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“Gods, I—” Astarion swallows visibly, throat bobbing. “I—”
“I know.” Gale bats his eyelids. Reties his scrunchie, rests his palms on Astarion’s trembling knees, then slips two sly fingers through a rip in his jeans. “Your turn?”
“Please.”
Astarion’s response comes without hesitation. Gale leans forward, catching his zipper between two teeth, before dragging it down, fishnet and denim.
“So many have used me,” Gale rasps. “But you’re all I’ve thought about tonight.”
A hitched breath.
“Darling,” Astarion murmurs, thumbing his lower lip. Gale whines, tongue darting out to lick his finger.
Darling. Oh, that’s a new one. Gale likes that.
Gale couldn't be happier with his friends, his little froyo shop, and his after-hours... ah, proclivities. That is, until a certain red-eyed elf shows up and throws a wrench in his carefully crafted plans.
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