essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ An elf-shaped security blanket by Astarion's side, Iorveth nests and presses his lips, again, to soft silver hair. (So enamored with kissing Astarion that, yes, he's cut garlic out of his diet. A big sacrifice.)

Things Iorveth doesn't say: he still thinks the best plan is for him to act like a thrall and independently infiltrate Alkam's mansion (or whatever he lives in), then gut him when he's lowered his guard. Obviously, this requires incredibly good luck, the kind of acting skills that Iorveth doesn't have, and a large amount of faith that the weird old woman's charm dispelling amulet will work, but it seems slightly less risky than walking in with Astarion, who is very obviously a spawn, in tow.

Iorveth will not say this, because even he knows that this will get him broken up with (?). But he will voice an opinion, because when doesn't he. ]

Maybe you should find a glamour spell that turns your eyes a different color.

[ Wouldn't help with the paleness and the fangs, but it might make Astarion a little less obviously undead. ]

[ Broken up with? Mm, maybe. Shackled to the bedpost of this fancy purple bed? Certainly. As much as Astarion loves him, if Iorveth gave even the slightest hint that he'd disregard Astarion's autonomy and try to handle Alkam himself, he would never let him leave this room again.

A glamour spell isn't the worst idea, though. Still, it leaves the question of what their plan actually is, besides 'not dying'. ]

—And what then? [ A slight lift of the corner of his mouth, exposing a fang. ] Pretend to be the delivery man?

[ A hum, as Iorveth tries to will his sluggish brain to spring back to life. From lazy fox, back to scheming fox. ]

Well, you'd need to be invited into his manor somehow.

[ If Iorveth remembers that vampire rule correctly. Perhaps they got lucky with the inn because the staff were expecting them, but Alkam's abode is probably a different story. Under normal circumstances, Iorveth would suggest traversing rooftops and crawling in through a window, but that's out of the question.

Thoughtful, he drums his fingers along Astarion's back. ]

Perhaps we can find one of Alkam's spawn and ally with them. See if they hate him as much as all of your siblings hated Cazador, and have them invite us. [ Iorveth assumes. Petras seemed deluded enough to believe that Cazador might give him freedom and power, but the others seemed to have a more brain cells to rub together. ] Or we create enough of a ruckus that Alkam has to come to us.

[ It's actually astonishing how quickly Iorveth's brain comes back online. A little annoying, actually—he worked hard to empty that mind—but also endearing. Iorveth makes plans about plans. He's irritating and perfect.

With a pout: ] This isn't the sort of pillow talk we should be having.

[ Iorveth should be gushing about how wonderful Astarion is, and how he's so much better in bed than anyone else he's ever been with, and his cock is bigger, too. Then again, it is Astarion's fault. He should have kept his mouth shut and waited to suggest buying holy water tomorrow. ]

But, if you must know, I'm not sure I like the idea of looping someone else in. It's— [ He frowns deeper, turning over so that he isn't looking at Iorveth anymore, like saying this while showing his face would be too humiliating. ] No matter how much a spawn hates his master, you can't trust him. He'd do anything to avoid just one beating.

[ If Astarion is always living with an undercurrent of anxiety, Iorveth is living with the same brand of paranoia sitting right under his skin: that rage-fueled sentiment of never again. Prepared to the point of parody, because trauma dies hard.

Case in point. Astarion rolls over, obscuring his face while he speaks, Iorveth presumes, from experience. The horrible reality of having a blood pact with a monstrous creature of vice and cruelty is that one doesn't even have the freedom to rebel.

Iorveth smooths a hand over the jut of a shapely shoulderblade, and breathes. ]

Then I defer to your judgment. [ Even though Iorveth thinks that they could probably just kill the spawn if they try to betray them, it isn't worth Astarion's peace of mind. He seems to have so little of it when they have to do something "hard". ] We'll use whatever resources we can find, but we'll not trust anyone aside from each other.

[ A soft kiss to the crest of Astarion's shoulder again, and Iorveth falls back onto purple sheets. ]

[ He's silent for a moment, then: ]

Good.

[ Although his journey with the rest of these tadpoled fools has shown him that perhaps not everyone is inherently untrustworthy, he still believes most people are. Selfishness is in mankind's nature, and he can hardly blame them most of the time. He'd do whatever it took to save his own ass, too. ]

—There may be some use in looking like a spawn.

[ Not turning around, but glancing over his shoulder to gather Iorveth's reaction: ]

I could pretend to be bringing a missive from Cazador. Or a gift.

[ Trust is hard-earned; Iorveth dabbles with it only when he has to, and only for those who deserve it. Prideful, certainly, and injured by a world that doesn't give back half of what his loved ones bring to it.

So ultimately, he's fine with their arrangement. He didn't trust many to aid him with Henselt, and he doesn't trust anyone more than he trusts Astarion. It's fine.

Slumped back on soft pillows, less relaxed than before but still visibly comfortable being horizontal instead of vertical: ]

What gifts do vampires enjoy receiving? Virgins?

[ Blithely, but semi-playfully. He can't pretend to know the inner workings of vampire lords, but Astarion has spent (unwillingly) centuries with one. Again, he can defer to Astarion's judgment on this one.

Or Astarion can take the opportunity to be unserious. There's that, too. ]

[ A full turn over now, pinching the point of Iorveth's ear. ]

Well, if that's the case, I suppose you're out now that I've had my way with you.

[ He was out before, too, but obviously none of that truly counted. None of Astarion's sexual experience counted before Iorveth, and he's made a unilateral decision that the same applies to Iorveth whether he likes it or not.

After a moment of ear-tugging, he sobers. ]

They want what any king in his realm wants. Tribute. [ The more debasing the better, probably. ] Something that makes them feel powerful. The opportunity to watch the light go out of someone's eyes, I suppose.

[ Tugging on Astarion's proverbial pigtails, only to have his ear tugged in return. Iorveth huffs a soft laugh, bumping his head against the heel of Astarion's hand until the sobering topic of tribute is brought up.

Hard to think of how many people have fallen under Cazador's sword during the span of two decades (or more). Brought to him or otherwise. The fact that Astarion contributed to the vampire lord's reign (almost brought him to his ultimate goal, even) isn't lost on Iorveth, but Astarion is, as ever, the exception to all of Iorveth's rules. ]

The same as any human.

[ Minus Wyll and Gale, they don't count. ]

You could turn me in again, I suppose. An infamous elven terrorist as tribute. [ His favorite tactic. ] Unless you know of someone in Athkatla worth killing.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject