[ Whatever modicum of trust, however slight and flickering, led Astarion to this closeness — in the wake of an honest admission of both interest and uncertainty — seems to be more than enough for Gale. Such hopeful sparks can be nurtured into flames, after all.

Gale half-expects, half-hopes Astarion will sink teeth into his wrist, however impractical the subsequent ache would be for a wizard. Better to advise him elsewhere, even as Astarion’s mouth drifts higher and higher, until they’re in near perfect alignment. Gale brings his hand to Astarion’s shoulder in turn, sliding across damp skin to the nape of his neck. Not yet tangling in his hair, but an encouraging presence all the same. ]

The wrist is keenly important for delicate spell-work, though it affords me the best view. [ All unabashed fascination in regards to Astarion’s condition ñ, with a helping of sly appreciation for his looks. His tone lilts, a teasing mournfulness at work. ] A most terrible conflict of interest. [ clearing his throat, fingers curling and uncurling at Astarion’s hip. ]

I’d advise against the, ah, chest. The flesh atop and above the ribcage isn’t highly vascularized. And it’s prone to weak blood flow, besides. There are far more plentiful veins up the arms and across the shoulder. [ The very place Astarion murmurs against his skin, heat radiating front the point of contact. ] The more tawdry texts in my collection have a fondness for the inner thigh — which isn’t unfounded. [ His voice pitches a note higher. ] They’ve rather prominent arteries.