Chapter Text
It had started in the cocktail bar. It was an elegant affair as expected, all flattering dim lighting that complimented the immaculate tan of his skin, smooth and warm against the crisp white of his button down. Top two buttons undone, he noted, revealing a tantalising hint of dark chest hair. It was artful, purposeful he was sure, a tone that could have been cultivated but with the refined elegance of someone who had so much money that they could pay for it to look completely natural, so wealthy that they didn’t need to make their bloated bank account obvious through a gauche shade of ‘sunbed terracotta’ to offset the hours shuttered away in boardrooms and executive suites. No, it was the kind of sunkissed that spoke to jetting off to the Maldives of a weekend as if it were as mundane as taking a bus to the seaside. He was so preoccupied by contemplating whether his date was that beautifully bronzed all over - eye-wateringly expensive spray tan? Nude sunbathing on a yacht? - that he accidentally gave his real name on first meeting. Not disastrous, as it went, but a very basic error.
“Astarion?” the man repeated, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Probably natural then, Astarion thought, if he hadn’t had any work done - no Botox, so a spray tan was unlikely. How charming. Oh, but he was still talking. “Delightfully unusual. It suits you, there’s something sublimely European about it. French? Belgian?”
He’d brushed off the comment, offering his usual pithy quips and distracting charm to steer the conversation away from his origins, ignoring the giddy swoop in his guts at the sound of his name from the other man’s lips. Unexpected and unhelpful, that was. Not what he was here for.
Reminding himself of his priorities had only gotten more difficult as the night went on. The darkened corner of the exclusive member’s club lent itself far more to seduction than the pretence of a business meeting. Usually this would work in his favour, smooth the way for him to segue into his usual suggestion to discuss things further in a more intimate setting. But tonight, something felt off. Less controlled, less focused.
Time to get things back on track. “I must confess, I’m feeling a little light-headed. My fault, perhaps I shouldn’t have had that second martini…” A light touch on his wrist, as if he needed help to steady himself.
His date laughed softly, deep brown eyes sparkling - and was that a hint of colour on his cheekbones? - and tilted his head to one side. He didn’t move his hand away. A good sign. “They do mix them rather strong here. Well-balanced, of course, which can lead to enough consumption to become rapidly unbalanced. Don’t tell me you’re about to topple off your barstool.”
“Oh, how embarrassing would that be. You’d have to catch me, save me from a terrible faux-pas.” The flutter of his lashes may have been overkill, but it had the desired effect, making that blush come clear on that flawless complexion. Stunning, really. No doubt the work of a daily skincare regimen that cost more than Astarion’s car.
“You strike me as someone with rather good reflexes, and hardly a swooning damsel in distress. I’d wager a heroic embrace would be redundant, that you’d land on your feet like a cat.” He smiled, revealing teeth as white as his freshly pressed shirt. “I can’t help but wonder if you’d purr when stroked, or if you’d bite…”
That was bold. He had expected something much more coy, a duck of the head, maybe a nervous tuck of that gloriously lustrous chestnut hair behind his ear. Not such an invitation. “Maybe if you play your cards right you’ll get close enough to find out.” He purred, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow.
“I do love a good gamble, especially when the stakes are so… pleasantly provocative. The opportunity to get close enough to risk exploring those feline charms of yours is quite enticing.”
“A venture capitalist with a penchant for gambling?” Astarion laughed. “How predictable. It’s rather sweet.” He brushed his thumb against the other man’s wrist. Back in the game, back in control, if he ignored the sizzle of energy that ran to his pelvis at the warm contact with his bare skin. Which he did. Obviously.
“Indeed, I am, somewhat uncreatively, a connoisseur of calculated risk, whether that’s in my business ventures or in a high-stakes game of poker. The secret to success in both areas lies in understanding the odds, controlling one’s more eager, excitable impulses whilst trusting instinct, and maintaining a naturally impenetrable poker face.” There was that crinkle at the corner of his eyes again. It was almost disarming. Would have been disarming to someone less experienced, and Astarion could feel the pull of distraction threatening to topple the whole scheme before it had even begun. How pathetic. He really wasn’t sure what was wrong with him tonight.
“You,” he tapped the cuff of the man’s white shirt with a fingertip - gold cufflinks, likely real, and how easy it would be to slip one out and pocket it right now - a light, teasing motion, “are skating dangerously close to condescension there, acting as if I don’t know my way around a hand of cards.”
The smile in response was too lovely, somehow flirtatious and humble at the same time. “You’re right, my apologies. I wouldn’t dream of underestimating your intelligence, especially not when it comes to the intricacies of card games. It seems we share an interest in the thrill of strategy, and the satisfaction of a well-played hand.”
“It certainly does, doesn’t it?” A pause, which he loaded with implication, making sure to make lingering eye contact. “Fancy a game now?”
***
Which is how he finds himself sitting on the floor of Gale Dekarios’s penthouse, stripped to the waist, playing cards held loosely in one hand, a tumbler of an exquisitely aged rare whiskey in the other, watching the billionaire deftly flip over the final card of that round onto his sleek glass coffee table.
The card doesn’t matter so much, he’s already sure he has something solid. What matters is the way those dark lashes grace Gale’s beautiful cheekbones as he looks down at his own hand, the otherwise imperceptible twitch at the corner of his full, pink lips. His poker face is good, good enough to fool anyone else. Not Astarion. It’s a tell, minute but present, something that would be lost if Astarion were looking anywhere else - at his lithe, sculpted biceps, or perhaps more of that lovely chest hair that was revealed the moment his white shirt was discarded and his equally white vest displayed, bleached-bright against his sunkissed skin. But his primary focus stays resolutely on his face. That mouth.
“Your turn to bet.” Gale smiles encouragingly. Guileless. Possibly. Probably not entirely, he strikes Astarion as a man who has an inkling of the effect that he has on people, but possibly not the full understanding. Gale likely doesn’t have a clue as to how his treacherous cock has been threatening to siphon essential blood from his brain and ruin his focus whenever those perfect lips part around the rim of a glass, or his pink tongue absently chases a drop of amber liquid from the corner of his mouth. He likely has no idea how truly distracting he is.
“I’m aware, darling, I’m merely deciding how generous I’m going to be with you.” He retorts, enjoying the way Gale’s face betrays him. Not in expression, but in colour. There’s a power in making a blush creep up his neck, much more obvious now there’s no shirt in the way to disguise it. “I’ll go easy on you. Belt.”
“That’s all?” A skeptical raise of an eyebrow. Astarion stifles a smirk. He’s too obvious, thinking he’s bluffing, but the moment the suit jacket came off, so did some of the veneer of the powerful, calculating businessman and it was so easy to see the eager softness beneath. Astarion’s learned never to underestimate the power of a costume, or of removing it.
“That’s all. Wouldn’t want this to be over too soon, I’m enjoying myself.”
Gale scoffs. “Fine. I call. Belt it is.”
“If you’re calling then you have to throw in that ridiculous vest too.”
“Ridiculous? It - it’s a vest.” He blinks, sweet and surprised. “And how is that fair?”
“Well, I’m not wearing one, that’s how it’s fair, because nobody wears vests these days. What is it, the nineteen fifties? Next you’ll be telling me you usually wear sock suspenders, I mean really…”
The teasing barb is expertly landed, he can tell by the way Gale’s flush spreads, they haven’t drunk enough for it to be anything but Astarion’s doing and he knows he’s got him destabilised because he huffs but acquiesces with a short, “fine, belt and vest.” He doesn’t expect to lose this hand.
But he does, because all he has is a pair of threes and Astarion has two pair, and while he tries to hide his shock there is a very obvious re-calculation happening behind those deep, honey-dark irises. It’s accompanied by another sweep of his tongue over his lower lip as he begins to reshuffle the cards and it almost makes Astarion forget his carefully crafted plan, and even though it wouldn’t matter so much in the scale of his much, much bigger plan for the night he very much wants to win. Because the prize isn’t just the glorious vision of Gale stripped bare, the unspoken prize is who gets to choose what happens when the last item of clothing drops to the floor. And he needs it to be him, to be the one who chooses.
He catches himself, leans forward and grabs Gale’s wrist. “Ah ah. My turn to shuffle, my dear, while you divest yourself of that gorgeously expensive leather belt and silly little vest.”
He can hear the other man’s breath hitch at the unexpected contact. “Alright, alright, I was getting to it…” he mutters, a hint of a sullen pout on his lips, sincerity and playfulness mingling in a way that is so endearing.
