nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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.

[ Astarion shuts up and sits down on the edge of the mattress obediently, his body behaving like some long lost relic of a time when he really did do everything he was told. Those few minutes that Iorveth is gone feel like forever; he has to fight off the urge to pull the pillow that he didn't befoul to his chest and inhale all of the wonderful Iorveth scent on it, now that he realizes he's getting blood on everything he touches.

He brightens at Iorveth's return, even if the look on his face is positively withering. His fingers move to undo the clasps of his shirt before it even registers why Iorveth is telling him to. Not for sensual reasons, he figures out. He removes his shirt anyway, letting it flutter to the floor and stain the wood.

He's already remarkably cleaner now, although there are scratch marks everywhere of varying profundity, on his arms and abdomen and crawling up his neck, like his meal fought back. The beginnings of a bruise form on his collarbone, as if struck by something heavy or perhaps a fist. ]

Darling. I'm sorry for getting blood in your hair. [ Is that what he's done wrong? ] Don't be angry with me.

[ The meal fought back. Suddenly, there's another layer of anger that subsumes the initial one, though it feels less like rage and more like humiliation: none of this blood meant anything to Astarion. Obviously, it didn't. It wasn't some grand ploy to make Iorveth feel jealous or spurned, and it says more about him that his kneejerk reaction was to react in a way that could easily be interpreted as jealous or spurned.

He hates it. He hates how Astarion complies, and how he says sorry, and how he says don't be angry with me with scratches and bruises on his skin. Iorveth's weight sinks next to Astarion on the bed, half a foot of space between their knees, water and washcloth balanced on his thighs. ]

Don't be angry, [ he parrots, the tail end of that last word twisting with wryness. ] You came back to our room reeking of someone else, elated, with their blood on your mouth.

[ His lips momentarily draw into a thin line, irritation pulling his shoulders taut. ]

I can't stand how that makes me feel. [ Petty, petulant. His frown deepens. ] ...Did you kill them?

[ Oh. Iorveth is upset that he drank from someone else. In his gleeful mood, the realization makes him grin shamelessly instead of feeling guilty for it. He could wrap his arms around Iorveth and squeeze until he pops, but instead he just scoots closer on the bed until their knees and thighs are flush. Iorveth's body feels so warm, even now, even through their clothes. ]

Well, I've never seen anyone live with that much blood loss.

[ His tone is glib, at least until he looks at the frown on Iorveth's face. Would he prefer that Astarion left his victim alive? Or is he glad to hear that he didn't? Astarion isn't sure, but— ]

Oh, don't worry. It wasn't anyone innocent.

[ If he wanted to kill something innocent, he would have found a family of bunny rabbits. He rubs his still-booted foot against Iorveth's affectionately, albeit gracelessly. ]

He didn't taste as good as you.

[ Their bodies press close again, and Iorveth can't tell if the clench in his chest is a gut-reaction no or the usual twist of affection-laced want. It's hard to know whether he wants to shove Astarion away, or grab him by the shoulder and kiss him into silence.

He does neither, for now. It's the damp washcloth that he touches Astarion with, raking it along blood-stained skin to get the worst of the offending substance off; "he didn't taste as good as you" makes his frown cut deeper. ]

Had you not killed him, I would have left right now to finish him off.

[ Again: petty. Iorveth knows what this sounds like, and says it anyway― he might as well. ]

You drank from him. He bruised you. [ "You compared my blood to his," Iorveth doesn't say. He dips the washcloth back in water, and scowls at how it leaves the contents of the basin red and muddy. ]

[ If he weren't high on blood and murder right now, Astarion would probably say something petty along the lines of I can drink from whoever I please, since you aren't going to be around anymore or I thought my freedom was more important than your feelings. But he is, so he doesn't, too preoccupied with how romantic the thought of Iorveth impulsively killing for him is. He could swoon.

