[ Astarion squirms, and Iorveth lifts himself up just enough to help him wriggle out of his oversized pants and toss it over the side of the bed. The only scrap of fabric left between them is Astarion's (Gale's) underwear, which serves as poor defense. ]
A dangerous thing to say, beloved. [ He laughs with the sort of unwarranted confidence that's made him many enemies over the past few decades, but also with awestruck warmth. His touch slides from back to front, the heel of his hand pressing between Astarion's legs over his smallclothes, fingers slowly curling over the still-soft outline of him. ] You may not make it to the opera tomorrow.
[ Gale may need to do more than just peel Iorveth off. In dim lamplight, Iorveth's remaining eye glints jade-green, focused and hungry― he thinks he must look grotesque, one half mangled scar-tissue and the other half a feral animal buzzing with need.
Oh well. Leaning in for a crushing kiss, Iorveth tilts and coaxes until he feels the sharp edge of a pointed fang, and he drags his tongue against it with enough strength to tear skin; the taste of his own blood is momentarily overwhelming, but it doesn't stop him from laving his injured tongue against Astarion's, relishing the heat and mess until he inevitably has to come up for air (horrible).
Fuck, he's already hard. A shudder-sigh, and he slots his length up along Astarion's thigh, leaving a streak of pre over his perfect skin with a roll of his hips. ]
You feel good everywhere, [ is a teasing half-grouse. ]
no subject
A dangerous thing to say, beloved. [ He laughs with the sort of unwarranted confidence that's made him many enemies over the past few decades, but also with awestruck warmth. His touch slides from back to front, the heel of his hand pressing between Astarion's legs over his smallclothes, fingers slowly curling over the still-soft outline of him. ] You may not make it to the opera tomorrow.
[ Gale may need to do more than just peel Iorveth off. In dim lamplight, Iorveth's remaining eye glints jade-green, focused and hungry― he thinks he must look grotesque, one half mangled scar-tissue and the other half a feral animal buzzing with need.
Oh well. Leaning in for a crushing kiss, Iorveth tilts and coaxes until he feels the sharp edge of a pointed fang, and he drags his tongue against it with enough strength to tear skin; the taste of his own blood is momentarily overwhelming, but it doesn't stop him from laving his injured tongue against Astarion's, relishing the heat and mess until he inevitably has to come up for air (horrible).
Fuck, he's already hard. A shudder-sigh, and he slots his length up along Astarion's thigh, leaving a streak of pre over his perfect skin with a roll of his hips. ]
You feel good everywhere, [ is a teasing half-grouse. ]