[ He'd agreed to sharing a bed after assassinating Henselt because he'd thought Iorveth wanted to do something normal like fuck. He hadn't expected to actually just share a bed. A relief in many ways, but endlessly confusing and a little offensive, actually. (Very 'I don't want to fuck you, but why don't you want to fuck me?')
A moment of watching Iorveth slack-limbed and calm, before Astarion places his water-warmed hands on his shoulders to manhandle him around, his back to Astarion's front. He wets his hands, cupping water in his palms and pouring it over Iorveth's hair. ]
Well. I thought myself uninterested in physical pleasures, too, at any rate.
[ He hadn't exactly burned with lust for Iorveth, not to begin with, and the first sparks of desire had made him feel uncomfortable, ashamed. ]
I suppose I must have enjoyed pleasures of the flesh before, [ he muses, idly. Never after Cazador, but before that. Surely he had his way with whichever good-looking person caught his eye. His disinterest in delayed gratification seems an inborn personal trait. ] It does seem like me.
[ He reaches over to grab a (purple, of course) vial from the side of the pool, opening it and sniffing it before shrugging and emptying it out into his hand. It smells clean. Good enough to wash Iorveth's hair with, Astarion thinks as he runs his soapy fingers over that lovely, dark hair. ]
But I can't remember wanting anyone before you. [ Which is perhaps more due to the fogginess of his mortal memories than anything else, but he likes to think that he would remember anyone who meant anything. He never would have forgotten Iorveth. So: ] You're the only one worth remembering, regardless.
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A moment of watching Iorveth slack-limbed and calm, before Astarion places his water-warmed hands on his shoulders to manhandle him around, his back to Astarion's front. He wets his hands, cupping water in his palms and pouring it over Iorveth's hair. ]
Well. I thought myself uninterested in physical pleasures, too, at any rate.
[ He hadn't exactly burned with lust for Iorveth, not to begin with, and the first sparks of desire had made him feel uncomfortable, ashamed. ]
I suppose I must have enjoyed pleasures of the flesh before, [ he muses, idly. Never after Cazador, but before that. Surely he had his way with whichever good-looking person caught his eye. His disinterest in delayed gratification seems an inborn personal trait. ] It does seem like me.
[ He reaches over to grab a (purple, of course) vial from the side of the pool, opening it and sniffing it before shrugging and emptying it out into his hand. It smells clean. Good enough to wash Iorveth's hair with, Astarion thinks as he runs his soapy fingers over that lovely, dark hair. ]
But I can't remember wanting anyone before you. [ Which is perhaps more due to the fogginess of his mortal memories than anything else, but he likes to think that he would remember anyone who meant anything. He never would have forgotten Iorveth. So: ] You're the only one worth remembering, regardless.