[ Astarion shrugs off the shirt he's wearing, now wrinkled by rolling around in bed with Iorveth's arms around him all day. He slips on the sleeves of the offered shirt, leaving it for Iorveth to button up not out of a desire to be pampered—although, of course, he always enjoys being pampered—but because he's far too tired to do anything that requires deft movements of his fingers. The whole reason he needs to get some blood in him before he even attempts to rob a hag blind.
He lists against Iorveth as he waits, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before he forces them open again. ]
[ Hells, Astarion looks tired. The sensible thing to do, honestly, is to tell Astarion not to do this, to go and just burn the hag's shop down himself, but he knows that Astarion would hate it, and be furious if Iorveth came back with so much as a scratch.
He knows this, because it's how he would react if Astarion did the same. So he swallows that feeling down, relegates it to the back of his ever-churning mind. ]
Mm. [ A vague sound of acknowledgement, followed by a quick peck to Astarion's hair. ] I know you hate it.
[ There's always some sort of pushback whenever Iorveth even suggests that Astarion might have virtues to speak of; he's noticed. ]
[ Iorveth's body is warm and very comforting, so he has to pull himself away before he drifts off, leaning over to grab the boots Iorveth took off of him when they returned home yesterday. He'd been in such a better mood then, galvanized by the excitement of the engagement. He wonders if he should propose again, get another burst of anxious energy.
He pulls one boot on, fumbling with the laces. ]
I told you. You make me want to be the man that you see in me.
You've nothing to live up to. [ Is the simple answer, perhaps a bit predictable in its bluntness. ] I see you only as you've been.
[ Questionably good at times, figuring himself out. Thoughtless but thoughtful, the usual mess of contradictions. Iorveth smiles as he thinks about it, and kisses the crown of Astarion's head before moving to get ready himself, detaching himself with some trouble to do so. ]
Besides, [ he adds with casual flair, tugging on a new tunic. ] I know you prefer to be the devilish rake. More your style.
[ Personal brands are important! Iorveth knows this better than most, and he laughs about it as he moves towards the door leading into the rest of their suite. ]
I'll go check on the tiefling. Call for me when you're ready.
[ He's pretty sure Iorveth sees him with rose-tinted glasses, actually, but he doesn't argue. Astarion fears disappointing Iorveth when he one day realizes that Astarion isn't half the man Iorveth thinks he is, but maybe he can keep this going until he's become that person. Fake it until he makes it — his life motto, really. Better to just let Iorveth think he really is that good for now.
It takes some time for him to finish lacing up his boots. Tying a knot is just so much more complicated when one is deprived of rest. Once he finally manages it, he calls, ] I'm ready, love.
[ His check-in is brief. but mildly significant: he tells Damris about their intentions to take him out of Athkatla, which the tiefling receives with half-skepticism and half-fear, as if he's on the cusp of believing but being terrified of something so utterly unthinkable regardless.
Iorveth leaves after telling Damris to consider what he's going to do about Linus. A real question that he expects a real answer to later. Now, he hears Astarion calling for him and quickly makes his way back, offering a hand to hold. ]
Let's go, then. [ A frown, as he notes the patterns of exhaustion on Astarion's face, his general listlessness. ] ―Love. If you need even a bit of blood before we leave, I'll give it.
[ Saying that Astarion looks like death warmed over might just be a statement of fact in general, but he really looks like death warmed over right now. ]
No. Not before you put yourself in front of a hag.
[ Iorveth will need all the blood he has. If Astarion took it from him, and something went wrong later, he'd never be able to stop wondering if it was his fault. (It's his fault either way, he supposes. It's him they're doing all of this for.)
He takes Iorveth's hand a moment later, fingers tangling. ]
But I may need your help on the, ah, hunt. [ To put it euphemistically. ] I can do most of it, of course. But people do tend to... panic once they feel teeth.
[ The fucking hag. Public enemy number one, as far as Iorveth is concerned-- he can't wait to find her and gut her for both hoarding what should rightfully have been Astarion's (delusional) and for impeding Astarion's rest (less delusional). Iorveth's frown deepens, but he keeps himself centered around the creature's inevitable (?) demise.
