nibbling | open post pt. 2.

You'll allow it. [ Iorveth's lips curl up into a smile, fondly exasperated. Of all the non-humans in this world that he had to become infatuated with, it had to be the one that makes him doubt his sanity on the regular.

Then again, he, a madman, wouldn't trade Astarion for anyone easier or more palatable; "a lot", Astarion'd said, to a freedom fighter with a penchant for doing entirely too much.

Exhibit A: more kissing. Fingers brush Astarion's jaw, considering the angle, as their mouths meet. The contact is soft at first, a series of fleeting, featherlight whispers of lips against lips, touching for the sake of touching. There's novelty in being chaste, but the ache in the back of Iorveth's throat demands more than boyish pecks; eventually, he carefully coaxes their mouths open until he's raking tongue against tongue, inhaling every time Astarion exhales.

He's out of breath when he finally relents, pleasantly dizzy. Somewhere along the way, his fingers have wound themselves into silver curls, clutching without pulling. ]

I could do this all day, [ is a little fuzzy, a little smug. He punctuates it with another brief kiss to the corner of Astarion's mouth. ]

[ It's silly, how the light trace of Iorveth's lips against his excites him even more than Iorveth's tongue in his mouth. Excites him differently, at least. He's tangled tongues with more people than he can count, but it's rare that anyone has kissed him chastely, gently, like it's purely for the sake of affection and not to use him as an object for their release.

He smiles when Iorveth pulls away, giddy like the schoolboy he hasn't been in hundreds of years. The effect some sternfaced wood elf terrorist has on him should embarrass him, but he can't bring himself to be bashful about it. He has no choice but to accept the facts: he thinks about Iorveth when he wakes and when he lies down to trance, Iorveth's is the only touch that excites rather than startles, and he's the only one whose words can wreck or repair Astarion's day. ]

Well, if that's really all you want to do.

[ It's novel, how safe Iorveth feels. When most everyone he meets is a potential enemy (or turns into one because of the things that come out of his mouth), feeling secure around someone is a rare, precious thing. Counterintuitive, almost.

Iorveth tries not to look too fond, to middling results. Maybe the strip of cloth covering half of his face helps; it probably doesn't. ]

Most clerics would argue that fucking an injured man is the opposite of tending to them.

[ Bluntly, with his usual dry humor. He thinks of Shadowheart and her potential (inevitable) outrage at finding out that not only did Iorveth keep Astarion from her immediate care, he made things worse by bedding him. If this is how Iorveth gets exiled from their motley crew, he'd laugh and laugh.

It isn't that he doesn't want to: obviously, there's lust under all this affection. He'd be lying if he said that he doesn't want to slip his hand under the loose covering of the robe that he'd purchased.

But: ] I'm content with this. [ Another kiss, for the hundredth time. ] Unless you're keen on watching me fight Shadowheart to the death.

[ Might be fun. ]

[ Astarion's eyebrows raise skeptically, and he quips, ] How highly you must think of yourself to think you'd be so vigorous as to make my condition worse.

[ His voice somehow drips with both affection and judgment. Honestly! A very bold claim. Still, he has no desire to cajole anyone into intimacy—he's done enough of that in his time—so he simply slides his hand into Iorveth's, idly playing with his warm fingers. His own are as smooth as the day he was turned, the uncalloused hands of a privileged magistrate, but Iorveth's have the roughness of someone who's had to fight for everything they have. It's the rough parts that Astarion runs his fingers over the most, feeling for every scar and callus.

A dry laugh escapes him, then. ]

Shall I teach you to darn socks, then?

[ No comment about whether or not he's capable of being vigorous. Iorveth, a freak, who often finds himself turned on when Astarion has a sharp object in his hand, keeps his very untoward thoughts confined in his weird head for now. That flag stays rolled up without flying free today.

Instead: socks. He lets out a puff of breath at the reminder that he still needs to learn how to embroider a sun, rubbing the callused side of his thumb along the back of Astarion's hand. ]

If you've a sewing kit handy.

[ Iorveth'd left his back in Elfsong, back when they stumbled out of their previous room to pilfer the mace from Lae'zel. Maybe he's a little glad that he doesn't have to show Astarion all the crooked practice stitches he'd made. ]

If not, I'll go speak to the innkeep.

[ Though he's loath to peel himself from Iorveth's side, Astarion releases his hand and gets up, gifted robe billowing behind him as he pads over to his pack to search through its contents. A moment later, he's perched on the edge of the bed with a needle and thread, removing the pillowcase to serve as Iorveth's practice canvas. He's already defiled one pillowcase, after all. Another is hardly anything to cry about. ]

Come.

