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It had all started, like most things in Astarion’s life, with strategy.
He’d marked Wyll early, picked him out the moment they met, his instincts honed like a blade. There was something familiar there. Predictable. Easy. The gallant posture. The chivalrous manners. That infuriatingly earnest, flirty smile. A bleeding heart worn boldly on his sleeve.
So Astarion leaned in.
He played the part with care and calculation. Smiled too easily, with fangs barely hidden behind charm. Let his fingers graze Wyll’s arm during idle conversation. Brushed shoulders, leaned in close when whispering under torchlight, let his voice dip into something soft and intimate. All rehearsed. All practiced. He wanted Wyll to want him. To crave him. To wind so tightly around Astarion’s finger that, should the truth ever surface, should Cazador come knocking or the group learn what he truly was, Wyll would protect him without question.
Because Astarion wasn’t strong. Not like Karlach, whose laughter could shake mountains and whose axe knew no hesitation. Not like Lae’zel, who spoke of death as if it were her birthright. He was fast. Clever. He could cut a throat or charm a merchant out of their boots. But alone? He had only his blades, his fangs, and the fragile illusion of control.
So he tried to seduce safety. To turn Wyll’s desire into armor. That was the plan.
And then the plan failed.
Wyll flirted back, certainly, he wasn’t made of stone despite his eye being one, but he never took the bait. Never pressed for more. He didn’t corner Astarion with honeyed words or try to coax him into a bedroll. He simply smiled, warm and amused, and moved on. He passed him roasted mushrooms at dinner, took the coldest watch while Astarion tranced, asked if he needed extra blankets when the wind bit deep. He never asked for anything in return.
And then came the truth. That terrible, suspended moment, when the others stared, caught between understanding and reaction. Astarion’s body had gone cold, braced for violence, for exile. For the blade that would finally come.
But Wyll had stepped forward instead.
He didn’t call him a monster. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even hesitate.
“If you keep your fangs out of innocent flesh,” he’d said, voice even and sure, “I’ll keep a stake out of your chest.”
A pact. Clean. Honest. Almost absurd in its mercy.
Astarion had blinked at him, stunned. Not because of the terms, but because Wyll didn’t look at him with fear. Or pity. Just calm resolve. Like he saw a person still worthy of standing beside him.
That’s when the game changed. Because Astarion didn’t know how to play with someone like Wyll.
Since then, they’d found a rhythm. Astarion would reach, softly, carefully, and Wyll would meet him halfway. But never further. Never greedy.
They’d only kissed once.
A quiet, aching kiss beneath the stars while the Tieflings celebrated their liberation. Wyll had slipped away from the firelight, restless and melancholy. Astarion had followed, sat beside him in the sand on the shore, and cupped his cheek like he was something sacred. When their lips met, it was slow. Tender. Real.
Astarion had expected it to break the dam. To open the floodgates to hunger and heat and want. But instead, Wyll had simply smiled, thumb brushing his jaw, and leaned back.
Since then, the affection had been quieter. A warm hand guiding Astarion through the brush. A hint of fingers on his back during battle. A cloak draped over his shoulders at night. Thoughtful, consistent gestures that made no demands.
At night Astarion would lie awake in Wyll’s arms and think about how it was supposed to go. How he had meant to make Wyll the one longing, the one lost in him.
But now? Now he relaxed without thinking. Let himself be gathered close, cheek resting against the steady beat of Wyll’s chest, the faint smell of his blood filling his senses, his cold body melting into the warmth like it belonged there.
And that terrified him. Because what if could keep this feeling, keep Wyll?
What if, this time, it didn’t end with skin broken and heart shattered, but instead he walked away carrying someone else inside his ribs?
What if Wyll found out that Astarion still didn’t know what love really was? That part of him still waited, bracing, for the moment when kindness turned to cost?
But then Wyll would kiss the back of his hand with no fanfare. Tuck a curl behind his ear without comment. Press a bottle of wine into his palm on quiet nights, their knees brushing as they passed it back and forth beneath the stars. In those quiet moments Astarion would allow himself to believe that, maybe, just maybe it could be real.
