essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ Astarion sighs as Iorveth's perfect hand wraps around his erection, slippery with precome and so hard it aches. He trembles a little from the excitement and pleasure of it all, another nearly-foreign sound escaping him, almost surprised in its cadence. It's all so much, so fast, and he squeezes his eyes shut until the world is nothing but Iorveth's warm hand stroking between his legs, Iorveth's long fingers sifting through his hair, Iorveth's cock making him dazed.

All of that is, of course, wonderful, but it isn't what pushes him over the edge. What gets him is Iorveth's sweet words in his ear, honeyed even when he can't understand them. (He remembers how much he used to hate when Iorveth spoke to him in words he couldn't understand. Now the sound of Iorveth's talented tongue speaking his native language makes the back of his neck feel hot in a distinctly pleasurable way.) It's humiliating how strongly he's struck by a few affectionate words; his most perverse fantasy is being loved. ]

Yes, [ he agrees stupidly, not really sure what he's agreeing with. He tenses, clenches, clutches at Iorveth's back and tears it up some more for good measure. When he comes, it's with a desperate sound in the back of his throat, making a mess all over Iorveth's hand. ]

[ Even more cute aggression. Iorveth could eat that raw, strung-out sound right out of Astarion's mouth. It gets him closer to his own inevitable edge, still rutting and stroking even after Astarion finishes; when he finally crashes into his own orgasm, tensing and shaking with the effort, he buries his own drawn-out exhale into the crook of Astarion's neck.

Dizzying. Iorveth feels like someone hit him in the head with a mallet, but in the best way. His back hurts from the scratching, his neck feels sore from being bitten, and he's pretty sure he has heel-shaped bruises forming near his hips. It's perfect. The sex itself is amazing, obviously, but it's all the peripheral details that make it worth anything at all. Astarion-shaped everythings all over his body.

Instead of rolling off, Iorveth sinks his weight on top of Astarion for a few seconds, letting him drink in the limp afterglow of post-sex fuzziness. His messy hand wriggles from between their sandwiched bodies, licked clean briefly before landing on a handtowel that Iorveth'd thought to bring with the bottle of oil.

He nuzzles Astarion again― an unruly fox with a penchant for rubbing against his favorite person. To his credit, he finally pulls out, taking care not to make too much friction in the process. ]

My beloved, [ he hums. ] ...So that's a "yes" to "you're the sweetest creature in all the realms".

[ Teasing!!! ]

Oh.

[ Still a little dazed, a little distant, coming down from the flood of emotions. It's always intense and overwhelming, but especially now; pleasure, affection, but a little anxiety, too. Every time, he's always afraid that this time will be the time that makes Iorveth see him differently. Used up, good for nothing else. He winds his arms around Iorveth, holding him there against his body, grip snug like he's worried Iorveth is going to go somewhere. ]

I thought you were saying something dirtier.

[ He could have been reciting Waterdeep's Code Legal and Astarion wouldn't have known. Perhaps his next goal will be to learn the language. He'll have to know it eventually, if Iorveth is going to take him north. It'll irritate him too much if everyone is having conversations he can't participate in.

As for 'sweet', though, the very idea is laughable. If Iorveth wanted sweet, he should have gone for Wyll, Karlach, Gale. Hells, even Halsin can be sweet in his own annoying way. Astarion, though-- Astarion just bit, scratched, and kicked Iorveth like a rabid alley cat. He looks like he was attacked. Astarion runs a cool palm across Iorveth's back, soothing the roughened, raw skin there. It's pleasant to some primal part of his brain--'I want to make my mark on you', he'd said--but that's the same part of his brain that hisses at the idea of ever actually hurting Iorveth. ]

Heal yourself.

[ He would do it himself, if only he had the ability. Unfortunately, his skills lie more in the 'killing' department. ]

[ No comment about the dirty talk. He has a feeling Astarion would find it more funny than sexy if he started waxing poetic (?) mid-fuck, so in his opinion, he's just preserving their collective dignity. That said, Iorveth is not aware that he is embarrassing as all hells without intending to be, so there's that for irony.

Right now, though, Iorveth is content to keep Astarion where he is, blanketed and held by a warm (alive) body. Going nowhere, fast. ]

I prefer having traces of you on me, [ is a murmured pushback against "heal yourself". The touch along the warm, inflamed skin is a pleasant prickle of pain (freak); Iorveth wants to keep the marks for now, so he stubbornly winds his arms around Astarion and rolls him sideways as a distraction, pulling him into a proper embrace for more aggressive cuddling. ]

I'll be remided of your nails every time my shirt brushes against my skin.

[ Far more pleased by this than he has any right being. He tips his head, coy. ]

[ Iorveth is a freak through and through, but Astarion is too inexperienced in romance to realize just how much; for all he knows, this is just what every couple is like behind closed doors. He tries his best to make his touch soft and relieving, although assuaging pain comes far less easily to him than causing it. Obviously. He's so destructive that he practically mauled Iorveth during sex. ]

I'll steal a salve from Gale tomorrow.

[ Telling Iorveth, not asking him. If he refuses to heal himself magically, the least he can do is soothe them another way. As much as Astarion adores the idea of Iorveth constantly thinking of him, he doesn't want Iorveth to associate him with pain instead of pleasure. ]

I'll rub it on your back. Tenderly and sensually, of course.

[ Not minding fire-ant pain across his body is expected of an elf who let someone take needle and ink to half of his body, but Iorveth acquiesces. He always seems to, when Astarion is involved－ again, he's paper when Astarion asks for anything in a specific way.

A sigh, affectionate. After he lets their noses brush, Iorveth leans in for a lazy kiss. No more blood between Astarion's teeth to make the contact taste like iron, he notes. ]

―At least let me keep them until you come back from your ridiculous opera.

[ It's likely that Gale will come knocking with an armful of shiny new things for Astarion to wear (all of them slightly ill-fitting, if Gale's current wardrobe is anything to go by), and sweep him away to a ritzy opera house populated by the kinds of people a pre-Cazador Astarion would have been associated with.

It might be good for him, Iorveth thinks. But Iorveth will miss him, so the bruises and scratches are a nice, temporary souvenir. ]

[ It's Gale's ridiculous opera, not his! Although, admittedly, he has been looking forward to attending. He finds, horrifically, that he actually enjoys spending time with Gale. He loves Iorveth to death, but friendship is far less complicated and intense than a relationship — sometimes it's nice to have a conversation with someone who doesn't make him crazy.

A sigh. ]

Ugh. You lovely man. How could I deny you?

[ He can't. Again: Iorveth makes him crazy! ]

—But I've a favor to ask in return. I want to speak your language.

[ Notably, he doesn't say he wants to learn it. Learning is hard and boring and requires not being good at something first before you can get good at it. He'd prefer to skip all of the hard work and be a secret prodigy. ]

[ Gale is good for Astarion, Iorveth thinks. Two extroverted introverts, one of them a big sad dog and the other a wiry, angry cat. Sometimes Iorveth thinks that it might have been better for Astarion to have experienced some time post-Illithid threat in friendly company instead of an unhinged, goal-driven terrorist like Iorveth, but saying so will probably made Astarion angry, so. He'll keep that thought to himself until it inevitably gets spoken into reality at an inopportune time.

More importantly: this very unexpected request. Iorveth's brow hikes, pulling at the broken half of his face. ]

The Elder speech?

[ A bit of a pretentious way to refer to the Aen Seidhe dialect of Elvish, some would say: it implies a certain level of legitimacy and legacy that other elves might find slightly offputting, but it is what it is. Iorveth is too proud of his clan to care, really. ]

I could teach [ ! ] you, but it would require patience on your part.

[ Spoilsport. ]

[ Ew. Astarion wrinkles his nose at 'patience'. Two centuries of living life moment by moment has left no room for such things, and being denied everything he wanted has made him wary of delayed gratification. ]

I already speak Elvish.

[ Rarely, but the skill is there. He's always had more use for Common, but one doesn't just forget the language of their people — no matter how little regard Astarion actually feels for 'his people'. His elvishness is a small, almost unimportant detail to who he is, nothing like the all-encompassing descriptor it is for Iorveth. ]

And I did enough book learning to become a magistrate.

[ Probably a nepotism hire, but we don't need to talk about that. ]

How hard can it be?

[ To have been a fly on the wall while Astarion was studying for law exams. Iorveth's still slightly sex-fuzzy brain floats to the mental image of a bespectacled Astarion sitting by a window surrounded by thick, leather-bound tomes, which, bizarrely, just makes him want to kiss Astarion again.

So he does. Lips to lips, breath to unnecessary breath. In Iorveth's mind, Astarion earned that spot for himself (delusional). ]

You'll have to put up with me correcting you.

[ He finally replies, once he settles back onto his pillow and relaxes into being sideways on the mattress. A beat to think of a sentence in his dialect that sounds close enough to the Elven language for Astarion to decipher, and he offers: ]

"What my love wants, my love gets."

[ What Astarion said to him before, now in Aen Seidhe. ]

[ Astarion turns pink, embarrassed. How dare Iorveth remind him of the things he said when he was horny — he can't be held responsible for those. He'd happened to feel very obliging in that moment.

Still, he did say he wanted to speak Aen Seidhe (or the Elder speech, as Iorveth so pretentiously called it). He has to start somewhere, even if starting something new sounds unpleasant and scary. Being bad at something wasn't treated with gentleness and patience in the Szarr household; it was grounds for mockery, derision, and scorn. Usually, Astarion would just rather not try than do poorly.

But he does want to learn the dialect, both for practical and sentimental reasons. He doesn't want to use Iorveth as a translator for the rest of his eternal life, and he also wants to know something that seems important to Iorveth.

So, he repeats the phrase. Technically, there's nothing wrong with it. It's nowhere near his usual butchering of 'I like you', perfectly understandable, but— his accent is absolutely atrocious. ]

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