[ Astarion can pretend that Iorveth is fawning over his eyes, and Iorveth can pretend that Astarion rolled a Nat 20 on Persuasion instead of acknowledging the fact that, in this moment, he's turned into a bit of a simp for his beloved vampire-shaped cat.
Commanded instead of coaxed, Iorveth takes the book from Astarion anyway. "Contract Bound", the title reads, and he flips through its pages to gather what in the hells it could be about.
After a few seconds of silence interrupted by the dry rustle of paper on paper: ] A forbidden romance between a prince and the assassin contracted to kill him. [ And gods, is it ever the most cliche garbage he's seen. Amusing, almost. He laughs under his breath, and sifts through to find something appropriately awful enough to recite out loud.
Shifting closer to Astarion, he reads: ]
"He reached for Nicholas, tangling his fingers in the expensive brocade of his doublet and tearing at it to expose the..." [ Sensually, Astarion had said, but Iorveth can't help but laugh at the descriptions. A bodice ripper, in the truest sense. ] "...Creamy skin of his chest, his pretty peaks already pert to attention."
[ Gods. Playfully, Iorveth tries to flick at Astarion's chest, approximating where his "pretty peaks" might be in his oversized shirt. ]
"Every inch of his intoxicating body was made to pleasure him."
[ This time, Iorveth doesn't snort. He's tempted to. ]
no subject
Commanded instead of coaxed, Iorveth takes the book from Astarion anyway. "Contract Bound", the title reads, and he flips through its pages to gather what in the hells it could be about.
After a few seconds of silence interrupted by the dry rustle of paper on paper: ] A forbidden romance between a prince and the assassin contracted to kill him. [ And gods, is it ever the most cliche garbage he's seen. Amusing, almost. He laughs under his breath, and sifts through to find something appropriately awful enough to recite out loud.
Shifting closer to Astarion, he reads: ]
"He reached for Nicholas, tangling his fingers in the expensive brocade of his doublet and tearing at it to expose the..." [ Sensually, Astarion had said, but Iorveth can't help but laugh at the descriptions. A bodice ripper, in the truest sense. ] "...Creamy skin of his chest, his pretty peaks already pert to attention."
[ Gods. Playfully, Iorveth tries to flick at Astarion's chest, approximating where his "pretty peaks" might be in his oversized shirt. ]
"Every inch of his intoxicating body was made to pleasure him."
[ This time, Iorveth doesn't snort. He's tempted to. ]