Criminals don't get to make demands of magistrates.
[ Give him an inch, and he'll take a mile. Iorveth has made the great mistake of giving Astarion a little control, and now he's gone mad with power. He pauses for a moment, glancing further down Iorveth's torso and then back up at his hands. It simply isn't physically possible to hold him down and get creative with his dagger. His mouth twists in displeasure before he settles his gaze on Iorveth's face. ]
But magistrates get to make demands of criminals. Stay.
[ He relinquishes his hold on Iorveth's wrists, finding it perhaps even more gratifying to see if Iorveth will obey without any physical force keeping him there at all. Meanwhile, he holds the blade against Iorveth's chest, letting it linger there. From here, he could press the dagger into Iorveth's body, between his fourth and his fifth ribs, and puncture his pounding heart.
He has no desire to, yet the knowledge that Iorveth—prickly, paranoid, mistrusting Iorveth—allows him to get so close excites him more than is strictly sane. The blade cuts a little deeper, a small slice in his flesh that calls more of that wonderful blood to flow forth again, a tiny trickle down his chest. In an instant he's flattening his tongue against Iorveth's skin, humming in something between deep satisfaction and restless longing. ]
no subject
[ Give him an inch, and he'll take a mile. Iorveth has made the great mistake of giving Astarion a little control, and now he's gone mad with power. He pauses for a moment, glancing further down Iorveth's torso and then back up at his hands. It simply isn't physically possible to hold him down and get creative with his dagger. His mouth twists in displeasure before he settles his gaze on Iorveth's face. ]
But magistrates get to make demands of criminals. Stay.
[ He relinquishes his hold on Iorveth's wrists, finding it perhaps even more gratifying to see if Iorveth will obey without any physical force keeping him there at all. Meanwhile, he holds the blade against Iorveth's chest, letting it linger there. From here, he could press the dagger into Iorveth's body, between his fourth and his fifth ribs, and puncture his pounding heart.
He has no desire to, yet the knowledge that Iorveth—prickly, paranoid, mistrusting Iorveth—allows him to get so close excites him more than is strictly sane. The blade cuts a little deeper, a small slice in his flesh that calls more of that wonderful blood to flow forth again, a tiny trickle down his chest. In an instant he's flattening his tongue against Iorveth's skin, humming in something between deep satisfaction and restless longing. ]