nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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.

[ The kindly old lady is all too happy to see Iorveth demolishing her food like an elf-shaped Bag of Holding; she clears one empty plate and replaces it with a stack of scones and little jars of different jams, oblivious to the fact that she's in the presence of a terrorist and the potential future Vampire Lord of Baldur's Gate.

Licking honey off his thumb: ] Mm. [ Of all the things Astarion's said, that's something that Iorveth doesn't feel needs reproaching. ] That, I understand.

[ Protect what you're entitled to, and fight for your own freedom. Astarion has two hundred years of injustice for Cazador and his ilk to repay in full― that makes sense to Iorveth. ]

I'll not preach over breakfast. Call it idle curiosity. [ Obviously, he still has opinions about ascension, but he'll be content with knowing that Astarion hasn't actually given it too much thought. ] It's in my interest to know that you intend to be happy, at any rate.

[ The only time he's ever really felt happy was when he was with Iorveth. The realization makes him sad, and then angry with Iorveth for intending to take that away, and then shameful for wanting more than Iorveth is willing to give when he should make himself content with the fleeting joy he already doesn't deserve. It all mixes up into a feeling he can only describe as bad.

He's never been good at dealing with 'bad'. As he attempts to stuff those feelings back in the box and reenter the world of delusion he'd been in a moment ago, he curls up in his chair and leans his head against the window. Outside, a man and woman walk hand-in-hand, smiling and chatting. He sort of wants to set them on fire for being happy. ]

Mm-hmm, [ he says, sullen and petulant, before he manages to kick those emotions under the rug where they belong. A change of subject is in order, so he glances back at Iorveth, canting his head at the plate. ] What a sweet tooth you have, darling. Now I know what makes you so sweet.

[ Iorveth observes the stormclouds gathering above Astarion's head, and wonders which part of what he'd said was the culprit: the fact that he could've preached? The mention of his curiosity being idle? The use of the h-word?

A scone disappears into his mouth as he thinks, and he's still chewing when Astarion abruptly decides to stop brooding. No matter. He'll have the rest of the day to try to figure out where Astarion's head is at. ]

The entirety of the North would laugh, if they heard you. [ Including some of his own, who don't entirely agree with his methods even if they appreciate the sentiment. He laughs about it, and manages not to sound as bitter as he might have. ] Not even Ciaran would call me "sweet".

[ Or so he believes. He doesn't think he's ever given anyone any reason to think him capable of it, even now; he's been softer with Astarion, but he's not sure if that's the same as being sweet. Halsin is sweet, Wyll is sweet, Gale is sweet. ]

[ Astarion doesn't mention that Ciaran seemed like sort of a dick anyway. Even if he is, he's a dick who Iorveth loves, so he figures he shouldn't say such things. Not because Iorveth's love for him makes him unworthy of reproach, but because Astarion doesn't want to end up in the doghouse for disparaging Iorveth's brethren. ]

Good. I should be the only one you're sweet to.

[ It makes him feel special, being the recipient of Iorveth's softness. Special in a good way, unlike all of the bad ways he was special to Cazador. He wouldn't care if Iorveth wanted to fuck every last person in the city and then some, but he might die of rage and jealousy if Iorveth spoke to anyone else like he does to Astarion. He and Halsin could share in nature's bounty like the tree-hugging wood elves they are all they want, as long as Iorveth is mean to him afterward.

He slides a foot under the table, hooking an ankle around Iorveth's. ]

I don't like to share.

[ A soft huff, dry, though he makes no move to dislodge from the sudden tangle of their limbs. ]

If you've noticed, [ as he piles more jam onto his next scone, ] you don't have much in the way of competition.

[ He is, as he sees it, the least eligible bachelor in Faerûn. Too busy, too mean, too disfigured. A stark contrast to Astarion, who wears his charm with as much ease as his beauty. Reality is more complicated than that, of course, but it's hardly Astarion who has to worry about sharing.

That said, something warm pulses between Iorveth's ribs at the clear indication that, impossibly, his affection is wanted. Only would have rankled if it came out of anyone else's mouth; in that way, Astarion is correct. He is the only person that Iorveth is so permissive with. ]

And, besides― [ he says, toeing against the side of Astarion's leg, ] ―there won't be another like you. Not in the North, not in this city. Not in my lifetime.

[ Astarion visibly blooms at the praise, sinking into his chair in embarrassed delight. Is it bad to hope for Iorveth to be lonely and miserable without him when he returns to his forest? Probably. He still does, a little. Like he said, he doesn't share well with others. ]

There you go, being sweet again.

