essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Astarion would have taken the tease as an insult tendays ago. Maybe it really would have been. It's strange, how Iorveth can say the same things but seem so different. His words don't cut so sharply anymore, more a pleasant scratch with a dull fingernail than the knife's edge they'd been previously. He doesn't even mind hearing Iorveth's assessment of how frequently he talks. In fact, he thinks smugly to himself that Iorveth seemed to like the way he was talking when they were in bed; a private smirk flashes across his face at the thought. ]

Aren't you clever?

[ It isn't sarcasm; his tone is warm, praising. He kicks his feet absently, cocking his head in thought. ]

Mmm. Perhaps something like 'Who's the most annoying person in the group?' 'Gale, of course.' [ Said loudly enough so that Gale can hear. ] —No, that's too obvious.

Anyone could come to that conclusion.

[ "Come on, let's give Gale a break", said no one in the room. Instead, Iorveth accepts the comment with all the matter-of-factness that says that yes, he does agree that Gale is the most annoying person in the group, and there's not really any room for debate there.

(The reality is that Iorveth is probably the worst person in the group. He's semi-aware of this.)

Plucking his hairbrush from his supply pile, he nudges Astarion and maneuvers him into a position that makes it easier for Iorveth to brush his hair. Cashing in on his victory at the brothel, which is a nice bit of inspiration for the topic at hand. ]

"What would you ask for after winning a round of cards?", might be casual enough.

[ No one would ever guess that Iorveth wanted to play with Astarion's curls as a reward. ]

[ Iorveth gets a handjob, Astarion gets a hair-brushing. A fair trade, all things considered. He needs a good hair-brushing regardless; he hadn't thought of it in the moment, but he finds himself suddenly horrified at the prospect of Gale's simulacrum transmitting the image of Astarion with bedhead to its maker. From his trance to all of that rolling around, he looks horrifyingly untamed.

Eager to have his hair look respectable, he leans his head toward Iorveth, offering him easier access. He can't recall the last time someone brushed his hair for him. Not after Cazador turned him, and probably not often before that, too. He must have been a child the last time someone did such a small but significant thing for him. ]

Or I could just ask you how torrid our sex life is.

[ The answer is like, soooo torrid, of course. ]

[ Astarion's hair is novel. Nearly all Aen Seidhe have dark, straight locks that extend straight down unless braided or coaxed; their closest tribal relative, the Aen Elle, are high elves with lighter but similarly-straight hair. Obviously, Iorveth has been in the company of non-Seidhe and seen men and women of different shapes and persuasions, but he's never been compelled to do anything but idly take note.

Now, sitting behind Astarion and mapping the artful way his hair jumps and curls with each slow drag of soft bristles, he feels oddly at peace. The sentiment persists, warm and alien despite the direction that the topic of conversation veers towards. ]

Laughably un-torrid, all things considered.

[ A snort, as he fluffs more life into pillow-matted waves. Iorveth is a freak. ]

Your claims of being a hedonist become more and more unconvincing with each passing day.

[ Honestly, Iorveth just sees a big, fussy cat half the time. A low of meowing and mass destruction and biting, but also a lot of sweet nudging and curling up against something warm. ]

[ Astarion keeps his face forward, concealing the small frown he makes at Iorveth's comments. Perhaps it's true that he isn't quite the hedonist he purports himself to be, but it's also true that he doesn't want to be boring. He certainly doesn't feel like Iorveth is only interested in him for sex, but there's a small little voice in the back of his head that insists that his sparkling personality alone won't be enough to keep Iorveth—or anyone—satisfied with him. If their relationship is torrid enough, maybe he'll be enticed to stay. ]

I was only afraid to scare you off. Honestly, darling, I thought you might be rather vanilla.

[ Says the man getting his hair brushed. In truth, depravity became commonplace a long time ago. Even at his best moments, it still felt like more of a job than a pleasure. What's exciting is getting touched gently by someone who actually likes him, having nice things said to him. Gods, maybe he is boring.

He turns over his shoulder to face Iorveth, grinning his most roguish grin. ]

If it's hedonism you want, I can certainly oblige. I live to please— or, well. [ Whatever the undead version of that is. ]

[ Adding some finishing touches to stubborn curls in the back, Iorveth tries not to let the phrasing of that last sentiment sour his peaceful mood. Astarion lives to please. As much as he knows that it's probably not that deep, Iorveth hates the implication behind it, hates the idea that Astarion will mold himself to whatever is expected of him from any given person in order to feel safe.

