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Summary
The Raphael before Astarion is powerful. Uninhibited. Possessive. His usual preparedness has been cast aside and replaced by fervent spontaneity.
The figure wearing Tav’s face and parading in her body revels in his dominance, moaning wantonly into every kiss. They obey his every whim, dexterous fingers weaving through the buttons of Raphael’s shirt with expertise.
Even if this isn’t Tav, it’s so, so despicable for Astarion to watch. He’ll see her body on his terms, every essence of her being crying out for his caress, or not at all.
But if he closes his eyes and focuses on his other senses—Tav’s breathy cries in his ear and his hand gripped tightly around his cock—it’s not so hard to pretend that he’s the one receiving her ministrations.