[ 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. ]
[ Iorveth closes his eye for a moment, concentrating on feeling the tension bleed, bit by bit, from Astarion's body. A difficult thing to miss, really: what's more unbelievable to Iorveth is that no one noticed enough in Astarion's past to stop, but that's not something he'll give thought to in the moment. Now, he focuses on that sweet burrowing against his neck, that careful green-light to keep going.
Ugh. Sometimes, Iorveth wants to make Astarion the promise of anything. His beautiful vampire, a symbol of endurance and hard-won freedom. No one in this world has ever deserved care the way Astarion does. ]
If you wish it, [ he murmurs into soft curls, and renews his efforts to slowly stretch Astarion in patient increments. Reinforcing who has control here (Astarion), and working to oblige; his lips find Astarion's ear, his temple, and presses warm kisses to whatever he can find to ease the eventual addition of his ring finger alongside his middle, taking care not to move too quickly or too unexpectedly in a direction that he knows will be uncomfortable.
The important thing, now, is finding an angle that Astarion likes. Iorveth takes his time with it, intending to add a bit of stimulus that isn't just the awkward feeling of being filled; for all his talk of fucking Astarion into oblivion, he doesn't expect this experience to be mind-blowing. The most he'll ask for is "not awful", with an added bonus of making Astarion realize how coveted he really is.
I like you, he sigh-laughs in his language, a whisper against Astarion's jaw. An inside joke by now; the words are far too innocent to be using in this context. ]
[ It feels strange. Infinitely more gentle than what he's used to, but far preferable to the impatient and hurried hands of a meaningless tavern dalliance. The sweet sound of Iorveth's voice soothes him into further relaxation until he's almost entirely without tension, save for the knots he's carried in his shoulders for the past two centuries. Those don't go away quite as easily.
Iorveth's lovely long fingers, bow-callused and perfect, brush against him in just the right way, and he squirms at the flash of pleasure. ] Oh, [ he says, strangled and surprised, fingernails digging into the soft upholstery of the couch—chaise—before releasing it.
In this position, it's challenging to move the way he needs to, but he tries regardless, chasing that fleeting feeling of pleasure with the angling of his hips until finally: ] Yes. [ It's as much to himself as it is to Iorveth, almost a sigh of relief at feeling, for once, good. ]
[ A surge of affection at that oh, which crescendos when Astarion affirms the sound with a clearer yes― Iorveth could eat those sounds out of Astarion's mouth, they sound so sweet. ]
Good, [ he rumbles, low and pleased. Not quite a question, though he mouths it again when he rubs against the same spot that'd made Astarion squirm the first time, the tail end of that single syllable hiking just enough to give it the suggestion of one. "Is this good for you?"
An uncouth thing to ask, he knows. It's just that he's so disgustingly in love; every little "yes" goes straight to his own cock, still filled-out and attentive against Astarion's inner thigh. At this point, Iorveth thinks he could satisfy himself just by seeing if Astarion could come on his fingers, but he also thinks that that would get him yelled at.
Still. He applies more oil, and after he's confident that he knows where that sweet spot is, carefully works a third digit inside. That intrusion is followed by a nuzzle and a kiss, a brief check-in. ]
[ This is around the time he would have started to clock out mentally with his conquests, if not sooner; after a while, his mind would go elsewhere at the first sign of discomfort. It's difficult to compare the things he's done before to anything involving Iorveth, though. Every time trying something new with him ends up feeling like the first time he's ever done it, and in a way, maybe it is. After all, he'd never been touched by someone he actually cared for before Iorveth, never kissed someone who saw it as anything but a prelude to sex. Hells, he's pretty sure he'd never been with anyone who saw interacting with him as anything but a prelude to sex. Why would they? He encouraged it.
Iorveth's fingers are wonderfully attentive, stroking inside him in a way that makes him light-headed and dizzy in the best way, sending zings of pleasure up his spine. He's unaccustomed to such prolonged preparation, more used to perfunctory foreplay or none at all, and it feels strange to be slowly worked open like this. Strange in a good way, like Iorveth himself. ]
Stop, [ he says, reaching for Iorveth's forearm, before giving a sudden correction: ] Gods, no, don't stop.
[ He'd have to kill Iorveth if he stopped everything right now, and it feels a real fear — another thing that's strange in a good way. He's never been so certain that someone would stop before.
Sounding every bit the spoiled brat he is, he says, ] I was promised that I'd be fucked senseless, and it had better not only be by your fingers.
[ "Stop" is, in fact, the magic word: the moment Iorveth registers it, he starts moving to retract his touch, shoulders drawn back as if to slither out from under Astarion's body. That's halted by the second command, "don't stop", which makes Iorveth furrow his brows in a possibly comical way. Skeptical of Astarion's intentions ("if you're only telling me to keep going because you feel embarrassed―") at first, getting ready to give him an earful if he's just trying to spare Iorveth's feelings.
The frown mellows into a half-bemused quirk, then melts into an exasperated almost-smile. (Still, he does draw his fingers out, just in case Astarion really did mean the "stop".) ]
Spoiled, [ Iorveth notes with equal measures affection and smugness. ] You're never more beautiful than when you're being demanding.
[ "Your bossiness weirdly turns me on": freak elf confessions. Wiping his hands on a nearby towel, he loops his arms around Astarion's shoulders and slowly, deliberately rolls hips hips to rub himself against Astarion's thigh. ]
Like this? [ He asks in lieu of "are you sure", which he knows will earn his partner's ire. A confirmation that their current positioning is fine, though Iorveth has a feeling that Astarion doesn't enjoy the alternative; he hasn't shown himself to like being pinned under anyone. ]
[ The roll of Iorveth's hips is a little obscene, exciting Astarion's own erection caught between their bodies so much that he very nearly says 'yes' to Iorveth's question without further thought (or any thought at all). The gears in his head turn, though, and he forces himself to sit up, thighs bracketing Iorveth's hips. He has more control this way, and if there's anything he needs right now, it's control. ]
Like this.
[ Then another thought passes through his mind, and he reaches for Iorveth, manhandling him yet again to pull him up alongside him so that their chests are flush. He needs control, yes, but he wants easy access to every part of Iorveth. ]
Like this, [ he corrects, and it's not particularly negotiable. Iorveth can decide the position when he's the one trying to have a corrective experience after centuries of trauma. ] —For now. [ An addendum. He meant what he'd said, that he wanted to try it all, but— he needs to ease into it. For now, he needs an escape route should it all become too much.
He stabilizes himself with a hand on Iorveth's broad shoulder, trying not to look visibly nervous as he lifts up and guides himself onto Iorveth's cock. It shows anyway in the terribly slow way he sinks down, making the familiar burn that comes with the initial penetration that much worse by prolonging it; it must be agonizing for Iorveth, he recognizes distantly, but every millimeter feels more overwhelming than the last, and he can't make himself move faster. Once he's fully seated, the stretch of Iorveth inside him making his head swim, he glances up with the intention to say something romantic and titillating. ]
[ Iorveth has had rougher trysts: a lot of shoving and pulling and pinning and fighting, all culminating in furious (and very hurried) rutting. Sport, as he'd dubbed it so often in conversation. This, on the other hand, is anything but― it's slow and careful and measured, almost the opposite of instantly gratifying. Too tight, too prolonged, too much.
Perfect. Iorveth doesn't realize that he's been holding his breath until he feels Astarion seat himself, and he releases that pent-up exhale in one long, drawn-out sigh. His vision doubles, triples, and tries to focus on the familiar outline of Astarion's damnably beautiful face. ]
Yes, [ Iorveth agrees. Too sex-stupid, really, to say anything else. The singular sensation of being gripped entirely by Astarion makes his knees rise up from the couch cushions in a reflexive need to vent arousal; he keeps himself still otherwise, hellbent on letting Astarion dictate the pace and eventual rhythm.
An idle, sex-drunk thought about whether or not Iorveth's cock might feel too hot inside his partner later, and he cups Astarion's face in one hand, drawing him close for a long, indulgent kiss as Iorveth (unsuccessfully) acclimates to the tight clutch around him. It's very likely that if the Netherbrain were to reveal itself to them right now, Iorveth would miss it entirely― the only thing that exists in the moment is the impossible and all-encompassing feeling of being connected. ]
[ He's never been a fan of receiving before, but the knowledge that it's Iorveth inside of him sends blood rushing straight to his groin. If Iorveth's fingers had made him feel light-headed, his cock makes Astarion entirely thoughtless. It's thicker than his fingers, pressing deeper, nudging up against a spot inside him that makes him tremble with combined excitement and nervousness. Almost unconsciously, his thighs squeeze and release around Iorveth's body, trial and error as he attempts to find what feels good.
Again, it's agonizingly slow as he rocks experimentally in Iorveth's lap, shifting until the light nudge against pleasure feels more like a consistent rub. Fireworks set off behind his eyes, and he rolls his hips against Iorveth in earnest now, picking up a steady rhythm. Iorveth, he can't help but notice, is still. The thought of making him stay and riding him into oblivion flits through his mind, but— again, it's better saved for a time that he's feeling less generous.
He intends to say that he understands the trepidation, but he won't be angry if Iorveth moves. Filtered through his currently-empty mind, he instead hisses, ] Move, damn you.
