[ Hm. Okay, fine, he'll have to concede that point. Astarion did propose, which is not a thing Iorveth would ever have expected to happen― he'll give him that.
But: ] I fell for you first. [ Is he really going to be obstinate about this? The answer is yes. It's the sort of thing that he would scoff at if he saw anyone else arguing the point ("why the hells would it even matter, what would it even change"), but the point, for him, is that Astarion acknowledge that he is the most loved individual in all of Toril. A braindead debate, especially since there's no way to qualify or quantify his assertions. ]
I wanted you first. I anchored myself to you first. I've had longer to love you more.
[ Asking to share a bed was his first grand slip-up; there was no turning back for him, after that. He emphasizes the point with a squeeze to Astarion's waist, and a few more lovebites littered down the offered column of his neck. ]
If you'll recall, I kissed you first, [ sounds a little exasperated, like he can't believe Iorveth is actually arguing this point. Honestly, it had seemed obvious to him; there's a reason that he says I love you more, of course. It's a fact of life, indisputable, like that the sky is blue and Halsin is annoying.
The exasperation isn't enough for him to discourage the affection, and in truth, it's maybe kind of sort of a turn-on in itself. He does enjoy arguing with Iorveth, as long as Iorveth is only playfully stern and not stern in actuality. He ducks his head to press a kiss to Iorveth's hair, then his temple, then his cheek. ]
And, you know, I'm rather certain I fell for you first, too. I only didn't realize I had, because— well, I'm sure you understand that liking someone was a rather unfamiliar feeling at the time.
[ And his feelings certainly didn't feel the way they do now, pure and concentrated, so sure. They'd been complex, messy. Insecure and frightened. (Okay, maybe there's still a little of that part left.) ]
But I craved your attention, my love, even when all you did was scowl at me.
[ Telling Astarion that he's a glutton for punishment seems like a bad idea, since Astarion has had two hundred miserable years of being relentlessly punished for no reason at all, so Iorveth refrains. Still, the thought of Astarion wanting attention, even if it wasn't the attention he strictly wanted, makes Iorveth's heart clench a little.
Another thing he doesn't say: "you should've said so". He knows he wouldn't have believed it, and he knows Astarion would have rather had his throat slit than say something so liable to be turned down at the time. ]
I did more than scowl, [ he argues, just for the sake of it. ] I jeered, occasionally. Walked away more than a few times.
[ Hard to think of doing the last one now. One hand slips up the back of Astarion's loose pajama top under the shroud of the cloak, fingers splayed, raking up along Astarion's spine. His skin feels warmer than usual, and that itch under Iorveth's skin gets a little harder to ignore. ]
My pride got in the way of my wanting, I suppose. But in all certainty, I wanted you. [ A low chuckle, almost in disbelief. ] Even now, I want you as desperately as I did then. A feeling I doubt will ever fade.
[ The last time Iorveth walked away from him was not actually that long ago, but Astarion very kindly decides not to mention that. Besides, the feeling of Iorveth walking away from him is probably the worst feeling in the world — and that's coming from someone who was regularly tortured. He'd rather not dwell on it. ]
Well, I want you even more than I did then.
[ Competitive, even in this. It's also true, or at least he thinks it is. Astarion is barely in touch with his emotions now, but back then, he'd been so heavily removed from them as to not really even understand it as wanting. He'd just known that he had a desire to stand near Iorveth, and that it angered him when Iorveth disapproved of him. It's only with the hindsight of wholeheartedly believing that Iorveth is his One Perfect Person™ that he can categorize it as what it was: baby's first (and last, he'd be quick to say!!) crush.
And since Reginald never explicitly said he's not allowed to feel Iorveth up a little, he places a warm (in comparison to his usual 'dead body' temperature) hand on his chest, smoothing over Iorveth's tattoo. ]
My life began when I met you. Everything before that was just— [ Hm. He hums in thought. ] A bad dream.
[ Past Iorveth would probably be a little mortified by Present Iorveth, who is currently trying really hard not to cross a line into desperate rutting on a patio in broad daylight, in witness of wide-eyed fishermen and children skipping rocks. He's definitely going to have to rub one out later, if he ever finds a fifteen-minute pocket of the day that isn't in Astarion's company (doubtful).
His next exhale is low and heavy, his focus slightly scattered thanks to that touch. He arcs into it, and reciprocates by stroking up and down Astarion's back, massaging gently. ]
One I wish I could have woken you from earlier. [ Pressing his lips against silver curls, then sideways to Astarion's temple. ] But you did a fine job of breaking free from it on your own.
[ Namely: bashing Cazador's miserable fucking head in with a mace. Iorveth is so proud of him for that, honestly. ]
―Still, I love you most. [ Not letting this go!!! ] And I'll spend the next eternity proving it to you, obstinate cat.
