The blackness of the Shadowlands is deeper than even the darkest starless night.
It is a close, oppressive darkness: the shadows are living things, twining and twisting, seeking to snuff out what little light dares to pierce them for even a moment. Even Isobel’s blessing offers little relief. If anything, Selûne’s magic seems to make the shadows angrier. They writhe at the borders of your camp, black maws open in silent, shrieking protest.
Gale was right: this place is far from suitable for indulging any thoughts more basal than survival. And yet—the weight of his gaze burns into you still, heated and heady. He has not stopped watching you since the battle for Last Light. Since he’d all but admitted that the sight of you, covered in the blood of winged shadow-beasts, sent his blood surging southward. “I can’t imagine anywhere that could turn my heart from you,” he’d said. “Cursed or otherwise.”
Not that you can blame him, truly. A flush rises to your own cheeks as you recall the way he’d looked in battle: hair wild and eyes blazing, flame and lightning crackling at his fingertips. Ordinarily, Gale wears expressions best described as kind and approachable. To be reminded of his hard-earned skill, of the sheer well of power surging beneath his skin… it sends a thrill of arousal through your gut, hot and insistent. You cannot help but turn to seek him out.
He’s seated on a stool in front of his tent, a cup of wine in hand and a book in his lap. He isn’t reading the book, though—he’s too busy watching you. When you meet his stare, his eyes crinkle up in pleasure, the corner of his mouth lifting suggestively. Gods, he’s attractive. Your eyes dip to his chest, taking in the smattering of dark hair just visible above the low neck of his camp shirt.
“Gods, you two are disgusting.” Astarion’s voice startles you back into reality, and you whip your head back around, flushing again when you remember yourself. You’re seated around the fire with him and Shadowheart, passing around a flagon of wine. Astarion’s mouth is stained red with it. For all the derisiveness of his words, though, his pale brows are quirked in amusem*nt—well-earned, since he’s just watched you practically salivate over the sight of Gale in his camp clothes.
“Sorry,” you manage. “I lost myself for a moment, there.”
Shadowheart smirks. “Yes, we noticed. I’m sure it had absolutely nothing to do with our resident wizard.”
Despite yourself—and despite the fact that Astarion and Shadowheart are both watching you do it—you glance in Gale’s direction once more. But he’s gone: he’s disappeared into his tent, the flap still swinging softly behind him. The urge to follow him is near-overwhelming. You look back to your companions, trying to look nonchalant.
Clearly, it doesn’t work.
“Oh, just go, darling,” Astarion sighs. “Gods know you could use the pick-me-up.”
Shadowheart giggles, high and piercing. She must have had quite a bit more wine than you’d thought. But the sound brings a smile to your face. It’s good, to hear something like that in a place like this. Somehow, it fills you with new confidence.
“Yeah,” you say. You take a last swig from the flagon of wine and pass it back to Astarion, then stand. “Yeah, okay. I’m just going to…”
“Have fun,” says Shadowheart, wiggling her fingers suggestively. You can’t help but laugh.
“Goodnight,” you say, and make for Gale’s tent. The sounds of Astarion and Shadowheart continuing to banter behind you makes you feel somehow lighter in the face of all this darkness.
When you push past the flap into Gale’s space, he looks unsurprised to see you there. On the contrary—he looks as though he’s been anticipating your arrival.
“Hello, my love,” he says, low and warm. He’s lying on his bedroll, propped up against the stack of pillows he insists on hauling with him from campsite to campsite. Those blasted camp clothes—dark blue trousers and cream lace-up shirt—fit his body perfectly, making him look softer, more undone, than his expensive, elaborate wizard’s robes. Above, a ball of magical light floats near the peak of the tent, illuminating everything in soft blue. You can’t help but give into the urge to lower yourself into his lap, curling against his chest.
