nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ A few weeks ago, Iorveth's response to this might've been "don't be a child"; then again, a few weeks ago, he would've walked away far before this particular conversation could even have taken place. Growth, he thinks wryly to himself.

The wryness dissipates, though. Because he is― fond, that is. Despite everything in him telling him that it's phenomenally stupid to get attached, the answer to Astarion's question is fairly simple. ]

I've told you once, how. [ Tugging at Astarion's wrist. Like trying to get a particularly stubborn cat to turn back and look at him. ] But I'll rephrase what I said.

If anyone did anything untoward to you, I'd kill them without a second thought.

[ Turn back and look at him this stubborn cat does, because while he might be impossible most of the time, at the end of the day he's really quite simple to please. The corner of his mouth twitches with a barely suppressed smile, stifled because he's supposed to be angry with Iorveth. He doesn't support Astarion's ascension, he rejected Astarion's proposition of staying without even a moment of consideration, and he has the brass to denounce untowardness when Astarion still bears a wound from being stabbed, which is very untoward indeed.

He takes a few small steps toward Iorveth, working very hard to keep a frown on his face. ]

I suppose I do enjoy watching you draw blood.

[

]

[ Honestly, Iorveth is under the impression that this would be the biggest reason why they would both be miserable if Iorveth were just kept (setting aside the fact that his pride wouldn't let him be anyone's trophy elf): what good would an unhinged elf who's been fighting all his life be, if he weren't fighting?

Since Astarion deigns to approach him again, Iorveth lets his grip around his wrist unfurl. Scrutinizing him, still, but with more patience. ]

I would fight for who you are, not for what you could give me.

[ A gesture with one hand, waving to Astarion vaguely. ]

―Though, your offer of safety is... [ He stops, trying to find the word for it. ] ...Appreciated.

[ It's a struggle to admit it: that he, too, wants somewhere that he can feel at ease. He turns to the side, his turn to cast himself in profile and look at something vague and shapeless in the trees. ]

And yet you spurn it.

[ A little bitterness creeps back into his voice. It would all be so simple, if only Iorveth would let it be. He'd have the sort of power that doesn't even require lifting a finger to wield—influence—and neither of them would have to worry about being victimized ever again. Astarion would be happy, he thinks. Surely Iorveth would be able to find some contentment, too. ]

I'll— think on what you've said.

[ Unlikely, he thinks, that he'll have a change of heart. He wants safety so badly that he'd do nearly anything for it, slaughtering his entire family included. Astarion will feel sorry for them when the time comes, but surely they'd jump at the chance to do the same to him.

All the same, it's a gesture of... goodwill, he supposes. ]

But I don't intend to be anyone's errand boy or farmhand.

[ Introspection is difficult when the only things that you have to reflect on are continuous nightmares; Iorveth understands that, at least. Hard to think on anything when thinking requires dredging up unpleasant reminders of a horrific past. What Iorveth is asking of Astarion isn't easy.

So he contents himself with that acquiescence, and chooses not to say anything biting. Instead, he combs out the remnants of the braid in Astarion's hair, and rights his curls in their proper place again. ]

Pity. You would've had front row seats to Lae'zel and Shadowheart's domestic bickering.

[ See, we have jokes here.

A re-straightening of posture, and Iorveth takes his first few steps towards the park exit. He'll have to lie down for a bit once they're back in Elfsong. ]

It's not as fun anymore now that I know they aren't going to brutally murder each other.

[ Lightly, as if they haven't been throwing around such weighty topics as the future and sacrificing his siblings to a devil. He watches Iorveth walk for a moment, then reaches out for his arm. More manhandling, as he slings Iorveth's arm around his shoulders to support his weight while walking. ]

—If you fall and hit your head because of wooziness, we'll never hear the end of it from Shadowheart.

[ The manhandling prompts an obvious flicker of surprise, but Iorveth allows the slinging of his arm without protest, and tests the realignment of his balance with Astarion by his side for support.

