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Gortash gracefully spins the amulet between his fingers like it’s a coin he’s doing a parlor trick with and not a talisman imbued with a sickening arcane magic.
“Such a wonderful little gift from my patron.” Gortash muses. They’re alone in the office, Gortash seated comfortably at his desk.
Gale can’t quite tell what it does. He doesn’t recognize the symbol carved into it but the power emanating off of it has a chilling quality that makes his nape hairs stand up on end. It’s not pure weave, it’s something else entirely.
“A Banite spell-casting conduit?” Gale guesses.
“Not quite, but close.” Gortash smirks. “It’s a bit more, shall we say, specialized in its usage. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You came here alone?”
“Yes, my traveling companions had other matters to attend to this evening. I thought we could… Talk.” Gale stresses the last word, not quite sure if his intentions are clear. This isn’t his forte. Trickery and seduction are usually best left to rogues and bards. But considering his options, it’s the closest thing he has to a fighting chance. He can’t overpower Gortash, he can’t smooth talk his way into the duke handing over his gauntlet, and there’s likely nothing in the realms that he could offer in trade that would be of equivalent value to the Netherstone. This is what he has. A few well placed words, a playful smirk, and a well timed casting of mage hand might just be the trick.
He might not be able to do it tonight. He might have to make multiple trips until Gortash lets down his guard enough that Gale can slip the stone out of his gauntlet.
He hasn’t even begun to come up with a plan for how he’ll handle Orin. Suffice to say, he’s hoping for a miracle in that department. For now, he has greater invisibility and feather fall on the tips of his fingers, ready to make a run for it and dodge the Steel Watch if this goes sour.
“You know, you weren’t who I expected to see tonight. I honestly had my money on your rogue or your warlock coming to my door but you, Mr Dekarios?” Gortash puts his feet up on his desk nonchalantly. “You didn’t strike me as the type.”
“You’ve got this city under your thumb, it seemed like a good idea to earn your favor.” Gale shrugs politely.
“Earn my favor, hm? There’s any number of ways to earn my favor.” Gortash fiddles with the trinket again, staring down the wizard. “I like a good bottle of barrel aged wine when the mood strikes me. It would have been easy enough to have some sent as a show of good faith. But you decided to make it a personal visit. I’m curious as to why.”
“What can I say, my last breakup was desperately messy. I’m in the market to get hurt again.” Gale stands firm under the scrutinizing gaze.
“Oh yes I heard about that. I’m flattered to be considered in the same league as a goddess.” Gortash seems to run his finger around the edge of the talisman, Gale can feel the way energy sparks off of it. “Now, you wanted to talk. Why don’t we head somewhere private?”
The bedroom is only a flight of stairs up from the office. It’s nicer than Gale expected, velvet curtains and expensive looking woodworking. Gortash gestures for him to take a seat at the small table by the window.
“A breakfast nook, how cozy.” Gale looks out at the city below them.
“What’s the point of being archduke if I can’t have a little luxury now and again?” Gortash pulls two glasses out of the cabinet as well as a bottle of wine. “I should have asked. Do you drink?”
“Whenever I can.” Gale accepts the glass and lets Gortash serve him a hefty pour.
He waits for Enver to drink before he gives it a taste. It’s rich and strong, tasting of whiskey and the warning of a bad hangover. “You weren’t kidding about barrel aged.”
“I don’t waste cellar space on sub par wine.” Gortash says plainly, taking the seat across from Gale. “But we aren’t here to discuss local vintages. I must say, Mr Dekarios, I’m quite tempted by your offer. I don’t often allow myself such frivolous vulnerabilities, too much risk considering my position. But you… You don’t seem the type to assassinate your lovers.”
“It’s not something I make a habit of,” Gale takes another sip of the wine, careful not to drink too much and risk losing his edge when it matters most.
“Safe to assume I don’t have to tell you that you won’t be getting any overtures of love from me?” Gortash seems to be picking Gale apart with his gaze, analyzing every movement, every flicker of emotion.
“If I wanted tenderness, I wouldn’t be here.” Gale replies confidently.
“I’m glad we’re in agreement.” Gortash clasps his hands together and flashes a toothy grin. “Make yourself comfortable. Lie down.”
Gale takes another sip from his glass before setting it down. He’ll finish the wine later. Gortash, in a dramatic flair or perhaps a show of dominance, finishes his drink in one go. Gale makes his way to the bed, slipping off his robe and tossing it onto the coat rack, kicking off his boots easily. He’s left in just his undershirt and tights.
He chooses to lay face down, an act of submission, offering without having to choke on the words. It’ll spare Gortash from having to look him in the eye, they can both swallow their doubts and enjoy this without having to face- having to admit to themselves- who the other man is. Or at least that’s what he assumes Gortash wants; a faceless warm body underneath him, a passive and willing partner eager to receive.
“On your back, darling.” Gortash instructs, looming over him from the side of the bed.
“I thought we agreed, no tenderness.” Gale eyes Gortash with only momentary suspicion before turning over.
“I’m not going to kiss you if that’s what you’re worried about.” Gortash laughs. “Trust me, this will work better. You’ll see.”
Gale watches as Gortash strips off his coat and feels a pang of disappointment when the gauntlets follow, quickly stowed away into a chest with an intricate arcane lock, the sort that not even knock can jostle open. He won’t be getting the stone tonight, then. The talisman however, stays. It’s wrapped around his wrist like a monk’s prayer beads.
“I know I can trust you not to kill me. But you can understand why I might not trust you with that particular object.” Gortash smirks. “Take off your tunic.”
