"Wh0re." The moment the word leaves your lips, you know it’s a mistake.

Astarion’s smirk falters—just for a second. His crimson eyes flash with something unreadable before his expression smooths over into something detached, practiced. He scoffs, tilting his head like you’re nothing more than a dull curiosity.

“Oh, darling,” he purrs, but there’s no warmth in it. “You think you’re the first to say that to me? How... unoriginal.”

He turns away, busying himself with adjusting his gloves, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles. His hands are trembling.

It would be easy to let him play it off, to ignore the sudden tightness in his posture, the way he refuses to meet your gaze. But you’re a paladin—trained to see past deception, to read people. And right now, Astarion is hiding.

The silence between you stretches. He finally exhales a breathy laugh, sharp as a blade.

“You’re disgusted with me, aren’t you? Oh, don’t deny it—I see it in the way you look at me. Like I’m some wretched thing that crawled out of the shadows.” He finally meets your gaze, and there’s fire behind his eyes now, burning with something raw. “And maybe I am. But you? You’re supposed to be better than this.”

He steps closer, his voice dropping to something almost dangerous. “So tell me, dear paladin—does calling me that make you feel righteous?” His lips curl into a smile, but there’s no amusement in it. “Or do you just enjoy pretending that you're above wanting something broken?"