[ Gale should be so lucky. Iorveth, still riding the last waves of his previous night's possessiveness, lightly scowls at the thought of someone seeing more of Astarion's skin than strictly necessary, and the expression lingers once Astarion wriggles away and leaves Iorveth to contend with being generally Without.
Pouting, maybe, even when Astarion calls him beautiful. As immature as Iorveth will allow himself to be, even if it's short-lived; he gets over it a few beats later, and kisses the palm cradling him before drawing back. ]
Go, before I drag you back into bed.
[ For all of Iorveth's hemming and hawwing, he does want Astarion to go out and enjoy himself, to find things that make him happy and interest him; a gentle nudge, and Iorveth waits until he's alone in the bedroom to flop backwards and consider what to do with the rest of his own night.
Meanwhile, Gale, to his ever-continuing credit, has laid out a wide selection of clothes for Astarion to try on after he finishes bathing: everything from brocade doublets to flowing floor-length robes, all of them in varying shades of deep purple, navy, or deeper greens. The style and cut are all sensible, and any top with a neckline that scoops a little on the lower side comes paired with a nice undershirt to preserve modesty (a force of habit, maybe, from when he had the mark of the netherese orb on his chest).
"I heard that our Open Lord may be in attendance today," sounds half-excited, half-wistful. "Laeral Silverhand. A fellow―" Ah. Gale rephrases: "A Chosen of Mystra. Quite well known for being able to determine the nature of magical artefacts just by touch― and, in most cases, able to replicate and improve upon said artefacts. Someone that might be worth consulting when we find your cloak, hm?"
Wink wink, nudge nudge. A half-plea is tucked in there somewhere: "be on your best behavior". ]
no subject
Pouting, maybe, even when Astarion calls him beautiful. As immature as Iorveth will allow himself to be, even if it's short-lived; he gets over it a few beats later, and kisses the palm cradling him before drawing back. ]
Go, before I drag you back into bed.
[ For all of Iorveth's hemming and hawwing, he does want Astarion to go out and enjoy himself, to find things that make him happy and interest him; a gentle nudge, and Iorveth waits until he's alone in the bedroom to flop backwards and consider what to do with the rest of his own night.
Meanwhile, Gale, to his ever-continuing credit, has laid out a wide selection of clothes for Astarion to try on after he finishes bathing: everything from brocade doublets to flowing floor-length robes, all of them in varying shades of deep purple, navy, or deeper greens. The style and cut are all sensible, and any top with a neckline that scoops a little on the lower side comes paired with a nice undershirt to preserve modesty (a force of habit, maybe, from when he had the mark of the netherese orb on his chest).
"I heard that our Open Lord may be in attendance today," sounds half-excited, half-wistful. "Laeral Silverhand. A fellow―" Ah. Gale rephrases: "A Chosen of Mystra. Quite well known for being able to determine the nature of magical artefacts just by touch― and, in most cases, able to replicate and improve upon said artefacts. Someone that might be worth consulting when we find your cloak, hm?"
Wink wink, nudge nudge. A half-plea is tucked in there somewhere: "be on your best behavior". ]