Baldur's Gate 3 Prompt Post 1

[withinadream]

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Re: Immaculate Conception (2/4)

[(Anonymous)]

“Gale, I– you don’t have to do that. I’m a soldier. I’ve taken worse,” Morgane says, legs relaxing a little Astarion nuzzles against her neck. “You’re kind. Too kind for me to ask you to do more than you have to.”

“Let him, darling, if you want to.” Astarion finds his voice, high and lofty though somewhat far away. “You might be used to pain but I simply can’t bear to see it on your face. Ah, not any more than necessary, that is to say.”

Morgane turns to kiss him in earnest. Gale looks away but can still hear her shuddering, tearful sigh she lets out against his mouth. It reminds him of his place, however lowly it might be. Even as she reaches out, blind, and finds his hand to give him a reassuring squeeze. Gods. When was the last time they had truly touched? Had they ever?

Gale squeezes back but allows himself nothing more than the briefest of touches before settling between her strong thighs as she kisses Astarion. His eyes linger on Morgane’s unarmoured body. She looks so… vulnerable without her chainmail. Despite him knowing full well she could kill him half-asleep with nothing but a metal camp cup. Her now flat, chiseled stomach (gods she was a work of art) swollen with child… His cock twitches with interest under his blood-caked trousers and he almost slaps himself. He cannot allow his mind to wander down that dark corridor he keeps tight under lock and key, where he keeps his other carnal, unacceptable desires.

He hasn’t earned that happy ending, and he never will at this rate. The sooner he could discard that dead end of a fantasy the better. It doesn’t stop the dream from flickering in the darker recesses of his mind, though. His hand in Morgane’s, watching their child grow. The most inimitable product of their union, an undeniable proclamation to the universe that they were together as one.

“Keep your eyes closed, Morgane. Please. Try to forget I’m here.” Gale’s voice is a whisper, still reedy and wrecked from the cries of battle. His hands shake, and he steels himself against the voice in his head, condemning him: ‘Traitor’, it calls him, ‘unfaithful as any mortal man’. His inner critic has sounded feminine and lofty for the last year.

Morgane breaks the kiss and offers him a small smile as his trembling hands come to rest at the edges of her smallclothes. He doesn’t dare let his fingers graze higher to where her skin is bare before him. The mere image of his palm splayed over her belly as his tongue works between her legs nearly drives him to madness. So, as she leans back into the comfort of Astarion, he pulls them down. He can’t help but fold them next to her– a courtesy, a sliver of chivalry that’s too sweet or what they’re doing.

He can’t lie to the critic in his head that he hasn’t fantasized about this sight. As he slots between her legs, he feels a hot, nearly drooling want pool on his tongue. He lets out a shaky exhale and nearly grinds into nothing as he sees the feeling of his breath against her dark curls has her tense a little in anticipation.

Gale traces a tentative finger against her folds. She’s not nearly as wet as she is in his fantasies. But, that’s why he was here, wasn’t it? This was..mechanical. He was a tool to be used. Gods. The idea of being used– of another life where Morgane drags him by the collar to her tent after a hard fought battle and sits across his face with naught but an order to take care of her– is another fantasy he wishes wasn’t burning hot behind his eyelids. Gale, in an attempt to quiet his traitorous mind, brings the flat of his tongue between her legs at last.

Morgane lets out a hiccuped gasp above him Gale can tell is muffled by a kiss. He keeps his tongue feather light, teasing against her entrance with the touch of the gentlest arcane words. He tries to ignore his own throbbing arousal as he tastes her– but it’s hard when it’s her, all sweat and slick and holy sunlight. He dares to rest his palms on her thighs as he drags his tongue a little higher. Still teasing, testing, not quite where she wants it. Or, where he hopes she wants it, at least.

Gale wonders how many nights she’s lain against Astarion so intimately. He wonders how often Astarion’s done this for her.

He can hear the vampire murmuring above him. It takes a moment for his brain, hazy from blood loss in a multitude of ways, to realize he’s speaking Elvish. Whispered and breathy between kisses and light dips of the tongue against the shell of her round human ears, are praises in his mother tongue.

“Gorgeous. Ethereal, endless sunlight that I can hold in my hands. You’re everything, Morgane.” She gasps at the sound of her name lilted between the ancient, ethereal words. When Astarion switches to common he is no less charming. “Picture this. Our first night together. You were soaked before I even laid a finger on you, darling, you poor thing. And you tasted divine…”

As Astarion continues, Gale feels her get slicker against his tongue. He burns with envy; wishing himself to be the one to take her apart with words alone. He could tempt her in Elvish if he wanted. In fiery Infernal, in liquid Aquan– he could worship her in Celestial, language of gods themselves, if she so wished it.

