[ Iorveth doesn't expect sex to be on the table, but if it's something Astarion wants to do, far be it for him to not enjoy it. For a given value of enjoying, when the steadily mounting frustration of not being able to touch or reciprocate is fraying his nerves. Not one to sit back and just idly take anything, especially not pleasure.
His bent knee settles back onto the duvet, tacitly permitting Astarion to do as he likes. Gale's trousers sit low on his high hips, the difference in their builds evident in small details. He laugh-sighs, amused and exasperated. ]
You truly have no idea how much of my mind you occupy.
[ Probably a good thing, that Astarion doesn't know. Iorveth shifts, a little restless with his hands still held above his head, the thin cuts that Astarion made itching a bit now that the initial pain has receded. ]
Fine. Ruin me.
[ "You're the one that will have to deal with me" is implied. ]
[ However much of Iorveth's mind he occupies, he'll always selfishly want to occupy more. The curse of a vampire: no matter how much he gets, he'll still be hungry. Astarion leans over Iorveth's body to place his dagger on the nightstand, because even freaks would be justified to feel hesitant at the idea of a blade anywhere near them when their pants are off. The tip is stained red from Iorveth's blood, and he'll need to clean it eventually, but for now it sends a quiver of excitement through him to look at.
He has two hands free now, all the better to undress Iorveth with. His fingers find their way underneath his waistband again, cold against the warmth of his skin, and tug insistently.
Sweetly: ] How would you like to be ruined, my love?
[ Agony, when Astarion leans over him: Iorveth's arms shift, instinctively wanting to wrap around that eminently-holdable waist. Frustration flits across his expression, obvious and sharp for a razor's-edge moment.
A deep breath, in and out, and Iorveth tries to settle himself. His hips lift an inch from the mattress, helping Astarion shimmy him out of his layers; Iorveth is wearing Gale's underwear, which is, you guessed it, deep violet. Not really Iorveth's color. ]
You've no preferences? [ Another huff, this time through his nose. ] How would you want to ruin me?
[ Tossing the question back at Astarion, who Iorveth knows has more revulsion than preference for intimacy. Still, he wants to pass the ball to Astarion for a moment, even if he throws it right back at Iorveth for him to decide; another implication here, that even stupid kink negotiation can be reciprocal. ]
I suppose it depends on how much you want to watch me squirm.
[ His preferences. Still a bit of a foreign concept. Astarion is more well acquainted with what he doesn't like than what he does, save for things like 'being close to Iorveth in any way possible'. He's silent for a moment, playing with the waistband of Iorveth's ridiculously garish underwear. The corner of his mouth quirks up, amused. Even handsome in bright purple undies, he thinks. Perhaps Astarion really does have rose-colored glasses on. ]
I'd like for you to squirm as much as possible, I think.
[ A little uncertainty appended to the end, just in case. Astarion can never truly be sure what he'll enjoy and what he'll loathe when it comes to physicality, but he does want to discover it for himself now that he has the freedom to loathe it. He pulls off the borrowed underwear next, leaving Iorveth in only his dagger-torn shirt, and leans in to trace the trail of little bite marks with his tongue and his teeth. ]
[ As much as possible. Astarion is telling Iorveth to take a metaphorical knife and plunge it into his own chest, which is usually not something he'd entertain or even concede to, but. Baby steps. Astarion is telling him what he wants, for once, and so－
－Iorveth wracks his brain for what could undo him. "Use your head and try to think for yourself" would be easy enough to say, but, again: baby steps. Astarion has two hundred years of discomfort to sift through, and Iorveth can throw him a bone. ]
...Give me your hand, then. Settle next to me.
[ He'd demonstrate, but his own hands are still symbolically tied. ]
Touch me, bite me. Do whatever you wish, as long as you're within kissing distance. [ Showing his obvious hand: he really likes kissing Astarion. He has probably noticed. If he hasn't, then this next statement will make it abundantly clear. ] ...But don't let me kiss you, even if I ask.
[ The easiest way to make Iorveth go a little crazy. ]
[ Kissing. How innocent. What are they, adolescents? Astarion staunchly ignores the fact that this makes him pout a little, because, well, he enjoys being kissed, so this is like a punishment for him, too.
Still, he does as instructed — it's funny, but not particularly out of character, that Iorveth is the one telling Astarion what to tell him to do (or not do, in this case). He bites his way back up Iorveth's torso, which is beginning to look like he got in an altercation with some sort of fanged animal, settling on his side once he's made his way up to nipping at his sharp jawline. His palm splays out across Iorveth's abdomen, fingers cold but quickly warming to meet Iorveth's temperature. ]
[ He gets into altercations with fanged animals very frequently. Case in point.
Iorveth glances down at how he's faring in terms of casual injury. Still all green. A potion might help later, but he doesn't really feel like explaining to Gale why he needs one again despite having stayed inside the entire night. Hm.
What he does feel like doing: looking at Astarion. The tickle of his hair against Iorveth's jaw is the closest Iorveth's gotten to petting him since they ended up in bed, and the thought of that alone is mildly maddening. ]
If you think I've not earned it, then yes. Not even if I beg.
[ After what Astarion had to put up with in Flotsam, Iorveth thinks that he's entitled to make Iorveth feel at least a little sorry for landing him in that situation. He's already tilting his head a fraction of an inch, aquiline nose brushing up against Astarion's. ]
[ His hair brushes Iorveth's jaw again as he ducks his head to nibble at the thin skin behind Iorveth's ear, gentle even though he'd rather be anything but. This sort of light biting that draws little blood if any doesn't fully satisfy his vampiric urges, but if nothing else, it's enrichment. The points of his teeth scrape across Iorveth's skin, and Astarion could swear he hears the blood rushing through those veins.
Meanwhile, he lets his fingertips wander down toward Iorveth's groin, touch light as he grazes Iorveth's cock. There's nothing resembling rhythm in his touch, no discernable intent. Touching for the sake of touching. ]
[ No intent, but just being touched by a now-familiar hand can sometimes be stimulation enough. Astarion should be able to feel how Iorveth swallows his next broken exhale, throat bobbing with discernible effort. His heart feels like it's climbing up his throat, but he's literally helpless to do anything about his reactions with his hands currently strung up using promise-rope.
An experimental squirm, on too-soft sheets. ]
I've begged before. [ Trying to distract himself by making conversation. Kind of difficult with Astarion's hand on his already-hard cock, the semi having graduated to a full-fledged erection by the time Astarion runs his sharp teeth over a sensitive ear. ] But never because I wanted anything.
[ Well. Maybe not entirely accurate― Iorveth'd begged humans because he "wanted" them, simply, to stop. Negotiating degrees of loss, really. Not the same. Nuzzling closer to Astarion's hair, Iorveth sees if he can get away with some reciprocal kissing along Astarion's ear (cheating!) as he subtly rocks up into Astarion's palm. ]
...Tell me something you want to do while we're in Waterdeep.
[ Astarion hates the idea of Iorveth ever begging for mercy. He's been there before, and he knows how absolutely pathetic it made him feel. Like he was nothing but dirt beneath Cazador's feet. He only ever wants to hear Iorveth beg for things he wants from here on.
He angles his head away from Iorveth's lips, tsk-ing. As enjoyable as it is, it would be more enjoyable to watch Iorveth squirm. ]
Bad boy, [ he teases, impish. If Iorveth wants to be denied, he'll be denied.
As his hand meets Iorveth's rocking, grip a little more intentional now, he says, casually, ] Perhaps we should celebrate Fey Day while we're here. A lot could happen at a masquerade.
[ Close, but not close enough. Iorveth shifts on the sheets again, restless, and scratches at the headboard of Gale's ridiculously expensive-looking bed (he really hadn't realized how much money the wizard comes from until now). His cock twitches expectantly in Astarion's palm, almost as if it's eager for the attention.
Embarrassing. The freak in him isn't protesting too much, though, so. Again: all green. ]
You're willing to put a mask on that face?
[ He laugh-sighs, frustration mounting on the planes of his face as he leans in for another nuzzle and misses. Sharp lines made sharper not by irritation, but the obvious sentiment of "I really want to kiss you, fuck."
More impatient self-positioning, as he realizes that he really is at Astarion's mercy. Strangely fun, if he gets over the fact that his entire body suddenly feels too hot. ]
[ Adorable. He likes watching Iorveth squirm as much as he'd thought he would. Whatever negative things Iorveth might say about his appearance, he looks like an angel right now, long limbs spread out across Gale's fancy guest bed, erection a comfortable weight in the palm of Astarion's hand. He still doesn't believe in things like soulmates, but sometimes, when he's feeling particularly sentimental, it does feel like Iorveth's body was designed to fit perfectly against his. ]
Why not? It can be exhausting being this beautiful.
[ He grins, thumb running down to gently circle the sensitive head of Iorveth's cock, a featherlight touch. It's not his typical way to be so lackadaisical with intimacy; his habit is rough efficiency, getting his partner to release as quickly as possible, but he doesn't mind spending longer than is strictly necessary touching Iorveth. ]
Is there anything you'd like to ask me?
[ Iorveth should have never encouraged him to do this. He's unbearable. ]
[ Two wolves inside Iorveth: one wolf is pleased that Astarion might be feeling something that isn't abject disgust at the feeling of a dick in his hand, the other is rolling around and kicking its feet and yipping and yapping.
Outwardly, Iorveth is a combination of those two wolves. Watchful, but strained. The fingers scraping at the headboard turn into little claws, blunted nails tracing the carvings in the wood with more restless fervor; tipping his chin up, he swallows the tail end of a sigh-moan when Astarion idly pets at his (now-slick) head. It always feels a little obscene, making Astarion's clever fingers touch his cock. ]
Gods, you're unbearable. [ Deeply affectionate. ] I want to kiss you.
[ He forgets to ask, which is the point. Honk, goes his clown nose. ]
Astarion. [ Slightly choked, on a broken breath. ] Your mouth. [ Not a sentence. Also not a request. Loving Astarion has truly made him unwise. ]
[ Oh, Astarion loves Iorveth. He gazes down at him, visibly restless but still obeying, and feels a swell of affection in his chest. Iorveth lets him deny him the things he wants, which is exactly why Astarion wants to give Iorveth everything he wants. In his mind, he draws cartoon hearts around Iorveth, lovebirds flying around his head. The strength of his feeling would have frightened him once upon a time; caring for someone was a weakness to be exploited during his time in the bowels of Cazador's palace. It doesn't frighten him anymore. In fact, he finds he rather likes adoring someone.
He spreads slickness over the head of Iorveth's cock with his thumb and finally begins to stroke him in earnest, long, slow tugs so as not to distract from the most important thing, the psychological warfare he's waging on the person he loves most in the world. ]
[ Psychological warfare with his dick in Astarion's hand. It's all very ridiculous. Iorveth tries to recall what the point of all this was－ something about atoning for putting Astarion through temporary hell, wanting Astarion to feel more in control－ but his brain feels a little fried, and honestly, the actual point is just to be close to Astarion in whatever way possible.
That said, the sound of the mess he's making on Astarion's palm is almost as unbearable as not being able to touch him or kiss him. Iorveth has heard of people being content to just sit back and let someone else get them off, but can't wrap his mind around what the possible appeal of that could even be.
Another shift, an insistent attempt to bump foreheads that winds up looking like he's tossing and turning on his pillow. Iorveth makes a half-strangled sound, frustrated, and tries again. ]
I can't come if I can't kiss you. [ A near-growl, his throat bobbing with the effort. ] Fuck, if you haven't actually ruined me.
[ Sex is sport, but Iorveth doubts sleeping with anyone else will even come close to the feeling he gets just being pressed against Astarion. He shifts (squirms) again, one knee bending as his hips turn towards Astarion's hand. ]
[ Iorveth said not to kiss him even if he asked, but Astarion is only a man. There's quite possibly nothing in the world that could excite him more than the sound of Iorveth saying please while squirming on a pillow, so he crawls atop Iorveth again, pressing one palm to his linked wrists again while the other keeps up its steady work between his legs. It feels wet, sounds obscenely wet. He's never felt so powerful as he does now, knowing that he has this effect on Iorveth.
Brushing their noses together, he says, ] You're so very good.
[ He isn't sure if this sort of praise affects Iorveth at all, but it's genuine and needs to be said regardless. Iorveth is good. He tolerates Astarion's neuroses, encourages his idiosyncrasies. He lets Astarion feel in control after feeling entirely out of control. Sometimes, Astarion is afraid that he'll wake up in the kennels and find that Iorveth was just a vivid dream. ]
You're perfect. [ Praise again, but genuine again. He brushes his lips against Iorveth's, light and gentle, just a whisper of a touch. ]
[ Every nerve in Iorveth's body lights up when Astarion crawls on top of him, and his fingers instinctively curl towards the hand holding his wrists in place like flowers bending towards the sun. Agonizing over even that small point of contact, alternating between finally and more.
