[ Astarion sighs as Iorveth's perfect hand wraps around his erection, slippery with precome and so hard it aches. He trembles a little from the excitement and pleasure of it all, another nearly-foreign sound escaping him, almost surprised in its cadence. It's all so much, so fast, and he squeezes his eyes shut until the world is nothing but Iorveth's warm hand stroking between his legs, Iorveth's long fingers sifting through his hair, Iorveth's cock making him dazed.
All of that is, of course, wonderful, but it isn't what pushes him over the edge. What gets him is Iorveth's sweet words in his ear, honeyed even when he can't understand them. (He remembers how much he used to hate when Iorveth spoke to him in words he couldn't understand. Now the sound of Iorveth's talented tongue speaking his native language makes the back of his neck feel hot in a distinctly pleasurable way.) It's humiliating how strongly he's struck by a few affectionate words; his most perverse fantasy is being loved. ]
Yes, [ he agrees stupidly, not really sure what he's agreeing with. He tenses, clenches, clutches at Iorveth's back and tears it up some more for good measure. When he comes, it's with a desperate sound in the back of his throat, making a mess all over Iorveth's hand. ]
[ Even more cute aggression. Iorveth could eat that raw, strung-out sound right out of Astarion's mouth. It gets him closer to his own inevitable edge, still rutting and stroking even after Astarion finishes; when he finally crashes into his own orgasm, tensing and shaking with the effort, he buries his own drawn-out exhale into the crook of Astarion's neck.
Dizzying. Iorveth feels like someone hit him in the head with a mallet, but in the best way. His back hurts from the scratching, his neck feels sore from being bitten, and he's pretty sure he has heel-shaped bruises forming near his hips. It's perfect. The sex itself is amazing, obviously, but it's all the peripheral details that make it worth anything at all. Astarion-shaped everythings all over his body.
Instead of rolling off, Iorveth sinks his weight on top of Astarion for a few seconds, letting him drink in the limp afterglow of post-sex fuzziness. His messy hand wriggles from between their sandwiched bodies, licked clean briefly before landing on a handtowel that Iorveth'd thought to bring with the bottle of oil.
He nuzzles Astarion again― an unruly fox with a penchant for rubbing against his favorite person. To his credit, he finally pulls out, taking care not to make too much friction in the process. ]
My beloved, [ he hums. ] ...So that's a "yes" to "you're the sweetest creature in all the realms".
[ Still a little dazed, a little distant, coming down from the flood of emotions. It's always intense and overwhelming, but especially now; pleasure, affection, but a little anxiety, too. Every time, he's always afraid that this time will be the time that makes Iorveth see him differently. Used up, good for nothing else. He winds his arms around Iorveth, holding him there against his body, grip snug like he's worried Iorveth is going to go somewhere. ]
I thought you were saying something dirtier.
[ He could have been reciting Waterdeep's Code Legal and Astarion wouldn't have known. Perhaps his next goal will be to learn the language. He'll have to know it eventually, if Iorveth is going to take him north. It'll irritate him too much if everyone is having conversations he can't participate in.
As for 'sweet', though, the very idea is laughable. If Iorveth wanted sweet, he should have gone for Wyll, Karlach, Gale. Hells, even Halsin can be sweet in his own annoying way. Astarion, though-- Astarion just bit, scratched, and kicked Iorveth like a rabid alley cat. He looks like he was attacked. Astarion runs a cool palm across Iorveth's back, soothing the roughened, raw skin there. It's pleasant to some primal part of his brain--'I want to make my mark on you', he'd said--but that's the same part of his brain that hisses at the idea of ever actually hurting Iorveth. ]
Heal yourself.
[ He would do it himself, if only he had the ability. Unfortunately, his skills lie more in the 'killing' department. ]
[ No comment about the dirty talk. He has a feeling Astarion would find it more funny than sexy if he started waxing poetic (?) mid-fuck, so in his opinion, he's just preserving their collective dignity. That said, Iorveth is not aware that he is embarrassing as all hells without intending to be, so there's that for irony.
