essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 'What of yours', Iorveth asks, and Astarion laughs a little. It's a fair question. He's used giving pleasure without reciprocation as an excuse not to be touched more times than he can count. It isn't the same now; he adores Iorveth's touch, but just not as much as he's adoring the sight of him relaxed and limp right now. ]

This is mine.

[ Another thin finger pressing in, curling, seeking out the spot that makes Iorveth react and brushing against it, light enough to be pleasurable but not overwhelming. He does have the thought of being almost punishing with it, at pressing against that spot over and over until Iorveth trembles from it, but, well. Another time. Tonight is for being kind, and for making Iorveth feel loved. ]

Do you think that I don't enjoy touching you?

[ Oh, he mouths as a response to "this is mine", both as an answer to the statement and an involuntary huff at the feeling of another finger. Is it embarrassing that it's getting easier to accept the intrusion, that he can feel his knees parting another inch for better access, that his hips hike up a fraction from the mattress to chase the buzz he feels every time Astarion grazes against that spot that makes him feel raw, too good?

A little. There's something to be said about trusting a partner with pain, but he's finding that the trustfall of allowing someone to be careful is just as intense. Nowhere to hide, stripped bare in all senses. Pre-Astarion, even in more halcyon days, he might have shoved someone away and masked it as a playful push-and-pull.

It's scary, being loved. Loved like this, more accurately. He flushes hotter, his lust-stupid erection making a bit of a mess on his stomach already, and chokes back another too-honest sound. ]

You're insane. [ Affectionately. Only Astarion could find joy in touching such a weird, jagged elf, and Iorveth loves him for it; it makes him writhe around those fingers again, tightening around them as he reaches up with one hand to try to touch Astarion's perfect face. ] ―If you want to spoil me, kiss me.

You deviant.

[ Astarion leans forward, the movement gently pushing the leg still perched on his shoulder closer to Iorveth's body. His hands are practically trapped between their bodies like this, so he relinquishes his hold on Iorveth's cock, allowing it to brush against his own erection instead so that Iorveth can feel just how much he's desired, jagged edges and all. His fingers keep up their steady work between Iorveth's legs; he'll complain about having a sore wrist later, but it feels worth it right now.

He knows that kisses are special to Iorveth, so he takes his time with soft, light pecks against his mouth to distract and relax and pamper him, tongue only darting out to wet his lips without pushing inside. A third finger enters that tight heat, a ring of muscle stretching around his knuckles in a way that's dizzyingly satisfying. ]

You're doing so well, [ he coos, and he would know. He's had plenty times of his own not 'doing well', tensed up and anxious. ] Does it feel good?

[ For once, not fishing. ]

[ A lot of limbs to negotiate, but they get there. Iorveth hums at the feeling of soft lips against his, infatuated with Astarion's mouth as ever; Astarion doesn't have to breathe, so the intimacy of sharing exhales and inhales is slightly undercut, but it matters very little in the grand scheme of things. It feels good, and lets him acclimate to the third finger pressing inside him, the stretch momentarily verging on the edge of uncomfortable but never quite getting there. Subsumed by trust and the eventual spine-shaking feeling of clever digits rubbing just right. ]

Good, [ he murmurs against lips warmed by his breath. ] Good all over, hells.

[ An elf puddle on the sheets, boneless (minus the part that counts) but vibrating all over. The press of their bodies and the slide of their cocks against each other makes Iorveth see stars momentarily― like the first sparks of an orgasm, but not quite. He knows Astarion can feel that tremble from where Iorveth squeezes around his fingers, not from tension but involuntary pleasure.

A whisper of a moan, and Iorveth closes his eye. He feels like his brain is leaking out of his ears. ] Can't think, [ he corroborates. ]

Good.

[ That's the goal. Thoughts are terrible, nasty things, and Iorveth has far too many of them. Astarion wants him mindless, empty-headed. That's the kindest possible thing he could do for Iorveth. ]

Perfect, [ he corrects, leaning down to coax Iorveth's mouth open with his tongue, just as exploratory as he is with his fingers. His weight presses against Iorveth, but he's careful not to be forceful with it, the way that he sometimes is when he tries to trap Iorveth underneath him and smother him with affection.

Iorveth's erection feels warm and wet against his own, and he rocks experimentally against him, fingers curling. ]

Do you feel ready?

[ It's obvious by the hardness rubbing against Iorveth what his preference is, but— If all Iorveth wants is this, he can live with that, pleasure him before rolling over to touch himself to completion if he has to. No one was ever willing to make that sacrifice for him, but he certainly would be for Iorveth. ]

[ Correction: he can't think about anything except how much he wants Astarion, in him and on him and against him. Iorveth feels opened all over, like Astarion has found the right string keeping him together and tugged it just enough to unfurl him; he huffs and nods against Astarion's mouth, one limp arm draping around his partner's shoulder for something to hold.

He should say something poignant, probably. Something about how he was made ready, or about how he's never been so eager to have someone pry him open. Instead: ]

Yes. [ A single syllable, yet he manages to slur it. ] Astarion, please.

[ Not even begging as a treat. Reduced down to base desires, all he can articulate is the only thing on his pleasantly slow-moving mind, which happens to be the man currently holding the proverbial keys to his kingdom. Iorveth bucks up, grinding his slick cock against Astarion's, his next breath almost as close to a whine as someone like Iorveth can allow of himself. ]

Astarion, [ he slurs again. The most important thing he can think to say. ]

I do love to hear you say that.

[ 'Astarion' or 'please'? It's unclear. Maybe both. He straightens up, withdrawing his fingers with careful slowness, cognizant of the discomfort Iorveth might feel from the action and wanting to minimize it as much as possible. He never wants Iorveth to feel uncomfortable with him, only pure, mindless pleasure in whatever form that might take. Gentleness, roughness — what his love wants, his love gets. He's never been interested in someone else's pleasure before Iorveth, but being with him is an endless procession of new experiences.

He reaches for the vial of oil again, drizzling it liberally until his erection is adequately slick. Gods bless Gale for his fancy oils, although something tells him that the poor wizard wouldn't be pleased if he knew what an integral part he played in their intimacy. He's hot with anticipation as he lines himself up against Iorveth, not unlike the way he feels when he's particularly hungry, but he's used to denying that feeling to avoid scaring others, too; he pushes inside slowly, eyes cast downward to watch Iorveth stretch to take him in until he bottoms out, hips bumping against the back of Iorveth's thighs.

An unnecessary breath in and out. He doesn't move even though he desperately wants to, body kept still to allow Iorveth the chance to adjust. ]

Oh, [ he sighs. ] You're perfect.

[ Made for him, one would think, if he believed in such things. ]

[ Discomfort is the farthest thing from Iorveth's mind. It's corralled somewhere that he can't access even despite the fact that resistance should be his body's first instinct, consumed entirely by the love-stupid sentiment of "finally". The impossible feeling of Astarion pushing inside him is slow, agonizing, and everything Iorveth has ever wanted.

Which is why he hooks his legs around Astarion's waist, keeping him close with the sort of stupid vehemence that's characteristic of someone who is stupidly committed to this moment, to feeling the way Astarion pries him open, to molding himself around that shape.

Clinging, arms around Astarion's neck and his entire body vibrating with an energy he can't describe, Iorveth tries to breathe, to speak. He only manages a very eloquent: ] Fuck, [ which comes out as a strained half-laugh, bemused and thrilled at the same time at Astarion's use of 'perfect'.

A lot. He tightens himself around the warm obstruction currently occupying 150% of his brainpower, and closes his eye. ] ―Slowly, love. Make me feel it all.

[ Astarion's not sure he's ever had sex like this, unhurried, the journey more important the destination. For someone whose sexual experiences until recently were the exact opposite, it feels terribly scandalous. His neck flushes pink with pleasure as he leans his weight on Iorveth again, pressing kisses to his cheek, the bridge of his nose, his mouth. He opens Iorveth's mouth with an intruding tongue again, eager to be inside of him in every way possible. What he wants most in the world is to cut Iorveth open, stuff his love inside, and sew him back up so that he can never doubt how deeply he's loved. This will have to do, though.

'Slow' is agonizing to his body, but his mind wants nothing more than to please Iorveth, so he rocks against him at a pace that feels agonizing, pleasure building and receding. He loathes being told what to do in bed, but he finds it doesn't rankle when it's Iorveth telling him.

Grinning against Iorveth's mouth, fangs peeking out to press against the soft skin there: ] I couldn't possibly deny you. My love, [ he says in poorly-accented Aen Seidhe.

He couldn't. He's had centuries of being forced into obedience against his will, but there's only one person he'd ever willingly obey. ]

[ Overwhelming. Iorveth feels their bodies rock together as Astarion starts to move, and every single nerve in his body lights up at the feeling. Pleasant friction everywhere, all-consuming: it makes Iorveth's mind go completely blank for a few beats, thoughts conveyed in electrical signals that blissfully go nowhere. He warms even more, ruined face flushed red, but he's too far gone to wonder if he doesn't feel uncomfortably hot against Astarion's cooler skin.

More kisses, open-mouthed and indulgent. There's another half-whined breath when Astarion grazes against that same sensitive spot that clever fingers have primed, and Iorveth shifts to chase that feeling during the next careful in and out. ]

Fuck, Astarion.

[ If his crafty cat wanted Iorveth to be completely empty-headed, well. Goal achieved. The world dials down to Astarion and how their bodies fit together, how much Iorveth loves him, how good it feels to be loved by someone so impossibly perfect. His legs wind tighter around that eminently grabbable waist, though his lower half feels－ for lack of a better word－ too fucked out for the squeezing to have any consequence but for him to cling around Astarion's cock.

He huffs something in his native tongue, then nuzzles up against Astarion's jaw. ]

So good― I love you, [ in much better Aen Seidhe, but with less composure. ] Astarion, beloved. My only. You're everything.

[ Babbling a bit. He's pretty sure that Astarion could make him come without touching his cock at all, at this point: his whole body feels like it's on fire. ]

[ Not uncomfortably hot. Well, perhaps uncomfortably hot, but it hardly matters. Iorveth could be as warm as the surface of the sun (and gods, sometimes it feels that way) but Astarion would still press their bare bodies closer together, soaking up every bit of heat. It's inside that really feels hot, overwhelmingly so, but he finds it only heightens the sensation. He's chronically allergic to any sort of work, but not when it comes to Iorveth; he seeks out that spot again, the tip of him rubbing up against it, and presses into it over and over again, chasing that whine.

He can barely tell if it's been a minute or an hour since they started, but he does know that it's the slowest build to a crescendo that he's ever had, and all the more powerful for it. Like every instrument in the orchestra playing, first impossibly quiet and then at full strength, just like the finale of that stupid opera he made fun of with Gale. He feels himself stutter, tremble, and— no, no, no. This is about Iorveth, and Astarion will just die if he finishes before him.

Mouth pressed against Iorveth's preciously pointy ear, he says, a little breathless and a little desperate, ] Be a good boy and come, darling. I want you to.

[ Iorveth would laugh himself into an early grave, probably, if Astarion ever told him that fucking someone is far too much work. Then again: fair. They're both oversized elves with long limbs, and they'll both probably be sore in weird places tomorrow.

Worth it, though. Iorveth shifts, rocks, and makes soft noises in the back of his throat, close, closer, too close to his edge without even paying attention to his cock; all he can think about is the spine-achingly good spot inside himself that Astarion keeps giving attention to, and how full he feels.

Being told to come in that sweet voice is really the last straw. Iorveth wasn't exercising much restraint anyway, but being coaxed makes him fall apart almost immediately (embarrassing); any advance warning of his orgasm is swept away by the numbing wave that hits him, and he winds up opening his mouth for a choked half-moan that gets broken down into desperate huffs as he comes, and he comes, and he comes.

Intense, in a wholly unfamiliar way. His fingers scrabble at Astarion's back, at his shoulders, blunt nails raking along pale skin until he passes the highest point of his peak and slumps, limp, onto the mattress. A messy, sweat-slicked elf puddle.

(His legs remain hooked around his partner's middle. Obstinately keeping him in, refusing to let Astarion finish anywhere but inside him.) ]

[ Fucking someone is too much work, if that someone isn't Iorveth. With Iorveth, though, he doesn't mind the ache in his thighs at all, and he barely notices his hair sticking to his forehead. All he pays attention to is those glorious sounds Iorveth makes. Astarion follows quickly after—conspicuously quickly, probably—with a few shallow jerks and a noise that gets muffled in the back of his throat.

He does start to notice the ache in his thighs soon after that, and he lets himself slump against Iorveth's body, draped over him like a weighted blanket. His arms wrap around Iorveth, squeezing him, trapping him so that he can't go anywhere.

After a moment of silence, letting the afterglow wash over him, he laughs and says, ] Next time, we should do it like we hate each other.

[ He contains multitudes. ]

[ Please, let Iorveth boot up again. It's a shame that he was far too out of it to properly savor Astarion's orgasm, but he can soak up the afterglow now with their bodies pressed tightly against each other and their bodies sinking into the burgundy-colored bed.

Once Iorveth manages to put enough of his brain back together to figure out that Astarion is speaking Common: ]

That would require a considerable amount of creative liberties.

[ Big words again! Good for Iorveth. Catching his breath, he tips his head and busies himself with littering idle kisses against Astarion's hair, his temple, his ear. ]

"Hate" may be difficult. "Mortal enemy I want to fuck", doable.

[ He laughs again before carefully pulling out and flopping over onto his back beside Iorveth, letting the cool air hit his sweaty—dewy—skin. ]

Mm, I like it. I'm against everything you stand for, but you just can't resist fondling me in a broom closet.

[ Or, you know, wherever. He's open to being fondled in many a place. The hand closest to Iorveth wanders up to stroke the pointy end of an ear, the pad of his thumb traveling up to the tapered tip and then back down again. Pure affection, not at all befitting a mortal enemy who Iorveth would like to fuck. ]

For years, this body was an... unpleasant place to be. [ A little distant, like recalling it brings him somewhere else entirely: ] I hated every bit of inhabiting it.

[ For many reasons. Too weak, too dead, too used. Littered with markings of Cazador. ]

—But when I'm with you, I forget all the reasons I despise it.

[ If only for a little while, but a little while of happiness can't be discounted. ]

[ Oof. Losing Astarion's weight on top of him is very unwelcome, but Iorveth is too boneless (properly, this time) to do anything about it but chase him with one relaxed hand, resting it near his hip. His head lists sideways to accept the touch and to listen to what he's being told, and once Iorveth is sure that Astarion has finished, he opens his eye (he hadn't noticed that he'd closed it) and ventures: ]

I love the shape of you. But it's not my place to tell you to love the body you inhabit.

[ It's the same reason why Iorveth won't tell Astarion something stupid and trite like "your scar is beautiful"; it doesn't matter what he thinks it is, if Astarion hates it.

That said, he runs his warm palm up his partner's now slightly-less pale skin, and rests it where his heart is unbeating in his chest. ]

An honor, regardless, to be told that I can make you forget. [ A soft smile, and Iorveth nudges his forehead against Astarion's hand. ] I can only be grateful that you are who you are.

[ An honor. Iorveth is so ridiculous. Astarion would have rolled his eyes at such a declaration before; he did, back when Iorveth had so dramatically offered him his blood for the first time, my pledge. He'd thought himself entirely unworthy of anything treated with that much seriousness. He still does, sometimes, but the earnestness with which Iorveth professes these things to him makes him almost believe that he's deserving of them. ]

It's me who should be grateful for you, but— [ He rolls onto his side so that he can run a thumb over Iorveth's jaw. ] Ugh. Playing the I love you more game is irritatingly twee, don't you think?

[ Even though, you know. He does love Iorveth more. ]

How do you feel? Aside from, ah. [ The corner of his mouth curls upward. ] Sticky.

[ Smoothbrained creature of impulse that he is, he didn't consider that this would have been better to do before the bath. ]

[ Mirrored sentiments. "I definitely love you more," Iorveth thinks, before he's asked to stop mentally arguing and give a description of how he feels.

It's a stupid question. ]

A stupid question.

[ Once a rude elf, always a rude elf. That said, as ever, there's an addendum: ] I feel good. Happy. Lucky. [ A pause, and then: ] Loved.

[ An admission, so that Astarion can enjoy his successes. He deserves to. He's going to be pleasantly limp for the entire night, which is demonstrated by the fact that he isn't getting up right away to find a damp towel to wipe both of them off with (which is what he would usually do, perpetual motion machine that he is). All Iorveth manages is a tip of his head, and a lazy scrape of his teeth over Astarion's thumb. ]

I feel that the Gods themselves couldn't have made a more perfect creature than you. [ Which probably isn't saying much, because the Gods suck. Iorveth laughs as he says it, unserious but also deadly serious, and nudges Astarion's palm with his chin. ] Now go clean yourself, before I embarrass myself further.

[ Iorveth certainly wasn't thinking that Astarion was perfect all of the times he scolded him for being foolish, shortsighted, not seeing things clearly— but he won't argue against it. He responds to the nudge with a pat before forcing himself up (he's tired too, you know, that was really a lot of physical effort) and absconding back into the bathroom. When he returns, it's draped in a purple robe that really isn't his color but is soft and warm, and with a (you guessed it, purple) cloth in hand.

Crawling back up beside Iorveth on the bed, he runs the damp cloth over tanned skin. This, too, is the sort of thing he never indulged in before Iorveth. Another kind of gentleness, caring for someone else. ]

We'll need to go shopping tomorrow.

[ A thought apropos of seemingly nothing, yet very logical, in his mind. Thinking of how much he loves Iorveth reasonably leads to how much he'd rage if anything were to happen to him. ]

I want you armed to the gills with holy water.

[ Funny, how so many humans and creatures who live far shorter lives accuse them of being "boys" when, in fact, the reality is that they're tired elves who have seen far too much shit in two hundred years than most humans will ever perceive in a lifetime. Iorveth lounges, still fuzzy around his edges when Astarion returns, and submits himself to the cleaning with the docility of a wild animal who has found one person it likes being brushed by.

The robe looks nice on Astarion. Iorveth admires it as his stomach gets wiped down (thank the gods), and huffs a soft laugh. ]

Look at you, planning.

[ Iorveth has maybe three brain cells working at full capacity right now, so obviously Astarion is picking up the slack. His fingers travel over the bare crest of one knee peeking out through purple fabric, idle and affectionate. ]

As godsless as this city seems, it has a temple district－ surely we'll be able to pilfer some holy water from an ill-visited place of worship or other.

[ A hum. ] Are you worried?

[ Astarion tosses the cloth onto the floor and places the vial of oil on the nightstand. (Telling, where his priorities lie.) Afterward, he settles onto his back beside Iorveth again, staring up at the ceiling. It might be the only thing in this damned inn that isn't purple, but he's sure that they'll change that soon enough. ]

I don't worry.

[ A lie. For someone who rarely thinks ahead beyond the present moment, he's surprisingly anxious. A constant feeling of nervousness, like the day-to-day of a small prey animal. He doesn't know what he's worried about most of the time, just that it feels like something bad could happen very soon.

As for Alkam— ]

I'm just... strategizing. [ Another word for worrying. ] We only managed to best Cazador because sunlight didn't affect me.

[ An exasperated huff. The whole point of all of this was to stop the turning gears in Iorveth's head, not give them a reason to speed up. ]

Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about. I'm sure it will all work out, one way or another.

[ Astarion better soak up this moment of lax stupidity from Iorveth, because it's truly not built to last. The lazy, lax lounging fades just a bit, making way for the all-too-familiar hawklike sharpness to flit back into his one-eyed focus. ]

Mm. [ "I'm sure it will all work out" is not an actual strategy, but Iorveth loves Astarion so he won't absolutely dunk on him the way he would if, say, Wyll said the same. "Yes, that's what they all say before they find themselves hanging by their necks at the gallows", would be his customary response.

Instead: ] What would be the worst possible outcome for you? Other than you dying, obviously.

[ One crystalline thing that they can absolutely avoid. Sometimes, determining that is more useful than the best possible outcome. ]

Edited 2025-05-01 03:35 (UTC)

[ 'How is that fucking helpful?' runs through his mind, but because he loves Iorveth and doesn't want to ruin his afterglow more than he probably already has, he doesn't snap at him. Astarion tells himself that Iorveth is trying to help in his own way; leave it to him, though, to focus on the worst case scenario.

Then again, it's not like Astarion hasn't been considering the worst case scenario himself. There's plenty of things that could go wrong: failing to kill Alkam and being banished to the darkness forever is a big one. Being horribly maimed is always an option. Hells, there's the possibility of not even being able to make it to Alkam to begin with. If he's stuck up in some residence, Astarion won't be able to enter without being invited, and gods, wouldn't that be a horrible way to fail?

There's only one true worst case scenario, though. He turns his head to look at Iorveth, frowning. ]

You've already dismissed my worst possible outcome out of hand.

[ Well, all right. He's a little snippy, but only because it's deeply unpleasant to think of. ]

There's really no point in discussing it if you're so determined to stick by my side no matter the consequences.

[ Ah. Setting aside the fact that anything happening to him is Astarion's worse case scenario, Iorveth's response is a very simple, very distinctly non-apologetic: ] If that's the case, yes, there is no point discussing it.

[ Literally non-negotiable, unless Astarion decides to forgo the risk altogether and lock Iorveth in a box to confront Alkam by himself. The rudest elf in the world continues to be very unapologetic about rejecting Astarion's request, despite the fact that he hated it when Astarion didn't turn tail and run before; the hypocrisy is not lost on Iorveth, but also, he doesn't care.

That said, he doesn't want to totally kill the mood (good luck), so he slides closer and nests his head against Astarion's shoulder. Underhanded, perhaps: he kisses a shapely jaw, affectionate while being rude. ]

Rest easy, beloved. You won't lose me to this.

[ Alkam really needs to get in line for Iorveth-killing privileges; so many people have already called dibs. ]

―But we can go shopping. You can decorate me with vials and bulbs of garlic.

[ 'Rest easy' and a little cuddling doesn't make him any less wary, but it does make him want to express it less, at any rate. He worms an arm around Iorveth, pulling him closer, snug against Astarion's body like a pouting child hugging a teddy bear. ]

Ugh. Careful, or you'll repel me, too.

[ But he supposes he'd rather Iorveth repel every vampire than no vampire at all. A little bit of unpleasantness is a small price to pay for his safety. ]

A few stakes in your possession wouldn't be a bad idea.

[ Unlikely to be sold, but it can't be too hard to find a few pieces of sturdy wood to sharpen. Although, ugh, he does hate the idea of doing that sort of labor. There'll be wood shavings everywhere. ]

I'd carry some myself, but, ah, I'd hate to have it used against me.

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