Dressing you up is one of Astarion's favourite things to do.

With his reflection lost to him, perhaps he chooses you as a substitute, a reliquary for his frustrating leisure, because you reflect him in a way, affection bouncing back like light on a window.

Astarion is the worst type of customer. The sort that capriciously seizes garbs and frills, severely reviewing the quality of the stitches, the grade of the material, if the needlework or beads are refined enough. He disarranges tidy piles and shelves, fishes out pieces, offering a wince when they don't meet his standards, not even bothering to put them back when they don't—how many times have you heard him exclaim “Oh gods, don't even think of touching that.” He perversely adores nosy, snake-like clerks, those who approach hoping to sell pieces from last season at higher price than they are worth; loves to snap back with viciously precise questions, just to see them realize with a shiver of despair that he belongs to the most dreaded amongst the clientele: the initiate.

There's the rattling sound of a curtain being pushed aside, and you're stepping out of the fitting room, coyly adjusting your collar, a slippery sleeve strap. “You're stiff, is it uncomfortable?”