essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Astarion slips an arm around Iorveth, nails scratching lightly at his back like the claws of a happy kitten. Deliriously happy. For once, he doesn't even think about how 'the rest of his life' might only be until they face the Netherbrain. With Iorveth saying such sweet things to him, there's no room for pessimism. Gods, isn't that a shock.

Impulse urges him to blurt out something dramatic and romantic, but his appreciation for setting stops him. A shared room above the Elfsong is no place for romantic confessions. Instead: ]

A feat I managed because you helped me.

[ He's not sure he would have had the courage to do it, any of it, on his own. He would never have been able to set foot in that palace without Iorveth standing next to him.

A sigh. ] You're too tempting to bear. Rest, or you'll drive me mad.

[ Iorveth doesn't think himself to be humble, not in any sense of the word, but "you helped me" in Astarion's voice cuts close to feeling humbling. Astarion isn't Aen Seidhe, and he's not a cause to rally around, and he's not a problem that needs solving. Again, he simply Is.

Stupid. Iorveth likes him far too much, to the point where liking him is quickly becoming terribly impractical. But if Iorveth is going to be honest with himself, he doesn't really want to like Astarion less; he's great at doing things like strategizing his entire life around guerilla warfare for over a century, but famously terrible at doing normal things like, say, allocating a healthy amount of investment in things.

"Hey Iorveth, maybe you should like Astarion like a normal person" said no one (yet), and thus, Iorveth curls next to Astarion with all the regal audacity of a woodland creature staking its claim to its favorite, most beloved piece of forest. ]

I'm partial to driving you mad. [ He murmurs, but the fact of the matter is that he is, in fact, tired. Maybe letting Sebastian touch him drained him of energy. That was the worst part of the night, actually.

Nested into the sheets with his one eye shut, Iorveth lets his awareness drift as night gives way to morning. It's likely that he'll trance well into the afternoon, but he doesn't mind; the others can survive without them for another day. ]

[ It's a miracle that Lae'zel hasn't kicked them out of the group for not contributing to the team. Perhaps because she can sense that they've been on missions of their own; loafing around in the Elfsong would be one thing, but Lae'zel does respect hard work and determination. It's one of her worst qualities, honestly.

Mid-afternoon rolls around before Astarion even begins to stir from his deep, thoughtless trance. He's having more and more of those lately. Astarion isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he does have to admit that it feels strange not waking in a cold sweat from a trance focused entirely on Cazador.

It's worrying how much Iorveth's presence soothes his stormy mind. He likes to think he'd react to Iorveth leaving him with nobility and maturity, but in actuality, he might never recover if he has to give up his emotional support terrorist. He clutches Iorveth tighter, a very physical manifestation of his difficulty letting go. ]

You're warm, [ he purrs, pleased as always by the way Iorveth's body heats when he rests. It makes him warm, too, or at least as warm as he'll ever get. ]

[ Speaking of miracles, here are a few more to add to the list: a soft bed, a steady supply of food, and a companion to hold while trancing. He comes to, not to the clamor of disaster or warnings that humans are approaching their camp, but to the feeling of fingers in the back of his shirt and the pleasant hum of Astarion's voice near his skin.

Funny, he thinks. He'd never have been caught dead sleeping in before he started consorting with this rabble. He didn't even like being seen trancing by his comrades－ "Iorveth, do you even rest?", used to be a compliment, not an accusation.

Sleep-warm and pleasantly hazy, he murmurs: ] Must be all the blood in me. [ Thoughtless, he slides his palm under Astarion's shirt to massage up his back, fingers splayed for maximum coverage. Touching him just for the sake of touching him, making a low noise in the back of his throat to express his contentment. ]

Peckish? [ Giving up on forming complex sentences for now. He runs his hand down the length of Astarion's spine, then plays with the jut of his tailbone, tracing slow circles around it. ]

[ For as long as he can remember, Astarion has been repulsed by others' touch, even flinched away from Iorveth's innocent brushes. Now, he doesn't mind Iorveth's wandering hands at all. In fact, he likes them, craves Iorveth's attention in all ways. Iorveth makes his body feel like a friend instead of an enemy.

