[ A low sigh, and Iorveth flops onto his back on the bed. He reminds himself to tug Shadowheart's proverbial pigtails sometime later as retribution for interrupting. Glancing over at Astarion's curled shoulders and exposed back, the scars on his back shifting as he rummages for his clothes, Iorveth thinks, again, about his simmering desire to kiss each devastating scrawl of infernal carved onto pale skin.

Not today. He kisses below it, near Astarion's waist and away from the long lower line that dips almost down to his tailbone. ]

Let them say what they like.

[ He's endured worse scorn in his past from humans who found his loyalties amusing and alien; to Iorveth, it'd always been the sneering humans that were unnatural, their obsession with their own self-interests far more embarrassing than any Aen Seidhe's brazen admission of affection for each other. He still carries that chip on his shoulder, that kneejerk defensiveness. ]

What they have is theirs, what we have is ours. [ Finally sitting up, Iorveth reaches for the eyepatch that he'd left on the bedside dresser. ] But I'll not apologize to them for coveting you.

[ Brushing his hair back and snapping leather straps over his face, he hums. ] Though it could be that she misses having your time.