Gideon rolls his eyes around a sigh--Amos hits a good spot, his mouth warm on what's a skinny, careworn frame. The worst of what he's endured in the name of Martian hospitality has either faded with time or remains hidden from view, but a few scars still remain on his torso. He hasn't wanted to see them smoothed away, any more than he's wanted to test his luck with a prosthetic tongue.

Amos is full of shit, something they're both well aware of, and Gideon's struggling to care. The attention already has him hard, already arching up just a little in an attempt to meet the wet suck of his mouth. He wonders what it would be to feel Amos' tongue moving over the place where his own should be--but distantly, without urgency.