Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day had felt endless, the goblins put up one hell of a fight and clearing out their entire camp had left the party on their last legs. When Astarion suggested they should all stick together to watch each other's backs while they sorted out their little worm-shaped problem, fighting through hordes of goblin raiders to defend a few tieflings was not what he’d had in mind. But Tav was nothing if not infuriatingly sympathetic to the problems of others, even if it was never any of their business at all. Honestly, what they should have been doing was packing up and heading out towards Moonrise Towers to see about finding the source of their little problem.

Instead, the Tiefling leader had insisted that everyone gather at the party in celebration. Worse still, was that all of the tieflings felt it necessary to keep thanking him personally —like he wouldn't have stabbed them all in the back given the opportunity. The goblin leaders would have at least thrown a better party, if nothing else. 

Regardless, it was getting into the early hours of the morning and everyone else had finally given in to their deep-seated exhaustion. They had all retired to their bedrolls, leaving Astarion alone to keep watch as they slept off the day's chaos.

He would have put up a bigger fuss about it had Tav not had such frustratingly logical points. He needed much less sleep than the others. Even worse, he was depressingly sober—the druids’ piss-poor wine tasted like vinegar and he hadn’t been able to stomach more than a few glasses of it. So instead of finding a warm body and crashing like everyone else, he was supposed to be altruistic and “helpful” and make sure his fateful traveling companions could get an adequate 8 hours of rest. 

The fire long since burned out, reduced to smoldering charcoal and its dull heat doing little to warm the endless chill in Astarion’s bones. The whole camp smelled like stale sex and shit wine, and there was not a soul awake.

Astarion was bored. Plain and simple. 

He sighed and drummed his fingers on his knee. Maybe he could steal a book from Gale, that bastard definitely was hiding some books with powerful magic somewhere. A tempting thought if nothing else, but Astarion had no way of knowing what enchantments the wizard might have laid in order to dissuade sticky fingers. It wasn’t worth the risk.

He sighed. If only Tav was awake, maybe then he could at least have gotten something to snack on. Not that he was particularly hungry, of course—goblins didn’t taste great but they were certainly better than rats and he had gorged himself during the raid. Maybe a hunt would do him good regardless, a nice excuse to stretch his legs.

Suddenly Astarion caught a glimpse of something moving from the corner of his eye. His bored lethargy vanished instantly and he sat up to assess the threat. From across the camp he saw a figure slowly making its way past the sleeping forms of the rest of the party.

Except, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized it was only Wyll. 

Dressed in just his sleep clothes the man was making his way out of camp towards the forest. Interesting. What could the devil possibly be up to at this time of night? There would be no harm in checking up on him—just to make sure he was safe, of course.

Astarion rose and followed him, his boredom egging on his curiosity. He moved quickly and quietly, determined to not let Wyll see him. The devil didn’t wander far, making his way to the stream that ran just outside of camp. The area was well-covered, secluded by trees and shrubbery. 

Astarion watched as Wyll slowly stripped out of his worn nightclothes, revealing an expanse of well-toned muscle as the fabric fell away. He looked infuriatingly good, even more so with his new devilish features. It was a shame his endless do-gooding tendencies kept getting them involved in everyone else's problems.

As he watched, Wyll began to gently run his fingers over the long ridges on his back, tracing each one with his fingers. It almost looked like he was trying to see them, to memorize the paths they now took along his shoulder blades.

Oh.

This was private. He shouldn’t be watching this.

Feeling abruptly guilty, Astarion turned to leave in the direction he came. He managed three quiet steps forward before a twig snapped under the weight of his foot, the crack of it echoing loudly around the clearing. He froze, instinctively holding his breath. There was no way Wyll hadn’t heard that. 

“Who’s there?” Shit.

As Astarion turned on the spot, he saw Wyll raise his arms defensively. A sickly green glow emanated from his hands, the telltale sign of eldritch magic.

Seeing no stealthy way back to camp Astarion stepped out of the trees, arms spread disarmingly. “It’s just me darling, no need for the glowing death rays.” Better to own his snooping than to slink away like a scorned child.

“Astarion. Hells, you scared me.” Wyll dismissed his magic, entirely relaxing as if Astarion wasn’t a threat, a bit insulting honestly. “Aren’t you supposed to be on watch?”

“I am on watch,” Astarion said. He lowered his arms with a dramatic flourish. “You could have gotten into all manner of trouble sneaking away unarmed and alone like that.”

