[ Now that Iorveth is back horizontal, Astarion strokes up and down his side, fingers following the curve of that tattoo Iorveth is so fond of. He must admit, he's fond of it, too. Tattoos have never been something he's given much thought to before, but watching it sprawl across Iorveth's neck and collarbone and lovely, lovely torso is strangely appealing and, to put it bluntly, very hot. ]
Well.
[ His shoulder shrugs, just slightly. ]
I left quite a bit of destruction in my wake.
[ So perhaps he didn't deserve as much care as Iorveth thinks. Case in point: the thought flits across his mind that he's glad Isengrim is dead, because it means he gets Iorveth's love all for himself. A terrible, awful thought — not because of the morality of it, but because of what Iorveth might think of him if he knew. Obviously, he can never, ever know. ]
But if all that is what you think of me, far be it from me to dissuade you.
[ Hm. Iorveth processes that statement, rolls it over in his head. Palm resting on the crook of Astarion's neck now, he idly thumbs along the jut of his collarbone. ]
How do you wish me to think of you, then?
[ Calm, but remaining close. He really has no inclination to stray more than an armspan away from Astarion for the rest of the night and during the next day; this is where he'll stay until Gale peels him off or Astarion feels too crowded and has to shoo Iorveth away.
One leg slips between Astarion's, tangling limbs around limbs. ]
Whatever destruction you caused in life, you paid for it a thousandfold in death― and then some. [ A low breath, pressed against Astarion's jaw. ] Are you so insistent on me loving you less?
[ Whatever destruction he caused in life, he caused even more in death. Much of the time he feels indignant about his lot in life (or undeath), but sometimes, when he's feeling particularly low, he wonders if he didn't deserve what he got. Some of his victims would probably say so. ]
Of course not. You're forbidden from loving me less.
[ But maybe Iorveth could see how horrible he can be and love him anyway. If such a thing is possible, Iorveth would be the one to do it. He tugs Iorveth closer until their bodies are properly slotted together, light strokes turning to gentle scratching. ]
But you needn't pity me for the past. [ He needn't pity Astarion at all, honestly. ] I have you to care for me now.
[ Foolish. Astarion really doesn't have a clue what kind of swamp he's stuck his foot into. Iorveth is a man with clear-cut lines, who likes to make decisions based on his convictions; anything less is unacceptable. He's already gone through the phase of weighing his options, of trying to understand who exactly he's going to open his heart to, and now it's Astarion's teeth hovering over his jugular, and his own knife hovering over Astarion's chest.
Do or die. Astarion is never not going to be loved by Iorveth, and that is entirely his problem now. ]
Never have you inspired pity in me, [ he corrects. Iorveth has always wanted to know the shape of Astarion's pain, but only so he could see Astarion more clearly; not to see him as some sort of shivering creature in need of protection. ] Interest, yes. Annoyance, yes. Love, most of all.
[ A brief smile, and he cups Astarion's chin, gently forcing eye contact. Two eyes on one, more accurately. ]
Even when you accuse me of not caring, [ he laugh-sighs. ] ―If we'd still been in possession of our tadpoles, I would have made you feel how wrong you were.
[ Astarion opens his mouth to protest that he didn't accuse Iorveth of not caring, necessarily, just— not caring about that one specific thing, which did feel a lot like not caring in general. And then Iorveth had turned his back on him, and it really had felt, just for a moment, like he didn't care at all. He closes it, though, because there's nothing he's interested in less right now than arguing with Iorveth while he's naked and sprawled out across soft sheets. ]
I guess there were some benefits to the little wrigglers.
[ Standing in the sun. Entering homes uninvited. Reading each other's thoughts. He'd been so terribly afraid of Iorveth seeing any hint of vulnerability in him when they'd first connected; now he's seen Astarion at his absolute lowest. ]
I do miss being inside your mind.
[ It had been a pleasant place to be. Somewhere that wasn't his own mind, his own body.
He laughs under his breath, amused before he even says, ] I suppose I'll just have to be inside of you other ways from now on.
[ A bit of an eyeroll at all of that, though it still sits firmly in the realm of fond. It feels impossible for anyone to want to inhabit the confines of his mind― no doubt an unpleasant, blood-stained place to be― and the bit about being inside him, well.
