nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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?

[ STR 8 versus STR 10. No wonder Lae'zel thinks the men are all a bit useless. Iorveth watches Astarion paw at him with the amusement of a dog watching a cat kneading its tail (the meanest elf in the world is still alive and well), and flips over once he's had his fill of watching the struggle.

On his back and looking up, he admires the view. Astarion, back to the window with a halo of midday light around him, looking down at him with bright, red eyes. It could be framed, turned into a painting: "The Last Thing One Sees Before a Sweet Death".

Stupid, trivial thoughts. Iorveth's smile stays, hands maneuvering to grip either side of Astarion's waist. ]

You're asking me how you would have me?

[ His brow ticks up, under the eyepatch. ]

I've never given a man the option to have me however he wants, you realize. Or the option to tell me to fuck them senseless, for that matter. [ Blunt. His smile grows a bit wider, coy. ] Or, I suppose in your case, you might want my blood more than you want sex. Another valid option. Then we could get to darning socks.

Edited 2024-08-08 03:28 (UTC)

[ Astarion narrows those bright, red eyes. It's terribly sweet that Iorveth is offering to give blood for nothing in return, and hells, that he really plans to darn socks with Astarion, but he's failed the test. That is, he hasn't reacted exactly how Astarion wants him to and could never expect him to.

Tone chiding: ] That was an opportunity for you to opine on how badly you want me.

[ Is it really praise if one has to demand it? Oh, well. The truth is that he's spent so long having unpleasant intimacy that he couldn't name whatever he wants if he tried. His wanting takes a vague, shapeless form, a restless feeling of needing but not knowing how to sate it. That tryst in the dressing room was all animal instinct, no thought required.

He drops back down to press his weight on Iorveth again, all bony elbows and pointy knees. Elegantly lithe, he likes to think. He rests his chest on Iorveth's and tries not to think about how close their pelvises are while he runs his thumb over Iorveth's jaw. ]

I'm feeling magnanimous. I'll let you try again, if you really put some effort into it.

[ Oh, Iorveth can still remember a time when he would've found the fishing annoying. But he's also starting to see the patterns of something familiar, and the marked lack of enthusiasm in response to "you can have what you want" is enough of a context clue. Again, examining this too closely makes Iorveth wants to set the Szarr Mansion on fire (maybe that's what they should be doing???), so he sets it aside for later.

Instead, he does what Astarion hates most: say shit he can't understand. Melodic, soft Elder Speech, strung together with musical ease, murmured against Astarion's jaw. A trained ear might pick up on some commonalities between the dialect and universal Elvish, but Iorveth doesn't make it easy. Also, filthy slang doesn't really share a lot of root words.

Unfortunately for Astarion, Iorveth puts a lot of effort into it. Very raunchy stuff. It's just the sort of incredibly annoying and mean thing that everyone expects Iorveth to do, offset only by the way he tangles his legs around Astarion's and wraps his arms around his middle.

Once he's done: ] I want to make you come undone, thoroughly.

[ A neat, succinct summary. Iorveth wraps a bow on it, pulling their hips closer together. ]

[ Iorveth's voice is pleasant to the ear, but all Astarion can think is I could strangle you. How incredibly typical of him. He has half a mind to get himself a Comprehend Languages scroll for the next time Iorveth pulls this. And to deny him of hearing Iorveth say naughty things! It's cruel and unusual.

So how come his chest warms with affection? He presses his lips to Iorveth's, there and gone in an instant. ]

So sweet. [ And entirely impudent.

He's flattered, of course, but not quite sure how to explain that he doesn't know what that would even look like. What he does know, though, is how to make someone else come undone. He lifts his hips enough to slide a hand down between them, fumbling one-handed with the laces of Iorveth's pants. ]

Sweet boys get rewards.

[ A low huff, warm and amused. He'd expected Astarion to stamp his feet (or, well, do the horizontal equivalent) and pout, but it's sweet of him not to try to tear Iorveth's throat out with his teeth, and to kiss him instead. For Astarion's trouble, Iorveth decides not to be a complete dick (hm) about this: he interrupts Astarion's roaming hand with his own, looping his fingers around Astarion's wrist to coax the touch (not unwelcome) up onto his stomach for a brief pause. ]

If you're going to touch me, I want to be touching you as well.

[ In plain terms, but gently. Not entirely accustomed to rewards, or being on the receiving end of focused attention; he's not sure how to accept these things, much in the same way that he doesn't gracefully accept compliments about his appearance.

