nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ Malicious glee spreads across his face as he slices through the fabric of Iorveth's shirt and into his shoulder, warm red blood trickling from the wound. When he'd thrown his dagger and clipped Iorveth's cheek, he'd been far away enough that the meager amount of blood oozing from the laceration hadn't been enough to entice him. Up this close, though, he takes a moment to reminisce about how that blood had tasted coating his tongue. His first real delicacy in centuries, after putrid rats and disgusting goblins and unappetizing bandits— ]

Gods!

[ While his mind is elsewhere, Iorveth's arrow embeds itself forcefully in his side, white hot pain shooting up his torso and down his leg. As he stumbles backward, he presses a hand against his flank, fingers curling around the arrow still rooted in his flesh. ]

You wretch, that hurts!

[ Any smart person would know they've been bested by this point. Astarion has never been smart. Still holding his injured side, he shambles forward, waving the sword one-handed, sloppy. With a haphazard thrust, he aims for Iorveth's side, tit for tat. ]

The point of a stabbing, [ Iorveth grunts, ] is that it hurts.

[ To the tune of "you absolute fucking doofus". Derision that's short-lived, however, considering that Astarion is still in possession of a lethal weapon that is, in fact, aimed at his side, now.

Iorveth "fuck" count: 3. This one is spoken, snapped between his teeth as he sways on his feet and tries to sidestep the incoming lunge. It's also the correct sentiment to verbalize, given that he miscalculates the range and trajectory of the attack: he both overestimates and underestimates Astarion's finesse, and winds up managing to dodge, but not dodge enough.

In short, the blow lands. The sword doesn't embed itself in Iorveth's side, but it does cut a good centimeter into his waist, leaving a horizontal line that starts to bleed very profusely onto his shirt, down his pant leg, onto his boot. ]

Fuck.

[ The "fuck" counter is climbing. Iorveth takes a staggering step backwards, slapping one palm over the wound with his molars grit tight; thank the Gods he has incredibly high pain tolerance. ]

[ Astarion reels at the fresh blood soaking Iorveth's shirt, for a brief moment swaying forward as if to follow him back before he stumbles away, too, tossing aside the sword so he can properly clutch his own wound. It's for the best. Any more slashing and hacking, and he'll be salivating like a hungry dog. Or worse, biting like one. He imagines Iorveth wouldn't respond well to nibbling without asking.

He presses his back up against a tree, sliding down it with a wince until he's on the grass. ]

Who won?

[ An important question, when an arrowhead is pressed up against one's spleen. ]

[ "We both lost", Iorveth wants to say, but it would be an anticlimactic end to an already stupid situation, so: ]

The one who drew first blood.

[ Which would be Astarion, despite the arrow sticking out from his side. A wince, and Iorveth follows him towards the tree, kneeling in front of him with some effort. Very un-Cazador of him, Iorveth figures, but he doubts Astarion is keeping track anymore. ]

Congratulations. [ Wryly, as he gestures for Astarion to relinquish his hold on the arrow's wooden shaft. ] You've earned your mending.

[ Iorveth's got at least one or two Cure Wounds in him, and he'll give one to Astarion if he'll sit still and trust him with it. What a nightmare. ]

[ To tend to someone else before himself is incredibly stupid, but Astarion is nothing if not selfish, so he keeps that thought to himself in the interest of dulling this awful pain. He withdraws his hands from the arrow, shaking slightly, not out of nervousness but out of adrenaline. The rush is just about the only thing keeping the pain bearable. He wonders if Iorveth is hurting this much, too, and pettily hopes that he is. ]

All of that grandstanding about cruelty, and you were all too happy to stab me.

[ He asked for it. He's going to complain anyway. ]

[ Iorveth, who prides himself on being able to mute most of his kneejerk responses to people saying stupid things in his presence, can't entirely dull the "hello????? what?????" response that bubbles up from the bottom of his gut.

Curling his fingers around the hilt of the arrow and pulling it out in one viciously efficient tug: ] Because you gleefully announced that you had no intention of playing fair. [ In short, "fuck around and find out". Not a nice thing to say after stabbing a hole in someone's side, but Iorveth is, at least, making quick moves to press his palm against that injury and start murmuring the beginnings of his healing spell. ] Stop whining, you'll give me a headache.

