[ A headache, Astarion had said. It's maybe a bit of that now, with the demand for Iorveth to prove himself, as if he hasn't been spending the entire night trying to make Astarion feel spoiled and safe and seen; how else, Iorveth would say if he wasn't aware of the shadow that looms heavy over Astarion's shoulder, the "hangups" (a quaint term for something so unspeakable) that make it a miracle, still, that Astarion will allow Iorveth even this much physical contact.

Astarion can have the control, if he wants it. To do anything that would make Astarion feel used and reduced would be abhorrent; no amount of physical relief would be worth that stain on his most important person's soul.

So, as Iorveth lifts some basic massage oil from a shelf and comes back with it, still dripping little puddles on the floor: ] You would have me beg you on my hands and knees, if you knew I would do it without protest.

[ A light, easy grouse. Not a pushover, even at his softest. Still, Iorveth adores his stupid, lovely vampire-- his single eye is warm when he addresses Astarion, obvious about looking at him and only him. ]

Beloved. [ Simply, as he sits on the spacious couch near the edge of the pool, shifting to face the other man in the water. ] I want you.

[ Oil drizzles onto his palm, which finds itself slicked against his semi; showing, not telling. Iorveth sighs, chest rising and falling with the effort, as he lolls his head against the back of the couch. ]