Archive of Our Own

It’s not right. 

To hell with that—it’s not safe! 

Wyll takes a sip from his goblet. The stars loom quietly above. The fire crackles. It’s a calm night. Everyone is tired from the day. They’ve all gone to their tents, reading or meditating. But Wyll isn’t ready to go to sleep yet. 

His good eye—his demonic eye—is fixed on Astarion. 

Normally, their pale friend keeps his nose buried in some book, or else he engages in casual conversation with one of the others, always up for a bit of banter. 

But he should be hunting .

When was the last time Astarion hunted? 

Wyll savors the brandy in his mouth, trying to think. Must be at least three long rests, maybe four! 

He’s been tracking Astarion’s hunting habits for the last few weeks. Not that it’s any of his business—personally, he’d rather not keep track of a vampire’s fiendish exploits in the night—but it’s just that…well, Wyll can’t turn a blind eye. Ever since they discovered there was a vampire among them, Wyll’s been clocking Astarion’s surreptitious feeds. He has to. He’s the one with experience tracking and disposing of troublesome beasts, infernal or otherwise unspeakable. Someone needs to make sure the group is not in any danger. Astarion seems like a reasonable bloke (mostly), but even so. He’s a vampire and that’s not something they should take lightly. 

So Wyll doesn’t take it lightly. It’s his duty. 

Mind you, Wyll doesn’t know everything there is to know about vampires. He’s never taken one down before. Huge bats, yes. Decrepit wolves with coffin-rank fur, also yes. Oh, yes. But not the fabled blood-drainers of old. Astarion is the first vampire Wyll has ever come across in his travels. However, he has studied Astarion’s kind. Through brandied conversations in Gur camps. Tattered books. Bar talk. Damp notes left behind in abandoned houses. These are the foundations of the Blade’s education and Wyll remembers everything he might one day need. 

He knows enough. 

According to what he’s gleaned, vampires usually feed once a day when the sun goes down. Despite being immortal, they need nourishment on a regular basis. A proper vampire relishes the opportunity to indulge their blood cravings, feeding even more than necessary for the fun of it. Those constant cravings—and the casual disregard for the lives of mortals—are what make them so dangerous!

Now, Astarion is not a normal vampire. He’s a spawn, for one thing. For another, he’s infected with a mindflayer parasite like the rest of them. These things might have some effect on his appetite, but even so…

Feeding on a squirrel once every three or four days? That doesn’t seem like enough. A vampire might exsanguinate a person once a night under normal circumstances. 

How can Astarion survive on so little blood?  

He can’t. That’s the short answer. Wyll notices that on the third day after a feed, Astarion gets markedly more irritable. Quieter. Less predictable on the battlefield, prone to mistakes and lapses in judgement. On the fourth day, Astarion becomes a liability. Mercurial in the extreme. Difficult to be around. He will be dangerously imprecise with his knives. His dextrous fingers fumble on even the simplest lock. When he’s like this, he can do little except slug around the camp, throwing biting sarcasm at whoever dares to talk to him. 

The fourth day without a feed is excruciating. For all of them! Does Astarion realize that? 

He has to, right? Astarion has to know that he’s a burden on the group when he lets himself get so hungry. Not only that, he’s putting them all in danger! A rogue vampire with irregular feeding habits—nothing good will come of it! 

Why does Astarion let himself get so hungry? 

Wyll can’t think of a reason. Is Astarion embarrassed by his blood cravings, disgusted by them? No, that can’t be. He’s had 200 years to get used to them. Besides, a shit meal still fills your belly. Hunger is hunger and no living creature can withstand their natural drives for long. 

It must be physically uncomfortable. For example, look at Astarion now. Wyll is sure he hasn’t fed in at least four days. He’s…twitching. His head erratically jerks to one side every so often. His lips stutter around his fangs, periodically sucking in air and making a sound like a cat with a sore tooth, hissing in pain from a casual swat. 

How can Astarion let himself get like that? 

This can’t go on. 

One more night. Wyll will keep watch. He’ll give Astarion one more night to take care of his obvious hunger on his own terms. If that pale elf chooses not to, then…

Wyll will have to take matters into his own hands. 

______________________________

“Stubborn bastard.” Wyll mutters into his cup. 

Of course Astarion would force his hand. This is the fifth night without a feed for Astarion. 

This has to end. 

Draining the rest of his goblet, Wyll shakes off his lingering shyness. He knows this will be awkward. It’s a difficult topic; Astarion does not like to talk about his vampirism with the others. He bristles if anyone brings it up, like he’s being made a spectacle of. He does his best to scare them off by leaning into theatrical descriptions of violence and such. An effective strategy. 

Wyll wants to respect Astarion’s privacy. He gets it. He’s had enough discussion about horns and bumps in unmentionable places since he’s been turned into a devil. So he knows how Astarion must feel.

Yet here he is. A bumbling fool trampling all over Astarion’s boundaries. 

But. Well.

Wyll hopes Astarion will see that he’s making this offer in earnest. To help him, not to embarrass him. For all their sakes. 

“Astarion, might I have a word?” 

Cold red eyes throw him a look of disdain. Astarion is not pleased to be disturbed from his agonized wallowing.  

“Oh, hello,” the vampire spits. “What’s this about?” 

“It’s a personal matter. Mind if we head towards the stream? Won’t take a moment.” 

He’s already alerted Astarion’s senses. Those red eyes narrow in suspicion. 

“If you’re going to drive a stake through my heart, you might as well do it here.” He gestures at his tent. “Save me the trouble of walking to my own demise. Unless you’d rather do it near water, so my exploding guts won’t leave a mess for you all come morning.” 

Right. There’s the warning volley. To be expected.  

