nibbling | open post pt. 2.

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. ]

[ He should be appalled that Iorveth has the audacity to tell him what to do, should resist just for the principle of it — but his back is already hitting the mattress in a matter of seconds, jostling his shoulder in his rush to comply, probably the only time he's ever listened to Iorveth without complaint.

The sting in his shoulder provokes a wince, but it's quickly replaced by a grin, which the removal of Iorveth's scarf does nothing to dim. Even as shallow as he is, Astarion couldn't care less about Iorveth's scars. They all have them, of one kind or another. Iorveth's are just a tad more literal than others. ]

Ooh, I love it when you talk murder to me.

[ His tone is teasing, but the words aren't untrue. He does love a good bloodthirst — but what's more, he delights in the safety in that promise, the feeling of safeness even more rare and precious than happiness. Were it to come from someone else, he might question the authenticity of the promise, brush it off as the sort of sweet thing one says when trying to impress someone but doesn't really mean. This is Iorveth, though, a man who's more frequently derisive than not. He's not sure Iorveth has ever said something he didn't mean, for good or ill. ]

Your safety demands your oppressors' death.

[ Simple. Iorveth may not want Astarion to become Cazador, but he sees immeasurable value in making sure that Cazador― and, by extension, anyone allied with Cazador― is killed. A century of seeing his men and women strung up by their neck from trees, and the thought of Astarion joining their ranks is chilling.

Sinking next to Astarion on the bed, he props his head up on his hand, elbow to the mattress. Without the headscarf, his hair is free to fall onto his face, jet-black strands obscuring the worst of the damage done to it; his expression is less severe than usual, calmly fond as he touches fingertips to Astarion's face. ]

You really are striking when you smile.

[ Smiling for the sake of smiling, not to seduce or to bargain. It'd be embarrassing for Iorveth if Astarion chose to push into his head via tadpole and saw exactly how Iorveth perceives Astarion in the moment, really. ]

Oh, I know.

[ No modesty here. His appearance is the one thing he's always been able to depend upon, his secret weapon for survival. One doesn't lure hundreds of people to their deaths by beauty alone if they're ugly. He's heard a million shallow compliments on his physical appearance over the centuries, but it's still nice to hear coming from Iorveth. It doesn't feel quite so shallow when said with the grave certainty Iorveth always speaks with.

Like a child playing with a doll, he reaches over to rearrange Iorveth's hair out of his face, fussing with it until it's just the way he wants. His pointer and middle finger drift down to Iorveth's mouth, then, each pushing up a corner to force him into a smile. ]

As are you.

[ There's a soft snort for Astarion's trouble, and Iorveth entertains the forced smile for a few seconds instead of pulling away immediately. When he does tilt back, escaping the fingers, he still looks slightly amused. ]

I'll allow you your delusions.

[ He knows he'll never be pretty to look at, smiling or no, but the sentiment is nice. Like Astarion's offer to repair his shirt, it seems a cruel thing to deny these subtle peace offerings outright; he exhales again, and takes Astarion's hand to kiss its knuckles again, the way he'd done at the tavern. ]

You'll need to rest until the others come back. [ A little muffled, mouth still pressed to skin. ] If you find the idea of staying put daunting, I'll go pilfer a book from Gale's pile.

[ Communal goods, at this point. ]

[ The feeling of Iorveth's warm mouth on his bony knuckles is just as exhilarating as the time before. How starved for affection must he be, to react to something so innocent like a scandalized noblewoman? This, at least, he can feel embarrassed about. ]

Why? Aren't you going to entertain me?

[ Iorveth had plans, he remembers. He decides to push his luck anyway. Surely he can buy a shirt another day. Or steal one from Gale, like they're discussing doing with his books, although Astarion isn't certain purple is Iorveth's color. ]

[ Another soft sound, mirth warming the edges of it. Sitting up a few inches, he lets Astarion have his hand back and cranes his neck for a better vantage point. ]

And how do you imagine me entertaining you?

[ The question is a light drawl, lenient in a way he wouldn't be for someone else. If anyone else asked him to entertain them, the answer would be a swift, brittle "I'm nobody's show elf", flat and humorless.

Instead, Iorveth glances towards the entrance to their room. Laughs under his breath, the sound warm but muted. ]

Nothing that would require me to lock the door.

[ His face erupts in a megawatt grin, delighted at Iorveth's cheekiness. ]

You dirty boy, [ he chides teasingly. ] I had nothing untoward in mind.

[ Well, maybe a little untoward. He's only a man; he can't help it if he starts wondering what tawdry uses there are for the tadpoles. In reality, though, even if the spirit were willing, the flesh is weak. He's reminded of that fact very tangibly as he shifts onto his side to peer at Iorveth. ]

Why don't we go through our ill-gotten goods, hm? If we wait until the others return, we'll never hear the end of it from the Blade of Frontiers.

[ Ugh. All those morals. So annoying. ]

[ Ill-gotten, but essential. Swinging up to sitting position, Iorveth shrugs his broad shoulders, dismissive of Wyll's inevitable disapproval. ]

The Blade can earn his right to lecture us in a hundred years' time.

[ A patronizing thing to say about someone that they'll far outlive; it's not that Iorveth dislikes Wyll, but he finds the moralizing exhausting. In a hundred years' time, Iorveth may still be hiding in caves with the last of his clan, and Wyll won't be alive to cast judgment on the state of humanity. Won't be around to make sure that Astarion is safe, either.

A clear line in the sand. The kind of line that he'd drawn between himself and Astarion before, now scuffed beyond recognition. Iorveth gets up to retrieve his pack with the stolen goods housed inside, kneels on the floor by the edge of the mattress, and starts to lay out the various items on the open space on the bed. ]

Sunbeam, [ he says, wrinkling his nose as he inspects one of the scrolls. ] How effective would this have been against you, I wonder.

[ Astarion pushes himself up, grunting softly at the twinge in his shoulder, and surveys their loot with a discerning eye. He's careful not to touch either of the daggers Iorveth appropriated, the memory of that radiant burn still fresh in his mind. Instead, he opens the pack that had swung from the hunter's belt, peering at the contents from above instead of sticking his hand in for fear that there's more vampire-repellent inside.

Dryly: ] I hope you're not thinking to test it. [ He might walk in the day without difficulty now, but Astarion still doesn't relish the idea of being blasted with light. ] What's important is that it'll be effective against Cazador.

[ With care, he extracts a vial of clear liquid from the pack. ]

Ah, holy water. Nothing better to splash profane abominations with.

[ Iorveth plucks the daggers and the throwing knife to set them on the bedside table, away from accidental contact. The radiant energy only translates to him as a vague warmth imbued into the blade and hilt, a squint-and-see-it glow woven into the structure of the weapons. It seems permanent, which is convenient.

A glance towards the vial, and he hikes a brow. ]

Not enough of it to do anything but irritate.

[ But better than nothing. He fishes out a stake, and huffs. ]

How quickly does Cazador regenerate? If you've an idea. [ Maybe not; it doesn't seem likely that Astarion would ever have had a chance to see Cazador hurt. ]

Edited 2024-07-19 04:31 (UTC)

[ Astarion places the vial back in the pack, no interest in getting an accidental splash should he drop it, and watches Iorveth unearth the stake. It's funny. When they first met, the sight of Iorveth with a stake would have made him lunge for his own dagger. Like Iorveth when Astarion feigned threatening him in front of the hunter, letting him hold that stake is like allowing him to put a blade to Astarion's throat and trust that he won't do the cutting. He's surprised to find that he doesn't even flinch. Then again, Astarion already supplied him with deadlier weapons than a stake every time he opened up to him. If Iorveth wanted to hurt him, he could have already.

A sobering thought. ]

I don't know.

[ The question makes him frown. ]

He never needed to. [ Not that Astarion was ever privy to, anyway, but there's a part of him that believes Cazador has never been injured, never been weak. He ruled Astarion's life like a god for so long. It seems only reasonable that he's invulnerable like one, too. ] Undoubtedly fast.

[ Cazador is far more powerful than Astarion, even after this journey. A sick feeling forms in the pit of his stomach, and he suddenly doesn't want to think about facing Cazador anymore. He flops back on the mattress with a dejected sigh, too forceful for his own good. ]

Ow.

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