“So you followed me to make sure I was safe… from the river?” Wyll raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“The river can be a very dangerous place my dear, I was only looking out for you.”

Wyll’s eyebrow arched even further.

“Fine, you caught me.” Astarion feigned a laugh. “I was bored. It’s not easy to sit around and entertain myself for hours while all of you get your beauty sleep.” 

“So you decided to come watch me put on a show,” To his surprise, Wyll returned his flirtations. “Well then, do I meet your expectations?”

“You look positively devilish .” 

That was obviously the wrong thing to say. Astarion watched as Wyll flinched, his companions' posture closing up in an instant as his joke struck an all too familiar nerve. He watched as the other man averted his gaze and a sharp sting of regret flashed through the vampire. 

The next words tumbled out of Astarion’s mouth before he could stop them. “It suits you.”

“What?”

“Your horns, they suit you.” His reassurances felt shallow but he couldn’t just leave it alone. Maybe he was projecting, but feeling like a monster in your own skin hurt. He paused for a moment, searching for the right things to say. “What she did to you, it hasn't changed who you are. What you are, certainly, but who you are? That’s up to you.”

“Thank you, Astarion. That’s a kind thing to say.”

“Oh please. I am nothing of the sort.” Astarion rolled his eyes. “Let me remind you that I eat people and enjoy it. Not to mention just a few days ago you would have driven a stake through my heart at the first opportunity.”

“Well, I think we have all been given a little perspective from our shared strife.”

“You’re such a bleeding heart, I bat my pretty eyelashes and slay a few goblins and suddenly you think I’m nice .” He accompanied the word with a disdainful hiss—the audacity .

“You keep watch most nights,” Wyll deadpanned.

Astarion outright scoffed at him. “You think I trust you morons to not slip up and get us killed after a poor night’s sleep?”

Wyll didn’t hesitate. “You slipped Gale that magical necklace.”

“He is a walking bomb!” Astarion’s voice cracked in outrage. He had never been more glad he was too dead to blush.

“You said my horns suited me.”

“Darling if you think I said that to you to be nice, clearly I’ve been going about this all wrong.” Astarion leered, trying to change the uncomfortable turn the conversation had taken.

But Wyll was undeterred. “You helped us save the druids today, despite how much you whined about it.”

“I still maintain that the goblins would have thrown a better party.” And they would have, complete with people minding their own business and far superior wine.

“Surely the company would have been lacking.” The conviction in Wyll’s voice was unwavering, his endless sincerity throwing Astarion a little. He wasn’t used to such honesty.

“Maybe I would have enjoyed the company of cultist freaks and goblin snacks.” 

“Mmm, maybe, but something tells me that you are starting to like me.” Wyll flashed him a warm, genuine smile.

Right. Enough was enough.

“So much so that I’m going back to camp.” Astarion turned to leave, there was only so much honesty he could take and he had more than reached his quota for the night. “Goodnight my dear, enjoy your swim.”

He didn’t even make it to the treeline before he heard Wyll’s voice ring out from behind him.

“Wait. Stay.” The devil’s voice was filled with such an uncharacteristic vulnerability that it caused Astarion to pause. He shifted where he stood, glancing curiously back over his shoulder at the other man.

“Why should I?”

“Because you enjoy my company?”

Astarion turned around fully and leveled Wyll with the most unimpressed look he could muster.

“Because it’s nice to talk to someone whose eyes aren’t locked on my horns,” Wyll added after a moment of silence.

“A week ago you would have sworn me as your enemy.”

“A week ago you would have bled me dry.”

“Come now, I might still.”

Wyll shook his head fondly, a small smile curving his lips, and Astarion relented at last.

“Fine I’ll stay, but I am not getting in the water,” he huffed. He still hadn’t gotten over his very reasonable fear of running water. While it stood to reason that he would probably be safe, testing his newfound freedoms with his life on the line was not his idea of a good time.

Wyll’s face contorted into a disgusting look of sympathetic understanding before he turned to pick up his shirt from where he had dropped it to the ground. Regrettably, he pulled it back on, before turning to hold out his hand. Astarion dragged his gaze reluctantly away from that broad chest up to Wyll’s face and opened his mouth to ask what his companion could possibly be doing, but before he could say a word the devil offered him an explanation.

“Not quite what I had in mind anymore,” he said. “From the sounds of it we both missed the party, would you care to make up for it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I drank the night away with that delicious piss the druids call wine and had a lovely little sulk in my tent.” 