[ Punctuating it with a proper kiss, mouth to mouth, as if that's final. ]
[ This is ridiculous. Unfortunately, Astarion really does like being kissed, so for a moment his mind goes all happy-fuzzy and he melts into it, entirely unable to argue, before there's a little niggle in the back of his brain and he draws back, poking Iorveth in the chest now like he thinks he kissed Astarion to make him stupid on purpose. (He does not recognize that he was already stupid.) ]
Well, I don't need an eternity to prove it to you. I would do it right now, but—
[ He hikes his chin up, as if that is going to make what he has to say any less embarrassing. ]
If you're not going to take care of the problem you've caused [ —which is the weird boner he's starting to get, natch— ] then I'll have to excuse myself.
[ Hm. Iorveth's eye flicks down in a moment of crude assessment, as if to gauge how urgent the so-called 'problem' is, and then: ]
Well. [ Another glance, this time at Astarion's still very fucked-up hand. They really should have gotten that looked at before Reginald went home (presumably); it looks pretty terrible, even after a quick Cure Wounds. Astarion is really not in any condition to be messing around, but― ]
―I have wanted you in my mouth since Athkatla. [ He'd said so the night before the hag mess, and it still holds. Iorveth sounds slightly smug about it, as if he's still trying to win the I Want You More game. A clown. ] And it requires minimal action on your part.
[ Iorveth can jack off later, but gods knows he isn't going to pass up an opportunity to blow Astarion if it's presented to him. He knows where his priorities are at. ]
—Minimal action, [ he echoes, laughing. ] Gods, you make it sound so sensual.
[ It doesn't actually sound any less appealing when put that way, though, which is a problem. Iorveth's mouth isn't what he was really hoping to be inside of, quite frankly, but it is possibly the only thing he can be inside of without too much jostling of the leg. Ugh, he hates that fucking hag. Did she know she'd be cockblocking him so much when she did it?
He, of course, notes that Iorveth makes no mention of reciprocation. In a very obvious manipulation attempt, he lays his head on Iorveth's shoulder, hand traveling down that precious tattoo. ]
[ Gods, he loves the sound of that laugh. Loves the feeling of Astarion listing against him, too, even if he knows when Astarion does something just to make Iorveth say yes. It doesn't take much, anymore― big eyes glancing up through lashes, imploringly, is basically enough for Iorveth to bend to petty whims― but since Astarion is pretty banged up at the moment, he should probably care more about that than the state of his boner. Because, unfortunately for him, it's definitely a boner at this point. ]
One good hand and one good leg. You're losing limbs, fast.
[ Tipping his head, kissing Astarion's cheek. The hand snaked up the pajama shirt trails down, slipping under the loose waistband of his matching pants to slide along a thigh. ]
I'm offering to wait on you, beloved. Hand and foot, literally. [ A huff-laugh, accompanied by an ear-nibble. ] Much as I want you, you're still injured.
[ Trying to be mindful, but also liable to fold like paper. ]
[ Astarion hums in thought. He doesn't take being told no well, obviously, but he doesn't argue... if only because he thinks Iorveth will be easier to cajole a little later, once all the blood has drained from his brain and gone to more interesting parts. Astarion is still winning the I Want You More war, as far as he's concerned. ]
Mm, I do like the idea of being pampered.
[ And his body very much likes the hand on his thigh. He leans in to press a kiss to Iorveth's eminently kissable (maybe not in most people's opinion, but certainly in his) mouth, then draws back after a moment, a little embarrassed. ]
I— [ He lowers his voice, as if afraid someone will hear. ] Not in this ugly thing.
[ As much as having Iorveth's mouth around him while he basks in the sun is, like, the ultimate fantasy, he does not feel sexy at all in this cloak. ]
[ Astarion owes that cloak the rest of his life, and he's still calling it ugly. Iorveth blinks, then mirrors Astarion's previous laugh with one of his own, surprised and honest in a way he never is around anyone else. ]
It is the ugliest thing you've ever allowed on your body.
[ Pulling his hand out of Astarion's pants, Iorveth picks at the end of the offending cloak with a thumb and forefinger. A very unflattering reddish blue-purple (an impossible combination of colors), held together with cheap-looking white string. ]
A pity Dragomir had no taste. [ Finally peeling himself away from Astarion to get up, even if his entire body protests it; not to mention that it's very uncomfortable being upright with the current state of his boner, but he'll live. ] ...Inside, then.
[ Offering Astarion a hand. Still looking at him like he's the most beautiful thing Iorveth's ever seen, even in the ugly cloak and his ill-fitting pajamas. ]
[ Astarion straight up does not remember who the fuck Dragomir is, but he nods anyway because a history lesson is the last thing he wants right now. Not sexy!! None of this is particularly sexy, honestly; he wobbles a little as he stands, limping like a stray dog. Even so, the loving expression on Iorveth's face makes it sexy, and Astarion leans against him for both stability and to kiss him again. ]
Well, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever allowed on my body, so I suppose it evens out.
[ Iorveth will absolutely not agree with this, but Astarion moves steadily along so he can't argue. ]
Once Gale fixes this ridiculous thing [ —because he's somehow assigned that task to him, even though it was one of his wizard friends he'd actually said was capable of it— ] I'll make love to you from sunrise to sunset.
