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Nov 1, 2025

training4theapocalypse

When I catch you, Mystra Ch. 2 (Gale of Waterdeep x fem!reader)

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 4.5k

Summary: The orb inside Gale promises devastation. You are tempted by the ruin of it.

Warnings: Smut

A/N: Alt title: The one where Gale ‘Dangerkink’ Dekarios gets out-dangerkinked.

Masterlist | Series masterlist

The morning light is brighter and more golden than you deem fair - the kind of morning the gods might conjure just to make waking up beside the one you love feel more divine. The kind of morning that would normally inspire you to write another love song.

How wonderful it would have been to wake up today in different circumstances.

You linger at the back of the group, strumming absently on your lute. The same melody loops over and over - low, circling - weaving itself into the rhythm of the march.

Astarion strolls beside you, one hand shielding his eyes from the sunlight, coat slung carelessly over his shoulder. When you pause momentarily to adjust your strap and resume playing, he sighs, long and theatrical.

“If I have to hear that song one more time, darling, I may start rooting for the other woman.”

You hit a sour note in surprise, strumming off key with a squeak of fingers on polished wood. “The other woman?”

“The same three chords over and over and over? It’s plainly a song of jealousy, heartbreak… rejection?”

He’s fishing.

“I must be much more talented than I thought if you’re getting all that from three simple chords,” you shrug.

“Or perhaps, I’ve been travelling with the subject long enough to read between the sheet music.”

Your gaze drifts toward the front of the group, where Gale is chatting easily with Karlach, looking perfectly at peace. How could he look so calm, so ordinary, when just last night you were inside his mind? Seeing things that, to you at least, had changed the nature of your relationship. You’d seen yourself inside his tent - the connection between you so vivid that you’d practically felt his hands on your hips, his tongue sliding through your most intimate parts. Surely that meant something.

Unless…

“Do you think he still has feelings for Mystra?” you ask quietly.

Astarion tilts his head, eyes glittering. “Oh, I think it’s more complicated than that. Gale still worships her. And I don’t mean figuratively - he never cast his own religion aside when she discarded him. But romantically? No. Even he’s not that self-destructive.”

Self-destructive. You almost snort at the irony.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I asked him,” Astarion says simply, with a little shrug. “And when have you ever known Gale to lie? The man’s constitutionally incapable of it.”

“He hid the truth of the orb from us,” you remind him.

“For all of five minutes. And that was omission, not deceit. There’s a difference.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway.” You pluck idly at the strings. “I kissed him last night and he basically said sorry, but no thanks.”

Astarion raises a sculpted brow. “And that’s all you did? Kiss?”

You glance at him, cheeks warming. “Why?”

“Come now, it’s important.”

You sigh. “Well… our minds connected - through the Weave. And I saw that he was… well, thinking about me.”

“Your minds? That was it?”

Trying not to give anything away, you nod.

“Ugh,” he groans. “I do owe Shadowheart twenty gold.”

Your head snaps toward him. “You bet I’d sleep with Gale?”

He waves a hand airily. “Oh, don’t be cross. There’s precious little entertainment around here after dark. Speaking of which, might I feed on you tonight?”

You narrow your eyes. Without breaking his gaze, you start to strum the same song again.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” huffs Astarion.

The others are way ahead now, moving through the sunlight. Gale glances back once at the sound of your lute, brow furrowing faintly. You immediately change your tune, and begin playing The Queen’s High Seas. Gale turns back around.

Astarion follows your gaze, a knowing little smile tugging at his mouth. “Oh, darling,” he murmurs. “You really are a glutton for punishment.”

You don’t answer. You just keep playing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Night settles soft over camp - a quilt of smoke and starlight. The dinner Gale made is long done; the bowls have been scraped clean, the smell of roasted vegetables and herbs still hanging faintly in the air.

Gale sits by the fire, a little apart from the others, hoping the heat will help dry the damp curls sticking stubbornly to his neck. The last traces of blood and dust are gone - washed from his hair, from his hands - as though cleanliness might make him feel whole again.

