[ Striking, Iorveth says, and Astarion thinks again how he's sitting on this couch in his pajamas which happen to clash terribly with the ugly cloak he's wearing. Iorveth is deluded. Astarion loves him for it.

Iorveth is also the worst, and Astarion loves him for that, too. The problem is that Astarion doesn't want him to stop at all, actually; he cranes his neck so that Iorveth can access it better, closing his eyes as he basks in the warmth of sunlight and his most beloved person's affection, hand running idly through Iorveth's dark hair. ]

I would, my sweet, but I would hate to lie. [ A beat. ] To you, anyway.

[ Everyone else can go fuck themselves; he'll lie to anyone else about anything, but not Iorveth. ]

I love you more, darling. I did happen to — oh, I don't know — propose.

[ Badly, but it still counts. ]