nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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. ]

[ Iorveth's reaction is certainly outsized, but Astarion finds he doesn't mind. He likes when Iorveth is mean — to others. He can't take it, but he sure loves watching Iorveth dish it out.

Astarion kicks his shoes off when he enters their rented room, setting his weapons and his bag of clothing down. He thinks about asking who Isengrim is, and if he should be jealous, but doesn't. It's probably the name of one of the Aen Seidhe Iorveth will be returning to, and that alone makes him jealous in a way that's uglier and far less endearing than Iorveth's jealousy. He pushes the feeling down, because the last thing he wants is to be unappealing.

There's a window overlooking the street, and Astarion gravitates toward it, looking out and enjoying the warmth of daylight on his face. ]

You're so handsome when you're disparaging.

[ The room affords them a lovely view of the water: a wide ribbon of turquoise-blue, with boats floating serenely on its surface. Looking out onto the city from this vantage point, it's difficult to imagine there being an underground network of murder cultists jockeying for power against an ambitious would-be-tyrant who's overrun the city with metal soldiers. Here, now, things look idyllic. Peaceful. A well-dressed elderly halfling is walking his dog with a little girl who is presumably his granddaughter.

All of it feels like something Iorveth isn't entitled to. He can see Astarion fitting back nicely into the clamor and energy of Baldur's Gate, renewing an aristocratic position that was stolen from him when Cazador came around― this place suits him, the way selfishness and sunlight does.

Iorveth, not so much. Stepping out of his own boots, he gravitates towards Astarion and stands three steps to his left, leaning against the room's one desk. ]

And you're endearing when you're delusional.

[ Reticent to accept "handsome", but allowing himself to smile about it. ] Should I be more curt, if it excites you so much?

[ It's beyond satisfying to watch Iorveth actually smile at a compliment for his looks, like a flower slowly blooming. The pleasure is selfish; he likes the idea that Iorveth is blooming for him, that it's a side of him only Astarion gets to see. He makes a mental note to praise Iorveth more often. Maybe one day he'll even accept the compliment.

He closes those three steps immediately, leaning next to Iorveth so that their elbows brush scandalously. ]

Oh, are you going to scold me?

[ His smile is puckish, his tone light-hearted. There's a 50-50 chance he'll get scolded for this very thing, knowing Iorveth, but he really can't help himself. ]

I've been a very bad boy.

[ How inconvenient for Iorveth, that he now knows that the come-ons aren't strictly about getting a rise out of him or about playing him for a fool. He can still feel Astarion's fingers in his hair, tugging, and the heat of him bumped against his throat, speaking of "bad boy"s.

Hells. Iorveth's gaze flicks sideways, fixed on a spot where the wall meets the ceiling. What an interesting right angle that doesn't at all distract him from the not-warm body pressed against him. Ugh. ]

That's expected of you, [ is a little dry, masking some of the residual heat he's trying to stave off. One more baleful glare at the corner of the room later, he pivots his attention back towards Astarion. The scowl fades, and Iorveth pauses.

Then: ] I'd be inclined to say that you've been the opposite, today. [ Has he been? Who cares. Shut up, Iorveth tells the rational majority in his mind.

A tip of his head, and a knowing smile later: ] "Good boy". [ Fingers comb through Astarion's hair, as if to praise a cat for not having scratched his bedpost into oblivion. ]

[ Astarion should be offended at receiving the sort of praise usually reserved for a loyal dog. I'm a bloodsucking monster, not Scratch, he should say. Hells, he should be annoyed at the fact that Iorveth is probably messing up his dutifully styled hair. None of this comes to pass, because it feels good to be spoken to and touched gently. Astarion is nothing if not a slave to impulse, and his impulse right now is to lean his head into Iorveth's hand, eyes slipping shut for a moment just to enjoy the feeling.

He laughs wryly, eyes opening to smile at Iorveth, crooked and amused. It would be difficult to find an insult he hasn't yet heard—from Cazador or Godey or even his siblings, although he wasn't blameless with them—but, until recently, being ignored was the best compliment he could expect. He believes it about as much as Iorveth believes that he's handsome, but he's never been one to turn down undeserved praise. ]

Now there's something I've never heard before.

[ He pauses mid-motion, fingers stopping where they'd been sifting, slow and indulgent, through silver hair. Grappling, he realizes, with the kind of protectiveness that'd prompted him to take up arms, so many decades ago. It stuns him to think that all this caring snuck up on him without warning, tangled around his ribs and took root.