Astarion’s soft whispers continue, and Gale traces a tentative finger against her folds. Morgane’s breath hitches at the contact, and Gale’s heart clenches. He feels a lick of heat up his throat as the Netherese glow chases the adrenaline, but he swallows it down. Now’s nowhere near an appropriate time. Focused on the tremble of her thighs, he drags his index finger up her seam, just behind his tongue. When he finally lavishes her clit with some attention, he is rewarded with a little gasp above. He teases her entrance in time with the circles of his tongue: steady, soft, but unrelenting.

As Morgane relaxes, his teasing finger slips into her with ease. She soaks him down to his knuckles as he crooks it upwards just so. Gale, spurred on, speeds up a little with the tip of his tongue. Just a little more pressure, just enough to feel her clit harden in his mouth.

“My warrior. My brave paladin. So wonderful to see you with all that armour. Even if it’s not me taking you apart,” Astarion continues between Elvish and common. “You were so good for me that night, my sweet. Are his fingers inside you, now? Keep those pretty eyes closed and imagine how you rode mine so beautifully, your back against that tree in the moonlight. Yes, go on, grind on to them. Lose yourself in the memory.”

Ever the charmer. Morgane mumbles something that sounds trapped between Astarion’s name and a divine prayer. Gale tries to keep quiet as she follows his instructions, her hips rolling up almost unconsciously against his hand. He draws out of her (only an inch– he’s far too shy to fuck into her with abandon) and offers her a few shallow thrusts in time with the broad strokes of his tongue.

When Morgane lets out a genuine moan at that, Gale worries he might spill at the sound of it. He loathes to admit it but Astarion is right. To hear that passionate, knightly voice let out such soft pretty sighs is intoxicating. He loathes it more that he should never have been afforded such sounds. That they belonged to Astarion alone– to coax out with his own tongue and honeyed words. His guilt settles low in his belly but his arousal settles lower.

Gale so often loses track of time between a lover’s legs. He keeps count by pressure and circles and fingers slipped into hot, warm wetness. All that to say: he’s not sure how long he’s been worshiping at the altar of Morgane’s thighs when they finally clench around his head. All he knows is he’s far overcome that shyness as he pistons three fingers inside her just on the side of too much. As she squeezes against him, hips bucking up, he avails his mouth for her to truly use. He lets his tongue loll out for Morgane to grind against, his fingers keep pace as she does. Let me make it good for you, he says in the way he takes her clit in his mouth and lets her wetness soak his beard. Let me be good for you, he thinks, lashing his tongue against her as he drives his fingers so deep it makes her stomach flex, as she takes it– takes it beautifully.

“Good,’ Astarion whispers above him. Gale’s neglected cock twitches– it’s as if the elf is talking to him. Though that idea is quickly dashed as he continues. “Oh, good girl. You are positively dripping for me. And I am dying to fuck you, darling, but not before I see you come undone on my fingers. Let go so I might fill you up properly.”

Gale ducks his head and fucks her through it. He’s an instrument; strings to be plucked by the lovers before him. He’s a whisper of Weave; malleable and made to be commanded by strong, clever hands. He’s a dying, dying man who wants to drown her in pleasure so she’ll never forget him.

But in truth, he’s grinding shamelessly down as Morgane chases orgasm over his tongue. Her hips are only stilled from bucking wild by Astarion’s possessive hand across her stomach. She squeezes Gale’s head between her thighs and somehow her fingers find their way into his hair. He can’t help it, he groans against her folds, neglecting his duty for just a moment for fear her taste on his tongue and nails in his scalp might push him over the edge. It’s muffled as Morgane, lost in delirium, commands him back to work.

And, well. Gale is nothing if not a loyal worshiper. His hand snakes beneath his own weight to squeeze the base of his own aching cock– just the stave off the orgasm he’s sure would have hit him as her thighs close so tight he’s trapped. She’s so quiet as she comes hot and slick against his face. The only noises are Astarion gentle elvish and his own whining, muffled between her legs.

He can’t quite bring himself to look at her yet. Gale knocks his forehead against her thigh. Her scent is overwhelming– stuck to him and sticky over his beard.

“Oh, sunlight.” Morgane takes in a deep breath and lets it out with a shudder, brows furrowing. “How lucky I am to have you.”

