[ 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.
[ Iorveth has honey in the form of blood in his veins― "tell me what you need and I can give you a drop"― but he doesn't plan on employing that tactic, so. Vinegar it is. ]
I'll not have you do anything that you don't wish to do. But if anything goes amiss, try to keep me from getting skewered by tiefling horns.
[ Astarion doesn't have to participate, if it means dredging up unpleasant reminders of the life he used to live in the Szarr mansion. That said, if he wants to reclaim a bit of power, Iorveth won't say no to that, either; it all depends on how Damris acts under duress.
Across the living room they go, past the bathroom and towards the corner office. Iorveth's expression transitions to icy neutral, all warmth and doting gone in an instant once he hears the scrabbling on the other side of the door and once he sees the struggling man hissing and twisting on the floor.
Sharp fangs have sliced through the fabric of the robe belt. Damris, red eyes glowing like knives in the dim of the room, glares up at Iorveth and growls something garbled in what might be Infernal. ]
Awake, [ Iorveth notes, dispassionate. Once upon a time, he spoke to Astarion in the same way, in the same tone. Unthinkable, now. ]
[ It should be unsettling how seamlessly Iorveth makes the transition from the pampering lover to the cold abductor, but Astarion finds that it makes him feel a little hot under the collar. Sue him. Iorveth is irresistible when he's doing terrible things to people who would hurt them.
Astarion follows him through the doorway before leaning himself up against the wall closest to it, keeping his distance. This is Iorveth's rodeo. He wouldn't want to step on any toes. However, he does speak up upon seeing Damris thrashing against his bindings: ]
Oh, my gods. You really couldn't be any more dramatic.
[ His eyes roll back into his head, and he groans, immaturely irritated. ]
If you think this is bad, clearly your master is kinder than I thought.
[ Damris glares, first at Astarion for daring to call him dramatic, and then at Iorveth, whose approach he tries to wriggle away from. Iorveth doesn't let him, of course, and crouches near the struggling tiefling with imperious purpose, reaching with the same hand he'd used to gently stroke Astarion's hair to yank at Damris's bindings. ]
I don't wish to be uncivilized in front of my love, [ he states with dry dispassion, making sure that the knots keeping Damris bound are tight and immovable. ] So I'll lay out the terms of this conversation.
There's a window three paces from where you currently lay bound. Should you answer anything I ask with blatant falsities, or if I find that our talk isn't proceeding in good faith, I will be compelled to draw the curtains and let the midday sun make you honest.
[ Iorveth watches Damris shudder and bare his fangs again, though he doesn't miss the frisson of fear that courses through the tiefling's trussed-up body. It's been a while since he's had to torture anyone (a normal thing that normal people muse about), but it's easy to slip into the role; perhaps this is how Astarion feels when he has to wear his masks, at times. ]
Now, I'll remove the gag. [ He glances at Astarion, and for the brief moment where their eyes meet, Iorveth softens. ] Close the door for me, beloved. In case he yells.
[ Again, very normal behavior. If and when Astarion obliges for him, Iorveth reaches out and narrowly avoids being bitten when he removes the gag, but Damris, to his credit, doesn't scream: he only hisses, spits at Iorveth's foot, and coughs out a low "what do you want, Cyclops? I already cured you. There's nothing else for me to say or do." ]
[ It's probably a symptom of something quite unhealthy that Astarion can't bear to have Iorveth do anything less than dote on him but loves to watch him be cruel to others. It makes him feel special that someone capable of being so sharp can smooth his edges just for Astarion. It makes him feel powerful.
But: ]
—Ah, do make sure that I'm out of the line of fire when you pull the curtains.
[ Burning to a crisp wouldn't make him feel very powerful at all. ]
And you, [ he says, approaching to nudge at Damris with his foot. He won't interfere in Iorveth's torture plans, but he can kick him a little, as a treat. ] You won't call him that again [ —Cyclops— ] or I'll make you wish you only turned to ash in the sun.