“Astarion.” Wyll drew out the syllables of his name in a teasing tone, paying Astarion’s sarcasm no heed. “Would you do me the honor of this dance?”

“You cannot be serious.” But Astarion knew that he was. Wyll was always serious about everything.

“It’s been too long since I’ve had a willing partner,” Wyll dipped down into a small bow, his hand still extended in offering. “Come on now, don’t you want to know what it's like to dance with the devil?”

Wyll was being ever so charming and his face was so hopeful. Oh, what could it hurt?

“Fine, but I’m going to lead. Who knows when you last practiced and I don’t want you stepping on my toes.” Astarion’s words were haughty even as he stepped forward to take Wyll’s outstretched hand. His movements carried an unusual awkwardness as he paused and hovered his hand over Wyll’s waist, uncertain if he was allowed to touch.

“As you wish.” Wyll used his other hand to gently guide Astarion’s to settle on his hip, before gracefully setting it on the vampire’s shoulder. His fingers began to tap out a rhythm as he guided Astarion into the first steps.

Astarion hadn’t danced for fun in he couldn't remember how long. He had attended his fair share of upper-class parties and masquerades but it was always a game, a con in order to lure an unsuspecting victim in for Cazador. To dance here with Wyll of his own choice felt like something special, something important. 

It felt like freedom.

They stumbled slightly over the uneven ground, laughing as they went. And after a while, Astarion realized he was enjoying this—enjoying Wyll’s company. For the first time in weeks he wasn’t burdened with his ever-present anxieties over Cazador’s plans, nor was he concerned with Tadpole’s presence just behind his eye.

They whirled and they danced and they played, lost in the moment as they enjoyed the waning hours left before everyone would take to set off into the Underdark towards Moonrise Towers.  Finally, the early morning light started to creep over the horizon, reminding them both of where they were.

Wyll slowed to a halt, the spell that had settled over them broken.

“The others will be waking soon,” he said, voice soft. “You had best get back before they do. I did not mean to pull you from your duties for so long.”

“Ah.” Astarion blinked and glanced away as Wyll released him. There was an odd tightness in his chest that he didn’t quite know how to describe.

“And Astarion?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Oh.

Astarion could practically see the sincerity radiating from Wyll and it made his skin crawl. He took a step back, placing necessary distance between them—they weren’t friends. They barely knew each other and here Wyll was letting his guard down around a vampire, thanking a monster that wouldn’t think twice before using him as a meal. 

Astarion mumbled out a rushed “See you back at camp” before he turned and bid a hasty retreat. He tried to make it look as if he wasn’t running away, keeping his strides measured and even, but they both knew he was doing just that.

Chapter Text

Astarion adjusted his arm where it was pillowed underneath his head, trying to get comfortable on the floor of his tent. The blankets he had set down as a makeshift bed were grating against his skin and the canvas walls were doing little to keep out the muggy rotten air from the mushroom-infested cave the party had decided to make camp in. He rolled over and once more adjusted his limbs in a fruitless attempt to help his body comply with his need for shut-eye.

Sleep never came easy to the vampire but down here in the Underdark, surrounded by nothing but overgrown mycelia and freezing wet rock, successfully finding enough comfort to rest felt like an impossibility. The ground was cold, the air was damp, and worst of all it smelled like death. It almost reminded him of—

Astarion squeezed his eyes shut tighter. He was free. He was in this stupid mushroom cave with his stupid companions and he was going to get some sleep. For the first time in three nights, it wasn’t his duty to keep watch over their gods-forsaken camp and he had earned the rest. The Underdark was exhausting: every moment had been spent fighting giant monsters or asshole slavers, and quite frankly, Astarion was done.

That damned druid must have been exaggerating the horrors of the Mountain Pass because it couldn't possibly have been much worse than this. At least up there he could have found something to eat. 

Astarion shivered and curled around himself tighter. It had been days since he had last had a filling meal and added on top of the lack of rest and the discomfort of the cave it was impossible to ignore his body’s need any longer. His stomach ached as the ever-present hunger pains churned through him. 

He needed to eat.

Badly. 

Unfortunately, the party was still deep underground and the only living things in this entire gods-forsaken labyrinth were walking mushrooms and their infected zombie spawn—neither of which would make a suitable meal. Not that he ever would have tried—the mere idea of eating one of those things made him feel ill. He would rather face the full unfiltered light of day than find out if those creatures were infectious. Honestly, Astarion never wanted to see a Myconid again, though with how intent Tav seemed on helping that gnome they would probably be passing back through the freaky mushroom village soon enough. Why they all couldn’t just leave well enough alone and move along, preferably to somewhere with warm-blooded woodland creatures, was beyond him. 

