essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ "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.

[ There's something incredibly exciting about watching Astarion slick his well-maintained fingers with ointment― that, or horny brain really is making Iorveth unwise. He remembers recruiting Astarion to his assassination cause precisely because he believed in the cleverness of those pretty digits, and Iorveth has to physically chase that thought away before it awakens yet another stupidly horny thing inside him. Gods. To think he had such a good relationship with repression before this.

Still, despite the warm haze of arousal brain, he still has the wherewithal to scoff a little at "beautiful" as he hurriedly stacks pillows against the bed's headboard, building a plush surface for Astarion to sit and lean on while Iorveth clambers ungracefully onto his lap. ]

I don't require the flattery. [ It's fine, he knows he's not beautiful. But if he pleases Astarion in any way, he'll take it; a beat, and he removes his eyepatch and sets it carefully aside as another tacit indication of his trust. With that done, he urges Astarion's hand behind him, back to where he'd been haphazardly preparing himself. ]

―Hurry. [ His turn to bracket Astarion with his thighs, now. He places his palms on Astarion's shoulders, keeping himself balanced while flicking his gaze sideways at the curtained wall. He must look a mess, hair disheveled and asymmetrical face flushed, hard and leaking just from putting Astarion in his mouth― his pride suffers a bit for it, but not enough for even the shadow of the concept of stopping to rear its head. He might scream if Astarion stopped. ]

[ Iorveth's insistence that his compliments are mere flattery and not the truth as Astarion sees it is bothersome, and he opens his mouth to say as much, but then Iorveth is guiding his hand, and he can feel it warm and wet with Iorveth's own precome, and all of the blood meant to supply his brain rushes sharply southward. Instinctively, he presses the pad of his slicked-up finger against that tight ring of muscle, and— ]

Have you done this before?

[ This, specifically. He can't even remember his first time on the receiving end of sex, but he remembers the unpleasantness of it all. Even after centuries, he'd always been too tense to feel anything but discomfort.

It takes every bit of self-restraint not to push in right away, to only stroke with the soft finger of someone who's never had to work a day in his life. A magistrate's finger, uncalloused and well-manicured. Every part of him—well, specifically one part of him—screams in impatience, erection aching between his legs, but: ]

—I only want to know if you need a gentle deflowering.

[ Deflowering. Ridiculous. Iorveth manages a breathless laugh, despite the jolt of anticipation that runs up his spine when he's touched. ]

A few times. Only with one man. [ "Isengrim", the name he'd used as an alias at the other inn; Isengrim, his commander, proud and regal, the best of them all. Isengrim, who left and never returned.

It's a memory Iorveth doesn't want to dwell on right now, so he shakes his head and draws closer to Astarion, angling his head to nibble gently at the tip of Astarion's ear. ] Ancient history.

[ If Isengrim returned tomorrow, Iorveth would still only have eye(s) for his foolish vampire and his vexing wiles. An impatient shift of his hips later, Iorveth makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat and angles for more friction. ]

―Gods, I need you to want me, fool. Not to be gentle.

[ Translation: "fuck me already". He's not a coward, he doesn't care if he's sore for the next tenday as long as it serves as a reminder that they've been together. ]

[ A flash of jealousy hits him. It's unfair; Astarion has had a hundred men inside him and been inside a hundred more, and that's not even counting the women. Not one of those meant anything, though, and not one was an experience he'd repeat. Iorveth has made it very clear that he's only ever been intimate with those he cares about, those he trusts. A little pang of anxiety courses through him at the thought that this man could very well still be around in the northern forest, the very place Iorveth aims to return.

He can't possibly compete with one of Iorveth's own kind, but perhaps he can fuck him good enough to keep him. His one talent, says the cruel voice that lives inside his head. He plunges a finger inside more roughly than he intends, gently massaging the muscle there as apology. ]

You're only the one person I've ever wanted. [ The gentleness is because of the wanting. There's never been anyone he's ever wanted to prolong the experience with before. He's always wanted to get sex over with as quickly as possible, like ripping off a bandage or swallowing some unpleasant medicine. A scoff, then, ] You demanding man, even that isn't enough for you.

[ A jolt, as that finger finds its way inside him. Iorveth wills his hips to stay where they are without instinctively drawing away, and breathes through his nose to relax, to let Astarion touch the way he wants to. The first part is, as he recalls, the most uncomfortable, but there's no pain: his brain hisses finally, and his tadpole wriggles with elation.

A lot. Just enough. Every inch of him burns with wanting, and the fact that they're still talking frustrates him to a certain extent; he's sure that the hammering of his pulse and the ragged hitch of his breathing says far more than anything he could say in Common, but for Astarion, he can make an attempt.

He shakes his head again, no, and rests his forehead against Astarion's. ]

You've ruined me for "enough". [ Panting, trying to coax more friction as he talks. ] "Enough" is for people who aren't you.

[ He might be satisfied with others, but his well of wanting for Astarion is endless, deep, terrifying. It makes him monstrous, and he knows it: again, he'd burn the world for Astarion if it threatened him. There's no way to articulate that properly, so he makes another frustrated half-noise, and slips down to settle against Astarion's shoulder this time. ]

I've no idea how to have enough of you.

[ Another red flag. The pendulum swing from repression to infatuation might not be the most healthy thing in the world. ]

[ After so long being mistreated and detested, any amount of adoration looks like a neon green flag. Who cares if it isn't strictly sane, as long as it makes him feel special? As far as he's concerned, this is the epitome of romance. Eat your hearts out, Nicholas and Edgar. ]

I suppose I'll just have to pleasure you wildly until you figure it out.

[ A tease, meant to make him laugh, to relax. His fingers are so slippery with the excess of ointment he poured out that his second slides in without much resistance. Iorveth is even warmer on the inside, and he can't help but think of how that heat will feel on the sensitive skin of his erection. He'd scoffed at all the descriptions of 'quivering' in that book of smut, but he's so unbelievably aroused that he can feel himself trembling with the intensity of it. Gods, he's a caricature.

Iorveth deserves to feel as ridiculously turned on as he does. Astarion eases out and then in again, up to the knuckle, his fingers slender and dainty but insistent as they begin to pump in earnest. ]

Tell me how it feels.

[ Fishing for praise, even with his fingers inside Iorveth. ]

[ He might strangle Astarion if he keeps talking (affectionate). Iorveth does laugh, but the sound ends with a broken stutter of breath when Astarion starts moving his fingers, stretching him for the well-anticipated inevitable. It takes a bit to adjust to, but a hitch of his hips and some extra friction from where their erections rub up against each other's stomach helps; his nerves light up, and he feels his shoulders curl inwards. ]

Good, [ he murmurs against Astarion's jaw, smiling at the fishing. ] I swear to every god, no one better come through that door right now.

[ He might actually commit murder if they had to stop because of an interruption. He hugs his arms around Astarion's shoulders a fraction tighter, stifling his unseemly half-noises by nuzzling into the perfect column of Astarion's neck, even as he bows his back and sinks his weight just a little more into the fingers teasing him.

Eventually, Astarion hits a spot that makes him see stars: Iorveth bites down on his lower lip, hard, and clenches around long fingers to keep them there for an agonizing, brain-melting moment.

Eloquently: ] Fuck.

[ Even if someone came through the door and caught him knuckle-deep in Iorveth, he's only about forty percent certain that he'd be able to stop. Iorveth clamps down around his fingers, and he can actually feel his cock throb with need, somehow even harder (nigh adamantine, he'd wager) and feeling very neglected. His hips roll involuntarily against Iorveth's, seeking friction against the flat plane of his abdomen. ]

Oh, [ he breathes, a little wondrous as he strokes at that marvelous spot inside Iorveth that made him react so beautifully. ] Gods, you're perfect.

[ He really can't stop talking. An inveterate yapper. It's a little more difficult this time, but he presses another finger inside, curling all three as he fucks Iorveth on them. Unyielding, determined to make Iorveth forget any other men entirely. Hells, his wrist hurts a little from the exertion, but he barely feels it, too busy searching out that wonderful bundle of nerves again. ]

You're doing so very well, darling.

[ Iorveth is out of practice, and he can tell, but it doesn't matter. They'll have plenty of opportunity to practice. ]

[ Physically out of practice, and emotionally out of his depth. He can't believe there was a time when he was able to maintain a polite two-inch sliver of space between himself and Astarion while they tranced: right now, even with fingers inside him, he feels like Astarion isn't close enough. Iorveth fluctuates between relaxing and tensing, trying and failing to mitigate his reactions every time Astarion threatens to unspool him with his touch.

His brain is melting. His tadpole wriggles happily again, fed by that rush of pure emotion, involuntarily reaching out to its sibling inside Astarion's skull to send out pulses of psionic feedback. There's no rhyme or reason to it― just an overwhelming sense of need, and Astarion's name repeated again and again if he cares to peek. No space at all for thoughts of other men or past experiences.

Good, he murmurs again. He's making a mess on Astarion's stomach from where he's grinding against it, against that hot length that he wants so fucking desperately, and after a particularly vicious surge of unfiltered pleasure, he draws his hips away with a sharp breath, trying to draw Astarion's fingers out. ]

Astarion― [ Another clipped groan, and he shakes his head. ] ―I'll not forgive you if you make me come on anything but your cock.

[ Iorveth feels too close already, and it's his turn to protest the thought of finishing before he can properly join their bodies together. Again, he's out of practice, and he'd die before he ruins this for them. ]

[ A laugh precedes, ] My love gets what he wants.

[ It's an affectionate tease, the corner of his mouth quirked up. He withdraws his fingers, lamenting the momentary loss of connection. Even with his victims, he'd preferred to be in this position—less vulnerability, less discomfort than being on the receiving end—but he's never actually wanted to be inside someone like this. Although he's already slick with the evidence of his arousal, he drizzles ointment haphazardly across his erection before guiding it toward Iorveth's entrance, tip brushing against the wet whorl in a way that gives him full-body shivers.

Astarion presses an insistent hand against Iorveth's hipbone, sinking him down inexorably until their hips are flush. Iorveth is so hot inside, so impossibly alive, and Astarion's mind shorts out. ]

Oh, [ he says again, finally rendered speechless. ]

[ The initial breach borders on painful despite the prep, but that's to be expected― Astarion pushes inside slowly, a steady pressure that fills Iorveth to near-discomfort, fluttering and clenching restlessly around the obstruction currently stretching him.

Full, he thinks. He has his first breath literally fucked out of him, a low gasp that threatens to turn into a groan once he feels Astarion's thighs against his haunches.

Hells. Astarion is inside him, fully. That notion is enough to drown out everything else, make everything else feel trivial in comparison; Iorveth shifts and grinds down where they meet, chasing that desired feeling of too much as his blunted nails draw crescents into Astarion's back.

He can't speak. Again, he's too full. He attempts it, but it winds up being a choppy attempt at Astarion's name, more of a stuttered sigh than anything intelligible― he feels wrung out in the best way, still trying to mouth the outline of "Astarion" as he starts moving his hips up and down in slow inches, setting his own nerves on fire. ]

[ Now he's only twenty percent certain he'd be able to stop. Let any intruder get an eyeful, he thinks.

He can't pretend that images of less pleasurable times doing this don't flash through his mind, but this is different, he reminds himself, and the arousal screams loud enough to mostly drown out the bad memories. It's a little like the exhilaration of pushing inside Iorveth's mind for the first time, being somewhere secret and special that few have ever been allowed to go, but it's even more, even stronger. All those nights ago, when Astarion had kissed him for the first time, he'd doubted that Astarion could ever find him alluring. Gods, what an idiot.

As he glances down between them, the sight of Iorveth seated on him is unbearably exciting. His fingertips drag lightly against Iorveth's heretofore neglected erection, aiming to relax him further. The question of if Iorveth could come untouched flits briefly across his mind; a thrilling thought, but not a question he plans to answer today. He isn't in the mood for being withholding anymore. ]

I've changed my mind, [ comes breathlessly, a grin tugging at his lips, ] I'm going to keep you here forever.

[ There's an excess of feeling, which means that Iorveth doesn't know whether to relax at the feeling of fingers on his already-sensitive erection or whether to squeeze even harder around the heat inside of him. A happy conundrum; either way, he feels better than he has any business feeling. Too full, too elated, too much. Perfect.

Hugging his arms around Astarion's shoulders, he starts a rhythm. The promised act of riding, awkward and stilted at first and building to something a bit more consistent. Iorveth drags his sweat-flushed skin against Astarion's chest, tattooed vines to pale skin. ]

You shouldn't make promises that you're not prepared for.

[ A returned grin, punctuated by an audacious squeeze. Sure, it makes him see stars too, but he wants this to feel as excruciatingly good for Astarion as it's starting to be for him.

He huffs, sighs. Changes his angle, nuzzles against Astarion's jaw. He's not sure what language he's speaking when he calls Astarion "perfect", but it sounds enough like Common－ he groans it again when Astarion hits him just right, and chases it with clumsy stutters of his hips. ]

Gods, Astarion－ [ Growled, his voice like gravel. ] －How do you make me feel like this. It's absurd.

[ The sound that escapes Astarion as he feels Iorveth clench around him is humiliating. He hates hearing himself make the same noises he'd made every time before, and he usually muffles the sound, but this one comes on so suddenly that he can't. Somewhere between a whine and a groan, too loud, too earnest. He bites the inside of his cheek after, fang digging into the soft skin of his mouth.

The only way to recover from this is to make Iorveth just as pathetic. His position is a little awkward, not meant for any real thrusting, but he rolls his hips against Iorveth as best he can, hand gripping his cock firmly now. His thumb glides over the tip, and he inhales sharply at the feel of Iorveth's precome on the pad of his finger. ]

Because you're mine.

[ Just another red flag of many, at this point. ]

—Say you're mine.

[ Iorveth is only aware of how Astarion sounds when he's with him, which means that he's more than enamored by that whine-groan. It's proof that Astarion is enjoying himself to some extent, and the positive feedback is reassuring when Iorveth considers the enormity of the baggage that Astarion has to carry with him at all times. Even now, despite everything.

So Iorveth returns the sentiment with a sound of his own, a wrung-out cry when he feels Astarion's firm grip around his cock, bringing him close to an edge he's already on the verge of falling over. He's too busy concentrating on not coming immediately to see how red the flag waving in front of him is, with that "say you're mine".

Again, it's the kind of behavior that shouldn't be rewarded. People only belong wholly to themselves and the choices that they make, and－ ]

－Yours, [ Iorveth huffs. He chose Astarion, and he only wants Astarion; sex brain says that that's close enough to being Astarion's. They can philosophize later over the details. ] Only you, Astarion, I only want－

[ The rest of that sentiment is garbled: he shakes, clings, and finds himself coming prematurely, far faster than he intended, making a mess of Astarion's hand, of their stomachs. It can't be comfortable for Astarion, how hard he clenches around him during his orgasm, but it's wholly out of Iorveth's control. ]

[ Oh, yes, that's exactly the sort of reassurance that he needs. That he's special, loved, more than just a thing to be used. That Iorveth is his, and that maybe he holds an emotional knife to Astarion's throat, but at least Astarion holds one to his, too. A wave of delight rushes through him, although it's quickly undercut by the tight squeeze of Iorveth around him. It is a little uncomfortable, a little too much, but somehow that makes it all the more exciting.

He strokes Iorveth all through his orgasm, even as his spend coats his hand, even after it's stopped. It isn't intentional to overstimulate him, but Astarion's brain feels fuzzy and sluggish, and his hand moves of its own accord. The sensation doesn't last for long; the hard clench of Iorveth's orgasm rushes him precipitously toward his own, toppling over the edge soon after. He tenses and jerks, coming with a shiver and a rather déclassé ] Fuck.

[ His hand slows as he comes back into his body bit by bit, emotion flooding through him with an alarming intensity. It's overwhelming. A little frightening. He slackens, head falling back against the pillows as he repeats, ] Fuck.

[ Certifiably a lot. Stroked to completion and then some, opened up and filled. At some point, Iorveth becomes incapable of identifying what's happening, and only registers his surroundings through disjointed jolts of sensation and emotion― he's only aware that he's stopped coming once Astarion's hand slides off of his cock, and he only becomes aware of where he ends and Astarion begins after he shifts his weight and feels the extremely unwelcome emptiness of Astarion slipping out of him.

On one hand, he feels more sated than he ever has in his life; on the other, he hates that he came so quickly, that he doesn't still have Astarion buried in him. Iorveth pants, weak-limbed and horrifically in love, draped over his partner's front with his overgrown bangs sticking to his sweat-soaked face.

After a few unfocused fuzzy beats, Iorveth lifts his head to look at Astarion and his mussed silver hair, his sculpted features, the pointed ends of his sharp teeth from where they show, occasionally, between his perfect lips. Astarion is still like nothing Iorveth has ever known― he doesn't resemble anything from his past, doesn't remind him of anything or anyone else, isn't tied to the tangled mess of his blood feud or clan history. Iorveth has no reason to love him, which makes it all the more important that he does.

Blearily, he whispers "beloved" in his language again: en'ca minne. A moment of post-orgasm vulnerability while his defenses still remain down. ] Stay.

[ He's so used to people leaving afterwards. Hastily pulling clothes back on, reaching for blades and bows. Iorveth curls his arms around Astarion, and weakly tries to bite another mark into his neck. ] Stay.

[ This feels awful, but not in the way he might have expected. It feels awful to hear Iorveth beg him to stay, and Astarion wishes he'd held him down and rocked into him until he couldn't possibly fathom why he'd ever thought himself undesirable. Until neither of them can even remember all of the people who've mistreated them.

Time for that later, he tells himself, as he rests his clean hand hesitantly, awkwardly, between Iorveth's shoulder blades. He's warm, a little damp with sweat, wonderful. Astarion is no good at soothing—and he's never wanted to be before now—but he's determined to try for Iorveth, lightly stroking his back as one would gentle a frazzled animal. ]

Oh, don't be dramatic, love. [ Said with the utmost affection (and the utmost hypocriticalness). ] You couldn't possibly rid yourself of me.

[ He cranes his neck to allow Iorveth access, flashing his centuries-old bite mark. Their combined neuroses on display, he adds, ] I hold onto what's mine.

[ He might have bristled in the past at being called dramatic, but any offense he might've taken is mollified by the use of the word "love" and everything else that follows it, by the novel rush of safety he feels with Astarion's palm on his back.

A soft sound of contentment, low and warm. ] Then I'll keep you close, in turn.

[ Spotting Astarion's old puncture scars, Iorveth leans and laves his tongue along them, knowing better than to leave marks and draw attention to something that might out Astarion as a vampire. Still, he kisses and nuzzles at the vestiges of Cazador on pale skin, loathing even the idea that anyone put their mouth on Astarion, that they treated someone he cares so deeply about with such callous lack of care, with such unthinkable cruelty.

He dips down, bites yet another mark where Astarion's neck meets his shoulder. By now, he looks like he's been mauled by an unruly dog: lovebites dotting all over him from jaw to navel to his inner thighs. Iorveth leans back just an inch, surveying what he's done. ]

...You'll not be able to go to the tailor for a few days.

[ Tracing one of many, many teethmarks he's left on Astarion's pretty skin with some measure of satisfaction. Possessive, too, in his own way. ]

Oh, yes. Gods forbid I ruffle anyone's delicate sensibilities.

[ If he gave a shit, he would have complained; even arousal isn't strong enough to override his vanity. He didn't, though, and he doesn't. These tooth marks were fun to get, unlike his permanent one, and if it incites mad jealousy in others over his passionate love life... well, so be it. The world does have so many reasons to be envious.

He isn't strong, but he can throw his weight around well enough. Astarion shifts, pressing Iorveth against the pillows so that he can crawl atop him, using his body weight to pin him to the bed. As exciting as it was to be underneath Iorveth, he can only tolerate it for so long before he gets the irrepressible urge to shove him around. ]

I'm the one who's supposed to bite, you know. [ Grinning impishly: ] You naughty boy.

[ If he thinks there's anything ridiculous about calling a wanted terrorist a 'naughty boy' for a few love bites, it doesn't show. ]

Foxes bite as frequently as vampires.

[ Bullied onto his back again, Iorveth makes a mental note that Astarion seems to prefer pinning to being pinned. Fine with him; he likes the feeling of Astarion bearing down on him, trusting Iorveth with his weight. It's not like he has any strength left in his pleasantly jellied legs to insist otherwise, anyway.

Iorveth lies back and reaches to tangles his fingers in Astarion's hair. Reclined and relaxed, boneless. It's likely the most open and bare-faced he's looked for the duration of his journey, the sharp angles of his face made less severe by affection and certainty in the fact that he's safe with the person he's in bed with. ]

I suspect you'd like me less if I bit less.

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