And your blood is an... intriguing vintage. [ Astarion drags the backs of his nails through the soft hairs on Gale's chest as he speaks, then traces the curling tendrils of his brand. Gale's hand is warm on his hip, the water and his words helping loosen some of Astarion's knots. Of which there are many, and Gale may eventually tire of untangling them; but for now, they're both present. He's going to try not to shrink from that.

Astarion's voice drops, draping his other arm over Gale's shoulders to rest a hand at his nape, fingers kneading at any tightness there. ]

One I'm keen to taste again, even without the backdrop of a moonlit garden. [ Though this small corner of the Underdark doesn't lack romance, all things considered. ]