essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ Gale should be so lucky. Iorveth, still riding the last waves of his previous night's possessiveness, lightly scowls at the thought of someone seeing more of Astarion's skin than strictly necessary, and the expression lingers once Astarion wriggles away and leaves Iorveth to contend with being generally Without.

Pouting, maybe, even when Astarion calls him beautiful. As immature as Iorveth will allow himself to be, even if it's short-lived; he gets over it a few beats later, and kisses the palm cradling him before drawing back. ]

Go, before I drag you back into bed.

[ For all of Iorveth's hemming and hawwing, he does want Astarion to go out and enjoy himself, to find things that make him happy and interest him; a gentle nudge, and Iorveth waits until he's alone in the bedroom to flop backwards and consider what to do with the rest of his own night.

Meanwhile, Gale, to his ever-continuing credit, has laid out a wide selection of clothes for Astarion to try on after he finishes bathing: everything from brocade doublets to flowing floor-length robes, all of them in varying shades of deep purple, navy, or deeper greens. The style and cut are all sensible, and any top with a neckline that scoops a little on the lower side comes paired with a nice undershirt to preserve modesty (a force of habit, maybe, from when he had the mark of the netherese orb on his chest).

"I heard that our Open Lord may be in attendance today," sounds half-excited, half-wistful. "Laeral Silverhand. A fellow―" Ah. Gale rephrases: "A Chosen of Mystra. Quite well known for being able to determine the nature of magical artefacts just by touch― and, in most cases, able to replicate and improve upon said artefacts. Someone that might be worth consulting when we find your cloak, hm?"

Wink wink, nudge nudge. A half-plea is tucked in there somewhere: "be on your best behavior". ]

[ Astarion is, as usual, only half-listening, focused on holding various outfit choices in front of his half-dressed body and looking to Iorveth for approval (or critique) in lieu of being able to look in a mirror. Some things are more important than Open Lords and magical artefacts. Like fashion. ]

Certainly.

[ Said with the blandness of someone who isn't listening and doesn't care. He holds a navy doublet in one hand and a ruffled green shirt in the other, holding them up so Iorveth can see how well they flatter his pallid complexion.

"—Were you even listening?" Gale says, exasperated. ]

It's useful information, [ Iorveth says as he draws closer to Astarion, only half-chiding as he smooths the dark-blue top over his partner's bare chest. Poor Gale makes a sound of anguish as even Iorveth glosses over the subject of Waterdeep's most important individual with a breezy: ] ―The blue suits you.

[ Don't ruin his love's fun night out with work, Gale!!! How rude of him, truly. For tonight, at least, Iorveth is committed to Astarion enjoying himself while he takes care of the busywork, so he shoots (poor) Gale (who doesn't deserve this) a warning look after giving Astarion a quick peck to the corner of his mouth. ]

I'm trusting you to entertain my beloved, not bore him.

[ The meanest elf in Toril strikes again... That said, before Gale can look at him with outraged (sad) kicked puppy eyes, he appends: ] Forget your obligations and have a good time.

[ "Hey, dumb wizard, turn your brain off for a night, why don't you." A hypocritical thing for Iorveth, of all people, to say, but it's well-meant. ]

[ The blue it is — he carelessly tosses the green shirt on the bed, and Gale, offended, conjures a mage hand to fold it as Astarion slips the doublet on. ]

The rich love to get drunk. I'm sure there'll be plenty of imbibing for you to do.

[ Because, obviously, a drunken Gale would be far more willing to forget his obligations. Also, Astarion thinks a drunken Gale might be more free with his Waterdhavian gossip, so it's a win-win.

He does up every clasp of the doublet, then smooths it down. It's a beautiful, velvety fabric, the color deep and luxurious; Gale has expensive tastes, and he must admit, he appreciates being swathed in opulence, especially after so long on the road. ]

And how do you plan to entertain yourself, darling? I know it will be terribly dull with me gone.

[ Astarion looks good in finery, even if the finery is borrowed. It reminds Iorveth that they need coin for the next leg of their future journey, even if Gale will inevitably top up their allowance whenever they go back onto the proverbial road. A matter of pride, really. ]

I'll do some earning, perhaps.

[ This, on the heels of telling Gale to go get drunk and have fun. Iorveth, once again, only really relaxes when he's around Astarion― in other contexts, he's still all business, inclined to make use of his time in a way that's practical and efficient. A man constantly aware that his candle is burning on both ends. Only Astarion could take his hand and make him stop for a while.

He steps back, surveying Astarion with a pleased half-smile. Arms folded, appreciative. ] You needn't worry yourself about my plans. I'll try to be back by morning.

[ Iorveth is in perpetual motion, and Astarion considers telling him to just relax for once in his life--after all, he's happy to provide by hustling, cheating, and stealing--but such a request is probably impossible for Iorveth. If he'd like to 'do some earning' (however oddly vague such a goal is), Astarion wouldn't dream of stopping him. He imagines life is difficult to adjust to now that Iorveth doesn't have to work to survive every single day. Perhaps it's enrichment, then, for him to give himself a mission to accomplish.

Besides, Astarion already knows that if he sat at home alone, Iorveth's body would be at rest but his mind would still be running a thousand miles a minute. Those gears never stop turning. Maybe it's for the best that Iorveth thinks too much, because Astarion often thinks too little. They balance each other out in that way.

Running a hand down Iorveth's bicep, he says, ] Please do. If you aren't home, I'll have to cuddle with Gale instead.

[ "You needn't make that sound like such a trial," Gale complains. "I'll have you know that Tara enjoys it very much." ]

[ A low laugh, genuinely amused by the mental image. ]

A ringing endorsement. [ If one cat-coded creature in this tower thinks Gale is a good cuddler, Gale very well might be. ] You may have to try him on for size, Astarion.

[ Despite Iorveth's deep-seated hatred for: a) humans and b) wizards, Gale is too friend-shaped to be mad about. Especially since he did the right thing and didn't try to become a God, which would immediately have made him Iorveth's least favorite person of the group by several hundred miles― he could easily have validated Iorveth's "all humans are slaves to destructive ambition" narrative, so it's a lovely surprise that he didn't.

That, and as far as cuddleability goes, it's probably Karlach, Halsin, Gale-Wyll, Shadowheart-Jaheira, Lae'zel, and then Iorveth, in that order. Iorveth gives Gale a once-over that Gale clearly finds exasperating, demonstrated by a resigned throwing up of his hands.

"Oh, now I can't tell if this is a pleasant offer or a latent threat." ]

It would be a threat if Iorveth said he'd join us.

[ Iorveth is low on the cuddleability scale, yes, but he's the top of Astarion's personal scale. He loves those edges others might find too sharp, both literally and metaphorically. There is very little in this world, he thinks, that would be more pleasurable than the feeling of Iorveth's lanky arms wrapped around him. There's certainly no place in the world that feels safer, and for someone who feels unsafe nearly every moment of every day, that's no small feat.

He presses a hand to Iorveth's cheek. ]

—But really, don't dally. You know I—

[ His eyes flit toward Gale. Ugh, how embarrassing to have an audience for this!!! ]

You know I... worry.

[ Gale opens his mouth to speak, and Astarion immediately goes on the defensive: ] What?

[ "Er," he says, scratching his beard with a finger. "I only meant to say that we really should get going, if we don't want to miss the overture. We do want to be able to recognize the musical motifs later." ]

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