essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ The books stack, nested against Iorveth's chest and tucked in the crook of one arm. A temporary luxury, as they'll probably have to leave the hardcovers with Gale once they set off for the cloak― not necessarily a bad thing, considering Gale might appreciate the excuse for the duo to come back in the future. "We're here for our books."

The thought of it is nice. It slots nicely into what he'd said to Astarion before, that he'd like to build a future predicated on Astarion's presence in his life. It's also in direct opposition to what he'd said before that, which is that he never deserved (deserves, present tense) Astarion. An interesting paradox, and one that he doesn't want to ruin the moment by dwelling on. ]

Then I shall gladly be provided for.

[ Sharing! Coexisting! Though Iorveth knows that this has nothing to do with wood elf instincts rubbing off on Astarion, he still watches with no small amount of fondness as Astarion goes and makes his purchase with the grouchy halfling who, despite having at least fifteen more minutes of the hour left until closing, tells them he's done for the night and that they need to get a move on.

So they do. A hop, skip, and a jump back to Gale's tower, where the man of the house has already retired to his bed after a long day of doing whatever wizards at academies do. There's a note for them outlining his findings regarding the cloak, which is minimal― more of a "I'm looking into it, I promise!" than anything else― and an apology that the item in question might, in fact, be in Athkatla, but that he knows someone who could teleport them there, albeit with no guarantee of how the pair might return back north. Details pending!

A lot to consider. But first, Iorveth moves to take his ugly sandals off. ]

[ Astarion has no interest in considering things tonight. That sounds like work, and he wasn't made to work. So, instead of ruminating on cloaks and portals and Athkatla, he presses his front against Iorveth's back, wrapping his arms around him and perching his chin on Iorveth's shoulder. He squeezes, a little bit of that cute aggression coming out. If he could, he'd squeeze until Iorveth popped. ]

Darling, [ he coos, sweetly.

Just as sweetly: ] Don't ever wear those hideous shoes ever again.

[ Iorveth was made to work, but (un)fortunately for him, Astarion is very distracting. Thoughts of logistics and complications dissipate once Astarion winds arms around his middle and croons into his ear－ his presence is so distracting, even, that Iorveth almost misses the content of what Astarion is saying entirely.

Once it settles in: ] Nothing else fits.

[ An amused huff, as he sets the note down and picks up their books again, walking over towards their shared bed with Astarion in tow. ] At this rate, everything I put on my body will have to be approved by you.

[ Again, his poor headscarf... may it rest in peace. Hardbacks bounce on the mattress and settle next to their pillows; Iorveth cranes back to nuzzle against Astarion's hair. ]

[ Astarion remains attached to Iorveth as he moves, every bit the overgrown housecat draped over its owner, kneading its claws lovingly into skin. From this position, he can smell Iorveth's neck, of his hair; he inhales, soothed by the familiar scent. ]

That might prove difficult.

[ Not because he doesn't have opinions. Oh, gods, does he have opinions! Ones about, yes, every piece of clothing Iorveth puts on himself. Iorveth's sole criteria for clothing seems to be 'it fits' and 'it isn't completely covered in blood'. How lucky that he has someone with discerning taste to tell him when he's wrong.

That being said: ]

I'd really rather you not put anything on your body.

[ The copper tang of blood, the woody scent of the oil polish that he uses for his bow, and the amber warmth of sandalwood. Iorveth had mentioned before that he wants Astarion to have Iorveth's scent on his collar, and so he takes advantage of their proximity now, nestling close to make good on his promise.

A low exhale, and he cranes his neck backwards to get a glimpse of that pretty face. The least interesting thing about Astarion by a good mile, but still annoyingly captivating. ]

An unexpectedly Halsin thing for you to say.

[ His tone is dry, but Astarion should be able to hear the affection laced in there; it's the way he lilts a little, more melodic than usual, leaning towards how he speaks his native language. A sign of comfort and trust. ]

I could oblige you within these four walls, but... [ He laughs, because that's apparently the running theme of the day. ] ...Mm, what did it say in Waterdeep's Code Legal?

Imprisonment up to a tenday for brandishing weapons without due cause?

[ Stupid. The most unserious thing Iorveth has said all day. ]

[ Ew!!! How dare Iorveth compare him to Halsin. It's charming when he says it, weird when Halsin says it. Mostly because Astarion only wants Iorveth naked so that he can ogle him, and Halsin would want him naked because clothes aren't part of nature's design, or something equally cringeworthy.

