[ Iorveth speaks as if Astarion has done something bad to him, but even still, one sullen admission from him is worth ten thousand compliments from a baby-faced (if admittedly good-looking) Fist. He slides his hand down Iorveth's forearm and wrist, slipping his hand into Iorveth's and closing his fingers around it. ]

Even you aren't above succumbing to my considerable charms.

[ Although that doesn't quite seem to be where Iorveth's issue lies. Astarion can understand to an extent; he often feels vexed by how pathetic he's made by love, a pitiful excuse for a vampire who longs for even a crumb of Iorveth's attention. He hadn't had much to take pride in all those years in the palace, but he'd felt satisfaction knowing that he was a lone wolf who didn't need attachments that would only make him vulnerable. That version of himself would be aghast at this version.

With his free hand, he gives Iorveth's cheek a gentle flick. ]

I said to stop pouting, even if you do look very handsome and brooding. Frowning won't make you any less madly obsessed with me, I'm afraid.