essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

You would, wouldn't you.

[ Amused. A weird thing, still, to wrap his mind around the fact that Astarion finds him appealing in a physical way. It's not that he believes the ugly human voices seared into his brain more than he believes Astarion, but it's wild that Astarion chose him out of all the objectively hot people who occupied their camp for all those tendays. ]

I've a feeling you enjoy it when I'm out of my mind for you.

[ No extraneous thoughts, only singleminded desire. One more sweep of his blood-tinged thumb to Astarion's lips, and Iorveth retracts his touch. Still sitting up to Astarion's lazy sprawl, watching him from his vantage point with clear affection in his sharp green eye. ]

[ Turning onto his side, Astarion snatches that hand right back. Demanding, like—to use Iorveth's favorite metaphor—a cat shoving its head back under your hand, desperate for affection. He strokes Iorveth's knuckles with his thumb, basking in Iorveth's gaze.

He usually doesn't like to be looked at, honestly. Too easy to read maleficence in a stranger's gaze. There's never anything harmful in Iorveth's gaze, though; it feels warm, like lazing in the sunlight. ]

I enjoy emptying out that too-full mind of yours.

[ It's bursting at the seams. A wonder the tadpole even fit in there, crammed in his brain with all of Iorveth's other thoughts. ]

...And I do rather like it when you're out of your mind.

[ Cute. Iorveth lets Astarion have that hand, reciprocating the exploratory touches with an occasional tickle of his fingertips or two. He doesn't wonder if Astarion was fine with being touched in the great void of pre-Cazador, if he was as affectionate and catlike with his partners before a cruel tyrant robbed him of his autonomy― it crosses his mind, but it's swept aside by the claim that Astarion kind of likes it when Iorveth is braindead and horny.

So. Braindead it is. The mattress creaks underneath them as Iorveth leans sideways and down to kiss Astarion's temple, ridiculously chaste in direct opposition to their subject of conversation. ]

I know you do. You like it when I beg.

[ Understandable. His sweet cat also likes to be a bit of a control freak, and that, Iorveth can concede, is probably where Astarion can get a little deviant. ]

You do that to me, you know. You've made it so that I can't have pleasure if you're not involved.

[ Sex is sex, but he has a feeling that he won't be able to get it up for anyone but Astarion anymore― which isn't a problem, given that he didn't really listen to his libido before Astarion rudely (citation needed) woke it back up again. ]

[ He very much does like to hear Iorveth beg. Maybe it's some sort of fucked up trauma response, a way to feel powerful after centuries of being the one made to beg. Maybe it's just hot. Like most things, Astarion really doesn't intend to examine it closer than he has to.

The suggestion that Astarion has ruined him for all others makes him laugh, rolling his eyes a little. It's ridiculous, of course. As much as Astarion likes to think that Iorveth would pine for him for the rest of his life if they separated, surely someone else would eventually catch his eye.

They wouldn't ever be able to love Iorveth as much as Astarion does, though, so: ]

Good.

[ So maybe he is a bit of a control freak. Whatever. He lets his thumb wander to Iorveth's ring finger, tracing circles on the skin. ]

I plan to make you beg for centuries to come, and I'd loathe competition.

[ To that, a full-on laugh. ]

Trust me when I say, beloved, that you won't have any.

[ Literally who is lining up to get a piece of a deranged elf with deep-seated neuroses... no one, that's who. Iorveth said it before, back on that bench in the bard-infested square: he's difficult. Too sharp, too stubborn. Most people think of Halsin when they think of wood elves, open and warm-hearted, and Iorveth is.

Well, he's this. Weird and prickly and intense. Hard to get along with. But it's what Astarion said he likes, so Iorveth is fine with it. ]

But I can promise that, centuries from now, you'd still have me begging for you. That's also a certainty.

[ Certain things might lose their novelty, but Iorveth doubts that he'll ever get used to how Astarion makes him feel. It still takes him off-guard, even now, when Astarion looks at him a certain way, laughs a certain way, touches him a certain way. ]

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