[ Certifiably a lot. Stroked to completion and then some, opened up and filled. At some point, Iorveth becomes incapable of identifying what's happening, and only registers his surroundings through disjointed jolts of sensation and emotion― he's only aware that he's stopped coming once Astarion's hand slides off of his cock, and he only becomes aware of where he ends and Astarion begins after he shifts his weight and feels the extremely unwelcome emptiness of Astarion slipping out of him.
On one hand, he feels more sated than he ever has in his life; on the other, he hates that he came so quickly, that he doesn't still have Astarion buried in him. Iorveth pants, weak-limbed and horrifically in love, draped over his partner's front with his overgrown bangs sticking to his sweat-soaked face.
After a few unfocused fuzzy beats, Iorveth lifts his head to look at Astarion and his mussed silver hair, his sculpted features, the pointed ends of his sharp teeth from where they show, occasionally, between his perfect lips. Astarion is still like nothing Iorveth has ever known― he doesn't resemble anything from his past, doesn't remind him of anything or anyone else, isn't tied to the tangled mess of his blood feud or clan history. Iorveth has no reason to love him, which makes it all the more important that he does.
Blearily, he whispers "beloved" in his language again: en'ca minne. A moment of post-orgasm vulnerability while his defenses still remain down. ] Stay.
[ He's so used to people leaving afterwards. Hastily pulling clothes back on, reaching for blades and bows. Iorveth curls his arms around Astarion, and weakly tries to bite another mark into his neck. ] Stay.
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On one hand, he feels more sated than he ever has in his life; on the other, he hates that he came so quickly, that he doesn't still have Astarion buried in him. Iorveth pants, weak-limbed and horrifically in love, draped over his partner's front with his overgrown bangs sticking to his sweat-soaked face.
After a few unfocused fuzzy beats, Iorveth lifts his head to look at Astarion and his mussed silver hair, his sculpted features, the pointed ends of his sharp teeth from where they show, occasionally, between his perfect lips. Astarion is still like nothing Iorveth has ever known― he doesn't resemble anything from his past, doesn't remind him of anything or anyone else, isn't tied to the tangled mess of his blood feud or clan history. Iorveth has no reason to love him, which makes it all the more important that he does.
Blearily, he whispers "beloved" in his language again: en'ca minne. A moment of post-orgasm vulnerability while his defenses still remain down. ] Stay.
[ He's so used to people leaving afterwards. Hastily pulling clothes back on, reaching for blades and bows. Iorveth curls his arms around Astarion, and weakly tries to bite another mark into his neck. ] Stay.