[ A snort, though the sound is laced with too much amusement to be acerbic. He's very resistable, and it's only Astarion who has cared to be dogged enough to think or believe otherwise.
Gods, Astarion is perfect. Iorveth has thought this a few thousand times already, but the observation feels novel every time it crosses his mind. Craning back an inch, he watches Astarion twinkle in candlelight, silver and red and everything beautiful about the world, sharp and quick and well-spoken, resilient and wary and strong. It makes him think that maybe Astarion was right about wanting immortality for him: forever doesn't seem long enough time to appreciate someone so singular.
His hand flits to Astarion's jaw, tracing the well-defined line of it up to his ear. ]
The only mistake I'd ever make more than once.
[ The only exception to his mantra of "never again". Iorveth's lips hike in a smile that he can't help, and he presses that elation against Astarion's mouth in what must be the hundredth kiss of the night (who's counting?). The contact is long, lingering, uncaring of anyone that might be watching.
When their lips finally part: ] I love you. Terribly, and without apology. I'll have you know that I don't equivocate when it comes to my devotion. You'll have all of it, or none at all.
[ Iorveth talks to him like he's somehow remained unaware of how deranged Iorveth is for all this time. He knows that Iorveth doesn't equivocate when it comes to anything, and he finds it ridiculously, unreasonably attractive. Two of the most insane elves you've ever met, looking at each other and going exactlyyyy. ]
I want all of it. All of you.
[ Because every part of Iorveth is wonderful, including the parts of him that might be 'too much' for other (weaker, in Astarion's expert opinion) people. Maybe it's the vampire in him, or maybe it's just that he never had the opportunity to love someone else in a less all-encompassing way, but he doesn't see the point in loving Iorveth without devouring him a little.
That being said, he's not a big fan of 'none at all'. What do you mean, you'd give him no love at all? Doesn't Iorveth know that without his love he would wither and die like a plant someone forgot to water?
In his most forcibly casual voice, because he's still trying not to ruin the mood: ] You would give me none at all?
[ The question is absurd, but it inspires cute aggression instead of irritation: that omnipresent desire to (gently) push Astarion against a wall and dote on him until he melts into a puddle. ]
If you want all of it, beloved, none isn't an option.
[ It's the depth of 'all' that Astarion should be worried about, but Iorveth is slowly coming to terms with the idea that, despite all the ways in which he's encouraged Astarion to look beyond what he can provide (Iorveth is just one elf in a world full of many, many perspectives), Astarion is, impossibly, happy with him. ]
You'll never have to question whether you have my love.
[ Exhibit A: Iorveth can't stop fucking kissing him, which Astarion really should not be encouraging or normalizing. Another peck to the corner of Astarion's lovely mouth as punctuation, and Iorveth hovers near him, ignoring the poor gnome who has come out of the kitchen holding something that looks very much like a little cake. The poor guy is clearly having a hard time knowing when to interrupt. ]
[ It is very hard to know when to interrupt, because they're being the disgusting sort of couple Astarion always sneered at. Gods, he would think if he saw himself and Iorveth on the street. Don't they know it's impolite to eat each other's faces in public? And then he'd probably fantasize about them getting mauled by a bear.
He hadn't been the biggest fan of other people's happiness back then.
Iorveth kisses the corner of his mouth, and he responds by kissing Iorveth full on the lips, because he's competitive even in this, resolved to one-up Iorveth in kisses and I love you mores. The poor gnome clears his throat, and Astarion tears himself away—just slightly—to look at the pastry he's carrying.
Of course, he instantly suspects a scam, cynic that he is. ]
We didn't order that, [ he says dismissively, waving the gnome off. ] We won't be paying for it.
[ It's a simple pastry, a sponge cake with a small heart drawn on the top in icing, and the gnome hovers around with it in his hands like the world's most awkward little creature.
Eventually, after he registers the rebuff, he sighs: "it's from the two ladies at the other table." A gesture to indicate who he means, and the two young half-elves titter amongst themselves again, waving and mouthing 'congratulations!'
Iorveth's attention see-saws from the women to the gnome, and finally to the cake, which he absolutely shouldn't accept given how he almost died from ingesting strange offerings less than a day ago. But as far as assassinations go, this one really is far too obvious and far too spontaneously sweet to suspect. ]
Thank you, [ he says, reaching for the plate to provide the exhausted-looking gnome with some measure of relief. ] Congratulations are in order, I suppose.
