[ Astarion stills, a wave of emotion crashing over him at the casual suggestion that Iorveth would craft something for him. It conjures up the memory of Iorveth embroidering a slightly crooked little sun on his shirt. It's so deeply intimate, terribly personal. The thought of having something that Iorveth made with his own two hands with him at all times is— ]
No, [ he says fiercely, offended. How could Iorveth ever think there would be anything in this world more valuable to him than something his hands have touched? He realizes this could perhaps be misconstrued, so he helpfully corrects: ] —I mean, yes.
[ Poor Iorveth probably has no idea what the hells he's talking about. He shakes his head as best he can against the pillow, which really just ends up making a mess of his hair. ]
[ Iorveth would have accepted no, even if it would have made him slightly sullen. Making a ring is a very wood elf thing to do, and the possibility of Astarion finding it just a bit too twee for his discerning magpie taste wasn't zero.
So. Iorveth frowns a bit at the 'no', then raises a brow at 'yes', and laughs when Astarion finally sticks the landing with 'of course'. Finicky cat. Iorveth loves him endlessly, even when he's rumpled and scowling. ]
"What my love wants, my love gets."
[ Teasing, parroting a phrase Astarion likes to say to him. He bites softly against the empty space on Astarion's ring finger, finding it near-impossible not to have some part of his mouth on pale skin at all times. A real problem. ]
...It'll require some time to get the materials and to do the crafting. Enough time for you to consider. [ Because honestly, that's still the most important thing. ] Take your time. Think. I'll remain yours, ring or no ring.
[ Obviously, not an easy thing for someone like him to say. Being someone's is so ridiculously fraught, and he feels a fresh stab of anger at Cazador for making it that way. But if Cazador hadn't made it so, he probably never would have laid eyes on Iorveth in the first place. A tricky thing, to hate someone so much yet have them to owe for the thing he loves most in the world.
He tilts his hand, running the pad of his thumb across Iorveth's lower lip. ]
If not for the tiefling hogtied in the other room, I'd rip your clothes off.
[ Astarion only needs to be, but Iorveth feels a frisson of thrill at the idea that someone like Astarion could even want to be his. Improbable, impossible. In Iorveth's love-addled, delusional mind, he's still fighting against the world to keep Astarion by his side.
A little shiver, and Iorveth kisses the tip of the thumb tracing his scarred lip. Speaking of ripping clothes off and not being romantic, though: ]
Mm. [ A hum of affirmation, and a warm sigh. ] I want your pretty cock in my mouth, but the world continues to conspire against us.
[ Crass, but honest. Astarion really isn't helping Iorveth's oral fixation by casually allowing him to put his mouth everywhere; another sigh, and he noses against a lukewarm palm. ]
What should we do with the tiefling, after we finish our business here?
[ Ugh!! He'd much rather think about Iorveth's mouth than stupid Damris. He groans dramatically, flopping over onto his back so that he can stare up at the ceiling. What they should do with Damris is a question indeed. The smart thing to do would be to kill him and toss his body in the river. Hells, it's the obvious answer. It shouldn't bother him at all to murder indiscriminately, and yet—
That could have been him. It was him. ]
I suppose we could leave him to return to his vampire lord and hope that Waterdeep is too far for them to follow.
[ He doesn't feel very confident about this idea, either. ]
[ Astarion flops, and it finally gives Iorveth an excuse to stop being quite as cloying in favor of following this line of conversation: he sits up and shifts towards the edge of the bed, where he reaches down for his own discarded travel pack to fish out some hair oil (legitimate) and a comb.