That's also pretty unbelievable too, honestly. But Iorveth doesn't say so, and reciprocates the sentiment behind the given laugh by hauling Astarion up and half on top of him again, coaxing Astarion's face against his neck. ]
Thoughts in my head, teeth in my neck.
[ Coyly. He ruins it, though, by adding on: ]
Your pretty cock in whichever part of me it wishes to be in.
[ Very crass. Manners, etc. Iorveth chuckles, and presses his filthy mouth to Astarion's hair. ]
[ He hardly needs to be coaxed into shoving his face against Iorveth's neck. It's his second favorite thing to do, only eclipsed by actually shoving his fangs into it. The sweet smell of Iorveth's skin, the sound of his steady pulse. Astarion presses a light hand against one of Iorveth's carotids, feeling the blood rush through it. If he loved Iorveth any less, he fears that he might be a danger to him the way that his blood inspires fantasizing. ]
And what of your wishes?
[ Iorveth is very self-denying, which is wonderful at times—a good fit for Astarion, who's so terribly selfish—but other times, he wishes Iorveth had a little less abnegation and a little more indulgence. Hedonism, even. ]
[ Astarion settles closer, and it would be like having something soft and sweet nuzzling up against his pulse, if not for the fact that said soft and sweet thing could also kill him in a second if he felt like it. That's the fun of it, Iorveth supposes- he's always been infatuated with things that could also be his undoing.
Of his wishes, though. He thinks they're being granted now, naked and sprawled in bed with Astarion tucked against him, all to himself. A better man would probably have let his newly-free love go off and enjoy the Waterdhavian nightlife, but reality is that he flipped out and dragged Astarion back in a wizard's tower. A true villain.
He says as much, which is: ] You're fulfilling a great many of them now, with me claiming your time.
[ Turning his head, nibbling at the tip of Astarion's ear. ]
Unless you meant carnally. You do like it when I talk filth.
[ Astarion isn't sure if one can call this relationship new anymore, but the entire concept of being loved after two centuries of loneliness and isolation still feels new, and so does the idea that someone could simply want his time and nothing else. It's still strange, feeling like someone wants him and not just wants something from him. He lays a kiss on Iorveth's pulse, trying very hard not to start gnawing on him and failing just a little; his teeth press against Iorveth's skin more than his lips do. Oops. ]
I do love to hear you say dirty words.
[ He likes to hear Iorveth say almost anything, especially when his voice takes on that lovely lilt the way it does when he speaks in his native tongue. ]
And I've found that I rather enjoy making you happy.
[ On principle, Iorveth is half a second from snapping at anything that threatens him both physically and emotionally: "kill or be killed" is a lesson that's hard to unlearn at this point. That said, he romanticizes the idea of murder specifically in the context of Astarion's teeth against his neck. Sometimes, he thinks that it might be nice if, instead of dying of old age, he let Astarion feed on him until there was nothing left.
Morbid. Weird freak thoughts that are bad pillow talk topics. Instead of "I think I would be happy if you killed me", Iorveth cranes back to let Astarion gnaw harder if he wants. ]
Then it might please you to know that I'd relish fucking you while you taste my blood.
[ Inside, in many ways. Iorveth wouldn't mind having it be the other way- if Astarion really gets nothing out of being the penetrated, Iorveth is more than amenable- but: ]
You're sweet, when relaxed and blood-drunk. [ Maybe it helps Astarion feel less dead; maybe he feels more sensation that way. Iorveth combs through Astarion's hair, playing with stray flyaways. ] Makes me want to swallow you whole, I think.
[ Iorveth has no place to talk about swallowing anyone whole when he's currently the one Astarion is trying to eat. He lets his teeth drag along Iorveth's long neck, catching slightly against the skin. His elf-brain hates the idea of ever harming Iorveth, but his vampire-brain likes knowing that he could tear into the vulnerable flesh of Iorveth's throat at any moment. He won't, ever, but knowing that he could gives the same sort of thrill as when Iorveth let him press a blade into his skin. Power, in its purest form.
It's a little difficult to tell if he's thinking or just distracted by the taste of Iorveth's skin as he quietly nibbles, nose nuzzling affectionately into the angle of his jaw. Maybe a little bit of both; sue him. Finally, mid-nibble: ]
You're the one who's at risk of being swallowed up, my love.
[ Permission from Astarion is precious, matched only by refusal from Astarion. Iorveth loathes the idea of being endured, and wants to believe that Astarion isn't gritting his teeth and bearing things just to keep Iorveth happy. "I'm happy if you're happy" goes both ways.
More idle petting, followed by slow outlining of the shape of Astarion's ear. Not the only reason Iorveth chose Astarion to confide in, obviously, but he'd be lying if he said that he doesn't like that they have this feature in common. ]
I'll have to see if Gale has any oil, then.
[ Maybe he never needed it for the astral plane mind-fuck sessions he had with Mystra (and Iorveth will never ask for details); surely he has something to use when he gets intimately acquainted with a hand, though. Maybe he hid some in the chest that bit Astarion.
A kiss to the point of Astarion's ear again. The taper is longer than his own, he notes. His ear curves into a blunter angle while Astarion's is longer, thinner, more elegant-looking. ]
[ A spell he would absolutely, positively only use for inappropriate situations. Maybe Gale has a scroll around here somewhere that he can use to teach himself. He'll have to go digging again, risking the ire of more of Gale's enchanted chests.
In response to Iorveth's ear focus, he nips at the soft lobe of Iorveth's ear. There's nothing particularly special about elf ears to him, but there is something special about Iorveth's ears, because there's something special about every part of Iorveth. ]
I'm sure he has a stash in the kitchen. I've seen him drench that so-called food he makes.
[ 'So-called'. Gale seems to be a terrific chef, although there's nothing healthy about his food. ]
You should go down there and see.
[ He could, mostly-clothed as he is, but he won't. He hopes Tara is down there to be traumatized by Iorveth's nakedness. ]
[ A shiver of a laugh, at the thought of Astarion learning Grease. It's preposterous to think about, and he also imagines the spell going wrong and splashing them both in tarlike fluid, ruining any potential intimate moments they might have had. Might be fun, actually. Very unsexy, though.
The laugh persists, lingering in his voice long after the thought of Astarion looking like an oil-soaked cat leaves the forefront of his mind. ]
The greatest abuse of my scouting skills yet.
[ Lae'zel had often sent him out to do incredibly ignoble tasks, like tracking goblins and creeping near giant spiders in caves, but this is quite possibly the dumbest thing someone has ever asked him to do.
It's novel. Exasperating. Endearing (delusional). Iorveth hums, the chuckle still half-rumbling in the back of his throat, as he peels away from Astarion's inviting arms and mouth. ]
If Tara decides to throw me out onto the streets, open the window. I'll scale the wall and climb back in from the back.
[ Iorveth's laugh is glorious. Astarion wants to make him laugh forever, to close his eyes at night to the sound and open them to it the next morning. He laughs in return, a light, twinkling sound in comparison to his usual derisive snorts, as he flops onto his back.
Gods, he loves this man. More and more each day. More and more each minute, it often feels like. ]
I must admit, that does sound terribly romantic.
[ Maybe less romantic knowing that Iorveth will be entirely naked and banished from the tower by a horrified tressym. Still pretty romantic, though. He sprawls out on the covers, posing lazily, trying very hard to look alluring and inviting. ]
—But, if it's all the same, I'd rather you hurry back.
[ Astarion drapes across the sheets, silently bidding Iorveth to draw him like one of his Cormyrean nobles (Iorveth has never met a Cormyrean noble); the worst part is that Astarion does manage to be alluring and inviting, though it's debatable as to whether Iorveth should credit Astarion's methods of seduction or his own deranged mind.
Maybe he should at least put on smallclothes. Iorveth forgoes it anyway, choosing instead to get up and kiss the crown of Astarion's head before moving to the door, ass-naked. ]
If you hear Gale coming down the stairs for something, distract him.
[ Or don't, Iorveth doesn't care. Surely Gale has seen a naked man before in his lifetime (right??? right???). One last backwards glance and he's slipping silently down the stairs (again, the most ignoble use of his stealth skills ever), sneaking into the bathroom first to rummage through cabinets for bath oils that he can use in lieu of cooking oil.