[ He already has one. The pain in his shoulder and his side is yelling for his attention, but his first te curo is, foolishly, for Astarion's benefit. That familiar sunbeam-warmth, like sleeping on a sunlit patch of grass. ]

Hells! [ he shouts as Iorveth rips the arrow from his flesh, gritting his teeth. The wound starts to bleed instantly, wetting through his shirt, although Iorveth's hand somewhat stems the flow. He presses his hand down over Iorveth's, adding pressure.

As the magic infuses into his wound, stitching it up bit by bit, his muscles slowly relax. An arrow in the side is vicious enough that a simple healing spell doesn't mend it entirely, but the bleeding stops, and it leaves behind only a shallow wound, just a fraction of what it used to be. His gaze drops to Iorveth's hand against his side, the tear in his shirt, the red staining the fabric. ]

I liked this shirt.

[ Having someone mend a wound doesn't negate the fact that it was made in the first place, and Iorveth isn't proud of having stuck an arrow in Astarion's side. The hole stitches up, but leaves a still-broken patch of skin that should be looked at later by a proper cleric. Iorveth's frown lingers as he grunts and shifts to tend to his own split-open waist. ]

Next time you invite someone to kill you, wear a shirt you like less.

[ Soft light, slow healing. They both look like they've just been on the wrong end of a fight to the death with a wild animal, when the reality is just that they've been slapfighting each other in the dead of night. ]

Are you satisfied?

[ Iorveth poses the sullen question as he gives up on doing anything more to his cut, which is now mostly closed. This entire thing was to give Astarion... confidence? A win under his belt? A way to blow off steam? One can only hope that something was achieved here, even if that something is as petty as contentment upon making Iorveth bleed. ]

Hm.

[ A thoughtful hum. He's not certain he's ever been satisfied in his life. This, like most things, was less gratifying than he'd hoped. It wasn't anywhere close to the same as a fight with Cazador; it was stupid of him to think Iorveth could compare to his greatest tormentor. He might have felt anger during the scrap, but he didn't feel hatred or fear. If he had, he wouldn't have wanted to stop at only wounding him.

He feels just as unprepared as he did before they came out here. It's disappointing. ]

Not particularly, no.

[ A moment passes before he shrugs, quipping insouciantly, ] But I suppose you do look good bleeding.

[ Iorveth sighs, the sound almost like a bloodletting of its own. ]

When it comes time to confront your actual enemy, you'll do better than this.

[ Gesturing to himself and the tattered remains of his red-stained shirt. Not exactly a pep talk, after all that's happened, but a reminder that Astarion has at least taken the initiative to do something about all the pent-up anxiety he's feeling.

He remains knelt on grass for a bit longer, catching his breath after all that pain. His shoulder has to remain unattended, but the dull throb there is an afterthought. It's stopped bleeding by now, anyway.

Offhandedly: ] All this blood, and none between your teeth.

[ He glances at Iorveth, eyes wary. Had he expected Astarion to bite him? It can't be any more harmful than swinging a sword at him, yet it feels far more taboo. He'd been warned off of their campmates' necks enough times, back when his secret first came out. There's still an inclination to present himself as a good vampire, downright domesticated, the type that's content filling up on villains and bunny rabbits.

Just as off-handed: ] I said I'd keep my teeth from your neck.

Mm. So you did.

[ A sidelong glance, looking Astarion up and down with his good eye. Despite the incredibly unsubtle way that Astarion revealed himself to be a vampire, everything he's done with his vampirism since then has been surprisingly well-moderated.

A way to differentiate himself from Cazador? Maybe. That's for Astarion to know, and Iorveth to only speculate. ]

But I expect you'd perform better in battle with a full stomach.

[ Astarion shifts against the tree, the bark of it scratching him through his shirt. Iorveth is right; he does perform better with blood in his stomach. He'd learned that quickly out in the wilds near the Grove, where goblins and woodland animals were plentiful enough to keep his hunger a low, nearly ignorable thrum.

Here in the Gate, even if he wanted to take a bite out of one of the cultists they fight, he couldn't without letting the whole city know they have a vampire among them. The last thing he needs is a group of angry civilians at the door of the Elfsong with torches and pitchforks. ]

Of course I would. That's why you fed me the first time, isn't it?

[ Not an accusation, just a statement of what he considers fact. ]

Are you offering to open your veins, then? [ A raised eyebrow. ] Selfless of you.