Shimmying back, he props a few more purple pillows under Astarion's head to make it easier for Iorveth to brush his hair as they talk. Silver curls mussed by all that rolling around gets a new coat of sheen. ]
And it would be back to an eternity of torment for him. [ Not their problem, but also kind of their problem. Iorveth, too, sees a bit too much of Astarion in Damris' predicament to feel content about leaving the spawn to his fate. (Even if the guy did try to poison him.) ]
We could bring him back with us to Waterdeep. [ As if Damris is some stray that they can foist onto a loving family. Unlikely, but perhaps a little better than eternal torture. ]
[ Astarion sits up a little, tacit encouragement for Iorveth to continue grooming him. This really is so very twee, and the worst part is that he doesn't even feel ashamed about it. He's always longed for Iorveth's attention, really. Even back when all Iorveth did was glower at him, he'd sought out even his negative attention, poking and prodding and pushing until Iorveth called him a fool or threatened to gut him.
This is much more pleasurable, though.
He lets Iorveth run the comb through his pillow-mussed hair, brow furrowed. ]
Perhaps this is one of the topics we should have discussed before the engagement. I love you, darling, but I don't want to adopt a tiefling with you.
[ Combing and arranging silver curls reminds him of the time he'd braided a bit of Astarion's hair, all those months ago. It's a memory he's kept, much like Astarion's recollection to being called 'love', and he smiles privately about it as he artfully lays a piece of hair to frame Astarion's ear just so. The expression sticks around, even despite the topic of Damris. ]
I'm not suggesting that we adopt him. If there's a way for us to contact your siblings, the best place to hide a tree would be in a forest.
[ Passing another spawn onto Prince Petras, ruler of seven thousand spawn in the Underdark. ]
Besides, I don't expect you'd want to kill Alkam just to play matchmaker.
[ The attention with which Iorveth arranges his hair is adorable, and Astarion finds himself feeling warm and fuzzy all over again. He once told Iorveth that this sort of feeling churned his stomach. Too tender, too special. Like holding a small baby bird in his palm. Unaccustomed to gentleness as he was, he was always too afraid that he was going to crush it in his hand. He's not so afraid anymore.
Still, he throws his head back, ruining all of Iorveth's hard work as he slides down into the covers. ]
My siblings? [ With the biggest, saddest eyes: ] You want me to talk to Petras?
[ Oh, of course Astarion has to go and dramatically ruin the new coiffure. Iorveth sighs through his teeth, watching silky hair spill back in uneven waves on soft sheets, and stifles the urge to roll his eye despite the effect that those big, pleading eyes have on him. ]
Don't be precious.
[ At least he acknowledges that Astarion is precious. Case in point: he can't help himself, and touches his palm to Astarion's cheek. ] You seemed remarkably capable of making your brother yield to your demands.
[ Translation: "you made bullying Petras look real easy". Another pleasant recollection, despite everything. Iorveth has already told Astarion that he was remarkably beautiful that night, deciding to spare the spawn instead of condemning them. That sentiment bleeds into the way he strokes under one red eye with his thumb, gentle and reverent before the touch retracts. ]
I can't help but be precious, [ he complains. ] Just look at me.
[ Still able to be a narcissist, even after a long 24 hours of Iorveth being poisoned, Iorveth being cured, kidnapping a man, tying him up and interrogating him, having hag nightmares, and getting formally engaged. This is what Iorveth has pledged eternity to.
A moment of thought, and then: ] He is my younger brother. And stupider. And less handsome.
[ But he's so annoyiiiingggg, he resists the urge to whine. Astarion doesn't fear Petras—or any of his siblings—in the least now that they're out from under Cazador's thumb, but that doesn't mean begging Petras to take yet another spawn under his wing won't be... irritating. ]
I guess it wouldn't be so bad. I could rub my happiness in his face.
[ What a Mean Older Sibling thing to say. Still, it makes Iorveth smile because of the sentiment behind it: that Astarion is happy. His kneejerk instinct is to say that Petras probably won't feel very jealous at all upon hearing that Astarion hitched himself to his personal bloodbag, but he can hazard a guess as to how Astarion would react to that comment. (Poorly.)
So: ] Hm. I would enjoy spoiling you where your siblings could see.
