nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ Iorveth looks wonderful even coughing and trying to catch his breath, lips red and shiny, entirely unkempt, and it's that thought that makes him realize he's in deeper than he thought. He should say something, something like you make me crazy or I want to do such wicked things to you. All that comes out is ] Fuck.

[ He's not sure if he's cursing out of incoherent pleasure or the dawning realization that he likes Iorveth too much. It doesn't matter. With Iorveth's newly given permission, Astarion fists both hands in his hair, alternating between harsh tugs and sweet petting like he can't decide whether to be gentle or rough. He rocks helplessly against Iorveth's mouth, more instinct than something deliberate, although the sounds that come from him are strangled in his throat as if he can't bear to hear his own pleasure.

Really, it's for the best. If Figaro overheard and came knocking right now, he couldn't be held responsible for the terrible things he'd do.

It's embarrassing how quickly he comes, or it would be if he were capable of rational thought. He thinks to warn Iorveth, but it comes on fast and unexpected, his body tightening and then trembling with release. His fingers clench in Iorveth's hair for a long moment before dragging his palms down his own face, a torrent of emotion flooding him. If his heart could beat, it would be pounding. The thrill of what he's just done is immeasurable, but there's anxiety, too, the dread of what's surely to come; he always feels shameful and disgusted with himself after.

He waits a beat. No disgust comes, and that in itself is overwhelming. He clutches Iorveth's collar in his hand, urging him up. ]

[ Iorveth is dizzy but determined, gratified after every buck and grind; the way Astarion reacts makes every nerve in Iorveth's body feel set alight, attuned. He doesn't even care when the tremors of Astarion's orgasm hit him without warning, and preoccupies himself with tasting and taking in the heady spend in his mouth, shivering with his own quakes of satisfaction at making Astarion come.

It's lust, but not. Iorveth doesn't want a dispassionate fuck that replaces his right hand with anyone pretty enough to label a partner; he wants every inch that Astarion is willing to trust him with. His comfort, his vulnerability, his ups and downs.

The tug to his collar, like the tug to his hair, pulls Iorveth out of his sex-drenched reverie. Carefully unsealing his lips from Astarion's softening cock, he takes a moment to catch his breath and lick his flushed lips before pulling himself (and Astarion's pants) up, holding the edge of the table for balance. He thinks of something to say, but his brain is too fried for Common― he murmurs something slightly slurred and unintelligible in his language, and kisses Astarion's jaw. ]

[ Astarion normally hates being touched after any sort of intimacy, the act itself taking so much out of him that any subsequent touch makes him want to crawl out of his skin and never return. He doesn't hate it now. It feels intense, but not like he's being overpowered and forced to endure. (And it tickles, a little. His cheek dimples involuntarily.)

He didn't have the wherewithal to say it before, so he says it now, breathing out, ] I detest when you say things I don't understand.

[ He doesn't sound particularly bothered. Admittedly, he does detest that Iorveth can speak to him in a way that's entirely incomprehensible, because he can't stand being left out of anything. On another level, though, there's something appealing about the sincerity in his voice when he speaks the language of the Aen Seidhe. Astarion's not sure he's ever sounded like that.

Let it never be said that he's a selfish lover, although perhaps he's an uncouth one. A quick rub of his hands warms them to a less shocking temperature, and he licks down the palm of his hand before shoving it down the front of Iorveth's pants without preamble. ]

[ Iorveth's turn, now, to make an involuntary sound that he then tries to muffle with a palm. Perhaps foolishly, he hadn't counted on Astarion to mind his needs― not because he assumed that Astarion wouldn't care, but because he'd thought that it might be too much to tend to.

But, well. Another revelation, here, that Astarion is voluntarily touching him. Iorveth can't get any harder than he already is (and maybe he should think to be embarrassed that he's gotten so riled just from putting Astarion in his mouth), but he chokes around his next breath, hand to his mouth, forehead resting on Astarion's shoulder. ]

Astarion, [ he hisses, low voice broken with arousal under his palm. ] You're going to make a mess.

[ A stupid thing to say, really. One, he could get new pants here if he ruins the one he's wearing; two, there's no attempt being made to dislodge the hand that's pressed against him. If anything, he's swaying into it, the look in his eye equal measures irritated and impossibly wanting. ]

Edited 2024-08-03 00:38 (UTC)

[ Astarion lets out a pleased sound as he presses his hand against Iorveth's length. He's beautifully hard, even more than Astarion had hoped, and from that alone. What a little freak (affectionate).

