[ He must admit that Iorveth isn't always soft. Maybe even rarely soft. He'd ended those humans without a second thought, but his coldness doesn't make Astarion love him any less. Iorveth's sharpness is just as glorious as his softness for the juxtaposition of it all; he loves that Iorveth can kiss him just as easily as he can behead a man. He wouldn't have had any interest, after all, in some defenseless flower. Iorveth understands the things that need to be done for survival, and that's one of his most appealing qualities.
A kiss to the tip of his nose. ]
Luckily, I'm just as fond of the hard parts of you.
[ It's fortunate, Iorveth thinks, that Astarion only saw him after he was sure that Astarion was still alive. He might have been unnerved by the Iorveth that that poor brothel girl saw in the hallway, so utterly void of emotion or warmth or empathy.
(The only time in an age where he'd had to cut himself off, entirely, from the act of feeling. He knew he wouldn't have been able to bear it if he started thinking of the unthinkable, of the possibility that he might actually have fucking lost Astarion.)
Enough about that, though. Iorveth huffs, brow hiked, and flicks under Astarion's chin. ]
Full circle, I suppose. [ Back to the source of this conversation. ] I could undress.
[ He wouldn't mind, really. Gale might not be pleased, and poor Tara will probably want to stay far, far away from Iorveth, but being naked really isn't an issue. ]
And here I'd imagined the thought of Halsin turned you off of such things.
[ Poor Halsin, subject to their bullying miles away. Maybe he's naked in the forest right now, communing with the moon or whatever druids do. He probably feels a disturbance but can't figure out the source of it; if only he knew it was two mean elves mocking him. He's just such an easy target!
Astarion rolls off, knocking around hardbacks with his limbs before settling against one of Gale's soft pillows with his hands behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankle, lazy and languid. ]
[ Halsin wishes. (He did. It was an awkward conversation. As a fellow wood elf, Iorveth kind of Got It, but he also did, in fact, tell Halsin to kindly fuck off.) But that's enough psychic bullying of Halsin for now, so－
－in a probably ill-advised move, Iorveth sits up to oblige the stupid request. It's not the most absurd thing he's done, at any rate, and he's not actually a prude despite thinking himself not much to look at.
The shirt peels off first: slowly, as requested, though it's half-intentional and half because it doesn't fit him very well. Too tight around the shoulders (Gale is not built like an archer). His torso ripples with the effort, and he has to wriggle a little to pull his head out of the collar without damaging the seams. He thinks it must look ridiculous and unsexy, but at least he's giving Astarion an eyeful of the tattoo－ he's rather proud of it.
After that, the pants. He sits on the edge of the mattress for this, extending each leg to pull the similarly ill-fitting garment off, following it with a light stretch forward, folding himself in half with his hands easily folding over his toes.
His smallclothes are an afterthought. Unfolding himself, he stands up and steps out of Gale's garish violet underwear, placing it in a wooden laundry basket with careless abandon. With that done, he turns back towards Astarion, head tipped and lips curved slightly upwards. ]
[ He'd ogled Iorveth the first time he'd seen him naked at the bathhouse and thought him to be good-looking, combining the litheness of an elf paired with the musculature of a warrior. That was nothing compared to watching his ungainly stripping now. There could be no more glorious creature on Toril. His struggle with the shirt is objectively unsexy—and he laughs a little as he watches Iorveth grapple with it so valiantly—and yet it's entirely sexy to Astarion, because it's his most beloved and most desired person doing it.
He scoots down to the foot of the bed, letting his feet dangle as he reaches out to curl his fingers around Iorveth's forearm and tug him closer. ]
[ That word again, beautiful. A strange thing to hear from Astarion, a person who is so objectively beautiful to the point where he was actively taken advantage of for it. Iorveth lets himself be tugged, and does Astarion the courtesy of sitting next to him instead of looming with his dick impolitely near his face. ]
You must truly have hated the outfit.
[ He smiles briefly, letting the expression touch his features with slight trepidation. Still wary, again, of "beautiful", but allowing it from Astarion. ]
Come here, before I catch cold.
