His face scrunches up in deliberation, the crease between his eyebrows becoming a canyon. That 'please' nearly snaps the last thread of his resistance. The want aches almost as badly as his arcane hunger. His fingertips press into her hips, and it's hard to tell whether it's to hold her or keep her at a distance. "Are you sure?" It's not clear whether he's asking about her alcohol intake or about himself. "I would not want to... To take advantage."
Eager hands tug at the front of his shirt, trying to pull him back to her.
"I'm so sure. Extremely sure."
Gods, she wishes he would take advantage, but he couldn't even if he tried. She's tipsy, but nowhere near far enough gone that she couldn't put an immediate stop to anything she didn't like. And right now, she can't imagine not liking anything from him.
Ah, hells. Just this once, maybe it would be alright to tell the part of his brain that's always thinking and worrying to just be quiet. He pulls her in by her hips, kissing her again, though this time it's softer, slower. If they're going to do this, he means to take his time, to enjoy it.
Of all Harley's mysterious skills, getting someone to decide to go along with her just this once might be her most powerful spell.
Something about his fingers against her hips and pulling her in is like a command override directly to her brain. She presses her body fully against his, warm and pliant and real. Her hands glide up his chest and around his shoulders to slide her fingers through his hair. Tiny, needy sounds bubble up in her throat as they kiss.
She presses against him and he stumbles backwards over a stack of books, and it really says something that he doesn't stop what he's doing to make sure the books aren't damaged. He ends up with his back against a wall, but he doesn't mind, because it gives him better leverage to slide one hand around to the small of her back and pull her body tighter against his. The other hand moves to cup her face like something precious, his thumb moving against the 'rotten' tattoo like he can smear it away. After a moment, he dips his head, chasing those thumbprints with kisses.
The brief stumble doesn't even register but his hand pressing her closer on the small of her back makes her breath catch in her throat. Her heart is doing flips in her chest. She slides a thigh between his legs and rocks her hips forward.
Saying please has worked each time, so she whispers it again. She couldn't even say what precisely she's asking for. Maybe everything, if it's from Gale.
The friction is lightning through his body, coiling low in his stomach. He feels like an inexperienced teenager again with how easily she can inflame him. With his lips on her throat, tasting her pulse, he can feel it as well as hear it when she whispers please, and gods, she's right, he would give her everything. His heart gallops so hard against his rib cage that it hurts.
Except that sharp ache is too familiar, too loathsome and hungry, as desperate to consume his joy as it is magic. "Wait," he rasps, struggling to pull himself back even though he's against the wall. "Wait, stop. I can't."
She stops the moment he pulls away, but can't keep the confusion and, yes, the pain of rejection off her face.
"Did I do something wrong?" She doesn't know what made him not want this so suddenly, and is afraid of what punishment might follow. Nothing Gale has ever said or done has made her think he might lash out, but she's been wrong about people before. She claws frantically through memories of the last day trying to figure out how this almost perfect moment fell apart.
"Oh," she answers herself. Her voice is soft and sad and so, so small. "Oh, you don't-- unless you care about--" Her face crumples and she drops her head so she doesn't have to look him in the eyes. "Oh, I'm so stupid."
"No!" The way she crumples feels like he's been punched in the gut and for just a second he can't help but wonder at her former lover's identity and whether they could really stand against an arch mage in combat. "Look at me." It's the closest to bossy he's sounded in the time she's known him, but there's no animosity in his voice, only steel. "Please." He puts his hands on her shoulders, hating the tension he finds there.
"I'm sorry. I..." His typically numerous words are scattered like papers in a storm. His face, still flushed from excitement, screws up with several different emotions, all knotted up until it's hard to pick them apart and identify them. Frustrated, he takes her hand and places it on his chest. Beneath her palm, his heart still races, but above her fingertips, soft enough to be missed unless you knew what you were looking for (and had perhaps done an extensive examination), the lines peeking out the neckline of his shirt glow. It's his turn avoid eye contact when he says, "I... can't." He clears his throat in an attempt to recompose himself. "As you know, my condition is... volatile, to put it mildly, and I fear that any... undue excitement, such as it were, might be enough to destabilize it." Talking about himself like a research project makes it a little easier.
