[ 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. ]
[ An understatement. Bizarre, really. When they'd first met, he could barely see himself tolerating Iorveth for extended periods of time, much less liking him. The thought of loving anyone, but especially a stick-in-the-mud, self-righteous defender of elven rights, was too farfetched to even consider. He was a lone wolf, entirely out for himself, miserable and terribly lonely without even realizing it.
With a damp hand, he slicks Iorveth's hair back out of his face. Handsome, no matter what Iorveth says.
A little dreamy: ] I think you've melted me. [ Then: ] You really should take responsibility for what you've done.
[ Counting eggs before they hatch, etc. Astarion might come to resent Iorveth in the same way that Iorveth is so convinced that he'd resent Astarion if he'd been a kept pet, but he'll contend with that shoe if it ever drops from its potentially precarious perch on their many, many ledges. Iorveth is more than a little aware that they are both beings made up of red flags and steep slopes.
Whatever. Let Astarion destroy him, Iorveth doesn't care. He'll be happy if the thing that kills him is Astarion's teeth in his neck― better him than any human.
A morose thing to be thinking of when they're so perfectly warm and relaxed in a tub, though. Gears grind in Iorveth's brain, course-correcting to focus on all that pink-pale skin that he can be tasting and touching. ]
That was rather the point. [ Melting him, taking responsibility. Iorveth nuzzles into the hand on his cheek, then reaches to see if Astarion will be amenable to sitting on his lap. ] ―Before I take responsibility.
Does it still give you pause, to be the one receiving?
[ Asking, before Iorveth assumes. His hand runs up Astarion's thigh, enjoying the feeling of lean muscle. ]
[ Gods, he's so embarrassed that the tips of his ears practically burn bright cherry red with shame. Discussing his hang-ups is the opposite of sexy. It's a reminder of all the ways he falls short, that he's damaged beyond repair. He doesn't move, not yet, save for sinking a little deeper into the water. ]
It hasn't always felt— pleasurable.
[ Another understatement. Few people ever gave a shit if he was enjoying himself. If they had cared, maybe they would have noticed how miserable he was.
Iorveth isn't like that, of course. Iorveth doesn't see him as only a means to an end, wouldn't use him like a tool without regard for his feelings. Iorveth loves him, as unbelievable as it feels to be loved by someone. ]
...But if it's you, [ he adds, ] I doubt there's any way you could touch me that wouldn't drive me mad.
[ Unfortunately for Astarion, Iorveth Has To Talk About It. The downside to being in a relationship with someone who wants to know more than he needs to about the things he's taken a personal interest in; Iorveth, incorrigibly, will always Want To Know.
So. Despite the two bottles of wine still swimming in his system, Iorveth forces the world to remain in focus as he watches Astarion deliver his verdict. It occurs to him how much he fucking hates every single person who has ever touched Astarion and left him feeling hollow, but all of them are emaciated spawn hiding somewhere in the dark, now-- giving any of them any thought is a waste of time at this point.
A softening of his features, and Iorveth brushes fingertips to Astarion's jaw. ]
Even so. Speak up, if anything displeases you.
[ And, after a beat, he offers as reciprocal vulnerability: ] ...I would trust you with binds and manacles, but I wouldn't relish blindfolds. Even if I knew you were on the other side.
[ Iorveth's peace offering of vulnerability seems to mollify him, his shoulders a little less hunched, his gaze a little less wandering. One corner of his mouth tugs up, grateful for the evening of their playing fields. ]
All the better. I'd hate to cover up any of that face.
[ Not entirely true — the idea does appeal on some level; if Iorveth couldn't see, Astarion would be entirely in control. If Iorveth weren't enjoying himself, though, he couldn't bear it. Even the slightest hint that he ever made Iorveth feel the way he used to feel, and he thinks he'd retch.
A moment of thought passes before he says, ] I'd like to try new things. And old things, I suppose.
[ To find out what he likes and what he doesn't. When he says 'no', he wants it to be because he doesn't want it, not because his past is coming back to bite him. ]
[ Cazador is dead. Let him turn to bone, and then to ash, and let nothing of him remain. Just a shadow that Astarion remembers on occasion, less and less in frequency; Iorveth exhales through his nose, low and slow, and leans back against the edge of the tub. ]
We'll try it all. Gods know I'll not be protesting.
[ Freak elf. Scarred lips curl, confident for all the wrong reasons. ]
You can bind me to the headboard next time. But tonight...
[ He stretches, and lifts himself out of the water. Upsides to having gotten the Lover's Suite: there's bottles of oils and massage-related items everywhere. ] ...I want to fuck you senseless.
[ Even Astarion knows that their companions would complain if he started tying Iorveth up in their shared room, but— well, that's an issue to be resolved another time, probably after Astarion has actually done it and Gale has gotten traumatized again. There's something nice about Iorveth offering a little tit-for-tat, giving up control physically in exchange for giving up control emotionally.
But Astarion can't give up control entirely, because that's not who he is. He can't deny that he's nervous, and nothing makes him feel better when he's nervous than bossing people around. He turns to watch Iorveth, dripping wet and lovely, as he steps out of the water, arms folded over the edge of the pool. ]
Then you could at least seduce me a little bit.
[ Talking about Astarion's neuroses doesn't count. Edgar and Nicholas never did that! ]
Show me how badly you want to, and maybe then I'll let you.
[ 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. ]
[ The mental image of Iorveth crawling on his hands and knees and begging for him does appeal, although even he can't imagine it without also imagining Iorveth complaining about it the entire time. He grins, both at the idea and the grousing. He likes Iorveth because he isn't a pushover, because his softness and warmth is reserved for Astarion alone. Because Iorveth can kill a man in the morning and curl up with Astarion in the evening. Because he calls Astarion 'beloved' and means it, which makes him feel even more tingly than the sight of Iorveth's palm against his erection.
He's too easy. A few sweet words, and he might as well be putty in Iorveth's hands — melted, as he'd said. Astarion follows him, lifting himself out of the water to come laze beside him on the— well, it's really more of a chaise lounge than a mere couch, if you ask him, but he wouldn't expect a forest-dweller to know the finer points of furnishing. He stretches his legs out in front of him and leans back to watch, two polite inches of space between them and puddles forming at their feet. ]
[ The return of the godsdammed polite space. Astarion's slink onto the couch (chaise???) is distinctly reminiscent of a cat who wants attention but is also ready to slip away at a moment's notice; Iorveth imagines a curled tail swinging lazily behind him, smug and contemplative, soft triangular ears pricked and attentive.
Another sigh. Insane, that he thinks the bad behavior is cute. Mirrored thinking: gods, Iorveth hopes that Astarion never stops being the most infuriating person ever. ]
Do you ever get tired of being so beautiful, [ is another grouse, as Iorveth finds the right grip around his length, the right amount of friction that makes his pulse flutter without pitching him too close to a frenzy. He keeps his eye on Astarion, watching him as he brings himself to full attention. Hungry, but keeping himself in check. ]
Tell me how to make me want you less.
[ A tease. Completely unserious, given what he's doing with his hand on his cock, given the pleasantly flushed state he's floating in. ]
[ Astarion pauses, expression thoughtful, before he cocks his head and grins. ]
Mmm — no, and no.
[ A word he finds he loves saying now, even to such little — and ridiculous! — requests such as this. ]
It's impossible, I'm afraid. There is no cure for your affliction. [ His grin widens, fangs on display. ] And if there were, I'd never tell you.
[ It would be the right thing to do, though. Iorveth deserves stability and security and all of the things that a vampire clothed in red flags can't provide, but Astarion is selfish, and he only longs for Iorveth to want him more and more every day. Maybe in a few centuries, he'll be able to come close to how badly Astarion wants him. ]
But luckily for you, I'm very generous. [ A shove of Iorveth's shoulders as Astarion attempts to manhandle him onto his back. ] I've decided to take pity on you.
