essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ It does sound hilarious to let Gale stumble upon Iorveth with his prick swinging in the wind, but it also sounds a bit like a mood-killer to have to listen to Gale's indignant squawking, so he keeps an eye out. True to his history of terrible timing, Gale does come padding down the hall in his slippers and robe; Astarion jumps up, calling out, ] Oh, Gale!

[ Gale blinks the sleep out of his eyes. "Astarion! You know, I was just headed downstairs to prepare myself a bit of a midnight snack. Perhaps Iorveth might like—" ]

Perhaps. But before that, I actually had a question about, erm. Magic.

[ Gale's eyes light up, even in the dark of the hallway. "You don't say— I always hoped you'd come around to the study of the arcane arts. Elves do have a natural affinity for it, or so I've heard..." ]

[ Oh. Gods. Iorveth flicks his eye towards the direction of the stairs from where he's crouched, rifling through the cabinet under the sink; he considers the pros and cons of maneuvering elsewhere until the metaphorical storm subsides, but finds himself having to contend with the padding of soft paws up wooden stairs.

Tara.

"Gale? What are you doing up at this hour?", Iorveth hears the tressym say. "And what have I told you about your midnight snacks?"

Ah. Iorveth straightens up and reaches for the door, but it's too late: glowing cat eyes peer out from the dark, fixing themselves firmly on Iorveth as he grabs the nearest towel and surreptitiously (?) tries to make himself slightly more modest.

A hiss, and a yowl loud enough to be heard from anywhere in the tower. "My Gods! Just what is going on here!?" ]

[ Gale gasps. "Tara?" he says, voice quivering with worry. "Tara!" Without another word, he's bounding down the stairs toward her voice, faster than Astarion has ever seen him move. It would be sweet if, well. Iorveth weren't naked down there.

Astarion runs along behind him, nearly running into Gale's back as the wizard almost trips down the stairs. He'd forgotten — Iorveth, Tara, and he might be able to see in the dark, but Gale is only human. He can't see anything at all, which is actually a relief.

At least, until they reach the bottom of the stairs and Gale calls out, "Fiat lux!"

Of course Gale has to cast Dancing Lights. Four glowing orbs appear in the air, floating in the darkness and illuminating everything — and he does mean everything. Gale gasps for a second time as he peers into the now-lit bathroom, aghast. "Iorveth?!" ]

—Iorveth! [ Astarion calls from behind Gale, dramatic. ] What sort of deranged, perverted nonsense is this?!

[ Quite possibly the dumbest situation Iorveth has ever been in. Naked, towel held against his nethers with one hand, the other holding a glass bottle containing sink cleaning fluid (surely Gale could just magic the sink clean, Gods.)

Pokerface. Externally, he's the spitting image of calm, with the kind of straight-backed arrogance that suggests that he's meant to be here and he has no idea why everyone is freaking out; internally, he's throwing the bottle of sink cleaner right at Astarion's perfect, pretty face. The betrayal. Heinous. Also: utterly expected.

After a lingering moment in the silence that follows, lit by the ghastly white of Dancing Lights: ]

It's Fey Day. I'm a wood elf.

[ Translation: "How very racist of y'all to accuse me of being a perverted nudist during a time when being uninhibited should be celebrated... smh." It's entirely unserious, however, and Iorveth follows that up with a glance towards Astarion (ignoring Gale, who, Iorveth notes, is tracking how far down the tattoos go). ]

Should I remove the towel and start dancing? [ Not helping to dispel the "deranged" accusation. Let him be deranged!!! He doesn't care!!! ]

Oh, yes, [ says Astarion, at the same moment Gale waves his hands and exclaims, "No need!" What a prude, ruining it for everyone.

"Not that you're not... er, what I mean to say is—" Gale stumbles over his words for a moment, and Astarion could swear that his face is turning pink. Finally, he shakes his head, as if giving up on the entire possibility of discussing what's beneath that towel. "The last thing I want to do is be culturally insensitive, of course, but I would appreciate an advance warning before you go gallivanting around my tower in the nude."

