nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ He admits no such thing, although it's close enough to the truth as to be fact. Not loin-tingling, no, but something with feeling. Something that suggests he wasn't the only one to replay the memory of them lying fully-clothed together on the bed, a respectful two inches apart, like it was risqué and salacious. Ah, but beggars can't be choosers, and he's surely a beggar. Any praise will have to satisfy him.

Astarion laughs softly under his breath when Iorveth approaches the mirror, although he makes no attempt to stop him. All the more reason to have kicked Figaro out; it wouldn't do to have him realize that his newest customer lacks a reflection. ]

Yes, [ comes quickly, greedily. Then: ] —Wait.

[ He smooths down his newly donned jacket and pats his hair, feeling for out of place strands. After a moment of arranging his hair just so, he allows the tadpole to reach out for its kin like it's been longing to do since their last connection. A surprise even to him, he realizes that he feels less afraid of Iorveth stumbling upon something he doesn't want him to see, less guarded. The walls of his mind remain up, as he imagines they always will, but perhaps lowered, less fortified. ]

All right. You can show me now.

[ A few adjustments, and Iorveth sets himself up to be Astarion's mirror when given permission to connect their tadpoles. The process is easier than he remembers: no whiplash indignation from Astarion when Iorveth pushes their awareness together, no immediate jockeying for more mental real estate. Unlike giving blood, Iorveth doubts he'll ever really acclimate to the feeling of the parasite hivemind.

Also, it's hard to control sensory output, especially when it's happening in real time. He manages to share the objective view of what he's seeing in front of him, which is Astarion in his new jacket, as pretty as he's expected to be in gilded finery; he also manages to share his subjective opinion on it, which translates as a slow-spreading warmth starting from his chest to the back of his throat, a gentle hike in temperature, an angry-affectionate spike of emotion. Feelings without sound, until it takes shape in the Aen Seidhe word for enchanting.

A long time ago, he'd said that he has no time for poetry. Oh well. He lets that word sit in his consciousness anyway, lets Astarion feel it instead of saying it out loud. The sentiment is shared in their mindmeld, like a featherlight blanket wrapped around their brains. Gentle, but intensely obvious.

He just stands there for a bit, thinking very loudly. Then: ]

You look fetching.

[ An understatement, by every metric. It's meant to be funny, but it's debatable how well the joke lands. ]

[ Despite the risk of mental disclosure, he likes being inside Iorveth's mind. Always has, from the very first. It's thrilling to even partially inhabit a body that hasn't betrayed him in every possible way, one that's electrifyingly alive. He tries his best to focus on the background sensation of blood rushing, a heart beating, lungs breathing— but it soon gives way to feelings in the foreground.

Astarion is, objectively, good-looking. He's known this since long before Iorveth ever showed him, one of the few memories left from his time as a mortal the impression that he was handsome enough to get away with things that the less aesthetically gifted couldn't. It's still strange to see the facts of it, though; his ears stick out of his curls in a way he didn't intend, and he lifts a hand to touch the tips self-consciously. He turns his head, then, tugging at his collar to reveal the two puncture marks at his throat.

It's so obvious. He can't believe he ever thought he wouldn't be found out when he was walking around sporting this.

A little flash of embarrassment at trying to hide his unmistakable vampirism cuts through the link, but it's quickly overshadowed by the pleasure of Iorveth's affection. The prickle of anger makes his mouth twitch in amusement. Iorveth must hate that he doesn't hate Astarion. A narcissistic pride swells up in him at making Iorveth like him against his will and all better judgment. ]

I do.

[ Conceited to the very end. His eyes flick to Iorveth's. So red. Just another way Cazador changed him forever. A finger plays with the curls at the nape of his neck, idly nervous, and he swallows. ]

Do you want to see how I see you?

[ It's an offer more exposing than stripping down naked. ]

[ Red eyes, bite mark, pale skin. It's amazing what many people will ignore when it comes in such a pretty package, but then again, they did all meet in broad daylight.

Iorveth keeps his eye on Astarion, allowing Astarion to make the most of their mental link despite the fact that it means he has to stare, and has to keep feeding subtle emotional pulses that boil down to you are so annoyingly beautiful, I'm fond of you, and the occasional I want to put my hands on your waist, which are retracted into the recesses of his mind as quickly as they try to resurface. It's important to Iorveth that Astarion sees, given two hundred years of the destruction of his self.

What Iorveth doesn't expect is the return offer. Astarion is usually so reticent to share, and now he's asking if Iorveth will be open to accepting what he perceives, which is...

