Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rules had changed.

The sunlight thing was obvious. After the initial terror of regaining consciousness in a sunbeam and running for cover, it was not difficult to tell he was unharmed. Entering homes was even easier, since that restriction had never been accompanied by pain, simply blocked him as surely as a stone wall when he’d tried it in the past.

Running water…running water was not something he has tested yet, and not something he was keen on trying out.

So when his ears caught the telltale trickle of a stream, he found himself grateful that he was in the back of their marching order, so no one could see how his muscles seized up, refusing to get any closer. Godey had always had to drag him to the fountain in the past.

He swallowed back the instinct to beg. Tav was not his M—was not Cazador. He could not show weakness in front of the others, he had to be useful, and if not useful, then at least entertaining.

They were already yards ahead, forcing him to lengthen his strides to catch up. He could see the stream now. Too wide to jump, but shallow enough it would only be up to a halfling’s knees. Speaking of halflings, the bard hadn’t even seemed to acknowledge the obstacle, making eyes at Karlach to the point she may very well walk headlong into a tree one of these days.

“Tav, darling,” he started, deciding to play up the role of the dandy. “Surely you don’t expect me to get these boots wet, I just stole them. Perhaps a bridge nearby?”

“I doubt it,” Tav said. “Little streams like these are only even around in the spring after the ice melts, they dry up quick in the summer. Probably no one has bothered building one.”

“I’d offer to carry you, Fangs, but I’m sure you’d rather not catch on fire.”

Fangs? Really?

He would roll his eyes at her if he wasn’t frantically thinking of another way to get out of this.

“It might be better to set up camp, here, anyway,” Wyll said. “Resupply with fresh water and fish, then strike the goblin camp at first light when they’re likely to be hungover.”

“Makes sense to me,” Tav said.

Astarion had no need to breathe but let out a breath anyhow.

__________

He had a difficult time getting into trance with the sound of running water this close and knowing he would be forced to either try to cross it tomorrow or admit he was a liability. The smart thing to do would be to sneak over, dip a finger in, and see if it still burned him like it used to. It might do nothing, like the sunlight. Yet, he still ached for blood, still could not see his reflection, so what if this was another area where his vampirism remained unaffected by the tadpole? He couldn’t bring himself to. Not with the memories of being lowered closer and closer to the fountain haunting him.

All too soon, Wyll was standing at his bedroll, torch in hand, ready to hand off the next watch.

He rolled out of bed with a huff, “Are you quite sure you even want me to take a watch? The evil vampire could drain you all dry in your sleep.”

Tav had, luckily, not staked him last time he’d tried it. Not sure she would be so forgiving of a repeat performance, however.

“And all of us could grow tentacles by morning. It’s your turn, Astarion, don’t try to wriggle out of it.”

He would normally make a smart remark about wriggling, but he was too tired, too hungry. Fish blood was even worse than rats, somehow. He took the torch and began to circle the tents. Not that he needed fire to see, but the heat was nice.

“Wait,” Wyll said, crossing over to him, voice lowered.

“Oh? Are we conspiring? I do love a good hushed conversation,” he said, pausing.

“It’s for your sake, not mine,” Wyll said. “The reason we stopped today, it’s the running water, isn’t it?”

He bristled, voice coming out in a hiss, “Congratulations, monster hunter. You’ve managed to remember a children’s story on vampires and put two and two together.”

“I was going to offer to carry you across, before the others wake up.”

Astarion eyed him. What was his angle? Get him halfway, then drop him into the water? But that kind of trick didn’t track with the whole Blade persona.

No, maybe it was something much simpler.

“I don’t even know if it hurts me, anymore,” he let his shoulders slump, making himself smaller. The hero wanted a damsel to rescue? He could play that part. “But my Sire used to lower me into running water when I’d displeased him. The sound alone…”

“It’s alright,” Wyll said, taking the torch from him and setting it down in a holder nearby. “Come on.”

He followed him, growing tense as they neared the water’s edge.

“Do you trust me?” Wyll asked, lowering himself to one knee.

No.

But what other choice did he have?

He nodded.

He’d been expecting a bridal-carry, given the Hero schtick, but instead Wyll lifted him over one shoulder. Fine by him. Squeezing his eyes tight, Astarion covered his ears with his hands to block out the noise. His stomach lurched when they started to move and he had to force himself to stay still. He tried not to think at all and when that failed, he settled on counting the steps.

Astarion felt himself be lowered to his feet. A good damsel would look up at him through long lashes, arms lingering around his shoulders, but he couldn’t even open his damned eyes, his whole body taught like a bowstring.

He felt something brush against his arm and shoved it back, away, “Don’t touch me.”

“Astarion,” Wyll’s hands were in front of him, placating. Concerned. “Are you alright?”

Shit.

He was fucking this up.

“Much better, thanks to you, darling,” he said, stepping closer to him and to the role he was playing. He kissed his cheek, figuring Wyll to be the type to want the chase, even if Astarion was the easiest fucking lay in the lower city. Sure enough, he saw the man blush as he bade him goodnight and hurried away. He felt a smug satisfaction at that.

He could work with this.

Tav was uninterested, but a monster-hunter could do.

He might not even need to put out, not that it would be too much of a hardship.

Chapter Text

“What’s this? The Blade avoiding his adoring masses?” Astarion asked, sliding up to him. He would have expected him to relish the hero-worship, and yet here he was, doing his best Shadowheart impression.

“Hells, was hoping no one would notice I was gone,” he sighed. “I’m a devil. No one wants a devil at their party. Horns this sharp will pop the balloons, you see.”

Astarion clutched non-existent pearls, “Horns, you say? You’re right, I’m certain tieflings of all people would faint at such a sight.”

“Mock all you want, Astarion, but I…unsettle them, deep down. As I seem to unsettle everyone nowadays.”

He cocked his head to the side, was this insecurity? In his appearance? Oh, he could use that.

“Well considering that they’re drinking wine that’s practically vinegar, I wouldn’t put too much stock in their taste,” he said, then lowered his voice to a sultry tone. “I consider you a rather handsome devil, personally.”

Wyll let out a small laugh, “I will have to take your word for it. There are some things I can feel, of course. The scars, the horns, bumps and prongs in unmentionable places, but in truth…I have not looked at my own reflection yet.”

“Is the Blade of the Frontiers vain?” he clapped his hands. “Oh, delightful. Well, tell you what, I’ll be your mirror if you be mine. It has been two hundred years for me, after all.”

He smiled, lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes, “Alright, deal. You, first, what do you see when you look at me?”

Astarion grinned and circled around him, making a show of getting a good look.

“Hmm, a trim form, excellent posture…” to his amusement, Wyll straightened up even further at that. “Unfortunate clothing choices, but nothing some tailoring cannot fix. The horns are well-proportioned, the different eyes a source of intrigue, and the scarring…” he deliberately paused in front of him and reached out to brush his thumb along his cheek. “The scarring accentuates a fine, noble bone structure. In fact… you look…”

“Familiar?” Wyll supplied, with a smile that was far too wicked for a supposed hero.

“We’ve met?” He stepped back, stomach lurching. Was he a target that had gotten away, perhaps? Wyll certainly would have counted as a beautiful soul.

“Never formally introduced, I don’t believe, but I’ve seen you before. Danced with you, in fact, back in Baldur’s Gate. The Miyar-Vammas wedding.”

No, not a target, then. He remembered that night. Remembered being loaned out to Lutecia Hhune as her escort for that evening. Remembered Cazador whispering to play nice with one doe-eyed youth in particular.

“You’re that Wyll? The Grand Duke’s brat?”

He bowed, “One and the same. To be fair, my appearance has changed since I was seventeen, so I won’t hold it against you that you didn’t recognize me.”

“Well, I recognize you now, darling,” he flashed a winning smile. A monster-hunter and the son of a duke? Oh, he definitely needed this man in his back pocket. “Speaking of appearances, I believe it’s your turn, is it not? What do you see, when you look at me?”

If he replied a monster or a vampire or something of that nature, this pursuit may have been ill-advised. But the fact that he remembered him after so many years, after just one dance, well, that boded well.

Wyll touched his cheek, mirroring Astarion’s earlier gesture, and he forced himself to stay still. Pliant.

It wasn’t until his hand dropped that Astarion remembered what he should have been doing, he should have pressed into his touch, kissed his palm, reached for him in return. Foolish. How was he already losing his touch?

“When I was younger, I would have said your most striking feature was your eyes, but now that I know what you are, all I can think of is what they looked like before you were turned.”

“Your guess is as good as mine on that one, darling,” he admitted.

“You don’t remember?”

“Dying is terrible on the memory, I’m afraid. Yet another thing Cazador took from me,” he replied, then deflected before the concern in Wyll’s eyes turned into full-blown pity. “Now, go on, you were saying how striking my eyes were.”

“They still are, of course, but they aren’t half as sharp as your wit.”

“Oh, very good,” he preened. “Now, tell me I’m beautiful and I might just let you kiss me goodnight.”

Wyll took his hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, “You’re beautiful.”

Yes, this was good. But not enough. He needed more than Wyll’s admiration, he needed him to be attached. Devoted. Needed him to actually care if Astarion lived or died or fell back into the hands of his bastard of a sire.

Astarion stepped forward as the man straightened, his movements fluid, practiced. A cat closing in for the kill. He wrapped his arms around his strong shoulders, internally cheering when he felt the warmth of Wyll’s arms at his waist. It was working.

“I meant a real kiss…” he pressed their foreheads together, their breath intermingling. If he read him right, Wyll would want to be the one to initiate, all he could do was make his openness to it known, tempt him into it. Come on, come on—

Wyll paused, looking into his eyes, then pressed forward into a brief, chaste kiss. Astarion felt a longing to surge forward, take more, scream at him to just get it over with already, but he followed his lead and pulled back when he did.

“Was that real enough for you?” he asked, and that smile was almost charming enough to make him want to forgive him for drawing this out.

“For now,” he replied, letting his fingertips linger as their bodies parted. “Good night, Wyll Ravengard.”

“Good night to you, Star.”

Chapter Text

“Must we chat with every vagrant we come across?” Astarion wrinkled his nose in distaste. The Gur stank, more than they usually do, at least.

“You know, I’d bet he can still hear you from here,” Tav scolded.

“Good, then perhaps he will keep his distance.”

The halfling rolled her eyes and kept walking up the hill, “We need supplies, let’s see if he has anything to trade.”

“Well, don’t blame me if you wake up tomorrow with your purse cut,” he did not bother to lower his voice.

“Don’t mind him, friend,” Wyll spoke up. “We had a fight with a hag earlier and he was hit with some nasty poison.”

“The hag? You killed her, then?” the Gur shook his head. “I won’t mourn her passing, though I’d hoped she would help me on my hunt.”

“Hunting what, exactly?” Astarion asked, curiosity piqued. “Dragon? Cyclops? Kobolds?”

“Nothing so dramatic. I hunt for a vampire spawn.”

“I for one hear vampire spawn can be very dramatic,” Tav quipped. Karlach snorted in a most un-ladylike way, covering it unsuccessfully with a cough.

He ignored them both. Was one of his so-called siblings in the area to hunt him down? Was this Gur sent by his master to drag him back to him? His eyes flicked over to Wyll—this could very well be the moment of truth, had he done enough? If Tav betrayed him, would it be four against one?

He needed to know more.

“What would you want with such a craven creature?” he asked, feigning casual indifference.

“My people were recently attacked in the night—vampire spawn. In the chaos of battle, one of them stole away with our children,” he said. “We have heard of one of them, Astarion, in the area. We plan to capture him. My people will make him talk.”

He could almost hear the crypt lid sliding shut. Kind-hearted Tav would buy his sob-story, she bought every sob-story, and would sell him out. He had to run. He slid an Alchemist’s Fire out of his pouch and—

“Do you know nothing of vampire spawn?” Wyll stepped forward. “Torture isn’t going to work. If his master ordered him not to talk, burning him alive wouldn’t be enough to loosen his lips. You’re better off going after the sire. Cut the head off the snake, I say.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” the Gur relented. “Without the hag’s intervention, I have little hope of finding him if he has truly gone to ground. And from one monster-hunter to another, I suggest the lot of you run before you have a whole coven on your tail.”

“Noted, kind sir,” Wyll bowed, ever the gentleman.

The hunter began to pack his cart, which notably contained a cage, and they started down the hill. Tav and Karlach congratulated Wyll on his quick-thinking and Astarion… Drifted

It wasn’t until they actually reached camp that he noticed he was still holding on to the vial.

“Astarion?”

He slipped the vial away and flashed an automatic smile. Wyll had done him a favor, maybe even saved his life, he should be grateful.

“Ah, the man of the hour. My hero. Come in,” he shifted from where he was seated to lounge back on one elbow. The human entered, pulling the tent flap closed. Gods, was it already nighttime? How much time had he lost, just…staring into space? He could have spent that time preparing. He knew Wyll would expect gratitude. He should have pilfered some cooking oil or ointment or something and slicked himself up. Now he would have to hope Wyll let him use his mouth, first…

“I don’t feel too heroic right now,” Wyll said, sitting cross-legged next to him. Not looming over him. Not forcing his head into his lap. He relaxed. Slightly. “That man was only trying to rescue his people’s children and I deceived him. For my own peace of mind, do you know where they are?”

Astarion blinked.

Then he laughed, “Are you serious, darling? That’s why you’re here?”

“If there are children that need help—"

“Gods, Wyll, do you need me to spell it out for you? Cazador was not running a daycare. For two hundred years, I brought beautiful souls for him to feed on, night after night. They’re gone,” he laid flat on his back, staring up at a small rip in the top of the tent. He really should repair that before the next rain. But when he wakes up with the sun already on him it’s easier to remember that it’s safe to go outside without being burned. “I didn’t even remember that particular raid until it was brought up, today.”

“I’ve heard from a trustworthy source that dying is terrible on the memory.”

“Trustworthy? You’re more of a fool than I thought,” he glanced over to see him smirking and returned it with one of his own. Wyll made it so easy… “Still, you’re a useful fool to have around. You defended me today. That is something I swear I won’t forget.”

“I wasn’t about to hand over a companion to be tortured, no matter what you were accused of,” he said.

He scoffed, “As if there was anything the Gur could do to me that would have even made me bat an eye.”

“That’s not the point, Astarion,” Gods, Wyll had only one eye but there was enough puppy-dog in that one eye to put a pack of beagles to shame. “Don’t be glib. Not about that.”

It was easy to forget, sometimes, about Mizora dragging him through the Hells. Wyll acted like it only affected his appearance, but he of all people should know that was a ruse.

Astarion swallowed down about ten more deflecting comments and sighed, “Very well. But don’t tell anyone I was able to be talked out of glibness.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Star.”

Wyll leaned in and kissed his forehead before slipping away.

His forehead of all places. Ridiculous. It was so… so fairy-tale. It just didn’t happen. Hadn’t he just told Wyll he had brought children to their deaths? Monsters like him got hunted down and the villagers rejoiced. They didn’t get protected, they certainly didn’t get…flustered.

He curled up and touched his brow, where the warmth of Wyll lingered.

Things like this didn’t happen to monsters like him.

Chapter Text

Tav said there was a settlement up ahead, Waukeen’s Rest. He had never heard of it, but if it wasn’t a bunch of smelly druids or goblins that would be fine by him. It would be nice to get a real bath, maybe purchase some soap or thread or—

He sniffed the air. Smoke.

Ah, yes, the first sign of civilization and it was on fire, because of course it was. Just his luck.

He caught sight of a group of humans trying to shove at a door and Tav was running towards the fire. He followed at a jog. Bunch of gods-damned do-gooders he was sidled with…

“Duke Ravengard could be inside! Push on the count of three, that’s an order!”

Ravengard? His blood went cold. Well, colder than usual. He could imagine Wyll charging in with a rapier of all things, challenging the fire to an honorable duel. He could imagine him getting crushed beneath a burning beam, trapped, coughing.

Karlach raged, axe in hand, and made short work of the door. Tav and Karlach rushed ahead, Wyll just a step behind, and before he could think he found himself grabbing at his wrist, “Stop!”

“My father—”

“I know, Wyll, but Karlach’s resistant to fire, Tav can heal, and I don’t need to breathe. So for once in your knightly life, stay back,” he meant for it to come out as a command, but his voice broke towards the end. “Please.”

“More hard bargains,” he made a frustrated noise but paused to soak a rag with his waterskin and turned around, “Tie it for me. Tav and Karlach went upstairs, so we’ll search the ground level only. And I’ll cast Armor of Agathys. If that runs out, we leave.”

“Fine,” he tied the cloth behind Wyll’s head, whirled him around so he could make sure it was adequately covering his nose and mouth, then grabbed hold of his arm so they wouldn’t lose each other in the smoke.

Knowing full well that this was a colossally stupid thing to do, he braced himself for disaster and headed inside.

The heat was stifling, no surprise. He held his breath, but that didn’t stop his eyes from watering. Wyll led him to the left, systematically clearing each room and shouting their progress up to Tav and Karlach as he went. He had to admit, he was at least tactical in his stupidity.

Two unfortunate souls freed later, they trudged back to camp.

“All that and no duke?” Astarion groused. His shoulder was burned, through his best shirt no less. And they hadn’t even extorted Counsellor Florrick for saving her life. What a waste. She looked like she had gold.

“At least he’s alive,” Tav said. “And if the cultists have him, they’re taking him to Moonrise Towers, most likely.”

“Don’t look so glum, fangs, we were heading there anyway!” Karlach grinned. “Besides, a land steeped in shadow, that’s your kind of place, right?”

A flashed her a smile, “The better to stalk prey with, my dear. Now, if you’ll kindly excuse me, I for one want this damned soot off of me.”

He headed off to the pond near camp, carefully stripping off his armor. Shadowheart was out of healing spells for the day, so he was stuck licking his own wounds. Ironically, vampire spittle had some numbing properties, Gale had said, though as he was a vampire himself, he was immune.

“Star?”

Gods, if Wyll was wanting to play out one of those bodice-ripper scenes where the hero lovingly nursed his charge back to health, he picked the wrong day. Lacerations that could be washed and stitched, that could be sexy. Fevers requiring a damp cloth on the forehead and tenderly coaxing one into drinking soup, that could be sexy. Broken or dislocated limbs that the hero could use his strength to set, that could be sexy. Burns? Burns blistered and leaked and would slough off yellowish granulation tissue. Not sexy.

His mind sunk back into old memories. Godey setting a poker to get white hot in the fire, delighting in giving him choices that were not choices at all. Would he prefer the poker go through a hand or a foot? His left eye or his right? His tongue or his—

“Star?” Wyll repeated, and Astarion couldn’t pretend not to hear him, not this close. “You looked a million miles away.”

“Did I?” he couldn’t think of a good quip, so perhaps a distraction was in order. Wyll wasn’t the only one who could be tactical. He pulled his shirt over his head, the singed threads smarting as they unstuck from his burn. Once again, he mentally wished for a nice clean sword wound instead, but it’s what he had to work with. “Be a dear and wet a bandage for me.”

Wyll gave him a strange look but let it go, rummaging in his pack and returning with a damp bandage as bidden, “I didn’t realize you were injured. May I?”

“Please,” Astarion turned his back fully to him, tilting his head ostensibly for easier access, but also to show off his long neck. Wyll’s hands were gentle, professional, never straying from his task. Damn him.

“Aren’t you supposed to regenerate?” Wyll asked.

Astarion rolled his eyes, he just had to ruin a perfectly good seduction with his monster-studies. Wyll seemed the type of student that would remind the teacher the class had homework to turn in.

“Well, it’s not like Cazador ever sat me down and explained how all this worked, but I believe it’s because I’m too far from him,” he said, turning to face him. “Took me years to figure it out, but I heal faster the closer I am in proximity to my sire.”

He used that against him, of course. After a long night with Godey, Cazador would pay him a visit and if Astarion begged prettily enough, he would bring him back to his chambers. A cock down his throat was worth it to take the pain away. Even now, the pain and his half-nudity was enough to stir him, to make his body expect sex.

“That makes what you did today all the more brave,” Wyll said with that blasted charming smile of his. It wasn’t helping his body-wanting-sex situation. “Thank you. Not a lot of people would run into a burning building to save a stranger.”

He scoffed, “I didn’t do it for your father.”

“I know,” Wyll took his hand and kissed the back of it, despite the fact that there was still clearly soot on them both. “You did it for me.”

“I did,” he said. He felt…his stomach fluttered uncomfortably at the admission, but he forced it down and plastered on a smirk. “You’re worth more to me alive than dead, darling. Now, you have me at a disadvantage. Why don’t we even things out, hmm? Besides, you have grime all over you. It’s unbefitting of a noble-born.”

