[ For all that Astarion groused about Iorveth's wandering eye, he doesn't even attempt not to get an eyeful of Hyacinth's ample cleavage as his gaze wanders up her body. Rules for thee, not for me. He interlaces his fingers atop the table, staring at her with a quirked brow. ]
Aren't you a little snoop?
[ His tone is a little irritated, perhaps even a bit paranoid. Did she overhear anything that might suggest he's a vampire with an illithid parasite in his head? He hopes not. If there's any luck left for either of them, she only thinks he's unreasonably horny and nothing else.
Still, the suggestion is convenient. Timely. He'd certainly prefer not to walk the streets looking for a bathhouse when he'd rather see Iorveth naked now. He clears his throat, bumping Iorveth with his shoulder. ]
[ Hmm. Iorveth peels himself off of Astarion to fold his arms across his chest, assuming the defensive stance of a man who may or may not be questioning the wisdom of accepting convenient hospitality; it doesn't rattle Hyacinth, however, who only smiles and extends one perfect hand to accept Iorveth's coin (his wallet is now their shared wallet), using that same perfect hand to flick Iorveth under his chin again the way she'd done when they first came in.
"I promise you'll love the place, darlings. My sister runs it."
Hmm.
Iorveth tries to get up, sways (oof, gravity), and re-aligns himself with wood elf balance. ]
She'll be even less dressed than you are, I expect. [ A light jab, to which the woman responds with a twinkling laugh. "Oh, so you have been looking."
He wrinkles his nose. ] Come, [ he says, tugging on Astarion's arm. The place won't be difficult to find (it's literally next door, a similarly-decorated establishment with its front entrance covered in flowers), and he's eager to stop being heckled by this woman who seems more calm than she has any right being. ]
Lovely establishment, [ Astarion says as Iorveth drags him away. He's been in plenty of taverns, and this one makes the top five — although it admittedly may be more due to his company than the actual service. Still, he does hope to come back, so he offers Hyacinth a little wave as they leave.
"Enjoy yourselves!" she calls back, counting her money.
Out in the brisk evening air, it only takes a few steps to make it to the bathhouse. A complement to The Silken Sash, the sign out front boasts the name The Silken Soak. Ha. The smell of sweet bath oils emanates from the entrance, a door carved with winding floral patterns and flanked by stained glass windows portraying a beautiful man and woman bathing. ]
I don't know about you, but I'm willing to take the chance that they sacrifice us to their god.
Well, [ Iorveth drawls, flicking away a stray flower tickling his face on the way inside, ] of all the places to die, this one is fairly inoffensive.
[ Understatement. The Silken Soak glows, dimly lit by amber-tinted lanterns decorated with gold sashes; fabric drips from the ceiling and floors like honey, swaying hypnotically to the slow rhythm of a phantom breeze. The receptionist looks up from where she's seated behind a redwood desk, another beauty with raven-dark hair and a smile that spreads evenly across her lovely face.
"Welcome," she beckons as she stands up. Her uniform－ a dress styled to look like an elegant bathrobe－ drapes over the entirety of her shapely form, but skews dangerously on the translucent side. "You two are in luck－ there's barely anyone else here tonight. Everyone's off at some auction, I've heard."
Iorveth tries his best not to snort. ] You don't say.
[ Elegant decor, enticing aromas, scantily-clad women. It's the sort of place Astarion would only have dreamed of going, back when he was just a lowly spawn curled up in some dark, dank corner of Cazador's palace. He drinks it all in like blood, basking in the creature comforts. After so long going without, he'll never tire of nice things.
He breezes right past mention of the auction, careful not to place them at the scene of the crime. Instead, he points at the woman, mouth quirked up in amusement. ]
Let me guess. Chrysanthemum?
[ She giggles fetchingly. "Jessamine, actually." ]
Jessamine! A lovely name for a lovely flower such as yourself, [ he says, laying the flattery on thick. After all, they—well, Iorveth—just paid Hyacinth a rather hefty sum for all of that wine. He wouldn't mind a discount in his future. ]
[ Jessamine is lovely, and though she wears the evidence of her self-awareness in the form of a dress that leaves little to the imagination, she beams at Astarion's compliment regardless. Good for her. Her journey from behind the desk to in front of Astarion is less a walk than a slide, a cascade of long limbs and soft silks accompanied by the scent of fresh flowers.
