[ Iorveth is a freak. Astarion can't comprehend how he isn't at least a little paranoid about this; even if they're happy Cazador's dead, they have plenty of reason to resent him. He wasn't always kind even when acting of his own free will, and he certainly did his part when commanded to by Cazador. Who would forgive him for the sort of torture he inflicted on them under Cazador's thrall?
He slumps where he sits, brow furrowing in thought. ]
Not for my sake, I hope. There's no love lost between us.
[ Well— perhaps that isn't entirely true. Cazador called them a family, and in some ways, they were. Two centuries with only them as companionship. Their company was unpleasant more often than not, but there's some sort of kinship there. Like the sort of affection one might have for a mangy, flea-ridden alley cat they see on the walk to work every day.
Still, if it comes down to him or them—or Iorveth or them, gods forbid—he knows what to pick. ]
I don't want to be surprised. Maybe we should make ourselves the hunters and not the hunted.
[ No love lost. Iorveth wonders if it's as simple as that, but doesn't press that issue further unless Astarion wants to talk about it. (It seems they've done so much of that today, really. Talking about things.)
Sibling bonds forced through pain, instead of forged through trust. For the millionth time, Iorveth wonders what it must've been like to live for two centuries without anyone to turn to; he's lost and lost and lost, but at least he's had others to love before the losing.
Dryly teasing: ] You could put me in manacles again.
[ "Why not use me as bait": a practical tactic according to a madman. Iorveth tucks a piece of hair behind Astarion's ear, idly playing with the cartilage. ]
But, mm. I agree－ best to anticipate and take control. It would do us good to know what the other spawn could want, now that Cazador is gone.
[ The gentle fingers at his ear and the suggestion to put Iorveth in manacles makes him smile despite himself, his eyes drifting to the side, painfully aware of just how easy he is. ]
Who knows? They could want revenge for Cazador's death, assuming they found what remains of him.
[ They'd be curious of the open door that they'd never been allowed through before, but he knows how they think; they'd be fearful, too. Afraid that it was some sort of test, and that if they failed, they'd be subject to Cazador's wrath. Hells, even Cazador's sudden disappearance would make them anxious. Astarion would have worried he was only pretending in an effort to see who his truly faithful spawn were. ]
That's if they're all really stupid enough to believe whatever nonsense Cazador told them about the ritual.
[ It would free them from their vampiric shackles and turn them into something greater, his siblings had said when they'd disturbed their peace in the Elfsong. It's entirely possible they think Astarion rid them of their one opportunity to eat real food, swim in the river, bask in the sun. He'd want revenge, too — but, of course, he'd never be foolish enough to think Cazador would do anything to benefit them. ]
Or— [ They could be grateful. Trying to search out their lost brother to reconnect without the shadow of Cazador looming over them. He shakes his head. ] Mm, no, they're almost certainly looking for revenge.
[ A sigh escapes him, weary. It's always something. ]
I suppose you, me, and our vampire-killing supplies could take a stroll after dark sometime.
[ Iorveth turns revenge over in his mind. A testament to Astarion's strength and obstinacy, that he retained enough level-mindedness to doubt Cazador's promise of false eternity instead of clinging to it the way his siblings seem to have; the same strength and obstinacy that drew Iorveth to Astarion in the first place. Desperation, he'd called it. Anger in the face of fear.
His touch lingers against Astarion's earlobe. Tactile just to be tactile, still living in the aftershock of talks about happiness. ]
If killing is your preferred method. [ If that's what it'll take to keep Astarion safe, then that's what needs to be done. ] Though I wonder if they could be convinced if we showed them the other wretched creatures captured below the manse.
[ Proof, in part, that Cazador viewed the spawn that he'd made as fodder before family. Though he supposes it could backfire, too: the other six could view it as them having been chosen above all the other nameless masses. ]
Either way, it would be prudent to assume the worst. [ One more sift of fingers through silver hair, and Iorveth relents. ] Which means―
[ A huff, and a lean back. ] ―You need to let Shadowheart lay hands on you. [ Can't avoid it any longer, is the implication. Rich, coming from Iorveth. ]
[ Astarion frowns at the mention of the wretched creatures below the manse. He can't think of them without feeling bile rising up his throat. Disgust at what Cazador has done, maybe. Disgust at himself for being complicit. Disgust at how much those unfortunate souls remind him of himself: starving, angry, almost feral.
He shakes the thoughts away, turning to the matter at hand. ]
I'm not afraid of Shadowheart.
