𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖕𝖆𝖑𝖊 𝖊𝖑𝖋.

Independent portrayal of Astarion from Baldur's Gate 3.

Covers multiple verses with separate timelines.

Semiselective.

Penned by Vermin.

Mature content warning.

Astarion Ancunín.

239 years old.

High Elf (Moon Lineage).

5'8" (With the hair).

Bisexual.

Cis male.

Dark-circled eyes, piercing red.

Well-kept short white curls, meticulously coiffed.

White lashes (usually covered with mascara).

Spindly fingers.

Naturally sharp claws (trimmed by Cazador's decree, grown out in his absence).

Pronounced veins.

Deathly pale (almost translucent in some lights).

Minimal body hair (hard to see because it's white).

Unmarked, save for the scars on his neck and back.

A few faint freckles dot his skin, remnants of a past life.

Decadent, indulgent, selfish.

Nimble, flexible, graceful.

Sneaky, secretive, deceptive.

Paranoid, distrusting, manipulative.

Mending + embroidery.

Knife tricks.

Making valuable items (and less valuable people) disappear.

Seduction + "hospitality".

Tax evasion.

Switch.

5". Slender. Uncut.

Erections are a bit tricky without fresh blood, but not impossible. It will be cold.

Vocal when performing, but his genuine sounds of pleasure are usually pretty quiet.

Completely unfazed by weird kinks. He's seen it all. Doesn't mean he'll indulge them, though.

Gives fantastic head. Knows it. Is insufferably smug about it.

Loves getting rimmed.

Has difficulty relaxing enough to cum. Frequently passes it off as "endurance".

Basically zero sex drive.

Service switch. Fills whatever role is asked/expected of him.

Feels sick when his scars are touched. Might stiffen or recoil, but won't say anything.

Does not know what a safeword is (please teach him).

Focuses on getting his partner off. Usually fakes orgasms.

Has no idea what his own kinks are.

Quick to devolve into sloppy makeouts, encouraging further debauchery.

Will not bite unless you offer. Very much wants you to offer.

Holds your hips.

Slowly discovering a circumstantial libido.

Switch. Prefers to dom (top or bottom) but likes to sub sometimes. Draws the line at being taken from behind.

Likes gentle touch- neck, sides, ears, etc.

Doesn't mind his scars being touched (just not roughly). Sometimes it's worse, but he's good about making it clear in those cases.

Still a corpse- small, cold, sterile loads. Sorry.

Vanilla sex is like an exciting new kink. He's slowly feeling out what else he likes, but relishes in the privilege of boring sex.

Kisses softly and slowly. Only involves tongue when lost in the throes of passion.

All about safewords and aftercare.

Suckles at your neck until you give him permission to bite (asking is hard).

Holds your hands.

Doubles down on his unhealthy relationship with sex, using it as a means of control.

Exclusively dom + top (desperately needs to be put in his place).

Only allows touch under his explicit instruction.

Won't let anyone's hands near his scars.

Renewed with the vigor and potence of the living. Scoffs at the suggestion of using protection.

Tends towards rough and degrading. If he's gentle, it's probably because he's treating you like a pet.

His tongue is in your mouth. Not negotiable. 75% chance he bites your lip.

Does not care what a safeword is.

Will bite you.

Holds your neck.

Youngest of three at his time of death, but his parents have had 2 more children since his passing.

Not influential enough to be a household name, but the Ancunín family is still decidedly upper-class. Most of them do government work in some capacity.

His position as a magistrate was gained moreso through connections than any actual hard work or skill.

He was downright unscrupulous in his work. Crooked. Frequently took bribes.

Blessed with a long lifespan and a comfortable lifestyle, he never once had to worry about mortality until it was suddenly staring him in the face.

Most of the dismay surrounding his death was just for how young he was (for an elf).

He was not mourned for long. His parents had other children, before and since. He was deemed a tragedy best not dwelled upon.

His hair was a light silver that slowly faded to stark white after his death.

His eyes were a soft blue.

He remembers none of this.

Ever the problem child.

He may have followed orders, but was always looking for technicalities in his commands to exploit.

This earned him a reputation as an insolent brat, and landed him a night [or several] in the kennel more often than not.

While he didn't relish the consequences, he clung to that sliver of freedom desperately.

He gained nothing from it, but with time it became clear that even if he wasn't disobedient, Cazador would still find reasons to punish him.

Cazador took a particular interest in his suffering-- whether it was because of his petulance, or just that he screamed the sweetest, he'll never know.

His relationship with his siblings was antagonistic at the best of times, downright adversarial at worst.

Such behavior was often encouraged. Cazador found their petty squabbles amusing, so long as it didn't interfere with his demands.

He was always fed before being tortured, just so he'd feel it more vividly. Except for when starvation was the torture.

His siblings primarily had the "fawn" response-- doing everything in their power to please the Master in hopes of avoiding his wrath.

Astarion's response was to "freeze"-- numbing himself to the pain he knew was inevitable and unavoidable.

Dissociation became the best way for him to cope, a way to shield himself from the horrors he was subjected to.

When it came to finding marks, he usually chose sleazeballs because they were easy, and he could tell himself they had it coming.

But every now and then, there was a Sebastian. Sweet, shy... It made the luring less unpleasant, and he tried not to think about the heaviness it left in his chest when it was over.

Feeling nothing became easier with time. He became numb. Hollow.

He took his joy where he could-- usually at the expense of others.

Decades of bitterness made him relish seeing others suffer a fraction of what he'd endured.

Not a dog person. Or an animal person, for that matter. Cats are an occasional exception.

Has fully forgotten how to swim.

Would not recognize a picture of himself.

He uses 5 different products for his hair and 3 different moisturizers for his skin.

Remembers just enough from his law degree to get into trouble (technically legal crimes, tax evasion, etc.)

Terrible with children. Not above beefing with nine year olds.

Prefers warm metals, looks better in cool metals.

Not thrilled about his affliction. Doesn't find it sexy, but knows others do, and often uses this to his advantage.

His fangs contain an anticoagulating venom that prevents blood from clotting when he feeds.

His saliva has a coagulant that helps seal fresh bite wounds.

Mortal food tastes like ash, and usually doesn't sit well in him.

He still sips wine, despite it doing nothing for him and tasting bitter. It puts others at ease, and although the flavor leaves much to be desired, the warmth it leaves going down almost makes it palatable.

No heartbeat, no pulse. Unaided, his blood is cold and still- only flowing faintly by grace of undead magic.

His internals were physically altered by his turning- his digestive tract painfully dissolved and fused with his vascular system.

Veins twist into his gut and distribute blood through his body, his heart a dead weight- atrophied and utterly removed from the equation.

Starvation numbs his senses. He forgets how cold he is until he feels warmth again.

Feeding heightens his senses and offers a temporary warmth to his body.

Hunger starts in the gut and slowly travels up the throat until it aches in his teeth.

Left unsated, it will start to erode him- his body appears more corpselike, his eyes burn with unholy desperation, and his restraint slowly crumbles until only vicious instinct remains.

Vampiric hunger is impossible to satisfy completely. No matter how much he drinks, it will never be enough.

He's had centuries to adjust, and can get by on very little, but will never turn down an opportunity for more. Provided it's of decent quality.

When well-fed, his senses are sharper than the average mortal's. His hearing in particular is incredibly acute.

He can hear heartbeats and smell blood from great distances, even under skin. This is the only sense that becomes stronger with hunger.

Having been deprived so long, moderation is not his forté.

As such, he prefers to feed on those he won't miss. A heart's final beat tastes the sweetest.

That doesn't mean he won't indulge sometimes- many of his favorite people also happen to be his favorite flavor.

Beasts of the same species taste practically identical- but thinking creatures have much more variety.

Lineage, history, health, diet, personality, and emotional state all factor into a person's distinct taste.

Animal blood hardly does it for him anymore. He needs a lot to feel sated, and will long for finer feasts the entire time.

The rush of vitality is exhilarating- at times, even intoxicating. It depends on the blood's quality, and how long it's been since his last meal.

The tadpole negated his vampiric banes, but also hampered some of his spawn abilities- namely regeneration.

He was unaware he had the ability to spiderclimb as a spawn, because he was kept too starved and weak to use it.

Doesn't need to breathe, but doing so can be calming. He has a lot of practice faking natural breath to feign liveliness.

His hair doesn't grow. It's been the same length since he died.

He has a second set of canines behind his fangs, and another on his lower jaw.

Bisexual (slight male lean).

Multiship with chemistry.

Ships take place in separate timelines unless otherwise specified.

Mun loves x Gale and x Durge, but also likes him with Halsin, Wyll, or Tav. Open to other ships too!

🩸🗡️ Will habitually romance anyone to manipulate them, it's all he knows. Everything is give and take.

🌙 Wants a committed partnership with someone he knows and trusts. Something new.

☀️ Wants a pet at best, but more likely a tool. Certainly not an equal.

Pre-plot Astarion, in service to Cazador.

A pretty face with hollow eyes.

Hungry. So hungry.

Perpetual terror smothered under a smooth, cold sheet of numbness.

Tends to avoid people he likes. It's easier to doom people if they disgust him.

Mid-game Astarion.

Enjoying the novelty of prolonged company.

Distrusting and terrified, hiding it under the salacious mask more familiar than his own face.

Tends to disregard his own comfort for any perceived strategic benefit.

Post-game spawn Astarion.

Giving this whole "genuine interpersonal connections" thing a try.

Established a safehouse in the underdark for the surviving spawn.

Working towards refurbishing the infrastructure there, funded by his adventurous exploits.

He visits every few months, but is mostly hands-off.

He can't help feeling guilty seeing all the people he's damned- it doesn't feel like his place to lead them.

Not that he'd want to. Leaving them to their own devices is his way of encouraging their independence.

He got his ears pierced, and quickly learned that his regeneration reseals the holes almost immediately if he takes the piercings out.

This has not stopped him from getting several more since then.

Post-game Ascended Astarion.

Very much not the same person as he was before the ritual, but he'd argue the change is for the better.

The mask is all that remains, all the tender parts that hid beneath have been hollowed out, leaving only emptiness and hunger behind.

Obsessed with power. Will use every tool at his disposal (including himself) to ensure unwavering devotion.

Much more interested in manipulating people into willing obdience rather than resorting to brutish coercion.

Self-assured and composed, but quick to anger when met with resistance.

Vermin

he/they

21+

enjoyer of rat bastardmen

sometimes makes art