[ Stupid. Iorveth walked right into that one, but Astarion doesn't let him argue the point, so― onward they go, hobbling with purpose across the sitting room and towards their mid-stage boss fight (the stairs), trying not to encounter their final boss (Gale and his inevitable cockblocking) preemptively.
The look Iorveth gives about the imaginary marathon sex they'll have has real 'sure Jan' energy, however. Iorveth likes intimacy because it's intense and honest and reaffirms the level of trust he has in Astarion, but it's also a lot to ask of someone who has had two hundred years to become sex-repulsed (very understandably). Sex without emotion is awful, and sex with emotion is scary. A Catch-22. Iorveth kind of suspects that they'll have one round, and Astarion will want to cuddle for the rest of the daylight hours.
He doesn't say that, though. ] It'll be your day to celebrate, and it'll be yours to do with however you wish.
[ Okay, that sounds a little like 'sure Jan'. Iorveth also leans in to kiss Astarion before he can think too deeply about whether or not Iorveth is being patronizing, and opens the door to their bedroom, which he swiftly locks shut after they enter. ]
[ Rude!! He has every intention of totally blowing Iorveth's mind all day in the sun. Delusional, maybe, considering his preference is to be held for hours afterward so he has confirmation that Iorveth still loves him, but 'delusional' is his favorite thing to be.
Whatever. Whether or not he's actually capable of such degeneracy will have to wait. While Iorveth locks the door to keep wandering cockblocks out, Astarion gets to work on untying this stupid, ugly cloak. Iorveth made the ties very secure (which is impossibly adorable, and he's filled with another surge of love), so it takes a little fumbling to undo them. Once they're loosened, he very carefully folds the cloak and places it atop the dresser. It may be ugly, but it's also the most precious thing he owns.
Cloakless now, he leans against the dresser, posing seductively as if he isn't still in his PJs. ]
[ Iorveth is already anticipating Gale flitting on by to ask loudly about how everything went, and is contemplating sliding a note under the door that reads "Only Knock If There's An Emergency"―
―but Astarion distracts him with all of this ridiculous peacocking, which is frankly very unsexy but is also the most endearing thing Iorveth has seen in his life, so there's that. It almost makes Iorveth want to travel back in time to see if the 'roguish rake' persona that Astarion adopted during the beginning of their tadpole journey will make him cringe now (affectionate).
That said, Iorveth is the one enthusiastically buying what Astarion isn't even selling, and he knows it. ]
Finally. [ Long, sure strides take by Astarion's side, and with a bit of finagling, he sets down a pillow for Astarion to rest his injured leg on before coaxing him to sit with his back against the headboard. ] ―That wretched hag really did do her utmost to ruin our nights together.
[ Sliding down over Astarion's body, Iorveth lifts the bottom of Astarion's pajama top to kiss his navel. Ridiculously saccharine. ]
[ If Iorveth travelled back in time, he'd only have to cringe at Astarion's ridiculous behavior. If Astarion travelled back in time, though, he'd scream/cry/throw up the moment Iorveth was mean to him. He'd desperately wanted any sort of attention back then, but now he's become picky.
Luckily, he has the version of Iorveth that only calls him 'fool' in that exasperated-but-loving tone now, not the version that calls him 'fool' with a tone that suggests he thinks Astarion is one jingly hat away from being a court jester. Everything about Iorveth is sweet now, and Astarion's heart squeezes as he lets his leg rest on the soft pillow.
The navel kiss is also very endearing, but it's also close to more— fraught parts of his body, and he feels twin frissons of nervousness and excitement up his spine. ]
—Ah, my love, [ he says, trying to sound breezy and undemanding as he smooths down Iorveth's hair, ] you know I hate to bark orders.
[ Said with a hint of wryness, because yes, giving orders is his favorite thing to do. Intimacy is still one place where he's not quite sure how to do that, though, or if he even should. ]
But it's just that after the hag, and all. [ It brought up some things. While being with Iorveth has never, ever made him feel bad, he still worries. It would be his worst nightmare if being close to Iorveth were in any way tainted. He sinks into the pillows, embarrassed at having to ask. ] Perhaps you might... go slow. Only this time, and then I'll be back on the wagon.
[ Before, when Iorveth was still trying to figure out if Astarion wanted any of this at all, this might have been enough for him to back off a bit. Wary of Astarion not being honest with him, wary of Astarion gritting his teeth and bearing it.
Now, he just adjusts. Without pulling away, he slides back up and nests next to Astarion on the opposite side of that injured leg. (Gods, he really wants to kill that stupid hag.) ]
You say so as if going slow isn't a luxury. [ Tipping Astarion's face up from soft pillows before he can bury himself in it, Iorveth presses their mouths together. They can make out a little more as a treat, and, for Iorveth, as an affirmation of affection: as he's said many times, he doesn't kiss anyone he doesn't love.
His hand slides down past the waistband of Astarion's loose pants again, smoothing down along his hip, sneaking down to the soft skin of his inner thigh. More exploratory than lecherous, craving contact just for the sake of it. He hums, starting to feel a little fuzzy from breathlessness, and goes up for air. ]
Astarion. [ Craning up, dotting another kiss to his temple. ] ...My betrothed. With you, 'slow' is ideal.
