nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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. ]

[ Astarion steps through the darkened doorway, light-footed. The sound of Scratch's soft snoring fills the room, no light save for the moon rays that filter in through the windows. Peaceful, despite the commotion with his siblings that happened only hours ago. One might almost mistake them all for normal people, he thinks.

He slips Iorveth's arm off of his shoulders, a hand against his back to steady him. ]

Pity, [ he says, tone light. ] I might have had an answer you liked, if only you'd had the courage to ask.

[ Sometimes, Astarion is so adept at getting under his skin that Iorveth finds it intolerable. What's more intolerable is that Iorveth wouldn't want Astarion to be more tolerable, which reminds him that this is yet another battle that he won't win.

He frowns, because of course he does. Hikes his chin, posture straight with his spine stacked against Astarion's palm. ]

As I recall, [ is a soft drawl, ] you were the one that kicked me awake last time.

[ "I'm trying to be considerate," he doesn't say. (Suggests it, though, with a raise of his brow.) They simply cannot start bickering here in the early morning with their bloody shirts, but Iorveth will be Iorveth.

He curses lightly under his breath. ] Come to my bed, then.

[ That frown. Astarion would like to take his hands and forcibly turn it upside down, but he doesn't. Iorveth wouldn't be Iorveth if he weren't always scowling — so often at or because of Astarion. ]

You can kick me awake this time, if it pleases you. [ So he says, all the while knowing how much he would whine if Iorveth dared to kick him. That's half the fun, though, isn't it?

With a roguish quietness, he disappears behind the drapes partitioning Iorveth's space from the rest of their crew's. They've shared a bed before, but he finds himself strangely nervous as he perches on the edge of the mattress and removes his shoes. It feels different now, or maybe he just feels different now, more charged. He doesn't let it show, leaning back on his palms as if it's his own bed. ]

Do try not to bleed all over the pillow. I might not be able to help myself.

[ He waits until Astarion is situated behind the partitions before slipping into his now-familiar sleeping space, reaching to clear some extraneous items from his bed before either of them can get comfortable on it. Maintenance supplies, a spare pair of leather gauntlets, and cleaning cloth get sequestered aside in a neat pile; Iorveth tosses his ruined shirt next to his supplies once he peels it off, deeming it too stained to salvage.

He's too tired to pull more clothes on. He has no misgivings about the rest of his body the way he does with his face, so there's no bashfulness as he settles on the mattress and pulls Astarion over towards him, less reserved about contact this time around. No two-inch sliver of polite space between them to mind, either. ]

I could do worse than wake up to your mouth on my neck.

[ "Don't threaten me with a good time, punk." It might be fun, even, to watch Astarion have to apologize to their campmates for turning Iorveth into a desiccated corpse－ after Withers revives Iorveth, that is.

He tries to maneuver them down, flat or on their sides, he'll let Astarion decide. ]

I used to sleep in armor, [ he says, on their way down. His voice is barely above a murmur. ] And never next to anyone I didn't feel safe with.

[ A rare little admission, one that makes the back of his throat itch. ]

[ Astarion allows the maneuvering, head hitting the pillow softly before he shifts onto his side to face Iorveth. His eyes drift over the cut on his cheek, his bloodied shoulder, the wound in his side. His tattoo, trailing down his torso and disappearing beneath his waistband. ]

Oh, [ he says again, stupidly. Part of him feels pleased, special. Another part of him wonders just how safe Iorveth would feel with him if he knew all of the details of what Astarion did to survive. How callous he was, how little he fought back. ]

You know, I'd never shared a bed before, without— [ Well. No need to be uncouth. His gaze drifts to the side, ashamed. ] Cazador's influence. [ He laughs under his breath, dry. ] You were my first.

[ It's that stillsame anger that burns in Iorveth when he sees how Astarion flicks his gaze to the side, the embers he's been nursing in the pit of his gut ever since he decided to pick up his weapons and start his unholy crusade against racists. The revulsion isn't for Astarion, obviously, but the circumstances behind that flutter of shame, imposed on him like so many other things likely had been.

It rankles to think about. Iorveth has taken every assault and murder of elves over the past decades personally, but this feels different even from that particular brand of grief.

A low breath, in and out. No use trying to kill Cazador in his mind; that's for Astarion to do, and do gleefully. Shifting on the bed, he reaches and combs Astarion's hair out of his face, letting his expression relax into something less sharp than his usual normal. ]

Then we're both treading new waters. [ He lets his lips curve into a faint smile, anger effectively swallowed by distant fondness. ] And you'll not be burdened by influence any longer. Any bed you choose will be your own.

[ He'd held his breath—metaphorically, given his useless lungs—waiting for Iorveth to respond. Afraid that, maybe, he'd realize how used up Astarion is and change his mind about all of this. When he doesn't, Astarion's every muscle releases the tension he'd been holding, melting into the mattress. ]

How sweet you are, when you're low on blood.

[ Because he isn't normally this sweet, and it should be encouraged. Rewarded. He musters up the courage to run the back of his knuckles over the puncture marks his teeth left in Iorveth's skin. ]

If I'd known, I'd have drunk from you earlier.

[ Ignoring, of course, the fact that Iorveth would have stabbed him for biting without asking. ]

[ A soft snort, at sweet. No human in the Northern Forests would ever believe the terrorist of the woods to be capable of softness, let alone sweetness, but Iorveth lets it slide for now; he may be a monster of his own making, but he'll allow himself this foolish gentleness, at least until the sun comes back up.

Astarion's cool touch to the still-warm punctures is soothing, coaxing Iorveth to close his one eye. ]

You'd find me tiresome if I were nice all the time.

[ He assumes. Maybe there was a time in his life when all he'd ever been was soft-handed, but Iorveth can't remember that person now; two eyes, long hair, unburdened. He chose not to be that person anymore, and he wonders, for a brief moment, if Astarion would've preferred that Iorveth.

But he doesn't dwell on it, and instead, he pulls Astarion closer against his chest. A handful of a vampire, literally, but he wouldn't settle for anything less. ]

[ He's enveloped in Iorveth's body heat, so close Astarion can feel his heartbeat and listen to his breathing. There's no way, he thinks, that he'll ever be able to meditate with this much distraction. But he closes his eyes, wriggling one hand free from where it's trapped between their bodies to place it gingerly against Iorveth's side, almost shy. He's touched the bare skin of hundreds if not thousands of people, but this feels somehow different, paradoxically more intimate in its innocence. ]

Mm, [ he says, noncommittally, then admits, ] I suppose I am rather fond of the way you are now.

[ It's not long after that he falls into his trance, the transition far smoother than he'd expected, lulled into meditation by the exhaustion of the day and the comfort of warmth. He even presses closer in his semiconscious state, although he'd deny such behavior in a court of law. ]

[ Time passes, and nothing happens: it's bliss. Iorveth, so accustomed to trancing with his weapon in his hands and his awareness stretching beyond the boundary of his body, spends the remaining hours of the early morning completely slack, one arm looped around Astarion to keep him in their huddle. No threats or noise or clamor, just the uncomplicated luxury of peace and quiet―

―which, inevitably, breaks alongside the dawn. Bodies start to wake around them, shuffling and shifting interrupted in intervals by sleep-heavy yawns. Wyll is the first to rise as usual, punctual even when it's not asked of him, and he's also the first to check in on Astarion after the events of the night prior.

Or, well. Attempt to check in. When Wyll parts the partition to see if Astarion is awake, he finds a cold bed and signs of someone having left in the night― very alarming.

What follows is a game of telephone. Wyll nudges Lae'zel, who nudges Shadowheart, who nudges Gale, who nudges Karlach, who nudges―

"―Iorveth! Wake up, Astarion's gone―"

Iorveth groans, and surreptitiously pulls a very-present Astarion, who feels very nice and cool against his ache-hot skin, a bit closer. ]

Must you yell all the time, [ he grumbles at a dumbfounded Karlach, his eye still closed. ]

Edited 2024-07-09 12:46 (UTC)

[ One of Astarion's eyes pops open. In the light of day, with no blood-drunk giddiness to blunt his self-consciousness, it's a little embarrassing to be caught cuddling. It's one thing to do it and another for everyone else to know, and he finds himself feeling prickly at having his softness exposed, muscles growing tense under Iorveth's hand.

"Oh—" Karlach says, clearly taken aback, before squinting and leaning in. "Oi, you're bleeding!" It's impossible to tell which of them she's referring to. Both, probably. ]

We're busy, [ he replies as he props himself up on his elbow, scowling. When Karlach opens her mouth to speak again, he raises a hand to wave her away imperiously. ] Run along now.

[ "Yeesh," she replies, before disappearing back behind the drapes. Outside, he hears the whispers of gossip. Karlach says something about sleeping together, to which Lae'zel replies with a flat unsurprising. Karlach's voice pipes up with a correcting no, sleeping together. ]

[ An entirely unsurprising turn of events. Iorveth foresaw this, yet it's made more annoying by the fact that the rest itself was so pleasant.

He remains on his side for a bit, eye still closed. Willing everything to settle again, and losing that battle, too. Eventually, he also sits up with a sigh, readjusting his skewed headscarf (he'd forgotten to take it off) back over his head. ]

Don't pout, [ he says. ] They were concerned for you.

[ They're busy being nosy now, but the initial intention was kind, he supposes. In the background, Iorveth hears Shadowheart groan: "how in the Hells did those two get injured again? Might we put at least one of them on house arrest?" ]

Edited 2024-07-09 22:33 (UTC)

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