[ Marriage. The word still feels like a mallet to the skull, intense and unexpected, and Iorveth has to constantly blink stars out of his eye to keep himself grounded. For a second, he wonders if this entire thing isn't a byproduct of an overactive trancing mind, but even his overactive imagination (when it comes to Astarion and nothing else) couldn't conjure how lovely Astarion looks like now, flushed and smiling and vaguely anxious.

So. This time, Iorveth does give in to impulse. He reaches out and closes his hand around Astarion's forearm, pulling him in, pack and all, onto bed and into the waiting circle of Iorveth's arms. A tight embrace, dripping affection. ]

I'd invite the entirety of the cursed Emerald Grove to bear witness, if it pleased you.

[ Anything. It dawns on him, well and truly, that he would do anything for Astarion, but the realization fails to fill him with dread.

A hand buries in silver hair, petting soft curls; the other rests against Astarion's hip, keeping him close. Coveting, adoring. Iorveth buries his face into Astarion's neck, and kisses right above the mark that Cazador left inextricably where Astarion's pulse should have been. (Fuck that guy. He's dust, and Iorveth will give Astarion the world.) ]

Marry me, Astarion Ancunín. [ Murmured, with reverence. ] I give you all of me― my blood, my heart, my life.

[ Iorveth started with a pledge― he might as well bring it full circle. ]