Smoothing a thumb over Astarion's knuckles, he starts their descent to the inn's lobby, wading through a sea of purple. ]
How do you suggest we do this?
[ Not protesting the gruntwork in the least. Blithe about it, even. Like having to go to a physician for a checkup. ]
[ Iorveth makes a wry comment, but Astarion is already craning his neck to scope out the potential at the inn's bar, distracted. After all this time, searching out a victim is practically second nature. It's not something he's proud of, exactly; having the talent to determine which tavern patrons have the least amount of loved ones waiting for them at home certainly isn't heroic.
All the same, it's one he has. His eyes flit over an off-duty guard, still in armor, clinking glasses with a companion. Too important. Cazador always scolded him whenever he targeted anyone with power. ]
That's typically how this goes, yes.
[ Again: not something he's proud of. ]
I usually look for the drunkest idiot present and proposition them.
[ It's strange, seeing the multicolored patroons breaking up the oppressively purple atmosphere of the inn's bar. Most of the people seem relatively well-off, perhaps frequent fliers between the Bridge District and the Scepter District; the only one who doesn't quite fit into the picture is the shifty barkeep whose inn uniform doesn't fit him quite as nicely as it should.
Iorveth squeezes Astarion's hand once, before slowly letting go. It might be difficult for them to manage this if Iorveth is hanging behind Astarion like a stern-faced wraith. ]
Or I could stand around with my coinpurse dangling and see who tries to snatch it.
[ If they don't want to go the seduction route. ]
I don't relish the idea of you having to cozy up to fools.
[ Cozying up to fools was far from the worst part of what he used to do. The worst part was what came after the cozying: being touched all over, having to touch them back. Sometimes he'd been relieved when Cazador came to drag them away. Their distant screams had at least meant that they were distant from him.
Still, he won't argue for the chance to say suggestive things to someone repulsive. If Iorveth wants to do things another way, he'll gladly follow.
Only: ] How do you imagine we'll get the would-be thief somewhere private, then?
[ That's the advantage of seduction. It's easy to lure someone away where no one will ever see them. ]
I'm not quite in the shape to manhandle, and besides, I think the other patrons might notice.
[ Point. It would be vastly easier to lure someone somewhere private by seducing them, and the fact that Iorveth has to concede to that point makes him seethe internally. Almost like admitting that Cazador was right about anything, that motherfucker.
Expression bunching into a scowl, Iorveth breathes through his nose before settling back into discontent neutral, arms folded across his chest as he looks over the various men and women at the bar. ]
We drag the thief outside and into an alley.
[ To the tune of hmph. He knows it'd be far too conspicuous, and that they'd probably not be received bery well if they returned without the thief and with bloodstains on their shirt. Ugh.
An aggravated huff later: ] Cities. More trouble than they're worth. Were we in in the forest, I'd be able to hunt a man with less worries.
Careful, darling. You'll give me ideas for wedding day activities.
[ Hunting a man together in the woods? Ugh, peak romance. But it'll be so hard to find a racist on short notice, and Iorveth probably won't be interested in hunting any elves, so that really narrows down their options.
He leans against the wall, letting his head loll a little as he inspects the crowd. A group of friends carousing loudly. A somewhat belligerent man arguing with the bartender about his tab. A woman pounding back drinks like there's something she's trying to forget. ]
You could do the cozying.
[ You know, if he doesn't want Astarion to do it. ]
[ Round up some racists before the wedding and let them loose for the afterparty－ wouldn't that be nice. But now they have to do this inelegantly and probably stupidly, so: ]
Fine.
[ Iorveth will graciously (?) do the cozying, which has historically not gone great for him. Whatever. Astarion looks far too tired to put up with assholes getting up in his space, and all Iorveth really wants to do is to get this over with, kill a hag, and tuck Astarion into bed for a well-deserved two-day long nap.
His single eye scans the room. The belligerent drunk will do; he seems well-dressed enough to not have to be arguing about a few silver pieces, and he's now loudly complaining about how he shouldn't have to pay for his companion's drinks because, in his words, "the wretch left me without even telling me why!"