It's moments like these that Iorveth likes to think he sees Astarion more clearly, even beyond the easy way he responds to praise or bare-boned acknowledgment. There's a sort of mirroring that happens, Astarion's pride and caution with his own.

Again, he could strangle Astarion for making him feel enamored over these trifles. If Wyll or Gale or Karlach extended the same offer, it would be another graceful gesture among many others; it's unfathomable why it rings differently when it's Astarion. ]

Of course. [ A low huff, half-exasperated and half-amused. ] That's exactly what this is.

[ Iorveth, all almost-six-feet of him, momentarily drapes over Astarion like a wood-elf-shaped blanket. He murmurs something, not in Common, with his lips pressed to Astarion's hair; satisfied, he lets Astarion take the lead in walking back. ]

[ For the second time tonight, Astarion burns hot with humiliation — this time for an entirely different reason. It feels good to have someone so close, embarrassingly so, and his entire body feels warm, not only the places where Iorveth's very alive body connects with his cold, dead one. He's done the most degenerate and depraved acts one could possibly think of, but it's this innocent gesture that has his chest fluttering. He feels cared for, which feels downright scandalous.

He's resolute in looking straight ahead as they make their way out the gate and start the trek back to the Elfsong. If he looks at Iorveth now, while his emotions are betraying him, he's liable to say all sorts of things. ]

If you're going to talk to me like that, the least you could do is translate. [ He dislikes the idea that Iorveth is saying things to him that he can't understand. Astarion does so hate to be left out. ] Or I'll start talking to you in Thieves' Cant.

You wouldn't. It'd make you sound lowbrow.

[ From what little of Thieves' Cant Iorveth has heard before, and could arguably decipher. It's meant to be a light tease, a verbal elbow-nudge at Astarion and his carefully cultivated image, but. Pot, kettle, etc. ]

As for translations, hm.

I rather like the idea of saying something unspeakably filthy to you in my tongue, without you being able to understand it.

[ Offhandedly. It's mostly a joke― Iorveth isn't exactly the type― but turnabout is fair play, and it is, admittedly, kind of novel to think of saying something wildly inappropriate while Astarion looks up at him with those big, red eyes. ]

[ Lowbrow. He hates that Iorveth is always right about him, yet he can't help enjoying it, too. It's irksome. It's gratifying. He feels known, which is mortifying and magnificent. ]

Mm.

[ Iorveth wouldn't, is his first thought. He treats Astarion not unlike a skittish animal. If he feels any hint of desire, he's successfully eradicated it from external view. Even sharing a bed had been remarkably chaste. It's fine, of course, that Iorveth isn't wildly lusting after him. It's only that it's a little bit offensive, because surely Astarion is worth wildly lusting after.

Astarion has never had much self-restraint. Despite telling himself not to, he glances at Iorveth. ]

I'd rather you said unspeakably filthy things to me in a language I can comprehend, if it's all the same to you.

[ Restraint is Iorveth's bread and butter; he's also had more than a century to learn what comes of permissiveness. No one outside of his close circle has ever touched him without the intent to harm, and when outsiders did manage to get their hands on him, they'd ruined him forever. Made him undesirable, ugly. Said as much, and has continued to say as much.

So Iorveth doesn't think that Astarion seriously wants him. Wants companionship and attention, sure, but not intimacy. They can talk about seduction until the sun comes up, but Iorveth assumes that it's just that: talk.

Still, he isn't made of stone. He watches Astarion glance up at him from the crook of his shoulder, unerringly beautiful from every angle, even in the dim of night. ]

...It'd be good for a laugh, perhaps. [ He thinks he can deal with that, without the kneejerk I'll kill you for making light of me instincts kicking into gear. Again, Astarion is cute when he pouts, but it's best when he laughs, unburdened and buoyant; Iorveth reaches up and touches his fingertips to the corner of his companion's mouth, where his blood'd been earlier. ]

Edited 2024-07-07 11:59 (UTC)

[ Once again, Iorveth knows just what to say to make him bristle. He turns his head away from Iorveth's wandering hand, the only reason he doesn't move away entirely the fact that Iorveth is currently leaning his weight against him. It's neither a pout nor a laugh but a full-on scowl that he contorts his mouth into, nose wrinkling in distaste.

