kiss feels different: less desperate and less wanting but more brutal, more possessive. More like he doesn't want to let go, and that's okay because Poppy doesn't plan on letting go, either.

They come up for air at the same time, both panting heavily. Poppy feels like putty but Gale is taut like a bowstring, ready to pounce at any moment.

"Will you turn around for me, my goddess?"

Maybe if she was sober she would think he was laying it on thick. Maybe if she wasn't fresh off an orgasm, she would think it was insincere. But there is nothing artificial about Gale, she realizes. He is nothing if not sincere. And so she turns around, his hands bracketing her hips as she does so.

She thought she'd be lost without being able to look at him, but Gale tethers her. With every brush of his hands against her skin, to the kisses he places on the back of her neck after brushing her hair to the side, she feels as though they've both been made complete.

He presses the line of his body against hers and she grinds her ass into his erection, begging for more, for more of him. When he slides a finger through her folds for the first time, they groan together, Poppy arching her back to beg for more.

"Look at you, opening yourself up for me. Are you ready for me?" He slides his finger inside her and Poppy keens, pushing her hips back into his hand.

"Please, please Gale, I need more…" she moans.

"Anything for you, anything," he promises, sliding another finger inside and curling just right.

Wanting more, Poppy tugs her dress and bra down to expose one of her breasts. Taking Gale's hand, she directs his fingers around the titanium bar piercing her nipple and lets him take over.

Gale in short order he has her writhing with her arms and cheek pressed up against the door. His mouth hasn't left that spot on the back of her neck, his hot breath against her skin contrasting with the chill of the door.

"You know, I normally find it quite easy to be polite, to be a gentleman. But one cannot always be a gentleman and my God, your breasts were tempting me to break that composure all night, you minx. You knew exactly what you were doing. You knew how it would drive me wild, and now look at me. I'm about to fuck you against a door. I've never done this before!"

Poppy can't help but laugh. "Me either!" He kisses her then, slowly and achingly sweet between her shoulder blades. It's sweet, despite how wrecked she feels.

His hands move faster now, the wet noises echoing out into her quiet house. But the only thing louder than that are Gale's own constant string of noises, sent directly into Poppy's ear.

Her hips rock against his hands, remembering how to ask for more, how to reach for more. The words fall out of her mouth in the haze.

"Spank me," she gasps, pushing her ass harder into his hand.

Gale, apparently very eager to follow directions, moves his hand from her breast to her ass, tugging the skirt up so that it's rucked around her waist, but he pauses, warm hand resting on her backside.

"Are, are you sure? I've never…"

"Please," she groans, and he listens. His hand comes down with a sharp smack on her ass cheek and she wails. She'd never quite been able to do that to herself effectively. She's missed that sharp sting, how it just makes her ache even more.

Seeing how she responds so positively, Gale is no longer hesitant. He spanks her again, and she's in heaven now, fucking his hand while the delicious sting burns her skin.

Her hands scrabble for purchase and her fingertips cling to the molding of the half-moon window at the top of the door, the bare skin of her breasts tingling against the cooler hardwood.

"Please Gale, I want your cock, please," she begs.

He slows but he doesn't stop, laying a grounding hand on her ass. "It occurs to me we never discussed protection. I don't have—"

"My purse," she says, awkwardly gesturing with her hand to her bag on the small table to the side.

Gale fumbles with the clasp one-handed before the bag tips over and an obscene amount of condoms and dental dams spill out, Gale just barely managing to catch a strip between his fingers.

"My word…"

"Karlach shoved them into my hand before we got to the bar," Poppy laughs. "Said she had a good feeling about tonight."

"Remind me to thank her, then if I ever get a chance to meet her for more than a rushed goodbye."

The idea of Gale meeting her friends doesn't immediately scare her, but she is unable to put more thought into it as Gale notches the head of his cock at her entrance.

She's fucked herself on her dildos enough to be familiar with what this feels like but fuck she forgot about the anticipation of it all.

Gale just holds himself there, one hand on his cock and one tight on her hip, a message for her to not. Move. One. Bit.

"Gale," she whines, hips twitching under his touch.

"Forgive me," he groans, biting down on his words. "I just need a breath, a moment."

A moment might kill her, but she tries. She doesn't move her hips but there are other parts of her that move involuntarily at the temptation at her lips and Gale whimpers at the flutter of her walls around his head.

"I think you're going to kill me," he grits through his teeth.

"The feeling's mutual." Poppy cranes her head to look back at him and fuck. His eyes are scrunched shut and that double crease between his brows is back as he concentrates. Gale's gorgeous lips pucker as he focuses on his breathing, steadying himself.

"Gale," she calls gently. He opens his eyes and meets hers, looking almost pained. "Having fun yet?"

He laughs and oh he has the nicest laugh. "Yes, I think I am," he replies before finally pushing into her.

So much better than a dildo, she thinks. Even with the condom, the delicious give of flesh is apparent. He's so careful with her, pumping slowly to acclimate them both.

"Fuck," she whines, head reeling from how good it feels. She's thankful she wore these boots, the heel high enough so that she's at that perfect angle for him.

"Everything alright?" he asks, sounding worried.

"Everything's perfect," she purrs, arching her back and pushing her hips back until his entire length is inside her.

This she also forgot, that bottoming out with hips pressed against her ass. Gale curls over her back and presses his forehead to her shoulder, breathing even heavier. Poppy lets her eyes flutter shut, reveling in the stretch and press of him. He presses even closer to her, wrapping his arms around her middle as his hand strokes up and down her stomach.

"Fuck, you feel divine," he whispers, sounding like he's hanging on by a thread, hands gripping her hips so tight that it almost hurts.

"Gale, fuck me please," she begs.

He straightens up and there's a sharp intake of breath behind her as his hand comes down hard on her ass and alights stars behind her eyelids.

"Fuck—" she whines as Gale finally starts to fuck her and braces her forearms against the door.

Gale is a constant stream of moans, a once-eloquent stranger now a friend whose brain sounds as though it's melting out of his ears.

He spanks her one more time before exploring, hands roving across her stomach, up and down her back, across her ass. She wishes he had more hands, she thinks, to touch her everywhere all at once.

His hands roam farther, down her front past where her dress is rucked up around her waist. His fingers comb through her curls until he finds her clit and begins stroking it in slow circles.

"Oh my God," she whines, hips pulsing against his.

Gale doesn't complain this time. His hips join hers, volleying her between his fingers and his hips in waves of pleasure.

She uses her arms as leverage, pushing her forearms into the door as she fucks him. This is what she wanted: to get lost, to just feel. Nothing else matters, just Gale.

The hand not busy playing with her clit comes up to grab her breast and oh that makes her lose it.

"Fuck me, fuck me, Gale, please fuck me. Please, please, please, fuck. Ohhhh my goddddd," on and on the words spill from her mouth, egging him on.

The door's rattling beneath them now. And between that, both of their noises, and the wet and delicious slap of his hips against hers, Poppy wonders faintly if the neighbors can hear them. She almost hopes so. She can't remember enjoying sex this much and she wants more.

"You like this, Gale? You love fucking my wet pussy? You wanted to take me in the bar, didn't you? Just wanted me to drag you into the bathroom and fuck you silly."

Gale whines into her shoulder, hips stuttering against hers.

"Use your words, babe. Tell me how much you want me. Tell me more about how my tits drove you wild."

"If you dragged me away from the bar I would have followed you, no questions asked. I would have pressed you against that bathroom door and tugged your dress down and up so I could taste all of you. I would have taken you like I am now, or maybe on top of the sink so I could kiss those sinful lips of yours as I drove into you over and over again," each 'over' punctuated with a thrust as if to demonstrate his intentions. "I wanted you to fuck me and wail your pleasure for the whole bar to hear. I wanted them all to know that I was worthy. That only I could make you feel that good, that I was your chosen for the evening."

Her own bathroom-fucking days are over but to find out that sweet, sweater-vest, cat sock-wearing Gale Dekarios, PhD, would have followed her and taken her like that makes her impossibly wetter.

"They would've kicked us out, you know," she adds, head spinning with his words. "We probably would have been interrupted—"

"And I would have ensured you finished at least once before they even got there. They'd have to break down the door before they could even separate me from you."

His forefinger and thumb come up to pinch her nipple now, tweaking the little barbell in a way that makes her keen. "I would do anything for you," he sobs, hips moving harder, harder—

"Are you going to come for me, Gale?" she teases, on the edge herself, brought there by his words. "Are you going to fuck me until you come? Fuck your good little slut until she comes around your cock and milks you dry?"

"Ohhhh," he groans. "Is that what you want? Will you come for me? Oh please, won't you come for me?"

His voice really has just been making her wet this whole night and hearing him beg like that while he's pounding into her is just what she needs. Gale's perfect hands don't stop their rhythm, they keep playing her perfectly as she tumbles over the edge, crying out as her whole body shakes in pleasure.

Gale rides her through it, coming himself at some point but Poppy's so gone that she can't even tell. Once he's done he holds her there, staying connected for a minute or two as they catch their breath together. Eventually, they pull apart, Gale tying up the condom as Poppy straightens out her dress and brushes her hair out of her face, pulling it into a ponytail with his hair tie still on her wrist.

When she turns around, he's still holding the tied-off condom, unsure of where to put it, deliciously disheveled. Poppy realizes now that she hasn't seen him naked, that she never saw his dick. She reaches for his tie then, loosening it and fiddling with the tiny buttons on his shirt.

"What are you doing?" he asks, bemused.

"Making you more comfortable. I want to keep looking at you and—what is this?" Unbuttoning his shirt has exposed beneath a thatch of soft chest hair, the swirling lines of a tattoo just below the hollow of his throat.

His hand not holding the condom stills her hands and meets her gaze, eyes hesitant in a way she can't place.

"I have had the most wonderful evening with you. I have never felt so wanted, so one with someone." He guides one of her hands up to his lips and kisses her palm, nuzzling her there. But there's this sadness in his tone…

"Why does this sound like goodbye?" She says it teasingly but her stomach sinks despite her words. She had kept her expectations of sleep and where she was going tonight loose, one of the things her therapist worked with her to stop worrying about when getting back out there, and while she realizes that she never once clearly considered that Gale would stay the night, the idea that he wouldn't makes her want to throw up. Why does the idea of letting go of him now make her shoulders tense up horribly?

"Forgive me, but I did not want to overstep…this is your home and I only want you to be comfortable."

An opening—she takes it, "Don't you dare," she says, the words spilling out of her mouth. "Kick your shoes off and come with me. I don't think I'm done having fun with you yet."

Gale's eyes grow so big and wet and shiny now, but no longer full of tears but full of hope instead.

"Thank God," he chuckles, trying to mask his relief. "Candidly, I don't want this day to end."

Poppy pulls down the cuff of his jacket to take a look at his watch. "It's 1:13AM."

"Blast."

Bending down to unzip her boots and tossing them to the side for future Poppy to worry about, she tugs him up the stairs.

"Come with me. I want to see what you look like in my bed."

---

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