#soldier boy prompt

[glossykissies]

soldier boy is sooooo sexy because he keeps up the warm, charming, gentlemanly act if he wants to fuck you, until he’s got you in bed — where he’s immediately dropping the act :(

all those nice words and lingering soft gazes that he’s tried and tested to get women to melt have disappeared, only to be replaced with two strong hands manhandling you, gripping your arms and tucking them under your knees to hold your legs up and out of his way.

"you fuckin' keep these out of my way, yeah? let me work this tight lil' thing open."

he doesnt care if you get all whiny either, eventually tossing you onto your front so he can all but mount you, driving into you the way he needs. he holds your head off the mattress with a hand around your throat and jaw area, lips to your temple as he makes your eyes and pussy walls flutter.

“yeah. my good baby, taking that dick. gripping me so hard ‘can barely fuckin’ move. you missed me or something?”

you definitely had.

[masempaix]

Y/n: Looking delicious in that outfit, babygirl *wink*

Soldier Boy: did she just ca—

Hughie: It’s meant you’re attractive man

[thewritersaddictions]

Day One: Soldier Boy + Baby It's Cold Outside

It's late december when Ben comes back from yet another search for a Vought member. He's not really a fan of christmas having never really gotten the things he wanted during his childhood.

The first time Ben hears the song it's during his time away at war. Ben is just thirty, and he loves music. Warming his heart in a way that not much else can. He hums to himself during his time away at war, and as his mother used to. It keeps him clam, and striaght with his thoughts.

It's when Vought takes Ben to be their test subject and their propaganda device, does the song come back to him. Years had passed, Vought wanted, and tried like hell to make the face of thier company sell.

What was worth selling? Sex has alway sold, and by the standards of the world then and now Ben is a deliciously sexy man. Now mix that together with money and you've pretty much got yourself anything you can dream of.

It forces Ben, or what Vought called him "Soldier Boy" to become apart of a few things. Movie titles, pinup posters, and songs. During the sevetnies, and eighties when the tech get's better the songs he laid down on records turned into shitty music videos.

During christmas time one of the years before he was caught by the russians. He does yet another albums filled with winter songs. Speicallifly the song he had used to keep himself level headed during the war, down in the trenches dirt and blood splattering his face.

Shaking the thought he does what he's told, and sings the song. That damn song that has been stuck to him like glue for the past twenty years at least. Ben does a few good things before getting caught by the Russians like buying the song on record his version and the orginal stuffing them away with other importnat documents, and things from his childhood.

Ben can see the stupid LED christmas lights from the apartments window as he walks up his duffel over his shoulder. With that he jams the brass key into the lock twisting and turning the knob before the door gives and he's let in. The lights are dimly light, and the sound of the tv plays in the background.

"I'm home." He says loudly so you can hear over the tv. He can the scampering of your feet on the hardwood, as he drops the duffel kicks the door shut with his boots, and sits down to unlace his boots.

Theres that beautiful smile he wishes he could see everyday whenever he's away. "Hey beautiful." He says with a contentment that you can hear in his voice. You smile sweetly down at him, and when ben gets up from his kneeled postion you smother him kisses.

You taste of choclate and mint, "What have you been up to while I've been gone?" He asks even though he really doesn't have to. The apartment is decorated ceiling to floor in christmas decorations. Ben feels as if he just walked into a christmas store, or maybe a hallmark.

"Well," You start with a smile written all over your face, "I've been trying to get into the sprit of christmas, and  I pulled some of your old records out looking for something a least a little bit chirstmassy." The words "your records."

"You weren't through my things?" Ben doesn't mean for the words to come out so harsh, but they do. Ben is and has always been protective of what he has and that includes you, but he wishes you could have waited till he was home and you had asked him instead.

The smile on your face starts to fall you open your mouth open to apoliges, but nothing comes out. You drop your hand from his, and get quiet moving over to the couch. "I'm sorry Ben." The tv is still playing but the sound is lower.

Ben can feel the tension in the air. Thick and it annoys him. He forgets just how sensitive you can be not used to being home just yet. Ben needs a drink before he can deal with that mess he's created.

He leaves you in the living for now, to mutter in your feelings while he finds in the kitchen a jug of eggnog. An old recipe card sits out, he internally groans. 'Fuck you for being so damn sweet to him.' and 'Fuck him for having such a sweet spot for you.' He pour himself a glass and it hits him with a tingle down his thoart. His eyes scan over the recipe card, In cursive, "Just a dash or two cups of whiskey."

He can't hear you, but cna hear the tv. He rolls his eyes has he pour himself anther cup, and you one as well. When he comes out of the kitchen you are right where he left you. Setting your cup on the side tablebut not before you move a coastar underneath it. He set his cup down on the other coastar. The silence isn't uncomfortable for Ben, but he can feel you messin' with your fingers and nails. He starts to scan what you took out. His records, and one catches his eye.

He slides his fingers over the old package, and pulls the record from the safety of it's home. The record is safe from marks, or scratches and so Ben slips it onto the record player. Grabbing the remote, turning the tv off.

"Listen baby," You don't look at him, "Honey, look at me." Your eyes are glazed with hurt, but you look at him anyways. He has to stifle his laugh at how adorable you look right now for him.

"I'm sorry for being short with you, you know it takes me a few hours to get back and used to being home with you love. Now get up here and let me fix it." Ben says, reaching out his hand palm up so your much smaller hand can fit right in it. You chew your bottom lip for a moment like your thinking of denying him, but as much as Ben's missed you you've missed him tenfold.

You grab his hand and Ben pulls you up effortlessly. He smiles for the first time since he arrived home, and your shoulders fall with contentment. Ben only lets go of your hand for a few seconds just enough to let the needle fall on the record and his hands to slip back into yours. One hand holding onto your hand and the other your waist. The two of you sway as the music crackles and then starts to play.

You rest your head against his large chest, and breathe him in. The first few tracks are not the song Ben's looking for, but he waits patiently. He likes being able to hold you like this, there's no rhythm or reason to your swaying.

That is until the song Ben had been waiting for hit his ears. The songs start slow, and then your movements become more fluid. Your socks glide on the carpet, and even if you accidentally step on Ben's feet he is still okay with having you in his arms. By the chorus of the song Ben's humming in your ear with his hand holding you with a warm grip 'round our waist.

"You'll sing it for me?" You ask with your cheek pressed into his chest. Ben's humming stops and for a moment so does the little swaying the two of you have gotten into. Ben thinks for a moment, "Maybe sweetheart. Maybe." But he can already feel you getting excited at the thought of him singing, "But for now can you take the hummin' and the swayin'?" He asks, putting a stray piece of hair behind your ear. Nodding, you place your head back on his chest, swaying, and humming resumes.

Completed on: 10/06/23

Posted on: 12/01/23

The Anti-Hero-

The Boys Master List // The Anti-Hero Master List // Christmas Stoires Master List

[legrandepapillon]

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.

[ff7-has-taken-me-over]

Zack’s not a jealous guy. He doesn’t see the point in it really. He has faith in his partners and he’s confident enough in himself that it doesn’t matter if other people wanna flirt with them. If his partner is unhappy or wishes for something else he trusts they’ll tell him.

But apparently that doesn’t exactly translate well to his friendship with Cloud. Like, yeah. He’s got a crush on the guy, how could he not? The blond is so adorable and devastatingly beautiful sometimes and his dry wit and awkward charm make Zack giggle like a child. It’s hard not to fall for him.

So he understands, logically, why his fellow SOLDIER’s would be asking about the blond he’s been hanging out with recently. He understands why they’re all asking him to set them up with Cloud or maybe put in a good word for them. He gets it, would totally be one of them if he wasn’t already friends with the blond.

