essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Astarion would burst into tears if he knew Iorveth was thinking that he has eyebags right now.

But he doesn't, so he simply basks in the attention, assuming Iorveth is only thinking about how gorgeous his eyes are. Honestly, they're one of his least favorite features of his own; they're something Cazador changed about him beyond recognition, a lasting change that will endure even now that he's dead. Still, it's all right if Iorveth wants to find them ravishing. ]

I would like to hear you talk about throbbing members and quivering legs.

[ He sits up to reach for a book, holding it out for Iorveth to take. This isn't exactly persuasion as much as it is telling him to do it, but he should want to simply to please Astarion. ]

And do read it slowly and sensually.

[ Astarion can pretend that Iorveth is fawning over his eyes, and Iorveth can pretend that Astarion rolled a Nat 20 on Persuasion instead of acknowledging the fact that, in this moment, he's turned into a bit of a simp for his beloved vampire-shaped cat.

Commanded instead of coaxed, Iorveth takes the book from Astarion anyway. "Contract Bound", the title reads, and he flips through its pages to gather what in the hells it could be about.

After a few seconds of silence interrupted by the dry rustle of paper on paper: ] A forbidden romance between a prince and the assassin contracted to kill him. [ And gods, is it ever the most cliche garbage he's seen. Amusing, almost. He laughs under his breath, and sifts through to find something appropriately awful enough to recite out loud.

Shifting closer to Astarion, he reads: ]

"He reached for Nicholas, tangling his fingers in the expensive brocade of his doublet and tearing at it to expose the..." [ Sensually, Astarion had said, but Iorveth can't help but laugh at the descriptions. A bodice ripper, in the truest sense. ] "...Creamy skin of his chest, his pretty peaks already pert to attention."

[ Gods. Playfully, Iorveth tries to flick at Astarion's chest, approximating where his "pretty peaks" might be in his oversized shirt. ]

"Every inch of his intoxicating body was made to pleasure him."

[ This time, Iorveth doesn't snort. He's tempted to. ]

[ Wyll Ravengard! Astarion had thought him a bland, virginal schoolboy, but perhaps there's more to him after all, if this is the sort of reading he does. Briefly, he wonders if he might be able to use this knowledge to torment him in some way, but his attention quickly wanders to Iorveth instead, who is very much not reading this sensually. He's snorting! That isn't sensual at all.

Astarion snaps his fingers, ever the spoiled brat. ]

I requested sensuality.

[ He leans over to glance at the book himself. In truth, he's really only scanning the pages for the words 'cock', 'prick', or 'velvet-wrapped steel'. He's here for the action. ]

Why don't you ever tear my shirt off to expose the creamy skin of my chest?

[ Well. Less creamy, more sallow. ]

[ The action starts a few pages after the description of Nicholas (a ginger with emerald orbs for eyes, apparently) getting his shirt ripped off, so Astarion will have to put up with the flowery foreplay and content himself with the passing mention of Edgar the assassin's "impossible girth" pressing up along Nicholas' "trembling thigh".

To the question of why Iorveth doesn't act deranged (well): ]

You'd whine and moan about me ruining your clothes.

[ Tell him he's wrong, he won't buy it. He flips to the next passage to scan over what passes for dialogue in this story, and actually laughs out loud as he recites: ]

"If only your subjects knew how much you hunger for my prick." [ Iorveth has abandoned the "sensual" part of this endeavor entirely. ] I wonder if this is what our Blade of Frontiers fantasized about when he was still a tender Dukeling.

[ Somewhat likely. Palace politics― or whatever the adjacent is here, in Baldur's Gate― seems extremely tiresome. An assassin with an impressive cock might be the only way to make anything between the cloisters of fortified walls feel exciting. ]

[ He can't tell Iorveth he's wrong, because he isn't. Astarion would find having his clothes neatly folded and set aside far more titillating than having them torn to shreds.

Astarion scoffs, not at the idea of Wyll's fantasies being made of devilishly attractive would-be-assassins, but the idea that Iorveth's aren't. Sure, he's full of repression, but surely even he must indulge in fantasy sometime. Hells, even Astarion did back in the early days in the palace, when he'd imagine some heroic type who'd fall for his charms so heavily that they'd slay his captor and he'd never have to worry about anything ever again. ]

Don't act so above it. Surely even you must be stirred by—

[ His index finger drifts across the page before stopping on a particularly evocative paragraph. ]

Edgar's 'glistening chest' and 'rippling muscles'.

[ Although if rippling muscles excite him, he's saddled himself to the wrong, malnourished horse. ]

[ Blithely: ] I'd be more stirred if I knew anything about Edgar beyond the size of his cock and him being an utterly ineffective assassin.

[ Why is Nicholas being targeted, anyway? It seems far more efficient to kill the king, if someone wants to overturn the current state of government. Iorveth flips through a few more pages, committing the cardinal sin of skipping the smut to find the plot. He really is deranged. ]

―Ah. He was hired by the prince's younger brother. Succession drama. [ A light hum. ] A big-cocked, ineffective assassin with no moral backbone, then.

[ Poor Edgar, roasted by Iorveth for simply daring to be the Bad Boy in a romance novel. He flips back to the sex; at least that part annoys him less. ]

I know what stirs me. I don't need a book to jog my imagination.

Edited 2024-11-04 03:59 (UTC)

[ If he doesn't like ineffectiveness and a lack of a moral backbone, it's a shock that Iorveth ever gave Astarion the time of day. In his head, he's sooo Edgar-coded. Sexy, morally dubious, the Forgotten Realms equivalent of a Byronic hero. Reality is, perhaps, a little more 'angry wet cat' than 'romance book love interest', but reality only gets in the way. He likes the delusional fantasy version of himself more than the underwhelming real version.

As he skims over Nicholas and Edgar's prolonged foreplay--honestly, just rip each other's pants off already--he leans back into the pillows and says, innocently, ] Do say more about what stirs you.

[ How many times has Iorveth chided him for fishing for compliments? He really can't help himself. Iorveth made a grave mistake in becoming so permissive of his more annoying qualities. ]

In as much painstaking detail as you like.

[ Iorveth will never understand how anyone could look at Astarion and possibly see a romance novel sexyman archetype, but dissecting that also forces him to acknowledge the fact that he likes angry wet cats, so. Who's the real clown here???

Anyway. He lets Astarion take control of the book situation for a beat, reaching sideways for their bottle of wine to take a sip of the rich, full-bodied red. It tastes as decadent as this moment feels, curled up with Astarion in his bed, indulging in frivolities. By Iorveth's standards, this is hedonism in its purest form. ]

―White-haired vampires with a penchant for testing my patience, apparently.

[ Sharp words made affectionate by the light chuckle that lifts the tail end of his statement; Iorveth does, in fact, still want to spoil Astarion for the rest of the day. Setting the bottle aside, he tilts Astarion's chin up just a fraction of an inch to press his lips to Astarion's forehead, near the spot where the bruise used to be. ]

His pretty eyes, the curl of his lips. ...When he nudges closer in the morning, still hazy from trancing.

[ Warm and comfortable and distinctly kissable. Sometimes Iorveth can't believe how enamored he is. ]

It makes me want to keep him in bed, indefinitely.

[ Gross.

This is the kind of thing that would have given him hives not long ago. Unbearably sweet, complimentary in a way beyond shallow flattery. It's the epitome of romance for someone who's never been appreciated before, and his ears pink in pleasure. He can feel the faint warmth of his happy blush on his cold skin, and he longs to cover his ears with his hands to hide it, although to do so would just draw even more attention to it. How humiliating, to curl up and purr at a few kind words.

He stares down into the book instead. Edgar's hand is down Nicholas's trousers now. The word 'mewl' is used liberally. ]

Oh, [ he says casually. ] I thought you might compliment my impressive girth.

[ The response would be underwhelming if not for the lovely shade of pink blooming at the tips of Astarion's pale ears; Iorveth doesn't miss it－ they're pressed too close for him to not notice－ but decides not to call attention to it, lest Astarion decide to wriggle out of their pillow nest to escape the discomfort of being seen.

Instead, he laughs at the mention of impressive girths. ]

Well. [ Casually. ] Your cock is as pretty as the rest of you.

[ Is that romantic??? Probably not. Iorveth flips to the next page where the two fictional men finally start to begin rutting in earnest, though he can't for the life of him understand why in the hells these two are actually attracted to each other.

Whatever. Speaking of rutting: ] I wouldn't mind riding your "impressive girth", if that's what stirs you.

[ Again, casually. He's noticed that humans have some sort of strange hangup about being on the physically receiving end of sex, but he mostly thinks they're all cowards, really. ]

[ If that's what stirs him, Iorveth says. The blunt way Iorveth says it is anything but romantic, but it excites him nonetheless. In fact, the mental image stirs him so much that he practically has to direct a down, boy directly to his loins. It only sort of works.

Astarion hadn't thought Iorveth would ever want to do something like that, which was all right with him. He's been on every end of every sexual position one can conceive of and then some, so he's far past the point of being picky; being close to Iorveth in any way is enough to sate him. Still, there's something particularly exciting about the fact that Iorveth must have thought about it to bring it up, and that elicits yet another down, boy. ]

'Wouldn't mind'?

[ He deposits the book, pages down, on top of Iorveth's lap. Nicholas's incessant mewling is a lot less interesting than Iorveth. ]

I don't know. Are you sure you'd want to? You don't sound particularly enthusiastic.

[ Fish, fish. ]

[ Iorveth fully subscribes to the idea that if it feels good and they have a good time and they all want the same thing, there's no problem. He tips his head when Astarion starts fishing, curious as to the intent of the question. ]

If the cock in question is yours, [ Iorveth doesn't have a problem with bottoming, but he does have standards. ] I'd be more than enthusiastic.

[ Demanding, even. Admittedly, Iorveth has considered this through the lens of Astarion's sexual hangups before, but that's a less pleasant consideration than the one he's making now. Right now, all he's considering is whether or not Astarion would even find any of this appealing; the last time Iorveth got on top of anyone intimately was when he was slightly more pleasant to look at, with two eyes and longer hair.

Hm, he hums, and drums his fingers along Astarion's waist. ]

I want you in every way available. Consider this my admission of greed.

[ Now that's romantic. It's amazing how Iorveth can boomerang from blunt to sweet in a second flat, sometimes so quickly that he might as well be both at the same time. His ears flush again, and this time he can't bring himself to deflect with a joke. When Iorveth says 'I want you', he doesn't make it sound like he only desires Astarion, at least not the way other people have. He's been desired plenty of times, but how many people have ever wanted him and not just what he could do for them?

He's fairly certain the answer is 'just one', but he doesn't mind if nobody else in this wretched world wants him as long as Iorveth does. Reaching over, he brushes Iorveth's hair back and out of his face, making a distant note in the back of his mind to trim it sooner rather than later. He can't stand when it obscures his view of Iorveth's strong features, so sharp he could get cut on them. ]

There's nothing that involves you that I wouldn't find impossibly stirring.

[ He laughs at that, though not unkindly. ] So you say.

[ Iorveth can think of a few things that would make Astarion puff up and hiss, but, like Edgar and his bad politicking, Iorveth knows that that's not the point. It's his turn to look like he might turn away from the praise, to say something to refute it outright and to say that nothing about an elf with a ruined face could be particularly stirring－

－but he doesn't. He feels safe being seen by Astarion, secure in the knowledge that he isn't being toyed with. Turning into the hand sifting at his overgrown bangs, he nudges his nose against Astarion's palm. ]

If ever you feel like stretching me to your shape, [ he hums, choosing this precise moment to finally indulge in the near-forgotten request to be sensual, ] just say the word.

[ Eventually he'd like to flip roles too, but when Astarion feels comfortable enough. As much as Iorveth wants Astarion, he's fine with taking his time. ]

[ With his nose against Astarion's palm like this, Iorveth really does seem like a wild animal that he's tamed into (semi-)docility. He places his hand against Iorveth's angular cheek, enjoying the feel of the heat of his skin against his cold, undead hand. ]

There isn't a moment I don't feel like that.

[ Another statement that isn't entirely truthful, but again, that isn't the point. His point is that he's so stirred by this 'elf with a ruined face' that he actually wants to touch and be touched by him after centuries of aversion. It isn't only that he's attracted to him—although of course that's a part of it—but because he's safe in the knowledge that Iorveth won't ever do anything he doesn't want, won't ever keep going if he says to stop. There's no one else who he can trust enough to put himself in their hands. ]

—Mm, but you'll have to wait until I go shopping.

[ He wants Iorveth to like it, and although he doesn't mind stealing from their companions, Lae'zel might actually kill him if he used her sword oil for unsavory purposes. Affectionately, he lets his hand fall from Iorveth's cheek to his shoulder, covering up the thin diagonal line left from his injury.

What was it Iorveth had said back in that inn? Oh, right. Playfully overwrought: ] I want you to feel nothing but pleasure.

[ Iorveth knows that he'll never feel as compelled to linger in anyone's presence the way he does with Astarion― that no one else will ever make him want the way Astarion does.

It's all excess. A cup overflowing. At one point, Iorveth had been so confident that he could stem the flow or at least adjust himself to hold it better; now, for the first time, he finds himself unsure that he actually can. Stranger still is that he finds that lack of control less vexing than he should.

That said, he snorts when Astarion echoes his sentiment back at him, scowling harmlessly at having it bounced back in his face. ]

―It would excite me, even if you weren't careful. [ A freak elf, saying freak things. ] But I can wait.

[ A pleased hum this time, as he sets the book aside and reaches for the drink again. He takes a sip, and keeps some in his mouth when he cranes in for a kiss, tangling tongue and wine between their mouths before pulling back. ]

...Another thing to idly think about while ignoring the others' chatter. You occupy too much space in my brain.

[ Iorveth really shouldn't say such freak things, because Astarion likes when he says freak things, and his willpower is already so thin. But he also knows all too well that saying something and meaning it are two different things, and he's not sure he could bear if Iorveth grew to resent him because he took too many liberties. As much as he threatens to have his wicked way with Iorveth, he'd hate it if he did anything to him that Iorveth didn't like.

He reaches for Iorveth's arm, draping it around his own shoulders and scooting closer until their torsos touch and he can hook his ankle around Iorveth's. ]

And your brain already has so little free space to go around, what with the worm living in it.

[ Astarion practically feels his own tadpole twitch at the mention of its kin. ]

—But I suppose it won't be there for much longer.

[ A strangely intimidating prospect. It should be a horror he'll be glad to rid himself of, and in a way it is, but he can't help but feel nervous about what else he stands to lose along with it. ]

[ Right, the worm. Sometimes Iorveth forgets that he has a parasite lodged in his brain, with all the additional mess of Bhaalists and shapeshifters and also that one weird Wulbren Bongle drama that Karlach desperately wants Iorveth to care about (spoilers, Iorveth does not care about the Wulbren Bongle drama).

Hugging Astarion to his side, he plucks the half-open novel from his lap and sets it back onto the stack of pilfered books on his bedside table. ]

Depending on how quickly Lae'zel makes us march towards our objective.

[ She might have made more headway on finding Orin in the sewers; Iorveth has been neglecting his duties to be in the know, which is very uncharacteristic of him, he knows. She might ask one or both of them to accompany her down into the pits of the city (there are so many pits in this city), and one or both of them might even die in the process of trying to kill Bhaal's Chosen. Nothing is certain, after all.

A downer thing to consider. Iorveth settles back in his pillow, and looks up at the ceiling. ]

Do you dread the end of this journey?

[ A hell of a question. It's piercing; of course he dreads the end of this journey. He very likely could die—in a way that'll actually stick, this time—or worse, become a tentacled monster dominated by the hivemind. Even if they manage to do what they set out to, Astarion is in the unique position of dreading that, too.

If he's unlucky, defeating the Netherbrain will also mean that the tadpole in his brain withers and dies, and with it, its protective powers against his vampiric drawbacks. He'll be a creature of the night again, his time spent skulking around in the dark. Even if that doesn't happen, the end of this experience means freedom but also uncertainty. The idea of living a new life of his own choosing is attractive, yes, but also daunting.

He couldn't possibly drop all of that on Iorveth, so he simply says, ] I don't know what the future will bring.

[ His hand snakes over to rest on top of Iorveth's, pulling his arm more snugly around his shoulders. ]

But as long as you're in it, I think I can bear it.

[ "Bear it". Not exactly the happiest turn of phrase for a future post-parasite, but an understandable one. Astarion may be free of Cazador, but not from whatever limits are imposed on him as an undead being; being unable to endure the sun is the one clear restriction that Iorveth is aware of, and it seems the most dire.

A horrible thing. But Iorveth has contacts in the north, all of them as strange as his current traveling companions: a dragon in the guise of a human woman, a circle of sorceresses that are somewhat close to being a last resort, and a traveling human bard who is actually Iorveth's absolute last resort. He'll have to count on at least one of them knowing how to help a vampire spawn in need.

Until then: ] I'll be in it.

[ Pulled close, Iorveth lists his head sideways against Astarion's hair, breathing against soft curls. ]

I won't ask you what you want from the future. [ That's a big ask. He's doubtful that anyone in their motley crew could answer that question, really. ] I only ask that you speak up if anything becomes too much to bear. Myself included.

[ Objectively, this is very sweet. He knows that Iorveth is only trying to impress upon him that he has the freedom to choose what his future holds. For someone who's constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop on their relationship, though, it's less the kind sentiment it's meant to be and more a source of anxiety and agitation. To his credit, Astarion doesn't jump out of the bed and fly into a defensive tizzy like he might have previously, but he does tense up involuntarily against Iorveth.