[ Well. Mostly. She threw a shoe at him once, after he'd made some disparaging comment. The bruise it left on his face was ghastly. ]
I just— [ Another sigh. ] Don't want to answer any questions.
[ And she'll have questions, when she sees the state of him properly. Lae'zel might have questions, too, and she's intelligent enough to put two and two together about the mace. He adds, quickly, ] I do plan to tell them eventually. Just... once the dust has settled.
[ "I don't want to" is just as powerful as "I want to"― maybe even more so, considering everything in Astarion's past. As much as Iorveth would like for Astarion to patch up the remnants of his nasty wounds and burns, if he'd rather keep them for his peace of mind for the rest of the night, that's his choice to make. ]
...Fine, [ Iorveth says, and it's not the bitter sort of fine that he might've tossed Astarion's way two tendays ago. It's a simple fine, a "I-understand", a "that's okay". He lowers his hands to the mattress, two hands loosely gripping the edge of it, his upper body turned with his gaze settled, carefully, on Astarion's tired face. ]
I'll keep my silence until your dust settles. [ A slight smile, like an affectionate twitch. ] Focus on yourself, for the next few days. You needn't be beholden to anyone for a bit.
[ Astarion visibly relaxes. It isn't that he thought Iorveth would make him tell the others, not with how much he goes on about freedom and choice, but it's a relief to get confirmation anyway. He crawls back under the covers, because he really is tired after everything that happened in the past few days; getting stabbed, getting hit with lightning, talking about his feelings. All equally exhausting.
As he presses his head against the pillow, he breathes in the clean scent of sandalwood. He really has lost the plot if he's sniffing Iorveth's pillow. ]
How we plan to commit familicide can wait until tomorrow, I think. I'm sure you're tired, after everything.
[ Sandalwood, blade oil, resin. Even away from the forest, Iorveth smells like one－ maybe not so much today, after all the blood and the bath and the sex, but it lingers on his skin, etched into him like his tattoos.
He leans over Astarion, finding it a bit of a shame to disturb the cocoon he's made under the blankets by slipping under them, himself; but the temptation to be close wins out in the end, and Iorveth eventually peels off his shirt to press against Astarion's back, no polite inch of separation between them. ]
Tired, yes. [ Exhausted, which is his perpetual state of being. He nuzzles into Astarion's hair, letting tension drain from his muscles. ] Never a dull moment with you.
[ Astarion reaches for Iorveth's hand, pulling his arm snugly across his body until he's swathed in Iorveth's warmth. It goes without saying that if Iorveth ever lets it slip that Astarion likes to be the little spoon, of all things, he'll have to commit another murder. As long as it's only them to bear witness, though, he lets himself curl up against Iorveth's body heat, uncharacteristically docile.
He can hear the grin in Iorveth's voice, and it makes him smile, too. Pleased, he strokes the back of Iorveth's hand with his fingertips. ]
Even the embroidery?
[ He snorts. It passed the time in the palace, but sewing isn't exactly thrilling, especially not in comparison to whatever Iorveth usually does in his free time. Guerrilla warfare? ]
[ Iorveth doesn't mind other people knowing that he enjoys being the big spoon, but he's possessive enough that he's fine with others not knowing how sweet Astarion can be when he's being the little spoon. He curls a little tighter, ready to bare teeth if someone pulls back his curtains.
Speaking of teeth. A light wriggle, and Iorveth maneuvers himself far enough down to mouth against the nape of Astarion's neck, harmlessly biting him the way a wild animal would teethe at a trusted hand's fingers. ]
If you only knew.
[ His grin spreads, obvious where it's pressed to pale skin. ] You'd find it appalling, I wager. It may kill you.
[ Worse than getting hives from acts of casual kindness. If Astarion pushed his tadpole against Iorveth's brain, he might throw up after feeling what he finds. ]
[ Biting a vampire is rather ironic, but Astarion basks in the attention anyway, a pleasant little shiver traveling down his spine from the point of contact with Iorveth's teeth. The last time someone bit his neck, it hurt a lot more. This is better.
After Iorveth's comment, though, he shifts, turning his head in an attempt to look behind him. With Iorveth's face pressed against his neck, it's impossible to see him, so he flops back down on the pillow. It's difficult to tell if it's only a jest or if there's some kernel of truth to the idea that Iorveth thinks Astarion might be disdainful of his feelings. He's certainly been prickly about his kindness before, but he didn't mean it, of course. He only said those things because he liked it too much.
The thought that even a tiny bit of Iorveth might feel that way chafes, so he says, decisively, ] There's no part of you that I find appalling.
[ Iorveth keeps his expression hidden, and makes a vague sound that might be dissent or assent, even he doesn't know. He's been marked, hunted, disfigured― the first thing that Cazador recognized about him, he remembers, had been his brutalized face.
But he trusts Astarion not to toy with his feelings. Not anymore. So he smiles, resigned to the pleasant warmth that bubbles at the pit of his gut when Astarion says what he says. ]
Be honest, [ he murmurs lightly, ] you thought my headscarf was appalling.
[ A joke, at odds with how he presses his teeth to Astarion's skin and sucks against it, sharper this time. Aiming to bruise pale skin in the shape of his mouth, a lovebite that's more obviously possessive than the snug loop of his arms around Astarion's middle. Just below where soft silver curls end, along the sliver of skin that would show above the collar of a shirt. A sign that someone so beautiful and so discerning about who he allows in his space has allowed someone to mark the back of his pretty neck.
Iorveth soothes the bite with his tongue, mindful of any signs of discomfort. ]
You're perfect, [ he hums in reciprocation. ] Troublingly so.
[ Another light nip, to make sure the bruise will linger for at least a day. He hopes it makes Gale and Wyll and everyone else feel faint. ]
[ Iorveth isn't wrong. His headscarf was appalling. At first, it had only been distaste for the utter lack of fashion sense. Later, it became a disdain for how wholly it covered his face, something Astarion happens to like looking at. That headscarf isn't Iorveth, though, so he stands by his assertion: there's nothing appalling about Iorveth at all.
In fact, he's being quite the opposite of appalling right now. The sensation of his teeth and tongue against the nape of Astarion's neck feels good, and he has to will himself not to become inappropriately turned on right before he's supposed to trance. It half-works. ]
I'm sure some would debate you on that, but I'll allow it.
[ Iorveth can lie as much as he wants, as long as it's in service of praising him. ]
You really should be careful, you know. If you get me used to such sweet nothings, I'm going to expect them every day.
[ Astarion isn't allowed to fight Iorveth on "perfect" if he's going to claim that there's nothing appalling about Iorveth; chiding, he bites softly against the already-red spot blooming on the nape of Astarion's neck, daring him to argue the point again.
After he kisses the teeth-shaped indents he's made: ] You can expect them, but they may be lacking in practice or variation.
[ It's been an age and a half since he's had anyone in his bed, since he's been anything but terror and grief and unbridled rage trapped in an elf's skin. He's still expected to be that, in most circumstances. It's only with Astarion that he can put down the anger for long enough to touch without wounding. ]
But they'll be given of my own volition. [ A hum, and a pinch to Astarion's side. ] You won't need to foolishly fish for them.
[ Teasing. Mean, probably, to bring up past examples of unsuccessful seduction, but also not the serve that Iorveth thinks it is, because he's more susceptible to Astarion's wide-eyed wiles now than he ever has been before. As usual, he's unpinned the grenade and he's standing in his own blast radius. ]
[ Freely-given praise is the best sort, although it's naive of Iorveth to think that it'll ever stop him from fishing. Hearing those pretty, complimentary words from Iorveth's mouth is like a drug, intoxicating and addicting. It's special to be told that he's cared about, to be able to be soft and be treated softly in return. Like a man in the desert being offered water, he gulps down every bit of praise greedily and then extends a hand for more. ]
I thought I was perfect, [ he complains, and the petulant crinkle of his nose is audible. ] Now I'm foolish?
[ He might have argued against perfection, but now that the compliment has been given, Iorveth can't just take it away. ]
Even if I did fish [ —which he isn't admitting to— ] I suppose it worked well enough to charm you.
[ Settling back against his own pillow to let up on the attention he's been giving with his mouth, Iorveth closes his eye. ]
Unfortunately for me.
Try to be less charming in public from now on.
[ It was easy enough to dismiss and discredit Astarion's sincerity before, when Iorveth figured that he was just being set up to be the punchline to Astarion's ill-placed jokes; now that the joke is simply Iorveth's ability to be soft, well. All bets are off. ]
I won't be inclined to be precious if you provoke me.
[ The absence of Iorveth's mouth against his skin feels like a loss, the back of his neck gone suddenly cold. Now that Iorveth has stopped nibbling at his scruff, Astarion shifts in his grip, turning onto his back so that he can look at Iorveth. He's exhausted and looks it, face a little more pale than usual, but there's still a playful twinkle in his eye even now.
