essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

And let it relieve itself in my palm? [ He shoots Iorveth a look of disgust. ] No, I think I'll leave the woodland creatures to you.

[ What is it they say? A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush? He'd rather they stay in the bush, if it's all the same. ]

And I have no interest in ruining any more of my clothing with blood and knives.

[ Which a Sharran would most certainly do, he thinks. Worshipers of loss aren't the type to hold back. It says something about him that he's more concerned about the state of his clothing than the potential of getting his throat sliced by a Sharran cultist; if he has to die, he'd like to die looking stylish.

Contemplative, he adds, ] I suppose we could play cards, if you promise not to find any of the workers more alluring than me.

[ Iorveth steps them both out of the middle of the street and towards the many alcoves nestled between the rickety buildings lining the road leading towards Wyrm's Rock. In front of them is the vine-covered, ramshackle facade of Fraygo's Flophouse, where a group of halflings are arguing fiercely about how much coin they have left to spare at Sharess'.

Leaning into the shade of an overhang, Iorveth curls the corner of his scarred lips. ]

Ridiculous. [ "You're fishing for a compliment again" is implied. It would be an indictment if he didn't feel inclined to dish said compliments out to Astarion for free today. ] One of them could shove their hands down my trousers and my prick wouldn't so much as twitch.

[ He flicks under Astarion's chin, teasing. ]

Don't insult me. I'm not so easily swayed.

[ He scrunches up his face at the flick, although he's not truly bothered by it. How could he be? Iorveth's casual affection was a hard-earned prize. A grin breaks out across his face after, stupidly charmed by Iorveth's relaxed teasing, before he shakes his head. ]

I wouldn't fault you if it did twitch, my sweet.

[ It's as genuine as he's capable of being. Iorveth is only a man, and no matter how much self-discipline he claims to have, surely he doesn't have so much as to manually control his attraction. Besides, he's had enough meaningless dalliances to know that sex is what you make of it; one certainly doesn't have to be in love to take their clothing off for someone. It's the stirring of Iorveth's heart that Astarion feels possessive of, really, and ugh, he's a little disgusted with himself for that.

Astarion leans back against the wall of the Flophouse. A miserable place where he'd picked up so many victims who wouldn't be missed. He has no desire to play cards there, at the very least. ]

It's all right if you're stirred by, ah— [ He squints at the sign out front of Sharess' advertising their newest offer. ] 'The naughty paladin'. [ An immature giggle under his breath. ] Just as long as you still like me best.

[ Sex is sport: it can mean as little or as much as Iorveth allows it to. Still, it doesn't sit well with Iorveth, who likes clear lines in the sand, who likes to project himself exactly as he is, with no room for doubt. The thought of making Astarion wonder is like sandpaper against his skin.

Maybe a bit much, considering they're just joking around. Iorveth eases away from the comfortable edge of his emotional cliff, and folds his arms across his chest. ]

"Like you best". [ He parrots, brow arched. After a second to turn the concept over in his head, he breathes a soft chuckle. Smug, almost. ] In other words, I can lust, as long as my love is for you.

[ A lot of four-lettered words that start with 'L', and that last one is the most dangerous. Probably not the most romantic place in the world to use it, with their back to Fraygo's and their front to Sharress' Caress, but. Oh well. ]

I detest paladins. I'd say you're safe for today.

[ Facetious, and Iorveth knows it. A damaged creature like himself can only fall in love once. ]

[ Astarion tilts his head like a curious dog. He's heard the word 'love' in relation to himself before, of course, and he's said it plenty of times, but everyone involved knew that it was only farce. Lonely people liked it when he pretended to love them, and impulsive people would say just about anything when someone with two hundred years of experience was pleasuring them. He's never heard it outside of the context of sex and seduction, though, removed from the concept of 'lust'. Only when Cazador was in one of his rages, ranting about how Astarion was an unlovable worm no one but him could ever care for.

