[ Iorveth's insistence that his compliments are mere flattery and not the truth as Astarion sees it is bothersome, and he opens his mouth to say as much, but then Iorveth is guiding his hand, and he can feel it warm and wet with Iorveth's own precome, and all of the blood meant to supply his brain rushes sharply southward. Instinctively, he presses the pad of his slicked-up finger against that tight ring of muscle, and— ]
Have you done this before?
[ This, specifically. He can't even remember his first time on the receiving end of sex, but he remembers the unpleasantness of it all. Even after centuries, he'd always been too tense to feel anything but discomfort.
It takes every bit of self-restraint not to push in right away, to only stroke with the soft finger of someone who's never had to work a day in his life. A magistrate's finger, uncalloused and well-manicured. Every part of him—well, specifically one part of him—screams in impatience, erection aching between his legs, but: ]
—I only want to know if you need a gentle deflowering.
no subject
Have you done this before?
[ This, specifically. He can't even remember his first time on the receiving end of sex, but he remembers the unpleasantness of it all. Even after centuries, he'd always been too tense to feel anything but discomfort.
It takes every bit of self-restraint not to push in right away, to only stroke with the soft finger of someone who's never had to work a day in his life. A magistrate's finger, uncalloused and well-manicured. Every part of him—well, specifically one part of him—screams in impatience, erection aching between his legs, but: ]
—I only want to know if you need a gentle deflowering.