It had been a hard day. A band of raiders ambushed you on the road north, and he’d watched you fight. For all your self-effacing jokes about being ‘just a bard,’ you moved like someone who had trained their whole life for this. What right did a musician have to swing a sword with such precision? You’d fought with a ferocity that startled him.

No, worse. It stirred something else entirely.

He’d read about it once: how the rush of danger could make one crave other kinds of… stimulation. It had certainly intrigued him but he’d dismissed it as a book written to inflame rather than inform. Now, after watching you cut down man after man with your hair wild and your eyes wilder - he understands it all too well.

He smooths a hand over the scar on his chest and exhales slowly. He’s ready. Or as ready as a man can be when about to risk what little peace he’s built from the scraps of him that still exist.

He rehearses the words in his mind - apology first, closely followed by honesty.

He looks toward you, sitting cross-legged at the entrance of your tent, ink smudged on your fingers as you scribble down lyrics. You pause, bring the quill to your mouth, and absent-mindedly suck the tip.

He stops dead.

Of all the things, it drives him to distraction. The academic in him scolds: a one-way ticket to ink poisoning.

And yet.

He watches your lips close around the nib and his carefully crafted apology scatters like startled birds.

This is intolerable.

His pulse hammers. His mouth goes dry.

He wishes he were that quill.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wish you had another bard at your camp.

Someone who could listen to this damned work in progress. If only you’d asked the tiefling, Alfira, to join your group when you had last met at the Emerald Grove.

You scribble out your latest lyrics. You hear footsteps. Your quill doesn’t stop moving. You don’t even raise your head.

“If you’re over here to complain about my playing again, you can find another neck to suck on tonight.”

There’s an awkward sort of sigh that makes you glance up.

“Oh! I thought you were -”

“Astarion. Yes.” Gale straightens his robes. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“It’s not the adjective I was thinking of, no,” you mutter, flipping over the piece of parchment to hide what you’ve written. “What do you need, Gale?”

“Could we talk? Privately?”

You glance up from where you’re sitting by the tent flap, your lute resting loosely in your lap. “Now?” you echo, a little surprised.

He hesitates, then nods. “If you don’t mind.”

You scoot backwards inside the tent and pat the space beside you.

Gale ducks under the flap. The tent feels smaller with him inside. He lingers by the entrance for a heartbeat before you shift on your bedroll to make room.

“Sit,” you murmur.

He does. His knee grazes yours as he settles, and he exhales, lifting one hand to trace a series of slow, deliberate sigils in the air. Threads of the Weave shimmer to life, violet light twining through the seams of the tent like bursts of starlight.

“Private Sanctum,” he says with quiet satisfaction.

The noise outside cuts off all at once. Even the fire’s crackle vanishes, leaving the space wrapped in a strange, heavy silence.

“They can’t hear us?” you ask, your voice sounding too loud in the stillness.

Gale shakes his head. “No. I’d… rather they didn’t.” He takes a steadying breath. “Because what I’m about to say is - well, it’s utterly mortifying. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to get through it without interruption.”

You cross your arms, feigning nonchalance. “Go on, then.”

He closes his eyes, as though bracing for impact.

“Tav… I owe you an apology. For the way I handled things last night.” His hands twist together in his lap. “You didn’t deserve my abruptness. I meant to explain, but instead I left you to draw conclusions that couldn’t possibly have been kind.”

He looks down, then back at you - his brown eyes so full of warmth that you dismiss any notion of not hearing him out.

“If the orb in my chest detonates, it will annihilate everything in its wake. I don’t truly know how far the destruction might reach. A mile, perhaps more. Possibly fifty.”

You swallow and nod. You know that.

“However, I haven’t told you about the conditions under which it might trigger.” His voice falters. “For over a year, I have had to exert… extreme restraint. I have denied myself a certain kind of -” he clears his throat and you notice his neck is faintly blotchy, “- physical pleasure. Because should I reach the point of… culmination -”

You blink. “Culmination? Do you mean - ”

“Release,” he confirms weakly. “The orb would react. Catastrophically. And you deserve someone who can give you everything you need, without fear of what it might destroy.”

“Gale,” you sigh, “not a day goes by when we’re not in mortal peril. I don’t care about the danger. If anything -”

You stop yourself, feeling warmth creep up your neck. Gale lifts his head up, alert.

“If anything, what?” he asks.

“I mean… I once read a book on the effects a brush with danger can have on one’s desires -”

“- for other forms of stimulation,” says Gale, finishing the sentence at the exact same time.

The atmosphere shifts. A beat passes - silent, suspended - before you both realise what you’ve just said, and how very in sync you were saying it.

“You’ve… read that book too?” Gale asks at last.

“Well, not intentionally,” you admit, worried he’ll quiz you on its contents. “I was just looking for the diagrams.”

Gale pauses - and then laughs. It’s small at first, startled out of him, and the sound is so unlike his usual careful composure that it pulls a laugh from you too. Within moments, you’re both laughing harder than you should, shoulders shaking.

When the laughter finally ebbs, the quiet that follows feels charged in a different way. You’re still smiling when your eyes meet, and for a heartbeat, neither of you looks away.

“Gale… when I saw inside your mind…” Your breath falters. “Before then, I never imagined someone like you wanting someone like me. You think you don’t deserve me because we can’t - because it isn’t safe. But I don’t care about what you can give me.”

You swallow, voice going soft.

“I just… like being around you. That’s enough.”

He looks at you, almost incredulous, then lets out a breath of disbelief.

“When I met you,” he begins, his voice barely above a whisper, “I was drowning in solitude. My only company was Tara and my own mistakes.” A helpless huff of laughter. “And then - you. I fell through darkness and shadowed void only to end up with you under me and the world above us… and for the first time in months, I felt alive.”

You feel warm - you can’t help it - but the way he’s looking at you leaves no room for embarrassment. Only want.

“I told myself,” he murmurs, “that wanting you was reckless. That one kiss too deep, one touch too long…” He breathes out shakily. “And I could lose control. The orb could make sure the whole world knows exactly how deeply I want you.”

Your pulse thrums at the base of your throat.

His gaze flicks from your eyes to your mouth and back again, like he’s trying to make one final judgement call.

“If wanting you is ruin,” he whispers, “then ruin and I are already well acquainted.”

Then carefully - as though the moment itself were breakable - he cups the back of your head and kisses you.

Slow, deliberate, dangerous.

Everything else disappears. Every self-doubting thought you’ve had in the last day - obliterated.

The world narrows to the warmth of his mouth, the scratch of his beard against your chin, the sound of your own heartbeat thundering in your ears.

It’s so loud you almost swear you can hear what it’s saying: He wants you. He wants you. He wants you.

He’s risking everything. His life, your life, the lives of everyone in camp - just for this kiss.

It’s reckless. It’s stupid.

It’s really fucking hot.

The thrill hits you low and sharp, heat twisting tight in your stomach.

He eases you back onto the bedroll, moving over you with reverence and hunger tangled together. His hand finds the laces of your shirt - fingers you’ve watched shape lightning and summon storms are suddenly clumsy, trembling, trying so hard not to be greedy.

He pushes your shirt aside, exposing your chest and his breath hitches - a low sound that makes your pulse jump. You feel his gaze on your skin, and for a moment it’s almost unbearable, the quiet of it.

“Gale,” you whisper. “Are you sure?”

His eyes meet yours - dark, wild, beautifully wrecked

“Please,” he murmurs. “I’m around ninety-nine percent certain I can control myself,” he says, his voice rough at the edges.

“I - I like those odds -” you stammer.

When he flicks his tongue across your nipple it’s careful at first. Then not careful at all.

You almost choke when your breast is enveloped in soft heat as he opens his mouth around your nipple, his tongue sliding over you so devastatingly gently. The tip of his tongue dances around your sensitive skin with no intention of rushing. It’s so wonderful that you let out an impatient little whine, anticipating what his mouth would feel like elsewhere.

