[ 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. ]
Oh. [ Slutty, no. It's a bit wanton, but to be wanted so badly by someone who's normally so tightly controlled, bad enough that he grinds against Astarion's palm so freely, is exhilarating. That's power, he thinks, to be able to have an unrepentant terrorist, a prolific killer, rock needily against his hand. He wishes that it were his hips Iorveth were grinding against and not his hand, their erections sliding against each other, but—
That would probably hurt pretty fucking bad right about now, so he'll take a rain check on that.
He can't quite achieve the same rocking motion as Iorveth with such a large part of his body out of commission, which is frustrating; he whines a little out of frustration, before roughly stroking downward in an attempt to encourage more from Iorveth. He'd wanted Iorveth to take it gentle and slow, yes, but he's also awful at getting teased. Impatient, restless. ]
I don't care, [ is a belated response to Iorveth. ] You'll feel only pleasure all day.
[ Not a realistic goal, and not one he really thinks Iorveth would even want, but in the haze of arousal, it does feel nice to imagine a world where all he has to worry about is fucking Iorveth until they get tired and then cuddling him until they get a second wind. ]
[ Astarion whines, and that's Iorveth's cue to slowly turn the dial up from 'gentle and slow' to 'gentle, but with purpose'. Without quite matching the roughness with which Astarion handles him, he stops petting and starts stroking in earnest, tracing and thumbing with indulgent, long snaps of his wrist. Enjoying the way Astarion feels in his hand, the surprising warmth of him against Iorveth's skin.
(The desire to slip down and put his mouth on that perfect cock still looms large, but he can be patient. Maybe when Astarion gets better, and has two good hands to pull his hair with.)
A low sigh, trembling, and Iorveth leans in for a kiss. Overwhelmed, a bit, by the thought that Astarion would want to spend an eternity in bed with him. It's the most debauched thing he's heard out of that perfect mouth, and Iorveth tries to taste that sentiment on Astarion's tongue as he huffs and bucks into the hand closed around him, feeling his arousal mount from an itch to a full-bodied burn. ]
Yes, [ he pants, without really knowing what the hells he's agreeing to; it's just the prevailing thought left in his head. Yes, yes, yes. He quickens his pace somewhat, hands and hips moving with slightly more urgency. ] As long as it's with you.
[ Burying his face in Astarion's neck, leaving another bitemark. ]
[ Oh, he loves to hear that sweet word on Iorveth's lips: yes. A lifetime of 'no', and now there's nothing that scratches the itch in the back of his brain quite as much as Iorveth's immediate and unthinking agreement. It is, of course, absolutely insane to so much as suggest that they should just spend eternity rolling around in bed together, but that just makes Iorveth's acquiescence all the better. ]
Yes, [ he sighs with a smile, almost dreamy in nature. It's hard to tell if it's agreeing with Iorveth's agreement, or just an echo of the thing he likes most to hear. It doesn't matter, because it's the last thing he says before he devolves into soft sounds of pleasure, the sort that he once couldn't tolerate coming from himself. He hardly thinks of the shame that used to make him muffle them now; Iorveth should know exactly how he makes Astarion feel, which is wonderful.
There's nothing explosive about the climax, just gentle hands and a steadily building pressure low in his stomach until he tenses and trembles. It's perfect. Not overwhelming or scary, just pleasurable. He isn't quite so gentle, though, and he squeezes on the downstroke, firm and encouraging. ]
[ Astarion is so sweet, Iorveth can hardly stand it. When he's more lucid, he'll think back to this perfect moment of trust and pleasure and happily reaffirm a truth that he already holds close to his heart: that he'd do anything to make sure that Astarion stays happy. His beautiful, lovely vampire, baggage and all.
It doesn't take long for Iorveth to follow Astarion down his own cliff, less of a sharp and sudden fall and more of a hop and a leap, encouraged by a clever hand. He makes his own soft sounds in return, gasps and pants that he tries to kiss into Astarion's mouth to middling success until the mind-numbing wave slowly recedes, leaving him pliant and relaxed where he's pressed against Astarion's side.
A moment to catch his breath later, he nuzzles his sweaty forehead against Astarion's shoulder. ]
...When your leg's healed, [ he murmurs, voice muffled, ] I wish to walk through the city with you during the day.
[ Hugging closer, minding the messy hand now gently tugging similarly-messy smallclothes from Astarion's person, pajama pants and all. It never feels nice to have gross underwear clinging to privates. ]
[ Crazy, that's the same thing he's thinking about Iorveth — he's so sweet, no way he's a murderer!! As Iorveth peels the clothing from his bottom half, Astarion glances down at his injured leg, taking the pillow from underneath it and covering the bruises. His lovely fiancé doesn't need to see that.
Otherwise, he lies limp and happy against the pillows, staring up at Iorveth with an enamored expression, hearts practically twirling around his head. ]
I would like that. We've been confined to the dark for too long.
[ He wants to see the way Iorveth's dark hair shines in the sun, the way his tanned skin glows, his eyes sparkle. And he wants to see other things, too: color again, bright and vibrant rather than dull and muted. ]
How long were you hoping to stay, my dear? [ It'll put Gale out, but whatever. ] I could find ways to occupy my time if you wanted to... delay your return to the north.
[ Iorveth reaches sideways towards the bedside dresser, and stops himself just before he accidentally uses their precious daywalking cloak as a handtowel. Crisis averted. He picks up one of the cloths he uses to clean his sword instead (he'll get a new one), and moves to gingerly wipe Astarion's hand after he tidies his own.
With that done: mandatory cuddling. Fingers comb through silver hair in a show of casual doting, interrupted by occasional rubs behind one pointed ear. ]
I'd thought we could detour to Baldur's Gate once more, before heading north. [ A lot of heavy lifting on Gale's part, having to portal them back and forth. It's that or camping again, and Iorveth is fairly certain that Astarion will want to choose the convenient option over sleeping on bedrolls on hard dirt. ] Perhaps we could extort the Duke for our marriage funds.
[ Things Iorveth has said to Wyll: "hey, your father fucking sucks and we shouldn't help him." Wyll wasn't pleased, to say the least. ]
[ Astarion instantly reaches over to curl around Iorveth as best he can with this stupid leg, nestled into the crooks of Iorveth's body like he belongs there. The sex is good, but the aftercare is better. He's impossibly lucky to have something like this. He's never, ever, ever giving it up, and that is a threat. ]
As I recall, the Duke wasn't our biggest fan.
[ You make a few comments about how Wyll was better off without him, anyway, and Duke Ravengard makes a whole big scene. Whatever. It's still right. Wyll is twice the man the Duke will ever be, Astarion thinks, even with his ridiculous tendency toward heroism. ]
But I wouldn't mind returning home for a bit.
[ Because that's what it still is to him, in a way. 'Home' isn't always good, but it's familiar. If the place he could navigate with his eyes closed isn't home, where is? ]
...Although I must admit I'm surprised you would want to. I thought you didn't care for the Gate.
[ Sure, Wyll was a foolish child with delusions of grandeur, but his contract with Mizora came from a place of unfathomable goodness. Wyll should have been scolded for thinking that he could depend on no one else, in Iorveth's not-so-expert opinion, but Duke Ravengard was a real ass for exiling his only son for making a poor choice. A typical human, in Iorveth's opinion. Short-sighted, caring only for appearances. The kind of human who deserves to be extorted by two deranged elves.
With that thought squared away, Iorveth is content to shower Astarion with the kind of affection that others have desperately tried to deter him from giving. Too thorough, too much. Treating him like the most special thing in the world, because he is. ]
I don't care for the humans governing it. [ Predictably. Astarion has not tried to deter Iorveth from his casual racism against and deep-seated resentment for humans, so Iorveth has not improved on this matter in the slightest. ] But I care for it in the sense of it being the place where I fell in love with you.
[ A quick kiss to Astarion's cheek, to cement the point. ]
...And Dolores will be happy to make something suitable for you to wear. For future occasions.
[ The place where I fell in love with you. Astarion will never not get a happy shiver up his spine at the reminder that Iorveth not only tolerates him, not only likes him, but loves him. The man who used to scornfully call him 'vampire', who once sent a note flying past his head via arrow. Sometimes he wishes it had all happened quicker, less messily, but—
There's not a moment he doesn't cherish, even the ones that made him furious. Oh, he's so impossibly down bad.