“I assumed you’d want the pleasure to yourself.” Gale pulls the loose-fitting garment over his head and throws it over to where his boots are.
“You assumed wrong. Tights too, I want to see what I’m working with.” Gortash stands as if appraising Gale’s form while he undresses. He feels vulnerable, insecure with his bare skin on such obvious display while the other man looks on with a passive interest. “What are you waiting for?”
“I assume I’m waiting for you.” Gale replies, drumming his fingers on the bed.
“If you’re expecting me to crawl up there and get you warmed up you’re sorely mistaken. Do it yourself. I’ll watch.” Gortash crosses his arms over his chest.
“You’ll watch?” Gale can’t hide the offense in his voice. “I don’t know about you but I need a little more than nothing to get in the mood. If you won’t help me then at least let me service you, I’ve been told I’m quite good with my tongue.”
“That is a request I can oblige.” Gortash drops his shirt and belt to the floor. The ornate boots apparently require a little bit of attention to the latches before they can fall as well but it’s what’s underneath those pompous trousers that catches Gale’s attention even more.
“Surely I’m not the first man you’ve met with this particular predicament.” Gortash doesn’t bother folding his clothes, instead leaving them in a loose pile on the floor. Even in this state he seems powerful, scarred skin worn like a badge of pride and his cunt on shameless display.
“Not at all. I had my fair share of fun in my academy days.” Gale grabs a pillow to prop his head up with and pats his chest. “Take a seat, I think you’ll find my skills quite to your liking.”
Gortash isn’t graceful or seductive in his movements. He’s intentional, moving with a determined forcefulness that betrays a sense of confidence. Gale doesn’t dare attempt to detect his thoughts, he doesn’t need to. Gortash’s expression is clear as day. “Below your lord, where you belong.” Gale supposes it’s no surprise that a worshiper of Bane would have such an obvious power fetish, it’s probably the reason that he’s the dark lord’s chosen. He’ll just have to lean in.
Gale thinks up a pithy quip - “Your throne, my liege,” - but leaves it unsaid. Best not to tease a man as determined as Gortash. Instead, he lets his hands do the talking, guiding the other man to shift forward, roll his hips so Gale can get easy access.
When he works his tongue he uses his usual bag of tricks, the exercises that tongue tied wizards do for hours on end to fight off the sort of slurring or speech impediment that might turn a firebolt into a fireball in a moment of panic. He’s all too familiar with the paces, beginning to end, getting a rap on his knuckles if the marble between his teeth ever shifted or worse yet; dropped. Now, lying on these all-too-fancy sheets, he wonders if his teachers ever considered this particular usage, ever realized that in punishing him for his mistakes they were training him for a much different, but nonetheless magical, pursuit.
“You are quite good at that,” Gortash runs a hand through Gale’s hair approvingly.
Gale hums in agreement. Really, more than anything, what he needed was praise, for his partner to tell him that he’s done good. Mystra had been especially good with that, generous with her praise when it was earned, and withholding everything but the coldest glares when she was displeased. Gortash doesn’t say much, but the way his hands tug at Gale’s hair, the way he ruts against the wizard with a sort of reckless selfishness, it’s reassurance enough that he’s hitting the right spots.
Gale leaves one hand on the other man’s hip to keep him steady while the other goes to work on himself, stroking slowly in stark contrast to Gortash’s rough treatment. It’s pleasant, in a way, to be used. He’s an object to be looked down upon, to be maneuvered into place, to be allowed the treat of pleasuring himself at his master’s discretion. He mentally reprimands himself for entertaining the thought, if even for a moment, that Gortash might withdraw that concession, might be as much of a tyrant in the bedroom as the throne room, might take everything and give nothing back in return. He tries not to address the fact that the notion makes his cock throb.
Mystra had denied him plenty. She had denied him touch, denied him the pleasure of looking at her, denied him the warmth of the weave, even. But he’d never been denied so physically by a partner. Denied receiving while still being expected to give. The cold shoulder is a much different beast than the iron fist. The iron fist, for one, doesn’t bother being gentle when it pulls his hair.
“You’ll have to let me know if I hurt you.” Gortash's breathing isn’t quite steady, face flushed. “I’d hate to miss it.”
That makes his heart jump, makes his blood run cold for the briefest of moments before it flashes hotter than ever before. He can’t help the noise of surprise that leaves him.
“Do you like that? Do you want me to hurt you?” Gortash’s hands are gentle on his scalp again, as if asking permission. Gale doesn’t know how to say yes. Doesn’t know why he wants to say yes. Gortash does him the favor of pulling away for just a split second, giving him room to breathe, talk, beg.
“Yes,” Gale gasps out. Gortash’s grip tightens in his hair.
“Try again,” Gortash chides. “Remember who you’re talking to.”
“Yes, please.” Gale catches another breath before adding, “sir.” He hopes ‘sir’ is what Gortash wants to hear. He hopes he’s said the right words to please him.
“I suppose it will do.” Gortash pulls him back to his task, rough enough to make him wince. “But next time, you will address me as your lord.”
Of course, how foolish of him to underestimate Gortash’s ego at a time like this. Whatever wounds he’s inflicted seems soothed enough by Gale’s tongue however. When a particular flick of his tongue seems to get an especially good reaction out of the man, he focuses his efforts, letting his hair be tugged so he can hear the string of curses that spill out.
“Eager aren’t you?” Gortash’s breathing sounds heavy when he pulls away, strained even.
“You’d deny me the satisfaction of finishing the job?” Gale feels some inkling of vulgar shame creep into his mind when he has to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. It makes his ears burn and his heart stutter. He’s not used to this physicality after years of devotional purity in the name of worshiping Mystra.