He huffs a little laugh as you fold yourself into him, but doesn’t protest. He just gathers you into his arms, presses a kiss to the top of your head. It would be a perfectly sweet and innocent position, were it not for the way your thighs are spread on either side of his—and for the way you can feel the bulge of his co*ck, already interested and half-hard, throbbing between your legs.
“You’re mean,” you declare. Now that you’re pressed against him, you succumb to your earlier fixation, scratching your fingers through his chest hair. It drags a shaky groan out of him.
“Mean?” he asks, incredulous. “Whatever for?”
“You said all those things, earlier,” you say. “Terrible, wicked things. About wanting me. Wanting to indulge in me. And then you just… just came back to camp, looking like this, and you didn’t even touch me. You were too distracted by your books.”
You can tell even without looking at him that he’s fixed an ‘I-am-very-innocent’ expression onto his face. “I’m quite certain you were the distracted one, love,” he says. “Were you not preoccupied drinking and chatting with our other esteemed companions? I could hardly drag you away from such stimulating conversation.”
He says stimulating as if he wasn’t perfectly capable of hearing Astarion bemoan the quality of their stolen wine for a solid half hour.
“I’ll show you stimulating,” you say with a pout, and rock your hips forward into his. It has the desired effect: Gale looses a breath, punched-out, and drops two warm, broad hands to your waist. You feel his fingers curling into your sides, tugging at your untucked shirt.
He doesn’t even try to pretend that this wasn’t his goal all along. He just uses his grip on your waist to pull you forward, until your bodies are even more flush together, chest to chest. And then he closes the distance between you fully, leaning in for a heated, open-mouthed kiss.
This isn’t the first time Gale has kissed you. You’ve shared a few sweet brushes of lips before: at the tiefling party, and on various nights along the road through the Underdark. But there had always been the concern about his condition worsening with his arousal, and so you had both made a concerted effort to keep things chaste. Even after you’d confessed your shared feelings for one another, anything more strenuous had been firmly off the table. But now, with his orb temporarily under control…
This—this is the first time he’s kissed you with intent. He’s a little clumsy, a little unpracticed, a little too eager. But you love it. You reach up to tangle your fingers into the soft strands of his hair, relishing in the feel of his beard scraping against your skin. Your lips are going to be kissed swollen and raw by morning, and you cannot wait for it.
You squirm in his lap as you kiss, whimpering every time the hardness of his co*ck rocks up between your legs. You want—you just want, want him in every way that matters. Want him to take you apart and kiss you back together. Want to be as physically close as possible, and then more. “Gale,” you manage, breathless.
He draws back suddenly. “Is everything all right?” he asks. “Did I do something wr—“
“Shut up,” you growl. “No, nothing, you’re perfect—“
His lips crash into yours again, tongue coming out to lick filthily into your mouth. He only relents when you start to tug insistently at his shirt, trying to pull it free from his trousers.
“Do you want something, my love?” he asks teasingly. “I’m not sure—“
“Gale,” you groan. “Please.”
He lets out another punched-out sound. “Oh, I do like the way that sounds on your lips,” he says lowly. “All right, then. Since you asked so very sweetly.“
And then he draws back just far enough to pull his shirt over his head, baring his torso. You can’t help but moan at the sight of him. He’s so perfect he almost hurts to look at. The planes of his chest and abdomen are strong, muscled, but not sharp—he’s just soft enough to be inviting, to demand your hands and lips all over all that newly exposed skin. His chest hair grows sparser over his stomach, then thickens again beneath his navel, down, down, until it disappears beneath the waist of his trousers, leading to—
“May I?” he asks, startling you out of your increasingly depraved thoughts. His fingers toy with your shirt, lifting it just a little. He waits for you to nod before he tugs it all the way over your head, baring you to his gaze. Your breasts hang full and heavy, nipples peaked against the coolness of the air. He immediately reaches out to touch—first softly, then greedily.
“Gods above,” he chokes out. “You are—there are no words, I—“
“It’s not often you find Gale of Waterdeep lost for words,” you tease.
