essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Context and understanding have smoothed out some of the more contentious parts of Astarion's jagged personality: Astarion's caring might be variable, but it isn't nonexistent. There just isn't much of it to currently spare for people who aren't himself, which is, all things considered, pretty fair.

Which means that pity is a hell of a lot more than indifference, and which is why Iorveth doesn't mention that Astarion probably would have been furious if some other vampire lord's spawn had claimed to pity him, if their roles were reversed. (Maybe not, though. Maybe liberation would have been worth the humiliation. Iorveth would've seen it as more kindred for his ever-burning fire.)

One more gentle touch to Astarion's hair, and Iorveth relents. ]

If your pity earns them their freedom, then they've nothing to complain about.

[ And with that, down the street they go, bypassing a rosy-cheeked bard warbling about valiant sailors in love with bloodthirsty sirens. They've passed from the Bridge District to the Center District－ noticeably more tailored to the upper-class, with bigger and more elegant building facades and less haggard-looking drunks－ and are making their way to the opulent inn that Gale's contact has kindly reserved from them under the name of "Blackmane".

(There was a long history lesson here about a Blackmane who operated in Amn under Khelben Arunsun's tutelage, but Iorveth had to tune this portion out. Even he has his limits.) ]

[ Iorveth is endlessly encouraging despite Astarion's many, many flaws. He doesn't deserve it, but he basks in it anyway, fingers curling around Iorveth's as they make their way into the heart of the city. The merchants here are distinctly more professional, shoddy stalls giving way to a proper marketplace. Traders sell their wares to well-to-do Athkatlans at booths and storefronts, and Astarion cranes his neck to peruse a selection of shiny daggers before turning his attention back to Iorveth. ]

You're sweet, [ he says, squeezing Iorveth's hand. Across the street, an Athkatlan guard watches them warily, having picked them out of the crowd thanks to their foreign clothing. ]

It's no wonder that I always want to eat you up.

[ And he really does. Maybe it's only due to affection and not any true qualities of taste, but there's no blood he could ever crave more than Iorveth's. ]

Mm. Keep an eye out for any respectable jewelers, will you?

[ More heads turn as they wind their way around the perimeter of the stadium-sized open market situated in the heart of the District. The crowd of people is thickest here, the time of day (night) having done nothing to thin it. Iorveth makes no attempt to venture near the throng, however, instinctively disliking how many people are bumping shoulders in that space, and pulls Astarion closer to him in response to that squeezed hand.

Delusion says that everyone whose eyes linger a little too long is looking at Astarion, because why wouldn't they be? Iorveth has seen a lot of faces in the short amount of time since they'd been dropped unceremoniously into this new city, but no one has been half as striking as his favorite person (biased).

There probably are a few respectable jewelers in the open market, but Iorveth steers them away anyway. ]

Eager to fit something on me? [ Speaking of jewelers. Iorveth smooths his thumb over the back of Astarion's. ] You're the sweet one, I think.

[ He is eager to fit something on Iorveth. When isn't he trying to put Iorveth in something shiny? It's been one of his favorite pastimes ever since Iorveth got put in that ridiculous clothing that they stole from the temple to Umberlee in Baldur's Gate. As strange as it is to say given how fraught Henselt's assassination had been, Astarion most remembers it as being oddly fun. Despite everything, he'd enjoyed spending time with Iorveth. He had liked him, as embarrassing as such a thought had been at the time. ]

And that would make you the delusional one.

[ Nothing about Astarion is sweet. He's all jagged edges that are sharp enough to cut yourself on, and he's unpleasant more often than not, and he's insecure in the worst, most unflattering ways. It's a miracle that Iorveth tolerates him at all.

That being said: ]

...You do make me want to be.

[ Sweet, that is. To Iorveth alone, but sweet nonetheless. ]

[ A beat, followed by a long, low sigh. ]

Beloved. Don't make me want to kiss you here.

[ In witness of all these strangers that Iorveth kind of wants to hiss at. As he says so, they step into a wider main street that scoops through the nicest portion of the area, the one that eventually leads to the guarded entrance to the Scepter District: there are, in fact, fancy boutiques and jewelers on either side of the path, enticing the well-to-do to make one last purchase before they're admitted in (or rejected; according to Gale, the Scepter District is even more heavily-guarded than the Upper City of Baldur's Gate).

