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He couldn’t breathe. He felt sick. Staring down at the white coffin at the end of the massive room.
He couldn’t handle it. He wanted to turn around and run away. It wouldn’t be real if Wyll just bolted from here. If he flew out those doors the elf would wake up- and this would all just be a bad dream.
But Wyll stayed. Steady, solid, dependable- a good Duke, a strong leader- He had to put on this show, but it felt like someone was pulling his teeth out one by one, or someone was slowly burning him alive by putting a match to his skin over and over.
Still. He did it.
The human would brighten to shake a hand, say pleasantries, take baubles of consolation- and then his face would fall immediately after. He did not cry, he did not betray the nightmarish internal struggle he felt. His voice did not even waver. He would not, could not- He was in a den of wolves after all, and they were circling. Looking for any weakness, any vulnerability to exploit.
Noble after noble came by, wishing condolences; some with truly good intentions, most bad- only wanting to be seen supporting a fellow patriar and the Duke for upper city sensibilities, at best. At worst looking to worm their way into a vulnerable man’s heart and mind. After all, the Grand Duke had a reputation for being incorruptible, and he’d been cleaning out crooked politicians and government officials systematically. Many nobles, who were used to being able to lobby for anything they wanted- deeply disliked him. He was as unpopular as a Duke in the upper city as he was popular in the lower and outer.
Wyll wasn’t naive, he’d been in this world his entire life- he knew how many noble families were truly dark-sided underneath their shiny veneer- but looking at this man’s hand he was currently shaking- the elf who’d introduced himself as Astarion, representing Cazador- He actually wanted to die.
He looked so much like Asrael.
Wyll was a human. His lover- His husband- He had been an elf. The nobleman had never- not once- pictured a reality where he outlived his beloved. That was as mad as Devils dancing in the ballrooms of the Heavens- and yet it had happened- a rare genetic illness. It had claimed him in a measly six months. One minute he was there, handsome and healthy, joking about the diagnosis- The next- emaciated and barely conscious- clinging to his arms. They’d been married for just two decades. A long time for Wyll- but blinks to the beautiful, happy, young elven man. Wyll, though he kept himself fit, healthy- had visibly aged during their marriage. Objectively, he did look good, probably early thirties. Asrael though, he still looked the exact same at thirty-eight as the day he turned eighteen. Well. He had. Until the sickness rapidly did its vile work. It killed Wyll. The man had had so much more life to live. Hundreds of years. Everything about his death was so wrong, so twisted.
It hadn’t bothered Wyll to know he would die before his lover. It made him happy- he knew his love was loyal to him as long as he was alive- they had grown up together. So, who cared if he died tomorrow? Or in forty years? Either way he had had the great love of his life, and even if he was not the only love of his husband’s life- He had been his first love, and Wyll believed your first love was something that could never be surpassed. The human knew Asrael would likely love someone else at some point on and he had no trouble with that anymore (When he was younger he had struggled with it)- but he’d made peace with it emotionally- as long as in his lifetime they were together- as promised. And they were. Neither had ever strayed.
Though Asrael had gone back and forth on it, they’d finally decided on children. Wyll so desperately wanted them- and he saw so many children suffering. Wyll wanted a whole band of them- five or six little children, making the Ravengard estate a boisterous and joyous place. Growing up an only child Wyll had depended on his father for everything, and it had, at times, been lonely. Particularly when his father had been trapped in the Hells, and it had just been Wyll in their big empty manor.
Asrael had nixed the caravan of kids though, said they should start with one or maybe two- if they were a sibling pair of orphans. Wyll had assented, and they had decided they would go to the outer city orphanage, and adopt on Wyll’s fortieth birthday. Both a service to their city and themselves. Wyll was thirty-eight. Now that of course- was a pipe dream. He could barely keep himself together- let alone raise children.
Yes, here was the nobleman, alone. All alone. He’d spent his whole childhood pleasing his father- but then Asrael had came along. He always saw him as a precocious youth when he first pictured him in his mind’s eye. Slicked back white hair, grey eyes- a pretty permanent scowl. The boy had been a bit aggressive and even a spoiled brat at times in their childhood, always pushing boundaries. Which, at times was annoying to Wyll, who had always desperately wanted to please the adults in his life- but that was what Wyll had needed in the end. Someone in his corner, unafraid to speak up and advocate for themselves.
When they turned eighteen they had eloped, in secret. They had announced their intent to marry and both families immediately rejected it. Ulder because he believed the elf would control every decision that went on in their household, and Asrael’s parents because he was far too young- they’d reconsider a marriage when he was around two hundred. Wyll had been heartbroken but accepted that that was that- Asrael had refused, and insisted they go down to city hall- marry anyway.