[ Angling to kiss Astarion's cheek, one-upping the one-upping. The rudest elf in the world. ]
[ It feels strange to just be given something. What, there's no cost? No hidden agenda, just two women who wanted to make them happy? He's not used to such things, and in fact it's in his nature to suspect them, but— Iorveth agreed to be his, forever, tonight. He finds himself with a brighter outlook than usual. ]
Thank you, [ he says awkwardly, the words still feeling a bit strange in his mouth. He's not accustomed to showing gratitude to anyone who isn't Iorveth. ]
My love does favor sweet things.
[ His hand finds its way to Iorveth's leg again, and Astarion flashes a crooked smile at him. ]
[ Even more cute aggression. Fairly certain that Astarion of the past would have, again, gagged at the idea of calling Iorveth sweet in public, and finding the lack of sarcasm in his tone very endearing. If only this were just a lover's vacation, and they didn't have a man strung up in their room and a hag to contend with.
"Enjoy," the gnome sighs, and shuffles away with the air of someone who has done one too many graveyard shifts; the women at the other table give enthusiastic gestures of approval before making an exaggerated show of averting their eyes― "we're not peeking!"― despite Iorveth knowing that that promise will last a handful of seconds, if that.
Absurd, but pleasant. Iorveth hums, takes a beat to consider, then nudges the plate and silverware over to Astarion with confident ease. ]
Do me the honors, [ he offers, then leans in expectantly. The very picture of a fox waiting to eat out of its favorite human's hand; he wonders if Astarion will push back against something so saccharine. ]
[ It is saccharine. Incredibly so. Sweetness churns my stomach, he hears himself say. It sounds distant. It sounds like someone else's voice. He picks up the fork, pressing it into the soft cake until it cuts through, slicing off a small chunk.
When he'd said he wanted to explore everything with Iorveth, he hadn't only meant the deviant things—cock rings and public sex and whatever the hells else Iorveth has in that mind of his—but other things, too, softer things. He wants to experience everything that he never thought he would. That includes being ridiculously, embarrassingly soppy in public.
Still, he does have an image to maintain, so as he holds the fork to Iorveth's lips, he snarks, ] You only want me to put something your mouth.
[ This isn't even entirely scandalous to Iorveth, whose communalist upbringing (as brief as it'd been, before being subsumed by conflict) has acclimated him to the general idea of sharing and empathetic living; it just seems scandalous for him, a man who has promised to be a blade for his community instead of a member of it.
Opening his mouth to be fed isn't exactly 'dangerous terrorist to be feared' behavior. He does it anyway, safe in the knowledge that Astarion won't judge him for it, and confident that, if anyone in this tavern laughs at him (them) in a cruel or malicious way, he can still kill them without trying very hard at all.
His lips close over the fork, and he takes the offered bite. ]
And yet here you are, [ he says through the mouthful, ] encouraging it.
[ Astarion could simply say no, and make it known to Iorveth that he doesn't find these things pleasant or appropriate; Iorveth would stop in a heartbeat. But there hasn't been pushback yet, and Iorveth waits until he swallows that bit of cake to press his sugar-stained lips against Astarion's, sharing the dessert without actually sharing it (he's not sure if food violently disagrees with Astarion's undead physiology). ]
[ Against Iorveth's warm mouth, he smiles; it's something he's been doing a lot lately. He used to smile often before, too, but it was different. Practiced things, megawatt smiles that never reached his eyes. He doesn't think about how to smile in the most charming way, or just how wide enough to grin not to show his fangs, or how to make it properly simpering enough in the eyes of his master. He doesn't think about anything at all, except Iorveth's mouth against his. ]
I happen to rather enjoy seeing you with things in your mouth.
[ He carves another piece of cake off with his fork, spearing it and holding it up for consumption. ]
And I find that, despite all odds, I actually like tending to you. [ An incredulous little laugh. He isn't exactly a nurturing soul. ] I know, I can hardly believe it myself.
[ Gods, Astarion really is going to feed him the rest of this cake. Far be it for Iorveth to stop what he started, though: spurred on by the arch of Astarion's smile and an assertion that he's enjoying himself, Iorveth takes the offered bite. ]
You're better at it than you know. [ He should write a book. "How to Care for Your Terrorist-Slash-Freedom-Fighter". ] And I didn't think anyone ever would.