He almost feels a little defensive, like he wants to snap at Iorveth and tell him not to say things he doesn't mean again. Iorveth wouldn't play with his feelings the way he'd played with his victims', he knows, but it's hard not to feel like the other shoe is going to drop any second. Happiness is so precarious. ]

—Yes, [ he replies belatedly, realizing he'd been lost in thought. Now that's a rarity. ] Rogues are more fun. [ With a wiggle of his fingers: ] Better with our hands.

[ He clasps his hands behind his back, then, watching Iorveth. ]

Aren't you going to say how you'd fly into a jealous rage if I ever let another sate my depraved, carnal desires?

[ Iorveth observes the reaction, and lingers in the ensuing silence for a few beats. It says enough: shelf the 'l'-word for now. Too quick, too soon, too much. Stay was selfish enough on Iorveth's part for possibly the better part of the next century－ he can keep some of these cards closer to his chest until they're both ready to play them.

Leaning against his own section of wall with the good side of his profile facing Astarion, Iorveth adjusts the strap of his bow sling so that the cradle doesn't dig uncomfortably into his back. ]

Don't lie. You'd despise it if I did.

[ His nose wrinkles a bit, recalling things in very recent memory. ]

Besides, I've already made a fool of myself once in that regard.

[ Ugh. The abject embarrassment of having gotten so up in arms over Astarion biting someone else. Mortifying. ]

[ Astarion's nose wrinkles right back, albeit for a different reason. ]

Ugh. There was nothing 'carnal' about that.

[ No more carnal than the goblins he drank from near the Grove, and those wretched little things did nothing to inflame his lusts. It was killing, plain and simple, a way of trying to fill the yawning void inside of him. It had felt unbearably big that night, and he'd longed for nothing more than to stop wanting. Of course, filling the hole that way hadn't made it go away. It had only made it hungrier.

It's different with Iorveth. Not sexual, exactly—although a few more invitations to indulge while fooling around and it might be—but surely intimate. Like having someone see the monstrous thing he is and decide to care for it. His vampirism is hardly a point of pride, not when it's such a stark reminder of just how permanently Cazador changed him, but it feels more tolerable with Iorveth's freely given blood in his mouth.

He knocks their shoulders together, smiling roguishly. ]

You're the only one I want to do depraved things to.

[ Admitting that it bothered Iorveth that Astarion wandered back with someone else's blood on his mouth is admitting that there's something he finds sacrosanct about the act of bloodletting. Some of it is the lingering, ego-driven pleasure of having been Astarion's first (a staggering revelation), and most of it is the importance of trust: maybe Iorveth just doesn't love the idea that someone else gets to have that life-or-death negotiation with Astarion and live to talk about it. Something he'll have to unpack on a rainy day.

He acknowledges that it's stupid. Romanticizing vampirism is a slippery slope. It's very possible that liking Astarion is a slippery slope.

He gives in to it. A hundred years of crouching in front of broken corpses and feeling himself splinter, holding himself together with fury and grief and madness; Astarion makes him happy despite the sick rage that still runs rampant in Iorveth's veins. Iorveth wants him. So he tips Astarion's chin and kisses him, quick and fleeting, in witness of the thinly-dressed women and men watching them both from the second floor balconies of Sharess' Caress. ]

I have my doubts about your so-called depravity.

[ If it exists, Iorveth doesn't think he's seen it. His sweet cat, who often looks so accomplished when asking for trifles like an arm around his waist while he sleeps. ]

[ If his heart weren't cold and dead, it would flutter. For such an innocent kiss, he feels inordinately atwitter. Because it's such an innocent kiss. The prospect of pressing his mouth to someone else's not to lick obscenely into it but to show simple affection is a thunderstrike. He turns over the word 'love' in his head again before shoving it into a box to think about later.

As for his depravity, he huffs, although he really can't dispute it. No, he hasn't been particularly deviant. How warm he feels from chaste physical affection is proof of that. ]

I spent so long doing sordid and degrading things for someone else's benefit. I'm still getting used to the idea of having my own preferences. Liking things instead of gritting my teeth and bearing them.