Iorveth can hazard a guess. ] That one, [ he announces to Astarion before slipping away, striding with resolute confidence towards the still-grousing man to sidle next to him, hand to an elbow. ]
You'll bring the inn down with all that yelling, [ is probably not the sexiest thing to say, but Iorveth will be Iorveth. (He hopes Astarion isn't listening too closely.) ]
[ It doesn't feel great to send Iorveth to do his dirty work, but he consoles himself with the knowledge that Iorveth is doing it of his own free will, and that at the end of this he'll get to watch this man die. Small mercies.
He sits himself down at a table within eye line, resting his chin in his palm as he looks on with exhaustion. Probably good. He's too tired to feel jealous of Iorveth touching another man (mostly; his capacity for jealousy is unmatched, after all). A sweet-faced tiefling leaves her gaggle of giggling friends and approaches him at the table, asking, "Are you here alone?" ]
Not interested, [ he answers rudely, and the woman turns back to her friends with a mortified expression. He doesn't even notice; he's too busy watching Iorveth and their future victim.
The man turns to Iorveth with a raised eyebrow, clearly not charmed by Iorveth's comment. Astarion's not sure what he said, but he can imagine. Sweet-talking has never been Iorveth's forte. Nose hiked up in the air, the man says, "What are you, security?" ]
[ Gods, Iorveth wants to spend as little time chatting this man up (a human, he notes glumly) as possible; he tries to remember when he was younger, tries to remember Belleteyn and casual trysts, but it's more difficult to draw on those things when his interest in intimacy now begins and ends with the familiar shape of one person.
Oh well. Far better than making Astarion do this, exhausted as he is. It gives Iorveth purpose to think of all of this as an obstacle to overcome for his love's sake (everything in the world is easier for Iorveth to overcome when there's someone he's weathering it for), so he glances Astarion's way, softens, and keeps that softness to extend to this drunk stranger. ]
No. [ The hand on the man's elbow slides up, up, then back to settle on a shoulderblade. Close; Iorveth can smell the alcohol on the stranger, and it's all he can do to keep himself from wrinkling his nose. ] A traveler, intrigued by your display of strength.
[ Ugh. All of this really is a crapshoot: it's very likely that this stranger isn't into tall elves with ruined, sharp faces. Astarion is stunning, a universal beauty, but Iorveth is... well, in his professional opinion, he was plain even before he was made ugly.
Whatever. Maybe the guy is too drunk to really see who's "flirting" with him. Iorveth sways closer, like a curious animal sniffing at a hand. ] You caught my eye immediately, [ he offers, and it isn't a lie: Iorveth'd found him pathetic the moment he laid an eye on him. ]
[ Astarion watches with a frown as the man gives Iorveth a once-over. Maybe this was a mistake; Iorveth isn't used to this sort of self-debasement, and it really does take a special talent, he thinks. Someone willing to completely humiliate themselves to get someone else into bed with them. Iorveth has far too much self-respect for that, and this human is going to see right through it—
"Oh?" he says, raising an eyebrow for a different reason this time. "...What are you, a wood elf?" He leans in, a little unsteady on his feet, the heavy stink of alcohol on his breath. Clearly, he's been imbibing a lot tonight. His lips curl into a smile, and he breathes, "Exotic."
It wouldn't have mattered if Iorveth had a bag over his head, as long as he had cut-outs for his pointy ears. ]
[ Exotic, the man says, and it occurs to Iorveth that he hasn't seen a single wood elf since arriving at Athkatla. He can hazard a guess as to why. Still, if he had a copper for every time some idiot human called his people exotic, he'd be Duke Ravengard－ the comment is expected, but thank the gods Iorveth doesn't care for that this guy will be dead in a few minutes' time. ]
Aen Seidhe, [ Iorveth murmurs, fully expecting the man to not know what the fuck that is and being validated immediately by the man's slurred response: "bless you!", followed by a nails-against-chalkboard laugh.
Maybe Astarion should find someone better to sink his teeth into, actually. But blood is blood, and Iorveth doesn't want to waste time, so－
－he lets the man grope around some, damp palms searching over his waist, his hip. An exercise in knowing what Astarion had to put up with for centuries of his life. At least Iorveth doesn't actually have to sleep with this idiot. After a few seconds of the fumbling touches, Iorveth takes the man's wrist (imagines breaking it, as a treat) and guides him across the lobby. ]
[ Astarion fucking glowers. With jealousy, yes, but much more than that, a pure rage unaffected by how much he covets Iorveth, unrelated to Iorveth at all. Some people just can't keep their fucking hands to themselves. He can practically feel those sweaty hands on his own body, pawing like he has any right to it. He's felt them before, in a way. All of these people are the same.
The human laughs as Iorveth leads him along, drunk and giddy, his irritation at being supposedly overcharged forgotten in the face of getting laid. "You're so forward," he coos with amazement, like he's commenting on some strange but fascinating object in a museum. "I've always heard your kind were savage in the bedroom."
Astarion's chair squeaks as he gets up, a shadow ten paces behind Iorveth and the human he mentally refers to as Breakfast. ]
[ Difficult to say which Iorveth hates more: being considered a novelty, or being considered vermin. They're both gut-churning for different reasons, but based on the same baseline foundation of not being seen, of being perceived as something without having any say in that perception.
That, and simply, this guy is just gross. Iorveth wouldn't allow him within five feet of him under normal circumstances, but his love has to eat, and sometimes you have to wade through swampland to hunt a deer. ]
You're in luck. I happen to be more savage than most.
[ Again, not a lie. He keeps his attention faced forward as they make their way up to their suite, which nets him another awed comment from the drunkard about the state of Iorveth's finances: "a rich wood elf! Fancy that."
Gods, please, let Astarion kill this man swiftly. They lurch into the main sitting room, damp hands scrabbling up under Iorveth's tunic, attempting to corral him onto one of the bigger couches. Fine with Iorveth, really－ it's this guy's funeral. ]
[ Astarion stalks behind the two of them, hardly light-footed in his fatigue but somehow still unnoticeable to the drunk idiot who thinks he's about to have a wild I fucked a wood elf story to tell all of his friends. As he pushes Iorveth onto the couch, he hikes up the tunic and exclaims with glee, "Just how far down does this tattoo go?"
He shuts the door behind him. Breakfast jumps at the sound, startled, turning around to see Astarion standing there ominously in the doorway like some grim specter of death. Pale white, sunken eyes, a murderous expression.
"Fuck!" is more shock than fear, too much alcohol running through the man's system for him to realize what's about to happen. "What is this, your roommate?" ]
[ There he is, the man of the hour (of the tenday, of eternity). Astarion is beautiful even when he looks like he'd love nothing more than to tear the world apart, and Iorveth takes a quick moment to take Astarion in before he shifts, braces, and clamps one palm over the man's mouth as he knees him viciously between the legs. ]
Watch how you speak to my betrothed, [ Iorveth hums, airy and light, in sharp contrast to the man's muffled howling. ] He's already unhappy with you.
[ Negotiating struggling limbs and panicked flailing, Iorveth wrestles his victim into a more suitable position, his front to the man's back, legs twined. A mockery of spooning, meant more to restrain than to show any sort of affection. He has to let go of the man's mouth to manage it, which unfortunately encourages him to start babbling about some nonsense or other. Iorveth is tuning him out, honestly.
More importantly: ] Hurry, love. [ To Astarion, obviously. ]
there does not exist an icon for what is happening here
[ Astarion has the wherewithal to reach behind himself and lock the door. It would be really unfortunate for someone to come running and find that not only are the Masters Blackmane murdering a man in the sitting room, but they have another one tied up in the study. He's not sure how they'd explain that one to the judge. ]
Shut up, [ he says to the babbling fool before stalking forward and clamping a hand over his mouth himself. Gods, the last thing they need is for him to start screaming for help. Muffled sounds of distress come out against his palm, but he does his best to ignore them. The world is a better place without this man, he tells himself. He's rude, and a drunk, and he was going to sleep with Iorveth, which are all crimes punishable by death according to the (not-so-)honorable Magistrate Ancunín.
