nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ Correctly called out on being crazy, Iorveth's first instinct is to smile. How nice for Astarion to mirror the sentiment with his laugh. ]

This does very little for the bounty on my own head.

[ A fun fact for the hunter to chew on while he's getting stripped of gear: not only is the elf robbing him a madman, but do a little research and he'll find out that said one-eyed elf a bona-fide terrorist, by some people's standards. Very fun. Iorveth isn't particularly gentle about unstrapping all the bits and bobs dangling from the man, and ignores all the subtle huffs and grunts of pain that accompany all the jostling.

Three scrolls, another dagger, a throwing knife, a crossbow, and a pack full of items that they can sort through on their own time. A considerable haul. Iorveth finds places on his own gear to hang the pilfered goods from, and steps back towards Astarion when he's done. ]

You look pale, [ he drawls, and it's meant to be a joke. Astarion is treated to a perfunctory Cure Wounds as a peace offering, though it doesn't seem to do much but stem the bleeding and partially close the gash that the dagger's made; with that done, he finally tosses a Potion of Healing at the man quickly losing consciousness on the ground, doing him the courtesy of loosening the stopper on the bottle for easier access. ]

[ Despite himself, Astarion smiles, the expression faint and fleeting but unmistakably there. It's something he'll blame on the blood loss, but in reality it's—gods below—fondness. He's lost their stupid bet. He very much wants to kiss Iorveth. Wants even more for Iorveth to want to kiss him. With all the meager self-discipline he has inside of him, he wills himself to focus on the situation at hand. ]

It's called an alabaster complexion, [ he quips, voice soft from weakness but still haughty.

Although it still aches something fierce, Iorveth's spell has dulled the excruciating sting of his wound considerably, and he can now remove his hand from his shoulder. His palm is wet with his own blood, and he has no choice but to wipe it on his shirt. Another day, another ruined article of clothing.

The hunter pours the potion in his mouth, some of it dribbling down his chin from sloppiness. Afterward, he simply lies there, the deep wound in his stomach slowly receding to a shallow lesion. Still nasty, but not life-threatening. "You're making a mistake," he rasps. "Vampires are manipulative creatures." ]

Let's, ah— [ He lets out a hiss of pain as he leans down to retrieve his dagger from where he'd dropped it on the cobblestone. ] Let's go. If you aren't going to kill him, you can at least leave him to rot.

[ The hunter isn't wrong. It's likely that vampires are manipulative monsters who care very little about anything but how to enrich the vast eternity of their undead lives, and Iorveth might have agreed with him if he'd met him in the immediate aftermath of the Nautiloid crash, when he was still wary of Astarion and his casual, pretty lies.

But Iorveth's been given the burden of context. For every detail that might've made him hate Astarion, he found two more that colored between Astarion's broad lines. Annoying, unconventional, impossibly compelling.

The hunter isn't allowed any insight into that, obviously. He's not even allowed to see the outline of Iorveth's concern, which he only shows when his back is turned to the human sprawled on the ground, his hand outstretched to steady Astarion against his pain. ]

Back to our room, then. Your wounds need tending to.

[ Hushed, so that the third party can't hear. Shadowheart might have left Elfsong for the day, but it's better to return to base for cleaning and changing. Halsin might even still be there, and he's a far more capable spellcaster than Iorveth is.

Slow steps, and Iorveth pulls Astarion closer to his side as they leave the alley and their assailant. Outwardly as calm as ever, but inwardly displeased by one of his own getting hurt; he tries to deflect any stares from passersby by waving them aside, and gives some real thought to carrying Astarion the rest of the way back to the inn. ]

[ Astarion has, with certainty, had worse. Godey has spent days in the kennel wearing him down emotionally and physically, and when Cazador was angry enough, he'd do it himself, taking advantage of his spawns' vampiric nature to brutalize them in ways no mortal would survive. Despite Astarion's poor pain tolerance, a gash in the shoulder and a lacerated thigh would be getting off lightly.

