essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ He tips his head back, not keen on getting bogwater on Astarion's hand. It feels like he's just gotten the worst part of the Chionthar dumped on his head. ]

There's little to improve, [ he quips back, instinctive. Still hard-pressed to believe that Astarion finds him attractive, but learning not to be quite as defensive; mostly, he just thinks it's strange.

He doesn't want to be brittle about it, though. No one else is ever going to be so kind about his looks, so he relaxes and appends: ] ...Unlike you, I've no particular preference for how I wear my hair. You can dictate how I style it as you please.

[ A wave of his hand to punctuate, a casual acquiescence despite the fact that most Aen Seidhe are very protective of their hair― it's not like Astarion knows that, though.

Iorveth plods over to the nearest Waypoint, deciding to use it instead of plodding all the way back to Elfsong looking like a wet rag. It would've been nice to spend a bit more time just walking with Astarion beside him, but he really should bathe. ]

[ Portals are always a little disconcerting; the stark feeling of nothingness for a brief moment followed by a sudden pop back into reality has Astarion blinking away the dizziness. It's probably for the best that they don't take their time walking tonight. Petras already confronted them, so who's to say the rest of his siblings aren't close behind? He's already too worn out from one family reunion. Another would be overkill.

He opens the front door to the Elfsong for Iorveth, playing at being gentlemanly. It's the sort of thing he never does, which makes it the sort of thing that's kind of fun to do. ]

In that memory, you wore it long and braided. Very rustic.

[ Very wood elf-y, he means. ]

You don't prefer it that way?

[ A nod, in return for the opening of the door. It's a small gesture, but it's the sort of small gesture that Iorveth takes note of.

As they walk upstairs: ] That was for when I had two eyes and less responsibilities.

[ The low puff of air that follows is a laugh, dry and humorless. ]

Humans sought to break my spirit by ruining my face. In defiance of that notion, I obscured my features and cut my hair. [ He scoffs at the memory; still a bitter pill to swallow. ] It turns out that an ugly elf can still be a dangerous elf. Since then, I've given my hair no thought.

[ He hooks his fingers around the doorknob leading to their floor-sized room, and glances sideways at Astarion. "You can be depressing" comes to mind again, and he realizes that he's probably validating that notion. ]

[ Depressing, indeed. In Astarion's misery, he at least had control over his appearance, something he could wear like armor. Iorveth didn't even have that. To dwell on it might be unpleasant, he considers, so he keeps his voice light and airy as they enter their rented room. ]

Then I'll style it however pleases me best, when I trim it for you.

[ He'd be lying if he said the idea of giving Iorveth a fashionable cut doesn't appeal to him. Something rugged—a wood elf who lives in the forest doesn't fit a more cosmopolitan style—but still more flattering than the overgrown, uncared for thing currently on his head.

Inside the room, Karlach is locked in an enthusiastic conversation with Jaheira, but she turns her head upon their entrance — then does a double-take when she sees Iorveth. "Oi!" she calls. "What gives, did you fall in the harbor?" ]

[ Iorveth will be happy with whatever Astarion chooses as long as he doesn't shave him bald, in which case Iorveth might actually have to break up with him. A touch of a smile, and Iorveth steps into the room and braces against Karlach's very loud scrutiny. ]

Worse, [ he grouses offhandedly. ] We went to the circus.

[ "Aw, what?! Come on, you grump. The circus is great!" She pauses, and rephrases: "I mean, I've only been there once, and it's the only one I've ever been to, but it was great!"

Karlach, consistently the best of them. Iorveth can't even be angry about her effusiveness this time around, and sidesteps her question about whether or not the Last Days added a new attraction that has to do with water to make a beeline for what passes as a bathing area in the corner of their room. Karlach tags along, clearly having no problem with watching Iorveth peel himself out of his wet clothes as she plies him with questions about his day.

So. Astarion is left to fend for himself as the sharks descend upon him: Lae'zel, her posture authoritarian, makes her way over towards him with long, officious strides.

"You're late," she sniffs. "Did you complete the task?"

Less a question, and more a 'you-better-have-gotten-it-done'. ]

Yes, yes. Honestly! It's like you don't trust us.

[ "I trust you, or I wouldn't have allowed you to complete a task without my supervision," Lae'zel says, as if being her gofer is a privilege. "However, I also know you."

