[ 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.
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.) ]
[ 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.
[ An indelicate sound for an indelicate dare. Wyll isn't Iorveth's least favorite human by far (Wyll is actually very noble, despite all of Iorveth's misgivings about self-righteous humans), but it's difficult to endure him when he goes on about saving the world, one good deed at a time.
Another mouthful of alcohol. 'Their' bottle of red wine is quickly turning into 'his' bottle of red wine. ]
I'd sooner slit my own throat than suffer through his minotaur story again. [ Exaggeration. Astarion isn't the only drama king in this party. ] But, if you wish.
[ He'd do it just to watch Astarion smile the way he's smiling now, chin in hand and beautifully crooked. ] If the human doesn't have cards, I'll try my luck with the barkeep.
I do love to hear those three little words. 'If you wish', [ he echoes dreamily. It's partially teasing and partially true. There's little that feels more satisfying than Iorveth giving into him, whatever form that might take. When he'd offered Astarion his blood for the first time; when he'd agreed to acting foolish on the night before Henselt's murder; when he'd let Astarion shove his hand down the front of his pants at Facemaker's despite his protests of making a mess.
Astarion makes his way over to their singular, slumbering companion, steps quick and light-footed. The man is snoring softly, face squished against the wooden table. If Astarion ever gets to the point of passing out face down in his own saliva at a brothel, he'll stake himself.
As he slips his hand into the sleeping man's pocket, he begins to stir, drowsy confusion in his tone as he tries to ask Astarion what he's doing and ends up saying something that sounds more like whuhhh. ]
Shhh. [ Astarion pats his back comfortingly. ] You're only dreaming.
[ "Oh," the man slurs, head dropping back down onto the table heavily. "OK."
When he returns, it's not with a deck of cards in hand but a folded piece of paper and a very nice ring. Burnished gold with a moss agate inset. A little on the woodsy side for his taste, but he tosses the jewelry onto the table with a flick of his thumb. ]
No deck of cards, but a gift for you.
[ As he sits back down, he unfolds the note, scanning over it with raised eyebrows and a wicked grin. ]
And a very explicit love letter addressed to one of the courtesans.
[ He rolls his eyes, then furrows his brow as he examines the last lines of the letter. It dawns on him that the note and ring go together, and that the man is drowning his sorrows after a rejected proposal. He shuts the note quickly as if somehow Iorveth will know that he just gave him an engagement ring. ]
[ Astarion is a vision, even when he's robbing someone blind. Especially when he's robbing someone blind. Clever fingers, and the kind of voice you'd want to bathe in; framed beautifully against the backdrop of red velvet and dark lacquered wood, the least interesting thing about Astarion― his looks― is still stunningly striking.
Gods, Iorveth's lost the plot. He barely looks at the ring when it's tossed to him, though he notes that it's a pretty little thing. He's still watching Astarion and the curve of his lips, the way his expression shifts and moves on that pretty face. Expressive, vibrant.
Iorveth takes another swig of wine. ] I don't wear rings, [ he says, but slips the thing on his pinky: the only finger that the slim piece of jewelry fits.
He doesn't deserve Astarion. But he brushes his lips to silver hair before he winds his way down the stairs again, returning only after negotiating a pack of cards and another bottle of Baldur's Grape from Hoots Hooligan. ]
You'll look fetching in green, [ is a bold declaration, considering Astarion wiped the floor with him when they'd played cards prior. A part of him assumes, perhaps incorrectly, that Astarion won't cheat this time around. ]
[ Astarion leans back in his chair, drinking the sight of Iorveth in as he returns. In his high-end, well-tailored clothes, with his embossed leather eyepatch and a smooth ring on his finger, he's nigh unrecognizable from the man Astarion first met who wore the dirty, ill-fitting clothes of a vagabond. He looks handsome in a rugged way that makes the cold remnants of Astarion's heart do happy cartwheels. ]
I would, [ he concedes, then smirks, cocky. ] But you won't get to see it.
[ Astarion reaches for the deck, taking the liberty of shuffling. While he stacks the cards favorably for himself, he talks to distract Iorveth, saying, ] You know, you look terribly handsome. I could get used to dressing you up in pretty things.
[ He deals their hands with the quick, nimble movements of someone who's done this plenty of times before. There was little to do in the palace, but the taverns he frequented had card games enough for him to get good. Not good at playing honorably, but he never had any interest in that, anyway. ]
Once I trim that hair, you'll be irresistible.
[ He smiles down at his hand pleasantly. Iorveth's own hand is unfathomably shitty. ]
Edited (i hate the english language) 2024-09-12 19:40 (UTC)
[ The look on Iorveth's face as he's called handsome is roughly equivalent to "I don't buy it": half because he thinks he's really quite plain, the other half because Astarion is shuffling cards.
Suspicions are semi-confirmed when Iorveth peels his hand back from the tabletop and sees the mess of non-paired, disparate suits and arcana. The "you are not going to win this game" starter pack. He lets none of that show, lest frowning betray that his cards are, in fact, devastatingly shitty. ]
I've many talents, and being resistible is one of them. [ Which is to say, "there is no world in which people line up to look at or talk to me". He says so dryly, still leaning back into old habits when it comes to his appearances; to take focus away from himself, he moves to exchange three of his five cards, leaving it to his next draw to improve his odds.
The result is still bad. The Talis poker equivalent of going up against someone with a pair of threes. That said, Iorveth leans back in his chair, empties his half-full glass of wine in one long swallow, and declares, confidently: ] You can concede if you wish.
[ Tomorrow's headlines: local delusional terrorist tries to bluff his way to victory. He really isn't great at cards. ]
[ He may be a cheater, but he did mean what he said. Astarion doesn't deign to acknowledge the bluff, as overconfident as only a card sharp can be, only retorting, sweet as always, ] Not to me, you buffoon.
[ If Iorveth were resistible to him, it would be easier; he wouldn't make such a fool of himself acting like a twitterpated schoolgirl. He can't resist the tanned, calloused skin of Iorveth's hands, can't resist his smile or even—ugh—his ever-present scowl, can't resist that far too rustic tattoo of his. He even finds Iorveth striking when he's wearing that ugly headscarf, although he'd prefer to burn that thing. ]
Mmm, [ he hums, looking down at his cards. ] I've a new favor in mind. When I win, you'll let me tell you all about how enticing you are, and you'll believe it.
[ Whatever is within Iorveth's power to give, he'd said. He smiles pleasantly from behind his cards. ]
[ Daunting. Iorveth flicks his gaze down towards his cards, poker face so perfectly intact as to be near-suspicious, the immovable lines of his stern features speaking for themselves. It isn't that Iorveth doesn't want to believe it when Astarion says something flattering about him, it's just that it seems to clash harshly with what he's built of himself over the past few decades.
His eye narrows. A little skeptical, a little exasperated by all that confident pleasantness that Astarion is radiating. Finally, Iorveth sighs and tosses his shitty hand onto the table, face-up. ]
You counted cards, [ is a statement, not an accusation. ] I should have known.
[ That's not a "yes" to the newly-issued favor, but it's not a "no", either. Iorveth, keeping his word, et cetera, ad infinitum. He reaches for the now mostly-empty first bottle of wine, and pours the rest of its contents into his empty glass. ]
I'd recommend choosing a favor that benefits you more directly.
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no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
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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." ]
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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." ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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[ 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?
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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.) ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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.
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Ugh.
[ An indelicate sound for an indelicate dare. Wyll isn't Iorveth's least favorite human by far (Wyll is actually very noble, despite all of Iorveth's misgivings about self-righteous humans), but it's difficult to endure him when he goes on about saving the world, one good deed at a time.
Another mouthful of alcohol. 'Their' bottle of red wine is quickly turning into 'his' bottle of red wine. ]
I'd sooner slit my own throat than suffer through his minotaur story again. [ Exaggeration. Astarion isn't the only drama king in this party. ] But, if you wish.
[ He'd do it just to watch Astarion smile the way he's smiling now, chin in hand and beautifully crooked. ] If the human doesn't have cards, I'll try my luck with the barkeep.
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Astarion makes his way over to their singular, slumbering companion, steps quick and light-footed. The man is snoring softly, face squished against the wooden table. If Astarion ever gets to the point of passing out face down in his own saliva at a brothel, he'll stake himself.
As he slips his hand into the sleeping man's pocket, he begins to stir, drowsy confusion in his tone as he tries to ask Astarion what he's doing and ends up saying something that sounds more like whuhhh. ]
Shhh. [ Astarion pats his back comfortingly. ] You're only dreaming.
[ "Oh," the man slurs, head dropping back down onto the table heavily. "OK."
When he returns, it's not with a deck of cards in hand but a folded piece of paper and a very nice ring. Burnished gold with a moss agate inset. A little on the woodsy side for his taste, but he tosses the jewelry onto the table with a flick of his thumb. ]
No deck of cards, but a gift for you.
[ As he sits back down, he unfolds the note, scanning over it with raised eyebrows and a wicked grin. ]
And a very explicit love letter addressed to one of the courtesans.
[ He rolls his eyes, then furrows his brow as he examines the last lines of the letter. It dawns on him that the note and ring go together, and that the man is drowning his sorrows after a rejected proposal. He shuts the note quickly as if somehow Iorveth will know that he just gave him an engagement ring. ]
The barkeep will have some cards, I'm sure.
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Gods, Iorveth's lost the plot. He barely looks at the ring when it's tossed to him, though he notes that it's a pretty little thing. He's still watching Astarion and the curve of his lips, the way his expression shifts and moves on that pretty face. Expressive, vibrant.
Iorveth takes another swig of wine. ] I don't wear rings, [ he says, but slips the thing on his pinky: the only finger that the slim piece of jewelry fits.
He doesn't deserve Astarion. But he brushes his lips to silver hair before he winds his way down the stairs again, returning only after negotiating a pack of cards and another bottle of Baldur's Grape from Hoots Hooligan. ]
You'll look fetching in green, [ is a bold declaration, considering Astarion wiped the floor with him when they'd played cards prior. A part of him assumes, perhaps incorrectly, that Astarion won't cheat this time around. ]
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I would, [ he concedes, then smirks, cocky. ] But you won't get to see it.
[ Astarion reaches for the deck, taking the liberty of shuffling. While he stacks the cards favorably for himself, he talks to distract Iorveth, saying, ] You know, you look terribly handsome. I could get used to dressing you up in pretty things.
[ He deals their hands with the quick, nimble movements of someone who's done this plenty of times before. There was little to do in the palace, but the taverns he frequented had card games enough for him to get good. Not good at playing honorably, but he never had any interest in that, anyway. ]
Once I trim that hair, you'll be irresistible.
[ He smiles down at his hand pleasantly. Iorveth's own hand is unfathomably shitty. ]
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Suspicions are semi-confirmed when Iorveth peels his hand back from the tabletop and sees the mess of non-paired, disparate suits and arcana. The "you are not going to win this game" starter pack. He lets none of that show, lest frowning betray that his cards are, in fact, devastatingly shitty. ]
I've many talents, and being resistible is one of them. [ Which is to say, "there is no world in which people line up to look at or talk to me". He says so dryly, still leaning back into old habits when it comes to his appearances; to take focus away from himself, he moves to exchange three of his five cards, leaving it to his next draw to improve his odds.
The result is still bad. The Talis poker equivalent of going up against someone with a pair of threes. That said, Iorveth leans back in his chair, empties his half-full glass of wine in one long swallow, and declares, confidently: ] You can concede if you wish.
[ Tomorrow's headlines: local delusional terrorist tries to bluff his way to victory. He really isn't great at cards. ]
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[ If Iorveth were resistible to him, it would be easier; he wouldn't make such a fool of himself acting like a twitterpated schoolgirl. He can't resist the tanned, calloused skin of Iorveth's hands, can't resist his smile or even—ugh—his ever-present scowl, can't resist that far too rustic tattoo of his. He even finds Iorveth striking when he's wearing that ugly headscarf, although he'd prefer to burn that thing. ]
Mmm, [ he hums, looking down at his cards. ] I've a new favor in mind. When I win, you'll let me tell you all about how enticing you are, and you'll believe it.
[ Whatever is within Iorveth's power to give, he'd said. He smiles pleasantly from behind his cards. ]
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His eye narrows. A little skeptical, a little exasperated by all that confident pleasantness that Astarion is radiating. Finally, Iorveth sighs and tosses his shitty hand onto the table, face-up. ]
You counted cards, [ is a statement, not an accusation. ] I should have known.
[ That's not a "yes" to the newly-issued favor, but it's not a "no", either. Iorveth, keeping his word, et cetera, ad infinitum. He reaches for the now mostly-empty first bottle of wine, and pours the rest of its contents into his empty glass. ]
I'd recommend choosing a favor that benefits you more directly.
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