It's tempting to lean in where he is and bite that conveniently-placed neck of his, to indulge lazily in a way only the most privileged can. Astarion is more than peckish, his hunger for blood and hunger for Iorveth mixing into something even stronger, more potent. He can't get his mind off of the events of last night, though, so he runs a hand down Iorveth's arm, possessive. ]

Give me your arm.

[ His soft expression curls into a look of disgust as he says, ] I can't stand the memory of those wretched things pawing at you.

[ So he'd like to erase it and replace it with a new one. Is it wrong that he wants to lay claim to every part of Iorveth, down to the very vein? He doesn't care. ]

[ Astarion could forbid sex until the end of his days, as long as Iorveth is given permission to spend lazy mid-afternoons with him like this, unhurried and unburdened. He's mapping the curve of Astarion's waist when he's requested to relinquish his arm, and he complies with a certain measure of reluctance, if only because he was enjoying the process of tracing Astarion's outline.

Regarding the pawing of the previous night, Iorveth refrains from pointing out that it really didn't matter to the spawn that it was his arm, and that they would have reacted in the same way to any arm attached to a warm body; he knows that that's not the point, and the thought that Astarion could covet him in the way that he's expressing makes him feel slightly warmer under his collar. ]

Funny, [ he breathes, letting Astarion see the soft stretch of skin along his inner arm. ] I couldn't stand the feeling of being pawed at by someone who wasn't you.

[ Not a line― just a simple statement of fact. It really had repulsed him, feeling cool fingers that weren't Astarion's root around for his pulse. He shudders at the memory of it, and shakes his head to dispel the unwanted phantom sensation of an ice-cold palm against his elbow. ]

―Give me your teeth.

[ Stubborn, resistant Iorveth is pliant, offering his arm when requested, and it makes Astarion feel soft and gooey inside. It's the sort of feeling he'd been disdainful of not long ago, turning his nose up at ridiculous, infatuated fools. A smile spreads involuntarily across his face, and he pulls himself away only so that he can sit up and nuzzle against the crook of Iorveth's arm, his lips against the pulse point there. The thought of any of the others doing this sends a wave of immature jealousy through him, and he bites down into the tender flesh there.

Only for a moment, though. He bites down again on Iorveth's forearm, then again, leaving a trail of shallow bite marks down his arm. There's a possibility that Iorveth won't like it, seeing as he didn't exactly ask, but he can't help himself. He wants Iorveth to look like he's had a run-in with a stray Baldurian cat. Besides, he wants to bite every inch of Iorveth all the time, so he's really showing quite a lot of restraint.

Finally, Astarion pierces the thin skin of Iorveth's wrist, deeper than the rest, and swallows down the sweet blood that gushes from it. When he's done, he licks up the small drops of red beading atop the more superficial marks, then presses his still-bloody mouth to Iorveth's in a display of freak4freak behavior. ]

[ Not just the one bite, but several. This better not awaken something in me is quickly taken over by I can't believe I let him awaken this in me; the pinprick pain of broken skin followed by the strange adrenaline rush of being consumed is a dangerous combination, an intoxicating mess of sensation that leaves him, embarrassingly, a little hard by the time Astarion's bloodstained mouth finds his.

He plays it (as) cool (as he can). A slow, languid lick into Astarion's mouth, enjoying the intimacy more than the taste of copper. When he comes up for air, he strokes his fingers through silver hair, smoothing sleep-mussed curls. ]

...My cat has a biting problem.

[ Affectionately. He glances back and forth between the angry-red marks all along his forearm and Astarion's pretty mouth; his touch slides down from hair to cheek to lips, his thumb gently pressing inwards to trace the outline of one pointed fang. ]

At this rate, you will make me jealous every time you let someone else have your teeth.

[ "Have his teeth", Iorveth says, as if Astarion doesn't murder the person in the process of feeding from them. Details. It's just stupid, half-horny flirting― Astarion is entitled to bite anyone he likes. It's just that Iorveth will associate biting with said half-horny thoughts, now. ]

[ A biting problem that Iorveth seems to be in no rush to fix, so Astarion nips at his fingers affectionately. It feels good to get to be a vampire around him, no sanding down the points of his fangs or repressing his hunger. It's what Cazador made him, yes, but it's what he is, too. Mortal hungers are a hazy, distant memory; vampiric ones are very much in the present. ]

There's no one else I want to sink my teeth into.

[ Admittedly, the smell of blood—anyone's blood—does whet his appetite, but feeding is different and far better with Iorveth than it is with some random thug pulled off the street and drained to death. The blood he can take is less, but it's a headier drug because it's Iorveth giving it, having once declared that he would never let Astarion near his neck. Others are plain and flavorless sustenance, but Iorveth is caviar. ]

Apparently, you like it, too. [ If he sounds smug about this, it's because he's smug. When he touches the waistband of Iorveth's trousers, though, it's light, uncharacteristically undemanding. He knows what it's like to be strongarmed into intimacy. ] If you ask nicely, maybe I'll take care of that for you.

[ Somewhere in the distant recesses of his mind, he considers that he doesn't actually know if anyone is still around or if they've all cleared out for the day. In all of the blood-drunk lightheadedness, though, he's stopped prioritizing things like 'propriety' and 'not traumatizing one's roommates'. ]

[ A flick under Astarion's chin, at "no one else". As covetous as Astarion makes Iorveth feel, Iorveth wouldn't want Astarion to limit his options because of him; he wouldn't actually fuss if Astarion were hungry and bit a random person on the street (which is probably another problem in and of itself; who in the hells is going to actually tell Astarion to stop being impulsive???? It probably won't be Iorveth).

Gentle chiding out of the way, Iorveth shifts on the mattress when the matter of his semi is called into attention. Apparently, it's hard (ha) to be surreptitious about these things when they're pressed so close. ]

"Nicely" is a tall order. [ A light huff, even if he feels himself warming to the touch. At this point, Iorveth doesn't see a reason to be precious about wanting Astarion; there's no point. ] But I'll not ask if you don't feel like taking care of my wayward prick.

[ It's not like Astarion asked Iorveth to get a boner from being bitten. After two hundred years of having to get people off, Iorveth is fine if Astarion wants to take a break. He might be missing an eye, but Iorveth still has two hands. ]

[ Astarion's hand stops its wandering, hovering above Iorveth's waistband. ]

I just told you to ask, you fool, [ he says, irritated that Iorveth isn't playing along. He can't help feeling a little offended; usually, people are too eager to get his hands down their pants to question him. Then again, those people are also usually drunk, lonely, or undesirable.

He withdraws his hand, watching Iorveth's face warily. This is all still new to him, waters he's not yet sure how to navigate. Perhaps he came on too strong, or perhaps not strong enough. Maybe Iorveth thinks he's faking his desire, or maybe he doesn't feel desired at all. Maybe Iorveth is taking pity on him, because he thinks Astarion is in some way damaged — he tries not to linger on that thought for too long. ]

Did I— [ Do something wrong, he doesn't finish, because if anything is a mood-killer, that is. ] Do you think I don't want to?

[ Iorveth fills in that blank anyway: "did I do something wrong". The answer is no, and that's the worst part－ it's unpleasant to be held responsible for something that didn't even happen.

Another slow shift, before he reaches to move Astarion's touch back to his waist. He lets their hands rest there, his palm to the back of Astarion's hand, a clumsy sandwich. ]

I thought you might be tired of tending to someone else. [ Bluntly. Iorveth tips his head, his expression calm but watchful, his single green eye slightly sharper in focus but still arousal-warm.

He pauses there, and takes a moment to reassess. Then, he adds: ] Besides, I'm not accustomed to... [ A wave of his free hand, as if to say all this. ] ...Hm.

[ Gods, this is stupid. He regroups, trying not to sound like he's being snappish. ] You can imagine that it's slightly embarrassing to have you know that my cock reacts so readily to your teeth.

[ Again: it's not like Astarion asked Iorveth to get a boner from being bitten. Most people wouldn't get a boner from being bitten. Sounds like an Iorveth is a Freak Issue, really. ]

[ Astarion frowns, furrowing his brow. ]

I'm not tending to 'someone'. I'm tending to you.

[ Which is entirely different, at least from his perspective. He is tired of tending to other people, but Iorveth isn't other people. He consumes Astarion's every waking thought and many of his trance-thoughts, too.

He presses his head against the pillow, hair mussing up on that side, and watches Iorveth. Even though he's as straightforward and candid as it gets, Astarion still finds him difficult to understand at times. In his opinion, there's absolutely nothing embarrassing about being attracted to a good-looking vampire and his very sharp teeth. ]

I didn't mean to push. [ He still isn't sure if he did, but it seems prudent to withdraw. ] I suppose I wanted to make you feel the way you make me feel.

[ Happy. Now that's embarrassing. He slips his hand out from under Iorveth's to tangle their fingers instead. ]

But I know that sometimes the, ah— flesh is willing, but the spirit is... not.

[ Oh, now he's gone and done it. Iorveth sees small, fuzzy imaginary ears droop, and it makes him frown as much as he'll allow with his fingers tangled in Astarion's. ]

The problem is, [ he says, enunciating each word with purposeful clarity, ] that the spirit and body are too willing. If you rewarded my cock every time it so much as twitched around you, we'd get nothing done.

[ Which, yeah, sounds pretty precious, all things considered. A frustrated half-growl, and Iorveth reaches down to touch himself over the obstruction of his trousers. Despite everything, the semi has persisted (ridiculous). ]

Gods, [ he hisses. ] If you knew half the things I've done to you in my head.

[ Iorveth doesn't finish that sentence; his tadpole wriggles in his skull, almost as if to laugh at his predicament. ]

[ Again, Astarion finds Iorveth utterly incomprehensible; he sees no problem with getting nothing done other than rewarding Iorveth's cock. Most days now, he wakes with very little desire to do anything other than put his hands and mouth all over Iorveth's body, and perhaps a little light reading in between.

It's a bit alarming, actually, how badly he wants to be close to Iorveth. He's still unaccustomed to tolerating another person's presence, much less wanting to be around them all the time, to hold their hand, to slip his hands underneath their shirt. He's decided that these novel feelings are frightening, yes, but also exciting. As much as he wants to run away from them, he wants to luxuriate in them more.

His hand pulls back. If Iorveth doesn't want to ask him to tend to him, as he'd put it, he won't. Besides, on a more selfish note, there's something terribly stirring about watching restrained Iorveth touch himself through his trousers. ]

Feel free to tell me in excruciating detail.

[ Iorveth's brow arches as he notes that Astarion is settling in for the show, but he doesn't protest. Fine. His own fault for trying to drive home a point that Astarion already knew to be true, that Iorveth isn't interested in him just because he inspires Iorveth's dick to misbehave at inopportune times.

A low breath through his nose, and he slides one hand down the front of his trousers. With the first hurdle of admitting to his arousal out of the way, he can be unshy about everything else: the slow mapping of his own now-full erection, the instinct to crane forward and press his face into the space where Astarion's neck meets his shoulder.

Crazy. Every day he spends in Astarion's company, Iorveth thinks he goes a little more insane. ]

Mm. [ Not actually a response, as he lets the tight control he keeps over himself slack just enough to let his mind wander to thoughts of pale skin and shapely limbs. Probably rude to be fantasizing about someone when they're Right There, but that seems to be the point of this exercise. ] ―Words. They wouldn't suffice.

[ He'd want to actually do the unmentionable things that have happened in his head, and there's still the chance that Gale is frozen on his bed with his half-read book, trying to become invisible as two elves start getting up to no good across the room. Iorveth laughs to himself at the thought of it, even as he starts touching himself with clearer intent. Fabric rustles, and his skin heats; his next exhale is shaky, and his eye shutters. Imagining, clearly. ]

Edited 2024-10-08 06:07 (UTC)

[ Astarion's red eyes pin on Iorveth, trailing indulgently over the sharp structure of his face, the slight pink of arousal flushing over his tattoo, the chain still around his neck with the stolen ring attached. When they get down to his hand, long fingers tracing over the outline of his so-called wayward prick, Astarion shifts in place, desire tingling on his skin. It's difficult not to reach out and wrest control from him, to do what he'd planned to start with and make Iorveth come undone with his nimble hands, but watching Iorveth pleasure himself shoots a thrill up his spine that he's not ready to give up just yet.

Words would certainly suffice for him, and in fact just imagining Iorveth's voice saying all sorts of dirty things—mmm, maybe in Aen Seidhe—gives him goosebumps, but that can wait for later if it must. He lets the tadpole search for its kin, reaching out psionically across the tiny distance between them. ]

Show me, then.

[ His tone is demanding, almost performatively so, but the way his parasite nudges at Iorveth's is gentle, light. Unlike all the times previous that he'd barged right in through the door of Iorveth's mind, this time he knocks. If Iorveth wants to keep him out, he ensures that he can. A rare moment of restraint, considering there's nothing he wants more right now than to make himself at home in Iorveth's mind while he palms himself over his pants.

It's probably a very unseemly and ill-advised use of the parasites. He can't bring himself to care. ]

[ 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. ]

[ This is definitely not something they should be doing when Gale could be sitting right outside, casting Deafness on himself. The arousal coursing through him makes it difficult to care. He isn't sure whether it belongs to himself or Iorveth—or if perhaps it's a mingling of the two, so intertwined as to become indistinguishable—but it hardly matters.

He smiles, pleased at Iorveth offering up such vulnerable, private thoughts. The strength of that burn makes him feel hot in a pleasant way, like lying in the sun on a summer day. In the image he sends back, it's Iorveth who's pinned to the mattress, shirt off but ring still dangling from its chain. Astarion imagines biting him, marking the tanned expanse of his skin with blooming red impressions of his teeth on his neck, his chest, his hip.

His fingers twitch, yearning to touch, but when he reaches out it's only the edge of Iorveth's waistband that he catches between his thumb and forefinger. ]

Take these off, darling. [ A command softened by the pet name. Demanding but affectionate. He knows how it feels to be ordered around without fondness. ] I want to see you.

[ Just being near Astarion sets his nerves alight at this point: Iorveth isn't sure if he wants to ruin this exercise by asking to be touched, actually, or if he wants Astarion to continue to just watch so that he understands that Iorveth can get off merely to the thought of him, that there's nothing wrong with him.

Either way, he has no problem with shedding his trousers when prompted. His eye opens again, fixing its arousal-dull focus on the actual Astarion in front of him. Imagination doesn't compare to the real thing; being seen by those round, red eyes does something to Iorveth that he has no idea how to articulate. His cock is aching by the time he shimmies out of his pants, flushed and freed, almost touching his stomach with how hard it is. Obscene, probably, framed by his tattoos, an indelicate thing nestled near delicate ink. ]

Astarion, [ is as close to a whine as Iorveth will allow of himself, a soft sigh in his partner's name. Nudging his nose against Astarion's, tacitly seeking permission for a kiss (is that against the terms of this ridiculous game? whatever). Pressed so close, it might be difficult for Astarion to see how Iorveth thumbs against the tip of himself and smears his skin with pre, giving him more slide when he touches himself properly again; then again, maybe Astarion can hear it. Not just the slick sound of Iorveth's palm, but the soft huff of his breathing in time to the movement of his hand. ]

[ Astarion could get used to the sound of Iorveth sighing his name, his breath hot against Astarion's skin. The sound of Iorveth's palm slipping against his erection makes Astarion's every hair stand on end, dusty red creeping up his neck like he's the one being touched. Iorveth nears him, nose brushing Astarion's in a way that's far too adorable for a man who has one hand on his cock, and Astarion practically vibrates with how badly he wants to be kissed.

Despite that, he turns his head, denying Iorveth's request. He isn't sure if he's ever denied anyone anything in bed. There's something very exciting about being able to withhold, to know that his affection is his to give and that it won't be forcibly taken from him. ]

I thought you said your wayward prick doesn't need me.

[ An uncharitable interpretation of what he actually said. ]

You wanted to take care of it on your own.

[ Oh, that's diabolical. Of all the things to be denied, being denied a kiss is somehow the worst of it; Iorveth frowns despite himself, pulling back with visible difficulty to bury his face in his pillow. ]

Of all the things to put in my mouth, [ he groans, ] it had to be those words.

[ But, well. Iorveth preached the power of no, so he'll have to live with it. He still thinks it's diabolical, though－ he can live without sex, but Astarion might actually see Iorveth squirm if he withholds kisses for an extended period of time. The immovable, impenetrable fortress that is Iorveth of the Northern Forests, getting grumpier and grumpier because one evil cat won't let him kiss.

Torture. Iorveth keeps moving his hand, feeling close but strangely dissatisfied. He shudders, tenses, and sighs again, his palm a slick mess, sweat beading on his temple. Almost, he murmurs, but his idle fancies fail him; all he can think about is how Astarion is Right There, but just out of reach. ]

[ He really must be evil, because he finds that he very much enjoys watching Iorveth's frustration. Suffering and still not touching Astarion without his leave. He feels powerful, which isn't a feeling he's ever associated with sex. The sound of Iorveth's uneven breaths is intoxicating, as is the way he can still smell the coppery tang of blood in the air after feeding. ]

I'm not a monster.

[ Demonstrably untrue, but he decides not to call attention to the fact that he drank Iorveth's blood not long ago. ]

I said I'd help if you asked nicely.

[ And Iorveth didn't; he put Astarion in the awkward position of having to beg or withdraw, neither of them an enticing prospect. He curls his hands against his own chest, watching Iorveth with the keen eyes of a creature on the prowl. Bright, shiny, focused. ]

Will you ask nicely?

[ It is infuriating to be on the wrong side of a self-made situation. His setup was all wrong, his execution was worse, and now Iorveth is dealing with the fallout.

The worst part? He wants Astarion far more than he wants to refuse out of principle. "Shove it up your ass" would be his default response to "ask nicely", but not towards Astarion. Especially not after he almost made Astarion say "did I do something wrong".

So. His first attempt: ] Just touch me already.

[ Not very nice. Maybe more than a little frustrated. Still, it's not the uncharitable command that Iorveth might have leveled against a one-night stand, all teeth and no affection; his wanting sings louder than any other emotion, tempering words that might've sounded much harsher.

Eventually, he lifts his head from his pillow and fixes his glazed focus back on Astarion for attempt number two. He knows he must look ridiculous, abominable: scarred and mangled and sweat-mussed, already gnarled face made uglier by desperation. ]

Astarion, [ he tries again, voice low and hoarse. ] I need your hands on me.

[ That first attempt is an utter failure, as evidenced by the chiding tilt of his head, the offended quirk of his brow. How rude, the expression says. The next is a vast improvement, his eye lust-hazy and skin shiny with sweat, face full of wanting in a way not even the most stone-hearted person could deny. Astarion may not want to feel objectified, but he does want to feel desired. No, that's not it, not exactly — he wants to feel important. Needed. Like his presence here matters. ]

That wasn't so hard, [ he croons, pleased, before batting Iorveth's hand away from his erection. If it's Astarion's hands he wants, it's Astarion's hands he'll get, and he certainly isn't going to get himself off like he doesn't have a perfectly good vampire right here. He lets out a relieved sigh as his fingers wrap around Iorveth's cock, having suffered from his own game. Iorveth is slick with arousal, and Astarion wastes no time starting up a steady rhythm, the smoothness of his palm contrasted by the roughness of his strokes. ]

I've been dying to get my hands on you.

[ Pretty much since the last time he had his hands on Iorveth. He's had passing fancies, strangers on the street who were good-looking and safe to want because he'd never have them, but he's never desired someone this much. The depth of it is alarming. He could fall in, he thinks, if he's not careful. (He's never been careful.) ]

You really have no idea how badly I want you.

[ He leans forward, trapping his pumping hand between their bodies, and presses a kiss to Iorveth's neglected mouth. It's soft in comparison to his stroking, almost sweet. ]

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