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dnd_drow

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Well it was probably better not to touch Wyll's horns just yet. He put his hand on the back of Wyll's head instead and leaned back, hoping to take Wyll with him. It was a nice view, the Blade of Frontiers, in all his glory. Astarion smiled in a way that he hoped looked more pleasant than wicked and spread his legs like an invitation.
Wyll let out a shuddering breath and put a finger inside him.
He wasn’t completely unskilled, a little out of practice perhaps, but he at least knew what he was supposed to be looking for. And found it quickly enough. Astarion let his eyes flutter closed and moaned.
He’d half-thought that Wyll might get this far and lose himself in the moment. That if he really had insisted on a slow, chivalrous path before he might come undone. Throw himself on Astarion with the kind of roused ravenous hunger Astarion had when he’d hunted that first boar.
But he didn’t.
Wyll seemed intent on doing exactly what he’d promised; taking his time and savouring every moment. Or perhaps he just wanted to see if he could beat Astarion at his own game. Take him apart utterly.
It wasn’t a bad attempt. He was gentle and responsive and oh so torturously slow.
Astarion arched his back in a way he knew looked appealing. He bit his lip. He moaned and bucked on Wyll’s fingers. And none of it made Wyll proceed any faster. Either this ridiculous, handsome fool had the patience of a saint or he really did want to drive Astarion to ruin.
Then his fingers pressed in a way that made the pressure in Astarion’s gut completely unbearable and he was forced to consider that it could be both.
His fingers kept moving, gentle and persistent. He was pulling genuine moans from Astarion now.
It was making Astarion tense. He could feel it in his shoulders and he could have taken Wyll ages ago. Years. Centuries.
He ran hands, erratic and shaking over Wyll’s chest and sides. He scratched lightly at his back and pressed there, hoping to goad him onward, more, quicker, something- Something that didn’t make him feel quite so studied.
"Wyll, please-"
And the blasted hero chuckled, warm and rich and right in his ear.
Astarion let out a particularly, wanton moan and bucked up into Wyll’s fingers. Wyll kissed his forehead.
"Some things are all the sweeter when you take the time to savour them. Won’t you let us both savour this?"
He said it so reasonably. As if his breathing wasn’t fast and his hardness wasn’t pressed against Astarion’s thigh when he leaned in. It wasn’t something Astarion could object to. Not with the lure he’d chosen but then... even if he’d drawn Wyll in with something different how could he say no? He needed Wyll to enjoy this. To think of it for nights to come. To crave Astarion’s skin and lips.
To prize him enough to miss him if he were gone.
So Astarion lay back and let Wyll savour all he wished.
And normally he would probably have drifted off somewhere else. But something about Wyll’s gentle, insistent hands and the soft encouraging words he was murmuring kept Astarion pinned there like a stake through the shoulder.
He wasn’t sure exactly when he started to beg and buck in earnest. He wasn’t sure if Wyll could tell the difference. But Wyll held him close and kissed him, in a calm, cool way. Said soothing things that Astarion was not rightly listening to because he was too busy begging Wyll to fuck him.
In between the "I need you’s and "Wyll’s and pleas to absent, uncaring Gods, it struck Astarion that Wyll was, actually, going to drive him insane. Was he going to want this level of time, this scrutinising attention every time he took Astarion to bed? Was he going to spend hours picking Astarion apart each and every time? Gods the thought was brilliant and terrifying and he didn’t know what to do but beg Wyll for mercy-
All at once it stopped.
And he was panting, underneath Wyll Ravengard. The cushions at his back stopping the stones from digging in. His feet planted either side of Wyll’s strong, warm thighs.
The stars were still so bright.
Wyll’s hand was on the side of his face, soft despite the callouses from his sword. Like lambskin.
Astarion nodded, mouth open and mute. Wyll made a soft shushing sound and stroked his hair. And he felt suddenly, terribly present. Horribly there. As though whatever happened next he’d remember this moment for an eternity. As if he’d hold it, as clear and solid as it was now, even if he was sealed in a sarcophagus for a hundred years.
Wyll seemed concerned.
"We can stop if you wish. I- We need not go any further," he said as he pushed one of Astarion’s curls back behind his ear.
"You haven’t-"
"I’m satisfied."
He said it so firm and sure that Astarion could almost believe it. No, he did. That was the terrible thing. Everything Wyll said was agonisingly true. He would stop right now without the least resentment. He’d happily spend the rest of the night watching the stars and stroking Astarion’s hair.
A hero through and through.
