essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ A low sigh, and Iorveth flops onto his back on the bed. He reminds himself to tug Shadowheart's proverbial pigtails sometime later as retribution for interrupting. Glancing over at Astarion's curled shoulders and exposed back, the scars on his back shifting as he rummages for his clothes, Iorveth thinks, again, about his simmering desire to kiss each devastating scrawl of infernal carved onto pale skin.

Not today. He kisses below it, near Astarion's waist and away from the long lower line that dips almost down to his tailbone. ]

Let them say what they like.

[ He's endured worse scorn in his past from humans who found his loyalties amusing and alien; to Iorveth, it'd always been the sneering humans that were unnatural, their obsession with their own self-interests far more embarrassing than any Aen Seidhe's brazen admission of affection for each other. He still carries that chip on his shoulder, that kneejerk defensiveness. ]

What they have is theirs, what we have is ours. [ Finally sitting up, Iorveth reaches for the eyepatch that he'd left on the bedside dresser. ] But I'll not apologize to them for coveting you.

[ Brushing his hair back and snapping leather straps over his face, he hums. ] Though it could be that she misses having your time.

[ As he pulls his shirt over his head, his hair gets even more disheveled. He pats it with a hand, feeling for the errant strands sticking up, before he begins to smooth it down with his fingers. Only Iorveth is allowed to see him like this, fresh from his trance and entirely uncoiffed. ]

Hm, [ is his only reply. It's doubtful, he thinks, that any of their group is jealous of the time he spends with Iorveth. If anything, they're probably grateful that Iorveth has taken over vampire-minding duty. It's too early for insecurity, though, so he says, ] You know, I always thought she had a schoolgirl fancy for me.

[ Not. She's been obsessed with Lae'zel in one way or another since their band of misfits first met. She would have called it hatred, but Astarion has found that thinking endlessly of someone because they irritate you isn't so far from thinking endlessly of them because you adore them.

Tucking his shirt in, he adds, ] Take those vampire hunting supplies along, will you? There's no telling what we might find.

[ Freed spawn, perhaps, who are very angry with him and very hungry. ]

[ Maybe not a schoolgirl fancy, but definitely something friendly and tentative. Shadowheart, much like Astarion, had so little for so long― most of their current party shares that trait, actually. It's no wonder why they all stuck to each other despite all the ribbing about everyone being certifiably insane.

Iorveth finally gets out of bed to follow suit in the dressing business, deciding to choose a shirt that doesn't show much of his neck or collarbone today. Less temptation for hungry spawn. It's a pity that he has to cover up his tattoos in the process, but that's life.

As he pulls off his sleeping clothes and pulls on more battle-appropriate trousers: ] I should dip myself in garlic oil.

[ Is that even effective against vampire spawn, he actually has no idea. But he complies with the request to take their shared anti-vampire pack, and checks inventory after he finishes lacing himself into his gear: one more vial of holy water, three scrolls of sunbeam, a few stakes. The blessed daggers sit primly among the rest of the knickknacks, and Iorveth checks to make sure that the blade is sharp enough to his liking. ]

[ As much as Astarion would love for Iorveth to wear a deep V at all times, it's for the best that he covers up today. Astarion is leading him into the proverbial lion's den, after all; some of those spawn must have been starving for centuries, and Astarion's not entirely certain they'll be able to be reasoned with if they smell blood. He frowns, turning to Iorveth and doing up his buttons, right up to the throat. ]

Just try not to look too tasty.

[ Not that it'll matter. Astarion remembers his year in a coffin vividly. He didn't even have putrid rats to sustain him; when he emerged, he would have gorged himself on vermin if given the chance. He can hardly blame the spawn if they're hungry, but the thought of even one of them lunging at Iorveth makes him wrinkle his nose sourly. ]

If any of them makes a move, I won't hesitate to pierce their heart.

[ His eyes wander to Iorveth's pack. ]

We'll need to get rid of this when all is said and done, of course. Your people don't need to be supplied with vampire-killing weapons.

[ Just in case. ]

[ A small scoff at "try not to look too tasty", which is as reasonable as asking Astarion not to look too pretty. Maybe Iorveth should have bought some of the clown paint that the mummy at the circus was peddling, and painted himself sheet-white to look less alive.

Slotting the daggers back into the pack for safekeeping, Iorveth flits his gaze sideways as he pulls the strings of the pouch taut. He can read between the lines of Astarion's latter statement, obviously, and while the caution may be warranted, it still clouds his expression into a half-frown. ]

My clan knows what it feels like to be hunted. They won't touch you. [ He says, though he appreciates that reassurances are empty if they haven't been proven. Hard to talk to Astarion about the honor of wood elves when the only one he's met is himself and cautious, careful Ciaran. ] The humans are a different story. I'll discard the pack, if only to keep it away from their hands.

[ If any of them got even an inkling of an idea that anything happening to Astarion would ruin Iorveth, Astarion would be in grave danger. Not something he wants to think about at this precise moment, what with the spawn situation that needs addressing first.

On his feet, stretching: ] Will we depart for the palace now? Or will we wait until sunset?

[ Iorveth's reassurance doesn't give him much hope. Of course he'd defend the people who are most important to him. Whether they're actually as understanding as Iorveth claims remains to be seen. The idea of a gaggle of humans who might want to kill him doesn't sit well with him, either, but he says nothing. He'll face that problem when they come to it.