The damp cloth feels good against his skin, if a little cold. The best parts are when Iorveth's fingers accidentally brush against him. He sighs, lightly leaning his head against Iorveth's shoulder, like he can't resist the urge but expects he might get pushed off. ]

He did struggle quite a lot.

[ Hence the blood everywhere. Talk about a messy meal. ]

I didn't think you'd mind.

[ Two tendays ago, Iorveth would've said that this is not his problem, that he doesn't have to put up with this, and that he doesn't have to explain himself to anyone. The last of those three tenets remain true for the most part, and he could easily stonewall Astarion into the next century if he really wanted to; the problem is that he doesn't.

The problem is that Astarion is so permissive, even after getting hit in the face with the initial brunt of Iorveth's sword-sharp anger. He's touching and leaning and saying stupid things like "I didn't think you'd mind", when Iorveth'd spent the past few hours trying to thread a stupid needle to embroider something stupid on Astarion's stupid shirt.

Iorveth should kill him for the offense. Instead, he cleans off some dried blood from Astarion's jaw, and traces the perfect line of it up to Astarion's ear. ]

You can bed or bite whoever you like. [ Steady and explanatory, with the sort of patience he would only ever afford to someone he cares about. ] You can have as many partners as it takes to sate you. I'll not stop you.

...But if you're coming back to my bed, at least wipe your face.

Edited 2024-08-11 00:57 (UTC)

I don't want more partners, [ he says, spitting out that last word like a curse before slumping against Iorveth, taking advantage of the fact that he hasn't been shoved off yet. ] I've already had plenty of partners.

[ Astarion has spent the last two centuries with an endless procession of strangers in and out of his bed. The idea of beginning that again couldn't be less appealing. He doesn't want to clean his own face, either, because he wants Iorveth to do it, but he complies with the demand regardless. The last thing he wants is to be barred from Iorveth's bed. Extra washcloth in hand, he dabs lazily at his mouth. ]

Yours is the only bed I want to share.

[ He scrubs at his face a few more times before tossing the washcloth aside. That's good enough, surely. He missed a few spots, but only flecks here and there. ]

That's the only reason I bit someone else, you know. You ridiculous man.

[ Dirty red sloughs off of Astarion's skin, leaving him slightly blood-flushed but cleaner; Iorveth still frowns about it, matching the expression with a soft snort to indicate his lingering displeasure. ]

You bit someone to share a bed with me.

[ To the tune of "who's the one being ridiculous???", even though he can piece some of the logic together. Vaguely. Setting the basin on the floor alongside his now-dirty scrap of cloth, Iorveth shifts on his perch and takes Astarion's face in both hands. Inspecting him, but also admiring him; it's not like Iorveth feels nothing about expressly being told that he's wanted. ]

It may only be feeding to you, [ is what he finally decides to come out with, explaining the root of his frustration, ] but I...

[ Ugh. Iorveth hesitates, the rest of this an obvious struggle to admit. ] ...I didn't like seeing it. Seeing you. [ Ugh!! ] Flushed and pretty, with someone else's blood.

[ Actually, he might just get up and throw himself out of the window. Self-defenestration seems like a great option. His gaze flicks towards the location in question, the moonlight very tempting through the glass. ]

[ Iorveth might be miserable, but the admission makes Astarion feel all sorts of fuzzy feelings, nuzzling his head into Iorveth's palm like a purring cat. ]

It's only feeding when it isn't with you, [ he says, kindly leaving out you dunce. Everything is different and special with Iorveth. Like how sex is just mashing body parts together meaninglessly with everyone else, but not Iorveth. Like how it's only sparring when Lae'zel tries to make him do it, but fun and exciting when Iorveth stabs him like a crazy person. ]

I bit someone because I felt— [ Even in this state, he falters. I felt bad because not only did you confirm that you're leaving, but you also weren't sufficiently sad about it? He shakes his head. ] Well, I suppose it doesn't matter how I felt.

[ That's only dredging up the past, anyway. All that matters is that he doesn't feel bad anymore. ]

But I couldn't very well take that much blood from you.

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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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