essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ Gods, Astarion is impossible. He's the one that asked. Iorveth thinks to say so, that he shouldn't have inquired into past lovers if he's just fishing for compliments about himself (which is what Iorveth now suspects this is all about), but it wouldn't satisfy him to ruffle feathers for the sake of making a point, either.

Still, he reaches up and pinches Astarion's nose between his thumb and forefinger. Chiding. ]

What sort of man, you ask. The answer: a silver-haired vampire with a penchant for testing my patience.

[ If Astarion really wants to know what kind of person gets Iorveth going. ]

I'd have no desire to bed Isengrim if he returned tomorrow, naked on a flaxen-haired horse. [ Letting go of Astarion's face, Iorveth flicks the tip of the nose he'd been pinching. ] Just as I'd have no desire to bed an elvish queen presiding over a kingdom of sterile elvish elders, or a golden-scaled dragon disguised as a beautiful human woman. None of these options are you.

[ However, all of these are actual "people" in his periphery, which is the wild part of this diatribe. ]

I admire strength and courage. I admire the quality of a man's character. All of these are things that Isengrim possessed, and all of them are things you possess. [ A wave of his hand, as physical punctuation. ] I also enjoy tangling my fingers in soft hair, if you want pettier details.

Edited 2024-11-14 02:22 (UTC)

[ At first, Astarion's scowl only grows. It sounds a lot like Iorveth is just listing all of his other options! He has the urge to say something about how he has had plenty of lovers, too, but chooses not to when he thinks about how all of his ex-lovers have been turned into vampire spawn and probably hate him. He can't really blame them.

His face softens, though, bit by bit, as he soaks in the praise. ]

I suppose I have been called a character.

[ Light, airy. In truth, he isn't so sure he has strength or courage, and no one has ever complimented the quality of his character. If Iorveth is determined to view him through rose-tinted glasses, though, Astarion doesn't fancy the idea of correcting him.

A snort, then: ] I do think you might be the first to like me for my personality.

[ A pause, as he considers whether or not to point out that Astarion wasn't permitted to have a personality under Cazador's oppressive rule. He ultimately decides that he doesn't even want to invoke that presence in their shared bed, so he sets the thought aside; instead, he presses his lips idly to Astarion's temple, humming. ]

I'm hardly the first. The others liked you far before I did.

[ An incontrovertible truth. Even Wyll the monster-hunter probably approved of Astarion far before Iorveth did, and Iorveth won't deny that.

That said: ] But I'm the first to love you for your personality, I suppose.

[ The others can fight him in the proverbial pit about this one. He won't budge an inch. ]

Did you want to be seen? Before all of this.

[ Gods, what a question. He was certainly looked at a lot, but never seen. Cazador would have liked for him to believe that he saw right through Astarion with his piercing gaze, but even he didn't really see him. The all-powerful god of his world, and he still only saw what he wanted to see.

He lets his gaze drift up to the ceiling. ]

That would have been a greater pipe dream than freedom.

[ Astarion's nose wrinkles, lip curling in disdain, because the truth is that a part of him did want to be seen. Pathetic, really. Even once he'd entirely given up hope, there was a little part of him that still longed to be recognized as something other than a one-night fling or a lowly slave.

He shifts, a little uncomfortable. Thinking of his past self makes him feel more naked than nearly everything they just did. ]

[ An obviously disquieting question. Iorveth can feel Astarion's tension from where they're pressed together, and attempts to ease it with a gentle brush of his knuckles against Astarion's cheek. ]

And?

[ One last question for the road; he'll back off after he asks this one. ]

Do you feel more seen now?

[ It's fine if the answer is no, Iorveth thinks. Maybe Astarion doesn't know himself enough yet to feel truly seen, and that's fine. It's mostly just to know, which is what Iorveth wants: to make an effort to see, even if it isn't immediately successful. ]

[ Another hell of a question. He turns his gaze back to Iorveth, unable to keep up the look of disgust when it's someone so wonderful he's looking at. There it is, the true source of his jealousy, born out of attachment. At the core of it, it isn't possessiveness driving it but fear. He's terrified that Iorveth will decide to discard him for something better. No, that isn't it exactly — he's terrified that Iorveth will decide to discard him for something better, and that it will hurt. ]

I think you've seen through me since the very beginning. [ Probably why Iorveth couldn't stand him. He laughs dryly. ] I found it impossibly vexing, to be honest.

[ 'I found you impossibly vexing' is the implication. But Iorveth still sees him and loves him despite everything, and it's difficult to find that vexing. Astarion echoes Iorveth's gesture, running a hand against his cheek. ]

Although some might suspect your vision has become compromised as of late. You do seem to see the best in me.

[ A snort, even as he turns towards the hand at his face, letting it skim close to all of his mangled, poorly-healed scars. Astarion is the only one to have touched them in ages, and likely the only one who ever will from here on out. ]

Distance would likely make me more objective.

[ Self-aware, if nothing else. Like this, post-sex and post-bloodletting, skin on skin with limbs loosely tangled, it's difficult to see Astarion as less than perfect. Before they got involved, it was likely only Iorveth's preternatural paranoia and superhuman obstinacy that kept him from believing anything about Astarion's rakish persona; now, it's just part of Astarion's charm, instead of being evidence of duplicitousness.

He sweeps his touch through Astarion's bangs, pushing them haphazardly away from his face. ]

If it makes me look foolish, I'll readjust.

[ Even with Iorveth's gentle, warm fingers carding through his hair, Astarion pouts. One with more distance—as Iorveth had so rudely suggested he might benefit from—would likely describe it as petulant, childish, sulky. Astarion likes to think it's brooding and handsome. ]

—I didn't say that.

[ It does make him look foolish, probably. Anyone with half a brain would look at Iorveth's fondness for him and think it the result of poor judgment and taste. He's a profligate and a liar and more selfish than all of their other companions combined.

And yet: ]

Foolishness looks enchanting on you.

[ Again: Astarion is impossible. He critiques Iorveth's lack of objectivity while asserting that he enjoys Iorveth looking a fool, sulks and pouts when Iorveth hints at acting more like an adult to spare Astarion the embarrassment of having a companion that hovers like some sort of besotted idiot. Which is it, Iorveth half-wants to say, but the louder half (the besotted idiot half) tells him to just let Astarion have this. At least, for now. ]

Astarion. [ A low, deliberate sigh. ] The point is―

[ Another soft breath, as he shakes his head and leans in. ]

―and listen when I say this. [ He emphasizes that word, listen. Like he fully expects some sort of pushback, a "but", an "actually". ]

The point is, [ each syllable enunciated clearly, ] I love you.

[ A declaration he's never made to anyone before Astarion, and one he won't make to anyone else. Not to mention that he doesn't deserve the sanctity of those three words, and they probably should earn him a healthy amount of derision: what gives him the right? Who does he think he is? What is he?

But it's the truth, and Iorveth doesn't lie. He combs through Astarion's hair again, and pinches the tip of his shapely ear. ]

Edited 2024-11-14 14:32 (UTC)

[ He'd like to keep pouting and sulking, offended by the way Iorveth tells him to listen like an unruly child, but he can't. Astarion is only a man, one who still turns to jelly in the face of genuine affection. He can't resist the smile that spreads across his face at the words, no matter how hard he tries. I love you. He'll never get used to it, nor will he ever grow tired of Iorveth saying it. ]

I do like hearing you say that.

[ An understatement. They're words he never thought he'd hear, not genuinely. Even setting aside the way Cazador broke down his self-esteem and convinced him he was an entirely unlovable wretch, when would he ever have had the opportunity to let someone get to know him? ]

I love you more, of course, [ he says, pinching Iorveth's ear in return. ]

I guess I've never— [ Loved someone before? Obviously. Liked them? Probably. ] Well, I've never really given a damn about anyone before. I hardly know what to do with you.

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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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