[Gale hesitates a fraction of a second; against Astarion's forehead, his own brow tenses, furrowing as something in the back of his mind turns with sudden recognition. Is that discomfort he feels? Yes, yes it is, but is it his, or Astarion's? Or, perhaps, it belongs to both of them in ways uniquely their own.
For Gale, said discomfort is accompanied by a sense of uncertainty, of doubt so deeply rooted that he feels it twisting in the pit of his stomach. With as desperate as he's always been to serve his lovers, to prove himself worthy of them, he hasn't thought nearly enough about what he wants. And why would he? True, he has always valued his clever mind, but so long as he had their attention — their affection — he was satisfied. Historically, it was chasing his ambition for anything more that caused problems.
But now that he is thinking about his own wants, he thinks on them a moment too long, long enough to give them the barest amount of scrutiny. Gale has to admit that there are specific elements he's always liked when intimate: a strong hand pulling his hair or pushing him into a bed, nails raking across his skin so desperately and so deeply that they leave visible scratches, the stretch of being taken and the ache that comes with it the following day. Even watching Astarion in the midst of battle, his knife gutting their enemies in a way Gale would usually consider barbaric, has given him a distinct thrill before. That's not the same as deliberately wanting to be hurt, to be wounded in the pursuit of sating his carnal desires.
He shouldn't want to be hurt, Gale concludes in an effort to dispel his unease; more importantly, he shouldn't force Astarion into a position like this for his sake - Astarion, a man who spent centuries being tortured in the worst ways imaginable, who has no doubt genuinely suffered punishments that Gale wonders if he himself might enjoy.
It's not the same as what Astarion went through, of course, but regardless, Gale feels ashamed at having even entertained the thought. His gaze settles downward, his lashes veiling his eyes as the uncertainty comes crawling up his spine, creeping onto his neck, weighing his head down. This was going so well, and now, within the span of barely a moment... he's no longer sure. He tries to mask it, his smile tempering into something barely disguising his nerves as he, too, tries to maintain the fiction.]
I want —[a beat, no longer than a quick inhale]— what you want. I want to give you everything you ever wanted - that you've been denied by other acolytes, other servants. Ones less devoted than I.
no subject
[Gale hesitates a fraction of a second; against Astarion's forehead, his own brow tenses, furrowing as something in the back of his mind turns with sudden recognition. Is that discomfort he feels? Yes, yes it is, but is it his, or Astarion's? Or, perhaps, it belongs to both of them in ways uniquely their own.
For Gale, said discomfort is accompanied by a sense of uncertainty, of doubt so deeply rooted that he feels it twisting in the pit of his stomach. With as desperate as he's always been to serve his lovers, to prove himself worthy of them, he hasn't thought nearly enough about what he wants. And why would he? True, he has always valued his clever mind, but so long as he had their attention — their affection — he was satisfied. Historically, it was chasing his ambition for anything more that caused problems.
But now that he is thinking about his own wants, he thinks on them a moment too long, long enough to give them the barest amount of scrutiny. Gale has to admit that there are specific elements he's always liked when intimate: a strong hand pulling his hair or pushing him into a bed, nails raking across his skin so desperately and so deeply that they leave visible scratches, the stretch of being taken and the ache that comes with it the following day. Even watching Astarion in the midst of battle, his knife gutting their enemies in a way Gale would usually consider barbaric, has given him a distinct thrill before. That's not the same as deliberately wanting to be hurt, to be wounded in the pursuit of sating his carnal desires.
He shouldn't want to be hurt, Gale concludes in an effort to dispel his unease; more importantly, he shouldn't force Astarion into a position like this for his sake - Astarion, a man who spent centuries being tortured in the worst ways imaginable, who has no doubt genuinely suffered punishments that Gale wonders if he himself might enjoy.
It's not the same as what Astarion went through, of course, but regardless, Gale feels ashamed at having even entertained the thought. His gaze settles downward, his lashes veiling his eyes as the uncertainty comes crawling up his spine, creeping onto his neck, weighing his head down. This was going so well, and now, within the span of barely a moment... he's no longer sure. He tries to mask it, his smile tempering into something barely disguising his nerves as he, too, tries to maintain the fiction.]
I want —[a beat, no longer than a quick inhale]— what you want. I want to give you everything you ever wanted - that you've been denied by other acolytes, other servants. Ones less devoted than I.