nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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.

[ The meanest elf in the world's meanest maneuver was to loosen the strings around his repression before they destroyed the Netherbrain. This would have been a much easier Epilogue-brand conversation, an offhanded comment over too much wine: "you might not believe it, but back when we still had tadpoles in our brains, I kind of wanted to kiss you".

Instead, here they are. Iorveth feels like it would be more appropriate to be less naked for this, so he leans over the edge of the bed to find his trousers and pull them on as he pieces his reply together. ]

Before we part. [ No mincing words. He's never been very good at it. ] If this were only about love, I would carry you back North with me.

[ The dreaded "l"-word. He lays it out on the proverbial table with haughty obstinacy, like he's daring someone to say a bad word about it. ]

But you have your freedom to think about. Your own life.

[ Then take me back with you, he nearly says. I'll wear ugly clothes and sleep in the dirt if you want me to. It's so pathetic he actually cringes. Cazador would say he doesn't know how to exist without belonging to somebody, that he's just trying to trade him in for a kinder master. Maybe he'd be right. ]

Mm-hmm.

[ His hum of agreement sounds more like a sad trombone. Iorveth is right on every rational level. Astarion has spent too long in (metaphorical, and sometimes literal) chains to not seek his freedom. It's just that freedom feels a lot like being cut loose.

He'd like to stamp his feet and throw a tantrum over how unfair his life is. Instead, he reaches for his pants and tugs them on leg by leg. ]

Of course, you're right. Obviously. [ Mustering up every bit of aristocratic arrogance inside him, he tips his chin up and lies, ] I just don't want you to get hurt.

[ A huff, nearly a snort. ]

I can deal with hurt.

[ He's been dealing with the weight of his kind's extinction for his entire life; he understands how loss works. His whole life is a series of slow farewells, his present and future a placeholder for an inexorable obsolescence.

But he can endure it, because: ] Your freedom is more important than my feelings.

[ With resolute conviction. He won't budge an inch on this. ]

Mmm, [ he says noncommittally.

He's not certain what he wants Iorveth to say, save for maybe yes, I'll stay with you in your new mansion and be your kept thing. Clearly, they're at an impasse. Astarion doesn't want to be a pathetic dog trailing after its owner, and Iorveth won't choose him over his people. This isn't news, but it still feels bad to exist in this moment. Astarion reaches for his shirt, a little stained from Iorveth's blood, and slips it on. ]

This talk has been enlightening.

[ Not really. He stands, walking over to the corner of the room that he left his boots in. ]

I'm going to take a walk. Enjoy the sun while I still can.

[ There it is, that familiar flicker of anger: "are you actually going to talk to me about this, or not." He has to remind himself, again, that wanting and sorting and taking time are not actually things that Astarion is accustomed to, and so Iorveth clamps down on the argument threatening to bare its teeth, and waves a hand instead. ]

Go walk.

[ Space and perspective are important. Iorveth's been cloying Astarion all day; it's no wonder he can't get a thought in edgewise. ] If you see the others about, tell them about the assassin at Figaro's.

[ It's probably an important lead for Lae'zel, who is actually doing meaningful work in the city. She must be wondering what the fuck her rogue and ranger are up to, but frankly, Iorveth cannot bring himself to care in this moment. ]

Oh, right. That.

[ As if Figaro nearly being killed is a boring footnote in his life, and not part of a Bhaalist murder conspiracy. He waves a hand, performatively flippant. ]

Certainly. But word will get around, I'm sure.

[ This isn't a lie. Figaro seems the type to spread gossip. Astarion would know, because he, too, is that type. Still, he doesn't actually have any desire to seek out the others, to inform them of assassins or otherwise. He wants to disappear for a while. Forget about this tadpole, forget about Cazador, and especially forget about this.

He doesn't forget about any of it, obviously, because being alone with his thoughts is possibly the worst thing for someone with no emotional control and the most irrational thinking in the world to do. He walks, and he doesn't tell anyone about the assassin at Figaro's, and he works himself into the worst mood of his life thinking about how angry he is that Iorveth didn't even ask him not to leave. So practical of him. Always so practical.

If Iorveth expected him to take half an hour to clear his head before returning, he was mistaken. The 'walk' stretches on throughout the rest of the day, past sunset. It's late in the evening when the door to their room opens and he stumbles in, in a demonstrably better mood than when he left. He's covered in fresh, bright red blood, on his shirt and his hands and dripping down his chin. From the looks of it, most of it belonged to someone else — in the past tense. There's a wide grin on his face and a blood-drunk haziness to his gaze that suggests he drank a lot more than he ever did from Iorveth.

Like he said, he's been a very, very bad boy. ]

Honey, I'm home.

[ In the interim: Iorveth buys needles and thread. Or, more accurately, he borrows them from the kind old woman at the breakfast cafe when it'd become clear that Astarion wasn't coming back, and spends the majority of the day sitting next to the sweet lady and learning how to knot the end of a thread, identifying the difference between a running stitch and a split stitch. Just basic things, so he'd feel less lost if and when Astarion ever teaches him how to darn something; maybe never, considering how the morning's conversation went.

He doesn't worry overmuch about it. Tries not to, anyway, after his grandiose speech about Astarion and his freedom and how he's entitled to do whatever the fuck he wants, as a two-hundred-and-something-old vampire spawn who can make his own choices. Eventually, he meanders back to their room with another basket full of food and cloth, which he sets on the bed before taking a meditative break to sit along the windowsill and smoke.

He's still there, bathed in moonlight, when Astarion comes back covered in blood.

His first instinct isn't strictly jealousy; again, autonomy and choice, et cetera. If Astarion wants to fuck and feed on half the city, that's his stupid decision to make. But his diplomacy begins and ends there, with offense taking its place in the majority of his emotional tapestry: Astarion can fuck and feed on whoever he wants, but he doesn't have to bring those conquests back to flaunt.

Iorveth's mood sours immediately. It shows on his face, his posture, his scowl. Entirely impractical, and too obvious for his own comfort. ]

You've been busy.

Edited 2024-08-10 02:37 (UTC)

[ Astarion's glossy eyes float to the needle and thread in Iorveth's basket. The sight fills him with warm, gooey feelings. Iorveth really is so sweet. With all of this blood running through his veins, he can't imagine why he was ever angry with him. He'd made it so complicated, but everything feels simple with ten pints of blood in him. ]

So have you.

[ A different kind of busy, but still good. Now, Iorveth can learn to embroider for him and he can keep a piece of him forever, even after he dies. But he'd rather not think about Iorveth's inevitable death right now, so he shakes the thought out of his head. It floats away easily, unlike most of the unpleasant thoughts that he has to violently smother.

Iorveth looks terribly appealing there in the moonlight, even with that scowl on his face, so he ambles toward him, placing a hand on his head to clumsily pet his hair. After a moment, he sighs, pressing his fingers to the corners of Iorveth's mouth to pull it up into a forced smile. A little still-wet blood transfers from his fingers to Iorveth's cheeks. ]

Don't pout. You're so handsome when you smile.

[ This is such a catastrophically bad move on Astarion's part that Iorveth is momentarily stunned into silence, disbelief flitting across severe features. Either this is deliberate, in which case he needs to remove himself from this situation, effective immediately, or it's unintentional thoughtlessness, in which case―

―Iorveth has no fucking idea what to do about it. But he swats Astarion's hand away anyway, instinct preceding strategy, his stomach turning at the scent of blood being smeared in his hair, on his face. ]

Don't mock me, [ comes out far colder than intended or expected. His shoulders draw back, and he twists to dislodge himself from where he'd situated himself against the window, up on his feet and away from Astarion. ] I've nothing to say to you while you're in this state.

[ Hopped up on someone else's blood, making Iorveth smell it. He scrubs his cheek with his sleeve, grimacing at the red on the fabric. ]

[ Astarion watches Iorveth wipe off his cheek, and it slowly dawns on him— ]

Oh.

[ His stained fingers did that. He wipes the wetness off on his pants, mind still working through Iorveth's words. Nothing to say to you. He gets the distinct feeling that he's done something wrong, although he's not sure what. Iorveth should be happy that he came back like this. Surely he didn't want Astarion to come back in a mood so they could argue.

Except it's starting to seem like an argument now, and he isn't sure what to do about it. He'd been upset at how reasonable and unemotional Iorveth was, and now that he's come back loose and carefree, Iorveth is finally showing some damn passion; they really are always at odds, aren't they? With the uncomfortable feeling of Iorveth's anger in his stomach and no idea how to fix it, he falls back on old habits. ]

We don't have to talk, then. I do remember something about fucking me senseless.

[ A bold proposition, coming from someone who looks like a lion that just finished eating a wounded gazelle. ]

Or I can fuck you senseless. I'm really not picky.

[ A long breath, in and out. He's not sure which portion of his pride feels so bruised by this, and whether being able to tell that this fuckup was entirely unintentional (because he can, from that awkward "oh") makes it easier to digest.

He really should just walk out. The quip about fucking makes that option especially tempting for how utterly off the mark it is; he'd glare daggers at Astarion if he thought that it'd do anything useful. But it won't, and worse, Iorveth has a feeling that Astarion really, well and truly, has no idea what the actual problem is, and that the brutality of Iorveth walking away would, in fact, truly wound him.

Gods, Astarion is impossible. A stupid, irresponsible creature of bad habits and worse impulses. Iorveth can't stand him.

He also fucking loves him. So there's that, really. ]

Shut up, [ he sighs. ] And sit down.

I'll be back in a moment.

[ Pointedly turning on his heels to leave the room, but with the disclaimer that it's very temporary: true to his word, he's back in a matter of a few minutes with a basin full of water and two washcloths, still looking like he wants to kill someone. ]

Take your shirt off.

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baby iorveth 😭😭😭

from legolas to gollum... his glowup

he does it all!!! go girl give us everything

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