I'm about to come home and put a ring on your finger— a ring that I spent weeks picking out, catering to all your expensive and expansive tastes— and that still isn't enough?
I may lack an appetite for mortal courses, and we can't exactly take a night out on the town for very obvious reasons till our forces are all mustered. [It's a playful exaggeration, but not too far off from reality in truth: it's been years since Astarion strolled the Szarr Palace— what might've changed, he doesn't know, and going in blind might be disastrous for their allies. Nevermind it'd be expected, parrying the blow already struck.]
But it's hardly a great ask to request my consort-husband meet with me for dinner in the tavern halls below. Especially when it's for an exchange as valuable as this.
[Oh, he thinks for the second time in an hour, and bites his lip to keep from grinning in the stupidest, most besotted way.]
Yes.
But make it a late dinner, so that we can be left alone. I'll ask the kitchens if they'll indulge us. I suspect, given how much money your friends have spent here, they'll be inclined to favor us— particularly if I bribe them. And I will find us candles.
[He's going to come home and change, he knows already, and maybe a bath too— but still, he sort of regrets wearing his scuffed boots out now. Oh, well.]
You always wear starlight, dazzling thing that you are. And you look stunning to me no matter what you wear.
But tell me more. Black silk and feathers and starlight . . . what of your makeup? Tell me what you aim to put on, for I know you must have planned it already.
[All their things are still half-packed away, a jumble of boxes that double as storage, but Leto knows where his good clothes are kept. The ones that Astarion has bought for him, his lover having a far better eye for fashion than Leto ever will. And they're fine and good, of course, and he has a striking set in mind already, but . . .
Mm. He hesitates, and then:]
I will be another hour. But I am close by— listen for my heart, you should be able to hear me from there. You might even be able to see me if you peer out the northern windows.
But black silk will not be so hard to match— and I do mean match, arrogant thing. You are no longer speaking to the elf who once dragged his heels to dress for a party in Rialto.
[Admittedly, he still drags his heels, but . . . less so. He's picked up a fair bit over the past few years. He won't be so frivolous as to buy a whole new outfit, but even just a shirt . . . something flattering, for he wants to give Astarion the gift of something new and deliberate. And lucky them, for the Elfsong Inn is in the heart of the market district, full of people (who would surely notice a kidnapping) and vendors (who are more than eager to sell fashion to a young elf who still has quite a bit of gold left over from their raid on the Bitch Queen's temple).
It doesn't have to be perfect. Whatever tonight will be, will be perfect, for their love is so much stronger than one formal dinner. But Astarion deserves to be catered to. He deserves to have someone who thinks of him and dresses for him and makes an effort— and besides all that, Leto simply wants to.]
[It is already perfect. Amongst the dog hair and wolf sheddings and the sleep deprived groaning of his protesting limbs— sore within their joints in a way that hinges very nearly on mortal (he hasn't fed properly in days, and he will in time, trust that spite is an excellent motivator even beside worry's timeless immobility), but acclimation comes in sips. In painful angles, like growing aches, where he doesn't know how to sleep across an unfamiliar mattress or predict which noises set him off. There's so much he finds grating, worrying, vexing, but now it bounces off the better pieces of this newfound picture as daylight spread itself across those rooftops where they stood together. Shaded, a little blinded, but no more worse for wear in actuality.
Better for it. ]
You've gotten better at your flattery.
[Starlight. He'd be twirling his own curls round clawed fingers were he a few centuries younger....and still living.]
I haven't yet decided. The great pup-wolf-after-midday war interrupted my internal debate, and I've yet to recover that lost time enough to ponder anything else even half as vital as the question: red or gold.
[Only he remembers the last time Astarion teased him with such a question, filthy thing that he is. A couple dozen or so diamonds, a mithril band— I was talking about your wedding night ensemble, and it isn't his fault the phrase still lives on in the back of his mind.]
(Have they settled?)
[— is added in small text just above pup-wolf-after-midday war.]
[It was fun, wasn't it? He shouldn't think of it too long, not when he's being measured— point in fact, he should stop flirting at all, and yet he can't help it.]
Tease.
But far be it for me not to enjoy such a work of art. Simply because I fixate on certain parts of you doesn't mean I do not appreciate the entire picture. And you looked inspired dressed solely in a circlet and piercings.
Though I would not say no to lingerie, golden or scarlet. Or a ring of a very different sort . . .