Even worse than that accusation is that joke. Iorveth is lucky that Astarion is actually very charmed by this eternally stern terrorist making a dirty joke, or he'd be getting broken up with right now. ]

—Gods, you deserve imprisonment for that.

[ Chiding, but affectionate. Someone has to scold Iorveth for his transgressions. ]

I'll imprison you in my bed, I think. [ Gale's bed. Whatever. ] A tenday there and you're sure to learn your lesson.

[ All the arguments they've had, and what gets Iorveth finally broken up with will be a badly timed joke with worse delivery. RIP. He lets the chiding roll off his broad shoulders, though, and obliges the implied suggestion to move onto the bed the way he'd wordlessly conceded to holding Astarion's books: a quick turn in the loop of Astarion's arms, bringing them face-to-face, and he falls backwards with Astarion on top of him on the mattress. ]

Whether or not I agree to imprisonment depends entirely on if you'll be sharing said bed.

[ He roots around, blindly sliding one warm palm under Astarion's shirt to smooth up his spine, not minding the pattern of scars that Cazador has left on otherwise unblemished skin. Astarion is Astarion: there's not an inch of him that Iorveth doesn't hold sacred.

Iorveth's turn to bury his face in Astarion's neck. He breathes him in, and kisses his jaw. ]

Gods, you're perfect.

[ It's not the first time someone has called him that. It was a frequent refrain among his conquests (or marks, or victims, or however one describes such a wretched, doomed person). They'd only meant physically, of course; they didn't know him well enough—didn't know him at all, really—to speak on anything more than skin-deep. Even then, they'd been wrong, unaware of the ugly etching from the top of his spine to the bottom of his ribcage.

Iorveth is delusional for saying so, especially while the pads of his fingers glide over the rough texture of his scars, especially not after their second argument in two days that was, admittedly, ninety percent Astarion's fault. To be perfect in Iorveth's mind, though, is enough, however untrue it might be in reality.

He grins, fingers creeping around to the back of Iorveth's head to unfasten his eyepatch. ]

As are you, my love.

[ Genuine, warm. The kind of sincerity he'd been far too afraid to show not long ago. ]

A moment with you and I forget a thousand moments of the past.

[ No protest, when Astarion unclasps the little fastener holding the eyepatch taut across Iorveth's face― not even a flinch. A tacit acceptance of Astarion's reciprocated sentiment, even if Iorveth, too, thinks that it's highly contentious.

He doesn't want to argue the point. He doesn't want to argue against the idea that he could undo any of Astarion's pain, either, doesn't want to lecture that being in love with someone doesn't magically wipe someone's slate clean; no more fighting. (At least, for now.) It was monstrous of him to turn his back on Astarion and walk away, and it would be monstrous now to fortify himself against Astarion's kindness.

So he moves his touch, down and out from under Astarion's thin shirt, up and through silver hair, smoothing soft bangs away from the now-familiar map of his most important person's perfectly-aligned features. Iorveth stays that way for a few beats, taking everything in, committing that relaxed smile and the warm glow of red eyes to memory. ]

Then you can have as many moments with me as you please.

[ "I want you to be happy", essentially. Softening, Iorveth settles back with his head resting on Gale's impossibly soft pillow, still stroking Astarion's hair. ]

...Never doubt that you are― and will remain― the most important person in my life.

[ If Astarion needs it said a thousand times, Iorveth will. ]

[ Astarion will doubt it, probably, especially when they return to Iorveth's old stomping grounds, but to be affirmed in such a way quiets his insecurities for the time being. He strokes across the line of Iorveth's strong jaw with his fingers, affectionate. As ugly as Iorveth thinks he is, there is no one in this world more flaw-free to Astarion. ]

My beautiful boy.

[ Hardly a 'boy' at his big age, and maybe not beautiful in the most traditional sense, but perfect in Astarion's eyes. ]

Inside and out, [ he appends, thumb resting on Iorveth's chin. ] Who could have predicted you'd be such a softie?

