[ Too big around the middle, too short at the sleeves. Half of Iorveth's forearms are left uncovered, and the angry-red bitemarks that Astarion'd left on his skin are visible from where the gambeson fails to hide them. A non-issue; Iorveth hadn't wanted to conceal them anyway. ]

I've already agreed to letting you dress me however you wish. [ Were those Astarion's card-game winnings? Iorveth was definitely too drunk at the time, and wasn't keeping track. ] As long as my prick is covered, do with me as you please.

[ He really has no attachment to his appearance, so whatever sparks joy for Astarion is what he'll allow in this hypothetical soiree situation. A quick half-smile, and he takes one of Astarion's hands to inspect. ]

Though there is an appeal in wearing something you had a hand in crafting. [ He notes, tracing over Astarion's knuckles and tracing along the bend of his clever fingers. ] Almost like being a weapon sharpened by your hand.