“If you keep making sounds like that, our odds will become significantly worse,” says Gale but his expression is playful. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to endure being adored at this rather careful pace.”

Breathing suddenly feels like an impossible task.

He peppers kisses down your jaw, your neck and then your sternum. Each kiss as soft and slow as if you were made of something precious. Your skin prickles, goosebumps rising when his lips meet the new territory of your torso.

When he reaches your lower stomach, he lets out a low hmm that makes your insides clench so violently that your abdominal muscles twitch.

Another kiss, slower, lower. He must sense your impatience because he says; “If I am thorough, it is only because I refuse to miss a single detail.”

Warmth pools between your legs at these words. Gale pauses, hooking his fingers under the waistline of your trousers and pulling them off. He kneels, leaning down to kiss you over your undergarments.

“I know I can’t touch you,” you say quietly, “but… can I at least see you?”

He exhales a laugh, warm and careless, before nodding. He leans back and pulls his purple tunic over his head. Your gaze catches first on the scar, the place where the orb resides - an awe-inspiring reminder of everything he carries. But even that pales beside the sight of his chest.

Gods. Why would a wizard have any reason to look like that? You’ve seen him wield a heavy quarterstaff in battle, yes, but still - you hadn’t expected all that careful muscle beneath the layers of cloth and eloquence.

You forget, for the second time this evening, how to breathe.

Dark hair dusts his chest and traces down over the firm ridges of his stomach, leading down to his waistband. You swallow, unsurprised to find that you’re literally salivating.

He catches your stunned expression. For a moment you expect him to launch into a lecture about the practical benefits of exercise for spellcasters.

Instead, he only gives a small shrug, as though embarrassed to be the focus of your gaze. He knows how he looks, of course - but the faint colour in his cheeks tells you he hasn’t been seen like this - not for a long time.

But Gale doesn’t dawdle on the point. He carefully removes your underthings, pulling them down your knees - you lift your calves so he can take them off. He shifts, adjusting his body to settle between your open legs, catching the backs of your knees and gently pushing them apart.

You suppose you must present quite a pathetic vision - face flushed and an extremely obvious slick between your legs that only seems to feel warmer and wetter, the longer you look at him. You must look completely -

“You really are the most beautiful sight,” he murmurs, running a flat palm across your inner thigh. “I’ve been thinking about seeing you like this every day since we met.”

Oh.

Everything pulses molten hot as he pauses, just taking you in. You look up at the canvas ceiling, feeling your face burning hot - this is deeply personal, the way he gazes at you from between your thighs.

His breath, warm and steady, ghosts over your pussy as his thumbs gently glide over your slick folds, exploratory in their touch. A sound breaks from him, low and fervent, almost a groan of gratitude at being granted this closeness, when the pads of his thumbs part your soaked lips.

“You have no idea how long I’ve dreamt of knowing what you taste like,” he murmurs.

And then your thoughts are cut off by your breath sucking sharply through your teeth, when a soft, wet heat eagerly envelopes your clit. He hums low in his throat as he tastes you for the first time, readjusting his grip to push himself closer.

The sound that escapes you is shameless, the sort of noise you’d occasionally hear while performing in the seedier taverns - the ones with brothels just upstairs.

It almost burns with how fucking good it feels. Gale’s soft mouth burns hotter than the Grymforge - his velvet tongue slipping between your folds, and swiping over your clit.

You back arches to allow you closer. You’re already too eager, doing too much to chase it - tightening, holding, refusing to let go - until you’re certain his exquisite mouth won’t abandon you, won’t leave you shattered and unfinished, a ruin by yourself.

Your journey since the Nautaloid has hardly been conducive to taking care of your own needs lately - responsibility for saving the world dispelled your attempts of self pleasure. And being in such close proximity to Gale has made your pent up frustration even less bearable.

You needed this. You really fucking needed this.

“Gale…? Oh -” Your words come out more urgent than you’d intended but you need him to understand. “Don’t - don’t stop… Please.”

But then, instead of responding verbally - as quick as a cantrip - Gale just slips two of his thick fingers through your folds, curling deep inside you.

You think you might burst into flames. Your teeth sink hard into your lower lip, the only way to stifle the sound rising in your throat.

Your chest burns and your lungs ache as you rock yourself to try and encourage his pace, but his other hand is wrapped around your thigh, holding you against his face and keeping your hips steady.

Your breath comes shallow and uneven, yet he remains steadfast, his fingers and tongue working in purposeful harmony - a steady drum beat coaxing out pleasure from your deepest parts.

He’s maddening in his patience. It makes something in your chest ache so sharply you could almost weep.

You can feel the thrum of your orgasm, rearing its head deep in your core. Your toes flex and your thighs tighten as if someone has cast chain lightning. The air itself seems to crackle in anticipation.

You risk a glance at his face and immediately wish you hadn’t. Gods, he’s devastating. That strong, angular nose only makes his features more striking while his dark hair, pulled back from his face, draws your eyes to the breadth of his shoulders. His chest is close enough that the heat of him washes over you, dizzying.

His eyes are closed in reverent pleasure as his tongue works across your clit in a way that makes your hip jump involuntarily, almost out of his grip. His hold on you tightens and your release takes you by surprise - a firebolt to a barrel of gunpowder - the second Gale’s wrecked groan meets your ears.

White hot bliss stabs through you, launching you headfirst into ecstasy. You whimper as you writhe hard against Gale’s tongue, feeling his fingers hooking into your deepest pleasure, scorching pleasure quickening through your veins.

You cum. Hard.

It surges through you like uncontrolled arcana, a resonance that drowns out every other sense. It arcs down your spine in blinding currents, brighter and more explosive than any lightning conjured by hand.

It’s overwhelming. Unprecedented in its power. But no… that isn’t true, is it? You’ve seen him before, in battle, wielding magic as though it answered only to him. You should have known he’d be just as devastating between your legs. Your clit is pulsing and swollen, and he keeps you firmly in place as you writhe desperately through the aftershocks on your bedroll.

Gale tilts his chin back to look up at you and the slick sound his tongue makes leaving your clit makes you clench and tighten around his fingers, still pressing against that sweet spot inside you.

“Gods… you’re exquisite,” he breathes, his voice roughened by wonder. “If the world would grant me more indulgence… let it be this.”

Your back arches when his mouth finds you again, sucking and swirling on your clit. His fingers press into you, pulling the orgasm from you just as steadily as the first. Your inner muscles contort around him, gripping and squeezing his index and ring fingers. Your thighs go rigid - when another pulsing, debilitating wave of bliss rises high in your chest, pushing all the air out of your lungs.

And then there’s another drop.

You fall apart again. Your fingers rake through his hair and you let out a sob somewhere between his name and a prayer. You’re glad he cast a ward because you’d never be able to show your face around your other companions if they could hear the way you’re crying out for him.

He lifts his head to look at you again, your pussy still spasming uncontrollably as he slowly wrings the last waves of pleasure from you and withdraws his fingers. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, dark brown eyes almost black with his blown out pupils.

He props himself up on one elbow, his fingers tracing gentle lines across your pussy as he drags your arousal across your clit. “I always say that any experiment must be repeated at least thrice to ensure accuracy. So -” his eyes drink you in, dark with reverence, “- shall we test it again?”

“You don’t - “ you swallow, “- you don’t need to keep doing this just to impress me, Gale.”

“Don’t mistake me, Tav. This isn’t performance. It is indulgence. My own. If you imagine otherwise, you do me a grave disservice.”

You swallow. Gods. He’s taking his pleasure in your pleasure. This is art for art’s sake.

He dips his head again - you’re already on the precipice between overstimulation and raw pleasure. Every nerve pulled taut with anticipation. It coils inside you, sharp and electric, as though you’re standing beneath a stormcloud, waiting for lightning to strike. Your whole body trembles. “Gale, I - I don’t think I can take it,” you plead, breath ragged.