Wyll shrugged, “I suppose it is, though neither my father nor I take much stock in that.”

“So you’ll come take a dip with me, then?” Astarion reached for the hem of his shirt, pausing to give him a chance to protest and when none came, slowly began to unbutton it.

“I will if you truly mean to wash,” he said, shrugging out of the garment. He bent over to undo the laces of his boots, the insufferable tease.

He let out a dramatic sigh, “I suppose I can live with that. Very well, I will leave your virtue intact. For now.”

Still progress, in his book. Painfully slow progress, but progress.

They stripped down to smallclothes and waded into the cold water, scrubbing off the dirt the best they could without soap. The supply they had gotten from the druids was used up and it’s not like the gnolls had any.

“Missed a spot,” Astarion teased, wiping a bit of non-existent soot off of his chin.

“And here I thought you were a good liar,” Wyll grinned. “That was painfully obvious.”

“Oh? Why would I lie?”

“As an excuse to touch me.”

“Darling, I’m hurt, if I just wanted an excuse to touch you, I would have picked a more…interesting place,” he ran his fingers down his chest. There was a keraunographic scar along his torso—a lightning strike from the hells, perhaps? Or before then, some battle with a mage?

“That’s about as interesting as I’m willing to go,” Wyll said. “And before you ask, yes that particular scar is from my transformation, courtesy of Mizora.”

“Dis?”

“Got it in one,” he said. “And what about your history with the Infernal?”

He paused, taking back his hand, “The Infernal, darling?”

“The scars on your back. I can’t read them, but I recognize Infernal when I see it, thanks to my contract.”

“I…Cazador called it a poem,” he shook his head. Once again, Wyll knew more about his own damned history than he did. “He used some special instrument, his ‘needle,’ so I wouldn’t regenerate from it. So the marks would scar. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, just another night of torment. Another reminder of who I belonged to.”

“Star,” he approached carefully, like one might an easily-spooked animal. He resented it.

“Don’t,” he hissed. “Don’t lie and tell me I don’t belong to him. Don’t tell me I’m free. Don’t tell me I’m okay. I’m not. Not while he lives.”

“I know,” he said, voice soft. “I know what that’s like. I know you’re not okay. But you’re also not alone.” Wyll’s thumb brushed gently along his chin.

“Soot?” he asked, confused.

“No, just an excuse to touch you.”

Astarion barked out a laugh and pulled him close, arms around his shoulders. And Wyll just…held him. He was just there.

Not alone.

Chapter Text

Astarion had gotten into the routine of going for a hunt while the others ate their stew or whatever it was Gale was fussing with. But today, like the half-tenday before, he sat at the edge of camp, trying not to think of the empty pit of his stomach.

Karlach was wrong. The Shadowlands were, in fact, not his kind of place. For miles around, there was no game to be had. And even if there was, having to carry a torch around meant even a geriatric orc could spot him coming.

Tav had been very clear that she was not about to give him blood and had even told him not to drink from their enemies, animals only. I don’t want you pushing to kill people we don’t have to just because you’re hungry, she’d said. Joke’s on her, because killing was one of his favorite ways of solving conflicts, regardless.

He thought of Wyll. The sweetness of his skin, the warmth of his body pressed against his. Would it be so bad, to trade his body for blood? He had done worse for less. And they had traveled together enough that he was fairly certain just asking wouldn’t earn him a stake through the chest.

He caught his good eye and nodded towards Wyll’s tent. Wyll made his excuses to the others and climbed in. Astarion ignored Karlach giving him a thumbs up when he followed, pulling the flap closed behind him.

Wyll was sitting up against a cushion, head cocked, “You wanted to talk?”

“We could do more than just talk,” he sank to hands and knees, prowling forward. Even starving, it was barely an effort to drop into this role. “You’ve seen me in next to nothing and still your hands never dip below my waist. I’ve been waiting for you to make the next move. Waiting to have you. Waiting to…taste you.”

He crawled into his lap, internally cheering when the man didn’t push him off. This close, his senses could pick up on the spike in his pulse and the scent of his blood. He purposefully let his gaze scan down the man’s body before flicking back up to his eyes.

He saw concern there. Shit.

“Do you really expect me to believe you want sex? You’ve been visibly miserable for days,” he said. Gods damn him, why did he have to be perceptive?

“Of course I’m miserable,” he snapped. “It’s this place. There’s no sun, there’s no game, there’s those awful, itchy vine-things that keep grabbing at me. How am I supposed to keep up like this, much less fight?”

Wyll took his hand, giving him his disarmingly earnest I’m-here-to-help look, “I can see how that’d be difficult. You just got the sun back, and now you’ve been dragged into this place. So, what do you need from me?”

He hesitated. This would be a lot less risky if the man had let himself be plied with wine, or better yet an orgasm.

“Blood,” he admitted at last, tensing his body to flee if he had to. “Just a taste, until we can get out of this place, and I can hunt again.”

The tadpole within him stirred at his pleading and shoved him down, down into his memories. Down into the dark. Trapped. Starving. Alone. Tracing each crack and imperfection in the stone slab over and over, counting them, memorizing them, clawing at them and scratching his fangs against them until his hands and mouth were a wreck of pain and blood. That moment when he heard the scrape of the crypt opening at last, sobbing dryly in gratitude and begging with what little voice he had that he would do anything—

Cheek pressed against wet, rough stone as he was taken from behind, suppressing a wince from too little preparation…

Anything—

Covering the child’s mouth with his hand to muffle her screams as he dragged her away from the camp to the nearby cages…

Anything—

Godey approaching with the pliers, holding his own mouth open for it in the hopes that if he was good he would leave him one fang…

“Enough!”

His head throbbed as his eyes returned to focus. Wyll at some point had grabbed him by the shoulders. Had he been shaking him? Had he seen?

“Back with me, Star?” his voice was soft, now.

Astarion nodded.

“Come here,” his strong, warm arms pulled him against his chest as he tilted his head to the side. Offering. Pulse strong, calling to him. Gods, it was beautiful. “Stop when I say or I’ll stop you, agreed?”

“Of course, my love,” he purred, unable to keep the quaver of desperation out of his voice. He sank his fangs into the thick vein of his jugular and felt hot blood flood into his mouth, coating his throat as he swallowed. Filling him with warmth, with life. He was sweet as a fine port and twice as heady. Hints of pecanwood and molasses of all things. Better than any animal. Better than gold and sex and the sun combined. He moaned at the rush of it, his cock filling, and he shamelessly ground against him, pleased to feel that his arousal was mirrored.

All too soon, Wyll was tapping his shoulder, telling him to stop. He whined as he forced himself to withdraw. It would have been easier to stab a knife into his own gut, at least that he had experience with. But he did it.

Wyll pressed a bandage to his neck, the cloth staining red, and it seemed like a horrific waste.

“Gods, Wyll, that was incredible,” he said, wiping the last dredges of blood with his fingers, then licking them off. Knowing he had an audience, he put a little bit more suggestiveness into the act than strictly necessary. He needed him on the hook. Now that he’d had this, he couldn’t imagine going without. No wonder his sire had forbidden the blood of thinking creatures. “I feel…better. Stronger. Happy.”

With the hand not applying pressure, Wyll stroked his cheek, “This is how I know you aren’t a monster. I didn’t have to stop you.”

“I wouldn’t have gotten very far with Tav and the others outside the tent if I’d killed you, to be fair. Perhaps I’m just a very clever monster?” he smirked. He began rocking his hips against him. “This was a gift, you know. Perhaps there is something I could do to repay you?”

“I don’t need repayment.”

He paused his movements. Seriously? He didn’t…he had to. That was how this worked.

“Now, now, you’re not turning me down, are you? That would hurt my streak. Come now, I can feel you hard against me. You want me.”

“I have a very charming elf in my lap and I’m only human,” he chuckled. “But that is something I can take care of myself. I don’t want you feeling like you have to earn my help, especially not like that. We’re partners, we help each other.”

“So, what, I get blood from you whenever I want, then?” he teased.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “But we’ll talk.”

“Well, then, I suppose it’s time for my walk of shame,” he climbed off, stretching. “Don’t worry, darling, I don’t plan to suck and tell. But please, feel free to think of me when you take care of yourself.”

Karlach made a rude gesture with her fingers when he left the tent, sending him a wink. He winked back, baring his fangs. Let her think of that what she may.

He returned to his own tent and for the first time in a century took himself in hand without it being for someone else’s entertainment. He closed his eyes and thought of Wyll, laid out before him on his back, smiling up at him. He imagined sinking his teeth into the vein at the crease of his thigh as he stroked him, slow and teasing. Then he would flip him over and take him on hands and knees, sucking at his throat. He finished into his palm, gasping.

The gods were mocking him, weren’t they? Two hundred years of semi-anonymous depravity and this was his penance: a beautiful, unattainable virgin.

Chapter Text

“Hey, fangs?”

Tieflings went maroon when they blushed, it was quite endearing.

Astarion raised a brow, closing his book, “Karlach, darling, are you embarrassed? Let me guess, a bit rusty in bed with Tav last night?”

“No, that was, yeah, she probably wouldn’t want me to give any details but it was actually...wow,” she grinned, glancing over to the halfling playing the violin like her life depended on it (to be fair, there were times that it did). “No, I just…wanted to ask if you would give me a hug? Please?”

Gods, she gave such a hopeful puppy dog look. He sighed, standing from his lovely spot at the back of the inn (his back to the wall, of course, with three possible escape routes planned out).

“I suppose, since you said please—” Karlach picked him up, swinging him around like a sack of potatoes. When she finally let him down, he straightened his clothes, hoping no one saw that undignified display. She lived life to the fullest, he would give her that. And given her condition, well, what harm did it do to stay in the good graces of one of his favorite meat shields?

“Too much?” she asked sheepishly.

“No, darling, you’re quite alright,” he said. And to his own surprise, it was. His typical panic response was down to a dull roar. It was…nice. He got the feeling that his nightly feeding sessions with Wyll might have something to do with it. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Who’s next on your list, if I may ask?”

“Lae’zel,” she said. “Think if I tell her it’s a bonding ritual for unit cohesion, she might agree?”

He let out a laugh, “You can certainly try. Do tell me the results.”

“I will soldier,” she saluted with a grin.

She sauntered off and he picked up his book again, only for Wyll’s shadow to block his candlelight.

“Can an undead monster not learn about forbidden necromantic powers in peace?”

