essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Gods, Astarion is impossible. He's the one that asked. Iorveth thinks to say so, that he shouldn't have inquired into past lovers if he's just fishing for compliments about himself (which is what Iorveth now suspects this is all about), but it wouldn't satisfy him to ruffle feathers for the sake of making a point, either.

Still, he reaches up and pinches Astarion's nose between his thumb and forefinger. Chiding. ]

What sort of man, you ask. The answer: a silver-haired vampire with a penchant for testing my patience.

[ If Astarion really wants to know what kind of person gets Iorveth going. ]

I'd have no desire to bed Isengrim if he returned tomorrow, naked on a flaxen-haired horse. [ Letting go of Astarion's face, Iorveth flicks the tip of the nose he'd been pinching. ] Just as I'd have no desire to bed an elvish queen presiding over a kingdom of sterile elvish elders, or a golden-scaled dragon disguised as a beautiful human woman. None of these options are you.

[ However, all of these are actual "people" in his periphery, which is the wild part of this diatribe. ]

I admire strength and courage. I admire the quality of a man's character. All of these are things that Isengrim possessed, and all of them are things you possess. [ A wave of his hand, as physical punctuation. ] I also enjoy tangling my fingers in soft hair, if you want pettier details.

Edited 2024-11-14 02:22 (UTC)

[ At first, Astarion's scowl only grows. It sounds a lot like Iorveth is just listing all of his other options! He has the urge to say something about how he has had plenty of lovers, too, but chooses not to when he thinks about how all of his ex-lovers have been turned into vampire spawn and probably hate him. He can't really blame them.

His face softens, though, bit by bit, as he soaks in the praise. ]

I suppose I have been called a character.

[ Light, airy. In truth, he isn't so sure he has strength or courage, and no one has ever complimented the quality of his character. If Iorveth is determined to view him through rose-tinted glasses, though, Astarion doesn't fancy the idea of correcting him.

A snort, then: ] I do think you might be the first to like me for my personality.

[ A pause, as he considers whether or not to point out that Astarion wasn't permitted to have a personality under Cazador's oppressive rule. He ultimately decides that he doesn't even want to invoke that presence in their shared bed, so he sets the thought aside; instead, he presses his lips idly to Astarion's temple, humming. ]

I'm hardly the first. The others liked you far before I did.

[ An incontrovertible truth. Even Wyll the monster-hunter probably approved of Astarion far before Iorveth did, and Iorveth won't deny that.

That said: ] But I'm the first to love you for your personality, I suppose.

[ The others can fight him in the proverbial pit about this one. He won't budge an inch. ]

Did you want to be seen? Before all of this.

[ Gods, what a question. He was certainly looked at a lot, but never seen. Cazador would have liked for him to believe that he saw right through Astarion with his piercing gaze, but even he didn't really see him. The all-powerful god of his world, and he still only saw what he wanted to see.

He lets his gaze drift up to the ceiling. ]

That would have been a greater pipe dream than freedom.

[ Astarion's nose wrinkles, lip curling in disdain, because the truth is that a part of him did want to be seen. Pathetic, really. Even once he'd entirely given up hope, there was a little part of him that still longed to be recognized as something other than a one-night fling or a lowly slave.

He shifts, a little uncomfortable. Thinking of his past self makes him feel more naked than nearly everything they just did. ]

[ An obviously disquieting question. Iorveth can feel Astarion's tension from where they're pressed together, and attempts to ease it with a gentle brush of his knuckles against Astarion's cheek. ]

And?

[ One last question for the road; he'll back off after he asks this one. ]

Do you feel more seen now?

[ It's fine if the answer is no, Iorveth thinks. Maybe Astarion doesn't know himself enough yet to feel truly seen, and that's fine. It's mostly just to know, which is what Iorveth wants: to make an effort to see, even if it isn't immediately successful. ]

[ Another hell of a question. He turns his gaze back to Iorveth, unable to keep up the look of disgust when it's someone so wonderful he's looking at. There it is, the true source of his jealousy, born out of attachment. At the core of it, it isn't possessiveness driving it but fear. He's terrified that Iorveth will decide to discard him for something better. No, that isn't it exactly — he's terrified that Iorveth will decide to discard him for something better, and that it will hurt. ]

I think you've seen through me since the very beginning. [ Probably why Iorveth couldn't stand him. He laughs dryly. ] I found it impossibly vexing, to be honest.

