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"The best laid schemes o' mice an' men / The best laid schemes of mice and men
Gang aft agley, / Go often awry
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, / And leave us naught but grief and pain,
For promis’d joy! / For promised joy!"
- Excerpt from 'To a Mouse (On Turning Up In Her Nest, With The Plough, 1785)' by Robert Burns
Wyll had been hopeful, once. Before the Netherbrain fell and before his companions — his friends, he once had thought — had scattered to the four winds, he had believed in them and trusted them to do the right things without his prodding.
But, he conceded, that had been a naive notion. Far too optimistic.
His time after the Netherbrain had hardened him. Over the years he’d grown older, stronger, more serious. His father remained a strong leader in Baldur’s Gate, but his age was beginning to show. Control of the Fist went to Florrick, but the position of Grand Duke was still firmly in Ulder Ravengard’s hands.
His pact with Mizora was over, and in the absence of her infernal magic, Wyll learned the ways of the Rangers. He wasn’t quite a Harper, but Jaheira took him under her wing and taught him what she knew. In his childhood, he mused of becoming an apprentice to the heroes of legend. In some ways, this was a dream come true — but in others, he could feel the claws of circumstance raking down his back.
Duty had taken Wyll away from Baldur’s Gate, trawling the coast and the Hells alike for villains and monsters and foes. In his second absence from his hometown, he found that space from the city felt good when he chose it for himself. The politics, the clamor, the endless hustle and bustle of the people all overwhelmed his senses and in the times he visited his father he found himself longing for the peace and quiet of the forest at night.
Wyll was the Blade of Frontiers, he was the Blade of Avernus, and he did good, real good, for the innocent people of the coast. He devoted his life to the safety of those who could not defend themselves, to the slaying of those beyond saving, to justice and retribution and honor. Countless citizens looked up to him in thanks, fell to their knees in gratitude, clutched at his legs as they sobbed their appreciation into the fabric of his pants.
By all means, Wyll was a bona-fide storybook hero, and by now he had been for almost twenty years. In spite of everything, he rose above betrayal and disappointment and dissent to embody the image he’d always admired as a child. It was as Jahiera said: his life was something to be proud of.
But some nights, in the peaceful darkness of the wilderness, he felt the cold hand of guilt ghost across his skin, raising goosebumps on his neck and his waist. It was an icy pang of regret that reprimanded him: for all those years ago, he had left one monster behind.
The Szarr manor towered over Bloomridge Park with a looming, imposing shadow. It was almost ridiculous how unapologetically evil the building looked, as if it was daring the public to wonder if its insides were just as distasteful as its outsides. As Wyll stared up at its cold stone spires, he clenched his jaw — he knew intimately well that the gory innards were far worse than anyone could have imagined.
Cazador was dead — he’d seen the vampire’s body bleeding, listened to his screams as his very soul was rendered and destroyed before him — his soul, and seven thousand others. Cazador was evil. He deserved a painful death, especially one at the hands of one of his spawn. But the sound of seven thousand tortured souls being eviscerated and sent to the Hells was a dissonant chord that rang in Wyll’s eardrums still, even all these years later.
Astarion had changed then. For the worse, far worse than Wyll could have even imagined. The charming vampire spawn suddenly morphed into an arrogant, vicious man whose lust for power overrode any of the morals he had left. His flirtatious lilt had turned to a manipulative, domineering drawl, and every time Astarion spoke it felt as though some dark force was clawing at his listener, trying to twist their mind to his benefit.
Wyll remembered the way the Ascended version of Astarion had looked at him — like a piece of meat, like some small, innocent thing he could twist around his finger until all of its bones had broken and it was unable to run anymore.
Wyll had wanted him to leave their group. He remembered that night well — unable to sleep, even in the soft and pliant beds of the Elfsong, because he could feel the unholy presence of the Vampire Ascendant sharing the same room.
But he held his tongue and sucked back that discomfort, for the fate of the city, the fate of the world — the universe — was at stake. Once the brain fell, once the Absolute and the Chosen Three had been destroyed, once they were safe again, then Wyll could take care of this evil, undead scourge.
And then, once the Netherbrain fell, Wyll hesitated. He clenched his fist around the handle of his rapier, his magic fading away, Mizora’s cruel voice fading to a murmur in his ears. He stared at Astarion’s back, and instead of plunging that sharp silver blade through the vampire’s ribcage and cleansing the world of his evil, Wyll watched as Astarion disappeared into the shadows of Baldur’s Gate.
Many moons ago, Wyll might have felt a trickle of sweat bead down the side of his face as Astarion circled him in the darkness, some bead of fear building in his gut. He might have listened with rapt ears for the crack of a twig underfoot, might have held fast to the handle of his rapier, heart pounding in his chest like a rabbit chased by a fox. But things had changed.
Astarion had been almost sweet, once. More vulnerable, at least, and with the capacity for change. Wyll remembered those days with a straining sense of longing in his chest, some vapor of grief staining those memories. He was rogueish back then, cunning and charming and sly, but now Wyll watched as the vampire pressed down the jewel-studded frock he wore with marble-pale fingers and wondered where the spawn he used to know had disappeared to.
He certainly wasn’t the man standing before him.
“Wyll, darling,” Astarion grinned. His voice was sultry-smooth, a confident, domineering sound. Wyll could see a sick sort of delight in the vampire’s scarlet eyes. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“It’s been almost twenty years,” Wyll said. He gripped his pack tightly — the leather straps grounded him. Hidden inside the pack was a kit of sorts, filled with all sorts of deadly tools for Wyll to finish what Astarion had started all those years ago. “Can I not come to see an old friend?”
Astarion laughed. “My dear, in all of the times you have come to visit daddy dearest, you have never once graced my manor with your presence. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I have eyes and ears everywhere.” His pupils flashed for a moment, reflecting the light.
Wyll cleared his throat. “I…”
“But it is no matter,” Astarion continued, waving a pristinely-manicured hand and beckoning Wyll inside. “Who would I be to cast out a dear old friend?”
Watching Astarion eat food was strange.
In all of the moons they had traveled together, Astarion had only ever drank from goblets and cast disgusted stares down at whatever rations Gale had prepared for them, and when anyone brought up their tastes he was sure to bring up how much he preferred red meat above anything else — rare and dripping.
But now, Astarion pulled a long drink from a flute of sparkling white wine and flourished his hand over the immaculate, expensive, endlessly decadent spread of food that covered his dining table. It was piled high with all sorts of extravagant things — perfectly-ripe tropical fruits from across the Sea of Swords, stuffed quail, pickled vegetables, aged cheeses, a full platter of foie gras, an entire spit-roasted lamb laying at the center, among other savory delicacies. Pastries and cakes drenched in honey and floral syrups piled one end of the table, and throughout the entire display there were flakes of gold leaf, blood-red roses decorated with aggressive thorns, and small cups of caviar.
Astarion beckoned for Wyll to sit.
There were two plates set out for them, one at either end of the long, skinny table. Upon each plate was a small bird — an ortolan bunting. It laid on its side with its little feet curled into tight fists, skin plucked bare of feathers, still piping hot and steaming from its eight-minute roasting.
Wyll sat and eyed the bird with a queasy feeling turning his stomach.
“You know,” Astarion began, scooting his chair forward, “The traditional way to eat an ortolan involves covering one’s head with a napkin and hunching over the plate.” He unfolded his napkin and laid it across his lap. “There are all sorts of theories about why that tradition came to be — trapping the smell beneath the cloth, allowing the lucky consumer to savor the exquisite taste even deeper, or to hide the unsightly view and ghastly sound of eating such a decadent thing whole. But my personal favorite theory is all about shame.”
Astarion smoothed the napkin over his lap and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at Wyll like a happy cat.
“I had my chef prepare these special for us. You see, an ortolan is special —”
Wyll raised his hand. “I already know what goes into preparing these birds,” he said.
Astarion snorted. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
Astarion laced his fingers together and leaned forward onto his elbows, his shoulders pinching closer in the front. “Enlighten me.”