He drags his hands down his face. Trying to debate the intricacies of the
orb while still partially erect was not how he expected to spend any part
of his night.
"Mystra doesn't control the orb, certainly not like that. I thought it was
a lost piece of the Weave, which I sought to return to her, but it is
something else, something malignant." He does his best to retain his
professional, knowledgeable, professor tone despite the absurdity of the
conversation. "Past, er, experiences suggest that dreams aren't sufficient
stimuli to cause problems with the orb. And I'm not dignifying the other
question with a response."
"For the record, this is also an important part of your medical history."
She reaches out and trails her fingers over the visible wisps of the mark. Her eyes trace the faint glow, and then drift lower.
"You can't." She worries her lower lip between her teeth. Her expression is clearly wondering if it might be worth detonation anyway. "But you do want to?"
"Blow up the city? No, I'd rather not. Tara does live here, you know." A joke, just a moment to stall, but not because he doesn't take her question seriously. The hesitation to answer genuinely is only to work up the nerve, to decide how best to explain his mind.
He lifts his hand to place it over hers. "Were circumstances different, I would want to have a conversation about the matter, to ensure we were on the same page. As I've mentioned, I don't engage in such activities lightly, though I do not judge those who care to indulge in a more casual nature. I did try such... informal arrangements, as a younger man, but it did not suit me, I'm afraid. So I would want to make sure we... see each other in the same light." Could she love him? Does she love him? Has she run out of jokes, or is this just another fun time? He could have used fewer words to ask, but that's not really his style. "For my part, I find you resplendent. Whoever gave you the idea you were stupid is a buffoon of the highest order. You have been a guiding star when darkness would have swallowed me whole, and more than anything else, I need you to know that."
He calls her resplendent and a guiding star and still finds it impossible to consider that her affection is anything more than a jest.
He also says shit like buffoon, but they can't all be winners.
She turns her hand under his to link their fingers together and leans forward until they are almost touching again.
"You seem to be very bad at listening, or maybe because you don't take me seriously you can't imagine I ever say anything plainly. So I'm going to say it again and you better listen this time. I love you, Gale Dekarios, and I'm going to marry you for real."
He dips his head until their foreheads touch. "It's not that." At least not really. He had assumed that she was joking over and over, but not because he didn't listen or take her seriously. "It's just... You deserve someone who can give you everything you want." He doesn't just mean sex. "If only you'd met me at my prime. Gale of Waterdeep, Archmage, Chosen of Mystra, a wizard of exceptional power and renown. Why bother with a dimming shadow? Why marry someone who's dying?" He's never actually said it out loud before, but as terrible as it is, it's almost a relief, like finally realizing how a poem should end.
"I'm still a blowhard, but I must inform you that I'm also a very strong swimmer, so I would only return."
I love you now. The answer struggling to surface is a simple why?, but he swallows it until he's sure it won't reemerge, at least for now. "I love you too. I'm sorry about... everything. If things were different, I would woo you properly, but I shall endeavor to do as much as I can with the time I am given."
She cups his face like something precious, the way he touches her, and runs her thumb over the angle of his jaw.
"Stop talking about if things were different. We live the life we're in now, and yours isn't over yet."
She kisses him fully on the mouth, but it's soft and sweet.
"And if physical intimacy is something you're interested in, there might be a brilliant and gorgeous doctor nearby with some very clever ideas. But for tonight, how about you make some tea and we talk on the balcony?"
"But I--" Her kiss stops him in his tracks and lingers long enough to erase whatever counterpoints he was working up to.
He laughs and a blush creeps up across his cheeks. "Well! Who am I to argue with a brilliant and gorgeous doctor?" Though he's hesitant to disentangle himself from her, he'll do whatever she asks of him, from now until his end.
Oh his way out of the room, he stops to assess and restack the books he had knocked over then, satisfied with that, proceeds to the kitchen.
When he returns, it's with two teacups and a well loved quilt thrown over his shoulder. He passes her one -- tea with honey, lemon, and a little bourbon -- and then gestures for her to have a seat on the bench so he can drape the blanket over both of them as they sit.
She settles into a cozy nest with her ... Well, her whatever he is now. Whatever they are. That's one of the things they should probably talk about.
One hand carefully holds the teacup and the other slides into his hand, arms looped together so she can tuck against his side. Her head rests on his shoulder and she sighs happily.
This was her own idea, but now that they are settled and ready for a conversation, she just wants to fold the quiet moment around themselves and live here a while.
For a while, they just sit quietly like that, listening to the waves, sipping tea, but of course that can never last for long with Gale.
"I just need to say one thing. And you don't have to talk about it, I'm not asking questions, just making a statement." When he glances sidelong at her, in the moonlight, she looks like a marble statue. "When I said to stop and you pulled back, you looked upset and... almost afraid? And I need for you to know that you never, ever have to be afraid of me." He squeezes her hand.
She glances back at him, and has to fight to keep her face neutral. She sucks air between her teeth. His hand is warm and careful around hers.
"It's not that I'm afraid of you, but..." The arm looped through his tightens against her body. He's an anchor. "I don't know many people who are kind."
She forces herself to breathe evenly, trying to exhale the rising tension.
"And I never thought that someone kind would want me."
"I'm sorry that life has been like that for you thus far." Anger at everyone who hurt her, and the sorrow it leaves behind when it fades, make the orb flicker just once, though he doesn't notice. "But we live the life we're in now, and so long as I'm here, you will never want for kindness, I swear it. Because you deserve it."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"I'm so sure. Extremely sure."
Gods, she wishes he would take advantage, but he couldn't even if he tried. She's tipsy, but nowhere near far enough gone that she couldn't put an immediate stop to anything she didn't like. And right now, she can't imagine not liking anything from him.
"I want to, Gale. Please."
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Something about his fingers against her hips and pulling her in is like a command override directly to her brain. She presses her body fully against his, warm and pliant and real. Her hands glide up his chest and around his shoulders to slide her fingers through his hair. Tiny, needy sounds bubble up in her throat as they kiss.
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Saying please has worked each time, so she whispers it again. She couldn't even say what precisely she's asking for. Maybe everything, if it's from Gale.
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Except that sharp ache is too familiar, too loathsome and hungry, as desperate to consume his joy as it is magic. "Wait," he rasps, struggling to pull himself back even though he's against the wall. "Wait, stop. I can't."
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"Did I do something wrong?" She doesn't know what made him not want this so suddenly, and is afraid of what punishment might follow. Nothing Gale has ever said or done has made her think he might lash out, but she's been wrong about people before. She claws frantically through memories of the last day trying to figure out how this almost perfect moment fell apart.
"Oh," she answers herself. Her voice is soft and sad and so, so small. "Oh, you don't-- unless you care about--" Her face crumples and she drops her head so she doesn't have to look him in the eyes. "Oh, I'm so stupid."
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"I'm sorry. I..." His typically numerous words are scattered like papers in a storm. His face, still flushed from excitement, screws up with several different emotions, all knotted up until it's hard to pick them apart and identify them. Frustrated, he takes her hand and places it on his chest. Beneath her palm, his heart still races, but above her fingertips, soft enough to be missed unless you knew what you were looking for (and had perhaps done an extensive examination), the lines peeking out the neckline of his shirt glow. It's his turn avoid eye contact when he says, "I... can't." He clears his throat in an attempt to recompose himself. "As you know, my condition is... volatile, to put it mildly, and I fear that any... undue excitement, such as it were, might be enough to destabilize it." Talking about himself like a research project makes it a little easier.
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That's sobering.
Her palm presses against his heartbeat, and she looks mildly confused and then baffled as she puts the pieces together.
"Your goddess ex lover doesn't let you come? That's fucked up!"