It's something Iorveth can't relate to. All his life, he's been rebelling. Fighting for the right to be. The unimaginable degradation of being forced to submit twists his gut; he never wants Astarion to have to debase himself like that ever again, and especially not in front of him.

Two tendays ago, he would have pulled away and made space between them. "How dare you imply that I need you to please me". Now, he sets the hairbrush aside and loops his arms around Astarion's middle, chiding only with a squeeze and a sigh. ]

Idiot. I want you only as you are. [ A soft snort, and he adds: ] But I will grouse if you deny me your mouth for too long.

[ So he says. If Astarion tells him not to kiss again for a week, Iorveth is sure he could do it― it's the rest of the group that'll have to suffer his terrible mood. ]

[ I want you only as you are, he says. On a rational level, of course Astarion knows that Iorveth means it. On an emotional level, it's difficult to fully believe. Iorveth might think that he wants Astarion as he is, but what if that changes? He's the first person to truly care for Astarion in centuries, and the possibility that one day he'll wake and realize what a mistake he made looms large.

Astarion's insecurities aren't Iorveth's problem, though, and in fact he'd hate for Iorveth to know the extent of them. They're a horrible turn-off. Besides, what he said was sweet, intolerably so, and it deserves only to be rewarded.

He turns in Iorveth's grip, pressing their mouths together in a light, chaste kiss. Laughably un-torrid indeed. ]

I wouldn't dream of it.

[ Honestly, he really wouldn't. It would be denying himself attention, and then he might shrivel up and die. ]

Tell me, [ he says, running a hand over his newly-brushed hair, ] do I look beautiful enough now to go investigate mysterious disappearances?

[ Stifling the semi-frown that threatens to tug at his lips ("has it actually sunk in that I'd hate it if you felt like you have to be performative"), Iorveth accepts the peck and decides to leave it at that. He'll let himself be more annoyed if he still hasn't gotten through to Astarion in a few decades' time.

Anyway. Iorveth still kind of wants to tell Gale to fuck off and then spend the rest of the dwindling day kissing every inch of Astarion's body, but since he's been reminded that they have things to do: ] Too beautiful. There's no chance that whatever deranged individual we'll cross paths with today will appreciate your looks.

[ Like, it'd be nice if their enemies set down their arms simply because Astarion is too pretty to quarrel with, but Iorveth has also demonstrated in the past that that isn't the case. He lets go of Astarion grudgingly, adjusting one last curl so that it artfully frames Astarion's pretty ear, and gets up on his feet to change into a pair of trousers that look a little less slept in. ]

I suggest wearing something that you wouldn't mind getting blood on.

Darling, normal people don't have things they wouldn't mind getting blood on, [ he says with a crinkled nose, as if he's in any way 'normal'. Still, he hops off of the bed and crouches on the floor, digging through his pack for his least flattering outfit. The idea that Iorveth will see him in his least flattering outfit is horrifying, but he'll have to make do. He'd steal from Gale again if he weren't lurking around.

As he searches, he pauses contemplatively. ]

Mm, but I suppose blood stains are a sort of statement piece.

[ In a way. He fishes out a leather jerkin and his most worn pair of pants, standing and shedding his current clothing before slipping his new, less fashionable outfit on. ]

And the gods know I look good in crimson.

[ Astarion in his least flattering outfit is probably most people's idea of "traveler's chic"; it's less about what the person is wearing and more about how they wear it. Iorveth, on the other hand, unceremoniously tugs on an ill-fitting gambeson over his plainest shirt, attaching all of his straps and gear onto it with the aura of a man who hasn't cared about what kind of viscera he gets onto his clothes for far too long. ]

Mm. [ Vague assent, as he adjusts his collar and makes sure the ring on his chain is tucked securely under his clothes. ] Admittedly, the first time I ever felt attracted to you was when you were covered in blood.

[ Way back towards the beginning of their journey, when they'd killed the Zhents in their trap-infested hideout. Something he can still recall with alarming clarity. ]

Says something about the state of my sanity, doesn't it.

[ As he hefts his poor bow, which has remained largely unused the past few days. There really is no strategic advantage to having an individual ranger in an urban setting, but Iorveth refuses to go anywhere without his long-range weapon on principle. ]

[ Astarion steps into his boots and sheathes his dagger on his belt. Iorveth is right in his assessment; the urban landscape makes long-range weapons significantly more difficult to fight with, and Astarion has never been a fan of doing anything difficult. Besides, he rather thinks his dagger and Iorveth's bow balance each other out nicely. (And isn't that the most embarrassingly infatuated thought he's had all day? They complete each other, he thinks. Ugh.) ]

Gods, it really does! [ he replies, appalled for all the wrong reasons. ] You should have been attracted to me the moment you saw me.

[ One would think Iorveth lost both of his eyes, not just one. Astarion sighs, reaching out to fiddle with Iorveth's gambeson, taking it in at the waist. ]

You really should let me tailor your things.

Edited (sits up in a cold sweat realizing i used the wrong words) 2024-10-13 02:51 (UTC)

[ One of these days, Iorveth is going to have to sit Astarion down and show him, via tadpole connection, what he'd looked like at the site of the Nautiloid crash: eminently suspicious, posing dramatically and asking for help without actually looking distressed in the least. He really thought he was doing something, when, in fact, he was doing far too much.

(Like Iorveth is one to talk, though: Lae'zel could show Astarion her first encounter with a half-drowned wood elf caught under a Nautiloid tentacle, and Iorveth would have to admit that it was extremely humiliating.)

Anyway. Clothes fussed with, Iorveth tips his head and curls his lips into a sly grin. ]

I took this gambeson from a human who thought he could ambush me while I was bathing.

[ Ah, fond memories. He points to a stain on the garment's collar, a splotch of brown-red in dark green fabric. ] I broke his nose and left him unconscious by the riverbed, as naked as he'd found me earlier. A funny story.

[ Is it funny?????????? It is to Iorveth. ]

[ Iorveth has an interesting sense of humor. Astarion only quirks a brow, smiling faintly in amusement. ]

You should have killed him— but we all make mistakes.

[ At least Iorveth got some clothing out of it, but the affront of being interrupted during one's bath is unforgivable. Astarion hated having to bathe in front of the other spawn in that dingy old washtub. Never a moment of privacy. (Not unlike now, actually.)

He smooths the fabric down against Iorveth's muscled torso, partially only to have an excuse to feel him up and partially to improve the look of this wrinkled, poor-fitting gambeson meant for a stocky human and not a lithe elf. Oh, what he wouldn't give to be set loose on Iorveth's clothing with a needle and thread. ]

You still look handsome, but if I'm going to take you to a soiree, you really can't be wearing clothing stolen from a human.

[ Not that he's been invited to any soirees, but he can certainly invite himself. ]

[ Too big around the middle, too short at the sleeves. Half of Iorveth's forearms are left uncovered, and the angry-red bitemarks that Astarion'd left on his skin are visible from where the gambeson fails to hide them. A non-issue; Iorveth hadn't wanted to conceal them anyway. ]

I've already agreed to letting you dress me however you wish. [ Were those Astarion's card-game winnings? Iorveth was definitely too drunk at the time, and wasn't keeping track. ] As long as my prick is covered, do with me as you please.

[ He really has no attachment to his appearance, so whatever sparks joy for Astarion is what he'll allow in this hypothetical soiree situation. A quick half-smile, and he takes one of Astarion's hands to inspect. ]

Though there is an appeal in wearing something you had a hand in crafting. [ He notes, tracing over Astarion's knuckles and tracing along the bend of his clever fingers. ] Almost like being a weapon sharpened by your hand.

[ Astarion isn't a swooning noblewoman, so it shouldn't please him so much to simply be touched on the hand, but it does; his white cheeks color with satisfaction even as he tries to suppress it. It feels terribly intimate for someone to touch his hands like this, like they're something special, and not just because they're good at getting people off. ]

You are ridiculous, [ he says warmly. Iorveth is awfully strange, but somehow it's become charming rather than off-putting. He's more precious than a mere weapon, Astarion thinks, but perhaps Iorveth sees it differently. That bow of his is something cherished. Maybe he sees a weapon as something worthy of being loved.

