Chapter Text
Wyll is starting to have second thoughts.
His friends had convinced him to come along with them to their local BDSM lounge. He agreed surprisingly easily, their pleas worming their way into his heart with little effort. Sometimes, he really did hate being a people pleaser, but he enjoyed the thrum of satisfaction that rang through his bones whenever he made one of them smile or clap their hands excitedly. Admittedly, he was much more partial to going outside of his comfort zone for his friends rather than anyone else, rather, a specific someone else. A sour taste tingles on his tongue even just thinking of her name.
It’s a place that Shadowheart and Karlach frequent, and Wyll trusts their judgement. The place is fairly exclusive, requiring a background check and a purchase of one of several membership degrees before they’ll open their doors. Wyll opted for the second lowest membership tier; a pass that’s valid for five entries. The punch card he was provided is tucked in his back pocket, one out of the five spots to indicate visits void of cardstock, donning a cutout in the shape of a star. He’s also been provided a bracelet, made from soft, smooth paper with a peel-away tab to clasp it on the wrist. It’s a bright red colour, symbolising his position as a dom. He’s the only one out of the three of them wearing a band, as Shadowheart and Karlach declined them at the door. Wyll’s been told that they are completely optional to wear, that they are just there to make expectations easier within the club. Some people don’t wear one for many reasons, either they are only here for a drink and a show, or in Shadowheart and Karlach’s case, they aren’t looking to expand their relationship to others.
Wyll is wearing a band to show both his preference and that he’s open to meeting others, hoping that he might be approached by a submissive who wants more than just a quick fuck. He’s having no such luck. He’s only been approached once, by a man who he’s had to turn away apologetically, his sexual interests clashing with his own. He’s too soft, he tells him when Wyll says that he isn’t into anything extreme, that he doesn’t want to cause permanent damage to his sub’s body. There are no hard feelings, really, it’s not wise to scene with someone who has different wants and needs than your own, but it still stings a bit.
His mind spins. Maybe no one is coming up to him because of the scars across his face, or they can tell that one of his eyes is a prosthetic. Maybe it’s because he’s dressed like he’s going out to a pizza joint with friends rather than looking for company in a kink club. Wyll looks down at himself and frowns. He thought he’d looked rather charming, but after seeing everyone else, he truly does look out of place. He’s dressed in a snug fitting pair of black jeans and a red, plaid patterned short sleeved shirt that has been all the way unbuttoned to show off the equally snug black tank top underneath. When he compares his outfit to others, there is a stark difference.
Everyone else seems to have very little clothing on, including Karlach and Shadowheart. Karlach has on a tiny pair of light wash denim shorts and a fairly standard black sports bra with the brand’s name printed on the elastic that wraps around under her bust. She accessorized it perfectly with leather cuffs around both wrists, a key pendant that sits on a long chain around her neck, heavy black boots, and a harness meant to hold a strap-on around her hips, dildo not included.
Shadowheart is in a similar state of undress, however, her look is much more on the dainty side of things. She has on a matching set consisting of a longline bra and a cheeky pair of panties that sit low on her hips, allowing her navel and the small mound of fat that sits above her pelvis to show. On top of that, she’s wearing a full body harness composed of several straps and heart shaped O rings that has Wyll wondering how in the Hell she managed to put it on. The straps go over each of her shoulders and cross underneath her breasts. They continue down her sides and connect to heart shaped rings that accommodate for the movement of her body, going as far as her mid thighs, the flesh there protruding slightly around the strip that’s wrapped tight around her legs, and when she turns, there’s an adorable pair of little wings that sprout from the straps crossing her back. Unattached to the harness, she wears a collar around her throat, thin with a bow in the middle, tight enough that it shifts when she swallows. Every piece of her outfit is made of the same shade of baby pink faux leather, save for the delicate chain that sits above her sternum, clasped closed with a small lock that can only be opened by the key Karlach has around her own neck.
Wyll didn’t originally understand why, upon their arrival, he had followed them to a room of lockers just before entering the lounge. But when Karlach and Shadowheart had shed their coats and joggers and stuffed them inside, it made sense. The air outside is cool with the beginnings of autumn, and Wyll can’t imagine walking from the parking lot into the building half naked.
Thankfully, due to the amount of nudity, the inside of the club is comfortably warm from both the air circulating through the vents and the warmth of so many bodies. Wyll doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s very similar to what he imagines a normal high class lounge to look like. There are no flashing lights or disco balls, but there is ambient music playing and a bar for beverages and ordering food. The walls are lined with black leather couches, a good portion of them occupied by people in various states of undress. He watches, maybe a bit too intensely, as a woman sitting on one of the couches feeds another woman who is kneeling prettily at her feet. The sub’s lips curl around her dom’s fingers as she takes the strawberry from her hand, and it’s so intimate that Wyll has to look away.
To be so comfortable with your partner that it feels like it’s just the two of you in a crowded room… that’s the dream, isn’t it? At least, it’s something Wyll has thought about often.
When he was younger, he was so drawn to the idea of saving oneself for their special someone, thinking that sex was a thing between lifetime lovers. He would fantasize about his wedding night, about him and his soulmate exploring one another's bodies, seeking pleasure in their new spouse. These thoughts were forced to change, devastatingly before he had even reached adulthood, when he had met his mentor. She was a wolf in sheep's clothing. A devil dressed as a dame. The taste of iron and smoke on his tongue.
Wyll has had to alter this idea over the years. He’s slept with a select few people since that fateful day, when Mizora’s touches and comments became more than just suggestive. Most of them were no more than a one night stand, some of them he mildly dominated, all of them he had hoped for something more than just sex. Now, void of a contract, Wyll vows to himself that the next person he sleeps with will be more than a horny impulse. He wants to woo someone, to fall in love, and find his soulmate. No more sex until he finds the one.
Faint moaning can be heard over the music softly playing from hidden speakers, and Wyll’s been told that upstairs is where sex is permitted. To his understanding, it’s a similar layout, with lots of leather couches and a few areas that can be closed off for a bit of privacy. He’s relieved when Karlach and Shadowheart tell him that they’ll be sticking to the first floor.
“You alright?” Karlach asks him, her arm tight around Shadowheart’s waist. At Wyll’s answering nod, she raises an eyebrow and turns her attention towards her girlfriend. “Why don’t you go get yourself a drink, babydoll.” she says, gently nudging Shadowheart towards the bar. Karlach slaps her ass before she gets too far, and Shadowheart turns to scowl at her, but it’s all in good fun. “Talk to me.” she demands of him once it’s just them two.
Wyll sighs. “It’s just a lot,” he tells her. “I feel out of place.”
“Feels that way the first few times, mate.” Karlach chuckles.
“I guess I’m just not used to being around so many people-”
“Fucking?”
“I was going to say being intimate, but sure, that works, too.” he laughs.
Karlach smiles at him, putting an arm around his shoulders so she can pull him close. “Listen,” she starts. “I know you’re probably expecting me to say this, but don’t think about it. I can assure you that everyone here, unless they’re looking for a quick shag, aren’t paying attention to you.” she pats his shoulder with the hand not on his back. “From experience, when it’s just me and the princess here, getting frisky, it’s like we’re in our own little world.”
Wyll exhales, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment. “I wish I had that.” he admits, not the first time he’s said it to her. “That mutual level of understanding and trust with someone else.”
“It doesn’t happen right away. Took me ages to find Shadowheart- oh, speak of the angel.” Karlach grins, all teeth, when Shadowheart returns with her fingers wrapped around a glass of rosé wine.
Shadowheart smiles at her in return and juts her chin in the direction of an empty couch. “Shall we?” she asks, and they let her lead them to continue their conversation sitting down.
Karlach sits on one end of the couch, legs spread wide so Shadowheart can sit comfortably on her lap, and Wyll sits on the other end. Karlach presses a kiss to Shadowheart’s collarbone, one arm on the back of the couch behind her as the other rests on her girlfriend’s knee. Wyll has attempted to ease his thoughts by allowing himself to get as comfortable as he can as well, leaning back with one foot on the ground as the other hangs just off the edge of the couch, his bent leg against the cushion.
“As I was saying,” Karlach starts. “It doesn’t happen overnight. You’ll find someone. You’re right fit, you know that?”
Wyll sputters out a surprised laugh. “Sure,”
“I mean it!” Karlach lifts her leg to kick at Wyll’s. “You’re a damn good man, Ravengard. Bless the lucky soul you end up with.”
“Thank you, Karlach.” Wyll says, giving her a happy little pout. He pauses for a second before speaking again. “I’m so new at all of this, what if I do it wrong?”
“You can’t do it wrong, Wyll.” Shadowheart chimes in. “As long as it’s safe, sane, and consensual, you’re fine. You make your own rules.”
Karlach nods in agreement. “You see me just about every day; I’m always here to ask if you think something’s off.”
Wyll shakes his head fondly. They do spend an awful lot of time together. “I know,” he says. “I just don’t want to end up like her-”
The words are barely out of his mouth before Karlach interrupts him. “You are nothing like her, you hear me?” she points menacingly at him. “Not wanting to be like her is proof enough that you won’t be. Understood?”
“Understood.” he gives her a joking salute, and Karlach’s expression softens. “Now tell me something embarrassing so I can forget how misplaced I feel.”
Karlach laughs and begins telling a story from her early kink days before Shadowheart, and Wyll calms down slightly, getting more comfortable in his seat. He scans around the building, from one side to the other, taking in the place as he listens, turning back to Karlach every so often to show that he’s paying attention. He glances at the other people around, at couples engaging in various acts of affection, friends talking in groups, the bartender taking an order of drinks. Wyll’s eye lands on a duo that are seated closest to the bar, and he’s transfixed for a moment.
They are talking to each other. The woman is scowling, the skin between her brows wrinkled as she frowns, but the man looks just a tad happier. Only a tad, though, as he’s also glowering, moving his head and hands expressively as he speaks. They are an odd couple, their features sharp and distinctive, donning white hair and black clothes. He is dressed far more than she is, in black leather pants and a collared mesh shirt with some sort of symbol all over it - polka dots perhaps? Wyll can’t tell from where he’s sitting.
The woman is also wearing black leather pants, but she has paired it with a matching halter top that laces at the front, tied tight enough that it pushes up her breasts to sit high on her chest. Wyll watches as she moves to stand in front of the man, and when she puts her hand on her hip, Wyll notices that she’s carrying a riding crop.
The two of them speak for just a moment more before the man must say something that she disapproves of as she goes to leave, because she stops to walk backwards and smacks him on the shoulder with the crop. He gasps and his lips form an obvious whine of ouch. He says something Wyll can’t read before she walks off again, and then his brain short circuits as the man’s eyes meet his own.
Wyll turns back to Karlach at record speed, and she kicks his foot lightly. “You even listening anymore, soldier?”
“Of course!” Wyll says, and normally he is an exceptional liar, but Karlach sees right through him.
She moves to look at the direction Wyll was just staring at, and a wicked smile spreads across her face when she sees the pale man. “You like ‘em pasty and mysterious, huh?” she asks, revelling in the amused head shake Wyll gives her. “What are you waiting for?”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, please, even in this lighting you can see the yellow band around his wrist.” Shadowheart says when she sits back against Karlach again after looking the man’s way as well. When Wyll’s eye darts back to the other man, he’s still facing their direction.
“And he’s alone.” Karlach adds.
“Stop it!” Wyll hisses. “He’s still looking over here, and you just stared at him.” he scolds in disbelief.
“You know what,” Karlach says, too cheery to be anything good. “I think you’re overdue for a drink.”
“Karlach-”
Shadowheart tuts at him. “You look parched.” Oh great, now both of them are teaming up on him. Give it up to friendly peer pressure.
“Fine.” he says, no nonsense. “But you’re buying it.”
“Put it on my tab.” Karlach says, handing Wyll her membership card on his way by. “Good luck, tiger.” she purrs, and Wyll teasingly pushes at her arm.
His eyes stay locked in front of him, however tempted he is to check and see if the man is still looking at him. Fortunately, Wyll makes it to the bar without his eye straying, and he politely orders a spiced rum on rocks, handing Karlach’s card to the bartender so she can add it to her tab.
“Hand.” she says unceremoniously, when she sets his drink on the tall counter. Wyll sticks his out to her as if to shake hands, and the bartender scoffs. She grabs his hand in her own and turns it over to write a large X on the back of it in permanent marker. “So everyone knows you’ve been drinking.” she supplies when Wyll looks at her curiously. “Upper floor is strictly sober.”
“Ah,” Wyll says, reaching for his drink. “Understandable. Thank you.” he lifts his drink in a small motion of cheers.
He almost steps on a foot when he goes to turn away.
“My usual, darling.” Wyll hears from beside him, smooth and rich like espresso. When he moves to look, he’s face to face with the mysterious man.
Wyll takes a step back, putting a couple of feet of space between them.
The bartender gives the man a look. “One drink a night, Astarion. You have already had yours.”
The man - Astarion - pouts with a little humph sound. “Please, Lae’zel, we’re friends, aren’t we?” he says, radiating confidence. “I’m here for two more hours until Mint is done, the least you can do is give me a pity drink.'' He's giving her his best puppy dog eyes, and Wyll has a moment to really look at the man when his attention is no longer on him.
Pointed features, stark white curls, the way his pink irises wiggle back and forth. This close, he spots the silver jewellery the other man is wearing. He has a round septum hoop hanging from the space between his nostrils and a pair of angel fangs, fitted with curved barbells with a ball on top and small cones that peek out from betwixt his lips, giving him the illusion of sharp canines. Wyll is also now able to tell that the pattern on Astarion’s mesh shirt is tiny coffins, made from the same velvet material as the shirt’s collar and cuffs are.
Astarion takes his drink from the bartender, who has obliged to his pleas, and it’s then when Wyll notices the unique folds and points of the other man’s ears. “Are those natural?” he asks before he can stop himself, and Astarion turns to face him, questioning. “Apologies, that was insensitive of me.”
“Are you talking about the albinism or the stahl's ears?”
“The ears.” Wyll clarifies, taking a sip of his drink, not oblivious to the way Astarion’s gaze is trained on him. “Some people modify their ears to points, that’s why I was wondering.” he thinks of Shadowheart’s ears, surgically altered to resemble an elves.
“Hm, lucky me, then.” Astarion hums. “I didn’t have to pay a dime.” he smiles, and takes a sip of his own drink, a fizzy, reddish orange liquid with cherries floating along the crushed ice. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”
Wyll nods, moving away from the bar so other customers can order. “Tonight is my first time.”
“How cute.” Astarion smiles, and it’s impossibly suave. “Do you have a name? Or should I just call you sir? Daddy? Master?” he purrs.
“Wyll.” he says, swallowing hard. “Just Wyll is fine.”
“Just Wyll.” Astarion echoes. His name sounds beautiful on his tongue. Wyll watches as the man presses a limp hand to his own chest. “Astarion,” he introduces himself.
“Well met.”
“Why don’t we get comfortable, hm?” Astarion walks to the couch he was sitting on and settles back in, legs crossed at the knee. Wyll joins him without question, sitting less relaxed than he had been with Karlach and Shadowheart. “So, just Wyll,” Astarion says, voice like warm honey. “What are you looking for here?” he asks, and his eyes dart to the red band clasped around Wyll’s wrist.
Wyll replies. “My friends,” he gestures vaguely to where Karlach and Shadowheart are sitting. “Dragged me here. I suppose they’ve gotten tired of my lonely prattling.” he chuckles, and Astarion returns it with his own flirtatious hum. “In truth, I don’t entirely know what I want just yet, other than companionship.”
Astarion’s eyes flicker to Wyll’s mouth. “And how have you been faring?”
“Not the best. I spoke to one man, but I’m afraid we differed too greatly to be compatible.”
“How disappointing.” Astarion pouts, and it’s even more endearing at this distance. “Lucky for you, I’m very flexible.” he says, sultry. He smells of ginger and orange and maraschino cherries. Wyll can feel heat pool in his stomach at the way Astarion is looking at him, like a cat would a mouse. “I’m experienced, too. There’s nothing I can’t be convinced to do.”
He obviously means to sound enticing, but the words make Wyll frown. The relationship between a dominant and a submissive should be equal, with an agreement of kinks and rules. Hard limits and safewords. Mutual respect. No one should be pressured to engage in something they aren’t interested in.
Wyll bites his tongue. Best to not get into things like this with a man he’s just met.
“That woman you were with before. Are you two…?” Wyll lets his words trail off, unsure of how to end his inquiry.
“Together? Oh, God no. I wouldn’t go near her cunt with a twelve foot pole - she probably has teeth or spiders holed up in there.” Astarion laughs, and it’s a genuine sound, startled out of him. It’s so much different than the ditsy little giggles Wyll heard from him before. “She’s a friend, and more importantly, my ride home. Minthara does dominatrix shows in that back room, over there.” he gestures to a room off to the side with a handful of staff members outside of the door.
“Ah,” Wyll says. “Am I safe to assume that you’re available, then?”
Astarion’s face shifts back to the sensual expression he’d been wearing earlier, looking at Wyll through white lashes. “In every sense of the word, darling.” he takes a long drink of the blood orange beverage in his hand, gaze never leaving Wyll’s.
Wyll’s own gaze dips downwards to watch the apple of Astarion’s throat as he swallows, and then at his tongue as it licks at each cone of his fangs. “Before we get too far, Astarion, I want to tell you that I’m not looking for someone to just warm my bed.” he says carefully.
Astarion’s lips pucker sadly. “Aw, you’re no fun.” he whines. “Not even a kiss?” he asks sweetly, leaning closer to Wyll. They are so close that he can see the few pale beauty marks that fleck across Astarion’s cheeks. Wyll finds himself wondering if there’s more dotting the skin underneath his clothes.
He should say no, but fuck, it has been an awful long time since he’s been kissed.
“Hmm,” Wyll bites at his bottom lip. “Maybe just the one.” he says, and Astarion shifts to support himself on one knee, closing the distance between them.
Astarion’s lips are as soft as they look, and eager, and the points of his angel fangs are easier to ignore than Wyll thought they would be. The pale man is pressing their mouths together a bit harder than what would be standard, and he pulls back for just a moment before they join again, lips parted. Astarion captures Wyll’s bottom lip between his own and sucks it into his mouth with a smile. They kiss one more time, tongues rubbing together wetly before Astarion pulls back with a moan.
“Oh my God, your tongue is split.” he gasps against Wyll’s mouth.
“Sorry for not warning you,” Wyll grins. “I thought you would have seen it when I was speaking.”
“I’m legally blind, Wyll. Comes with the whole albino thing.” Astarion laughs.
Next thing Wyll knows, Astarion is standing, taking a large gulp of his drink before setting it down on the coffee table and stradling Wyll’s thighs. His body is warm and a comfortable weight against Wyll, and he can’t stop the hand that bolts out to grip onto Astarion’s hip.
Astarion takes Wyll’s drink from his other hand, back bending beautifully as he reaches to sit it with his own glass, and then returns to take Wyll’s wrist in his fingers. He brings Wyll’s hand to match his other, Astarion’s hips under both palms, as his own arms loop around Wyll’s shoulders. Without a word, he presses his lips to Wyll’s again, immediately pressing his tongue against his closed mouth. Astarion pushes his tongue inside again, and Wyll’s groin pulses when he kisses a maraschino cherry into his mouth. Wyll pulls them apart, crushes the cherry with his teeth, Astarion’s breath hitting his wet lips.
Astarion smirks, rosy eared, and rolls his pelvis down to grind on Wyll’s. There’s a solidness he can feel through Astarion’s pants, but it’s not an erection.
Wyll nearly chokes.
Jesus fucking Christ, is he wearing a cock cage?
Judging by the smirk Astarion wears, he most definitely felt Wyll’s cock twitch.
“You don’t have to fuck me,” Astarion purrs. “But will you let me suck you off?”
Wyll swallows. “We can’t go upstairs, we’ve been drinking. And sex isn’t permitted on this floor.”
“You’re adorable.” Astarion says, getting up from Wyll’s lap. “I know a place.”
Wyll, against his better judgement, follows Astarion to a door that reads ‘Staff Only’ and into some sort of dressing room. He only has a moment to take in his surroundings (a clothing rack adorning lingerie and harnesses, cosmetics spewed about, a chest of drawers labelled with things such as ‘floggers’ and ‘paddles’) before Astarion guides him to sit on a stool at one of the vanities. Wyll rests his back against the table, transfixed by the urgency of which Astarion drops to his knees, his fingers spread wide across Wyll’s upper thighs. Astarion doesn’t make a move to unbutton his jeans or touch his cock, just runs his hands over his thigh’s and the V of his pelvis.
“Please?” Astarion speaks, looking up into Wyll’s eyes, pupils dilated.
Wyll exhales shakily. He’s smart enough to know that engaging in kink when he’s been drinking is a bad idea, but it’s hard to think rationally with a beautiful man between his legs, begging for his cock.
He nods, telling Astarion to “Go ahead.” and it takes the man no time at all to unbutton his jeans and pull down the zipper, separating the folds of Wyll’s fly to expose the dark grey boxer briefs underneath. Wyll doesn’t have a second to feel self conscious about how sweaty he must be or the small patch of wetness on the front of his underwear because Astarion is already leaning down to press his face against Wyll’s bulge, deeply inhaling the scent of him.
It stirs something inside of Wyll, watching this gorgeous man on his knees, getting high off of the mere idea of his dick, begging for it without words. He feels like he’s going fucking insane.
Astarion mouths at his erection through the material, gaze only leaving Wyll’s in order to push the elastic of his waistband underneath his balls. One cool hand comes to close around the base of Wyll’s cock, holding it still while Astarion runs his tongue along the bottom of his shaft. He does it again, several times, and then presses a wet kiss to the head before he takes the tip into his mouth. Astarion’s eyes are boring into his and Wyll doesn’t know what to do with his hands, is afraid of touching Astarion because they haven’t discussed their likes or dislikes or limits. He settles on running one hand through his twists and the other joins Astarion’s free hand on his thigh, intertwining their fingers.
His head rolls back when Astarion takes more of him into his mouth. He’s wet and warm and his lips are rosen where they stretch around the girth of his cock. Every time he takes Wyll deeper, Astarion moans, and Wyll can feel the vibration in his bones. It’s just begun and he already feels close.
When he looks down next, Astarion has his eyes closed, bobbing his head up and down the length of it. His mouth is making wet little noises, and Wyll can feel the clench of Astarion’s throat when he swallows him deep. He’s already incredibly close, and he tells Astarion so.
Astarion alternates between bobbing his head and sucking in his cheeks with Wyll’s cock as far down as he can take it, his mouth a mess of precum and spit. When Astarion has just the head in his mouth, sucking furiously as he moans, Wyll thinks he might be done for.
“I’m going to come.” he groans, and Astarion’s gaze flickers up again to meet his own. Underneath his wide eyes and the flutter of wispy lashes, there’s a look that Wyll can’t place. He doesn’t have a moment to concentrate on it, because Astarion sets the head of Wyll’s cock on his outstretched tongue, pumping Wyll’s shaft with his spit slick hand that was previously wrapped around the base of his cock. Astarion makes a pitiful whining noise, desperate for cum, and Wyll finishes with a loud groan. He watches the other man gather his spend on his tongue, close his mouth to swallow it down, and open again to lick up the string of saliva and semen that stretches between his lips and Wyll.
Wyll pants, squeezing Astarion’s fingers that are laced with his own, and bringing his free hand down to cup the man’s cheek. Astarion smiles contently at him before he rises to a wobbly stand, separating himself from Wyll and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He nonchalantly pulls his cellphone from his pocket and sighs at the time. “Scene change in fifteen.” Astarion says, tilting his head at Wyll. “Sorry to cut the evening short.”
“Oh, that’s fine. No worries at all.” Wyll says, not like he’d just orgasmed his brains out or anything. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to reciprocate.”
Astarion shrugs. “Tuck yourself back in before you leave.” he says, and with a brush of his hands against his knees to rid himself of any dust from the floor, Astarion walks out the door. Wyll is left sitting on a tiny vanity stool, his softening cock wet against the fly of his jeans, confused.
He slowly arranges himself back into his underwear, letting his focus drift to the room around him for a second time. There's a door to the far side, and if he listens closely, Wyll can hear the crack of a whip in that direction. That must be where demonstrations take place, and then the room he's in must be where the performers get ready. He turns to look at the vanity his back was pressed against, not having the time to do so before Astarion had ushered him to take a seat. There's bottles of pale foundation sitting on the flat surface, along with other miscellaneous makeup. A smokey tone eyeshadow palette and several tubes of mascara. Wyll looks upward and meets his own eyes in the vanity mirror, and notices the thin string of twine that's tied on parallel light bulbs that illuminate the parameter of the mirror. Hanging onto the twine by tiny clothespins are an assortment of photos, and where the owner of them has run out of room on the twine, there's more photos tucked into the gaps between the mirror and its frame.
Wyll leans closer to get a good look at them. There are faces that he does and does not recognize. Lae’zel, the bartender. The large, bald man who had verified their identities at the door to the lounge. A bearded man with silver streaks in his brown hair, smiling goofily at the photographer. Halsin, the man who owns the business beside his and Karlach’s studio, interestingly enough.
Astarion and the woman he'd been speaking to - Minthara, his mind supplies - are in nearly every photo. There's photos of the two of them laughing together, a couple of Polaroid selfies where Wyll can see that Minthara sports the same reddish purple eyes as Astarion does, and a few rather spicy pictures where the two of them are posed sensually. Astarion kneeling before a standing Minthara as she rests the sole of her foot on his shoulder, an action shot of her tying intricate knots into the red rope that drapes across Astarion's pale chest, one rather heated photo of him bent over a leather ottoman with his hands tied behind his back, skin raised and red as Minthara stalks behind him with a cane.
There are two things that Wyll finds himself looking at longer than the others, starkly different.
There's a line of four small pictures that are tucked affectionately into the bottom corner of the mirror, unmissable if someone was to sit and get ready at the vanity. It's a bit faded and wrinkled with age, but it's unmistakably Astarion and Minthara again, albeit much younger.
It's a series of photos taken in a photobooth. In the first photo, Minthara is smiling wide, braces with purple bands on her teeth, and her hair is styled in a messy bob. Astarion, in the opposite direction, sports longer waves that curl adorably around his ears, the fringe of his bangs in critical need of a trim. He's also cheesing for the camera, and Wyll guesses they cannot be older than twelve. In the photo under it, they are sticking their tongues out in a usual ‘silly face’ fashion, then Astarion is pressing a kiss to Minthara's cheek. They've swapped poses in the final image, Astarion smiling softly as her lips are flush to his temple.
His attention is then drawn to what looks to be a clipping from a much larger photo. The two of them are dressed in formal wear, beautifully elegant. Minthara is in a sparkling black evening gown that compliments her slender features. Astarion stands next to her, dressed in a black suit and tie, his dress shirt a deep red colour. He’s holding a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, and despite the upturn of their lips, their smiles don't meet their eyes.
Beside Astarion stands another man, but there isn't much to decipher him with. He’s also in a black suit, his hand gripping so tightly onto Astarion’s shoulder that the fabric crinkles, but there's nothing more to be seen of him from his chest upwards, the photo crudely ripped to remove the upper part of his chest and the entirety of his head.
There's shuffling outside of the door and Wyll realizes that he’s cutting his fifteen minutes close. He leaves the way he came in, and once he’s back to the main area of the lounge, Astarion is nowhere to be found. Thankfully, Karlach and Shadowheart haven’t moved from the couch the three of them had been occupying. They’re in a different position now, with Karlach sitting wide spread and Shadowheart seated on the floor between her legs. Karlach is running her fingers through her girlfriend's hair, Shadowheart resting her head comfortably on Karlach’s thigh, when Wyll joins them.
“Wyll!” Karlach exclaims happily, but her smile drops when she notices the man’s expression. “No good?”
“I thought it was going okay,” Wyll admits, sitting down as gently as he can so he doesn’t jostle Shadowheart, who looks to be settling into the beginnings of subspace. “But then he just kind of ran out on me?”
“I’m sorry, soldier.” Karlach says, all honesty. “Give me a few minutes to bring her out of it and then we’ll head out, okay?”
Wyll sits patiently as Karlach coaxes Shadowheart to full consciousness, and he doesn’t speak much on the ride home. When they arrive at his flat, he politely thanks Karlach for the ride and reminds her to message him when she and Shadowheart get home. He brushes his teeth, changes into a pair of pajama pants, and waits for Karlach’s text to come through before he settles into bed, aching in self pity from breaking the promise he’d made to himself. A few moments of bliss that, once again, amounted to him feeling lonelier than before.
Sleep doesn’t come easy that night.