Gale bites his tongue and tries to lead her away from such thoughts with a few long, slow thrusts. “You ask a dangerous question. Please forget me-”
“That wasn’t a request, wizard.” Morgane reaches back, digging her nails into the soft flesh of his hips to pull him taut. “That was an order.”
Gale squeezes his eyes shut at the way she growls order at him, for it’s a word right out of his fantasies. Morgane riding his cock with those strong thighs, wringing him dry until she’s satisfied and he is naught but a pliant pet beneath her. Morgane swallowing up his whimpers and moans with her mouth over his, whispering sweet praise. Her authoritative tone is punctured by a whine when he pulls out and plunges in one last time, to slot his mouth next to her ear and gasp, shuddering and weak, like the most private of prayers from the most desperate of souls:
“A kiss, Morgane. Please. It’s all I could ask for, it's all I’ve wanted this whole time. Please, I know I beg for too much, I’m sorry, I’m so sor– “ Gale is cut off by Morgane surging up to him and capturing his lips in hers. Her hand cups the back of his head and he groans into the kiss.
Warmth courses through him. Something flies away, becomes light, inside his heart, his head. Fluttering bliss. Her lips are soft and warm and taste like the first day of summer. He comes with a sweet thrill that grips him body and soul. Moaning and whimpering like he did after his first time as a young man. Sunlight glitters down on them and it feels like he’s been blessed.
Gale shudders as his lips leave Morgane’s. He wishes he didn’t need so much air. His lips tingle like arcane lightning, delectable in a way that would put the taste of the Weave to shame. His eyes flutter open - he hadn’t realized he closed them -
“First kiss since…” Morgane begins, teasing as she collapses with her back to Astarion, before realizing. “Oh. Apologies. I don’t mean to bring her up again.”
Gale, disarmed by the way Morgane takes his hands and guides them back around her waist, lets his next words slip past his gentlemanly defenses.
“Not at all. Why would I be thinking of her?” He remembers himself with a flinch, and continues, abashed, “That is to say- Erm. Funny she’s on your mind. She certainly wasn’t the goddess on mine.”
His next words are a confession: his heart open, bleeding, bare. He can’t help it.
“Mystra isn't sacrificing her body. She’s not praying for something she doesn’t want so that she can save others she needs.” Gale’s brown eyes lock onto Astarion’s red ones. His gaze no longer unfocused with lovesickness, but sharp with intent. He says needs like he’s branding Astarion with the word. Making him swear his own oath to be worthy of her sacrifice. “Call me a lovesick fool. Embarrassingly small minded. Blasphemous, even!” He laughs, mocking only himself, “How brazen a thing for me to say to a paladin of your caliber. But my body, my heart, my soul… they all kneel in worship for a truer, nobler woman. You, Morgane.”
“Gale… I never knew how you felt. I–” Morgane puts a hand over her heart, lips parted softly. Gale looks down, her sincere, open gaze revealing him, blinding him like staring into the sun. He assures himself that once the afterglow fades, she’ll surely feel nothing but disgust with him and his feelings. “I’m afraid my Order didn’t offer much in the way of poetry. But. If I am the sun in holy light, and Astarion is the moon…perhaps, with your beautiful magic, you might be our stars. At least for now.”
Gale nearly sobs. He’s not sure why. Perhaps it’s because he knows it’s true.
“My, are those lines from those romance novels you’re always reading back at camp? Perhaps you two can start a book club.” Astarion teases in the tender silence. It seems he can’t help firing a barb back; instinctual in self-defense. “Now, now. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about our little chat, lover boy. Such sweetness may be good for the baby but not for me. Hush and hope you’ve done your job so this might remain, hm, a one-time deal?”
Even in chains the words unsaid are clear: she’s mine. Gale grits his teeth, and though it’s antithetical to his gentlemanly sensibilities, he cannot help but snarl at Astarion. His hands are still curled around Morgane’s waist and he finds his grip tighter than polite; almost in the hope he will leave some other claim on her. Bruises, marks– something to remind Astarion of his presence. He finds his hand absentmindedly parting her legs. For the first time, Gale looks down, with pride and possessiveness in equal measure, to the mess he’s made. Pearly white drips bead at her entrance, nearly leaking onto the illusory bedroll beneath. As if possessed, he extends his fingers and pushes his seed back into her. His next words are punctuated by the obscene, wet sounds of his fingers in Morgane’s well-fucked cunt. “Mm, one time indeed. Tell me, how many seedbeds have you sown and left unattended, you sanguine ba–“
“Gale, Astarion. Stop,” Morgane attempts to keep her tone steely. But there’s no hiding the way her eyes widen and she bites her lip as Gale’s fingers lazily pump into her, fucking his cum deeper inside. “Do you– ah– need a reminder it is I bearing the brunt of this burden? Put your egos aside. We’re hurt enough.”