Wyll frowned. “It’s… excessive.”
“Do go on.”
“Making the bird gorge itself while it’s still alive, then drowning it in spirits before you roast it — it’s inhumane.”
“But the taste is absolutely divine.” Astarion chuckled. “It makes it almost worth the cost. It’s apt, isn’t it? The nobility here in the city essentially do the same thing every day, but no one seems to bat an eye. How is it any different when I do it?”
Astarion reached forward and picked up the bird by its beak. It dangled, limp, from his fingers.
“You eat these whole,” he said. “Feet first. People say it’s customary to cover one’s head so they can hide their shame from the Gods. Ha!” He barked out a laugh “But the Gods don’t seem to care one bit.”
Wyll could hear the crunching of the bird’s ribcage between Astarion’s fangs from across the table. It seemed to burst in his mouth — hollow bones turning to sharp shards, organs spilling onto his tongue, the rich, savory flood of fat and meat and alcohol pouring down his throat.
Wyll thought back to the first time Astarion had plunged his fangs into his carotid artery. The feeling of his needle-sharp teeth piercing his skin, drawing blood, pulling his warm, crimson life out of his veins.
Astarion’s lips had been cool against the surface of Wyll’s neck that night, a strange sensation that only further brought out the heat of inflammation, the way his frantic mortal heart fluttered in his chest, beating faster and faster the more Astarion drank — until it slowed and slowed and Wyll could feel himself beginning to drift away.
It had been a painfully intimate moment — and despite the danger, even as his consciousness started to fade, Wyll had felt safe in Astarion’s arms.
Wyll pushed his own ortolan towards Astarion. His appetite had vanished, the sound of the little bird popping and crunching inside of Astarion’s mouth batting away any hunger he had harbored. “You can have this,” he said. “Wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”
Astarion shook his head and accepted the plate. “Oh, my dear,” he purred, “You have such a bleeding heart. You haven’t changed one bit.”
It had been strange, all those years ago, waking up in his bedroll that next morning in the wilds. A deep bruise had been visible even against the dark pigment of his skin, and he had felt exhausted and drained in a way he’d never experienced before. Part of him was shocked he was even alive at all, that Astarion had pulled away and spared him when he was so vulnerable. Part of him was still shocked even today.
“It would be too suspicious if the rest of the group had stumbled upon your body,” Astarion had explained, when Wyll looked at him the next morning with puzzled eyes and rubbed at his tender neck. “I’m trying to keep a low profile.”
He had winked at Wyll then, and despite the danger, despite the red flags circling the vampire like hungry buzzards carving their way through the sky, Wyll had felt a flutter in his chest all the same.
“Don’t go thinking I’m fond of you or anything, darling.”
But, like a fool, Wyll had.
Astarion was nothing if not a generous host. Though Wyll had declined his lavish dinner and watched as Astarion’s house staff — his spawn, most likely — cleared the table of the decadent food and slopped it into the garbage, he did accept a glass of wine as a compromise.
To the Lord Ancunín’s credit, it was a spectacular vintage. It was a robust red, with heavy tannins, and it tasted deep and rich and layered. Wyll sipped it idly as the two of them sat on the Szarr Manor’s balcony, overlooking the Lower City and the glittering bay in the distance. The sun was setting slowly over the horizon, the light over the city beginning to dim. The sky was painted pink and blue, a rich orange just starting to catch over the water.
“This would be about the time I would start getting ready to leave the manor, before all of that tadpole business,” Astarion mused. He brought his own goblet up to his lips and took a long pull. “I would paint my eyelashes and muss my hair and just hope it looked as good as I assumed it would — no reflection, of course,” he joked. Though, through his light tone, Wyll could see a hardening of his gaze. “It worked as well as it needed to, nevertheless.”
“I assume you enjoy seeing your reflection now,” Wyll stated.
Astarion flashed a fanged smile. “Of course, darling. I missed all that preening and petty vanity for two centuries. I have to make up for all that lost time now — and make up for it I most definitely have.”
Wyll snorted. “Indeed you have. I saw your portrait hanging over the foyer, almost two stories tall.”
“I would have gotten it larger if there was space for it,” Astarion crooned, inspecting his nails. “There’s more of them throughout the manor. And mirrors, too. Finally, I can paint my eyelashes without wondering if I’ve smudged them somewhere along the way!”
“You do a good job,” Wyll conceded.
“I do,” Astarion sniffed, turning up his nose. “Not enough people mention it.”
Wyll looked out into the city. “Has anyone from our old team come to visit you, before me?”
“Mm.” Astarion’s smile seemed strained. “No, they haven’t. I turned down the invitation from that old bag of bones, Withers. Everyone seemed… prickly. And besides, I had a brand new manor to take care of. I had to make it mine, you see.”
“I didn’t go either,” Wyll admitted. “After Karlach —” Wyll cleared his throat. “After Karlach passed, I wasn’t in the mood to see everyone.”
“I do miss that hellion,” Astarion said. “She was really something special.”
The two of them were silent for a moment. Though the rest of their group had been focused on their own goals, Karlach had been a relentless force of positivity through it all. Astarion, despite his prickly exterior and open disdain for her mess, had a soft spot for the tiefling. Wyll would have called her his best friend, and perhaps if she had lived, the two of them would have become something more.
But it was no matter. She was a pile of ash, now, scattered to the four winds.
“I wonder if Withers was standing there by himself,” Astarion mused, breaking the silence. “Perhaps Gale showed up with his tail between his legs,” he laughed, “And maybe Shadowheart crawled out of whatever countryside hovel she’s holed herself up in. And maybe Tav was all alone, strumming that blasted lute, with nobody there to listen to it.”
“Well,” Wyll said, frowning. “That would have been sad.”
Astarion drank from his goblet once more, then shrugged. “It’s all the same to me, really. It’s not like we were really friends.”
“Mm.”
“How is your father doing? I saw he handed off the Fist — is he alright?”
Wyll shifted in his seat. “I hardly believe you’re worried about his health, Astarion.”
Astarion laughed. “Oh, but how could I not be? He is the one in charge of this city, is he not?”
Wyll sighed. “His health is fine, if you’re worried about him dropping dead anytime soon. But he is getting older,” Wyll admitted, “And he is not in his prime anymore. Florrick is a good leader for the Fist, but the rest he can handle.”
“And you know this so well… how, exactly?”
“I see him sometimes,” Wyll said. “You have eyes and ears everywhere, remember? You should know this already.”
Astarion snorted, waving his hand. “A figure of speech, darling. I don’t know what goes on behind closed doors. In truth, I only heard you’ve been in and out of the city a few times over the years and assumed it was to see your father.”
“Ah.”
“But I do wonder,” Astarion continued. “After all that business, casting you out of the city and disowning you and all — why would you continue to speak with the man? You turned down becoming the Grand Duke, so there’s no avenue for power there.”
“It’s not all about power, Astarion.”
“So what is it about, then?”
Wyll paused for a moment to get his words in order. “My relationship with my father is… complicated.”
“I’d assume so.”
“Have you ever forgiven anyone in your life? It’s an honest question,” Wyll clarified, “Not a jab.”
Astarion pursed his lips, then drank from his goblet once more.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
Astarion chuckled. “Anyone I might have had reason to forgive is already dead. By my hand, I might add.”
Wyll nodded. “Then you wouldn’t understand it, I don’t think. I know he’s done wrong by me in the past, but that’s no reason for me to cast him away entirely. I understand where he came from,” he said. “And I think… that our distance, now, is helping.”
Astarion snorted. “You can only stand him because you’re far apart now? That sounds… testy.”
“It… is what it is,” Wyll said. “Like I said, it’s complicated. I’ll always love him. The Gods know that.”
“Mm.” Astarion swirled the wine in his goblet and sighed. “You’re right, I don’t understand it. It makes absolutely no sense. The man cast you out of your home at the age of seventeen, called you a monster when you saved his hide from Mizora, and then tried to buy your forgiveness back with the position of the Grand Duke — I still can’t believe you turned that down, by the way,” he added, shaking his head. “And you can just brush that all aside like it was nothing? Have some self-respect, Wyll.” Astarion scoffed.