The mention of Dolores perks him up—how is that old biddy, he wonders—and the idea of her couture clothing more so. The future occasions most of all. He's still flushed from intimacy, but his face pinks a little more with pleasure, and he places his good hand on Iorveth's chest excitedly. He's less into wedding 'planning' and more into wedding 'fantasizing', but it's very, very fun to imagine it. ]
And for you, of course.
[ Gods, someone will have to stop him from trying to commission her to make Iorveth a whole new wardrobe. He's loved to dress Iorveth up ever since that ostentatious outfit in the Water Queen's House. ]
Something low-cut, to show off that lovely tattoo. [ And because he likes looking at Iorveth's chest, so what!! ] Should we match, do you think, or is that too unbearably twee? Something complementary, perhaps.
[ Down bad, Astarion thinks, and Iorveth mirrors the sentiment by boggling about how smitten he is. All it takes is for Astarion to look animated and enthused about anything at all for Iorveth to ensure that it happens; the worst thing in the world is giving his love false hope and seeing it pulled out from under him. Rational, sane people may argue that it's neither possible nor healthy to try to shield one person from all the world's ills, but damn if Iorveth won't try. ]
Anything, as long as it's not purple.
[ He huffs, a half-laugh as he takes Astarion's burned hand and tries to cast another round of Cure Wounds on it. It still doesn't help much at all, which is frustrating― as a consolation prize, he kisses the unburnt wrist and noses at it gently. ]
I've knowledge of many things, but fashion isn't one of them. You're free to dress me however you please for the occasion. [ Famous last words. ] ...Though I insist on embroidering one thing on whatever you choose to wear.
[ Although it's too tender to do so, Astarion longs to press the hand to Iorveth's cheek the way he'd done so long ago, in their room at the Elfsong, when they were still dancing awkwardly around each other. The both of them were too stubborn to admit the depth of their feeling back then, or perhaps too prideful even to realize it. If he could go back in time and tell himself to stop being such a fool and just love Iorveth already, he knows that he wouldn't listen to himself.
But he's long since overcome that hurdle, and how. He takes his uninjured hand and links it with Iorveth's instead. Holding Iorveth's hand is still the one thing he likes better than anything else, even now. All the sex in the world doesn't compare to the feeling of knowing Iorveth is right beside him and isn't going anywhere. ]
You are such a talented little seamstress these days.
[ One corner of his mouth tugs up a little further at the image of all of those crooked suns. ]
What will it be? A heart, perhaps? Another sun? Those are your specialty.
[ Neither little nor a seamstress, but Iorveth accepts the assessment anyway because it's delivered after handholding. Like Astarion's sleeve-tugging, the gesture makes Iorveth feel warm all over. ]
Hm. A sun may be too redundant. [ A gesture with his free hand towards the cloak. ] ...Perhaps some vines with leaves. On the collar.
[ Something that matches the visible portion of his tattoo. Is that also too twee? Maybe not Astarion's aesthetic, either. But he thinks it'd be nice to have something of him on Astarion's person. Feels correct, in a way; a proper union.
Still, because it's hardly his executive decision (Astarion will be the one who has to wear it), he offers: ] If it agrees with you, that is. [ The hand he'd used to gesture moves to settle on Astarion's cheek, pulsepoint near his mouth. It occurs to Iorveth, again, to let teeth sink in, and he encourages it implicitly by nudging that vulnerable bit of himself closer. ]
[ It dawns on him, slowly, what a luxury it is to lie around and chat with someone after intimacy. To have someone stick around rather than be dragged off kicking and screaming to somewhere terrible. To press himself against Iorveth's body and feel safe, unashamed. Gods, he loves this man; he presses his mouth against Iorveth's wrist, letting the contact linger as he closes his eyes, inhaling the sweet scent of Iorveth's skin and feeling his pulse beat against Astarion's lips. ]
It's your touch, my love. Of course it will agree with me.
[ Unless it's like, fucking ugly, but he'll let Iorveth down gently later if that's the case. No point in dwelling on that now!!
