essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ He doesn't want Iorveth to seethe with jealousy every time he drinks from someone else, because he doesn't ever want Iorveth to be unhappy in this relationship—and because there's really no reason to be jealous in the first place when these meals mean next to nothing to him—but he can't deny that it would be nice if Iorveth, you know. Showed a little more concern. Enough to make him feel like Iorveth cares to lose him.

Maybe he was right, when he said that Astarion thinks of him as someone who'd easily discard him, but only because he thinks of himself as someone easily discardable. ]

...Well, I suppose I should admit that it wasn't a beautiful woman.

[ Because he couldn't bear to snuff out a kind soul. What has become of him? ]

[ His hand finds the underside of Astarion's chin, attempting a tip-up. There are some things that Iorveth can't bear, and seeing Astarion droop is, sadly, one of those things.

"Gods forbid I think you have some sort of attachment to me," Iorveth rolls over in his mind again. The stupidest accusation ever, in his opinion― he has never been so emotionally whipped by someone in his life. Still, the thought of Astarion feeling like he isn't coveted doesn't sit well with Iorveth, despite the fact that Iorveth is doing his level best not to smother Astarion under a frankly unhinged level of delusional devotion.

Another sigh, and he thumbs under the perfect swell of Astarion's lower lip. ]

I'll be displeased if you tell me it was another one-eyed elf with a poor attitude.

[ He wants to mope and feel bad, because wallowing in his unhappiness is a learned habit by now, but it's very difficult to do so with Iorveth's touch on his face. Astarion glances up, red eyes easy to mistake for a simple warm brown in this light. ]

I like your attitude.

[ Astarion likes everything about Iorveth — except for the things that he doesn't, which eventually become the topic of whichever blow-up argument they're having at any given time. No two people on Toril are less compatible in their base ideologies. It's a miracle, really, that they didn't kill each other before they ever got the chance to like each other. ]

It was a man, [ he admits. ] He catcalled a woman on the street. [ Astarion makes a face, lip curling. He can't quite verbalize why, but he'd felt viscerally disgusted. ] I thought the world might be better off without him, anyway.

[ Ugh, Iorveth likes Astarion so much. He wouldn't have, if the tadpole hadn't forcibly made him wear the get-along sweater with Astarion, he knows that much. Without the Illithid threat binding their goals together, Iorveth would have had no reason or inclination to know anything about Astarion at all; the only reason he'd wanted to see Astarion more clearly was to affirm that he wouldn't wake up with a knife to his throat, if and when things went south.

Now look at Iorveth, enamored by the smallest things about Astarion. The subtle glance upwards, the admission that he killed a rude catcaller because he wanted one less pig making women feel uncomfortable roaming the streets. Iorveth, famously able to Stay Mad about something for centuries at a time, can't find it in himself to stay angry at Astarion for more than a few minutes, apparently.

He doesn't use the word "noble", because he knows it won't be received well. Instead, he strokes Astarion's cheek and drains the austerity from his expression, letting warmth slide back onto his sharp features. ]

A meaningful meal, then, if not the sweetest-tasting one. [ Look at Astarion, showing growth. Obviously, Iorveth doesn't say that. ] ...Did it make you feel good?

[ He'd nearly gotten frostbite cut off from Iorveth's warmth, but now it shines on him again, and the tension drains from his shoulders. It's just as sweet as the sun. Instantly, unconsciously, he leans his cheek into Iorveth's palm, a welcome heat against his face. ]

Yes.

[ Without apology for what kind of person that makes him. Although he'll admit it contributed to his mood, in the end, it wasn't the feeding that really made him feel good. It was seeing someone who treated others like objects for their own amusement and snuffing their light out for good. ]

I think he was afraid of me, in his last moments.

[ It felt good to be the one making someone afraid rather than the one paralyzed in fear. ]

[ Don't fold, Iorveth'd told himself, but he's paper when Astarion leans. His thumb brushes along the jut of Astarion's cheekbone, tracing the rise of it up to his temple to draw circles there, massaging out tension. ]

Hm. [ Light, airy. Not the kind of tone one would normally use when discussing the brutal slaughtering of a faceless stranger, but Iorveth will be Iorveth. ] He was correct to be.

[ As much as he treats Astarion like an oversized cat who deserves his cute aggression, he doesn't think him weak or powerless; the opposite, really. A shrewd, fickle thing who would kill rather than be harmed: it's always the ones who know what it feels like to have been backed into corners who are the most dangerous in a pinch. Not something to be lauded, perhaps, but Iorveth is in love with that tenacity. The thing he'd been drawn to most, initially. ]

...I had no reason to be precious about your feeding, then. [ Another slow drag of his thumb across Astarion's cheek. ]

Well. [ Conceding, albeit somewhat unwillingly: ] I suppose not.

[ There's nothing about his meal that was worth Iorveth being jealous of, unless he longs to be killed and thrown in the trash. He knows this, rationally. It wasn't a special experience in any way, hardly romantic or, gods forbid, sensual. In fact, he would never dare to treat Iorveth in such a way. ]

...But you could be a little precious about it, if you wanted.

[ He would hate any attempts to actually control what he does, but he likes when Iorveth is precious about him. It makes him feel, well, precious. A rare feeling. ]

I would allow it.

[ Confluence and coexistence. Iorveth hasn't been raised on principles of jealousy, but he does find that he has a streak of (strong) possessiveness when it comes to Astarion. One that he's been trying to temper, finding it unflattering at best and monstrous at worst considering what Astarion's been through, and yet.

It's wild that Astarion is encouraging it. He's lucky, Iorveth thinks, that Iorveth would rather stab himself in his remaining eye than take undue advantage of that encouragement. But "I would allow it" has been offered, at least for now, and he can anticipate some seriously offended puffing-up if he brushed it aside like so much of Astarion's other ridiculous statements, so.

Iorveth taps into a sliver of that unhinged, freak possessiveness that he's been trying not to act on. Just a little. ]

―I want you for myself for the rest of the night, then. [ Mild, he hopes. ] Close to me, and in my arms.

[ Again, mild. (He hopes.) ]

Gale will have to peel me from you to take you to his ridiculous opera tomorrow. [ Maybe a little less mild. ] ―And by the time you have to leave, I want my scent on your collar and my blood in your mouth. [ Maybe a little unhinged. ]

[ Astarion, meanwhile, has existed on principles of individualism and possessiveness as long as he can remember. With so few belongings, possessiveness is less a desire and more a necessity. He can't help it if he sees it as a measure of something's worth.

He'd thought the whole point of this was to spare Iorveth from undue blood loss, but drinking from him is certainly more pleasant than some piggish catcaller, so he refuses to look a gift horse in the mouth. His mouth stays firmly shut, at least on that topic. Instead, he reaches his hands out to curl his thin fingers into Iorveth's shirt collar, pulling him in. ]

Mm, that can be arranged.

[ Although Gale won't enjoy having to peel anyone away from anyone else. Jealous, probably! It must be hard not having a love as glorious as theirs. He almost feels bad for the poor sod. ]

I fear I'd give you everything you wanted, as long as you asked me so sweetly.

[ A funny little dance: Iorveth, trying to figure out how much this finicky cat likes being held, and how much holding he can tolerate before feeling like he's being trapped and has to squirm away.

For now, though, Iorveth has been given permission. His arms loop around Astarion's waist, a loose sort of hold since they're still in public, and "all to myself" is impossible when passers-by keep glancing their way. It's very hard to be discreet when one's partner is a 15 out of 10. ]

I only want you, [ he reminds Astarion with blunt honesty, tacitly cycling back to the accusation that Iorveth may or may not care as much as he should. Affirming and reaffirming, since that was the reason for the row in the first place. ] Everything else is an afterthought.

[ Astarion, and other nice things. Speaking of, there's a bookstore nearby that is still miraculously open at this time of night, which might be a nice place to stop by before they return to the tower. He can buy something for Astarion to read while Iorveth sticks to him like glue.

A slight coaxing, and Iorveth takes a step, bringing Astarion with him. ] ...I didn't relish walking away from you. I'll not do it again.

Funny. I didn't relish chasing after you.

[ It had felt pathetic and humiliating and demeaning. He'd felt so small at the realization that Iorveth could hurt him so badly with one tiny action; as much as he likes to pretend that he holds the cards in this relationship, in reality, it's Iorveth who holds his heart in his hands. Soft, fragile, too easily broken.

A moment, and he squirms out of Iorveth's arms to stand beside him instead, hand snaking down to join with Iorveth's, fingers intertwined. ]

What's done is done.

[ Solid, resolute. ]

Through the centuries, I've learned that there's no point in ruminating on the unpleasant.

[ He still does anyway, but vampires must be prone to brooding, he thinks. After all, they look so good doing it. ]

[ Unpleasant. Iorveth files that word away to be considered deeply later, and lifts their now-linked hands to press his lips against Astarion's knuckles, contrite. ]

I apologize.

[ Because he'd done it knowing that Astarion wouldn't like it, and it did neither of them any good. A particularly short-sighted strategy, especially given his own assertion before that he hated being perceived as someone who'd think Astarion to be disposable― he tells himself to think back to the mantra of being patient, of using a softer touch. They might understand each other far better now compared to pre-Henselt times, when Iorveth'd impatiently jostled his way through things, but Astarion is still an open wound in many respects.

Lowering their hands again, Iorveth nudges Astarion's shoulder with his own, tipping his head towards the bookstore. ]

―If you'd rather ruminate on Edgar and Nicholas, this is your chance to find them.

[ Iorveth has little to apologize for when much of their spat had been caused by Astarion's issues and sensitivities and general emotional immaturity. All the same, it feels good to be apologized to. Over two centuries, not a soul ever said they were sorry. He relishes the sound of the words now, turning them over in his mind before tucking it away in a special box inside his mind.

He laughs, squeezing Iorveth's hand. ]

I read more than smut, you know. I'm really rather lettered. [ Magistrates do plenty of reading — but he found solace in other worlds during his time at the palace, too. Along with embroidery, reading was one of the few hobbies he was ever able to indulge in. Unsurprisingly, he favors escapist stories. ] ...But I guess I am curious what dirty, depraved thing they'll do next.

[ And maybe he's a little invested in the romance! Sue him!!

The bookshop is quaint by Waterdhavian standards, but still glamorous compared to nearly everywhere else in the world. What seems like an endless supply of books line shelf upon shelf: To Kill a Firebird, reads one title. Of Weremice and Men, reads another. ]

Do wood elves fancy reading? [ he asks idly, thumbing over the embossed spine of a nearby book. A bit rude, perhaps, to paint them as such a monolith. At the same time, Iorveth has done little to dissuade him from that, considering how much he talks about wood elf communalism. ] Now that I think about it, I'm not sure I ever saw Halsin pick up a book.

[ He'd probably complain that a tree was killed to create it. ]

[ That laugh does wonders for Iorveth's peace of mind. Astarion is full of sounds, like a music box with its crank perpetually wound and turning, but his songbird-laugh is Iorveth's favorite.

Into the bookstore they go, with its selection of more accessible titles compared to the more dense, technical tomes that Gale's libraries are full of. The chronicles of Nicholas and Edgar are laid out on a table marked "Bestsellers", next to a duology set in the same universe (the Nicho-Ed-verse? the Ed-Olas-verse?) about Edgar's former flame and his paramour. Gods, how do they keep track of them all. ]

The Aen Seidhe read, yes. But I've no idea if Halsin is literate. [ Mean!!! Halsin is very learned, probably. But Iorveth is still sore about Halsin not offering solidarity with respect to the Aen Seidhe plight, so, to some extent, fuck him. (Affectionate.) ]

To elaborate: my people prefer poetry and song over prose. We have chronicled our history on paper, but much of our most important memories are passed down orally. [ And here's the depressing bit, as expected: ] Which is why, if we're purged, the proof of our existence will die with the last of us.

[ Anyway. That's a bummer, so Iorveth moves swiftly on. ]

I don't dislike prose, at any rate. Have you any recommendations?

[ Astarion is about to make a saucy comment about how he wouldn't mind if Iorveth orally passed down some memories to him— but then he adds that little tidbit about being purged and the proof of their existence dying and, well, it seems a little tone-deaf to make a blowjob joke.

He shrugs. ]

Until recently, I just read what I could get my hands on.

[ It isn't like he was able to go out and peruse the bookshop like this. Books were mostly stolen from tavern tables, from soon-to-be-victims' nightstands, from people who were trusting enough to walk away and leave their belongings unattended. ]

On the road, I read whatever Gale was too foolish to hide.

Esoteric tomes about Elminster's body hair, then.

[ Teasing. Iorveth can't imagine Astarion spending more than half a second thinking about that weird old wizard and his obsession with cheese. Iorveth runs his free hand over a row of picture books for children, tracing the embossed gold lettering of titles like The Mermaid and the Harpy and When You Give a Hag a Biscuit. ]

Choose something for me. I'll read it while you're away with Gale.

[ Unwinding his fingers from Astarion temporarily, to let him peruse. Iorveth anticipates being the one to carry Astarion's selections once he's made his choices, but being the designated bag boy doesn't rankle as much as it should. ]

[ Ha. Anything too magic-y and Astarion put it down immediately. Luckily for him, Gale is a book-hoarder of the highest degree, and he was able to find enough literature to entertain him on nights when trancing wasn't in the cards and days when Lae'zel didn't need a lockpicker (far too few — gods, can't anyone else learn to pick locks around here?). The only problem was that then Gale expected him to discuss them, like they were in some sort of book club. ]

An etiquette book, perhaps, [ he teases as he peruses the nearby shelf. ] I did promise to teach you some manners.

[ Somehow, though, Iorveth sitting primly and using the proper fork and knife seems wrong. He would rather watch Iorveth tear into his food like an animal.

Astarion plucks a book from the shelf. The front cover features a painting of a drow with long white hair wielding two scimitars, and the back cover notes that it chronicles the adventures of the legendary Drizzt Do'Urden. ]

How do you feel about drow?

[ They are elves, technically. ]

[ The sad thing is that, if Astarion did buy him an etiquette book, Iorveth would read it cover to cover and not use it as kindling for fire. Whether he'd refer to the advice written in it is a different matter entirely, but the book will stay with him until he perishes.

Regarding drow, though: ] Contempt, mostly. Their society seems just as miserable as the humans'.

[ The backstabbing, the casual disregard for anything but the furthering of one's goals, the utter lack of love or respect for anything. There are, perhaps, individual drow who have resolved to find a better way of life on the surface world, and Iorveth can respect them, but his overarching impression of drow in general is Not Great. ]

And there was that one that wanted you to bite her. [ Iorveth wrinkles his nose. ] Odious, to say the least.

[ He's biased, is what he's saying. ]

Edited 2025-03-03 03:50 (UTC)

[ Oh, Araj. Her being a drow had been the least of her flaws, but she's dead now, so. Looks like he won. ]

Mmm, not this one, then.

[ Astarion moves to push the book back in its slot on the shelf, but pauses, considering. He does enjoy a good adventure, and Drizzt Do'Urden is unfortunately very cool. Withdrawing his hand, he holds it out for Iorveth to take instead. (He was right that he'd end up being the bag boy. Astarion needs his hands free to gesticulate!) ]

But maybe I'll read it instead. In the meantime, I suppose I should find you something about... [ A shrug. What does Iorveth like (besides Astarion)? Nature. Freedom. Single-mindedness. ] Well, I'm sure there's something about an underdog fighting against his plight here somewhere. And, if not, there's always Elminster's body hair.

[ Ciaran would be appalled if he saw the current goings-on: "are you making Iorveth hold your things???", coupled with "are you letting him do this to you, Iorveth???"

Yes, on both accounts. Iorveth holds out a hand, and takes the proffered book to carry. Astarion's lithe arms were made to stab, but not to carry hardcovers. ]

I don't mind reading about drow. [ Glancing down to read the title of the book he's holding, recognizing the name. ] But I'll leave the decision to you.

[ A beat, as he watches Astarion weave between ceiling-high bookshelves, a silver ghost in dim lighting. ] I've found that I enjoy receiving things from you, [ he finally appends, touching his free hand to the spot where his ring is hanging around his neck, under his borrowed shirt. ]

[ Astarion isn't often overcome by cute aggression. He's never really been one for cute things, honestly; cute often equals soft, and soft equals vulnerable, something that until very recently he found a deplorable trait. When Iorveth says that he likes receiving things from him, though, he finds himself flooded by so much affection that he feels he might burst with it. So much affection that he doesn't even make a dirty joke about all of the things Iorveth could receive from him.

He turns to face Iorveth bodily, looking somehow both warm and irritated at the same time. ]

Ugh. You can't just say adorable things like that!

[ He stomps his foot, fists clenched at his sides. ]

You make me want to do such disgusting things.

[ Like hug him and kiss him all over and gift him with everything he could ever want, like a feral cat bringing dead animals to its most beloved person. ]

[ The reaction is unexpected, which means that Astarion is treated to a moment of stunned silence that equates, roughly, to what did I do, which is not a sentiment that Iorveth often lets slip between his tightly-packed cracks.

After that moment passes, though, he laughs; the grumpy-looking halfling manning the store sits up from where he'd been half-dozing behind the counter and whispers a sharp shh! in response. ]

A taste of your own medicine, beloved.

[ Between aftershocks of that initial laugh, half-chuckles that shake his broad shoulders. Iorveth steps forward to ruffle Astarion's soft hair, alternating between mussing and fixing his curls. ]

Now you begin to understand how I feel.

[ 'Adorable' is not the word Astarion would use to describe anything he has ever done, but Iorveth has clearly been brain-damaged by one too many hits to the head, judging by how enamored he is with an annoying vampire, so Astarion lets the accusation(?) pass. Besides, Iorveth's laugh is making his cute aggression rise all over again. There's very little he enjoys more than the sound of Iorveth's happiness. (Gross! Who is he?)

Astarion snatches away Iorveth's hand, nipping at his fingers in an attempt to satisfy the desire to hold him between his teeth and shake his head like a rabid dog. Luckily, the halfling at the counter doesn't care enough to watch Astarion being a freak in his store. ]

Well, I've found that I enjoy giving you things.

[ Which is very strange, because usually he only wants to take. He releases Iorveth's hand, fingering the bit of chain visible above Iorveth's collar. ]

I suppose I like to make my mark on you. [ Something Iorveth should probably find abhorrent. ]

[ Cute aggression reciprocated: Iorveth wants to grab Astarion and shove him against the nearest bookshelf and kiss him stupid, but that might end up in their untimely demise. These shelves are probably not deadbolted to the floor.

Instead, he takes it upon himself to be the one guiding Astarion's hand this time around, sliding that touch from the chain around his neck to the tattoo visible above his collar, then up to the gifted eyepatch covering the crater where his eye used to be. ]

Surprisingly adept at it, too.

[ Astarion is the only reason Iorveth has foregone the headscarf entirely; it sits in the bottom of his pack now, sad and neglected, while the soft leather eyepatch with its limited capacity to hide his gruesome scars sits proudly on Iorveth's face. Iorveth might hate the idea of being kept, but he also knows (trusts) that Astarion wouldn't emulate any of Cazador's worst inclinations; he interprets "mark" as something a cat would do to someone's leg. ]

ーHurry and choose your books before we're thrown out. [ Another whisper of a laugh. Ridiculous. ]

[ Iorveth's laugh is more melodious than an instrument played by the world's finest bards. Astarion brushes a thumb over the outline of his eyepatch before leaning in to press their mouths together for a brief but enthusiastic kiss. Brief only because he'd rather not get kicked out for sticking his tongue down Iorveth's throat in the bestsellers section, and because he'd really rather be sticking his tongue down Iorveth's throat in the comfort of Gale's guest room instead. ]

Only because I don't trust Gale's books not to bite.

[ You know, like that enchanted chest. Horrible! He rifles through the rest of the section, picking out novels based primarily on title and how pretty their covers are. By the end of it, he's stacked several on top of the book he already gave to Iorveth. One looks to be a pirate story, another a revenge story—he'd thought Iorveth might like that one, at least—and the last, of course, the second entry in the Nicholas and Edgar series.

Although Iorveth is the one being forced to carry all of the hardbacks, he pats his pockets, his ill-gotten coin jingling inside. ]

It's on me, my love.

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