[ Another spike of pure indignation, warmed by inconvenient infatuation. Iorveth absolutely refuses to get hard under Dolores' roof, so it's only iron willpower that keeps him from pushing Astarion against the nearest wall and shoving that cool hand down his new leather trousers. Maybe the desire to do so flits across his expression, single green eye made noticeably sharper by a moment of daggerpoint desire.
Infuriating. Iorveth scours his touch over Astarion's hips, slotting their bodies a little closer. ]
You expect me to be your pageboy, do you.
[ A dry laugh; Ciaran would boggle if he ever found out that Iorveth was playing at being anyone's elven servant. Which reminds Iorveth: ]
―Will you be using an alias? [ Leaning back just a little, looking over his shoulder to make sure Dolores doesn't come back while they're talking shop. ] Or is it too likely that someone would know you by name?
no subject
Infuriating. Iorveth scours his touch over Astarion's hips, slotting their bodies a little closer. ]
You expect me to be your pageboy, do you.
[ A dry laugh; Ciaran would boggle if he ever found out that Iorveth was playing at being anyone's elven servant. Which reminds Iorveth: ]
―Will you be using an alias? [ Leaning back just a little, looking over his shoulder to make sure Dolores doesn't come back while they're talking shop. ] Or is it too likely that someone would know you by name?