You catch his free hand in yours, urging him to palm at your breasts with both hands. His pupils are blown wide, so dark they nearly eclipse the brown of his irises. Arousal is a good look on him. Everything is a good look on him, but this—knowing that you did this to him—is heady. You can feel wetness beginning to pool between your thighs, soaking your underthings.
When Gale reaches up to stroke your cheek with soft, reverent fingers, you cannot resist the urge to turn your head to the side, catching his thumb in your mouth. It’s worth it for the way he lets out a soft, surprised moan, his hips jerking up underneath you. You let your eyes flutter shut, sucking his thumb for all you’re worth. The salt of his skin is intoxicating—but it isn’t enough. After a few long moments, you draw off of his finger, your own eyes glazed with lust.
“Gale?” you ask. “Can I—I want to suck your co*ck.”
His mouth very nearly drops open. “I—yes,” he stammers. “I mean—if you’re certain, if that is what you—if you want—“
“I want,” you assure him, and clamber off of his lap. You’ve been dying to undo the laces of his damnable blue trousers for hours. It’s easy to make short work of them, once you’ve started—and when his co*ck finally springs free, hard and heavy, jutting out from a nest of dark curls, you’re practically salivating.
There’s a bead of wetness glinting at the head, evidence of his arousal. You cannot help but lean in to lap it up—and the sound he makes, gutted, is intoxicating. When you take him into your mouth in earnest, flattening your tongue to take him as deep as you can on the first thrust, he winds his fingers into your hair and groans. The light in the tent flickers for a moment, and you almost laugh—for Gale’s concentration to falter so, you must truly be doing an excellent job. It gives you the confidence to draw back and then sink down again, sucking on him in long, wet pulls. Arousal courses through you, throbbing between your legs. You’re so impossibly wet, it’s a miracle it hasn’t soaked through your leggings. Maybe it has.
It isn’t long before Gale begins to tug insistently at your hair, urging you upward. You let his co*ck fall out of your mouth with a wet sound and look up at him, lips swollen and eyes lidded. “Hmm?”
His own eyes are impossibly dark. “You feel, ah—too good, I’m afraid. If you want me to have any, er, stamina for later, you mustn’t—“
Your lips curve into a slow smile. “Whatever might you need that stamina for later, Gale?” you ask.
For a moment, he looks almost flustered. But then he huffs and grins back. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says. And then, before you know what’s happening, he’s flipped you onto your back on the bedroll, your positions reversed. You yelp loudly as you go, but it devolves into a giggle—and then a breathless sigh as he looms above you, fully naked, his hair falling attractively into his eyes.
“Allow me to return the favor?” he asks.
When you nod, he wastes no time in tugging your leggings down over your hips, along with your underthings. Then he parts your bare thighs with both hands, staring hungrily down at the place between your legs.
“Gods,” he says for the millionth time. “So wet for me—and all from having my co*ck in your mouth, hm? Did you like that, my love?”
“Yes,” you agree, fervent. “Yes, I loved it—want to suck on you all the time, I want—“
But your words trail into a high-pitched whimper as Gale leans down to place a wet, open-mouthed kiss right between your legs. You can only see the top half of his expression, but already, he looks thoroughly self-satisfied.
You can’t help but grab onto his hair as he licks a warm stripe directly over your c*nt, dragging from your hole up and over your swollen, sensitive cl*t. It feels so good that your vision goes white, and you lose momentary control of the sounds coming out of you. For all you know, you’re shouting loud enough for Astarion and Shadowheart to hear from their place by the fire. But here, now, with Gale’s clever tongue laving over all your most sensitive parts, you’re far past caring.
As he is in everything, Gale is a quick study. His movements start sloppy and unrefined—but with every breathy whimper that escapes you, every minuscule jerk of your hips into his face, he adjusts his technique, until he’s all but perfectly mastered the motions that drive the breath from your lungs. Now, he’s turned to sucking gently at your cl*t, just softly enough to keep you teetering on the edge of org*sm.