Iorveth watches, and manages to avoid acting like an overprotective lover who raises his hackles whenever someone dares to exist in his beloved's vicinity. Instead of snapping at Jessamine like an untrained hound, he turns towards a rack of bath oils on display and focuses on tracing the labels with a careful index; he feels her attention flit towards him for a fraction of a second before it returns to Astarion, settling gently like sediment at the bottom of a still lake.
"Aren't you the sweetest thing," is a birdlike titter, as she attempts to tug Astarion's sleeve. "Flattery will get you everywhere. Especially with me."
Again, Iorveth tries not to sour. Obviously, the hot woman is going to flirt with the hot man who came to this establishment to get naked. He picks up a bottle of sandalwood oil, and tries not to snort under his breath. ]
[ He grins widely, and Jessamine doesn't even attempt modesty. Why should she? She knows she's beautiful. He can relate, and he doesn't even have a reflection. The two of them simper at each other for a moment while Iorveth inspects the bath oils, Jessamine flipping her hair in an affectedly nonchalant way that he instantly clocks. Like recognizes like. She, too, is accustomed to using her looks to her benefit.
"Dangerous?" she coos, pretending she doesn't know her own power. "I'm just a girl, not an owlbear." ]
Well, of course not. You're far more charming than an owlbear.
[ Jessamine preens a little, and it's the closest thing to looking in a mirror he's done in a long time. ]
Well, as much as I'd love spending all day making your lovely acquaintance, I suppose we should get down to business. My companion and I were hoping for a private and, ah, affordable experience.
[ "Affordable" earns Astarion a coy curl of Jessamine's perfect lips; nothing in this establishment was built on the back of "affordable". But― as shrewd as she's harmlessly vain― she taps a finger against her chin, considering, making a show of it.
"Well, there are some rooms for private use that I'm willing to let you use for less coin than usual. Just because you're so darling." A pause, followed by a sly little lilt. "Sadly, the Lover's Suite is less, ah, affordable, as you'd put it... Pity, since it's so lovely."
Ugh. An obvious sales tactic. Especially since Jessamine has taken it upon herself to tacitly address Iorveth with the last addendum, glancing back towards him as if she knows (correctly) that he's the one with the wallet. Beautiful people often come with utterly whipped patrons, after all.
Silence stretches for an awkward second, before Iorveth breaks it with a sigh. ]
The Lover's Suite, then. [ He gestures with one hand, blithe and dismissive. ] It's what he deserves.
[ Playing right into Jessamine's lovely hands. She claps, radiating triumph. ]
[ Astarion takes a little offense to the correct assumption that Iorveth is the one paying for everything; he might have brought a coin purse along if it didn't ruin his silhouette! Then again, that doesn't mean he would have ever actually paid for anything. If you love someone, their money is your money. What's Iorveth's is his! ]
Big spender, [ he says wryly. Honestly, it's Iorveth's fault if he wants to drop the contents of his wallet on the Lover's Suite. Astarion tried to haggle.
"Worth every coin," Jessamine assures them with a wink. "Emblematic of everything our Sune stands for— are you fellow Sunites?"
[ Having disposable income is crazy. Maybe Iorveth should be saving it for the many rainy days to come, but their auction theft is still fresh and he still has gold to burn; he can spoil Astarion as a treat, despite Astarion's efforts to preserve the contents of their now-shared wallet.
The price of being besotted. At least Jessamine seems pleased, despite the fact that the two weird elves in front of her are not, in fact, Sunites. She beckons them to follow her down a prettily-decorated hall (more drapery, more flowers) to the biggest room in the back, the door flanked on both sides by mostly-nude statues of Sune in various seductive poses.
"It's never too late to follow our Goddess' doctrines," Jessamine chirps as she lets the two into the suite. "She'd look so favorably on beautiful lovers like yourselves."
Iorveth steps inside, and finds―
―a room similar to the Nymph's Grotto at Sharess' Caress. Verdant greenery and perfumed flowers trail over warm-colored furniture that sit on soft rugs; bathrobes in different sizes and textures hanging on racks line one wall, and shelves full of salts and oils trail towards a large marble pool filled with steaming water. Long recliners sit near low tables and magically-lit braziers suffusing the entire room with amber light― everything is inviting, comfortable, luxurious.
Iorveth blinks, feeling like the sharpest thing in the room. ]
...Well? [ Nudging Astarion's shoulder with his own. ] Is it to your liking?
