[That twist of Astarion's fingers draws a gasp of surprise from Gale; his teeth scrape against his knuckles, and with his lips occupied and unable to form words, that whine the wizard had been holding back escapes him. He feels like a wanton, licentious thing, hungrier and more lustful than he thinks he's ever been, even when he shared a bed with a goddess. He's red all the way down to his torso and around the mark of the orb, in a position that would render someone of his particular vocation relatively useless. The verbal components of most spells are just as important as the somatic, after all.
But here he is, wordlessly begging at Astarion's feet as he caters to this newfound oral fixation — no, it's not even that. The act itself isn't so important as his own desire to serve, to provide - and to be loved for it. He's getting wildly aroused by the very thought of Astarion commanding him, having him, possessing him. It's comfortingly familiar in the worst ways, and would be a dangerous practice in the wrong hands, something less like love and more like obsession; however, with Astarion, the man who gave up Ascension so they could be equals... it's terribly exciting. The illusion of peril is there, lying atop a foundation of safety and trust.
And that's the most arousing thought of all. Perhaps that's not the healthiest mindset, but it's what Gale knows and — sometimes, despite himself — craves. He sucks on those fingers in his mouth, his hand on Astarion's leg sliding up his thigh as he begs for more - more praise, more attention, more contact.]
[Gale is a gift like this, a blessing. If Astarion still had breath in his lungs it would be caught at the sight of how needy he is, how debauched. Even from something as simple as Astarion's fingers in his mouth. For the thousands of people Astarion has seen in such compromising situations, the devotion in Gale's eyes, the way he nearly seems to worship at Astarion's feet, changes everything.
He isn't a puppet with his strings pulled to coerce him into a poor imitation of lust and pleasure. Here he is the one holding the strings, the power. He knows with white hot certainty that he could ask anything of Gale in this moment and it would be given, willingly. A former Chosen, an archmage of Waterdeep, begging and mewling at his feet.
His cock pulses with the heady anticipation of that thought. More than the clever work of Gale's tongue, the heated touch of his hands, it's that thought that brings him pleasure. He doesn't even pause to consider how twisted thought might be. It's too perfect. Too perfectly theirs. This is the way their broken edges fit in a perfect whole.
He pulls his fingers from Gale's mouth, grabbing a fistful of his hair and twisting his head back.]
Do you want more, you needy thing? Do you want my cock?
[Gale pulls in a breath through his teeth as Astarion grips his hair, brown locks tangling around slender fingers; he licks his lips, arousal following the pain as his gaze locks onto those ruby eyes. He smiles lopsidedly, slyly - almost defiantly.]
Yes. I want all you'll give me.
[His fingers curl against Astarion's thigh, pressing into his skin. He can feel his own erection against his own leg, but forces himself to ignore it, unwilling to look away.]
[Ah, but it wouldn't be Gale without a response like that, would it? Astarion clicks his tongue against his teeth in censure, tightening his grip on Gale's hair.]
Cheeky little pup. I could give you nothing. Leave you begging at my feet.
[He brings his free hand to grip Gale's chin, letting his nails bite just slightly into the skin of his jaw.]
But you'd like that, wouldn't you? To do nothing but serve me.
[With Astarion's nails digging into his jaw, Gale struggles to keep his smile from evening out into something entirely too sincere: confirmation escapes him in a whisper, this fiction they're weaving quickly driving the wizard toward unadulterated bliss.
For a man who prides himself on his mind, despite his proclivity to think too much, Gale finds himself happy to be relieved of that duty these days, particularly in the bedroom. There's no guesswork in what his partner wants when it's spoken outright, no grand but misguided gestures that could, at a moment's notice, send everything spiraling out of his control. He learned to second-guess himself after her, lost the confidence he'd once had in abundance. It's abandonment he fears; he wants the love he gives to be returned in equal measure.
And he is. Even if Gale didn't feel it in Astarion's gaze or hear it in his voice, he would know he is. Astarion might have given up his Ascension, but he doesn't need it to hold complete power over Gale in this moment. And as for Gale, he needn't worry about what is being kept from him as he had with Mystra because he gives himself to Astarion's control freely. They're not goddess and man, nor master and slave, but two broken shapes coming together to make a whole.]
Yes.
[He whispers it again after a breath, his heart hammering in his chest; he brings his hand to rest on Astarion's wrist, the other on Astarion's thigh moving inward, his fingers brushing against the base of his cock.]
I spent so long praying to someone undeserving. Believing I'd lost my purpose. Give me one, for I am yours. Let me worship you.
[Astarion doesn't bother to hide the smile that spreads across his lips at Gale's words. He has always been a man of devotion, hasn't he? A follower in need if an altar to worship at. Well, Astarion will gladly give him that much in this little play of theirs.]
I do like the sound of divinity. All right then, my little treat. You'd like a purpose?
[Astarion releases Gale in that moment, pulling away from the hand at his thigh and turning to show Gale his backside. He takes one step toward the waiting bath before turning to address Gale over his shoulder.]
[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.]
[It is a wonder to see how quickly and eagerly Gale falls into this role. A thrill in its own right, to be in command, in control, to have Gale like a servant at his beck and call. Astarion feels powerful in a way he hasn't in so many centuries and he relishes in it.
He steps forward with a lazy grace, like a cat stalking its prey, before gently lowering himself down to sit at the lip of the bath, his legs and feet in the water but the rest of him above it and dry. Without a word, he extends his arm to Gale like it's a gift, one he knows that Gale will treasure properly.]
[He pulls in a quiet breath at the proffered arm, his chest swelling, the glowing symbol of the orb reflected in the surface of the pool.
Taking Astarion's arm, he first bows his head to press a tender kiss to his hand before allowing his own to travel up and down the limb, his fingers sliding along his muscles easily as he works the soap into a lather. There's a hint of lavender in the mix, the scent perfuming the air around them.
Once that arm is done, he puts out his hands for the other, awaiting permission to touch his lover.]
[A shiver runs across Astarion's skin at the first touch. Gale's touched him countless times but there's a difference in the quality of his touch this time. A difference in how Gale looks upon him.
He returns his right arm yo his side, extending the left with the same grace as before.]
[Those words sing to Gale, reverberating down his spine - the pet names unexpectedly stir something within him, a feeling that's equal parts love and lust. Anything Mystra called him, she'd called others before, and perhaps never meant any endearment at all; however, Gale knows Astarion is sincere with them, no matter how deep into their roles they are. He may be the first person Astarion has ever called his pet, and meant it.
He finishes with Astarion's left arm, then starts working his way toward his shoulders, rubbing soap along his neck and down his chest. He presses harder as his hands cross Astarion's pecs, massaging them as he leans closer, daring to put himself well within Astarion's personal space before being told to do so. He wouldn't be himself without a little bit of rebellion, after all.]
[Astarion didn't expect Gale's complete obedience in this. The thought of it brushes too close to his own experience to be pleasant. No, what matters is the obedience Gale chooses to give him. The play wouldn't be the same without his defiance, his over eager pushing at the boundaries Astarion's set before him.
He lowers his arm to lean back on his hands, baring his chest to Gale openly. He's well and fully aroused from just this touch, this attention, but gods he wants to savor it, to drink deeply of the lusty devotion in Gale's eyes.]
I do forget sometimes how your hands are just as clever as your mouth, pet. Especially when you put them to good use.
When not casting spells, they perform well in other ways.
[He takes his time on Astarion's abdomen, letting his thumbs rest in the divots made by his muscles, his fingers trailing along the curves of his ribs as he steps closer. He puts himself in the space between Astarion's knees, letting his hands rest on them; his eyes linger for only a moment on his arousal before moving to gaze into into those garnet eyes.]
The most intimate magic often requires a delicate touch. Provided that's the sort of experience you're looking for, of course.
[Astarion reaches to brush his fingers through Gale's hair, just a whisper of a touch, trailing down the line of his jaw to his chin. Gale always does paint such a lovely picture between his leg.]
[The corner of Gale's mouth crooks upward into a sharp grin.]
You'll have to join me down here. Hard for me to get my hands on you when I'm in the bath and you're not.
[And to entice Astarion further, he lets one hand glide back up Astarion's thigh past his cock, his thumb sliding easily over the base of it thanks to the soap.]
[There's a sharp intake of breath as Gale's thumb brushes his cock. Even though Gale's hands have been on him this whole time, the touch to his arousal, begging for attention, is electric. He digs his fingers into Gale's chin, tightening his grip.]
Careful, pet. I don't recall granting you leave to please me.
[Gale smirks, caught. He'd be embarrassed were it not for how his cock practically twitches in response to that tightened grip on his chin; instead, he wants more. Gods, he wants to touch Astarion, to caress him, to melt into his slender hands and have him do the same as passion and pleasure overwhelm them both.
He licks his lips, reminding himself to be patient. Like most wizards, he's not particularly known for such a trait. He leaves his hand where it is for another second, his thumb pressing into Astarion's flesh, his eyes sparking with a light that says that, despite his utmost desire to serve, he intends to keep pushing that boundary now that he's aware of it.]
[Astarion grins in reply. Gods, he loves that spark in Gale's eyes, the press of his touch. He digs his nails in, letting them bite into the skin of his jaw. What should he do if Gale defies him?
He swallows a moment, considering the question. If he wants Gale's defiance, that's what comes with it, isn't it? The consequence, the punishment. The thought settles sour in his stomach and his grip loosens, fingertips brushing against the red crescent marks.]
What about your worship, love? Am I not your divinity?
Of course you are. [Gale can't help but chuckle, mistaking Astarion's hesitation as a part of their play.] But I'm not exactly known for obeying every command I've been given by a god, now am I?
[Of course, it was different with Mystra and her demands; he feels safe here, safe with Astarion in knowing that any reprimand that may come bears no reflection on how they truly feel about one another. He's not in danger of being cast out for his disrespect when it's all a part of this ill-defined game they're playing.
His smile softens as he leans into Astarion's touch and kisses at his fingertips, already missing that grip.]
[He runs his fingers over Gale's lips, before reaching up to cup his cheek gently. With his free hand, he pushes himself off the lip of the tub to join Gale in the water, pressing closer and drawing him into a kiss. He lets it linger for a moment, drawing at the warmth of Gale's lips, his hand curling at the nape of his neck. Yet once the moment passes he breaks it to press their foreheads together, a more familiar gesture. His voice is lower when he speaks, as if he's trying to not break the scene.]
Do you want me to punish you, dearest? To hurt you?
[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.
[This close, it's impossible to miss Gale's hesitation, his uncertainty. He doesn't want to break their play, but it still sits wrong. He's all too familiar with the desire to serve, to mask, to quickly cover any distress so the illusion can persist. He sees himself in Gale in this moment, and not the best parts of him.
He reaches up to take Gale's chin in his hand, tilting his head up so that their gazes meet. There's a heartbeat's worth of a pause as ruby eyes search the creases of his wizard's brow, the tension at the corners of his eyes. Astarion may not have the insight that the tadpole granted him into his lover's heart anymore, but he knows Gale all the same. There's something hiding inside his eyes, and Astarion wants to see it laid bare. They're both beyond hiding from one another.
He leans in for another kiss, seeking to soothe some of Gale's worry, but as he draws away he catches Gale's lip with a fang. He drags at the tender skin, pressing hard enough to draw a small trickle of blood.]
You ought to know better than to keep things from me, dearest. Your devotion is welcome, but your deceit is not.
[He pauses a moment, reordering his thoughts into the persona of this little play, the indulgent divine. It settles more comfortably than before, shifting to better fit their jagged edges. A little smirk creeps across his face, perhaps it's easier this way.]
I know your worship has been discarded before, that others fail to see your devotion for what it is. But I see you, Gale Dekarios. And I will treat what's mine with proper care. So, let's have it once more.
Should I use a heavy hand with you, pet? Is that how you wish to be cared for?
[Though that bite to his lip and the resulting tang of his own blood on his tongue cause his cock to practically throb in reply, a fresh wave of embarrassment hits Gale as Astarion calls him on his avoidance; his own hazel eyes pull themselves from Astarion's gaze, land on his smile, then return to his eyes less than a second later as he searches for confirmation, though of what, he's not entirely sure. That this really is what Astarion wants, not just him falling into a role to please him? That this is ultimately all right? That his lover doesn't think worse of him for fantasies Gale finds entirely unbecoming?
What he finds in Astarion's eyes is understanding, something he should have known would be there all along. Perhaps he knows Gale is hesitant but doesn't know why, or maybe he does and simply doesn't care, allowing himself to explore what they both want sexually in the safety of one another. Hells, maybe this part of the play is entirely earnest, and he wants this as much as Gale does, and Gale was a fool to ever doubt him. He pushes a sigh out of his chest, frustrated with his own insecurity.
He has to know. He keeps his voice low, practically a whisper, as though the illusion would break were it to hear his concerns after all the buildup.]
You wouldn't think less of me if that was what I wanted? To be hurt, punished by the very hand that loves me?
[When all is said and done, Astarion would still treat him like an equal, after all. That's more than he's been afforded in the past.]
[The back and forth jars him, gives him reason to pause. He brushes his fingers across Gale's lips, to feel the shape of his words. His eyes don't stray from Gale's, holding to the connection that they share. It's a complex tangle inside him at the moment, the entire situation shifting so quickly from comfort to discomfort by each moment that passes. As if it can fit, but only just so, only when they slot perfectly together. He takes in a breath, to give voice to the words that are just as quiet as Gale's.]
I will never think any less of you, dearest. I know it can be—enticing, at times. The sting of pain to highlight pleasure.
[He strokes the back of his knuckles against Gale's cheek, leaning in to kiss him again, softly this time.]
But for tonight, can you be my obedient little pet? I won't be soft with you, but it isn't a night for punishment.
[Somewhere in his mind, he's sure she would have thought less of him, perhaps even thought him a hypocrite for wanting so badly to be her equal, yet treated as subservient — little more than a glorified pet — in the throes of passion. That contradiction seems so painfully... human.
Perhaps that's all the more reason he should embrace it. Even with her symbol removed from his ear, she still holds a terrible influence over him. He refuses to let that happen, especially when in the company of the man he loves more than anyone, more than anyone who could ever exist.
Gale finally smiles himself, comforted despite feeling like he might have ruined the moment (which isn't all that unusual, frankly). His mind turns for a moment longer as he presses himself against Astarion's hand, still reveling in the feeling of their lips together.]
Anything for you, my love - I meant that. Forgive my hesitation, my foolishness. My utter ability to overthink in the worst of times.
[And to ease back into their play and show he's a good pet, he raises one hand and draws a circle in the air, then another within it, conjuring a leather collar - and accompanying rope, just in case. He offers the to Astarion with a request from long ago.]
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But here he is, wordlessly begging at Astarion's feet as he caters to this newfound oral fixation — no, it's not even that. The act itself isn't so important as his own desire to serve, to provide - and to be loved for it. He's getting wildly aroused by the very thought of Astarion commanding him, having him, possessing him. It's comfortingly familiar in the worst ways, and would be a dangerous practice in the wrong hands, something less like love and more like obsession; however, with Astarion, the man who gave up Ascension so they could be equals... it's terribly exciting. The illusion of peril is there, lying atop a foundation of safety and trust.
And that's the most arousing thought of all. Perhaps that's not the healthiest mindset, but it's what Gale knows and — sometimes, despite himself — craves. He sucks on those fingers in his mouth, his hand on Astarion's leg sliding up his thigh as he begs for more - more praise, more attention, more contact.]
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He isn't a puppet with his strings pulled to coerce him into a poor imitation of lust and pleasure. Here he is the one holding the strings, the power. He knows with white hot certainty that he could ask anything of Gale in this moment and it would be given, willingly. A former Chosen, an archmage of Waterdeep, begging and mewling at his feet.
His cock pulses with the heady anticipation of that thought. More than the clever work of Gale's tongue, the heated touch of his hands, it's that thought that brings him pleasure. He doesn't even pause to consider how twisted thought might be. It's too perfect. Too perfectly theirs. This is the way their broken edges fit in a perfect whole.
He pulls his fingers from Gale's mouth, grabbing a fistful of his hair and twisting his head back.]
Do you want more, you needy thing? Do you want my cock?
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Yes. I want all you'll give me.
[His fingers curl against Astarion's thigh, pressing into his skin. He can feel his own erection against his own leg, but forces himself to ignore it, unwilling to look away.]
All you'll allow me to have. I am at your mercy.
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Cheeky little pup. I could give you nothing. Leave you begging at my feet.
[He brings his free hand to grip Gale's chin, letting his nails bite just slightly into the skin of his jaw.]
But you'd like that, wouldn't you? To do nothing but serve me.
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For a man who prides himself on his mind, despite his proclivity to think too much, Gale finds himself happy to be relieved of that duty these days, particularly in the bedroom. There's no guesswork in what his partner wants when it's spoken outright, no grand but misguided gestures that could, at a moment's notice, send everything spiraling out of his control. He learned to second-guess himself after her, lost the confidence he'd once had in abundance. It's abandonment he fears; he wants the love he gives to be returned in equal measure.
And he is. Even if Gale didn't feel it in Astarion's gaze or hear it in his voice, he would know he is. Astarion might have given up his Ascension, but he doesn't need it to hold complete power over Gale in this moment. And as for Gale, he needn't worry about what is being kept from him as he had with Mystra because he gives himself to Astarion's control freely. They're not goddess and man, nor master and slave, but two broken shapes coming together to make a whole.]
Yes.
[He whispers it again after a breath, his heart hammering in his chest; he brings his hand to rest on Astarion's wrist, the other on Astarion's thigh moving inward, his fingers brushing against the base of his cock.]
I spent so long praying to someone undeserving. Believing I'd lost my purpose. Give me one, for I am yours. Let me worship you.
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I do like the sound of divinity. All right then, my little treat. You'd like a purpose?
[Astarion releases Gale in that moment, pulling away from the hand at his thigh and turning to show Gale his backside. He takes one step toward the waiting bath before turning to address Gale over his shoulder.]
Serve me, my love. Bathe me.
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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?
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He steps forward with a lazy grace, like a cat stalking its prey, before gently lowering himself down to sit at the lip of the bath, his legs and feet in the water but the rest of him above it and dry. Without a word, he extends his arm to Gale like it's a gift, one he knows that Gale will treasure properly.]
Go on.
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Taking Astarion's arm, he first bows his head to press a tender kiss to his hand before allowing his own to travel up and down the limb, his fingers sliding along his muscles easily as he works the soap into a lather. There's a hint of lavender in the mix, the scent perfuming the air around them.
Once that arm is done, he puts out his hands for the other, awaiting permission to touch his lover.]
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He returns his right arm yo his side, extending the left with the same grace as before.]
What a good little pet you are, darling.
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He finishes with Astarion's left arm, then starts working his way toward his shoulders, rubbing soap along his neck and down his chest. He presses harder as his hands cross Astarion's pecs, massaging them as he leans closer, daring to put himself well within Astarion's personal space before being told to do so. He wouldn't be himself without a little bit of rebellion, after all.]
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He lowers his arm to lean back on his hands, baring his chest to Gale openly. He's well and fully aroused from just this touch, this attention, but gods he wants to savor it, to drink deeply of the lusty devotion in Gale's eyes.]
I do forget sometimes how your hands are just as clever as your mouth, pet. Especially when you put them to good use.
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[He takes his time on Astarion's abdomen, letting his thumbs rest in the divots made by his muscles, his fingers trailing along the curves of his ribs as he steps closer. He puts himself in the space between Astarion's knees, letting his hands rest on them; his eyes linger for only a moment on his arousal before moving to gaze into into those garnet eyes.]
The most intimate magic often requires a delicate touch. Provided that's the sort of experience you're looking for, of course.
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[Astarion reaches to brush his fingers through Gale's hair, just a whisper of a touch, trailing down the line of his jaw to his chin. Gale always does paint such a lovely picture between his leg.]
I suppose I'm feeling indulgent. Show me.
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You'll have to join me down here. Hard for me to get my hands on you when I'm in the bath and you're not.
[And to entice Astarion further, he lets one hand glide back up Astarion's thigh past his cock, his thumb sliding easily over the base of it thanks to the soap.]
Besides, I have yet to do your back.
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Careful, pet. I don't recall granting you leave to please me.
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He licks his lips, reminding himself to be patient. Like most wizards, he's not particularly known for such a trait. He leaves his hand where it is for another second, his thumb pressing into Astarion's flesh, his eyes sparking with a light that says that, despite his utmost desire to serve, he intends to keep pushing that boundary now that he's aware of it.]
And if misbehave? What then?
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He swallows a moment, considering the question. If he wants Gale's defiance, that's what comes with it, isn't it? The consequence, the punishment. The thought settles sour in his stomach and his grip loosens, fingertips brushing against the red crescent marks.]
What about your worship, love? Am I not your divinity?
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[Of course, it was different with Mystra and her demands; he feels safe here, safe with Astarion in knowing that any reprimand that may come bears no reflection on how they truly feel about one another. He's not in danger of being cast out for his disrespect when it's all a part of this ill-defined game they're playing.
His smile softens as he leans into Astarion's touch and kisses at his fingertips, already missing that grip.]
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[He runs his fingers over Gale's lips, before reaching up to cup his cheek gently. With his free hand, he pushes himself off the lip of the tub to join Gale in the water, pressing closer and drawing him into a kiss. He lets it linger for a moment, drawing at the warmth of Gale's lips, his hand curling at the nape of his neck. Yet once the moment passes he breaks it to press their foreheads together, a more familiar gesture. His voice is lower when he speaks, as if he's trying to not break the scene.]
Do you want me to punish you, dearest? To hurt you?
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[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.
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He reaches up to take Gale's chin in his hand, tilting his head up so that their gazes meet. There's a heartbeat's worth of a pause as ruby eyes search the creases of his wizard's brow, the tension at the corners of his eyes. Astarion may not have the insight that the tadpole granted him into his lover's heart anymore, but he knows Gale all the same. There's something hiding inside his eyes, and Astarion wants to see it laid bare. They're both beyond hiding from one another.
He leans in for another kiss, seeking to soothe some of Gale's worry, but as he draws away he catches Gale's lip with a fang. He drags at the tender skin, pressing hard enough to draw a small trickle of blood.]
You ought to know better than to keep things from me, dearest. Your devotion is welcome, but your deceit is not.
[He pauses a moment, reordering his thoughts into the persona of this little play, the indulgent divine. It settles more comfortably than before, shifting to better fit their jagged edges. A little smirk creeps across his face, perhaps it's easier this way.]
I know your worship has been discarded before, that others fail to see your devotion for what it is. But I see you, Gale Dekarios. And I will treat what's mine with proper care. So, let's have it once more.
Should I use a heavy hand with you, pet? Is that how you wish to be cared for?
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What he finds in Astarion's eyes is understanding, something he should have known would be there all along. Perhaps he knows Gale is hesitant but doesn't know why, or maybe he does and simply doesn't care, allowing himself to explore what they both want sexually in the safety of one another. Hells, maybe this part of the play is entirely earnest, and he wants this as much as Gale does, and Gale was a fool to ever doubt him. He pushes a sigh out of his chest, frustrated with his own insecurity.
He has to know. He keeps his voice low, practically a whisper, as though the illusion would break were it to hear his concerns after all the buildup.]
You wouldn't think less of me if that was what I wanted? To be hurt, punished by the very hand that loves me?
[When all is said and done, Astarion would still treat him like an equal, after all. That's more than he's been afforded in the past.]
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I will never think any less of you, dearest. I know it can be—enticing, at times. The sting of pain to highlight pleasure.
[He strokes the back of his knuckles against Gale's cheek, leaning in to kiss him again, softly this time.]
But for tonight, can you be my obedient little pet? I won't be soft with you, but it isn't a night for punishment.
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Perhaps that's all the more reason he should embrace it. Even with her symbol removed from his ear, she still holds a terrible influence over him. He refuses to let that happen, especially when in the company of the man he loves more than anyone, more than anyone who could ever exist.
Gale finally smiles himself, comforted despite feeling like he might have ruined the moment (which isn't all that unusual, frankly). His mind turns for a moment longer as he presses himself against Astarion's hand, still reveling in the feeling of their lips together.]
Anything for you, my love - I meant that. Forgive my hesitation, my foolishness. My utter ability to overthink in the worst of times.
[And to ease back into their play and show he's a good pet, he raises one hand and draws a circle in the air, then another within it, conjuring a leather collar - and accompanying rope, just in case. He offers the to Astarion with a request from long ago.]
Don't let me run off.
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