[ Care for him. Especially not after getting half his face torn apart. Iorveth had never believed the humans when they said that the disfigurement made him less of an elf, but he had internalized, to some extent, that he became too strange to love.
A soft exhale, fond, and Iorveth straightens just a bit to run a hand through Astarion's hair. ]
You continue to be a miracle in every way that counts.
[ Astarion laughs. Is he good at taking care of Iorveth at all? He has no point of reference for caring; no one's ever done it for him besides Iorveth, so he really has no idea what someone is supposed to do. Like everything about this relationship, he just stumbles his way through it blindly.
But he does enjoy doing it. Case in point: another forkful of cake held out for Iorveth. He tilts his head to watch Iorveth eat, strangely amused by the sight. A feral woodland creature eating out of his hand. ]
You make me want to be what you see in me, [ he confesses. There's nothing miraculous about him, but if Iorveth can think that, maybe it's something he can become. ]
[ "You already are", he thinks of saying, then decides against it. This isn't a verbal spar that needs winning, and the point of the matter, for Iorveth, is: ]
I love you now, and will love whatever you choose to be in the future.
[ Another bite of the quickly-depleting cake (the gnome cranes his neck from where he's sitting sleepily on his stool, his tired face betraying some surprise at the wood elf's seemingly endless appetite), and Iorveth strokes Astarion's cheek again. ]
My sweet cat. [ Affectionately. After a beat, an addendum: ] Did you hate it when I referred to the tiefling as such?
[ Astarion's gaze immediately drops to the cake rather than look Iorveth in the eye. He slices off another chunk of cake, but instead of feeding it to Iorveth, he just stabs it a few times with the tines of his fork. He imagines it's Damris's stupid, handsome face. ]
No, [ he says, sullen enough that it's obvious the answer is 'yes' and that he just doesn't want to admit it. It had made him seethe with completely unwarranted jealousy; obviously, Iorveth isn't going to leave him for Damris of all people. It had still rankled regardless. That's his pet name, and Damris isn't allowed to have it. (He's never been good at sharing.) ]
Did you call him that? Honestly, I didn't even notice.
[ That's definitely a 'yes', and Iorveth files that knowledge for safekeeping as he watches Astarion decimate the bit of cake. Still, if Astarion isn't going to be honest, Iorveth can tug his pigtails a bit. Very lightly, compared to all the ways in which he didn't hesitate to yank before. ]
Interesting. [ Casually. ] Well, if you don't mind it.
[ Iorveth can't correct his behavior if Astarion doesn't tell him to!!! Very mean of him, he knows, given that he assumes Astarion knows that he's perceptive enough to catch on to when Astarion is puffing up.
He tucks a stray curl behind Astarion's ear, and finally leans back against the back of his chair. The black hole of his stomach feels lightly sated, in sharp contrast to how he still can't stop looking at Astarion, can't stop wanting to touch him. ]
[ Very quickly, it becomes obvious that Astarion had hoped Iorveth would just know that he was lying, apologize profusely, and assure him that he'll never, ever call anyone else something that's supposed to be for Astarion alone again. He glances up from his cake, frowning, obviously offended that his fantasy didn't come to pass. Still, he may be willing to spill his heart to Iorveth, but that doesn't mean he's willing to admit this. It's so embarrassing! ]
—It doesn't really fit him, I think. Now that you've mentioned it.
[ He looks back at the piece of cake. Stab, stab. ]
[ Hmm. On one hand, Iorveth considers that this is their engagement (!) night, and that he can afford to coddle Astarion as much as Astarion wants. On the other, he probably shouldn't reward not being honest about something that Astarion clearly minds very much, because Iorveth can't read his mind all the time.
Ultimately, he decides on the former. Mostly because Astarion isn't being very subtle now, and he'd like to at least finish the cake before Astarion can mutilate it any further. ]
Love. [ Lightly wrapping his fingers around Astarion's wrist, dissuading him from stabbing the godsdamned plate in two. ] I asked because it would rankle if you called anyone else a fox.
[ Sparing his fussy cat's pride while remaining honest. Iorveth never fancied himself a particularly jealous elf, but he does have to admit that ever since Astarion came back to him with his mouth slick with someone else's blood, he's discovered the feeling anew. ]
Would it? [ he asks, reluctantly putting down the fork, letting it clink against the plate.
It's one of his many flaws that he hates being jealous himself but loves the idea of Iorveth being jealous. Maybe he likes the confirmation that he's something Iorveth couldn't bear to lose. Maybe he just thinks Iorveth would just look sexy flushed with jealousy. The truth is probably a bit of both.
