[ Normally, Iorveth's palms are a comforting warmth against his skin. Now, they feel about room temperature. He must be burning with embarrassment, and the knowledge of that makes him burn more. This isn't smooth and seductive. This is a mess.

Still, Iorveth's reaction makes a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth, uncontrollable. ]

So would you.

[ Whether Iorveth believes beauty of being something he's capable of not. At a certain point, it's out of his hands, an objective truth, Astarion thinks. Iorveth in some soft, silky fabric cut just for him, with a ring on his finger, belonging solely to Astarion-- yes, that would be very beautiful indeed. His heart can't beat, but he could swear he feels it pounding in his chest. ]

If that was something that you wanted.

[ Because Iorveth still hasn't actually said that he wants it. To be fair, Astarion hasn't actually asked him, either. A mess. ]

...I believe this sort of thing is traditionally done on one knee.