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She crosses her arms and raises a skeptical eyebrow. All of a sudden she's sober and unkissed and the gods themselves are running her good time.
"Are you going to explode if you have a sexy dream? Do you not get to ... self service?"
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He drags his hands down his face. Trying to debate the intricacies of the orb while still partially erect was not how he expected to spend any part of his night.
"Mystra doesn't control the orb, certainly not like that. I thought it was a lost piece of the Weave, which I sought to return to her, but it is something else, something malignant." He does his best to retain his professional, knowledgeable, professor tone despite the absurdity of the conversation. "Past, er, experiences suggest that dreams aren't sufficient stimuli to cause problems with the orb. And I'm not dignifying the other question with a response."
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She reaches out and trails her fingers over the visible wisps of the mark. Her eyes trace the faint glow, and then drift lower.
"You can't." She worries her lower lip between her teeth. Her expression is clearly wondering if it might be worth detonation anyway. "But you do want to?"
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He lifts his hand to place it over hers. "Were circumstances different, I would want to have a conversation about the matter, to ensure we were on the same page. As I've mentioned, I don't engage in such activities lightly, though I do not judge those who care to indulge in a more casual nature. I did try such... informal arrangements, as a younger man, but it did not suit me, I'm afraid. So I would want to make sure we... see each other in the same light." Could she love him? Does she love him? Has she run out of jokes, or is this just another fun time? He could have used fewer words to ask, but that's not really his style. "For my part, I find you resplendent. Whoever gave you the idea you were stupid is a buffoon of the highest order. You have been a guiding star when darkness would have swallowed me whole, and more than anything else, I need you to know that."
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He also says shit like buffoon, but they can't all be winners.
She turns her hand under his to link their fingers together and leans forward until they are almost touching again.
"You seem to be very bad at listening, or maybe because you don't take me seriously you can't imagine I ever say anything plainly. So I'm going to say it again and you better listen this time. I love you, Gale Dekarios, and I'm going to marry you for real."
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"I probably would have thought you were a real blowhard and pushed you off a dock." And that's if she were feeling charitable.
"I met you now. I love you now."
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I love you now. The answer struggling to surface is a simple why?, but he swallows it until he's sure it won't reemerge, at least for now. "I love you too. I'm sorry about... everything. If things were different, I would woo you properly, but I shall endeavor to do as much as I can with the time I am given."
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"Stop talking about if things were different. We live the life we're in now, and yours isn't over yet."
She kisses him fully on the mouth, but it's soft and sweet.
"And if physical intimacy is something you're interested in, there might be a brilliant and gorgeous doctor nearby with some very clever ideas. But for tonight, how about you make some tea and we talk on the balcony?"
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He laughs and a blush creeps up across his cheeks. "Well! Who am I to argue with a brilliant and gorgeous doctor?" Though he's hesitant to disentangle himself from her, he'll do whatever she asks of him, from now until his end.
Oh his way out of the room, he stops to assess and restack the books he had knocked over then, satisfied with that, proceeds to the kitchen.
When he returns, it's with two teacups and a well loved quilt thrown over his shoulder. He passes her one -- tea with honey, lemon, and a little bourbon -- and then gestures for her to have a seat on the bench so he can drape the blanket over both of them as they sit.
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One hand carefully holds the teacup and the other slides into his hand, arms looped together so she can tuck against his side. Her head rests on his shoulder and she sighs happily.
This was her own idea, but now that they are settled and ready for a conversation, she just wants to fold the quiet moment around themselves and live here a while.
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"I just need to say one thing. And you don't have to talk about it, I'm not asking questions, just making a statement." When he glances sidelong at her, in the moonlight, she looks like a marble statue. "When I said to stop and you pulled back, you looked upset and... almost afraid? And I need for you to know that you never, ever have to be afraid of me." He squeezes her hand.
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"It's not that I'm afraid of you, but..." The arm looped through his tightens against her body. He's an anchor. "I don't know many people who are kind."
She forces herself to breathe evenly, trying to exhale the rising tension.
"And I never thought that someone kind would want me."
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