essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

I wasn't going to go anywhere, you buffoon.

[ He sounds irritated and a little offended, like he can't quite believe Iorveth would think that of him, despite the fact that he has a demonstrated history of dipping out when the going gets tough. In his defense, there's never been anything worth staying for before. He shifts onto his side, flicking Iorveth in the temple with a scowl. ]

Gods, you're vexing.

[ Why can't he just do and say the things that Astarion wants him to, without Astarion having to tell him to? Instead, he goes on and on about things that Astarion doesn't want. If he valued him like he says he does, Astarion thinks, he wouldn't act like it would be so easy to cut each other loose. Before, he would have closed himself off and rejected Iorveth before he could be rejected. Now, he's comfortable enough to throw a fit instead. It's progress. ]

I don't bear you. You're the one light in this— shitshow.

[ There really is no other word to describe it. ]

[ A light. For a moment, Iorveth looks－ bitter? Uncertain, uncharacteristically. He feels that his value as anything other than a sharp instrument to jab into someone else is debatable at best; he's trusted and loved and lost too many times to see things as just a them problem.

Iorveth, the Woodland Fox. Additionally: Iorveth, Thrice-Abandoned. First by his queen, then by his commander, then by his dragon. It's a miracle that Astarion wants him, but it would also be a miracle, he thinks, if Astarion wants to keep him.

A lot to lay on someone, especially when they're just trying to relax. Iorveth doesn't talk much about his past beyond practical dissection of his life in plain terms, and has only trusted Astarion and Astarion alone with personal details that aren't just diatribes about humans and their vices. A big departure from his norm.

He opens his mouth to say something, and then stops. Visibly changes course. His arm stays looped around Astarion. ]

Strange, that I believe that you believe that.

[ A roundabout way to say thank you. Iorveth really is the most annoying elf in the world. After a hum, he appends: ]

I've given myself to others before, to poor results. ...But none of them were you, I suppose.

[ He sifts a hand through Astarion's hair, slow and careful. ]

[ Ah. It all clicks into place. Astarion had been so concerned with his own hang-ups that he hadn't thought to consider Iorveth's at all, but now he does, the gears in his head visibly turning for a long moment before he swings a leg over to crawl on top of Iorveth, anything but slow and careful. His lukewarm hands find the sides of Iorveth's head, holding him there. ]

Ugh. Senseless half-wits, to throw you away.

[ But he's selfishly glad they did, if it led Iorveth here. An awful, self-absorbed thing to think, but he thinks it regardless. ]

You're the first thing I've ever had for my own, you know.

[ Something that's all his, something cherished. Iorveth probably thinks that people can't—or perhaps shouldn't—belong to anyone but themselves, but Astarion knows that isn't true. ]

I intend to keep you.

[ Iorveth watches Astarion Think About It, and it's almost endearing to observe the cogs grinding into place if not for the fact that the revelation in question pertains to Iorveth's past disappointments. To be fair, the disappointments have felt less devastating each time (the first was the worst, being betrayed by his own kind, being manacled for daring to fight), but the trend seemed a bit unmistakable.

Whatever. The past feels easier to stomach when Astarion puts his weight on Iorveth and sandwiches his face between his palms, says things that sound disagreeable to Iorveth on paper but spread through him like sunlit warmth. He should rage and rebel, be repulsed by the idea of being kept the way he'd protested a life corralled in Cazador's mansion, but this seems so disparate, so divorced from that particular version of "kept" that it doesn't inspire him to push back.

So he settles into it. Head to his pillow, one hand to the back of Astarion's. ]

Then you'll have me.

[ Almost a threat. An are-you-sure. Sharp, blunt, but with conviction. If Astarion says he wants this, then he really will have one deranged murder elf utterly devoted to him, for better or for worse.

Craning his neck, trying to brush noses: ] Astarion. [ Like the morning prior, tacitly asking for a kiss to seal the deal. ]

Edited 2024-11-07 05:22 (UTC)

[ Iorveth is free to threaten him with a good time as much as he wants. Under normal circumstances, he might withhold affection, tell Iorveth to ask nicely or use your words. Iorveth seems to be in a vulnerable place right now, though, and although he delights endlessly in being irritating, Astarion doesn't want to be cruel, not to him. (To other people, maybe.) ]

I do love to hear you say my name.

[ It sends happy little warm fuzzies all up and down his spine, to be exact, but he won't reveal that even under threat of death. He leans in, mouth brushing Iorveth's, and lets his weight press Iorveth into the pillows, quite literally crushing him with affection.