He certainly doesn't care about making a mess in Iorveth's pants, but he does want Iorveth to be able to buy this shirt, so he grasps it with his free hand and rucks it up in the front, fingers splayed out across his exposed stomach. There's little room for his other hand to move, trapped between Iorveth's body and the fabric of his pants, but he can establish a fumbling friction, fingers wrapped firmly around the radiating heat of Iorveth's cock. ]

I can think of some ways to clean you up.

[ His post-orgasmic brain feels like wading through molasses, but the desire to equalize this burns bright enough to cut through it. Astarion will be replaying this moment in his mind all night; he wants Iorveth to do the same. His palm strokes down, just this side of rough. ]

But if you're really worried about that, maybe I should stop.

[ The little freak finds that he likes Astarion's roughness, mostly because it's so intolerably audacious that he can't help but lean into it. He's really going to have to take a moment to reflect on whether his affinity for the vampire might be slightly self-destructive.

Then again: what of it? Loving something (oh no, the l-word) so much that he makes it his entire personality is not a new thing for Iorveth; he's never done anything that he hasn't committed his entire existence to. Astarion is a dangerous tightrope walk in that sense, a potentially very temporary burst of something immeasurably good. But he is good, and not just because he has his hands down Iorveth's pants. ]

Don't stop, you intolerable creature.

[ Hissed again, but affectionate. The table rattles with his next attempt to buck into Astarion's hand, making several expensive-looking leather accessories tumble onto the floor; Iorveth doesn't care. He only cares about how Astarion's fingers feel curled around him, and the clumsy friction they're making in a dressing room of a boutique they killed two assassins in. It's ridiculous. It's perfect. He'll probably never have anyone like Astarion again.

He's close, his cock a pulsing, pre-slick mess. More stifled sounds later, he hitches his hips particularly roughly into Astarion's grip and finishes with a broken exhale, flushed and shuddering and sweating under all that expensive fabric. He buries his face in Astarion's neck, pressed as close as he can manage with the awkward alignment of their combined too-long limbs. ]

[ Iorveth comes warm and slick into his palm, and Astarion strokes him right through his release, heel pressing against him until he's fully softened in his hand. He wants to keep going, to do it again, right away, but the tiny rational part of his brain that he hasn't yet obliterated tells him that Iorveth might not be up for that. He did make a mess; Astarion withdraws his hand, sticky with the fruits of his labor, and licks it off. It's not like it's the first of Iorveth's body fluids that he's consumed.

He has a million practiced lines for the occasion. That was wonderful, he'd so often lie. You know, you're the best I've ever had. None of it feels right now. Strange, to not want to fall back on old habits that served him so well. He's quiet for a moment, inhaling the scent of Iorveth's sweat on his skin, the taste of him lingering on his tongue.

His other hand is still rumpling Iorveth's unpurchased shirt. He smooths a flat palm along it, although the damage is done. It'll need a proper ironing to get those wrinkles out, enthusiastic as Astarion was. ]

Was that— [ He clears his throat, feeling suddenly and uncommonly shy. It's ridiculous. He's done this so many times that he can't even remember most of them. Hells, he could bring someone off in his trance. This shouldn't be different, and yet it is. ] How was that?

[ It's the kind of question that might've irritated Iorveth if it came from anyone else: "is your ego so fragile that you need reassurance after you've just made me come?" But there's a world of difference between the rabble and a complicated mess of a vampire spawn that Iorveth has foolishly decided to be fond of, and anyway, he thinks he understands why Astarion might be asking.

(Iorveth still thinks it's a little stupid of him to ask, since Iorveth is the one that wanted it so badly, but. Well. This mood wasn't meant to be ruined, he tells himself.)

A rumpled mess still draped over Astarion's front, arms loosely wrapped around his middle: ] There isn't a word in my language or in Common for how that felt.

[ Finally stepping back, shaking out his thoroughly disheveled hair and realigning both of their skewed clothes, fixing crooked collars. It's a losing battle; Figaro is still going to know that canoodling's gone on. Again, Iorveth doesn't care, as long as Figaro doesn't make the stupid fucking decision of looking at Astarion for too long.