...Well. He thinks his opinion loudly enough that Astarion should feel this, too. Surprise interlaced with that stillsame fondness, stronger this time. ]

―Yes. If you're offering. [ Another instance in which "no" would be cruel. Iorveth realigns his posture, folds his arms, and angles his head. ]

Obviously I'm offering, [ comes his clipped response, tetchy not out of any real anger but nerves. He catches himself after a moment and softens. ] —All right.

[ The thought of sharing his perception, his thoughts—god forbid, his feelings—is intimidating, to say the least, but there's a comfort to knowing that it was his idea. His choice. An offer that he can snatch away at a moment's notice, if he decides to.

Like a soldier lowering the gate to a fortress, the veil keeping Iorveth out drops slowly, hesitantly. It's purely visual at first, as if Astarion is purposefully suppressing any strong emotion that might transmit unwillingly. Iorveth in his new eyepatch, scar cutting into his top lip, hair untrimmed. High cheekbones, a sharp jaw. Soft lips. It doesn't require any effort to keep his eyes on Iorveth, even if he has to stare. He likes to look. ]

Very rugged, [ he says, mouth quirking up. There's a small feeling of fond warmth, then, subdued. Smothered, really, as if it's being forbidden to reach its true heights. ]

[ The process of sharing is just as revealing as the eventual offering of heavily-smothered feelings. Astarion is still reticent, and Iorveth doesn't mind that－ there's something endearing about that, too. Coveting something so much and holding it so tightly that coals become diamonds in that pressurized grip.

Iorveth doesn't think he's much to look at, still, but it's the act of being seen combined with that low-humming warmth that really, truly matters. It feels like something real and incontrovertible. ]

I'll need to cut my hair again, [ he says, because it's the thing that matters the least; Astarion can feel everything else that's actually relevant. He can also see what's really relevant, which is himself reflected in Iorveth's mind's eye, the details getting closer as Iorveth approaches. The way silver catches the pale-yellow light of the boutique lamps, the sculpted angles of his face, the elegant bridge of his nose.

The tadpole pulses in their heads, Iorveth's sending a clear signal that he wants to touch, to breach the gap. His vision crowds and blurs as he gets closer, his one eye reaching the limits of its focus, noses almost touching－

－and there's a sharp knock at the door again, hard dwarf knuckles against varnished wood. "Have you finished changing, gentlemen? Is everything in the right size? I found some very nice leather accessories that might interest you!"

The leather accessories can go to hell, actually. ]

[ Uncontrolled excitement floods the link before he can even think to suppress it, every dead cell in his body suddenly alive with wanting — and then it's over, Astarion instinctively severing their connection like a skittish animal alarmed by Figaro's return. It's one thing to let his guard down when they're alone, but quite another when they're not.

Grumbling in disappointment: ] You should have left him paralyzed.

[ "Gentlemen?" Figaro repeats.

Astarion takes a step away, turning the mirror away so as not to panic Figaro with his lack of reflection. It's an entirely self-serving act. Figaro's feelings couldn't matter to him less, but it would really be a hassle to kill him now, and he'd hate to get blood all over his new jacket. ]

Yes, gods, come in already. [ Under his breath, he adds, ] No sense of timing...

[ Iorveth has a feeling that this is going to happen with increasing frequency if Astarion continues to commit the heinous crime of making Iorveth like him more. A daunting thing to consider.

Figaro, not at all clueless (he simply cannot have another instance of customers getting frisky in his boutique, it happens far more often than people would assume), bustles inside with his armload of armbands and straps and bracers, laying them out on the room's big table with an infuriating lack of concern for his customers' irritation. He compliments Astarion's jacket ("a splendid choice, though I think we could change the color－ we've all had enough of red today"), and flits around him, obviously finding him a more interesting (and more lucrative) customer to shower attention on.

Figaro isn't wrong. Iorveth finally starts looking through his own selections, and predictably chooses the garments in his usual color palette: green. Nothing with a high collar, nothing too form-fitting. The Wavemother Collection was bad enough for his sanity.

Pulling off his ruined shirt, he slips into a long-sleeved cream-grey tunic and layers a moss-green vest on top of it. Ties it all inwards with a dark leather belt, which is－

－well, it's very Wood Elf. Practical. Iorveth shoos Figaro away from his attempts to sell Astarion the entire store, and this time, when Iorveth exiles him, Iorveth locks the door from the inside. ]

Privacy is hard-earned in these cities.