With his free hand, Astarion combs Iorveth's hair to the side, out of his face. ]

You're plenty sharp already, but I don't mind keeping you in tip-top shape. You know, it came as a surprise, but I rather like caring for you.

[ Except for all the times that having feelings made him so distressed that he felt like retching, but he doesn't need to bring up those right now. ]

[ Ridiculous. Iorveth's heart does something stupid in his chest, a flutter-jolt that makes his next breath catch in the back of his throat. ]

Only you could.

[ Care for someone like him, Iorveth means. Astarion, sharp and shrewd and utterly without a plan, with self-destructive self-preservation instincts and a jaded outlook on life only matched by the boundless potential of his big heart. Astarion is a mess, a walking contradiction, a terrible judge of character.

Gods, Iorveth is smitten. "You shouldn't have hitched your wagon to this horse", he wants to say, but he can't. Instead, he kisses Astarion's palm, and doesn't mind at all that there's no pulse under pale skin. ]

A good thing, that I only want to be cared for by you. [ He means this sincerely; he's never wanted to be perceived as someone who needs a kind touch or any measure of care. Even now, he'll only accept it from Astarion: he murmurs I trust you in Aen Seidhe, and lets go. ] ...No more out of you, unless you want to be pinned to the bed again.

[ Poor Gale is just waiting for these two to leave. Iorveth, unfortunately, has not spared a micromoment of thought for the wizard's predicament. ]

[ Surely the other Aen Seidhe must care for him, and their companions most certainly do. Selfishly, he hopes no one else cares for Iorveth in quite the way Astarion does; he'd be jealous in the most ugly way. He doesn't argue the point, because it makes him feel fuzzy inside to be told that Iorveth wants his care and no one else's. ]

Oh, I do.

[ He'd much rather Iorveth press him into the mattress and kiss him into oblivion than chase after some missing civilians who he couldn't care less about. It's not like anyone important disappeared. Lae'zel's word is unfortunately law around these parts, though, and he is rather anxious to know whether his freed spawn are behaving themselves. ]

—But I'd expect our audience to pay for that show, [ he grouses, raising his voice in an obvious attempt to insult poor Gale, who has nowhere else to go. It was one thing to please Iorveth in semi-public, but Astarion can't bear the thought of his own pleasure being witnessed. He's only just begun to tolerate it existing.

A melodramatic sigh accompanies, ] I waited two centuries for you. I suppose I can exercise some—ugh—patience.

[ Patience really isn't his strong suit, so he does still expect to be showered with adoration at various intervals throughout the day. For now, though, he's content with simply sliding his hand into Iorveth's and tangling their fingers together before tugging him along. ]

[ Patience, Astarion says, while also twining their fingers together, presumably with every intention of keeping their hands held for the rest of their journey. Sometimes, Astarion is so cute that Iorveth can't stand it.

Out they go, finally leaving Gale alone to do whatever it is that weird human wizards do on their free time. Since Iorveth is the one with the map, he eventually takes point after Astarion's initial tugging and leads them both towards the area circled in red―

―but not without stopping by a few food stalls on the way. He's hungry. Pastries and flatbread wraps disappear as soon as Iorveth purchases them, nearly inhaled; he only slows down for dessert, and contentedly crunches his way through a packet of sweet fritters as they get closer to their destination. ]

For a neighborhood meant to be plagued by unnatural disappearances, [ he notes around a mouthful of sweets, ] everything looks remarkably normal.

[ A wide, bustling street with red-roofed houses lining neatly-cobblestoned paths. Almost idyllic, with a nice view of the Chionthar. Iorveth licks powdered sugar off his fingers, trying to identify what would be off about a place like this.

It turns out that he doesn't have to speculate for too long: a few beats later, something in the house nearest them goes off with a ground-shaking bang, and a gust of flame-heated air blasts them from shattered windows, causing Iorveth to drop the rest of his food and to instinctively pull Astarion closer to his side. ]

Hells― [ he snaps, squinting through the cloud of smoke starting to spill from the semi-burning building, dragging both himself and Astarion away from a second blast that never comes. Instead, a petite drow woman sprints out of a smouldering side exit and nearly collides into the both of them, chanting "hot, hot, hot". ]

Edited (i better not find anything else wrong with this tag) 2024-10-13 15:56 (UTC)

[ Astarion doesn't have to see her to know who she is; that fetid blood of hers fills his nostrils instantly, made worse by the faint burns on her skin. He nearly doubles over to puke at the pungency of it all, but instead it's he who yanks Iorveth closer this time, glowering.