After a beat, he rephrases: ] There isn't a word in any language for how you feel. [ Edited for accuracy. It's not just the sex; the problem is that Iorveth wants Astarion so much. But he doesn't have to elaborate on that while they're still floating on a post-orgasm high, and so Iorveth reaches and thumbs along Astarion's cheekbone with his too-warm hand. ] ...I should open a window.

Edited 2024-08-03 03:57 (UTC)

[ If Astarion weren't a corpse, he'd flush with pleasure from head to toe at Iorveth's words. As it stands, he only tangibly warms a degree or so. It doesn't mitigate the hot feeling inside, spreading from his chest out. He sinks into the raised collar of his jacket, trying to hide the stupid, embarrassing smile that he can't manage to wipe off of his face.

Iorveth likes him. It's such a pathetic, juvenile thing to latch onto, and it's not like Iorveth never told him, but— Iorveth really likes him. Still likes him after what they just did. Doesn't want to discard him now that he's reached the limits of his usefulness. Astarion grabs him by the collar, rumpling what Iorveth just fixed, and presses their mouths together, hard. ]

I like you, [ he says in Aen Seidhe. Or, more accurately, he says some gibberish that sounds incredibly similar, botching it once again. Then, in Common, ] Open a window if you want, but that damned dwarf wouldn't even be alive to be upset about it if not for us.

[ Gods, Astarion really is going to be the death of him. The botched use of Iorveth's dialect is a well-aimed shot between his ribs; the words are familiar as anything to him, three elementary terms that any child could string together from a young age, but no one's spoken them to Iorveth like that after he chose war.

It's his turn to claim Astarion's lips this time, mouthing I like you in Common this time around. Distantly, over the huff of his shallow breathing, he can hear the handle of the locked door rattling, a wary voice on the other side asking if the gentlemen are quite done yet; Iorveth ignores it for a few more seconds, layering another kiss on top of the one they just finished.

Once the dwarf finally starts fighting the door against its frame, he pulls back. He pins Astarion with his focus for a knifepoint second, committing the moment to memory― in a hundred years' time, he wants to remember exactly how this event played out for them, no matter what happens over the course of the next few days.

He relaxes after that, and smooths Astarion's hair. Gently, carefully. He barely spares Figaro a glance when he finally bursts back inside with his spare keys. ]

I'm changing, you lecher! [ he shouts, fully clothed.

"Oh, gods," Figaro exclaims, pulling the door until there's just a sliver for him to speak through. "I really must insist that you hurry up. I have other customers who'd like to use the room, you know—"

Astarion reaches down to swipe the eyepatch off of the floor, securing it on Iorveth's head before he calls back, ] All right, all right, come in already.

[ Figaro enters quickly, suspicious of what's taking them so long. It only takes half a second for his suspicions to be confirmed. His eyes dart over the evidence: their close proximity, Iorveth's mussed hair, the accessories that they knocked on the floor. In response to his accusatory glare, Astarion stares back with a placid smile that says what are you going to do about it?

He can almost see the calculations going through the dwarf's head, the mental weighing of the pros and cons of kicking out the duo that just saved him from being murdered by cultists. "I think," he says, slowly, as if he's still undecided on how to handle it even as he speaks, "it's time that you made your purchases and left, gentlemen." He emphasizes the last word, seemingly implying that their conduct here has not been very gentlemanly. ]

Oh, of course. [ With a dry laugh, he adds, ] Trust me, I've already finished here.

[ Figaro looks as if he might explode. ]

[ Iorveth has no idea what Figaro is complaining about: all the clothes that were given to them are intact and unsullied save for the one he's currently wearing, which he's going to buy anyway just to shut the dwarf up.

Speaking of shutting Figaro up (or, well, preventing him from exploding; Astarion is so unserious, it almost makes Iorveth laugh): Iorveth plucks his coinpurse from where he'd left it with his old clothes, and unceremoniously drops a smattering of gold and precious jewels (courtesy of a dead king's coffers, ransacked by Ciaran after the fact) onto the cluttered table. ]

I don't expect you'll have any more complaints, [ he drawls, as he watches Figaro enthusiastically start to stitch himself back together as he re-balances his current cost-to-benefits ratio. "Ah, yes, well― I will need this space for other customers, but of course, your patronage is much appreciated."

