[ 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.
[ It's a balancing act, of sorts: taking initiative to give Astarion affection, while making sure that Astarion still maintains control if and when he needs it. Iorveth is learning not to temper his wants out of some misguided sense of unasked-for consideration, but he still wants Astarion to enjoy himself.
So. His smallclothes stay on for his finicky vampire to rip off later. Iorveth watches Astarion divest himself of his trousers, clever fingers unwrapping himself with graceful ease; he shouldn't gawk, but his gaze remains heated and focused on all that pale skin anyway.
Once Astarion is properly naked: ] ―Come. [ Offering his hand to take, so that he can lead them both to the obscenely spacious pool cradling all that invitingly warm water. ("Blessed by Sune," Jessamine had promised before she took all of Iorveth's coin. "It'll always stay warm, and clean itself after use!") ]
[ He really can't help himself. Astarion approaches, although he hooks his thumbs into Iorveth's underwear and tugs them down for Iorveth to step out of before doing anything else. Astarion loves and trusts Iorveth more than anyone else in the world, but that still doesn't mean he's all right with being the only one fully undressed.
Once he's satisfied with their respective degrees of nakedness, he sits on the edge of the pool, dangling his feet into the warm water to test it. The tips of his toes are slightly ruddy, characteristic of the undead. He sinks the rest of his body in a moment later, turning back to Iorveth with the most charming grin he can muster. ]
Well, come and kiss me if you want to so badly.
[ It's not like he wants to be kissed or anything! ]
[ This bath better be the best bath Iorveth's ever dipped into, for all the coin he'd spent on it. That said, the Sune-blessed water is... well, it's just water, really, and Iorveth tosses a few salts into it ("Love Spell", the label reads, but it's really just lavender) before sinking down next to Astarion with a content sigh. His idea of the ideal form of self-care: shedding armor and weapons to float, peacefully, in warm, clean water.
So. He floats. Limbs relaxed, drifting smoothly next to Astarion in the water until their knees are touching. He really doesn't need to be told twice, but he does hesitate for a moment, just to mull over whether or not he wants to keep his eyepatch on before he starts.
The eyepatch goes. Face finally bare, Iorveth leans in to press their mouths together before Astarion can get a good look at the divot where his eye used to be; tame little pecks at first, testing their alignment, until he can shutter his remaining eye closed and kiss Astarion more properly without needing to look. Palm to that perfect face, a thumb smoothing over his cheek.
After a small eternity spent prying Astarion's lips open and licking into his mouth: ] This, [ Iorveth murmurs, teeth to a soft, kiss-reddened bottom lip, ] this is mine.
[ He actually might go crazy if Astarion ever wanted to kiss someone else, which is probably not a wise thing to admit in express terms. ]
[ After so long in servitude, he should feel absolutely disgusted by the prospect of anything about him belonging to someone else. There's little he wants more than his freedom, and he should fight back against Iorveth's assertion, insist that he can do whatever the hell he wants with whoever the hell he wants. There's a little part of him, though, that likes the feeling of being coveted. How long did he feel like a worthless, replaceable rat, of no value to anyone? If any part of him belongs to Iorveth, he's glad to be cherished. ]
Ridiculous man.
[ He presses another kiss to Iorveth's mouth, as chaste as it gets when both parties are naked. When he pulls back, it's with a little bit of uncertainty on his face, like he isn't sure how Iorveth will respond. ]
[ Ridiculous, Astarion calls him, while saying something utterly ridiculous. Iorveth leans forward when Astarion pulls back, unconsciously chasing his mouth even at the expense of his pride; "love-drunk", he'd called himself. It's still apt.
A breath, in and out. Water slips between them as Iorveth floats backwards for a better look at that slight twitch in Astarion's expression. ]
Stomach what?
[ Tracing that kiss-bitten lower lip with his thumb this time, admiring the little flash of fang. ]
[ All of him, none of him. He simultaneously believes that there's no part of him too ugly for Iorveth to accept and that there's no way Iorveth won't one day grow tired of his complications. He shrugs, glancing down at his pale feet in the water. ]
I don't know.
[ He has a checkered past filled with all sorts of awful things, he's selfish and mean-spirited and not nearly as sweet as Iorveth claims that he is, and he isn't even alive by most definitions of the word. Even one of those things should be a dealbreaker for a sane person. The only reason they aren't for Iorveth is because, well, he isn't sane. ]
And you believe you would be easier to stomach if you were less of a headache.
[ Logically, yes. But Astarion is correct in assuming that Iorveth is not a sane person, and thus, Iorveth finds this claim to be absurd; he says as much, with a tilt of his head and a hike of his brow. ]
Laughable. I don't wish you to be less of a headache than you are.
[ Raking wet fingers through silver hair, enjoying the way the curls start to lay flat in messy clumps. Still the most beautiful man Iorveth has ever seen, even with limp bangs. ]
You could stand to be more selfish, in my opinion.
[ Not 'you aren't a headache'. More 'you are a headache, and I like you anyway'. It's so perfectly Iorveth that he can't help but smile -- faintly, just the tips of his fangs peeking out. ]
Ridiculous man, [ he repeats. If he were any more selfish, he would never consider another person. If he were any more selfish, he wouldn't be a headache, he'd be a full-on migraine. Astarion is delusional in many ways, but even he knows this about himself. It is objectively ridiculous for anyone to say that he should be more selfish, but that's Iorveth: ridiculous. ]
I'm plenty selfish with you, you know. I want you all to myself.