Wyll had been so scared, but he had also been so in love with him- he agreed. He’d always read in his favorite fables- your first love was your true love. Asrael admitted to him years later half the reason he had insisted was to spite both of their parents- but it had all worked out. They fell deeper in love every year, even as the years went by, even as they changed and matured emotionally.
Ulder had been enraged at first, threw Wyll out of the manor. But then Asrael had told off his father- told off his own parents. They began traveling the sword coast together, adventuring, as Wyll wanted to see the world. It had incensed Asrael’s parents to not know where he was. Within four years Asrael’s family had reached out- they wanted their heir home. He was far too young to be traveling up and down the coastline in camping gear like a refugee. With some convincing the two went home, and their marriage was accepted by the upper city elites.
So, Wyll had made his own life. It took a few more years, but Ulder had eventually apologized. He said he respected Wyll for his tenacity for life. Wyll didn’t tell his father he never would have done it without his husband- but he was so grateful for the assertive elf.
They had lived well. All the banalities and bores of noble life that used to annoy Wyll fell apart when a smirking angel was waiting in your bed. He fell head-first into politics, and he was good at it. Asrael into philanthropy- and he good at that too. Yes they were typical nobles- they had lots of parties, events- but they were always for good- always for some charity or another- some good cause- or Wyll’s campaigning- but that was a good cause too. Wyll was pretty sure he was single-handedly cleaning up Baldur’s Gate- and now he was Grand Duke, as his father was before. Wyll was proud of the lives they’d built. Though when he was younger he’d been restless at times- He had come to love the life they’d created in this beautiful city.
Now both his father and his husband were gone. What was the man to do?
He’d never been truly alone before.
Now- He was walking up to his husband’s casket with a pretty stranger beside him.
The man carefully examined the portrait beside the coffin, leaning in and seemingly memorizing it’s features. Then he tilted towards the coffin, got far too close for a stranger- and jumped back at the sight of him. He looked between the portrait and the body in shock, and then slid back slightly.
Wyll bristled, why wouldn’t this horrid ghost of an elf leave them be? He tried to relax.
“I was told he looked like me.”
He says, smoothing his top. A kind of non-apology for jumping at the sight of his dead husband, but there’s something else in his tone too.
“Do I look like him?”
Wyll ignores him. He had shaken the pale elf’s hand, accepted his condolences on behalf of the recluse, now he needed to go fade into the background with the other nobles, leave him to his thoughts.
The Duke kneeled before the coffin- prayed to the triad. He wasn’t religious- never had been- but he’d snap at the elf beside him otherwise. His mother had been a triadic knight, but he’d never met her- she died in childbirth.
Was dying young a curse to those who married the Ravengards?
He shook the despairing thought away, went through the motions- imagined Asrael happy in Tyr, Torm and Illmater’s embrace- pretended he didn’t want to climb in the casket with him. He couldn’t look at him. He kept his eyes firmly on his bony pale hands, folded together so neatly, and pressed his own larger one’s against them. The tiny elf in the casket was so, so cold. Really and truly dead.
Wyll knew that. He had felt it. Felt him die- because the man had begged and begged for Wyll to put him out of his misery. That he was in so much pain. That he just couldn’t take it anymore. That was in the last month, potions to ease pain had stopped working all together. Then the already awful degenerative disease truly became the Hells. Four weeks of straight begging. He couldn’t eat- he could barely drink- The elf had said he was too weak to move, or he’d do it himself.
Wyll had——
It flashed in his mind. His stomach lurched.
The human had told him to fight through it, that he could get through this, that they could get through anything together- but when he dropped to measly ninety-five pounds- when he couldn’t even drink water anymore without wrenching and sobbing in pain, and then violently throwing it back up- leaving bile and blood on their silk sheets -When he looked nothing like the man he loved anymore- When he was a groaning husk- a sobbing shell….
Wyll had started to feel he was being very selfish. Asrael had been begging for weeks, and he was still begging. It was the only thing he asked of Wyll anymore. Not for food, or water or even for him. Sometimes he didn’t even recognize him.
Finally he’d given the elf what he wanted. He could never deny him, not even in this.
But now, he couldn’t forgive himself. Perhaps. Somehow. The elf would’ve pulled through, if they’d just endured it a little longer. It was eating him alive. Wyll had always been hard-headed, like his father- there was always a way forward- and yet there hadn’t been this time.
Perhaps there had been though-
He could’ve gone to a hag, or a devil. Creatures he hated with all his heart, but if it could’ve saved him….his beloved-
He felt so very lost.
