emotions are for ugly people

homesexuality, hedonism, headassery || 23 || français & english || she/they/he writing, poetry, roleplay & || BG3, Hamilton, DRF ||

[legrandepapillon]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 11/30 Fandom: Hamilton - Miranda Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Aaron Burr/Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Past Aaron Burr/Theodosia Prevost Burr - Relationship, Aaron Burr & Maria Lewis Reynolds, Maria Lewis Reynolds & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette Characters: Aaron Burr, Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Maria Lewis Reynolds, Maximilien Robespierre, Theodosia Burr Alston, Catherine "Kitty" Livingston, Susan Reynolds (b.1785), Alexander Hamilton Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Modern Era, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, not between the main ship but still, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Supermodel!Lafayette, Defense Lawyer!Burr, Found Family, Slow Burn, Domestic Fluff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Sex Work, Escort Service, Microaggressive Racism, would you believe that wasn't a tag yet?, Sex Trafficking, Gang Rape, Rape Aftermath, Whump, Domestic Violence, not between the main ship, Physical Abuse, Past Drug Addiction, Charity Auctions, Phone Sex, accidental love confession Series: Part 1 of The Sinners & The Saints Summary:

In a world where nothing makes sense, Aaron Burr feels like an explanation. The only problem? Lafayette is afraid of understanding.

A story told in multiple parts, puzzle pieces to a bigger picture, of how Aaron Burr relearns the steps to falling in love & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette understands what it means to freefall into trust again.

[chapters every Monday & Friday.]

[legrandepapillon]

Velvet Linen

Summary: It all came undone with a sweater.

Rating: E

Notes: i wanted modern domestic slice of life wyllstarion & then realized that was probably niche enough that i’d have to write it myself. life is so unfair. anyways here have these boys fucking, as a treat

Astarion hates doing the laundry.

Truly, if he could, he’d leave it for Wyll to do. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gotten away with it. His lovable long-term boyfriend was usually more than happy to take over any chores that Astarion didn’t want to do—which, in the very beginning of their relationship, had been a fair amount.

Compared to Wyll who had been given since the age of seventeen to come to terms with all peaks and valleys of living on one’s own—Astarion had little to no actual life skills. A combination of a tragic childhood and a knife-edge youth meant he’d never had time to learn basic life skills in between survival. Too busy just trying to endure to know what it was like for normal people to really live, of course.

Wyll had been graciously accommodating early on—taking on most of the housework under the guise of giving Astarion space to adjust to their cohabitation. But he couldn’t coast on willful incompetence forever. Eventually Wyll started becoming too tired between working and managing the house to have any energy leftover for himself, and he’d realized he’d have to suck it up to make it easier for the both of them.

Not all of them were so bad, really. Washing dishes? Easy, even easier when in exchange for Wyll cooking something spicy and filling. Putting away groceries? He could at least count on having it done before his boyfriend would, with Wyll’s tendency to stop and sample food before any could make it into fridge drawers and cupboards. Sweeping, mopping, decluttering, taking out the trash—annoying but otherwise harmless. He and Wyll would take turns dedicating their respective days off with keeping up on top of the housework, and Astarion picked up quickly that fucking on the flat surfaces of a freshly cleaned apartment was much better than rolling around in filth like he’d been forced to before.

He’d even become more neurotic than Wyll in some spaces, particularly about their bedsheets being fresh and the fridge being appropriately stocked.

But laundry. By the gods, he hates laundry. It was made easy by the fact that Wyll’s apartment had in-house washing, and there was no need to lug baskets to and from a laundromat. Yet even that only reduced his loathing by a scant amount. All the sorting and folding and the differences between what can be washed hot and what has to be washed cold. The folding and ironing and hanging and putting up. It was tedious and annoying and Astarion often put it off for as long as he could. 

He would put it off again, too, if it weren’t for the fact that he doesn’t live alone. After all, it’s his turn to do it and he’s already procrastinated for nearly two weeks now. He’s nearly out of acceptable work shirts and trousers, and is completely out of clean underwear.  Plus, he’d seen Wyll sniffing socks to see if they could be re-worn that morning, and that made him guilty enough to feel like he couldn’t neglect it any longer.

After a bit of morning encouragement, Wyll had helpfully moved things along by sorting the clothing into the appropriate piles. He was well aware of his partner's vendetta against the laundering, and knew well enough that anything to budge him along was better than nothing. He hurried off to work immediately afterwards though, leaving Astarion still laying naked in bed—their last set of sheets, too, and now no longer passingly clean—to dread the task ahead.

Of course, Astarion wasted a couple of hours bullshitting on his phone first—spamming their friend group’s message thread with a seemingly endless loop of hilarious fight videos. He might’ve gotten away with doing so all day, but there’s a wet spot in the sheets he keeps rolling into, so eventually he drags himself out of bed to get started around midafternoon. His Majesty slinks out of whatever hiding spot he’d found during the night to slip his body through his ankles, eager for attention now that his competition would be gone for the next ten hours.

Astarion’s shoulders sag when he remembers that even all of his little sweaters could use a wash.

Given that almost all of his appropriate loungewear was filthy, Astarion has to search through what little clothes he and Wyll have left to find something to wear around the apartment. He couldn’t very well stroll around nude… anymore. The blinds on the kitchen window had gotten stuck and their neighbor had a habit of looking across the space in their buildings in more than what was strictly neighborly nosiness. He considers the bag full with unmentionables made of imitation silk and cheap lace glaring at him from the dirty clothes pile—and then swiftly decides that he isn’t desperate enough to sit through the discomfort until he can get a pair washed.

Eventually, he decides on one of Wyll’s tops and pulls it over his head.

It’s one of his boyfriend’s older college hoodies, the lettering cracked and fading from too many runs through the wash and the dark grayish fabric worn down enough to be soft on his bare skin. It covers most of his body, save for a few scant inches of his upper thighs that peek out of the bottom. But its not like it matters—it’s a Thursday, and the only thing that would see would probably be his cat.

Said cat gives him a disapproving look from his spot perched on the foot of their bed. If Astarion could speak with animals, he would probably be saying something along the lines of, Sharing clothes? How droll.

Astarion grimaces at him. “You find something better to wear, Cat; or maybe get off your lazy arse and help tidy up around here.”

His Majesty judges on, unimpressed. Astarion scratches at his naked little ears anyways.

Truthfully, he forgets he’s wearing the sweater as soon as he sets to work. Laundry is always a full day affair with Astarion. Mostly because he’ll complete one part of it, and then reward himself by watching videos on his phone or stopping to snack on something in between. Load the darks in the washer, turn it on. Get distracted for an hour watching reruns of his favorite reality show. Remember the darks—take them out to put in the dryer, toss the whites in with an eye-watering amount of bleach. Stop to eat fistfuls of cereal out of the box and message his group chat with Shadowheart and Minthara. Remember that he forgot to turn the dryer on for the darks. Spend half an hour playing with His Majesty and his cat toy.

Wash, rinse and repeat—no pun intended—until he manages to make some progress. 

It’s his day off from work so he doesn’t mind the time like he would if he had to go in. Hardly pays attention to it, which is probably why he’s startled when he hears the key in the lock. Sitting cross-legged on the couch surrounded by piles of folded laundry and baskets of which still need to be seen to, Astarion’s view of the front door is completely obscured. But he knows who it is, anyway. Only two people had a key to the apartment, and only one of those two had even left the house that day.

A cursory glance towards the time on his phone shows that it is in fact a little bit after seven. Shoulders slump a little in defeat—he’s wasted a whole day off on stupid, gods be damned laundry. He rolls a crick out of his neck before reaching for another hand towel.

“Honey, I’m home,” his boyfriend cheerily calls, oblivious to his dismay. There’s the sound of him toeing his shoes off, and his keys dropping in a wooden dish they kept by the door. Given that the living room is in direct view of the front door, Astarion isn’t surprised by the low whistle of astonishment that Wyll gives as he enters. “Huh, I didn’t realize we’d been putting it off that long. Busy day, I’m assuming?”

“Oh, you know, just the busiest,” Astarion drawls, mostly because they both know it's not entirely true. He’d worked on this one singular task on and off all day, because otherwise it would’ve never gotten finished. They still have dishes in the sink, and nothing at all taken out for dinner. “If I have to fold one more towel…—”

“Let me help you out before I find out what that empty threat entails,” Wyll interrupts, a smile in his voice, finally stepping fully into the living room to get a good look at Astarion. He’s about to go in for his usual greeting kiss to the cheek, but he suddenly hesitates mid gesture. One hand leaning his weight on the back of the couch, the other aborting its journey to his boyfriend’s cheek to fall on his knee.

There is a dark look that flickers over Wyll’s functional brown eye as he trails over the full frame of his boyfriend.

Astarion knows that look. It’s the look Wyll gets when he’s come up with a new fun bedroom idea, or when he’s wearing one of his nicer outfits on date night. A combination of thrill and desire, the anticipation of knowing what comes at the end.

