[ The mental image of Iorveth crawling on his hands and knees and begging for him does appeal, although even he can't imagine it without also imagining Iorveth complaining about it the entire time. He grins, both at the idea and the grousing. He likes Iorveth because he isn't a pushover, because his softness and warmth is reserved for Astarion alone. Because Iorveth can kill a man in the morning and curl up with Astarion in the evening. Because he calls Astarion 'beloved' and means it, which makes him feel even more tingly than the sight of Iorveth's palm against his erection.
He's too easy. A few sweet words, and he might as well be putty in Iorveth's hands — melted, as he'd said. Astarion follows him, lifting himself out of the water to come laze beside him on the— well, it's really more of a chaise lounge than a mere couch, if you ask him, but he wouldn't expect a forest-dweller to know the finer points of furnishing. He stretches his legs out in front of him and leans back to watch, two polite inches of space between them and puddles forming at their feet. ]
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He's too easy. A few sweet words, and he might as well be putty in Iorveth's hands — melted, as he'd said. Astarion follows him, lifting himself out of the water to come laze beside him on the— well, it's really more of a chaise lounge than a mere couch, if you ask him, but he wouldn't expect a forest-dweller to know the finer points of furnishing. He stretches his legs out in front of him and leans back to watch, two polite inches of space between them and puddles forming at their feet. ]
Go on.
[ A headache. ]