[ 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. ]
[ The worst (and best?) part is that Iorveth really does believe the embarrassing schmoop that comes out of his mouth. Even more so, when Astarion has the absolute gall (positive) to come without Iorveth needing to pay attention to his erection; cute aggression― or something close to it― clogs the back of Iorveth's throat, prompting a soft, choked sound as he holds Astarion's face and kisses the tail end of that hells out of his mouth.
It's really not healthy to like someone this much. Some part of the delirium is owed to sex brain, but the greater majority is the ear-ringing pleasure of being trusted, of being chosen, of being given permission. Astarion tightens, trembles, and lets himself fall over the edge; that's more exciting than anything else.
Enough that it doesn't take much for Iorveth to follow, hips stuttering and grip tightening when it wanders back, desperately, to Astarion's waist. He has enough presence of mind not to come inside Astarion, though: his instinct is to pull out before he reaches his peak, clumsily spilling his spend on his own cock and the curve of Astarion's rear with a groan and a half-bitten Astarion.
Maybe he'll get yelled at for being too careful. Later. Iorveth huffs, chest heaving, and rests his forehead against Astarion's collarbone. Drinking in his scent, bathing in all that skin. ]
[ It's a little bit humiliating how right Iorveth was when he said he'd make Astarion boneless. Every part of him feels slack, the muscles of his thighs burning with the exertion of being on top. He doesn't move, though, leaning his head against Iorveth's, stroking that smooth, dark hair as warmth radiates through him. He's overwhelmed, of course, and still trembling a little because of it, but in a decidedly good way. A wave of affection washes over him so heavily that he feels he might drown in it; he's never loved Iorveth as much as he does right now. ]
I needed that.
[ Every time with Iorveth feels like the erasure of one more bad memory, shame and disgust replaced with the feeling of being wanted, cherished. ]
Thank you.
[ An objectively ridiculous thing to say, and he has the sense, at least, to feel embarrassed about thanking Iorveth for the fuck. ]
[ Iorveth shifts on the chaise, leaning against what passes for its backrest to lean, slack and satisfied, with Astarion still sitting on his knees. There's a sluggish nudge against the hand stroking his hair, relishing the feeling of having someone be gentle with him, of all things.
"Thank you for the sex" should be more funny than it actually is. He remembers all those ghoulish faces they found in the basement of Cazador's tasteless mansion, and thinking about Astarion on his back for all of them occasionally makes Iorveth regret not killing at least some of the worst offenders.
So: ] A flattering assessment. [ To think he fulfilled any part of Astarion's needs. A soft kiss to the peak of Astarion's shoulder, and Iorveth reaches for a clean towel to wipe some of the mess they've made. ] I've grown to want your needs.
[ His smile is soft, slow-growing. ] Will you be able to walk?
[ An unflattering snort. How highly Iorveth thinks of himself, to assume that Astarion can't walk after fucking him. Then again, his legs do ache something fierce, so maybe it's for the best that he doesn't test them out just yet. The only thing more embarrassing than thanking Iorveth for sex would be thanking him for sex and then immediately having his knees buckle beneath him.
He drapes himself over Iorveth, hardly cognizant of the spend cooling on their skin. Strange; he's always hated the mess that sex makes, always felt especially dirty and disgusting with it on him, but he finds himself unfazed when it's a mess that Iorveth has made.
Teasing: ] Oh, not a chance. I suppose you'll just have to carry me.
[ Iorveth, the meanest elf in the world, would actually thrive off of watching Astarion fumble the landing; that said, he's thriving off the feeling of Astarion deadweighting against his chest as well, so he's winning no matter what.
More careful wiping, worming a hand between the press of their bodies to clean off a bit of the cooling spend. Attentive in a way that he knows no one expects him to be, and that's fine― he never will be for anyone that isn't Astarion-shaped. Then again, if Astarion's long-lost twin appeared tomorrow, Iorveth wouldn't be attentive towards twin!Astarion despite being him Astarion-shaped.
A lot of thoughts about Astarion, at any rate. That name lives rent-free in Iorveth's head now. ]
Threaten me with a good time. [ Truly. Lazily, he draws vague patterns over the scars on Astarion's back with warm fingers. ] ―We'll not have this luxury tomorrow, so I'm amenable to taking what I can.
