nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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.

[ Deigning to slide his attention away from thoughts of breaking his bones on the pavement below their room, Iorveth looks at Astarion again, very displeased by "it doesn't matter how I felt". As far as Iorveth is concerned, this entire journey of slipping into the abject insanity of liking Astarion is to show him that his freedom and feelings matter; Gods, he hates that he might not have more than four or five hundred years left in him to see this through.

Too many feelings for one day. A lot of humans think that elves are smooth, emotionless beings who only experience the spectrum of the living experience in muted colors, and humans, like they are with most things, are incredibly wrong― Iorveth has lived long enough to be cool with emotions often being fickle and transient, and can project impassiveness with iron discipline when he has to, but it's not like he doesn't feel the things that he does.

Tipping forward, he presses a brief kiss to the corner of Astarion's mouth. His palms slide away from Astarion's face as he leans back, brows still slightly furrowed. ]

Then bite me now. Or are you already satisfied?

[ It isn't the most excited offer, given that frown on Iorveth's face, but that's fine. Astarion can be enthusiastic enough for the both of them. He smiles unabashedly, beyond pleased that Iorveth has softened from his initial upset. He'd thought Iorveth might stay angry at him, enough not to speak with him for the rest of the night or banish him to the extra bed or kick him out of the room entirely. Maybe he's still angry, in his own way, but this is an overture. ]

How could I pass on such a sweet treat?

[ He'd gorged himself on his unfortunate victim, but no amount of blood from someone else is as satisfying as a drop from Iorveth. Given freely, just to him. He places a hand in the middle of Iorveth's chest and pushes, urging him onto his back. ]

I would bottle you if I could.

[ It's the smile that does it for him. The contrast between what he's seeing now and what he'd seen of Astarion before, the pretty package with nothing sincere or rooted in truth to make it worth admiring, is staggering.

Suddenly, he's glad that his anger didn't spur him to leave. Eased onto his back, he sighs through his teeth and lets the tension drain out of him in increments.

Ciaran would tell him that he's going soft. The woman he'd left behind to govern the North would laugh, and tell him that he's traded an unflattering rumor about being seduced by a beautiful woman for the unflattering reality of being charmed by a beautiful vampire.

Ugh. Iorveth wraps his arms around Astarion's shoulders, and pulls him down forcibly to kiss the crown of his head. ]

And deprive me of your teeth in my neck? I don't think so.

[ Let him be a little freak, it's all he can offer. ]

[ Happiness spreads through him from the crown of his head, where Iorveth's lips meet his hair, all the way down to the tips of his toes. It's partially due to the blood running through his veins, making him feel dizzy and intoxicated, but it's also due to Iorveth, little freak that he is. He swings a leg over Iorveth's, staring down at him with fuzzy, fond eyes. ]

Is that what you want?

[ It's certainly appealing, sinking his teeth into Iorveth's throat. He has a wonderful jugular, and there's very little more enjoyable than lapping up his blood while inhaling his scent (because Astarion is a little freak, too). But— ]

There's always the wrist. [ Said while trailing his fingers over Iorveth's wrist. Then, hand ghosting over his inner thigh: ] Or the thigh.

[ He pauses, then swipes a thumb down a vein on Iorveth's neck. ]

But the neck is a classic for a reason.

[ Iorveth successfully stamps out the last of his stubborn scraps of irritation, and tells himself that the blood-fuzzy look on Astarion's face is going to be from his own blood, next. He also tells himself that he'll get a fucking grip tomorrow, after he stops indulging in all of this shameless hedonism to get back to what they're meant to be doing, which is the actual meat and potatoes of this operation.

Tomorrow, though. Right now, he wants to see Astarion melt, which segues neatly into his answer: ]

If you're giving me a choice tonight, my wrist.

[ Cupping Astarion's still-flushed cheek, thumbing along under his eye. If the gesture reads as covetous, and if the intensity in his eye translates the same sentiment, well. It's not like he hasn't already made a fool of himself today. ]

I want to see your face while you feed.

[ That works perfectly, because Astarion would very much like to see Iorveth's face while he feeds, too. He noses against Iorveth's wrist before taking it in hand, moving his hand from Astarion's cheek to his mouth, where he presses his lips to Iorveth's fingers and palm. ]

What lovely hands you have.

[ One can only imagine how much violence these hands have wrought, how many people they've killed. That only makes them more lovely. Astarion doesn't mind Iorveth's dark parts, as long as he spares a little light to shine on him. He's feeling very free with his affections tonight, so he places a kiss on the underside of Iorveth's wrist, too, mouth against the vulnerable skin there. ]

And lovely wrists.

[ He curls over Iorveth's wrist, letting the sharp ends of his teeth drag over the skin for a moment, savoring the feeling of having something tender beneath his fangs, willingly given up. The next moment, he pierces the skin; usually, he'd try to be gentle, but Iorveth has proven that he can handle a little pain, and Astarion is feeling rather uninhibited. Selfishly, he hopes it'll scar.

His eyes flick to Iorveth's face as warm blood fills his mouth, unordinarily sloppy as he drinks it down but too blissful to feel ashamed. He doesn't need any blood after what he did earlier, but he gulps it down anyway, making a point, determined to swallow down everything Iorveth gives him until he tells him to stop. ]

[ It's painful to be bitten in the wrist, with sharp teeth so close to bone. Iorveth winces at the initial sink, brows furrowed and jaw tightly set, his next exhale hissing through his teeth; it's almost more uncomfortable than fangs in his jugular, though the vulnerability of that position should make it inherently worse.

Still, Iorveth acclimates. The dull throb of physical pain takes a back seat to the thrill of seeing Astarion with his mouth closed around his skin, sanguine eyes warm and molten in lamplight, shockingly beautiful. Iorveth's focus is entirely on Astarion, his one-eyed gaze dulled by bloodloss and heat― his free hand rakes through silver hair to keep stray curls from obscuring Astarion's face, and then slides down to where lips are sealed around his wrist.

Carefully, he presses his thumb to where Astarion's fang is rooted in his flesh. Traces that point of contact, slick with saliva and blood. ]

So pretty, [ he breathes. ] You'll be my ruin.

[ He cranes down while coaxing Astarion up, teeth still in his wrist; he laughs through the pain and tries for a kiss with Astarion still feeding from him, freak behavior spurred on by the dizzying feeling of losing blood. Finally, after trying for that awkwardly negotiated move, he whispers enough. ]

[ If Astarion had felt fuzzy before, he's entirely blurry now, but not unpleasantly. His eyes are saucers, pupils dark and dilated, as he watches Iorveth. He unlatches obediently when told, staying close to lick up the twin rivulets dripping down Iorveth's arm, flattening his tongue against the puncture marks.

He feels floaty — unsinkable, like all of his problems don't matter. What more could there possibly be to life than lapping up Iorveth's blood while being called pretty? The bad thoughts that normally bombard him are blessedly quiet.

There's blood on his face again, dripping down his chin as a result of his messy eating. He presses his mouth to the Iorveth's cheek with unbridled fondness, then his chin, then the underside of his jaw, leaving little smears of red behind as proof of his affection before licking them back up.

The grin that spreads across his face is entirely unstoppable, as are the words that come spilling out of his mouth. ] I'd never ruin you, my sweet. I take good care of my precious things.

[ Iorveth also floats through his semi-bloodless state, navigating his vertigo with careless abandon. There's no attempt made to sit back up or to right his posture (he probably couldn't, even if he wanted to), and the best that he manages is to roll onto his side with Astarion in tow, his un-bitten hand arm looped around Astarion's waist.

The anger is gone; his hazy brain only registers his surroundings as shapes and sensations in his immediate field of view. For now, Iorveth's world dials down to silver hair and pale skin, a pretty mouth saying pretty things. He smiles about it, enamored, and blearily tries to press a kiss to the corner of Astarion's grin. ]

You might have been a dragon in another life.

[ Murmured fondly, rubbing his cheek against soft hair. ]

You've ruined me for all else, I mean. I doubt any other vampire's teeth feel so... [ A gesture with his punctured hand. ] ...sweet.

[ Astarion is a vampire, not a bunny rabbit. He'd say as much, except he's feeling an awful lot more sweet than usual. Tomorrow, he'll be embarrassed that he was ever so soft and cuddly, and he'll return to prickliness. Tonight, he shoves a hand up the back of Iorveth's shirt, in the grey area that's too handsy to be wholly innocent but too clumsy to be an intentional come-on. He traces over the line of Iorveth's injury, humming peacefully. ]

Then let me add you to my dragon's hoard.

[ He feels too hazy to be self-conscious, too satisfied to be pleading. It's just a contented, breathed out wish, a nudge against Iorveth's back pulling them closer until they're wrapped up like two kittens in the sun. ]

Go on. Invite me to go with you to that magical forest of yours.

[ Is it magical? He's not sure. He might have just made that up, but now is no time for things like reality to get in his way. ]

[ Astarion is a vampire, and Iorveth is a war criminal. Giving a gith and a former Sharran a run for their money in terms of unlikeliness; their party really is a mess of personalities that should never have converged, and yet.

Iorveth doesn't want to be kept. He's Aen Seidhe: he was never meant to be suffocated between four walls and a roof. But he doesn't want to argue again tonight, and he's mollified by both the hand under his shirt and the addendum, the invite me.

Pressed close, with his lips to Astarion's temple, Iorveth sighs. Warm and resigned. ]

Come north with me.

[ Pillow talk. Iorveth'd asked Astarion before if he has any love for Baldur's Gate, and he'd said that it's all he knows. Iorveth can't make Astarion promise him anything, really. ]

There are druids in the north that could look into your condition. I'll tell the others that you're not to be persecuted. [ Childish promises. Such small things compared to ascension and the guarantee of infinite, infernal power. ] Come with me.

[ The sort of offer that Cazador would laugh and laugh and laugh about, Iorveth fancies. A ridiculous fantasy. ]

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