[ There's an excess of feeling, which means that Iorveth doesn't know whether to relax at the feeling of fingers on his already-sensitive erection or whether to squeeze even harder around the heat inside of him. A happy conundrum; either way, he feels better than he has any business feeling. Too full, too elated, too much. Perfect.

Hugging his arms around Astarion's shoulders, he starts a rhythm. The promised act of riding, awkward and stilted at first and building to something a bit more consistent. Iorveth drags his sweat-flushed skin against Astarion's chest, tattooed vines to pale skin. ]

You shouldn't make promises that you're not prepared for.

[ A returned grin, punctuated by an audacious squeeze. Sure, it makes him see stars too, but he wants this to feel as excruciatingly good for Astarion as it's starting to be for him.

He huffs, sighs. Changes his angle, nuzzles against Astarion's jaw. He's not sure what language he's speaking when he calls Astarion "perfect", but it sounds enough like Common－ he groans it again when Astarion hits him just right, and chases it with clumsy stutters of his hips. ]

Gods, Astarion－ [ Growled, his voice like gravel. ] －How do you make me feel like this. It's absurd.