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“Oh, no,” Astarion drawls, draping his head back against the headboard. “What a terrible predicament I’m in! My cruel husband is tying me to his bed! I dearly hope he doesn’t plan to ravish me after he spends six fucking hours failing to tie me up—”
“You little shit,” Wyll says, affectionately. “Squeeze my hand?”
“I literally don’t have a circulatory system,” Astarion points out, squeezing back regardless. “You physically cannot harm me like this.”
Wyll gives a final tug to the silk tie around Astarion’s left wrist. “That doesn’t mean it can’t be uncomfortable. You still have nerves and skin, my love, and I don’t intend to damage either of them.”
“You’re sweet,” Astarion says, in the dulcet tones of someone who has spent all day awaiting his evening ravishment and is beginning to lose patience. “Too sweet. I want a divorce.”
“I’ll get you the papers in the morning, then. There.” Wyll finishes what better be the last of his fussing with a flourish, which he punctuates by kissing the tip of Astarion’s nose. “All done.”
Astarion wiggles. There is a little give, but not much—he could probably get out of these restraints given enough time or perhaps a dislocated thumb or two. Not that he’ll have to, between Wyll and the emergency shears in the bedside table. But it’s nice to have options.
It’s quite wonderful to have options, actually. Astarion seems to have a few more of them every single day; which, he’ll admit, is perhaps why he’s found such delight in having them narrowed down for him again. There is a distinct and decadent pleasure in a choice as simple as yes or no, loudly or quietly, the easy way or the hard way.
Astarion prefers the hard way, naturally.
He has had enough of being the biddable lover, the pliant body. There are no compulsions now—if Wyll desires to tame him, he must do so the old fashioned way, with rope and rein. The physicality of a silk tie is a luxury he’ll never take for granted.
“What do you have in store for us tonight?" Astarion asks, in his very levelest voice, half-bored, as if he isn't already half-hard just from the way Wyll looks at him, frames him with his hands as he slides himself, neatly, over Astarion's body and settles with his weight just over Astarion's hips.
Not all of his weight, of course. Wyll is so frustratingly lovely, with those thick dancer's thighs that let him crouch above Astarion without pushing him down—unless Astarion asks nicely.
“Hmm…” The tone of Wyll’s voice is all thoughtful consideration, but the gleam in his eye speaks to him having had an agenda in mind for quite some time. “Tonight… I think I’m going to have some fun with these.”
Astarion tries, and fails, not to shudder audibly as Wyll brushes the sides of his hands, ticklishly-light, down the outer shells of both of his ears.
“O-oh?” Astarion manages. “Time to indulge in another of your disgusting fetishes, is it?”
Wyll laughs. The vibration shakes the air between them, but not his hands—his thumbs are steady as they trace back up to the sensitive points of Astarion’s ears.
“H-honestly.” Astarion shivers as Wyll’s hands make another patient circuit. “This is embarrassing. Can’t you just stick your cock in me like a regular person?”
“Nope,” Wyll says, popping the word between his lips like a cherry. “I’m afraid not."
This is not the first time they have played this game. It's been at least a dozen rounds of it since Astarion first spied that dog-eared (ha) piece of half-witted elf-fetish erotica in Wyll's collection, though some… recent conversations have introduced an element they haven't yet explored outside of fiction.
Is that what Wyll intends for them to try, tonight?
Astarion tries to communicate his question with a Significant Eyebrow Lift, but the effect is rather spoiled by Wyll's careful attentions. Another circuit of his warm hands, and just as the sensation begins to turn from sensual to ticklish, Wyll changes the game—presses his palms flat against the sensitive tips. A sound—neither a question nor a word—escapes Astarion's mouth.
“My, such a beautiful pair of ears," Wyll murmurs. "I do love the way they twitch. You can never lie to me, my star—I can see just how much you want, and where.”
Astarion swallows. "Hardly," he says, though it comes out as a gasp.
Wyll ignores him.
“I think, perhaps, I'm going to pierce them. Here,” Wyll pinches down by the lobe, “and here.” He pinches again, the sharp pricks of nails against the narrow curve almost at the very point of Astarion’s ears.
Oh, that is the game tonight.
Astarion shivers so hard his hips buck.