Right now, though, Iorveth is content to keep Astarion where he is, blanketed and held by a warm (alive) body. Going nowhere, fast. ]
I prefer having traces of you on me, [ is a murmured pushback against "heal yourself". The touch along the warm, inflamed skin is a pleasant prickle of pain (freak); Iorveth wants to keep the marks for now, so he stubbornly winds his arms around Astarion and rolls him sideways as a distraction, pulling him into a proper embrace for more aggressive cuddling. ]
I'll be remided of your nails every time my shirt brushes against my skin.
[ Far more pleased by this than he has any right being. He tips his head, coy. ]
[ Iorveth is a freak through and through, but Astarion is too inexperienced in romance to realize just how much; for all he knows, this is just what every couple is like behind closed doors. He tries his best to make his touch soft and relieving, although assuaging pain comes far less easily to him than causing it. Obviously. He's so destructive that he practically mauled Iorveth during sex. ]
I'll steal a salve from Gale tomorrow.
[ Telling Iorveth, not asking him. If he refuses to heal himself magically, the least he can do is soothe them another way. As much as Astarion adores the idea of Iorveth constantly thinking of him, he doesn't want Iorveth to associate him with pain instead of pleasure. ]
I'll rub it on your back. Tenderly and sensually, of course.
[ Not minding fire-ant pain across his body is expected of an elf who let someone take needle and ink to half of his body, but Iorveth acquiesces. He always seems to, when Astarion is involved－ again, he's paper when Astarion asks for anything in a specific way.
A sigh, affectionate. After he lets their noses brush, Iorveth leans in for a lazy kiss. No more blood between Astarion's teeth to make the contact taste like iron, he notes. ]
―At least let me keep them until you come back from your ridiculous opera.
[ It's likely that Gale will come knocking with an armful of shiny new things for Astarion to wear (all of them slightly ill-fitting, if Gale's current wardrobe is anything to go by), and sweep him away to a ritzy opera house populated by the kinds of people a pre-Cazador Astarion would have been associated with.
It might be good for him, Iorveth thinks. But Iorveth will miss him, so the bruises and scratches are a nice, temporary souvenir. ]
[ It's Gale's ridiculous opera, not his! Although, admittedly, he has been looking forward to attending. He finds, horrifically, that he actually enjoys spending time with Gale. He loves Iorveth to death, but friendship is far less complicated and intense than a relationship — sometimes it's nice to have a conversation with someone who doesn't make him crazy.
A sigh. ]
Ugh. You lovely man. How could I deny you?
[ He can't. Again: Iorveth makes him crazy! ]
—But I've a favor to ask in return. I want to speak your language.
[ Notably, he doesn't say he wants to learn it. Learning is hard and boring and requires not being good at something first before you can get good at it. He'd prefer to skip all of the hard work and be a secret prodigy. ]
[ Gale is good for Astarion, Iorveth thinks. Two extroverted introverts, one of them a big sad dog and the other a wiry, angry cat. Sometimes Iorveth thinks that it might have been better for Astarion to have experienced some time post-Illithid threat in friendly company instead of an unhinged, goal-driven terrorist like Iorveth, but saying so will probably made Astarion angry, so. He'll keep that thought to himself until it inevitably gets spoken into reality at an inopportune time.
More importantly: this very unexpected request. Iorveth's brow hikes, pulling at the broken half of his face. ]
The Elder speech?
[ A bit of a pretentious way to refer to the Aen Seidhe dialect of Elvish, some would say: it implies a certain level of legitimacy and legacy that other elves might find slightly offputting, but it is what it is. Iorveth is too proud of his clan to care, really. ]
I could teach [ ! ] you, but it would require patience on your part.
[ Ew. Astarion wrinkles his nose at 'patience'. Two centuries of living life moment by moment has left no room for such things, and being denied everything he wanted has made him wary of delayed gratification. ]
I already speak Elvish.
[ Rarely, but the skill is there. He's always had more use for Common, but one doesn't just forget the language of their people — no matter how little regard Astarion actually feels for 'his people'. His elvishness is a small, almost unimportant detail to who he is, nothing like the all-encompassing descriptor it is for Iorveth. ]
And I did enough book learning to become a magistrate.
[ Probably a nepotism hire, but we don't need to talk about that. ]
[ To have been a fly on the wall while Astarion was studying for law exams. Iorveth's still slightly sex-fuzzy brain floats to the mental image of a bespectacled Astarion sitting by a window surrounded by thick, leather-bound tomes, which, bizarrely, just makes him want to kiss Astarion again.
So he does. Lips to lips, breath to unnecessary breath. In Iorveth's mind, Astarion earned that spot for himself (delusional). ]
You'll have to put up with me correcting you.
[ He finally replies, once he settles back onto his pillow and relaxes into being sideways on the mattress. A beat to think of a sentence in his dialect that sounds close enough to the Elven language for Astarion to decipher, and he offers: ]
"What my love wants, my love gets."
[ What Astarion said to him before, now in Aen Seidhe. ]
[ Astarion turns pink, embarrassed. How dare Iorveth remind him of the things he said when he was horny — he can't be held responsible for those. He'd happened to feel very obliging in that moment.
Still, he did say he wanted to speak Aen Seidhe (or the Elder speech, as Iorveth so pretentiously called it). He has to start somewhere, even if starting something new sounds unpleasant and scary. Being bad at something wasn't treated with gentleness and patience in the Szarr household; it was grounds for mockery, derision, and scorn. Usually, Astarion would just rather not try than do poorly.
But he does want to learn the dialect, both for practical and sentimental reasons. He doesn't want to use Iorveth as a translator for the rest of his eternal life, and he also wants to know something that seems important to Iorveth.
So, he repeats the phrase. Technically, there's nothing wrong with it. It's nowhere near his usual butchering of 'I like you', perfectly understandable, but— his accent is absolutely atrocious. ]
[ Because Astarion has foundational knowledge of Elven, the way he navigates the language isn't incorrect: he knows where to stop, he knows which words to stress, the conventions are all there and present. But it also sounds like a very affected version of the language, like someone trying to tiptoe around objects without stepping on them. Unnatural. But it's a start, and more than anything, Iorveth is touched to hear Astarion trying.
A half-smile, affectionate, and he repeats just the "my love". Not asking for a repetition this time, and just saying it for the sake of it.
After that: ] If Ciaran glares at you, say: "What are you looking at?" [ The essentials. Iorveth laughs under his breath, and reaches up to flick the tip of Astarion's nose. ] And if he doesn't stop, tell him: "kiss my ass".
[ What everyone wants to know: curses in other languages. ]
[ Iorveth laughs, and it makes Astarion laugh, grinning like a giddy schoolboy. Once more, he can't help himself around Iorveth. Being with him brings Astarion the sort of carefree, simple joy that he once thought was beyond his reach, never to be felt. How embarrassing! Except Iorveth also makes him feel like perhaps he doesn't need to be ashamed of his own feelings at all, that there'll be someone there who loves and accepts him regardless of any weakness or vulnerability.
He repeats the latter phrase—kiss my ass—which will surely come in handy in the future. It won't make him any friends, but he doesn't need friends, anyway. He has Iorveth. ]
But Ciaran won't glare at me. He's so terribly fond of me.
[ The rendition of "kiss my ass" is fairly accurate, and that truth coupled with the remark about Ciaran makes Iorveth laugh again, reedy and light. ]
He'll grow to be. He may grumble, but he's accepted you more than he lets on.
[ Callout post for Ciaran aep Easnillen, who will not appreciate his brother-in-arms exposing him to Astarion like this. Iorveth, still fuzzy from afterglow and affection, touches a palm to Astarion's cheek to feel how his grin spreads across his pretty face. ]
He told me that I deserve a life with you. Vouched for you in front of Saskia, apparently.
[ For whatever that's worth. Saskia is a noble creature, certainly, but she's a dragon at heart; she doesn't perceive things or understand love in the way that humans or elves might, so who knows how she'll react to Astarion. Knowing her, she'll find him to be a curiosity above all else. ]
[ Astarion's eyebrows shoot up, then furrow, nose scrunched in confusion. ]
—He did what when?
