essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ An evil vampire lord would likely not react so sweetly to patience and gentle hands; Iorveth has never been more glad that Astarion chose not to ruin his heart for the sake of power and prestige. He layers one more kiss to the jut of a well-defined jaw, teeth on smooth skin while his hand tugs Astarion's trousers down to his ankles (negotiating the awkward shuffle of their too-long limbs with with similarly impatient fervor), baring more of him for Iorveth's inevitable scrutiny.

As he slides back to position: ]

Even your cock is pretty. [ A playful remark, followed by an easy peck to its tip. ] What did that novel say? "Adamantine"?

[ He chuckles at the recollection, nuzzling up against the comfortably-solid outline of Astarion's heat. It's gratifying to feel how firm it's gotten― Iorveth feels a sudden urge to immediately sink his mouth on top of it until it hits the back of his throat, but tells himself not to freak Astarion out by being, well, a freak.

So. Slow and steady at first. Open-mouthed kisses, and long drags of his tongue. Iorveth isn't embarrassed by how much he's wanted to do this, which makes it easier for him to be bold, to indicate his enthusiasm through warm huffs of breath around Astarion's erection. He brackets his hands at Astarion's hips without pinning him, mindful of pulling back if he senses even a sliver of discomfort; when he finally sucks the tip of him into his mouth, Iorveth makes sure to flick his single-eyed gaze upwards in a show of consideration and restraint. Again, trying not to be a total freak about this. ]

[ Astarion had felt absolutely nothing when that young Fist had called him pretty, so it's completely illogical that he melts against the pillows now, a warm flush of pleasure radiating out from his chest. Things like 'pretty' usually ring hollow, like the unimaginative, shallow flattery they so often are, but in Iorveth's voice, it makes him feel special. Something he's good at being, something Iorveth likes. If he really tried, he could probably get off to the sound of Iorveth's sweet words alone.

He doesn't have to, though, and thank the gods for that. Iorveth's mouth is warm and wet and welcoming, and he can feel himself twitch in unreasonable arousal at the sight. It isn't anything like their encounter at Facemaker's; that had felt rushed, like it was barreling to a conclusion on its own without any input from either of them. A pleasant conclusion, but barreling nonetheless. This time, though, there's something careful about it. He feels that fluttering in his chest again.

Astarion stares stupidly, the endless cacophony of his thoughts seeming distant and hard to reach. After a moment, he manages, ] Keep going.

[ Giving in to brainless lust is as nice as giving in to white-hot rage, but it's also novel not to rush his way to completion. A careful dance of sorts, which is as poetic as Iorveth is going to get with his face between Astarion's legs: he lifts off of Astarion for a breath, long and deliberate, and sinks back down with a pleased hum. Astarion is warm where he's pressed to the inside of his cheek, but Iorveth knows that there's still a temperature difference― he wonders, stupid and sex-dizzy, if it feels almost too hot for Astarion in his mouth.

An exciting thought. He slides off again, giving the saliva-slick length some reprieve while he bites more marks into Astarion's inner thighs as a reminder for later where Iorveth's mouth has recently been.

More kisses, more messy nuzzling. Trying to commit what makes Astarion twitch to memory, and pursuing it with dogged precision. The next time he sinks back onto Astarion's inviting erection, Iorveth actually does let himself choke on it a little, as a treat. Never wanting to do anything by halves, as usual; the overwhelming feeling of Astarion filling his throat makes him see pleasant stars, and his eye flutters closed in satisfaction. ]

[ Whoever taught Iorveth to suck cock deserves a medal. They also deserve to be gutted, because Astarion can't stand the thought that Iorveth has ever been like this for anyone else but him. It's petty, awful, possessive, but he doesn't care. He'd told Iorveth that he didn't mind if he found his pleasure elsewhere, and he'd been telling the truth, but not like this.

He feels himself bump against Iorveth's throat, and with a soft, strangled noise, that distant stream of thoughts goes entirely blank, mind filled with nothing but this moment. No doubt, no worries, just overwhelming fondness mingling with desire. When was the last time he only felt good? He can't remember, but he's so reluctant to give it up that he curls all of his fingers in Iorveth's hair, a firm pressure to hold him there.

Unnecessarily, he breathes out, the ever-present tension in his body dissolving, limbs slackening bit by bit. He's not sure when it started, but he's actually smiling. ]

Hells. I should keep you here forever.

[ Fingers tangle in his hair, and soft pressure keeps Iorveth down on the cock currently occupying his throat. He chokes a little again, breathes through his nose, and relaxes― it's hard to laugh around a hard length rammed in his mouth, but he almost manages.

"Maybe you should", he can't say. Instead, he fumbles his hand up to guide Astarion's grip from his head to his neck, easing Astarion's fingers to the leaves tattooed on his tan skin. He keeps them there as he bobs up, then down, demonstrating to Astarion how his throat expands whenever he dips, how it trembles when he hums, content, around Astarion's cock. Eager to take his shape.