[ There really is no cure for terminal delusion and indescribable infatuation, and Iorveth wouldn't take one if it were offered to him. Who else is he going to fall in love with, anyway? Someone easier? Someone who agrees with him all the time, and only believes in the same things as him?
Sounds boring. Iorveth likes the way Astarion shoves him, likes the feeling of gravity taking over, the flop of his dead weight on soft cushions. ]
Mm. [ Politely keeping his messy hand to himself, lest he inadvertently touch Astarion's pretty face with an oil-and-pre-slicked palm. Grounds for a breakup. ] One day, you'll show me what you're like when you're feeling less generous.
[ He's up for it. Less hangups than Astarion means he's more willing to let Astarion do whatever the hells he wants at least once, with a very high chance of Iorveth willing to make repeat performances.
On his back, naked and still steaming from the bath, his hair a mess. Iorveth stays obediently where he is, his half-smile expectant and crooked. ]
May I touch, milord, or am I meant to heel, still?
[ Oh, Iorveth really has his number. 'Milord' is almost as good as 'beloved'. He crawls atop Iorveth, who's somehow even warmer from the water than he normally is, a fact that makes him press their bodies closer together in an attempt to soak it in for himself.
That little smile of his is so sweet, so genuine, that Astarion can't stop himself from pressing his lips to it, quick and firm. Iorveth tastes a little like that mulled wine still, and he finds it tastes far better on Iorveth's lips than it did in a glass. Some might say it's bias, but he chooses to believe it's Iorveth's natural sweetness improving the flavor. If Iorveth can be terminally delusional, so can he. ]
Since you asked so nicely, [ he says, cupping Iorveth's sharp, angular chin, ] like such a good boy, I'll allow it.
[ "Good boy" doesn't quite do anything for him, but strangely, "I'll allow it" does. Held in place by Astarion's hand, Iorveth tips his chin to rest it more comfortably in the nestle of that lukewarm palm. Pridefulness for pridefulness: the glint in Iorveth's eye says that he would have bitten any other hand that came near his face. ]
And? Will you allow me to do more than just touch?
[ His warm palm snakes down Astarion's spine, past the raised patterns on his skin, over the smooth curve of his rear. It's a luxury to trace it, to idly press his fingers into soft skin and knead it with obvious interest; he can't be faulted for thinking that Astarion has a very cute ass. ]
Or you might withhold. You'd enjoy driving me mad. [ Switching hands to rub his oil-wet thumb around Astarion's rim, testing him with careful circles before relenting. ] You could deny me tonight, and watch me burn for you all day tomorrow. I'd think about nothing else.
[ It's an out disguised as sweet nothings, he thinks. He should be irritated at the thought of being coddled, but there's actually something ridiculously arousing about being given permission to withhold, to say 'no'. No, maybe it isn't arousing itself so much as it lets him relax enough to feel aroused in the first place. Either way, he adores Iorveth for it.
Pleased, he presses a kiss to Iorveth's mouth again, then his jaw, then his neck, over his pulse point. ]
Perhaps when I'm feeling less generous.
[ There's a whole spate of things he can imagine doing, if Iorveth would like him to be withholding. It would be fun, he thinks, although difficult not to lavish him in the sort of affection that Astarion insists he doesn't actually like. ]
But you've been so very good tonight, and you deserve a treat.
[ It matters so little to Iorveth how Astarion frames things, as long as Astarion is pleased with the proceedings. A flash of a smile when he's kissed, near-accidental, and Iorveth hikes Astarion just a little higher over his body, chest to chest, with one hand resting on the small of Astarion's back, the other still tucked teasingly between his legs. ]
A "treat". [ Followed by a pseudo-snort, devoid of sharpness. A sound of disbelief, more like. ] An understatement.
[ Astarion should be able to feel the rush of Iorveth's pulse from where he has his mouth pressed near his jugular; the branches tattooed on his neck undulate with his slightly-elevated breathing, the dampness of his skin like dew on inked leaves. All signs of anticipation and arousal, every inch of Iorveth's mortal being responding to an intimacy that he aches for.
