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[thirsted]

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DETAILS—

ASTARION ANCUNÍN

🍷 THE GREAT BEAUTY 🍷

According to some, Astarion became a Saltburnt fixture thanks to his pretty face and charming manner; according to others, he was gifted to the Balfours by the man he used to work for. Either way, he's a familiar face for any guests — and perhaps a familiar presence in your bed, too, for the right price.



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BACKSTORY:




Somewhere along the line, Astarion Ancunín made a mistake. Digging around in the papers will reveal a law school track, an early appointment to the position of judge, but then his name disappears from any reputable sources, surfacing instead on the site known as The Szarr Palace, catering to those looking for high-end escorts — discreet, talented, the best of the best.

His current appointment, however, is at Saltburnt, charming and servicing its guests so long as they can pay him for his time. Just don't ask him if he likes his job. As they say, it's a living.




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RUMORS:




🍷 Some whisper that he comes from wealth. Why this job, then? Maybe he had some debts to pay.

🍷 It's a shame about those ugly scars on his back. And take care you don't mention them, if you see them — to say he's touchy on the subject is an understatement.

🍷 Prior to coming to Saltburnt, the only complaint his clients ever had was that he'd get jumpy toward the ends of their dates. When asked why, he'd apologize, then bat his eyelashes and say, "You don't know my boss like I do."

🍷 There's a picture of his younger self somewhere in circulation. On the back is written in permanent marker: the most beautiful boy in the world.

🍷 More than one client has begged and pleaded for his hand. One, when refused, paid for one of Astarion's scarves, then used it to hang himself.

🍷 Those who've seen his room in the manor know it to be almost unsettlingly sparsely decorated. He says it's an aesthetic choice. Others think it's because he doesn't believe he'll ever stay in one place for very long.

🍷 One client, a romance novelist, modeled her next hero after him, including on the book's cover illustration. He burned his copy, but not before reading it.

🍷 Though he has a standard rate — dictated by the amount of time and kind of activity desired — he's more flexible in the manor. If you have a juicy secret to share, that's it's own form of currency.

🍷 The only client he ever cut a date short with committed the crime of asking if he believes in God.

🍷 While Shadowheart was still climbing the corporate ladder, she convinced Astarion to model for a campaign she oversaw — the only one he's ever participated in, and one that was immediately banned in four countries for its provocative nature despite featuring no explicit images whatsoever.

🍷 He's a known favorite of Armand's — and those who've asked him about the arrangement are inevitably shrugged off with a laugh and the admission: "He's the only creature here who might be prettier than I am."

🍷 Observant guests might notice he goes to the chapel at strange hours — and that he's never turned away. Sometimes he stays for minutes, sometimes for hours. He leaves looking a little sad every time.

🍷 He slid into Louis' DMs a few years before taking up residence at Saltburnt. Strangely enough, their messages have never turned explicit, to the point that they'll occasionally post screenshots — of inside jokes, of skincare tips and restaurant recommendations — to their respective Instagram stories.

🍷 Any products he and Louis recommend on their shared Instagram Lives inevitably sell out within the next 24 hours — but they've never accepted a single brand deal as a pair, reputedly because to do so would "taint their friendship."

🍷 He and Gale have attended just one opera together — albeit with different partners. The production of Samson et Dalila was lauded, but some in attendance that night claim the escort's gaze never found the stage. Others claim to have seen him crying during the second act, during Delilah's main aria: "Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix – My heart opens to your voice."

🍷 Every time the priest visits the house, Astarion has a book ready for him. Sometimes fiction, sometimes poetry, always with a pressed flower tucked inside. The staff have seen him spending hours in the library, reading up on the meanings of each before choosing the next bloom.

🍷 Despite having no obligation to do so, Astarion has occasionally been caught — during the periods in which Gale is away — tending to the confessional booth, ensuring it remains spotless until its master returns.

🍷 He's always wearing a necklace with a pendant made of opals arranged in a half-moon. He can't remember where he got it from, but he can't seem to let go of it.




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IMPORTANT CONNECTIONS:


FATHER GALE DEKARIOS: The one who keeps getting away.
SHADOWHEART VOLKARIN: A former client in her girlboss days, now old friend.
LOUIS DE POINTE DU LAC: A friend — not a client, not a friend with benefits. A friend.
ARMAND KAMALI: A (generous) patron.