[ Proof that Astarion has been, is, and will be adored. (That they, too, aren't ruined, and may be able to find someone who adores them as well.) (Not as much as Astarion is adored, though. That's not possible.) Iorveth watches Astarion slump dramatically on violet sheets, and laughs under his breath. ]
We'll consider it after our business is done. Your future is my priority.
[ Obviously. Iorveth's stomach grumbles after he says so, undercutting the dramatic declaration somewhat; right, he hasn't eaten anything in a while. Should've told Astarion to pick something up for him while he was out. ]
[ 'Your future is my priority'. Astarion practically has cartoon hearts twirling around his lovestruck head. No one has ever made him a priority. He's always had to prioritize himself because no one else would. No one, that is, until Iorveth. Sometimes he thinks that this must all just be some pathetic daydream that he's having in the spawn dormitories. Someone this wonderful couldn't possibly exist in real life.
Then Iorveth's stomach growls, and he laughs. No, there wouldn't be any mood-ruining tummy rumbles in his daydreams. This is very, very real. ]
There's still a bit of the night left yet.
[ The sun will come up before long, but he didn't harass that poor jeweler for the entire night. Just most of it. ]
I could take you for a celebratory [ —Dinner? Breakfast? Time has become so strange since he's been relegated to the night shift— ] meal.
[ Which would probably have been a much more romantic place to do all of this. Gods, two centuries of practicing seduction and he's terrible at romance. ]
[ Iorveth could just hop out for some food to carry back and eat in the room, but he'd be lying if he said that it wouldn't be nice to go out into the city while riding high on this feeling. He's not the sort to walk around yelling about his partner, but there is a bit of a thrill in knowing that, when others call them 'Masters Blackmane', they're not so far off from the truth.
Iorveth bends over for the millionth kiss of the night, then gets up out of bed to find his eyepatch, then dig into his pack. ]
I thought I might get rid of the items that the hag got us, as well. Leave them in an alley somewhere.
[ Maybe discarding them will help Astarion trance a little better tonight? Iorveth has no idea. But they feel too much like the masks in Ethel's lair now, an artefact that slowly drains away at one's soul and sanity, and he wants them away from Astarion as quickly as possible. ]
[ He's very tired, actually, because he hasn't had a proper trance in two days now, but hitting the town and demanding the best for my fiancé is appealing enough to override any tiredness. Besides, when was the last time they went out together? Probably back in Waterdeep, when they ended up in a blowout argument (and then made up later). He still doesn't know a lot about how proper long-term relationships work—despite being in one—but he's fairly certain one is supposed to 'keep the romance alive' by making sure they don't only kill racists and kidnap tieflings together. Even if he sort of likes doing those things with Iorveth.
So, he sits up, attempting to fix his hair with his fingers, trying to remember how Iorveth had arranged it. ]
Ugh, those creepy little trinkets.
[ Maybe they're harmless, honestly, and ultimately just gross. That doesn't sound like a hag, though. It's more likely that they'd slowly turn them into gelatinous cubes, or something. ]
You won't hear any complaint from me. I wasn't planning on accessorizing with them any time soon.
[ Funny― the only way Iorveth knows how to keep the proverbial romance alive is by killing racists and torturing people to make them promise never to harm his loved ones again. Maybe they need a dating coach. Someone who can teach them what normal couples do. Someone like... Gale.
Good thing that Iorveth doesn't follow that line of thought. Instead, when he reaches into his pack to make sure that he has the ugly charms for them to discard later, he takes out his vial of cologne and, this time, dabs a bit of it behind Astarion's ear as he fixes that curl that he'd laid down before. Sandalwood, amber, leather. ]
Too on-the-nose for you, I think.
[ A vampire wearing literal hearts around his neck. Iorveth scoffs at the thought of it as he gets ready, eyepatch and boots and knives on his person. With that done, he goes to the other room to quickly make sure that nothing is amiss (Damris is still bound and gagged and miserable) before they can leave. ]
[ Astarion pops into the study behind Iorveth, a silver head peeking out from the doorway. ]
Oh, [ he says, cocking his head as if he's just thought of this: ] We should probably keep our distance from the Scepter District tonight.
[ His eyes drop to the tiefling still groaning through his gag on the floor. He still doesn't have the desire to take Damris under his wing. Foisting him off on Petras would be as much a favor for himself as for Damris; being around someone who poisoned Iorveth for longer than strictly necessary would drive him to madness. Or at least rudeness. ]
[ Oh. Poor Linus, ever holding on to hope. Iorveth straightens from where he'd been testing Damris's bonds again, and notes the way the tiefling glances up at the mention of 'lover boy', frowns, then sets his jaw in obstinate silence.
Hm. Iorveth steps back, hawklike eye fixed on the hogtied form, and offers a breezy: ]
Perhaps we should kill him. He might become a liability.
[ A throwaway threat; there's no intention behind it. It's mostly to see Damris's reaction, which is instantly negative: a narrowing of lash-framed eyes, and an agitated flick of his bound tail against his leg. Iorveth wouldn't blame the guy for having grown somewhat attached to a besotted fool who, despite everything, has likely shown Damris more kindness than others have.
Interesting. With that observation, he turns towards Astarion and offers him his hand. ] ...But we needn't waste time, either. Come.
[ He would actually feel a bit badly about disposing of Linus. The fool is far too naive and earnest, but he doesn't seem cruel. His only crime is being stupid enough to fall for a vampire spawn. Astarion would still take care of him it it became necessary, but he wouldn't feel good about it.
Strange, that he'd give a damn about another person's life at all. The feeling is decidedly unpleasant. He takes Iorveth's hand, tugging him out of the office. ]
I'd rather not ruminate on our problems too much tonight.
[ Alkam, Damris, Linus. The old hag. Endless problems with not very many solutions. He knows Iorveth hates it when he does this, but it would be nice to stick their heads in the sand for just a few more hours. ]
Tell me where you'd like me to take you. Are you in a 'classy restaurant' sort of mood, or a 'tavern where you might get robbed and murdered' one?
[ Right. A normal date night. One that doesn't require planning beyond dessert options, novel as that concept is. Effectively tugged away from problems that require solving, Iorveth swivels his attention― figuratively and physically― back to Astarion, lacing their fingers together as they make their way down to the inn's main lobby and past the very suspect bar (no, no, not the time to be thinking about that, either). ]
Somewhere in the middle, I think. [ Not ritzy enough that Astarion would feel weird sitting and eating nothing, but not rowdy enough that they'd be interrupted by smelly drunks. They are meant to be celebrating, after all.
(It makes Iorveth's heart do another flip, when he recalls the word wedding coming out of Astarion's mouth. Hells.) ]
...It would have been nice, to go to that old woman's cafe. In Baldur's Gate. Someplace like that, perhaps.
[ Cozy, warm. Maybe not the ideal place to go out and flaunt each other, but intimate. ]
[ A knowing smile. Like being called 'love', he remembers this, too. It had been the first time he'd ever been out with someone in that way. Not a seedy tavern to throw back drinks at before taking them to their doom, but a little diner, during the day, with no intent to drag anyone kicking and screaming back to his master.
Iorveth had been making him miserable at the time, what with his stubborn refusal to invite Astarion to stay with him after their Netherbrain journey, but he'd still enjoyed the place. ]
Actually, I rather liked it there, too.
[ A pause. ]
Pretend that I asked for your hand there, instead. I know it's very unlike me, but... I didn't plan ahead.
[ Another strange twist-flip of his heart in his chest, at "asked for your hand". It was all fun and flirting to cuddle in bed and talk about belonging, something that Iorveth had already felt to be the truth with or without a ring, but. Gods.
He can feel his temperature rise, and he knows that Astarion can feel it where their palms meet. Can likely see it, too, as a dusting of color along the peak of his cheeks. Not as tomato-red as Astarion was before, but emulating it. ]
You? Not planning ahead? An unbelievable thought, that.