It’s a good thing that Astarion can trick shuffle in his sleep, can count cards and arrange the deck in his favour with barely any brainpower because the sight of Gale, kneeling on the rug in his suit trousers - clearly bespoke, likely Italian - and undoing his belt in an irritatingly slow way is enough to push any other thoughts from his mind. The undershirt is quickly untucked and whipped away, ruffling the laboriously coiffed hairstyle, and he’s pleased to see the luxurious, dark pelt he’d glimpsed on the chest extends in a trail down the centre of a well-muscled torso. It might as well be a set of directions, given the way it guides his eyes down below Gale’s navel and disappears, frustratingly, beneath the waistband that encircles his svelte hips. A glimpse is all he’s afforded as Gale sits back rapidly, crossing his arms over himself. What an opportunity, he can hardly believe his luck.
“You know, Gale…” He says, affecting an idle tone as if it has just occurred to him. “... I didn’t think your intellectual addition to this game would be to my taste. But you may be convincing me of its merits, because now I get to ask you a question and you must answer it truthfully, according to your rule, yes? Something about stripping ourselves in multiple ways…”
“That… those were the agreed parameters, yes, the winner of the hand gets to ask whatever question they desire and the loser must answer.”
“Answer honestly , correct?”
“Yes.” He fidgets slightly, clearly trying to suppress his discomfort and maintain his cool, detached demeanour for the poker game. Astarion almost wants to tell him to give up, that he saw through it the moment he leaned over the bar and ordered a cocktail for him and their sleeves brushed and his dark eyes flickered to Astarion’s steely grey ones for a microsecond and he could read all the pent-up, nervous, excited energy in those warm, keen depths. But where would be the fun in that? Let him have his illusion, more exciting to chip away at it slowly until it’s too late and he realises how he’s walked himself through paces that have been painstakingly laid out since a first email to a naïve personal assistant.
He stretches, the soft rushing sound of the cards flickering between his fingers a gentle soundtrack that cuts the otherwise loaded silence. “Why…” he drawls out the syllables like syrup, “are you ashamed of such a glorious, delicious, utterly ravishing physique?”
Gale’s eyes widen and he knows he’s hit something good, enough to keep him off-balance so that he won’t realise that Astarion’s worked this entire thing to win, to keep that sharp, brilliant mind occupied as he lays out the cards. Eyes off what his fingers are doing and hesitantly landing on the glittering view from the floor-to-ceiling windows that take the place of the penthouse wall behind Astarion’s back, but vague, not seeing.
“I’m not ashamed -” Gale starts, but Astarion’s mischievous tut cuts him off.
“Naughty boy. Answering truthfully was your rule, not mine, but it would be awfully disappointing if you lied. You’re clutching at yourself as if I’ve just stripped you completely naked in the middle of Waterdeep Stadium with a sold-out crowd in arctic weather. And the ambient temperature in here is too perfect for it to be to do with the thermostat…” A sly smile curls across his lips, though it’s not cruel. He doesn’t want to scare Gale off, he wants to use this new skittishness to his advantage.
He can see the bob of Gale’s Adam's apple beneath the neatly clipped edge of his beard. “I’m not ashamed ,” he repeats insistently, “I’m… shy, I suppose. It’s been rather a while since I’ve had the pleasure of another’s company in such an intimate context, and…” he trails off.
There’s that gorgeous blush again. How easy it would be to push the cards aside and cross the flimsy barrier of the coffee table to press his lips to that heated, flushed skin, to finally know what he tastes like flustered. And how easy it is to get lost in those thoughts and lose sight of the prize. No, he must draw it out, really ensure the hook is in deep or it won’t work. Months of planning cannot go to waste because he foolishly let his dick take the lead in the home stretch.
“And…?” He coaxes, affecting a sweet, encouraging, empathetic expression, head tilted to one side, leaning back on his palms. The long, fluid line of his torso draws the eye down to his crotch, the tilt of his hips as he subtly angles them towards Gale, one leg bent, foot on the floor, the other stretched out invitingly. It has the appropriate effect.
“And… Even longer still since that intimate company was male. And you are quite beautiful.” Gale’s voice is breathy and soft. He’s slipped and won’t recover that ground now, no matter how hard he tries to put the mask back on for the next round of poker, and it’s so easy for Astarion to play into it with a coy acceptance of the compliment, as if he wasn’t expecting it, hasn’t heard it before many, many times.
