essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ Iorveth watches Astarion Think About It, and it's almost endearing to observe the cogs grinding into place if not for the fact that the revelation in question pertains to Iorveth's past disappointments. To be fair, the disappointments have felt less devastating each time (the first was the worst, being betrayed by his own kind, being manacled for daring to fight), but the trend seemed a bit unmistakable.

Whatever. The past feels easier to stomach when Astarion puts his weight on Iorveth and sandwiches his face between his palms, says things that sound disagreeable to Iorveth on paper but spread through him like sunlit warmth. He should rage and rebel, be repulsed by the idea of being kept the way he'd protested a life corralled in Cazador's mansion, but this seems so disparate, so divorced from that particular version of "kept" that it doesn't inspire him to push back.

So he settles into it. Head to his pillow, one hand to the back of Astarion's. ]

Then you'll have me.

[ Almost a threat. An are-you-sure. Sharp, blunt, but with conviction. If Astarion says he wants this, then he really will have one deranged murder elf utterly devoted to him, for better or for worse.

Craning his neck, trying to brush noses: ] Astarion. [ Like the morning prior, tacitly asking for a kiss to seal the deal. ]

Edited 2024-11-07 05:22 (UTC)

[ Iorveth is free to threaten him with a good time as much as he wants. Under normal circumstances, he might withhold affection, tell Iorveth to ask nicely or use your words. Iorveth seems to be in a vulnerable place right now, though, and although he delights endlessly in being irritating, Astarion doesn't want to be cruel, not to him. (To other people, maybe.) ]

I do love to hear you say my name.

[ It sends happy little warm fuzzies all up and down his spine, to be exact, but he won't reveal that even under threat of death. He leans in, mouth brushing Iorveth's, and lets his weight press Iorveth into the pillows, quite literally crushing him with affection.

He rolls off of him after that, settling down beside him and plucking the dirty book back up. ]

Now, read. I want to hear you say more dirty things.

[ A fussy cat and an attack dog. Iorveth is foolishly (he acknowledges it) placated by the display of affection from Astarion, given purpose, to some extent, by the idea that Astarion finds the world a little more bearable with him in it. Crazy. He makes a soft sound of protest when Astarion's weight rolls off (freak elf with freak preferences), but adjusts to the sideways press of their bodies again with a warm huff.

Offered book taken, he props it open on his stomach and combs through its well-worn pages once more. Back to Nicholas and Edgar furiously tearing each other's clothes off, the word "manically" used liberally to describe what Edgar is doing to Nicholas's "trembling body".

Is this sexy??? Iorveth has no idea. But he reads one such sentence out loud, content to fulfill Astarion's requests (for now). ]

"Nicholas's long, smooth legs trembled and twitched where they were coiled around Edgar, and his spine arched deliciously as he struggled to push himself back upon his captor's adamantine cock." [ Iorveth squints. ] Adamantine?

[ Sounds uncomfortable, he thinks. ] The author's never been fucked, I presume.

[ Admittedly, this is all a bit overwrought, but Iorveth doesn't particularly strike him as the type of person to read bodice rippers to begin with, so he's certainly more judgmental than Astarion, who's just juvenilely amused to read the word 'cock'. It's a bit difficult to lie back and relax to the sound of Iorveth describing how Nicholas and Edgar's tongues fight for dominance, though, when he keeps scoffing like that. Astarion shoots him a pointed glare, frowning. ]

I had no idea you were such a literary critic.

[ So what if Edger the assassin's cock is described as a 'dagger in Nicholas's sheath'? No one's ever gotten off to a well-written nonfiction about Elminster Aumar. (Probably.) ]

Go on. Tell me how you'd write it, then.

[ He settles back in the pillows, gaze expectant. It's an obvious ploy to make Iorveth say more pornographic things. ]

[ It's bait. Iorveth looks at Astarion, his expression clearly conveying how stupid he finds all of this. The sentiment equates roughly to "I love you deeply and indescribably, but you are so dumb". ]

I wouldn't. [ Write it, he means. ] I see little point in speaking about something I could be doing myself.

[ His features soften, as he traces an idle finger down Astarion's nape. ]

You just want to hear me utter filth. [ Calling him out, officially. ] I could, but none of it would be about this mewling idiot and his brainless lover.

