essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

I do love to hear those three little words. 'If you wish', [ he echoes dreamily. It's partially teasing and partially true. There's little that feels more satisfying than Iorveth giving into him, whatever form that might take. When he'd offered Astarion his blood for the first time; when he'd agreed to acting foolish on the night before Henselt's murder; when he'd let Astarion shove his hand down the front of his pants at Facemaker's despite his protests of making a mess.

Astarion makes his way over to their singular, slumbering companion, steps quick and light-footed. The man is snoring softly, face squished against the wooden table. If Astarion ever gets to the point of passing out face down in his own saliva at a brothel, he'll stake himself.

As he slips his hand into the sleeping man's pocket, he begins to stir, drowsy confusion in his tone as he tries to ask Astarion what he's doing and ends up saying something that sounds more like whuhhh. ]

Shhh. [ Astarion pats his back comfortingly. ] You're only dreaming.

[ "Oh," the man slurs, head dropping back down onto the table heavily. "OK."

When he returns, it's not with a deck of cards in hand but a folded piece of paper and a very nice ring. Burnished gold with a moss agate inset. A little on the woodsy side for his taste, but he tosses the jewelry onto the table with a flick of his thumb. ]

No deck of cards, but a gift for you.

[ As he sits back down, he unfolds the note, scanning over it with raised eyebrows and a wicked grin. ]

And a very explicit love letter addressed to one of the courtesans.

[ He rolls his eyes, then furrows his brow as he examines the last lines of the letter. It dawns on him that the note and ring go together, and that the man is drowning his sorrows after a rejected proposal. He shuts the note quickly as if somehow Iorveth will know that he just gave him an engagement ring. ]

The barkeep will have some cards, I'm sure.

[ Astarion is a vision, even when he's robbing someone blind. Especially when he's robbing someone blind. Clever fingers, and the kind of voice you'd want to bathe in; framed beautifully against the backdrop of red velvet and dark lacquered wood, the least interesting thing about Astarion― his looks― is still stunningly striking.

Gods, Iorveth's lost the plot. He barely looks at the ring when it's tossed to him, though he notes that it's a pretty little thing. He's still watching Astarion and the curve of his lips, the way his expression shifts and moves on that pretty face. Expressive, vibrant.

Iorveth takes another swig of wine. ] I don't wear rings, [ he says, but slips the thing on his pinky: the only finger that the slim piece of jewelry fits.

He doesn't deserve Astarion. But he brushes his lips to silver hair before he winds his way down the stairs again, returning only after negotiating a pack of cards and another bottle of Baldur's Grape from Hoots Hooligan. ]

You'll look fetching in green, [ is a bold declaration, considering Astarion wiped the floor with him when they'd played cards prior. A part of him assumes, perhaps incorrectly, that Astarion won't cheat this time around. ]

[ Astarion leans back in his chair, drinking the sight of Iorveth in as he returns. In his high-end, well-tailored clothes, with his embossed leather eyepatch and a smooth ring on his finger, he's nigh unrecognizable from the man Astarion first met who wore the dirty, ill-fitting clothes of a vagabond. He looks handsome in a rugged way that makes the cold remnants of Astarion's heart do happy cartwheels. ]

I would, [ he concedes, then smirks, cocky. ] But you won't get to see it.

[ Astarion reaches for the deck, taking the liberty of shuffling. While he stacks the cards favorably for himself, he talks to distract Iorveth, saying, ] You know, you look terribly handsome. I could get used to dressing you up in pretty things.

[ He deals their hands with the quick, nimble movements of someone who's done this plenty of times before. There was little to do in the palace, but the taverns he frequented had card games enough for him to get good. Not good at playing honorably, but he never had any interest in that, anyway. ]

Once I trim that hair, you'll be irresistible.

[ He smiles down at his hand pleasantly. Iorveth's own hand is unfathomably shitty. ]

Edited (i hate the english language) 2024-09-12 19:40 (UTC)

[ The look on Iorveth's face as he's called handsome is roughly equivalent to "I don't buy it": half because he thinks he's really quite plain, the other half because Astarion is shuffling cards.

Suspicions are semi-confirmed when Iorveth peels his hand back from the tabletop and sees the mess of non-paired, disparate suits and arcana. The "you are not going to win this game" starter pack. He lets none of that show, lest frowning betray that his cards are, in fact, devastatingly shitty. ]

I've many talents, and being resistible is one of them. [ Which is to say, "there is no world in which people line up to look at or talk to me". He says so dryly, still leaning back into old habits when it comes to his appearances; to take focus away from himself, he moves to exchange three of his five cards, leaving it to his next draw to improve his odds.

