[ Not uncomfortably hot. Well, perhaps uncomfortably hot, but it hardly matters. Iorveth could be as warm as the surface of the sun (and gods, sometimes it feels that way) but Astarion would still press their bare bodies closer together, soaking up every bit of heat. It's inside that really feels hot, overwhelmingly so, but he finds it only heightens the sensation. He's chronically allergic to any sort of work, but not when it comes to Iorveth; he seeks out that spot again, the tip of him rubbing up against it, and presses into it over and over again, chasing that whine.
He can barely tell if it's been a minute or an hour since they started, but he does know that it's the slowest build to a crescendo that he's ever had, and all the more powerful for it. Like every instrument in the orchestra playing, first impossibly quiet and then at full strength, just like the finale of that stupid opera he made fun of with Gale. He feels himself stutter, tremble, and— no, no, no. This is about Iorveth, and Astarion will just die if he finishes before him.
Mouth pressed against Iorveth's preciously pointy ear, he says, a little breathless and a little desperate, ] Be a good boy and come, darling. I want you to.
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He can barely tell if it's been a minute or an hour since they started, but he does know that it's the slowest build to a crescendo that he's ever had, and all the more powerful for it. Like every instrument in the orchestra playing, first impossibly quiet and then at full strength, just like the finale of that stupid opera he made fun of with Gale. He feels himself stutter, tremble, and— no, no, no. This is about Iorveth, and Astarion will just die if he finishes before him.
Mouth pressed against Iorveth's preciously pointy ear, he says, a little breathless and a little desperate, ] Be a good boy and come, darling. I want you to.