[ It feels a little like being trussed up and edged, the initial slow pace, but there's pleasure in seeing Astarion search for his own. Iorveth feels every shift and every shudder through their point of connection; it's a thrill, then, when Astarion seems to find something he likes and chases it with more confidence. Coupled with that hissed order, move, Iorveth swears he gets harder where Astarion is grinding against him.
He laughs. ] Yes, milord. [ Teasing as best he can, even despite the fact that he's doing most of his thinking right now with his dick. Warm palms run up Astarion's sculpted thighs and rest over his hips, savoring the buck and sway of his body― Iorveth takes note of the rhythm for a few more agonizing beats before he starts moving in tandem, drawing back for each upwards lift, bumping up when Astarion succumbs to gravity. Obedient at first, eventually growing more bold: he squeezes his grip around Astarion's eminently holdable waist and keeps him down on his cock a few times, indulging in the brain-melting feeling of being held completely inside that tight grip.
Gods, this is so bad for his sanity. He thinks he could die like this. Iorveth dips his head to kiss along Astarion's chest, finding the enticingly sweet peak of his nipple to put his mouth on. ]
[ Sentimental. The worst—and best—part is that Astarion truly believes that Iorveth believes every bit of affectionate shmoop he says. His neck flushes dusty pink with pleasure at hearing it, and he opens his mouth to tease Iorveth for being so sappy, but the only sound that comes out is an embarrassing whimper, so he decides he'd better keep it closed.
He presses their bodies closer together, clutching Iorveth's head to his chest, fingers curled tightly in his hair. In this position, Astarion's erection is trapped uncomfortably between them, but the pleasant friction their bodies create when he rocks against Iorveth all but obliterates any discomfort. A few more rough rolls of his hips and his rhythm stutters, muscles clenching as lightning shoots up his spine. An undignified noise escapes the back of his throat, and he comes hard, spend painting Iorveth's lovely, tanned stomach. ]
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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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Ugh. Sometimes, Iorveth wants to make Astarion the promise of anything. His beautiful vampire, a symbol of endurance and hard-won freedom. No one in this world has ever deserved care the way Astarion does. ]
If you wish it, [ he murmurs into soft curls, and renews his efforts to slowly stretch Astarion in patient increments. Reinforcing who has control here (Astarion), and working to oblige; his lips find Astarion's ear, his temple, and presses warm kisses to whatever he can find to ease the eventual addition of his ring finger alongside his middle, taking care not to move too quickly or too unexpectedly in a direction that he knows will be uncomfortable.
The important thing, now, is finding an angle that Astarion likes. Iorveth takes his time with it, intending to add a bit of stimulus that isn't just the awkward feeling of being filled; for all his talk of fucking Astarion into oblivion, he doesn't expect this experience to be mind-blowing. The most he'll ask for is "not awful", with an added bonus of making Astarion realize how coveted he really is.
I like you, he sigh-laughs in his language, a whisper against Astarion's jaw. An inside joke by now; the words are far too innocent to be using in this context. ]
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Iorveth's lovely long fingers, bow-callused and perfect, brush against him in just the right way, and he squirms at the flash of pleasure. ] Oh, [ he says, strangled and surprised, fingernails digging into the soft upholstery of the couch—chaise—before releasing it.
In this position, it's challenging to move the way he needs to, but he tries regardless, chasing that fleeting feeling of pleasure with the angling of his hips until finally: ] Yes. [ It's as much to himself as it is to Iorveth, almost a sigh of relief at feeling, for once, good. ]
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Good, [ he rumbles, low and pleased. Not quite a question, though he mouths it again when he rubs against the same spot that'd made Astarion squirm the first time, the tail end of that single syllable hiking just enough to give it the suggestion of one. "Is this good for you?"
An uncouth thing to ask, he knows. It's just that he's so disgustingly in love; every little "yes" goes straight to his own cock, still filled-out and attentive against Astarion's inner thigh. At this point, Iorveth thinks he could satisfy himself just by seeing if Astarion could come on his fingers, but he also thinks that that would get him yelled at.
Still. He applies more oil, and after he's confident that he knows where that sweet spot is, carefully works a third digit inside. That intrusion is followed by a nuzzle and a kiss, a brief check-in. ]
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Iorveth's fingers are wonderfully attentive, stroking inside him in a way that makes him light-headed and dizzy in the best way, sending zings of pleasure up his spine. He's unaccustomed to such prolonged preparation, more used to perfunctory foreplay or none at all, and it feels strange to be slowly worked open like this. Strange in a good way, like Iorveth himself. ]
Stop, [ he says, reaching for Iorveth's forearm, before giving a sudden correction: ] Gods, no, don't stop.
[ He'd have to kill Iorveth if he stopped everything right now, and it feels a real fear — another thing that's strange in a good way. He's never been so certain that someone would stop before.
Sounding every bit the spoiled brat he is, he says, ] I was promised that I'd be fucked senseless, and it had better not only be by your fingers.
