essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Trust is hard-earned; Iorveth dabbles with it only when he has to, and only for those who deserve it. Prideful, certainly, and injured by a world that doesn't give back half of what his loved ones bring to it.

So ultimately, he's fine with their arrangement. He didn't trust many to aid him with Henselt, and he doesn't trust anyone more than he trusts Astarion. It's fine.

Slumped back on soft pillows, less relaxed than before but still visibly comfortable being horizontal instead of vertical: ]

What gifts do vampires enjoy receiving? Virgins?

[ Blithely, but semi-playfully. He can't pretend to know the inner workings of vampire lords, but Astarion has spent (unwillingly) centuries with one. Again, he can defer to Astarion's judgment on this one.

Or Astarion can take the opportunity to be unserious. There's that, too. ]

[ A full turn over now, pinching the point of Iorveth's ear. ]

Well, if that's the case, I suppose you're out now that I've had my way with you.

[ He was out before, too, but obviously none of that truly counted. None of Astarion's sexual experience counted before Iorveth, and he's made a unilateral decision that the same applies to Iorveth whether he likes it or not.

After a moment of ear-tugging, he sobers. ]

They want what any king in his realm wants. Tribute. [ The more debasing the better, probably. ] Something that makes them feel powerful. The opportunity to watch the light go out of someone's eyes, I suppose.

[ Tugging on Astarion's proverbial pigtails, only to have his ear tugged in return. Iorveth huffs a soft laugh, bumping his head against the heel of Astarion's hand until the sobering topic of tribute is brought up.

Hard to think of how many people have fallen under Cazador's sword during the span of two decades (or more). Brought to him or otherwise. The fact that Astarion contributed to the vampire lord's reign (almost brought him to his ultimate goal, even) isn't lost on Iorveth, but Astarion is, as ever, the exception to all of Iorveth's rules. ]

The same as any human.

[ Minus Wyll and Gale, they don't count. ]

You could turn me in again, I suppose. An infamous elven terrorist as tribute. [ His favorite tactic. ] Unless you know of someone in Athkatla worth killing.

[ A pause. Turning Iorveth in again makes the most sense, of course, especially when he'd just said that he didn't want to involve anyone else in their plan, but the idea of Iorveth being any sort of tribute to a vampire lord also happens to make him full-body cringe, physically rejecting the thought like putrid blood. ]

...I'm sure there's someone in this city whose life has no value save to serve as bait.

[ If they die, then they die. If they get turned into a spawn — oh, well. It's Iorveth he can't stand the thought of that happening to.

Casual, with a waved hand: ]

Some ne'er-do-well or another that we can pluck up off the streets and tie up.

[ Again, it would be efficient for Iorveth to go out during the day to do some recon away from nightstalking eyes, but Astarion's already made his stance on that clear-- impossibly, his peace of mind is more important than pragmatism, so Iorveth shelves that idea again, alongside him playing bait. ]

Holy water, tribute-searching, and finding a way to get inside the right district. Not nearly as impossible-seeming as our ridiculous journey with the tadpole.

[ Alkam is a big question mark, still, but less imposing than a huge brain with the power to enslave all living creatures in Toril. Manageable, by those standards.

Iorveth scoots closer to Astarion, relaxed and warm, tangling one leg around his. ]

Chin up, hero of Baldur's Gate. What's a lowly vampire lord in front of a spawn who saved the world?

[ Biased, obviously, but still: Astarion is the strongest vampire Iorveth knows. (He doesn't know any other vampire, and that's the point.) ]

[ Gods. Astarion snorts unflatteringly. Hero of Baldur's Gate. As if. He's been the terror of it for two centuries, quite literally snatching innocents off of the streets and delivering them to his cruel master. Even disregarding that, there's nothing he did before that was even heroic-adjacent. He was selfish and mean, not unlike how he is now. ]

You're ridiculous.

[ Sometimes he worries that Iorveth sees too much good in him. Good that doesn't exist. He's not sure he's ever actually saved anybody from anything. That's the sort of thing Wyll does. He'd be surprised if the Blade of Frontiers weren't rescuing a kitten from up a tree right now. ]

—But you do make me sound very dashing.