It'll take two hundred more years for Astarion to unlearn what Cazador beat into him, Iorveth thinks. It's not the sort of thing that a handful of tendays of positive affirmation can undo. But Iorveth also thinks that it'd be nice to spend those two hundred years of Astarion's initial freedom with him, watching him realign himself in the context of the world－

－if he decides not to ascend, of course. Complicated, that. He resumes the measured raking of his touch through Astarion's hair, and traces one ear to its pointed tip. ]

Mm. I've told you before－ you're nobler than you know. [ All that business of promising he'd save his own skin in a pinch, and doing precisely the opposite. Iorveth traces his hand down to where Astarion'd been bludgeoned by one of Henselt's men; ancient history by now (not actually), but he thumbs along the spot with quiet reverence. ] I'd not be here if it weren't for you.

[ Astarion wraps his fingers around Iorveth's wrist, pleased and guilty all at once. It would feel so wonderful to give in and delude himself into thinking that there's something noble here, but ] I'm really not.

[ All the people he's led to the proverbial gallows could corroborate that. Or they could, anyway, if they weren't dead. Men, women, even the Gur children he helped Cazador kidnap. His own siblings would substantiate it, too. All the times he tortured them at Cazador's behest, and worse, the things he did of his own free will because he let Cazador turn them against each other.

A fang digs into his lip, and he glances away. ]

I didn't stay behind out of some moral righteousness.

[ He's never done anything out of moral righteousness, and he doubts he ever will. Righteousness is for people like Wyll. Good people, when it comes down to it.

Matter-of-fact: ] I did it because I liked you.

[ Because Astarion liked him. It's the simplest (and oldest) reason in the world to do anything: wars have been waged and ended because someone chose to like someone, and Astarion is correct in saying that it has nothing to do with morals. Doing something out of affection is both selfish and fallible.

But it's also staggering, in this context. Iorveth could point to other examples of Astarion having done things that might not have been in his immediate area of interest, but this one makes his chest feel tight. ]

－True. That isn't noble. [ A whisper of a sigh, too affectionate to be exasperated. ] So how is it that it makes me feel more fond of you, I wonder.

[ The hand that Astarion's trapped slides down to his cheek, and rests there to keep him in place for a kiss. Featherlight, just a brush of lips over lips. "How much more of me are you going to pilfer", he says in his native tongue, before remembering that Astarion hates being out of the loop. ]

Troublesome, [ is how he translates that. Another kiss, and he rubs his forehead against Astarion's. ]

[ Up this close, with their foreheads pressed together, he can feel the heat of Iorveth's breath against his face. Astarion nudges Iorveth's nose with his own. It's all so intolerably twee, but for some reason he finds he likes it. Nobility is overrated when he can have this, instead. ]

You're handsome when you're complimentary, too.

[ He clutches Iorveth's head in his hands, palms on both cheeks, and kisses him on the lips before releasing him. Although he takes a step back, he keeps a hand gently holding onto Iorveth's sleeve. ]

Does your injury hurt much? [ Only a scratch across his back, hardly anything compared to the types of wounds he's sustained on their journey, much less the ones he had before. Still— ] I wouldn't mind playing doctor.

[ Unbelievable. Will Astarion please stop being so easy to like, or will some assassin please have the decency to crawl through their window so Iorveth can put an arrow through their skull??? Anything to make Iorveth feel a little less like he's doting, even if murder might actually be the best way for him to show tangible, practical affection.

He blinks at the request, surprised that the subject of his negligible injury's being brought up, but relaxes into it. Laughs, even. ]

If you want me to take my shirt off, you need only ask.

[ Astarion is cute. Iorveth is forced to embrace this and forced to embrace the fact that it's becoming easier to accept, because he's lost the script and lost his mind entirely. ]

Check to see if I haven't bled on the new shirt, will you?

[ Guilty. Astarion doesn't even pretend that this isn't 90% about getting his shirt off, and having an excuse to put his hands all over Iorveth's back. Instead, he just starts lifting up the hem of Iorveth's new shirt to remove it. This is him asking. ]

If you had, I'd know it.

[ Is it uncouth to say that he can smell Iorveth's blood, and that he'd be a lot hungrier if he had bled through it? Probably, so he leaves it at that, instead turning Iorveth around by the shoulders so he can take a look. A manhandler at heart. ]

Besides, you certainly weren't suffering from blood loss before—

[ Talking about Iorveth's erection is probably even more uncouth, so stops himself there, although he can't help but smile in juvenile amusement. It is, as expected, a superficial scratch. If Astarion had really thought it was a problem, he wouldn't have waited until now to give it a proper look. ]

Oh, yes. You'll need my tender ministrations if you want to survive the night.

[ It's one long diagonal scratch, starting near one of the tattooed branches that snake behind Iorveth's shoulder, down to almost the small of his back. Nothing that a potion or an ointment won't take care of. He rolls his eye at the theatrics of it all, but he's also not moving away, perched on the edge of the desk like the little freak that he is to undo the buttons of his new shirt (still very rumpled). The garment shrugs off easily, soft and light, onto the floor.

Honestly, he wanted an excuse to take the thing off too. It reminds him of Astarion's fingers gripping it, the smell of him on his collar. ]

"Tender ministrations". [ He drawls, amused. ] Cleaning the blood with your mouth, I expect.

Tenderly.

[ There's all this blood that Iorveth isn't even using, that Astarion doesn't even need to bite him for. It would be wasteful not to indulge. He presses his palms against Iorveth's back, underneath his scar, peering at it.

Iorveth has a nice back. Warm, of course, as is to be expected of a living person. Back muscles that befit an archer. A hint of tattoo. His own back is one of the things Astarion hates most about himself, but Iorveth's is remarkably touchable; he runs his hands over it in the paper-thin guise of inspecting the injury. ]

I haven't anything else to clean it with, but we must make do.

[ Another paper-thin excuse. He lets his hands rest on Iorveth's shoulders for a moment before pushing them, gently. ]

Patients belong in their sickbeds.

[ Gently nudged, Iorveth gets up on his feet to walk the few paces it takes to reach the bed, where he debates whether he want to sit on its edge or make use of the generously-sized mattress: the latter wins out in the end, though it's with a reluctance that says that he hasn't gotten on his stomach for anyone, or at least not in the past few decades.

Bedsprings yield under his weight. The sheets are clean, and smell like sun and soap; this entire day has been about excess and decadence. Clothes, breakfast, Astarion.

Iorveth settles, flat on the bed with his elbows bent, chin on his forearms. ]

The last time I was on a sickbed, [ he murmurs, ] was right after humans ruined my face.

[ His lips pull up into a wry smile. ] You would've been able to drink your fill, had you been there. [ He'd lost so much blood that everyone'd assumed he'd die; turns out that he's not very good at staying dead. ]

[ Like the bold little upstart he is, Astarion crawls onto the bed and up Iorveth's body readily, settling back to sit up on Iorveth's thighs and appreciate the view laid out for him. Impossible, that Iorveth said he wasn't alluring. Every atom in his body is fighting over whether to lick up his blood or pin him down and kiss him all over.

He makes a compromise, leaning down to press his lips to the cut, inhaling deeply. The bleeding isn't excessive, but the scent of blood and Iorveth mingling in his nose sends a hot stab of hunger through him. He's never known how to want something he didn't devour. ]

Tried to ruin it.

[ A not-so-gentle correction. Having Iorveth think he's ruined won't do at all. ]

Unfortunately for them, you're still ravishing.

[ Brazen, he presses the flat of his tongue to Iorveth's skin. He really is tender, fighting back every urge to lap at him like a thirsty dog, hesitant to hurt him when the wound is still fresh. The blood on his skin is sticky, but Astarion runs his tongue over it dutifully. ]

[ The compliment rolls off of him as usual, but less easily this time: he can feel himself warming both at the words and the way Astarion presses his mouth to broken skin, and knows that it's impossible for Astarion to miss that hike in heat. Something in the pit of his stomach curls and simmers again, the way it did back at Facemaker's.

It's ridiculous. Having a vampire lick blood from his wound shouldn't make him feel hot under the collar that he isn't wearing, but the light sting of the cut and the lukewarm tongue to soothe it makes Iorveth arch, subtly, wherever Astarion's mouth is.

He makes a thoughtless, instinctive sound against his pillow. Almost a hum. Astarion is being careful with him, he realizes, but Iorveth is a little freak, and so his executive decision to reach backwards and dig his blunted nails along the wound, breaking skin and making it bleed more, is something he's happy to do.

Another thoughtless little sound, arm still bent back with bloody fingers proffered: ] There.

Edited (repETITION!!) 2024-08-07 22:16 (UTC)

You're— [ Insane. The words get strangled in his throat as he watches fresh, warm blood trickle from Iorveth's wound. Dark candy red, shiny, the smell coppery and sweet.

On some distant, rational level, he can recognize that this isn't sensible behavior, that Iorveth has gone from overly permissive to downright masochistic. That tiny, logical voice is drowned out by the damn chorus of angels singing in his head. It's insane, yes, but to the feral creature inside him, it's also the most appealing thing he's ever seen.

Without another word, he traps Iorveth's hand by the wrist and bends down to lick a long, uninterrupted stripe from the small of his back all the way up to his shoulder. It's a million times harder to maintain any semblance of gentleness now, tongue laving the broken skin enthusiastically. When he reaches Iorveth's shoulder blade, he swallows thickly, the sensation of blood coating his throat more intoxicating than a shot of whiskey. ]

Gods, [ is the most eloquent observation he can make, before dipping his head down to lick the blood off of Iorveth's fingers, almost reverent. Although there's no blood on it, he presses his lips messily to Iorveth's palm, too, tasting his skin. ]

Edited 2024-08-07 23:38 (UTC)

[ If nothing else, Iorveth is confident in his madness. Willing to bleed a little (or a lot) for something or someone he's pledged himself to; it takes a certain kind of masochism to be the kind of person that he is.

More importantly, he likes this. Some displays of violence are about trust, and Iorveth feels vindicated by Astarion's taking of what he gives－ like foxes who playfight each other with teeth and claws. His back arches, his bloody nails rake across Astarion's tongue until they're clean. Goosebumps rise on his skin at the sensation of wet lips against his palm, and his legs cross behind him at the ankles, toes curled.

It all feels good. He laughs, thin and thrilled, and rakes his own tongue along the slick patch of blood-tinged saliva left on his palm after he retracts his hand from Astarion's grip, humming again in approval. ]

I'm not afraid of your teeth. [ To finish Astarion's half-formed sentence, wincing delightedly around the dull ache spreading along his back. ] Besides－

－I've had breakfast, and you haven't.

[ His smile spreads, slightly crooked. ]

Edited 2024-08-08 00:45 (UTC)

[ The sound of Iorveth's laugh sends waves of delight through his body, strange but entirely wonderful. It's been ages since he cared about the happiness of someone other than himself. Smiles in the Szarr mansion were always wicked, laughs at his expense.

He cranes down to nip at Iorveth's tattooed shoulder affectionately, careful not to break the skin, and smooths his tongue over the indentations left behind afterward. Even Iorveth's skin tastes good, smells good, like woodsmoke and summer heat. Astarion has the sudden, ridiculous desire to bottle him and carry him around always.

As he presses the tips of his fangs harmlessly to the nape of Iorveth's neck, he grins ear to pointy ear, so full of warm, fuzzy feelings that the only way to let it out is this gentle aggression. He has to bear his weight on his hands to lean forward far enough to nudge his cheek against Iorveth's ear, letting his breath ghost over the sensitive skin there as he talks. ]

So you thought you'd let me have you? [ he teases, before dragging the points of his teeth along the edge of Iorveth's ear. ]

[ A grand concession, to let anyone bear their weight down on him from the back and to let them press pointed things to vulnerable parts of him. It's the sort of position that he'd find humiliating in every other context. Unforgivable, even.

But he allows it. Does more than allow it; allows himself to relax into it as much as he can manage with that soft voice purring at his ear, distracting him from rational thought.

Undiluted hedonism, Iorveth thinks. Like being dipped in something warm and viscous. He shivers, reaching backwards again to trace fingers along Astarion's jaw, enamored by the feeling of his (probably unnecessary) breath. ]

Why not? I had you this morning.

[ It's just balancing scales－ they should be equal in all things. ] Unless you'd rather refrain, and prefer to teach me how to darn socks instead.

[ Which, like, Iorveth wouldn't say no to. He's the one that asked for embroidery lessons. ]

Edited 2024-08-08 02:29 (UTC)

[ Astarion is going to teach Iorveth how to darn socks if it's the literal last thing he does, because at least then he'll die wearing a shirt embroidered by someone who actually cares about him. It's only a matter of 'now' or 'later'. He draws his weight off of Iorveth, new shirt already stained a little bloody now, and lifts up onto his knees so he can heave Iorveth onto his back.

Well, heave has the connotation that he's actually doing something. His weak arms really only tug at Iorveth's shoulders and expect him to do the rest. ]

Is that what you want?

[ His tone is lightly inquisitive, eyes bright with curiosity. ]

You want me to have you the way you had me?

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