[ Opening his arms, coaxing. It's probably a ridiculous thing to say given that Astarion is cool to the touch, but whatever. The sentiment remains: Iorveth said that he wants to be close, and he'll stay close until Gale has to peel his now-naked body from Astarion's side. No one envies Gale in this moment. ]
[ Astarion grins, pleased that Iorveth didn't rail too hard against the compliment. In time, he hopes Iorveth will let such words sink into his skin until he really believes them. For now, he can only shower him with praise until it does.
He removes his shirt—Gale's shirt—with more grace than Iorveth, but tosses it on the floor with far less elegance. Neat with his own belongings, messy with others'. Who cares if Gale's shirt gets a little wrinkled? It's already forgotten as he pushes Iorveth's back down onto mattress so that he can crawl back atop him, pressing their bare chests together. It's probably cold for Iorveth, honestly, but it's heaven for him, the warmth of Iorveth's body radiating down his torso. ]
Oh, gods forbid.
[ A kiss to his chin, his cheek, the tip of his ear. ]
[ Cute cat. Iorveth briefly wonders how Astarion had to negotiate his encounters under Cazador's thumb, and imagines that he had to spend all of them on his back for fear of anyone touching the "poem" carved into his skin; a distressing thought.
Letting the mattress creak under their combined weight, Iorveth smooths up the uneven plane of Astarion's back again, feeling the way the Infernal script juts and circles across the breadth of him, how it drips like blood towards the bottom of said circle.
Iorveth receives Astarion's affection with a light shiver and a low sigh, content. He sits in that feeling for a moment, finding "I'll keep you warm" as funny as it's meant to be, before venturing: ]
―Has anyone ever kissed your back?
[ Casually, without judgment. If Astarion's reaction is to balk at even the idea of it, Iorveth will back off. ]
[ Astarion raises an eyebrow. No, no one has ever kissed his back. It's difficult to imagine anyone wanting to. He's never seen his scars—perhaps he should have asked to, back before they rid themselves of the tadpoles, but he couldn't bear to—but, by touch, he imagines they must be hideous. A glaring blemish on his body. ]
Darling, you're the only one who's ever even touched it.
[ Not exactly right, but close enough. People have touched his back with a protective layer of clothing covering it, and there's been times when wayward hands skimmed over scar tissue by accident, but he quickly guided them away. He always got the feeling that, even if they did notice the rough texture of carved skin before being led away, none of his conquests cared enough to investigate further. ]
I don't think Cazador would have been happy if I let the public see his work.
It's your body, [ Iorveth shoots back, near-immediately. ] Not "his work".
[ Iorveth hates the thought of Astarion giving himself away, of drifting from his body and killing parts of himself that others should have held sacrosanct. Never again. From here on out, everyone who ever hurts Astarion deserves to fucking rot.
Turning his head to press his mouth against Astarion's cheek, Iorveth hums and nuzzles against soft hair. ]
Would you ever allow it? [ Thumbing along one of the bigger symbols, not out of any morbid curiosity, but because― ] ―I'd like to kiss every inch of you.
[ Not a line, not a idle flirt. Matter-of-fact as always, a straight-shooting admission of truth. Iorveth adores Astarion, and he's loath to make any part of his beloved feel neglected or unaddressed. ]
[ 'Your body', Iorveth says, as if Astarion could expect to feel any sort of ownership over it. It's more Cazador's than it ever was his. He had more control over it, got to choose what happened to it. It's difficult to feel like it really belongs to him, even now.
He traces his thumb across Iorveth's chin up to his lower lip, considering. His instinct is to ask why in the gods' name Iorveth would ever want to get up close and personal with something so ugly, but— well. It probably wouldn't help Iorveth's self-esteem if he started describing scars in such a way, even if the way he views Iorveth's and the way he views his own are antithetical. ]
If that's what you want.
[ His voice is colored with just a little bit of skepticism, like he can't imagine that even a freak like Iorveth would want that. ]
[ Iorveth waits, patient, until Astarion delivers his verdict: "if that's what you want". Not exactly an indication of whether Astarion is comfortable with the notion or not. It doesn't help, either, that Iorveth can't tell if the tone being used is one of trepidation or uneasiness.
His brows furrow somewhat. Not irritated, but contemplative. ]
I do want to. [ He finally says, to make it known. ] But not at the expense of your comfort.
[ Iorveth literally just told Astarion that his body is his own. A soft breath, and he runs his hand up all that skin again, enjoying how it goes from cool to warm where his palm settles. ]
You silly little fool. [ He pinches Iorveth's nose. ] There's little you could do that I would be uncomfortable with.
[ At least, he thinks so. It's difficult to know for sure when Iorveth is so ridiculously careful, but he likes to think that he couldn't truly be made uncomfortable by Iorveth's affection knowing that it comes from someone who loves him wholly and without reservation. That's what his mind thinks, anyway. Sometimes it's difficult to get the mind and body on the same page.
Regardless: ]
But, ah— [ A somewhat sheepish pause. ] I would hate for you to find it... undesirable.
[ Astarion's looks are the least interesting thing about him, Iorveth had said, but he does seem to like them. ]
[ His turn to deliver a verdict, which echoes what Astarion said about him: ]
Now you're the fool. [ Cupping Astarion's face, leaning in to rub foreheads before nipping at his lower lip. ] Not a single part of you could be undesirable.
[ (Hypocrite.)
Shifting under Astarion's weight, Iorveth tests the waters; it's fine if Astarion doesn't want to change their positions now, but it's an indication that Iorveth is amenable to it. Wants it, even. A freak elf who is terminally curious about everything that comprises something (someone) he's interested in (in love with). ]
We could try, and if you feel compelled to kick me in the prick, well. [ He laugh-sighs. ] I asked for it, I suppose.
Oh, I would never, [ Astarion says sweetly, then adds, tongue-in-cheek, ] I like your prick far too much.
[ A little grandstanding before he has to be vulnerable. A moment passes before he extricates himself from Iorveth, rolling off before slowly shifting onto his front. It's nothing like the boldness he displays when pushing Iorveth down and crawling on top of him; there's a hesitance to it, and he glances over his shoulder at Iorveth, a little nervous. Iorveth has seen the scars, of course, but they've never been the focus. He said he wouldn't find them undesirable, but that was then, and this is now. ]
Well?
[ Part of him wants to fish for reassurance. Another part of him wants the truth. He lands on: ]
[ A bit of shifting and sliding, to find a position on the bed that won't feel too much like Iorveth towering over a prone Astarion. He settles on sitting with his feet over the side of the mattress, diagonal: he reaches with one hand to smooth his palm over the etching, following the script. ]
It's as I said－ you're perfect.
[ With conviction. Not a comment on the actual state of the scars, he realizes, but it doesn't need saying that the circumstances that made them are hideous, and that no amount of Iorveth saying that he loves Astarion anyway will undo the atrocity that occurred to put them there.
Craning sideways, Iorveth puts his mouth to the crest of the design, tracing the slightly-curved line down, then to the sideways line that makes up the approximate perimeter of the circle. It's interrupted by more lettering, a language that he can't decipher; he kisses each symbol, laving his tongue along the raised skin. Slow, affectionate. ]
Every inch of you is beautiful.
[ The perverse evidence of Cazador's torture remains, but look who's persisted while Cazador's fetid remains corrode in a basement. Iorveth finds a smooth patch of skin between the etchings and kisses there too, sucking lightly to leave a pink-red mark. ]
[ His scarred skin is long past being sensitive, but the feeling of Iorveth's tongue tickles a little, and he twitches in response. Quickly, he reassures, ] I'm fine.
[ One of his favorite things about Iorveth: that he'll stop if he gets any inkling that Astarion isn't enjoying himself. One of his least favorite things about Iorveth: that he'll stop if he gets any inkling Astarion isn't enjoying himself. He doesn't want Iorveth to get spooked and stop when they've just begun.
Another glance over his shoulder. ]
You're going to fall off the bed, you know.
[ It isn't exactly an invitation to change his position, but it isn't discouragement, either. ]
[ Keeping it light, joking (dryly) about wood elf balance. It's a warning of sorts, a "fine, I'm moving"; bedsprings creak, and Iorveth edges himself back onto the mattress, shimmying on freshly-laundered sheets (thank you Gale) to drape over Astarion's back, most of his weight braced on the elbows framing Astarion's body. His thighs bracket the outside of Astarion's knees loosely, giving him enough space to wriggle out if he wants to.
Another low sound, this time more appreciative than anything else. ]
A nice view.
[ He arches, nosing down Astarion's back before licking a long stripe up over his scars. Freak. ]
[ There is something a little intimidating, he has to admit, about the sound of those bedsprings and someone's body over his. He closes his eyes and reminds himself that it isn't just someone's body, but the world's most precious body. It helps, as does the way Iorveth so obviously works to keep his weight from bearing oppressively down on him. Sweet, thoughtful, even now.
He even manages to laugh a little, charmed by Iorveth's freakiness. ]
You didn't say you wanted to lick every inch of me, you animal.
[ Quite literally. He feels a little bit as if he's being affectionately licked by some sort of wild canine. Halsin is probably burning with jealousy. ]
Although I suppose I'm not opposed to that, either.
[ Freaks, as far as the eye can see. Iorveth laughs into the small of Astarion's back, mouth still pressed to all that appealing skin. ]
No more teaching me manners, I take it.
[ You can take a fox out of the forest, etc. More shimmying, and Iorveth sits up to survey Astarion more properly again, running a hand over the places that he's kissed, pressing fingertips lightly into pressure points to work tension out of lithe muscles. They're been doing a lot of walking lately, not to mention all the uncomfortable positions they've been pulled into by rope and restraints; a bit of massaging might do Astarion a world of good.
His thumbs frame Astarion's spine and drag up along it, over scars and lovebites. A few passes of that, and he dips back down again to reward his sweet cat for staying still, littering kisses onto the nape of his neck, the shapely outline of his shoulderblades. ]
What is it about you, I wonder. [ Low, amused. ] I've never craved touch before, not even as a younger elf with less troubles.
[ There are two centuries' worth of knots in Astarion's back that even the most skilled massage therapist couldn't work out in one day, but the intent behind it is sweet, and he finds himself, as usual, charmed by the softness of someone he'd once thought was made entirely of hard angles.
So charmed, in fact, that he doesn't mention that it's not like Iorveth was celibate before him, and that he did tell Astarion how occasionally I even fuck, so surely Iorveth craved another's touch enough to do that. (He could! But he won't.) ]
I hated it.
[ He shifts a little, trying to find his way onto his back so that he can reach out and touch. His hands are his primary way of navigating the world—deft flourishes with a dagger, careful movements while lockpicking, wild gesticulation—and it's quickly getting frustrating to not be able to use them to their full extent. ]
There were times when I wished everyone who touched me would perish horribly.
[ But that's not much of a sweet nothing, so he adds, ] Not you, of course.
[ He can feel Astarion starting to get impatient underneath him, so Iorveth dips one last time for a quick kiss to the center of that scar-mapped circle before he slides off and gives Astarion room to roll. Still deranged enough to find it all very cute, of course, even despite the topic of conversation. ]
I remember. [ To the point of not being able to tolerate touch. ] The first I gave you my blood, you made sure your teeth were the only thing in contact with me.
[ Not to mention how he'd toed Iorveth awake after his nap, like a sack of potatoes. It makes Iorveth laugh now to think of it, sitting (naked) with Astarion next to him. ]
Aen Seidhe often communicate using touch. [ Braiding each other's hair, bathing with each other, sharing a bed. Casual, platonic intimacy. ] It could be that I wish to communicate with you more than most.
[ If Astarion had touched him during that bloodletting, he's sure Iorveth would have had something to think about that, too. Ugh, he had found Iorveth so annoying back then. He's still annoying now, but annoying (affectionate). All of those little quirks that were so irritating have somehow had their edges sanded down and become endearing.
He shifts onto his side, reaching out to pull Iorveth back in, fingers curled over the angle of his hipbone, tattoo winding underneath his hand. ]
Oh, I can think of some new and exciting ways for us to communicate.
[ Communicating with Iorveth through touch is one thing, but honestly, an entire culture that has normalized communication by touch sounds awful. If any of those elves try to braid his hair, he can't be held responsible for what he does.
A pause, before he adds, ] I do enjoy your touch. More than I ever thought possible.
[ It's Fey Day all day for the Aen Seidhe (an exaggeration; that's probably more Halsin's area of expertise). Astarion will be miserable, and Iorveth will have to vacation with him to a city to keep him from brooding all the time.
Still sitting, Iorveth scoots closer and runs his fingers through Astarion's now-tousled hair, enjoying how different it is from his own. Lighter, softer. He imagines it longer, but the mental image turns out more comical than ethereal― an unruly mane winding every which way. Iorveth keeps that to himself. ]
I'm glad to hear it.
[ Simply, sincerely, with a little bit of distant disbelief. Both for the fact that Astarion has allowed it despite all his years of despising touch, and for his own ability to give whatever amount of joy Astarion derives from it. ]
After Isengrim, [ he admits, ] I considered discarding the idea of intimacy altogether. Sex for the sake of it, fine, but never intimacy. Not again.
[ Honestly, it's a little rude to bring up one's old flames while in bed with one's new flame, but he doesn't say so — Iorveth has given him reassurance upon reassurance, and Astarion is trying not to sound like an awful wretch looking for any reason to expect the worst of him.
He still tells himself that Isengrim obviously couldn't hold a candle to him, and if Astarion met Iorveth while the man was still alive, he'd have stolen him away with his charm, wit, and good looks. Obviously. ]
—I'm not sure I knew the difference between sex and intimacy, before.
[ And it does rankle a bit to know that Iorveth has experienced intimacy with someone else while he's only ever had it with Iorveth, but he doesn't let himself linger on that thought. ]
Well. Perhaps I knew it, long ago. [ Before dying and being brought back to un-life. ] It's all a bit blurry.
[ He strikes himself as the type of person who would have had an endless string of meaningless flings, though, and he supposes that adds up. If someone loved him, surely they would have been worth remembering. ]
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[ He must admit that Iorveth isn't always soft. Maybe even rarely soft. He'd ended those humans without a second thought, but his coldness doesn't make Astarion love him any less. Iorveth's sharpness is just as glorious as his softness for the juxtaposition of it all; he loves that Iorveth can kiss him just as easily as he can behead a man. He wouldn't have had any interest, after all, in some defenseless flower. Iorveth understands the things that need to be done for survival, and that's one of his most appealing qualities.
A kiss to the tip of his nose. ]
Luckily, I'm just as fond of the hard parts of you.
[ Ha. ]
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(The only time in an age where he'd had to cut himself off, entirely, from the act of feeling. He knew he wouldn't have been able to bear it if he started thinking of the unthinkable, of the possibility that he might actually have fucking lost Astarion.)
Enough about that, though. Iorveth huffs, brow hiked, and flicks under Astarion's chin. ]
Full circle, I suppose. [ Back to the source of this conversation. ] I could undress.
[ He wouldn't mind, really. Gale might not be pleased, and poor Tara will probably want to stay far, far away from Iorveth, but being naked really isn't an issue. ]
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[ Poor Halsin, subject to their bullying miles away. Maybe he's naked in the forest right now, communing with the moon or whatever druids do. He probably feels a disturbance but can't figure out the source of it; if only he knew it was two mean elves mocking him. He's just such an easy target!
Astarion rolls off, knocking around hardbacks with his limbs before settling against one of Gale's soft pillows with his hands behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankle, lazy and languid. ]
Go on, then. And do make it slow.
[ The worst!! Iorveth has created a monster. ]
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[ Halsin wishes. (He did. It was an awkward conversation. As a fellow wood elf, Iorveth kind of Got It, but he also did, in fact, tell Halsin to kindly fuck off.) But that's enough psychic bullying of Halsin for now, so－
－in a probably ill-advised move, Iorveth sits up to oblige the stupid request. It's not the most absurd thing he's done, at any rate, and he's not actually a prude despite thinking himself not much to look at.
The shirt peels off first: slowly, as requested, though it's half-intentional and half because it doesn't fit him very well. Too tight around the shoulders (Gale is not built like an archer). His torso ripples with the effort, and he has to wriggle a little to pull his head out of the collar without damaging the seams. He thinks it must look ridiculous and unsexy, but at least he's giving Astarion an eyeful of the tattoo－ he's rather proud of it.
After that, the pants. He sits on the edge of the mattress for this, extending each leg to pull the similarly ill-fitting garment off, following it with a light stretch forward, folding himself in half with his hands easily folding over his toes.
His smallclothes are an afterthought. Unfolding himself, he stands up and steps out of Gale's garish violet underwear, placing it in a wooden laundry basket with careless abandon. With that done, he turns back towards Astarion, head tipped and lips curved slightly upwards. ]
Well?
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He scoots down to the foot of the bed, letting his feet dangle as he reaches out to curl his fingers around Iorveth's forearm and tug him closer. ]
Even more beautiful than before, I think.
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You must truly have hated the outfit.
[ He smiles briefly, letting the expression touch his features with slight trepidation. Still wary, again, of "beautiful", but allowing it from Astarion. ]
Come here, before I catch cold.
[ Opening his arms, coaxing. It's probably a ridiculous thing to say given that Astarion is cool to the touch, but whatever. The sentiment remains: Iorveth said that he wants to be close, and he'll stay close until Gale has to peel his now-naked body from Astarion's side. No one envies Gale in this moment. ]
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He removes his shirt—Gale's shirt—with more grace than Iorveth, but tosses it on the floor with far less elegance. Neat with his own belongings, messy with others'. Who cares if Gale's shirt gets a little wrinkled? It's already forgotten as he pushes Iorveth's back down onto mattress so that he can crawl back atop him, pressing their bare chests together. It's probably cold for Iorveth, honestly, but it's heaven for him, the warmth of Iorveth's body radiating down his torso. ]
Oh, gods forbid.
[ A kiss to his chin, his cheek, the tip of his ear. ]
Don't worry — I'll keep you warm.
[ Ha, times two. ]
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Letting the mattress creak under their combined weight, Iorveth smooths up the uneven plane of Astarion's back again, feeling the way the Infernal script juts and circles across the breadth of him, how it drips like blood towards the bottom of said circle.
Iorveth receives Astarion's affection with a light shiver and a low sigh, content. He sits in that feeling for a moment, finding "I'll keep you warm" as funny as it's meant to be, before venturing: ]
―Has anyone ever kissed your back?
[ Casually, without judgment. If Astarion's reaction is to balk at even the idea of it, Iorveth will back off. ]
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Darling, you're the only one who's ever even touched it.
[ Not exactly right, but close enough. People have touched his back with a protective layer of clothing covering it, and there's been times when wayward hands skimmed over scar tissue by accident, but he quickly guided them away. He always got the feeling that, even if they did notice the rough texture of carved skin before being led away, none of his conquests cared enough to investigate further. ]
I don't think Cazador would have been happy if I let the public see his work.
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[ Iorveth hates the thought of Astarion giving himself away, of drifting from his body and killing parts of himself that others should have held sacrosanct. Never again. From here on out, everyone who ever hurts Astarion deserves to fucking rot.
Turning his head to press his mouth against Astarion's cheek, Iorveth hums and nuzzles against soft hair. ]
Would you ever allow it? [ Thumbing along one of the bigger symbols, not out of any morbid curiosity, but because― ] ―I'd like to kiss every inch of you.
[ Not a line, not a idle flirt. Matter-of-fact as always, a straight-shooting admission of truth. Iorveth adores Astarion, and he's loath to make any part of his beloved feel neglected or unaddressed. ]
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He traces his thumb across Iorveth's chin up to his lower lip, considering. His instinct is to ask why in the gods' name Iorveth would ever want to get up close and personal with something so ugly, but— well. It probably wouldn't help Iorveth's self-esteem if he started describing scars in such a way, even if the way he views Iorveth's and the way he views his own are antithetical. ]
If that's what you want.