Tara bristles, having turned away from the whole scene. "Well, I think it's positively uncouth!" ]

Well, I'm sure he just got carried away. You know how wood elves can be, [ he says to Gale. ] After all, you met Halsin.

[ It's incredibly difficult to not pull a Gale and do the whole well actually spiel about wood elves and their separate cultures, but Iorveth reels it in to avoid creating actual conversation; he has a feeling that Gale might be earnestly interested in learning things. While that's a virtue of his (a refreshing trait, especially in a human), Iorveth would rather not engage in cultural debates with his dick out.

So. ] It must be tiresome, being a creature that overreacts to the slightest suggestion of bare skin.

[ "Why are you booing me? I'm right." Iorveth tosses the bottle of sink cleaner onto a pile of freshly-laundered towels, and slinks up towards a still-pink Gale, tipping his chin up with one finger (the other hand has a very secure grip on the towel covering his front). ]

Your head is always in the clouds. I doubt you've ever experienced what it means to inhabit yourself.

[ It's satisfying, watching Gale transition from pink to crimson. There's a few spluttering retorts about how he's had a very sensible and fulfilling relationship with himself, thank you very much, and a scandalized "Mr. Dekarios!" from poor Tara, who has backed out of the washroom and back onto the stairs, her fur standing on end.

"No more humoring this nonsense! Gale, we are going back to our room," she demands, with a sense of maternal finality. Iorveth, as always, is public enemy number one. ]

Yes, Gale. Why don't you go inhabit yourself in private?

[ "I— that is not—" Gale stammers for a moment, effectively bullied by two mean elves. He finally stalks off, slippers flopping, muttering about how if they'd only seen him during his Academy days, they'd be shocked— ]

I don't see what that tressym is so upset about. She doesn't wear any clothes, either.

[ Astarion shrugs as he leans against the doorway, looking like the cat that ate the canary. With a cant of his head toward the towel pressed against Iorveth's front: ]

Go ahead, then. Drop the towel and do a dance.

[ Poor Gale plods away with Tara guarding his heels; Iorveth watches them go before, yes, removing the towel from its awkward perch between his legs and tossing it at Astarion's feet. ]

I'm loath to subject you to something so deranged and perverted.

[ Dryly. He's far from angry－ his posture isn't rigid enough, his expression not curdled enough－ but he does feel petty enough to use Astarion's words against him. Iorveth loves Astarion halfway to death, but he'd hate to be seen as a pushover (unfortunately). ]

You may catch whatever me and Halsin have.

[ Wood elf cooties. Iorveth folds his arms across his chest, which might have been more intimidating if he wasn't still naked. ]

[ Astarion would be lying if he said that his gaze didn't immediately shoot down below Iorveth's waist. He loves Iorveth in a way that is far beyond just the physical, but he does very much love the physical parts of Iorveth, too. A testament to how special he is. Most naked genitalia would fill Astarion with a sense of revulsion, but he told the truth earlier: he likes Iorveth's prick very, very much, because it's a part of Iorveth, and there's no part of Iorveth that doesn't fill him with bone-deep desire.

Were Iorveth actually upset with him, he would shrink immediately, pathetic and ingratiating in an attempt to gain his forgiveness. Since he isn't, Astarion doesn't bother. Instead, he drapes himself further across the doorway in an obvious attempt to be alluring. ]

Oh, no, are you going to punish me for my misbehavior?

[ He is nothing if not incorrigible. ]

[ Honestly, Iorveth is grateful for Gale being as pure of heart (?) as he is, because there simply would have been no way Iorveth would have bought the charade if he were on the receiving end of it: a naked Gale rummaging around in a washroom with a bottle of something in hand with Gale's lover shirtless in bed would have screamed "they are about to fuck and Gale is looking for lubrication" to Iorveth, but. Whatever. He'll take the questionable win.

He'll also take this ridiculous display of seduction. Iorveth's restraint only goes so far, and his objective appreciation of Astarion's beauty easily tips into red-blooded desire in certain (many) contexts.

His blood feels warmer under his skin. A pleasant rush; he wants to grab Astarion by the waist and pull him in, rut against him until they're both flushed and messy. ]

Perhaps I'll show you how deranged and perverted I can truly be.

