[Astarion can see that conflict as it plays out behind Gale's eyes. He knows full well the doubt his lover must be feeling, the deep seated fear of being broken, of being not enough. He's felt it as well far too many times. The similar hurt that has left its scars on both of them. That's how he knows to leave Gale his time, to let his thoughts draw back to the present as the illusion fades. Only then does Astarion thread his hand through his lover's hair, levering himself up to press a kiss to Gale's damp forehead.]

Some—wise man once told me that together we find the boundaries of our comfort, our needs. Perhaps we've found one of yours, dearest.

[He drops his hand from Gale's hair to seek his wrist, slender fingers closing around it as he tugs Gale's touch to the line of his thigh, his hip.]

But for now—maybe your deft hands? Or that clever tongue of yours, hm?