You're a terror, [ Iorveth hums, ] but a dashing one, occasionally.

[ Neither of them are good people, and neither of them have ever wanted to be heroes-- Iorveth is aware. For a long time, all Iorveth expected was for fate to finally catch up to him and for his corpse to be thrown ignobly into a ditch; honestly, he still expects it, to some extent.

Not here, though. Not in Athkatla, and not by a vampire's hands. He flops, on his back and his chin tipped towards the ceiling, chest rising and falling with his inhales and exhales. ]

I'll make myself useful tomorrow. Not tonight.

[ Please let him be sex-brained for a few more hours. He's enjoying the extended afterglow, he finds-- the most uncomplicated he's felt in ages. ]

[ Astarion shifts onto his side so that he can run his fingers through Iorveth's still-damp hair, idly and affectionately playing with it. He'd meant it when he said that he enjoyed Iorveth's touch, in whatever form it takes; he craves being near him at all times, always longs to be connected at some point of contact. ]

You aren't clamoring to be productive?

[ Another snort. ]

Will wonders never cease?

[ Very uncharacteristic of him. As much as Astarion loves him in all of his overthinking and overplanning glory, he can't say he's mad about it. ]

I'll have to take advantage of you more often, if that's the outcome.

I could clamor, but you wouldn't like it.

[ Regarding productivity. If given permission, Iorveth would get dressed and hop out the window and start asking around about Mrel Alkam or anyone that the citizens of Athkatla would like to get rid of; the only thing keeping him from his usual unhinged quest to Get Shit Done is Astarion and all the ways in which he continues to feel like a person and a place that Iorveth wants to be close to. He wasn't being facetious about cutting his own trancing time to scout around during the day, but Astarion has already made his stance on that clear, and so Iorveth won't push it.

Instead, he sits in this moment. Pleasantly tired, ruined by all this affection. His eye cracks open, and he reaches to sift Astarion's mussed bangs away from his face. ]

Too full of you right now to scheme, I think. Hard to think of anything after being so well and thoroughly taken apart.

[ If Astarion hasn't noticed, Iorveth hasn't been vertical for a single second after sex. ]

Presently, I'm only good for being bitten and being marked. Do with me as you will.

[ Gods, Iorveth is such a freak. Astarion loves it, of course, and loves him. He arranges Iorveth's hair artfully over his forehead before moving down to cup Iorveth's jaw, thumb brushing against the sharp angle of it. The most beloved jawline in all of Faerûn, if not the whole world. ]

I wasn't certain if you were too spent to spare your blood.

[ He's hungry, obviously—always is—but he hadn't planned on partaking. Iorveth has already spoiled him, and besides, he knows that giving blood is likely exhausting. His own experience with it is limited, but he knows enough to know that one generally needs all of their blood. As selfish as he is, he can't find it in himself to be selfish with Iorveth.

Teasing: ] It would be understandable. I can be quite overwhelming to, ah, take in.

[ Giving blood is like drinking too much: great in the moment, not so much later. But Iorveth likes the way Astarion looks after he's gotten blood in his system, and he also can't stand the thought of him being hungry. There's been too much starvation in Iorveth's life for him to feel comfortable with its peripheral existence, especially if it's something that he can do something about.

That aside: ] Yes, beloved, your prick is so substantial that I could feel it in the back of my throat when you fucked me.

[ Also teasing. Dick size is neither here nor there for Iorveth, but if Astarion wants his ego stroked, well. He can do so, while also slightly tugging on pigtails again. Iorveth will never actually be embarrassed by how into it he gets whenever Astarion lets him be a freak, but he can make Astarion work for the compliments a little. ]

I felt my mind leaking out of my ears by the end of it.

[ Okay, this is true. Delivered with all the blitheness of a sarcastic quip, but with the slightest quirk of scarred lips. ]

[ Mood significantly improved now that they've dropped the topic of future vampire encounters, Astarion crawls back on top of Iorveth like a lapcat, pinching his angular nose. Every inch of him sharp and keen. Astarion can't imagine ever caring for anyone softer. Iorveth is perfect just how he is, jagged edges and all. ]

If you can still be sarcastic, [ he scolds before releasing Iorveth's nose, ] clearly I wasn't thorough enough.

