essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Even while being scolded, he can't help melting into Iorveth's warmth, hands instinctively winding around his middle. Although he's come to tolerate touch from his most trusted companions, there's no one whose touch brings comfort except Iorveth. He rests his head on Iorveth's shoulder, unconsciously gravitating into him. ]

You've never spoken falsely in your life.

[ It's something Astarion both liked and hated him for from the beginning. A straight shooter, never manipulative. Astarion always knew what to expect. At the same time, Iorveth never hesitated to scold or chide him. Still doesn't hesitate to do so, obviously. ]

It's just—

[ If he keeps asking Iorveth to make sacrifices for him, how long until he comes to resent Astarion and that future never comes to pass? A humiliating thing to say, so he doesn't. ]

I know that I... ask quite a lot.

[ An understatement. Astarion takes and takes and takes, and Iorveth just gives. He asks for attention, love, blood. He asks for Iorveth to stay with him even when he'd rather be elsewhere. Hells, he's been trying to force immortality onto Iorveth when he's never shown any inclination toward it himself. It might not bother Iorveth now, but in a tenday or a month or a year, maybe it finally will. ]

[ A puff of breath, near-offended. ]

You've never asked for something that I didn't want to give.

[ Something that they have in common: a deep-seated distaste for forced subservience. Iorveth hauls Astarion closer to his bare skin, tangling fingers in his hair to position one pointy ear closer to his pulsepoint. Under the thin layer of his tan skin, Astarion should be able to hear his heartbeat, slow and steady. Relaxed, at rest. ]

―Save for immortality, perhaps. [ Correcting himself, because he doesn't like to lie. ] It'd never crossed my mind.

[ As something possible, or something Astarion would even want. Most people can't stand Iorveth in small doses, let alone an eternity. ]

But surely you can't believe that I spoil you only for your own benefit. Touching, that you think me so altruistic.

[ Yes, he sort of did think Iorveth was just that altruistic. Astarion's desires are simultaneously things that he can't possibly tolerate living without and must manipulate and lie to obtain, but are also so shameful that no one could ever want to fulfill them of their own free will. Complicated. He's a mess.

He presses his ear further against Iorveth's pulse, soothed by the sound. A little bit of hunger stirs up inside him from being so close to a warm body like this, but he beats it down. ]

I would hate your absence, [ he admits, his whole body relaxing at confessing the truth. ] —But I would endure it for you, if you asked.

[ And he really would. If Iorveth told him that it would make him happy, Astarion would swallow his displeasure and accept it. It's the least he owes Iorveth, he thinks. ]

[ A stretch of silence, again, to contemplate this. It's important enough that he'll give it the thought it deserves instead of dismissing it outright as something he'd never need to ask Astarion to do: in fact, he'd already considered it once before, when he'd mentioned sending Astarion to Waterdeep while he went north and braved the racists alone along the way.

Growth, he supposes. He combs through silver hair, watching it sift between his callused fingers. ]

I know that you would. [ Acknowledging, first. ] As would I, if you told me you needed to be elsewhere.

[ Freedom looks beautiful on Astarion; far be it for Iorveth to clip his wings in any way. ]

But I doubt I would be happy without you. Nothing I've felt in my past has ever felt like you.

[ 'I know you would', Iorveth says, as if Astarion hasn't thrown tantrum after tantrum and stomped his feet at the idea of being left alone. Iorveth would be forgiven for doubting him.

He leans his head into Iorveth's hand, every bit the finicky cat that Iorveth calls him. Only for Iorveth; there's no one else he'd want to pet him, no matter how gently. He isn't domesticated, exactly, but he is docile for one person only. In return, his fingernails scrape lightly against Iorveth's sides, up and down, carefully avoiding the scratches he left the previous night. ]

You just can't let me play the altruist for once, can you?

