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Seems to be a creation of Plethora on Pinterest

It's Tara. Of Waterdeep.

A Tight Fit

Summary: You and Gale are trapped in a locked room, with no space to move. Inspired by @daisyofwaterdeep 's juicy post which I just couldn't resist writing about.

Set early in Act 1, before the tiefling party. Featuring matchmaker Karlach and chaos gremlin Astarion.

Disclaimers: 18+. Mildly smutty. Gale x female Tav/reader.

Word count: 1k

*****

“Well, this is a tight fit, isn't it.”

Crushed between the wall and Gale's heaving frame, you cannot avoid his warm breath on your cheek. You speak into his beard, desperate for space.

“Serves me right, for wandering straight through every door I see.”

Gale's chest is flush against yours. His arms flinch in an awkward attempt to avoid your waist and rear. Your own hands are fatefully sandwiched between your bodies. You curl them into yourself, trying frantically to ignore the groove of his groin.

It is not that you have not imagined how it would feel. In the darkness, you have wondered about the taste of Gale's touch, the lilt of those lithe fingers. But only for fleeting moments, sheepish and stolen. You are almost strangers, after all, fledgling friends. And never beyond your wildest dreams would you have imagined this, much less wished for it.

“Your curiosity is one of your most a-door-able traits.” You can feel his smirk on your skin. “One might even say it's the key to your success.

Your groan is muffled amongst his hair. “I'm glad to see being trapped in a coffin with me brings out your comedic genius.”

“Just getting a handle on the situation.”

Despite the levity, each word of his seems more choked. His ribs jostle against yours. You are surprised by the lean edges of his frame, the force of muscle beneath his robe. As if he senses your attention, he swallows, his eyes darting around you in a frenzy.

You grunt as you manage to wrench one hand free, only to realise in horror that it is cupping the curve of his ass. You cannot help but notice how firm it is. How full. When he jerks at the contact, his leg wedges between yours. Your hand dangles ominously below his hipbone.

“Sorry!” He fumbles, his features twisting. “Sorry. Gods, I'm sorry–”

“Karlach?” you cry. “Astarion? Are you out there?”

The responding thump on the door rocks the entire room. Gale's thigh spasms into yours. He winces sharply.

“Can you get us out please?” Gale blurts. “Now?”

“Hang on, soldiers.” Karlach sounds annoyingly relaxed, even chipper. “The door locked behind you, and we don't have the key. We can't break it down either, tough bastard.”

“Oh look.” The glee in Astarion’s voice is undeniable. “We've run out of lockpicks. Best go hunt for some more.”

You try and fail to punch the door. A flush has spread from Gale's neck to his cheeks. His blushed earlobe hovers just before your mouth. You can feel his heat on your skin, the rasp of his stubble.

“Hurry up,” he pleads. “Please.”

Gale clears his throat. As he shifts and fidgets, the taut muscles of his chest rub against your breasts. His juddering breaths are hot against your ear, and you are mortified by the ripple through your core, the peaking of your nipples. He wriggles his leg, trying in vain to move it out of the range of danger. But his knee grinds into you instead. You chew your lip.

“This is simply” – he stammers, his throat bobbing – “This is most– I'm terribly sorry–”

He trails off, burbling incoherently. You have never seen Gale so out of sorts. As you writhe clumsily against each other, sweat beads on his brow. You can smell the bittersweet tang of it, layered within the fog of sandalwood and leather, book dust and soap. You wonder if he feels as dizzy as you do. You no longer think it is from the lack of air in the room.

“I should be sorry,” you manage. “I haven't bathed for a week.”

You were hoping for a chuckle, a break in the stiffness between you. But instead, there is a glimmer on Gale's chest. A faint stain of indigo flashes and then deepens. He is glowing. You stare at his blazing orb scar in alarm.

“Gale…”

Gale is coughing. Sputtering. As he twists, pointlessly seeking escape, you feel an unmistakable hardness against your hand. Your eyes widen. Clasped between your hips and his, jerking your hand away only nestles it further in. Your fingers bear down against his bulge.

Gale's eyelids flutter. He bites his lip.

“Stop moving,” he chokes, pained. “Please stop moving.”

For a moment, you do. Your chests rise and fall against each other’s. Strands of his hair drift over your face as you meet his gaze. His lips are swollen red, parted as he pants.

You are acutely aware of the point of his knee. It surges, ever so slightly, against your cleft. His eyes are dark and desperate, like you have never seen before. You are drunk on the rhythm of his leg, trembling against the pulse of your desire. You stifle a gasp, your nerves unravelling, his breaths catching as you quiver into him. Your fingers move of their own accord, following the thrumming of his need, flickering along his throbbing length.