[ It felt pretty thorough!! But there's always room for improvement, especially when one has a goal in mind. Case in point: ]

Next time, I'll make certain you can't even form coherent thought.

I thought we were to be mortal enemies, next time.

[ Allowing the pinch, crinkling his nose playfully once the hold is relinquished. There's still something miraculous about the fact that Astarion wants him at all, and Iorveth holds on to that feeling with pleasant contentedness as he slips one hand behind Astarion's nape and tucks that pretty face along the column of his neck.

(Outside the door: the handsome tiefling with red eyes has attempted to pick the lock of the Blackmanes' suite, to no avail. If Cazador embodied the vices of pride and wrath, Alkam is avarice and jealousy－ the spawn knows that his master will not love another spawn (he assumes, and wants to confirm) encroaching onto his territory.

The lock clatters again, standing strong, for now, against well-used tools. It's likely that the inhabitants are too far away to hear.)

Meanwhile, Iorveth kisses Astarion's hair. Treating him like the lapcat he really isn't, stuck to him like glue. ]

Though you couldn't stand me speaking sharply at you again, I think.

[ Face pressed against Iorveth's slightly-damp neck, Astarion inhales. Maybe he's a little bit of a freak, too, albeit in a different way. Iorveth's warm, sandalwood scent makes all of the (probably very few) neurons in his brain light up, and he presses his lips against tanned skin, mouthing harmlessly like a playful puppy. ]

I don't know.

[ He'd know it was only for show, and that Iorveth doesn't actually mean any of it. (At least, until Iorveth strikes a chord and Astarion blows his top during what is supposed to be sexy roleplay.) Another press of his mouth against Iorveth's throat, fangs catching against skin, somewhere between a threat and a warning. Foreplay, if sinking one's teeth into someone's neck can have such a thing. ]

If you irritate me too much, I'll just find another use for your mouth.

[ Iorveth can easily imagine how this might go: he'll be a little rough, say a few slightly mean things, and say one very mean thing that makes Astarion puff up and hiss at him. It's always a push and pull with them, one way or the other.

Enjoyable, though. As pleasant as the itch-pain of fangs grazing against thin skin. Craning his neck, Iorveth makes more room for Astarion to sink into what is quickly becoming a spot constantly marked by two little inflamed dots: the only reason it hasn't scarred yet is because Iorveth has been discreet enough, at least, to half-heartedly Cure Wounds himself the following day. (Only to close up the punctures, and not to make them go away entirely.) ]

Smart of you. [ A laugh, and Iorveth kisses the crown of Astarion's head. ] Usually, the first thing my captors or rivals do is try to make me shut up.

[ It is, in fact, the only way to stay sane around an unhinged terrorist with a sharp tongue. ]

But you'd only be doing me a favor if you try to shut me up with your cock.

[ Just so Astarion knows. This freak has an oral fixation, if Astarion hasn't noticed. ]

[ Iorveth is so blunt. He grins against the skin of Iorveth's throat, amused; straightforward in all things, he supposes. A small laugh escapes him, unnecessary breath blowing against Iorveth's skin. ]

Mm, I can think of a way to shut you up now.

[ First cock rings, now this!! He can't believe that he ever thought Iorveth uninterested in intimacy. He'd told himself that he was perfectly fine with that, and he had been at the time, but he can't imagine giving it up now. Iorveth is his perfect match in all ways: degenerate enough to be interesting, while still tolerant of Astarion's need to maintain control. No one else in the world could ever be such an ideal blend, he thinks.

His hand worms its way between Iorveth's head and the pillow, cradling it. Loving, even in this. Drinking from Iorveth is wholly different from drinking from anyone else, special and sacramental. His teeth break skin, still as purposefully gentle as he'd been earlier, and he laps at the blood beading on the surface softly, languidly. ]

[ Annoyingly (Blissfully)--

--it shuts Iorveth up. Teeth and tongue and adrenaline-serotonin, he lists into the bite and the drain, permissive only because he trusts Astarion to watch over him when he's limp and bloodless. Something he failed to consider the first time he let Astarion sink his fangs into him, and something that surprised Iorveth afterwards, the fact that Astarion did, in fact, stick around while he passed out.

A sigh, a hum, and a full-bodied settling. Completely useless, down and out for the night. Foolish, all things considered, but a luxury nevertheless to submit completely to being lazy for once.

(The tiefling spawn gives up for the night; he'll return with better tools, and he'll see if he can please his master with a tribute, with something that will earn him at least a tenday of peace.

Meanwhile, the night hag scowls in her lair.)

Iorveth, limp and warm and trapped under Astarion's weight, murmurs: ]

If I'm to die, let it be like this.

[ Under Astarion's mouth, in bed. Wouldn't that be nice. ]

[ Astarion doesn't hear him, and perhaps that's a good thing. He wouldn't like it at all if he heard Iorveth talking about dying, especially from having his blood drained. Sometimes it does feel like he could, if he didn't control himself, but beyond the immediate satisfaction of having every drop of Iorveth's blood make its way down his throat, it isn't a pleasant thought.

He rarely hears anything when he's latched onto Iorveth's neck, though, and now is no different. The world is no bigger than his tongue and Iorveth's blood; he's quiet for a long time, save for swallowing and the soft sounds of satisfaction. ]

Have you any idea how sweet you taste? [ is breathed against his skin, a smile on his lips. ] You're perfect.

[ Again, with that word. "Perfect". A funny thing, that he unknowingly mirrors Astarion's feelings about that sentiment― hardly, is his first kneejerk thought― but he doesn't push back, content to accept that maybe, just maybe, Astarion does think his blood tastes that good. Pure undiluted Aen Seidhe: a rare vintage.

He tips Astarion's chin, gently dislodging him from his nest against Iorveth's neck, and cranes down to kiss the bloodied corner of Astarion's mouth. All Iorveth can taste is the slightly acerbic bite of copper, but he's a wood elf, not a vampire. ]

Perfect for you. [ Mostly because Iorveth doesn't care to impress anyone else. Combing through soft silver strands, he settles back and watches the purple curtains shuttering their room from the outside windows turn a pretty shade of lavender, lit by the rising sun; soon, he thinks, Astarion will be able to greet the morning without fear again. He'll make sure of it. ]

My better half, [ is a grandiose term of endearment, but sincerely meant. Murmured, as he slips closer towards unconsciousness. ] I'd give you all of my blood if I were able.

[ Sucks, really, that bodies don't work that way. One last nuzzle, and Iorveth is down for the count, freefalling into a trance while rolling a good charisma saving throw: just along the edges of his consciousness, Iorveth can feel a presence trying to steer him towards a seething storm of potential nightmares and newfound fears. It loses out, however, to the comfort and safety of Astarion's presence on top of him; unbeknownst to Iorveth, the same presence will try to extend its influence Astarion's way whenever he slips into his own rest, peering and prying. ]

[ When Astarion wakes from his trance, he's drenched in sweat and all alone on the other side of the bed, having thrashed his way into solitude. He must have kicked off the covers at some point during his rest—if one can call it that—and now they're a puddle at his feet. He feels how a rabbit spotted by a wolf must feel, his fight-or-flight response fully activated as he stares up at the ceiling.

It's ridiculous, and he feels entirely pathetic for it. He's no stranger to nightmares, but this one had been a torment even with Iorveth by his side, and he feels strangely disappointed in himself for it. He'd thought himself better than this, hoped he was cured of restless trances filled with images of people who can't hurt him anymore. Or, at least, aren't supposed to be able to hurt him anymore.

A clammy hand blindly gropes for Iorveth, seeking out his elf-shaped security blanket. ]

[ It's a tinny voice that calls to all of Astarion's fears: "he'll hurt you, they'll all hurt you, they don't care about you." And, underneath it all, a slight suggestion that someone can help make it all better, if Astarion brings her gifts.

Something that they might have been able to nullify with a tadpole, but Iorveth remains blissfully unaware until they wake― the only thing amiss is that, at some point, Astarion moved away from him. He makes a vague sound in the back of his throat and rolls onto his side, instinctively starting to come back to the present once he senses that the body near him is stirring. ]

'starion, [ he murmurs, warm and lazy until his brain starts to register the sweat-slicked desperation of Astarion's seeking. Eye snapping open, Iorveth immediately pulls closer, the beginnings of a frown starting to form when he sees the distance between them on the (unnecessarily) oversized bed. ]

―Astarion, [ he repeats, clearer this time, and nests next to Astarion to stroke sweat-mussed bangs from furrowed brows. ]

[ He feels a little undercurrent of embarrassment at how bad he must look right now, after a full day of tossing and turning and cold-sweating. It doesn't manage to hold his focus, though; he stares at Iorveth with a wrinkle between his brows, the sort of paranoia he'd grown used to during his time in captivity tugging at him. ]

Did you leave?

[ It sounds a little bit like an accusation, a 'how dare you take my peace away'. A ridiculous accusation, of course, if he'd only look at the evidence. Iorveth isn't the type to lie, and dressing himself to go out and returning to strip down again is exactly the type of farce Iorveth would never undignify himself with.

And yet. The fear that Iorveth had left him to fend for himself when he'd been vulnerable enough to ask him not to remains. ]

[ A blink, uncomprehending. Still naked, with pillow wrinkles creasing just around the prominent scar bisecting his missing eye, Iorveth tips his head and narrows his eye, almost as if he's on the verge of being offended by the would-be accusation. He definitely would have been, a handful of tendays ago.

Instead, he takes a deep breath in, and blows it out again through his teeth. ]

Does it look like I did? [ Just shy of a reciprocal accusation, leaning more towards exasperated concern. Brushing through Astarion's hair with the tips of his fingers again, before tweaking the end of one pointy ear. Chiding perfunctorily, before settling into watchful curiosity. ]

...Did you not trance well?

[ Not to be conceited, but he'd assumed that the night prior would have been nice enough for Astarion to trance soundly. Odd. ]

I don't know.

[ An automatic answer for when he does know, but doesn't want to admit the truth. No, he didn't trance well at all. A surprise, seeing as how he'd slipped into semiconsciousness with Iorveth's body underneath him and the taste of blood still fresh on his tongue. He hadn't wanted for anything, yet he'd still found himself plagued with anxiety.

Appropriately chided, he sits himself up, scooting back against the mahogany headboard of their too-big bed. Frowning, he reaches out to wrap a hand around Iorveth's wrist, humiliatingly needy even as he tries to appear unbothered. ]

Perhaps I'm just... under the weather.

[ He isn't certain vampires can get ill by natural means, but it's a better thought than the alternative: that he hasn't made nearly as much progress as he'd thought, and that being here, facing a vampire lord again, has made him regress from what little progress he did make. ]

—Yes, I think that's it. There must be something going around.

[ Astarion can have the wrist, Iorveth doesn't care. He lets it sit in that cold, now-clammy grip, letting it rest limp and relaxed on Astarion's knee, his pulse still comparatively slow from his own restful trance. He doesn't buy "under the weather" for a moment, but he also knows how much Astarion despises being called out on not being alright; for someone who got so huffy about Iorveth trying to maintain his veneer of composure, Astarion doesn't hold himself to the same standards.

Exasperating. But not so much so that it makes Iorveth want to pull away ("fine, get some rest and I'll go be useful") or remain annoyed. Instead, he reaches with his free hand to fix Astarion's robe, realigning the front of it and re-adjusting the loosened belt. Sometimes, it's easier to feel put-together when one looks the part. ]

Do vampires fall ill?

[ Iorveth wouldn't know. Once he's done smoothing rumpled purple fabric, he presses his free hand to Astarion's forehead. ]

I could go fetch you a potion.

Edited 2025-05-07 02:24 (UTC)

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