He barely even touched himself those days. She never forbade it but he always felt like he had to be clean for her, that his human impulses would stain him as untouchable, render him nothing more than a filthy mortal in her eyes, unworthy of her warmth. There was never anything about her that was less than perfect or unintentional. She was always a beautiful visage of magic, unapproachable. The sort of thing you shielded your eyes from out of respect. Gortash is just a man, body worn and scarred, a shimmer of sweat on his brow, rendered breathless by Gale’s ministrations. There’s a refreshing sense of relief at seeing him undone, in knowing that this partner can be made loose at the seams, that he’s a fallible human just like him. He sees himself in Gortash, a broken man reclaiming his sense of self by clawing for the power he’s owed, ready to fight tooth and nail to get retribution for the autonomy he was denied in his youth.
“I’m also denying myself the satisfaction, don’t forget that.” Gortash smirks. “I’m sure I could make good use of that mouth of yours all night but I’ve got something exciting in mind.” The talisman slips into Gortash’s palm with a clever flick of his wrist, arcane power crackling at Gale’s skin yet again. “With your permission of course.”
“You’re asking me for permission?” Gale eyes the talisman again. The symbol is definitely Banite but it doesn’t look like anything he’d seen in his textbooks. “I thought you were a tyrant.”
“Tyranny without submission is just subjugation. The willing submission of your subjects is the best part.” Gortash leans over him, hands on either side of his head. “I could force you, but there’s no fun in that. I want you to ask me to subdue you.”
“And pray tell, how do you plan to subdue me?” Gale can feel the talisman next to his ear and how it hums.
“Just a spell or two I picked up in the hells, nothing serious.” Gortash replies nonchalantly. “The first one’s just a simple binding cantrip, not so different from hold person. The second one is where the fun is; a little trick of transmutation magic. It won’t harm you, it will just imbue you with unmatched restraint.”
“I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.” Gale meets Gortash’s gaze with his own intensity.
“You’ll last all night whether you want to or not. I’ll get to decide when you’re done.” Gortash’s smile feels like both a threat and a promise. “There’s also the matter of the hangover but a potion of lesser restoration will sort that out.”
“Ah, magical resilience! I’m no expert but I’m somewhat familiar.” Gale nods knowingly. “Well I submit myself to your capable hands, my liege.”
Gortash grips the talisman in one hand and places the other on Gale’s chest. The feeling that rings through him is like the dissonant chord of a cracked temple bell, making his muscles quiver out of harmony. It’s not the magic of the hells, it’s the magic of the Abyss. The magic of demons and- the thought occurs to Gale like a flash of lightning- the magic of incubi . Clever Gortash, probably bribing some bound incubus to share their private spellbook with him, offering something in exchange for a professional’s tools of the trade.
When the ringing in his ears quiets he can feel something settle in his stomach, nestling into place at the base of his spine. Gortash looks at him thoughtfully for a moment before making a subtle motion with his hand. Gale’s limbs are tugged into place as if tied to the bedposts.
“Comfortable?” Gortash asks, still straddling Gale.
“Very, Lord Gortash,” Gale resists the urge to smile at how silly it sounds to be using the man’s full title while they’re both naked. “My lord, feel free to use me as you see fit.”
Gortash doesn’t waste any time and Gale is sent reeling, tugging against the invisible bonds when he’s all but instantly flush with his partner. Without a hand at his disposal he can’t muffle the keening whine that comes out of him. The muscles in his back twitch trying to thrust upward but he’s held in place by Gortash’s magic.
“It’s a lot more effective than using rope,” Gortash sighs, “no chance of any knots coming undone or any sleight of hand tricks.”
“Mhm,” Gale pretends that he heard what Gortash just said and isn’t dizzy with the warmth and the sudden, all-too-erotic realization that he quite likes the feeling of being completely restrained. When Gortash starts moving, rolling his hips so Gale is only getting a whisper of friction, Gale can’t help but let out a pleased groan.
“I’m glad you agree.” Gortash chuckles, readjusting his weight so he can get better leverage. Gale doesn’t care that he lets out an undignified hiss when Gortash seems to find a steady rhythm of rocking. It had been a while since he’d had any late night companionship. Maybe a year or more before the nautiloid when last Mystra had paid him a visit. Between that legendary dry spell and the stress of the last few weeks, he’s all but melting under Gortash’s touch. He wishes he could break free from the bonds, flip them over and fuck Gortash with all that pent up tension from the last year, show him what an idiot Mystra had been to leave him behind and remind her that for a mortal, he was a more than competent lover. Let her watch from her ivory tower of omnipotence. If she knows all, if she sees all, then let her see this, let her watch as Gale submits himself to another’s touch, let her know how he longs to dig his fingers into Gortash’s hips and give him what Mystra had once, and likely still does, believe herself to have sole ownership of.
After a year of denial, the most he deserves is a good, hard fuck from a man who doesn’t love him. An opportunity to enjoy the act that would surely make him filthy in Mystra’s eyes, far too human for her to touch.
He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t bother coming up with some witty retort or insightful comment. He just lets himself be there. Eyes closed, feeling the weight and warmth of another person on his hips, the texture of the bedding on his back, and the rush of pleasure at being unburdened for the first time in weeks. When Gortash’s nails scrape across his chest he can enjoy the way his skin prickles with sensation, really feeling every tiny thing around him. The warm air carries the smell of smoke, incense, and a hint of Gortash’s own perfume; something subtle and earthy, likely an expensive treat that Gale is getting the privilege of experiencing secondhand.
“You seem positively drunk! Is no one at that camp of yours taking care of you?” Gortash’s voice is full of faux concern.
