essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ It's just unrealistic. ]

[ 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.

[ Hmph. ]

It would make me pull you into a different room.

[ 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.

[ Hmph! ]

'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.

Oh, well. That gnome has probably heard worse. ]

I would allow it.

[ 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.

[ 'Sweet', Iorveth calls him. ]

[ 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. ]

And killer of rats. [ He's not sad about it. ]

[ 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.

[ Laces deftly loosen between his fingers, releasing Astarion's leg from the tight embrace of leather. The footwear gets shimmied off, one centimeter at a time, and gets set by the foot of the bed. ]

I've had my fill of mind flayers for a lifetime. [ Even if he does owe them for jamming a tadpole into his skull, thus laying the foundation for meeting Astarion. ] But if we're to invite one of them as a representative of its race, we could invite...

[ A hum. Trying to recall. ] ...Omeluum? I think that was its name.

[ Iorveth still has no idea what the hells that thing was on about half the time, but if Astarion wants tentacles in his wedding party, he'll get tentacles in his wedding party. ]

Either way, if we're to do this, I thought... [ Ugh. Does he sound overeager again? He clears his throat. ] ...We might have a ceremony the way you wish it first, then do something in Aen Seidhe tradition.

[ Astarion owes the mind flayers far more than anyone else in their strange little troupe. Getting kidnapped off the streets of Baldur's Gate and having a tadpole slither through his eyeball and lodge itself in his frontal lobe is the best thing that ever happened to him. The most disgusting thing that ever happened to him, too, but still the best. He wouldn't undo it, not for anything.

He told Iorveth once that having him makes the pain of the past all worth it. Despite how negatively Iorveth reacted to the statement, he still thinks that. He always will. Without all the suffering, he would never have Iorveth here, kneeling in front of him, unlacing his shoes. Terribly domestic and impossibly lovely. ]

Two ceremonies? You spoil me.

[ And it's also probably a good idea, since Astarion will undoubtedly have many strong opinions on it. Their clothing, their decor, hells, even the food. Just because he can't eat it doesn't mean he's going to serve something subpar.

One has to wonder where they're going to get the money for all of this. He makes a mental note to give Gale a rousing speech about their love so that he feels inclined to open his pockets again.

He scoots back on the bed, beckoning Iorveth with an outstretched hand. ]

And what is the Aen Seidhe tradition, hm?

[ Mentally, he crosses his fingers and begs don't let it be too tree-huggy. ]

[ Bridezilla, Baldurian Edition. Groomzilla? Whatever. Iorveth, working to take off Astarion's other boot, has no idea what kind of ceremony Astarion will want, and thus has no idea what the finances of this will look like (uh oh); he can think about that later. Surely Wyll is entitled to like, some monetary support from Duke Ravengard while he traipses around in Avernus with Karlach.

Logistics later. First, the more pressing matter of what Astarion wants, and what he can expect from unions in Aen Seidhe tradition, which－

－honestly? Iorveth doesn't know. Not with any amount of certainty, since all of their traditions were subsumed by conflict, modified to fit dire circumstances. Still, he doesn't want to make it depressing, so he relays what he knows while he finishes tugging off Astarion's boot and gets to work on removing his. ]

Speaking vows in witness of the forest, usually without too much ceremony. Most Aen Seidhe share lovers over our extended lifespans, which makes the decision of commitment more of a...

[ A vague gesture, with one hand. ] ...Private affair, to be promised between the pair involved. Less and less common now, given that our numbers are dwindling.

[ Lifting himself back up, Iorveth takes a seat next to Astarion. ] I would bring you to one of our ancestral forests, and promise myself to you there. No priests involved.

[ As he settles against the pillows, he reaches out to tug on Iorveth's sleeve, urging him closer. Even though he's fed Iorveth, had his hand held all night, and been kissed a frankly inordinate amount of times... he still longs to have Iorveth close to him. It's a bottomless hunger that can never truly be satisfied. A familiar feeling, but a less unpleasant one than the hunger he's used to. ]

I would go anywhere with you, so long as we were alone together.

[ Exchanging vows in an ancestral forest means just as much to him as exchanging vows in the middle of the Underdark; that is, the location holds no particular meaning to him. But if he's with Iorveth, and Iorveth is happy, he can't imagine caring where he is. ]

But I can't promise I'll be able to keep my hands to myself.

[ He isn't certain if that would ruin the sanctity of the tradition, but he can barely keep his hands to himself now, and the ceremony hasn't even happened yet. He'll be a terror when the day (day and not night) comes. ]

[ Smitten, Iorveth thinks. The only descriptor for how he feels every time Astarion tugs his sleeve, urges him closer, wants him in a way no one else ever has. In terms of distance, it isn't a long way to fall from sitting upright to settling on his side next to the man he loves, but his stomach does a flip from the pleasant vertigo regardless. Thrilled, every time, to be invited so close.

Iorveth obliges, because of course he does. Collar loosened, slightly warmer from the wine, he winds his arms around Astarion for a loose, affectionate embrace. ]

The forest has seen worse. You've not seen Aen Seidhe during Belleteyn.

[ Their version of Fey Day, with a lot more sex. Iorveth laughs, and leans in to litter more kisses against silver curls. ]

...Usually, pairs would vow to live and die together. To be buried as one, when age claims them. [ A soft murmur, pressed against the tip of one ear. ] But I suppose I'd be pledging eternity to you.

[ If he truly can. And, in a way, Iorveth has to; it breaks him to think of Astarion hovering near a grave. ]

[ Astarion raises an eyebrow. He has no idea what the hells Belletyn is, and he realizes that he probably should have asked more questions about Aen Seidhe life before blindly agreeing to live among them. He hadn't intended on taking part in any sort of cultural festivities, but he certainly doesn't want Iorveth to celebrate something like that with anyone else, so—

Something to worry about when the time comes. He has Iorveth in his bed now, breath warm against his ear. He turns his head, pecking Iorveth on the jaw, chaste and sweet. If he doesn't keep it chaste and sweet, he won't have the self-control not to start taking their clothes off, and that'll make the trip back to Waterdeep with Damris in tow even more uncomfortable. ]

Eternity is far too short to spend with you.

[ It makes him glow with happiness nonetheless. 'You'll never be alone again', he had said. ]

But it's a start, to be sure.

[ Another kiss to each of Iorveth's cheeks, and then: ] Rest. I think I'll watch over you tonight, if that's all right.

[ Cuddling into place (because that's what this is, and what he's grown comfortable with), Iorveth keeps one arm draped around Astarion's waist, close as they can be without turning it into furious rutting. He wants this forever: to have Astarion smiling and happy and content.

He also wants Astarion to trance, but he can understand the hesitation. It must be deeply unsettling, to be betrayed by your own psyche in a place where you should feel safe. Iorveth recalls "did you leave?", and his ever-burning desire to stick a sharp object through the hag's skull returns as a flicker that makes it through his shroud of post-engagement night bliss.

Later. His single eye closes, and he nestles against Astarion's hair. ]

No need for vigilance― I'll dream only of you.

[ A light flirt, before he lets his trance take him. An easy, dreamy thing, cotton-wrapped and filled with sense-memory of silver and red; like Astarion pre-hag, the nightmares slip and slide off of his subconscious when he knows the man he loves is close by. ]

[ It isn't quite the same as having his own peaceful trance, but it's enjoyable nonetheless to watch Iorveth slip into his, hand coming up to tangle in that dark hair, stroking gently until Iorveth's breathing slows and evens. He listens to that breathing for the rest of the night, forcing himself to stay conscious both for fear of nightmares and fear that the hag will do something else to him. Weaken him, suck out his nonexistent soul, he doesn't know. He's not a hag expert.

The day isn't wholly unpleasant with Iorveth's arms around him, but he does find himself nodding off multiple times before snapping back to wakefulness. Hours pass, his eyes growing heavier, body feeling limper. Perhaps if he'd had a proper rest in the last few days, he would be able to tolerate it, but it's growing more and more difficult with Iorveth's warm body beside him coaxing him into a trance. Finally, once he can no longer bear it, he wakes Iorveth with: ]

Uuuuughhhhh.

[ Not exactly the most elegant wake-up call. Astarion groans, and Iorveth's reaction is immediate: decades of bring ambush-ready snaps his one eye open, and the arm still looped around Astarion's middle tightens, pulling him inwards protectively against an ill-perceived threat. ]

―Love? [ His voice is trance-hoarse, slightly slurred. ] Astarion.

[ Muffled, as he soothes a palm up Astarion's back. Assuming, in his hazy mind, that he's seen another nightmare. Gods, he can't wait to kill that hag (was that the plan? Iorveth's lost track). ]

I'm here, [ which sounds like "m'hrr", murmured into silver curls. ]

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