Curious eyes flit down over his own body. All he wears is the hoodie, of course. It’s ridden up on his thighs due to him sitting cross-legged, revealing long lily white legs folded beneath each other. There’s a couple of  already-fading reddened marks on his exposed thighs, leftover from that morning's quick rendezvous before Wyll had to leave for the day. Otherwise, the hoodie is long enough to cover anything else and Astarion is certain he doesn’t look largely different from any other evening. The sleeves are a little longer in the arms, so he’s rolled them up to his elbows and he knows his hair is virtually the only thing he’d actually bothered with that morning.

But Wyll licks his lips all the same, the muscles in his jaw tightening just briefly before he speaks. “Is that my hoodie?”

“… Yes?” Astarion responds, a little confused. Understandably, Wyll could be a little put off by seeing his boyfriend in his clothes. It wasn’t a habit they had ever picked up. Not only because they had completely dissimilar fashion senses, but because their sizes were just different enough to be uncomfortable. It wasn’t an exotic size difference, but rather a subtle one that stood to make sharing clothes a hassle.

Every now and then Astarion would wind up in a pair of his socks or accidentally put on a pair of his briefs. But that had never aroused this kind of emotion in the other man. He’d laughed it off before, musing about the hazards of domesticity, and let Astarion decide whether or not to keep them on. He had never pinned him to the couch, jaw muscles clenching with thinly held restraint, real eye blown wide with dopamine.

Wyll looks like his reasonable mind is slipping thoroughly from his grasp, his other brain taking over the control of every waking thought.

“Did you do this on purpose?” asks the man, brown eye trailing hungrily over his partner's body. Pupil blown wide, tongue darting out to wet his lips. There’s the subtle creak of cheap leather beneath his fingertips, hands flexing unwittingly. “You look so good.”

“Honey, please. No need to lay on the flattery, I’ve already slept with you,” Astarion snorts, looking back down to the hand towel in his hand that he’d still been holding. Still, even with his pretense at being unaffected, his lips are twitching towards a smile. He’s no stranger to having such looks turned on him. But they’d never been shot through with such an intense passion before. Wyll looks at him like he’s the most magnificent, desirable thing in the entire world.

It was still hard to know what to do with that kind of open adoration. But this? Astarion could deal with this, and he’s more than happy to.

He pretends not to notice the man still hovering above him, bowing his head to hide a wicked grin. He takes his time carefully folding the white fabric into a neat rectangle, and then placing it on the pile.

As soon as his hands are free, Wyll surges forward for a kiss. It’s more tongue than anything, messy with desperation. His teeth nip at his boyfriend’s bottom lip at some point and Astarion makes a noise of pleasant surprise. He’d expected him to have pressed the issue with a verbal plea instead, but this is certainly a more than welcome method. Then he leans into it, slowing them down just to savor Wyll’s mouth on his own. He had missed him a little that day, though he’d never admit to something so saccharine.

When he pulls away for breath, there’s a pleased little laugh on his lips. “Wyll, honestly, what’s gotten into you? Not that I’m complaining,” the man in question is trailing kisses down his neck now, gentle fluttering ones save for occasional suckles of flesh. “It’s just a sweater.”

“You look good,” echoes Wyll, slightly dazed. His tongue keeps darting out to his lips, his gaze unable to tear away from the space where the dark worm cotton clashes against pearly white skin. “and it’s my sweater.”

He says that as though it explains everything. Mostly because it does. Wyll is a man. A sweet, docile, humble, gentle man. A charming one, never anything less than a gentleman. But he is a man. A young one, even. And despite his best efforts to seem as though he’s not the possessive type, like many men, he absolutely is.

Astarion has long since shed his shame over being possessive over Wyll. He’s never vowed to be a good man—has in fact extrapolated otherwise many times, over the course of their years together. Wyll is his, and no one else’s, and he would guard that fiercely. There were a few unsuspecting bartenders and bubbly baristas who had learnt this the hard way.

But Wyll was slower on the uptake, combating both his desire for his partner to feel completely free with him and the very human, innate nature of a man wanting to mark his territory.

Not wanting to destroy all of his careful work on his laundry with where this might be going, Astarion nods but pushes at his boyfriend’s chest to get him to move. Once he’s no longer pinned to the couch, he carefully gets up so as not to topple the piles of freshly-folded laundry. And then he turns to Wyll, leading him backwards towards the bedroom by his shirt.

Wyll tries to swoop in for a kiss, but Astarion darts out of the way at the last minute every time. Teasing of what’s to come, should he find a bit of patience for it. There’s a groan of dismay at the third time this happens, warm hands coming to his waist. It bunches the fabric of the sweater a little, cotton giving away to the possessive grip. Astarion barely pays him any mind, more preoccupied with getting Wyll’s button-up undone.

He only pauses in the hallway so that he can see where he’s going. Last time they’d tried stumbling blindly through the apartment to fuck, they’d tripped over His Majesty and both had gotten scratched to the high hells. They’d wound up fucking on the hallway floor, but that had been murder on Astarion’s back for days afterwards. Not to mention the scratches that had stung underneath the hot spray of the shower for even longer.

When he turns to pull Wyll the rest of the way, he feels a shameless hand come down on his ass before grabbing a greedy handful. Astarion grins darkly at his lover over his shoulder, but Wyll is too transfixed by the sight of his boyfriend’s behind in his sweater to notice.

The second he gets Astarion in the bedroom, a strong arm spins him for a bruising kiss. Wet hot mouths sliding together, a sense of urgency underscoring every movement.

Astarion isn’t taken aback by this, but pleasantly surprised at the overt behavior. Wyll, while no blushing schoolboy, typically had more reservation during sex. It wasn’t as though he had no sex drive, but he was certainly more tentative in pursuing Astarion. Fluttering lashes, breaths held together in the space before warm, loving kisses. Astarion enjoyed the newness of it. He enjoyed being the one to push the limits, to steer how far or fast or hard anything goes with his willing bedmate following his every step reverently.

This is not the Wyll he is familiar with. This hot-blooded desperate man, clamoring for just another taste. Eye blown wide with desire whenever they open, hot tongue pressing deeper into his mouth, hands pressed against Astarion’s cheeks moving them backwards. He feels the back of his knees hit their mattress and their bodies crashing forward on freshly made linen. They’re both a tangle of limbs, touching and kissing wherever they can, unable to part from each other for even one agonizing second.

Astarion, for the first time, rejoices in his propensity to do the bed first. With no decorative pillows or nice cotton linen to luxuriate on but the cheap bare mattress alone, he found it was easier to force himself to get the laundry done. He usually hated himself after, staring at the pile of dirty sheets he couldn’t very well put back on and now had to wash. Now it’s convenient, as they tumble into a freshly made bed instead of onto their too-springy mattress.

He pulls his boyfriend between his thighs on the bed, mourning only for a second the waste of effort he’d put into changing out the soiled sheets for clean ones. And then Wyll is covering his body, leaning down to kiss him feverish and hungry.

They could often kiss for hours alone, without even the barest hint of haste. Not this time. Wyll is desperate to remove the barriers between them. His shoulders shrug out of the open button-up, sending it flying somewhere neither of them care to notice. He toes his work shoes over the edge of the bed, too, before he can’t bear the space between them anymore and is dipping low to kiss Astarion again.

He pushes up on his elbows to meet Wyll halfway, desperate hands coming to the edge of the hoodie so that he can pull it over his head. Wyll had been working himself the rest of the way out of his work clothes but then two trembling, amber hands slide down to cover his own.

“Keep it on.”

“Why?”

“It…” Wyll seems hesitant for a moment, bashful even—a stark contrast compared to the hungry, aroused man he’d been a second ago. After a beat and a swallowing of his nerves, he admits, “I like it. I like you wanting to wear my things, be close to me. It’s… intimate.”

Astarion feels his breath catch. That hadn’t been entirely the answer he’d been expecting, but he should’ve known better. Wyll didn’t stop being Wyll because he saw him in one sweater. Wyll would always be some thoughtful, deep, meaningful well of goodness. Even his basest desires were still shrouded in sentiments of closeness and intimacy.

Before the man can feel embarrassed, Astarion surges forward. Abandoning his efforts of taking off the sweater to instead refocus them on getting Wyll naked.

They get him down to his socks before neither of them want to wait a second longer. Wyll inches them up the bed, scooting Astarion up with a knee between his thighs so that they’re closer to the nightstand. Astarion tries to busy his mouth elsewhere—kissing over his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. But the path always leads back to Wyll’s mouth, sipping desire from his saliva and becoming euphoric with it. 

He can distantly feel Wyll balance his weight on the mattress, leaning forward to fumble blindly through the nightstand for lube. Astarion doesn’t make it easy for him, sucking his lip before sinking his teeth into the soft flesh. The man rocks forward, his knee pressing into the space of Astarion’s thigh by his aching erection.

“Hells, Astarion,” he groans, before finally surfacing with what he’d been looking for and redirecting his attention.

Generally, Wyll was hyperfocused on foreplay. With the amount of time he’d spent on it, Astarion often wavered on whether he liked to tease or if he just was that intent on being thorough. Knowing Wyll, it might be a bit of the first with a lot of the second.

But the man doesn’t tease now. Previous habits of dancing warm fingertips over Astarion’s thighs, ghosting touch to build anticipation before inching their way home are tossed aside for the evening. Tonight, his hands have a determined destination, and he doesn’t dither on getting there. Cool, wet fingers pressing into the cleft of his ass makes him shudder, lashes fluttering with pleasure.

Wyll inches his first finger in with measured paces, but the energy of urgency radiates through the movements. He won’t hurt Astarion, but he can’t bear the idea of spending too much longer without being inside of him. Astarion tilts his thighs up, pushing the fabric of the sweater further up under his exposed behind. A silent encouragement, bordering on plea for Wyll to give him more.

His boyfriend obliges, staring up at his face with wanton desire in his mahogany brown eye. He watches Astarion’s face intensely as he slips his finger all the way in, followed by another shortly after.

Wyll had turned this into a bit of an art form, over the years. At the onset of their relationship Astarion had been familiar with the concept of it being more a means to end—a detour before the real fun. If he could get away with it he’d do the job himself as often as possible, preferring to avoid painfully overeager fingers and clumsy pretenses of it being more than it really was.

The predominant amount of Wyll’s experience had been a couple of short, fleeting relationships, but even he had found it abysmal when Astarion told him it’d never actually felt good.

Astarion hadn’t had to worry about that since, each time was just as enjoyable as the last. Wyll has shown him that pleasure went both ways, and Astarion would never again have to eke out his own from an unwitting partner.

It was all perfect, most days. Hells, it’s perfect right now—Wyll’s fingers crooking against his prostate on every outstroke, firmly nudging him in the direction of his gratification. But Astarion has never felt such a sudden headrush of desire in his life. He needs him inside right now, fingers just wouldn’t scratch the itch the same way this time.

Wyll seems to have the same train of thought. Before Astarion could beg aloud he removes his fingers and uses another squirt of lube to slick his cock up. He takes a moment to rearrange them for the most comfort—leaning his weight forward on his forearms, lifting Astarion’s hips to hurriedly shove a folded pillow under his lower back.

When he meets the other man’s eyes, he holds the gaze and presses in slowly, gripping Astarion's thighs and guiding them around his hips. Once he was fully seated he waits a moment—just to ensure it’s not too fast, too much, checking for Astarion’s pleasure every step of the way—before using his grip on him to pull him so that his hips were angled upwards. He braces himself over Astarion with one arm, finally satisfied the position.

He pulls all the way back until his tip catches against Astarion’s rim, slipping out just slightly. The second breech is a smooth, brutal slam back inside before Wyll starts slamming his hips in and out, setting a punishing pace outright.

Underneath him Astarion cries out, hands gripping Wyll's shoulders for dear life. His eyes flash wide, a mixture of the rush in oxytocin and genuine surprise at the sudden onslaught. The absence of crescendo in a series of strokes and tempos, the echoes of romance before Wyll lost himself to pleasure and chased himself to release. The newness of the experience places Astarion on unsteady feet—back?—but he decides very quickly just how welcome it is.

His verbal encouragement is only a decibel louder than the wet sounds of skin slamming against skin. It had become a personal accomplishment to Wyll that he took advantage of every time he was able to render Astarion speechless during sex, reducing him to little but a whimpering mess. The sounds coming from Astarion makes some of his own slip from his lips, delicious gasps of Astarion’s name and less wordy musical moans.

Their breaths mingle together as Wyll thrusts his hips, his pace slowing to something more passionate and less frantic. He makes sure every thrust hit home, rolling his hips into each one skillfully. It leaves Astarion shaking and nearly sobbing with pleasure.

“Say my name,” Wyll commands suddenly, breath coming out uneven and floaty as he gives himself over to his impending climax. His hands are digging into Astarion’s thighs, crescent shaped bruises forming under the indent of his nails. Astarion gasps at the firmness in the demand, the absolute confidence that he’d do nothing but obey. His eyes roll, fingers tangling in the new growth at the base of Wyll’s head. 

“Wyll,” he eventually stammers out, when he can remember enough of the language to will it. “Oh, Gods above, Wyll.”

It makes the man’s hips stutter in their assault, before Wyll presses one hand through rumpled silvery locks. Astarion bites down hard on his bottom lip when strong fingers curl into a sharp tug and pull his neck back. It exposes the column of his pale flesh so that Wyll can bite down against it, muffling his honeyed moans of delight as he jackhammers his way to release.

It’s coming up on the both of them quickly now, too fast for their usual tastes but magnificent anyways. Astarion’s mouth is open, gasps and pants echoing off the cracked plaster of the walls. Wyll, Wyll, Wyll is all that’s on his mind, on his lips when he can get the breath in his lungs to say it. But the man in question is merciless, teeth digging almost painfully into his neck as his eyes wrench shut in his pleasure.

Another new development. Astarion was usually the biter, all bruises and the knife-edge danger in a scrape of teeth. Wyll kissed, and sucked, but so rarely did he find the same thrill in biting.

Astarion wishes he had the presence of mind to relish it. Instead, all he can think about is the building tension in his lower stomach and the desire pumping through his veins. His hips are jerking upwards every other thrust, attempting to push friction against his aching cock from where Wyll is folded over him.

He takes the hint; pulls their bodies apart to allow Astarion to slip his hand over himself. Once he has his own cock in hand, it isn’t hard to focus on the feeling of Wyll sliding so deeply inside of him. The feeling of all-consuming lust and passion burning through his middle down, ending with the heat of his fingertips. 

He doesn’t know what finishes them both off. It probably starts somewhere in the tightening of Wyll’s muscles, his thrusts spasming into an awkward rhythm as he finishes. It could be the faint flood of warmth, or the way Wyll’s hips don’t stop moving even in his release. 

But it’s more probably the little desperate whimper of, “Astarion, my love,” right in his ear that sends him careening towards his climax. Back arching, bowstrung tight with tension as it works its way from scalp to curled, clenched toes. Astarion shakes through it, nails digging deeply into Wyll’s shoulders and hair to anchor himself to the Earth. It’s perfect. He comes so hard he doesn’t even recognize the sudden wetness over his lower stomach, pearly white contrasted brightly against the dark faded fabric of the sweater.

Wyll collapses over him completely with a breathless huff a minute afterwards. They both tremble in the aftermath, each occasionally spasming through the aftershocks. It was great sex. Fantastic, mind blowing, passionate sex. But as the haze of lust clears, Astarion can sense the telltale tensing of Wyll’s muscles. His hands slowly ease their grip on his thighs, rubbing soothing circles instead. 

He doesn’t know entirely where this is going—he knows so very little, given his brains have been fucked out all over their clean pillowcases—but he does get the sense he should preempt it. Before Wyll’s little bleeding heart gets in the way, and he never gets to experience something as incredibly satisfying as this again.

Astarion stretches, and Wyll slips out in the process. The familiar sensation of cum leaking out onto the bed sheets helps to pull him further out the hazy fog of an amazing orgasm. His thighs are still twitching when he relaxes back against the sheets. “Mm, careful, darling. If you react like that every time you see me in your clothes, I’ll have to start burning my own.”

At the approval in his tone, and the languid way he lays back, something warm flickers back into Wyll’s expression. Whatever self-flagellation had been happening behind the scenes is chased off, and he gives a shy smile.

“We both know that’s not true; you hate my clothes,” he chuckles, kissing the sweaty silver locks curling at Astarion’s temple. 

“Oh, I only hate them because I prefer you naked,” Astarion bats away the accusation with a dismissive hand. “I don’t mind your style. For you. But it seems like you prefer it on me.”

A shrug as Wyll sits up, taking a corner of the comforter to clean the mess between Astarion’s legs. He takes another hungry look at the sweater, now darkened a shade with the wet spot on the hem. A wet spot he’d made, Astarion shaking beneath him as he came. There’s an air of a stroked ego when he speaks next, tearing his gaze away. “You look really good.”

“Words I’ve heard before.” Astarion hums, pulling the younger man down to the bed with him. He kisses Wyll; sweet and slow the way he usually preferred, steering them back to the familiar territory he was comfortable with. Wyll relaxes against him eventually, hand cupped alongside his chin. They kiss and kiss and kiss, delirious with affection and perfectly content not to move another muscle.

But all good things must end, and eventually Wyll gives an apologetic smile against Astarion’s lips before he pulls away. For a moment, he can’t dream of a damn thing this perfect, amazing man has to be sorry for.

“What is that look for?”

“Well, we need to get up for a shower. And change the sheets, and put this in the dirty laundry,” Wyll plucks at the sweater as he speaks, the faintest glimmer of laughter in his eyes despite how repentant he puts on. Astarion opens his mouth to tell him that he’d washed everything, and there is no dirty laundry… but the realization that they’d just made quite a bit of it slowly catches up to him. When it does, his head falls back against the pillows in frustration. “It is technically still your turn.”

The scandalized squawk that follows makes Wyll finally break into brazen laughter.

“How dare you? The nerve of you to come home, filthy up my perfectly clean bedsheets, and expect me to tidy the mess,” Astarion complains, pushing him away. “Men these days.”

Wyll kisses his cheek anyways. He lingers only a moment more before getting up from the bed—already prepared to start the process of stripping it. “Come on. If you help me get the sheets off, we’ll clean up in the shower together afterwards.”

“Will that be all we do?”

“Help me with the sheets and find out.”

Astarion leaps out of bed in silent agreement, driven by the rewarding idea of shower sex. It’s enough motivation not to remind him that they’ll still have to wash and dry the sheets before they can go to bed that night. Considering the other sets are buried under piles of laundry that still needed to be put away in the morning.

As soon as they dump the stripped laundry on the floor, Wyll finds himself being pulled by an incessant hand towards their waiting bathroom in the hallway.

The sweater finally comes off on the bathroom floor, forgotten in pursuit of better tasks.

[legrandepapillon]

Elie Saab Spring 2017 Haute Couture Collection

This is an important reference image for Chapter 13 of my modern lafburr fic on AO3.

If you’d like to read the fic, click here!

[istehlurvz]

BEEPS HORN I had a lot of requests to do another run of my Castlevania ot3 mini zine so HERE WE GO! Preorders will be open till July 9th! 

Physical copies/bundles: istehlurvz.storenvy.com 

PDF: gumroad.com/istehlurvz

[ririarts]

If Wyll was a bard he would definitely try to woo his partner with overly romantic songs

[legrandepapillon]

starting the slow transition from apps like insta & twitter to tumblr. so in case you’ve never interacted with me before, i’d like everyone who engages with my writing to know this: i believe in a free palestine by any means necessary, i dont fuck with cops & the includes immigration police, i believe that black lives matter and i believe that trans rights ARE human rights & you can’t have the LGB without the T. we’re by the people for the people over this way 🤭

[legrandepapillon]

can’t stop thinking about the wyllstarion western au i’ve been cooking up for months… outlaw bank robber wyll. brothelkeep astarion… someone walk with me here…

[legrandepapillon]

Wyll and Astarion having a friendly sparring match post-game to relive the glory days. Whether it ends soft or steamy is up to you!

Rating: E

i am SO sorry for the amount of time it took me to fill this, life & writer's block were jumping me. however i DID have a lot of fun writing this so thank you for the prompt!

should’ve known i’d pick steamy ofc. also something about the idea of Flaming Fist Blaze Wyll makes me twirl my hair & kick my legs

HC that Wyll is the type of commander to say “Please, Mr. Ravengard was my father, call me Wyll” to the starry-eyed recruits & fan their crush on him while Astaron rolls his eyes

elements of dom/sub (service top/pleasure dom wyll, bratty sub/power bottom astarion), rough sex, & a little blood play to be found here. also this is my first time writing explicit wyllstarion smut start to finish.

There were many sounds to be heard throughout the Flaming Fist stronghold throughout any given day, but the loudest tended to emanate from the training quarters smack in the center of the grounds. Wooden weapons against straw dummies, the bodies of fresh recruits hitting the hard leather during a bit of physical demonstration… and the groans of pain from said demonstrations that often left them battered and bruised. It was a consistent and profuse cacophony of ear-splitting noise in the Fist recruitment hall these days. Young women and men flocked to the ranks of the command, for once eager to ladder climb in the name of glory as opposed to gold; most of them starry-eyed and hopeful at the idea of laying on eyes on the Blaze Wyll Ravengard—Hero of Baldur’s Gate, former Blade of Frontiers, and the future Duke of the city.

During the day, under the scorching sun in the midst of training the city’s future militia, it could become loud enough to deafen. But at night with the moon high in the sky and only torch-light illuminating the abandoned grounds, the only sound was that of two men lost in their own world. A pair of old adventurers, skills still sharp from their well-formed routine of friendly sparring.

In a dirt ring outdoors where most recruits met a rather painful tumble to the hands of their more capable counterparts, Astarion and Wyll circle each other listlessly. One armed with a pair of glinting twin daggers, the other with the steel of his rapier pointed towards the dirt. Though their weapons are real and their blades sharp, neither have the intent to hurt each other.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this, Blade? I don’t exactly know how to play nice—haven’t you figured that out yet?” mocks Astarion, the barest hint of amusement in his voice while he dons a rather fake growl of threat. Wyll rolls his eyes in response, playing at being offended by the implication.

“I’m not worried about you playing nice, Astarion,” he shrugs. “Fight fair or fight dirty, either way I’ll win.”

The idea that he’d ever fight fair is almost as laughable as the idea that he’d fight bloodlessly had been in the beginning. Perhaps that would change with time, too.

Oh, and all the time it had taken. To learn the self-control necessary not to provide a killing blow. But he was rather amused with how well it honed his reflexes; fixing himself to respond defensively without hurting his counterpart surprisingly made for sharper instincts. He recalls a time long ago, back at a druidic grove filled with refugees from Elturel on the cusp of being thrown to the wolves. In the brief moments of levity where he witnessed the tiefling elders attempting to teach their little ones to play. The children were always too high-strung to remember that they had claws and horns and that they couldn’t simply wrestle without also keeping a bit of mindfulness. At the time, he’d merely looked on with vague disinterest while his group meandered through the grove trying to parse through the budding tensions. But he’d been oddly reminiscent of the children at the beginning of this; eager to pounce and have a romp around in the grass, but fearful of hurting someone. Of hurting Wyll.

Back then, Astarion had been accustomed only to fighting for survival. The concept of it being for fun—to pass time and clear his thoughts—was foreign to him.

Now? He has the presence of mind and prowess of some of those elders. He both knows the luxuries of friendly sparring without his life being at risk, and the thrills of toeing the line anyways.

Because that's what this is about in the end, isn’t it? The thrill? The excitement?

The domesticity of life in the Gate—life as the fiancé to Blaze Wyll Ravengard—though comfortable, was often mundane. This brought excitement. Their game, with more layers than he could ever voice, kept the spark alive.

“You’re overthinking again,” announces Wyll, making a sudden movement to the left to snap him back to the present. Astarion’s hand jerks out to cover his right side intuitively, ensuring he doesn’t provide the opening to his partner while he scans for one of his own.

“And you’re talking to me like one of your recruits, again,” he retorts. He finds his opening quicker than expected, lunging for a jab towards the younger man’s left flank. The flat of his blade meets empty air by only a half-second, Wyll dancing elegantly out of the way. He recovers quickly before he can sacrifice his advantage, pressing the offense with another swipe towards his chest with the other hand. The tip of the dagger barely scratches the edge of Wyll’s shoulder as he moves backwards, dodging before finding his own opening towards Astarion’s stomach. The flat of his rapier smacks his partner against his navel, only slightly catching the thick fabric of his tunic.

“Oh, c’mon, Astarion. You can be quicker than that,” taunts the former warlock with an airy laugh. And though the flickers of hubris might be unattractive to anyone else, his sparring partner can’t help but find it painfully arousing. He grins at him sharply before doing just that, light-feet taking him out of range from his rapier two beats before the next slash.

Both of them are still dexterous and well-trained. Years of fighting for survival on both ends has made their timing top notch, months of sparring for fun have made their reflexes impeccable. Each jab of the rapier is met with a carefully timed parry from a dagger, each riposte from a blade recovered smoothly by dancers’ feet. It’s like this more often than not; a test of endurance over brutality. Wyll is graceful like a dancer, Astarion more comparable to a feline, but they both have the finesse required to take the viciousness out of it.

Like a well-choreographed waltz, they feint and parry and slash with rhythm. From adagio to allegro, the tempo of their moves goes from tenuous and careful to eager and energetic. Stamina will provide the winner of their game, not mightiness.

And… alright. There are other things to be gained from this. Whenever there’s a vampire spawn involved, there could hardly be any expectation there wouldn’t be some sort of ulterior motive. If he gets to see Wyll in action similar to the heady excitement of their glory days, if he gets enough noble eye candy to accompany some of his more lascivious fantasies then… well, as they say, birds and stones.

Astarion always especially admires, in these moments stolen away from polite society, the glimmers of Wyll’s arrogance. Of course, the Blade turned Blaze tried so desperately to remain humble in light of becoming a Hero and being given his own command. I have to set an example, he insisted, weighed down by his own righteousness. We need protectors for this city that desire honor, not glory.

