essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Astarion wants very badly to be angry at Iorveth for having the hypothetical gall to die in four hundred years. How dare he make Astarion love him, when he knew from the start that it was always going to be temporary! He can't, though, because he really does love Iorveth. So much that he can't even be upset with him for something that he supposes technically isn't his fault.

He does still want to be upset, though. It takes every ounce of maturity and self-control that he has (which is not much) not to throw a temper tantrum about Iorveth's mortality, but he manages it, only grinding his teeth unpleasantly. ]

...A problem we have four hundred years to solve, I'm sure.

[ Said with the utmost of scowls. He hates this. ]

Give or take. If you aren't killed first.

[ Iorveth will take the L on this one― he is the one who crossed the line from "little tryst" to "serious attachment" first, and he is the one who will inevitably die first.

His hand stops ghosting over Astarion's cheek and settles more firmly against the jut of his tightly-clenched jaw. A thumb glides against the shapely outline, trying to coax Astarion to relax. ]

I'll do my utmost not to be killed.

[ Honestly, the only thing he can offer at this point. Coppers instead of gold. ]

Beloved. [ Tilting Astarion's face, just a fraction of a sliver. ] I do want to be with you until the end.

[ Astarion should count himself lucky to have had anyone who loved him at all, much less for four centuries. Once, not so long ago, he thought love was something that only existed for other people. Of course, he's ambitious at his core. What he has is never enough, and he'll always want more. More affection, more time, more Iorveth.

He leans his head into Iorveth's hand. ]

And I you.

[ Until his end, which will either be when he's finally murdered for being the shit he is or the sun burns out. Whichever. ]

...I just wish that your undying love were a bit more undying. Is that so wrong?

[ An echo of the man who wanted to steal absolute power from out under Cazador's feet. Ambition is terribly attractive on Astarion, with an emphasis on terrible― but perhaps that's just the nature of the proverbial beast. Always hungry.

His monstrous cat. Iorveth strokes Astarion's jaw again, and presses his lips to a cool temple. ]

Some would call it blasphemous. [ Trying to approximate Halsin's accent: ] "Against the natural order of things".

[ As a wood elf, he can agree: he was born, which means he should die. Again, this is probably where Iorveth should say something like "damn babe you're so right about everything", but he doesn't. Horrible.

That said, he does append: ] But Jaheira achieved some state of extended life somehow. It should stand to reason that I could do the same, if you still find yourself dissatisfied after a few decades.

[ Another kiss, between Astarion's furrowed brows. ]

[ Astarion doesn't give a shit about the 'natural order', or anything else that Halsin might care about. He himself is a violation of the natural order, after all. Not entirely willingly, yes, but all the same. No part of Iorveth letting him feed on his lifeblood is natural, and he doesn't seem to have a problem with that.

He allows the affection, although it doesn't quite soothe the frown lines on his face. Very intentionally, he shifts, lifting a hand and stroking Iorveth's cheek with the back of it, eyes as big and wide and sad as he can make them. He knows Iorveth is vulnerable to such things. ]

I was rather hoping you'd look into it now.

[ As if Astarion has the patience for a few decades. He already knows he wants to be with Iorveth forever and ever now. ]

[ Oh. That Look, coupled with the Touch. Before all this, he would have cast it aside as manipulation, might even have been offended that anyone could think that he could fall for something so blatant and possibly insincere. Actually, he would say so now, if anyone who wasn't Astarion appealed to him with doe eyes and lowered lashes.

But. It's Astarion. And while the tactics are underhanded, they're employed right after "I don't want protection, I want you", which is―

―ugh. Ugh!!! It's such a low blow. How fucking dare Astarion make Iorveth love him so much, honestly. A beat passes, the struggle visible on Iorveth's stoic face, before he, for the millionth time tonight, folds like paper. ]

...If you wish it. [ "Iorveth Say No to Astarion Challenge: Failed". ] You can think about whether you really want to utilize whatever we find, later.

[ Like, the possibility of Astarion falling out of love with him in a century's time is not zero, so. It doesn't hurt to be careful. ]

[ Astarion used to have to manipulate using sexuality, and now he only has to manipulate using a sad face. It's growth! In an instant, the wet cow eyes disappear, replaced with a grin breaking out across his face. Something Iorveth will only be able to see for a moment, because then Astarion is rolling over on top of him, tangling them up in the sheets, and kissing every inch of his precious face.

Iorveth should be rewarded for giving into him. It's one of his best qualities, as far as Astarion's concerned. ]

My love, [ he says in Aen Seidhe, still in that same horrible accent. ] You perfect man.

[ Oh, Part 2. A very quick recovery on Astarion's part. Iorveth makes an inelegant sound of surprise, but instinct has him wrap his arms around Astarion's middle and tip his chin into the assault of kisses, which says far too much about his current state of mind (that he is not, in fact, immune to bribes of affection from his most important person).