[ Feeling safe, having his own wants and needs cared about, being desired as more than just a tool to be used. It's all very new. ]

But who knows what perversion the future might bring? I certainly don't mind exploring, if it's with you.

[ A low breath, a half-sigh. ]

If your perversion boils down to this, [ reaching for Astarion's hand to grip it, fingers laced with fingers for a moment before relinquishing, ] and this, [ another quick press of his lips, this time to Astarion's hair, ] I wouldn't complain.

[ Perversion might have lost its luster, if it ever had one to begin with. Iorveth wouldn't mind in either direction: he's enough of a freak to let Astarion tie him up if he wanted to try it, but also tired enough to be satisfied with cuddling for the rest of his life. An elf containing multitudes.

At any rate, the women and men in the brothel's employ filter back into their respective upstairs rooms, abandoning their eavesdropping positions after deciding that the two well-dressed elves probably won't be visiting them anytime soon. Iorveth huffs again. ]

Though I'll want to buy some oil. Just in case. [ Local freak elf, determined not to make the same mistake twice. ]

[ A haughty scoff rings out as Astarion rolls his eyes. ]

You talk as if we'll have even a lick of privacy for the foreseeable future.

[ He can barely cuddle Iorveth without being exposed by one of their troublesome companions. As much as he'd like to make their roommates go red in the face, he'd die—again—if they were interrupted. He's been watched enough. So, delectably deviant public handholding and pecks exchanged on the street it is.

With a grumble, he adds, ] Lae'zel already critiques me on how I handle my blade. I'd rather not hear her criticism on how I handle your blade.

[ All right, he does have to laugh at that, juvenile that he is. He titters in amusement, although he's trying very hard to keep his frown. ]

[ Fine, he'll give Astarion the laugh. Iorveth snorts, the sound a little too warm to be altogether derisive or contemptuous. ]

Do you fancy that she handles the blade in her relationship?

[ Not that Iorveth really cares, but if Shadow'zel are going to heckle them about what they get up to, turnabout is fair play. Just a bit of ribbing while the women aren't there to strangle them for it.

Instead of waiting for Astarion to answer the non-question, Iorveth gestures for Astarion to follow him across the street and away from the nearby gaggle of (still arguing) halflings, under the awning and through the dimly-lit entrance of Sharess' Caress, where Mamzell Amira and her cat greet them with a turn of their heads and a smile from the proprietress (the cat looks a little bored, actually).

"Two elves－ what a treat. How do you want to delight yourselves today?" ]

Not with your paladin, [ Iorveth drawls, wrinkling his nose at all the blood-red decor. It reminds him, a bit, of Cazador's palace; he lets his focus flit sideways towards Astarion, checking in to make sure that all of this isn't turning his stomach. ]

[ Astarion giggles maliciously at the speculation; he does so love catty gossip, and all the better that it comes from his favorite person. He's not the praying type, not anymore, but he still takes a moment to pray to every god that exists and some that don't that Iorveth sees fit to gossip about his compatriots when they head north. He isn't sure he'll make it, if not.

The brothel has a tawdry, gaudy aesthetic, all ornate rugs and velvet drapes and slowly melting candles. He lets his eyes drift over it all, catching the eye of a scantily clad woman whispering in her client's ear. It's all fake, down to the teasing curl of her lips and the way she drags a hand down her paying customer's back. It feels strange to be the one watching the performance rather than starring in it. Their circumstances are entirely different, but he feels a strange sort of kinship with her regardless.

Turning his attention back to the proprietress, he leans an elbow on the counter, letting a hand dangle enough for the fluffy cat curled up on it to stick her chin atop his finger. He strokes the soft fur of her neck idly, like he doesn't really care. ]

Not that they aren't enticing, I'm sure, [ he says, although he has as much desire to tangle himself in some paladin's limbs as Iorveth seems to. ] But it'll be just a drink for us.

[ Mamzell seems surprised, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. "Just a drink? Here?" Then, the businesswoman in her takes over, and she says, "If a paladin isn't your cup of tea, I have plenty for you to choose from. You look like you could stand to be pampered." An assertion made on the basis of him being a foppish high elf and nothing else, but not entirely wrong. "And you—" She turns her gaze to Iorveth, squinting a little like even she can't decide what a freak like him would enjoy. "We have quite a few of our more spirited courtesans for your selection." ]

[ A cat with a cat. Iorveth watches the brown-haired creature nestle against the proffered finger, turning her neck this way and that to get at a spot she particularly likes; far more interesting than Mamzell's offer, which sounds like "I can find a woman willing to step on you".

He's not sure whether to be offended or amused by that particular read of him, but ultimately settles on the latter. It's not like he can blame the woman for thinking a disfigured elf might like things that are a little on the weird side.

Dryly: ] I'll forgive the offense of assuming that we'd take separate partners, even if we were interested.

[ Honestly, the nerve. Mamzell seems not to be fazed by Iorveth's prickliness, however, which is likely attributable to years of dealing with belligerent drunks and difficult personalities; she only laughs at the clapback, mischief glittering in her heavily-lined eyes.

"Well! That only tempts me to recommend you my twins. They're very popular, especially with couples." Winking at Astarion: "A forbidden tryst between drow and elves. Think of how scintillatingly lurid it might be." ]

[ Maybe Iorveth was right when he'd questioned Astarion's depravity. He'd said he would explore, but he can only get out of his head with Iorveth because he's so sick with wanting. Throwing two other people into the mix would be— overwhelming. At the same time, he bristles at his own thought that he couldn't handle it. People pay for the pleasure; Cazador has no right to have made him afraid of it. Now that he's free, maybe this is the sort of thing he should be interested in. A way of asserting his independence.

His eyes flick to Iorveth's face, momentarily gauging his reaction before turning his attention back to Mamzell, chin tipped. ]

Do I look like I need to pay for lurid experiences?

[ Really, they should be the ones paying him for the privilege. It would be the first time he got something in return for taking his clothes off for strangers. Despite the voice in his head telling him to take risks and reclaim all the parts of him Cazador took away, he can't even make himself pretend to feel good about it. He tugs on the hem of Iorveth's sleeve, a light but insistent urging. ]

Just the drinks for me, [ he repeats, although he doesn't speak for Iorveth. He'd said he wouldn't be stirred by any offers, but he already tried one elf who'd let strangers do as they pleased to him. Maybe he'll be enticed by the idea of two. ]

[ It's the tug to his sleeve that will get Iorveth every time. There's something about the gesture that melts him, that makes the world dial down to where Astarion's fingers are curled around the fabric of his shirt.

His posture shifts; the domineering posture he'd adopted to throw up a wall between himself and the proprietress makes way for a slightly less straight-backed slant, a lean that edges him into the circle of Astarion's personal space. ]

Come, [ he says, hooking their arms together and stepping sideways. The cat looks mildly cross with Iorveth, as if protesting the displacement of something that was giving it attention when it wanted it. ] We can serve ourselves, if need be.

[ It should be all the same to the establishment, if Iorveth is offering them coin. He tugs Astarion towards the bar, ignoring the exasperated shrug that Mamzell tries to telegraph their way.

Once they've made enough distance between them and the front counter: ] The nerve of that human to assume that I don't pamper you.

[ Astarion is literally the only person he's ever nice to, gods. The disrespect. ]

[ Astarion can't help but crack a smile at Iorveth's offense. It's adorable that that's what he takes umbrage with; Iorveth, the dangerous terrorist, up in arms because someone didn't think him the pampering type. He presses his palm against Iorveth's arm, a placating gesture, as if to say, yes, darling, you're an excellent mollycoddler. In truth, there's probably no amount of coddling that could truly satisfy Astarion, but Iorveth has grown significantly more permissive. ]

Yet you're not offended by the offering of a drow foursome, I see.

[ It's all right to assume Iorveth is interested in freaky, forbidden group sex, just not that he doesn't properly pamper his vampire. Astarion snorts a little, then frowns. ]

I should have wanted that.

