[ You get freaky in your friend's house, like, one or two times, and suddenly he's afraid to open the door when you're alone with your boyfriend (fiancé). At least, that's what Astarion would be thinking if he were listening, which he isn't. It's been days since he's felt anywhere close to all right, but with Iorveth underneath him just like he likes, soft and pliant and going nowhere, he feels— good, he thinks. Sore as well, leg protesting even this amount of movement, but he can live with it. ]
Oh, I don't know. Your head looks rather perfect to me. [ Sickly sweet, the sort of tone he'd die if anyone other than Iorveth ever heard. ] Perfect here [ —a kiss to Iorveth's eyelid— ] and here [ —his scarred cheek— ] and, oh, most definitely here.
[ He's allowed a little life-affirming making out as a treat, so his next kiss is to Iorveth's (perfect!) mouth, a smile on his own lips. At least until he hears the sound of a doorknob turning, and—
"Oh!" Gale's voice. "I'm afraid I did warn you, Master Reginald..." ]
[ Very inconsiderate of the wizard whose room they're renting and the cleric who fixed them up to interrupt a morning makeout session. Iorveth is about to crane up and see if Astarion is amenable to a bit of tongue when the door opens, and he grunts in frustration at being deterred. ]
Not a single moment of peace.
[ If it's not Damris in the other room, it's people who genuinely wish them well. Horrible!!! Their lives are so hard. Iorveth keeps his hands where they are, one still tucked under Astarion's shirt and the other pressed against Astarion's cheek, making no effort to move until the halfling is on him like a ginger hurricane, whacking his forearm with the flat of a cane.
"No, no, no! If you care a whit about your partner, don't let him put his weight on his leg that way!"
Reginald motions with his hands, like rolling a ball of dough.
"Get him on his back, please! And a cushion under the sore leg! If you want to canoodle, do it two days from now!" ]
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Oh, I don't know. Your head looks rather perfect to me. [ Sickly sweet, the sort of tone he'd die if anyone other than Iorveth ever heard. ] Perfect here [ —a kiss to Iorveth's eyelid— ] and here [ —his scarred cheek— ] and, oh, most definitely here.
[ He's allowed a little life-affirming making out as a treat, so his next kiss is to Iorveth's (perfect!) mouth, a smile on his own lips. At least until he hears the sound of a doorknob turning, and—
"Oh!" Gale's voice. "I'm afraid I did warn you, Master Reginald..." ]
Gods, can't you see we're busy?
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Not a single moment of peace.
[ If it's not Damris in the other room, it's people who genuinely wish them well. Horrible!!! Their lives are so hard. Iorveth keeps his hands where they are, one still tucked under Astarion's shirt and the other pressed against Astarion's cheek, making no effort to move until the halfling is on him like a ginger hurricane, whacking his forearm with the flat of a cane.
"No, no, no! If you care a whit about your partner, don't let him put his weight on his leg that way!"
Reginald motions with his hands, like rolling a ball of dough.
"Get him on his back, please! And a cushion under the sore leg! If you want to canoodle, do it two days from now!" ]