nothing is safe

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/50425576.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games)
Relationship: Astarion/Wyll (Baldur's Gate)
Characters: Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Wyll (Baldur's Gate), Karlach (Baldur's Gate),
Lae'zel (Baldur's Gate), Tav (Baldur's Gate), Halsin (Baldur's Gate),
Shadowheart (Baldur's Gate), Gale (Baldur's Gate), Mizora (Baldur's
Gate)
Additional Tags: Anal Sex, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con,
Background Tav/Gale, Bottom Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Hurt/Comfort,
Podfic Available
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of nothing is safe
Stats: Published: 2023-09-30 Completed: 2023-10-13 Words: 18,142 Chapters:
2/2
 nothing is safe
by foxflowering

Summary

"Wyll's the sort of prince-type I would have once dreamed of marrying. When I was about
thirteen."
 Chapter 1
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

There is no mystery about this creature — he is a man. He’s stretched out by the fire, nursing
a goblet of thin and vinegary table wine. His manner is unguarded; his smile is brilliant. His
name is Wyll, apparently. Wyll-with-a-Y. He’s human, though you might not know it at first
glance, owing to the impressive pair of horns adorning his pretty skull; a tough, bony core
texturized by deep ridges and protected by a natural sheath of keratin. His mismatched eyes
— one milky-pale and vitreous, false, the other demonic — both gifts of his she-devil patron
— contribute to this overall impression of inhuman menace. But beneath it all, there he is: a
man.

What more is there to say? He’s taller than Astarion, though not by much. He’s broader, but
that’s to be expected. He can’t pick a lock to save his life. His aim is atrocious. He’s intrepid.
He’s handsome. He’s stupid. Remarkably, astoundingly, prodigiously stupid.

(Because you’d have to be stupid to be such a bloody do-gooder.)

“I can feel you staring, you know,” Wyll says, his eyes flickering towards Astarion. “I
thought vampires were meant to be subtle.”

“They certainly can be,” Astarion retorts, a touch miffed. “When they’ve half a mind to be.”

He settles down by the light of the fire, cultivating an elegant spawl. There is a silent, internal
calculation to be made in the process, a geometry to be observed; he wishes to maintain a
healthy distance from the self-styled Blade of Frontiers, but he does not wish to sit so far
apart as to imply intimidation — or worse, fear. He most certainly does not fear this bleeding-
heart boy; it would be ridiculous to do so, patently absurd. He should sooner fear a bleating
billygoat. The goat, at least, might actually know how to use its horns.

It’s their fifth night camping out like this. The night is cool, the air is clean, and their illithid
hitchhikers are remarkably silent. Despite the circumstances, despite chaos and carnage,
despite everything, Astarion feels good. Content, in a word.

Tomorrow, they may all meet a grisly end by goblin spear — or venomous spider, or vengeful
hag, or ceremorphosis, or one of the billion other life-threatening dangers they now seem to
stumble into on a daily basis — but tonight? Tonight, the blood of a particularly tangy boar
waltzes through his belly, accenting the evening with a tremendous feeling of wellbeing. Of
satiety. (What a concept, satiety.) He is fed. He is fed, and he is free, and the campfire is
warm on his skin.
The eyecandy certainly doesn’t hurt either.

Wyll’s eyes narrow, watching Astarion quite carefully as he draws himself into a comfortable
sitting posture. “Not salivating over my poor neck, are you?”

“My dear, you flatter yourself,” Astarion snipes, drawing his knees up towards himself. “As
if there’s anything so enticing about your blood — I can smell it from here, you know. It is
unbearably saccharine.”

“Saccharine?”

“Nauseatingly so, yes. Like the frosting off a child’s birthday cake. No thank you.”

Evidently unbothered by the thought of having unpalatable blood, Wyll works out his
shoulder.

“Can’t remember the last time I had a birthday cake,” he says idly, thoughtfully. “Been on the
road a couple years now — most of my birthdays have been spent covered in basilisk gore,
blade in one hand, bottle in the other."

“Evocative,” Astarion says, prim. “Forgive me for asking, dove — but how old are you
again?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four? Twenty-four years?”

“Yes?”

“My gods,” Astarion affects a light gasp. “We travel with an infant.”

Wyll grinned, “By your standards, I’m sure. You’re an elf, not to mention an undead
abomination —”

“Mm, yes, thank you for for reminding me.”

“— so you’re probably, what, five hundred years old?”

“Somewhere in that ballpark,” Astarion says gamely, feeling no particular inclination to

provide Wyll with a more accurate estimation. “At any rate, I’ve had a good deal more
birthdays than you. Whelp.”

“Life is for the living, old man,” Wyll shrugs, returning to his bottle for a slow and measured
pull of his wine.

Astarion flashes his teeth, playfully admonitory — but the tension between them has begun
to disperse. Wyll will not sleep with one hand on his rapier tonight, and Astarion will not lie
awake in a state of silent traction, waiting for the monster hunter to creep upon him with a
stake.
The thing about Wyll, Astarion learns later on, after a rather dazzling display of pyrotechnics
at Waukeen’s Rest — is that Wyll is Wyll Ravengard, prodigal son of Grand Duke Ulder
Ravengard. Wyll is an aristocrat, a noble scion; in his own way, he could be considered a
prince of Baldur’s Gate.

As his dagger tunnels into the soft, flexible brain matter of a goblin lasher, Astarion’s mind
turns to something he hasn’t given thought to in about a hundred years: his own family. His
real family, mind you — not the twisted simulacrum Cazador built on blood, terror, and
mutual resentment, turning spawn against spawn for scraps of his wretched favor. Because he
had a family once. A mother. A father. A brother. All that precious rot. Trouble is, he can no
longer recall their names or faces — two hundred years of prolonged agony have worn their
memory down to splinters. To bitter ash.

He remembers certain — echoes. Vestiges, you might say. The memory of memory; shadows
on the wall of his own mind. He remembers the softness of a woman’s arms. A hot plate at
suppertime. A coarse, steady hand braced over his own, guiding him through the basic
motions of firing a shortbow. The bass of a man’s voice: Stand parallel to the shooting line.
Proper posture is key to shooting well and avoiding injuries. But who was he? What has
become of him? He sometimes wishes he could open up the past like a window, throw apart
the curtains, and scream into it: Who are you? Where are you? Take me with you!

Alas, some things are quite impossible.

Astarion recalls this, at least, with some level of clarity: his family was well-off and well-
connected. They were powerful. He remembers silk draperies in tasteful dining rooms,
handsome portraits adorning the walls — and tutors, many tutors, who taught him everything
from numbers and letters to quadrilles. But what was the source of his family’s wealth? Were
they aristocrats? Merchant-lords of some renown? Patrons of the arts? World-class
practitioners of magic? Military stock elevated to gentry, as with the Ravengards? Perhaps
Astarion’s mother or father was a magistrate or judge, like he. Perhaps he even got his start
through them.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

How… inspiredly wretched, that he could not recall their kindness — their love for him —
but he recalls every last waking moment of Cazador’s cruelty, every stroke of the knife, every
sting of the brand, every ripple of humiliation — down to the minutest detail. How wildly,
ecstatically unfair. But that’s life, no?

In another life, perhaps he could’ve met Wyll Ravengard at some invitation-only black-tie
soiree, as opposed to the gates of some mud-caked, manure-reeking, backwater grove. They’d
be handsomely dressed — red velvet for Astarion, of course, and perhaps a deep green frock
coat for Wyll. Oh, Astarion would have teased Wyll relentlessly for his swashbuckling
fantasies and his kitten-rescuing tendencies — but he would’ve still probably given Wyll at
least one dance. A fine face is still a fine face, even when it comes attached to a needy little
do-gooder. And his station could hardly be denied.

“Wyll Ravengard,” Astarion says, pausing to examine his nails. “You’re a monster hunter of
some renown, are you not?”

They’re paused on the Risen Road, their fearsome leader covered nearly head-to-toe in gnoll
gore, pawing gleefully through every last crate and barrel in site. Quite the little hoarder, that
one.

“Some renown?” Wyll looks mildly taken-aback. “Tales of my prowess are repeated from
Neverwinter to Candlekeep, I’ll have you know.”

“Sure, yes, we’re all very impressed,” Astarion rolls his eyes. “Now, tell me. In your travels
— have you ever fought a vampire?”

“A fully-fledged vampire, you mean? A vampire lord?”

“Precisely that.”

Wyll shakes his head, “Can’t say I’ve had the honor.” Then, evaluating Astarion with a look
of hard calculation that Astarion does not like one whit — “I have taken down a couple of
spawn, though.”

“Ah!” Astarion smiles reflexively, ungratefully. “Reassuring.”

“It isn’t much to brag about,” Wyll says, a smack of cheek in the curl of his smile. “They’re a
good deal weaker than the real thing, possessing few of their master’s powers.”

“Darling, I’m feeling better by the minute.”

From where she’s perched on the lip of a wagon, Morrow lifts her head, her dark hair
curtained fetchingly around the point of her chin. With an air of curiosity, she asks him,
“How strong is a vampire lord, exactly?”

How strong indeed. Astarion feigns interest in the balance of his knives, the whorls and the
grain in their lacquered wood handles.

“Strong,” he says, temporizing. Then, when the word seems insufficient to the point of farce,
he amends himself, “Overwhelmingly strong. Nigh unkillable.”
Over the years, there have been — attempts , of course. Gur wielding torches and stakes,
covered in garlands of dried garlic and witch-hazel; paladins with silver blades, clerics
anointed in sacred blood… few were lucky enough to be killed quickly. After all, Cazador so
loved to play with his food — and nothing aroused his appetites so much as the breaking of a
(would-be) hero. He delighted in flaying them for days before at last deigning to drain them
— turning their backs to raw meat, sawing off chunks of their flesh, exulting as stoic
exteriors eroded into blubbering pleas for mercy, even death… cries for Selune and
Lathander and Tyr falling on deaf and impotent and indifferent ears…

Your false gods cannot hear you, little one.

Lae’zel, ever the conversationalists, say, “Pah. Unkillable for an istik, perhaps. I’m sure even
the proudest vampire would crumble beneath the might of a githyanki blade.”

“I do adore your confidence, my speckled friend,” Astarion says, shaking his head. “But no.
Just — no.”

She bristles, “You underestimate the strength of my people.”

“And you underestimate the power of a creature that can dominate with a glance, change his
face with a thought, transform into mist, and command armies of tainted wolves.”

Half-listening, Morrow resumes her rummaging. Wyll turns to Astarion, gives him a little
nudge on the shoulder — Astarion nearly flinches at the unexpected bodily contact. Such…
unnecessary chumminess. Ugh.

“We’re a team, aren’t we?” Wyll says lightly. “I’m sure we could figure out some kind of
plan to take down a vampire lord, if we all put our tadpoled heads together. Should the need
arise.”

They are allies only by woeful necessity; they are not buddies. Wyll might talk a big game
about gallantry and justice — a byproduct, surely, of an overindulgent, ego-fat youth spent
reading insipid hero stories on his father’s knee — but he would not stand with Astarion
against Cazador. And why should he? What benefit would there be in that? Really, Astarion
should count himself lucky Cazador’s whispers cannot reach them in this place — else, he
would surely make Wyll an irresistible offer in exchange for Astarion's retrieval, promising
riches or power or some combination of the two. Wyll would surely leap at the opportunity;
after all, he’s already proven his propensity for making devil’s bargains.

Still, Astarion forces out a sound resembling normal laughter, and he says, “That is wildly
unlikely, my dear Wyll. But you’re sweet.”

Lae’zel, Astarion, and Wyll all snap to attention as Morrow emerges from a broken wagon
with a cry, holding a large, leafy green object in her hands.

“Blessed skies! Everyone, look!” Morrow beams delightedly, holding her prize aloft. “I found
a perfectly good head of cabbage!”

A collective pause as the party absorbs this discovery.

“It is a good head of cabbage,” Wyll offers politely.

“I daresay it is,” Astarion agrees.

“I cannot believe,” Lae’zel says softly, silkily, “that I am going to die a ghaik with this band
of gibbering fools.”

Evenings at camp have become a lot less — testy, as of late. A disturbing change! But not an
entirely unwelcome one. It is, Astarion feels, rather nice to bed down without worrying about
a grievous murder taking place inches away from one’s bedroll. (As much as he would enjoy
seeing an all-out match between Shadowheart and Lae’zel, if only for entertainment
purposes).

The night is cool, deep, aquatic. The air carries a certain shoreline scent — something briny,
salt-touched. Around the campfire, Morrow and Gale conspire gleefully — perhaps
ominously — over a pot of cabbage stew. It boils and bubbles a rather dreadful shade of gray.
Nearby, Karlach’s sat on a felled log, providing a teasing play-by-play of the process while
imbibing impressive quantities of rye whiskey; a miracle the stuff doesn’t act as some kind of
combustive agent.

Lae’zel, unsurprisingly, utterly loathes idleness, so Morrow has given her the tedious but
rather necessary task of sharpening their store of weapons; she applies herself to the task with
visible relish, working steadily into the evening, working the blade of Karlach’s greataxe
against the fine-grained edge of her whetstone. Her focus is total; her movements
economical, precise. From a distance, in darkness — Shadowheart watches them all, wearing
a mask of cool assessment. Astarion supposes she’s working out her plan to slaughter them
all as a blood tribute to her ghastly goddess. Lovely girl, that Shadowheart.

Astarion stretches out at his own site, contemplates going out on a hunt; the forests of this
region are replete with tasty prey, from bears to boars to hyenas. But it all seems like such a
bother — especially when his preferred prey are so near, so helpless, so gullible.

Wyll strides up to Astarion’s side, knocks a bottle of red against Astarion’s hand lightly: an
invitation. Taking Wyll up on the offer, Astarion props himself up, grabs the bottle by the
neck, swinging it lazily like a dinner bell before at last popping the cork and taking a pull. A
rather mediocre Malbec — but certainly not the worst thing Astarion has ever imbibed.

Handing back the bottle, he finds himself asking, “Is Wyll short for Wylliam?”

“Wyll is short for Wyll.”

“But Wylliam sounds so much more dignified,” Astarion says. “Wylliam Ravengard, Duke
presumptive — now that sounds like a man worth climbing into bed with.”

Wyll tips the bottle back, swallows, and then shakes his head.

“Not the heir presumptive, not anymore. So regular Wyll will have to do.”

“Ah,” Astarion says. “Disinherited?”

“Quite famously, yes.”

“Whatever for? You rather seem like the golden child to me, what with all your orphan-
saving, baby-kissing escapades. Don’t tell me you have a wild and scandalous past.” Astarion
grins, savouring the thought as he leans in ever nearer. “Let me guess — frittered your
father’s fortune away at the gaming table? Rolled one too many stable boys? Eloped with an
elven hooker?”

“If you must know,” Wyll says, eyeing Astarion with a look of vague suspicion — but not,
Astarion thinks, disapproval, “my father did not approve of my… cavorting with devils.”

“Really? That was the dealbreaker for him — a dab of warlockery?”

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but warlockery is rather frowned upon in polite company.
Especially once the Hells are involved.”

“Pish posh. He stills sounds like a wet blanket.”

“It’s a complicated story,” Wyll says, evenhanded, “and not one I can freely tell, due to the
terms of my pact. But I will say this — I do not blame my father for his decision, nor do I
hate him for it. But at the same time, I do not regret my own choices.”

“No?” Astarion lifts a brow, leaning back, bracing himself against the palms of his hands.
“You’d pact with Mizora again, if given the chance?”

“Under the same circumstances? Yes. I would.”

“Even though she’s got one fist around your leash, the other around your balls?”

Wyll laughs, sotto. Taps his fingernails against the body of the bottle. “Even so, yes.”

“Hm,” Astarion intones, considering this. The she-devil, with her ashen skin and luscious
body; the crook of her finger, the wicked curl of her lips. “She must’ve made it worth it for
you.”

“That she did.”

“Have you and Mizora ever… you know?” Astarion waves a hand about airily.

“What?” Wyll blinks. Astarion waggles his brow suggestively, mimes a crude gesture — and
Wyll’s relaxed manner instantly dissipates. “Oh, Selune’s tears. Really? Really?”
“Oh, don’t you clutch your pearls — it was only a question!” Astarion scoffs, rolling his
eyes. “You’re a strapping young thing, she’s a fetching creature of relaxed morals… it’s only
natural to think that things might have taken a rather more physical turn, at some point or
another.”

Wyll’s jaw tightens, his eyes aflame. Angry or embarrassed — or some combination of the
two — he tosses his head to the side; his dark skin is fantastically lustrous in the dim, golden
lowlight of Astarion’s lamp.

“I am not answering that,” he bites out.

“Nor are you denying it,” Astarion observes. His grin widens, taking on a somewhat lupine
character. “Curious!”

“I don’t need to justify myself to you.”

“Justify yourself — oh, my stars. You have, haven’t you?” Astarion laughs, lifting a dainty
hand. “You dirty dog! Good for you. You know, even I can’t claim to have tumbled a devil —
and believe me, I have sampled more than my fair share of this realm’s exotica: dragonborn,
half-orcs, even a fire genasi on one memorable occasion. Word to the wise, dear — do not
fuck a fire genasi. They are atrocious in bed.”

For a long moment, Wyll is quiet. All traces of the laughing, self-impressed Blade of
Frontiers have vanished — in this moment, he seems impossibly young. A frightened child,
this one — wrenched from his father’s loving arms and into the dark embrace of a cambion.

What tired drivel.

“Mizora and I…” Wyll prevaricates, feigning interest in the brim of the bottle, the dark liquid
hurling and slushing within the tempered glass. “I was — younger, then. New to the pact,
new to my powers, still smarting over my exile — miserable, in a word. My misery
entertained her terribly — and in exchange for a taste of that misery, she offered me…
companionship. A night’s intimacy. It was a mistake. It is always a mistake, with devils like
she. When one hand gives, the other takes — that is always their way, always their protocol,
without question and without exception.”

“Fuck the devil, and the devil fucks you back,” Astarion surmises, wry.

At that, Wyll does laugh — but it’s a harsh, short bark of a thing. Mirthless.

“It only happened the once,” he says. “And it shall never happen again.” His expression
hardens, a hint of iron creeping into his tone. “Never again will I be so weak, so craven. I am
already all but her slave. Her puppet, her plaything — her creature. I will not be her bedboy
as well.”

Far off, by the fire, Gale has begun to pour out bowlfuls of his dubious creation. Karlach
looks rather delighted; Shadowheart, who has arrived to investigate the somewhat curious
smell of his cooking, looks slightly more apprehensive. Lae’zel accepts a bowlful of her own
without comment. She never has anything to say about their meals, be they fit for a lord’s hall
or barely edible. Githyanki practicality, he supposes; in her eyes, fuel is fuel.

Low, Astarion asks Wyll, “If she ordered you to, could you say no?”

Wyll’s brow creases.

“Ordered me to sleep with her?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure.”

Astarion’s stomach churns unpleasantly.

“You’re not sure?”

“I don’t have access to the contract — but she’s certainly never attempted to force the issue.
Or me, for that matter.”

“But there’s a chance she could? If she wanted to?”

“I’d rather not give it thought,” Wyll says with a deep and painful earnestness, and silence
falls between them.

All of a sudden, Astarion feels terribly, feverishly aware time’s passage — its ceaseless,
implacable march; moments into minutes, into hours, into years, into centuries, borne on the
ebbing tides of eternity. The soft skate of Wyll’s breath — the minute quaking of his
shoulders — the bloody, rhythmic pounding of his heart — the soaring of ventricles, the flex
and give of muscle — minutes of his short human life tick by, one by one. Another. And
another. By Astarion’s side. For now.

In another century, perhaps Astarion shall forget him as well.

Wyll wets his lip, “Your master, Cazador — did —”

A long, aching silence. Astarion does not think. Does not breathe. And then the spell breaks
— Wyll shakes his head, looking profoundly ashamed of himself, and he says, “Nevermind.
Forget I said anything.”

Astarion shifts away, turns his gaze out into the brush.

“I think that would be for the best,” he hears himself say, cool and glassy as the white-faced
moon, and that is that.
Sometimes, in the night — the deep night, when the others have long since gone to sleep —
when the moon is high, and the dark is at its very richest, and a vampire lord is at his
strongest —

Astarion feels a torque of savage fear.

First, thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures.

He’s most certainly broken that seal. Repeatedly, gleefully, deliciously.

Second, thou shalt obey me in all things.

Mm, that one as well.

Third, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed —

Oh, and most definitely that one — considering the fact he has spent the last fortnight
wandering about the Sword Coast with a merry band of misfits, thoroughly unbidden and
undirected.

This truancy, this freedom — this wanton disobedience — it is exhilarating. Thrilling.

Intoxicating, even. Walking in sunlight, traipsing blithely into homes, drinking whatever and
whomever he pleases, living out each day with full, wicked abandon — gods, it is heady.
He’d forgotten this, how it feels to be his own man, his own creature. He feels half-drunk on
it, wild with it, blood-soused; he wants to set the world ablaze, to raze it to cinders, if only to
revel in the fact that Cazador cannot stop him.

No one can stop him.

And yet, it is terrifying as well, for Cazador surely must be furious — and is likely only
growing more and more furious with each passing moment, each glorious minute Astarion
spends beyond his grasp.

And here is where the wild joy of freedom swings towards nausea. Towards dread. For
Cazador’s fury is truly awesome in the biblical sense — his will, a great red tide that
subsumes all that it touches, and Astarion has not forgotten the last time he attempted to
escape his master. It was some 170 years ago, when he was still a young vampling — and it
had all been for some boy. A young man with dark skin, with laughing eyes, with gentle
hands. A young man who’d called him little love.

Cazador had ordered his death, ordered that he be dragged back to the manor alive, for
feasting — and Astarion had refused. Couldn’t stand the thought of hurting him, of betraying
him. He’d cherished some rash dream of escaping together — to Waterdeep, perhaps, or
Neverwinter, somewhere far beyond Cazador’s reach. He’d even secured them passage on a
boat leaving Baldur’s Gate. There had been reckless promises, declarations of passion: run
away with me, little love.
What a fucking joke. What a truly pathetic act of delusion.

In the end, the man had died, like Cazador wanted; Cazador always got what he wanted. And
it hadn’t been a quick death either; it had been drawn-out, merciless — torturous. A sadistic,
circuitous process of flaying, healing, and flaying again.

Spattered wrist to throat in a sweet boy’s bright red, Cazador had sighed: Look what you
made me do, Astarion.

As punishment for his disobedience, Astarion had spent a year entombed — buried alive. A
year of silence. A year of starvation. He’d scratched his fingernails to bloody stumps against
the hawthorn casing of his coffin, trying — and failing — to claw his way free; he still felt
the phantom memory of that pain, sometimes, in the bed of his nails. He’d begged the gods to
help him. To free him. Then — as weeks came months — as the strength left his body, and
the silence wore him through — he’d begged the gods to ease his suffering. By the end, he’d
prayed daily for the death.

No answer, of course.

(There are some places even the gods’ light does not reach.)

This little adventure, here on the Sword Coast — this blood-drunk escapade — is an
unparalleled impudence. An act of disobedience magnitudes greater, he thinks, than his prior
attempt at escape with his lover. (What the Hells was his name, anyhow? He no longer
recalls.)

An unparalleled impudence surely merits an unparalleled punishment. Astarion’s dead heart

judders at the thought. What elaborate, byzantine method of torture would Cazador engineer
against him? Would it be another year of silence? A decade? Or something worse still — if
such a thing was even possible? Astarion’s mind churns with images of possible agonies —
starvation, rape, dismemberment — but he knows, deep in his bones, that Cazador’s
punishment will exceed even his most inventive imaginings. For Cazador is a true genius of
agony; a savant; pain’s prodigy.

And it is thoughts like these — thoughts exactly like these — which fill him with the
noxious, pathetic urge to go running back to Baldur’s Gate with his tail between his legs — to
throw himself on Cazador’s mercy, to beg his leniency, to reassure him desperately of his
loyalty — anything, anything to save himself from the pain — for it would not be simple
pain, but prolonged, soul-reckoning agony — he cannot survive the silence again —

Fourth, thou shalt know that thou art mine.

Gods damn it, but he knows it still. The commandment holds. He knows it, he knows it.
Wyll’s frying two eggs over the campfire in a crusty old cast-iron when he asks, “Can
vampires eat? Real food, I mean.”

“We can, yes,” Astarion says, watching the eggs spit and crackle, crisping at the edges.
“After a fashion. We just don’t need to — or feel any particular appetite for human food.
Only blood satiates the hunger within, I’m afraid.”

“So this,” Wyll gestures down into the pan, “doesn’t appeal to you at all? Doesn’t look or
smell remotely appetizing?”

“No,” Astarion says gloomily, staring into the egg’s bright yellow yolk. “I want to eat a
gnome.”

He’d sampled one a few days prior, in the heat of battle. The blood had hissed and fizzled in
his throat like champagne — and instantaneous molar meltdown of acid and sweet. Most
intriguing.

Wyll lays a slice of brown bread down in the pan, asks him, “What was your favorite food
before you turned? Do you remember?”

“I — no,” Astarion says, surprised at the question. “I haven’t the faintest idea.” He pauses,
considers it earnestly, then hazards a response: “If I had to guess, I’d say it was most likely
something needlessly exotic and wildly expensive. My tastes have always run rather lavish.”

“Wealthy scion?”

“Just so.”

“Good breeding?”

“The very best." Or so he assumes.

“You and me both, I suppose,” Wyll hums. “Though I never did develop an appreciation for
caviar, white truffles or foie gras.”

“Or fine tailoring for that matter. Not a bolt of silk upon you. Tsk, tsk. The upper echelons of
Baldur’s Gate would be appalled, you know. Just clutching at their pearls in horror.”

“The upper echelons of Baldur’s Gate,” Wyll laughs, turning his toast over, “will have to take
me as I am. You included.”

The pan comes off the heat; the toast is buttered and sliced, the eggs are laid down overtop.
Sunny-side up. Ha. Next a crack of black pepper, then a pinch of salt; Wyll peels and carves
half an apple just to add some brightness to his plate. Astarion watches him work with a
sense of pique. This twee little ritual of daily living — it strikes him as both unspeakably
alien and deeply, richly familiar. Long ago, he must have lived like this, performed these
same steps.
A carafe of coffee goes around the camp, traveling from tent to tent. Gale takes his with sugar
and cream, fussylike; Wyll drinks his down hot and black, grimacing all the while, as though
self-administering a much-maligned but lifesaving medicinal.

“I don’t like you at all, you know,” Astarion says. “You’re a terrible bore.”

“Right, of course,” Wyll says, sitting down beside Astarion, balancing his plate in his lap.
“Move over, you.”

He eats with a distinct wolfishness; the act is, in its viscerality, both vaguely attractive and
repulsive, but is that not the pleasure-ground of masculinity, its most powerful contradiction?
Astarion folds his hands one over the other, feigns disinterest. He can smell the soap on
Wyll’s skin — lye and pressed herbs — and below, the lucent sweetness of his blood.

When he’d called Wyll’s blood saccharine, he’d been lying. In truth, it has the fragrant aroma
of elderberry liqueur — and Astarion knows, full well, and with an alarming quantity of
longing, that he could lose himself in it.

The scent of wild jasmine occasions fear.

The fear is irrational, of course — as fear so often is — but not without basis. You see,
sambac jasmine is a favorite of Cazador’s. He grows it in the back garden of the Szarr manor:
large, looming shrubs spangled with small, star-shaped buds, sugarspun white and soft as
childflesh. They glow fantastically in the moonlight. Mesmerizingly, really.

Cazador keeps a decant of their perfume in his chambers. He wears it quite often, especially
when guests of the unsuspecting variety are about — in order to mask the whiff of undead
decay, you see. The stuff is is potent as a tonic, nuanceless, overwhelming; noxious. The
scent lingers on Cazador’s clothes. It lingers in his hair. It lingers on his skin, lingers in the
crooks of his body where the friction of motion generates some wan simulation of living
heat; it lingers on any set of sheets he touches.

And so even now, miles upon miles away from Baldur’s Gate, from Cazador — when passing
a white wall of blooming jasmine — Astarion thinks of him, and of a bed. And he
remembers, with a tilt of shame, just what passes as a reward for good behavior in Cazador’s
sick perversion of a family. Almost preferable to suffer the torments of poor behavior.

Almost.

The scent of wild jasmine occasions fear. The scent of wild jasmine — a communiqué from
the past, an envoy. Wild jasmine — a panic in the face of history.
When the fear comes, Astarion hunts. He hunts vigorously, hunts savagely, hunts to excess.
Moving with deadly intent across the forest brush, he drains two rabbits, a fox, and a badger;
it is a blood price beyond what is necessary to sate his hunger — in fact, it’s nearly enough to
make him puke. But after two centuries of near-constant starvation, two centuries of
pulverizing hunger interrupted only by disgusting interludes of ratblood and cockroach, two
centuries of bone-deep weakness — it feels a little amazing to glut himself like this.

Amazing, and grotesque.

But the thought is there again, golden and giddying: Cazador cannot stop me. No one can
stop me.

Teetering, euphoric, sloshed, he crawls into Wyll’s tent in the middle of the night and climbs
on top of the man, bodily. He feels the clammy cold of his dead hands against Wyll’s heat, the
smooth skin marred with scars — so unlike Cazador, this one, in so many ways —- and he
asks, “How would you kill me?”

Wyll jerks awake, swears in a low, rough, sleep-addled slur, “Blazing Hells. What time is it?”

“How would you do it?” Astarion puts his arms around Wyll. “Kill me.”

“Why the Hells are you in my tent?”

“Don’t need a reason. I go wherever I want now,” Astarion pauses for dramatic effect,
“uninvited.”

Wyll doesn’t smell like jasmine, not even a little bit. He smells like sweat and cotton and
living breath — and all that heady, heady blood, so rich and so plummy, so ripe on the vine.

“If you’re here to murder me,” Wyll grouses, pushing the both of them semi-upright, “you’re
making a bloody botch of it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, blinking himself into
wakefulness. He has a good nose. A strong nose. It has character. Astarion likes it. A good
chin, too. And what a lovely throat! One of the very best throats Astarion has ever seen,
surely. How lovely it would be to sink his fangs in — to drink deeply of this dear boy, this
storybook prince, to extend his binge into a full eve of total, glorious frenzy —

Wyll pulls back, studies Astarion for a good, long moment. Then, he sighs, “Gods, but you’re
drunk, aren’t you?”

“I hunted,” Astarion says proudly, “everything. How would you kill me?”

He reaches up, touches the tip of Wyll’s left horn; it prickles neatly against his finger. Wyll’s
eyes narrow.

“A stake to the heart, I’d imagine.”

“Boring,” Astarion drawls the word out — elongating the first syllable, sing-songing the last.
“I want something more creative — or at least, as creative as you are able to be.”
“You’re loon,” Wyll says. He pushes his hand against his eyes, holds on that for a second.
“Alright. Alright. Decapitation? That’s pretty standard for a vampire spawn.”

“Gods, but you’re not listening to me. I don’t want standard. Don’t I deserve better than
simply standard? I’m — I’m no mere undead thrall — ”

For now.

“That’s true,” Wyll allows tiredly. Something flows in and out of his face, like rushing water.
Astarion drags his finger down the column of his horn, marveling at the bumps and the
whorls upon its surface. “Suppose I could tie you up and leave you for dead in an owlbear
nest.”

“Mm, kinky.”

“It’s really not.”

“You know how I’d kill you, Wyll Ravengard?”

“I do, actually,” Wyll says. “You’d sneak up on me in the middle of the night — a little like
this, I imagine, but with a great deal more finesse — and drain the blood from my body.”

“Oh,” Astarion blinks, a little put out. “That’s exactly right. How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” Wyll grimaces, shifting minutely against his bedding. “Now that we’ve
thoroughly established just how we plan to murder one another, can we please go back to
sleep?”

“Ngh,” Astarion says eloquently. He slumps down against Wyll, rubbing his head against the
younger man’s chest. “Don’t be so pedestrian. Elves don’t need to sleep.”

In response to Astarion’s sudden proximity, Wyll coughs awkwardly — but a tentative,

ginger hand wraps around to cover the small of Astarion’s back.

“Then can I please go back to sleep, and can you please slip into a phantasmagorical magical
state of meditation or whatever —”

“It’s called trance, you prat,” Astarion says, and he closes his eyes.

He does not fall asleep. Nor does he enter a phantasmagorical magical state of meditation ‘or
whatever.’ Instead, he just lies there, listening to the slow, rhythmic shudder and judder of
Wyll’s beating heart, and wonders at what it must have felt like to have one of his own. Nice?
Scary? Living things are so, so fragile.

The silence goes on long enough that he’s almost convinced Wyll has fallen back asleep.
Then, Astarion feels Wyll’s fingers moving up his back, brushing — unwittingly, Astarion
thinks — against the knotty raised tissue of his scars.

"Are you okay?" Wyll puts in.

"Don't be stupid," Astarion says.

"Okay. Fine. I won't be stupid."

His fingers start moving again. Astarion has a sudden thought about what they might be
inferring.

“If you’d like to have your wicked way with me,” he murmurs against Wyll’s chest, “there’s
really nothing stopping you from pushing me over and rutting between my thighs —”

“Now who’s the one being stupid?” Wyll’s sigh breezes harshly through his lungs. “Shut up,
Astarion.”

Astarion obeys.

When Astarion wakes, Wyll is fast asleep beneath him.

Wyll looks handsome in sleep, but dwelling on the fact won’t do Astarion any good. With a
vague and distant feeling of humiliation, he crawls out of Wyll’s tent the way he came. His
head pounds, his back twinges; there’s an awful crick in his neck.

Funny. He can’t remember the last time he shared a bed with someone, man or woman,
without first getting them off — a bizarre and pointless experiment, one not to be repeated.

As he trudges to his own bedroll, the first traces of sun begins to glint above the treeline — a
big, bright lemon wheel of light sliding up against the shale-coloured sky. Difficult to express
the beauty and the terror of a sunrise. The miracle of that sweet, gentle heat on his skin. He
thinks of the tadpole, of ceremorphosis, of how this blessing might come to rule him if gone
unchecked. A miracle with a price.

The warmth of Wyll’s skin is a miracle of the same type.

Astarion lies down, and he coerces himself into forgetting.

They shove the drow Minthara off a bridge. They blow Razglin up with stolen smokepowder.
They rescue Volothamp Geddarm, the fool to end all fools. They indulge in a spot of
sadomasochism. Morrow takes her beating like a champ; it’s really quite hilarious.
Most importantly, they succeed in rescuing the druid Halsin — a rather dishy creature, that
one, what with his rugged face and treetrunk biceps. (Although, Astarion could do without
the sanctimonious attitude and incessant bleating about nature’s balance. ) The tieflings exalt
them as heroes for this little act of wanton violence; the druids name them champions.

Now, Astarion would like more for his troubles than a pat on the head and vinegar for wine.
He has no particular investment in the idea of being celebrated as a hero. But their triumph
does come with a darling little party — and, well, who is he to deny an opportunity to eat,
drink, and be merry?

There’s a little subpar lute-strumming, as provided by Alfira. There’s dancing. There’s booze.
Thank the gods, there’s booze. Knocking back a bottle of second-rate port, Astarion
entertains himself by spying in on Gale and Morrow’s clumsy, ham-fisted attempts at
flirtation. Noxiously sincere, transparently desperate, pathetically earnest — their
approximation of seduction is truly painful to behold. Magic really does make you a loser,
doesn’t it? Astarion suddenly feels quite grateful he never learned so much as a single
incantation.

He’s halfway down the bottle when it occurs to him that Wyll is missing from the party. It’s
really very bizarre — the Blade of Fronters, shirking praise and adulation? A most outlandish
notion. Astarion trudges up the beach in search of him.

He finds Wyll out in the dark, parked by the riverside, nursing dolefully at his own cup. The
look upon his face is insufferably morose. Astarion can’t fathom the reason for it. They saved
the damned druid — and his bloody grove, to boot. Shouldn’t he be cheesing and clowning
and flailing about trying to get into Astarion’s trousers? That would be the sensible thing to
do.

Wyll’s jaw tightens as he notices Astarion approaching.

“Agh, Hells. I’d hoped you wouldn’t notice I was gone.”

“Well, I did. Surprise,” Astarion says, sand crunching beneath his boots. “What exactly do
you think you’re doing out here?”

Wyll’s eyes slide across the riverbank.

“In truth, I don’t feel in a festive mood, and didn’t want to cast a gray cloud over tonight,” he
says. “I’m a devil. I love the people from the grove, but I unsettle them deep down. As I seem
to unsettle everyone nowadays.” Wyll tips his goblet back, the apple of his throat bobbing
around a swallow. “You don’t want a devil at your party. Claws will pop the balloons, you
see. And the sweetcakes don’t taste half as good with this damned forked tongue.”

“Oh, stars. So you’ve decided to throw your own little self-pity party out here your own?”
Astarion scoffs, folding his arms. “Don’t be so maudlin, it’s terrifically unattractive. You’re
the hero of the day, Wyll. None of those people give a damn if you have horns. Most of them
have horns themselves!”

“That’s different. I’m —”

“Cursed by the Hells? An infernal wretch? A monster?” Astarion rolls his eyes. “Look, from
one monster to another — live a little.”

“You’re not a monster,” Wyll says, all kneejerk politeness.

“But I am. By rote definition, in fact. Volothamp Geddarm’s Guide to Beasties,

Abominations, and Malign Apparitions — Chapter Four, Section Two. Vampire spawn.”

“Well…” Wyll demurs. “You’re not like any monster I’ve ever met.”

“Because I’m so terribly handsome and well-dressed?”

Wyll’s gaze travels back towards Astarion.

“There is that, yes.”

Astarion laughs, sotto.

“I’ll drink to that,” he says, and he does, plucking Wyll’s goblet from his fingers with a light
and playful touch.

As the wine slips past his lips, it occurs to Astarion — and not for the first time — that Wyll
Ravengard might be an exceptionally useful person to have around his little finger. The might
of Avernus, high society connections, a hero’s reputation… all handy tools that could
potentially open doors down the line, or (at the very least) be employed to stave off
potentially unsavory situations. Wyll is also in good with the rest of their little group;
Karlach, Shadowheart, Gale — they trust him. Admire him. Should the group ever seek to
turn on him — should their moral compunctions about traveling with a vampire spawn come
to outweigh Astarion’s perceived utility — Wyll’s word would make a fine defense.

Power, protection, access to gilded rooms. All at the low, low price of becoming the man’s
lover.

Not the worst deal in the world. Wyll’s good-looking enough, for one. And he’s — well. He’s
decent. Not cruel or sadistic or capricious. He won’t be a complete ogre, in bed or otherwise.
Surely. Probably. Honestly, it could be hard to tell at the outset. Seemingly decent men could
surprise you, sometimes. And not in a good way.

But the risk, in his mind, is a sound one, and so Astarion places a featherlight hand on Wyll’s
hip, lowers his voice, and says, “Why don’t we get out of here? Go someplace a little more…
private? Somewhere we can see the stars.”

“Thought you wanted me to head back to the party.”

“Did I?” Astarion pretends to consider it. “Forget that. The party’s overrated. Not a single
one of those joyless bumpkins would know a real revel if it smacked them in the face.”

“And what, in your mind, constitutes a real revel?”

“An actual band, for one,” Astarion sniffs, “as opposed to a single unschooled bard, plonking
clumsily upon her master’s lute. Now, what else — oh, champagne, certainly. Elegant
canapés. Silken gloves. Well-boned corsets, figure-hugging breeches, velvet gowns with
scandalously low necklines… a troupe of Waterdhavian dancers, clad only in golden paint
and strategically-placed scarves… the covert insufflation of highly illegal substances…
labyrinthine political intrigues…”

A twinkle of mirth in Wyll’s mismatched eyes.

“A proper Baldurian soirée, then. I remember them well.”

“Grand, aren’t they?”

“They are indeed — although I could do without the intrigues, personally.”

“Not one for secrecy and subterfuge? Conspiracy and conniving? Double-dealing and double-
talk?”

“Not where plain language will do, no.”

Wyll layers his hand over Astarion’s, studies him at length. The look he delivers — Astarion
doesn’t recognize it. He doesn’t know how to name it. It has weight, heat, gravity… but it
isn’t desire exactly. Nor is it desire’s opposite.

From the party, Astarion can hear the crackle-pop of fireworks, the warble of laughter, the
muted bass of a hand-drum. And with a supernatural second sense born of an untimely
undeath — he can feel Wyll’s blood. Hot. Heady. Ironsweet. Pounding and churning through
his arteries like the Chionthar made in miniature.

Astarion cocks his head, meeting Wyll’s eyes without fear and without rancor. Beneath their
feet, the gray shale seems to glow — and a perfect disc of moonlight shudders overtop the
river’s glassine surface.

“Somewhere we can see the stars,” Wyll says at last, testing each word upon his tongue,
probing. “Did you have someplace in mind?”

“Just so,” Astarion says, slipping his hand into Wyll’s, interlacing their fingers. “Follow me.”

For a moment, Wyll resists this entreatment; he remains firmly rooted against the gound, his
brows furrowed, his eyes dark. Astarion tugs again, playfully: Come won’t you? He’s wearing
a smile he’s worn a thousand times before — all easy flirtation, easy charm, with just enough
warmth to imply some genuine affection.

At last, Wyll relents. He follows.

Wyll seems surprised when Astarion pushes him up against an oak tree and begins to kiss
him, but not that surprised.

Astarion kisses him fiercely, hungrily, skillfully; he kisses Wyll as if showing him something.
Proving something. Look at me. Look how good I can be. Whatever trouble you think I am —
whatever pain, whatever grief — I’m worth it. Can’t you see?

It takes Wyll but a few moments to begin to respond in turn. His large, coarse, battle-worn
hands come to wrap around Astarion’s waist; his stubble rasps against Astarion’s skin. The
sensation is familiar.

Astarion doesn’t hate it.

“Thought you wanted,” Wyll pants, his grip tightening around Astarion’s hips, “to see the
stars —”

“I’ll have you seeing stars, darling,” Astarion purrs in a much-practiced tone of carefree lust.
Gods, how many times has he used that line before? How many times has he deployed this
whole ridiculous set-up, this absurd pretense? It all feels so tired. So played-out.

What tedium.

And that’s when the kiss becomes truly filthy. Astarion presses his tongue against the seam of
Wyll’s lips, and Wyll parts for him immediately, instinctively. The slide of tongue against
tongue is searingly hot — searingly erotic. Astarion closes his eyes. White heat, white noise.
It fills him. Fortifies him. This is a dance he has mastered. He could sleepwalk through it —
has sleepwalked through it, many a time.

Wyll’s hand slides up the length of Astarion’s body, over his flank and up his neck and into
his hair. Suddenly there’s a hard knee pressed between Astarion’s legs, and that’s nice, isn’t
it? Astarion grinds against it mindlessly. It’s nice, it is nice, it’s sexy, and he doesn’t hate it.
He doesn’t. He is aroused, in fact, stirring easily, readily, beneath Wyll’s firm, commanding
touch. His body has no doubts — possesses no reservations — he’s hot as a career whore,
even though a jasmine touch of unease spells his mind.

Funny, really. How one could want something very much and not want it at all at the very
same time. In the very same breath. He caresses the side of Wyll’s cheek, Wyll’s throat, with
the cool flat of his hand; he sucks the brandywine from Wyll’s tongue. Wyll is warm. His
whole body is warm, head to toe. Living things are so warm.

Life is for the living.

As if on cue, Wyll laughs in disbelief, and murmurs, “Even your tongue is cold.”

“Is that so bad?”

“No,” Wyll says dazedly. “Just feels strange.”

Astarion lifts his hand, touches his cool, white fingers to Wyll’s cheekbone. He says, “I want
to suck you off. I want to feel you release in my mouth, hear you calling out my name.”

“Fuck — Astarion —”

“Shh,” Astarion says, and suddenly he’s lowering himself down, feeling the prickle of the
forest brush against his knees. “Don’t think. Don’t speak. Just let me.”

Kneeling between Wyll’s legs, Astarion’s mind sputters, revolts. It isn’t that he doesn’t want
to suck Wyll off. Actually, there’s a version himself that wants to blow the future Duke
Ravengard really very badly — because Wyll is handsome, and funny, and (as it turns out)
the exact right kind of stupid, the kind that makes Astarion wish he could’ve met the man
some two hundred years, when he was still soft and scarless. Not now, when I am this.

The trouble is, there exists another version of himself — a second, inferior version, an ugly
twin — that wants nothing more than to bolt. To flee Wyll. To flee this. The two versions are
in hopeless conflict; they cannot exist in tandem.

At times like these, Astarion splits himself in two. The version of himself that very much
wants to give Wyll some sloppy toppy is in the driver’s seat; the version of himself that wants
to flee is locked back down in the tomb.

Astarion goes for Wyll’s belt. Wyll makes a stifled sound between need and protest.

“Astarion,” he says, his voice rough and low and velvet-perfect. His hand comes down to rest
in Astarion’s hair. Not pulling — not yet, anyhow — just strong, coarse fingers threading
through his fine, silken curls. “Astarion, no.”

Astarion unpins the buckle, threads it free. Belt loops come next, loosening around Wyll’s
waist. Astarion pulls the strap free.

Wyll’s hand tightens minutely.

“No, stop,” he says, more clearly now, glancing down with visible alarm. “Stop.” Then,
when Astarion’s fingers go for his zipper, he lifts his voice into a cold, frustrated tone of
command: “By the gods — behave yourself, Astarion.”

Astarion stills.

For a moment, there’s silence. Wyll is breathing hard. Astarion glances up, sees him braced
back against the tree, full of quiet, blinkered wonder. Way above, the moon is huge and full, a
perfect white disc against the troubled dark. Pure and keen and lustrous. Shot through with
marbled veins. It looks, to Astarion, like the episclera of a great big eye. Selune’s eye, maybe.

Your false gods cannot hear you, little one.

An owl hoots, rustles up in the canopy. A faint breeze unsettles oaken branches. Blowsy
black flowers, their exotic exhalations. Everything merging with the night. Wyll closes his
eyes, a muscle sliding in his jaw — for one intoxicating, exhilarating, terrifying moment,
Astarion feels wholly under his power.
At last, once his breath is (somewhat) under control, Wyll breaks the silence and says,
“You’re — you’re very attractive. As you are no doubt already aware. But this isn’t a good
idea.” He opens his eyes — and regards Astarion with an alarming, almost frightening
perspicaciousness. “I don’t do meaningless flings.”

“Who says it’s —”

“Don’t lie to me,” Wyll says. “It really isn’t — necessary.”

Astarion places his hands on his haunches, hunching forward slightly.

Wyll continues, “Do you even want this? Want me?”

Astarion doesn’t answer. So Wyll sighs quietly, pushes off the tree, and begins refastening his
belt and readjusting his mussed clothing. Astarion kneels. Watches him. Once Wyll has been
snapped back into good order — back into the Blade of Frontiers — he takes a step towards
Astarion, and offers him a hand. Astarion takes it without thanks, lifting himself back onto
his feet.

“I’m sorry your seduction’s gone awry,” Wyll says sincerely, withdrawing his hand. “But the
more I look at you — really look — the more positive I become that I’ve made the right call.”

“Fuck you, Wyll Ravengard.”

Wyll smiles.

“I liked kissing you,” he says simply, earnestly. Then, with a self-deprecating chuckle, “Now
— I supposed I’d better run off and douse myself in cold water. You… have a pleasant night,
Astarion.”

He heads back towards their camp; Astarion stares after his retreating back. For a long, long
spell, he feels nothing at all, only a mild stupefaction. He doesn’t understand what just
happened. He doesn’t understand it at all. He’d have been less shocked, quite frankly, if Wyll
had thrown him down against the ground and raped him bloody.

He might have even found a way to enjoy it.

Once he does, finally, come to terms with what has occurred — that he has been rejected,
tenderly, and essentially accused of being a fraud — a seething irritation sits in. Bleeding-
heart heroes! Stupid louts, each and every one of them! What, is Wyll saving himself up for
his one true love? A little wifey that’ll mend his drawers, cook him dinner, pop out a
mewling litter of baby Ravengards? How utterly insipid.

Do you even want this? Want me?

Astarion should have fluttered his lashes, wet his lips, purred something sweetly coquettish. “
Of course I want you, darling,” he could’ve said. “ I need you, I adore you.” But he didn’t.
He — he was silent. Why was he silent?

Fuck. Fucking fuck.

Frustrated with Wyll, frustrated with himself, Astarion storms off into the deep woods.
Having fumbled his prey of choice, he instead hunts a wild boar. He pins the thrashing
creature with mulish determination, gnashing his teeth wildly as he feeds; as recompense for
his carelessness, he taps an artery by error, and hot, fragrant boarsblood soaks the front of his
shirt, slicking up his skin. It’s disgusting. It’s incredible. He drinks deep, drinks messy, like
an animal — blood smearing his lips, smearing his chin, warm and wet and slippery beneath
his hands.

It’s only when he stumbles back into his tent, half-drunk and dripping in gore — that he feels
the relief. The relief, and the gratitude.

“I hate wasps,” Karlach sulks.

The wasps on the mountain trail are admittedly large — and disquietingly fearless. They zip
boldly about with their curved, narrow, yellow-backed bodies, nosing inquisitively about
their supplies, intruding cheerfully upon their personal space. At camp, Scratch likes to catch
and eat them. It’s perhaps only a matter of time before he’s stung — which would probably
be hilarious, though no one else seems to agree. Killjoys, the lot of them.

“Come now,” Gale says gamely, leaning upon his staff as an old man might lean upon his
walking stick. “They’re quite harmless. You ignore them, and they’ll ignore you.”

“Easy for you to say,” Karlach says. “Back when I was a little girl, me and my friends
knocked over a wasp’s nest by accident. Nasty little blighters chased us for blocks — we got
stung at least ten times apiece.” She eyes one of the creatures in question with a look of faint
queasiness, then presses Gale, “Can’t you just zap them with your magic?”

“If you kill one, it just might piss off the rest of the hive,” Wyll chimes in from behind.
Karlach blanches.

“Er — right, that would be bad,” she says. “Ugh. Shit. That’s the one thing I’ll miss about the
Underdark — no fucking wasps. I’d take a void spider over a hornet any day.”

“Remember those midges? In the swamp?” Morrow adds brightly, her tone positively wistful.

A collective groan travels throughout the group.

“Man, fuck midges, fuck mosquitoes, and fuck wasps,” Karlach announces, a hot flare of
hellfire licking its way across her collarbone. “We’ve already got one ill-tempered biter in the
group. That’s more than enough, don’t you think?”

“Evocative,” Astarion says drily. “Thank you, dear.”

Their little adventure has moved into new territory — but things remain more or less the
same. Gale and Morrow still make kissyfaces and moon over the Weave. Lae’zel still scoffs
and glowers and castigates them all for petty weaknesses. Shadowheart still broods. As far as
the Wyll Ravengard situation is concerned… well. Things are not awkward, not exactly —
Astarion thinks himself rather immune to awkwardness, thank you very much — but they’re
not the same, either. Wyll is mostly amiable and polite, and in a group, he treats Astarion
much like any other comrade — but there are no more private fireside chats. Not anymore.

They blow up the gith creche. (They’re bad at this shit.) They piss off a goddess. (They’re so
bad at this shit.) Elminster, Chosen of Mystra and living master of the Weave, shows up and
eats all their cheese. (Fucking what?) Astarion goes to bed alone, not thinking of Wyll, not
dwelling on his touch, certainly not dreaming of him — because that would just be
insufferably twee. (Right?)

By the firelight, Halsin hands Astarion a mug of hot tea and says, with an unbearable
measure of paternal calm, “Wyll’s a good lad, isn’t he?”

“Wyll?” Astarion scoffs. “Oh, I suppose he’s all right and proper — if you like them tall,
dark, and pointlessly self-sacrificial.”

He attempts a pull of Halsin’s tea. It tastes like bathwater, like gingery nothingness. Yum.

Pouring out a mug of his own from a battered tin kettle, Halsin continues steadfastly, “He
fights with honor, and he cares for the weak. Pact or no pact, he has committed himself to the
life of a hero.”

That — lands with somewhat of a pang. Astarion glances away. Taps the fine points of his
fingernails against the chipped ceramic of his mug, letting the tintack sound fill the spaces
between them.

“I’ve seen you looking at him,” Halsin says, probing gently. Then, when Astarion visibly
startles, he lifts his hands in a gesture of calm conciliation. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,
you know —”

Astarion dumps his tea out, snaps, “We are not talking about this.”

“I don’t pretend to know your past, child, but he —”

“I am no one’s child,” Astarion hisses, and he rises to his feet and stamps off in a great,
righteous huff.
The scent of wild jasmine is heavy in the shadow-cursed lands. Even though nothing grows
here, nothing blooms.

Funny, that.

Once, Astarion might’ve relished this — this deep, impenetrable evernight. The dark is a
vampire’s greatest ally, after all. Or it should be. But in truth, he has become helplessly fond
of the sun, fond of her warmth, her sudden, fickle lenience after two centuries of stark
rejection. And raven-shaped, shadow-eyed deathlings are no friends of his, certainly.
Particularly when they keep trying to peck out his lovely eyes.

Shadowheart casts Daylight upon Karlach’s greataxe, and they all huddle around her
miserably, anxiously, their eyes darting watchfully over the churning borders of darkness.

The skin of his back crawls with each step. Scars he can’t see. A poem he can’t read. Meter
and rhyme. Rhythm, time. The flex of living flesh — the cold, skittery flash of old wounds
drawn taut — a panic in the face of history —

(It’s stupid, but he misses the Sword Coast. Misses the stars.)

While traipsing down the shadow-tainted road, they run into a pack of feral meazels, which is
just lovely, isn’t it? It’s peaches and it’s roses, truly. Eager to impress, the little fuckers
immediately setabout demonstrating their homespun tactics: namely, garroting the party one
by one with razor wire, whisking them off into the far reaches of the darkness, and spearing
up their fucking guts. Divide and conquer, in other words. A surprisingly cunning stratagem!
Astarion might applaud them, if his hands were not otherwise occupied clawing at his
fucking throat, ironwire making bloody mincemeat of his larynx.

By some stroke of luck — or perhaps infernal intervention? — Wyll is the first to free
himself. Because he’s a beautiful fucking moron, he immediately charges towards Astarion to
help him with his own meazel. Takes a mean swipe to the ribs fighting the damned thing off,
then lobs his last potion at Astarion’s feet without even tending to himself first.

Maybe one of these days, Wyll will start making sense.

But not today, it seems.

And so.

There is no mystery about this creature — he is a man.

He sits slumped against a ruined wall. Badly bruised, battered, but not bleeding. Shadowheart
and Halsin’s magics, combined, only succeeded in patching up the most grievous of their
wounds; they’ll have to let a night’s rest work on them before dipping back into their reserves
of curative witchery.

Astarion stands before him at full, imperious height, and admires the wreckage.

“That was incredibly stupid of you, Wyll,” he says.

“Was it?”

“Immensely, yes,” Astarion says. He drops down next to Wyll, assessing his condition with a
critical eye. “Not that I’m not grateful! I very much am. Clearly. Look at me, full of gratitude.
Just oozing with it.”

“Right. Of course.” Wyll doesn’t look particularly convinced. Astarion punishes him for his
wariness by pressing a wet bundle, wrapped haphazardly in cloth, against his bruised ribcage.
Wyll flinches on contact, squirming at the unexpected sensation, “Ouch — Hells."

“Ice,” Astarion says by way of explanation, sliding the bundle further up Wyll’s flank.

“Where’d you get that?”

“A wizard did it.”

“Gale, right. Send me him my thanks.”

“No, no, no. I think not. I already thanked you, didn’t I? I’ve already reached my quota —
probably for at least another year.”

“You know, you never actually said thank you.”

“I came close enough. No need to split hairs.”

They sit like that awhile; ice slowly, tenderly melting against Wyll’s flank, drawing the heat
of the bruising. Astarion attempts to absorb himself in examining his fingernail beds, the dark
threads of blood trapped between his cuticles — but Wyll’s presence throbs in his awareness.

“So,” Astarion says at last. “Why.”

“Why what.”

“Why what. Please, darling, don’t play coy. That’s my job.” Astarion sits up, addresses Wyll
with a withering glance. “Why’d you take that hit?”

“Because you were a stiff breeze away from death’s door?”

“Very cute. Now, try again — and this time, give me the truth.”

“That was the truth,” Wyll says gamely. “I wanted to — protect you. And I suppose I did.”
“I — well,” Astarion says, and for a long moment, he lets that hang there. “I suppose you
did.” Feeling strangely put out by this admission of altruism, Astarion slumps back down
against the wall. His shoulder brushes up against Wyll’s lightly. Maybe it has something to do
with Wyll’s present state of injury — that Wyll is in no state to harm him — but the body-to-
body contact is somehow soothing, as opposed to frightful.

“Normally, I just rely on Karlach to take my smacks,” Astarion goes on blithely. “You’re a
good deal squishier — you really should just leave it to her.”

“I really should.” Wyll attempts to turn in towards Astarion, then winces when the motion
overtaxes his injuries. “Shit. Ow.”

Astarion studies Wyll’s face for a moment. Then, in a tone of painstakingly-constructed

carefreeness, he asks, “Don’t you ever get tired of playing the hero? Of playing nice?”

“Would you prefer I played dirty?”

“It would certainly be a great deal more sensible,” Astarion says.

“I’m not here to be sensible.”

“Evidently not,” Astarion agrees. “It’s just — well.”

“Well, what?”

Astarion hesitates — and then, mentally, forms the intention to redirect into flirtation — but
he must be more exhausted then he realized, because the truth slips out without his consent,
and he says, “Nobody is like you. Nobody is — decent like you.”

“No?”

“Absolutely not,” Astarion confirms, wholly confident in his assessment. “So… don’t show
such decency to a world that does not deserve it. That’s all.”

Wyll pauses at that — and now, it is Astarion’s turn to be studied. Wyll’s look — is
discomfiting. Disquieting. Astarion feels himself vivisected by his gaze like a frog on a
specimen table. He digs his heels in, lifts his chin, focuses his own gaze on the shadow-
cursed sky: big, black, a tease at death. It contains no light, no comfort. No lies, either.

“Astarion,” Wyll says at last, his voice pitched low. “The world is full of good, decent people.
People who want to help you. To see you thrive. People who — who want to get to know
you.” He purses his lips, casts his glance away. “I hope someday you see that.”

Astarion laughs, hollow.

“Oh, to be twenty-four, wide-eyed and guileless.”

“Not so guileless.”

“Guileless enough to let a beast like me lead you merrily away into the dark, dark woods —”
“And did I die?” Wyll counters, eyes bright.

“I suppose not,” Astarion admits amiably. “Though I did make a valiant attempt to suck out
your soul.”

Wyll smiles, warm and wonderful.

“You know, I really did like kissing you,” he says, shifting himself towards Astarion gently,
gingerly, so that his knee knocks against Astarion’s. “But —”

“But?”

“But I can tell when someone is forcing themselves through the motions, that’s all.”

“How — surprisingly perceptive of you.”

“You don’t sound very happy about it.”

“I’m not,” Astarion says. “It’s very annoying, actually.” He feels Wyll’s hand slide against
his, interlacing their fingers. “For the record: I am not afraid of sex. I like sex. I like it rather
a lot, actually. Sex is grand! It’s peaches. It’s biscuits, it’s gravy. It’s just, well, you know —
when you’ve grown accustomed to using sex as — as a—”

“As a tool?”

“Sure, that. Sometimes — sometimes, it can get, you know…” Easy to say yes? Hard to say
no? Astarion waves a hand in the air, making a soft sound of frustration. “Ugh. This is all so
maudlin, nevermind.”

“It’s alright. I get it, I think.”

Wyll strokes Astarion’s knuckle with the pad of his thumb. Astarion — doesn’t think. Just
lets himself feel it. The warmth of his hand. The unadorned simplicity of his touch. The
softness of his skin, interrupted at intervals by tough, texturized calluses.

“You are going to live to regret this moment,” Astarion says plainly. He reaches up, flicks
one of Wyll’s horns. Wyll frowns.

“Why? Do you plan on making me regret it?”

“But of course. Wicked vampire that I am. Really, I’ve no idea why you don’t just stake me
now and be done with it.”

“Call it foolish optimism,” Wyll says, and because it feels right, Astarion lets Wyll kiss him,
a pound of ice melting between them like a bad dream. Wyll’s tenderness is bewildering.

Astarion can only take to it with blinkered, wounded surprise.

They meet the Harpers. Kill a hopped-up Flaming Fist. Protect some doe-eyed Selûnite
lesbian from abduction. Make their way to Moonrise Towers. Some drow bitch tries to
negotiate with Wyll over Astarion, which is galling, and disgusting, and makes him want to
fucking heave — but Wyll handles it so beautifully, so fiercely: “Excuse me? He’s his own
person.”

Astarion turns over Cazador’s final dictum in his mind: Thou shalt know that thou art mine.

He’s not so sure he knows it anymore. In fact, he isn’t sure what he knows anymore — isn’t
so sure if he knows anything at all. The jasmine morass at the center of his life has been
drained, leaving an alarming void where terror once presided. It is a void in the true sense, a
vacancy: he can fill it as he pleases. With blood. With sex. With power. With vengeance.

With — affection.

If he so chooses, anyhow.

Gods, it sounds like madness. Like soft nonsense. And yet, he feels there is only one thing
left he can be truly certain of, one fundamental truth left to ground him, and it is this: that
there exists, by some miracle, a gorgeous boy he wishes to hold. And who wishes to hold
him, too.

Wonder of all wonders.

The next time Astarion invades Wyll’s tent after nightfall, it’s with a bottle of whiskey and a
smile.

Oh, there’s a good deal of fussing and haranguing and mollycoddling from Wyll — are-you-
sure, are-you-really, I-only-want-it-if-you-want-it, all that precious rot. It’s all very endearing,
if a little exasperating. He’s two hundred years old, for pity’s sake, and quite possibly the
Gate’s most prolific whore. He doesn’t need the kid gloves; he doesn’t need to be cossetted
like a virgin.

What he needs is Wyll fucking Ravengard. Everywhere, all over him, inside him. Filling his
head with nothing but foolishness.

Astarion dispenses with Wyll’s objections by sliding into his lap, wrapping both hands
around his horns — convenient handholds, really — and kissing him hungrily.
“If you don’t shut up and fuck me,” Astarion murmurs against Wyll’s lips, “I am going to be
well and truly cross, Wyll Ravengard. And trust me — you do not want to annoy a vampire.”

Wyll sort of laughs, his hand coming up to cup Astarion’s waist.

“Was that a threat? That’s very nasty, you know.”

“I’m a nasty little creature. Get used to it.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Wyll says, pressing his lips to the curve of Astarion’s jaw. “I think
that — beneath all those layers of cold, haughty snark — there’s a tender little thing, just
waiting to be unearthed.”

“Oh, gods. Don’t tell me you have delusions of taming me.”

“Taming you? No, I have no such aspirations,” Wyll says, his voice a muted, steady tenor.
“All I’ve ever wanted was to set you free.”

And then they’re kissing again — lovely, lush — deep, deeper — drowning — Wyll’s chest
flush against Astarion’s — his dark skin hot, and then hotter, against the cool flat of
Astarion’s body. Astarion shudders to life in his arms, closing his eyes, surrendering to it all.
The force of it. The feel of it The power. The liquid glide of Wyll’s tongue is a dream, and a
good dream at that; when Wyll’s hands thread their way into Astarion’s hair, he moans into
the taller man’s mouth, long and wanton. For once, the sound is completely and utterly
involuntary.

“Take this off,” Astarion pants, fingers sliding beneath the hem of Wyll’s shirt. “I need to see
you. Gods, need to taste you —”

“I certainly hope that was a metaphor,” Wyll grins, but allows Astarion to work his shirt over
his head — it takes some effort to avoid catching the fabric on his horns.

In lieu of responding, Astarion happily shoves Wyll down and kisses him hard. Lay down
with me, darling hero, and see.

They undress in a helpless tangle; it is difficult to stop kissing. Astarion cannot remember the
last time he luxuriated in it so: the press of lips against lips, the mingling of breath, the
coaxing of tongues. Such a simple thing, kissing — and yet, so bruising, so consuming.
Astarion feels intoxicated, drunk; he’s hard between his legs. And he feels Wyll hard against
him, too — for a mad, gleeful moment, he thinks they might come just like this — making
out and rutting like a pair of sixteen-year old greenhorns —

But then he’s naked, gloriously naked in Wyll’s arms, and Wyll’s broad, sword-honed hands
are on his bare skin, groping shamelessly at his ass. And he knows he will not be satisfied
unless Wyll fucks him. Here. Tonight. In this tent. Hard.

“How do you like it, my star?”

“I —” Astarion closes his eyes, searches for the truth. “I don’t know. I —” Wyll wraps a hand
around his cock, brushes a calloused thumb over the tip, and he bursts out, shudderingly, “I
like getting fucked.”

Wyll lets out a slow, soft breath.

“That so?”

“Yes,” Astarion all but keens, his hips bucking inelegantly into Wyll’s touch, fucking up into
his hand. “I’ve always — always liked it — ” Even when I shouldn’t — “I’m such a, such a
fucking whore, Wyll, you should know —”

“What you are,” Wyll says, his voice ragged with want, “is beautiful.”

What follows is a blur of kissing, of unlacing, of wandering hands; Astarion gets a hand
around Wyll’s own cock, feels it dark and hot and heavy in his hand. Wyll — is big, and
Astarion delights in the sight. His mouth waters; his belly tightens. Stroking the length of him
in his hand — a hard, rigid core covered in soft, silky skin — he can only think about how
much he needs this, how badly he’s wanted this, how desperately good he wishes to be for his
Wyll — his do-gooder — his fool — the hero-prince he once begged the gods to send him,
buried alive in the black heart of the world —

“I want — to ride you,” Astarion says, bracketing Wyll’s hips with his knees. “To be astride
you.”

“Fucking Hells, star.”

“Please — let me,” Astarion says, knowing that he must sound pathetic, that he must sound
wretched, yet not caring at all. “Just let me, let me, have me, fuck me —”

Oil is a welcome addition to the situation, and Astarion watches in a state of blown-out, kiss-
stupid inebriation as Wyll slicks up his fingers. When Wyll begins to finger him, it’s so
gentle. So slow. So, so careful. Astarion closes his eyes, his body adjusting to the familiar
stretch. He’s half-tempted to tell Wyll to hurry it up, that he’s done this a thousand times, that
he doesn’t need this tender wedding night shit, just a hard, brutal fucking — but when Wyll’s
lips find his, guiding him into a kiss that’s languorous and hot, his objections desert him. He
feels — worn down to shreds, somehow. Splintered. Raw. When was the last time it felt this
way?

“Knew it,” Wyll murmurs, kissing his way down the column of Astarion’s throat. “Knew
you’d be sweet, my Astarion, my star.”

Astarion doesn’t cry out when Wyll breaches him. He just shudders and pants, both hands
braced against the surface of Wyll’s sternum. For a while, they stay like that: Wyll inside of
Astarion, rock hard, scalding hot — gods, Astarion can feel Wyll’s pulse pounding in his
cock, can feel it from deep within — and he can feel Wyll’s restraint, too, the control he’s
exerting not to rock up into Astarion.

When they do, at last, begin to move — to fuck in earnest — it’s Astarion who sets the pace.
It’s Astarion who bounces in Wyll’s lap, groping for purchase against Wyll’s chest; Astarion
working with blazing concentration, rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm.
 “Feel so good, star,” Wyll pushes back Astarion’s damp hair with a hand, “so tight, so
amazing, so good for me —”

“Fuck, fuck, I —” Astarion grits his teeth, screws his eyes shut; he knows he must look ugly
like this, but he doesn’t care, “I’m trying to be good for you — Wyll —”

And then there is no possibility of coherent speech — only a long, lone gasp that seems to
travel between their bodies like a sirocco. Only the blind, aching thrust of Wyll’s cock, the
stutter and the slam of Astarion hips, only the firm grip of Wyll’s hand upon Astarion’s body,
guiding him true — the obscene, repetitive schlick of flesh against flesh — body for body —
beast for man —

(Once, Wyll would’ve been the type he dreamt of marrying. When he was younger. When he
was sweeter. When there was something left of him to give.)

Wyll spends first with a cry, releasing himself inside of Astarion. The sensation is filthy in
the absolute best way, wicked and hot between his legs, and he comes shortly afterwards in
the palm of his hand.

With pleasure comes a sensation of pure, profound silence. There is no doubt; there is no
fear; there are no shadows to cringe from. No gods and no masters. Only the warm, indistinct
awareness of Wyll inside him, Wyll’s arms around him. Wyll’s voice in his ear. Oh, little
love. Wicked thing. How I adore you.

Astarion puts his face against the crook of Wyll’s neck, breathes in the blood-scent of him.
Elderberries. Elderberry liqueur. Elderberry wine. The thought knocks an old memory loose;
his own father, Lord Ancunin, pouring out a celebratory glass for Astarion from his own
personal reserves. So proud of his son for earning a seat in the judiciary. So triumphant. Yes,
that was him: a stern, weathered face — imperious brows — brown eyes — his father’s eyes
were the exact shade of loam, of rich, living soil. How could he have possibly forgotten?

Wyll draws his knuckles against the nape of Astarion’s neck.

Astarion wonders, vacantly, if he’s shivering. But, you know — if you have to ask the
question, you already know the answer.

“I don’t like you at all,” Astarion says, his lips moving numbly across Wyll’s clavicle.
“There’s nothing — nothing to recommend about you at all. You’re so very dull.”

He can’t see Wyll’s face, but he somehow knows — through some minute shift in Wyll’s
breathing, perhaps — that the man has begun to smile.

“Ah,” he says. “Funny you say that, star. I was just thinking the same thing."

Chapter End Notes

this one is for all 3 of my wyllstarion homies. we did it joe

anyhow, the wasps in my city have been fucking intolerable this month. art imitates life.

you can retweet the fic here if you liked it wahoooo follow to give me more clout
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

When Wyll was a boy, he saw a mermaid.

He couldn’t have been any older than seven or eight years old — just a lad, really. He was
spending a rare afternoon with his father down by the harbour, near the Water Queen’s
House; hooking fish, playing games, lazing about. Every so often, his father would slip away
to see a man about a horse — in other words, to discuss political and administrative matters
with the temple’s acolytes — and Wyll would wander the docks on his own, gleefully
sticking his nose into everyone and everything’s business; ‘sploring, in his own words.

Some things never change, evidently.

When his father returned, they lay on the boards of the dockyard. (Wyll would never forget
the scent of it — the sun-warmed pine, the briny, marine tang of the harbour. Would never
forget the shoulder-to-shoulder contact between his skinny body and his father’s large,
masculine frame; he was still young enough to be a part of his father, to touch and be touched
by him — although not for much longer, as the tenderness of youth was exchanged for the
cool conditioning of sword lessons and dance instructors and private tutors, and a strange,
invisible gravity seemed to draw the elder Ravengard from his only son.)

Lying there, squinting up at an egg yolk sun, he’d asked his father if the wave servants were
real mermaids.

His father had chuckled at that, shaking his head. “No, son. They may look the part, but real
mermaids can breathe underwater and rarely show their faces above it.”

At that, Wyll promptly scrambled to his feet, shouted with all the reckless of a storybook
hero, “Then I’m going to swim down and catch one!”

— and he dove off the end of the dock, eyes wide open.

“Wyll!”

The water was cold, colder than he’d expected. But he dragged himself deep, recklessly
determined. It was a fool's errand, of course; Wyll would readily admit that now, as a grown
man. Mermaids are scarcely seen unless they wish to be seen — and their capture required a
little more cunning than an eight year old human in his day britches could manage.

But in the moment, the possibility of possessing such a creature seemed giddily, deliciously
real. The process of diving was an inelegant one: he'd sink down as deep as he dared, thrash
back to the surface when his breath ran out at last, gasping, then wriggle back down into the
water obstinately, his eyes stinging. His father cursed, galvanized by an indignance born of
fear, splashing into the water behind him — “Wyll, get back here!”

— but Wyll dove again.

And he saw her.

Down below, suspended in the dark, her quicksilver eyes burned up at Wyll — coldly
curiously, yet unmalicious. She was haloed by a cloud of pale hair, gills slitting along her
neck, a slight webbing between her fingers. Her tail — a shockingly thick, muscular
appendage — was a searing, hyacinthine blue. A true mermaid, beautiful and fey.

With a tilt of her head, she seemed to ask, What are you doing here, little human? She bared
her teeth, then, either in a lurid approximation of a smile or in order to frighten him; they
were long and sharp as spearheads.

— and then his father grabbed him bodily, and floated him back to the surface, forceful,
fierce, full of angry love.

Astarion reminds him a little of her, in his way. The mermaid. He has the same sort of
dangerous beauty, the same vicious lure: something in the sharpness of his features — the
intensity of his eyes, the point of his chin, the trim angles of his body, sharply whetted as a
knife.

Wyll has the distinct awareness that Astarion’s body has destroyed lives.

And yet — simultaneously — there is the awareness that Astarion himself is a destroyed
thing. In many ways, he sees Astarion less as a man fully-formed and more as a broken bone:
something that has been shattered, neglected, left to set wrong, denied the technologies for
proper mending — and now persists in a state of near-constant pain, helplessly bent out of its
original shape.

Astarion would likely take grave offense to that analogy, so Wyll has resolved not to speak it
aloud. That said, he doesn’t necessarily think it an indictment. There’s nothing wrong with
being a broken bone.

Some days, he thinks he might be one, too.

Wyll’s sitting alone, sharpening the edge of his rapier with a well-worn whetstone, when he
feels a telltale prickle behind his false eye. There's the dull roar of the portal opening, the
scent of sulphur and ash, a hot lick of flame — and then, there’s her, gorgeous and terrible.

The proprietor of his mortal soul.

“Mizora,” he says flatly, lifting his eyes to meet her.

Rising to her full height, the cambion smiles — gods, how Wyll has learned to loathe that
unctuous fucking smirk.

“Hello, pet,” she sing-songs. “Is this a bad time? You know, I do so love to pop by now and
again and check up on you — what can I say? I’m a fiend for gossip.” She leers over him, her
eyes bright. “Tell me everything. Are you well, pup? How are you sleeping? How’s the
food?”

Wyll pauses, balancing his blade over his lap.

“I told you already,” he says, measured. “We’ll rescue Zariel’s asset. Now leave me be.”

Mizora tsks, cants her hip.

“Oh — you’re really no fun at all, Wyll,” she says. “Why does everything have to be all
business all the time?” Her hand descends upon his shoulder, lightly tickling his skin. “That’s
not how it used to be.”

He remembers — with little fondness — himself, seventeen and hurting, shaking like an
aspen beneath the heat of her touch. The long, cruel drag of her fingernails. The slick, liquid
slide of her clothes sliding off her body. Her pert mouth; lucious, practiced, sly, sneering in
the face of his clumsiness. His first time: a mocking jeer in the face of his romantic
daydreams. A joke at his expense.

It takes every ounce of self-restraint in his body to resist the urge to slap her hand away.

“Don’t you have anything better to do,” he grinds out, “than to waste your time playing
games?”

“Oh, but I could say the same thing,” she purrs — and then, she laughs, a light and tinkling
thing, like bells. “I’ve noticed you playing a few games of your own with that darling little
vampling. What fun.”

The sending stone. Right. Wyll supposes he should have seen this coming — and feels a
twinge of guilt at the realization. He should’ve warned Astarion. Astarion had honoured Wyll
with his vulnerability — but he hadn’t agreed to share it with a black-hearted wretch of a
cambion as well.

He angles himself away from her, refocusing his attentions on his blade and whetstone.

“Should have known you’d spy on me in flagrante delicto like some kind of infernal
pervert.”
“Guilty as charged!” Mizora beams. “What can I say? You two put on quite a show.
Especially the part where you reduced him to begging, now that was— ”

“What do you want, Mizora.”

“Nothing at all," Mizora says pleasantly. "In fact — I just wanted to offer my congratulations.
You two make a gorgeous couple, you know. A hunter and his prey. Who would have
thought?”

Wyll wonders which one of them is meant to be the prey in that analogy.

“Of course,” Mizora sighs, “you and I both know the truth about the little darling — that he’s
a broken bird, cowering and cringing from the world behind a false face of dissipation.”
Mizora leans over Wyll, close enough that he can catch the scent of her skin — fresh
cyclamen and stale ozone. With a tenderness that is transparently ersatz, she murmurs, “Poor
little wretch. Does holding him through the night make you feel like a big, strong hero, pup?”

Wyll shifts uncomfortably, because yes, it does. Sheltering Astarion in his arms makes him
feel like he’s the strongest man on the planet. Like he could do anything, take on anyone — if
only it were for his sake.

“It’s not like that,” Wyll says, licking his lips. “It’s not about —” Power? Ego? Himself?
Mizora fixes him with a look of withering pity, but says nothing. “I care for him,” Wyll tries
again. “I care for him, and he cares for me. He isn’t what you think.” Mizora’s silence makes
him feel like he’s being led somewhere he never intended, like he’s digging his own grave.
Still, he lifts his chin, matches her gaze, and says, with a flare of his father’s obstinacy, “I
intend to court him.”

At that, Mizora can’t help but laugh.

“Court him? Really?”

“You heard me, devil.”

“What, with red roses and poetry and everything?”

“Why not?” Wyll glares. “He deserves roses, deserves poetry — deserves a romance for the
ages. One that means something.”

As opposed to rolling flat on his back on his master’s orders.

If you’d like to have your wicked way with me, there’s really nothing stopping you from
pushing me over and rutting between my thighs —

“Oh, Wyll, my sentimental little fool,” Mizora says, affecting a great, heaving sigh. “I truly,
honestly cannot wait to see the last drop of idealism burn out of you. How long will it take, I
wonder?”

Eloquently, diplomatically, Wyll lifts a middle finger at her — and she disappears as
suddenly as she’d come in a flurry of wicked giggles.
Infernal bitch. Wyll tosses his whetstone aside, sheathes his blade. His fury mingles
seamlessly with his shame, his disgust with his guilt, into a single homogenous, whirling,
toxic spiral of sickened feeling. Mizora has a unique talent for spoiling his moods — for
spoiling his everything, really.

He doesn’t want to let her spoil Astarion — or, at the very least, Wyll’s nascent affections for
the man. Still, as he rises to his feet and treks his way back to camp, he can’t quite keep
himself from feeling faintly humiliated. Hard to avoid, he supposes. Having one’s desires
pointed out is an inherently humiliating ordeal.

The air in the Shadow-Cursed Lands is stagnant, windless, cool; sometimes, he thinks he can
catch the intermingling scents of cyclamen and ozone — and then it dissipates, leaving him
wondering if it was only in his head. He thumbs the hilt of his scabbard, purses his lips. Feels
the prickling urge to light up a cigar, although he hasn’t indulged in that particular vice in a
long time. Since Avernus, really.

At camp, Gale is bent over the campfire, tinkering inscrutably with their rations — Wyll has
learned to trust the process. The wizard has an uncanny knack for turning the most disparate
and dubious of foodstuffs into credible (and oftentimes delicious) meals.

“Astarion is hunting,” Gale says by way of explanation as Wyll glances around the camp.
“Or, well. Attempting to, at any rate. Compared to the verdant woodlands of the Emerald
Grove, I’d imagine these shadowlands offer relatively scarce pickings.”

“Oh,” Wyll says, first surprised, then embarrassed to be caught out. “I — well —”

Gale smiles with a schoolteacher’s benevolence.

“Sit down,” he says lightly. “Peel some potatoes for me, I beg of you.”

Wyll hesitates, then acquiesces — it would be terribly rude of him to kip back to his tent
while Gale was out here working for all their sakes. He pulls up a stool by the fire, a sack at
his side, and goes to slow work divesting the potatoes of their skins while Gale occupies
himself with the preparation of a roux.

“You and Astarion have gotten quite close lately, haven’t you?” Gale probes lightly, whisking
salt into his saucepan.

Wyll lets out a soft groan.

“Blazing Hells. Seems everyone has an opinion about it.”

At that, Gale just chuckles and shakes his head.

“Someone else give you trouble about it today? Let me guess — Halsin? Lae’zel?” Gale’s
smile deepens, somehow — turns a bit sad. Wyll realizes with a start he’s seeing the true look
of a man who was cast aside by the goddess who claimed to love him. “Far be it for me to
judge — my taste in romantic conquests has certainly led me down a few questionable roads
in my day. At least Astarion hasn’t demanded you detonate yourself into a pile of smoldering
ashes as an act of penance?”

“Not yet, at any rate.”

Gale hums. A quart of milk goes into the pot, then two cups chicken stock. A teaspoon of
bright red seasoning.

“Perhaps you might even be a good influence on him! Teach him a few basic morals. Here’s a
good one to lead with: murder is wrong.”

“Murder is usually wrong,” Wyll agrees. “Except, of course, in the case of villainous ne'er
do-wells — and we seem to run into those at a truly alarming clip.”

“Some might argue your Astarion ranks among those villainous ne’er do-wells. No offense
intended, of course.”

His Astarion? Wyll frowns.

“That’s quite different. He’s — hurt people, yes, perhaps even very many people — but at the
end of the day, he is a victim.”

“Word to the wise, my dear boy,” Gale says. “Most villains are.”

They go at it in silence for a few moments, Wyll peeling potatoes, Gale cubing several large
turnips with a magicked dagger. It occurs to Wyll at some point in the process that Gale could
have easily peeled the potatoes himself with a simple prestidigitation cantrip — in fact, Wyll
could have done the very same — reducing both the effort and the time taken by more than
half. Still, Wyll does not voice the thought, and nor does Gale. There’s a value, Wyll thinks,
in doing things with one’s hands — and if this was the excuse Gale came up with to wisetalk
Wyll about his choice of relationship, he might as well honor that pretense. He forgets,
sometimes, that Gale is ten years his senior or more.

Eventually, Gale lifts his wooden spoon up to Wyll, his expression grave.

“Be my taste tester. Go on. Needs more salt?”

Wyll leans in, sips at the broth obediently. “Mm. No, it’s perfect. What seasonings are you
using? Actually — how in the Hells are you even getting seasonings out here at the edge of
the world?”

“By getting creative, that’s how. On account of preserving your appetite, I’d advise you do
not ask for the specifics. Or check our pouch of alchemical ingredients for what’s gone
missing.”

“Rather ominous,” Wyll says, “but delicious.”

Gale’s attention slides away from the pot, his eyes wandering — Wyll follows his gaze across
the camp, to the soft drapings of one Miss Morrow Tavash’s tent. Morrow is curled up on her
side, reading a smutty romance novel by the light of a cantrip.
Elven beauties. Very dangerous to weak, simple human men like themselves.

“You know,” Wyll says lightly. “If you get to badger me about my love life, I should be able
to do the same.”

Gale’s eyes crinkle. “Am I so obvious?”

“Gods, yes. You look at her like she hangs the stars in the sky,” Wyll grins, leaning forwards,
feeling like a mischievous schoolboy. “Astarion will roll his eyes, and Lae’zel will scoff —
but you’ll hear no bellyaching from me. I think it’s absolutely beautiful that the two of you
can find such happiness amidst such peril.”

Gale shakes his head, looking both bashful and proud all at once.

“What can I say? She’s… she is light,” he says, and there is such ardor in his voice that
Wyll’s heart lights up for it. “If your Astarion gives you even half as much joy — I can only
congratulate you, and sincerely wish you luck.”

What Astarion gives Wyll is more complicated than simple joy, or simple pleasure —
although there is indeed both. Wyll hesitates, thinks to explain it — the drive to protect, the
thrall of his wit, the unmatched thrill of discovering what lurks behind the pale man’s facade
of cold hedonism — the shock of his tenderness —

In the end, he can only set the last potato aside and say, “Thank you, Gale.”

When it comes time to bed down, Astarion finds his way to Wyll’s tent — as is his tendency.

“Hello, star,” Wyll says, leaning up to greet him. “How goes the hunt?”

“Quite poorly, if you must know,” Astarion grouses, settling in on his knees. “Precious few
animals inhabit this blasted wasteland — and I cannot eat shadows.”

Wyll frowns, “Did you manage to find anything at all?”

“Unfortunately not,” Astarion sighs harshly, flopping down against the soft, scattered
bedding. “What a waste of time and energy. Ugh. Suppose I’ll have to make up for it by
draining twice as many villains tomorrow.”

Wyll shakes his head, says, “That’s unacceptable. You shouldn’t have to go hungry tonight.”

“What are you suggesting?” Astarion scoffs, rolling onto his back. “That I drain Scratch? A
tempting proposition, but Karlach would certainly have my head.” His expression slips into a
well-worn lascivious leer. “Unless you’re offering your own neck up, my treasure?”
“Maybe I am,” Wyll shrugs. Then, when Astarion looks momentarily startled, his grin
slipping, he rolls his eyes. “Now, why do you look so surprised?”

“Ah, well —” Astarion pauses, selecting his words with care. “You’ve never offered before,
that’s all.”

“You never asked.”

Astarion pushes himself upright on one arm, his eyes bright.

“I won’t lie,” he says, voice pitched low. “I’ve certainly thought about it.”

At this, Wyll feels a certain frisson of danger.

“Ah, now there’s a frightful gleam in your eye,” he says lightly, suddenly hyperaware of how
his loose linen shirt has hooked over his shoulder, exposing the column of his throat. “Gives a
rather new meaning to being sized up like a piece of meat.”

“A piece of meat? Heavens forefend,” Astarion says, and suddenly he is there in Wyll’s lap,
purring like a cat, his hands cool against the muscled plane of Wyll’s chest. “You are no mere
chop of cattle, my dear. You are a decanter of the sweetest wine, a rare and delectable
vintage. The scent is — rather stirring, you should know.”

“Is it really?” Wyll lifts his brow, repressing his unease. “I thought my blood was
nauseatingly saccharine. Your words, not mine.”

“I lied,” Astarion says. He presses his face into the crook of Wyll’s neck, nuzzling
affectionately at the source of his lifeblood — the gesture is sweet, but Wyll sees the risk in
it, the potential for pain. A hunter and his prey. Who would have thought? “Make yourself
comfortable, why don’t you?”

Wyll swallows, steeling himself — but does exactly that. He lies back against his bedroll,
shoving a pillow behind his back to prop himself up semi-upright. Astarion brackets Wyll’s
hips with his long legs, bracing downwards. His eyes glint with anticipation, with
intoxication, half-lost in it already; it’s a look that does little to inspire good faith in Wyll.

Hesitation creeps in. Wyll had told Mizora that Astarion cared for him, and he’d believed it.
Still believes it, in fact. But Astarion’s nature is still, unilaterally and unalterably, that of a
vampire. Who’s to say that Astarion would not forget himself once Wyll’s blood touched his
lips? Who’s to say he would not drink too greedily, too deep?

“Star,” Wyll says softly, lifting a hand to cup Astarion’s waist. “Can I trust you not to go too
far?”

“Of c—” Astarion starts. But then he stops abruptly, words caught in his throat, looking
mildly chastened; Wyll realizes that Astarion has just caught himself mid-lie. Unsettled, Wyll
pushes himself up onto his elbows, his frown deepening.

“Astarion,” he says, more seriously now, but Astarion cuts him off with a firm shake of his
head.
 “Now listen, my darling. Listen,” he says. "The truth is, I — I have little practice in
exercising self-control.” He hitches a smile up over his face, deceptively cheerful. “I have no
wish to harm you — beyond what you can reasonably recover from, at any rate. But I also
have no wish to lavish you in false promises. So, let me make my affidavits very clear:
should I become… uncooperative, I suggest you be prepared to shove me off.”

“Comforting,” Wyll says dryly. He settles back down, attempting to relax. “So, what you’re
essentially saying is… there’s a nonzero chance you will turn into a savage and bloodthirsty
animal in my arms.”

“Nonzero is exactly the right word, yes,” Astarion agrees. Then — although Wyll can already
see his fangs extending, the saliva pooling at the corner of his gums, he rears back ever
slightly. “Having second thoughts?”

His eyes dig into Wyll’s, searching for answers.

Wyll deliberates. The prospect of Astarion drinking his blood has begun to sound… a little
unpleasant, to put it mildly. But the idea of Astarion lying awake at night, stomach panging
with hunger, is hardly a more palatable thought — especially while Wyll possesses the means
to slake it.

The more Wyll considers it, the more his determination solidifies. It was Cazador’s dictum to
keep Astarion in starvation; to keep him weakened, wanting. It would not be Wyll’s as well.

“If it comes to a scrap,” he decides at last, “I think I can take you.” He closes his eyes, his
hand wrapping around to settle on the small of his lover’s back. “Go on, then. Don’t be shy.”

Astarion strokes the curve of Wyll’s throat with one hand, thumbing slowly over the infernal
ridges which raise his skin like poorly-healed scars; the gesture could be called tender. It
could also be called proprietary, depending on one’s perspective.

“I am many things, darling,” he says. “But I am not shy.”

It’s like a shard of ice in his neck — a sharp, sudden pain, soon replaced by a dull and
throbbing numbness. Wyll shudders, his hand tightening around Astarion’s waist
instinctively. He had expected the process to be painful. However, aside from the initial
puncture, it’s surprisingly tolerable. A faint tingle spreads through his limbs, radiating from
the site of the bite.

Astarion isn’t a very neat eater. Nor is he a graceful one. He whimpers softly, perhaps even
frantically, against the curve of Wyll’s neck; his feeding is accompanied by loud, gulping
swallows and harsh, needy sucking sounds — which would honestly probably be erotic if
they weren’t so damned pitiful. Wyll rubs a hand up and down Astarion’s back idly.

“Drink slowly,” he murmurs. “You’ll make yourself sick if you down it all so quickly.”

Gods, but he sounds like his father.

Astarion whines, but makes an effort to slow down — to be good, to obey the natural chain
of command between giver and receiver. They remain like that a moment longer, as long as
Wyll can reasonably justify himself — and perhaps a little longer, if he’s being honest. But
then the tingling feeling begins to intensify into a cold lethargy, and he forces himself to
pump the brakes, hard.

“That’s enough,” Wyll says. He lifts his hands, bracing them firmly against Astarion’s
shoulder. “Astarion. Star. I said, that’s enough.”

Just as Wyll is beginning to ready an eldritch blast, the spell gathering hot on his palms,
Astarion wrenches himself free with a gasp, like a drowning man coming to surface.

“That —” Astarion reels back, one hand flying to his mouth. His red eyes are shockingly
alert, shockingly vivid; twin rubies in a marble casing. “Oh, gods, Wyll. You are incredible.”

“Flatterer,” Wyll says, slumping back against his bedroll. Exhaustion trawls its way through
his body, his brain fogging over with fatigue. How much blood did Astarion take? A liter?
Two?

Astarion, by contrast, looks half-wild with energy. Mania, even.

“Oh, gods,” he says again, descending on Wyll to lick longing at the edge of the wound,
chasing the glittering final traces of his blood. “Damn it, Wyll. You don’t even know… you
are exquisite, absolutely exquisite, you are maddening…”

“I’ll take it I taste better than a rat,” Wyll hums, tired. He closes his eyes, luxuriating in the
strange, somewhat alien sensation of Astarion’s cold tongue lapping at his flesh as a cat
might lap at a bowl of cream.

“You are the finest thing I have ever tasted,” Astarion insists, his tone a touch feverish.
“Sweet and rich and dark, like, like blackberries on the vine —”

He presses a fumbling kiss to Wyll’s lips, then another; a tight, clinging kiss. Perfervid, in a
word. Wyll can taste himself there — a filthy, coppery tang that evokes, to him, very little in
the way of fresh fruit.

“I do enjoy blackberries,” Wyll muses wistfully, and he pulls Astarion down into bed with
him and sighs. “Now, will you settle down?”

“Mm. What? Whatever you want, yes.”

He would very much like to roll over onto his side and pull Astarion against his front — but
alas, his horns make that sleeping arrangement rather impossible. So instead, he settles down
supine; Astarion lies with him, curled against him, his head pillowed over Wyll’s chest. Every
fiber of his being seems to radiate contentment — seems to radiate happiness — and despite
the faint queasiness chasing his bones, that feels a little amazing.

What a privilege, being the source of Astarion’s happiness. The fount of his salvation.

Does holding him through the night make you feel like a big, strong hero, pup?
Yes, it absolutely does, Wyll thinks. He pulls Astarion close and kisses the crown of his head.
And what’s wrong with that?

Astarion lets out a short, breathy sigh.

“Wyll,” he says. “Wyll Ravengard, my dear, my darling, my prince.”

“Yes, star?”

“I…” Astarion hesitates, squirming minutely against Wyll. “Thank you.”

An earnest thanks from Astarion is rather hard-won. Wyll basks in it, proud.

“You are most certainly welcome,” he says warmly. “Now sleep, love.”

“I believe you mean trance.”

“Same difference, isn’t it?”

“Not even remotely,” Astarion quips, but he burrows himself sweetly against Wyll’s body,
snug and secure — and oh, Hells, Wyll would battle the very gods for this man.

Wyll reaches across the tent with the arm that isn’t currently wrapped around Astarion,
finding the lantern which illuminates the space. He extinguished the flame with a flick of his
wrist — a brisk cantrip —and its warm, flickering light is replaced by murky, coal-coloured
shadows.

Lying there with a dead man dozing against his belly, Wyll fantasizes about taking it all on.
The impossible task of saving him. No — more than saving him, rescuing him. Reforming
him. Teaching him to smile easily and without guile, to say no without fear of reprisal, to see
the good and the grand in the city Wyll loves. What a feat it would be to, to heal Astarion’s
wounds! What a coup! And if he killed Astarion’s wretched sadist of a master, if he staked
him and tore out of his miserable throat, how could Astarion not adore him —

— and then, he feels like scum. Like the lowest of the lowest. Like the worse kind of user.

Against him, Astarion has gone still, his breaths coming slow and deep, but Wyll knows he is
still awake. Astarion does not settle easily; he rarely drifts off first, perhaps never does at all.
His arms is slung over Wyll’s body, holding him near, like his beloved or his child — or,
perhaps, his prisoner.
On the road to Baldur’s Gate, Wyll brings Astarion a sheaf of wildflowers, and Astarion rips
him to shreds for it.

“Daisies, Wyll? Really?” Astarion examines the bouquet with an expression between
entertainment and withering scorn. “Rather pedestrian, don’t you think?”

“I’d shower you in white roses if I could,” Wyll says earnestly, one hand over his heart, “but
the nearest florist is still a tenday away.”

“This is patently ridiculous, you know. What in the sweet Hells am I meant to do with these?”

Wyll’s eyes light up, “I could weave them into a flower crown, if you like —”

“No, no, no, dear gods, don’t be ghastly,” Astarion says, mock-affronted. He looks down at
the bouquet for a moment — big, bright pincushion flowers, the very picture of pastoral
modesty.

Slowly, guardedly, Astarion lifts them towards his face, and breathes in the fresh, green scent
of their stems.

That night, in their shared tent, Wyll recites him poetry, and Astarion howls with laughter.

“Gods — stop, stop, really, I cannot take this,” Astarion wheezes, clutching helplessly at his
belly. “Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound?” He mimics a portentous bardic
baritone, “I will be thy priest, and build a fane in some untrodden region of my mind —”

He explodes into a fresh peal of laughter, tumbling back against their bedding. Wyll grins,
pushing himself up to kiss Astarion’s temple.

“You little shit,” Wyll says fondly, tucking a stray curl behind one pointed ear. “I’ve loved
that poem ever since I was a lad, you know.”

— and since then, he has dreamt of sharing it with a lover. Admittedly, he imagined it going
rather differently… but Astarion’s laughter is as sweet a sound as any, so he daren’t
complain.

“I beg of you, Wyll, update your tastes,” Astarion says, wiping at his eyes. “Ugh. Atrocious.
You sound like you’re — wooing some silly little village girl, you know, it’s quite a farce —”

“I’m wooing you,” Wyll says obstinately.

“Yes, well —” Astarion clears his throat, looks momentarily at a loss. “That makes it all the
more farcical, really, doesn’t it? For one, I’m no doe-eyed maiden. In fact, if you want to get
technical, I am old enough to be your great-great-grandfather —”

“I think you’re missing a few greats,” Wyll says staidly, and earns a swift pinch to the ribs for
his effort.

“— not to mention the fact I am a blood-sucking vampire, and the Gate’s village bicycle at
that —”

“You know I don’t care about all that.”

Astarion shrugs, not quite meeting Wyll’s eyes.

“Perhaps not,” he says abstractly, distantly. “Perhaps not.”

Wyll approaches Astarion on his knees, shifting to face him. Carefully — so carefully — he
reaches out and takes his hand, and he kisses it.

“And there shall be for thee all soft delight,” Wyll kisses Astarion’s knuckles, his wrist, the
cold and inert place where his pulse should pound, “that shadowy thought can win. A bright
torch, and a casement ope at night, to let the warm love in.”

Astarion snatches his hand away as though burned. Wyll blinks.

For a moment, there’s silence. Astarion covers his face with his hands, shielding himself
from Wyll. There’s something like a great wave of pain rolling off of him — or a wave of
anger, or both — though Wyll knows now not to take it personally. He sits back on his
haunches and waits, feels two hundred years of agony between them like an untraversable
barrier. Like a language Wyll can’t speak. For the moment, Astarion is unreachable. And
that’s alright. That’s the business you sign up for when you love a broken bone.

At last, Astarion lifts his head, looking extraordinarily drained.

“Why now,” he says, his voice filled with exhaustion. “Why now, Wyll Ravengard.”

The next time he is inside Astarion, he tells Astarion, “I love you,” and Astarion calls him a
bleeding-heart moron.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Wyll pants, caressing the side of Astarion’s face, stilling his
hips even as his cock pulsates with need where it’s buried deep inside the hot clutch of
Astarion’s body, so tight, so wet, so good — “I just want you to know —”
“Oh, please,” Astarion hisses, his voice silky and low. “Don’t get it twisted. You don’t love
me, you love this.”

As if to demonstrate, he grinds his hips down in a sinuous, expert motion, a sweet simulated
fuck. Wyll swears, the pressure building in his belly at the sheer rightness of it — but he
refuses to be distracted.

“I can pull out if you think I’m not being serious,” he says earnestly, and he rears back to do
so — but then Astarion’s legs wrap around him tighter, his ankles locked around the small of
Wyll’s back.

“Don’t you fucking dare, darling.”

He says it again the next time Astarion drinks from him, and Astarion says, “Please, have a
shred of self-preservation, dear.”

He says it again while they’re sharing a private bath at the Elfsong tavern, the warm, soapy
water heating Astarion’s skin to something resembling a living body temperature, and
Astarion slumps minutely against the tub, too relaxed to pitch a fit, and says, murmurous,
wonderingly, “You really do, don’t you.”

"Is that so strange?" Wyll asks lightly, when what he really wishes to ask is: Is that so hard to
believe?

"Exceedingly so," Astarion says. He sits up, reaches for a washcloth, and wrings it with both
hands. "Now hold still while I clean your horns."
 He gets down on one knee and asks Astarion to marry him, and Astarion asks him if he’s
poisoned, drunk, or mad.

He asks it again in bed that night, and Astarion buries his face against Wyll’s shoulder,
breathes in deep, and says, “Ask me next year. If you really, really must.”

He must.

“I love you,” Wyll says, pressing a kiss to Astarion’s cheek as Astarion laces up his boots.

Astarion glances up, pinning Wyll with a glance that lands curiously between tenderness and
scorn.

“That’s a spot of good luck indeed,” he says airily. “Because I don’t intend to let go of you
anytime soon, Wyll Ravengard.”

Chapter End Notes

evil fujoshi mizora rights!

i was really humbled by the kind response to the first part - i really did expect to get like
200 hits and 2 comments, since this is kind of a rarepair, but i'm very moved by the
amount of love you guys have shown me! so i think i'll stick around and write some
more for this pairing.

follow me on twitter for wyll ravengard tweets

Works inspired by this one

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