[ Astarion cringes at the feeling of damp fingers in his hair. Cazador and Godey were as cruel as cruel can be, but at least they were never moist. The entire situation has him perspiring himself—although he'd prefer the description of dewy rather than sweaty—with his body stuck in fight-or-flight even when neither are an option. The feeling of being helpless is perhaps the worst one in the world, although it's not one he's unaccustomed to.
He could respond with yes, tell the Commandant all the terrible things that Iorveth would like to do to him. He could refuse to respond at all. He could just spit in the man's face. Astarion's not proud of how he does respond, a futile attempt at weaseling out of suffering. ]
Hardly. Honestly, I don't even think he likes me. It's purely physical between us — I'm sure you know how it is.
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He could respond with yes, tell the Commandant all the terrible things that Iorveth would like to do to him. He could refuse to respond at all. He could just spit in the man's face. Astarion's not proud of how he does respond, a futile attempt at weaseling out of suffering. ]
Hardly. Honestly, I don't even think he likes me. It's purely physical between us — I'm sure you know how it is.