Gods-dammit. Astarion was exhausted, but it was too cold and too wet and he was too damn hungry. With a groan he sat up, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. Would there even be a point in trying to hunt? Throughout the entire time they’d been down here, Astarion hadn't seen so much as a rat. Should he wake Tav and beg them to let him feed from them once again? Was he pathetic enough for that? 

His stomach ached once more at the thought of a fresh meal, but Astarion stubbornly pushed the feeling down: never again would he be forced to grovel for his meal. As uncomfortable as it might become, he would survive a few more hungry days in the Underdark. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t gone without food before. 

That being said, if he wasn’t going to rest there wasn’t much point in continuing to stay in his tent. The enclosed four walls were trapping the already unbearable humidity, and the blankets lining the floor had done nothing to protect him from the cold wet earth below. If he was going to be miserable, he might as well move somewhere more comfortable.

After taking a few moments to collect himself, Astarion pushed open the flap to his tent. The smell of fungal rot was stifling as he climbed out into the dimly lit cavern that made up the campsite. The clearing looked almost exactly the same as it had when he had retired hours earlier. The dull glow from the mycelia lining the walls disguised any notion of what time it was—not that it mattered, none of them had seen the sky in days. As he moved towards the camp's entrance, Astarion could see a figure comfortably perched on a rock next to the mouth of the cave. 

Wyll, it had to be. It was his turn to take watch tonight.

The man had oh-so happily volunteered when Astarion dramatically complained about the party always forcing him to stay up. While yes, he could get by with much less rest than the others, it was the principle of the thing. It shouldn’t always be his turn; he deserved a break sometimes too. So if he’d staged a scene over dinner knowing someone's hero complex would get the better of them, who could blame him? Besides, it wasn’t like Wyll hadn’t jumped at the opportunity.

Now, hours later, the man was seated next to the entrance with his rapier in hand, hunched over as he delicately ran his whetstone along the edge of his blade. For a few moments, Astarion merely watched as Wyll continued to expertly sharpen the weapon. His movements were well practiced, each gesture steady and sure. A look of firm concentration was etched onto his face, contoured by the dim lighting of the surrounding mushrooms. His brow wrinkled as inspected his work, before resuming where he had left off. The entire scene could almost be described as adorable.

Almost.

Slowly, as to not make a sound, Astarion crept closer until he was but a few feet in front of the other man. “Careful now, darling. Looking like that, any number of creatures might come and sneak up on you.”

At the sound Wyll started, whipping up to look at who had surprised him. “Bloody Hells!”

Wyll’s curse rang out against the unconscious silence that had fallen over the camp. Then it was followed by the sharp smell of iron. Blood. Wyll was bleeding. Astarion looked over to the source, finding that the whetstone had slipped from Wyll’s hand and black blood now welled along the tips of his fingers.

Before he knew what he was doing Astarion lurched towards the other man, stumbling over his own feet as he fought to abort the movement. While only seconds ago his body had been wracked with the kind of lethargy that only came from starvation, now every instinct was driving him forward to sink his teeth into warm flesh. Saliva pooled inside his mouth in anticipation of a meal—he could practically taste Wyll’s blood in the air, molasses and smoke permeating through the fungal rot. His gums ached with the effort to stay perfectly still. 

“Wyll,” Astarion whispered all too loudly, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine, you just startled me. I didn't think anyone was awake.”

With his uninjured hand, Wyll set his blade down carefully. Then he reached to retrieve his whetstone from where it had fallen, setting it beside his sword. His movements were careful as he delicately held his bleeding hand up and away. The gash spanned across both the middle and index fingers of his right hand, blood flowing down the length of his hand in a steady stream. 

Astarion’s eyes followed the trail, tracking how it moved across Wyll’s palm. It followed the natural creases of his hand before creeping further downwards to gather on the inside of the warlock’s wrist. As the blood pooled there it began to form thick droplets that rhythmically dripped into the dirt.

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip.

Astarion could only watch as Wyll pulled his hand back to inspect the wound. His fingers glistened as he moved them back and forth, testing the extent of the damage, and only by biting the inside of his cheek did Astarion manage to swallow a whine. 