[ The opulence of it all is overwhelming. Wonderful, yes, but overwhelming. He'd become accustomed to the dark, chilly quarters of the last two centuries, and even after his escape, he'd had to sleep outside in the dirt or in a tent he barely knew how to pitch. The Elfsong was more luxury than he'd seen in centuries, but this is far beyond a shared room in a mid-grade tavern. Two voices battle it out inside his head: you don't deserve this, says the cruel one, but another pipes up to say oh, yes, you do. ]
It'll do, [ he says with a shrug, gravitating toward the hanging bathrobes and stroking their soft fabrics. One smooth and silky, another warm and fuzzy.
Once Jessamine has taken her leave, he turns back to Iorveth. ]
You know, I feel as if I've just hired a very expensive courtesan.
[ Well, he feels a little bit like the courtesan, in truth, but old habits die hard.
Teasing, he adds, ] 'The Wicked Wood Elf', perhaps.
[ The amount of coin Jessamine demands before she leaves is disgusting, but Iorveth pays her without second thought: one, because being drunk is great for making off-the-cuff decisions, and two, because he finds that he likes seeing Astarion framed in finery. Again, the price of being stupidly besotted. ]
An unhappy surprise for any patron that purchases him. [ Is his half-huffed reply to the suggestion that he could ever be a courtesan, looking and acting the way he does. Still, he plays along, approaching Astarion with a flourish of his hand. ]
I suppose milord would like to see how "wicked" his hired wood elf can be.
[ The answer is, in fact, Not Very. Iorveth, tipsy and affectionate, takes it upon himself to pull Astarion into a light hug instead of doing anything remotely sexy. ]
[ Astarion makes a noise of protest, scoffing and rolling his eyes and acting not unlike a child being assaulted with kisses from his grandmother — like this is all very embarrassing and ruining his image.
Still, he curls his fingers in the fabric of Iorveth's shirt so that he can't go anywhere, entirely contradictory to the idea that he doesn't like it. Being embraced still feels strange, and yes, a little embarrassing, but it feels good, too, albeit in a way he feels compelled to keep private. Like some dark, twisted fantasy that he's a complete degenerate for enjoying. ]
This isn't wicked at all, [ he chides. ] Honestly, I told you that you're going soft.
[ The vampire doth protest too much, but the wood elf is being embarrassing. Uncharacteristic in his softness, on-brand in his obstinacy. He holds Astarion and tucks his face into silver hair for a few lingering seconds, mulling over that accusation. Soft. ]
I've never had reason to be soft. [ Truly. He knows that Astarion knows it; their respective pasts are vastly different, but he thinks that Astarion is the only one of the bunch who comes close to understanding what it means to be forced to be sharp by circumstance. ] Until now.
[ Funny, how he'd struggled to remind himself to use a softer touch before. Arms still looped around Astarion's waist, Iorveth draws his shoulders back to give his partner a little more wiggle room. ]
I'll use it sparingly, if it annoys you so much. [ Airily, but with a hint of a laugh underneath. ]
[ Like a cat whose tail has just been stepped on, he bristles. ]
I didn't say that.
[ His ideal situation is that Iorveth continues drowning him in affection, and he continues acting as if he doesn't want to be hugged and kissed and made the little spoon. He has a reputation to uphold, not that Iorveth seems to care. He's a filthy hedonist, damn you, and all of this sap really tarnishes his image. ]
But, [ he says, twisting in Iorveth's arms so that he can undo the clasp of his cape. Ugh, it really is incredibly handsome. He looks like the fairytale knight of Astarion's dreams — again, he feels like a degenerate. ] After I'm through with you, 'soft' is the last thing I want you to be.
[ Everything about the delivery makes it obvious that this is a Line. ]
[ It's theater, but it's theater in a way that Iorveth can accept now. Astarion, acting the part of the annoyed cat who doesn't want to be held, and Iorveth, the terrible, awful, no-good elf who keeps trying to pick him up regardless. The sort of playacting that Iorveth can only tolerate now that he sees Astarion more clearly.
Fine, he thinks. The stupid (affectionate) cape flutters to the floor, released from its clasp; Iorveth, wine still heavy on his tongue, takes the tip of Astarion's ear between his teeth for an idle nibble. ]
We'll see. [ Running an index up Astarion's back, tracing his spine all the way to his nape. ] By the time I'm through with you, you may be too boneless and sweet to do anything but stay limp in my arms.
[ Waging war in a bathhouse suite. He uses his teeth to undo the gold cuff sitting neatly on Astarion's cartilage (with apologies to Dolores for the disrespect to her antique accessory), and lets it fall off alongside his cape. ]
[ The cuff clinks on the floor, and Astarion doesn't give a single thought to Dolores. This is probably the most excitement this cuff has ever seen; really, she should be thankful he took it on such an adventure. He rolls his eyes at Iorveth—the ego!—and gets to work on the buttons of his shirt. There aren't many to contend with, considering how low it cuts. ]
Don't you think highly of yourself?
[ Still theater. The only thing Iorveth has to do to make him feel boneless is hold his hand.
He finishes undoing the final button and pushes the soft fabric over Iorveth's shoulders. It's a bit sad to see it go, but he can tolerate it if it means more warm skin for him to brush up against. ]
You know, the last time we came to a bathhouse, you turned me down. [ And made him feel bad about himself in the process, albeit unintentionally. Iorveth, with the dignity not to have sex with whoever seemed advantageous to throw himself at. It had been difficult not to compare himself. ] How the mighty have fallen.
[ Nothing underneath the shirt, only his tight trousers and his new boots left. Iorveth shrugs the soft fabric off of his torso and tosses it onto the nearest stool, releasing Astarion from his loose embrace to do so. ]
Have I. [ Fallen, he means, as he moves to undo the decorative belt around his waist (he hardly needs it; the pants are form-fitting enough that he doesn't need anything to keep it up). ] I think it more a matter of being able to trust that you actually want me, now.
[ More confident, in other words, that Astarion currently possesses enough self-respect to refuse any encounters that he doesn't truly want. Iorveth grunts as he pushes his pants below his hips, revealing the tattoo on his thigh in increments. ]
You would have despised being touched by me, back then.
[ Astarion clasps his hands behind his back, making no attempt to look like he isn't ogling Iorveth's lean thighs. Mmm, he'd take a bite of that femoral artery. After a moment of silent leering, he glances back up at Iorveth's face. ]
—I wouldn't have despised it.
[ Maybe he would have. It's hard to say. Even then, he'd thought Iorveth appealing in an unconventional, stick-up-his-ass sort of way. Halfway between the elegance of an elf and the ruggedness of a freedom fighter. He's sure he would have felt disgusting and dirty afterward, but perhaps in the moment he could have found some enjoyment — physically, at least, if not emotionally. Still, it would have paled in comparison to the feeling of merely being looked at by Iorveth now. ]
...But I admittedly didn't feel quite the burning desire that I do now.
[ Iorveth is no Halsin: if Halsin sits stolid like the trunk of a tree, Iorveth extends outwards like its branches. Long-limbed, lithe, lean muscle. He squares more sturdily in his shoulders, accustomed to pulling and keeping bows tension-taut for improbable amounts of time; his tan is slightly paler than other wood elves, having been corralled into caves and hideaways for extended periods of time. Old, faded scars map his body in select areas, evidence of torture written permanently on his skin. Less gaunt than when he first jointed their motley crew (must be the pastries).
He steps out of his boots, with the pants quickly following. In only his underthings now, it's his turn to start peeling Astarion's layers off. Taking more care with Astarion's things, obviously. ]
You felt no desire, [ Iorveth shoots back, though it's with warmth. Not an accusation, at any rate. ] Sex may be sport, but I don't make it a habit to touch anyone who wouldn't get anything out of it.
[ A brief bite to the jut of Astarion's jaw. ] I like it when you want me, you know.
[ Iorveth always speaks as if he knows everything; it had rankled him back then when Iorveth had insisted that Astarion would hate him if he'd taken him up on his offer, and it still vexes a little bit now. Who is Iorveth to say that he felt no desire? Sure, he didn't, but it's really rather annoying to be called out on it. Leave it to Iorveth not to mince words.
Speaking of annoyance, Iorveth is taking too long with his clothes, so Astarion takes matters into his own hands—quite literally—by undoing the clasps of his jacket. The movements are quick, deft flourishes of his fingers, by feel alone. ]
Well, I want you now.
[ It's no fault of Iorveth's that he hadn't wanted him then. It had been ages since he'd felt desire at all, his libido so dormant it was practically covered in cobwebs. Iorveth is the first person he's actually wanted to be touched by in centuries.
Playful, he raises his eyebrows. ] Shall I show you how much?
[ The world thins down to hurried stripping, and Iorveth finds it all as wonderful as it is absurd. All this time and coin spent finding a perfect, private place, and they're sparing none of their attention to appreciate it.
Doesn't matter. Astarion is the most interesting thing in his immediate periphery, and Iorveth savors him with a slide of his hands over his hips, gripping him gently to tug him inwards. ]
I won't say that I'm not curious.
[ Brushing their foreheads together, nose to nose. Iorveth sighs, rubbing small circles around Astarion's hipbone over his trousers in open appreciation. ]
Show me, and I'll show you how much I want you in turn.
[ Iorveth is, as he'd said, soft. It's entirely contradictory to what he would've expected all those tendays ago when he'd propositioned Iorveth. He'd have expected something perfunctory, fast, without sentimentality. Like Iorveth had described it: sport. It's a shocking difference now, Iorveth's sweetness on full display in a way that he's still getting used to being the recipient of.
'Reciprocation' is still a foreign concept, albeit not an unpleasant one. In the past, he would have insisted on keeping the pleasure singularly to his partner, hesitant to be touched more than strictly necessary. There's still a sense of intimidation to it, the fear of being vulnerable with another person, but there's excitement, too. Iorveth is a risk worth taking.
His jacket remains on, hanging open, undressing forgotten about for the moment while his hands have more interesting things to do. He reaches down to press the heel of his palm over Iorveth's groin, feeling the warmth through the fabric of his smallclothes, which, honestly, should already be off by now. Something he'll have to remedy. ]
[ Right for the dick. Astarion has good aim, and Iorveth sigh-chuckles at the electric feeling of that sudden friction against his still-soft but increasingly interested length; ah, he breathes, and it's more a sound of observation than outright pleasure. ]
You idiot, [ is his eventual response. ] I want all of you.
[ To the tune of what kind of question is this, even though Iorveth kind of Gets It: Astarion is asking about preferences, probably. Iorveth has a few, and finding new ones every time he takes his clothes off in Astarion's general vicinity.
He hums. Thinks about it. Fingers close around Astarion's wrist, and lifts the touch from the quickly-mounting heat between his legs. ]
Your mouth. [ And, quickly, an addendum: ] I want to kiss you for a bit.
[ Very tame― or is it??? Iorveth has no idea what value Astarion ascribes to kissing (if any), but he's made his stance on it clear sometime during his wine-fueled diatribe about killing anyone who puts their mouth on Astarion's; sex is sport, but he doesn't fence tongues for sport.
(In hindsight, the oral fixation is probably part of why he'd been so gripped by jealousy when Astarion came back with someone else's blood on his lips. A kneejerk that's mine. How embarrassing.) ]
Take your clothes off. I want us in the tub for this.
[ Astarion raises one skeptical eyebrow, eyes wary like he can't quite believe that he had his hand on the groin of someone who's only requesting to kiss. ]
Aren't you sentimental?
[ Gods, but he is. Unfortunately, Astarion feels his chest warm with pleasure, an insuppressible grin tugging at his lips. Now that's embarrassing.
He usually can't stand being told what to do in any situation that involves taking his clothes off, but it's different with Iorveth. Less threatening, gentler. He takes a step back and shrugs off the sleeves of his jacket, fingers working the laces of his trousers open. Canting his head toward Iorveth's unfortunately-still-clothed pelvis: ]
You, too. Unless you're planning on having me undress you -- I'm not at all opposed.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Aren't you a little snoop?
[ His tone is a little irritated, perhaps even a bit paranoid. Did she overhear anything that might suggest he's a vampire with an illithid parasite in his head? He hopes not. If there's any luck left for either of them, she only thinks he's unreasonably horny and nothing else.
Still, the suggestion is convenient. Timely. He'd certainly prefer not to walk the streets looking for a bathhouse when he'd rather see Iorveth naked now. He clears his throat, bumping Iorveth with his shoulder. ]
Pay the woman, darling.
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"I promise you'll love the place, darlings. My sister runs it."
Hmm.
Iorveth tries to get up, sways (oof, gravity), and re-aligns himself with wood elf balance. ]
She'll be even less dressed than you are, I expect. [ A light jab, to which the woman responds with a twinkling laugh. "Oh, so you have been looking."
He wrinkles his nose. ] Come, [ he says, tugging on Astarion's arm. The place won't be difficult to find (it's literally next door, a similarly-decorated establishment with its front entrance covered in flowers), and he's eager to stop being heckled by this woman who seems more calm than she has any right being. ]
no subject
"Enjoy yourselves!" she calls back, counting her money.
Out in the brisk evening air, it only takes a few steps to make it to the bathhouse. A complement to The Silken Sash, the sign out front boasts the name The Silken Soak. Ha. The smell of sweet bath oils emanates from the entrance, a door carved with winding floral patterns and flanked by stained glass windows portraying a beautiful man and woman bathing. ]
I don't know about you, but I'm willing to take the chance that they sacrifice us to their god.