A derisive huff, and Iorveth turns away from the clerk. Back to his usual form, straight-backed and slightly imperious, but with the slightest touch of warmth in his voice when he addresses Astarion again. ]

We'll leave once you take your pick of the pile.

[ Iorveth's already made his choices: the eyepatch, the now-rumpled emerald finery that he wouldn't have picked for himself, and his first, more modest selections. After a moment of consideration, he also adds a spare pair of pants to the mix. ]

[ It should be annoying that Iorveth can return to his austere demeanor after being so unbearably soft, but it only makes Astarion feel too hot in this fancy jacket as he remembers how he made that quiver and come in his hand.

Astarion's selections are more extensive than Iorveth's, and probably more expensive, too. Several new shirts are added to his collection, each flashier than the last and with trousers to match. A pair of fine leather gloves. A tooled belt with an ornate design. The pack Figaro provides for him to stuff his purchases in is filled to excess.

When they've finished at the boutique and Figaro closes the doors just a little too forcefully behind them, he pauses, staring out at the bright morning sky. He's never done this before. Are they meant to talk about what just happened? The fact that he came in Iorveth's mouth rather speaks for itself. He glances sidelong at Iorveth. ]

I do like that eyepatch on you.

[ Stepping out into the full blast of the morning sun contextualizes the ridiculousness of what just transpired, and Iorveth is forced to accept the fact that his patience didn't even last the day. A few well-placed compliments and palms on his stomach'd been enough to bring Iorveth to his knees, quite literally.

He's trying to reflect on it when Astarion interrupts his thoughts with another carefully-offered piece of praise. By now, Iorveth is aware that these little gestures are as significant as a dragon relinquishing part of its hoarded treasure― a part of him thinks back to a time when he didn't have this context, when he would've waved this comment aside as either a patronizing joke or a survival tactic.

Knowing is only a burden in the sense that he doesn't know how deep his own well of affection goes. Astarion keeps throwing pebbles into it, stirring still waters. ]

I bought it because it pleases you. [ Simply, truthfully. He touches his fingertips to the broken side of his face, tracing down the jagged red arch that cuts from the corner of the missing eye down to his mouth. It's strange, not having it covered. ] I'm finding that I'm capable of abject lunacy when it comes to pleasing you.

Food for thought.

[ Also: case in point. When he smiles this time, it's with the same edge of wickedness that he'd shown when he was between Astarion's legs. ]

Oh, you pleased me.

[ In more ways than one. It's food for thought indeed; that sentence is going to be rattling around in his head all day. I bought it because it pleases you. He feels the fluttering of butterflies in his stomach. Pathetic. Cazador would laugh and laugh about the romance he's invented with some wood elf who's going to run on back to his forest the first moment he can. Maybe he'd be right to laugh.

Astarion suppresses that thought and enters his willfully delusional era instead. He can't bear to think of having happiness snatched away so soon after first experiencing it, so he just— doesn't. He's always been good at repressing what he needs to to make it through the day.

Instead, he focuses on Iorveth's smile. He's becoming increasingly fond of it, like a precious gem coveted for its rarity. It dawns on him, suddenly, that he wants to keep being the recipient of it very badly. He makes his way down the steps in front of Facemaker's, glancing around, searching for something. ]

You haven't eaten. [ A muffled snort, then— ] Well.

[ Inappropriate and incredibly unserious. He shakes his head, then turns to Iorveth. ]

I'm sure you're hungry by now. You mortals do love to eat. [ Multiple times a day! It's excessive. ]

[ Mortals, Astarion says, and therein lies another Big Problem: Astarion is an immortal vampire spawn, and Iorveth, despite his longevity, is still going to kick the bucket someday. What he feels about humans, Astarion likely feels for all things: an ephemeral drop of water in a very, very vast ocean.

Gods, what the fuck are they doing. This is all so ill-advised. It makes Iorveth hesitate, even despite the unseriousness of insinuating that his mouth wasn't full a few minutes ago.

Again: what the fuck are they doing. Iorveth, the freak with plans for his plans, finds that none of them apply when it comes to Astarion. So, instead of trying to cobble together contingencies, he decides, for now, to do what's practical.