[ The scraping feels nice. Going with the cat associations, like being kneaded gently by paws with only slightly-retracted claws; there's always the promise that Astarion could fight back if displeased, and Iorveth loves that about him. A freak. ]

I could, [ he says, about altruism, ] but you would huff and brood and be unhappy, and if I pulled away now and left you to be independent, you would think I didn't love you.

Which I do, [ sounds just a little annoyed. Mostly at himself for being so besotted, as Astarion called it. ] To a frankly absurd degree.

[ Which is why he's staying right where he is, thank you very much. ]

Tell me you want to start rationing days where we sleep apart, and I will. But unless you propose it, love, I won't.

[ Astarion scoffs. He wouldn't think that Iorveth didn't love him. He knows, now, that he is loved, truly and irrevocably. Despite knowing that, though, it's true that he would have thought that Iorveth loved him less than he loved the Aen Seidhe. Perhaps that's even still true. As selfish as he is, he's still learning to share Iorveth with the rest of the world. ]

I don't.

[ Want to, that is. Astarion pulls back a little to see Iorveth's face. Ugly to Iorveth, but precious to him. ]

I loathe being apart from you.

[ He can't imagine being able to trance without Iorveth's body beside him. It's unhealthily dependent, maybe, but Iorveth's presence is the thing that makes him feel like the world might not be all bad. ]

I was stuck in eternal night for two centuries. You are my sunlight.

[ He watches Astarion watch him, and he watches those perfect lips forming those perfect words in that perfect voice. An overwhelming feeling. The offered sentiment percolates through his cracks like rainwater, leaving him feeling―

―warm. Too warm. He can feel heat creeping from his chest, slithering up his neck, dusting his cheeks, pooling at his ears; it flares a little hotter when he repeats what was said to him in the safety of his mind, that he, of all people, could be Astarion's sun.

Absurd. Astarion is his light. Evidenced by the pin on his lapel, the pattern he eventually still wants to stitch onto something of Astarion's at some point. Iorveth would say so, if he wasn't so busy trying to swallow some of this heat back into his chest.

Eventually, after a few seconds, he gives up. Ears still warm, he lifts a hand and presses his (also warm) palm over Astarion's eyes. No looking at his ugly face when he's flushed, thanks!! ]

You'll be the death of me.

[ He'd thought the sentiment was obvious, and that Iorveth already knew. It seems impossible for him not to — Astarion is long past hiding his obsession. He never would have said something so painfully vulnerable if he thought it weren't already common knowledge, and his face heats up in turn, going from cold to lukewarm.

Sputtering, he curls his fingers underneath Iorveth hand to forcibly peel it from his face (rude!). ]

—Well, I thought you already knew!

[ He would die for Iorveth, he would kill for Iorveth (either way, what bliss). He wants nothing more than to spend eternity with Iorveth at his side. Why would he ever want to do these things, if not because Iorveth is his light in the darkness? ]

Isn't it obvious? Out of all the shit I've been dealt [ —said with a not-insignificant amount of bitterness— ] you are the one gift that life has given me.

[ Iorveth relents when Astarion demands to see again, but doesn't retract completely: it presses itself against Astarion's now slightly-pink cheek, distracting himself from his own warmth, because―

―Gods, he shouldn't be encouraged to love someone more. Every word out of Astarion's mouth makes Iorveth want to pick him up and carry him to bed and keep him wrapped in his arms, seen and heard and tended to and indulged. ]

―There will be other gifts. [ Iorveth finally manages, breaking through the wall of his cute-aggression-possessiveness to point out the sensible truth (?) that life will open itself up to Astarion again. Case in point: tonight, where Astarion went to an opera with a dear friend and hopefully enjoyed himself without Iorveth hovering like a feral animal.

But with that said, he cranes forward for a soft but proper kiss. Astarion's vulnerability shouldn't be swept aside, and he savors the taste of it on his tongue before relenting for a breath. ]

...My beautiful, powerful, day-walking vampire. [ An exhale, bordering on a half-laugh. Bemused, amused. Iorveth thumbs along Astarion's jaw, and kisses him briefly again. ] Look how you've tamed the sun.

