[ The world melts. It's pure hedonistic luxury, being drunk with his back to a bookshelf, cool lips and sharp teeth against his flushed skin. All of his usual paranoia and tightly-held control seem miles away; Iorveth's awareness of his surroundings dial down to the dull ache of two puncture wounds and the perversely soothing feeling of trusting someone else with his pain.
His knees don't exactly shake, but they do protest supporting the rest of him. Iorveth's shoulders slant, weight pressed heavily against the uncomfortable slats of wood digging into his back, his hip. He has one hand at Astarion's waist, its grip perfunctory, more form than function. ]
This will always feel good, [ he rasps, chin tipped and pupil slightly blown. The trust is what does it for him― the danger, and the paradoxical assurance that he's perfectly safe regardless. The last time he'd ever felt like this was probably when he was laid bare, letting someone ink his skin from jaw to thigh, but even that pales in comparison to Astarion's breath against his neck.
Catching the tip of a pale ear with his own teeth, he speaks around a mouthful of delicate cartilage: ] Astarion. [ Just his name first, slow and warm. Below them, he can hear music playing in the lobby-lounge. ] Are you drunk yet?
[ More footsteps out in the hallway. The sounds seem louder this time around, the muffled chatter too dangerously close; Iorveth feels something electric slide up his spine, but he taps the small of Astarion's back anyway, a signal that they should probably stop before Iorveth becomes too useless. ]
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His knees don't exactly shake, but they do protest supporting the rest of him. Iorveth's shoulders slant, weight pressed heavily against the uncomfortable slats of wood digging into his back, his hip. He has one hand at Astarion's waist, its grip perfunctory, more form than function. ]
This will always feel good, [ he rasps, chin tipped and pupil slightly blown. The trust is what does it for him― the danger, and the paradoxical assurance that he's perfectly safe regardless. The last time he'd ever felt like this was probably when he was laid bare, letting someone ink his skin from jaw to thigh, but even that pales in comparison to Astarion's breath against his neck.
Catching the tip of a pale ear with his own teeth, he speaks around a mouthful of delicate cartilage: ] Astarion. [ Just his name first, slow and warm. Below them, he can hear music playing in the lobby-lounge. ] Are you drunk yet?
[ More footsteps out in the hallway. The sounds seem louder this time around, the muffled chatter too dangerously close; Iorveth feels something electric slide up his spine, but he taps the small of Astarion's back anyway, a signal that they should probably stop before Iorveth becomes too useless. ]