That's fair. He can't argue with that, so instead he fills Lae'zel in on their encounter with Lucretious and the hand that might as well have dropped into their laps. She seems pleased, or at least as pleased as Lae'zel ever seems; she nods and says, "A fortuitous discovery. Vla—" Vlaakith smiles on us this day, she sounds like she's about to say before she stops herself and settles on, "Hrm."

When he glances over toward Iorveth, he sees that Karlach is still chattering away. Rather than interrupt their (rather one-sided) conversation, he settles into bed with a book. Iorveth has had a day full of him, after all. Distance makes the heart grow fonder; some time looking at someone who isn't Astarion will do him some good, he thinks. ]

[ Iorveth gets in the water (with help from Gale, who has resigned himself to the role of bath-filler), and lets Karlach linger while he washes with her hand in the tub, keeping it heated for him. She asks him about the Elder Speech, and he teaches her a few choice phrases that he thinks she may use in the future: "a d'yaebl aép arse!", she laughs gleefully, vowing to say it to Gortash the next time she sees him.

He washes, he dries off, he pulls himself into fresh clothes. Wyll offers to take Iorveth's wet clothes out for laundry, promising that he was going to go get his outfits pressed and mended anyway, and that it wouldn't be any trouble. It's a bit adorable how Wyll seems to think Iorveth would get offended by the offer (for good reason, perhaps), so Iorveth decides not to give him trouble; he obliges the favor, and also brings Wyll over to where Astarion is lounging to have him extend the same offer to the fussiest of their group.

"Anything you'd like laundered, Astarion?" he asks, beaming. If Astarion ever fantasized about someone whisking him away, Iorveth thinks, said someone must have looked exactly like Wyll.

Taking a perch on the edge of the bed while Wyll is tending to Astarion, Iorveth beckons the owlbear cub over to pluck out a few half-molted feathers from its downy coat. A friend, not food. ]

[ Unfortunately for poor Wyll, Astarion finds it more charming that Iorveth has led him over to ask than that Wyll is offering in the first place. Certifiably down bad, he finds most everything Iorveth does to be the most romantic thing he's ever experienced, partially because he's never experienced anything romantic before in his (un)life. Still, his lack of appreciation doesn't mean that he isn't willing to take Wyll up on the offer. ]

Oh, only a few things—

[ Moments later, Astarion's entire wardrobe is in Wyll's muscled arms. From the Blade of Frontiers to laundryman. "Is that all?" he asks, eyebrow raised and mouth quirking humorously. ]

Mm, you're right. [ Astarion peels off the shirt he's currently wearing, too, tossing it in the pile. ] Do be gentle with them, will you?

[ Wyll, good-natured fool that he is, just shakes his head and laughs before tottering off, clutching the clothes to his chest.

Book set aside, Astarion swings his legs over the bed and scoots beside Iorveth. The owlbear cub looks at him with those big eyes, and he makes a show of rolling his eyes and scoffing before scratching under its chin. Can't have anyone thinking he's gone soft. ]

You smell delicious, [ he says, which is actually probably the same thing the owlbear cub is thinking. ]

[ Iorveth doesn't bother with Speak with Animals; honestly, animals are easy enough to read without language, and gods know that the world needs less talking in general. He watches as the cub happily wiggles and chirps at being scratched, and uncharitably compares it to when Astarion nuzzles up to a palm in his hair. Certifiably down bad, the sequel.

Pulling another old feather from the owlbear's neck, Iorveth tips his head. ]

Does it actually smell any good?

[ Slightly curious. Especially with memories of Petras looking at him like a prime cut of steak fresh on his mind. ]

I've never given the scent of blood much thought. [ He says, as if this is something that anyone but a vampire would ever consider in their entire lives. A freak. He hums, thoughtful. ] Could you identify all of us by smell?

[ Is this a weird thing to ask? Probably. Is Iorveth weird? Definitely. ]

[ Iorveth ridding the cub of his molted feathers is charming. It brings to mind the way he'd fixed Astarion's hair and clothing after their encounter with that Fist. Grooming as a way of showing care. He runs his hand over the soft feathers on the owlbear's head, enjoying the feeling of something entirely without prickles, something smooth and pleasant. ]

I suppose so. I've certainly smelled all of your blood enough.

