Archive of Our Own ^beta

Gale Dekarios waited three whole days before he got his revenge.

Three days of you looking sunnily pleased with yourself, as if you hadn’t just reduced a once-proud wizard to a trembling, broken mess in his own chair. Three days where you went about your lives; he taught his classes at Blackstaff, you wrote your songs—and he planned. Planned in between his lectures. Planned while grading essays with half his mind. Planned while pretending to read ancient tomes but really only seeing you.

He didn’t know if he could pull it off; he wasn’t...that kind of man. Command wasn’t his nature. He preferred wooing, worshipping. The thought of forcing you to do anything had his stomach tying itself in guilty knots. But gods, when he closed his eyes at night, he could still feel it: the silk binding his wrists, the way your body moved, the way you’d taken him apart with that slow, devastating patience.
And he wanted to be the cause of that look on you. Wanted to see you undone and aching the way you had left him.

So when you came home that evening, smelling like sunshine and laughing like music, Gale was waiting. His study was lit with soft candles, the hearth crackling low and warm. The smell of clove and vanilla clung to the air.
And in his hand, loose and tentative, were the same silk cords you’d used on him. He’d kept them. Of course he had.

He offered a lopsided smile, charming and sheepish. "I’ve been thinking," he said lightly, stepping closer. "About balance. About fairness."

His hands found your hips with deceptive gentleness, steering you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the velvet chaise in the corner. Right where you’d ruined him a few nights ago. You sat without thinking, looking up at him — and something in his gaze made your heart race.

"Tonight," he said, voice low, “I’m the one tying you.”

You opened your  mouth, some teasing retort ready on your tongue—but the cords were already sliding around your wrists, careful and sure, and it turned out that witty remarks were much harder to deliver when Gale was looking at you like that.

He worked slowly, meticulously to tie you. You could tug free if you wanted. He made certain of it — kissing each wrist as he finished tying, as if to ask again for your trust. A silent promise: you're safe. “Tell me if it's too much,” he murmured while he worked. “At any point. I’ll stop. I’ll always stop.”

Gods, he was aching already, the feeling low and urgent, pulsing through him. But he didn’t rush. Wouldn’t. This was about you.

When he finished, you were open before him, looking utterly, devastatingly tempting. Gale sat back on his heels, drinking you in. His cock strained against his trousers, but he made no move to free himself.

Not yet.

First, he leaned down. He pressed his mouth to your collarbone, tracing the ridge of it with slow, reverent kisses. You shifted under him, tugging at the silk, helpless.

"You’ve looked so pleased with yourself," he said, laughing low and breathless. “For days. Days.” He kissed a line down to the softness of your navel, teeth grazing ever so gently. "You drove me mad," he said, he breathed against your skin.

"Made me beg." A kiss.
"Made me break." Another kiss, lower still.
"Now it’s your turn."

By the time his exploration reached the soft juncture of your thighs, your legs were quivering. You strained against the bonds instinctively, needing to touch him. He pressed his cheek against your inner thigh for a moment, grounding himself—smelling you, feeling the heat of you—before he finally let his tongue dart out.

He licked slow, devastating stripes over your cunt until you whimpered, until you were tugging at the silk cords just to grab his hair and pull him closer. The cords bit gently against your wrists, a constant, maddening reminder that you couldn’t.

And then Gale devoured you.

Soon you were spread open before him, slick and flushed, thighs trembling on either side of his head. And Gale? Gale was gone. On his knees, panting into your cunt like it was the only air he could breathe. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you still, keeping you right there as his tongue worked you over with devastating precision.

He was moaning—soft, soaked little noises, as if each taste was better than the last. His jaw ached. His chin was glossy with you, his cheeks flushed dark with need, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause to wipe his mouth.

Gale Dekarios never half-committed to anything. Not to magic. Not to scholarship. Not to you.
Especially not to you.

When you bucked your hips, he chased you. When you whimpered his name, he whimpered back, like he couldn’t help it.

His cock leaked steadily against his belly, so hard it hurt, but he didn’t even touch it. You were the only thing that mattered.

He traced the alphabet against your clit. Your name. His name. Stars he'd once read about. Forgotten poetry, written in the language of your gasps.

And yet—yet—when he felt you start to crest, he pulled back just slightly. Just enough to leave you sobbing for more.

“Not yet,” he whispered, voice unsteady. "You didn't let me...ah—gods, you didn’t let me come right away either, did you, my love?" He waited for your choked, desperate nod before diving back in.

His fingers joined his mouth—one, then two, stretching you open, pumping inside you as he worked your clit ruthlessly with his tongue. Your thighs shook. Your hips thrashed. Your cries grew frantic, beautiful, music to his ears.
When you came, when he finally allowed it, you came hard—panting, back arching so sharply the chair legs scraped against the stone floor. Your wrists pulled against the silk, helpless to do anything but feel.

Gale chased your orgasm, mouth working you through it, licking into you through the tremors, drinking you down like he was starving. His arms shook from the effort of holding you still. His eyes fluttered shut in bliss.
Only when you sagged, panting, against the chair did he pull back, licking his lips. His jaw was slick with you.

He yanked his shirt over his head, desperate now. His trousers next, his cock slapping up, flushed dark red and leaking at the tip.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he whispered again. His voice cracked on the words. "Tell me if you want me to stop. I'll—I'll stop—"

You sobbed please, don’t stop—and Gale broke. He lined up and pushed into you in one long, shaking thrust. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, a wrecked whine torn from his throat.
"Gods—ah—you’re—so good—" he gasped.

So tight. So wet. So fucking perfect.

Your wrists strained against the silk instinctively, needing to hold him, and Gale—Gale needed you too.

One shaking hand freed the bonds. “I need to hold you," he begged against your mouth. "Please—let me—"

You wrapped yourself around him, and Gale fucked you like a man starved for you. Every thrust desperate and sweet. Drowning in devotion.

You came again on his cock with a broken sob, and that—that was it. Gale drove himself as deep as he could go, gasping into your shoulder, and came with a shattered cry. His hips trembled as he spilled into you, white-hot and pulsing.

Neither of you moved for a long, suspended moment. You weren’t sure you could.

Gale trembled with every tiny twitch of your cunt around him, shivering through the aftershocks. "Thank you," he whispered, pressing kisses into your skin between shaky breaths. "My sweet—my beautiful love—thank you—"
And then nothing but your breathing, the solid weight of him on top of you, the smell of sex and silk and candlelight in the air.

The afterglow of devotion.