essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ He doesn't even mind Iorveth's morning breath, yet another realization that inches him closer to the idea that he likes Iorveth far too much. The smile on his face is full of embarrassing adoration, and although he tries to wipe it off, he finds himself unable to. ]

Good.

[ Said with the spoiled tone of a brat who wants Iorveth to be distracted by thoughts of him at all times. His hand creeps under the hem of Iorveth's shirt and crawls up his back between his shoulder blades, feeling his comforting, sleep-warm skin. Despite the sweet nothings he's spewing, there's nothing lewd to it, the act more similar to a kitten curling around another. ]

You should think of nothing else but all of the depraved things I'd do to you.

[ It's telling, perhaps, that his fantasies still consist entirely of doing to rather than having anything done to him. The satisfaction gleaned from giving pleasure is simple, uncomplicated, undaunting. Receiving it is still another, more intimidating story. ]

[ Again, big talk for a sweet cat that promises to scratch but only ever manages to paw at him. Iorveth hugs Astarion's waist and tangles legs with him, fancying that his thoughts are probably a lot more impure than Astarion's are.

He says as much, but without too much heat behind the words. ] That, and all of the things I'd do to you in turn.

[ As ever, not a fan of only being on the receiving end; what's the point of sex if it's not mutual? If he just wants to get himself off, he has a hand to do that with. With Astarion, the goal is to make him melt; to pour enough affection in him until he understands that he's adored.

That's for Iorveth to know and Astarion to slowly find out, though. Very insidious of Iorveth, actually. He hums, soft, and closes his eye as if he could fall back into a brief early morning trance again. ]

I'm thinking of them right now, [ he teases, meditative. ]

[ He has half a mind to insist that Iorveth list every such thing in explicit detail, but there's a high chance of that only leading to an uncomfortable erection that he has to hide from their roommates. That's one reason he really should have ascended. Even with all of the ghosts in its walls, the privacy of a palace sounds good right about now.

Of course, there's something nice about this, too. Strangely without ulterior motive, just touching for the sake of being close, something he's never experienced before. It's always been a prelude to something more, but Iorveth is undemanding, expecting nothing in return. Novel. ]

You aren't thinking about it hard enough, if you can still lie there like that.

[ He should be mad with lust, obviously!! ]

Hmm. [ A displeased grumble. ] I fear we might have something less tantalizing to do today. I suppose, [ he says, sounding put out, ] we should see what my siblings plan to do with those spawn.

[ The last thing they need is for them to run rampant in the city. Even from a purely selfish perspective, Astarion doesn't need the city on alert for vampires. ]

[ Iorveth's remaining eye cracks back open at the mention of the other spawn. An unexpected topic, but also not: Iorveth'd assumed that Astarion would need a bit more coaxing before being convinced to address the issue again, but he's talking about it now, while they're still shaking off morning drowsiness. That's growth.

Who needs party members when life itself is a cockblock? Iorveth presses one last lazy kiss to Astarion's hair, and begins the arduous process of dislodging himself from his very comfortable position. ]

Not raise an army, I'd hope. [ Doesn't seem likely. After centuries of subjugation, conscription would probably feel too much like servitude again. Then again, what does Iorveth know about vampire sociology? The answer is nothing.

A displeased grunt, as he rolls to the other end of the bed. How he managed to sleep with Astarion before and maintain that polite inch of space, he has no idea.

Speaking of distance, though: ] You're sure you want me to come?

[ He recalls Astarion's discomfort in Cazador's mansion, the general uneasiness he'd radiated when Iorveth'd approached the spawn prisons. If it's too much to relive that again, Iorveth can make himself understand. ]

[ Admittedly, it's taken days and a meeting with Petras to make him willing to even think about the spawn trapped in that dungeon. He doesn't like the idea of visiting them again, but the idea of doing nothing seems untenable, too. What if his siblings let them out? What if they don't? As much as he'd like to stick his head in the sand and ignore it, he can't.

