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Chapter Text

Willow

The last time she saw him was after the defeat of the Netherbrain. On the docks he, the greatest love of her life thus far, cursed her for not taking advantage of the power of the brain, and told her once more that she would regret her decision to leave him before turning into a bat and disappearing from her life. Like a fucking freak.

Willow had gone on to spend a month in the Hells with Karlach and Wyll, before realizing that it wasn’t where she belonged. She loves Karlach and Wyll, but she never wanted to be a hero or a fighter. Instead, she thought, she was meant to help rebuild the town of Reithwin, with Halsin.

Another month spent in the budding town exploring the relationship with the druid she had slept with directly after breaking up with the vampire revealed that it wasn’t a match, either. He was sweet, and so wonderful with the children in his care there that she assumed he would probably give Willow the family she dreamed of, but there was just… something missing. And she was trying not to think about what that something is.

Reluctantly, ultimately, she decided to move back to Baldurs Gate by herself - the city she had moved to on a whim only a few months before the abduction by the nautiloid. The decision to not cling to one of her companions was a hard one. She found her way to the Elfsong and made a deal with the owner to perform as the Bravest Bard in Baldurs Gate!, allowing the tavern to profit off of her performing as one of the saviors of the city, and allowing her to stay for free and keep her tips.

And now she’s the happiest she’s been since before breaking up with Astarion.

Performing has always been her greatest passion, long before she learned to fight with it. Stomping around the Elfsong in a skirt with her arms high and steady, screaming notes out of her flute while the patrons cheer and try to get her to visit them at their table or the bar - that has given her joy that the Hells and Reithwin couldn’t.

Tonight, the boy at the bar that Willow has been entertaining on her more lonely nights in the Elfsong has requested a specific dress for her performance. A little black thing she picked up in the lower city, short enough that it would be inappropriate for more regal company but fits in perfectly in the tavern. She chooses to oblige him because it’s a fun garment to dance in, and because she already suspects that tonight will be one of those nights she asks him to visit her after her shift.

The vampire ascendant creeps into her mind most days, but some days it almost feels like she’s being possessed by the thoughts, the memories of him before he became a monster. The gentle touches, the omissions of guilt, the fight for each other and for Faerûn. The love. Until it was all over.

Today is one of those days, possessing her.

“Willow! Look at you in that dress I like,” Felix calls from the bar as Willow appears at the bottom of the steps leading down into the bar. He follows his exclamation with a low whistle, and Willow feels like she should be blushing, but she simply rolls her eyes and waves a dismissive hand at the man. 

“Pour me one before I’ve got to get up there?” She asks him as she approaches the bar, gently setting her flute on the counter.

“You know you don’t have to ask,” he responds, slapping an already-poured mug of mead on the counter. He watches with bright eyes as she chugs the liquid down in big gulps. “Can’t believe you can drink like that and not tip over while you’re performing.”

When she finishes the mug, she wipes her mouth before laughing and reaching a hand out to Felix, remembering she should be flirting. A lot of the gestures she offers him are a performance, which comes naturally to her despite being tainted with guilt.  “Sometimes all I had for dinner on the road was some beer and half-eaten apples. Got a lot of practice.”

She knows that he loves it when she talks about her time leading up to becoming one of the saviors of the city. He’s a bit older than her, but looks at her like she’s his favorite, most looked-up to schoolteacher. Or a goddess. The man looks back at her, eyes sparkling and smitten, before he turns back to the other patrons who have begun gathering around the bar, awaiting their entertainment. Felix is handsome enough; he has soft, brown curls and a gentle, rounded face that makes him look boyish despite the hints of age beginning to show. 

When the tavern owner calls for Willow’s performance to begin, a sizable crowd has grown thickly in the room. Much to her dismay, they keep her performance schedule posted on the door for patrons to come and see the Bravest Bard in Baldurs Gate!, the only savior of the city who has reduced herself to dancing around for a place to live.

The performing is excellent, the crowd is usually well behaved, and the money is enough to keep her comfortable.  The commodity of her is the only part of the arrangement Willow doesn’t like.

Willow responds to her announcement in the usual way, finding an in with the audience by making them laugh before beginning. “That’s right, folks, the bard savior of the city!” She calls to the room as she stands up from her place on the bar, taking her flute back into her hand. “And don’t you fucking forget it when you’re deciding how much to tip,” she sneers playfully, darting her eyes around the room. That one is a winner, and the patrons laugh as she begins the first notes of her favorite opening song.

It’s an upbeat little tune that leaves her with enough breath to still dance around in the way that excites the crowd, twirling her skirt and stomping her muscled legs against the floor to the beat. The best part of being known for defeating the Absolute is that it seems to prevent the drunken patrons from becoming too handsy, as they do with some of the other female performers. Still, occasionally one will reach out a hand and a receive a swift kick in return, delighting the rest of the crowd at the expense of one angry patron - Felix helped her convince the owner that it was worth it. He’s a very sweet boy.

On the final round of the tune, Willow pulls out one of her fan-favorite moves: twirling around in fast circles, kicking her foot up like a dancer in the middle of the room. It’s difficult to perform and takes all of the breath control that she has to manage it, but it makes the crowd cheer and toss tips like nothing else.

On one of her twirls, Willow keeps her eyes open to take in the crowd. A flash of curly, silvery-white hair flashes across her vision, making her heart skip in her chest, but she chooses to not look in that direction again while she finishes the tune. If it is him - which it isn’t, right? - the worst thing to do would be to allow him to ruin her performance.

When the song comes to a close, the bard holds up her arms in celebration as the tavern crowd, now flowing into the street outside, sings her praises. “Baldurians, I love you so!” She cheers, moving to stand next to the bar to survey the crowd. “Who’s going to buy me a drink before my next one?”

“That was incredible,” Felix smiles at her as she leans against the bar, chest heaving from the difficulty of the performance. “May even be one of your-“ he stops mid-sentence as he looks behind the girl, at first appearing confused but quickly switching to delight. “Wills, it’s one of your friends!” He exclaims.

The hot blood from her performance drains from Willow’s face at his words. She feels a familiar presence behind her, and a familiar hand slaps coins onto the bar in front of her.

“A goblet of your finest wine for the bard,” Astarion’s voice purrs to Felix, as the man stares at Astarion much like he does at Willow - like he is an absolute hero. “An excellent performance, my dear,” he adds, brushing his arm against hers.

Willow can’t think of what she should do other than swinging around to face him, her body remembering to tilt her chin up just enough so that she looks into his eyes, not into the buttons of his coat. “I know,” she responds coolly, offering him nothing but a furrowed brow and a banging, hurting heartbeat.

Astarion looks as beautiful as he ever has. The tailored suit fits him perfectly, with a stiff collar high enough to cover the violent bite scar she knows still remains on his pale neck. His expression is calm, still as stone as he gazes downward into Willow’s eyes, with only the flicker of a smile crossing his red lips.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She seethes as soon as Felix turns to tend to other patrons at the bar, trying to keep her voice low enough to not allow him to hear her.

The vampire pouts back at her, forcing his lip to quiver. “What a horrible way to greet your lover,” he responds, his voice light and unaffected.

Willow rolls her eyes, but doesn’t respond to his use of the word lover, as Felix appears back in front of them with two tall goblets of wine. She snatches one from his hand and takes a big gulp, not looking away from Astarion.

“What brings you back to the Elfsong, little love? Last I heard you were sharing a bed with the druid back in wretched little Reithwin,” Astarion says, pointedly looking Felix up and down as he takes his own goblet into his hands. Felix shoots a confused glance at Willow, but she chooses to ignore it.

“I told you not to call me that anymore,” she hisses, recalling the conversation they had had in this very tavern, after her decision to turn down his offer to become his spawn. It had been her favorite pet name, for a time, when she had truly believed that he loved her. “And it just wasn’t for me. I missed the city,” she adds, ignoring the part about sharing a bed with Halsin.

“I must admit, I was delighted to hear about your return to the city, and to this charming little place,” he says, gesturing around the tavern. “Though I was hoping you would come to see me before I had to make my own way here.”

“You just had to see me? How sweet,” she counters, taking another large gulp from the goblet. The wine is incredibly potent, deceptively delicious for the amount of alcohol it must be packing to make her head spin in the way that it is.

He scoffs at her unabashed chugging of the alcohol, watching with a disgusted curiosity. “I had to see if you reconsidered the mistake you made in this very building,” he says with a shrug, not taking his red eyes off of her.

“Not a mistake,” she says with a smile, setting the now-empty goblet back down on the bar. “Now, you may as well stay and watch me perform,” she whispers, only loud enough for him to hear. “So you have something to think about later.”

His statuesque face doesn’t flinch at her words, but Willow was expecting that response. The ascended Astarion can’t take a joke like the old one could - he can only stand in insulted silence.

Willow had a different song planned for the second part of her performance, but she shifts at the last second for her admirer at the bar. He had hated one of the tunes Volo taught her at camp, simply because he had to hear it nearly every night while they worked on it, waiting for Willow to join him in bed. It’s a bit slower, but still lends itself to traveling around the tavern while she performs.

Astarion watches with hooded eyes from the bar, a familiar gaze that would have made Willow melt only a few months before. Now it doesn’t immediately make her melt, but it does make her heart squeeze with pain. Pain she had thought was gone, searing and slicing into her.

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Chapter Text

Astarion

To see her is to feel pain. Searing, burning pain straight into his heart, which squeezes and pounds now after 200 years of stone cold death. It feels horrible. To see her dance, play that instrument that can be equally shrill and gentle and beautiful, all at the command of her hands; all of it commands his heart, just the same.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen her here, but it’s the first time he isn’t a bat in the rafters, and the first time he’s revealed himself to her. A few tendays ago while being fitted for suit jackets in the upper city his tailor asked if he had heard that one of his fellow heroes of the city is performing for the lowly patrons of the Elfsong like a common bard. He stopped going to that tailor, and started sneaking in to see Willow.

Willow. The woman he had known would not last in Avernus with Karlach and Wyll, as he patiently awaited her return to the surface. That patience was crushed, however, when he received a letter from Gale about how he heard she came back up to Faerûn only fall into the arms of the handsome druid. That was the end, he had thought. Until that day at the tailors.

“Isn’t she something?” The barkeep muses as he stares at her too. The treacherous heart feels something else; a pang of anger, jealousy. This is the man that often follows Willow back up the stairs like a lovesick dog. Astarion has only stayed once long enough to see him walk back down the stairs less than an hour later, hair disheveled to recount to the other boy who tends the bar overnight how lucky he’s gotten.

Less than an hour, with her. Pathetic. 

Astarion only takes a sip of his wine in response.

Her skirt isn’t as short as some of the ones he’s seen her wear - only for him, on some nights in the Elfsong - but when she twirls around just fast enough it reveals her legs, her thighs, even the tiniest sliver of rounded backside to the scrupulous eye. And he knows many of the eyes in this tavern are scrupulous.

He had come here tonight not thinking he would immediately win her back into his life, but he had hoped that she may at least fall into his bed. He’s realizing, though, that that likely isn’t going to happen, at least not tonight. Just before this song, she invited him to watch her so that he has something to think about later.

He will, but it was a vulgar thing to say.

She finishes another song, her chest heaving from exertion as she smiles and bows for the large crowd that gathers for her. It seems to grow each time she plays as the legend of her spreads across the city, tables filling and patrons packing in next to each other at the bar. She’s no longer a mysterious, common bard picking single gold pity pieces from the ground, and it would be hard to believe she ever had been, if not for the images she shared with him when they were first connected by illithid worms, many moons ago.

As Willow strolls back over to the bar, she is stopped by a young girl and her father. The blonde, curly-haired little girl stares up at her in awe as Willow easily squats to allow her to touch her flute, giggling happily along with her. The bright smile on the bard’s face as she looks at the little girl is almost enough to make even the vampire ascendant smile in earnest, but he bites it back. She pats the child’s head and says something Astarion can’t quite make out over the noise of the tavern, but it makes the girl squeal with delight and turn back to her father. Willow straightens herself out and turns back to the bar, making brief eye contact before her eyes dart away.

“Remember that one?” She asks when she arrives next to him, still breathless from her performance. Even while exhausted, her voice always has a brightness to it.

“How could I forget?” He answers with a flourish of his hand, trying to maintain the facade of uncaring calmness in her presence. 

The barkeep slides a cup of water to her, quickly and without any commentary as he struggles to tend to the paying customers. She sips it much more slowly than she did the alcohol, as if it’s not as necessary to her.

“Did you come here just to see if you could convince me to bow for you?” She asks after a brief period of silence, anger in her voice as if it’s been stirring in her head as she’s sipped her water.

“Not entirely,” he answers. “I came to see my old friend, is that so bad?”

Her expression softens the slightest bit, the clench in her jaw dissipating. “No. I just didn’t think we were friends.”

And they aren’t. She’s the one who broke his heart, and over the course of the last few months has become the object of his obsession. She’s the reason his heart beats, the first thing he thinks about when he rises in the morning, and the bane of his existence.

“We can be,” is all he says in response, despite himself. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes at the very suggestion; a flicker enough that it makes him want, need to say more just to see it again. “In truth, I wanted to pay a visit to my favorite bard to see if you may play at a party for me,” he lies, coming up with the excuse on the spot.

“A party?” She asks, her eyebrows shooting up on her forehead before she composes herself again, returning them to that furrow that he knows will begin to wrinkle her face in a few years’ time from how often she does it. 

“Yes, dear, a more… regal affair than this. I’ve been working on establishing myself in the city,” he says. For being entirely made up, he does think a party of this kind would be a grand idea. “You would be compensated and given something nicer to wear, of course.”

“Interesting. Okay,” she says, thinking and biting the inside of her lip. “When?”

He wracks his brain for a moment. If it’s sooner, that means he will get her into the palace sooner, and it may prove easier to get her back into his arms in his own territory.

On the other hand, he can’t help but consider how beautiful of a sight she would be on his arm as he charms the patriars of the city. After all, what is a Lord without a partner, just as charming and quick-witted as himself?

Willow once convinced an orthon to kill his entire guard and then himself, all for Astarion - and later convinced the same orthon to fight with them against a devil in his own house. She’s impossibly charismatic. He’d described her role as his consort to her as nothing more than a pretty face, a blatant lie when she is much more formidable of a partner than that. But she doesn’t need to know all of this. She only needs to be his again.

“The details are still being sorted. I may write you?” He suggests, not able to decide exactly how long he may need.

“Sure. Just send it to the Elfsong, they’ll get it to me,” she shrugs. She looks up at someone or something behind them, and furrows her brow deeper as she reaches out to touch his arm, spreading a feeling of warmth across his entire body. “I’ve got to go, this is the part where I get up and take requests,” she says, no idea he’s already watched her performance many times before.

“It was very nice to see you, Astarion. I’m glad you’re doing well,” she says, and the flicker of recognition he had seen in her gaze moments earlier blooms into a small, genuine smile before she throws  the rest of her water down her throat in one gulp and runs to the makeshift stage in one corner of the room. 

Just like that, her touch is gone. The warmth of her body just as fiery as her hair, lighting up his world once again. It’s nice that he at least appears to be doing well, to her; she’s blissfully unaware that the thoughts of her occupy more time in his brain than anything else.