[ His voice is colored with just a little bit of skepticism, like he can't imagine that even a freak like Iorveth would want that. ]
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His brows furrow somewhat. Not irritated, but contemplative. ]
I do want to. [ He finally says, to make it known. ] But not at the expense of your comfort.
[ Iorveth literally just told Astarion that his body is his own. A soft breath, and he runs his hand up all that skin again, enjoying how it goes from cool to warm where his palm settles. ]
You feel good all over, regardless.
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[ At least, he thinks so. It's difficult to know for sure when Iorveth is so ridiculously careful, but he likes to think that he couldn't truly be made uncomfortable by Iorveth's affection knowing that it comes from someone who loves him wholly and without reservation. That's what his mind thinks, anyway. Sometimes it's difficult to get the mind and body on the same page.
Regardless: ]
But, ah— [ A somewhat sheepish pause. ] I would hate for you to find it... undesirable.
[ Astarion's looks are the least interesting thing about him, Iorveth had said, but he does seem to like them. ]
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Now you're the fool. [ Cupping Astarion's face, leaning in to rub foreheads before nipping at his lower lip. ] Not a single part of you could be undesirable.
[ (Hypocrite.)
Shifting under Astarion's weight, Iorveth tests the waters; it's fine if Astarion doesn't want to change their positions now, but it's an indication that Iorveth is amenable to it. Wants it, even. A freak elf who is terminally curious about everything that comprises something (someone) he's interested in (in love with). ]
We could try, and if you feel compelled to kick me in the prick, well. [ He laugh-sighs. ] I asked for it, I suppose.
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[ A little grandstanding before he has to be vulnerable. A moment passes before he extricates himself from Iorveth, rolling off before slowly shifting onto his front. It's nothing like the boldness he displays when pushing Iorveth down and crawling on top of him; there's a hesitance to it, and he glances over his shoulder at Iorveth, a little nervous. Iorveth has seen the scars, of course, but they've never been the focus. He said he wouldn't find them undesirable, but that was then, and this is now. ]
Well?
[ Part of him wants to fish for reassurance. Another part of him wants the truth. He lands on: ]
If they're hideous, then— don't tell me.
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It's as I said－ you're perfect.
[ With conviction. Not a comment on the actual state of the scars, he realizes, but it doesn't need saying that the circumstances that made them are hideous, and that no amount of Iorveth saying that he loves Astarion anyway will undo the atrocity that occurred to put them there.
Craning sideways, Iorveth puts his mouth to the crest of the design, tracing the slightly-curved line down, then to the sideways line that makes up the approximate perimeter of the circle. It's interrupted by more lettering, a language that he can't decipher; he kisses each symbol, laving his tongue along the raised skin. Slow, affectionate. ]
Every inch of you is beautiful.
[ The perverse evidence of Cazador's torture remains, but look who's persisted while Cazador's fetid remains corrode in a basement. Iorveth finds a smooth patch of skin between the etchings and kisses there too, sucking lightly to leave a pink-red mark. ]
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[ One of his favorite things about Iorveth: that he'll stop if he gets any inkling that Astarion isn't enjoying himself. One of his least favorite things about Iorveth: that he'll stop if he gets any inkling Astarion isn't enjoying himself. He doesn't want Iorveth to get spooked and stop when they've just begun.
Another glance over his shoulder. ]
You're going to fall off the bed, you know.
[ It isn't exactly an invitation to change his position, but it isn't discouragement, either. ]
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I've never fallen off anything.
[ Keeping it light, joking (dryly) about wood elf balance. It's a warning of sorts, a "fine, I'm moving"; bedsprings creak, and Iorveth edges himself back onto the mattress, shimmying on freshly-laundered sheets (thank you Gale) to drape over Astarion's back, most of his weight braced on the elbows framing Astarion's body. His thighs bracket the outside of Astarion's knees loosely, giving him enough space to wriggle out if he wants to.
Another low sound, this time more appreciative than anything else. ]
A nice view.
[ He arches, nosing down Astarion's back before licking a long stripe up over his scars. Freak. ]
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He even manages to laugh a little, charmed by Iorveth's freakiness. ]
You didn't say you wanted to lick every inch of me, you animal.
[ Quite literally. He feels a little bit as if he's being affectionately licked by some sort of wild canine. Halsin is probably burning with jealousy. ]
Although I suppose I'm not opposed to that, either.
[ Freak matched!! ]
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No more teaching me manners, I take it.
[ You can take a fox out of the forest, etc. More shimmying, and Iorveth sits up to survey Astarion more properly again, running a hand over the places that he's kissed, pressing fingertips lightly into pressure points to work tension out of lithe muscles. They're been doing a lot of walking lately, not to mention all the uncomfortable positions they've been pulled into by rope and restraints; a bit of massaging might do Astarion a world of good.
His thumbs frame Astarion's spine and drag up along it, over scars and lovebites. A few passes of that, and he dips back down again to reward his sweet cat for staying still, littering kisses onto the nape of his neck, the shapely outline of his shoulderblades. ]
What is it about you, I wonder. [ Low, amused. ] I've never craved touch before, not even as a younger elf with less troubles.
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So charmed, in fact, that he doesn't mention that it's not like Iorveth was celibate before him, and that he did tell Astarion how occasionally I even fuck, so surely Iorveth craved another's touch enough to do that. (He could! But he won't.) ]
I hated it.
[ He shifts a little, trying to find his way onto his back so that he can reach out and touch. His hands are his primary way of navigating the world—deft flourishes with a dagger, careful movements while lockpicking, wild gesticulation—and it's quickly getting frustrating to not be able to use them to their full extent. ]
There were times when I wished everyone who touched me would perish horribly.
[ But that's not much of a sweet nothing, so he adds, ] Not you, of course.
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I remember. [ To the point of not being able to tolerate touch. ] The first I gave you my blood, you made sure your teeth were the only thing in contact with me.
[ Not to mention how he'd toed Iorveth awake after his nap, like a sack of potatoes. It makes Iorveth laugh now to think of it, sitting (naked) with Astarion next to him. ]
Aen Seidhe often communicate using touch. [ Braiding each other's hair, bathing with each other, sharing a bed. Casual, platonic intimacy. ] It could be that I wish to communicate with you more than most.
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He shifts onto his side, reaching out to pull Iorveth back in, fingers curled over the angle of his hipbone, tattoo winding underneath his hand. ]
Oh, I can think of some new and exciting ways for us to communicate.
[ Communicating with Iorveth through touch is one thing, but honestly, an entire culture that has normalized communication by touch sounds awful. If any of those elves try to braid his hair, he can't be held responsible for what he does.
A pause, before he adds, ] I do enjoy your touch. More than I ever thought possible.
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Still sitting, Iorveth scoots closer and runs his fingers through Astarion's now-tousled hair, enjoying how different it is from his own. Lighter, softer. He imagines it longer, but the mental image turns out more comical than ethereal― an unruly mane winding every which way. Iorveth keeps that to himself. ]
I'm glad to hear it.
[ Simply, sincerely, with a little bit of distant disbelief. Both for the fact that Astarion has allowed it despite all his years of despising touch, and for his own ability to give whatever amount of joy Astarion derives from it. ]
After Isengrim, [ he admits, ] I considered discarding the idea of intimacy altogether. Sex for the sake of it, fine, but never intimacy. Not again.
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He still tells himself that Isengrim obviously couldn't hold a candle to him, and if Astarion met Iorveth while the man was still alive, he'd have stolen him away with his charm, wit, and good looks. Obviously. ]
—I'm not sure I knew the difference between sex and intimacy, before.
[ And it does rankle a bit to know that Iorveth has experienced intimacy with someone else while he's only ever had it with Iorveth, but he doesn't let himself linger on that thought. ]
Well. Perhaps I knew it, long ago. [ Before dying and being brought back to un-life. ] It's all a bit blurry.
[ He strikes himself as the type of person who would have had an endless string of meaningless flings, though, and he supposes that adds up. If someone loved him, surely they would have been worth remembering. ]
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