[ For someone who so frequently says things that make Astarion fume, Iorveth really does know just what to say when it comes down to it. If he'd have overreacted, pulled away, Astarion would have felt— horrible. Like Iorveth thought him too messed up to touch. But he doesn't, only kisses him softly, and Astarion feels loved despite his baggage. Every inch of him relaxes in relief.
He hasn't the slightest idea if Iorveth actually means any of this, or if it's simply to make Astarion feel better. Maybe he really wishes he didn't have to handle Astarion with so much care, that they could just be together without having to think so much about it. In a decade, though, in a century, Astarion likes to think he won't even remember what it was like to be touched by somebody who didn't love him, and then he can make it up to Iorveth tenfold. ]
Betrothed, [ he echoes with a laugh. It's a ridiculous thing to say. If it weren't coming out of Iorveth's mouth, he'd roll his eyes and groan, exasperated. Somehow, though, hearing it in Iorveth's so-serious voice makes him... well, atwitter. With his good hand, he reaches up to rub his thumb across the helix of Iorveth's pointy ear, the way one might rub the ear of a friendly fox. ] I rather like the sound of that.
[ That little rub feels good; Iorveth tilts into that touch like that metaphorical friendly fox, bending towards Astarion's attention in a way that surprises even himself. ]
Iorveth Ancunín, [ he reminds Astarion after another open-mouthed kiss to his jaw, reinforcing a lovebite that he'd already made on the patio. ] ―Funny. I never thought I'd take anyone else's name.
[ Reverence made him bury his surname with his parents, and pride alongside purpose kept him from wanting another. He made himself into exactly who he needed to be, and that didn't involve tying himself to anyone else.
Famous last words. Here he is now, slowly working himself towards petting Astarion between his legs, unhurried and over his underwear, layering more kisses against that pretty mouth to prove that he's having a great time just paying attention to Astarion, actually. A murmured I love you in his language just for good measure, because he never wants to look back and regret not having said it enough. ]
[ It's hard to tell what feels more pleasurable, Iorveth's hand between his legs or his voice saying 'Iorveth Ancunín'.
It's the latter. The hand feels very good, of course, gentle and slow and creating a faint damp spot against the front of his smallclothes, but the sound of Iorveth's name followed by his own sends shivers down his spine. The possessive little part inside of him purrs; mine, all mine. It's very, very difficult to resist the urge to push Iorveth onto his back and really make him feel like Iorveth Ancunín, but Astarion does only because he fears his leg might give out during the process and humiliate him.
He kisses the junction between Iorveth's ear and jaw instead, before scraping the flats of his teeth across the soft flesh of his earlobe. 'Minimal action' really isn't for him. ]
I'll call you nothing but 'Mr. Ancunín' for the rest of time. [ Another scrape of his teeth, this time against the underside of Iorveth's jaw. Gods, he really could devour Iorveth. ] ...Or perhaps I'll call you 'husband' instead.
[ It's the first time either of them have said the word. The sensation of it in his mouth is sweet, and it sends another nervous tingle up his back. ]
[ Teeth to skin reminds Iorveth that Astarion is still running on the blood of that scoundrel they murdered, and that, in turn, makes him feel reciprocally possessive. Note to self to let Astarion bite after this, if he has any blood left in him that hasn't gone to his dick.
Because, well, husband kind of does it for him. It was a calculated thing, the half-avoidance of the term, not wanting to box Astarion into any sort of role that he hasn't chosen for himself; but now he's gone and said it, and spoken the thought into existence.
Iorveth shivers a bit, shifting so that his obvious erection isn't pressing uncomfortably against Astarion's knee, and makes a bit more friction with his hand. An instinctive craving for more, even if he doesn't really know what the context for that 'more' is. ]
I've been called many things, [ he sighs, content, as he presses a smile against Astarion's hair. ] But never 'husband'.
[ There's a tightness in his chest, a pain that comes from happiness expanding his heart at a rate he wasn't prepared to handle. He cups Astarion's face with his free hand, stroking over high cheekbones and smoothing a soft brow, like he just can't believe any of this is happening and needs to affirm it through touch. ]
Which would make you my husband, in turn. [ A soft laugh, knowing that they're getting ahead of themselves. ] Once we exchange rings, that is.
[ Iorveth laughs, and Astarion laughs in turn, giddy at having his feelings so wholly reciprocated. Iorveth utters the word 'husband' at the same time as his hand presses just right against Astarion, and a soft, involuntary groan actually escapes the back of his throat. He'd be mortified if it weren't the person he trusts most in the world, implicitly and without reservation, witnessing it. ]
Love. [ Absolutely incorrigible, his good hand drops to Iorveth's waistband. He adds, sweetly and entirely manipulatively, ] My darling husband-to-be.
[ He angles his face so that he can look up at Iorveth with big, pleading eyes as he fiddles with the edge of his waistband. It's unabashedly obvious. ]
I feel miraculously healed. Why, I could run a marathon right now.
