essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ "With what strength", Iorveth doesn't say. He'll let Astarion have this one. ]

It'll have to be your hands, if you haven't any rope.

[ That, or Astarion could use any number of Gale's robe belts to lash Iorveth to the bed, but Iorveth will let Astarion innovate however he wants. He wiggles his fingers where they're resting above him, on a pillow pressed against the headboard. ]

I'll not struggle. Whatever punishment you mete out, I'll accept with dignity.

[ Famous last words. ]

[ Astarion might like if he struggled a little, but this is undernegotiated as it is, and Astarion has never heard of a safe word before in his life, so he doesn't say so. Instead, he closes his palm over Iorveth's linked wrists, leaning his weight into his hand in lieu of actual strength. Iorveth's hands sink a little lower into that soft pillow, the silky pillowcase crinkling.

Iorveth is treading dangerously, allowing a crazed vampire the freedom to mete out 'whatever punishment'. Then again, he's been treading dangerously since the first moment he let Astarion kiss him, or perhaps even before that, when he first let Astarion bite him. Hells, he started treading dangerously when he decided not to sneak into Astarion's tent at night and stake him in the heart.

Astarion laughs, an amused exhale under his breath. ]

You struggle so little that one might think you want the rod.

[ He wouldn't mind. You don't become involved with a freak without expecting some freakiness. ]

Or was it the blade you wanted?

[ Iorveth can allow Astarion whatever, because of his deranged certainty that Astarion will stop if anything gets too close to the realm of uncomfortable or unsavory. That, coupled with the fact that Iorveth doesn't mind a bit of pain edging into his fooling around; makes things more exciting, in his (un)professional opinion.

He lifts his chin, mock-haughty; his tone verges on challenging, taunting. Theatre. ]

Don't tell me you've never wanted to threaten me with something sharp.

[ Testing the pressure pressing down onto his wrists, enjoying that weight. It'll be an easy thing to rear up and headbutt Astarion in his impossibly pretty face, but that isn't the point of this exercise. ]

A mouthy wood elf with a penchant for rubbing you the wrong way. [ The corner of his scarred lips curls, amused. ] This is your chance to shut him up.

[ 'Don't tell me you've never wanted to threaten me with something sharp' — ha. If only Iorveth knew how many times Astarion had wished to brandish his dagger when Iorveth said something smug or disapproving. Those fantasies have died down now, but they've only been replaced with more intense desires.

He'd had to remove his dagger when shedding his old, dirty travel clothes. It sits on the nightstand now, and he reaches over Iorveth to grab it, fingers just barely grazing it until he can finally finagle it into his hand, unwilling to give up his advantageous position. His fingers wrap around the handle, feeling the weight of it in his palm before he lightly presses the cold, flat edge of it against the notch between Iorveth's collarbones. Gentle, testing. ]

Since you've been so terribly withholding, perhaps a little bloodletting is in order.

[ It's playacting, but it's also a question. He has no idea what the limits are; if it were him on the other end of Iorveth's blade, he'd be viscerally distressed. ]

[ A stray feeling, here, that Astarion has never negotiated any sort of arrangement before. It makes sense－ Astarion's spent two hundred years living with ultimatums－ and reflecting on it makes Iorveth want to break the hold and pull Astarion into an embrace, but.

They're still playing. Also, Astarion has a dagger in his hand. The best Iorveth can do is communicate with his body language, let the tension bleed completely from his body so that he's a relaxed lump on pillowy down. A wild thing to be doing when, again, the man on top of him is brandishing a very sharp object dangerously close to his vital organs, but it's still all green for Iorveth. ]

Hardly a punishment.

[ Turning his head, lifting his chin to stretch his neck and expose more collarbone. ]

As long as you put your mouth on me, I'm content.

[ That's the only go-ahead he needs. Astarion drags the dagger down until it catches on Iorveth's—Gale's—shirt. He loves this shirt, but it has to go. Gale can just cast Mending on it later; Astarion will say it was an accident, and they'll both know he's lying. The blade runs through the thin, silky fabric like butter, exposing Iorveth's torso in all its tanned glory.

Canvas revealed, he gets to painting, pressing the very tip of his knife just underneath Iorveth's clavicle, only light enough to break the skin and little more. He opens his mouth to say something snappy, but the smell of Iorveth's freshly drawn blood fills his nostrils, ruby red beading on his skin. On impulse, he dips his head down, tongue laving over the spot until there's nothing left but a faint red mark.

His fangs graze against the skin there, digging into Iorveth's flesh enough to make indents but not enough to make him bleed further. He stays there for a long moment, arguing with the animal instinct screaming at him to bite down; to do so would end playtime too soon, and so with notable difficulty, he draws back. ]

[ The shirt!!! Iorveth raises a brow when the knife cuts through it, having expected Astarion to want to keep the thing intact. A concern that becomes of very little consequence once the blade slips over skin, drawing a thin line of pain that makes Iorveth shiver under Astarion's grip.

Not uncomfortable. Still all green. Iorveth tips his chin up for a long breath, then swivels his focus back down to see the tail end of Astarion licking blood off of his skin.

Common sense tells him that this shouldn't be hot; lizard brain says that it's very hot. He doesn't quite flush, but the sound of his pulse sounds much louder against his ears. ]

You could try to be less pretty while you do this.

[ As if he's mad about it. ]

Criminals don't get to make demands of magistrates.

[ Give him an inch, and he'll take a mile. Iorveth has made the great mistake of giving Astarion a little control, and now he's gone mad with power. He pauses for a moment, glancing further down Iorveth's torso and then back up at his hands. It simply isn't physically possible to hold him down and get creative with his dagger. His mouth twists in displeasure before he settles his gaze on Iorveth's face. ]

But magistrates get to make demands of criminals. Stay.

[ He relinquishes his hold on Iorveth's wrists, finding it perhaps even more gratifying to see if Iorveth will obey without any physical force keeping him there at all. Meanwhile, he holds the blade against Iorveth's chest, letting it linger there. From here, he could press the dagger into Iorveth's body, between his fourth and his fifth ribs, and puncture his pounding heart.

He has no desire to, yet the knowledge that Iorveth—prickly, paranoid, mistrusting Iorveth—allows him to get so close excites him more than is strictly sane. The blade cuts a little deeper, a small slice in his flesh that calls more of that wonderful blood to flow forth again, a tiny trickle down his chest. In an instant he's flattening his tongue against Iorveth's skin, humming in something between deep satisfaction and restless longing. ]

[ Oh, so they're really doing this. Iorveth watches Astarion appraise him, his mouth pulled into that haughty little frown, and instead of the usual indignance that might bubble up from the pit of his gut, he feels...

...excited? Enamored? He tries to put his finger on what makes it so different, Astarion telling him to stay versus a human telling him not to move, and it really boils down to the assumption that Astarion wants him. If Iorveth senses, in any way, that Astarion is looking through him instead of at him, the light would snap from green to red, but so far－

－still fine. Still lizard brain-hot. So he keeps his position, hands pressed to the pillow of his own accord, shifting just slightly when Astarion draws another cut in his skin and cleans it with his mouth. ]

Are all magistrates as brazen as you, or are you the exception?

[ A little breathless, but still playing the part. ] Fuck.

Edited 2025-02-04 04:28 (UTC)

[ These little rivulets of blood only serve to stir the hungry monster inside him, and it's so unbelievably difficult to keep a leash on the beast. His teeth drag across Iorveth's chest mindlessly, yearning for more. He wants to bite Iorveth all over, wants to gulp down his blood in large, greedy mouthfuls. His eyes squeeze shut, and he takes a slow inhale and an even slower exhale before opening them and withdrawing. ]

I'm special. [ Obviously. ] But it seems you like your magistrates brazen.

[ He can't help himself — he nibbles down Iorveth's sternum all the way to the soft skin of his stomach, blade pressing against the tender flesh there almost as an afterthought. His soft underbelly, literally and figuratively. ]

You know, you're behaving so well that I'm considering giving you a reward.

[ Gods help Iorveth, if Astarion notices that being bled and fed from is making him a little hard. Definitely a deranged freak for this. This really isn't helping Iorveth and his fixation with Astarion's mouth, and is also not helping him draw a clear separation between bloodletting and intimacy. He really can't go around getting mad about Astarion doing something as banal as eating. ]

Gods, Astarion.

[ Breaking character for a moment, dragging a knee up from the duvet to press against Astarion's shoulder. ] You know what will happen if you start giving me rewards every time you bite.

[ "You are awakening something so dangerous in me." He opens and closes the hands above his head, restless. ]

You'll be the death of me.

I struggle to see the problem.

[ Biting Iorveth gives him such pleasure that it's only fair that Iorveth receives a little from it in return. Besides, Iorveth has made Astarion feel powerful after feeling helpless. If there's anything in this world that deserves a reward, it's that.

But he stops, leaning against Iorveth's knee. Much of his history was spent going along with what others wanted regardless of his own thoughts or desires. Hells, even now, he spends most of his time blindly following Iorveth around, hardly the architect of his own destiny. Although it feels incredible, he's unused to calling so many of the shots, and a little frisson of uncertainty shoots through him. Maybe he's pushing too much. Iorveth doesn't seem particularly displeased with the direction things are going, but Astarion knows better than to trust a bodily response when his own have betrayed him plenty of times.

The haughty magistrate is gone in an instant, leaving behind only Astarion, eyes questioning. ]

...Is that a 'no'?

[ Oh. That arched brow, those big eyes. Iorveth's fingers flex again, wanting to reach down and sift into soft silver hair, to trace the long line of one pointed ear.

He sighs. ] It's rather more of "you'll give me an unnatural fixation with your mouth".

[ Bluntly. His delivery verges on dry, but the words are tempered by a slow-creeping smile, one that manages to soften an impulse to call Astarion foolish. His stupid cat truly has no fucking clue how obsessed Iorveth is with him. ]

Is that what you want? [ This time, his voice lilts. Slightly musical. ]

Do you want me to burn and ache for you every time you deign to drink my blood?

[ 'Deign' is the most inaccurate word he could have used. There's never a moment that Astarion doesn't want to drink Iorveth's blood, but he wants to especially badly now, every animal impulse inside him telling him to sink his teeth into the softest parts of Iorveth's body. If Iorveth is worried about 'unnatural' things, the urge to pierce a companion's jugular is far more unnatural than anything he could ever do. ]

Obviously.

[ Stupid question.

It isn't exactly a go-ahead, but it isn't a stop sign, either, so Astarion curls the fingers of his free hand into Iorveth's waistband, tugging it down just enough to expose his hipbone. Astarion nips at the angle, every bit the unruly, oversized feline Iorveth has accused him of being. ]

—Well. I want you to burn and ache for me every moment of the day, but we'll work up to that.

[ Iorveth doesn't expect sex to be on the table, but if it's something Astarion wants to do, far be it for him to not enjoy it. For a given value of enjoying, when the steadily mounting frustration of not being able to touch or reciprocate is fraying his nerves. Not one to sit back and just idly take anything, especially not pleasure.

His bent knee settles back onto the duvet, tacitly permitting Astarion to do as he likes. Gale's trousers sit low on his high hips, the difference in their builds evident in small details. He laugh-sighs, amused and exasperated. ]

You truly have no idea how much of my mind you occupy.

[ Probably a good thing, that Astarion doesn't know. Iorveth shifts, a little restless with his hands still held above his head, the thin cuts that Astarion made itching a bit now that the initial pain has receded. ]

Fine. Ruin me.

