nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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.

[ Iorveth hikes a brow at "interesting places", even as that thumb swipes across his cheek, because he cannot imagine that anyone would actually want to drink blood from, say, someone's dick, or that it would be sexy to sink one's teeth into someone's ass. If only the tadpole connection gave Astarion access to Iorveth's mind in this moment, Astarion would have gotten a glimpse into Iorveth's incredibly unhorny thoughts about the matter.

He's actually still thinking about what in the nine hells an actually """interesting""" place would be, when Astarion poses the question of preference to him. His brow hikes again. ]

I don't dislike the feeling of your teeth in my neck. [ Matter-of-factly. ] But I want you to mind my tattoo.

[ So Astarion will have to drink from the un-inked side of Iorveth. He's noticed that the previous puncture wounds hadn't made a mark on his skin the way Cazador's teeth have on Astarion's neck, but pointing that out seems gauche. ]

Do I keep my hands to myself?

[ I don't dislike the feeling. Iorveth is so annoying.

Still, with that confirmation, he pushes himself away from the tree and places his hands on Iorveth's shoulders, careful of his wound as he manhandles him into Astarion's previous position. Easier that way, he thinks, with something solid behind him to lean against. The last thing he needs is for Iorveth to get woozy, fall, and hit his head; he's already injured enough as it is.

In fact, it's remarkably stupid for him to let Astarion feed on him now when he's already lost blood. Astarion decides not to point this out. ]

I suppose that depends on how much you don't dislike it, doesn't it? I'm sure you won't have a reason to touch me if you're only tolerating it.

[ Iorveth is grateful for the solidness of the tree behind him, and the way it helps him balance. He hasn't forgotten that he literally passed out the last time he did this, and that he's already in a sorry state now, but there's eerily no discomfort or anxiety around this upcoming bloodletting. It's likely that the previous declaration of trust helped, as well as everything that happened between the first time and now.

He snorts softly at Astarion using his own words against him, but follows it with a repositioning of his posture, his stance. He raises one hand to Astarion's uninjured side, and presses the other to the nape of his neck. Almost intimate, but not quite; closer than they'd been on Astarion's bed. ]

Like this, then.

[ Actions speaking louder than underwhelming words. "I don't dislike it" translates to a semi-embrace, apparently. ]

[ The corner of his mouth tugs up, faint but noticeable. ]

All right. [ An answer to a question Iorveth didn't ask but did all the same. It's all right. He doesn't mind. In fact, the gentle contact feels— pleasant, after all of that fighting. Dryly, he adds, ] I don't dislike the feeling.

[ Astarion keeps one hand on Iorveth's shoulder to anchor him upright against the trunk of the tree while the other rises to tilt Iorveth's head to his liking, exposing the long line of his neck. He swallows preemptively, the dull ache of hunger in his stomach turning into an insistent gnaw. ]

Tell me when you've had enough.

[ That's all he says before he leans in, the points of his fangs a pinprick sensation at first as they drag along Iorveth's skin, then a sharp, sudden sting as they puncture his vein. The pain numbs almost as quickly as it came on, reduced to soreness as he laps at the new wound. ]

[ Astarion is cute when he pouts, beautiful when he smiles. Seeing that little twitch is a genuine thrill, and Astarion might be able to feel that slight hike in pulse when he puts teeth to and through skin.

Iorveth is ready for the pain this time around― in fact, the pinprick feels negligible compared to the serrated sensation of a sword. A pleasant ache that eases to a strange burning, then the backwards vertigo of being drained. Time becomes elastic; Iorveth floats, but paradoxically holds onto Astarion a bit tighter, fingers gripping without entirely clinging. Finding comfort in anchoring, more like.

His blood is rare: it's likely that even Cazador has never tasted an Aen Seidhe. Iorveth doesn't ever intend for anyone else to ever taste his people's blood, let alone spill it, but Astarion is an exception to his rule. He thinks about that in a haze, and it's when his thoughts start to lean this side of delirious― like what he would've done if he'd met Astarion a century ago, or what Astarion would've done to a fugitive Iorveth when he was still a magistrate― that he thinks, "fuck I might be losing too much blood".

The hand at the back of Astarion's neck slides down, and Iorveth tugs at his collar. He's surprised by how little grip strength he has. ] Astarion.

Edited 2024-07-04 04:51 (UTC)

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