Araj is awfully peppy for a woman whose pant leg is still on fire. She pats it out, grinning from ear to ear as she says, "I can't believe it! It's even better than I—" As she glances up from her singed clothing and meets Iorveth's gaze, her eyes widen in recognition. "Oh, it's you!"

Her voice sparkles with an excitement that makes Astarion bristle, but he can't find the words to speak up. Something about this woman makes him feel terribly small, which makes him seethe. Apparently, his scowling is enough to earn her attention; she glances at Astarion next, saying, "And your vampire. What fortuitous timing you two have." ]

[ Iorveth only really half-remembers this woman. In contrast to her sparkling recognition, he has to make a concerted to pull up memories of encountering the drow while Lae'zel was busy speaking to Moonrise's quartermaster: he recalls grudgingly giving the drow his blood so as not to rouse unnecessary suspicion, and also refusing to let Astarion bite her because she was being incredibly weird about it.

Iorveth didn't even particularly care for Astarion, back then. Now, when Araj says your vampire as if he's a kept little thing to be paraded, Iorveth recalls his gut instinct about this drow woman and pulls his expression into a sharp glower. ]

And how fortuitous for you that fate let you live this long.

[ If this woman is at all linked to the disappearances around here― and, if he's being honest with himself, even if she isn't― her luck's run out. It's meant to be a warning, but Araj hardly seems to register it as such, beaming her effusiveness onto the pair while murmuring a quick spell to heal the worst of her burns.

"Fate smiles on true genius. After all―" Her tongue darts out of her mouth, licking at her lips as her gaze slides to Astarion. "―It brought you two to me when I wanted you the most."

Absolutely disgusting. Iorveth subtly tenses against Astarion's side, but keeps his kneejerk revulsion to that invisible reaction. ]

...You needn't stay, [ he murmurs against Astarion's ear. The still-smouldering building is the red-marked spot on the map, but Iorveth can appreciate Astarion wanting to put as much distance between this woman and himself as possible. ]

[ Araj catches that murmur, and she tilts her head, white hair cascading onto her shoulder. It's unfair how good-looking she is; people like her should be hideous, Astarion thinks. She presses a delicate hand to her chest and says, "Is he afraid of me? Adorable, but utterly unnecessary."

She's right. He has no reason to fear her. Why, because she looks at him the way Cazador did, like a piece of dirt underneath her shoe? All drow look at men like that. Honestly, he shouldn't be surprised. ]

Afraid of that atrocious makeup, perhaps. Metallic red eyeshadow? You should be drawn and quartered for that offense.

[ Among others. She seems entirely unbothered, turning her attention back to Iorveth.

"You know, you're even more— incendiary than you appear. Come in," she says with a sweeping motion toward the scorched building. "I have a proposition you're sure to find explosive." ]

[ Laying it on a bit thick, Iorveth thinks. Obviously, she means to infer that the blood he'd donated before is the cause for whatever the hells happened here, and Iorveth finds himself as repulsed by that idea as he is by Araj's general demeanor.

His blood. The blood of the Elder People, proud Aen Seidhe. Blood that he's pledged to Astarion, perverted by this woman to be... what, weaponized? His fingers flex at his sides just thinking about it, itching to curl around the handle of his bow, spurred by the instinct to just kill the drow and be done with this.

He doesn't. They should at least learn all that they can before they decide what to do with her. Iorveth huffs, regarding both the woman and the building with harsh scrutiny, but obliges her request to enter with a leonine grace that persists even after he's greeted by the acrid scent of burning furniture and―

―something stale, masked by the sting of chemicals. He steps over broken floorboards and sidesteps a cascade of falling plaster, keeping Astarion close. ]

Whatever you've been hard at work on is liable to be dust by now, [ he observes, watching as parchment burns merrily on a blast-broken desk. Araj laughs, situating herself near the top of a flight of stairs leading down to a suspiciously-intact ground floor, positioning herself so that the pair can't slip past her.

"No need to worry about that. It's not something I'm liable to forget anytime soon." Her voice is breathy and melodic, which grates on Iorveth's nerves. "A truly world-altering breakthrough, all thanks to your generous contribution."