So. This time, it's his turn to glide his palm down between Astarion's legs. Feeling over him, trying to see if Astarion has a matching semi. Iorveth's been sporting his own since the moment Astarion's mouth touched his blood-tinged wound. Freak. ]

[ Astarion does pout now, irritated at being stopped, but it only lasts momentarily before Iorveth's hand slides down between them to feel him, half hard from the experience of lapping up Iorveth's blood alone. It should be embarrassing. It is embarrassing, a little. He isn't used to letting himself want, and the exposure of his desire makes his cold face heat. ]

I haven't decided that I'm only going to touch yet.

[ He barely knows what he wants, but he does know that he wants Iorveth's pants off. His fingers return to their work on the laces, clumsy with one hand but ultimately successful; once finished, he tugs at the waistband, urging them down. Their limbs are all tangled up, and he has no idea how he's going to get these pants off, but that's unimportant. Astarion could die in a few days. The least he deserves is to see Iorveth's cock. ]

My hands are talented, but I have other interesting parts, too.

[ Dodged again, Iorveth thinks. The rushing to peel layers off isn't unpleasant, but the lack of acknowledgment regarding reciprocity is a metaphorical bone lodged in the back of Iorveth's throat. A reminder that this is probably all Astarion knows about intimacy: an act that involves executive decisions about what parts of Astarion someone wants to use.

Iorveth lets Astarion tug his trousers down to his knees, because it costs him nothing to show him, again, how far down his tattoo really goes; snaking down his torso, over his hip, ending, finally, with curled tendrils around his thigh. And, well. He supposes his cock is there too, hot against Astarion's hand, traitorously eager despite everything. Fortunately for Iorveth, he's had decades to train himself not to think with his dick.

So: ] ―I've no interest in your parts. [ He traces his fingertips along Astarion's jaw, thumbs against the faint flush on his pale cheek. ] What I want is you, entirely.

[ He presses a kiss to Astarion's shoulder, and rests his teeth along its crest for a flutter of a second. ]

I don't want you to please me. I want your selfishness.

[ 'No interest in your parts', Iorveth says, and Astarion runs a brash hand over his stiffening erection, eyebrow raised as if to say, sure seems like you like my parts.

Iorveth is sweet, though; he so often is, despite his protests. Astarion has had sweet partners before, when he was lucky, but they weren't stubborn like Iorveth is. They would lie back and let Astarion take them apart because he told them that was what was going to happen. Iorveth is different, though. Unbearable. Irksome. Wonderful.

His hand slides onto Iorveth's abdomen, a light resting of it rather than a pressure against the muscles there. He softens, eyes uncharacteristically earnest. ]

I— don't know how to give you that. [ It's an admission. Of failure, of weakness, of being too messed up to be what Iorveth wants him to be. Two hundred years of having his own desires beaten out of him, of having his thoughts and feelings reduced to annoying nuisances. It's the same reason why he can't tell Iorveth that he wishes he would stay. ] ...but I'll try.

[ He presses their hips together again, rocking his clothed erection against Iorveth's naked one. That moment of insecurity is over, at least externally. ]

Are you going to undress me, or do I have to do everything myself?

[ He doesn't know. It's a little shattering to hear, but Iorveth understands― perhaps better than he'd like. Some extinctions happen inside of people; there are ways to kill something without arrows and swords.

A softer touch, Iorveth reminds himself. Astarion needs easing, whereas Iorveth is so used to taking his prisoners by the neck and plunging their heads in cold water. Just another way in which Astarion is different. Unique. His mind dances around the word special, as juvenile as it is.

Breathing through his nose, softly, at the light friction, he concedes. ]

Sit up, then. My limbs are everywhere. [ Lightly bullying the both of them into an upright position, with Astarion straddling his thighs. The shirt is an easy conquest, but it takes more negotiation to tug Astarion's pants down and peel them off his legs; somewhere along the way, Iorveth ends up with Astarion gently kneeing his still-hard cock.

Ow. His brows furrow, but they smooth a moment later at how ridiculous it all is, and how much he actually fucking likes Astarion enough that he can laugh about getting kneed in the crotch. Because he does. ] I've been known to be more graceful.

[ Astarion smiles, even laughs under his breath, and it feels so odd. There's usually no reason to smile, once the clothes come off. He reaches behind himself to haphazardly shove Iorveth's pants all the way off, careless and impatient in a way only he can be. ]

If I wanted grace, I'd fondle a ballerina.

[ Instead of fondling a terrorist, that is. As if to underscore how little grace belongs here, Astarion holds out his palm and spits in it before slotting their hips together again and taking both of them in the same saliva-slick hand. It's been a long time since he touched himself this way. His hand is cool, but Iorveth's cock is hot against his, and the feeling of them pressed together makes moisture bead at his tip. ]

I like you this way.

[ Graceless, wanting. A little unhinged. ]

[ Is it kind of hot that aristocratic, nose-in-the-air Astarion spits in his palm before reaching for their cocks? Yes. Again, Iorveth has had decades to learn not to think with his dick, but if that embargo is going to lift at any point, it's probably now.

Iorveth hisses, not unpleasantly; Astarion touches him, and the difference in body temperature makes him more aware of how hot he's running. He takes a second to adjust where they're sitting, his back to the headboard and their combined legs a mess of bent angles, and puts his palm over Astarion's fingers to warm them as they slowly start to make friction.

His voice rasps; his calm tenor takes on a hint of gravel. ]

Again, [ with humor under all his sharp need, ] I question your taste.

[ He grins, sighs, shifts－ thumbs along his own head, already slick with precome, and helps drag their combined palms over their lengths. His one visible eye is lust-dull, but it flits to Astarion's face with hawklike attention. ]

[ There's something so Iorveth about the fact that he can't just let someone else do it, that he has to hold his hand over Astarion's. It's ridiculously endearing, and Astarion thinks again that he likes Iorveth far, far too much. ]

You shouldn't.

[ They're both slick now, slipping together messily. He'd never liked the mess of intimacy, found it unappealing at best and evidence of his shamefulness at worst, but it's enticing now. He could lick that glossy sheen off of Iorveth like it's blood. Unthinking impulse leads him to rock against Iorveth, eyes downcast to watch them glide against each other. The sight evokes a quiet oh, half disbelief at really doing this and half arousal (at really doing this). When he looks up again, it's with a faint pinkness creeping up his neck, dusting his chest, tinging the very tips of his ears. ]

You're lovely, of course. [ It feels important to mention, even if it's hardly a priority. He rocks against Iorveth again. ] And... safe. [ His ears redden further. With a hint of incredulity: ] And you trust me.

[ He's babbling. This isn't the sort of dirty talk he should be doing. Hells, he's not sure it even qualifies as dirty talk at all. He dips forward, pressing his teeth against Iorveth's collarbone. ]

What's not to like?

[ He shifts again, rocking up into Astarion's hand and against his cock. It's messy, the roll of his hips almost slipping him out of their combined grip. Uncharacteristically bad aim－ he's too busy watching the subtle shifts in Astarion's expression to take note of how he's moving. (Doesn't matter, since it all feels so good.)

He could scream, he feels so fond. There's an inclination here to tell Astarion to shut up, simply because he doesn't know if he can let himself accept so much of this despite the inevitability of their diverging paths－ how much will this hurt later, if and when they walk away from the Netherbrain alive?

A stifled groan, and Iorveth tips forward to press their mouths together. The kiss has even less finesse, all instinct and emotion, which is rare for Iorveth and his tightly-held control. Rough and bare-faced, tongue raking against tongue. ]

－All of those things, only for you. [ Huffed, as he grips the base of Astarion's cock and drags his touch up, indulgent. Every part of him is so fucking pretty, he can't stand it. ] Credit where it's due.

[ Astarion would really like to push Iorveth down and rut against him like some sort of feral animal, but he can't with this damned headboard in the way. He settles for the second best option, gripping the wood of it with his free hand to support himself as he presses closer, trapping their cocks between them. The roll of his hips is constant now, his thigh and stomach muscles burning with the exertion of rocking against Iorveth. ]

That's right, [ he says fondly, breathlessly, ] you're all mine.

[ Even as he says it, he knows it isn't true. He has to share Iorveth with the entirety of the Aen Seidhe, when his entire world is this, this journey they've been on. It still feels nice to pretend, for a moment. Iorveth did tell him he looked good when he was delusional. He must look ravishing now.

He presses his forehead against Iorveth's, cool against warm, as he coils up tight like a spring. Another thrust against Iorveth, and he spills over their joined hands with a muffled whine. Again, more quickly than he expects, like he's been pent up for two hundred years and only just gotten release now. It doesn't matter; he uses his spend to slick Iorveth's cock further, stroking them both roughly even though it's too much, too sensitive. ]

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