As for Iorveth's question— ]

Ah.

[ Astarion fiddles with a curl at the side of his face, the thought of departing now filling him with anxious energy. He might have been brave enough to suggest they go, but there's still a part of him that wants to put it off as long as possible. ]

I'm sure you have plenty of important things you need to do before we go.

A few errands, here and there.

[ There's always something to do. Jaheira has mentioned some strange goings-on in certain properties in the Lower Cities, and bade him to investigate if he ever felt inclined; he could get updates from Ciaran about how the transfer of power has gone, and if their dragon-in-disguise is comfortable with the new crown on her head. He could probably terrorize some humans for sport. Little luxuries.

Tipping his head to the side, his expression carefully evaluative: ] If you need your space, we could reconvene near the manse at sunset.

[ He's aware that he's been monopolizing Astarion's time for a good portion of the past few days. It's good to give a reminder that Astarion is in no way obligated to follow him if he wants to do something else; again, he's free now.

But. Just as a reassurance that he isn't trying to get rid of Astarion, Iorveth reaches and fixes a stray curl that's gone against the grain. ]

[ It isn't that he needs time away from Iorveth, exactly. It's just that he needs to psych himself up for the unpleasantness that's coming, and Iorveth doesn't need to be present for that. Thinking back of the way he'd acted the first time they entered the palace makes him feel sick; he doesn't want to humiliate himself this time. Iorveth had said his greatest desire was strength, but he doesn't want Iorveth to think he simply desires it. He wants Iorveth to think he is strong.

His smile is thin but unwavering. ]

All right.

[ Sunset. That's hours from now. He can certainly steel his nerves by then. ]

—Don't be late, or I'll start to worry Petras is nibbling on you.

[ With all due respect (which is not much)― ] You couldn't convince me that your brother is fearsome, even if he had a knife to my neck.

[ A slow drawl to deliver an uncharitable assessment about someone who is technically a part of Astarion's very fucked-up family. Iorveth will be nice to Astarion, but that's where his leniency begins and ends.

He returns the thin smile with a flicker of one of his own. Trusting, implicitly, that Astarion will be fine: he's managed well for himself all this time, ducking and weaving and threading through situations with the finesse of a survivor. ]

Later, then. [ As he slips the ring Astarion gifted him into his pocket. ] Don't start your reunion without me.

[ Just in case Astarion gets antsy and decides to muscle through it. A low laugh and one last press of his lips against Astarion's temple, and Iorveth is off. ]

[ Petras isn't particularly fearsome, but a hungry vampire is, and there's no telling whether he found himself another meal after their run-in at the circus. If he did, Astarion hopes he at least had the decency to eat his meal out of the public eye. A citywide panic over vampires won't do anyone any good, least of all him.

He heads out after Iorveth, unsure where he's going but certain he has to go somewhere. In the end, he finds himself sitting in the Flophouse, a mug of ale he has no intention of drinking in front of him. By pure habit alone, his eyes wander, looking for the drunkest, loneliest idiots in the tavern. The Flophouse was one of his favored hunting grounds, after all. It's hard not to feel like he's on the prowl again. How many of the spawn under the palace were the drunk, lonely idiots he met here?

Today's idiots get to survive another day, of course. A few people strike up idle conversations with him, but he has no interest in seduction anymore, so the dialogue is half-hearted at best. Exchanges about how awful the swill is here, gossip about a Fist who got thrown out of Sharess' Caress yesterday after a blow-up argument with his lady love. Nothing scandalous.

Sunset rolls around, and he's late arriving to their meeting. The walk from the Flophouse to the manse is one he's made many times before, but it's difficult to make his feet move. They should just ignore this problem and hope it goes away, he thinks. Then he imagines a city overrun with ravenous vampires, their fangs piercing Shadowheart's throat or Jaheira's wrist, and he knows he can't.

By the time he scurries toward the mansion, the evening sky is getting dark. A pang of anxiety hits him at the idea of Iorveth loitering around here alone after dark, and he picks up the pace. ]

There you are, [ he says when he reaches Iorveth, as if he isn't the one who's late. He winds his fingers around Iorveth's wrist, more out of a protective instinct than affection this time. ] I was hoping you hadn't gotten eaten yet.

[ It's the same old Iorveth waiting by the wooden door leading into Cazador's foyer, an elf-shaped shadow with its arms folded across its chest. Intact and mostly unchanged from the morning, save for the chain around his neck that wasn't there a few hours ago, the gifted ring from the day prior hanging from it and settling near his clavicle.

Iorveth thinks to be annoyed by the fact that Astarion is late; a third of him is, but the another third understands why Astarion is late, and the last third is just pleased that he showed up. He knows he's got it down bad when he's giving out points for participation. ]

Don't sound too disappointed. [ Dryly, to the tune of "what, you wanted to be there for when I did get eaten?" ] The night's still young.

[ Dark humor, its edge filed down by the gesture following it: a gentle nudge of shoulder to shoulder. They haven't been apart for long enough for missing to have set in, but it's nice to see Astarion regardless. ]

The place has been unusually quiet. No signs of life or activity on the surface as far as I could tell― the servants must have come to their senses and fled.

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