He rolls off of him after that, settling down beside him and plucking the dirty book back up. ]

Now, read. I want to hear you say more dirty things.

[ A fussy cat and an attack dog. Iorveth is foolishly (he acknowledges it) placated by the display of affection from Astarion, given purpose, to some extent, by the idea that Astarion finds the world a little more bearable with him in it. Crazy. He makes a soft sound of protest when Astarion's weight rolls off (freak elf with freak preferences), but adjusts to the sideways press of their bodies again with a warm huff.

Offered book taken, he props it open on his stomach and combs through its well-worn pages once more. Back to Nicholas and Edgar furiously tearing each other's clothes off, the word "manically" used liberally to describe what Edgar is doing to Nicholas's "trembling body".

Is this sexy??? Iorveth has no idea. But he reads one such sentence out loud, content to fulfill Astarion's requests (for now). ]

"Nicholas's long, smooth legs trembled and twitched where they were coiled around Edgar, and his spine arched deliciously as he struggled to push himself back upon his captor's adamantine cock." [ Iorveth squints. ] Adamantine?

[ Sounds uncomfortable, he thinks. ] The author's never been fucked, I presume.

[ Admittedly, this is all a bit overwrought, but Iorveth doesn't particularly strike him as the type of person to read bodice rippers to begin with, so he's certainly more judgmental than Astarion, who's just juvenilely amused to read the word 'cock'. It's a bit difficult to lie back and relax to the sound of Iorveth describing how Nicholas and Edgar's tongues fight for dominance, though, when he keeps scoffing like that. Astarion shoots him a pointed glare, frowning. ]

I had no idea you were such a literary critic.

[ So what if Edger the assassin's cock is described as a 'dagger in Nicholas's sheath'? No one's ever gotten off to a well-written nonfiction about Elminster Aumar. (Probably.) ]

Go on. Tell me how you'd write it, then.

[ He settles back in the pillows, gaze expectant. It's an obvious ploy to make Iorveth say more pornographic things. ]

[ It's bait. Iorveth looks at Astarion, his expression clearly conveying how stupid he finds all of this. The sentiment equates roughly to "I love you deeply and indescribably, but you are so dumb". ]

I wouldn't. [ Write it, he means. ] I see little point in speaking about something I could be doing myself.

[ His features soften, as he traces an idle finger down Astarion's nape. ]

You just want to hear me utter filth. [ Calling him out, officially. ] I could, but none of it would be about this mewling idiot and his brainless lover.

[ He leans in, and whispers a string of scandalous nonsense into Astarion's ear－ all in Aen Seidhe, of course. Iorveth's voice is better suited for it, making him sound softer, more musical; the syllables flow into each other, one continuous string of pleasant-sounding noise that is, in fact, utter filth. ]

[ He'd always found Iorveth's preference for his own dialect to be annoying, pretentious, eyeroll-worthy. Aside from his natural haughtiness, Astarion has no connection to his elvish roots—maybe he never did, but he certainly doesn't now—and seeing Iorveth cling to his own had frustrated him. It still does, sometimes, but for a different reason. It makes him sullen to see Iorveth pour so much of himself into a community that doesn't seem to love him back. If they don't appreciate Iorveth, Astarion thinks, then fuck them.

On the other hand, it is terribly appealing to listen to Iorveth talk dirty in Aen Seidhe. Mellifluous, so sweet-sounding that it's hard to believe he's speaking filth at all. In fact: ]

Mm, that's dangerously titillating for words that could be about the rising price of potatoes.

[ Honestly! He wouldn't know, and it would be awfully embarrassing to get turned on by potato talk. (And yet, here he is.) ]

[ Ugh, there Astarion goes again, making Iorveth laugh. It's a proper, full-bodied sound this time around, from the pit of his stomach to the warm breath blown against Astarion's hair. ]

I said, [ because he doesn't want to be known as an elf who talks potato economics in bed, ] that I want to sit between your spread legs, and feel your knees hook around my shoulders.

[ Not exactly the height of poetry. He's a warrior, not a bard. ]

I'll take you in my mouth first, and then I'll take you properly. [ Whatever form that takes. He'll leave it to Astarion's imagination. ] Until your pretty pale skin pinks from exertion.

[ Drawing circles between Astarion's shoulderblades. Iorveth hums again, provocative this time on purpose. ]

[ Astarion suddenly has a very strong urge to go pilfer Lae'zel's sword oil—or perhaps Gale's hair oil; he could stand to stop styling that mess—and damn the consequences. Iorveth's laugh makes his stomach do a flip, and Iorveth talking dirty with such blunt precision makes it do a cartwheel. He remembers laughing at Iorveth when he'd said sometimes I even fuck. He'd seemed sexless, entirely without desire that didn't relate to his people's plight. For once in his life, it's not a disappointment to have been proven wrong.

If it's pink he's looking for, Astarion doesn't need to exert himself to get it; the color crawls up his neck as he loosens his collar. It's a dusty, lifeless sort of pink, even a blush unable to give him a truly lively glow, but it's pink nonetheless.

Haphazardly, he tosses the book off the bed. It tumbles across the floor. ]

That does sound more interesting than reading.

[ And not just because there's only so many times he can stand to read about 'quivering thighs'. ]

[ There's nothing that Iorveth wants more than freedom and peace for his people; that said, he wants Astarion just as much as he wants freedom and peace for his people. An all-encompassing feeling, constantly simmering under his skin.

Bedsprings creak under their collective weight as Iorveth shifts, turning onto his side to slide one palm under the hem of Astarion's borrowed shirt and trace the ridges of his stomach. Iorveth has remained shirtless since his healing, with only his trousers, underwear, and the ring around his neck available for casting off.

He dips his head down to bite a careful mark over the pink-flushed skin peeking from Astarion's loosened collar. Deliberate and slow, to savor their difference in temperature and complexion. ]

More worth your while, too.

[ Another laugh, quieter this time. Iorveth presses his smile to Astarion's clavicle, teething at it with the flat of his neat teeth as he feels something in the pit of his stomach warm at the thought of putting his mouth over Astarion again. Less hurried than the time at Facemaker's, though the urgency of that moment was a thrill of its own.

Gods, he's lost his mind. ] What are you doing to me, you infernal creature.

[ Not an actual question, which is why the tail end of his words lack an inflection. ]

[ It's Astarion's turn to laugh now, because Iorveth is the only time in memory that he hasn't tried to 'do something' to someone. He'd attempted to, of course, but it irritatingly hadn't worked. He'd only begun to be charmed after Astarion had stopped trying; what a strange, ridiculous man, with strange, ridiculous tastes.

Of course, he doesn't say that. Instead, he strokes Iorveth's hair gently, the way he had done to the cat on his lap back at Dolores's place. Like an animal he's hesitant to scare off.

Lowly, he delivers this line: ] I'm a dangerous vampire who's ensnared you with my wiles, obviously.

[ Again, Iorveth is the only person who was entirely immune to said 'wiles'. An unimportant detail when it comes to dirty talk. ]

Whatever will you do about it?

[ Iorveth sucks another mark onto Astarion's skin, pleased by the hand sifting through his hair, drinking in the care and coaxing. He's never fancied himself touch-starved, but being touched by Astarion is a different story.

Which is why his reply to the question is: ] I could resist the ridiculous vampire's wiles. But it would serve me just as well to succumb for the day.

[ The illusion of choice. Both options end with him glued to Astarion's side in some capacity― it only boils down to whether or not he remains chaste about it. The fact that he's harmlessly enthralled enough to waste an entire day lounging about with his most important person is a truth that will remain.

His fingers splay under Astarion's shirt, happy to touch as much of him as possible. ]

How weak-willed does the dangerous vampire want me to be?

[ Iorveth will allow it, only for Astarion. If anyone else called him weak-willed, Iorveth would drive a knife through their skull. ]

[ A grin breaks out across his face, pleased that Iorveth is playing along. Iorveth's palm is warm and comforting on his torso, and he shifts closer to bask in the feeling, letting his hand slide from Iorveth's hair down to his smooth, angular jaw, and then to thumb his strong chin affectionately. ]

Oh, very, very weak-willed.

[ The concept of Iorveth of all people being at all weak-willed is laughable, but there's fun in pretending. Obstinate, unyielding Iorveth, a dangerous and wanted fugitive, weak just for him. It's a fantasy he doesn't mind indulging. ]

Perhaps you resisted at first. [ You know, for realism. ] But you quickly realized you were helpless to do anything but my wicked carnal bidding.

[ "Wicked", Astarion says, while looking and acting very much like a cat puffing and preening for attention. The joke continues to be on Iorveth for finding it all very endearing despite himself (honestly, he'd always thought he was more of a dog person before all of this), and besides, the playacting suits him as well as it seems to be suiting Astarion. It's not exactly "crown prince succumbs to his dark-haired assassin" material, but "terrorist elf yields to white-haired vampire" is probably an erotica novel somewhere in the Realms.

Stupid. Iorveth smiles in a way that suggests that he doesn't know that that's the way his features are currently arranged: unguarded and uncalculated with his brows slightly lowered, his curled mouth relaxed. ]

I fought as best I could, [ he drawls, ] but the wicked vampire had the irresistible audacity to call me his.

[ Iorveth sits up and pulls back, sliding his hand out from under Astarion's shirt to tug its hem up, insistently. ]

And now he's gone and made me want him again. [ His smile spreads into a grin, slightly challenging as he throws Astarion this bone: ] Desperately.

[ Perhaps it's all of the adoration clouding his judgment, but Iorveth has never looked quite so lovely as he does smiling like that. Uninhibited in his happiness, the hard lines of his face softened. It makes Astarion's dead heart flutter in his chest, so much that someone might actually mistake him for someone alive. The things he'd do to keep seeing that look on Iorveth's face are dangerous.

Losing the heat from Iorveth's body feels somehow intolerable, so he's quick to start pulling this stupid, baggy shirt off. In his haste, the fabric catches on a pointy ear, giving him a terrible case of bedhead by the time he manages to get it off. He slicks his hair back down in the most casual way possible, aiming for alluring. ]

Lucky for you, he finds desperation charming.

[ Much like Iorveth. ]

If you're very good, perhaps he'll even see fit to make you his consort.

[ The tousled look is attractive in its own right; Iorveth thinks to reach out and make a mess of those soft curls, but foresees a lot of grousing about how Iorveth has made Astarion ugly. Maybe another time, when he feels like tugging on Astarion's figurative pigtails a little.

For today, he makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat at all the newly-bared skin, shooing away all remnants of the novel's overwrought descriptors. There's nothing heaving or creamy about Astarion's chest, and thank the gods that there isn't. ]

Is that what vampires do. [ Genuinely curious, given that his knowledge of vampire lore begins and ends with what Astarion has seen fit to tell him. He hums, interested, and dips down to start making a mess of Astarion's chest, kissing and sucking at his skin to leave a trail of lovebites down to his navel. Tame enough to indulge the fantasy playacting, but still feral at heart. ]

I'd call you Lord Astarion, then, would I.

[ He takes one of Astarion's hands, and kisses the back of it with a smooth flourish. ]

[ It probably isn't strictly healthy to fantasize about being the sort of powerful vampire that tormented him for centuries, and yet— yes, he does like the sound of Lord Astarion. Iorveth talked him out of this lifestyle back at the palace, but after so many years thirsting for even a crumb of power, it's easy to fall back into the fantasy. It feels good to be the one holding all of the cards for once, even if it's only pretend. ]

Milord does have a certain ring to it.

[ He turns his hand over, fingers cupping Iorveth's chin, thumb brushing against his lower lip. Fond, even when pretending to be an evil-but-sexy vampire in a steamy romance novel. ]

I'll whisk you away to my lair and keep you for eternity.

[ A lot of red flags― someone should say "jk", except no one does. Iorveth is secure in the assumption that Astarion knows that actually attempting to keep him in a vampire castle for eternity would yield the exact results that he stated so bluntly before ("I'd grow to resent you"), so this is just indulging a bit of fun for sport; Iorveth loves Astarion, but he'd draw the line at being his pet.

That said, Iorveth is fine with letting his sweet cat pretend to be a sexy vampire while he gets a blowjob, because he's earned it after putting up with Araj, putting up with Iorveth's shoulder wound, putting up with getting clocked in the face, and putting up with an overeager Fist's clumsy come-ons. That isn't even mentioning the rest of Everything he's done in the past tenday― gods, they've been busy.

Iorveth sucks the thumb against his scarred lower lip into his mouth, laving his tongue over it with heated fervor before pulling back, inching down Astarion's body until he's where he said he wants to be: snug between Astarion's knees, nosing at his crotch over his trousers. A little performative, for the sake of their silly fantasizing. ]

I've an incentive to please you, then. [ He angles the ruined part of his face so that it rests along the outline of Astarion's length, obscuring the worst of the deep scar that snakes out from under his eyepatch. ] Should I implore you for your permission, milord?

[ He manages not to snort, his single eye flicking up to meet Astarion's gaze. ]

Edited 2024-11-09 05:08 (UTC)

[ Implore you for your permission. Iorveth couldn't possibly understand the thrill that question sends through him. This whole farce may seem ridiculous to Iorveth, but Astarion isn't laughing. No one's ever asked his permission before. Always at someone else's whim, helpless, powerless; what he wanted never came into the picture. ]

Yes.