He does have the inclination to say something along the lines of "hey, were you paying any attention to a word I said after "if you wish it"????"; Astarion is adorable, but he often doesn't think before he leaps. That said, he is adorable, so it nullifies a good chunk of the vexing shortsightedness.

A sigh, warm and low, and Iorveth nips Astarion's chin with exasperated affection. ]

My impatient cat. [ Giving the small of his back a little pat, the way one would, yes, do to a fluffy feline sitting on one's lap. ] You're getting too used to me saying "yes", I think.

[ He absolutely was not paying attention to any word Iorveth said after 'if you wish it'. Why bother? He already heard what he wanted to hear: a concession.

Astarion kisses the sharp angle of Iorveth's jaw, intimate but without any heat behind it save for the warmth of fondness and affection. He kisses Iorveth's high cheekbone next, then the corner of his eye. Touching for the sake of touching, kissing for the sake of kissing. Things he never thought he'd be able to enjoy, much less things he ever thought he'd feel the urge to do. ]

Are you going to start saying 'no' to me, darling?

[ Ha. He better not. Astarion has spent a lifetime hearing nothing but 'no'. Iorveth's 'yes'es are the sweetest sound he's ever heard. ]

I should, [ is a very self-aware response. For the record, he'd like anyone who's keeping track (which is no one) to note that he does acknowledge that saying yes to someone all the time is not actually helpful.

That said: ] If only you didn't make it so difficult.

[ And if only it didn't feel so good to spoil Astarion rotten. Sigh. Sometimes he thinks about the atrocities that Cazador committed against someone who wears happiness so beautifully; if only they could make little copies of that rat bastard to occasionally conjure and step on.

Iorveth meets Astarion's next kiss with his mouth, just because he knows he can get away with it. ]

I was expected to be a "good influence". [ A ridiculous notion. ]

[ Iorveth, perpetually aware of their vaguely unhealthy relationship dynamic. Astarion, absolutely not giving a shit.

His lips meet Iorveth's enthusiastically, kiss firm and emphatic like he thinks he might be able to press Iorveth into the mattress with his kisses if he tries hard enough. He does love pinning Iorveth down with his weight so that he can't go anywhere. Is it toxic to like physically trapping your boyfriend so that he can't leave you? It's not like Astarion is going to stop, so the answer really doesn't matter. ]

By who?

[ Another kiss to the tip of his nose. ]

Not that I don't love your influence, of course.

[ But, you know, Iorveth is shockingly permissive of his bad behaviors. ]

[ Predictably: ] Lae'zel.

[ Sweet summer child. Literally. For all of Lae'zel's hemming and hawwing and sharp-edged judgment, she was... what, two decades old? An infant. Wise beyond her years in some respects, but terribly naive in others. ]

Though, in hindsight, I think she may have been referring to my potential to influence your combat strategies, and not your behavior.

[ For example, if Iorveth really wanted Astarion to get off of him, he can think of five different ways he could do so, with each tactic increasing in brutality and pain. The sort of thing Lae'zel is into. Unfortunately, he is stupidly permissive of the pinning, and makes no move to shove the lukewarm body crushing him into the mattress. His lungs aren't thanking him, but he doesn't care. ]

[ Lae'zel may be wise beyond her years, but Astarion is the opposite. Terribly immature for someone in their second century of life. The comment makes him stop his assault of affection on Iorveth's face, and he scoffs, offended. ]

Excuse me—

[ This happens to be the exact way he sounds when he thinks a shopkeep or bartender isn't giving him good enough service. ]

What's wrong with my combat strategies?

[ The answer could probably be summed up in a question: what combat strategies? Strategy is for boring people. You don't need strategy when you have a sharp enough knife. ]

[ Astarion's combat strategy, Iorveth wisely doesn't say, closely mirrors a thoughtless lash-out by a cornered animal: bite first, think later. It's cute how he pouts, though, so Iorveth reaches up and takes Astarion's face between both hands, sandwiching his neat features in the cradle of callused palms. ]

You don't often think beyond the first stab.

[ A milder way to phrase his original thought. ] Which is why you get punched in the face more often than not.

[ Astarion is very good at getting up close and personal without the other party knowing. It's everything after that that requires a bit of work. ]

A good thing, that I usually work from distances. I can cover you.

[ Very rude of Iorveth. Astarion hasn't been punched in the face in so long! Unfortunately, he isn't able to become indignant about it, because he's too busy pressing his cheek into Iorveth's warm palm, charmed by the affection. Astarion has sharp claws, but at the end of the day, all he wants is to be petted gently by his favorite person. ]

Oh, are you going to protect me?

[ He turns his head, nuzzling into Iorveth's palm and kissing down his life line. Iorveth has created a monster, he thinks, one that's filled with embarrassingly warm and fuzzy feelings and can't stop himself from taking them out on every inch of Iorveth. ]

My hero.

Why would I not?

[ Protect Astarion, he means. If Astarion is a monstrous thing that soaks up attention like a sponge, Iorveth is a monstrous thing that supplies unhinged devotion in frankly unneeded quantities. Smiling at Astarion's willingness to settle in his hands, Iorveth trails his thumb just below one red eye― the one Iorveth is missing on his own face. ]

You, my most coveted and beloved. [ Said without a hint of embarrassment or self-consciousness. His truth will always be his truth, and he will always have unwarranted confidence about his beliefs. ] I'll protect you― not because I think you weak, but because it pleases me to see you safe.

[ A low hum, as he tickles behind Astarion's ear. ] You know, I nearly lost myself to rage when I thought those humans in Flotsam'd taken you from me.

Edited 2025-03-20 16:00 (UTC)

[ Astarion has never really liked the idea of being protected. It conjures up the image of a little bird in a gilded cage, something too weak to fend for itself. At the end of the day, its protector can choose whether to keep it safe or to crush it in his hand. It's just a nicer-sounding form of danger, still a sword hanging precariously above him.

But the way that Iorveth says it, he supposes it doesn't sound so bad. Only from Iorveth can he ever think that something good doesn't come with strings attached. ]

Then you know how I feel when I think of mortality snatching you away.

[ The same, but different. More selfish, probably. He can't help what he is. ]

—Ugly of me, I suppose.

[ His beauty is only skin-deep, after all. Everything underneath is rather hideous. ]

But you've given me a reason to live, rather than just survive. I admit, I struggle to think of the future without you beside me.

[ The sensible thing to say is that it only feels that way because it's all so new, and in a century's time, Astarion will probably have acclimated to being his own self and may, in fact, be very much capable of moving on and letting Iorveth go if and when the time comes. An argument that sounds true, but may not necessarily be right.

A careful consideration of what to say later, and Iorveth lands on a middle ground. He doesn't often dabble in these. ]

Time may grant you more perspective. [ Relinquishing his Astarion sandwich to comb through silver hair. He knows what this might sound like, though－ an out, which Iorveth has learned that Astarion does not like－ so he has a follow-up. ] ...But I, in turn, struggle to think of a future in which you're alone.

[ He hates it, actually. ]

So you'll have me for as long as you need me. And if you need me for longer than my prescripted years, we'll see what can be done. Challenges do intrigue me.

[ Good, that Iorveth didn't say the sensible thing — Astarion hates the sensible thing, always has. He likes it much better when Iorveth is unsensible and impractical. (Therefore, he ignores 'time may grant you more perspective'. Perspective, shmerspective. He already has enough perspective to know that he'll never love anybody else the way he does Iorveth.) ]

Of course they do. I intrigue you, after all.

[ And he's the biggest challenge there is.

Astarion, face relinquished, rolls off of Iorveth only so that he can pull the covers up over both of them. A moment later, he's pressed against Iorveth's side, head in the crook of his neck and arm wrapping around his torso. ]

How does one say 'I love you' in your dialect?

[ 'I like you' just doesn't seem strong enough. ]

[ "Hey babe did you forget everything I said before I generally agreed to what you want" is going to be a running theme, but Iorveth knew that already. It's his job, then, to be strategic about indulging Astarion's whims, which is going to be...

...fun? A challenge, like he just said. It's such a good thing (?) that he loves choosing the path of most resistance; nothing worth anything should ever be easy, and Astarion is worth the daunting choice of possibly becoming immortal (a thing that Iorveth would never, ever want outside the context of "my undead partner might be sad in the future if I die").

Very problematic. Nothing healthy is happening here. But Astarion curls up next to him and says what is possibly the cutest shit in the world, asking him how to say love confessions in Iorveth's language, and Iorveth is, once again, not impervious to sweet things in Astarion-shaped packages. Incredibly lost in the sauce, at this point. He props their heads up on a shared pillow, scoots closer, and slings his own arm around Astarion's shoulders. ]

I love you, [ he offers, which is largely the same as "I like you". If Astarion has been paying attention, he might note that the term for "love" sounds similar to the term of endearment Iorveth uses to refer to Astarion occasionally. "Beloved", in his language. ]

Conspiring to ruin me completely, are you. [ Why else would Astarion ask to learn this phrase? Iorveth hum-laughs, and nests his face into Astarion's hair. ]

[ Astarion smiles, toothy (fangy) and sincere and soft in all of the ways he tries so hard not to be. ]

I love you, [ he repeats, trying very hard to get each syllable right. (Gods forbid he accidentally tells Iorveth that he loves potatoes or something equally ridiculous.) The accent is still off, but as long as Iorveth gets the gist, he doesn't care. He gets the sense that Aen Seidhe is much more special to Iorveth than Common, so special things should be said to him in it. ]

Mmm. You'll have to teach me to say something truly dirty later.

[ Talking dirty to Iorveth in Aen Seidhe isn't his main goal, but. It's not not important. ]

[ The content of the words are as important as the person delivering them, so it stands to reason that Iorveth likes how the phrase sounds when Astarion says it: slightly off-key, like a lute that needs tuning. More than a little smitten, he presses Astarion into his still-bruised neck (the puncture wounds have stopped bleeding, but a little nibble would start the flow up again) and nips at the tip of his ear. ]

I'll fill my head with dirty thoughts of you for inspiration, then.

[ A joke. (Unless...?) Iorveth cocoons them both in soft blankets (wrinkled from all the moving and grinding they did earlier), and closes his eye. ]

...Gale will come asking after you in a few hours. Best to get some rest before he sweeps you off your feet.

[ Iorveth can actually make himself useful and look into Athkatla, a den of greed and excess and coin. It seems to be the sort of place where cambions like Mizora would sell elixirs of life for the right price; another House of Hope-style heist might be in their future. That coupled with needing to procure the day-walking cloak promises a lot of unhinged planning on Iorveth's part, but it's what he does best. Logistics, contingencies, and courage. ]

[ Like an affectionate kitten, Astarion nuzzles closer into Iorveth's overwhelming warmth. When he wakes next, his whole body will be warmed by Iorveth's touch; he only wishes he could carry that warmth with him all night, all throughout the opera. He closes his eyes and enters a dreamless trance, more and more peaceful with each passing day spent in Iorveth's company. He used to hate trancing nearly as much as being awake, as it meant reliving memories better left forgotten. Now, he revisits memories of Iorveth: the first time they'd met, the first time they'd shared a bed, the first time Astarion had been so fed up with Iorveth's obliviousness to his affections that he'd kissed him in frustration.

He could live in these moments forever, but Gale's arrival comes eventually, tiptoeing into the bedroom. "Astarion, the opera will begin in an hour," he says, an unnecessary mage hand knocking on the door. "Iorveth, I thought you might like to join me for din—"

A pause, as Gale takes in the wrinkled sheets, the clothing strewn across the floor. "Oh," he says lamely, and then, "Oh!" ]

Ugh, don't be like that. Surely you didn't actually think Iorveth was celebrating Fey Day.

[ "I— well, I didn't want to be insensitive toward the Aen Seidhe culture by doubting its customs—"

Astarion rolls his eyes, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. ]

I'll need to bathe before our outing.

[ The sight of Astarion's bare legs peeking out from the covers seems to scandalize Gale, and he turns away in an attempt at politeness, turning red. "As much as I love a good bath, do try to be expeditious. Our tickets are for eight, sharp." ]

[ From under the covers: a groan, very undignified, very annoyed. Turns out that sex plus bloodlessness is a bad combination to wake up to, and the pounding in Iorveth's skull makes him scowl as much as the feeling of Astarion shifting away from him does. Dragging himself semi-upright, bedhead and lack of eyepatch making him look like some disheveled hellbeast, he rasps: ]

He was supposed to peel me from you.

[ At Astarion, regarding Gale. Sullen. Almost immature, the way he drapes his naked arms around Astarion's middle and starts mouthing at his bare shoulders－ his turn for the animal comparisons now, like a big dog sitting stubbornly on his favorite person.

Gale, looking over his shoulder to find that the situation has gone from "embarrassing" to "very embarrassing", turns a shade of interesting beet-purple and clears his throat.

"Eight, sharp", Gale emphasizes, and Iorveth sighs. ]

So says mother. [ "I am not your mother!" ]

[ As much as he slandered poor Scratch (who deserved none of it!), Astarion very much likes having a big Iorveth-shaped dog slobbering on him. He feels very loved, which he hadn't even known was a feeling one could feel before Iorveth, but after discovering it he's found he's obsessed with it. He wishes he could stay here and bask in Iorveth's affection forever, but he has to make himself pretty for the opera. It would be so embarrassing not to look his best amidst Waterdhavian high society! ]

It wouldn't be terrible to be fashionably late.

[ Gale squawks at that, because as a polite little wizard, he's surely never been fashionably late for anything in his life. Astarion rolls his eyes. ]

—Fine. Eight! Now, I'd scram unless you'd like to dream about my lovely naked form tonight.

[ And scram Gale does, calling, "Dinner is still on the table, Iorveth!" as he scampers down the stairs.

Astarion wriggles out of Iorveth's grasp, standing to make his way toward the bath — but not before turning to cradle Iorveth's chin in his hand. A disheveled hellbeast, Iorveth thinks. ]

Beautiful, [ he thinks. ]

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