He drags his teeth over Iorveth's wrist, light, playful. ]
I hated having to subsist on that— man. [ He hated a lot of things about that situation, but most of them aren't very romantic, so he keeps his mouth shut. ] It's only you I want on my tongue.
[ Embroidering will potentially end up like this, and the real victim will be Dolores for having some asshole ruin her perfectly-tailored shirt. Still, Iorveth adds the needlework to his to-do list anyway, because he might as well commit to the Clown in Love title.
Astarion scrapes his pointy fangs over thin skin, and Iorveth renews his hatred for the hag, and his tangential dislike of Reginald (unfair, and Iorveth knows it), for leaving Astarion in pain. If not for that leg, Iorveth would be fully tangled and cuddled in for this, and not being able to do so is far more agonizing than he anticipated. ]
Your favored vintage. [ A half-quirk of his lips, as he drums his fingers lightly across Astarion's temple. ] Say so enough, and you really will make me a jealous man.
[ Again, Iorveth academically knows that Astarion should eat. In recent memory, he recalls that Damris had asked to sample his blood, and he also knows with one hundred percent certainty that that request had everything to do with dispassionate curiosity and nothing to do with attraction.
And yet. Iorveth glances down at Astarion and his pretty mouth, and still hates the thought of it on someone else. An absurd thing to think, since most people do not want to get bitten by a godsdamned vampire. ]
Will I? [ A mischievous grin. ] Well, then I'll say so every day.
[ Obviously, he thinks the idea of Iorveth's jealousy is— comforting, for one. Astarion is a wretched little beast, and he feels jealous of all the other people that have ever been the recipients of Iorveth's love. He has no one else to rival Iorveth, but it would be nice to know that, hypothetically, Iorveth might feel some jealousy at the thought. It's also kind of hot, whatever.
He refuses to stop holding Iorveth's hand (a wretched little beast, again) so he uses his injured hand to steady Iorveth's wrist, fingertips lightly brushing Iorveth's skin. It hurts a little, but it's all right. He'd weather any pain to for just one drop of Iorveth's blood in his throat. Also, he loves Iorveth a totally normal and sane amount, why would you even ask that??
His fangs pierce the skin just enough for blood to bead at the two pinprick punctures; he licks it up. ]
Mm. [ A pleased hum. ] You know, sometimes I think of my blood on your tongue.
[ In the context of making him a vampire—a true vampire!—which is an unachievable fantasy, but still good all the same. ]
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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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That would probably hurt pretty fucking bad right about now, so he'll take a rain check on that.
He can't quite achieve the same rocking motion as Iorveth with such a large part of his body out of commission, which is frustrating; he whines a little out of frustration, before roughly stroking downward in an attempt to encourage more from Iorveth. He'd wanted Iorveth to take it gentle and slow, yes, but he's also awful at getting teased. Impatient, restless. ]
I don't care, [ is a belated response to Iorveth. ] You'll feel only pleasure all day.
[ Not a realistic goal, and not one he really thinks Iorveth would even want, but in the haze of arousal, it does feel nice to imagine a world where all he has to worry about is fucking Iorveth until they get tired and then cuddling him until they get a second wind. ]
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(The desire to slip down and put his mouth on that perfect cock still looms large, but he can be patient. Maybe when Astarion gets better, and has two good hands to pull his hair with.)
A low sigh, trembling, and Iorveth leans in for a kiss. Overwhelmed, a bit, by the thought that Astarion would want to spend an eternity in bed with him. It's the most debauched thing he's heard out of that perfect mouth, and Iorveth tries to taste that sentiment on Astarion's tongue as he huffs and bucks into the hand closed around him, feeling his arousal mount from an itch to a full-bodied burn. ]
Yes, [ he pants, without really knowing what the hells he's agreeing to; it's just the prevailing thought left in his head. Yes, yes, yes. He quickens his pace somewhat, hands and hips moving with slightly more urgency. ] As long as it's with you.
[ Burying his face in Astarion's neck, leaving another bitemark. ]
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Yes, [ he sighs with a smile, almost dreamy in nature. It's hard to tell if it's agreeing with Iorveth's agreement, or just an echo of the thing he likes most to hear. It doesn't matter, because it's the last thing he says before he devolves into soft sounds of pleasure, the sort that he once couldn't tolerate coming from himself. He hardly thinks of the shame that used to make him muffle them now; Iorveth should know exactly how he makes Astarion feel, which is wonderful.