“I’ve been too-” Gale lets a sound not unlike a purr escape him. “I’ve been too busy.”
“You’re like a neglected tressym, preening under just a little touch!” Gortash chuckles. “If I’d known you were this desperate I would’ve sought you out much sooner. You’d be pathetic if you weren’t so wonderfully submissive.”
“Submissive” was never a word Gale had heard said with such affection, lust, and appreciation. Gortash said it as encouragement. Gale was pleasing the man just by willingly lying back and taking it. So lie back and take it he would. He relaxes, lets everything wash over him. Doesn’t fight it when he feels that pleasure building inside him.
In the haze of pleasure and comfort he decides to take his chances with Gortash’s ire, let himself be thrown over the edge by the waves of ecstasy rather than make any effort to stop it. He’d spent so long learning to hold himself back, to fight through exhaustion and spell casting fatigue. It was the nature of a wizard’s very training that hours a day be spent learning to cast one more and one more and one more, tugging for just a centimeter more of stamina again and again until his very essence was stretched as thin as it could go, hours of arcane thread drawn from what had originally felt like it could only last for a few seconds longer. But now, in the flickering candlelight of Gortash’s chambers, he lets go.
And yet, nothing. No release. Instead, every muscle in his body tenses and releases but nothing changes, there’s the same tightness in his stomach as before. It feels like he’s verging on bliss but never quite toppling over, never quite getting that last little bit of encouragement that he needs.
“Like I said. You’ll last all night.” Gortash smirks at him.
Gale had heard of similar spells. Those that shortened the refractory period of mortal men to mere seconds, allowing them to chase bliss again and again in one evening of revelry. But this? Calm but firm denial? It was like a stone wall had been erected inside of him. One that he could never climb or break, one that he could only look upon and know he was powerless to circumvent. Like the rocks of a stormy shore, he could only be thrown against them again and again, never quite getting clear. It wasn’t what he had expected.
“I’ve been told it hurts a little. After a few minutes that is.” Gortash doesn’t still his movements. Gale can feel that tension burning inside of him, the creaking of a dam never designed to hold this long. “I want you to tell me.”
Gale doesn’t have the concentration to string together a sentence. He hisses through his teeth, can feel his muscles trying to rut upwards as if a little more friction is going to somehow break the enchantment holding him back.
“Burns,” Gale manages to spit out.
“You wizards are all too familiar with holding yourselves back, aren’t you?” Gortash’s hands once again soothe over Gale’s chest. “I’m merely taking the burden of effort off your shoulders. I’ll dispel the charm… If you’re good.”
“Anything,” Gale gasps, feeling another wave of pleasure hit him but not quite pass through. “My lord, I’ll do anything.” Gale knows the quickest way to release is to please Gortash. But without his hands, without his autonomy, he has to hope that the man doesn’t choose to drag this along indefinitely.
“Anything?” Gortash’s voice is all too amused. “There’s only one thing I want from you, wizard. I want to watch you endure. I want to watch you fight to keep your sanity when you’re hanging on by a thread. I want to see the look in your eyes when you realize you’d degrade yourself for my amusement.”
Gale feels a jolt. Pleasure, fear, electricity, perhaps just the spell fighting back against him. He imagines himself at Gortash’s feet, resting his head on the tyrant’s knees, a perfect supplicant offering his body, his soul, his everything to the man in front of everyone. It’s only after the image passes that he can feel the Chosen of Bane dancing through his skull with his fingers, savoring the image for himself, claws flipping through thoughts like they’re nothing more than the pages of a book.
“Oh that’s lovely.” Gortash lets out a shuddering breath. Gale can tell he’s close, spurred on by the voyeuristic intrusion into Gale’s private thoughts. He thinks that if he can just get a hand in between Gortash’s legs, let his fingers press at those same spots his tongue had entertained earlier, he can push the man over the precipice.
He tries to be subtle, tries to whisper the words under his breath, tries to conjure a mage hand legerdemain like Astarion’s; silent, nimble, never noticed but before the first syllable can form, Gortash’s fingers are in his mouth, restraining his tongue more effectively than any counterspell.
“I don’t think so.” Gortash wags a finger at Gale with his other hand. “No tricks.”
When another wave of pleasure crashes into him, Gale fights the urge to clench his jaw not wanting to risk angering Gortash by biting him. He can feel himself drooling around the digits in his mouth and a thought occurs to him. He sucks. He lets his tongue twist around the fingers and makes sure his eyes meet with Gortash’s, makes sure the message is clear; complete submission.
Gortash’s breath hitches for just a second, his legs quiver. He grips Gale’s jaw like it’s an anchor point and rides through his own orgasm. Were it not for the magic of the Abyss restraining him, Gale would have happily followed suit but instead he’s left nothing more than an observer, cursed to watch as Gortash enjoys that which he is being denied.
Gortash slumps next to him, panting.
“Have I been good?” Gale asks. The pit in his stomach isn’t letting up. Along with preventing him from achieving climax, the spell also seems to keep him from calming down.
“Satisfactory.” Gortash replies.
“Can you release me then?” Gale turns his head towards the other man. “So I can finish myself.”
“It would only be fair…” Gortash hums to himself. He raises the hand with the talisman, preparing to dismiss its magic when a knock rings through the room. Gale’s breath stills in his chest.
“M’lord, excuse me, m’lord!” It’s the voice of a young girl.
Gortash tenses up and sneers with frustration. “I told you, I didn’t want to be disturbed at night. Unless half of Baldur’s Gate is on fire, I expect to be left alone!” Gortash barks at the door.