Gale’s heart pangs in his chest. He’d never deny whatever fantasy flashes behind her lovely fluttering eyes. He moves to draw his head back from her thigh; to sever their last point of contact so she might have a moment of afterglow with her lover.

He’s brought back with a gentle, sword calloused hand against his brow.

“Both of you,” she manages, staring down at him with eyes he so wished were blown black for him.

He still blushes under the praise. Allows himself a moment of indulgence, imagining it were him she afforded such words for back at the safety of camp. Gods, she was radiance itself. All the more ironic that the first to flock to her solar radiance was Astarion. They fit together well above him, he had to admit. Tanned skin against pale as Morgane drops her head against his shoulder, content.

But as the waves of their moment of pleasure wash away, reality comes back to them in all its dark glory. Gale’s knees ache against the stone floor. Astarion clears his throat, nuzzling into Morgane’s neck as if he’s trying to hide his tears. And Morgane, their brave, wonderful, stalwart Morgane draws her legs up to her chest, eyes black with fear instead. Gods. Her inner fire should never be smothered like this. Gale’s unchained hands ache to betray him; cast a cantrip in some desperate folly to find another way out of this. But he has seen the hag’s magic, and knows any step out of line will be met with lethal force. He hesitates. He decides to beg.

“Please, Lady Ethel, grant us a modicum of clemency…” He calls out to the cave walls once more. “May I at least make her comfortable for this?”

They answer, echoing around him. “Tick tock, little wizard, get on with your request. Auntie’s patience is wearing thin.”

“A familiar tent-roof to look at? A safe place to lay? Please, I am a wizard of exceptional acclaim and I… bow… to your will. But if you would only allow me the smallest amount of illusion magic, I can assure you, the more relaxed we can all be, the better the child will… take.” Gale can’t help the way his lip quivers when the word leaves his mouth.

The way the corner of his mouth twitches up at the idea of Morgne taking his child feels like blasphemy. He hates it. He doesn’t want to give this hag anything. But he’s willing to weaponize the amount of research he’s done on fecundity. Research, he’ll admit, that goes suspiciously beyond his normal ravenous interest in the studies of the universe.

“Oh the silly things humans do for love. Go on then, mister magic hands. Give Auntie a show. But don’t be cheeky about it! Or else.” There’s a slither of enchantment magic just behind his ear, almost like a caress. The message is clear. Any step out of line will lead to Gale’s body being no longer his own, and any semblance of comfort gone for Morgane. He gives the shallowest nod, trying not to let the fear show on his features, before plucking the Weave like piano keys.

“Astarion, help me out here,” he murmurs as the magic comes to his fingertips.

“My hands are tied, Gale-”

“No, you presumptuous oaf– what does your tent look like inside? I imagine you and Morgane spend an awful lot of time looking at it.” Gale cringes and swears internally. His jealousy is starting to rear its head; embittering his words. He breathes deep and dilutes the acrid words on his tongue. But he doesn’t have time to apologize before Astarion speaks.

“Red canvas. Cormyran knot embroidery. Candlelit, with bergamot perfume, if she’s coming.” Astarion’s eyes hold softness as he turns his head back down to Morgane. He whispers something to her under his breath as Gale weaves the image into existence. The dank cave air warms, and the dark and smell of mildew are chased away by romantic candlelight and Astarion’s perfume. The black stone overhead is covered by a veil of crimson as Gale calls down his illusion. Gale’s practiced eye can see through it as easily as sunlight pierces through a bride’s veil. He knows Morgane is just as capable, but prays she can forgive him his inadequacy.

“Tada.” he offers, more like an apology. It’s worth it to see the worry melt, even slightly, from both their faces.

“You forgot my imported Waterdhavian lace robe.” Astarion sniffs with a trademark haughtiness. “But, well done otherwise. I suppose.”

“You should save your magic,” Morgane scolds. Gale has been on the receiving end of her chastising enough to know she doesn’t mean it. “But. Thank you.”

Re: Immaculate Conception (3/4)

[(Anonymous)]

She shifts between Astarion’s legs. There’s a question of how that hangs heavy in the air. And as badly as Gale would like to take her intimately– to wrap himself up in everything that is Morgane and spill inside her with his head buried in the crook of her shoulder and his arms tight around her back– he knows that’s a lover’s right; not his. Plus, he doubts Astarion would accept such an overstep. He had been invited through the threshold of their relationship, certainly, but not upstairs. It was more than likely the vampire would claw his throat out shortly after Ethel’s. He sits back on his haunches.

“I won’t take it personally, you know. If you’d like to… comfort yourself on him. I know this must all be a bit much.” Gale draws circles in the air at Astarion.

“And exactly what do you mean by that, Gale?” She challenges.

He sighs. Gale knows himself to be charming; he ended a couple dozen days in wizarding school with another in his bed, but with Morgane, something always tightens his tongue. Makes him swallow down poetry that would flow like water from his heart had he only known she’d have a cup to fill with it. But he’d sooner drown in his unrequited love than douse her with it. So radiant is she, a bracing ray of sunlight, a shield and brilliant sword; he forces his way through his next words like they aren’t a knife to his heart.

“I mean.” Gale pinches between his eyebrows and his stomach sinks. “You don’t have to look at me for it. We’re not lovers. You owe me no intimacy. No trivial amount of tender consolation for the… sowing. I’d rather you were in any part happy. Comforted by the kisses of your real lover” Gale forces the tiniest smile onto his face through his self admonishment.

“Gale, I think you underestimate your place in my heart. I’m not yours, but I still-“ Morgane hesitates. Her lips press together and Gale catches a change in Astarion’s gaze. Something forces the vampire’s tongue still, mercifully, as Morgane resumes speaking.

“...I still value you. And I wouldn’t be able to accept this if it wasn’t at least you doing it. Astarion can’t; the Dawnfather himself would have to usher forth the most brilliant of blessings for me to bear his child. And exposing him to that amount of sunlight might outright kill him.”

Before Gale can answer, a shiver of anxiety chills his spine. He feels the tadpole in his brain reach out without his direction. Morgane? No, she refused to use such powers. The brief flash of dread is interrupted by Astarion’s cool voice. A psychic tunnel connects his intuition to Astarions, feeding him a glimpse of the vampire’s worries:

“Morgane’s oath forbids her from lying. She doesn't accept you lightly. Some part of her genuinely chooses you. If you’re nervous, schoolboy, maybe it’s because you’re afraid of why.” Gale feels the cold needle of genuine terror that pierces Astarion’s heart, more violent than he’s ever feared a wooden stake would. Then, a skittish acceptance– almost chaste in its earnesty. Trust. Love. A love he wishes he shared with Morgane, true, but that makes his heart swell all the same at the depths of Astarion’s devotion.

Gale meets his eyes, his pale lips perfectly crooked into a sickle moon smile, his eyes hooded seductively in a way Gale has learned to be measured. But with Morgane facing Gale, Astarion’s face softens. “I wouldn’t let anyone other than you touch her. Not for a moment. Come, wizard. Share our bed for the night and let us forget about it in the morning.”

His final sentence on the matter is punctuated with an uncharacteristically kind smile that disappears like the morning mist when met by dawn. Astarion’s lilting laugh brushes away the last wisps of intimacy with dismissive ease.

“Besides, Faerun would weep; one of its greatest works of art lost, burnt to a crisp in Lanthander’s light.” Astarion chimes in, cheerful as if he hadn’t just confessed. His expression is once again an easy smile, no trace of the icy intent Gale saw a second ago. “Now, come to me my sweet. In as sorry a state as I am, I still know I’m a feast for the eyes. Sate yourself, Morgane.”

Gale has no choice but to study Astarion as Morgane, with a final look of thanks, turns her attention to him. Despite the purpling bruise covering his orbital, cheekbone, all the way down his porcelain cheek to his neck where the hag grabbed him, Gale can’t deny: Astarion was an amount of beautiful that implied divine intervention. And how well he fit next to illustrious Morgane; as if the sun and the moon danced between night and day every time they touched.

She settles between his legs on her knees and cards a hand through his silver curls, careful to avoid where they are matted with blood. She touches her forehead to his in a gesture that’s so intimate Gale blushes. As they kiss, his shaking hands find the stays of his robe– it seems as good a time as any to undress.

Gale cannot leave Morgane to the humiliation of nakedness alone, like a body to be rutted whilst he keeps his own shame covered. So, though he loathes the thought of showing them his underbelly– softened from years of arcane study and a well-stocked wine cellar– it seems the honourable thing to do. He shrugs out his robes and underclothes as the lovers enjoy each other. His arousal has flagged, he’s half hard between his own thick dark curls, but a glance at the broad expanse of Morgane’s back as she shifts onto her hands and knees for him brings it back quite fully.

It occurs to Gale that he has never taken someone quite like this before. In the rare times his lovemaking with Mystra ventured into the more corporeal, she would have him on his back. As for his romps at Blackstaff Academy…well, when they progressed beyond desperate hands under the covers, he had found himself in Morgane’s position more often than not.

As he rests a tentative hand on her lower back, guiding her towards him and silently asking her to arch her back, Gale hears her break the kiss.

“I’m not here,” he murmurs, marveling at the way his fingers splay so perfectly between the dimples on her back. “Kiss him, Morgane. Let him whisk you away with his whispers about making love to his sunlight under the stars. Please.”

He can see the hesitation in the pinch of her shoulders, but she does as he asks. Wet smacks echo through the facsimile of a tent Gale conjured as he lines himself up with her entrance. What he’d do to be in Astarion’s position right now. He nearly chuckles aloud at the idea. Chained to the wall, kissing Morgane, preferable to having his arms free and about to slide inside her? A funny thought, if it weren’t so real a feeling.

His cockhead brushes against Morgane’s slick folds and he hears her let out a shuddering whimper against Astarion’s lips. It must be his imagination, but it was almost more a moan than aghast like he expected.

“Dawnfather smile upon us, bless us with the bounty of spring coming to first flush.” Morgane prays as Gale pushes in. She feels divine. It breaks his heart.

Gale pitches forward, stuttering and timid at first. The animal part of his brain is sated by her wet heat. He begins an apology, but Morgane shakes her head and looks over her shoulder at him, finally. Her gaze soft and wet with tears dewing at the corners of her eyes. His regret sits like a rock lodged in his throat.

“Would it help to close your eyes? Maybe pretend Mystra -?”

“Don’t.” Gale snaps at her, loud enough it echoes and reminds them all of the cave walls beyond his illusion. He claps a hand over his mouth with a gasp. “I-I didn’t- No, Morgane please-”

Astarion’s eyes flare with a flash of crimson fury at his tone. “Gale.” He warns.

“Morgane, I assure you from the bottom of my heart, no part of me would be regaled by her in this moment.” Between the thrumming pleasure shooting up from his loins to his brain, it’s hard to find words that aren’t immediately suspect. “Just… worry about Astarion. I’ll try to make this quick; and if not quick, good.”

He expects the weight of his ex paramour’s unceasing disappointment to leave when Morgane turns around. Instead it’s replaced with that familiar jealousy. He exhales, and wills his hips to move again, regaled by the soft noises she breathes into Astarion’s neck with every thrust. He starts gently. It’s a balancing act that’s falling apart, trying to make himself small, forgettable, nothing, when each thrust makes him feel so alive. Each throb of her walls around his burning cock drags him out of his well of self loathing and back into his body. He can’t help the grunts that sneak from between his tightly pressed lips. Sweat drips down his brow.

But he can’t come like this. Even with the tent surrounding them, even if he closes his eyes and just listens to Morgane’s soft panting and the wet thrust of his cock, the guilt of what he’s doing swallows up any real licks of heat in his belly.

He doesn’t even register that he’s let out a grunting, desperate sob until he feels their eyes on him.

“Apologies, I– though I am but an instrument in this particular copulation, I venture to be a silent one for you,” he manages, pulling halfway out of Morgane as he feels his arousal start to flag once more. “I shall endeavor to lay back and think of Waterdeep. It’s only…”

I can’t. Not when I have wanted this so ardently for so long, and this is the only way I will ever have you, he thinks but can’t quite voice. I can’t, I can’t–

To his surprise, Morgan reaches back and pulls him back in with a hand on his hip. He gasps at feeling her heat around him anew. And when she tightens around him he can’t help but let out a whimper.

“Ah- Morgane?” Gale’s voice comes out higher than he expected.

“Keep going Gale. It feels good.” She whispers, giving him a reassuring look that’s tinged with the soft edges of pleasure. It’s so quiet and earnest, and the truth of it blooms in Gale’s chest. Questions race through his mind. Are you sure? Is it me? She must see the way his eyes dart around, for she breaks him from his spinning thoughts with a gentle word.

“That adroit tongue of yours was very effective. I can think of a few paladins I trained with who’d test their oaths to try your mouth.” She continues, voice dropping from that breathy earnestness to something downright seductive.

The praise lights him up like a sunbeam into a prism. Heat boils up in him from his neck to his cheeks to his ears, and it’s all the encouragement he needs to grip her hips and redouble his efforts. Fire lit anew in his heart and loins. He was trying so hard to forget himself in shame and admonishment that he forgot to consider he could forget himself in her. How she feels. Smells. Tastes. He stifles his moans as she meets each thrust, beckoning him towards release, but it’s much easier to consider climax with her praise in his ear.

He keeps his eyes down watching his cock disappear inside her in awe. He doesn’t see the look she must share with Astarion but when she speaks again, he can imagine it– the twinkle he’s seen in both their eyes, the telepathy they seem to share as lovers.

“He’s being so good, Astarion. Tell him.”

Morgane throws it out like bait. Gods, had it been so obvious her praise had his orb flickering with hopes of more?

And Astarion, like a bloodhound, picks up the trail with a mischievous glint in his ruby eyes. Gale can’t help but groan and grip her hips, dropping his head in hot, flushed embarrassment as he fucks her with renewed vigour.

“Oh, yes. And, look. It seems he’s working awfully hard now that he knows he’s been such a good little pup.” Astarion tilts his head to look around Morgane just in time to catch Gale’s hand whip up to cover his mouth. It fails to stifle the audible moan that rips from his throat when Astarion calls him pup. A wicked idea seems to stroll into Astarion’s head as he leans into Morgane’s ear.

Gale recognizes Astarion’s Elvish for “And he’s actually quite handsome when he’s quiet.” He stills with shock, jaw slack, but tries to conceal his reaction. He’s been meaning to hide his understanding of the Elvish tongue from Astarion to keep his poker cards close, so to speak. But it’s hard when it’s directed at him, and harder when Morgane clenches around him tight when the words leave his lips. He puts his head down and focuses back, tries not to think too hard about how quiet he wants to be all of a sudden. But Astarion’s lilting teases in his mother tongue find weak spots in his mental armour.

“It that it, little wizard? Shall I tell you how well you’re treating my darling lover? How her little mouth drops open every time you roll against her? You’re being such a good boy for us. You know, we might have to keep you.” Gale moans loud against his hand and feels his heart race doubletime. The thrumming fluttering in his chest alights along his neck; indigo light casting arcane shadows against Morgane’s back. Every thrust is delicious, every nerve in his body suddenly alight. He forgets where he is and feels his brain swim with pleasure as Astarion continues his teasing.

“Keep going. She likes it when you pull all the way out before thrusting back in. It makes her eyes roll back.”

Gale can’t conceal the way he immediately takes Astarion’s instruction. The wanton moan that leaves her lips when he does exactly so nearly brings him to finish. But Morgane’s pleasure is at the apex of his priorities. And as hard as it is to have a cogent thought, the devotion and worship he wishes to lavish unto her radiant form doesn’t exactly require much deliberation. His heart thrills at the idea of coaxing more moans out of her, of hearing Astarion acknowledge his prowess. To be acknowledged as a suitable mate; a lover to equal their well traveled elven seductor. Maybe in some hilariously forgiving future, he’d be welcomed into their shared home to help them start a family.

The door in that dark corridor in his heart cracks open; its lock weakened by heady pleasure. Gale loses himself in the fantasy of Morgane spread out underneath him, legs hooked around the backs of his thighs, or even better, his shoulders. Back bowing up against the bed, her fists gripped in the sheets as her third orgasm grips her (he’d always offered his lovers more than one.) Sowing his seed in her womb, as deep as his cock would let him put it, a satisfied smile on her face when she dips her fingers into herself and collects the dregs of him. Tastes them-

“Don’t stop. Gods, Gale, just like that. I should have known you’d be a– a quick study–” ” Morgane moans. He comes out of his daydream. It’s not often reality is nearly as good. Well, as good as it can be, given the circumstances. “I don’t know what you’re telling him, but he likes it as much as I do.”

“Oh, I can tell. You both look positively ravished.” Astarion’s red eyes bore into him and Gale swears he sees lust under that teasing squint. “In fact, shall we reward the little prodigy for treating you so well? Good boys deserve treats, and judging by the sounds you’ve been making, he’s been more than good.”

“I- yes. He’s doing amazing.” Morgane manages between gasps. “Gale, tell us what you need.”

Re: Immaculate Conception (4/4)

[(Anonymous)]

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.”

Re: Immaculate Conception (4/4)

[(Anonymous)]

OP here! You are so, unbelievably talented! May both sides of your pillow always be cold.

Re: Immaculate Conception (4/4)

[(Anonymous)]

Not OP, but this is delicious and really well written!