[ No, he's right — Astarion is unbearable. Difficult, annoying, the type of person you'd have to be a deranged drunk elf to derive any comfort from the presence of. He crosses his ankles primly, staring back at Iorveth with raised eyebrows, his red eyes full of mischief and amusement. Unbearable indeed.

It is, of course, difficult to deprive himself of touching someone he loves now that he knows that being close to someone can actually feel good. Surely none of the depraved things he did for his marks even came close to making them feel as wonderful as the mere warmth of Iorveth's palm against his cheek. Still, he is unbearable, and it's easier to have willpower when it irritates someone else. He clasps his hands together on his lap. ]

Anywhere I wish?

[ The tsk, tsk he makes is an obvious indicator that Iorveth hasn't passed his imaginary test. ]

Darling, I'd hate to put my wandering hands anywhere that you didn't wish. Don't you worry, they'll stay right here.