essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

I'm not ready to rest. [ Said with all the petulance of a child being faced with bedtime. ] We only just got here, and you've barely even kissed me at all.

[ And there's still ink and a tattoo quill in that pack that needs using. Despite all of this, Astarion does make his way through the living room and into the nearest bedroom, discovering that the bed is, in fact, purple. Even the wood the bedframe is made of has a slight violet sheen to it, and the silky sheets are a deep wine.

Kicking his boots off, he flops onto the bed back first. ]

You know, taking on a vampire lord in his lair is very dangerous. Who knows how many more nights you have left with me?

[ True, actually, but also an excuse to make Iorveth spoil him with affection. ]

[ Iorveth peels off his own boots, and inspects the bathroom first (incredibly pleased with the gigantic tub, indifferent about the lavender and lilac bath salts) before weaving his way back to where Astarion is laid out on the bed, a silver pool on a bed of deep red-purple. Very striking.

Despite that very striking, very enticing layout, Iorveth lingers by the doorframe leading into the bedroom, scarred lips pulled into a half-frown. Not a scowl－ he knows that Astarion is being facetious about the limited time left, so his mood doesn't completely sour－ but tightrope-walking towards displeasure. ]

I don't even want to consider a world without you in it.

[ So no, he will not entertain the idea of how many nights he has left, because if he starts digging that hole, he won't dig himself out of it easily. ]

[ Iorveth's frown is the only one that could ever make him feel bad. Astarion sits up from his lounging position, frowning back, although his expression is more out of guilt than of displeasure. He's been intentionally hurtful before, but he doesn't like the idea of unintentionally hurting Iorveth with careless words. ]

I was only joking.

[ A world without Iorveth seems very bleak, and although it's difficult to imagine that a world without him would be the same—after all, Iorveth has a whole community to return to and care for, whereas Astarion really only has one deranged elf—he can understand the distress.

Patting the mattress beside him, he says, ] Come.

[ Astarion is the only person in any realm who could pat a mattress and tell Iorveth to come over like a loyal dog, and indeed, Iorveth wouldn't give a shit if people derided him for obeying. Why wouldn't he? Astarion is shaped like everything he's ever wanted, safe and sharp and beautiful, and Iorveth gravitates towards him, instinct cutting through the unease caused by mentions of their time together being cut short.

A moment of consideration after Iorveth sits next to Astarion's supine form, he settles sideways next to his elegantly-sprawled partner. An arm finds its way across Astarion's middle, hugging him loosely. ]

If you wanted my undivided attention, love, there were better ways to ask.

[ Slight chiding, but without fangs (ha). Iorveth leaves it at that, nebulous anxieties that never quite stop screaming at him relegated to a soft whisper in the back of his skull; his overactive mind never stops considering the possibilities of the world being inherently cruel, but Astarion is very, very, very distracting.

Calming, he presses his lips to the perfectly-shaped bridge of Astarion's nose. ]

How did you want to be spoiled tonight, then? With touch, or with words?

[ Astarion is very kind and doesn't mention that it still worked to get Iorveth's undivided attention. Asking for it outright would have been embarrassing! Despite craving Iorveth's undivided attention like a flower craves the sun, he still feels like he doesn't quite deserve it. It's a tight-rope walk between denying himself and demanding what he hasn't earned, but at the end of the day, Astarion has never been very good at denying himself.

He grins at the press of Iorveth's mouth to his nose, angling his head for a quick, playful press of lip against lip instead. ]

You would make me choose when both are so sweet?

[ This should be a tell that Astarion has already been spoiled. Over-spoiled. A brat that always demands more than he's due. ]

[ Should've known that Astarion would go for both. Iorveth has spoiled Astarion rotten, but he's of the (un)professional opinion that Astarion needs to get it in his pretty little head that he's valued and wanted－ you know, for balance's sake. Not undoing two hundred years of bad experiences, but trying to unburden Astarion of some of them.

