[Leto is drunk. Drunk in that very particular dive bar way which tastes disgusting and does the job wonderfully, his whiskey potent and eye-wateringly sharp. Drunk enough that he's picked up a fascination with playing with whatever bit of Astarion he can get his hands on: playing with his vampire's left hand, idly stroking his fingers or pressing his thumb against the hard muscle of his palm in a lazy attempt at a massage. Drunk enough that some of these lines are honestly kind of doing it for him, sort of . . . though he snorts at that last attempt.]

Five out of ten. You manage to deliver it well, but cockbin is, mm, a difficult combination of words. [And then, in the spirit of total honesty:] It might not completely wreck the mood if you whispered it in the heat of the moment— but don't. Of all the things I wish to be compared to, a bin is low on the list.

[Hm hm hm.]

At least you never named your cock. Or use euphemisms . . . Isabela told me a story once of a man who used to refer to his prick as his, ah, fleshy tower of manhood, [and god, the snort he lets out for that is so immature.]