[ Another brief moment of tension, again, at being called beautiful. Of all things. Now he knows why Astarion replied with "don't say things you don't mean" to his promise to stay close; some things, even spoken in a voice he adores, are hard to believe.
Still, his response is physical. Under the flat of Astarion's palm, Iorveth's heart pounds faster, harder. His turn, for the tips of his pointed ears to turn redder, for his tanned skin to be made even warmer.
He dips down, mouth to Astarion's stomach, slipping away from that clever hand feeling at his pulse. ]
...Mm. [ Uncharacteristically mealy-mouthed for a man who always has too much to say. He scrapes the flat of his teeth along pale skin, keeping with the canine affection.
Before Astarion can say something nice about his looks again: ] ...I've no oil. [ A mild sort of exasperated realization. Practical as always, and looking slightly embarrassed, still, that he was made to be pleased by Astarion's compliment. ]
[ Astarion has had all manner of people in his bed, done all manner of acts. The quickening of Iorveth's pounding pulse beneath his hand is still the most arousing thing he's ever experienced. If there was any blood left in his brain, it's gone now, save for one last drop used to make a mental note to call Iorveth beautiful more often.
With all this excitement, it's reasonable, then, that his eyebrow twitches in annoyance at the impending cockblock. It's not unlike the expression of a spoiled brat who's just been denied a puppy. Had he not used that last bit of blood in his brain on reminding himself to compliment Iorveth, he might be more sensible. Say something like that's all right, I can wait. (Well, maybe not that sensible. He's never said 'I can wait' in his life.)
Instead, entirely fuzzy and thoughtless, he says, ] I don't mind it rough.
[ He fumbles for Iorveth's hand with his own, pressing the tips of his fingers against the wetness of his mouth, brazen and shameless. ]
[ Gods, it's difficult to be reasonable with a bad case of Sex Brain. If Iorveth licking Astarion's palm did it for Astarion, Astarion trying to suck on his fingers does it for Iorveth; it's a struggle, having to exist in this state of impossible arousal with his pants still on. He's probably never been harder in his life.
Forcing his neurons to continue functioning: ] ―I want you to enjoy this, not to tolerate it.
[ There are two wolves inside Iorveth: one, the freak wolf, that says that if Astarion enjoys a little roughhousing, to not treat him like an invalid about it; the other, the rational-thinking wolf, says that Astarion might only be saying this to please Iorveth instead of thinking about his own needs, and that taking advantage of him would be worse than heinous.
The freak is silenced for now. It hasn't been more than a day since they killed Cazador, he reminds himself, not that it stops him from repositioning himself so that he's flush against Astarion, obvious erection pressed to Astarion's thigh. He traces Astarion's teeth with slick fingers, and purposely cuts himself on the sharp end of one perfect fang; blood pools on the tip of his index, and he smears it, indulgently, on the flat of Astarion's tongue. ]
[ Iorveth of all people declining to match his freak is probably one of the low points of Astarion's existence. He doesn't let it fetter his excitement, in part because nothing could, with Iorveth slicking his tongue with blood and saying such sweet words. Paradoxically, Iorveth's reluctance to, as he'd so delicately put it, fuck him senseless only makes Astarion want him more. As it turns out, someone actually giving a damn about whether he has a good time is incredibly erotic.
He flicks his tongue against Iorveth's bloodied finger, then gives each one a toothy kiss, like an affectionate but poorly domesticated animal. After, he pushes on Iorveth's shoulders, a demanding attempt to flip them over. ]
[ Iorveth, fussy and semantic, doesn't like the sound of at least, either― but he allows Astarion to flip them, because he'd allow Astarion most anything in this moment. On his back now, with that pleasant weight bearing down on him, Iorveth takes their twined hands and eases it between their pressed-tight bodies. Down, down, until the flat of Astarion's palm rests on that too-warm hardness between Iorveth's legs.
He makes Astarion feel it, that dull heat, while his spine arches at the bare-boned friction. A reminder: "you did this to me". Or, more importantly: "only you can do this to me". ]
Make no mistake, [ he breathes, voice like sandpaper. ] I can think of little else I'd like to do than to fuck you until that clever mouth of yours forgets how to form words.
[ There's that for Iorveth speaking his mind. His mouth's gotten him in more trouble than he'd care to count, but he also doesn't take critique.
Grinding up gently into the cradle of Astarion's palm, he continues: ] But you have me at your mercy.
[ A brief laugh, to the tune of "yeah, I know. Me, giving up control?" ]
[ A grin spreads across his face at Iorveth's surrender, and he presses the heel of his palm into the heat of his erection, warm and pleasant against his hand. As he palms him gently through his clothes, Astarion says, smugly, ] Don't I always?
[ Dangerous of Iorveth, really. Give him an inch of power, and he'll take a mile.
He bends to press a wet, messy kiss to Iorveth's collarbone, then the flat of his sternum, then the hollow of his navel. His teeth graze the vulnerable skin of Iorveth's stomach, blunted. The unthinking, primal part of his brain lights up in all the best ways; it's intoxicating to be bared Iorveth's soft underbelly, both literally and metaphorically. ]
I'll make you feel good.