[ Gods, it's so phenomenally rude of Astarion to plead his case when Iorveth is half out of his mind with affection and need. Two wolf-foxes fight for dominance in his mindscape: one that says that he can just slide down and blow Astarion and deter him from doing anything strenuous (as if receiving a blowjob isn't also physically taxing to some extent), and another that says that he can blow Astarion some other time, and that it would be nice to just make out and talk while they give each other handjobs.
Iorveth closes his eye. Tries not to acknowledge what he knows is Astarion trying to cajole him into saying yes. ]
You've never run a marathon in your life.
[ The war rages on in his head; it would have raged on a little longer had he had the strength of will to keep his eye closed, but alas. He cracks it open, and the full force of Astarion's insistence smacks him right in the face.
It shouldn't be cute. He knows that Astarion knows that this will make him fold, nine times out of ten. But 'husband-to-be' is a powerful weapon, and, again, it really does something to the state of his dick,
so. A sigh, not as aggravated as he wants it to be. ] Gods, you're impossible. [ Grumbling (affectionately), he uses his free hand to guide Astarion's hand down the front of his pants. ]
[ Ugh, no, he's never run a marathon and he never will. All that unsightly sweating!
Astarion's mouth twists into a self-satisfied smile as Iorveth guides his hand exactly where he wants it to go, his own erection twitching in excitement as he brushes his fingers against Iorveth's. Gods — he's long found genitalia to be filthy, disgusting, unappealing in every sense of the word, but Iorveth's is just perfect. A warm, satisfying weight against his palm. He presses the heel of his hand against that warmth, visibly enamored. It turns out when you love someone, that love extends to their cock.
He nearly says as much, sighing, ] If only I could spend the rest of eternity doing nothing but touching you.
[ Hyperbole, obviously, but it's very much how he feels right now. He'd like to live in this moment forever, skin warm and heart full and, yeah, erection being gently palmed by his favorite being in existence. He shifts toward Iorveth a little, seeking better leverage. It jostles his leg, but he's very brave about it — if only because he doesn't want to give Iorveth a reason to change his mind. ]
[ Astarion, braver than any oathsworn paladin. Iorveth would chide Astarion for moving that injured leg if he wasn't so distracted by the hand (lukewarm from all the fooling around, mercifully) over his cock. His next breath catches in the back of his throat, a direct result of his brain short-circuiting from that initial touch.
A shiver, a shift, and Iorveth regroups. Snaking his own hand down the front of Astarion's smallclothes for reciprocal direct contact, he lets his fingertips ghost over the outline of Astarion's erection before catching it in a loose grip, making slow, steady friction. ]
I'd get nothing done for the rest of eternity, [ he says, ending in a stuttering laugh broken midway by a suggestion of a moan. He's gotten stupidly hard just from making out and touching Astarion, as if he's a twenty-year old elf instead of his respectable two hundred, and it's taking every bit of self-control and mindfulness he has not to rut more needily against that proffered hand.
Which isn't to say that he doesn't do a bit of grinding. If Astarion thinks it's slutty of him, well. If the glove fits. Iorveth's dick won't so much as twitch for others, so he has to make up for it by being enthusiastic around Astarion. ]
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But: ] I fell for you first. [ Is he really going to be obstinate about this? The answer is yes. It's the sort of thing that he would scoff at if he saw anyone else arguing the point ("why the hells would it even matter, what would it even change"), but the point, for him, is that Astarion acknowledge that he is the most loved individual in all of Toril. A braindead debate, especially since there's no way to qualify or quantify his assertions. ]
I wanted you first. I anchored myself to you first. I've had longer to love you more.
[ Asking to share a bed was his first grand slip-up; there was no turning back for him, after that. He emphasizes the point with a squeeze to Astarion's waist, and a few more lovebites littered down the offered column of his neck. ]
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The exasperation isn't enough for him to discourage the affection, and in truth, it's maybe kind of sort of a turn-on in itself. He does enjoy arguing with Iorveth, as long as Iorveth is only playfully stern and not stern in actuality. He ducks his head to press a kiss to Iorveth's hair, then his temple, then his cheek. ]
And, you know, I'm rather certain I fell for you first, too. I only didn't realize I had, because— well, I'm sure you understand that liking someone was a rather unfamiliar feeling at the time.
[ And his feelings certainly didn't feel the way they do now, pure and concentrated, so sure. They'd been complex, messy. Insecure and frightened. (Okay, maybe there's still a little of that part left.) ]
But I craved your attention, my love, even when all you did was scowl at me.
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Another thing he doesn't say: "you should've said so". He knows he wouldn't have believed it, and he knows Astarion would have rather had his throat slit than say something so liable to be turned down at the time. ]
I did more than scowl, [ he argues, just for the sake of it. ] I jeered, occasionally. Walked away more than a few times.
[ Hard to think of doing the last one now. One hand slips up the back of Astarion's loose pajama top under the shroud of the cloak, fingers splayed, raking up along Astarion's spine. His skin feels warmer than usual, and that itch under Iorveth's skin gets a little harder to ignore. ]
My pride got in the way of my wanting, I suppose. But in all certainty, I wanted you. [ A low chuckle, almost in disbelief. ] Even now, I want you as desperately as I did then. A feeling I doubt will ever fade.
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Well, I want you even more than I did then.
[ Competitive, even in this. It's also true, or at least he thinks it is. Astarion is barely in touch with his emotions now, but back then, he'd been so heavily removed from them as to not really even understand it as wanting. He'd just known that he had a desire to stand near Iorveth, and that it angered him when Iorveth disapproved of him. It's only with the hindsight of wholeheartedly believing that Iorveth is his One Perfect Person™ that he can categorize it as what it was: baby's first (and last, he'd be quick to say!!) crush.
And since Reginald never explicitly said he's not allowed to feel Iorveth up a little, he places a warm (in comparison to his usual 'dead body' temperature) hand on his chest, smoothing over Iorveth's tattoo. ]
My life began when I met you. Everything before that was just— [ Hm. He hums in thought. ] A bad dream.
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His next exhale is low and heavy, his focus slightly scattered thanks to that touch. He arcs into it, and reciprocates by stroking up and down Astarion's back, massaging gently. ]
One I wish I could have woken you from earlier. [ Pressing his lips against silver curls, then sideways to Astarion's temple. ] But you did a fine job of breaking free from it on your own.
[ Namely: bashing Cazador's miserable fucking head in with a mace. Iorveth is so proud of him for that, honestly. ]
―Still, I love you most. [ Not letting this go!!! ] And I'll spend the next eternity proving it to you, obstinate cat.
[ Punctuating it with a proper kiss, mouth to mouth, as if that's final. ]
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Well, I don't need an eternity to prove it to you. I would do it right now, but—
[ He hikes his chin up, as if that is going to make what he has to say any less embarrassing. ]
If you're not going to take care of the problem you've caused [ —which is the weird boner he's starting to get, natch— ] then I'll have to excuse myself.
[ He is somehow still haughty about this. ]
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Well. [ Another glance, this time at Astarion's still very fucked-up hand. They really should have gotten that looked at before Reginald went home (presumably); it looks pretty terrible, even after a quick Cure Wounds. Astarion is really not in any condition to be messing around, but― ]
―I have wanted you in my mouth since Athkatla. [ He'd said so the night before the hag mess, and it still holds. Iorveth sounds slightly smug about it, as if he's still trying to win the I Want You More game. A clown. ] And it requires minimal action on your part.
[ Iorveth can jack off later, but gods knows he isn't going to pass up an opportunity to blow Astarion if it's presented to him. He knows where his priorities are at. ]
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[ It doesn't actually sound any less appealing when put that way, though, which is a problem. Iorveth's mouth isn't what he was really hoping to be inside of, quite frankly, but it is possibly the only thing he can be inside of without too much jostling of the leg. Ugh, he hates that fucking hag. Did she know she'd be cockblocking him so much when she did it?
He, of course, notes that Iorveth makes no mention of reciprocation. In a very obvious manipulation attempt, he lays his head on Iorveth's shoulder, hand traveling down that precious tattoo. ]
You know, I still have one good hand.
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One good hand and one good leg. You're losing limbs, fast.
[ Tipping his head, kissing Astarion's cheek. The hand snaked up the pajama shirt trails down, slipping under the loose waistband of his matching pants to slide along a thigh. ]
I'm offering to wait on you, beloved. Hand and foot, literally. [ A huff-laugh, accompanied by an ear-nibble. ] Much as I want you, you're still injured.
[ Trying to be mindful, but also liable to fold like paper. ]
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Mm, I do like the idea of being pampered.
[ And his body very much likes the hand on his thigh. He leans in to press a kiss to Iorveth's eminently kissable (maybe not in most people's opinion, but certainly in his) mouth, then draws back after a moment, a little embarrassed. ]
I— [ He lowers his voice, as if afraid someone will hear. ] Not in this ugly thing.
[ As much as having Iorveth's mouth around him while he basks in the sun is, like, the ultimate fantasy, he does not feel sexy at all in this cloak. ]
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It is the ugliest thing you've ever allowed on your body.
[ Pulling his hand out of Astarion's pants, Iorveth picks at the end of the offending cloak with a thumb and forefinger. A very unflattering reddish blue-purple (an impossible combination of colors), held together with cheap-looking white string. ]
A pity Dragomir had no taste. [ Finally peeling himself away from Astarion to get up, even if his entire body protests it; not to mention that it's very uncomfortable being upright with the current state of his boner, but he'll live. ] ...Inside, then.
[ Offering Astarion a hand. Still looking at him like he's the most beautiful thing Iorveth's ever seen, even in the ugly cloak and his ill-fitting pajamas. ]
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Well, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever allowed on my body, so I suppose it evens out.
[ Iorveth will absolutely not agree with this, but Astarion moves steadily along so he can't argue. ]
Once Gale fixes this ridiculous thing [ —because he's somehow assigned that task to him, even though it was one of his wizard friends he'd actually said was capable of it— ] I'll make love to you from sunrise to sunset.