[Oh, wait, no, don't get lost down that line of thought.]
(You will not. We need the landlord in a good mood tonight. Let them all sleep in my place, lest you go entirely without rest today).
I want you here underneath me, to hells with favor or approval, we have enough gold yet to buy off what's left of his good graces.
[He won't, he's only grousing, shifting in his seat for comfort when he writes, trying to grant a little space to the thoughts pinned tight against his inseam.]
Tell me you'll stay in bed with me till sunrise tomorrow.
[There's no answer for some time. Not an egregious stretch, given Leto's present activity and all its demands (no doubt he's snipped at more than once for thumbing at that book with measuring tape tucked taut against lithe contours), but by the time he's nearly finished, through an open store window letting in the thick, balmy heat of the Jewel Coast this time of year, there comes a cascade of fluttering wings— and a dark, overly large crow who slams down hard across the sill in landing. A discerning twitch of its wings, its head, jerking once, twice— surveying the scene it's fluttered into out of one eye before the next— a redsilk bundle tied off with a slip of parchment and a small phial caught within its talons.
['Sir, please stop moving,' the dwarven tailor says patiently. 'We're nearly done.' Leto's lost count of how many times they've asked him that, spoken with the same unerringly patient intonation each and every time. And to be fair to Leto: he's tried. He really has. It's just that he's always so full of energy even on the worst of days, and scribbling flirtatious come-ons in his notebook does him no favors, never mind having to wait for what feels like hours for any kind of response.
But here one is now.
Still, he tells himself, and tries to keep his form rigid as he reaches out one arm. It's only the second time he's seen Astarion's familiar, but what other crow would possibly land in the windowsill? Still: the bird doesn't look at him with any kind of recognition. It just sort of stares at him, black eyes beady and vaguely murderous, and squawks at him again.]
Come here. Come here—
[It doesn't help that Leto isn't particularly fond of any kind of bird, much less corvids. There's a lot of flapping involved and it makes him nervous, and Poe is . . . well. Poe is a very new addition to their family. It's only the second time Leto's ever seen him (and the first barely counts, for he thought him a hallucination). But surely he was sent for a purpose . . .
. . . which never stopped Astarion from being playful, of course.
He leans towards him, trying very hard to keep his legs rooted in place as he sort of inches his arm out further, his eyes locked on that parchment, on that phial— just a little further, and—
Poe flutters back half an inch. It's impossible for birds to look smug, and yet, somehow, he does.]
Poe—
['Sir, please—'
They repeat that little routine— grab, dodge, sternly toned warning— about four or five times. Long enough that the tailor actually finishes his measurements before Leto manages to grab the damned bird, both hands clamping around its little black body in triumph, and then stands there and endures any number of passive-aggressive comments about impatient teenagers and their addiction to messenger birds.
But whatever. Whatever. It will be well worth it, for now he at least has something to sustain him for the next few hours while his clothes are tailored into his precise measurements. A message, a message, and surely it will be something filthy, Leto thinks. He's had a lot of time to think about what it might be— instructions, maybe? Some filthy demand to drink that phial and make it back upstairs before the aphrodisiac hits, or maybe something more instructional— something on how to dress, or some game to play when he comes in— oh, but it must be worth it, it will be, it has to be—]
With his wings caught between both hands, he screeches like a siren— feathers angrily flared, nimble talons kicking and batting at the branded fingers that need to partially let go in order to seize their prize, and once that happens— once Leto actually manages to steal away the little bundle and all attached accoutrements, he's scolded via pecking till he gives Poe leave to flutter away in a livid huff, dark down peppered in his wake.
From the doorway, a few heavy steps precede Karlach's horns (and then the rest of her) as she peeks in. Not knowing exactly how a fitting goes, but remembering that Gortash's had never been that loud, she chances an unsure, 'everything okay in here?'
To which the tailor answers gruffly from his desk, 'I'm charging twice for that.'
But Leto has his prize, so does it really matter?
Dark crimson silk that smells of brandy and bergamot, rosemary with a hint of leather oil and— ah, there it is, the little phial that'd been gleaming. No longer than a thumbnail, and no wider than a quill nib, signature lilac oil trapped inside and corked off with a gilded topper. And what's more is that around its neck, attached to the phial's ornate cap, a golden chain dangles loosely in the nest of Leto's palm, turning the whole arrangement into a necklace. A discreet offering— after all, one would need to know the giftor well to understand it's no mere portable decanter or bottle of cologne.
There's only one thing Astarion uses lilac oil for, and it wears that devilish intent across the parchment last unfurled, illuminated by the bottled glow of reflecting daylight funneled through the belly of that phial.]
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2/2
I know it is.
no subject
Needy thing.
Tell me what it would cost me.
no subject
I may lack an appetite for mortal courses, and we can't exactly take a night out on the town for very obvious reasons till our forces are all mustered. [It's a playful exaggeration, but not too far off from reality in truth: it's been years since Astarion strolled the Szarr Palace— what might've changed, he doesn't know, and going in blind might be disastrous for their allies. Nevermind it'd be expected, parrying the blow already struck.]
But it's hardly a great ask to request my consort-husband meet with me for dinner in the tavern halls below. Especially when it's for an exchange as valuable as this.
Say yes.
no subject
Yes.
But make it a late dinner, so that we can be left alone. I'll ask the kitchens if they'll indulge us. I suspect, given how much money your friends have spent here, they'll be inclined to favor us— particularly if I bribe them. And I will find us candles.
Tell me what you'll wear, so I might match it.
no subject
It tries now. Avidly.]
You'll need more than a day to prepare if you want to match my wardrobe.
[....And yet.]
Feathers.
Black silk.
Starlight.
Only the best for your presence.
no subject
You always wear starlight, dazzling thing that you are. And you look stunning to me no matter what you wear.
But tell me more. Black silk and feathers and starlight . . . what of your makeup? Tell me what you aim to put on, for I know you must have planned it already.
[All their things are still half-packed away, a jumble of boxes that double as storage, but Leto knows where his good clothes are kept. The ones that Astarion has bought for him, his lover having a far better eye for fashion than Leto ever will. And they're fine and good, of course, and he has a striking set in mind already, but . . .
Mm. He hesitates, and then:]
I will be another hour. But I am close by— listen for my heart, you should be able to hear me from there. You might even be able to see me if you peer out the northern windows.
But black silk will not be so hard to match— and I do mean match, arrogant thing. You are no longer speaking to the elf who once dragged his heels to dress for a party in Rialto.
[Admittedly, he still drags his heels, but . . . less so. He's picked up a fair bit over the past few years. He won't be so frivolous as to buy a whole new outfit, but even just a shirt . . . something flattering, for he wants to give Astarion the gift of something new and deliberate. And lucky them, for the Elfsong Inn is in the heart of the market district, full of people (who would surely notice a kidnapping) and vendors (who are more than eager to sell fashion to a young elf who still has quite a bit of gold left over from their raid on the Bitch Queen's temple).
It doesn't have to be perfect. Whatever tonight will be, will be perfect, for their love is so much stronger than one formal dinner. But Astarion deserves to be catered to. He deserves to have someone who thinks of him and dresses for him and makes an effort— and besides all that, Leto simply wants to.]
no subject
Better for it. ]
You've gotten better at your flattery.
[Starlight. He'd be twirling his own curls round clawed fingers were he a few centuries younger....and still living.]
I haven't yet decided. The great pup-wolf-after-midday war interrupted my internal debate, and I've yet to recover that lost time enough to ponder anything else even half as vital as the question: red or gold.
no subject
[A beat, and then:]
You were talking about makeup, yes?
[Only he remembers the last time Astarion teased him with such a question, filthy thing that he is. A couple dozen or so diamonds, a mithril band— I was talking about your wedding night ensemble, and it isn't his fault the phrase still lives on in the back of his mind.]
(Have they settled?)
[— is added in small text just above pup-wolf-after-midday war.]
no subject
Now I know that I'm in love. That romp was fun.
I'll let you guess when you see what color I'm wearing tonight.
[Underneath the rest, in smaller, tucked-in lettering, Astarion has added:]
(No, but I'll be kicking them out if this keeps up, so they'd better settle quick.)
no subject
Tease.
But far be it for me not to enjoy such a work of art. Simply because I fixate on certain parts of you doesn't mean I do not appreciate the entire picture. And you looked inspired dressed solely in a circlet and piercings.
Though I would not say no to lingerie, golden or scarlet. Or a ring of a very different sort . . .
[Oh, wait, no, don't get lost down that line of thought.]
(You will not. We need the landlord in a good mood tonight. Let them all sleep in my place, lest you go entirely without rest today).
no subject
[He won't, he's only grousing, shifting in his seat for comfort when he writes, trying to grant a little space to the thoughts pinned tight against his inseam.]
Tell me you'll stay in bed with me till sunrise tomorrow.
And after.
no subject
Or nothing at all, if that suits you better.
[But that isn't realistic, not really. But what he can promise is:]
I'll stay until sunrise tomorrow, and after. The whole night, and then the day. All yours, as long as you'll be all mine.
no subject
And then it squawks at Fenris. Loudly.]
no subject
['Sir, please stop moving,' the dwarven tailor says patiently. 'We're nearly done.' Leto's lost count of how many times they've asked him that, spoken with the same unerringly patient intonation each and every time. And to be fair to Leto: he's tried. He really has. It's just that he's always so full of energy even on the worst of days, and scribbling flirtatious come-ons in his notebook does him no favors, never mind having to wait for what feels like hours for any kind of response.
But here one is now.
Still, he tells himself, and tries to keep his form rigid as he reaches out one arm. It's only the second time he's seen Astarion's familiar, but what other crow would possibly land in the windowsill? Still: the bird doesn't look at him with any kind of recognition. It just sort of stares at him, black eyes beady and vaguely murderous, and squawks at him again.]
Come here. Come here—
[It doesn't help that Leto isn't particularly fond of any kind of bird, much less corvids. There's a lot of flapping involved and it makes him nervous, and Poe is . . . well. Poe is a very new addition to their family. It's only the second time Leto's ever seen him (and the first barely counts, for he thought him a hallucination). But surely he was sent for a purpose . . .
. . . which never stopped Astarion from being playful, of course.
He leans towards him, trying very hard to keep his legs rooted in place as he sort of inches his arm out further, his eyes locked on that parchment, on that phial— just a little further, and—
Poe flutters back half an inch. It's impossible for birds to look smug, and yet, somehow, he does.]
Poe—
['Sir, please—'
They repeat that little routine— grab, dodge, sternly toned warning— about four or five times. Long enough that the tailor actually finishes his measurements before Leto manages to grab the damned bird, both hands clamping around its little black body in triumph, and then stands there and endures any number of passive-aggressive comments about impatient teenagers and their addiction to messenger birds.
But whatever. Whatever. It will be well worth it, for now he at least has something to sustain him for the next few hours while his clothes are tailored into his precise measurements. A message, a message, and surely it will be something filthy, Leto thinks. He's had a lot of time to think about what it might be— instructions, maybe? Some filthy demand to drink that phial and make it back upstairs before the aphrodisiac hits, or maybe something more instructional— something on how to dress, or some game to play when he comes in— oh, but it must be worth it, it will be, it has to be—]
no subject
Not that it matters: Poe is interminably louder.
With his wings caught between both hands, he screeches like a siren— feathers angrily flared, nimble talons kicking and batting at the branded fingers that need to partially let go in order to seize their prize, and once that happens— once Leto actually manages to steal away the little bundle and all attached accoutrements, he's scolded via pecking till he gives Poe leave to flutter away in a livid huff, dark down peppered in his wake.
From the doorway, a few heavy steps precede Karlach's horns (and then the rest of her) as she peeks in. Not knowing exactly how a fitting goes, but remembering that Gortash's had never been that loud, she chances an unsure, 'everything okay in here?'
To which the tailor answers gruffly from his desk, 'I'm charging twice for that.'
But Leto has his prize, so does it really matter?
Dark crimson silk that smells of brandy and bergamot, rosemary with a hint of leather oil and— ah, there it is, the little phial that'd been gleaming. No longer than a thumbnail, and no wider than a quill nib, signature lilac oil trapped inside and corked off with a gilded topper. And what's more is that around its neck, attached to the phial's ornate cap, a golden chain dangles loosely in the nest of Leto's palm, turning the whole arrangement into a necklace. A discreet offering— after all, one would need to know the giftor well to understand it's no mere portable decanter or bottle of cologne.
There's only one thing Astarion uses lilac oil for, and it wears that devilish intent across the parchment last unfurled, illuminated by the bottled glow of reflecting daylight funneled through the belly of that phial.]
Don't keep me waiting tonight.
Eternally your husband
-Astarion Ancunín