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Astarion lay on his stomach, his skin pressed against the soft linen of the Elfsong bedsheets. It was simultaneously a new and ages-old sensation, the feeling of freshly-laundered sheets sliding against his abdomen. In the Szarr mansion, his own bedsheets were ragged, yellowed, threadbare things that only gave the semblance of comfort, but he’d entertained on plush, silk-clad mattresses countless times. More times than he cared to remember.
He was used to slipping in and out of his body during times like this, when he had a man before him with his legs spread and his cock hard and twitching before his face. He was used to opening his mouth, purring sweet words as he pumped the man in front of him, wrapping his lips around the organ and minding his fangs, softening his throat, disengaging his gag reflex, losing himself in the wet sounds and the bobbing motion of his head.
But this time was different.
For example, the sheets beneath him were linen, not silk! He wasn’t in the manor, nor was he in some back alley, hoping and praying that the man he was about to take into his mouth would be charmed enough to follow him back home even after Asatrion had sucked his cock. He was in the safety of the Elfsong, in a rare moment of privacy, sharing a room with someone he cared about.
How novel! How twee. How… strange.
Astarion reached out and splayed his fingers against the warm flesh of Wyll’s thigh. He smiled as he felt the human’s muscles twitch beneath his touch, a soft gasp from the cold ghosting across his skin. Wyll was so sensitive — it was with a snort through his nose that Astarion remembered the human was as chaste and pure as the virgin snow. Even the lightest, feathering touch was new to him.
And the cock twitching in front of his face — this wasn’t some stranger’s half-pound of flesh, not some chore to be done, not some repulsive, insistent thing he wanted to turn his nose up at. This was Wyll, excited and nervous and jumping in the air in time to his heartbeat.
And oh, how his heart was pounding.
Astarion pulled himself forward, the linen bunching beneath him as he moved. Wyll sat on the bed, his back pressed against the wall of his bunk, his chest rising and falling with each anticipatory breath. His legs were splayed across the mattress, equal parts trepidatious and inviting. Astarion lay on the bed beside him, reaching over one leg to stroke at his inner thigh, his chest propped up so he could lounge and stare at Wyll’s cock with a sly smile curling across his face.
He felt comfortable. He felt happy, strangely enough, and he very much felt like he wanted to take his time.
“You don’t, ah,” Wyll said, his voice squeaking from his throat like a strangled mouse, his face flushed with blood, “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
Astarion laughed. “Wyll, what in all of the Hells gives you the impression that I don’t want to be doing this?”
“I only meant —” Wyll began, but Astarion pinched at the meat of his thigh as he spoke.
“Maybe I’m just enjoying the view,” Astarion said, fluttering his eyelashes, looking up into Wyll’s mismatched eyes.
Wyll chuckled nervously, his pupil darting to the side. “My apologies,” he said, “I know it’s rather, ah, strange.”
Astarion brought his eyes back down to Wyll’s cock, straining with arousal. It was certainly no longer human. Astarion had never seen a human wield such a rosy-red penis, one that curved upwards with such devilish pride, ridged down the underside with small fleshy hooks. At the base was what looked like a foreskin of sorts — a sheath, if Astarion felt so cheeky as to lean into the Blade metaphors. Astarion had watched with rapt attention as the skin pulled back the more aroused Wyll had become through their foreplay, eventually revealing the heavy knot that swelled at the base.
Astarion had heard Wyll mention ridges and barbs, he had seen the patterns reminiscent of fetal wings pressing at the skin of his back. He’d seen the bumps that snaked down his arms and his chest, dropping tantalizingly down his waist, pointing down to — it seems as though Mizora had molded Wyll’s image in even the most intimate of ways, not an inch of his body untouched by the Hells.
For a moment, Astarion felt a pang of empathy.
“Wyll,” Astarion said, reaching forward to wrap his fingers around the base of Wyll’s glorious, heavy, scarlet cock. “Why in the Hells would you apologize for something as fantastic as this?” He jostled Wyll in his hand for effect. “This is, quite possibly, the only good thing to come from that blasted pact of yours.”
Astarion could feel Wyll’s pulse quicken beneath his fingers. He could feel the veins snaking up Wyll’s cock coursing with blood, could almost smell the crimson liquid just beneath Wyll’s skin — saccharine sweet, savory, robust, complex like an aged, fine wine — or so he’d been told.
Astarion was no vineyard connoisseur. Wyll tasted better than any vinegar-wine that had ever passed through his lips.
The first time Wyll’s blood had touched his tongue he’d groaned aloud, the sound wrenched from some primal place in his ribcage, the space where his heart used to pound in his chest. Every time since, the same jolt of feeling came to him, a lurch from an organ that hadn’t been used in centuries.
It was strange — it seemed the more time Astarion spent around Wyll, the more alive he felt. His cold, stone-atrophied heart might just beat yet.
Astarion tightened his fingers around the base of Wyll’s cock and watched it jump in the air, the ridges along the underside hardening, the knot at the base as unapologetic as ever. Astarion wrapped his other hand around Wyll’s waist and pulled him closer, close enough that Wyll’s cock was just inches away.
Astarion could hear Wyll’s breathing. He could feel his lungs expanding and deflating. He could feel how hot he was — his Hells-touched blood was warmer than any human’s.
“Astarion,” Wyll breathed, his voice pitchy, frantic, pure as ever, “Are you sure —”
“Hush, Wyll,” Astarion said, squeezing his hand tighter around the curve of Wyll’s waist. “I’ve never sucked a cock with a knot before, and you are not going to stop me now.”
And Astarion leaned forward, ever so slightly, and pressed a kiss to the head of Wyll’s cock.
Wyll gasped.
This wasn’t their first kiss, of course. The two of them had kissed many times, countless times over the course of their travels together. There was the night of the Tiefling’s celebration, where Wyll had wandered himself into the darkness. Astarion had brushed his lips against Wyll’s knuckles, ever the gentleman. The next morning, Wyll had flushed, coughed into his hand, smiled at Astarion from across the camp.
How charming, Astarion had thought that fateful morning, just a simple kiss can achieve so much.
Of course, it had been a ruse, back then — Astarion’s failed attempt to drag Wyll into the woods for a night of debauchery had wounded his pride, but soon the affair had introduced him to a world of whirlwind romance. Now Astarion knew the tenderness of lips upon his own knuckles, the secure feeling of an arm wrapped around his shoulders, the delight of long, slow kisses with no insistence behind them.
Somewhere along the line, Astarion’s deception had slipped — it seemed as though he’d tricked himself into believing his own lies. He wasn’t completely sure when he’d fallen for the naive, optimistic fool of a man. It might have been the night he’d seen the hopeless romantic dancing by himself in the shadow-cursed lands, humming some long-gone memory of a song as he kept time in his head.
It might have been after Wyll had defended Astarion from the drow who leered at him. He'd told him he was his own person. He’d said he would wait forever. He’d said he would wait if he needed to. Hells, he would wait only if Astarion wanted to, without needs involved.
It might have been one of the many mundane nights they’d spent side by side in Wyll’s bedroll, just touching, nothing more. It might have been the first time they’d given into passion, when Wyll caught Astarion’s hand before it could roam too far down south and murmured into his lips that it wasn’t the point, lacing their fingers together, whispering, I just want to be near you.
It might have even been when Wyll had burst into their fight with the goblins and skewered one on his rapier, proclaiming himself to be the Blade — for all of the disdain Astarion held toward princely hero-types, there was some piece of himself, some small sliver of the bright-eyed elf he might have been long before he was stamped out into a smear of red on the cobblestone, that craved the romance that only existed in storybooks.
He didn’t deserve it — he didn’t deserve such a tender love, such a gentle, kind man, such a sweet fool. Not after all of the people he’d led to their deaths, not after he dove for his master’s staff, not after he begged, pleaded, sobbed to sacrifice seven-thousand souls and ascend.
He didn’t deserve that story of kisses, that trail of love and kindness and care that led from the shoreline across the mountains, through the Underdark, beyond the Shadow-Cursed lands, here to the peace and quiet of the Elfsong Tavern. He didn’t deserve this shining sunbeam of a man splayed before him, panting like the virgin he was, sweat glistening on his brow, chest heaving, cock weeping with barely a touch.
But Astarion had it. He had the whole nine yards. He had the storybook romance, the fairytale prince, the gentle kisses and the heartfelt adoration. Even though he’d claimed to hate it. Even though he’d won it through lies and deceit. Even though he didn’t deserve it. And Gods be damned, he wasn’t going to let it go anytime soon.
Right now, he wanted nothing more than to hold Wyll in his hand. He wanted to feel the weight of him, to loop his fingers around the shape of him, to memorize the ridges that wound down his body with his palms. He wanted to wind his foolish little hero up, to bring him to the edge, to take him in his mouth and listen to the sounds he made.
He wanted to make his heart beat. He wanted to make his lungs work. He wanted to be the reason sweat pooled in the cleft of his pectorals, the reason his hands trembled, the reason his voice caught in his throat. He wanted to bring him close again and again, to make him see stars behind his eyelid, to hear him say I need you, I need you, Astarion, I love you over and over and over.
He wanted to ruin him. By the Gods, he wanted to ruin him.
Astarion kissed his way down Wyll’s cock, holding the base with two looped fingers, squeezing, stroking, smiling.
“Astarion,” Wyll whispered. His voice was small, breathy, painted with desire.
“You’re beautiful,” Astarion murmured. “This is beautiful.”
Astarion stroked Wyll’s waist and licked a stripe up the side of Wyll’s cock, smiling as he heard the human’s breath hitch in response. He was trying so hard to be quiet, despite the emptiness of the apartment. It was cute — endearing in many ways.
“You can be as loud as you’d like,” Astarion said, squeezing the base of Wyll’s cock once more. “There’s no one here to listen in.”
“Ah,” Wyll breathed, shifting his back against the wall, “It’s a force of habit,” he explained, his face flushed and his one pupil blown wide.
Astarion smiled, shifting his position ever so slightly, nudging Wyll’s legs even further apart. “Is this leftover from all those nights alone in your tent?”
“Mm,” Wyll groaned, “Yes.”
“Tell me about it,” Astarion said, pulling himself closer, pressing his lips against the head of Wyll’s cock. It twitched beneath his touch, bobbing in the air, pulling against his fingers.
“Astarion,” Wyll flushed, shocked, embarrassed.
“I’d like to hear about it — when I’d leave your tent, what would you think of? Would you touch yourself thinking of me?”
“Yes,” Wyll admitted. “I’d think of — of you,” he said. “How your lips felt on mine, how much I wanted more.”
“Mm,” Astarion hummed, leaning forward and taking Wyll’s tip into his mouth completely.
“Gods, Astarion,” Wyll groaned, and Astarion pulled back.
“Keep talking.”
“But —”
“Keep talking,” Astarion repeated, his scarlet eyes staring back into Wyll’s face, clear and confident.
“I would think of,” Wyll continued, sweat beading on his forehead, his eyes squeezed shut and his brows furrowed into a look of pure strain, “Of you touching me.”
Astarion leaned forward once more and swiped his tongue over the slit of Wyll’s cock, scarlet, pulsating along with the beat of Wyll’s arousal.
“And I would think of me touching you,” Wyll said. “Of what sounds you might make when —”
Astarion sucked hard on his tip, smiling as Wyll’s voice broke into a gasp.
“Oh, Gods, Astarion,” Wyll breathed.
“Keep talking,” Astarion said once more, pumping his hand over Wyll’s shaft.
“I would think of what sounds you might make when I touched your chest, or when I put my leg between your thighs, or when I got on my knees before you and —”
Astarion quirked an eyebrow, surprised. “You thought of pleasuring me?”
“Gods, yes,” Wyll said. “More than that, I thought of worshiping you.”
“Go on,” Astarion said. “I like how this sounds.”
“I thought of taking you into my mouth,” Wyll said, “And your hands grabbing my horns, and stroking myself.”
“How selfless,” Astarion chuckled, kissing his way down Wyll’s cock once more, pausing to drag his tongue across the swell of his knot, sucking lightly at the thin, sensitive skin there. He pulled away to speak once more. “Even in your fantasies, you’re still only rutting into your own fist?”
“Not all of them,” Wyll managed to say, his voice tight.
Astarion began to kiss the flesh of Wyll’s inner thigh, one hand still lazily stroking Wyll’s length, coming to rub his thumb in small circles at the tip. He pressed his lips to the soft skin of Wyll’s leg, happy, content. The prickle of Wyll’s leg hair rubbed against his cheek.
I could stay here forever, Astarion thought. He smiled, fluttering his blood-red eyes up to Wyll’s still-squeezed-shut face. Between this man’s thighs, completely undoing him.
“Tell me more,” Astarion said. He sucked at the flesh of Wyll’s thigh, holding his leg close, beginning to poke at the skin with a fang — just enough to remind Wyll that it was there. Not enough to draw blood. Not yet.
Wyll’s breath caught all the same. “Astarion,” he said, his eye flicking open, coming down to look at Astarion between his legs, fang pricking at his muscle.
Astarion pulled back just enough to repeat, “Tell me more.”
“Another night, after I fed you — after you bit me,” Wyll said, “I thought about something just like this.”
Astarion smiled, ghosting his fangs over Wyll’s leg once more. Wyll shivered, his cock throbbing in Astarion’s hand.
“You kissing your way from my neck, down my chest, past my —” Wyll swallowed, “Down the ridges,” he continued, “And sinking your teeth right there.”
Astarion dragged his tongue over the flesh of Wyll’s thigh, watching Wyll’s hair stand on end from the cold and the wet. He sucked the skin there hard, blood vessels bursting between his lips. But he didn’t bite him yet.
“Hells, Astarion,” Wyll groaned. His cock jumped, flushed with blood, painfully erect. “Please,” he breathed.
Astarion poked at his leg with one fang, then drew back.
“Please what?”
“Please,” Wyll said. “Bite me.”
Astarion never tired of the way Wyll’s skin felt breaking beneath his fangs. It was like piercing the tender body of a peach, the soft fuzz giving way to sweetness, to meaty, dripping flesh — Wyll’s blood flowed into his mouth from the bruised capillaries Astarion had broken just seconds before. Rich. Layered. Saccharine sweet, deeply savory, smoke from a hearth, the glistening clarity of morning dew. And beneath the typical flavor of Wyll’s blood there was the heat of arousal.
So close to Wyll’s cock, throbbing, jumping, weeping drops of pre as Astarion swiped his thumb over the slit, Wyll’s blood tasted of desire. It was intoxicating. Astarion dug his fingers into Wyll’s thigh, pressed his leg closer to his mouth, and continued to drink. And from above him, Wyll moaned.
“Astarion,” he panted, his voice lyrical.
I want to stay here forever.
That spot in Astarion’s chest, the place where his heart used to beat — it fluttered to life once more. Astarion wanted to breathe, felt his lungs expand and contract, felt his breath come loud and needy through his nose as he drank, gluttonous, adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow.
“Astarion,” Wyll sang.
Astarion’s cock brushed against the linen — he’d grown hard himself, so focused on the noises Wyll was making, so focused on the hazy, shaky look on his face, that he hadn’t noticed the tension beginning to build in his abdomen.
Now, with each gulp of blood, with the taste of Wyll’s life pouring down his throat, with his lover’s blood coursing through his own veins, Astarion felt that passion throb from his chest into his fingers. It throbbed into his limbs, into his cheeks, into the rosy tip of his cock.
Astarion tilted his hips to rest on his side, facing the wall, his erection bobbing in the air as he moved. It was straining against his stomach, glistening with arousal.
“Astarion,” Wyll gasped, his voice sharper, a shaky hand coming to rest on Astarion’s forehead.
Astarion blinked his eyes open, then pulled back. Wyll was panting hard — his breath was voiced, wobbling through the air. Sweat glistened on his pectorals, his beautiful arms, his beautiful face — Astarion watched as beads of moisture dripped down the ridges on his cheekbone, the scars across his jaw, the smooth, pulsating line of his carotid artery.
Astarion slowed his already-slow hand, squeezing Wyll’s cock as he pushed himself up on his free hand and ran his tongue along Wyll’s neck, tasting the salt of his sweat, enjoying the way Wyll shivered, savoring the spike of his pulse.
“Keep talking,” Astarion said.
Wyll obliged. “I would think of you,” he continued, his voice wavering and weak, his face practically steaming from the blush that stained his cheeks, “Bathing in the river. Your skin was — was marble-pale in the moonlight. I watched you,” he admitted. “It was wrong of me, back then, but I did it anyway.”
Astarion laughed against Wyll’s neck, trailing his way down Wyll’s chest. He mouthed at Wyll’s pectorals, took a nipple in his mouth, and enjoyed the way Wyll’s breath hitched as he flicked his cold tongue against the shape of it. He sucked off of it with a loud, indulgent noise, then looked up into Wyll’s eye.
“You peeping tom,” he said, chastising and full of mirth.
“I shouldn’t have done it, but — Gods, Astarion, I wanted to see you. I crept back to my tent that night and wished —” his breath hitched as Astarion began to pump his cock once more. “I wished I was the river you were standing in. I wanted to be the moon that shone her light upon you. I wanted to be able to touch you so badly.”
Astarion kissed further down Wyll’s abdomen. He traced the lines there with his tongue and his lips. He brushed his nose against the planes of Wyll’s stomach. He came to rest his mouth against the sheath of Wyll’s knot, playing with the sensitive, thin skin there. Wyll’s hips twitched, his legs moving against the sheets.
“I wanted to hold your cock in my hand,” Wyll said. “I went back to my tent and stroked myself, I cried your name into my pillow and pretended my hand was yours, that I was — oh, Gods, Astarion,”
Astarion had nosed his way down to Wyll’s testicles, cupping them in his hand, squeezing while he ran his tongue across the skin there. Wyll’s cock pulsated, the knot seeming to grow ever-so-slightly.
“That you were what?”
“Astarion —”
“Keep talking.”
“That I was deep inside you instead,” Wyll pressed forward, “That you were laid out below me and your legs were spread and I could feel your cock pressed against my stomach as I was taking you.”
Astarion’s cock twitched at the idea of it — of Wyll’s warm body, all strong muscle, padded flesh, trembling vigor, thrusting into him from above. He would fill him so nicely, murmuring soft words in his ear, trying to hold himself together so he wouldn’t spill too early.
Astarion imagined wrapping his arms around Wyll’s neck and holding him close, raking his claws down Wyll’s back, biting into his neck and tasting his blood as Wyll groaned and finished deep inside of him. Astarion imagined talking him through it, telling him how to thrust, what spots to hit, calling him a good boy as Wyll moaned into the crook of his neck.
Astarion felt another pulse of arousal rocket through his body, feeling warm from Wyll’s blood now running through his veins. He pushed himself forward, continuing to cup Wyll’s testicles in one hand, and moved to swallow as much of Wyll’s cock as he could fit into his mouth.
“Stars above, Astarion!” Wyll choked out, his hands flying out from where they had been pressing against the wall.
Astarion hollowed his cheeks, pressed the flat of his tongue against the ridges along the underside of Wyll’s cock, and slowly, slowly, pulled himself up and off.
“Keep talking,” Astarion said.
“You can’t expect a man to stay coherent —”
“Keep talking,” Astarion repeated.
“There was another time,” Wyll forced out, “When — when we were in the Underdark —” Wyll’s voice stumbled as Astarion bobbed down onto his cock again. “Gods, Asatrion — It was after — oh, I don’t remember — you kissed me, and I wanted nothing more than to take you right then and there.”
Astarion closed his eyes, one hand wrapped around Wyll’s knot, the other squeezing his testicles, feeling them pull back against his palm.
“But I am a — a chivalrous man,” Wyll panted, “And I wanted to show you — to show myself — that I could wait. That I would wait. But Gods, I wanted to kiss you like it was our last day on Toril. I wanted to feel you inside of me, I wanted to be inside of you, I wanted my lips on your skin —”
Astarion turned his head, twisting slightly, flicking his tongue against Wyll’s tip. Wyll groaned, his voice cracking, and his hips jolted upwards, catching Astarion by surprise. He pulled off, squeezing tight around the base of Wyll’s cock, and rose up to stare directly into Wyll’s eye.
“Stay still,” Astarion commanded.
Wyll flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to —”
“Stay still,” Astarion repeated.
Sweat beaded on Wyll’s brow — he swallowed, licked his lips with a forked tongue, then nodded. Wyll’s cock throbbed in Astarion’s hand.
Astarion smiled — Wyll was ever the box of surprises.
“Good boy,” Astarion said, kissing his way back down Wyll’s torso. “Keep talking.”
“There was another time,” Wyll said, his voice almost trembling, “It was — it was the first time you drank from a bandit. It was the first time I saw you with — with blood on your lips.”
Astarion lapped at Wyll’s tip, lathing his tongue over the slit, tasting the beads of pre that wept to the surface.
“Your eyes were so reflective in the light. You looked like a predator. You were so —” Wyll’s breath hitched. “You were so dangerous. You tore into his neck and blood got all over the wall. You pierced a vein and it just — Gods, it went everywhere. It covered your shirt, your leggings, your fingers — and the sounds you made,” Wyll panted.
Astarion bobbed his head, took Wyll as far into his throat as he could before he reached the swell of his knot. With his other hand, he squeezed the knot, massaged it, rubbed circles into the engorged flesh with his thumb. His own cock throbbed, and with his other hand, finally, finally, he reached between his legs and began to stroke himself.
“I had to excuse myself,” Wyll continued, his eyes squeezed shut. “I thought about it every night for tendays — I stroked myself to the way that blood dripped from your mouth. I wanted to kiss those lips clean — I wanted to be the bandit you drained, I wanted — oh Gods, I just wanted to be yours, Astarion.”
Astarion groaned against Wyll’s cock, and the vibration of his vocal cords made Wyll hiss. Astarion throbbed between his legs — his hand moved, fast, desperate, Wyll’s words going to his head. He’d charmed this princely monster hunter so thoroughly, from the first day they’d met, without even having to lift so much as a finger. All of his seduction, all of his trouble, and Wyll had wanted him from the moment he’d laid eyes on him.
The scoundrel.
“I want to touch you,” Wyll whined, his voice pitchy and strained. “Please, Astarion, let me touch you.”
Astarion tongued against the ridges of Wyll’s cock, feeling the rounded hooks’ texture as he pulled away with a loud, indulgent pop , and continued to stroke himself with long, slow motions. He looked up into Wyll’s eyes and smiled.
“Not today,” he said. “Today is about you, Wyll.”
“But —”
“I said no,” Astarion said, and Wyll’s cock throbbed once more. It seemed the monster hunter enjoyed being ordered around, being told to stay still, to hold off, to stop. “You’ll have to keep your hands to yourself.”
Wyll swallowed.
“Keep talking,” Astarion said, shifting onto his knees. Wyll stared back at Astarion, watching him move — wondering what was coming next.
“Another time,” Wyll continued, “I was watching you embroider.”
Astarion maneuvered Wyll’s legs so he sat between them, then slowly, slowly, began to push Wyll’s thighs up. Wyll began to slide down the wall, his head coming to rest on a pillow, his back flush against the bedsheets.
“I — you were stitching your shirt back together with such — such neat lines.”
Astarion wrapped one hand around Wyll’s cock, pumping the shaft, enjoying the way Wyll’s chest heaved. He leaned his head down, nosed his way beneath Wyll’s testicles, and pressed his tongue against the rim of Wyll’s entrance.
“Astarion!” Wyll squawked, his legs tensing.
Astarion held up two fingers and muttered the words “Voco Arvina,” the simple grease incantation. They became slick with the magic, and Wyll’s voice stuttered as Astarion pressed his shining fingers against his entrance.
Astarion leaned down and took Wyll’s cock into his mouth again, shallowing his pointer fingertip against his hole. Wyll gasped in response, and Astarion could feel him tightening against the prod of his finger.
Astarion pulled off of Wyll’s cock for a moment, to ask, “Have you touched yourself here before?”
“Yes,” Wyll gasped. “Thinking of you.”
“Of course,” Astarion smiled. He circled his pointer finger, then pressed it against Wyll’s entrance, breaching it to the first knuckle.
“Astarion —” Wyll breathed, the flush across his face spreading to his chest, his pupil blown so his iris was only a faint ring of red. His cock leaked another bead of pre, straining scarlet against his stomach.
“Keep talking,” Astarion said. He leaned forward and swallowed Wyll’s cock once more.
“I imagined you embroidering a — a favor, for me. A handkerchief. I imagined you gifting it to me at a ball. I imagined dancing with you into the night, and — and you leaving me alone after the party had ended.”
Astarion pushed his finger further, curling it deep inside of him, spreading him apart.
“That night I — I stole a shirt from your pack,” Wyll admitted, his labored breathing growing deeper, faster, the more Astarion massaged at his knot, the more he probed inside of him. “I held it to my face as I touched myself, imagining it was your favor, smelling you on the fabric.”
Astarion inserted another finger, beginning to thrust the two inside of him. He scissored them apart, stretching Wyll’s entrance, searching for his prostate.
Wyll felt so good in his mouth. The texture of his ridges against his tongue, the heat of his devilish blood coursing through his veins — and he could feel it twitching, could feel the pulse of his arousal, could feel it prodding against the back of his throat, filling him completely.
Astarion didn’t have to breathe. He could stay here as long as he liked, swallowing hard around Wyll’s cock, feeling him twitch beneath him, trying so desperately to keep his hips from shifting.
He was so obedient. He wanted so desperately to please, even through his lust, even though his desire. Even with Astarion swallowing his cock deep into his throat, even with Astarion pushing his fingers inside of him, even as his reservations began to unravel more and more with each story he shared, Wyll wanted to be good.
“I imagined you smiling at me,” Wyll breathed, “I remembered you kissing my knuckles, like a prince. I imagined you sweeping me off my feet, stealing me away to your bedchambers, spreading my legs and making me yours,” he said.
Astarion pressed his fingers deeper, curling them just so — and Wyll gasped.
“Astarion,” he moaned, his hips twitching.
There we go.
Words seemed to spill from his mouth now — freely, without Astarion having to remind him.
“After — after I became a devil,” Wyll panted, his hips quivering as Astarion pressed that spot again and again and again, “After I got this knot, I wanted — Astarion,” he keened, “I had this urge — I would rut into my fist and press my knot inside —”
Astarion’s mind burst with color — images of Wyll’s knot pressing inside of him, of the stretch, of being stuck together, filled with him, until it had relaxed enough for him to pull out. Of being folded in half, being used, being thoroughly bred by such a devilish cock — Astarion groaned around Wyll.
“I dreamed of you begging me to fill you,” Wyll babbled, “I dreamed of you sinking down onto my knot and keeping me there inside you, I dreamed of mounting you like an incubus and —”
Astarion pressed harder against Wyll’s prostate, massaging the gland, rubbing circles against the sensitive spot deep inside of him. He swallowed around Wyll’s cock again, his throat squeezing around the tip, his tongue sliding against his shaft.
“And spending myself inside of you,” Wyll panted, “Of you riding me even once I was done — of you holding my knot inside and not letting me rest, Gods —”
Astarion rubbed his hand around Wyll’s knot, the swollen base too large to fit inside of his mouth — perhaps one day he would take on the challenge, but not today — and drew his head back, mouthing at the tip.
His own cock throbbed between his legs. Even without his hand on himself, the tension in his stomach kept rising. He was twitching, leaking beads of pre, his testicles feeling tight and drawn-up and aching for release. He knew with a few strokes he could finish himself off — but the tension felt good, some tightly-pulled string he didn’t want to break, not yet.
For now he wanted to focus on the man in front of him, spilling his desires into the air, trying so desperately not to thrust into his mouth. His hips stuttered, legs twitching on the table, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his forehead as he continued to speak.
Astarion continued to press against his prostate, continued to massage his knot, continued to suck at the tip of his cock, swallowing the pre that leaked steadily from the slit, enjoying the salt and the musk and the taste of what was so undeniably Wyll.
Astarion turned his head and began to kiss down the side of Wyll’s cock. It felt so hot and slick against his lips, throbbing, pulsating, twitching along with his heartbeat.
“Astarion,” Wyll panted, his name breaking between the words of his memories, of all the nights of desires he was sharing.
Astarion pressed harder against Wyll’s prostate, circling it, rubbing it, enjoying the feeling of Wyll squeezing around his fingers, of him trying desperately not to thrust against Astarion’s knuckles.
Astarion pulled back from Wyll’s cock and began to speak —
“How does —”
Astarion didn’t get to finish his sentence before Wyll’s muscles locked and a loud, ragged moan burst from the human’s throat. He’d meant to tease Wyll a bit more, to ask him how he was feeling, to pry some more tales of self-pleasure and fantasties from his lips — but it was the human’s first time with another person’s fingers inside of him, his first time feeling someone’s lips against the hot, hard shape of his cock, his first time trying to hold himself together under such an unrelenting force. It only made sense he wouldn’t be able to last.
He came hard — his muscles tensing, clenching around Astarion’s fingers, the waves of his orgasm pulsating through him — and he spilled unceremoniously into Astarion’s face. Astarion could feel the hot liquid landing on his forehead, his nose, his cheekbones — he could feel it dripping down the curve of his jaw, across his lips, thankfully missing his eyes.
Astarion, of course, was no stranger to having someone else’s semen on his face. In all of his years, there were plenty of marks who had painted his face with their seed. It wasn’t uncommon — the drunkards of Baldur’s Gate holding him in place with one hand as they jerked themselves to completion, grunting, snuffling, wanting to see the rewards of the evening marking the ethereal pale elf, claiming him as theirs.
Most of the time, they would die later that evening, if he was able to lure them back to the manor before they got their pants off. Astarion would wipe the congealed liquid from his face and move to the next target — but this was different.
Wyll was no target. He wasn’t laying claim to him, he wasn’t some grunting, groaning beast that Astarion wanted to block from his mind — every drop of come felt like a gift from an overeager, earnest soul, one who was flushed red and covering his face with his hands, trying to contain himself and failing spectacularly.
Astarion had said he wanted to ruin him, after all.
Astarion continued to massage Wyll’s knot, trying to milk as much spend as possible from the man’s poor, overworked cock, still prodding his fingers against Wyll’s prostate. Astarion was dully aware of the sound of apologies muffled behind Wyll’s palms, but all he was focusing on was the weakening stream, the way his cock strained and jumped with each individual spurt, the way his limbs trembled with the force of it.
And slowly, slowly, Astarion relented. He circled slower around Wyll’s prostate, drew his fingers out of him, leaned forward to press a tender kiss against Wyll’s shaft.
“Astarion,” Wyll breathed, peeking out from between his fingers. His eye looked so embarrassed, so horrified by what he’d just done. “Gods, Astarion, I am so —”
“Wyll,” Astarion said, a smile splitting across his face — what a pure, innocent man. He shook his head, incredulous, a giddy sense of joy overcoming him. Only Wyll would apologize after doing something so incredibly erotic — only Wyll would do it without meaning to.
“I just — I debased you,” Wyll insisted, “I can’t believe — I should have warned you, I should have controlled myself — I’m so sorry.”
Astarion wiped some of Wyll’s spend from his forehead, bringing it to his mouth, making a show of sucking it off of his finger.
“Astarion,” Wyll sputtered, watching the display, face aflame.
“Wyll,” Astarion laughed.
He drew himself closer to Wyll’s face, pulling himself forward by his elbows. He could feel Wyll’s spend cooling on his face. He let it drip onto the human’s chest.
He reached forward and moved Wyll’s hands away from his face. He leaned closer, brushing his lips against Wyll’s, letting him taste himself on his tongue. He ground his cock, still hard, against Wyll’s leg, showing him just how much he was enjoying himself.
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” he said, his lips against Wyll’s ear. “I’d rather like it if you did that next time, too.”
“Are you sure?” Wyll asked, dazed.
“Yes,” Astarion whispered. “Very.”
He rutted himself against Wyll’s leg, so close to spilling — so close. Wyll shifted his leg, rubbing against Astarion’s cock, grinding against the sensitive underside of his shaft, and Astarion groaned. He hung his head from his neck, grit his teeth, and let go — he let Wyll shift beneath him, press against his cock, murmur sweet words into his ear, and pleasure coursed through him.
“Talk to me,” Wyll said, shifting his hips, giving Astarion something to grind against. “Keep talking.”
Astarion thought of Wyll dancing in the underdark. He thought of Wyll kissing him in the forest, of Wyll holding him through the night. He thought of Wyll’s hands, strong and sure and gentle as the breeze. He thought of Wyll’s sunny smile, of Wyll’s smooth voice. He thought of the way Wyll’s knee felt between his legs, of the friction as he thrust against his skin.
Astarion meant to say something seductive — he meant to say something filthy, something about wanting Wyll’s knot, something about being bred, about wanting to be filled and used and spread open for him — but his mind was fuzzy with arousal.
“I love you,” Astarion said instead, the words tumbling from his mouth, the sentiment from deep within his chest — his atrophied heart, alive once more.
The breath he didn’t need to take hitched, and he came against Wyll’s stomach — cock twitching, arms trembling, his face screwed into an unsightly knot, Astarion let white-hot ecstasy overtake him.