[ 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: ]
[ Minutes pass in this awkward state of slowly watching a man being drained of life. Iorveth slips on his mask of impassivity as it happens, adopting that still, porcelain expression of neutrality as the body stops fighting above him; it only breaks when he's spoken to, peels off at the edges as he finally gets to see the entirety of Astarion's face again, blood-slick as it is.
Defying all expectations, Iorveth laughs. A soft, dry thing. ]
Mm. So I do.
[ A little, all over. The room is redolent with the scent of copper and death, and it's stuck to both of their clothes, their skin, their hair.
Ugh. Instead of shoving the dead man off of him, Iorveth takes the time to pick him up gingerly, then deposit him on a bit of floor that won't get stained. ]
We'll have to ask Gale to magic the blood off the furniture. [ Is that how magic works? Whatever. ] ...How are you feeling?
[ He's feeling awkward about the fact that he just murdered someone so viscerally right on top of Iorveth. Embarrassed, maybe. Iorveth has never made him feel ashamed for the parts of himself that aren't palatable for the public, but he still shudders at the fact that Iorveth had to see him that way. Not heroic in the least.
His eyes follow the now-corpse as Iorveth lays it on the floor. Iorveth presumably means to ask how he feels physically, so he answers, ] Fine.
[ A moment of lingering on the dead man on their sitting room floor, and his gaze flicks back up to Iorveth. ]
[ "Fine" isn't as enthusiastic as Iorveth might have wanted it to be, but "fine" is better than being two steps away from exhaustion-based collapsing, so Iorveth will take it. He moves towards Astarion and tries to wipe some of the blood on his cheek with a sleeve, but winds up smearing more of it than he removes. Ugh. ]
In need of a wash. [ Another light huff-laugh, as he peels the blood-soaked tunic off of himself. ] But fine otherwise. He put up less of a fight than I imagined.
[ Thumbing along the little red patch where the man'd headbutted Astarion, then taking Astarion's hand to see where he'd been reciprocally bitten. He briefly considers casting Cure Wounds, but that's probably overkill. ]
[ It's a ring of teeth marks in the flesh between his thumb and forefinger, and Astarion acts a little bit like a dog with a thorn in its paw about it, hand limp and dramatic as if the man maimed him instead of gave him a taste of his own medicine. ]
To you, maybe.
[ Iorveth had the privilege of being behind the person who was biting and headbutting. He lets his gaze fall back to the man's lifeless body again, and he worries his lip. ]
...Well, I'm sure he was a good-for-nothing, and the city will celebrate his loss.
[ It had to be done. Astarion was looking out for number one, as he's always done. ]
[ Hmm. On second thought, he will use Cure Wounds, just because he doesn't like seeing teethmarks on Astarion's skin. Pale skin knits itself together, inflammation cooled by the spell.
Noting that sideways flicker of attention towards the dead man, Iorveth muses: ]
You're a better man than me. I'll not lose sleep over his death.
[ Simply, without inflection. For all that Astarion worries about Iorveth thinking less of him for supposedly monstrous deeds, Astarion's blood-drinking is part of his now-undead biology; Iorveth thinks that it might be Astarion who will become disillusioned by him one day, who will watch Iorveth sitting on the mountain of men and women he actively chose to kill and realize that Iorveth is the kind of person that cities would celebrate losing.
Iorveth bunches his dirty tunic into a ball, and tosses it by the foot of the dead man. ]
[ It isn't exactly the comfort he'd been hoping for. He'd wanted you're right, he was definitely an awful man who deserved to die, or at least it was him or you. He crosses his arms over his chest before realizing that his shirt is far too sticky with blood to do so comfortably; instead, he lets his arms hang awkwardly limp by his sides. ]
How do you intend to do that?
[ He hadn't thought of disposing of the body. He hadn't thought any part of this through, really. Sure, he'll be strong enough to steal from a hag—maybe, if he's lucky—but that won't mean much if he's sitting in an Athkatlan prison for murder. ]
[ The fact that the man was awful and Iorveth absolutely wanted him to die is the sort of obvious reality that Iorveth doesn't feel he needs to say out loud: more importantly, he's watching Astarion with the sort of hawklike attention that projects wariness, like he's not sure if Astarion actually does feel better now that he has more blood in him. Iorveth is fairly certain that he's seen Astarion look more giddy after licking one of Iorveth's cuts. ]
I'll carry him out through the window. [ Gesturing towards the many nice windows in the suite that they haven't been appreciating, what with the curtains being perpetually drawn. There's a small balcony with one solitary chair, but it's useless for his current purposes; it just faces out into the street, and he can't really do anything with that. ] I doubt anyone is patrolling the rooftops at this time of night.
[ And he'll just, like. Dump the corpse somewhere a bit away. It isn't an elegant plan, but it's better than having a dessicated corpse just rotting away in their room. ]
[ It's a questionable idea, honestly. Iorveth, shirtless and bloody, dumping a corpse? If anyone saw him, he'd be the one ending up in an Athkatlan prison, and as knowledgeable as Astarion once was about the law, he's not sure he'd be able to argue Iorveth's way out of an execution at a trial.
But he's right that they have to rid themselves of the body one way or another. The smell of rot will certainly draw attention, and Astarion could swear this room is already beginning to smell of death. Or maybe that's just the copious amounts of blood. ]
If you must.
[ Said with some reluctance. Just because Iorveth must doesn't mean that Astarion likes it. ]
But do be careful. [ A moment's pause, and he adds, ] And quick.