He pretends it isn't, giving himself an excuse to lean against Iorveth's shoulder and wrap a hand around his arm. For balance.

The pain, while unmistakably present, is hardly even noticeable under the strange sense of euphoria. Centuries with no one to stick their neck out for him, no one to care whether he lived or died. The feeling of being cared about is more potent than any drink or drug.

As they make their way down the street, the woman whose jewelry stall they'd stopped at not long ago furrows her brow at them. Understandable. From her perspective, they'd stopped at her shop in perfect health, disappeared down a side street for some time, then emerged bloodied and worse for wear. Astarion gives her a reassuring smile, something cocky that says you should see the other guy, before waving her off. The movement of his arm jostles his stab wound, and he grimaces, ruining the effect.

Oh, well. He turns his attention back to Iorveth. ]

That went well.

[ His tone is a little dry, but all things considered, it really did. He's alive and in possession of vampire-killing tools. A job well done. ]

As well as anyone would expect from us.

[ They broke the "don't get hurt" warning in record time, which seems on-brand for them. The response is offhanded, but Iorveth's light frown lingers. ]

You'll need to rest. I could give you blood, but later in the night.

[ Implying that he still has plans for the day (maybe he should get Astarion a new shirt), and that Astarion should hang back and sleep some of this pain off. Iorveth is no nurse, but he can anticipate Shadowheart doing worse than kicking if he keeps dragging Astarion outside only to keep finding new ways to hurt him.

He glances sideways, taking in Astarion's unusual-for-him-pallor. It's vexing, how something in his gut twists when he sees all that blood staining Astarion's shirt. ]

[ He's made happy all over again by the offer of blood, even though he's too tired from his own blood loss to really salivate over it. The prospect of having blood on demand when he spent centuries starving and begging is strange, but not in a bad way. ]

Pity. I wanted to go shopping.

[ He really did. Stupid hunter, ruining everything. Perhaps there'll be another opportunity to dress Iorveth up in stylish, too-expensive clothing. In truth, though, it's probably not for the best that he wander around the city in this state. He doesn't quite trust that leaving the hunter alive was the best idea; who's to say the fellow doesn't tell his friends and form a mob looking for him?

The thought makes his head hurt, and he can't tolerate more pain right now. He brushes away the idea, engaging in sillier, more inconsequential thoughts. ]

Are we going to play doctor?

[ "I wanted to go shopping" is cute in a disarming way. A strange thing, considering that most non-Aen Seidhe don't exactly jump at the opportunity to spend time with him; stranger still, considering his relative inexperience when it comes to spending time with someone in a city as big as Baldur's Gate. It makes him wonder, briefly, about all of these elves integrated into different societies, living peacefully with other races, doing something as benign as shopping without their presence being questioned.

He'd like that sense of peace for Astarion, at least. Privately, it staggers him to think of it, so he puts it in a neat box to be unpacked later with the rest of his weird, unhinged thoughts. ]

I could be persuaded. Though my bedside manners are entirely dependent on how well you behave.

[ Shooing away a gaggle of kids who are trying to ask them if they've been fighting monsters, trailing after Iorveth and trying to touch the pilfered scrolls hanging from his belt. They're half a block away from Elfsong, and every step is proving to be a struggle.

When they finally return, it's to an empty room. Understandable－ it would've been nice for Halsin to have stuck around, but the druid's seemed uneasy being constantly cloistered between walls and a ceiling. After some consideration, Iorveth decides to guide Astarion over to his own bed, which is still stained with his own blood from the night prior. Better to only ruin set of bedsheets instead of two. ]

Stay put. I'll go get water and washcloths.

[ It's somewhat of a relief to find out Shadowheart isn't around. Helpful as she'd be right now, he imagines her yelling would only exacerbate the pain. Maybe someday soon, he thinks, he and Iorveth will do something together that doesn't end in bloodshed. As quickly as the thought comes, it's shooed away. They're like a pair of feral cats; bloodshed is in their nature.

He lowers himself onto Iorveth's bed as carefully as he can, although he still whines ] Ow. [ out of displeasure when the cut on his leg is disturbed. Astarion is anything but stoic in his pain.

The bed smells of blood, his fresh bleeding mixed with Iorveth's day-old stains, and the scent isn't unpleasant to his senses. He curls up on his side to wait for Iorveth, almost childish. ]

Mm. I'll try not to miss you too much.

[ A big, white, finnicky cat. Iorveth rolls his eye at the whining, but the expression skews slightly soft, like he doesn't mind the overblown theatrics of it all too much anymore.

He casts a shadow over Astarion for a moment, standing next to him by the edge of the mattress. Debating, assessing. Finally, he leans to press his lips to Astarion's temple, the contact blocked, in part, by the tangle of Astarion's silver curls. ]

I'll take my time, then.

[ Mean elf, mean joke. The delivery lacks barbs, though, and contrary to the actual content of his words, Iorveth is quick about fetching a basin of water and fresh handtowels from the tired-looking innkeep who, no doubt, is kind of fed up with the weird shenanigans his new tenants get up to. Why are people coming into the inn covered in blood all the time, and why does it sound like there's an owlbear cub constantly running around up there?? He won't ask, because he doesn't get paid enough to.

When Iorveth eventually returns, he sets his items aside and places a palm to Astarion's forehead. Instinct; he's forgotten that vampires probably don't get fevers from possible infections. ] Does it feel like the enchantment on the weapon did anything beyond making it easier to wound you?

[ Any numbness or nausea or poison-adjacents? If so, this is above Iorveth's paygrade, and he'll have to actually go out and find Shadowheart. ]

[ His head is cold, just like the rest of him. Iorveth's palm is warm, though, and the feeling is surprisingly soothing. He'd always thought he would hate the feeling of being taken care of, too used to licking his wounds in a dark corner all alone, but it feels— nice, for someone else to give a damn that he's hurt. He has half a mind to play it up and really make Iorveth fuss over him, but he's hesitant to push it in case Iorveth's empathy runs out. Instead, he closes his eyes for a moment to savor the feeling before pushing himself up to sit, depending on his uninjured side to do all the hard work. ]

I don't know.

[ He wasn't paying a lot of attention to anything besides the fact that he got stabbed for the second time in as many days. Going quiet for a second, he focuses on the sting of his injuries, searching for any unusual qualities to it. Focusing on that hurts, though, and he can only tolerate it briefly. ]

It just burned.

[ A soft sound in the back of his throat, thoughtful. ]

Doubtful, that normal ointments will do much for burns on undead skin. But I've some in my pack.

[ Just in case a placebo will help Astarion feel better. Iorveth's best attempts at playing doctor. He reaches sideways for his bag of supplies and fishes out some antiseptic and bandages, a must-have for elves who run around and get hurt in forests.

For the second time today, his weight sinks next to Astarion's on a shared mattress. A dangerous thing to get used to, a feeling he'll miss if and when Astarion decides to stay in Baldur's Gate after all is said and done. ]

I've never tended to a vampire before.

[ Coaxing Astarion to swing his leg up and over Iorveth's thighs for better access. It takes a little bit of maneuvering and balancing to get all these limbs in the right place. ]

I suppose I've never really been tended to before, [ he confesses. A quick, efficient healing spell, certainly, or a healing potion pressed into the palm of his hand—and those, too, have been a kindness—but no real tending. For the undead, healing and comfort is a privilege reserved for people who matter to someone else.

He wonders, fleetingly, if this is the sort of thing Iorveth's clan would do for each other. Perhaps he can understand, if only a little bit, why Iorveth is hung up on them. Being cared about is addictive, he's finding.

He splays his leg across Iorveth's lap with some difficulty, grimacing with the movement and exhaling with relief when it's done. ]

Do be gentle. [ A sarcastic quip. ] This is only my first time.

