essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ A low sound, considering. ]

I've never fallen off anything.

[ Keeping it light, joking (dryly) about wood elf balance. It's a warning of sorts, a "fine, I'm moving"; bedsprings creak, and Iorveth edges himself back onto the mattress, shimmying on freshly-laundered sheets (thank you Gale) to drape over Astarion's back, most of his weight braced on the elbows framing Astarion's body. His thighs bracket the outside of Astarion's knees loosely, giving him enough space to wriggle out if he wants to.

Another low sound, this time more appreciative than anything else. ]

A nice view.

[ He arches, nosing down Astarion's back before licking a long stripe up over his scars. Freak. ]

[ There is something a little intimidating, he has to admit, about the sound of those bedsprings and someone's body over his. He closes his eyes and reminds himself that it isn't just someone's body, but the world's most precious body. It helps, as does the way Iorveth so obviously works to keep his weight from bearing oppressively down on him. Sweet, thoughtful, even now.

He even manages to laugh a little, charmed by Iorveth's freakiness. ]

You didn't say you wanted to lick every inch of me, you animal.

[ Quite literally. He feels a little bit as if he's being affectionately licked by some sort of wild canine. Halsin is probably burning with jealousy. ]

Although I suppose I'm not opposed to that, either.

[ Freak matched!! ]

[ Freaks, as far as the eye can see. Iorveth laughs into the small of Astarion's back, mouth still pressed to all that appealing skin. ]

No more teaching me manners, I take it.

[ You can take a fox out of the forest, etc. More shimmying, and Iorveth sits up to survey Astarion more properly again, running a hand over the places that he's kissed, pressing fingertips lightly into pressure points to work tension out of lithe muscles. They're been doing a lot of walking lately, not to mention all the uncomfortable positions they've been pulled into by rope and restraints; a bit of massaging might do Astarion a world of good.

His thumbs frame Astarion's spine and drag up along it, over scars and lovebites. A few passes of that, and he dips back down again to reward his sweet cat for staying still, littering kisses onto the nape of his neck, the shapely outline of his shoulderblades. ]

What is it about you, I wonder. [ Low, amused. ] I've never craved touch before, not even as a younger elf with less troubles.

[ There are two centuries' worth of knots in Astarion's back that even the most skilled massage therapist couldn't work out in one day, but the intent behind it is sweet, and he finds himself, as usual, charmed by the softness of someone he'd once thought was made entirely of hard angles.

So charmed, in fact, that he doesn't mention that it's not like Iorveth was celibate before him, and that he did tell Astarion how occasionally I even fuck, so surely Iorveth craved another's touch enough to do that. (He could! But he won't.) ]

I hated it.

[ He shifts a little, trying to find his way onto his back so that he can reach out and touch. His hands are his primary way of navigating the world—deft flourishes with a dagger, careful movements while lockpicking, wild gesticulation—and it's quickly getting frustrating to not be able to use them to their full extent. ]

There were times when I wished everyone who touched me would perish horribly.

[ But that's not much of a sweet nothing, so he adds, ] Not you, of course.

[ He can feel Astarion starting to get impatient underneath him, so Iorveth dips one last time for a quick kiss to the center of that scar-mapped circle before he slides off and gives Astarion room to roll. Still deranged enough to find it all very cute, of course, even despite the topic of conversation. ]

I remember. [ To the point of not being able to tolerate touch. ] The first I gave you my blood, you made sure your teeth were the only thing in contact with me.

[ Not to mention how he'd toed Iorveth awake after his nap, like a sack of potatoes. It makes Iorveth laugh now to think of it, sitting (naked) with Astarion next to him. ]

Aen Seidhe often communicate using touch. [ Braiding each other's hair, bathing with each other, sharing a bed. Casual, platonic intimacy. ] It could be that I wish to communicate with you more than most.

[ If Astarion had touched him during that bloodletting, he's sure Iorveth would have had something to think about that, too. Ugh, he had found Iorveth so annoying back then. He's still annoying now, but annoying (affectionate). All of those little quirks that were so irritating have somehow had their edges sanded down and become endearing.