[ The huff that Astarion gets back in return is as pompous as a man with all of his limbs tied can manage to sound after being effectively stepped on. Derisive, but mostly to posture; he doesn't try to say something snappy back in return, choosing to chew along his lower lip in what looks like an anxious habit.
Iorveth watches the blunt tip of Damris's tail (lashed around long legs like a second piece of rope) twitch and struggle, then poses his first question: ]
I've not been trancing well the past few days. [ Him, not Astarion. ] Would you know anything about why it is that I've been having undesirable visions during my meditations?
[ "Are you doing anything stupid", essentially. The question doesn't seem to resonate with Damris, eliciting only a confused furrow of shapely brows, but thoroughness is key: with a foot, Iorveth rolls Damris closer to the dreaded office window, where he plays with letting the sliver of light filtering through the curtains touch the bare skin of Damris's exposed forearms. The tiefling hisses, growls, then blanches in fear as he realizes that the deranged elves are not, in fact, joking about inflicting grievous pain on him, and finally offers:
"I don't know! Gods, I don't know. If it was just tonight, I would say the aftereffects of the poison, but..." A strained yelp, as Iorveth peels the curtains away just an inch, letting the light sear against Damris's pretty hands. "Gods, please, I don't know! Spawn don't have that kind of power!"
Red eyes glance desperately towards Astarion, pleading for some sort of corroboration as he feels his fingers start to burn. Iorveth has already heard said corroboration, but he's content with letting Astarion dictate whether he's satisfied or not with the answer. ]
[ 'I've not been trancing well', Iorveth says, and Astarion feels another flutter of affection in his heart. Protecting Astarion's privacy even when not asked to, because he knows that Astarion would rather die before showing vulnerability in front of anyone else. He feels very, very known, and while that feeling would have made him anxious before, it doesn't now.
The sight of sunlight does make him anxious, though, and he takes an unconscious step back as Iorveth opens the curtain. Once upon a time, he'd been able to boast about his daywalking abilities in front of a window at the Flophouse. No more. ]
...He's right. They don't.
[ One could almost mistake this for charity. ]
They're pathetic and impotent. Hardly powerful enough to affect your mind.
[ It guts Iorveth to see Astarion shrink away from the light, but it also renews his determination to get the cloak from the pawnshop as quickly as possible. Drawing the curtains closed again, he crouches back by a whimpering but still-glaring Damris's side. ]
Not you, then. Fine. [ A concession. Damris looks truly confused by the fact that he was accused of this at all, anger and hate and vexation clear in the way he grinds his teeth. Why me is painted all over his put-together features.
It should spark empathy. It does, to some extent. He's just better at compartmentalizing and justifying it under the banner of keeping someone he loves safe. ]
Another question. [ Relentless. He ignores the way Damris struggles weakly, flexing and unflexing sun-raw fingers behind his back. ] Your master's been eyeing an item that belongs to an old crone who sells oddities. Tell me everything you know about it.
[ Red eyes widen at the question, and then－
－surprisingly, Damris laughs. A thin, shrill thing, near-hysterical. "Oh hells, the cloak? Gods, I should have known－ there's only one reason why a foreign vampire would journey all the way to Athkatla."
Another reedy, panicked huff. "You're out of luck! Master Alkam has tried and failed to get that cloak from that hag, so so many times already!" ]
[ Talk of the cloak certainly gets his attention, and he approaches Damris now that it's safe to do so, crouching so that they're face-to-face (or at least as close to it as they can be, given Damris's current position). He furrows his brow as he does so, frowning. ]
Failed?
[ That doesn't bode well for him. If a vampire lord has already tried and failed to procure the cloak, it seems vanishingly unlikely that a mere spawn could ever do so. Why hasn't he just killed her, then? She's just one old woman. It would be a small sacrifice to make just to get his hands on a life-changing cloak. Hells, Astarion would be lying if he said he hadn't considered it himself. It would sure be a lot easier than bringing her the hand of a vampire lord. ]
Go on, elaborate. Unless you'd like to choose which part of your body that we burn next.
[ This time, Damris doesn't have to be coaxed into answering. One gets the impression that it's a rare opportunity to speak poorly about his master without being flayed alive for it.
"Oh, he's been fuming about it for a while now. Finally, something that would let him walk under the sun, and then..." Another sharp huff, derisive. "Like I said, a hag. Alkam's been furious, raving all night about how he spent all this time trying to be the most important entity in this city, and having it be ruined by one damnable creature..."
The hysterical babbling starts to slow down, making way for tired resignation and the resurfacing of what seems to be latent, inexorable fear.
"Hags and covens and plane-walking. I didn't understand half of it. I was in too much pain half the time to parse it all, but I know that all the thralls that Alkam sent to that cursed shop never returned."
This is where Iorveth realizes, oh, like, an actual hag. Ethel and her grotesque menagerie come to mind, and he wrinkles his nose. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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? ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.) ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
I'll not have you do anything that you don't wish to do. But if anything goes amiss, try to keep me from getting skewered by tiefling horns.
[ Astarion doesn't have to participate, if it means dredging up unpleasant reminders of the life he used to live in the Szarr mansion. That said, if he wants to reclaim a bit of power, Iorveth won't say no to that, either; it all depends on how Damris acts under duress.
Across the living room they go, past the bathroom and towards the corner office. Iorveth's expression transitions to icy neutral, all warmth and doting gone in an instant once he hears the scrabbling on the other side of the door and once he sees the struggling man hissing and twisting on the floor.
Sharp fangs have sliced through the fabric of the robe belt. Damris, red eyes glowing like knives in the dim of the room, glares up at Iorveth and growls something garbled in what might be Infernal. ]
Awake, [ Iorveth notes, dispassionate. Once upon a time, he spoke to Astarion in the same way, in the same tone. Unthinkable, now. ]
no subject
Astarion follows him through the doorway before leaning himself up against the wall closest to it, keeping his distance. This is Iorveth's rodeo. He wouldn't want to step on any toes. However, he does speak up upon seeing Damris thrashing against his bindings: ]
Oh, my gods. You really couldn't be any more dramatic.
[ His eyes roll back into his head, and he groans, immaturely irritated. ]
If you think this is bad, clearly your master is kinder than I thought.
no subject
I don't wish to be uncivilized in front of my love, [ he states with dry dispassion, making sure that the knots keeping Damris bound are tight and immovable. ] So I'll lay out the terms of this conversation.
There's a window three paces from where you currently lay bound. Should you answer anything I ask with blatant falsities, or if I find that our talk isn't proceeding in good faith, I will be compelled to draw the curtains and let the midday sun make you honest.
[ Iorveth watches Damris shudder and bare his fangs again, though he doesn't miss the frisson of fear that courses through the tiefling's trussed-up body. It's been a while since he's had to torture anyone (a normal thing that normal people muse about), but it's easy to slip into the role; perhaps this is how Astarion feels when he has to wear his masks, at times. ]
Now, I'll remove the gag. [ He glances at Astarion, and for the brief moment where their eyes meet, Iorveth softens. ] Close the door for me, beloved. In case he yells.
[ Again, very normal behavior. If and when Astarion obliges for him, Iorveth reaches out and narrowly avoids being bitten when he removes the gag, but Damris, to his credit, doesn't scream: he only hisses, spits at Iorveth's foot, and coughs out a low "what do you want, Cyclops? I already cured you. There's nothing else for me to say or do." ]
no subject
But: ]
—Ah, do make sure that I'm out of the line of fire when you pull the curtains.
[ Burning to a crisp wouldn't make him feel very powerful at all. ]
And you, [ he says, approaching to nudge at Damris with his foot. He won't interfere in Iorveth's torture plans, but he can kick him a little, as a treat. ] You won't call him that again [ —Cyclops— ] or I'll make you wish you only turned to ash in the sun.
no subject
Iorveth watches the blunt tip of Damris's tail (lashed around long legs like a second piece of rope) twitch and struggle, then poses his first question: ]
I've not been trancing well the past few days. [ Him, not Astarion. ] Would you know anything about why it is that I've been having undesirable visions during my meditations?
[ "Are you doing anything stupid", essentially. The question doesn't seem to resonate with Damris, eliciting only a confused furrow of shapely brows, but thoroughness is key: with a foot, Iorveth rolls Damris closer to the dreaded office window, where he plays with letting the sliver of light filtering through the curtains touch the bare skin of Damris's exposed forearms. The tiefling hisses, growls, then blanches in fear as he realizes that the deranged elves are not, in fact, joking about inflicting grievous pain on him, and finally offers:
"I don't know! Gods, I don't know. If it was just tonight, I would say the aftereffects of the poison, but..." A strained yelp, as Iorveth peels the curtains away just an inch, letting the light sear against Damris's pretty hands. "Gods, please, I don't know! Spawn don't have that kind of power!"
Red eyes glance desperately towards Astarion, pleading for some sort of corroboration as he feels his fingers start to burn. Iorveth has already heard said corroboration, but he's content with letting Astarion dictate whether he's satisfied or not with the answer. ]
no subject
The sight of sunlight does make him anxious, though, and he takes an unconscious step back as Iorveth opens the curtain. Once upon a time, he'd been able to boast about his daywalking abilities in front of a window at the Flophouse. No more. ]
...He's right. They don't.
[ One could almost mistake this for charity. ]
They're pathetic and impotent. Hardly powerful enough to affect your mind.
no subject
Not you, then. Fine. [ A concession. Damris looks truly confused by the fact that he was accused of this at all, anger and hate and vexation clear in the way he grinds his teeth. Why me is painted all over his put-together features.
It should spark empathy. It does, to some extent. He's just better at compartmentalizing and justifying it under the banner of keeping someone he loves safe. ]
Another question. [ Relentless. He ignores the way Damris struggles weakly, flexing and unflexing sun-raw fingers behind his back. ] Your master's been eyeing an item that belongs to an old crone who sells oddities. Tell me everything you know about it.
[ Red eyes widen at the question, and then－
－surprisingly, Damris laughs. A thin, shrill thing, near-hysterical. "Oh hells, the cloak? Gods, I should have known－ there's only one reason why a foreign vampire would journey all the way to Athkatla."
Another reedy, panicked huff. "You're out of luck! Master Alkam has tried and failed to get that cloak from that hag, so so many times already!" ]
no subject
Failed?
[ That doesn't bode well for him. If a vampire lord has already tried and failed to procure the cloak, it seems vanishingly unlikely that a mere spawn could ever do so. Why hasn't he just killed her, then? She's just one old woman. It would be a small sacrifice to make just to get his hands on a life-changing cloak. Hells, Astarion would be lying if he said he hadn't considered it himself. It would sure be a lot easier than bringing her the hand of a vampire lord. ]
Go on, elaborate. Unless you'd like to choose which part of your body that we burn next.
no subject
"Oh, he's been fuming about it for a while now. Finally, something that would let him walk under the sun, and then..." Another sharp huff, derisive. "Like I said, a hag. Alkam's been furious, raving all night about how he spent all this time trying to be the most important entity in this city, and having it be ruined by one damnable creature..."
The hysterical babbling starts to slow down, making way for tired resignation and the resurfacing of what seems to be latent, inexorable fear.
"Hags and covens and plane-walking. I didn't understand half of it. I was in too much pain half the time to parse it all, but I know that all the thralls that Alkam sent to that cursed shop never returned."
This is where Iorveth realizes, oh, like, an actual hag. Ethel and her grotesque menagerie come to mind, and he wrinkles his nose. ]
Wonderful. So the crone wasn't just senile.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)