That agony crescendos at the featherlight flutter of Astarion's lips against his own, at being called "perfect". He bucks against the hand still wound torturously around his oversensitive erection, its steady, languid strokes pushing him closer and closer to an edge that he can't quite seem to tip over.
He huffs, shivers. "Good" and "perfect" are sweet, but not a "you can kiss me"; iron discipline and obstinate love keep him from surging up and claiming Astarion's mouth. Right now, his partner holds all his cards. ]
Beloved, [ he groans, lips parted like an offering. ] Please, fuck.
[ Affection aggression. He wants Astarion so much, he thinks he'll vibrate out of his skin. ]
Please. I want you, only you, you. [ Half-snarled, desperate. ]
[ 'Beloved', his most favorite word. Happy butterflies flutter in his stomach, warm affection radiating out of him. How could Iorveth ever consider himself undesirable when Astarion could probably get off to the mere sound of his voice calling him sweet names? He thinks he could stay here forever, listening to Iorveth's desperate groans and savoring the jerks of his hips, but even he isn't so cruel as to deny Iorveth for that long.
A gentle squeeze to Iorveth's erection during his downward stroke, and: ] Only because you beg so sweetly.
[ He can't believe that anyone ever ignored Iorveth's pleas. Rotten, wretched creatures. Iorveth will never beg again, he thinks, without getting what he asked for. Astarion licks into his open mouth, tongue sliding against Iorveth's as he considers that it's been a tenday or perhaps more since they last kissed in this way. The inside of Iorveth's mouth feels hot in a stirring way, just enough on the side of 'too much', and he sighs into it, soft and pleased. ]
[ Again: finally. The part of Iorveth that should be embarrassed by obvious displays of desperate affection are effectively silenced, and all that's left of him is the animal hindbrain that makes him lick up into Astarion's mouth to taste the remnants of his own blood still left between Astarion's teeth. The feeling is intimate and immediate; it's also filthy and messy, all desire and no finesse. Feral, hungry, unhinged.
It's also the thing Iorveth needed, to fall over the precipice he'd been flirting with. No doubt most people would find it strange that kissing, of all things, is what finally makes Iorveth's already sex-stupid mind go completely blank, but it's what does it for him: a choked moan mid-kiss is Astarion's only warning before Iorveth spills all over Astarion's hand, hands still linked over his head and hips lifted an inch from the soft cushioning of their now-wrinkled sheets. He shudders a few times, stubbornly refusing to pull away from where their mouths are still pressed together, obstinate even mid-orgasm and after it, when his limbs go limp and his knee falls down from where it'd hiked up.
Ruined. Iorveth tips his head to the side to breathe, single green eye glazed and foggy from exertion. ]
Fuck, [ for the millionth time. Very articulate. ] You feel so good.
[ Belatedly. Also, just in general. The handjob was amazing, of course, but the sentiment is more all-inclusive: "being with you is so good". ]
[ Iorveth has to come down from his orgasm, and Astarion has to come down from the overwhelming feeling of power. His hand slows then stops entirely before he lifts it to lick up the mess Iorveth made on his palm. The taste of spend typically disgusts him, but something that comes from Iorveth could never repulse him; it's different somehow, like how everything is different with Iorveth. ]
Who knew my little fox could be so obedient?
[ Not him, that's for sure. He takes each of Iorveth's wrists in his hands, grip gentle and loose as he brings them down. One of them gets brought to his mouth, and his lips graze each knuckle before he turns it over and presses his mouth to Iorveth's palm, fangs scraping lightly. It's reverent, appreciative. ]
The memory of that will certainly sustain me through our travels.
[ Translation: oh yeah, that's going in the spank bank. ]
[ A little dizzy, very much affectionate. Iorveth watches with dazed awe at Astarion kissing his hand, blinking hearts out of his single eye; all of the restrictions and denials later, this is still the safest Iorveth has felt around any being, living or otherwise.
He turns his palm over in Astarion's grip, and cradles his face. Reciprocal reverence. ]
Let it get to your head.