He shifts onto his side, reaching out to pull Iorveth back in, fingers curled over the angle of his hipbone, tattoo winding underneath his hand. ]

Oh, I can think of some new and exciting ways for us to communicate.

[ Communicating with Iorveth through touch is one thing, but honestly, an entire culture that has normalized communication by touch sounds awful. If any of those elves try to braid his hair, he can't be held responsible for what he does.

A pause, before he adds, ] I do enjoy your touch. More than I ever thought possible.

[ It's Fey Day all day for the Aen Seidhe (an exaggeration; that's probably more Halsin's area of expertise). Astarion will be miserable, and Iorveth will have to vacation with him to a city to keep him from brooding all the time.

Still sitting, Iorveth scoots closer and runs his fingers through Astarion's now-tousled hair, enjoying how different it is from his own. Lighter, softer. He imagines it longer, but the mental image turns out more comical than ethereal― an unruly mane winding every which way. Iorveth keeps that to himself. ]

I'm glad to hear it.

[ Simply, sincerely, with a little bit of distant disbelief. Both for the fact that Astarion has allowed it despite all his years of despising touch, and for his own ability to give whatever amount of joy Astarion derives from it. ]

After Isengrim, [ he admits, ] I considered discarding the idea of intimacy altogether. Sex for the sake of it, fine, but never intimacy. Not again.

[ Honestly, it's a little rude to bring up one's old flames while in bed with one's new flame, but he doesn't say so — Iorveth has given him reassurance upon reassurance, and Astarion is trying not to sound like an awful wretch looking for any reason to expect the worst of him.

He still tells himself that Isengrim obviously couldn't hold a candle to him, and if Astarion met Iorveth while the man was still alive, he'd have stolen him away with his charm, wit, and good looks. Obviously. ]

—I'm not sure I knew the difference between sex and intimacy, before.

[ And it does rankle a bit to know that Iorveth has experienced intimacy with someone else while he's only ever had it with Iorveth, but he doesn't let himself linger on that thought. ]

Well. Perhaps I knew it, long ago. [ Before dying and being brought back to un-life. ] It's all a bit blurry.

[ He strikes himself as the type of person who would have had an endless string of meaningless flings, though, and he supposes that adds up. If someone loved him, surely they would have been worth remembering. ]

[ It's easy to expect the worst from Iorveth, who is, in fact, The Worst. Honestly, it's a miracle that his mouth hasn't gotten him killed (yet).

The point is, though, that Astarion has done the impossible: make an incredibly stubborn elf fall head over heels, which sounds easier on paper than it is in practice. Iorveth is comically in love with Astarion, and the worst part is that he knows that he is.

Sliding back down onto bedsheets, he runs his palm over a pale (porcelain) cheek, taking in the lines of Astarion's lashes (darker in color than his silver hair), the expressive slant of his mouth. ]

A terrible thing, [ is stated as simply as "I'm glad", ] that you weren't cared for the way you deserve.

[ Iorveth doesn't know a thing about Astarion pre-Cazador, but that matters very little; Astarion doesn't remember himself pre-Cazador, and no one should ever be burdened by something like that. ]

Not only for your looks, but for what you are. Sharp, quick, resourceful. [ Rogue traits. Iorveth leans in to kiss the corner of Astarion's mouth. ] Stubborn. Mercurial and intriguing.

[ More compliments (?). ] Funny. Sweet. The list goes on.

[ Now that Iorveth is back horizontal, Astarion strokes up and down his side, fingers following the curve of that tattoo Iorveth is so fond of. He must admit, he's fond of it, too. Tattoos have never been something he's given much thought to before, but watching it sprawl across Iorveth's neck and collarbone and lovely, lovely torso is strangely appealing and, to put it bluntly, very hot. ]

Well.

[ His shoulder shrugs, just slightly. ]

I left quite a bit of destruction in my wake.

[ So perhaps he didn't deserve as much care as Iorveth thinks. Case in point: the thought flits across his mind that he's glad Isengrim is dead, because it means he gets Iorveth's love all for himself. A terrible, awful thought — not because of the morality of it, but because of what Iorveth might think of him if he knew. Obviously, he can never, ever know. ]

But if all that is what you think of me, far be it from me to dissuade you.

