nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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)

[ A hand settles on the small of Astarion's back when he sinks in for the kiss, fingers questing over the thin fabric of his bedclothes to trace the arch of his spine. Iorveth can't fathom how it is that Astarion has managed to make him want him this way, but reality remains; he looks up at those red eyes, those perfectly-chiseled features, and huffs a soft laugh despite the heat-warmed haze glazing his eye. ]

Well, don't let it go to waste.

[ Feeling for the puncture wound with his index and middle, mirroring Astarion's wipe. They're streaked with red when he presses them to the vampire's stained lips, blunted nails raking gently over soft skin.

Gods, no wonder people have gone utterly stupid in Astarion's presence. The least interesting thing about him is still devastatingly striking. Iorveth says as much, trying to see if Astarion will take his fingers in his mouth. ]

Pretty.

[ This would usually be about the time that Astarion starts to feel repulsed, and a little twinge of shame runs through him at the realization that he doesn't feel that way at all. The opposite, in fact, even with the knowledge that this is almost certainly the kind of thing Gale just told him not to do in their room.

With a hand wrapped loosely around his wrist, he closes his lips around Iorveth's fingers, a frisson of both nervousness and excitement shooting up his spine. Careful of his fangs, he presses his tongue against the pads of Iorveth's fingers, lapping up the offering like the hungry stray he is. He tastes skin, blood, a little bit of the soap Iorveth used to wash up. There are calluses on Iorveth's fingers from pulling the bowstring, and he lets his tongue glide over those, too, exploratory.

Iorveth's fingers come away shiny and wet. Voice lowered to a murmur, as if afraid to be overheard, he says, ] All clean.

[ The same slow simmer of heat that he'd felt while he was bloodletting threatens to bloom again now, heavy and difficult to ignore. Astarion's pretty lips around the same fingers that he'd used today to hold weapons and coax information out of unwilling men; this has no business feeling as good as it does, looking as alluring as it does.

Something sharp and electric runs through the breadth of Iorveth's body. He shivers when he's let go, instinctively bringing those fingers up to his own mouth to taste Astarion on his skin. A few beats later, he decides that his time is better served with his mouth on Astarion, so he cranes up for another kiss, deep and unhurried to make up for their previous interruption. Tongue against tongue, breath to non-breath.

When he finally pulls back, he combs a clean hand through Astarion's hair. Idly petting him for the sake of contact, letting out a breath that sounds oddly content. ]

...Sleeping with someone else in my bed not once, but two nights in a row. [ "Unheard of", is the unspoken nuance. ] Perhaps your ego is somewhat warranted.

[ Iorveth-ese for "I'm fond of you and I enjoy this." Astarion is welcome to read between the lines, and interpret the small smile tugging at the corner of Iorveth's lips. ]

[ Iorveth looks younger when he smiles. Softer. Astarion likes it when he smiles, even more so when Iorveth smiles at him. How embarrassing, to covet someone's fondness like this, particularly when it's so hard to come by. ]

You know, I'm really not the type.

[ Hells, he's never shared a bed with the same person twice, much less two times in a row. And without taking their clothes off? Ha. Yet here he is, curled up on Iorveth's chest like the cat Iorveth thinks he is, letting Iorveth stroke his hair. And it feels— good. Surprisingly good.

Cazador would laugh at him. Find this entire thing pitiful and pathetic. He stuffs down that unpleasant thought, resting his chin on Iorveth's chest. ]

But how could I resist, when you've finally invited me for a cuddle? Honestly, I was starting to think you really were immune to my charms.

[ He's sure that Astarion isn't the type. It'd been a one-off gamble to invite him to lie down the first time, a risk that'd felt more dire than pledging his own blood to Astarion. Asking him for something without weapons or teeth, asking for the implicit safety of his non-judgment and presence.

It's ridiculous. He's been a commander of a dying clan for long enough to know not to make his shortfalls anyone else's business, but here he is. Not made of stone. ]

Immune to your wiles. But not to you, unfortunately.

[ As vexing as it is, Iorveth feels inclined to hold on to the feeling. It's rare and precious and impossibly fragile, the held-breath moment where he expects the other shoe to drop and, miraculously, it doesn't. "The burden of caring", in his own words.

Iorveth shifts their collective weight onto their sides, making sure not to land on Astarion's previously-injured shoulder. He still feels warm from the bite and the kiss, but the urgency of it is fading, making way for a pleasant hum under his skin. ]

In all certainty, you are like no one else.

Yes, [ he agrees, preening at the observation, ] I am rather special, aren't I?

[ He shifts in place, settling in, arranging Iorveth's limbs how he'd like them. His long arm pulled loosely around Astarion's middle, his leg tangled with Astarion's just slightly at the ankle. Something that feels safe and warm but not constricting, something he could escape from if he felt trapped. ]

Don't worry. [ Teasing: ] You're a very special boy, too.

[ A beat passes with him staring at Iorveth. It's going to be challenging, he realizes, to fall into a trance when he's pressed up against someone whose fingers were in his mouth only moments ago. From here, Astarion can watch the rise and fall of Iorveth's chest, hear his pulse. He shifts again, restless, before turning over. ]

Well. Good night.

[ He rolls his eye at special boy, but refrains from comment. Too fond and too drained of blood to offer something scathing, too comfortable to move even for a moment to drink a potion before attempting to trance. Distantly, he feels the way Astarion tenses for a moment before turning over, and attributes it to possible discomfort with the idea of too much intimacy. ]

Just this, [ he assures vaguely, not elaborating. His arm recedes just an inch, giving Astarion more space to move. ] Rest.

[ A lot to meditate on, tonight. Iorveth has planned assassinations before, but Astarion is correct in asserting that vampire lords may be slightly above his paygrade; humans can be alarmingly easy to kill, and they don't come back. His potential next course of action is to find someone who knows a way to connect him to one of Cazador's mortal, day-walking henchmen, and see if he can't unearth this "Godey" from whatever rathole he's hiding in.

Ciaran might be able to help, if he's still slinking around instead of listening to Iorveth's many warnings about going into hiding. Remnants of Henselt's entourage haven't stopped looking for Aen Seidhe in Baldur's Gate, and Iorveth would also do well to keep his head down, but. Well.

He's an unhinged elf on a never-ending mission. Hours pass in semi-restful and bloodsoaked contemplation－ it's early when he starts to stir, pulling back from where he'd been meditating with his face buried in the back of Astarion's neck. The sun is still trying to hide under the horizon, reluctantly peering out from the inexorable distance.

Softly: ] Stay in bed, if you'd rather. [ A slow untangling of limbs, as Iorveth winces against a headache. Now's a good time for the potion. ]

[ Just this, Iorveth says, and Astarion feels disappointed, relieved, and somehow ashamed at feeling both of those things. He presses his face into the pillow and tries to do what he does best: not think about it.

At some point in the night, he does manage to trance. He is, as he almost always is, barraged with thoughts about Cazador that make it less than restful. His thoughts often drift toward the past, but this time around it's the future that he worries about. By the the time Iorveth's weight lifts beside him, he's been stewing for hours. Being awoken is a welcome distraction, really.

Except— ]

It's the crack of dawn, darling.

[ Turning over, his fingers close loosely over Iorveth's wrist. Not forcefully enough to stop him from going, but enough that he hopes to entice him to stay. ]

What could you possibly have to do this early?

[ "Entice" is the right word. Iorveth flits his focus down to the grip around his wrist, considering it for a moment before allowing it to stay. ]

Doing what a ranger does best. [ Is his roundabout answer, which he elaborates on with an equally-vague: ] Scouting.

[ Obviously, he's up to no good. Given everything that's been going on with the Cazador Problem, Iorveth thinks that it should be obvious what he's snooping around for. Embodying the worst of Astarion's anxieties, probably, by not just sticking his head into the vampire lord murder business, but actively, voluntarily, and full-bodied-ly wading through it. ]

My eyes and ears might still be in the city. I may be able to hear something useful from him.

[ Only after getting dunked on for a long time for getting invested in Astarion's cause, but Iorveth will give Ciaran that. He deserves it. ]

Edited 2024-07-23 04:20 (UTC)

[ Astarion's eyebrows raise, unbidden. Everything Iorveth has done has been a way to prove his loyalty, but it still comes as a surprise, every time. He keeps expecting the inevitable let down where Iorveth shows that he was never what Astarion thought, that he was a fool for ever believing Iorveth really gave a damn, and yet it doesn't happen.

It's never been so pleasant to be wrong. Astarion wants to kiss him again but doesn't. Last night was overwhelming enough; better not to start the day out that way. Instead, he flops on his back, groaning like a child that's just been woken up early. ]

Ugh. [ A beat. ] Fine.

[ With significant effort, he pushes himself up to sit, only to slump against the headboard. Still not a morning person. ]

I'll come with you, of course. [ In fact, he's a little annoyed that Iorveth didn't think to tell him about it beforehand. It's his vampiric master they're after. He deserves a seat at the table. ] I'd rather hear it straight from the horse's mouth.

Edited (my crime: excessive use of commas) 2024-07-23 04:49 (UTC)

The horse, [ Iorveth warns, ] is Ciaran.

[ Clever, disciplined Ciaran, who understands that Iorveth needs to linger in Baldur's Gate to resolve the issue of the tadpole in his head, but is going to be flabbergasted by his Aen Seidhe brother's taste in non-Aen Seidhe elves. Iorveth pushes himself off of the bed to reach for the pack he'd left on the floor, and fishes out a potion to fix the dehydration-bloodloss dizziness threatening to tip him back onto the mattress.

Wiping his mouth: ] Try not to test his patience too much. Though, [ a light laugh. ] The last time I spoke to him about you, he had kind things to say.

[ Words of incredulity that Astarion stayed long enough to see Henselt dead, followed by a sincere statement of gratitude. Iorveth, in the tempest of post-revenge, had forgotten to let Astarion know that he's been appreciated. Didn't seem like something Astarion was interested in, anyway, "The Elf Rights Cause". ]

Get ready. Lae'zel will need some convincing before we leave.

[ "Why are you idiots leaving together again when you can't go 5 hours without getting stabbed????" A valid argument, certainly, but Iorveth also doesn't care. ]

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