Unfortunately: ] Ugh, that doesn't help me. You never fly into a fit of jealous rage that culminates in passionate lovemaking.
[ Why isn't Iorveth like his smut romance novels? ]
You'd only get angry with me. [ As he rightfully should. ]
[ Astarion sets the fork down, and Iorveth takes the opportunity to take that now-empty hand and hold it in his own, winding fingers and bring them to his lips. ]
I wouldn't speak so soon. Yes, I wouldn't be pleased with you if you did something to intentionally insult me―
[ Which may or may not happen, but Iorveth's threshold of tolerance for Astarion's shenanigans has gotten higher and higher; he can, to some extent, forgive smaller offenses.
That said, the warmth in his expression recedes for a fraction of a second, subsumed momentarily by sharp, hawklike focus. ]
―But I'd hardly be angry with you, if anyone makes the fool move of being lecherous with you as a result of you being friendly.
[ He imagines it: someone putting their arms around Astarion's waist, or trying to put their mouth on him. It makes something dark and ugly stir in the pit of his stomach, and it shows in that knife-sharp glint in his eye again. ]
[ It wouldn't be 'intentionally insulting', it would just be using someone else as a pawn in their deranged foreplay. Very different! There's no reason for Iorveth to feel insulted, because it's obvious that Astarion has no interest in even sparing anyone else a passing glance. It's just playing, really.
But Iorveth doesn't seem fond of that idea, so he tables it. He wouldn't want Iorveth to feel disrespected, or worse, unloved. ]
Darling. [ He huffs under his breath, amused, pressing his knuckles against Iorveth's lips. ] You know I'm never friendly.
[ Iorveth's turn to be slightly sullen. Not because of anything Astarion has said or done, but because he is possessive when push comes to shove. He makes a vague sound against Astarion's hand, lips still pressed to cool skin. ]
You're clever. Quick. Striking. When you smile, you― [ A vague gesture, a vaguer half-sound. He decides not to finish that thought, because it'd say too much about himself. ] ―at any rate, some fool might try to press their luck.
[ Sure, Astarion can imagine someone 'pressing their luck'—it's happened plenty of times before—but he doesn't think it would be because they were so enamored with his cleverness. Those are the words of someone who loves him, not someone who'd come onto a stranger at a tavern. Any interest from someone who isn't Iorveth would be of a much more superficial inclination.
But let Iorveth believe what he believes. If he wants to think that anyone out there is going to want to have sex with Astarion because his personality is just so great, then Astarion won't disabuse him of the idea. Instead: ]
Oh? [ He turns his hand over, playfully tweaking Iorveth's chin. ] And then what would you do?
[ In Iorveth's biased mindscape, he really can't imagine that anyone wouldn't be attracted to Astarion for a myriad of reasons: firstly, a lot of people are fucking stupid and think with their dicks (literally or metaphorically) instead of their brains, and those people would be attracted to Astarion simply because he's incredibly beautiful. Secondly, if people stopped thinking with their dicks for one second, they'd see Astarion for the fascinating, quick-witted, emotionally layered man that he is, and then they'd be properly attracted to him.
Whatever. Iorveth will punch them all if they do anything that Astarion doesn't like. Another huff, even as he leans into the touch to his chin, and he replies: ]
I'd press you against the wall and kiss you until your knees gave out.
[ A promise, not a threat. He sounds sullen, but now it's for the drama. ]
Then I'd follow you onto the floor and give you at least one orgasm before I let you back outside.
'At least', [ he echoes, amused and delighted at the confidence. Iorveth is so very serious. It's cute. He never does anything by halves, even in this little fantasy he's conjured up for Astarion. Leaning in, voice teasing but warm: ] You're quite the giver, aren't you?
[ Historically, it's always been the opposite: Astarion tugging someone into a side room and pleasuring them until they were pliant and malleable. (With the privilege of distance, he now wonders if the intimacy was even necessary, or if it was just one of Cazador's many ways of keeping his spawn beaten down and humiliated.) He supposes there's something satisfying about imagining being on the other side of it. Even if it's probably inappropriate to be discussing in a public establishment.
[ A true instance of Iorveth playing himself: now he's imagining it, leading a very pretty and slightly disheveled Astarion out of a side room, letting everyone know exactly how much Iorveth covets him. He might want to consult with his right hand about this mental image sometime in the future.
