[ He shivers at the feeling of cool palms on his bath-warmed skin, but stays where he is without protest. Unconscionable, how much he likes Astarion― his foolish, contradictory, capricious cat. He likes Astarion's serrated cynicism as much as his wide-eyed naiveté, likes the deft way he handles a blade as much as the pliant way he presses against a steady pulse.
Because it is. Iorveth's pulse, that is. Slow and relaxed. Iorveth's heart beats, and it says I feel safe around you. There's no need to doubt Astarion's intentions behind "you're mine", because Astarion, as Iorveth has discovered, is the kind of person who mends his own clothes to make them last.
His foolish, contradictory, capricious, sweet cat. Iorveth soothes his hand up and down Astarion's bare spine, feeling fragments of the Infernal still carved on his skin; a part of him hopes that one day, Astarion will let him kiss all over his back, will feel comfortable enough to trust Iorveth with that gesture.
Maybe two centuries from now. In the meantime, he presses his lips to Astarion's temple, the jut of his cheekbone, over one closed eye. After everything he's been through the past few days, Astarion's entitled to a bit of spoiling: Iorveth keeps littering soft touches against whatever part of him he can reach, until he feels his own consciousness slip into a restful trance. Calm, tranquil. ]
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Because it is. Iorveth's pulse, that is. Slow and relaxed. Iorveth's heart beats, and it says I feel safe around you. There's no need to doubt Astarion's intentions behind "you're mine", because Astarion, as Iorveth has discovered, is the kind of person who mends his own clothes to make them last.
His foolish, contradictory, capricious, sweet cat. Iorveth soothes his hand up and down Astarion's bare spine, feeling fragments of the Infernal still carved on his skin; a part of him hopes that one day, Astarion will let him kiss all over his back, will feel comfortable enough to trust Iorveth with that gesture.
Maybe two centuries from now. In the meantime, he presses his lips to Astarion's temple, the jut of his cheekbone, over one closed eye. After everything he's been through the past few days, Astarion's entitled to a bit of spoiling: Iorveth keeps littering soft touches against whatever part of him he can reach, until he feels his own consciousness slip into a restful trance. Calm, tranquil. ]