[ His poor siblings, stuck with the responsibility of herding seven thousand cats out of this place. Astarion feels no sympathy for them at all. Better them stuck with the grunt work than him! As Iorveth activates the elevator, his form fades back into view. Despite everything, the corner of Astarion's mouth twists up into a little smile. ]
We might have just doomed Baldur's Gate to a bloody death at the hands of a cabal of vampires, you know.
[ Somehow, he can't bring himself to sound too worried. With Iorveth safe and steadily getting farther away from the spawn, it's difficult to find reasons to be upset. What's done is done, and if his newfound siblings decide to rampage across the city, they'll deal with that problem when it comes.
Admittedly, he does really hope it doesn't come.
The dais comes to a heavy stop in the hall to Cazador's private study, and Astarion gives Iorveth's arm an insistent tug. ]
Let's go. I don't want to spend another moment in this coffin.
[ They're of one mind when it comes to the vampire problem; Iorveth's reply to the sentiment that they might have their work cut out for them is a brief "then we'll deal with them when the time comes", with an emphasis on "we". Sure, the emancipation of the spawn might have been Astarion's choice to make, but if it was a bad one, he needn't deal with the fallout alone.
With that said, it's time they left this manse behind. Iorveth huffs a soft laugh at the tug (there's been a lot of manhandling tonight), but doesn't protest the sentiment. He's had enough of this palace for a lifetime, and he's only even been in it twice. Hard to imagine that Astarion had to call this place home for two entire centuries. ]
Come, [ is all Iorveth has to say. The rest of their journey back outside is done in silence, without further acknowledgment of the mansion's abandoned hallways or its gaudy decor; Iorveth'd been fine with the idea of Astarion ransacking Henselt's wares after they were done with the assassination, but he balks at the possibility of Astarion bringing any part of this place with him. Consequently, it's a relief when they finally cross the barrier of the front door and step back outside, leaving all of the haunted things that Cazador collected in that manse to rot.
The air outside tastes fresh, crisp. Iorveth only now becomes aware of the progression of time (being insulated in a windowless tomb tends to be detrimental to timekeeping), as he notes that night is slowly flirting with daybreak, letting just the slightest sliver of light to touch it where the horizon meets the sky. From their vantage point up on the ramparts, the sprawl of city in front of them is pretty, almost picturesque.
Iorveth takes a long breath in, filling his lungs with non-fetid air, then turns towards Astarion. He suddenly feels more tired than he'd anticipated, but the exhaustion is secondary to that pride he'd felt before, when Astarion'd been lit by blue-green light. The sentiment gentles him again, and he lets his expression reflect how he feels. ]
A long night. [ One hand rests on Astarion's head, and sifts over silver hair. ] ―We'll return to the inn. You look drained.
[ Gods, Iorveth really shouldn't be allowed to look at him like that. With warmth and affection, like he's something worth looking at. Plenty of people have looked at him with desire, but no one else has ever looked at him like this, and he suddenly feels a blush creep up the back of his neck. ]
I look gorgeous, [ he shoots back, trying not to look embarrassingly besotted, ] like always.
[ How dare Iorveth suggest anything else! He boops Iorveth on his angular nose, weary but not too tired to be annoying, saying, ] As do you. [ before linking their arms together and starting on the path toward the inn.
He is gorgeous. Even more so now that he's stood beside Astarion as he faced down his worst demons and didn't even blink. He should be disgusted, appalled. He should have told Astarion that he needed to deal with the consequences of his terrible actions alone. But he didn't, and Astarion is grateful for that. ]
[ Obviously, tricking hundreds of people into what Astarion presumed was an early death wasn't commendable, but he also had no real agency besides the option to choose death. Iorveth, who understands the value of dying if he has to, also has to acknowledge that, gods, he's glad that Astarion didn't choose to die.
Astarion will probably always be a bit haunted, though. Cursed to remember the scent of that fetid tomb for as long as he lives, which is a long time; Iorveth can't spend an eternity with Astarion, but he can hope that a few centuries might be enough to chase a few of Astarion's ghosts away.
If Astarion doesn't run screaming from a life in the north, that is. Still within the realm of possibility. Iorveth is an idiot for stumbling onto the L-word situation so clumsily, and will have to deal with the fallout accordingly if Astarion decides that, actually, he doesn't want this.
A problem for later (a lot of their problems share this trait, incidentally). Now, Iorveth walks back to Elfsong with Astarion in tow, content to look at his profile every so often in the privacy of empty streets. There are a few vagrants sleeping here and there under half-covered awnings, but after being cloistered by hundreds of spawn, the city feels abandoned by comparison.
When they finally get to Elfsong, he stops outside the front door and turns to face Astarion properly. ]
Before we have to relinquish our privacy again, [ is the disclaimer, before he tips Astarion's chin and leans in for a kiss. Just a soft, fluttering thing, lips lightly pressed against lips. ]
Despite the unpleasant reminder of their lack of privacy to come, Astarion smiles against Iorveth's mouth, pleased. It's adorable that he feels the need to explain himself at all, adorable that he presses his lips to Astarion's so feather-light. Astarion isn't adorable, so he crowds Iorveth against the door to the Elfsong, pressing their bodies flush together and kissing him within an inch of his life.
The door opens, and they nearly both tumble through, Astarion only managing to catch them with his hands on Iorveth's shoulders. The unwelcome interloper, a little spitfire of a gnome, gapes up at them. "Get a room!" she squeals.
Ever annoyed at having his (very public) affections interrupted, Astarion scowls. ]
[ Gods, liking Astarion is a problem. It's hard to say what it is about this stupid cat that activates Iorveth's long-repressed libido, but he can feel it flare up for just a burning second before he immediately quashes down on it, slams it into a mental cage as if it's a misbehaving animal.