[ When the hells did Ciaran need to vouch for him in the first place? And to Saskia, whose name is still only vaguely familiar—he only half-listens when Iorveth talks about politics, after all—but brings to mind the image of someone important, someone with power. Someone he, quite frankly, doesn't give a shit about. ]
Saskia hardly gets to choose what you do and with who.
[ Politics in bed is not a good idea, but. Well. ]
She holds the future of my people in her hands.
[ Implied: "so she kind of does get to have a say in what I do, if I don't want to fuck this up for everyone". Thus the reason why the political marriage rumor was funny: it bordered just on the edge of being possible, if not for the fact that it just isn't something that Saskia would be interested in doing.
Not that Astarion knows any of this, of course. Iorveth smooths a thumb between those furrowed brows, touching him just for the sake of touching him. ]
I used to rally under her banner. She never commanded me, but she did hold certain sway over my decisions.
Did, [ Astarion echoes. Past tense. Maybe Iorveth used to be beholden to someone else's desires, but not anymore. (Well, at least, someone else who isn't Astarion.)
The pad of Iorveth's thumb sweeps between Astarion's eyebrows, and he can practically hear Iorveth's voice: you're going to get wrinkles. He tries his damnedest to stop scowling. It only half-works. ]
But you're not under anyone's banner now.
[ It is very possible that the reason this bothers him is because he's still afraid the Aen Seidhe are going to disapprove of him. Better to remind Iorveth now that he doesn't have to listen to them, just in case.
He pauses for a moment, then adds, a little irritated, ] —I wasn't aware a case had to be made for me.
[ He's still very much under the banner of Aen Seidhe rights, but Iorveth's not going to argue semantics when he can tell that Astarion is starting to puff up. Fickle cat. ]
I allowed an Illithid parasite to get lodged in my brain, [ he explains, though it was less about allowing and more about "getting knocked out and waking up to a tadpole in his skull". Hard to have done anything differently when the ambush was so random and unplanned. ] Some of my comrades believed that my judgment may have been compromised.
[ "Iorveth is traveling with a gith and a human wizard and a hellspawn on fire and a former Sharran and a warlock who made a pact with a cambion, and he happened to also fall in love with a weird pasty elf" was probably not reassuring to hear for many reasons. Iorveth pointing to Astarion and saying "I love him" was not the serve that he thought it was. ]
He can't help it; his brow furrows again, that little wrinkle appearing. It's a good thing he doesn't age, because Iorveth would have already given him so many stress wrinkles that he wouldn't know what to do with himself. ]
Terribly insulting.
[ And distressing. Iorveth probably should have thought harder before sharing that, apparently, his people thought so poorly of Astarion that they suspected Iorveth's affection for him was the result of a parasitic infection. The very same people Astarion is supposed to join, at some point. ]
Did no one think to tell them what I look like?
[ Because, you know, obviously then they'd understand why Iorveth likes him so much. ]
[ One day, someone in the Aen Seidhe community is going to point to Astarion and say "is that a vampire???", and it'll be all over for them. It's the one thing Iorveth has conveniently left out: "I love that guy" instead of "I love that guy and I also let him drink my blood on the regular".
Despite the somewhat serious nature of the conversation, Iorveth huffs a quick sigh-laugh anyway. ]
Ciaran may have. Perhaps I should ask him how he described you.
[ Not unflatteringly, Iorveth thinks. Ciaran is very good at telling the truth, which is why Iorveth trusts him as much as he does. ]
Though, again, your looks are far from the most compelling things about you.
[ Aen Seidhe elves are beautiful in principle; another pretty elf isn't very remarkable to them. ]
[ Astarion had hoped to have some uninterrupted post-coital bliss, but the subject makes him feel too uncomfortable to cuddle. He flops onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with a frown. ]
Your elves don't sound compelled.
[ And why should they be? Iorveth is the only one who likes him for his personality, because Iorveth is verifiably insane. They must know that he doesn't deserve someone as precious and perfect as Iorveth. Displeased, he sinks further into the softness of Gale's mattress; it feels warm now, after all of their exertion. ]
It sounds as if they already dislike me. [ Which sounds pathetic, so he adds, ] Not that I care, of course.