“Oh, so observant,” he praises, “but there’s no need to be shy around me, darling. You’re stunning yourself, and besides, you’re depriving me of my winner’s privileges. Namely a view to die for. Please…”
It’s a confirmation of what he already knows but no less sweet for it when Gale drops his arms to his sides with a soft huff. What he wasn’t banking on, what he somehow missed in the greedy, rushed first pass down his body was -
“Well that’s quite the surprise. You are not the type I’d expect for nipple piercings, that’s for certain. How delightful. Truly, I’m enchanted.”
Gale is practically puce now, the flush spreading to the tops of his ears and down his neck. “I didn’t realise there was a ‘type’ to this sort of thing.” He replies, clearly disgruntled.
Astarion laughs in wonder. “Don’t give me that, you know exactly how fascinating a discovery this is. How many people sitting on your stuffy board, how many other smartly suited executives do you think boast the same kind of adornment, hm? When did you get them? Oh you must tell me everything -”
“You’ve had your one question. Are we going to play poker, or merely sit with these cards as some kind of avant-garde art installation while you interrogate me about my choice of jewellery?” Gale’s voice is arch, warning Astarion not to push further.
He sits up, holding his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, I shall pierce the topic with a pin.”
Gale rolls his eyes, and it’s the last round. Astarion is almost sorry for it. Almost. They’re evenly matched for clothing, with very little to bet; trousers, underwear, a signet ring, a small pendant. The twin flash of silver on Gale’s chest is a maddening diversion and he can’t help imagining what it’ll be like to run his tongue over them, what noises Gale might make, how he’ll squirm. Such a good diversion that he doesn’t need to fake his distraction to give Gale the confidence that he might win this hand, betting cautiously until he flips the final card. He slips it from the top of the deck already knowing what it will be - an ace of hearts. Maybe a bit on the nose, but Astarion has never been able to resist showing off, even to himself.
Gale’s lips twitch again. He hasn’t recovered even a shred of his earlier composure, no matter how hard he tries to pretend he has. “A fitting card for the final act…” he muses softly.
“You know the more you talk, the more you give away?” Astarion teases, smirking. “Or do you think you’re that good at bluffing?”
He shakes his head, silky locks gleaming in the tasteful, dim lighting. “Purely engaging in the time-honoured tradition of endgame banter. But seeing as you are so impatient… All in.”
“Oh, how daring.” Astarion’s smirk is immovable. “But I’m going to do more than call. No, I’m going to raise you…”
Gale raises an eyebrow. “How are you going to do that? You’re out of clothing to bet with, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Believe me, I’d noticed. No, I’m going to raise you… a kiss.” He lets the last syllable linger, a soft, sibilant hiss, like a whispering caress, accentuating it with some perfectly primed eye contact.
Gale licks his lips as if he can taste the word against them. “Very well. I… I see your bet. I call.” He replies, quiet, unsettled again, the creeping realisation that he may not have this sewn up beginning to set in. “The moment of truth has arrived. Let’s see if your daring wager has paid off.”
He reveals his cards: a straight. Again, a little joke set up just for Astarion, completely irresistible. The cocky gleam in Gale’s eye that accompanied the little flourish as he laid them on the table rapidly fades as Astarion’s smile only widens. Moments like this are what he lives for, the little rush of power he gets when his opponent realises who is really in control. He releases his cards from between his fingers with a nonchalant flick, sending them skidding along the glass of the coffee table to come to a perfect stop. He doesn’t need to say a word.
A flush.
“Very well played. It seems I have lost to a fine opponent.” Gale murmurs, his eyes travelling up from the scattered array of hearts to meet Astarion’s gaze.
He laughs, a light, giddy sound, entirely authentic. Even if it’s rigged nothing can beat the heady thrill of winning. “Indeed. Now strip, darling, let me claim my prize and bask in the revealing glory of a battle well fought.”
Gale stands to undo his trousers and Astarion leans back on his elbows, stretching his legs out, watching the sight rising in front of him. Tanned fingers with a deftness to rival his own flick open the fastening, ease down the fly in a way that could be a tease if his nervousness weren’t quite so obvious. The soft wool drops to the floor like silk running over his toned thighs and Gale moves to kick them away, before thinking better of it and turning to awkwardly pick them up and fold them. It affords Astarion a view of an incredible ass, firm, pert, begging to be grabbed. His fingers itch for it.
“Taking our time, are we? Whilst leaving those trousers to crease would be an absolute crime, this is a little prolonged. I didn’t realise I’d get a show with my winnings…” Astarion teases, wondering just how far he can push. It’s a little far, as it turns out, because Gale sits down in a wide leather armchair to continue carefully folding the garment, cheeks flaming scarlet and brows drawing together in a frown.