---
The woods tonight were vibrant, silvered with moonlight, thick with damp leaves and the thrum of distant animals. Astarion moved through them like a ghost, silent and fluid, his boots making no sound on the slick ground. The thirst stirred low in his belly, coiled and clawing, an ember that refused to die. Manageable. But barely.
He needed just enough to take the edge off. Something small and warm.
What he found instead was a bear.
A massive, hulking beast, lumbering through the underbrush. Astarion stopped, head tilting. Then a slow, sly grin curled his lips flashing his fangs.
“Halsin,” he purred, voice syrupy with amusement. “You’ve outdone yourself. Glistening coat. Quite the majestic beast tonight.”
The bear turned. Growled.
Not a playful sound. Not the indulgent rumble of a druid in wildshape.
No. This was wild. Untamed.
Astarion’s smile faltered. “Oh,” he whispered, fangs retreating behind pressed lips. “You’re not Halsin at all.”
Then the bear lunged.
Astarion moved on instinct. Leaping and twisting out of reach. The bear’s claws caught his side, white-hot pain ripping through his ribs, but he barely registered it. His daggers danced. His fangs flashed.
And then he sank them deep into the creature’s throat.
The blood hit him like fire.
Thick. Rich. Alive. It surged down his throat like molten sunlight, and he drank with a desperation he couldn’t control. It filled him, spilling into every corner of his body. His skin lit up, nerves singing, the ache in his gut eclipsed by something sharp and sweet and overwhelming.
He didn’t stop.
By the time the bear collapsed, twitching and still, Astarion was shaking.
He pulled back with a gasp, lips and shirt stained red, chest rising in ragged waves.
The wound at his side had already closed. His vision swam. Every muscle hummed with life. His hands trembled. His pupils swallowed the red, huge and blown wide with bloodlust and euphoria.
He staggered back, grabbed a branch for balance, and laughed.
Loud. Wild. Loosened by relief and release and the heady, terrible pleasure of being full.
By the time Astarion reached camp, he was flushed and glowing. The blood warmed him in ways that had nothing to do with temperature, it shimmered beneath his skin like starlight, made his limbs languid and loose, his thoughts swimming in syrup. The world was too much and not enough. Every sensation felt sharpened, electric. The crunch of dirt beneath his boots. The cool whisper of night air against overheated skin. The mingling scents of woodsmoke, sweat, and something faintly sweet, like apples left too long in the sun.
He caught sight of Wyll near the fire, sharpening his blade, and broke into a grin, wide and unguarded, all lopsided delight.
“Oh, there you are, my friend” he laughed, hips swaying as he sauntered forward.
Wyll looked up, pausing mid-stroke. He blinked, then chuckled, the corner of his mouth curling into that infuriatingly warm, amused smile.
“Well, someone’s in a good mood,” he said, setting the blade aside with a soft clink. “Let me guess… a productive hunt?”
“Mmm. You could say that.” Astarion’s voice curled around the words, thick with suggestion. He let his hand trail down Wyll’s arm, fingers grazing the skin as his own body thrummed in response. “I found a bear,” he murmured, lips brushing close to Wyll’s jaw, drinking in the scent of him. “He took some of my blood… so I took all of his.”
Wyll’s smile softened, but his eyes flicked over Astarion. Assessing. Not suspicious. Just concerned. Careful.
“Are you… drunk?”
Astarion laughed, bright and musical, nearly breathless as he took an unsteady step forward. “Maybe. Maybe just… drunk on you, my sweet.”
Around them, the camp stirred. Karlach raised an eyebrow and muttered something under her breath. Shadowheart gave a long, suffering sigh and turned away. Even Gale glanced over the rim of his book.
Wyll stood quickly, setting a steadying hand on Astarion’s elbow. “Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s get you somewhere quiet.”
Inside the tent, the world dimmed. The flap closed behind them with a hush. It was warm, lit by the glow of a single enchanted lantern, shadows dancing on canvas walls.
Wyll turned, only to find Astarion already on him. Hands fumbling at his tunic, urgent and graceless, fingers trembling with need. Astarion pressed close, mouth at Wyll’s ear, voice a cracked whisper.
“Touch me. Please. I need, fuck, Wyll, I need you.”
Wyll caught his wrists, not harshly, just enough to hold him still. His voice was soft but firm. “No.”
Astarion groaned, low and broken. Frustrated. “Why not? You’re always so good. So noble. I’m begging you.” He pushed forward, grinding his hips against Wyll’s thigh, panting. “Don’t you want me?”
Wyll closed his eyes for a moment, as if steadying himself. Then he kissed Astarion’s forehead. His cheek. Soft, chaste things that felt like both a balm and a rebuke. “I do,” he said, honestly. “But not like this. Not when you’re like this. You’re not yourself right now.”
Astarion’s head lolled back, eyes glassy with desire. His cock throbbed against the front of his trousers, pressed hard against Wyll’s thigh. “It’s never been like this,” he said hoarsely. “Not in two centuries. Not with anyone. I’ve never wanted like this. Not like I want you right now.” His voice cracked. His eyes shimmered like they might spill over.
And yet, Wyll, damn his gentle soul, still didn’t move to take. Instead, he stepped back, creating space between them with heartbreaking calm. He reached up, brushing damp curls from Astarion’s brow with such tenderness it felt like cruelty.
“If you still want me in the morning,” Wyll said quietly, “then we’ll talk about what this is. But tonight… you’re not in a place to choose.”
Astarion groaned, misery curling in his chest, in his gut. Overwhelmed. He surged forward again, grabbed Wyll’s hand and shoved it down to the bulge in his trousers, gasping at the contact. “Then what the fuck am I supposed to do with all this?” he hissed.
Wyll gently pulled his hand away, his face unbearably kind and impossibly infuriating. “You can always touch yourself,” he said, like it was the most obvious answer in the world.
Astarion froze. Blinking. Confusion flickered across his face like static, interrupting the haze. “Touch…?”
He stared at Wyll, wild-eyed, as if the words were in a language he didn’t understand.
Wyll’s smile faltered. Something else flickered there, grief, maybe. A depth of sadness that Astarion couldn’t name.
After a long moment, Wyll exhaled. “Here.”
He sank onto his bedroll, slow and deliberate, then extended a hand. “Lay down.”
Astarion hesitated. Just a heartbeat. Then he let himself be drawn down, his limbs folding like a marionette’s with the strings cut. He slumped onto the bedding, head finding its way into Wyll’s lap. The position was so tender, so maddeningly gentle, it made something in Astarion ache.
He stared up at Wyll, eyes dazed and wide. His breath came shallow, lips parted. The spinning in his head wouldn’t stop.
Wyll gazed down at him like he was something fragile and beautiful. Like he could shatter, but didn’t have to.
“I won’t touch you,” Wyll said, voice low. Steady. “Not tonight. But you’re more than welcome to touch yourself.”
Astarion swallowed hard. “How do you want me to?”
It came out as a whisper. Not seductive. Not coquettish. Just… lost.
Wyll’s expression softened again, that impossible blend of sorrow and love.
“Don’t do it for me Astarion, do it for yourself” he said.
Something twisted deep in Astarion’s chest. A sharp, unexpected pain, not physical, but real.
He let one hand drift to his stomach, slow, uncertain, like crossing into forbidden territory. His fingers trembled as they brushed over his own skin, every inch of contact startlingly tender, as though he were touching something fragile. The sensation was too intimate. Too familiar in all the wrong ways. His body didn't know how to separate memory from moment.
Then his fingertips dipped beneath the waistband of his trousers.
His breath hitched. A sharp intake of air. And then, he flinched.
The cold met him like a blade. Too familiar. Too sharp. Too wrong.
His whole body went rigid, a shudder racing up his spine like ice water.
Cazador’s image slammed into his mind, cruel and elegant and echoing. A sadistic grin. Laughter, cruel and cloying, ringing around candlelit chambers. The partiers watching, leering, as he performed like a prized beast, compelled to give and give and give until he had nothing left.
The thud of something soft and lifeless, a dead rat dropped at his feet while Cazador fed from a mark right in front of him. The blood had splattered warm onto cold stone, so close, so close he could practically taste it, but instead he would sink his fangs into rotted flesh.
Astarion's hand recoiled as if burned. His chest spasmed. His jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The fullness in his belly becoming overwhelming, his head no longer spinning pleasantly but rather in a harsh pounding that twisted his stomach.
Then a touch.
Fingers threading through his hair, slow and deliberate. Warm. Present. Grounding.
Wyll’s hand he realized, as the warmth of his skin traced gentle patterns into his scalp.
His thumb traced behind Astarion’s pointed ear, tender, almost reverent.
“It’s alright,” Wyll murmured, voice low and steady, the words cutting through the fog like lantern light. “You’re safe.”
Astarion trembled, trying to hold it all in, but it cracked around the edges. His throat tightened.
“I can’t,” he rasped. “I - I haven’t. Not for me.”
Wyll nodded, as if he’d been expecting those words all along. “Just take it slow,” he said gently. “One breath at a time. You don’t owe anyone anything tonight. You can stop.”
Astarion let out a shaky breath, his head still cradled in Wyll’s lap. He focused on the heat from Wyll’s thigh beneath his cheek, anchoring him to the present. To this moment. Not the past. Not the kennels. Not the cold hands that had once gripped him.
“I was only ever made to do it when it pleased him,” he whispered, the confession slipping out like blood from a reopened wound. “Or when it could lure someone in. Or when it was expected. It never felt like it was mine.”
Wyll leaned down slowly, pressing a kiss to Astarion’s forehead, soft and sure. “Then maybe… don’t think about the past. Don’t think about him. Think of something nice.”
Astarion blinked up at him, dazed and disbelieving, the spinning returning to a gentle sway no longer pushing bile up his throat. “Nice?”
Wyll nodded. “Something warm. Something kind. Something that makes you feel good without shame.”
Astarion closed his eyes. And tried.
At first, it was like clawing through ash. His mind, dark and smoldering, scattered with memories too sharp to hold, too old to forget. Hands blackened with soot, reached blindly through the wreckage, groping for warmth, for light. For anything untouched by ruin.
And slowly, like sunlight cracking through the aftermath of a storm, something surfaced.
A sound. A memory.
Wyll’s laugh. Full-bodied and unapologetically loud. That warm, rich baritone that rolled through his chest and filled the spaces around him like a song. A laugh that didn’t hide, didn’t hold back. A laugh that made Astarion feel, for the first time in gods-knew-how-long, like he hadn’t ruined the mood just by existing.
He thought of the stupid, gallant speeches Wyll gave before battle, half-performative, half-genuine, his chin and rapier lifted just a little too high, like a storybook knight. The ridiculous grin he wore right before doing something self-sacrificing and infuriatingly noble.
He thought of the way Wyll kissed. Slow and sure, like he wasn’t tasting Astarion so much as memorizing him. Like he meant it.
Like Astarion mattered.
That was when Astarion let his hand drift down again.
Slower. Gentler.
His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his trousers, knuckles grazing sensitive skin. He flinched and then relaxed.
His cock throbbed with borrowed blood against his palm, aching, heavy, flushed with need he didn’t fully understand. Not lust, exactly. Not the kind he’d been trained to mimic. This was rawer. Hungrier. A need to feel. To reclaim.
He let out a hiss through his teeth, chest tight with the effort of staying present, and began to stroke. Awkward. Tentative. It was like learning a language he'd only ever heard used as a weapon.
Wyll didn’t speak.
He didn’t correct him. Didn’t coax or command.
He simply stayed. His hand threaded slowly through Astarion’s curls, thumb brushing behind one pointed ear in slow, grounding circles. A touch with no destination. No agenda. Just comfort.
And gods, Astarion needed it.
He moaned softly, the sound catching in his throat as his head tilted into Wyll’s thigh. His other hand clenched the bedding beneath them, hips lifting in shallow, uncertain rhythm as his strokes found their pace. In his mind, the fantasy bloomed like fire on dry parchment.
Wyll on his knees, broad shoulders framed by the candlelight. Between Astarion’s thighs, eyes half-lidded with desire, every movement deliberate, reverent. Worshipful.
Wyll’s hands gripping his hips, not to control, but to hold. To steady. His mouth lowering with care, lips warm, tongue teasing, taking him in inch by inch like a promise. Like prayer.
Astarion whimpered, breath catching. His hand moved faster now, rhythm growing with every imagined detail. Pleasure coiled tight in his belly, hot and overwhelming.
In the fantasy, Wyll looked up at him with that damned righteous gaze, like Astarion wasn’t a ruin, but a revelation. Like he was worth devouring.
Wyll’s fingers in his hair never stopped. Gentle. Present. A tether to the moment.
Astarion’s moans grew louder, less controlled. His body trembled, hips jerking against his palm as the pleasure surged higher.
And through it all, the scent of Wyll surrounded Astarion: sweat and smoke and worn leather. A touch of spice. The lingering warmth of fire. And beneath it, blood.
Wyll’s blood.
Sweet. Smoky. Rich.
His fangs ached. His mouth watered.
He imagined it coating his tongue, running down his throat like wine. Thick and intoxicating. Feeding not just his hunger, but every hollow place inside him.
He imagined Wyll inside him, not just his cock, not just his hands, but his soul. Heat and weight and love, sinking into every crevice Cazador had carved out. Filling the emptiness until Astarion could no longer feel where he ended and Wyll began.
Astarion gasped, hips stuttering, the edge drawing impossibly close. His other hand clutched at Wyll’s thigh, grounding himself in the heat, the realness of that solid body beneath him.
And in his mind Wyll kissed him.
Not hungrily. Not possessively. Tenderly.
He pressed his lips to Astarion’s throat and left bruising marks. Not as a claim. As a gift.
Astarion keened, a sound cracked open by both pleasure and emotion. His whole body shook.
He imagined what it would be like to belong. Not to a master. Not to a command.
But to a choice.
To love.
And for the briefest moment, something stirred inside him, something old and aching and long-forgotten.
The phantom of a heartbeat. Almost. But not quite. Because his heart didn’t beat.
And Wyll - Wyll was still fully clothed. Still above him. Still maddeningly, mercifully patient.
Astarion cried out, sharp and choked, as his body arched in Wyll’s lap. Release hit him like a lightning strike, blinding, wracking, undeniable. His fingers clenched, nails digging into the firm muscle of Wyll’s thigh as though anchoring himself to the present, his heels dragging against the bedding as waves of pleasure surged through him, deeper than he thought he could feel.
His spend spilled into his hand in thick, ropes, a reminder that this moment, this body, this sensation, belonged to him.
The tension drained from his body all at once, leaving him boneless and trembling. He felt himself float, adrift in the warm, buzzing aftermath, carried gently on a tide that pulled him out of himself and slowly back in again. The pleasure receded like the sea, and what was left behind was something quieter. Something unspoken.
“That’s it,” Wyll said, voice gentle and cutting through the haze. Low and steady. “You did so well.”
He brushed Astarion’s sweat-matted hair back from his face, thumb stroking his temple with aching tenderness.
Astarion’s body twitched in the aftershocks, his cock softening against his stomach, slick and sensitive. His limbs trembled faintly, breath coming in shallow pants. Something sharp pricked behind his eyes threatening to spill over.
Wyll bent low and pressed a kiss to his temple.
Astarion let out a ragged laugh, hoarse and cracked with lingering pleasure. “You’re going to ruin me, Wyll.”
Wyll only smiled, quiet and fond, and reached for a cloth beside the bedroll.
He offered it without comment, without fuss. A simple gesture.
Astarion took it, wiping himself clean with slow, almost delicate motions. The moment was shockingly mundane, almost absurd in its normalcy. And yet, somehow, it grounded him more than the climax had.
When he finished, Wyll reached out again, fingers brushing his wrist before tugging him gently upright. There was no force in the gesture. Just an invitation.
Astarion went willingly.
He curled into Wyll’s arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. Let his face press into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of leather and skin and safety. His arms wrapped around Wyll’s waist, loose and unguarded. And Wyll, the sweet fool that he was wrapped him up like a shield. One large hand slid up and down his back in slow, soothing passes.
Astarion hadn't realized how much he'd craved this. Not the ecstasy. Not the fantasy. But this: the silence after. The way Wyll held him. He let his eyes drift closed.
And for once, he didn’t feel hollow.
He didn’t feel like predator, or property. He didn’t feel like he was about to be taken or used or discarded.
He just felt safe.
Happy.
Wanted.
Wyll’s breath stirred his hair. Then, a kiss, barely there, just the softest press of lips against a pale curl. And for one quiet, perfect moment, he let himself believe, truly believe, that this was what it could feel like to be loved.