“No stakes, no tricks.” Wyll raises his hands, palms up. “I just want to run something by you. Feel free to say no, if you want, but I believe it’ll be worth your while.” 

Astarion tilts his head. Curious. He’s intrigued by the prospect of personal gain. More than that…

Sighing, he ambles dramatically to his feet. “You’re lucky I trust that oath-sworn tongue of yours. Very well. Lead on.” 

Good. So they have built up enough of a bond over the course of their travels that Astarion trusts him at least this much. Wyll was counting on that. 

He hurries to a secluded patch of grass next to a nearby stream. They’re far enough away from the others that they won’t be overhead unless someone chooses to eavesdrop (a risk they always take).

“Go on, then,” Astarion urges. He crosses his arms in preemptive defense, eyes darting around for any traps. “What’s gotten into you tonight?”

Wyll cuts to the chase. “Look, Astarion…” He practiced this, but it still feels clunky. “I’m going to be honest with you. And I should hope you’d do the same for me.” Honesty is a strong suit for neither of them, but still. This is different.

“Tell me, when was the last time you fed?” 

Shock freezes Astarion to the spot. He is dead silent for a moment, the amount of time it takes for him to realize this is going to be a ‘vampire’ conversation. A personal one. He opens his mouth to wax beleaguered and sarcastic, but Wyll interrupts.

“Let’s put aside the insincerities for a moment, alright?” His voice is louder than usual. Firm. “No bullshit. Just tell me. How long?” 

Something about the way he says it stops Astarion in his tracks again. He snaps his mouth closed. Opens it, then closes it again. He shoots Wyll a dubious look, unsure how to proceed on this ground. It’s new for them. Wyll has never cornered him before. And Astarion likes to be able to slip free of anyone’s ire when he can. 

Eventually, Astarion decides to mine for information. “If I were to ask why you’re so curious about this…” 

“I think it’s obvious why I’m asking.” Wyll frowns. Very serious. “Be frank with me. How long have you gone without blood?” 

Silence. Shaking his head in bewilderment, Astarion looks at the sky. He seems to be searching for an answer, an honest one. As if…

“You don’t even know, do you?” Wyll softens his voice for the accusation. “Are you even keeping track of how many days it’s been?” 

Well and truly caught, for once, Astarion shrugs a shoulder. He gestures flippantly at nothing, waving the matter away like it’s nothing. “How many days? A thing like that, what does it matter, darling—?” 

“It matters. It matters a lot.” This is worse than Wyll thought. “Astarion, you’re a vampire. Do you need me to tell you that? The longer you go without a feed, the more volatile you become. I’m telling you, I’ve been counting the days since I last saw you hunt. It’s too long. Far too long.” 

He pauses, reading the look on Astarion’s face. A look like he’s hearing this for the first time. 

How could that be?

“Don’t you feel your senses getting dulled? Isn’t the hunger gnawing away at you? Doesn’t that bother you?” Wyll waits for Astarion to come up with some excuse, but nothing comes. 

Astarion just glances away. Considering this information. 

“Gods, man. I won’t even ask how you’ve managed to…anyway. The point is, you need to start feeding yourself more regularly. This way we can count on you in battle. And we won’t be risking our necks by virtue of sitting near you and having half a pulse.” He makes his first offer. “If it’s a hunting problem, if you’re struggling to catch small game in the wild, then allow me to step in. I can catch a few boars or birds for you—” 

“Oh please. A newborn child could kill a pig out here just by swinging a stick, there’s enough of them. No that’s not the issue. It’s…well…” 

“What is it?” Wyll wants to know! 

Astarion sighs. His face goes through an interesting journey. Exasperated, to amused, to suddenly nervous. Then bored. “You see, the spawn in service to Cazador Szarr ,” he stresses the name in bombastic disdain, as usual, “didn’t get to decide what and when they ate. Feeding was a matter of his personal whimsy. Choice of food, was it rats or mice today? That would be whatever happened to crawl over the master’s boot. We’d be lucky for the opportunity . When should we be fed? Why, whenever he felt the motivation! A day, a week. A year, or…” 

He swallows hard, shoving aside some memory. 

“So, yes. He dictated all that for me.” Sourness overcomes Astarion’s face, until it evaporates. Leaving behind nothing. Apathy. Unfeeling neutrality. “I suppose the result is that I never learned how to…feed myself. How to…” 

He doesn’t elaborate. There’s no need. It all makes sense now.

Astarion never learned what he should have as a vampire. As a living creature. How to read his own hunger cues. How to listen to his body and respond accordingly. Therefore, his understanding of satiety is entirely out of sync. Does he even know what it feels like to be full? Does he think the feeling of starvation is normal?

A pang of sympathy batters Wyll’s ribs. A familiar feeling. Wyll has seen suffering a million times over, in Faerûn, and certainly in Avernus. He knows what this type of pain can move him to do. He is also used to tempering this bleeding heart of his. Reining it in when his hands are tied.

Still, in the end, his conscience is an immovable object. 

There’s only so much suffering Wyll can allow to happen in front of him. 

He claps Astarion on the shoulder (unintentionally jarring the vampire out of a reverie). “You’ve been through hell, friend. As nightmarish as anything in the Nine Hells. But I’m happy to tell you that the nightmare is over.” He offers him a warm, sly smile. “You’re not in the service of Cazador Szarr anymore. Nor anyone else’s. You’re your own master now, and thus, you ought to start flexing those fangs you’ve got. Let’s put your damn fine muscles to work!” 

…Was that an odd thing to say? Wyll didn’t mean it to sound…like it did. He meant to give a compliment but not—well, anyway. It’s out and he can’t take it back! 

He clears his throat. Takes a step backward to give Astarion some space. After an uncomfortable beat, he course corrects towards his intended destination: An offer of assistance. 

“We should come up with a plan,” Wyll begins. “A regimen, if you will. I’ll create a schedule of when you should be hunting, roughly every two days to start—” 

“Are you…are you serious ?” Astarion is looking at Wyll like he has two heads. In addition to the two horns. 

“Absolutely,” Wyll answers. Totally sincere, as ever. “If you forget, I’ll just remind you. Once the idea of regular hunting becomes normal, you won’t need to rely on me as much—” 

A laugh cuts through Wyll’s words. Dark and bitter, more like a growl. 

Astarion hisses, “Are you out of your sweet, gods damned mind? You’d really do that? Keep me on a schedule? Like…that? Genuinely?” 

Wyll looks him dead in the eye. “Yes. I would.”

It seems Astarion’s cunning has run out. He has no retort. Sincerity, the kind of unflappable earnestness Wyll has to offer, is not something Astarion knows how to deal with.

Wyll was counting on that too.

“I’ll do it,” he says again. “For the sake of the group—for your sake, Astarion—I wouldn’t mind.” 

For a moment, a tint of red dusts Astarion’s pale cheeks and nose. What is that? Is there some life in this bloodless spawn after all? 

But, just as quickly as it appears, it is gone. 

“Well, I think you’re ridiculous.” Astarion crosses his arms and shakes his head. “Purely, wholeheartedly ridiculous. There’s no way I’d ever agree to—” 

Naturally, Wyll thought this might happen. He’s taking deadly aim at Astarion’s pride, so. It’s not surprising. 

He came prepared. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a dead rabbit he killed earlier in the day. A young, meaty thing. 

As soon as Astarion sees the rabbit, his diatribe stops. Abruptly. His eyes sparkle, alive and alert in the face of what they know is sustenance. 

“Take it,” Wyll says, holding the rabbit carcass out to him. “It’s fresh. Go on, I know you’re hungry.” 

Astarion’s savage gaze flicks between the proffered rabbit and Wyll’s eyes. Again, and again. He takes a step closer to see what happens. Then he reaches out half-heartedly, quickly dropping his hand. As if he expected Wyll to pull the rabbit out of reach at the last second. Tricking him. Torturing him, more like.

But there are no tricks here. No torture. Just Wyll’s steadfast gaze and sturdy hand. Offering Astarion what his body needs more than anything right now. 

The second Astarion realizes Wyll is not going to lord this over him, not going to hold it over his head just out of reach until he agrees to something, his control snaps. His long-suppressed instincts take over and he lunges. Fangs bared, keening a sharp gurgle. He snatches the rabbit out of Wyll’s hand and stuffs it into his face. Sucking like he needs it to live—which he does. 

He lets Wyll see what he looks like when he does this. Maybe he’s so hungry he forgets to slink off into the shadows and hide it. Or maybe he wants Wyll to see. To know the reality of Astarion’s vampirism. The messiness of it. The horror. As Astarion feeds, a blob of guts lands awkwardly at Wyll’s feet. 

And Wyll just stands there. Watching. He doesn’t reel back in disgust, or even in self-perseveration. He knew this was coming. To him, there is nothing amiss.

“Good,” he says, nodding his head in satisfaction. He has to speak over the loud squelching sounds of Astarion’s meal. “I’m glad you finally gave in. There, now. Don’t you feel much better?” 

Gore slips from Astarion’s lips. He stares at Wyll as he drinks. Reading him. Studying. Boring into him to find what lies at the center. His look is relentless, forged with the strength of survival instinct. This is how Astarion keeps himself alive. He is deciding if Wyll can be trusted. 

Whatever Astarion finds from this deep dive into Wyll’s soul, it is not readily apparent. But he lifts his head and says in a low, flat voice, “Yes.”

Something thrums in Wyll’s stomach. 

The air is prickly. Intimate. 

Wyll sees Astarion’s throat working to swallow the rabbit’s blood. From the outside, he can watch the blood’s descent happening in real time. He sees Astarion’s body relax into it, muscles unwinding with each gulp. He must feel such relief to have nourishment again after so long. The animal hunger finally sated. Wyll wishes he brought more food for him. To really fill him up, really satisfy him. That naked display of hunger—the way Astarion dove on him, yanked the food out of his hand, unable to hold back any longer…

Wyll’s top lip is sweating. He wipes it. Suddenly, he is aware of an interested twitch below the belt. A hot lurch of desire, just as animalistic as Astarion is right now. Just as stark. Undeniable. 

They’ve stumbled upon a vein of something here. A vein of heat that has a…long tail.

Reasonably shocked by this discovery, Wyll blinks and shakes his head. He needs to take a step back. Reassess. Check again to make sure what he thinks he feels is really… that . That the heaviness in his drawers is not some passing flight of fancy. 

Astarion refuses to break eye contact. He stares Wyll down. Merciless, even when Wyll does his best to ruin the moment. 

The moment ends when Astarion says it does. Not when Wyll’s decency decides to kick in. 

So they stand there. Analyzing each other. Feeling out how this arrangement is going to go. 

It feels…nice. 

Whatever Wyll might decide later on tonight, when he’s alone and he thinks about all this, he can say honestly, in the moment: He likes the way this feels. The way Astarion is looking at him. Knowing that he’s getting what he needs. 

Wyll likes it. 

Licking his fingers clean, sucking them in a way that edges on obscene, Astarion drops the blood-drained rabbit. He regards Wyll with a look of curiosity. Interest fully piqued. Now he knows Wyll is being completely serious. He can feel the perks of such an offer in his stomach, revitalizing him. And, since he has fed, his mind is a little clearer. More rational. 

“Alright, then.” Astarion licks his lips pointedly, doing little to clear the blood from the lower half of his face. “Since it seems you have this all well in hand, and you’re so adorably serious about it, I suppose I can follow along. For now.” 

A hint of knowingness gleams in his eyes. He has seen. Whatever came to life inside Wyll while he was feeding, Astarion saw it. He knows.

He holds out his arms and takes a low, mocking bow. “I relinquish myself into your capable hands. Lead on.” 

Taking a deep breath, Wyll commits himself to seeing this through. He made the offer, he’ll make sure it’s done. No matter what. 

“Excellent,” he says (perhaps just a bit too loudly). “Then I’ll check in with you in a day’s time. Keep us on track. I’m sure you see how remarkably better it is to be fed. Let’s keep that energy. We’re off to a good start.”

Astarion’s bloody lips twitch in amusement. Still, he nods. “As you say.” He saunters away, throwing a meaningful look over his shoulder, along with a casual, “Good night.” 

It almost sounds like an invitation.

Once he is alone, Wyll sneaks a hand between his legs. Surreptitious, disguised as ‘adjustment.’ Sure enough, he finds stiffness where he knew he would. Unbidden, but still, irrefutable. 

He sighs. He knows himself. He knows how he responds to situations like this. 

If that was an invitation from Astarion—serious or not—Wyll would have taken it. Gladly.

He’s the type to sign away his fate on a whim. 

__________________________________

The first time Wyll has to remind Astarion to feed—in two days’ time, as promised—Astarion is lounging in his tent without a care in the world. Waiting . He wants to see if Wyll will make good on his proposal.

And he is not disappointed.

“Up and at ‘em,” Wyll prompts. He beckons Astarion out of the tent. “It’s time.” 

Wyll won’t speak about the details of their arrangement in front of the other companions. Nothing about ‘feeding’ or ‘hunting.’ Of course the others will notice the two of them sneaking off somewhere every few days, and if they chose to ask, then that is Astarion’s decision to answer. Wyll won’t make a spectacle. 

The look on Astarion’s face is slyly gleeful. He is ready to see where this goes. He follows Wyll to the edge of the forest where he makes some comment about how Wyll doesn’t need to dog his steps all the way. How Astarion can manage to hunt on his own. 

“Of course. I don’t doubt it.” Wyll sits against a tree, makes himself comfortable. “I’ll be here when you’re done.” 

Astarion eyes him curiously, then sets off. When he returns some time later, his demeanor has changed. He looks remarkably calmer, more confident. His gait is a smooth saunter. It looks like he has fed. 

But Wyll wants to make something clear. 

“Hold on a moment, Astarion.” 

He stares the vampire down, making a big show of reading his body language. He peers closely at Astarion’s face. Then says, without shame, “Open your mouth.” 

Eyes wide, Astarion pauses. He is comically surprised. Caught off guard. But he quickly recovers. He answers Wyll’s request with a show of compliance. He drops his jaw and holds his mouth open. 

Wyll inspects the inside of his mouth. It is noticeably crimson. The stain of blood is not easy to wash out so soon after a feed. Plus, Astarion’s fangs are still bared. Engorged from the hunt. 

“Mm, good. You’ve gotten something in your stomach.” Nodding, Wyll taps Astarion’s chin. A signal that he can close his mouth. 

He wants it to be clear that he is not faffing about. Wyll will not be made a fool of. He wants proof that Astarion has fed so they can put the matter to rest. This is not a dance, for once. It is a promise. He will hold Astarion to his end of the bargain. 

Then he says, “Alright. Same thing, two days from now. Cheers.”  

With that, he leaves Astarion to his own thoughts. 

_______________________________________________

The next time Astarion returns to Wyll after a feed, his face is still bloody. Clear evidence. Wyll is pleased to see it. He pats Astarion on the shoulder and says, “Good show. I hope you ate enough.”

Which leads him to his next question. “What are you eating out there, anyway?” 

Speaking plainly for once, Astarion explains that it varies. He tries to find game like boars, since mid-sized creatures really satisfy him. But he takes whatever he can get. Sometimes he gets bored or tired before he can find something suitable, so he either gives up or settles for a snack. 

Wyll doesn’t like the sound of that. He resolves to keep a stock of freshly killed animals with him, in case Astarion isn’t full.

These should be meals, not snacks. Wyll wants him to know what it feels like to be sated. 

So, the time after that, he offers Astarion a large crow he felled earlier. In addition to whatever Astarion hunted on his own. 

“Take your time,” he encourages. “Enjoy it. Savoring one’s food is a simple pleasure, but one of precious few we have.” 

Astarion does as he’s told. He drinks slowly. By the third pull from the crow’s neck, he is enthralled by the act. Genuinely so—he makes a low, subconscious sound. Between a moan and a growl. His eyes flutter closed. 

“That’s it. There.” Wyll wets his lips. He loves the sight of Astarion enjoying his food. It’s like he can feel his pleasure vicariously. The pleasure of eating beyond just subsistence: Eating to nourish the physical body. 

Wyll would see Astarion’s body nourished.

Thoroughly so. 

He tightens his jaw. That persistent hum of passion has returned. This time, Wyll leans into it. Rides it like a wave. Whatever will come from this, he doesn’t know, but. He can say it felt good to seek it out. 

He watches Astarion lose himself in his meal. 

At some point, Astarion comes up for air. His face is a mess. Fangs out, covered in dark blood and viscera. His eyes are glowing in the moonlight. Unnatural red. 

He doesn’t seem to be in his right mind.

“Oh…” He rolls his head in a circle, lips quivering with pleasure. “That’s…nice…” A giggle chases his words. High, silly. 

Blood drunk.  

He drops to his knees, burying his face deeper into the crow. Wyll looks down at him. He is very happy that Astarion is enjoying himself, but he doesn’t know what the vampire will do next. What a moment of true giddiness might do to Astarion.