Opulent gowns and glittering accessories sit pretty behind glassfront stores; a few yards away, the inn they're meant to stay in stands tall above the others around it, an impressive four-story building decorated by violet pennants meant to symbolize refinement and money.

Iorveth can certainly kiss Astarion in there, unless Astarion wants to take a look at all this stuff. Iorveth is amenable, as long as Astarion can stand being Looked At Slightly Impolitely by Iorveth. ]

I had no idea you were so shy.

[ Astarion has no issue with sticking their tongues in each other's mouths and groping each other in public, and anyone who would complain about their displays of affection is just jealous, in his extremely unbiased opinion. But this place makes Iorveth uncomfortable, as he can clearly see, so Astarion can sympathize that this isn't a romantic setting for him.

A quick glance toward the sparkling things behind pretty storefronts, before he tugs Iorveth toward the inn instead. (In the back of his mind, a question lingers: did Gale pick this one because he knew the pennants were purple?) As much as he loves shiny things, he does, in fact, love Iorveth more. ]

Well, all the better for me to have you all to myself.

[ Iorveth, the least shy man in the world, who chose a dressing room in a boutique after being attacked by cultists to get horny. He's the farthest thing from being a prude, but he's far more mindful of Astarion's comfort levels than his own; Astarion's endured two centuries of being perceived in terms of the physical, and Iorveth doesn't want to perpetuate it.

So. Towards the inn they go, which is delightfully (?) decorated in royal purples. 'The Crown Jewel', the establishment calls itself proudly, with violet velvet curtains and violet upholstery and violet-uniformed staff. The whole place smells faintly of lavender. There's a theme.

Greeted by a cheery halfling dressed head to toe in dark plum, Iorveth gives her their name, "Blackmane", and watches as she dips into a deep bow to indicate reverence. "Of course, we've been exepcting you, Master Blackmane..." A quick glance towards Astarion, and then: "...And of course, you as well, Master Blackmane."

She's made an assumption, and she can't back down from it now. Before they can get a word in edgewise, she hurriedly leads them up, up, up the stairs and to their suite, which occupies the entire fourth floor. Extremely overkill, but it also apparently cost Gale nothing thanks to his connections at Blackstaff. (Wizards are the worst, in Iorveth's opinion.)

The halfling gives Iorveth the keys to the castle, and asks if they need a tour of their room (a living room, two bedrooms, a giant bathroom with a miniature pool instead of a tub, a half-office). His answer is a crisp, blunt: ] No.

[ Gale is ridiculous. Too kind. Perhaps trying too hard to stay in their good graces, afraid that if he doesn't lavish them with gifts and assistance that he'll lose his hard-won friends. He wouldn't, of course, but Astarion feels less guilty than he should for taking advantage of Gale's very probable insecurity if it means getting to lounge in a place like this.

Turning to the halfling: ]

Get lost.

[ Haughty enough that he fills the role of Master Blackmane, wealthy and imperious. The halfling woman looks a little taken aback, but after a moment of silence, she bows out. His elven ears do, however, pick up on her muttering on the way out.

Too bad he doesn't care. He drops his pack by the door and moves to rid Iorveth of his pack, too, sliding the straps down his arms. ]

Mm, Master Blackmane. Very sexy.

[ Gale didn't say anything about not ruining the Blackmane name, so his acquaintance will have to deal with the fallout of whatever these two deranged elves get up to in here in the next tenday.

Gently relinquishing the straps of his pack (the newly-acquired tattoo pen looked too delicate to just toss around), Iorveth gets to work unhooking his bow cradle and setting his quiver aside, stripping the more cumbersome parts of his travel gear to get comfortable in Astarion's presence. ]

An established name in the city that'll discourage casual intruders, [ he explains, instead of addressing whether or not the name is sexy. The customary wet blanket retort. With that out of the way, Iorveth reaches to tip Astarion's chin and give him the promised kiss.

For his own benefit, mostly. It makes Iorveth feel less on-edge, and he relaxes into his next exhale as he pulls back. ]

They gave us two bedrooms, [ he laughs. ]

[ Such a wet blanket, but since Iorveth kisses him right after, it's hard to find it in himself to be displeased. It's incredible how much Iorveth's affection does for his mood; Astarion had been sulking about the possibility of him being bitten not long ago, but now he's all smiles as he reaches up to unfasten Iorveth's eyepatch, ridding him of it the same way Iorveth had rid himself of his quiver. No need for such things when they're alone. ]

Perhaps one for trancing, and one for... other activities.

[ Probably not their actual purpose, but Astarion has no intention of trancing in a separate room from his elf-shaped heater. ]

Or perhaps Gale is trying to send us a message that he disapproves.

[ Unlikely, he thinks. Stupid, sentimental Gale loves love, even the deranged and sometimes deviant kind. ]

[ Iorveth snorts. ]

If he didn't approve, he shouldn't have magicked the bed to be self-cleaning.

[ Which is a big-ass assumption about what Gale did with the bed, but the alternative is finding out that poor Gale crept into their bedroom at some point to fix it up, which is profoundly sad. Gale deserves better than that, good gods.

One more peck to a pale cheek for good measure, and he leans back to give Astarion more breathing room. ]

Choose which bed you want to rest on tonight. They'll both likely be purple.

[ The curtains are a soft shade of pretty lilac, and the soft roomwear that the staff have prepared for them (in various sizes, just to cover their bases) is a lovely indigo. The complimentary bottle of wine sitting on the living room table is, of course, red. ]

I'm not ready to rest. [ Said with all the petulance of a child being faced with bedtime. ] We only just got here, and you've barely even kissed me at all.

[ And there's still ink and a tattoo quill in that pack that needs using. Despite all of this, Astarion does make his way through the living room and into the nearest bedroom, discovering that the bed is, in fact, purple. Even the wood the bedframe is made of has a slight violet sheen to it, and the silky sheets are a deep wine.

Kicking his boots off, he flops onto the bed back first. ]

You know, taking on a vampire lord in his lair is very dangerous. Who knows how many more nights you have left with me?

[ True, actually, but also an excuse to make Iorveth spoil him with affection. ]

[ Iorveth peels off his own boots, and inspects the bathroom first (incredibly pleased with the gigantic tub, indifferent about the lavender and lilac bath salts) before weaving his way back to where Astarion is laid out on the bed, a silver pool on a bed of deep red-purple. Very striking.

Despite that very striking, very enticing layout, Iorveth lingers by the doorframe leading into the bedroom, scarred lips pulled into a half-frown. Not a scowl－ he knows that Astarion is being facetious about the limited time left, so his mood doesn't completely sour－ but tightrope-walking towards displeasure. ]

I don't even want to consider a world without you in it.

[ So no, he will not entertain the idea of how many nights he has left, because if he starts digging that hole, he won't dig himself out of it easily. ]

[ Iorveth's frown is the only one that could ever make him feel bad. Astarion sits up from his lounging position, frowning back, although his expression is more out of guilt than of displeasure. He's been intentionally hurtful before, but he doesn't like the idea of unintentionally hurting Iorveth with careless words. ]

I was only joking.

[ A world without Iorveth seems very bleak, and although it's difficult to imagine that a world without him would be the same—after all, Iorveth has a whole community to return to and care for, whereas Astarion really only has one deranged elf—he can understand the distress.

Patting the mattress beside him, he says, ] Come.

[ Astarion is the only person in any realm who could pat a mattress and tell Iorveth to come over like a loyal dog, and indeed, Iorveth wouldn't give a shit if people derided him for obeying. Why wouldn't he? Astarion is shaped like everything he's ever wanted, safe and sharp and beautiful, and Iorveth gravitates towards him, instinct cutting through the unease caused by mentions of their time together being cut short.

A moment of consideration after Iorveth sits next to Astarion's supine form, he settles sideways next to his elegantly-sprawled partner. An arm finds its way across Astarion's middle, hugging him loosely. ]

If you wanted my undivided attention, love, there were better ways to ask.

[ Slight chiding, but without fangs (ha). Iorveth leaves it at that, nebulous anxieties that never quite stop screaming at him relegated to a soft whisper in the back of his skull; his overactive mind never stops considering the possibilities of the world being inherently cruel, but Astarion is very, very, very distracting.

Calming, he presses his lips to the perfectly-shaped bridge of Astarion's nose. ]

How did you want to be spoiled tonight, then? With touch, or with words?

[ Astarion is very kind and doesn't mention that it still worked to get Iorveth's undivided attention. Asking for it outright would have been embarrassing! Despite craving Iorveth's undivided attention like a flower craves the sun, he still feels like he doesn't quite deserve it. It's a tight-rope walk between denying himself and demanding what he hasn't earned, but at the end of the day, Astarion has never been very good at denying himself.

He grins at the press of Iorveth's mouth to his nose, angling his head for a quick, playful press of lip against lip instead. ]

You would make me choose when both are so sweet?

[ This should be a tell that Astarion has already been spoiled. Over-spoiled. A brat that always demands more than he's due. ]

[ Should've known that Astarion would go for both. Iorveth has spoiled Astarion rotten, but he's of the (un)professional opinion that Astarion needs to get it in his pretty little head that he's valued and wanted－ you know, for balance's sake. Not undoing two hundred years of bad experiences, but trying to unburden Astarion of some of them.

A puff of breath, more affectionate than amused, and Iorveth nips at a soft lower lip. ]

If you can't choose, you'll have neither.

[ Blatantly a lie. Iorveth slides against Astarion, nuzzling down into his neck, mouthing at where his pulsepoint would be if he were alive. ]

[ Astarion hates the drawbacks that come with being a vampire, but he isn't particularly cut up about being undead, really. Still, he finds himself wishing that Iorveth could feel the flutter of his pulse against his lips the way that Astarion can feel Iorveth's. He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he were alive, Iorveth would make his pulse quicken, his heart skip a beat or two. Sometimes it almost feels as if he has, even though rationally, Astarion knows there's nothing in his chest but a cold, dead hunk of meat that hasn't stirred for two hundred years. ]

You say that, but—

[ He strokes Iorveth's hair, fingers tweaking the tip of his pointy ear fondly. ]

Honestly, darling, I'm not sure you have it in you to deny me.

[ For someone with a perpetual stick up his ass, Iorveth is surprisingly permissive. ]

[ Very rude of Astarion to call Iorveth out like this. That said, it's true that Iorveth is an elf-shaped piece of string wrapped around Astarion's slender finger, and he's aware of it in a way that should annoy him, but doesn't. Complicated. He's a free elf who does whatever the fuck he wants, thank you very much, but he's also a free elf that wants to do Astarion (ha ha).

A light shiver at the feeling of fingers along his cartilage, lifting his head just an inch to nip at Astarion's chin. ]

I recall denying you earlier.

[ A firm "no" to leaving him in times of trouble, in case Astarion forgot. Humming, he sits up and slides the hand on his head down to his mouth, kissing at cool fingertips. ]

But, mm. You've a point, I suppose.

[ Denying Astarion affection is probably not something Iorveth can manage. ]

[ Well, yes, Iorveth did deny him earlier, and it still rankles a little bit, but that's different. Iorveth is stubborn enough to deny leaving him a million times over, but Astarion imagines that he'd crumble instantly were Astarion to give him pleading eyes and ask for affection.

Which is exactly what he plans to do, actually. He lets Iorveth press a warm mouth against his cold fingers for a moment, before sinking against the pillow and making his eyes as big and wet and manipulative as he can muster. ]

Then don't deny me.

[ Hells. A hovering moment, here, where Iorveth watches Astarion from his half-upright vantage point on the bed, blasted in the face with the full force of Big Plaintive Eyes. It's not even the fact that Astarion is pretty－ though that helps, certainly－ that tugs the well-hidden cords of Iorveth's heartstrings; it's the thought of making Astarion go on the defensive if Iorveth does deny him after making him look like that.

But also, like. He's just cute. After taking critical spiritual damage (Astarion rolls a nat 20 on manipulation rolls against Iorveth every single fucking time), Iorveth flops down squarely on top of Astarion, pulling him into a two-armed embrace right afterwards. ]

You really are the most dangerous man I know.

[ To think that he would be bested by doe eyes. Shameful, probably, but can't bring himself to care. ]

I'd venture to Avernus and cut the horns off of Mephistopheles himself if you asked sweetly.

[ Astarion's sad, forlorn expression instantly gives way to delight as Iorveth gives into him, arms wrapping around him. He'd meant it when he said that he wasn't opposed to being swallowed whole, as long as it's Iorveth doing the swallowing. The feeling of another person's weight on him has always filled him with anxiety, but Iorveth's feels surprisingly safe, soothing.

Those cold fingers that Iorveth had kissed worm their way underneath the hem of Iorveth's shirt, flattening out against his back to soak up his body heat. Astarion really is a menace. ]

What a terrible romantic you are, Master Blackmane.

[ He still thinks it's kind of a sexy name, especially when it's one that's shared between them. Sue him! ]

How lucky you are that I only want you to stay right here with me.

[ Iorveth used to find cold hands slipping under his shirt a little disarming, but he's fully used to it now; it's more than likely that he'd find it unpleasant to have warm hands pawing over his bare skin. Invasive, unfamiliar.

Humming again, pleased to have Astarion's palm under his shirt, Iorveth snakes his own touch down to give Astarion's rear a light squeeze. More playful than lecherous, really－ getting away with it, more than any sort of heated intent. ]

Hm. I was going to propose that I do some reconnaissance during the day, while you trance... [ Because he assumes that that's when Alkam and his spawn will be hiding in their "rat holes", as the weird old woman put it". ] ...but, as you said. I couldn't deny you.

[ If Astarion wants an elf-shaped heater to hold while he rests, Iorveth likely wouldn't be able to say no. Not something to scoff at; Iorveth choosing to be impractical is A Big Deal. More light kisses to cool skin for punctuation, mouth on the jut of a collarbone to suck a pink mark over it. Very temporary, but pretty while it lasts. ]

[ Emboldened, his hands slide further up Iorveth's back, seeking out spots of tightness and pressing in against them, rubbing in circles to ease them. It's not much, but it's something; what Astarion would really like is to get Iorveth down on his stomach while he digs his thumbs into those muscle knots. And then, you know, does some other, much more inappropriate stuff to him, probably. ]

Don't, [ comes out automatically, the sentiment bypassing his brain entirely. It's only a moment later that he has the sense to feel embarrassed about it. ]

I, ah. [ He stumbles over his words before landing on, ] I don't trance particularly well without you near.

[ Trancing has historically been an unpleasant to middling-at-best experience. Restless, most of the time. Frightening, occasionally. It's only once he started sharing a bed with Iorveth that he ever found any peace in it. ]

[ It feels so good to have someone to bask in, to explore and trust with or without intent. Iorveth hadn't realized the extent to which his shattered face had eroded away at his inclination to let hands roam over him, how much he'd internalized some of the heinous things his human captors had said to him during his imprisonment; being with Astarion has given Iorveth more perspective that he didn't know he'd been lacking.

Something to linger on later. Don't, Astarion says, and Iorveth's first instinct is to gather Astarion closer against his chest. ]

Then I'll stay near. [ To keep it light: ] You need your so-called 'beauty sleep'.

[ Casual, but protective. Iorveth will kill phantom Cazadors while Astarion trances, if need be. Pressing more kisses to the spot where neck meets shoulder, littering pale skin with small pink patches that fade in a handful of seconds, Iorveth tries to press his affection into the outline of Astarion's body.

(The night hag tracking them from her shop in the Bridge District doesn't love that the two elves aren't sleeping separately, but she'll just have to deal.) ]

We'll have to tell the innkeep that the Masters Blackmane, plural, will stay inside today. We're not to be disturbed. [ Murmuring against the crest of Astarion's shoulder, kissing it over the fabric of his shirt. ] The one-eyed one is feeling particularly covetous of his beloved.

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