[ Astarion gapes as if Damris has just asked to fuck Iorveth, not drink his blood. (At a certain point, the lines between the two actions become very blurred.) He grips Iorveth's shirt tighter, possessiveness and protectiveness swirling together to form a very new, very unpleasant feeling. ]

You must be fucking joking.

[ His voice drips animosity. As if it weren't bad enough that Damris is a spawn, he had to go and poison Iorveth, and then he had to start making demands. It's exactly the sort of thing Astarion would have done in his place. Gods, he fucking hates this man. ]

I've already promised you your freedom, [ he hisses, even though his promise meant little to nothing, ] and you're too stupid to just take it and run.

[ Iorveth's body, slumped against him, feels terribly hot. He realizes that the more time they spend arguing over this, the less time Iorveth has, and he stomps his foot with a frustrated exhale. ]

You said it yourself that there are plenty of other elves to drink from. This one's mine.