[ Iorveth will never understand how anyone could look at Astarion and possibly see a romance novel sexyman archetype, but dissecting that also forces him to acknowledge the fact that he likes angry wet cats, so. Who's the real clown here???

Anyway. He lets Astarion take control of the book situation for a beat, reaching sideways for their bottle of wine to take a sip of the rich, full-bodied red. It tastes as decadent as this moment feels, curled up with Astarion in his bed, indulging in frivolities. By Iorveth's standards, this is hedonism in its purest form. ]

―White-haired vampires with a penchant for testing my patience, apparently.

[ Sharp words made affectionate by the light chuckle that lifts the tail end of his statement; Iorveth does, in fact, still want to spoil Astarion for the rest of the day. Setting the bottle aside, he tilts Astarion's chin up just a fraction of an inch to press his lips to Astarion's forehead, near the spot where the bruise used to be. ]

His pretty eyes, the curl of his lips. ...When he nudges closer in the morning, still hazy from trancing.

[ Warm and comfortable and distinctly kissable. Sometimes Iorveth can't believe how enamored he is. ]

It makes me want to keep him in bed, indefinitely.