essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ Iorveth doesn't refute "idiot". He'd thought Astarion to be insincere at best, malicious at worst－ looking for an opportunity to twist Iorveth's arm and make him look, yes, a fool, which was a common turn of phrase back then. A man who would stop at nothing to drag Iorveth down to his level, whatever Iorveth had thought that to be.

So why the fuck did Iorveth enjoy acting a fool with Astarion? Must've been for the same reason that's just been articulated to him. He thinks about it briefly, sifting water over Astarion's bare shoulders with idle care. ]

I certainly didn't know it, either. [ A low hum, almost a chuckle. It's funny now, in hindsight. ] I'd assumed you just wanted to pull the rug out from under me.

Which is why you had to tell me to kiss you, that first time.

[ "I will kill you if you laugh at me", another common sentiment that Iorveth'd infused into every single one of his glares. ] But I'd thought about it, even before you demanded it.

—I didn't demand it.

[ Well. Maybe a little, but he had no other choice. Even after sharing a bed, stabbing each other a little, and Astarion's suggestion that Iorveth be his kept elf in his fancy castle, Iorveth had still been acting stupid. Like he couldn't believe that someone would ever even want to kiss him. Astarion had still been vacillating between love and hate at that time, endlessly curious and endeared against his will, but also terribly distrustful and constantly irritated by the things he had found less-than-perfect about Iorveth's personality. (He wishes he could go back in time and punch himself a few times for ever thinking Iorveth wasn't perfect.)

Facing Iorveth properly, he points an accusatory finger. ]

I just thought that, well, you weren't going to do it. Ever.

[ And he'd been curious what it would be like. He'd thought maybe that Iorveth might be rough, forceful in all things, but he'd surprised Astarion with how gentle he'd been, how featherlight. Iorveth had been right, Astarion supposes, with his constant complaints that Astarion didn't see him clearly. ]

Honestly, with how ridiculously chastely you tranced beside me, I had suspected that you didn't have any interest in, ah, physical pleasures.

[ Narcissistic, probably. He couldn't imagine someone lying that close to him and not wanting to sleep with him. ]

[ Hilarious. Astarion lays out that he thought Iorveth uninterested in intimacy, while Iorveth looks at that accusatory finger and thinks about putting it in his mouth. A private joke for Iorveth to smile internally about, while he leans sideways against the bath-pool's edge and watches steam curl artfully around Astarion's shoulders. ]

Mm. I think I told you that I would go to a brothel if all I wanted was to bed someone pretty.

[ Incredibly rude of him, in hindsight. But it was true at the time, and it's still somewhat true now: he doesn't want Astarion because he's hot and fuckable. He is hot and fuckable, mind, but that's not why Iorveth wants him. ]

I wanted to know you. You. The man who stayed when I told him not to, the man who agreed to sharing a bed when I felt I would die from how hollow I'd felt after killing Henselt.

[ He didn't show it at the time, nor talk about it; he can admit it more freely now, comfortable with sharing these vulnerabilities with someone he keeps so close to his heart. ]

And now, I know you. [ Or, well. He likes to think. A light laugh, and he lists even more into the water, limp and relaxed. ] And wanting you is a constant state of being.

[ He'd agreed to sharing a bed after assassinating Henselt because he'd thought Iorveth wanted to do something normal like fuck. He hadn't expected to actually just share a bed. A relief in many ways, but endlessly confusing and a little offensive, actually. (Very 'I don't want to fuck you, but why don't you want to fuck me?')

A moment of watching Iorveth slack-limbed and calm, before Astarion places his water-warmed hands on his shoulders to manhandle him around, his back to Astarion's front. He wets his hands, cupping water in his palms and pouring it over Iorveth's hair. ]

Well. I thought myself uninterested in physical pleasures, too, at any rate.

[ He hadn't exactly burned with lust for Iorveth, not to begin with, and the first sparks of desire had made him feel uncomfortable, ashamed. ]

I suppose I must have enjoyed pleasures of the flesh before, [ he muses, idly. Never after Cazador, but before that. Surely he had his way with whichever good-looking person caught his eye. His disinterest in delayed gratification seems an inborn personal trait. ] It does seem like me.

[ He reaches over to grab a (purple, of course) vial from the side of the pool, opening it and sniffing it before shrugging and emptying it out into his hand. It smells clean. Good enough to wash Iorveth's hair with, Astarion thinks as he runs his soapy fingers over that lovely, dark hair. ]

But I can't remember wanting anyone before you. [ Which is perhaps more due to the fogginess of his mortal memories than anything else, but he likes to think that he would remember anyone who meant anything. He never would have forgotten Iorveth. So: ] You're the only one worth remembering, regardless.