“M’lord, it really is important!” The girl’s voice quivers. She sounds shaken, terrified, and winded, like she’d just run all the way from the basement of Wyrm’s Rock.
“For your sake, I hope you’re right!” Gortash angrily grabs the housecoat on the rack nearby, mumbling something about untrained staff as he pulls it tight around himself. “Because if this is anything less than fucking cataclysmic, I won’t just have you dismissed-”
He pulls the door open just a crack, just enough so he can spit whatever vitriol has come to mind at the chambermaid who’d dared to intrude on him. The girl’s hand pushes through the door, scratching wildly at Gortash’s face. He reels back but before he can kick the door closed again she slips through. Gale yelps and squeezes his eyes shut as if somehow not looking at the girl will mean she won’t be able to see him either.
“You insufferable-” Gortash’s hand readies, pulled back to strike her but he freezes. Gale waits, his ears are ringing, his heart is racing faster than before. He’s waiting to hear the impact, to hear the girl fall to the floor. When nothing happens, he hazards a peak.
“Orin,” Gortash bites out. Gale can hear the disdain in his voice, the contempt. “Always a pleasure. You could have waited for me in my office.”
“I don’t wait, Lordling.” The girl saunters past him, pushing him aside. Gale watches as the usual puff of dust washes over her and the young woman is replaced with Orin’s dead eyed visage.
“Perhaps, just this once you could’ve made an exception?” Gortash closes the door again and resets the latch. “I didn’t think so.”
“And who’s this?” Orin’s eyes seem to rake over Gale’s form with amusement. “That troublesome little wizard come to warm your bed?”
“He’s nothing more than an idle distraction to fill my evening.” Gortash sighs. He pours himself another glass of wine and settles into the chair by the window. “Did you come here to discuss business? Or to try and steal my toys?”
“Can I have a blanket please?” Gale’s voice cracks. Orin seems to be inching closer.
“No.” Gortash answers plainly, taking a sip from his glass. “If he’s such a distraction to you then be my guest. Get it out of your system so we can get on with it.”
“The Lordling is willing to share?” Orin’s voice bubbles with laughter.
“He took such painstaking efforts to get himself ready,” Gortash looks out the window, swirling the wine in his glass. “Seeing as I’m… ill equipped to appreciate such preparation, maybe you’d make good use of him.”
Gale had hoped- no, prayed that Gortash hadn’t probed that particular part of his mind, hadn’t glimpsed that fraction of a memory he knew he couldn’t guard. Tucked away in the second room of the Elfsong, having earlier that night pulled Astarion, of all people, aside.
“I need…” Gale finds himself chewing on his tongue.
“Spit it out man,” Astarion lets out a huff. “Whatever you need I’ve probably already stolen it.”
“I need oil.” Gale stares down at his shoes.
“Wizbane oil, oil of sharpness… Arsonist’s oil?” Astarion rifles a hand through his pack, glass bottles clinking. “Hold on, that’s wine. I must have given the Basilisk oil to Karlach but she should still have some.”
“No, just… oil. Juniper oil if you have it but we’re a ways from Waterdeep. Olive or hazelnut would suffice.”
“ Oh, ” Astarion smirks. “Hazelnut oil I have.”
It was the aroma of hazelnut oil, the feeling of his own fingers inside of him, the stillness of the air in that unused room that he’d been unable to shake. Gortash must have skimmed that thought along with the others.
“Ripe for the taking then?” Orin sits on the edge of the bed, eyeing Gale just as Gortash had done before. She’s appraising him, dissecting him with her eyes, looking for the prime cuts to sink her blade into. “I want him on his stomach.”
Gale feels a moment of weightless nausea when Gortash snaps. He’s flipped head over heels, chin at the far edge of the bed, facing Gortash. The man tosses something to Orin easily. “You might want this. Tried to cast mage hand earlier. I had to stick my fingers in his mouth.”
“I can think of something better than fingers for that.” Orin gets up from the bed, her movements shifting the mattress. Gale can hear the sound of metal clasps coming undone, the jangling of hardware as it cascades to the floor and… The click of resin on stone? He twists his head to look, trying to sort out if that noise came from her armor but something much more important catches his attention. Her blood red armor is intact save for the modesty belt now cast haphazardly to the floor.
He lets out an involuntary shiver. Even flaccid her length is impressive, just barely verging on intimidating in stature. He can take it (probably) but it’s pushing his limits.
“Ma’am-” Gale swallows around his tongue, aware that he’s about to start drooling. The still logical part of his brain keeps him from blurting out “mother.”
“That was not the reaction I expected,” Gortash says, pleasantly surprised. “I had my money on begging for mercy.”
“Please,” Gale says, looking up at Orin as she stands directly in front of him, separating him from Gortash. He’d sucked cock before, it wasn’t something he was averse to but never before had he wanted it so badly. He wants to feel her weight on his tongue, her hands in his hair, and wants to feel her press into the back of his throat.
“Well, don’t leave the man waiting, Orin.” Gortash chuckles. “She likes it with a little teeth so don’t be shy.”
Orin’s nails scratch his scalp, carding through his now thoroughly tousled hair. Gale tilts his head to the side, lets his tongue dart out to wet his lips before she offers her cock to him. He kisses the tip, meets it with his tongue as if to invite her to explore further. Gale never thought he would use the term gentle to describe Orin. She was a woman of sharp edges and hard surfaces, abrasive in a way that was sure to scrape and bruise and bloody. But her touch now is almost loving, rewarding Gale’s obedience with a slow, measured thrust, pausing midway to make sure he’s not choking.
“Do you think you can handle the whole thing?” Her thumb strokes his cheek.
