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The Decadent's boudoir is a jewelry box of a bedchamber, glittering finery spilling past the dark wooden doors of the wardrobe. Lit candles illuminate the room, dripping pale wax down their carved golden holders and granting the scene a softly rendered cast right out of a painting.
Heavy velvet drapes, the deep red of spilled wine, line the walls of the room. During the day they block out the thing that would mean the vampire’s end. The sun. But at this hour the Gate is well into night, most of its inhabitants slumbering peacefully under the stars. Even if Wyll rushes forward and flings open the drapes, nothing more than thin moonlight will kiss the Decadent’s undead skin, leaving him whole and hale.
The Blade has battled his nemesis valiantly this night, but it is looking as if there is nowhere else to go. As if there is nothing left to him to fall upon but the vampire's mercy. The thought fills him with a low thrill of fear, tinged with excitement. But this battle isn’t over yet.
The scents of bergamot and rosemary are suddenly strong in the air. Cool lips lightly press against the back of his neck, fingers teasingly tracing the line of his bicep through his thin cloth shirt.
“Oh, you smell delectable,” the Decadent says, a soft little inhale of delight that sends blood rushing to Wyll’s cheeks with its implications, the lush undertone of desire.
“The Blade will not succumb so easily, you villain!” Wyll remembers himself, stepping out of the vampire’s reach and turning to face his old nemesis. “I’ll have your well-coiffed head.”
The Decadent looks back at him, amusement on that beautiful face. He is wearing a resplendent black suit embroidered with golden dragons, pearl inlays glinting in the wavering candlelight. He looks a vision from one of those grand paintings hung in Wyrm’s Rock, a mythological figure of lavish, bloody unlife.
“Certainly, my dear. Would you like it between those legs, or—”
Wyll strides forward in one quick motion, pinning the Decadent up against the wall. His curls are bright against the deep crimson of the drapes, wending prettily around the tips of those pointed ears. Before Wyll can stop himself, he is reaching forward to touch those curls, savoring the soft brush of them against his fingertips. His other hand comes up to stroke the point of one of the vampire’s ears in a move sure to grant Wyll the upper hand here.
And he gets it, watching a flush rise on the vampire’s pale cheeks as his scarlet eyes darken, fixing on Wyll’s face. His pink lips are slightly ajar, the tips of his fangs just barely visible. He had fed only a few hours prior, and that fresh-spilt blood is certainly still hot in his veins.
But Wyll’s certain that he’s hungering for another taste. And so he presses forward, slotting his leg in between the vampire’s. Gods, he’s already hard, rutting back against Wyll’s thigh as his eyes close.
The vampire lets out a low moan as Wyll’s fingers against his flesh quicken. But then his eyes snap open and he grins, eager and hungry.
“Not so fast,” the vampire says.
Before Wyll can react, the vampire has flipped them so that Wyll’s back is against his front, his hand loose around Wyll’s neck, thumb tracing a cool line down his throat. Gods, that inhuman speed…
Long ago, when an infernal pact had lent the Blade the strength of the Hells, when the Decadent had been a starved spawn, Wyll would have easily had the upper hand. But now they are evenly matched.
Wyll can feel the hard line of the vampire's prick pressing against his arse. To Wyll’s great mortification, even more blood rushes to his cheeks.
“Recall that I can scent the blush coming to that pretty face, love. Excited, aren’t we?” The vampire’s other hand trails down his front, down to where Wyll’s desire is shamefully beginning to make itself known, straining against the laces of his pants.
“Oh…” the vampire breathes out, delighted.
He inhales, likely taking in the sweet perfume of Wyll’s blood. To know that his lifeblood is so intoxicating to a vampire brings forth a fascinating froth of fear and—arousal in Wyll.
Much of the Blade wants to press back against his enemy and let the vampire rut against him to completion. An equal part of him wants to push into the vampire’s hand, finding blissful release in those slow strokes. Stuck between two hard places as it were, he thinks wryly.
Wyll draws breath knowing that the vampire can hear every beat of his heart, pounding with desire, with need. And he exhales slowly, resolute in his next move.
“Unhand me, villain! The Blade of Frontiers still stands strong on this night.”
In one quick motion, Wyll is out of the Decadent’s arms and pushing him backwards, till the backs of the vampire’s knees are at the edge of the bed. A push to his chest and he goes easily, falling back into the blankets and pillows strewn over the bed. Wyll follows him, straddling him with a hand on either side of his chest so that he is caged within his arms.
“Ha! I have you cornered now.” the Blade says, triumphant.
But Ast—the Decadent only smiles up at him innocently, fangs on full display. Wyll has made a grievous miscalculation in leaving the vampire’s arms unrestrained—perhaps next time?—because now the vampire’s cool fingers are reaching up, playing at the waistline of Wyll’s pants before tugging him down, hands on his arse, so their cocks are grinding against each other.
Wyll lets out an involuntary little moan, knowing that he is nearly lost.
“Well, one blade’s certainly standing strong.” The vampire smirks.
He leans up and captures Wyll’s mouth in a sharp kiss. Wyll should know better and yet—their tongues immediately tangle, low wet noises and heavy breathing shattering the silence of that boudoir.
The Blade finds himself tracing the pretty points of those fangs with his tongue, heart pounding in his ears. His hips grind down to meet the Decadent's, pleasure running a hot line from his cock to his very core.
He goes easily when the vampire flips them, pulling away to look down at Wyll. The vampire’s eyes are dark, only a touch of red at the edges. But, looking more closely at them, there is a rare softness to them, a softness very few have been granted with.
“If the world could see you now. The great Blade of Frontiers, brought to this state at my hand!” the Decadent crows. “Gods, you look like a blushing maiden right out of one of your naughty little novels, bosom heaving and flushed face. All for me.”
The comparison should shame Wyll but it only makes Wyll grow harder, and the Decadent is well aware of it, from the way his eyes trail down Wyll’s body, knowing in them.
Hunger on his face, he tears Wyll’s shirt open, buttons scattering all over the bedspread. That will need to be cleaned up later—but thinking beyond this moment is an impossibility. All Wyll’s being is consumed by the sight of the man above him, his hands running down Wyll’s bare chest, over the ridges lining his body, lightly teasing the join between human and infernal flesh in the way Wyll likes so much. Then down the trail of dark hair from his naval disappearing into his pants, straining as they are with his desire.
The vampire's eyes flick up to meet Wyll’s, and Wyll nods, minutely. He receives a small, pleased smile in return. And then those deft fingers are at work on the laces of his pants, freeing his cock from those cloth confines, before the vampire is working his pants off his legs.
There, bared before the Decadent, there is no denying his desire. Wyll’s eye goes to where the vampire’s own cock is straining against his pants. The Decadent follows his gaze, a knowing smile on the vampire’s face.
“Eager, aren’t you? There will be time for that yet. I intend to have my fill of you first.”
Wyll shudders, want flooding him. The vampire laughs, low. He pulls Wyll up into a sitting position before he shifts to a seat behind Wyll, the coolness of his body penetrating through even the thin layers of cloth separating them.
The vampire’s hand comes up to his neck again, the other trailing lazily down his chest, his stomach, teasing him. Wyll feels the vampire pressing his face to Wyll’s neck, taking a deep inhale as his hand dips lower, towards Wyll’s cock, dripping with pre as it is. The anticipation is nearly too much to bear.
“Astarion, are you trying to kill me?” The words are tumbling out of Wyll’s mouth before he can take them back, another crack in the illusion they have so carefully crafted this night.
“Only a little death, dear.” His lover laughs, a honeyed sound in Wyll’s ear.
And then the Decadent’s lips are parting against the Blade’s skin, inches away from the healing bite marks Wyll had sustained earlier that evening.
Fangs cut into the Blade’s neck, a sensation equal parts pleasure and pain. It goes straight to his cock. He can’t restrain the low moans that spill from his mouth as the vampire drinks from him, hand dipping lower to stroke Wyll’s length.
In turn, Wyll can hear the vampire’s little sighs of pleasure reverberating through Wyll’s body as the Decadent drinks. Wyll can feel his shivers of delight and the hard line of his member pressing up against Wyll’s back. To know so intimately that his adversary this night is just as affected by this as he is…
All too soon, nearly at the precipice when it is too much, the vampire withdraws his fangs with a few parting licks to Wyll’s neck.
Wyll’s eyes flutter open and he glances downward to glimpse how he’s covered the Decadent's hand around his cock with the dripping evidence of his desire. Gods.
The vampire’s hand withdraws from his cock, dipping down past his sac and pressing, teasing his entrance, earning a low groan from Wyll.
“Take me. Please,” he says, inelegant. Finally giving voice to the secret shame suffusing the Blade as he’d confronted his familiar nemesis.
The poets often say that forbidden things taste sweetest. What is this moment of surrender but verse writ real?
He can feel Astarion smiling against his skin. “I already had you, my love.”
Wyll lays back on the bed, tugging off the remainder of his shirt, as he watches the vampire undress, stripping off his finery. It had been embroidered by Astarion’s very hand, the work of many months. To see his love arrayed in something that brings him so much delight brings Wyll an equal amount of joy.
Soon the Decadent is just as bare as he is, cock hard and flushed pink at the crown. He drops down on the bed next to Wyll, reaching towards the nightstand and taking out a familiar bottle of oil from one of its drawers. That in hand, the vampire straddles Wyll, a mirror of their positions moments ago. But now Wyll is fully at his mercy.
As the vampire slicks his fingers with oil, Wyll finds himself spreading his legs without conscious thought, tilting his hips up to receive his lover.
The vampire looks down at him, the planes of his face soft, as his fingers tease Wyll’s entrance, slowly working him open. His skin is now nearly as warm as a mortal man’s might be. Wyll feels himself blush yet again at the knowledge that the heat is from his blood, from the Decadent’s conquest of the Blade himself. To feel the evidence of the vampire’s desire so brazenly within him…
Before long, Wyll is ready to receive him. But instead of taking the Blade the way he desires so, the vampire’s face is all mischief.
“You’re up to something, I know it,” Wyll accuses.
He tries to put the Blade’s fire in his voice, steel behind his words, but it’s a meager attempt. The breathiness of his voice rather detracts from his tone. Particularly the way his breath hitches as the vampire moves so that his lips are hovering just above Wyll’s cock.
“Didn’t you want my well-coiffed head between your legs, Blade?”
And then the vampire is bending his neck and taking Wyll’s length all the way into his mouth, nose bumping against the dark curls at its base. Perhaps Wyll ought not be so excited by the knowledge that those sharp teeth are so near to his cock but it only kindles the fire of his arousal. He slides a hand into those soft, soft curls, urging his enemy, his lover forward.
The Decadent works Wyll with his mouth in time with his fingers, a dance between the waves of pleasure rolling through Wyll’s body and the velvet wetness enveloping his cock. His lover times a flick of the tongue over one of the infernal ridges undergirding his length with a curl of fingers inside him, hitting that place that has Wyll crying out in delight, hand clenching in the Decadent’s hair, stars shooting behind his eyelids. Before he knows it, he is coming, spilling heat into the vampire’s mouth.
The Decadent swallows it all in his indulgent way, mouth and throat working around Wyll’s softening cock, teasing red gaze fixed on Wyll’s face, making him warm with embarrassment. He pulls off, withdrawing his fingers from Wyll’s entrance. Wyll lets out a soft, punched-out noise as his hand falls away from the vampire’s hair, as their bodies part fully. He is desperate to close the gap of their enmity again, all reason and sense fled from his body.
There is a bead of white at the corner of the vampire’s mouth and his pink tongue darts out to lick it up. Wyll gasps softly, equal parts mortified and fascinated.
“Oh, you are delicious, Blade,” the Decadent sighs in gratification. “And I intend to indulge in you more.”
Wyll has just come. Desire shouldn’t already be sparking so hot in his gut. He shouldn’t want to spread his legs yet again for his adversary this night, be taken, be drunk, by him in every way possible. And yet.
“How shall I have you?” the vampire says, thoughtful. Then, mischief entering his tone. “How would you like me to have you?”
Wyll blushes yet again. A surprise that he still has blood enough to heat his face but that had almost certainly been the Decadent’s intention, eager to know what sort of effect he was having on the Blade. For this is a battle they have played out many times on the grounds of this very bedchamber. Each knows the other in this encounter very well, nearly as well as himself.
In return, Wyll wants to see his effect on the Decadent. He sits up, the vampire’s eyes eagerly following his movement. And then, in one smooth motion, he pushes the vampire down, straddling him so that his length is just against Wyll’s entrance.
“You don’t have the upper hand just yet.” Wyll smiles down at him.
The vampire lets out a low, delighted laugh, taking Wyll’s hips in his hands. “We’ll see about that, my dear Blade.”
Wyll takes the bottle of oil where it has been left amongst the covers and slicks up the vampire’s cock, mouth dry with the excitement thrumming through him. The vampire’s soft gasps as Wyll strokes him only deepen his desire to let the vampire bury himself in him.
“I thought you were a monster hunter, dear. Not a torturer.” The Decadent's voice has gone rather breathy, dark pupils swallowing his red irises.
“The Blade is many things.” Wyll smirks. “And he’ll find his pleasure here.”
And then Wyll lifts up, sinking down on the vampire’s cock. The sweet burn of it is nearly on the edge of too much sensation, a dance between pleasure and pain that mirrors how the vampire had drunk from him moments earlier. His adversary makes a soft noise as Wyll bottoms out on his cock, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.
“Gods, you feel incredible. You’re so warm, so tight. All for me.” The vampire groans in delight, fingers tightening around Wyll’s hips.
Wyll reaches downwards, hands on the vampire’s chest so he can get leverage to work himself on the vampire’s cock. He’s not as practiced at this as other positions, but he finds himself falling into the motions easily, overcome by the pleasure rolling up from his core every time his lover’s cock hits that spot.
And before long, the vampire is rising up to meet him with every thrust, overwhelming Wyll with the sensation of it. They battle to set the pace, Wyll’s eyes rolling back with each thrust.
Suddenly cool fingers trace his hardening length, teasing. Wyll gasps.
“The Blade yet lives,” the vampire chuckles. His fingers cruelly withdraw. “For now.”
Wyll moves to work himself but the vampire stops him with a hand on his wrist, all preternatural speed.
“You may be on top, but I have the upper hand here, love,” the vampire says and rolls his hips to punctuate his words.
The Blade lets out a low little whine, his cock bobbing. Hells, but the thought of being at the Decadent’s mercy—choosing to be at his mercy—is far more intoxicating than Wyll could ever have imagined.
“Maybe I’ll let you have your pleasure after I get mine.” Astarion’s smile widens. “Maybe.”
Wyll’s cock twitches and he can’t help letting out another one of those whines. He leans back, hands gripping the vampire’s knees as he fucks up into Wyll, hard and fast.
Wyll Ravengard has danced a hundred sarabandes with partners of varying skill but never has he found an all-consuming rhythm such as this with anyone else. Never has he wanted to surrender himself, body and heart and soul, to another. Until now.
The vampire sits up, cock shifting in Wyll, earning little whimpers from him.
He leans forward to pepper Wyll’s neck and chest with kisses, alternating them with little nips of his teeth that have Wyll gasping as his neglected member drips with desire between them, desperate to be touched, to be taken wholly.
“You’re so responsive,” the Decadent murmurs. “I never get tired of it.”
And then he pulls out, Wyll making a soft noise of protest in response. Before Wyll can sink back down on the vampire’s cock, he rolls them over so Wyll is on his back, the Decadent looming over him. Wyll’s hands fist in the sheets, legs wrapping around the vampire’s waist as he presses back into Wyll, hands on Wyll's waist positioning him exactly where the Decadent wants him, thrusts coming faster and sloppier now.
The slap of their flesh against each other, both their panting, fills the room with utterly obscene sounds. This is what it is, to be well and truly taken. The unpracticed, unrestrained sounds of Astarion’s enjoyment are loud in Wyll’s ears. There’s no song more beautiful to Wyll.
“Wyll, ah, I’m close, I’m close, I’m—” Astarion gasps into his skin, hips stuttering, thrusts uneven as he spills into Wyll.
To have his lover filling him with his desire, to hear the dulcet song of his release, brings Wyll close, but it’s not enough.
“My star, please, please—” Wyll’s far from coherence, but his lover understands.
He reaches between them with his free hand, stroking Wyll hard and fast. Wyll wraps his arms around Astarion, burying his face in Astarion’s neck as Astarion’s strokes quicken.
As he comes, Wyll groans his climax into Astarion’s skin, constellations sparking behind his eyelids. It’s a deeper, more intense climax than the first. Pleasant little aftershocks roll through his body, echoes of that crescendo, as Astarion pulls out, his hands gentle on Wyll’s waist.
Through half-lidded eyes, Wyll watches his lover reach over to their bedside table to retrieve a soft cloth and a small ewer of water. The cloth is cool against his skin as Astarion cleans up both their spend on Wyll’s skin.
That done, Astarion wraps his arms around Wyll, nuzzling into his neck.
“That was fun. I do like it when you bring the Blade out.”
“One wonders if I live up to those bawdy songs of the Blade’s adventures,” Wyll murmurs.
His hands come up to stroke down Astarion's back in the way he likes, soothing motions across the hills and valleys of those old scars. It earns him a familiar low hum of delight from Astarion.
“Please, Wyll. You’re better than any story or song the bards could dream up,” Astarion says, fond.
He pulls away to look Wyll in the eyes. Astarion’s expression is affectionate, a far cry from that vision of a villain he’d played. That sort of personage might be memorialized in paintings and statues, but this softness, this honesty is something far more precious to Wyll.
“You make my heart soar with your words, my shining star,” Wyll says, reaching up to run his fingers through those curls. Then more quietly, a touch of hesitation to his tone. “I love you as you are, but ah—it’s exciting, playing out these stories with you.”
“Oh, you sweet fool. Don’t you bring things like propriety and guilt into this. I do rather enjoy playing the part of a vampire lord, particularly if it means I can have the Blade pinned below me.” Astarion gives him one of those pointy little smiles Wyll’s so fond of, his eyes creasing at the corners. “I prefer our reality by far, don’t get me wrong, but who’s to say we can’t have these… fantasies too?”
“Who indeed,” Wyll says, wry.
For it has not always been easy, this reality they share roughly spun from the ruins of the past. But now their stories are wholly theirs to write. And there's no other Wyll wants to do it with more.