[Gale watches him go, his eyes lingering on his silver hair, his scarred back, his delectable ass; their gazes meet once again as Astarion turns to address him. The wizard feels his pulse skip, his hands longing for that lost contact as he grins.]
With pleasure.
[He revels in those pet names - my love, my dearest, my little treat. A part of Gale feels he should address Astarion otherwise as a part of this play, but how so? Though once the lover of a true goddess, he can't find the words now, not ones that wouldn't recall darker times for both of them. He can ponder it later; he has work to do.
Getting to his feet, his knees immediately protest; Gale ignores them as he conjures mage hands to collect the oil and soaps. Preferring to use his hands for this, he forgoes a washcloth entirely. With his eyes still on Astarion, he steps into the water. Steam rises all around him, warming the aches from his legs as it creates a gentle mist: it mimics the morning fog, albeit without the chill. Astarion's skin will keep him cool enough, he's sure of it.
He waits waist-deep for his partner, spreading soap across his hands.]
no subject
With pleasure.
[He revels in those pet names - my love, my dearest, my little treat. A part of Gale feels he should address Astarion otherwise as a part of this play, but how so? Though once the lover of a true goddess, he can't find the words now, not ones that wouldn't recall darker times for both of them. He can ponder it later; he has work to do.
Getting to his feet, his knees immediately protest; Gale ignores them as he conjures mage hands to collect the oil and soaps. Preferring to use his hands for this, he forgoes a washcloth entirely. With his eyes still on Astarion, he steps into the water. Steam rises all around him, warming the aches from his legs as it creates a gentle mist: it mimics the morning fog, albeit without the chill. Astarion's skin will keep him cool enough, he's sure of it.
He waits waist-deep for his partner, spreading soap across his hands.]
Where shall I start?