[ Perfect. Something cracks open inside of Astarion, helpless in Gale's hands. He's never been perfect -- has always been too much or not enough in the eyes of the other spawn and Cazador, manufactured perfection for his marks. He can't imagine anyone finding perfection in his unraveling, this untethered wanting, but Gale is here, holding him tight.
Astarion shudders with a sob as he comes, his head pitching forward as his hips rock up into Gale's hand, stars sparking behind his eyes. He doesn't know when he moved a hand to grasp at the arm that's encircled his chest, knuckles white and shaking.
Astarion wants to kiss him, but can't do anything for the moment but be held, isn't even aware of the sounds he's making, soft shuddering breaths as he cries. ]
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Astarion shudders with a sob as he comes, his head pitching forward as his hips rock up into Gale's hand, stars sparking behind his eyes. He doesn't know when he moved a hand to grasp at the arm that's encircled his chest, knuckles white and shaking.
Astarion wants to kiss him, but can't do anything for the moment but be held, isn't even aware of the sounds he's making, soft shuddering breaths as he cries. ]