essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Mm. It would be impractical, he supposes, for someone like Iorveth to wear fancy shoes. (Impractical, but still hot.) Still, there's surely something he could purchase for Iorveth that serves both of their purposes. A nice pair of leather boots, maybe; something that can survive all of Iorveth's trodding and look attractive. Like the eyepatch: covering Iorveth's eye is of no importance to Astarion, but it does look very rugged and handsome, he thinks.

Humming in thought, he unearths the ring from beneath Iorveth's collar. ]

Perhaps I'll get you a ring that actually fits you next time.

[ He is obsessed with Iorveth's hands, after all, and they'd look very nice decked out in shiny jewelry. ]

[ The poor stolen ring from Sharess' Caress. It sits pretty on his tan skin, jade-green stone fortuitously in theme with the wood elf aesthetic, its purpose as an engagement offer forgotten over time. That said, while rings aren't an indication of commitment in Aen Seidhe society, Iorveth is peripherally aware of the practice.

He won't assume, though. A quick upwards quirk of his brow, and he lets his expression settle back into warm neutral. ]

And I'll get you one to match it.

[ Equal, in all things. Iorveth wiggles his fingers, lightly teasing. ]

I briefly considered the idea of you putting ink to my skin, but you might find that a bit, [ hm, ] much.

[ The original recipient of the ring didn't even want it, so there's nothing wrong with his thievery of such an intimate object, Astarion thinks. She won't even miss it! (And he's sure it looks much better against Iorveth's lovely complexion than on some courtesan's finger, anyway.) He would, however, like to pick one out that's specifically for Iorveth rather than something stolen in a moment of opportunity. Something special, picked out with love and adoration.

The thought of him finding anything about Iorveth a bit much at this point makes him smile, an amused, crooked thing. He's only mentioned his desire to mark Iorveth (and actually done it) several times. To think he'd be in any way scandalized is, quite frankly, ridiculous. ]

What would you have me ink into you, hm?

[ A light snort, fond. ]

Oh? No ideas of your own? I'd thought you might want to write your name on my ass.

[ He pauses to give Astarion time to marinate on that ridiculous mental image. The real question, actually, is whether Astarion would write his name in Common or ask him how to write it in Aen Seidhe... actually, that isn't the real question, because this simply Will Not Happen.

Iorveth clears his throat. Tries not to grin. ]

―That said, tracing around puncture marks you've left may be too on-the-nose.

[ Gods. Astarion laughs at that, light and tinkling and full of genuine amusement. Of course he would absolutely write his name on Iorveth's ass, if only Iorveth gave him the chance. 'Property of Astarion Ancunín' right above his lovely bottom sounds just right to him.

But even he knows a pipe dream when he sees one, so he doesn't try to convince Iorveth that it would actually be very tasteful, very classy. Instead, he pivots to the next idea, tracing down the side of Iorveth's neck. ]

I am fond of the idea of us matching.

[ Astarion, with the puncture marks that he absolutely hates. Iorveth, with the puncture marks that Astarion absolutely loves. ]

—But my understanding is that such a thing is rather permanent.

[ Just in case Iorveth wants to rethink the idea of having Astarion's mark on him for life. He really shouldn't even give him the opportunity to reconsider, but he loves Iorveth enough to not want to saddle him with something that will one day make him unhappy. Astarion knows what it feels like to be permanently changed by someone that you resent for it, even if you asked for it at the time. ]

[ Loving a man halfway to death also means not allowing them to run rampant with ink and needle－ even Halsin would (probably) side-eye a tramp stamp (citation needed). Two roughly-circular marks on his neck seems demure in comparison, and people would likely question it less on Iorveth's neck, too busy with everything else going on from the chin up to note discreet pinpricks precariously close to his jugular.

So: ] That would be the point, foolish cat.

[ Flick, goes his index finger against the tip of Astarion's shapely nose. ]

Your mark on my skin, in your shape, permanently. [ Bluntly. Almost the opposite of romantic, if not for the fact that he places his palm over the hand tracking the veins on his neck; maybe not romantic, even then. Most people would probably be weirded out by someone casually expressing that he wants their teeth tattooed onto his skin, and reconsider being in a relationship with someone who thinks that that's normal, but.

Well. Iorveth will be Iorveth. ]

Pretty marks below an ugly face. I call it balance.

[ Most people would find this unnerving, but Astarion has absolutely no idea what's normal in a relationship, and as far as he's concerned, this is the most romantic thing he could possibly imagine. His marks on Iorveth's skin, in his shape, permanently. His heart doesn't beat, but he could swear that he feels it do a cartwheel in his chest.

There is one thing that he doesn't find romantic, though: ]

I detest when you call yourself that.

[ Ugly. As if a little maiming could ever truly mar his lovely features. Astarion finds him attractive partly because he thinks the sun shines out of his unfortunately un-tramp-stamped ass, but he also finds him hot because he's, well, hot. So what if he's missing an eye? One look from him can still make Astarion's legs turn to jelly. ]

You're beautiful. And yes, I mean that in the most shallow of senses.

[ In case Iorveth thinks it's only about his insides being beautiful — which they are, obviously. ]

[ Ah. A subtle quirk of his brow at "detest", which is a strong word, followed by a bit of hesitation following "beautiful". Reluctant to accept it, obviously, because― well. "Beautiful" is the sort of term one would use to describe people like Astarion or Ciaran, symmetrical and chiseled and objectively comely. Even if he had his missing eye, Iorveth thinks he skews rather on the plainer end of elven appearances: not as gaunt as he was when he first met Astarion, but still a little too sharp to be ethereal, a little too mean-looking to be feylike.

But this isn't what he thinks of his own looks― it's about what Astarion sees when Astarion looks at him, and though Iorveth has a dozen and a half ways to say something along the lines of "you know that that's not true", he decides not to.

Instead: ] ...If you were the only one to think so, I would be content.

[ He might not be beautiful, but he's fine with Astarion thinking so. He turns his head slightly, an instinctive inclination to cast his face in profile so that the unbroken side is facing Astarion more properly, and clears his throat. ]

Thank you.

[ The best reaction he could realistically hope for, Astarion supposes. Still not quite as confident as he'd like. Iorveth is, in his opinion, the most perfect, beautiful, cunning creature on all of Toril. Yes, it's partially rose-colored glasses, but he also is simply magnificent. ]

You know, [ he says, lightly tracing the line of Iorveth's jaw. Sharp enough to cut himself on. He loves it. ] I couldn't even bear to imagine intimacy before you.

[ The mere thought had been repulsive. He'd thought he had something severely wrong with him that could never be fixed, an inability to even tolerate something that the rest of the world found pleasurable. ]

The first time I did, it was with the image of your lovely face in my mind.

[ A (hopefully) classier way of saying 'babe, you're so hot I touch myself to you'. He places a thumb over Iorveth's angular chin, affectionate. ]

You'll look even more striking once I've put a needle and ink to you.

[ His heart skips a beat at the mental image of Astarion in moments of solo intimacy, not just because he would be very pretty doing it, but because of the claim that he allocated any sort of brainpower to thinking of Iorveth while it happened. It makes Iorveth a little warmer under Astarion's literal thumb, his face angling to meet the touch. ]

...Then we'll find a needle and ink.

[ Ugh. Iorveth can't help it― he's infatuated. ]

I've never wished to be appealing to anyone but you.

[ A kind-of admission. Iorveth likes to be tidy, clean, but he's never been vain in the sense that he wanted to be desirable to others; grooming was and still is a matter of personal pride, later subsumed by a bitter desire to say fuck-you to the humans who would rather see him dirt-caked and pitiful.

He would, however, like for Astarion to enjoy looking at him, so. His arms wrap around Astarion's middle, and he nestles his face into Astarion's hair. ]

[ Damn. Astarion can't relate. He needs to be the most fuckable person at the grocery store. But it's better this way, he thinks; two exceedingly vain creatures would constantly be at each other's throats, and he much prefers Iorveth only to think of being desirable to him, anyway. ]

You're impossibly appealing, [ he coos as he strokes Iorveth's hair. ] If I didn't know any better, I would swear that you made my heart beat again.

[ Unfortunately, he does know better. Still cold and dead in his chest, no matter how much love there is in it. He finds that he doesn't mind being dead, though, as long as it means he gets to spend eternity with his most cherished companion. ]

—Now, I could stay here and praise you all night, I assure you, but I'm afraid the shops will close for the night before long.

[ Please, he definitely can't take being complimented for any longer than this. One more little nuzzle against the side of Astarion's head, and Iorveth draws back to give him some breathing (ha) room. ]

Time to say goodbye to the shoes, then. How disappointing.

[ A tattoo parlor usually stays open much later than boutiques; they're going to have to hurry if Astarion doesn't want Iorveth to continue wearing Waterdhavian Crocs－

－which Iorveth does, in fact, slip into by the time they get ready to go out. He's in a less reprehensible ensemble tonight (a neatly tailored dress shirt in soft cream, sleek black pants with a belt to cinch the waistline in), bolstered by Astarion's claim that he finds Iorveth not unpleasant to look at, but the ugly sandals are still the only feetwear that fit him. Tragique. ]

[ Astarion gives him an obvious up-and-down appraisal, overjoyed that Iorveth is dressed so smartly yet irritated beyond belief by the hideous shoes ruining everything. Honestly, he can never have anything! He gravitates toward Iorveth all the same, hands wrapping around his middle and pulling him in. ]

Mmmm. I suppose those shoes have some purpose after all. If not for them, I'd be inclined to rip your clothes off where you stand.

[ He still is, a little bit, but he's always a little bit inclined to do that. ]

I dare say a chastity belt wouldn't be more effective.

[ Light bullying. He's obviously still pleased with the rest of Iorveth's ensemble, hands wandering up to adjust his collar like an animal grooming another animal. ]

They're shoes, [ Iorveth notes with a twinkle of a laugh, obviously amused by how much his partner seems to sincerely fucking hate these sandals. ] I should keep them just to surprise you every so often.

[ Giving as good as he's getting, on the bullying front. Another huff-laugh, and Iorveth reaches into his picket for the sun-shaped pin he gifted the night before to slot it on Astarion's lapel. Reciprocal fussing alongside the reciprocal ribbing. ]

You look beautiful, by the way.

[ To the tune of "it's sunny outside". It goes without saying, but Iorveth knows Astarion likes to hear it. With that statement of the obvious out of the way, Iorveth leads the both of them outside into the still-lively Waterdhavian nightlife, where a passing dwarf, when inquired, informs the two of them that "Thentavva's Boots" is the best place in the city, nay, perhaps all of Faerûn, to buy quality footwear.

"Thentavva can even fix up what's on your feet now! Make them last centuries!", the dwarf claims, emphatically. ]

Ah. My beloved would like that, I think.

[ Astarion keeps his hand curled around the crook of Iorveth's arm, somewhere between affectionate and possessive. Possessively affectionate, affectionately possessive. He likes the world to know that Iorveth is his, that he has somebody who loves him. He likes when Iorveth calls him 'beloved', too. Very much.

He likes the idea of keeping these awful sandals for centuries far less. Scowling, he says, ] Absolutely not.

[ Boots sound promising, though. No way to make those mesh, he thinks. (And desperately hopes.) ]

Where might we find this Thentavva's?

[ "Not far from here! Just off the High Road", the dwarf booms happily, obviously pleased to be providing critical information about Waterdeep to these two tourists and obviously oblivious to the war raging on regarding the future of Iorveth's ugly sandals.

"The shoes are a bit pricy, mind, but they're well worth it. But ah, what am I saying to two fancy elves like yourselves－ you two look like you can afford a nice pair of boots!"

Iorveth watches as the ruddy stranger give the both of them a once-over, and decides to accept the man's subsequent wink because he's been so helpful. ]

Thank you, [ he offers, flatly but not unkindly. Then, he turns to Astarion and nudges him gently, forehead to forehead. ]

Come, we'll see how much of our wizard's allowance we can spend.

[ Famous last words. ]

[ Astarion tosses the dwarf a wink back before they start to make their way to Thentavva's, grateful for the tip. To the High Road they go, where Astarion spots a small structure between the more towering shops. Unassuming though it might be, it's still Waterdhavian, glamorous in its own way with embellishments of carved stone on the storefront.

He drags Iorveth inside, where he's instantly taken aback by how many fellow shoppers have had the same idea. How dare they! There are people scattered about the crowded interior of the store, some simply admiring the shoes and others trying them on. A young tiefling girl tries on a pair of ballet slippers, to her mother's delight.

His shoulder knocks into a fellow customer, and he gravitates closer to Iorveth, pressing their sides together. ]

Ah. I suppose you do have a point about cities.

[ They can be claustrophobic at times. ]

[ The scent of leather is so thick in the air that Iorveth can swear he tastes it in the back of his throat, rich and bitter with a tang of polish. He nearly trips over a halfling hunched over her pair of loafers ("hey!", she barks at him, indignant), and instinctively reaches for Astarion at the same moment Astarion leans into him. ]

Maybe I don't need new shoes, [ Iorveth grumbles, navigating them between shelves full of heels in various shapes and heights. ] Let's make this quick.

[ His fingers twine around Astarion's, keeping hold while he looks for more practical footwear. There's an entire section devoted to samples of the store's famous thigh-high boots－ "at least nine business days from the day of order until completion"― that he bypasses, though not without an idle comment. ]

You've the legs for those, [ he notes. ]

Obviously.

[ He has the legs for everything! Why else would he wear such tight pants? But he scoffs as they walk by, rolling his eyes. ]

But I fear the squeaking of leather would give my sneaking away.

[ Terribly impractical for a rogue. Nothing would be more embarrassing than being found out because of his thigh-high boots. Iorveth obviously won't be wearing those—although Astarion would certainly enjoy it—so he tugs them past, weaving through the crowd until they make it to a collection of more down-to-earth (but still entirely luxurious) boots.

Astarion plucks up a pair of mid-calf boots made of a clearly fine leather, the color a rich tan. ]

I think the laces on these are rather tantalizing.

[ Like a sexy corset for Iorveth's feet. ]

[ Shame, about the sneaking. Iorveth takes a second to fantasize about Astarion in those long, sleek boots (and little else), and forcefully shoves that thought away before it can distract him further from the task at hand. Thank the gods (that he hates) for the lack of tadpoles in their brains.

As he moves to inspect the sexy-corset-shoes, a calm-looking young human with thick spectacles (Thurve Thentavva the Third, his nameplate reads) calls out from a few feet away: "five gold pieces for the boots in that section."

Five gold pieces for shoes. Iorveth's brow shoots up, and he looks to Astarion with some amount of hesitation. ]

I've killed men for less.

[ The Waterdhavian Crocs were likely one silver piece, if that. Iorveth could buy a whole closet full of them for the price of these boots alone, how terrifying.

Still, he settles himself on the nearest stool to try them on. Mostly for Astarion's benefit, though he's pleased when he shimmies into them and laces them up with ease, finding that they fit him like a well-tailored glove. ]

[ He can hardly fathom how Thentavva is so damned placid; the place is a madhouse. Perhaps the promise of coin from all of his customers keeps him happy. Astarion rolls his eyes at five gold pieces — he could steal these, if he really wanted. The man should be happy to get anything at all. ]

Yes, but you look so very handsome. I'd kill a man just to lay eyes on you.

[ A woman nearby, perusing some very nice heeled shoes, glances back and raises an eyebrow at all of the 'killing a man' talk. ]

We'll buy them, of course.

[ He's made a unilateral decision. The crocs MUST go. He spares them a withering glance where they sit on the floor, lip curling in disgust. ]

And burn those.

[ Thentavva is threading (ha) through the crowd with practiced ease, suggesting sizes and directing confused-looking families to the right corner of the shoebox (double ha)-sized store with quiet authority. It would be impressive if the prices of the footwear didn't feel so exorbitant. Oh well.

Iorveth slips the second boot on, and gets up. (Considers just walking out with them on, but figures that there must be some sort of safeguard against that.) A beat, and he bends down to pick up the crocs sitting sadly on the floor. ]

I wonder if the old woman in Athkatla would want them.

[ How wild would that be. ]

Are you buying anything for yourself? [ Idly thinking about the long boots again. Sue him, he's a red-blooded male. ]

[ A pair of ugly mesh sandals for a daywalking cloak. Seems reasonable. It's not like the old woman will be able to use the cloak, anyway; the crocs are far more practical! Then again, he imagines the type of woman who collects magical trinkets is far from practical.

His mood has clearly been lifted by the removal of The Crocs from Iorveth's feet. Leaning back against a shelf of shoes, Astarion cocks his head, the corner of his mouth turned up. ]

Why don't you pick something out for me? I did it for you.

[ Not like he got anything out of it, or anything. ]

[ Iorveth's single green eye narrows. Clearly, he is Wondering; does Astarion have a sixth sense for when someone is thinking inappropriate thoughts about him? Iorveth's in danger, if he does.

Maybe he should pick something horrible just to play it cool. Waterdhavian Uggs. The really ugly formless ones that make everyone wearing them look like they have cankles. Then again, that might get Iorveth broken up with, and being dumped while a little tiefling girl watches them in her new ballet slippers might be more humiliation than Iorveth is willing to handle.

So. ] Mm. [ A hum of consideration, and he bypasses the Waterdhavian Uggs (they do look comfortable, though). He picks up a pair of slender black boots instead, made of soft, treated leather that doesn't squeak: almost like suede in its feel, if not in its texture. Decorative laces slither up the sides of the boots to accentuate the length of the leg, and it extends up to just below the supposed bend of an elf-shaped individual's knee.

Again: sue him. Astarion has really nice legs. Iorveth clears his throat, and before he can say anything, Thentavva interjects:

"Seven gold pieces for that one." ]

[ He would not break up with Iorveth for trying to put Waterdhavian Uggs on him, which says something. A lot of somethings. Astarion is in far too deep if he'd ever even consider putting something so hideous on just to make Iorveth happy.

Luckily, he doesn't have to, so his dignity (or what's left of it, anyway) can remain for another day. Astarion reaches out to take the boots in his hands, fingers ghosting over the soft texture of the leather. He does love soft, luxurious things. They're everything he was never allowed to have.

At the mention of the price, Astarion frowns. ]

You know, in Cormyr, this style has already gone out of fashion. Honestly, I'd be doing you a favor to take them off your hands now. What do you say about four gold pieces, hmm?

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