illithidnapped | INBOX II

They invoke me?

[It's not that he'd thought Astarion lying before, but his husband does have a propensity to exaggerate sometimes, especially when it's flattery toward his dearest Leto. But to hear himself being spoken of with as much excitement and fear as the Dread Wolf . . . it's so bizarre.]

[Long ears twitch only briefly, his reverie interrupted not unpleasantly. A flick of reddened eyes in the dark precede the clicking of his tongue, and then:]

Not all of them. I heard it most often in the north, strangely enough. [Odd only because it feels as though he'd been more present there in Kirkwall to Astarion's own mind.] Akin to.... [a thin chuckl] well, not so inappropriately titled ghost stories, really. Or patron....saints? Demigods? Myths?

They hoped you'd come to help them.

And the Venatori I was hunting hoped you'd stay away.

[And how many invoked him and got no answer? How many called upon the Blue Wraith, praying for a miracle and promising him anything in return, only to find themselves bound in chains and thrown into the back of an overpacked caravan?

There's no use in wondering. There's no use in ruining the intimacy of this moment with bitterness that by all rights belongs in another world. And yet nonetheless the thought intrudes, shoving past his quiet bliss to stand stark and snarling at the forefront of his mind. How many held false hope, Blue Wraith, and it isn't guilt that churns at the pit of his stomach. Nor is it rage. It feels not unlike like the bile that always filled him whenever he prowled through the alienage, repulsion coupled with a tinge of pity— but even as he realizes that, the feeling drains and he's left hollow in its wake.

The moment couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds. Then Leto glances up again, meeting Astarion's gaze lightly.]

I suspect you did more for my reputation in one night than I managed over the course of a year, terrifying thing that you are.

[He offers the compliment with a smile, albeit one that fades swiftly. A few moments pass, and then, almost idly:]

They would have done better to learn how to pick up a blade instead of adding another false god to pray pathetically towards.

[It's nothing new. Nothing he hadn't thought before; nothing they haven't said a thousand times before, scoffing comments murmured in Lowtown or scathing derision traded over breakfast. He doesn't even know why his mind flits there, save that sometimes, now, he forgets what it felt like to be an elf in Thedas. He forgets the instinctive flinch, the lowered gaze, and keeps the memories at bay for hours and days, even weeks— up until he can't, and some small part of him shivers with mournful bitterness.

But he doesn't want to linger there. With a sharp exhale he adds:]

Tell me of a time you stole a Ventori heart— my way, that is. You must have attempted it at least once.

[Something moves across Leto's face there in the quiet dark; Astarion can see it clearly owing to the bloody cast of his keen eyes— but for now he doesn't press. They're a long, long ways away from home these days, and until Cazador is dealt with one way or another....

His own grin twitches briefly, sharpening. Like a stage performer he sucks in the quickest breath on instinct, and then, as convival as ever:]

Your way isn't an easy thing to replicate for those of us lacking in lyruim brands, you know.

[Did he attempt it anyway? Y e s. But that's beside the point. Don't @ him, darling.

He's showing the razor-sharp outline of a fang within his smile as he gently taps at the duller shape of tattoos run across Leto's closer arm.]

That said, though....mm, there was a night during our Starkhaven excursion when a pack of elves saw me shaking the blood from my sleeves after a small skirmish: just a Venatori scouting party of two, prowling the peremiter. I had orders to make certain Starkhaven itself and its Chantry-loving leader were both kept as clear as anyone could manage [they all did, but this story isn't about everyone: this story is about Astarion, his beloved daggers (his surrogate fangs, as he'd always call them), and the chaos going somewhat undercover dictates when you're on your own with no idea of who might be friend or coerced foe] what with the war stretching so close, and a red lyrium dragon in Corypheus' moth-bitten pocket. In other words, when they then— awe shining in their oversized eyes on an otherwise miserable night— asked me if I was the Blue Wraith, and if I'd felled them by tearing their still beating hearts from their chests, I had to tell them that I save that very special technique for only the most worthy audience. And as they weren't present during the fray, I simply saved my stregnth.

Of course, when we were then attacked a few moments later by yet another patrol....

Well.

Let's just say a little lightning and a wealth of hurried knifework [read: panicked stabbing] did the lion's share of heavy lifting.

[Despite his dip in mood, there's nothing but delight to be found in the story. Leto chuckles softly, first in admission of that perfectly valid protest, and then at the story itself. Perhaps it helps that it isn't a tale of miracles and freedom— merely luck and good chance. He turns his arm beneath the brush of Astarion's fingers, baring his forearm in quiet petition for more of that touch.]

It still counts, so long as his heart was torn from his chest. Even if you happened to manage it with far, far less grace than I.

[He underlines the tease with a brief nuzzle, fond and, if not flirtatious, at least adoring. He can't shake his own bitterness so swiftly, but at least he can keep trying to push past it.]

A pity I never managed to bring one home for you while we still lived in Thedas. It would have made for a good courting gift in Rialto— though then again, I would not trade your rescue of me for anything.

[A moment, and then, contemplatively:]

Though perhaps I can still manage it here, in one way if not another. There's magic for practically everything according to Gale; I cannot see why imitating my lyrium should be such a tall task, at least for a few seconds.

[Drawled, then:]

Would you prefer that to jewels or pretty clothing this anniversary?

[If vampires could blush, Astarion would be— his long ears flicking underneath white curls— accompanied by telltale doe-eyed blinks that signal flusterment. Warm flusterment. The sort that still catches him off guard after centuries for how pleasant a miracle it is.

All the little things that wither up and perish in deep shadow.]

I....[The nuzzle displaces him briefly, but by the tail end he's himself again, a few cool knuckles set along the edge of Leto's jaw, grazing.] ....would love anything you saw fit to give me. Anything at all, so long as it's from you.

[There was a past version of himself that would want wealth over all else (wealth, transferring to power, favor— ) that version isn't here.]

Although I must admit I'm curious how you'd find a heart or jewels in this economy.

[Oh, that blush-that-isn't . . . there's nothing that could get his bitterness to fade faster than those sweet little blinks. Bewildered and thrilled in turn, a predator's narrow slits turned so doeish that it's all Leto can do not to coo over it (and yet never does, for fear of never seeing it again). It still comes out in the curve of his smile, affectionate and far softer than he ever allows outside of the coffin.

This is just for them. Just for Astarion, and Astarion alone. ]

The heart would be easier than the jewels, admittedly . . . but were I to pick the right target, I wager I could find you both at once. Some corrupt duke or irritatingly arrogant baron . . . I will admit, the one good aspect of having this form is that most underestimate me. It would not be hard to get them alone.

[He tips his head, working against Astarion's knuckles for a long moment. There's a part of him that wants to tease, but oh, this is too sweet to cheapen with jokes. Quietly:]

I would gift you anything, so long as it pleased you. [An intentional echo, for the words had woven around his heart in the sweetest way.] And someday, that will include a heart— whether that belongs to a vampiric lord or an idiot baron only depends upon timing. For it is the very least of what you deserve, and I am finally strong enough to give you such things.

[He catches Astarion's hand, intertwining their fingers.]

Do such things still catch you by surprise?

There are a lot of corrupt nobles within the city. Too many to count, actually, if Cazador's palace is a litmus. [And it always was. Too many years have proved that, whether in the slums or high, polished hallways: the differences were always just illusion, thin as a gilded facade.

He has better views now.

Better sensations.

Hard to feign ignorance as to why he never minds the time spent indoors. Time spent here, in fact, with his fingers caught in the perfect trap of unassailable youth.] Were you to pick the right target, both would equally be as hard.

[Killing riffraff is easy; killing the Blessed Patriar— not so much.

But he can't hide the exhilaration that he feels. The subtle, shamelessly propitious smile he still wears, working his hold back around the one that has him. And so:]

-how could they not?

[Take him by surprise.]

Don't tell me you weren't caught unawares by kindness a mere three years or so after your freedom.

[No, really. If you were, don't tell him: he needs to feel like he's not an utterly lost cause.]

Mm . . . no, I was.

[Of course he was— gods, he took it with far less grace than Astarion ever has. Alternating between bewilderment and suspicion, he regarded any gift as something transactional with an expected price, oh, yes, he'd been such a fragile thing.]

But . . . [Mm. He arches his back, working against Astarion's grip just to feel it tighten around him, as he tries to think of how to phrase this.] I have told you before that you are beyond where I ever was in freedom— both initially and years later. But I have never told you what that means, I think. At three years within freedom . . . Astarion, I still had the corpses of Danarius' minions rotting in my foyer. I glared at anyone who spoke to me and assumed Marian's gifts were, at best, ways to buy my services for mercenary work. I was reckless in battle, caring little for my life or my pain. You . . .

You are functional— more than functional, you are capable. You sustain a relationship that I would not have been able to, had I been only three years out of freedom. You read and write and keep yourself occupied instead of drinking your hours away, hoping for an attack so that you might have something to kill. When I see you, I do not see someone three years out of freedom . . . I see someone who managed in three years what it took me a decade to achieve.

[It's more of a speech than he really means to give. He pauses for a few seconds, and then, a little awkwardly (for this is not critique, merely observation), adds:]

And I need to give you more gifts, I think, if one can still take you by surprise.

That's only because you're here. [Isn't thorny, no, but it's sincere enough to prove both delicate and sharp— a fainter rawness in his voice that doesn't otherwise affect his balmy expression, insistent. You don't know the theriac you are.

His fingers cling too tightly. The press of his forehead is insistent.

And coincidentally, content. Lest anyone present in this space (Astarion perhaps most of all) mistake old aches for present feeling.]

You've never seen me without you.

I hope you never have to.

[No lilting emphasis. No songbird hum. He's such an ugly thing without his Leto— more vitriol and spite than flesh. The others might attest to that.]

....are the corpses still there?

[Under the floorboards. Bricked up in crumbling walls like a grim warning or host of waiting sentries.]

Edited 2025-11-02 03:11 (UTC)

[Oh— and just like that, he's startled out of his serious mien. Still pressed against his husband (and of no inclination to pull away), he wrinkles his nose, letting Astarion feel more than see his expression.]

I . . .

[Oh, gods, are they? He balks for a few seconds, momentarily derailed.]

Er— no. No. I, er, disposed of them one night near the docks. [A beat, and then, with frank honesty:] It was more about the inconvenience than anything.

[Which is an amusing thing to think about. Far easier than what came before. It's no bad thing for them to drift gently past such emotions, not if they both know what they're doing. But Leto does take note of them, and maybe that comes out in the way his hand drifts over Astarion's cheek just once, softly and sweetly. I hear you, and it need not mean more than that. I hear you, I see you, you're right, I don't know who you are without me— and yet my point still stands.

Who knows what Astarion would be like without Leto? For that matter, who knows who Leto would be without Marian, or Isabela, or Anders— or Astarion himself, for growth goes both ways, and he has healed more than one wound while basking in his amatus' presence. It's pointless to think of what-ifs, for they are here now— and here and now, Leto will argue until his last breath, Astarion is a magnificent thing.

But he won't say it, for after a certain point it becomes an argument. Instead: he presses his forehead insistently against Astarion again, butting against him with a little too much force to be entirely doting. I'm here, I'm here, and he stays close as he speaks.]

It took two of us to manage the corpse in Rialto. You can well imagine the struggle I had to try and smuggle one, even stripped of armor, out of Hightown without anyone calling the guards. Add to the fact it was a rotting corpse, which meant that bits would fall off periodically, and it was raining . . . it was a mess. I ought to have waited another decade and made you help me with them.

[Mm. He licks at Astarion's bottom lip just once before adding:]

A hidden advantage of having a vampire as my husband— the loss of blood truly does make it an easier task nowadays.

[Is that how blood works? Is that how dead bodies work? Debatable, but it's a doting compliment Leto intends to give regardless.]

[It isn't selfish to steal a kiss the second that pretty tongue withdraws. Tame by all measures, aside from what it means to be a creature forever attuned to the flutter of a pulse.

But let's be honest, he's distracted. Delighted, even, too busy scoffing out a noise of sheer amusement in retreat to bother derailing either of them now: he's invested in this now.]

I should've known you were only using me. [Tsk tsk.] Such a heartbreaker, that dashing Blue Wraith.

Ah, well! what goes around comes around, as they always say— I suppose it's high time someone got the better of me. [Something something someone worthy goes here, though he's busy tugging cattishly at the laces of his husband's shirt, smug as the nights are long.]

Oh, is that so?

[It's a chuckle too endeared to be a proper scoff. With a swift gesture he catches Astarion's fingers, tangling them within his own as flirtatious resistance. Oh no you don't, not until you've earned it, though he doesn't make a move to fix his shirt where it's fallen open.]

And yet you never manage to help clean around here . . . how much advantage am I truly taking of you when you leave the bed unkempt and our clothes around the floor?

[Ignore the fact he himself does those things too. This is about Astarion, not Leto. Besides: he's a teenager, sort of. It's probably wired into his genetic code to be a slob. But someone two hundred, well, that's different, isn't it?]

Or is it only in corpse removal you serve? For I am certain I can utilize you more in that department— and you never actually did help me back then. You do not get credit simply from retroactive contemplation— stop that.

[That wandering hand, he means. He feels you, sir.]

Do not attempt to distract me.

[Him? Distract you?]

My darling when would I ever be so wicked as all that? [His captured fingers twirl around the lace they've not been fully prised from, claws plucking at its borders like harpstring just to prove a point.]

By cleaning, I mean. Why— just imagine what the place would look like if I didn't keep our ecosystem comfortably arranged: you'd never find a thing when you needed it. [Purr purr purr— he's betrayed by his own vampiric physiology, apparently. Rumbling away inside the basin of his chest.]

Bodies included.

Edited 2025-11-03 03:05 (UTC)

[Oh, that purring . . . it's so much sweeter when it comes from Astarion instead of him, if you ask Leto. Lower and less prone to appearing than his own, and yet all the more sought after because of it. Leto grins to hear it, though he knows better than to point it out.]

So our collective mess is a deliberate thing for my benefit? In that case, you do spoil me— and I need to work doubly hard to make up for my lack of gifts.

[His eyes flick up, a little smirk curving at his lips.]

And you are always up to something wicked, vampire mine. You realize if you seduce me now, you run the risk of dooming us to the circus? Karlach was particularly insistent, and was deterred only by my promise I would find something else that appealed. Mount me now, and I suspect she'll grow too impatient to wait.

Am I not domesticated these days? [It snags this time, the very tip of one of his claws snared within thin, woven fibers. Suspended for a few seconds between Leto's fastidious grip and the lacing he'd been toying with.

....and then his nose crinkles.]

—eugh.

[Gods. Sophie's impossible choice: hike his virile husband's leg up over his shoulder here and now, or stay chaste and avoid an entire evening's worth of buffoonery, muppetry, and pint-sized frolicking at his expense.

The purring stops. He slumps— his claws gone lax and the lacework slipped away— chin dropped to the center of Leto's chest, gravity taking his expression and the slant of his ears down with it.]

Do you even know what else to suggest? Drumming up a suitable replacement sounds harder than carting corpses from your mansion.

[He's still smiling as he wraps his arms around his husband, amused despite all the pouting (and the loss of that purring).]

Poor thing, [he drawls, and absolutely does not mean.]

As for alternatives . . . mm, not really. I thought you would have more ideas than I.

[Then again, they're both equally as foreign to Baldur's Gate in some ways, aren't they? Astarion's nighttime activities were limited to whatever venues would bring him prey, and as for Leto, well. He's only just getting the hang of dates and currency and such, never mind decent entertainment options. Hmm . . .]

I suppose . . . some kind of night market . . .?

[It's a limp suggestion, but he's trying. And anyway, he's busy tending to his poor, neglected, suffering-awfully husband, stroking fingers through his hair and serving as pillow. He isn't the one who needs to be thinking in this scenario.]

[He should not mean it; for all their cries of past suffering, they are well kept things now. A point thoroughly made throughout the languid lines his body adopts as he drapes forward into that grip, encircling the slighter measure of Leto's waist.]

Mmm....[The idea isn't terrible, really. Local wares aren't as thrilling as prizes and games and all sorts of oil-painted nonsense, but then again few else would be, and more likely Karlach's simply looking for an excuse to be together. Close— or closer, at the very least. It's not the first time Astarion's considered that they might be missing their lost friend. The one he was— or replaced— something like that.] I suppose it might get the job done, although I imagine we'll need to sweeten the deal as well. Maybe a festival of sorts? We're nearing winter, there'll be lantern lighting soon enough. Try starting with that and see how you fare.

[Did Leto volunteer to be their negotiating ambassador? Apparently he is now.]

[Hang on, hang on—]

Hmm . . . no. They're your companions, Astarion.

[Don't you put this on him— even if he's arching his back to encourage the slow wind of Astarion's hands, still. This isn't his job.]

I negotiated you out of visiting the circus, and it was a trial, believe me. Karlach is not one to give up lightly. [It wasn't that bad.] You can be the one to promise them night markets and lantern lighting— and if Toril is anything like Thedas in the winter, you can sweeten the deal by promising them they can get their Satinalia gifts early.

Or simply take them to a bar. It need not be so complex. But unless you plan to bribe me— and flirtation is not a bribe, before your fingers wander— it is your message to deliver, not mine.

Nice try, though.

[Teasingly offered as he keeps up his slow carding through silver curls.]

Edited 2025-11-05 03:10 (UTC)

[There was a time when he'd weasel his way out of even this as effortlessly as water off an arakkokra's feathered cloak. The curse of falling headlong into viridescent eyes only to never crawl back out again— but oh, that tingling shiver up his spine that grounds under the ghost of Leto's fingertips— that's all he needs as encouragement to never once fight back against his competition.

No more than just the idle (read: petulant) snap of his teeth at the air closest to Leto's wrist, at least, hunting him down.]

Shrewd. [Churlish praise, and all-encompassing at that. This sort of gameness is worth its weight in gold within High Court— nevermind that it's worked against him now.] Did you think up the gift idea before you crawled into coffin with me, or was that just the bribe?

[Terrifying . . . or it would be, anyway, if he had not long since learned not to be frightened by those teeth. As it stands, he merely tugs lightly at Astarion's curls in silent retort.]

If I wanted to bribe you, Astarion, I would not do it with so paltry an offer as try taking them Satinalia shopping.

[Honestly, how would he bribe him? Spreading his legs is the most obvious answer, but it isn't exactly a bribe if Astarion can get it either way . . . hm. Some specialized kink, perhaps? An outfit? He hasn't worn that maid dress since that night at the sex shop, not to mention some of the harem-inspired ensembles he knows are still buried in one of their trunks. But it ought to be something that really counts, something that isn't easily accessible . . . hmm. He tips his head, considering his husband.]

I would offer you something far better. Something I know you crave— or at least did once.

[All at once his fingers knot at the base of Astarion's hair, fingers tightening their grip as he tugs just enough to be felt. Pay attention, and the point isn't pain, but to rile.]

You have not allowed me to dominate you since we arrived here. [A neutral statement, for it isn't a point of contention; he catches Astarion's eye, trying to communicate that.] I do not mind it. I enjoy the dynamics we have now— indeed, enjoy is too tame a word for what I feel when you take control.