[ Because it is sweet. Just like buying that eyepatch to please him was sweet, just like the way he fixed Astarion's hair and wiped the blood from his face was sweet. He feels sick with fondness, the feeling foreign and a little anxiety-provoking. Hating someone feels powerful, protective, familiar. Liking someone feels out of his control, disgustingly vulnerable, alien. ]

Ugh, you really have to stop.

[ He doesn't look like he wants Iorveth to stop, the tips of his ears pink with pleasure. ]

[ Is it sweet, if it's just Iorveth telling the truth? He finishes clearing his plate, one eye narrowing in ill-concealed fondness as Astarion seems to glow in the morning light. His sincerity was hard-earned, but worth everything. ]

"Kindness gives you hives", was it?

[ A knowing hum. Callback to when Iorveth'd been far more prickly when told to stop, offended that Astarion'd even teasingly pushed back on something that he rarely offers; now, all he does is laugh under his breath and finish his cup of tea. ]

I think I enjoy watching you squirm.

[ He has the rest of this entire day to give Astarion even more metaphorical hives. A threat and a promise from the meanest elf in the world, who sets his silverware aside to admire the view in front of him: Astarion, flushed and pretty. ]

[ He absolutely is squirming under the uncomfortable joy of being liked, but that really doesn't jive with his devil may care rake image. Astarion wills himself to stop burning up with glee and turns his nose up. Mustering up all the bravado he has inside of him, he leans forward, across the table, and croons, ] Mm. I think you're the one who's been doing the squirming today.

[ As he leans back in his chair, he taps Iorveth's leg with his boot playfully. Squirm isn't the right word, exactly. It doesn't do justice to what he got to watch, Iorveth soft and shockingly pliant under his hands. The feeling of his head resting on Astarion's shoulder is going to be on repeat for at least the next century. ]

How quickly one goes from 'oh no, you'll make a mess' to 'ravish me, you beast'.

[ This is, perhaps, not the most truthful recounting, but it's what he chooses to believe happened. ]

Edited (YOU DIDN'T SEE ME EDIT THIS TWICE) 2024-08-04 23:25 (UTC)

[ The sweet old woman comes by to take Iorveth's empty plate, and spares a surprised oh when she catches the tail end of "ravish me, you beast". Blushing pink, she hurriedly sets a bowl of oatmeal in front of the stern-looking one, murmuring "I promise not to eavesdrop, dears," and scurries back to her kitchen sanctuary.

Iorveth doesn't even have time to frown. He blinks, bemused, then cycles between indignance and amusement, finally settling on obstinate acknowledgment over a mouthful of oatmeal-bathed fruit. ]

I've wanted you for a while now. [ Which explains the incredibly stupid stunt he pulled, which he's now being forced to recognize over breakfast. Breakfast. Again, he's shocked at himself for not even waiting until after lunch; Iorveth is his own harshest critic. ] I'll not apologize for being eager.

[ Was it embarrassing? Yes. Is he going to say that it was a mistake? No. Vanity is weakness and lust is a distraction, but wanting something is fuel for the soul. He glances at Astarion, spoon in mouth, as unafraid and blunt as ever. ]

[ The interruption of their cute old server doesn't rattle Astarion at all. He's said far dirtier in public. Honestly, this is keeping it clean for him. He shoots her (what he believes to be) his most charming smile as she absconds back to the kitchen. As long as she brings Iorveth food, she can eavesdrop all she'd like. The way he scarfs down all of this food gives Astarion a bittersweet feeling; he knows what it is to be hungry, to go without, and he suddenly finds the idea of Iorveth doing so intolerable. ]

Oh, I don't want you to apologize. Eager is enticing.

[ He's had people be eager for intimacy before, but not like that. Other people were eager like someone eager to play with their new toy, an object to be used for their own gratification. And why wouldn't they see it that way? They were just drunk strangers he picked up at a tavern. Iorveth, though, was different. He didn't make Astarion feel interchangeable. ]

You know— [ Now he really is squirming, stumbling unusually over his words. ] That was the first time I... or at least the first time I wanted to—

[ Ugh, this is humiliating. He glances off to the side. ]

I only mean to say that, well. It was nice, is all.

[ The first time. Ironically, this isn't the first time Astarion has expressed this particular sentiment－ the first time he's drank blood, the first time he did anything for anybody without running away, the first time he kissed someone without it being unpleasant－ and though the sentiment makes Iorveth want to reach across the table and kiss Astarion breathless again, he also thinks of Cazador.

He thinks of stepping on Cazador's throat until his neck snaps. Of putting a knife through his skull. Of burning him in the same sunlight that makes Astarion look so striking. (It's too bad that he doesn't actually have a clue as to what the monster looks like.) Iorveth thinks these things without moving his face at all, his composure without reproach, swallowing that familiar feeling of simmering anger with easy practice.

Swallowing his food, Iorveth sets down his spoon and touches his palm to Astarion's cheek. ]

...I'd expect you to tell me if you didn't want anything. Loudly, and preferably with a blade.

[ An affectionate joke. "I'm glad, and you're free to tell me to fuck off if you ever want to." After a moment, he does decide to crane forward and press a brief kiss to the corner of Astarion's mouth, which is noticed by another couple walking by their window. Whatever. Let them look. ]

Edited 2024-08-05 01:27 (UTC)

[ Unconsciously, Astarion leans his cheek into Iorveth's hand, not unlike a cat nuzzling its person's palm. He laughs a little at the dramatics of turning Iorveth down with a blade to the throat, but it's affectionate. That Iorveth encourages him to say 'no' is strange and endearing and oddly alluring. He doesn't know how to explain that Iorveth offering not to blow him made him want Iorveth to blow him really, really bad, though, so he doesn't try, only shaking his head lightly. ]

I think I've had my fill of using my blade on you.

[ As appealing as it was to see Iorveth bloodied and unhinged. There will certainly be other opportunities to see that, so he isn't overly concerned.

An afterthought: ] Unless, of course, you ask me to.

[ He's not sure how freaky Iorveth is. He was shockingly ready to go right after killing two people. ]

But otherwise— hm. [ Sounding incredulous even as he says it: ] I find that I'd rather be nice to you. I really am going to break out in hives.

[ Iorveth tucks that "unless you ask" into a mental pocket for safekeeping, freak that he is. Which isn't to say that the rest of what Astarion says isn't noted with equal amounts of care, because it is: there's something a little funny about two grown-ass adult elves finding it shocking that they want to be kind, but it's a breakthrough nevertheless. ]

Your loss, my gain. [ A subtle smile, cast to the side. Reserved, but pleased. ] I'll ask Shadowheart for lotion to put on your skin.

[ Gods, Iorveth hopes one of Astarion's siblings interrupts them right now, just so he can have a way to vent all this fondness into something practical. Preferably the one with the bad hair, Petras. Otherwise he's going to have to ask the kind old lady to wrap everything else left in a basket and tug Astarion into an inn that isn't Elfsong, and do heinous things like brush his hair and call him pretty. Absurd. ]

There is one thing that I've been interested in, now that you mention "nice".

[ Oh, that smile. Astarion thinks about complimenting him on it, although he wonders if Iorveth will take the praise. He doesn't care what Iorveth looks like, a shocking turn of events for someone whose relationships—if one can even call them that—have been entirely shallow, but he is more good-looking than he thinks. (And even more good-looking when looked at with Astarion's current debuffs: Rose-Colored Glasses and Had An Orgasm.)

It's second nature to react to just about anything flippantly, so he raises an eyebrow and grins, saying, ] Oh? Is it that you'd like to rub lotion all over my soft, supple skin? That would be very nice.

[ Only after does he fear Iorveth might see this as pushback in some way, tetchy as he can be, so he clears his throat and waves a hand as if to wave that quip away. ]

Do tell me. I'm all ears.

[ Good thing Iorveth has gained levels in Astarion Handling, which gives him a +5 proficiency bonus and a higher probability of rolling a nat 20 on patience check rolls. He only looks like he wants to say "will you take me fucking seriously" for a fraction of a second, which is a marked improvement over pre-leveled Iorveth, who would both have said it and also have gotten up to leave. Whether or not the leveling is a boon or a bane is yet to be seen.

For now, he's content to let this crush on Astarion take him where it will. Possibly in Cazador's dungeon for the rest of his life, but that's a pessimistic outlook on things. Instead of focusing on that not-nice thing, he will choose, instead, to focus on the nice thing, which is: ]

You mentioned before that you can mend shirts.

[ The kind old woman peers out from the kitchen, wondering when the two handsome elves have switched from talking about ravaging each other to. Well. Shirt mending. Very charming of them, she thinks. Iorveth notices her watching, but decides to keep going. ]

If you're any good at needlework, you could teach me.

[ Without elaborating on why he'd want to learn. ]

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