This might come as a surprise, especially after I just stabbed you, [ he says airily, with just the slightest tinge of irritation rasping at the ends of his syllables. ] But I would rather you not die.

[ A sentiment that Iorveth thinks he has expressed in passing a few times now, in varying levels of opacity. Maybe Astarion didn't get all of his coded memos, which is actually kind of fine in hindsight, all things considered. It mortifies Iorveth, still, the extent to which he doesn't love the idea of Astarion being subjected to more suffering; Astarion's not even Aen Seidhe, for Gods' sake.

He turns towards Astarion, one knee hiked and the other laid flat against the grass. ]

If we're to expect ambushes from your "family" in the future, you should be prepared to face them. And you should be in top form when facing Cazador, obviously. [ A wave of one hand, lightly dismissive despite the serious nature of his offer. ] We've already spoken about trust. I don't give it or my blood lightly, but you can have both until you finish what you set out to do.

[ It doesn't come as a surprise, which... comes as a surprise. He wouldn't have dragged Iorveth out here in the middle of the night unless he'd thought he felt some level of companionship for him. Maybe even some fondness, when he's not busy being irritated by everything Astarion does. He certainly didn't decide to trust Iorveth because of his sense of duty and responsibility. All that matters to Astarion is whether Iorveth will come through for him.

He notes the time limit placed on both Iorveth's confidence and his generosity. That's— all right, he supposes. What use will he have for things like trust once he's taken Cazador's place as the vampire lord of Baldur's Gate? ]

How very practical. [ Again: selfless of you. ] What will you expect in return?

[ Again: Iorveth would rather Astarion not die, but Gods, does he still want to strangle him every two minutes. He does everything but throw his hands up in the air, his single eye rolling as he huffs through his nose in obvious frustration. ]

What did I say about doubting my intentions.

[ As if he's talking to a child. Swaying forward, Iorveth plants himself in Astarion's space, easily breaching his personal bubble to get up in his face. No room for misunderstandings in this proximity, he hopes. ]

I'll not offer anything to you if you continue to interpret my goodwill as transactional. I can only endure that insult for so long.

[ A jab to Astarion's chest with an index, and Iorveth pulls away with another exhale. "So there." ]

[ The scent of sticky blood wafts off of Iorveth's wounds as he leans in, and Astarion swallows. He finds himself disappointed when Iorveth pulls away, even with the annoyance of being spoken to like a particularly slow child. ]

You, complaining of being insulted? Oh, that's adorable.

[ Iorveth slings insults as easily as breathing. Is it any wonder Astarion questions his intentions?

In truth, it has little to do with Iorveth's temperament. Every interaction in his life has been transactional for the last two hundred years. No one ever raised a finger for him without getting something in return. It's difficult to reconcile those long, lonely years with the idea that someone out there might care about what happens to him enough to help him without expecting a reward. ]

—Fine. [ A quick decision. If it's blood Iorveth is volunteering, there's little he can imagine that would make him reject the offer. He tips his chin up. ] If you're so intent on playing the hero, I'll accept your offer.

[ Astarion decides, but Iorveth shakes his head. ]

I'm not playing at anything. [ Obstinacy for obstinacy. Willing his joints to cooperate, Iorveth pushes himself back onto his feet and wipes the bloody arrow that he picks up from the ground, slotting it back into his quiver for future use. ] Until you get that through your thick skull, the offer is rescinded.

[ "I like you". A hard thing for Astarion to still believe, probably, but Iorveth said what he said― not to mention that he hates being accused of being a martyr or a hero. He can only ever be himself, even though a part of him is aware that Astarion probably requires a softer touch, a gentler approach. Deserves that, even.

The thought sobers him a bit, especially after the scuffle. Iorveth picks his sword up off of the ground, ruminating. ]

What?

[ Iorveth might as well have slapped him in the face. He couldn't possibly know how many times Astarion was offered sustenance and then denied it with a laugh, couldn't know how it feels to be insatiably hungry all the time— but indignance flares up inside him anyway. The offer was transactional after all, he thinks. Contingent on Astarion recognizing Iorveth's goodwill properly.

He pushes himself up, wincing as the wound in his side is jostled. For a moment, he seriously considers asking if Iorveth plans to make him beg, but the thought makes him feel so pathetic that he can't bear it. He shakes his head, willing nonchalance back into his features. ]

I— don't be like that, darling. I was only teasing.