[ Astarion looks drained, even with what paltry amount of blood that Iorveth gave him this morning, mid-fooling around. It makes him think to offer more, to sate Astarion before they fall into their respective restless trances, but he thinks Astarion might not accept it. It's not like he looks like the perfect example of health and vitality right now, either.
Propping his head up on an elbow, opening his eye to maintain eye contact again: ]
Claim your clever mouth in witness of the entire city, for one.
[ He wouldn't be where he is right now, wouldn't be who he is right now, if he were shy. Reaching with his free hand, he smooths between Astarion's brows with his thumb, soothing invisible tension. ]
[ This very tenday, Astarion had made getting kissed his prize for pretending to seduce Iorveth in a tavern, all because he hadn't known how to just ask for it. How quickly things can change. His cheeks warm in pleasure rather than embarrassment, the idea of someone liking him enough to kiss him in public undoubtedly thrilling.
He laughs, then lowers his voice a little, unwilling to be overheard by the others not out of any sense of shame or propriety but because he really doesn't want to answer any questions about it. ]
Darling, I let you pleasure me in a public dressing room.
[ "Public dressing room", Astarion says, and Iorveth raises a brow as if hadn't noticed that Facemaker's was a public establishment. Honestly, he'd forgotten about the dwarf entirely. (Iorveth is not a nice person.)
The expression smoothly segues into warm neutral, then hikes into a sly half-smile. Fingers brush along Astarion's bangs one more lingering time, as if reticent to stop touching. ]
I can anticipate Lae'zel forbidding our joint deployment in the future, then.
[ A rogue and a ranger are compatible, tactically speaking, but she is going to hate bringing them along in the same party. At least one of them will be put on guard duty while the other goes out for whatever ridiculous new catastrophe is on their horizon, Iorveth is sure of it. ]
A bridge to cross when it presents itself. [ One long exhale, and Iorveth settles backwards onto his own segment of mattress. Happy. ]
Mmm, [ is his assent, entirely unconcerned about the scandalizing he plans to do. He's never had someone to be annoyingly affectionate with, but now that he does, he plans to take as much advantage of it as possible. It's fun to kiss Iorveth, to touch his hand, to do other, less wholesome things. As someone who went two centuries without a lick of fun, he's going to indulge in it now whenever and wherever he wants. ]
I volunteer to stay back. Hold down the fort, of course.
[ If one of them is going to have to contribute, let it be Iorveth. Gale can magically pick locks, anyway.
He settles his head under Iorveth's chin like an affectionate kitten, curling against his body. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He slumps where he sits, brow furrowing in thought. ]
Not for my sake, I hope. There's no love lost between us.
[ Well— perhaps that isn't entirely true. Cazador called them a family, and in some ways, they were. Two centuries with only them as companionship. Their company was unpleasant more often than not, but there's some sort of kinship there. Like the sort of affection one might have for a mangy, flea-ridden alley cat they see on the walk to work every day.
Still, if it comes down to him or them—or Iorveth or them, gods forbid—he knows what to pick. ]
I don't want to be surprised. Maybe we should make ourselves the hunters and not the hunted.
no subject
Sibling bonds forced through pain, instead of forged through trust. For the millionth time, Iorveth wonders what it must've been like to live for two centuries without anyone to turn to; he's lost and lost and lost, but at least he's had others to love before the losing.
Dryly teasing: ] You could put me in manacles again.
[ "Why not use me as bait": a practical tactic according to a madman. Iorveth tucks a piece of hair behind Astarion's ear, idly playing with the cartilage. ]
But, mm. I agree－ best to anticipate and take control. It would do us good to know what the other spawn could want, now that Cazador is gone.
no subject
Who knows? They could want revenge for Cazador's death, assuming they found what remains of him.
[ They'd be curious of the open door that they'd never been allowed through before, but he knows how they think; they'd be fearful, too. Afraid that it was some sort of test, and that if they failed, they'd be subject to Cazador's wrath. Hells, even Cazador's sudden disappearance would make them anxious. Astarion would have worried he was only pretending in an effort to see who his truly faithful spawn were. ]
That's if they're all really stupid enough to believe whatever nonsense Cazador told them about the ritual.
[ It would free them from their vampiric shackles and turn them into something greater, his siblings had said when they'd disturbed their peace in the Elfsong. It's entirely possible they think Astarion rid them of their one opportunity to eat real food, swim in the river, bask in the sun. He'd want revenge, too — but, of course, he'd never be foolish enough to think Cazador would do anything to benefit them. ]
Or— [ They could be grateful. Trying to search out their lost brother to reconnect without the shadow of Cazador looming over them. He shakes his head. ] Mm, no, they're almost certainly looking for revenge.
[ A sigh escapes him, weary. It's always something. ]
I suppose you, me, and our vampire-killing supplies could take a stroll after dark sometime.
no subject
His touch lingers against Astarion's earlobe. Tactile just to be tactile, still living in the aftershock of talks about happiness. ]
If killing is your preferred method. [ If that's what it'll take to keep Astarion safe, then that's what needs to be done. ] Though I wonder if they could be convinced if we showed them the other wretched creatures captured below the manse.
[ Proof, in part, that Cazador viewed the spawn that he'd made as fodder before family. Though he supposes it could backfire, too: the other six could view it as them having been chosen above all the other nameless masses. ]
Either way, it would be prudent to assume the worst. [ One more sift of fingers through silver hair, and Iorveth relents. ] Which means―
[ A huff, and a lean back. ] ―You need to let Shadowheart lay hands on you. [ Can't avoid it any longer, is the implication. Rich, coming from Iorveth. ]
no subject
He shakes the thoughts away, turning to the matter at hand. ]
I'm not afraid of Shadowheart.
[ Well. Mostly. She threw a shoe at him once, after he'd made some disparaging comment. The bruise it left on his face was ghastly. ]
I just— [ Another sigh. ] Don't want to answer any questions.
[ And she'll have questions, when she sees the state of him properly. Lae'zel might have questions, too, and she's intelligent enough to put two and two together about the mace. He adds, quickly, ] I do plan to tell them eventually. Just... once the dust has settled.
no subject
...Fine, [ Iorveth says, and it's not the bitter sort of fine that he might've tossed Astarion's way two tendays ago. It's a simple fine, a "I-understand", a "that's okay". He lowers his hands to the mattress, two hands loosely gripping the edge of it, his upper body turned with his gaze settled, carefully, on Astarion's tired face. ]
I'll keep my silence until your dust settles. [ A slight smile, like an affectionate twitch. ] Focus on yourself, for the next few days. You needn't be beholden to anyone for a bit.
no subject
As he presses his head against the pillow, he breathes in the clean scent of sandalwood. He really has lost the plot if he's sniffing Iorveth's pillow. ]
How we plan to commit familicide can wait until tomorrow, I think. I'm sure you're tired, after everything.
no subject
He leans over Astarion, finding it a bit of a shame to disturb the cocoon he's made under the blankets by slipping under them, himself; but the temptation to be close wins out in the end, and Iorveth eventually peels off his shirt to press against Astarion's back, no polite inch of separation between them. ]
Tired, yes. [ Exhausted, which is his perpetual state of being. He nuzzles into Astarion's hair, letting tension drain from his muscles. ] Never a dull moment with you.
[ His lips curl into a wolfish grin. ]
no subject
He can hear the grin in Iorveth's voice, and it makes him smile, too. Pleased, he strokes the back of Iorveth's hand with his fingertips. ]
Even the embroidery?
[ He snorts. It passed the time in the palace, but sewing isn't exactly thrilling, especially not in comparison to whatever Iorveth usually does in his free time. Guerrilla warfare? ]
Oh, you really must like me.
no subject
Speaking of teeth. A light wriggle, and Iorveth maneuvers himself far enough down to mouth against the nape of Astarion's neck, harmlessly biting him the way a wild animal would teethe at a trusted hand's fingers. ]
If you only knew.
[ His grin spreads, obvious where it's pressed to pale skin. ] You'd find it appalling, I wager. It may kill you.
[ Worse than getting hives from acts of casual kindness. If Astarion pushed his tadpole against Iorveth's brain, he might throw up after feeling what he finds. ]
no subject
After Iorveth's comment, though, he shifts, turning his head in an attempt to look behind him. With Iorveth's face pressed against his neck, it's impossible to see him, so he flops back down on the pillow. It's difficult to tell if it's only a jest or if there's some kernel of truth to the idea that Iorveth thinks Astarion might be disdainful of his feelings. He's certainly been prickly about his kindness before, but he didn't mean it, of course. He only said those things because he liked it too much.
The thought that even a tiny bit of Iorveth might feel that way chafes, so he says, decisively, ] There's no part of you that I find appalling.
no subject
But he trusts Astarion not to toy with his feelings. Not anymore. So he smiles, resigned to the pleasant warmth that bubbles at the pit of his gut when Astarion says what he says. ]
Be honest, [ he murmurs lightly, ] you thought my headscarf was appalling.
[ A joke, at odds with how he presses his teeth to Astarion's skin and sucks against it, sharper this time. Aiming to bruise pale skin in the shape of his mouth, a lovebite that's more obviously possessive than the snug loop of his arms around Astarion's middle. Just below where soft silver curls end, along the sliver of skin that would show above the collar of a shirt. A sign that someone so beautiful and so discerning about who he allows in his space has allowed someone to mark the back of his pretty neck.
Iorveth soothes the bite with his tongue, mindful of any signs of discomfort. ]
You're perfect, [ he hums in reciprocation. ] Troublingly so.
[ Another light nip, to make sure the bruise will linger for at least a day. He hopes it makes Gale and Wyll and everyone else feel faint. ]
no subject
In fact, he's being quite the opposite of appalling right now. The sensation of his teeth and tongue against the nape of Astarion's neck feels good, and he has to will himself not to become inappropriately turned on right before he's supposed to trance. It half-works. ]
I'm sure some would debate you on that, but I'll allow it.
[ Iorveth can lie as much as he wants, as long as it's in service of praising him. ]
You really should be careful, you know. If you get me used to such sweet nothings, I'm going to expect them every day.
[ As if he doesn't already. ]
no subject
After he kisses the teeth-shaped indents he's made: ] You can expect them, but they may be lacking in practice or variation.
[ It's been an age and a half since he's had anyone in his bed, since he's been anything but terror and grief and unbridled rage trapped in an elf's skin. He's still expected to be that, in most circumstances. It's only with Astarion that he can put down the anger for long enough to touch without wounding. ]
But they'll be given of my own volition. [ A hum, and a pinch to Astarion's side. ] You won't need to foolishly fish for them.
[ Teasing. Mean, probably, to bring up past examples of unsuccessful seduction, but also not the serve that Iorveth thinks it is, because he's more susceptible to Astarion's wide-eyed wiles now than he ever has been before. As usual, he's unpinned the grenade and he's standing in his own blast radius. ]
no subject
I thought I was perfect, [ he complains, and the petulant crinkle of his nose is audible. ] Now I'm foolish?
[ He might have argued against perfection, but now that the compliment has been given, Iorveth can't just take it away. ]
Even if I did fish [ —which he isn't admitting to— ] I suppose it worked well enough to charm you.
no subject
Unfortunately for me.
Try to be less charming in public from now on.
[ It was easy enough to dismiss and discredit Astarion's sincerity before, when Iorveth figured that he was just being set up to be the punchline to Astarion's ill-placed jokes; now that the joke is simply Iorveth's ability to be soft, well. All bets are off. ]
I won't be inclined to be precious if you provoke me.
no subject
He grins, fangs glinting in the lowlight. ]
Oh, yes? What will you do?
no subject
Propping his head up on an elbow, opening his eye to maintain eye contact again: ]
Claim your clever mouth in witness of the entire city, for one.
[ He wouldn't be where he is right now, wouldn't be who he is right now, if he were shy. Reaching with his free hand, he smooths between Astarion's brows with his thumb, soothing invisible tension. ]
What else would you permit?
no subject
He laughs, then lowers his voice a little, unwilling to be overheard by the others not out of any sense of shame or propriety but because he really doesn't want to answer any questions about it. ]
Darling, I let you pleasure me in a public dressing room.
[ So, clearly he isn't shy, either. ]
There's little I wouldn't permit.
no subject
The expression smoothly segues into warm neutral, then hikes into a sly half-smile. Fingers brush along Astarion's bangs one more lingering time, as if reticent to stop touching. ]
I can anticipate Lae'zel forbidding our joint deployment in the future, then.
[ A rogue and a ranger are compatible, tactically speaking, but she is going to hate bringing them along in the same party. At least one of them will be put on guard duty while the other goes out for whatever ridiculous new catastrophe is on their horizon, Iorveth is sure of it. ]
A bridge to cross when it presents itself. [ One long exhale, and Iorveth settles backwards onto his own segment of mattress. Happy. ]
no subject
I volunteer to stay back. Hold down the fort, of course.
[ If one of them is going to have to contribute, let it be Iorveth. Gale can magically pick locks, anyway.
He settles his head under Iorveth's chin like an affectionate kitten, curling against his body. ]
—Sweet trancing, my sweet.