The result is still bad. The Talis poker equivalent of going up against someone with a pair of threes. That said, Iorveth leans back in his chair, empties his half-full glass of wine in one long swallow, and declares, confidently: ] You can concede if you wish.

[ Tomorrow's headlines: local delusional terrorist tries to bluff his way to victory. He really isn't great at cards. ]

[ He may be a cheater, but he did mean what he said. Astarion doesn't deign to acknowledge the bluff, as overconfident as only a card sharp can be, only retorting, sweet as always, ] Not to me, you buffoon.

[ If Iorveth were resistible to him, it would be easier; he wouldn't make such a fool of himself acting like a twitterpated schoolgirl. He can't resist the tanned, calloused skin of Iorveth's hands, can't resist his smile or even—ugh—his ever-present scowl, can't resist that far too rustic tattoo of his. He even finds Iorveth striking when he's wearing that ugly headscarf, although he'd prefer to burn that thing. ]

Mmm, [ he hums, looking down at his cards. ] I've a new favor in mind. When I win, you'll let me tell you all about how enticing you are, and you'll believe it.

[ Whatever is within Iorveth's power to give, he'd said. He smiles pleasantly from behind his cards. ]

[ Daunting. Iorveth flicks his gaze down towards his cards, poker face so perfectly intact as to be near-suspicious, the immovable lines of his stern features speaking for themselves. It isn't that Iorveth doesn't want to believe it when Astarion says something flattering about him, it's just that it seems to clash harshly with what he's built of himself over the past few decades.

His eye narrows. A little skeptical, a little exasperated by all that confident pleasantness that Astarion is radiating. Finally, Iorveth sighs and tosses his shitty hand onto the table, face-up. ]

You counted cards, [ is a statement, not an accusation. ] I should have known.

[ That's not a "yes" to the newly-issued favor, but it's not a "no", either. Iorveth, keeping his word, et cetera, ad infinitum. He reaches for the now mostly-empty first bottle of wine, and pours the rest of its contents into his empty glass. ]

I'd recommend choosing a favor that benefits you more directly.

[ In response to Iorveth's assertion that he cheated, Astarion raises his eyebrows, expression screaming 'duh'. It's adorable that Iorveth thought they were playing honorably, but gods, why would he ever? Everything that's ever happened to him has taught Astarion that one has to use every weapon in their arsenal to succeed; if you can't make it by brawn or skill, then make it by being willing to swindle and deceive. That may be less relevant now than ever before, but it doesn't mean he plans to start playing cards genuinely. ]

Who says it doesn't?

[ He leans back in his seat, taking a sip from his wineglass. Still his first of the day. Although he could glut himself on blood, even the reddest wine doesn't offer quite the same appeal as it did before his turning. Cazador had kept plenty of wine around, though, none of it shared with his spawn, and the memory of that encourages him to take another, greedier sip. ]

Perhaps I'd like to be nice for once.

You're already nice, [ Iorveth argues the point. ] To me, at least.

[ In case Astarion thinks that Iorveth's missed all the grand allowances that Astarion's made for him over the past tenday: the sleeping in his bed, the permission to touch, the not ascending. For the millionth time, it's likely that Iorveth doesn't deserve how much of himself Astarion has decided to place in Iorveth's hands, but he's held them, and noticed them for how precious they are, and wanted them.

Isn't that nice enough? Astarion doesn't have to spare Iorveth's feelings about his fucked-up face or his nonexistent charm, he thinks. If Astarion thinks he's ugly but still wants to be with him, that's entirely fine.

Cards scattered on the table, he leans back in his seat. ] You want to watch me squirm.

[ Which, like. Fair. ]

[ He barks a laugh at the idea that he's nice. Has Iorveth forgotten the thousands of wretched, starving souls underneath the palace that Astarion helped capture? Has he forgotten that they're still there now, suffering, because Astarion has no idea how to face them? Or perhaps he repressed the memory of Astarion stalking the streets of Baldur's Gate at night like the bloodthirsty monster he is, looking for prey because Iorveth had upset him.

Delusional. Adorable, but delusional. ]

Of course I do. [ Astarion shrugs, then hooks his ankle around Iorveth's underneath the table. ] But all the same, if I hadn't found you endlessly appealing, I would have let you stay the chaste companion you so persistently wanted to be.