A laugh! Part of him thinks that he shouldn't be surprised that Iorveth thinks so lowly of him. Astarion is callous at the best of times, the type to giggle at others' misfortune, and he's certainly slung his fair share of mockery Iorveth's way— but a bigger part of him is still offended regardless. ]

Do you think me so cruel?

[ For the millionth time, Iorveth makes the mental association of a white cat hissing away from his touch. An unexpected reaction― he'd thought his statement was an indictment against himself, and not Astarion's personality. He says as much. ]

No. But I know myself; I'm many things, but not alluring.

[ A huff, almost like "don't make me have to spell that out". It's a chip on his own shoulder, he knows, and he tries to sweep the subject aside once he's made it clear that it's not Astarion's problem.

Still leaning, expression carefully neutral, Iorveth retracts his hand and waves it to the side, instead. ]

I'm also not impervious. If I ever speak about bedding you, some of my threats may not be as idle as I wish them to be.

[ Astarion's head tilts, not unlike a confused dog's. His brow furrows as he puts the pieces together in his mind, the picture forming slowly but surely. It's then that he laughs: a short, surprised, incredulous sound. ]

You think yourself unalluring?

[ Of course that's what this is about, not Astarion being— unwanted. He could smack himself for not noticing earlier. Selfish as he is, he'd only thought of himself, of his own feelings. He'd never once considered that prideful Iorveth might really think of himself as unappealing. If anything, he'd think Iorveth would denounce the importance of beauty altogether, call it something frivolous and shallow. ]

I don't know where you got that awful idea.

[ A lie, but a white one. He isn't blind. Iorveth was disfigured that way for a reason, an attempt to mar his appearance, but it's only an eye. It would be rather hypocritical of him, he thinks, to start judging others' battle scars when his own back is riddled with them.

He places a hand against Iorveth's torso, careful of his wound. ] I assure you, my dear, you're nothing short of captivating.

[ Beauty is a sidenote and lust is a distraction, but life doesn't exist without them. Iorveth watches Astarion puzzle through his statements, and the worst part is that he can tell that Astarion is being genuine, that the subsequent surprise and reassurance aren't derisive or patronizing.

It might've been easier if they were. For the first time in a long time, Iorveth is unsure of how to respond; he doesn't have anything quick to say, and it shows in his hesitation, in the transition of his expression from neutral to troubled to near-resigned. ]

You're the first in a good age to say so.

[ Not skeptical (he won't insult Astarion's sincerity), but muted. He reaches up to tug his new headscarf a little more snugly over his face. ]

...As I said, I'm not impervious to you. You'd do well to remember.

[ He'd expected—perhaps hoped—that Iorveth's reaction would be a bit more flattered. A little light swooning, at least, for Astarion's effort. Instead, his reaction is mild at best, the way he tugs on his headscarf reminiscent of a self-conscious child. (Iorveth's hackles would raise at that description, he thinks, so he doesn't say it aloud.)

Clearly, he only needs to turn up the charm. He reaches up, batting Iorveth's hand away from his scarf. He'd tug the stupid thing off, if only he weren't afraid that Iorveth would become irate with him. Astarion knows better than most that some scars aren't easy to bear. ]

Oh, [ he says, voice light and playful. ] So this dangerous woodland freedom fighter won't be able to resist me if I decide to show him just how alluring he is?

[ Hand effectively swatted away, it's Iorveth's turn now to think to scowl, unsure of what Astarion's intentions are with this, wary of being toyed with. But he dials the sentiment back, keeping the caution in the pit of his stomach as he tips his head towards his companion's light, breezy question.

It's bait, he thinks. For what? He still has no idea. ("It doesn't need to mean anything", he tells himself, but it rings too hollow for comfort.) ]

You needn't flatter me, [ is what he finally says in response. ] If you wanted me, I wouldn't refuse.

[ Regardless of whether Astarion thinks he's attractive or not, is what Iorveth means. Again, vanity is cheap, and it matters more to Iorveth that he's wanted, not that Astarion thinks he's attractive.

He lays it out frankly, but his gaze slides to the side, away from Astarion and his scrutiny. Not embarrassed, per se, but.

Okay, maybe a little bit embarrassed. Like he's been trying to avoid being like every other simpering idiot who looks at Astarion and has improper thoughts about him, how fucking mortifying. ]

Ugh! [ comes his response, face falling into a scowl to match Iorveth's. Now he's the one acting like a child, stomping his foot a little in frustration. He wriggles out from under Iorveth's arm so he can turn and face him completely, although he places both of his hands on Iorveth's shoulders to make certain he doesn't actually fall and hit his head.

Shaking his shoulders a little bit, Astarion says, annoyed, ] I'm flirting with you, you incorrigible dunce.

[ Or trying to, anyway. Astarion has seduced plenty of shy, lonely, insecure people in his time—they're the easiest marks, after all—but none have ever outright refused to acknowledge his charms in such a way. It's infuriating. Iorveth is the one who told him to get some self-respect, but he's being a terrible role model.

He pulls Iorveth to him by the shoulders, no doubt jostling his as-of-yet unhealed wound, and presses their lips together firmly. It's chaste by his standards, no open mouths to lick into suggestively, and it's over in little more than a heartbeat as he reels back and snaps, ] If you're going to keep acting like I'm walking you to your funeral, I won't do it again.

[ A lot of things happen in a short amount of time: Iorveth, still lightheaded from bloodloss, feels himself being peeled back, shaken, pulled back in, and－

－jolted out of his skin, when their lips meet. Surprised, confounded, relieved. It's barely anything at all, more a peck than a proper kiss, but Iorveth's let his mind wander over what this would feel like more times that he's comfortable admitting; the actual act of it feels just as thrilling as the first time Astarion broke his skin with his teeth.

He stands there, stunned into silence for a rare second, but he recovers quickly: an opening of floodgates, a culmination of every time he'd thought to strangle and kiss Astarion in the same breath. One hand curls over Astarion's hip, keeping him in place before he can think to slip away.

Iorveth leans in, and says something in his dialect again. Some terms are close enough to unified Elvish that Astarion might be able to interpret them: something about wanting, something about his mouth, something about someone's body. Probably not unspeakably filthy.

With that done: ] You're going to be the death of me. [ Truly. It's said on the tail end of a laugh, dry but honest. ]

Edited (nitpicky wording!!!!!!!!) 2024-07-08 05:26 (UTC)

[ The rush is not unlike the first time he drank from a thinking creature. Thanks to Lae'zel's reticence to allow him a taste, it had been goblin's blood, pure swill; it was thrilling all the same to indulge in free will for the very first time. He wonders, briefly, if he should tell Iorveth that this is the only time he's ever kissed someone of his own volition. No, not only — he's sure there must have been lovers back before the bite, but none of their memories stood the test of two centuries of time. It's, at least, the only time he can remember actually wanting to kiss someone.

The excitement shares space with nervousness, too, in those first moments before Iorveth responds. The second of silence feels like an eternity, and when he finally speaks, Astarion's shoulders relax. A second of his own silence ticks by after that, Astarion peering at Iorveth expectantly, waiting for something that he realizes isn't coming— ]

Are you going to kiss me or not?

[ As always, demanding. ]

[ Demanded, Iorveth laughs again. ]

I wonder.

[ Flirting. Fingers brush under Astarion's chin and trace up the jut of his jaw, near-reverent, and Iorveth savors the moment for a whisper of a second before craning forward. Their foreheads brush together, then their noses, and it seems like this might be the farthest Iorveth is willing to push himself until he finally bridges the distance with one graceful lean. Mouth to mouth, lingering; he doesn't pull back until Astarion parts his lips to breathe, kissing through that inhale-exhale before breaking contact.

