[ Food, wine, and Astarion. This is Iorveth's idea of being thoroughly spoiled, and it shows in the visible lowering of his defenses, in the slight slant of his usually ramrod-straight posture, in the releasing of tension from his broad archer's shoulders. It makes him look younger, more like the century-and-a-half elf that he is instead of a guerilla warrior that's lived too many lifetimes to count.

He uncorks the bottle of red and pours for the both of them. ]

Threatening me with a good time. [ When has he ever cared about what's appropriate? Astarion is free to do whatever the hells he wants with him for the next tenday, at least. Maybe the next year. Engagement is a concept that will knock the wind out of Iorveth every time he thinks about it.

That said, less romantically: ] If you think I've stopped thinking about putting you in my mouth, you'd be wrong.

[ Hungry, in more ways than one. Glasses clink, and Iorveth has a sip of wine. ]

Ever since Henselt. I don't think I've stopped thinking about you.