[ 'I found you impossibly vexing' is the implication. But Iorveth still sees him and loves him despite everything, and it's difficult to find that vexing. Astarion echoes Iorveth's gesture, running a hand against his cheek. ]

Although some might suspect your vision has become compromised as of late. You do seem to see the best in me.

[ A snort, even as he turns towards the hand at his face, letting it skim close to all of his mangled, poorly-healed scars. Astarion is the only one to have touched them in ages, and likely the only one who ever will from here on out. ]

Distance would likely make me more objective.

[ Self-aware, if nothing else. Like this, post-sex and post-bloodletting, skin on skin with limbs loosely tangled, it's difficult to see Astarion as less than perfect. Before they got involved, it was likely only Iorveth's preternatural paranoia and superhuman obstinacy that kept him from believing anything about Astarion's rakish persona; now, it's just part of Astarion's charm, instead of being evidence of duplicitousness.

He sweeps his touch through Astarion's bangs, pushing them haphazardly away from his face. ]

If it makes me look foolish, I'll readjust.

[ Even with Iorveth's gentle, warm fingers carding through his hair, Astarion pouts. One with more distance—as Iorveth had so rudely suggested he might benefit from—would likely describe it as petulant, childish, sulky. Astarion likes to think it's brooding and handsome. ]

—I didn't say that.

[ It does make him look foolish, probably. Anyone with half a brain would look at Iorveth's fondness for him and think it the result of poor judgment and taste. He's a profligate and a liar and more selfish than all of their other companions combined.

And yet: ]

Foolishness looks enchanting on you.

[ Again: Astarion is impossible. He critiques Iorveth's lack of objectivity while asserting that he enjoys Iorveth looking a fool, sulks and pouts when Iorveth hints at acting more like an adult to spare Astarion the embarrassment of having a companion that hovers like some sort of besotted idiot. Which is it, Iorveth half-wants to say, but the louder half (the besotted idiot half) tells him to just let Astarion have this. At least, for now. ]

Astarion. [ A low, deliberate sigh. ] The point is―

[ Another soft breath, as he shakes his head and leans in. ]

―and listen when I say this. [ He emphasizes that word, listen. Like he fully expects some sort of pushback, a "but", an "actually". ]

The point is, [ each syllable enunciated clearly, ] I love you.

[ A declaration he's never made to anyone before Astarion, and one he won't make to anyone else. Not to mention that he doesn't deserve the sanctity of those three words, and they probably should earn him a healthy amount of derision: what gives him the right? Who does he think he is? What is he?

But it's the truth, and Iorveth doesn't lie. He combs through Astarion's hair again, and pinches the tip of his shapely ear. ]

Edited 2024-11-14 14:32 (UTC)

[ He'd like to keep pouting and sulking, offended by the way Iorveth tells him to listen like an unruly child, but he can't. Astarion is only a man, one who still turns to jelly in the face of genuine affection. He can't resist the smile that spreads across his face at the words, no matter how hard he tries. I love you. He'll never get used to it, nor will he ever grow tired of Iorveth saying it. ]

I do like hearing you say that.

[ An understatement. They're words he never thought he'd hear, not genuinely. Even setting aside the way Cazador broke down his self-esteem and convinced him he was an entirely unlovable wretch, when would he ever have had the opportunity to let someone get to know him? ]

I love you more, of course, [ he says, pinching Iorveth's ear in return. ]

I guess I've never— [ Loved someone before? Obviously. Liked them? Probably. ] Well, I've never really given a damn about anyone before. I hardly know what to do with you.

[ Astarion says that he loves Iorveth more, but Iorveth has his doubts. He knows himself, and knows the vehemence with which he holds certain things dear: he has been accused of loving too much, and too insistently. He knows that, eventually, someone will say something to the extent of "I think you care about Astarion a little too much", and Iorveth will reply with a tilt of his head and a raise of his brow, his shoulders squared and his expression annoyed. "Yes, and?"

But he won't tell Astarion that, because that's utterly deranged. Instead, he smiles at the pinch to his sensitive ear, a quick little curl of his lips that lingers longer than necessary. ]

I require little. [ Is his reply to Astarion not knowing what to do with him, instead of its meaner cousin, "do I look like someone who needs a lot???" (A more uncharitable answer for people who aren't Astarion.) Being Astarion's first for anything is a bit of a thrill, and also a bit of a tragedy; life really did give him nothing, for decades. A horrifying thought. ] I've no desire for anything but you, as you are.

