[ For a moment, he thinks he's gone too far, asked for too much. Iorveth will be furious with him, and he won't love him anymore. Astarion practically shrinks against the pillows, every bit of that haughtiness dissipating into the air, as he mentally composes his pathetic contrition. He's begged for forgiveness countless times, after all. He should be skilled at it by now.
Then Iorveth acquiesces, and he visibly relaxes, relief flooding through him from head to toe. Without meaning to, he beams. ]
Good boy.
[ The words might sound condescending if not for the warmth and adoration permeating every vowel and consonant. Gratitude, even. It's genuine praise, albeit through playacting. ]
no subject
Then Iorveth acquiesces, and he visibly relaxes, relief flooding through him from head to toe. Without meaning to, he beams. ]
Good boy.
[ The words might sound condescending if not for the warmth and adoration permeating every vowel and consonant. Gratitude, even. It's genuine praise, albeit through playacting. ]
My love gets what he wants, of course.
[ A crook of his finger, then, ] Come back.