[ There's a buzz of anxiety under Astarion's skin that's fully at odds with the comfort of their surroundings. He feels on the precipice of something important - and more than likely dangerous, with Gale's completion of the sketch.
Thankfully, as he turns to look at Gale, there's something else to focus on first: a dark smudge of ink on his cheek that he doesn't appear to be aware of. Astarion approaches the vee of Gale's legs slowly, dripping from his shoulders down; the way the tub is sunken into the floor, he's just a hair above Gale's eye level while standing. ]
Hold still. [ Murmured, as he anchors one wet hand on Gale's clothed knee and lifts the other to swipe his thumb over his cheek, rubbing gently until it's more or less free of ink. He is doing his best to not drip on the drawing, rubbing whatever ink is left on his thumb on his own wet stomach. Then, echoing Gale, with a glint to his eyes: ] Perfect.
no subject
Thankfully, as he turns to look at Gale, there's something else to focus on first: a dark smudge of ink on his cheek that he doesn't appear to be aware of. Astarion approaches the vee of Gale's legs slowly, dripping from his shoulders down; the way the tub is sunken into the floor, he's just a hair above Gale's eye level while standing. ]
Hold still. [ Murmured, as he anchors one wet hand on Gale's clothed knee and lifts the other to swipe his thumb over his cheek, rubbing gently until it's more or less free of ink. He is doing his best to not drip on the drawing, rubbing whatever ink is left on his thumb on his own wet stomach. Then, echoing Gale, with a glint to his eyes: ] Perfect.