[ He pats the mattress beside him. As appealing as sitting in the sun is, he'd rather lounge while Iorveth practices. ]

Edited (where'd my icon go) 2024-08-26 04:22 (UTC)

[ Is it intolerably cute that Astarion keeps a sewing kit with him, the answer is yes. Like, Iorveth is fairly certain that the reason he has it on his person all the time is not for benign or precious reasons, but still. It's charming. It's convenient. Iorveth is insane.

Iorveth is, as it turns out, also amenable to trial and error. When beckoned, he settles on the bed with his long legs crossed, squinting at the needle and thread provided to him with near-comical seriousness. His first few practice lines are wobbly and uneven, and he scowls at them as if they're responsible for murdering his family.

Muttering a curse in Aen Seidhe under his breath, he tries another line. Over and under, down and through. He nearly stabs his thumb in the process, and he curses again. ]

Some people do this for hours, [ he grouses, without much heat behind the protest. He'll never underestimate a tailor again. ]

[ Likewise, it's intolerably cute that Iorveth has such a solemn approach to embroidery, his anger at his shaky practice lines sickeningly endearing. Astarion smiles, charmed, as he looks over Iorveth's shoulder at his attempt. Not good, by any means, but he somehow finds even those unsteady stitches pleasant in their own way. Anyone else, and he'd roll his eyes at their lack of skill at needlework. With Iorveth, it's sweet. ]

Yes, well, you have to put in effort if you want to look good. This doesn't just happen by the grace of the gods.

[ A gesture at his attire. ]

Now, careful. [ A rare word for him to use. He reaches out to steady Iorveth's hand. ] Prick yourself, and you'll whet my appetite.

[ All that dexterity and fine motor control with a bow and arrow, unsuccessfully applied to making tiny stitches in a pillowcase. Iorveth lists back slightly when Astarion leans forward, resting his weight comfortably against Astarion's chest. ]

You can have my blood later, [ he grunts, struggling to tie off the end of his dwindling piece of string, as offhanded as anything. So comfortable with the idea of letting Astarion drink from him that the sheer absurdity of being a constant source of sustenance for a vampire hardly registers anymore― it's just a matter of fact.

Still focused, he passes another thread through his needle, and tries to etch a circle into the pillowcase this time. It winds up looking more like a lemon than a sun, and he sighs in exasperation. ]

Show me, [ he eventually concedes, passing his sewing set back to Astarion with his chin tipped in haughty obstinacy. Not admitting defeat, but requesting a demonstration. ]

[ A lemon would perhaps be more accurate to Astarion's disposition, but it's not what he's after. Still, there's something endearing about those crooked stitches. Astarion takes the sewing kit and the pillow in hand, demonstrating with deft, fluid movements. It looks as if he's been doing this for centuries, and he has. There was little else to occupy his time in the palace, and this, at least, ensured he kept his appearance up.

He's never been a teacher before, but he imagines one is meant to be encouraging, so he says, ] You're on the right track. [ He immediately ruins it, though, by adding, ] Just, ah, do it right instead.

[ Handing back the pillow and needle, he places his hands over Iorveth's, directing him and trying (not as hard as he should) not to think about how warm his hands are, how they feel against his cheek and in his hair. ]

I wonder what sort of reward I might get for the information that this dangerous elven fugitive can be defeated by a mere needle and thread.

[ Astarion is from the Gale school of teaching when it comes to embroidery: demonstrate something expertly, then tell their student to follow suit. Still, there's a certain measure of pleasure in watching someone do their craft so deftly, so Iorveth manages not to scowl about it, and redoubles his efforts to get things right.

(Astarion's cool palm against his hand feels nice; he tries not to think about craning back and kissing him again.) ]

You'd get paid handsomely by stupid humans who, no doubt, would assume "needle and thread" was elven code for something else, and spend days trying to interpret it.

[ Dryly. There are still men out in the city who would love nothing more than to see Iorveth hang, and poking fun at them is how Iorveth copes.

His next attempt at a circle is fairly passable, if slightly oblong. Iorveth shows it to Astarion with a slightly pleased arch of his lips, a silent well? ]

[ Astarion perches his chin on Iorveth's shoulder to examine his work, the very picture of a cat that's decided to curl up in someone's lap. Iorveth smells nice up close, a mix of scented soap from the washroom and his own unique undertone, woody and deep. He grins not only at the improved work but at Iorveth's own pride in it, pleasure swelling in his chest at the sight.

Amused, but warm with satisfaction: ] What a dutiful student you are, my dear.

[ And with the added obstacle of having a very poor teacher indeed. Astarion wouldn't know how to explain something if his life depended on it, not when nearly everything he does is based on improvisation. ]

I should have known you'd be a quick learner.

Not quick enough for what I want to be doing.