There's nothing explosive about the climax, just gentle hands and a steadily building pressure low in his stomach until he tenses and trembles. It's perfect. Not overwhelming or scary, just pleasurable. He isn't quite so gentle, though, and he squeezes on the downstroke, firm and encouraging. ]
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It doesn't take long for Iorveth to follow Astarion down his own cliff, less of a sharp and sudden fall and more of a hop and a leap, encouraged by a clever hand. He makes his own soft sounds in return, gasps and pants that he tries to kiss into Astarion's mouth to middling success until the mind-numbing wave slowly recedes, leaving him pliant and relaxed where he's pressed against Astarion's side.
A moment to catch his breath later, he nuzzles his sweaty forehead against Astarion's shoulder. ]
...When your leg's healed, [ he murmurs, voice muffled, ] I wish to walk through the city with you during the day.
[ Hugging closer, minding the messy hand now gently tugging similarly-messy smallclothes from Astarion's person, pajama pants and all. It never feels nice to have gross underwear clinging to privates. ]
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Otherwise, he lies limp and happy against the pillows, staring up at Iorveth with an enamored expression, hearts practically twirling around his head. ]
I would like that. We've been confined to the dark for too long.
[ He wants to see the way Iorveth's dark hair shines in the sun, the way his tanned skin glows, his eyes sparkle. And he wants to see other things, too: color again, bright and vibrant rather than dull and muted. ]
How long were you hoping to stay, my dear? [ It'll put Gale out, but whatever. ] I could find ways to occupy my time if you wanted to... delay your return to the north.
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With that done: mandatory cuddling. Fingers comb through silver hair in a show of casual doting, interrupted by occasional rubs behind one pointed ear. ]
I'd thought we could detour to Baldur's Gate once more, before heading north. [ A lot of heavy lifting on Gale's part, having to portal them back and forth. It's that or camping again, and Iorveth is fairly certain that Astarion will want to choose the convenient option over sleeping on bedrolls on hard dirt. ] Perhaps we could extort the Duke for our marriage funds.
[ Things Iorveth has said to Wyll: "hey, your father fucking sucks and we shouldn't help him." Wyll wasn't pleased, to say the least. ]
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As I recall, the Duke wasn't our biggest fan.
[ You make a few comments about how Wyll was better off without him, anyway, and Duke Ravengard makes a whole big scene. Whatever. It's still right. Wyll is twice the man the Duke will ever be, Astarion thinks, even with his ridiculous tendency toward heroism. ]
But I wouldn't mind returning home for a bit.
[ Because that's what it still is to him, in a way. 'Home' isn't always good, but it's familiar. If the place he could navigate with his eyes closed isn't home, where is? ]
...Although I must admit I'm surprised you would want to. I thought you didn't care for the Gate.
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With that thought squared away, Iorveth is content to shower Astarion with the kind of affection that others have desperately tried to deter him from giving. Too thorough, too much. Treating him like the most special thing in the world, because he is. ]
I don't care for the humans governing it. [ Predictably. Astarion has not tried to deter Iorveth from his casual racism against and deep-seated resentment for humans, so Iorveth has not improved on this matter in the slightest. ] But I care for it in the sense of it being the place where I fell in love with you.
[ A quick kiss to Astarion's cheek, to cement the point. ]
...And Dolores will be happy to make something suitable for you to wear. For future occasions.
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There's not a moment he doesn't cherish, even the ones that made him furious. Oh, he's so impossibly down bad.
The mention of Dolores perks him up—how is that old biddy, he wonders—and the idea of her couture clothing more so. The future occasions most of all. He's still flushed from intimacy, but his face pinks a little more with pleasure, and he places his good hand on Iorveth's chest excitedly. He's less into wedding 'planning' and more into wedding 'fantasizing', but it's very, very fun to imagine it. ]
And for you, of course.
[ Gods, someone will have to stop him from trying to commission her to make Iorveth a whole new wardrobe. He's loved to dress Iorveth up ever since that ostentatious outfit in the Water Queen's House. ]
Something low-cut, to show off that lovely tattoo. [ And because he likes looking at Iorveth's chest, so what!! ] Should we match, do you think, or is that too unbearably twee? Something complementary, perhaps.
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Anything, as long as it's not purple.
[ He huffs, a half-laugh as he takes Astarion's burned hand and tries to cast another round of Cure Wounds on it. It still doesn't help much at all, which is frustrating― as a consolation prize, he kisses the unburnt wrist and noses at it gently. ]
I've knowledge of many things, but fashion isn't one of them. You're free to dress me however you please for the occasion. [ Famous last words. ] ...Though I insist on embroidering one thing on whatever you choose to wear.
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But he's long since overcome that hurdle, and how. He takes his uninjured hand and links it with Iorveth's instead. Holding Iorveth's hand is still the one thing he likes better than anything else, even now. All the sex in the world doesn't compare to the feeling of knowing Iorveth is right beside him and isn't going anywhere. ]
You are such a talented little seamstress these days.
[ One corner of his mouth tugs up a little further at the image of all of those crooked suns. ]
What will it be? A heart, perhaps? Another sun? Those are your specialty.
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Hm. A sun may be too redundant. [ A gesture with his free hand towards the cloak. ] ...Perhaps some vines with leaves. On the collar.
[ Something that matches the visible portion of his tattoo. Is that also too twee? Maybe not Astarion's aesthetic, either. But he thinks it'd be nice to have something of him on Astarion's person. Feels correct, in a way; a proper union.
Still, because it's hardly his executive decision (Astarion will be the one who has to wear it), he offers: ] If it agrees with you, that is. [ The hand he'd used to gesture moves to settle on Astarion's cheek, pulsepoint near his mouth. It occurs to Iorveth, again, to let teeth sink in, and he encourages it implicitly by nudging that vulnerable bit of himself closer. ]
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It's your touch, my love. Of course it will agree with me.
[ Unless it's like, fucking ugly, but he'll let Iorveth down gently later if that's the case. No point in dwelling on that now!!
He drags his teeth over Iorveth's wrist, light, playful. ]
I hated having to subsist on that— man. [ He hated a lot of things about that situation, but most of them aren't very romantic, so he keeps his mouth shut. ] It's only you I want on my tongue.
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Astarion scrapes his pointy fangs over thin skin, and Iorveth renews his hatred for the hag, and his tangential dislike of Reginald (unfair, and Iorveth knows it), for leaving Astarion in pain. If not for that leg, Iorveth would be fully tangled and cuddled in for this, and not being able to do so is far more agonizing than he anticipated. ]
Your favored vintage. [ A half-quirk of his lips, as he drums his fingers lightly across Astarion's temple. ] Say so enough, and you really will make me a jealous man.
[ Again, Iorveth academically knows that Astarion should eat. In recent memory, he recalls that Damris had asked to sample his blood, and he also knows with one hundred percent certainty that that request had everything to do with dispassionate curiosity and nothing to do with attraction.
And yet. Iorveth glances down at Astarion and his pretty mouth, and still hates the thought of it on someone else. An absurd thing to think, since most people do not want to get bitten by a godsdamned vampire. ]
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[ Obviously, he thinks the idea of Iorveth's jealousy is— comforting, for one. Astarion is a wretched little beast, and he feels jealous of all the other people that have ever been the recipients of Iorveth's love. He has no one else to rival Iorveth, but it would be nice to know that, hypothetically, Iorveth might feel some jealousy at the thought. It's also kind of hot, whatever.
He refuses to stop holding Iorveth's hand (a wretched little beast, again) so he uses his injured hand to steady Iorveth's wrist, fingertips lightly brushing Iorveth's skin. It hurts a little, but it's all right. He'd weather any pain to for just one drop of Iorveth's blood in his throat. Also, he loves Iorveth a totally normal and sane amount, why would you even ask that??
His fangs pierce the skin just enough for blood to bead at the two pinprick punctures; he licks it up. ]
Mm. [ A pleased hum. ] You know, sometimes I think of my blood on your tongue.
[ In the context of making him a vampire—a true vampire!—which is an unachievable fantasy, but still good all the same. ]
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