Astarion stays until he can tell that she won’t be performing much longer, and makes his exit quietly. No need to see her falling into the arms of the barkeep tonight. Not when he has a party to plan.

Chapter Text

Willow

Astarion disappears at some point during the last several songs, after watching her intently for the whole night. Willow curses herself for her gentleness with him, weakened by his invitation back into his life. Playing a party for patriars sounds incredibly dull, but even in her hurt she wants to see him succeed and find happiness - in whatever weird, quasi-royal shape that takes for him. It may be especially because of her hurt that she wants him to succeed, but she tries not to think about that too hard.

Felix, who has also been eyeing her the entire night, quickly finds her after the end of the last song to offer a glass of water with ice. His shift typically ends shortly before she’s done performing, but he hangs around to bring her water and at least make an attempt to get into her bed, even if not always successful. His efforts are usually endearing, if not even cute, when Willow’s mind isn’t otherwise occupied like it is tonight. 

Tonight, though, she purposefully wore a dress he requested, fully intending on taking him back to her room. She still does lead him up the stairs with her, even though her mind is plagued with someone else.

“You looked so pretty tonight,” Felix says huskily, as soon as the door to her room is closed behind them. On any other night the regular little compliment may have struck her as cute, but compared to the man who offers the likes of my love, my treasure, my darling - it’s a bit uninspired.

She kisses him instead of responding and he accepts it easily; his large, clammy but warm hands cupping her face on either side. He’s never seemed to notice when she’s not fully there, so enthralled with her touch and her existence. It makes her feel a little guilty at times, how much he adores her for being one of the saviors of the city. 

His touch should make her more excited than it does. Felix is undeniably handsome, and absolutely her type, when it comes to men - taller than Willow, with short yet grippable curly hair - but he simply isn’t… right. 

Willow goes through the motions until he’s inside of her, taking him from behind so she doesn’t have to feel the shame of looking at him. Tonight, when she moans, when she arches her back, when she comes by the grace of her own hand, she’s not thinking about Felix. She’s imagining it’s someone else entirely. 

Willow wakes alone, the sunlight searing into her eyes much earlier than she would like it to. She never asks Felix to stay - she immediately hopped into the bath as he threw his clothes back on and kissed her goodbye - because allowing someone else to watch her sleep or hear her snore feels too much like a real relationship. He never protests, either; with a lack of foreplay and a lack of cuddling afterward, he can likely get home less than an hour after his shift ends. A quick, easy fuck with the most famous bard in the city. 

Once every tenday, the day after the last performance before she gets a few days off as a break, she meets Shadowheart in the tavern below to either drink and gossip about their lives or go for a stroll through the lower city. It’s a treat, since Shadowheart is not in the city most of the time but will find her way back to meet Willow, every single tenday since she arrived back from the grove.

No one else has stayed in the city. Willow writes letters to Gale, to Halsin (they’re only a bit awkward, but the druid is familiar with the ebb and flow of relationships, thankfully), and has visited Jaheira’s house only to find that she’s left again. Wyll, Karlach and Lae’zel are all but unreachable, out continuing to be heroes or whatever. Shadowheart has been her only constant, and has quickly become her best friend. 

Willow makes her way down to the tavern once she’s dressed to find Shadowheart already ordering drinks for them from Lakrissa at the bar. Shadowheart smiles and waves at the sight of her friend, the canvas bag on her arm jostling around.

“Willow!”

“Shadowheart!” Willow cheers back, approaching to give her a hug. She’s warm and glowing, the happiness of her newfound freedom radiating off of her, despite the recent loss of her parents. 

“I’ve got a gift for you,” Shadowheart says excitedly, holding up the bag she’s been clutching. 

“A gift? You shouldn’t have!”

“Don’t get too excited, I found him on the street,” Shadowheart says with a laugh, as she lifts what appears to be a small ball of fluff out of the bag.

Willow’s mouth gapes. “Shadowheart,” she exclaims, unsure as the other girl hands the cat off to her. “This is not a gift this is- this is a life.”

The cat is almost entirely black, with a small tuft of white at the base of his belly. He’s not a baby, but he still appears to be quite young - or maybe it’s the uneven hair growth making him look younger. He has some bald patches, and some nicks in both ears from what Willow assumes is fighting.

“Well, you told me last time how horribly quiet it can be here, after spending so long in our camp of misfits,” she says, furrowing her eyebrows in concern at Willow. “This little guy wouldn’t stop following me, and I can’t take him-“

“Thank you,” Willow finally says, interrupting her. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep him.” The thought of throwing the poor thing back out with the other strays in the city, or even throwing it in with the cats in the Elfsong kitchen to help manage the rats already seems undoable to Willow, only after simply holding the thing. 

Shadowheart breathes a sigh of relief. “I’ve been calling him Ansur, since he’s so roughed up.”

Willow laughs, running her fingers over the cat’s ragged ears. He’s much cuter than the original Ansur was when they found him.  “Perfect. I think I may keep the name.”

Shadowheart gives her the rest of the bag, having thrown in a few cans of fish for the cat and even a collar with a bell on it. They find a table in the corner of the tavern where Willow can keep the creature in her lap, and he nearly immediately falls asleep.

“How was your show last night?” Her friend asks, settling into the chair across from Willow.

“Oh, it was interesting,” she says with a slightly crazed laugh, finding herself running her hands over the cat’s soft head to calm herself. “Astarion came.”

Shadowheart’s eyes bulge. “To your show?”

Willow nods. “Stayed for nearly the entire thing. Bought me a drink, told me I shouldn’t have rejected him-“

“Typical,” Shadowheart interjects, taking a sip of her own wine.

“Right. And he asked me to play for a party he’s planning.”

“Certainly no ulterior motives there.”

“Well. I- I said yes,” Willow says, her cheeks flushing.

“Of course you did.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Willow scoffs, placing a dramatic hand over her heart.

Her friend rolls her eyes. “You’ve only said no to that man once in your life and it nearly killed you.”

“It didn’t-“ she starts to protest, but groans instead. “It was just hard. I loved him.”

“Still do,” Shadowheart shoots back with a frown. “Do not try to downplay how much it hurt you. I was there.” 

Willow glares at her from across the table. “What ulterior motives would you suppose he has?”

“I’m not claiming to know what goes on in the brain of a new vampire lord,” Shadowheart responds, exaggerating the silly title, “but I would imagine he doesn’t just want the woman he asked to be his eternal lover to play at a party for him and that’s all.” 

It’s definitely a thought that crossed Willow’s mind over the course of the night, flipping around sleepless. How he so easily slipped from asking if she had any regrets to asking her to perform for him. He’s not a man who gives up as easily as that. 

“I’m just going to see what happens,” Willow says with a shrug, her eyes darting down to the cat in her lap to avoid Shadowheart’s gaze. 

“It’s a dangerous game, Willow,” Shadowheart warns, “but you’re a smart girl. You’ll know what to do.”

What she probably means by “know what to do” is to not do Astarion. And while Willow has no intention of doing that now, she can’t promise that she won’t.

“Whatever I do, I’ll tell you,” Willow says, glancing upward but not quite meeting her friend’s eyes. “I was with Felix still last night.”

“Was it good? Getting any better?” Shadowheart asks with a knowing look. Willow has already told her about the boy at the bar, and how he’s been… unable to measure up. Then again, even Halsin, who surely measures up in terms of size, still could not compete with her previous lover. 

“No. But I think I know what it’s missing,” Willow admits sheepishly. “I don’t- I don’t love him. Nor did I love Halsin. I’m stuck.”

“And here we are, back to him!” Shadowheart says with an exasperated sigh. “But I suppose I asked the question.”

“Let’s talk about something else, then. Something with you.”

“Gladly.”

Chapter Text

Willow

The little cat, Ansur, is a great source of comfort over the coming days. Willow leaves her room at the Elfsong less often, only going out to perform and to shop for her new companion. He’s more fond of her bed than he is of any of the things she purchases for him to sleep on, but she doesn’t mind. It’s nice to wake up next to a warm body. The black fur that adorns the white sheets is simply a sign of life.

A tenday after the first performance he came to, Willow spots Astarion in the crowd yet again. It isn’t a surprise while performing, this time, since she’s been looking for him from the bar at each one. It’s not that difficult to spot that thick mane of bright hair, especially when he makes other heads in the room turn to see him instantly.

He strolls in, a path opening before him through the crowd as patrons whisper about him being one of the saviors of the city, come to see his bard friend, haven’t you heard he inherited the Szarr palace? until he finds a seat at a table. This time is different, though, because he’s not alone.

The woman on his arm makes Willow feel hot with anger. A short, slim, auburn headed girl - much like herself - in a long gown much too regal for the Elfsong. A copy of Willow, with a lot less curve and a lot less muscle, holding tightly to Astarion’s arm and looking up at him with devotion as he pulls a chair out for her.

There’s a spark of delight in Willow at the realization that he really went out and found the closest human girl he could to her own body, no doubt a copy to keep his bed warm. But beyond the delight there’s a much deeper and angrier feeling: jealousy. She looks away as soon as she recognizes the feeling, face burning now with embarrassment.

She’s keeping her bed warm with a cat. He’s keeping his bed warm with someone else.

And yet - Willow is the one who turned him down. She is the one who broke his heart. He is the one who came last tenday to ask her once more to reconsider. Willow should not be jealous.

“A mead, Felix,” Willow says with a snap, more demanding than usual. He obliges and brings her a tall mug.

“As long as you can stay on your feet, Wills,” he says with a sigh, watching her chug the alcohol with distaste clouding his usual starry-eyed gaze. It isn’t her first drink of the evening, nor is it her second. But it’s the most necessary one.

Willow resists the urge to snap back at him, knowing it’s not his fault that the man she’s in love with - decidedly not Felix - is here, at her show, with a replacement. She finishes off her mead and decides to simply perform.

The show goes by in a blur, as Willow becomes inebriated enough to dance around the room, even past Astarion’s table. The girl with him doesn’t appear to be a vampire spawn, which is a bit of a relief for the bard. Both on behalf of herself and for the girl, knowing that she’s here by choice. 

Not that Willow could picture Astarion actually doing such a thing. He mentioned it after the rite, creating his own horde of vampires, but Willow didn’t hide her distaste for the idea. After all, hadn’t he just escaped his life as a spawn? Why impose it on others? Why try to impose it on her, too? 

As she performs the last song before her break, she considers whether or not she should ignore the pair, or face them head on. It feels more sensible to ignore them, unsure of how the less controllable parts of her brain may react. But she’s quite sure that he came here with some purpose.

Willow approaches Astarion’s table during her break, smiling brightly at him. He smirks back and stands, pulling out the girl’s chair for her as well. “Nice to see you again,” Willow says, holding out her hand for him to shake.

He takes her hand and instead holds it up to his mouth, quickly kissing her knuckles before returning it to her side. The feeling of his lips sends a shiver down her spine that she knows won’t go undetected by his strong senses. “Willow, a pleasure.”

“Who is your friend tonight?” She asks, looking to the girl with a smile. Up close, the similarities to Willow are even more striking; not only does the girl have brunette-red hair, but she has pale blue eyes and freckles, too. An obviously purposeful choice, considering Astarion’s tastes in sexual partners has never been that narrow - he did nearly fuck Lae’zel, after all - to only go after Willow-like human women. 

“Willow, this is Melantisa,” Astarion says with a smile of his own, pulling back from the girl as if offering her up to Willow.

“What a beautiful name,” Willow coos, holding her arms out to suggest a hug. Melantisa surprisingly obliges, opening her own arms up with a smile and taking Willow in. “For a beautiful girl!” Willow continues as she hugs her. She could almost laugh at herself, knowing that calling this girl beautiful is as much of a compliment to Willow as it is for the girl in her arms.

As Willow breathes her in, she takes note of the smell of a rose perfume she’s clearly spritzed over herself for the night. She was right in her assessment of the girl earlier in the evening - less muscle, less squish to her bosom, so light that Willow could probably pick her up and throw her across the room. But she won’t, because the girl seems nice. It’s Astarion that probably deserves it.

“I’m such a big fan,” the girl finally speaks, her voice high and… adorable, admittedly. “You wouldn’t believe how many people thought I was a savior of the city when they put your portrait in the paper, but I told them there is no way I could do magic, much less with a flute-“

“I could definitely believe it,” Willow laughs, interrupting the girls rambling and pulling away gently from their embrace. She positions herself to stand side by side with Melantisa, facing Astarion. “We could practically be sisters, right, darling?”

The smile plastered across Astarion’s face wavers for a split second, likely not long enough for the other girl to notice, but more than enough for Willow. As if darling isn’t quite tame compared to the words he was throwing around in front of his own replacement a tenday ago.

“I don’t know, Mel’s quite a bit taller,” he answers. The women look at each other, assessing what is no more than a 2 inch height difference between the two - surely a nominal amount to the elf in front of them, a full head taller.

“Willow, charming performance, as always,” he continues, reaching for Melantisa’s arm. “But we really must be going.”

“That’s too bad,” she says with a pout, not looking at Astarion but at his female companion. “Do feel free to come back any time, dear. The lower city isn’t that bad.” 

“Maybe not, if you’re here,” the girl says with a smirk, her eyes running up and down Willow’s body. 

The pair stroll away, out of the Elfsong, Melantisa gripping his arm more harshly every time a passerby gets a bit too close. She’s a cute girl, and a decent body double for Willow, but seemingly different in every other way. Astarion never just liked Willow for being pretty - what they had was a much deeper sense of companionship, an understanding of each other. Willow can’t help but feel as if she came out on top of that interaction, but still inside she feels a deep sense of anger.

Watching this girl stare at him with devotion, watching him wear her on his arm instead of Willow feels wrong.

Willow knows what makes her angry, but doesn’t want to accept her for herself. She adored being his - relished in it, got on her knees and begged for him, would have been the candy on his arm at any event. He enjoyed certain aspects of that before the rite, and afterward it became all the more prominent. When he had first gripped her by the throat to kiss her immediately after he completed the ritual, she thought it was just him grasping onto his sexual freedom, and she liked it.

Willow would have been his consort, his wife, his doting partner picking paint colors and party favors behind the scenes. She would have bathed in his protection and dominance, finally protected by someone in her life. She would be anything for him, do anything for him.

As long as it was her choice to do so in the end.

The only thing Willow could not accept being for him was his spawn. And that was the dealbreaker.

Chapter Text

Astarion

Melantisa had been one of several people to show up recently with the intention of begging Astarion for the eternal gift. Most all of them he turned away, denying that he was capable of doing such a thing. This girl, however, he took a particular interest in - for obvious reasons - and invited in to learn where she heard that this palace housed vampires.

My cousin is a Flaming Fist who fought along with you in the war, she had said. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with us. I just want to live forever.

Inviting the desperate, upper city girl out with him was a stupid idea. Part of him simply wanted to make Willow jealous. Part of him wondered if he really could replace her.

“You want me so badly you had to drag me out of there,” the girl says as she and Astarion arrive back at the palace, away from the noise of the lower city tavern where Willow had very clearly caught on to his intentions. And it did not go how he wanted it to.

He had wanted anger, or even tears from her. A clear display of jealousy to show him that she still loves him. All he got was a stiffened performance, her vexation tucked away until she could find a way to try and make him upset instead by flirting with the girl herself. And Melantisa, the desperate thing, seemingly would have gladly gone to bed with either of them, fawning over Willow just as she was Astarion. 

Astarion leads Melantisa to the throne room, where she unceremoniously strips herself in front of him once he takes a seat on the giant, velveteen throne. She doesn’t even bother with her dress, simply slipping off her undergarments before clambering up into his lap. 

“Turn around,” he says quietly, knowing he’s only embarrassingly half hard at the sight. Looking at her from behind, he might be able to almost convince himself that she's not just some sad excuse for what he really wants.

“But I want to see you,” she coos, declining his order and reaching for the button of his pants. This action in particular awakens his length enough to stand as soon as it’s released from the pants. The auburn headed girl he actually wants always wants to see him, and rarely follows his orders, so this move by Melantisa is nearly believable. 

He allows the touch, watching her with hooded eyes as she parts her legs over him. It feels so sloppy; he hasn’t even kissed her, hasn’t done anything worth getting her as hot and wet as she is. He doesn’t need to, and it’s a bit disappointing.

Melantisa’s breath catches as she sits, enveloping his cock inside of her warm center. It feels undeniably decent, he supposes. Not much can go wrong with a warm hole, after all. But this isn’t what he wants to be doing. He’s tried to please himself a few times with others since his separation from Willow, but every encounter has only further solidified what he learned about himself while romancing her in the first place: without love, sex feels like a chore. And ascension didn’t fix that. 

“You’re so big, my Lord,” Melantisa moans, attempting to push herself into his neck. He stops her, pushing her back by her neck to sit upright, only allowing her to ride him and hold her hands against his chest. She seems to take it as him being rough rather than him not wanting her to kiss him, because she moans again.

Willow would never simply call him big - nothing poetic or romantic about the obligatory comment on one’s size. The easiest compliment in the book.

“I could do this forever,” she cries, bouncing herself up and down on him. “Forever and ever, if only you’d-“

“Oh, come off it,” he says with a groan, giving her a slight push at the knees and hoping she’ll understand the gesture. That was enough. He’s had enough. 

The girl continues bouncing, pouting her lips. “Please, my Lord, I’ll stop asking. Just let me make you-“

“I said off,” he barks, placing his own hand at the base of his shaft on her next slide up to stop her from coming back down. Melantisa frowns as she finally pulls off of him, pulling down her skirt and standing in front of the throne in confused silence.

“See Lewis outside the door. He will call you a carriage home,” he says as he buttons himself up, not getting up from the throne. He bites back an apology to the girl, knowing he shouldn’t feel bad for simply asking her to stop. Lingering weakness from his previous life.

The girls face finally breaks, almost into a snarl. “If you want to fuck her so bad, maybe you should.”

“What did you just say?”

She huffs, turning around and striding toward the door. “You heard me. I’m not that stupid.”

He says nothing else as she walks away, only silently fuming on the throne until the door shuts behind her, leaving him completely alone.

Another night ruined by Willow. Ruined by the fact that he’s never loved anyone but her, never been loved by anyone but her, never enjoyed sex with anyone but her. 

Her touch has ruined his life, almost just like his touch ruined the lives of so many. Maybe this is his punishment. 

He loved her so deeply, so fully; now, he still loves her, but the love has been tainted with missing her, obsessing over her. When he needs release, he fills his mind with thoughts of her before their separation. Tentatively, embarrassed despite being by himself, he pulls his own cock back out of his pants. 

The last time they had each other was merely a few days before the rite. It wasn’t happening as frequently as it had been early on, when he was pushing her up against trees and sneaking into her tent as a means of keeping her on his good side, but it was real and beautiful. He had asked her for a distraction from his own thoughts, and she gifted him the image that runs through his brain now.

I love you, Astarion, she had purred, her hips doing all of the work as he laid against their bed in the Elfsong. Being on top was never her favorite, but she would do it just because she loved him. Stupidly, he didn’t know how to say it back to her, and only thumbed at her sensitive clit in response, making her slam a hand against his chest to support herself as she writhed. So much, she cried in that breathless, musical way that she does that lets him know he’s done something right. She never needed to hear it back. She knew it. 

Her hair was loose around her shoulders from the bath they had taken together just before, and she kept having to tug it back with an annoyed chuckle as she moved against him. Now, he would think to lift himself up and pull it back for her, but at the time he only wanted to touch the soft skin of her hip with the hand not occupied by her little bud. Lying back to enjoy the sight of her, breasts bouncing with each movement; the feel of her, soft and sweet and full. 

Let me feel it, he had murmured back to her, knowing how easily the sound of his voice could push her over the edge. Her hips faltered and she shuddered as she came, pulling him right along with her. Spilling into her with reckless abandon, losing himself in her velvety touch as she collapsed on top of him. The precious smile on her face then, and nearly every time he touched her was heart-meltingly warm to his cold heart. 

The weight of her body on top of his for the rest of the night helped him get some semblance of rest, her heat and scent keeping him grounded to that bed, rather than drifting off into all of the horrible scenarios he played out in his mind of what could happen when he entered this palace again for the first time. He knew already that he did not want to live without her. 

The perfect distraction, then, from what he believed to be his impending doom. Now, a devastating emptiness around him as he finds release in his hand at the thought of her. Alone.

Chapter Text

Willow

After the strange encounter with Astarion and Mel, Willow tries her best to push the thoughts and feelings of Astarion from her mind entirely. She doesn’t tell Shadowheart about the encounter at their usual meeting, knowing that talking about him is only going to bring him more to the forefront of her mind. But she’s not sure that it’s really making a difference, because he seems to occupy her brain now more than ever. 

The next several shows go by with nothing to note. She performs her heart out, drinks, takes Felix back to her room only after one of them and simply crawls back to Ansur every other night.

Forget. Forget forget forget. Can’t forget. 

She considers, briefly and stupidly, showing up to Astarion’s home to shout at him and ask him why he brought that girl here. That line of thinking, however, has so far been stamped out each time by the thought of how fucking embarrassing it would be if she knocked on his door only to find a half-dressed Mel and Astarion, laughing at her desperation. At the thought of him truly, actually moving on, when Willow herself knows that both of the attempts she has made at moving on have been complete failures because she’s still in love with Astarion. That no matter how sweet and cute and objectively good in bed Halsin or Felix can be, they aren’t him. And they never will be. 

He has not moved on. He simply brought her to the Elfsong to make Willow jealous. Right? 

This morning - a full tenday since meeting Melantisa - Willow starts her day like usual, coming down to the tavern to get something to eat. Lakrissa is working in the morning, which feels like a gift because she is Willow’s favorite face to see working at the Elfsong. She looks at her less expectantly than Felix does, and doesn’t ask her for anything.

“Any eggs this morning, Lakrissa?”

“Fresh ones. I can get you some,” the tiefling girl answers with a smile.

“Please, I’m starving.”

The food is better than usual - fresh was right - but there’s a hint of boredom beginning to bloom from the routine of waking up in the Elfsong, eating in the Elfsong, shopping around the lower city and performing. It’s been nice not having to scavenge for food or be a hero, but a little excitement wouldn’t hurt.

As her mind flickers back to the emerald grove and the Underdark, Willow wonders if it’s actually the excitement of adventure she misses. Or if it’s the love. Their love.

There he is again. In her brain.

She shakes it off, resigning herself to returning to her room to practice her flute for tonight’s show. Not that she needs practice, but it never hurts.

“Aye, Willow,” the boy tending the bar - not Felix, he only works nights - calls out to her before she can fully make her way to the stairs. “Someone’s dropped off a package for you from… Lord Ancunín?” The boy hesitates, trying hard to pronounce the name. He shrugs as he hands it off to her; a small, paper wrapped package.

“Thanks?” Willow says with a laugh, accepting it into her arms and continuing toward her room. A letter, she would expect - but a package? What could he possibly be sending her?

The parcel crinkles in her arms as she makes her way up the stairs, something soft and pliable inside. As soon as she makes it up to her room, Willow shuts the door behind her with her foot and rips into the paper covering whatever Astarion has sent her. She wonders briefly if that’s even a good idea, considering they may not be on the best of terms still. But all she feels is fabric.

Inside the package is a black dress. Willow doesn’t spend too long inspecting it before ripping open the included letter; she already knows it’s Astarion, but why would he send a dress?

Willow,

The party will be held a month from today. 

Wear this tonight if you agree to perform. 

A

Willow rolls her eyes as she sets down the letter and unfurls the neatly folded gown - made of a fabric that won’t wrinkle, of course, because he thinks of everything - to reveal a rather plain black dress, with a dangerously low neckline and a slit up the side. It does not strike her as a performance dress. It’s long, form-fitting, and much too fancy for the tavern. It’s very Astarion, however.

When they had gone to save Figaro Facemaker’s life in the lower city, the shopkeeper gave the entire group a discount on his clothing and vanity items, and Willow had let Astarion pick things for her to wear. It’s a little silly, looking back, considering they were saving the city at the time - but it was a blessed distraction.

He had first picked an outfit made up of a tiny skirt and a metal bralette, and she wore it giddily inside the privacy of their own room. He was always respectful of the way she didn’t want to show her body so much in front of the others. While Willow may be confident enough in shorter performance dresses or with showing a bit of cleavage, that particular outfit was just a bit too much for her to want the likes of Ulder Ravengard or any of the companions she did not know quite as well to see. 

That part of him made it harder to accept when, after the rite, he suggested that she dress like that as she sits in his lap on the throne he would have installed in the palace - his consort, nothing but a pretty thing to look at. She wonders now if he did end up purchasing his own throne, and if he has any pretty little things sitting nearly naked in his lap on it. 

This dress is not nearly as revealing, with nothing but a little bit of cleavage and the slit revealing up to her upper thigh, but he clearly imagined her body when he picked it. Willow slips it on quickly to inspect in the mirror and finds that it fits her like a handmade glove. A bit surprising, considering that the little skirt outfit he bought for her previously no longer fits around her more filled-out body from less starving and traveling. But the dress is stretchy. That must be it.

Despite his behavior last time, and despite her better judgement, she wants to perform for him. So she’s going to wear the damn dress.

Willow’s heart pounds as she watches for those familiar, silver curls to enter through one of the doors of the Elfsong. It’s practically beating out of her chest when Alan - the owner of the tavern - motions for her to begin, and it’s when she swings around to survey the crowd that she finally sees Astarion take a seat at a corner table. Whether on purpose or by virtue of being late, he leaves her no time to confront him about the dress she’s wearing prior to her first couple of songs.

It isn’t the best garment she’s ever worn for performing, but it does well enough. Typically Willow reaches for shorter skirts with twirly pleating, but this dress is long, fitted to her body and sultry. Even while focused on her music, she can’t help but notice eyes darting to her lower half, including the ruby eyes in the corner.

He watches her with the unmistakable look of lust. She knows the gaze well, and knows that he puts it on purposefully, given that he’s had centuries to perfect it. Hooded eyes with the tiniest curl of his lip in one corner. His arms remain crossed, moving only to take an occasional sip from his goblet of wine. Every single time she looks in his direction, those eyes are on Willow.

The songs she plays, short bar tunes, feel excruciatingly long as she wonders what on earth could be running through his mind. Instead of lingering at the bar for her break, Willow snatches up the usual drink that Felix provides her and turns away from him quickly, taking small, unhurried steps to the table in the corner where Astarion sits. 

“Well? Does it fit how you imagined it would?” She asks as she reaches the table, leaning a hip against the wood in a way that she knows will accentuate the dramatic curve at her waist. 

“Even better,” he answers with a smirk, taking a sip of his drink.

“Seems like it’s made more for a performance at Sharess’ Caress than at a palace for patriars, but I suppose you’re the expert,” she says with a sigh, her eyes flitting down quickly to the soft, pale flesh of cleavage revealed by the garment.

“Oh, that’s not what you would be wearing,” he says with a laugh. “I only wanted to see you in it.”

Willow’s cheeks flush at the realization. Of course this isn’t what he would pick for the proposed party. Of course.

“Do not become flustered, my treasure,” he says, offering her a playful pout.

“Don’t call me that,” she seethes, placing a hand against the table.

“As feisty as ever,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re so beautiful when you’re angry.” He reaches his hand out to meet hers against the table, and something makes Willow resist the urge to yank it away. “I know how you could put that anger to better use.”

Willow cocks her head, confused, still seething. “What do you mean?”

“Sex, darling,” he says simply, running a gentle thumb across her skin. 

Willow snorts, but still does not move her hand. “With you?”

He shrugs. “Well?”

Willow could almost stagger backward from shock, but stands stone still instead.

It’s a horrible suggestion. They haven’t had sex since, well… before. But she also hasn’t had good sex since before.

And maybe it’s the way he’s been looking at her all night, or the jealousy she felt a tenday ago that makes her so desperate to prove herself, or the feeling of his hand against her own on the table, even warmer than she remembers it being even a when he touched her hand just a tenday ago - for some reason, she accepts.

“Fine. But you’re coming to my room. I’m not coming to that stupid palace.”

He grins, his fangs glinting in the harsh overhead lighting of the tavern. “No matter. You’ll still be coming.”

Chapter Text

Astarion

Astarion stays for the remainder of Willow’s show, watching her perform and catching every glance in his direction. When she accepted his proposition she had looked at him like he was insane, before it quickly turned into wide-eyed curiosity - a gaze eerily similar to the one on her face when he first propositioned her in the emerald grove. When he believed he was only going to manipulate her to get more of her delectable blood and keep the others from driving a stake through his heart. 

How quickly things can change. 

After a seemingly failed attempt at making Willow jealous last time he came to see her, he couldn’t resist the desire to simply ask her for what he wants. Even after his failure, he had spent a few days hoping that it would have sparked something in her enough to make her show up to his home and prove herself. Stupid, in retrospect, to think that she would embarrass herself in such an obvious way.

Sending her a parcel with a dress to wear was risky, but Astarion knew that if Willow would entertain him to wear it, then he has her where he needs her to be. Getting her into a dress she actually likes would have been easy, but he purposefully picked something he knew would get in the way of her typical twirling, dancing performances. She has to change the way she moves to accommodate the dress, and she did it just for him. 

Despite having to shift her movements, she does not allow the dress to stiffen her performance. Willow bounds around the room like a woman who is completely aware of the command she has over everyone else within these walls, smiling and joking between numbers as she usually does. Adults and poorly supervised children of all races and backgrounds are enraptured by her, preparing their hands to clap before her songs are even finished because they’ve come to watch her so many times already. The people in this tavern are a beautiful and wretched sight at the same time, for Astarion, who still feels the sense of pride he used to over how his lover can command a crowd, before realizing that she does not belong to him any more than she belongs to anyone else in this room. 

By the time her performance is over, her skin shines with sweat and swaths of her hair are starting to escape from the updo she had put it into. After her final bow she pulls the clip out of her hair and allows it to fall messily over her shoulders as the boy from the bar quickly approaches her.

