[ Inappropriate use of the tadpole connection. Iorveth feels the edge of Astarion's mind pressing up against his, and thinks fuck it― no point in hiding when he already has his own hand shoved down the front of his pants.
He lets Astarion breach his mental barrier and slip into the mess of his immediate hindbrain thoughts. It's a jumble of pure feeling, disjointed pulses of want and need flitting over a kaleidoscope of not-so-idle fantasies: the one Iorveth is lingering on presently is an imaginary situation in which he has Astarion pinned to nondescript sheets, his chest to Astarion's back. He licks a long stripe up between his shoulderblades, his erection pressed to the curve of Astarion's backside; he imagines how that would feel, and his mind sparks with adrenaline-dopamine-serotonin, spurring his actual, physical hand to make more friction where it's gripped around his cock.
More flights of fancy, more disjointed waves of sensation. This time, Astarion is on his back with his legs hooked around Iorveth's waist, and all Iorveth can think about is how much he wants to kiss him, to taste his pretty mouth and tangle his fingers in all that pretty hair, to make Astarion unravel again and again until he understands how much he's wanted.
Iorveth tenses against Astarion on the bed, muffling his next involuntary sound into his pillow. It sounds like Astarion's name, probably because it is: eye closed and skin flushed, he shifts closer and presses his nose to the smooth column of his companion's throat. ]
See what you do to me, [ he says on the tail end of a strained laugh, broken by arousal. Their mental connection flares again, Iorveth's brain transmitting a relentless downpour of what boils down to wantwantwant alongside a more intense burn, an indescribable, bone-deep Something that twists and flares in Iorveth's chest. ]
no subject
He lets Astarion breach his mental barrier and slip into the mess of his immediate hindbrain thoughts. It's a jumble of pure feeling, disjointed pulses of want and need flitting over a kaleidoscope of not-so-idle fantasies: the one Iorveth is lingering on presently is an imaginary situation in which he has Astarion pinned to nondescript sheets, his chest to Astarion's back. He licks a long stripe up between his shoulderblades, his erection pressed to the curve of Astarion's backside; he imagines how that would feel, and his mind sparks with adrenaline-dopamine-serotonin, spurring his actual, physical hand to make more friction where it's gripped around his cock.
More flights of fancy, more disjointed waves of sensation. This time, Astarion is on his back with his legs hooked around Iorveth's waist, and all Iorveth can think about is how much he wants to kiss him, to taste his pretty mouth and tangle his fingers in all that pretty hair, to make Astarion unravel again and again until he understands how much he's wanted.
Iorveth tenses against Astarion on the bed, muffling his next involuntary sound into his pillow. It sounds like Astarion's name, probably because it is: eye closed and skin flushed, he shifts closer and presses his nose to the smooth column of his companion's throat. ]
See what you do to me, [ he says on the tail end of a strained laugh, broken by arousal. Their mental connection flares again, Iorveth's brain transmitting a relentless downpour of what boils down to wantwantwant alongside a more intense burn, an indescribable, bone-deep Something that twists and flares in Iorveth's chest. ]