[ The expected (and instinctive) response is to say something along the lines of "you'd only have material for a few minutes at most", but Iorveth refrains. It seems a shame to ruin the sweet, comfortable mood with posturing― not to mention that it would be criminal to say anything that would stop what Astarion is currently doing.

Iorveth breathes. Feels that hand on his stomach move up and down in time to his inhales, his exhales. His pulse skips and jackrabbits a bit, the beginnings of expectant arousal sitting just under his skin, waiting and wanting. ]

I could do the same for you, [ he finally manages, ] but with less rope.

[ A light squirm under Astarion's weight, with the fingers exploring Astarion's back pressing inwards just a fraction. A manifestation of how has to fight himself a bit to say the next words, which still feel strange in his mouth. ]

I... do, like being loved by you. [ Uncharacteristically mealy-mouthed. He's told Astarion about his hangups, about how others have left or died, how he feels that everyone he cares for eventually dies or regrets it; Iorveth is fine with loving, but it always seems like wanting it back ends in the kind of disaster that he doesn't want Astarion to experience.

But he can only ever be honest, especially with someone he cares for so much. Another slight shift, and Iorveth presses his face against Astarion's neck. ]

You've accused me of being besotted, but you're the one who makes me so. Every time you speak. More and more, with each passing day.

[ Very rude of Astarion. If he wants Iorveth to be less obsessed, he could stand to be less lovable. ]