[ 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. ]
[ He laughs again. Iorveth is ridiculous. In truth—and he'd never admit this aloud, not even to Iorveth—he'd probably prefer just one, so that he could be held and spoken to sweetly immediately after, confirmation that Iorveth still doesn't find him disgusting or shameful or used up. Iorveth's postcoital affection does well at frightening away any dark thoughts that might creep in. ]
Have you had your fill?
[ Seemingly apropos of nothing, but— ]
I'd like to return to our room.
[ Not for anything untoward, unfortunately. He certainly would, if not for the tiefling-shaped cockblock still tied up in their study. He can still kiss Iorveth into the mattress, though, and curl around him until his heat seeps into Astarion's bones, and listen to the comforting sound of him breathing. Trancing might be a bad idea tonight, but he can keep himself busy by counting Iorveth's heartbeats. ]
[ All this talk of debauchery, and all Iorveth really wants to do for the rest of his life is wake up every morning (yes, morning― they'll have the sun) with Astarion's face tucked near his, their arms a pleasant tangle. An unspeakable luxury, to wake up without uncertainty and safe in someone's company.
Iorveth quirks a brief smile, and nods. ]
I'll take the rest back. [ 'The rest' being a solitary slice of bread and a few slices of cold cuts for a post-trance snack. He isn't planning on depleting stamina in favor of sex either, with or without the tiefling in their room― they'll need every advantage they can get.
So. Payments, and another quick acknowledgment to the two women who have been very generous to them despite their nosiness. Iorveth makes a show of lacing fingers with Astarion again, just to hear them giggle. ]
―Before we return, [ Iorveth remembers, ] we'll need to find somewhere to toss those gruesome charms.
[ He could've asked the poor gnome proprietor to burn them in his oven, but he might get cursed or something, and that would be a poor way to repay the man for his nice cake. ]
[ Iorveth begins to talk of something other than the mindless debauchery and nauseating affection they've been discussing for the past however long, and although Astarion isn't proud of it, he instantly starts to tune it out. He can't help it! He's still on mindless debauchery and nauseating affection.
After a beat: ] Hm?
[ The gears behind his eyes visibly turn. Ah, right. He'd almost let himself forget that this isn't a normal celebratory dinner. It's a celebratory dinner for two people who are going to anger a hag tomorrow. Great. ]
Oh. [ He waves his free hand. ] Just throw them on the street somewhere. If someone picks up something so morbid, they deserve whatever curse is coming to them.
[ Gods, Iorveth loves Astarion to death, but sometimes it's like squeezing water from a rock to get him to think about something (affectionate).
Sighing: ] Unfortunately, it's usually children who choose to pick up things they shouldn't.
[ And, well. Iorveth has definitely done worse to kids in the past beyond casually dooming them via discarded cursed items (like burning down their homes and probably killing many as collateral damage), he would definitely like to avoid unnecessary crimes against the city's youth.
He glances towards a nearby sewer grate. ] I'll give them to the rats, I suppose.
[ (A year later, they'll read news in the papers about giant mutated rat creatures trawling through the city of Athkatla, and Iorveth will Wonder.) ]
[ Unfortunately, Astarion is now of the opinion that he doesn't need to think about things, because he has someone (Iorveth) to do it for him. Iorveth thinks far better than he ever could—overthinks, really—so he really sees no downside. He's always been a follower. A follower that complains, but a follower nonetheless. Making plans and decisions is for... other people.
He's of the belief that children who pick random things up off of the dirty street are living numbered days regardless, but he smiles nonetheless, leaning against Iorveth. ]
Look at you. Iorveth Ancunín, savior of children.
[ Not Ancunín yet, technically, but he's allowed to bask in the knowledge that Iorveth will be one day soon, he thinks. ]
[ Iorveth Ancunín. Hells. Astarion should be able to see how Iorveth gently startles at that shared last name, then melts into it with the sort of lovestruck idiocy that he might criticize others for; it's the sort of melting that suggests that Astarion could perhaps abuse this power into making Iorveth do stupid shit.
Iorveth Ancunín. There was a lot of nonsense spoken after Astarion called him that, but Iorveth barely registers it. Iorveth Ancunín.
He hastily rummages inside his pack and dispenses of the charms; down the sewer grate they go, making ominous clinking sounds on their way down. Iorveth hardly notices that, either, eager to free up one hand to hold Astarion's again. ]
Iorveth Ancunín, freedom fighter and advocate of bringing his betrothed to bed.
[ He hopes that the lack of artefacts in their general vicinity will help with Astarion's trance, but it's a long shot; still, he can try to help Astarion remain relaxed while he's horizontal. ]
[ It sounds even better from Iorveth's lips than his own. He'd never planned on passing his name onto anyone else. Hells, half the time it hadn't even felt like his name. He'd been more a Szarr than an Ancunín; after all, he could hardly remember the faces of the people who gave him the Ancunín name, but Cazador's was clear as day. 'Family' had meant a tormentor and his slaves, not anyone who loved him. He wouldn't mind discovering a new type of family with Iorveth. A family of two, but still a family, he thinks.
Ugh. This is the sort of sentimental nonsense that used to make him retch. He blames Iorveth for turning him into a puddle of a man.
His fingers slide between Iorveth's, and he squeezes before tugging him along, down the paved street and back toward their inn. It's still dark, but the sky is beginning to turn faintly purple. (Of course. Everything is purple here.) ]
Sharing a bed with your betrothed before the wedding? Oh, the scandal. How will we ever ensure your purity remains intact?
We'll have to define what 'purity' means to us, [ Iorveth laughs.
The sun is making its slow ascent up towards the sky, which means they need to make a swift retreat. Back to their inn they go, bypassing eerily chipper staff to go back upstairs to their suite, where poor Damris is probably still dissociating on the floor of their study. Iorveth doesn't bother opening the door to check; a quick press of his ear against the door indicates that the tiefling is still in there, and now that the sun is coming up, Damris will have no choice but to stay put.
So. Into the bedroom they go, despite the fact that even the soft mattress and smooth covers don't guarantee that Astarion will trance well today. The only stain on an otherwise perfect evening.
Sitting Astarion on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of him to remove the new boots they'd purchased in Waterdeep (the ones that lace up, making Astarion's legs look even longer than they are), Iorveth poses the question: ]
Besides the rings and the robes, what would you want from a wedding?
[ The thought crosses his mind that Iorveth may only be asking because he thinks the distraction will help Astarion trance better, not because he has any real interest in wedding planning. Guerrillas probably find such things frivolous. He imagines they say their vows on the battlefield, no rings or robes, only the gods as their witnesses.
Well, Astarion doesn't want the gods invited to his wedding. ]
You. [ The most important part. He would still marry Iorveth if the rings were cheap knock-offs and the robes were rags... and that's saying something, coming from someone as materialistic as he is. ] Me, of course.
[ A thoughtful pause. He's never so much as fantasized about a wedding since he was— hells, a child. Even then, the fantasy had been more about hitching himself to someone wealthy and important, and by extension, becoming wealthy and important himself. ]
...I suppose I haven't put much thought into it beyond that. [ Which will shock Iorveth, he's sure. He leans back on his hands, watching Iorveth work his laces. ] Most Baldurian ceremonies take place at some shrine or another, but you know I'm not one for all that religious claptrap.
[ Astarion, the only person who'd manage to be an atheist in a world where the gods are an unequivocal truth. ]
The gods didn't give me you. The tentacle monsters did. [ He tilts his head. ] Maybe we should invite them.
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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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Have you had your fill?
[ Seemingly apropos of nothing, but— ]
I'd like to return to our room.
[ Not for anything untoward, unfortunately. He certainly would, if not for the tiefling-shaped cockblock still tied up in their study. He can still kiss Iorveth into the mattress, though, and curl around him until his heat seeps into Astarion's bones, and listen to the comforting sound of him breathing. Trancing might be a bad idea tonight, but he can keep himself busy by counting Iorveth's heartbeats. ]
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Iorveth quirks a brief smile, and nods. ]
I'll take the rest back. [ 'The rest' being a solitary slice of bread and a few slices of cold cuts for a post-trance snack. He isn't planning on depleting stamina in favor of sex either, with or without the tiefling in their room― they'll need every advantage they can get.
So. Payments, and another quick acknowledgment to the two women who have been very generous to them despite their nosiness. Iorveth makes a show of lacing fingers with Astarion again, just to hear them giggle. ]
―Before we return, [ Iorveth remembers, ] we'll need to find somewhere to toss those gruesome charms.
[ He could've asked the poor gnome proprietor to burn them in his oven, but he might get cursed or something, and that would be a poor way to repay the man for his nice cake. ]
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After a beat: ] Hm?
[ The gears behind his eyes visibly turn. Ah, right. He'd almost let himself forget that this isn't a normal celebratory dinner. It's a celebratory dinner for two people who are going to anger a hag tomorrow. Great. ]
Oh. [ He waves his free hand. ] Just throw them on the street somewhere. If someone picks up something so morbid, they deserve whatever curse is coming to them.
[ 'Sweet', Iorveth calls him. ]
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Sighing: ] Unfortunately, it's usually children who choose to pick up things they shouldn't.
[ And, well. Iorveth has definitely done worse to kids in the past beyond casually dooming them via discarded cursed items (like burning down their homes and probably killing many as collateral damage), he would definitely like to avoid unnecessary crimes against the city's youth.
He glances towards a nearby sewer grate. ] I'll give them to the rats, I suppose.
[ (A year later, they'll read news in the papers about giant mutated rat creatures trawling through the city of Athkatla, and Iorveth will Wonder.) ]
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He's of the belief that children who pick random things up off of the dirty street are living numbered days regardless, but he smiles nonetheless, leaning against Iorveth. ]
Look at you. Iorveth Ancunín, savior of children.
[ Not Ancunín yet, technically, but he's allowed to bask in the knowledge that Iorveth will be one day soon, he thinks. ]
And killer of rats. [ He's not sad about it. ]
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Iorveth Ancunín. There was a lot of nonsense spoken after Astarion called him that, but Iorveth barely registers it. Iorveth Ancunín.
He hastily rummages inside his pack and dispenses of the charms; down the sewer grate they go, making ominous clinking sounds on their way down. Iorveth hardly notices that, either, eager to free up one hand to hold Astarion's again. ]
Iorveth Ancunín, freedom fighter and advocate of bringing his betrothed to bed.
[ He hopes that the lack of artefacts in their general vicinity will help with Astarion's trance, but it's a long shot; still, he can try to help Astarion remain relaxed while he's horizontal. ]
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Ugh. This is the sort of sentimental nonsense that used to make him retch. He blames Iorveth for turning him into a puddle of a man.
His fingers slide between Iorveth's, and he squeezes before tugging him along, down the paved street and back toward their inn. It's still dark, but the sky is beginning to turn faintly purple. (Of course. Everything is purple here.) ]
Sharing a bed with your betrothed before the wedding? Oh, the scandal. How will we ever ensure your purity remains intact?
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The sun is making its slow ascent up towards the sky, which means they need to make a swift retreat. Back to their inn they go, bypassing eerily chipper staff to go back upstairs to their suite, where poor Damris is probably still dissociating on the floor of their study. Iorveth doesn't bother opening the door to check; a quick press of his ear against the door indicates that the tiefling is still in there, and now that the sun is coming up, Damris will have no choice but to stay put.
So. Into the bedroom they go, despite the fact that even the soft mattress and smooth covers don't guarantee that Astarion will trance well today. The only stain on an otherwise perfect evening.
Sitting Astarion on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of him to remove the new boots they'd purchased in Waterdeep (the ones that lace up, making Astarion's legs look even longer than they are), Iorveth poses the question: ]
Besides the rings and the robes, what would you want from a wedding?
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Well, Astarion doesn't want the gods invited to his wedding. ]
You. [ The most important part. He would still marry Iorveth if the rings were cheap knock-offs and the robes were rags... and that's saying something, coming from someone as materialistic as he is. ] Me, of course.
[ A thoughtful pause. He's never so much as fantasized about a wedding since he was— hells, a child. Even then, the fantasy had been more about hitching himself to someone wealthy and important, and by extension, becoming wealthy and important himself. ]
...I suppose I haven't put much thought into it beyond that. [ Which will shock Iorveth, he's sure. He leans back on his hands, watching Iorveth work his laces. ] Most Baldurian ceremonies take place at some shrine or another, but you know I'm not one for all that religious claptrap.
[ Astarion, the only person who'd manage to be an atheist in a world where the gods are an unequivocal truth. ]
The gods didn't give me you. The tentacle monsters did. [ He tilts his head. ] Maybe we should invite them.
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