But, gods, what he'd give to just spend the rest of the day in bed, curled around Iorveth and kissing him all over his face.

The question takes him by surprise, and his eyebrows raise. ] I—

[ Iorveth seeing everything in the palace—and worse, its effect on Astarion—had been humiliating, but being there alone would have been the worst thing of all. Iorveth's presence had been grounding. Soothing. He reaches over for Iorveth's hand, letting his fingers graze the back.

With a humorless laugh: ] I'm not certain I'm brave enough to face it without you.

[ Gods, he's down bad. Iorveth, the certified champion of telling others to do things themselves and to find their own courage to see their business through, aches when Astarion says that he isn't brave enough. For a moment, his features furrow into a frown, the protest written clearly on the lines of his face― "you were brave enough to fight for your own freedom"― but lets the argument recede a beat later, as he tells himself that it's counterproductive to advocate against how Astarion feels.

Instead of pressing his point (an amazing act of restraint for him), he turns his hand over under Astarion's, and twines their fingers. ]

Then I'll stay by your side.

[ A light squeeze, and he settles his expression back to warm neutral. ]

It's no punishment for me. [ Being near Astarion has been infuriatingly good for him, to the point where he wonders if it isn't also very bad that he's so content in Astarion's company. Either way, Iorveth's accepted that he adores him. ]

[ That frown is a little frightening, and Astarion holds his breath (metaphorically). He'd be lying if he didn't expect to be rebuffed, or perhaps even chastised. Iorveth values independence; it would only make sense that he'd try to lessen Astarion's reliance on him. Astarion finds himself shrinking under his gaze, feeling suddenly ashamed for the admission.

When he acquiesces, every muscle in Astarion's body relaxes, and he crawls on top of him in a fit of affection, kissing him on the lips in a way not dissimilar to an excited Scratch licking their faces. Astarion has never had anyone to hold his hand through the scary moments, and he'd told himself that he didn't need it, but it elates him to know he doesn't have to suffer it alone. ]

You wonderful man.

[ He takes Iorveth's head in his hands, holding him in place so he can kiss him again, quick but firm. ]

You really must stop making me like you.

[ "Stop making me like you," Astarion says, while Iorveth also thinks "stop making me like you" between kisses. A weird mirroring of sentiments; Iorveth almost laughs, but the sound is muffled against Astarion's mouth.

When he has room enough to breathe again: ] I could, if I wished it. [ It is very easy to dislike him, he promises. ] But I like the shape of your favor.

[ Iorveth truly couldn't care less about currying anyone else's favor, and would actually take massive offense if someone accused him of fishing for approval. That said, making Astarion smile is...

...well, it's nice. Kill him. He sifts his touch through Astarion's sleep-mussed hair and cranes to kiss him again―

"Disgusting."

―when Shadowheart interrupts from beyond the curtains, her voice playfully singsong. "Are you two going to be quite so unbearably saccharine every morning?" ]

[ Oh, right. Other people exist. In the high of his happiness, he'd forgotten.

A flash of embarrassment runs through him, because he knows deep down that his behavior is only a few steps removed from calling Iorveth schmoopie. More than that, though, he feels strangely but entirely justified. He's certain he's unlocked a new level of feeling heretofore unknown. If the others had ever felt such fondness, they'd be saccharine, too. He pities them, really. ]

If you'd rather, [ he calls, ] we could be salacious instead.

[ "Please don't," comes Shadowheart's reply. He can picture her wrinkled nose and downturned mouth without even looking at her.

Another kiss pressed to Iorveth's face, this time to the tip of his aquiline nose, before Astarion peels himself away to perch on the edge of the bed and rummage through his freshly-laundered clothing for a shirt. Iorveth might be the type to wander the city streets shirtless, but Astarion is sure the infernal on his back would cause a commotion. ]

It's jealousy, of course. I can hardly blame her. The gith wouldn't know affection if it hit them over the head.

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