[ They link fingers, and Iorveth takes the opportunity to pull closer, with their forearms almost twining. When they step out from under the shadow of the awning, Iorveth hikes a haughty chin at the onlookers, who'd likely expected the quibbling elves to storm off separately in a huff; instead, Iorveth tips his head and presses his lips to Astarion's temple in a not-so-subtle fuck-you to the gawkers.
A moment passes, when he considers pressing the point again― "I promise I'll be careful", or "it would kill me if I were the reason you felt hurt"― but he can leave that for later, when they're in the privacy of the ridiculous suite that Gale arranged for them. It seems a better place for it.
So: ]
I expect you'd like to be the one putting me under the needle.
[ Which means they'll have to buy a throwaway kit. Of all the ways they can do this, it is, in fact, the most painful, but Iorveth doesn't mind; he's the kind of psycho who enjoyed sitting naked in front of someone while they tattooed his inner thigh. Probably best not to mention that unless Astarion asks.
They pass a few more carts selling miscellaneous objects― fabrics from a town he's never heard of, more questionable potions touted to improve a man's potency― and a few darker storefronts until they happen upon a place called "Immovable Inks". It's manned by a sharp-eyed halfling who glances up from his workbench when the pair come in, then excitedly approaches Iorveth to ask for a better look at the branches extending up his neck.
To "how low does that go?", Iorveth's reply is a coy: ] Lower than you're imagining.
no subject
A moment passes, when he considers pressing the point again― "I promise I'll be careful", or "it would kill me if I were the reason you felt hurt"― but he can leave that for later, when they're in the privacy of the ridiculous suite that Gale arranged for them. It seems a better place for it.
So: ]
I expect you'd like to be the one putting me under the needle.
[ Which means they'll have to buy a throwaway kit. Of all the ways they can do this, it is, in fact, the most painful, but Iorveth doesn't mind; he's the kind of psycho who enjoyed sitting naked in front of someone while they tattooed his inner thigh. Probably best not to mention that unless Astarion asks.
They pass a few more carts selling miscellaneous objects― fabrics from a town he's never heard of, more questionable potions touted to improve a man's potency― and a few darker storefronts until they happen upon a place called "Immovable Inks". It's manned by a sharp-eyed halfling who glances up from his workbench when the pair come in, then excitedly approaches Iorveth to ask for a better look at the branches extending up his neck.
To "how low does that go?", Iorveth's reply is a coy: ] Lower than you're imagining.