[ From giddy to sullen in seconds. Iorveth doesn't chase Astarion when he rolls, giving Astarion space to sulk a bit if he wants. Vampires do do brooding better than any other creature, Iorveth thinks. ]
They have no reason to dislike you. I suspect they're more worried about whether or not I've lost my mind.
[ Not because of Astarion, specifically, but because: ]
I'm not known to become infatuated. Not with anything or anyone.
[ Dedicated, sure. Passionate, definitely. Loyal, absolutely. But pointing someone out as his other half? Not so much. That, coupled with a brainworm, are definite grounds for "is Iorveth okay". ]
[ He very much does want to sulk. Astarion hadn't expected a welcome parade, exactly, but it still stings to have Ciaran of all people have to be the one to stand up for him. Ciaran, who Astarion is fairly sure wouldn't piss on him if he were ablaze. He hasn't belonged anywhere in a very long time, and he hadn't expected to belong in the north by any means, but he supposes he had hoped for some sort of acceptance. Pathetic.
Astarion wriggles under the covers, pulling them up to his chin. It feels rather humiliating to brood with one's cock out.
Like a petulant child: ] What of Eisenhower?
[ Isengrim. He knows the right name, but he's too glum to say it. ]
[ No one up north has even met Astarion, and Iorveth is fairly sure that they'll be annoyed by him at first but warm to him quickly. Citation needed, perhaps, but the others they traveled with during the Illithid panic is evidence enough. Those weirdos love Astarion, even if they don't say it out loud (with the exception of Karlach and Wyll, who none of them deserve).
Astarion turns himself into a burrito, and Iorveth still lounges around, naked and unashamed, relaxed. Contrasting personalities, yet again. He huffs a laugh at the ridiculous pettiness of "Eisenhower", and finds more pillows to fortify themselves with. ]
I cared for him, certainly.
[ This is probably where he should say "forget him babe, you're the only one that matters", but Iorveth will be Iorveth. ]
But we were bound to each other by pain, I suppose. [ A bit of solemnity creeps into his voice, distant and detached. Like reciting history. The moment is brief; he comes back into himself, and rests a hand on Astarion's stomach over the blankets. ] You're different.
You were supposed to say that he didn't hold a candle to me.
[ Also, he was supposed to say that Isengrim's dick was small. It's like Iorveth doesn't know anything about being romantic! Like most of Astarion's emotions, though, the wave of indignation passes relatively quickly, and after a moment he lets his fingers brush over the tips of Iorveth's. ]
What are we bound by, then, hmm?
[ He tips his chin up, a little challenging, like if Iorveth says the wrong thing he'll scratch him with his kitty-cat claws. ]
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All of that is, of course, wonderful, but it isn't what pushes him over the edge. What gets him is Iorveth's sweet words in his ear, honeyed even when he can't understand them. (He remembers how much he used to hate when Iorveth spoke to him in words he couldn't understand. Now the sound of Iorveth's talented tongue speaking his native language makes the back of his neck feel hot in a distinctly pleasurable way.) It's humiliating how strongly he's struck by a few affectionate words; his most perverse fantasy is being loved. ]
Yes, [ he agrees stupidly, not really sure what he's agreeing with. He tenses, clenches, clutches at Iorveth's back and tears it up some more for good measure. When he comes, it's with a desperate sound in the back of his throat, making a mess all over Iorveth's hand. ]
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Dizzying. Iorveth feels like someone hit him in the head with a mallet, but in the best way. His back hurts from the scratching, his neck feels sore from being bitten, and he's pretty sure he has heel-shaped bruises forming near his hips. It's perfect. The sex itself is amazing, obviously, but it's all the peripheral details that make it worth anything at all. Astarion-shaped everythings all over his body.
Instead of rolling off, Iorveth sinks his weight on top of Astarion for a few seconds, letting him drink in the limp afterglow of post-sex fuzziness. His messy hand wriggles from between their sandwiched bodies, licked clean briefly before landing on a handtowel that Iorveth'd thought to bring with the bottle of oil.
He nuzzles Astarion again― an unruly fox with a penchant for rubbing against his favorite person. To his credit, he finally pulls out, taking care not to make too much friction in the process. ]
My beloved, [ he hums. ] ...So that's a "yes" to "you're the sweetest creature in all the realms".
[ Teasing!!! ]
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[ Still a little dazed, a little distant, coming down from the flood of emotions. It's always intense and overwhelming, but especially now; pleasure, affection, but a little anxiety, too. Every time, he's always afraid that this time will be the time that makes Iorveth see him differently. Used up, good for nothing else. He winds his arms around Iorveth, holding him there against his body, grip snug like he's worried Iorveth is going to go somewhere. ]
I thought you were saying something dirtier.
[ He could have been reciting Waterdeep's Code Legal and Astarion wouldn't have known. Perhaps his next goal will be to learn the language. He'll have to know it eventually, if Iorveth is going to take him north. It'll irritate him too much if everyone is having conversations he can't participate in.
As for 'sweet', though, the very idea is laughable. If Iorveth wanted sweet, he should have gone for Wyll, Karlach, Gale. Hells, even Halsin can be sweet in his own annoying way. Astarion, though-- Astarion just bit, scratched, and kicked Iorveth like a rabid alley cat. He looks like he was attacked. Astarion runs a cool palm across Iorveth's back, soothing the roughened, raw skin there. It's pleasant to some primal part of his brain--'I want to make my mark on you', he'd said--but that's the same part of his brain that hisses at the idea of ever actually hurting Iorveth. ]
Heal yourself.
[ He would do it himself, if only he had the ability. Unfortunately, his skills lie more in the 'killing' department. ]
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Right now, though, Iorveth is content to keep Astarion where he is, blanketed and held by a warm (alive) body. Going nowhere, fast. ]
I prefer having traces of you on me, [ is a murmured pushback against "heal yourself". The touch along the warm, inflamed skin is a pleasant prickle of pain (freak); Iorveth wants to keep the marks for now, so he stubbornly winds his arms around Astarion and rolls him sideways as a distraction, pulling him into a proper embrace for more aggressive cuddling. ]
I'll be remided of your nails every time my shirt brushes against my skin.
[ Far more pleased by this than he has any right being. He tips his head, coy. ]
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I'll steal a salve from Gale tomorrow.
[ Telling Iorveth, not asking him. If he refuses to heal himself magically, the least he can do is soothe them another way. As much as Astarion adores the idea of Iorveth constantly thinking of him, he doesn't want Iorveth to associate him with pain instead of pleasure. ]
I'll rub it on your back. Tenderly and sensually, of course.
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A sigh, affectionate. After he lets their noses brush, Iorveth leans in for a lazy kiss. No more blood between Astarion's teeth to make the contact taste like iron, he notes. ]
―At least let me keep them until you come back from your ridiculous opera.
[ It's likely that Gale will come knocking with an armful of shiny new things for Astarion to wear (all of them slightly ill-fitting, if Gale's current wardrobe is anything to go by), and sweep him away to a ritzy opera house populated by the kinds of people a pre-Cazador Astarion would have been associated with.
It might be good for him, Iorveth thinks. But Iorveth will miss him, so the bruises and scratches are a nice, temporary souvenir. ]
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A sigh. ]
Ugh. You lovely man. How could I deny you?
[ He can't. Again: Iorveth makes him crazy! ]
—But I've a favor to ask in return. I want to speak your language.
[ Notably, he doesn't say he wants to learn it. Learning is hard and boring and requires not being good at something first before you can get good at it. He'd prefer to skip all of the hard work and be a secret prodigy. ]
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More importantly: this very unexpected request. Iorveth's brow hikes, pulling at the broken half of his face. ]
The Elder speech?
[ A bit of a pretentious way to refer to the Aen Seidhe dialect of Elvish, some would say: it implies a certain level of legitimacy and legacy that other elves might find slightly offputting, but it is what it is. Iorveth is too proud of his clan to care, really. ]
I could teach [ ! ] you, but it would require patience on your part.
