[ "Wicked", Astarion says, while looking and acting very much like a cat puffing and preening for attention. The joke continues to be on Iorveth for finding it all very endearing despite himself (honestly, he'd always thought he was more of a dog person before all of this), and besides, the playacting suits him as well as it seems to be suiting Astarion. It's not exactly "crown prince succumbs to his dark-haired assassin" material, but "terrorist elf yields to white-haired vampire" is probably an erotica novel somewhere in the Realms.

Stupid. Iorveth smiles in a way that suggests that he doesn't know that that's the way his features are currently arranged: unguarded and uncalculated with his brows slightly lowered, his curled mouth relaxed. ]

I fought as best I could, [ he drawls, ] but the wicked vampire had the irresistible audacity to call me his.

[ Iorveth sits up and pulls back, sliding his hand out from under Astarion's shirt to tug its hem up, insistently. ]

And now he's gone and made me want him again. [ His smile spreads into a grin, slightly challenging as he throws Astarion this bone: ] Desperately.