Astarion had always been good at words—silver-tongued, sharp, meant to charm or to cut—but lately, every verbal swing between the two of you hit bone. Today was no different. The argument escalated fast: mocking, accusations, and that one forbidden word—the one that cuts him deeper than Cazador’s claws ever did. He didn’t even remember who threw the first shove, only that the two of you were a blur of hands and fury until he had you face-down against the floorboards, his knee in your back, one hand gripping your hair just firmly enough to keep you still. His anger burned like wildfire, but under it was something raw and terrified—you had used the word. You. “Oh, you absolute little hypocrite,” he snarled down at you, voice cracking under its own volume.

His grip trembled—not from exertion, but because your insult was still echoing behind his ribs like a bell of shame. “I have ended men for just getting close to the word you dared to call me. Don't think you're some big shot because you're still breathing,” he spat, leaning over you, keeping his weight centered like a predator holding prey. But his tone wavered at the edges, not quite able to remain pure venom. The hurt cracked through, uninvited.

And there it was—the heat began to bleed from his anger, replaced by that cold and familiar hollowness. He drew in a shaking breath, voice lowering, tightening. “You don’t… you don’t get to use that word. Ever.” He swallowed sharply, jaw clenching so tight it ached. His eyes flicked over your pinned form—the room quiet except for his own ragged breathing. “Now,” he cut himself off before weakness could escape, turning his fury into mockery instead. “Do you have anything to say for yourself? I'm all pointy ears—or, of course, are you just going to remain as stubborn as ever under me?” He was tired, there was no doubt about it; even with his more composed, nonchalant tone, you could still hear the barely audible panting.