His slick fingers quest along Astarion's entrance again. They trace along it once, twice, making wet friction before venturing the initial breach: a thick middle finger presses inwards, testing tension and resistance until it's allowed to properly bury itself inside, knuckle by knuckle.
Tight, Iorveth thinks. The feeling and knowledge of being inside Astarion, even with a digit, renders him dizzy; he places a palm on the small of his partner's back, soothing up and down his spine to dispel potential discomfort. ]
Astarion, [ he sighs, a little breathless. ] ―Gods, you really do something to me.
[ Surreptitiously adjusting his hips so that his obvious erection isn't sandwiched painfully between the press of their bodies (he's going to be so mad at himself if he comes accidentally), Iorveth gently, slowly makes friction with the single finger caught in Astarion's inviting tightness, making sure to stay attuned to any signs that point to no in the process. Soft kisses pepper against silver hair. ]
[ His body can't help but tense up at the feeling of something inside of it, an involuntary reaction conditioned into him by centuries of this exact act leading only to unpleasantness. It's such a foregone conclusion that he barely even notices he's doing it at first, more used to the feeling of rigid muscles and apprehension than he is to the feeling of relaxation or pleasure. He presses his face against the crook of Iorveth's neck and inhales the soothing scent of his damp skin, body relaxing in increments as he reminds himself that that was then and this is now. ]
—It's all right, [ he's quick to say, lest his reaction make Iorveth think he doesn't want this and ruin everything.
It hasn't really reached the point of pleasure yet, admittedly, but now that he's slackened it doesn't hurt. Iorveth's fingers aren't as slender as his own, but he's gentler and more patient than anything Astarion has ever done to himself or had done to him. Of course he is; Iorveth is too sweet, too wonderful, too good to be true. ]
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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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[ An understatement. Bizarre, really. When they'd first met, he could barely see himself tolerating Iorveth for extended periods of time, much less liking him. The thought of loving anyone, but especially a stick-in-the-mud, self-righteous defender of elven rights, was too farfetched to even consider. He was a lone wolf, entirely out for himself, miserable and terribly lonely without even realizing it.
With a damp hand, he slicks Iorveth's hair back out of his face. Handsome, no matter what Iorveth says.
A little dreamy: ] I think you've melted me. [ Then: ] You really should take responsibility for what you've done.
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Whatever. Let Astarion destroy him, Iorveth doesn't care. He'll be happy if the thing that kills him is Astarion's teeth in his neck― better him than any human.
A morose thing to be thinking of when they're so perfectly warm and relaxed in a tub, though. Gears grind in Iorveth's brain, course-correcting to focus on all that pink-pale skin that he can be tasting and touching. ]
That was rather the point. [ Melting him, taking responsibility. Iorveth nuzzles into the hand on his cheek, then reaches to see if Astarion will be amenable to sitting on his lap. ] ―Before I take responsibility.
Does it still give you pause, to be the one receiving?
[ Asking, before Iorveth assumes. His hand runs up Astarion's thigh, enjoying the feeling of lean muscle. ]
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[ Gods, he's so embarrassed that the tips of his ears practically burn bright cherry red with shame. Discussing his hang-ups is the opposite of sexy. It's a reminder of all the ways he falls short, that he's damaged beyond repair. He doesn't move, not yet, save for sinking a little deeper into the water. ]
It hasn't always felt— pleasurable.
[ Another understatement. Few people ever gave a shit if he was enjoying himself. If they had cared, maybe they would have noticed how miserable he was.
Iorveth isn't like that, of course. Iorveth doesn't see him as only a means to an end, wouldn't use him like a tool without regard for his feelings. Iorveth loves him, as unbelievable as it feels to be loved by someone. ]
...But if it's you, [ he adds, ] I doubt there's any way you could touch me that wouldn't drive me mad.
