[ 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. ]
[ Iorveth's brow arches as he notes that Astarion is settling in for the show, but he doesn't protest. Fine. His own fault for trying to drive home a point that Astarion already knew to be true, that Iorveth isn't interested in him just because he inspires Iorveth's dick to misbehave at inopportune times.
A low breath through his nose, and he slides one hand down the front of his trousers. With the first hurdle of admitting to his arousal out of the way, he can be unshy about everything else: the slow mapping of his own now-full erection, the instinct to crane forward and press his face into the space where Astarion's neck meets his shoulder.
Crazy. Every day he spends in Astarion's company, Iorveth thinks he goes a little more insane. ]
Mm. [ Not actually a response, as he lets the tight control he keeps over himself slack just enough to let his mind wander to thoughts of pale skin and shapely limbs. Probably rude to be fantasizing about someone when they're Right There, but that seems to be the point of this exercise. ] ―Words. They wouldn't suffice.
[ He'd want to actually do the unmentionable things that have happened in his head, and there's still the chance that Gale is frozen on his bed with his half-read book, trying to become invisible as two elves start getting up to no good across the room. Iorveth laughs to himself at the thought of it, even as he starts touching himself with clearer intent. Fabric rustles, and his skin heats; his next exhale is shaky, and his eye shutters. Imagining, clearly. ]
[ Astarion's red eyes pin on Iorveth, trailing indulgently over the sharp structure of his face, the slight pink of arousal flushing over his tattoo, the chain still around his neck with the stolen ring attached. When they get down to his hand, long fingers tracing over the outline of his so-called wayward prick, Astarion shifts in place, desire tingling on his skin. It's difficult not to reach out and wrest control from him, to do what he'd planned to start with and make Iorveth come undone with his nimble hands, but watching Iorveth pleasure himself shoots a thrill up his spine that he's not ready to give up just yet.
Words would certainly suffice for him, and in fact just imagining Iorveth's voice saying all sorts of dirty things—mmm, maybe in Aen Seidhe—gives him goosebumps, but that can wait for later if it must. He lets the tadpole search for its kin, reaching out psionically across the tiny distance between them. ]
Show me, then.
[ His tone is demanding, almost performatively so, but the way his parasite nudges at Iorveth's is gentle, light. Unlike all the times previous that he'd barged right in through the door of Iorveth's mind, this time he knocks. If Iorveth wants to keep him out, he ensures that he can. A rare moment of restraint, considering there's nothing he wants more right now than to make himself at home in Iorveth's mind while he palms himself over his pants.
It's probably a very unseemly and ill-advised use of the parasites. He can't bring himself to care. ]
[ Inappropriate use of the tadpole connection. Iorveth feels the edge of Astarion's mind pressing up against his, and thinks fuck it― no point in hiding when he already has his own hand shoved down the front of his pants.
He lets Astarion breach his mental barrier and slip into the mess of his immediate hindbrain thoughts. It's a jumble of pure feeling, disjointed pulses of want and need flitting over a kaleidoscope of not-so-idle fantasies: the one Iorveth is lingering on presently is an imaginary situation in which he has Astarion pinned to nondescript sheets, his chest to Astarion's back. He licks a long stripe up between his shoulderblades, his erection pressed to the curve of Astarion's backside; he imagines how that would feel, and his mind sparks with adrenaline-dopamine-serotonin, spurring his actual, physical hand to make more friction where it's gripped around his cock.
More flights of fancy, more disjointed waves of sensation. This time, Astarion is on his back with his legs hooked around Iorveth's waist, and all Iorveth can think about is how much he wants to kiss him, to taste his pretty mouth and tangle his fingers in all that pretty hair, to make Astarion unravel again and again until he understands how much he's wanted.
Iorveth tenses against Astarion on the bed, muffling his next involuntary sound into his pillow. It sounds like Astarion's name, probably because it is: eye closed and skin flushed, he shifts closer and presses his nose to the smooth column of his companion's throat. ]
See what you do to me, [ he says on the tail end of a strained laugh, broken by arousal. Their mental connection flares again, Iorveth's brain transmitting a relentless downpour of what boils down to wantwantwant alongside a more intense burn, an indescribable, bone-deep Something that twists and flares in Iorveth's chest. ]
[ This is definitely not something they should be doing when Gale could be sitting right outside, casting Deafness on himself. The arousal coursing through him makes it difficult to care. He isn't sure whether it belongs to himself or Iorveth—or if perhaps it's a mingling of the two, so intertwined as to become indistinguishable—but it hardly matters.
He smiles, pleased at Iorveth offering up such vulnerable, private thoughts. The strength of that burn makes him feel hot in a pleasant way, like lying in the sun on a summer day. In the image he sends back, it's Iorveth who's pinned to the mattress, shirt off but ring still dangling from its chain. Astarion imagines biting him, marking the tanned expanse of his skin with blooming red impressions of his teeth on his neck, his chest, his hip.
