essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Leave it to Iorveth to make his confessions of undying devotion so damned dire. It makes Astarion's heart feel warm regardless. That's all he wanted, really: for Iorveth to feel the same as he does, to be as selfish as he is. Equal in all things, after all. He squeezes Iorveth's hand back, mouth quirking up into a crooked smile. ]

I've infinite time, need I remind you.

[ All the time in the world, quite literally. Iorveth can take and take and take it, and still there'll be more left. A daunting thought, if not for having someone he loves to spend it with. What did he ever imagine he'd fill his time with after ascension? No amount of spawn or thralls could fill the void of Iorveth. ]

—Let's return to the tower. I plan to shower with you affection, and I wouldn't want to make the bards jealous.

[ Residual contrition still rests in Iorveth's body language: if he were a fox, his ears might be slightly lowered. A rare moment for someone who makes it a point, usually, not to apologize for anything.

He breathes out, releasing some of that pent-up miasma of unpleasant feeling from the pit of his gut, and sways sideways to rest his forehead on Astarion's shoulder. It's so fucking stupid how instantly good it feels to be close again, like all it takes is proximity to make Iorveth relax. ]

Let them be jealous. [ Sullenly. ] I hope the strings on their lutes snap for gawking at us all this time.

[ The most toothless threat Iorveth has ever made in his life. More grumbling, as he nuzzles against Astarion's collarbone. ]

―And now they're pronouncing all the elven names incorrectly. Perhaps we should go, before I throttle the lot.

[ Throttling seems quite the penalty for mispronouncing names, considering that Iorveth is currently nuzzling someone who called Isengrim 'Eisenhower'. As long as it isn't him, though, Astarion couldn't care less who Iorveth wants to throttle. Let him. He's very handsome when he's murdering.

The closeness does feel good, Iorveth's body a soothing warmth against his own. He angles his head to press his lips to Iorveth's hair. He wonders, briefly, if Iorveth might let him comb through it with that fancy brush. Grooming does seem the sort of thing the Aen Seidhe do to show affection, and— well, he'll never be one of them, even if he tries, but he can make Iorveth feel loved like one of them would. ]

As much as I'd enjoy the sight [ —of Iorveth throttling people, that is— ] it would be awfully difficult to kiss you mid-throttle.

[ Iorveth can smell the combined scent of vanilla and sandalwood on Astarion's skin, and the kick of serotonin that accompanies it is immeasurable. He'd said before that sometimes he just wants to swallow Astarion whole (metaphorically), and that's the dizzying feeling he gets now, pressed to Astarion's chest while the bards shift their playlist again to croon about spring breezes kissing lovers' cheeks. He really might kill them.

Taking Astarion's wrist, he kisses where the cologne sits heavy on his skin. ]

Mm. Kisses from you are surprisingly more appealing than murder.

[ Crazy! If he had to choose between killing a human for being an asshole and getting kisses from Astarion, he might actually beeline for the latter. ]

The bards will live to see another night, then. Let's go.

[ Astarion laughs. Oh, Iorveth must really love him if he's choosing Astarion's affection over indiscriminate murder of humans. Astarion is a little bit deranged, too—or maybe a lot—so he finds this incredibly endearing. Grinning, he stands and pulls Iorveth to his feet, grabbing Iorveth's pack to carry with his free hand. Like a gentleman. He loathes carrying just about anything, weak as his arms are, but Iorveth needs to be pampered until it finally makes it through his thick head that Astarion is obsessed with him.

As they pass the playing bards, he says to the crooning one, with great offense, ] You're mispronouncing the elven names, you know!

[ Again, this is very hypocritical of him, considering he has little respect for names himself. It's all theater for Iorveth's sake.

Tugging him along as the bards try to play through the rude interruption: ]

Come along, darling.

[ The crooning bard clutches his invisible pearls, obviously flustered by the callout. Comically, the next time he tries to sing the elven name in question, he fumbles it even more. The toxic power of second-guessing: Iorveth supposes that this is meant to be a lesson for himself, too.

It's well-learned. Iorveth sticks next to Astarion's side like a stray dog that's finally been plucked from the rain, a little scraggly and a lot loyal, extending a hand every so often to make sure that the contents of their packs are intact. Boots and brushes and bottles.

Once they're almost back to the tower, Iorveth finally cycles back to: ]

Am I permitted to be big-headed about the ring?

