[ Grin for grin, Iorveth concedes to the strange taste of blood and spend in his mouth, possibly less sweet because they're both his own, but it hardly matters. He cleans off some of the mess that he's made, tongue against tongue and lips against lips, fuzzy from lingering arousal.
He pulls back to breathe, and finally gets a better grip around Astarion's cock so that he can stroke him, getting a feel for Astarion's interest before moving to push his new clothes down to his knees. No sense ruining them so soon after they've been gifted. ]
I've a few centuries to find out.
[ To the point about not knowing Astarion fully yet. Another promise-threat that Iorveth will stay, that Astarion has made the mistake of letting a deranged elf take things beyond just a silly little tryst based on mutual benefits.
Iorveth kisses him again, and starts making more friction in earnest. Palm to Astarion's pretty cock, savoring how warm it feels in contrast to everything else. He can't imagine how anyone could ever have treated Astarion poorly, or refused to see him for who he is. ]
[ Astarion has just enough presence of mind to feel a little embarrassed of how quickly he bucks into Iorveth's palm. Reciprocation still feels like a surprise, a special gift. He doesn't have the presence of mind to reply don't say things you don't mean again, or perhaps don't say things you'll regret in a year. He probably should stop Iorveth from making such sweeping declarations, but the thought of being wanted enough to be kept around for centuries is electrifying, and he's nothing if not selfish. ]
Oh, [ he sighs instead, jerking against Iorveth's hand, rough in all the right places. It's dry, but it doesn't matter, because he's practically slippery with pre by now. Another thing he doesn't have the presence of mind to think about, although he'll undoubtedly be self-conscious about how impossibly aroused he was later.
His hand slides to the side of Iorveth's face, fingernails scratching against his cheek. Gently, holding himself back because it's on his face. ]
My precious thing, [ he says, grinning fondly. There's a touch of childish possessiveness to his voice, the tone of someone who doesn't share well. ] All mine.
Edited (no one saw ME edit this twice) 2024-08-31 03:16 (UTC)
[ Looking at anything but that smile on Astarion's face is impossible, so Iorveth keeps touching him blindly with his pre-slick hand, trusting Astarion to squirm himself into a better position once he finds the angle he likes. Indulgent petting turns into fast stroking turns into slow, circular touching; indecisiveness mixed with fascination. Iorveth, a freak, wants to know everything about Astarion.
He also has enough rational thought to rub together now to discourage the idea of possessive ownership over others, but in his syrupy, affection-laden haze, he decides that he has a few decades to coax Astarion out of bad mentalities laid out by centuries of torture. It doesn't have to be now, when Astarion is still getting used to the idea of having anything at all.
(Debatable, actually, if Iorveth ever will.) ]
Closest to my heart, [ he agrees, reiterating what he'd said when asked what Astarion is to him. He keeps up the rhythm of his hand, savoring how relaxed Astarion seems, how he seems to be present, here. It makes that coiled-tight control in him ease in turn, enough that he smiles again and brushes their foreheads together. ]
[ He'd said he didn't mind it rough, but it's clear he favors gentleness, pressing impossibly closer into Iorveth's hand whenever his touches lighten. It's rare and wonderful to be touched softly, treated kindly. To have the meanest elf in the world saying such nice things to him. After participating in so many obscene acts over the years that they became commonplace, hearing Iorveth say closest to my heart feels downright depraved, deliciously so.
With their foreheads nudged together, he tilts his head as if to give Iorveth a kiss, but it really only ends up being excited breaths against his mouth. He stays like that for a while, bucking erratically into the heat of Iorveth's palm, stifled sounds from the back of his throat escaping unbidden. Another jerk against him and Astarion's whole body is trembling, overwhelmed. He isn't built to receive things like pleasure and affection; he can hardly handle the foreign feelings.
His body stills suddenly, going taut like a bowstring, and then he comes all over Iorveth's hand. ]
[ It's staggeringly sweet: Astarion, the self-proclaimed hedonist who'd been so reticent to be touched before, melting like butter when given gentle affection. He's beautiful when he finally reaches the threshold of his tolerance, arched and shuddering, warm and messy against Iorveth's palm.
Iorveth's turn, now, to praise him. He wriggles his hand out from between their flush bodies, and licks his hand clean of Astarion's spend. ]
...Barely midday, and I can't keep my hands off of you.