He walked down the aisle, took a seat on a plush sofa. The elf sat down beside him, and far too close. Wyll wanted to throw up. He’d met with plenty of Cazador’s proxies as he’d gone through government- Aurelia, Dalyria, Violet, Leon- it was usually Leon or Violet who came to big events for nobles. It was a well known fact they’d bribe, barter and sleep with any noble for Cazador’s causes within government. He often used them to sway other patriar’s to whatever he wanted.
Of course with Wyll as Grand Duke now a lot of that influence in government had waned- He was not moved by any of the pretty faces thrown at him, and he’d been systematically cutting out rot. Interestingly he’d found a lot of rot within their government was directly due to the reclusive noble- It was tied to him under different names- different groups.
Another strange truth was Wyll had not, in his almost four decades alive- never once actually met the man who caused such problems. It was well known he was incredibly reclusive. The Duke had no interest in meeting such a monstrous person anyway- he wanted him tried, jailed- and then likely of course with his litany of crimes- hanged.
They’d busted one of his human trafficking rings, and many were arrested- but none would point the finger at Cazador, even under intense interrogation by the Fists.
That wasn’t all the Duke and his team had traced to him.
Smuggling and racketeering were both things the politician had traced to the Szarr house as well- but sadly he wasn’t the only noble who had these black mars on their record- In fact he was one of many.
Politics in truth was a delicate dance- and while he’d love to see every degenerate house fall (and there were many)- he’d be quickly voted out- lose station. After all they were a representative government, and every patriar had an equal vote. They did not double check their morality beforehand.
Still, he’d been working on it- He’d gotten the Hhune’s thrown out of government, tracing vile crimes to their family patriarch. He was imprisoned.
In time rot would be cleansed from the Upper City, Wyll would make sure of it.
Sometimes though he wished he could just run into every bad noble’s houses and stab them with his rapier- but, as much as he’d like to, that was ridiculous. He likely would be hanged- Grand Duke or not.
Still, the illegal behavior linked to the Szarr house was particularly egregious- lots of instances of human trafficking. Men and women constantly going missing from the lower and outer city. Not to mention the bizarre lessons his father drilled into him as he got older- from basically the day he turned seventeen. Never take a deal with Cazador, never go to his palace- never trust his proxies. He wouldn’t tell him why, still he trusted his father had had good reason to be so fierce about it.
“You know you’re being incredibly rude.”
His eyes slid over to the man beside him.
“I’m trying my best to not be, but as you can see very clearly I’m grieving- and I’d prefer to be left alone.“
He said clearly, gesturing to his black suit before pointedly getting up. On autopilot he drifted towards the balcony. Some noble’s turned at his abrupt leaving- but they left him to it- He’d done the bare minimum, he’d been welcoming, polite. Now polite society would reward the widower, by letting him sit outside, and stare into space alone like he wanted. The idea of engaging in anymore small talk at the moment made him very ill.
What he really needed was a drink. Or two. Or ten. Some good wine, or top-shelf whiskey. But he couldn’t- He had to keep his wits about him in this snake pit. The balcony was empty, and people seemed to understand to give him space- except this elf- the elf continued to trail behind, talking as he followed him.
“Look- I understand- I do- I’m sure you’re used to my siblings throwing themselves at you- but I’m not allowed out to these types of fancy affairs often- ever really. I’d love to go dance, drink- mingle. Forget myself for a while.”
“-But I can’t.”
Did the elf think this was cute? Some kind of mind game? He could see what he looked like, he saw what Asrael looked like. It hurt more than any other noble to have this- this simulacra following him around.
The man feels angst tearing through him. He was trying so desperately to hold himself together- Why was this man doing this to him?
“Do you think this is funny?”
The human states bluntly, turning to face the other man finally. He wants to punch him, but no, that isn’t true at all as he gazes upon his pale face. He wants to kiss him. Hold him. He looks so much like Asrael, it’s like having his angel with him again.
The man searches the red eyes of the elf. He shouldn’t be doing this- his father had told him not even to look the proxies in the eyes- but- he was grief-stricken, and Gods Wyll wanted to look at him. Besides the eye color- red instead of grey- and the way this elf wears his hair- down and around his face instead of slicked back.
He doesn’t detect any maliciousness in his gaze, maybe some humor.
“When he was healthy- you could’ve passed as twins.”
The words bubble up unbidden. The elf hadn’t asked.
“Hm.”
He then leans against the balcony, and smiles coyly.
“So……you find me fetching?”
He teases.
“Aha~ -I’m flattered darling.”
But he doesn’t sound flattered, and he’s now turned to look at the dark sky beyond the balcony. It’s a completely starless night.
Wyll doesn’t understand why he’s doing this, the elf doesn’t even sound like he wants to be flirting with him. The nobleman wants more than anything for this man to go away. Maybe politeness would not work on this man. The Duke decides to make the differences between his husband and this fake, abundantly clear.
“Asrael wasn’t just what he looked like- he was a wonderful person. A good man, who dedicated his life to philanthropy. What have you done with your life? From what I can see, all your family does is engage in debauchery, criminality.”
It’s an unkind thing to say- but Wyll doesn’t care. Just because they looked alike- and maybe he was attracted to him- didn’t mean he would stray when his husband’s corpse wasn’t even in the ground. They were promised to each other! He doesn’t wait for the elf to reply. For some reason- he keeps talking- he can’t stop-
“Asrael is the red of my sunrise, the yellow of my high noon and the orange of my sundown. He is the song I will never stop singing, the psalm I will never stop praying for- he was a damned good dance partner too. He was- my everything. He is my everything. My entire world rose and set on him.”
“I’m really, so happy for you dear.”
The elf said in reply, no charming or teasing lilt to it like everything he’s previously said- Instead it is distinctly remote, sardonic.
There’s a long silence.
The elf turns around slowly, his hands against the balcony wall. So he’s facing him again.
“The great love of your life….but you hadn’t looked at him. Why?”
“I couldn’t see him in that state. I want to remember Asrael as he was.”
There’s no trembling in the human’s voice as he utters this lie- quick and natural- He was a practiced politician. A public speaker. Even when Wyll was young he’d been good at keeping it together- He’d only gotten better at it in time.
The truth was he couldn’t look because his eyes would immediately be drawn to the slight purple discoloration on the sides of his nose, permanently there now thanks to rigor mortis. Wyll had thought of using a pillow, but if the man was going to do it- He had to hold his darling husband while he did. He had cradled Asrael in his lap, in their bed, and covered his mouth and nose with his hand. Hot tears had fallen freely from his face as he did it, splashing the body beneath him. The elf had looked up at him with relief, his own bony arms had not come up to try and stop him- even as his body had started to tremble. He had looked up at him, calmly meeting his hysterical face until his grey eyes had fluttered- and then closed. He’d wanted him to do it- he’d wanted to go- but his nostrils had flared, Wyll could feel it as he pinched- Even if Asrael had not wanted to live anymore- his body- it had still tried to.
It ate at Wyll. It was consuming him.
He was a good man. His whole life he’d strived to be good. How can he live, reconcile that with the fact he killed his own husband? Even if it was a mercy killing- he’d killed the elf. He’d murdered the most important person in his life, the person he swore and vowed to protect.
A finger poking his face snapped him back to reality. He was looking at Astarion, and he was not at the balcony wall- he was now far too close. Almost nose to nose with the Grand Duke. The human stepped back.
“What on Toril are you doing?”
“Do you want to have sex?”
It felt like the elf had struck him.
Apparently he too, was throwing himself at the human, despite what he had promised earlier. Though it was distinctly blunter then the ways the others had tried- then again- none of them had been the spitting image of his dead husband. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t feel something stir when he looked at the man, but the conversation they’d just been having wasn’t exactly pleasant.
“You really are a degenerate. This is my husband’s wake. He’s in the other room.”
“I’d argue he’s not in the other room. I mean I’ve heard the fugue plane is a bit of a ways away.“
He couldn’t take this anymore- Why was this man doing this? Why would he not go inside, leave him alone like everyone else was doing? Even the most garish and uncouth nobles understood the Duke had wanted privacy when he walked out here. Did he have no respect for anything? He slammed him against the wall, shoving him up by the collar.
The man laughed as his back hit the wall, his head snapping back. Wyll felt guilty immediately at the sight of blood staining his white hair, a single red line dripping down his forehead. Wyll felt like he’d hurt Asrael, especially when the man’s eyes were closed in pained laughter, and he couldn’t see the red iris that distinguished this fake to his love.
“Please. Please- Just leave me be.”
He whispers, his anger being subsumed by self-loathing quickly. He swallows thickly, lowers the man and wipes his forehead with his sleeve, staining his black gilded sleeve with blood. Wyll presses his forehead to the other man’s, his resolve breaking despite himself, as he looks at the strange elf. Astarion’s skin was too cold. Wyll didn’t like it.
“You can just pretend I’m him you know. I don’t mind. Maybe it’ll help you feel better.”
The man replies simply.
Wyll feels his polished veneer cracking- He wants to cry- Every time he looks at this man he wants to cry- He doesn’t want to sleep with him. He wanted to sleep beside his husband. It felt like a ghost was haunting him, but the ghost was twisted, warped. So unlike him, but like him.
The elf touches his face, lightly, strokes it. Wyll shivers, looking down at the man’s red eyes, losing himself in them.
“You would feel much better if you got some of these emotions out, don’t you think?”
He doesn’t know why- He knew he shouldn’t want to, but he agrees, lost in his ruby red eyes. Maybe partially it’s exhaustion and pain, both emotional and physical, but it’s also something else- He can feel it, a constant dull pull. He understands what his father was talking about, but the ?spell? felt weak. At least to Wyll, and he knows he could fight off the compulsion. Yet, he doesn’t, and that makes him ashamed. It had been that unbidden thought of sleeping beside Asrael that tipped the scales- The idea of sleeping alone for the first time in years made Wyll nauseous.
Still, Wyll insisted for them to wait for the wake to end, and for all the nobles he was entertaining to go. By that time that happened it was very late into the night, four in the morning.
Then the elf followed him upstairs, and Wyll felt a bit numb about the whole thing- It was hard to feel bad or good, about anything at the moment.
So, when Astarion crashes him into a wall- starts touching him and kissing his neck Wyll mumbles, soft- into the elf’s ear-
“Can we just- Can you just lay beside me for a little while?”
The elf stops, looks at him with confusion, but eventually, haltingly, he nods. The man crawls into bed, and lays there- like he expects another suggestion.
Wyll looks down at him.
“Do you….do you want a change of clothes? What you’re in is a bit fancy for bed don’t you think?”
“We won’t be doing much sleeping.”
The elf purrs playfully, smiling up at him from the bed.
“But won’t you be uncomfortable? You- You’ll definitely fit into something here.”
Wyll mumbles, not wanting to say Asrael’s name. Even though he knows his husband is gone, this still feels like cheating of some kind.
The elf shrugs, but the outfit he’s in has all sorts of raised embroidered gilding on the blouse- it would be uncomfortable to lay in. He hands him some pajamas out of Asrael’s engraved dresser, and the Duke went to his bathroom to change himself, ready for bed.
When he returns the elf is changed, and is back to lying on the bed flat on his back, like a corpse.
Wyll climbs into bed, pulls the man into his arms. Pretending like everything was okay, like he was holding his husband, like he had for two decades at that point. It did, in fact bring comfort- without facing the other man- Wyll could wash away into normalcy, and he felt himself easing, though the man was much colder than Asrael, he smelled nice, and nuzzling into him he could just pretend it was cold out, and maybe the couple had left their French doors open- and maybe his husband was trying a new perfume, he had lots to choose from after all.
It seems though it was now the elf’s turn to be uncomfortable with this turn of events. He’s frigid- both in temperature and posture. He doesn’t seem to relax, as the minutes pass.
“You don’t like to cuddle?”
He says softly, spooning the slightly smaller man, arms wrapped tightly around him. Astarion’s back is scarred, or maybe tattooed? He can feel something raised underneath the thin blouse, but Wyll thinks it impolite to ask. He kissed his back though, once, twice, three times- and the man in his arms shivers.
“I don’t really do it all that often.”
The elf said quietly, the flirtatious persona seeming to drop.
“That’s a shame.”
Wyll kisses his neck, lazily. Ran his hand up and down the elf’s arm, before tilting him slightly to kiss him. It’s languid, long, as his tongue goes into the elves mouth and explores every inch of the wetted cavern. The man beside him is mostly quiet, but little noises escape as the nobleman keeps kissing him.
Wyll felt a pang of guilt. This was so wrong. This elf was letting him live in the fantasy he wanted to hide in like a child. He didn’t stop kissing him. He leans further over, kisses his shoulder, turning him slightly. The elf’s eyes were closed- good- he could continue to pretend.
The Duke's lips then brushed against the elf's neck, he kisses his strange puncture wound, his adam’s apple before continuing to suck and kiss his way down. Wyll’s hands roamed over the elf's skin, tracing patterns and exploring the contours of his body. Astarion shivered slightly under his touch, but didn't pull away.
“You know, we can just fuck. You don’t have to….seduce me. I’m already in your bed.”
The elf says with some humor, though there’s lust straining his voice now, making it raspier.
Wyll’s head tilts up from the man’s stomach, he’d been kissing his way down to his groin, lightly palming the man through the thin pajama pants, and he hardened quickly.
Another pang of guilt. This was not with his lover. This was with a stranger, unfamiliar with his preferences.
“Humor me, will you?”
The elf shrugs, lying back again.
Wyll pulls the man out, kisses the head of his cock before taking him in his mouth, he sucks unhurriedly, his head moving up and down. The elf’s hands find his hair, and the human can hear small, muffled gasps as he takes him in. His hips stir beneath him, bit by bit, rocking into the nobleman- but he doesn’t mind. He goes back and forth like this for some time, pulling out Astarion and licking the side of the shaft, before sucking again.