[ He'll worry about Iorveth the whole time he's gone. ]
[ This would be certifiably the worst time to end up in Athkatlan prison, but it wouldn't surprise Iorveth if it happened. Less than a day after getting engaged, too! Crazy.
But, ah. Weak as he is to Astarion's frowning now, Iorveth sidles up towards him again, pressing his mouth to Astarion's still bloodstained lips. Not minding the acerbic sting of copper that comes with the kiss, ignoring it in favor of giving affection that, surprisingly, Iorveth finds he needed. After being touched in an unpleasant way, the reminder that there's someone he likes being close to is startlingly welcome. ]
Don't pout. I don't wish to be away from you for long－ especially given the poor company I'll be keeping while I'm away.
[ Being rude to a man they murdered is incredibly gauche, he's aware, but Iorveth also doesn't care; again, he is not a good person. ]
I love you, [ he reminds as he pulls away, hefting the dead man on his broad shoulders. ] Torment the tiefling if you're in need of things to do.
[ Again again: Iorveth is a bad person. With that said, he goes to dispose of the body, an elf-shaped shadow slinking gracefully into the night. ]
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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.
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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.
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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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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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.) ]
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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?" ]
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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. ]
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"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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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?" ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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Defying all expectations, Iorveth laughs. A soft, dry thing. ]
Mm. So I do.
[ A little, all over. The room is redolent with the scent of copper and death, and it's stuck to both of their clothes, their skin, their hair.
Ugh. Instead of shoving the dead man off of him, Iorveth takes the time to pick him up gingerly, then deposit him on a bit of floor that won't get stained. ]
We'll have to ask Gale to magic the blood off the furniture. [ Is that how magic works? Whatever. ] ...How are you feeling?
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His eyes follow the now-corpse as Iorveth lays it on the floor. Iorveth presumably means to ask how he feels physically, so he answers, ] Fine.
[ A moment of lingering on the dead man on their sitting room floor, and his gaze flicks back up to Iorveth. ]
Are you all right?
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In need of a wash. [ Another light huff-laugh, as he peels the blood-soaked tunic off of himself. ] But fine otherwise. He put up less of a fight than I imagined.
[ Thumbing along the little red patch where the man'd headbutted Astarion, then taking Astarion's hand to see where he'd been reciprocally bitten. He briefly considers casting Cure Wounds, but that's probably overkill. ]
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To you, maybe.
[ Iorveth had the privilege of being behind the person who was biting and headbutting. He lets his gaze fall back to the man's lifeless body again, and he worries his lip. ]
...Well, I'm sure he was a good-for-nothing, and the city will celebrate his loss.
[ It had to be done. Astarion was looking out for number one, as he's always done. ]
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Noting that sideways flicker of attention towards the dead man, Iorveth muses: ]
You're a better man than me. I'll not lose sleep over his death.
[ Simply, without inflection. For all that Astarion worries about Iorveth thinking less of him for supposedly monstrous deeds, Astarion's blood-drinking is part of his now-undead biology; Iorveth thinks that it might be Astarion who will become disillusioned by him one day, who will watch Iorveth sitting on the mountain of men and women he actively chose to kill and realize that Iorveth is the kind of person that cities would celebrate losing.
Iorveth bunches his dirty tunic into a ball, and tosses it by the foot of the dead man. ]
I'll rid us of the corpse. Stay here.
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How do you intend to do that?
[ He hadn't thought of disposing of the body. He hadn't thought any part of this through, really. Sure, he'll be strong enough to steal from a hag—maybe, if he's lucky—but that won't mean much if he's sitting in an Athkatlan prison for murder. ]
A bloodied corpse isn't inconspicuous.
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I'll carry him out through the window. [ Gesturing towards the many nice windows in the suite that they haven't been appreciating, what with the curtains being perpetually drawn. There's a small balcony with one solitary chair, but it's useless for his current purposes; it just faces out into the street, and he can't really do anything with that. ] I doubt anyone is patrolling the rooftops at this time of night.
[ And he'll just, like. Dump the corpse somewhere a bit away. It isn't an elegant plan, but it's better than having a dessicated corpse just rotting away in their room. ]
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But he's right that they have to rid themselves of the body one way or another. The smell of rot will certainly draw attention, and Astarion could swear this room is already beginning to smell of death. Or maybe that's just the copious amounts of blood. ]
If you must.
[ Said with some reluctance. Just because Iorveth must doesn't mean that Astarion likes it. ]
But do be careful. [ A moment's pause, and he adds, ] And quick.
[ He'll worry about Iorveth the whole time he's gone. ]
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But, ah. Weak as he is to Astarion's frowning now, Iorveth sidles up towards him again, pressing his mouth to Astarion's still bloodstained lips. Not minding the acerbic sting of copper that comes with the kiss, ignoring it in favor of giving affection that, surprisingly, Iorveth finds he needed. After being touched in an unpleasant way, the reminder that there's someone he likes being close to is startlingly welcome. ]
Don't pout. I don't wish to be away from you for long－ especially given the poor company I'll be keeping while I'm away.
[ Being rude to a man they murdered is incredibly gauche, he's aware, but Iorveth also doesn't care; again, he is not a good person. ]
I love you, [ he reminds as he pulls away, hefting the dead man on his broad shoulders. ] Torment the tiefling if you're in need of things to do.
[ Again again: Iorveth is a bad person. With that said, he goes to dispose of the body, an elf-shaped shadow slinking gracefully into the night. ]
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