[ Since the Underdark? That’s — a long time, in the compressed span of their relationship. As long as Astarion’s felt something real for him.

Cock hard and bereft, Gale follows the push of Astarion’s hand back, pliant in his trusted hands. Curious, besides, brows arched in obvious interest. His hand releases Astarion’s hair to trail up his arm, flexed to hold him down. A wonder of lean muscle and sinew. ]

Astarion. [ Both playfully and genuinely scandalised, words unevenly pitched. His other hand slips lower to anchor on Astarion’s thigh, grip tightening in reaction to Astarion’s teasing. ] Your silver tongue is filthier than I dared imagine. [ And he did conjure fantasies, on the lonelier nights in his tent. ] I might have risked implosion, if your perfect mouth had divulged those wants before now.

[ Ever the fool, but he can think of no one he’d rather entertain.

Astarion, however, seems to have better use for his wagging tongue. His eyes fall open as he processes the request, mouth parting on instinct before his thoughts cohere. An enterprising idea, he might say, if he weren’t already canting his head to adjust the angle, lips closing around Astarion’s clever fingers.

A look of unguarded want on his face, he lavishes attention around, over, between the slim digits. His hand slides down to bracelet Astarion’s wrist, unsure of his own intentions but wanting to touch him, always. ]