[ Perhaps the flute-playing did help with the oral fixation. That said: ]
You're worth being devoted to.
[ Can't embarrass him with descriptors that are true!! He shifts Astarion closer to him on their pushed-together chairs, adjusting his perch to sit a little higher on his knees. What this establishment is in sore need of is benches. ]
And in need of some worshipping, perhaps. [ Not just sexually, really. He combs a hand through Astarion's hair, adjusting bangs that don't need further adjusting. ] Not if you find it cloying, however.
[ Astarion hardly needs to be treated like something that might break at any moment; his resilience is something Iorveth respects and admires about him. ]
[ Iorveth is so sweet sometimes that it should rightfully be cloying, especially to someone like Astarion who's always been disdainful of things like romance and 'actually liking someone'. It's entirely unlike him to find such bald-faced fondness endearing rather than pathetic, but when it's Iorveth, he can't help it. Rose-colored glasses, perhaps. Only figurative ones, of course, because he doesn't think glasses hiding his features would flatter him at all. ]
Darling, you're many things, but not cloying.
[ No one would ever accuse Iorveth of being too sweet, although he is. Astarion preens, practically batting his eyelashes. ]
Are you going to worship me, then?
[ Iorveth really should not let him get away with this sort of behavior, and yet. He's only grown more bold. ]
[ Trusting someone is only pathetic when there's an inevitable rugpull, and Iorveth is― well, he's an expert in falling on his face. He's fought for someone, loved someone and held them higher than a god, because he'd believed that ideals and people were more sacrosanct than divinity.
It's a belief he still holds, foolishly and desperately. Iorveth the Woodland Fox, Thrice-Betrayed, putting all his eggs in one basket despite past failures. It's what he's doing now, holding Astarion like he's the only person that's worth anything in this tragic mess of a world. Drunk, fuzzy, smitten. ]
I'd thought that to be the entire point of this night. [ Procuring lavish outfits, stealing pretty trinkets for Astarion to decorate himself with, drowning themselves in expensive drink. Sure, Astarion'd hated the party (he hadn't even known what to expect, which still breaks Iorveth a little), and they'd had to murder someone before winding up in a tavern full of exasperated people, but. Whatever.
The point is, Iorveth tips Astarion's chin and kisses the corner of his mouth. ] How do you wish to be worshiped? Or will you let me decide?
[ A sweet threat. Astarion should be running for the hills. ]
[ The entire point of this night is for them both to have a good time, not just for Astarion to be humored, but he can see why Iorveth might think otherwise. It isn't really pleasing him, though, unless it pleases Iorveth, too. Gods, how odd. He can't believe he actually cares about someone else's enjoyment. ]
I'm sure I could think of a few dozen ways.
[ An understatement. Astarion was born to command, forced to be commanded. Bossing others around comes naturally to him. ]
What would you do, if I graciously allowed you to choose?
[ Tracing Astarion's jaw with an index, considering. Affection, closeness, undivided attention. Despite Iorveth saying that it's for Astarion's benefit, it is, in fact, for his own benefit as well: this is the first time anyone has ever been so open to simply staying.
Still, he gives more thought to Astarion's preferences. As best he can, mind, with alcohol swimming through his system. ]
―More words, too. I know you like those. [ Compliments, acknowledgments. Not Iorveth's forte, but he can make attempts. ] More skin, if we were alone.
...I'd serve you that annoying human's head on a plate, too, if he keeps salivating at you. He could catch flies with his mouth hung open the way it is.
[ Not dignifying the man's behavior by looking at him, but huffing in annoyance anyway. ]
[ 'I know you like those,' Iorveth says, and Astarion should want to roll his eyes. They're words. Everyone likes them, when they're pretty. But the way Iorveth says it sounds so genuine, like he's really considering what Astarion likes, and no one has ever done that for him before. It's small and stupid, but it means something.
He smiles, eyes gone soft and fond, and doesn't even mention that the reason the man is gawking could very well be because he and Iorveth are acting entirely inappropriate in public. Besides, he'd hate for Iorveth to stop when he'd really rather him get more inappropriate.
Instead, he tucks a strand of hair behind Iorveth's pointy ear. ]
And how would one worship you, if they were so inclined?
[ Astarion asks, and maybe it's just the buzz of alcohol in Iorveth's system, but he doesn't Get It immediately. There's a beat that stretches after the question, invisible question marks joining the garlands strung across the ceiling above them.
For a moment, he really, truly has no idea why Astarion is asking. And then, when the moment passes: ]
I'd never considered it. [ He isn't posturing; he just. Hasn't. Rather happy to acknowledge instead of being acknowledged, what with the state of him and the purpose he serves. He tilts his head like a questioning dog. ] ―You've already agreed to stay.
[ That's his idea of being worshiped, which probably says too much about him. Hm. Even for a drunk man, that answer seems lame, so he searches for something slightly more practical, which turns out to be: ] Bathing with me, I suppose.
[ Warm, close, skin on skin. His idea of a good time. ]
[ There's something very sad about the way Iorveth responds to his question, as if the concept of being appreciated exists only for people other than him. Astarion is selfish at heart, and he adores being, well, adored, but he makes a mental note to adore Iorveth a little more.
Thoughtful: ] I rather think I'd like to try worshiping someone of my own free will.
[ Instead of living in fear of an omniscient, omnipotent god-vampire who forces worship, it might be nice to expend his energy on somebody worth worshipping. It'd be a brand new experience, at the very least, and he's already decided to seek out brand new experiences.
A pause, then, ] But I'm not certain that dingy little washtub in the Elfsong will fit us both. It barely fits Halsin.
[ Iorveth still doesn't Get It― does Astarion think he's unhappy? That he's just blithely going through the motions? Does he think that Iorveth is just putting up with this, and not getting anything out of it?― but the statement about choosing to do something of his own free will smooths over Iorveth's jagged edges.
More drink disappears down Iorveth's throat, and pools in his stomach. His tan skin is slightly more flushed, warmed by alcohol, which makes the temperature difference between himself and his partner more enticing; whoever says that embracing an undead is uncomfortable clearly has no idea what they're talking about. ]
There are bathhouses. [ Like the one they went to all those tendays ago, when they'd barely tolerated each other in states of undress. Remembering it makes Iorveth laugh. ] But all I require is you.
[ Stupid, sweet fool. He kisses Astarion again, wine lingering on his tongue. ] ...I'll have to take you to the elven baths in the north. You might enjoy them.
[ Elven bathhouses in the north should irritate him. After all, it's not all about elves and that beloved forest of Iorveth's. It doesn't annoy him, though, strangely, because Iorveth is warm and drunk and affectionate, and it's hard to be annoyed by anything with him like this. He'd accused Iorveth of going soft, but it's him who has, really.
Cold hand creeping under the low, low vee of Iorveth's collar: ]
If it involves you, naked and wet, I'm sure I'll enjoy myself.
[ A halfling one table over wrinkles her nose in disgust. ]
[ Iorveth, in need of several Faerûnian equivalents of Blues' Clues, loses even more INT points the moment Astarion puts his hand down the wide dip of his collar. He struggles gainfully with himself, of course― he'd die before being on the same level as the two humans still gawking at them from across the room― but instinct tells him to enjoy the touch, which. Well.
He does. He nudges against Astarion's jaw with his nose, breathing a soft exhale. ]
Don't make me want you here.
[ Fighting losing battles, etc. The halfling picks up her drink and goes to sit with a dwarf who's dozing peacefully next to his stack of playing cards. ]
[ Again, he's done far worse in taverns. Running his fingers over Iorveth's chest is downright prudish, really. ]
—But, [ he adds, melodramatic, ] if you insist.
[ He withdraws his hand, swinging his legs over so his feet are once again flat on the ground, scooting his chair back to its original position. A polite few inches stand between them now, and he crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. ]
I'll keep my hands to myself. I wouldn't want to be improper.
Oh. Iorveth feels Astarion slink away, every bit like a cat that's grown tired of being held, and looks.
Stunned? Taken aback. A little annoyed. One hand twitches, slides over the table. ]
...You're fishing.
[ "You want me to tell you to stay close." Iorveth has a feeling that he knows what this is about, and that he's playing right into Astarion's hand, but still.
His fingers drum over lacquered wood again, impatient. ] Astarion.
[ He's absolutely fishing, and so what? Iorveth did say that the night was about pleasing him, and he'd even said he'd give Astarion 'words', since he favors them so much. It's not unreasonable to expect him to follow through now.
Iorveth's impatience has little to no effect on him; he barely seems to pay it any notice, only craning forward and cupping a hand behind his ear. ]
You'll have to speak up, dear. I can't hear you from all the way over here.
[ Astarion is so lucky (citation needed) that Iorveth loves him. Were he anyone else, Iorveth would harm him physically in unnecessarily creative ways; because he's Astarion, the worst Iorveth can do is scowl.
No grabbing, no yanking. In situations like these, Iorveth refuses to touch Astarion without express permission. So: ]
Gods, you're unbearable. [ False. What's unbearable is being this close without touching, which is a bonkers thing to think. ] ...Put your wandering hands anywhere you wish, as long as you stay close to me.
[ Do not deprive the deranged drunk elf of his comfort person, he means. Iorveth stays put where he is, but expectation is written clearly on his distinct, sharp features. ]
[ No, he's right — Astarion is unbearable. Difficult, annoying, the type of person you'd have to be a deranged drunk elf to derive any comfort from the presence of. He crosses his ankles primly, staring back at Iorveth with raised eyebrows, his red eyes full of mischief and amusement. Unbearable indeed.
It is, of course, difficult to deprive himself of touching someone he loves now that he knows that being close to someone can actually feel good. Surely none of the depraved things he did for his marks even came close to making them feel as wonderful as the mere warmth of Iorveth's palm against his cheek. Still, he is unbearable, and it's easier to have willpower when it irritates someone else. He clasps his hands together on his lap. ]
Anywhere I wish?
[ The tsk, tsk he makes is an obvious indicator that Iorveth hasn't passed his imaginary test. ]
Darling, I'd hate to put my wandering hands anywhere that you didn't wish. Don't you worry, they'll stay right here.
[ The worst. It's been a while, but Iorveth idly fantasizes about defenestrating Astarion again－
－only to find, distressingly, that the fantasy brings him no joy anymore. Shock! Horror. Apparently, the angry fox living under Iorveth's skin only finds satisfaction in biting people who aren't Astarion-shaped.
So. Iorveth seethes. Not angrily, but impatiently. He stares at Astarion's pretty hands sitting prettily on his pretty lap, and tries to will it into movement by the sheer strength of his fuzzy focus; he rolls a Nat 1 on that silent persuasion check. It's agonizing.
Finally, once he recovers from that staggering moment of abject failure: ] Idiot. I'd be happy to have you fondle my prick in public if you wished it. [ A half-elf on his way to paying for his drinks does a double-take as he passes by the pair's table; Iorveth barely notices. ] Give me your hands. Anywhere.
[ Hyacinth looks pleased as punch as she gives the half-elf his change. "Aren't they lovely?", she notes, to which the man just mumbles a non-committal "uh". ]
[ Astarion smiles, looking every bit as pleased as Hyacinth. He scoots their chairs closer once more, hand snaking up under the hem of Iorveth's silky-smooth shirt and splaying out over the warm skin of his back. He leans his temple against Iorveth's shoulder, close enough to him that he can inhale the scent of Iorveth's skin. Warm, woody, comforting. He'd bottle it if he could. ]
If that's what you want, I couldn't bear to deny you.
[ Well, maybe a little. Fondling Iorveth's prick would only make him want to remove some clothes, and he'd rather not get undressed in front of the whole tavern. ]
I only thought you didn't want to act like a 'love-drunk fool'.
[ A sigh. He's as hungry for Iorveth's affection as he is for blood, and he won't be able to have either in public if that's the case. Vexing. ]
[ The touch is familiar: cool against his warm skin, confident when it finds a perch. Like nothing and no one else. Iorveth has never taken himself for the melting type, but he finds himself molding to the shape of the body near and next to him, resting his weight on the palm between his shoulderblades with a low, long exhale. His hand loops around Astarion's waist again, and sits at his hip. ]
The fool part, specifically. [ Too proud to be constantly messy. That said: ] Acting in love with you is－
[ He waves his free hand. ]
－Mm. It's no act. [ The most vexing part of this whole affair. ] Here or in the north, that isn't liable to change.
[ A huff, amused. ] Do you think I'd wish to hide it?
[ 'Downplay', maybe, in the name of reputation and propriety. He'd be lying if he weren't worried about Iorveth seeing him in a different light once he's back to his real life. Iorveth's love doesn't seem fickle, but he can't help but prepare himself for the worst regardless. ]
...But if you did want to hide it, I—
[ He pauses. It comes naturally to make himself small, to mold himself into whatever shape he needs to take in order to not be left behind. I wouldn't mind, he's set to say, but the words feel bitter on his tongue.
Sounding a bit surprised, he says, ] Actually, I think I deserve better than that.
[ A blink, a once-over. Iorveth angles his chin to get a better vantage point from where he can gauge Astarion's expression, and once he digests the weight of that added declaration－
－he smiles. Almost laughs, before he stops himself, though Astarion should be able to feel how it ripples through him before it dies in the back of Iorveth's throat, vibrating in little waves.
Gods. There's literally nothing sexier in the world than someone with self-respect. ]
You'd be entitled to put a knife through my skull if I ever disrespected you.
[ Ugh, Iorveth is so dramatic. Unfortunately, Astarion finds it very endearing. It's dangerous to build up his confidence like this, to make him believe that he deserves better than what he's been given, but he can't find it in himself to make Iorveth stop. The better Iorveth makes him feel about himself, the worse it'll be if—when, really, because Iorveth is no vampire—this ends, but as time goes by, he feels less and less like he's just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like maybe it's more worth enjoying what he has while he has it, rather than grieving it before he's even lost it.
He laughs, scratching Iorveth's back not unlike the kneading of an affectionate cat. ]
If I'm going to be using a knife on you, I'd rather it be in a more enticing way.
[ Using a knife on someone should never rightfully be enticing, but, well. They're just two freaks. ]
[ Oh, threaten him with a good time. Inhibitions shot, Iorveth feels nails raking gently against his skin and idly contemplates knifeplay like the unhinged elf that he is. ]
That would be more of what you deserve. [ Edging closer, pressing his lips to the pretty pointed shape of Astarion's ear. Being an elf is superior to humans in this one way, at least: more cartilage for Iorveth to nibble. ] If you get tired of using your teeth when you get peckish.
[ A little frisson of pleasure, just thinking about it. Do Not Romanticize Vampirism, the world warns, and yet. Iorveth sighs, skin warming a little more as he remembers the pleasantly painful-hazy sensation of being bitten. ]
...I'd allow it. [ Iorveth the control freak, only relinquishing it for the one person he trusts more than anyone else in the world. ] I'd enjoy it, even.
[ Very interesting. He loves Iorveth more than anyone in this wretched world and can't bear to think of him hurt, but the idea of Iorveth—who'd once said he'd slash Astarion's throat before letting even his teeth near that lovely neck—allowing him to hold a blade against his skin is more exciting than it has any right to be. Unintentionally, he digs his blunted nails into Iorveth's back a little harder; he realizes after a moment and smooths his chilly palm over the spot. ]
Ugh, don't make me want you here, [ he echoes, playful. ] I'm not in the habit of denying myself life's pleasures, and I don't want to start now.
[ He can have a freaky terrorist boyfriend, as a treat. ]
[ What Iorveth keeps to himself: for all of Astarion's posturing about being a pleasure-seeker, Iorveth is convinced that Astarion is the lesser freak between the two of them. It's only natural given what Astarion has been through, with forcefully-flipped standards dictating that affection is the aberrant behavior instead of the norm; while Iorveth has stopped wondering if Astarion doesn't actually secretly hate intimacy, he still doesn't know if he wouldn't just prefer cuddling to anything more explicit.
Regardless, he hums happily at the pleasant pain-prick of nails in his skin. ]
That only depends on what pleasures you're looking to sate now.
[ Pouring himself one more glass until the bottle runs out, and flicking his gaze up at an expectant Hyacinth who's been watching them with her elbows on a counter and her chin in her hands. A gnome woman, in turn, has been looking at her and her lovely, lovely cleavage from a few tables away. ]
Either you conspire with the barkeep and get me so drunk that I start invoking Sune, [ a low laugh, openly amused. He looks a little younger when his exuberance is honest, the sharp lines of his face smoothing to make way for the warmth he keeps hidden under tight-fisted control. ] Or we find a bathhouse to ruin.
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You're worth being devoted to.
[ Can't embarrass him with descriptors that are true!! He shifts Astarion closer to him on their pushed-together chairs, adjusting his perch to sit a little higher on his knees. What this establishment is in sore need of is benches. ]
And in need of some worshipping, perhaps. [ Not just sexually, really. He combs a hand through Astarion's hair, adjusting bangs that don't need further adjusting. ] Not if you find it cloying, however.
[ Astarion hardly needs to be treated like something that might break at any moment; his resilience is something Iorveth respects and admires about him. ]
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Darling, you're many things, but not cloying.
[ No one would ever accuse Iorveth of being too sweet, although he is. Astarion preens, practically batting his eyelashes. ]
Are you going to worship me, then?
[ Iorveth really should not let him get away with this sort of behavior, and yet. He's only grown more bold. ]
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It's a belief he still holds, foolishly and desperately. Iorveth the Woodland Fox, Thrice-Betrayed, putting all his eggs in one basket despite past failures. It's what he's doing now, holding Astarion like he's the only person that's worth anything in this tragic mess of a world. Drunk, fuzzy, smitten. ]
I'd thought that to be the entire point of this night. [ Procuring lavish outfits, stealing pretty trinkets for Astarion to decorate himself with, drowning themselves in expensive drink. Sure, Astarion'd hated the party (he hadn't even known what to expect, which still breaks Iorveth a little), and they'd had to murder someone before winding up in a tavern full of exasperated people, but. Whatever.
The point is, Iorveth tips Astarion's chin and kisses the corner of his mouth. ] How do you wish to be worshiped? Or will you let me decide?
[ A sweet threat. Astarion should be running for the hills. ]
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I'm sure I could think of a few dozen ways.
[ An understatement. Astarion was born to command, forced to be commanded. Bossing others around comes naturally to him. ]
What would you do, if I graciously allowed you to choose?
[ Like it's a privilege. ]
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[ Tracing Astarion's jaw with an index, considering. Affection, closeness, undivided attention. Despite Iorveth saying that it's for Astarion's benefit, it is, in fact, for his own benefit as well: this is the first time anyone has ever been so open to simply staying.
Still, he gives more thought to Astarion's preferences. As best he can, mind, with alcohol swimming through his system. ]
―More words, too. I know you like those. [ Compliments, acknowledgments. Not Iorveth's forte, but he can make attempts. ] More skin, if we were alone.
...I'd serve you that annoying human's head on a plate, too, if he keeps salivating at you. He could catch flies with his mouth hung open the way it is.
[ Not dignifying the man's behavior by looking at him, but huffing in annoyance anyway. ]
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He smiles, eyes gone soft and fond, and doesn't even mention that the reason the man is gawking could very well be because he and Iorveth are acting entirely inappropriate in public. Besides, he'd hate for Iorveth to stop when he'd really rather him get more inappropriate.
Instead, he tucks a strand of hair behind Iorveth's pointy ear. ]
And how would one worship you, if they were so inclined?
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For a moment, he really, truly has no idea why Astarion is asking. And then, when the moment passes: ]
I'd never considered it. [ He isn't posturing; he just. Hasn't. Rather happy to acknowledge instead of being acknowledged, what with the state of him and the purpose he serves. He tilts his head like a questioning dog. ] ―You've already agreed to stay.
[ That's his idea of being worshiped, which probably says too much about him. Hm. Even for a drunk man, that answer seems lame, so he searches for something slightly more practical, which turns out to be: ] Bathing with me, I suppose.
[ Warm, close, skin on skin. His idea of a good time. ]
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Thoughtful: ] I rather think I'd like to try worshiping someone of my own free will.
[ Instead of living in fear of an omniscient, omnipotent god-vampire who forces worship, it might be nice to expend his energy on somebody worth worshipping. It'd be a brand new experience, at the very least, and he's already decided to seek out brand new experiences.
A pause, then, ] But I'm not certain that dingy little washtub in the Elfsong will fit us both. It barely fits Halsin.
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More drink disappears down Iorveth's throat, and pools in his stomach. His tan skin is slightly more flushed, warmed by alcohol, which makes the temperature difference between himself and his partner more enticing; whoever says that embracing an undead is uncomfortable clearly has no idea what they're talking about. ]
There are bathhouses. [ Like the one they went to all those tendays ago, when they'd barely tolerated each other in states of undress. Remembering it makes Iorveth laugh. ] But all I require is you.
[ Stupid, sweet fool. He kisses Astarion again, wine lingering on his tongue. ] ...I'll have to take you to the elven baths in the north. You might enjoy them.
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Cold hand creeping under the low, low vee of Iorveth's collar: ]
If it involves you, naked and wet, I'm sure I'll enjoy myself.
[ A halfling one table over wrinkles her nose in disgust. ]
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He does. He nudges against Astarion's jaw with his nose, breathing a soft exhale. ]
Don't make me want you here.
[ Fighting losing battles, etc. The halfling picks up her drink and goes to sit with a dwarf who's dozing peacefully next to his stack of playing cards. ]
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[ Again, he's done far worse in taverns. Running his fingers over Iorveth's chest is downright prudish, really. ]
—But, [ he adds, melodramatic, ] if you insist.
[ He withdraws his hand, swinging his legs over so his feet are once again flat on the ground, scooting his chair back to its original position. A polite few inches stand between them now, and he crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. ]
I'll keep my hands to myself. I wouldn't want to be improper.
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Oh. Iorveth feels Astarion slink away, every bit like a cat that's grown tired of being held, and looks.
Stunned? Taken aback. A little annoyed. One hand twitches, slides over the table. ]
...You're fishing.
[ "You want me to tell you to stay close." Iorveth has a feeling that he knows what this is about, and that he's playing right into Astarion's hand, but still.
His fingers drum over lacquered wood again, impatient. ] Astarion.
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Iorveth's impatience has little to no effect on him; he barely seems to pay it any notice, only craning forward and cupping a hand behind his ear. ]
You'll have to speak up, dear. I can't hear you from all the way over here.
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No grabbing, no yanking. In situations like these, Iorveth refuses to touch Astarion without express permission. So: ]
Gods, you're unbearable. [ False. What's unbearable is being this close without touching, which is a bonkers thing to think. ] ...Put your wandering hands anywhere you wish, as long as you stay close to me.
[ Do not deprive the deranged drunk elf of his comfort person, he means. Iorveth stays put where he is, but expectation is written clearly on his distinct, sharp features. ]
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It is, of course, difficult to deprive himself of touching someone he loves now that he knows that being close to someone can actually feel good. Surely none of the depraved things he did for his marks even came close to making them feel as wonderful as the mere warmth of Iorveth's palm against his cheek. Still, he is unbearable, and it's easier to have willpower when it irritates someone else. He clasps his hands together on his lap. ]
Anywhere I wish?
[ The tsk, tsk he makes is an obvious indicator that Iorveth hasn't passed his imaginary test. ]
Darling, I'd hate to put my wandering hands anywhere that you didn't wish. Don't you worry, they'll stay right here.
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－only to find, distressingly, that the fantasy brings him no joy anymore. Shock! Horror. Apparently, the angry fox living under Iorveth's skin only finds satisfaction in biting people who aren't Astarion-shaped.
So. Iorveth seethes. Not angrily, but impatiently. He stares at Astarion's pretty hands sitting prettily on his pretty lap, and tries to will it into movement by the sheer strength of his fuzzy focus; he rolls a Nat 1 on that silent persuasion check. It's agonizing.
Finally, once he recovers from that staggering moment of abject failure: ] Idiot. I'd be happy to have you fondle my prick in public if you wished it. [ A half-elf on his way to paying for his drinks does a double-take as he passes by the pair's table; Iorveth barely notices. ] Give me your hands. Anywhere.
[ Hyacinth looks pleased as punch as she gives the half-elf his change. "Aren't they lovely?", she notes, to which the man just mumbles a non-committal "uh". ]
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If that's what you want, I couldn't bear to deny you.
[ Well, maybe a little. Fondling Iorveth's prick would only make him want to remove some clothes, and he'd rather not get undressed in front of the whole tavern. ]
I only thought you didn't want to act like a 'love-drunk fool'.
[ A sigh. He's as hungry for Iorveth's affection as he is for blood, and he won't be able to have either in public if that's the case. Vexing. ]
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The fool part, specifically. [ Too proud to be constantly messy. That said: ] Acting in love with you is－
[ He waves his free hand. ]
－Mm. It's no act. [ The most vexing part of this whole affair. ] Here or in the north, that isn't liable to change.
[ A huff, amused. ] Do you think I'd wish to hide it?
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[ 'Downplay', maybe, in the name of reputation and propriety. He'd be lying if he weren't worried about Iorveth seeing him in a different light once he's back to his real life. Iorveth's love doesn't seem fickle, but he can't help but prepare himself for the worst regardless. ]
...But if you did want to hide it, I—
[ He pauses. It comes naturally to make himself small, to mold himself into whatever shape he needs to take in order to not be left behind. I wouldn't mind, he's set to say, but the words feel bitter on his tongue.
Sounding a bit surprised, he says, ] Actually, I think I deserve better than that.
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－he smiles. Almost laughs, before he stops himself, though Astarion should be able to feel how it ripples through him before it dies in the back of Iorveth's throat, vibrating in little waves.
Gods. There's literally nothing sexier in the world than someone with self-respect. ]
You'd be entitled to put a knife through my skull if I ever disrespected you.
[ Sincerely meant. ]
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He laughs, scratching Iorveth's back not unlike the kneading of an affectionate cat. ]
If I'm going to be using a knife on you, I'd rather it be in a more enticing way.
[ Using a knife on someone should never rightfully be enticing, but, well. They're just two freaks. ]
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That would be more of what you deserve. [ Edging closer, pressing his lips to the pretty pointed shape of Astarion's ear. Being an elf is superior to humans in this one way, at least: more cartilage for Iorveth to nibble. ] If you get tired of using your teeth when you get peckish.
[ A little frisson of pleasure, just thinking about it. Do Not Romanticize Vampirism, the world warns, and yet. Iorveth sighs, skin warming a little more as he remembers the pleasantly painful-hazy sensation of being bitten. ]
...I'd allow it. [ Iorveth the control freak, only relinquishing it for the one person he trusts more than anyone else in the world. ] I'd enjoy it, even.
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Ugh, don't make me want you here, [ he echoes, playful. ] I'm not in the habit of denying myself life's pleasures, and I don't want to start now.
[ He can have a freaky terrorist boyfriend, as a treat. ]
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Regardless, he hums happily at the pleasant pain-prick of nails in his skin. ]
That only depends on what pleasures you're looking to sate now.
[ Pouring himself one more glass until the bottle runs out, and flicking his gaze up at an expectant Hyacinth who's been watching them with her elbows on a counter and her chin in her hands. A gnome woman, in turn, has been looking at her and her lovely, lovely cleavage from a few tables away. ]
Either you conspire with the barkeep and get me so drunk that I start invoking Sune, [ a low laugh, openly amused. He looks a little younger when his exuberance is honest, the sharp lines of his face smoothing to make way for the warmth he keeps hidden under tight-fisted control. ] Or we find a bathhouse to ruin.
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