[ Iorveth is no Halsin: if Halsin sits stolid like the trunk of a tree, Iorveth extends outwards like its branches. Long-limbed, lithe, lean muscle. He squares more sturdily in his shoulders, accustomed to pulling and keeping bows tension-taut for improbable amounts of time; his tan is slightly paler than other wood elves, having been corralled into caves and hideaways for extended periods of time. Old, faded scars map his body in select areas, evidence of torture written permanently on his skin. Less gaunt than when he first jointed their motley crew (must be the pastries).

He steps out of his boots, with the pants quickly following. In only his underthings now, it's his turn to start peeling Astarion's layers off. Taking more care with Astarion's things, obviously. ]

You felt no desire, [ Iorveth shoots back, though it's with warmth. Not an accusation, at any rate. ] Sex may be sport, but I don't make it a habit to touch anyone who wouldn't get anything out of it.

[ A brief bite to the jut of Astarion's jaw. ] I like it when you want me, you know.