“You like that, don't you?” Wyll pinches again. “Ahh, they're already turning pink with the blood you took from me. That's my blood in you, Astarion. That means I get to do what I like with you, don't you think?”
Oh, Wyll deserves all the blessings of all the rotting gods. He threads so nimbly through the old wounds that ought to sting and stitches the aches back into pleasure.
Yes, Wyll can do what he likes with him.
"Don't—don't you dare," Astarion says, shaking his head just so he can feel the way his ears pull against Wyll's gentle hold.
"Here I thought you wanted me to be daring," Wyll says, because he is also, in so many surprising ways, a little shit. “How's this: I'm going to put a ring here, and here. And then I'm going to slide a chain through. A pretty lead for my pretty monster."
Wyll smiles, bright and dimpled.
"You'll be good for me then, won't you, my star?" he says. "One tug of my hand, and you'll come to heel. At my side, where you belong, never out of sight."
A delirious image—Astarion, paraded through the streets on a silver chain where everyone can see him for the slut he is—streaks through his head.
“I think, when I'm ready to let you rest, I'll loop the ends of the chains around the bed posts," Wyll continues, warm and soft as velvet. "You'll have to stay put, and be on your best behavior, or you'll feel that chain pull taut. If you misbehave too much, I'll just have to make it that much shorter, won't I?”
Please, Astarion thinks, don't threaten me with a good time.
With the very greatest of effort, Astarion schools his expression into a scowl.
"Is all that supposed to impress me?" he says, valiantly steady despite the breath caught in his lungs. "I know your type, dear. Heroes like you, you're all talk."
"Oh, I know you're not easily impressed, my star." Wyll kisses his brow. "Don't worry. I've come prepared."
"Of course you have," Astarion murmurs, not entirely on purpose, because Wyll is going for the bedside drawer that has the emergency shears but also, crucially, a number of very fun supplies. Many of the very best surprises Astarion has ever gotten have come out of that drawer. The shift of Wyll's weight to reach it from the bed, the sound of wood-scraping-wood—it's enough to get his temperamental cock paying better attention than it has all night.
And then he sees what Wyll takes out of the drawer.
"Oh fuck," he blurts.
Wyll pauses. There is, yes, a long, sharp needle in his hand, and a candle, and if Astarion had a heart it likely would have stopped beating, or perhaps raced directly out of his chest.
"Everything alright?" Wyll asks, in an uncertain voice that is slightly at odds with the fact that they are both in their sexiest underthings and Astarion is currently tied to their bed.
It takes an embarrassingly long moment for the words to penetrate Astarion's ears—possibly because Wyll has spent the last few minutes thoroughly bruising and abusing them.
"Yes. Ah, yes, very." Astarion nods as hard as he can without taking his eyes off of Wyll's hands and the contents of them.
Wyll, unfortunately, is still frowning at Astarion's face. "I—I just thought. You said you wanted to try—"
"I did," Astarion cuts in, because now that the haze of lust is receeding and his faculties are returning, he can recognize when Wyll is about to work himself into a tizzy. It is dreadfully hard to get things back on track once that familiar song and dance begins. "Wyll, darling, I assure you that was an oh fuck of unbridled excitement. Now get over here and start doing unspeakable things to me."
A little smile—warmer and more shining than silver—flicks across Wyll's mouth. "If you're sure," he says, though he's slipped back into what Astarion, privately, thinks of as his sexy miscreant register.
"I am absolutely certain." Astarion wraps his hands around the silk ties, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as Wyll gets back into position. "It's been too long since the last time you were cruel with me."
"My love, you were complaining about how cruel I was not five minutes ago."
"Semantics," Astarion says, eyelids fluttering as Wyll digs his thumbnail against the outside edge of his ear again. "Gods, stop teasing—"
"Oh? Are you ready for more? Truly?" The amusement is thick in Wyll's voice—sharp as the pinch of his fingers. "You'll take the pain with no complaint, then? Silent and still, without even a whimper?"
"You know I'm a professional," Astarion says, though the effect of the boast is ruined with a breathless gasp as he feels the touch of metal on his skin—
But only the faintest touch—the drag of a needlepoint on flesh—before its gone.
"Is that it?" Astarion says breathlessly, fighting to put his eagerness into a bored drawl. It isn't fair how easily Wyll excites him with only the temptation, the anticipation of an act. "You truly are all talk—"
Wyll silences him with a finger to his lips. Astarion nips at it.
"Be patient," Wyll chides. "There's a method to these things I shan't rush."
Astarion considers protesting further—perhaps biting Wyll with a proper bit of strength behind it—but Wyll removes his finger and there is a puff of prestidigitation against Astarion's skin.
At another, earlier time Astarion might have protested all these extra steps; after all, it isn't as if he can get any normal infection from poor sanitation. But Wyll insists upon an excess of care whenever they get up to one of their games, and—like the sound of the opening drawer—the tingle of magic has come to mean only good things to Astarion's mind.
Wyll spins the needle in his fingers. It glints, wicked in the candle's glow.
"There may be little need for such precaution," Wyll says, as if reading his mind. "But… it never hurts to be careful, does it?"
Wyll runs the blade of the needle through the candle-flame. Longer, likely, than concerns of hygiene demand—long enough that Astarion's sensitive nose twitches at the smell of hot iron in the air. How Wyll is managing to keep hold of the needle despite the heat is, frankly, a mystery Astarion has no interest in solving. Not when Wyll at last sets the candle aside and leans over him again, a hand braced to the side of Astarion's head.
Wyll kisses him, short and breathless.
"Now, hold still," Wyll murmurs. "I have to check the proper placement."
Astarion tries to kick him.
He doesn't try very hard.
"Am I going to need to tie your legs as well?" Wyll swats the meat of Astarion's thigh—much thicker, now, than it was when they first met, and capable of bursting with a sweet sting in the shape of Wyll's hand. Really, Wyll could hit him harder than that.
"Behave," Wyll scolds, as Astarion squirms again.
"Give me a reason to," Astarion shoots back. "Make me regret it or—ah!"
The sound is more from shock than pain as Wyll grabs him by the chin and the needle slides through the flesh of his earlobe. Astarion has no chance to adjust to the stab of pain before he feels the touch of more metal as some manner of ring is fitted through the hole.
And then Wyll tugs on it.
"Beautiful," Wyll says, at the choked gasp that claws out of Astarion's throat. He presses his lips to Astarion’s cheek, too far from the aching wound he's still toying with. "Beautiful, my star, doing so well—"
No. He's not ready to be praised.
He hasn't earned it yet.
Astarion twists his head so hard to the side he almost impales himself on Wyll’s horn—saved at the last moment by Wyll's quick reflexes and Astarion’s own instinct born of experience. You impale yourself on your husband's horns one time and that is enough to make one cautious for life, truly.
"I barely felt that," Astarion lies, forcing the scorn into his voice. "If you're going to hurt me, then hurt me, stop holding back—"
Wyll gives the fresh piercing a brutal twist.
Pain—sharper than the needle itself, brighter than a slap, shearing through thought. Words skitter out of Astarion’s mouth.
"Is that pain enough for you?" Wyll asks, grinning.
Astarion's thoughts are stinging. "Fuck you," he mutters.
Wyll rubs his ear as if to soothe the pain away, though his touch is bruising enough to send Astarion back to shuddering. "Other side, now," Wyll murmurs.
Astarion starts to obey, only to catch himself. He turns his head the other way instead, glaring.
"Fuck you," he says again, louder. He's not in the mood to submit too readily tonight.
Wyll sighs, low and theatrical.
"I was going to save this for the end," he tuts, mock disappointed. Astarion shivers anyway, hearing that tone on him. "I should've known you'd need extra help listening."
Back to the drawer. The wood-scrape sound that once again has a visible effect on Astarion’s erection—gods help him should he ever go to a carpentry shop ever again—and yes. All of Astarion’s prayers are answered.
Wyll has in his hands a fine silver chain.
"Don't struggle," Wyll coaches him as he threads the chain through Astarion's earring. "The more you thrash about, the more it will hurt."
The chain hooks through a hole in the headboard. Gods, but Wyll planned this well.
"This is for your own good, you know," Wyll says—breathless, as if with exertion, though Astarion suspects otherwise from the bulge in his pants. "You need to learn how to behave."
"Perhaps I would learn faster if you were a better teacher," Astarion snaps—and winces the instant the words leave his mouth, afraid that the insult sounds harsher than the boundaries of the game permits.
But Wyll only smiles.
"It is true, I've been too lenient with you in the past," he says. "But I know better now. You need a firm hand."
Astarion's ear twitches hard enough to send slivers of pain through him from the jostle of the chain.
Oh, fuck this is going to be hard. (In more ways than one. Ha.)
Wyll gets into position again, straddling him, hot needle in hand. Magic tingles on the flush of Astarion's recently-fed skin. He braces. Tenses.
And nothing happens.
"What are you waiting for?" he explodes. "Just do it!"
"Now, for that little outburst, you're going to have to wait even longer."
Astarion pouts. He whines. Wyll stares down at him, smiling, impassive, impossible.
Astarion wants to buck his hips again, but with the way he's literally chained to the headboard, he's not sure he can risk it.
"Please?" Astarion tries.
This, earns him a wider smile, with dimples.
"Are you ready now, love?" Wyll asks. "Have you gotten the fight out of your system? Are you ready to be my good star again?"
Astarion isn’t going to nod, both because agreeing would be undignified and because of the chain.
"Can't you just get it over with?" he pleads.
"I don't think that would be teaching you very much, now would it? You need to learn patience, my stardust."
Absently, Wyll tugs on the chain, winding it around his finger. Astarion stifles a whimper.
Wyll notices—of course he does, the observant bastard. "You can be loud or quiet, it makes no difference to me," he says, and fuck. Fuck, Astarion is almost completely hard now, his cock straining against the lacy little panties he'd changed into before the game began. He can feel the fabric, damp and clinging to his skin.
"Please," Astarion begs again, though he knows nothing will come of it. "Please."
The words change absolutely nothing in Wyll’s action or expression. Astarion can only lie there, begging, cursing, pleading, until even the impulse to do that much fades away. He shuts his eyes, aware of very little but Wyll's warm body above him, warm hands gentle on his ears and face, and the bruising ache of his body, and the breath pulled into his lungs through habit and not need. He begins to drift.
The needle drives into his other ear.
Astarion's eyes snap open. "That hurt, you bastard!"
The inanity of the outburst, thankfully, does not provoke any particular reaction from Wyll. He is drawing another chain through the piercing already—Astarion hadn't even noticed him fetch it, which is a bit of a shame. He misses the anticipation of the Sex Drawer.
Wyll fastens the chain to the other side of the headboard. Astarion cannot see himself—couldn't, even if they were tacky enough to hang a mirror above their bed—but he imagines how he must look to Wyll now, pinned out like an insect under silver and glass.
"There, you've had your fun," he tries, wriggling his hips in a way that Wyll must be able to notice. "Now can we get to the—the main event?"
"Astarion, this is the main event," Wyll says, ignoring entirely his desperate search for friction. "You asked me to hurt you, remember?"
"That—is a very liberal interpretation of what I—ah—"
Astarion can't help a muffled gasp as his mouth is suddenly filled with Wyll's wrist.
"Bite," Wyll instructs.
Astarion's thoughts leave his head so abruptly he almost blacks out. The world narrows entirely to the twin points of his fangs and the hot skin beneath them, the well of iron-sweet against his tongue.
"That's it—no, don't drink," Wyll scolds, swatting his thigh again. "Just a taste. Lick it before it clots. There we are. Good job."
The arm withdraws. Astarion narrowly stops himself from whimpering.
It is completely unfair how well Wyll weaponizes the intoxicating taste of his blood. He's getting far too good at it.
Astarion does not stop himself from whimpering when Wyll ducks his head, breath ghosting Astarion's skin and the cold metal ring. Wyll sucks the newly-healed piercing between his lips and tugs at it with his teeth.
The dribbling of blood caused the skin to heal, but only just—closed up around the metal intrusion in new, raw flesh. Astarion's whimper turns to a kind of groaning squeal as Wyll rolls the piercing of his other ear between his fingers and pinches in time with his bite. He repeats the process on the other side.
"Perfect," Wyll murmurs, finally breaking away to press a kiss to Astarion's neck. "Now, for the next one."
"Mmwha…?" Astarion says, because he can't really be bothered to make a full sentence. It doesn't matter anyway. Wyll is already holding his ear between his fingers.
"Now, this one will go right at the tip," Wyll is saying, apparently ignorant of the way his words and his grip make Astarion's eyes roll back in his head. "I'll have to be careful in such a delicate spot. We don't want to tear the skin unnecessarily. Can you stay still for me, Astarion?"
"Yes, yes," Astarion says. He was supposed to be pretending aloofness for this, but fuck it, it's not like Wyll doesn't know exactly what this is doing to him. "I'll—I'll stay still for you. I promise."
Wyll smiles like the dawning sun. "There's my sweet star." He cups Astarion's cheek. "Can I trust you, Astarion, truly? I need to know you won't squirm."
Astarion tries to nod, wincing at the pull of the chains. This only makes Wyll smile wider.
"Now, close your eyes," Wyll says, beatifically.
"Ugh, really?" Astarion whines—apparently his instinct to complain is not entirely wiped away. Wyll just raises an eyebrow at him until he complies.
"I won't have you flinching on me," Wyll says, somewhere above him in the darkness.
This time, Astarion hears the sound of the drawer very clearly indeed.
"You can make as much noise as you like," Wyll reminds him.
Astarion is not proud of the noise he makes in response to the reminder.
But again, even with his eyes closed and the drawer open, Wyll makes him wait for it. And wait, and wait—his body taut as a bowstring, caught between impatience and desire. He feels Wyll's lips on his—a bruising kiss that's both too slow and ends too soon. He feels Wyll's hand skim, lightly, down his side and to his thighs, expertly missing the spots where Astarion most desires touch.
Then, the needle.
"Fuck!" Astarion cries out—shocked at how much sharper the pain was than the other two piercings. The thin tip of his ear is bruised and smarting, even as Wyll peppers kisses along his forehead and his still-bound wrists, solemnly enduring the round of oaths and insults to his parentage that come to Astarion's lips. True to his word, Wyll lets him be as loud as he wishes without complaint.
In some ways, that is a greater aphrodesiac than the pain itself: that whatever Astarion endures he is allowed to voice, almost as if Wyll doesn't hear him at all. Wyll never strikes him harder just to hear him shriek, never comments on the sweetness of his screaming, never is at all offended if the supposed beauty of his outcries are marred by swears and crude complaints. Wyll is placidly indifferent to it all. Not even silence angers him. Astarion almost bit his lip in half, once, trying to keep quiet during a scene. Wyll's only concern was for the state of the wound at the end of it, and if Astarion might prefer a gag.
"Good to go on?" Wyll asks in an undertone, as if there is some imaginary audience that might overhear if he voiced his concerns too openly.
Astarion has no such qualms.
"Yes, please, gods, don't stop," he moans. If they stop now he thinks he might literally die. Again.
Astarion's words, and remaining rational thought, scatter as Wyll curls the tip of his ear around the new piercing, crushing it in his hand. Wyll relents only when Astarion beats his heels against the bed.
"A firm hand," Wyll murmurs, thumbing the tears off Astarion's cheeks. "That's what you needed, isn't it, my love? You only bit and snapped because you needed me to shorten the leash. Too much freedom is frightening—but you feel so safe when I take you in hand."
Astarion is far too horny to be psychoanalyzed at the moment, even in the context of a sex game. Whatever expression is on his face makes Wyll laugh.
"All right, all right! Time for the last one, my star."
"Please," Astarion says, already begging before he hears the scrape of the drawer. He closes his eyes tight, grabbing at the ties around his wrists. "Please, please—"
Wyll kisses his cheek again—soft lips and rough stubble. "You've done such a good job waiting for me, my love. Just a little longer now."
Astarion begins to voice a complaint—or perhaps just beg a little more—when he is torn open without warning by the bite of the needle.
This time, he lets himself howl.
"There, all done," Wyll soothes, feeding the chain through the last of the piercings with what is probably more fastidiousness than strictly necessary. Astarion has the feeling he's done something terribly clever and intricate with hanging the chains off the rings and each other, but he has no way to tell. At this point, he can barely keep his eyes open. Every new throb and ache is sending him further and further into a soft place—the state of sensation without thought that is so often the end goal of their games.
"Look at me, my star."
Astarion forces himself to look. Wyll is smiling softly down at him, twisting a chain around his finger.
"If only you could see yourself right now," Wyll murmurs, pulling gently on the chain until Astarion's eyes flutter. "You're lovely in every light, but like this, when you've put your walls away? You're more precious than words could tell. I should commission a portrait of you, just like this."
"What would you do?" Astarion doesn't mean to ask—the words just tumble out of his mouth without permission. He feels dazed and drifting, half-drunk. "With… with the portrait, I mean."
"What would you like me to do with it?" Wyll parries. "Should I hang it in the hallway, for all our guests to see? They'll know what it takes to make you behave—and how sweet you can be when you want to be."
Astarion squirms, imagining it—a feeling right on the edge between discomfort and arousal, mortification and desire.
"But no." Wyll kisses the bruised tips of Astarion's ears, nibbling them lightly with his teeth. He whispers, like it's a secret, "if I had such a picture, I would hang it in our rooms. Just for the two of us alone."
There's no particular reason why that sentence should hit Astarion like a fist to the chest—why tears should come to his eyes again, why his hands should clutch at the silk ties and he should wish he was clutching at Wyll instead.
And yet, it does.
"Stop making me cry, you twat," Astarion chokes out.
Wyll laughs—a warm sound, rolling and enveloping, and Astarion finds his eyelids fluttering again just to better listen to it: the sound of Wyll's breath; the steady drum of his heart.
"I was going to give you a choice, but I rather think you've just made it for me." Astarion's pulse ticks up—he loves and hates when Wyll gives him choices. It almost always means a choice between pleasure and more punishment, which is a terrible thing to have to choose between.
"I didn't mean for tonight to be a punishment," Wyll says, as if he still has a tadpole that can read Astarion's mind. "The pain was a side-effect, not a means to an end. But if you need a little more discipline to soothe your sour tongue, I am happy to provide. Look at me."
These last words are not sharp, but they are strong—a command that has Astarion obeying before he has the chance to think about it. He knows Wyll does this on purpose—makes him keep his eyes open when they're about to do anything he thinks might dredge up old memories, as if Astarion can anchor himself to the moment just by the sight of Wyll above him.
The worst part is, it works.
The extra worst part is that Astarion is starting to associate eye contact with orgasms, which is another thing that's going to cause some kind of public embarrassment at some point—but Astarion isn't going to think about that right now. Mostly because he can't think about much of anything right now, because Wyll is finally reaching behind himself to brush his hand against Astarion's still-clothed cock.
Lightly, still, and over the lace, but the warmth of Wyll's skin is an unexpected balm that sends an unexpected yearning lancing through him. He shivers and jerks, almost dislodging Wyll from the bed.
"Look at me," Wyll reminds him, as he takes Astarion in hand and starts to stroke him. "That's good—stay focused, my star."
Too much pleasure with nothing else can become monotanous for him, but Wyll understands that far too well, using his free hand to rub at Astarion's ears, to test the pull of the chains. More than simply good, it feels satisfying. Astarion feels himself buoyed along in the moment, aloft in a place of praise and warmth, where even punishment feels like salvation.
Pleasure builds as it always does for him, now that he is no longer compelled into it—slowly, slowly, almost without his notice, and then into a sudden crescendo. He chokes—he grabs at nothing—he begs—
And Wyll stops touching him.
Astarion makes a low, embarrassing noise, a kind of "Mmngah!" because his first instinct, which is to curse Wyll and all his family, is completely circumvented by the snap of pain that zings across the fresh piercings in his ears and makes even the healed ones sting him like the bite of a white-hot snake.
Wyll flexes his fingers—a thin crackle of lightning hops from the pad of his thumb.
"W-Wyll," Astarion starts, though he knows that begging will be no help at this point. The choice is made, and his fate is sealed, and good gods the thought of it alone is bringing him almost to the edge again.
"I know, my star," Wyll says, in that rich, loving voice that means he will be no help at all. "Another moment, and we'll start again."
He is dreadfully true to his word.
The pleasure builds—how strange and impossible is it, that for godsdamned years, rotten fucking centuries, Astarion had thought this kind of pleasure was beyond him. Sex was inconvenience, it was essential, it was discomfort, it was effort, it was boredom. Arousal was a rare guest. Orgasm was a pipe dream. The first time he and Wyll had sex he'd explained that trying to get him off would be a wasted effort—that the most he ever mustered was a half-masted half-interest.
And now he's on the verge of tears, because Wyll won't let him come.
"I can't," Astarion sobs, the second time his release is stifled before it can start, his nerves alight with the electric pain that, in truth, does nothing to smother his arousal. "I can't, I can't—"
"Shh," Wyll says, so soothing, even as he's the one driving Astarion out of his mind. The stupid, animal part of Astarion’s brain latches onto the kindness, the safety of his voice, letting everything else fall away. "You can, I know you can. You're doing so well. Just one more for me, and then I'll let you come."
Astarion clings to Wyll's voice because he has nothing else to cling to.
His thighs are shaking. His head is on fire and the rest of him is melting into sunlight. The pleasure builds and builds and builds and Astarion feels like every single one of his nerves is tuned to the same pitch as Wyll drags him closer and closer to the edge.
"One more," Wyll murmurs, a promise and a prayer, "one more—"
Wyll pulls his hand away. The lightning-strike of electric pain spears Astarion straight through—
And he comes explosively across his stomach.
Astarion slumps in his bindings, spent. There is absolutely nothing in his head but a vague, wispy memory of a kind of orgasmic apotheosis. There is, likely, nothing left in his body either. He thinks he might have turned himself inside out, somehow.
He's a little surprised to note that Wyll has used the emergency knife to cut him down. And that Wyll is bundling him up in his arms and about half of their blankets. That's not such an unusual way for one of their games to end, but the urgency about it is uncomfortable.
“Astarion? My love?”
“…mm?” Astarion realizes that Wyll is squeezing his hand—one of their little check-ins. He squeezes back, when he remembers how to move his fingers.
“Are you with me?" Wyll asks.
“…yes?” Astarion squints up at Wyll’s beautiful but far-too-serious face. He looks oddly stricken. “What happened?”
“You…” Wyll’s face does something far too complicated for Astarion to bother deciphering, “sort of… screamed.”
“Oh,” Astarion says. He hadn’t noticed. After a moment, he asks, “…was it a good scream?”
Wyll lets out a puff of shaky laughter. “I think that’s for you to tell me, star."
Astarion mashes his face into Wyll's pectorals. Wyll has such a nice chest: pillowy and pleasant to press against.
“Then yes,” he decides, muffled. “Good scream.”
"I'm glad to hear it, love."
Wyll rubs his back through the blankets—a firm pressure, pleasant and grounding, bringing Astarion back out of that vague floating place moment by moment.
A thought slowly unravels in Astarion's mind. "I… wasn't supposed to come then, was I?"
"It's alright," Wyll says, somehow soothing away an anxiety before Astarion even realized it began to form. Failing at Wyll's bedroom commands is really only fun when he does it on purpose. "You were perfect tonight, Astarion. I loved it."
"I loved it, too," Astarion admits. Then, "Did you really make me come so hard you scared yourself?"
"Astarion—"
"You did!" Astarion cackles madly to himself for a good, oh, two or three minutes. Which really only proves how much of a saint Wyll is, as even as his face gets more and more flushed the longer the laughing fit continues, he doesn't do anything reasonable about it—like push Astarion off the other side of the bed, or decapitate him.
"Darling," Astarion says, wiping his eyes, "that's adorable. I'm never going to let you forget about this, you know."
"I'm glad we're getting divorced tomorrow, then," Wyll says—a valiant attempt at humor from a man who appears to be trying to devise an invisibility spell from nothing but raw embarrassment. Astarion cackles one last time and buries his face in Wyll's neck.
"Hey, no biting," Wyll chastizes him, gently. "You can have a drink after we take the piercings out."
Astarion twitches with a happy little shiver at the thought—he'll be a little sad to ruin Wyll's handiwork with his own regeneration, but there's no disappointment if it means they'll get to do this all over again another night.