Archive of Our Own ^beta

The illusion dissolves in a shimmer of motes, his beau's arched smirk winking out first, his coiffed hair last. Alone again in the dim warmth of his study, Gale exhales, letting the silence close back in. The absence it leaves is sharp, almost physical, but preferable to the slow burn that had driven him to summon it in the first place. He exhales, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth, and reaches for the robe pooled beside his chair—

—and then, the slightest of sounds cuts through the stillness.

It is the kind of sound one might too easily miss—brushed off, perhaps, for the creak of old floorboards—but here in the Underdark, there's no trace of a breeze. With all manner of unsavory lifeforms around, Gale's long since learned to be suspicious of all sounds. He raises a brow, then smiles inwardly, something inside him going sharp with lethal focus. One word, whispered in the intimate cadence of the Weave, and the air in the whole house goes thick with a stasis charm.

The spell's tendrils lead him to the library door. A thumb-wide gap between the wall's stonework and the edge of a freestanding bookcase gives a narrow but telling view into his study—exactly where the illusion had sprawled across Gale's lap only moments ago. And there, caught in the bright grip of his magic, stands Petras: frozen mid-motion, one pale hand braced against the bookcase, the other curled unmistakably around his exposed cock. Red eyes wide, pupils darting, but otherwise motionless.

Gale takes his time crossing the space between them. "Now," he says softly, "I confess I had not anticipated company—but this does account for the sound that I heard." His gaze flicks downward, then up again, the arch of his brow sharpening.

Petras tries to speak, but the stasis holds him with his mouth half-open. Gale strolls closer, robe hanging loose; if it perfectly frames the red marks the illusion had faithfully replicated on his collarbone, that is simple coincidence, nothing more.

"Now," he begins, voice mild in a way that is far more dangerous than a shout, "I'm sure there's a perfectly rational explanation for this. A pressing errand, perhaps? Delivering a message? Wandering my halls because... you admire the décor?"

With a thought, he slackens the stasis just enough to let the spawn make sound. The trapped spawn swallows, air catching in his throat before he blurts, "I—I was just—came by to... return Astarion... book." The last word is mangled by the tremor in his voice, the excuse hopelessly thin and all but transparent under Gale's gaze.

"Book." Gale repeats it like a chef tasting an unfamiliar spice. His mouth curves faintly—not kindly, but not not. "I see you've brought something in hand, but I daresay it isn't bound in leather. Neither does it seem particularly fit for shelving."

The silence that follows is almost tactile. Petras's frozen face somehow manages to turn puce, humiliation and jealousy burning in his eyes. His trousers hang halfway down his hips, the pale skin above them flushed with stolen blood. One hand is still wrapped around himself, the tableau embarrassingly self-explanatory.

Gale studies him for a long moment, then adjusts the Weave's hold with a thought. It's a delicate thing, loosening the spell just enough to let a trapped limb or jaw test its freedom, while keeping the rest locked tight. He watches as Petras tries—fingers twitching, hips giving a minute jerk that goes nowhere. The effort is visible in the minute strain along his jaw when he attempts to speak and only a dry rasp emerges.

"The fewer words you offer, the better," Gale advises, as though giving a private tutorial. His gaze drops pointedly, then lifts again. "After all... we wouldn't want to spoil what you came here for."

The spawn's eyes flick down, then up, then to the side, in a motion almost too fast to track. Gale allows a fractional increase in movement, and Petras' head jerks the barest degree: a nod.

"You came here uninvited."

A longer pause this time, then a stiff up-and-down.

"You heard me from the hall."

Another nod—quicker, a little jerky with the restraint.

"You knew Astarion was away."

The head-shake comes too fast, too smooth.

"Mm." Gale lets the syllable hum low in his throat, and with a subtle gesture, tightens the magic so the muscles in Petras' neck tense visibly. "Try again."

The hesitation stretches. His jaw works, tongue pressing uselessly against the roof of his mouth before—finally—a nod.

"That's better. You've been watching us for some time, haven't you? Not just tonight."

This time, Petras' pupils flare before the nod comes, reluctant and small. His cock twitches in his fist—reflex, not invitation—but it's enough to make Gale's lips curve in silent amusement.

"And now that Astarion isn't here..." Gale trails off, tilting his head to the side. "...you aren't too disappointed, are you?"

Petras' throat works in a swallow, the motion slow without breath to hurry it. He looks straight ahead, as though there might be dignity to be found in the spines of the neatly lined books. Then—tiny, almost imperceptible—he nods.

"In fact, you were rather quite hoping," Gale says, his voice a silken drawl, "that I might have use for you in his place."

The nod this time is no bigger, but Gale sees it: the faint shift in his shoulders, the minute quiver of tension in his arm.

For a long moment, neither moves. Petras hangs suspended on the edge of agony, hands and eyes searching for direction, body taut with anticipation. Gale studies him silently, letting the seconds stretch, the spell of expectation heavy in the room. Then, finally, he speaks.

"And what is it you want from me, exactly?" he asks, tone mild and professorial now. "Do you want to be him—my Astarion? Do you want me to call you by his name, pretend you are what you'll never be?" He tilts his head, watching Petras' eyes. "Or... do you want me to tell you you're better than him?"

Still bound by the spell too tightly for speech, Petras shakes his head—sharp, almost frantic—at first. Then his gaze darts back up to Gale. The smallest lift at the corner of his mouth, fleeting and desperate, before he bites it back. That's all the answer Gale needs.

"Hm," Gale says, satisfaction curling warm in his voice. "So. Ambition."

When he finally releases the stasis, it is in deliberate increments—ankles, knees, hips—each granted like a gift to be noticed and appreciated. He guides the spawn toward the low chaise by the bookshelves and sinks down himself first, before permitting the boy to follow.

Petras moves with cautious attention, large hands tracing Gale's body with shiver-inducing precision. There's a certain clumsiness to his movements, as though he fears doing something wrong and losing the privilege entirely. His eyes can't seem to decide where to look—flicking from Gale's face to the mark at his collarbone, then further down to the place where their bodies append—each glance betraying a mixture of hunger and disbelief.

Broader than Astarion, heavier through the chest and shoulders, Petras fills the space in a way that remains deferential. Every touch is tracked yet obedient, as if he is probing the limits of what Gale will allow—and Gale relishes it, the leash that gives him exactly enough freedom. He notes the subtle tremor in the spawn's fingers, the way his lips part slightly: not for breath, but from reflex anticipation.

Where Astarion's cock had been smooth and hairless, Petras' is thick at the base with straw-blond hair. Soft, bare elegance replaced by texture, roughened and full, Gale relishes the contrast, though he doesn't speak it aloud—not yet. "That's it," he murmurs, "you fit me so well."

Better than he ever could lingers, taunting, on his lips, and Petras presses closer, hungry, following Gale's unspoken direction: the tilt of his hips, the way he leans, the tiny nudge where Gale wants more pressure or depth. Gale's hands rest lightly on his shoulders, adjusting, tilting, steering—never gripping too hard, always in control, every move precise.

Gale tilts his head back, eyes closing as Petras moves into him. His hands trace along Petras' sides, over the broad chest and down to the firm planes of his arms. "Feel that?" Gale says, giving him a squeeze. "That's mine you're taking... and I'm letting you, because you're worthy of it." Every word lands, deliberate, feeding the hunger that belongs to them both. Petras leans in, driven by the cadence of the praise, the warmth of Gale's skin, and the undeniable strength beneath his own hands.

Every shift, every subtle thrust, is orchestrated by Gale's perception of the room. He leans into Petras' hands when he wants, tilts slightly to redirect, arches in response to the sensations only Petras can provide. "Yes... just like that. So strong, so obedient... mine to enjoy." The words are fuel, and Petras shivers, pressing instinctively, caught between pride and the thrill of obedience.

As the rhythm deepens, he lets his fingers drift to the curve of Petras' ear. "Tell me," he murmurs, low and intimate, "if I were to... transform these... would you like that? Make them more... sensitive, more attuned?"

His fingertips curl lightly over the fleshy ridge. Petras hesitates for only a heartbeat, lips parting in a silent catch, and then he dips his head, eyes closing. There is no speech necessary; the assent is there in every slight shift, the arch of his neck, the way his body pushes further into Gale's touch.

Gale allows the faintest smile, fingers lingering, teasing. The magic threads lightly through him, working the flesh without overwhelming it, the sensation a delicate, almost electric warmth. Petras' ears lengthen, tips tapering into the familiar, erogenous elven shape. They flick, instinctively, against Gale's palm; his lips part in a silent, pleased gasp that draws a laugh from Gale's own pleasure. "See?" he indicates. "I thought you might like that... better than before, yes?"

Another tilt of the head is enough, and Gale resumes, fingers dancing along the new curves of cartilage while Petras pushes into him, obedience tangled into desire. Gale's hands slide lower, guiding the steady press of hips, mapping the weight and breadth of him. Praise flows in measured phrases, each one punctuated by touch, until Petras is shivering under the attention—pressing chest, hands, and pelvis closer still as Gale lets the intensity mount.

By the time they settle into a rhythm, Gale is entirely aware of the balance: Petras moving above him, filling him with a precision and strength that exceeds even Astarion, yet utterly obedient, attuned to every syllable, every glance. Gale tilts his hips, letting the spawn feel the curve of his own body, the yielding heat of muscle and skin beneath him, while his hands roam the broad planes of Petras' shoulders and chest. He guides the thrusts gently, encouraging with murmured praises, letting Petras' large hands chart his sides and his ribs. Each thrust is answered with subtle tension and release.

The words spill freely, low affirmations that carry authority: "That's it—yes... feel that, there..."

His legs shift, pressing against Petras' own, drawing him closer, setting a pace with control. Each movement, every tilt and grind, is paired with a touch: a palm at the shoulder, fingers at the thigh, a leg lifting to ease Petras' way. Pleasure moving in two directions, all of it flowing through a single conductor.

Gale moans without disguise, answering each deep push with unadulterated truth. His fingers slide into Petras' coarse hair, tracing the base of his neck, brushing the curve of his newly tapered ears. The praise thickens, textured now with command: not mere acknowledgment but calibrating every thrust. "Yes... just like that, deeper... keep it there... more..." His voice is the line, and Petras the sail: drawn on and on, sensation rippling in its wake.

As the movements build, tension stirs and spirals—and then, a glint of a predator's teeth. Petras surges, fangs bared for Gale's throat, only to be stopped cold by a fist tight in his hair. "No," Gale says—curt, voice edged with steel. The message is clear: You're mine to take, but not to bite.

Jaw clenched, Petras freezes, hunger burning in his eyes and leashed all the same. His fangs clip and snap shut around nothing, a hiss of frustrated humiliation spilling out. Every shiver, every futile jerk of his body is nothing but confirmation that Gale remains the one who holds dominion here.

And alas, even denied, Petras cannot resist the climax. The frustration, the excitement, the eager need to please all converge, and he comes, pumping himself into Gale despite the bite denied. Gale holds him fast: one hand tangled in his hair, the other cupping his jaw, anchoring him through every shudder. He rides the crest with him, murmuring low and sure. "There... that's it," he breathes, smoothing hands over tense shoulders, down the planes of his back, letting more than tactile sensation roll over them both.

The waves pass, and Gale's touch shifts—no longer steering, but softer, almost tender. He strokes Petras' hair, traces the curve of his ribs, shifts to allow his weight to sink into the chaise. Mutters become words, tempered with cool clarity, a reminder of the truth beyond the exchanged heat.

"This was a gift," he murmurs, fingertip gliding along the line of Petras' neck. "A private indulgence. Astarion remains mine. And you... are yours alone. Mine for a moment, perhaps—but never more."

His fingers curl lightly down Petras' spine, guiding him to feel the twin edges of pleasure and denial. The spawn stays draped over him, shoulders still shaking with the aftershock. His eyes, red-rimmed and glossy, flick to Gale's face in search of reassurance, for approval, even as humiliation tightens his features.

Gale tilts his jaw with a touch, meeting his gaze. "Do you understand, sweetling?"

A hesitant nod. Enough.

"Good," Gale whispers. "You may have these moments, freely, today. But know this: it is all you will ever have of me. Of us."

Petras exhales a sound that is neither protest nor acceptance, only surrender. Gale strokes his hair again, savoring the obedience, the chastened quiet, the small victory. The intimacy lingers—but so does the knowledge that this pleasure is neither love nor claim.