[ Not him. When they'd first met, he'd thought that Iorveth's scowl was permanently affixed to his face, grimness his perpetual state of being. Even once they'd gotten to know each other better, hells, even after Astarion had started to actually like him, he'd expected Iorveth to remain eternally serious, incessantly unhappy. What a relief to be wrong. ]

[ "Boy" is funny, so he laughs about that bit first. Sure, he's lagging a few decades behind Astarion (who is... actually, Iorveth has no idea, two centuries and a half years young?), but he's certainly no boy. It's as preposterous as "softie", but this one is at least partially true, as loath as Iorveth is to admit it. ]

Only to you.

[ The rest of the world doesn't require him to be soft, or gentle, or kind. He's a sword in the right hands, or a thorn in others; people either hold him by the hilt, or cut themselves on his edges. Only Astarion gets to have the bits of him that aren't blunt or serrated, which still feels novel and new.

Case in point: Iorveth lifts his head for a quick kiss, then follows it up for a few more for good measure. ]

You give me reason to be.

[ A low murmur against Astarion's lips later, he settles back again. ] I wasn't so soft back at Flotsam.

Mmm, no, you weren't.

[ He must admit that Iorveth isn't always soft. Maybe even rarely soft. He'd ended those humans without a second thought, but his coldness doesn't make Astarion love him any less. Iorveth's sharpness is just as glorious as his softness for the juxtaposition of it all; he loves that Iorveth can kiss him just as easily as he can behead a man. He wouldn't have had any interest, after all, in some defenseless flower. Iorveth understands the things that need to be done for survival, and that's one of his most appealing qualities.

A kiss to the tip of his nose. ]

Luckily, I'm just as fond of the hard parts of you.

[ Ha. ]

[ It's fortunate, Iorveth thinks, that Astarion only saw him after he was sure that Astarion was still alive. He might have been unnerved by the Iorveth that that poor brothel girl saw in the hallway, so utterly void of emotion or warmth or empathy.

(The only time in an age where he'd had to cut himself off, entirely, from the act of feeling. He knew he wouldn't have been able to bear it if he started thinking of the unthinkable, of the possibility that he might actually have fucking lost Astarion.)

Enough about that, though. Iorveth huffs, brow hiked, and flicks under Astarion's chin. ]

Full circle, I suppose. [ Back to the source of this conversation. ] I could undress.

[ He wouldn't mind, really. Gale might not be pleased, and poor Tara will probably want to stay far, far away from Iorveth, but being naked really isn't an issue. ]

And here I'd imagined the thought of Halsin turned you off of such things.

[ Poor Halsin, subject to their bullying miles away. Maybe he's naked in the forest right now, communing with the moon or whatever druids do. He probably feels a disturbance but can't figure out the source of it; if only he knew it was two mean elves mocking him. He's just such an easy target!

Astarion rolls off, knocking around hardbacks with his limbs before settling against one of Gale's soft pillows with his hands behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankle, lazy and languid. ]

Go on, then. And do make it slow.

[ The worst!! Iorveth has created a monster. ]

It isn't Halsin who'll see me naked.

[ Halsin wishes. (He did. It was an awkward conversation. As a fellow wood elf, Iorveth kind of Got It, but he also did, in fact, tell Halsin to kindly fuck off.) But that's enough psychic bullying of Halsin for now, so－

－in a probably ill-advised move, Iorveth sits up to oblige the stupid request. It's not the most absurd thing he's done, at any rate, and he's not actually a prude despite thinking himself not much to look at.

The shirt peels off first: slowly, as requested, though it's half-intentional and half because it doesn't fit him very well. Too tight around the shoulders (Gale is not built like an archer). His torso ripples with the effort, and he has to wriggle a little to pull his head out of the collar without damaging the seams. He thinks it must look ridiculous and unsexy, but at least he's giving Astarion an eyeful of the tattoo－ he's rather proud of it.

After that, the pants. He sits on the edge of the mattress for this, extending each leg to pull the similarly ill-fitting garment off, following it with a light stretch forward, folding himself in half with his hands easily folding over his toes.

His smallclothes are an afterthought. Unfolding himself, he stands up and steps out of Gale's garish violet underwear, placing it in a wooden laundry basket with careless abandon. With that done, he turns back towards Astarion, head tipped and lips curved slightly upwards. ]

Well?

