[ Astarion grins. As vain as he is, he would never allow his pretty shirts to serve as a practice canvas, but there is something about the image of walking around with Iorveth's wonky stitches on his collar that makes him smile. Iorveth is so unrelentingly competent that it's a pleasure to see him struggle at something; it's even more pleasurable to watch him improve at it, endeared by the dedication he has to something so silly and inconsequential for Astarion's sake. This self-proclaimed warrior, who's killed hundreds of men, sitting naked on a stool and painstakingly stitching little suns. ]

And then I'd have to walk around shirtless, and I'd cause a riot. Thoughtful of you.

[ Ha. He'd never walk around shirtless, if only because flashing the infernal contract carved onto his back is an awful idea.

He crooks a finger, beckoning. ]

Aren't you going to tend to me after my long day, housewife?

[ As if Astarion isn't the one who'd be the trophy wife who lies around all day doing nothing. ]