His gaze softens, though his command does not falter. “Just one more, darling. Please.”

Darling.

It’s familiar to your senses. Something triggers in your memory.

Then the vision that you saw in the Weave echoes in your mind.

This is his deepest desire - the one he tried to push back into the corners of his mind. And who are you to deny it now that he has the opportunity to live it with you?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One more.

Gale considers himself a man of his word.

But tonight he has reneged on his word again and again. And again. And again.

“One more, beautiful girl.”

“Please… I have to see you do that again, so I can commit it to memory.”

“I promise after this one, we can rest.”

He loses track of time. His promises are empty words - he changes his mind every time he looks up at you from between your legs.

All of his self restraint is concentrated on not succumbing to his own release - he doesn’t have any spare to tear himself away from you.

He can’t get enough. Every time he thinks about stopping, every time he pulls his fingers out, he ends up slipping them into his mouth to taste you, before returning them back to your dripping cunt just so he can watch you cum for him again.

There’s just something so deliciously hedonistic about making you fall apart so completely. It’s a privilege to be the one who has made you a trembling mess on your bed roll - thighs glistening, hair disheveled, legs so weak that he has to physically readjust them for you.

He can’t remember the last time he experienced this with another mortal being. Was it always this intoxicating? Or is it that the taste of you is particularly addictive?

The time in his tower was the blink of an eye compared to spending these past few weeks wanting to know how you taste everywhere and having to deny himself the opportunity.

Touch, taste, scent, sound are almost overwhelming in their immediacy. This is different to what he’d known before solitude. With his goddess.

You are different.

You are warmth and heartbeat and music. Every sense of his is alive again, every nerve remembering what it means to feel. The nearness of you is almost unbearable in its clarity.

“Gale… Gale…” you gasp. How he adores the sound of his name on your lips. Your pleading stirs more in him than any ballad ever could.

“Shh, I know, my love. I know,” he soothes. “You’re doing beautifully well.”

“No, Gale -” You reach down to cup his face. “I think I see sunlight.”

The dawn.

With effort, Gale gently withdraws his fingers from inside you, sits back on his knees and follows your gaze to gaps at the bottom of your tent. He looks back at you, lying there with your heavy lidded eyes and legs ready to collapse.

“I really didn’t want this to end,” he whispers solemnly.

“It’s not going to end. Now, c’mere.”

He hesitates for half a heartbeat, as if committing every detail of you to memory, then gathers you into his arms. You settle against him, your head finding the hollow of his shoulder, his chin resting lightly atop your hair. Your weight is solid, nestled perfectly against him.

He stretches out his legs. “Next time, I’ll conjure up a bed. My knees aren’t what they once were,” he says.

You laugh. “I’d welcome that. Although I do love sleeping under the stars.”

Your hand rests on the scar on his chest.

“I do wish I could return the favour.”

“Your pleasure is more than enough to sate me for a lifetime,” he murmurs, lips against the top of your head. He inhales deeply, taking in the smell of your hair.

The horizon brightens, turning the world a hazy gold. Your breathing slows, evening out against his chest. He doesn’t dare move. The dawn light catches in your hair, turning strands different colours, and for a moment he forgets entirely about the orb, about destiny, about doom.

He finds himself thinking of the chords you were strumming when you were down by the river and then again today. He never caught the words but he can hear those lamenting chords over and over - almost haunting.

He wonders if you’ll play in major key the next time you play your lute.

His arm is numb beneath the weight of you. A tightness blooms in his shoulder from holding so still.

It makes him feel gloriously, painfully human.

Mortal in the best possible way.

No power. No perfection. Just a man bearing a little discomfort to keep joy from slipping away too soon.

He shifts just enough to keep you resting against him. And as the first light spills fully across the countryside, Gale of Waterdeep closes his eyes - not because he’s tired, but because he wants to remember this.

He wants to remember that right now, for the first time, he feels content that he is enough.

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