[ With no apologies to Gale, he doesn't foresee family-friendly things happening if they continue sharing a bed in Elfsong. Iorveth chuckles under his breath, and kisses Astarion's jaw, soothing his clean hand through his mussed curls. ]
My sweet cat. [ Rubbing behind one pointed ear, punctuating the teasing diminutive. ]
[ He might have bristled at the pet name—he obviously has nothing in common with those mangy creatures—but he's drunk on the triple-threat of affection, blood, and sex, so he finds himself leaning into the touch. As long as he's Iorveth's, he can call him whatever he damn well pleases.
Boneless and jelly-legged from orgasm, he rolls off of Iorveth and onto his back, robe splayed out behind him and pants still drawn down around his knees. He sighs as he stares up at the ceiling, a million synapses going off at once but not one of them inviting shame. The happiness is so profuse that he feels like he's drowning in it, unsure how to navigate these strange new waters.
With a distant smile, he says to the ceiling, ] ...Well, I feel well tended-to.
[ One day, Iorveth will show up with Myshka in his arms and force Astarion to see the parallels. Until then, he's content to dip down and clean off the mess he's left on Astarion's navel with his mouth, savoring him for a few more seconds before relenting and tugging Astarion's clothes back on him (speaking of tending to).
There's still a lot to think about. The spawn still stuck in that tomblike basement, the tadpoles in their heads, the cultists, and what to do if and when all of that is taken care of. Funny, how it all seems less dire when it's built on the fragile assurance that Astarion will stay; it's such a precarious foundation to stack his own future on top of, but Iorveth doesn't want to let go of it yet.
Maybe in a century, Astarion will come to realize that the world has a lot more to offer than the binary of Cazador and Iorveth, and will take his leave. If so, Iorveth needs to be happy for Astarion in the way that he's happy for him now.
He can do that, he thinks. He cards his fingers through Astarion's hair one more time before getting up to get his pants. ]
―Good. We'll both be yelled at tomorrow, but we've earned our peace today. [ A huff, amused. ] ...Do you wish the others to stay out of our business?
[ It sounds like Iorveth's asking if he wants to hide this. Under other circumstances, he might fall down the rabbit hole of thinking of course Iorveth only wants him to be his dirty little secret, and that he was so stupid to think otherwise, and he'd shrug his shoulders and say I really don't care what you choose to do lest he show any vulnerability. He's been put in such a good mood, though, that he's able to slap those doubts down, turning onto his side to get an eyeful of Iorveth below the waist before he covers up that lovely expanse of skin. ]
I plan to paw at you as often and as publicly as possible.
[ He plans to make poor Gale have an aneurysm. ]
I'm sure they'll have something to say about it. They'll be beside themselves with jealousy, certainly.
[ Then, a little of that feigned nonchalance does creep back in, face becoming impassive. He's not quite as brave as he thought. ]
[ "Jealous" is a funny thing to contemplate. It's not like anyone in the group was jockeying for Iorveth's affections (can't be disappointed by a door closing when there wasn't one in the first place), but he supposes that it's far more likely that someone will be vexed by Iorveth receiving Astarion's affections. A truth that will probably extend into Iorveth's future, a lifetime of having people look at him with "really??? this guy???" painted clearly on their features.
Sitting on the edge of the bed again, peering at the impassivity creeping back onto Astarion's features: ]
I'd rather not hide anything. [ It was more of a courtesy question than anything else; if Astarion wanted to be private, he would've understood. But. ] Besides, making enemies is a hobby of mine.
[ He hikes the corner of his scarred lip, clearly amused by the prospect. ]
I expect half the city to want my head for standing next to you.
[ Relief paints his features at that, his body relaxing into the mattress. He grins again; he really can't stop doing that around Iorveth. It's becoming a problem. ]
I hope you'll do more than just stand next to me.
[ Besides, he thinks, the moment they set foot in wood elf territory he'll be the one being glowered at. Even putting the egregious sin of his vampirism aside, he's a high elf and a city slicker. He doesn't exactly fit in among Iorveth's comrades. Not that he wants to. Right now, and perhaps forever, he only has enough love in his heart to care about one person. Even that is overwhelming at times.
He frowns, then, that spoiled brat expression returning. ]
Darling. [ He pats the mattress beside him demandingly. He might as well be snapping his fingers and saying chop, chop. ] I can't very well bask in post-coital bliss if you're all the way over there.
[ Iorveth could get used to the luxury of knowing exactly what Astarion wants at any given time― it's refreshing not to have to bother with coyness, and it's pleasant to know that Astarion trusts him enough with these petty little demands (affectionate).
Sliding onto bedsheets to oblige the request, Iorveth positions himself on the designated spot of mattress, then presses closer to Astarion. Just as demanding, he loops an arm around his partner's middle in a silent come here, rest your weight on me. ]
We'll only need one bed in Elfsong from here on out.