Sliding his mouth down to kiss the heel of Astarion's hand, Iorveth finally peels himself away. ]
If you'd allow it, it would be more than one.
[ Dryly playful. Truth be told, Iorveth isn't sure that Astarion would even want to have marathon sex― it's a lot, especially for someone who's still tracing the outlines of boundaries that were taken from him. It's mostly just an affirmation that Astarion is wanted in many, unspeakably unhinged ways.
The two half-elves, who are too far away to hear the content of their conversation, still look like they have fodder to talk about for the next tenday. Good for them, honestly. ]
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Gods, Astarion is perfect. Iorveth has thought this a few thousand times already, but the observation feels novel every time it crosses his mind. Craning back an inch, he watches Astarion twinkle in candlelight, silver and red and everything beautiful about the world, sharp and quick and well-spoken, resilient and wary and strong. It makes him think that maybe Astarion was right about wanting immortality for him: forever doesn't seem long enough time to appreciate someone so singular.
His hand flits to Astarion's jaw, tracing the well-defined line of it up to his ear. ]
The only mistake I'd ever make more than once.
[ The only exception to his mantra of "never again". Iorveth's lips hike in a smile that he can't help, and he presses that elation against Astarion's mouth in what must be the hundredth kiss of the night (who's counting?). The contact is long, lingering, uncaring of anyone that might be watching.
When their lips finally part: ] I love you. Terribly, and without apology. I'll have you know that I don't equivocate when it comes to my devotion. You'll have all of it, or none at all.
[ "All of it" is, in fact, a bit of a threat. ]
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I want all of it. All of you.
[ Because every part of Iorveth is wonderful, including the parts of him that might be 'too much' for other (weaker, in Astarion's expert opinion) people. Maybe it's the vampire in him, or maybe it's just that he never had the opportunity to love someone else in a less all-encompassing way, but he doesn't see the point in loving Iorveth without devouring him a little.
That being said, he's not a big fan of 'none at all'. What do you mean, you'd give him no love at all? Doesn't Iorveth know that without his love he would wither and die like a plant someone forgot to water?
In his most forcibly casual voice, because he's still trying not to ruin the mood: ] You would give me none at all?
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If you want all of it, beloved, none isn't an option.
[ It's the depth of 'all' that Astarion should be worried about, but Iorveth is slowly coming to terms with the idea that, despite all the ways in which he's encouraged Astarion to look beyond what he can provide (Iorveth is just one elf in a world full of many, many perspectives), Astarion is, impossibly, happy with him. ]
You'll never have to question whether you have my love.
[ Exhibit A: Iorveth can't stop fucking kissing him, which Astarion really should not be encouraging or normalizing. Another peck to the corner of Astarion's lovely mouth as punctuation, and Iorveth hovers near him, ignoring the poor gnome who has come out of the kitchen holding something that looks very much like a little cake. The poor guy is clearly having a hard time knowing when to interrupt. ]
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He hadn't been the biggest fan of other people's happiness back then.
Iorveth kisses the corner of his mouth, and he responds by kissing Iorveth full on the lips, because he's competitive even in this, resolved to one-up Iorveth in kisses and I love you mores. The poor gnome clears his throat, and Astarion tears himself away—just slightly—to look at the pastry he's carrying.
Of course, he instantly suspects a scam, cynic that he is. ]
We didn't order that, [ he says dismissively, waving the gnome off. ] We won't be paying for it.
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Eventually, after he registers the rebuff, he sighs: "it's from the two ladies at the other table." A gesture to indicate who he means, and the two young half-elves titter amongst themselves again, waving and mouthing 'congratulations!'
Iorveth's attention see-saws from the women to the gnome, and finally to the cake, which he absolutely shouldn't accept given how he almost died from ingesting strange offerings less than a day ago. But as far as assassinations go, this one really is far too obvious and far too spontaneously sweet to suspect. ]
Thank you, [ he says, reaching for the plate to provide the exhausted-looking gnome with some measure of relief. ] Congratulations are in order, I suppose.
[ Angling to kiss Astarion's cheek, one-upping the one-upping. The rudest elf in the world. ]
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[ It feels strange to just be given something. What, there's no cost? No hidden agenda, just two women who wanted to make them happy? He's not used to such things, and in fact it's in his nature to suspect them, but— Iorveth agreed to be his, forever, tonight. He finds himself with a brighter outlook than usual. ]
Thank you, [ he says awkwardly, the words still feeling a bit strange in his mouth. He's not accustomed to showing gratitude to anyone who isn't Iorveth. ]
My love does favor sweet things.
[ His hand finds its way to Iorveth's leg again, and Astarion flashes a crooked smile at him. ]
As do I.
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"Enjoy," the gnome sighs, and shuffles away with the air of someone who has done one too many graveyard shifts; the women at the other table give enthusiastic gestures of approval before making an exaggerated show of averting their eyes― "we're not peeking!"― despite Iorveth knowing that that promise will last a handful of seconds, if that.
Absurd, but pleasant. Iorveth hums, takes a beat to consider, then nudges the plate and silverware over to Astarion with confident ease. ]
Do me the honors, [ he offers, then leans in expectantly. The very picture of a fox waiting to eat out of its favorite human's hand; he wonders if Astarion will push back against something so saccharine. ]
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When he'd said he wanted to explore everything with Iorveth, he hadn't only meant the deviant things—cock rings and public sex and whatever the hells else Iorveth has in that mind of his—but other things, too, softer things. He wants to experience everything that he never thought he would. That includes being ridiculously, embarrassingly soppy in public.
Still, he does have an image to maintain, so as he holds the fork to Iorveth's lips, he snarks, ] You only want me to put something your mouth.
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Opening his mouth to be fed isn't exactly 'dangerous terrorist to be feared' behavior. He does it anyway, safe in the knowledge that Astarion won't judge him for it, and confident that, if anyone in this tavern laughs at him (them) in a cruel or malicious way, he can still kill them without trying very hard at all.
His lips close over the fork, and he takes the offered bite. ]
And yet here you are, [ he says through the mouthful, ] encouraging it.
[ Astarion could simply say no, and make it known to Iorveth that he doesn't find these things pleasant or appropriate; Iorveth would stop in a heartbeat. But there hasn't been pushback yet, and Iorveth waits until he swallows that bit of cake to press his sugar-stained lips against Astarion's, sharing the dessert without actually sharing it (he's not sure if food violently disagrees with Astarion's undead physiology). ]
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I happen to rather enjoy seeing you with things in your mouth.
[ He carves another piece of cake off with his fork, spearing it and holding it up for consumption. ]
And I find that, despite all odds, I actually like tending to you. [ An incredulous little laugh. He isn't exactly a nurturing soul. ] I know, I can hardly believe it myself.
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You're better at it than you know. [ He should write a book. "How to Care for Your Terrorist-Slash-Freedom-Fighter". ] And I didn't think anyone ever would.
[ Care for him. Especially not after getting half his face torn apart. Iorveth had never believed the humans when they said that the disfigurement made him less of an elf, but he had internalized, to some extent, that he became too strange to love.
A soft exhale, fond, and Iorveth straightens just a bit to run a hand through Astarion's hair. ]
You continue to be a miracle in every way that counts.
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But he does enjoy doing it. Case in point: another forkful of cake held out for Iorveth. He tilts his head to watch Iorveth eat, strangely amused by the sight. A feral woodland creature eating out of his hand. ]
You make me want to be what you see in me, [ he confesses. There's nothing miraculous about him, but if Iorveth can think that, maybe it's something he can become. ]
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I love you now, and will love whatever you choose to be in the future.
[ Another bite of the quickly-depleting cake (the gnome cranes his neck from where he's sitting sleepily on his stool, his tired face betraying some surprise at the wood elf's seemingly endless appetite), and Iorveth strokes Astarion's cheek again. ]
My sweet cat. [ Affectionately. After a beat, an addendum: ] Did you hate it when I referred to the tiefling as such?
[ Not sweet, obviously, but A Cat. ]
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No, [ he says, sullen enough that it's obvious the answer is 'yes' and that he just doesn't want to admit it. It had made him seethe with completely unwarranted jealousy; obviously, Iorveth isn't going to leave him for Damris of all people. It had still rankled regardless. That's his pet name, and Damris isn't allowed to have it. (He's never been good at sharing.) ]
Did you call him that? Honestly, I didn't even notice.
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Interesting. [ Casually. ] Well, if you don't mind it.
[ Iorveth can't correct his behavior if Astarion doesn't tell him to!!! Very mean of him, he knows, given that he assumes Astarion knows that he's perceptive enough to catch on to when Astarion is puffing up.