Down below him, where the stairs meet the hall leading into the sitting room, Tara is curled on a cushion with her wings folded, sleeping, unaware of the heinous crimes happening above her. For now. ]
[ It does sound hilarious to let Gale stumble upon Iorveth with his prick swinging in the wind, but it also sounds a bit like a mood-killer to have to listen to Gale's indignant squawking, so he keeps an eye out. True to his history of terrible timing, Gale does come padding down the hall in his slippers and robe; Astarion jumps up, calling out, ] Oh, Gale!
[ Gale blinks the sleep out of his eyes. "Astarion! You know, I was just headed downstairs to prepare myself a bit of a midnight snack. Perhaps Iorveth might like—" ]
Perhaps. But before that, I actually had a question about, erm. Magic.
[ Gale's eyes light up, even in the dark of the hallway. "You don't say— I always hoped you'd come around to the study of the arcane arts. Elves do have a natural affinity for it, or so I've heard..." ]
[ Oh. Gods. Iorveth flicks his eye towards the direction of the stairs from where he's crouched, rifling through the cabinet under the sink; he considers the pros and cons of maneuvering elsewhere until the metaphorical storm subsides, but finds himself having to contend with the padding of soft paws up wooden stairs.
Tara.
"Gale? What are you doing up at this hour?", Iorveth hears the tressym say. "And what have I told you about your midnight snacks?"
Ah. Iorveth straightens up and reaches for the door, but it's too late: glowing cat eyes peer out from the dark, fixing themselves firmly on Iorveth as he grabs the nearest towel and surreptitiously (?) tries to make himself slightly more modest.
A hiss, and a yowl loud enough to be heard from anywhere in the tower. "My Gods! Just what is going on here!?" ]
[ Gale gasps. "Tara?" he says, voice quivering with worry. "Tara!" Without another word, he's bounding down the stairs toward her voice, faster than Astarion has ever seen him move. It would be sweet if, well. Iorveth weren't naked down there.
Astarion runs along behind him, nearly running into Gale's back as the wizard almost trips down the stairs. He'd forgotten — Iorveth, Tara, and he might be able to see in the dark, but Gale is only human. He can't see anything at all, which is actually a relief.
At least, until they reach the bottom of the stairs and Gale calls out, "Fiat lux!"
Of course Gale has to cast Dancing Lights. Four glowing orbs appear in the air, floating in the darkness and illuminating everything — and he does mean everything. Gale gasps for a second time as he peers into the now-lit bathroom, aghast. "Iorveth?!" ]
—Iorveth! [ Astarion calls from behind Gale, dramatic. ] What sort of deranged, perverted nonsense is this?!
[ Quite possibly the dumbest situation Iorveth has ever been in. Naked, towel held against his nethers with one hand, the other holding a glass bottle containing sink cleaning fluid (surely Gale could just magic the sink clean, Gods.)
Pokerface. Externally, he's the spitting image of calm, with the kind of straight-backed arrogance that suggests that he's meant to be here and he has no idea why everyone is freaking out; internally, he's throwing the bottle of sink cleaner right at Astarion's perfect, pretty face. The betrayal. Heinous. Also: utterly expected.
After a lingering moment in the silence that follows, lit by the ghastly white of Dancing Lights: ]
It's Fey Day. I'm a wood elf.
[ Translation: "How very racist of y'all to accuse me of being a perverted nudist during a time when being uninhibited should be celebrated... smh." It's entirely unserious, however, and Iorveth follows that up with a glance towards Astarion (ignoring Gale, who, Iorveth notes, is tracking how far down the tattoos go). ]
Should I remove the towel and start dancing? [ Not helping to dispel the "deranged" accusation. Let him be deranged!!! He doesn't care!!! ]
Oh, yes, [ says Astarion, at the same moment Gale waves his hands and exclaims, "No need!" What a prude, ruining it for everyone.
"Not that you're not... er, what I mean to say is—" Gale stumbles over his words for a moment, and Astarion could swear that his face is turning pink. Finally, he shakes his head, as if giving up on the entire possibility of discussing what's beneath that towel. "The last thing I want to do is be culturally insensitive, of course, but I would appreciate an advance warning before you go gallivanting around my tower in the nude."
Tara bristles, having turned away from the whole scene. "Well, I think it's positively uncouth!" ]
Well, I'm sure he just got carried away. You know how wood elves can be, [ he says to Gale. ] After all, you met Halsin.
[ It's incredibly difficult to not pull a Gale and do the whole well actually spiel about wood elves and their separate cultures, but Iorveth reels it in to avoid creating actual conversation; he has a feeling that Gale might be earnestly interested in learning things. While that's a virtue of his (a refreshing trait, especially in a human), Iorveth would rather not engage in cultural debates with his dick out.
So. ] It must be tiresome, being a creature that overreacts to the slightest suggestion of bare skin.
[ "Why are you booing me? I'm right." Iorveth tosses the bottle of sink cleaner onto a pile of freshly-laundered towels, and slinks up towards a still-pink Gale, tipping his chin up with one finger (the other hand has a very secure grip on the towel covering his front). ]
Your head is always in the clouds. I doubt you've ever experienced what it means to inhabit yourself.
[ It's satisfying, watching Gale transition from pink to crimson. There's a few spluttering retorts about how he's had a very sensible and fulfilling relationship with himself, thank you very much, and a scandalized "Mr. Dekarios!" from poor Tara, who has backed out of the washroom and back onto the stairs, her fur standing on end.
"No more humoring this nonsense! Gale, we are going back to our room," she demands, with a sense of maternal finality. Iorveth, as always, is public enemy number one. ]
Yes, Gale. Why don't you go inhabit yourself in private?
[ "I— that is not—" Gale stammers for a moment, effectively bullied by two mean elves. He finally stalks off, slippers flopping, muttering about how if they'd only seen him during his Academy days, they'd be shocked— ]
I don't see what that tressym is so upset about. She doesn't wear any clothes, either.
[ Astarion shrugs as he leans against the doorway, looking like the cat that ate the canary. With a cant of his head toward the towel pressed against Iorveth's front: ]
[ Poor Gale plods away with Tara guarding his heels; Iorveth watches them go before, yes, removing the towel from its awkward perch between his legs and tossing it at Astarion's feet. ]
I'm loath to subject you to something so deranged and perverted.
[ Dryly. He's far from angry- his posture isn't rigid enough, his expression not curdled enough- but he does feel petty enough to use Astarion's words against him. Iorveth loves Astarion halfway to death, but he'd hate to be seen as a pushover (unfortunately). ]
You may catch whatever me and Halsin have.
[ Wood elf cooties. Iorveth folds his arms across his chest, which might have been more intimidating if he wasn't still naked. ]
[ Astarion would be lying if he said that his gaze didn't immediately shoot down below Iorveth's waist. He loves Iorveth in a way that is far beyond just the physical, but he does very much love the physical parts of Iorveth, too. A testament to how special he is. Most naked genitalia would fill Astarion with a sense of revulsion, but he told the truth earlier: he likes Iorveth's prick very, very much, because it's a part of Iorveth, and there's no part of Iorveth that doesn't fill him with bone-deep desire.
Were Iorveth actually upset with him, he would shrink immediately, pathetic and ingratiating in an attempt to gain his forgiveness. Since he isn't, Astarion doesn't bother. Instead, he drapes himself further across the doorway in an obvious attempt to be alluring. ]
Oh, no, are you going to punish me for my misbehavior?
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Well.
[ His shoulder shrugs, just slightly. ]
I left quite a bit of destruction in my wake.
[ So perhaps he didn't deserve as much care as Iorveth thinks. Case in point: the thought flits across his mind that he's glad Isengrim is dead, because it means he gets Iorveth's love all for himself. A terrible, awful thought — not because of the morality of it, but because of what Iorveth might think of him if he knew. Obviously, he can never, ever know. ]
But if all that is what you think of me, far be it from me to dissuade you.
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How do you wish me to think of you, then?
[ Calm, but remaining close. He really has no inclination to stray more than an armspan away from Astarion for the rest of the night and during the next day; this is where he'll stay until Gale peels him off or Astarion feels too crowded and has to shoo Iorveth away.
One leg slips between Astarion's, tangling limbs around limbs. ]
Whatever destruction you caused in life, you paid for it a thousandfold in death― and then some. [ A low breath, pressed against Astarion's jaw. ] Are you so insistent on me loving you less?
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Of course not. You're forbidden from loving me less.
[ But maybe Iorveth could see how horrible he can be and love him anyway. If such a thing is possible, Iorveth would be the one to do it. He tugs Iorveth closer until their bodies are properly slotted together, light strokes turning to gentle scratching. ]
But you needn't pity me for the past. [ He needn't pity Astarion at all, honestly. ] I have you to care for me now.
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Do or die. Astarion is never not going to be loved by Iorveth, and that is entirely his problem now. ]
Never have you inspired pity in me, [ he corrects. Iorveth has always wanted to know the shape of Astarion's pain, but only so he could see Astarion more clearly; not to see him as some sort of shivering creature in need of protection. ] Interest, yes. Annoyance, yes. Love, most of all.
[ A brief smile, and he cups Astarion's chin, gently forcing eye contact. Two eyes on one, more accurately. ]
Even when you accuse me of not caring, [ he laugh-sighs. ] ―If we'd still been in possession of our tadpoles, I would have made you feel how wrong you were.
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I guess there were some benefits to the little wrigglers.
[ Standing in the sun. Entering homes uninvited. Reading each other's thoughts. He'd been so terribly afraid of Iorveth seeing any hint of vulnerability in him when they'd first connected; now he's seen Astarion at his absolute lowest. ]
I do miss being inside your mind.
[ It had been a pleasant place to be. Somewhere that wasn't his own mind, his own body.
He laughs under his breath, amused before he even says, ] I suppose I'll just have to be inside of you other ways from now on.
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That's also pretty unbelievable too, honestly. But Iorveth doesn't say so, and reciprocates the sentiment behind the given laugh by hauling Astarion up and half on top of him again, coaxing Astarion's face against his neck. ]
Thoughts in my head, teeth in my neck.
[ Coyly. He ruins it, though, by adding on: ]
Your pretty cock in whichever part of me it wishes to be in.
[ Very crass. Manners, etc. Iorveth chuckles, and presses his filthy mouth to Astarion's hair. ]
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And what of your wishes?
[ Iorveth is very self-denying, which is wonderful at times—a good fit for Astarion, who's so terribly selfish—but other times, he wishes Iorveth had a little less abnegation and a little more indulgence. Hedonism, even. ]
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Of his wishes, though. He thinks they're being granted now, naked and sprawled in bed with Astarion tucked against him, all to himself. A better man would probably have let his newly-free love go off and enjoy the Waterdhavian nightlife, but reality is that he flipped out and dragged Astarion back in a wizard's tower. A true villain.
He says as much, which is: ] You're fulfilling a great many of them now, with me claiming your time.
[ Turning his head, nibbling at the tip of Astarion's ear. ]
Unless you meant carnally. You do like it when I talk filth.
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I do love to hear you say dirty words.
[ He likes to hear Iorveth say almost anything, especially when his voice takes on that lovely lilt the way it does when he speaks in his native tongue. ]
And I've found that I rather enjoy making you happy.
[ When he's not making Iorveth miserable. ]
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Morbid. Weird freak thoughts that are bad pillow talk topics. Instead of "I think I would be happy if you killed me", Iorveth cranes back to let Astarion gnaw harder if he wants. ]
Then it might please you to know that I'd relish fucking you while you taste my blood.
[ Inside, in many ways. Iorveth wouldn't mind having it be the other way- if Astarion really gets nothing out of being the penetrated, Iorveth is more than amenable- but: ]
You're sweet, when relaxed and blood-drunk. [ Maybe it helps Astarion feel less dead; maybe he feels more sensation that way. Iorveth combs through Astarion's hair, playing with stray flyaways. ] Makes me want to swallow you whole, I think.
[ In many ways. Cute aggression. ]
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It's a little difficult to tell if he's thinking or just distracted by the taste of Iorveth's skin as he quietly nibbles, nose nuzzling affectionately into the angle of his jaw. Maybe a little bit of both; sue him. Finally, mid-nibble: ]
You're the one who's at risk of being swallowed up, my love.
[ Quite literally. Only one of them has fangs. ]
But I would allow it.
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More idle petting, followed by slow outlining of the shape of Astarion's ear. Not the only reason Iorveth chose Astarion to confide in, obviously, but he'd be lying if he said that he doesn't like that they have this feature in common. ]
I'll have to see if Gale has any oil, then.
[ Maybe he never needed it for the astral plane mind-fuck sessions he had with Mystra (and Iorveth will never ask for details); surely he has something to use when he gets intimately acquainted with a hand, though. Maybe he hid some in the chest that bit Astarion.
A kiss to the point of Astarion's ear again. The taper is longer than his own, he notes. His ear curves into a blunter angle while Astarion's is longer, thinner, more elegant-looking. ]
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[ A spell he would absolutely, positively only use for inappropriate situations. Maybe Gale has a scroll around here somewhere that he can use to teach himself. He'll have to go digging again, risking the ire of more of Gale's enchanted chests.
In response to Iorveth's ear focus, he nips at the soft lobe of Iorveth's ear. There's nothing particularly special about elf ears to him, but there is something special about Iorveth's ears, because there's something special about every part of Iorveth. ]
I'm sure he has a stash in the kitchen. I've seen him drench that so-called food he makes.
[ 'So-called'. Gale seems to be a terrific chef, although there's nothing healthy about his food. ]
You should go down there and see.
[ He could, mostly-clothed as he is, but he won't. He hopes Tara is down there to be traumatized by Iorveth's nakedness. ]
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The laugh persists, lingering in his voice long after the thought of Astarion looking like an oil-soaked cat leaves the forefront of his mind. ]
The greatest abuse of my scouting skills yet.
[ Lae'zel had often sent him out to do incredibly ignoble tasks, like tracking goblins and creeping near giant spiders in caves, but this is quite possibly the dumbest thing someone has ever asked him to do.
It's novel. Exasperating. Endearing (delusional). Iorveth hums, the chuckle still half-rumbling in the back of his throat, as he peels away from Astarion's inviting arms and mouth. ]
If Tara decides to throw me out onto the streets, open the window. I'll scale the wall and climb back in from the back.
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Gods, he loves this man. More and more each day. More and more each minute, it often feels like. ]
I must admit, that does sound terribly romantic.
[ Maybe less romantic knowing that Iorveth will be entirely naked and banished from the tower by a horrified tressym. Still pretty romantic, though. He sprawls out on the covers, posing lazily, trying very hard to look alluring and inviting. ]
—But, if it's all the same, I'd rather you hurry back.
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Maybe he should at least put on smallclothes. Iorveth forgoes it anyway, choosing instead to get up and kiss the crown of Astarion's head before moving to the door, ass-naked. ]
If you hear Gale coming down the stairs for something, distract him.
[ Or don't, Iorveth doesn't care. Surely Gale has seen a naked man before in his lifetime (right??? right???). One last backwards glance and he's slipping silently down the stairs (again, the most ignoble use of his stealth skills ever), sneaking into the bathroom first to rummage through cabinets for bath oils that he can use in lieu of cooking oil.
Down below him, where the stairs meet the hall leading into the sitting room, Tara is curled on a cushion with her wings folded, sleeping, unaware of the heinous crimes happening above her. For now. ]
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[ Gale blinks the sleep out of his eyes. "Astarion! You know, I was just headed downstairs to prepare myself a bit of a midnight snack. Perhaps Iorveth might like—" ]
Perhaps. But before that, I actually had a question about, erm. Magic.
[ Gale's eyes light up, even in the dark of the hallway. "You don't say— I always hoped you'd come around to the study of the arcane arts. Elves do have a natural affinity for it, or so I've heard..." ]
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Tara.
"Gale? What are you doing up at this hour?", Iorveth hears the tressym say. "And what have I told you about your midnight snacks?"
Ah. Iorveth straightens up and reaches for the door, but it's too late: glowing cat eyes peer out from the dark, fixing themselves firmly on Iorveth as he grabs the nearest towel and surreptitiously (?) tries to make himself slightly more modest.
A hiss, and a yowl loud enough to be heard from anywhere in the tower. "My Gods! Just what is going on here!?" ]
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Astarion runs along behind him, nearly running into Gale's back as the wizard almost trips down the stairs. He'd forgotten — Iorveth, Tara, and he might be able to see in the dark, but Gale is only human. He can't see anything at all, which is actually a relief.
At least, until they reach the bottom of the stairs and Gale calls out, "Fiat lux!"
Of course Gale has to cast Dancing Lights. Four glowing orbs appear in the air, floating in the darkness and illuminating everything — and he does mean everything. Gale gasps for a second time as he peers into the now-lit bathroom, aghast. "Iorveth?!" ]
—Iorveth! [ Astarion calls from behind Gale, dramatic. ] What sort of deranged, perverted nonsense is this?!
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Pokerface. Externally, he's the spitting image of calm, with the kind of straight-backed arrogance that suggests that he's meant to be here and he has no idea why everyone is freaking out; internally, he's throwing the bottle of sink cleaner right at Astarion's perfect, pretty face. The betrayal. Heinous. Also: utterly expected.
After a lingering moment in the silence that follows, lit by the ghastly white of Dancing Lights: ]
It's Fey Day. I'm a wood elf.
[ Translation: "How very racist of y'all to accuse me of being a perverted nudist during a time when being uninhibited should be celebrated... smh." It's entirely unserious, however, and Iorveth follows that up with a glance towards Astarion (ignoring Gale, who, Iorveth notes, is tracking how far down the tattoos go). ]
Should I remove the towel and start dancing? [ Not helping to dispel the "deranged" accusation. Let him be deranged!!! He doesn't care!!! ]
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"Not that you're not... er, what I mean to say is—" Gale stumbles over his words for a moment, and Astarion could swear that his face is turning pink. Finally, he shakes his head, as if giving up on the entire possibility of discussing what's beneath that towel. "The last thing I want to do is be culturally insensitive, of course, but I would appreciate an advance warning before you go gallivanting around my tower in the nude."
Tara bristles, having turned away from the whole scene. "Well, I think it's positively uncouth!" ]
Well, I'm sure he just got carried away. You know how wood elves can be, [ he says to Gale. ] After all, you met Halsin.
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So. ] It must be tiresome, being a creature that overreacts to the slightest suggestion of bare skin.
[ "Why are you booing me? I'm right." Iorveth tosses the bottle of sink cleaner onto a pile of freshly-laundered towels, and slinks up towards a still-pink Gale, tipping his chin up with one finger (the other hand has a very secure grip on the towel covering his front). ]
Your head is always in the clouds. I doubt you've ever experienced what it means to inhabit yourself.
[ It's satisfying, watching Gale transition from pink to crimson. There's a few spluttering retorts about how he's had a very sensible and fulfilling relationship with himself, thank you very much, and a scandalized "Mr. Dekarios!" from poor Tara, who has backed out of the washroom and back onto the stairs, her fur standing on end.
"No more humoring this nonsense! Gale, we are going back to our room," she demands, with a sense of maternal finality. Iorveth, as always, is public enemy number one. ]
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[ "I— that is not—" Gale stammers for a moment, effectively bullied by two mean elves. He finally stalks off, slippers flopping, muttering about how if they'd only seen him during his Academy days, they'd be shocked— ]
I don't see what that tressym is so upset about. She doesn't wear any clothes, either.
[ Astarion shrugs as he leans against the doorway, looking like the cat that ate the canary. With a cant of his head toward the towel pressed against Iorveth's front: ]
Go ahead, then. Drop the towel and do a dance.
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I'm loath to subject you to something so deranged and perverted.
[ Dryly. He's far from angry- his posture isn't rigid enough, his expression not curdled enough- but he does feel petty enough to use Astarion's words against him. Iorveth loves Astarion halfway to death, but he'd hate to be seen as a pushover (unfortunately). ]
You may catch whatever me and Halsin have.
[ Wood elf cooties. Iorveth folds his arms across his chest, which might have been more intimidating if he wasn't still naked. ]
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Were Iorveth actually upset with him, he would shrink immediately, pathetic and ingratiating in an attempt to gain his forgiveness. Since he isn't, Astarion doesn't bother. Instead, he drapes himself further across the doorway in an obvious attempt to be alluring. ]
Oh, no, are you going to punish me for my misbehavior?
[ He is nothing if not incorrigible. ]
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