“Gale,” you whine, trying to cant your hips upward, get him to give you the pressure he knows you so desperately want. “Please.”
He lifts his head, drawing away from your c*nt with an obscene, wet sound. The sight of his lips glistening with your wetness is erotic enough to make you forget to protest at the loss of his mouth. “Hmm?” he asks. “What do you need?” His tongue comes out to lick at his reddened lips, and you can’t help but track the motion.
“You know what I need,” you groan. “I need to come, and then I need you to come here and f*ck me. Please? Please, Gale, please f*ck me.”
“You are going to be the death of me,” he declares. “But how can I disappoint you, when you’ve gone and asked like that? You are the most stunning, erotic creature I have ever encountered. I could die drinking you in.”
His words make you squirm and flush. There’s something so filthy about his earnestness—the way he’s looking at you, ravenous, while his mouth is only inches from your c*nt.
“Pretty girl,” he murmurs, and lowers his head again. This time, when he returns his attention to your cl*t, his movements have purpose. You are only going to last a handful of moments; already, the first brush of his tongue has you seeing stars, your fingers tightening in his hair. You can feel your body clenching around nothing, desperate for his co*ck to fill it—even more so when you notice the way his hips are jerking, his co*ck rutting helplessly into the bedroll. It’s the hottest bloody thing you’ve ever seen.
All you can do is close your eyes and surrender to the waves of pleasure coursing through you, drawing you higher and higher, ever closer to that invisible peak. And then—and then, with a shaky moan, you’re lurching over the edge. The org*sm hits you like a burst of radiant magic, warm and bright. Your body arches off the bedroll, involuntary, muscles spasming around nothing. Gale works you all the way through it, dragging his lips and tongue over your cl*t until you’re wrung out and shaking. Then, with a final wet kiss, he rises from between your legs, moving up to position himself on top of you with single-minded focus.
You’re still lost in the aftershocks of your release, staring up at Gale with stars in your eyes. And—gods, he’s perfect, strong and powerful above you. He lets his co*ck slide through your wet folds, the head dragging over your too-sensitive cl*t.
“Please,” you whisper. You’ve only just come—still, you can hardly breathe from it—but you’re so desperate for him that you would die to bring him closer. You want him inside you, filling every gaping hole in your heart just as thoroughly as your c*nt.
For once, Gale doesn’t run his mouth. He just breathes steadily as he lets the head of his co*ck breach your entrance, slow. Wet as you are, he’s still large, and you’re still small. Your body flutters around him as it adjusts to the intrusion—but the feeling of him stretching you, filling you, is intoxicating. You cling to his biceps as he pushes in and in and in, his muscles quivering with the effort it must take not to immediately slam home. The look on his face is almost pained: his brows are knit in the center of his forehead, eyes closed, lips dropped open with the pleasure of it.
“More,” you demand.
He does huff a laugh, at that, and says, “Incorrigible little thing.” But he relents, sliding back out almost all the way before thrusting back in with enough force to send you rocking on the pillows. It draws a shocked little moan out of you, and he leans down to kiss the sound off your lips.
“I’ve been craving this moment for weeks,” he says into your mouth, snapping his hips hard against yours. “Dreaming of how well you would take me, how your body would feel. The reality is a million times more thrilling than the fantasy, I assure you.” Then he draws back and thrusts in, hard, again and again and again. The sounds of him f*cking you—the wet slide of his co*ck in your c*nt, the unmistakable slap of bare skin on skin—echo through the tent, probably loud enough to make their way outside. If no one else, Astarion and his predator’s hearing are never going to let you live this down.
But in this moment, it’s impossible to be anxious or embarrassed. You are wholly lost in the sensation of Gale’s weight on top of you, his co*ck inside you, his lips and tongue sliding slick over yours. Your body jerks back and forth against the pillows, breasts bobbing with the motion. Your insides are still sensitive from your org*sm, but—f*ck, like this, you think you might be able to come again.
Gale’s hands settle on your chest as he thrusts, thumbs circling your nipples, kneading at the sensitive flesh. “I could do this forever,” he declares. “Keep you here, drag all this pleasure out of you, make you feel as good as you deserve—“
“f*ck,” you curse. “Please, Gale, I want you—“
“You’ve got me,” he pants. Sweat has begun to pool at his collarbones, his hairline, to drip down his temples and chest. He’s shining with it in the flickering blue of his magical light, still floating near the peak of the tent—but it seems his concentration is hanging on by a thread.
You yourself feel flushed and overheated, chest aching with the pleasure of it all. You let your fingers drift downward to find the place where he’s stretching you open, entering you again and again. It’s easy to gather up some of your combined slickness and begin to circle your cl*t, matching your rhythm to his thrusts, your body tightening again with the combined sensations. You can feel warmth beginning to build inside you again, pleasure coiling tight at the base of your spine, ready to snap.
The way your body clenches around Gale’s co*ck makes him groan, a gutted, utterly erotic sound. The combination of him, his maddening rhythm inside you, and your own fingers on your cl*t are almost too much to bear. Your eyes flutter shut, your head tilting back against the pillows. But Gale isn’t having it. He reaches up to cup your cheek, and, with a soft, coaxing kiss, he says, “Look at me, love.”
You do. And—gods. The expression on his face is like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Pure, unadulterated longing is writ across his features, a heady mix of lust and love. He looks like he would die for you. Kill for you. Anything, everything. You reach up to cradle his face in your hands, absolutely certain that your own matching feelings are mirrored in your face.
“Come for me,” Gale murmurs. He drops a hand to your abandoned cl*t and begins to circle it with his fingers.
And—you can’t help but obey. Your body arches of its own accord, a high-pitched, whimpering cry escaping your lips as you tumble over the edge for the second time, free-falling. The pleasure of it is maddening, overwhelming, exquisite. Gale doesn’t stop f*cking you through it—no, his thrusts increase to a frenzied pace, his rhythm beginning to falter as he hurtles toward his own org*sm.
“May I—“ he pants. But you don’t even let him get the words out.
“Yes,” you cry, “come inside me, please, I want—need it. Gale, Gale, Gale—“ his name spills again and again from your lips, a holy litany.
His thrusts grow more and more erratic, his breathing with it, until finally, with a drawn-out, near-feral groan, he slams inside you and stays there, co*ck pulsing as he spills his release into your still-spasming c*nt. You wriggle your hips, whimpering as he fills you—and again as he continues for a few moments with a series of small, aborted thrusts, as though he’s trying to work his come as deep inside you as possible.
When he is finished, he groans. And then he allows himself to collapse on top of you—not fully; he’s still careful not to crush you beneath him—but enough to blanket your body with his, your sweat-slick chests sliding together. When you begin to squirm under his weight, he quiets you with a series of wet, messy kisses along your neck and shoulders.
“That,” you manage, “that was—“
“I could not agree more,” Gale says with a weak laugh. “You are going to be the ruin of me. I know it.” He pulls slowly out of you, positioning you both instead so that you can curl against him on the bedroll. A quick prestidigitation rids you both of the wet spot beneath you, leaving you in utter, exhausted comfort.
“Will you—would you like to stay, tonight?” he asks. It’s a bit ridiculous that he sounds so uncertain, after everything you’ve just shared—but somehow it is endearing, and so very Gale that you can’t help but smile at his shyness.
You respond by pressing a soft, promising kiss to the orb-marks on his chest, and snuggling more firmly into his side. You are not going anywhere. Tomorrow, you can deal with the reality of the tadpoles, and the Shadowlands, and Astarion’s endless teasing. But tonight… tonight it’s you, and Gale, and the cozy enclosed safety of this tent. You can’t imagine anything more perfect.