Still, Wyll isn’t worried. 

Without thinking, he pats Astarion on the head. “That’s the spirit,” he says. Astarion’s white hair is so soft and fluffy, addictive to the touch. Wyll can’t help petting him a little.  

He expects Astarion will come to his senses soon enough. 

“Mmmm…” Astarion lifts his head. His unfocused eyes are only half open. He finds Wyll’s hand and nuzzles it with his face. He smears a line of blood across Wyll’s palm, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Wyll doesn’t mind. He strokes Astarion’s bloodied cheek with his thumb. If this helps him keep his buzz, then he will do it. And that face…

That beautiful face, swimming in bliss. Astarion’s self-awareness is below the surface. His instincts are manning the wheel. Of course his instincts tell him to serve, since that is his lot in life. As a spawn, a slave to a cruel master.

If this is what he needs, it’s fine. Wyll won’t ask him to do anything—nothing more than eat. He will let Astarion’s subservient self unfurl. Gently, naturally. He’ll take care of this part of him, in a way that other master should have done. It’s a shame Astarion doesn’t know the joy in subservience, only the pain. 

Wyll can’t say he’s an expert in things like this. 

But like most things, he knows enough. 

He suspects the key is to follow his gut. 

“Keep eating,” he tells Astarion softly. “You’ll feel better soon enough.”

Astarion chuckles and rubs his face harder against Wyll’s hand. “Oh, I feel wonderful. Thank you. Thank you for this…” He turns Wyll’s hand over and presses adoring kisses to his knuckles. He seems to be searching for a ring to worship, but Wyll doesn’t wear rings. So instead, Astarion lavishly licks the bare skin of Wyll’s ring finger. 

“Hngh…” Wyll cringes. Damn, that tongue. Summoned his cock right up. Full mast. 

Damn, damn, damn. 

Wyll sucks in air between his teeth, trying to regain control. He’s not even sure Astarion knows who he is right now. So, yes. Control, control. 

It’s an easy thing. Really, it is. Wyll is good at controlling himself.

Most of the time.

Still lost in his reverie, Astarion bends lower. Impossibly lower. Now his forehead is pressed against Wyll’s boot. He rubs his face here, as well, across the laces of Wyll’s boots. Humming, hissing. 

Is this a mark of obedience for vampire spawn? Wyll’s knowledge of vampires doesn’t go this far! 

Either way, Wyll isn’t sure he should be letting Astarion do this. “Are you…alright?” A stupid thing to ask but—

Without answering, Astarion picks up the crow and continues to eat. He eats right there at Wyll’s feet. As if this is comfortable for him. 

Maybe it is. It must be what he’s used to. In that case, perhaps Wyll should just let it be. Let Astarion do what he needs to do. 

As for the state of his own needs, well…Wyll shoves those thoughts aside. Not the time. (The time, most likely, will be later tonight when he’s alone in his tent and he can recall this moment. Work it out as he needs to. And by the gods, does he have something to work out.) 

Eating contentedly next to Wyll’s boots, Astarion drains the crow dry. He picks over its feathers when he’s done, disappointedly scratching for more. 

“There’s plenty where that came from,” Wyll tells him. “Are you still hungry?” 

“Am I…?” 

In a flash, Astarion’s self-awareness returns. He shakes his head, blinking slowly. He glances around to take in the scene. He must know how he got to his knees. Why he’s sitting at Wyll’s feet. There’s nothing wrong with his memory, after all. He was simply compelled by his own natural urges. 

Now the moment has passed. 

With a sigh, Astarion sits back on his haunches. He doesn’t seem overly embarrassed, but he still cannot look Wyll in the eye. He wipes his face on the back of his hand, smearing the blood further. 

“That was…” he begins to say. But he trails off. Even he—the man with an endless litany of smart words—doesn’t quite know what to call that.

For a long moment, the silence sits. The ambient noises from the forest are the only soundtrack. It isn’t awkward. Instead, it feels…heavy. Like they’ve turned the page on a book that suddenly turned out to be much longer than they anticipated. The setting and the characters are the same, but they’re in a different chapter. 

It is familiar. Just new. 

After a while, Astarion glances up at Wyll. Discovering that he’s still there, as stolid as ever, Astarion clicks his teeth impatiently. “Well. Don’t just stand there. Say something.” 

Fair enough. Wyll tries to think of something reassuring. 

He can only think of one thing. The truth, as he sees it. “It’s alright,” he says. “If you need to…if that’s comfortable for you, then I—”

“ Comfortable ?” Astarion spits the word, then laughs. A dark, rueful laugh. As angry as anything. “Please.” He rises to his feet, dusting off his pants. 

He looks at Wyll again. This time for longer.  

Then he says, “I mean, honestly. You’ve already gotten me on my knees. You don’t need to insult me besides.” 

Sensing Astarion’s usual irony, Wyll breaks into a smile. He is glad to be on their typical footing again. Astarion’s smile reflects back at him. 

It’s a beautiful smile. Especially like this, right now, when that smile is a touch more honest than it usually is. 

Honesty looks good on Astarion. 

__________________________________________

Their arrangement continues along these lines. The goal is the same, but the path is…different enough. 

When Astarion feeds well, he always slips into that same headspace. Subservient and docile. Wyll gets used to having his boots kissed. He can’t say it’s his most sought after display of intimacy—he never would have thought of asking anyone to do this for him, ever. He also can’t say it’s pleasurable for him as an idea. But he likes the fact that Astarion, for whatever reason, is complacent enough to do this with him. That he trusts him. Because Astarion knows by now what he will do when he eats the food Wyll gives him. He has carved out a place for himself there at Wyll’s feet. 

That’s his prerogative. 

In truth, the sexiest part of it all for Wyll is that Astarion lets him do any of this. 

To honor his trust, Wyll begins to do a variety of things for Astarion. Extra things. He cleans Astarion’s face when he is done eating. His hands too, if Astarion got blood under his fingernails. He cleans him as thoroughly as he can with a wet cloth, and a dry towel to dab the remains. He knows Astarion cannot see himself in the mirror, so it’s Wyll’s job to keep him as fastidious as he likes after a meal. Not a speck of blood leftover. 

He sharpens Astarion’s knives for him. To make it easier to hunt. 

He praises Astarion on occasions when he remembers to feed himself. Telling him things like, “You’re getting the hang of this, my friend,” and “Good call, that. Keen memory.” The quietly thrilled look Astarion gives him in return is always worth it. 

Sometimes, when Astarion is too blood drunk to calm down, they sit together for a while afterwards. Wyll holds Astarion’s face in his hands and gently strokes his cheeks. Outward from the nose. A calming gesture. 

“You’re alright, mate,” he tells him. Trying to help him return to his senses. Running out the clock until Astarion’s buzz wears off. “You’ve just had a bit too much. Happens to the best of us. Why, I remember this one time in Candlekeep with a few drinking buddies…” He regales Astarion with jaunty tales from his past. Easy stories he thinks Astarion might find interesting. 

Sometimes Astarion will ground himself during one of these tales. He’ll start asking questions, which lets Wyll know that the tenuous moment has passed and Astarion is ready for a conversation again.

Other times, Astarion isn’t the slightest bit interested in what Wyll has to say. He’ll lay his head on Wyll’s thigh and go right to sleep. 

Either way, it’s fine. 

Wyll is the one holding the reins here. He controls when Astarion eats, how much blood he drinks, and how presentable he is afterwards. It’s a whole process. 

A process he has come to take great pride in. He knows Astarion—for all his irritability and deflection—also enjoys it. In his way.

So, then. Perhaps Wyll shouldn’t be surprised when Astarion begins to look at him. Really look at him. In such a peculiar way, it would be impossible to ignore. 

At night around the campfire, with the others in clear view, Astarion throws Wyll hungry looks. Eyes ablaze with something secretive. A burning need. Insatiable, damn near burning a hole through Wyll’s casual clothes. 

Is he hungry? Wyll asks himself the same question whenever he sees (or feels , rather than sees) those eyes on him. But Astarion can’t be hungry because Wyll made sure he was fed only a few hours ago. Unless…

The more Astarion looks at him, the more Wyll begins to wonder. 

Maybe Astarion’s hunger has evolved. Maybe he’s not satisfied eating small game anymore. Maybe now that he’s had a taste for what it feels like to be full, he’s ready to expand his palate. Move on to more sophisticated food. 

Maybe he’s ready to start drinking human blood. As his kind naturally craves. 

It would make sense, after all. Astarion’s feeding habits are much more regular. His body is no longer starving, so he has the luxury of being more discerning when it comes to meals. What vampire wouldn’t want to sample the genuine article? Human blood is their delicacy! 

That’s not strange at all. Dangerous as hell, of course, but expected. To have a vampire sitting around the campfire throwing hungry looks…well, it’s making everyone uneasy. 

In Wyll’s eyes, there is only one solution. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t already considered it.

___________________________________________

“Astarion, can I ask you something?” 

“Of course. What do you want to know?” 

Wyll chews the words in his mouth. Not sure how to phrase this properly. Astarion has just returned from a hunt and he’s ready to see what else Wyll brought for him to enjoy. He has something for him, naturally, but first, Wyll has to know…

“Are you starting to crave the taste of human blood?” 

At first, Astarion is stunned into silence. Then he throws his head back and laughs. “You! I can’t believe, after all this time together, you still manage to catch me completely off guard with your cockamamie nonsense.” 

Wyll just stares at him. 

Seeing that Wyll isn’t laughing, Astarion’s mirth dies out. “Well, darling, of course I’m craving human blood. For heaven’s sake, I’m a vampire . Haven’t we already covered this?” 

“Right, but I mean, human blood over animal blood. Are the birds and beasts not enough anymore? Do you want something more? Humanoid blood—my blood?” 

Now Astarion senses where Wyll is going. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Why are you asking me this?” 

Wyll gets right to the point. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me. Such a carnivorous look. With eyes like that, I’ve got half a mind to start sleeping with a plate of armor over my neck.” 

A smile tugs at Astarion’s lips. He bounces his eyebrows, then opens his mouth to say something. 

Wyll interrupts. “Before we dance around the topic like fools, let me show you this.” He takes out what he brought for Astarion to drink tonight.

It is a small vial of blood. His blood, Wyll’s very own, which he extracted with a needle. 

As soon as Astarion lays eyes on the vial, his jaw drops. His fangs extend and his eyes go cold and sharp. Dark red, almost black. He is on full alert, all his control balanced on the edge of a pin. Ready to strike. 

Wyll holds out the blood. “Here. You can have this. It’s mine, obviously. Luckily for us, I don’t have any compunctions about needles or anything of the sort. I’d just…rather not start down the path of you drinking from my neck. That’s risky business and I don’t think either of us are prepared—”

Before Wyll can finish, Astarion yanks the vial out of his hand. He uncorks it and inhales deeply through his nose. 

“Oh, oh ho…” His lips curl devilishly. He is high off the scent already! He looks at Wyll like he’s the tastiest thing he’s ever seen. “Oh, you sweet man. You beautiful idiot. Yes .”

Without another word, he downs the vial in one gulp. 

A line of blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. Astarion’s tongue darts out to catch it. He makes savage eye contact with Wyll as he does it. On the verge of lunacy. 

Right, so. Wyll may have rushed into this too boldly—

Astarion lunges at him. Wyll tries to hold up his hands in surrender, but Astarion’s body crushes into him. The hands on his face move him into position, putting his mouth right where Astarion wants him. He crashes their lips together. Rough and demanding. Wyll can taste his own blood on Astarion’s lips and it is…strange. Wet, hot, visceral. Desperation boils underneath Astarion’s imprecise movements. 

He is desperate for this.

So desperate that he isn’t being careful about where he puts his fangs. Wyll worries those sharp things might catch on his lips and draw blood—then he’ll have a vampire sucking him dry from the mouth! 

“Wait, stop.” Distance, he needs distance! His body is lit up with excitement, ablaze like a match. But they can’t do this so recklessly! 

When he angles his face away from Astarion, the vampire immediately takes the hint. “Oh, I—” He takes a step back. Startled out of his delirium. He regards Wyll with trepidation. Actually…

The look on Astarion’s face is the first of its kind that Wyll has ever seen him wear: Fear.

Astarion is afraid. 

Does he think he overstepped? He wouldn’t be wrong, necessarily. But the mortal peril in his eyes…does he expect Wyll to run him through with his rapier as penance? A monster hunter claiming their prey at last? 

In an instant, Astarion drops to his knees. Hard. 

“I’m sorry,” he gushes. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He laughs awkwardly, trying to diffuse the tension. “It’s not every day I taste blood as delicious as yours. Truly, that was my first time…heh…” 

He grips Wyll’s thighs, still worried he’ll get the sword. “Forgive me. It was a momentary lapse in judgement.” A thought crosses his mind. “Although…”

He finds Wyll’s hands and brings them to his mouth. Now he wears a knowing look. Sultry. A return to form, his strongest suit: Enticement. 

“There’s no reason for us not to explore all possible avenues of this little arrangement of ours,” Astarion drawls. His breath ghosts across Wyll’s skin. He kisses his palms. Sweet, appealing. “You’ll find I’m quite amenable to suggestions. You can be the master . How does that sound?”

He puts Wyll’s hand around his neck. “There we are. Go on, darling. You can be rough with me. I’ll play nice.” A cunning smirk cuts through his features. “Or I won’t, if that’s what you like.” 

He glances at Wyll’s lap pointedly. The place where Wyll is shamefully hard. Where he has been hard before during their time together. Astarion must know this already. 

He looks relieved when he sees the outline of Wyll’s erection. That’s a card he can play. 

He tightens his grip around Wyll’s hand, encouraging him to squeeze his throat. “You can do whatever you like with me, you know. Want to put my clever mouth to work? It’s all yours. Something for you to brag about later with your drunkard friends.” He chuckles. Drops his voice lower, hotter. “You can even use me as a sheath for that charming blade of yours. I know you’ve been wanting that. No reason to be shy.” He licks his lips. “I think I’d rather enjoy it.” 

Oh, the temptation. Damn. Astarion really is good at this. No wonder he was so useful in his role as Cazador’s bait. Wyll needs to summon vestiges of strength he keeps stored away for just such a purpose as this, resisting his own base desires. 

Luckily, he’s had practice. And he saw this coming a mile away. He figured Astarion might make an offer like this some day. 

Wyll is ready with his response. 

He sucks in air and nods towards Astarion’s lap. He has not missed the fact that his coquettish friend is also hard. Very noticeably erect. Poking against his trousers like one of his daggers. 

“Alright, then,” Wyll says. “I can see you’re still hungry. Let’s find a way to satisfy you now, shall we?” 

He gives several directions in rapid succession. He doesn’t leave room for discussion. As they have established, Astarion knows to follow Wyll’s orders without question. 

“Take off your clothes.” 

Without a word, Astarion does. He tosses them aside and Wyll picks them up. When he is down to nothing but his underwear, he gives Wyll a sly wink. Then he shucks the pants and throws them in Wyll’s direction, saying, “Lucky you.” 

Wyll catches Astarion’s underwear in one hand. He fights the urge to press them against his face. Dear gods, he’s down bad for this man, isn’t he? That’s no surprise! He tucks the underwear in his back pocket for later. 

Then he tells Astarion to lay down on his back, legs apart. He spreads Astarion’s shirt on the grass for him to lay on, so his skin doesn’t have to touch the bare ground. Whether Astarion appreciates the gesture or not, he doesn’t say anything. He just complies. 

So, so pretty. Right there. Naked and spread out. His arms are wide open, beckoning Wyll closer. This is the fantasy that’s been in Wyll’s head for so long. 

He knows exactly what to do. 

He fits himself inside Astarion’s waiting arms. Their faces are close enough to touch. Sharing the same breath. Wyll wants to kiss him again but he is wary of those fangs. So he kisses Astarion’s cheek instead. A soft kiss. Gentle. Astarion’s skin is as soft as silk, cold to the touch. Wyll finds it rather addicting against his lips. He kisses him many more times, a messy pattern from the top of Astarion’s head to his neck. The scars on Astarion’s throat from where he was turned loom ominously, but Wyll kisses those too. The puncture marks. 

Astarion sucks in sharply. His legs bend at the knees. 

“Does it hurt?” Wyll asks. 

Astarion shakes his head. “No,” he says, cupping Wyll’s face. “Not with you.” 

Pretty words. Still, Wyll will have them. 

He smiles and continues on his way, kissing Astarion’s clavicle and pectoral muscles. This body. Delicate, manly sweeps of flesh that stir up everything reptilian inside Wyll. He could kiss him for hours. Every inch of him. Until Astarion begged him to stop. 

As it is, Wyll doesn’t want to push the boundaries right now. Not for their first time. This chapter of the story between them needs to be written carefully. No mistakes. 

He kisses Astarion’s biceps and arms, down to his elbows. He nibbles the ticklish flesh on the underside of those elbows. As much to tease as anything. Astarion hums in response. His head leans back and his body unwinds against Wyll’s attentive mouth. 

Wyll trails his hand up the inside of Astarion’s thigh. Slow, whispering fingers. His hands are rough. Swordsman calluses and frontier-worn skin. But Wyll can be sensual. He knows how to make his touch like velvet. Tender warmth in a sensitive place. He finds Astarion’s hard cock and wraps it in a loose fist.

It’s a nice cock. Bit larger than Wyll expected, more than mouthful. The kind of cock you could use to suit many needs (carried with enough pride to know it, as well). Wyll’s mouth waters with anticipation as he stares at it. He has to swallow before he makes a fool of himself. 

His focus right now is simple. He tightens his fist to give Astarion a maddening sense of friction. Then he strokes him. Very, very slowly at first. He reads every expression on Astarion’s face to see what kind of reaction he’s getting. 

“Mmm…” Astarion’s eyelids flutter. His thighs spread farther apart, giving Wyll more access. 

“How does that feel?” 

“Wonderful, my dear.” 

So Wyll keeps going. He strokes Astarion faster now. Harder. He fashions his fist into a tight, textured fuck hole for Astarion’s cock.

A new wave of pleasure takes Astarion by surprise. He sucks in breath through his teeth. “Easy, now, darling, let’s not…get ahead of ourselves—ah!” 

Wyll slots the head of Astarion’s cock between the grooves of his palm. There is wetness now. Pre-cum slicks the way, creating a maddening sensation for Astarion. Even when Wyll slows down his strokes, Astarion’s toes curl in ecstasy. A few more long pulls and Astarion is gritting his teeth. Wide-eyed with shock. He jolts up, resting on his elbows. 

He might be on the brink of orgasm already. He seems completely overwhelmed with how fast Wyll took him there. 

His eyes travel hesitantly up to Wyll’s. He’s holding his breath, trying to keep composure. Mercifully, Wyll stops. He stills his hand to give Astarion time to breathe.

Wyll sticks two fingers into his own mouth. Making them wet. With a loud pop, he presses those fingers back and behind. A place Astarion has been showing off with his spread legs. That beautiful, enchanting asshole. 

Astarions gasps when Wyll touches him there. He wraps an arm around Wyll’s shoulders, grabbing at his shirt. 

“Do you need it back here, too?” Wyll asks, prodding Astarion’s asshole with wet fingers. “Will this help you get off?” 

Astarion blinks. He checks in with himself before answering. He considers what he feels, what he knows about himself. For a man who doesn’t even know to feed himself when he’s hungry, it might not be the easiest thing to know what feels best. What he prefers.  

So Wyll is patient. Lets him think about it.

Soon, with a resolute smile, Astarion says, “Yes. It certainly would.” 

That’s all Wyll needs to hear. 

He pushes his fingers inside Astarion. There, that’s a lovely face! Swooning, Astarion flops onto his back. He grips the meat of his own thigh, holding himself open for Wyll. He likes this. Oh yes, he does.

Taking that as his cue, Wyll fucks him on his fingers. Soundly. Efficiently. He susses out Astarion’s sweet spot in no time and gives it a quick massage. 

“Ah!” Astarion writhes on the ground. He really needed this. 

So, in this as in everything, Wyll gives him what he needs. 

He picks up speed again with his stroking fist. It makes Astarion cry out into the night. He fucks Astarion with both hands, one in front and one in back. With every ounce of finesse he possesses.

Astarion’s shoulders heave. “You—! I’m—!” 

With a guttural shout, he reaches his climax. It comes in waves. A quick burst at first, then a long stretch of taut muscles, hardly breathing. Then it ends with a groan and several shakes of his hips, pushing his cock against Wyll’s hand to chase his release to the last second. 

When he’s finally done cumming, Astarion collapses again. Life seems to have left him.

A satisfying conclusion.

Wyll lays down next to him. He pushes Astarion’s bangs out of his eyes for him. “Was that what you wanted?” he asks.

Out of breath, Astarion pants, “Well…it was quite nice, I have to admit, but…not quite what I was after.”

“What do you mean?” 

“You weren’t supposed to…do me, like that, without even…” Astarion gestures towards Wyll’s lap artlessly. At the fact that Wyll never even took off his clothes. He sneers. “You were supposed to fuck me, you know. Not pleasure me.” 

The irony of that statement is lost on him.

A half smile wrinkles the side of Wyll’s scarred face. “Right,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. “Um, no. No thank you. Not for lack of interest on my part, I can assure you.” He cannot stress that enough! 

“It’s just…well, I know you’ve been treating me like your master during these feeding sessions of ours. It’s part of your vampiric nature, cruel as it is. I understand.” He shrugs implacably. “But I’m not your master, Astarion. Never was, never will be. I’m just some bloody no-name devil that wants to see you fed. That’s all.” 

With that, he hopes Astarion can finally understand him. The fact that there was never any underlying quid pro quo in their arrangement. No deal, no tit for tat. As far as he is concerned, Wyll has already gotten what he wanted! Which is solely, entirely, to make Astarion’s existence a bit less agonizing. 

And Astarion sees. The look in his eyes—softness, fucking tenderness —shows that he indeed understands this at last.

He smirks and leans in closer. He pauses before he kisses Wyll again, waiting for permission this time. 

“Oh, just kiss me already, you handsome devil.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, damn it.” 

“…Alright then.” 

This time their kiss tastes like sweat, spit, and the lingering aftertaste of the sour brandy Wyll was drinking earlier. 

“Mm…” Astarion hums, locking eyes with Wyll when he pulls away. “ Delicious .” 

For once, Wyll can agree. 

~~The End~~