[ His mouth had watered ceaselessly at the beginning. A lopsided smile breaks out across his face, and he scritches the owlbear cub behind the ears. They're not too dissimilar. Both of them started out alone and hungry, surrounded by people that they had to remember were friends and not food. ]

I'd know your lovely fragrance with my eyes closed.

[ Not just by blood, although that would surely help. It's the smell of his skin, his hair, his clothing. Comforting, woody. ]

[ The grooming isn't entirely altruistic, as Iorveth is keeping the feathers for fletching for his arrows, but he has enough affection for the owlbear cub to give it a scratch of his own, pads of his fingers rubbing the crown of its fuzzy head. Utterly spoiled by all the attention, it chitters dreamily and rests its chin on Astarion's lap, eyes half-shuttered. If they're not careful, the cub might just fall asleep there, heavy and hard to dislodge.

Iorveth smiles, both at the sleepy not-so-little creature and at the comment about his scent. ]

Blade oil and sandalwood, I imagine. [ Maybe a little bit of amber, soft wax. He spends a lot of time tending to his bow, and expects that the scent of it must have diffused into his own flesh by now. ] I must taste like moss.

[ Craning over, Iorveth nudges his nose near Astarion, right where his earlobe meets his jaw. An unruly fox. ]

ーMm. I'm also partial to your scent. [ Something fresh and full-bodied over the scent of earth, he thinks. ]

[ Ugh, ridiculous. Two animals in his space. Despite himself, he can't help but smile. Iorveth's nose against the thin skin behind his ear tickles, and the cub feels warm in his lap. He feels strangely— content. A foreign feeling, but not an unwelcome one. ]

Blood and grave dirt?

[ His scent is one of the few physical things he's insecure about. He can make red eyes and pale skin look good, but no one is selling a perfume that smells like undeath, no matter how complimentary Iorveth is about it. He strokes the owlbear with one hand and reaches up to card his fingers through Iorveth's hair with the other, petting two wild creatures at once. ]

Well, far be it from me to deny a compliment.

[ Hard to pinpoint what exactly it is that Astarion smells like. Complicated, like the rest of him. Iorveth peels himself back, leans into the hand sifting through his hair, then straightens again, aware that he's crowding Astarion's space. ]

You wear blood and grave dirt well. [ A sliver of a smile, and he glances down at the cub. It looks like it wants to climb onto the bed and nest next to Astarion for the night, which is new: it usually chooses Halsin or Shadowheart to sleep near. ]

Apparently, the owlbear feels the same. [ Iorveth laughs, a brief huff. ] At this rate, I'll have to sleep on the floor.

[ The cub chirps sleepily again, and nuzzles its beak against Astarion's knee. ]

Ugh, please.

[ Astarion makes a show of shoving the owlbear away, but it's light, more of a pat than any true attempt to rid himself of the little critter. So he thinks it's a little cute. Sue him. ]

It only wants to eat me.

[ Although he probably smells like meat that's gone bad to the rascal, now that he thinks about it. He shrugs, then scoots back onto the bed, flopping down onto a pillow and beckoning Iorveth to do the same with a pat to the mattress. ]

You're the only forest creature I'll let sleep beside me.

[ Slighted, the owlbear sadly (but not really) plods away in search of more attention elsewhere, determined to cycle back to Astarion now that it knows that Astarion is willing to be gentle when he's so inclined. A little like Iorveth, in that sense: now that Iorveth is convinced that Astarion isn't being sweet for the sake of the inevitable rugpull, Iorveth can approach him without needing to constantly hold a symbolic knife to his throat.

A long day. Iorveth stretches his limbs, working out tension before he lets himself become horizontal on the bed next to Astarion, sideways to Astarion's supine. ]

The creatures of the forest weep at their exclusion.

[ Dry, amused. ]

In turn, you're the only undead creature I care to sleep next to.

[ Sorry, Petras. ]

Well, of course. Other undead would eat you sooner than the owlbear would.

[ Just look at the way Petras practically drooled at the sight of him. The memory still rankles, both from a rational perspective—Iorveth doesn't deserve to be treated that way—and from an emotional, caveman-like one—that's Astarion's snack Petras was licking his chops at. ]

I hope Petras didn't annoy you too much.

