essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ It is infuriating to be on the wrong side of a self-made situation. His setup was all wrong, his execution was worse, and now Iorveth is dealing with the fallout.

The worst part? He wants Astarion far more than he wants to refuse out of principle. "Shove it up your ass" would be his default response to "ask nicely", but not towards Astarion. Especially not after he almost made Astarion say "did I do something wrong".

So. His first attempt: ] Just touch me already.

[ Not very nice. Maybe more than a little frustrated. Still, it's not the uncharitable command that Iorveth might have leveled against a one-night stand, all teeth and no affection; his wanting sings louder than any other emotion, tempering words that might've sounded much harsher.

Eventually, he lifts his head from his pillow and fixes his glazed focus back on Astarion for attempt number two. He knows he must look ridiculous, abominable: scarred and mangled and sweat-mussed, already gnarled face made uglier by desperation. ]

Astarion, [ he tries again, voice low and hoarse. ] I need your hands on me.

[ That first attempt is an utter failure, as evidenced by the chiding tilt of his head, the offended quirk of his brow. How rude, the expression says. The next is a vast improvement, his eye lust-hazy and skin shiny with sweat, face full of wanting in a way not even the most stone-hearted person could deny. Astarion may not want to feel objectified, but he does want to feel desired. No, that's not it, not exactly — he wants to feel important. Needed. Like his presence here matters. ]

That wasn't so hard, [ he croons, pleased, before batting Iorveth's hand away from his erection. If it's Astarion's hands he wants, it's Astarion's hands he'll get, and he certainly isn't going to get himself off like he doesn't have a perfectly good vampire right here. He lets out a relieved sigh as his fingers wrap around Iorveth's cock, having suffered from his own game. Iorveth is slick with arousal, and Astarion wastes no time starting up a steady rhythm, the smoothness of his palm contrasted by the roughness of his strokes. ]

I've been dying to get my hands on you.

[ Pretty much since the last time he had his hands on Iorveth. He's had passing fancies, strangers on the street who were good-looking and safe to want because he'd never have them, but he's never desired someone this much. The depth of it is alarming. He could fall in, he thinks, if he's not careful. (He's never been careful.) ]

You really have no idea how badly I want you.

[ He leans forward, trapping his pumping hand between their bodies, and presses a kiss to Iorveth's neglected mouth. It's soft in comparison to his stroking, almost sweet. ]

[ The sound Iorveth makes when Astarion finally deigns to touch him is a not-quiet, strangled groan that catches in the back of his throat. A full-bodied finally accompanied by a buck and roll of his hips into Astarion's lukewarm palm, graceless in his hurried enthusiasm. Heat twists in his stomach and spreads; he was already embarrassingly close before, but something about the way those clever fingers waste no time in trying to take him apart really drives Iorveth closer to the edge.

Trying to last is a losing battle. He manages to endure the sweet words by half-accepting them with sex-bleary disbelief, but it's the kiss that makes him shatter; it's an extra layer of perfect on top of everything else that feels numbingly good, compounded by the vision that Astarion'd shared earlier of bitemarks all over Iorveth's skin. Meeting Astarion's mouth and feeling the sharp edge of his fangs on his tongue unravels Iorveth completely, wracked by an orgasm that takes complete control over the entirety of him: he comes with their lips still pressed together, trying to form a broken facsimile of Astarion's name that hitches and turns into a shuddering sigh, a low moan.

Shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, chest heaving and hips still grinding against the mess he's made on Astarion's hand, Iorveth chases his high for a few more moments before slumping, boneless, onto the mattress.

It shouldn't be possible for one person (vampire) to make him feel like this. Iorveth feels obliterated, but he still wants Astarion so achingly that he thinks he might vibrate out of his skin if he doesn't kiss Astarion again.

So he does. Craning to brush their mouths together, his breath hot and ragged. When he finally collects enough of himself to speak, he manages: ] We need another room.

[ Horny freak jail. Give him a moment to unfry his brain, please. ]

[ Iorveth usually clings to his composure so hard his knuckles whiten. Watching him fall apart makes every bit of Astarion tingle with satisfaction from his head to his toes. He touches Iorveth through his orgasm and after, hand running lightly against his softening erection, before pressing his fingers to his mouth and licking them clean.

