[The muscle he finds there is perhaps a bit harder to work than a dough or cut of meat. Astarion's mind is gripped in a tumult and his body bears it out. The first bit of pressure draws a hissing breath from his lips that he tries to stifle into the bed. It's unpleasant with so much tension in his muscle. Gale's touch is warm, though. His hands warmer than Cazador's ever were. Perhaps if he can give that his focus. If he can draw his mind to the man he loves, who loves him, it can push away the awful memory of being held down so he wouldn't squirm, so each cut of jagged Infernal would be perfect.
It's Gale, he wants to shout at himself. Not Cazador. It's Gale. It's Gale's hands, Gale's weight, Gale's scent—]
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It's Gale, he wants to shout at himself. Not Cazador. It's Gale. It's Gale's hands, Gale's weight, Gale's scent—]
Gale.