nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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)

[ Iorveth's blood is just as good the second time — better, even, because Astarion has been hungering for it since the first drop he spilled. There's something wonderful in being able to indulge in something he's so often been denied, freely given. His eyes slide shut as he luxuriates in the feeling, the whole world narrowed down to the taste of Iorveth's blood on his tongue.

He's so lost in the sensation that he doesn't notice the weak tug, his hazy mind only distantly registering the sound of his name. Every vampiric impulse in him longs to keep drinking and damn the consequences, but after a brief delay, he pulls himself away, swallowing thickly. It's only then that his eyes drop to Iorveth's hand on his collar, realization trickling in slowly.

Unlike Iorveth, he feels stronger than ever. He slides both hands back to Iorveth's shoulders, supporting his weight against the tree as his gaze travels, blood-drunk and fuzzy, over his face. ]

Ah— too much?

[ He's not sure if he sees Astarion in double because of the proximity, or because of the bloodloss. Doesn't matter, Iorveth supposes― he sees enough of it, the fuzzy outline of striking features marred only by a thin smudge of red.

It's Iorveth's turn to swipe Astarion's face with a thumb, relinquishing his grip on Astarion's collar to do so, wiping his own blood from the corner of that perfect mouth to bring it to his own scar-torn lips. It just tastes like lukewarm copper to him, making him wrinkle his nose somewhat. ]

Just enough. [ He manages not to sway, but leans into the welcome support of twin hands at his shoulders. ] Not for you, I imagine.

[ A blithe half-tease. He feels lightheaded, but pleasantly so. ]

[ His eyes drop to the streak of red disappearing into Iorveth's tongue. He swallows again. When he looks back up, his eyes are shiny in the moonlight, pupils slightly dilated like a frisky kitten's.

With a playful grin, he quips, ] Oh, yes. I just can't get enough of you.

[ In truth, no, it's not enough. No fault of Iorveth's, when Astarion could drain him dry and he'd still want more. The curse of the vampire is to be eternally hungry. Still, the blood quiets the persistent pangs to a soft hum, entirely tolerable, and the way he feels— it's indescribable how the blood of a thinking creature feels running through his veins. Relief washes over him first, followed by a lightheaded giddiness.

Astarion takes the liberty of manhandling Iorveth again, this time down onto the grass to sit before he falls over. He settles down beside him, back leaning against the tree trunk, and glances sidelong at him. ]

Thank you. [ He's unpracticed in gratitude, the words feeling odd and foreign in his mouth, but the sentiment is genuine. ] I do appreciate your... goodwill.

[ Sitting again, an echo of the first time save for where Astarion is positioned this time around, next to him instead of a few paces away. A strange, welcome progression of things. It makes Iorveth smile despite himself, and tuck away anything snide and distancing that he might've said to someone else. ]

It's earned, [ regarding his goodwill. ] I don't usually give it to just anyone.

[ Which Astarion is sure to know by now. Wary, overcautious Iorveth who sets traps for people just to see if they'll trip them. Just as good at keeping people at arm's length as Astarion is, in a different way.

He releases a tired exhale, disguised as a chuckle. ]

But next time you ask me for my blood, do it in the inn.

[ For a heartbeat, his mouth makes the shape of an 'O'. He hadn't quite considered that location would make a difference, but now that Iorveth has verbalized it, it seems obvious. Yes, biting his throat in the park might not have been the wisest choice. (Oh, well. He doesn't plan on abandoning Iorveth to lie weak and bloodless in the dirt, which is downright gentlemanly of him.) ]

I expect our companions may have something to say about bloodsucking in the room. [ Lae'zel, probably. She has something to say about nearly everything. He finds that he minds it far less than he used to. ] —Ah, but I've never let their sensitivities stop me before.

[ He shifts against the tree, brushing their shoulders together as if by accident and then leaving them there. It isn't as if Iorveth has the energy to move away. ]

Are you going to braid my hair this time?

[ He'd say something about biting in the room being preferable to having the two of them sneaking out so often, but it sounds a little too close to innuendo; Iorveth is still wary of provocation, so he sets that thought aside. Good thing Astarion brings up the question of braiding hair, which is moderately easier to speak on. ]

I could.

[ Reaching up to find a piece of silver hair long enough to wind into a plait, if Astarion doesn't swat the hand away first. It's easier with Astarion's shoulder to lean on, his hands freed from the effort of keeping himself up.

Idly: ] Vampires don't age, but can they grow out their hair? [ Imagine if someone was turned when they had the worst haircut of their life. Bloodloss thoughts. ] This length suits you, though.

[ Astarion preens, basking in the attention the way a standoffish cat does when it finally deigns to allow a brushing. It hadn't actually been a request so much as a tease, but the feeling isn't unpleasant. The sort of affectionate thing you might do for someone you care about. No one else has ever done something like that for him. ]

It does, doesn't it?

[ Not a trace of modesty in his voice. With how much effort he puts in, his hair had damned well better flatter him. ]

A vampire remains just as he was when he was turned. He'll never wrinkle, never grow out his hair, never change. [ A thoughtful exhale, then: ] How lucky I am to have been bitten with such a stylish coif.

[ An experimental twining of hair results in a thin little braid that hangs in front of one shapely ear, liable to untangle the moment Astarion does any walking. It's pretty enough, though, and Iorveth pinches it between his fingers, smoothing it down. ]

Beauty, enduring. A blessing and a curse. [ Elves have longevity, sure, but to be immortal seems insurmountable. Iorveth sets that thought aside, too, along with the provocation, as it's more morose than he'd like. ]

You would've been annoyingly fetching in a magistrate's robes.

[ And Iorveth probably would have hated Astarion as a magistrate. He laughs under his breath at the lingering thought of that, persistent even after Astarion's taken his teeth out of his neck. ]

Oh, would I have?

[ He nudges Iorveth with his shoulder, smiling roguishly. It's not a real question, of course, only a tease. Obviously, he would have been fetching then — he's fetching now. It still tickles him to hear nevertheless, fond as he is of praise. His good looks seem one of the few things Iorveth has consistent accolades for. Most everything else, he's remarkably withholding about, although Astarion is coming to believe that might just be Iorveth's temperament rather than any indication of his thoughts. He'll take what he can get, regardless. ]

A pity you weren't there to see it, then.

[ Iorveth's hatred of him would have far eclipsed any appreciation for his appearance, he thinks. But the him of two-hundred-plus years ago would have done worse than hated Iorveth: he would have been entirely indifferent to him, apathetic about anything that happened to him. ]

...But perhaps for the best.

[ He huffs, reciprocating the nudge. The easiness of the gesture feels a bit like home, a dull ache that hurts and heals in the same breath. ]

Assuredly. I would have had nothing in common with you, nor you with me. Not even if we had a tadpole in our skulls.

[ The Illithid connection is an afterthought by now, really. They're bound together by it (and, Iorveth suspects to some extent, a Withers-shaped form of Fate), and they'll continue to journey together to rid themselves of it, but Iorveth knows himself too well to think that he would be here, in this spot, bloodless and leaning against a vampire spawn, purely out of necessity.

Iorveth smiles again, though the expression is bare-boned. Like a physical whisper. ]

For the best, that I'm drawn to what you are now.

[ It'll be hard, he thinks, when he'll have to part ways. He doesn't imagine that Astarion will want to leave Baldur's Gate after all's said and done, and Iorveth wouldn't ask him to make that choice.

Another soft breath, and he cranes to press that wan smile to Astarion's forehead. Quick and simple, almost like an afterthought; he tries to get up afterwards, gently dislodging himself from Astarion's side. ] We should head back.

[ The press of Iorveth's lips to his forehead is a surprisingly sweet gesture, and in his blood-drunk haze, it's perhaps the most thrilling thing that's ever happened to him. For a second, he thinks to chase Iorveth as he pulls away and press their mouths together properly, which is— oh. It's the first time he's wanted to do that in a very long time. The thinness of his smile gives Astarion pause, though; the more he looks at it, the more he feels like he's done something wrong that he can't quite place.

