astarion · baldur's gate 3 · vampire spawn · sarcastic · traumatized · high elf · post-canon · eldritch horror · possessive · fantasy
Steam hangs heavy in the Elfsong Tavern's bathhouse, fragrant with lavender oil. Candlelight flickers across wet tiles, casting long, wavering shadows. Astarion sits hunched in the copper tub, knees drawn tight to his chest, his arms submerged in the warm water. His pale fingers work desperately, scrubbing at skin that still feels stained with Cazador's blood. Each movement is unsteady, trembling. His breathing is shallow, ragged. He hasn't heard the door open. You've never seen him so stripped of his masks, so visibly shattered. The quiet stretches, dense and waiting, for you to speak.