The mature thing to do would be to say something like I don't like it when you say things like that. Even two centuries in, though, Astarion is a long way from maturity. ]

I've already told you that I— [ 'Love you' feels embarrassing to say when Iorveth is casually discussing the dissolution of their relationship, so he cuts himself off. ]

Why must you say such asinine things?

[ Like it's fine and dandy with him if Astarion decides he's 'too much' to bear. He should be hyperventilating at the thought, or at the very least, shedding a tear. ]

[ "Asinine" makes him frown, and his immediate answer is only slightly clipped: ]

Because I value you, you fool.

[ More than he values himself, even, but that would probably set Astarion off even more. Iorveth wisely keeps that thought to himself, though he's in no position to talk about anyone being foolish; expecting someone to write him off so quickly is the mark of someone with a damaged view on relationships, but he's convinced that that's just the way of things when it comes to himself.

A low, long breath follows his snapback. How crazy― for once, he doesn't care to fight with someone on something, or to get up and leave. Briefly, he considers saying nothing else and letting Astarion interpret his intentions while they stay in bed, but he predicts that that won't go over well, either.

So he remembers his original intentions for dragging Astarion into bed― to show appreciation for the night prior, to spoil him a little― and does what he normally wouldn't. He concedes. ]

...I spoke too soon. [ Squeezing closer, from where his arm is still slung across Astarion's shoulders. ] Stay, Astarion.

[ A stubborn part of Iorveth whispers that this doesn't even bear saying, but loses out to the side that stupidly adores Astarion too much. He tries to make eye contact, moss-green to blood-red, and hold it. ]

I wasn't going to go anywhere, you buffoon.

[ He sounds irritated and a little offended, like he can't quite believe Iorveth would think that of him, despite the fact that he has a demonstrated history of dipping out when the going gets tough. In his defense, there's never been anything worth staying for before. He shifts onto his side, flicking Iorveth in the temple with a scowl. ]

Gods, you're vexing.

[ Why can't he just do and say the things that Astarion wants him to, without Astarion having to tell him to? Instead, he goes on and on about things that Astarion doesn't want. If he valued him like he says he does, Astarion thinks, he wouldn't act like it would be so easy to cut each other loose. Before, he would have closed himself off and rejected Iorveth before he could be rejected. Now, he's comfortable enough to throw a fit instead. It's progress. ]

I don't bear you. You're the one light in this— shitshow.

[ There really is no other word to describe it. ]

[ A light. For a moment, Iorveth looks－ bitter? Uncertain, uncharacteristically. He feels that his value as anything other than a sharp instrument to jab into someone else is debatable at best; he's trusted and loved and lost too many times to see things as just a them problem.

Iorveth, the Woodland Fox. Additionally: Iorveth, Thrice-Abandoned. First by his queen, then by his commander, then by his dragon. It's a miracle that Astarion wants him, but it would also be a miracle, he thinks, if Astarion wants to keep him.

A lot to lay on someone, especially when they're just trying to relax. Iorveth doesn't talk much about his past beyond practical dissection of his life in plain terms, and has only trusted Astarion and Astarion alone with personal details that aren't just diatribes about humans and their vices. A big departure from his norm.

He opens his mouth to say something, and then stops. Visibly changes course. His arm stays looped around Astarion. ]

Strange, that I believe that you believe that.

[ A roundabout way to say thank you. Iorveth really is the most annoying elf in the world. After a hum, he appends: ]

I've given myself to others before, to poor results. ...But none of them were you, I suppose.

[ He sifts a hand through Astarion's hair, slow and careful. ]

[ Ah. It all clicks into place. Astarion had been so concerned with his own hang-ups that he hadn't thought to consider Iorveth's at all, but now he does, the gears in his head visibly turning for a long moment before he swings a leg over to crawl on top of Iorveth, anything but slow and careful. His lukewarm hands find the sides of Iorveth's head, holding him there. ]

Ugh. Senseless half-wits, to throw you away.

[ But he's selfishly glad they did, if it led Iorveth here. An awful, self-absorbed thing to think, but he thinks it regardless. ]

You're the first thing I've ever had for my own, you know.

[ Something that's all his, something cherished. Iorveth probably thinks that people can't—or perhaps shouldn't—belong to anyone but themselves, but Astarion knows that isn't true. ]

I intend to keep you.

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