nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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. ]

[ A sigh, then, ] That sounds nice.

[ And it does, even more so to his blood-addled brain that doesn't question whether Iorveth could really stop a mob of wood elves with torches and pitchforks from showing up at his door. Astarion stopped fantasizing about being rescued by some gorgeous creature who'd whisk him off to safety and comfort over a century ago; it only made it more disappointing when he had to face the fact that no one was ever going to come for him. Tonight, though, is a good night for fantasies. ]

I suppose I could live in a tree.

[ He has no idea if that's what the Aen Seidhe do, but he sort of imagines they all live like squirrels. ]

[ Cue laugh track, the Aen Seidhe freedom fighters are actually called the Squirrels, but Astarion doesn't need more ammunition to make fun of Iorveth with!!!!!!

Drumming his fingers against the small of Astarion's back, Iorveth manages a low chuckle. ]

I doubt you could even climb one.

[ Cosmopolitan high elves have lost so much of their connections to the forest, he thinks. But politics are for nights when he isn't indulging in harmless daydreams that he would otherwise never allow himself to have. ]

And you'd have to wear green.

[ Another soft laugh. It really isn't Astarion's color. ]

And I'd look dashing in it, [ he rebuts, dreamily.

No, it's not his color, but that doesn't fit the fantasy. In his fantasy, he'd look heart-stoppingly gorgeous in the clothes that he'd tailor himself. He'd steal from travelers and fill his treehouse with more shiny things than a magpie. He wouldn't care much about the Aen Seidhe plight, but if Iorveth would only point him in the direction of someone who needed killing, he'd stab them for him happily.

He might have stopped himself from fantasizing decades ago, but that doesn't mean he isn't still good at it. With a lazy sort of half-conscious slur, he mumbles, ] Mmm, yes. I think that'd do nicely.

[ The blood and the daydream lull him into tranquility, and he stills after a moment, slipping into his trance with thoughts of wearing green and climbing trees. ]

[ It doesn't take long for Iorveth to follow suit, succumbing to his meditative sleep with his face buried in Astarion's hair. Visions of the past and present and wishful future congeal together in one vague, formless mass: Iorveth will remember none of it when he opens his eye again, but it feels nice. Restful. Safe.

Still, morning is quick to come. Light filters through the room's window, pooling onto the mess that the two have made of the room, clothes and washcloths and baskets strewn haphazardly onto the blood-stained floor. Iorveth stirs first, nursing his usual bloodloss-induced headache (he can never remember to drink a potion or two after being drained) as he slowly unglues himself from Astarion's front.

They should go back to Elfsong. Check in with Lae'zel, see if she actually needs her ranger or her rogue today. Iorveth should secure more meaningful weapons to fight Cazador with. He should also bathe. Reality crashes against him like an inexorable wave, and he frowns about it before sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of their bed.

He stretches his cramped limbs, which is when he finally notices that someone's slipped a note under the door of their room. A piece of parchment folded into a neat square; he immediately regards it with disdain, but gets up to retrieve it. ]

[ Astarion breaks from his trance with the realization that he's colder than he was last night. It all comes back in increments: he was warm because he made Iorveth his own personal teddy bear. He'd asked Iorveth to invite him back to the forest (humiliating), and said he'd live in a tree (more humiliating). He'd come back covered in blood, propositioned Iorveth for a fuck, and said far too many vulnerable things while hopped up on blood.

He rolls onto his back, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes for a moment as he reorients to reality.

Reality, as it turns out, is kind of terrible.

He pushes himself up, realizing belatedly that he's still in his boots. As he swings his legs over the side of the mattress, he reaches for his shirt and holds it up to inspection, scowling. This one will take hours of scrubbing to clean. With a sigh, he stands, walking over to his bag of purchased clothing and fishing out something new to wear.

Iorveth is by the door. Astarion has no idea what to say to him. He made such a fool of himself last night, from the very moment he walked through the door to the second he fell unconscious. And Iorveth— well, part of him thinks kicking him out would have been kinder than what he did. All of those things he said just tug at Astarion's heartstrings in the worst way.

Walls up again, he glances at Iorveth, frowning. ]

Well, I'd say 'good morning', but I imagine you're not feeling your best. [ After all that blood loss, and everything. ] So... [ A beat. ] 'Morning'.

[ There's no immediate response to the "morning". Just the quiet rustle of parchment, the creak of Iorveth's weight displacing floorboards. When he finally divides his attention from the note back to Astarion, it's with his usual leonine calm. Both of them, back to basics.

(A part of him is still thinking about Astarion's teeth in his wrist, his eyes peering up at him, shining.) ]

Mm. [ Folding the parchment again, considering the pros and cons of telling Astarion anything about it. ] You look rested.

[ A little jab, harmless. He can tell by the look on Astarion's face that he doesn't seem to want to acknowledge the past few hours, so Iorveth leaves it at that. ]

The others will be wondering where we were. I could go back and let them know that we didn't die a gruesome death at the hands of cultists.

[ Astarion slips on his shirt, a sleek black thing with gold detailing, fresh and clean. No one would have any idea what he did last evening by looking at him. His pants are still smeared with the blood he wiped off on them, but he can scrub that off easily enough when Iorveth is gone.