[ He'd ogled Iorveth the first time he'd seen him naked at the bathhouse and thought him to be good-looking, combining the litheness of an elf paired with the musculature of a warrior. That was nothing compared to watching his ungainly stripping now. There could be no more glorious creature on Toril. His struggle with the shirt is objectively unsexy—and he laughs a little as he watches Iorveth grapple with it so valiantly—and yet it's entirely sexy to Astarion, because it's his most beloved and most desired person doing it.

He scoots down to the foot of the bed, letting his feet dangle as he reaches out to curl his fingers around Iorveth's forearm and tug him closer. ]

Even more beautiful than before, I think.

[ That word again, beautiful. A strange thing to hear from Astarion, a person who is so objectively beautiful to the point where he was actively taken advantage of for it. Iorveth lets himself be tugged, and does Astarion the courtesy of sitting next to him instead of looming with his dick impolitely near his face. ]

You must truly have hated the outfit.

[ He smiles briefly, letting the expression touch his features with slight trepidation. Still wary, again, of "beautiful", but allowing it from Astarion. ]

Come here, before I catch cold.

[ Opening his arms, coaxing. It's probably a ridiculous thing to say given that Astarion is cool to the touch, but whatever. The sentiment remains: Iorveth said that he wants to be close, and he'll stay close until Gale has to peel his now-naked body from Astarion's side. No one envies Gale in this moment. ]

[ Astarion grins, pleased that Iorveth didn't rail too hard against the compliment. In time, he hopes Iorveth will let such words sink into his skin until he really believes them. For now, he can only shower him with praise until it does.

He removes his shirt—Gale's shirt—with more grace than Iorveth, but tosses it on the floor with far less elegance. Neat with his own belongings, messy with others'. Who cares if Gale's shirt gets a little wrinkled? It's already forgotten as he pushes Iorveth's back down onto mattress so that he can crawl back atop him, pressing their bare chests together. It's probably cold for Iorveth, honestly, but it's heaven for him, the warmth of Iorveth's body radiating down his torso. ]

Oh, gods forbid.

[ A kiss to his chin, his cheek, the tip of his ear. ]

Don't worry — I'll keep you warm.

[ Ha, times two. ]

[ Cute cat. Iorveth briefly wonders how Astarion had to negotiate his encounters under Cazador's thumb, and imagines that he had to spend all of them on his back for fear of anyone touching the "poem" carved into his skin; a distressing thought.

Letting the mattress creak under their combined weight, Iorveth smooths up the uneven plane of Astarion's back again, feeling the way the Infernal script juts and circles across the breadth of him, how it drips like blood towards the bottom of said circle.

Iorveth receives Astarion's affection with a light shiver and a low sigh, content. He sits in that feeling for a moment, finding "I'll keep you warm" as funny as it's meant to be, before venturing: ]

―Has anyone ever kissed your back?

[ Casually, without judgment. If Astarion's reaction is to balk at even the idea of it, Iorveth will back off. ]

[ Astarion raises an eyebrow. No, no one has ever kissed his back. It's difficult to imagine anyone wanting to. He's never seen his scars—perhaps he should have asked to, back before they rid themselves of the tadpoles, but he couldn't bear to—but, by touch, he imagines they must be hideous. A glaring blemish on his body. ]

Darling, you're the only one who's ever even touched it.

[ Not exactly right, but close enough. People have touched his back with a protective layer of clothing covering it, and there's been times when wayward hands skimmed over scar tissue by accident, but he quickly guided them away. He always got the feeling that, even if they did notice the rough texture of carved skin before being led away, none of his conquests cared enough to investigate further. ]

I don't think Cazador would have been happy if I let the public see his work.

It's your body, [ Iorveth shoots back, near-immediately. ] Not "his work".

[ Iorveth hates the thought of Astarion giving himself away, of drifting from his body and killing parts of himself that others should have held sacrosanct. Never again. From here on out, everyone who ever hurts Astarion deserves to fucking rot.

Turning his head to press his mouth against Astarion's cheek, Iorveth hums and nuzzles against soft hair. ]

Would you ever allow it? [ Thumbing along one of the bigger symbols, not out of any morbid curiosity, but because― ] ―I'd like to kiss every inch of you.

[ Not a line, not a idle flirt. Matter-of-fact as always, a straight-shooting admission of truth. Iorveth adores Astarion, and he's loath to make any part of his beloved feel neglected or unaddressed. ]

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