essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

I do enjoy your sharp teeth and pointy claws.

[ Like calls to like. There's so very little they have in common on the surface, but they share something fundamental. Iorveth, too, knows what it feels like to be subjugated. He knows what it's like to fight for everything he has. He knows what it's like to see whole swathes of the world as untrustworthy, people who would harm him if only they had the chance.

One hand still has the remnants of Iorveth's orgasm on it, and even Astarion knows that isn't particularly romantic. He props himself up with that elbow while using his clean fingers to rearrange Iorveth's hair out of his face, as persnickety about how it falls as he is with his own hair. He combs it all behind one pointed ear, then in front, then behind again with a few strands out for that attractively-rumpled look. ]

I would hate to see you defanged.

[ It would be such a wholesome story if Iorveth were someone like, say, Wyll, who could take Astarion's hand and show him how nice the world can be, and how it's a place worth saving and protecting. Instead, Iorveth is a bitter, exhausted freedom fighter who is fully convinced that saving ten elves' lives is worth killing a hundred racist humans' lives, so it's likely that neither of them will ever completely be able to shave their fangs down if they stay together; on one hand, Iorveth is aware of that and thinks, again, that Astarion deserves better, but on the other, Iorveth wants Astarion so badly that he thinks he'd become the worst version of himself if Astarion ever decided that he no longer wants Iorveth. An interesting predicament.

For now, he stays on his back, too fucked-out and content to pummel himself over his poor choices. His primary concern right now is when he'll let Astarion trim his hair, and when he'll be able to sneak some time to embroider something on one of Astarion's shirts. ]

What would I be without them? I'm a warrior, and was never meant to be anything else.

[ He idly reaches for their blankets, tugging on them to dislodge enough of it from under their collective weight to drape over Astarion's lower half. Hiding Astarion's cute ass from any nosy intruders should they choose this moment to return and rudely invade their space. ]

But I suppose all this talk of biting is meant to be a hint. [ A low laugh. ] My blood is yours, if you're feeling peckish.

I'll admit I'm not an expert on courtship [ —more an expert on one-night stands that end in tears and blood, really— ] but I'm fairly certain you were supposed to feed me dinner first.

[ That's the way it goes, isn't it? At least, it is in all of the books he read during his captivity. A fancy dinner out on the town followed by a round (or two) of vigorous lovemaking. He'll never be able to take Iorveth out to an expensive meal without arousing suspicion around his own eating habits. He never cared before, but he never had anyone he would have wanted to share a meal with before, either. ]

But this sort of thing does whet the appetite.

[ Everything whets his unrelenting appetite, but that's neither here nor there. ]

How would you like me, darling? At your neck? At your wrist?

[ Courtship. Funny. ]

I wasn't aware that you still needed to be courted.

[ Iorveth has no idea what that means, anyway. Non-forest people and their weird, roundabout rituals. Which isn't to say that Iorveth didn't like having breakfast with Astarion, even if most of the time was spent with him shoving cakes down his throat while Astarion watched instead of making any attempt to court him whatsoever; belatedly, he wonders if that wasn't kind of offputting. Oh well.

He wraps his arms around Astarion's middle, keeping him tucked firmly to his chest. ]

I want you at my throat.

[ His turn to crane his neck. For all Iorveth's talk of wanting to keep his own fangs, he wants the same for Astarion; he hardly wants Astarion to be a docile thing that never does anything to challenge or annoy him. ]

[ Astarion is fairly certain he did want to be courted, once upon a time. To be swept off his feet by some noble or another, then whisked away to a castle where he'd spend all of his days wearing velvet and ordering servants around. He stopped fantasizing about that when he stopped thinking he was the sort of person that good things happened to. And now—

Well, Iorveth doesn't exactly seem the courting type, and that's all right. Hells, Astarion isn't even sure what passes for courtship rituals among his people. Exchanging sticks instead of rings, he thinks (a bit uncharitably). Oh, well. Perhaps it's time he eschewed old traditions. It isn't like 'till death do we part' applies to him anyway.

He nuzzles Iorveth's throat, feeling his pulse beat steadily beneath his skin, smelling the warm, woody scent of his skin. His teeth drag over that sweet-smelling flesh, searching out a puncture point out of pure animal instinct rather than anything intellectual. Once he's found it, he bites down gently, blood filling his mouth slowly but surely. It's as intoxicating as always, but made all the sweeter by the circumstances under which it's given, yet another way Iorveth offers himself up. His tongue laps almost lazily over Iorveth's skin, strokes long and languid. By the time he pulls away, there's a faint redness left on his lips. ]

I could never sate myself on you, [ he says with a sigh, dropping his head against Iorveth's collarbone. It's terribly true. ]

[ A hint of old traditions is currently hanging from Iorveth's neck: a stolen engagement ring dangling on a leather string. It helps Iorveth keep a bit of Astarion on him at all times, but the physical totem still pales in comparison to the immediacy of Astarion's teeth sinking beneath skin.

How terrible for Iorveth, that the pain and pleasure of being drained comes and goes all too soon. It doesn't matter that the combination of post-sex fuzziness and bloodloss pretty much ensures that Iorveth is out of commission for the next few hours― this really is the most content he's been in ages. ]

Insatiable. [ A fond accusation, as he places a palm on Astarion's head to pet him slowly, indulgently. ] Greed looks pretty on you.

[ Twining his fingers around soft curls, scratching Astarion's scalp with gentle care. It's Iorveth's hope that Astarion never stops wanting things out of life, and that Iorveth will be allowed to stay and watch him flourish. ]

[ Astarion is never beating the cat allegations. He leans his head into Iorveth's touch, all but purring at the gentle scratch of fingernails against his scalp. It's only because he's just filled his belly with blood, he reasons. That's what's made him feel so hazy and happy, no other reason. ]

Everything looks pretty on me.

[ Except green, according to Iorveth. A cruel comment he won't soon forget!

He basks in the pleasure of Iorveth's attention for a moment longer before he rolls over to lie next to him, pressed up against the warmth of his side. ]

So, who was he? [ Casually. ] Your other man.

[ 'The one you let fuck you before me,' he doesn't say, because that would be terribly uncouth. And, besides, he isn't jealous. Well, maybe a little jealous, but he's curious, too. Someone who Iorveth trusted with himself at his most vulnerable. He imagines he must be absolutely nothing like Astarion. ]

Was he devilishly handsome?

[ Iorveth draws his blanket over the both of them this time, loosely covering their still-naked selves and insulating residual heat before his sweat-damp skin can cool off too much. The shift in conversation is cause for slight surprise－ he'd assumed that Astarion wouldn't care to know about past partners－ and he makes a sound of half-consideration, wondering what the intent of the question is before he decides that it doesn't matter. There's nothing that he's experienced that he feels he needs to hide from Astarion. ]

Isengrim Faoiltiarna. [ A name he hasn't spoken in a while. The syllables are still familiar; he enunciates them with slow care. ] The Iron Wolf. As beautiful as he was dangerous.

[ So, yeah, maybe Iorveth has a type. He thumbs along Astarion's lip at "dangerous", huffing an amused breath. ]

What do you wish to know? The man was many things－ a commander of our brigades, an unforgiving enemy to the humans. I fought under his command, like so many others did.

[ To the tune of "but I doubt the politics of it all don't interest you". None of it is particularly pleasant: a long line of painful lessons strung together by loss and bloodshed and atrocity. Astarion had called him depressing, once, and Iorveth is reluctant to ruin this moment with talk of heartache. ]

[ Ugh. Perhaps Astarion is jealous after all. Iorveth was supposed to say that his ex-lover was ugly and that his girth was hardly impressive compared to Astarion's. Instead, he waxes poetic about the man. Astarion can't help but frown. 'Beautiful' is the worst of all, because that's the only leg up Astarion could possibly have, but clearly it doesn't make him special among Iorveth's relationships. ]

Well, I'm sure he's a bore.

[ Said dismissively, nonchalantly. Said unbelievably; the commander of Aen Seidhe brigades is hardly boring, although the politics he engages in might be. He certainly wouldn't be boring to Iorveth, who cares about nothing more than fighting for elven freedom. ]

I was only curious what sort of man, ah, fletches your arrow, so to speak.

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i read "defanged" as "deranged" and i was like "sorry to say,"

fskdkfsdl as if he has ever seen iorveth NOT deranged

i want him to be normal sO BAD!!!!!!

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