[ Teeth to skin reminds Iorveth that Astarion is still running on the blood of that scoundrel they murdered, and that, in turn, makes him feel reciprocally possessive. Note to self to let Astarion bite after this, if he has any blood left in him that hasn't gone to his dick.

Because, well, husband kind of does it for him. It was a calculated thing, the half-avoidance of the term, not wanting to box Astarion into any sort of role that he hasn't chosen for himself; but now he's gone and said it, and spoken the thought into existence.

Iorveth shivers a bit, shifting so that his obvious erection isn't pressing uncomfortably against Astarion's knee, and makes a bit more friction with his hand. An instinctive craving for more, even if he doesn't really know what the context for that 'more' is. ]

I've been called many things, [ he sighs, content, as he presses a smile against Astarion's hair. ] But never 'husband'.

[ There's a tightness in his chest, a pain that comes from happiness expanding his heart at a rate he wasn't prepared to handle. He cups Astarion's face with his free hand, stroking over high cheekbones and smoothing a soft brow, like he just can't believe any of this is happening and needs to affirm it through touch. ]

Which would make you my husband, in turn. [ A soft laugh, knowing that they're getting ahead of themselves. ] Once we exchange rings, that is.