[ Hm. Iorveth processes that statement, rolls it over in his head. Palm resting on the crook of Astarion's neck now, he idly thumbs along the jut of his collarbone. ]

How do you wish me to think of you, then?

[ Calm, but remaining close. He really has no inclination to stray more than an armspan away from Astarion for the rest of the night and during the next day; this is where he'll stay until Gale peels him off or Astarion feels too crowded and has to shoo Iorveth away.

One leg slips between Astarion's, tangling limbs around limbs. ]

Whatever destruction you caused in life, you paid for it a thousandfold in death― and then some. [ A low breath, pressed against Astarion's jaw. ] Are you so insistent on me loving you less?

[ Whatever destruction he caused in life, he caused even more in death. Much of the time he feels indignant about his lot in life (or undeath), but sometimes, when he's feeling particularly low, he wonders if he didn't deserve what he got. Some of his victims would probably say so. ]

Of course not. You're forbidden from loving me less.

[ But maybe Iorveth could see how horrible he can be and love him anyway. If such a thing is possible, Iorveth would be the one to do it. He tugs Iorveth closer until their bodies are properly slotted together, light strokes turning to gentle scratching. ]

But you needn't pity me for the past. [ He needn't pity Astarion at all, honestly. ] I have you to care for me now.

[ Foolish. Astarion really doesn't have a clue what kind of swamp he's stuck his foot into. Iorveth is a man with clear-cut lines, who likes to make decisions based on his convictions; anything less is unacceptable. He's already gone through the phase of weighing his options, of trying to understand who exactly he's going to open his heart to, and now it's Astarion's teeth hovering over his jugular, and his own knife hovering over Astarion's chest.

Do or die. Astarion is never not going to be loved by Iorveth, and that is entirely his problem now. ]

Never have you inspired pity in me, [ he corrects. Iorveth has always wanted to know the shape of Astarion's pain, but only so he could see Astarion more clearly; not to see him as some sort of shivering creature in need of protection. ] Interest, yes. Annoyance, yes. Love, most of all.

[ A brief smile, and he cups Astarion's chin, gently forcing eye contact. Two eyes on one, more accurately. ]

Even when you accuse me of not caring, [ he laugh-sighs. ] ―If we'd still been in possession of our tadpoles, I would have made you feel how wrong you were.

[ Astarion opens his mouth to protest that he didn't accuse Iorveth of not caring, necessarily, just— not caring about that one specific thing, which did feel a lot like not caring in general. And then Iorveth had turned his back on him, and it really had felt, just for a moment, like he didn't care at all. He closes it, though, because there's nothing he's interested in less right now than arguing with Iorveth while he's naked and sprawled out across soft sheets. ]

I guess there were some benefits to the little wrigglers.

[ Standing in the sun. Entering homes uninvited. Reading each other's thoughts. He'd been so terribly afraid of Iorveth seeing any hint of vulnerability in him when they'd first connected; now he's seen Astarion at his absolute lowest. ]

I do miss being inside your mind.

[ It had been a pleasant place to be. Somewhere that wasn't his own mind, his own body.

He laughs under his breath, amused before he even says, ] I suppose I'll just have to be inside of you other ways from now on.

[ A bit of an eyeroll at all of that, though it still sits firmly in the realm of fond. It feels impossible for anyone to want to inhabit the confines of his mind― no doubt an unpleasant, blood-stained place to be― and the bit about being inside him, well.

That's also pretty unbelievable too, honestly. But Iorveth doesn't say so, and reciprocates the sentiment behind the given laugh by hauling Astarion up and half on top of him again, coaxing Astarion's face against his neck. ]

Thoughts in my head, teeth in my neck.

[ Coyly. He ruins it, though, by adding on: ]

Your pretty cock in whichever part of me it wishes to be in.