“Perhaps you should savour the moment. Take a victory lap, take a while to bask in the thrill of your conquest, to revel in the spoils of your triumph. Patience is a virtue, after all.” He retorts, but the heat in his eyes betrays how he’s holding back too.
It’s an opening and Astarion intends to utilise it, rising from the floor and in a second he’s next to the chair, leaning on the arm on his elbows, propping his chin in his hands, close again after the agonising distance of the poker game. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off the other man’s body, to smell the rich scent of his woody, spicy cologne mixed with the warm musk of his sweat. Close enough that what he says next lightly stirs the fine hair next to Gale’s ear.
“I don’t know where you got the impression that I am at all interested in anything virtuous.” He murmurs, watching Gale’s dark lashes flutter, and he can see the ripple of goosebumps travel down the side of his neck. He looks pointedly down into Gale’s lap at the visibly growing bulge in his sleek boxer-briefs. “Exactly how long are you planning to draw this out?”
Gale swallows audibly. “Your eager approach to collecting your winnings is most endearing, but we mustn’t forget the fun of anticipation, the build up before the… grand reveal.” He’s trying for cool but Astarion can hear the waver in his voice, the subtle shake in his exhale. Those clever fingers hook dutifully into the waistband of his underwear, sliding it down inch by tantalising inch.
“Alright then… while you create some drama, perhaps you can answer my final question…” He breathes, the tip of his nose almost brushing Gale’s temple.
“Of course,” Gale laughs softly, having forgotten about that part. “Whatever I can answer for you, ask it and you shall receive honesty.”
Astarion runs a finger along Gale’s jawline stopping at his chin to tilt the other man’s face towards his, an electric shiver slipping down his spine from the rough scratch of beard on his fingertip and big, dark, earnest eyes hopelessly locked on his. Those eyes are too pretty by half. A dangerous thought. “Right now, in this moment,” Astarion says, his voice low and quiet, “what do you want the most?”
It’s a setup, they both know it, and Gale seems only too happy to play his part. “Right now, in this moment, there is only one thing I desire with an insatiable hunger.”
A pause, perfectly dramatic.
“You, Astarion. Here. Now. In every way imaginable.”
It’s his cue and he seizes it, pulling the man in for a deep, sensual kiss, crushing their mouths together like they’ve both wanted to since they first shook hands and the pretence that they were meeting late at night in an exclusive cocktail bar for strictly business purposes instantly evaporated. Gale tastes like whiskey and heat. The slick press of his tongue is between Astarion’s lips in seconds and it’s glorious, lighting up his brain like a firework. He actually moans into Gale’s mouth - it’s been a long, long time since he hasn’t done that on purpose - and it’s instantly swallowed up in another eager lick. Any crafted sensuality is gone, replaced by a needy, twisting desperation that wraps up and squeezes low in his pelvis with a powerful throb. He has to practically prise their mouths apart so they can breathe, one hand clutching Gale’s jaw, the other somehow buried in the scratchy softness right in the centre of his chest.
“Every way imaginable? That could take some time, darling, I have quite the imagination…” He pants and it’s not nearly as collected or smooth as he wants it to be. He licks his lips, chasing the taste of Gale, arranging his features into the safety of a smirk. “You still owe me my prize, Gale.”
“I wouldn’t dream of denying you your winnings.” A smile with so much promise it’s devastatingly attractive. Astarion can remember the bigger picture later, but not now, now he wants pure indulgence. It’s been an age since such richness was laid out before him. Is it such a crime to enjoy this? He’s a professional. He can reel it back in when he needs to. It might be even more effective if his pleasure is authentic for once, might hook this painfully handsome, excruciatingly wealthy man all the more securely and erase all suspicion from his mind if Astarion really lets himself go for it. That’s what he tells himself anyway when Gale slides his underwear the rest of the way down, revealing himself fully to Astarion’s ravenous gaze.
Gale has an absolutely gorgeous cock. There’s no other way of putting it. Thick and dark, already diamond-hard and leaking, resting against the rapid rise and fall of his taut stomach, the generous smear of precome glistening on the tip. Astarion makes sure to look at him with an exaggerated slowness, drinking in every line and contour of his body from his chest down to his magnificent dick. He had noticed the considerable size of the bulge in his pants earlier, but freed from the confines of his boxer-briefs he can now confirm it - Gale is very well endowed. He really does feel as if he’s won something tonight, more than just a poker game. What an excellent turn of events.