Slightly out of breath (because, unlike Astarion, he still needs to): ] Don't stare at him. [ Pulling Astarion's head to the crook of his neck, obscuring his pretty face. Not a fan of anyone being privy to how sweet he looks when he's kiss-flushed, Iorveth shoos the gnome away with a rather rude gesture; she bristles at being treated like a stray dog and storms away, grumbling "who in the hells would ever pay to watch two stupid elves trying to eat each other's faces?!"
Once the interloper is gone, he heaves a sigh and lets go. ]
Never allowed a moment. [ It's always something. Still, it's hard to dampen the overwhelming pride he feels for Astarion and his first big decision after his hard-earned freedom, and affection lingers in his expression as he starts their trek up the stairs and to their room. Silent, to avoid disturbing the others' sleep; thankfully, Halsin's soft snoring is louder than the click and creak of the door, and the only stirring that happens when the two of them step inside is Scratch cracking his eye open, only to close it once again when he notes that it's just the two weird elves that keep disappearing lately. ]
[ Astarion's steps are light as he creeps into the room, not out of respect for their companions' sleep but because he can't bear the thought of one of them waking up and bothering them. When they've slipped inside, he pushes Iorveth onto the bed, shoes and all, and crawls on top of him to press their mouths together in a demanding kiss. Everyone is asleep; Astarion can put his tongue in Iorveth's mouth as a treat.
And he does, coaxing Iorveth's mouth open and licking insistently into it. There's no other way to rid himself of all of this disgustingly affectionate energy than to pour it back into Iorveth. No one has ever been there for him before, and it makes a surplus of fondness bloom in his heart. Iorveth can't possibly understand what it's like to have someone after being alone for centuries, so connected to his people as he is, but he tries to express his elation regardless.
When he pulls back, he slips his fingers under the leather strap of Iorveth's eyepatch to remove it. More manhandling, even now. He really can't help himself. ]
Gods, you're wonderful.
[ His voice is low, careful not to wake the others and instantly ruin this moment, but it's filled with affection regardless. ]
[ Liking Astarion is a Problem, the Sequel. The burden of having context is that now, Iorveth has all the information to know that there is nothing going on in Astarion's pretty head when he's like this, that he isn't trying to be infuriatingly endearing or angling to get something out of Iorveth by being cute. He just simply Is. It was so much easier to deal with everything when Iorveth could play the "he isn't actually into me" card, when he could measure the distance between them with a mental ruler.
It's kind of appalling, wanting absolutely no distance from someone. Astarion kisses him, pulls his eyepatch off, says kind words to him, and Iorveth has no plans or defenses against these things: he's so rarely a fan of letting anything happen to him, but he lets this happen, and reciprocates. Hands fly to either side of Astarion's face, cradling him in place while Iorveth cranes up and claims his mouth in return with the same depth of affection and intimacy. He keeps Astarion there even when he pulls back for air, and murmurs against his mouth. ]
You've laid yourself bare for me during the past few days, [ is his answer to "you're wonderful". ] And now, with certainty, I can say that you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
[ It isn't that Iorveth is wonderful: it's just that he sees Astarion more clearly now. Someone with all the potential in the world, freed from everything that tried to make him less. Iorveth kisses Astarion again, thumbing under one red eye, enjoying the feeling of his cool skin when he'd all but recoiled from the other spawns' touch. ]
[ No, he's fairly sure it's that Iorveth is wonderful.
His pale skin pinks with pleasure at the compliment, all the better because it's coming from Iorveth who truly, ridiculously means every word he says. It's infuriating how sweet Iorveth is, and how much he makes Astarion want to rip off his clothes when they have seven roommates, not counting the animals. He rolls the word love over in his head again, the way Iorveth's voice had sounded around the word, the way the circus performers had used it so casually to describe them.
He presses into the kiss, then straightens up, reaching behind him to clumsily remove Iorveth's shoes for him. They go flying, but it's the thought that counts. If he can't rip off his clothes, at least Astarion can get him ready for bed. ]
Two centuries, and you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
[ If his voice is low now, it's because he'd die a second time if he were caught being this sappy by anyone but Iorveth. ]
Thank you, [ he says, the words a little awkward in his mouth. He's still not used to gratitude. ] For— ah. [ Where to begin? ] Well, I suppose for being you.
[ How horrible, that Astarion is a vampire and Iorveth can't even use the "have you looked in a mirror recently" in response to that first bit－ and to think that Astarion has the audacity to call him vexing. None of Iorveth's usual defenses work, and he doesn't even have it in him to laugh at the idea that he could be thanked for the person that he is. If anyone else said this to him, it would be a scoff and a "not even my own mother has ever said that to me."
Instead, it's a mirrored reach behind him to tug Astarion's shoes off, a similar rush to make Astarion comfortable. ]
A feat I managed because you chose not to run.
[ Trading compliments for compliments. There was a real possibility, back then, for Iorveth to have been caught and dragged back by his feet to his tormentors up north, and where would they have been if that'd happened?
Shoes tossed aside, collars loosened, Iorveth rolls the both of them onto their sides. Tangled, sheets and pillows shifting under their collective weight. ]
Astarion. [ As nice as it is to hear Astarion say kind things to him, this really is about his accomplishments over the past few nights. So: ] You're stronger than you know. Now you have the rest of your life to realize it.
[ Afraid of everything now, sure, but that's fine. Iorveth hums, and holds Astarion closer to his chest. ] Be proud. You'll never bow your head to anyone again.