[ He waves a hand. No need to talk of all the many times Iorveth rejected him. He fell prey to Astarion's charms in the end. Another laugh— ] I couldn't care less if you were hideous. But honestly, darling, I've thought of nothing else but you naked in that bed in the inn since.

[ Mostly true. There have been other things, but they don't seem as important to highlight as the fact that he likes every part of Iorveth, including his looks. ]

—And I rather think the eyepatch gives a rakish appeal.

[ Absurd. It'd taken Astarion getting hit in the head with the blunt side of a weapon for Iorveth to even consider that maybe, just maybe, Astarion felt something for him beyond the need for a meat shield; then again, Iorveth had only approached Astarion for regicide on the pretense that he needed someone good at picking locks. All of this is so ridiculous, so insane from every perceivable angle.

Alcohol buzzes pleasantly between Iorveth's ears. It's the fatigue speaking, he knows it: being Blighted by a vampire lord and operating purely on adrenaline for the past few days doesn't mix well with day drinking. He can usually hold his liquor better― he blames the wine for the warming of his blood, the slight reddening creeping over his face.

Stupid. He tries to will his temperature down, to little success. ]

No more. [ Slightly snappish, but without any real bite. His ankle remains twined around Astarion's, unable to resist that one point of contact. ] Unless you want me to bed you here.

[ Stop making him want to canoodle, it's embarrassing. ]

[ He does love to watch Iorveth squirm, the warm glow of satisfaction blooming in his chest as he watches that faint redness dust Iorveth's face. How strange, to be made happy by someone else's happiness, to care what they're feeling. Astarion still hasn't gotten used to it. For centuries, caring for someone else was a weakness. Sitting here now, with their legs tangled under the table, watching Iorveth blush like a schoolboy, it feels more like a drug. ]

Entirely tempting, [ he croons. His eyes flicker to the human sleeping away his sorrow at his failed proposal, and he wrinkles his nose. ] But I don't care much for the audience.

[ He reaches for Iorveth's losing cards, adding them back to the deck and performing a flourish, springing the cards from one hand to another. Showing off, looking to impress. ]

Another round?

[ Jocular, like he didn't just admit to cheating. ]

[ The threat to bed Astarion here is largely facetious. Iorveth can feel the occasional set of eyes on them from visitors meandering downstairs, most of them flitting by Iorveth and settling, naturally, on Astarion and his perfect profile, prettier than anyone else in this dimly-lit place of casual sin; even that rankles a bit, in Iorveth's half-buzzed state.

Instead of dwelling on that unprompted flare of unwarranted possessiveness: ] Another round, if playing rigged games amuse you. [ Brow raised at the card-based theatrics, impressed by Astarion's deftness despite himself. ] ―You really are clever with your hands.

[ Iorveth cracks open his second bottle of wine. ]

Lockpicking, pickpocketing, embroidering, shuffling. If I handed you an instrument, I wager it wouldn't take you long to learn to play it.

[ If, in fact, Astarion doesn't already know how to handle a lute or a violin. ]

Edited 2024-09-13 22:33 (UTC)

[ Astarion waves a hand nonchalantly, but it's clear by the smile spreading inexorably across his face that the compliment pleases him. Praise on his looks is a dime a dozen, and he's never questioned his beauty as an incontrovertible fact. Things that really matter, though, things like who he is or what he can do, those are the things that he's been taught to doubt by endless criticism and disparagement.

Iorveth wouldn't deign to compliment his skills falsely. He presses his lips together in an attempt to smother the expression, but it's no use. ]

Oh, I know, [ is his airy reply. ] All that, and I look like this.

[ He shuffles the deck once more, and because he does enjoy playing rigged games, he stacks the cards in his favor again. The hand he deals out to Iorveth with a few flicks of his hand is considerably less awful than before, though. ]

What shall we play for this time? Should I play you a ballad if you win?

[ How disappointed Iorveth would be to find out that, no, Astarion doesn't know how to handle a lute or a violin, and he can't even whistle on key. ]

[ A hum in consideration, before he flips his cards. Iorveth can think of a few things he might ask Astarion to do, but he finally settles on: ]

For me: some time with you for the purpose of improving your skills in archery. You have good aim, but there's room for improvement.

[ Not an essential tool to add to Astarion's already-expansive kit, but one that Iorveth would like to polish for the sake of it. Astarion already handles knives and crossbows with deft proficiency, and probably wouldn't choose a cumbersome longbow over close-combat convenience, but still. It seems a shame not to at least correct his posture when he holds one.