Gale hums in agreement, looking up at her through his lashes. She seems almost flattered by the gesture, smiling at him. If he weren’t bound to the bed he’d take a more active role. Ideally, for something like this, he’d be kneeling in front of her, hands on her waist so he could set the pace. As he is, he’s just a receptacle for her pleasure, the most he can offer is encouragement with his tongue, swallowing around her when she rolls her hips a little further.
“Oh come now, Orin. Don’t be so gentle. He can take it.” Gortash has moved from his seat so he can have a better view, leaning against the wall. “In fact I think he likes it.”
“Is that so? Do you want me to be rough with you?” Orin teases.
Gale’s muffled moan speaks for itself.
“I should get my harness out. We can fuck him from both ends.” Gortash smirks. He pulls a tobacconist's pouch from the pocket of his robe and lights a thin cigar with the flame from a nearby candle. “Not tonight though. I think I’ll just watch tonight.” The smell of smoke is both aromatic and acrid, some exotic blend with a note of spice.
Orin’s grip on his hair tightens and Gale whimpers. She pulls back slowly but slams back in with a fervor. Her pace is practiced and smooth, elegant just like all her other movements. Gale feels dizzy with desire, her treatment jostling him enough that his cock drags along the bed linens for just a hint of friction.
“Is that really the best your Bhaalspawn strength can offer?” Gortash taunts. “Ruin him.” He gestures like he’s just issued an edict.
“Good boy!” Orin holds Gale in place as she uses him and he thinks, under different circumstances, he’d cum on the spot at those words. Gortash saunters over, the smell of smoke all encompassing as he approaches. He places a hand on Orin’s lower back, using it to urge her deeper, harder. Gale swallows around her to keep from gagging.
“Let your upper teeth drag just a little as she pulls out. It should just be a whisper,” Gortash instructs, gesturing with his cigar hand. Gale does as he’s told and Orin lets out a shuddering gasp.
Each thrust just barely teases at his throat, if she pushed just a little further, pulled him to meet her, she’d choke him. On a particularly enthusiastic thrust she does.
“Finish down his throat. I’m sure he’ll love it.” Gortash’s hand gives Orin’s ass a polite slap, just enough to urge her on. Whether she enjoys it or hates it, she growls all the same.
It suddenly makes sense. Orin isn't treating him with tenderness out of some sort of fondness, she's doing it to spite Gortash. He wants to see Gale brutalized but as much as she wants to do the brutalizing, she wants to deny Gortash the satisfaction even more.
Orin seems like an angered dog, on the verge of biting its master but still holding back like she’s gripping to her own pride even as her thrusts stutter.
“There you go. I knew you had it in you.” Gortash smirks, finally stepping back to get a better view.
Orin gives a few more broken thrusts. She almost doubles over Gale, pushing him down on her length and holding him in place when her climax hits her with a sharp cry. Gale doesn’t have much choice but to swallow, locked into place by Orin’s grip.
“Good girl,” Gortash’s mocking praise cuts through Gale’s gasps for breath when Orin pulls away. “Quite the show.”
“I’m not done with him yet,” Orin’s voice, once sweet and comforting, now sounds like the threatening growl of a wild animal ready to pounce.
“I expected nothing less.” Gortash’s eyes follow her as she climbs up behind Gale. “Now it’s time for the main attraction. I assume you won’t mind if I make myself comfortable?” Gortash pulls the chair from the window closer to the bed and reclines in it lazily. He’s facing Gale head on, looking into the wizard's eyes with a sort of fiendish amusement.
“Be my guest, lordling. How very like you to look on while someone else does the hard work.” Orin nails claw along Gale’s back.
“I shouldn’t have to do the hard work. That’s what peons are for.” Gortash sighs. He hikes a leg up onto the arm of the chair but the robe still drapes in a way that covers his groin.
“Is that the next stage for the Steel Watch? Automotons who can fuck your lovers for you?” Orin reaches for a bedside table to get something from the drawer. “Gods forbid you might break a sweat doing it yourself.”
“I’d never waste a Steel Watcher. You’re all too eager to get your hands dirty on my behalf.” Gortash is the picture of decadent hedonism, cigar in hand glass of wine within reach.
“You two do love to bicker, don’t you?” Gale chimes in smugly. Orin grips his hair roughly, pulling his head back so she can hook a strip of velvet between his teeth as a gag.
“Quiet, wizard, this isn’t about you.” Orin ties the strip tightly so the fabric is rough on the edges of his mouth. “I only dirty my hands when it’s in my own best interest. Like right now. You want to watch me fuck your little toy? Fine by me. I’ll happily profit from your impotence.”
“All talk. No action.” Gortash smirks.
Gale lets out a muffled yelp when a well oiled finger slips into him followed shortly by another.
“You poor thing. You really were planning on letting the lordling break you.” Orin coos fingers twisting in a way that makes Gale quiver. “No matter. I can clean up after him. It’s what I always do.”
Orin’s practiced touch seems to pinpoint that spot in him that he’d only teased himself earlier. Gale can feel where he’s leaking onto his own stomach, cock still pinned under him. Orin doesn’t waste any time indulging Gale with languid fingering, a third finger slips in easily with only a hint of a burning stretch. Gale babbles something through the gag, a desperate plea for the real thing.
“The lord” she says the word as if it’s an insult, “likes to watch while I give others what he can’t.” She leans down close to him, the smell of damp caverns and incense in her hair. “Make sure he knows how much you’re enjoying my conquest.” Gale whimpers in response and turns his head toward Gortash.
Gortash’s expression is somewhere between burning arousal and simmering anger, very likely a mixture of both. Gale watches his brow furrow when Gale lets out a keening moan at Orin pushing inside him. Her hips snap forward and Gale can feel his arms pull tight against the bonds.
Her first few thrusts seem careful, like she’s holding herself back from doing any real damage. Gale is sure that she could. Sure that she could fuck him so hard it hurt, leave him sore all over and still begging for more. She’s savage and wild, untamed and selfish.
“Feels good?” She asks, leaning down so her chest is to his back.
“Mhm,” Gale mumbles, beginning to drool on the sheets through the gag.
“Then this will feel great.”
The pace she sets is brutal, hips angled just so to inflict as much blinding pleasure as possible. Gale bites down on the gag but the whimpering moans still spill forth. He wants to beg Orin to touch him, wishes he was on his back so he could wrap his legs around her waist, pull her in just a little closer, hold her tight while she ruins him.
“Mr Dekarios, you’re just perfect for this.” Gortash smiles. Gale feels a sense of pride when he notices that the man is fingering himself with his freehand. He’s putting on a good show for his audience.
Gale feels another rush of bliss wash over him, rides it through until it fizzles out just like the last. Orin swears under her breath and leans over him, hands grasping at his flesh hungrily and her teeth sink into his shoulder with a jolt of white-hot pain. It’s not a suck-bruise, it’s a proper bite and she holds on tight for a moment before moving to another spot and giving it the same treatment. His cries of pain flow seamlessly into his moans. It’s the first time in his life he’s felt truly brainless, unable to keep a single thought together long enough to see it through while she plows into him. She covers his shoulders and neck with bite marks, sparing none of his pale skin.
Her nails dig into his hips and she hikes a leg up to get just a little more leverage. Gale starts mumbling through the gag, too drunk on pleasure to care when Orin pulls it loose and his words spill out.
It’s a debauched string of sounds, most of them meaningless but there’s a few cries of ‘please’ and ‘mother’ mixed in with the gibberish.
“That’s right, beg for mother!” Orin lets out a shrill laugh. She grips his hips hard enough to bruise, pulling him to meet her with each thrust.
Gale can feel sparks of pleasure, almost like burning electricity, run through every inch of his nerves. It’s an exhilarating torture, kept always on the cusp, never given the mercy of release. It’s a tidal wave, a tempest, a wild fire, an endless freefall of gut wrenching pleasure and agony.
“Orin, please-” He cuts himself off with another broken cry, his voice cracking from the strain. “Please, let me cum. I can’t take it anymore.”
“The little wizard’s at his limit?” She clicks her tongue teasingly. “It’s not my decision to make.” She grabs Gale’s hair pulling him taut, forcing him to arch his back and bare his throat. “Take it up with the tyrant.”
He can’t imagine what he must look like to Gortash. Throat covered in bite marks, eyes glossed over with bliss, he’s sure he’s still drooling and he’s shivering from the sensation of it all.
“Lord Gortash plea-” Another moan shakes through him, his eyes briefly rolling back. “Please. I submit. I submit!”
Gortash cums on his own fingers at the words. It’s spectacular, he arches up into nothing, one hand stuffing himself full, the other gripping the head of the chair behind him like it’s his only anchor to the material plane, spilling so much slick that it drips onto the floor.
“Good show, little tyrant!” Orin teases, her own thrusts faltering as she similarly nears her edge. She seems to hold herself back a little, trying to hold onto her resolve for just a minute more of Gale’s torture.
Gortash is slumped in his chair, still catching his breath, finger fucking himself through the last waves of pleasure. His breathing is still heavy and uneven when he clasps the talisman again.
“You’ve earned it. ” Gortash flicks the talisman so it lets out a ring, discordant and broken just like the one that had started this mess.
When the spell snaps it’s not just release, it’s every ruined orgasm from the last hour, every denial turned back around and thrust upon him all at once. The noise he makes can’t be anywhere near dignified but he can’t hear it over the ringing of that broken church bell. He can feel how Orin suddenly stutters, filling him to the brim with spend. He can feel how her nails dig in one last time, she pushes forward trying to nestle herself as deep as she can go, swearing under her breath about how tight he is, how perfect he is, how beautiful.
She stays put for a moment and Gale realizes he suddenly has the use of his limbs. It’s still all too much, too much tension left lingering in his stomach. He nudges Orin away and flips over on his back, letting a hand work himself in rough, excited jerks.
He called Mystra ‘Mother’. Sometimes Mother of all Magic, sometimes Mother of the Weave, sometimes just Mother. Sometimes she demanded it, sometimes she teased him for letting it slip unconsciously, other times she’d hold him close after she’d been rough with him. “Mother will make it better,” she’d whisper to him, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Orin meant to hurt him, Orin set out to break him body and soul and even so, when he cries for Mother it’s not for the mistress of magic, it’s for her, for the Bhaalspawn bathed in blood who wrecked him more thoroughly than anyone else had.
He releases a few more drops of slick into his hand and stomach. Orin’s hand joins his, guiding him slowly through the last few thrusts as he finally comes back down to earth.
“What a wonderful display of desperation, don’t you think so, Orin?” Gortash saunters up to the bed again but his legs seem weak.
“It was delicious!” She lays a gentle kiss to Gale’s neck, his oversensitive skin sparking to life.
Gortash pats Gale’s chest approvingly as it heaves up and down with the effort to breathe. He cradles Gale’s head in his hand, tilts him up and offers him that abandoned glass of wine from earlier. Gale drinks it down, no longer wincing at the smokey tang of whiskey it leaves on his lips. “Very good. Orin, you keep an eye on him, I’m going to fetch something for this mess.” He grimaces at the state of his living quarters. The sheets are likely too far gone to be saved and there’s even a spot on the carpet where his slick had dripped earlier.
