[ 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. ]
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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. ]