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The first time Wyll and Astarion make love is the night after their wedding. Astarion finds it to be just what he expected, if not sweeter.
The precious way Wyll holds their intimacy, holds Astarion. It is such a careful, good thing that Astarion feels as though some scratched-out, ink-stained parts of himself are being rewritten. The trust and esteem Wyll has for him becomes something he would have scarcely imagined possible.
And is that not the force Wyll has brought to their entire relationship?
For the first few months, Astarion had found himself bracing for impact—for Wyll to show himself as something other than the thoroughly righteous man he was, or to see the deep corruption within Astarion that felt so root-deep it was inextricable from his very being, and decide he wanted nothing more to do with him. With each passing day, Wyll had proven him wrong.
So, slowly but surely, Astarion began to see himself through Wyll’s eyes. That someone so good-hearted could love him, choose him, over all others. Surely there must be something redeemable, something good in him.
By the time he finds himself walking arm-in-arm down the aisle with his now-husband, the things Astarion once believed about himself feel almost like a distant memory.
After all the merriment—the vows, the toasts, the libations and dancing—Astarion carries his new husband away from family and friends. In the eyes of the law, society, and any God any fool may follow, they are each other’s. He has every right to finally, finally, take his Wyll away from the noise and into their carriage, adorned with florals, foliage, and a cheeky ‘just-married’ sign. They can scarcely hold themselves back from each other in the private booth, but they do. This is too important for Wyll; he wants to do it good and properly too much.
As they settle into their suite at the best inn in Baldur’s Gate, Astarion has one point he insists on. He wants to take Wyll in his wedding tunic. He is a vision in white and gold, high-necked and glowing. His locs have been freshly re-twisted and adorned with gold jewels, and he looks so gorgeously radiant and bridal that Astarion surprises himself with his own sentimentality.
He finds himself rather surprised at Wyll’s interest in this proposition. Their time, up to now, has been chaste.
The fervour with which Wyll kisses him, the burning heat of him—he’s so Gods-damned earnest through it all that when he’s suddenly riding him, his white garments opened as Astarion’s hands run along his sides, tracing each scar, Astarion feels as though he’s in a dream.
It’s Wyll who brings him back to the present.
“My husband,” he says with a lopsided smile so warm that Astarion is overcome with memories of experiencing the sun for the first time in centuries. “My dear husband,” he repeats as he kisses Astarion’s hand, his lips impossibly hot as they press against his wedding band. Astarion can sense Wyll’s blood rushing to his cheeks—and his cock—as he says it.
As Wyll moans out those words, it stresses what Astarion knows. Out of everyone who has desired The Blade, Wyll has chosen Astarion. And, Gods, he’s beautiful in the yellow glow of the candlelight. His walls massage Astarion’s cock like nothing he’s ever felt before. Logically, he’s experienced sex that was mechanically similar, but Astarion almost rolls his eyes when he concludes that Wyll is correct about this, too. Love does make it different. The sheer love, the respect, the trust they share. The way Wyll becomes pliant and loud and rolls his hips, using his ridged insides to massage Astarion’s cock, it feels like a gift. No one else has done this with Wyll; no one has seen the Blade of Frontiers so open, so unaffected, raw.
He feels Wyll’s hot, tight wetness milk him harder as they share a kiss. Wyll’s plush lips have always done something to him, and the way he skims his tongue along his lips, his teeth, his fangs, sets him alight. His very flesh, which has so often felt either numb or rubbed raw, is aflame. It’s as if every touch-sensitive nerve has been replaced with something that can only receive pleasure. Wyll’s hands as they trace his chest, pull his hair, knead his nipples, they make his skin feel like pure arousal.
“A-Astarion… Hells, you’re beautiful.” It’s then that Astarion realises he has not been schooling his expression into his well-practiced smirk, nor does he have to. His wide-eyed wonder at his husband, his natural reactions, are what have his lover calling him beautiful and lovely.
And it is so, so fitting that Wyll comes just as Astarion says that he loves him, his hot infernal walls squeezing Astarion’s own orgasm out of him at the same time.