[ He loops an arm around Astarion's shoulder, kisses the crown of his head. Being patient despite a part of him thinking that none of this needs saying, because he's been showing it through his actions; it's fine, though. Spoiling Astarion feels far better than it has any right to feel. ]

And if you require something from me, you need only speak plainly. I said so before: you wear greed prettily, and I've found, to my horror, that I'm not immune.

[ Gods, Iorveth is sweet. How did he ever feel so irritated by him before? (Probably because that was before Astarion got special treatment, but— details.) Although he allegedly 'requires little', he makes Astarion want to—horror of horrors—do nice things for him. He's gone terribly, awfully, irrevocably soft. ]

You've already given me everything I could require.

[ Not everything, admittedly. He does still long for them to stay in the city—although perhaps not this city—rather than slum it in the woods like squirrels, but that's a sacrifice he's willing to make. Again, he's soft. ]

—But, [ he adds, leaning into Iorveth's warmth, ] if you're offering, I do have something that I'd like from you.

[ Undoubtedly not a surprise. Iorveth may require little, but the same can't be said for him. Like the fluffy white cat Iorveth constantly compares him to, his upkeep is rather high maintenance. ]

I want to bathe. [ Sweat and mussed hair flatter Iorveth, but Astarion is finicky, and he doesn't care for the feeling. Besides, he looks much better once he's freshened up. ] And then I'd like to chop off this hair.

[ He lifts a strand of Iorveth's bangs between his thumb and index finger. ]

I've had quite enough of it dangling in front of your handsome face.

[ If something or someone is valuable to him, there's no shame in treating it with care. Iorveth has kept his heirloom bow and maintained it with aching dedication for the past few decades, and no one gives him shit about that－ why should it be any different for Astarion, Iorveth's most important person?

The difference between a bow and a vampire, however, is how a vampire can insist on seeing his face. The bath is fine－ Astarion looks very lovely when he's tousled and messy, but he probably wants to feel cleaner－ but Iorveth can't help the kneejerk pushback against "handsome", especially when he's presently not wearing anything to obstruct the worst of his facial scarring.

He hesitates for a beat, the consideration apparent on his face, but ultimately acquiesces without discomfort clouding his expression. ]

Mm. I think Shadowheart had a pair of scissors.

[ The makeover queen. Iorveth tries to sit up from where he's been lounging lazily with Astarion by his side, and finds that, yes, it still feels like he has something inside him; it makes his balance a little shaky, but he manages. ]

You bathe first, while I find the necessary tools. I'll ruin the water.

[ And, well. Like a freak, he reaches to trace a thin trail of spend left on his inner thighs from when Astarion'd come inside of him; he licks his finger, and hums. ]

[ And, like a freak, Astarion likes it. He likes all of the parts of Iorveth that someone else might say are 'too much'. Hells, he likes that Iorveth is deranged. There is no one else like Iorveth in the world, and that's just fine with him. He's always wanted something one-of-a-kind; he'd imagined it would be some sort of couture jewelry or a fancy dagger rather than a person, admittedly.

As he sits up beside Iorveth, he reaches out to tweak the ring hanging from the chain around his neck. ]

Fine, if you don't want to wash my soft, luxurious hair.

[ Iorveth did say that he enjoys tangling his fingers in soft hair, after all, and that's a service Astarion can surely provide. He's only teasing, though; things like washing another person's hair must be common for someone like Iorveth who comes from such a collectivist community, but Astarion has almost always bathed alone. Sometimes, the lukewarm water in the tiny washtub in the corner of the dormitories was his only reprieve from the unwanted company of his fellow spawn. ]

Mm, but I suppose that just means I'll have to be the one to wash your soft, luxurious hair. All right, I'll let you go look through Shadowheart's things.

[ Reach for the stars, Astarion. He can still have something couture, he shouldn't settle for a deranged elf!!!!!!

Said deranged elf is slowly getting up onto his feet, perfect wood elf poise broken by a squint-and-you-can-see-it bow-leggedness. There's a slight feeling of missing being full, but he keeps it to himself.

A bit sullen: ] I could still wash your hair from outside the tub.

[ Annoyed at the prospect of being deprived, but more annoyed by the fact that he's annoyed. What the fuck is happening to him, truly.

He tells himself to get a grip, and manages. Without Gale, Astarion will have to prestidigitation the water into something appropriately warm－ Iorveth leaves that to him, while he commits the cardinal sin of rifling through Shadowheart's things. She's going to kill him. He does all of this naked, too, which would spell disaster if anyone decided to come back early; thankfully, it seems like the universe takes the hint this time around, and lets them go about their indulgent business without interruption.

Scissors acquired, Iorveth gravitates over to the washing area of their communal room and pulls a stool over to perch on. In addition to the scissors, he also has a spare rag and a needle and thread, which he uses to practice his embroidery until Astarion makes it known that he wants attention. As ever, Iorveth is terminally unable to keep himself idle for too long. ]

[ Astarion washes up while Iorveth, the perfect cat person, allows him some time to himself. It's strange touching his body after what they've just done, and stranger still that he finds he doesn't despise his body for it. In the past, he'd dealt with the aftermath of sex and sacrifice in one of two ways: complete and total numbness or sitting in the cold bath and scrubbing his skin raw in abject disgust. He doesn't feel numb now, but he also doesn't feel like rubbing his flesh into redness with a washcloth. This is the body that has betrayed him over and over again, yes, but it's also the body that Iorveth loves, so perhaps he ought to try treating it kindly.

He takes advantage of Iorveth's quiet leisure to do just that, taking his time in the bath for the first time in a long time. Instead of rushing through his bathing routine, he lets himself soak, feeling the warm water relax the eternally tense muscles of his back. Finally, after waiting long enough for his fingers to start getting soft and pruny, he turns to look at Iorveth, crossing his arms over the side of the tub and resting his chin in the nest they create. ]

Don't you look like the perfect little housewife?

[ Sitting by his side, embroidering. It's a gentle tease, a fond one. He knows Iorveth would rankle at the thought of being anyone's kept man, which is why the image is so adorable in the first place. Iorveth: warrior, elf, embroiderer. ]

[ It's pleasant, working to the soft sound of occasionally-displaced water. Astarion's presence becomes something ambient and, again, safe, which soothes the occasional stab of impatience whenever Iorveth winds a stitch out of place.

He looks up from his work when spoken to, shifting his focus from progressively-more circular suns to Astarion's relaxed slouch against the tub. ]

An insult to housewives everywhere.

[ A joke for a joke. No scathing comment, no sharp biteback. He stretches his neck from side to side, working out the tension he'd accrued from bowing over the cloth on his lap. ]

It's this, or I keep ruining all of your good shirts.

[ Astarion grins. As vain as he is, he would never allow his pretty shirts to serve as a practice canvas, but there is something about the image of walking around with Iorveth's wonky stitches on his collar that makes him smile. Iorveth is so unrelentingly competent that it's a pleasure to see him struggle at something; it's even more pleasurable to watch him improve at it, endeared by the dedication he has to something so silly and inconsequential for Astarion's sake. This self-proclaimed warrior, who's killed hundreds of men, sitting naked on a stool and painstakingly stitching little suns. ]

And then I'd have to walk around shirtless, and I'd cause a riot. Thoughtful of you.

[ Ha. He'd never walk around shirtless, if only because flashing the infernal contract carved onto his back is an awful idea.

He crooks a finger, beckoning. ]

Aren't you going to tend to me after my long day, housewife?

[ As if Astarion isn't the one who'd be the trophy wife who lies around all day doing nothing. ]

[ Astarion would have to swat men and women away from him like gnats if he walked around shirtless for even half an hour; a funny thought, even if Iorveth doesn't relish the thought of people mindlessly drooling over the least interesting aspect of someone he cares for.

He sets his embroidery set aside, and replaces it with a small glass bottle of one of the various hair-care products accrued by the party over the past few tendays. ]

Don't push your luck, [ is what he says about the repeated use of the word "housewife", though his expression and tone, both warm, don't match the content of his statement. It's especially mismatched by the way he drags his stool closer to the edge of the tub, and the affectionate touch to Astarion's face, palm to cheek. ]

I've been offended by far less in the past, [ he drawls, a facsimile of the ire he would've shown before. In truth, past Iorveth would've gotten up and left the moment the first "housewife" fell from Astarion's lips.

Present Iorveth, however, decides to play along. Sly, airy, as he appends two syllables to the end of his prior statement as punctuation: ] "Husband".

[ He hopes it gives Astarion heartburn. He dips his hand in the water, and runs damp fingers through mussed silver hair. ]

[ It does give him heartburn. Honestly, it's rather bizarre to consider that, if not for his vampirification, he probably would be a husband by now. A high status man with an equally high status spouse. Maybe he'd even have some little silver-haired brats running around.

Ugh. How awful. He hates the pitter-patter of little child feet. ]

I thought it was 'milord'.

[ In that ridiculous sex fantasy of his, wherein he's a darkly sexy vampire lord with Iorveth as his eternal consort. Something that will remain only fantasy forever; even if he did become a true vampire, there's no way in the hells that Iorveth would agree to be his consort. It's even less likely that he'd allow Astarion to turn him. Not that he wants Iorveth to experience vampirism, exactly, but it does sound nice to have him around forever.

He leans his head against Iorveth's wet fingers, seeking affection. ]

I don't mind playing house, but you'll have to buy me something shiny first.

[ No roleplay until you put an expensive ring on it!! ]

[ Absurd. Iorveth has never fancied a future for himself in which he settles down with someone and lives in a house with absolutely no complications to plague him for the rest of his days; honestly, look at him. Headed straight for the gallows or a ditch in the middle of a forest, really.

Which makes Astarion a complicated curveball to handle. Iorveth wants more for Astarion than a life where he goes down kicking and screaming, so he'll have to factor that in if he's going to bring his sweet, high-maintenance cat up north.

He scoops more water in one palm, and wets Astarion's hair properly for a careful wash. Keeping his hands busy while he thinks. ]

I may be good at many things, but not at playing house. [ A deft sidestep, followed by a distraction: ] Something shiny, though, I can arrange.

[ Uncapping the bottle of product, warming its contents before massaging it into Astarion's hair. He'd forgotten to check the fragrance, but it smells nice enough: something warm and amber-sweet. ]

[ No, he doesn't imagine Iorveth would be very good at playing house, even for pretend. He's a wild, undomesticated animal that belongs in the forest, hunting and scavenging. The polar opposite of soft, indoor cat Astarion, although he has to question his own ability to play house, too. He lost whatever remnants of normalcy existed in him a long time ago, and he might lose even more soon. It won't matter how much he longs for a glamorous life in a castle if he's relegated to skulking in the shadows again.

A sigh escapes him at that thought, but he doesn't linger on it. Perhaps he doesn't even have to worry about such things, and the tadpole will continue to grace him with its powers even after the Netherbrain is gone. That's the state of denial he'd prefer to live in, anyway.

After a moment: ] Rubies would flatter me, I think.

[ Spoiled. ]

But perhaps blood red is a little too on the nose. I'd hate to be a cliche.

[ Iorveth wonders if Astarion wouldn't get bored of being confined in one place again, but maybe stability would be nice after two hundred years of being trapped with an unpredictable sadist and his inhumane whims. That's a contemplation for post-tadpole Iorveth, though, so he lets himself think about what he might gift Astarion now that he has coin enough to spare. Turns out that killing a king and stealing his trinkets can be very lucrative. He recommends it.

As he works the product in Astarion's hair to a nice lather: ] They'd suit. [ Regarding the rubies, because they would. Most anything would, really. ] ―Maybe something on your ear. A gold cuff.

[ Nothing that requires needles. Iorveth pinches the cartilage of one ear, imagining it. ]

We could make Enver Gortash tell us who his craftsman is before we kill him.

[ Iorveth hates that rat bastard, but whoever he commissioned to make him his gauntlet could probably make something pretty for Astarion. Under duress, and for a very generous discount. ]

You only like me for my pointy ears.

[ A statement that would have been very much genuine not long ago. He'd been convinced that the only reason Iorveth included him in his plan of vengeance against Henselt because he was an elf. He's still not sure Iorveth would have given him a second thought if he were a tiefling or a dwarf or, gods forbid, a human, but he likes to think he would have been so utterly entrancing that Iorveth would have had no choice but to fall for him, even with round ears.

All of that is to say that it's humorous now, a dry, amused comment accompanied by a smile. He does like the idea of adorning his ears, pointy or not.

Then-- ]

I dislike Lord Gortash as much as anyone with eyes [ --because what is that midlife crisis hair-- ] but I'm not certain we shouldn't utilize his assistance against that awful changeling. Killing a man with his own Steel Watcher bodyguards seems, ah... challenging.

[ And he hates challenging. ]

[ Iorveth does like Astarion's pointy ears. They're familiar, they're pretty, and they're traits of similarity and safety. He doesn't like the word only being thrown into the mix, but he has to admit that Astarion being an elf was a big part of things.

A slightly-indignant but gentle tug to an earlobe later, Iorveth goes back to work massaging Astarion's scalp, letting the product sit in his hair for a luxurious few moments before he moves to rinse it all out.

As he sifts his fingers through wet curls: ] I trust Gortash's potential assistance as much as I trust the Illithid Emperor.

[ Which is to say that he doesn't trust them at all. His expression wrinkles into a slight frown. ]

I suspect his contribution to our cause would be to stand idly by and do nothing.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject