essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Although he'd rather not have his ugly bruise highlighted, Astarion very much likes that Iorveth is a freak. It's gratifying, in a way, to not have to make himself lesser or more conventional to please him. Iorveth doesn't mind that he's a vampire or that he enjoys killing with both words and knives. After two centuries of having every bit of himself criticized and denigrated, the mere act of being accepted in his entirety is thrilling. The corner of his mouth twitches, the feeling of Iorveth lapping at Henrik's dried blood making him ticklish. ]

Darling, [ he scolds, schooling his features into a chiding frown — or at least attempting to. Despite his best efforts, he's still grinning a little. ]

You're supposed to say that everything tastes sweet as long as you're licking it off my ravishing body.

[ Honestly, it's like Iorveth doesn't know anything about romance. How lucky for him that he has someone to teach him. ]

[ Iorveth's next eyeroll isn't subtle, but offset by his similarly-unsubtle smirk. Crazy, how many lines Astarion has rolling around in his underutilized (affectionate) brain, and the confidence with which he says them. ]

Frankly, I'd rather taste you.

[ Not a line, just the truth. He glances down, upright to Astarion's horizontal, pressing a palm to Astarion's thigh. ]

Perhaps when you're not covered in human blood. And in the absence of an old gnome and her score of cats.

[ And like, when his shoulder isn't fucked and a group of Fists aren't trying to hang them by their necks. Life is so hard, all the time. ]

Consider yourself fortunate that we've not had an entire day to ourselves.

[ It probably says something about him that he'd have no qualms with getting down and dirty in an elderly woman's house (and place of business) while her well-dressed cats claw at the door. He has to laugh a little, a raspy thing under his breath; for years, there was nothing he wanted to do less than touch and be touched, but Iorveth brings out in him an uncharacteristic desire to be close. Perhaps it's because he knows that if he asked never to be touched below the waist again, Iorveth would comply. Perhaps he just finds eyepatches unbearably sexy. It's probably a combination of the two. ]

Ugh, there's nothing less fortunate.

[ Again, laughable. How strange it is to want to be alone with Iorveth more than he'd like to be alone with himself. He sighs, laying his hand on top of Iorveth's. ]

Ah, but we'll be done with this whole [ —a dismissive wave of his free hand— ] brain worm business before long. There'll be plenty of time for debauchery then, my love.

[ As cocky as he sounds, there's a little uncertain waver in his voice at the end of his sentence, like he's not confident that he's allowed to call Iorveth that. It does undermine his claims of debauchery a bit. ]

[ "Plenty of time". A daunting idea. Iorveth can't remember the last time he felt divorced from the inevitability of extinction, of the idea that the Aen Seidhe have so little time left. Now, with the political power in the North shifting, Ciaran has posed the possibility of having the Woodland Fox retire for good. No one likes a monster during peacetime.

That leaves Iorveth rootless, with a similarly-rootless partner. Which isn't to say that they won't have things to do－ Iorveth, the freak whose cogs are always turning, is already considering who to consult to help with Astarion's sun problem, and has a few candidates－ but.

There it is again, that persistent feeling that Astarion probably deserves better. A feeling that should've been paid more attention to before Astarion started saying things like my love. It makes Iorveth's heart clench, and he squeezes Astarion's thigh to vent some of it out of his system. ]

It won't be debauchery, so much as me making love to every inch of you.

[ Again, not a line. It's spoken too matter-of-factly to be strictly romantic, but his expression softens as he slides their stacked hands up from Astarion's thigh to his stomach, fingers splayed. ]

[ Only Iorveth could say 'making love' with all of the romance of discussing the weather or what's for dinner. Astarion has always thought the term entirely ridiculous, the invention of some pathetic sod who couldn't just stomach saying sex. Somehow, despite the no-nonsense tone to his voice, it sounds rather more appealing when Iorveth says it.

Ugh. Embarrassing. Only a twitterpated fool would kick his feet at this, but— well. Maybe that's what he is. ]

You're awfully sweet for a terrorist.

[ Sweet to Astarion, anyway, which is the only kind of sweet that matters. He squeezes Iorveth's hand, grinning. ]

I don't think I'd mind a little debauchery, if it's with you.

[ "Sweet", in Iorveth's opinion, is a stretch. "Permissive", maybe. "Sweet" is a word better suited to bleeding hearts like Wyll or Halsin, and he thinks of correcting Astarion wholesale－ "I'm awfully permissive for a freedom fighter"― but decides not to.

Instead, he lifts their twined hands so he can lick at the dried blood there, more vestiges of Henrik that he doesn't like seeing on Astarion's pale skin. It still tastes foul, but he can put up with it for the sake of the mood. ]

Your concept of "little" invites far too much from me.

[ Case in point. Just a small, temporary tryst, he'd told himself. A sliver of indulgence. Look where they are now.

Iorveth leans over Astarion, kissing down to the soft skin of his wrist, tongue to a silent pulse-point. He lingers there, his other hand sneaking along Astarion's hip, not entirely innocent despite his lack of intent－

－when Dolores returns with her food to reprise her surprised squeak from earlier, this time without dropping her tray.

"Oh my," she stutters. "I thought... well! Here's your food, and the bath will be ready in a minute, if..."

She trails off, embarrassed. Iorveth is rude enough to laugh. ] He'll go.

[ Cockblocked again.

Astarion should be used to the lack of privacy by now. For two centuries, every private moment of his was ruined by the presence of his siblings, and for the past few months they've been ruined by the presence of his campmates. In the evening, he would abscond into his tent to read, irritated by the sounds of Wyll and Karlach drinking by the fire or Gale cornering whatever unfortunate soul into an impromptu lecture. Even Iorveth had counted among his annoyances. Strange how things change.

It's probably for the best. Astarion doesn't have the willpower not to try to get freaky in this tiny, gnome-sized bed. Dolores's interruption saved him from an eternity of living with that choice. He still frowns, displeased. Who knows what interesting places that hand might have gone, or that mouth? Now he'll never know. ]

If I must.

[ He really is rather filthy; a soak will do him some good. It takes every ounce of will he has—so, still not very much—to sit himself up and plant his feet on the ground. As he stands to leave, he glances over his shoulder at Iorveth. ]

Well, try not to think of me naked and glistening.

[ "Oh," squeaks Dolores again, scandalized. ]

[ Well, now Dolores is also going to be thinking about Astarion naked and glistening. Good for her. She'll likely still be thinking about it later, when she brings Astarion a new outfit (elf-sized, hopefully) to wear; Iorveth imagines it, the poor old thing blushing and stuttering as she tries to give him clean smallclothes to put on. ]

Naked and glistening and pliant, [ Iorveth shoots back, as he waves Astarion out of the room. Dolores turns an interesting shade of red as she sets down her tray and trots out to help Astarion find the bathtub, which leaves Iorveth with his food and two more cats to keep him company: a tabby in a yellow sweater and an excessively fluffy white thing with a squished-in face.

He eats, careful not to spill crumbs on his new companions. After demolishing his plate, he checks on the state of his wound, which seems to be mending nicely under the hardened poultice. He fashions himself a sling with the remnants of his old shirt, and assesses how furious Lae'zel will be by the fact that not only did her two disaster elves not gather any new intel regarding the disappearances in the area, they got themselves into even more trouble with the law.

Best to mitigate the damage somehow. He considers going back to the wreckage of the drow woman's home to see if there's anything interesting among the rubble; his pride doesn't love the thought of returning to base empty-handed. ]

[ Dolores does turn pink when she returns to Astarion in the bath with a slightly-too-baggy shirt and slightly-too-short trousers, and bright cherry red when she offers him a pair of underwear. It's actually rather endearing, to his surprise. He shoots her a wink for her trouble and a if I weren't tied down..., to which she giggles and says, "You rake! My husband is the only one for me."

When he returns to the guest room, Astarion is picking at his ill-fitting shirt and smoothing his damp hair over the bruise in the hopes of hiding it. For someone who can't see his own reflection, he's awfully vain. Once he sees Iorveth with his new feline friends—like a princess out of a fairy tale, he thinks but doesn't say—he grins. ]

You know, I'd thought to ask Dolores for a spare shirt for you, but I rather like this view.

[ His appreciation for the long expanse of Iorveth's tanned torso is almost entirely shallow. He's only a man.

As he tucks the shirt in in an attempt to make it fit better, he raises an eyebrow, tilting his head. ]

You look like you've been thinking. [ Gross. ]

[ Astarion in an oversized shirt, showing his ankles? Absolutely scandalous. That said, Iorveth just thinks that Astarion looks comfortable, which says a lot about his standards. He shifts the cats on the mattress to free the already-limited space on the bed, and gets hissed at by the fluffy one for his trouble.

"Something you should try once in a while," would have been his kneejerk response two tendays ago. Instead: ]

Mm. How not to get an earful from Lae'zel.

[ After all this, it would be such a headache to put up with. Iorveth doesn't shy away from having people be angry with him (quite the opposite), but being yelled at by Lae'zel doesn't spark joy the way riling up a person he wants to punch does. ]

If any part of that horrid drow's experiments survived the fire, [ the basement might still be intact, he supposes, ] we could at least prove that we went to the instructed location. I did give her my word.

[ Tacitly. He gave Gale's projection his word, technically, but he doesn't care about Gale's projection (derogatory) (affectionate). ]

Edited 2024-10-29 04:22 (UTC)

[ Astarion settles down next to Iorveth on the space previously occupied by the cats, letting their knees touch in a casual, accidental way that's entirely on purpose. Affectionate in the same way those cats probably are: he pretends to be aloof, but he'd hiss if he were moved away. His raised eyebrow turns into two raised eyebrows, skeptical. ]

You want to return to the scene of the crime?

[ After a scuffle with a Flaming Fist, and after Astarion likely made them Henrik's public enemies number one and two, should he have survived? He might not think very often, but even he knows that isn't the safest idea. ]

Can't we just lie and bring her something from here?

[ It would be stealing from a kind old lady, but he's done worse. ]

[ Astarion, Iorveth's favorite cat, settles down with their knees touching, and Iorveth lists sideways to breathe in the scent of clean soap and hair product. ]

We could. [ He concedes, reaching to braid a little portion of longer hair that sweeps over Astarion's ear. It stays intact only by virtue of his curls still being damp; Iorveth combs it out and braids it again, giving his hands something to do while he talks. ] But my pride won't allow it.

[ Obstinate. An easy trait for many people to dislike. His expression remains steady, focused. ]

I also don't relish the thought of humans finding any bit of my blood that might have evaded incineration. [ Again, he thinks back to the basement hatch that he'd gotten a glimpse of from the top of the stairs. ] I want to retrieve it and destroy it, if nothing else.

You needn't come if you don't fancy the trouble. [ To the tune of "it's fine", neutral. ] Lae'zel will be happier to see you than me.

[ Ah, yes. Iorveth's blood. He hadn't considered the fact that there could be any more of it left, but it's possible that the ground floor—and whatever remains of Iorveth's blood—is still intact. He supposes he might feel the same, were it his own blood. A small, ambitious part of him thinks to suggest they keep it rather than destroy it, but his stomach turns at the idea of keeping anything Araj had a hand in creating.

In truth, he doesn't really fancy the trouble. He does fancy Iorveth, however, so— ]

A one-eyed wood elf loitering around the scene of an arson? [ He scoffs. ] The Fists would have a field day.

[ Whether Henrik is alive or not, the Fists still know about a terrorist with one eye. Unfortunate, really, that Iorveth is so distinctive. It makes eluding the law that much harder.

Nonchalantly, as if he doesn't really care: ] Someone has to keep an eye on you so you don't get stabbed again.

[ Astarion is objectively correct: it would be suicide to walk into an arson site teeming with Fists as public enemies number one and two. Iorveth can hope that the Fists have largely cleared out of the area after deeming it a lost cause, but he knows that that's wishful thinking.

Iorveth is nothing if not audacious, though. He's survived on the back of his audacity, and he thinks he'd stop being himself if he stopped.

Still, Astarion is cute with his turned-up nose in his oversized shirt. It's annoying how often he manages to make Iorveth laugh, because he does: a quiet, dry thing, but a laugh nevertheless. ]

The most honorable vampire I know.

[ Which isn't saying a lot (his only other real frames of reference are Cazador and Petras), but it's affectionately meant. He stops braiding Astarion's hair to sit back with his weight on his hands, craning for a better vantage point of his companion. ]

If it seems like suicide, I'll leave it for a different day. I'm no use to anyone dead.

[ Astarion kicks Iorveth's shin with his, ankle scandalously exposed in his ill-fitting, borrowed trousers. Pointedly, he says, ] Careful what you say about the dead.

[ The corpse in front of Iorveth is plenty useful, thanks. The besweatered tabby worms its way between them, rubbing its furry head against the warmth of Iorveth's torso. And ignoring Astarion, he notes, although one can hardly blame it. The cold skin of the undead is no comparison to the warmth of the living, even when it's as lovely as his cold, undead skin. ]

Well, if we're going to sift through the rubble of some insane drow's workshop—

[ Gods. He can hardly believe he's going to do such a thing. He'd always suspected that love turned people into fools, but now he has proof. ]

—Did you want to do it now, or were you hoping to spend more time cuddling with these flea-ridden things?