He gives him a lascivious smile once he’s done taking in the sight in front of him. "A very generous and gracious loser. I am enjoying my winnings already," He murmurs, revelling in the way Gale is white-knuckle gripping the arms of the chair, the way he can see his cock twitch from a couple of sentences, the way his pink, kiss-swollen lips part to say something but words don’t follow, just soft puffs of whiskey-scented air. That’s power. What a rush.
Astarion’s got to take full advantage or what even is the point? He dodges Gale’s lunge for his mouth with a teasing grin and the frustrated whine it nets him will reverberate in his mind for weeks, he’s sure. Positioning himself in front of the chair, standing tall with legs apart, his gaze is a command: watch me. How thrilling it is to be obeyed so readily, to see the dreamy dark eyes lock onto his pale fingers as he undoes his trousers. He’s slow on purpose, not from nerves, each movement a sensual tug on the thread he’s been subtly weaving around Gale’s attention for weeks. And it’s so nice to be admired so very sweetly, with such unvarnished earnestness. It’s enough to get him the rest of the way to rock hard before he drops his clothing to the floor.
With a confident move Astarion, now naked, straddles Gale’s lap and the man actually groans at the contact, eyes fluttering closed as lean, pale thighs bracket his thicker, tanned ones - it is all over, Astarion notes, no tan lines at all so far; something he must investigate more later - and his head tips back, caught by a pearlescent hand as Astarion makes a fist in that luscious mane of hair. A slight tug makes those perilously pretty eyes go soft and dazed and he dives back into that mouth, that mouth he’s been watching all night, tongue first and messy for another taste and it’s even sweeter than the first, if that’s possible.
His hands are more than warm, they’re hot, skittering over Astarion’s back in flighty bursts. It’s not so much nervous as overwhelmed, as if Gale doesn’t know where he wants to touch more, unable to settle on a single place to hold out of want. It’s a counterpoint to the steady, assured grip Astarion has on his hair, the slow slide of his other hand down that wonderfully furred chest to his hip, holding him present. He’s in control of this, he reassures himself, even as his own cock twitches when Gale ruts up beneath him. It’s a good moment to pull back.
He’s greeted by a smile that borders on cocky. How curious this man is, flitting between the shyness of an inexperienced teenager and the confidence of someone whose net worth could buy him the world in triplicate if he wanted it, and at the most unexpected times. It makes Astarion want to pull him apart, to work out the labyrinthine paths in his brilliant brain and find out exactly which buttons can be pressed, which switches ticked over and levers pulled to get more of exactly what he wants, which right now is everything. But there is time for that, if all keeps going according to plan. Which it seems like it is, because Gale is panting up at him as he presses their foreheads together, unwilling to stray far from the heat of his mouth, a mouth which may have the precarious texture of a new obsession. Best not to follow that line of thinking just yet.
“You are a vision,” Gale breathes, husky and still so earnest. From anyone else, in any other tone it would sound trite. “A captivating vision of beauty and elegance. You’re far too aware of how fascinating you are and yet I find myself drawn in regardless, fascinated nonetheless like it’s some kind of gravitational pull. I find you quite irresistible, a force both terrifying and exhilarating, and I am helpless to deny your grip on me.”
“Oh just shut up and fuck me,” Astarion laughs mainly for effect as he presses in for another crushing kiss. Gale’s hands still against his back and there’s more of that gorgeous blush on his face, his body thrumming with tension which Astarion can’t ignore. “Something the matter?”
“I - as I said earlier, it’s been a while since - ah, since I have had intimate company and… well… I… I didn’t think - I wasn’t expecting -”
Oh, how lovely to see him squirm. And not an issue either, once again Astarion’s rigged the odds in his own favour; more ways to draw this out, ensure repeat visits and ample opportunity to case the place thoroughly.
“That’s quite alright, darling. Plenty of other things we can do, if you’re wanting to take it slow. How about we find a way of keeping this overactive little mouth of yours occupied, hm?” And that overactive brain, Astarion thinks as he presses his index finger against the seam of Gale’s lips, a wordless command burning in his eyes. He wants to keep Gale focused on this and nothing else. And it’s working, he knows when his finger slides in against the slick muscle of Gale’s tongue and the dark pupils at the centre of his adoring gaze dilate, moving from rich brown to nearly black, and Gale sucks obediently which makes Astarion’s cock throb in response.
A hiss of satisfaction escapes in a soft “Oh fuck yesss” when Astarion presses a second finger in and Gale accepts it, greedy for more. Watching those lips wrap around his fingers has him grinding down in Gale’s lap, smearing precome across both their bellies in a mindless search for friction. Forehead to temple, mouth open and wet against his cheek as he watches his fingers slide in and out of that incredible mouth in time with the filthy, agonisingly slow crush of their hips. It’s artless and wanton and they’re rubbing up against one another like horny teenagers who have no idea what they’re doing. Not at all the precise, staged sensuality that Astarion is used to orchestrating. At this point he’s not sure he cares all that much, not when Gale’s panting and whimpering around his fingers like this, his beard shining wetly as saliva starts to run down his chin.
It may be a little cruel, slipping a hand between them and giving one of those piercings a tweak. The response, the grunt and jumpy twitch it elicits is worth it though. He’s lovely, all eagerness and desperate heat, and Astarion can feel the molten pulse of Gale’s perfect cock pressed between them, right up against his.
The whole evening has been a drawn out tease and he can feel in the rhythm beneath him that Gale is close to spilling, almost before they’ve gotten anywhere at all. “Do you really like taking my fingers that much? Oh you perfect, filthy thing…” he mutters, not needing to fake the awe in his voice, and that seems to do something to Gale, something wonderful. A full-body shudder, a whine, a forceful jerk from below. It’s almost too easy. Gale mumbles out something that could be “please” around his fingers and he takes pity, pulling his hand from his mouth - a shame that he laments for all of a second, until he takes his wet, spit-sticky fingers and wraps them around both of their cocks at once.
He swallows the shout from Gale’s mouth and presses his own in. How incredible he feels in his hand, pressed up against his own dick, saliva and precome covering his palm and easing the way for Gale to rut up into his fist over and over again. He can’t fully close it around them both and that in itself is a thrill.
“Here, give me -” he orders and takes one of Gale’s hands, the one that’s been helplessly digging red crescent moons into the pale plane of his waist, not the one that’s been doing the same to his ass, and swallows that too, sucking down fingers in a slick, ravenous gulp.
Gale moans and his head tips back, eyes squeezing shut. “Gods -” he chokes out and Astarion echoes it with a muffled groan, taking his fingers as deep as he can into his throat. It’s whorish, completely obscene. He makes sure to swallow around them so Gale can feel it. Tight and hot and no hint of a gag, a preview of something he hopes Gale might want to test a bit more later. But right now it’s about slicking his fingers up in time. He can’t linger on it, those busy hips are thrusting at too uncontrolled a pace. Astarion pulls back, drooling off those beautiful fingers - another obsession in the making - and forces them to complete the soaked tunnel around their dicks with a squeeze.
Just in time, too, because it’s only another couple of thrusts before Gale comes with a shout, spilling all over both of their hands and their cocks and even splashing up onto his own stomach and it feels as incredible as he looks. Astarion can’t resist leaning into him as he braces by getting a handful of that firm, lovely chest, moaning filthy praises into his neck, feeling the damp strands of his silky hair tickle his face and Gale’s dick continues to throb and twitch as he spends between them in hot spurts. He bites the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from joining and making a shared mess on their fingers. Wouldn’t that be marvellous - not for tonight, he cautions himself with the last of his faculties. Not if he wants to keep the upper hand.
“Oh… Gods…” Gale pants, eyes fluttering open. He looks dazed. Perfectly so. “I didn’t mean to… not so fast. It’s just, it’s been -”
“A while, yes, you keep saying. And it’s not a problem. Not for me, anyway. You look gorgeous when you come.”
The flush of orgasm on his high cheekbones deepens and spreads down his neck at the compliment. He actually leans forward and hides his face against Astarion’s shoulder for a moment and isn’t that charming. If his cock weren’t still aching in their shared grip and the cooling, sticky mess of Gale’s release he could have been swept away by that one sweet gesture. Careful.
The Gale that re-emerges is more composed and far more mischievous. There’s something glittering in those big brown eyes that makes Astarion’s insides shiver and a near-unbearable heat pool in his guts and he needs to get off because it’s getting painful. Having his dick crammed up against Gale’s while he’s still hard and Gale is less so in the aftermath is an exquisite kind of torture.