He can't remember how long it's been since the last time he's done this. Not after the destruction of his face, certainly.

Thumbing under Astarion's lower lip, Iorveth finally takes one step back. ]

...A shame, that we have to go back to the others.

[ Not that he's implying that he wants to rip Astarion's clothes and go at it right now, but he really can't think of a good excuse for dragging Astarion into his bed with him, even just to take a nap again together. Things were so much more uncomplicated when they were camping outside. ]

[ It's nothing like the kisses he shared with Cazador's victims, aggressive and obscene as they were. In comparison, it's downright juvenile. Surprisingly sweet. Receiving it makes shame twist in his stomach, like he's undeserving of such gentleness, but he feels pleased, too. Every inch of him feels embarrassingly, wonderfully hot from the innocent affection alone, like an adolescent being kissed for the first time. ]

Oh.

[ Like the thought is only just occurring to him. There's a little bit of comfort in that, in knowing Iorveth won't expect anything. Thrilling as it is to touch and be touched, the prospect of intimacy still makes him feel unmoored. The humiliation and disgust of being used still feels sharp in his mind, and he can't help but fear the idea of feeling it again. On the other hand, his dead, unbeating heart flutters with excitement at the thought of merely kissing Iorveth another time.

He clears his throat. ]

Yes, I suppose it would be rather uncouth to ravage you in the middle of the street.

[ Iorveth doesn't buy "ravage" for a moment. He's too busy being devastatingly endeared by the oh and the clearing of Astarion's throat, two sounds that are a mirror of his own incredulity; he would've kissed Astarion again if not for the reminder that they are, in fact, still standing in the middle of the street.

For the first time in ages, Iorveth feels out of his depth. Enamored. He watches Astarion with the same (but entirely dissimilar) softness he'd shown Ciaran back at the tavern, when the two of them brushed knuckles against knuckles. ]

―That's as unlikely as you speaking Thieves' Cant.

[ A low chuckle, calling Astarion's bluff while he traces along the point of his ear, savoring the feel of him for a few more beats before he makes himself keep his hands to himself again. They'll never get back to Elfsong at this rate. ]

Come, before I let things get even more out of hand.

[ Iorveth is still dizzy, and there's still the looming business of "Master Cazador has known where Astarion was this entire time." An unsettling thought amidst all this foolish goodness, that someone could be monitoring Astarion, even now. ]

Oh, I don't know. I wouldn't mind if they got a little more out of hand.

[ It's the first time in a long time it's felt good to be in this body. He wants to chase that feeling, public street be damned, but instead he slings Iorveth's arm back around his shoulders to help steady him, glancing down with a private smile.

By the time they make it back to the Elfsong, the sky has turned the blue-violet of twilight. He takes the stairs with careful, light steps, wary of waking anyone not out of politeness but selfishness, because that will mean the moment is truly over. Still, as the door softly creaks open, he turns to Iorveth, voice lowered: ]

Shall I pour water on Shadowheart's head to wake her, or will you survive the night?

[ It's a chore, having to slowly untangle himself from his surprisingly-coveted spot once they're standing back outside of their rented room, but Iorveth manages. All the little aches and pains have returned by now, the fuzziness of bloodloss receding back to make way for more awareness, but he finds that it hardly matters. ]

I'll live. [ Not keen on ruining whatever this is to start a row about injuries. He straightens, aware that he probably looks ridiculous in his ruined, bloodstained shirt, hoping that no one wakes up as a consequence of them walking through that door. ] ...I'd thought to ask to share a bed again, but it may be better left for the next time you want blood.

[ The reason for not asking tonight being that he will absolutely spend half the morning passed out with his arms around Astarion, long after everyone's already woken up. Unless Astarion doesn't mind having to deal with everyone peeking, Iorveth will spare him the trouble. ]

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