[His expression melts by soften degrees as Astarion kisses the back of his hand. It's such a charmingly doting action, chaste and sweet in a way they normally never are. A way of kissing more suited to courting than two elves that rut so eagerly day and night . . . it leaves him pleasantly flustered, just a touch, his lips curling up into a sweet smile as his ears twitch once or twice.

Though that vanishes swiftly enough as his vampire speaks, replaced with a sardonically amused little stare.]

More your tempo, he says to a god-killer . . . you speak patronizingly for someone in imminent danger of being sneezed upon.

[He sniffs it out as he curls in closer, content to snuggle in now that some of the emotions of the moment are starting to settle. He's no less happy, understand, but it's a more suffused sort of feeling now: warm and bundled and content as he tucks his head beneath Astarion's chin, overwarm cheek pressed to cold skin. There is so much snot going on right now, and the pile of tissues scattered around their sheets only proves it.]

Tell me what kind of ring you desire. And if what you desire is to see me dress in white lace for our, mm, third? wedding night, amatus, ask instead of assuming.