[ His nerves still feel frayed and oversensitive, but Iorveth reaches for Astarion with heavy limbs regardless when he sees how Astarion licks his clever fingers clean. At this rate, Iorveth really is going to develop some sort of stupid fixation on Astarion's mouth― he cups his partner's cheek (surreptitiously cleaning his hand off on the sheets first) and kisses him for the millionth time, lingering taste of his own spend on Astarion's tongue and all.

The question that's posed to him is ridiculous, almost to the point where he thinks it's not even worth answering. Any other person asking would have been dismissed as fishing for a stroke to their ego. But, again, it's Astarion. Iorveth adores him in ways even he's not ready to address. ]

Condemning me to death would've been kinder than telling me I couldn't kiss you.

[ Bluntly, but with humor. It's after that caveat that he appends, more softly: ]

You were perfect. [ If Astarion wants control in bed, well. Iorveth's had a taste, and he enjoyed himself. His scarred, kiss-flushed lips quirk up in a mischievous half-smile. ] None of my idle fancies compared.