Dryly: ] Tell them I died horribly. They could stand to cry about me a little.

[ A jest, although he doesn't meet Iorveth's eyes as he makes it. ]

Do what you like. I'll...

[ Well. He doesn't have much to do. It isn't like he's going to go eat with that nice old lady. ]

Be here.

[ Not a particularly funny joke, all things considered. Iorveth hesitates by the door, note tucked into his trouser pocket, before deciding to close the space between them. ]

Astarion. [ Reaching to tuck a piece of hair behind Astarion's ear, smoothing out his bedhead. ] ...Don't sulk. It makes it harder to leave.

[ For a fleeting second, he thinks to apologize for his behavior during the night prior, his embarrassing outburst and his subsequent covetousness, but he thinks that that might humiliate Astarion further; he tucks that away for later examination. ]

If you've something to say to me, say it now.

[ Don't sulk, Iorveth says, and it only makes him sulk more out of embarrassment at his sulking being called out. His mouth droops into a pout, brow furrowed in the perfect glower. For a moment, he's quiet, looking back at Iorveth.

What is there to say? He burns with humiliation. He acted so pathetic — no, not acted. The worst part is that all of it was him; he is pathetic. His secret thoughts, feelings, desires. Iorveth fueled him, practically egged him on, and for the first time Astarion isn't even certain if Iorveth meant what he said or if he was only pacifying him. Iorveth certainly doesn't think he belongs in the North, but he let Astarion babble on about it anyway.

He straightens his shoulders, glancing away as he says, ] I don't have anything to say.

[ It's true. Nothing he says will change anything. The sooner he can banish this to the recesses of his mind, the better. His face softens then, and he adds, ] And I'm not sulking. I've never felt better, actually.

If you say so.

[ Unconvinced, but hard-pressed to push the matter further. Iorveth is aware that he'd been irresponsible to say the things that he did, to say come with me when Astarion'd been feeling soft and pliant. He doesn't regret it, because he's not in the habit of saying anything that he doesn't mean, but the timing was all wrong.

He fumbles so much of his footing when he's around Astarion, and he wonders why that is.

Mm, he hums. He steps away, peeling off his rumpled shirt to trade it for a new one, as he debates whether or not he should say anything about the note. It seems the sort of thing that could blow up in his face if he chooses not to talk about it until later, but it also seems the sort of thing that could sour Astarion's mood for the entire day.

Ultimately, he decides that breaking it to Astarion after something goes south would be the nuclear option; pulling the clasps of his new vest tightly over his chest, he threads his next words together with deliberate care. ]

...I received a missive from the Szarr household, by the way. [ He can't imagine that Cazador penned it himself, but that hardly matters. ] I intend to go tell the messenger to stuff it up his ass.

[ Iorveth looks handsome in his new clothing. Astarion would normally say as much, but he's still embarrassed from his overly earnest behavior last night. He needs to pull back, let this be a fun, purely physical tryst that he won't be sad to let go. Easier said than done. His eyes linger, roving over the tattoo peeking out from the neckline, trailing down to his slightly-exposed wrists—and swallowing thickly at the memory of having his fangs embedded in them—but he doesn't say a word.

At least, not until the name Szarr comes out of Iorveth's mouth. Astarion bristles at the mere mention of the name, anger heating his blood in some Pavlovian reaction to it. Questions race through his head: how, why, when. ]

What? [ he all but squawks, closing the distance between them. ] When were you planning on telling me?

[ By the way, he'd said. As if it were a note from housekeeping and not from Astarion's eternal tormentor. ]

Show me.

[ The souring of mood is to be expected, but a shame. Still, better not to spare Astarion's feelings and be candid instead. Iorveth has never been good at the former, anyway.

He reaches inside his pocket for the folded-up note, and hands it to Astarion. It reads:

On behalf of Lord Cazador Szarr,

The master requests that you bring his wayward son to him,
as the boy's presence is required in a most immediate way;
though the child's impertinence will be punished with
necessary severity, if you would return him to the place that
he rightly belongs, the master is willing to extend,
to you, both his grace and his future favour, alongside
longevity, and a seat at his eternal table.

He will remind you that the boy is his,
and all of his things, inevitably, yearn to return.

Bring the child to the manse at sundown.
We will be expecting you. ]

Edited 2024-08-12 22:17 (UTC)

[ Astarion is a slow reader, but it only takes the first sentence to send him into apoplexy. He clutches the note tightly in both of his hands, so much so that the neat paper wrinkles and crinkles under the intensity of his grip. As he reads on, his anger only grows until he's seething, trembling with the force of his rage.

Son. Boy. Child. Did Cazador write this? No, he decides quickly. He wouldn't deign to. The arrogance practically spills off of the page and stains his hands, though, characteristic of Cazador's own words. It must have been dictated. To that awful chamberlain, perhaps, or one of Astarion's own siblings.

In an impulsive, explosive fit of fury, he tears the note to shreds, and then again, until it's in as many tiny pieces as he can manage. He throws them to floor and stomps on them, panting with white hot indignation. ]

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