[ 'Tolerate'. It vexes Astarion for Iorveth to say something like that, even nonchalantly, even in jest. Maybe it's because Iorveth is the first person who Astarion went beyond tolerating. Maybe it's because somewhere, deep down, he worries that Iorveth really does think he isn't capable of this sort of feeling, despite what he'd said to Ciaran. It's tempting to bristle and turn his back, to show Iorveth what it really looks like to only have his mere toleration, but instead he shifts onto his side to peer at Iorveth in the dim. ]

You know, if another vampire drank from you, I would—

[ A pause. He hasn't really thought this through. Hells, he hadn't even considered the possibility before Petras came along and reminded him that Iorveth isn't actually his own personal juice box. ]

Well, I don't know what I'd do yet. I guess I'd kill them in some brutal and macabre fashion.

[ The point is that he'd be beside himself with jealousy. He'd felt terribly unwanted when he'd gone out and fed on someone else; he hadn't considered that Iorveth, too, might feel upset. ]

You aren't sustenance, you clod. [ Sweet and gentle as ever. ] You're mine.