[ Astarion slips an arm around Iorveth, nails scratching lightly at his back like the claws of a happy kitten. Deliriously happy. For once, he doesn't even think about how 'the rest of his life' might only be until they face the Netherbrain. With Iorveth saying such sweet things to him, there's no room for pessimism. Gods, isn't that a shock.
Impulse urges him to blurt out something dramatic and romantic, but his appreciation for setting stops him. A shared room above the Elfsong is no place for romantic confessions. Instead: ]
A feat I managed because you helped me.
[ He's not sure he would have had the courage to do it, any of it, on his own. He would never have been able to set foot in that palace without Iorveth standing next to him.
A sigh. ] You're too tempting to bear. Rest, or you'll drive me mad.
[ Iorveth doesn't think himself to be humble, not in any sense of the word, but "you helped me" in Astarion's voice cuts close to feeling humbling. Astarion isn't Aen Seidhe, and he's not a cause to rally around, and he's not a problem that needs solving. Again, he simply Is.
Stupid. Iorveth likes him far too much, to the point where liking him is quickly becoming terribly impractical. But if Iorveth is going to be honest with himself, he doesn't really want to like Astarion less; he's great at doing things like strategizing his entire life around guerilla warfare for over a century, but famously terrible at doing normal things like, say, allocating a healthy amount of investment in things.
"Hey Iorveth, maybe you should like Astarion like a normal person" said no one (yet), and thus, Iorveth curls next to Astarion with all the regal audacity of a woodland creature staking its claim to its favorite, most beloved piece of forest. ]
I'm partial to driving you mad. [ He murmurs, but the fact of the matter is that he is, in fact, tired. Maybe letting Sebastian touch him drained him of energy. That was the worst part of the night, actually.
Nested into the sheets with his one eye shut, Iorveth lets his awareness drift as night gives way to morning. It's likely that he'll trance well into the afternoon, but he doesn't mind; the others can survive without them for another day. ]
[ It's a miracle that Lae'zel hasn't kicked them out of the group for not contributing to the team. Perhaps because she can sense that they've been on missions of their own; loafing around in the Elfsong would be one thing, but Lae'zel does respect hard work and determination. It's one of her worst qualities, honestly.
Mid-afternoon rolls around before Astarion even begins to stir from his deep, thoughtless trance. He's having more and more of those lately. Astarion isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he does have to admit that it feels strange not waking in a cold sweat from a trance focused entirely on Cazador.
It's worrying how much Iorveth's presence soothes his stormy mind. He likes to think he'd react to Iorveth leaving him with nobility and maturity, but in actuality, he might never recover if he has to give up his emotional support terrorist. He clutches Iorveth tighter, a very physical manifestation of his difficulty letting go. ]
You're warm, [ he purrs, pleased as always by the way Iorveth's body heats when he rests. It makes him warm, too, or at least as warm as he'll ever get. ]
[ Speaking of miracles, here are a few more to add to the list: a soft bed, a steady supply of food, and a companion to hold while trancing. He comes to, not to the clamor of disaster or warnings that humans are approaching their camp, but to the feeling of fingers in the back of his shirt and the pleasant hum of Astarion's voice near his skin.
Funny, he thinks. He'd never have been caught dead sleeping in before he started consorting with this rabble. He didn't even like being seen trancing by his comrades－ "Iorveth, do you even rest?", used to be a compliment, not an accusation.
Sleep-warm and pleasantly hazy, he murmurs: ] Must be all the blood in me. [ Thoughtless, he slides his palm under Astarion's shirt to massage up his back, fingers splayed for maximum coverage. Touching him just for the sake of touching him, making a low noise in the back of his throat to express his contentment. ]
Peckish? [ Giving up on forming complex sentences for now. He runs his hand down the length of Astarion's spine, then plays with the jut of his tailbone, tracing slow circles around it. ]
[ For as long as he can remember, Astarion has been repulsed by others' touch, even flinched away from Iorveth's innocent brushes. Now, he doesn't mind Iorveth's wandering hands at all. In fact, he likes them, craves Iorveth's attention in all ways. Iorveth makes his body feel like a friend instead of an enemy.
It's tempting to lean in where he is and bite that conveniently-placed neck of his, to indulge lazily in a way only the most privileged can. Astarion is more than peckish, his hunger for blood and hunger for Iorveth mixing into something even stronger, more potent. He can't get his mind off of the events of last night, though, so he runs a hand down Iorveth's arm, possessive. ]
Give me your arm.
[ His soft expression curls into a look of disgust as he says, ] I can't stand the memory of those wretched things pawing at you.
[ So he'd like to erase it and replace it with a new one. Is it wrong that he wants to lay claim to every part of Iorveth, down to the very vein? He doesn't care. ]
[ Astarion could forbid sex until the end of his days, as long as Iorveth is given permission to spend lazy mid-afternoons with him like this, unhurried and unburdened. He's mapping the curve of Astarion's waist when he's requested to relinquish his arm, and he complies with a certain measure of reluctance, if only because he was enjoying the process of tracing Astarion's outline.
Regarding the pawing of the previous night, Iorveth refrains from pointing out that it really didn't matter to the spawn that it was his arm, and that they would have reacted in the same way to any arm attached to a warm body; he knows that that's not the point, and the thought that Astarion could covet him in the way that he's expressing makes him feel slightly warmer under his collar. ]
Funny, [ he breathes, letting Astarion see the soft stretch of skin along his inner arm. ] I couldn't stand the feeling of being pawed at by someone who wasn't you.
[ Not a line― just a simple statement of fact. It really had repulsed him, feeling cool fingers that weren't Astarion's root around for his pulse. He shudders at the memory of it, and shakes his head to dispel the unwanted phantom sensation of an ice-cold palm against his elbow. ]
[ Stubborn, resistant Iorveth is pliant, offering his arm when requested, and it makes Astarion feel soft and gooey inside. It's the sort of feeling he'd been disdainful of not long ago, turning his nose up at ridiculous, infatuated fools. A smile spreads involuntarily across his face, and he pulls himself away only so that he can sit up and nuzzle against the crook of Iorveth's arm, his lips against the pulse point there. The thought of any of the others doing this sends a wave of immature jealousy through him, and he bites down into the tender flesh there.
Only for a moment, though. He bites down again on Iorveth's forearm, then again, leaving a trail of shallow bite marks down his arm. There's a possibility that Iorveth won't like it, seeing as he didn't exactly ask, but he can't help himself. He wants Iorveth to look like he's had a run-in with a stray Baldurian cat. Besides, he wants to bite every inch of Iorveth all the time, so he's really showing quite a lot of restraint.
Finally, Astarion pierces the thin skin of Iorveth's wrist, deeper than the rest, and swallows down the sweet blood that gushes from it. When he's done, he licks up the small drops of red beading atop the more superficial marks, then presses his still-bloody mouth to Iorveth's in a display of freak4freak behavior. ]
[ Not just the one bite, but several. This better not awaken something in me is quickly taken over by I can't believe I let him awaken this in me; the pinprick pain of broken skin followed by the strange adrenaline rush of being consumed is a dangerous combination, an intoxicating mess of sensation that leaves him, embarrassingly, a little hard by the time Astarion's bloodstained mouth finds his.
He plays it (as) cool (as he can). A slow, languid lick into Astarion's mouth, enjoying the intimacy more than the taste of copper. When he comes up for air, he strokes his fingers through silver hair, smoothing sleep-mussed curls. ]
...My cat has a biting problem.
[ Affectionately. He glances back and forth between the angry-red marks all along his forearm and Astarion's pretty mouth; his touch slides down from hair to cheek to lips, his thumb gently pressing inwards to trace the outline of one pointed fang. ]
At this rate, you will make me jealous every time you let someone else have your teeth.
[ "Have his teeth", Iorveth says, as if Astarion doesn't murder the person in the process of feeding from them. Details. It's just stupid, half-horny flirting― Astarion is entitled to bite anyone he likes. It's just that Iorveth will associate biting with said half-horny thoughts, now. ]
[ A biting problem that Iorveth seems to be in no rush to fix, so Astarion nips at his fingers affectionately. It feels good to get to be a vampire around him, no sanding down the points of his fangs or repressing his hunger. It's what Cazador made him, yes, but it's what he is, too. Mortal hungers are a hazy, distant memory; vampiric ones are very much in the present. ]
There's no one else I want to sink my teeth into.
[ Admittedly, the smell of blood—anyone's blood—does whet his appetite, but feeding is different and far better with Iorveth than it is with some random thug pulled off the street and drained to death. The blood he can take is less, but it's a headier drug because it's Iorveth giving it, having once declared that he would never let Astarion near his neck. Others are plain and flavorless sustenance, but Iorveth is caviar. ]
Apparently, you like it, too. [ If he sounds smug about this, it's because he's smug. When he touches the waistband of Iorveth's trousers, though, it's light, uncharacteristically undemanding. He knows what it's like to be strongarmed into intimacy. ] If you ask nicely, maybe I'll take care of that for you.
[ Somewhere in the distant recesses of his mind, he considers that he doesn't actually know if anyone is still around or if they've all cleared out for the day. In all of the blood-drunk lightheadedness, though, he's stopped prioritizing things like 'propriety' and 'not traumatizing one's roommates'. ]
[ A flick under Astarion's chin, at "no one else". As covetous as Astarion makes Iorveth feel, Iorveth wouldn't want Astarion to limit his options because of him; he wouldn't actually fuss if Astarion were hungry and bit a random person on the street (which is probably another problem in and of itself; who in the hells is going to actually tell Astarion to stop being impulsive???? It probably won't be Iorveth).
Gentle chiding out of the way, Iorveth shifts on the mattress when the matter of his semi is called into attention. Apparently, it's hard (ha) to be surreptitious about these things when they're pressed so close. ]
"Nicely" is a tall order. [ A light huff, even if he feels himself warming to the touch. At this point, Iorveth doesn't see a reason to be precious about wanting Astarion; there's no point. ] But I'll not ask if you don't feel like taking care of my wayward prick.
[ It's not like Astarion asked Iorveth to get a boner from being bitten. After two hundred years of having to get people off, Iorveth is fine if Astarion wants to take a break. He might be missing an eye, but Iorveth still has two hands. ]
[ Astarion's hand stops its wandering, hovering above Iorveth's waistband. ]
I just told you to ask, you fool, [ he says, irritated that Iorveth isn't playing along. He can't help feeling a little offended; usually, people are too eager to get his hands down their pants to question him. Then again, those people are also usually drunk, lonely, or undesirable.
He withdraws his hand, watching Iorveth's face warily. This is all still new to him, waters he's not yet sure how to navigate. Perhaps he came on too strong, or perhaps not strong enough. Maybe Iorveth thinks he's faking his desire, or maybe he doesn't feel desired at all. Maybe Iorveth is taking pity on him, because he thinks Astarion is in some way damaged — he tries not to linger on that thought for too long. ]
Did I— [ Do something wrong, he doesn't finish, because if anything is a mood-killer, that is. ] Do you think I don't want to?
[ Iorveth fills in that blank anyway: "did I do something wrong". The answer is no, and that's the worst part－ it's unpleasant to be held responsible for something that didn't even happen.
Another slow shift, before he reaches to move Astarion's touch back to his waist. He lets their hands rest there, his palm to the back of Astarion's hand, a clumsy sandwich. ]
I thought you might be tired of tending to someone else. [ Bluntly. Iorveth tips his head, his expression calm but watchful, his single green eye slightly sharper in focus but still arousal-warm.
He pauses there, and takes a moment to reassess. Then, he adds: ] Besides, I'm not accustomed to... [ A wave of his free hand, as if to say all this. ] ...Hm.
[ Gods, this is stupid. He regroups, trying not to sound like he's being snappish. ] You can imagine that it's slightly embarrassing to have you know that my cock reacts so readily to your teeth.
[ Again: it's not like Astarion asked Iorveth to get a boner from being bitten. Most people wouldn't get a boner from being bitten. Sounds like an Iorveth is a Freak Issue, really. ]
[ Which is entirely different, at least from his perspective. He is tired of tending to other people, but Iorveth isn't other people. He consumes Astarion's every waking thought and many of his trance-thoughts, too.
He presses his head against the pillow, hair mussing up on that side, and watches Iorveth. Even though he's as straightforward and candid as it gets, Astarion still finds him difficult to understand at times. In his opinion, there's absolutely nothing embarrassing about being attracted to a good-looking vampire and his very sharp teeth. ]
I didn't mean to push. [ He still isn't sure if he did, but it seems prudent to withdraw. ] I suppose I wanted to make you feel the way you make me feel.
[ Happy. Now that's embarrassing. He slips his hand out from under Iorveth's to tangle their fingers instead. ]
But I know that sometimes the, ah— flesh is willing, but the spirit is... not.
[ Oh, now he's gone and done it. Iorveth sees small, fuzzy imaginary ears droop, and it makes him frown as much as he'll allow with his fingers tangled in Astarion's. ]
The problem is, [ he says, enunciating each word with purposeful clarity, ] that the spirit and body are too willing. If you rewarded my cock every time it so much as twitched around you, we'd get nothing done.
[ Which, yeah, sounds pretty precious, all things considered. A frustrated half-growl, and Iorveth reaches down to touch himself over the obstruction of his trousers. Despite everything, the semi has persisted (ridiculous). ]
Gods, [ he hisses. ] If you knew half the things I've done to you in my head.
[ Iorveth doesn't finish that sentence; his tadpole wriggles in his skull, almost as if to laugh at his predicament. ]
[ Again, Astarion finds Iorveth utterly incomprehensible; he sees no problem with getting nothing done other than rewarding Iorveth's cock. Most days now, he wakes with very little desire to do anything other than put his hands and mouth all over Iorveth's body, and perhaps a little light reading in between.
It's a bit alarming, actually, how badly he wants to be close to Iorveth. He's still unaccustomed to tolerating another person's presence, much less wanting to be around them all the time, to hold their hand, to slip his hands underneath their shirt. He's decided that these novel feelings are frightening, yes, but also exciting. As much as he wants to run away from them, he wants to luxuriate in them more.
His hand pulls back. If Iorveth doesn't want to ask him to tend to him, as he'd put it, he won't. Besides, on a more selfish note, there's something terribly stirring about watching restrained Iorveth touch himself through his trousers. ]
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We might have just doomed Baldur's Gate to a bloody death at the hands of a cabal of vampires, you know.
[ Somehow, he can't bring himself to sound too worried. With Iorveth safe and steadily getting farther away from the spawn, it's difficult to find reasons to be upset. What's done is done, and if his newfound siblings decide to rampage across the city, they'll deal with that problem when it comes.
Admittedly, he does really hope it doesn't come.
The dais comes to a heavy stop in the hall to Cazador's private study, and Astarion gives Iorveth's arm an insistent tug. ]
Let's go. I don't want to spend another moment in this coffin.
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With that said, it's time they left this manse behind. Iorveth huffs a soft laugh at the tug (there's been a lot of manhandling tonight), but doesn't protest the sentiment. He's had enough of this palace for a lifetime, and he's only even been in it twice. Hard to imagine that Astarion had to call this place home for two entire centuries. ]
Come, [ is all Iorveth has to say. The rest of their journey back outside is done in silence, without further acknowledgment of the mansion's abandoned hallways or its gaudy decor; Iorveth'd been fine with the idea of Astarion ransacking Henselt's wares after they were done with the assassination, but he balks at the possibility of Astarion bringing any part of this place with him. Consequently, it's a relief when they finally cross the barrier of the front door and step back outside, leaving all of the haunted things that Cazador collected in that manse to rot.
The air outside tastes fresh, crisp. Iorveth only now becomes aware of the progression of time (being insulated in a windowless tomb tends to be detrimental to timekeeping), as he notes that night is slowly flirting with daybreak, letting just the slightest sliver of light to touch it where the horizon meets the sky. From their vantage point up on the ramparts, the sprawl of city in front of them is pretty, almost picturesque.
Iorveth takes a long breath in, filling his lungs with non-fetid air, then turns towards Astarion. He suddenly feels more tired than he'd anticipated, but the exhaustion is secondary to that pride he'd felt before, when Astarion'd been lit by blue-green light. The sentiment gentles him again, and he lets his expression reflect how he feels. ]
A long night. [ One hand rests on Astarion's head, and sifts over silver hair. ] ―We'll return to the inn. You look drained.
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I look gorgeous, [ he shoots back, trying not to look embarrassingly besotted, ] like always.
[ How dare Iorveth suggest anything else! He boops Iorveth on his angular nose, weary but not too tired to be annoying, saying, ] As do you. [ before linking their arms together and starting on the path toward the inn.
He is gorgeous. Even more so now that he's stood beside Astarion as he faced down his worst demons and didn't even blink. He should be disgusted, appalled. He should have told Astarion that he needed to deal with the consequences of his terrible actions alone. But he didn't, and Astarion is grateful for that. ]
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Astarion will probably always be a bit haunted, though. Cursed to remember the scent of that fetid tomb for as long as he lives, which is a long time; Iorveth can't spend an eternity with Astarion, but he can hope that a few centuries might be enough to chase a few of Astarion's ghosts away.
If Astarion doesn't run screaming from a life in the north, that is. Still within the realm of possibility. Iorveth is an idiot for stumbling onto the L-word situation so clumsily, and will have to deal with the fallout accordingly if Astarion decides that, actually, he doesn't want this.
A problem for later (a lot of their problems share this trait, incidentally). Now, Iorveth walks back to Elfsong with Astarion in tow, content to look at his profile every so often in the privacy of empty streets. There are a few vagrants sleeping here and there under half-covered awnings, but after being cloistered by hundreds of spawn, the city feels abandoned by comparison.
When they finally get to Elfsong, he stops outside the front door and turns to face Astarion properly. ]
Before we have to relinquish our privacy again, [ is the disclaimer, before he tips Astarion's chin and leans in for a kiss. Just a soft, fluttering thing, lips lightly pressed against lips. ]
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Despite the unpleasant reminder of their lack of privacy to come, Astarion smiles against Iorveth's mouth, pleased. It's adorable that he feels the need to explain himself at all, adorable that he presses his lips to Astarion's so feather-light. Astarion isn't adorable, so he crowds Iorveth against the door to the Elfsong, pressing their bodies flush together and kissing him within an inch of his life.
The door opens, and they nearly both tumble through, Astarion only managing to catch them with his hands on Iorveth's shoulders. The unwelcome interloper, a little spitfire of a gnome, gapes up at them. "Get a room!" she squeals.
Ever annoyed at having his (very public) affections interrupted, Astarion scowls. ]
You should be paying for that free show.
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Slightly out of breath (because, unlike Astarion, he still needs to): ] Don't stare at him. [ Pulling Astarion's head to the crook of his neck, obscuring his pretty face. Not a fan of anyone being privy to how sweet he looks when he's kiss-flushed, Iorveth shoos the gnome away with a rather rude gesture; she bristles at being treated like a stray dog and storms away, grumbling "who in the hells would ever pay to watch two stupid elves trying to eat each other's faces?!"
Once the interloper is gone, he heaves a sigh and lets go. ]
Never allowed a moment. [ It's always something. Still, it's hard to dampen the overwhelming pride he feels for Astarion and his first big decision after his hard-earned freedom, and affection lingers in his expression as he starts their trek up the stairs and to their room. Silent, to avoid disturbing the others' sleep; thankfully, Halsin's soft snoring is louder than the click and creak of the door, and the only stirring that happens when the two of them step inside is Scratch cracking his eye open, only to close it once again when he notes that it's just the two weird elves that keep disappearing lately. ]
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And he does, coaxing Iorveth's mouth open and licking insistently into it. There's no other way to rid himself of all of this disgustingly affectionate energy than to pour it back into Iorveth. No one has ever been there for him before, and it makes a surplus of fondness bloom in his heart. Iorveth can't possibly understand what it's like to have someone after being alone for centuries, so connected to his people as he is, but he tries to express his elation regardless.
When he pulls back, he slips his fingers under the leather strap of Iorveth's eyepatch to remove it. More manhandling, even now. He really can't help himself. ]
Gods, you're wonderful.
[ His voice is low, careful not to wake the others and instantly ruin this moment, but it's filled with affection regardless. ]
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It's kind of appalling, wanting absolutely no distance from someone. Astarion kisses him, pulls his eyepatch off, says kind words to him, and Iorveth has no plans or defenses against these things: he's so rarely a fan of letting anything happen to him, but he lets this happen, and reciprocates. Hands fly to either side of Astarion's face, cradling him in place while Iorveth cranes up and claims his mouth in return with the same depth of affection and intimacy. He keeps Astarion there even when he pulls back for air, and murmurs against his mouth. ]
You've laid yourself bare for me during the past few days, [ is his answer to "you're wonderful". ] And now, with certainty, I can say that you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
[ It isn't that Iorveth is wonderful: it's just that he sees Astarion more clearly now. Someone with all the potential in the world, freed from everything that tried to make him less. Iorveth kisses Astarion again, thumbing under one red eye, enjoying the feeling of his cool skin when he'd all but recoiled from the other spawns' touch. ]
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His pale skin pinks with pleasure at the compliment, all the better because it's coming from Iorveth who truly, ridiculously means every word he says. It's infuriating how sweet Iorveth is, and how much he makes Astarion want to rip off his clothes when they have seven roommates, not counting the animals. He rolls the word love over in his head again, the way Iorveth's voice had sounded around the word, the way the circus performers had used it so casually to describe them.
He presses into the kiss, then straightens up, reaching behind him to clumsily remove Iorveth's shoes for him. They go flying, but it's the thought that counts. If he can't rip off his clothes, at least Astarion can get him ready for bed. ]
Two centuries, and you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
[ If his voice is low now, it's because he'd die a second time if he were caught being this sappy by anyone but Iorveth. ]
Thank you, [ he says, the words a little awkward in his mouth. He's still not used to gratitude. ] For— ah. [ Where to begin? ] Well, I suppose for being you.
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Instead, it's a mirrored reach behind him to tug Astarion's shoes off, a similar rush to make Astarion comfortable. ]
A feat I managed because you chose not to run.
[ Trading compliments for compliments. There was a real possibility, back then, for Iorveth to have been caught and dragged back by his feet to his tormentors up north, and where would they have been if that'd happened?
Shoes tossed aside, collars loosened, Iorveth rolls the both of them onto their sides. Tangled, sheets and pillows shifting under their collective weight. ]
Astarion. [ As nice as it is to hear Astarion say kind things to him, this really is about his accomplishments over the past few nights. So: ] You're stronger than you know. Now you have the rest of your life to realize it.
[ Afraid of everything now, sure, but that's fine. Iorveth hums, and holds Astarion closer to his chest. ] Be proud. You'll never bow your head to anyone again.
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Impulse urges him to blurt out something dramatic and romantic, but his appreciation for setting stops him. A shared room above the Elfsong is no place for romantic confessions. Instead: ]
A feat I managed because you helped me.
[ He's not sure he would have had the courage to do it, any of it, on his own. He would never have been able to set foot in that palace without Iorveth standing next to him.
A sigh. ] You're too tempting to bear. Rest, or you'll drive me mad.
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Stupid. Iorveth likes him far too much, to the point where liking him is quickly becoming terribly impractical. But if Iorveth is going to be honest with himself, he doesn't really want to like Astarion less; he's great at doing things like strategizing his entire life around guerilla warfare for over a century, but famously terrible at doing normal things like, say, allocating a healthy amount of investment in things.
"Hey Iorveth, maybe you should like Astarion like a normal person" said no one (yet), and thus, Iorveth curls next to Astarion with all the regal audacity of a woodland creature staking its claim to its favorite, most beloved piece of forest. ]
I'm partial to driving you mad. [ He murmurs, but the fact of the matter is that he is, in fact, tired. Maybe letting Sebastian touch him drained him of energy. That was the worst part of the night, actually.
Nested into the sheets with his one eye shut, Iorveth lets his awareness drift as night gives way to morning. It's likely that he'll trance well into the afternoon, but he doesn't mind; the others can survive without them for another day. ]
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Mid-afternoon rolls around before Astarion even begins to stir from his deep, thoughtless trance. He's having more and more of those lately. Astarion isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he does have to admit that it feels strange not waking in a cold sweat from a trance focused entirely on Cazador.
It's worrying how much Iorveth's presence soothes his stormy mind. He likes to think he'd react to Iorveth leaving him with nobility and maturity, but in actuality, he might never recover if he has to give up his emotional support terrorist. He clutches Iorveth tighter, a very physical manifestation of his difficulty letting go. ]
You're warm, [ he purrs, pleased as always by the way Iorveth's body heats when he rests. It makes him warm, too, or at least as warm as he'll ever get. ]
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Funny, he thinks. He'd never have been caught dead sleeping in before he started consorting with this rabble. He didn't even like being seen trancing by his comrades－ "Iorveth, do you even rest?", used to be a compliment, not an accusation.
Sleep-warm and pleasantly hazy, he murmurs: ] Must be all the blood in me. [ Thoughtless, he slides his palm under Astarion's shirt to massage up his back, fingers splayed for maximum coverage. Touching him just for the sake of touching him, making a low noise in the back of his throat to express his contentment. ]
Peckish? [ Giving up on forming complex sentences for now. He runs his hand down the length of Astarion's spine, then plays with the jut of his tailbone, tracing slow circles around it. ]
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It's tempting to lean in where he is and bite that conveniently-placed neck of his, to indulge lazily in a way only the most privileged can. Astarion is more than peckish, his hunger for blood and hunger for Iorveth mixing into something even stronger, more potent. He can't get his mind off of the events of last night, though, so he runs a hand down Iorveth's arm, possessive. ]
Give me your arm.
[ His soft expression curls into a look of disgust as he says, ] I can't stand the memory of those wretched things pawing at you.
[ So he'd like to erase it and replace it with a new one. Is it wrong that he wants to lay claim to every part of Iorveth, down to the very vein? He doesn't care. ]
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Regarding the pawing of the previous night, Iorveth refrains from pointing out that it really didn't matter to the spawn that it was his arm, and that they would have reacted in the same way to any arm attached to a warm body; he knows that that's not the point, and the thought that Astarion could covet him in the way that he's expressing makes him feel slightly warmer under his collar. ]
Funny, [ he breathes, letting Astarion see the soft stretch of skin along his inner arm. ] I couldn't stand the feeling of being pawed at by someone who wasn't you.
[ Not a line― just a simple statement of fact. It really had repulsed him, feeling cool fingers that weren't Astarion's root around for his pulse. He shudders at the memory of it, and shakes his head to dispel the unwanted phantom sensation of an ice-cold palm against his elbow. ]
―Give me your teeth.
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Only for a moment, though. He bites down again on Iorveth's forearm, then again, leaving a trail of shallow bite marks down his arm. There's a possibility that Iorveth won't like it, seeing as he didn't exactly ask, but he can't help himself. He wants Iorveth to look like he's had a run-in with a stray Baldurian cat. Besides, he wants to bite every inch of Iorveth all the time, so he's really showing quite a lot of restraint.
Finally, Astarion pierces the thin skin of Iorveth's wrist, deeper than the rest, and swallows down the sweet blood that gushes from it. When he's done, he licks up the small drops of red beading atop the more superficial marks, then presses his still-bloody mouth to Iorveth's in a display of freak4freak behavior. ]
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He plays it (as) cool (as he can). A slow, languid lick into Astarion's mouth, enjoying the intimacy more than the taste of copper. When he comes up for air, he strokes his fingers through silver hair, smoothing sleep-mussed curls. ]
...My cat has a biting problem.
[ Affectionately. He glances back and forth between the angry-red marks all along his forearm and Astarion's pretty mouth; his touch slides down from hair to cheek to lips, his thumb gently pressing inwards to trace the outline of one pointed fang. ]
At this rate, you will make me jealous every time you let someone else have your teeth.
[ "Have his teeth", Iorveth says, as if Astarion doesn't murder the person in the process of feeding from them. Details. It's just stupid, half-horny flirting― Astarion is entitled to bite anyone he likes. It's just that Iorveth will associate biting with said half-horny thoughts, now. ]
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There's no one else I want to sink my teeth into.
[ Admittedly, the smell of blood—anyone's blood—does whet his appetite, but feeding is different and far better with Iorveth than it is with some random thug pulled off the street and drained to death. The blood he can take is less, but it's a headier drug because it's Iorveth giving it, having once declared that he would never let Astarion near his neck. Others are plain and flavorless sustenance, but Iorveth is caviar. ]
Apparently, you like it, too. [ If he sounds smug about this, it's because he's smug. When he touches the waistband of Iorveth's trousers, though, it's light, uncharacteristically undemanding. He knows what it's like to be strongarmed into intimacy. ] If you ask nicely, maybe I'll take care of that for you.
[ Somewhere in the distant recesses of his mind, he considers that he doesn't actually know if anyone is still around or if they've all cleared out for the day. In all of the blood-drunk lightheadedness, though, he's stopped prioritizing things like 'propriety' and 'not traumatizing one's roommates'. ]
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Gentle chiding out of the way, Iorveth shifts on the mattress when the matter of his semi is called into attention. Apparently, it's hard (ha) to be surreptitious about these things when they're pressed so close. ]
"Nicely" is a tall order. [ A light huff, even if he feels himself warming to the touch. At this point, Iorveth doesn't see a reason to be precious about wanting Astarion; there's no point. ] But I'll not ask if you don't feel like taking care of my wayward prick.
[ It's not like Astarion asked Iorveth to get a boner from being bitten. After two hundred years of having to get people off, Iorveth is fine if Astarion wants to take a break. He might be missing an eye, but Iorveth still has two hands. ]
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I just told you to ask, you fool, [ he says, irritated that Iorveth isn't playing along. He can't help feeling a little offended; usually, people are too eager to get his hands down their pants to question him. Then again, those people are also usually drunk, lonely, or undesirable.
He withdraws his hand, watching Iorveth's face warily. This is all still new to him, waters he's not yet sure how to navigate. Perhaps he came on too strong, or perhaps not strong enough. Maybe Iorveth thinks he's faking his desire, or maybe he doesn't feel desired at all. Maybe Iorveth is taking pity on him, because he thinks Astarion is in some way damaged — he tries not to linger on that thought for too long. ]
Did I— [ Do something wrong, he doesn't finish, because if anything is a mood-killer, that is. ] Do you think I don't want to?
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Another slow shift, before he reaches to move Astarion's touch back to his waist. He lets their hands rest there, his palm to the back of Astarion's hand, a clumsy sandwich. ]
I thought you might be tired of tending to someone else. [ Bluntly. Iorveth tips his head, his expression calm but watchful, his single green eye slightly sharper in focus but still arousal-warm.
He pauses there, and takes a moment to reassess. Then, he adds: ] Besides, I'm not accustomed to... [ A wave of his free hand, as if to say all this. ] ...Hm.
[ Gods, this is stupid. He regroups, trying not to sound like he's being snappish. ] You can imagine that it's slightly embarrassing to have you know that my cock reacts so readily to your teeth.
[ Again: it's not like Astarion asked Iorveth to get a boner from being bitten. Most people wouldn't get a boner from being bitten. Sounds like an Iorveth is a Freak Issue, really. ]
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I'm not tending to 'someone'. I'm tending to you.
[ Which is entirely different, at least from his perspective. He is tired of tending to other people, but Iorveth isn't other people. He consumes Astarion's every waking thought and many of his trance-thoughts, too.
He presses his head against the pillow, hair mussing up on that side, and watches Iorveth. Even though he's as straightforward and candid as it gets, Astarion still finds him difficult to understand at times. In his opinion, there's absolutely nothing embarrassing about being attracted to a good-looking vampire and his very sharp teeth. ]
I didn't mean to push. [ He still isn't sure if he did, but it seems prudent to withdraw. ] I suppose I wanted to make you feel the way you make me feel.
[ Happy. Now that's embarrassing. He slips his hand out from under Iorveth's to tangle their fingers instead. ]
But I know that sometimes the, ah— flesh is willing, but the spirit is... not.
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The problem is, [ he says, enunciating each word with purposeful clarity, ] that the spirit and body are too willing. If you rewarded my cock every time it so much as twitched around you, we'd get nothing done.
[ Which, yeah, sounds pretty precious, all things considered. A frustrated half-growl, and Iorveth reaches down to touch himself over the obstruction of his trousers. Despite everything, the semi has persisted (ridiculous). ]
Gods, [ he hisses. ] If you knew half the things I've done to you in my head.
[ Iorveth doesn't finish that sentence; his tadpole wriggles in his skull, almost as if to laugh at his predicament. ]
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It's a bit alarming, actually, how badly he wants to be close to Iorveth. He's still unaccustomed to tolerating another person's presence, much less wanting to be around them all the time, to hold their hand, to slip his hands underneath their shirt. He's decided that these novel feelings are frightening, yes, but also exciting. As much as he wants to run away from them, he wants to luxuriate in them more.
His hand pulls back. If Iorveth doesn't want to ask him to tend to him, as he'd put it, he won't. Besides, on a more selfish note, there's something terribly stirring about watching restrained Iorveth touch himself through his trousers. ]
Feel free to tell me in excruciating detail.
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