[ A very valid compliment, and one that clearly makes Astarion glow with pleasure. He grins before kissing Iorveth's perfect mouth, ever impatient but still gentle; Iorveth had requested that they be kind to each other last night, and he finds himself still in the mood for softness. Not yet ready to act like they hate each other, evidently. ]
Good. [ And another kiss to the corner of Iorveth's mouth. ] You know that I prefer you thoughtless, unless those thoughts are about me.
[ Their suite is spacious, but it's a bit embarrassing to think that Damris might be able to overhear this shmoop, so he lowers his voice. ]
I want to hold you. [ Very polite of him to ask instead of forcing his love on Iorveth like he normally does, he thinks. He still reaches out without being given an answer. ] I... want to be certain that you're still there while I trance.
[ "I like it when you don't think about things" is a little questionable, especially since Iorveth's foundational trait is chronically planning and being paranoid, but he likes to think he understands what Astarion means. Iorveth charitably (?) interprets it as "hey, relax", which is what he does. A full-body slump, letting himself be vulnerable despite Damris' presence in the other room.
Another thing that's a bit questionable is the lingering concern that Iorveth might leave, but that's also explainable: he nearly died tonight. Bad dreams the night prior, followed by an attempted assassination. Iorveth, too, would feel on-edge.
So. Meeting the reach, Iorveth slides into Astarion's space and subjects himself to whatever maneuvering Astarion sees fit. ]
I'm right here. [ Iorveth of a few tendays ago might have said this to the tune of "you're being ridiculous", but not the Iorveth of today. ] I'll not leave you unless you tell me to.
[ Look at Iorveth, constantly finding Astarion questionable and choosing to love him anyway. Sweet! And unwise. But sweet all the same.
He winds his arms around Iorveth and pulls him close, chest to chest so that he can feel Iorveth's breath against him as a reminder that he is, in fact, still alive. Without it, he fears nightmares again, albeit of a different kind than the day prior. This night has already been a waking nightmare in so many ways.
As gentle as he's been trying to be, his embrace is a little restrictive, a loving straitjacket. It isn't that he thinks Iorveth will really get up and leave, but... just in case. ]
So sweet, [ he murmurs, eyes closing and forehead bumping against Iorveth's. ] You'll rot my teeth.
[ Iorveth doesn't know about 'sweet'. 'Vigilant', maybe. 'Paranoid', definitely. Astarion has had two centuries of unspeakable torture inflicted upon him, and Iorveth has had more than a century to grit his teeth into stumps about tragedy and irrational cruelty: the only thing Iorveth fears in this entire world isn't his own end, but the end of the things he cares about.
So, here he is－ trying to fight for someone's peace of mind with the entire breadth of his very limited but very unhinged strength. He doesn't close his eye when Astarion closes his, remaining awake long after Astarion drifts, determined to stay awake despite his exhaustion to be aware of even the fleeting possibility of nightmares on the horizon.
(Meanwhile from the ethereal plane: a hag, attempting, with variable success, to reach out to at least one of her two potential victims on the material plane. Appealing to the worst of her target's fears, while being, perhaps, a little disappointed that neither of the elves have a vampire lord's hand in tow.
It's very annoying to her that one of her targets isn't trancing, but whatever. Maybe the white-haired one will wind up in her soul bag soon, a pretty little trophy that she can toy with when she gets bored.) ]
[ This couldn't be a more perfect setup for his trance. An enemy hogtied and gagged in the other room, his most beloved person trapped in his arms. So why, then, does he find himself restless again? The trance brings back feelings he'd thought long forgotten, and he shifts, uneasy, against Iorveth's body, soft sounds of displeasure coming from the back of his throat.
Finally, suddenly, he lets out a half-unconscious: ]
Get off of me.
[ Accompanied by a hard shove, the complete antithesis to the clinging he'd been doing. ]
[ In that fuzzy space between exhaustion and superhuman obstinacy, Iorveth watches the first signs of something amiss manifesting as soft shifts; instantly more alert, he's mid-motion in an attempt to press his palm against Astarion's cheek when he's shoved at, forcibly peeled from Astarion's front with that two-handed pushback.
It's both surprising and not－ he can hazard a guess as to what kind of trance would inspire Astarion to lash out. A breath to steady himself later, Iorveth sits up just slightly to honor the armspan of space that's been made between them, and brushes his fingers through Astarion's hair. ]
Astarion, [ he says, careful but steady. A few feet away, daylight is streaming through a crack in the curtains, drawing a line of yellow-gold along purple carpet. Still high noon, Iorveth notes. ] It's only a dream.
[ Keeping the contact to light petting, avoiding the potential to make Astarion feel cloistered. His expression pinches into a troubled frown as he makes a precursory check of the room, and wonders if Damris is spellcasting in the other room－ he couldn't be capable of that, surely. ]
[ The sound of Iorveth's voice, warm and familiar, breaks him out of his unpleasant trance, and for a moment he feels adrift, stuck between this world and the world he'd just been inhabiting. He blinks, looking down at his hands that are still keeping Iorveth at arm's length before he slowly retracts them. Despite his attempts to push Iorveth away, the feeling of fingers in his hair is pleasant, soothing. As always, he loves those hands. ]
Oh.
[ Embarrassment floods him, coloring his face and neck. Gods, tell him he didn't just shove the man he loves after begging him to stay close. ]
I didn't mean— I was just... confused. You know how vivid a trance can be.
[ Iorveth watches Astarion turn red, but doesn't waste time: he closes the gap between them an inch, indicating a desire to be close again, while he gives Astarion's hair another encouraging comb-through. ]
How long has this been going on for?
[ He doesn't think he remembers Astarion's trances being so fitful while they were still in Waterdeep; he doesn't even remember them being quite as violently negative while they were roughing it after leaving Baldur's Gate. There's either a reason for this rooted in their current location, or the things they've been surrounded by since they arrived.
(Something to do with the inn itself? The spawn in the other room? Anxieties about the cloak?) ]
You look more tired than before you tranced.
[ A worried frown, and Iorveth sits up more properly. The cogs in his brain start turning furiously again, mapping out possibilities and courses of action. ]
[ He's loath to look weak, but he's also loath to stay apart from Iorveth, which wins out in the end. His fingers curl into the fabric of Iorveth's silky robe, tugging him back in so that he can be comforted by the heat radiating from Iorveth's body. It doesn't make the distress of the trance he just left go away, but it does make him feel a little safer. So embarrassing. ]
Can't you just lie and say that I look dewy and refreshed?
[ Very rude to tell him he looks tired, although with those vampiric dark circles, he always looks a little tired. Still, Iorveth's observation is right -- he doesn't feel rested at all. The opposite, in fact. ]
I always used to trance poorly, but-- [ He hasn't had a nightmare like this in quite a while. Since one of his first nights in their little makeshift camp. ] It started again when we came here. I suppose Athkatla just doesn't agree with me.
[ Inclined to get up so that he can scour the suite and make sure that Damris isn't doing anything questionable, but effectively crippled by that hand clutching his robe. For better or for worse, Astarion is Iorveth's single greatest weakness: he finds it difficult, now, to do something that will cause Astarion to feel badly, even if feeling badly is a byproduct of what needs to be done.
An internal struggle later, visible on Iorveth's face, he settles back down beside Astarion and pulls close again, arms wrapping around tense shoulders, bridging the gap. ]
Miserable city, [ Iorveth hisses. ] I'll send word to Gale about a portal back to Waterdeep.
[ It'll likely take a few days, but Iorveth would rather they start preparations for that now, so that Astarion doesn't have to be in Athkatla with all these vampires and stressors for longer than necessary. Scowling (at the city in general), he presses a kiss against the side of Astarion's head, worry beating out rage in the end. ]
...I suppose you returning first to recuperate is unrealistic. [ Astarion said so before: he rests better with Iorveth in bed with him. There'd be no point in him moving locations if he's still going to be missing an elf-shaped space heater in his bed. ]
[ Oh, Iorveth. Beholden to the feelings of someone who feels bad when the wind blows wrong. How the mighty have fallen.
He nuzzles into the warmth of Iorveth's embrace, the sort of humiliating vulnerability that he'd be willing to kill to hide if the witness were anyone but Iorveth. So strange, feeling as if he can show his soft underbelly to someone without fear that they'll stick a knife in his gut. He'll hurt you in a foreign voice still rings in his head, but it seems so very farfetched. Iorveth is the only person in the world that he can trust not to hurt him.
