[Given the circumstances, asking for more than that is too much — at least insofar as Astarion is concerned, and he’s readily convinced himself of that for now. His budding relationships with their ragtag group—even from a purely platonic perspective—have officially run longer than any he’s possessed in centuries. It’s a low bar to clear. But once they’re done with this nasty tadpole business, what then? With the threat of Cazador still looming over him like a pall, how might he still cling desperately to his freedom? To some even small facsimile of safety?

Will these people still have some use for him then, just as he has use for them now?

Well. Best not to linger on those thoughts right now.]

“I’m sure that can be arranged”, he says. So transactional. As though you don’t enjoy it.

[It’s like a shard of dull ice in the neck, fading into numbness, a vampire’s bite. Pragmatically, no one should really enjoy offering their lifeblood to a predator whose baseline state is, in some way, always hungry. But there’s something intimate and titillating about it, too, for both parties. A trait that’s done nothing but work in his favor.

He flips the cloth to the corner that’s still dry, cleaning up excess moisture from Winter’s forearm. Astarion then brandishes the bandages again, beginning to wrap them around and around the wound. Taut, but not too taut.]

Now, you know I’m always gentle. [is he tho] Unless told otherwise.