[ They aren't flea-ridden at all. They're really rather cute, but he'd never admit it. ]

[ Iorveth shakes off the existential quandary that threatens to creep into his conscious: the very real problem of him, a very mortal and alive being, being in love with a vampire, who is very immortal and undead.

More pressingly: ] Before we go, [ because they should, before they overstay their welcome and before more customers arrive who are less liable to accept the absurdity of two suspicious elves skulking about (bless Kurug, the best of them), ] I want you to hold this cat.

[ Reaching sideways to pick up the white fluffy one, who has nested by Iorveth's feet and started dozing on the (probably handmade) rug. It looks annoyed by the interruption to its nap, but looks more put-off when it finds itself unceremoniously placed on Astarion's lap.

Iorveth leans back, clearly amused. Two fluffy cats in one place, albeit in different forms. ]

[ Both Astarion and the cat look perturbed by this development. Astarion holds his hands to his chest as if Iorveth has dumped something disgusting in his lap, and the cat stands stock still atop his thighs like it's unsure what to do in this situation. A protracted moment passes, neither of them moving, before the cat seems to accept its fate and curls up on his lap to finish its nap.

Astarion places a hand lightly on its little body, but it hardly stirs. Lazy thing. ]

Well. [ There's that upturned nose of his again. ] I suppose, out of all the cats here, this one is the...

[ Prettiest? Fluffiest? Somehow, the thought of admitting that he likes the way its fur feels under his fingers is embarrassing. ]

—Least mangy.

[ Iorveth leans back, and when that doesn't provide a suitable-enough vantage point for him, he gets up off of the bed and takes a few steps back. ]

You two make a pretty picture.

[ Not a single mangy creature in the room. The cat flicks its tail, brushing it against Astarion's forearm. ]

I'll make a wood elf of you yet.

[ A joke. Aen Seidhe aren't followers of Silvanus, and the vast majority of them don't spend time Wild Shaping and living with animals; they just know how to coexist with nature better than most. Still, it's nice to watch how the cat nestles in Astarion's lap, perhaps not entirely comfortable with the undead man it's using as a cushion, but comfortable enough to trust him with its nap.

That's enough bullying, though. Iorveth gravitates back to Astarion, and raises a smug brow as if to say "well? do you want me to take the cat off your hands or not?" ]

[ Astarion wrinkles his nose. He's a high elf through and through, supercilious and pompous, and he'll never be the friend to all animals that, say, Halsin is. (Hopefully he's just a friend.) The little cat is one of the better animals, though, he has to admit. Hesitantly, he strokes its long white fur, and the thing purrs faintly at the gentle touch. It's more like him than he thought. ]

It's only lucky that I've decided not to make it a snack.

[ It's small enough that it would be a poor snack anyway, but Astarion says it regardless, as if threatening the little creature lest it think he, ugh, likes it.

He lifts the cat by the middle, and its eyes open, flicking at him in annoyance for interrupting its nap yet again. He places it on the ground gently, and it immediately flops back down to finish its sleep, done with these ridiculous elves that keep moving it around. Astarion stands up, then glances down and pats at his borrowed trousers, stomping his foot in indignation. ]

You got fur on my pants!

[ It's the little things, sometimes: having an owlbear cub drowsily nuzzling one's knee, having a small cat curled on one's lap. Having a living creature's trust, and having it share its warmth. It'd be nice to have Astarion experience these things, increments at a time.

That said, Iorveth is still mean enough to chuckle at Astarion's expense. There are, in fact, trails of long white cat fur clumped obviously on the dark fabric of his borrowed trousers. ]

You look fetching, [ Iorveth notes breezily, adding a my sweet cat in his native language as he looks for the rest of his things. He'll likely have to borrow a shirt of his own― it won't do to go outside shirtless, so he gathers his pack and bow and steps out of the room, gesturing for Astarion to follow, and looks for Dolores who's getting ready to open up shop in the main living room of the first floor.

The only other shirt she has available in non-gnome size is, unfortunately, the sort with frills on its sleeves. "I would have given it to your sweetheart," she explains as she hands it over to him, "but it's even bigger than the shirt he's wearing now."

Iorveth pulls it on. It's obviously meant for a Halsin-sized individual, and Iorveth tries not to look too miserable. ]

[ Astarion is disappointed by the fact that Iorveth plans to cover up his lovely torso, and it shows in a childish pouting as he seeks out Dolores. His mood improves quickly, though, as Dolores pulls out the spare shirt. Sleeves that balloon out—even more so than they should, given the poor fit—and cinch in with ruffles at the wrist. Astarion's pout instantly turns to a grin of delight as Iorveth puts the shirt on, and he steps back to give him a proper once-over. ]

You look positively darling.