[ Pulling on pigtails first, to distract from the flush. After he gets that out of the way, Iorveth clears his throat, trying to discipline his tone into something less eager and more diplomatic. ]
Perhaps... Gale can portal us to Baldur's Gate, before we return to Waterdeep. We could...
[ He clears his throat again. ] ...We could commission Dolores for robes.
[ Astarion feels Iorveth heat up before he sees it, a lovely darkening of his tanned skin. Iorveth is usually so decisive when he speaks, and he's never heard him dance around his words this much. He sounds, perhaps, like he might be excited by the prospect. It's so fucking cute. It makes Astarion want to wrap his arms around him and squeeze until he pops, or maybe rip his clothes off in the middle of the city and have his way with him.
A happy medium: Astarion reaches out to grab Iorveth by the collar, tugging him in until their lips meet and holding him there while he presses all of his love and affection into one kiss. When he draws back, he keeps his fingers loosely wound into the fabric of Iorveth's shirt, hesitant to let go.
His mouth twitches with an insuppressible smile. ]
[ Oh, Astarion is dangerous. Iorveth forgets himself around Astarion, not to mention the rest of the world― tugged in for a kiss, he barely registers that they're still out on the streets, that there are a few straggling night owls in their periphery. It's his turn for cartoon hearts by the time Astarion draws back and makes his customary sweet declaration; the usual hawklike glint of Iorveth's single eye is dulled by affection, made soft like moss. ]
―Find a place for us to eat, and quickly. Before I march us back to bed.
[ Gods, it's criminal that Damris is still back there. He casts that thought aside for the moment, choosing to focus all of his attention on the man he currently wants to back against a wall and kiss for several minutes. Hours? Astarion makes him fucking insane, really. Case in point: Iorveth tips inwards again despite what he just said about finding a place to eat, lips to lips and eventually tongue to tongue, licking up into Astarion's mouth greedily.
("Get a room," a half-orc mutters under his breath as he makes a wide arc to avoid the two in the middle of the street.) ]
[ It's too bad that their brain worms ceased their connection the moment that they withered and died. If he could share his mind with Iorveth now, it would just be an endless stream of I love you, I love you, I love you. Still as smooth-brained and thoughtless as ever, mind still full of emotion and kneejerk reactions, but so much more pleasant now. He's reminded of that first night they'd ever kissed, out in the street not too much unlike this. He must have been trembling with overwhelm at how it had felt to be kissed like somebody who actually mattered. From that moment on, he'd been entirely fucked. He was never going to 'get over' somebody who made him feel like that. ]
Jealous, [ he murmurs against Iorveth's lips, too pleased to pull away and berate the poor half-orc who just wanted to walk home without seeing two elves with their tongues down each other's throats. Another kiss, inexorable, like being pulled by a magnet to the soft heat of Iorveth's mouth.
In between self-indulgent kisses, he makes himself say, voice taking on a whiny little tinge, ] You can't expect me to be reasonable when you're right here for the taking.
[ It is kind of ridiculous for Iorveth to expect him to be able to tear himself from anything that gives him such a rush of happiness. Either Iorveth denies him and gets to eat, or Astarion kisses him out here until the sun comes up and he turns to ash. ]
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No, [ he says fiercely, offended. How could Iorveth ever think there would be anything in this world more valuable to him than something his hands have touched? He realizes this could perhaps be misconstrued, so he helpfully corrects: ] —I mean, yes.
[ Poor Iorveth probably has no idea what the hells he's talking about. He shakes his head as best he can against the pillow, which really just ends up making a mess of his hair. ]
Of course I want you to craft it, you fool.
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So. Iorveth frowns a bit at the 'no', then raises a brow at 'yes', and laughs when Astarion finally sticks the landing with 'of course'. Finicky cat. Iorveth loves him endlessly, even when he's rumpled and scowling. ]
"What my love wants, my love gets."
[ Teasing, parroting a phrase Astarion likes to say to him. He bites softly against the empty space on Astarion's ring finger, finding it near-impossible not to have some part of his mouth on pale skin at all times. A real problem. ]
...It'll require some time to get the materials and to do the crafting. Enough time for you to consider. [ Because honestly, that's still the most important thing. ] Take your time. Think. I'll remain yours, ring or no ring.
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[ Obviously, not an easy thing for someone like him to say. Being someone's is so ridiculously fraught, and he feels a fresh stab of anger at Cazador for making it that way. But if Cazador hadn't made it so, he probably never would have laid eyes on Iorveth in the first place. A tricky thing, to hate someone so much yet have them to owe for the thing he loves most in the world.
He tilts his hand, running the pad of his thumb across Iorveth's lower lip. ]
If not for the tiefling hogtied in the other room, I'd rip your clothes off.
[ Less romantic. But also true. ]
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A little shiver, and Iorveth kisses the tip of the thumb tracing his scarred lip. Speaking of ripping clothes off and not being romantic, though: ]
Mm. [ A hum of affirmation, and a warm sigh. ] I want your pretty cock in my mouth, but the world continues to conspire against us.
[ Crass, but honest. Astarion really isn't helping Iorveth's oral fixation by casually allowing him to put his mouth everywhere; another sigh, and he noses against a lukewarm palm. ]
What should we do with the tiefling, after we finish our business here?
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That could have been him. It was him. ]
I suppose we could leave him to return to his vampire lord and hope that Waterdeep is too far for them to follow.
[ He doesn't feel very confident about this idea, either. ]
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Shimmying back, he props a few more purple pillows under Astarion's head to make it easier for Iorveth to brush his hair as they talk. Silver curls mussed by all that rolling around gets a new coat of sheen. ]
And it would be back to an eternity of torment for him. [ Not their problem, but also kind of their problem. Iorveth, too, sees a bit too much of Astarion in Damris' predicament to feel content about leaving the spawn to his fate. (Even if the guy did try to poison him.) ]
We could bring him back with us to Waterdeep. [ As if Damris is some stray that they can foist onto a loving family. Unlikely, but perhaps a little better than eternal torture. ]
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This is much more pleasurable, though.
He lets Iorveth run the comb through his pillow-mussed hair, brow furrowed. ]
Perhaps this is one of the topics we should have discussed before the engagement. I love you, darling, but I don't want to adopt a tiefling with you.
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I'm not suggesting that we adopt him. If there's a way for us to contact your siblings, the best place to hide a tree would be in a forest.
[ Passing another spawn onto Prince Petras, ruler of seven thousand spawn in the Underdark. ]
Besides, I don't expect you'd want to kill Alkam just to play matchmaker.
[ The Damris and Linus sidequest. ]
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Still, he throws his head back, ruining all of Iorveth's hard work as he slides down into the covers. ]
My siblings? [ With the biggest, saddest eyes: ] You want me to talk to Petras?
[ That is so mean, Iorveth. Don't you love him? ]
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Don't be precious.
[ At least he acknowledges that Astarion is precious. Case in point: he can't help himself, and touches his palm to Astarion's cheek. ] You seemed remarkably capable of making your brother yield to your demands.
[ Translation: "you made bullying Petras look real easy". Another pleasant recollection, despite everything. Iorveth has already told Astarion that he was remarkably beautiful that night, deciding to spare the spawn instead of condemning them. That sentiment bleeds into the way he strokes under one red eye with his thumb, gentle and reverent before the touch retracts. ]
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[ Still able to be a narcissist, even after a long 24 hours of Iorveth being poisoned, Iorveth being cured, kidnapping a man, tying him up and interrogating him, having hag nightmares, and getting formally engaged. This is what Iorveth has pledged eternity to.
A moment of thought, and then: ] He is my younger brother. And stupider. And less handsome.
[ But he's so annoyiiiingggg, he resists the urge to whine. Astarion doesn't fear Petras—or any of his siblings—in the least now that they're out from under Cazador's thumb, but that doesn't mean begging Petras to take yet another spawn under his wing won't be... irritating. ]
I guess it wouldn't be so bad. I could rub my happiness in his face.
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So: ] Hm. I would enjoy spoiling you where your siblings could see.
[ Proof that Astarion has been, is, and will be adored. (That they, too, aren't ruined, and may be able to find someone who adores them as well.) (Not as much as Astarion is adored, though. That's not possible.) Iorveth watches Astarion slump dramatically on violet sheets, and laughs under his breath. ]
We'll consider it after our business is done. Your future is my priority.
[ Obviously. Iorveth's stomach grumbles after he says so, undercutting the dramatic declaration somewhat; right, he hasn't eaten anything in a while. Should've told Astarion to pick something up for him while he was out. ]
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Then Iorveth's stomach growls, and he laughs. No, there wouldn't be any mood-ruining tummy rumbles in his daydreams. This is very, very real. ]
There's still a bit of the night left yet.
[ The sun will come up before long, but he didn't harass that poor jeweler for the entire night. Just most of it. ]
I could take you for a celebratory [ —Dinner? Breakfast? Time has become so strange since he's been relegated to the night shift— ] meal.
[ Which would probably have been a much more romantic place to do all of this. Gods, two centuries of practicing seduction and he's terrible at romance. ]
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[ Iorveth could just hop out for some food to carry back and eat in the room, but he'd be lying if he said that it wouldn't be nice to go out into the city while riding high on this feeling. He's not the sort to walk around yelling about his partner, but there is a bit of a thrill in knowing that, when others call them 'Masters Blackmane', they're not so far off from the truth.
Iorveth bends over for the millionth kiss of the night, then gets up out of bed to find his eyepatch, then dig into his pack. ]
I thought I might get rid of the items that the hag got us, as well. Leave them in an alley somewhere.
[ Maybe discarding them will help Astarion trance a little better tonight? Iorveth has no idea. But they feel too much like the masks in Ethel's lair now, an artefact that slowly drains away at one's soul and sanity, and he wants them away from Astarion as quickly as possible. ]
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So, he sits up, attempting to fix his hair with his fingers, trying to remember how Iorveth had arranged it. ]
Ugh, those creepy little trinkets.
[ Maybe they're harmless, honestly, and ultimately just gross. That doesn't sound like a hag, though. It's more likely that they'd slowly turn them into gelatinous cubes, or something. ]
You won't hear any complaint from me. I wasn't planning on accessorizing with them any time soon.
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Good thing that Iorveth doesn't follow that line of thought. Instead, when he reaches into his pack to make sure that he has the ugly charms for them to discard later, he takes out his vial of cologne and, this time, dabs a bit of it behind Astarion's ear as he fixes that curl that he'd laid down before. Sandalwood, amber, leather. ]
Too on-the-nose for you, I think.
[ A vampire wearing literal hearts around his neck. Iorveth scoffs at the thought of it as he gets ready, eyepatch and boots and knives on his person. With that done, he goes to the other room to quickly make sure that nothing is amiss (Damris is still bound and gagged and miserable) before they can leave. ]
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Oh, [ he says, cocking his head as if he's just thought of this: ] We should probably keep our distance from the Scepter District tonight.
[ His eyes drop to the tiefling still groaning through his gag on the floor. He still doesn't have the desire to take Damris under his wing. Foisting him off on Petras would be as much a favor for himself as for Damris; being around someone who poisoned Iorveth for longer than strictly necessary would drive him to madness. Or at least rudeness. ]
His lover boy has been asking about him.
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Hm. Iorveth steps back, hawklike eye fixed on the hogtied form, and offers a breezy: ]
Perhaps we should kill him. He might become a liability.
[ A throwaway threat; there's no intention behind it. It's mostly to see Damris's reaction, which is instantly negative: a narrowing of lash-framed eyes, and an agitated flick of his bound tail against his leg. Iorveth wouldn't blame the guy for having grown somewhat attached to a besotted fool who, despite everything, has likely shown Damris more kindness than others have.
