essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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)

[ Instinctively, he leans against Iorveth's hand, forehead still cold against the warmth of someone living. He feels a sting of guilt for doubting that Iorveth stayed with him; a foreign feeling, regretting the paranoia that's always kept him safe. Iorveth is so ridiculously sweet, and of course he was mad to think he'd ever do anything to hurt Astarion. (Intentionally.) ]

I— [ A pause. Genuinely, this time: ] I don't know.

[ He isn't sure if he's ever been sick before. If he had been, it would have been difficult to tell. In that state of abject starvation, he felt unwell all the time. What difference would an illness have made when he already felt half-dead? ]

Don't go, [ he adds, a little too quickly. ] —If I faint, I'll need someone to gallantly catch me.

[ Stupid question. Of course Astarion wouldn't know: it seems like he barely got a chance to understand his vampirism before being subjected to the worst facets of it. A little gutting to think that Astarion didn't actually know what feeling good was like until...

...recently, even. Maybe he's still figuring it out. Gods. ]

The bed can do that well enough.

[ Gently teasing, to keep Astarion from feeling like he's being coddled. Like appearances, some measure of pride should be left intact for the sake of comfort. That said, Iorveth doesn't let up on the contact, palm sliding down to a smooth cheek (even colder than usual, with the sweat cooling on his skin) with his thumb stroking affectionately along the corner of one red eye. ]

...Must be the sudden change in location. Or all this cursed purple. [ A huff, as he flicks his focus sideways to the decor. Surreptitiously, Iorveth searches the room for any changes or oddities; nothing, except for their travel packs and the tattoo quill, their weapons and supplies. The staff have kept to their promise about leaving the Masters Blackmane well enough alone during the day－ no cleaning staff worth their salary would have allowed weird-looking handmade necklaces with shrunken hearts to remain strewn about on the floor (was that there before?).

Paranoia tickles at the edges of Iorveth's conscious, a familiar guest. ]

[ Astarion doesn't even fail his Perception check, because he doesn't make it to begin with. Iorveth is a level of observant that he simply isn't; he's too wrapped up in himself to even notice Iorveth's wayward glances. He lets his thumb gently stroke the pulse point on Iorveth's wrist, feeling the familiar thump-thump of Iorveth's blood pumping. ]

That may be it, [ he agrees, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. ] I do believe I'm allergic to tacky decor.

[ Somewhere, the proprietor of this place, clad in head-to-toe mauve, shivers in offense and doesn't know why.

Astarion releases Iorveth's wrist, then, hands doing their best to blindly style the mess that's become of his hair. ]

—Just give me a moment to freshen up, and I'll be as good as new.

[ Meanwhile, somewhere in Waterdeep, Gale sits up straight and feels compelled to say "purple is a perfectly pleasant color" to no one in particular.

Here, in Athkatla, Iorveth gives their bedroom one last cursory sweep before turning his attention back to Astarion and his grooming, lending a hand to realign some of the more stubborn wayward curls into their rightful place. His perception hasn't yielded much in the way of concrete ideas of what could be troubling Astarion, but it does remind Iorveth, after a night of pleasant uselessness, to remain hypervigilant in enemy territory.

Speaking of. He should probably wear some clothes. After a brief peck to Astarion's forehead, Iorveth slides out of bed to pull fresh clothes out of his pack to change into: a dark emerald tunic that Gale had kept tucked away in the back of his closet (too self-conscious about the open V-neck collar to wear), and a pair of sleek black pants, self-purchased. He cinches it all in with a belt, and then clips three different knives to said belt. Practicality over fashion. ]

If anything feels amiss during the night, tell me so. I'll be cross if you feign wellness when you aren't.

[ "Being cross" is the most benign form of Iorveth's anger, but it's anger nevertheless. He stoops down to pick up the scattered charms off the floor, considers them, then tosses them onto the nearest armchair. ]

[ Astarion watches Iorveth dress with an appreciative hum; not as much fun as watching him undress, but still enjoyable. The knives sort of ruin the silhouette, but he does like the look of Iorveth holding something sharp, so he's forgiven. Once he feels reasonably put-together, wiping the sweat from his brow, he scoots up to dangle his feet over the foot of the bed. ]

Oh, well, I'd hate for you to be cross with me. That's never happened before.

[ Sarcasm, of course, but he really would hate it. Iorveth was right. Astarion can't tolerate being spoken to sharply, especially when the person doing the sharp-speaking is the person he relies on to coddle his sensitive feelings.

He'd rather not dwell on this any longer than they have to, so he cants his head toward their belongings, saying, ] Pick me out something handsome to wear.

[ Iorveth is still perfectly capable of being cross with Astarion－ it's just the whole "I don't have to put up with this" part that's been trimmed out of his options. He does have to put up with it, mostly because he doesn't perceive it as "putting up with it" anymore: no matter how angry Astarion makes him, he prefers quibbling to the shocked contrition Astarion'd shown when Iorveth walked away.

So. Thoughtful, he rummages through their pack (carefully, since Astarion's clothes are more delicate than his own) and picks out a burgundy shirt with a smartly-tailored black vest to go with it. Dark pants, high boots. Vampire-chic.

As he approaches Astarion with the items and fusses around to help him change: ]

Beloved. [ Fitting the vest over the shirt, buttoning up the front. ] I commend you for your strengths, and I'd not judge you for your uncertainties.

[ "It's fine if you want to vent," essentially. But Iorveth leaves it at that, since choice is everything to him; if Astarion doesn't want to talk about a bad night, he doesn't want to talk about a bad night. Making sure that the side of the vest cinches exactly where it should, Iorveth rocks back to get a better look at Astarion's face. ]

Beautiful, [ he observes, simply. ]

[ Astarion feels his shrunken little black heart grow a few sizes at being helped to change. It's completely unnecessary, which is perhaps why he likes it. Being tended to and taken care of not because of need, but to make him happy. His ears turn pink with pleasure even as he casts his eyes downward in embarrassment at his enjoyment, focusing very hard on tugging his boots on so that he doesn't have to meet Iorveth's gaze and give away how much he likes being cared for. ]

It was hardly my first restless trance.

[ His first with Iorveth in his bed, which is concerning, but not nearly his first overall. 'Restless' used to be the only sort of trance he ever got.

A glance up, finally. ]

But you are so very charming when you're a worrywart.

[ Iorveth's love language: acts of service. Not entirely unsurprising given his propensity to always be moving and working on something, but he finds it pleasant to be performing these acts on such a small, intimate scale. Usually it's more along the lines of "risk his life for the future of the bloodline"-type scale.

Fixing the breast pocket of the vest, Iorveth sighs through his nose. Cants his head, sharp and observant for the split second it takes to note Astarion's pleased flush, and relaxes out of "you better not be bulshitting me" phase with a half-smile. ]

Fool. Your peace of mind is worth everything.

[ In case Astarion has forgotten, Iorveth has made it his entire life goal to find peace for his people: this will always remain integral to who he is as a freedom-fighting elf. Happiness for the ones he cares about, even at his own expense (especially at his own expense). Astarion being at the top of that list means that he has to bear the brunt of Iorveth's incredibly deranged determination. ]

[ A cant of his head, thoughtful. He knows Iorveth loves him, obviously, but it still knocks the wind out of him every time to be told something like this. Centuries of not mattering, and Iorveth somehow decided to put him first. His heart grows a few more sizes, and suddenly it feels like it might burst out of his chest. ]

I didn't have a day of peace until I met you, you know.

[ Until quite a bit after he met Iorveth, but that doesn't sound quite as romantic. The point is that there's only one person in this world who's ever brought him comfort, and it's a deranged terrorist with three knives on his belt.

Wilting away from vulnerability: ] —But you really must stop being so adorable, or I'll be inclined to throw you back on the bed again.

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