But bad an influence as he was, Astarion can’t help but admire the confidence in each move when he fights. His strikes are unsparing, his parries precise and he knows it. No lack of magic could make him a less admirable fighter, his sword arm had not gotten lazy and his feet had not turned to stones. Wyll was just as graceful now without infernal power pumping through his veins as he was the day they met, jumping down from that rock and spitting charming one-liners—most importantly, he didn’t need to say it for the other man to know.

It didn’t help any how attractive he could be like this, either. The sweat sticking his cotton tunic to his broad chest, toned muscles flexing with effort, crimson eye glistening with his excitement and lips tugged into a cocky smile. The way the moonlight illuminated deep russet toned flesh, making him have an almost ocean blue hue in some places. And his laughter, deep and warm like the fleeting rays of sun… Astarion could fall all over again, time and time again, just from this.

He’s so lost in his admiration he miscalculates a dodge, loses his footing and gives Wyll the ability to press his offense. The danger in his right hand is knocked abruptly into the dirt, leaving him with the one blade to fight with. His left hand is the weaker one, better for attacking rather than defending, and he knows well the consequences of being caught in such a state.

Best to switch tactics, and hope the element of surprise regains the upper hand. Beautiful man or else wise, Astarion has always been a sore loser. 

Tossing his blade he goes in for a tackle, and both men go tumbling to the dirt. He bargains correctly on taking Wyll by surprise; his rapier slips from his fingers as he goes down, a last-ditch effort not to accidentally stab either of them. There’s a grunt from the air being knocked out of him, but he recovers quickly. He hooks an arm beneath Astarion’s to try to maneuver himself on top, which only entices the reaction of Astarion wrapping his legs around his waist to try to throw himself back to advantage.

“Why can’t you ever fight honorably?” complains Wyll as they struggle, during one brief moment where he finds himself pinned face-down in the dirt. He bucks like a wild horse to get his opponent off of him, sending the both of them scrambling.

“Well, I thought you’d given me permission for a little rough play,” Astarion snipes back, before lunging back into the fray. There’s at least laughter at that, despite the struggle between them for advantage.

They grapple in this way for a while, faces inching closer to each other’s and hands groping desperately for leverage. It isn’t until Astarion finds himself on his back, wrists pinned to the dirt and knee in his hip that he finally gives up. It didn’t always end this way; sometimes he won, leaving Wyll with a bruised lip or ego or both. But the despair of defeat was always followed by the thrill of proximity whenever it did—their blood rushing with adrenaline, their faces inches apart, their breathing labored, and their bodies pressed so close it’s a wonder there’s any space to be found between them at all.

“Pinfall. Call it,” Wyll grins, his grip loose but firm on Astarion’s pale wrists. The man jerks his head against the dirt, looking away from that crimson eye swimming in obsidian—trying to maintain an inch of his dignity. Wyll’s other knee presses against his thigh. “Oh, don’t be a dirty fighter and a sore loser. Call it, Astarion.”

He looks back up at him. Tongue darts out to wet his dry lips. He doesn’t acquiesce; he almost never does when he loses. He does surge up to capture Wyll’s lips, kissing him hot and filthy in distraction. The man’s grip goes completely lax almost immediately, hands leaving his wrists so one can plant itself against Astarion’s cheek sweetly. The vampire isn’t looking for sweetness though. He’s miffed by his loss and entranced by his lover, needing something equally as thrilling as their combat to put him thoroughly in his place.

Wyll was the only one that could do that, after all. Put him in his place, make him heel. He’d do it biting and kicking and screaming but for Wyll he’d do it, at least.

Fangs nick at full lips in the kiss, the drops of blood blowing his pupils full with an insatiable hunger of all varieties. His partner isn’t at all perturbed by it either, pressing in with his hips with eager excitement at the sensation. It’s just this for a few breathless minutes, Wyll’s hand against his face and Astarion’s tongue lapping at the teasing drops of blood that leak from his lips. Mouths moving together passionately, seeking something out of this that neither of them could put words to.

It could be this for the rest of the night, if either of them wanted. Their game didn’t always have to end a certain way. Wyll would kiss him, or he would kiss Wyll, and that could be that. But Astarion wants more than this. He wants to be wrangled into his place, the unrepentant vampire spawn and his dogmatic monster hunter.

When Wyll pulls away from the kiss, he mouths at Astarion’s neck and eases his knee from the older man’s hip to hook under his thigh. He arches into the kisses in response, tilting his head so that he could feel the warmth of Wyll’s lips against more of skin, welcoming the man to have more of him. In the light of day Blaze Ravengard would never be caught so unhinged, but here in the moonlit training grounds he could be ravenous and devour his lover with no hesitation.

Cool, ever-chilled hands roam up the spine of the younger man and push him in closer—seeking all that too-hot body warmth Wyll had since he’d been turned infernal. His hips rock upwards and the other warm hand pins them to the ground firmly.

“Ah, ah,” breathes Wyll against his neck, plumes of warm air coming hot against his collarbone. “Be patient.”

“Screw patience.”

“You could always,” his teeth drag playfully over Astarion’s neck, almost directly opposite to the scars on the other side. The full body shudder that rakes through the other man makes him chuckle. “call the pinfall.”

The idea is tantalizing. It was cause and effect, this thing between them. Push and pull, give and take. A behavioral lesson, Wyll had once joked, panting hard and covered in a thin sheen of post-coital sweat. Astarion fought so hard against showing any signs of weakness or vulnerability, all down to the very act of submitting when he was beaten. He’d fought every day for two hundred years, been broken in every way imaginable but his spirit. And there’d been many times where he’d been able to acquiesce to the feeling of being broken under the thumb of Cazador, to admit that there was nothing anyone could ever do to escape him. That he was his spawn, likely for the rest of his miserable unlife, and that would be that. But he still snarked and schemed and stole—stole moments of freedom, moments of peace, moments of contrition and resistance.

He played the part of a mewling, sniveling subservient pet but never truly felt it. He never bowed, not really. Not without the sharp dig of his own claws in his fist. 

Wyll doesn’t expect a year to change that about him, and that’s the beautiful part of it. But Astarion could, sometimes, truly give up his own control. Every so often he could go lax, and lower his eyelids, and admit that Wyll has him. In every way that matters and some of the ways that don’t, too. He could be vulnerable and weak. Every so often, for this man, he’d even want to.

He could call the pinfall, and Wyll could praise him for being such a good boy, and kiss him sweetly. Settle himself between his thighs and truly worship him.

Tonight is not that night, however. They have the rest of Wyll’s life for Astarion to show complacency, but right now he wants to be shown why Wyll deserves it. He pulls back his lips to reveal his sharp canines, pins the other man with a challenging stare and grins like a feral animal. Wyll’s good eye blows wide and Astarion watches the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. The act of defiance is not met violently, except for the way he takes his mouth against his and conquers.

Wyll’s hand, firm and devout, moves from the grip on his hip to tug the loose fabric of his tunic up. Warm heat spreads through Astarion’s belly at the feel of his palm right there on his chilled flesh. And Astarion arches even at that, pathetic as it may be. The muscles in his abdomen seize, anticipatory with how close his lover could be where he wants him. A thumb hovers over his navel, and he wishes that the man would travel straight south and put those magnificent fingers to better use. But Wyll just kisses; desperately, eagerly, domineering and yet ever kind. 

When his mouth pulls away Astarion hisses, but is quickly placated with a kiss to his jawline. Warm soft lips place kisses ever where they can; his cheek, the corner of his mouth, the space where his ears meet his jaw, the slope of his ears and the tips of them too. He’s practically reverent, the heady passion with which he kisses outweighed by the floating sensation each brings with it.

“I love you like this, you know?” Wyll says into his ear, simple and warm. “I love it when you’re difficult.”

“You’re a fool,” Astarion pants in response, because doesn’t that just sound so inane and ridiculous and erotic. His hips jerk forward against the other man again, the tent in his pants catching at Wyll’s thigh. They both groan at the contact. 

“Your fool,” responds Wyll easily, kissing down to his neck. “Your sweet fool, my darling star, and only yours.”

Astarion silences him by slipping a hand in his trousers, palming at his cock through his small clothes. An overt act of defiance, pushing back against every instinct that shouts at him to submit. Wyll’s sucks air in through his teeth sharply and comes to terms that there are battles that he won’t be given but must fight.  A good lesson for a man fresh out of magic and learning survival by his own might.

And then there’s a palm on his throat, pressing his head back into the dirt. Carefully manicured claws dig just in the spot beneath his jawline, not deep enough to hurt but to enforce the idea of who won. Who is stronger, faster, better… who’s in control.

“You can be sweeter than that; gentler,” he whispers, and it carries the weight it needs to. Astarion shivers at the command, and the reminder cows him into submission far earlier than he’d like. He eases his groping, switches to a more polite massage and arcs with a whine beneath his monster hunter. It is frankly terrifying, how easy it is for this man to veer him back towards obedience. “Good boy.”

Another hiss, this time as the vampire scrambles to find his footing again. He arches his hips upwards, bucks like the pinned, cornered, feral animal he’s supposed to be rather than the domesticated one he’s becoming. Refuses to give his lover the satisfaction so easily, and without uttering a syllable manages to demand exactly what he wants. Wyll huffs a bit of laughter, muttering something about him being endearingly insolent. And then their lips are on each other again, the younger man’s hot pink tongue slipping into Astarion's mouth. He moans into the wet kiss, his hand going lax on Wyll’s dick and his other clawing at the man’s back desperately. Pressing him closer, trying to eliminate the little space between their bodies.

Just as sweetly and passionately as he kisses, Wyll touches. His hand is warm and gentle as it roams over Astarion’s abdomen, bunching the fabric of his tunic on his wrist and sliding upwards until he can shirk his arms out of it. They have to pull away to discard the offending clothing, tossing it haphazardly a few feet away in the dirt. In the moment, neither vampire nor his partner can pay credence to the fine Amnian silks it’s made of or how many hours he’d sunk into designing it. It might as well be a soiled handkerchief, the way it crumples on the dirt training grounds. 

Broad hands travel planes of milky white skin, gleaming beneath the moonlight. Index and thumb gently massage a pert pink nipple, causing Astarion to moan again into the kiss. The hand that’s been resting on his throat squeezes lightly, not hard enough to be punishing like earlier but just a gentle reminder of its presence. A reverent thumb swipes along his jawline, the rest of those calloused digits pulling him deeper into the kiss. 

And still Astarion’s hand strokes, touches, feels. Without permission, but that seems to be a battle that Wyll is okay with losing tonight. His hips rock forward into the rhythm of it, letting long lithe experienced digits grope him through the fabric of his small clothes. They remain this way for long minutes, until Astarion gives a needy whine and starts to maneuver around the cotton of Wyll’s underwear.

Wyll comes back to the game then, removing his hand from his throat to grab his wrist and pin it to the ground. He settles up on his haunches between Astarion’s legs, gives him a look of warning.

His voice is velvet smooth when he speaks, a sharp contrast to the vague threat he wraps around the words. “Do you want to get off tonight?” 

“What in the hells kind of stupid question is that—”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Of course—”

“Then stay,” he commands, before reaching for the hem of Astarion’s trousers. There’s a sternness to his voice that actually snaps the vampire out of his insubordinate attitude, makes him give a short nod of his head. Wyll is careful about undressing Astarion; gentle hands pull apart the laces on his breeches, and they’re bordering on veneration when they pull them with his small clothes down to his knees. It’s less than ideal, being bare-ass in the dirt where just anyone could stumble across the two of them.

But there’s a thrill in it, too. Of being so thoroughly subdued by his man—his sweet, foolish, darling man—that he would lay himself bare in every way imaginable. To give Wyll the power to humiliate him willingly is one of their many exercises in trust; to spar with him without it ending in bloodshed, to love him without hurting him, to take the brunt of his moods without ever returning an unkind gesture. To hold the very power of his destruction in the center of his palm, and still handle it like the finest china.

Astarion bites back the whimper of desire that threatens through the guard of his canines at the very thought. Still, Wyll notes his desperation anyway and is gracious enough to hurry through the motions. Though quick, his movements are far from being harsh or unsparing. He lowers himself slowly down the pale elf’s body with sweet kisses, lips brushing at pert pink nipples and sucking at the ticklish spot on his ribcage. When he’s nestled between Astarion’s thighs, face to face with his weeping wet cock, he even presses a loving kiss to his hipbone. The older man shudders at the action, body fully trembling with the desperation to be touched and the difficulty of obedience. The cruel, evil, sadistic monster in him wants to grab a fistful of Wyll’s hair and shove those soft lips over his tip. The submissive, lovable, tamed man that he’s become only flexes the muscles in his thighs and bats his eyelashes pleadingly.

“Wyll…” he sighs, hips bucking but still maintaining the teasing distance his lover has put between himself and where he wants him. 

“I’m going,” Wyll assures, gentleness laced through his tone to ensure Astarion understands that he’s not peeved at the insistence but rather endeared. It makes the very tips of his ears flush. “Voco arvina.”

One callused hand becomes slick with grease, glistening under the sparing moonlight whilst the other angles his lover’s hips upwards. Wyll takes a mouthful of Astarion’s cock like a seasoned veteran, like he’s the one that’s been on his knees for two centuries. And like the blushing virgin, the vampire keens. A moan loud enough to wake the entire barracks leaves his lips, back arching off of the gritty dirt training ground and into the wet heat of his fiancé’s mouth. The hand on his hips tightens in warning and Astarion practically melts into the command. He relaxes his muscles, wills himself to be still. To be good for this man. Oh, the rewards for being good so outweighed the satisfaction of being cruel these days.

He can feel himself losing his will to be combatant by the second. Impudence trickling out of his mind and replaced slowly with the overwhelming desire to give everything over to this beautiful, magnificent man.

Fingers by now well-practiced slide with the grease between the cleft of his ass, parting the cheeks to reach their destination with the dexterity of a man that knows what he’s doing. Wyll had bumbled with this in the very beginning. It was a shame, the only person who he’d ever given pleasure to in this way was himself and when Astarion had seen how he was doing it he almost wept for the poor man’s rear. It’d taken patience to get him to learn how to be gentle, how to touch and stroke and push and caress. But once he’d learned…—

“Gods damn it, Wyll!” Astarion hisses, unsure of whether to thrust up into his mouth or grind down onto the digits pressing into his entrance. His hips stutter and twitch but ultimately remain perfectly still in his lover’s grip. It’s a rather handy trick at teaching him this bit of discipline. The message comes through loud and clear. He’ll take only what Wyll Ravengard deigns to give him; he wouldn’t demand anything more, or anything less. And more importantly, he’d be grateful for it. Happy to be at the mercy of a man that knows better, happy to be mindless and pliant in the hands of a kind man for once. To be taken care of, to be cowed into vulnerability.

The thought sends whatever blood left in his system from dinner right to his cock, which twitches eagerly as Wyll sucks more of him down. Astarion kicks at the dirt beneath him, brings a single hand up to bite his fist. He knows better than to place a hand on the tidy canerows of the man’s freshly braided hair, or to reach for his wrist in a plea for more. It’d only serve to end their fun, disappoint him with how difficult he’s finding it to be good.

Astarion doesn’t want to disappoint Wyll. He wants to be good, he wants to be perfect, he wants to be his.

Because Wyll is not a cruel man. He’s not an unjust one, nor is he a demanding one. If there was any man on Earth he’d come to heel for, it had to be this one. He knows that he’s safe with him, that the trust he puts into his hands wouldn’t be misappropriated. And so he tries his best to be so good, because Wyll is good to him. He’d spent two centuries caving to men that only wanted to take, what kind of unsalvageable monster would he be to disobey the one that wanted to give?

Astarion makes a noise at the back of his throat, somewhere between a whine and a moan as Wyll lifts to lick at the tip of his dick. The pads of his fingers press deeper into him, massaging at his prostate reverently. And he does all this with his good eye fixated on Astarion’s expression, watching for any sign of discomfort or malcontent. It never comes.

Indeed, the vampire is open-mouth panting—his bottom lip pink and puffy from all the kissing. There’s no need for the steady repetitive breaths that come from him, there’s no need for breathing at all. But it feels right to pant like a dog. Wyll’s pretty, perfect pampered pet begging for more of his master's attention. It only becomes more deliberate with every lick or suck or tease from the man himself, the walls of his disobedience crumbling in every second. It doesn’t hurt to think of Wyll has his master, his owner, someone that has caught and tamed him. It doesn’t bother him for even a moment—not when Wyll playfully skims his sharpened canines along the shaft of his dick, not when he leans forward until his nose tickles at Astarion’s pubic bone. And certainly not when he swallows him down, and the vampire sees spots of long in the darkness where he’d squeezed his eyes closed. He falls into it all, nails digging into the dirt beneath him and hips rocking upward. 

He’s seeking his pleasure greedily now, no sight for anything other than that tumble off the edge into his own indolent nirvana. The steadily growing knot of tension in the pit of his stomach is only counterweighed by the thick blanket of subservience lowering over his consciousness. Slowly, one by one, all of his thoughts begin to filter out of his mind. Almost orderly, a procession of every negative emotion single file out of his forefront of awareness into all there’s left is this. Him. Wyll. Sweet Wyll. Giving Wyll. Loving, tender, cherishing Wyll Ravengard. His love for him floating cloudy through every nerve in his flesh, eyes rolling back in his head as he nears the precipice of the abyss, ready to hurdle over completely.

Never let this end, he thinks desperately, as his fiancé’s tongue laps at another bead of precum. Let me stay here, Master, I want to be here for you, always…

That proverbial abyss was rapidly gaining faster than he’d anticipated. But just as he’s ready to let go, to throw himself over with the knowledge that Wyll would be his safety net, a strong clamps down hard at the base of his cock. Astarion cries out a sob and his hips stutter, chasing the sweet release that he’s suddenly denied.

“Master,” Astarion sobs, already hoarse and teetering shamefully on the brink of satisfaction. “Fuck, please, why?!”

There’s a brief pause from Wyll at the moniker, as there always is. He double checks to ensure that Astarion is still present with him. As always, he won’t say or do a thing else beyond what his lover needs. By now, he’s used to being called by the old moniker—though in the beginning, there’d been lengthy and painful tedious discussions about how he never wanted to be to Astarion what Cazador had been. How he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of being categorized by the same title that had subjugated his love.

When Astarion had ensured him that it was less of him becoming his new master, and more of him taking that title away to give it to someone far more deserving, his Blaze had been more on board.

And now, after all that, Wyll only needs brief check in before he’s diving back into the game.

“I’ll give you what you want, my love,” he hums, pressing kisses to pale thighs sheened with sweat. “Just call the pinfall.”

Astarion groans, tosses his head back against the dirt. Again, he is presented with the chance to cut the game short by submitting entirely. To give into Wyll’s sweet demand without protest, be awarded in turn. But it’s early in the night, and though his cock throbs with denial, he finds that he wants more still. There is another spar to be found here, in this and he finds that he isn’t ready to yield. Every thought of simple subservience flees him with the last dregs of his denied orgasm. If he cannot have his way, then Wyll won't have his, either.

He lifts his head. Licks at dry lips, quirks an eyebrow with more insouciance than he feels. He voice only shakes a little bit when he speaks, which he is unnecessarily proud of.

“Surely you have more to you than just your tongue and fingers? You’ll have to work harder than that, I’m afraid.”

“Cheeky little pet,” chuckles the younger man, pressing yet another kiss to his inner thigh. He stares up at him lovingly, fingers still working at the vampire's hole. The pleasure-driven strokes against his prostate ease entirely, fingers seeking to stretch rather than gratify. Astarion fights the grin that threatens his lips, knowing what comes next. His favorite part of the game.

He might be denied his release several times over, but at least he’ll be stuffed with cock while it happens.

As expected, Wyll clambers up onto his knees. He looms this way, presence hovering over the elven vampire in what should be an intimidating way. If it were anyone else, Astarion might feel just that. But this is his darling Wyll, his doting and indulgent master. He wouldn’t even dream of harming him—or not in any way that Astarion wouldn’t love—and the presence above him feels more like protection than a threat. There is only the enveloping warmth of safety, and electrically charged air of desire. 

Astarion is obedient enough to keep his hands by his head, even when he desires nothing more but to reach out and touch. Wyll's armor had rucked up and left a small exposed trail of hair leading down his navel. His trousers had come undone, and they hang low on his hips. In the time between the fall of the Absolute and his position as Blaze, he'd put on more weight—though most of it was hard muscle, brought on by months of non-stop combat training with his command. Astarion wants to sink his teeth into the extra span of deep, umber flesh. He wants to lick and caress and kiss. He might be allowed to later; when they could make love in a real bed, no games just Wyll and Astarion.

But first he wants to be fucked stupid. And to do that, he has to wait. Wait while Wyll tugs his armor and undershirt off of his chest, while he frees his thick erection from his smalls and shoves them down to his thighs, while he one-handed casts another grease spell. Years of spellcasting while wielding his weapon have made him an expert multitasker, and his fingers keep a steady if not unhurried pace while he works. Astarion doesn’t even bother trying to make himself look pretty. He just lays there and reacts how he pleases to the sensation of being stretched open on slender, dexterous fingers. His subdued throaty gasps and sweaty, red-face don’t make him any less attractive to Wyll. In fact, he strokes the grease onto his dick with a hunger in his eye, practically salivating at the display beneath him.

“You look so good for me, Astarion,” Wyll murmurs, voice thick with lust, confirming Astarion’s thoughts. “If only you could behave as prettily as you look.”

“W-Where—hah, mm…—where would be the fun in that?” he responds wickedly. And the man above him beams, not a single word needed to express just how much he agrees.

Wyll slips his fingers out—he’d worked up to three while lubing up, enough to give Astarion the stretch he loved without hurting him—and lowers himself over the vampire carefully. He rests most of his weight on his knees and forearm, despite many months of insistence on his lover's part that he could lay completely on him just fine. With a gentle nudge at Astarion’s thighs with his knees to make space for his body between his legs, he takes only a few moments to get comfortable. And then he’s smiling down at his lover, indulgent as he can be, before dipping low for a sweet kiss. The game pauses here, in this pocket of time right before he presses against his entrance, because he knows in the forthcoming moments he will not be kind. He wants to remind Astarion of how much he adores him, bring him forth out of the cloudy haze of fantasy to the reality of their romance. He will be rough, and bruising, and possibly even cruel with denial. But it is from a place of love and affection, never maliciousness.

And then Astarion feels the nudge of his tip at his entrance, and the smile on Wyll’s lips turns wicked.

“Call the pinfall. Last chance.”

“Go fuck yourself, darling,” Astarion coos back, too much affection in the words to be properly venomous.

“Why would I need to? I have you to use for that,” he pushes in now, sliding home in one swift moment. Astarion mewls, back arching off of the ground and eyes rolling. It’s exactly what he’d been wanting. Stretched so perfectly across his man, swiftly filled to the brim with cock. “Don’t I, pet?”

“Oh, Gods, yes,” Astarion sighs, not so much an answer to his inquiry but more of an encouragement to his fiancé to keep going. Wyll, however, pulls out to the tip on the next stroke and gives a disapproving look. If looks could kill, he’d drop dead between his lovers legs. Instead, his face smooths out into a cheeky smile.

“Hm. But I think you can take me deeper than that, can’t you?” Hitching both hands under the vampire's knees, he gently pushes his legs up and apart. Astarion folds in half quite easily—two centuries of forced flexibility coming right in hand. “Hold these for me, will you, love?”

“You are a,” Astarion reaches under his legs to hold his knees up, spread just like Wyll requests. He doesn’t argue, though he would be remiss not to complain. Especially when the request tints his cheeks such a bright pink, and Wyll is still giving him that cheeky, knowing look. “magnificent bastard, my dear.”

It's a frankly lewd position to be in—spread wide open like a cheap whore, an illuminated trail of grease leaking over his pale asscheeks. He's exposed entirely now, quite literally the definition of vulnerable, with only his smalls still hanging feebly off of one ankle. It's made even more scandalizing by the locale. Astarion is briefly reminded that any unfortunate recruit or unlucky night guard wandering around could stumble across them on the training grounds. But there's a rush of a thrill to even that, the threat of humiliation doing wondrous things to his already painfully hard erection. They could be caught, and he worries he wouldn't feel an iota of mortification. They could be caught, and all it would mean is someone else sees. See how tenderly he's held—no, owned by this brilliant man. Even when he is acting like a prick, or being disobedient, or refusing to do something so simple as admitting he's been beaten. Even when he's so defiant that he has to be a taught a lesson right in the middle of the range. Even then, he will be looked after by his master, his lover, his fiance, his Wyll.

Wyll smiles down at him knowingly, as if he'd read his throughts, before taking proper hold of his hips and slamming deep into him.

He sets a punishing pace outright, both of them too impatient to waste time. It would be maddening with any average cock, but Wyll is hardly average. Six bumpy ridges line the underside of his shaft—each of them roughly an inch or so apart. They were soft and pliable when he was flaccid, but when filled with arousal became firm. With the delicious curve to Wyll’s cock, each one caught perfectly on his prostate. It made him delirious, cock-drunk, driven mad with euphoria.

Astarion is left to claw uselessly at his own thighs, forbidden for now from reaching up to hold onto his horns but being properly railed to the point of thoughtlessness. Wyll covers him with his body, sinks his teeth into the place where his shoulder becomes his neck, and fucks him in long, inevitable strokes. Each one pounds home harsher than the last, lewd wet sounds of skin on skin and the crude squelching of grease filling the night air around their respective sounds of pleasure.

It’s delightful. His eyes roll back in his head, bottom lip caught on his canine as he chews at the soft flesh desperately. Wyll gives him exactly what he deserves, what he needs. One hand, still slippery with grease, takes a bruising grip to his hips whilst the other strokes him in tandem. A veritable assault of pleasure on every receptor in his body—the repetitive motion against his prostate, the contrasting sweet strokes along his shaft, the moans of satisfaction from the man he loves that betray just how much Wyll gets from this too.

Every so often, Astarion works himself up to the brink of an orgasm. He’ll feel it building up slowly—not the crash off the edge he’s accustomed to but a slow steady increase of tension. A dawning horizon of ecstasy, eclipsing all reasonable thought and leaving him reduced to increasingly labored pants of Wyll’s name. He’ll get right there at the peak, trembling with it, before his fiancé would harshly clamp off his release and kiss him softly in return. 

After the third time, Wyll panting against his neck and tears welling in his eyes from denial, he gives a frustrated sob. Seemingly having enough of his cruel bit of play, the man above him gently takes over the hold of his legs. Heels dig into Wyll’s back like spurs, long lithe legs strap around the other man's waist and cling on desperately. With his hands free, Astarion takes the liberty to express some of his frustration. He brings his hands up to dig into the man’s shoulders. Presses his nails deep into the dark flesh until he can smell pinpricks of blood, feel the tacky liquid slowly pool beneath his fingertips.

Wyll hisses in response and sinks his teeth into the crook of his shoulder in return. “Still haven't had enough, have you? I can do this all night, love.”

He’s sure his partner can’t; he’s only human, after all, and they’d used up a good deal of stamina on the sparring. But he’s not interested in arguing the point; his cock is thick and heavy against his stomach, weeping milky white on his navel. He doesn’t want to wait a second longer.

“You win, darling,” Astarion demands through gritted teeth. “Now, please, I need it. I need you.”

And here, it peaks. The turn of the game where Astarion gives Wyll what he needs out of it. To be needed. To be useful. To be able to give everything his lover desires, and more. If Astarion has spent his whole existence bucking authority, then Wyll has wasted so much of his trying to appeal to it. Or one figure of authority, in particular. An entire lifetime of being denied such simple pleasures such as a ‘Good job, Wyll’ or ‘I’m proud of you’ had done irreparable damage to his beloved Blade.

Astarion can’t fix any of that. But he can work at it like this. Giving Wyll the chance to do something good, and making sure he knew how thoroughly he’d accomplished the task. By whatever means necessary. If it means cowing a bit, giving into his own desires and allowing himself to slip fully into obedience, well then... birds and stones.

It works, of course. Wyll moans, deep and low in his chest. He sounds a little fuck-drunk when he speaks, muttering sweet nothings into pallid flesh as he readjusts his hold. “I have you. Gonna give you what you need, I promise…”

They’re both so close to the edge. Wyll pulls back to stare Astarion in the eyes—sentimental fool that he is, he always had a harder time getting off if he couldn’t see his face. There’s love and adoration there in that crimson iris of his, as there always is and certainly always will be.

Sometimes it’s too much, to be regarded so sweetly, and Astarion would bury his face in the pillows. But right now, he can only stare wide-eyed up at the man he loves, begging, pleading, groveling for whatever he has to give. The vampire spawn, completely and thoroughly tamed by his monster hunter.

Astarion leans up hesitantly, laves his tongue over the bite marks he’d left on his lover early that morning. They’re still bruised but beginning to close over, Wyll deliberately forgoing a healing potion so that everyone could see. He quite liked the world knowing that the malicious little vampire that stalked the shadows of the training grounds was his. That he fed him, he satisfied him, he took care of every one of his needs. Wyll would preen like a peacock when his brothers in arms would rib him about the marks. He never divulged a single detail of their sex life—let all the rumors do the talking. But Astarion knows just how much the intrigue it aroused fluffed his ego.

It’s why he pricks his teeth against the slowly healing punctures and whines, needy even to his own ears. Wyll’s hand moves from his hip to hold the back of his head, cradling him lovingly against his neck to grant permission.

He bites down immediately. His mouth is flooded with the heavy, thick flavor of ecstasy. The heat builds in two places in his stomach now, reaching a boiling point. He is close to the meltdown, release hurtling towards him like an inferno. He embraces it all the same, swallowing his monster hunter's blood greedily in service of his own pleasure. He takes one mouthful and moans as he feels hotness of it rush through him, another and it’s all he needs to finally catch up to his orgasm, spilling messily over Wyll’s hand and his own exposed belly. He only pulls off to moan, eyes rolling and vocal chords overworked as he shouts his man's praises. It’s the closest they’ve ever gotten to coming together because Wyll tumbles after him quickly after—pumping once, twice more before his hips stutter in a broken staccato and he's painting Astarion's insides with a throaty groan.

When they lay in the post-coital haze, Wyll slumped over Astarion and Astarion thrumming both with the man’s blood and mind-blowing orgasm, he can’t help but give a delirious little giggle. High and musical, shot through with all the mischievousness he still has.

Wyll doesn’t have the energy to lift his head up, but he does give a muffled, “What is it?” into the other man's sweat-drenched locks.

“Now your armor is going to have stains in the knees.”

A weary sigh from the man above him. He hadn’t been planning on laundering his armor just yet—usually, he put it off to do it alongside the recruits. Something about morale and camaraderie that Astarion didn’t care about. “I know. You’re a bad influence.”

A remorseless snort. “Oh, darling, aren’t I absolutely incorrigible? You should probably do something about that.”

“Mm. Yeah,” Wyll kisses his neck sweetly, tone noncommittal. “but then where would the fun be in that?”

[legrandepapillon]

🎃 Wyllstarion Halloween HCs 🎃

They’re both equally into the theatrics of halloween costumers but in vastly different ways. Astarion will be like “omg i’m Cher from the 1982 People magazine cover it’s so obvious!” and Wyll will dress as something simple but stay fully in character all night. He dressed up as a pirate one year and after the 5th pirate pun Astarion was on hands and knees asking him to drop the act so he could answer a straightforward question.

Wyll buys full sized bars for the kids every year & passes them out himself. He trusted Astarion to do it one year, but Astarion switched out the big candy’s with cheap peppermints and hoarded all the candy for himself & Shadowheart—so now Wyll has trust issues about candy.

Wyll is into mixology and makes these cute & fun Halloween drinks. you can find him halfway through the night giggling to himself as he puts gummy eyes on his Beholder Bellini.

Astarion has to cut him off because if he doesn’t then Wyll will go entirely too hard and spend all day the next day complaining that he’d “never do that again” and “god Halloween is the worst every single year” knowing he’s going to go all out again

Astarion stays up every night for weeks before the big day, hand sewing and stitching their costumes. No matter what outlandish thing Wyll wants to be, he always has a perfect costume for it. Once he went as a teddy bear just to see where Astarion would source fake fur… there was a loud discussion when Halsin found out that most of said fur was not fake.

They host the Halloween parties at their apartment—mostly because Wyll is the only one in the friend group that can afford to live in an apartment enough to fit ten people. Astarion will bitch and moan about their friends not providing anything, and then be put out whenever someone tries to offer to help with snacks or decorations.

Shadowheart doing Astarion’s Halloween makeup every year because he can’t see his reflection. And then doing Wyll’s because it’s torture to watch him almost stab himself in the eye with an eyeliner pencil.

They have a costume competition on best costume. Wyll is suspicious that it’s rigged, because only Astarion and Karlach ever win & Karlach has worn the same Scorpion from MK8 costume for four years. Still, he doesn’t exactly see Astarion switching out the voting papers so can it really be proven?

Astarion has attempted to work through Halloween a handful of times, mostly when he’s having a bad day. But every time Wyll just asks him to put on his costume for the spirit of the night, and by the time Astarion is done getting dressed, he couldn’t be less interested in opening his laptop.

A little NSFW but by now, it’s a Halloween tradition for Wyll & Astarion to sneak off to find some private time. Wyll doesn’t break character, not even during sex which has given Astarion some interesting orgasms. He won’t even let Wyll mention werewolves for two years after that.

Minthara always wears genuinely horrific and terrifying costumes. Astarion used to think it was very funny to have her answer the door for children while Wyll went to grab candy, until one year where not a lot of children came by. Wyll looked so sad about his near-full bucket that Astarion made sure Minthara never opened the door again.

No matter how careful they are, somehow, someway, every year their coffee table gets chipped during the night. At this point, Wyll is convinced the coffee table has a Halloween curse. Astarion is convinced that curse is named “Wyll & Karlach drunk arm wrestling”.

[sharess-festhall]

i want to sit on wylls face please please please please please please please please please please please please please

[lesbianwyllravengard]

Wyllyum

WyllYUM

Image ID: six images of Wyll Ravengard from Baldur's Gate 3. The second image is of Wyll and Astarion holding each other with Astarion's hand caressing Wyll's face, but I drew over Astarion with blue marker and wrote "ME" on top in red marker.

[lyyyniee]

The Blade

[ym523]

C0mm for @allymcfee ❤️Bg ripped by @bhaalbaaby 🩷

[alifelongpassed]

And we will say our farewell in silence. Like we always have.

This was all fun and games until he started to look like old days Bon Jovi, and I couldn't unsee. Yeah.

[moetartart]

I definitely wanted to give him the biggest hug in that moment 😭

I'm loving this couple and slowly but surely I actually think I'm improving and developing a style!! 😊🙏 I actually like this one sooo much better than my last! Just need to keep at it and not give up!!

[pluviatrix]

WISH 9th level conjuration "Wish is the mightiest spell a mortal creature can cast...you can alter the very foundations of reality in accord with your desires...finally, there is a 33 percent chance that you are unable to cast Wish ever again..."

cue the walk of shame back to the cottage cuz astarion forgot his gloves

[weltenwellen]

Andrea Gibson, Lord of the Butterflies