[ Spoilsport. ]
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I already speak Elvish.
[ Rarely, but the skill is there. He's always had more use for Common, but one doesn't just forget the language of their people — no matter how little regard Astarion actually feels for 'his people'. His elvishness is a small, almost unimportant detail to who he is, nothing like the all-encompassing descriptor it is for Iorveth. ]
And I did enough book learning to become a magistrate.
[ Probably a nepotism hire, but we don't need to talk about that. ]
How hard can it be?
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So he does. Lips to lips, breath to unnecessary breath. In Iorveth's mind, Astarion earned that spot for himself (delusional). ]
You'll have to put up with me correcting you.
[ He finally replies, once he settles back onto his pillow and relaxes into being sideways on the mattress. A beat to think of a sentence in his dialect that sounds close enough to the Elven language for Astarion to decipher, and he offers: ]
"What my love wants, my love gets."
[ What Astarion said to him before, now in Aen Seidhe. ]
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Still, he did say he wanted to speak Aen Seidhe (or the Elder speech, as Iorveth so pretentiously called it). He has to start somewhere, even if starting something new sounds unpleasant and scary. Being bad at something wasn't treated with gentleness and patience in the Szarr household; it was grounds for mockery, derision, and scorn. Usually, Astarion would just rather not try than do poorly.
But he does want to learn the dialect, both for practical and sentimental reasons. He doesn't want to use Iorveth as a translator for the rest of his eternal life, and he also wants to know something that seems important to Iorveth.
So, he repeats the phrase. Technically, there's nothing wrong with it. It's nowhere near his usual butchering of 'I like you', perfectly understandable, but— his accent is absolutely atrocious. ]
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A half-smile, affectionate, and he repeats just the "my love". Not asking for a repetition this time, and just saying it for the sake of it.
After that: ] If Ciaran glares at you, say: "What are you looking at?" [ The essentials. Iorveth laughs under his breath, and reaches up to flick the tip of Astarion's nose. ] And if he doesn't stop, tell him: "kiss my ass".
[ What everyone wants to know: curses in other languages. ]
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He repeats the latter phrase—kiss my ass—which will surely come in handy in the future. It won't make him any friends, but he doesn't need friends, anyway. He has Iorveth. ]
But Ciaran won't glare at me. He's so terribly fond of me.
[ Ha. ]
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He'll grow to be. He may grumble, but he's accepted you more than he lets on.
[ Callout post for Ciaran aep Easnillen, who will not appreciate his brother-in-arms exposing him to Astarion like this. Iorveth, still fuzzy from afterglow and affection, touches a palm to Astarion's cheek to feel how his grin spreads across his pretty face. ]
He told me that I deserve a life with you. Vouched for you in front of Saskia, apparently.
[ For whatever that's worth. Saskia is a noble creature, certainly, but she's a dragon at heart; she doesn't perceive things or understand love in the way that humans or elves might, so who knows how she'll react to Astarion. Knowing her, she'll find him to be a curiosity above all else. ]
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—He did what when?
[ When the hells did Ciaran need to vouch for him in the first place? And to Saskia, whose name is still only vaguely familiar—he only half-listens when Iorveth talks about politics, after all—but brings to mind the image of someone important, someone with power. Someone he, quite frankly, doesn't give a shit about. ]
Saskia hardly gets to choose what you do and with who.
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She holds the future of my people in her hands.
[ Implied: "so she kind of does get to have a say in what I do, if I don't want to fuck this up for everyone". Thus the reason why the political marriage rumor was funny: it bordered just on the edge of being possible, if not for the fact that it just isn't something that Saskia would be interested in doing.
Not that Astarion knows any of this, of course. Iorveth smooths a thumb between those furrowed brows, touching him just for the sake of touching him. ]
I used to rally under her banner. She never commanded me, but she did hold certain sway over my decisions.
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The pad of Iorveth's thumb sweeps between Astarion's eyebrows, and he can practically hear Iorveth's voice: you're going to get wrinkles. He tries his damnedest to stop scowling. It only half-works. ]
But you're not under anyone's banner now.