Wyll clenched his jaw. “It’s not that simple.”
Astarion clicked his tongue. “Isn’t it? Tell me, did you forgive Mizora? Perhaps she was having a bad day when she entrapped you and stole your precious little soul.”
Wyll narrowed his eyes. “Mizora and my father are two very different people. I don’t appreciate your tone.”
“Ah, Wyll. You’re in my manor,” Astarion smiled, his eyes becoming narrow slits, catlike. “I can use whatever tone I like.”
“I didn’t forgive Mizora. I killed her,” Wyll said.
“Oh?” Astarion’s lips curled further into what was almost a grin. He cocked his head to the side. “A bloody tale of vengeance? You’ve surprised me!”
“It wasn’t vengeance — it was to protect anyone else she might hurt.”
“If that’s what you tell yourself,” Astarion mused. “But that sounds like vengeance to me. Hunting the she-devil down, pinning her to the ground, running her through with your blade —”
“Gods damn it, Astarion, you make it sound so crude,” Wyll snapped. “It was nothing of the sort.”
“So you never laid with her? Or rather — she never laid with you?”
“No.” Wyll furrowed his brow. “Never.”
“Mm,” Astarion hummed. He brought the goblet to his lips once more, and his smile still teased at his face. “At least that’s one thing I have over her.”
Wyll looked to the side, his face warm, a brief rush of an old memory brushing through his mind — a gentle night under the stars he’d never once forgotten.
“Do you ever get lonely here?” Wyll asked.
Astarion snorted into his wine. “No,” he said. “How could I possibly be lonely? I’m surrounded by staff, by my spawn, and I have limitless power at my fingertips. I could charm anyone I wanted into my company, into my bed — I have everything I could possibly need. But I’ve always been alone in my life,” he sniffed, a sour tinge coloring his voice, “I don’t need anyone else by my side. I don’t like sharing — and no one else could possibly be my equal.”
Astarion sneered, then looked at Wyll.
“No offense, darling.”
Wyll stared back at him with strained eyes, then looked out into the horizon. “Are you happy?”
“Of course I am,” Astarion snapped, half a moment too fast. “How could I not be? I have everything I’ve ever wanted. As the Vampire Ascendant, I have powers unlike any other vampiric beast in the land. I have no need for shadows, I don’t have to ask for permission to enter buildings, I can cross rivers unfettered, I can indulge in the delights of the mortal. I can do whatever I like in the light of day, and absolutely nothing can stop me.”
Wyll drank from his goblet once more. The wine tasted astringent, now, the tannins clinging to his tongue. There was a bitterness that lingered in his mouth when he swallowed.
“Nothing?” he asked.
Astarion moved his gaze from the view of the city below and glowered at Wyll with piercing eyes. “Nothing.”
There were countless guest rooms in Astarion’s manor. They had entire wings, fit with their own washrooms, wardrobes, kitchens, dining areas, even art galleries. And of course, each of the galleries contained a different portrait of the Lord Ancunín himself, staring down at the viewer with a bone-chilling smile. It was an almost comical display of decadence — though Wyll had expected nothing less.
Wyll’s guest wing was as close as possible to Astarion’s own chambers, and Wyll couldn’t quite decide whether that was an act of goodwill and camaraderie or some power play to remind Wyll of his place in the Lord Ancunín’s estate. But nevertheless, Wyll paced by the bed — draped in lavish crimson fabrics, stuffed with only the finest pearly down — and milled over his decisions.
Astarion had retired to his suite already and pointedly did not beckon Wyll closer to see what he held inside. Despite the displays of wealth and prestige and gaudy opulence throughout his manor, Astarion was remarkably private when it came to his own living quarters.
“Good night, Wyll” Astarion had purred, waving one marble hand as he slipped into the shadows. “I’ve instructed my spawn to leave you alone — you won’t have to worry about any monsters prowling about in the darkness.”
Finding any legitimate source of information about the weaknesses of the Vampire Ascendant had been tricky, to say the least. In his time scouring the coast and the Hells alike, Wyll had found countless artifacts detailing how to defeat a vampire, but none had anything on the infernally-boosted power of the Ascendant. Yet, deep in the House of Hope, Wyll had found what was left over from Raphael’s research all those years ago.
In order to kill Astarion and cleanse Baldur’s Gate of his twenty-year reign of murder, Wyll needed to drive a silver stake through his heart, cleave his head from his body, and burn him to ash. Just one of them would not suffice, all three conditions had to be met, in that order.
It seemed easy enough.
With the stake in his chest, Astarion would be virtually helpless, all of his power sapped away. Wyll would just… cleave Astarion’s head from his shoulders, douse him in accelerant, and… watch. Surely his spawn wouldn’t intervene, once their master lay defeated on the ground. They’d be happy to be free, right? Freedom was all Astarion ever wanted, until Raphael floated the Gods-damned ritual in front of him.
But as Wyll looked down at the silver stake in his hand, that same cold hand of guilt that had ghosted across his skin for all those years came to curl around his heart.
Astarion was a monster. He was cruel, he was excessive, he had warped himself into the same monster he hated and now his decadence and his spite had turned him into exactly the person he’d hated for centuries.
Wyll had only known Cazador for mere minutes — an hour at most — but he recognized that same disdainful glare in Astarion’s eyes. He saw it in the way he beckoned his spawn around, the way he dangled gluttony in front of their faces, and he saw it in the strained, pointed smiles he wore during their conversations.
“Of course I am,” he’d said.
Astarion seemed to delight in the depraved luxury of the ortolan, the splintering of fragile bones between his teeth. He seemed to bask in the sunlight, to relish the silks and jewels of his manor, but there was something about Astarion’s gaze that seemed hollow and dead. The crimson of his eyes seemed dull, an oxidized copper, something dingy and worn with age and disrepair.
“Of course I am.”
Perhaps it would be a mercy, too, then. Perhaps Astarion might want him to put an end to all of this misery. Wyll slid a finger down the stake and felt the point — it was almost impossibly sharp, blessed by a cleric of Lathander, and during its smithing it had been quenched in holy water. It was the perfect instrument to snuff out the monstrous, torturous life Astarion had chosen for himself.
The image of hacking Astarion’s head from his shoulders, though — that turned his stomach. Would he look betrayed? Would he look sorrowful, hurt, wounded? Would he stare into Wyll’s eyes, disbelieving, as he sliced through his neck and ripped it from his spine? How would it sound — the scrape of blade against bone, the squelch of blood and meat?
Would it feel different from slaying any other monster? Wyll didn’t know which answer would be worse.
Wyll looked into the mirror that hung on the guest room's wall. He saw himself staring back.
Over the years he'd grown older, fine wrinkles beginning to creep across his forehead. His goatee had filled out to a full beard, which he kept meticulously cropped and groomed, kept soft with scented oil. His hair was longer now, and carefully sectioned into twists that fell around his shoulders. At the end of each twist was a simple silver ring.
In all the years that had passed, Wyll had contemplated his horns. The infernal ridges would always mar his skin, displaying his former warlockery to the world. But the horns were the most obvious part - larger than any tiefling's, erupting violently from his brow. Wyll considered breaking them off, sawing them down, grinding them until they were nothing but keratin stumps, but he never had.
It seemed they were a part of him now, for better or for worse.
In the mirror Wyll saw a man with a devils horns, with one infernal eye and one blank white, holding the instrument that would bring a well-deserved end to a remarkable monster.
Wyll tucked the stake into his waistband, grabbed the rest of his pack, and crept over to his door.
Surely he can hear me, Wyll thought. Surely this is a fool’s errand.
But he slinked into the hallway all the same, stealthing his way out of the guest suite. And as he walked, he disregarded the endless, unblinking stare of Astarion’s portrait gazing down upon him.
The door to Astarion’s chamber was ajar. Just slightly — only enough for the smallest of drafts to breeze from inside, subtle enough for not even a servant to notice as they made their way down the hall, only enough for someone seeking entry to be able to pry it open without need for a key.
How curious.
A long corridor led through the darkness to Astarion’s bedchamber. It was stifled in shadow, and with each step further Wyll could feel that ghostly hand of guilt choking him, wringing his sorry neck.
Wyll half expected Astarion to be sealed up inside of a coffin when he entered the room. Another half of him expected the Vampire Lord to be awake, waiting with a dagger and a knowing, pointed smile. Instead, as he worried the door open, slowly, slowly, silent as the night, he was met with the soft flicker of candlelight and the image of Astarion trancing upon a thin mattress that lay on the floor.
It was strange — somehow, even after all these years had passed, it was as if Astarion still hadn’t grown used to sleeping upon something kind.
The room was… bare-boned. Unlike the opulence of the rest of the manor, Astarion’s bedchamber had bare walls, cold stone floors, and the only furniture inside was a small wardrobe, a bookshelf, and a desk.
The wardrobe seemed small for the Vampire’s extravagant and luxurious tastes, and the bookshelf held worn, leather-bound books instead of the gilded tomes Wyll had expected to see. And the desk — a journal, a quill, and two fanged skulls lay upon its sturdy surface. A large mirror hung upon the wall, but at one point in time, a large piece of fabric had been draped across it so as to cover its reflection. Beneath the mirror was that ancient blade, Rhapsody, displayed upon the wall.
The single candle in the room glowed next to Astarion’s mattress, casting a warm light across Astarion’s relaxed face. It was strange seeing him like this. The last time Wyll had cast his eyes upon Astarion’s trancing form was many, many years ago — that gentle night beneath the stars.
It felt wrong to remember that night now, creeping up upon the man at his most vulnerable. Back when Wyll was younger, more innocent, bashful and easily embarrassed. He’d stumbled into the forest the night of the Tieflings’ celebration, his mind buzzing with wine and his heart pounding with nerves, and Astarion had been so tender, so sweet, so tantalizing.
Wyll shook the memory from his mind. The vampire trancing before him was not the same person he’d grown fond of across their travels — or perhaps that cruelty had always been a part of him, a part that Wyll had chosen not to see.
Wyll stepped forward. The candle wavered in the breeze he caused, and he paused for a moment. He adjusted his grip on the stake. He stepped forward once more. And once again.
Now he crouched at Astarion’s bedside. The Vampire’s chest rose and fell as he tranced, his breath having returned to him at the cost of seven thousand souls. As Wyll leaned closer, as he slowly swung one leg over Astarion’s torso, as he straddled his waist and brought the silver stake to hover over Astarion’s now-beating heart, he could feel warmth coursing through Astarion’s body.
Wyll pressed the tip against Astarion’s bare chest, his muscles tense, his lungs frozen.
“You know,” Astarion murmured, his eyes still closed. “I thought something like this might happen.”
Wyll’s breath caught in his chest.
“Wyll, darling,” Astarion whispered, “If you wanted to pin me down and impale me, you only had to ask.” His scarlet eyes drew open, like velvet curtains pulling apart to begin some long and intricate opera.
“Silence, Astarion,” Wyll hissed, his jaw clenched, breath whistling out through his bared teeth. “This is no laughing matter.” He adjusted his grip on the stake, the point of it pressing against Astarion’s skin.
“You know,” Astarion said, his voice sultry-smooth, “I didn’t care for you, when we first met.”
“I hadn’t expected you to,” Wyll said, voice level though his heart pounded hard in his chest. “Your vampirism wasn’t exactly subtle. I was sworn to destroy your kind.” He flexed his fingers around the stake. “I still am.”
Astarion smiled up at him.
“You were naive,” Astarion said. “Young. I knew I could wrap your righteous little heart around my finger if I played the innocent, helpless victim. You wanted to save someone, and I needed saving. It was awfully convenient.”
“I cared about you, once,” Wyll said. “Truly.”
“A pity,” Astarion sneered, batting his eyelashes, still venomous even though he was pinned to the floor. “I thought you were smarter than that.”
“You changed,” Wyll said. “I’ve sworn to kill monsters and you made yourself one.”
Astarion laughed. “Wyll, I’ve always been a monster. You were just too blind to see it — you want to see the good in everyone, even if it isn’t there.”
“You’re a scourge upon Baldur’s Gate,” Wyll continued. “You kill innocents, you’ve made spawn of your own, you live in the same twisted world Cazador once created.”
Astarion narrowed his eyes, and the smile dropped from his face.
“You’re just like him, you know,” Wyll said.
Astarion scowled, bared his fangs.
“You’re just as miserable.”
“Don’t you dare compare me to that worm, ” Astarion hissed. “I’m stronger than he ever was — I feel alive.”
“I can feel your heart beating, it’s true,” Wyll said. “I can feel the pieces of life you traded thousands of souls to gain back.”
“They were suffering,” Astarion snapped. “I gave them a quick death. It was a mercy.”
“It makes me sad, looking at you like this.”
“I’m not responsible for whatever version of me you dreamed up,” Astarion said. “That pitiful little Astarion never existed — I’ve always been like this, you see. I only needed to be released from Cazador, ” he spat, the name sour on his tongue, “So I could realize my full potential.”
“You have no regrets? Truly?”
Astarion’s eyes flashed in the candlelight. “Truly.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
Astarion bared his fangs. “I’ve never been the person you want to see in me.”
“You’re just another wretched thing stuck in its own misery.”
“So put me out of it!” Astarion snapped. “That’s why you came here, to kill me, right? You have a stake to my chest, you have me pinned to the ground — what is this?”
Wyll scowled, adjusting his grip on the stake. Apparently he lingered for a second too long, his hesitation too obvious in his expression.
“Oh, this is too good,” Astarion laughed, incredulous. His face twisted from a vindictive sneer to elation in a second. “Oh, my darling Wyll, my sweet, stupid fool — you’re trying to work yourself up to this, aren’t you?”
“Silence,” Wyll snarled.
“Do it,” Astarion said. He batted his eyelashes up at Wyll. “Come on, then, do it. Kill me. Drive me through with your stake,” he breathed, his voice becoming pitchy and lyrical, “Kill this poor, suffering villain. Run me through.”
“Silence, Astarion!”
“You’ve driven me through once before,” Astarion purred. “Don’t you remember? You were so young and sweet,” he said, his hips shifting beneath the seat of Wyll’s pants. “So nervous and gentle.”
The sight beneath him reminded of that desperate man he’d known on their journey together, all perfect smiles and well-placed words.
“Enough!”
“Then make me stop!” Astarion roared. One of his hands shot up to press against Wyll’s, holding them tight around the stake, pressing the point harder against his chest. “Take what you want, Wyll — kill me! Stop being such a fucking pansy!”
Wyll grit his teeth and raised the stake, both of his hands clenching the silver rod with tense fingers. For a moment he saw a flash of surprise in Astarion’s eyes, a flicker of faint candlelight reflected in the depths of his pupils, but it disappeared in an instant. Wyll found that his muscles would not listen.
Wyll sat back upon Astarion’s waist, his shoulders flagging, his head hanging limp from his neck.
“Gods damn it,” he whispered.
In a flash, Astarion batted the stake from Wyll’s hands. It clattered across the room and rolled in a circle across the rough stone floor, coming to rest underneath Rhapsody and the covered mirror.
Astarion grabbed Wyll by the wrists and flipped him onto his back, switching their positions. Now, Astarion straddled Wyll instead. For a moment, there was silence between them. There was only the rapid rise and fall of Wyll’s chest as his heart pounded hard in his ribcage, and the piercing stare of Astarion’s eyes into Wyll’s own. The candle flickered into the dark, battered by the quick movement.
“Wyll,” Astarion hummed, leaning down, his face hovering mere inches above Wyll’s. “Whatever were you thinking, coming here like this?”
Wyll’s heart hammered against his chest. His blood rushed through his body, adrenaline feathering from the pool of his gut into his veins, a rush of cold ice sparking into his fingertips.
“Did you truly wish to kill me?” Astarion asked.
“Yes,” Wyll breathed. “I meant to.”
“So why didn’t you?” Astarion leaned further, his lips brushing against the shell of Wyll’s ear. “Why did you sit there, waiting, whimpering and whining like a sniveling little brat? What stopped you?”
Wyll didn’t have an answer ready for him. His heart pounded in his chest — equal parts fear and excitement.
Astarion pressed his lips to Wyll’s earlobe. “Do you remember that night, all those years ago?”
Flashes of memory raced through Wyll’s mind. He remembered the cool touch of Astarion’s fingers splayed against his chest, the weight of him pressing against his lungs as he used Wyll's torso as leverage, lifting and lowering himself around him. The friction, the slide, the soft, gentle words they breathed into the chilly night air.
Wyll remembered the stars glittering in the sky, the full moon, and how it illuminated Astarion’s dandelion hair like a halo. He’d been ethereal, gorgeous, sent from above.
“Yes,” Wyll whispered. He felt himself begin to stir beneath Astarion’s weight once more, all these years later.
“It was your first time, was it not?”
“It was,” Wyll murmured.
Astarion smiled against Wyll’s ear. “Your only time?”
“Gods, no.”
Astarion laughed, then. He leaned back, still pressing Wyll’s wrists to the floor, and loomed over him. His legs straddled Wyll’s hips, his white hair fell down around his face, and Wyll noticed in the candlelight that his eyelashes were bare — pale, icy. Wyll was sure Astarion could feel Wyll beginning to stand to attention beneath his hips.
“You could fight back, you know,” Astarion said. “I might forgive you for trying to kill me. Perhaps I’d let you go, in the memory of our old… friendship. I’m not all bad.”
“I thought everyone you might have reason to forgive was dead by your hand,” Wyll said.
“Well, yes,”Astarion chuckled. “But none of them were friends, my dear. We have a history,” he said, batting his eyelashes. “Don’t we?”
“Unfortunately we do.”
“Pah.”
Astarion leaned back on his haunches, pressing all of his weight against Wyll’s hips, lightening his grip around Wyll’s wrists and drawing the human’s arms by his sides. Wyll’s breath hitched in his chest.
“All this time, lounging in Baldur’s Gate, bored out of my mind. Now, you come along, finally a worthy opponent, and you can’t bring yourself to kill me. What use are you?”
“Do you want me to kill you?” Wyll asked, dumbfounded.
“Not exactly,” Astarion crooned. “Maybe a little death.” He smiled and rotated his hips just so. Wyll squeezed his eyes shut, his face flushing.
“Oh, come off, Astarion.” Wyll shifted under Astarion’s grasp, but in a flash Astarion squeezed his wrists once more. He truly was powerful, his undead strength almost frightening.
“Ah-ah,” Astarion shook his head. “You’re still in my manor, remember?”
“What is your goal here, Astarion?”
“To have a little fun,” he groaned, tipping his head back in a dramatic display of exasperation. “Something, anything to bring a little interest into my life! Either humor me or kill me, Gods damn you!”
“What did you think of that night?” Wyll asked.
“Mm.” Astarion sighed. “You were the first person I laid with who didn’t get dragged off to Cazador’s dungeons the same night. It was… strange,” Astarion said, “Waking up next to you, still alive the next morning.”
“It was strange for me too,” Wyll said. “I’d never…”
Astarion laughed, then leaned forward again, breathing a warm puff against Wyll’s neck.
Wyll swallowed. “I’d never slept with anyone before. You were kind to me,” he said.
Astarion pressed his lips to Wyll’s neck. He could feel the wet heat of Astarion’s tongue sliding across his skin. Wyll felt blood rushing to his face and to his crotch, twitching ever-so-slightly under Astarion’s hips.
“You said nice things to me. You told me I was doing a good job,” Wyll continued to speak. Astarion’s jaw moved as he began to suck a bruise into the crook of Wyll’s neck. He squeezed his eyes closed. “You — ah —” Wyll gasped. “You took the lead and made sure I felt comfortable. I wasn’t expecting you to be so —”
Astarion nipped at Wyll’s neck — not hard enough to pierce the skin, but Wyll twitched in a reflex all the same. Wyll could feel Astarion smiling against his carotid artery.
“Astarion,” Wyll gasped.
Astarion pulled away for a moment. “You weren’t expecting me to be so… what?”
“So sweet,” Wyll relented.
Astarion barked out a short laugh. “Wyll, darling,” he said, “I can be as sweet as I need to be, if the situation calls for it.”
“It felt real to me,” Wyll whispered.
“You were young,” Astarion said, leaning down once more. “Naive.”
He paused before he came too close to Wyll’s lips. Wyll’s breath came in short bursts, his face aflame.
“You can say no,” Astarion said. “You can say no, and I’ll let you leave this manor and wander into the night, and we can never see each other again. I’ll forgive you for coming here to kill me, and you can keep thinking fondly of our sweet, innocent night together in the wilderness.”
Wyll swallowed. Part of him knew that was the right choice. Walk away, let someone else drive a stake through Astarion’s undead heart, live to fight another day.
“Or you can stay,” Astarion said. “And I will make you mine.”
Wyll stared up into Astarion’s crimson eyes, bordered by white lashes. He blinked, slow, filled his lungs with air, then, against his better judgement, surged up to kiss the vampire with all of his might.
Astarion made a startled noise against Wyll’s lips, then crashed down upon him with two decades worth of pent-up passion. He let go of Wyll’s wrists to grab either side of Wyll’s face, his nails sharpening into pointed claws that pressed against his cheeks.
It was like being barrelled over by a tidal wave. Astarion kissed with a violent sort of fervor, a deep growling redness that pulled from deep inside his chest. Wyll struggled to keep up, drawn into the current, his arms reaching to pull Astarion closer, to feel the vampire’s body press against his own.
Astarion’s jaw worked with every kiss. His fangs teased at Wyll’s lips, he tilted his head so he could press harder, deeper, lick his way into Wyll’s mouth. Wyll grasped at Astarion like a lifeline, his hands clawing at his back, feeling the raised, angry surface of the ritual scars carved into his flesh.
And on top of Wyll, Astarion rotated his hips, pressing down against him. With every shift of his hips, pressing his crotch down against Wyll’s groin, Wyll felt a jolt of adrenaline, of endorphins thumping through his bloodstream. He wasn’t quite hard yet, but there was a pressure just beginning to build in the pit of his stomach that throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
Astarion groaned into Wyll’s mouth as he snagged his lip with a fang, splitting the skin so a drop of blood flowed between their tongues.
“I can taste how excited you are,” Astarion breathed, pulling back, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip. Wyll could see how it was rosy, tinted red with his blood. “You monster hunters are so predictable,” he teased, thrusting his hips against the slowly-building tent of Wyll’s pants. “Lusting over the creatures you’ve sworn to slay.”
Wyll’s heart pounded in his chest. Astarion’s lines were ridiculous, the same syrupy, sensual tone he’d used to wind him up all those years ago — but they were working, and Wyll could barely contain a groan as Astarion smiled and ground his hips down once more. Wyll let his hands continue to roam, sliding over the surface of Astarion’s thighs, feeling the fabric of his pants, circling with his thumbs.
“Look at you,” Astarion purred. He leaned back, staring down at Wyll as he leaned back and rested his palms on Wyll’s legs, getting a better angle to rub against him. Wyll’s cock jumped in the confines of his pants. “You’re caught in my trap, aren’t you. Some fly stuck in my web.”
“Astarion —” he began, but the vampire continued to speak.
“You made your choice,” Astarion said. “You chose to stay. Here, with me.” With every word, he rocked his hips, rubbing against Wyll’s ever-growing erection. “I wonder how this will go — will you stay here like a good little monster hunter and watch as I ride you? Just like that night — laying there, letting me take my pleasure from you?”
Wyll’s cock twitched at his words, his grip tightening against Astarion’s thighs. Astarion laughed.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Astarion reached down and began to unlace Wyll’s pants. His fingers moved slowly, teasing the strings, prodding at the trail of hair that led from Wyll’s navel to the base of his cock, still hidden beneath two layers of cloth. “You’ve always been passive.”
Wyll grit his teeth at the slight.
“What do you want, Wyll?” Astarion’s fingers teased his waistline, drawing light circles on the sensitive skin just before his cock. “Tell me.”
“I want —” Wyll breathed, “I want you to touch me.”
Astarion laughed, then dug his fingers beneath Wyll’s waistband and drew his cock — almost fully hard now — into the open. Astarion stared into Wyll’s eyes as he spat onto his hand and wrapped his fingers around his base, squeezing it ever-so-slightly. Wyll hissed.
“What do you say?” Astarion’s smile was all sharp teeth.
“Astarion —” Wyll began.
“What do you say, Wyll?”
“Fuck —” Wyll breathed, “Please.”
Astarion smiled. “Good boy.”
Astarion pumped Wyll’s cock with a vigorous hand, squeezing tight, jerking roughly up and down. The friction was almost painful, and Wyll’s core muscles spasmed in reflex to the sudden movement.
“Oh Gods,” Wyll groaned, but before he could continue to string curses into the air, Astarion pressed his lips against him in a kiss, hard and forceful.
Astarion handled Wyll’s cock like he hated him — he was too rough, he gripped it too hard, he flicked his wrist at the tip just enough to get Wyll’s hips to jolt off of the ground for a fraction of a second, bucking into the air with an almost involuntary wave of sensation.
Wyll could feel Astarion smiling against his mouth, even through the passionate, bruising kisses. He was enjoying this.
Wyll’s hands grasped at Astarion’s back, longing to reach back and palm at his ass through the tight fabric of his pants. Yet, any time he roamed too far Astarion hissed into their kiss and swatted his hand away. After one too many times, he squeezed harder at Wyll’s cock until he winced and relented.
“Hands off,” Astarion said, pulling back. “I’m the one in control.”
“I want to touch you,” Wyll said.
“I don’t give a damn what you want,” Astarion snapped, flashing his teeth.
“I don’t believe that,” Wyll panted, his voice catching at the end as Astarion ground his palm against the tip of his cock. The raw sensation flashed bursts of white behind his eyes. He reached toward the vampire again, sliding his hand up Astarion’s leg. “I think you’re lying.”
Astarion snorted, then reached forward and wrapped his free hand around one of Wyll’s horns, jostling his head. Wyll blinked up at him, wide-eyed. His horns weren’t sensitive, per se, the nerves within them dulled through layers of keratin, but it was an odd sensation to feel someone’s fingers press against them. There was a strange pressure on his brow as Astarion lifted Wyll’s head a few inches off of the ground.
Astarion narrowed his eyes. “And how do you know that?”
“I know you,” Wyll said. “As much as you put on this facade, I know you.”
A flash of irritation surged through Astarion’s face, and his nose wrinkled in a scowl. He quickened his pace, Wyll gasped, and Astarion buried his face in the junction between Wyll’s neck and shoulder.
His fangs pricked Wyll’s skin — a drop of blood trailed its way down onto the sheets below. Wyll’s breathing hitched, sweat beading across his forehead, his cock twitching in Astarion’s hand.
His mind flickered back to that night in the woods — turning his chin up, earnest, charitable, offering his neck to Astarion. Astarion had seemed thankful — who knows, now, whether that was a lie — and Wyll relished that gratitude.
The feeling of Astarion sinking, cold, onto him, Wyll’s cock disappearing between Astarion’s lips, Astarion’s fangs piercing his skin, it was an ecstasy beyond anything his mind could have dreamed up. But knowing he was helping the vampire, knowing his blood was coursing through the spawn’s veins, that had excited him like nothing else.
In the present, Astarion’s jaws felt hot against his artery — a hot, panting, drooling maw, monstrous and greedy. There was no gratitude, no appreciation, only a cruel and gluttonous desire. And yet —
“I could make you a spawn, you know,” Astarion whispered. His breath almost burned Wyll’s skin. “I could drain you, kill you, let you claw your way back up from beneath the dirt, just as I did.”
Wyll’s breath hitched in his throat. Astarion’s pace slowed, an almost maddening rhythm.
“You wouldn’t,” he murmured.
“What makes you so sure?”
“I don’t want you to.”
Astarion snorted against Wyll’s neck. His tongue trailed across the puncture wounds, lapping up the slow trickle of blood.
But he didn’t pierce his fangs any further.
“Wyll,” Astarion whispered. “My darling Wyll. My poor, sweet fool.”
Wyll reached up, wrapped his arms around Astarion’s back, pulling him closer.
“What is it that you want?” Astarion asked.
“I want you,” Wyll said, simply. He tightened his hold around Astarion, holding his own elbows and locking his arms in place.
Astarion barely had time to look back before Wyll flipped their positions, a surprised gasp escaping from Astarion’s lungs. In a moment, Wyll pinned Astarion’s arms behind his back with one hand, pressing the vampire against his thin mattress, stomach down.
“I want to touch you,” Wyll said, trailing his free hand down to the curve of Astarion’s ass, feeling the firm muscle tense beneath a healthy layer of fat. It was firm, round, fantastic — it felt glorious against Wyll’s palm. “Is that alright?”
“Gods,” Astarion groaned, burying his face into the pillow before him. “You’ve got me pinned down, and now you’re asking me for permission — do you have any idea how this works?”
Wyll raised his eyebrows.
“I told you,” Astarion growled, “To take what you want.”
Wyll’s cock throbbed.
Wyll rubbed his hand across Astarion’s ass, feeling every twitch of muscle as the vampire twisted under his grip, his arms straining against Wyll’s palm. Wyll noted — despite the supernatural strength he’d displayed earlier, Astarion wasn’t thrashing anywhere near enough to do anything substantial.
How curious.
Wyll let his hand wander further. The space between Astarion’s legs was hot — almost unbearably so. The fabric there was damp already, and Wyll couldn’t help the smile that twitched across his face.
“By the Gods,” Wyll said, “You’re already so wet!”
“Shut your mouth,” Astarion snapped from his spot between the pillows, his face still buried and burning a bright red.
Wyll paid his protest no mind. His fingers dipped further, two pads pressing against the slight bulge of Astarion’s lips, feeling him through his clothes. Astarion’s hips twitched, his legs parting ever-so-slightly. Wyll took this as a good sign, moving his fingers back and forth, scratching his nails lightly at the fabric and watching Astarion squirm.
“Fuck,” Astarion breathed.
Wyll hooked his fingers around Astarion’s waistband and pulled it further down until it rested around his knees. Astarion’s underclothes were drenched already, the light blue of his briefs noticeably darker between his legs.
Wyll pulled the fabric to the side, exposing Astarion’s flushed lips to the air. His swollen clit jumped in response to the temperature change, glistening in the candlelight. Wyll stifled a groan at the sight of it.
“How beautiful,” Wyll said. He reached out and ghosted a finger over Astarion’s clit and watched it throb at his touch.
The last time they’d done this, Astarion had been cast in shadow, the only light being the moon. Now, the candlelight felt more intimate, warmer. Wyll could see him better, now, even with his face buried in pillows and his underclothes only pushed to the side.
Wyll parted Astarion’s lips with two fingers and watched his entrance squeeze closed, his arousal shining in the light. His clit was erect, pointing down toward the floor, its small cockhead a deep pink, pulsing with blood.
“Look at you,” Wyll murmured. Astarion’s clit throbbed. Wyll smiled. “You’re so responsive.”
He reached down and slid two fingers around his clit, one on either side, pinching them together to put some pressure on the head and the hood alike. Astarion hissed, his hips raising off the ground, his back arching, his ass lifting into the air.
Wyll alternated pressing one finger down, then the other. Astarion’s clit jostled back and forth, slowly, too slowly.
“Gods damn it, Wyll,” Astarion panted, his face twisted into a scowl. “You’re going so fucking slow.”
“Ah, Astarion,” Wyll smiled, pressing his thumb against the head of Astarion’s clit and feeling it jump beneath his touch. The feeling of Astarion’s clit throbbing against his hand sent a jolt to his own cock, bobbing in the air. “You’ve grown so used to luxury, haven’t you?”
He moved his thumb back and forth, excruciatingly slow.
“You’ve grown impatient,” Wyll murmured. “Greedy.”
“I’ve always been greedy,” Astarion snarled, jerking his arms, trying to buck his hips to gain some purchase against Wyll’s fingers. “You’re just — ah — too fucking gentle!”
“I just want to take my time and enjoy winding you up,” Wyll said. He could feel Astarion’s heartbeat through his clit, faster and faster. Astarion’s chest heaved against his mattress.
Wyll began to move his thumb faster, in small circles that fanned out to larger ones, then back. Astarion panted, groaned, shoved his face further into the pillow in an attempt to hide his furrowed expression.
Wyll couldn’t help but notice just how slippery Astarion’s clit had become, the arousal seeping from his entrance dripping down to Wyll’s fingers. It was almost to the point where there wasn’t any friction anymore, just the pinch against Astarion’s clit and the motion from side to side.
Wyll’s mouth watered.
“If I give you what you want,” Wyll said, his voice slow as he continued to work Astarion’s clit between his fingers. “Can I trust you to stay still?”
Astarion stilled, his only motion the rise and fall of his chest. He didn’t answer.
“Can I trust you?” Wyll repeated.
“Fucking —” Astarion hissed. “Yes. Yes, Gods damn it.”
Wyll lifted his hand and released Astarion’s arms.
“Turn over,” he said, and Astarion obeyed.
It was a glorious sight, Astarion lying on his back with his legs spread open. Once Wyll had slid Astarion’s briefs down his legs, the vampire seemed almost vulnerable — almost. His lips were swollen and pink, flushed with blood, flesh almost straining against the skin. Arousal leaked from his entrance over the fold of his ass, his clit standing tall, the tip drawn out from beneath the hood. It protruded like a little cock, twitching into the air, and the thought of taking it between his lips made Wyll’s heart pound in his chest.
Wyll laid on his stomach, locked his arms around Astarion’s thighs, and pulled him to his mouth.
Wyll sucked on Astarion’s clit like a man starved. Astarion gasped, his hands flying to Wyll’s horns, holding them for stability. The feeling of the vampire’s fingers wrapped around his horns immediately went to Wyll's cock, twitching against the floor.
Wyll hollowed his cheeks, ran his tongue down through Astarion’s lips, savoring the taste of his arousal, letting it mix with his saliva. Astarion’s chest heaved, his abs tensed, his legs began to shake — and Wyll pulled back as soon as he could feel Astarion’s release beginning to build.
“Wyll —” Astarion panted, his voice a keening whine. His hips bucked against the mattress. “For the love of the Gods, why would you stop?”
“I told you,” Wyll said, “I want to take my time,” he continued, pressing a quick kiss to Astarion’s clit and smiling as the vampire squirmed, “And enjoy winding you up.”
Wyll focused his attention elsewhere now, kissing Astarion’s stomach, then trailed his lips to Astarion’s inner thigh. He turned his head to press his nose against the flesh of his leg, gripping him with strong and calloused hands, just enjoying being between the vampire’s legs and listening to his heavy breathing.
Wyll looked up. In this position, he could see Astarion’s face on display, red and shining with sweat. His scarlet eyes stared back at him, almost indignant, but he stayed true to his word — he wasn’t trying to escape, laying obediently and letting Wyll tease him.
Wyll pressed another kiss to Astarion’s thigh, then ran his tongue up one lip, then the other, purposefully ignoring the throbbing clit between them.
“Wyll —” Astarion whined, but when Wyll flicked his eyes back up to stare at him, he shut his mouth.
When he took Astarion’s clit between his mouth, Astarion’s hips bucked. Wyll pulled back, watching it pulse in the empty air, then sucked it hard, once, again. Each time he continued, Astarion’s hips twitched on their own accord, his entrance squeezing around nothing. His chest heaved, his hands flexed by his sides, and it was only after Wyll’s on-and-off pace became maddening that he protested once more.
“Wyll — I need —” Astarion groaned. Wyll smiled and circled a finger around Astarion’s entrance. “Fuck,” Astarion breathed.
“What do you need?” Wyll shallowed his finger, not quite entering him, the motion making an obscenely wet noise.
“Gods damn it, Wyll,” Astarion panted.
“Use your words,” Wyll said.
“This isn’t like how it was back then,” Astarion panted, his face red and buzzing with desire. His hips canted forward, trying to trap Wyll’s finger inside of him, but to no avail. “Under the stars.”
Wyll sucked Astarion’s clit between his lips once more, pulling off with a pop. Astarion groaned.
“No,” Wyll said. “You’ve changed. I’ve changed.”
“You’re such —” Astarion gasped again, Wyll trapping his clit and releasing it once more, “You’re such a tease.”
Wyll smiled and rubbed his thumb in a small circle against the flesh of Astarion’s thigh.
“Were you expecting me to be the same innocent man I was when I was twenty-four?”
Astarion’s chest heaved. “You’ve always been so… gentle. So eager to please others. I thought —” Astarion hissed as Wyll took him between his lips again, stroking his finger across his entrance. “I thought you’d be quick to give me what I want.”
“You’re used to instant gratification,” Wyll said, catching the tip of his finger around the curve of Astarion’s entrance, watching with a smile as Astarion’s thighs twitched. “But sometimes,” he continued, stopping to trail his tongue up and flick the head of Astarion’s clit, “The buildup makes the reward even better.”
Astarion’s face flushed. “Wyll, I have had far more sex than you have had in your entire life. I have bedded thousands of people. I know what makes things feel good.”
“Mm.” Wyll pulled away, watching Astarion’s clit jump into the air as he thumbed Astarion’s entrance, stroking his fingerpad across the hole.
“Take what you want, Wyll,” Astarion breathed.
“Maybe this is what I want,” Wyll said, “You worked up and squirming in front of me.”
“Gods damn it, Wyll,” Astarion whined. “Don’t make me spell it out so plainly.”
Wyll smiled. “What if that’s what I want?”
Astarion scowled, though the expression was undercut by the blush staining his cheeks red and the beads of sweat that trailed down his forehead. He clamped his jaw shut, indignant.
“I’m not moving until you ask.”
Astarion huffed.
Wyll slid his thumb across his entrance once more, the motion making a slick, erotic sound. Astarion’s clit pulsed into the air.
Astarion mumbled something quiet into the air that sounded a lot like “Fuck me.”
“What was that?”
“Fuck me, Gods damn it!”
Wyll chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to Astarion’s clit. “Ask nicely.”
“Wyll, I swear to all of the Gods —”
“Nicely.”
“Please. Fuck me,” Astarion bit out. “Please.”
“As you wish.”
Wyll slid his finger as deep as he could reach, feeling the squeeze of Astarion’s walls around him. He was tantalizingly warm, incredibly slick, and as he swiveled his finger around, searching for the right places to press, Astarion groaned into the air.
It was intoxicating. Wyll’s cock ground against the mattress, fully erect and throbbing with each jolt of arousal that pooled further in his stomach. He wanted to bury himself in that tight, wet heat, wanted to sink inside of the vampire and bottom out once the skin of his abdomen touched Astairon’s hips — but that would have to wait.
Wyll lifted his hips off the ground, his cock twitching, and as he groaned against Astarion’s clit, sucking and lapping and thrusting his fingers — now two, now three inside of him — he moved his free hand to wrap around his base and tug.
I could cum like this, Wyll thought, his eyes growing lidded, the sound of Astarion’s panting breath like music in his ears, the smell and taste of him filling his senses, the friction of his own hand against the shaft of his cock maddening.
The more he ate, the more he licked and sucked and teased, the more he lost himself in Astarion’s sex. His breathing was heavy, and he had little control over the noises that escaped his mouth — erotic, delighted, absolutely filthy.
“Wyll,” Astarion gasped, his hips grinding against Wyll’s nose and lips, “Wyll — I’m going to —”
Wyll snapped out of his trance, pulling back but leaving his fingers inside.
He sat up on his knees, his cock springing to attention, parting Astarion’s legs as the vampire unleashed a string of curses into the darkness of the room. His entrance squeezed around Wyll’s fingers as he whined for Wyll to come back, for Wyll to finish him off.
“Are you ready for me?” Wyll asked, scissoring his fingers inside of him.
“Fuck —” Astarion moaned, “Yes. Yes, I’m ready.”
Wyll couldn’t help himself. “And what do you say?”
Astarion cursed. “Wyll —”
“Yes?” Wyll pulled his fingers out, rubbed the tip of his cock against Astarion’s clit, between his lips, prodding his hole but not entering him.
“Please, please fuck me.”
Wyll pushed in. Slowly, slowly, he sank into Astarion, feeling every inch of him wrapped around him. He was so tight, so wet, so perfect. Wyll could feel Astarion clenching around him, his muscles twitching, his grip pulsing with each wave of arousal and endorphins his heart pumped through his bloodstream. Wyll’s vision blurred for a second, overcome with sensation.
“Oh,” Astarion moaned, his voice breathy and low.
“Gods, Astarion,” Wyll groaned. It was incredible — it was too incredible. Wyll’s chest heaved, and he stayed there, sheathed inside of him, for the fear that if he moved things would be over far too soon.
Astarion had other ideas — he bucked his hips, clenched himself around Wyll, tried to rock himself against Wyll and gain some friction, some purchase, anything, but Wyll pressed a hand down against his stomach and held him in place.
“Wyll, please,” Astarion whined. “I’m asking nicely, please.”
Wyll breathed slow, trying to focus on anything other than how gorgeous and blown-out Astarion looked beneath him, willing himself to last.
“Please what?” Wyll asked — half to drive Astarion mad, and half to give himself more time.
“Please, fucking move already!”
With a short prayer in his mind to any of the Gods who might listen, Wyll obliged.
Wyll hoped he’d remembered to close the door behind him when he entered Astarion’s suite. The noises between the two of them were positively pornographic — the sound of Wyll’s cock pistoning into Astarion’s entrance, the smack of his testicles against the flesh of Astarion’s ass, the curses and wails that Astarion released into the air, their heavy breathing — it was truly undignified.
Wyll leaned forward, hiking Astarion’s hips further off the ground, resting his thighs upon his folded knees so he could push further and hit that spot deep inside the vampire that made his breath hitch and catch in his chest. He pressed his lips against Astarion’s, and Astarion wrapped his arms around his neck, kissing back with a savage, relentless hunger, all fangs and force and passion.
Wyll could feel his arousal building in the pit of his stomach, struggling to keep up with Astarion’s frenzied kissing, and he quickened his pace as Astarion crossed his legs behind his back and pulled him closer. Wyll turned his head to the side, kissing down the side of Astarion’s face, relishing the sound of Astarion’s now-freed voice as he fucked the daylights out of him.
Wyll’s lips trailed to Astarion’s carotid artery, feeling the throb of his rapid pulse, and it was only after Astarion’s body tensed that he realized his mouth was pressing directly against the puncture wounds on Astarion’s neck.
Wyll pulled back immediately, concern in his eyes. “Ah – I didn’t mean —”
Astarion yanked Wyll’s head back against his neck, his hand wrapped around one of his horns, tightening his legs around Wyll’s waist.
“Don’t stop,” Astarion growled, pressing himself harder against Wyll’s hips, clenching down around him. “Don’t you fucking stop.”
Wyll indulged him.
He was close — dangerously close. His arousal had tightened into a knot, a vibrating, pulsating orb of energy in his abdomen that was about to explode. Astarion raked his claws down his back, gyrating his hips against Wyll, matching his movements and squeezing so tightly around him that Wyll could see stars behind his eyelids.
“Astarion,” Wyll panted, his voice muffled against Astarion’s neck. “Where —”
“Inside me,” Astarion groaned, burying his face into the space between Wyll’s neck and shoulders. “Cum inside me — please.”
“Fuck, Astarion,” Wyll breathed. His words went straight to his cock, and that tension was about to burst. “I’m going to —”
“Bite me,” Astarion said, lost in his own pleasure, “Bite me when you cum.”
Wyll bit down on Astarion’s neck, placing his own teeth over his scars, and for a moment the two of them were the only things that existed in the entire universe. Wyll’s mouth on Astarion’s neck, Astarion’s lips around Wyll’s cock, Astarion’s claws against Wyll’s back, Wyll spilling deep inside Astarion’s stomach.
Wyll moaned against Astarion's neck, his voice cracking, his desire overwhelming. He could feel Astarion clenching and unclenching around him, his spine curling as he too reached his climax. Astarion’s orgasm milked at Wyll’s cock, his entrance pulsing open and closed, open and closed, Wyll’s cock stuttering and throbbing as he emptied himself inside of him.
Wyll could feel Astarion’s hand coming up to rest against the back of his head, gentle and exhausted. Wyll removed his teeth from Astarion’s neck and pressed a soft kiss there instead.
His cock was still twitching in the aftershocks, slowly beginning to soften inside of him. He moved to pull out, but Astarion made a small noise of protest.
“Just a little longer,” Astarion murmured. “Just a few more seconds.” His hand stroked the back of Wyll’s head, his movements soft.
Wyll stayed inside him until he softened, slowly pulling out once they’d caught their breath. Astarion seemed to glow beneath him, covered in sweat. Wyll’s pants were still bunched just under his crotch — he’d never taken them off completely. He moved to tuck himself into his smallclothes, unable to tear his eyes away from his own seed leaking from Astarion’s entrance.
The sight stirred something in him — some fondness he thought had disappeared all those years ago, once Astarion cast his morals aside that fateful day.
Astarion closed his eyes, content. The silver stake laid beneath Rhapsody, both reflecting the candlelight. His lips turned upward, a soft smile, strained and exhausted.
“You can still stake me, you know.”
Wyll raised his eyebrows, stopping mid-tuck.
“You came here to kill me,” Astarion said. “And I —” his voice became soft. “I wanted you to.”
“I’m not going to kill you, Astarion, not after —”
“What, not after you fucked me? It seems too wrong, right?” Astarion’s words seemed like they should have held some bite, but they only seemed tired. He was silent for a moment, and Wyll felt a deep sadness blooming in his chest. Astarion shook his head before he continued to speak. “I can’t go back. I can’t undo any of this. I’m miserable, Wyll — you asked me if I was lonely, if I was happy. I’m miserable.”
Wyll sat down beside him. “I’m sorry, I —”
Astarion laughed, then. “Oh Wyll. It’s not your fault. Things so rarely actually are.” Astarion turned, opening his eyes, looking up at him. “You gave me something, tonight. I missed… whatever we had between us, back then. Thank you.”
“This doesn’t have to be the end,” Wyll said. “Maybe… maybe you can work to undo what you can.”
Astarion sighed. “That seems terribly dull,” he said. “I think I’m too far gone. I’ve gorged myself on grain, and now it’s time to throw me into the cognac and let me drown.”
“I don’t know,” Wyll said, looking down at Astarion, brushing a lock of his well-coiffed hair out of his face. Astarion leaned into the touch. “You want to change. I think that might be enough.”
“Is it, truly?”
Wyll stared at Astarion. After all this time, all these years hating him, he was shocked to feel his heart strain at the sight of him like this. Lying on his side, seeming lost, small, fragile. He’d thought that all those years ago, Astarion had cast aside any humanity he had left, that he’d harbored no regrets for the evils he’d done. But it seemed, now, that things weren’t so simple. And, Wyll supposed, things rarely were.
"Perhaps.”
(artwork by me)