Except-- Iorveth could still hurt him, if only unintentionally. If anything were to happen to him, it would hurt him far worse than any other person ever could. ]
And let you take on a vampire lord by your lonesome? I wouldn't be able to trance at all.
[ "You're coddling him," some would say, and they'd be right. Iorveth doesn't want to be Astarion's kept elf, beholden to his whims, but he does want to make sure that their foundation of trust and safety is ironclad; these things are still so fragile, the latter perhaps more so than the former.
A hum of acknowledgment, and Iorveth starts rubbing slow circles between Astarion's shoulderblades, trying to coax some of that perpetually-kept tension out of those coiled muscles. ]
True. I'd give that pretty face of yours stress lines.
[ An affectionate jab, to make up for what he knows is an unpleasant line of follow-up questioning: ]
What were your unpleasant meditations about? Generally.
[ A very unpleasant question. Although the tension slowly seeps out of his shoulders with Iorveth's soothing rubbing, he immediately grows tense again at the inquiry. These are the sort of things one is supposed to talk about with the person they love; he knows this, yet the idea of actually opening his mouth and saying it in front of Iorveth makes him feel sick. He doesn't want Iorveth to ever see him the way that he was in those 'unpleasant meditations'. He'd rather die. ]
I don't know, [ is his immediate answer, as it always is when it's something he doesn't want to think about. Iorveth will see through that instantly, because Iorveth knows him. 'Sees him clearly', as he might like to say.
He lets his gaze drop to Iorveth's chin, hesitant to look him in the eye. ]
Neither silly nor stupid, [ Iorveth observes as he smooths down Astarion's spine, up and down to the rhythm of his own breathing. Slow, steady. Contemplative, as he considers whether or not it's the presence of another vampire nearby that's prompting Astarion to think about his past again. ]
I could go check the other room.
[ Due diligence. He strokes the nape of Astarion's neck gently, massaging the jut of bone there. ]
If I knew what was troubling you, I would do my utmost.
[ The Astarion who'd once (or twice, or maybe a few more times than that) sulked in his tent because of something sharp that Iorveth had said would never believe him that Iorveth is the sweetest person on the planet. He's had plenty of restless nights before, and not once did anyone ever hold his hand or offer him a lick of comfort. The feeling of Iorveth's soothing ministrations makes him a little dewy-eyed, which he immediately blinks away. Gods. When did he become so soft? ]
Check the other room? [ he asks, laughing a little. ] Surely you don't think Dennis [ Damris ] has bewitched me.
[ His gaze flicks back up to meet Iorveth's, a split second expression of paranoid questioning. Right? ]
[ A psychologist would be fascinated by all the new and unhealthy codependencies coalescing here, and Iorveth would tell them to shove their diagnoses up their ass. Astarion is his most important person, and thus, the world should work to be a place that houses and protects him: Iorveth's love has made him exponentially softer to Astarion, and exponentially more brutal to the rest of Toril.
Hard to say if that's a good thing. Still, that split-second look of paranoia is enough for Iorveth to sit back up again, arms carefully unwinding. ]
If that creature is trying anything stupid, [ he hisses, just the thought of it enough to spark cold rage, ] I'll kill him without pause.
[ Unless Astarion pleads Damris's case. The only reason that wretch is still breathing (figuratively) is because Iorveth can understand how Astarion might feel about a fellow spawn suffering servitude. ]
[ It's a good thing for Astarion, which is all that matters. He sits up alongside Iorveth, immediately missing the points of contact. How spoiled he's grown by Iorveth's touch; he still remembers the first time he'd held Iorveth's hand, how utterly scandalous it had felt to feel the bare skin of Iorveth's palm against his, heat flowing from one hand to another. It still feels a little scandalous now just thinking about it, but he's grown accustomed to that scandal.
He slides a hand into Iorveth's now, privately pleased that Iorveth cares enough about him to seethe like this. Although he always knows, rationally, that he has Iorveth's love, it's eternally surprising when he shows it by doing something that no one else would ever do for him. Gods, he had tried to sleep with the entire camp in the hopes that he could manipulate someone, anyone, into protecting him. He would never have imagined that he could have it for free. ]
You're breathtaking when you're planning murder.
[ He rests his chin on Iorveth's shoulder, breathing him in. Yesterday's bath has left the sweet remnants of lavender on his skin, in his hair. ]
—But I don't know. Cazador would never have allowed a spawn to have that much power, even if it benefitted him.
[ Leon had boasted about what a powerful sorcerer he was, but Astarion can barely remember him casting more than a cantrip. Power is dangerous to allow one's subordinates, after all. It gives them too much hope. ]
If we were interested in torturing him for information, though, now would be the time.
[ A cant of his head toward the sliver of daylight peeking through the window. ]
[ Hm. Point. Damris hadn't even brought a knife along with him earlier last night, which lends credence to Astarion's claims about the amount of power (little to none) that a spawn is permitted to wield.
Annoying. If not Damris, then what? Still, Iorveth would feel more secure having done his due diligence, so he takes that held hand and presses his lips to the back of Astarion's hand, kissing along the knuckles as he carefully dislodges the chin resting on his shoulder so that he can get up out of bed. ]
'Light questioning'. [ He hums, not wanting to conjure further unwanted associations from Astarion's past. ] ...If nothing else, the tiefling may have heard of his master's attempts to take your cloak. He may know something useful about how to approach the crone.
[ Your cloak, Iorveth says. Because it is. He's decided that it'll be Astarion's, so it will be.
A light squeeze, and then: ] You could stay in bed, but I'd not say no to having protection.
[ Vampire spawn and being crafty, etc. Iorveth's pride would never allow him to ask for something as ridiculous as protection from anyone but Astarion. ]
[ Your cloak, Iorveth says, and Astarion feels all warm inside. Gods, it's unfair how ridiculously lovable this man is. He makes Astarion so soft and melty; it's disgusting. ]
Just call me your knight in shining armor.
[ The only person he'll ever be anything close to noble for. Astarion has always lived life with a motto: look out for number one. The motto hasn't changed. It's only that 'number one' has.
He relinquishes Iorveth's hand--regretfully--and hops up to go digging through their packs, pulling out an ensemble far too green for him to ever consider wearing. A mossy tunic and a pair of soft pants, Iorveth-sized and Iorveth-styled. Clothes draped over his arm, he returns to Iorveth, pushing the silky fabric of his robe down off of his shoulders. Repaying the favor, caring for Iorveth the way that he cares for Astarion. He wants to do small, menial tasks like this for Iorveth forever. (Again, gods, he's grown so soft.) ]
But you should dress first. I can't very well focus on protecting you if I'm filled with mad lust.
[ A little laugh, at 'mad lust'. Reciprocally, Iorveth thinks Astarion is the sweetest man in the world, not in spite of all the sharpness and defensiveness Iorveth has had to wade through to get here, but with that sharpness and defensiveness included.
He peels his robe off and holds out his various long limbs, allowing Astarion to help him into new layers with shockingly docile contentment. ]
I find it pleasing that you find me so distracting.
[ A concept that Iorveth still needs some getting used to, but is starting to believe. Once the tunic and pants get tugged on, he turns to give Astarion a light kiss to thank him for being so thoughtful. ]
―Would you ever be inclined to have me where others could see?
[ Teasing. Iorveth wouldn't agree to fucking Astarion in public― 50% of it is because he doesn't think Astarion would want to be so vulnerable in front of strangers, and the other 50% is because he doesn't want anyone to be privy to Astarion being so breathlessly perfect. As ever, more possessive than jealous.
[ Astarion represses the urge to laugh, because he'd hate if Iorveth were ever given reason to believe that he finds being with him in any way laughable. Still, it is a little funny. Again, not because the content is unappealing, but because it's unexpected. Iorveth is terribly deranged, and Astarion loves it.
He fiddles with Iorveth's tunic even after it's on, dusting off Iorveth's shoulders, smoothing down wrinkles. It's all unnecessary, just to fulfill an exploratory urge to find out what it would be like to take care of someone that he loves in such a domestic way. ]
Is that something that you want?
[ A genuine question. Obviously, he's not opposed to public displays of affection—and then some—but Iorveth guards his intimacy closely. Had once said that he wouldn't submit to the vulnerability of sex with someone that he didn't trust (as a way of rejecting Astarion, no less). ]
I'm inclined to explore everything with you. [ Another smoothing of his hands down the front of Iorveth's tunic. ] But you needn't do anything that you don't desire for me.
[ Speaking of being distracting. Astarion fusses with him, and Iorveth can't help but crane forward and kiss him again, and again, and a third time. Timing the fleeting pecks between each of Astarion's statements, almost like he wants to kiss the words right out of that always-moving (affectionate) mouth.
The last one is longer than the others, more indulgent, ending with the lightest grazing of teeth against Astarion's lower lip. ]
It would be a thrill, [ is how he answers the question, his voice a low murmur. ] Knowing that you want me so much that you can't wait.
[ Not that his sweet cat has ever been much for restraint, but. Not the point. The point is that it would be hot to be wanted by a man who's still figuring out if and how he enjoys intimacy, and that I'm yours is a sentiment that can be just as possessive as you're mine.
Again, though. Speaking of being distracting. Poor Damris, delegated to being a backdrop for Iorveth's derangement; it really is so hard to focus when Iorveth loves one man so much. One more kiss for good measure, and Iorveth sways back. ]
―Something to think about after we return to Waterdeep, perhaps. If I start thinking about how I desire you, I won't get anything done.
[ By the end of it, Astarion is grinning ear to ear, dizzied by affection. He'll never get over how foreign and amazing it is to be loved by Iorveth, not even in a hundred more years, not in a thousand. He chases after Iorveth, taking his head between cold, pale hands and planting another kiss on him. Getting the last word in an I love you more competition, only with kisses instead of words.
He allows Iorveth freedom after that, stepping back and crouching to find his own outfit to wear. Something dark, he thinks, and intimidating. An appropriate 'torturing' outfit. ]
Then I'd best put on some pants. The gods only know how you resist ravishing me like this.
[ A joke. He flashes a scandalous shoulder before unearthing a shirt. ]
[ Iorveth would be offended by the assumption that Astarion thinks he could win the I-Love-You-More-Olympics, for which Iorveth has already self-appointed himself as the gold medalist, but whatever helps Astarion trance better at night (literally). The sad thing is that Iorveth really could fight about this. Absolutely moronic of him.
Anyway. He watches as Astarion slips into torture chic (vampire chic, but with clothes that Astarion would mind getting blood on less, Iorveth assumes), then gets up and touches his hand to his own uncovered face.
Maybe he'll keep the eyepatch off. Might be more unnerving that way. Too troublesome to make the detour to the bath to retrieve it. ]
I resist you grudgingly, and with great difficulty.
[ A drawl, as he picks up a knife and starts gravitating towards the door. ] Do you think our fly would prefer honey, or vinegar?
[ Torture chic is, in fact, vampire chic but with clothes that he minds getting bloodied less. Or, more specifically, clothes that he thinks blood won't show up on. Dark pants and a crimson shirt; if Damris does bleed on them, at least it won't ruin them forever. He reaches for his own dagger, sheathing it on his belt before he trails after Iorveth. ]
I'm not certain either of us have any honey to spare.
[ Or that Damris would believe it if they did. After all, the last thing that happened to him was being throttled, force-fed poison, and hogtied. ]
...Vinegar always worked well enough on me. [ Which is all he's going to say about that, because he doesn't need Iorveth to pity him. ] And I'm rather more experienced in using it on other spawn.
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Good. [ And another kiss to the corner of Iorveth's mouth. ] You know that I prefer you thoughtless, unless those thoughts are about me.
[ Their suite is spacious, but it's a bit embarrassing to think that Damris might be able to overhear this shmoop, so he lowers his voice. ]
I want to hold you. [ Very polite of him to ask instead of forcing his love on Iorveth like he normally does, he thinks. He still reaches out without being given an answer. ] I... want to be certain that you're still there while I trance.
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Another thing that's a bit questionable is the lingering concern that Iorveth might leave, but that's also explainable: he nearly died tonight. Bad dreams the night prior, followed by an attempted assassination. Iorveth, too, would feel on-edge.
So. Meeting the reach, Iorveth slides into Astarion's space and subjects himself to whatever maneuvering Astarion sees fit. ]
I'm right here. [ Iorveth of a few tendays ago might have said this to the tune of "you're being ridiculous", but not the Iorveth of today. ] I'll not leave you unless you tell me to.
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He winds his arms around Iorveth and pulls him close, chest to chest so that he can feel Iorveth's breath against him as a reminder that he is, in fact, still alive. Without it, he fears nightmares again, albeit of a different kind than the day prior. This night has already been a waking nightmare in so many ways.
As gentle as he's been trying to be, his embrace is a little restrictive, a loving straitjacket. It isn't that he thinks Iorveth will really get up and leave, but... just in case. ]
So sweet, [ he murmurs, eyes closing and forehead bumping against Iorveth's. ] You'll rot my teeth.
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So, here he is－ trying to fight for someone's peace of mind with the entire breadth of his very limited but very unhinged strength. He doesn't close his eye when Astarion closes his, remaining awake long after Astarion drifts, determined to stay awake despite his exhaustion to be aware of even the fleeting possibility of nightmares on the horizon.
(Meanwhile from the ethereal plane: a hag, attempting, with variable success, to reach out to at least one of her two potential victims on the material plane. Appealing to the worst of her target's fears, while being, perhaps, a little disappointed that neither of the elves have a vampire lord's hand in tow.
It's very annoying to her that one of her targets isn't trancing, but whatever. Maybe the white-haired one will wind up in her soul bag soon, a pretty little trophy that she can toy with when she gets bored.) ]
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Finally, suddenly, he lets out a half-unconscious: ]
Get off of me.
[ Accompanied by a hard shove, the complete antithesis to the clinging he'd been doing. ]
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It's both surprising and not－ he can hazard a guess as to what kind of trance would inspire Astarion to lash out. A breath to steady himself later, Iorveth sits up just slightly to honor the armspan of space that's been made between them, and brushes his fingers through Astarion's hair. ]
Astarion, [ he says, careful but steady. A few feet away, daylight is streaming through a crack in the curtains, drawing a line of yellow-gold along purple carpet. Still high noon, Iorveth notes. ] It's only a dream.
[ Keeping the contact to light petting, avoiding the potential to make Astarion feel cloistered. His expression pinches into a troubled frown as he makes a precursory check of the room, and wonders if Damris is spellcasting in the other room－ he couldn't be capable of that, surely. ]
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Oh.
[ Embarrassment floods him, coloring his face and neck. Gods, tell him he didn't just shove the man he loves after begging him to stay close. ]
I didn't mean— I was just... confused. You know how vivid a trance can be.
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How long has this been going on for?
[ He doesn't think he remembers Astarion's trances being so fitful while they were still in Waterdeep; he doesn't even remember them being quite as violently negative while they were roughing it after leaving Baldur's Gate. There's either a reason for this rooted in their current location, or the things they've been surrounded by since they arrived.
(Something to do with the inn itself? The spawn in the other room? Anxieties about the cloak?) ]
You look more tired than before you tranced.
[ A worried frown, and Iorveth sits up more properly. The cogs in his brain start turning furiously again, mapping out possibilities and courses of action. ]
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Can't you just lie and say that I look dewy and refreshed?
[ Very rude to tell him he looks tired, although with those vampiric dark circles, he always looks a little tired. Still, Iorveth's observation is right -- he doesn't feel rested at all. The opposite, in fact. ]
I always used to trance poorly, but-- [ He hasn't had a nightmare like this in quite a while. Since one of his first nights in their little makeshift camp. ] It started again when we came here. I suppose Athkatla just doesn't agree with me.
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An internal struggle later, visible on Iorveth's face, he settles back down beside Astarion and pulls close again, arms wrapping around tense shoulders, bridging the gap. ]
Miserable city, [ Iorveth hisses. ] I'll send word to Gale about a portal back to Waterdeep.
[ It'll likely take a few days, but Iorveth would rather they start preparations for that now, so that Astarion doesn't have to be in Athkatla with all these vampires and stressors for longer than necessary. Scowling (at the city in general), he presses a kiss against the side of Astarion's head, worry beating out rage in the end. ]
...I suppose you returning first to recuperate is unrealistic. [ Astarion said so before: he rests better with Iorveth in bed with him. There'd be no point in him moving locations if he's still going to be missing an elf-shaped space heater in his bed. ]
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He nuzzles into the warmth of Iorveth's embrace, the sort of humiliating vulnerability that he'd be willing to kill to hide if the witness were anyone but Iorveth. So strange, feeling as if he can show his soft underbelly to someone without fear that they'll stick a knife in his gut. He'll hurt you in a foreign voice still rings in his head, but it seems so very farfetched. Iorveth is the only person in the world that he can trust not to hurt him.
Except-- Iorveth could still hurt him, if only unintentionally. If anything were to happen to him, it would hurt him far worse than any other person ever could. ]
And let you take on a vampire lord by your lonesome? I wouldn't be able to trance at all.
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A hum of acknowledgment, and Iorveth starts rubbing slow circles between Astarion's shoulderblades, trying to coax some of that perpetually-kept tension out of those coiled muscles. ]
True. I'd give that pretty face of yours stress lines.
[ An affectionate jab, to make up for what he knows is an unpleasant line of follow-up questioning: ]
What were your unpleasant meditations about? Generally.
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I don't know, [ is his immediate answer, as it always is when it's something he doesn't want to think about. Iorveth will see through that instantly, because Iorveth knows him. 'Sees him clearly', as he might like to say.
He lets his gaze drop to Iorveth's chin, hesitant to look him in the eye. ]
The past. Getting hurt. Stupid, silly things.
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Neither silly nor stupid, [ Iorveth observes as he smooths down Astarion's spine, up and down to the rhythm of his own breathing. Slow, steady. Contemplative, as he considers whether or not it's the presence of another vampire nearby that's prompting Astarion to think about his past again. ]
I could go check the other room.
[ Due diligence. He strokes the nape of Astarion's neck gently, massaging the jut of bone there. ]
If I knew what was troubling you, I would do my utmost.
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Check the other room? [ he asks, laughing a little. ] Surely you don't think Dennis [ Damris ] has bewitched me.
[ His gaze flicks back up to meet Iorveth's, a split second expression of paranoid questioning. Right? ]
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Hard to say if that's a good thing. Still, that split-second look of paranoia is enough for Iorveth to sit back up again, arms carefully unwinding. ]
If that creature is trying anything stupid, [ he hisses, just the thought of it enough to spark cold rage, ] I'll kill him without pause.
[ Unless Astarion pleads Damris's case. The only reason that wretch is still breathing (figuratively) is because Iorveth can understand how Astarion might feel about a fellow spawn suffering servitude. ]
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He slides a hand into Iorveth's now, privately pleased that Iorveth cares enough about him to seethe like this. Although he always knows, rationally, that he has Iorveth's love, it's eternally surprising when he shows it by doing something that no one else would ever do for him. Gods, he had tried to sleep with the entire camp in the hopes that he could manipulate someone, anyone, into protecting him. He would never have imagined that he could have it for free. ]
You're breathtaking when you're planning murder.
[ He rests his chin on Iorveth's shoulder, breathing him in. Yesterday's bath has left the sweet remnants of lavender on his skin, in his hair. ]
—But I don't know. Cazador would never have allowed a spawn to have that much power, even if it benefitted him.
[ Leon had boasted about what a powerful sorcerer he was, but Astarion can barely remember him casting more than a cantrip. Power is dangerous to allow one's subordinates, after all. It gives them too much hope. ]
If we were interested in torturing him for information, though, now would be the time.
[ A cant of his head toward the sliver of daylight peeking through the window. ]
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Annoying. If not Damris, then what? Still, Iorveth would feel more secure having done his due diligence, so he takes that held hand and presses his lips to the back of Astarion's hand, kissing along the knuckles as he carefully dislodges the chin resting on his shoulder so that he can get up out of bed. ]
'Light questioning'. [ He hums, not wanting to conjure further unwanted associations from Astarion's past. ] ...If nothing else, the tiefling may have heard of his master's attempts to take your cloak. He may know something useful about how to approach the crone.
[ Your cloak, Iorveth says. Because it is. He's decided that it'll be Astarion's, so it will be.
A light squeeze, and then: ] You could stay in bed, but I'd not say no to having protection.
[ Vampire spawn and being crafty, etc. Iorveth's pride would never allow him to ask for something as ridiculous as protection from anyone but Astarion. ]
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Just call me your knight in shining armor.
[ The only person he'll ever be anything close to noble for. Astarion has always lived life with a motto: look out for number one. The motto hasn't changed. It's only that 'number one' has.
He relinquishes Iorveth's hand--regretfully--and hops up to go digging through their packs, pulling out an ensemble far too green for him to ever consider wearing. A mossy tunic and a pair of soft pants, Iorveth-sized and Iorveth-styled. Clothes draped over his arm, he returns to Iorveth, pushing the silky fabric of his robe down off of his shoulders. Repaying the favor, caring for Iorveth the way that he cares for Astarion. He wants to do small, menial tasks like this for Iorveth forever. (Again, gods, he's grown so soft.) ]
But you should dress first. I can't very well focus on protecting you if I'm filled with mad lust.
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He peels his robe off and holds out his various long limbs, allowing Astarion to help him into new layers with shockingly docile contentment. ]
I find it pleasing that you find me so distracting.
[ A concept that Iorveth still needs some getting used to, but is starting to believe. Once the tunic and pants get tugged on, he turns to give Astarion a light kiss to thank him for being so thoughtful. ]
―Would you ever be inclined to have me where others could see?
[ Teasing. Iorveth wouldn't agree to fucking Astarion in public― 50% of it is because he doesn't think Astarion would want to be so vulnerable in front of strangers, and the other 50% is because he doesn't want anyone to be privy to Astarion being so breathlessly perfect. As ever, more possessive than jealous.
(With positions reversed, though? Negotiable.) ]
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He fiddles with Iorveth's tunic even after it's on, dusting off Iorveth's shoulders, smoothing down wrinkles. It's all unnecessary, just to fulfill an exploratory urge to find out what it would be like to take care of someone that he loves in such a domestic way. ]
Is that something that you want?
[ A genuine question. Obviously, he's not opposed to public displays of affection—and then some—but Iorveth guards his intimacy closely. Had once said that he wouldn't submit to the vulnerability of sex with someone that he didn't trust (as a way of rejecting Astarion, no less). ]
I'm inclined to explore everything with you. [ Another smoothing of his hands down the front of Iorveth's tunic. ] But you needn't do anything that you don't desire for me.
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The last one is longer than the others, more indulgent, ending with the lightest grazing of teeth against Astarion's lower lip. ]
It would be a thrill, [ is how he answers the question, his voice a low murmur. ] Knowing that you want me so much that you can't wait.
[ Not that his sweet cat has ever been much for restraint, but. Not the point. The point is that it would be hot to be wanted by a man who's still figuring out if and how he enjoys intimacy, and that I'm yours is a sentiment that can be just as possessive as you're mine.
Again, though. Speaking of being distracting. Poor Damris, delegated to being a backdrop for Iorveth's derangement; it really is so hard to focus when Iorveth loves one man so much. One more kiss for good measure, and Iorveth sways back. ]
―Something to think about after we return to Waterdeep, perhaps. If I start thinking about how I desire you, I won't get anything done.
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He allows Iorveth freedom after that, stepping back and crouching to find his own outfit to wear. Something dark, he thinks, and intimidating. An appropriate 'torturing' outfit. ]
Then I'd best put on some pants. The gods only know how you resist ravishing me like this.
[ A joke. He flashes a scandalous shoulder before unearthing a shirt. ]
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Anyway. He watches as Astarion slips into torture chic (vampire chic, but with clothes that Astarion would mind getting blood on less, Iorveth assumes), then gets up and touches his hand to his own uncovered face.
Maybe he'll keep the eyepatch off. Might be more unnerving that way. Too troublesome to make the detour to the bath to retrieve it. ]
I resist you grudgingly, and with great difficulty.
[ A drawl, as he picks up a knife and starts gravitating towards the door. ] Do you think our fly would prefer honey, or vinegar?
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I'm not certain either of us have any honey to spare.
[ Or that Damris would believe it if they did. After all, the last thing that happened to him was being throttled, force-fed poison, and hogtied. ]
...Vinegar always worked well enough on me. [ Which is all he's going to say about that, because he doesn't need Iorveth to pity him. ] And I'm rather more experienced in using it on other spawn.
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