[ 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. ]
[ He fully expects to be flicked in the face with water for noble, but settles for the way Astarion says that one word, soft, as if it's some unutterable curse. Understandable; he'd rebelled against it too, had to remind himself in the past to use a soft touch despite how little experience he'd had with it.
That said: Iorveth laughs. Probably a bit mean. ]
Adding to my ever-growing list of crimes. [ A light chuckle, as he leans into Astarion's hands, single green eye shuttering. ] "Ruining the resident vampire's rakish image."
[ The quotation marks are audible; there for dramatic flair. A bit of ribbing, before Iorveth gentles. ]
I consider myself lucky, then. To be cared for by you.
[ The soap lathers underneath his hands, and he rakes his fingers through every inch of Iorveth's hair until it's streaked with foam. Iorveth did this for him once, after their night out on the town. (Their possible last night alive, he'd said. A few of those have come and gone by now.) He'd felt awkward with someone else's hands in his hair, had hoped that Iorveth wasn't looking at his scars. What a difference a little bit of time makes.
He leans Iorveth back again to rinse the lather from his hair. Even with it gone, dissipating into the pool, the warm smell of something pleasant remains. Vanilla, perhaps. ]
Careful not to count yourself too lucky. The world as we know it may still end in the next tenday.
[ The scent of vanilla, sweet and soft, isn't one he wouldn't have chosen for himself, but it fits the mood of the night. Water displaces around him as he floats back, tipping indulgently to rest his head on Astarion's shoulder. ]
If I die tomorrow, I'll at least have the memory of this.
[ Uncomplicated and peaceful. The sort of idle happiness he'd never considered having, nor wanting. It's strange that it took an illithid parasite being lodged in his skull for him to get here, but that's life. ]
I never even dreamed of anything like this, before you. In all my years, I'd only ever wanted--
[ There's so little they seem to have in common superficially, but every so often, Iorveth says something that reminds him why they understand each other. All of Astarion's few and fleeting moments of peace in the palace had been in solitude; even his fantasies of power had ended in having the power to be left alone. Other people were always something to fear or deride.
He runs a soapy hand across Iorveth's chest, tugging him closer. ]
[ What, as if the answer to that question isn't abundantly clear. There's a brief flicker of temptation to say something completely unrelated, like "taking Scratch out for a walk while the owlbear cub trails along", but going that route feels a little too twee.
The soapy hand feels nice. Everything does. Astarion's velvet voice against his ear, and the warm scent of vanilla suffused with just a trace hint of undead sharpness. Almost like mulled wine. Iorveth almost forgets to reply to the question still hanging in the air, soaking and luxuriating in the safety of their hard-earned space, but he finally gets there. ]
Quiet. A table full of food. [ He smiles, finding his mundane dreams very droll. ] You, in soft clothes, sitting by a fireplace. Reading.
[ His voice lowers to a murmur. ]
I've wanted to die for many causes, but you're the only thing I'd like to live for.
[ Good. Astarion wants Iorveth to live — a long, long time, maybe forever. He thinks, a little bitterly, that if he'd sacrificed all of those spawn, at least he'd be able to turn Iorveth. He'd really hate Astarion then, though, so he supposes the outcome would be the same.
He soaps up Iorveth's arm, all the way down to his hand and his fingers. ]
[ It's Iorveth's turn to melt, now. Utterly boneless, defenseless and unguarded against Astarion's chest as he lets Astarion maneuver him however he pleases. For a terrible second, he realizes that this is what being spoiled must feel like, but he brushes that moment of recognition aside; it feels too nice to pass up, especially since Astarion wasn't wrong in pointing out that they could lose this all in a matter of hours.
Pliant and pleasantly warm, Iorveth nuzzles against Astarion's jaw. ]
Mm. You do love the sound of your own voice. [ A brief laugh, almost inaudible. ] I'll amend the details of my dream.
[ A sigh, this time. Content. Astarion, he murmurs, speaking his companion's name just for the sake of it, just because he can. ]
[ Iorveth is so stunningly different from how he'd once appeared, wonderfully malleable and soft in his arms, nothing like the stiff-backed elf who'd once (all right, several times) threatened to slit Astarion's throat. This is what Elysium must be like, he thinks. Endless days of warmth, with someone he loves in his arms.
The washing up turns to idle swipes of his hand, no rhyme or reason except to keep touching Iorveth while he's like this, keep enjoying it while he can. He tucks Iorveth under his chin, sighing. ]
As long as you're there, I'm not sure I care about the finer details of the future.
[ He sounds a little surprised. Is a little surprised. Astarion's vision of the future has always been focused on material things: the city he'll live in, the money he'll have, the nice things he'll be surrounded with. All of that seems shockingly unimportant if Iorveth isn't in the picture. ]
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no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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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That said: Iorveth laughs. Probably a bit mean. ]
Adding to my ever-growing list of crimes. [ A light chuckle, as he leans into Astarion's hands, single green eye shuttering. ] "Ruining the resident vampire's rakish image."
[ The quotation marks are audible; there for dramatic flair. A bit of ribbing, before Iorveth gentles. ]
I consider myself lucky, then. To be cared for by you.
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He leans Iorveth back again to rinse the lather from his hair. Even with it gone, dissipating into the pool, the warm smell of something pleasant remains. Vanilla, perhaps. ]
Careful not to count yourself too lucky. The world as we know it may still end in the next tenday.
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If I die tomorrow, I'll at least have the memory of this.
[ Uncomplicated and peaceful. The sort of idle happiness he'd never considered having, nor wanting. It's strange that it took an illithid parasite being lodged in his skull for him to get here, but that's life. ]
I never even dreamed of anything like this, before you. In all my years, I'd only ever wanted--
[ A vague wave of his hand. ]
--Quiet. A table full of food. Never with anyone.
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He runs a soapy hand across Iorveth's chest, tugging him closer. ]
And what do you dream of now?
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The soapy hand feels nice. Everything does. Astarion's velvet voice against his ear, and the warm scent of vanilla suffused with just a trace hint of undead sharpness. Almost like mulled wine. Iorveth almost forgets to reply to the question still hanging in the air, soaking and luxuriating in the safety of their hard-earned space, but he finally gets there. ]
Quiet. A table full of food. [ He smiles, finding his mundane dreams very droll. ] You, in soft clothes, sitting by a fireplace. Reading.
[ His voice lowers to a murmur. ]
I've wanted to die for many causes, but you're the only thing I'd like to live for.
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He soaps up Iorveth's arm, all the way down to his hand and his fingers. ]
'Quiet' may be asking quite a lot from me.
[ Professional yapper, etc. ]
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Pliant and pleasantly warm, Iorveth nuzzles against Astarion's jaw. ]
Mm. You do love the sound of your own voice. [ A brief laugh, almost inaudible. ] I'll amend the details of my dream.
[ A sigh, this time. Content. Astarion, he murmurs, speaking his companion's name just for the sake of it, just because he can. ]
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The washing up turns to idle swipes of his hand, no rhyme or reason except to keep touching Iorveth while he's like this, keep enjoying it while he can. He tucks Iorveth under his chin, sighing. ]
As long as you're there, I'm not sure I care about the finer details of the future.
[ He sounds a little surprised. Is a little surprised. Astarion's vision of the future has always been focused on material things: the city he'll live in, the money he'll have, the nice things he'll be surrounded with. All of that seems shockingly unimportant if Iorveth isn't in the picture. ]