[ Right for the dick. Astarion has good aim, and Iorveth sigh-chuckles at the electric feeling of that sudden friction against his still-soft but increasingly interested length; ah, he breathes, and it's more a sound of observation than outright pleasure. ]

You idiot, [ is his eventual response. ] I want all of you.

[ To the tune of what kind of question is this, even though Iorveth kind of Gets It: Astarion is asking about preferences, probably. Iorveth has a few, and finding new ones every time he takes his clothes off in Astarion's general vicinity.

He hums. Thinks about it. Fingers close around Astarion's wrist, and lifts the touch from the quickly-mounting heat between his legs. ]

Your mouth. [ And, quickly, an addendum: ] I want to kiss you for a bit.

[ Very tame― or is it??? Iorveth has no idea what value Astarion ascribes to kissing (if any), but he's made his stance on it clear sometime during his wine-fueled diatribe about killing anyone who puts their mouth on Astarion's; sex is sport, but he doesn't fence tongues for sport.

(In hindsight, the oral fixation is probably part of why he'd been so gripped by jealousy when Astarion came back with someone else's blood on his lips. A kneejerk that's mine. How embarrassing.) ]

Take your clothes off. I want us in the tub for this.