[ "I'm yours", essentially. A thing Iorveth would never have thought to say before Astarion came and turned his entire world upside down. ]

[ He still hasn't come around to the belief that there will be other gifts, but even if that's the case, he finds he doesn't terribly mind. Iorveth is the only gift he needs, because he turns everything he touches into gold. As long as Iorveth is around, he doesn't feel the weight of the last two hundred years; he feels like the future is something worth looking forward to.

A heavy burden to place on one person who's already had so much burden on his shoulders, hence his (poor) attempt at altruism. ]

I wouldn't want to tame you entirely, [ he laughs, hand closing over Iorveth's. ] I do enjoy your more... feral moments.

[ But he does enjoy having a wild animal curl up on his lap, too. A creature that would just as soon bite anyone else's hand, nuzzling into his. ]

[ The blood of the elves, the future of a vampire: both important things for Iorveth's overactive mind to latch onto. War trauma, perhaps. As much as he wants peace for the collective, he has an inkling that he wouldn't know what to do with himself after he's expended his practical use－ people hang up bows after a battle is done, but what do they do with a broken elf with a broken face who really only remembers what it feels like to fight?

He curls up around a vampire's feet and snaps at said vampire's enemies, apparently. Iorveth closes his eye for a moment, willing some of that residual heat to leave his face (to middling success) as he turns his hand over and lowers it, fingers laced around Astarion's. ]

Clearly. [ Trailing their held hands over a few scratches on his shoulders from the night prior. ] "Tamed" may not have been the best term.

[ He'll never not be sharp. He's a weird, misshapen creature that isn't worth bringing to parties and showing off the way Astarion might have wanted to do with a pretty, well-kept and well-behaved lover, but. Oh well. ]

[ Astarion is really awful, because although he still feels displeased at clawing Iorveth up like a rabid animal, he finds a twisted sort of enjoyment in feeling the scratches on his skin a whole day later. A mark that says I was here, this person is mine. The tips of his ears pink before he leans in to press a kiss to the corner of Iorveth's lovely mouth. ]

Take me to bed.

[ And then, to avoid Iorveth misunderstanding in disastrous fashion— ]

Just bed.

[ But then he worries that Iorveth might think that there's ever a moment when he doesn't desire him, which wouldn't be true at all, so he adds, with some embarrassment, ] I'm still a little, ah. Sore.

[ "Just bed" sets Iorveth up for a fondly exasperated "I don't need us to fuck every day, you realize", but the addendum of being sore makes Iorveth－

－well, not laugh (too rude even by his standards), but grin. Sly, foxlike. ]

And to think you spent the whole night sitting at the opera.

[ Entirely Iorveth's fault. He hums, then gets up off of the couch to drop into a low crouch by Astarion's side, looping his arms under long legs and across Astarion's shoulders to pick him up into a sideways carry. Not exactly the easiest thing in the world to manage, and there's actually no way Iorveth is going to manage going upstairs with Astarion in tow, but. Let it never be said that Iorveth doesn't try to be dramatic. ]

[ It's the first time he's ever liked the soreness instead of feeling used up and disgusted (disgusting). A reminder of someone that loves him. He didn't mind sitting all night at all.

Iorveth sweeps him off of his feet in the most literal way, and he giggles like some sort of infatuated schoolgirl. It would be humiliating if he weren't too charmed to care. Astarion makes a point of swooning, grinning as he says, ] Oh, my hero.

[ He wouldn't admit it even under pain of death, but he's always had a thing for gallant knights. Iorveth is hardly a knight, but he fits all the most necessary criteria all the same: handsome, devoted, ready to whisk him away to a better life. He's everything Astarion ever fantasized about during those dark, lonely nights in the palace. ]

Put me down before you pull something, my love.

[ Oh, to be Karlach with enough strength to pick people up and put them down without a second thought. Iorveth doesn't huff and puff his way to the stairs, but looks mildly vexed by the fact that he cannot, in fact, scale the stairs with a grown-ass adult man in tow. Tragic.