What he doesn’t get is why there’s so much seething jealousy when he catches them so much as looking at the blond. Let alone actually trying to ask him out. Every time one of them come and ask him to give them Cloud’s number he has to restrain himself from snapping at them.

Gritting his teeth and spouting off some bullshit reason of why he can’t do that. It’s wrong and he shouldn’t be gatekeeping his best friend like he has any say in who the guys dates but he can’t help it.

[jacklesversebingo]

Sign-up Here

The prompt list may have gotten a bit out of hand, but putting it together has been so fun. The list is long and varied, containing fan-favorite tropes, kinks, and AUs. It also includes quotes that have been twisted, tropes that have been turned on their heads, and maybe a few off-the-wall ideas.

Don’t worry, though. You can request changes if your card contains prompts that don’t inspire you.

Prompts If you are unsure of a prompt's meaning or its spirit of intent, please ask.

Quotes and song lyrics quoted as a prompt should not be amended

Songs - use all or part (e.g., lyrics as dialogue, soundtrack for fan vid, fic or art based on the song's vibe). Using the song title as the title of your piece is fine, but the content also needs to connect to the song in some way.

AUs, kinks, single-word prompts, etc., use as you'd like based on the guidelines.

Sample Cards

Round One starts October 1, 2023. Be sure to read the Guidelines/Rules and the FAQs before signing up.

[zepskies]

Tell me about Love Actually, and Michael, please, with whiskey and pie on top?

Well, hello there!!

I think "Michael" is @spnexploration's WIP, but thank you for asking about "Love Actually" - (Soldier Boy x Reader)! 🥰

It's a one-shot for @deanwinchesterswitch’s "Christmas in July" event (so it'll be coming out sometime in July!). It’s set in the same world as “Checkerboard” and “Break Me Down,” fitting somewhere in between timeline-wise, but can be read as a stand-alone. ❄️❄️

Summary: Ben gets in late on Christmas Eve with a Grinch-like attitude, but you’re determined to force some holiday cheer into his system. 

And here's a sneak peek:

When he opened his eyes again, they were drawn to the small, four-foot Christmas tree in the corner of the room, next to the TV. 

“That’s a poor fucking excuse for a tree,” he said. 

You frowned and followed his gaze. 

“I think it’s adorable,” you replied. And it was the only one you thought would fit in this cozy, but very narrow apartment.

Lol Ben's very much a grump in this one. 🎄

[fr-3-aksh-0-w]

I did a whole little story about a Soldier who broke into this little French woman’s bakery, aimed a gun at her, saw it was a mistake, then got chewed out in French by the woman, she also threw stale buns at him then demanded he fix her window which he managed to do even though he wasn’t handy.

She then basically conned him into buying a loaf of cinnamon coffee cake with the last of his money.

She made him try a bite which he liked and that made her very happy, she told him to come back with more money and to try everything. He said he would, then she sent him on his way.

Later that night, after the soldier got into the fight he was *supposed* to be at, he got wounded and managed to stumble back to the bakery after he was abandoned from evac, because he didn’t know anyone in this little town. He didn’t have to beg for her help, but she addressed him as

“Cinnamon Soldier” because of the coffee cake loaf he bought and she didn’t know his name yet. She took care of his wounds and one thing lead to another, and they ended up spending the night together. It was very soft and romantic. Neither of them had been in a relationship for a while either, so it felt like the first time all over again.

It was super cute.

She’s gonna teach him how to bake cause he don’t know shit.

[waynes-multiverse]

Kinda in the mood for some smut drabbles this week... 👀😇

So if you have little dirty requests for me, send them in. Can be for Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau, or Jensen. No rules. If I feel uncomfortable with something, I’ll let you know 😉

Dirty Inbox 🖤

[irl-dogboy]

🎵BUCKY

boys a liar pt2 awakened something deep within me. *lovecores your winter soldier*

(send me a character + 🎵 and i‘ll draw them using the first song that comes up on shuffle as a prompt)

[glossykissies]

omggg just imagine soldier boy hunched over you driving into you at the speed of light pushing your thighs back so far with his supe strength you think you might knee yourself in the face

you keep crying for him whining daddy over and over again and he just tells you to “shut the fuck up” 🥲

you love when he gets all serious and concentrated, hands holding your legs up behind your knees, thick biceps tenses as he fucks you through the mattress with his brow frowned. its a moment where he seems… human. desperate for release, and knowing your clingy, slick walls are the only thing that can bring him that is a god-tier ego boost.

your brain is mush by this point, given that off principle soldier boy had fucked you through roughly three orgasms — making your convulsing hole so sloppy that strings of your release would string to his base each time he pulled out to thrust, and a wet slapping sound filled the room.

“mmph, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy!” you cry, because it’s all you can cry when he’s holding you down and ruining you like that.

“yeah i know baby.” he husks, thinking it’ll hush you but you continue, whining and squealing with each time he fucks in, bed violently creaking.

“da—daddy!” you wail, and he grunts — lips pressed together as he forces you back open when you clench too hard.

“ease up.” he instructs in concentration, but you’re hysterical— grabbing wherever you can reach.

“da—” you’re silenced by a hand over your mouth as he rocks you harder into the bed, jaw clenched.

“shut the fuck up, would you?” he all but growls, eyes shutting as he works himself up to your release. at his meanness, you do too.

[rwac96]

BBTAG Jaune and Soldier Boy (The Boys)

Intro

Jaune: *unsheathes Crocea Mors* These guys look tough. Crap, we gotta come up with a plan--!

Soldier Boy: *chest glows* Skip the plan, let's get 'em!

Jaune: H-Hey!

Victory/Cross Tag

Soldier Boy: Hmph, not even worth a blast.

Jaune: Gods! That was way too close!

Victory Screen

Soldier Boy: Wait, you weren't injected with Compound V? You're a natural Supe?

Jaune: Um, my powers are simply called 'Aura' and 'Semblance'. Man, your world sounds...pretty bad.

[masempaix]

Y/n: My cock . . . Where is my cock?!?

Soldier Boy: If you need a cock, I have it right here

Hughie: I don’t want to ruin your mood but she asking for her pet, rabbit

Soldier Boy: *Punch Hughie*

[xenaxena]

hello!

my name is xena (not really) and this is a side blog i have purely for sexy times (smut, porn, call it what you want)

my masterlist — i have written for dean winchester and beau arlen

i’m 20 years old, and if you interact with me you must be over the age of 18. (almost) every post will be nsfw, you are responsible for your content consumption and i won’t be held accountable.

i’m planning to write for supernatural, the boys, marvel, dc, and other stuff with those actors/actresses. (no rpf, only the characters they play)

currently writing for most jensen ackles characters (dean winchester, ben/soldier boy, beau arlen, jason teague, jake gray, alec/x5-494) and taking requests.

if you have a request don’t hesitate to send it! i will not be writing w*ncest or non/con but other then that, ask away! (if i’m uncomfortable with the request i will simply voice that and move on, no hard feelings)

i only right “x female reader” but the character(s) can be any gender

ps - if you find my main blog, please keep this blog separate (name, fandoms, etc) thanks. also, i would very much appreciate it if you let me know you connected the dots lol (either through anon or messages just please let me know!!)

[legrandepapillon]

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.”

[siamesephoenixrandomideatank]

ToH Alternate Ending Idea Prompt: Leaves from the vine

Somehow, Hunter passed away before the ‘Happy Ending’. Darius somehow moved on, but annually visit his grave/death place to do the tribute.

Leaves from the vine Falling so slow Like fragile tiny shells Drifting in the foam Little soldier boy Come marching home Brave soldier boy Comes marching home