[ Yeah, yeah. He knows it's a stupid question. But it's worth knowing for certain, so he doesn't interpret it incorrectly in the future. (Again, overthinking it.) ]

[ Astarion turns pink again. It's one thing to dance around it in an argument, but it's quite another to speak directly about it. He feels a little embarrassed. Awkward. Certainly like his inexperience is showing. He lets his gaze stay strictly in front of him, and not to his side where Iorveth walks. ]

I suppose the Aen Seidhe don't really— wood elves seem to be the free love type.

[ He's not sure if Iorveth's people even have things like commitment. Maybe they all believe each of them belongs to every one of them and none of them at the same time, or some communal, nature-loving nonsense like that. Admittedly, his knowledge of wood elf culture still rests primarily on Halsin, who probably only wants to put a ring on, ah, other appendages. ]

—It isn't like I expect you to say anything in front of a cleric. You know how I feel about the gods.

[ So it is a gesture of commitment. A wild act of courage on Astarion's part, to be willing to even consider it after two hundred years of being beholden to an individual. Iorveth would have thought that Astarion would recoil at even the idea of it, but apparently－

－well, apparently Iorveth is loved. Iorveth reels internally, hit with the same mental hammer as before, brain rolling around in his skull. ]

Yes, [ is the initial response. "Yes, I want the ring", and "yes, fuck the gods". His strides get slightly longer, his pace faster; he wants to be inside Gale's stupid fancy tower and in their stupid fancy bed so he can properly wrap his mind around this.

A moment later: ] And no. [ "No, I'm not the free love type", lest Astarion mistake the "yes" as a response to the first part of what he said. Fuck. Iorveth starts walking even faster. ]

Ugh. Yes to the ring, no to sharing myself.

[ Zero brainpower. The tower finally looms in front of them, and Iorveth almost tugs Astarion inside. ]

Edited 2025-04-11 04:35 (UTC)

[ Astarion has never been good at keeping an impassive expression, but the face journey he goes through as Iorveth waffles between 'yes' and 'no' is probably excessive. Yes, Iorveth wants this? Or yes, he knows Astarion's opinion on the gods? Or, gods, yes, Iorveth secretly wants to sow his wild oats with every wood elf in the forest? And then no, which is a more terrifying thought. No, Iorveth doesn't want this after all, and asking about it was simply some cruel joke?

Obviously not. Iorveth wouldn't do that to him. All the same, his eyes dart to the side, a little paranoid, before Iorveth finally expands on his initial reactions. He relaxes as Iorveth tugs him inside, tension draining from his shoulders. ]

Well, then. I suppose I have some shopping to do in Athkatla.

[ Iorveth similarly tugs Astarion upstairs, past a sleeping Tara in the sitting room and a stack of books about Athkatla and the Cloak of Dragomir (Gale's been doing his due diligence); he doesn't stop until they're in their room, door closed behind him, where he attempts to divest Astarion of his pack(s). ]

―I'll only ever want you, with or without rings.

[ A disclaimer, as he loosens collars and unpins the sun from Astarion's lapel, getting him ready to be more comfortable in bed. ]

But a ring will indicate to others that you're not just a companion to me. Not an idle tryst, not just a lover. [ Astarion won't be able to get away with what he'd done back on the outskirts of Flotsam, telling their assailants that he's Iorveth's hired hand. People will know, and that will present some dangers of its own. ]

Is that something you want?

[ Because Iorveth can wait. Again, a ring won't change what's already there. ]

[ Astarion enjoys the way Iorveth gets him ready for bed, loving in the most minute of ways. He kicks his shoes off as Iorveth fusses with his collar, a little sorry for the pin to be taken off but not wanting to be stabbed if he were to roll over on it in his trance.

He lifts an eyebrow, expression screaming duh. ]

Yes, that's rather the point, isn't it?

[ He sures hopes he isn't an idle tryst. ]

[ Iorveth's brow hikes, a silent indication that he's wondering if Astarion has really thought this through―

―but the expression and the sentiment relents a beat afterwards, wherein Iorveth decides that it's fine if Astarion hasn't. For the first time, it seems less important to weigh the consequences of their actions and more important just to accept that it's what he wants. What Astarion wants. That, perhaps, he's been accepted enough by Astarion for Astarion to want to give him a ring.

Staggering. He loosens his belt and drops it, doing the same for Astarion. ]

Well. That's settled, then.

[ Warmly. He reaches to thumb over the jut of Astarion's knuckle, just below where his ring finger meets his hand. ]

[ Astarion absolutely hasn't thought this through besides the whole 'binding Iorveth to him forever' thing, but he's never thought anything through in his life, and he's doing all right, all things considered. Making decisions purely on instinct and impulse has brought him Iorveth, somehow. Who knows what other wonderful things it could bring? No need to start planning ahead now.

He winds his arms around Iorveth's middle, tugging him closer. ]

Mine forever.

[ This sort of thing should probably be done out of an unselfish desire to express unconditional love, but a selfish desire to keep someone eternally is probably a good reason, too. Maybe. ]

Thank the gods we haven't left for the forest yet. I'd hate to have to fashion you something out of twigs and leaves.

[ It's fine if Astarion is a little smooth-brained, because he's so eminently charming (citation needed). Iorveth's love-drunk mind interprets Astarion's whimsical lack of consideration as a positive counterbalance to his own overactive paranoia; there's something flattering about being on the receiving end of Astarion's unplanned affection. At the very least, it feels honest and unfiltered.

Instead of balking at "mine forever"― which he might have, back when they were still figuring each other out― Iorveth leans into it, his own arms wrapping around Astarion's shoulders. By now, Iorveth has learned to interpret these casual (?) claims of ownership more as declarations of devotion rather than anything truly worrying.

(Delusional, perhaps.) ]

The Aen Seidhe can make jewelry. [ A light huff, harmlessly defensive about his culture again. ] I don't miss our tadpoles, but I should have used them more as tools for teaching before we got rid of them.

[ He could've beamed centuries of wood elf history directly into Astarion's brainfolds to stop him from dunking on them so often!!! Smh. ]

[ Even if Iorveth beamed wood elf history directly into his brain, Astarion would probably only have retained a quarter of it, if that. History is boring, and Astarion doesn't like to think about things that are boring.

It's a relief, though, to hear that the Aen Seidhe apparently have at least some eye for aesthetics, although he questions whether their jewelry could ever be as nice as the big honking diamonds on display in a Baldurian shop window. Iorveth would probably think so. Something about Aen Seidhe jewelry being 'understated' or 'elegant'. Personally, Astarion only cares if it's shiny. ]

Ooh, professor.

[ Coming for Gale's brand in his own tower? Heinous. ]

I only regret not using them for more dirty things.

[ As long as they're reminiscing about tadpoles!! ]

[ Speaking of smooth-brained (affectionate). A visible roll of his eye, and Iorveth walks them backwards to the foot of their curiously clean and well-made bed (magic?), sitting on the edge of the mattress with Astarion in tow. ]

Dirty. Passing along mental images of holding hands and me calling you my love in public, I expect.

[ A very rude callout on Iorveth's part: "you're not actually depraved, you just like to pretend you are." Iorveth, the worst elf in the world, loves Astarion more than anything, but also has holds very little belief in the notion of Astarion being a freaky little gremlin like himself. ]

Perhaps even passing along the scandalous desire to cuddle on a couch. Very deviant.

[ So Iorveth says, as if he wouldn't have peaced out mid-mission if Astarion had sincerely beamed him a desire to cuddle. A clown. ]

[ Yes, holding hands still feels dirtier than any deviant thing he's ever done. It's so intimate. Emotionally. Gods, the thought would fluster him if he thought about it too long. And, yes, maybe Iorveth has unlocked a heretofore unknown—a heretofore unthinkable—love of cuddling. Perhaps he's found that he quite likes chaste touch, when it's the right person doing it.

But it's very offensive for Iorveth to act as if he isn't even a little bit depraved. If Iorveth were to be believed, one would think he's downright vanilla.

He flops back on the mattress, limbs sprawled out lazily. ]

Or I could have watched you touch yourself through your eyes.

[ You know, after all the cuddling stuff. ]

[ It's good to watch Astarion sprawl. Iorveth makes a mental note to get him another indoors robe to lounge in, because― freaky as he thinks he is― Iorveth would still choose Astarion looking snug and comfortable over lounging around naked and in thigh-high boots.

Which isn't to say that he wouldn't like seeing the latter, too. A snort, and Iorveth reaches over to comb fingers through silver hair. ]

You could do that now, though I'd doubt it'd be interesting. [ It's quite literally just his cock and his hand. Not fine art. ] The novelty of the tadpole would have been being able to see me thinking of you throughout.

[ Iorveth's rather expansive Astarion Fantasy Bank. Fun for him, probably not so much for Astarion. ]

[ Astarion happens to find Iorveth's cock and his hand very fine art — perhaps his hand even more than his cock, lovely as it is. He'll love those hands even more with a handsome ring on Iorveth's long, tapered finger, he thinks. Still, Iorveth is right that the novelty would have been being inside Iorveth's mind, not just watching it happen.

He wonders, idly, if that sort of thing feels different to a living person. It's been so long since he was one that he can barely remember. ]

What would you think about?

[ Narcissist. He totally wants to hear about how hot Iorveth thinks he is. ]

[ Another snort, another callout: ] Fishing.

[ In this context, though, Iorveth doesn't mind. No point being coy about the fact that he's jerked it to Astarion more than a few times, during those absent stretches of time when Lae'zel'd commandeered Astarion for missions that took him outside of Elfsong for a few days.

He thinks about those times, humming lightly. ] Mm. What did I think about. [ Not "would", "did". ] Your long legs, definitely. Your cute ass.

[ To the tone of "sue me". ]

Your mouth. Your voice, the way your fangs show when you laugh. The way your skin warms after I touch you. [ He really could go on. He thumbs along Astarion's earlobe, enjoying the softness of it. ] Idle fantasies, harmless and lurid.

That's hardly lurid.

[ At least imagine him flogging you or something, damn. Astarion rolls his eyes, laughing. ]

It's downright wholesome.

[ Not that he's particularly upset by it--it does feel nice to be adored enough that Iorveth would think about his laugh of all things--but it is rather hypocritical, coming from someone who claims to be so much more depraved than Astarion could ever be. His voice. No, not lurid at all. Sweet all the same. ]

I thought about your fingers.

[ Not many times. Just a few, when it felt safer to imagine such things instead of actually participate in them. ]

[ A reciprocal huff, indicating that he left out the more obviously lurid things on purpose. Iorveth is certainly no prude about sex or physical intimacy, but Astarion has had two centuries of being regarded in those terms; Iorveth is still cautious about painting him with that well-used brush.

The mention of his fingers are nice, though. His lips quirk up, and the idle touch along one pointed ear glides up, back into soft curls and then down along the outline of Astarion's cheek, pressing bow-shaped calluses to smooth skin. ]

You do seem to like being pet. [ His voice lilts, affection bleeding into the teasing. ] My sweet cat.

[ Tracing under Astarion's bottom lip, feeling how his mouth is slightly warmer than the rest of him. ]

Was it while I was away taking care of the hag? [ He can only think of two times when they spent a significant amount of time being apart in the city; the House of Hope (when Lae'zel took Astarion and not Iorveth), and running around trying to put an end to Ethel (when Wyll and Karlach took Iorveth, but not Astarion). Iorveth is still a little bitter about not having been around to dunk on Raphael, actually. ]

[ He does like being petted, and so what! A gentle touch is novel and wonderful, and he's found himself quickly growing addicted to it. Anyone can take what they want from someone, roughly and without remorse, but it takes someone special to treat someone with kindness.

But he is a cat, as Iorveth said, and only a sweet one in Iorveth's eyes. He nips at the finger beneath his lip, playful. Not enough to actually draw blood, but enough to graze his fangs against the skin. He knows Iorveth is a freak who likes that sort of thing. As much as he praises Astarion for sweetness, he has the feeling that Iorveth would be disappointed were he to be truly defanged.

It's another thing he likes about Iorveth. He never has to worry if the monstrous parts of him are too monstrous for Iorveth. ]

Why? So you can picture it in vivid detail when you're lonely?

[ Definitely a freak, who doesn't shy away from putting a little bit of pain into his pleasure. Shapely fangs threaten to break his skin, and he goes ahead and pushes the proverbial knife into his own neck; he presses the pad of his thumb to that serrated point, drawing a drop of blood that he then rakes along the same bottom lip. ]

Obviously.

[ Wary of treading close to objectification territory, but willing to admit that Astarion is like, super hot. ]

Maybe I'll use these fingers you like so much and fuck myself with them. Thinking of you all the while.

[ Crude, but entirely within the realm of things he'd do if he missed Astarion. Iorveth wonder how long it'd take to get himself to that point, whether it would be weeks or only a handful of days. ]

[ He loves when Iorveth is sweet and entirely un-lurid, but he's delighted when Iorveth is crude, too. Iorveth doesn't lie to him, wouldn't ever lie to him, he thinks, and so any vulgarity from his lips is far from the half-hearted dirty talk Astarion used to employ. It's Iorveth, pure and unfiltered, and, well, there's nothing he loves more than Iorveth.

The thought is pleasing because he enjoys the thought of Iorveth bringing himself pleasure while thinking of nothing but him—mine forever, as he'd said—but also because it's stupidly, lizard-brain hot. He does like those fingers, in his hair and tracing his lip. And he'd like them very, very much inside Iorveth. No one said he couldn't objectify.

Astarion licks the blood off of his lip, savoring the taste. ]

I'd rather you did that where I could see.

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