nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ He feels thoughtless and fuzzy from the inviting heat of Iorveth's mouth, eyes a little glazed over and unfocused when they separate. How thrilling, to have someone express that they care so plainly and assertively. The naked affection of it feels downright salacious, his face hot as if Iorveth has just said something scandalous. It is scandalous, these exchanged words far more intimate than anything he's ever done with his body. ]

You unbearable man, [ he says, although he doesn't sound particularly upset. ] You're intolerably vexing.

[ Astarion has never had anything for his own before; he longs to lock it away, keep it safe so no one can take it. It's exasperating that Iorveth won't just listen to him, won't just do what he says. It's a similar irritation to when Iorveth rejected the idea of being kept, although the feeling is buffered by fondness.

Warning: ] I'm going to be very upset with you if you die.

[ Even then, death is hardly the worst thing that Cazador could do to him. Iorveth will resent Astarion, he's sure, if he's forced into subjugation again for his sake. ]

—I forbid it, actually.

[ Fingers flutter along Astarion's slightly-flushed cheek, enamored by the temperature change. Iorveth's tone matches the touch, his usual drawl made warmer by the irritatingly pervasive sense of endearment that sits in the back of his throat. ]

"Upset". [ He parrots the term, tracing Astarion's jaw. ] Well. We can't have that, can we.

[ A string of words that could've sounded mocking if not for the way he punctuates the statement, again, with a light kiss. It's his way of conceding to something he never really would in any other situation― death is fickle, and it'll eventually come for him. After all, he's not an undead immortal.

Oh well. Pragmatism can come later. He tucks a piece of hair behind Astarion's hair, and shifts back to give him more breathing room. ]

I've done many men the discourtesy of surviving, for over a century. Cazador won't be the thing that kills me, I assure you.

[ Astarion isn't so certain that's an assurance that can be made, but he doesn't fight it. Iorveth is incorrigibly stubborn, and no amount of arguing will sway him — gods, it might actually entrench him in his position further. It'll have to be Astarion's anxiety to grit his teeth and bear.

He lets his hand slide down Iorveth's neck, his shoulder, and then onto the mattress. A physical letting go to accompany his metaphorical one. A sigh, then: ]

We can discuss the finer points of vampiricide later.

[ Not that he has much to add to the discussion. His plan at the moment is mostly to stake Cazador over and over again until he stops moving. ]

I suppose I'll allow you to go shopping without me, if needs must.

[ He snorts at allow, giving Astarion a warning poke near the bandaged wound on his thigh. The meanest elf in the world will allow Astarion the exclusivity of his softness, the impossible matters of his heart, but he's still fundamentally Iorveth. ]

After I send for someone. It's unwise to leave you alone in this place.

[ The bed creaks, and Iorveth gets up onto his feet. Gathering all the stolen goods, he packs them up again and slots them behind his usual supplies, out of immediate view without hiding them altogether. It's not like he's ashamed of stealing from someone that attacked them, provocation aside.

Afterwards, he writes a quick note on parchment before wandering towards the window, waiting by its edge until he spots a courier pigeon; wood elf charisma accompanied by Animal Friendship ensures that his pointed demand for Shadowheart to come back will be delivered quickly.

With that done, he can gear himself up to find that half-elf and do very untoward things to him for information. ] Do you want anything from the city?

Ow. [ He pouts as the jab, more dramatic than is strictly necessary.

Astarion doesn't need to be babysat, but he won't argue with a few more minutes of precious time alone with Iorveth, either. Soon the others will return, and if Iorveth's behavior this morning was any indication, he won't pay Astarion nearly as much attention when there are prying eyes around. Leaning back on his hands, he watches as Iorveth casts his magic. A useful little trick.

He quips, ] A scroll of Silence will come in handy once Shadowheart sees what we've gotten up to.

[ She's on her last nerve with their tomfoolery. He can already hear her scolding him while she heals his wounds. With that future in mind, he waves a hand dismissively. ]

Sweet of you to offer, but I got everything I needed from our hunter friend today. [ "Friend". ] Unless you see something particularly shiny, that is.

[ T-minus however-many minutes until Lae'zel and Shadowheart show up and bang the banhammer on Iorveth and Astarion doing anything together. Hypocritical, Iorveth thinks. It wasn't long ago that the women were trying to claw each other's eyes out after every conversation, and look at them now.

(A mental stutter, here. Hells, is that how the others are going to perceive them now. "Iorveth's spent this entire journey looking at Astarion like he wanted to kill him, and look at him now"? Mortifying.)

It is what it is. He slips gloves back onto his callused hands, walks back towards Astarion, and spends a brief moment wondering if he should kiss him again; no dice. He can hear voices outside, Shadowheart clearly having used a Waypoint to expedite her journey, and that's Iorveth's cue. ]

Later, then. [ A thin smile, and an awkward flexing of his fingers. A conscious decision not to touch Astarion again, lest it delay him further. Footsteps are coming up the stairs, and Iorveth slips out through the open window and up onto the roof, narrowly evading the stormlike presence that is a wrathful Shadowheart.

He hears her yelling "twice!! In one day!!". In his mind's eye, he sees two albino magpies crowing at each other; it's so annoying how fond he is of these morons now. ]

[ Shadowheart is, as expected, unimpressed by the buffoonery they've engaged in. He keeps it vague; no need to explain that they went looking for monster hunters to rob. To hear him tell it, a bar fight—"What in the hells were you doing drinking at this hour?"—followed them out the door, and Astarion was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of their opponent's blade.

As Shadowheart reprimands him like a schoolteacher speaking to a particularly unruly student, Lae'zel comments that it always seems to be the two of them getting into violent trouble. "If neither of you are skilled enough to defend the other, perhaps you should seek more proficient company." He glowers at that.

The healing glow of Selûnite magic patches up the worst of his pain, although Shadowheart warns that he'll be sore until he rests. Rest he does, although sitting idle after kissing Iorveth like that is a difficult task. He thieves a racy-looking book from Shadowheart's pack when she's occupied speaking with Lae'zel and absconds back to Iorveth's bed, where he lies reading about the unlikely but steamy romance between two paladins of opposing faiths while trying to tune out the unlikely but steamy romance between Shadowheart and Lae'zel.

After a while, his mind drifts to Iorveth again, which has nothing to do with the unholy acts the paladins are engaging in on the page. Every slight noise has him looking up, wondering if Iorveth has returned — then immediately stuffing his nose back into his book, trying to seem uninterested. Gods forbid he seem desperate. ]

[ Wyll returns first, then Karlach, then Gale. Iorveth is a straggler, the sun low against the horizon by the time he walks back in, bare-handed with his very noticeably bloodied gloves tucked under one elbow. Scratch circles his feet with uneasy concern before deciding that the copper scent on the wood elf isn't the familiar scent of said wood elf's blood, and thus warrants no further investigation; away he goes, back by the foot of Jaheira's bed, leaving Iorveth to peer over towards his space to find Astarion still perched there, reading.

"He's been there all day," Karlach grins at him, nudging with her elbow. "When'd you two get so close?"

Iorveth brushes by her, brow raised. "For me to know and none of you to find out."

(Karlach hurries back to Wyll, and whisper-yells: "he didn't deny close!")

Depositing his soiled gloves on the floor next to the bed, Iorveth approaches Astarion with his usual straight-backed poise, single eye flitting over the title of the book that Astarion is holding. It makes the corner of his lips twitch, amused.

Unhitching his bow from its sling across his back: ] I would imagine that two paladins fucking would be dreadfully dull.

[ Astarion answers with feigned casualness, like he hasn't been thinking about Iorveth this whole time, getting impatient waiting for his return so he can— well, he's not entirely sure. Stare at him from a respectable distance away? Suddenly, these roommates are cramping his style. ]

Mm, I don't know. All that repression does add a little something.

[ He chooses not to investigate what that says about his attraction to Iorveth.

His eyes finally flick up from the page he's been rereading for the past few minutes, falling to Iorveth's bloodied gloves. Putting down His Holy Lance, he raises a suspicious eyebrow. ]

Shopping is rather gorier than I remember it being.

[ Blood on his gloves, blood on his lapel, streaks of blood against the side of his trousers. The others might not have called him out on it, but Iorveth knows that he must reek of copper. A bath or a washcloth would do him a world of good.

Without sitting next to Astarion on the bed (yet), he starts taking off his disparate pieces of armor in preparation for the night. A marked change from the beginning of their journey, when Iorveth would sleep fully armed and away from their campfire. ]

I was shopping for information. [ You know, because that's a normal thing that normal people who aren't completely unhinged do. He does reach into his pocket, though, and fishes out a gold ring with a ruby inset to toss Astarion's way. A souvenir, though the style of it might be a little too bulky for Astarion's refined tastes. ] The half-elf in the tavern didn't know much, but he gave me enough.

[ Again, just normal things that a normal person says about a day out in town. Iorveth rolls his shoulders, working out tension as he sniffs his collar. Ugh. ]

[ The incredulous look Astarion gives Iorveth is based not on the fact that he'd (apparently) maim a man, but that he'd do it for Astarion's sake. Pleasure blooms in his chest. Iorveth tortured a monster hunter for him; gods, he could swoon. ]

You might have invited me along.

[ Astarion does have ample experience torturing, albeit not by his own will. He rubs the ring against his shirt in case there's any blood on that, too, and slips it on his finger to admire. A little heavy on his spindly—or delicate, he prefers to think—finger, but there's sentimental value to it.

Glancing up again, he asks mildly, ] And where is he now?

[ Another enemy to keep his eyes peeled for? ]

[ A touch of a smile at the not-quite-complaint about being uninvited, and Iorveth answers it with a light "next time", which is utterly too casual a thing to say about torturing someone.

Whatever; Iorveth is weird, that's nothing new. Casting his focus sideways, he notices some of their roommates surreptitiously trying to steal glances from where they're lounging. Children.

He sits next to Astarion anyway, deciding not to mind the scrutiny. Astarion looks better with his injuries healed, the crude bandaging done away with entirely. That's somewhat of a relief. ]

Relocating. I've convinced him that this city is too much for him to handle. [ "He won't be bothering you again", in not so many words. ] ...He mentioned that he was told to deliver you to a man named "Godey". That you were to be captured with utmost care, and to not spill unnecessary blood.

[ Astarion swings his legs over the side of the bed, allowing them to dangle so he and Iorveth are sitting side by side on the mattress. He smiles, at first, at the thought of Iorveth aggressively persuading the hunter that he's not cut out for life in the Gate. The pleasure is short-lived, though, as his face contorts into a look of pure hatred the moment the name 'Godey' tarnishes Iorveth's lips.

Gods. He could have gone the rest of eternity never hearing that name again, and it still wouldn't have been long enough. ]

Godey is no man, [ he spits out. ] He—

[ Suddenly, he's acutely aware of the others' eyes and ears on them. He fists his hands in the bedsheets in agitation, his eyes darting off to the side. ]

He's... one of Cazador's creations.

[ Of some sort. Perhaps he was a man once, long ago. He's a vile, soulless creature now. ]

[ Hells, the others really are cramping their style. A frown, and he reaches to draw the curtains over his portion of the room, knowing that the privacy will invite gossip but hardly caring. ]

Not one of your siblings, then. I'd assumed incorrectly. [ Iorveth glances sideways, and wonders if he should drop it― it's been a grueling day, with the late-evening sparring leading to kissing leading to larceny. Astarion looks wrung-out, and though Iorveth makes it his business to know things, he's still trying to test this whole... soft touch business.

So. He glances to the side as well, towards the hidden pack of anti-vampire items, and takes a moment to think before he makes an addendum. ]

You needn't speak on it now, if it exhausts you. I could go wash myself, and give you blood when I return.

[ Offering a lot, in terms of patience and himself. It's been an eye-opening day for Iorveth, as well. ]

[ He realizes, belatedly, that he'd been holding tension at the idea of having to relive his time with Godey. When Iorveth says they can discuss it later, the hard line of his shoulders visibly softens. The knowledge that he'll have to talk about it sometime—that he might even have to see Godey again—still looms over him, but at least he can put it off. ]

Yes, I think it would be for the best if we saved this conversation for a more... private locale.

[ The only thing worse than revisiting his history is revisiting it in full view of their motley crew. He can hardly bear the thought of showing that much vulnerability to Iorveth alone, much less a whole group.

Hells, what will Iorveth think, hearing of how weak and helpless Astarion was? He could be repulsed, and rightfully so. Astarion is repulsed just thinking about it. He suffocates that feeling, stuffing it into a box and locking it away.

With an abrupt brightness: ] Go. I'll busy myself with imagining you in the bath.

[ The brightness feels strained, but Iorveth decides, for once, not to comment. Instead, he presses his palm to Astarion's cheek, thoughtful, and holds the gesture for a whisper of a breath― not quite comforting, but not just evaluative― before getting up to do as suggested. ]

You've seen it all before.

[ Dismissive, if not for the vague hike of his lips. He leaves it at that, and gathers his spare clothes to change into after he washes all the blood off of his skin; it's a relief to cross the room and finally get himself clean in lukewarm water (no appealing to Gale for magical assistance this time). If he hurries through the process a bit, occasionally tipping his focus in the general direction of where Astarion is waiting for him, well.

That's no one's business. Eventually, he gets up and out of their communal tub, tugs himself into his softer bedclothes with idle urgency, and meanders back. Strange, how nice it feels to peel back the curtains and see someone lounging on his bed.

He says something in Aen Seidhe, but the sentence is simple enough that it's recognizable as Elvish-adjacent: ] You're just like a cat.

[ Astarion reads another passage of his—well, Shadowheart's—dirty book while he waits. He's currently sprawled out, reading about how this must not happen again, it wouldn't be right when Iorveth returns, clean, hair wet. The book snaps shut, and he sets it on the floor beside the bed.

He snorts at the observation, dismissive. ]

Ugh. Mangy and ridden with fleas?

[ Most of the cats he's had the pleasure of meeting have been strays digging through the trash in the alleyway at the same time he was skulking through. Admittedly, though, there's been a few they've met on this journey that he's had a— well, a slight kinship with. ]

If you're trying to compliment me, surely you can think of something more distinguished to compare me to.

The stray near the apothecary looks a fair bit like you.

[ White, fluffy, vocal. This isn't the serve that Iorveth thinks that it is, given that it reveals how he's spent some time with the strays in the city－ then again, maybe it fits the wood elf image of being kinder to animals than to humans.

When he settles this time around, it's with his back to the headboard of the bed, long legs stretched out over the length of the mattress. Parallel to Astarion, the back of his still-damp head pressed against the wall. He smells like soap and sandalwood, clean and crisp. ]

What other creature would you prefer? A stoat? [ Slippery, sly. ] Or a magpie, perhaps. [ Intelligent, loud. Now he's just giving Astarion shit. ]

A stoat?

[ The look on his face as he sits up and turns toward Iorveth is pure offense. A stoat is even worse than a cat. There's something wrong with Iorveth, surely, that he only sees fit to compare Astarion to tiny little creatures. A lion, perhaps, would be more acceptable. Or a wolf. Something capable of ripping out throats when angered. ]

You forget that I'm already a creature. A bloodthirsty predator, in fact.

[ The manhandling begins again, this time bullying Iorveth into sliding down onto his back. He could simply ask, of course, but that would ruin his fun. Let Iorveth fight with him, if he doesn't like it.

Playfully: ] And I'm so very thirsty.

[ Thank god Astarion doesn't assign himself as a lion out loud, because Iorveth might have gotten himself dumped 24 hours into whatever this is by laughing in Astarion's face. He's trying not to laugh right now, actually, at the assertion that Astarion is a bloodthirsty predator, because he has been remarkably well-behaved up until now regarding not biting campmates.

Still a cat, Iorveth thinks. Again, he doesn't feel like being dumped on his ass 24 hours after kissing Astarion, though, so he keeps that to himself. What he does do is grunt a little when wrestled, harmlessly annoyed by all the jostling, and retaliates by hauling Astarion up onto his chest and tangling their legs in a light-but-nevertheless-cumbersome-to-get-out-of lock.

This is usually when Iorveth threatens to slit someone's throat, but not tonight. ]

I'm no one's prey. [ He warns, without thorns. Hard to be irate at a vampire when he's the one on his back, wearing a loose-collared tunic with his neck exposed. The intricate network of branches and leaves on his skin undulate in time to his breathing, the rhythm slightly faster thanks to anticipation.

Oh well. He doesn't have to make it serious. ] Hurry up and bite me, you ridiculous creature.

[ Being manhandled right back is unexpected, but not unpleasant. The push-and-pull is a little exciting; no cat wants prey that can't be played with. Iorveth's has the sinewy body of an elf, but he radiates a comfortable heat, and chest-to-chest like this, Astarion can feel the beat of Iorveth's heart against his own ribs. A call without response, Astarion's own heart still. The closest he'll get, he thinks, to feeling a pulse in his chest again.

The idea of sinking his teeth into Iorveth's tattoo is satisfying, but he'd asked Astarion not to, and he'd rather not push his luck. He, too, is trying to make this relationship survive until the 24-hour mark. He tilts Iorveth's head to the side, exposing the long line of his neck muscles, his jugular, and presses his teeth against it lightly. ]

How demanding, [ he mumbles against Iorveth's skin, chiding entirely hypocritically.

Then he's biting down, fangs piercing Iorveth's flesh, blood hitting his tongue. It tastes earthy, ancient in the best way, like a robust, well-aged wine. The rest of the world narrows down to his mouth at Iorveth's neck, lapping greedily and not entirely chastely, the sound of chit-chat and pets chasing each other fading away into the background as he lets his eyes slip shut.

"Hey, Iorveth," comes Karlach's voice from outside the drapes, and he's halfway through fuck before she opens them. "Oh, gods!"

He pulls away in an instant, his mouth dripping blood. Fuck isn't a strong enough word. ]

[ Either Iorveth is getting used to feeling Astarion's teeth in his neck, or Astarion is gentler with the bite than he'd been before. Doesn't matter which, though, because the pain is quick to recede this time around, subsumed by the fuzzy sensation of being, hells, slowly consumed. Still as strange as the first time, but knowing what to expect inevitably allows for closer physical examination of what's happening: Iorveth is now acutely aware of Astarion's tongue on his skin, the sound of him lapping at stray trickles of blood, the tickle of his curls against his own ear.

Fuck definitely isn't a strong enough word. Heat curls in the pit of his stomach, unasked for and unbidden, and it brings color to Iorveth's high cheekbones－

－which lingers even after Astarion jerks back, jumpscared by Karlach's sudden appearance. Iorveth blinks his single eye, and almost headbutts Astarion during his own journey to upright-ness. ]

Fuck, [ he says anyway. The scowl on his face roughly matches the sentiment, and he follows the expletive with a few more choice ones in his own language.

Finally, he tops it off with a biting: ] Spare us the theatrics. Or shall I kiss him, too, and validate all of your childish suspicions?

[ Karlach, whose face is kaleidoscoping between several sentiments and expressions, chokes on her next breath. He can hear Jaheira calling over to them from the background, an exasperated "settle, settle!" ]

[ Karlach claps her hands over her mouth, as if the only way to stop whatever she's thinking from coming out is to physically restrain herself. Then, after slowly lowering them, she says, "Hey now, Frowny, don't be like that. I came to check on you. See if you were doing all right after coming back looking like that." Her eyes dart over to Astarion, who's swallowing thickly and panting a little despite not needing to breathe. "But, uh, looks like someone else already checked on you."

Astarion wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, streaking red across his lips. It's rather damning.

Gale peeks in next, offering, "The adrenaline of battle does excite the senses. One can hardly blame you. Although I must request that any bawdier activities take place outside our shared accommodations." An irritating request, since Astarion had to listen to Shadowheart and Lae'zel going at it in their tents for tendays. Aggressively.

Speaking of the devil, Lae'zel pops in and says, with a pointed look at Astarion, "If you insist on draining one of our finest warriors, at least spare a potion afterwards. Your appetite and his poor decision-making are no reason to leave our ranger indisposed." ]

Your excessive input has been duly noted, [ he snaps with all the irritation of someone who just got cockblocked before standing up and drawing the drapes shut. ]

[ There it is, the fleeting desire to murder something. (Maybe Gale.) It's a blessing that Astarion has the foresight to close the curtains before Iorveth could demonstrate how sharp his tongue can get, but now that the outlets for his frustrations have effectively been shooed off, he has to sit there with his neck still bleeding, feeling like－

－what, he's been cheated? Edged??? He could've stayed with Astarion's mouth on him for just a little longer, and that complaint, stitched together in his head in exactly those words, makes him even warmer under the proverbial collar. ]

If I ever engage in "bawdy activities", [ he mutters, ] I'll make sure to do it on Gale's bed.

[ Flopping down onto his back in a decidedly ungraceful way, forearm draped over his eye(s). He can feel a bead of sweat that'd pooled on his temple trickle down along his jaw; it makes goosebumps rise on his skin, and he has no idea what emotion to attribute to it.

A beat later: ] Come here. [ Back on top of him, he means. He pats his own chest with his free hand for emphasis. ] Unless the interruption's put you off from sharing a bed tonight.

Edited (nitpicking!!!!!!) 2024-07-22 05:28 (UTC)

[ No, he hasn't been put off. He'd worried, for a moment, that Iorveth would be the one put off after being caught. Hells, he didn't know if Iorveth would invite him to share his bed tonight even before being caught; he'd only thought to commandeer it in the hopes that he'd be asked to stay, or at least not asked to leave.

Astarion crawls back atop Iorveth without any further coaxing, prying his arm away from his face so he can capture Iorveth's mouth with his in an insistent kiss, blood on his lips and all. Maybe it's Iorveth's blood running through his veins that gives him the courage to put some heat behind it, noses bumping together due to eagerness before he adjusts the angle. It is, perhaps, bawdier than is strictly Gale-approved.

He inhales, smelling the darkly sweet scent of sandalwood, the coppery tinge of blood. Pulling away, he swipes his index down Iorveth's neck, collecting the blood that runs down it in little rivulets. ]

Darling, you should have said you were still bleeding.

[ Not like Astarion gave him much opportunity, but still. ]

Edited 2024-07-22 06:05 (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