More wine gets added to Iorveth's system. Someone should stop him; it's still lunchtime. ]

And you? [ Iorveth considers his first favor fulfilled already, since Astarion just made him, ugh, blush. There's no doubt in his mind that he must've looked stupid, unseemly. ]

[ Astarion's eyebrow shoots up as he bristles at the suggestion that he might need to improve his skills. The audacity! But he wouldn't mind making Iorveth show him how to stand by pressing up against him and adjusting his stance with his hands, and the thought pacifies him. Besides, the odds are still in Astarion's favor, what with all the cheating and Iorveth quickly becoming inebriated. ]

Some time with you for the purpose of improving your fashion.

[ A couple outfits from Facemaker's are not enough, especially when Astarion would like very much to make Iorveth go through an entire shopping montage. He fans his cards out on the table—five cards of the same suit—and lifts his eyebrows as if to ask well? ]

[ What the fuck. For a moment, when he'd looked at his passable pair of 5s and 9s in different suits, he'd thought that Astarion perhaps chose the honorable path this time around― how does that old adage about being fooled go, again? Hells, he's getting too sauced to remember.

He scowls. Obstinacy winds through his expression, a sentiment that's as familiar and well-loved as rage. Iorveth isn't actually mad, but he's stubborn enough that he hisses ] Again, [ and swipes the cards from the table before Astarion and his clever fingers can stack them to his advantage.

His shuffling, compared to Astarion's, is laborious. Not clumsy, but militant. Like trying to thread yellow thread through a pillowcase and drawing a lemon instead of a sun.

He deals their cards, forgetting to think of a wager this time around, and frowns even harder at his absolute shitshow of a hand despite all of his dramatics. What the fuck, part two. ]

Again, [ he agrees.

Amused, Astarion grins as he watches Iorveth shuffle. Honestly, what did he expect? The wine really must be getting to his head if he thought there was a chance in all of the Nine Hells that Astarion wouldn't cheat again. His grin wanes as he looks down at his hand, though, suddenly not the ideal cards he'd been dealing himself but something entirely random. He delicately sets one of his cards to the side, drawing a new one instead.

He frowns, then sets his cards down face up. One pair. With a scowl: ] —Cards are just luck, anyway.

[ A bleary look at the cards on the table, and the ones in his hand. Iorveth does the math, and he tosses his own one-pair for Astarion's scrutiny with unearned smugness. ]

When they're played right, [ he says, as if he didn't eke out a win by virtue of his pair being slightly higher in number. Serious card-players would be embarrassed by this, but Iorveth has a bottle and a bit of wine in his tired system, so he doesn't care. ] And for my victory, you'll let me brush your hair at some point.

[ An even more embarrassing declaration, uninhibited by his usual steadfast stoicism, encouraged by drink. Definitely not the slam dunk his drunk mind thinks it is, to admit that he just really likes Astarion's hair. ]

[ He glowers for only a moment more before his hand flies to his head, smoothing over his curls in vain insecurity, feeling for tangles and cowlicks. ]

Does— [ Does it need badly to be brushed? he almost asks. Then— no, of course it doesn't. He spends every morning meticulously combing and styling it by touch alone, a skill honed over centuries with nothing else to do. He bursts out in genuinely amused laughter then, the sound more silvery and melodic than his usual scornful peals. ]

Oh, you ridiculous thing.

[ He lowers his hand, resting his chin in it as he peers across the table with a sly smile. ]

What a waste of a win. If you wanted to do that, you only had to ask. [ A split-second pause before he thinks to add, ] And to call me pretty while you do it.

[ He huffs in response to "ridiculous", folding his arms over his chest with wavering defensiveness. A caricature of his past guardedness, thick walls eroded by circumstance. Still upright and angular― Iorveth knows how to hold himself so that he looks imposing― but without the edge of purpose. ]

It wouldn't be to inflate your ego, [ is an attempt to explain. ] ...I've bushed and plaited hair countless times in the past, but yours is unique.

[ He can recall many times when he'd sat behind comrades and combed mud out of their long hair, preserved their vanity when they had little else left. Legitimately beautiful wood elves who had a reason to want to present themselves as such, a sort of tacit fuck-you to their human enemies.

So, yes, Iorveth's touched a lot of hair as a way to bond. But Astarion is still wholly singular, and the reminder of it is nice. ]

You're not Aen Seidhe at all. [ He slurs a bit, almost as if he'd been compelled to switch to his own language mid-sentence. Is he thinking out loud, at this point? Fuck. ] You're... [ A gesture, vague. ] You.

[ Where did the point go? Gods. ] ―Must be something in this wine.

