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thatishogwash · 6 years ago

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Worth the Wait 1/2

13 Days of HQ Halloween pt2

October 1 - Witches AO3

Despite the judgements some have made based on his looks, Kuroo wasn’t an avid rule breaker. He mostly did what he was told, he abided by the strict guidelines his family set for him, he performed all the daily tasks asked of him, and he complained very little. All in all Kuroo thought of himself as a good, rule-abiding son and family member. He might drink more coffee than his elders would like and he hated showing his work on maths problems but that was usually the extent to his teenage rebellion.

Well, that was the extent until he met the future head of the Sawamura family. Kuroo found it difficult to relax around people he didn’t know, despite the closeness he shared with many of his family members and the likes of Bokuto Koutarou, it had taken a while for them to ease their way into his life. But there was something about Sawamura Daichi that pulled Kuroo towards him, that made him poke and prod at the slightly younger teen in a way Kuroo usually reserved for close friends. He knew this feeling was shared amongst many of his family members so he didn’t think about it too much and enjoyed the small moments he could get with Sawamura.

Until those small moments weren’t enough and Kuroo became greedy for more. He wanted Sawamura’s full attention on him, not divided to his troublesome coven members or that mischievous Sugawara. But most of all Kuroo wanted to be alone with Sawamura even though he knew that was an impossibility.

An impossibility made into a challenge by Sawamura Daichi himself, who seemed to feel the same conflicting emotions bubbling up inside of him despite how irritated he pretended to be by Kuroo in public. Even then the irritation was always softened, there was none of the lecturing or shouted orders he gave to the members of his family who acted up more than others. Kuroo had been half surprised, half thrilled when Sawamura had slipped a note into Kuroo’s pocket. A challenging grin on his handsome face that almost completely hid the vulnerability below it. It was that vulnerability that made Kuroo take the chance and meet up with Sawamura without either of their coven members present.

It could have gone disastrously and Kuroo knew each secret meeting was poking at a slumbering dragon. Sooner or later something would happen. The best of the worst would be getting caught by one of the older coven members in their families, the worst would being caught by a coven member of a different family. Kuroo and Sawamura were the next in line, the future of their families rested upon their shoulders. They were not just gambling with their own safety but the safety of everyone they cared about and held dear to them.

Young witches were a wellspring of power and while human sacrifices and bloodletting weren’t as popular as they were centuries ago, and it had always been more widespread in the western side of the hemisphere, it still happened. Unclaimed witches disappeared regular enough for Kuroo to know better than to take such a risk.

Kuroo reminded himself of that everytime the familiar scrawl of writing would appear on the broken shard of mirror. It was the way Sawamura and Kuroo communicated, the only way they could do it without being spied on though neither gave away important information or something that could be used against themselves or each other. Even their meeting places were kept in code.

Kuroo told himself to deny Sawamura, they both knew how dangerous their actions were. They also had been warned that feelings like the ones that were twisting inside of them could develop. Generations ago the two covens had entered into a bloodpact that gave them added strength in a time of great turmoil. The pact had dissipated over the years, felt only in the heads of the family the strongest thought there was a strong comrade shared between the families even at their first meeting.

Lingering blood magic left from generations before Kuroo was a good excuse to ignore what he felt for Sawamura, but then the other teen smiled at him or laughed at one of his ridiculous jokes and he admitted he was far too smitten. Too far gone for any hope. Sawamura had the ability to completely crush Kuroo but despite that, Kuroo trusted the surprisingly cunning teen.

Conflicting emotions warred inside of Kuroo as he made his way towards their meeting spot. They changed it often, never wanting anything to become a routine that someone else could memorize and use against them. It was another reason Kuroo should not be doing this, but then he spotted the shorter form of Sawamura Daichi half hidden by shadows and all those twists and jagged edges inside of Kuroo smoothed out the closer her stepped to Sawamura.

“Oh ho ho? Was someone eager to meet?” Kuroo asked in a hushed voice. He was fifteen minutes early but no matter how early Kuroo came, Sawamura was always waiting.

Sawamura pulled Kuroo further into the shadow, his magic brushed against Kuroo. It felt soft and warm, like feathers against his skin though he was covered from the top of his head down to his toes. The Karasuno Coven had the very helpful ability to manipulate shadows. Kuroo didn’t know the extent of those powers, if it differed between family members, but he knew he was partially jealous. Mostly he was thankful for Sawamura’s ability that kept them hidden and protected, especially when these secret meetings left them a bit too distracted to keep an eye out for attackers.

“Did you grow taller?” Sawamura asked, voice disgruntled and a deeper pitch than Kuroo remembered. It made him shiver as he stepped closer, judged the growing distance between their faces and let out a cackling laugh that he tried to keep on the quieter side.

“Maybe you’re shrinking.” Kuroo suggested with a smirk that he knew Sawamura equal parts hated and loved, though he mostly hated how much he loved it.

That was apart of the family ability the Nekoma Coven shared. Each Coven had their own, though most tended to keep it as secret as they could. Kuroo had heard many guesses about the Nekoma family trait and all were a little correct. It differed for each member but Kuroo’s was a combination that allowed him to gave a small insight into the future. He could read emotions as if they were spelled out above a person head but more importantly, he could read intentions. He could see how a person felt and what they planned to do with those emotions.

It was why Kuroo wasn’t all that surprised when Sawamura used his shadow manipulation to open a hole beneath Kuroo’s feet that swallowed him down until he was on eye-level with Sawamura. Sawamura could have made Kuroo shorter than he was, his grasp on his magic was amazing but he kept them even. It was this equality that made Kuroo grin and lean closer to Sawamura, not at all miffed by the missing height because it made kissing Sawamura all that much easier.

Kissing Sawamura was quickly becoming one of Kuroo’s favorite things to do. It was a rather new development, though they had both harbored crushes on each other for years and the secret meetings had started over a year ago. Kuroo had been content with waiting for Sawamura to make the first move, if that is what he decided to do. Kuroo felt like his ability was a bit of a cheat, he knew Sawamura liked Kuroo the same moment Sawamura himself realized he liked Kuroo despite countless denials.

Sawamura’s fingers find themselves underneath Kuroo’s knit cap, curling against the long strands there that the hat was purposefully hiding. Kuroo can’t help the grin that spreads across his lips as he kisses Sawamura, knowing how much the other teen loves Kuroo’s hair is a great source of amusement for him. Sawamura pulls warningly on Kuroo’s hair, kisses him a little deeper, and if he’s trying to keep Kuroo to stop smirking than he’s doing a poor job of it.

There’s a nagging feeling at the back of Kuroo’s mind that he can’t truly get rid of, even when he manages to find a way up Sawamura’s many layers to press cold fingers against warm skin. He swallows the disgruntled and surprised noise Sawamura makes and even as his grin widens, he feels the each piece of sand slipping through the hourglass.

“Daichi,” Kuroo says, far more breathy than he would have liked but Sawamura is flushed and breathing hard also so he doesn’t feel too embarrassed.

“I know.” Sawamura’s mouth dips into a frown even as he brushes his nose against Kuroo’s.

Kuroo can feel the tug in his chest and against his own magic. They both know their time together is coming to a close. The rise of a new head of family is usually kept secret amongst each coven though most like waiting until the next in line is in their twenties before they fully stepped into the role. Nekoma liked to wait until the late twenties but Karasuno had been hit a lot harder than Nekoma. Sawamura would most likely step up as the head of his family after his eighteenth birthday. It was October, which meant there was only a few short months until the new year when Sawamura would have his families fate in his hands.

Kuroo entwined his fingers into those hands now, felt how capable they were in the same instance acknowledging how young Sawamura was. It was what led Sawamura to this almost out of character rebellion. He had wanted something that was completely his, something he didn’t have to share with his coven. He wanted to be irresponsible before he could no longer afford it.

Sawamura released Kuroo from his shadows hold, letting Kuroo gain the ten or so centimeters he now had on him. Even with the extra height Sawamura never seemed small in comparison. He was broad, strong in mind and body. Karasuno was lucky to have him. Kuroo knew he was lucky to, even for the short time they had together.

“We could run away?” Kuroo suggested but both of them knew he wasn’t serious. There was obligation to their covens, yes. Responsibility sat heavily upon their shoulders but there was a deep sense of love and comfort amongst them too. Kuroo could no more betray his family than Sawamura could.

“We would have to take our families with us and that would be a pain.” Sawamura grinned but Kuroo could see how tired the other teen was already. How he had a looming future that was so close with shoes that seemed far too large to fill.

Kuroo cupped Sawamura’s face, he always thought that Sawamura was handsome and he knew he’d be the type to only get better looking as he aged. Their shared nights to sneaking off and kissing in the shadows was coming to a close but Kuroo knew he’d be there to see Sawamura grow into the position he was thrusted in far too early. Kuroo looked forward to seeing the soft laugh lines appear and the silver that would look unfairly good scattered amongst the short black hair.

“I’ll always have the mirror.” Kuroo reminded Sawamura, who nodded. His eyes were dark and always so full of emotion.

Kuroo can see those emotions, knows that when Sawamura steps away that night it’ll be for good and it breaks his heart in a way he wasn’t expecting. He swallows down that pain, tells himself it’s just apart of the bloodpact made centuries ago but it doesn’t stop the frantic beating of his heart as he pulls back and Sawamura lets him.

Kuroo doesn’t kiss Sawamura once more like he wants to, like they both want to because he knows a clean break is something they both need. These stolen moments were nothing either expected and more than they could have ever wished for but it needed to end. They had too many responsibilities to their families to continue doing something so unsafe and rash.

Even then Kuroo knew Sawamura would follow him home, hidden amongst the shadows but always present until Kuroo was safely inside his families home.

#my writing #kurodai #Kuroo Tetsurou #sawamura daichi #haikyuu!!#haikyuu

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legrandepapillon · 8 months ago

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Hi! I saw you are taking prompts for Wyllsrarion fluff!

Such a shame there is a lack of content compared to other Astarion pairings (i.e. with Gale or Durge).

Prompt fluff ideas, first kiss where Astarion realizes the depth of his feelings for Wyll. Or Astarion confessions to Wyll. His realization.

Wyll playing with Astarion's hair.

Wyll letting Astarion see himself through Wyll's eyes via tadpole and feeling how much Wyll loves him.

Astarion being fiercely protective of Wyll which may or may not surprise him (depends how early it is in relationship)

Since your say you are fine with NSFW then by all means go for it, I won't say know to Wyllsrarion spice. But it's also not entirely necessary because their fluff is just *chef kiss*

Asking anonymously because I am bashful...

Rating: T

hi anon, thanks for all the prompts you gave me!! i chose to use this one to respond to your ask, but i still put the others in my requests so keep your eyes peeled for those. one of them might be the spice you were looking for 👀

i think there’s something super intimate in hair care/trusting someone else with your hair care and i wanted to explore that here. i’m thinking maybe a part 2 to this where astarion tries to figure out wyll’s hair care & it goes disastrously bc i can't reconcile a universe where astarion is good at doing wyll's hair lol

Wyll had noticed that vulnerability did not come easy to the pale vampire in their party. He could hardly blame him for the matter either; after two-hundred years spent being ground into nothing by another man’s heel, he might begin to recoil at the idea of showing any weakness himself. Hells, it’d only taken seven with Mizora’s claws in his soul for him to begin to tremble at the thought of anyone seeing him at his most vulnerable in the same humiliating ways she had.

It was probably easier for their pale companion to lean into the more bloodthirsty, power hungry nature expected of a vampire spawn. To cast aside fickle things like sensitivity or emotion or fragility. He kept every single of his defenses up, the tripwires and traps in conversations with him deterring most of the others from prying down to the white meat of who he is. If it could be even remotely related to the feeling of helplessness, he would never want it associated with himself. Better to put on the armor of his more vicious traits, leave some of the softer stuff tucked in a well-armed chest at the back of his mind.

And yet.

Yet he obviously had never bargained to meet anyone just as dexterous and twice as charming. In all his efforts of keeping others out with his sharp tongue and sharp blades and well-placed traps, he’d never accounted for the possibility that there might be someone out there able to parry each strike and disarm every obstruction. Wyll could tell he had Astarion on the back foot more often than not. And at first the man had scratched and kicked and hissed at the idea of being seen and surreptitiously cared for. Of someone seeing all of his breaks and tears and taking the time to mend them rather than grinding salt into the wounds. It was truly a sight, watching as he braced himself for impact and then immediately melted against tender touch. He marvels at it.

A quarter way through their journey, surrounded by the glowing unfamiliar flora of the Underdark, and Wyll has already weaseled his way past so many of those traps and alarms. He hasn’t quite gotten Astarion to trust him, but it’s a very near thing now.

It shows in the way he slips into his tent every night, back from his hunts for more duergar and drow blood. He would half-stumble past the flaps of Wyll’s tent, illuminated in the shadows only by the odd glow of the vegetation surrounding their camp. Prop himself up awkwardly across the tent until the warlock arranged himself in a way that’s satisfactory to him. Wyll would always be ready for him—taking Astarion’s head on his lap, and placing one of the trashy adventuring novels they shared in his hands. The elf would read aloud from their novel, sniping at the dialogue and rolling his eyes at the prose wherever he desired whilst Wyll tended to the night routine for those rakish silvery curls of his.

All of it done with hardly a word these days, a tradition started after Astarion had gotten too drunk on a bear and kept for the sake of companionship. For the sake of having someone that understands intrinsically the fears of being vulnerable, the breath of a monster on your neck at each waking move, the exhaustion of being strong and the desire to be weak for a while.

It wasn’t trust, but it was as close to it as he could get.

Wyll begins rummaging through the small pouch of items Astarion keeps for his personal hygiene whilst the vampire flips through to the page they’d left off on. He daren’t bother with the intricate routine of the man’s morning care, the scrunching and twisting and styling a bit beyond his own proficiency. But he knows this act well enough, separating rows of hair gently with a comb and moisturizing both scalp and curls in a pattern. He does it himself, every two ten days—sometimes four, if he was too caught up with adventuring to tend to it sooner. His own hair is wild at the roots now, the fresh new growth peeking out from formerly tidy canerows. Since Mizora had given him his horns and claws, he’d been too afraid of attempting to navigate re-braiding with the foreign appendages. The thought of undoing the style, only to be stuck fighting with his hair in his face because he couldn’t redo it kept him off the task. Perhaps he’d be vulnerable enough to ask Karlach, when they got her touch fixed. Or maybe teach Astarion, so that their nightly routine could be reciprocated every now and then.

Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone treat him as tenderly as he does them?

Surfacing with Astarion’s cream and comb, Wyll readjusts the older man’s head in his lap before starting on his work. Parting the row of hair closest to his ear, before dabbing some of the moisturizer onto his scalp and then combing it through his curls. He’d once offered up his oils, the first time Astarion had run out of conditioner and the next merchant was another four-days trek back. But he remembers the way the vampire had recoiled—first at the genuine gesture of kindness, and then at the reality of it. He’d batted off the offer by insisting Wyll’s oils would only make his hair greasy and unattractive, but had managed to thank him anyways.

That had been before their little routine. Had he known then what he knows now, he might not have been so put out by the clear dismissal of help.

Another row, more of the conditioner. When he combs through the curls, he marvels at how they immediately shrink back into their perfect shape. It was the first thing he’d noticed about him, back at the grove. The sunlight that filtered through the halo of his silvery locks, the way they seemed to fall into place no matter which way the elf shook his head. Well-coifed and obviously tenderly cared for, he’d been utterly transfixed. Perhaps obviously so, with the way Shadowheart had snorted at his mention of it and Gale had given him one of those ‘I’m-going-to-find-out-what-you’re-up-to’ stares. There’d been no ulterior motive, of course.

Except for maybe this.

“Wyll, I can’t believe you read this drivel, darling,” Astarion complains, gently tugging him from his thoughts. Wyll doesn’t take his eyes off of his task, but he does make a noise to inform the other man he’s listening. “The young maiden hurried to cover her perfectly hairless body, squeezing her arms across her ample bosom. It did naught to help maintain her chastity though, as her full breasts spilled over her clutched arms. I mean, really. Talk about an author’s thinly veiled fetishes.”

“Ah, The Lusty Luskan Lordess,” he responds, comb delicately parting one section of Astarion’s hair so that his finger can swipe a bit more conditioner along his scalp. “I didn’t pick that one, remember? You stole it from that Zhents pack back at their hideout.”

“I did?” Astarion flips the cover to reveal the front art. It’s a rather lewd painting of a young woman, half-dressed in finery and throwing herself at a tall, broad and beastly mercenary come to steal from her tower. The vampire makes a snort of acknowledgement after a moment. “So I did. I thought the mercenary looked disturbingly like Halsin, you know.”

Wyll’s hand stills briefly in Astarion’s head, confusion written expressly over his youthful features. He scrunches his nose. “You wanted to read smut about Halsin?”

“No. I wanted us to read smut about Halsin. I thought it would be terribly funny,” Astarion lowers the book to get a good look at the other man—though upside down—and furrows his brow. “Don’t stop. That felt nice.”

“Your wish is my command, Lordess,” Wyll chuckles, before returning back to the small puddle of curls splayed in his lap. “Skip the smut if it bothers you so much, I want to know what her father will do now that he knows someone’s found her tower.”

“Skip the smut? And disgrace the artistic integrity of whatever pervert wrote this garbage? Absolutely not! We’ll read every bit of the smut, and I’ll add footnotes to correct it into something more realistic.”

“As if you’re the expert on sex,” snorts Wyll, walking face first into one of those many aforementioned conversational traps that Astarion had laid. The vampire stiffens in his hold a bit, and out of courtesy he withdraws his hands from his hair. It’s times like this, moments of levity followed by the crushing reminders about reality, that Wyll wishes they could’ve met in one of their fairytale books. With no Vampire Lord or Cambion Mistress to answer to, he wonders how their story might’ve gone. Would he have been able to sweep Astarion delicately off of his feet and off into the sunset? Would Astarion have allowed him to?

He laments how he’ll never know, and then puts those thoughts aside himself. Astarion is not the only one with a tightly guarded chest of fears and dreams and desires that he kept away from the rest of the world, hidden to where nobody—not even the devil that lives in his eye—could ever see it.

“After two hundred years, dear, I quite think I am,” Astarion hisses. Fair enough; Wyll had perhaps earned that one. The punishment for his misstep is not so bad, though. There’s a marked tension in the words of the man as he reads through the next line, and he lays stock still in Wyll’s lap. Curls half-moisturized by now, the damp bits chilling a spot on Wyll’s camp clothes. But he doesn’t get up and storm out, like he might’ve done in the early weeks of their odd arrangement. Nor does he curse the man to the planes of Avernus and back. Small mercies and little victories, the younger man takes what he can get and returns to his task.

Astarion does wind up skipping the smut scenes, grumbling that even he couldn’t wade through all that hogshit on a full stomach. Wyll isn’t perturbed either way, parting and moisturizing in methodical turns. They manage to finish two more chapters before his fingers half-abandon their task to merely run through the soft, silvery curls. Whether to placate Astarion or soothe himself is unknown, but it certainly does make him feel a bit calmer. He leans back against his tent, careful not to put too much weight on the precarious fabric. But with the gentle droning of Astarion’s voice and the steady, repeated motions of carding through his hair, Wyll feels like he could just doze off right there. His misstep in conversation goes all but forgotten as his eyelids get heavy, his ministrations against the vampire’s scalp slowed to a syrupy pace.

It isn’t until he feels Astarion move that he jerks back to alertness, adding a hurried, “I wasn’t asleep!” to make sure Astarion didn’t think his presence was at all boring or exhausting. The last thing he’d want is for these nightly rendezvous to come to an abrupt conclusion because he was rude enough to doze off in the middle of them.

“Ah-hm, that’s very convincing, sweetling,” Astarion mocks, before sitting up to run his fingers through his own hair. They come back slightly shiny with the conditioner, but even if Wyll fell asleep with a quarter left to do, the vampire seems satisfied enough with his work. “Come now. Before you wind up with a crick on your neck.”

He tries to protest, even as Astarion is already helping to arrange him into his bedroll. “I wasn’t done with your—”

��It’s fine, Wyll. More than fine. You did wonderfully; cut my morning routine in half, practically,” Astarion placates, though they both know he’s lying through his teeth. No matter whether he and Wyll finished their little night tradition, Astarion always took the same amount of time in his tent every morning. Gale had a running bet with the others on whether he was actually that self-conscious about his appearance or if he did it just because he knew Lae’zel preferred to get moving as quickly as possible.

Whether he’s being fed platitudes or not, Wyll gives him a warm half-smile. Astarion arranges the thin blanket of his bedroll around him in turn in order to give him a more comfortable rest. Their routine wraps up here the same every night. With Astarion’s hair seen to, and Wyll’s adventure romance novels read, company kept so that the others vulnerabilities would remain safe from the rest another day… the end of the evening would creep upon them.

Wyll never fully remembers the moments between consciousness—Astarion’s head in his lap and lily lilt of his tone reading the novel droning on—and unconscious—waking up drenched a cold sweat to an empty tent, the leftover laughter of Mizora chilling him down to the bone. How he gets from one point to the other. Sometimes he’ll doze off still in his padded armor and awake in his camp clothes. Once even fell asleep across the tent, and woke up tucked sweetly into his bedroll. Only faint memories of silver curls illuminated into a glowing halo by moonlight, and crimson eyes that track forlornly over his form.

And every night, Wyll would sleepily shoot out one hand to clutch at his companions’. Delicately wrap his warm digits around that frail death-cold wrist and give one half-hearted tug. His voice, laden with both exhaustion and deep yearning, he asks, “Astarion? Stay with me?”

And every night, Astarion would purse his lips into a line. As if he’s almost considering it for a moment. As if perhaps rummaging for a key to one of his chests that he’d long tossed aside, some sort of magic word that could make Wyll understand why he dances so hesitantly in and out of their… this… whatever it was.

“Perhaps when we finish the book,” he says, like he does always, patting Wyll’s hand gently. “Go to sleep—you need more of it than I do.”

“Goodnight, Astarion,” Wyll responds, already half there, letting his head loll to the side and eyes flutter closed.

The next evening, when he approaches his tent at camp, a fresh book awaits him… and a new tin of the conditioning cream. They hadn’t quite finished the Lusty Lordess, with a handful more chapters before she and her mercenary were able to achieve their happy ending. But there’s a new book for them to start all the same, the last one probably long-discarded between the days’ events.

It isn’t a ‘no’. Just a ‘not yet’. Wyll sighs and settles down on his bedroll to wait for Astarion to come to him. It’ll hardly be while there are still others awake, able to see him slip in and out of the other man’s temporary lodgings. But he knows that’ll it come, and neither of them will mention the fresh start to a book when one still went unfinished between them.

It seems there’s a few more traps he’d have to disarm before he could reach the man behind them. No matter to it; Wyll is a patient, tenacious sort of fellow.

#boy do i have queues for you #astarion ancunin #wyll ravengard #wyllstarion: the horns do look dashing on him; almost anything does…#baldur's gate 3 #drabble #bloodpact: so much shadow around us #bg3 fanfic prompt #bg3 fanfiction #the blade of frontiers!: wyll ravengard #time to kill: astarion ancunín #well done soldier!: prompt fill #bg3 #wyll x astarion #astarion x wyll #wyllstarion #bloodpact

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legrandepapillon · 27 days ago

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Wyll and Astarion having a friendly sparring match post-game to relive the glory days. Whether it ends soft or steamy is up to you!

Rating: E

i am SO sorry for the amount of time it took me to fill this, life & writer's block were jumping me. however i DID have a lot of fun writing this so thank you for the prompt!

should’ve known i’d pick steamy ofc. also something about the idea of Flaming Fist Blaze Wyll makes me twirl my hair & kick my legs

HC that Wyll is the type of commander to say “Please, Mr. Ravengard was my father, call me Wyll” to the starry-eyed recruits & fan their crush on him while Astaron rolls his eyes

elements of dom/sub (service top/pleasure dom wyll, bratty sub/power bottom astarion), rough sex, & a little blood play to be found here. also this is my first time writing explicit wyllstarion smut start to finish.

There were many sounds to be heard throughout the Flaming Fist stronghold throughout any given day, but the loudest tended to emanate from the training quarters smack in the center of the grounds. Wooden weapons against straw dummies, the bodies of fresh recruits hitting the hard leather during a bit of physical demonstration… and the groans of pain from said demonstrations that often left them battered and bruised. It was a consistent and profuse cacophony of ear-splitting noise in the Fist recruitment hall these days. Young women and men flocked to the ranks of the command, for once eager to ladder climb in the name of glory as opposed to gold; most of them starry-eyed and hopeful at the idea of laying on eyes on the Blaze Wyll Ravengard—Hero of Baldur’s Gate, former Blade of Frontiers, and the future Duke of the city.

During the day, under the scorching sun in the midst of training the city’s future militia, it could become loud enough to deafen. But at night with the moon high in the sky and only torch-light illuminating the abandoned grounds, the only sound was that of two men lost in their own world. A pair of old adventurers, skills still sharp from their well-formed routine of friendly sparring.

In a dirt ring outdoors where most recruits met a rather painful tumble to the hands of their more capable counterparts, Astarion and Wyll circle each other listlessly. One armed with a pair of glinting twin daggers, the other with the steel of his rapier pointed towards the dirt. Though their weapons are real and their blades sharp, neither have the intent to hurt each other.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this, Blade? I don’t exactly know how to play nice—haven’t you figured that out yet?” mocks Astarion, the barest hint of amusement in his voice while he dons a rather fake growl of threat. Wyll rolls his eyes in response, playing at being offended by the implication.

“I’m not worried about you playing nice, Astarion,” he shrugs. “Fight fair or fight dirty, either way I’ll win.”

The idea that he’d ever fight fair is almost as laughable as the idea that he’d fight bloodlessly had been in the beginning. Perhaps that would change with time, too.

Oh, and all the time it had taken. To learn the self-control necessary not to provide a killing blow. But he was rather amused with how well it honed his reflexes; fixing himself to respond defensively without hurting his counterpart surprisingly made for sharper instincts. He recalls a time long ago, back at a druidic grove filled with refugees from Elturel on the cusp of being thrown to the wolves. In the brief moments of levity where he witnessed the tiefling elders attempting to teach their little ones to play. The children were always too high-strung to remember that they had claws and horns and that they couldn’t simply wrestle without also keeping a bit of mindfulness. At the time, he’d merely looked on with vague disinterest while his group meandered through the grove trying to parse through the budding tensions. But he’d been oddly reminiscent of the children at the beginning of this; eager to pounce and have a romp around in the grass, but fearful of hurting someone. Of hurting Wyll.

Back then, Astarion had been accustomed only to fighting for survival. The concept of it being for fun—to pass time and clear his thoughts—was foreign to him.

Now? He has the presence of mind and prowess of some of those elders. He both knows the luxuries of friendly sparring without his life being at risk, and the thrills of toeing the line anyways.

Because that's what this is about in the end, isn’t it? The thrill? The excitement?

The domesticity of life in the Gate—life as the fiancé to Blaze Wyll Ravengard—though comfortable, was often mundane. This brought excitement. Their game, with more layers than he could ever voice, kept the spark alive.

“You’re overthinking again,” announces Wyll, making a sudden movement to the left to snap him back to the present. Astarion’s hand jerks out to cover his right side intuitively, ensuring he doesn’t provide the opening to his partner while he scans for one of his own.

“And you’re talking to me like one of your recruits, again,” he retorts. He finds his opening quicker than expected, lunging for a jab towards the younger man’s left flank. The flat of his blade meets empty air by only a half-second, Wyll dancing elegantly out of the way. He recovers quickly before he can sacrifice his advantage, pressing the offense with another swipe towards his chest with the other hand. The tip of the dagger barely scratches the edge of Wyll’s shoulder as he moves backwards, dodging before finding his own opening towards Astarion’s stomach. The flat of his rapier smacks his partner against his navel, only slightly catching the thick fabric of his tunic.

“Oh, c’mon, Astarion. You can be quicker than that,” taunts the former warlock with an airy laugh. And though the flickers of hubris might be unattractive to anyone else, his sparring partner can’t help but find it painfully arousing. He grins at him sharply before doing just that, light-feet taking him out of range from his rapier two beats before the next slash.

Both of them are still dexterous and well-trained. Years of fighting for survival on both ends has made their timing top notch, months of sparring for fun have made their reflexes impeccable. Each jab of the rapier is met with a carefully timed parry from a dagger, each riposte from a blade recovered smoothly by dancers’ feet. It’s like this more often than not; a test of endurance over brutality. Wyll is graceful like a dancer, Astarion more comparable to a feline, but they both have the finesse required to take the viciousness out of it.

Like a well-choreographed waltz, they feint and parry and slash with rhythm. From adagio to allegro, the tempo of their moves goes from tenuous and careful to eager and energetic. Stamina will provide the winner of their game, not mightiness.

And… alright. There are other things to be gained from this. Whenever there’s a vampire spawn involved, there could hardly be any expectation there wouldn’t be some sort of ulterior motive. If he gets to see Wyll in action similar to the heady excitement of their glory days, if he gets enough noble eye candy to accompany some of his more lascivious fantasies then… well, as they say, birds and stones.

Astarion always especially admires, in these moments stolen away from polite society, the glimmers of Wyll’s arrogance. Of course, the Blade turned Blaze tried so desperately to remain humble in light of becoming a Hero and being given his own command. I have to set an example, he insisted, weighed down by his own righteousness. We need protectors for this city that desire honor, not glory.

But bad an influence as he was, Astarion can’t help but admire the confidence in each move when he fights. His strikes are unsparing, his parries precise and he knows it. No lack of magic could make him a less admirable fighter, his sword arm had not gotten lazy and his feet had not turned to stones. Wyll was just as graceful now without infernal power pumping through his veins as he was the day they met, jumping down from that rock and spitting charming one-liners—most importantly, he didn’t need to say it for the other man to know.

It didn’t help any how attractive he could be like this, either. The sweat sticking his cotton tunic to his broad chest, toned muscles flexing with effort, crimson eye glistening with his excitement and lips tugged into a cocky smile. The way the moonlight illuminated deep russet toned flesh, making him have an almost ocean blue hue in some places. And his laughter, deep and warm like the fleeting rays of sun… Astarion could fall all over again, time and time again, just from this.

He’s so lost in his admiration he miscalculates a dodge, loses his footing and gives Wyll the ability to press his offense. The danger in his right hand is knocked abruptly into the dirt, leaving him with the one blade to fight with. His left hand is the weaker one, better for attacking rather than defending, and he knows well the consequences of being caught in such a state.

Best to switch tactics, and hope the element of surprise regains the upper hand. Beautiful man or else wise, Astarion has always been a sore loser.

Tossing his blade he goes in for a tackle, and both men go tumbling to the dirt. He bargains correctly on taking Wyll by surprise; his rapier slips from his fingers as he goes down, a last-ditch effort not to accidentally stab either of them. There’s a grunt from the air being knocked out of him, but he recovers quickly. He hooks an arm beneath Astarion’s to try to maneuver himself on top, which only entices the reaction of Astarion wrapping his legs around his waist to try to throw himself back to advantage.

“Why can’t you ever fight honorably?” complains Wyll as they struggle, during one brief moment where he finds himself pinned face-down in the dirt. He bucks like a wild horse to get his opponent off of him, sending the both of them scrambling.

“Well, I thought you’d given me permission for a little rough play,” Astarion snipes back, before lunging back into the fray. There’s at least laughter at that, despite the struggle between them for advantage.

They grapple in this way for a while, faces inching closer to each other’s and hands groping desperately for leverage. It isn’t until Astarion finds himself on his back, wrists pinned to the dirt and knee in his hip that he finally gives up. It didn’t always end this way; sometimes he won, leaving Wyll with a bruised lip or ego or both. But the despair of defeat was always followed by the thrill of proximity whenever it did—their blood rushing with adrenaline, their faces inches apart, their breathing labored, and their bodies pressed so close it’s a wonder there’s any space to be found between them at all.

“Pinfall. Call it,” Wyll grins, his grip loose but firm on Astarion’s pale wrists. The man jerks his head against the dirt, looking away from that crimson eye swimming in obsidian—trying to maintain an inch of his dignity. Wyll’s other knee presses against his thigh. “Oh, don’t be a dirty fighter and a sore loser. Call it, Astarion.”

He looks back up at him. Tongue darts out to wet his dry lips. He doesn’t acquiesce; he almost never does when he loses. He does surge up to capture Wyll’s lips, kissing him hot and filthy in distraction. The man’s grip goes completely lax almost immediately, hands leaving his wrists so one can plant itself against Astarion’s cheek sweetly. The vampire isn’t looking for sweetness though. He’s miffed by his loss and entranced by his lover, needing something equally as thrilling as their combat to put him thoroughly in his place.

Wyll was the only one that could do that, after all. Put him in his place, make him heel. He’d do it biting and kicking and screaming but for Wyll he’d do it, at least.

Fangs nick at full lips in the kiss, the drops of blood blowing his pupils full with an insatiable hunger of all varieties. His partner isn’t at all perturbed by it either, pressing in with his hips with eager excitement at the sensation. It’s just this for a few breathless minutes, Wyll’s hand against his face and Astarion’s tongue lapping at the teasing drops of blood that leak from his lips. Mouths moving together passionately, seeking something out of this that neither of them could put words to.

It could be this for the rest of the night, if either of them wanted. Their game didn’t always have to end a certain way. Wyll would kiss him, or he would kiss Wyll, and that could be that. But Astarion wants more than this. He wants to be wrangled into his place, the unrepentant vampire spawn and his dogmatic monster hunter.

When Wyll pulls away from the kiss, he mouths at Astarion’s neck and eases his knee from the older man’s hip to hook under his thigh. He arches into the kisses in response, tilting his head so that he could feel the warmth of Wyll’s lips against more of skin, welcoming the man to have more of him. In the light of day Blaze Ravengard would never be caught so unhinged, but here in the moonlit training grounds he could be ravenous and devour his lover with no hesitation.

Cool, ever-chilled hands roam up the spine of the younger man and push him in closer—seeking all that too-hot body warmth Wyll had since he’d been turned infernal. His hips rock upwards and the other warm hand pins them to the ground firmly.

“Ah, ah,” breathes Wyll against his neck, plumes of warm air coming hot against his collarbone. “Be patient.”

“Screw patience.”

“You could always,” his teeth drag playfully over Astarion’s neck, almost directly opposite to the scars on the other side. The full body shudder that rakes through the other man makes him chuckle. “call the pinfall.”

The idea is tantalizing. It was cause and effect, this thing between them. Push and pull, give and take. A behavioral lesson, Wyll had once joked, panting hard and covered in a thin sheen of post-coital sweat. Astarion fought so hard against showing any signs of weakness or vulnerability, all down to the very act of submitting when he was beaten. He’d fought every day for two hundred years, been broken in every way imaginable but his spirit. And there’d been many times where he’d been able to acquiesce to the feeling of being broken under the thumb of Cazador, to admit that there was nothing anyone could ever do to escape him. That he was his spawn, likely for the rest of his miserable unlife, and that would be that. But he still snarked and schemed and stole—stole moments of freedom, moments of peace, moments of contrition and resistance.

He played the part of a mewling, sniveling subservient pet but never truly felt it. He never bowed, not really. Not without the sharp dig of his own claws in his fist.

Wyll doesn’t expect a year to change that about him, and that’s the beautiful part of it. But Astarion could, sometimes, truly give up his own control. Every so often he could go lax, and lower his eyelids, and admit that Wyll has him. In every way that matters and some of the ways that don’t, too. He could be vulnerable and weak. Every so often, for this man, he’d even want to.

He could call the pinfall, and Wyll could praise him for being such a good boy, and kiss him sweetly. Settle himself between his thighs and truly worship him.

Tonight is not that night, however. They have the rest of Wyll’s life for Astarion to show complacency, but right now he wants to be shown why Wyll deserves it. He pulls back his lips to reveal his sharp canines, pins the other man with a challenging stare and grins like a feral animal. Wyll’s good eye blows wide and Astarion watches the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. The act of defiance is not met violently, except for the way he takes his mouth against his and conquers.

Wyll’s hand, firm and devout, moves from the grip on his hip to tug the loose fabric of his tunic up. Warm heat spreads through Astarion’s belly at the feel of his palm right there on his chilled flesh. And Astarion arches even at that, pathetic as it may be. The muscles in his abdomen seize, anticipatory with how close his lover could be where he wants him. A thumb hovers over his navel, and he wishes that the man would travel straight south and put those magnificent fingers to better use. But Wyll just kisses; desperately, eagerly, domineering and yet ever kind.