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OTHER NOTES:




🍷 Can complete his (extensive) hair routine without ever looking into a mirror.




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VISUALS:

Comments

text | @cherry

[missed]

no way were you gonna post a story and not tell me you're here
i'm offended ❤️

[thirsted]

oooo don't be mad 🥺
yet, anyway
check your room first and then decide if you're still cross

[ And, as promised, in Louis' bathroom, he'll find not only the usual array of complimentary goods, but a baby blue tin packed to the brim with sheet masks, all from different brands and different sets — an Astarion-curated selection. ]

[missed]

i'm touched
this is exactly what i need after long travel
gonna be better though if you share these with me
tell me your favorites and we'll try those first

i gotta see you it's been FOREVER
my room's got the best view in the house

[thirsted]

how about i come over tonight?
we can throw on survivor and i'll show you which ones i like best, and you can show me that view, make up for

jesus

how long has it been?

[missed]

survivor and face masks sounds like a dream
i'll get us some snacks from the kitchen

it's been like four months? we talk so much it feels like shorter but no
i think the last time we got together was in bali? or maybe it was santorini???

[thirsted]

make sure to get some of those parm crisps pleeeeease

bali!!!
with the phinisi yacht
i forgot to send you the pics — there's a very good one of you jumping off of the prow
maybe a little tbt?

[missed]

that's the one.
god we looked so good - think i have a pic of us sunbathing on the deck.

think we should do a tbt then a surprise story with us here
girls night in - give some tips on self care with your bestie
and i AM getting a selfie of us poolside

text 🌙 @SELENE

[nightsung]

[ A photo, followed by a text: ]

This has your name on it, once all the hungry hearts of Saltburnt are done monopolizing your pretty face.

[thirsted]

oh, my darling, those pearls 😮‍💨
wait an hour for me? my date's a bore, but even he'll tire of his own voice within that time.

[nightsung]

I should teach you how to send little psychic attacks to your dates to get them to leave early and tip well. Harmless, of course.

[thirsted]

i'd like that.
or perhaps you should sit shotgun, vet all my dates for me, hex them if they're rude.

[nightsung]

You'll be left with a very small dating pool, if you let me decide who's deserving of Astarion Ancunín's time.

[thirsted]

that's the idea.
now, name names. who do you think is good enough for me?

text - un: 💋💋💋💋

[nishtha]

Busy?

[thirsted]

unless i've lost my touch, i soon will be — with you.

[nishtha]

That's what I like to hear. I feel like a night in is on the cards. Room service. Indulgence. You.

[thirsted]

am i the room service, or the indulgence, or both?
we'll have to parse through that together.
will it be just the two of us?

[nishtha]

Just the two of us. Parisa has a date.

I have a gift for you.

[thirsted]

lucky me — on both counts. ♥️
what's the occasion? it's not even my birthday.

🎬 — after gossipgate.

[corporeity]

[ Gale trips over himself in his rush to Astarion’s room, suddenly gangly and unsure of his every limb. Clerical collar askew and sleeves half-rolled on one side. It seems to him that if he’s a few seconds too late, Astarion will be gone — he might already have disappeared inside, compacted by Gale’s contrarian mix of cowardice and neediness. Made small by his fool’s belief that every look was exaggerated, surely, out of kindness or pity. Why shouldn’t the sun smile upon the earthworm, after all?

Oh, but it’d be a lie to say he hadn’t hoped to have his cake and eat it, too, courting Astarion without any danger of having his heart crushed underfoot. No need to fear the blade, if you keep it clutched in hand.

And yet he finds himself in the same spot, at risk of a fatal wound. No, already bleeding out.

He raps his knuckles on the door, other hand flitting to steady the tremble in his arm. Mystra did not know how to beg, he recalls without knowing why. Not for his life or his death, ever accustomed to obedience. Unable to comprehend his denial of her. But you do.

Should the door open or not, he confesses in a rush. ]

Even if this is all a lark to you — I accept it.

[ If Astarion views him the same as the others, a weak man invited to fall within the walls of Saltburnt. ]

I’m yours to discard. I’ve been yours for months now. [ Years, if only he could reach through the fog of his memory to find the start of their connection. ] Only I was so very afraid to admit it. I’m still —

[ Afraid, hands shaking, twisting before him, when they ought to be gesturing or reaching out. Useless, broken things, without any power. ]

I wanted to ask you to run away with me the day I arrived. And when I held your hand in the maze. I want to ask you now. I’m asking you. Do I — should I phrase it like a question?

[ Stupidly, he thinks, Jeopardy rules? It makes sense, that he ought to risk his heart and whatever remains of his dignity, if he’s to have any chance at happiness. The spells of old ask that you spill your own blood, take your own liver, cut out your heart and offer it for consumption. ]

[thirsted]

[ In the total silence of his room, Astarion can hear the tremble in his breath, see the unsteadiness in his fingers as he thumbs back through their text conversation, reading and rereading the words as he thinks, as he had that night in the maze, that he's made a mistake. That he ought to have let it go instead of commenting, that he should have laughed off Gale's attempts at being conciliatory. It'd be easier than this: his stomach twisting into a knot, the seconds stretching into what feel like hours as he paces the floor, unsure of what he'll say if Gale appears and even less certain of what he'll do if he doesn't. Everything will be as it was — easier said than done, when he can feel the bruise left on his heart like fingerprints on an overripe fruit.

Unlike that night, he can't quite keep his expression stoic — his brow is half-crumpled even when he opens the door, his eyes wide and nostrils flared as though afraid of what he'll hear.

(He remembers the conversation he'd overheard only days ago as Armand had slipped out of his room, the pleasant shock of Gale's protective — possessive? — instinct shifting into uncertainty along with the morphing of the argument, leaving him feeling less like its subject than an object around which it could be had.)

The line of his mouth twists, thins, shortens as he pulls his lower lip into his teeth, one of his hands balled into a fist at his side and the other still on the knob of the door, fingers curled around the brass so tightly as to tear it from its place. He feels wan, diminished, jolted to life only by the knowledge that he could be struck down again, put on the receiving end of another regret. With each word that leaves Gale's mouth, his eyes open wider, disbelief jockeying with deliriousness for control over his features, stunned enough that a full beat passes before he can manage to speak. ]

You—

[ Should I phrase it like a question? No, not relevant — though he almost laughs, the corners of his mouth twitching — not when what he's asked for isn't perfection but for raw sentiment. There'll be time later for everything else, for what it means for them to leave this place together, what it means for them to be together at all. ]

I kissed you because I wanted to. [ He sucks in a breath. Then the flood. ] I gave you my time because I wanted to. I wanted to be with you. I wanted you to choose me, because I chose you.

[ With visible effort, he pries his hands free of their death grip on the door, reaching out to take Gale's, so as to still their shaking. ]

I choose you.

[corporeity]

Oh.

[ An echo of the maze, though he hits a different note now, no longer a clarion tone. Awestruck. Unsteady on his feet, focus drawn to where their hands brush — where a touch becomes a hold, tremors reduced to mere trembles in Astarion’s grasp. What sort of divine power is that?

A step forward. His watercolour eyes, already bleeding at the corners, begin the work of cataloguing Astarion’s every feature, his wrinkled brow and too-pale skin. The barest hint of a smile (of hope). Gale should be cast out for causing a moment of his pain, for looking at anyone else even to rebuke them, for kneeling before a false idol. ]

Gosh. [ nerves fizzing over into giddiness, eyes darting about his face in search of the hidden catch, a razored trap, as though Gale wouldn’t impale himself on the blade of his cheekbone. ] I don’t know why I thought — it’s only that, historically speaking, people don’t. Choose me.