[
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The look Iorveth gives about the imaginary marathon sex they'll have has real 'sure Jan' energy, however. Iorveth likes intimacy because it's intense and honest and reaffirms the level of trust he has in Astarion, but it's also a lot to ask of someone who has had two hundred years to become sex-repulsed (very understandably). Sex without emotion is awful, and sex with emotion is scary. A Catch-22. Iorveth kind of suspects that they'll have one round, and Astarion will want to cuddle for the rest of the daylight hours.
He doesn't say that, though. ] It'll be your day to celebrate, and it'll be yours to do with however you wish.
[ Okay, that sounds a little like 'sure Jan'. Iorveth also leans in to kiss Astarion before he can think too deeply about whether or not Iorveth is being patronizing, and opens the door to their bedroom, which he swiftly locks shut after they enter. ]
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Whatever. Whether or not he's actually capable of such degeneracy will have to wait. While Iorveth locks the door to keep wandering cockblocks out, Astarion gets to work on untying this stupid, ugly cloak. Iorveth made the ties very secure (which is impossibly adorable, and he's filled with another surge of love), so it takes a little fumbling to undo them. Once they're loosened, he very carefully folds the cloak and places it atop the dresser. It may be ugly, but it's also the most precious thing he owns.
Cloakless now, he leans against the dresser, posing seductively as if he isn't still in his PJs. ]
Much better.
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―but Astarion distracts him with all of this ridiculous peacocking, which is frankly very unsexy but is also the most endearing thing Iorveth has seen in his life, so there's that. It almost makes Iorveth want to travel back in time to see if the 'roguish rake' persona that Astarion adopted during the beginning of their tadpole journey will make him cringe now (affectionate).
That said, Iorveth is the one enthusiastically buying what Astarion isn't even selling, and he knows it. ]
Finally. [ Long, sure strides take by Astarion's side, and with a bit of finagling, he sets down a pillow for Astarion to rest his injured leg on before coaxing him to sit with his back against the headboard. ] ―That wretched hag really did do her utmost to ruin our nights together.
[ Sliding down over Astarion's body, Iorveth lifts the bottom of Astarion's pajama top to kiss his navel. Ridiculously saccharine. ]
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Luckily, he has the version of Iorveth that only calls him 'fool' in that exasperated-but-loving tone now, not the version that calls him 'fool' with a tone that suggests he thinks Astarion is one jingly hat away from being a court jester. Everything about Iorveth is sweet now, and Astarion's heart squeezes as he lets his leg rest on the soft pillow.
The navel kiss is also very endearing, but it's also close to more— fraught parts of his body, and he feels twin frissons of nervousness and excitement up his spine. ]
—Ah, my love, [ he says, trying to sound breezy and undemanding as he smooths down Iorveth's hair, ] you know I hate to bark orders.
[ Said with a hint of wryness, because yes, giving orders is his favorite thing to do. Intimacy is still one place where he's not quite sure how to do that, though, or if he even should. ]
But it's just that after the hag, and all. [ It brought up some things. While being with Iorveth has never, ever made him feel bad, he still worries. It would be his worst nightmare if being close to Iorveth were in any way tainted. He sinks into the pillows, embarrassed at having to ask. ] Perhaps you might... go slow. Only this time, and then I'll be back on the wagon.
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Now, he just adjusts. Without pulling away, he slides back up and nests next to Astarion on the opposite side of that injured leg. (Gods, he really wants to kill that stupid hag.) ]
You say so as if going slow isn't a luxury. [ Tipping Astarion's face up from soft pillows before he can bury himself in it, Iorveth presses their mouths together. They can make out a little more as a treat, and, for Iorveth, as an affirmation of affection: as he's said many times, he doesn't kiss anyone he doesn't love.
His hand slides down past the waistband of Astarion's loose pants again, smoothing down along his hip, sneaking down to the soft skin of his inner thigh. More exploratory than lecherous, craving contact just for the sake of it. He hums, starting to feel a little fuzzy from breathlessness, and goes up for air. ]
Astarion. [ Craning up, dotting another kiss to his temple. ] ...My betrothed. With you, 'slow' is ideal.
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He hasn't the slightest idea if Iorveth actually means any of this, or if it's simply to make Astarion feel better. Maybe he really wishes he didn't have to handle Astarion with so much care, that they could just be together without having to think so much about it. In a decade, though, in a century, Astarion likes to think he won't even remember what it was like to be touched by somebody who didn't love him, and then he can make it up to Iorveth tenfold. ]
Betrothed, [ he echoes with a laugh. It's a ridiculous thing to say. If it weren't coming out of Iorveth's mouth, he'd roll his eyes and groan, exasperated. Somehow, though, hearing it in Iorveth's so-serious voice makes him... well, atwitter. With his good hand, he reaches up to rub his thumb across the helix of Iorveth's pointy ear, the way one might rub the ear of a friendly fox. ] I rather like the sound of that.
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Iorveth Ancunín, [ he reminds Astarion after another open-mouthed kiss to his jaw, reinforcing a lovebite that he'd already made on the patio. ] ―Funny. I never thought I'd take anyone else's name.