Another room, Iorveth says, and Astarion briefly considers the fact that someone could be sitting outside these drapes, too polite to mention that they just heard Iorveth come. He finds that he isn't too bothered by the prospect. ]

Or we could just be very quiet.

[ He'll learn Silence. ]

—Was that all right?

[ Not the handjob, which he feels confident was above average; if there's anything he's skilled with, it's his hands. He means the way he behaved, the withholding, telling Iorveth 'no'. Iorveth had seemed to enjoy himself in the moment, but he can't help but feel uncertain now. ]

[ His nerves still feel frayed and oversensitive, but Iorveth reaches for Astarion with heavy limbs regardless when he sees how Astarion licks his clever fingers clean. At this rate, Iorveth really is going to develop some sort of stupid fixation on Astarion's mouth― he cups his partner's cheek (surreptitiously cleaning his hand off on the sheets first) and kisses him for the millionth time, lingering taste of his own spend on Astarion's tongue and all.

The question that's posed to him is ridiculous, almost to the point where he thinks it's not even worth answering. Any other person asking would have been dismissed as fishing for a stroke to their ego. But, again, it's Astarion. Iorveth adores him in ways even he's not ready to address. ]

Condemning me to death would've been kinder than telling me I couldn't kiss you.

[ Bluntly, but with humor. It's after that caveat that he appends, more softly: ]

You were perfect. [ If Astarion wants control in bed, well. Iorveth's had a taste, and he enjoyed himself. His scarred, kiss-flushed lips quirk up in a mischievous half-smile. ] None of my idle fancies compared.

[ He melts with relief, muscles relaxing, and presses a brief kiss to Iorveth's jaw, hand snaking up under his mussed shirt to splay out across his tattoo. A little possessive, a lot affectionate. ]

I don't know. I looked ravishing in your imagination.

[ Astarion is gloriously good-looking all the time, of course, but he gets the sense that Iorveth sees him through adoration goggles. Obviously, he doesn't mind. He'd do anything to keep Iorveth looking at him with those soft, warm expressions. It's beginning to feel as necessary for his sanity as blood.

His need for Iorveth's affection puts a rather large wrench in the plan to avoid getting too attached lest their travels to the north go poorly. There's still every possibility that this relationship is on a time limit, and Astarion needs to protect himself from the pain of rejection. That's very hard to do, though, when Iorveth keeps being so lovable. ]

I'm certainly going to have idle fancies about that.

[ He can't remember the last time he touched himself, but the image of Iorveth getting himself off is absolutely going in the spank bank. ]

[ Two weird elves, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Iorveth figures that things will be different after they (if they) defeat the Brain, and he also figures that Astarion won't be too happy when (if) they have to relinquish the comforts of urban life for the unglamorous runaway lifestyle once more. No more beds, no more pretty clothes to buy in surplus.

(No more sleeping in until the sky is high, because Astarion would burn to ash. Adjusting his sleep schedule is one more thing Iorveth will have to think about.)

Iorveth will take what he can get. He's stolen clothes from dead men's backs, spent weeks starving himself so that his soldiers could ration amongst themselves. He can want Astarion that way, too, holding on with bleeding fingernails and grit teeth, letting the depth of his need cut him to the bone.

All of that goes through his mind briefly, but none of it makes it to his actions. What he does in the here and now is cuddle closer like an oversized fox rubbing its scent on something it wants to keep, dragging his sex-warm skin over the palm touching it and nibbling down the column of Astarion's neck. ]

Again: we need a separate room.

[ Which reminds him that there may or may not be someone else in this space with them, huddled and traumatized on their bed. Or, in the case of Halsin, perhaps putting his hands down his own pants. There is a soft sound of movement on the other side of their quarters, but it could potentially just be the owlbear cub. ]

[ He wonders, briefly, what privacy is available with the Aen Seidhe. They seem a communal bunch. Oh, well — he supposes he can always drag Iorveth away to do it on the forest floor.

As much as he'd like to stay lying here nuzzled by a warm, half-naked Iorveth, that soft sound catches his attention. Gods, if it's Gale pretending he didn't hear anything, Astarion will kill him for ruining the moment. They really do need a separate room. Then again, Iorveth is right: they'd never get anything done, not that Astarion sees that as an issue. They have a whole troupe of others who can carry out Lae'zel's commands. After two centuries of misery, he'd rather bask in happiness as long as he can. ]

My dear, [ he says, hand still stroking idly over Iorveth's tattoo, ] you might want to put your trousers back on.