[ It is very possible that the reason this bothers him is because he's still afraid the Aen Seidhe are going to disapprove of him. Better to remind Iorveth now that he doesn't have to listen to them, just in case.
He pauses for a moment, then adds, a little irritated, ] —I wasn't aware a case had to be made for me.
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I allowed an Illithid parasite to get lodged in my brain, [ he explains, though it was less about allowing and more about "getting knocked out and waking up to a tadpole in his skull". Hard to have done anything differently when the ambush was so random and unplanned. ] Some of my comrades believed that my judgment may have been compromised.
[ "Iorveth is traveling with a gith and a human wizard and a hellspawn on fire and a former Sharran and a warlock who made a pact with a cambion, and he happened to also fall in love with a weird pasty elf" was probably not reassuring to hear for many reasons. Iorveth pointing to Astarion and saying "I love him" was not the serve that he thought it was. ]
Insulting, but understandable.
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He can't help it; his brow furrows again, that little wrinkle appearing. It's a good thing he doesn't age, because Iorveth would have already given him so many stress wrinkles that he wouldn't know what to do with himself. ]
Terribly insulting.
[ And distressing. Iorveth probably should have thought harder before sharing that, apparently, his people thought so poorly of Astarion that they suspected Iorveth's affection for him was the result of a parasitic infection. The very same people Astarion is supposed to join, at some point. ]
Did no one think to tell them what I look like?
[ Because, you know, obviously then they'd understand why Iorveth likes him so much. ]
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Despite the somewhat serious nature of the conversation, Iorveth huffs a quick sigh-laugh anyway. ]
Ciaran may have. Perhaps I should ask him how he described you.
[ Not unflatteringly, Iorveth thinks. Ciaran is very good at telling the truth, which is why Iorveth trusts him as much as he does. ]
Though, again, your looks are far from the most compelling things about you.
[ Aen Seidhe elves are beautiful in principle; another pretty elf isn't very remarkable to them. ]
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Your elves don't sound compelled.
[ And why should they be? Iorveth is the only one who likes him for his personality, because Iorveth is verifiably insane. They must know that he doesn't deserve someone as precious and perfect as Iorveth. Displeased, he sinks further into the softness of Gale's mattress; it feels warm now, after all of their exertion. ]
It sounds as if they already dislike me. [ Which sounds pathetic, so he adds, ] Not that I care, of course.
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They have no reason to dislike you. I suspect they're more worried about whether or not I've lost my mind.
[ Not because of Astarion, specifically, but because: ]
I'm not known to become infatuated. Not with anything or anyone.
[ Dedicated, sure. Passionate, definitely. Loyal, absolutely. But pointing someone out as his other half? Not so much. That, coupled with a brainworm, are definite grounds for "is Iorveth okay". ]
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Astarion wriggles under the covers, pulling them up to his chin. It feels rather humiliating to brood with one's cock out.
Like a petulant child: ] What of Eisenhower?
[ Isengrim. He knows the right name, but he's too glum to say it. ]
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Astarion turns himself into a burrito, and Iorveth still lounges around, naked and unashamed, relaxed. Contrasting personalities, yet again. He huffs a laugh at the ridiculous pettiness of "Eisenhower", and finds more pillows to fortify themselves with. ]
I cared for him, certainly.
[ This is probably where he should say "forget him babe, you're the only one that matters", but Iorveth will be Iorveth. ]
But we were bound to each other by pain, I suppose. [ A bit of solemnity creeps into his voice, distant and detached. Like reciting history. The moment is brief; he comes back into himself, and rests a hand on Astarion's stomach over the blankets. ] You're different.
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[ Astarion glowers. ]
You were supposed to say that he didn't hold a candle to me.
[ Also, he was supposed to say that Isengrim's dick was small. It's like Iorveth doesn't know anything about being romantic! Like most of Astarion's emotions, though, the wave of indignation passes relatively quickly, and after a moment he lets his fingers brush over the tips of Iorveth's. ]
What are we bound by, then, hmm?
[ He tips his chin up, a little challenging, like if Iorveth says the wrong thing he'll scratch him with his kitty-cat claws. ]
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