[ No comment about the dirty talk. He has a feeling Astarion would find it more funny than sexy if he started waxing poetic (?) mid-fuck, so in his opinion, he's just preserving their collective dignity. That said, Iorveth is not aware that he is embarrassing as all hells without intending to be, so there's that for irony.

Right now, though, Iorveth is content to keep Astarion where he is, blanketed and held by a warm (alive) body. Going nowhere, fast. ]

I prefer having traces of you on me, [ is a murmured pushback against "heal yourself". The touch along the warm, inflamed skin is a pleasant prickle of pain (freak); Iorveth wants to keep the marks for now, so he stubbornly winds his arms around Astarion and rolls him sideways as a distraction, pulling him into a proper embrace for more aggressive cuddling. ]

I'll be remided of your nails every time my shirt brushes against my skin.

[ Far more pleased by this than he has any right being. He tips his head, coy. ]