[ There's still a playful impishness to it, but there's an edge to his voice, too, a seriousness to his request. He bends his knee, foot coming to rest on Iorveth's shoulder, gently pushing him off. It's odd, really; he wants Iorveth even closer, but the satisfaction in pushing him away is indescribable. Saying 'no' is the one thing in bed that's still novel. ]

Go on. Beg me.

[ There's an imperious lilt to his voice, like he was born to give orders, like he has no idea that he's just adding one more red flag to the pile. ]

[ Pushed back and told to beg, there's a clear moment where Iorveth considers raising his hackles: just the slightest twitch of his mouth as he rears away, a beat as his pride and rationality tell him not to reward this kind of behavior. The moment is, however, short-lived; it loses out to a different kind of obstinacy, one that he displays by breaking away altogether.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, with no part of his body touching Astarion, Iorveth rights his posture. His hands sit on the bedsheets, palm down and behind his back. He won't lay a finger on Astarion if Astarion doesn't want it. ]

Astarion. [ It's a test of trust: if Astarion ridicules him for this, Iorveth will leave. ] I want to put my mouth on you.

[ Astarion isn't Henselt. Astarion isn't the faceless men who manacled him and beat him and told him to submit. Astarion held his face in his hands and told him that he intends to keep an elf with a ruined face, so: ] Please, [ Iorveth adds, to prove a point. Low and soft and entirely out of practice. ]

[ For a moment, he thinks he's gone too far, asked for too much. Iorveth will be furious with him, and he won't love him anymore. Astarion practically shrinks against the pillows, every bit of that haughtiness dissipating into the air, as he mentally composes his pathetic contrition. He's begged for forgiveness countless times, after all. He should be skilled at it by now.

Then Iorveth acquiesces, and he visibly relaxes, relief flooding through him from head to toe. Without meaning to, he beams. ]

Good boy.

[ The words might sound condescending if not for the warmth and adoration permeating every vowel and consonant. Gratitude, even. It's genuine praise, albeit through playacting. ]

My love gets what he wants, of course.

[ A crook of his finger, then, ] Come back.

[ Gods, Iorveth's got it down bad. He can't bear to see Astarion shrink in any context, and Astarion's subsequent relief when Iorveth acquiesces only makes Iorveth want to spoil him more. Whenever he sees any glimpse of that beautiful heart that he wanted to preserve against Cazador's profane rite, Iorveth can feel his own clench.

He moves when beckoned, keeping up with the playful compliance but bypassing the (admittedly) alluring spot between Astarion's legs to scoot further up for a kiss. A tacit acceptance of the sentiment behind "good boy", though he would've broken bone and teeth if those words had come out of anyone else's mouth. ]

Astarion, [ he murmurs between a second and a third kiss, the contact more heated every time their mouths meet. En'ca minne, he breathes after he nips Astarion's lower lip, and translates: ] Beloved.

[ One hand travels downwards, down the ridged plane of Astarion's stomach and under the waistband of his pants, palming and looking for signs of hardness. Iorveth sighs, his breath shuddering with barely-suppressed need. ]

Let me. [ More harmless begging, just as a treat. Iorveth hisses it again, let me, subservient in words only as he bites another mark against Astarion's neck, littering signs of all his pent-up want all over pale skin. He wants everyone to know how much Astarion is desired, specifically by him. ]

[ Shadowheart and Lae'zel would fume if they knew that they were kicked out of their own room so that Iorveth could put his hand down Astarion's pants. Then again, they probably have their hands down each other's pants right now, so they really can't judge.

All of this affection is a little overwhelming, the feeling of being underneath someone terribly vulnerable, but Iorveth's sweet words ease any tension he might have had. Beloved, he says, and Astarion rolls the word around in his brain. When Iorveth says it like that, voice soft and fond, he could really believe that he is something worthy of being loved. A new belief for him, after centuries of being told the exact opposite, but not an unpleasant one.

It's not at all 'wicked' that that's what sends a shiver down his spine, body responding to Iorveth's in a way that's easier than it's ever been. It feels safe to let his erection harden under Iorveth's bow-callused fingers, to put himself both literally and metaphorically in his hands. He doesn't have to feel afraid of how this might make him feel, because Iorveth would never mishandle something that he loves. ]

Gods, just do it already.

[ As much as he'd like to listen to Iorveth beg some more, he lacks the patience to be withholding for long. A poor excuse for an evil vampire lord. ]

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