[ He leans in, and whispers a string of scandalous nonsense into Astarion's ear－ all in Aen Seidhe, of course. Iorveth's voice is better suited for it, making him sound softer, more musical; the syllables flow into each other, one continuous string of pleasant-sounding noise that is, in fact, utter filth. ]

[ He'd always found Iorveth's preference for his own dialect to be annoying, pretentious, eyeroll-worthy. Aside from his natural haughtiness, Astarion has no connection to his elvish roots—maybe he never did, but he certainly doesn't now—and seeing Iorveth cling to his own had frustrated him. It still does, sometimes, but for a different reason. It makes him sullen to see Iorveth pour so much of himself into a community that doesn't seem to love him back. If they don't appreciate Iorveth, Astarion thinks, then fuck them.

On the other hand, it is terribly appealing to listen to Iorveth talk dirty in Aen Seidhe. Mellifluous, so sweet-sounding that it's hard to believe he's speaking filth at all. In fact: ]

Mm, that's dangerously titillating for words that could be about the rising price of potatoes.

[ Honestly! He wouldn't know, and it would be awfully embarrassing to get turned on by potato talk. (And yet, here he is.) ]

[ Ugh, there Astarion goes again, making Iorveth laugh. It's a proper, full-bodied sound this time around, from the pit of his stomach to the warm breath blown against Astarion's hair. ]

I said, [ because he doesn't want to be known as an elf who talks potato economics in bed, ] that I want to sit between your spread legs, and feel your knees hook around my shoulders.

[ Not exactly the height of poetry. He's a warrior, not a bard. ]

I'll take you in my mouth first, and then I'll take you properly. [ Whatever form that takes. He'll leave it to Astarion's imagination. ] Until your pretty pale skin pinks from exertion.

[ Drawing circles between Astarion's shoulderblades. Iorveth hums again, provocative this time on purpose. ]

[ Astarion suddenly has a very strong urge to go pilfer Lae'zel's sword oil—or perhaps Gale's hair oil; he could stand to stop styling that mess—and damn the consequences. Iorveth's laugh makes his stomach do a flip, and Iorveth talking dirty with such blunt precision makes it do a cartwheel. He remembers laughing at Iorveth when he'd said sometimes I even fuck. He'd seemed sexless, entirely without desire that didn't relate to his people's plight. For once in his life, it's not a disappointment to have been proven wrong.

If it's pink he's looking for, Astarion doesn't need to exert himself to get it; the color crawls up his neck as he loosens his collar. It's a dusty, lifeless sort of pink, even a blush unable to give him a truly lively glow, but it's pink nonetheless.

Haphazardly, he tosses the book off the bed. It tumbles across the floor. ]

That does sound more interesting than reading.

[ And not just because there's only so many times he can stand to read about 'quivering thighs'. ]

[ There's nothing that Iorveth wants more than freedom and peace for his people; that said, he wants Astarion just as much as he wants freedom and peace for his people. An all-encompassing feeling, constantly simmering under his skin.

Bedsprings creak under their collective weight as Iorveth shifts, turning onto his side to slide one palm under the hem of Astarion's borrowed shirt and trace the ridges of his stomach. Iorveth has remained shirtless since his healing, with only his trousers, underwear, and the ring around his neck available for casting off.

He dips his head down to bite a careful mark over the pink-flushed skin peeking from Astarion's loosened collar. Deliberate and slow, to savor their difference in temperature and complexion. ]

More worth your while, too.

[ Another laugh, quieter this time. Iorveth presses his smile to Astarion's clavicle, teething at it with the flat of his neat teeth as he feels something in the pit of his stomach warm at the thought of putting his mouth over Astarion again. Less hurried than the time at Facemaker's, though the urgency of that moment was a thrill of its own.

Gods, he's lost his mind. ] What are you doing to me, you infernal creature.

[ Not an actual question, which is why the tail end of his words lack an inflection. ]

[ It's Astarion's turn to laugh now, because Iorveth is the only time in memory that he hasn't tried to 'do something' to someone. He'd attempted to, of course, but it irritatingly hadn't worked. He'd only begun to be charmed after Astarion had stopped trying; what a strange, ridiculous man, with strange, ridiculous tastes.

Of course, he doesn't say that. Instead, he strokes Iorveth's hair gently, the way he had done to the cat on his lap back at Dolores's place. Like an animal he's hesitant to scare off.

Lowly, he delivers this line: ] I'm a dangerous vampire who's ensnared you with my wiles, obviously.