[ He really hopes that the way Petras spoke about him didn't upset him, but part of him feels like Iorveth might laugh in his face at the suggestion that any of Astarion's siblings could ever upset him. Lions don't value the opinions of sheep, after all. ]

You're— well, I suppose you are a bit of a blood bag. [ A cherished blood bag. ] But you certainly aren't 'just food'.

[ At least Astarion's honest about the blood bag thing. It would've made him scowl and roll away before, he thinks, but he's not so irate about it now; he only wrinkles his nose at the denotation (it's crude, even for his own standards), and huffs. ]

I'm someone you can tolerate, who just so happens to also provide sustenance.

[ Not a very glamorous way to phrase things, but he's mostly being facetious. Iorveth flops onto his back, reaching for his eyepatch to remove for the night, treating it with the sort of care he shows his weapons－ it's his first proper gift from Astarion, after all. ]

It doesn't bother me. [ Astarion asks before he bites, which is considerate of him, all things considered. ] Absurdly, it bothered me more when you bit someone else.

[ Which is not a reaction that he'd like to have again, because Astarion is, in fact, entitled to eat whenever he wants. He doesn't need Iorveth's permission to have a snack. ]

[ 'Tolerate'. It vexes Astarion for Iorveth to say something like that, even nonchalantly, even in jest. Maybe it's because Iorveth is the first person who Astarion went beyond tolerating. Maybe it's because somewhere, deep down, he worries that Iorveth really does think he isn't capable of this sort of feeling, despite what he'd said to Ciaran. It's tempting to bristle and turn his back, to show Iorveth what it really looks like to only have his mere toleration, but instead he shifts onto his side to peer at Iorveth in the dim. ]

You know, if another vampire drank from you, I would—

[ A pause. He hasn't really thought this through. Hells, he hadn't even considered the possibility before Petras came along and reminded him that Iorveth isn't actually his own personal juice box. ]

Well, I don't know what I'd do yet. I guess I'd kill them in some brutal and macabre fashion.

[ The point is that he'd be beside himself with jealousy. He'd felt terribly unwanted when he'd gone out and fed on someone else; he hadn't considered that Iorveth, too, might feel upset. ]

You aren't sustenance, you clod. [ Sweet and gentle as ever. ] You're mine.

[ How many other vampires are there, Iorveth wonders. (Besides the hundreds of starved spawn of Cazador's making, that is. Still a massive problem that's yet to be resolved.) Vampiric nature doesn't seem to lend itself to propagationー are they, too, a dying race? A funny thing to think about, considering that they're already undead.

It's fine. Astarion won't have to feel jealous, because Iorveth simply wouldn't allow anyone to come near his neck with their teeth. He barely allows Halsin to clap him on the back; he's less a porcupine and more a drawn sword, all edge and hard surfaces. Too prideful to ever let anyone but Astarion handle him, let alone handle him gently.

"You're mine" would've made past Iorveth bristle as much as "blood bag". Now, he only laughs. Says something in his language, my sun, as ironic as it is affectionate. ]

Others may spill my blood, but only you have my heart.

[ A bit much, maybe. Iorveth isn't built for poetry, but he knows how to say what he means. ]

Now rest, before I embarrass myself further.

[ A light pinch to Astarion's earlobe, and he relents. ]

[ How is it that Iorveth can irritate Astarion so much in one moment, then melt him the next? Poetry is unnecessary. No one has ever said such sweet things to him but Iorveth—at least, not anyone who meant it—and being the recipient of them makes the tips of his ears flush red in pleasure. ]

Oh, but I like when you embarrass yourself.

[ Very much.

Astarion presses closer, soaking up as much of Iorveth's body heat as he can manage. His chilly fingers loosen Iorveth's collar and worm their way under the fabric, sliding across his chest until he feels the steady thump, thump of Iorveth's beating heart. He splays his fingers out, palm pressed against Iorveth's sternum. ]

Mm, yes, [ he purrs as his eyes slip closed, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. ] All mine.

[ He shivers at the feeling of cool palms on his bath-warmed skin, but stays where he is without protest. Unconscionable, how much he likes Astarion― his foolish, contradictory, capricious cat. He likes Astarion's serrated cynicism as much as his wide-eyed naiveté, likes the deft way he handles a blade as much as the pliant way he presses against a steady pulse.