His fingers twitch, yearning to touch, but when he reaches out it's only the edge of Iorveth's waistband that he catches between his thumb and forefinger. ]
Take these off, darling. [ A command softened by the pet name. Demanding but affectionate. He knows how it feels to be ordered around without fondness. ] I want to see you.
[ Just being near Astarion sets his nerves alight at this point: Iorveth isn't sure if he wants to ruin this exercise by asking to be touched, actually, or if he wants Astarion to continue to just watch so that he understands that Iorveth can get off merely to the thought of him, that there's nothing wrong with him.
Either way, he has no problem with shedding his trousers when prompted. His eye opens again, fixing its arousal-dull focus on the actual Astarion in front of him. Imagination doesn't compare to the real thing; being seen by those round, red eyes does something to Iorveth that he has no idea how to articulate. His cock is aching by the time he shimmies out of his pants, flushed and freed, almost touching his stomach with how hard it is. Obscene, probably, framed by his tattoos, an indelicate thing nestled near delicate ink. ]
Astarion, [ is as close to a whine as Iorveth will allow of himself, a soft sigh in his partner's name. Nudging his nose against Astarion's, tacitly seeking permission for a kiss (is that against the terms of this ridiculous game? whatever). Pressed so close, it might be difficult for Astarion to see how Iorveth thumbs against the tip of himself and smears his skin with pre, giving him more slide when he touches himself properly again; then again, maybe Astarion can hear it. Not just the slick sound of Iorveth's palm, but the soft huff of his breathing in time to the movement of his hand. ]
[ Astarion could get used to the sound of Iorveth sighing his name, his breath hot against Astarion's skin. The sound of Iorveth's palm slipping against his erection makes Astarion's every hair stand on end, dusty red creeping up his neck like he's the one being touched. Iorveth nears him, nose brushing Astarion's in a way that's far too adorable for a man who has one hand on his cock, and Astarion practically vibrates with how badly he wants to be kissed.
Despite that, he turns his head, denying Iorveth's request. He isn't sure if he's ever denied anyone anything in bed. There's something very exciting about being able to withhold, to know that his affection is his to give and that it won't be forcibly taken from him. ]
I thought you said your wayward prick doesn't need me.
[ An uncharitable interpretation of what he actually said. ]
[ Oh, that's diabolical. Of all the things to be denied, being denied a kiss is somehow the worst of it; Iorveth frowns despite himself, pulling back with visible difficulty to bury his face in his pillow. ]
Of all the things to put in my mouth, [ he groans, ] it had to be those words.
[ But, well. Iorveth preached the power of no, so he'll have to live with it. He still thinks it's diabolical, though－ he can live without sex, but Astarion might actually see Iorveth squirm if he withholds kisses for an extended period of time. The immovable, impenetrable fortress that is Iorveth of the Northern Forests, getting grumpier and grumpier because one evil cat won't let him kiss.
Torture. Iorveth keeps moving his hand, feeling close but strangely dissatisfied. He shudders, tenses, and sighs again, his palm a slick mess, sweat beading on his temple. Almost, he murmurs, but his idle fancies fail him; all he can think about is how Astarion is Right There, but just out of reach. ]
[ He really must be evil, because he finds that he very much enjoys watching Iorveth's frustration. Suffering and still not touching Astarion without his leave. He feels powerful, which isn't a feeling he's ever associated with sex. The sound of Iorveth's uneven breaths is intoxicating, as is the way he can still smell the coppery tang of blood in the air after feeding. ]
I'm not a monster.
[ Demonstrably untrue, but he decides not to call attention to the fact that he drank Iorveth's blood not long ago. ]
I said I'd help if you asked nicely.
[ And Iorveth didn't; he put Astarion in the awkward position of having to beg or withdraw, neither of them an enticing prospect. He curls his hands against his own chest, watching Iorveth with the keen eyes of a creature on the prowl. Bright, shiny, focused. ]
[ It is infuriating to be on the wrong side of a self-made situation. His setup was all wrong, his execution was worse, and now Iorveth is dealing with the fallout.
The worst part? He wants Astarion far more than he wants to refuse out of principle. "Shove it up your ass" would be his default response to "ask nicely", but not towards Astarion. Especially not after he almost made Astarion say "did I do something wrong".
So. His first attempt: ] Just touch me already.
[ Not very nice. Maybe more than a little frustrated. Still, it's not the uncharitable command that Iorveth might have leveled against a one-night stand, all teeth and no affection; his wanting sings louder than any other emotion, tempering words that might've sounded much harsher.
Eventually, he lifts his head from his pillow and fixes his glazed focus back on Astarion for attempt number two. He knows he must look ridiculous, abominable: scarred and mangled and sweat-mussed, already gnarled face made uglier by desperation. ]
Astarion, [ he tries again, voice low and hoarse. ] I need your hands on me.
[ That first attempt is an utter failure, as evidenced by the chiding tilt of his head, the offended quirk of his brow. How rude, the expression says. The next is a vast improvement, his eye lust-hazy and skin shiny with sweat, face full of wanting in a way not even the most stone-hearted person could deny. Astarion may not want to feel objectified, but he does want to feel desired. No, that's not it, not exactly — he wants to feel important. Needed. Like his presence here matters. ]
That wasn't so hard, [ he croons, pleased, before batting Iorveth's hand away from his erection. If it's Astarion's hands he wants, it's Astarion's hands he'll get, and he certainly isn't going to get himself off like he doesn't have a perfectly good vampire right here. He lets out a relieved sigh as his fingers wrap around Iorveth's cock, having suffered from his own game. Iorveth is slick with arousal, and Astarion wastes no time starting up a steady rhythm, the smoothness of his palm contrasted by the roughness of his strokes. ]
I've been dying to get my hands on you.
[ Pretty much since the last time he had his hands on Iorveth. He's had passing fancies, strangers on the street who were good-looking and safe to want because he'd never have them, but he's never desired someone this much. The depth of it is alarming. He could fall in, he thinks, if he's not careful. (He's never been careful.) ]
You really have no idea how badly I want you.
[ He leans forward, trapping his pumping hand between their bodies, and presses a kiss to Iorveth's neglected mouth. It's soft in comparison to his stroking, almost sweet. ]
[ The sound Iorveth makes when Astarion finally deigns to touch him is a not-quiet, strangled groan that catches in the back of his throat. A full-bodied finally accompanied by a buck and roll of his hips into Astarion's lukewarm palm, graceless in his hurried enthusiasm. Heat twists in his stomach and spreads; he was already embarrassingly close before, but something about the way those clever fingers waste no time in trying to take him apart really drives Iorveth closer to the edge.
Trying to last is a losing battle. He manages to endure the sweet words by half-accepting them with sex-bleary disbelief, but it's the kiss that makes him shatter; it's an extra layer of perfect on top of everything else that feels numbingly good, compounded by the vision that Astarion'd shared earlier of bitemarks all over Iorveth's skin. Meeting Astarion's mouth and feeling the sharp edge of his fangs on his tongue unravels Iorveth completely, wracked by an orgasm that takes complete control over the entirety of him: he comes with their lips still pressed together, trying to form a broken facsimile of Astarion's name that hitches and turns into a shuddering sigh, a low moan.
Shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, chest heaving and hips still grinding against the mess he's made on Astarion's hand, Iorveth chases his high for a few more moments before slumping, boneless, onto the mattress.
It shouldn't be possible for one person (vampire) to make him feel like this. Iorveth feels obliterated, but he still wants Astarion so achingly that he thinks he might vibrate out of his skin if he doesn't kiss Astarion again.
So he does. Craning to brush their mouths together, his breath hot and ragged. When he finally collects enough of himself to speak, he manages: ] We need another room.
[ Horny freak jail. Give him a moment to unfry his brain, please. ]
[ Iorveth usually clings to his composure so hard his knuckles whiten. Watching him fall apart makes every bit of Astarion tingle with satisfaction from his head to his toes. He touches Iorveth through his orgasm and after, hand running lightly against his softening erection, before pressing his fingers to his mouth and licking them clean.
Another room, Iorveth says, and Astarion briefly considers the fact that someone could be sitting outside these drapes, too polite to mention that they just heard Iorveth come. He finds that he isn't too bothered by the prospect. ]
Or we could just be very quiet.
[ He'll learn Silence. ]
—Was that all right?
[ Not the handjob, which he feels confident was above average; if there's anything he's skilled with, it's his hands. He means the way he behaved, the withholding, telling Iorveth 'no'. Iorveth had seemed to enjoy himself in the moment, but he can't help but feel uncertain now. ]
[ His nerves still feel frayed and oversensitive, but Iorveth reaches for Astarion with heavy limbs regardless when he sees how Astarion licks his clever fingers clean. At this rate, Iorveth really is going to develop some sort of stupid fixation on Astarion's mouth― he cups his partner's cheek (surreptitiously cleaning his hand off on the sheets first) and kisses him for the millionth time, lingering taste of his own spend on Astarion's tongue and all.
The question that's posed to him is ridiculous, almost to the point where he thinks it's not even worth answering. Any other person asking would have been dismissed as fishing for a stroke to their ego. But, again, it's Astarion. Iorveth adores him in ways even he's not ready to address. ]
Condemning me to death would've been kinder than telling me I couldn't kiss you.
[ Bluntly, but with humor. It's after that caveat that he appends, more softly: ]
You were perfect. [ If Astarion wants control in bed, well. Iorveth's had a taste, and he enjoyed himself. His scarred, kiss-flushed lips quirk up in a mischievous half-smile. ] None of my idle fancies compared.
[ He melts with relief, muscles relaxing, and presses a brief kiss to Iorveth's jaw, hand snaking up under his mussed shirt to splay out across his tattoo. A little possessive, a lot affectionate. ]
I don't know. I looked ravishing in your imagination.
[ Astarion is gloriously good-looking all the time, of course, but he gets the sense that Iorveth sees him through adoration goggles. Obviously, he doesn't mind. He'd do anything to keep Iorveth looking at him with those soft, warm expressions. It's beginning to feel as necessary for his sanity as blood.
His need for Iorveth's affection puts a rather large wrench in the plan to avoid getting too attached lest their travels to the north go poorly. There's still every possibility that this relationship is on a time limit, and Astarion needs to protect himself from the pain of rejection. That's very hard to do, though, when Iorveth keeps being so lovable. ]
I'm certainly going to have idle fancies about that.
[ He can't remember the last time he touched himself, but the image of Iorveth getting himself off is absolutely going in the spank bank. ]
[ Two weird elves, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Iorveth figures that things will be different after they (if they) defeat the Brain, and he also figures that Astarion won't be too happy when (if) they have to relinquish the comforts of urban life for the unglamorous runaway lifestyle once more. No more beds, no more pretty clothes to buy in surplus.
(No more sleeping in until the sky is high, because Astarion would burn to ash. Adjusting his sleep schedule is one more thing Iorveth will have to think about.)
Iorveth will take what he can get. He's stolen clothes from dead men's backs, spent weeks starving himself so that his soldiers could ration amongst themselves. He can want Astarion that way, too, holding on with bleeding fingernails and grit teeth, letting the depth of his need cut him to the bone.
All of that goes through his mind briefly, but none of it makes it to his actions. What he does in the here and now is cuddle closer like an oversized fox rubbing its scent on something it wants to keep, dragging his sex-warm skin over the palm touching it and nibbling down the column of Astarion's neck. ]
Again: we need a separate room.
[ Which reminds him that there may or may not be someone else in this space with them, huddled and traumatized on their bed. Or, in the case of Halsin, perhaps putting his hands down his own pants. There is a soft sound of movement on the other side of their quarters, but it could potentially just be the owlbear cub. ]
[ He wonders, briefly, what privacy is available with the Aen Seidhe. They seem a communal bunch. Oh, well — he supposes he can always drag Iorveth away to do it on the forest floor.
As much as he'd like to stay lying here nuzzled by a warm, half-naked Iorveth, that soft sound catches his attention. Gods, if it's Gale pretending he didn't hear anything, Astarion will kill him for ruining the moment. They really do need a separate room. Then again, Iorveth is right: they'd never get anything done, not that Astarion sees that as an issue. They have a whole troupe of others who can carry out Lae'zel's commands. After two centuries of misery, he'd rather bask in happiness as long as he can. ]
My dear, [ he says, hand still stroking idly over Iorveth's tattoo, ] you might want to put your trousers back on.
[ A loss for Astarion, to be sure. He'd rather ask him to take more off. ]
I'd hate for Halsin to see you like this. He might ask to join.
[ And although he'd said he wouldn't mind if Iorveth wanted to sow his wild oats, he'd rather not witness it. ]
If he comes anywhere near me with his prick, he's liable to lose it.
[ Not because Iorveth is a prude, but because he isn't interested in being jumpscared by Halsin's Wild Shape, in every sense of those words. A grunt and a huff later, he coaxes himself to roll to the side and swing his legs over the edge of the mattress, using the momentum to sit upright so he can fish his trousers up off of the floor.
As he's putting them on, he spots a shimmering outline peering through a slight crack in the curtain partition: Iorveth squints at it, single eye narrowed, to which the thing responds by sliding through the sliver of space and making itself known with a disarmingly out-of-place jauntiness.
"Hello! You find me here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep, who found it prudent not to interrupt the two of you personally."
Hells. Iorveth reaches instinctively for something to throw at the projection (which he assumes it is), but remembers that a knife will just pass right through it. ]
[ Astarion is about to yank the newly bepantsed Iorveth back down for more post-handjob bliss when Gale's simulacrum appears, the ghastly apparition of a socially awkward wizard. He scowls, irritated at being forcibly dragged back to reality from the wildly happy fantasy life he's been living with Iorveth in this bed. ]
It would have been prudent not to interrupt us at all.
[ Unlike Iorveth, he isn't smart enough to think intangibility through; he tugs the pillow out from behind him and tosses it. It sails through the air, slightly distorting the simulacrum's translucent outline as it passes through the perfect replica of Gale's face, then falls to the floor with a thump. All the while, Gale's double remains annoyingly cheerful, his pleasant smile unwavering.
Astarion's frown deepens into a glower as he sits up, scooting over to perch next to Iorveth. Being hit with a pillow wouldn't have deterred the thing, but it would have felt good to watch.
"Looks like someone needs a refresher on the properties of simulacra," not-Gale says. "But I'll leave that to my maker." ]
[ Annoyingly, Iorveth does need a refresher on how simulacra transfer what they've seen to their creators. He couldn't care less if the spectral image of Gale has seen the shape of his dick, but his first instinct when it really sinks in that there's someone else in their immediate vicinity is to turn the ruined side of his face away from the illusory presence. He settles his palm over his missing eye, and presses the heel of his hand into the scar cutting into his lip.
Gale is so lucky that Iorveth's mood is currently impossible to sour, what with it being bolstered by the fuzzy, still-lingering feeling of being thoroughly obliterated by Astarion. Instead of getting up and hurling a throwing knife in the general direction of Gale's bed, Iorveth tips his chin, haughty. ]
State your purpose. Quickly, and to the point.