Astarion chuckles darkly behind them. “Of course my sweet. A thousand apologies. Besides, it looks like our darling wizard is reminding you quite thoroughly.”
Astarion sounds far away. When he presses a thumb to her oversensitive clit and Morgane catches his wrist with a gasp, Gale comes back to himself. He looks up, bashful, but sees no anger in either of their eyes. He lets Morgane draw his fingers out and takes the nearly punishing grip on his wrist like penance– a reminder of her strength.
She brings his hand up, still obscenely wet in the false firelight, and splays it over her heart. So his palm covers the orb of Lanthander’s sun and the rays spill out from underneath his fingers. Gale chokes, realizing what she’s doing far too late to protest.
“Pray with me,” she murmurs, holding him fast. Her eyes flick back, desperate, towards Astarion. Gale meets his gaze over her shoulder and sees the same resigned anguish he’s sure is all over his own face.
Gale shuts his eyes and nods. Anything for Morgane. Anything.
“Morninglord. Bringer of the Dawn. Let this seed find root inside me, let it grow like the first rose blooms of spring after a cruel winter,” she begins, her voice choking but convicted. “Repeat it. Both of you.”
There is a twinned hesitation that they both seem to overcome in tandem. Gale’s voice sings a chorus with Astarion’s, and both of them finish the prayer with a roughness in their throats. When it’s done Gale can’t help but drop his head against her chest, uncaring if it’s too soft for what they have, just needing to be close to Morgane. To both of them. When he feels a gentle kiss on the top of his head– too cold to be the sunlit paladin’s– he shudders with a quiet sob.
There’s a beat. The sun trickling in from the gaps in the stone is their messenger to Lathander. Any sign of divine confirmation could spell their freedom. Or demise. There is silence. The light is unmoved. Auntie Ethel tuts somewhere too close to their tangle of bodies, and Gale groans against Morgane’s skin as he feels himself growing hard once more under some awful, arcane enthrallment.
Re: Immaculate Conception (4/4)
Gale bites his tongue and tries to lead her away from such thoughts with a few long, slow thrusts. “You ask a dangerous question. Please forget me-”
“That wasn’t a request, wizard.” Morgane reaches back, digging her nails into the soft flesh of his hips to pull him taut. “That was an order.”
Gale squeezes his eyes shut at the way she growls order at him, for it’s a word right out of his fantasies. Morgane riding his cock with those strong thighs, wringing him dry until she’s satisfied and he is naught but a pliant pet beneath her. Morgane swallowing up his whimpers and moans with her mouth over his, whispering sweet praise. Her authoritative tone is punctured by a whine when he pulls out and plunges in one last time, to slot his mouth next to her ear and gasp, shuddering and weak, like the most private of prayers from the most desperate of souls:
“A kiss, Morgane. Please. It’s all I could ask for, it's all I’ve wanted this whole time. Please, I know I beg for too much, I’m sorry, I’m so sor– “ Gale is cut off by Morgane surging up to him and capturing his lips in hers. Her hand cups the back of his head and he groans into the kiss.
Warmth courses through him. Something flies away, becomes light, inside his heart, his head. Fluttering bliss. Her lips are soft and warm and taste like the first day of summer. He comes with a sweet thrill that grips him body and soul. Moaning and whimpering like he did after his first time as a young man. Sunlight glitters down on them and it feels like he’s been blessed.
Gale shudders as his lips leave Morgane’s. He wishes he didn’t need so much air. His lips tingle like arcane lightning, delectable in a way that would put the taste of the Weave to shame. His eyes flutter open - he hadn’t realized he closed them -
“First kiss since…” Morgane begins, teasing as she collapses with her back to Astarion, before realizing. “Oh. Apologies. I don’t mean to bring her up again.”
Gale, disarmed by the way Morgane takes his hands and guides them back around her waist, lets his next words slip past his gentlemanly defenses.
“Not at all. Why would I be thinking of her?” He remembers himself with a flinch, and continues, abashed, “That is to say- Erm. Funny she’s on your mind. She certainly wasn’t the goddess on mine.”
His next words are a confession: his heart open, bleeding, bare. He can’t help it.
“Mystra isn't sacrificing her body. She’s not praying for something she doesn’t want so that she can save others she needs.” Gale’s brown eyes lock onto Astarion’s red ones. His gaze no longer unfocused with lovesickness, but sharp with intent. He says needs like he’s branding Astarion with the word. Making him swear his own oath to be worthy of her sacrifice. “Call me a lovesick fool. Embarrassingly small minded. Blasphemous, even!” He laughs, mocking only himself, “How brazen a thing for me to say to a paladin of your caliber. But my body, my heart, my soul… they all kneel in worship for a truer, nobler woman. You, Morgane.”
“Gale… I never knew how you felt. I–” Morgane puts a hand over her heart, lips parted softly. Gale looks down, her sincere, open gaze revealing him, blinding him like staring into the sun. He assures himself that once the afterglow fades, she’ll surely feel nothing but disgust with him and his feelings. “I’m afraid my Order didn’t offer much in the way of poetry. But. If I am the sun in holy light, and Astarion is the moon…perhaps, with your beautiful magic, you might be our stars. At least for now.”
Gale nearly sobs. He’s not sure why. Perhaps it’s because he knows it’s true.
“My, are those lines from those romance novels you’re always reading back at camp? Perhaps you two can start a book club.” Astarion teases in the tender silence. It seems he can’t help firing a barb back; instinctual in self-defense. “Now, now. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about our little chat, lover boy. Such sweetness may be good for the baby but not for me. Hush and hope you’ve done your job so this might remain, hm, a one-time deal?”
Even in chains the words unsaid are clear: she’s mine. Gale grits his teeth, and though it’s antithetical to his gentlemanly sensibilities, he cannot help but snarl at Astarion. His hands are still curled around Morgane’s waist and he finds his grip tighter than polite; almost in the hope he will leave some other claim on her. Bruises, marks– something to remind Astarion of his presence. He finds his hand absentmindedly parting her legs. For the first time, Gale looks down, with pride and possessiveness in equal measure, to the mess he’s made. Pearly white drips bead at her entrance, nearly leaking onto the illusory bedroll beneath. As if possessed, he extends his fingers and pushes his seed back into her. His next words are punctuated by the obscene, wet sounds of his fingers in Morgane’s well-fucked cunt. “Mm, one time indeed. Tell me, how many seedbeds have you sown and left unattended, you sanguine ba–“
“Gale, Astarion. Stop,” Morgane attempts to keep her tone steely. But there’s no hiding the way her eyes widen and she bites her lip as Gale’s fingers lazily pump into her, fucking his cum deeper inside. “Do you– ah– need a reminder it is I bearing the brunt of this burden? Put your egos aside. We’re hurt enough.”
Astarion chuckles darkly behind them. “Of course my sweet. A thousand apologies. Besides, it looks like our darling wizard is reminding you quite thoroughly.”
Astarion sounds far away. When he presses a thumb to her oversensitive clit and Morgane catches his wrist with a gasp, Gale comes back to himself. He looks up, bashful, but sees no anger in either of their eyes. He lets Morgane draw his fingers out and takes the nearly punishing grip on his wrist like penance– a reminder of her strength.
She brings his hand up, still obscenely wet in the false firelight, and splays it over her heart. So his palm covers the orb of Lanthander’s sun and the rays spill out from underneath his fingers. Gale chokes, realizing what she’s doing far too late to protest.
“Pray with me,” she murmurs, holding him fast. Her eyes flick back, desperate, towards Astarion. Gale meets his gaze over her shoulder and sees the same resigned anguish he’s sure is all over his own face.
Gale shuts his eyes and nods. Anything for Morgane. Anything.
“Morninglord. Bringer of the Dawn. Let this seed find root inside me, let it grow like the first rose blooms of spring after a cruel winter,” she begins, her voice choking but convicted. “Repeat it. Both of you.”
There is a twinned hesitation that they both seem to overcome in tandem. Gale’s voice sings a chorus with Astarion’s, and both of them finish the prayer with a roughness in their throats. When it’s done Gale can’t help but drop his head against her chest, uncaring if it’s too soft for what they have, just needing to be close to Morgane. To both of them. When he feels a gentle kiss on the top of his head– too cold to be the sunlit paladin’s– he shudders with a quiet sob.
There’s a beat. The sun trickling in from the gaps in the stone is their messenger to Lathander. Any sign of divine confirmation could spell their freedom. Or demise. There is silence. The light is unmoved. Auntie Ethel tuts somewhere too close to their tangle of bodies, and Gale groans against Morgane’s skin as he feels himself growing hard once more under some awful, arcane enthrallment.
“Again then, dearies. Better luck next time.”