[ Astarion laughs dryly; it's truer than Iorveth thinks, with privacy a rare treasure to come by for him. His time in Baldur's Gate has been spent alone in spirit but in truth always around someone or another who didn't care: his marks, his master, his siblings. He'd preferred his scarce moments of solitude, but he's never wanted to be alone with someone else. Not until now. ]

Oh, you've no idea.

[ His eyes rove greedily over Iorveth's new clothes. They're nothing he'd pick out himself, lacking all the flair and pizzazz he gravitates toward, but they're distinctly Iorveth, and for that he's charmed. (Ugh, it's horrible. Iorveth has him liking boring clothes.) Taking a step closer, he reaches out to adjust Iorveth's vest. The fabric feels soft and smooth against his fingers, the garment obviously high-end even in its woodsiness. ]

You look fetching. [ His voice has a teasing lilt, but the compliment is genuine all the same. ] Green is your color, I think.

[ There are little alterations that'll have to be made to the clothes: the sleeves of the shirt are too short, the vest too long. Styled for a human body. Still, Astarion might've noticed that everything Iorveth wears is ill-fitting－ mostly because his collection of things have been ransacked from human soldiers he's killed up North－ and this is a marked improvement over that. ]

I'd thought you'd want to stuff me into brocaded doublets and gold-trimmed cloaks.

[ Putting one hand on Astarion's waist, just because the impulse wins out. Delayed gratification. The touch only lasts a moment before he retracts it, not out of any shyness but more out of self-restraint. (He still wants the discount on these clothes, which Figaro may or may not retract depending on circumstances.) ]

You're meant to be enjoying yourself, you understand.

[ A light drawl, accompanied by the slightest uptick of the unscarred side of his face. ]

Edited 2024-07-31 03:29 (UTC)

Hmm, [ he hums doubtfully. ] If this were all for my enjoyment, you'd be wearing less clothing.

[ Instead, he's touching Astarion over the clothes for a split second like some sort of repressed monk. Unwillingly, though, he finds the restraint endearing. He's spent so much time being pawed at and slobbered on that Iorveth's gentle, innocent touches are a breath of fresh air. Doesn't mean he isn't currently fantasizing about putting his tongue in Iorveth's mouth and his hands up that boring cream shirt, of course. He's not gentle or innocent, and he's certainly not restrained.

He leans against the table, then, the tip of his fang pressed against his lower lip in thought. A moment later, he grins impishly. ]

Brocade and gold would look rather enchanting.

[ He turns, rifling through the collection of clothing until he finds something suitably Astarion, and very much not Iorveth. While the shirt is still green, it's a deep emerald rather than the subdued mossy color of the vest Iorveth had chosen. The fabric is silky smooth as he rubs a thumb across its intricately-patterned surface, the buttons so shiny as to be glimmering.

As he holds it out for Iorveth to put on, he teases, ] Do take it off slowly. For my enjoyment.

[ He takes the proffered shirt and holds it up, laughing under his breath in dry disbelief (the same reaction he has to wearing less, though the suggestion makes his blood run warmer). ]

What an Aen Seidhe would wear if they were being married off.

[ Is his observation, before rolling his eye at the suggestion to strip. ] Ridiculous, [ he says, which is just his way of asserting self-awareness before he does something stupid, just so he can snap back if someone calls him out. A much gentler version of "I'll kill you if you insult me", because he does not, in fact, actually want to kill Astarion anymore. That's growth.

Setting the garment down, he undoes the clasps of his vest and peels it off; this isn't done slowly. The shirt, however, shrugs off more methodically: a slow stretch of arms and torso, a careful lift to pull delicate fabric up over broad shoulders, a purposeful dip and curl to make sure that the collar doesn't snag against the new eyepatch.

He drops the discarded shirt onto a basket, rolling both his tattooed and bare-skinned shoulder. He extends his arms in a silent well?, and allows a few beats for Astarion to consider before starting to pull Astarion's choice on. It's so soft that he's afraid it'd tear immediately if he tries to fight in it. ]

Help me with these buttons, [ he suggests, despite not needing the help in the least. ]

[ He leans back against the table again, legs crossed at the ankle, watching as Iorveth undresses. His pupils are large like a playful kitten's, his metaphorical tail practically swishing with mischievous focus. Once Iorveth has rid himself of his shirt, Astarion's eyes rake over the exposed skin with shameless abandon, trailing down his tattooed neck to his muscled shoulder and the plane of his stomach until he reaches Iorveth's waistband.

The sight alone makes him feel a little warm under his stuffy jacket collar, but it's made all the better by the knowledge that Iorveth found his demand ridiculous and did it anyway. The elf he met tendays ago would have denied him outright and probably insulted him in the process. It feels a bit like having a wild, vicious beast come at his call and curl up in his lap. Not tamed, exactly, but perhaps pacified. ]

I should make you say please.

[ Oh, but then he really wouldn't be able to control himself. He pushes himself away from the table and approaches Iorveth, fingers trailing over the ornamental gold buttons. The edges are finely scalloped, and he runs the pad of his thumb against them. ]

But I suppose I'll let it pass this time. It could be your last days alive, too.

[ Deftly, he fastens each button, unnecessarily smoothing out the glossy fabric with his palms when he's done as an obvious excuse to touch Iorveth. ]

Mm. Aren't you appetizing?

[ It's a good thing that their minds aren't linked― there would've been no way for Iorveth to hide the knife-jab jolt of heat that blooms when palms rake down his chest. Inside him, there are two wolves (foxes?) fighting for dominance: one says be angry at Astarion for making you want him, and the other says accept that you are going to want Astarion like this.

Iorveth has no idea which wolf (fox?) wins, but he decides to reach forward to grip Astarion's waist with both hands, wrinkling indulgently expensive fabric between callused fingers. The hold isn't tight or especially insistent, but importantly, it stays. ]

Do you want me to keep these ridiculous clothes on or not.

[ Being boorish about lust disagrees with Iorveth, but he isn't precious about being physical; just in case Astarion hasn't gotten the memo, Iorveth thinks that now is a prudent moment to let him know that, yes, there's interest. He wouldn't actually mind doing what Figaro fears most, which is using these high-quality garments as cushioning for Astarion's back if he decides to push him onto the nearest flat surface.

A sigh, and he mutters something in Aen Seidhe under his breath. His thumb travels under the hem of Astarion's shirt, drawing small circles on his skin. It's barely mid-morning, and Astarion is already inspiring him to make poor choices. Incredible. ]

[ You know I hate when you say things I can't understand, he should say but doesn't. He's too preoccupied with the feeling of Iorveth's thumb tracing circles on his bare skin. The touch is faint, nothing compared to the hands everywhere that he's used to, yet it's ten million times more thrilling for its slightness. His own hands slide down to fiddle absentmindedly with the silky hem of Iorveth's shirt, feeling the delicate fabric between his fingers.

His body couldn't be more in favor of the idea, every nerve ending standing at rapt attention. His mind is— nervous. Excited. Both at the same time. Iorveth has gone so long not seeing him this way, with no pressure, no expectations. What will he think of Astarion now? Will he be disgusted by how used up he is? At the same time, he can't recall a time before that someone touched him and he actually felt want; the feeling is a high better than any drug, better than blood.

A split second of hesitation, then, ] I can work around them, but I'd hate for them to get messy.

[ "I'd hate for them to get messy". Iorveth, even in his pleasant half-haze of wanting Astarion in a way he hasn't allowed himself to want in decades, finds that statement more endearing than not. It reminds him of Astarion offering to mend his torn shirt in a surprising display of being careful with his own things; he often has the ability to blindside Iorveth with how cavalier he is about certain things while being impossibly sweet about others.

Breathing through his nose to steady himself, he pulls Astarion towards him by the hold he has on his waist. Embroidered chest to embroidered chest. ]

We've two options. [ As if they're discussing strategy, instead of negotiating intimacy. Iorveth will be Iorveth. Still, the kiss he lands on Astarion's jaw is entirely impractical, and has everything to do with indulging in the feeling of cool, pale skin. ]

We stop fooling around and focus on the task at hand, [ is the first suggestion. Iorveth wouldn't mind it; despite everything, he's enjoying himself regardless of this detour. He would genuinely be fine with walking out of here with new clothes and nothing else. ] Or you lean against that table and I put my mouth on you.

[ A big swing in the other direction from option one. Slightly more elegant than "I'd like to blow you", but not by much. Mostly, he understands that sex is messy for Astarion, and starting with something that doesn't require Astarion to be pushed or pulled around seems, well. Nice. Not to mention that it won't make a mess if Iorveth goes about it the right way. ]

[ For a fraction of a moment, confusion and surprise flickers across his face. It's just that, well, Astarion had sort of imagined he would be doing all the work in this scenario. He certainly wouldn't mind; he's used to taking the lead, and there's never been a time that he can actually remember wanting someone's hands or mouth on him before. The lack of reciprocation wasn't what left him feeling unsatisfied at the end of his trysts.