He tucks a stray curl behind Astarion's ear, and finally leans back against the back of his chair. The black hole of his stomach feels lightly sated, in sharp contrast to how he still can't stop looking at Astarion, can't stop wanting to touch him. ]
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—It doesn't really fit him, I think. Now that you've mentioned it.
[ He looks back at the piece of cake. Stab, stab. ]
More of a rat, I think.
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Ultimately, he decides on the former. Mostly because Astarion isn't being very subtle now, and he'd like to at least finish the cake before Astarion can mutilate it any further. ]
Love. [ Lightly wrapping his fingers around Astarion's wrist, dissuading him from stabbing the godsdamned plate in two. ] I asked because it would rankle if you called anyone else a fox.
[ Sparing his fussy cat's pride while remaining honest. Iorveth never fancied himself a particularly jealous elf, but he does have to admit that ever since Astarion came back to him with his mouth slick with someone else's blood, he's discovered the feeling anew. ]
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It's one of his many flaws that he hates being jealous himself but loves the idea of Iorveth being jealous. Maybe he likes the confirmation that he's something Iorveth couldn't bear to lose. Maybe he just thinks Iorveth would just look sexy flushed with jealousy. The truth is probably a bit of both.
Unfortunately: ] Ugh, that doesn't help me. You never fly into a fit of jealous rage that culminates in passionate lovemaking.
[ Why isn't Iorveth like his
smutromance novels? ]You'd only get angry with me. [ As he rightfully should. ]
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I wouldn't speak so soon. Yes, I wouldn't be pleased with you if you did something to intentionally insult me―
[ Which may or may not happen, but Iorveth's threshold of tolerance for Astarion's shenanigans has gotten higher and higher; he can, to some extent, forgive smaller offenses.
That said, the warmth in his expression recedes for a fraction of a second, subsumed momentarily by sharp, hawklike focus. ]
―But I'd hardly be angry with you, if anyone makes the fool move of being lecherous with you as a result of you being friendly.
[ He imagines it: someone putting their arms around Astarion's waist, or trying to put their mouth on him. It makes something dark and ugly stir in the pit of his stomach, and it shows in that knife-sharp glint in his eye again. ]
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But Iorveth doesn't seem fond of that idea, so he tables it. He wouldn't want Iorveth to feel disrespected, or worse, unloved. ]
Darling. [ He huffs under his breath, amused, pressing his knuckles against Iorveth's lips. ] You know I'm never friendly.
[ It's just unrealistic. ]
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You're clever. Quick. Striking. When you smile, you― [ A vague gesture, a vaguer half-sound. He decides not to finish that thought, because it'd say too much about himself. ] ―at any rate, some fool might try to press their luck.
[ Hmph. ]
It would make me pull you into a different room.
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But let Iorveth believe what he believes. If he wants to think that anyone out there is going to want to have sex with Astarion because his personality is just so great, then Astarion won't disabuse him of the idea. Instead: ]
Oh? [ He turns his hand over, playfully tweaking Iorveth's chin. ] And then what would you do?
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Whatever. Iorveth will punch them all if they do anything that Astarion doesn't like. Another huff, even as he leans into the touch to his chin, and he replies: ]
I'd press you against the wall and kiss you until your knees gave out.
[ A promise, not a threat. He sounds sullen, but now it's for the drama. ]
Then I'd follow you onto the floor and give you at least one orgasm before I let you back outside.
[ Hmph! ]
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[ Historically, it's always been the opposite: Astarion tugging someone into a side room and pleasuring them until they were pliant and malleable. (With the privilege of distance, he now wonders if the intimacy was even necessary, or if it was just one of Cazador's many ways of keeping his spawn beaten down and humiliated.) He supposes there's something satisfying about imagining being on the other side of it. Even if it's probably inappropriate to be discussing in a public establishment.
Oh, well. That gnome has probably heard worse. ]
I would allow it.
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Sliding his mouth down to kiss the heel of Astarion's hand, Iorveth finally peels himself away. ]
If you'd allow it, it would be more than one.
[ Dryly playful. Truth be told, Iorveth isn't sure that Astarion would even want to have marathon sex― it's a lot, especially for someone who's still tracing the outlines of boundaries that were taken from him. It's mostly just an affirmation that Astarion is wanted in many, unspeakably unhinged ways.
The two half-elves, who are too far away to hear the content of their conversation, still look like they have fodder to talk about for the next tenday. Good for them, honestly. ]
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