[ An affectionate roll of his eye, and Iorveth leans in for another kiss to that tempting mouth and that pretty little smile. Brief, but proper. ]
You have me, [ he sighs, as they brush noses. ] Others may know the Woodland Fox, but you know "Iorveth".
[ For whatever that's worth. He thinks that Astarion is the ridiculous one, that there are so little merits to liking a wanted man with a mangled, ugly face on a doomed mission, but he won't say so out loud; every time he does, Astarion seems to hate it. That little thorn that Iorveth hasn't extricated entirely yet: I don't deserve you.
Another sigh, and thumbs over Astarion's pretty brow. Stupid, how he can't seem to stop touching him. ]
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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?
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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.
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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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You can do me the honor.
[ It's a balancing act, of sorts: taking initiative to give Astarion affection, while making sure that Astarion still maintains control if and when he needs it. Iorveth is learning not to temper his wants out of some misguided sense of unasked-for consideration, but he still wants Astarion to enjoy himself.
So. His smallclothes stay on for his finicky vampire to rip off later. Iorveth watches Astarion divest himself of his trousers, clever fingers unwrapping himself with graceful ease; he shouldn't gawk, but his gaze remains heated and focused on all that pale skin anyway.
Once Astarion is properly naked: ] ―Come. [ Offering his hand to take, so that he can lead them both to the obscenely spacious pool cradling all that invitingly warm water. ("Blessed by Sune," Jessamine had promised before she took all of Iorveth's coin. "It'll always stay warm, and clean itself after use!") ]
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[ He really can't help himself. Astarion approaches, although he hooks his thumbs into Iorveth's underwear and tugs them down for Iorveth to step out of before doing anything else. Astarion loves and trusts Iorveth more than anyone else in the world, but that still doesn't mean he's all right with being the only one fully undressed.
Once he's satisfied with their respective degrees of nakedness, he sits on the edge of the pool, dangling his feet into the warm water to test it. The tips of his toes are slightly ruddy, characteristic of the undead. He sinks the rest of his body in a moment later, turning back to Iorveth with the most charming grin he can muster. ]
Well, come and kiss me if you want to so badly.
[ It's not like he wants to be kissed or anything! ]
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So. He floats. Limbs relaxed, drifting smoothly next to Astarion in the water until their knees are touching. He really doesn't need to be told twice, but he does hesitate for a moment, just to mull over whether or not he wants to keep his eyepatch on before he starts.
The eyepatch goes. Face finally bare, Iorveth leans in to press their mouths together before Astarion can get a good look at the divot where his eye used to be; tame little pecks at first, testing their alignment, until he can shutter his remaining eye closed and kiss Astarion more properly without needing to look. Palm to that perfect face, a thumb smoothing over his cheek.
After a small eternity spent prying Astarion's lips open and licking into his mouth: ] This, [ Iorveth murmurs, teeth to a soft, kiss-reddened bottom lip, ] this is mine.
[ He actually might go crazy if Astarion ever wanted to kiss someone else, which is probably not a wise thing to admit in express terms. ]
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Ridiculous man.
[ He presses another kiss to Iorveth's mouth, as chaste as it gets when both parties are naked. When he pulls back, it's with a little bit of uncertainty on his face, like he isn't sure how Iorveth will respond. ]
It's all yours, if you can stomach it.
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A breath, in and out. Water slips between them as Iorveth floats backwards for a better look at that slight twitch in Astarion's expression. ]
Stomach what?
[ Tracing that kiss-bitten lower lip with his thumb this time, admiring the little flash of fang. ]
What part of you do you think I wouldn't stomach?
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I don't know.
[ He has a checkered past filled with all sorts of awful things, he's selfish and mean-spirited and not nearly as sweet as Iorveth claims that he is, and he isn't even alive by most definitions of the word. Even one of those things should be a dealbreaker for a sane person. The only reason they aren't for Iorveth is because, well, he isn't sane. ]
I only mean that I'm not without my headaches.
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[ Logically, yes. But Astarion is correct in assuming that Iorveth is not a sane person, and thus, Iorveth finds this claim to be absurd; he says as much, with a tilt of his head and a hike of his brow. ]
Laughable. I don't wish you to be less of a headache than you are.
[ Raking wet fingers through silver hair, enjoying the way the curls start to lay flat in messy clumps. Still the most beautiful man Iorveth has ever seen, even with limp bangs. ]
You could stand to be more selfish, in my opinion.
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Ridiculous man, [ he repeats. If he were any more selfish, he would never consider another person. If he were any more selfish, he wouldn't be a headache, he'd be a full-on migraine. Astarion is delusional in many ways, but even he knows this about himself. It is objectively ridiculous for anyone to say that he should be more selfish, but that's Iorveth: ridiculous. ]
I'm plenty selfish with you, you know. I want you all to myself.
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You have me, [ he sighs, as they brush noses. ] Others may know the Woodland Fox, but you know "Iorveth".
[ For whatever that's worth. He thinks that Astarion is the ridiculous one, that there are so little merits to liking a wanted man with a mangled, ugly face on a doomed mission, but he won't say so out loud; every time he does, Astarion seems to hate it. That little thorn that Iorveth hasn't extricated entirely yet: I don't deserve you.
Another sigh, and thumbs over Astarion's pretty brow. Stupid, how he can't seem to stop touching him. ]
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