Wyll must have decided the cut was minor because instead of doing the smart thing and healing his hand, the man turned his focus towards Astation. “My apologies, did you need something?” 

The question barely registered as Astarion tore his eyes from the blood now running down the inside of Wyll’s arm, meeting his gaze with an unintelligent, “Huh?”

“Did you need something?” Wyll repeated as he took in the state of his late-night companion. Astarion tilted his head at the question, the words barely registering in his distraction, but he must’ve taken too long to respond for Wyll’s expression flooded with concern in his silence. “Astarion?”

“Yes?”

“By the Hells, when was the last time you fed?” Trust the Blade of Frontiers to know exactly what a starving vampire looked like. There was no point in lying; Wyll evidently knew what danger stood before him. 

“Days. There aren’t exactly many innocent forest creatures to snack on down here.” Astarion’s trademark sarcasm didn't quite hit the mark as he struggled to form words around the ache in his jaw. 

Gods, he was unbelievably hungry. 

Wyll’s bloody fingers twitched slightly as he adjusted the angle of his hand. With each movement, more of that sweet-smelling blood dripped downward and mixed with growing splatters of dark soil below. Once again Astarion forced his gaze away and instead focused all of his energy into looking at the delicious-smelling warlock’s stupid face. “Would you please just heal your fingers?”

But even still Wyll did not heed his warning—rather, he continued onward with another inane question while the ever-present temptation on his fingers continued to bleed. “Surely there must be something you could eat?”

Something like a foolish devil with no self-preservation instincts? 

“I have gone longer without, I shall survive until we leave this cave.” Astarion gritted his teeth as the syrupy taste of sugar ghosted across his tongue.

“You can not deny your hunger.” Wyll looked back down at his injury in contemplation. “Is there no alternative?”

The bleeding had begun to eb, the steady stream turned to a sluggish few drops rolling down the soft center of Wyll’s palm. Astarion watched as the other man caught the liquid with the thumb from his other hand, smearing it back upwards across his palm.

“Tav fed you once before,” Wyll looked up, his expression equal parts earnest and sincere. “Though I am no longer human, should my blood still appeal, I would rather not see you starve.”

All at once Astarion’s fragile control snapped and he found himself on his knees before the devil as he tugged at Wyll’s wounded hand. The vampire’s nails dug into the dark skin of Wyll’s wrist as blood smeared under his fingers, sticky and warm. It would be so, so easy to give in and have a taste. There would be no harm in it: Wyll had freely offered. Astarion leaned forward on instinct, his mouth watering.

Wyll twitched at the movement, his pulse quickening under the vampire's grasp. “Easy now.” 

But even still as he laid warning Wyll did not move away, nor did he remove his hand from Astarion’s hold. Wyll was too good, too trusting, and if Astarion leaned forward just a little more the man would almost certainly let the vampire sink his teeth right in. 

How much would he let Astarion take? Would he sit still as Astarion drank his fill? Would the vampire be allowed to drink until Wyll grew weary and pliant? Could Astarion drain Wyll of everything as the man sat there gazing down with that all-too-trusting smile?

No.

Shame crawled its way up Astarion’s throat and he dropped Wyll’s wrist like it had burned him. He scrambled back to put distance between himself and the temptation, his fangs aching and his body screaming. Wyll’s blood was too alluring, it smelled too good. 

Wyll looked down at him for what felt like an eternity, watchful eye surveying Astarion as curled up around himself in the dirt. He was laid bare, undone by the lull of his instincts against the other’s gentle understanding.

“It’s okay,” Wyll spoke softly, his words barely above a whisper. “Come back.”

“I can’t.” 

“You need to eat.” 

“Wyll I can’t .” 

“Why not?”

“In my state, I don’t know if I will be able to stop.” That was the truth of it—if Astarion bit down now and gave into that urge, there was no telling if he would be able to stop himself. 

The only other time he had ever drank from another he had almost killed them.  Regardless of their reassurances, Astarion had seen how weak Tav was the next morning. He had almost certainly taken too much, and that was when he was dining regularly on boars and goblins. Now, wracked with days worth of starvation, his control was on a razor's edge. Wyll could die.

“I trust you.” 

The weight of those three little words. Astarion’s chest clenched as he looked over Wyll’s face but he found no deceit, there was nothing other than the warlock’s trademark sincerity. Why would Wyll be so stupid as to trust him—to allow a starving vampire like himself to put their fangs anywhere near him?

“You shouldn’t,” he protested, but even as he spoke he found himself moving back closer to Wyll.

Astarion looked at Wyll, scanning for any signs of hesitation, regret, or gods-forbid, pity. He looked for any excuse that would let him back away; any twitch in Wyll’s jaw or flick of the eye, but the warlock's face may as well have been made out of stone. 

With no reason to stop, the vampire could fight his instincts no longer as he crawled forward, nudging himself between Wyll’s spread thighs. He sat back into a kneeling position and looked up at the man one last time.

“Are you sure?”

Wyll tipped his neck back in open invitation. “Drink.” 

Instead, Astarion reached for his wrist, pulling it slowly to his mouth with shaking hands. He leaned in and slowly traced his tongue over the blood that had run down Wyll’s arm, careful to lap up any stray drop. He was hesitant at first, but as the taste of the devil’s blood flooded into his mouth and registered on his taste buds for the first time, his enthusiasm rapidly grew. Wyll’s heartbeat raced beneath his grip as Astarion made his way up to his finger and sucked hard, breaking the clotting wound so that fresh blood welled. 

He’d never tasted anything like this in all his life. Wyll’s blood didn’t taste like the usual iron—it was as sweet as sugar, perhaps even sweeter . The scent of it was overpowering up close like this, and it filled his nostrils like nothing he’d ever smelled before. He’d had a feeling that Wyll would have sweet blood; he’d picked up on it from the start, but this was beyond anything he’d imagined.

It was intoxicating.

Wyll let out a small gasp. The vampire swirled his tongue around the cut, lavishing the edges of the broken skin, which elicited a shiver from the warlock. Blood trickled freely from the gash, rolling across Astarion’s tongue.

Astarion finally pulled back, looking up at Wyll. Their eyes met, the warlock’s gaze fixed on him with his single pupil blown wide. Neither of them moved as Astarion paused, savoring the lingering taste of blood in his mouth. 

Slowly but surely Wyll began to turn his wrist in Astarion’s grasp, displaying his veins in silent offering. 

He could hold back no longer, the bounding of Wyll’s radial pulse practically visible beneath the tantalizingly thin skin of his wrist. Restraint was a distant memory as he quickly surged in and sank his fangs deep into Wyll’s wrist. 

Honey and hellfire danced on Astarion’s tongue as warm blood rushed into his mouth, the sticky nectar rolling down his throat and satiating the ever-hungering maw that raged inside of him.

He felt as Wyll went lax around him and instinctively braced his other hand on Wyll’s left thigh to better stabilize himself. He pressed closer still, leaning forward where he knelt to fully seal his lips around the puncture wound. Closing his eyes, he swallowed mouthful after mouthful, greedily taking as much of Wyll’s sweet blood as he could. He couldn't stop; he needed more— all of it—needed to fill himself with every drop.

Distantly, he registered the sensation of a gentle hand running through his hair, fingers curling into the strands and pulling him back with a soft tug. “Astarion, that’s enough.”

It took every ounce of his willpower to sit back and let Wyll’s wrist drop from his grasp, the two fresh holes bleeding sluggishly. Astarion felt warm all over, his head buzzing pleasantly and his hunger sated for the first time in weeks. Taking a second to collect himself, he laid his head on Wyll’s thigh and savored that wonderful sugary metallic taste that still coated his tongue. As he lay there, the grip in his hair relaxed and those long, clever fingers began to card through it, settling into a comforting rhythm. 

The gentle affection set him on edge as Astarion waited for the moment Wyll would pull back. Astarion was fed; there was no further reason for him to continue to indulge the vampire.  But as he sat there the rejection never came, the other man's hand simply continuing the soft motion of combing through Astarion’s hair. 

Eventually, Astarion chanced a look up at the warlock’s face, wanting to see how he was faring. Wyll looked a little tired, maybe, but not pallor and his face showed no hint of the disgust Astarion feared. The other man’s chest was rising in slow heavy breaths and a warm flush sat high on his cheeks, a good sign that Astarion had not taken too much. As Astarion's gaze lingered, Wyll returned it with a warm smile and for just a brief moment his eye darted downward, settling briefly on the vampire’s blood-stained mouth.

Suddenly self-conscious, Astarion licked his lips and watched as Wyll tracked the motion. Only then did it dawn on him: the other man wasn’t uncomfortable at the sight of blood. 

Wyll wanted to kiss him.

It all made sense then—Wyll’s reactions, his rapid heartbeat, his endless flirtations. He wasn’t just entertaining the vampire out of some misplaced sense of heroism, he wanted to give himself to Astarion. Completely.

As Astarion tried to make sense of this new realization, something unfamiliar began to curl its way through him, somewhere deep in his gut that he didn’t know or understand. What he did know, though, was that Wyll, the perfect hero—the Blade of Frontiers —wanted him. 

The irony was not lost on him: only now that he no longer needed saving did a hero finally look his way. 

But even as the dark thought filled his mind, Astarion looked up to meet Wyll’s gaze, and what he was met with was enough to take his breath away. Wyll’s expression was filled with warm, open desire, a look Astarion recognized immediately. This Astarion could give him. This was something he knew well.

With a well-practiced motion, Astarion planted his hands on the other’s thighs and pushed himself upwards, surging to meet Wyll’s lips in a rush.

Wyll met him halfway, leaning down to pull Astarion into an all-consuming kiss. The hand in his hair slipped to the base of his neck holding him in place, and Astarion was all too happy to follow Wyll’s direction as the other coaxed him onward. He slipped one hand beneath Wyll’s shirt and spread his fingers eagerly over the other man’s taut frame, reveling in the warmth of the living, breathing body beneath his fingertips. Astarion felt goosebumps spring up on the devil’s heated skin as he traced his fingers over the ridges along Wyll’s ribs, the other man’s shirt bunching around his stomach as his hand moved steadily upwards.

Astarion urged forward, easing the hand he still had on Wyll’s thigh higher in an effort to push the kiss into something more, but his advances were halted as Wyll covered the wandering hand with one of his own. He squeezed the vampire’s fingers before they could slide any further, pinning their hands to his inner thigh. Frowning, Astarion pulled back and glanced down, his brow furrowed as he registered it was Wyll’s injured fingers that were closed around his wrist. He blinked, taken aback—had he misread Wyll’s intent?

Suddenly uncertain, he gave Wyll a confused look, but in place of a verbal response the warlock simply leaned in again. He brushed calloused fingers along Astarion’s jaw, tipped his head ever so slightly, and guided him into a slower, gentler kiss. 

It was utterly unlike anything Astarion was used to—instead of heavy and demanding, Wyll’s lips were soft and pliant against his own. He kissed him like he was something to be treasured, each touch of his hands and lips more tender than the last. And, for a moment, Astarion was at a loss for how to respond. He just stayed still and let Wyll kiss him, his head and heart spinning in a mix of confusion and relief.

Wyll’s tongue slid along the seam of the vampire’s lips, delicately parting them to glide into Astarion’s mouth. His tongue was like lava against Astarion’s own, hot and pulsing with life as it burned its way across his lips. The kiss turned syrupy as Wyll’s saliva mixed with the remnants of the sweet blood still in Astarion’s mouth. He expected the other man to pull back at the taste but all Wyll did was push closer still.

Astarion was lost, totally unmoored by the warm feeling of another body holding him so gently.

He knelt there as he waited for Wyll’s slow kisses to finally give way to the urgent desperation he was used to, but it never came. Wyll continued to kiss him leisurely, basking in the slow glide of their mouths together. Warm fingers moved along Astarion’s cheek, tracing back to the base of his neck and circling rhythmically through soft wispy curls as they danced across his cool skin.

But all too soon the other man pulled back.

Wyll’s eyelashes fluttered as he caught Astarion’s gaze. His hand slid out from playing with Astarion's hair, down to the middle of the vampire's breastbone, and gently pushed Astarion back from where he had leaned forward to chase the warmth of Wyll’s breath. 

Astarion searched Wyll’s face for direction as he sat there listening to the rapid fluttering of his heartbeat. The other man looked a mess, his lips puffy and the pupil of his red eye blown wide. Across his lips was smeared saliva mixed with black blood, glistening against the glow of the cave. Wyll’s shirt was pushed up from where Astarion’s hand still lay against his chest, following the movement of his every breath. 

They sat there silently taking each other in until Astarion could stand the deafening buzz of the stillness no longer. Again he tried to reclaim Wyll’s mouth, only for the man to allow no more than a chaste press of their lips. The warm bloody hand that had been gripping Astarion’s so tightly against the warlock’s thigh released its hold, moving upward to settle along the vampire’s shoulder. Moments later, Wyll’s other hand moved to mirror it, so that together both of his hands now sat firmly anchoring Astarion in place.

“Not here. Not tonight.” 

The rejection was baffling. Wyll obviously wanted him—that much was obvious—so why did he stop? Did the vampire do something wrong?

“Am I not pleasing you?”

“Astarion, you are as pleasing as the sun's warmth on a cool summer’s day.”

“Then why push me away, is this not what you want?” Astarion enticingly smoothed his palm back down Wyll’s torso, retracing the patterns he’d drawn moments prior over the devil’s overheated skin. The movement worked, eliciting a delectable shiver, as Wyll subtly arched into his touch.

“By the Hells, you truly are temptation incarnate.” Wyll smiled, laughing gently as he traced his thumbs in slow parallel lines along Astarion’s collarbone.

“Then why not give in?” Again Astarion tried to lean forward, chasing the other man’s lips but once more Wyll pulled back. Still, the man refused to let Astarion close the distance, his hands firmly set on the vampire’s shoulders.

“Why did you kiss me?”

The question crested over Astarion like a wave of ice-cold water. Instinctively he opened his mouth to answer, empty flattery and platitudes on the tip of his tongue, but as the seconds crept by he found himself saying nothing. Wyll wasn’t a game to him. He didn’t kiss him out of some manipulation or larger scheme. The man had already let Astarion drink his fill so the vampire had nothing to gain, no greater prize to win. The reality was that Astarion had simply done it because he wanted to. But why had he wanted to? 

“I don’t know.”

The startling honesty of his answer roared around him, pounding in his head to the rhythm of Wyll’s heartbeat. 

“Then that, my love, is why we must stop.”

“What?” It was embarrassing the way Astarion's voice cracked around the word. It would be so easy for Wyll to enjoy the night with him. He was obviously interested, why would he deny himself the opportunity?

“Because I do know, Astarion. I know why I asked you to dance that night, why I let you drink from me, why I kissed you.” He spoke so tenderly, his words infused with a reverence no one had ever offered before.

Astarion pulled his hands away and let them awkwardly drop to his side, the heat of the other’s living body had become too much to bear. To Wyll this was more than sex, more than the thrill of another wanton body beneath him. He wanted something Astarion had never known before. Sex was simple and Astarion had perfected the game of it, of making himself desirable, but to Wyll this was that game. What he was asking for felt all too painfully real.

“I don’t… Wyll… I don’t know.” Astarion was at a loss, fumbling for any words that could encompass what he felt.

“Then we will wait until you have an answer.” Wyll made it all sound so simple in his easy certainty.

“And if I don’t ever have one? If I simply find the next warm body?”

“I wish nothing of you other than your happiness. And if another would grant you that, I will not lie it would bring me great sorrow, but I would never fault you for your choice.” Wyll’s understanding stung like a knife as it cut into all of the soft tissue of Astarion’s insecurities.

“You can’t ask this of me.” Astarion’s words were underlaid by pure desperation. No one had ever trusted him enough to explore such a thing. He hadn’t ever trusted himself enough. The only times he had ever been intimate with anyone it was transactional. The mere thought of exposing himself and allowing that level of vulnerability terrified the vampire to his very core. What Wyll was asking for—regardless of how much Astarion would like to—was not something he knew how to do.

“And so I won’t ask, but know that if you wish it so, I would sooner face the coming days at your side.” As he spoke, Wyll let his hands slip from the vampire’s shoulders and even though Astarion was still wedged between the other man’s spread legs, there was now an unmistakable chasm between them. “Now, there are still a few more hours before the others will rouse. You should try and find at least a few moments of rest if you are to face the morrow.”

“Right.” Awkwardly Astarion pulled himself up, stepping back to retreat into the safety of the escape Wyll had given him. “Of course.”

For a long moment, Astarion just stood there unsure of if there was something he should say or if he had already been dismissed. He wanted to leave but he also wanted so desperately to stay, to experience the gravity of what Wyll was offering even if only for the time.

“Goodnight Astarion, and sweet dreams.” 

Wyll gave him one last smile before finally turning his attention back towards the entrance of the cave. His farewell followed Astarion as he made his way back across the camp, each word curdling in the vampire’s stomach. The confession had left him off balance and he stumbled into his tent, replaying the evening over and over in his mind like a broken illusionary spell. 

Astarion laid back down into his waiting nest of cold blankets. His hunger pains were sated, but in turn his head swam with new anxieties, leaving him even more restless than before. One thing was certain, though; he would be getting no sleep tonight after all.