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So. Despite the two bottles of wine still swimming in his system, Iorveth forces the world to remain in focus as he watches Astarion deliver his verdict. It occurs to him how much he fucking hates every single person who has ever touched Astarion and left him feeling hollow, but all of them are emaciated spawn hiding somewhere in the dark, now-- giving any of them any thought is a waste of time at this point.
A softening of his features, and Iorveth brushes fingertips to Astarion's jaw. ]
Even so. Speak up, if anything displeases you.
[ And, after a beat, he offers as reciprocal vulnerability: ] ...I would trust you with binds and manacles, but I wouldn't relish blindfolds. Even if I knew you were on the other side.
It's the same principle, one supposes.
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All the better. I'd hate to cover up any of that face.
[ Not entirely true — the idea does appeal on some level; if Iorveth couldn't see, Astarion would be entirely in control. If Iorveth weren't enjoying himself, though, he couldn't bear it. Even the slightest hint that he ever made Iorveth feel the way he used to feel, and he thinks he'd retch.
A moment of thought passes before he says, ] I'd like to try new things. And old things, I suppose.
[ To find out what he likes and what he doesn't. When he says 'no', he wants it to be because he doesn't want it, not because his past is coming back to bite him. ]
I don't want to let him take from me anymore.
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[ Cazador is dead. Let him turn to bone, and then to ash, and let nothing of him remain. Just a shadow that Astarion remembers on occasion, less and less in frequency; Iorveth exhales through his nose, low and slow, and leans back against the edge of the tub. ]
We'll try it all. Gods know I'll not be protesting.
[ Freak elf. Scarred lips curl, confident for all the wrong reasons. ]
You can bind me to the headboard next time. But tonight...
[ He stretches, and lifts himself out of the water. Upsides to having gotten the Lover's Suite: there's bottles of oils and massage-related items everywhere. ] ...I want to fuck you senseless.
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But Astarion can't give up control entirely, because that's not who he is. He can't deny that he's nervous, and nothing makes him feel better when he's nervous than bossing people around. He turns to watch Iorveth, dripping wet and lovely, as he steps out of the water, arms folded over the edge of the pool. ]
Then you could at least seduce me a little bit.
[ Talking about Astarion's neuroses doesn't count. Edgar and Nicholas never did that! ]
Show me how badly you want to, and maybe then I'll let you.
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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. ]
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He's too easy. A few sweet words, and he might as well be putty in Iorveth's hands — melted, as he'd said. Astarion follows him, lifting himself out of the water to come laze beside him on the— well, it's really more of a chaise lounge than a mere couch, if you ask him, but he wouldn't expect a forest-dweller to know the finer points of furnishing. He stretches his legs out in front of him and leans back to watch, two polite inches of space between them and puddles forming at their feet. ]
Go on.
[ A headache. ]
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Another sigh. Insane, that he thinks the bad behavior is cute. Mirrored thinking: gods, Iorveth hopes that Astarion never stops being the most infuriating person ever. ]
Do you ever get tired of being so beautiful, [ is another grouse, as Iorveth finds the right grip around his length, the right amount of friction that makes his pulse flutter without pitching him too close to a frenzy. He keeps his eye on Astarion, watching him as he brings himself to full attention. Hungry, but keeping himself in check. ]
Tell me how to make me want you less.
[ A tease. Completely unserious, given what he's doing with his hand on his cock, given the pleasantly flushed state he's floating in. ]
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Mmm — no, and no.
[ A word he finds he loves saying now, even to such little — and ridiculous! — requests such as this. ]
It's impossible, I'm afraid. There is no cure for your affliction. [ His grin widens, fangs on display. ] And if there were, I'd never tell you.
[ It would be the right thing to do, though. Iorveth deserves stability and security and all of the things that a vampire clothed in red flags can't provide, but Astarion is selfish, and he only longs for Iorveth to want him more and more every day. Maybe in a few centuries, he'll be able to come close to how badly Astarion wants him. ]
But luckily for you, I'm very generous. [ A shove of Iorveth's shoulders as Astarion attempts to manhandle him onto his back. ] I've decided to take pity on you.
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Sounds boring. Iorveth likes the way Astarion shoves him, likes the feeling of gravity taking over, the flop of his dead weight on soft cushions. ]
Mm. [ Politely keeping his messy hand to himself, lest he inadvertently touch Astarion's pretty face with an oil-and-pre-slicked palm. Grounds for a breakup. ] One day, you'll show me what you're like when you're feeling less generous.
[ He's up for it. Less hangups than Astarion means he's more willing to let Astarion do whatever the hells he wants at least once, with a very high chance of Iorveth willing to make repeat performances.
On his back, naked and still steaming from the bath, his hair a mess. Iorveth stays obediently where he is, his half-smile expectant and crooked. ]
May I touch, milord, or am I meant to heel, still?
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That little smile of his is so sweet, so genuine, that Astarion can't stop himself from pressing his lips to it, quick and firm. Iorveth tastes a little like that mulled wine still, and he finds it tastes far better on Iorveth's lips than it did in a glass. Some might say it's bias, but he chooses to believe it's Iorveth's natural sweetness improving the flavor. If Iorveth can be terminally delusional, so can he. ]
Since you asked so nicely, [ he says, cupping Iorveth's sharp, angular chin, ] like such a good boy, I'll allow it.
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And? Will you allow me to do more than just touch?
[ His warm palm snakes down Astarion's spine, past the raised patterns on his skin, over the smooth curve of his rear. It's a luxury to trace it, to idly press his fingers into soft skin and knead it with obvious interest; he can't be faulted for thinking that Astarion has a very cute ass. ]
Or you might withhold. You'd enjoy driving me mad. [ Switching hands to rub his oil-wet thumb around Astarion's rim, testing him with careful circles before relenting. ] You could deny me tonight, and watch me burn for you all day tomorrow. I'd think about nothing else.
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Pleased, he presses a kiss to Iorveth's mouth again, then his jaw, then his neck, over his pulse point. ]
Perhaps when I'm feeling less generous.
[ There's a whole spate of things he can imagine doing, if Iorveth would like him to be withholding. It would be fun, he thinks, although difficult not to lavish him in the sort of affection that Astarion insists he doesn't actually like. ]
But you've been so very good tonight, and you deserve a treat.
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A "treat". [ Followed by a pseudo-snort, devoid of sharpness. A sound of disbelief, more like. ] An understatement.
[ Astarion should be able to feel the rush of Iorveth's pulse from where he has his mouth pressed near his jugular; the branches tattooed on his neck undulate with his slightly-elevated breathing, the dampness of his skin like dew on inked leaves. All signs of anticipation and arousal, every inch of Iorveth's mortal being responding to an intimacy that he aches for.
His slick fingers quest along Astarion's entrance again. They trace along it once, twice, making wet friction before venturing the initial breach: a thick middle finger presses inwards, testing tension and resistance until it's allowed to properly bury itself inside, knuckle by knuckle.
Tight, Iorveth thinks. The feeling and knowledge of being inside Astarion, even with a digit, renders him dizzy; he places a palm on the small of his partner's back, soothing up and down his spine to dispel potential discomfort. ]
Astarion, [ he sighs, a little breathless. ] ―Gods, you really do something to me.
[ Surreptitiously adjusting his hips so that his obvious erection isn't sandwiched painfully between the press of their bodies (he's going to be so mad at himself if he comes accidentally), Iorveth gently, slowly makes friction with the single finger caught in Astarion's inviting tightness, making sure to stay attuned to any signs that point to no in the process. Soft kisses pepper against silver hair. ]
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—It's all right, [ he's quick to say, lest his reaction make Iorveth think he doesn't want this and ruin everything.
It hasn't really reached the point of pleasure yet, admittedly, but now that he's slackened it doesn't hurt. Iorveth's fingers aren't as slender as his own, but he's gentler and more patient than anything Astarion has ever done to himself or had done to him. Of course he is; Iorveth is too sweet, too wonderful, too good to be true. ]
You can keep going.
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