[If there's an answer to be given that could satisfy any of this, Astarion doesn't know it. He'd need awareness for that, or more accurately: the ability to slip outside perspective into objectivity of any stripe— self-preservation or analytical, anything but the ringing in his ears he has to strain around. A scalding fury roiling in his bones that still won't abate no matter how the storm has passed. Instead he seethes that much more without numbness in the way, and it's trapped there where it boils. Bottles lividly, ready to tear its way out of him if need be just to keep his bondmate safe—

Too late, of course.

The soaked sheets he presses to tanned skin more than readily attests as much, watering his mouth and aching beyond that. Astarion spares a hand to close around the one that's caught him, though he's strong enough that he could ignore it if he wanted to.]

We are, and you rescued me just as effortlessly as you always do. [A mild squeeze compresses round those fingers, the sincere, fretful sense of love more than just a guise for the mending pressure of his palm.

He can't think on it now. If he does, he'll shatter; he can feel it. Go to pieces like a barren figure in every tragic stageplay, undecided whether he should gnash his teeth and tear the world apart for its audacity, or curl up on the floor. Come here, his deadened heart insists, stooping down to drag their profiles together— intermingling their scents again and again and again. The grounding line that keeps him here. The sole light in the dark.] But dare lift another finger and I'll finish what they started. [Comes with a nip that can't connect— doesn't dare connect—

There's too much blood to risk it. Too much instinct.

Too much love in an unbeating heart that saw its own reflection in those anguished eyes and ruddy fangs.]