[ Never-s, on both sides. A greater benchmark on Astarion's end, one that's far more significant than just an expression of inexperience: a confession of a void. Iorveth has always had a palpable reason for his pain, a place for him to return to with bloody hands, however dwindling. Astarion hasn't even had that.

The revelation makes it easier for Iorveth to be patient. To be gentle, even, with the dip of handtowel to water, the light warning that "this might hurt", the press of damp fabric to the open gash on Astarion's thigh.

The starched-white towel immediately reddens with blood. There's been a lot of this, recently. ]

A privilege, to be your first time. [ He says, and it's not as facetious as it could've been. Not flippant, either－ almost a verbal nudge, elbow to side. Almost a tease, to keep things from feeling too funereal. ] Feel free to be open with your criticism, though I'll not guarantee that I'll listen.

[ As he watches his blood seep into the cloth, Astarion wonders if he should have offered to do this for Iorveth last night. The thought of taking care of him hadn't even crossed his mind. Cazador's spawn could never trust each other enough to be vulnerable like this, so they'd all dealt with their pain alone, like animals finding a private place to die. He's unpracticed in being gentle with another person in the ways that nursing someone's wounds requires.

The wet washcloth smarts against his injury, but he tries his best to keep his complaints on the inside — unusual for him. If he complains too much, Iorveth might stop, and he doesn't want that. He can't stop thinking about the things Iorveth said earlier, like someone out of the sort of ridiculous fantasies Astarion had before he stopped believing anyone would give a damn. He'd wished someone cared enough to tenderly cleanse his wounds back then, too. If not for the blood loss, he's sure he'd feel hot with embarrassment at the idea of Iorveth of all people fulfilling his wildest dreams. ]

You know, you've been far too nice.

[ A rarity for Iorveth. It's unnatural, the way he's barely upset Astarion all day. ]

—You're going to give me hives.

[ He is, after all, allergic to kindness. ]

[ The faintest hint of a twitch, hands stopping just a whisper of a second before reaching for the antiseptic to clean broken skin with. He replaces his frown for a wry smirk, and carefully presses disinfectant-soaked fabric to the worst of the inflamed wound. ]

Criticism noted.

[ He snorts, keeping the focus of his single eye on Astarion's injured thigh. ] I'll take care not to use my patience so liberally, then.

[ Feeling somewhat called out, and pushing back against what he perceives to be an accusation. His tone is an attempt at flippancy, though it doesn't quite land― what he feels for Astarion, he feels, and it frustrates him.

He reaches for his bandages to distract himself, the motion of unfurling them graceful and practiced. Something he's done a thousand times, for himself and others. ] Stay still. [ A warning, before he starts doing the binding. Quick and easy. ]

Edited 2024-07-17 12:48 (UTC)

[ What he'd hoped to be gentle needling doesn't land at all, and Astarion, unlike Iorveth, makes no attempt to hide his displeased scowl. He's learning, slowly but surely, that Iorveth isn't only like this to vex him, but it's frustrating nonetheless. ]

Ugh. It was only a tease, you ridiculous man.

[ Playground pigtail-pulling, the only sort of affection he's truly comfortable giving. It's funny. Vulnerability is the thing he most longs to see in Iorveth, and the last thing he wants to show him (or anyone at all). Perhaps, though, he requires a— gentler touch than Astarion is used to. ]

I like when you— ow, ow, not so tight.

[ Another little twitch, a pause in what he's doing. He hovers with the bandages slightly more slack in his hands, then resumes pulling them just enough so that he can tie everything together. Careful, as a response to the ow. ]

As you know, [ he says, slowly, ] I'm not known to be nice.

[ An explanation for his reaction, offered with slight hesitation. Rare, for Iorveth. ]

Ugh. Words. [ He wipes his hand when he's done with the bandages, muttering something under his breath in Elvish. When he finally finds the right pattern of things in Common, he appends quickly: ] What I feel for you, I'm inclined to express in gentler gestures. It's... new. And vexing.

[ "You make me want to be nice. I'm as surprised as you are." With that said, he flicks his single-eyed gaze over to Astarion, head tipped just slightly. ]

Is the bet ongoing?

[ Not known for being nice is perhaps an understatement. Good, Astarion thinks but doesn't say. I only want you to be nice to me. He's selfish, hoarding Iorveth's kindness all for himself when he's done nothing to earn it.

Astarion looks down at the finished bandages on his leg, the white of them darkened by the slow seep of blood from his cut. Impulsively, he's inclined to reach out and run his fingers over them, tangible proof that someone cared for him. When he does so, he flinches, the skin still raw underneath. With some effort, he removes his leg from Iorveth's lap, letting it dangle over the side of the bed. ]

Oh, I— [ Already lost. He catches himself before admitting it. ] I don't know.

[ Iorveth hardly seemed impressed by his seduction skills. A disappointment, yet somehow also a relief to know that he never would have ended up in the palace, one of Cazador's victims. His victims.

Mustering up some old bravado, he asks, ] Are you going to kiss me better, doctor?

[ The wound is still bleeding－ a bad sign. It probably requires more than first aid by a wood elf without his poultices, but Iorveth isn't inclined to leave Astarion wounded and alone in a location that their enemies have infiltrated before, even to fetch Shadowheart.

(There's the matter of imminent danger, and also the matter of wanting to kiss Astarion, so there's that for balancing his priorities.) ]

Don't touch it, [ Iorveth warns first, before twisting himself to half-face Astarion with his feet still resting on the floor, watching. He thinks he sees the signs, believes that he's interpreting them correctly.

So: ] Yes.

[ Simple. Probably not the most romantic delivery in the world, but he tries to make up for it with the things that matter: actions, his hand cupping Astarion's cheek, the long bridge of his nose brushing against Astarion's before their mouths meet. He takes his time because he's wanted to do this since morning, and thinks to lean back in when he inevitably has to pull back to breathe.

He does. Quicker this time, without trying to coax Astarion's lips open. A light press, and he retreats. ]

Finally.

[ It isn't the most romantic delivery, no, but it's still objectively the most romantic thing that's ever happened to Astarion. Iorveth might as well have swept him off of his feet, literally and figuratively, for all the fluttering in his chest. It's strange, still, for a kiss to engender good feelings instead of a vague wave of nausea and self-loathing. He'd thought, perhaps, that he was just the sort of person who wasn't meant to be touched, but the soft slide of Iorveth's lips against his makes him feel lightheaded in a way that isn't only attributable to blood loss.

Although he certainly feels lightheaded because of that, too. ]

I'm not better yet. I guess you'll have to try harder.

[ With a hand fisted in the fabric of Iorveth's collar, he pulls Iorveth's mouth back to his, foreheads bumping slightly. He's weaker than he'd like, but that doesn't stop him from pressing their lips together in an unmistakably forward way, not so much gently encouraging Iorveth's mouth open as requesting rather insistently. He feels greedy, the way he did when Iorveth first offered to open his veins for him, back before the mess that was assassinating Henselt. It's like he's just discovered a new way to feel happy on demand, and demand he does. ]

[ A rush of blood, a mounting need. Iorveth can feel that simmering affection in the pit of his stomach like a sharp object in the back of his throat, like a fist to the face, like a warning shot. Choose, it tells him, as dire as the day he took up his bow for the first time. Look this in the eye, and make a decision.

He curls fingers around the back of Astarion's head, tangling his loose grip in all that pretty silver hair, pulling closer and parting his lips for better contact. A slight misalignment causes Astarion's canines to tear along his lower lip, but Iorveth hardly minds it; he kisses through the taste of iron, stifling a low sound in the back of his throat.

A choice. He's choosing Astarion. Gods, he should have fucking killed that hunter, actually.

Heartbeat in his ears, blinking stars out of his eyes. Iorveth almost forgets about Astarion's injuries in his flashbang moment of craving, but he stops before he can push Astarion down onto the bed by his still very-wounded shoulder. Instead, he smooths his touch down from Astarion's nape to his lower back, feeling for every stack of his spine through his shirt, savoring the slight arch.

When he pulls back, Iorveth is demonstrably out of breath. ] Better, [ he manages, with blood on his lip. ]

[ That greedy little part of him thinks to say something like no, I'm not better, I guess you'll have to shower me in affection all night. But maybe it's for the best that Iorveth pulls away, because Astarion has no sense of temperance or restraint, and although it feels good, it's overwhelming, too. He hasn't let himself want for two hundred years, the feeling locked up in a dark corner of his mind.

He laughs, not because Iorveth has said anything particularly humorous, but because he feels giddy. Like a fresh-faced schoolboy with his first crush, not the centuries old creature of the night that he is. ]

Oh.

[ Abruptly, he notices the red streaking Iorveth's lip. He should feel bad about it. He was too rough, too much too fast. It's hard to muster up any remorse. He reaches out with his thumb and collects the blood on the pad of it, an echo of how he'd swiped at the cut on Iorveth's cheek last night. He'd been too self-conscious to consume it then, but now he presses his thumb to his own lower lip, smearing the blood there. For a moment, they match. ]

I could just eat you up.

[ If it sounds like a bad line, it's because it is. There's a self-aware playfulness there, though, an impish grin on his face as he delivers it. ]

No doubt you could.

[ Iorveth matches the soft laugh with a small smile, the unscarred corner of his mouth hiked up with careless fondness. If he pays too much attention to the spike of heat still lodged in his chest, the insistent pounding of his heart against his ribs, he knows he'll do something stupid.

Stupider, maybe. He tips sideways to kiss Astarion again against his better judgment, and hums under his breath as their lips part. ]

How is it that you've made me not mind your teeth, I wonder.

[ A crazy elf, who prefers Astarion with all of his sharp edges. Carding his fingers through Astarion's bangs to push some fallen strands out of red eyes, Iorveth lets himself smile again. ]

[ That's the first time, he thinks, that Iorveth has kissed him spontaneously, without being asked to in one way or another. He positively blooms under the affection. If he really were the sort of finicky cat Iorveth imagines him to be, he'd be rolling over and purring. ]

Why should you? I don't mind your fangs.

[ Iorveth's metaphorical ones, that is. If anything, Astarion's literal ones are far less sharp.

On impulse, he moves to shove Iorveth down onto the mattress so he can give him the proper, mind-blowing sort of kiss he's been practicing all his life— only to remember halfway through that he's still injured, the reminder coming in the form of sharp pain shooting down his leg and his arm as he moves. He hisses, hand coming up to cradle his shoulder. ]

Damn that hunter. Ugh, we really should have killed him.

[ They should have, for plenty of pragmatic reasons. He's not thinking about a single one of those right now, self-indulgent as he is; the only reason on his mind is because he's being kept from pinning Iorveth down and sticking his tongue in his mouth. How fun kissing is when it's of your own free will. ]

[ It's difficult to be brittle about a murder that they didn't commit when everything happening in the present is so impossibly pleasant. Iorveth even allows the manhandling onto the mattress, and finds himself vaguely disappointed when Astarion's injuries prevent him from finishing what he started. Can't be helped, though; wellbeing comes before spontaneous acts of need. ]

If he's fool enough to show his face again, [ sitting up, Iorveth cranes forward to press his lips against Astarion's hand, the one pressed against his wound. ] We will.

[ Bonding activities, Iorveth thinks idly. It's his turn to coax Astarion onto his back, insisting on it with his usual decisiveness, a hand to Astarion's uninjured shoulder to slant his balance. Down, he mouths, and follows Astarion onto the mattress to reward his compliance－

－after he reaches to tug his headscarf off. A concession, of sorts. Something bared, in return for Astarion's honesty. ]

If anyone is fool enough to lay claim to you, we'll kill them.

[ Cazador is on the top of that list. With Henselt dead, he's Iorveth's current Enemy No. 1. ]

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