[ There is a small and private part of Astarion that doesn't want a bard's embellishments, anyway. Gale's lap is warm--the second time in one day they've found themselves in this position--and as Gale pulls him closer, Astarion winds his arms around his neck, nails very deliberately brushing the bite mark on their way to his nape.
He's watching Gale's face as he speaks, and despite his practice following a thread of compliments to easy preening, Astarion finds himself following the tug of truth instead. Exceedingly dangerous, and not something he's used to. ]
Oh, I noticed. [ The not-looking. He does smile a little, fingers trailing back to the bite at his throat, though his gaze holds Gale's. ] I thought perhaps you regretted this.
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He's watching Gale's face as he speaks, and despite his practice following a thread of compliments to easy preening, Astarion finds himself following the tug of truth instead. Exceedingly dangerous, and not something he's used to. ]
Oh, I noticed. [ The not-looking. He does smile a little, fingers trailing back to the bite at his throat, though his gaze holds Gale's. ] I thought perhaps you regretted this.