[ "You're the one that will have to deal with me" is implied. ]

[ However much of Iorveth's mind he occupies, he'll always selfishly want to occupy more. The curse of a vampire: no matter how much he gets, he'll still be hungry. Astarion leans over Iorveth's body to place his dagger on the nightstand, because even freaks would be justified to feel hesitant at the idea of a blade anywhere near them when their pants are off. The tip is stained red from Iorveth's blood, and he'll need to clean it eventually, but for now it sends a quiver of excitement through him to look at.

He has two hands free now, all the better to undress Iorveth with. His fingers find their way underneath his waistband again, cold against the warmth of his skin, and tug insistently.

Sweetly: ] How would you like to be ruined, my love?

[ Agony, when Astarion leans over him: Iorveth's arms shift, instinctively wanting to wrap around that eminently-holdable waist. Frustration flits across his expression, obvious and sharp for a razor's-edge moment.

A deep breath, in and out, and Iorveth tries to settle himself. His hips lift an inch from the mattress, helping Astarion shimmy him out of his layers; Iorveth is wearing Gale's underwear, which is, you guessed it, deep violet. Not really Iorveth's color. ]

You've no preferences? [ Another huff, this time through his nose. ] How would you want to ruin me?

[ Tossing the question back at Astarion, who Iorveth knows has more revulsion than preference for intimacy. Still, he wants to pass the ball to Astarion for a moment, even if he throws it right back at Iorveth for him to decide; another implication here, that even stupid kink negotiation can be reciprocal. ]

I suppose it depends on how much you want to watch me squirm.

[ His preferences. Still a bit of a foreign concept. Astarion is more well acquainted with what he doesn't like than what he does, save for things like 'being close to Iorveth in any way possible'. He's silent for a moment, playing with the waistband of Iorveth's ridiculously garish underwear. The corner of his mouth quirks up, amused. Even handsome in bright purple undies, he thinks. Perhaps Astarion really does have rose-colored glasses on. ]

I'd like for you to squirm as much as possible, I think.

[ A little uncertainty appended to the end, just in case. Astarion can never truly be sure what he'll enjoy and what he'll loathe when it comes to physicality, but he does want to discover it for himself now that he has the freedom to loathe it. He pulls off the borrowed underwear next, leaving Iorveth in only his dagger-torn shirt, and leans in to trace the trail of little bite marks with his tongue and his teeth. ]

You would look very handsome squirming.

[ As much as possible. Astarion is telling Iorveth to take a metaphorical knife and plunge it into his own chest, which is usually not something he'd entertain or even concede to, but. Baby steps. Astarion is telling him what he wants, for once, and so－

－Iorveth wracks his brain for what could undo him. "Use your head and try to think for yourself" would be easy enough to say, but, again: baby steps. Astarion has two hundred years of discomfort to sift through, and Iorveth can throw him a bone. ]

...Give me your hand, then. Settle next to me.

[ He'd demonstrate, but his own hands are still symbolically tied. ]

Touch me, bite me. Do whatever you wish, as long as you're within kissing distance. [ Showing his obvious hand: he really likes kissing Astarion. He has probably noticed. If he hasn't, then this next statement will make it abundantly clear. ] ...But don't let me kiss you, even if I ask.

[ The easiest way to make Iorveth go a little crazy. ]

[ Kissing. How innocent. What are they, adolescents? Astarion staunchly ignores the fact that this makes him pout a little, because, well, he enjoys being kissed, so this is like a punishment for him, too.

Still, he does as instructed — it's funny, but not particularly out of character, that Iorveth is the one telling Astarion what to tell him to do (or not do, in this case). He bites his way back up Iorveth's torso, which is beginning to look like he got in an altercation with some sort of fanged animal, settling on his side once he's made his way up to nipping at his sharp jawline. His palm splays out across Iorveth's abdomen, fingers cold but quickly warming to meet Iorveth's temperature. ]

Not even if you beg?

[ He gets into altercations with fanged animals very frequently. Case in point.

Iorveth glances down at how he's faring in terms of casual injury. Still all green. A potion might help later, but he doesn't really feel like explaining to Gale why he needs one again despite having stayed inside the entire night. Hm.

What he does feel like doing: looking at Astarion. The tickle of his hair against Iorveth's jaw is the closest Iorveth's gotten to petting him since they ended up in bed, and the thought of that alone is mildly maddening. ]

If you think I've not earned it, then yes. Not even if I beg.

[ After what Astarion had to put up with in Flotsam, Iorveth thinks that he's entitled to make Iorveth feel at least a little sorry for landing him in that situation. He's already tilting his head a fraction of an inch, aquiline nose brushing up against Astarion's. ]

Edited 2025-02-05 04:49 (UTC)

[ His hair brushes Iorveth's jaw again as he ducks his head to nibble at the thin skin behind Iorveth's ear, gentle even though he'd rather be anything but. This sort of light biting that draws little blood if any doesn't fully satisfy his vampiric urges, but if nothing else, it's enrichment. The points of his teeth scrape across Iorveth's skin, and Astarion could swear he hears the blood rushing through those veins.

Meanwhile, he lets his fingertips wander down toward Iorveth's groin, touch light as he grazes Iorveth's cock. There's nothing resembling rhythm in his touch, no discernable intent. Touching for the sake of touching. ]

Mmm — maybe if you beg very well.

[ No intent, but just being touched by a now-familiar hand can sometimes be stimulation enough. Astarion should be able to feel how Iorveth swallows his next broken exhale, throat bobbing with discernible effort. His heart feels like it's climbing up his throat, but he's literally helpless to do anything about his reactions with his hands currently strung up using promise-rope.

An experimental squirm, on too-soft sheets. ]

I've begged before. [ Trying to distract himself by making conversation. Kind of difficult with Astarion's hand on his already-hard cock, the semi having graduated to a full-fledged erection by the time Astarion runs his sharp teeth over a sensitive ear. ] But never because I wanted anything.

[ Well. Maybe not entirely accurate― Iorveth'd begged humans because he "wanted" them, simply, to stop. Negotiating degrees of loss, really. Not the same. Nuzzling closer to Astarion's hair, Iorveth sees if he can get away with some reciprocal kissing along Astarion's ear (cheating!) as he subtly rocks up into Astarion's palm. ]

...Tell me something you want to do while we're in Waterdeep.

[ Astarion hates the idea of Iorveth ever begging for mercy. He's been there before, and he knows how absolutely pathetic it made him feel. Like he was nothing but dirt beneath Cazador's feet. He only ever wants to hear Iorveth beg for things he wants from here on.

He angles his head away from Iorveth's lips, tsk-ing. As enjoyable as it is, it would be more enjoyable to watch Iorveth squirm. ]

Bad boy, [ he teases, impish. If Iorveth wants to be denied, he'll be denied.

As his hand meets Iorveth's rocking, grip a little more intentional now, he says, casually, ] Perhaps we should celebrate Fey Day while we're here. A lot could happen at a masquerade.

[ Close, but not close enough. Iorveth shifts on the sheets again, restless, and scratches at the headboard of Gale's ridiculously expensive-looking bed (he really hadn't realized how much money the wizard comes from until now). His cock twitches expectantly in Astarion's palm, almost as if it's eager for the attention.

Embarrassing. The freak in him isn't protesting too much, though, so. Again: all green. ]

You're willing to put a mask on that face?

[ He laugh-sighs, frustration mounting on the planes of his face as he leans in for another nuzzle and misses. Sharp lines made sharper not by irritation, but the obvious sentiment of "I really want to kiss you, fuck."

More impatient self-positioning, as he realizes that he really is at Astarion's mercy. Strangely fun, if he gets over the fact that his entire body suddenly feels too hot. ]

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