nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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. ]

[ The mattress creaks and groans under them; Iorveth barely hears it, his heart in his throat and his pupil blown wide, ears ringing with the sound of Astarion's breathing. He slides his slick hand from Astarion's cock to his waist, bracing him and keeping in place (Gods, he's so intolerably beautiful) while he grinds more insistently into their combined mess. Forehead to forehead, still, with Iorveth blinking silver out of his eye.

I'll give you my heart, he mouths in his language. (Usually, he follows that with "but I'll take your head". Today, it's just the promise, and not the threat.) ] You're so－

[ His voice clips. He has no idea how to finish that sentence, so he doesn't. Nothing sounds enough, nothing is enough. Arching his back, shoulderblades to the headboard and the cut running from shoulder to hip splitting another fraction of a centimeter, Iorveth tips into his own release, painting Astarion's palm with his second orgasm of the day.

Still shuddering, Iorveth curls and rests his chin on Astarion's shoulder. ]

...You're warmer, [ he murmurs. It sounds a little like "I like you so much". ]

[ The time before had felt exciting, like sneaking out to do something he shouldn't. He'd felt elated after, light as air. This time feels different. He can't place it, exactly, but there's something bittersweet about the comedown.

There's nothing but the sound of their combined breathing for a moment, Astarion's lungs entirely unnecessary yet feeling overworked regardless. Then, slowly, he reaches over to remove one of the pillowcases, wiping his palm against it (a problem he'll have to stuff in a drawer before they check out) and gently cleaning the mess from Iorveth's body. He's never bothered to clean anyone else before, too disgusted in the aftermath to even think of touching them further.

The smell of the blood beading on Iorveth's skin mixed with the faint but permeating scent of sex makes his mouth water, and he inhales deeply before answering, ] You made me warm.

[ It's sweet, the cleaning― it makes that same hidden-away place between Iorveth's ribs clench again, as he plucks the dirty pillowcase from Astarion's grip to reciprocate the gesture. Once that's done, he's free to twine fingers with Astarion, taking his hand to lick away the last of the spend he'd left on long, perfect digits.

Slightly muffled: ] You could try being less endearing. [ He might've been more annoyed by this in the past. Not now. The statement is obviously just a bit of posturing, too affectionate to be sharp― especially considering what he appends afterwards. ]

You warmed me, first.

[ This is the softest he's been, the softest he'll ever be. Outside of these four walls, he'll slap wayward hands away and glare at people who look at him for longer than their designated few seconds; he still detests humans and most high elves that aren't Astarion. Any other person that calls him handsome, he'd shove into a ditch.

That said, Iorveth presses his scarred lips to the corner of Astarion's mouth, and finally pulls back to give him some breathing room. He's spent this entire day wishing one of Cazador's other spawn will burst in to interrupt them, but if it happens now, he can't be held liable for the atrocities he might commit. ]

[ As the blood flow returns to parts of his body that aren't his groin, he slowly starts to realize why this feels different. It had felt like a fun tryst in a public shop before. This feels like more, which in turn only highlights that what he really has is so much less. This isn't an indication of what the future might bring. It's just playing house before his playmate has to go home.

He'd thought he was all right to indulge before his very possible death. After all, it's just sex. It doesn't change anything, has never meant anything. But it does now, and he finds himself flooded with happiness and disappointment all at once.

Slave to emotion and impulse that he is, he still presses a kiss to the tip of Iorveth's angular nose before slowly extricating himself from their tangle of limbs. He balls the stained pillowcase up and tosses it into a neglected corner of their room. Knowing him, he'll forget about it in the morning and leave it for some poor housekeeper to be traumatized by. ]

You really are going to give me hives.

[ Iorveth stretches on the bed, carelessly naked in a way that he hasn't been in a little bit over a century. He's letting his overheated skin cool before he stuffs himself back into layers, extending his limbs with the grace of a wild animal sprawled on a sunny patch of grass.

His breathing slows back to resting; he watches Astarion reorient himself, and raises a brow at the comment. Iorveth'd reacted badly to it before, but that time, Astarion'd just been teasing.

This feels less like a jest. ]

If it's too much, you could say so. [ Airily, without irritation. "What's on your mind", essentially. ]

[ The part of him that never matured past young adulthood has the impulsive thought to say yes, it is too much, and in fact I never want to see you again. To hurt Iorveth before he gets hurt. That same immature part of him sees cartoon hearts and tweeting birds orbiting around Iorveth whenever he looks at him, though, so it's a real toss-up.

He settles on holding up his pointer fingers, a distance apart, and saying flippantly, ] Oh, I thought you were just the right amount.

[ That comment, too, was thought of by the part of him that's still in his 30s. Astarion curls up on the foot of the bed, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them to peer at Iorveth. His pupils are still wide and dark from the excitement of a moment ago. ]

It was only a tease. You're adorable when you're sweet. How could anyone resist you?

[ A single eye narrows ("is that supposed to be the size of my cock", he wonders about the space between those pointer fingers); it doesn't escape Iorveth's notice that Astarion is curling into himself while being complimentary. To him, the body language screams I am deflecting. ]

Very easily, and with a great amount of relief. [ He says, about being resisted. At least he's self-aware. ] My so-called sweetness is extremely limited.

[ Sitting up, sifting his grown-out bangs out of his face. He actually will have to start braiding some of this and tying it back (he was SUCH a stereotypical wood elf back in the day) if he's going to go without his scarf for the foreseeable future― or cut it all off. Maybe he'll ask Astarion's opinion about it later. ]

I'll not amend how I feel for anyone's sake. But if all of this― [ a vague gesture ] ―gets in the way of what you need to get done, I can moderate.

[ It was absolutely supposed to be the size of his cock. With maybe a little added generosity.

There's something laughable at the idea that Astarion is somehow so committed to The Mission that he'd eschew hedonism and self-indulgence. He imagines it must come from Iorveth's own commitment; if Henselt were still alive, he doubts Iorveth would have time to kiss his face and praise him. There are things that are more important to Iorveth than transient happiness. Astarion's not sure he can say the same. ]

I assure you, it doesn't.

[ He leans over to tuck a strand of loose hair behind Iorveth's ear. His hand lingers for a moment, thumb stroking the helix of Iorveth's ear, before he retracts it.

With his emotional regulation as poor as it is, it's impossible to hide his feelings as he says, miserably, ] But— perhaps it would be wise to learn to moderate before... well.

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baby iorveth 😭😭😭