[ The bad news: Lae'zel has decreed that Astarion (and Astarion only) will be pulled aside tomorrow for an excursion. No one-eyed freak elves allowed on this particular mission: Iorveth has been banished to the Bad Kid Corner. ]
[ The corner of his mouth quirks up in juvenile amusement, and he leans his head against Iorveth's shoulder, hair tickling Iorveth's cheek. He's never been one for post-coital cuddling, but— he wasn't one for a lot of things, before Iorveth came around. He'd be humiliated if anyone were ever to call him on this behavior, but for now, he curls up against Iorveth's warmth, metaphorical tail swishing in contentment. ]
Well, there'll be plenty of time for me to tie you to the bedposts the day after tomorrow.
[ He sighs, hand smoothing over Iorveth's tattoo. ]
I love you, you know. I was growing rather impatient over all the centuries, but— I think you were worth the wait.
[ A slight flicker of tension, when Astarion says that Iorveth was worth the wait. "I love you" is wonderful, the weight of it bone-deep, but― ]
―Nothing will compensate for what you endured. Nothing.
[ Blunt. Possibly not the kindest thing to say during post-coital cuddling, but he wants to make it clear: their current state of being doesn't make up for two hundred years of horrific torture. Astarion has always, unerringly and objectively, deserved better, and he likely still deserves better, even now.
With that said, Iorveth cradles Astarion closer against his chest to comb his fingers through silver hair, affectionate and protective. ]
...Still, your love is worth everything to me. [ A gentle huff, to lighten the mood. ] Closest to my heart― my only.
[ He presses his lips to Astarion's temple, lingering in that soft, warm space. ]
[ Astarion tenses up alongside Iorveth, worried that he's said something wrong. Things like 'romance' and 'relationships' and 'telling the truth' are still new to him, and every step feels precarious. The tension bleeds out quickly, though, replaced with a snort at Iorveth's dramatic assertion. No, nothing will compensate for the years of sadness and loneliness and suffering, but Iorveth comes close, he thinks. Sometimes, he wishes that they'd met sooner, before all of the awful things happened to them.
They wouldn't have even spared each other a passing glance. It seems it had to happen this way, and if so, then— yes, Iorveth was worth the wait. A few centuries from now, Cazador will only be a hazy memory, but Iorveth will never be anything but clear as day. ]
I should hope I'm your only.
[ If they returned to Iorveth's homeland only to find that he had a wife and children up there, Astarion would commit crimes so heinous that they aren't fit to describe here. ]
[ A mild sound of offense, at "I should hope". Kind of a self-own: expressing disbelief over the fact that anyone aside from Astarion could ever love him enough to stay is a bit pathetic, but. If the shoe fits.
To the "let me": ] Tonight, I'd let you shave me bald if you wished it. [ In this state, Iorveth really couldn't refuse Astarion anything. A short laugh-exhale, and he shifts under Astarion's weight. ] Wind your arms around my shoulders.
[ He glances towards the bath, and the distance he'd have to walk from couch to pool; only a few steps. A short enough journey that he thinks he could get away with, yes, carrying Astarion― he's no Karlach, but he's been pulling bowstrings and climbing trees since he was old enough to speak. It takes a bit of mental preparation, but he manages to get on his feet with Astarion in tow, adjusting their positions just a bit so that he's hefting his partner bridal style instead of sack-of-potatoes-style.
Heavy. Astarion is no willowy waif, and requires concentration to keep steady until they reach the edge of the water, where Iorveth deposits him slowly, carefully. ]
[ Though he tries hard to suppress it, Astarion can barely conceal his delight at being carried into the water, every scoff and roll of his eyes undercut by the grin on his face. Iorveth might have the muscled back of an archer, but that doesn't mean he's accustomed to lugging around a full-grown vampire in his arms; it must be difficult for him, even crossing this small distance, but he did it to make Astarion happy.
It works. Astarion pulls him down alongside him to kiss him, insistent and pleased, like the only way he can rid himself of the overwhelming affection he feels is to press it into Iorveth's mouth. That doesn't work. He still feels just as fond when he's done. ]
Turn around. I'll wash that hair.
[ His damp hands find Iorveth's shoulders, shoving gently. ]
I never thought myself the type to enjoy this sort of thing. [ Domesticity. Doing something for another person, just because. ] But I find that I like having something worth caring for.
[ Having someone to tend to. To consider. To do an act of service for not because he has to, but because he wants to. ]
[ It's all so dazzlingly mundane, this. Amidst the chaos of their current circumstances (the tadpole, the cultists, the constant threats of murder around every corner), this strange thing that they've managed to carve out despite it all feels―
―important? Enormous. A lot, which is always the running theme. Iorveth settles in warm water (Jessamine wasn't lying about it being blessed) and turns to show Astarion his back without caution or hesitation. The only person in the world that Iorveth doesn't have a kneejerk sense of wariness about allowing into his blind side. ]
Again: my opinion is that you're more noble than you know.
[ As he tilts back, giving Astarion access to whatever he pleases. ]
[ 'Noble'. Astarion could dunk Iorveth for that. He considers dunking Iorveth for it, the image of a wet and spluttering wood elf vivid in his mind: oh, do you still think I'm noble now? He doesn't. Instead, he only tilts Iorveth back far enough to wet his hair properly before sitting him back up and combing his fingers through it, even darker and shinier now in the tub. ]
Ridiculous, [ he repeats for what must be the tenth time today. A pause stretches out, then he says, an admission: ] Perhaps you bring it out in me.
[ A bottle uncorks behind Iorveth, and Astarion pours sweet-smelling soap into his palm before working it through the tips of Iorveth's hair. ]
You make me want to be... soft.
[ The word is uttered with no small amount of humiliation. ]
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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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It's really not healthy to like someone this much. Some part of the delirium is owed to sex brain, but the greater majority is the ear-ringing pleasure of being trusted, of being chosen, of being given permission. Astarion tightens, trembles, and lets himself fall over the edge; that's more exciting than anything else.
Enough that it doesn't take much for Iorveth to follow, hips stuttering and grip tightening when it wanders back, desperately, to Astarion's waist. He has enough presence of mind not to come inside Astarion, though: his instinct is to pull out before he reaches his peak, clumsily spilling his spend on his own cock and the curve of Astarion's rear with a groan and a half-bitten Astarion.
Maybe he'll get yelled at for being too careful. Later. Iorveth huffs, chest heaving, and rests his forehead against Astarion's collarbone. Drinking in his scent, bathing in all that skin. ]
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I needed that.
[ Every time with Iorveth feels like the erasure of one more bad memory, shame and disgust replaced with the feeling of being wanted, cherished. ]
Thank you.
[ An objectively ridiculous thing to say, and he has the sense, at least, to feel embarrassed about thanking Iorveth for the fuck. ]
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"Thank you for the sex" should be more funny than it actually is. He remembers all those ghoulish faces they found in the basement of Cazador's tasteless mansion, and thinking about Astarion on his back for all of them occasionally makes Iorveth regret not killing at least some of the worst offenders.
So: ] A flattering assessment. [ To think he fulfilled any part of Astarion's needs. A soft kiss to the peak of Astarion's shoulder, and Iorveth reaches for a clean towel to wipe some of the mess they've made. ] I've grown to want your needs.
[ His smile is soft, slow-growing. ] Will you be able to walk?
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He drapes himself over Iorveth, hardly cognizant of the spend cooling on their skin. Strange; he's always hated the mess that sex makes, always felt especially dirty and disgusting with it on him, but he finds himself unfazed when it's a mess that Iorveth has made.
Teasing: ] Oh, not a chance. I suppose you'll just have to carry me.
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More careful wiping, worming a hand between the press of their bodies to clean off a bit of the cooling spend. Attentive in a way that he knows no one expects him to be, and that's fine― he never will be for anyone that isn't Astarion-shaped. Then again, if Astarion's long-lost twin appeared tomorrow, Iorveth wouldn't be attentive towards twin!Astarion despite being him Astarion-shaped.
A lot of thoughts about Astarion, at any rate. That name lives rent-free in Iorveth's head now. ]
Threaten me with a good time. [ Truly. Lazily, he draws vague patterns over the scars on Astarion's back with warm fingers. ] ―We'll not have this luxury tomorrow, so I'm amenable to taking what I can.