[ Not really a question, but a statement. ]
And since it seems to be a day for making pledges, [ which is something Iorveth apparently took the liberty of deciding, with no input from Astarion whatsoever, ] I've one more promise for the day. Will you hear it?
[ Speaking of beds. Iorveth is aware that there's been A Lot to digest, but just one more to add to the pile. ]
[ It's a demand he's happy to comply with, draping his weight over Iorveth's front and propping his chin up on his forearms, crossed over Iorveth's chest. He has no problem with sticking his tongue down Iorveth's throat in public, but if the others ever find out how much he likes to be cuddled, he might actually die.
At the question, he furrows his brow. ]
How delightfully ominous of you to ask.
[ Cynic that he is, he can't help the little part of him that wonders if it's something bad. It wouldn't be a surprise, really. He's never had a good thing for this long without the other shoe dropping. ]
[ Ominous, Astarion says, and Iorveth huffs a breath in light exasperation. A silent "why would I promise you something bad, you ridiculous creature", which he doesn't say, because. Well.
Swiftly moving on: ] The promise is thus: no matter the disagreements we may have, I'll always return to our bed at the end of the day.
[ Simple. He traces the point of Astarion's ear, enjoying how it feels between his fingers. ]
You can do as you please, but the matter of where I'll return to shall never be a mystery to you.
[ A matter of principle. One unshakeable point of consistency is an important thing to have, like a good weapon; because their circumstances are in a constant state of unpredictable flux, having any single assured focal point can feel grounding, no matter how insubstantial that focal point may be. ]
[ Head popping up, defensive: ] Why do you assume we'll have disagreements?
[ Well. Maybe that's why, because Astarion is immediately offended. Instantly cowed by his own behavior, he lowers his head. ]
Of course you'll come back to me.
[ It's not an 'of course' at all when he'd just been worried that Iorveth would tell him something awful, but he pretends it is anyway, preening a little. Then, face falling a bit: ]
It's not your affections I'm worried about.
[ Well, obviously, there's a worry that Iorveth will grow weary of him and his complications. But more than that— ]
[ Iorveth, the meanest elf in the world, actually laughs when Astarion takes offense to their prospective disagreements. Just in case Astarion has forgotten that he is, in fact, a huge asshole. Of course they're going to butt heads about things― he'd find it more unnerving if they didn't.
Still amused, with one brow raised, he reaches sideways for a pillow and makes himself more comfortable in the messy nest of limbs and blankets that they've made. ]
There's no collective opinion, I suppose. Individually, there are bound to be some who dislike the concept of vampires in general. But our knowledge comes only from lore― the distant, vague threat of ambitious nightwalkers was rather far from our mind, considering the immediate threat of ambitious humans.
[ A vague gesture with his free hand, as if to swat away even the thought of humans. ]
You're the first vampire I've ever met. Which would make you the first vampire any Aen Seidhe has met in recent history. It's likely that the Northern Territories have always been too politically fraught for any of your kind to take interest in.
[ It's a good thing for Iorveth that Astarion finds his laugh charming. Otherwise, he'd take that pillow from behind his head and smack him in the face with it. Instead, he only pouts childishly in response.
He sighs at the explanation of the political disquiet in the North. Sure, it's relevant, but the truth is that he doesn't really care about other vampires. He only cares what it'll mean for himself (and Iorveth, he supposes, by association). On one hand, if the Aen Seidhe aren't familiar with his kind, it could be an opportunity to persuade them into open-mindedness. On the other hand, people tend to be afraid of things they don't understand, and they tend to kill the things they're afraid of. ]
That was a lovely little history lesson, my dear, but I'm really more concerned with whether they'll assume I've enthralled you and try to burn me at the stake.
[ Which, he notes, Iorveth didn't give a direct answer to. ]
[ Speaking of butting heads. Iorveth almost looks like he'll bite back with a you're the one that asked, but the rest of Astarion's statement tempers it.
Instead of being offended, he just laughs again. Aware that it's a legitimate concern, yes, but the way the concern is framed tickles something in his gut. ]
If any of my people seriously believe that I can be enthralled, [ again, a real thing that vampires can really do, but. ] They wouldn't know me very well at all.
[ What kind of stupid vampire is going to choose to enthrall a weird, unpleasant wood elf terrorist anyway??? For what gain??? Iorveth can't imagine it, so he continues to chuckle about it. How absurd. ]
Mm. I'll silence the detractors. This wouldn't be the first time I've done something that many consider completely mad.
[ Another, even bigger pout; it is a very legitimate concern, and Iorveth should be taking it seriously. If even he, who hardly thinks past the present moment, has it on his mind, it's worth considering. ]
Mm, [ he echoes grumpily. ] I'm sure.
[ Iorveth is mad, so he has no doubts that this won't be the first time his people question him. He worries, though, that the Aen Seidhe will help him see the light. Turn him against Astarion, as it were. They'll tell him what a stupid idea it is to get involved with a vampire, and because they're the only people in the world Iorveth seems to give a damn about, he'll listen.
Perhaps he can hide his true nature. Then they'll only have his charming personality to go on, and they'll have to like him.
He shifts, arms coming down possessively around Iorveth's sides, head resting against his shoulder. ]
[ The very real problem of whether or not some people might not want Astarion around has a very real solution to Iorveth, which is relayed with blunt simplicity: ]
Astarion. [ His lips rest on soft curls, somewhere in the vicinity of the crown of Astarion's head. ] No one will dare touch you, under my watch.
[ A touch of possessiveness of his own. The sort of iron-clad, bared-teeth protectiveness that's kept Iorveth going for the past century; Iorveth draws on it now, a familiar and comfortable fire in his chest that he throws kindling onto. His grip around Astarion's waist tightens just a fraction. ]
Some may be wary. Some may protest. But I'll not let any of them treat you poorly.
[ He'd rather be able to protect himself, and perhaps he really could — if not for the fact that stabbing anyone who dares question his place might upset Iorveth. Even if it was only a warning stab! So, he resigns himself to relying on Iorveth's protection, even if he'd rather be the one protecting Iorveth.
Even still, it's sweet. The resolute tone of his voice makes Astarion feel as warm inside as he now does outside, after all of this time spent pressed against Iorveth's body heat. He strokes up and down the side of Iorveth's ribcage with light fingers, idle. ]
My hero, [ he croons, a faint lopsided grin tugging at one corner of his lips. ] You really know how to make a vampire feel like a princess.
[ He presses that lopsided grin to Iorveth's shoulder, soft and gentle and entirely chaste. ]
Ugh. I suppose Lae'zel will be wondering where we got off to with that mace.
[ Regarding treating Astarion like a so-called princess. If push comes to shove, Iorveth is sure that Astarion is resourceful enough to fend for himself without being cloistered like a helpless maiden locked in a tower, but it's the principle of the thing. If Iorveth is going to make Astarion trudge halfway across the continent alongside him, he might as well make sure that it's at least worth some of the trouble.
Mirroring the touch to his torso, Iorveth runs his fingers along Astarion's spine over the loose robe, tracing it up and down. ]
It's likely that she has some idea where we may have gone, though hasn't believed us stupid enough to actually go by ourselves.
[ Which, like. Fair. ]
Do you feel strong enough to face her wrath?
[ The alone time is nice, but Iorveth is also aware that someone tangentially related to Cazador knows that the two of them are here; how else would he have received that note? Maybe a sibling will show up in the night, and Astarion might not prefer to speak to them yet. ]
[ He plans to blame Iorveth for most of it, anyway. One can adore someone and still throw them to the wolves when necessary. Besides, Lae'zel's bark is bigger than her bite. Iorveth will be fine. Probably. (It is, he supposes, making sense now why Iorveth expects them to argue.)
Part of him thinks it would be far preferable to lie here on Iorveth and nap all day, but they'll only be in more trouble the longer they disappear for. There are pressing matters to be dealt with, unfortunately. It takes every ounce of willpower in him to pull himself up and swing his legs off of the side of the bed. There's an instant coldness where Iorveth's body heat used to be.
Looking back: ] Do you plan to return back flaunting that lovely torso for all to see? [ He smirks. ] Only idle curiosity. I have no complaints, of course.
[ Back to reality, and more bloody trials to follow the one they've just undergone. It's a shame that the most complicated part of Iorveth's life moving forward can't be figuring out how to etch a clean circle using needle and thread, but some things are simply impossible.
He can't complain. Some part of him is, in fact, still reeling at the memory of Astarion agreeing to being with him. ]
Mm. The others haven't earned it.
[ Dryly, but without bitterness. Iorveth will never fancy himself very pretty to look at, but he'll accept Astarion's sweet delusions for free. He gets up to find his new shirt amidst the wreckage of their room, then picks up the discarded headscarf on the floor to re-situate it over his missing eye. They don't have a lot of inventory to pack up: just the half-empty bag of anti-vampire items, their sewing kit and clothes. Iorveth finishes the rest of the food that he was given that morning, and shoves the evidence of his embroidery practice into the basket for safekeeping.
One quick survey of the room, before they leave. Housekeeping is going to have a bad time with the bloodstains and the mangled sheets (they should probably burn them alongside the discarded old clothes); Iorveth leaves an extra piece of gold along the windowsill for the unfortunate employee's trouble. ]
[ For his part, Astarion only cinches his robe with its accompanying belt and slips some shoes on. Lazy as always.
The poor employee at the front remembers their bloodied return last night, and he gives them a wary look as they exit. Astarion, who was far too dazed to remember much about coming back looking like he'd, well, murdered a man, shoots him a stink eye in return. Not wanting to get on the bad side of two potential serial killers, the man averts his gaze. ]
Some people have no manners, [ he hisses under his breath as they exit, blissfully unaware of his hypocrisy.
The sun shines warmly down on them as they make their way onto the street. People walk down the cobblestoned paths, dipping in and out of shops for their midday meals. Astarion tilts his head, admiring Iorveth's sharp features lit in the soft daylight. How frightening, to have something worth losing. Wonderful, too, which he's finding makes it worth all of the fear.
He slides his hand into Iorveth's as they walk, a little hesitant and bashful to be doing something so innocent. The novelty of being liked will wear off someday, he's sure, but for now it's electrifying just to hold his hand. ]
[ The careful way Astarion twines their hands together makes Iorveth's heart clench with an immediacy that he can't describe in words. It's such a small thing, unnoticed by the throngs of city-dwellers who have far more to care about than two elves walking hand-in-hand; still, to Iorveth, the feeling of Astarion's palm slowly warming against his own is sacrosanct.
He glances down to where they're twined. Happiness tugs at the corner of his mouth, pulling his austere features into a smile that lasts, physically, for only a moment. Spiritually, it lingers, even when they finally reach Elfsong and make their way up to their party's base of operations: there's no move to untangle himself from Astarion after he opens the door and steps into the radius of their companions' scrutiny, secure in the knowledge that he really doesn't give a shit what the others may say about them.
The others, incidentally, happen to be just Wyll and Gale. Holding the fort for Iorveth and Astarion's potential return while the women go and get actual things done, presumably― Wyll leaps onto his feet from where he'd been cleaning his weapons on one of the room's many well-cushioned armchairs, and approaches them with the sort of open-armed earnestness that'd felt unbearable in the early days of their journey.
"Hells, you're finally back, the both of you! After all the ducking and hiding you two have been doing the past few days, we'd thought―"
Wyll's mismatched eyes flit down, obviously registering the very improbable reality of Astarion and Iorveth holding hands, but also being raised too right to call attention to it in a way that would be uncouth. He clears his throat, and continues.
"―Well, whatever we thought didn't come to bear, and for that I'm grateful." Sincerely, as Wyll is about most things. After a beat, he appends:
"You look... comfortable, Astarion." Taking note of the loungewear, which he's fairly certain Astarion didn't leave in. Huh. ]
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He pulls back to breathe, and finally gets a better grip around Astarion's cock so that he can stroke him, getting a feel for Astarion's interest before moving to push his new clothes down to his knees. No sense ruining them so soon after they've been gifted. ]
I've a few centuries to find out.
[ To the point about not knowing Astarion fully yet. Another promise-threat that Iorveth will stay, that Astarion has made the mistake of letting a deranged elf take things beyond just a silly little tryst based on mutual benefits.
Iorveth kisses him again, and starts making more friction in earnest. Palm to Astarion's pretty cock, savoring how warm it feels in contrast to everything else. He can't imagine how anyone could ever have treated Astarion poorly, or refused to see him for who he is. ]
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Oh, [ he sighs instead, jerking against Iorveth's hand, rough in all the right places. It's dry, but it doesn't matter, because he's practically slippery with pre by now. Another thing he doesn't have the presence of mind to think about, although he'll undoubtedly be self-conscious about how impossibly aroused he was later.
His hand slides to the side of Iorveth's face, fingernails scratching against his cheek. Gently, holding himself back because it's on his face. ]
My precious thing, [ he says, grinning fondly. There's a touch of childish possessiveness to his voice, the tone of someone who doesn't share well. ] All mine.
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He also has enough rational thought to rub together now to discourage the idea of possessive ownership over others, but in his syrupy, affection-laden haze, he decides that he has a few decades to coax Astarion out of bad mentalities laid out by centuries of torture. It doesn't have to be now, when Astarion is still getting used to the idea of having anything at all.
(Debatable, actually, if Iorveth ever will.) ]
Closest to my heart, [ he agrees, reiterating what he'd said when asked what Astarion is to him. He keeps up the rhythm of his hand, savoring how relaxed Astarion seems, how he seems to be present, here. It makes that coiled-tight control in him ease in turn, enough that he smiles again and brushes their foreheads together. ]
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With their foreheads nudged together, he tilts his head as if to give Iorveth a kiss, but it really only ends up being excited breaths against his mouth. He stays like that for a while, bucking erratically into the heat of Iorveth's palm, stifled sounds from the back of his throat escaping unbidden. Another jerk against him and Astarion's whole body is trembling, overwhelmed. He isn't built to receive things like pleasure and affection; he can hardly handle the foreign feelings.
His body stills suddenly, going taut like a bowstring, and then he comes all over Iorveth's hand. ]
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Iorveth's turn, now, to praise him. He wriggles his hand out from between their flush bodies, and licks his hand clean of Astarion's spend. ]
...Barely midday, and I can't keep my hands off of you.
[ With no apologies to Gale, he doesn't foresee family-friendly things happening if they continue sharing a bed in Elfsong. Iorveth chuckles under his breath, and kisses Astarion's jaw, soothing his clean hand through his mussed curls. ]
My sweet cat. [ Rubbing behind one pointed ear, punctuating the teasing diminutive. ]
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Boneless and jelly-legged from orgasm, he rolls off of Iorveth and onto his back, robe splayed out behind him and pants still drawn down around his knees. He sighs as he stares up at the ceiling, a million synapses going off at once but not one of them inviting shame. The happiness is so profuse that he feels like he's drowning in it, unsure how to navigate these strange new waters.
With a distant smile, he says to the ceiling, ] ...Well, I feel well tended-to.
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There's still a lot to think about. The spawn still stuck in that tomblike basement, the tadpoles in their heads, the cultists, and what to do if and when all of that is taken care of. Funny, how it all seems less dire when it's built on the fragile assurance that Astarion will stay; it's such a precarious foundation to stack his own future on top of, but Iorveth doesn't want to let go of it yet.
Maybe in a century, Astarion will come to realize that the world has a lot more to offer than the binary of Cazador and Iorveth, and will take his leave. If so, Iorveth needs to be happy for Astarion in the way that he's happy for him now.
He can do that, he thinks. He cards his fingers through Astarion's hair one more time before getting up to get his pants. ]
―Good. We'll both be yelled at tomorrow, but we've earned our peace today. [ A huff, amused. ] ...Do you wish the others to stay out of our business?
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I plan to paw at you as often and as publicly as possible.
[ He plans to make poor Gale have an aneurysm. ]
I'm sure they'll have something to say about it. They'll be beside themselves with jealousy, certainly.
[ Then, a little of that feigned nonchalance does creep back in, face becoming impassive. He's not quite as brave as he thought. ]
—Ah, unless you would rather not, of course.
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Sitting on the edge of the bed again, peering at the impassivity creeping back onto Astarion's features: ]
I'd rather not hide anything. [ It was more of a courtesy question than anything else; if Astarion wanted to be private, he would've understood. But. ] Besides, making enemies is a hobby of mine.
[ He hikes the corner of his scarred lip, clearly amused by the prospect. ]
I expect half the city to want my head for standing next to you.
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I hope you'll do more than just stand next to me.
[ Besides, he thinks, the moment they set foot in wood elf territory he'll be the one being glowered at. Even putting the egregious sin of his vampirism aside, he's a high elf and a city slicker. He doesn't exactly fit in among Iorveth's comrades. Not that he wants to. Right now, and perhaps forever, he only has enough love in his heart to care about one person. Even that is overwhelming at times.
He frowns, then, that spoiled brat expression returning. ]
Darling. [ He pats the mattress beside him demandingly. He might as well be snapping his fingers and saying chop, chop. ] I can't very well bask in post-coital bliss if you're all the way over there.
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Sliding onto bedsheets to oblige the request, Iorveth positions himself on the designated spot of mattress, then presses closer to Astarion. Just as demanding, he loops an arm around his partner's middle in a silent come here, rest your weight on me. ]
We'll only need one bed in Elfsong from here on out.
[ Not really a question, but a statement. ]
And since it seems to be a day for making pledges, [ which is something Iorveth apparently took the liberty of deciding, with no input from Astarion whatsoever, ] I've one more promise for the day. Will you hear it?
[ Speaking of beds. Iorveth is aware that there's been A Lot to digest, but just one more to add to the pile. ]
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At the question, he furrows his brow. ]
How delightfully ominous of you to ask.
[ Cynic that he is, he can't help the little part of him that wonders if it's something bad. It wouldn't be a surprise, really. He's never had a good thing for this long without the other shoe dropping. ]
What is it?
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Swiftly moving on: ] The promise is thus: no matter the disagreements we may have, I'll always return to our bed at the end of the day.
[ Simple. He traces the point of Astarion's ear, enjoying how it feels between his fingers. ]
You can do as you please, but the matter of where I'll return to shall never be a mystery to you.
[ A matter of principle. One unshakeable point of consistency is an important thing to have, like a good weapon; because their circumstances are in a constant state of unpredictable flux, having any single assured focal point can feel grounding, no matter how insubstantial that focal point may be. ]
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[ Well. Maybe that's why, because Astarion is immediately offended. Instantly cowed by his own behavior, he lowers his head. ]
Of course you'll come back to me.
[ It's not an 'of course' at all when he'd just been worried that Iorveth would tell him something awful, but he pretends it is anyway, preening a little. Then, face falling a bit: ]
It's not your affections I'm worried about.
[ Well, obviously, there's a worry that Iorveth will grow weary of him and his complications. But more than that— ]
What's the Aen Seidhe opinion of vampires?
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Still amused, with one brow raised, he reaches sideways for a pillow and makes himself more comfortable in the messy nest of limbs and blankets that they've made. ]
There's no collective opinion, I suppose. Individually, there are bound to be some who dislike the concept of vampires in general. But our knowledge comes only from lore― the distant, vague threat of ambitious nightwalkers was rather far from our mind, considering the immediate threat of ambitious humans.
[ A vague gesture with his free hand, as if to swat away even the thought of humans. ]
You're the first vampire I've ever met. Which would make you the first vampire any Aen Seidhe has met in recent history. It's likely that the Northern Territories have always been too politically fraught for any of your kind to take interest in.
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He sighs at the explanation of the political disquiet in the North. Sure, it's relevant, but the truth is that he doesn't really care about other vampires. He only cares what it'll mean for himself (and Iorveth, he supposes, by association). On one hand, if the Aen Seidhe aren't familiar with his kind, it could be an opportunity to persuade them into open-mindedness. On the other hand, people tend to be afraid of things they don't understand, and they tend to kill the things they're afraid of. ]
That was a lovely little history lesson, my dear, but I'm really more concerned with whether they'll assume I've enthralled you and try to burn me at the stake.
[ Which, he notes, Iorveth didn't give a direct answer to. ]
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Instead of being offended, he just laughs again. Aware that it's a legitimate concern, yes, but the way the concern is framed tickles something in his gut. ]
If any of my people seriously believe that I can be enthralled, [ again, a real thing that vampires can really do, but. ] They wouldn't know me very well at all.
[ What kind of stupid vampire is going to choose to enthrall a weird, unpleasant wood elf terrorist anyway??? For what gain??? Iorveth can't imagine it, so he continues to chuckle about it. How absurd. ]
Mm. I'll silence the detractors. This wouldn't be the first time I've done something that many consider completely mad.
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Mm, [ he echoes grumpily. ] I'm sure.
[ Iorveth is mad, so he has no doubts that this won't be the first time his people question him. He worries, though, that the Aen Seidhe will help him see the light. Turn him against Astarion, as it were. They'll tell him what a stupid idea it is to get involved with a vampire, and because they're the only people in the world Iorveth seems to give a damn about, he'll listen.
Perhaps he can hide his true nature. Then they'll only have his charming personality to go on, and they'll have to like him.
He shifts, arms coming down possessively around Iorveth's sides, head resting against his shoulder. ]
That's all far away, of course.
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Astarion. [ His lips rest on soft curls, somewhere in the vicinity of the crown of Astarion's head. ] No one will dare touch you, under my watch.
[ A touch of possessiveness of his own. The sort of iron-clad, bared-teeth protectiveness that's kept Iorveth going for the past century; Iorveth draws on it now, a familiar and comfortable fire in his chest that he throws kindling onto. His grip around Astarion's waist tightens just a fraction. ]
Some may be wary. Some may protest. But I'll not let any of them treat you poorly.
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Even still, it's sweet. The resolute tone of his voice makes Astarion feel as warm inside as he now does outside, after all of this time spent pressed against Iorveth's body heat. He strokes up and down the side of Iorveth's ribcage with light fingers, idle. ]
My hero, [ he croons, a faint lopsided grin tugging at one corner of his lips. ] You really know how to make a vampire feel like a princess.
[ He presses that lopsided grin to Iorveth's shoulder, soft and gentle and entirely chaste. ]
Ugh. I suppose Lae'zel will be wondering where we got off to with that mace.
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[ Regarding treating Astarion like a so-called princess. If push comes to shove, Iorveth is sure that Astarion is resourceful enough to fend for himself without being cloistered like a helpless maiden locked in a tower, but it's the principle of the thing. If Iorveth is going to make Astarion trudge halfway across the continent alongside him, he might as well make sure that it's at least worth some of the trouble.
Mirroring the touch to his torso, Iorveth runs his fingers along Astarion's spine over the loose robe, tracing it up and down. ]
It's likely that she has some idea where we may have gone, though hasn't believed us stupid enough to actually go by ourselves.
[ Which, like. Fair. ]
Do you feel strong enough to face her wrath?
[ The alone time is nice, but Iorveth is also aware that someone tangentially related to Cazador knows that the two of them are here; how else would he have received that note? Maybe a sibling will show up in the night, and Astarion might not prefer to speak to them yet. ]
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With you by my side, how could I not?
[ He plans to blame Iorveth for most of it, anyway. One can adore someone and still throw them to the wolves when necessary. Besides, Lae'zel's bark is bigger than her bite. Iorveth will be fine. Probably. (It is, he supposes, making sense now why Iorveth expects them to argue.)
Part of him thinks it would be far preferable to lie here on Iorveth and nap all day, but they'll only be in more trouble the longer they disappear for. There are pressing matters to be dealt with, unfortunately. It takes every ounce of willpower in him to pull himself up and swing his legs off of the side of the bed. There's an instant coldness where Iorveth's body heat used to be.
Looking back: ] Do you plan to return back flaunting that lovely torso for all to see? [ He smirks. ] Only idle curiosity. I have no complaints, of course.
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He can't complain. Some part of him is, in fact, still reeling at the memory of Astarion agreeing to being with him. ]
Mm. The others haven't earned it.
[ Dryly, but without bitterness. Iorveth will never fancy himself very pretty to look at, but he'll accept Astarion's sweet delusions for free. He gets up to find his new shirt amidst the wreckage of their room, then picks up the discarded headscarf on the floor to re-situate it over his missing eye. They don't have a lot of inventory to pack up: just the half-empty bag of anti-vampire items, their sewing kit and clothes. Iorveth finishes the rest of the food that he was given that morning, and shoves the evidence of his embroidery practice into the basket for safekeeping.
One quick survey of the room, before they leave. Housekeeping is going to have a bad time with the bloodstains and the mangled sheets (they should probably burn them alongside the discarded old clothes); Iorveth leaves an extra piece of gold along the windowsill for the unfortunate employee's trouble. ]
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The poor employee at the front remembers their bloodied return last night, and he gives them a wary look as they exit. Astarion, who was far too dazed to remember much about coming back looking like he'd, well, murdered a man, shoots him a stink eye in return. Not wanting to get on the bad side of two potential serial killers, the man averts his gaze. ]
Some people have no manners, [ he hisses under his breath as they exit, blissfully unaware of his hypocrisy.
The sun shines warmly down on them as they make their way onto the street. People walk down the cobblestoned paths, dipping in and out of shops for their midday meals. Astarion tilts his head, admiring Iorveth's sharp features lit in the soft daylight. How frightening, to have something worth losing. Wonderful, too, which he's finding makes it worth all of the fear.
He slides his hand into Iorveth's as they walk, a little hesitant and bashful to be doing something so innocent. The novelty of being liked will wear off someday, he's sure, but for now it's electrifying just to hold his hand. ]
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He glances down to where they're twined. Happiness tugs at the corner of his mouth, pulling his austere features into a smile that lasts, physically, for only a moment. Spiritually, it lingers, even when they finally reach Elfsong and make their way up to their party's base of operations: there's no move to untangle himself from Astarion after he opens the door and steps into the radius of their companions' scrutiny, secure in the knowledge that he really doesn't give a shit what the others may say about them.
The others, incidentally, happen to be just Wyll and Gale. Holding the fort for Iorveth and Astarion's potential return while the women go and get actual things done, presumably― Wyll leaps onto his feet from where he'd been cleaning his weapons on one of the room's many well-cushioned armchairs, and approaches them with the sort of open-armed earnestness that'd felt unbearable in the early days of their journey.
"Hells, you're finally back, the both of you! After all the ducking and hiding you two have been doing the past few days, we'd thought―"
Wyll's mismatched eyes flit down, obviously registering the very improbable reality of Astarion and Iorveth holding hands, but also being raised too right to call attention to it in a way that would be uncouth. He clears his throat, and continues.
"―Well, whatever we thought didn't come to bear, and for that I'm grateful." Sincerely, as Wyll is about most things. After a beat, he appends:
"You look... comfortable, Astarion." Taking note of the loungewear, which he's fairly certain Astarion didn't leave in. Huh. ]
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