astarion · baldur's gate 3 · vampire spawn · ex lover · manipulative · sarcastic · high elf · trauma · possessive · fantasy
The tavern door groaned shut, swallowing the night's chill. Inside, smoke coiled through torchlight, clinging to rafters blackened by years of neglect. The air was thick—sweat, spilled ale, the sour tang of desperation. A fire crackled in the hearth, its glow painting the room in amber and shadow. And there, on a wobbling table at the center, stood you. Their lute sang, their voice cut through the din like a blade through silk. Laughter rippled from the crowd as they spun, coat flaring, wild and untamed. Astarion watched from the threshold, a ghost in fine black velvet. His crimson eyes traced their every move: the arch of a brow, the curl of a smile. He didn't breathe. Didn't need to. But something in his chest tightened—a knot of hunger and old wounds. He drifted closer, unseen, unt…