The offer isn't unpleasant, though, in fact far from it. Paradoxically, it's made more pleasant by Iorveth's other offer — the one to do nothing at all. An escape plan made just for him, the opportunity to say 'no'. It is, embarrassingly, the most alluring thing Iorveth has ever done.

They're so close he can hear Iorveth's pulse, smell the ever-so-faint blood from the cut on his back, dried by now. He swallows, mustering up the boldness to slip a cool hand under the hem of Iorveth's fancy shirt, pressing his palm against the body heat. ]

'Not fooling around' and 'focusing on the task at hand' really doesn't sound like me.

[ It sounds like Iorveth, though, and there's nothing more satisfying than dragging Iorveth down into the metaphorical mud with him. ]

[ A literal tenday ago, there wouldn't have been an escalation. A request for Astarion to help with the buttons, maybe, but a hard pivot away from anything else. He would've kept his burgeoning interest to himself and examined it later, balanced it on the grand scale of want VS need, considered its prudence and wisdom. He might not even have been very nice about it to Astarion, either－ old habits die hard, and an inextricable, unmendable part of him will always remember what it really means to make bad decisions.

But it's been a tenday. He's stabbed and been stabbed, slept with and against and around Astarion. Sometimes he wants to tell Astarion to shut up, and sometimes he wants him so badly that it's all he can think about.

Like now. Acting like he's a hundred years younger than he is, caring more about common ground than caution. He makes a soft sound of contentment when Astarion touches him back (eagle-eyed for any nonverbal nos); for his trouble, Iorveth drips his head further and kisses down the smooth column of Astarion's throat, stopping only when he reaches the collar of his (as of yet unpurchased) shirt. ]

Then you'd best find your balance against that table.

[ Thumb hooked into the waistband of Astarion's pants, tugging just a fraction of an inch. ]

[ Anyone else, and this wouldn't be enough to stir him at all. Iorveth, though—stern, scathing Iorveth, who'd once said he'd sooner visit a brothel than bed Astarion—makes a flush creep up under the collar of his jacket, cold body temperature raised a degree. It's the thrill of knowing that every practical instinct in Iorveth must be telling him to deny Astarion, yet he'll allow Astarion to make him impractical.

He takes a couple steps back until the back of his legs hits wood. A soft thud rings out as he corrals them both back against the table, tugging Iorveth along with him, both hands pushed underneath his shirt now. He can feel Iorveth's lean musculature underneath his fingers, a product of fighting and surviving; he can't help but wonder where else Iorveth might allow him to touch, the very thought galvanizing. ]

I had no idea how naughty you are, [ he teases. It's in jest, mostly, 'naughty' not even in the top hundred words he'd use to describe Iorveth. Then again, he never would have pictured Iorveth tugging down his pants in a fancy boutique, either, so perhaps there's a need for a mental shift. ]

[ The temptation is to linger with Astarion's hand pressed to him, but it's hard to do that and also position himself between Astarion's legs. What a stupid dilemma; it's the tritest problem Iorveth has had in what feels like an eternity. ]

"Vampires are manipulative creatures", [ he echoes the monster hunter with a reedy laugh, facetious. ] You were bound to wear my patience thin sooner or later.

[ Sharp words delivered on a blunt blade: Iorveth is kissing Astarion by the time he finishes, sharing the heat of his mouth before he can trail it further down Astarion's body. There's a bit of feral joy in all of this, not unlike the strange thrill he feels whenever he feels fangs break skin, and it spurs him to surge closer, to fumble blindly with one hand to palm Astarion over his pants for a reaction.

Humming, his smile a little wicked: ] Hm. It's been ages since anyone's put me on my knees.

[ It's a lot. Iorveth's mouth against his, on his skin; Iorveth's palm against him, rubbing against the fabric of his trousers, fumbling like they're two adolescents and not elves with over three centuries between them. No one's touched him like this since before the Nautiloid, not even himself—especially not himself—and the effect is intense and immediate, his hips canting up into Iorveth's hand.

It's painfully obvious to everyone including himself that he likes it, and part of him wants to be able to let go, put himself in someone else's literal and metaphorical hands for a little while. Another part of him, though, is scared by the new and overwhelming feeling of desire, adrift in a sea of wanting. Most times, he'd have already checked out by now, mind far away as he let someone do whatever they wanted to him. It's the first time in a long time that he's allowed himself to be mentally present for something like this, and he finds himself grasping for every little bit of control he can snatch up for himself.

His hand wraps around Iorveth's wrist, grip traitorously weaker than he'd like it to be. Tone lilting playfully, he chides, ] Don't be impolite. Ask nicely before you touch.

Edited 2024-08-01 05:46 (UTC)

[ As someone who only ever does exactly what he chooses to, Iorveth wants the same to apply for Astarion. He considers the looseness of the grip around his wrist and the singsong demand for permission, deadly serious about potential misinterpretations of signs being sent; a breath and a heartbeat later, he huffs. Tendays ago, he might've said something along the lines of "you and your need for words", but now―

―he knows why Astarion might want them. So. ]

Astarion. [ His name, first. Like nocking an arrow, taking aim. ] I want to touch you.

Will you let me?

[ No room for error. Again, Iorveth will be Iorveth. He lays his intentions out plainly, with just the slightest edge of eager impatience; there's no touching until Astarion gives him the go-ahead, so he hovers with one hand still in Astarion's grip, still standing but ready to kneel, shoulders hunched and his breath warm. Exercising familiar restraint, but looking at Astarion with open, simmering desire. A strange contradiction. ]

[ Will you let me, Iorveth says, and a hot rush of arousal floods his body. If only he'd known all these years that that's all he needed to get going. As all of the blood in his head starts to flow southward, he wonders if it feels this scary and exciting for Iorveth, too. He entertains the idea of pushing inside Iorveth's mind and finding out firsthand, but there's little chance of muffling his own thoughts and feelings now, and that's a level of intimacy he's not prepared for.

A sharp, unexpected stab of fondness hits him, too, and he can't suppress the faint, crooked smile at how sweet Iorveth can be. He's so often harsh, uncompromising, infuriating— but then he softens like this, filling Astarion with a tingly, pleasant warmth. He thinks to praise him for it, but he's uncharacteristically tongue-tied, and all he can get out is an embarrassingly earnest ] Yes.

[ He slides a hand over the back of Iorveth's, pressing his palm gently against his body, a light way of asserting that he's still in charge even if he lets Iorveth put his hands on him. They're lovely hands, he thinks, warm and befitting a fighter, a pleasant contrast to his own. Cold, uncalloused like he's never done a day of work in his life, exactly like they were the night he was bitten. ]

[ No teasing, no posturing. Just a simple yes, and that hand over his. It shocks Iorveth into silence for a moment, the breadth of what he feels about that yes, but eventually he mirrors Astarion's smile. Small, but void of cynicism or bitterness. A testament to the fact that he feels safe with his affections, that he isn't afraid of losing anything by giving it.

(They might both die in a few days, but he can set that technicality aside.)

Slowly, Iorveth works on tracing Astarion's outline through his pants. The heel of his hand gently pressing inwards, applying soft pressure while his fingers grip and stroke up and down, enamored by the feel of him slowly hardening through touch. Pressed close, Astarion should be able to feel how he shivers in anticipation, how his eye flits down to where their hands meet and then back up, tacitly asking, again, for permission for the touch to be more direct. ]

You make me forget myself, [ he half-laughs, craning now to kiss up to the tapered end of Astarion's ear. No elaboration beyond that, as he swallows the sentiment of "I wasn't built to be soft, but I want to be for you." ] ―Are you impatient for my mouth, yet?

[ It would probably be uncouth to say that he already knows Iorveth has forgotten himself, because he's palming Astarion's cock in a boutique dressing room with a dwarf on the other side of the walls who could come knocking at any time. Besides, that might make him realize what a poor decision he's making and stop, and there's very little Astarion wants less than that right now. He only grins wider in silent response, keeping his private pleasure at Iorveth's uncharacteristically imprudent decisions to himself. ]

Yes, [ again. In truth, he's not sure if he's impatient or not. It's in his nature to push, to move things along at a fast clip out of restlessness or demandingness, but the vulnerability required here intimidates him. Even in his greatest estimations, he's sure Iorveth has no idea the sort of power he's being given.

He wouldn't abuse it even if he did. Astarion laughs to himself, softly. Iorveth is at times intolerable, but the one thing he isn't is heartless.

Astarion places a hand on Iorveth's shoulder, pushing gently. It's more for show than anything else, playing a role. There's a tongue-in-cheek note to his tone when he says, ] Go on, get on your knees.

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