[ The common saying starts with "don't", but Iorveth modifies it: Astarion should absolutely be confident that Iorveth is obsessed with him. Thumbing over Astarion's cheek, Iorveth leans in with a soft: ] You didn't drink much.
[ More mental warfare, less feeding. Iorveth would be fine with fangs in his neck post-sex, but also－
－from downstairs, Gale's voice floats over, muffled and distant: "Ah! I think I've found a compelling lead into improving your condition, Astarion!" ]
He isn't ungrateful to Gale for helping—quite the opposite—but he, as expected, has the second worst timing known to man. (The only timing worse would be if he called up while Astarion's hand was still on Iorveth's prick.) He was hoping to roll around in bed a little more, be kissed a lot more, maybe sink his fangs into Iorveth another time—
But there's Gale's nasally and excited voice, and Astarion can't very well ignore it like he normally does. He sits up, unsure whether to scowl or grin given the circumstances. As irritated as he is to have the first real affection he's gotten from Iorveth in a tenday interrupted, the thought of a 'compelling lead' is, well, compelling.
He snatches Iorveth's borrowed pants up off of the floor, holding them out for him to take. There isn't much to be done about the shirt situation, nor is there anything that will change the fact that Iorveth looks like he had a run-in with a rabid bat. Gale will probably find what they've been doing up here to be very impolite, and he won't be wrong. Too bad Astarion doesn't care. ]
Coming! [ he calls back, if only so Gale doesn't try to come up here before Iorveth can get dressed. ]
[ If it were for any other reason, Iorveth might have told Gale to fuck off; unfortunately for him, it's about the matter of Astarion's condition, and that's more important than anything Iorveth could be doing right now.
So. On goes the pants. A quick combthrough of his hair and a halfhearted attempt to drape the ruined shirt more artfully over his torso, and Iorveth nods at Astarion to indicate that he's ready to brave Gale and his enthusiasm once more.
Down the stairs, back into the sitting room. Gale looks up from where he's sifting his fingers over a particular shelf, a book enchanted and hovering, open, next to him; he's grinning ear to ear until he sees the state Iorveth is in, and wilts like a five-day-old bouquet.
"Well, I certainly hope I'm not interrupting anything," is more than a little exasperated. ]
[ If Astarion had any shame, he'd feel embarrassed right now. No two people have ever looked so obviously like they were just having sex (that was consensual, but not particularly safe or sane). He doesn't, though, so he stands there with his nose in the air like Iorveth isn't wearing a shirt that he got carried away with and sliced down the front. ]
I said I was hungry.
[ As if that's an excuse for getting freaky in Gale's abode less than twenty four hours after being allowed in. ]
You're a wizard. Mend that shirt, will you? I happen to like it.
[ The audacity. Iorveth will allow it (back to "he said no pickles"). Gale, obviously put-upon, splutters for a second－ "you do realize that it's my shirt"－ but, unable to resist a demonstration of magic or the chance to talk about his findings, doesn't tell Astarion and Iorveth to fuck off, and instead...
...does as he's told. Again: a dog that wants to be a good boy. A flick of Gale's wrist and a quick murmur of the cantrip's verbal component later, the shirt slowly starts to stitch itself back together as if it'd never been sliced open in the first place.
While that's happening, Gale turns his attention back to the book still hovering by his side, and gestures to it with some impatience. "May I?" (Iorveth, ignoring most of that spellcasting demonstration, reaches up to comb his fingers through Astarion's hair and flick a stray piece of fuzz from his bangs.) ]
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His bent knee settles back onto the duvet, tacitly permitting Astarion to do as he likes. Gale's trousers sit low on his high hips, the difference in their builds evident in small details. He laugh-sighs, amused and exasperated. ]
You truly have no idea how much of my mind you occupy.
[ Probably a good thing, that Astarion doesn't know. Iorveth shifts, a little restless with his hands still held above his head, the thin cuts that Astarion made itching a bit now that the initial pain has receded. ]
Fine. Ruin me.
[ "You're the one that will have to deal with me" is implied. ]
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He has two hands free now, all the better to undress Iorveth with. His fingers find their way underneath his waistband again, cold against the warmth of his skin, and tug insistently.
Sweetly: ] How would you like to be ruined, my love?