[ The bad news: Lae'zel has decreed that Astarion (and Astarion only) will be pulled aside tomorrow for an excursion. No one-eyed freak elves allowed on this particular mission: Iorveth has been banished to the Bad Kid Corner. ]
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[ The corner of his mouth quirks up in juvenile amusement, and he leans his head against Iorveth's shoulder, hair tickling Iorveth's cheek. He's never been one for post-coital cuddling, but— he wasn't one for a lot of things, before Iorveth came around. He'd be humiliated if anyone were ever to call him on this behavior, but for now, he curls up against Iorveth's warmth, metaphorical tail swishing in contentment. ]
Well, there'll be plenty of time for me to tie you to the bedposts the day after tomorrow.
[ He sighs, hand smoothing over Iorveth's tattoo. ]
I love you, you know. I was growing rather impatient over all the centuries, but— I think you were worth the wait.
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―Nothing will compensate for what you endured. Nothing.
[ Blunt. Possibly not the kindest thing to say during post-coital cuddling, but he wants to make it clear: their current state of being doesn't make up for two hundred years of horrific torture. Astarion has always, unerringly and objectively, deserved better, and he likely still deserves better, even now.
With that said, Iorveth cradles Astarion closer against his chest to comb his fingers through silver hair, affectionate and protective. ]
...Still, your love is worth everything to me. [ A gentle huff, to lighten the mood. ] Closest to my heart― my only.
[ He presses his lips to Astarion's temple, lingering in that soft, warm space. ]
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They wouldn't have even spared each other a passing glance. It seems it had to happen this way, and if so, then— yes, Iorveth was worth the wait. A few centuries from now, Cazador will only be a hazy memory, but Iorveth will never be anything but clear as day. ]
I should hope I'm your only.
[ If they returned to Iorveth's homeland only to find that he had a wife and children up there, Astarion would commit crimes so heinous that they aren't fit to describe here. ]
Are you going to let me bathe you?
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To the "let me": ] Tonight, I'd let you shave me bald if you wished it. [ In this state, Iorveth really couldn't refuse Astarion anything. A short laugh-exhale, and he shifts under Astarion's weight. ] Wind your arms around my shoulders.
[ He glances towards the bath, and the distance he'd have to walk from couch to pool; only a few steps. A short enough journey that he thinks he could get away with, yes, carrying Astarion― he's no Karlach, but he's been pulling bowstrings and climbing trees since he was old enough to speak. It takes a bit of mental preparation, but he manages to get on his feet with Astarion in tow, adjusting their positions just a bit so that he's hefting his partner bridal style instead of sack-of-potatoes-style.
Heavy. Astarion is no willowy waif, and requires concentration to keep steady until they reach the edge of the water, where Iorveth deposits him slowly, carefully. ]
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It works. Astarion pulls him down alongside him to kiss him, insistent and pleased, like the only way he can rid himself of the overwhelming affection he feels is to press it into Iorveth's mouth. That doesn't work. He still feels just as fond when he's done. ]
Turn around. I'll wash that hair.
[ His damp hands find Iorveth's shoulders, shoving gently. ]
I never thought myself the type to enjoy this sort of thing. [ Domesticity. Doing something for another person, just because. ] But I find that I like having something worth caring for.
[ Having someone to tend to. To consider. To do an act of service for not because he has to, but because he wants to. ]
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―important? Enormous. A lot, which is always the running theme. Iorveth settles in warm water (Jessamine wasn't lying about it being blessed) and turns to show Astarion his back without caution or hesitation. The only person in the world that Iorveth doesn't have a kneejerk sense of wariness about allowing into his blind side. ]
Again: my opinion is that you're more noble than you know.
[ As he tilts back, giving Astarion access to whatever he pleases. ]
I'll not let anyone else know.
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Ridiculous, [ he repeats for what must be the tenth time today. A pause stretches out, then he says, an admission: ] Perhaps you bring it out in me.
[ A bottle uncorks behind Iorveth, and Astarion pours sweet-smelling soap into his palm before working it through the tips of Iorveth's hair. ]
You make me want to be... soft.
[ The word is uttered with no small amount of humiliation. ]
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