[ After all, it's so pretty and smells so good. ]
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[ Understatement. The Silken Soak glows, dimly lit by amber-tinted lanterns decorated with gold sashes; fabric drips from the ceiling and floors like honey, swaying hypnotically to the slow rhythm of a phantom breeze. The receptionist looks up from where she's seated behind a redwood desk, another beauty with raven-dark hair and a smile that spreads evenly across her lovely face.
"Welcome," she beckons as she stands up. Her uniform－ a dress styled to look like an elegant bathrobe－ drapes over the entirety of her shapely form, but skews dangerously on the translucent side. "You two are in luck－ there's barely anyone else here tonight. Everyone's off at some auction, I've heard."
Iorveth tries his best not to snort. ] You don't say.
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He breezes right past mention of the auction, careful not to place them at the scene of the crime. Instead, he points at the woman, mouth quirked up in amusement. ]
Let me guess. Chrysanthemum?
[ She giggles fetchingly. "Jessamine, actually." ]
Jessamine! A lovely name for a lovely flower such as yourself, [ he says, laying the flattery on thick. After all, they—well, Iorveth—just paid Hyacinth a rather hefty sum for all of that wine. He wouldn't mind a discount in his future. ]
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Iorveth watches, and manages to avoid acting like an overprotective lover who raises his hackles whenever someone dares to exist in his beloved's vicinity. Instead of snapping at Jessamine like an untrained hound, he turns towards a rack of bath oils on display and focuses on tracing the labels with a careful index; he feels her attention flit towards him for a fraction of a second before it returns to Astarion, settling gently like sediment at the bottom of a still lake.
"Aren't you the sweetest thing," is a birdlike titter, as she attempts to tug Astarion's sleeve. "Flattery will get you everywhere. Especially with me."
Again, Iorveth tries not to sour. Obviously, the hot woman is going to flirt with the hot man who came to this establishment to get naked. He picks up a bottle of sandalwood oil, and tries not to snort under his breath. ]
no subject
[ He grins widely, and Jessamine doesn't even attempt modesty. Why should she? She knows she's beautiful. He can relate, and he doesn't even have a reflection. The two of them simper at each other for a moment while Iorveth inspects the bath oils, Jessamine flipping her hair in an affectedly nonchalant way that he instantly clocks. Like recognizes like. She, too, is accustomed to using her looks to her benefit.
"Dangerous?" she coos, pretending she doesn't know her own power. "I'm just a girl, not an owlbear." ]
Well, of course not. You're far more charming than an owlbear.
[ Jessamine preens a little, and it's the closest thing to looking in a mirror he's done in a long time. ]
Well, as much as I'd love spending all day making your lovely acquaintance, I suppose we should get down to business. My companion and I were hoping for a private and, ah, affordable experience.
no subject
"Well, there are some rooms for private use that I'm willing to let you use for less coin than usual. Just because you're so darling." A pause, followed by a sly little lilt. "Sadly, the Lover's Suite is less, ah, affordable, as you'd put it... Pity, since it's so lovely."
Ugh. An obvious sales tactic. Especially since Jessamine has taken it upon herself to tacitly address Iorveth with the last addendum, glancing back towards him as if she knows (correctly) that he's the one with the wallet. Beautiful people often come with utterly whipped patrons, after all.
Silence stretches for an awkward second, before Iorveth breaks it with a sigh. ]
The Lover's Suite, then. [ He gestures with one hand, blithe and dismissive. ] It's what he deserves.
[ Playing right into Jessamine's lovely hands. She claps, radiating triumph. ]
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Big spender, [ he says wryly. Honestly, it's Iorveth's fault if he wants to drop the contents of his wallet on the Lover's Suite. Astarion tried to haggle.
"Worth every coin," Jessamine assures them with a wink. "Emblematic of everything our Sune stands for— are you fellow Sunites?"
Astarion snorts unattractively. ] Oh, gods, no.
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The price of being besotted. At least Jessamine seems pleased, despite the fact that the two weird elves in front of her are not, in fact, Sunites. She beckons them to follow her down a prettily-decorated hall (more drapery, more flowers) to the biggest room in the back, the door flanked on both sides by mostly-nude statues of Sune in various seductive poses.
"It's never too late to follow our Goddess' doctrines," Jessamine chirps as she lets the two into the suite. "She'd look so favorably on beautiful lovers like yourselves."
Iorveth steps inside, and finds―
―a room similar to the Nymph's Grotto at Sharess' Caress. Verdant greenery and perfumed flowers trail over warm-colored furniture that sit on soft rugs; bathrobes in different sizes and textures hanging on racks line one wall, and shelves full of salts and oils trail towards a large marble pool filled with steaming water. Long recliners sit near low tables and magically-lit braziers suffusing the entire room with amber light― everything is inviting, comfortable, luxurious.
Iorveth blinks, feeling like the sharpest thing in the room. ]
...Well? [ Nudging Astarion's shoulder with his own. ] Is it to your liking?
no subject
It'll do, [ he says with a shrug, gravitating toward the hanging bathrobes and stroking their soft fabrics. One smooth and silky, another warm and fuzzy.
Once Jessamine has taken her leave, he turns back to Iorveth. ]
You know, I feel as if I've just hired a very expensive courtesan.
[ Well, he feels a little bit like the courtesan, in truth, but old habits die hard.
Teasing, he adds, ] 'The Wicked Wood Elf', perhaps.
no subject
An unhappy surprise for any patron that purchases him. [ Is his half-huffed reply to the suggestion that he could ever be a courtesan, looking and acting the way he does. Still, he plays along, approaching Astarion with a flourish of his hand. ]
I suppose milord would like to see how "wicked" his hired wood elf can be.
[ The answer is, in fact, Not Very. Iorveth, tipsy and affectionate, takes it upon himself to pull Astarion into a light hug instead of doing anything remotely sexy. ]
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Still, he curls his fingers in the fabric of Iorveth's shirt so that he can't go anywhere, entirely contradictory to the idea that he doesn't like it. Being embraced still feels strange, and yes, a little embarrassing, but it feels good, too, albeit in a way he feels compelled to keep private. Like some dark, twisted fantasy that he's a complete degenerate for enjoying. ]
This isn't wicked at all, [ he chides. ] Honestly, I told you that you're going soft.
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I've never had reason to be soft. [ Truly. He knows that Astarion knows it; their respective pasts are vastly different, but he thinks that Astarion is the only one of the bunch who comes close to understanding what it means to be forced to be sharp by circumstance. ] Until now.
[ Funny, how he'd struggled to remind himself to use a softer touch before. Arms still looped around Astarion's waist, Iorveth draws his shoulders back to give his partner a little more wiggle room. ]
I'll use it sparingly, if it annoys you so much. [ Airily, but with a hint of a laugh underneath. ]
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I didn't say that.
[ His ideal situation is that Iorveth continues drowning him in affection, and he continues acting as if he doesn't want to be hugged and kissed and made the little spoon. He has a reputation to uphold, not that Iorveth seems to care. He's a filthy hedonist, damn you, and all of this sap really tarnishes his image. ]
But, [ he says, twisting in Iorveth's arms so that he can undo the clasp of his cape. Ugh, it really is incredibly handsome. He looks like the fairytale knight of Astarion's dreams — again, he feels like a degenerate. ] After I'm through with you, 'soft' is the last thing I want you to be.
[ Everything about the delivery makes it obvious that this is a Line. ]
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Fine, he thinks. The stupid (affectionate) cape flutters to the floor, released from its clasp; Iorveth, wine still heavy on his tongue, takes the tip of Astarion's ear between his teeth for an idle nibble. ]
We'll see. [ Running an index up Astarion's back, tracing his spine all the way to his nape. ] By the time I'm through with you, you may be too boneless and sweet to do anything but stay limp in my arms.
[ Waging war in a bathhouse suite. He uses his teeth to undo the gold cuff sitting neatly on Astarion's cartilage (with apologies to Dolores for the disrespect to her antique accessory), and lets it fall off alongside his cape. ]
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Don't you think highly of yourself?
[ Still theater. The only thing Iorveth has to do to make him feel boneless is hold his hand.
He finishes undoing the final button and pushes the soft fabric over Iorveth's shoulders. It's a bit sad to see it go, but he can tolerate it if it means more warm skin for him to brush up against. ]
You know, the last time we came to a bathhouse, you turned me down. [ And made him feel bad about himself in the process, albeit unintentionally. Iorveth, with the dignity not to have sex with whoever seemed advantageous to throw himself at. It had been difficult not to compare himself. ] How the mighty have fallen.
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Have I. [ Fallen, he means, as he moves to undo the decorative belt around his waist (he hardly needs it; the pants are form-fitting enough that he doesn't need anything to keep it up). ] I think it more a matter of being able to trust that you actually want me, now.
[ More confident, in other words, that Astarion currently possesses enough self-respect to refuse any encounters that he doesn't truly want. Iorveth grunts as he pushes his pants below his hips, revealing the tattoo on his thigh in increments. ]
You would have despised being touched by me, back then.
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—I wouldn't have despised it.
[ Maybe he would have. It's hard to say. Even then, he'd thought Iorveth appealing in an unconventional, stick-up-his-ass sort of way. Halfway between the elegance of an elf and the ruggedness of a freedom fighter. He's sure he would have felt disgusting and dirty afterward, but perhaps in the moment he could have found some enjoyment — physically, at least, if not emotionally. Still, it would have paled in comparison to the feeling of merely being looked at by Iorveth now. ]
...But I admittedly didn't feel quite the burning desire that I do now.
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He steps out of his boots, with the pants quickly following. In only his underthings now, it's his turn to start peeling Astarion's layers off. Taking more care with Astarion's things, obviously. ]
You felt no desire, [ Iorveth shoots back, though it's with warmth. Not an accusation, at any rate. ] Sex may be sport, but I don't make it a habit to touch anyone who wouldn't get anything out of it.
[ A brief bite to the jut of Astarion's jaw. ] I like it when you want me, you know.
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Speaking of annoyance, Iorveth is taking too long with his clothes, so Astarion takes matters into his own hands—quite literally—by undoing the clasps of his jacket. The movements are quick, deft flourishes of his fingers, by feel alone. ]
Well, I want you now.
[ It's no fault of Iorveth's that he hadn't wanted him then. It had been ages since he'd felt desire at all, his libido so dormant it was practically covered in cobwebs. Iorveth is the first person he's actually wanted to be touched by in centuries.
Playful, he raises his eyebrows. ] Shall I show you how much?
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Doesn't matter. Astarion is the most interesting thing in his immediate periphery, and Iorveth savors him with a slide of his hands over his hips, gripping him gently to tug him inwards. ]
I won't say that I'm not curious.
[ Brushing their foreheads together, nose to nose. Iorveth sighs, rubbing small circles around Astarion's hipbone over his trousers in open appreciation. ]
Show me, and I'll show you how much I want you in turn.
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'Reciprocation' is still a foreign concept, albeit not an unpleasant one. In the past, he would have insisted on keeping the pleasure singularly to his partner, hesitant to be touched more than strictly necessary. There's still a sense of intimidation to it, the fear of being vulnerable with another person, but there's excitement, too. Iorveth is a risk worth taking.
His jacket remains on, hanging open, undressing forgotten about for the moment while his hands have more interesting things to do. He reaches down to press the heel of his palm over Iorveth's groin, feeling the warmth through the fabric of his smallclothes, which, honestly, should already be off by now. Something he'll have to remedy. ]
What part of me do you want?
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You idiot, [ is his eventual response. ] I want all of you.
[ To the tune of what kind of question is this, even though Iorveth kind of Gets It: Astarion is asking about preferences, probably. Iorveth has a few, and finding new ones every time he takes his clothes off in Astarion's general vicinity.
He hums. Thinks about it. Fingers close around Astarion's wrist, and lifts the touch from the quickly-mounting heat between his legs. ]
Your mouth. [ And, quickly, an addendum: ] I want to kiss you for a bit.
[ Very tame― or is it??? Iorveth has no idea what value Astarion ascribes to kissing (if any), but he's made his stance on it clear sometime during his wine-fueled diatribe about killing anyone who puts their mouth on Astarion's; sex is sport, but he doesn't fence tongues for sport.
(In hindsight, the oral fixation is probably part of why he'd been so gripped by jealousy when Astarion came back with someone else's blood on his lips. A kneejerk that's mine. How embarrassing.) ]
Take your clothes off. I want us in the tub for this.
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Aren't you sentimental?
[ Gods, but he is. Unfortunately, Astarion feels his chest warm with pleasure, an insuppressible grin tugging at his lips. Now that's embarrassing.
He usually can't stand being told what to do in any situation that involves taking his clothes off, but it's different with Iorveth. Less threatening, gentler. He takes a step back and shrugs off the sleeves of his jacket, fingers working the laces of his trousers open. Canting his head toward Iorveth's unfortunately-still-clothed pelvis: ]
You, too. Unless you're planning on having me undress you -- I'm not at all opposed.
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