[ "You're asking for it", essentially. Iorveth cannot believe he still can't find a single vial of oil in this fucking room, but he resumes his search. ]

[ Astarion grins, delighted, and perches on the edge of Gale's fancy bathtub to watch Iorveth rummage through toiletries, legs stretched out lazily. He could help the search, but that's not really his thing; he's more of a 'stand around looking good and contributing nothing' type. Besides, how hard can it be? There's no way that a man as cosmopolitan as Gale doesn't have a collection of expensive bath oils somewhere.

Instead of helping, he picks up what seems to be a bottle of luxury hair product. He knew Gale's hair didn't just naturally do that. ]

Ugh, it would be just horrible, [ he says with a dramatic sigh, ] if a handsome and deranged wood elf were to ravish me right now.

[ Impatient, he tosses the bottle aside, leaning to the side and letting his shoulder hit the wall. ]

Especially when I'm so very ripe for the ravishing.

[ Delayed gratification, as it turns out, is also not his thing. ]

Edited 2025-03-13 02:17 (UTC)

[ Cat-friendly shampoo (presumably for Tara; the word "cat" has a line through it on the label for politeness' sake), bath salts, beard lotion. Iorveth looks up from where he's now crouched back down again, turning the washroom cabinets inside out, and feels just the faintest twitch of interest mounting between his legs at the sight of Astarion leaning with his long limbs stretched like an offer.

Gods, he really is so pretty. A frustrated half-sigh, and Iorveth cranes his neck to kiss along Astarion's still-clothed leg, biting his calf through the fabric of his soft trousers. ]

Go back up to our room, [ he suggests, nosing along the bend of Astarion's knee. ] I want you in bed.

[ Blindly rummaging for what feels like vials, he finally curls his fingers around something labeled "Jasmine bath oil", half-empty but enough. A note to self: buy some more lubricant for later. ]

[ He once let Iorveth suck him off in a public dressing room, so it's not like Astarion gives a shit about having a romantic setting, but he runs his hand through Iorveth's hair, conceding. It's not like he's against rolling around in Gale's soft, luxurious guest bed.

Warmly: ] What my love wants, my love gets.

[ He should bristle at the gall of being told what to do in any situation even nearing intimate, but he finds it doesn't irritate the way he would expect. Perhaps because, unlike in the past, he knows that 'no' would be an accepted response. Even now, after getting Iorveth naked and putting him in a humiliating situation and making him dig through Gale's things, he could refuse and Iorveth would let him. Odd, how it's only when he has the right to say 'no' that he ever wants to say 'yes'.

Astarion leans down to press an enthusiastic kiss to Iorveth's mouth, fingers still tangled in all of that dark hair, before peeling himself away to bound up the stairs two at a time. In a very cool, chill way. ]

[ 500% on-board with ravishing Astarion, but also committed to making Astarion comfortable: the duality of Iorveth. He watches as his very lovely vampire scurries (sexily) (?) up the stairs and disappears behind the entrance to their bedroom, and follows suit after making sure that the contents of the vial he's found will suffice for what he wants to do.

It will. Iorveth reappears again a minute later, smelling faintly of jasmine as he approaches the bed and beelines for Astarion, wasting no time. A novelty, being the one to crawl on top of Astarion and corral him－ Iorveth trusts Astarion enough to speak up if the position makes him uncomfortable, so he doesn't second-guess the action this time around, and slides up along Astarion's body with obvious purpose. The vial settles on a pillow for easy access. ]

You do inspire something mad in me.

[ Self-aware, at least. Pressing his mouth to Astarion's jaw, he shifts for a handful of Astarion's waist, his too-warm fingertips making gentle indents in pale skin. ]

The more I touch you, the more I want of you.

[ Like Astarion said: deranged. ]

[ It surprises him how readily Iorveth crawls on top of him, like that's something they do. He would have expected far more hemming and hawing, can Is and are you okays. Iorveth's consideration is one of his best qualities, but sometimes, Astarion does want to play at being normal. Somebody who can just do things like this without having to negotiate.

Astarion isn't really normal, though, so he must admit that it feels overwhelming to have somebody's body looming over his for the first time in a long time. For all his talk of ravishing, he isn't quite so bold when it comes down to it. He has to ground himself to the here and now to avoid slipping into the past; pressing his nose against Iorveth's hair, he inhales, taking in his most favorite scent of his most favorite person. Earthy, warm, with a hint of jasmine. No one who ever crawled atop him before ever smelled so good. Mostly, they just stank of alcohol.

Soothed by the familiarity of the smell, he lets his body relax bit by bit, sinking into Gale's ridiculously soft mattress and splaying out his fingers between Iorveth's shoulder blades, a little possessive. A tiger can't change his stripes. ]

You can have me. I'm all yours.

[ It's the sort of thing he'd never, ever say to another soul in any sort of sincerity, but saying it now to Iorveth, his voice drips with genuine affection. ]

[ There are little tells that speak to Astarion's initial nerves: the burying, the gripping, the slow unfurling of tension. Signs that sex is still something that may always come with a caveat. Iorveth lets Astarion ride that wave for a few seconds, pressing his lips to Astarion's hair, his jaw, his temple, until he hears that sweet affirmation that he knows is more hard-earned than anything else. ]

And you have me.

[ Reciprocal, equal. Not exactly about ownership, but about devotion. It's all semantics, though, and Iorveth cares more about touching than talking. Putting his own bareness, finally, to good use. His hand traces that tantalizing line from waist to hip, dipping down under the waistband of Astarion's pants and traveling to the curve of his rear. Not particularly romantic to go straight for the ass, but Iorveth is a red-blooded male, sue him－ he can respect Astarion intellectually and also think he's stupidly hot.

Plus, the point of this exercise, he thinks, is to be a little feral. He rakes blunted nails gently, gently along smooth skin, and squeezes. ]

How much of my "wild lust" [ echoing Astarion's words from earlier in the night, ] do you want?

[ This is Iorveth's way, he thinks, of asking Astarion how much he can tolerate while preserving his ego. A question he doesn't have to consider when he's the one calling the shots. Of course he has doubts and anxieties — what if he doesn't like it, or what if he likes it too much and Iorveth sees him differently for it? With Iorveth's warm hand under his waistband, though, it's difficult to consider any of those.

He must look profoundly unsexy as he squirms around trying to pull his stupid, too-big pants down without shoving Iorveth off or kicking him. He finds, strangely, that he doesn't really care. ]

All of it.

[ An obvious answer. He was never going to give any other one. He loathes the thought of Iorveth making himself smaller to please Astarion. He deserves to have his freak not only matched but adored. ]

I want every bit of you that you're willing to give, of course. [ A laugh, under his breath, and he adds, ] Even the deranged and perverted bits.

[ Astarion squirms, and Iorveth lifts himself up just enough to help him wriggle out of his oversized pants and toss it over the side of the bed. The only scrap of fabric left between them is Astarion's (Gale's) underwear, which serves as poor defense. ]

A dangerous thing to say, beloved. [ He laughs with the sort of unwarranted confidence that's made him many enemies over the past few decades, but also with awestruck warmth. His touch slides from back to front, the heel of his hand pressing between Astarion's legs over his smallclothes, fingers slowly curling over the still-soft outline of him. ] You may not make it to the opera tomorrow.

[ Gale may need to do more than just peel Iorveth off. In dim lamplight, Iorveth's remaining eye glints jade-green, focused and hungry― he thinks he must look grotesque, one half mangled scar-tissue and the other half a feral animal buzzing with need.

Oh well. Leaning in for a crushing kiss, Iorveth tilts and coaxes until he feels the sharp edge of a pointed fang, and he drags his tongue against it with enough strength to tear skin; the taste of his own blood is momentarily overwhelming, but it doesn't stop him from laving his injured tongue against Astarion's, relishing the heat and mess until he inevitably has to come up for air (horrible).

Fuck, he's already hard. A shudder-sigh, and he slots his length up along Astarion's thigh, leaving a streak of pre over his perfect skin with a roll of his hips. ]

You feel good everywhere, [ is a teasing half-grouse. ]

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