“I know that cover,” Wyll said. “You’re reading Madame Bourgelais’ Genealogy: Baldur’s Gate Edition.”

He snapped it shut, “Oh? And if I am?”

“It’s rubbish,” he laughed. “Half the families claim they’re descended from Baldur himself.”

“Just the human ones, there’s a dwarf family that claims to be related to Tharmekhûl,” he smirked. “Still, it’s good to know what the families in power at least believe to be true, whether or not it is. Always good to know how best to stroke an ego, among other things.”

“I always preferred to charm using dance rather than false flattery,” he said. “I set a record, you know, for the most sarabandes danced in a single evening. And as far as I know, it is yet to be beat.”

“Aren’t you heroes supposed to be insufferably humble?”

“I always did struggle with that part of it,” he offered his hand. “Care to dance with me? It’s not every day we get to appreciate Tav’s music without the imminent threat of death.”

“I suppose I could spare a moment,” he set his book aside, taking his hand.

He let Wyll take the lead, his hand warm and familiar on his back.

“I had such a crush on you, when I was younger,” Wyll said, timing his words for when the dance allowed them to be within easy speaking distance. “You were the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on. I couldn’t believe my luck when you said you’d dance with me.”

“Believe me, the pleasure would have been all mine if you got me away from that awful Hhune dowager,” he said. “The Genealogy doesn’t mention she’s a werewolf, you know.”

“See what I mean about rubbish? That seems like an important detail to have missed,” he said. “Between the vampires and the werewolves, any other monsters hiding among the patriars I should know about?”

“Oh yes, Benedicta Nightblossom.”

“Really? What is she? A hag? A succubus?”

“Three goblins on each other’s shoulders wearing a dreadfully out of fashion hat,” he quipped.

“Should have known those hats were just a distraction,” Wyll grinned. “Well, we can’t have that running around Baldur’s Gate.”

“Perish the thought,” he said. He clapped politely as the song ended.

“Shall I leave you to your necromancy now?” Wyll asked, bowing. Tav started to play an old, sentimental waltz. “Or would you like to continue in a more intimate style?”

“Well, since we're already here,” he said, placing a hand at his shoulder. Wyll pulled him close, dancing cheek to cheek.

“Hmm, I thought you had stuffy, formal training in dancing,” he teased. “You would give half the patriars the vapors, dancing like this.”

“I know the proper steps and the proper postures,” Wyll said as they swayed. “I’m electing not to use them.”

He let out a laugh, “Darling, I’m scandalized.”

“I’m sure you are,” Wyll said, pulling back to look at him. “I know you’ve been patient with me, but I want to assure you it’s not from lack of interest. I feel you’re someone worth taking time to know. I call you Star because that’s what you are to me, a source of light in the shadows,” he knelt, in the middle of the dance floor of all places. What—what was this? “I want to court you properly, Astarion, like the old tales of romance. If you will have me. And I want to be clear, with your past…if you don’t want me or decide you no longer want me, I will still help you, however you need.”

Astarion stared down at him, struck speechless for once.

The song ended, breaking him out of his own head.

“Wyll…come with me,” he turned on heel, heading up the stairs to the room their party had rented. It was, thankfully, empty.

Once Wyll came up after him, he locked it, and averted his gaze.

Gods, since when did he care about doing the right thing? But then again, since when was that even an option? He was going to crush the poor fool. But better now, than later.

“Wyll… you are a target. You always were. Yes, even when we first met. Cazador, he…you weren’t subtle about your attention. He noticed. He encouraged, no, ordered, me to flirt with you, to set the groundwork for future manipulations,” he admitted, letting the poison drain out. Best to get it over with. He still couldn’t meet his eyes. “You already know I led hundreds, maybe thousands, of low-class people to their deaths at my master’s command. But that wasn’t my only use. Every few human generations, Cazador would…gift me to a noble. Perhaps someone in a loveless marriage, or a widow, or someone who just wanted to make the real object of their affections jealous. He would whore me out to them for favors, influence. And once the Dowager Hhune finally died, well, you were next on his list.”

“Star,” Wyll said, his forehead was crinkled in his listening-with-concern face. How could he still call him that? It didn’t make any sense. “You didn’t know who I was, at first.”

“Well, no, but, I was still…using you,” he said. “You’re a monster hunter, my sire is a monster, so I…had a plan. I would seduce you, manipulate your feelings so you’d be loyal to the point of risking your life for me. And it was easy! Instinctive, after centuries of playing whatever role my targets most desired.”

“So…if this was all an act, why tell me now?” he asked.

Astarion swallowed down bile, “Because I—”

Oh.

Oh.

“Because bard songs don’t start this way, Wyll. You deserve your epic romance. You deserve something real.”

“The bard songs don’t usually start with a pact with a cambion, either. Not ones that end in romance, anyway,” he said. “So, what is it that you want?”

“I… don’t know. It’s been so long since I had the privilege of deciding,” he said. “I do like…this. Whatever this is. But I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Would you be willing to figure it out together?” Wyll flashed him a winning smile.

“I…” he took a breath, hesitating. Wyll waited patiently, no pressure, just… there. He reached out for his hand and Wyll took it with a squeeze. He allowed himself a smile. “Yes, I think I would.”

Chapter Text

Astarion wiped his chin of oxblood. The arrangement was actually Tav’s idea, exchanging a few scavenged coins to the innkeeper for a bellyful of blood per night. Astarion thought it was a waste of good coin (after all, he wasn’t killing the oxen so he didn’t even have evidence to hide), but whatever kept the bard’s conscience clear.

It made things much less…desperate with Wyll, too. Easier not to over-indulge in dessert if one has already filled up on bread. Half the time, Shadowheart didn’t even have to expend a lesser restoration in the morning, these days.

He sensed movement behind him and turned to bid Dammon good night, only to find a much less honest smile greeting him.

“Raphael,” his blades were in his grip before he could think twice. Once he did think twice, he didn’t sheath them. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Now, now, little vampling, you were the one who wanted to talk to me,” he smirked. “I’m a devil. I can always sense if someone is looking to make a deal.”

He lowered his weapons.

He was right, the utter bastard. He had thought of asking Mizora, as well, but didn’t want to get Wyll further into debt on his behalf.

“The scars on my back. They’re Infernal and I doubt it was a simple aesthetic choice,” he said. “I want to know what they mean.”

“Let’s take a look, then, shall we?” the devil snapped his fingers and he felt a sudden rush of heat all along his body, followed by the shock of cold.

Astarion looked down. His armor, his clothes, even his damned boots were gone.

His hands twitched to cover himself, but he forced the urge down, made himself stand tall, chin held high. He did not want to give the devil the satisfaction.

“Turn around, little vampling,” Raphael chided.

He grit his teeth and turned on heel, the hay crunching beneath his feet. He focused on the texture of it, the coldness of it. Anything to distract from the eyes boring into him. Too-hot hands touched his back, tracing the lines.

“Is that really necessary?” he bit out.

“If I am to commit it to memory, yes,” he said, leaning in so he could feel hot, sulfurous breath at his ear. “Of course, I could come back and take another look later, if you prefer. Perhaps with your companions around? They might as well see you in all your glory, half of Baldur’s Gate has. Or, you could be quiet and this would go faster.”

Astarion fell silent and focused on his breathing. If he could stay still and quiet for the carving of the scars, surely he could do it for the mere inspection of them. He had to know. Killing Cazador would be hard enough without knowing the whole truth of what was going on.

At long last, the devil stepped back and he turned to face him, “Well?”

“Such wonderful stories scars can tell,” he said. “And I have a feeling your story is exquisite. You have piqued my interest—I will look into it.”

He narrowed his eyes, “And the price?”

“Hmm, I’m sure I’ll think of something,” he flashed him another smile that was all teeth. “You’ll find your clothes back in your room with that sweet young thing of yours. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

He disappeared in a flare of hellfire.

Astarion let himself shiver, shrinking down into himself and letting out a long breath. He felt sick, but that was to be expected, dealing with devils. It was still progress. Right?

He crouched, sticking to the shadows as he crept back to the inn. This time of night it was all but deserted, so some timing and throwing a rock to divert attention and he was upstairs, knocking on Wyll’s door. His key and his lockpicks were, of course, in his armor.

“Astarion?” the door opened and he slipped inside before anyone saw. He put his back to the wall and sank to the floor, holding his knees to cover himself. No need for bravado here. It was Wyll. Wyll was his…Wyll.

“My clothes, my armor, are they here?”

Wyll’s expression shifted from shock to anger to worry, but thankfully he went to look before he started asking questions. In the bottom drawer was his equipment, neatly folded and organized. Astarion laughed bitterly at the sight. Of course, because Raphael would violate him, but he would be courteous about it.

“Are you hurt?” Wyll asked, bringing him over the bundle and turning his back so he could dress in semi-privacy. Ever the gentleman. He fastened on the spider silk armor, as well. He had tranced in armor before—it wasn’t comfortable, but he doubted comfortable was a state he’d be able to achieve tonight, anyway.

“Star, are you hurt?” Wyll repeated and it was only then he realized he hadn’t answered him the first time.

“Just peachy, can’t you tell?” he snapped. Then he sighed, knowing that puppy dog of a man didn’t deserve it. “Only thing injured is my pride.”

“Are we in danger? Do I need to tell—”

“No! Gods, Wyll, just…look at me, I appreciate what you were trying to do but I’m not having this conversation with your back.”

Wyll turned, brow furrowed and muscles tense like he expected a fight.

“It was Raphael,” he admitted. “He said he sensed I was looking for a deal. And he was right.”

“You went looking for a devil’s bargain?”

“I went looking for answers. As you know, I have something in Infernal carved into my back and I would rather like to know what it says before I’m caught off guard by…whatever it is he was planning,” he said. “I didn’t make any deals, I swear. I just…he said he would look into it.”

Wyll shook his head, “Devils don’t help, Astarion.”

“Weren’t you the one who said you didn’t regret your contract with Mizora?” Astarion shot back. “I don’t expect something for nothing. But I’d like to know what offer is on the table before I decide yes or no. And I’d trust a devil over my sire any day.”

“You say that after he did this to you?”

Astarion waved a dismissive hand, “He didn’t attack me, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just a bit of fun at my expense. He snapped his fingers, my clothes were off, then he touched the scars. Nothing below the belt. Tame, really. A bit of light degradation would have just been an appetizer to Cazador.”

“Still makes him worth killing, in my book,” Wyll said.