He does hesitate for a second, something like guilt washing over him — until he feels a sharp pain in his hand. ]
Ow, gods! —He fucking bit me.
[ Never mind on that guilt thing. Astarion cranes down, fangs piercing Breakfast's jugular for a brief moment before he starts to thrash, blood spurting out everywhere. On Astarion's face, on Iorveth's clothes. ]
[ No guilt on Iorveth's part: a necessary death is a necessary death. He's weighed lives on scales before, and he's killed people on a 'hurt-or-be-hurt' basis many times before. It's a choice he won't lose sleep over.
That said, wow, this is messy. Really puts into perspective how careful Astarion is during their affectionate (deranged) biting sessions, taking care not to hit the jugular, drinking far less than what he'd consider enough. This is probably not the best moment to feel a surge of affection for his lover, who is currently actively murdering a man, but still. The heart feels what the heart must.
Pinning the flailing man's arms behind him, with long legs locked around Astarion's breakfast, Iorveth grunts: ]
Stay still.
[ So very impolite of this drunk, not to flop over and fucking die. The man seems too panicked to be aware of Iorveth's audacity, however, and continues trying to scrabble between the two elves, attempting ill-timed, pained headbutts to see if he can knock Astarion away. ]
[ If he weren't so exhausted and in need of sustenance, Astarion would probably find this whole thing embarrassing. He would never drink from someone other than Iorveth in the first place, though, and certainly not a belligerent, lecherous drunk, if he weren't in a bad state. The man knocks heads with him, and Astarion lurches back, room spinning for a moment— ]
Ow!
[ —and he does have the good sense to feel a little embarrassed then, if only because he can hear Iorveth telling him that he needs to start guarding his face in the back of his head.
His solution is far from elegant. He hikes a knee up on the couch, pressing his weight forward to pin poor (?) Breakfast between their bodies like a cat with a mouse caught under its paw. When he latches on again, it's with none of the gentleness he bothers to show Iorveth; the man struggles a bit longer, but with each draw of blood into Astarion's mouth, his body weakens until there truly is nothing he can do but flop over and die. It's a lengthy process, draining someone all the way, and even though half of his blood is on the floor and their clothing it still takes several minutes. He drinks past the point of fullness and to the point of gorging himself, and even then, he imagines he could keep going if only there were more blood to spare. Greed and gluttony are in a vampire's nature.
Once the blood stops flowing easily, he takes a step back, gingerly thumbing at the corner of his mouth as if there isn't blood splattered all over his face and his shirt. As for Iorveth: ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He lists against Iorveth as he waits, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before he forces them open again. ]
You do like to imagine me as the hero.
no subject
He knows this, because it's how he would react if Astarion did the same. So he swallows that feeling down, relegates it to the back of his ever-churning mind. ]
Mm. [ A vague sound of acknowledgement, followed by a quick peck to Astarion's hair. ] I know you hate it.
[ There's always some sort of pushback whenever Iorveth even suggests that Astarion might have virtues to speak of; he's noticed. ]
no subject
[ Iorveth's body is warm and very comforting, so he has to pull himself away before he drifts off, leaning over to grab the boots Iorveth took off of him when they returned home yesterday. He'd been in such a better mood then, galvanized by the excitement of the engagement. He wonders if he should propose again, get another burst of anxious energy.
He pulls one boot on, fumbling with the laces. ]
I told you. You make me want to be the man that you see in me.
[ A quick glance upward, Iorveth's way. ]
Heroics are quite a lot to live up to, is all.
no subject
[ Questionably good at times, figuring himself out. Thoughtless but thoughtful, the usual mess of contradictions. Iorveth smiles as he thinks about it, and kisses the crown of Astarion's head before moving to get ready himself, detaching himself with some trouble to do so. ]
Besides, [ he adds with casual flair, tugging on a new tunic. ] I know you prefer to be the devilish rake. More your style.
[ Personal brands are important! Iorveth knows this better than most, and he laughs about it as he moves towards the door leading into the rest of their suite. ]
I'll go check on the tiefling. Call for me when you're ready.
no subject
It takes some time for him to finish lacing up his boots. Tying a knot is just so much more complicated when one is deprived of rest. Once he finally manages it, he calls, ] I'm ready, love.
no subject
Iorveth leaves after telling Damris to consider what he's going to do about Linus. A real question that he expects a real answer to later. Now, he hears Astarion calling for him and quickly makes his way back, offering a hand to hold. ]
Let's go, then. [ A frown, as he notes the patterns of exhaustion on Astarion's face, his general listlessness. ] ―Love. If you need even a bit of blood before we leave, I'll give it.
[ Saying that Astarion looks like death warmed over might just be a statement of fact in general, but he really looks like death warmed over right now. ]
no subject
No. Not before you put yourself in front of a hag.
[ Iorveth will need all the blood he has. If Astarion took it from him, and something went wrong later, he'd never be able to stop wondering if it was his fault. (It's his fault either way, he supposes. It's him they're doing all of this for.)
He takes Iorveth's hand a moment later, fingers tangling. ]
But I may need your help on the, ah, hunt. [ To put it euphemistically. ] I can do most of it, of course. But people do tend to... panic once they feel teeth.
no subject
Smoothing a thumb over Astarion's knuckles, he starts their descent to the inn's lobby, wading through a sea of purple. ]
How do you suggest we do this?
[ Not protesting the gruntwork in the least. Blithe about it, even. Like having to go to a physician for a checkup. ]
Do we invite someone for a menage?
[ A nudge with an elbow, dry but playful. ]
no subject
All the same, it's one he has. His eyes flit over an off-duty guard, still in armor, clinking glasses with a companion. Too important. Cazador always scolded him whenever he targeted anyone with power. ]
That's typically how this goes, yes.
[ Again: not something he's proud of. ]
I usually look for the drunkest idiot present and proposition them.
no subject
Iorveth squeezes Astarion's hand once, before slowly letting go. It might be difficult for them to manage this if Iorveth is hanging behind Astarion like a stern-faced wraith. ]
Or I could stand around with my coinpurse dangling and see who tries to snatch it.
[ If they don't want to go the seduction route. ]
I don't relish the idea of you having to cozy up to fools.
no subject
Still, he won't argue for the chance to say suggestive things to someone repulsive. If Iorveth wants to do things another way, he'll gladly follow.
Only: ] How do you imagine we'll get the would-be thief somewhere private, then?
[ That's the advantage of seduction. It's easy to lure someone away where no one will ever see them. ]
I'm not quite in the shape to manhandle, and besides, I think the other patrons might notice.
no subject
Expression bunching into a scowl, Iorveth breathes through his nose before settling back into discontent neutral, arms folded across his chest as he looks over the various men and women at the bar. ]
We drag the thief outside and into an alley.
[ To the tune of hmph. He knows it'd be far too conspicuous, and that they'd probably not be received bery well if they returned without the thief and with bloodstains on their shirt. Ugh.
An aggravated huff later: ] Cities. More trouble than they're worth. Were we in in the forest, I'd be able to hunt a man with less worries.
[ An incredibly deranged thing to say. ]
no subject
[ Hunting a man together in the woods? Ugh, peak romance. But it'll be so hard to find a racist on short notice, and Iorveth probably won't be interested in hunting any elves, so that really narrows down their options.
He leans against the wall, letting his head loll a little as he inspects the crowd. A group of friends carousing loudly. A somewhat belligerent man arguing with the bartender about his tab. A woman pounding back drinks like there's something she's trying to forget. ]
You could do the cozying.
[ You know, if he doesn't want Astarion to do it. ]
no subject
Fine.
[ Iorveth will graciously (?) do the cozying, which has historically not gone great for him. Whatever. Astarion looks far too tired to put up with assholes getting up in his space, and all Iorveth really wants to do is to get this over with, kill a hag, and tuck Astarion into bed for a well-deserved two-day long nap.
His single eye scans the room. The belligerent drunk will do; he seems well-dressed enough to not have to be arguing about a few silver pieces, and he's now loudly complaining about how he shouldn't have to pay for his companion's drinks because, in his words, "the wretch left me without even telling me why!"
Iorveth can hazard a guess. ] That one, [ he announces to Astarion before slipping away, striding with resolute confidence towards the still-grousing man to sidle next to him, hand to an elbow. ]
You'll bring the inn down with all that yelling, [ is probably not the sexiest thing to say, but Iorveth will be Iorveth. (He hopes Astarion isn't listening too closely.) ]
no subject
He sits himself down at a table within eye line, resting his chin in his palm as he looks on with exhaustion. Probably good. He's too tired to feel jealous of Iorveth touching another man (mostly; his capacity for jealousy is unmatched, after all). A sweet-faced tiefling leaves her gaggle of giggling friends and approaches him at the table, asking, "Are you here alone?" ]
Not interested, [ he answers rudely, and the woman turns back to her friends with a mortified expression. He doesn't even notice; he's too busy watching Iorveth and their future victim.
The man turns to Iorveth with a raised eyebrow, clearly not charmed by Iorveth's comment. Astarion's not sure what he said, but he can imagine. Sweet-talking has never been Iorveth's forte. Nose hiked up in the air, the man says, "What are you, security?" ]
no subject
Oh well. Far better than making Astarion do this, exhausted as he is. It gives Iorveth purpose to think of all of this as an obstacle to overcome for his love's sake (everything in the world is easier for Iorveth to overcome when there's someone he's weathering it for), so he glances Astarion's way, softens, and keeps that softness to extend to this drunk stranger. ]
No. [ The hand on the man's elbow slides up, up, then back to settle on a shoulderblade. Close; Iorveth can smell the alcohol on the stranger, and it's all he can do to keep himself from wrinkling his nose. ] A traveler, intrigued by your display of strength.
[ Ugh. All of this really is a crapshoot: it's very likely that this stranger isn't into tall elves with ruined, sharp faces. Astarion is stunning, a universal beauty, but Iorveth is... well, in his professional opinion, he was plain even before he was made ugly.
Whatever. Maybe the guy is too drunk to really see who's "flirting" with him. Iorveth sways closer, like a curious animal sniffing at a hand. ] You caught my eye immediately, [ he offers, and it isn't a lie: Iorveth'd found him pathetic the moment he laid an eye on him. ]
no subject
"Oh?" he says, raising an eyebrow for a different reason this time. "...What are you, a wood elf?" He leans in, a little unsteady on his feet, the heavy stink of alcohol on his breath. Clearly, he's been imbibing a lot tonight. His lips curl into a smile, and he breathes, "Exotic."
It wouldn't have mattered if Iorveth had a bag over his head, as long as he had cut-outs for his pointy ears. ]
no subject
Aen Seidhe, [ Iorveth murmurs, fully expecting the man to not know what the fuck that is and being validated immediately by the man's slurred response: "bless you!", followed by a nails-against-chalkboard laugh.
Maybe Astarion should find someone better to sink his teeth into, actually. But blood is blood, and Iorveth doesn't want to waste time, so－
－he lets the man grope around some, damp palms searching over his waist, his hip. An exercise in knowing what Astarion had to put up with for centuries of his life. At least Iorveth doesn't actually have to sleep with this idiot. After a few seconds of the fumbling touches, Iorveth takes the man's wrist (imagines breaking it, as a treat) and guides him across the lobby. ]
Come. I want you in my room.
no subject
The human laughs as Iorveth leads him along, drunk and giddy, his irritation at being supposedly overcharged forgotten in the face of getting laid. "You're so forward," he coos with amazement, like he's commenting on some strange but fascinating object in a museum. "I've always heard your kind were savage in the bedroom."
Astarion's chair squeaks as he gets up, a shadow ten paces behind Iorveth and the human he mentally refers to as Breakfast. ]
no subject
That, and simply, this guy is just gross. Iorveth wouldn't allow him within five feet of him under normal circumstances, but his love has to eat, and sometimes you have to wade through swampland to hunt a deer. ]
You're in luck. I happen to be more savage than most.
[ Again, not a lie. He keeps his attention faced forward as they make their way up to their suite, which nets him another awed comment from the drunkard about the state of Iorveth's finances: "a rich wood elf! Fancy that."
Gods, please, let Astarion kill this man swiftly. They lurch into the main sitting room, damp hands scrabbling up under Iorveth's tunic, attempting to corral him onto one of the bigger couches. Fine with Iorveth, really－ it's this guy's funeral. ]
no subject
He shuts the door behind him. Breakfast jumps at the sound, startled, turning around to see Astarion standing there ominously in the doorway like some grim specter of death. Pale white, sunken eyes, a murderous expression.
"Fuck!" is more shock than fear, too much alcohol running through the man's system for him to realize what's about to happen. "What is this, your roommate?" ]
no subject
Watch how you speak to my betrothed, [ Iorveth hums, airy and light, in sharp contrast to the man's muffled howling. ] He's already unhappy with you.
[ Negotiating struggling limbs and panicked flailing, Iorveth wrestles his victim into a more suitable position, his front to the man's back, legs twined. A mockery of spooning, meant more to restrain than to show any sort of affection. He has to let go of the man's mouth to manage it, which unfortunately encourages him to start babbling about some nonsense or other. Iorveth is tuning him out, honestly.
More importantly: ] Hurry, love. [ To Astarion, obviously. ]
there does not exist an icon for what is happening here
Shut up, [ he says to the babbling fool before stalking forward and clamping a hand over his mouth himself. Gods, the last thing they need is for him to start screaming for help. Muffled sounds of distress come out against his palm, but he does his best to ignore them. The world is a better place without this man, he tells himself. He's rude, and a drunk, and he was going to sleep with Iorveth, which are all crimes punishable by death according to the (not-so-)honorable Magistrate Ancunín.
He does hesitate for a second, something like guilt washing over him — until he feels a sharp pain in his hand. ]
Ow, gods! —He fucking bit me.
[ Never mind on that guilt thing. Astarion cranes down, fangs piercing Breakfast's jugular for a brief moment before he starts to thrash, blood spurting out everywhere. On Astarion's face, on Iorveth's clothes. ]
this is the WORST threesome ever
That said, wow, this is messy. Really puts into perspective how careful Astarion is during their affectionate (deranged) biting sessions, taking care not to hit the jugular, drinking far less than what he'd consider enough. This is probably not the best moment to feel a surge of affection for his lover, who is currently actively murdering a man, but still. The heart feels what the heart must.
Pinning the flailing man's arms behind him, with long legs locked around Astarion's breakfast, Iorveth grunts: ]
Stay still.
[ So very impolite of this drunk, not to flop over and fucking die. The man seems too panicked to be aware of Iorveth's audacity, however, and continues trying to scrabble between the two elves, attempting ill-timed, pained headbutts to see if he can knock Astarion away. ]
no subject
Ow!
[ —and he does have the good sense to feel a little embarrassed then, if only because he can hear Iorveth telling him that he needs to start guarding his face in the back of his head.
His solution is far from elegant. He hikes a knee up on the couch, pressing his weight forward to pin poor (?) Breakfast between their bodies like a cat with a mouse caught under its paw. When he latches on again, it's with none of the gentleness he bothers to show Iorveth; the man struggles a bit longer, but with each draw of blood into Astarion's mouth, his body weakens until there truly is nothing he can do but flop over and die. It's a lengthy process, draining someone all the way, and even though half of his blood is on the floor and their clothing it still takes several minutes. He drinks past the point of fullness and to the point of gorging himself, and even then, he imagines he could keep going if only there were more blood to spare. Greed and gluttony are in a vampire's nature.
Once the blood stops flowing easily, he takes a step back, gingerly thumbing at the corner of his mouth as if there isn't blood splattered all over his face and his shirt. As for Iorveth: ]
...You have a little something there.
(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)