A puff of breath, more affectionate than amused, and Iorveth nips at a soft lower lip. ]

If you can't choose, you'll have neither.

[ Blatantly a lie. Iorveth slides against Astarion, nuzzling down into his neck, mouthing at where his pulsepoint would be if he were alive. ]

[ Astarion hates the drawbacks that come with being a vampire, but he isn't particularly cut up about being undead, really. Still, he finds himself wishing that Iorveth could feel the flutter of his pulse against his lips the way that Astarion can feel Iorveth's. He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he were alive, Iorveth would make his pulse quicken, his heart skip a beat or two. Sometimes it almost feels as if he has, even though rationally, Astarion knows there's nothing in his chest but a cold, dead hunk of meat that hasn't stirred for two hundred years. ]

You say that, but—

[ He strokes Iorveth's hair, fingers tweaking the tip of his pointy ear fondly. ]

Honestly, darling, I'm not sure you have it in you to deny me.

[ For someone with a perpetual stick up his ass, Iorveth is surprisingly permissive. ]

[ Very rude of Astarion to call Iorveth out like this. That said, it's true that Iorveth is an elf-shaped piece of string wrapped around Astarion's slender finger, and he's aware of it in a way that should annoy him, but doesn't. Complicated. He's a free elf who does whatever the fuck he wants, thank you very much, but he's also a free elf that wants to do Astarion (ha ha).

A light shiver at the feeling of fingers along his cartilage, lifting his head just an inch to nip at Astarion's chin. ]

I recall denying you earlier.

[ A firm "no" to leaving him in times of trouble, in case Astarion forgot. Humming, he sits up and slides the hand on his head down to his mouth, kissing at cool fingertips. ]

But, mm. You've a point, I suppose.

[ Denying Astarion affection is probably not something Iorveth can manage. ]

[ Well, yes, Iorveth did deny him earlier, and it still rankles a little bit, but that's different. Iorveth is stubborn enough to deny leaving him a million times over, but Astarion imagines that he'd crumble instantly were Astarion to give him pleading eyes and ask for affection.

Which is exactly what he plans to do, actually. He lets Iorveth press a warm mouth against his cold fingers for a moment, before sinking against the pillow and making his eyes as big and wet and manipulative as he can muster. ]

Then don't deny me.

[ Hells. A hovering moment, here, where Iorveth watches Astarion from his half-upright vantage point on the bed, blasted in the face with the full force of Big Plaintive Eyes. It's not even the fact that Astarion is pretty－ though that helps, certainly－ that tugs the well-hidden cords of Iorveth's heartstrings; it's the thought of making Astarion go on the defensive if Iorveth does deny him after making him look like that.

But also, like. He's just cute. After taking critical spiritual damage (Astarion rolls a nat 20 on manipulation rolls against Iorveth every single fucking time), Iorveth flops down squarely on top of Astarion, pulling him into a two-armed embrace right afterwards. ]

You really are the most dangerous man I know.

[ To think that he would be bested by doe eyes. Shameful, probably, but can't bring himself to care. ]

I'd venture to Avernus and cut the horns off of Mephistopheles himself if you asked sweetly.

[ Astarion's sad, forlorn expression instantly gives way to delight as Iorveth gives into him, arms wrapping around him. He'd meant it when he said that he wasn't opposed to being swallowed whole, as long as it's Iorveth doing the swallowing. The feeling of another person's weight on him has always filled him with anxiety, but Iorveth's feels surprisingly safe, soothing.

Those cold fingers that Iorveth had kissed worm their way underneath the hem of Iorveth's shirt, flattening out against his back to soak up his body heat. Astarion really is a menace. ]

What a terrible romantic you are, Master Blackmane.

[ He still thinks it's kind of a sexy name, especially when it's one that's shared between them. Sue him! ]

How lucky you are that I only want you to stay right here with me.

[ Iorveth used to find cold hands slipping under his shirt a little disarming, but he's fully used to it now; it's more than likely that he'd find it unpleasant to have warm hands pawing over his bare skin. Invasive, unfamiliar.

Humming again, pleased to have Astarion's palm under his shirt, Iorveth snakes his own touch down to give Astarion's rear a light squeeze. More playful than lecherous, really－ getting away with it, more than any sort of heated intent. ]

Hm. I was going to propose that I do some reconnaissance during the day, while you trance... [ Because he assumes that that's when Alkam and his spawn will be hiding in their "rat holes", as the weird old woman put it". ] ...but, as you said. I couldn't deny you.

[ If Astarion wants an elf-shaped heater to hold while he rests, Iorveth likely wouldn't be able to say no. Not something to scoff at; Iorveth choosing to be impractical is A Big Deal. More light kisses to cool skin for punctuation, mouth on the jut of a collarbone to suck a pink mark over it. Very temporary, but pretty while it lasts. ]

[ Emboldened, his hands slide further up Iorveth's back, seeking out spots of tightness and pressing in against them, rubbing in circles to ease them. It's not much, but it's something; what Astarion would really like is to get Iorveth down on his stomach while he digs his thumbs into those muscle knots. And then, you know, does some other, much more inappropriate stuff to him, probably. ]

Don't, [ comes out automatically, the sentiment bypassing his brain entirely. It's only a moment later that he has the sense to feel embarrassed about it. ]

I, ah. [ He stumbles over his words before landing on, ] I don't trance particularly well without you near.

[ Trancing has historically been an unpleasant to middling-at-best experience. Restless, most of the time. Frightening, occasionally. It's only once he started sharing a bed with Iorveth that he ever found any peace in it. ]

[ It feels so good to have someone to bask in, to explore and trust with or without intent. Iorveth hadn't realized the extent to which his shattered face had eroded away at his inclination to let hands roam over him, how much he'd internalized some of the heinous things his human captors had said to him during his imprisonment; being with Astarion has given Iorveth more perspective that he didn't know he'd been lacking.

Something to linger on later. Don't, Astarion says, and Iorveth's first instinct is to gather Astarion closer against his chest. ]

Then I'll stay near. [ To keep it light: ] You need your so-called 'beauty sleep'.

[ Casual, but protective. Iorveth will kill phantom Cazadors while Astarion trances, if need be. Pressing more kisses to the spot where neck meets shoulder, littering pale skin with small pink patches that fade in a handful of seconds, Iorveth tries to press his affection into the outline of Astarion's body.

(The night hag tracking them from her shop in the Bridge District doesn't love that the two elves aren't sleeping separately, but she'll just have to deal.) ]

We'll have to tell the innkeep that the Masters Blackmane, plural, will stay inside today. We're not to be disturbed. [ Murmuring against the crest of Astarion's shoulder, kissing it over the fabric of his shirt. ] The one-eyed one is feeling particularly covetous of his beloved.

[ He loves to hear 'beloved', and he surprisingly adores to hear 'Masters Blackmane, plural', too. It's only a false identity, but he finds that the idea of them sharing a name sends a possessive little thrill through him all the same. Even he knows, though, that that's a conversation for another day. There's an order in which things are supposed to be done, and while they certainly aren't conventional by any means, it seems important to try to do something so monumental right.

Instead, he rolls over, shifting them both so that Iorveth is the one on his back and Astarion is sprawled out on top of him. ]

The 'one-eyed one'? [ he asks, disapprovingly. Iorveth's lack of an eye is hardly his defining trait, at least not in Astarion's eyes. ] Mm, the handsome one, perhaps. [ Punctuated by a kiss underneath Iorveth's jaw, before— ] Well. The other handsome one.

[ Because, let's be real, there's no universe in which Astarion isn't also handsome. ]

You are my greatest treasure, you know.

[ Out of all the shiny trinkets he's collected, Iorveth is still his favorite thing. ]

[ A blink, followed by a huff of bemusement. Even just a tenday ago, he might have said something along the lines of "your purse full of gold is your greatest treasure", but.

Growth. Iorveth lets himself take the compliment for what it is, and lowers his lashes in what might have been bashfulness in another life. In this one, it's affection-laced resignation. The gentle, happy kind. ]

I know. You always treat me as such.

[ Crazy, but true. An uncharitable way to describe it would be to say that Astarion only holds on so tightly because he's had nothing else before Iorveth― something liable to change now that Astarion is free― but that dagger-sharp cynicism has mostly (mostly) eroded.

And, well. Though Iorveth would always rather be the one spoiling than the one asking to be spoiled: ] ...Your treasure wishes to bathe before he's bitten. [ He tries to sound dry, but the tone doesn't land; too warm with affection to sound nonchalant, tch. ] He'd have you join him, and he'd have you share a glass of wine with him in the water.

[ A little easier, to make demands in the third person. If his ears look slightly more flushed afterwards, it's just because of the lighting, clearly. ]

[ His purse full of (Gale's) gold is his second greatest treasure. Iorveth is still his first, and yes, part of the reason he holds on so tightly--claws digging in and all--is thanks to two centuries' worth of neuroses, but that doesn't make Iorveth any less precious. He could have chosen anyone to get attached to, but he chose a deranged wood elf terrorist.

A deranged wood elf terrorist who looks unbearably cute with his ears turning red. Astarion reaches up to stroke them with his thumbs, feeling their warmth. ]

He knows I can't resist the idea of him naked and dripping.

[ Look!! Two hundred years of indifference at best and disgust at worst toward being naked with someone means that he's allowed to be obsessed with the first person he actually feels an attraction toward. ]

My love gets what my love wants, [ is an echo from days ago, soft and fond. ]

[ Again, the stroking to his ears feels nice. They're a point (ha) of pride, despite all the ways in which humans have derided the shape of his cartilage: he hasn't let many touch them because of it, almost as a defense mechanism, so it's good to trust someone enough to handle that sensitive spot.

A low sound of contentment, and Iorveth nuzzles up against the side of Astarion's face before tapping the small of his back. ]

Then I'll ready the bath. [ Not much to do since the tub is already full and enchanted to be warm, but whatever. ] Let the staff know that no one's to come into our room during the day, will you?

[ This place seems like it'd have people who'd try to clean their rooms every day, not that Iorveth has ever stayed anywhere so opulent; he has, however, been in the presence of people who were royalty-adjacent. Unexpected visitors, too, are a no-go, especially if they have red eyes.

So. Astarion gets bullying duty. Before he slides out from under Astarion's weight, Iorveth makes sure to kiss another mark on his neck, one that'll last a few minutes this time around. In case anyone still had doubts about Masters Blackmane, plural. ]

[ It's very difficult to tear himself away when Iorveth is sucking so enticingly on his neck—suddenly, he understands the appeal of having a vampire suckling at one's throat—but he does so, and quite valiantly, he thinks. One last peck for good measure, and he stands to leave, although not without throwing a glance behind his back at Iorveth. ]

You know how I love to order around servants.

[ Which he happens to think everyone in the world is. It's Astarion's world, and the rest of its inhabitants are simply living in it!

And in an instant he's off, pulling on his shoes to go clomp downstairs and do some bossing around. The Masters Blackmane will positively not be disturbed during sunlight hours! ]

[ Astarion "no one will ever treat me like a servant again" Ancunín, also Astarion "everyone around me are my servants" Ancunín. Iorveth is too far gone to feel annoyed by that particular bit of hypocrisy, and will let Astarion do whatever he likes while he sets up the bath (the water turns purple once he puts the bath salts in, because of course it does). Wine uncorked with two glasses sitting on the edge of the spacious pool, he makes the executive decision to wade in first and soak preemptively. A fox that likes water, who would've guessed.

Meanwhile, back down at the lobby, the staff are beginning to form varying opinions about Master Blackmane (the handsome one). "Pompous" gets thrown around once or twice. If Astarion cares to notice, there's a rather good-looking tiefling with long, dark hair and ruby-red eyes nursing a drink at the inn's open bar, tracking Astarion's movements from across the hall with an expression of bemusement and confusion.

In the bath, Iorveth has a sip of vintage red. ]

[ Astarion can hear the staff grumbling under their breath, but he doesn't let it faze him. You'd do well to stay in House Blackmane's good graces, he tells them. We're quite a prominent family in Cormyr. And, on the way back to the stairs, he adds, What are you looking at? Buy a portrait, it'll last longer.

Astarion really is awful when speaking to anyone who isn't Iorveth, and the anonymity of 'Master Blackmane' only bolsters his ego. He returns upstairs in a flurry of silver, kicking off his boots again after he closes the door. He makes his way to the tub, standing before it with his hands on his hips disapprovingly.

With a huff: ] I wanted to sensually undress you.

[ As much as he enjoys the sight... unfair. ]

Edited (got back on my computer and saw the horrors of phone tagging) 2025-04-24 00:45 (UTC)

[ Iorveth, lounging with his forearms resting on the edge of the pool, chin on damp skin and wet bangs sticking to his face: ]

You said you wanted to see me naked and dripping.

[ So, here he is. Relaxed, tan skin slightly flushed from warm bathwater, sharp edges filed down enough to make him look less like an unhinged terrorist and a little (just a little) more like what most people would expect a wood elf to look like.

Light-purple waves ripple around him as he sits up and moves to pour Astarion a glass, and beckons for him to undress and get in. ] Did you make sure that all of Athkatla will fear the House Blackmane?

[ Astarion crosses his arms. Yes, he did say he wanted to see Iorveth naked and dripping, but obviously he wanted to unwrap him first! With a petulant pout, he gets to ridding himself of his (Gale's) shirt, pulling it over his head. Afterward, he smooths down his hair just in case it got mussed. ]

Of course. Who do you think I am?

[ Maybe one day, the world will fear the House Ancunín, too. He'd hoped for it, back when ascension was still on his mind, but it seems a very faraway goal now. Certainly, no one fears his power now.

He unlaces his trousers next, letting them and his smallclothes pool around his ankles before stepping out and sinking into the water next to Iorveth. ]

Do you remember that first night we visited the bathhouse in Baldur's Gate? You refused to sleep with me. It was very rude of you.

[ There's strength in being a walking deterrent, even if it perpetuates certain cycles of violence. Iorveth, a nightmare elf that certain humans in the north speak about in hushed tones and through grit teeth, would know.

That said, he's very 'Iorveth NoLastname' right now, and not very 'Woodland Fox'. The burning inferno of his rage and indignation is a nice campfire in his chest, subsumed by cotton-soft affection that he wraps, unashamedly, around Astarion like an elf-shaped cloak. Water displaces around him as he closes the space between them, nothing polite or guarded about the gesture. ]

I doubt we'd be here now if I'd slept with you then.

[ Iorveth can't even imagine what that would have been like. Iorveth would have felt nothing about it, Astarion would have been disgusted by it, and they probably wouldn't have spoken to each other after. ]

You were irritatingly beautiful that night, though. I resented it.

[ 'I resented you,' he doesn't say, although it's true. He'd resented Iorveth for being able to reject him, being able to reject anyone at all. Iorveth had had the principles and power to choose who he wanted to be with, things Astarion had never had. He'd felt like the most disgusting, pathetic wretch on Toril watching someone exert their autonomy like that. ]

Yes, well—

[ He shrugs. ]

I suppose you thought me a very beautiful idiot, back then.

[ Still beautiful, though! ]

I did have fun that night, though. [ Despite the rejection. Despite everything, really. ] You know, I think I was already fond of you and didn't know it.

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