[ It's not the first time someone has called him that. It was a frequent refrain among his conquests (or marks, or victims, or however one describes such a wretched, doomed person). They'd only meant physically, of course; they didn't know him well enough—didn't know him at all, really—to speak on anything more than skin-deep. Even then, they'd been wrong, unaware of the ugly etching from the top of his spine to the bottom of his ribcage.
Iorveth is delusional for saying so, especially while the pads of his fingers glide over the rough texture of his scars, especially not after their second argument in two days that was, admittedly, ninety percent Astarion's fault. To be perfect in Iorveth's mind, though, is enough, however untrue it might be in reality.
He grins, fingers creeping around to the back of Iorveth's head to unfasten his eyepatch. ]
As are you, my love.
[ Genuine, warm. The kind of sincerity he'd been far too afraid to show not long ago. ]
A moment with you and I forget a thousand moments of the past.
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Iorveth is delusional for saying so, especially while the pads of his fingers glide over the rough texture of his scars, especially not after their second argument in two days that was, admittedly, ninety percent Astarion's fault. To be perfect in Iorveth's mind, though, is enough, however untrue it might be in reality.
He grins, fingers creeping around to the back of Iorveth's head to unfasten his eyepatch. ]
As are you, my love.
[ Genuine, warm. The kind of sincerity he'd been far too afraid to show not long ago. ]
A moment with you and I forget a thousand moments of the past.