When his mouth pulls away Astarion hisses, but is quickly placated with a kiss to his jawline. Warm soft lips place kisses ever where they can; his cheek, the corner of his mouth, the space where his ears meet his jaw, the slope of his ears and the tips of them too. He’s practically reverent, the heady passion with which he kisses outweighed by the floating sensation each brings with it.

“I love you like this, you know?” Wyll says into his ear, simple and warm. “I love it when you’re difficult.”

“You’re a fool,” Astarion pants in response, because doesn’t that just sound so inane and ridiculous and erotic. His hips jerk forward against the other man again, the tent in his pants catching at Wyll’s thigh. They both groan at the contact.

“Your fool,” responds Wyll easily, kissing down to his neck. “Your sweet fool, my darling star, and only yours.”

Astarion silences him by slipping a hand in his trousers, palming at his cock through his small clothes. An overt act of defiance, pushing back against every instinct that shouts at him to submit. Wyll’s sucks air in through his teeth sharply and comes to terms that there are battles that he won’t be given but must fight. A good lesson for a man fresh out of magic and learning survival by his own might.

And then there’s a palm on his throat, pressing his head back into the dirt. Carefully manicured claws dig just in the spot beneath his jawline, not deep enough to hurt but to enforce the idea of who won. Who is stronger, faster, better… who’s in control.

“You can be sweeter than that; gentler,” he whispers, and it carries the weight it needs to. Astarion shivers at the command, and the reminder cows him into submission far earlier than he’d like. He eases his groping, switches to a more polite massage and arcs with a whine beneath his monster hunter. It is frankly terrifying, how easy it is for this man to veer him back towards obedience. “Good boy.”

Another hiss, this time as the vampire scrambles to find his footing again. He arches his hips upwards, bucks like the pinned, cornered, feral animal he’s supposed to be rather than the domesticated one he’s becoming. Refuses to give his lover the satisfaction so easily, and without uttering a syllable manages to demand exactly what he wants. Wyll huffs a bit of laughter, muttering something about him being endearingly insolent. And then their lips are on each other again, the younger man’s hot pink tongue slipping into Astarion's mouth. He moans into the wet kiss, his hand going lax on Wyll’s dick and his other clawing at the man’s back desperately. Pressing him closer, trying to eliminate the little space between their bodies.

Just as sweetly and passionately as he kisses, Wyll touches. His hand is warm and gentle as it roams over Astarion’s abdomen, bunching the fabric of his tunic on his wrist and sliding upwards until he can shirk his arms out of it. They have to pull away to discard the offending clothing, tossing it haphazardly a few feet away in the dirt. In the moment, neither vampire nor his partner can pay credence to the fine Amnian silks it’s made of or how many hours he’d sunk into designing it. It might as well be a soiled handkerchief, the way it crumples on the dirt training grounds.

Broad hands travel planes of milky white skin, gleaming beneath the moonlight. Index and thumb gently massage a pert pink nipple, causing Astarion to moan again into the kiss. The hand that’s been resting on his throat squeezes lightly, not hard enough to be punishing like earlier but just a gentle reminder of its presence. A reverent thumb swipes along his jawline, the rest of those calloused digits pulling him deeper into the kiss.

And still Astarion’s hand strokes, touches, feels. Without permission, but that seems to be a battle that Wyll is okay with losing tonight. His hips rock forward into the rhythm of it, letting long lithe experienced digits grope him through the fabric of his small clothes. They remain this way for long minutes, until Astarion gives a needy whine and starts to maneuver around the cotton of Wyll’s underwear.

Wyll comes back to the game then, removing his hand from his throat to grab his wrist and pin it to the ground. He settles up on his haunches between Astarion’s legs, gives him a look of warning.

His voice is velvet smooth when he speaks, a sharp contrast to the vague threat he wraps around the words. “Do you want to get off tonight?”

“What in the hells kind of stupid question is that—”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Of course—”

“Then stay,” he commands, before reaching for the hem of Astarion’s trousers. There’s a sternness to his voice that actually snaps the vampire out of his insubordinate attitude, makes him give a short nod of his head. Wyll is careful about undressing Astarion; gentle hands pull apart the laces on his breeches, and they’re bordering on veneration when they pull them with his small clothes down to his knees. It’s less than ideal, being bare-ass in the dirt where just anyone could stumble across the two of them.

But there’s a thrill in it, too. Of being so thoroughly subdued by his man—his sweet, foolish, darling man—that he would lay himself bare in every way imaginable. To give Wyll the power to humiliate him willingly is one of their many exercises in trust; to spar with him without it ending in bloodshed, to love him without hurting him, to take the brunt of his moods without ever returning an unkind gesture. To hold the very power of his destruction in the center of his palm, and still handle it like the finest china.

Astarion bites back the whimper of desire that threatens through the guard of his canines at the very thought. Still, Wyll notes his desperation anyway and is gracious enough to hurry through the motions. Though quick, his movements are far from being harsh or unsparing. He lowers himself slowly down the pale elf’s body with sweet kisses, lips brushing at pert pink nipples and sucking at the ticklish spot on his ribcage. When he’s nestled between Astarion’s thighs, face to face with his weeping wet cock, he even presses a loving kiss to his hipbone. The older man shudders at the action, body fully trembling with the desperation to be touched and the difficulty of obedience. The cruel, evil, sadistic monster in him wants to grab a fistful of Wyll’s hair and shove those soft lips over his tip. The submissive, lovable, tamed man that he’s become only flexes the muscles in his thighs and bats his eyelashes pleadingly.

“Wyll…” he sighs, hips bucking but still maintaining the teasing distance his lover has put between himself and where he wants him.

“I’m going,” Wyll assures, gentleness laced through his tone to ensure Astarion understands that he’s not peeved at the insistence but rather endeared. It makes the very tips of his ears flush. “Voco arvina.”

One callused hand becomes slick with grease, glistening under the sparing moonlight whilst the other angles his lover’s hips upwards. Wyll takes a mouthful of Astarion’s cock like a seasoned veteran, like he’s the one that’s been on his knees for two centuries. And like the blushing virgin, the vampire keens. A moan loud enough to wake the entire barracks leaves his lips, back arching off of the gritty dirt training ground and into the wet heat of his fiancé’s mouth. The hand on his hips tightens in warning and Astarion practically melts into the command. He relaxes his muscles, wills himself to be still. To be good for this man. Oh, the rewards for being good so outweighed the satisfaction of being cruel these days.

He can feel himself losing his will to be combatant by the second. Impudence trickling out of his mind and replaced slowly with the overwhelming desire to give everything over to this beautiful, magnificent man.

Fingers by now well-practiced slide with the grease between the cleft of his ass, parting the cheeks to reach their destination with the dexterity of a man that knows what he’s doing. Wyll had bumbled with this in the very beginning. It was a shame, the only person who he’d ever given pleasure to in this way was himself and when Astarion had seen how he was doing it he almost wept for the poor man’s rear. It’d taken patience to get him to learn how to be gentle, how to touch and stroke and push and caress. But once he’d learned…—

“Gods damn it, Wyll!” Astarion hisses, unsure of whether to thrust up into his mouth or grind down onto the digits pressing into his entrance. His hips stutter and twitch but ultimately remain perfectly still in his lover’s grip. It’s a rather handy trick at teaching him this bit of discipline. The message comes through loud and clear. He’ll take only what Wyll Ravengard deigns to give him; he wouldn’t demand anything more, or anything less. And more importantly, he’d be grateful for it. Happy to be at the mercy of a man that knows better, happy to be mindless and pliant in the hands of a kind man for once. To be taken care of, to be cowed into vulnerability.

The thought sends whatever blood left in his system from dinner right to his cock, which twitches eagerly as Wyll sucks more of him down. Astarion kicks at the dirt beneath him, brings a single hand up to bite his fist. He knows better than to place a hand on the tidy canerows of the man’s freshly braided hair, or to reach for his wrist in a plea for more. It’d only serve to end their fun, disappoint him with how difficult he’s finding it to be good.

Astarion doesn’t want to disappoint Wyll. He wants to be good, he wants to be perfect, he wants to be his.

Because Wyll is not a cruel man. He’s not an unjust one, nor is he a demanding one. If there was any man on Earth he’d come to heel for, it had to be this one. He knows that he’s safe with him, that the trust he puts into his hands wouldn’t be misappropriated. And so he tries his best to be so good, because Wyll is good to him. He’d spent two centuries caving to men that only wanted to take, what kind of unsalvageable monster would he be to disobey the one that wanted to give?

Astarion makes a noise at the back of his throat, somewhere between a whine and a moan as Wyll lifts to lick at the tip of his dick. The pads of his fingers press deeper into him, massaging at his prostate reverently. And he does all this with his good eye fixated on Astarion’s expression, watching for any sign of discomfort or malcontent. It never comes.

Indeed, the vampire is open-mouth panting—his bottom lip pink and puffy from all the kissing. There’s no need for the steady repetitive breaths that come from him, there’s no need for breathing at all. But it feels right to pant like a dog. Wyll’s pretty, perfect pampered pet begging for more of his master's attention. It only becomes more deliberate with every lick or suck or tease from the man himself, the walls of his disobedience crumbling in every second. It doesn’t hurt to think of Wyll has his master, his owner, someone that has caught and tamed him. It doesn’t bother him for even a moment—not when Wyll playfully skims his sharpened canines along the shaft of his dick, not when he leans forward until his nose tickles at Astarion’s pubic bone. And certainly not when he swallows him down, and the vampire sees spots of long in the darkness where he’d squeezed his eyes closed. He falls into it all, nails digging into the dirt beneath him and hips rocking upward.

He’s seeking his pleasure greedily now, no sight for anything other than that tumble off the edge into his own indolent nirvana. The steadily growing knot of tension in the pit of his stomach is only counterweighed by the thick blanket of subservience lowering over his consciousness. Slowly, one by one, all of his thoughts begin to filter out of his mind. Almost orderly, a procession of every negative emotion single file out of his forefront of awareness into all there’s left is this. Him. Wyll. Sweet Wyll. Giving Wyll. Loving, tender, cherishing Wyll Ravengard. His love for him floating cloudy through every nerve in his flesh, eyes rolling back in his head as he nears the precipice of the abyss, ready to hurdle over completely.

Never let this end, he thinks desperately, as his fiancé’s tongue laps at another bead of precum. Let me stay here, Master, I want to be here for you, always…

That proverbial abyss was rapidly gaining faster than he’d anticipated. But just as he’s ready to let go, to throw himself over with the knowledge that Wyll would be his safety net, a strong clamps down hard at the base of his cock. Astarion cries out a sob and his hips stutter, chasing the sweet release that he’s suddenly denied.

“Master,” Astarion sobs, already hoarse and teetering shamefully on the brink of satisfaction. “Fuck, please, why?!”

There’s a brief pause from Wyll at the moniker, as there always is. He double checks to ensure that Astarion is still present with him. As always, he won’t say or do a thing else beyond what his lover needs. By now, he’s used to being called by the old moniker—though in the beginning, there’d been lengthy and painful tedious discussions about how he never wanted to be to Astarion what Cazador had been. How he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of being categorized by the same title that had subjugated his love.

When Astarion had ensured him that it was less of him becoming his new master, and more of him taking that title away to give it to someone far more deserving, his Blaze had been more on board.

And now, after all that, Wyll only needs brief check in before he’s diving back into the game.

“I’ll give you what you want, my love,” he hums, pressing kisses to pale thighs sheened with sweat. “Just call the pinfall.”

Astarion groans, tosses his head back against the dirt. Again, he is presented with the chance to cut the game short by submitting entirely. To give into Wyll’s sweet demand without protest, be awarded in turn. But it’s early in the night, and though his cock throbs with denial, he finds that he wants more still. There is another spar to be found here, in this and he finds that he isn’t ready to yield. Every thought of simple subservience flees him with the last dregs of his denied orgasm. If he cannot have his way, then Wyll won't have his, either.

He lifts his head. Licks at dry lips, quirks an eyebrow with more insouciance than he feels. He voice only shakes a little bit when he speaks, which he is unnecessarily proud of.

“Surely you have more to you than just your tongue and fingers? You’ll have to work harder than that, I’m afraid.”

“Cheeky little pet,” chuckles the younger man, pressing yet another kiss to his inner thigh. He stares up at him lovingly, fingers still working at the vampire's hole. The pleasure-driven strokes against his prostate ease entirely, fingers seeking to stretch rather than gratify. Astarion fights the grin that threatens his lips, knowing what comes next. His favorite part of the game.

He might be denied his release several times over, but at least he’ll be stuffed with cock while it happens.

As expected, Wyll clambers up onto his knees. He looms this way, presence hovering over the elven vampire in what should be an intimidating way. If it were anyone else, Astarion might feel just that. But this is his darling Wyll, his doting and indulgent master. He wouldn’t even dream of harming him—or not in any way that Astarion wouldn’t love—and the presence above him feels more like protection than a threat. There is only the enveloping warmth of safety, and electrically charged air of desire.

Astarion is obedient enough to keep his hands by his head, even when he desires nothing more but to reach out and touch. Wyll's armor had rucked up and left a small exposed trail of hair leading down his navel. His trousers had come undone, and they hang low on his hips. In the time between the fall of the Absolute and his position as Blaze, he'd put on more weight—though most of it was hard muscle, brought on by months of non-stop combat training with his command. Astarion wants to sink his teeth into the extra span of deep, umber flesh. He wants to lick and caress and kiss. He might be allowed to later; when they could make love in a real bed, no games just Wyll and Astarion.

But first he wants to be fucked stupid. And to do that, he has to wait. Wait while Wyll tugs his armor and undershirt off of his chest, while he frees his thick erection from his smalls and shoves them down to his thighs, while he one-handed casts another grease spell. Years of spellcasting while wielding his weapon have made him an expert multitasker, and his fingers keep a steady if not unhurried pace while he works. Astarion doesn’t even bother trying to make himself look pretty. He just lays there and reacts how he pleases to the sensation of being stretched open on slender, dexterous fingers. His subdued throaty gasps and sweaty, red-face don’t make him any less attractive to Wyll. In fact, he strokes the grease onto his dick with a hunger in his eye, practically salivating at the display beneath him.

“You look so good for me, Astarion,” Wyll murmurs, voice thick with lust, confirming Astarion’s thoughts. “If only you could behave as prettily as you look.”

“W-Where—hah, mm…—where would be the fun in that?” he responds wickedly. And the man above him beams, not a single word needed to express just how much he agrees.

Wyll slips his fingers out—he’d worked up to three while lubing up, enough to give Astarion the stretch he loved without hurting him—and lowers himself over the vampire carefully. He rests most of his weight on his knees and forearm, despite many months of insistence on his lover's part that he could lay completely on him just fine. With a gentle nudge at Astarion’s thighs with his knees to make space for his body between his legs, he takes only a few moments to get comfortable. And then he’s smiling down at his lover, indulgent as he can be, before dipping low for a sweet kiss. The game pauses here, in this pocket of time right before he presses against his entrance, because he knows in the forthcoming moments he will not be kind. He wants to remind Astarion of how much he adores him, bring him forth out of the cloudy haze of fantasy to the reality of their romance. He will be rough, and bruising, and possibly even cruel with denial. But it is from a place of love and affection, never maliciousness.

And then Astarion feels the nudge of his tip at his entrance, and the smile on Wyll’s lips turns wicked.

“Call the pinfall. Last chance.”

“Go fuck yourself, darling,” Astarion coos back, too much affection in the words to be properly venomous.

“Why would I need to? I have you to use for that,” he pushes in now, sliding home in one swift moment. Astarion mewls, back arching off of the ground and eyes rolling. It’s exactly what he’d been wanting. Stretched so perfectly across his man, swiftly filled to the brim with cock. “Don’t I, pet?”

“Oh, Gods, yes,” Astarion sighs, not so much an answer to his inquiry but more of an encouragement to his fiancé to keep going. Wyll, however, pulls out to the tip on the next stroke and gives a disapproving look. If looks could kill, he’d drop dead between his lovers legs. Instead, his face smooths out into a cheeky smile.

“Hm. But I think you can take me deeper than that, can’t you?” Hitching both hands under the vampire's knees, he gently pushes his legs up and apart. Astarion folds in half quite easily—two centuries of forced flexibility coming right in hand. “Hold these for me, will you, love?”

“You are a,” Astarion reaches under his legs to hold his knees up, spread just like Wyll requests. He doesn’t argue, though he would be remiss not to complain. Especially when the request tints his cheeks such a bright pink, and Wyll is still giving him that cheeky, knowing look. “magnificent bastard, my dear.”

It's a frankly lewd position to be in—spread wide open like a cheap whore, an illuminated trail of grease leaking over his pale asscheeks. He's exposed entirely now, quite literally the definition of vulnerable, with only his smalls still hanging feebly off of one ankle. It's made even more scandalizing by the locale. Astarion is briefly reminded that any unfortunate recruit or unlucky night guard wandering around could stumble across them on the training grounds. But there's a rush of a thrill to even that, the threat of humiliation doing wondrous things to his already painfully hard erection. They could be caught, and he worries he wouldn't feel an iota of mortification. They could be caught, and all it would mean is someone else sees. See how tenderly he's held—no, owned by this brilliant man. Even when he is acting like a prick, or being disobedient, or refusing to do something so simple as admitting he's been beaten. Even when he's so defiant that he has to be a taught a lesson right in the middle of the range. Even then, he will be looked after by his master, his lover, his fiance, his Wyll.

Wyll smiles down at him knowingly, as if he'd read his throughts, before taking proper hold of his hips and slamming deep into him.

He sets a punishing pace outright, both of them too impatient to waste time. It would be maddening with any average cock, but Wyll is hardly average. Six bumpy ridges line the underside of his shaft—each of them roughly an inch or so apart. They were soft and pliable when he was flaccid, but when filled with arousal became firm. With the delicious curve to Wyll’s cock, each one caught perfectly on his prostate. It made him delirious, cock-drunk, driven mad with euphoria.

Astarion is left to claw uselessly at his own thighs, forbidden for now from reaching up to hold onto his horns but being properly railed to the point of thoughtlessness. Wyll covers him with his body, sinks his teeth into the place where his shoulder becomes his neck, and fucks him in long, inevitable strokes. Each one pounds home harsher than the last, lewd wet sounds of skin on skin and the crude squelching of grease filling the night air around their respective sounds of pleasure.

It’s delightful. His eyes roll back in his head, bottom lip caught on his canine as he chews at the soft flesh desperately. Wyll gives him exactly what he deserves, what he needs. One hand, still slippery with grease, takes a bruising grip to his hips whilst the other strokes him in tandem. A veritable assault of pleasure on every receptor in his body—the repetitive motion against his prostate, the contrasting sweet strokes along his shaft, the moans of satisfaction from the man he loves that betray just how much Wyll gets from this too.

Every so often, Astarion works himself up to the brink of an orgasm. He’ll feel it building up slowly—not the crash off the edge he’s accustomed to but a slow steady increase of tension. A dawning horizon of ecstasy, eclipsing all reasonable thought and leaving him reduced to increasingly labored pants of Wyll’s name. He’ll get right there at the peak, trembling with it, before his fiancé would harshly clamp off his release and kiss him softly in return.

After the third time, Wyll panting against his neck and tears welling in his eyes from denial, he gives a frustrated sob. Seemingly having enough of his cruel bit of play, the man above him gently takes over the hold of his legs. Heels dig into Wyll’s back like spurs, long lithe legs strap around the other man's waist and cling on desperately. With his hands free, Astarion takes the liberty to express some of his frustration. He brings his hands up to dig into the man’s shoulders. Presses his nails deep into the dark flesh until he can smell pinpricks of blood, feel the tacky liquid slowly pool beneath his fingertips.

Wyll hisses in response and sinks his teeth into the crook of his shoulder in return. “Still haven't had enough, have you? I can do this all night, love.”

He’s sure his partner can’t; he’s only human, after all, and they’d used up a good deal of stamina on the sparring. But he’s not interested in arguing the point; his cock is thick and heavy against his stomach, weeping milky white on his navel. He doesn’t want to wait a second longer.

“You win, darling,” Astarion demands through gritted teeth. “Now, please, I need it. I need you.”

And here, it peaks. The turn of the game where Astarion gives Wyll what he needs out of it. To be needed. To be useful. To be able to give everything his lover desires, and more. If Astarion has spent his whole existence bucking authority, then Wyll has wasted so much of his trying to appeal to it. Or one figure of authority, in particular. An entire lifetime of being denied such simple pleasures such as a ‘Good job, Wyll’ or ‘I’m proud of you’ had done irreparable damage to his beloved Blade.

Astarion can’t fix any of that. But he can work at it like this. Giving Wyll the chance to do something good, and making sure he knew how thoroughly he’d accomplished the task. By whatever means necessary. If it means cowing a bit, giving into his own desires and allowing himself to slip fully into obedience, well then... birds and stones.

It works, of course. Wyll moans, deep and low in his chest. He sounds a little fuck-drunk when he speaks, muttering sweet nothings into pallid flesh as he readjusts his hold. “I have you. Gonna give you what you need, I promise…”

They’re both so close to the edge. Wyll pulls back to stare Astarion in the eyes—sentimental fool that he is, he always had a harder time getting off if he couldn’t see his face. There’s love and adoration there in that crimson iris of his, as there always is and certainly always will be.

Sometimes it’s too much, to be regarded so sweetly, and Astarion would bury his face in the pillows. But right now, he can only stare wide-eyed up at the man he loves, begging, pleading, groveling for whatever he has to give. The vampire spawn, completely and thoroughly tamed by his monster hunter.

Astarion leans up hesitantly, laves his tongue over the bite marks he’d left on his lover early that morning. They’re still bruised but beginning to close over, Wyll deliberately forgoing a healing potion so that everyone could see. He quite liked the world knowing that the malicious little vampire that stalked the shadows of the training grounds was his. That he fed him, he satisfied him, he took care of every one of his needs. Wyll would preen like a peacock when his brothers in arms would rib him about the marks. He never divulged a single detail of their sex life—let all the rumors do the talking. But Astarion knows just how much the intrigue it aroused fluffed his ego.

It’s why he pricks his teeth against the slowly healing punctures and whines, needy even to his own ears. Wyll’s hand moves from his hip to hold the back of his head, cradling him lovingly against his neck to grant permission.

He bites down immediately. His mouth is flooded with the heavy, thick flavor of ecstasy. The heat builds in two places in his stomach now, reaching a boiling point. He is close to the meltdown, release hurtling towards him like an inferno. He embraces it all the same, swallowing his monster hunter's blood greedily in service of his own pleasure. He takes one mouthful and moans as he feels hotness of it rush through him, another and it’s all he needs to finally catch up to his orgasm, spilling messily over Wyll’s hand and his own exposed belly. He only pulls off to moan, eyes rolling and vocal chords overworked as he shouts his man's praises. It’s the closest they’ve ever gotten to coming together because Wyll tumbles after him quickly after—pumping once, twice more before his hips stutter in a broken staccato and he's painting Astarion's insides with a throaty groan.

When they lay in the post-coital haze, Wyll slumped over Astarion and Astarion thrumming both with the man’s blood and mind-blowing orgasm, he can’t help but give a delirious little giggle. High and musical, shot through with all the mischievousness he still has.

Wyll doesn’t have the energy to lift his head up, but he does give a muffled, “What is it?” into the other man's sweat-drenched locks.

“Now your armor is going to have stains in the knees.”

A weary sigh from the man above him. He hadn’t been planning on laundering his armor just yet—usually, he put it off to do it alongside the recruits. Something about morale and camaraderie that Astarion didn’t care about. “I know. You’re a bad influence.”

A remorseless snort. “Oh, darling, aren’t I absolutely incorrigible? You should probably do something about that.”

“Mm. Yeah,” Wyll kisses his neck sweetly, tone noncommittal. “but then where would the fun be in that?”

#time to kill: astarion ancunín #bloodpact: so much shadow around us #the blade of frontiers!: wyll ravengard #wyllstarion #astarion ancunin #wyll ravengard #bloodblade: wyllstarion #baldur’s gate 3 #bloodpact #bloodblade #bg3 fanfic prompt #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 #well done soldier!: prompt fill #wyll x astarion #astarion x wyll

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legrandepapillon · 8 months ago

Note

maybe an easy prompt, but something that has been on my mind kinda based on theo's own gameplay and how mad he got at wyll for rizzing shadowheart up asdfghj

but, at any point of their relationship (pre, during, whatever act you prefer) astarion getting insane horrendously jealous of wyll's and shadowheart weirdo/weirdo friendship.

The Boldness Bloodwine Brings

Rating: M (to be on the safe side, there is no smut)

this one got away from me. i intended for it to be a drabble, just something idly written to pass my time & warm up to prompt filling, but it became a little bit more than that. the idea of astarion being jealous has always compelled me, and i got carried away.

i went with a distant post-game setting, so that i could work with a firm establishment of astarion & wyll’s relationship. i feel like if this had happened during game events or even before the epilogue, it might’ve been more of big deal than i made it here. also, i hope i give enough hints towards it but this is Astarion origin + Wyll romance + Avernus ending. Astarion’s party on my origin playthrough has been Karlach, Shadowheart & Wyll for Act 1 so that’s what i did here.

as far as shadowheart & wyll’s “weirdo relationship”, i looked for some of their banter but wasn’t confident that i could capture the two of them in that manner, so i just went with astarion going slightly crazy not quite girlfriend over the two of them. hope it’s still up to your tastes, anon!! thank you for the prompt, i had a lot of fun writing this

This is silly, really.

Astarion stews over his chalice topped with bloodwine, glaring over the din of his former—and some current—fellow adventurers with narrowed red eyes. Honestly, it’s all so inane. He should be positively luxuriating in the opportunity to be back on the material plane, spread over some velvet chaise longue with virgins offering up their wrists for him to suckle from like some overfed babe. Or in the very heart of Waterdeep’s noble elite, dressed in the finest silks from Amn and fattening his pockets with the jewels from drunk patriars. He even briefly contemplated an orgy the very picture of decadence and pleasure, the stench of sex and sweat and ecstasy laden beneath the smoke of freshly burning incense.

Or… well, perhaps that was shooting a bit for the stars. He doubts his dear Blade would content himself with hazy orgies. More of a romantic dinner and make love beneath the stars type, all told.

No matter whether or not he would’ve ever been able to convince Wyll to participate. Because Wyll is not at his side, lavishing him with unending attention and serenading him with prose so purple it’d attract the Kings of Calimshan and Cormyr alike.

No, Wyll is surrounded by Gale and Shadowheart telling some less-than thrilling tale of how they’d tricked a nupperibo into blindly waddling itself into its own demise. He imagines that Wyll, with all his honeyed words and dashing charm, makes the event sound a lot more thrilling than it was. In reality, Karlach had tripped right out of the bumbling blind idiots’ way and it’d face-planted into a boiling hot spring. It’s a story about as meaningless as ox shit, not at all as high-stakes as his dear Blade makes it sound, and hardly worth that stupid doe-eyed look Shadowheart is giving him.

Shadowheart.

The grip on his chalice pales the knuckles around the middle, but Astarion rolls his eyes outwardly as his gaze lands on her.

She certainly looks more beautiful than she’d been tromping around in mud and dirt during their days of traveling, at least. Settled into a more peaceful life in the farmside, last Astarion had caught word of. Though if one were to attempt to guess by her dress tonight, farmhand may be the furthest thing from their mind. The Selunite way of life has sunken its fingers into her and held her tenderly, the gossamer white of her dress flowing like water round her ankles. Her whimsical white tresses have been taken into a braid by less-strict fingers, her hair fitting loosely and comfortably in the style as opposed to the tight black rope she swung around back on that beach. There’s a glint of something woven through with her braids, catching the evening light whenever she turns her head or tips it back to laugh. And her face… he hadn’t thought it possible, but perhaps without the burden of grief and loss leaning heavily on her shoulders, it’d smoothed out some of those worry lines in her forehead. Brightened up her eyes, made her smile more. She looks the fout of youth herself, half-leaning on a wall and clutching a goblet of wine as she listens rapt on Wyll’s story. Entirely too young, by Astarion’s estimations. Truthfully, had he still possessed the desire to say flattery for the sake of saying it, he would compliment her on how well she’d gotten on in such a short time.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t. And can’t possibly think of a good reason to pay her a compliment now, while she fawns over Wyll like some buxom-bosomed maiden found a prince.

The thought almost makes him snarl, and when he catches himself, the tension withers from his shoulders. This is so… pathetic, banal, pointless, stupid. Astarion does not own Wyll—far from it. After each of them finally escaping the bondages of their former masters, able to go where they please and do as they please without someone tugging at the proverbial leash, they hardly were in a hurry to chain themselves to another. Wyll wanted romance, he knows it so. But in Avernus, the closest they could find was hot-mouthed embraces while resting at the House of Hope, or the lean of support following a particularly agonizing failure. As the Blade of Avernus, Wyll no longer had room for courting and romance like they’d had before the defeat of the Netherbrain. He tried whenever he could, by the Triad, he did. But there are no acorns filled with wishing magic or starlight beaches for dancing in Avernus and most of the wine had the lingering taste of ash or rotten eggs to it.

And Astarion was… well, he wasn’t dissatisfied with the arrangement. He quite enjoyed having just one man to bat his eyelashes at whenever he fancied, and kick into a different tent whenever he didn’t. His moods could change at the drop of copper, and Wyll went along with each one with hardly a murmur of dissent. Whenever they could sleep somewhere without having to worry about their heads being separated from their necks, he and Wyll did get up to a bit of romantic fun. And when there was no time for that, when it was nothing but the grind against mortar and pestle to behead sultry cambions or bully infernal mechanics into use… well, that was okay, too. A little well-presented carnage and chaos could just as well set his heart aflutter, Wyll surely knew that by now. He didn’t need something steady and storybook to feel desired. The way that Wyll always left his left flank open to keep a line of sight on him in battle, or how he kissed his knuckles in relief whenever they made it out of a scrap with a particularly dedicated group of abishai.

Wyll loves him in every way that matters. And he, albeit with great reluctance in admitting it aloud, loves him back.

So why does he feel so… unmoored at just how happy the young man looks with his equally young former companion. What is this acidic stirring in his chest, melting away all the genuinely good regards he’s used to keeping Shadowheart in? For nearly two years she’d been his ally, his partner, his co-conspirator and even his friend. How many times had the two of them sat on the very perimeters of camp, some vintage he’d nicked from a cellar filling their rusted bronze chalices, gossiping in Elvish about their companions until the wine tinged their pointed ears pink? She was more his friend than Wyll’s by any measure, even after she’d ditched her bitch of a dark goddess and turned towards living a life in light he couldn’t join her in.

And yet all he can fantasize right now is sinking his canine into her jugular and drinking her dry so that she may never rest her pretty well-manicured fingers on Wyll Ravengard’s shoulder again.

A large warm hand clamps down on his shoulder, starling him from the satisfyingly murderous thoughts that had begun to inch their way forth. Astarion stumbles a bit in surprise, free hand twitching towards the menagerie of daggers he still has strapped all over his person out of habit alone. But it’s just Halsin—swaying a bit on his feet from the plentiful liquor, and smiling too widely for casual acquaintances. Astarion makes a show of tilting his head up haughtily to close some of that towering distance, and dusting off the spot on his shoulder that Halsin had touched.

Though there’d been many changes from his friends in a year, Halsin seemed as though he was stuck frozen in time. The only visible differences being that his skin had taken on a deeper tan, and his warm green eyes had more wrinkles in the corners. Elsewise, he was still the big oafish elf they’d left behind in Reithwin. He, nor Wyll or Karlach, had gotten the chance to give a formal goodbye on the docks that day. But when Withers had managed to wrangle them all back together a few months on, they’d been bought enough time to escort him back to Reithwin before he helped them open a portal back to Avernus. He distinctly remembers patting Karlach’s back as she weeped, and promised that she’d fix her heart and come help in the rebuilding soon as she could. Halsin had in turn promised a cottage for them all, a little plot of land for them to grow their own livelihood. Settle down into a home after a life on the road. Wyll and Karlach alike had seemed enamored with the idea, but the thought of schlepping around in pig shit and feeding orphans has made Astarion’s spine recoil.

His mouth goes tight at the memory.

“Halsin. I see you haven’t gotten any bigger since I last saw you; fortune be for the Reithwin food supply.”

His wry insult only draws a booming laugh from the chest of the man, and he claps another hand down—hard—over Astarion’s shoulder. Every muscle in the vampire’s body tenses, and he loosens his hold on his chalice only in the hopes to make the draw of a blade a bit faster should need be. Stabbing the towering tree of an elf might not produce molasses, but his blood would certainly be just as sweet if he kept touching him.

“And I see not even the Hells themselves could scare you straight into submission,” Halsin returns, with an easy smile. “All the glad to hear of it, my friend. You look well.”

“I look exhausted,” and he probably does. They’d portaled straight from the House of Hope to Gale’s rather decadent tower once they were sure it wasn’t some sort of trap. There’d hardly been time for more than a washing up and a change of clothing before they’d been whisked down to a full five-course dinner and as much alcohol as their bodies could tolerate. Astarion hadn’t had a moment to rest since they’d arrived…

… and more importantly, he hadn’t had a moment alone with Wyll. The thought sends him looking over his shoulder, catching eyes with the Blade himself. It seems as if Wyll was in the midst of sizing up the interaction, worried he might have to interfere before Halsin lost one of those paws. But when they lock eyes he smiles, and raises his glass in Astarion’s direction. Curse his feeble, weak, dead heart but he swears it flutters as he returns the gesture. It seems his misdeed of ignoring him tonight can be forgotten just that quickly.

“Oh, and there’s no wondering as to why,” Halsin muses, having watched the brief interaction. “The thrill of young love. Unhesitatingly self-indulgent, and yet bewitching all the time. Between slaughtering devils and entrancing your Wyll, I doubt there’s much time for sleep.”

There’s a playful wink and a nudge from the elf, but Astarion quickly bats him away like a disgruntled cat.

“It’s none of that; he’s not my Wyll. Even if it were, it’d be none of your damned business, druid. Don’t you have a schoolyard’s worth of progeny to be tending to?” He makes a show of looking around Gale’s spacious drawing room, but the only people there are a few old friends from the adventuring days and the Heroes of the Gate themselves. No wide-eyed sticky-fingered orphans in sight. “Where are the little devils tonight; I’ll know if my pockets are light, and I’ll know who to expect compensation from.”

“Worry not, Astarion. My children are back at home in Reithwin. They’re being watched by others in the town; it does take a village, as they say.”

“With your lot, it’d take a whole country,” grumbles Astarion, chasing the bitter taste of the talk of children with the bloodwine in his glass. The metallic undertones of the fermented blood adds a rather unusual flavor to the blackberry and herb. It provides both a refreshing quench to the ever-lingering blood thirst, and a lovely buzz beneath his flesh. Astarion can just almost disappear into his fantasies of being fed bloodwine by warm, amber tinted hands. The curve of horns against his cheek as lips wet from cherry wine press to his throat. A hot pink tongue chasing the dribble of wine that slips from the corner of his mouth, pushing it back into his own with all the youthful eagerness of a man made to please.

This one seems far more attainable than all the other half-baked fantasies he’d cooked up earlier. The only problem is…

A tinkling laughter, louder now but just as delicate as it’d been back then. Shadowheart surprised by her own amusement hides her smile behind her glass, gaze resting warmly on the side of Wyll’s face. He’s half-turned towards her, hands gesticulating wildly into the air and evidently weaving another tale about their exploits into Avernus. Astarion bites down hard enough on his tongue that it draws blood. Still a novelty that he has enough blood in his system to draw it forth, he surprises himself with the pinch of pain and the sudden sluggish flow of inky near-black blood.

“Oh, enough of….” he half-mutters, slipping away from Halsin—who’d devolved into telling stories about his brats to a man that couldn’t care less. Astarion slinks across the drawing room towards the four gathered in the center of it, making a point to cut into the space between Shadowheart and Wyll. There’s plenty space opposite Gale to join in the conversation, but it’s so much more satisfactory to cut the proverbial thread that was the sliver of space that only just separated their shoulders.

The aforementioned woman doesn’t seem to pay any mind, merely shuffles over to accommodate the fourth body and flashes Astarion a genuine grin.

“Astarion! I was wondering when you’d come away from brooding in the shadows. Wyll has been telling us all about Avernus; sounds like you’ve become quite the hellish hero,” she appraises, raising her chalice to her lips. Astarion knows Shadowheart well enough to know it isn’t just the compliment she makes it sound like, but also a teasing about his capabilities. She doesn’t quite believe he’d slipped into the shoes of saving the helpless and slaying the wicked on his own accord. It seems everyone at this Gods forsaken party had caught wind of the love affair between the Blade and his sanguineous Dagger. Astarion has half a mind to appeal to Talos himself; make a real announcement of their amorous connection.

Perhaps maybe then Shadowheart would give him a wider berth.

“A hero implies that there is some sort of saving involved, sweet thing. In Avernus, there is no good or bad. Just us, and every other evil creature we stumble across. The only ‘heroism’ to be found there is in all that blood imps so eagerly offer up to prevent me from starving.”

There’s a grimace from Wyll around his mouthful of wine. “I’d hardly call that heroic, Star. You don’t tend to give them much of a choice; they don’t really offer so much as die screaming.”

The offhanded nickname seems to peak the interest of both Gale and Shadowheart, two sets of eyebrows raising to two hairlines. The wizard at least has the decency to cover his amused smile with his hand, though he cocks his head at the two of them as if he’s waiting any moment for Wyll to drop to his knee and make a sickening show.

“Star?” Shadowheart all but purrs, like a hungry cat that’s just come across the fattest mouse in the fields. “Well, now. There’s a story I’d be all too interested in hearing. When you two last left here, there were no pet names involved yet.”

Now, usually, Astarion would bat away the insinuation immediately. He’d insist that there were none still, because he was not Wyll’s star or sweetheart or anything else so juvenile. He’d bare his fangs at the lot of them, warn them off ever making mention of it again should they enjoy keeping their carotid artery tucked safely behind their jugular. In any other circumstance, he’d hiss and scowl and snarl at the very idea he’d allow himself to be roped into something so banal as a pet name. Like they were schoolchildren and not two men with some of the most powerful arch devils in the Hells calling for their heads.

In fact, from beside him, he can feel the tense in Wyll‘s shoulder as he expects him to do just that. When it was just the two of them in a tent or a room reserved at Hope, he could lavish Astarion with all the ‘my heart’s and ‘shining Star’s and lines from lovesick bards as he’d like. In fact, the vampire would display marked offense if he didn’t. But in public, most especially on the ever-dangerous roads of Avernus, letting anything overhear that there was someone you cared for was almost certainly signing their death warrant. He’d been chastised many times in his beginning for his open affection towards him, a wild-eyed Astarion so close to having something good for once and so pants-shittingly terrified at losing it.

Wyll was an affectionate lover, but he’d have to settle for the moments they could steal because there was too much death and hellfire around them for anything else.

But this time, Astarion leans into the man beside him. He drapes his arms over Wyll’s neck, rests his head in the crook of his neck and shoulder. His chalice of wine sloshes against the edges uneasily with the sudden movement, causing Wyll to bring a hand up to his wrist and steady his grip. It’s perhaps the most tender embrace they’ve shared in front of someone other than Hope or Karlach since they’d first left that dock for Avernus. It’s a deliberate show of their relationship. The thing that Astarion danced in and out of most days, dead heart so full of his foolish Blade and simultaneously so worried about putting him in danger by showing it. Let it not be said that Astarion Ancunín has no love in his body for the red-eyed man who he’d saved the world with. In front of all their closest friends and—dare he say it?—family, he makes a rather bold show of clinging to his fiancé.

The acorn he’d had strung along a bit of gold suddenly feels all too heavy beneath his silks and lace, resting right over his unbeating heart. But Astarion decides the minute discomfort with PDA is worth the way Shadowheart gives the couple a bit more space, a surprised flush to those porcelain cheeks.

Check.

“Well, a lot has changed between now and then. We are quite serious about each other, you know?”

“We always have been, to my knowledge,” Wyll chuckles, patting Astarion’s wrist. “but there’s little time for me to do things the proper way back in Avernus. We make do with what time together we can find.”

“And every moment is absolutely electrifying, wouldn’t you say, darling?” purrs Astarion, peering up into Wyll’s one functioning eye with something lascivious in his own. Shadowheart is practically teeming with intrigue at all the racy details of their bedroom; something far more intriguing than the slaughter of kobolds and bone fiends. Gale gives a small noise of disgust whilst rolling his eyes, though he doesn’t seem to make a move to leave either.

“Yes, Wyll certainly kept his little tricks close to his chest before but now… he’s quite the consummate lover.”

Though he says it to Wyll, his red eyes bore into Shadowheart’s gentle green ones as the words leave his mouth—a proverbial dog pissing on his post. He loves me, wants me, fucks me, and that’s how it’ll stay. He’s laying it on a bit thick now, surely. But the only one that seems to notice anything is amiss is the man himself, who quirks a confused eyebrow.

After two centuries with his sex life belonging to everyone but himself, Astarion didn’t often like to discuss what they got up to privately. Aside from the occasional bawdy joke with Karlach about ‘sheathing the Blade’, he didn’t tend to go handing out details about their bedroom so cavalierly. All the same to Wyll; far from a prude by now, but he’d rather some things stay sacred between the two of them. Public displays of affection aside, they didn’t talk about sex if they didn’t want to. And they didn’t want to… usually.

“I see the wines loosened that tongue of yours,” Gale appraises after a cough of surprise. The older man rocks forth on the ball on his feet, hands clasped behind his back and chin nudging in the direction of his cup. “Glad to see the bloodwine is up to snuff, Astarion.”

A glance from both Wyll and Astarion down to the chalice in his hand, a dawning on the latters expression as his half-baked plan forms another step. Truth is, Astarion isn’t fully aware yet that he’s making an ass out of himself. He doesn’t know… what he’s doing, per se. But Gale delivers an out to him so smoothly, he would kiss the man square on his lips if he wasn’t so appalled at the idea. Leaning into an overt display of drunkenness, he rests more of his weight across Wyll’s shoulders.

“I don’t need to be drunk to tell you just how mighty the blade can—”

“—Alright, Astarion!” Wyll finally exclaims. The flush of blood to his face isn’t noticeable by eye, but Astarion smells it as it fills the apples of his cheeks in a sudden tidal wave. It’s all too intoxicating, far more than the mediocre bloodwine that Gale had proferred for him. There’s no show in the way he leans closer to chase the scent, which has Wyll clutching his waist now instead to maintain their shared balance. “Maybe we should get you some sleep, before all of Waterdeep knows what we get up to in private.”

“Maybe not all of Waterdeep,” Shadowheart returns warmly. “After all, Gale’s mother is nowhere to be found.”

“Hey! I resent that!” exclaims the man on his mother’s behalf, which only entices one of those sweet little laughs from their cleric. Wyll politely excuses the both of them from conversation before he can get roped into whether or not Morena Dekarios’ tongue is obliged to a bit of gossip. He passes his own glass to Gale and plucks Astarion’s from his fingers to hand over to Shadowheart, before securing a strong arm around the shorter man’s waist and hauling most of his weight to the staircase.

He plays his part the whole way up, bumping him into the banister and tripping over his feet at the landing. It certainly isn’t the first time he’s played up the illusion of intoxication for someone else’s benefit. There was a certain breed of individual back in Baldur’s Gate that quite liked the idea of having someone that couldn’t quite tell whether or not they were being had. Astarion had perfected all sorts of tricks for seduction over two-hundred years, this is perhaps one of the most popular. Unlike the marks he’d targeted back in the Gate, though, Wyll’s hands do not wander beneath his waistline. He does not grope or molest, merely anchors his partner in a strong, steady grip as he maneuvers them up what seems to be unending flights of stairs.

Astarion waits until they’re safely within the bedroom Gale had offered them to drop the act—righting himself to steady feet and fixing the wrinkles from his waistcoat. He floats elegantly over to the vanity and settles down, picking up a fresh handkerchief and dampening it to begin removing the kohl from around his eyes.

Wyll splutters in surprise behind him.

“Oh, Wyll, seriously dear,” Astarion leans over the chair of his vanity. “You didn’t really think I’d get drunk off of a few glasses of donkey piss, did you? My tastes are far more eclectic than that.”

The man shakes his head at his partner, collapsing with palpable exhaustion at the foot of the bed they share. “Gale had it brewed especially for you, Astarion, how was I to—nevermind that. Why did you pretend to be drunk?”

Why did he? The only answer that presents itself, bright and clear at the forefront of his mind, is because he’d wanted to get Wyll’s attention away from Shadowheart. At the moment it’d made complete sense, but as he deliberates on it more, he doesn’t know why he’d wanted that either. What exactly had it been about her proximity to Wyll that had disturbed him so much he felt the need to cut into their conversation, make lascivious innuendos towards their sex life, and then pretend to be so inebriated he could hardly stand? What was that stinging, acidic feeling right in the center of his chest? Blooming in the space between his lungs and his heart, making the former constrict and the latter weigh so heavy? The way she batted her fingers against his shoulder, laughed at his jokes, smiled coyly over her wine… she’d done it all before, when they were on the road together. Battling against a giant mind control brain and the Chosen of the Dead Gods. It hadn’t bothered him then. So why did it bother him now? What was it about Wyll and Shadowheart laughing together that made him want rip her throat out and curse him to Arvandor and back?

Lips turning down into a scowl, he turns back to face the mirror. In the reflection he can only see the array of powders and creams he’d demanded of Gale’s house servant, and Wyll in the distant corner—now moved to light candles around the room.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” echoes the man, striking another match to light the lamp on Astarion’s bedside. “You just randomly decided to play at being a drunk for the fun of it?”

“Yes, exactly that,” the vampire agrees, flashing his lover a false smile over his shoulder. “Wasn’t it fun?”

“No, not really. You’re too heavy to half-carry up that many flights of stairs for no good reason,” Wyll crosses the space now, coming to stand behind Astarion. A hand reaches forward, hesitating only when the paler man flinches by instinct. “May I?”

“You may,” he sniffs, anchored by the sight of Wyll in the reflection of the mirror. Battle-calloused fingers gently tug the silk neck cloth from its spot tucked his doublet, exposing more planes of pale white flesh. Careful with Astarion’s niceties as he knows the man doesn’t get much chance to wear them, he folds the cloth neatly before leaning down to take one of his hands. Crimson eyes track his movements intently in the mirror, watching as Wyll first kisses each knuckle before sliding his rings from the accompanying finger. The jewels clatter loudly onto the varnished wood of Gale’s vanity, a mix of stolen gold bands and sweetly purchased sapphire gems. Wyll takes the other hand when he’s done with the first, repeating the process just as meticulously as he’d done before.

It’s in moments like this that Astarion can feel every muscle in his body finally relax. He spent most of his days walking around on the tips of his toes, constantly bolstering himself for the next catastrophe. Jumping straight from Cazador’s commands into the mix of Gods and cultists into literal actual real hell had done nothing to soothe any tensions. He was tightly wound at all times, constantly ready to brace or fight or flee. It wasn’t until Wyll took him in his rough hunters hands, deliberately and delicately unwound him bit by bit, that he got to experience what it felt like to be at ease. To be protected by someone, so safe with them that getting comfortable for a moment wouldn’t become an immediate death sentence.

Astarion sighs at the thought. It isn’t the first time it’s fluttered across his mind, alone with him. You make me feel safe. Like there’s nothing on Earth I have to worry about besides you. I hate it because of how much I love it. I’m so afraid of getting used to it, because once I do I know I’d destroy anything that tried to get between us. By the Gods, Wyll, I’m alarmingly in love with you.

He doesn’t realize his eyes have fluttered closed until he feels a kiss press to each of his eyelids. Any other time he’d roll his eyes at such treacly sentimentality. But he can’t bring himself to ruin this for Wyll; especially not after he’s already ruined his night.

Red eyes fly open at the thought. They land on where Wyll is slowly unbuttoning his doublet; no ulterior motive behind those nimble fingers beyond getting him into more comfortable clothing. Astarion brings his hand to cover Wyll’s, cool fingers immediately sending a small shiver through the younger man’s flesh.

“Darling, you would tell me if I’d ruined the night, wouldn’t you?” he asks softly. Vulnerably. His voice trembles at the end of the question, brow furrowing deeply at the thought. He still hadn’t been able to make heads or tails of all the conflicting feelings that’d driven him to calling the night early. All told, he’d been having a grand time for most of the evening. They’d commiserated Karlach’s inability to leave Avernus to join the reunion, but had all gotten together to create a message on one of Rolan’s fancy projectors to take back to her. That had been followed up by Alfira strumming the strings to her lyre, kicking them up into song worthy of the most ribald dance hall. Between the long-fermented bloodwine—about as strong as mead but delicious as blackberry wine—and Wyll leading him in a few dances in Gale’s more than spacious sunroom, Astarion had believed he’d been having fun at first.

But then the party had quieted down, dinner and alcohol had kicked in and loud revelry had broken into quieter conversations throughout the downstairs of Gale’s home. He doesn’t know when he’d planted himself in that shadowy corner, or why he’d stayed there instead of joining the conversation with his friends. He doesn’t know why Shadowheart’s comfortable familiarity with Wyll had made him so annoyed, nor does he know why he’d chosen to call their night over it. But here and now, he does feel the guilt begin to worm itself into his chest right under that heavy burning feeling from earlier that still persists.

Wyll had given up so much of his life for others already. He’d given up his home in Baldur’s Gate to save the city, he’d given up chasing his own liberation from his pact to save it again, and he’d given up guaranteed safety as its Duke to save Karlach. Though in the time between now and then, Astarion had forced him into selfishness practically by dagger-point on more than one occasion, he could still catch him giving things up. Like tonight, giving up the fun conversation he’d been having with Shadowheart and Gale to tend to his selfish vampire partner.

“—Astarion, Astarion,” Wyll insists, squeezing his hands. He hadn’t realized he’d retreated so visibly into his thoughts, but when he blinks at the man, there’s a flicker of relief on his face. “My star, what ever could make you think you ruined my night?”

“Well, I don’t know. You were talking to Shadowheart. You seemed to really enjoy telling her all about your tales of heroism—she enjoyed listening to them, too, from what I can tell. I just hope that my flight of fancy hadn’t ruined your evening, that’s all.” He says it with a nonchalant air, a shrug to his shoulder and gaze askance as though the words leaving his mouth have no meaning to them at all. But there’s too much jerkiness to his movements and solemnity to his tone for it to ever be believed that he’s as apathetic to the matter as he claims.

“My evening with… Shadowheart?” says Wyll slowly, somehow confused and discerning all at once. As though he can’t parse where this is coming from, but he’s beginning to put the pieces into place. Astarion gestures limply in response, which isn’t much of a response at all. “Astarion. Did you think I was flirting with Shadowheart?”

“Oh, Heavens no,” A moment of relief on the face of the man kneeling in front of him. “You are rarely so bold. But she was flirting with you.”

Wyll splutters, entirely aghast at the notion. There’s that delicious smell of all his blood rushing to his cheeks again, and Astarion is suddenly reminded that the deer he’d drained for Halsin to butcher before dinner is the last time he’d eaten. His mouth salivates with the thought of helping Wyll with some of that misappropriated blood, but before his mind can get ahead of him, the man himself is gripping both of his hands so tightly he thinks they might actually lose a little color in the tips. Another novelty of a regulated diet, his skin was perhaps not as sickly pale as it’d been at first. He had the barest hints of color to his extremities, just enough to pass as elven in the right lantern light.

“Astarion. She didn’t tell you?” Wyll asks, a twinge of amusement in his voice. “She and Karlach—they’ve been speaking through sending since our first time resting at the House of Hope. They’re smitten with each other, quite frankly. I was telling her stories about Karlach; it seemed to lift her spirits from the fact that she couldn’t be here tonight.”

The vampire spawn blanches, slowly connecting the dots. He can recall brief conversations between Blade and Warrior of Avernus, offhanded mentions of the moon cleric back on the material plane. Between their hunit for Zariel’s head, an internal mechanic worth his spit and the amount of fiends and devils sent to collect their head, he hadn’t bothered to put much thought into it before.

But the seemingly never ending supply of parchment and sending stones that Hope kept them in stock with, the bundle of letters that Karlach guarded with all the ferocity of a junkyard dog, and the dopey smile whenever anyone mentioned their old adventuring days around the tiefling… he doesn’t know how he didn’t put it together before. There was obviously someone waiting for her back here, someone she was eager to get back to.

“She… and Karlach… really? This whole time?”

“How could you not know?” chuckles Wyll, his good eye twinkling with bemusement. Whether at his reaction or the situation at large, the pale elf isn’t interested in determining. “Karlach practically bowls you over whenever we manage to get letters from this plane.”

“Oh, for all I could have guessed, she’d subscribed to one of Halsin’s adopt-a-bloody-orphan programs and was tracking the progress of her new progeny!”

“Astarion, were you jealous of Shadowheart?” continues the younger man, genuinely looking like he’s on the edge of devolving into full-out laughter. Astarion glares at him in return, mouth twisted into a scowl at the mirth that spreads from the smile on his lips to the red-iris of his working eye. But against all of his better judgment to protest and scoff and and lie and deny, deny, deny, he knows two things. He’s already revealed his hand to the man, and even if he hadn’t, Wyll would see right through him regardless.

For a man with only half his vision, he had a funny way of doing that.

Still, he won’t also give him the satisfaction of a response. So he just stares at him indignantly, until Wyll finally cracks and dissolves into a fit of—admittedly, politely restrained—laughter masked beneath a hand cupped over his mouth. Astarion rolls his eyes at him, shoving the man away to return back to all the fancy hair and facial care that he’d made Gale’s housekeep go through the pain of finding for him. Whilst Wyll has a proper laugh at his expense, he finishes wiping his face clean from all of the maquillage he’d used.

After the laughter spans into minutes, he gives a huff of annoyance. “Alright, you’ve had your fun!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, my love,” Wyll returns, still wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eyes. “It’s just—you really were—and of Shadowheart no less?! What could you possibly have to be jealous of when it comes to Shadowheart? I’ve never paid her more than half a glance. All the time I’ve known her, and I still don’t even know the woman’s real name. Let alone have any desire to take her to bed!”

“Lots of things can happen in half a glance, Wyll, I don’t know!” huffs Astarion. “She looked gorgeous. Youthful. And she would probably be a more sensible fit on your arm than… well—”

“Nobody is more perfect for me than you, Astarion.” Blood-red eyes flicker up at this, mouth slightly agape. Not at the words; he’d heard some variant of them a million times before. But rather how quickly they come, as if Wyll didn’t have to think a moment before saying something so impossibly virtuous. The sizzling, acidic sensation beneath his chest begins to ebb away finally—replaced by that inexplicable fluttering of earlier. “You don’t believe me, my heart? What else do I have to do to show you? What words can I say to prove it?”

Floundering like a beached fish, no snarky retort or dismissive platitude comes to mind. Wyll closes the little space between them so effortlessly, a large hand coming up to swipe an errant curl from the vampire’s forehead. That same hand trails down, clutching both of Astarion’s hands between his own with the conviction of a pious man come to pray. His fingers gently squeeze at the man’s knuckles, his eye trails languidly over his lover’s face before finally landing contentedly on his own gaze. If looking at someone you love could provide sustenance, Wyll might be satisfied for the rest of his days—he drinks in the bewilderment in those scarlet red eyes, silent for several long moments in his contendedness to just admire his darling. The fluttering in Astarion’s chest becomes a war drum, pounding so hard against his ribcage it feels as though the bedeviled thing is trying to rip through his chest cavity and run into Wyll’s arms.

Love must make people delusional, because he’d been certain that his heart couldn’t beat anymore after his undeath.

When Wyll speaks again, it’s with that dashing confidence of his. As if there was little more he could be sure of than this.

“You’re all that’s on my mind, all that lives within my heart. The truth to every word I speak, the spring beneath every step, the purpose behind every drawing breath,” he brings their hands to his lips, breath warm against ever-cool digits. Presses a sweet kiss to the spot where deep amber skin meets milky white. “My sun, my sky, my moon and my stars. Astarion, it’s you. In every dream, in every fantasy, in every desire. It’s always you and only you.”

Before his adventures with his friends and his descent into the Hells, Astarion had been sure he’d discovered every way someone could be knocked breathless. A punch to the stomach, a dizzying hit to the temple, a sudden stab to the lungs. He’s endured an uncountable about of torment and injustice alike, all that had been rather adept in reminding him that he was dead and even the air he bothered to breathe was useless.

Yet it wasn’t until he met Wyll Ravengard that he came to understand how not only mere words could knock him breathless, but how the feeling could be accompanied by thrilling euphoria as opposed to the usual sinking dread.

Whenever he begins to doubt the man, even for the smallest of moments, there was always Wyll to swoop in to remind him. This storybook prince of a hero, how had it taken two hundred years for some God to finally hear his prayers?

Perhaps unnerved by the silence, Wyll gives another squeeze to his hands. “Astarion… my heart? Are you alright?”

“That,” a gust of air he doesn’t need leaves his lips, as he stares wild-eyed at the man in front of him. Slowly sorting his thoughts; placing all of the sickly sweet love confessions of his own aside, choosing something that was perhaps more on brand. “was the most erotic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

And it’s not even a lie, to boot. He’s must be getting better at this whole romance deal.

“Astarion, it wasn’t meant to be erotic. I was trying to tell you that I love—”

“Oh, I know what you were trying to do. I don’t happen to get much say in what my dick finds attractive.”

A wince from Wyll, a flicker of concern that he recognizes well. Sometimes he fell back into old habits, unsure ofof any other way to show his genuine affection for the man. It’s obvious he worries now that this is what Astarion is doing, because he begins to draw away. “Star…” In an act of reassurance of his own, the rogue surges forward. Places two hands on either side of Wyll’s face, pulls him in for a kiss. “… mm!”

They both taste of blackberry wine; Astarion’s lips a touch more metallic than Wyll’s own. It would be nauseatingly sweet, in any other context. The taste of fruits or the way his thumb caresses Wyll’s cheek or the saccharine little request for permission his tongue still does at his bottom lip. But in this moment, Astarion is not nauseated in the slightest. There is not curl of disgust in his stomach, no desire to let mechanics take over and slip into more pleasant fantasies. There’s no desire for anything at all, except to kiss this sweet, darling, foolish man breathless.

No fantasy could ever compare to the real thing when it came to Wyll Ravengard, something he learned anew everyday.

When he does pull away from the kiss, to offer his partner the air he, himself, doesn’t need, there’s a fond smile on his lips.

“And lest it ever be forgotten… I love you, too.” It earns a breathy chuckle from Wyll, who pulls him in again by the back of his neck. Their foreheads knock together and eyes flutter closed, one of the rare moments of peace they can steal from the unforgiving world. A rough thumb strokes the curls at the back of Astarion’s neck, longer and fuller since they’d begun their adventure. Pale hands cup a scarred cheek, fingertips resting gently against the divots of his scars.

The stinging, acidic sensation of jealousy is completely gone now, much to the vampire’s relief. There was never anything to be worried about with Shadowheart, of course. It’s made evident in their quiet moments like this that the only person that could catch Wyll’s eye is the one sitting in front of him. No amount of gossamer gowns or flowing twine-woven braids could ever tempt him from what they have; truthfully, he shouldn’t have doubted it in the first place. From his memory, Astarion has never been loved so fully and with so much devotion. He’s never loved anyone that way either.

He’s still learning, of course. He’ll be learning for a long while yet, according to Wyll. But it’s rather pleasant to know Wyll would be there to reassure him whenever he needs. A novelty upon novelties.

“Now. Take me to bed. We haven’t had rest on nice lenin in so long,” Astarion simpers, taking Wyll’s hand to tug him to the canopied bed instead. As opposed to their early days, the man doesn’t protest or dawdle; consummate lover indeed, Wyll was still a young man of some twenty-six years. The promise of sex, freely given and eagerly desired, blows the pupil on his red eye wide.

“Surely, it muffles sound much better than that threadbare shit we have back at the House of Hope; I truly do not wish the whole lot of them to hear just how much I love you.”

“Except for Shadowheart, I’ll wager?” jokes Wyll, leaning down to take off one of his boots. Astarion tosses a look over his shoulder; first menacing, before he breaks into a warm smile at his own expense.

“Well. Except for Shadowheart.��

#baldur’s gate 3 #the blade of frontiers!: wyll ravengard #time to kill: astarion ancunín #wyllstarion: the horns do look dashing on him; almost anything does…#bloodpact: so much shadow around us #well done soldier!: prompt fill #boy do i have queues for you #astarion ancunin #wyll ravengard #bg3 #wyll x astarion #astarion x wyll #bg3 fanfic prompt #bg3 fanfiction

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