[ Reverence made him bury his surname with his parents, and pride alongside purpose kept him from wanting another. He made himself into exactly who he needed to be, and that didn't involve tying himself to anyone else.
Famous last words. Here he is now, slowly working himself towards petting Astarion between his legs, unhurried and over his underwear, layering more kisses against that pretty mouth to prove that he's having a great time just paying attention to Astarion, actually. A murmured I love you in his language just for good measure, because he never wants to look back and regret not having said it enough. ]
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It's the latter. The hand feels very good, of course, gentle and slow and creating a faint damp spot against the front of his smallclothes, but the sound of Iorveth's name followed by his own sends shivers down his spine. The possessive little part inside of him purrs; mine, all mine. It's very, very difficult to resist the urge to push Iorveth onto his back and really make him feel like Iorveth Ancunín, but Astarion does only because he fears his leg might give out during the process and humiliate him.
He kisses the junction between Iorveth's ear and jaw instead, before scraping the flats of his teeth across the soft flesh of his earlobe. 'Minimal action' really isn't for him. ]
I'll call you nothing but 'Mr. Ancunín' for the rest of time. [ Another scrape of his teeth, this time against the underside of Iorveth's jaw. Gods, he really could devour Iorveth. ] ...Or perhaps I'll call you 'husband' instead.
[ It's the first time either of them have said the word. The sensation of it in his mouth is sweet, and it sends another nervous tingle up his back. ]
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Because, well, husband kind of does it for him. It was a calculated thing, the half-avoidance of the term, not wanting to box Astarion into any sort of role that he hasn't chosen for himself; but now he's gone and said it, and spoken the thought into existence.
Iorveth shivers a bit, shifting so that his obvious erection isn't pressing uncomfortably against Astarion's knee, and makes a bit more friction with his hand. An instinctive craving for more, even if he doesn't really know what the context for that 'more' is. ]
I've been called many things, [ he sighs, content, as he presses a smile against Astarion's hair. ] But never 'husband'.
[ There's a tightness in his chest, a pain that comes from happiness expanding his heart at a rate he wasn't prepared to handle. He cups Astarion's face with his free hand, stroking over high cheekbones and smoothing a soft brow, like he just can't believe any of this is happening and needs to affirm it through touch. ]
Which would make you my husband, in turn. [ A soft laugh, knowing that they're getting ahead of themselves. ] Once we exchange rings, that is.
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Love. [ Absolutely incorrigible, his good hand drops to Iorveth's waistband. He adds, sweetly and entirely manipulatively, ] My darling husband-to-be.
[ He angles his face so that he can look up at Iorveth with big, pleading eyes as he fiddles with the edge of his waistband. It's unabashedly obvious. ]
I feel miraculously healed. Why, I could run a marathon right now.
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Iorveth closes his eye. Tries not to acknowledge what he knows is Astarion trying to cajole him into saying yes. ]
You've never run a marathon in your life.
[ The war rages on in his head; it would have raged on a little longer had he had the strength of will to keep his eye closed, but alas. He cracks it open, and the full force of Astarion's insistence smacks him right in the face.
It shouldn't be cute. He knows that Astarion knows that this will make him fold, nine times out of ten. But 'husband-to-be' is a powerful weapon, and, again, it really does something to the state of his dick,
so. A sigh, not as aggravated as he wants it to be. ] Gods, you're impossible. [ Grumbling (affectionately), he uses his free hand to guide Astarion's hand down the front of his pants. ]
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Astarion's mouth twists into a self-satisfied smile as Iorveth guides his hand exactly where he wants it to go, his own erection twitching in excitement as he brushes his fingers against Iorveth's. Gods — he's long found genitalia to be filthy, disgusting, unappealing in every sense of the word, but Iorveth's is just perfect. A warm, satisfying weight against his palm. He presses the heel of his hand against that warmth, visibly enamored. It turns out when you love someone, that love extends to their cock.
He nearly says as much, sighing, ] If only I could spend the rest of eternity doing nothing but touching you.
[ Hyperbole, obviously, but it's very much how he feels right now. He'd like to live in this moment forever, skin warm and heart full and, yeah, erection being gently palmed by his favorite being in existence. He shifts toward Iorveth a little, seeking better leverage. It jostles his leg, but he's very brave about it — if only because he doesn't want to give Iorveth a reason to change his mind. ]
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A shiver, a shift, and Iorveth regroups. Snaking his own hand down the front of Astarion's smallclothes for reciprocal direct contact, he lets his fingertips ghost over the outline of Astarion's erection before catching it in a loose grip, making slow, steady friction. ]
I'd get nothing done for the rest of eternity, [ he says, ending in a stuttering laugh broken midway by a suggestion of a moan. He's gotten stupidly hard just from making out and touching Astarion, as if he's a twenty-year old elf instead of his respectable two hundred, and it's taking every bit of self-control and mindfulness he has not to rut more needily against that proffered hand.
Which isn't to say that he doesn't do a bit of grinding. If Astarion thinks it's slutty of him, well. If the glove fits. Iorveth's dick won't so much as twitch for others, so he has to make up for it by being enthusiastic around Astarion. ]
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