“If you want - if you’ll permit me… I may be a little rusty, but I’d very much like to try…”
Astarion’s brain must be too blood-deprived because his normally excellent reflexes are sluggish. Before he can muster a reply Gale has pushed him off his lap and he almost stumbles back, legs cramping after being jammed in that leather chair around Gale’s thighs for so long. His calves hit the cool glass of the coffee table as Gale’s mouth is suddenly enveloping the head of his cock and Astarion can’t breathe. It’s hungry and eager as his kisses and if he thought having his fingers in Gale’s mouth was heaven it’s nothing compared to his dick. There’s the debauched twist of his tongue around the head that makes Astarion’s brain feel numb, the hot, wet slide of his lips down the shaft as Gale takes him deep, the firm grip of his fingers around the base where he can feel himself throb against the pressure.
It’s going to be over embarrassingly soon if Astarion isn’t careful, and at this point he’s not sure he can be careful any more, not in the face of this lewd display. Gale’s pausing to lick a splash of his own release off the underside of Astarion’s cock and he lets out what’s supposed to be an incredulous laugh but it comes out as a fevered moan.
“I can’t believe that this is rusty,” he pants out, trying to maintain some kind of illusion of… something. “Where on earth did you learn to do this?”
“Experimentation in my university days.” The reply is accompanied by a flash of an impish smile.
Astarion attempts another laugh, still too rough and breathless. “Oh, I suppose that explains the nipple piercings then, if you -” and he’s about to say something else when Gale sinks his mouth back down and whatever it was vanishes in the all-encompassing heat of Gale’s perfect throat.
His hand plunges into that soft, silky mane because if it didn’t he’d overbalance. He holds on, not to push Gale but to anchor himself and feel the motion of his head bobbing up and down as Gale finds a rhythm. Whatever stupid plan he’d come up with to keep himself in any kind of control is obliterated by the way Gale’s mouth feels, and his orgasm rushes up in a wave that shakes his legs and has him shooting over Gale’s tongue without warning. The initial surprised choking noise gets rapidly overtaken by a combination of moaning and messy, slick swallowing sounds and Astarion would be annoyed with himself for closing his eyes if he had the awareness left for anything but Gale’s mouth and what it’s doing, what it’s done to him.
***
Later, in the pale, washed-out light of early morning, Astarion steals through the penthouse like a ghost. He had allowed himself a distraction, a thrilling diversion, but now it's time for real work.
After he’d finished ‘collecting his winnings’ last night, Gale had drawn him to the penthouse’s upper floor. He’d been too dick-drunk to take in any of what he was there to scope out in the first place. He was mesmerised by Gale’s bare ass in front of him as he was led into an absurdly large bathroom, leaned up against a bathroom counter and a warm, damp cloth applied in slow, tender strokes. There was sweet, murmured conversation. Petting. More kisses, flavoured with the combined salt of their seed. Bodies twining around one another under astronomical thread-count sheets. Nothing that really meant anything. Nothing that he hadn’t promised a thousand times before in similar situations.
He lingers in front of a glass case containing an illuminated medieval manuscript as he does up his trousers. Less conspicuous than the Rothko in the entryway, possibly easier to forge, much, much easier to remove without detection. A somewhat eccentric choice too. He’s reminded of that dichotomy he witnessed in Gale a few hours ago, the swing between commanding executive and someone playful, eager, somewhat shy in the most curious ways. Seems it’s reflected in his art collection too. Fascinating stuff.
He does up the top button on his shirt and runs his fingers through his hair. Usually his thoughts don’t stray past the art and antiquities, but to his frustration they wander to Gale, asleep upstairs, splayed out on his belly and the sheets dripping off his body to reveal his well-muscled, broad shoulders. Astarion shakes himself and stands in the vast living room, surveying the scattered playing cards and clothes and empty tumblers and contemplates exactly where to arrange his underwear to catch Gale’s notice while appearing as though they’ve been discarded in a rush. He does love arranging the scene, like his own little art installation. He drops the black briefs from the tips of two fingers so they lie half-under the coffee table, visible as soon as anyone deigns to sit down on the couch. Close enough. He’d title this one ‘a quick getaway’, perhaps, or ‘call me’.
And then it’s time to leave, for now. He slinks out of the door with his hands in his pockets, soundless, slipping down the stairwell. A long way down but the walk bypasses the lobby and the majority of the security cameras, and it’s not like he’s in a hurry. The two little oblongs of metal hidden in his fist quickly warm to the temperature of his skin and he smiles. He’s already looking forward to the next round.