[ Iorveth would laugh himself into an early grave, probably, if Astarion ever told him that fucking someone is far too much work. Then again: fair. They're both oversized elves with long limbs, and they'll both probably be sore in weird places tomorrow.
Worth it, though. Iorveth shifts, rocks, and makes soft noises in the back of his throat, close, closer, too close to his edge without even paying attention to his cock; all he can think about is the spine-achingly good spot inside himself that Astarion keeps giving attention to, and how full he feels.
Being told to come in that sweet voice is really the last straw. Iorveth wasn't exercising much restraint anyway, but being coaxed makes him fall apart almost immediately (embarrassing); any advance warning of his orgasm is swept away by the numbing wave that hits him, and he winds up opening his mouth for a choked half-moan that gets broken down into desperate huffs as he comes, and he comes, and he comes.
Intense, in a wholly unfamiliar way. His fingers scrabble at Astarion's back, at his shoulders, blunt nails raking along pale skin until he passes the highest point of his peak and slumps, limp, onto the mattress. A messy, sweat-slicked elf puddle.
(His legs remain hooked around his partner's middle. Obstinately keeping him in, refusing to let Astarion finish anywhere but inside him.) ]
no subject
Worth it, though. Iorveth shifts, rocks, and makes soft noises in the back of his throat, close, closer, too close to his edge without even paying attention to his cock; all he can think about is the spine-achingly good spot inside himself that Astarion keeps giving attention to, and how full he feels.
Being told to come in that sweet voice is really the last straw. Iorveth wasn't exercising much restraint anyway, but being coaxed makes him fall apart almost immediately (embarrassing); any advance warning of his orgasm is swept away by the numbing wave that hits him, and he winds up opening his mouth for a choked half-moan that gets broken down into desperate huffs as he comes, and he comes, and he comes.
Intense, in a wholly unfamiliar way. His fingers scrabble at Astarion's back, at his shoulders, blunt nails raking along pale skin until he passes the highest point of his peak and slumps, limp, onto the mattress. A messy, sweat-slicked elf puddle.
(His legs remain hooked around his partner's middle. Obstinately keeping him in, refusing to let Astarion finish anywhere but inside him.) ]