[ The existential horror of not being able to remember oneself. Iorveth can't imagine it, as an elf who has existed, iron-gripped and bloody-clawed, around his sense of identity－ it's unthinkable, the amount of torment that had to be inflicted on someone to make them have to forget who they'd been before their torture.

It doesn't make him happy, really, to know that Astarion can't recall. Too reminiscent of haunted, gaunt elves who'd forgotten how to live after being starved and mistreated. Iorveth leans back in Astarion's hands, nuzzling into the cradle of fingers pleasantly rubbing product into his hair. ]

I'm not worth so much.

[ Astarion should have been entitled to his past. Iorveth believes that, is still convinced of that, point blank. But he understands the sentiment, and it makes him ache. ]

Whatever you can't remember, rebuild. Find what pleases you now, and let no one tell you you've not earned it.

[ Another gentle turn between Astarion's hands, ill-advisedly pressing his damp cheek to a soap-slick palm. ]

[ It's a good thing Iorveth can't see his face, because Astarion scowls at I'm not worth so much. He is, because Astarion just said he is. Slightly irritated and resisting the urge to tug on Iorveth's hair, he instead tips Iorveth back into the water to rinse off. As he brings him back up: ]

Ugh. You're lucky I don't drown you.

[ His arms sling around Iorveth's shoulders, draping over his back. Even in the heated pool, Iorveth's body feels a little warmer than his. ]

You please me.

[ In every way possible. He fits his chin against the notch between Iorveth's neck and shoulder, arms tightening around Iorveth, somewhere between 'snug affection' and 'too-tight possessiveness'. ]

I could show you just how much, if you like.

[ Iorveth suspects that Astarion might drown him, but Astarion shows him mercy this time around. It wouldn't be the worst way to go, really, held under purple water by a beloved pair of hands.

Blinking water out of his remaining eye, he reaches backwards with one bath-limp arm (after wriggling it out from under Astarion's iron squeeze) and pets silver hair, enjoying the texture of it when it's damp. ]

A foolish question. I always like.

[ Warm, relaxed, with half a glass of wine in him. Iorveth nudges and nuzzles, shaking off some of that previous moroseness to settle into less complicated, more pleasant affection. ]

Nothing makes me want to fuck more than you wanting me, incidentally. [ Blunt. ] Hilarious, that you thought I had no interest in you. I only didn't because you had no interest in me.

[ Argument rises in his throat, but it never makes it out of his mouth. 'I was interested in you' would be a lie, and they would both know it. He'd only ever propositioned Iorveth because it had felt like what he was supposed to do, the only way he knew to interact with the world. Wanting had come later, after Iorveth had turned him down enough times to bruise his ego irreparably. It had been offensive, but also strangely comforting to know that Iorveth hadn't expected—or perhaps even wanted—any physicality from him. Ironically, it wasn't until he knew that intimacy wasn't on the table that he ever wanted it.

All irrelevant. He wants it now — wants Iorveth, specifically. He hadn't ever considered that sex could be anything but a meaningless transaction between someone using and someone being used, but Iorveth taught him differently. ]

I'm interested in you now, [ is what he lands on, pressing his mouth against the skin of Iorveth's shoulder. ] Mad with lust, if you must know.

[ A grin behind Iorveth's back. He'll know it by the feeling of teeth against his damp skin. ]

Sometimes I fantasize about holding you down and having my wicked way with you until you can think of nothing but how much I love you.

[ Absolutely deviant, he thinks. ]

A villain.

[ Iorveth laughs, full-throated, matching Astarion's grin. ]

So much of my head is already full of you, and you'd occupy even more of it.

[ It's true－ all the unhinged plans, the cogs and gears turning and grinding, are part and parcel of the future Iorveth wants to make with Astarion. What they should do, where they can go, how they can maneuver to be safe and secure. His current world boils down to this silver-haired menace and the chaotic mess they make together; Iorveth is a lost cause already, but Astarion would really be nailing the proverbial coffin shut if he decided to ruin Iorveth completely.

Very first world problems, though. Iorveth stretches, tangling fingers in damp curls, petting Astarion blindly while he presses back against a now-warm chest. ]

But, hm. I'd let you do the most heinous things to me, beloved.

[ Still laughing, craning back to kiss the side of Astarion's jaw. Iorveth knows that "wicked" in Astarion standards isn't actually so wicked at all; his vampire is very sweet, really. ]

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