Which is to eat. He's not going to talk about having experienced being starved out of forests and doing very well without eating for days, because that's a bummer. ]

I've eaten, [ he hums, keeping with the unseriousness, ] but I do get peckish after exercise.

[ Innuendo? Unintentional. Astarion's fried his brain for the rest of the day. There are fashionable little eateries within eyeshot of Facemaker's, as well as stalls selling snacks and fruits that people can eat on their way to work; Iorveth heads in that direction, brushing his fingers against the back of Astarion's hand to coax him to follow. ] A pity I'll never get to cook something for you.

[ The brush of his fingers feels like a thousand tiny fireworks going off. It's ridiculous. Those fingers were pressed against his crotch, splayed out across his thighs— and Astarion's made a giggling schoolgirl by the feel of them against his hand. ]

Is it? [ he asks as he trails alongside Iorveth. They pass by a sweet little tea shop, a tavern boasting a breakfast special on the sign outside, a stall offering freshly-made bread and cheese. None of it appeals, not like blood does. ] You feed me perfectly well.

[ Perhaps, he thinks, Iorveth wishes he were the eating type, rather than the bloodsucking type. An unpleasant thought, but one he's too buoyant to hold onto for long. He's still riding the high of having experienced intimacy willingly for the first time in memory, a feat he quite frankly didn't think he'd accomplish before the Nautiloid. It was scary. It was thrilling. It was special. ]

I've decided to spoil you. [ A declaration, like Iorveth has no say in the matter. ] Whatever you'd like to eat is yours. And then— [ A thoughtful pause, wherein it becomes evident that he only made this decision half a second before saying it. ] Well, I suppose whatever you want after that, too.

[ Astarion says "decided", as if all of his decisions aren't fleeting whims that he hasn't strung together in a coherent timeline. Iorveth watches him offer this with grandiloquent poise, and is boggled by how his mind translates this, now, to "he's so cute" instead of "what an idiot". Like, it's still stupid, but it's also stupidly cute because it's well-intentioned.

(A study in bias: if Wyll made the same proposition to him, with the same brand of good intentions, Iorveth would probably still tell him that he's not interested at all.)

Iorveth stops in front of a cozy-looking establishment, one that he would've mistaken for someone's home if not for the shy little sign propped near the door that says "travelers welcome for a bite". He trusts the food in places like these the most. Before he makes a move to poke his head in, though, he turns towards Astarion and squares his shoulders. ]

Whatever I want. [ Offering carte blanche for whatever is... well, there's no word for this, either. So he might as well put some shape to said "whatever", he figures. ] What I want is to eat, and then find a place that offers something that passes for privacy.

[ Not necessarily just for indecent reasons. The past tenday has been a whirlwind, and he's barely digested any of it because of all the faces around them and the places they've had to be. He tips his head to the side, expression thoughtful, tacitly asking if Astarion would be amenable to privacy on a day where he'd wanted to go out and enjoy himself. ]

[ Astarion has been put in such a good mood that he'd have agreed to nearly anything. It feels like being satiated and blood-drunk in that dizzy, giddy way, but different somehow, too. Lighter. He didn't have to take anything from anyone to feel this way.

In that tongue-in-cheek tone, again: ] Your wish is my command.

[ Flippant, because he's not much in the habit of following commands these days. For Iorveth, though, he can make a small concession. He shoots the shop that Iorveth stopped at an appraising look, eyebrow raised. It's cute. Homey. His mouth curls up, amused. ]

I wouldn't have thought you'd opt for somewhere so... sweet. [ He cocks his head, appraising Iorveth next. ] But I guess there's more than meets the eye, isn't there?

[ He walks through the door, propping it open with a foot for Iorveth to follow. Inside smells exactly how he'd expected: warm, welcoming, like someone has been cooking for someone they love. When they appear in the doorway, a kindly-looking old woman bustles up to them, a tray of aromatic food in her hands.

"Oh, welcome, dears!" she says, voice thin but genial. Her eyes trail up and down, taking their appearances in. They're well-dressed now, probably more glitzy than most of her usual customers. Her eyes stick on Astarion's pale face, and she exclaims, "Goodness, you must be half-starved! What can I get you?" ]

Ah— nothing for me.

[ It occurs to him, as Iorveth watches the woman fuss about, that so much of what Astarion got away with in the past was precisely because he acted in the cover of night, with a bunch of drunk fools who didn't care to pay attention. In the light of the mid-morning sun, Astarion's stark appearance does invite a certain level of alarm.

Time to throw him a bone. ] He's recovering from an illness. [ A hand to Astarion's elbow, as if to support his weight. ] He can't eat, but he can't seem to stay in bed, either. Humor him.

[ The woman buys the excuse; finds it sweet of the two of them, even. She promises to bring them a pot of tea as soon as they sit down, and disappears into the kitchen once Iorveth finds a nice table for the both of them. A corner seat near a window that looks out onto the street, where Iorveth can watch an assortment of faces and races pass by in relative states of peace and contentment. The occasional Steel Watcher mars the scenery, but their presence isn't as oppressive as they are in other parts of the city.

After they get their tea and Iorveth orders enough food for two: ] Sunlight suits you.

[ It's a little strange to sit at the table with Iorveth and not partake, but he does his best not to just sit and watch as Iorveth eats, no matter how appealing it might be. He glances out the window, feeling the warmth of the morning sun on his skin as he watches a halfling who must be late for work hurrying along, scarfing down a roll on her way.

As he turns back to Iorveth, he runs the back of his hand across his own cheek. Dryly: ] Yes, I think I'm getting a tan.

[ He frowns faintly. It's just too bad he has to rely on the tadpole for it. ]

I will miss it, after. [ After the Netherbrain, after the tadpole is gone. He won't miss the feeling of something alive writhing around in his head, but— to go back to hiding in the dark and needing permission to enter homes feels unbearable. ] Unless...

[ If he completed that ritual of Cazador's, he'd never need to fear the sun again. He trails off before finishing that thought. Iorveth wouldn't approve, he thinks sullenly. ]

Unless.

[ He pours himself a cup of tea, and doesn't finish that thought until the woman hurrying over finishes laying out the first round of Iorveth's breakfast on the table. A stack of honeyed cakes, eggs, and cold cuts. Perhaps surprisingly, Iorveth makes a beeline for the sweets first.

After a mouthful of pastry: ] If you ascend, [ a hypothetical, ] what would you do with your new power?

[ No limits, no tethers. What does an all-powerful immortal do with all that authority, besides fear losing it all over again? It seems a miserable position to be in, with no respite in sight. ]

[ It's charming, that Iorveth goes for the sweet things first. Astarion would have pegged him as the type to eschew treats without any real nutritional value, but he's discovering new things about him every day. He watches Iorveth for a moment, endeared, before he answers. ]

I don't know what you mean.

[ Translation: he hasn't thought about it yet. He just wants them, covets them. Being powerful is enough. Does it matter what he does with it? ]

I'll— [ He waves a hand, physically grasping for words. ] Enjoy them, of course.

[ Sugar is a rare decadence; before this journey, he'd been without for, what, a few decades? He savors the sweetness in his mouth, and is reminded of suckling on honeycombs when he was still a small, careless little thing.

Packing the food away with alarming speed and casualness, he raises his brow at Astarion's non-answer. He'd expected it, to an extent, but still. ]

I don't expect you'd be enjoying them without using them in some way.

[ And the only way power becomes worth anything is if it's relative to things that have no power. Subtle hints from Iorveth, which is probably not want Astarion wants to hear after Iorveth put his mouth on his dick.

But, well. If the most Astarion has thought about ascending is the potential for him to walk in the sun again, there could be other fixes for that. Iorveth takes a sip of tea, and wipes his mouth. ]

[ Astarion raises an eyebrow at Iorveth's appetite. He'd thought he might let Astarion feed him, at least in some playful sort of way. Now, he only thinks to stay out of the way. The sight makes him wonder. Did Iorveth have this much food, back when he was fighting for his forest? Or did he have to make do without, and now he's gorging himself, the way Astarion does now that he finally has the taste of blood that isn't from festering rats?

Not the time to ask. It seems a rather gloomy subject. He concentrates instead on imagining what he might do as the vampire lord of Baldur's Gate. The only real model he has for that life is Cazador, but... he'd be different. Better. Somehow. ]

I'd only have to use them to dissuade anyone who thinks they can hurt me. Or to punish those who've tried.

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