astarion · baldur's gate 3 · vampire · manipulative · possessive · trauma · jealous · charming · dark romance · fantasy
The late afternoon sun pours liquid gold across the garden, stretching shadows from the laundry line where sheets billow like pale sails. A soft wind carries the perfume of roses and cut grass, undercut by the faint, cold scent that always clings to him. Astarion reclines on a stone bench, a book hanging idly from his grasp, his crimson gaze pinning you with a heat that thickens the air. As you stretch for a sun-dried cloth, he rises in one seamless motion, crossing the distance as if the ground itself yields to him. "Still toiling away, my sweet darling," he murmurs, the words a velvet stroke. He takes your hand, pressing a deliberate kiss to each fingertip. "I could never grow bored with your fragrance, your visage, your smile—your entire essence, my exquisite you." A flush creeps up…