It was Astarion who couldn’t bear it. Astarion who needed it all to fall into the same pattern it always did in order for it to ache that little bit less. What did he have to give except this after all? The bodies of a few scattered enemies that any of their miserable party could have scorched or shot or impaled themselves? Nothing, in the scheme of things.
And he’d need to pay for everything one way or another. For every moment shared in the sun, for every drop of blood. For every attempt to wretch the tadpole from their skulls and every body that might stand behind him when he had to face Cazador.
This was how he bought things. How it had been for so long he could scarcely remember what he’d done before.
Only why did it hurt so this time?
"Astarion?" Wyll said, gentle and concerned and so much better than he deserved.
And Astarion launched himself at him.
He kissed desperately, clumsily. He clawed at Wyll’s back, tugging him forward. Distantly he hoped that it seemed eager instead of demented or despairing.
Wyll’s arms were around him, warm and strong and grounding. His eyes were wide, his face caught in an expression somewhere between searching and afraid.
"Fuck me, please." It sounded breathless, wanton and half-mad.
Wyll kissed his neck, still unspeakably gentle, and eased him back down on to the cushions.
"Alright, shush, I’ve got you. Like this, right?"
Astarion hitched his legs up over Wyll’s hips and Wyll slid inside him, as easily as if he was meant to be there. He made love like he kissed. Slowly, gently, in a way that seemed calculated to drive Astarion out of his mind.
Their hands tangled together. They kissed. And the slow steady rhythm felt like something that was moving through them both. It was like being pulled under by the tide. Wyll’s warmth sunk into him all the way to his bones.
And Astarion found he wasn’t feigning anything at all. It felt like they’d become one creature. Like they were realms away from masters and pacts and anything else that could tether them. There was just the stars and the moonlight and their own building pleasure.
It was heartbreakingly foolish. Like a bandage ripped away it was going to hurt.
Astarion held him tight. Wyll kissed his neck and told him again that he was the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
And Astarion whispered things that were all the more foolish because, in the moment, he meant them.
He didn't want it to end. But everything does eventually.
Everything does.
Wyll's hand was between them, on him, around him. Pushing Astarion further and further towards the edge. When it finally peaked it rolled over Astarion like a wave. For a moment he stopped pretending to breathe and went completely still. Wyll was smiling down at him as if he'd done something astounding.
It made him wonder if he had the same loose, awed look he's seen on so many of his victims.
Wyll leaned in to kiss him and then started to pull back.
"No," Astarion heard himself say. He grabbed clumsily at Wyll's shoulder, Wyll's arm and tugged him back. "No, don't. Keep going. Please."
It didn't even sound coherent but Wyll stilled. Wyll nodded. Rocked into him and it was still horrifyingly gentle but sent shock waves through Astarion's trembling, overstimulated body all the same. He clung to Wyll. Thanked Wyll as if condescending to fuck him was greatest favour he could ever have received.
He did it until Wyll shuddered and came. Clung to him afterwards, even when Wyll slipped out of him, until he gave up and lay down on Astarion's chest.
They drifted together for a while. It felt the way Astarion imagined sleeping would feel, warm and tired and somehow good.
It- It had actually been quite good.
He didn't know what to make of that.
Wyll stirred and slumped onto his side. Off Astarion, but still pressed close beside him. He really did look lovely in the candle light. His hand was in Astarion's hair, idly tracing curls.
"Better?" Wyll asked.
Wyll smiled at him. An expression so utterly devoid of guile that Astarion had to look away.
"The stars really are brighter out here."
"Mmm," Wyll agreed. "I thought the same when I first left the Gate. There's so much you can lose sight of up there, in the city, all the hustle and bustle of life around you."
He didn't say anything more. They lay there in silence for a time and it felt... not unguarded but perhaps as close to it as it was wise to come. And, Astarion thought, he'd done it. Wyll would probably see them as bound together now, one way or another. So long as he didn't do anything too foolish-
Wyll sat up. "Here." It was a rag from his pack. He smiled and turned away as soon as it was in Astarion's hands.
It felt like faltering and he must have made a sound because Wyll felt the need to explain.
"I thought you'd want to clean up and, you said you didn't want me to look."
"Oh. I- I don’t mind if you look, but I don’t want to talk about it."
It felt like a risk, a compromise. He wasn’t sure why he said it. But, well- A few scars and whatever doggerel Cazador has put to his flesh weren’t going to undermine what he’d built up. It would hardly make him look less in need of saving.
He didn’t look at Wyll as he watched. Tried to pretend that it didn’t matter awfully what Wyll felt about his scars. That Wyll’s silence, his frown, didn’t make Astarion start worrying all over again.
They dressed, snuffed the candles and cut them off the rocks. Wyll put everything back in the pack. Despite Astarion trying to argue that no one would want those cushions if they came out stained.
Wyll took his hand and helped him over the scree just as he had before. Astarion, who couldn’t think of a single damned thing to say, tried not to feel stupid.
"We should get some proper wine when we get up to Baldur’s Gate, to celebrate."
Astarion smiled. "Assuming we don’t all have tentacles by then."
"Well, yes. Assuming that."
He paused on the lake shore path. The fire light from the party was so bright through the trees ahead that surely even a human could see it. But he turned to face Astarion, leaned in one last time and kissed his cheek.
It was nothing like the way Tav did it; rough and perfunctory and almost aggressively platonic. Tav did it to everyone. Tav would have lobbed kisses at a goblin’s cheeks if they’d found some on anything like friendly terms. But Wyll... Wyll did it the way he apparently did everything; piercingly sincere and horrifically intimate.
"Next time, remember you don’t need to try so hard to impress me," Wyll murmured, before he stepped back.
Astarion swallowed. "I’ll, I’ll bear that in mind."
Wyll smiled like a sunbeam and headed off around the edge of the party. Probably back to his tent.
And Astarion stayed, blinking at the dark for long moments afterwards, fingers rubbing the spot on his cheek where Wyll’s lips had been.
For the past seven years, through great personal effort, Wyll had not been angry at his father.
As difficult as it was, the reason was simple: Mizora was a devil. Devils had thousands of years to perfect their games, and they only showed up to a winning hand. What hope did some seventeen year old boy have against that? Or even a mere middle-aged man? You never won games with devils. Mizora had known the moment Wyll had signed the pact what his father would do better than he ever could.
Wyll repeated this to himself like a mantra, as a personal compass, whenever resentment brewed. It was Mizora. Of course it wasn’t going to go well. Things never went well with Mizora. It would be the height of hubris to presume he could outplay her.
And yet, despite not regretting the pact, despite knowing the need of it, it chafed what had happened, because the Wyll of before had presumed he would be helped. That it didn’t matter if his tongue was sealed. He had body language. He had the scars Mizora had given him right after battle. Yes he smelled like sex, but he flinched when she was near, and his face held only desperation.
That should have been enough. Surely, his father, his good and noble father who had been a guiding light in Baldur’s Gate, would look at his son and know something was at least wrong. Perhaps his father could help him somehow. Wyll hadn’t been sure if there was a way out of the pact, but his father was influential and knew clerics and mages. If there was a way, maybe he would know, or maybe a way to lessen the severity of it.
At the very least, Wyll would have help shouldering the pact. Maybe his father could help with supplies, or give him pointers. Life wouldn’t be so hard, occasionally having to hunt down a demon for Mizora, if he got to go home after. He wouldn’t have to do it alone.
His father, instead, banished him, and left him with no one but Mizora for company.
It had been a hard lesson, one that would repeat in the earlier years. Occasionally Wyll would try to find someone else to help him. Sometimes clerics, sometimes heroes of renown. Wyll learned to stop trying. After all, it was Mizora, a devil, with a thousand years of experience. She could twist a conversation so easily with her presence, and his tongue was always sealed on the pact itself.
People saw a devil, and they saw a man who made a deal with a devil, and they closed their doors. At best, they would say they couldn’t help, or couldn’t risk offending the hells.
Judgment was often. Only the most foolish and power-hungry of men made deals with devils after all. It must have been his fault, they would say.
It would sting, but his father had prepared him for that at least, that people simply wouldn’t help. After all if not even his own father could realize what was going on, if the guiding light of Baldur’s Gate had been blind, what hope did anyone else have?
Wyll made his peace with it. He didn’t have any other choice.
But then some vampire spawn he’d known for all of three tenday had seen enough strange behavior to delve into his mind. Granted, it had been through a mindflayer tadpole, and it had left Wyll feeling exposed in the worst way, shamed and repulsed, but Astarion apologized. He’d noticed abnormalities, and just in case Wyll wasn’t okay, he wanted to check.
Astarion saw him where his father hadn’t even tried.
The ability to delve into minds wasn’t exclusive to mindflayers. It was, in fact, rather easy to do with magic. Most wizards past the most basic understanding of magic could learn it. One of the mage advisors to his father had made frequent use of it to try to ferret out assassins and treachery.
Wyll clearly had been trying to say things with nothing coming out. He had been flinching and still bleeding from his face when his father returned, and his father didn’t even bother to have someone check his thoughts.