essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ Very, very overwhelming. A lot going on at once. He feels a bit dazed by it all, like it's hard to keep up, but it all seems to be bypassing his brain and going straight to his groin, anyway. It's instinct to lap at the blood in his mouth, less a kiss than a feeding, and when it's gone he feels that maw inside him grow a little hungrier. He has the sudden animal desire to push Iorveth over, pin him down, and drink from him until he's limp, but—

That would be a bit of a mood killer, he thinks. 'Limp' is sort of the last thing Iorveth should be right now. Astarion grips Iorveth's torso, fingernails digging in just a little too forcefully, in an attempt to control the hunger. The heat of him against his leg is a welcome distraction and, again by instinct, he presses his thigh up between Iorveth's legs. ]

You're so hot, [ he says stupidly. A beat, then: ] Warm.

[ It's ridiculously appealing. Iorveth is so unmistakably alive that it's practically obscene. ]

...And hot, obviously, [ he adds, with a self-amused little giggle. Just in case there's any doubt in Iorveth's mind that Astarion thinks he's a grade-A ultra-desirable hottie. ]

[ The nails digging into his skin are pleasant; Iorveth wants them to bruise, to scrape, to leave marks that he can proudly wear for the next few days. A pleased half-rumble in the back of his throat, and he presses down on Astarion just a bit more, giving him more warmth to absorb, more weight to feel. ]

So you say. [ About his so-called attractiveness. Astarion is so cute. ] We'll keep that a well-kept secret between you and I.

[ "I only believe that when you say it," essentially. An acquiescence of sorts. He traces Astarion's lower lip with his thumb, in love with that clever mouth and everything that comes out of it― he eventually coaxes his index and middle past the breach of soft lips, and it's their turn to catch along the sharp edge of Astarion's fangs, spilling more blood that Iorveth can rub and slick over his love's tongue.

It's a reminder: Iorveth loves this aspect of Astarion, too. Not in spite of the vampirism, but because that, too, is a part of him. ]

What is it about you that makes me want to spoil you, I wonder. [ A low murmur, as he braces his weight on his knees and lifts up just an inch, giving him enough space to slowly make friction with the hand still cupping Astarion's length over his smallclothes. Fingers above, fingers below. A lot, probably. ] I could spend all night making you come again and again.

[ A lot. If it were anyone else, he'd find this all far too intrusive and maybe even a little demeaning, but Iorveth would never, ever, demean him, and, well— maybe he likes being intruded upon, when the person doing so is Iorveth. He still feels a little adrift in the sea of being the one things are done to instead of the one doing; this isn't the dynamic he's taken care to cultivate between them, where everything having to do with intimacy is entirely under his tight control. Still, it isn't bad. It's a bit intimidating how 'not bad' it is, actually, body reacting eagerly under Iorveth's palm.

What can he say? He's always had a thing for Iorveth's hands. Long, elegant fingers. Callused palms. He couldn't help himself from lapping at the nicks on Iorveth's fingers if he tried, and he could help himself from dragging his fangs down them to make more, but he doesn't. Iorveth has made a monster, or at least a spoiled brat. His mouth waters so badly at the taste of blood that he can feel himself drooling around Iorveth's knuckles, which should be embarrassing, but for once in his life he can't bring himself to be self-conscious.

He can still bring himself to be impatient, though. Again: Iorveth has made a monster. He reaches down to grab Iorveth's hand by the wrist and shove it underneath his waistband. Spoiled!! ]

[ Very spoiled!!! But seeing Astarion want things inspires more cute aggression than anything else, so Iorveth obliges with skin-on-skin contact for a few brief seconds, keeping his own roiling need under check to indulge in giving Astarion more attention. Predictably, someone as beautiful as Astarion is still mind-bogglingly pretty, even with fingers in his mouth.

More slow petting, more tangling of fingers against tongue, and Iorveth suddenly withdraws. Not entirely, of course－ he's still hovering above Astarion, shifting on his knees for balance－ but the hands retreat, and reach sideways for the hard-earned bottle of oil that he'd ruined his relationship with Tara to acquire.

It's a check-in moment. A silent "you're still okay with all this?", written into the slight hike of his brow, shimmering with beading sweat; he sits up to pour some of the container's contents onto one palm, warming it with his body heat. His free hand moves to tug Astarion's underwear down and past his knees. ]

[ Iorveth withdraws, and Astarion is hit with a cloudy-minded panic that shows on his face. He thinks maybe he's done something wrong, been too selfish, made Iorveth feel the horrible way he used to feel, like an object being used for somebody else's pleasure. Then Iorveth pours some lavender-scented oil into his palm, and— ]

Oh.

[ He laughs in relief, flopping back against the pillow. Gods, if Iorveth only knew the emotional journey he just put Astarion on. ]

I thought perhaps you'd—

[ He's not sure. Hated this. Been disgusted by Astarion's shameful desires. It's him who really feels like the deranged and perverted one, if only because wanting at all still feels somehow profane. He supposes it doesn't matter what he thought; neuroses are a bit of a mood-killer, and he'd rather not spoil this with them.

He kicks off Gale's fancy underwear the rest of the way. Gods, at least this pair isn't bright purple. ]

Is this all right?

[ Perhaps other people would find Astarion's uncertainty irritating, if they were heartless enough. But Iorveth has also been under the knifepoint of other people's abuse, and he knows what it feels like to react violently to things that would otherwise be unremarkable to others.

So he relaxes his posture and bends forward, kissing Astarion again with his still-bloodstained mouth. Affectionate. ]

You could ask my prick, [ he finally replies, keeping it light. With the hand that isn't slick with oil, he guides Astarion's touch down and onto his very obvious, very interested erection, straining comically between his legs. Probably not very sexy at all, but the point is to make Astarion smile.

A hum, and he slots their hips together, with Astarion's knees spread and his own body nestled between them. ]

Gods, I want you desperately.

[ It does make him smile, and it is sexy, because everything Iorveth does is sexy. That's what happens when you're delusionally in love with someone. He lets himself relax into the mattress again, pelvis coming up to press instinctively against Iorveth's. From this position, the friction he's able to create is negligible at best, but at least it's something.

Astarion could be romantic. He could tell Iorveth how much he wants him (undoubtedly more and far more desperately than Iorveth wants him), could tell Iorveth that he loves him, that Iorveth is the handsomest and most desirable man on Toril.

He could. He doesn't. ]

—I guess not desperately enough if you're just talking about it instead of doing something about it.

[ Iorveth wasn't lying: Astarion does feel good all over. Smooth, cool skin stark against Iorveth's scar-mapped, tan skin, soft curls tickling against Iorveth's ruined jaw. The compulsion to swallow Astarion whole wells up again, even though he has no way of actually managing it― instead, he goes for the next best thing, which is to crush their lips together and kiss that taunt out of Astarion's mouth while he grips both of their lengths with his oil-wet hand and starts moving, slick and dizzyingly filthy.

Just a prelude. Iorveth intends to make good on his promise to fuck Astarion (not actually an altruistic thing; it's his sex brain that says that he really, really, really wants to), but he can't help himself from wanting to touch every bit of Astarion that he can manage before he drives himself insane with need. It's only once he knows that it's not just the oil making the slide easier, and once his nerves start officially fraying at their seams, that Iorveth stops to breathe through his teeth, trailing messy fingers further down to rub the flat of his middle over Astarion's still-tight entrance.

He must be scalding against Astarion's cold body. Pulse roaring, breath fragmenting. His pupils are a bit blown; the only thing reflected in his forest-green eye is Astarion. ]

Bite me.

[ He murmurs, forehead to forehead. ]

[ Gods, he doesn't need to be asked twice. Having Iorveth so close to him, blood rushing, heart pounding, with just a hint of blood in his mouth and nothing more is agony. The most pleasurable agony he's ever been in, to be sure, but still agony.

Besides, he can't deny that he feels a little bit of nerves. Not nearly as strongly as he did when he did this with random strangers at Cazador's behest, but it still feels very vulnerable and very intimate, two things he has historically been bad at being. He likes the idea of filling his mind with Iorveth's touch and Iorveth's blood so that even his worries are drowned out; liquid courage, albeit a different kind of liquid than one might typically use.

So, he does as told, hand raising to cradle Iorveth's head against him as he angles his head and sinks his fangs into Iorveth's throat, careful even now to avoid his tattoo, no matter how appealing the idea of biting all the way down it is. A brief moment of pressure, then sharp pain, and then Iorveth's skin is pierced, warm blood running onto Astarion's tongue, into his mouth. He suckles, licks, gulps, fingers stroking Iorveth's hair reverently. Food is just food when it's some pig on the street, but with Iorveth, it's different. It doesn't feel like a snack, it feels like an offering. ]

[ The already-blurred line between biting and fucking gets even fuzzier: the freak part of Iorveth's brain now associates the rush of fangs breaking skin with messy, sweat-slick intimacy, which is a problem for Future Iorveth. Present Iorveth rides out that initial rush of pain-vertigo and waits for Astarion to relax into the feeding to breach him, nuzzling up against all that soft hair as he works the first digit inside.

Altruism leaves entirely― Iorveth feels unbelievably greedy. Some sort of hereto unknown and untapped version of cute aggression, perhaps. He wants to occupy as much of Astarion as he can, to sew him onto the bedsheets with his weight and affection until there's no space for Astarion to doubt that he's loved, coveted, wanted. It's probably far too much to ask, but Iorveth, again, trusts Astarion to push back if anything verges on overwhelming or unpleasantly domineering.

Running hot, Iorveth's breath shudders between his teeth as he works another finger into that still-tight space. Astarion feels pleasantly lukewarm now, from the sex or the blood or both, and Iorveth's heart does a stupid little flip at how much he does, in fact, care for the man he's currently rutting against like a wild animal. He's been ruined for anyone or anything else, and the problem is that he doesn't have a problem with that at all.

A few more beat like this, shifting and bucking against Astarion while he makes friction, and he hums a light warning against Astarion's ear. Save a little blood for his dick. ]

[ The whole world narrows down to his fangs at Iorveth's neck. No more anxiety, no more worries, just blood above and the sensation of being stretched below. On a rational level, he understands that he can't just take and take and take from Iorveth until he has no more blood left to give, but on a feral animal level, he wants to consume every last drop of Iorveth.

Unhealthy. Codependent. A little (or maybe a lot) toxic. Maybe if Iorveth met him two centuries ago, he'd be able to love Iorveth normally. Then again, Iorveth probably would have hated his guts.

At the warning hum, Astarion instinctively presses closer, grip around Iorveth's head tighter, like he wants to refuse to stop. It's only once his thinking brain kicks in that he's able to tear himself away, face messy from trying to feed upside down. ]

Sorry.

[ He doesn't need to breathe, but somehow he feels breathless. ]

Oh, [ is a sigh at the feeling of Iorveth's fingers, his body weight, his everything. ] I can't help myself with you.

[ Cute, Iorveth thinks. (Deranged.) His neck hurts from where the fangs withdraw, the puncture wounds still seeping blood; Iorveth is only aware of the pain on a surface level, too caught up in the feral desire to lean in and kiss the red from Astarion's lips, which he does.

It doesn't taste good to him, obviously, but there's a thrill in knowing that it's satisfying to Astarion. Another hum with their lips locked, and Iorveth pulls back after an affectionate graze of teeth to soft skin. ]

Music to my ears.

[ He loves it when Astarion wants things― it makes Iorveth want to spoil him more, which is definitely unhealthy. More oil gets applied to fingers, and more digits work to relax Astarion open enough so that it wont hurt when Iorveth pushes inside him; there's just a hint of impatience beneath the careful ministrations, but it's easily eclipsed by Iorveth's preternatural stubbornness. He'd rather have his remaining eye shot out than make Astarion feel badly during sex.

That said: ] I can't help myself, either. [ A roll of his hips, his erection sliding along Astarion's. ] Do you feel ready enough?

Yes, yes, yes.

[ More than a hint of impatience. As lovely as Iorveth's fingers are, he'd rather them replaced with Iorveth's lovely cock. Usually, when he fantasizes, it's about pinning Iorveth down and pressing inside him until the ever-working cogs of his mind grind to a stop, but at this moment, there's nothing more appealing than Iorveth on top of him, neck still dripping a tiny rivulet of blood.

It's already too much and just enough; he drags his nails down Iorveth's scalp to his shoulders, nails pressing little divots into the skin there. ]

Darling. I'll kill you if you make me wait.

[ Very romantic, very hinged. ]

[ Oh, threaten him with a good time. Astarion rakes nails against his skin and says I'll kill you, and impossibly, it makes Iorveth laugh. ]

Wouldn't that be something.

[ It would be terrible, actually, but sex brain says that Astarion wanting him enough to want to kill him is very romantic, so. The fingers retract, their heat replaced by the more obvious, more substantial heat of his cock as Iorveth starts to push in, his weight against Astarion's chest and his hand hiking Astarion's thigh up to slot their hips more closely together.

Immediately overwhelming. Iorveth forgets to breathe for a few seconds; his brain stutters, stops. When it kicks back into gear, he can only think in adjectives― tight, warm, good― and he almost says them out loud with his next exhale, but it winds up being a shuddering moan instead. It gets the point across, hopefully.

He stills, grinds, then rolls his hips back an inch. Slow friction, trying not to be too aggressive right out of the gate. He combs one hand through Astarion's hair, petting him slowly in time to the barely-there rhythm he's starting. ]

Say the word, and I won't hold back.

[ Astarion's nails dig harder into Iorveth's shoulders. It probably hurts, and distantly, he recognizes that, but like he said, he can't help himself. There's something there behind his eyes: a spark, like flint striking steel. The sensation of Iorveth pushing inside him is absolutely obscene, but it doesn't feel dirty or shameful. Iorveth feels like he's burning up in the best possible way, even now that he's been warmed by those fingers. He matches the shudder with one of his own, quieter but no less intense.

It would be perfect, if Iorveth weren't coddling him. No one in the world has ever managed to feel so simultaneously turned on and irritated at the same time. He hooks a leg over Iorveth's hip, urging him with a heel. Honestly, he might be kicking him a little. Again: he can't help himself. ]

—I'm not made of glass.

[ Astarion kicks him, which makes Iorveth laugh again: a half-choked, thrilled little huff. His own body feels like one big exposed nerve, with every new sensation like small fireworks under his skin.

Astarion is really asking for it. He shifts, sweat trailing from temple to jaw, matting the longer strands of hair framing his face against his broken skin. ]

In that case, [ he murmurs, ] hold on.

[ Bracing his weight on his elbows, his knees, Iorveth arches his back and draws out― a smooth slide followed by an inwards surge, giving Astarion the entire length of him in one roll of his hips. He only gives Astarion a second to adjust to that feeling before he starts moving in earnest, forcing Astarion's knees apart even more to drive harder into him, faster.

It feels insane. Iorveth's thought process boils down to vague shapes of wants and needs, with Astarion being the only term he can conjure coherently. His love, his most important person. He pants it, a fractured, hoarse whistle of breath in the back of his throat as he tries to fuck Astarion into the softly-squeaking mattress. ]

[ Sweat usually disgusts him, but he finds himself struck with the desire to lick it off of Iorveth. He's really too far gone.

He lets his hands wander, scratching up Iorveth's back like a feral animal. It's difficult to believe that this is the same person who'd staunchly kept a polite two-inch distance between them the first night they shared a bed. Astarion hadn't even wanted him then, at least not in any sort of conscious way, and when he finally did he had burned with shame. The burn he feels is entirely different now.

Another spark behind his eyes, more like fireworks now. Iorveth rubs against a place inside that sends electricity all the way up his spine, and he lets out a strangled sort of sound that he's not sure he's ever made before. It's wonderful. It's agonizing. ]

My love— fuck.

[ A long drag of his nails down Iorveth's back, and: ] For the love of the gods, touch me.

[ A little rude, but it gets the job done. ]

[ No gods here. (Unless Mystra is still snooping around Gale's periphery, in which case, go away.) Iorveth is reeling, desperate to be as close to Astarion as he possibly can with the limitation of their bodies being built to be separate entities; still, as sex-stupid as he is in the moment, his mind processes Astarion and his request (demand) with uncompromising acuity.

Iorveth obliges. It manifests as an inelegant shuffling of limbs and balance, the rhythm of his hips broken by the negotiating, but he gets there. One hand wraps around Astarion's cock to stroke him through the frenetic rutting, while the other tangles in silver hair to pet and frame Astarion's face as Iorveth litters kisses wherever he can manage. ]

Fuck, I don't have enough hands.

[ A low growl-laugh fractures towards the end, the vicelike grip of Astarion's body easily making stars flicker behind his remaining eye. He shudders and slides forward even more, almost lifting the small of Astarion's back from the mattress as he drives into him. ]

Astarion― [ he forgets Common for a delirious second, whispering sweet nothings in his own language before he thinks to switch back, syllables slurred and jumbled. ] ―Like this, close to you always, closer than anything.

[ Incoherent, probably. It's fine. He wants Astarion to come, wants to come inside Astarion, wants Astarion to smell like jasmine and sandalwood for the next few days. Feral and possessive, utterly devoted. ]

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