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A deep breath, in and out, and Iorveth tries to settle himself. His hips lift an inch from the mattress, helping Astarion shimmy him out of his layers; Iorveth is wearing Gale's underwear, which is, you guessed it, deep violet. Not really Iorveth's color. ]
You've no preferences? [ Another huff, this time through his nose. ] How would you want to ruin me?
[ Tossing the question back at Astarion, who Iorveth knows has more revulsion than preference for intimacy. Still, he wants to pass the ball to Astarion for a moment, even if he throws it right back at Iorveth for him to decide; another implication here, that even stupid kink negotiation can be reciprocal. ]
I suppose it depends on how much you want to watch me squirm.
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I'd like for you to squirm as much as possible, I think.
[ A little uncertainty appended to the end, just in case. Astarion can never truly be sure what he'll enjoy and what he'll loathe when it comes to physicality, but he does want to discover it for himself now that he has the freedom to loathe it. He pulls off the borrowed underwear next, leaving Iorveth in only his dagger-torn shirt, and leans in to trace the trail of little bite marks with his tongue and his teeth. ]
You would look very handsome squirming.
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－Iorveth wracks his brain for what could undo him. "Use your head and try to think for yourself" would be easy enough to say, but, again: baby steps. Astarion has two hundred years of discomfort to sift through, and Iorveth can throw him a bone. ]
...Give me your hand, then. Settle next to me.
[ He'd demonstrate, but his own hands are still symbolically tied. ]
Touch me, bite me. Do whatever you wish, as long as you're within kissing distance. [ Showing his obvious hand: he really likes kissing Astarion. He has probably noticed. If he hasn't, then this next statement will make it abundantly clear. ] ...But don't let me kiss you, even if I ask.
[ The easiest way to make Iorveth go a little crazy. ]
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Still, he does as instructed — it's funny, but not particularly out of character, that Iorveth is the one telling Astarion what to tell him to do (or not do, in this case). He bites his way back up Iorveth's torso, which is beginning to look like he got in an altercation with some sort of fanged animal, settling on his side once he's made his way up to nipping at his sharp jawline. His palm splays out across Iorveth's abdomen, fingers cold but quickly warming to meet Iorveth's temperature. ]
Not even if you beg?
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Iorveth glances down at how he's faring in terms of casual injury. Still all green. A potion might help later, but he doesn't really feel like explaining to Gale why he needs one again despite having stayed inside the entire night. Hm.
What he does feel like doing: looking at Astarion. The tickle of his hair against Iorveth's jaw is the closest Iorveth's gotten to petting him since they ended up in bed, and the thought of that alone is mildly maddening. ]
If you think I've not earned it, then yes. Not even if I beg.
[ After what Astarion had to put up with in Flotsam, Iorveth thinks that he's entitled to make Iorveth feel at least a little sorry for landing him in that situation. He's already tilting his head a fraction of an inch, aquiline nose brushing up against Astarion's. ]
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Meanwhile, he lets his fingertips wander down toward Iorveth's groin, touch light as he grazes Iorveth's cock. There's nothing resembling rhythm in his touch, no discernable intent. Touching for the sake of touching. ]
Mmm — maybe if you beg very well.
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An experimental squirm, on too-soft sheets. ]
I've begged before. [ Trying to distract himself by making conversation. Kind of difficult with Astarion's hand on his already-hard cock, the semi having graduated to a full-fledged erection by the time Astarion runs his sharp teeth over a sensitive ear. ] But never because I wanted anything.
[ Well. Maybe not entirely accurate― Iorveth'd begged humans because he "wanted" them, simply, to stop. Negotiating degrees of loss, really. Not the same. Nuzzling closer to Astarion's hair, Iorveth sees if he can get away with some reciprocal kissing along Astarion's ear (cheating!) as he subtly rocks up into Astarion's palm. ]
...Tell me something you want to do while we're in Waterdeep.
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He angles his head away from Iorveth's lips, tsk-ing. As enjoyable as it is, it would be more enjoyable to watch Iorveth squirm. ]
Bad boy, [ he teases, impish. If Iorveth wants to be denied, he'll be denied.
As his hand meets Iorveth's rocking, grip a little more intentional now, he says, casually, ] Perhaps we should celebrate Fey Day while we're here. A lot could happen at a masquerade.
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Embarrassing. The freak in him isn't protesting too much, though, so. Again: all green. ]
You're willing to put a mask on that face?
[ He laugh-sighs, frustration mounting on the planes of his face as he leans in for another nuzzle and misses. Sharp lines made sharper not by irritation, but the obvious sentiment of "I really want to kiss you, fuck."
More impatient self-positioning, as he realizes that he really is at Astarion's mercy. Strangely fun, if he gets over the fact that his entire body suddenly feels too hot. ]
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Why not? It can be exhausting being this beautiful.
[ He grins, thumb running down to gently circle the sensitive head of Iorveth's cock, a featherlight touch. It's not his typical way to be so lackadaisical with intimacy; his habit is rough efficiency, getting his partner to release as quickly as possible, but he doesn't mind spending longer than is strictly necessary touching Iorveth. ]
Is there anything you'd like to ask me?
[ Iorveth should have never encouraged him to do this. He's unbearable. ]
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Outwardly, Iorveth is a combination of those two wolves. Watchful, but strained. The fingers scraping at the headboard turn into little claws, blunted nails tracing the carvings in the wood with more restless fervor; tipping his chin up, he swallows the tail end of a sigh-moan when Astarion idly pets at his (now-slick) head. It always feels a little obscene, making Astarion's clever fingers touch his cock. ]
Gods, you're unbearable. [ Deeply affectionate. ] I want to kiss you.
[ He forgets to ask, which is the point. Honk, goes his clown nose. ]
Astarion. [ Slightly choked, on a broken breath. ] Your mouth. [ Not a sentence. Also not a request. Loving Astarion has truly made him unwise. ]
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He spreads slickness over the head of Iorveth's cock with his thumb and finally begins to stroke him in earnest, long, slow tugs so as not to distract from the most important thing, the psychological warfare he's waging on the person he loves most in the world. ]
What about it? Use your words, darling.
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That said, the sound of the mess he's making on Astarion's palm is almost as unbearable as not being able to touch him or kiss him. Iorveth has heard of people being content to just sit back and let someone else get them off, but can't wrap his mind around what the possible appeal of that could even be.
Another shift, an insistent attempt to bump foreheads that winds up looking like he's tossing and turning on his pillow. Iorveth makes a half-strangled sound, frustrated, and tries again. ]
I can't come if I can't kiss you. [ A near-growl, his throat bobbing with the effort. ] Fuck, if you haven't actually ruined me.
[ Sex is sport, but Iorveth doubts sleeping with anyone else will even come close to the feeling he gets just being pressed against Astarion. He shifts (squirms) again, one knee bending as his hips turn towards Astarion's hand. ]
Please. Your mouth.
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Brushing their noses together, he says, ] You're so very good.
[ He isn't sure if this sort of praise affects Iorveth at all, but it's genuine and needs to be said regardless. Iorveth is good. He tolerates Astarion's neuroses, encourages his idiosyncrasies. He lets Astarion feel in control after feeling entirely out of control. Sometimes, Astarion is afraid that he'll wake up in the kennels and find that Iorveth was just a vivid dream. ]
You're perfect. [ Praise again, but genuine again. He brushes his lips against Iorveth's, light and gentle, just a whisper of a touch. ]
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That agony crescendos at the featherlight flutter of Astarion's lips against his own, at being called "perfect". He bucks against the hand still wound torturously around his oversensitive erection, its steady, languid strokes pushing him closer and closer to an edge that he can't quite seem to tip over.
He huffs, shivers. "Good" and "perfect" are sweet, but not a "you can kiss me"; iron discipline and obstinate love keep him from surging up and claiming Astarion's mouth. Right now, his partner holds all his cards. ]
Beloved, [ he groans, lips parted like an offering. ] Please, fuck.
[ Affection aggression. He wants Astarion so much, he thinks he'll vibrate out of his skin. ]
Please. I want you, only you, you. [ Half-snarled, desperate. ]
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A gentle squeeze to Iorveth's erection during his downward stroke, and: ] Only because you beg so sweetly.
[ He can't believe that anyone ever ignored Iorveth's pleas. Rotten, wretched creatures. Iorveth will never beg again, he thinks, without getting what he asked for. Astarion licks into his open mouth, tongue sliding against Iorveth's as he considers that it's been a tenday or perhaps more since they last kissed in this way. The inside of Iorveth's mouth feels hot in a stirring way, just enough on the side of 'too much', and he sighs into it, soft and pleased. ]
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It's also the thing Iorveth needed, to fall over the precipice he'd been flirting with. No doubt most people would find it strange that kissing, of all things, is what finally makes Iorveth's already sex-stupid mind go completely blank, but it's what does it for him: a choked moan mid-kiss is Astarion's only warning before Iorveth spills all over Astarion's hand, hands still linked over his head and hips lifted an inch from the soft cushioning of their now-wrinkled sheets. He shudders a few times, stubbornly refusing to pull away from where their mouths are still pressed together, obstinate even mid-orgasm and after it, when his limbs go limp and his knee falls down from where it'd hiked up.
Ruined. Iorveth tips his head to the side to breathe, single green eye glazed and foggy from exertion. ]
Fuck, [ for the millionth time. Very articulate. ] You feel so good.
[ Belatedly. Also, just in general. The handjob was amazing, of course, but the sentiment is more all-inclusive: "being with you is so good". ]
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Who knew my little fox could be so obedient?
[ Not him, that's for sure. He takes each of Iorveth's wrists in his hands, grip gentle and loose as he brings them down. One of them gets brought to his mouth, and his lips graze each knuckle before he turns it over and presses his mouth to Iorveth's palm, fangs scraping lightly. It's reverent, appreciative. ]
The memory of that will certainly sustain me through our travels.
[ Translation: oh yeah, that's going in the spank bank. ]
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He turns his palm over in Astarion's grip, and cradles his face. Reciprocal reverence. ]
Let it get to your head.
[ The common saying starts with "don't", but Iorveth modifies it: Astarion should absolutely be confident that Iorveth is obsessed with him. Thumbing over Astarion's cheek, Iorveth leans in with a soft: ] You didn't drink much.
[ More mental warfare, less feeding. Iorveth would be fine with fangs in his neck post-sex, but also－
－from downstairs, Gale's voice floats over, muffled and distant: "Ah! I think I've found a compelling lead into improving your condition, Astarion!" ]
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He isn't ungrateful to Gale for helping—quite the opposite—but he, as expected, has the second worst timing known to man. (The only timing worse would be if he called up while Astarion's hand was still on Iorveth's prick.) He was hoping to roll around in bed a little more, be kissed a lot more, maybe sink his fangs into Iorveth another time—
But there's Gale's nasally and excited voice, and Astarion can't very well ignore it like he normally does. He sits up, unsure whether to scowl or grin given the circumstances. As irritated as he is to have the first real affection he's gotten from Iorveth in a tenday interrupted, the thought of a 'compelling lead' is, well, compelling.
He snatches Iorveth's borrowed pants up off of the floor, holding them out for him to take. There isn't much to be done about the shirt situation, nor is there anything that will change the fact that Iorveth looks like he had a run-in with a rabid bat. Gale will probably find what they've been doing up here to be very impolite, and he won't be wrong. Too bad Astarion doesn't care. ]
Coming! [ he calls back, if only so Gale doesn't try to come up here before Iorveth can get dressed. ]
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So. On goes the pants. A quick combthrough of his hair and a halfhearted attempt to drape the ruined shirt more artfully over his torso, and Iorveth nods at Astarion to indicate that he's ready to brave Gale and his enthusiasm once more.
Down the stairs, back into the sitting room. Gale looks up from where he's sifting his fingers over a particular shelf, a book enchanted and hovering, open, next to him; he's grinning ear to ear until he sees the state Iorveth is in, and wilts like a five-day-old bouquet.
"Well, I certainly hope I'm not interrupting anything," is more than a little exasperated. ]
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I said I was hungry.
[ As if that's an excuse for getting freaky in Gale's abode less than twenty four hours after being allowed in. ]
You're a wizard. Mend that shirt, will you? I happen to like it.
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...does as he's told. Again: a dog that wants to be a good boy. A flick of Gale's wrist and a quick murmur of the cantrip's verbal component later, the shirt slowly starts to stitch itself back together as if it'd never been sliced open in the first place.
While that's happening, Gale turns his attention back to the book still hovering by his side, and gestures to it with some impatience. "May I?" (Iorveth, ignoring most of that spellcasting demonstration, reaches up to comb his fingers through Astarion's hair and flick a stray piece of fuzz from his bangs.) ]
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