essea: (42.)
ɪᴏʀᴠᴇᴛʜ. ([personal profile] essea) wrote2022-09-07 10:10 am
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nibbling: (pic#17273364)

[personal profile] nibbling 2025-01-05 03:56 am (UTC)(link)
[ 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.
nibbling: (pic#16872682)

[personal profile] nibbling 2025-01-05 05:00 am (UTC)(link)
[ 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.
]

And what do you dream of now?
nibbling: (pic#16872718)

[personal profile] nibbling 2025-01-05 06:58 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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.
]

'Quiet' may be asking quite a lot from me.

[ Professional yapper, etc. ]
nibbling: (pic#16896177)

[personal profile] nibbling 2025-01-05 11:00 pm (UTC)(link)
[ 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. ]