He pulls himself out, jerking off lazily as he takes the man into his throat over and over. The elf is actively pushing him into his cock now, and his breathing is rapid, uneven.
Finally when the elf is very hard in his mouth, his hands keep pulling at Wyll’s hair, and his hips are rocking into him, the nobleman pulls away, slightly wiping his face with his arm- before leaning back down- going to lick the man’s hole- one or two lazy swipes of his tongue, kissing it before pulling away.
The elf is huffing, quivering, and Wyll smiles to himself- his head tilts up.
“Do you want to be on top, or shall I?”
The elf looks down at him, eyes half-lidded- clouded with lust and confusion.
“Well. What do you want?”
Astarion finally says, struggling to get his breathing under control.
“I’ve been married to a man for twenty years- I don’t really have a particular preference.”
The elf squints down at the noblemen quizzically for just a flash of a second, before his head falls back on pillow.
“I’d….I’d like to top.”
Astarion doesn’t move, but Wyll doesn’t particularly mind. He liked spoiling his husband, and it was easy to pretend it was him, looking down at the pretty pale elf in his bed. His face was flushed, and he was fidgeting with the sheets- eyes closed and head tilted into the silk pillows.
He was already hard, standing up and leaking pre-cum in slow dribbles thanks to Wyll’s previous ministrations. He grabbed lube from the bedside table, tilted and prepped himself, slipping his fingers in with practiced ease. Still, his breath hitched. The man lying on the bed watched this with interest, and his hand went to his cock, stroking it slightly.
Wyll chuckled.
“You like what you see?”
He says breathily, humor in his voice.
“Yes.”
The other man replied, sounding almost awe-struck.
Wyll takes a shaky breath, removing his fingers before straddling the other man, looking down at him. He can’t pretend it’s Asrael anymore, because the man’s eyes are open, watching him intently- but Wyll is so horny at this point it’s easy to tamp the guilt down, at least temporarily. He began to sink down onto the other man.
Both men groaned in unison. It felt good, being stretched open like this and his muscles fluttered, slowly sinking onto the other man. Wyll moaned, started to bounce up and down as soon as the other man was bottomed out.
The nobleman moved with abandon- and he could feel the man rocking into him. His pace was sharper, faster than how his husband would usually start out- but Wyll liked it. He met him at the point of their connection- slamming down into him as the elf thrust upward.
He felt the other man’s hand on his thigh, stroking encouragingly. Wyll had a flash of déjà vu- he’d done this many times before, and he’d felt that hand many times before. He groaned, his head going backwards and his eyes closing with pleasure. He felt- a sting. Of something. He looked down blearily at his thigh and saw it was bleeding, just a tiny red line. He squinted with confusion, but the man was pulling him forward, pressing them together stomach to stomach- whispering that he was so good at this, so beautiful- as he continued to thrust up inside of him.
He panted against the elf, as he took control of the situation, rocking harder and harder up into him. Wyll was moaning wantonly, and the elf was huffing, unsteady- his own gasps of pleasure loud in Wyll’s ears. The human reached down, jerking himself off in time with the other man’s rough pace, but he felt dizzy, off.
He tried to sit back up, but he found the man’s arms were wrapped around his neck, kissing him. When had that happened? He groaned with pleasure as a particularly hard thrust shot through him, jerking him upwards slightly in the pale elf’s arms. It did feel so good. Everything felt so good. He panted against the man’s chest, eyes sliding up to a portrait of himself and his husband. They were in full regalia wearing the crests of their houses- younger, both with such serious expressions on their faces. It was funny how noble paintings were posed- They’d both spent most of their lives smiling.
He shuddered, feeling the man inside him practically sob against his neck. He was snapping into him at an erratic pace, jostling the bed- which was impressive- their bed was huge and heavy.
He moaned, trying to keep himself jerking off in pace with the elf but he found he couldn’t really. His hand fell into the sheet, and he just let the pleasurable feeling of his prostrate being battered wash over him. He came- and his body tensed
Wyll let out a strangled gasp as he felt the man beneath him’s thrusts become erratic. He felt so good, this felt like the Heavens themselves. His nails dug into the pale elf, and he yelped when he felt the man’s teeth sink into him. It hurt, they were too sharp, inhumanly deep! But it felt so good, almost amplifying his euphoria. He groaned with the elf as he came deep inside of him, his teeth still in his neck.
Wyll went limp against the other body, but the euphoric feeling didn’t leave- he felt himself be rolled over onto his back. He panted, trying to get his breathing under control post orgasm, but found he couldn’t. He felt like he was floating, the bed a massive sea beneath him. He felt something change and found it was his husband leaning over him.
Wyll looked up at Asrael, who was looking down at him with an intense longing, desperate expression. It made the man’s heart flutter, and he smiled up at the elf. The nobleman shivered as he felt his love pinch his nose, cover his mouth, blinking rapidly. That was good, he must’ve come back for him. Wyll felt happy that he didn’t even have to be away from him long. Being parted had been torture, even for a day. He felt bliss as his life was snuffed out- an easy end to an easy life.
-
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Astarion stared down at the body on the bed. Tried to compartmentalize it, but this one was going to be difficult. There had always been a few stand-outs in his working for Cazador, times when he’d been ordered to do something so monstrous it terrorized him in bed.
Sebastian was one. One of his firsts after being turned. He had been a shy, bookish virgin who’d never even been kissed. He’d manipulated the young man. Sebastian had so fully and completely fallen in love with Astarion- and then Astarion had promptly brought him to Cazador. The way the man had looked at him when Cazador wrapped around him. The fear in his eyes- and yet he still had trusted Astarion- right until Cazador bit down. The way Cazador had looked at him. His master had been so pleased. Their expressions often flashed in his mind unbidden when he slept.
After that Astarion specifically targeted drunks, perverts, brutes, criminals, and people too high out of their mind to know what was happening to them. He could justify those in his mind in most cases, twist them to be okay. Besides, Astarion didn’t fall for them- and sex with them was a self-flagellation of sorts. He didn’t deserve to feel good or be around good people. Cazador also hated this type of prey. It was one of the reasons he was his least favorite spawn.
There’d also been a teenage girl in their attic, an elf spawn he and his brother had been forced to bring down to Cazador, that apparently he’d kept up there for decades, trying to wear her down to be his. The brutality of that night stuck out in his mind.
The Gur children were another. Probably the worst in truth. He’d justified it to himself as he and his siblings went and spirited them all away- He told himself it was payback for what the nomadic people had done to him. He himself had pulled two sleeping girls from their tents, jaw set- This was revenge he told himself. Yet as he’d walked the rooftops carrying the two little girls under each arm- He began to feel quite ill. They’d both been so young, they were certainly under ten. How they had screamed for their father the entire time, begged for help- for him to please let them go. Till their tiny voices became hoarse from crying, screaming. They’d looked up at him with such primal terror- He was a stranger- a monster. Their hysteria had made him so sick he’d had to stop multiple times, steady himself so he would not vomit. After he handed them over to Cazador- Who’d been grinning madly- After Astarion shut the office door, heard the screams of those little girls get shriller- When they started shrieking- He had vomited, before bolting from the office door, crying and in hysterics himself.
He had truly felt like the most abhorrent monster in the world. The little girls tear-stricken faces had haunted him all night, and if he was not compelled to not end it he certainly would have after that nightmarish ordeal.
Wyll would now be added to that list, of unforgettably bad, and unforgivable acts he’d been forced to do in Cazador’s name. He was certainly not the worst- the ones involving children would probably always take that place- but this was an awful one. Cazador had told him he was to go to an upper city event, and Astarion had been almost excited- As the least favorite his life was by far the worst of all the spawn. He almost never was sent anywhere nice, unless someone wealthy requested him (which usually wasn’t a good thing either). He was filthy sewer trash to Cazador- and he made him crawl in it- everyday of his life.
So he had to assassinate some rich noble- even a Grand Duke- they were all bastards anyway. He’d been whored out to plenty of them. But the Duke hadn’t been a bastard- had not been one he’d ever met before.
He’d been a grieving widower, vulnerable. He had been far too sweet, too gentle to Astarion- who’d basically forced his way upstairs. To kill him. Astarion had forgotten there were good and kind people in the world- and then he’d promptly taken that good person out of it.
Cazador had told him to use the needle full of alinduth. Apparently it was not enough to kill this man- he had to be humiliated, as a Grand Duke he’d surely be autopsied. Then, the drug would be found in his system. The incorruptible Grand Duke was a drug addict, just as filthy as everyone else in this city. Typical of Cazador- cruelty wasn’t enough- there had to be humiliation as well.
His eyes drifted to the streams of light coming through the curtains. It was day. He was stuck in this house until nightfall. Cazador would certainly punish him for taking so long. His eyes drifted to the beautiful body- with a bite mark on the bed. His stomach dropped. He’d bitten him in the throes of passion. The vampire was not allowed to bite people. Would that be reported on as well? Surely. Plus the implication someone else had been here…..Astarion could imagine Cazador reading the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette now. His face hardening.
Oh the punishments he would receive! He deserved them though didn’t he? Despair quickly settling over the vague shot of panic like a familiar shroud.
The house creaked and moved around him. An old noble house. He did not belong here. He belonged in a cage. The elf almost looked forward to it, he was so repulsive, so utterly loathsome.
The vampire’s eyes drifted up to the portrait of the noblemen; Wyll and Asrael. They looked back down at him, unseeing faces pressed into hard lines. Astarion had intended to steal a painting of the elf. So he could remember what he looked like- even if it was just an approximation it would be nice to have, hidden between his thin mattress and breaking bed frame. Besides they had so many, big and small everywhere, one little one would not be noticed by detectives.
Astarion would not take anything from this house though. He did not deserve to. These people had been good, and he was not.
Astarion laid back down, pulled the corpse flush to him. He wrapped his arms around the limp, lifeless body. For a few hours he could at least still pretend to be. Pretend he was the elf in the portrait, as he had for the Duke. A good person. Astarion didn’t think Asrael would mind too much, since he was dead downstairs. He leaned. Kissed the corpse. He still smelled good- He was still warm. His loins stirred for the human.
Oh. How monstrous was he? And there really was no Cazador to blame for this. He just- he wanted to be someone else a little longer. Be good a little longer. He kept kissing the body, his hands wandering. He mimicked what the human had done to him, kissing his neck- kissing up and down his body, trails his hands up and down. Tried to be soft, gentle. The nobleman was really beautiful- smooth dark skin, perfectly fit- broad and muscular. Such a handsome face too- long dark lashes, warm brown eyes, big pretty lips. A moan bubbled up from the vampire, unbidden. Astarion wants the man so badly. He never wanted anyone more. This. This is what he is- a vile monstrous creature, but he doesn’t care. He can pretend. This is his house, this is his bed, this is his husband. He pushes the man’s legs up, and he’s still wet and pliant from their last encounter. The vampire sinks in easily- and he groans.
Astarion closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of being inside the human. He moves in a slow, deliberate rhythm, he doesn’t want it to be over too quickly. The warmth of the man's still fresh body envelops him, and Astarion feels a mixture of pleasure and guilt wash over him. He leans forward, and kisses the man’s face, the side of his jaw as he moves. His beard tickles him slightly. Astarion settles in the crook of his neck, pumping languidly into the corpse, kissing his bite mark, sucking, leaving more marks.
It’s fine- He belonged in the kennels for this- and Cazador didn’t deserve a perfect crime scene. Let him torture him for months for this transgression. At least right now he felt good.
Astarion whimpers, moans softly into the human as he feels the sensations of pleasure shooting through him. The memory of the human's touch sends shivers down his spine, heightening his pleasure. Astarion bites down gently on Wyll’s neck again, and again, and again. Of course he doesn’t draw blood. He’d become ill from a corpse, but he so desperately wanted to- Why hadn’t he fed from him when he had the chance? He was sure the nobleman had tasted sweet.
Astarion started to move faster, shockwaves of pleasure shooting through him. The house was completely quiet besides Astarion’s gasping, the sound of their bodies coming together.
It built far too quickly, he was still overstimulated. The elf’s eyes squeezed shut and he let out a hoarse cry as the waves of pleasure crest and break over him. His body tensed and trembled, every muscle straining under the weight of his ecstasy. He keeps pumping, until all of his seed is deep inside the cooling corpse, grunting and gasping with each harsh movement. The body jerks upwards with each thrust.
Finally he stills. The bliss of organism fades away, and he’s left panting and trembling, trying to catch his breath. He looks down at his cum leaking out of the body numbly. Astarion pulls out. He can hear bird’s chirping outside. What time was it? Five, six, seven? The vampire imagines waking up in this room. Wyll smiling warmly at him. He felt cries of anguish bubbling up. This was not his room. This was not his bed. This was not his husband.
Oh but how he hungered for it to be so. He would take thirty-eight happy years over his two hundred plus of the Hells in a heartbeat. He would do anything for it. Astarion yearned more than anything to be the elf that this room had belonged too. At least until nightfall, he could keep pretending. He slipped back into the soft sheets, back under the covers. The vampire pulled them over himself, and the body. Brought the corpse to him again. He was cold now. Astarion didn’t mind, so was he.
The vampire wrapped his arms around the nobleman, pressed his face into him. Cried. Hard rocking sobs that filled the whole house. Anguished wailing into the man’s broad back, soaking it. Wyll didn’t seem to mind. The elf again imagined himself to be the other, that this was his home. He was Asrael, and his husband and him were just sleeping in. He smiled into the man’s back, at the conjured image. That was the most content he’d felt in over two hundred years, daydreaming, snuggled against a corpse.
He slept.