[ As Astarion takes his fingers, Gale chokes. His dusty flush becomes something of a permanent stain, mouth open and eyes transfixed. Of course he doesn’t answer Gale’s sincere question, but if it were truly so foul, he supposes Astarion wouldn’t be licking his fingers clean. ]

Astarion — [ emphasis in all the wrong places, hips hitching into the nothing, the barest friction of his robes. Good, when rutting into Astarion’s stomach would be shameful (he reminds himself of this thrice over, in the hopes his cock won’t twitch in interest). His hand stutters to Astarion’s shoulder, trying to steady himself. ]

Gods, what a line. [ A strangled sound, in the wake of Astarion’s hollowing cheeks, made more depraved by his hard angles. He wants to mock Astarion for his sloppy seductions, recycled lines from his attempt at wooing Tav and countless others before her, to be sure, but he can’t stop thinking about his fingers in Astarion’s mouth, playing his body like a lyre — ]

You — your mouth is more wicked than any I’ve known. [ He slides his free hand to the vee in Astarion’s leather armour, plucking at the clasp, suddenly possessed by the thought of more skin-on-skin and the relief it might promise. ] But I could think of better uses for my clever hands than holding your devilish tongue.