He moans. You feel it like a wet hot flare through you, his searching mouth lingering over yours.

“Please,” he whispers.

His hardness twitches towards your touch as you grind against each other. He is groaning, grunting, and you can taste the salt and sweetness of his breath as his nose grazes yours and your lips open to his…

You tumble backwards as the door swings open, crashing hard against the ground. You lie there for a while, swollen, dazed. Karlach and Astarion loom above you with triumphant grins.

“Look at you, all flushed and breathless.” Astarion’s fangs flash.

Karlach pulls you up with a flourish. “It's a good job you didn't pass out.” She beams.

Stumbling, burning, you look back into the room. You have a brief glimpse of a tented robe, a guttering purple glow, before Gale lurches away, shutting the door behind him.

“I think he needs a minute,” Astarion chortles.

*******

Liked this drabble? Check out my other work

My ancestors, watching me dump an entire stick of cinnamon, two cloves, an allspice berry, and a generous grating of nutmeg into my tea, sweetened with white sugar and loaded with cream, while I sit in my clean warm house surrounded by books, 25+ outfits for different occasions, and 6 pairs of shoes, in a building heated so well I have the windows open in mid-autumn:

Our daughter prospers. We are proud of her. She has never labored in a field but knows riches we could not have imagined.

@confirmedgeckos is sending a dragon our way! Luckily we don't have any meat on our bones!

goddddddd i feel so fucking stupid all the time i feel like that meme of the ogre reading joyce

I'm curious--how do you guys go about creating your OCs?

It's here and finished and in 48 days I'll be gifting this over to Tim. Thank you so much to every one of my mutuals that has contributed with art, fics, and poetry. (And even a fucking awesome song!) He's going to love all of them!

Is this about the author of Oblomov or not?

(wakes up in a cold sweat) ga, ga, goncharov, member of the russian mob

Them: He's the Chosen of a Goddess.

Me: yeah, yeah, I'm sure he's great, whateverohhhhh oh. Oh no, I see it now. Excuse me I need a lie down.

hi guys!!! i finished gale and tara yesterday for the lovely sam! ive been stretching myself with all these faux-comms but tara was a whole ‘nother challenge haha

now that i’m mostly finished with the pre-commissions, actual ones will be available soon! let me know how i did with gale. he’s so hard for me to draw lol

It’s… it’s okay if you’re not very good at writing? I don’t know if this is much of a controversial opinion, but you are improving, and you are consistently moving forward even if you don’t see it. Progress is largely practice-based, especially in writing, and even if editors and beta readers weren’t a thing that are actively helping you every time they give a critique (and, well, why do you think those exist in the first place? Nobody’s perfect), you would still be improving just by writing more and reading others’ writing. It’s okay if you’re not good at writing. That doesn’t mean anything about you, and it definitely doesn’t mean anything permanent.

I think pastoral genre in literature would now be called an AU. Just make your favourite people shepherds and let them chill on a pasture.

Gale Dekarios

Gale Being Completely Unhinged During the Epilogue

Apprentice *bursting into the Blackstaff’s chambers*: Sir, I apologize for the intrusion, but it seems that a portal to Hell has been opened in Professor Dekarios’s classroom—

Blackstaff: What?! None of his students are advanced enough to have done that!

Apprentice: …

Blackstaff: Oh, my god

Hey, those people OP is referring to are trying to make galemancers and andersmancers rivals. I won't accept it, both characters are precious to me and interesting in their own unique ways. No one is morally better or worse than the other, because they are literally put in different situations and have very different plots.

I call myself both a galemancer and an andersmancer.

I saw someone compare bg3's gale dekarios to anders with gale being "better" and "healing" compared to anders are you fucking stupid???? 💀💀😭

Commission from @alsoika

Auroria and Gale are so perfect, I love them so much!

stop treating killing dragons as this act of bravery and valor. maybe ou should be kissieng and loving the dragons instead. and be more niceys

I was 17 when I entered university, and I have never been happier. I hate my school, it was like a prison for me. And in the Uni I met fellow nerds 🤩

I’m amazed there’s people nostalgic for highschool and being a teenager literally when I feel super low I think “well at least I’ll never be 17 again” like a positive affirmation and it does make me feel better

Having a traumatic childhood means you cannot talk even objectively about your basic foundational experiences without it being "venting", even if you're not actually venting. You just straight up have a huge chunk of your life you can't talk about, full stop, without it being trauma dumping.

And it not being socially acceptable to talk about your own childhood is super alienating. Sometimes people want to know why, and any answer you can give them is going to be off putting.

It's to the point I get irritated when something I said is framed as venting when I'm literally just talking about my life experiences, doing my best to keep emotion out of it.