[ Again, Iorveth is the only person who was entirely immune to said 'wiles'. An unimportant detail when it comes to dirty talk. ]

Whatever will you do about it?

[ Iorveth sucks another mark onto Astarion's skin, pleased by the hand sifting through his hair, drinking in the care and coaxing. He's never fancied himself touch-starved, but being touched by Astarion is a different story.

Which is why his reply to the question is: ] I could resist the ridiculous vampire's wiles. But it would serve me just as well to succumb for the day.

[ The illusion of choice. Both options end with him glued to Astarion's side in some capacity― it only boils down to whether or not he remains chaste about it. The fact that he's harmlessly enthralled enough to waste an entire day lounging about with his most important person is a truth that will remain.

His fingers splay under Astarion's shirt, happy to touch as much of him as possible. ]

How weak-willed does the dangerous vampire want me to be?

[ Iorveth will allow it, only for Astarion. If anyone else called him weak-willed, Iorveth would drive a knife through their skull. ]

[ A grin breaks out across his face, pleased that Iorveth is playing along. Iorveth's palm is warm and comforting on his torso, and he shifts closer to bask in the feeling, letting his hand slide from Iorveth's hair down to his smooth, angular jaw, and then to thumb his strong chin affectionately. ]

Oh, very, very weak-willed.

[ The concept of Iorveth of all people being at all weak-willed is laughable, but there's fun in pretending. Obstinate, unyielding Iorveth, a dangerous and wanted fugitive, weak just for him. It's a fantasy he doesn't mind indulging. ]

Perhaps you resisted at first. [ You know, for realism. ] But you quickly realized you were helpless to do anything but my wicked carnal bidding.

[ "Wicked", Astarion says, while looking and acting very much like a cat puffing and preening for attention. The joke continues to be on Iorveth for finding it all very endearing despite himself (honestly, he'd always thought he was more of a dog person before all of this), and besides, the playacting suits him as well as it seems to be suiting Astarion. It's not exactly "crown prince succumbs to his dark-haired assassin" material, but "terrorist elf yields to white-haired vampire" is probably an erotica novel somewhere in the Realms.

Stupid. Iorveth smiles in a way that suggests that he doesn't know that that's the way his features are currently arranged: unguarded and uncalculated with his brows slightly lowered, his curled mouth relaxed. ]

I fought as best I could, [ he drawls, ] but the wicked vampire had the irresistible audacity to call me his.

[ Iorveth sits up and pulls back, sliding his hand out from under Astarion's shirt to tug its hem up, insistently. ]

And now he's gone and made me want him again. [ His smile spreads into a grin, slightly challenging as he throws Astarion this bone: ] Desperately.

[ Perhaps it's all of the adoration clouding his judgment, but Iorveth has never looked quite so lovely as he does smiling like that. Uninhibited in his happiness, the hard lines of his face softened. It makes Astarion's dead heart flutter in his chest, so much that someone might actually mistake him for someone alive. The things he'd do to keep seeing that look on Iorveth's face are dangerous.

Losing the heat from Iorveth's body feels somehow intolerable, so he's quick to start pulling this stupid, baggy shirt off. In his haste, the fabric catches on a pointy ear, giving him a terrible case of bedhead by the time he manages to get it off. He slicks his hair back down in the most casual way possible, aiming for alluring. ]

Lucky for you, he finds desperation charming.

[ Much like Iorveth. ]

If you're very good, perhaps he'll even see fit to make you his consort.

[ The tousled look is attractive in its own right; Iorveth thinks to reach out and make a mess of those soft curls, but foresees a lot of grousing about how Iorveth has made Astarion ugly. Maybe another time, when he feels like tugging on Astarion's figurative pigtails a little.

For today, he makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat at all the newly-bared skin, shooing away all remnants of the novel's overwrought descriptors. There's nothing heaving or creamy about Astarion's chest, and thank the gods that there isn't. ]

Is that what vampires do. [ Genuinely curious, given that his knowledge of vampire lore begins and ends with what Astarion has seen fit to tell him. He hums, interested, and dips down to start making a mess of Astarion's chest, kissing and sucking at his skin to leave a trail of lovebites down to his navel. Tame enough to indulge the fantasy playacting, but still feral at heart. ]

I'd call you Lord Astarion, then, would I.

[ He takes one of Astarion's hands, and kisses the back of it with a smooth flourish. ]

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