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The frown mellows into a half-bemused quirk, then melts into an exasperated almost-smile. (Still, he does draw his fingers out, just in case Astarion really did mean the "stop".) ]
Spoiled, [ Iorveth notes with equal measures affection and smugness. ] You're never more beautiful than when you're being demanding.
[ "Your bossiness weirdly turns me on": freak elf confessions. Wiping his hands on a nearby towel, he loops his arms around Astarion's shoulders and slowly, deliberately rolls hips hips to rub himself against Astarion's thigh. ]
Like this? [ He asks in lieu of "are you sure", which he knows will earn his partner's ire. A confirmation that their current positioning is fine, though Iorveth has a feeling that Astarion doesn't enjoy the alternative; he hasn't shown himself to like being pinned under anyone. ]
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Like this.
[ Then another thought passes through his mind, and he reaches for Iorveth, manhandling him yet again to pull him up alongside him so that their chests are flush. He needs control, yes, but he wants easy access to every part of Iorveth. ]
Like this, [ he corrects, and it's not particularly negotiable. Iorveth can decide the position when he's the one trying to have a corrective experience after centuries of trauma. ] —For now. [ An addendum. He meant what he'd said, that he wanted to try it all, but— he needs to ease into it. For now, he needs an escape route should it all become too much.
He stabilizes himself with a hand on Iorveth's broad shoulder, trying not to look visibly nervous as he lifts up and guides himself onto Iorveth's cock. It shows anyway in the terribly slow way he sinks down, making the familiar burn that comes with the initial penetration that much worse by prolonging it; it must be agonizing for Iorveth, he recognizes distantly, but every millimeter feels more overwhelming than the last, and he can't make himself move faster. Once he's fully seated, the stretch of Iorveth inside him making his head swim, he glances up with the intention to say something romantic and titillating. ]
Fuck, [ he says instead, eloquently. ]
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Perfect. Iorveth doesn't realize that he's been holding his breath until he feels Astarion seat himself, and he releases that pent-up exhale in one long, drawn-out sigh. His vision doubles, triples, and tries to focus on the familiar outline of Astarion's damnably beautiful face. ]
Yes, [ Iorveth agrees. Too sex-stupid, really, to say anything else. The singular sensation of being gripped entirely by Astarion makes his knees rise up from the couch cushions in a reflexive need to vent arousal; he keeps himself still otherwise, hellbent on letting Astarion dictate the pace and eventual rhythm.
An idle, sex-drunk thought about whether or not Iorveth's cock might feel too hot inside his partner later, and he cups Astarion's face in one hand, drawing him close for a long, indulgent kiss as Iorveth (unsuccessfully) acclimates to the tight clutch around him. It's very likely that if the Netherbrain were to reveal itself to them right now, Iorveth would miss it entirely― the only thing that exists in the moment is the impossible and all-encompassing feeling of being connected. ]
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Again, it's agonizingly slow as he rocks experimentally in Iorveth's lap, shifting until the light nudge against pleasure feels more like a consistent rub. Fireworks set off behind his eyes, and he rolls his hips against Iorveth in earnest now, picking up a steady rhythm. Iorveth, he can't help but notice, is still. The thought of making him stay and riding him into oblivion flits through his mind, but— again, it's better saved for a time that he's feeling less generous.
He intends to say that he understands the trepidation, but he won't be angry if Iorveth moves. Filtered through his currently-empty mind, he instead hisses, ] Move, damn you.
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He laughs. ] Yes, milord. [ Teasing as best he can, even despite the fact that he's doing most of his thinking right now with his dick. Warm palms run up Astarion's sculpted thighs and rest over his hips, savoring the buck and sway of his body― Iorveth takes note of the rhythm for a few more agonizing beats before he starts moving in tandem, drawing back for each upwards lift, bumping up when Astarion succumbs to gravity. Obedient at first, eventually growing more bold: he squeezes his grip around Astarion's eminently holdable waist and keeps him down on his cock a few times, indulging in the brain-melting feeling of being held completely inside that tight grip.
Gods, this is so bad for his sanity. He thinks he could die like this. Iorveth dips his head to kiss along Astarion's chest, finding the enticingly sweet peak of his nipple to put his mouth on. ]
Perfect, every inch of you.
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He presses their bodies closer together, clutching Iorveth's head to his chest, fingers curled tightly in his hair. In this position, Astarion's erection is trapped uncomfortably between them, but the pleasant friction their bodies create when he rocks against Iorveth all but obliterates any discomfort. A few more rough rolls of his hips and his rhythm stutters, muscles clenching as lightning shoots up his spine. An undignified noise escapes the back of his throat, and he comes hard, spend painting Iorveth's lovely, tanned stomach. ]
Hells.
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