[ His index fingers hook under the waistband of Iorveth's pants and underwear both, tugging them down impatiently. ]
[ Doesn't he always. Infuriating, how Iorveth can't refute it. Iorveth would claw and bite and hit and kick anyone else who would ever attempt to make him submit in any fashion, but apparently all it takes is for Astarion to look up at him with his pretty mouth on his navel, silver hair like moonshine, for Iorveth to bend.
His back lifts from the bedsheets; it's only a little embarrassing when his cock springs up to hit his stomach when it's liberated from his clothing. No point in acting brand new－ he hasn't exactly been subtle about his arousal, and it's nice, in a way, for Astarion to see it manifest. ]
You enjoyed it when I had my hands shackled, I bet.
[ Teasing, provoking. A sort of do-your-worst, which is a lot of bravado for a man with his leaking dick out for someone else's scrutiny, shifting impatiently on bedsheets. The vinelike patterns that extend down from his chest to hip to thigh undulate to his twisting, the tattoo almost like a living thing sitting on Iorveth's skin. He skims his touch from Astarion's curls down to his jaw, touching him just for the sake of touching him. Hungry. ]
Mmm, [ he hums, grinning. ] Perhaps. You'll have to let me shackle you again to find out just how much.
[ So, yes. He did. More so the fact that Iorveth let him do the shackling than the shackles themselves. He's spent so long feeling powerless that the slightest hint of power goes straight to his head; it's thrilling to have someone like Iorveth, proud and stern, yield to him so willingly.
All of Iorveth's clothing joins his makeshift headscarf in a messy pile on the floor. Astarion might be fussy with his own things, but he's a bit of a slob with everything else. He presses his mouth to the soft skin of Iorveth's inner thigh, feeling the pulse there, then drags his teeth along it. It's both indulgence and a little bit of stalling — he's never enjoyed doing this, always felt used, and there's a tiny voice inside that's afraid he's going to hate it this time, too.
But Iorveth is laid out so sweetly for him, pliant under his touch, and so he's willing to take the plunge. He doesn't want this to be like all the other times, rushing through it just to get someone off as quickly as he can so it can be over sooner, so he takes Iorveth in hand, pressing light, exploratory kisses to his cock. The skin feels smooth and hot against his lips, not unpleasant at all. ]
Tell me how you like it, and maybe I'll grant your wish.
[ He does, however, very much need to feel in control right now. ]
[ A new and novel thing, to take so much time. Iorveth can't remember the last time he'd slept with anyone that didn't end up being a hurried, desperate affair spurred by adrenaline; the sort of mashing of bodies that happens after a particularly bad fight, fingers curled too tightly in someone's hair, hands gripping someone hard enough to bruise. A lot of thank the gods we aren't dead, followed by tacit promises to not complicate matters further, lest they all die the next day.
None of that, with Astarion. (Not that that wouldn't be nice too, Iorveth thinks－ just needing him, primally and brainlessly.) Iorveth feels his cock jump under the attention it's being given, the flushed erection almost obscene against all that pale, perfect skin. Almost as sinful as showing someone as beautiful as Astarion the wrecked landscape of his face. It makes him feel hot all over.
To the question of how he likes it: ] ...Rough. [ A funny side effect of not considering himself beautiful or even particularly nice to be with. Sure, he wants to treat Astarion with all the reverence he hasn't been shown, but he doesn't actually know how to be on the receiving end of it. He touches his thumb to Astarion's wet lips, tracing his mouth with slow affection. ] Take what you want from me.
[ He shifts again, already feeling oversensitive and breathless. The thought of Astarion being unrestrained and greedy is enough to make him squirm under the hands holding him in place. ]
You little minx, [ he teases, pressing a kiss to the head of his cock now, feeling the slickness of arousal against his lips. The sensation would repulse him, normally, a visceral reminder of what he's doing. It certainly doesn't repulse him now, the awareness of just how stirred Iorveth is heating something deep in his gut.
He's certainly been asked for rough before, but rarely—if ever—has he been told to take what he wants. In truth, he's not sure what that looks like, reasonably. He knows he wants to bite Iorveth all over, drink his blood until he's gorged himself and then drink some more. He wants to crawl inside Iorveth's mind and live there instead of being stuck in his own dead body that's betrayed him in so many ways. He can't do those things, so he settles on pressing the flat of his tongue against Iorveth's erection, licking experimentally before taking him in his mouth properly, careful with his fangs.
Iorveth feels even warmer inside of his mouth, an impossible, wonderful hardness that makes the heat pooling in his stomach burn. He lets both of his hands slide down to the tanned expanse of Iorveth's thighs, brazenly handsy. Rough, he'd said, and while Astarion isn't one to take direction, he can certainly follow that one. He lets his fingernails scratch against Iorveth's skin as he lowers until his nose is nearly brushing against Iorveth's pelvis, humming with satisfaction at the weight of him against his tongue. ]
[ It feels impossibly good, being caught in Astarion's mouth― so good, in fact, that Iorveth forgets how to speak Common entirely and gasps a string of expletives in his native language, raw and hoarse. Compulsion whispers to him to grab a fistful of soft curls, but he stops himself and reaches backwards to grip their bedsheets instead, his hold so tight that he thinks he might tear the fabric.
Fuck, is what every synapse firing in his body says in unison. Iorveth hisses, bucks up an inch, and tips his chin towards the ceiling. ]
Astarion, [ he gasps. Affirming? Pleading? Gods, he has no idea. It's just that he likes the sound of Astarion's name in the back of his throat and at the forefront of his mind, red and silver and pretty. His hiked knees bracket Astarion's shoulders, toes curled into the mattress, followed by more broken syllables in Aen Seidhe, only a fraction of the nonsense litany of affirmations his brain screams at him.
Another experimental upwards hitch of his hips, fully expecting Astarion to pin him back down with nails in his skin. The freak in him hopes those pretty fingers make him bleed. ]
Gods, the way you make me want you. Like nothing else.
Edited (no one saw me edit this twice) 2024-08-30 14:06 (UTC)
[ The steady stream of foreign language coming from Iorveth's mouth is incomprehensible but exhilarating all the same. Then Iorveth bucks again, the head of his cock bumping Astarion's throat in a way he'd usually find repellent but now only finds thrilling. How powerful he must be, to wrench this sort of reaction out of Iorveth; he shifts, feeling unreasonably hard in these silky lounge pants.
Astarion pulls off, sliding his hands to Iorveth's hips and pressing down with his fingernails. He isn't nearly brawny enough to keep him down by strength alone, but that's all right. Having a psychological pull over Iorveth is much more exciting. ]
Be a good boy and keep still, [ he says playfully, clearly enjoying that he's getting to be in charge. No one in their right mind would ever let him call the shots in reality, but it's fun to pretend here.
He dips back down after that, taking the heavy warmth of Iorveth back into his mouth with a grin, which is— well, it's rare that he's ever felt like smiling, doing this. ]
[ "Keep still" is incredibly vexing, and something Iorveth wouldn't entertain if not for his more overarching desire for Astarion to feel in control of how he makes his intimacy. Far more important than easy gratification―
―which isn't to say that this doesn't feel good. It's numbingly satisfying to see Astarion smile as he sinks back down, achingly sweet how he plays at overpowering Iorveth with the bearing down of his palms. Iorveth plays along, suppressing his instincts to shift impatiently in the warm hollow of Astarion's mouth, bringing his own hand to his mouth to bite his next huff and moan into the back of it. ]
Yes, [ he says, his voice muffled. A little wrecked. His focus dials down to what's happening between his legs, hot and messy. ] Gods, fuck.
[ He feels stripped down. Bare. He turns the ruined side of his face into the nearest pillow, choking back another groan into his hand; he can feel his cock swelling in anticipation, made eager and stupid by Astarion's attention. It's mortifying, but it's also perfect. ]
[ Hearing Iorveth curse goes straight to his groin, a sharp pang of arousal that makes him groan against Iorveth's cock. Sleeping in the dirt might not be so bad, he thinks, if he gets to do this every night. Iorveth is so unbearably sweet, still under the pressure of his hands, pliant and perfect.
It's not dissimilar to feeding from him, really. Losing himself in the sensation of licking and lapping, mouth slick with a mixture of saliva and precome, feeling Iorveth's muscles jump beneath him. He grips the lean muscle of Iorveth's hips tighter, nails digging into his skin forcefully enough to leave a mark. It's on purpose, of course; he hopes it'll bruise that lovely tan skin, so that Iorveth thinks of this until they fade. He'll be the one getting into a fight to the death with Shadowheart if she tries to heal him.
He hollows his cheeks around the weight of Iorveth's cock, eyes flicking up to watch his face as he comes undone. ]
[ Chasing his orgasm ultimately beats out trying to last: Iorveth lets go of the last scrap he had of his self-control to flick his solitary eye down towards Astarion, and it's when he realizes Astarion is looking at him that he falls over his edge. It unravels something inside Iorveth that no one else has ever touched before, the tightly-coiled part of himself that hasn't relaxed since he took up arms more than a century ago.
The whiplash revelation comes and goes; the rest is mindless, perfect sensation. He calls Astarion's name in an urgent whisper, and it's the only warning he can think to give before he arches, fingers digging into bedsheets, and spills into Astarion's mouth with a drawn-out groan. The feeling wipes him out completely, and he only regains his awareness of his body once the last of his orgasm fades out into pleasant, humming white noise in the back of his skull.
Fuck, he mouths again. Long limbs splayed, forehead beaded with sweat. Blindly, he fumbles his hand for whatever of Astarion is within touching distance. ]
[ He laps at Iorveth all through his orgasm, the harshness of his dug-in nails replaced with gentle circles of his thumbs, almost apologetic of his roughness. Almost. When Iorveth has finally softened in his mouth, Astarion crawls up his body, taking his chin between his thumb and forefinger. ]
You did so well. [ It can't have been easy, letting Astarion take the reins. Iorveth is always in control, so rarely vulnerable, no one's prey, yet he surrendered to Astarion. That alone is more erotic than having him in his mouth. Voice full of pleased affection, he says, ] My perfect creature.
[ And good boys get rewards, so he gives Iorveth what he asked for. (Entirely altruistic and not at all selfish, of course.) Tilting his head to the side, Astarion plunges his teeth into the tender skin of his neck, body pressed close. ]
[ Iorveth still feels wrung out, nerves still fried, so the affirmation and the subsequent fulfillment of his request makes him shudder again under Astarion's teeth, like an aftershock of his still-lingering orgasm. It's going to be a problem for him if he starts associating being bitten with pleasant, floating feelings, but Iorveth doesn't care: Astarion is here, he agreed to coming north with him, and it's all he can think about as he snakes his fumbling hand between their bodies and rummages, blindly, for what he hopes is Astarion's still-hard cock in his comfortably-loose pants.
He hums, knowing that the sound will reverberate where Astarion has his teeth in his throat. It's fucking insane― those same teeth could rip out his windpipe without a second thought if Astarion felt like it. Iorveth's life hinges on the whims of a beautiful, unpredictable vampire, and he's never been more excited in his life.
Still trying to trace his fingers over Astarion's cock, he laughs again. ]
What was our alibi, when we were at the Wavemother's Shrine― [ Breathless, his lips pull into a grin. ] ―Two refugee elves with a torrid sex life, was it?
[ Manifestation, maybe. Iorveth feels stupid with affection. ]
[ Achingly hard, maybe even more so with his fangs in Iorveth's throat. He presses his pelvis into Iorveth's clumsy hand as he licks up the warm, ruby-red blood spilling from the puncture marks, then pulls back to look at Iorveth with a hazy look in his eye. There's nothing more perfect than when Iorveth smiles, all of his sharp features softened, eye crinkling.
His own grin is mischievous, a little wicked, entirely playful. He's having fun, a strange but pleasant realization. ]
You have no idea how torrid I can be.
[ He presses his thumb to Iorveth's lips, urging him to open up so that he can rake his tongue against Iorveth's, letting him taste the sweet mix of his release with his blood on Astarion's tongue. ]
[ Grin for grin, Iorveth concedes to the strange taste of blood and spend in his mouth, possibly less sweet because they're both his own, but it hardly matters. He cleans off some of the mess that he's made, tongue against tongue and lips against lips, fuzzy from lingering arousal.
He pulls back to breathe, and finally gets a better grip around Astarion's cock so that he can stroke him, getting a feel for Astarion's interest before moving to push his new clothes down to his knees. No sense ruining them so soon after they've been gifted. ]
I've a few centuries to find out.
[ To the point about not knowing Astarion fully yet. Another promise-threat that Iorveth will stay, that Astarion has made the mistake of letting a deranged elf take things beyond just a silly little tryst based on mutual benefits.
Iorveth kisses him again, and starts making more friction in earnest. Palm to Astarion's pretty cock, savoring how warm it feels in contrast to everything else. He can't imagine how anyone could ever have treated Astarion poorly, or refused to see him for who he is. ]
[ Astarion has just enough presence of mind to feel a little embarrassed of how quickly he bucks into Iorveth's palm. Reciprocation still feels like a surprise, a special gift. He doesn't have the presence of mind to reply don't say things you don't mean again, or perhaps don't say things you'll regret in a year. He probably should stop Iorveth from making such sweeping declarations, but the thought of being wanted enough to be kept around for centuries is electrifying, and he's nothing if not selfish. ]
Oh, [ he sighs instead, jerking against Iorveth's hand, rough in all the right places. It's dry, but it doesn't matter, because he's practically slippery with pre by now. Another thing he doesn't have the presence of mind to think about, although he'll undoubtedly be self-conscious about how impossibly aroused he was later.
His hand slides to the side of Iorveth's face, fingernails scratching against his cheek. Gently, holding himself back because it's on his face. ]
My precious thing, [ he says, grinning fondly. There's a touch of childish possessiveness to his voice, the tone of someone who doesn't share well. ] All mine.
Edited (no one saw ME edit this twice) 2024-08-31 03:16 (UTC)
[ Looking at anything but that smile on Astarion's face is impossible, so Iorveth keeps touching him blindly with his pre-slick hand, trusting Astarion to squirm himself into a better position once he finds the angle he likes. Indulgent petting turns into fast stroking turns into slow, circular touching; indecisiveness mixed with fascination. Iorveth, a freak, wants to know everything about Astarion.
He also has enough rational thought to rub together now to discourage the idea of possessive ownership over others, but in his syrupy, affection-laden haze, he decides that he has a few decades to coax Astarion out of bad mentalities laid out by centuries of torture. It doesn't have to be now, when Astarion is still getting used to the idea of having anything at all.
(Debatable, actually, if Iorveth ever will.) ]
Closest to my heart, [ he agrees, reiterating what he'd said when asked what Astarion is to him. He keeps up the rhythm of his hand, savoring how relaxed Astarion seems, how he seems to be present, here. It makes that coiled-tight control in him ease in turn, enough that he smiles again and brushes their foreheads together. ]
[ He'd said he didn't mind it rough, but it's clear he favors gentleness, pressing impossibly closer into Iorveth's hand whenever his touches lighten. It's rare and wonderful to be touched softly, treated kindly. To have the meanest elf in the world saying such nice things to him. After participating in so many obscene acts over the years that they became commonplace, hearing Iorveth say closest to my heart feels downright depraved, deliciously so.
With their foreheads nudged together, he tilts his head as if to give Iorveth a kiss, but it really only ends up being excited breaths against his mouth. He stays like that for a while, bucking erratically into the heat of Iorveth's palm, stifled sounds from the back of his throat escaping unbidden. Another jerk against him and Astarion's whole body is trembling, overwhelmed. He isn't built to receive things like pleasure and affection; he can hardly handle the foreign feelings.
His body stills suddenly, going taut like a bowstring, and then he comes all over Iorveth's hand. ]
[ It's staggeringly sweet: Astarion, the self-proclaimed hedonist who'd been so reticent to be touched before, melting like butter when given gentle affection. He's beautiful when he finally reaches the threshold of his tolerance, arched and shuddering, warm and messy against Iorveth's palm.
Iorveth's turn, now, to praise him. He wriggles his hand out from between their flush bodies, and licks his hand clean of Astarion's spend. ]
...Barely midday, and I can't keep my hands off of you.
[ With no apologies to Gale, he doesn't foresee family-friendly things happening if they continue sharing a bed in Elfsong. Iorveth chuckles under his breath, and kisses Astarion's jaw, soothing his clean hand through his mussed curls. ]
My sweet cat. [ Rubbing behind one pointed ear, punctuating the teasing diminutive. ]
[ He might have bristled at the pet name—he obviously has nothing in common with those mangy creatures—but he's drunk on the triple-threat of affection, blood, and sex, so he finds himself leaning into the touch. As long as he's Iorveth's, he can call him whatever he damn well pleases.
Boneless and jelly-legged from orgasm, he rolls off of Iorveth and onto his back, robe splayed out behind him and pants still drawn down around his knees. He sighs as he stares up at the ceiling, a million synapses going off at once but not one of them inviting shame. The happiness is so profuse that he feels like he's drowning in it, unsure how to navigate these strange new waters.
With a distant smile, he says to the ceiling, ] ...Well, I feel well tended-to.
[ One day, Iorveth will show up with Myshka in his arms and force Astarion to see the parallels. Until then, he's content to dip down and clean off the mess he's left on Astarion's navel with his mouth, savoring him for a few more seconds before relenting and tugging Astarion's clothes back on him (speaking of tending to).
There's still a lot to think about. The spawn still stuck in that tomblike basement, the tadpoles in their heads, the cultists, and what to do if and when all of that is taken care of. Funny, how it all seems less dire when it's built on the fragile assurance that Astarion will stay; it's such a precarious foundation to stack his own future on top of, but Iorveth doesn't want to let go of it yet.
Maybe in a century, Astarion will come to realize that the world has a lot more to offer than the binary of Cazador and Iorveth, and will take his leave. If so, Iorveth needs to be happy for Astarion in the way that he's happy for him now.
He can do that, he thinks. He cards his fingers through Astarion's hair one more time before getting up to get his pants. ]
―Good. We'll both be yelled at tomorrow, but we've earned our peace today. [ A huff, amused. ] ...Do you wish the others to stay out of our business?
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no subject
Still, his response is physical. Under the flat of Astarion's palm, Iorveth's heart pounds faster, harder. His turn, for the tips of his pointed ears to turn redder, for his tanned skin to be made even warmer.
He dips down, mouth to Astarion's stomach, slipping away from that clever hand feeling at his pulse. ]
...Mm. [ Uncharacteristically mealy-mouthed for a man who always has too much to say. He scrapes the flat of his teeth along pale skin, keeping with the canine affection.
Before Astarion can say something nice about his looks again: ] ...I've no oil. [ A mild sort of exasperated realization. Practical as always, and looking slightly embarrassed, still, that he was made to be pleased by Astarion's compliment. ]
no subject
With all this excitement, it's reasonable, then, that his eyebrow twitches in annoyance at the impending cockblock. It's not unlike the expression of a spoiled brat who's just been denied a puppy. Had he not used that last bit of blood in his brain on reminding himself to compliment Iorveth, he might be more sensible. Say something like that's all right, I can wait. (Well, maybe not that sensible. He's never said 'I can wait' in his life.)
Instead, entirely fuzzy and thoughtless, he says, ] I don't mind it rough.
[ He fumbles for Iorveth's hand with his own, pressing the tips of his fingers against the wetness of his mouth, brazen and shameless. ]
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Forcing his neurons to continue functioning: ] ―I want you to enjoy this, not to tolerate it.
[ There are two wolves inside Iorveth: one, the freak wolf, that says that if Astarion enjoys a little roughhousing, to not treat him like an invalid about it; the other, the rational-thinking wolf, says that Astarion might only be saying this to please Iorveth instead of thinking about his own needs, and that taking advantage of him would be worse than heinous.
The freak is silenced for now. It hasn't been more than a day since they killed Cazador, he reminds himself, not that it stops him from repositioning himself so that he's flush against Astarion, obvious erection pressed to Astarion's thigh. He traces Astarion's teeth with slick fingers, and purposely cuts himself on the sharp end of one perfect fang; blood pools on the tip of his index, and he smears it, indulgently, on the flat of Astarion's tongue. ]
I want you to feel nothing but pleasure.
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He flicks his tongue against Iorveth's bloodied finger, then gives each one a toothy kiss, like an affectionate but poorly domesticated animal. After, he pushes on Iorveth's shoulders, a demanding attempt to flip them over. ]
Then at least let me take care of you.
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He makes Astarion feel it, that dull heat, while his spine arches at the bare-boned friction. A reminder: "you did this to me". Or, more importantly: "only you can do this to me". ]
Make no mistake, [ he breathes, voice like sandpaper. ] I can think of little else I'd like to do than to fuck you until that clever mouth of yours forgets how to form words.
[ There's that for Iorveth speaking his mind. His mouth's gotten him in more trouble than he'd care to count, but he also doesn't take critique.
Grinding up gently into the cradle of Astarion's palm, he continues: ] But you have me at your mercy.
[ A brief laugh, to the tune of "yeah, I know. Me, giving up control?" ]
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[ Dangerous of Iorveth, really. Give him an inch of power, and he'll take a mile.
He bends to press a wet, messy kiss to Iorveth's collarbone, then the flat of his sternum, then the hollow of his navel. His teeth graze the vulnerable skin of Iorveth's stomach, blunted. The unthinking, primal part of his brain lights up in all the best ways; it's intoxicating to be bared Iorveth's soft underbelly, both literally and metaphorically. ]
I'll make you feel good.
[ His index fingers hook under the waistband of Iorveth's pants and underwear both, tugging them down impatiently. ]
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His back lifts from the bedsheets; it's only a little embarrassing when his cock springs up to hit his stomach when it's liberated from his clothing. No point in acting brand new－ he hasn't exactly been subtle about his arousal, and it's nice, in a way, for Astarion to see it manifest. ]
You enjoyed it when I had my hands shackled, I bet.
[ Teasing, provoking. A sort of do-your-worst, which is a lot of bravado for a man with his leaking dick out for someone else's scrutiny, shifting impatiently on bedsheets. The vinelike patterns that extend down from his chest to hip to thigh undulate to his twisting, the tattoo almost like a living thing sitting on Iorveth's skin. He skims his touch from Astarion's curls down to his jaw, touching him just for the sake of touching him. Hungry. ]
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[ So, yes. He did. More so the fact that Iorveth let him do the shackling than the shackles themselves. He's spent so long feeling powerless that the slightest hint of power goes straight to his head; it's thrilling to have someone like Iorveth, proud and stern, yield to him so willingly.
All of Iorveth's clothing joins his makeshift headscarf in a messy pile on the floor. Astarion might be fussy with his own things, but he's a bit of a slob with everything else. He presses his mouth to the soft skin of Iorveth's inner thigh, feeling the pulse there, then drags his teeth along it. It's both indulgence and a little bit of stalling — he's never enjoyed doing this, always felt used, and there's a tiny voice inside that's afraid he's going to hate it this time, too.
But Iorveth is laid out so sweetly for him, pliant under his touch, and so he's willing to take the plunge. He doesn't want this to be like all the other times, rushing through it just to get someone off as quickly as he can so it can be over sooner, so he takes Iorveth in hand, pressing light, exploratory kisses to his cock. The skin feels smooth and hot against his lips, not unpleasant at all. ]
Tell me how you like it, and maybe I'll grant your wish.
[ He does, however, very much need to feel in control right now. ]
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None of that, with Astarion. (Not that that wouldn't be nice too, Iorveth thinks－ just needing him, primally and brainlessly.) Iorveth feels his cock jump under the attention it's being given, the flushed erection almost obscene against all that pale, perfect skin. Almost as sinful as showing someone as beautiful as Astarion the wrecked landscape of his face. It makes him feel hot all over.
To the question of how he likes it: ] ...Rough. [ A funny side effect of not considering himself beautiful or even particularly nice to be with. Sure, he wants to treat Astarion with all the reverence he hasn't been shown, but he doesn't actually know how to be on the receiving end of it. He touches his thumb to Astarion's wet lips, tracing his mouth with slow affection. ] Take what you want from me.
[ He shifts again, already feeling oversensitive and breathless. The thought of Astarion being unrestrained and greedy is enough to make him squirm under the hands holding him in place. ]
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He's certainly been asked for rough before, but rarely—if ever—has he been told to take what he wants. In truth, he's not sure what that looks like, reasonably. He knows he wants to bite Iorveth all over, drink his blood until he's gorged himself and then drink some more. He wants to crawl inside Iorveth's mind and live there instead of being stuck in his own dead body that's betrayed him in so many ways. He can't do those things, so he settles on pressing the flat of his tongue against Iorveth's erection, licking experimentally before taking him in his mouth properly, careful with his fangs.
Iorveth feels even warmer inside of his mouth, an impossible, wonderful hardness that makes the heat pooling in his stomach burn. He lets both of his hands slide down to the tanned expanse of Iorveth's thighs, brazenly handsy. Rough, he'd said, and while Astarion isn't one to take direction, he can certainly follow that one. He lets his fingernails scratch against Iorveth's skin as he lowers until his nose is nearly brushing against Iorveth's pelvis, humming with satisfaction at the weight of him against his tongue. ]
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Fuck, is what every synapse firing in his body says in unison. Iorveth hisses, bucks up an inch, and tips his chin towards the ceiling. ]
Astarion, [ he gasps. Affirming? Pleading? Gods, he has no idea. It's just that he likes the sound of Astarion's name in the back of his throat and at the forefront of his mind, red and silver and pretty. His hiked knees bracket Astarion's shoulders, toes curled into the mattress, followed by more broken syllables in Aen Seidhe, only a fraction of the nonsense litany of affirmations his brain screams at him.
Another experimental upwards hitch of his hips, fully expecting Astarion to pin him back down with nails in his skin. The freak in him hopes those pretty fingers make him bleed. ]
Gods, the way you make me want you. Like nothing else.
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Astarion pulls off, sliding his hands to Iorveth's hips and pressing down with his fingernails. He isn't nearly brawny enough to keep him down by strength alone, but that's all right. Having a psychological pull over Iorveth is much more exciting. ]
Be a good boy and keep still, [ he says playfully, clearly enjoying that he's getting to be in charge. No one in their right mind would ever let him call the shots in reality, but it's fun to pretend here.
He dips back down after that, taking the heavy warmth of Iorveth back into his mouth with a grin, which is— well, it's rare that he's ever felt like smiling, doing this. ]
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―which isn't to say that this doesn't feel good. It's numbingly satisfying to see Astarion smile as he sinks back down, achingly sweet how he plays at overpowering Iorveth with the bearing down of his palms. Iorveth plays along, suppressing his instincts to shift impatiently in the warm hollow of Astarion's mouth, bringing his own hand to his mouth to bite his next huff and moan into the back of it. ]
Yes, [ he says, his voice muffled. A little wrecked. His focus dials down to what's happening between his legs, hot and messy. ] Gods, fuck.
[ He feels stripped down. Bare. He turns the ruined side of his face into the nearest pillow, choking back another groan into his hand; he can feel his cock swelling in anticipation, made eager and stupid by Astarion's attention. It's mortifying, but it's also perfect. ]
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It's not dissimilar to feeding from him, really. Losing himself in the sensation of licking and lapping, mouth slick with a mixture of saliva and precome, feeling Iorveth's muscles jump beneath him. He grips the lean muscle of Iorveth's hips tighter, nails digging into his skin forcefully enough to leave a mark. It's on purpose, of course; he hopes it'll bruise that lovely tan skin, so that Iorveth thinks of this until they fade. He'll be the one getting into a fight to the death with Shadowheart if she tries to heal him.
He hollows his cheeks around the weight of Iorveth's cock, eyes flicking up to watch his face as he comes undone. ]
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The whiplash revelation comes and goes; the rest is mindless, perfect sensation. He calls Astarion's name in an urgent whisper, and it's the only warning he can think to give before he arches, fingers digging into bedsheets, and spills into Astarion's mouth with a drawn-out groan. The feeling wipes him out completely, and he only regains his awareness of his body once the last of his orgasm fades out into pleasant, humming white noise in the back of his skull.
Fuck, he mouths again. Long limbs splayed, forehead beaded with sweat. Blindly, he fumbles his hand for whatever of Astarion is within touching distance. ]
Come here, [ is hoarse, ragged. ] Bite me.
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You did so well. [ It can't have been easy, letting Astarion take the reins. Iorveth is always in control, so rarely vulnerable, no one's prey, yet he surrendered to Astarion. That alone is more erotic than having him in his mouth. Voice full of pleased affection, he says, ] My perfect creature.
[ And good boys get rewards, so he gives Iorveth what he asked for. (Entirely altruistic and not at all selfish, of course.) Tilting his head to the side, Astarion plunges his teeth into the tender skin of his neck, body pressed close. ]
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He hums, knowing that the sound will reverberate where Astarion has his teeth in his throat. It's fucking insane― those same teeth could rip out his windpipe without a second thought if Astarion felt like it. Iorveth's life hinges on the whims of a beautiful, unpredictable vampire, and he's never been more excited in his life.
Still trying to trace his fingers over Astarion's cock, he laughs again. ]
What was our alibi, when we were at the Wavemother's Shrine― [ Breathless, his lips pull into a grin. ] ―Two refugee elves with a torrid sex life, was it?
[ Manifestation, maybe. Iorveth feels stupid with affection. ]
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His own grin is mischievous, a little wicked, entirely playful. He's having fun, a strange but pleasant realization. ]
You have no idea how torrid I can be.
[ He presses his thumb to Iorveth's lips, urging him to open up so that he can rake his tongue against Iorveth's, letting him taste the sweet mix of his release with his blood on Astarion's tongue. ]
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He pulls back to breathe, and finally gets a better grip around Astarion's cock so that he can stroke him, getting a feel for Astarion's interest before moving to push his new clothes down to his knees. No sense ruining them so soon after they've been gifted. ]
I've a few centuries to find out.
[ To the point about not knowing Astarion fully yet. Another promise-threat that Iorveth will stay, that Astarion has made the mistake of letting a deranged elf take things beyond just a silly little tryst based on mutual benefits.
Iorveth kisses him again, and starts making more friction in earnest. Palm to Astarion's pretty cock, savoring how warm it feels in contrast to everything else. He can't imagine how anyone could ever have treated Astarion poorly, or refused to see him for who he is. ]
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Oh, [ he sighs instead, jerking against Iorveth's hand, rough in all the right places. It's dry, but it doesn't matter, because he's practically slippery with pre by now. Another thing he doesn't have the presence of mind to think about, although he'll undoubtedly be self-conscious about how impossibly aroused he was later.
His hand slides to the side of Iorveth's face, fingernails scratching against his cheek. Gently, holding himself back because it's on his face. ]
My precious thing, [ he says, grinning fondly. There's a touch of childish possessiveness to his voice, the tone of someone who doesn't share well. ] All mine.
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He also has enough rational thought to rub together now to discourage the idea of possessive ownership over others, but in his syrupy, affection-laden haze, he decides that he has a few decades to coax Astarion out of bad mentalities laid out by centuries of torture. It doesn't have to be now, when Astarion is still getting used to the idea of having anything at all.
(Debatable, actually, if Iorveth ever will.) ]
Closest to my heart, [ he agrees, reiterating what he'd said when asked what Astarion is to him. He keeps up the rhythm of his hand, savoring how relaxed Astarion seems, how he seems to be present, here. It makes that coiled-tight control in him ease in turn, enough that he smiles again and brushes their foreheads together. ]
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With their foreheads nudged together, he tilts his head as if to give Iorveth a kiss, but it really only ends up being excited breaths against his mouth. He stays like that for a while, bucking erratically into the heat of Iorveth's palm, stifled sounds from the back of his throat escaping unbidden. Another jerk against him and Astarion's whole body is trembling, overwhelmed. He isn't built to receive things like pleasure and affection; he can hardly handle the foreign feelings.
His body stills suddenly, going taut like a bowstring, and then he comes all over Iorveth's hand. ]
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Iorveth's turn, now, to praise him. He wriggles his hand out from between their flush bodies, and licks his hand clean of Astarion's spend. ]
...Barely midday, and I can't keep my hands off of you.
[ With no apologies to Gale, he doesn't foresee family-friendly things happening if they continue sharing a bed in Elfsong. Iorveth chuckles under his breath, and kisses Astarion's jaw, soothing his clean hand through his mussed curls. ]
My sweet cat. [ Rubbing behind one pointed ear, punctuating the teasing diminutive. ]
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Boneless and jelly-legged from orgasm, he rolls off of Iorveth and onto his back, robe splayed out behind him and pants still drawn down around his knees. He sighs as he stares up at the ceiling, a million synapses going off at once but not one of them inviting shame. The happiness is so profuse that he feels like he's drowning in it, unsure how to navigate these strange new waters.
With a distant smile, he says to the ceiling, ] ...Well, I feel well tended-to.
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There's still a lot to think about. The spawn still stuck in that tomblike basement, the tadpoles in their heads, the cultists, and what to do if and when all of that is taken care of. Funny, how it all seems less dire when it's built on the fragile assurance that Astarion will stay; it's such a precarious foundation to stack his own future on top of, but Iorveth doesn't want to let go of it yet.
Maybe in a century, Astarion will come to realize that the world has a lot more to offer than the binary of Cazador and Iorveth, and will take his leave. If so, Iorveth needs to be happy for Astarion in the way that he's happy for him now.
He can do that, he thinks. He cards his fingers through Astarion's hair one more time before getting up to get his pants. ]
―Good. We'll both be yelled at tomorrow, but we've earned our peace today. [ A huff, amused. ] ...Do you wish the others to stay out of our business?
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