[ Iorveth isn't deluded enough to think that anything he accomplishes within the day will be good enough to embroider on any of Astarion's belongings; at best, it'll look like the clumsy efforts of a small child that only a parent could love, and his endgoal is to achieve something slightly better than "oh sweetie, you tried".

So. More practice. He winds up stabbing himself halfway into stitching the rays of his oblong sun, cursing as he drops the needle and pillowcase to keep from bleeding on it. ]

－A snack for you. [ A sigh, and he offers Astarion his injured index. ] I'll have improved by the time we've killed Gortash.

[ Setting personal milestones based on who they're going to murder next is perfectly legitimate, he thinks. ]

[ He only half-listens to what Iorveth says after that ruby drop of blood beads on his fingertip. Something about Gortash, who Astarion hasn't paid a second thought to all this time with Henselt and Cazador on his mind. He continues not paying him a second thought, taking Iorveth's hand in his and lifting it toward his mouth. On the way to his lips, he pauses, tilting his head and swiping his own finger along the side of Iorveth's index. ]

You have the most lovely, long fingers.

[ Iorveth deserves to know that he's striking, after all. He shows so much scorn toward praise, only words, but even he isn't made of enough steel to resist it forever. One of these days, he won't feel ruined anymore, and he won't scoff when Astarion calls him handsome.

He licks the blood away, then, lingering for a second longer than necessary before flopping back on the mattress with a sigh. ]

It's difficult to control myself around you.

Edited 2024-08-27 02:50 (UTC)

[ A flash of something, when Astarion doesn't decide to put the finger in his mouth. Disappointment? Something adjacent, which makes the back of Iorveth's throat burn again.

He flexes those same long fingers, then picks up the mess he's made of the pillowcase and sets it aside on the bedside dresser along with needle and thread. To be continued later. ]

News to me, that you were controlling yourself.

[ A bit mean, but more inquisitive than anything else. He's never been fond of the masks that Astarion likes to wear, anyway; whatever Astarion deems pathetic about himself, Iorveth has always interpreted to be truthful.

Swinging his legs up onto the mattress, Iorveth reaches to comb his uninjured hand through Astarion's hair. ]

It isn't the day for control. Speak your mind.

[ It is mean, but Iorveth can't exactly be blamed. Astarion is hardly the picture of self-control. He struggles with self-restraint in almost all ways, impulsive and reckless. Even still, there's so many ways he's had to repress himself over the centuries, every desire dampened by shame.

He leans into Iorveth's hand, another example of his lack of control. ]

You make me hungry.

[ For lots of things. For blood, affection, intimacy. All the sorts of things he'd assumed he'd never get. ]

[ "Hungry". Out of Astarion's mouth, that word is dire: not just a scarcity of sustenance, but of everything. A dearth of consideration, safety, autonomy, not to mention the inability to say anything about said lacking.

Iorveth pulls his hand away to realign. Twisting on the mattress, sliding gracefully up and over towards Astarion until he's poised over him, sideways to Astarion's supine. He hovers like that for a moment, watching with careful scrutiny. Debating. Tempering his own reaction, which is hypocritical considering his request immediately prior.

He shouldn't. Astarion still needs time and space to think about himself. Iorveth shouldn't.

But he finds that he's hungry as well. Starving, even. When he leans forward to press their mouths together again, he feels it even more strongly; an itch in the back of his skull that has nothing to do with the parasite. ]

As do you. [ He huffs, pulling back. ] Does it frighten you?

[ His immediate instinct is to blurt out a defensive no. His life has been dominated by fear more than anything else, but it's always been unwise to express it. Showing vulnerability meant making himself a target, providing others with the dagger to plunge in his heart. They were always going to hurt him anyway, but the least he could do was make it more difficult for them.

But he doesn't want to lie to Iorveth, doesn't want to prick him on his sharp quills. That's the crux of the issue, because it does scare Astarion that he wants to be sincere with him. He wants to be seen and known and accepted even after he's shown his worst parts. It's his darkest, most depraved desire. ]

I don't know. [ A lie, so he amends, sounding exasperated with himself, ] —A little.

[ He squirms just admitting that much, rolling a loose thread on the bedspread between two of his fingers. ]

I've never cared for anyone the way I care for you. [ A thoughtful pause. ] I've never cared for anyone at all, really.

[ Iorveth is a known terrorist in the north. He's battle-hardened and paranoid, the kind of elf that had trouble sleeping on a comfortable bed the first few nights they stayed at Elfsong, because he'd grown so accustomed, in his century of half-awake trancing propped against trees, to being uncomfortable. He's not the kind of person anyone should care for unless they share a cause with him― a maladjusted freak, an hourglass shedding sand with each passing second.

Maybe Astarion needs a reminder. But Iorveth finds that he doesn't want to warn Astarion against him. His side of the same coin as Astarion: Iorveth finds comfort in the fact that Astarion cares for him, despite every effort he's made to the contrary.

Silence stretches between them, slow and contemplative. Iorveth fills it by combing through Astarion's hair again, tracing the curve and point of his ear.

Finally, he asks: ] If so, what do you want from me?

[ Unconsciously this time, his head leans into Iorveth's gentle touch like a flower craning toward the sun. It's pathetic how the faint slide of Iorveth's fingers against his ear makes him shiver in satisfaction, but he's finding that perhaps he's all right being a little pathetic around Iorveth if he keeps this up. It's funny; not long ago, anyone seeing his soft molten center would have been his worst nightmare. Now he's willing to roll over for a crumb of affection from the sort of terrorist he would have sent to the gallows as a magistrate.

The question, though, raises an eyebrow. What does he want? He wants to be close to Iorveth all the time, to see a smile break that stony expression, to smell and taste him. That, though, is perhaps a little much, even if he's willing to look pathetic.

A compromise, then: ] I only want you.

[ In all ways. Too much. ]

[ Something inside of Iorveth snaps. Heavy cords keeping his emotions in restraint; he recalls telling Astarion that it doesn't matter how he feels about anything.

It matters now. At least, right now, in this moment. The heaviness of his feeling breaks from his reason, the intensity of it pressing against the tadpole in his brain, telling it to whisper I adore you directly into Astarion's skull.

He has no control over whether or not that happens successfully, but he breaches the distance between them, physically, to wrap his arms around Astarion's shoulders. Pulling him into an embrace, jumping over the metaphorical cliff. ]

Then you'll have me. [ Softly, against Astarion's ear. ] However you wish.

[ His chest burns; it takes courage to want someone so badly. ] Stay with me, Astarion.

[ Astarion isn't used to being embraced. Caressing a lover, lying lazily across his bedmate's body, holding someone close as he drains their blood — yes. The only embraces he can recall, though, are the quick presses against each other that they shared yesterday, under the stress of Cazador's impending confrontation. This is different, more encompassing. He hardly knows what to do with himself, hands hovering awkwardly before they finally come to rest lightly against Iorveth's middle.

You'll have me — another thing he isn't used to, asking for something and receiving it. And then stay with me, like supplication. He feels warm all over, and not just from Iorveth's body radiating heat. But—

That sort of feeling shouldn't be trusted, even if he very much wants to. ]

Don't say things you don't mean.

[ A tenday ago, getting this reaction in response to stay with me would've had Iorveth recoil back, teeth bared in his familiar kneejerk insult me at your own peril retaliation. The instinct to do so is still there, springloaded on his consciousness and in the way his grip tenses, momentarily, a fraction; like he's about to push back, like he might've taken offense.

It eases. He sighs, and rests his forehead against Astarion's shoulder. ]

I'm not known to say things that I don't mean.

[ Ask the hundreds of dead men that he's threatened to kill. Not the point, though. ]

But if my words ring hollow, then I'll speak more clearly through my actions.

[ One sweet promise won't overturn two centuries of maltreatment. Iorveth is aware, and presses his fondness where his palm is resting between Astarion's shoulderblades, squeezing him gently. ] You needn't give me an answer now.

[ Astarion feels that tension in his grip, that immediate reaction— and he feels him relax, too, the offense draining out of him. Iorveth is right, of course. He doesn't say things he doesn't mean. His unwavering sincerity, even when it's unpleasant, is part of the reason Astarion even trusts him in the first place. He's spent so long surrounded by lies and masks, but Iorveth has never tried to be anything but what he is.

So why, then, is it difficult to believe that he's actually wanted, not just on a timer but indefinitely? Cazador is dead, but his words still ring in Astarion's head. Roach, rat, nothing. Iorveth doesn't see him that way, he knows, but there's still a part of himself that does.

That's far too much to explain. Instead, he says, ] You said that I look bad in green.

[ Iorveth actually laughs at that, low and warm. ]

The ego on you. Unbelievable. [ A biting comment in a different context, but in this one, just amused and bemused. Rearing up with his arms now loosely draped around Astarion, making enough space for a proper once-over, Iorveth curls the corners of his lips upwards. ]

You were beautiful when we were crawling in the mud under Henselt's basement. [ His looks are one thing, but the shape of Astarion is entirely another; not just the way his features are arranged, but the entirety of him. Iorveth finally lets go, but only to flick his nose with his index again. ] You'd look striking in green, if you chose to wear it.

[ Chose being the operative word there. His expression softens another increment, and he soothes over the spot he'd flicked with his thumb. ]

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the thought of your default icon being astarion's reaction to iorveth's embroidery is sending me

fsjldkjfs DISGUSTED!!

area vampire testifies that he should've ascended

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