She glances at Iorveth's arm, where she'd drawn blood from back at Moonrise; noting the bitemarks peppered on his skin, she presses her fingers to her clavicle again with a soft gasp.

"Oh! You really are generous, aren't you. And in an enviable position." She flutters her touch up to her own neck, exposing its graceful curve for Astarion's scrutiny. "If your sweet little charge is still hungry, my blood is his to taste." ]

[ Astarion keeps a hand curled around the crook of Iorveth's elbow, the press of his fingers somewhere between possessive and protective. He doesn't know whether he wants to cower behind Iorveth or step out in front of him and tell the damn drow off for even daring to speak to Iorveth. Both, maybe. Instead, he keeps beside Iorveth, plastered against his side so that even their shoulders are touching. The warmth of Iorveth's body is soothing, comforting.

This workshop of Araj's is not. The furniture has burnt to ash, dark, foul-smelling smoke wafting from the rubble. The taste of acrid ash coats his tongue, and he makes the executive decision to stop breathing. The weakened wood planks creak beneath their weight as he stares down at Araj, lip curling. ]

Oh, I think I'm quite full, thank you, [ he snaps back, although it's more high-pitched and theatrical than he would like. ] My dignity isn't for sale. ...Anymore.

[ "Pity," she replies. "The offer, of course, always stands." Her ruby-red eyes flick to Iorveth's face. "Perhaps you'll be more amenable. The alchemical breakthroughs I've been making with your generous donation are unparalleled, but if House Oblodra is to return to its former glory, I need... more."

Astarion unconsciously tightens his grip around Iorveth's arm as Araj descends the staircase and returns with a murky bottle in her hands. The smell is even worse than the burning furniture, gods, even worse than her. It smells wrong in every way, pungent and sour.

"Formula Gruna," she says pleasantly. "Drink this, and you'll help usher in a new world of innovation." ]

[ Gods, they can't go a single day without some unhinged psychopath leering at them and wanting their blood. That said, Araj makes Petras seem almost cute by comparison; Iorveth can't stand the way she makes Astarion wear his defensive masks again, and makes sure to tip his head for a light press of his lips to Astarion's temple during the drow's brief absence.

"We should have stayed in bed," he mutters as Araj comes back with the formula. It's repulsive to think that someone could have taken his blood to make something so vile with it, and he instinctively shrinks away from Araj's well-manicured hand when she extends it to him, bottle held between her gloved fingers. ]

A new world I want no part of, [ he snaps. It's irritating how unflappable the drow remains, even after all this rejection― all she does is hike one shapely brow and click her tongue against her teeth, as if she's speaking to lesser beings that have no chance of understanding the extent of her intelligence.

"And whyever not? You can see how much latent potential your blood holds: the evidence is all around you!" She punctuates her assertion with a grand sweep of her hand, gesturing to the destruction all around them. "Just imagine the power you could wield. Your blood, a perfect weapon should you choose to use it. And all you would need to do, my dear bleeder, is drink my formula."

Iorveth shudders. ] ...Let me confer with my companion. Outside.

[ Obviously, he has no intention of drinking the putrid thing, but he wants a moment to regroup with Astarion in tow. Araj acquiesces with a singsong "of course, but try not to take too long," and returns to her station at the top of the stairs.

After tugging Astarion back out into daylight: ] We really should just kill her.

[ Being out of Araj's presence feels good and smells better. Astarion takes a good sniff of the fresh air, scolding himself for ever taking it for granted. Whatever formula she wanted to ply Iorveth with had the most awful aroma, and he'd sooner drink congealed blood from a tenday-old corpse than put something like that in his own mouth. Luckily, it seems they're on the same page, and Astarion sighs with relief, shoulders untensing. ]

Thank the gods. I was hoping you'd deny her. Whatever she has planned for you is as vile as she is.

[ His hand hovers over the handle of his dagger, fingers tapping restlessly against it. ]

I certainly wouldn't miss her. And one could argue that we're doing the city a favor by ridding it of scum.

[ Not that he cares much about that. He just wants to wipe that imperious smirk off of her face by any means possible. The others won't be happy, of course, if it means they fail to gain any information on those disappearances, but it's difficult to care. ]

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