[ It's exactly the sort of hedonistic display of excessive self-indulgence he should be interested in. He feels a little angry with himself for feeling so threatened by the prospect; even now, Cazador's influence reaches from beyond the grave. ]

[ A quick "hold that thought", as Iorveth unwinds himself to go fetch a bottle of something dark and red from the resident barkeep. She looks hesitant to relinquish the entire bottle (no one likes a drunk in a brothel) until Iorveth drops coin on her counter, to which she responds by hurriedly sliding along two glasses to accompany the purchase and thanking the sullen-looking elf for his patronage.

Back by Astarion's side after nudging him to follow, Iorveth meanders the red-draped establishment until he finds a set of stairs that leads up to a half-floor between the first and second, lined by a sparse few tables and some comfortable-looking chairs. Presumably to watch some sort of spectacle at night that happens beyond the curtained stage below; it being midday, the space is empty save for one human who's passed out facedown on his table and has probably been there since the night prior.

Iorveth takes a seat, and motions for Astarion to do the same. Finally, once they're settled, he comes back to that held thought. ]

Why should you have wanted it?

[ Pouring Astarion a drink, and setting aside the fact that he wasn't offended by the proposition because it was too ridiculous to take seriously. He isn't precious about group sex, but the discovery of his affection for Astarion is far too new for him to consider watching anyone so much as touch Astarion with intent without feeling himself bristle. ]

[ His eyes flit over to the unconscious human, asleep in a puddle of his own drool, before they return to Iorveth. The glass he's pouring isn't full of the red liquid he'd really rather drink, but it would probably be uncouth to ask if they've any ox blood in the back. He lifts the glass delicately from the rim, watching the light reflect off of its claret-red contents as he swirls the wine idly. ]

It's the sort of thing people want, isn't it?

[ There's a reason this brothel exists in the first place. People want pleasure badly enough to pay for it. ]

It's the sort of thing I would have wanted.

[ Back when he was still a spoiled, privileged magistrate, before Cazador and all of those terrible nights spent entertaining victims. He could have just kidnapped them by force; it was deliberate, he thinks, a way to make the spawn feel helpless and debased. Admittedly, he can't remember if he was ever the kind of person to indulge in debauchery like this, but it does seem like him. Who he used to be, at least. ]

[ The sort of thing Astarion would have wanted. Iorveth rolls that thought around in his skull, leaning against the back of his chair with his eye set on Astarion, his focus hawklike. ]

Maybe so.

[ Trying to put together the splintered fragments of Astarion's far-flung past. There's so much that Iorveth still doesn't know about Astarion, but the most humbling part of that is that Astarion also has no idea. All they have is conjecture. ]

And, by all certainty, I would have been the sort of thing you didn't want.

[ So, here's another guess. A shot in the dark, but Iorveth thinks he has good aim; he's certain that Astarion the magistrate wouldn't have given him the time of day. Then again, Astarion the vampire spawn pre-tadpole probably wouldn't have given Iorveth the time of night, either－ funny, how these things work.

Iorveth takes a sip of wine. Not hard enough for the conversation, but they're day-drinking. He doesn't want to get completely fucked yet. ]

[ Almost visibly prickling, he says, ] Don't say that.

[ He doesn't want to hear it, because it's true and awful. From what he remembers of that very short portion of his very long life, he was ruthless and indifferent. He would have banged his gavel, sent Iorveth to the gallows for his crimes, and thought nothing of it. Even after the bite, he would only have seen Iorveth as a disposable tool to keep Cazador's boot from his own neck.

Shame pulses through him, and he sinks further down into his chair, the urge to chant invisibilis and disappear growing. ]

I just don't like that he changed me. That's all.

[ An understatement; he hates it. Perhaps it's for the best that he can't see his own reflection, because he'd undoubtedly spend hours agonizing over his sallow skin, his red eyes, his sharp fangs. Worst of all, the two pinprick marks on his neck. All physical reminders of having been irrevocably altered.

Astarion had thought Iorveth might understand feeling like he's been ruined by the cruel acts of someone else, but he can't bear the possibility that he won't understand, so he lets his gaze drift back to the sleeping man. ]

Shall I see if our unconscious friend has a deck of cards in his pockets?

[ "We all change", Iorveth thinks to say. For better, for worse. He and Astarion both wear their changes on their skin in different ways, and they both have to live with the unbearable knowledge of what they've lost. Maybe, Iorveth considers, the problem is that Astarion is good and sweet enough to care that he's been changed, and is decent and sound of mind enough to grieve over who he used to be; maybe, Iorveth considers, the problem is that he himself has long since given up on himself as someone worth grieving over. He's Iorveth, a blight of his own making, long removed from any vestige of what he used to be.

Astarion probably deserves better. That thought returns in full force, a recurring character since the day prior. "You don't deserve him." He takes a sip of wine, and swallows the acid in the back of his throat.

The thought lingers anyway. Astarion deserves better. It takes someone strong to admit that they hate that someone hurt them. ]

―Mm, [ Iorveth eventually agrees, having forgotten entirely about the cards. Best to let the topic of changing drop for now, and let Astarion pick some pockets before he vibrates out of his skin. ] Are we betting with coin, trinkets, or favors?

[ Like truth or dare, but with cards. A dangerous game to play, especially with drinks in tow. (Not that Astarion could even get drunk.) ]

Edited 2024-09-12 03:11 (UTC)

[ The change of conversation topic makes him perk up, sitting up straighter in his chair instead of the miserable and unflattering slumping he'd been doing. His shoulders relax into their natural slope, and he sets his glass down on the table, absentmindedly running his index along the rim. ]

Your coin is already my coin.

[ Very presumptuous, but not so presumptuous as to be untrue, he thinks. Iorveth may have his own coin purse in spirit, but Astarion has little doubt that he couldn't coax him into making a sizable donation to his own funds, should the need arise. ]

And I hate to say it, [ he starts, but by the tone of his voice he doesn't hate to say it at all, ] but your trinkets lack the, mm, flair I require in my belongings.

[ That is to say, anything Iorveth owns isn't nearly glitzy or shiny enough for his tastes. ]

What favor will I earn, if I win? [ And he plans to, since he has no qualms with cheating. He taps Iorveth's foot underneath the table playfully. ] You already pamper me.

[ Iorveth huffs around the rim of his wineglass, drinking a bit too quickly for the current time of day; he vaguely notes not to get too sauced before they make it to the circus, if they ever make it there. ]

Any that's within my power to grant. [ Regarding favors. He sits back in his chair, thinking back to past games he's played. ] For example, I lost the souvenir spearhead that'd taken my eye in a game of cards.

[ Very much aware that it was probably weird to have kept the thing that disfigured his face in the first place, and also very much aware that it was even more weird to have thought to put it up for a bet.

He tips his head, birdlike, and half-smirks. ]

Perhaps I'll make you wear only green and leather gear for a day, if I win.

[ The horror. He really doesn't deserve Astarion. ]

[ Astarion lets Iorveth drink; let him get sauced before they have to go to that awful circus. At least then it might be fun. (Besides, he'd sort of liked the last time he got Iorveth sloshed and they ended up in some ridiculous underground fighting ring.)

The corner of his mouth tugs up into a crooked, amused smile. A genuine smile, imperfect and lopsided, unlike the practiced grins he spends most of his time flashing. With a laugh, he says, ] You're incorrigible.

[ Elbow on the table, he rests his chin in his palm. He'd have been screamed at for putting his elbows on the table back in the palace. It feels good to flout the rules now. ]

Is that really what you want to see me wear? I'd parade you around in nothing but your eyepatch and a leaf to preserve your modesty.

[ Still not as humiliating as having to wear a monochrome outfit of green. Oh, the humanity. ]

But I'm sure I can think of better. I could have you ask Wyll to regale you with tales of his heroic exploits. You'd be there for hours.

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