[ It's half-bullying, half-compliment. He does look darling, in Astarion's opinion, but he also looks like he wants to die. Stepping back in, he takes the liberty of reaching out and tucking the shirt into Iorveth's waistband. ]

Something like this for the fitting next tenday, I think, [ he says, adjusting the collar so that Iorveth's tattoo peeks out more. Good stitchwork, he notes. ] You'd look ravishing festooned in frills.

I look ridiculous, [ Iorveth corrects, noting Dolores' sudden eagle-eyed sharpness. She hovers around them with her measuring tape in hand, all traces of her previous bashfulness gone in favor of scoping out what would flatter his elongated form. A professional, through and through.

"I think a sharper silhouette might suit him better," is an audacious challenge to Astarion's suggestion. "Or some nice draping, if you'd like some movement."

Gods, what has he signed himself up for. Iorveth (gently) wrenches his arm away from Dolores' inquisitive touch, and takes a step back. ]

I'm starting to think that being naked would be preferable to this.

[ Dolores, more scandalized by the implication that her clothes wouldn't be fitting than the suggestion of nudity, squeaks "nonsense, dear! You'll love the clothes I fit you into, you'll see!" ]

Yes, Iorveth, don't be rude.

[ He couldn't care less if Iorveth is rude. In fact, he happens to like it quite a bit. Still, he likes bullying him even more, and Dolores's unintentional help in that is priceless. The both of them flit around Iorveth like buzzing gnats, poking and prodding at Iorveth — Dolores with her measuring tape, winding it around Iorveth's waist, and Astarion adjusting his shirt to look casually and unintentionally (but sexily) rumpled. A talent of his, really. ]

Naked would be better, but we'll save that for after the party.

[ A fancy party he hasn't yet heard tell of, and that they would never be invited to, and certainly can't attend as two wanted men.

Details. He'll figure them out as they go. Astarion tilts his head, imagining what Iorveth might look like in a mask. That could work; it would hide his most distinctive feature. Once he's satisfied with how attractively disheveled Iorveth's oversized shirt looks, he waves Dolores off. ]

Unfortunately, we have business to attend to, but I'll be back to review your designs, of course. My input on these things is invaluable.

[ Iorveth should see that as nothing less than a threat. ]

[ Terrifying. Iorveth tries to envision himself wearing five layers of ruffles tied together with a silk sash, but his imagination fails him; Facemakers' was the first time he'd worn anything in ages that wasn't borrowed or stolen, and he hadn't bothered looking too closely at himself in the mirror then, either. He can't fathom how Astarion can derive any pleasure from dressing him up (like putting a bonnet on a head of cabbage, he thinks), but Iorveth will put up with it just to see Astarion's eyes light up.

Dolores seems disappointed to see them go ("you don't have to rush out the door!"), but is placated by the promise of the return trip; they step back out into sunshine after they're seen out by the kind old woman and her score of cats, and Iorveth steers them in the general direction of where he remembers Araj's workshop to have been.

Lucky for them, when they get within seeing distance of the burnt-down wreckage of the drow's former home, the only living soul lingering there is a young-looking Fist Recruit poking miserably at the rubble with his booted toe. He's muttering something under his breath, which becomes clearer the closer they get to the disaster site: "riches and glory, they promised! Power and authority! Ain't nothin' powerful or authoritative about shovelin' coal around all day..." ]

A grunt, [ Iorveth notes quietly. ] We might yet survive this.

[ For once, Astarion doesn't trail behind Iorveth blindly with no idea (or interest in) where they're going. There's hardly anyone who knows the streets of Baldur's Gate like him, even though they look different in the sunlight. He could have navigated back to Araj's workshop with his eyes closed.

When they make it to the accursed place, Astarion peers down the cobblestoned street at the young man Iorveth so politely named a "grunt". He isn't wrong; the rookie might even be younger than Wyll, and he's an obvious newcomer to the ranks by his complete and total lack of situational awareness. He's focused on himself, whatever menial task he's been assigned, and little else. ]

Mm, [ Astarion hums in acknowledgement. ] I could distract him while you do [ —he waves a hand vaguely— ] whatever it is that you're here to do.

[ Assuming that Henrik hasn't already put a call out to arrest any pale, white-haired, impossibly handsome elves. Best case scenario, he's dead. Second best case scenario, he's too injured to plaster wanted posters all over the Gate. Third best case scenario, this tenderfoot barely remembers what side of his sword to poke people with, much less the descriptions of two criminal elves. He's willing to roll the dice. ]

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