![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
SALTBURNT | au.
WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK
USERNAME
⭐️
text 🩸 audio 🩸 video
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.
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.
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.
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.
🍷 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.
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.
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.
OTHER NOTES:
🍷 Can complete his (extensive) hair routine without ever looking into a mirror.
VISUALS:
    |
    |
no subject
(Lingering near, perhaps, for fear that if he departs, Astarion will disappear. By choice or by force.)
Gale cards his hand through Astarion’s hair, catching a curl, winding it around his finger. His attention flits sideways, then back, smile crinkling at the corners, a small and private thing, ]
Not strange. [ A shake of his head, waves once again falling in his face. ] It’s, um, rather wonderful actually.
[ When to be waited for sounds an awful lot like being chosen. It feels redundant to echo the phrase when his open expression must broadcast the same sentiment. ]
Do you — would you like to go for a walk? [ My hand in yours. ] Or, I didn’t see you at dinner. If you’re hungry, I could whip something up.
no subject
I didn't know you were much of a cook.
[ Carefully, he finally steps forward — gently pressing Gale back, shepherding rather than insistent — out of his doorframe, closing the door behind him. It's not a repudiation when the options Gale has laid out for him take them both out of the bedroom; rather, it's the closing of one chapter and the opening of another. ]
Let's start with the walk.
[ He looks up, his expression verging on shy — stricken, maybe, by how close they are, and how easy it would be to kiss him again. ]
You can make me something to eat, after.
no subject
I’m an excellent cook. Far better than most of the chefs they hire to dazzle us with gold-leaf and truffles.
[ Sure of his skills, always, if nothing else. An amused gleam brightens the green in his eyes. All his muddied fantasies and recollections dull when compared to the jewel before him, shining with the sincerity of unexpected affection. Beautiful. Handsome. Every adjective in thousands of sonnet and hymns. Worth worshipping. Gale looks back, mouth parted and brows lifted, expression caught somewhere between enamoured and hopeful.
He thinks that perhaps, in another life (or later in this one), he already has Astarion in hand, tugging him along, or that Astarion would smooth that lovely hand over the broad of his chest and fix his collar before leading them onward himself. For now, the residual nerves slow his approach, no longer propelled by the urgency of adrenaline or overwhelm of relief. His fingers find Astarion’s sleeve, slipping underneath it, pen-calloused tips tentative at his wrist.
He looses a little laugh. It skims off the top of the surface tension. ]
That is to say, it would be my pleasure.
[ to walk beside him, to cook for him and reveal some small part of himself. ]
—Clearly we’ve still, ah, secrets to share.
[ Trying for levity, though it belies an anxiety regarding the things Astarion doesn’t know about him — that he might learn and find wanting. Facts and quirks, habits and humiliations. Then again, he’s been publicly mocked on the network and heartbroken in the press, so such worries may be self-aggrandising. ]
no subject
(In another life, this is easier, but never fully easy — not for any inherent incompatibility but because such a term belies the effort necessary to love someone, to really love them.)
He must be trembling. He looks down as he feels Gale's fingers brush his wrist, his skin so warm as to almost burn. (Had he always run so cold?) Carefully, afraid he might dislodge their careful balance if he makes one false move, he shifts the set of his arm, pulling back just far enough to take Gale's hand in his. A note begun and then suspended, a harmony resolved. He takes a moment, even then, memorizing the look of their fingers latticed together before looking up again. They're not out of the woods yet, but he thinks he can see the path. Strange, that it feels as though Gale is both by his side and waiting for him at the precise point the underbrush clears away. ]
I do like truffle, [ he offers, as, with one tentative step after another, he begins to lead them down the hall. ] Though the gold, I can do without. It'll hardly do me any good in my belly, anyway.
[ Some part of him balks, afraid he's being stupid or charmless, but— he has the space to be those things, now. The point of this — of them — isn't to maintain the mask he wears with his clients. It's as Gale said: they've still secrets to share, and no better time to start sharing them, each silly and graceless thing, than now. ]
I'd almost say you could feed me anything, but I don't want to put ideas in your head.
no subject
He brings his other hand to his own nape, bent as he flusters over the myriad implications. ]
Ah. [ Valiantly bypassing the lewd flash in his mind, the hot-wet of his fingers gliding over Astarion’s soft palette — ]
You’ve gone and done it anyway.
[ — to think on his more domestic fantasies. Breakfast in bed, clementines peeled by hand, a meal that he will one day know to be Astarion’s favourite, having been granted the dual privilege of making it and sharing it. Cooking is care. Recognising the way someone prefers a dish, altering the recipe just for them. ]
Will I hold the grapes in one hand and the fan in the other? [ Waving a hand, for want of an illustrative breeze. ] Could save the gold for your finery, though it seems equally pointless to gild perfection.
[ Seeing as Astarion is far more lovely, more lustrous than earthly riches, im his eyes. A testament to his worshipful instincts, even in jest. ]
no subject
Not a fan, but a big palm frond, [ he hums, indulging the fantasy. ] As for the gold — it suits you better than it does me.
[ Yellow gold, a first place finish, better suited to the warm tones of his skin, the warm glow of the dropped opal at his ear. Not the coldness of silver— chrome. (He's thought about this more than he'd care to admit, down to what sort of scent he thinks would suit him, a half-formed memory piercing through the veil as he does and doesn't recall the point of his nose finding the soft part of Gale's wrist, of adjusting the notes of a fragrance in his head.) ]
Laurels around your ears, perhaps.
[ He chances a sidelong look, the line of his mouth wobbling in time with the flutter of his heart. ]
At any rate, we can take turns playing cabana boy.
no subject
Positively Grecian. [ shyly, though his pleasure over the assessment tugs at the corner of his mouth. ] My ancestors would approve.
[ With a playful swing of their arms, Gale hopes to firm Astarion’s smile. To steady the tremble that persists in his features. If they’re alike in anything, it might be this: Insecurity and worry over the fragility of their flickering connection, soon to be exposed to the elements.
This time, Gale won’t withdraw. He’ll cup that flame until it becomes a blaze. ]
Yours, however, might wonder at the wisdom of spending too long in the sun. [ You’re so beautiful, thought and set aside, having discerned that Astarion prefers compliments that go beyond either the physical or the obvious. ] But I’ll find a big hat to go with your big palm frond.
[ Protect those pointy ears of his, always sticking out of his coiffed hair. Cute, cute, cute. Gale steps forward, lengthening his stride to beat Astarion to the back door without letting go. Wanting to hold it for him. Maybe to catch his watchful eyes. ]
And, if I’m lucky, [ if he isn’t pushing said luck, tongue sliding along the backs his teeth, mouth going crooked — ] I’ll have reason to be grateful you run cooler than I do.
[ Something he’s noticed over the course of their connection, chilly hands warmed in his own. Now drawn into the dream of another innocent intimacy. Closeness for the sake of it, without end or intent. ]