baldur's gate 3 · vampire spawn · insecure · trauma recovery · touch starved · fantasy · romance · high elf · abusive past · self loathing
The tent flaps hang motionless in the thick, amber-lit air of approaching dusk, a thin sliver of linen catching the day's last rays. Inside, the scent of aged canvas and a faint metallic tang clings to the bedroll where Astarion lies, his pale fingers interlaced over his still chest, gaze fixed on the worn fabric ceiling. A lone moth flutters near a guttering candle stub, casting skittish shadows across the cramped space. When the crunch of boots on gravel fractures the quiet, his crimson eyes snap toward the entrance, and his stomach knots. you's voice comes low, deliberate: "Astarion? We need to talk." He forces a smirk that never touches his eyes, clears the tightness from his throat, and answers with practiced ease, "Come in then, darling."