Orin pulls him close to her, the points of her armor scratching ever so slightly at his skin. She holds him gently like she’s afraid he’s going to break. Her fingers trace over his skin. Gale tries not to think about how she’s drawing all the lines she’d need to flay him. He focuses on how she kisses the back of his neck, mumbling praise against the bruised skin.
“Gross. Don’t cuddle him.” Gortash frowns when he comes back.
“But he likes it.” Orin coos, pulling him even closer, her stomach against his back.
“Sorry about your sheets,” Gale carefully pulls a hand out of Orin’s grasp. She whines at the loss but lets him move. He flicks his wrist in a circular motion. “Prestidigitation! Your sheets are saved. Carpet too. I’m still fairly sticky so if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate something to clean up with.” He holds out his hand and Gortash gives him one of the rags.
“Once Orin’s done sapping your body heat or whatever it is she seems to think she’s doing, the bath is the third door on the right down the hall. You can get yourself washed up and head back to your camp.”
Gale wasn’t disappointed. He knew Gortash couldn’t have him staying the night. He is however pleased that Gortash is willing to let him get cleaned up. He half expected to get kicked to the curb, forced to perform that infamous walk of shame back to his companions with his robes still ruffled and still smelling of sweat.
Gortash leaves. Likely to clean himself off in the amenities. When his footsteps fade to silence, Orin pulls him tight against her.
She kisses the nape of his neck, one of her hands covers Gale’s mouth while the other wraps around his cock again. “Shhh, let me take care of you.” She whispers into his ear. He’s so oversensitive that each stroke makes his nerves sing, a mixture of numb pain and lingering pleasure. He shivers when she wrenches a final, dry orgasm out of him with a careful twist of her wrist, cascading over a less than elegant rapture much sooner than expected. “I so love doing that.”
“Gods,” Gale sighs when her hand finally frees his voice.
“One more?” She reaches for him again and Gale swats her hand away.
“No, I’m spent. Well and truly spent.” Gale pulls himself out of her grasp.
Gale grabs his garments and watches as Orin puts her belt back on. A small part of him wants to ask what enchantment she has on that particular item of clothing allowing it to house her formidable length. Common knowledge would imply that it’s probably a smaller scale bag of holding charm. Either way, the evidence of her prowess disappears as soon as the belt is laced.
By the time he gets to the bath, Gortash isn’t there. Gale makes quick work scrubbing himself clean, redressing back in his robes once he no longer smells like Gortash’s cologne. Similarly, Orin is absent when he returns to the bedroom. She’d been reclining by the window, drinking the last of Gortash’s wine from the bottle. He finds his shoes, laces his boots back up and heads down to the main hall.
The evening air is crisp and fresh when the door opens to the rest of the roof. Gortash and Orin are standing near the roof’s edge. Talking, or more accurately, arguing in whispered shouts.
“You’re always welcome back, Mr Dekarios.” Gortash smiles at him knowingly. He will be back. And next time, he may not even be after the stone.
EPILOGUE
The door to the tavern’s rooms lets out a gut wrenching squeak when Gale tries to slip in unnoticed.
“Aren’t you home late.” Astarion’s red eyes are reflective in the fragments of moonlight filtering through the window.
“By the goddess! What in the hells are you still doing up?” Gale clutches his chest from the momentary spasm of fear that gripped him. “Shouldn’t you be meditating?”
“I only need 4 hours.” Astarion is lounging in one of the fireside seats. “2 if I can get a hold of some coffee. But you, my friend, don’t have the same luxury that I do. You need 8, sometimes more if you’ve done a lot of spellcasting. So I ask, what were you doing out so late?”
“Visiting someone.” Gale replies, defensively. He knows Astarion’s sense of smell is almost as sharp as his wit. If there’s even a trace of Gortash or Orin left on him, the rogue will know.
“You don’t have to tell me. I won’t pry. But I also won’t judge. I’ve used my body as a negotiation tactic before, sometimes it’s just the best way to get what you want. If I’m right, then at least let me offer you some comfort. Typically the sort of people you throw yourself at in exchange for favors don’t let you stick around to cuddle and have a drink.” Astarion’s expression does seem genuine. “We can talk about it if you like. Or not. It’s up to you.”
Gortash sits down next to Astarion without saying anything. Astarion hands over a mug of hot tea. It’s Gale’s favorite cup.
“You knew, didn’t you?” Gale doesn’t look up, just sips his drink.
“I had an idea.” Astarion leans back into the seat. “Drink up, it’s good for you. Something I got from the apothecary down the street for stress.”
“Something you stole from the apothecary down the street?” Gale smirks.
“Oh no, I only paid for it with stolen money.” Astarion’s shoulder bumps Gale’s playfully. It’s kind, it’s comforting. “So, anything you need to get off your chest? I’m all ears.”
“It’s not… It’s just a lot that I need to think about. On my own.” Gale lets his shoulders sag. “Not that I don’t appreciate the company.”
“Then I’ll keep you company.” Astarion goes to pat Gale’s shoulder but recoils when the wizard hisses at the contact.
“Sorry, it’s just the shoulder. It’s… A bite mark. A few of them actually.” Gale’s eyes dart to the ground in shame.
“I’ll get something cold for the bruises, alright?”
For the second time that night, Gale lets himself be taken care of. He lets Astarion drape a cold, wet towel over his shoulders once he’s out of his robe. Astarion’s gaze doesn’t come with any judgment, no shame or malice, no pity even.
Just friendship.