In the afterglow, they hold each other. After everything, Wyll has decided that this tender, easy love is something Astarion deserves, and Astarion begins to believe it himself.
They soon make their way to their honeymoon cottage on a bank of the Moonshae Isles.
In the time it has taken Wyll to feel at ease revealing his more adventurous bedroom interests, Astarion has ceased feeling like their love and their intimacy was some fragile thing he could break easily by simply expressing his own.
They’ve just awakened at nightfall, the last glimpses of the sun retreating over the distant horizon.
“Good evening, my husband,” Wyll rasps, voice still thick with sleep. Astarion’s vampiric senses are drawn to his cheeks and his cock as they are at once flushed with heat and heartbeat.
“You know you blush so sweetly each and every time you call me your husband,” Astarion teases him. “Oh yes,” he purrs. “I’ve seen it from the time you asked me to marry you with that acorn, and then your vows, and our wedding night… You’ve been as rosy-cheeked as the virgin maiden we both know you are–well, were–darling.”
His hedonistic streak rears its head at the Wyll’s perplexed expression. Evidently, the man has grown accustomed to the redness of his flushed skin being disguised by his deep complexion.
“Precious thing, did you not know? It’s my blood-sense. I can tell what you find particularly stimulating, even as you try to hide it.” He watches Wyll’s face flick through confusion, panic, reflection, acceptance, and finally, arousal.
“Astarion…” Wyll starts.
“Even now, you cannot conceal your rapid heartbeat from me, can you? You want to be known by me,” Astarion puts into words the puzzle he’s been piecing together. “It excites you that I know you, that I see you, as no one else can.”
It’s then, as Wyll’s eyes close and his heart rate accelerates, that Astarion takes it as confirmation of his presumption.
“Yes,” Wyll’s voice bursts forth. “I… I want to give you every part of me, my star.”
Astarion cannot resist taking his mouth then, his lips so soft and full, his moans so forthcoming. His sweet, earnest thing. Another clue to the fact that his maiden groom is a pervert is how dutifully he keeps himself ready for him. He has been consistently open and waiting before Astarion could have anticipated his own interest in more sex.
As he sheathes himself in his Blade, he draws unabashed moans and sighs from the man below him. Wyll is just as searing hot as the first time he took him a few nights before, and despite the fact they are taking every opportunity for intimacy on their honeymoon, Astarion is still overcome with his sheer want for this man. Perhaps he’s making up for the time lost in their torturously slow courtship.
With Wyll lying beneath him, Astarion decides he really does want to twist the dagger a bit. So Wyll has a secret interest in this. After everything Wyll has done for him, he relishes being able to pay him back in this way. And Astarion would be a liar if he said the thought of this wasn’t equally arousing to him.
“My dear, sweet husband,” he teases as he gathers Wyll’s locs in one hand, a curved horn in the other, trying his best to maintain the pace of his thrusting that has made his love come so undone. The poor thing is gasping and moaning with each hit to his prostate. “So much ado, all that pomp and planning, and, Hells, all the gold we spent on our wedding day. You did all of that just so you could be my whore, didn’t you?”
As he says this, he knows he has struck the centre of the target. An utterly wrecked moan comes unbidden from Wyll’s mouth as Astarion feels the man become impossibly tighter around his cock.
“All mine, and only mine.” The possessiveness Astarion shows is rewarded with Wyll’s hips rocking back up into him. He moves a hand down to squeeze his hip, enjoying the way his pale hand contrasts with his husband's deep complexion, his chill against his heat. He places a sloppy kiss to the inner corner of Wyll's knee where it rests over his shoulder, rubbing his cheek against it and nuzzling it as if he can't get enough of him, because he truly can't.
“Astarion,” seems to be the only thing Wyll can eke out, repeating his name as his husband continues unravelling him with each thrust, each drag of pleasure along his fiery hot walls.
“My sweet whore,” Astarion continues. “All of that just so that you could be mine.”
