nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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. ]

Of course I'm good at it.

[ To the tune of how dare you suggest otherwise. It's not a talent he's particularly keen to show off, unlike knifework or lockpicking, but it's one he worked at all the same. When he'd first torn a shirt and realized there would be no replacement, he'd worked tirelessly, pricking his fingers with the needle, only to have an incredibly ugly-looking repair. Deft as his fingers may be, he'd never bothered to mend anything in his previous life, and it took years to build up the proficiency that he has now. ]

I could teach you, [ he says slowly, brow furrowed in confusion. ] But I don't see why you'd want to learn.

[ He'd already said before that he intended to simply replace his ruined shirt. Most people probably would. It's only Astarion that finds it hard to let go of his things, even when it's decidedly time. That's probably a metaphor, but he chooses not to examine it. ]

[ Examining why Astarion is so good at mending his things will only cause Iorveth to want to kill Cazador more, so he sets that aside for a rainy day (if it rains between now and their attack on the Szarr mansion); instead, this is where he actually squirms a bit, realigning his posture against the back of his seat and finding a more comfortable way to cross his too-long legs under the table.

While he's composing his answer, the sweet-faced woman approaches Iorveth and asks him if he'd like anything else ("I've never seen anyone clean these plates as nicely as you did, dear!"); he shakes his head first, pauses, then retracts the gesture to ask for a few more cakes to take back with him.

Watching the delighted proprietress bustle back to her station, he finally answers offhandedly: ] I thought I would embroider something on your shirt.

[ There's a warning somewhere in there, the familiar "I am going to be so angry if you make fun of me for this". So much of Iorveth's cageyness comes from the overarching principle of "why should I tell you anything when you'd tell me to shove it up my ass", which he realizes is a defense mechanism that he's built up from decades of dealing with humans who have been callous with things that are important to him; it doesn't apply to Astarion, not really, but old habits die hard. ]

Edited 2024-08-05 04:50 (UTC)

[ The owner of this cozy little place is intolerably adorable, even by Astarion's misanthropic standards, and he can't help the dimple in his cheek as he watches her scurry away to box up more sweet treats for Iorveth. He's reaching into his coin purse and placing her pay on the table when Iorveth answers, terribly casual and off-the-cuff for what he's suggesting, and Astarion glances up at him in surprise.

It isn't that he finds the idea in any way laughable, and in fact the offer fills him with the giddy joy of a teenager being asked on a date for the first time. It's instinct to deflect and repress when it comes to any strong emotion, though, a holdover from the centuries when expressing his thoughts and feelings was just about the most dangerous thing he could do. Only the slight warning edge of Iorveth's voice stops him from making some cheeky remark, it giving him pause just long enough to consider that Iorveth seems to respond better to authenticity. After all, he'd been so soft after Astarion simply told him that he liked him.

Being sincere feels odd, but it's a concession he's willing to make. ]

All right. I'll teach you.

[ He even holds himself back from making a comment about dirty student-teacher roleplay. That's growth. He does, however, say, ] I would like to see your nimble fingers in action.

[ In his defense, that's true. ]

Are you going to tell me what it'll be, or am I to be kept in suspense?

[ Iorveth can tell, plainly, that Astarion is Trying. How can he tell? Because Iorveth, too, is Trying. Or, more accurately, acclimating to the bizarre comfort of being around someone he trusts and wants to be around to do something as benign as embroidering fabric. He finishes the last of the tea in the pot, and relaxes into his seat. ]

I haven't decided yet. I don't expect that you'd want anything wood-related.

[ Gesturing to the leaves and branches that curl up his neck and disappear under his shirt, as an example. As much as he thinks an embroidered leaf would look pretty on Astarion's collar, it probably isn't to his taste. He's thinking of alternatives when their thoughtful server returns with a generously-sized box of treats; she sets it in front of Iorveth, and implores them to come by again with a gentleness that makes him overlook the fact that her ears don't taper at their tips. She beams when he nods in assent and turns towards Astarion next, soft eyes twinkling in morning light.

"There's some extra biscuits in there for you, too― for when you get your appetite back. Don't let your darling eat them all!"

Such nice boys, she says to herself, gathering the coin from the table. Never mind that she's less than half of both of their ages. ]

You heard her, darling, [ Astarion teases. ] You mustn't hog all the biscuits, or I'll leave you for this beautiful creature.

[ He places a hand on the old woman's shoulder, shooting her a megawatt grin. She giggles, cheeks pinking with the pleasure of receiving a compliment usually reserved for those who are young and spry. "Oh, goodness," she exclaims, bashful. "Compliments like that should be reserved for your sweetheart!" ]

Yes, you're right. [ Astarion slips out from their table, extending a hand instead of tugging on Iorveth's arm or sleeve like he normally does. The watchful eye of the proprietress makes him self-conscious of his charmingness-to-demandingness ratio. His grin turns impish as he says, ] Come along, my sweetheart.

[ The woman smiles and turns to return to her work, and then Astarion does tug on Iorveth's arm. A leopard can't change its bossy spots. ]

A sun, perhaps. [ Apropos of nothing, so he adds, ] For the embroidery, I mean.

[ The torrential downpour of precious diminutives is staggering. Darlings, Iorveth hears being tossed around with casual finality, and he wonders if that's what they actually look like. Two normal elves with normal lives that normally revolve around each other. He wonders if that's what Astarion wants, and the unlikeliness of being able to provide that for him feels like a thorn lodged in the back of his throat.

He doesn't let it show, of course. The box of treats gets tucked under one arm, and the other, he lets Astarion grab to pull him back on his (willing) feet. His lips tug into a subtle smile again, despite existential misgivings. ]

A sun. It'd suit.

[ Whoever's heard of a vampire with a sun motif? No one, that's who. But Astarion isn't like anyone else, and being contradictory becomes him. Nodding at their kind host one last time, Iorveth threads his fingers around Astarion's and steps back out into the now-busy streets of the city. ]

―Speaking of suns. [ An epiphany!! ] We could borrow the Blood of Lathander from Lae'zel.

[ Never mind what they'd tell her they'd be using it for. "Elf business". ]

[ Iorveth's hand on his as they depart into the midday streets is unexpected, but not unwelcome. Sure, Iorveth got on his knees for him in a public shop, but handholding on the street—really handholding, not just for show like before—feels positively exhibitionist. He'd expected Iorveth to be repressed and restrained down to even the most innocent gestures of affection, perhaps even more so with them. (Hells, it probably does say something that Astarion had his hand down Iorveth's pants before they truly held hands.) It would have been fine, of course. He's used to making do with scraps.

But it feels immeasurably good not to have to. He grips Iorveth's hand a little tighter, a spring in his step as they make their way down the cobblestoned streets. ]

Oh, Cazador would hate that.

[ So of course he likes the idea, although he's been put in such a good mood by the handholding that he'd twirl his hair and say wow, Iorveth, you're sooo smart to just about anything right now. ]

And I do like the thought of reducing him to a pile of ash.

[ It's probably one of the top three fantasies he lulls himself to sleep at night with. Oh, the way Cazador would scream and scream. The only wrench in the plan is the words 'borrow' and 'from Lae'zel'. She's not exactly the type to lend easily, even if they nearly got disintegrated to procure it for her in the first place. ]

But, ugh, you know she'll make us jump through hoops. Can't we just steal it from her?

[ The frankly tiresome and overwrought process to get the weapon in question seems entirely worth the trouble, now that there's a real use for it. It's been languishing in their storage, a divine weapon, because Lae'zel prefers swords to maces. Apparently, it's lame to use a glorified night-light to vanquish foes; mostly, Iorveth didn't think getting a literally shiny new toy justified being nearly vaporized. ]

We could, [ he concedes, ] though it's not an easy thing to conceal.

[ He has no hands left to gesture with, so he shrugs his shoulders in a vague approximation of "it's bright". ]

It would be easier to convince Lae'zel that you need it for protection, if your pride would allow it.

[ A practical excuse, but not a particularly flattering one. In truth, Iorveth doesn't find Astarion's spawn siblings particularly threatening at all; he finds them roughly as threatening as Astarion, so.

You know. Things he won't say, especially not in this particular moment. ] ...Are we going to be heading back to Elfsong tonight?

[ The thought of convincing Lae'zel sounds humiliating. Astarion can picture her now, standing there with her arms crossed, looking up at him with a frown and a raised eyebrow as he explains that he needs to be able to burn his siblings to a crisp. Maybe he can blame it on the others, instead. Say that he needs to be able to defend them at a moment's notice, should the need arise.

Lae'zel probably won't believe that. He'll have to think of something better.

He cocks his head at Iorveth's question, swinging their hands a little, enjoying the feeling. ]

Why? You can't get enough of alone time with me?

[ Preening a little: ] Well, I can hardly blame you.

[ He notes that Astarion doesn't answer the question, which he interprets as a "no, my ego would not enjoy having to say that I require protection". They'll have to go over logistics later, then, when he's feeling more amenable.

For now－ well. Iorveth snorts. ] Inns don't rent out rooms by the hour. [ The pragmatic and very boring answer for why he might want to spend the night with Astarion in different lodgings; he can't think of any other place that would provide privacy for coin.

That said, he also tests his grip around Astarion's fingers, thumbing along his knuckles with idle ease. ]

That, and I can still smell me on you. [ Leaning over, putting his nose to Astarion's collar for a moment. The gesture is as bold as it is blunt. ] ...If we're going to be in the same room with the others, we'll have to sleep in different beds tonight.

[ He doesn't think he needs to say why. ]

[ Iorveth blatantly smelling him in the middle of the street is so weird. Astarion is into it. He likes that Iorveth is a little freak, because maybe he's a bit of a little freak, too.

What he doesn't like is the suggestion that he'd be banished to his own bed right after getting used to having a person-shaped heated blanket. The thought is inhumane. Being kept from kissing all over Iorveth's face is unpleasant, but certainly doable. He can work around that and transmit Iorveth all sorts of dirty thoughts across the tadpole connection. What's really unforgivable, though, is. Well. The fact that he won't get cuddled — sue him. You can't just kick a cat off of your lap without proper recourse. ]

I'd be cold, [ he argues, offended. It doesn't take him more than half a second to decide, ] An inn it is, then.

[ He pauses. ]

—Ah, not the Flophouse.

[ The point is that Astarion should try not to make the rest of the party hate them both while they're all sharing a room, but that's a bridge they'll have to cross later. For tonight, Iorveth is free from judgment and free to be the little freak that he is. ]

The Flophouse is the antithesis of private. Unless you've a taste for actual exhibitionism [ holding hands in public doesn't count ], we'll find something with walls and a ceiling.

[ Any place that doesn't immediately advertise itself as a place where desperate drunks go for a quick tryst will do. Fortunately, they're in the part of the Lower City that connects to the heart of Baldur's Gate－ the neighborhood is full of stately manors and long-established estates, and the lodgings that pepper the area are for those with the means to eventually meander over to the Upper City. A little further down, and they'll be back at the manse that Henselt used to occupy, near the Chionthar and the Water Queen's House.

As he walks, he finds a sturdy-looking two-story inn with a sign that reads "The Spearhead", which feels suitably ironic enough for him and his spear-induced injury. He gravitates towards it, finally letting go of Astarion's hand. ]

We'll need an alias for the guestbook. Give me a name to use.

[ Ooh, walls and a ceiling. He feels like a princess.

Astarion kindly makes no mention of Iorveth liking his spearhead, because again, he'd like not to end up in the doghouse. Besides, he'd rather not make Iorveth change his mind when this inn is perfectly suitable. He's never been in it before, which is a good thing. It's too respectable for the sort of things he used inn rooms for. And too expensive. It's not exactly the swanky sort of place he'd like to bunk in—those are in the Upper City—but it has a certain charm. It's robust, made of dark-stained wood reinforced with iron brackets, and a bold-lettered sign bearing its name hangs above the entrance.

While it may not be the inn of choice for dignitaries and nobles, it doesn't look particularly seedy, which is a relief. He's had enough of seedy. ]

An alias?

[ He furrows his brow for a moment. The thought of using an alias never once occurred to him. It probably should have, and a long time ago, too, but he'd given his real name without a second thought. ]

Oh, I don't know. [ He waves his hand. ] Call me Gale of Waterdeep.

[ A beat passes, thoughtful. ]

Mm, unless that puts you off. Understandable, of course.

[ Iorveth's spent all day arranging the sharp features on his face to look less severe, and this is finally the thing that makes him look sour. ]

First his shirt, now his name.

[ A third invoking will have Gale magically appear in front of them, like a certain fictional character that doesn't exist in this universe. Iorveth huffs, stopping with one foot resting on the stone steps leading up to the inn's heavy wooden entrance. ]

Come on then, "Gale".

[ To the tune of "you asked for it". Play Gale games, win Gale prizes. (With apologies to Gale, who is blameless in this situation.) ]

[ If one could pout and grin at the same time, he would. He hates to see Iorveth make that surly face at him, but the cause of it is, well, a little bit funny. Gale, of all people? Astarion takes a step up toward the entrance, wrapping a hand around Iorveth's arm. ]

Oh, don't be jealous. [ Or do, he thinks, because it's unbearably cute. Gods, he really has lost himself if he's thinking about how cute Iorveth is. ] I'd much rather wear your shirt.

[ From an amorous standpoint, anyway. (From a fashion standpoint, he doubts Iorveth's clothing in its abilities to flatter him.) After all, Gale's shirt ended up ripped and discarded in Facemaker's dressing room.

He pulls Iorveth close, knocking their shoulders together, and teases, ] And, of course, it's your name I'd rather call out in sweet carnal ecstasy.

[ An older man takes this moment to exit the Spearhead. His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and he sputters a little. "The state of our youth nowadays! Whatever happened to decorum?" he grumbles as he passes them. ]

[ The sour look on his face turns slightly pointed, poised for a protest about not being jealous, until a nosy human decides that it's a good time to chide Astarion about decorum.

Automatically: ] Funny for a human to be so precious about sex, when all your kind ever do is fuck and multiply like vermin.

[ Mean. A back off, in no uncertain terms. Sure, Iorveth can be snappy at Astarion about excessive provocation, but that doesn't mean that he's going to stand around and let a human be patronizing about it. The man in question looks stunned by what he perceives is a very unearned clapback to his morally correct statement, and hurries away, red-faced; Iorveth huffs through his aquiline nose, and mutters something in Aen Seidhe under his breath. "Bloede dh'oine." ]

Come. I'm tired of sharing our space with others. [ The spirit of Gale included. Tugging Astarion along, he hastily writes a name ("Isengrim") in the guest book sitting on the check-in counter and strongarms the innkeep into giving them the corner room on the second floor; it's a beeline journey after that, up the stairs and down the hall into a surprisingly tidy room with assorted furniture made of warm-colored wood, rugs that look hand-woven. There are two beds, but Iorveth doubts they'll use both― he approaches one and sets his spoils of the day down beside it with a flourish that speaks volumes: finally. ]

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