A grunt of dissatisfaction, as he sets Astarion down. ]

I've fallen behind in my training.

[ All this lounging around in bed with Astarion and eating Gale's food... not very guerilla warrior of him. A problem for future Iorveth, though, as current Iorveth is too busy leading Astarion upstairs and into bed, where he moves to undo the various buttons and clasps on his (Gale's) fancy midnight-blue doublet.

Undressing, just for the sake of comfort. Changing out of something into something more comfortable, instead of being made to strip. Iorveth wants the world for Astarion, including all of these small creature comforts. ]

[ Gods, he can hardly believe this is his life. Lying on a nice, soft, warm bed, someone tenderly undressing him for bed. He's been undressed more times than he can remember, clothing ripped off in service of getting to sex faster. Never to make him comfortable, never with clever, callused fingers that have stroked his cheek and sifted through his hair.

Sometimes, Iorveth treats him so gently that he could sob with how much it means to him. That would be humiliating, though, and he fears he'd never live it down, so he doesn't, only helps Iorveth undress him by slipping his arms out of the sleeves. ]

You're too good to me.

[ His voice is filled, somehow, with both warm affection and disapproval. Astarion adores Iorveth, loves him more than anything in this world, but he really is too good to him. No self-respecting person would be this good. ]

[ Reaching over to drape the doublet (now Astarion's, as Iorveth doesn't really plan on returning it to Gale) over the back of a nearby chair, Iorveth looks over his shoulder at Astarion, taking in the would-be chiding with a raised brow. ]

The world was never good enough to you.

[ A matter-of-fact correction. He holds that belief about his people, too: brutalized and murdered without consideration, chased and starved through winters. The world is neither fair nor sensible, and if there's one thing that his journey with their merry band taught him, it's that the Gods don't give a single shit about their individual plights. Iorveth will always be furious about this, without distinction; he will always Stay Mad about what Cazador did to Astarion, and he'd never allow it to happen again.

A familiar flicker of rage, there and gone again. Iorveth calms (weirdo), and edges back onto the mattress. ]

It pleases me to do this. Don't deprive me.

I could never deprive you of anything.

[ Astarion spent centuries unable to say 'no'; it's his favorite word now, but one he never wants to utter to Iorveth. Iorveth has been given just as shit a run of it as he has, and he deserves everything good in this world to make up for it. Astarion reaches out to tug Iorveth down onto the bed, pulling him close so that they can be bare chest to bare chest, beating heart to unbeating heart. ]

You lovely man.

[ He lets a hand snake under Iorveth's arm and onto his back, gently working out the knots there after a long night of work. ]

Tell me how to spoil you.

[ Tension bleeds from tension-taut muscles the moment Astarion starts kneading them. Clever lockpicker, able to untangle a terminally straight-backed elf in seconds.

Iorveth thinks about the request, melting slowly into the mattress. His turn to nest now, face against Astarion's neck, hand at Astarion's hip.

Finally: ] You could buy me a new pair of shoes tomorrow.

[ He presses his grin into pale skin, humor ruining his dry drawl. Astarion has a knack for making him smile, which is crazy; no one has ever made him consistently veer away from scowling at everything. ]

And protect me from the Zhentarim. I suspect I might have gotten on their bad side.

[ Literally what else is new. ]

[ Methodically, like working a lock, his fingers search out areas of tension and press in until they relax. It's not much compared to everything Iorveth has done to make him happy, but it's one thing he can do to be of service. Iorveth should always enter his trance feeling loose and at ease. He's spent enough nights stiff and stressed, Astarion thinks. ]

Oh, darling, [ is mock-exasperated. ] We just can't go one day without making a new enemy, can we?

[ It's the Zhentarim. He's not too beat-up about it. ]

Luckily, you do inspire me to play the hero.

[ More melting. Iorveth turns into a pliant mess of limbs under Astarion's gentle ministrations, unfurled and draped over his partner's body like an elf-shaped blanket. Long arms keep Astarion in a light hold, relaxed. ]

You play it better than you realize. [ Murmured, warm. ] I trust you, completely.

[ All those times that Astarion could have and should have run. Iorveth thinks back to the first time, to the head-spinning shock of Astarion standing his ground and the spike of genuine fear he'd felt when he heard something dull hit the back of Astarion's head.

Maybe that's the moment he fell irrevocably in love. In very strong like, at least. He cradles Astarion closer, and closes his eye. ]

Stay with me, [ he says softly, almost like an impulse before he has to relinquish consciousness. ]

[ Astarion plays a piss poor hero in his opinion, but if his elf-shaped security blanket is saying so, then he supposes he can't argue. His fingers stop their kneading, turning to light, lazy strokes up and down Iorveth's back. Soothing, meant to lull him into his trance. Tomorrow, they'll need to do some digging on Athkatla, see if Gale has had any opportunity to talk with his colleagues. Today, though, he only wants Iorveth to have the sort of lazy rest Astarion knows he rarely allows for himself. ]

You always say that.

[ Stay with me, as if Astarion has any intention of going anywhere. Ridiculous. Has he not been clear enough that he wants to be glued to Iorveth's side until the sun burns out or someone stakes him in the heart (whichever comes first)?

Hm. He'll need to think of a better way to show Iorveth that they're tied irrevocably now, that he couldn't possibly imagine a future without his scowling little elven terrorist in it. ]

You couldn't rid yourself of me if you tried.

[ And he closes his eyes, too, pressing his lips to Iorveth's temple before drifting off himself. ]

[ A lovely threat. It helps Iorveth set aside worst-case scenarios for now, and fall into the kind of trance that coalesces around pleasant sense-memories: bathhouses, breakfasts, ankles tangled under covered tables. He's fully relaxed by the time Gale peeks into their bedroom, the edges of his sharp features rounded by rest and comfort. Even his cheekbones look a little less knifelike in the dim, illuminated only by the conjured light hovering over Gale's open palm.

(It occurs to Iorveth that he hasn't seen daylight in more than a tenday. It doesn't bother him.)

He shifts, stretches. Runs his fingers through Astarion's hair, murmuring a greeting to him in Elder Speech. He can sense Gale wanting to approach them beyond his polite station by the open door, so he eventually gestures the wizard over, offering two impatient "closer"s until Gale is standing, hesitantly, by the foot of their bed.

"Er," Gale begins, and Iorveth cuts him off with a ] Sit, [ to which the mattress creaks underneath the tentatively-obliging weight. ]

Tell us your news, [ Iorveth continues, remaining pleasantly horizontal with Astarion still in the loop of his arms. Trusting his partner, obviously, and extending a bit of that trust to Gale, who has been graciously hosting them and doing the heavy lifting. A wary fox, letting his favorite person's friend touch him between his ears.

Gale clears his throat again, and finally offers: "well, it goes without saying that I have more information on the whereabouts of the cloak. Fortunately for us, it doesn't seem to be in the clutches of another vampire." ]

[ Astarion scoots up so that he's leaning against the headboard enough to properly see Gale, although he's careful not to dislodge Iorveth as he does so, pulling him to his chest and idly stroking his hair. Probably enough PDA to make Gale uncomfortable, but he doesn't particularly care. At least it's not Halsin, who'd probably congratulate them for something like 'taking succor in each other' and suggest that they take off their trousers to 'truly connect with one another and nature'.

(Oh, Halsin. He does wonder what that giant man is up to these days. Perhaps they should write him sometime.)

He sighs in relief at the news that he won't have to kill another vampire in his lair. ]

Thank the gods. You know, I really do hate having to involve myself with vampires. They're quite irritating creatures, present company excluded.

[ Then, with a raised eyebrow: ] —Well, go on. Where is the cloak, then? Still in Faerûn, I hope.

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