Wyll pulls him into a searing kiss, as if afraid to lose him, his lips so swollen and wet from all the kisses they’ve shared. His blood is so close to the surface here that Astarion feels so awfully tempted by it.
“You’ve given yourself to me in so many ways; your blood, your vows, and now your body,” Astarion feels like he’s both praising and teasing the man below him. “Mine. You’re all mine.”
It startles Astarion when Wyll speaks; he’s been looking glassy-eyed up at him for long enough that he almost forgot that his sweet thing was capable of it.
“Y-yes,” and speaking really does seem difficult for him at this point. “Mark me as yours, my star. Please.”
And how can Astarion resist corrupting him, after he’s begged for it so sweetly? His lips move to the smooth, sweat-slicked skin of his neck as he folds his husband down, their bodies pressing together, the overwhelming heat of Wyll's body enveloping him.
“Wyll!?” he pretends to be scandalised, just because he loves to tease his lover. “You would want others to see? You want them to know that you’re mine? That I’ve taken you?” he mouths against his impossibly hot throat. “The Blade of Frontiers, reduced to a wanton whore on my cock.” He pulls back from his neck just so he can enjoy his husband’s fucked-out expression as he deals this blow.
It’s only so long that he can resist returning his lips to his flesh, especially as he senses the blood heat rising again at his neck. Another gift, another bit of trust, of debasement his dear husband has given him, time and again.
And then he sinks his fangs into his neck, knowing that the immense, all-consuming pleasure he feels as his husband's sweet, hot blood rushes through him—warming him from his mouth to the tips of his fingers and toes—is almost paralleled by the blissful, heady feeling that Wyll also gets from this.
Gulp after gulp of his aqua vitae filled him. Astarion felt the heat of it dusting his own cheeks and further engorging his cock as he continued fucking his love through it all.
Astarion pulled back. In earlier times, he might have been surprised by his own restraint, but this was another thing Wyll had given him. He felt that despite his hunger, he no longer feared he would go without. His Wyll would always be there, offering his company, his trust, his neck, his blood, his hole. Gods, he really was his, wasn’t he?
Astarion gaped openly at the gorgeous man beneath him. Wyll’s locs fell over his face, the man looking utterly ravished, his mouth open in a silent scream.
Astarion must look a blood-soaked mess. Wyll’s eyes trace over Astarion's lips and cheeks, they must be smeared with his blood now. And Wyll, the absolute wretch, squeezes tighter at the sight of it.
Astarion’s eyes trace downward, catch on one of his dark nipples, backlit in the candlelight. The slice-scarred thing; he knew it to be numb and uncomfortable from the damage inflicted there.
A thought crossed his mind, and here within this easy thing they had created together, he felt free to explore it. What if he could do for Wyll what Wyll had done for him? Perhaps with a determined touch he could turn what was stubbornly broken and dead there, and bring some life, some pleasure back to it?
He knew by now that Wyll enjoyed the feeling of his fangs, so he wasted little time in taking the nub between his teeth and gently running his tongue over it.
He applied more pressure, feeling his lover become more reactive to the stimulation.
A masochistic streak, perhaps? That made sense, considering Wyll’s interest in being pierced by him. He bit down harder.
“My Wyll,” he groaned as Wyll’s hole rippled against his cock. “I have taken so much from you, and still you would give me more? You truly are mine.”
Astarion looked once more at his love’s face, his eyes shining with tears, his arms holding him closer as he felt the change in pace.
“I love you, my sweet husband.” As he says it, he’s not sure if it’s the tightening of Wyll’s own frantic orgasm that rips his from him, or if he, too, is starting to become a sappy, lovesick fool. All he knows is that as they both come down, Wyll gasps from the pleasure of his aftershocks, still achingly tight around him and making no move to release him from his tight-but-loosening grasp. They lie on their sides, Wyll pulls him to his chest as he rakes those strong fingers through his pale curls.
Astarion feels safe. He feels loved. He knows that as much as Wyll belongs to him, he belongs to Wyll. His husband.