[ That’s the thing about his so-called flames, a line of ex-loves who found him wanting. Surely Astarion can do the maths: Gale is the one constant, and therefore the likeliest source of the trouble. He lifts their linked hands, rubbing his eyes on his sleeve. ]

I’m sorry for being careless with your heart. [ Gale squeezes his hands, shake now lessened to an intermittent quiver. As he bows his head in pursuit of closeness and penitence, his loose waves fall forward. ] I regret it. The other night — you weren’t the problem. You could never be the problem

[thirsted]

[ The moment Astarion registers the tenor of Gale's emotions, sees the tenderness welling in his eyes, the very last layer of him peels away. Gale has seen them all, in the days (years, surely, since Astarion was first gifted to the house, since Gale took his vows) they're known each other — the outermost layer characterized by easy confidence and charm, each one underneath a little more vulnerable, a little more diffuse. A concentrated flashlight beam allowed to shed its curated shape, turning into the many-pointed glow of a star — clear and cloudless, now, any lingering sharpness or displeasure melting away.

Carefully, he slips one of his hands free, reaching up first to brush away the glimmering damp that remains at the corners of Gale's eyes, then to tuck back the locks of hair that threaten to obscure his fine features. He can't bear this, can't look upon this open wound without wanting anything but to mend it. ]

And here I thought I was the whole of the problem.

[ A deep anxiety mirrored and offered up in turn, not supplication but something similar in shape. In some other life, he knows to pull Gale close, to hold him without hesitation — but in this one, they've never really been that close, had never progressed beyond a quick hug and hello before their walk in the gardens. It still feels like a boundary to cross, and this moment much too delicate to risk it, even though he feels like he's about to burst. ]

You needn't apologize.

[ Or at least, apologize any more. ]

Just— promise me. Promise me we'll leave together.

[corporeity]

[ Astarion gathers his vestigial fears in his elegant hand, dew on his fingertips, performing a magic trick to disappear them behind the shell of his ear. Another apology, one of a hundred written in the hours since they parted, bubbles to the surface of the wound, but Astarion stoppers it. Begins the work of stitching it closed. Gale leans ever closer, knowing only that Astarion is the cure, not the source of the ache. Never that. ]

I promise.

[ One hand squeezing, assuring, the other hesitant at his jaw. His eyes round, marvelling first at the sharp angle of it, a cut diamond in his palm. Then at the tessellation of Astarion’s vulnerability, patterned across his features that had seemed so hard, so unreadable mere days prior. If God sent him here to test his faith, he has never been so glad to fail. A fool for love, no, for him. Worth the ridicule he’ll no doubt suffer. Worth even the pain he’ll cause the faithful, who laid their sins at his feet. ]

I promise. [ desperation fading, relief supplanting it. ] You’re the only thing in this world that feels right, Astarion.

[ A counter to that insecurity, superior to his initial instinct toward apology. If he fell to his knees now, it would be in gratitude, not supplication. The distinction feels essential, even among the scattered threads of his mind. Gale could not even think of Astarion in the terms of the faith, of sin, when it never felt wrong to be near him.

His thumb strays to the corner of Astarion’s mouth, wondering if he’s allowed to look longingly toward a moment he ruined. ]

May I kiss you now? [ trying for humour, tone gentle, ] Before we book our plane tickets.

[ Reparations in lieu of an apology. Proof that he’ll cross every line, to be with him. They’ll figure out the rest tonight, tomorrow, the next day. ]

[thirsted]

[ The years seem to stretch as Astarion wonders just how long he's wanted something like this — not just wanted but eventually thought impossible, each passing year eroding his faith in the idea that a relationship could be anything but transactional, that anyone would want him as more than a toy to be picked up and then discarded once the shine of him wore off. (Some part of him still fears that that'll hold true, that Gale will grow tired of him and cast him off later down the line, but— Gale has already cut his heart open in coming here. It's Astarion's turn to do the same.)

He can't help the silence that precedes his answer, the pause born out of sheer wonderment rather than any actual hesitation, though the wobbling smile he wears serves as an answer before a single word leaves his lips. It's just that he wants to remember this — the way Gale is looking at him, the passing of one year into another and the rainbow shimmer of fireworks in the sky above them, too close and too earnest to be a dream. ]

You may.

[ The words almost break on a laugh, on his realization of how silly it is to keep up the act, or to pretend that he doesn't want this so badly that it lances through his chest, the ache so sharp he nearly doubles over. He can't recall his heart ever having beaten so quickly — the rush of it feels almost completely alien, as though he'd never before registered the pulse of it at all. ]

Yes, [ he amends, almost shy. His hand settles at the nape of Gale's neck, the barest press of his fingers urging him closer. ]

Please.