[ A loss for Astarion, to be sure. He'd rather ask him to take more off. ]

I'd hate for Halsin to see you like this. He might ask to join.

[ And although he'd said he wouldn't mind if Iorveth wanted to sow his wild oats, he'd rather not witness it. ]

If he comes anywhere near me with his prick, he's liable to lose it.

[ Not because Iorveth is a prude, but because he isn't interested in being jumpscared by Halsin's Wild Shape, in every sense of those words. A grunt and a huff later, he coaxes himself to roll to the side and swing his legs over the edge of the mattress, using the momentum to sit upright so he can fish his trousers up off of the floor.

As he's putting them on, he spots a shimmering outline peering through a slight crack in the curtain partition: Iorveth squints at it, single eye narrowed, to which the thing responds by sliding through the sliver of space and making itself known with a disarmingly out-of-place jauntiness.

"Hello! You find me here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep, who found it prudent not to interrupt the two of you personally."

Hells. Iorveth reaches instinctively for something to throw at the projection (which he assumes it is), but remembers that a knife will just pass right through it. ]

[ Astarion is about to yank the newly bepantsed Iorveth back down for more post-handjob bliss when Gale's simulacrum appears, the ghastly apparition of a socially awkward wizard. He scowls, irritated at being forcibly dragged back to reality from the wildly happy fantasy life he's been living with Iorveth in this bed. ]

It would have been prudent not to interrupt us at all.

[ Unlike Iorveth, he isn't smart enough to think intangibility through; he tugs the pillow out from behind him and tosses it. It sails through the air, slightly distorting the simulacrum's translucent outline as it passes through the perfect replica of Gale's face, then falls to the floor with a thump. All the while, Gale's double remains annoyingly cheerful, his pleasant smile unwavering.

Astarion's frown deepens into a glower as he sits up, scooting over to perch next to Iorveth. Being hit with a pillow wouldn't have deterred the thing, but it would have felt good to watch.

"Looks like someone needs a refresher on the properties of simulacra," not-Gale says. "But I'll leave that to my maker." ]

Ugh, gods, I'll pass.

[ Annoyingly, Iorveth does need a refresher on how simulacra transfer what they've seen to their creators. He couldn't care less if the spectral image of Gale has seen the shape of his dick, but his first instinct when it really sinks in that there's someone else in their immediate vicinity is to turn the ruined side of his face away from the illusory presence. He settles his palm over his missing eye, and presses the heel of his hand into the scar cutting into his lip.

Gale is so lucky that Iorveth's mood is currently impossible to sour, what with it being bolstered by the fuzzy, still-lingering feeling of being thoroughly obliterated by Astarion. Instead of getting up and hurling a throwing knife in the general direction of Gale's bed, Iorveth tips his chin, haughty. ]

State your purpose. Quickly, and to the point.

[ Again, Gale is so lucky. The warning here, unspoken, is "don't push it". At the very least, the apparition seems to pick up on said warning somewhat, even if it refuses to (or, perhaps more likely, simply can't) break jovial character.

"Ah, my purpose. A bit existential, don't you think?" Iorveth scowls; the simulacrum, miraculously, gets the hint. "Yes, well― I suppose you want to know the message I'm meant to relay. A simple one, I'm afraid: an invitation to investigate a rather mysterious slew of recent disappearances in the Lower City. With or without my maker to assist you in the endeavor."

Gale's facsimile lowers its voice, conspiratorial. "Though he doesn't relish the idea of being the 'third wheel', so to speak." ]

Edited 2024-10-10 14:18 (UTC)

[ Astarion notes the way Iorveth presses his hand to his face, concealing his scar and the hollow where his eye used to be. It's Iorveth's prerogative to hide himself from anyone he likes, but the fact that his immediate reaction is one of self-consciousness makes Astarion frown. He's not certain where he discarded the eyepatch last night, so he lets his eyes wander along the floor before he spots it and snatches it up, dropping it nonchalantly into Iorveth's lap. ]

Disappearances? [ His frown deepens. ] Recent disappearances?

[ "Yes, I'm quite sure I said it correctly," says the simulacrum. "It is, in fact, impossible for me to not have."

It could easily be more Bhaalists; they seem keen on kidnapping and murdering. Please, Astarion thinks to himself, don't let it be the wayward spawn. Bhaalists are already enough trouble, but vampires would be far worse. (For him, that is.) They'd need to nip the problem in the bud quickly before a throng of vampire hunters descended on the city.

And, of slightly lesser importance, he's not so sure he wants to deal with the consequences of the others finding out he freed thousands of hungry vampires. ]

We'll deal with it ourselves.

[ Just in case. If it's only some whack job cultist, they can handle themselves without Gale. If it's a vampire, he'd rather not have blabbermouth Gale be the one to figure it out. ]

I'm sure Gale is too busy combing his beard, anyway.

[ Teamwork. Astarion hands him the eyepatch, and Iorveth situates it over the gnarled hollow of his face, fixing it in place while he listens to the projection give its report. "Recent disappearances" doesn't sound promising, but it sounds understated compared to what he would expect from the release of several scores (hundreds? he has no idea) of hungry vampire spawn.

Still, the two events could be correlated. Iorveth knows to expect the worst, which means that they'll have to lug the anti-vampire pack around again; it might become a permanent fixture, at this rate.

Oblivious to the two elves' misgivings, Gale's simulacrum beams. "Hardly! In fact, I can assure you that he's been quite preoccupied with pretending not to exist," he chirps guilelessly, to which Iorveth responds with a soft snort. ]

Tell him to keep at it, then. We'll leave when we please.

[ The meanest elf in the world continues to be needlessly rude to the party's resident wizard. With that, Iorveth decides not to spare the projection any more of his attention, and glances back at Astarion to tuck a stray silver curl behind one pointed ear. ]

[ The idea of Gale having overheard everything isn't embarrassing—Astarion did a very good job pleasing Iorveth, in his opinion, and Gale should perhaps take notes so that his next lover doesn't leave him—but it is annoying knowing that it'll fuel future comments from him. Whether they're supportive of or discouraging the relationship, somehow Astarion knows they're going to irritate him either way.

He stares blankly at Gale's glittering outline, then shoos it away like a pest. ]

Well? Get lost. And do tell Gale not to fiddle with his wand about this, will you?

[ "Wordplay!" the simulacrum beams; how very unlike Gale, who'd probably respond with a huff and a well, I never! "I will be sure to relay the message."

And there Gale's double goes, popping out of existence in a glimmering, arcane flash. Astarion rolls his eyes, then flops directly back on the mattress. ]

I don't see why a few disappearances is anything to get up in arms about. People disappear in this city every day. It's a den of iniquity; that's one of its best features.

[ Despite his protests, uncertainty swirls in his gut. If not a vampire, it could be the work of Absolutist cultists. He's spent their time in this city trying to think of mind flayers and the Netherbrain as little as possible, and the idea that they could be growing closer to a final confrontation is daunting. ]

[ The projection disappears, and leaves behind a piece of parchment that flutters, gracefully, onto the floor next to the bed. Iorveth leans to pick it up, and finds a map of the Lower City with a specific location circled in red.

Interesting. He hums, thoughtful, before setting the parchment aside on the bedside dresser. ]

And yet you all choose to live here than elsewhere. [ So many people, cramped in small spaces and barely connecting to each other regardless. He thinks back to the question he'd asked Astarion way back in the vague days of "before", about whether Astarion has any love for Baldur's Gate, its subterranean crimes and all.

A low breath, and Iorveth takes it upon himself to climb on top of Astarion's supine form. Elbows on either side of his pretty face, chest to chest. ]

I expect this has something to do with Orin and her ilk.

[ Because they do still have the rest of the Dead Three and their Netherstones to worry about. Honestly, Iorveth half-expected to die in the process of killing Henselt, so it's a bit of a wonder that he's survived long enough to worry about having to destroy the Netherbrain.

Iorveth hums again, and presses his lips to the bridge of Astarion's nose. ]

[ Oh, great. A Bhaalist and an Absolutist rolled into one. They've won the world's most unfortunate lottery.

Discussion of an insane, murderous changeling who's instrumental to the plot threatening their very existence is no time to be as cute as Iorveth is being. In fact, it's probably terribly inappropriate timing. Astarion doesn't mind inappropriate, though, so his mouth quirks up faintly at the ridiculously sweet kiss to his nose, hand coming up to finger at the ring on Iorveth's chain. The grin would be far bigger if not for the frown that fights it at the thought of Orin. ]

I detest that woman. She smells of tenday-old meat.

[ And the other atrocities, sure, but the smell is definitely her worst quality. And that's coming from an undead.

With a sigh: ] I suppose we've no choice, if it gets us closer to those Netherstones.

[ The idea of anything related to the Netherbrain is unpleasant, but still less unpleasant than becoming a tentacled thrall. ]

[ How awful, to have his post-handjob bliss be interrupted by a wizard-shaped projection reminding him of obligations that have nothing to do with exterminating racists up north. Iorveth would have liked to stay in this utterly indulgent state of being for a little bit longer, but duty calls: they won't have any sort of future together, however temporary it may be, if they don't have a future at all. One last nibble to the jut of Astarion's jaw is all he allows himself before he peels back off, making a mental note to be more exasperated with himself later for not being able to better temper his own desires.

Un-straddling Astarion and peeling off his sweat-drenched shirt to change into a new one: ] Orin the Red may be a monster, but I prefer her over the human rat.

[ Gortash is every single thing Iorveth hates about humans in one: a power-hungry, overambitious pretender with an unwarranted abundance of self-importance and a penchant for taking things that aren't his. At least Orin has the decency to just be insane. Grimacing, Iorveth waves a hand as if to chase away even the memory of Bane's Chosen. ]

―Which reminds me. Should we ever find ourselves in a situation where we doubt each other's identity, we should have a way to confirm that we are who we say we are.

[ Not that they've been spending enough time apart recently for changeling-related swaps to happen, but still. Contingencies are good to have. ]

[ Astarion pouts, because he could have had Iorveth on top of him—or under him, or beside him, or in some Quarta Sune-like amalgamation of limbs—for a little longer, but his mood improves when he sits up and gets to watch Iorveth take his shirt off. If only Iorveth would strip slower and more sensually. ]

Trust me, my sweet. No changeling could ever emulate your scowl.

[ Said with the utmost affection. He'd found that scowl incredibly annoying for at least the first half of their acquaintance, but somewhere along the line he became endeared to it. Perhaps it's the fact that now he knows what Iorveth looks like smiling, or perhaps his heart has just grown softer. Ugh, how embarrassing. ]

And I do like to think of myself as inimitable as well.

[ Like Orin could ever copy his charm. Please! He's delightful, and she's a blabbering nutjob. Still, he dangles his legs off of the bed, peering at Iorveth curiously. ]

What did you have in mind?

[ In the distant lands of Before, Iorveth might have been annoyed by that curious look and Astarion's refusal to provide any sort of counterproposal. "Is there nothing in that pretty head of yours", he might have said.

Now, instead of wanting to punch Astarion for having no plans, Iorveth just kind of wants to punch his mouth with his own mouth. Softly. He also wants to punch himself, and he also wants to punch Lae'zel for not giving Astarion a single godsdamned day just to exist and do nothing but be utterly spoiled by the party's resident human-killing terrorist.

Iorveth's lost his mind. But he pulls his new shirt on as if he's not having an existential meltdown, and tips his head in a show of casual contemplation. Composed as anything. ]

You are infuriatingly singular. [ Agreeing, with similar affection. ] The only thing you and that woman have in common is how much the both of you talk.

[ A dry half-drawl, teasing. Iorveth glances to the side, and hums when he finds his hairbrush sitting on top of his bow-maintenance tools. ]

I'd thought we could have a code, of sorts. A set response to a set question or statement. One that only we would know.

[ Astarion would have taken the tease as an insult tendays ago. Maybe it really would have been. It's strange, how Iorveth can say the same things but seem so different. His words don't cut so sharply anymore, more a pleasant scratch with a dull fingernail than the knife's edge they'd been previously. He doesn't even mind hearing Iorveth's assessment of how frequently he talks. In fact, he thinks smugly to himself that Iorveth seemed to like the way he was talking when they were in bed; a private smirk flashes across his face at the thought. ]

Aren't you clever?

[ It isn't sarcasm; his tone is warm, praising. He kicks his feet absently, cocking his head in thought. ]

Mmm. Perhaps something like 'Who's the most annoying person in the group?' 'Gale, of course.' [ Said loudly enough so that Gale can hear. ] —No, that's too obvious.

Anyone could come to that conclusion.

[ "Come on, let's give Gale a break", said no one in the room. Instead, Iorveth accepts the comment with all the matter-of-factness that says that yes, he does agree that Gale is the most annoying person in the group, and there's not really any room for debate there.

(The reality is that Iorveth is probably the worst person in the group. He's semi-aware of this.)

Plucking his hairbrush from his supply pile, he nudges Astarion and maneuvers him into a position that makes it easier for Iorveth to brush his hair. Cashing in on his victory at the brothel, which is a nice bit of inspiration for the topic at hand. ]

"What would you ask for after winning a round of cards?", might be casual enough.

[ No one would ever guess that Iorveth wanted to play with Astarion's curls as a reward. ]

[ Iorveth gets a handjob, Astarion gets a hair-brushing. A fair trade, all things considered. He needs a good hair-brushing regardless; he hadn't thought of it in the moment, but he finds himself suddenly horrified at the prospect of Gale's simulacrum transmitting the image of Astarion with bedhead to its maker. From his trance to all of that rolling around, he looks horrifyingly untamed.

Eager to have his hair look respectable, he leans his head toward Iorveth, offering him easier access. He can't recall the last time someone brushed his hair for him. Not after Cazador turned him, and probably not often before that, too. He must have been a child the last time someone did such a small but significant thing for him. ]

Or I could just ask you how torrid our sex life is.

[ The answer is like, soooo torrid, of course. ]

[ Astarion's hair is novel. Nearly all Aen Seidhe have dark, straight locks that extend straight down unless braided or coaxed; their closest tribal relative, the Aen Elle, are high elves with lighter but similarly-straight hair. Obviously, Iorveth has been in the company of non-Seidhe and seen men and women of different shapes and persuasions, but he's never been compelled to do anything but idly take note.

Now, sitting behind Astarion and mapping the artful way his hair jumps and curls with each slow drag of soft bristles, he feels oddly at peace. The sentiment persists, warm and alien despite the direction that the topic of conversation veers towards. ]

Laughably un-torrid, all things considered.

[ A snort, as he fluffs more life into pillow-matted waves. Iorveth is a freak. ]

Your claims of being a hedonist become more and more unconvincing with each passing day.

[ Honestly, Iorveth just sees a big, fussy cat half the time. A low of meowing and mass destruction and biting, but also a lot of sweet nudging and curling up against something warm. ]

[ Astarion keeps his face forward, concealing the small frown he makes at Iorveth's comments. Perhaps it's true that he isn't quite the hedonist he purports himself to be, but it's also true that he doesn't want to be boring. He certainly doesn't feel like Iorveth is only interested in him for sex, but there's a small little voice in the back of his head that insists that his sparkling personality alone won't be enough to keep Iorveth—or anyone—satisfied with him. If their relationship is torrid enough, maybe he'll be enticed to stay. ]

I was only afraid to scare you off. Honestly, darling, I thought you might be rather vanilla.

[ Says the man getting his hair brushed. In truth, depravity became commonplace a long time ago. Even at his best moments, it still felt like more of a job than a pleasure. What's exciting is getting touched gently by someone who actually likes him, having nice things said to him. Gods, maybe he is boring.

He turns over his shoulder to face Iorveth, grinning his most roguish grin. ]

If it's hedonism you want, I can certainly oblige. I live to please— or, well. [ Whatever the undead version of that is. ]

[ Adding some finishing touches to stubborn curls in the back, Iorveth tries not to let the phrasing of that last sentiment sour his peaceful mood. Astarion lives to please. As much as he knows that it's probably not that deep, Iorveth hates the implication behind it, hates the idea that Astarion will mold himself to whatever is expected of him from any given person in order to feel safe.

It's something Iorveth can't relate to. All his life, he's been rebelling. Fighting for the right to be. The unimaginable degradation of being forced to submit twists his gut; he never wants Astarion to have to debase himself like that ever again, and especially not in front of him.

Two tendays ago, he would have pulled away and made space between them. "How dare you imply that I need you to please me". Now, he sets the hairbrush aside and loops his arms around Astarion's middle, chiding only with a squeeze and a sigh. ]

Idiot. I want you only as you are. [ A soft snort, and he adds: ] But I will grouse if you deny me your mouth for too long.

[ So he says. If Astarion tells him not to kiss again for a week, Iorveth is sure he could do it― it's the rest of the group that'll have to suffer his terrible mood. ]

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