[ Very crass. Manners, etc. Iorveth chuckles, and presses his filthy mouth to Astarion's hair. ]

[ He hardly needs to be coaxed into shoving his face against Iorveth's neck. It's his second favorite thing to do, only eclipsed by actually shoving his fangs into it. The sweet smell of Iorveth's skin, the sound of his steady pulse. Astarion presses a light hand against one of Iorveth's carotids, feeling the blood rush through it. If he loved Iorveth any less, he fears that he might be a danger to him the way that his blood inspires fantasizing. ]

And what of your wishes?

[ Iorveth is very self-denying, which is wonderful at times—a good fit for Astarion, who's so terribly selfish—but other times, he wishes Iorveth had a little less abnegation and a little more indulgence. Hedonism, even. ]

[ Astarion settles closer, and it would be like having something soft and sweet nuzzling up against his pulse, if not for the fact that said soft and sweet thing could also kill him in a second if he felt like it. That's the fun of it, Iorveth supposes－ he's always been infatuated with things that could also be his undoing.

Of his wishes, though. He thinks they're being granted now, naked and sprawled in bed with Astarion tucked against him, all to himself. A better man would probably have let his newly-free love go off and enjoy the Waterdhavian nightlife, but reality is that he flipped out and dragged Astarion back in a wizard's tower. A true villain.

He says as much, which is: ] You're fulfilling a great many of them now, with me claiming your time.

[ Turning his head, nibbling at the tip of Astarion's ear. ]

Unless you meant carnally. You do like it when I talk filth.

[ Astarion isn't sure if one can call this relationship new anymore, but the entire concept of being loved after two centuries of loneliness and isolation still feels new, and so does the idea that someone could simply want his time and nothing else. It's still strange, feeling like someone wants him and not just wants something from him. He lays a kiss on Iorveth's pulse, trying very hard not to start gnawing on him and failing just a little; his teeth press against Iorveth's skin more than his lips do. Oops. ]

I do love to hear you say dirty words.

[ He likes to hear Iorveth say almost anything, especially when his voice takes on that lovely lilt the way it does when he speaks in his native tongue. ]

And I've found that I rather enjoy making you happy.

[ When he's not making Iorveth miserable. ]

[ On principle, Iorveth is half a second from snapping at anything that threatens him both physically and emotionally: "kill or be killed" is a lesson that's hard to unlearn at this point. That said, he romanticizes the idea of murder specifically in the context of Astarion's teeth against his neck. Sometimes, he thinks that it might be nice if, instead of dying of old age, he let Astarion feed on him until there was nothing left.

Morbid. Weird freak thoughts that are bad pillow talk topics. Instead of "I think I would be happy if you killed me", Iorveth cranes back to let Astarion gnaw harder if he wants. ]

Then it might please you to know that I'd relish fucking you while you taste my blood.

[ Inside, in many ways. Iorveth wouldn't mind having it be the other way－ if Astarion really gets nothing out of being the penetrated, Iorveth is more than amenable－ but: ]

You're sweet, when relaxed and blood-drunk. [ Maybe it helps Astarion feel less dead; maybe he feels more sensation that way. Iorveth combs through Astarion's hair, playing with stray flyaways. ] Makes me want to swallow you whole, I think.

[ In many ways. Cute aggression. ]

[ Iorveth has no place to talk about swallowing anyone whole when he's currently the one Astarion is trying to eat. He lets his teeth drag along Iorveth's long neck, catching slightly against the skin. His elf-brain hates the idea of ever harming Iorveth, but his vampire-brain likes knowing that he could tear into the vulnerable flesh of Iorveth's throat at any moment. He won't, ever, but knowing that he could gives the same sort of thrill as when Iorveth let him press a blade into his skin. Power, in its purest form.

It's a little difficult to tell if he's thinking or just distracted by the taste of Iorveth's skin as he quietly nibbles, nose nuzzling affectionately into the angle of his jaw. Maybe a little bit of both; sue him. Finally, mid-nibble: ]

You're the one who's at risk of being swallowed up, my love.

[ Quite literally. Only one of them has fangs. ]

But I would allow it.

[ Permission from Astarion is precious, matched only by refusal from Astarion. Iorveth loathes the idea of being endured, and wants to believe that Astarion isn't gritting his teeth and bearing things just to keep Iorveth happy. "I'm happy if you're happy" goes both ways.

More idle petting, followed by slow outlining of the shape of Astarion's ear. Not the only reason Iorveth chose Astarion to confide in, obviously, but he'd be lying if he said that he doesn't like that they have this feature in common. ]

I'll have to see if Gale has any oil, then.

[ Maybe he never needed it for the astral plane mind-fuck sessions he had with Mystra (and Iorveth will never ask for details); surely he has something to use when he gets intimately acquainted with a hand, though. Maybe he hid some in the chest that bit Astarion.

A kiss to the point of Astarion's ear again. The taper is longer than his own, he notes. His ear curves into a blunter angle while Astarion's is longer, thinner, more elegant-looking. ]

Hm. Maybe I should learn Grease.

[ A spell he would absolutely, positively only use for inappropriate situations. Maybe Gale has a scroll around here somewhere that he can use to teach himself. He'll have to go digging again, risking the ire of more of Gale's enchanted chests.

In response to Iorveth's ear focus, he nips at the soft lobe of Iorveth's ear. There's nothing particularly special about elf ears to him, but there is something special about Iorveth's ears, because there's something special about every part of Iorveth. ]

I'm sure he has a stash in the kitchen. I've seen him drench that so-called food he makes.

[ 'So-called'. Gale seems to be a terrific chef, although there's nothing healthy about his food. ]

You should go down there and see.

[ He could, mostly-clothed as he is, but he won't. He hopes Tara is down there to be traumatized by Iorveth's nakedness. ]

[ A shiver of a laugh, at the thought of Astarion learning Grease. It's preposterous to think about, and he also imagines the spell going wrong and splashing them both in tarlike fluid, ruining any potential intimate moments they might have had. Might be fun, actually. Very unsexy, though.

The laugh persists, lingering in his voice long after the thought of Astarion looking like an oil-soaked cat leaves the forefront of his mind. ]

The greatest abuse of my scouting skills yet.

[ Lae'zel had often sent him out to do incredibly ignoble tasks, like tracking goblins and creeping near giant spiders in caves, but this is quite possibly the dumbest thing someone has ever asked him to do.

It's novel. Exasperating. Endearing (delusional). Iorveth hums, the chuckle still half-rumbling in the back of his throat, as he peels away from Astarion's inviting arms and mouth. ]

If Tara decides to throw me out onto the streets, open the window. I'll scale the wall and climb back in from the back.

Edited 2025-03-12 01:32 (UTC)

[ Iorveth's laugh is glorious. Astarion wants to make him laugh forever, to close his eyes at night to the sound and open them to it the next morning. He laughs in return, a light, twinkling sound in comparison to his usual derisive snorts, as he flops onto his back.

Gods, he loves this man. More and more each day. More and more each minute, it often feels like. ]

I must admit, that does sound terribly romantic.

[ Maybe less romantic knowing that Iorveth will be entirely naked and banished from the tower by a horrified tressym. Still pretty romantic, though. He sprawls out on the covers, posing lazily, trying very hard to look alluring and inviting. ]

—But, if it's all the same, I'd rather you hurry back.

[ Astarion drapes across the sheets, silently bidding Iorveth to draw him like one of his Cormyrean nobles (Iorveth has never met a Cormyrean noble); the worst part is that Astarion does manage to be alluring and inviting, though it's debatable as to whether Iorveth should credit Astarion's methods of seduction or his own deranged mind.

Maybe he should at least put on smallclothes. Iorveth forgoes it anyway, choosing instead to get up and kiss the crown of Astarion's head before moving to the door, ass-naked. ]

If you hear Gale coming down the stairs for something, distract him.

[ Or don't, Iorveth doesn't care. Surely Gale has seen a naked man before in his lifetime (right??? right???). One last backwards glance and he's slipping silently down the stairs (again, the most ignoble use of his stealth skills ever), sneaking into the bathroom first to rummage through cabinets for bath oils that he can use in lieu of cooking oil.

Down below him, where the stairs meet the hall leading into the sitting room, Tara is curled on a cushion with her wings folded, sleeping, unaware of the heinous crimes happening above her. For now. ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject