[ It would be such a wholesome story if Iorveth were someone like, say, Wyll, who could take Astarion's hand and show him how nice the world can be, and how it's a place worth saving and protecting. Instead, Iorveth is a bitter, exhausted freedom fighter who is fully convinced that saving ten elves' lives is worth killing a hundred racist humans' lives, so it's likely that neither of them will ever completely be able to shave their fangs down if they stay together; on one hand, Iorveth is aware of that and thinks, again, that Astarion deserves better, but on the other, Iorveth wants Astarion so badly that he thinks he'd become the worst version of himself if Astarion ever decided that he no longer wants Iorveth. An interesting predicament.

For now, he stays on his back, too fucked-out and content to pummel himself over his poor choices. His primary concern right now is when he'll let Astarion trim his hair, and when he'll be able to sneak some time to embroider something on one of Astarion's shirts. ]

What would I be without them? I'm a warrior, and was never meant to be anything else.

[ He idly reaches for their blankets, tugging on them to dislodge enough of it from under their collective weight to drape over Astarion's lower half. Hiding Astarion's cute ass from any nosy intruders should they choose this moment to return and rudely invade their space. ]

But I suppose all this talk of biting is meant to be a hint. [ A low laugh. ] My blood is yours, if you're feeling peckish.