[ 'Noble'. Astarion could dunk Iorveth for that. He considers dunking Iorveth for it, the image of a wet and spluttering wood elf vivid in his mind: oh, do you still think I'm noble now? He doesn't. Instead, he only tilts Iorveth back far enough to wet his hair properly before sitting him back up and combing his fingers through it, even darker and shinier now in the tub. ]
Ridiculous, [ he repeats for what must be the tenth time today. A pause stretches out, then he says, an admission: ] Perhaps you bring it out in me.
[ A bottle uncorks behind Iorveth, and Astarion pours sweet-smelling soap into his palm before working it through the tips of Iorveth's hair. ]
You make me want to be... soft.
[ The word is uttered with no small amount of humiliation. ]
no subject
Ridiculous, [ he repeats for what must be the tenth time today. A pause stretches out, then he says, an admission: ] Perhaps you bring it out in me.
[ A bottle uncorks behind Iorveth, and Astarion pours sweet-smelling soap into his palm before working it through the tips of Iorveth's hair. ]
You make me want to be... soft.
[ The word is uttered with no small amount of humiliation. ]