Interesting. With that observation, he turns towards Astarion and offers him his hand. ] ...But we needn't waste time, either. Come.
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Strange, that he'd give a damn about another person's life at all. The feeling is decidedly unpleasant. He takes Iorveth's hand, tugging him out of the office. ]
I'd rather not ruminate on our problems too much tonight.
[ Alkam, Damris, Linus. The old hag. Endless problems with not very many solutions. He knows Iorveth hates it when he does this, but it would be nice to stick their heads in the sand for just a few more hours. ]
Tell me where you'd like me to take you. Are you in a 'classy restaurant' sort of mood, or a 'tavern where you might get robbed and murdered' one?
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Somewhere in the middle, I think. [ Not ritzy enough that Astarion would feel weird sitting and eating nothing, but not rowdy enough that they'd be interrupted by smelly drunks. They are meant to be celebrating, after all.
(It makes Iorveth's heart do another flip, when he recalls the word wedding coming out of Astarion's mouth. Hells.) ]
...It would have been nice, to go to that old woman's cafe. In Baldur's Gate. Someplace like that, perhaps.
[ Cozy, warm. Maybe not the ideal place to go out and flaunt each other, but intimate. ]
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[ A knowing smile. Like being called 'love', he remembers this, too. It had been the first time he'd ever been out with someone in that way. Not a seedy tavern to throw back drinks at before taking them to their doom, but a little diner, during the day, with no intent to drag anyone kicking and screaming back to his master.
Iorveth had been making him miserable at the time, what with his stubborn refusal to invite Astarion to stay with him after their Netherbrain journey, but he'd still enjoyed the place. ]
Actually, I rather liked it there, too.
[ A pause. ]
Pretend that I asked for your hand there, instead. I know it's very unlike me, but... I didn't plan ahead.
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He can feel his temperature rise, and he knows that Astarion can feel it where their palms meet. Can likely see it, too, as a dusting of color along the peak of his cheeks. Not as tomato-red as Astarion was before, but emulating it. ]
You? Not planning ahead? An unbelievable thought, that.
[ Pulling on pigtails first, to distract from the flush. After he gets that out of the way, Iorveth clears his throat, trying to discipline his tone into something less eager and more diplomatic. ]
Perhaps... Gale can portal us to Baldur's Gate, before we return to Waterdeep. We could...
[ He clears his throat again. ] ...We could commission Dolores for robes.
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A happy medium: Astarion reaches out to grab Iorveth by the collar, tugging him in until their lips meet and holding him there while he presses all of his love and affection into one kiss. When he draws back, he keeps his fingers loosely wound into the fabric of Iorveth's shirt, hesitant to let go.
His mouth twitches with an insuppressible smile. ]
"What my love wants, my love gets."
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―Find a place for us to eat, and quickly. Before I march us back to bed.
[ Gods, it's criminal that Damris is still back there. He casts that thought aside for the moment, choosing to focus all of his attention on the man he currently wants to back against a wall and kiss for several minutes. Hours? Astarion makes him fucking insane, really. Case in point: Iorveth tips inwards again despite what he just said about finding a place to eat, lips to lips and eventually tongue to tongue, licking up into Astarion's mouth greedily.
("Get a room," a half-orc mutters under his breath as he makes a wide arc to avoid the two in the middle of the street.) ]
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Jealous, [ he murmurs against Iorveth's lips, too pleased to pull away and berate the poor half-orc who just wanted to walk home without seeing two elves with their tongues down each other's throats. Another kiss, inexorable, like being pulled by a magnet to the soft heat of Iorveth's mouth.
In between self-indulgent kisses, he makes himself say, voice taking on a whiny little tinge, ] You can't expect me to be reasonable when you're right here for the taking.
[ It is kind of ridiculous for Iorveth to expect him to be able to tear himself from anything that gives him such a rush of happiness. Either Iorveth denies him and gets to eat, or Astarion kisses him out here until the sun comes up and he turns to ash. ]
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