[ If only Astarion were in a better state of mind, he'd find Iorveth's protectiveness very sweet and terribly endearing. He really cares, which of course Astarion knows, but it's always a strange and amazing realization every time Iorveth does something that proves it. Except he can't appreciate it now, because Iorveth is saying to stop and it doesn't stop, which sends the cold feeling of helplessness up his spine, and—
Rationally, he knows this is completely different than any sort of pain he experienced in the past, but it feels so similar as to make the distinction negligible. He wants to thrash and fight and wring Reginald's neck for doing this to him, but he doesn't. He does what he's always done: endure.
He grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut, and goes inside himself to wait for it to be over, fingernails digging into the flesh of Iorveth's hand sharply enough to draw blood. ]
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Rationally, he knows this is completely different than any sort of pain he experienced in the past, but it feels so similar as to make the distinction negligible. He wants to thrash and fight and wring Reginald's neck for doing this to him, but he doesn't. He does what he's always done: endure.
He grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut, and goes inside himself to wait for it to be over, fingernails digging into the flesh of Iorveth's hand sharply enough to draw blood. ]