“I do so appreciate your rarely seen bloodthirsty side, darling,” Astarion said. “Though I ask you wait until I hear the offer before you go all Blade on me.”

He sighed, “We at least need to let the others know you’ve spoken to Raphael, even if we don’t tell them details. They deserve to know if it might affect them. You know I can’t tell you the circumstances around my contract, but I’ve spent enough time with devils to know that they will demand whatever they think will most hurt you, if they can.”

“Lucky for me I can handle quite a bit of pain, then,” he said, attempting to sound flippant. Based on Wyll’s raised eyebrow, it didn’t work. “You aren’t going to believe me if I say I’m fine and we should just go get our rest for the tower infiltration tomorrow, are you?

“I know you better than that, Star,” he said. “I’d like you to tell me how you feel and what I can do for you.”

He put his back to the wall again, “Very well. I feel like shit. I thought, protected by that nice little bubble and with friends within a hundred yards, I was fairly safe,” he swallowed thickly. “He could have done more. He could have done whatever he liked and it probably wouldn’t have even occurred to me to fight back because it still would have been worth it to protect myself from Cazador. I feel exposed, but more than that I feel exhausted to have to always live my un-life on a razor’s edge. As for what you can do… you’ve already sworn to help me kill Cazador, what else is there?”

Silence fell between them for a long moment, before Wyll spoke up.

“I still have a few spell slots left,” he said, at last. “I can cast Protection from Evil and Good. Works against undead and fiends.”

“Darling, what good would that do? As soon as you fall asleep it’ll fall.”

“You only trance for four hours, I can concentrate for that long,” he offered. “Let me watch over you. Then, you’ll watch over me. We probably won't even be the last ones awake, the way Karlach and Tav are carrying on.”

“I…suppose I could do that,” he said, nodding. “Can we…can I trance here?”

“In our room?”

“Against the wall. Feels safer.”

Wyll nodded and wordlessly began tearing the sheets and pillows off the bed, forming a little nest by the wall. They settled into it, sitting next to each other but not quite touching.

“Do you need to feed?” Wyll asked.

“I would prefer not to be that close, since we’re being honest with one another,” he said. He thought of Raphael's breath next to his face, close enough to kiss. To his surprise, the man didn’t seem the least bit hurt, like he was expecting that answer. “The neck is just…too much touching. Not tonight.”

“My wrist, then,” he said.

He let out a laugh, “People always underestimate your tactical mind. Very well, your wrist.”

Astarion fed from him then let the protection magic wash over him. Raphael’s magic had felt hot and foul, Cazador’s cold and stygian. Wyll’s just felt like a blanket wrapped lightly around him.

He let his hands ease into position and fell into trance.

Chapter Text

“Not to worry, Astarion, it’s just a kidney, I have two of them,” Wyll smirked, the bastard. Not as much of a bastard as Yurgir, of course. Shooting him from behind while invisible? That was a dirty trick—Astarion should know. “Maybe more now that I have these devilish good looks.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure your little trip through Mephistar came with a complimentary kidney,” he said, steering him so his back was to a wall and taking up a defensive position in front of him, bow raised. “Karlach, do you see him?”

“Negative, solider,” she said, cutting down the last of his little minions and jumping away from the hand-exploding-things. “Tav?”

“No, but I’ve got faerie fire and a rough idea,” she called back, summoning a cloud of purple dust.

He squinted through the sparks and—there!

Astarion let loose an ice arrow, catching him in the shoulder, making him drop invisibility. He knocked another arrow, but Wyll was faster, blasting the devil between the eyes. Yurgir dropped.

So, unfortunately, did Wyll.

Astarion caught him under the arms and eased him to the ground, the human groaning, “Is he dead finally?”

He heard a bloody thump behind him and Karlach called out, “Well, he’s probably going to go back to the hells, but his head’s off here.”

“Good enough,” he checked his pockets as he knelt. Out of potions. Damn. He put pressure on the wound instead to at least get him stabilized. Warm blood pooled around his gloved fingers and he resisted the urge to lap it up like a cat to a saucer of milk. Focus, damn it. “Tav!”

“Coming!” short legs ran up to them. “I can cure wounds him, but we have to get the bolt out of him first.”

Right, didn’t want the wound to heal around the foreign object.

“Squeeze my hand, darling,” he instructed, giving him his left hand to hold onto. Dalyria would have been better at this. But his hands were at least steady as he wrapped a bandage around the bolt to get a good, dry grip of it. He looked between Tav and Wyll. “Ready?”

“Do it,” Wyll nodded up to him, eyes pained but trusting.

“Alright. One, two, three—” he yanked it out all at once. He knew from experience easing it out slowly would just prolong things.

“Gods damn it all to the hells and back!” Wyll shouted, grip crushing for a moment before Tav stepped in with the healing. His hand, and breathing, slowly began to relax.

He found his own tension relaxing, as well.

~~~

They returned to camp for a rest, Tav collecting Shadowheart and Gale to replace them as they kept delving into the Gauntlet. That left them to the loving care and not-at-all moderated tone of Lae’zel.

“So, I am to be on guard duty for the invalid and his leech?” Lae’zel scoffed. “A waste of my talents.”

“Would you rather spend the day helping Shadowheart?”

“Chk. Point taken.”

He ignored her, focusing on settling Wyll into his tent instead. Complaints or not, she would watch their backs, she had proven that.

“Well, that’s another monster off the list,” Wyll said, giving him a smile. He was even more charming shirtless; it was a wonder he didn’t make more excuses to go without.

“Hmm,” he hummed through the needle between his teeth. He sat cross-legged next to him, inspecting the bolt-shaped hole in the man’s tunic. Salvageable. He threaded the needle and got to work. The least he could do, really. “You must be feeling better if you’re doing the heroic one-liners thing at me.”

“I’ve had worse,” he gestured towards his eye.

“And here I thought I’d get a lecture for getting you all into that mess,” he said. “Not to mention, doing Raphael’s bidding.”

“We likely would have done it, anyway. I doubt Shadowheart’s goddess would have allowed devils to stay in her temple.”

“Still, you were injured today. For me,” he reached out to stroke his cheek fondly, lowering himself down for a kiss, which was warmly returned. “You are being more gracious about it than I deserve.”

“Isn’t this cozy?” Sulphur. Heat. Shit, of course he came now, when half their party was gone and Wyll was injured. Always had to have the upper hand.

Astarion bristled, positioning himself between Wyll and the devil who had parted the tent flap like he owned the place.

Lae’zel came running, brandishing her sword, “Take another step, devil, and I will make you wish you hadn’t.”

Raphael chuckled, “Well, if the vampling has decided he doesn’t want his reward after all, I’ll just be going, then.”

“Wait,” Astarion said. “We delivered the devil, now I want what I’m owed.”

“You wouldn’t want the reputation of breaking a deal, would you, Raphael?” Wyll said. He put a welcome hand on Astarion’s shoulder. “There’d be repercussions. Even for you.”

“Perish the thought,” Raphael smiled. “I see Mizora has herself a clever boy. Very well. Let me tell you what I know.”

Chapter Text

Raphael didn’t lay a single, manicured finger on him this time. Yet the knowledge he shared disturbed him on a deeper level. He knew in his bones Cazador would never let him go. But being the lynchpin of his ascension meant he would go to any lengths to get him back and quickly.

His companions (not just Wyll and Karlach and Tav, but all of them) assured him, when they heard, that they would aid him to kill his former master. And he believed them. He believed they would try to defeat the mindflayers and get the worms out of their heads, as well. But trying did not mean succeeding. They needed power. As much as they could get. And this rite… well, he couldn’t say it wasn’t tempting to take something from Cazador when Cazador had taken everything from him.

So when his so-called siblings attacked them at the Elfsong, he made sure he sent them back, beaten but intact.

“You lied to them,” Tav said. Damn her, did she think this was one of her little ballads? The woman missed her calling as a paladin.

“And you, paragon of honesty that you are, were quick to correct me,” he said, wiping the blood off his daggers so he didn’t have to meet her eyes. “I will never be the warm and cuddly Astarion you think I should be. The warmth drained from me when I was beaten to death and somehow my two-centuries-long enslavement didn’t manage to bring it back. Any of them would do the same to me if they had the chance. That’s what people do.”

“I don’t know them, they could be a bunch of total bastards,” Karlach admitted. “But that’s not everyone. There’s good, too. If you look.”

She took Tav’s hand and Astarion didn’t bother to hide his eyeroll.

“It doesn’t matter what they would do,” Wyll said. “It matters what you’re going to do. You are the one with the choice, here."

“Then I’m choosing to protect you!” he snapped. “To protect us. You lot, freakshow that you are, are the only ones in this damned city, in this damned world, worth protecting. And if this is how I can do it? Then I’ll get my hands as dirty as they need to.”

“I won’t take your choice from you, Astarion,” Wyll said. “But we can find another way.”

He really believed that, didn’t he? Sometimes he forgot just how young Wyll was. Well. If Wyll and the others lived to despise him, that would still be a victory in his book. And at least he’d have the sun. At least he’d have freedom. It would have to be enough.

Astarion turned to leave. He was done with trancing, anyway. He’d leave Wyll to his dreams.

~

“I know something you don’t know,” Mizora taunted.

Their party returned to the Elfsong to find her lounging in the center of the pillows like she owned the place.

Six months. Astarion clenched his fists. She had her claws in him for six more months. Six months was a drop in the bucket of life. But he knew just how long it could feel when you were trapped. The bitch.

“What do you want, Mizora?” Wyll eyed her.

“Such animosity, when I’m only here to help,” she flashed a smile. “Your father has been spirited away. And with the coronation over, Gortash really has no good reason to keep your father alive, now does he?”

“You know something.”

“I know where he is,” she said. “And I know his execution is nigh. Unless…”

She began to chant, twin portals opening up for more devils to slither their way through. Astarion stepped back, eyes narrowed. They hadn’t spoken since their last late-night visitors, but if it came to a fight, he wouldn’t hesitate.

“What, exactly, are you proposing?” Tav asked.

“Nothing good,” Karlach muttered.

“A life for a life,” she said. “See, I gave you the gift of turning you into a devil. You’re immortal, unless you do something stupid. And I would rather you spend that immortality serving me. So, it’s simple. You pact yourself to me and Zariel, and in exchange I guarantee your father comes to no harm. I’ll even tell you his location.”

He could tell from his eyes he was going to break. Uldred had disowned him at seventeen. Mizora had played with him like a toy.

But Wyll was just the kind of self-sacrificing fool that would agree, anyway.

Astarion stepped in front of the glowing paper, “Don’t. Wyll, please.”

He used to beg so freely. It was harder now. But he’d do it. He’d done it for so much less.

“Out of the way, spawn, this doesn’t concern you,” Mizora chided. “This is between me and my pup.”

Wyll shot her a glare, then their eyes met, “If I don’t, he’ll die. And it will be my fault.”

“It would be Gortash’s fault,” he snarled. “And hers. But he’s not dead yet. It’s not impossible, she just wants you to believe it is. If Gortash took him alive, he wants him for something, a hostage if nothing else,” he paused. This was a low blow, but if it worked, it worked. “We can find another way.”

“Using my words against me?” he shook his head, then turned back to the devil. “I’m making the choice my father would. No.”

Chapter Text

“We need to find him. Tonight,” Tav said, as soon as Mizora and her ‘sisters’ left in their portals of fire. Before Mizora can kill your father out of spite was left unsaid.

“How do you propose? My attempts at scrying have already failed,” Shadowheart said.

Halsin shook his head, his big, baleful eyes sorrowful, “I would track him, if I could. If this was a forest, I could do so easily, but here in the city the smells are too jumbled, too unfamiliar. I am sorry, Wyll.”

“What we need is a ranger,” Gale said.

“Then we hire one,” Tav said.

They all looked to Withers. They had had no need for hirelings up until this point, but circumstances had changed.

Coin exchanged hands and a drow appeared before them, blank-faced, and speaking in what was clearly Wither’s cadence through a different voice, “This soul awaits thy command.”

Creepy, even by his standards.

Wyll and Tav exchanged looks. The human spoke, “Can you track in urban areas? Can you find my father, Ulder Ravengard?”

“As you require,” the drow—Withers?—said.

~

They’d elected for a small strike team to accompany the ranger, too large a party would draw attention, and went for speed and stealth rather than brawn.

That’s how he found himself seated beside Wyll and Shadowheart in some type of sealed ship he’d never heard of, much less ridden in before. He closed his eyes, tapping each of his fingers with his thumb in a pattern onetwothreefour, onetwothreefour to distract himself from the dark, crushing water that surrounded them.

Ocean water counted as ‘running,’ he was sure. He regretted not testing whether it burned him or not before now, sticking to still ponds or baths. He wasn’t even sure if he’d ever learned to swim when he was alive. He couldn’t remember.

“The water?” Wyll guessed, his voice low in his ear.

Astarion nodded sharply, Wyll knowing was one thing, but he did not want to voice his fears out loud where others could hear.

“Here,” he held out a scroll. Dimension door. Offering him a quick escape.

Astarion hesitated, then waved him off, “Keep it, darling. In addition to being the most beautiful of our group, present company excluded, I’m also the fastest.”

If his father was injured or starved, he’d need the scroll to get him out.

“And you say you’re not a hero.”

Before he could retort, a face blinked into view—Karlach’s old friend Enver threatening to blow up the prison they were attempting to break. Lovely.

“Mizora warned him we were coming, I’d bet,” Shadowheart said as the spell ended

“Of course she did,” Wyll said. He reached in his pack and started distributing each of them a potion of speed. “But we need to press ahead anyway. This is our best chance. I doubt the bomb is designed to instantly collapse the whole structure, that would be too dangerous in case it was triggered on accident. Gortash is evil but not wasteful. Even if it floods entirely, humans can still hold their breath for at least thirty seconds. Shadowheart, do you have water breathing prepared?”

“No. I have two potions, though.”

“Wonderful, keep one and give the other to Wyll,” Astarion said. After all, he and the hireling were dead already. Inhaling water wasn’t fun, but it wouldn’t harm him.

Wyll started to protest, but then thought better of it, probably having come to the same conclusion, “Lockpicks?”

“Oooh, the upstanding Blade going crooked?” he teased. He handed the other three party members five sets each, leaving himself only with two (but he rarely broke a set these days). “Delicious.”

Shadowheart rolled her eyes, “Flirting now? Really?”

Of course he was. After all, it was better than panicking.

He winked at her, “Jealous I’m not flirting with you instead?”

“Hardly.”

The ship landed with a metallic thunk and Astarion felt his stomach lurch. Willingly going into a prison was a first for him.

Wyll opened the hatch with a grunt and downed his potion of speed, flying down the ladder in double-time. Astarion followed before he could talk himself out of it.

“Four directions, four of us,” Wyll announced, skewering some sort of merfolk-like beast. As he had predicted, there were leaks and groans but the place hadn’t flooded entirely yet. “We split up to cover ground, free who we can, and get back. Hireling, go forward. Shadowheart, behind us. Astarion, right. And I’ll take the left.”

“Watch your back,” Astarion said as he shot another advancing creature through an eye. He didn’t like it, but he understood the strategy behind it. Downing his own potion of speed, he set off towards the right, ignoring the prisoners in cages for now. He would get them on the way back…if they had time.

Unfortunately, nothing of note was in this direction, other than more monsters, more water, and more prisoners. None of whom were the duke. But one of whom was a child.

Shit.

He cut down the last of the enemy guards, daggers and teeth, then set about picking the locks.

“Please, please get us out!” one woman cried. “Gods, I’ll do anything!”

“Great, then can you be quiet so I can concentrate?” he snapped. And so did one of his lockpicks.

Double shit.

But at least the begging had softened to muffled sobs, likely someone else was holding her mouth closed. He got out his last set and worked more carefully this time. Almost, almost—

It clicked open and the prisoners ran, one man holding the little boy in his arms, tear-streaked but alive.

He turned to the second cage and got to work, getting a sword to his shoulder for his trouble. Turning, he narrowed his eyes at the ambushing monster and rolled out of the way of its next attack. Hells! Of course none of the just-freed prisoners came back to help him, he thought bitterly. Astarion crouched behind the central pillar of the room, hiding in wait. As it came around the side, he searched for an opening and sunk his dagger into its belly, driving the blade upward beneath its ribs. It squealed as it fell and he took a moment to clean off his hands so he could try again at the lock.

This time it popped without difficulty—clearly the same combination was used for all these locks. The last of the freed prisoners fled.

“Damn you, Mizora!” Wyll’s voice was faint and echoing this far away, but he heard it nonetheless. He turned away from the next set of doors—he would just have to hope the hireling cleared the rest of this area. Wyll came first.

He started back from whence he came, only for a pane of glass to crack ahead of him, dark water gushing right in his path.

Running water.

He froze in fear, tempted to double back and try the other way, but it would take too long. Bracing himself, he held out the tip of his little finger, easing it forward.

The shock of cold made him jerk back, but when he inspected the finger closely, he found himself unharmed. No acid burns.

He took a breath. He could do this. He would do this.

Still skirting the water the best he could since water-logged gear would slow him, he started sprinting forward. He noticed the prisoners were gone from the cages nearest the hatch, because of course one of his companions had been stupid enough to stop. Though, he supposed, so had he.

He caught sight of Wyll fighting off a swarm of spiders, each one exploding as they were struck down.

“Get back, let me shoot them from range!” Astarion called, drawing his bow as he dashed. He knocked an arrow of many targets, waiting until Wyll had disengaged before letting it fly. Four down. Three left, which Wyll handled with a shatter.

“The lever,” a weak voice called. He turned in that direction. Ah, that would be Wyll’s father. Even if he’d never seen him before, the resemblance was clear.

He pulled the lever down, freeing the duke and some other poor soul.

“Father!” Wyll rushed to his side and helped him to his feet.

“I’ve had worse,” he didn’t miss the way the man eyed Wyll’s horns. He looked like he had something to say, but a foreboding groan of metal interrupted the touching reunion.

“The scroll, Wyll, use it,” Astarion urged.

Instead, the fool handed it to his father, “Take the other prisoner and go. Our healer should be back at the ship.”

Luckily the duke seemed to have more sense than his son and took the out he was given.

~

“You’re hurt,” Wyll said as they settled themselves back at the Elfsong. Truth be told, he’d forgotten about the stab wound.

“Not to worry, it’s at least a much sexier injury this time.”

“Wait, what?”

“Nothing, darling,” he chuckled at his own little joke, stripping his shirt off his chest. Strange, how comfortable he felt turning his back to someone. “Shadowheart’s already asleep. Patch me up?”

“Happy to help,” he said, without a hint of sarcasm. Wyll set to work numbing the area with one of Halsin’s poultices. “No acid burns from the running water?”

“Seems like I’m immune, after all.” For now.

“So no more having me carry you?”

“I prefer to think of it as letting you carry me,” Astarion smirked. He felt the odd pulling sensation of a needle piercing into him without the usual pain. It occurred to him that Cazador could have carved the contract without inflicting any pain at all, if he had been so inclined. Or even had him unconscious for it. But he’d wanted him to feel it and hold still and quiet, anyway. It took more effort on his part to make the experience as horrible as possible, and that’s what he had chosen to do.

“You’ve gone far away again,” Wyll’s gentle voice disturbed his thoughts.

Astarion turned to face him, touching his cheek, “You’re a beautiful soul, Wyll.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s a dangerous thing,” he said. “Cazador always had me target the sweet ones, the beautiful ones. I thought once it was a matter of taste, but knowing what I know now… I think it must have been part of the contract. Evil men already go to the hells, good ones must be trapped. And the children…it was such a risk to go after children. People notice missing children, they try to find them. They are so much harder to spirit away cleanly.” The thought of the young boy from the cage. He hadn’t screamed. To have learned how to keep fear quiet at so young…

“You did a good thing today, Star. A brave thing, helping those people, despite your fear.”

Two hundred years without a kind word and the man gave them out so freely. Before Wyll, when was the last time anyone had praised him for more than his body?

“Bravery has been my downfall before,” he looked away. “In my first decade, there was a man. So sweet. Like you. I tried to run away with him. Cazador locked me, alone and starving, in a tomb for a year after that," he paused for a moment before meeting his gaze once more. "I have to take that power from him, I have to be strong.”

Wyll took his hand, repeating his promise, “We’ll find another way.”

Chapter Text

The day started so…ordinary. Getting armored. Selling loot. Buying potions and scrolls. It was even cloudy—you would think a day like this would have the decency of storming.

If Tav survived this, she’d probably add a nice, thematic thunderstorm in her evitable song.

It was surreal, entering his home again after so long. The furniture, the so-called ‘art’, that damned fountain in the foyer, it was all the same.

Godey fell so quickly. How many decades had he cowered and cried for the sadist only for him to be destroyed in a matter of seconds? Then there were the werewolves. A few months ago, any one of those creatures could have pinned him to the ground without effort (the late widow Hhune had demonstrated that in her younger years). Now, he walked away from a dozen with barely a scratch. Tav strummed her lute a bit and they were all right as rain.

Wyll squeezed his hand as they descended further into the dark.

Caged wretches grabbed towards them, some calling out to him by name. Sebastian. What used to be children. His victims. His fault. His shame.

~

The fight was a blur.

Charging at Cazador in rage, only to be halted in his tracks by red, sulfurous magic. Infernal magic. A manicured claw scraped down his cheek to his throat, brushing across the bite mark which never got a chance to heal.

The all-too-familiar feeling of the clothes being cast away from his body. Trapped. Screaming. His world narrowing to the little smirk on Cazador’s face as he relished his misery.

He felt the vacuum-like rush of dispelling magic. A firm hand freeing his bonds.

His vision going red.

Scrambling for his daggers. Arrows would be safer, but fuck arrows, he wanted to feel the blood. Wanted to bathe in it. And when Cazador finally lay in the dirt, coffin splintered by Karlach’s axe, he felt a rush of something else. A want even stronger than for Cazador’s blood. Power. So close he could taste it.

He turned to the others. Manipulation came easy, practically his mother tongue. Don’t you want to help me?

“You’re better than this, Astarion,” Karlach shook her head.

“I won’t try to stop you, but this is a devil’s bargain,” Wyll said. “The power will always be less than you need and the cost greater than you can afford. You’d be trading one master for another.”

Tav, for once, stayed silent, but her eyes glanced to the side, to the sea of cages surrounding them.

They were right.

He turned back to his sire, putting the tip of the man’s own dagger under his chin. A sliver of ironwood embedded in the blade—how clever. Astarion leaned into his ear, whispering, “Beg forgiveness and I’ll make it quick.”

Cazador blanched, “How dare you—”

“Wrong answer, boy. That means this is your own fault,” he drove the blade into his gut, over and over. His arms, his chest, even his face grew wet with cold blood and his ears sang with his screams. He was pressed so close that he felt the last exhale of breath on his cheek. Finally, he struck the dagger between his ribs, staking his heart.

Astarion sat back on his heels, panting. A bubble of laughter rose up from his stomach. Cazador was dead. Finally, finally dead. He had won. He could never hurt him again. He could never hurt anyone again.

It was over. But just like the palace, nothing was different.

He let out a howl, crying out in two hundred years’ worth of agony. Why wasn’t the pain gone? The fear? Why wasn’t he fixed?

Wyll knelt in front of him, extending his hand, palm up. Like he was inviting him to dance.

He took it and allowed himself to be pulled into an embrace, face buried into his shoulder, fingers digging into his back.

Chapter Text

It took Shadowheart over an hour to heal him fully after that fight. She kept smiling at him, too, when she thought he wasn’t looking. He would berate her if he had the energy.

Gods, all that build up and he honestly didn’t remember much of the fight itself. He must have been….must have acted on instinct. The way Karlach talked about how she fights—without the constitution to back it up. He hadn’t cared if he’d lived, only that Cazador died.

But his companions had.

Wyll had used protection from evil and good on him, Tav had healed him, Karlach had not only physically helped him off that terrible altar but had thrown herself between him and harm’s way, multiple times. His life meant something to them.

Little Snack nudged at the bed, disturbing his meditation. He offered him his hand so he could scent-mark, rubbing his beaked face against him to his heart’s content. Warm and soft and…trusting. The Elfsong innkeeper had been hesitant to allow an owlbear on the premises, but Tav had charmed them into it.

That was this little band of weirdos for you: always showing mercy to monsters. Hopefully the seven thousand unleashed vampires became some drow matriarch’s problem.

He got up and dressed in finery rather than armor, fussing with his hair for a few moments before venturing out into the common area (Little Snack stole his spot on the bed, of course).

“I know, right? I could just kiss that pointy little fa—Astarion! The man of the hour,” Karlach greeted, raising her tankard to him. It was getting dark, but none of his companions—friends—had yet retired. “Your ears must have been burning.”

“No, darling, that would be your own ears,” he quipped. “Though I hardly blame you for talking about me, I am rather captivating, aren’t I?”

“Indeed,” Wyll said. He wore a rather fetching red ensemble that made him look like the fairytale prince he dreamed about as a boy—only with horns. He’d asked Wyll for space and been given it readily, but now… Gods, what was he waiting for?

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I could use some fresh air,” he said, nodding towards Wyll. He took the hint and followed, bidding the others good night.

~

The last dregs of red light filtered through the buildings, the moon already visible in the sky. They walked arm-in-arm, like the saccharine couples that he would have normally gagged at.

“Any particular destination in mind, or just trying to get away from the others being proud of you?”

“Don’t get me wrong, staying would have been unbearable, but…” he hesitated. It wasn’t exactly the most romantic setting, but it was something he wanted Wyll to see. “I have something to show you. It’s just up ahead.”

“Graves?” Wyll asked as they reached the gate.

He popped the lock without issue, and led the way, “One grave in particular. Mine.”

He knelt in front of the headstone, clearing away debris. His tadpole made itself known, projecting his memories of this place—the fear, the hunger, the first time he heard Cazador’s four standing orders.

Wyll, insightful lad that he was, stayed silent until Astarion spoke up.

“I was 39 when he turned me,” he took out his dagger and carved away the end date. “I spent five times more years dead than I did alive. But now, with him gone… I can be more than a trapped animal struggling to survive or a monster haunting the streets. I want to be a person again. I want to live. And I want you.”

He felt the human kneel next to him and their eyes met.

“I have something for you,” Wyll said, digging through the pocket of his waistcoat. He held out a small brown object that he recognized as—

“An acorn?” he asked, incredulously. He’d been giving gifts before by admirers, jewels and cologne and wine and the like. But this, oddly enough, was a first.

“From the Wilden Oak,” he explained. “My mother believed it to have a touch of wishing magic. May I?”

He gestured to the dirt above his grave. Did he mean to…

Oh.

Astarion nodded, for once struck wordless.

Wyll dug into the ground with his fingers, carefully planting the acorn and patting the ground back into place. He waved a hand above the earth and a seedling sprouted upwards, inch by inch. Two delicate leaves reaching towards the sky.

“You are full of surprises,” he said at last. “Since when do warlocks know those types of spells?”

“They don’t, but rangers do. I’ve decided to not put all my eggs in Mizora’s basket, all things considered,” he replied. Becoming a ranger? Not a bad class, for a monster-hunter. And the less he had to depend on that rat, the better. “Now that I’m a devil, I’ve been thinking about eternity. And who I want to face it with. Will you have me, Astarion?”

Gods, this wasn’t just a grand gesture.

This was a proposal.

He glanced down at the new growth. Wishing magic or not, it was life, it was hope, it was perfect.

“I will,” Astarion took his hands and kissed him.

Chapter Text

“Astarion,” Wyll moaned beneath him, his back arching in pleasure.

“Loud little thing, aren’t you?” he paused his ministrations to pour more seed oil into his palm, rubbing his hands together to warm them with friction as best he could. “You’d be making the entire tavern blush if the room wasn’t silenced.”

Wyll sat cross-legged on the floor next to the bed, the back of his head resting between Astarion’s knees, “we’re hardly doing anything salacious.”

“Oh? Perhaps I should open a window for fresh air?” Astarion teased. He kneaded his oiled fingers into his scalp, focusing on the base of his horns. “Let the whole street hear you.”

“Gods, fine, you win,” he put his hands up in mock-surrender. “In my defense, my muscles didn’t exactly get a chance to acclimate to another few pounds of weight on my head.”

“Damn right I win,” he let his hands travel lower, massaging the nape of his neck with the last remnants of oil and eliciting another groan. “I would have been doing your horn care the whole time if I’d known I’d get this reaction. You’re lucky ‘mama K’ stepped in and said how neglected you were. And I can’t leave my betrothed wanting, now can I?”

Wyll turned to look at him, his manner gone serious, “Yes, you can. You always can, no matter what. Our betrothal doesn’t change that.”

A snippet of memories leaked through the tadpole—Wyll’s father lecturing him. I remember being a young man and sneaking off to fool around, but you are the son of a duke. Some might use their bodies to try to gain your favor. But, more importantly, some might not say no for fear of displeasing you. Be cautious when the other party has something to gain, be doubly cautious when they have something to lose.

“Hold on… are we not having sex because of me?” he couldn’t help but let out a wry laugh. “Cute. But now that Cazador’s dead, I could catch the next caravan out of town and leave the world-saving to the rest of you. I don’t need you—I want you. I chose you. I would have ravished you on the dirt the other night, but I thought with your desire for romance you would want a proper bed.”

Relief spread across his features and he kissed the back of his hand, “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

“So…with that settled, what is it that you want, Wyll?” he asked. “Are you comfortable with more?”

“I am. Ceremonies and formalities aside, we’ve pledged ourselves to each other, and that is enough for me,” Wyll said, then winked his good eye. “If you’re still up for ravishing me.”

Astarion fixed him with a smile, not bothering to hide his fangs, “I could be persuaded.”

He took Wyll by the collar and pulled him into a kiss, the human shifting to straddle his lap. They’d kissed enough times that Wyll had learned exactly what he liked—the barest brush of tongue punctuated by nibbling at his lower lip. No mess. No shoving his tongue down his throat.

Astarion broke the kiss to let him catch his breath. Wyll tilted his head to the side, offering his beautiful neck.

“Tempting, but not yet,” he said, nipping him just beneath his jaw. He worked at the buttons of his vest, kissing each inch of his sternum as it was exposed. “What do you know of how two men have sex?”

“I know why oil is involved, if that’s what you mean,” he said, clearing his throat. “I may not have done more than heavy petting with another before, but I’ve read my share of romance novels.”

“And you call Madame Bourgelais’ fine work rubbish,” he smirked. “Well, you should know that anal sex—don’t blush darling, if you can’t handle the words, you’re not ready for sex—anyway, anal sex is not the be all end all. It takes time. Preparation. And a certain…well, tolerance for normal bodily functions. But it is an awful lot of fun. Might I ask, when you were reading said novels, what role did you fantasize yourself doing?”

“Either? Both?” Wyll shrugged. “It matters more to me that you enjoy yourself. And that I can see your face.”

“One of us should have that pleasure, at least,” he said, discarding the man’s vest. The fairytale princes would never be so scarred, but he found that he liked the imperfections—they made it harder for him to blend in with all the others he had undressed in the past. “Anything you don’t want?”

“I don’t mind you taking the lead, but don’t call me pup or pet or the like,” he said. Made sense. “You?”

“Too many things to list, but very few of which I think you would do,” he said, shucking off his own blouse. He couldn’t even see him calling him ‘boy.’ “I suppose I don’t want to be held down in any way. You here in my lap is fine, but nothing that restrains me. And I’d prefer not to be on my back.”

“I’ll be on mine, then. That way I won’t pass out if you do decide to bite,” Wyll stroked the shell of his ear lightly with his thumb, making him shudder. He hadn’t taught him that, Wyll had figured it out on his own one time when he was feeding. “What if I stumble into something unpleasant?”

“I’ll let you know. And you’ll let me know. Gods, I don’t need coddling.”

“And if you’re…drifting?”

Astarion frowned. He hadn’t considered that. It had been a defense for so long, how was he going to do this if he couldn’t remove himself and just go through the motions when things got difficult or tedious? Though…the point of this was he shouldn’t have to, wasn’t it?

“You’ve done it before,” he replied at last. “Ask me if I’m here with you. If I look at you and respond, then I’m fully there,” then, he added: “But do it all the damn time and I’ll be cross.”

“Heavens forbid,” Wyll stood, removing his shoes before crawling onto the bed. “Well, Star? What are you waiting for?”

Astarion shoved him playfully to his back, “Get comfortable, darling. I intend to be thorough.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he folded two pillows up under his neck and shoulders so he could recline without laying on his horns.

Once he was settled, Astarion climbed on top of him, pressing one of his thighs between his legs and earning a pleased sound from Wyll. So responsive. If he’d been a target, he would have—no, best just to let thoughts like that go. Instead, he did what he wanted. He kissed him for a long while, grinding against one another like youths, Wyll’s hands tangled in his hair. There was no time limit, no orders. He could smell the arousal growing in Wyll’s blood, the molasses scent taking center stage from the pecanwood. Delicious.

He pulled back, making deliberate eye contact so Wyll would know he was present, “you’re overdressed, darling.”

“I’d agree with that,” he said, reaching for his laces before pausing, brow furrowed. “I…wasn’t lying about being changed. If you don’t want to touch me, I won’t be offended. It’s more than enough for me to get to touch you.”

His first instinct was to start listing all the creatures Cazador had made him spread his legs for but thought better of it.

Instead, he replied, “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, hmm?”

He batted Wyll’s hands away (giving him time to object, of course) then started to unlace his trousers himself, shimmying them off his legs so he was just in his smallclothes. Astarion leaned down to nuzzle his cheek against one side of his bulge. So close to his femoral arteries, the smell of arousal was stronger, here, as was the smell of his sweat. He glanced up to see Wyll watching him intently and smiled, catching the band of his underthings in his teeth and pulling down in one smooth motion. Wyll’s cock sprang free, proud and leaking. Hmm. Other than a sparsity of body hair for a human, there was nothing that stood out as strange to him. Unless…

“The ridges on the underside? That’s what you were worried about?” he tsked. “Tieflings have those, they’re nothing repulsive. They actually feel rather nice when being taken from behind.”

Wyll let out a breath, visibly relaxing, “Well, then, as long as you’re happy with it.”

“I could show you just how happy with it I am, if you wish,” Astarion slid the underthings off his feet and tossed them aside with the rest of their clothes. He pressed a kiss to the inside of his knee, hands on his thighs to hopefully warm them. “We both know I love the way you taste.”

“Come, now, we need to be fair. I’d like to see the rest of you first,” he beckoned him forward.

Very well. Astarion prowled up so they were eye to eye and kissed him. Surprisingly confident fingers began to loosen his breeches, working them down his hips despite his best efforts to distract him. It was fun, seeing how if he sucked at his lower lip just right, his other movements stopped entirely. As if the sensation prevented his brain from focusing on anything else.

Astarion took over once he’d gotten the breeches to his knees to pull them the rest of the way off himself, discarding his shoes along the way. Then he went for his own smallclothes—

“Wait,” Wyll said. “You stopped talking, are you here?”

“Sweet thing,” he met his gaze, reaching over to stroke his cheek. “I’m with you.”

Wyll pulled him in for another kiss, then, and he finally managed to get his underthings off himself. Strange, how with so much blood in him he wasn’t fully hard just yet. As if his cock was only half-convinced sex was incoming when nudity wasn’t accompanied by fear or self-disgust. He decided that line of thinking was better left unfollowed and unsaid. He focused instead on getting as much of his skin in contact with Wyll’s, strong arms at his waist, basking in the warmth of him.

“Make love to me,” Wyll murmured, kissing his way to his ear to suck at the lobe just enough to make him squirm.

Of course he’d phrase it like that, the hopeless romantic. How could anyone resist?

“Mmm, so demanding,” Astarion sat back on his heels, gathering the remaining pillows. “If that’s what you want, there is some preparation to do, as I said before. Lift your hips up, love. There you are.”

He got the padding in place to make the angle a bit better, then folded his knees up and back, exposing him further. Flushing with embarrassment but not a hint of reluctance. A beautiful sight. If all it took was sparing seven thousand souls to get this kind of reward? Perhaps he should try being a hero more often.

Snatching up the seed oil, he shuffled back into position, speaking between kisses up each ridge of his cock, “I will start with one finger—then two—then three. It might feel strange or uncomfortable at first—but there should be no pain. Understand?”

“Three fingers, no pain, understood,” Wyll panted. “Where can I put my hands?”

“Don’t mess with my ears right now, you’ll distract me. But pull my hair as much as you please,” he paused, considering. “Wait, no, let me rephrase before you take that wrong. I like my hair being pulled, so pull it if the mood takes you.”

“I can do that.”

With one of Wyll’s hands now gripping his hair, Astarion set to work slicking his fingers thoroughly, all the while teasing at his cock with his tongue. If he sucked him, he would come far too soon, and that was not good enough for his love.

“Bare down darling,” he instructed, one finger at his entrance. He eased it in, nice and slow, Wyll’s fist clenching in his curls. “Don’t forget to breathe. Good.”

Astarion rewarded him by taking one of his balls into his mouth, rolling it around with his tongue, before repeating the action on the opposite side.

He worked patiently, letting him acclimate to the stretch over the course of a quarter hour—in part because he would back off if he thought Wyll was too close to finishing. Sure enough, the man was a pleading mess by finger three.

“Gods, I’ve got to be ready by now, aren’t I?” Wyll’s legs were trembling, poor thing.

Astarion took no pity, curling his fingers just so to seek out the little change in texture where his prostate was, “Do you want me inside you?”

Wyll bucked his hips, “Yes, I want you. So badly. Take me, my love. I’m yours.”

“Then we do this right,” he spread his fingers, stretching him out further. His free hand went to slick and firm his cock up, a bit awkward one-handed but nothing he hadn’t done hundreds of times.

At long last, he pulled his fingers out, wiping off his hands and placing the oil back on the nightstand.

Wyll reached for him and he let himself be dragged into a kiss as he lined up, “Ready?”

The human nodded wordlessly.

Astarion pressed inside, groaning at the heat of him, the tightness. He didn’t aim for his prostate as he began to thrust, the man was far too close. Instead, he took his time, making it last. Taking him apart. He deserved no less.

“You feel so lovely, Wyll,” he praised as Wyll lavished attention on his ears and neck. He’d learned two fingers ago just how much praise got him going—no surprise. “Just perfect. I’ve got you. Hold on.”

Once he himself was close, Astarion pulled back, meeting his eyes but not pausing the roll of his hips, “May I bite you?”

“Anything for you, Star” Wyll bent his head to one side. He could practically hear the thrumming of his vessels. And the smell…

He sank his teeth in, blood flowing into his mouth as he quickened his thrusts. Wyll clenched around him, groaning, and the combination sent him tumbling over the edge.

The little death.

~

“You’re quiet. Still here?” Wyll asked, sweaty underneath him as they lay sprawled, sated.

Astarion nuzzled into his throat, half-drunk on sex and blood and lust and love, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Chapter Text

Astarion and Wyll were taking a long, romantic stroll after a long day killing a head of state. The bastard had hurt Karlach. No one hurt Karlach.

He stepped onto the inanimate body of a Steel Watcher to get a better look at the sunset.

“I should probably get used to living in the shadows again,” he said. He was trying for wistful but he knew his tone came out with more bitterness than intended. “You’ll be elevated to duke, soon enough. And I’ll be back to alleys and cellars.”

To his surprise, Wyll shook his head, “I’ve decided not to take my father’s place. At least, not right now.”

Astarion balked, hopping off of his perch, “Why the hells not?”

If such power had landed in his lap…

“Hard to govern from the hells,” he shrugged, nonchalant. As if their little soiree to the House of Hope hadn’t almost killed them. Seeing Raphael die was rather satisfying, but still.

“What are you getting at? Don’t tell me after all this is over, you plan to holiday in sunny Cania?”

“Avernus is what I was thinking,” he said. “Karlach won’t last much longer, here. I understand her not wanting to return to her captor’s clutches, but maybe if she didn’t have to go alone, we could buy her time to find a solution.”

“So you’re leaving me,” he said flatly, crossing his arms. Childish and petty, he knew, but his chest ached. He was already losing the sun, now he was losing Wyll?

“I was hoping you’d come with me, actually. With us,” he said. “No sun to worry about. Close friends. River of Blood.”

“You’re serious?” he rubbed at his temples. Okay, the River of Blood did sound intriguing, but… “And what, Sir Strategy, is the exit plan when the literal archdevil catches up?”

“Tav knows Banishment,” he said. “And since none of us are from that plane of existence, we’d be sent back here.”

Gods, of course he had an answer to that. He probably had an answer to every question he could come up with. Sure, Gale was the one with the book smarts, but Wyll was damned brilliant when he wasn’t an absolute fool.

“Fine,” he sighed.

“Really?” Wyll flashed him that brilliant grin of his.

“I’d better get top shelf wine for this.”

Wyll put an arm around him and kissed the top of his head, “The best I can nick from my father’s cellar.”

“I do love when you’re bad,” he smirked.

“You love me anyway.”

“Perhaps I do,” he cupped his face and pulled him into a proper kiss.