It's the blood loss, he reasons. Anyone would be weak after that.

Although he doesn't really want to return to their lodgings, he stands. Iorveth should be seen to by Shadowheart sooner rather than later, he supposes. If he'd wanted to lie in the grass and watch the sun rise, he should have stayed his blade. Speaking of his dagger, his eyes rove over the grass until he spots it lying several paces away, and he leans over to pick it up. As he does, he glances at Iorveth. ]

How do you feel? [ A beat, and then— ] I hope I wasn't too savage with you.

[ Iorveth isn't Halsin, but even he has his moments of missing their outdoors camp and the freedom it afforded outside of the confines of four walls. It would've been easier to tug Astarion aside and linger near the river until the morning, or to climb nearby hills and spread out on grass until morning dew forced them to return back to their tents.

Just wood elf things. He's debating wandering over to the other side of the park where the rest of his arrows are bound to be lying around or embedded in trees, but that would require effort and energy on his part. His first wandering step is interrupted by Astarion's question, which actually prompts a short laugh (he has more of these to spare than usual, tonight). ]

I agreed to your savagery. Besides, I've no interest in someone who can't fight for themselves.

[ News at eleven: unhinged elf only likes people who could possibly kill him. ]

My pale imitation of Cazador likely left you dissatisfied, though. That was the point of this entire excursion, if I recall.

[ Astarion sheathes the dagger and returns to Iorveth's side, sobering quickly at the mention of Cazador. Ah, right. This wasn't only so they could stab each other for the fun of it. Cazador is out there waiting, and it's only a matter of time before he sends Astarion's siblings after him again. For a centuries old vampire, patience is not one of Cazador's traits.

He frowns, silent in thought for a moment. ]

If this infernal ritual is all that it's purported to be, Cazador won't stop coming for me.

[ The power it offers is too great for a megalomaniac like him to ignore, and only for the small cost of his seven spawn. It's a wonder he didn't sacrifice them sooner. ]

We'll need to strike sooner rather than later, so I can snatch the power from his greedy hands.

[ Everything Astarion says falls into place, until that last addendum. An echo of what he'd said back in Elfsong, when they'd be ambushed: that he'd claim the title of Ascendant as a way to triumph over Cazador.

Abandoning his arrows altogether (he has enough coin to buy a new bundle), Iorveth turns to Astarion, fixing both focus and attention on him more fully. Or, well, as fully as his bloodloss will allow. ]

You still mean to complete the rite in his place?

[ Obviously, Iorveth has thoughts about that. More obviously, his thoughts aren't positive, and not quite because he sympathizes with the plight of the other spawn. He only has so much empathy to spare. ]

You'd only be emulating him, if you do. [ Spending an eternity bound to Cazador by choosing the same path as him. Never free, which is always the crux of Iorveth's values. ]

[ Emulating him. Astarion bristles. Clearly, Iorveth doesn't have enough blood supplying his brain if he's saying such ridiculous things. Everything Cazador has—will ever have—is rightfully his. After what he's been put through, he's owed reparations... starting with whatever fiendish power Cazador is courting with this ritual. It's not emulation, it's justice. The first bit of justice he'll have gotten in the last two hundred years. ]

No, I won't.

[ He waves a hand, as if to brush Iorveth's silly concerns aside. As if it's only a misunderstanding, and that Iorveth will soon come around to see things his way. ]

I'll be surpassing him.

You'd be returning to him. Back into the four walls that he built.

[ Iorveth is careful not to say that Astarion will become Cazador, the voice in his head whispering, again, that Astarion needs a softer touch than that.

He's aware, though, that one conversation won't topple a grudge two hundred years in the making. Especially not after they've been freshly ambushed by members of the toxic Szarr "family", lectured about the immediacy and importance of the ritual-to-be. It's only natural that Astarion would throw up familiar walls.

Still. Iorveth doesn't love being waved aside, so he offers his opinion where it's not asked for, calm and unflinching. Same old. ]

You've already surpassed him, Astarion. Cazador, with all his power, is a coward who fears the world outside the boundaries of his mansion. He can only rest easy if the world is shaped to his liking, his courage butchered in the name of ambition. But you...

[ Iorveth tips his head. ] ...You've more courage than you give yourself credit for.

Edited (i see you, typo) 2024-07-06 02:00 (UTC)

[ Courage. He frowns, irritated that Iorveth is questioning him in the first place and that Iorveth only sees fit to say such nice things now. Why can't he tell Astarion that he's beautiful and courageous and wonderful and that he's going to be the most amazing Vampire Ascendant the world has ever seen? Is it too much to ask for a little support? ]

And soon I'll be courageous and powerful.

[ That's when he'll have really surpassed Cazador. When he's so powerful no one will ever be able to victimize him again.

He crosses his arms over his chest, silent for a moment before saying, ] I meant what I said, you know. [ About the Aen Seidhe. That the strong will always subjugate the weak. ] In this world, one either whips or gets whipped. Given the choice, I know which side I'd rather be on.

[ He's been whipped for long enough. ]

—And all for the low, low price of all of my brothers and sisters.

[ Just the barest flash of indignation, at "I meant what I said". Not particularly because the sentiment is wrong― Iorveth's been aware for some time that he's fighting a losing battle― but because it didn't need to be reiterated.

No matter. This isn't about him. And, again, two hundred years of enduring torture isn't so easily overturned by what boils down to "well, you're wrong". ]

I'm not telling you not to kill him. Or your so-called siblings, if it suits you.

[ That's Astarion's business, and not all families are made equal. Iorveth lays that out with casual candor, leaning on one leg for balance. ]

But at least consider your options between now and killing Cazador. My two cents on the matter, I suppose.

[ Pennies, if Astarion wishes to pick them up. Iorveth looks towards the sky, the night still thick but beginning to show signs of faint transition. Ink-black turning to dark blue. ]

[ It doesn't suit him, exactly. He'd prefer not to slaughter his siblings despite the animosity brewing between them, but it would mean power, and power means safety. That's worth sacrificing a few spawn who were doomed anyway. Better he does it than Cazador.

He can sense Iorveth going easy on him, a softness he doesn't usually possess. Holding himself back, perhaps, from saying things that might upset Astarion further. It's not enough to pacify him entirely, but it is enough that he doesn't bite back the way he might otherwise. A little nip, at most. ]

Oh, yes. I'm replete with options.

[ Iorveth has something to go back to, no matter how futile his efforts to save his people may be. Astarion has been a ghost of a person for two hundred years. Whatever would he do with himself, if not take over in Cazador's stead? With Cazador dead and the tadpole out of his head, he'll be nothing but a creature skulking in the dark again. ]

[ A soft snort, at Astarion's sarcastic quip about his options. ]

Young Ravengard would be amenable to giving you hearth and duty in the city. Jaheira is fond enough of you that she'd find errands for you to do once the Illithid threat is taken care of. Gale might take you vacationing in Waterdeep.

You might even start a farm with Shadowheart and Lae'zel.

[ Delivered dryly, but without derision. The point here is: ]

You're cared for. Whether you accept it or not, you're among busybodies.

[ Sure, being a Vampire Ascendant looks cool on paper― and it might be, Iorveth has no idea. He's just a wood elf. But, unlike Cazador, Astarion actually has friends, which is the sad state of things in this world. How cringe, for all of them. (Affectionate.) ]

[ Duty. Errands. Farming. Listening to Gale talk about Waterdeep for hours on end. None of that stokes a fire in him. For centuries, he's only wanted one thing: Cazador dead. He's never so much as fantasized about what might come after that before now. He can't imagine the idea of living a peaceful life, one unmarked by the ravages of power and what it takes to keep it. It's two hundred years too late for that, he thinks.

He clasps his hands together behind his back, eyeing Iorveth warily. ]

And you?

[ His tone of voice betrays that this isn't a question borne out of curiosity; it's a test. ]

Shall I expect a yearly postcard?

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