[ It'd be a stonewalling for literally anyone else. After all, a survival tactic for a freedom fighter with a bounty on his head is to have very little patience for games.

But. Again: there's "I like you", coupled with the knowledge of what Astarion benefits from. Lighter, softer, gentler. So Iorveth sheathes his sword, both literally and metaphorically, to look for that wellspring inside himself that he's been fairly reticent about. ]

I'm telling you that it rankles to know that you think me the same as all the others that came before.

[ Which Iorveth will acknowledge is a Him Problem; two hundred years of torture will do that to a person. He pivots on his heels, half-facing Astarion with one hand against his half-patched wound. ]

―Then again, you've made me selfish about being known. I suppose that does make me the same as the others. [ Wanting something out of Astarion, in that sense. Iorveth's own little folly.

Time to wrap up this little afterthought, though. Most importantly: ] Have my blood, then. Whenever you think to need it, just ask.

[ Silence draws out for just long enough to be noticeable, then— ] Oh, you can't be serious.

[ Not his most sympathetic delivery, especially in the face of Iorveth's uncharacteristic gentleness. But the thought is just so ridiculous that he has to scoff, brow furrowing. ]

Do you really think I'd have brought you out here if I thought you the same as every other wretched soul that I hate?

[ Words mean little, Iorveth had said. It's actions that truly matter. Well, Astarion could have chosen anyone to bring out here: Wyll, with his monster hunting knowledge; Lae'zel, a true warrior; Jaheira, a hero in her own right. He chose Iorveth for a reason. ]

Do you think I'd let just anyone stab me and live? [ A cant of his head toward his wound. ] Gods, I had no idea you were this dense.

[ A blink, and a stare. It's the kind of half-beat that says that Iorveth doesn't know what he was expecting, but that he should have known what to expect. Annoyed at being called out, irritated that Astarion has good aim, and charmed by both in equal measure. ]

Well. [ Just so he can make this slightly less embarrassing for himself: ] You don't make things easy for me.

[ Pot, kettle, etc. It's mortifying to know that there's relief in being seen more clearly by Astarion, but the feeling is there. Sometimes Iorveth just wants to hold that pretty face and look for a good few minutes.

Stupid. He angles himself towards Astarion fully now, and glances at that stab wound. ]

...I apologize for the assumption. [ Plainly. It's deserved, so "sorry" doesn't sting. ] It won't be repeated.

[ He tilts his chin up, haughty even now. ]

Good.

[ And it is. Iorveth is challenging enough to deal with without making incorrect assumptions. The gall he has to claim Astarion doesn't make it easy for him! He's been nothing but delightful, really. It's Iorveth who's rejected his every advance since the moment they met, Iorveth who shoots off insults with more regularity than arrows, Iorveth who's so dedicated to his stupid crusade that nothing else matters.

But the atmosphere still feels awkward, a little tense. He sighs, then, crooking a finger to beckon Iorveth closer. ]

Come.

[ Is it annoying that Astarion calls him over like he's a dog? Yes. Is Iorveth aware that he's done the same to Astarion many times in the past? Also yes.

He obliges. It reminds him, a little, of times in the past when his comrades had motioned him over for comfort that he could only give by sitting next to them, letting them rest their heads on his shoulder, listening to them breathe. Astarion is hardly so delicate, but the mental association lingers.

Iorveth steps forward into Astarion's space, and tries to negotiate his posture to something more accessible for Astarion's teeth. ]

Do you always feed from the neck?

[ It's the most practical, Iorveth supposes. The question is more to fill in space, rather than a genuine curiosity; he, too, can feel the stiffness in the air. ]

There's little opportunity to bite elsewhere during battle. [ A reminder that no one else is simply allowing him to feed. He bites the nearly-dead and the soon-to-be-dead, usually armored everywhere else but the neck. ] With animals, one feeds from wherever they can. Slippery little things.

[ His eyes flick to the cut on Iorveth's cheek, and he reaches out to run a cool thumb against it, wiping away the blood. ]

In theory, any source will do. [ Turning his palm over, he lists off, ] The throat, the wrist— more, ah, interesting places. [ He giggles a little to himself, immaturely amused by the prospect of more sensual blood-drinking locations.

His gaze drops to his thumb, then, coated in Iorveth's blood, and for a moment he thinks to lick it like an animal. He wipes it on his pants leg. ]

Why? Have you a preference? I live to oblige.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject