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The day is a long and arduous one before they’re able to make camp for the night. It’s hard to tell day from night down here in the Underdark, with only the struggling cycles of their circadian rhythms to go by; over the last few days, it’s become a matter of simply resting when things become too exhausting and pretending that means nighttime. Between dealing with the insufferable Nere, destroying the guardian of the Great Forge amidst the sweltering magma-heat, and coming back with mithral-touched armor in hand to scour Lenore De Hurst’s tower for anything important they can find, nearly everyone is utterly covered in grime and sweat. Their small band is all too happy to call it quits for a long while and recover their energy before venturing back into the bleak landscape.
Among the better discoveries in the crumbling arcane tower is a filtered and heated water-piping system, which they’re able to reactivate by fiddling about with the generator, the enchantments still active in the pipes more than enough to keep the water warm and flowing. This, of course, means the best thing imaginable: hot baths for all and sundry, thoroughly stripping away the layers of their accumulated filth and weariness. After that and a hearty—if unusual—meal (it takes some persuasion to get everyone on board with Gale’s preparation of some of the more interesting varieties of mushroom to be found down here), watch orders are decided and everyone adjourns to their own area of the tower to relax as they will.
That is another exceptional perk of staying the night in a sprawling, abandoned habitation: some semblance of privacy can be found. Gale has excused himself to set up tent-space in Lenore’s former bedroom, intending to further explore the myriad books still intact on the shelves. But despite his best efforts and the otherwise peaceful solitude, he’s unable to settle his mind enough to do so; a flurry of conflicting thoughts vie for his attention, drawing his consciousness elsewhere. It’s hard to ignore that he stands in a lair devoted to Mystra, full as it is of reminders—and yet he’s never felt further from her presence. Perhaps Lenore felt abandoned by her goddess, too, languishing here in loneliness with only automatons to keep her company. Where there should have been mementos of a life well-loved, there are only traces of one fractured by withdrawal and vacancy. And in the end, it was Mystra who drew her away, leaving only an empty tower for her lover to find; two wayward craft, reduced to distant voices in the dark.
He feels that loss all too well himself: that he should spend a year in isolation, only to still be left unsatisfied with one magical item after another, orb seething away under his skin with no cure in sight, is a cruel injustice. This much he knows. Truly, now, he should be angry on his own behalf, for the clear and drastic reason that he will die and bring countless others along with him (and rather horrifically, at that) unless Mystra intervenes. But that isn’t quite the motivation for his present frustration; no, this comes from a need more base than that of survival, and he chides himself for allowing lust and longing to overcome the drive that should be his top priority. And overcome it they do, for despite everything about their current situation—the general perils and urgency of their mission, his possible impending doom, even simply the gloominess of the dark surrounding them—all he can think about is the need to be touched, ignited within him ever since that night shared with Cirys in the Weave.
The memory of that night pervades his every waking moment, slithering sinfully through his mind whenever they lock eyes after a battle, whispering devious things as he watches their skin glow in the firelight. It had come as something of a shock to him—how the electric static of their magic had crackled louder as they let him see their desires, visions of only a single kiss sending shivers down his spine, both from want and the agony of being wanted. He was unused to this, the idea that someone might have a predilection for his company when he was no longer an archmage; yet they had seen him in his weakest state, reduced to exhaustion after casting the simplest of spells and mourning over Mystra, and liked him—no, hungered for him. It was no surprise that his first reaction was bewilderment, before he could process just how much he felt the same. For the first time in years, he’d felt something of what it was to dip a finger into divinity. The way their minds had connected purely through the Weave, no tadpole doing the work this time, allowing him to bathe in the galvanic currents of their will… it was hot and intoxicating and new, and new was rare when you had known the goddess of magic herself.
But better still than their magic was the way that they had looked at him: with lust in their eyes, true, but also care. Longing, even. Real craving—and as he knew well, there was no craving between gods and mortals, no hungry void in a divine being that a mere human could fill. Oh, gods could like, and they could and would find what they liked and take it, but mortals could want, they could thirst and yearn and need, and at the end of the day they could still truly care for the object of their desires. So it was their eyes that did him in; the memory of how they had looked at him with both interest and affection now sent heat pooling into his hips, body traitorously responding to the recollection with ease.
The ensuing flood of images comes nearly unbidden to his mind, thinking—as he had more than once before—of what might come after that kiss. He settles into the nest of pillows and blankets that he’s made on the floor within his tent, comfortable in his tunic and trousers after having bathed, and surrenders to the fantasy. Memory traces over the outline of strong arms and freckled skin, of fingertips sparking with lightning and mismatched eyes looking down at him through ginger lashes, and fuck, he hasn’t even thought of anything lurid yet and he’s already half-hard.
He begins to slowly unlace his trousers as his mind continues to race, conjuring up an array of visions as though looking down a list of prospective futures. The one it settles on first is a favorite: while their other companions are occupied with their own post-battle routines, he returns to his tent in camp to find Cirys sitting at his book-strewn desk, idly flipping through a text on abjurative glyph theory and looking up at the sound of his approaching footsteps. The top of their robe is unclasped and he can see the sheen of sweat on their skin, glowing with the exertion of combat, imagining the taste of salt on his tongue. They stand to meet him, sliding an arm around his waist to pull him closer, and wordlessly he tilts his head up for a kiss as their other hand tangles in his hair. He backs up against the desk as the kisses grow deeper and more heated, but it’s not long before they break contact to lean down and trace their tongue over the dark veins snaking up his neck, pulling his hair back to give them better access and eliciting a choked groan as they bite down.
“Gods above, you’re incredible,” he says, a bit breathlessly. “I must say, that bolt of lightning out there was particularly well-executed. I imagine not being able to protect your allies from your spells has contributed substantially to your exceptional aim—mm—”
Cirys pulls back just barely, enough to ghost a laugh over the tender, wet bruise blooming on his skin. “Would you like for me to touch you, Gale, or would you prefer to discuss spellcraft all night?” they ask teasingly, one hand snaking up his thigh underneath the slit of his robes to play with the lacing of his trousers.
“Can’t I have both?” he replies, an amused chuckle turning abruptly into a moan as their palm presses against his cock and their lips meet the line of his throat.
His real hand moves in tandem with the vision, pushing down his trousers and then briefs just enough to free his hardening cock before slicking his hand with a quiet vocō arvīnam minimam, breath hitching ever so slightly as he begins to touch himself. He drags gentle fingers up along his length, tracing the edge of the head before curling his hand in a light grip around himself. His hips twitch upwards as his hand starts to move in earnest, and as he allows his grip to tighten, he bites down on his knuckles in a poor attempt to keep his breathing steady.
The pinprick sensation of teeth on skin draws him back to his reverie, which shifts then to a scene set more comfortably in his home in Waterdeep: he’s stretched out on his bed, flushed and naked save for the rope tying his wrists together above his head, as Cirys holds his hips down and takes his cock fully into their mouth. In the fantasy, he whines, back arching as he’s held firmly in place, their grip tightening and nails digging into flesh right next to bite marks freshly made. “Please,” he hears himself say, “don’t—ah—don’t stop, please, I’ve been good, please let me cum,” and in response he gets a nonchalant hum, which only makes him strain all the harder.
“Mmmfgh— fuck,” he groans aloud, flattening his hand over his mouth to stifle the moans threatening to escape as electricity runs through him at the thought, stroking himself faster. Not for the first time, he curses the lack of real privacy as his fantasies fill up with image after image of just how loud he’ll get when the two of them can be well and truly alone. Gods, there’s nothing he wants more than for Cirys to reduce him to a whimpering mess, helpless and pleading for release beneath them. If he didn’t think it would literally kill him, he’d be on his knees in front of them already, begging for them to make his dreams a reality.
His thoughts grow increasingly incoherent as he gets closer to his orgasm, full-fledged scenarios turning into flashes of teasing and fullness and strong hands on hot skin. One moment he’s bent over his desk, unraveling as he’s fucked slow and deep; the next, kneeling between their thighs, losing himself in the taste of their cunt; after that, feeling the sensation of kisses being pressed gently down the length of his back, interspersed with murmurs of so good, so beautiful, can’t believe how perfect you are.
It’s the praise that sends him over the edge, spilling over his fingers and gasping as he fights the urge to make a sound. Heat floods his body as the wave of his orgasm crests and passes, washing over him with pleasure. One by one, the fantasies slowly dissolve, wisps of thought quietly yielding to warm satisfaction. Even as a simple cantrip removes the mess and he readjusts his pants, the grim reminder of the orb begins to encroach on his fleeting happiness; but for now, he wills it away under a cloud of drowsiness, adjourning to his bedroll to get what rest he can before he has to take watch. Let any more sorrows wait for the morning, he thinks, slowly letting exhaustion give way to contented sleep.
Two floors down, too far away for Gale to hear or know, a freckled hand slips quietly beneath dark underwear and through ginger curls to find the reward of release, driven on by thoughts of soft brown eyes and dark tendrils of magic under delicate skin.