[ A jolt, as that finger finds its way inside him. Iorveth wills his hips to stay where they are without instinctively drawing away, and breathes through his nose to relax, to let Astarion touch the way he wants to. The first part is, as he recalls, the most uncomfortable, but there's no pain: his brain hisses finally, and his tadpole wriggles with elation.

A lot. Just enough. Every inch of him burns with wanting, and the fact that they're still talking frustrates him to a certain extent; he's sure that the hammering of his pulse and the ragged hitch of his breathing says far more than anything he could say in Common, but for Astarion, he can make an attempt.

He shakes his head again, no, and rests his forehead against Astarion's. ]

You've ruined me for "enough". [ Panting, trying to coax more friction as he talks. ] "Enough" is for people who aren't you.

[ He might be satisfied with others, but his well of wanting for Astarion is endless, deep, terrifying. It makes him monstrous, and he knows it: again, he'd burn the world for Astarion if it threatened him. There's no way to articulate that properly, so he makes another frustrated half-noise, and slips down to settle against Astarion's shoulder this time. ]

I've no idea how to have enough of you.

[ Another red flag. The pendulum swing from repression to infatuation might not be the most healthy thing in the world. ]