[ If there's a point to be made, Astarion isn't certain Iorveth has made it. Or, if he has, it wasn't comprehensible, much less eloquent. It's a little funny—although he digs the point of a fang into his lip to stop from laughing—that Iorveth, who always expresses himself with such surety, has found himself tongue-tied on the very serious subject of Astarion's hair. ]

I'm me, am I? [ With teasing theatricality: ] Darling, desist with these flowery compliments or I'll have to ravish you right here.

[ It's really not his best work in the praise department. There's not many people Astarion has ever wanted to be less than himself, although... hm. For centuries, he would have exchanged his life (or lack thereof) with another's for a mere trifle, but now he's not so sure. He has an eternity of dealing with the curse of vampirism ahead of him, and that's only if he survives the parasite in his head threatening to turn him into a tentacled thrall, but there might be some appeal to being himself yet.

He leans back in his chair, eyes glinting with curiosity. ]

Honestly, I would have thought you'd prefer someone of your kind.

[ They share pointed ears but little else. His expression is impassive, purposefully blasé so as not to let his abject jealousy at how deeply Iorveth loves his people show. ]

Or is that a little too, ah, all in the family for you?

[ It is Astarion. Iorveth looks at him through his haze of drink (adding more fog with another mouthful of wine), the details of him slightly fuzzy because of the alcohol, but the shape of him unmistakable. It isn't so much about the pretty parts that comprise Astarion, but how he holds it all together: the careless lean, the tilt of his head, graceful and intentional. All nervous, sweet, tentative energy. Sure and unsure.

He really isn't Aen Seidhe at all. There's not an inch of Astarion that hearkens back to the familiar comforts of the people that Iorveth has spent the better part of his life loving and losing and killing for. Without context, and just on paper, Astarion is the opposite of Iorveth's type. ]

I do. [ Prefer someone of his kind, he means. Bluntly, without pretense. ] If all I want is a quick fuck, I prefer giving my body to those I trust.

So you can appreciate, [ he gestures again, offhanded, ] why I had no interest in you before.

[ Astarion's looks did absolutely nothing for him before he decided to be stupid and put Astarion into context. Sure, he thinks the pretty hair and the pretty eyes and the pretty smile are compelling now, but they'd all been masklike before. ]

A different story now, though.

[ It smarts to hear it confirmed that Iorveth prefers Aen Seidhe, although of course he'd always known it. The jealousy flares up brighter now, and he feels himself mentally stamping the fire out. He can't tell whether he's jealous of the Aen Seidhe or jealous of Iorveth. He's never had the luxury of a clan he could trust. He likes the others in their little group well enough, but it's only Iorveth who he truly feels close enough with to extend his faith. A pang of loneliness hits him, a homesickness for a place he can't remember, a place that maybe never existed.

He crosses his arms, trying not to look sour. ]

You were supposed to say that you've been madly attracted to my animal magnetism since day one, and that you only resisted my advances because the depth of your feeling intimidated you.

Edited 2024-09-14 05:32 (UTC)

[ He snorts over the rim of his wineglass: ] Admit it, Astarion. I wasn't your first choice either.

[ Trying to extend his memory back to early days, where Lae'zel and Shadowheart were still actively trying to kill each other, when Karlach was still too hot to touch, when Wyll was still getting used to his new infernal transformation, and when Gale was still stuffing shoes into chest. By process of elimination, a terrorist with a bad attitude was perhaps Astarion's safest bet.

That's fine. Iorveth doesn't intend to be another Cazador in Astarion's life, another monolith that demands absolutes from him. There's still so much of the world that Astarion hasn't seen, and ample opportunity for him to gather more perspective and decide that Iorveth isn't actually what he wants for his foreseeable future.

Gods, he should drink more water. Iorveth leans back in his seat and tips his chin up, finding a spot on the ceiling to focus on. ]

I prefer it that way. That you chose to see me, despite not initially having wanted to.

I hate when you say the right thing. Stop that.

[ Astarion's feral cat way of saying that he's charmed by the notion. Getting hives, as it may be. It isn't very romantic, the idea of two people who weren't each other's first choices, but he supposes that hardly matters now. Still, if anyone asks, he'll say that Iorveth has been madly in love with him from the moment Astarion pulled a knife on the group. ]

No, you weren't my first choice. [ He blows a stray hand of hair out of his face, huffing. ] Truthfully, I found you unfathomably vexing.

[ A laugh bubbles up out of him, like he's just thought of a private joke with himself. ]

I still do, of course. But I find I rather like being vexed by you.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject