[ If Astarion had any misgivings about this idea—and he did, a little, given the nonzero chance of being interrupted by someone who might want to protect his innocent victim by stabbing him in the heart—the sight of Iorveth's bared throat wipes them all away. Entirely trusting, without fear or hesitation. Astarion swallows reflexively, pure animal instinct spurring his steps forward. ]
Keep up with that impertinence, darling. I could still decide to lock you in that chair.
[ Only teasing. It wouldn't be any fun to lock him up if he didn't want to be.
He wedges Iorveth between his own body and the bookcase, a weighty pressure to keep him upright even if Iorveth's legs do turn to jelly as Astarion had warned. One hand rests at Iorveth's shoulder, lightly grasping the soft fabric of his new shirt, and the other presses flat against his abdomen, handsy for the sake of it, because he's free and he's entitled to do what pleases him. His fangs pierce Iorveth's skin easily, and he sighs at the easy give, the sudden coppery tang in his mouth.
It doesn't taste like wine, exactly. Slightly different than usual, but not better or worse. It makes his head feel light and swimmy just the same as it always does, although there's a new thrill from the fact that only a wall separates them from the others in the brothel. A door opens and shuts in the hallway, and Astarion's every movement stops, although he can't bring himself to pull away. He hears the muffled sound of giggling and feet padding down the hallway — then nothing at all. Only a customer leaving their room.
It would be wise to stop now before they end up with a true close call, but no one has ever accused Astarion of being wise. He only resumes his gentle lapping, tongue pressing flat against the two small puncture marks he's made. ]
no subject
Keep up with that impertinence, darling. I could still decide to lock you in that chair.
[ Only teasing. It wouldn't be any fun to lock him up if he didn't want to be.
He wedges Iorveth between his own body and the bookcase, a weighty pressure to keep him upright even if Iorveth's legs do turn to jelly as Astarion had warned. One hand rests at Iorveth's shoulder, lightly grasping the soft fabric of his new shirt, and the other presses flat against his abdomen, handsy for the sake of it, because he's free and he's entitled to do what pleases him. His fangs pierce Iorveth's skin easily, and he sighs at the easy give, the sudden coppery tang in his mouth.
It doesn't taste like wine, exactly. Slightly different than usual, but not better or worse. It makes his head feel light and swimmy just the same as it always does, although there's a new thrill from the fact that only a wall separates them from the others in the brothel. A door opens and shuts in the hallway, and Astarion's every movement stops, although he can't bring himself to pull away. He hears the muffled sound of giggling and feet padding down the hallway — then nothing at all. Only a customer leaving their room.
It would be wise to stop now before they end up with a true close call, but no one has ever accused Astarion of being wise. He only resumes his gentle lapping, tongue pressing flat against the two small puncture marks he's made. ]