nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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)

[ He'd thought Iorveth might change his mind in the morning. Decide that this whole thing, whatever it is, is ridiculous and unworthy of pursuing. It's the same anxiety that stirs up inside him whenever anything good happens to him, so used he is to having happiness dangled in front of him and then taken away. Relief washes over him as Iorveth lies there, eye closed, and even more as he opens it and doesn't respond with a don't get used to it, vampire. ]

I'm not pouting, [ he says, pouting. ] ...And if I were, I would look devastatingly good doing it.

I only— [ hate that they interrupted this, that they can be part of it at all, when it feels so soft and vulnerable. He flops down onto his back, arms crossed. ] I suppose I'm not a morning person.

[ Role reversal: Astarion flops back down as Iorveth sits up, and Iorveth watches the mattress creak under his weight. ]

You're a vampire, [ is a hint of a tease, carried on a morning drawl. ] One wouldn't assume you'd be one.

[ A morning person, Iorveth means. Briefly, he wonders what it must've felt like for Astarion to see the sun again, two centuries after it'd been taken from him; the mad scramble post-Nautiloid had been disorienting for all of them, but it must have been a complete overhaul for Astarion in particular.

The thought makes Iorveth reach over and touch his fingertips to Astarion's forehead, sifting slowly to brush a piece of hair away from his face. ]

...I could be amenable to you throwing me to the wolves, this once. If you need the rest.

[ Very brave of Iorveth to volunteer to get beaten up by Shadowheart and to tell everyone to shut up. He'll likely be the one put on house arrest for being annoying. ]

[ Iorveth's fingers feel nice sweeping away a strand of his hair. The gesture is soft, soothing. Something sweet done for someone who matters to you. For the first time in centuries, he feels important, and that feeling is intoxicating. ]

Valiant of you.

[ And unnecessary. Iorveth is the one who needs rest. He lost a not insignificant amount of blood last night, whereas Astarion tranced with a full stomach. Still, the idea of facing the day when he knows Cazador is out there and best dealt with sooner rather than later is... intimidating. Truthfully, he'd prefer if Iorveth didn't get up, either, the thought of which surprises him. There's rarely been anyone whom being with was preferable to solitude.

Iorveth could surely use some healing, though, and they can't ignore the others forever. Besides, the thought of asking him to stay is even more embarrassing than the act of cuddling him. Astarion pushes his face into the pleasant warmth of the pillow, voice muffled. ]

Go, then. If you must.

[ Iorveth's plans for the morning boil down to telling everyone to get a life, ignoring Shadowheart's attempts to keep him locked up for the rest of his life, and getting a new shirt. Maybe trying to kick Ciaran out of the city if he's still hovering. Not terribly pressing concerns compared to The Cazador Problem, which Iorveth is not going to exacerbate by attempting to hunt and torture one of Astarion's siblings for more intel...

...maybe. Astarion seemed not to care for the one called Petras very much, maybe Iorveth could get away with torturing that one. As a treat.

One more comb-through of fingers through hair, infuriatingly charmed by the way Astarion hides his face. ]

Needs must. [ Rising onto his feet, stretching long limbs. ] But let it be known that it's unwilling.

[ Says the terrorist who usually can't spend a moment without moving something along; Astarion really is going to be the death of him. He glances back briefly, sparing one last look before he can think to do something phenomenally stupid (like, say, kissing Astarion again in broad daylight)－ with that little luxury out of the way, he braves the scrutiny of their motley crew by stepping out from behind the safety of his partitions.

And, in essence, all Iorveth does is tell the truth. They sparred to blow off steam, got tired, fell asleep. Everyone is a little less skeptical this time, all things considered, and Shadowheart is mostly just angry at Iorveth, who she accuses of knowing better than to have let Astarion put himself in precarious positions. She says as much when she eventually makes her way to Astarion and sits next to him, wherever he might be, grumbling about Iorveth's poor attitude.

Meanwhile, Iorveth is pulling on a spare shirt, ready to head out. So much for house arrest. ]

[ Astarion agrees with Shadowheart, whining that he stabbed me, if you can believe it! "In all honesty," Shadowheart says with little sympathy, hand radiating warm, divine light over his wound, "I'm surprised it took Iorveth this long to stab you."

He stands after that, ignoring Shadowheart calling after him that "You two owe me for this, you know!" (In his defense, he does make a mental note to pickpocket her something pretty. A new circlet, perhaps.) His shirt is disgusting, torn and bloody, and he frowns at it as he removes it. It'll need more than tender loving care; maybe he can persuade Gale into spelling away the stains.

Slipping on a fresh, unbloodied shirt feels good, and he steps back into his shoes a moment later. He's done his damnedest so far not to even look Iorveth's way, dedicated to seeming casual, aloof, like what happened last night wasn't one of the more significant moments of his life. His willpower has always been low, though, and he glances Iorveth's way now. Dressed, ready to leave. It's not any of Astarion's business what Iorveth is going to do today—or any day—but he finds himself feeling strangely disappointed at the possibility that Iorveth has plans.

He sidles up to Iorveth, hands clasped behind his back, and clears his throat to get his attention. ]

I could mend your shirt. [ Then, nose tipped up haughtily, ] I detest seeing good craftsmanship go to waste.

[ He's still debating whether or not it would be wise to torture Petras when Astarion approaches him, and there's the barest flutter of wariness that flits across his expression when addressed, as if Astarion's read his mind somehow and is going to call him out on wanting to do acts of violence against his "sibling".

This, obviously, turns out not to be the case. Iorveth relaxes into the actual proposal, caution segueing into a half-amused hike of his semi-visible brow. ]

You'd mend it yourself? [ Recalling back to previous thoughts of Astarion making a good tailor. ] You could, though it has no sentimental value to be worth the trouble. I was planning on getting a new one.

[ First the Henselt incident, and now this. Iorveth's been losing clothes more quickly than usual, but he's found himself in the rare position of having enough coin for frivolities; no more having to raid the corpses of men he's killed for their gear or clothing. ]

Oh.

[ Of course. Iorveth wouldn't feel the same need to make his clothing last as Astarion does. He probably didn't have to wear the same shirt for decades. He frowns at the realization that the one nice thing he's ever offered to do for someone is useless. ]

If you don't want it, then fine. [ Prickly, as always. He crosses his arms, nose sticking up impossibly higher in the air. ] I was going to fix mine anyway, you know.

[ So Iorveth doesn't get the idea that Astarion was doing it for him. ]

[ An internal mirroring happens here: Iorveth's own oh in response to Astarion's, starting to put dots together, aligning this particular chin-hike with similar body language conveyed when Iorveth passed on the idea of being kept.

Hells, of course. Astarion has experienced two centuries of people taking from him, and here he is, attempting to give something of his own accord. What a brutish thing to do, to refuse it― even Iorveth isn't so cruel. ]

―I'd only meant to goad you into joining me for the shopping. [ Which is true, but less important. Turning on his heels, he bends and picks up his ruined shirt from its haphazard perch on his bedsheets, torn at the shoulder and the waist. ] But I do want it, if you would do it.

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