But I would understand why.

[An electrostatic hitch shudders through his nerves the second that those fingers twist; call him a hound still for how he bends to it on a molecular level: every last silver-white hair standing on end, his pupils narrowed— then dilated— forgetting all at once to blink under the pleasant pressure of strong knuckles tucked against his skin. Even his ears tip forwards by degrees, though the rest of his humanity has to trickle in afterwards. Slower.]

Mmph. [Is slight. It stalls for time albeit not ungraciously. Like the flicker of his eyes slipping back and forth, he's only thinking.

The answer is evasive of him too, apparently. Something he'd not realized until now.

—add it to the pile.]

Do you remember what I said to you a while back?

Our little conversation about my....hunger. [Hunger is a keen distinction. Not his nature. Not his impetus or mere instinct. It's the cursed condition of his existence rather than the entirety of it, no matter how much it still eclipses. He likes to think there's more to him than that.

(Cazador would call it vanity. He can't quite argue.)]

Edited 2025-11-06 23:25 (UTC)

Vividly.

[Oh, yes. He'd long since memorized those words, for it was the key to understanding such a vital part of Astarion and how he operates in this world. Leto loosens his grip, returning to working his fingers through Astarion's hair, as he regards him.]

You told me how instinctive hunger is the forefront of your mind. How your instincts scream at you to devour me in every way and form you can, and that such screaming never ends no matter how full you grow or how sated I may leave you. How you work to override it each and every moment we are together, forcing yourself not to look at me as prey, a meal, a sacrament nor a pet, not a consort that needs to be taught better— but me. Just me, as I am, and as we are to one another.

And I remember, too, how much toll it takes on you. How much you fight your own instincts just to stay with me, never mind treat me as your equal . . .

[He leans forward, bumping their noses together just once in silent adoration. Admiration burns fiercely in his gaze, quiet but all the more intense for it.]

Yes, I remember, Astarion. I will never forget.

So you haven't. [High and heady praise. Reprised for more than mere gifts this time, left as a candid shade of breathiness in a voice otherwise void of it at all.

That admiration is mutual, now.]

It's not a voluntary thing. I know you know that, but I don't just mean about the matter of just starvation or mere prey drive— I mean it in regards to you, too.

[His smile quirks. He sounds like a professor when he inhales next, sucking in enough air to cover a no doubt weighty second act— or maybe just like Gale, going by Leto's common metric these past few months.]

When we're....intimate, as I've confessed before— and don't take this personally darling, I've seen your prowess against my siblings, you're no lightweight mortal thing— but you are still mortal. [Still a beating heart and finite blood. Still fresh and young with life enough to snuff like wind across a flame.] It takes everything in my power just to touch you as I do. Our give and take is measured the way you— [a beat, and then:] mm, the way a dedicated broker would handle fine crystal: conscious, and deliberate, and all too passively aware of how even the lightest of his careless touches might break.

[If it sounds belittling, it's because he knows it is. Perhaps no less aggravating than being a spawn compared thralls or waiting servants. Compared to even honored guests— for there's nothing quite so disquieting as standing shoulder-to-level-shoulder with someone that embodies your own thoroughly defined limits. The niggling thought hissed betwixt your ears of why not— why them and not you? A set of eyes and ears and limbs no different than you own. No different than you used to be— or are — so why not me. Why you. You're no better.

And indeed, Astarion would admit it easily: he's always been the lesser of them.

He's just the one with fangs.]

And yet the more you put me to heel, the more I ache to meet you in that challenge.

Not so much prey, but competition— something we vampires have, shall we say, a bit of a....

[Tsk.]

....a bit of a complex about.

[The tail end twists, his laughter closer to embarrassment than anything else, as if admitting to only the most minor of faux pas in public setting— like, say, dressing for a festival instead of a soirée, or confessing one's forgotten the Duke's thrice removed cousin's name right to his face, or. Well.

That your reckless animal mind sees your husband as competition. That sort of thing.]

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