Because it is. Iorveth's pulse, that is. Slow and relaxed. Iorveth's heart beats, and it says I feel safe around you. There's no need to doubt Astarion's intentions behind "you're mine", because Astarion, as Iorveth has discovered, is the kind of person who mends his own clothes to make them last.

His foolish, contradictory, capricious, sweet cat. Iorveth soothes his hand up and down Astarion's bare spine, feeling fragments of the Infernal still carved on his skin; a part of him hopes that one day, Astarion will let him kiss all over his back, will feel comfortable enough to trust Iorveth with that gesture.

Maybe two centuries from now. In the meantime, he presses his lips to Astarion's temple, the jut of his cheekbone, over one closed eye. After everything he's been through the past few days, Astarion's entitled to a bit of spoiling: Iorveth keeps littering soft touches against whatever part of him he can reach, until he feels his own consciousness slip into a restful trance. Calm, tranquil. ]

[ Astarion can't say how long he trances for, only that it's surprisingly serene. He's never rested well, always tossed and turned through the night, but uneventful reverie is becoming more and more common now that he's sharing a bed. A strange but not unwelcome development; he'd always hated the feeling of someone's body beside him, their weight dipping the mattress, but there's something reassuring about it now.

When he returns to full consciousness, it's with his limp hand still splayed against Iorveth's chest, the previously cool skin warmed by the contact, and his face pressed up against his neck. He can hear the beating of Iorveth's heart through his pulse point. Soft, slow, unwavering.

He presses his mouth against that thrumming spot on Iorveth's neck, then the underside of his sharp jaw. Indulgent and insistent, like an affectionate pet rubbing against its person's side to demand attention. ]

[ Falling asleep giving attention, waking back up being demanded more. It's the kind of thing Iorveth wouldn't have imagined for himself: too soft, too peaceful, not yet earned.

He leans into it anyway, with his face buried in soft hair and fingers drumming against Astarion's lower back, slow and unhurried. Judging by the quiet, it's still early morning-- it gives him time to resume the spoiling from the night prior, mostly for his own sake this time.

Raking his lips along Astarion's sleep-warm ear, he nibbles on the end of it. Enjoying the feeling of soft cartilage, the shape. He doesn't like Astarion just because he has pointy ears, but it's part of the overall charm (then again, he's never been in bed with a human before, and probably never will).

More idle nuzzling and a gentle squeeze to Astarion's waist later: ] I prefer this to trancing. [ His voice is just-awake sandpaper, rasping at the back of his throat. ] Morning.

Ooh, listen to you, [ Astarion teases, grinning with a sort of bleary, early morning fuzziness in his gaze. So early that his hair still sticks up unflatteringly in the back, not yet having been smoothed down by his careful hands. ] Sultry.

[ It actually is unbelievably attractive. Iorveth's voice so often has a sharp edge to it, and although he doesn't particularly mind it, hearing him sound groggy and gravelly fills Astarion with a warm satisfaction. He sighs, dreamy and a little melodramatic. ]

You really are terribly alluring.

[ More so now than ever, soft and unshielded and blinking sleep out of his eyes. Astarion presses a firm kiss to his lips, then pulls back and sighs again, more melodramatic this time. ]

If not for the others [ —professional cockblocks that they are— ] I'd be having my wicked, wicked way with you right now.

[ Astarion pulls back, but the combination of those words and the warm, drowsy comfort of being pressed close prompts Iorveth to give chase. He presses their mouths together again, coaxing Astarion's lips open just enough for him to be able to trace teeth with tongue, humming with light contentment when he feels the sharp point of one fang.

Unbelievable, the way Astarion makes Iorveth want him. Iorveth doesn't buy for a second that Astarion would actually do anything "wicked", complicated as his relationship with sex is, but it's sweet of him to leave intimacy on the table as an option.

Iorveth dips his head down, and bites softly against the pretty jut of Astarion's jaw. ]

A pity. [ His voice is muffled, his mouth still pressed to skin― he wonders if he could get away with leaving a mark somewhere. ] That leaves me to contemplate your wicked ways for the rest of the day.

[ Sleep-coarse and pleasantly drowsy, half-joking and half-serious. Iorveth lets lazy fingers dip to the small of Astarion's back, just above the waistband of his pants, tracing the seam idly without clear intent. An indulgence. ]

Distracting.

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