[ Again, Gale is so lucky. The warning here, unspoken, is "don't push it". At the very least, the apparition seems to pick up on said warning somewhat, even if it refuses to (or, perhaps more likely, simply can't) break jovial character.
"Ah, my purpose. A bit existential, don't you think?" Iorveth scowls; the simulacrum, miraculously, gets the hint. "Yes, well― I suppose you want to know the message I'm meant to relay. A simple one, I'm afraid: an invitation to investigate a rather mysterious slew of recent disappearances in the Lower City. With or without my maker to assist you in the endeavor."
Gale's facsimile lowers its voice, conspiratorial. "Though he doesn't relish the idea of being the 'third wheel', so to speak." ]
[ Astarion notes the way Iorveth presses his hand to his face, concealing his scar and the hollow where his eye used to be. It's Iorveth's prerogative to hide himself from anyone he likes, but the fact that his immediate reaction is one of self-consciousness makes Astarion frown. He's not certain where he discarded the eyepatch last night, so he lets his eyes wander along the floor before he spots it and snatches it up, dropping it nonchalantly into Iorveth's lap. ]
Disappearances? [ His frown deepens. ] Recent disappearances?
[ "Yes, I'm quite sure I said it correctly," says the simulacrum. "It is, in fact, impossible for me to not have."
It could easily be more Bhaalists; they seem keen on kidnapping and murdering. Please, Astarion thinks to himself, don't let it be the wayward spawn. Bhaalists are already enough trouble, but vampires would be far worse. (For him, that is.) They'd need to nip the problem in the bud quickly before a throng of vampire hunters descended on the city.
And, of slightly lesser importance, he's not so sure he wants to deal with the consequences of the others finding out he freed thousands of hungry vampires. ]
We'll deal with it ourselves.
[ Just in case. If it's only some whack job cultist, they can handle themselves without Gale. If it's a vampire, he'd rather not have blabbermouth Gale be the one to figure it out. ]
I'm sure Gale is too busy combing his beard, anyway.
[ Teamwork. Astarion hands him the eyepatch, and Iorveth situates it over the gnarled hollow of his face, fixing it in place while he listens to the projection give its report. "Recent disappearances" doesn't sound promising, but it sounds understated compared to what he would expect from the release of several scores (hundreds? he has no idea) of hungry vampire spawn.
Still, the two events could be correlated. Iorveth knows to expect the worst, which means that they'll have to lug the anti-vampire pack around again; it might become a permanent fixture, at this rate.
Oblivious to the two elves' misgivings, Gale's simulacrum beams. "Hardly! In fact, I can assure you that he's been quite preoccupied with pretending not to exist," he chirps guilelessly, to which Iorveth responds with a soft snort. ]
Tell him to keep at it, then. We'll leave when we please.
[ The meanest elf in the world continues to be needlessly rude to the party's resident wizard. With that, Iorveth decides not to spare the projection any more of his attention, and glances back at Astarion to tuck a stray silver curl behind one pointed ear. ]
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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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A low breath through his nose, and he slides one hand down the front of his trousers. With the first hurdle of admitting to his arousal out of the way, he can be unshy about everything else: the slow mapping of his own now-full erection, the instinct to crane forward and press his face into the space where Astarion's neck meets his shoulder.
Crazy. Every day he spends in Astarion's company, Iorveth thinks he goes a little more insane. ]
Mm. [ Not actually a response, as he lets the tight control he keeps over himself slack just enough to let his mind wander to thoughts of pale skin and shapely limbs. Probably rude to be fantasizing about someone when they're Right There, but that seems to be the point of this exercise. ] ―Words. They wouldn't suffice.
[ He'd want to actually do the unmentionable things that have happened in his head, and there's still the chance that Gale is frozen on his bed with his half-read book, trying to become invisible as two elves start getting up to no good across the room. Iorveth laughs to himself at the thought of it, even as he starts touching himself with clearer intent. Fabric rustles, and his skin heats; his next exhale is shaky, and his eye shutters. Imagining, clearly. ]
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Words would certainly suffice for him, and in fact just imagining Iorveth's voice saying all sorts of dirty things—mmm, maybe in Aen Seidhe—gives him goosebumps, but that can wait for later if it must. He lets the tadpole search for its kin, reaching out psionically across the tiny distance between them. ]
Show me, then.
[ His tone is demanding, almost performatively so, but the way his parasite nudges at Iorveth's is gentle, light. Unlike all the times previous that he'd barged right in through the door of Iorveth's mind, this time he knocks. If Iorveth wants to keep him out, he ensures that he can. A rare moment of restraint, considering there's nothing he wants more right now than to make himself at home in Iorveth's mind while he palms himself over his pants.
It's probably a very unseemly and ill-advised use of the parasites. He can't bring himself to care. ]
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He lets Astarion breach his mental barrier and slip into the mess of his immediate hindbrain thoughts. It's a jumble of pure feeling, disjointed pulses of want and need flitting over a kaleidoscope of not-so-idle fantasies: the one Iorveth is lingering on presently is an imaginary situation in which he has Astarion pinned to nondescript sheets, his chest to Astarion's back. He licks a long stripe up between his shoulderblades, his erection pressed to the curve of Astarion's backside; he imagines how that would feel, and his mind sparks with adrenaline-dopamine-serotonin, spurring his actual, physical hand to make more friction where it's gripped around his cock.
More flights of fancy, more disjointed waves of sensation. This time, Astarion is on his back with his legs hooked around Iorveth's waist, and all Iorveth can think about is how much he wants to kiss him, to taste his pretty mouth and tangle his fingers in all that pretty hair, to make Astarion unravel again and again until he understands how much he's wanted.
Iorveth tenses against Astarion on the bed, muffling his next involuntary sound into his pillow. It sounds like Astarion's name, probably because it is: eye closed and skin flushed, he shifts closer and presses his nose to the smooth column of his companion's throat. ]
See what you do to me, [ he says on the tail end of a strained laugh, broken by arousal. Their mental connection flares again, Iorveth's brain transmitting a relentless downpour of what boils down to wantwantwant alongside a more intense burn, an indescribable, bone-deep Something that twists and flares in Iorveth's chest. ]
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He smiles, pleased at Iorveth offering up such vulnerable, private thoughts. The strength of that burn makes him feel hot in a pleasant way, like lying in the sun on a summer day. In the image he sends back, it's Iorveth who's pinned to the mattress, shirt off but ring still dangling from its chain. Astarion imagines biting him, marking the tanned expanse of his skin with blooming red impressions of his teeth on his neck, his chest, his hip.
His fingers twitch, yearning to touch, but when he reaches out it's only the edge of Iorveth's waistband that he catches between his thumb and forefinger. ]
Take these off, darling. [ A command softened by the pet name. Demanding but affectionate. He knows how it feels to be ordered around without fondness. ] I want to see you.
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Either way, he has no problem with shedding his trousers when prompted. His eye opens again, fixing its arousal-dull focus on the actual Astarion in front of him. Imagination doesn't compare to the real thing; being seen by those round, red eyes does something to Iorveth that he has no idea how to articulate. His cock is aching by the time he shimmies out of his pants, flushed and freed, almost touching his stomach with how hard it is. Obscene, probably, framed by his tattoos, an indelicate thing nestled near delicate ink. ]
Astarion, [ is as close to a whine as Iorveth will allow of himself, a soft sigh in his partner's name. Nudging his nose against Astarion's, tacitly seeking permission for a kiss (is that against the terms of this ridiculous game? whatever). Pressed so close, it might be difficult for Astarion to see how Iorveth thumbs against the tip of himself and smears his skin with pre, giving him more slide when he touches himself properly again; then again, maybe Astarion can hear it. Not just the slick sound of Iorveth's palm, but the soft huff of his breathing in time to the movement of his hand. ]
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Despite that, he turns his head, denying Iorveth's request. He isn't sure if he's ever denied anyone anything in bed. There's something very exciting about being able to withhold, to know that his affection is his to give and that it won't be forcibly taken from him. ]
I thought you said your wayward prick doesn't need me.
[ An uncharitable interpretation of what he actually said. ]
You wanted to take care of it on your own.
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Of all the things to put in my mouth, [ he groans, ] it had to be those words.
[ But, well. Iorveth preached the power of no, so he'll have to live with it. He still thinks it's diabolical, though－ he can live without sex, but Astarion might actually see Iorveth squirm if he withholds kisses for an extended period of time. The immovable, impenetrable fortress that is Iorveth of the Northern Forests, getting grumpier and grumpier because one evil cat won't let him kiss.
Torture. Iorveth keeps moving his hand, feeling close but strangely dissatisfied. He shudders, tenses, and sighs again, his palm a slick mess, sweat beading on his temple. Almost, he murmurs, but his idle fancies fail him; all he can think about is how Astarion is Right There, but just out of reach. ]
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I'm not a monster.
[ Demonstrably untrue, but he decides not to call attention to the fact that he drank Iorveth's blood not long ago. ]
I said I'd help if you asked nicely.
[ And Iorveth didn't; he put Astarion in the awkward position of having to beg or withdraw, neither of them an enticing prospect. He curls his hands against his own chest, watching Iorveth with the keen eyes of a creature on the prowl. Bright, shiny, focused. ]
Will you ask nicely?
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The worst part? He wants Astarion far more than he wants to refuse out of principle. "Shove it up your ass" would be his default response to "ask nicely", but not towards Astarion. Especially not after he almost made Astarion say "did I do something wrong".
So. His first attempt: ] Just touch me already.
[ Not very nice. Maybe more than a little frustrated. Still, it's not the uncharitable command that Iorveth might have leveled against a one-night stand, all teeth and no affection; his wanting sings louder than any other emotion, tempering words that might've sounded much harsher.
Eventually, he lifts his head from his pillow and fixes his glazed focus back on Astarion for attempt number two. He knows he must look ridiculous, abominable: scarred and mangled and sweat-mussed, already gnarled face made uglier by desperation. ]
Astarion, [ he tries again, voice low and hoarse. ] I need your hands on me.
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That wasn't so hard, [ he croons, pleased, before batting Iorveth's hand away from his erection. If it's Astarion's hands he wants, it's Astarion's hands he'll get, and he certainly isn't going to get himself off like he doesn't have a perfectly good vampire right here. He lets out a relieved sigh as his fingers wrap around Iorveth's cock, having suffered from his own game. Iorveth is slick with arousal, and Astarion wastes no time starting up a steady rhythm, the smoothness of his palm contrasted by the roughness of his strokes. ]
I've been dying to get my hands on you.
[ Pretty much since the last time he had his hands on Iorveth. He's had passing fancies, strangers on the street who were good-looking and safe to want because he'd never have them, but he's never desired someone this much. The depth of it is alarming. He could fall in, he thinks, if he's not careful. (He's never been careful.) ]
You really have no idea how badly I want you.
[ He leans forward, trapping his pumping hand between their bodies, and presses a kiss to Iorveth's neglected mouth. It's soft in comparison to his stroking, almost sweet. ]
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Trying to last is a losing battle. He manages to endure the sweet words by half-accepting them with sex-bleary disbelief, but it's the kiss that makes him shatter; it's an extra layer of perfect on top of everything else that feels numbingly good, compounded by the vision that Astarion'd shared earlier of bitemarks all over Iorveth's skin. Meeting Astarion's mouth and feeling the sharp edge of his fangs on his tongue unravels Iorveth completely, wracked by an orgasm that takes complete control over the entirety of him: he comes with their lips still pressed together, trying to form a broken facsimile of Astarion's name that hitches and turns into a shuddering sigh, a low moan.
Shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, chest heaving and hips still grinding against the mess he's made on Astarion's hand, Iorveth chases his high for a few more moments before slumping, boneless, onto the mattress.
It shouldn't be possible for one person (vampire) to make him feel like this. Iorveth feels obliterated, but he still wants Astarion so achingly that he thinks he might vibrate out of his skin if he doesn't kiss Astarion again.
So he does. Craning to brush their mouths together, his breath hot and ragged. When he finally collects enough of himself to speak, he manages: ] We need another room.
[ Horny freak jail. Give him a moment to unfry his brain, please. ]
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Another room, Iorveth says, and Astarion briefly considers the fact that someone could be sitting outside these drapes, too polite to mention that they just heard Iorveth come. He finds that he isn't too bothered by the prospect. ]
Or we could just be very quiet.
[ He'll learn Silence. ]
—Was that all right?
[ Not the handjob, which he feels confident was above average; if there's anything he's skilled with, it's his hands. He means the way he behaved, the withholding, telling Iorveth 'no'. Iorveth had seemed to enjoy himself in the moment, but he can't help but feel uncertain now. ]
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The question that's posed to him is ridiculous, almost to the point where he thinks it's not even worth answering. Any other person asking would have been dismissed as fishing for a stroke to their ego. But, again, it's Astarion. Iorveth adores him in ways even he's not ready to address. ]
Condemning me to death would've been kinder than telling me I couldn't kiss you.
[ Bluntly, but with humor. It's after that caveat that he appends, more softly: ]
You were perfect. [ If Astarion wants control in bed, well. Iorveth's had a taste, and he enjoyed himself. His scarred, kiss-flushed lips quirk up in a mischievous half-smile. ] None of my idle fancies compared.
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I don't know. I looked ravishing in your imagination.
[ Astarion is gloriously good-looking all the time, of course, but he gets the sense that Iorveth sees him through adoration goggles. Obviously, he doesn't mind. He'd do anything to keep Iorveth looking at him with those soft, warm expressions. It's beginning to feel as necessary for his sanity as blood.
His need for Iorveth's affection puts a rather large wrench in the plan to avoid getting too attached lest their travels to the north go poorly. There's still every possibility that this relationship is on a time limit, and Astarion needs to protect himself from the pain of rejection. That's very hard to do, though, when Iorveth keeps being so lovable. ]
I'm certainly going to have idle fancies about that.
[ He can't remember the last time he touched himself, but the image of Iorveth getting himself off is absolutely going in the spank bank. ]
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(No more sleeping in until the sky is high, because Astarion would burn to ash. Adjusting his sleep schedule is one more thing Iorveth will have to think about.)
Iorveth will take what he can get. He's stolen clothes from dead men's backs, spent weeks starving himself so that his soldiers could ration amongst themselves. He can want Astarion that way, too, holding on with bleeding fingernails and grit teeth, letting the depth of his need cut him to the bone.
All of that goes through his mind briefly, but none of it makes it to his actions. What he does in the here and now is cuddle closer like an oversized fox rubbing its scent on something it wants to keep, dragging his sex-warm skin over the palm touching it and nibbling down the column of Astarion's neck. ]
Again: we need a separate room.
[ Which reminds him that there may or may not be someone else in this space with them, huddled and traumatized on their bed. Or, in the case of Halsin, perhaps putting his hands down his own pants. There is a soft sound of movement on the other side of their quarters, but it could potentially just be the owlbear cub. ]
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As much as he'd like to stay lying here nuzzled by a warm, half-naked Iorveth, that soft sound catches his attention. Gods, if it's Gale pretending he didn't hear anything, Astarion will kill him for ruining the moment. They really do need a separate room. Then again, Iorveth is right: they'd never get anything done, not that Astarion sees that as an issue. They have a whole troupe of others who can carry out Lae'zel's commands. After two centuries of misery, he'd rather bask in happiness as long as he can. ]
My dear, [ he says, hand still stroking idly over Iorveth's tattoo, ] you might want to put your trousers back on.
[ A loss for Astarion, to be sure. He'd rather ask him to take more off. ]
I'd hate for Halsin to see you like this. He might ask to join.
[ And although he'd said he wouldn't mind if Iorveth wanted to sow his wild oats, he'd rather not witness it. ]
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[ Not because Iorveth is a prude, but because he isn't interested in being jumpscared by Halsin's Wild Shape, in every sense of those words. A grunt and a huff later, he coaxes himself to roll to the side and swing his legs over the edge of the mattress, using the momentum to sit upright so he can fish his trousers up off of the floor.
As he's putting them on, he spots a shimmering outline peering through a slight crack in the curtain partition: Iorveth squints at it, single eye narrowed, to which the thing responds by sliding through the sliver of space and making itself known with a disarmingly out-of-place jauntiness.
"Hello! You find me here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep, who found it prudent not to interrupt the two of you personally."
Hells. Iorveth reaches instinctively for something to throw at the projection (which he assumes it is), but remembers that a knife will just pass right through it. ]
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It would have been prudent not to interrupt us at all.
[ Unlike Iorveth, he isn't smart enough to think intangibility through; he tugs the pillow out from behind him and tosses it. It sails through the air, slightly distorting the simulacrum's translucent outline as it passes through the perfect replica of Gale's face, then falls to the floor with a thump. All the while, Gale's double remains annoyingly cheerful, his pleasant smile unwavering.
Astarion's frown deepens into a glower as he sits up, scooting over to perch next to Iorveth. Being hit with a pillow wouldn't have deterred the thing, but it would have felt good to watch.
"Looks like someone needs a refresher on the properties of simulacra," not-Gale says. "But I'll leave that to my maker." ]
Ugh, gods, I'll pass.
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Gale is so lucky that Iorveth's mood is currently impossible to sour, what with it being bolstered by the fuzzy, still-lingering feeling of being thoroughly obliterated by Astarion. Instead of getting up and hurling a throwing knife in the general direction of Gale's bed, Iorveth tips his chin, haughty. ]
State your purpose. Quickly, and to the point.
[ Again, Gale is so lucky. The warning here, unspoken, is "don't push it". At the very least, the apparition seems to pick up on said warning somewhat, even if it refuses to (or, perhaps more likely, simply can't) break jovial character.
"Ah, my purpose. A bit existential, don't you think?" Iorveth scowls; the simulacrum, miraculously, gets the hint. "Yes, well― I suppose you want to know the message I'm meant to relay. A simple one, I'm afraid: an invitation to investigate a rather mysterious slew of recent disappearances in the Lower City. With or without my maker to assist you in the endeavor."
Gale's facsimile lowers its voice, conspiratorial. "Though he doesn't relish the idea of being the 'third wheel', so to speak." ]
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Disappearances? [ His frown deepens. ] Recent disappearances?
[ "Yes, I'm quite sure I said it correctly," says the simulacrum. "It is, in fact, impossible for me to not have."
It could easily be more Bhaalists; they seem keen on kidnapping and murdering. Please, Astarion thinks to himself, don't let it be the wayward spawn. Bhaalists are already enough trouble, but vampires would be far worse. (For him, that is.) They'd need to nip the problem in the bud quickly before a throng of vampire hunters descended on the city.
And, of slightly lesser importance, he's not so sure he wants to deal with the consequences of the others finding out he freed thousands of hungry vampires. ]
We'll deal with it ourselves.
[ Just in case. If it's only some whack job cultist, they can handle themselves without Gale. If it's a vampire, he'd rather not have blabbermouth Gale be the one to figure it out. ]
I'm sure Gale is too busy combing his beard, anyway.
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Still, the two events could be correlated. Iorveth knows to expect the worst, which means that they'll have to lug the anti-vampire pack around again; it might become a permanent fixture, at this rate.
Oblivious to the two elves' misgivings, Gale's simulacrum beams. "Hardly! In fact, I can assure you that he's been quite preoccupied with pretending not to exist," he chirps guilelessly, to which Iorveth responds with a soft snort. ]
Tell him to keep at it, then. We'll leave when we please.
[ The meanest elf in the world continues to be needlessly rude to the party's resident wizard. With that, Iorveth decides not to spare the projection any more of his attention, and glances back at Astarion to tuck a stray silver curl behind one pointed ear. ]
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