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. ]
[ It's easy to expect the worst from Iorveth, who is, in fact, The Worst. Honestly, it's a miracle that his mouth hasn't gotten him killed (yet).
The point is, though, that Astarion has done the impossible: make an incredibly stubborn elf fall head over heels, which sounds easier on paper than it is in practice. Iorveth is comically in love with Astarion, and the worst part is that he knows that he is.
Sliding back down onto bedsheets, he runs his palm over a pale (porcelain) cheek, taking in the lines of Astarion's lashes (darker in color than his silver hair), the expressive slant of his mouth. ]
A terrible thing, [ is stated as simply as "I'm glad", ] that you weren't cared for the way you deserve.
[ Iorveth doesn't know a thing about Astarion pre-Cazador, but that matters very little; Astarion doesn't remember himself pre-Cazador, and no one should ever be burdened by something like that. ]
Not only for your looks, but for what you are. Sharp, quick, resourceful. [ Rogue traits. Iorveth leans in to kiss the corner of Astarion's mouth. ] Stubborn. Mercurial and intriguing.
[ More compliments (?). ] Funny. Sweet. The list goes on.
[ Now that Iorveth is back horizontal, Astarion strokes up and down his side, fingers following the curve of that tattoo Iorveth is so fond of. He must admit, he's fond of it, too. Tattoos have never been something he's given much thought to before, but watching it sprawl across Iorveth's neck and collarbone and lovely, lovely torso is strangely appealing and, to put it bluntly, very hot. ]
Well.
[ His shoulder shrugs, just slightly. ]
I left quite a bit of destruction in my wake.
[ So perhaps he didn't deserve as much care as Iorveth thinks. Case in point: the thought flits across his mind that he's glad Isengrim is dead, because it means he gets Iorveth's love all for himself. A terrible, awful thought — not because of the morality of it, but because of what Iorveth might think of him if he knew. Obviously, he can never, ever know. ]
But if all that is what you think of me, far be it from me to dissuade you.
[ Hm. Iorveth processes that statement, rolls it over in his head. Palm resting on the crook of Astarion's neck now, he idly thumbs along the jut of his collarbone. ]
How do you wish me to think of you, then?
[ Calm, but remaining close. He really has no inclination to stray more than an armspan away from Astarion for the rest of the night and during the next day; this is where he'll stay until Gale peels him off or Astarion feels too crowded and has to shoo Iorveth away.
One leg slips between Astarion's, tangling limbs around limbs. ]
Whatever destruction you caused in life, you paid for it a thousandfold in death― and then some. [ A low breath, pressed against Astarion's jaw. ] Are you so insistent on me loving you less?
[ Whatever destruction he caused in life, he caused even more in death. Much of the time he feels indignant about his lot in life (or undeath), but sometimes, when he's feeling particularly low, he wonders if he didn't deserve what he got. Some of his victims would probably say so. ]
Of course not. You're forbidden from loving me less.
[ But maybe Iorveth could see how horrible he can be and love him anyway. If such a thing is possible, Iorveth would be the one to do it. He tugs Iorveth closer until their bodies are properly slotted together, light strokes turning to gentle scratching. ]
But you needn't pity me for the past. [ He needn't pity Astarion at all, honestly. ] I have you to care for me now.
[ Foolish. Astarion really doesn't have a clue what kind of swamp he's stuck his foot into. Iorveth is a man with clear-cut lines, who likes to make decisions based on his convictions; anything less is unacceptable. He's already gone through the phase of weighing his options, of trying to understand who exactly he's going to open his heart to, and now it's Astarion's teeth hovering over his jugular, and his own knife hovering over Astarion's chest.
Do or die. Astarion is never not going to be loved by Iorveth, and that is entirely his problem now. ]
Never have you inspired pity in me, [ he corrects. Iorveth has always wanted to know the shape of Astarion's pain, but only so he could see Astarion more clearly; not to see him as some sort of shivering creature in need of protection. ] Interest, yes. Annoyance, yes. Love, most of all.
[ A brief smile, and he cups Astarion's chin, gently forcing eye contact. Two eyes on one, more accurately. ]
Even when you accuse me of not caring, [ he laugh-sighs. ] ―If we'd still been in possession of our tadpoles, I would have made you feel how wrong you were.
[ Astarion opens his mouth to protest that he didn't accuse Iorveth of not caring, necessarily, just— not caring about that one specific thing, which did feel a lot like not caring in general. And then Iorveth had turned his back on him, and it really had felt, just for a moment, like he didn't care at all. He closes it, though, because there's nothing he's interested in less right now than arguing with Iorveth while he's naked and sprawled out across soft sheets. ]
I guess there were some benefits to the little wrigglers.
[ Standing in the sun. Entering homes uninvited. Reading each other's thoughts. He'd been so terribly afraid of Iorveth seeing any hint of vulnerability in him when they'd first connected; now he's seen Astarion at his absolute lowest. ]
I do miss being inside your mind.
[ It had been a pleasant place to be. Somewhere that wasn't his own mind, his own body.
He laughs under his breath, amused before he even says, ] I suppose I'll just have to be inside of you other ways from now on.
[ A bit of an eyeroll at all of that, though it still sits firmly in the realm of fond. It feels impossible for anyone to want to inhabit the confines of his mind― no doubt an unpleasant, blood-stained place to be― and the bit about being inside him, well.
That's also pretty unbelievable too, honestly. But Iorveth doesn't say so, and reciprocates the sentiment behind the given laugh by hauling Astarion up and half on top of him again, coaxing Astarion's face against his neck. ]
Thoughts in my head, teeth in my neck.
[ Coyly. He ruins it, though, by adding on: ]
Your pretty cock in whichever part of me it wishes to be in.
[ Very crass. Manners, etc. Iorveth chuckles, and presses his filthy mouth to Astarion's hair. ]
[ He hardly needs to be coaxed into shoving his face against Iorveth's neck. It's his second favorite thing to do, only eclipsed by actually shoving his fangs into it. The sweet smell of Iorveth's skin, the sound of his steady pulse. Astarion presses a light hand against one of Iorveth's carotids, feeling the blood rush through it. If he loved Iorveth any less, he fears that he might be a danger to him the way that his blood inspires fantasizing. ]
And what of your wishes?
[ Iorveth is very self-denying, which is wonderful at times—a good fit for Astarion, who's so terribly selfish—but other times, he wishes Iorveth had a little less abnegation and a little more indulgence. Hedonism, even. ]
[ Astarion settles closer, and it would be like having something soft and sweet nuzzling up against his pulse, if not for the fact that said soft and sweet thing could also kill him in a second if he felt like it. That's the fun of it, Iorveth supposes－ he's always been infatuated with things that could also be his undoing.
Of his wishes, though. He thinks they're being granted now, naked and sprawled in bed with Astarion tucked against him, all to himself. A better man would probably have let his newly-free love go off and enjoy the Waterdhavian nightlife, but reality is that he flipped out and dragged Astarion back in a wizard's tower. A true villain.
He says as much, which is: ] You're fulfilling a great many of them now, with me claiming your time.
[ Turning his head, nibbling at the tip of Astarion's ear. ]
Unless you meant carnally. You do like it when I talk filth.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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!! ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
The point is, though, that Astarion has done the impossible: make an incredibly stubborn elf fall head over heels, which sounds easier on paper than it is in practice. Iorveth is comically in love with Astarion, and the worst part is that he knows that he is.
Sliding back down onto bedsheets, he runs his palm over a pale (porcelain) cheek, taking in the lines of Astarion's lashes (darker in color than his silver hair), the expressive slant of his mouth. ]
A terrible thing, [ is stated as simply as "I'm glad", ] that you weren't cared for the way you deserve.
[ Iorveth doesn't know a thing about Astarion pre-Cazador, but that matters very little; Astarion doesn't remember himself pre-Cazador, and no one should ever be burdened by something like that. ]
Not only for your looks, but for what you are. Sharp, quick, resourceful. [ Rogue traits. Iorveth leans in to kiss the corner of Astarion's mouth. ] Stubborn. Mercurial and intriguing.
[ More compliments (?). ] Funny. Sweet. The list goes on.
no subject
Well.
[ His shoulder shrugs, just slightly. ]
I left quite a bit of destruction in my wake.
[ So perhaps he didn't deserve as much care as Iorveth thinks. Case in point: the thought flits across his mind that he's glad Isengrim is dead, because it means he gets Iorveth's love all for himself. A terrible, awful thought — not because of the morality of it, but because of what Iorveth might think of him if he knew. Obviously, he can never, ever know. ]
But if all that is what you think of me, far be it from me to dissuade you.
no subject
How do you wish me to think of you, then?
[ Calm, but remaining close. He really has no inclination to stray more than an armspan away from Astarion for the rest of the night and during the next day; this is where he'll stay until Gale peels him off or Astarion feels too crowded and has to shoo Iorveth away.
One leg slips between Astarion's, tangling limbs around limbs. ]
Whatever destruction you caused in life, you paid for it a thousandfold in death― and then some. [ A low breath, pressed against Astarion's jaw. ] Are you so insistent on me loving you less?
no subject
Of course not. You're forbidden from loving me less.
[ But maybe Iorveth could see how horrible he can be and love him anyway. If such a thing is possible, Iorveth would be the one to do it. He tugs Iorveth closer until their bodies are properly slotted together, light strokes turning to gentle scratching. ]
But you needn't pity me for the past. [ He needn't pity Astarion at all, honestly. ] I have you to care for me now.
no subject
Do or die. Astarion is never not going to be loved by Iorveth, and that is entirely his problem now. ]
Never have you inspired pity in me, [ he corrects. Iorveth has always wanted to know the shape of Astarion's pain, but only so he could see Astarion more clearly; not to see him as some sort of shivering creature in need of protection. ] Interest, yes. Annoyance, yes. Love, most of all.
[ A brief smile, and he cups Astarion's chin, gently forcing eye contact. Two eyes on one, more accurately. ]
Even when you accuse me of not caring, [ he laugh-sighs. ] ―If we'd still been in possession of our tadpoles, I would have made you feel how wrong you were.
no subject
I guess there were some benefits to the little wrigglers.
[ Standing in the sun. Entering homes uninvited. Reading each other's thoughts. He'd been so terribly afraid of Iorveth seeing any hint of vulnerability in him when they'd first connected; now he's seen Astarion at his absolute lowest. ]
I do miss being inside your mind.
[ It had been a pleasant place to be. Somewhere that wasn't his own mind, his own body.
He laughs under his breath, amused before he even says, ] I suppose I'll just have to be inside of you other ways from now on.
no subject
That's also pretty unbelievable too, honestly. But Iorveth doesn't say so, and reciprocates the sentiment behind the given laugh by hauling Astarion up and half on top of him again, coaxing Astarion's face against his neck. ]
Thoughts in my head, teeth in my neck.
[ Coyly. He ruins it, though, by adding on: ]
Your pretty cock in whichever part of me it wishes to be in.
[ Very crass. Manners, etc. Iorveth chuckles, and presses his filthy mouth to Astarion's hair. ]
no subject
And what of your wishes?
[ Iorveth is very self-denying, which is wonderful at times—a good fit for Astarion, who's so terribly selfish—but other times, he wishes Iorveth had a little less abnegation and a little more indulgence. Hedonism, even. ]
no subject
Of his wishes, though. He thinks they're being granted now, naked and sprawled in bed with Astarion tucked against him, all to himself. A better man would probably have let his newly-free love go off and enjoy the Waterdhavian nightlife, but reality is that he flipped out and dragged Astarion back in a wizard's tower. A true villain.
He says as much, which is: ] You're fulfilling a great many of them now, with me claiming your time.
[ Turning his head, nibbling at the tip of Astarion's ear. ]
Unless you meant carnally. You do like it when I talk filth.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...