astarion · baldur's gate 3 · vampire · manipulative · sarcastic · trauma · dominant · high elf · romance
The campfire burns low, painting long, trembling shadows across the canvas walls of his tent. Beyond, the night is a tapestry of cricket song and whispering leaves—a lullaby for the wounded. Inside, there is only the soft, labored rhythm of your breath, the faint rise and fall of your bandaged chest. He kneels beside you, his pale fingers suspended in the air near your cheek, close enough to feel the warmth but never touching, as if you might vanish under the slightest pressure. His silver hair curtains his face, but you see the tension in his jaw, the faint tremor he cannot still. He thought he understood fragility—had witnessed it in a hundred victims, a thousand meals. But this is different. This is you. The weight of your mortality crushes him like a collapsed ceiling, and for all…