It's almost too much, which is, by Iorveth's standards, just enough. He opens his eye with some effort, his focus a little misty, and―

―fuck, Astarion is smiling. Iorveth could burn the world for that smile, and then some. He redoubles his efforts, holding his face down between Astarion's legs to swallow greedily around the heat in his mouth, glad that it's currently very occupied; it's likely that he would've said something either incredibly filthy or incredibly embarrassing if it wasn't. ]

[ Iorveth is insane, but Astarion likes it. A ridiculous amount, in fact. His pale fingers press into the thin, delicate skin of Iorveth's neck, thumb sliding to brush over the notch above his clavicle, feeling it move as Iorveth swallows. He lets his eyes flutter shut, hips jerking up involuntarily as a low sound escapes the back of his throat, and then: ]

Wait—

[ Despite the plea, he can't muster up more than a couple ineffective shoves to urge Iorveth off. His body certainly doesn't want Iorveth to wait, both knees instinctively pressing inward, bracketing his body as if to keep him there. He hadn't been exaggerating; he wouldn't mind Iorveth between his legs for eternity. ]

Don't you want me to fuck you?

[ Something he very much won't be able to do if Iorveth keeps on like this. It isn't poetry, but he doesn't have it in him to be tactful. ]

[ "Wait" is a cruel thing to say to a man currently sucking dick as if his life depended on it, but it's followed up with a proposition that makes Iorveth shiver; he'd like that very much, actually. He draws himself up off of Astarion's cock with some difficulty, lips still pressed to a flushed tip as he rasps, voice ragged: ]

You needn't even ask.

[ It's crazy to him that Astarion would even want to fuck him. Iorveth still holds to the fact that Astarion's exterior remains the least interesting thing about him, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't find Astarion objectively attractive: classically beautiful, with perfect features arranged on a face that manages to be both sharp and soft at once. He could have his pick of anyone in every realm, and yet, he's asking Iorveth if he wants to be fucked.

It's ridiculous. Iorveth puts his mouth over Astarion's tip again, still hungry for him even as he fumbles with his own trousers to push them down, freeing his own erect cock to slick his palm with pre. An inelegant rush to find something to wet his digits with, wanting to get the bare minimum of prep out of the way so that he can get to what he really wants.

Obscene, probably, how he's still trying to keep Astarion in his mouth as he fingers at his own entrance. It doesn't matter― Iorveth wants to expedite the foreplay before Astarion can change his mind about fucking someone with a ruined face and a scar-marred body. Iorveth isn't pretty, and he's conscious of the fact that he isn't what most people would conventionally want to put their dicks in. ]

[ Gods, it is obscene, in the most appealing possible way. Oil, he thinks distantly, but he can't form the words as he watches Iorveth's lovely long fingers at work. If he were any less experienced, he'd be at real risk of coming from the sight alone and ruining everything.

His own fingers twitch with jealousy, and he forces himself to sit up, manhandling Iorveth off even as he wants nothing more than to pull him back down and hold him there. It's a true testament to his love that he can muster up anything resembling willpower ever, but especially now. He wants this to be good for Iorveth, so that he can't think of anything else while Lae'zel is barking orders at him, so that he forgets the names and faces of anyone else he ever let touch him. (Yet again: petty, awful, possessive.) ]

Let me.

[ Manipulative as always, he widens his eyes into the biggest, most innocent, most pleading expression he can. ]

[ He makes a sound of real protest when he's peeled off and deterred from his single-minded focus, lips still parted from where he'd been pressing kisses to Astarion's cock. The world spins for a moment as he's pulled semi-upright, and his touch slips away from its awkward ministrations between his legs; for a second, Iorveth feels utterly bereft.

But Iorveth finally registers "let me", his words echoed back at him in that sweet voice, beamed at him by those big, sweet eyes. It's unfair: even if that expression is a tactic, there's no earthly way Iorveth can deny it. Every defense he's every built over the past century and a bit crumbles in its wake; if Astarion looks closely enough, he might see Iorveth melt. ]

If you wish it, [ he murmurs. More concessions to add to the pile. He shifts (with great difficulty) and reaches for the bedside dresser for some ointment that he didn't think to bother with before, handing it to Astarion with slight impatience. ]

How do you want me?

[ On his back? On his front, face down? Iorveth arranges himself so that Astarion can bully him into whatever position is convenient for him, just a little tense; he's out of practice, and while he's not lacking in enthusiasm, he's still hoping that Astarion doesn't change his mind. ]

[ A wild animal, tame just for him. Astarion preens at his victory, pleased by Iorveth's malleability. What doesn't please him, though, is the tension in Iorveth's broad shoulders and long neck. That simply won't do. He runs his thumb down the side of Iorveth's neck, tracing the trajectory of his tattoo. ]

Darling, I want you in every conceivable way.

[ How could he ever choose just one? He uncorks the vial and coats his fingers with enough ointment to thoroughly slick them down, then thinks again and empties even more out until they're slippery and shiny. It doesn't seem the sort of substance meant for this purpose, but he hopes it'll dull any burn — a little. He couldn't bear to truly hurt him, but privately, he likes the idea of Iorveth being sore tomorrow. ]

But I'd like to see that beautiful face of yours.

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