Astarion watches as she accepts the glass of water from the boy and he asks her a question, smirking and tilting his head toward the staircase. Felix’s face floods with disappointment as Willow shakes her head with a frown, placing a hand over her stomach. Of course she can’t just tell him no, she has to pretend she drank too much or ate something bad. She’s always been a people pleaser.

She steals a glance back at Astarion before she makes her way to the staircase. He wonders if he should wait until the boy is gone for the night to follow her, but who would he be kidding? He doesn’t give a damn. She won’t need or want to take anyone else to her bed after tonight. He walks as briskly as he can without looking ridiculous to the staircase, and arrives at the bottom of it in just enough time to catch a glimpse of her from behind before she rounds the corner.

He knew she would look perfect in that dress, but the sight of her actually in it is even more incredible than he could have imagined. It’s partially because of how she looks, and partially because he picked it and she chose to entertain him by wearing it, much like those little outfits he picked for her when they first arrived back in Baldurs Gate together. Putting her in a skirt just to hike it up and throw her against their bed - it had taken his mind off of what he had thought was going to be the end of his life, the end of their time together. 

The familiar hall of the Elfsong upper floor greets him at the top of the stairs, and he’s just able to catch a glimpse of her walking into her room. Room number 68 - the year she was born. Exactly two hundred years after he died.

She leaves the door open, an invitation for him to come in without announcing himself. He finds her leaning over her bedside table, and recognizes the familiar movement of her arms as she cleans out her flute. She had told him once that the condensation can ruin the wood if left to fester, and she couldn’t possibly afford to purchase a new one, so she cleans it out every single time.

Unfamiliar is the cat hissing at him as he enters the room. “Who is this?” He asks, trying to sound curious rather than annoyed. He’s not so much annoyed by the presence of the cat, rather the fact that he did not know that the thing existed. 

“His name is Ansur,” Willow responds, and he can hear the little smile in her voice. “A present from Shadowheart.” 

“How fitting.” The scruffy cat scuttles away as he draws closer, hiding behind the wash tub in the corner of the room. Probably for the best, Astarion thinks, considering how uncomfortable it may be to have the creature watching them do what they plan to do. 

He watches her intently as she tucks the instrument back into its case. “What did you tell the boy at the bar?” 

“I told him I’m bleeding. Scares most of them away,” she says with a chuckle, a knowing look on her face even though she won’t look directly at him as she snaps the case shut. He could smell it on her if she actually was - the strong, mystifying scent of her blood is not present on her now. Not that it never discouraged him before.

“Weaker creatures,” he responds with a shrug and a smirk that she can’t see. He approaches her from behind and her body freezes in place, like a mouse realizing she’s been caught in a trap. Part of him thinks he should back up, not touch her, ask her why she’s so nervous. But the part of him that feels excited by her nervousness wins out.

Astarion starts with running his hands over her shoulders, feeling the tension exit her muscles at his touch. He wraps his arms around her waist next, bending to rest his head atop hers, breathing in the scent of her. She smells cleaner now than she ever did before, obviously using better soap than they did on the road. Like lavender. And bergamot. He wonders if she picked the latter scent because of him.

She still feels impossibly warm, even though his body now provides its own warmth. Like she’s full, glowing with heat. Her breath catches right along with the fluttering of her heart, and he can tell as she tries to control it. As she tries to resist allowing herself to fall into him.

He could live like this. Wrapped in her. Absorbing the feel, scent, sound of her. He has no plans to stop holding her, until she rips his arms off of her body herself.

Chapter Text

Willow

“Can you stop it with this stupid little act?” Willow asks with a groan, pulling herself out of his warm, comforting embrace and spinning around to face him. “You were livid with me when I rejected you. You screamed at me. I know this isn’t the real you.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, darling,” he says, but he frowns back at her, an omission on its own.

“I don’t want to do this with some- some version of you you’re making up for me. Not like the first time,” Willow snaps, but then laughs at her own words. “I shouldn’t be doing this at all, to be honest. But if you’re going to touch me, at least be the real you.”

He laughs too, crossing his arms over his chest. Standing so close to her, he towers over her and makes her feel small. “Fine. You want the real me? I came here to remind you of what you’re missing, rejecting my offer and choosing to bed that boy at the bar after your silly shows.”

Willow’s mouth gapes, shocked that he actually dropped the fake niceties to admit his real intentions. “I- you have no idea what he’s like.”

“The way he looks at you, stares at you like you’re a piece of meat,” he says, his voice even. “And the poor boy, you don’t so much as look in his direction when I’m here. Have you screamed my name while you’re with him yet, pet?”

“I can’t fucking stand you,” she seethes, attempting to push him by his shoulders back toward the door. He grips her wrists with his hands before she can, showing off his improved reflexes.

“I know,” he murmurs back, much more calm than Willow. “But you want me.”

His hands squeeze around the elongated word, and the touch of him alone is enough to make Willow’s body tremble.

“I don’t want to want you,” she responds, less angry and more generally upset by her own concession.

He pulls her closer to him by her wrists, settling the hands that were meant to hit him on his shoulders. “Just once, Willow. If you truly feel nothing for me, don’t love me at all, it will mean nothing,” he whispers, releasing his hands from her and holding them outstretched before her, instead. An invitation.

She stares at him for a while longer, searching for the ulterior motives Shadowheart warned her to look for and finding nothing that would give him away in those red eyes. Though, this wouldn’t be the first time he’s kept a secret very well while trying to bed her. She shakes her head at him, before clasping her hands together around the back of his neck. “Nothing but depraved, carnal lust,” she mutters, and he laughs as she slams her lips into his.

It’s an instant relief for her senses to touch him; the familiar feeling of tangling her fingers in his thick hair, the perfume mix he still wears wafting into her nose from his skin, him. There is no uncertain gentleness like there was when they first kissed on the forest ages ago. Willow’s lips remember exactly how to play their part, tilting her head to one side and parting slightly to allow him access. 

It’s enough to make her almost immediately begin backing up toward the bed, taking small steps so as not to disconnect herself from his lips. He takes note of this and chuckles, before lowering his hands to the backs of her thighs to hoist her up into the air.

“Mmm, have you gotten lighter or have I gotten that much stronger?” 

“I’ve definitely not gotten lighter with all that mead,” Willow groans in response, annoyed by his interruption just to comment on his own strength.

His hands grasp harshly at her thighs as he traces his lips against her jawline, leaving Willow with a pout to her lips that weren’t quite ready to be done kissing him. “It was a rhetorical question, little love. I’ve been waiting to touch this extra bit of flesh on you since I saw you in that little dress downstairs the first time.”

She doesn’t entertain a real response, allowing herself to lean back and test the limits of his ability to hold her like this. He doesn’t buckle, instead moving closer to the familiar, canopy-top bed all of the rooms in the Elfsong upper floor boast.

“Imagine all of the dresses and finery I could put this little body in if you just admitted you’re still mine,” he continues as he drops her onto the bed, releasing her from his warm touch.

“I’m not yours,” Willow answers defiantly, quickly pulling her current dress off of her body, revealing the same style of stays and underwear she had worn while traveling together. The realization that she wore such frumpy underclothes tonight, not knowing he was going to make such a proposition, makes blood rush to her face and neck. “And what finery do I need if you’re just here to make me come a few times and leave?” She asks, trying to cover up the slight embarrassment. 

He rolls his eyes at the response, beginning to unbutton his shirt. Usually, he would be painstakingly removing each piece of clothing from her and himself, making her beg for him to take her, please her, love her. The fact that he’s pulling his clothing off just as feverishly as she is gives Willow a surge of pride.  Suddenly it feels as if the both of them have been participating in foreplay since the moment he walked into the Elfsong weeks ago, and it’s time for the culmination. 

She makes quick work of the rest of her clothes as he does the same, and she’s pleased to confirm that he’s just as aroused as she is, cock nearly flush against his stomach at full attention. Despite the passage of time, there’s no shyness in the way their bodies are presented to each other. Not that she expected shyness from the self-proclaimed vampire lord, but she’s shocked to not feel the least bit strange about her own naked presence, thicker thighs and all. 

Willow pats the space on the bed next to her, smirking up at him despite thinking once again that if she had planned better, she may have pulled some of the cat hairs off of the white sheets. “I’m in charge,” she says, crossing one leg over the other, “and if you don’t like it, you can go.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” he answers with a chuckle, rounding the other side of the bed to throw himself down against the pillows, pale legs sprawled open across the sheets.

Willow tries to resist the blush blooming across her face once more before turning around to see him. It’s hard to stop her eyes from traveling across his body, which has only become more statuesque and muscular over the last several months. He’s still lithe, not bulky by any means, but the rivets and lines that cut across his body have become all the more prominent.

She uncrosses her legs and crawls toward him, trying to not look insatiably eager despite her mouth practically watering at the sight of him. She throws a leg over one of his before slowly sliding a hand around his cock as he watches her.

“Very telling that you came here to fuck me despite having that… cheap replacement at home,” she muses, her lip curling in disgust at the thought as she runs her thumb over the slick tip of his length.

“I came here to remind you what you are missing,” he growls back, snapping a strong hand around her neck and pulling her face down to where her hand is holding him at attention. Already fighting the proclamation that she would be the one in charge, unsurprisingly.

Willow takes one lick of his cockhead and he moans at the touch, tightening his grip. The sound of him moaning is enough to make Willow squeeze her legs together, but she pouts up at him instead of giving him another. “Admit it. You thought you could replace me with some other little, auburn haired girl with smaller tits and a quieter mouth, but it’s not the same.”

He glares down at her in lieu of a response. Willow pries his hand off of her neck to sit upright, straddling his hips but holding his length in her hand, not allowing contact to her own bare body. She aches to simply shut up and shove him inside of her, but if this will be the one and only time, there’s more she needs to say to get him out of her system.

“I bet she follows orders, gives you that obedience you so desperately demanded from me,” she continues, squeezing him within her hand and slowly pumping up and down his hardened cock. “But that’s not what you want, Astarion. You want me.”

His anger bubbles over and he pushes her onto her back on the bed, knocking the breath out of her as her back hits the mattress and climbing over her to meet her at eye level. “And what about that little boy at the bar, my love? You don’t get to act like we haven’t both been dealing with lesser lovers,” he says. It’s an admittance, but an accusation shot back at her at the same time. “How many times does he make you come before he empties into you and falls asleep? Once? Twice?”

Willow quickly realizes that he isn’t only asking the obvious question - there’s another one, a jealousy-ridden one hidden within his words. She smirks back at him. “Unfortunately for him, Felix is a living being, and I only allow him to come right here,” she answers, using both hands to squeeze her breasts together. He eyes her voraciously, but continues to wait for her to answer the rest of the question. “And I always get at least one. You know I wouldn’t accept any less.” 

He laughs at her own omission of a lackluster sex life, and Willow feels his hand make its way to her inner thigh, tickling across her skin to just outside of her heated mound. The immediate feeling of need wracks her body, greater than any other feeling of embarrassment or pridefulness. “Allow me to show you how quickly I can surpass his numbers,” he murmurs, but doesn’t yet pounce. He’s waiting for a response.

The fact that he still waits for permission, despite the cocky bastard he’s become, makes Willow’s heart skip a beat in recognition. He always asks for permission.

“Be my guest,” she allows, trying to sound nonchalant despite the breathlessness present in her voice. As soon as the words leave her lips she feels his fingers slip inside, curling up to hit the perfect spot inside of her. A spot Felix has never been able to find before, despite her efforts to direct him there - placing the blame on short, stout fingers. Willow moans loudly, involuntarily gripping the back of the vampire’s neck with her hand, attempting to pull him closer. 

“So wet for me, just the same,” he murmurs as the slick sounds of his fingers make Willow’s face flush. “I don’t think this will take long.” 

It doesn’t take long for the momentum to build inside of her. Not only does he know exactly what to do to get her there, but she’s also missed the feeling of him on top of her so deeply that it feels like scratching a months-old itch. Willow uses the hand not on his neck to grip harshly at his back, feeling the indentations of the still-present scars. She wonders briefly if she’s still the only person who has touched them, run her fingers over them gently in the bath, before pushing the thought from her mind in favor of pleasure. 

“You may be right,” she mutters as she approaches the edge, warning him. She regrets the words immediately as he stops moving his fingers and places his other hand firmly against her pale stomach, denying her the ability to chase the orgasm herself.

“Tell me,” he whispers, “how much you’ve missed me.”

Willow scoffs at his request. “Fuck you.”

He pouts his lips in response. “All you have to do is tell me the truth, and I’ll let you come.”

Willow sighs and glares back at him, but acquiesces regardless. “Fine. I’ve missed having sex with you.”

He frowns at it not being the answer he desires, but seems to consider it good enough, because he returns to his work with his fingers. It takes another moment for her to build up after the pause, but as soon as Astarion leans down to plant a slow, wet kiss at the base of her neck, she comes completely undone around his hand. Her back arches against the bed through her waves of pleasure, and through her loud moans she can still make out a satisfied groan from his lips against her ear.

After one successful climax with Felix, Willow would be settling herself into her bed and waiting for him to leave for the night, not fully satisfied but given just enough to not ruminate too much on her old life before falling asleep. After this one, though, she’s only aching to have more.

When her back relaxes into the sheets, Astarion slides his fingers out and swiftly takes them into his own mouth, holding her gaze while he does it. A very familiar image to Willow, who has never gotten sick of seeing it. “Almost as delicious as your blood,” he muses.

Willow catches his eyes flitting briefly to her neck, and leans her head back to offer it up to him. He takes his still-wet hand and wraps it around her neck, but instead of receiving the expected bite, Willow feels his warm lips once again. 

“You know how I like to have you,” he coos against her, shifting his body in a way that Willow can’t quite see, but she knows exactly what he means.

The moment feels almost too perfect, too romantic for her liking, considering how angry she still should be at him. “Do any of the replacements you’ve bedded feel quite as good? Quite as wet and tight?” She wonders aloud, the same disgust from earlier creeping into her words. “Tell me and I might let you have me.”

“Quite as wet, yes,” he says easily, still with a smirk in his voice. “But none of my many satisfied lovers have been as satisfying for me as you,” he admits.

He rubs himself against her entrance, taking a sharp breath at what Willow knows is an absolute river of wetness, but still he waits.

“Are you going to fuck me or wh-“ Willow begins to sneer but cuts herself off with a loud groan as he slides himself in, easily making his way through the soaked entrance. 

“Gods ,” he exclaims, and Willow feels another surge of pride over how desperate it sounds coming out of his mouth. The pride is short lived, however, as he slips deeper and Willow breathes in sharply at the sensation. “Not bigger than me, then, is he?” He asks with a raised eyebrow as he pauses.

“Focus less on him and more on me,” Willow pleads through a little bit of laughter that she can’t hold back, even though it’s at the expense of poor, sweet Felix. He laughs in response before returning his lips to her neck, kissing her in a way he knows will ease her into being able to take him deeper and faster. 

If she could think straight, Willow would have had him kissing her a lot more and in more interesting places before getting to this point, but they both seem to have forgotten themselves. 

Willow hikes her knee up against his torso as she feels ready to take more, until Astarion grips her calf with his hand to hold against his shoulder. It was on the top floor of the Elfsong that they tried this for the first time, realizing that Willow’s life as a dancing bard lends itself to this flexible position that allows him to push impossibly deep. Willow nearly squeals at the memory even now, of how they awoke the next morning to several of their friends angry over some of the horrible noises they had heard from both of their lips. 

It doesn’t take long to get into a rhythm, and even months since the last time he was inside of her, it still feels like the most natural sex she’s ever had. His curly hair rubbing against her face as he kisses her neck, his hand still gripping her leg to keep it in place, the head of his cock dragging perfectly against the most sensitive spot inside of her each time he pulls himself almost completely out, just to push back in to the hilt. It feels right.

“Touch me,” she gasps into his ear, and his hands redirect to find her clit and cup one of her breasts immediately, reminding her even further of how well he knows her body. Willow grasps his face with both hands and pulls him into her for an open-mouthed kiss, trying to prevent herself from saying anything stupid or otherwise regrettable. He feels perfect. Hot and sweaty and salty and perfect. 

It feels as if the entire room is spinning as Willow begins to feel the knot building within her abdomen. For a moment, she is transported back to their old bed, before any of this happened.

“Fucking hells, Astarion, I-“ 

I love you.

Those were the words threatening to escape before she caught them. Just as she would have before.

“I want you to bite me,” she says now, trying to cover up her own mistake. She moans loudly before gently pushing his head down to her neck, praying to the gods above that he won’t pull his face away to see how reddened her face must be. 

Willow feels the familiar prick of his teeth into her neck as he obliges, closing his warm lips around the freezing cold fangs. Her climax comes exactly as she knew it would, each wave of pleasure for her sending another gush of blood into his mouth - just how they would do it before, when her blood was keeping him strong, and his touch was keeping her grounded. The feeling of his body against hers as she pulses and contracts around him is electric and wild. She shakes and her heart pounds out of her chest with the feelings of overwhelming pleasure and overwhelming horror over what she almost just admitted. Of what she knows to be true, now more than she did before he touched her again. 

His hunger isn’t the same as it was before, and he’s able to pull his teeth out of her just as soon as her peak begins to pass, licking over the new wounds while caressing the other side of her neck. As Willow’s orgasm wanes, his face contorts in a way she knows too well and she expects the familiar feeling of his own climax spilling into her body. Instead, she watches with confusion as he pulls himself out of her, choosing to spray onto her pale stomach instead. He’s still a beautiful sight, gasping while finishing himself off with his hand with his sweaty body still hovering closely against her, but it’s a little… anticlimactic. 

She doesn’t say anything until he finishes, not able to come up with the words in a way that won’t make it completely obvious that she feels upset over the fact that he chose not to give it to her. But she quickly realizes there’s no real way to do that.

“Saving it for your boring knockoff?” She sneers, eyes flitting between his face and the horrible mess he’s made.

He only chuckles, leaning forward to hover his face over hers. “I’m not quite as undead as I used to be, darling,” he answers. He must be able to tell by the look on her face that she doesn’t quite understand what he means, and he sighs. “I have hot blood, a beating heart, all of the pleasures of the living,” he continues.

Willow’s face grows red with embarrassment as the realization sets in. Oh. Oh.

“Well. You could’ve at least put it down my throat to save me taking another bath,” she mutters, unsure what to think of this new information.

“I’ll remember that for next time,” he says, taking a swipe at her stomach with his finger and holding it up to her mouth.

“Oh? Who said anything about next time?” She responds, but takes the finger into her mouth anyway, watching him as she licks around it languidly.

“I’m not your little boyfriend at the bar, my love,” he says. “Next time means in a few minutes. I can easily go for seconds, thirds, all night.”

The only response he receives is an eye roll.

He pulls his hand away from her mouth and leans forward enough to kiss her again, and she takes him in without any protest. Either on purpose for his next preposition or by accident just by losing himself in her touch, Willow isn’t sure, he touches his abdomen to her own, sharing the mess.

“Why don’t we take next time to the bathtub? Two birds,” he murmurs against her lips.

“I suppose you still have some good ideas in that twisted head,” she answers.

Chapter Text

Willow

The bickering while having sex, arguing and then having more sex continues until Willow becomes so exhausted that she cannot imagine moving another muscle. When she feels as if she could fall asleep right in his arms after the last time, she forces herself up to sheath her body in a nightgown and throws Astarion’s clothes at him.

“Kicking me out?” He gasps, feigning surprise. She knows that he knew exactly what he was doing, allowing her to collapse onto his chest after coming on top of him and playing with her hair, attempting to soothe her into sleep. She’ll likely be much too gracious with him if she wakes up well-rested and sore to the sign of the sun kissing his unfortunately gorgeous face through the windows.

“I need to sleep,” she mutters, picking a comb up from her desk and standing in front of the tall, upright mirror to attempt to tidy up the nest her hair has become.

It’s still a bit unsettling to see his reflection in the mirror as he comes up behind her, buttoning his pants and pulling on his shirt next. He runs a hand through his hair, clearly admiring himself, and Willow chuckles.

“And you wanted to take that away from me,” she says quietly, shaking her head at him.

The comment makes him pause, watching her intently in the mirror as she brushes her long hair back to tie up for what remains of the night. 

“I’m quite sure I could extend Mephistopheles’ gifts to my most favorite spawn,” he says after a moment, slight indignation in his voice. “Allow you to see the sun, see yourself, almost all of it.”

“You could’ve stopped at the word spawn,” she responds, her voice growing louder. “Or at Mephistopheles, I suppose.”

Before he completed the ritual, before they even walked into the doors of the palace on the hill to confront Cazador, Willow had expressed her uncertainty over binding himself to an archdevil in such a way. Devils are not known for the simplicity of their deals, after all; although, the sacrifice of seven thousand souls is obviously not a simple deal to begin with. 

“I don’t know why you’re so disgusted by the idea of it,” he says, turning away from the mirror to pick up his suit jacket from where it had been thrown on the floor several hours previously. He glosses over the commentary about the archdevil, unsurprisingly. 

Finished brushing out her hair, Willow turns to face him again. “Of being your property? Your thrall?” Willow responds with a snort, red-hot anger beginning to bloom in her cheeks. “After we spent so long trying to not become mind flayer thrall.”

“It’s not the same,” he says with a low growl, before trying to compose himself better. He straightens out his back, which had begun to take the form of a slight slouch. “The mind flayers would have taken our entire souls from us. I asked you to be my beloved, my consort,” the terms leave his lips in a whimper, still longing for them as he speaks. 

“And I wanted to be more than that!” She shoots back at him, growing angrier with each word. Anger in place of the sadness she really feels over the sound of him, deep in her stomach. 

“Is that so? And you’re living that dream as the bravest bard in Baldurs Gate?” He says the title in a teasing tone.

“You still don’t get it,” Willow laughs, shaking her head in disbelief. “I’m not talking about being more than I am for this city, Astarion. We saved this city, and now I want to stop being a hero and play my fucking flute.”

“Then what in the hells are you talking about?”

“Being more to you, stupid!” She turns around on her heels, not wanting to look at him but quickly turning back around again, chewing on her bottom lip. “I don’t want to be your obedient little spawn-consort. That’s the first preposition you came to me with. If you would have come to me with anything else first, made me feel like we would live a life full of love first, I would have accepted with no second thoughts.” Willow is yelling, but her face is less angry than it is devastated, eyebrows furrowed and lips quivering with each word. 

He stands stone still, not allowing any emotion to edge into his face, and she continues. “I’m not even talking about the dominating, on your knees for me darling shit, either - you know I was into that. It was the absolute lack of respect for me as your partner. If you would have asked me to be your wife like a normal fucking person, you would’ve had me for eternity.”

The word wife triggers something enough to entice an eyebrow raise from Astarion, but it takes him another moment to speak. Willow’s chest heaves with frustration, only growing worse by the second at his lack of response. 

This is exactly what it felt like when she had wanted to have a real, objective conversation with him about turning her into a spawn. He turns into an emotionless brick, unable to appear vulnerable in front of her as he would have before. The time she spent whittling away at him on their journey, pulling him back to her when he would drift away until he felt grounded enough to be honest with her about his feelings - it all disappeared the second he ascended. 

“Well. Excuse me for not realizing you were so interested in formalities, when you were so eager to accept my raw cock in the forest,” he sneers, followed by an exasperated breath, not allowing himself to show more emotion beyond irritation. “No matter. You could have anything you want.”

“You say that in present tense as if you didn’t already ruin it,” she sneers back, not embarrassed by her large emotions in the presence of his stoicism. “I’d tell you how to fix it, but I know you’re too big of a man for that now.”

“Fix it?” He scoffs, “I do not have to fix anything. You are the one who refused to communicate any of this with me and abandoned me instead,” his own anger finally starts to creep into his voice, and the sound of it makes Willow smirk. “Wipe that look off of your face!” He demands, holding up a finger for a split second before dropping it back to his side.

“Finally some fucking emotion out of you,” she sighs, not wiping the look off of her face. “Maybe I should have communicated it. But how was I supposed to be vulnerable when the man that I love suddenly turned into a brick wall before my eyes? And don’t you talk about abandonment to me. I would’ve followed you off the edge of a cliff if you would’ve held my hand while doing it, but you just wanted to push me.”

“You are ever the bard with those stupid little metaphors,” he sneers, “Speak plainly, Willow.”

“You know exactly what I mean, Astarion. I already told you. Now get out.” She points her finger at the door, confidently knowing that they are in her space and she can end this whenever she chooses.

He balks, not turning toward the door. “I will leave if that is truly what you want. But your screaming, my little love, both last night and into this morning has been enough for me to know that this is not over.”

Willow’s brows raise at the word morning, but the light of dawn starting to filter in from the window brings the realization that they really did have sex for the entire night, and she’s screaming at him as the early risers of the city are on their way to work. 

“Get out,” she says again, unable to hide the heat flooding her face.

“As you wish,” he says with a frown, straightening out his jacket and unceremoniously walking out of her room.

At least he didn’t turn into a bat this time.

Chapter Text

Astarion 

But how was I supposed to be vulnerable when the man that I love suddenly turned into a brick wall before my eyes?

Man that I love.

She used love - present tense.

Maybe it was a slip of the tongue in her beautiful, flaming anger, but Astarion cannot stop thinking about it even after being asked to leave her room and flying himself back to the palace. Allowing the wind to whip through the wings of his bat form as he swings around towers and chases pigeons to try and blow off some steam, before realizing that it’s useless and finally landing at home. 

Renovations are happening day and night, trying and failing to make the giant space less tortuously reminiscent of the centuries he spent there. Trying and failing to make it feel any less lonely, now that his siblings are gone - turned into viscera during the rite and swept up by cleaners he hired through Nine Fingers Keene - and the only person he wants to sleep next to has made herself a home at the Elfsong, another torturously reminiscent place. 

The humans working on painting over the dreary walls pause to give him a gentle bow as he sulks through the hall to his bedroom at the end of it, to the big bed with silken sheets and no one in it. He’s never taken any of the people he’s been filling the empty space with to this bed - there are guest rooms, or a throne room for that.

After tonight, he wonders if he’ll even be able to touch anyone else without throwing up. Smaller tits and a quieter mouth, as she had said in all of her clearly jealous teasing about Melantisa, with no idea that none of the other people he’s tried to have sex with have been just as much of a disappointment. No one measures up to Willow. 

Willow.

Touched by her again, inside of her again, screamed at and for by her again. The only sex that has ever mattered to him, ever felt full and joyful rather than just going through the motions of doing it. Her words echo through his mind over and over as he strips his clothes off and throws himself into the bed.

So she doesn’t want to be property. Of course. What she doesn’t know is that he never intended to make her into property, he simply neglected giving her the details of what he did intend to do.

So you want to make me a spawn? Like you were? She had balked at him. She was still covered in dried blood from earlier that same day, having knelt beside him as he violently carved into his old master’s back to complete the rite of profane ascension for himself.

Yes, but you will have a very different life than I had as a spawn. Even though he had been a spawn until merely hours before, the word still came out of his mouth with disgust. After all, you would be mine.

She had bit her lip in the way she does when she’s trying to stop herself from speaking before thinking. The same way she did today, immediately after calling him stupid. Deliciously adorable.

Could you compel me? She had asked next. A simple question, but completely loaded.

He had to think of how to respond to this question within a split second, without letting on what he was planning. The answer was no - his intention was to perform a different kind of transformation for her than the one Cazador had done to him; one that would give Astarion no power to compel her. Even as hungry and desperate for power as he was on that first night of true freedom, the idea of compelling her, forcing her to do anything as Cazador had to him was disgusting.

At the same time, the notion in her brain that he could compel her may have proven to be useful. If she thinks she can’t leave him, would she ever even try?

I wouldn’t need to, he had said with a flippant laugh. You are going to be so wonderfully obedient.

Looking back, now, he thinks that is where he lost her. Her eyes had darted away from him, nervousness making her pull at her clothes in discomfort. I think I need to rest, first, my love, she had murmured when she finally met his gaze again. I can’t think straight after all of that. 

Of course, my treasure, he had answered, pulling her into his body to cover her devastated face. You were so strong for me today. Just don’t make me wait too long. I want you to be this beautiful forever.

A silly thing to say in retrospect, given how she’s only become even more beautiful. No longer searching barrels and stealing bread to eat for herself and to sustain him as she was on their journey, she has grown a more visible swell to her hips and her ass, more to squeeze around his head on her muscled upper thighs. Her hair is fuller, her face brighter from being well-rested. He knows it’s because she’s no longer starving and kept up at night by having the weight of the world over her and their companions’ shoulders but it still stings a little bit, seeing her at least appearing to be okay without him.

The most power-hungry parts of him wonder still if he should have made her into a spawn and asked for forgiveness later, when she couldn’t leave him. Only a few days after they completed the ritual she would come to him with her final rejection of the offer, sending him into a fit of rage he doesn’t dare replay in his head tonight. Not now, when he’s just had her in his arms again, no matter how fleeting.

Instead, he replays their argument from today.

I’d tell you how to fix it, but I know you’re too big of a man for that now.

He doesn’t know if this was purposeful or a slip of her tongue, either, but he chooses to believe for tonight that it was intentional. An invitation, perhaps. To fix it.

She’s half right, that his newfound identity immediately makes him want to recoil from the idea of fixing anything, and the implication that he’s made a mistake, not her.

Briefly, he wonders if any good could come of simply telling her the truth, but the thought itself makes Astarion laugh. 

My love, I could never have compelled you! I only lied to you with the intention of manipulating you, once again, this time into never leaving me. 

And look. You still did. 

No, the truth will not work. But some of the hidden thoughts he saw cross her face over the course of the night make him believe that he may not have to sacrifice his pride much at all to fix it.

Astarion knows he can’t win her love back with jewels or clothes or grandeur. Those don’t matter to her. But he does know, from the nights he spent listening to her talk about their future just before the rite - so sweetly trying to take his mind off of the possibility that he would meet his horrible end - that there is something she wants more than anything that he couldn’t give her as a vampire spawn. Something she’s never had, not really.

Leaping up from the bed and not bothering to cover himself in clothing, he strides quickly to the door and cracks it open just enough to call the servant who awaits down the hall at night.

“Lewis,” he calls, and is quickly met with the bright, waiting eyes of the man. “I need a bouquet of flowers from the garden.”

“Any theme in particular, my lord?”

Astarion can’t help but curl up his lip in a half smile. “She prefers red tones. Only the best blooms, Lewis - for the future lady of the house.”

info on vampire spouse ritual - in case anyone needs an explanation on the other kind of vampiric transformation referenced in this chapter. 

Chapter Text

Willow 

Willow falls asleep easily after Astarion leaves, simply giving in to the exhaustion of being with him until dawn. When she wakes, however, her brain immediately begins at the speed of light, trying to process the events of the night. 

All of the pleasures of the living.

The comment from Astarion was seemingly flippant, for someone who knows - or should know - how important such a thing had been to Willow. They had had a conversation about that very thing only days before he completed the rite and changed into the bastard he is now. Willow had told him that she was willing to give up the prospect of a family, something she had wanted for her entire life, in favor of life with him. Not only because she had never heard of a vampire siring children before - there were rumors and legends but he said he had never seen one, either - but also because he had such a distaste for the tiefling and other orphaned children she had helped and doted over throughout their journey back to Baldurs Gate.

At least there’s no reason to believe that that in particular has changed about him; he only seems to have grown all the more selfish.

Aside from the sex. That was very decidedly not selfish.

If what he says is true, he had every opportunity to not communicate it to her, essentially finding a new way to bind her to him forever. The monster of a man she’s been picturing for the last several months would have chosen that, or draining her dry and creating a spawn right there on that bed. But he didn’t. And that can really only mean one thing: 

That he’s not quite the monster she has been picturing.

Or at least, he’s put up a very convincing front; the idea of him performing niceties to gain her trust back isn’t completely out of the question, considering that was how he gained access to her in the first place. But from her angle this morning, as she stared up at him and raised her voice to tell him to leave, she could almost be convinced that the look on his face was of a man pained. Hurt.

Willow tries but fails to push these thoughts out of her mind as she goes about her morning, aching and sore in the best way but not free of the thoughts of Astarion as she hoped she would be. Get him out of her system, she did not.

The bard begins her morning as usual despite getting up later, bathing off last nights sweat and practicing her flute until a neighbor bangs against the wall for her to stop. Once dressed, she plans to get her usual sustenance downstairs at the bar before making her way around town with the bundle of coins she earned over the last several days.

As soon as Willow opens the door to leave her room, a brightly colored bouquet of flowers catches her eye, left just outside her doorstep. She wonders for a moment if it was left by accident, but the realization quickly hits. She snatches the flowers up from the floor, peeking around to see if him or whatever thrall he sent to deliver them is still lurking, and pulls them back into her room to read the accompanying card.

For Willow,

How I have missed you screaming for me. 

A

Willow chuckles to herself at the note, wondering if he sends all of the people he beds a bouquet the next morning, or if they’re all so decidedly vulgar. The arrangement of flowers is made up of bright shades of red and pink and appears to be freshly cut, some of them with traces of morning dew still coating the center.

She considers putting them into a vase, before remembering how much of a menace Ansur has been about knocking things over lately, and simply sets them down by her bedside. She doesn’t consider tossing them out or ripping them up.

When Willow finally makes her way down the stairs to the tavern, she gasps at the sight of Shadowheart sitting at the bar, chatting with Lakrissa. After last night, she completely forgot that today is their regularly scheduled meeting to catch up.

“I’m so sorry,” she says apologetically to Shadowheart, as soon as she knows she’s within earshot. “How long have you been waiting for me?”

“Only a few hours,” her friend responds with a roll of her eyes, still standing up to greet Willow with her usual hug. “I figured you would get up eventually.”

Lakrissa has Willow’s drink ready for her, and Shadowheart appears to already be on her way through a goblet of wine (if not her second or third), so the two girls make their way to a table in the corner - the very same corner Astarion had been sizing Willow up from the night prior.

“Long night, huh?” Shadowheart asks as she slides into her wooden chair, clearly gathering from Willow’s tardiness and lingering exhaustion that she must have been up unusually late. 

“Oh, the usual, dancing and fluting and whatever.”

“Seems to me like you must have been up to a little more than that,” Shadowheart says with a smirk, bringing her drink to her lips.

Of course Willow has to tell her. She has to tell her, right? Because if she doesn’t, and Shadowheart finds out some other way or later down the line, she will be the angriest half elf in the realms.

“I have to tell you something,” Willow sighs, trying to take on a more serious tone. “And you have to promise not to be upset.”

Shadowheart crosses her arms and leans back into her chair. “I can’t promise not to be upset when you’re looking at me like that,” she says cautiously.

“Promise to still be my friend?” Willow asks instead, and Shadowheart nods.

Willow considers for a moment how to broach the topic, before simply choosing to pull her hair back over her shoulder, revealing the two tiny scabs on her neck.

“Oh dear gods, Willow,” Shadowheart gasps, wide eyes flitting between the bite mark and her friend’s face, which has a sheepish smile plastered over it.

“Yeah,” is all she can respond with, waiting on bated breath to hear what the other girl has to say.

“Does this mean you- you’re getting back together with him?” She stutters, trying to find meaning in the bite marks.

“No! Not nearly. We just… had sex. For the entire night,” she says, choosing her words slowly. “While arguing, the entire night.”

Shadowheart gives a disappointed hmmph, staring her friend down.

“And he told me something, well, interesting,” Willow continues, “and I need you to stop me.”

“Stop you from doing what?” Shadowheart snorts. “I would’ve told you not to crawl into his bed, but clearly you wouldn’t have listened.” 

“It was my bed,” Willow clarifies, holding a hand up in her defense. “I have not set foot in that gaudy palace of his.”

“Doesn’t matter. Now what is it you need me to attempt to stop you from doing?”

Willow clears her throat, which has suddenly become dry at the thought of telling her friend about the thoughts that have been running through her head all morning. “I- well. I had a good time, despite the bickering,” she croaks out, her face growing red. “Which was about me ending it, of course. I told him that I would have accepted his offer, had he asked me to be his wife instead of his stupid consort or whatever. And he said, I can have whatever I want-“

“Gods, Willow, you’re talking about marrying him?” Shadowheart exclaims, her mouth agape like she’s just been slapped across the face.

“Let me finish!” Willow hisses. “He also told me, in a non-suggestive kind of way, but I just can’t stop thinking about it,” she pauses, unsure if she actually wants to say it. Shadowheart stares back at her in frustrated silence, waiting. “Theoretically, he has the, well, living ability to create children.”

Shadowheart balks. She had clearly had some things floating around in her mind about what Willow could have been alluding to, and this was not one of them.

”Say something!” Willow demands, after what feels like much too long of a silent pause. 

“Like, vampire spawn children?”

Willow shakes her head, her face red and hot. “No, like, real ones.”

“And, sorry - why the fuck have you been thinking about this?” Her friend leans forward in her chair, clasping her hands together in front of her. “You are insane, Willow, if this is on your mind. He- do you remember the way you cried when you ended it? The way he belittled you? I definitely remember, considering how he did it in front of everyone.”

“I do,” she whispers, not meeting Shadowheart’s gaze. “But I don’t want anyone else, and if he would give me that, then…” She shakes her head again, stinging tears building up behind her eyes. “I know it’s stupid. I’m so fucking stupid, Shadowheart. But I love him still, and he sent me flowers.”

“Flowers!” Shadowheart exclaims with an exasperated sigh. “The bastard sent you flowers. Willow, that does not make up for everything else. It doesn’t even begin to.”

Willow looks up at her and Shadowheart sees the tears in her eyes, slowly beginning to stream down her face in silence. She softens. “You told me to tell you not to do this. Don’t do it,” she pauses. “But I understand why it’s on your mind, maybe better than anyone else would.”

Willow sniffles, looking back at her with confusion.

“You want a family because you don’t have yours anymore. I feel the same, especially since…” she trails off, and Willow nods in acknowledgment. “You know. And our little band of misfits is the closest thing we’ve had since. I don’t blame you, Willow, but is it really worth it to become his obedient little spawn in exchange?”

“No. I don’t know,” she sighs, settling her head into her hands. “He just seems… different than he did before. He couldn’t stop talking about how much he misses me, basically begging me to admit that I miss him too.”

“Just because he misses you doesn’t mean he’s changed,” Shadowheart says, reaching her hand out to hold Willow’s knee under the table briefly before pulling it back. “Willow, I think you’re insane for considering… all of this at once. But I know how you loved him, and I don’t think it’s that crazy to try again.”

Willow’s head swings up from her hands to look at her friend so quickly that it hurts, eyes wide with surprise. “What?”

Shadowheart groans, shaking her head and leaning back against her chair, arms crossed. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“No, I’m just actually confused,” Willow says with a weak laugh. “Try again?”

“Your relationship,” she clarifies, eyes narrow. “Here you are, ready to get married and have little vampire babies, and you haven’t even had him take you out on a proper date, or other things people generally do prior.”

“Well, because we already did that, sort of,” Willow answers, her eyebrows threading together. 

They had done much more than that, actually. They had been in love, sleeping next to each other every night. 

“You did that with who he was before. Not him now. What if he’s insufferable when you’re not having sex?”

“He kind of has been,” Willow admits with a shrug. “He’s been showing up once every tenday to one of my shows, since that first one. The second time he brought this girl who looks like me-“

Shadowheart snorts. “He did what?”

Willow nods, holding back a snort of her own. “I think it was his weird way of trying to retaliate after meeting Felix, the first time. He’s always been a bit jealous.”

Jealous now feels like a grievous understatement after some of the things he said last night, but Willow doesn’t dare describe the entirety of that to Shadowheart now. 

“I remember,” she laughs again, before pausing and composing herself. “Let’s make an agreement, Willow, if you want to try this. Every time you see him, I want you to come see me. If you don’t look happier, if it doesn’t seem fun, as your friend I will tell you what I think.”

Willow purses her lips, considering the idea. It would give her accountability, stop her from falling too far into it and becoming miserable. But would she listen to Shadowheart? It was so hard to leave him the first time, even with their entire group surrounding her for support. 

She knows, though, in the back of her mind, that it’s too late to stop her from tumbling down into him (and him into her) already. So a bit of accountability is better than nothing.

“Okay. Okay, I will,” Willow nods slowly, allowing a little smile to form across her lips.

“Great. So that’s that on Astarion, I’m sick of thinking about him. Let’s talk about the trip I just took to Waterdeep-“

The conversation shifts easily as it usually does with Shadowheart, but Willow’s mind drifts back to the pale elf, taking his place at the center of her mind once again.

Chapter Text

Astarion

Dearest Astarionrsehole,

Willow’s Guide on How To Fix It:

Step 1: take me on a date like a normal fucking person.

Willow

The simple, unadorned letter comes merely days after their hours-long tryst in her room, her gentle handwriting across parchment Astarion curses himself for recognizing as being from a journal he had purchased for her months ago. Before the rite, before the brain, he had found it in a shop where Gale was perusing tomes and bought it for her on a whim. Willow is a sucker for a pretty, leather-bound book to write poems and jokes in, because she’s nothing if not a typical bard in that regard. He wonders if her choosing this particular vessel for her letter is poetic, to her.

It’s a boon to receive a letter back from her and she very likely knows it, after he lost his temper with her before leaving and felt compelled to send her flowers to make up for it. He still recoils at the idea of fixing it, essentially admitting he did something wrong by offering her eternal life and eternal love, but taking her out does sound like a pleasant way to spend an evening.

A practice run, too, for getting her to join his side for all of the meetings with patriars and politicians to come. He considers for a moment what fine restaurant he could take her to in the upper city, another reason to put her in an expensive dress made to fit her exquisite body. The measurements on the last one were a complete guess, on his part, based only on the way that his hands used to fit over her - but only proved that he really could have been a tailor, if vampire lord had not been in the cards.

The only issue he foresees with this is that he knows Willow would not enjoy it. He knows that she views upper class company as stuffy; Astarion himself falls somewhere in the middle, between enjoying the fineries of life and despising some of the behavior of those in more privileged society. Willow can put on a good show of regality if she wants to, the performer she is, but her use of the phrase “normal fucking person,” inclines him to believe that she would likely not appreciate doing that in this scenario.

The solution, then, is to allow her to choose.

Astarion strides quickly to his office as all of these thoughts run through his mind, coming to a conclusion before even picking up the quill and paper. He mulls over the words momentarily, wondering if he should try to put more effort into the letter for her, but ultimately decides that simplicity is best, lest he embarrass himself.

Dearest Willow,

The venue is your choice. I will see you tomorrow evening.

A

Of course he knows all about her performance schedule posted in front of the Elfsong, and that tomorrow evening is a free night for her. Most nights he wishes he did not know her schedule so well, when he finds himself wondering what she may be doing on her non-working evenings. Today, though, he’ll pride himself on his obsessive observations, and in the evening when she’s kicking and dancing while playing her flute, he will drop this letter under the door of room 68 at the Elfsong.

Astarion is not expecting any kind of response from Willow, given that his letter was not written in the form of a question. Still, while getting dressed to meet her, there’s some form of horrible nervousness bubbling up inside of him. Every time he thinks of Willow, he wonders if having a beating heart is actually worth it or not. It’s such a silly, uncontrollable thing.

He wears black because he knows it will please her - she often commented on how much she enjoyed a black leather set of armor he stole off of a dead drow - and debates for too long on whether or not to sport a suit jacket before deciding that he may as well, and it’s better to look overdressed than underdressed. And he does appear overdressed as he steps into the Elfsong, turning heads as he strides straight for the staircase, and for room 68.

He listens for a moment, hearing her shuffle and curse about something before he knocks lightly on the wooden door. She’s just called someone or something a bastard, but it’s not atypical for Willow to curse at inanimate objects, nor was it ever atypical for her to stub her toes against the furniture in the room they once shared in this same building. Though she is a trained dancer, as soon as the performer mask comes off she can become quite clumsy. 

The door swings open, and Astarion is met with the scent of Willow’s blood just as soon as he catches his first glimpse of her. Her hair is down, tucked behind her ears as she’s likely already grown sick of it falling into her face. She’s wearing a little blue dress, the perfect shade to draw everyone who sees her to her beautiful blue eyes. Astarion, however, is first drawn to the beautiful blue vein visible in her slight cleavage - he is still a vampire, after all. 

“Hi,” she says breathlessly. “I was just, erm, playing with my cat and he got me pretty good. Come in so I can close the door, he’s a menace for trying to escape.”

Astarion steps inside and shuts the door behind him, realizing that the scent of blood is from the hand Willow used to open the door. A long scrape from her thumb to the other side of her hand, fresh from Ansur’s claws. A drop of it has reached the long sleeve of her dress while she was holding the door open, and she tsks as she rolls up the sleeve to hide the new, red stain. 

“Are you going to heal that?” He asks her, eyeing the tiny droplets of blood that she begins wiping up with a rag.

“No, that’s too much work. Would be a lovely day to know how to heal without getting the flute out,” she mutters. “Let me just dry it up and we can go.”

Astarion finds the guilty cat, lying on his back on the floor, and scoops him up. The cat gives him a low growl in response, making Willow whip her head in their direction, but Ansur does not swipe at Astarion. “Such an angry little thing,” he muses, scratching at the cat’s chin.

“Be careful with him, he acts sweet but he will scratch at you the second he’s done with being held,” Willow warns, watching the two of them as she holds a rag over her bloodied hand. “A lot like you when we first met,” she snorts.

Astarion grimaces at the thought of himself when they first met, narrowing his eyes slightly at Willow before returning his gaze to the cat. Ansur does, in fact, begin to try wriggling free from his grasp, and Astarion allows him to drop to the floor.

“I think this is as good as it’s going to get,” she sighs, pulling the rag away and holding up the now dry, bloodied hand. “Shall we get going? There’s a tavern across town we never went before. It’s a bit of a walk, but I figured we could talk along the way.”

Astarion furrows his eyebrows at her, not hiding the amused confusion on his face. “You want to talk? And you want to go to a… tavern?”

“Like normal people, darling,” she says with a shrug, giving him a smile that tells him she’s quite humored by the idea of it. She pulls her hair back from her face again, watching him and clearly trying to ascertain some kind of reaction. “There was a time when all we did was talk to each other,” she adds quietly, her smile shifting from humored to somewhat forlorn. 

Of course she would mention that. Of course she would remind him of how many nights they spent talking to be intimate because he was too weak to be touched by her. Yet for some reason, she says the words longingly, as if she misses how they used to talk instead of touch. 

Astarion decides quickly to not address the last comment made by Willow, knowing that if he does they may start arguing again, and she is clearly set on going out rather than simply having more argumentative sex. He offers out his arm to her, gesturing toward the door with the free hand. “Come, then. Anything in particular you’d like to talk about?” 

She wraps a hand around his arm, accepting the invitation. “Keep it light. Tell me what it’s like to turn into a bat,” she suggests as they walk through the door, careful to keep Ansur shut inside. 

Astarion does not want to act like they are normal fucking people, going on a first date. But just this once, he thinks, he will allow it, and he will do his damned best to to a good job at it, so that she follows him home and remembers why she wanted to be in his life forever in the first place.

That’s the hope, at least.

Chapter Text

Willow

The tavern is rowdy tonight, just as Willow thought it would be. Astarion frowns as she leads him by the hand to the bar, rather than a more private table, but they’re able to take a corner spot a few seats away from some drunken men.

“You weren’t kidding,” he mutters as he pulls Willow’s stool out for her still, as if they are in a much nicer venue. She had told him on the way here that she was taking him to a tavern a bit less nice than the Elfsong, to lower his expectations - but a bit less nice is maybe an understatement. The lights inside are dim, and the wooden furniture all looks a bit sticky between the splinters. 

“Thank you,” she says with a smile, satisfied with her choice to come here.

The bartender approaches them in a rush, throwing them a paper menu with ripped edges that Astarion immediately snatches up to inspect.

“Mead, please,” Willow says quickly.

“Your finest mead for her,” Astarion adds. “And your finest wine.”

Willow can almost catch an eye roll from the man at the bar before he nods, turning away from them.

“We finally get to eat together and you take me here?” Astarion whispers, showing her the bleak menu.

“This is a peak, human eating experience, Astarion,” Willow says with a laugh. “I think you should try some… potato wedges. Or poutine, even better,” she suggests, her mouth already watering at the thought.

“This is the best?”

“Not the best food. But an experience I want to give you,” she says with a shrug. “If you were my little boyfriend in the lower city, this is where we would have gone out together.” 

Willow did not grow up in Baldurs Gate, rather in a much smaller city on the Sword Coast with an absolute lack of sticky little taverns such as this that she could have enjoyed as a teenager. Instead, she spent her spare time learning how to play her flute. 

“I am not that,” he responds, his mouth curling up into a smile. “But I appreciate the thought, Willow.”

“So informal I even get to hear my own name?” Willow laughs. “What a treat.” She thinks for a moment, pretending to look over the menu despite having already chosen what to order. “You can pick next time, if you can behave yourself this time.” 

“Behave myself?” He questions. He turns to look at her, but Willow keeps her eyes on the menu despite the heat she can feel curling up into her cheeks. Teasing him could have been her favorite pastime while they were out saving the world. He’s easily worked up, and it almost always ended with her being pushed up against a wall or a tree to be kissed in frustration. 

"How has eating been for you, anyway? Do you like it?" She asks, ignoring his question. 

He takes long enough to answer that Willow wonders briefly if he isn't going to, because he's frustrated with her suggestion of behaving. She turns to look at him, and finds him merely staring at the menu in her hands in thought, until his eyes meet hers once again. "Not as invigorating as you may imagine," he says, the distinct sound of disappointment in his tone. 

"Really?" She nearly gasps. "I've always thought I would give my left tit to try coffee for the first time again." 

"You wouldn't dare," he gasps back at her, his eyes flitting briefly to the aforementioned body part. "I've not tried coffee. But I've grown so accustomed to... other flavors," he says, tilting his head to indicate the closeness of the bartender, "that the things I have tried simply have not been horribly exciting." 

"We're going to have to get you to try coffee," Willow says. "That has to be better than-"

"Not yours," he says quickly, shaking his head vehemently. 

"I- well," Willow attempts to continue her train of thought, but whatever she was thinking about suggesting he try to eat drifts away from her mind at the thought of him indulging in the taste of her blood. He stares back at her with a humored smirk, turned enough that his knee grazes against her thigh under the bar. This feels normal. This feels like them. 

The bartender returns with their drinks, two very average looking beverages. Astarion takes a sniff of his wine and wrinkles his nose as Willow orders their food.

“We’ll get the poutine, I think,” she says, handing the menu back. “With extra cheese.” 

“Are you two part of the group that fought the cult?” He asks as he writes on their ticket for the kitchen, his eyes flitting between Willow and Astarion.

“No,” Willow says with a shake of her head.

“Yes,” Astarion says at the same time, straightening his back. He looks at Willow with a furrow of his brow, confused.

“I knew it,” the man says with a smirk. “Your drinks are on the house!” He says, much louder than Willow is comfortable with. “For the saviors of the Gate!”

His words travel through the small tavern, which grows hush as eyes dart to the two of them at the bar. Astarion seems to relish in it, sipping the unsatisfactory wine from his goblet. “See? Why would you try to hide it?”

“Is that the toughest bard in Baldurs Gate?” A slurred voice asks from behind Willow, coming from the drunken men sitting down the bar from them.

“The bravest,” another one corrects him, looking just the tiniest bit more sober.

“The whorest bard in Baldurs Gate, more like,” the first man says, followed by loud laughter from the whole group. The men are all about middle-age, one of them a little older. Their raucous laughter fills the hushed tavern as more eyes dart to the bar.

“What did you just say?” Astarion says, sounding angry enough that Willow’s eyes immediately whip back to him. An intense glare occupies his face; red, furious eyes showing through tiny slits.

“A little whore,” the man doubles down, continuing to laugh. “I’ve heard all about how you prance around in the Elfsong with yer... lute,” he adds, wiggling a finger toward Willow before grasping at his own chest. It’s a lame taunt and Willow knows it, but it does make her face feel hot with embarrassment as eyes around the room dart to the chest he’s taunting, which happens to have been put on display tonight in this dress for Astarion. 

Her date is up before Willow can say anything, rounding the bar to lift the drunk man out of his seat easily by the collar of his shirt. The man gasps, before his face, already red from drunkenness, quickly turns into fuming anger. 

“What the hells are you doing?” The older man in their group asks, standing up next to Astarion.

“Astarion ,” Willow cries, pulling herself up from her own barstool. Despite it being an objectively stupid thing to do - he is no doubt going to start a tavern brawl - it does make her heart flutter to see him do it. 

“Apologize to her,” Astarion seethes, not letting go of the man’s collar.

Willow tries to approach him, but is stopped short by one of the drunken men gripping at her shoulder as she passes. She turns to face him, thinking to give him a word of warning, just before his other hand is used to plant a clammy slap across her cheek. Before she can think, before she can register whatever Astarion shouts as he drops the other man to the floor, instincts from fighting off cultists kick in and she punches the offending man square in the jaw, and all Hells break loose.

The cut Willow received from her cat earlier in the day rips open with her punch, splattering blood across the man’s face despite Willow caring not to break skin nor teeth. Completely by accident, by coincidence, it looks to the entire tavern as if Willow started a bloodbath with a single blow.

The entire group of seven or eight drunk men jump off of their stools in defense of their friends, but they’re no match for Willow and Astarion both. Willow swings at each man that tries to touch her as Astarion easily knocks them to the floor, and it feels for a moment like they’re back on the road together, fighting off cultists.

Until a scream from across the tavern ends the entire fight.

“FLAMING FIST,” a loud voice booms from the door of the tavern. “You’re all under arrest. Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Astarion

The Flaming Fist do not seem to care who started the fight, or that Astarion was simply defending Willow’s honor. The both of them and all of the actually guilty men from the bar are sent to spend a night in jail for being disruptive in public. 

Suddenly the war against crime and corruption the city has been waging since the defeat of the dead three - Astarion and WIllow's defeat of the dead three, mind - is very irritating. 

It did not occur to Astarion until Willow was surrendering herself to the Fist without a fight that she may have preferred simply walking out of the tavern and finding another place to go and complete their date away from the drunks, rather than watching Astarion defend her. 

Astarion could have easily escaped the Fist, overpowering them or turning into a bat or a ball of mist, but he allowed them to walk him out with Willow, who trembled as they pulled them all toward the prison for the night. The two of them are thrown into a cell together, and the drunk men in the adjoining cell, separated by a brick wall. 

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Astarion mutters, pacing across the far wall, away from the screaming men. The same wall where Willow has already sat down and made herself comfortable; or, as comfortable as she likely can be in the cell, with her bare legs against the cement floor. She leans her head back against the wall, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Astarion is beginning to think that she is not going to speak to him, that he's thoroughly pissed her off for the night, until the Fist that had been lurking outside of their cell walks away to tend to new drunken people Astarion can hear entering the prison. 

“You could have gotten away,” she whispers, moving her head against the wall to look up at him. He frowns back at her. 

“And leave you here alone?” He asks, his voice a higher pitch than he intends it to be. It’s an offensive idea, that he would have started a fight and let her be dragged off to the prison alone for it. 

Willow smiles back at him, her eyes glittering despite the lackluster lighting within the cell. “Thank you. For defending me, and coming with me to prison.”

His heart squeezes at her words, relieved that she is not completely angry with him. Confused, yet satisfied that the actions that landed them in this wretched place have pleased her. He would have expected her to be upset with him at the very least for starting the fight, which he obviously should not have done. Astarion settles himself onto the floor next to her, feeling just how unpleasantly hard and cold the cement is. 

“We’ll have to try poutine on some other date,” she adds, pulling him out of his own thoughts. Willow rests her head against his shoulder and turns her body into him, the warmth of her almost making it feel as if they aren’t in prison. 

“At a different tavern, clearly,” he adds with a small laugh, enticing a bright giggle from her lips.

“I liked the way you beat them up,” she admits, and he can feel her hot breath as she speaks, even through his clothes. “For me. It was cute.”

“I would have fucking killed them if we weren’t in such a public area,” he says quietly, and she giggles again. She likely thinks he’s joking, but he is definitely not. 

Willow lifts her head up from his shoulder and he only briefly feels the touch of her hand against his face before her lips are touching his, soft and needy and sudden. “We are in prison,” he whispers against her mouth, pulling her away only slightly. 

She kisses him again before answering, slowly separating her lips from his to look at him. “And when are we going to get another chance to make out in prison after getting arrested for defending me?” She whispers, laughing again. “What a story to tell.”

She shuts her mouth suddenly as she says the last words, as if she has more to say but stopped herself. “And where would we be telling such a story?” He inquires, trying to release whatever train of thought she’s holding back. 

A blush creeps into her cheeks, delicious blood pooling under her skin. “You don’t have to think about it that hard. Just kiss me more,” she says.

Astarion bites back a snide comment about this being their first date, technically, and she’s already back to daydreaming about their future together. Just as he wanted. Just as he planned for, despite none of this going to plan at all. He follows her instructions instead, knitting his fingers through her thick hair and pulling her lips back into his. 

Willow falls asleep against him after a couple of hours of whispering, kissing and trying not to be caught kissing by the guards. Astarion isn’t sure how she can fall into such a deep slumber while sitting on the cold rock floor of the prison, but Willow has always been good at sleeping. 

When light begins to filter in through the small, barred window in their cell, a Flaming Fist approaches their door and wiggles a key into it. Astarion cannot help but notice the man’s bright red hair, even in the dim lighting of the corridor he stands in. “You can go, mate. The bard too,” the Fist whispers. Astarion looks back at him quizzically. “Consider it a thank you from us to you. Just don’t start any more fights,” the Fist adds, giving him a small salute as the door swings open. Despite it not being useful last night, it appears that there are some perks to being known for what they did - and of course, Willow is not even awake to witness it.

Astarion considers shaking Willow awake, but the soft sound of a snore stops him. Instead, he peels her off of his shoulder before standing, and gently scoops her up into his arms. It was fairly easy to carry her even before his newfound strength, and it’s now easy enough that it seems disrespectful to wake her up when he doesn’t need to.

She almost seems to stir at the feeling of being lifted, her eyes fluttering before returning to their previous state. “Thank you,” Astarion says as he nods to the guard reluctantly, exiting the cell.

The walk back to the palace feels stupidly long, not able to change form with Willow in his arms. As soon as he’s within the property limits the staff opens the doors for him to assist, leading him straight to the bedroom where he will allow her to sleep for however long she wishes. This is not exactly how he intended for her to end up in his bed for the first time, but it does make for a great story. 

He can imagine her easily retelling the story to others, to their friends - now mostly her friends, but at least he still writes with Gale - when she tells them that they've reconciled. When she tells them that she realized she made a mistake and she never should have left him, because they still fit so perfectly together. Their night in her room served as a reminder of how easily their bodies still tangle together, but tonight has made it clear that they can still laugh, enjoy each other's company, and fight horrible men together just as easily as they did before. Now, with the perks that come with Astarion being the Vampire Ascendant such as being able to eat together - though he realizes they did not make it that far - with infinitely more power than he had before, sans the cost of drinking Willow’s blood until she’s weak every night. 

Just as long as the conversation never shifts to her becoming his spawn, which is what he still wants from her. He needs her to live forever, just the same as him. He needs her to never, ever leave him again. 

Astarion relishes in the sight of Willow atop the silk sheets, tucked beneath a thick blanket. He has watched her sleep many times before and there has always been an angelic quality to her, from her cheeks to her long eyelashes to her little, rounded ears. The thought of any man looking at her and feeling the need to call her such a nasty word fills him with the same disgust now that made him grip that man by the throat. 

Astarion doesn’t want Willow to perform at the Elfsong. He doesn’t want to share her at all, with anyone and especially not with men like that. But any attempt to try and take that away from her would be futile, at the very least, and rob her of her happiness, at the very worst.

No, if he wants her to let go of her life as a dancing bard in the Elfsong, he has to offer her something better. Something she wants even more.

Chapter Text

Willow

When Willow wakes she’s no longer in a jail cell, but in an unfamiliar bed. The feeling of silk sheets and a soft, quilted blanket against her skin makes her want to remain there, to sleep more, until the gnawing memories of once waking within a cell in the goblin village shortly after she fell off of the nautiloid get the best of her and she must jolt upright to see where she is, and how she got here. 

Bright sunlight leaks in through thin, almost tulle-like curtains over a giant window. The bed she rests in is massive, with red sheets and matching curtains on the canopy covering. The rest of the room is rather bare, with a large mirror and armoire on either side of a door. The walls are stark white, as if primed to be painted but never quite done.

Willow hops out of the bed cautiously, her bare feet padding against the floor as she approaches the armoire. She opens it quickly as if she’s worried someone or something will jump out of it, before coming to the realization that she is in Astarion’s home. She could have come to that conclusion from the sight of the clothes alone, but the smell of a bundle of rosemary hanging above the garments is the dead giveaway.

She breathes a sigh of relief at the realization that this is not similar to the scenario within the goblin camp. Despite their disagreements and her discomfort with him, she has never had a reason to feel unsafe with Astarion. Even after they broke up, he made a point of showing off his new and improved powers by way of protecting her from harm until their group went their separate ways after the defeat of the Netherbrain. Sometimes not in the most considerate way, such as by sending one of the hideous, stinking ghouls he’s able to summon to her defense rather than one of the cuter bats or wolves, but it was meant to protect her nonetheless. 

That fact, however, does not stop Willow from nearly leaping out of her skin a moment later the door opens only a few steps away from her.

“You are awake,” Astarion says with a grin as he crosses the threshold into the room. He appears to be in nothing but a silk black robe, hair still slightly wet as if he just washed it. He closes the door again behind him, his eyes shifting between Willow and the hand she still has on the armoire. “Looking for something?” He asks, stepping closer.

“Just didn’t know where I was,” she admits sheepishly, a little embarrassed to be caught snooping. “Last I knew we were in prison. How did you get me here?”

“Carried you,” he says with a shrug, peering into the wardrobe himself.

Willow’s heart flutters at the thought. The prison is quite a distance from the palace. His grin brightens, likely having heard the fluttering for himself.

“Probably my most exciting first date ever,” she says quietly, closing the wardrobe and turning her body to face him. The memories of last night flood back to her; the fight he started in her defense, not leaving the prison without her. The carrying she doesn’t remember at all, but she believes that it happened, since she ended up here. She recalls kissing him in the prison cell, too, and now tilts her head up and reaches for him to do it again.

He obliges for a moment, his mouth stiff and more controlled than it was last night, before pulling back with a grimace. “You’re very adorable, you know. But you smell like a prison cell floor right now, and I have a very nice assortment of soaps for you to bathe with.”

Willow groans, trying to cover up how embarrassing his commentary is. Of course she smells like shit. And he smells like an herb garden.

“Fine. Show me the bath so I can clean myself and thank you properly.”

The bath is in its own room, and it’s much larger than the wooden washtub in Willow’s room at the tavern. It’s some kind of stone - granite or marble, she can’t tell - and Astarion was not joking when he said he has a very nice assortment of soaps. The man loves to smell good, after all.

Willow strips herself in front of him before stepping into the water he’s running for her, and settles into the bath expecting him to follow after her. But he doesn’t. He simply watches her from a seat carved into the wall, as if it were made for that exact purpose. Willow turns away from him in the bath so as not to see how his gaze follows her movements.

She starts by scrubbing off her body, imagining that is probably where she is getting most of her prison scent from, given that she fell asleep on the floor. She picks a brown soap that smells like cocoa and scratches delightfully against her skin as she scrubs.

Willow submerges her hair into the water next, realizing what a tangled mess it has become. She begins the agonizing process of trying to untangle it with her hands without being able to see how the strands have knotted themselves together, until she feels another set of hands reaching out to help her. Unsure how to feel about his assistance, she yanks her head away.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping you,” Astarion says quietly, putting his hands back into her hair. He pulls through the knots skillfully, conscious of the ones that tug at her scalp. Willow allows it only because it was not going very well on her own, working on the front pieces of her hair while he works on the back. Something about going straight from a tavern brawl, to kissing and sleeping on a prison cell floor, to being carried and ending up in his bed has made her hair incredibly messy. 

Willow tries to pull away when she finishes with the front, deciding that she no longer needs his help, but he pulls her hands away from her own head. “Let me do this for you,” he murmurs.

“You don’t have t-“ she starts to protest, attempting to turn her head to face him. 

“Let me,” he repeats, returning to her head with his hands and effectively stopping her from looking over her shoulder. Willow picks up the scent of eucalyptus as he runs his hands through her now knot-free hair, working up an easy lather. 

“I like to take care of you,” he says after a moment, his hands continuing their meticulous work.

“You always have,” she sighs, allowing herself to close her eyes and lean into the touch.

Specifically, she’s thinking about sex, and how he always made an effort to please her even when he was not comfortable enough to take part in the pleasure himself. But there have been other times that he’s been her caretaker while sick or drunk, or tried to keep her out of trouble by putting himself into it.

“And you’ve always been reluctant. Unless it’s during one particular activity.”

Willow doesn’t respond to this specific remark, only feeling the slight flush of her cheeks as she realizes that they were likely just having the same memories run through their minds. Even with those memories, it feels incredibly strange to have him, post-ritual, taking care of her like this. She did not think he was capable of it anymore. 

Then again, she never really stopped to find out what he was still capable or not capable of after he asked her to become undead for him. Insisted that she must become undead for him, if they were to continue their relationship. 

“You can rinse,” he directs, giving her head a slight push downward to the water. Willow sinks down into the hot bath with her head back to wash out the soap, relishing in the way she can stretch her legs out completely in such a large tub of water.

As soon as the soap is washed off, Willow swings around to face Astarion as he’s still knelt at the side of the tub. She intends to simply kiss him, thank him for the caring touch both in this tub and when he carried her, but as soon as her lips meet his she becomes all too aware of the proximity of their naked bodies.  She pulls away quickly as the feeling of need wracks her body, searching his eyes to see if he could be in agreement. Delighted to find him smirking back at her in complete agreement.

Water pours down from her skin and her hair as Willow lifts up out of the tub with no intention of reaching for a towel, until Astarion narrows his eyes at the sight of water puddling all over the marbled flooring. She reaches for one, then, and quickly towels off her body before throwing it over the puddle. 

He remains knelt by the tub, practically inviting Willow to crawl into his lap as she does, thighs parted over the slippery head of his hardened length showing through the thin fabric of his robe. Her lips meet his again ferociously, the feeling of her completely bare skin against the thin silken fabric spurring her on.

When her tongue begins hungrily seeking entrance to his mouth, he pulls away with a chuckle. “On the bathroom floor? When there is a perfectly luxurious bed that I have yet to have you on in the next room?” 

Admittedly, based on how it felt to wake up in said bed, Willow can only imagine how pleasant and bouncy it would be. It feels, however, more like his territory, under his control, which is something she isn’t completely sure about.

“I’m impatient,” she responds, turning her attention to his neck. Her mouth is quickly pulled away from his skin by his hand pulling her hair back roughly, forcing her eyes to meet his. 

The touch of the hands that so carefully pulled the knots out of her hair is gone, replaced by roughness, and for some reason, it feels comforting.

“Are you afraid, my treasure? Of allowing yourself to grow comfortable here, with me?” He asks, seeing right through her. His voice is even, if only a little frustrated.

“I don’t want to be comfortable. I want you to fuck me,” she murmurs back, trying to tug her own head forward. “You can be sweet and kind and gentle all you want, Astarion, but it’s going to take a lot more than one good night together to fix it.”

The vitriol-filled words send a pang of hurt through her own heart as she says them, desperately wanting to believe that everything is fixed and they can love each other again. But it was one good night, and he very well could have been putting on a show for most of it. He still could have been this morning, right up until the moment he pulled her hair. 

“You are afraid,” he says with a pleased smirk. “That’s fine. I will make it uncaring as you like. But let me do it on the bed.” He releases her hair from the grip of his hand and shoves her back. Willow pulls herself off of him, feeling the heat pooling between her legs as she stands.

“Bend over the bed and wait for me,” he commands, not yet getting up from the floor. Willow cocks her head at him, trying to pretend she’s not immediately excited by the order. “Do it.”

She spins herself around on her feet, not leaving enough time for him to see the heat of embarrassment on her cheeks. She doesn’t attempt to be sexy or aloof, instead simply walking to the bed until she can throw herself against it. It’s almost the perfect height to meet her hips, allowing her to stretch her top half out comfortably against the silken sheets without too much bending - he wouldn’t have done that on purpose, would he? Buy a bed exactly the perfect height? No.

Willow offers him a moan as her sensitive nipples rub against the sheets, her legs squirming in anticipation of whatever he’s going to do to her. She can only hear the slight padding of his feet against the floor as he approaches, miserably slow footsteps still sending goosebumps over her completely bare skin.

Astarion is not this caring. He is not this kind or this sweet - not anymore. And Willow will not be tricked into believing this façade he has created. She will beg and plead for roughness, maybe even make him angry on purpose if she has to. Anything to stop herself from falling deeper into this abyss.

Anything except, well, not having sex with him. She is absolutely going to do that.

Chapter Text

Astarion

“Bend over on the bed and wait for me.”

Willow only pretends to disobey the order for a second, tilting her head sweetly before whipping around, marching toward the bed and throwing herself against the mattress with seemingly no shame. Astarion thought of her when he purchased that bed, of how impressed she once was by the meager quality of the canopy-top beds at the Elfsong and their cheap, stained sheets. This bed is nearly double the size of the one they used to share, giving her plenty of room to stretch her body out as she likes to do, now on silken sheets rather than rough linen. There had to be a reason why she was reluctant to have sex on that bed, so Astarion took a wild guess, and found that he was right. 

Their morning was too soft for Willow, too reminiscent of times before, and Astarion is intent on giving her the roughness she desires to balance the scales. Because, well, he has a lot of emotions he needs to get out of his own system, too.

He approaches her slowly, listening to the beat of her heart between his soft steps against the floor. She looks delectable like this, though he cannot see his most favorite parts of her body - her face and her neck, obviously - he can appreciate the way she arches her back against the sheets, the muscles in her legs pulled taut.

Astarion kneels behind her as soon as he is close enough, admiring the way she remains in this position against the bed. Though she does have an argumentative mouth and often barks back at orders, her desire to surrender control has always eventually outweighed her desire to snap back at him.

“You’re insane,” she groans as he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of her ass, holding her hips in place with both hands. He doesn’t intend to drink her for long, it’s only a matter of teasing, but even with his sanguine hunger gone he still covets the taste of her blood. Sweet and rich, and a flavor only she can provide. He pulls his fangs out only a moment later, licking at the new wound.

“You love it,” he purrs back to her, allowing her to feel his breath now against her wet center. She shivers at the feeling, a pleasing enough reaction to spur him on to latch onto her clit without any additional teasing.

Willow’s body convulses against him, her thighs squeezing against his head. She laughs into the sheets, the familiar shrill sound she makes when she’s overwhelmed by something he does. Astarion backs off with his mouth, licking around her slit instead.

“Such a good listener,” she muses, her tone complimentary rather than condescending. Her praise makes his hands tighten around her hips in excitement, earning another pleased sigh from her lips.  She begins to try to wiggle herself free after another moment, but he denies her the movement. “I want to look at you.”

The exact words make him stop his ministrations, reminded of the awful night in the throne room with Melantisa. How she said almost exactly the same thing, and Astarion did not want it because she was not Willow. 

But Willow is here now. Willow is the woman soaking his lips and squeezing his head. Willow.

Astarion pulls away and allows her to flip over, further confirming that the person in front of him is the one that he wants. The familiar shape of her hips and the curved scar just above her belly button from when a Sharran undead tried to cut her open in the shadow-cursed lands. The pattern of sparse freckles across her abdomen he can still recognize from all of the other times he saw her from this same position. Unmistakably her. 

“I missed seeing that face,” she says with a sigh, grasping towards him with one of her hands. He moves in close enough again for her to take hold of his hair with that hand, tugging him closer against her body. He doesn’t immediately latch back onto her, and the expression on her face quickly shifts to concern, her hand releasing his hair to graze against his face, instead. “Is something the matter? Need to stop?” 

Willow is the only person who has ever known about his discomfort with sex, and the person who loved him hard enough to make him comfortable to do it with her. Even still, Astarion does not want her to acknowledge the fact that he still struggles with it now. She does not need to know that he struggles with anything at all. She needs him to be strong, and perfect, and enough for her. 

He shakes his head, trying his best to push down the feelings of red-hot embarrassment that come up from her noticing how he was drifting away. “I’ve missed this, too,” he murmurs against her, just before pushing his lips back against her center and washing all of the worry off of her face. 

Whether it’s because her hand is able to direct him or because he keeps catching her watching him with a smile across her face and it makes him work harder for it, Astarion is able to bring Willow to her first peak with ease. Her hips roll against the bed to meet his lips, her breath catching in her throat more and more as she crosses over the edge with a bright, happy moan. 

Willow releases his hair from her grasp when her orgasm subsides, but Astarion does not detach his lips. Instead, he slips two fingers inside her soaking wet entrance, making her squeal with surprise. 

“I would like to have sex, you know,” she says through a breathless laugh, clearly still pleased by the new addition. Her hand returns to his head, giving him her approval. He can only hum in response, not wanting to hear how wet his mouth would sound if he tried to speak right now. 

“So good,” she purrs as one of her legs hitches up against the bed, spreading to allow him better access. “You’ve always been… so good,” the words come out softly, drawn out as if she’s gone into some kind of stupor from pleasure. Astarion takes long, slow drags with his fingers while focusing in with his mouth, knowing that she’s nearing another frenzied peak, until her entire body writhes against him. Still, he waits until she gently shoves his head away in confirmation that her second climax has passed before pulling away. 

From this angle, he can admire so perfectly how her body heaves as she attempts to catch her breath to be able to speak. “Thank you,” she struggles to get out, toying with his hair with the hand still touching his head. “Can we please-?”

“Flip over again,” he demands, pulling himself up from the floor. He rips off the robe now sticking to his body with sweat, watching as she immediately obeys, her body still heaving. She spreads her feet apart against the wooden floor, inviting him in silently as she pushes her hair back from her face and tries to catch her breath. 

“Do it rough,” she says as Astarion approaches her again from behind. “Please. I need it.”

It's unusual for her, he realizes, to not desire any kind of time to recover, to cuddle and seek sweetness in between the more depraved activities. Maybe the two beautiful crescendos just before were tipping too close into the soft, loving spectrum of sex, and she means that she needs more immediate roughness to balance it out; or maybe, she just wants it to be hard and rough for no reason other than desire, and she needs it now. Either way, Astarion intends to provide.

Having already received her verbal permission, he lines himself up behind her and takes a second to gather himself before plunging into her perfect, delicious heat. Both of them exhale at the same time, Willow likely in pleasure but Astarion simply in relief at the realization that he will not immediately burst, before he begins sharply snapping his hips against her. Making her come twice already is a dangerous game, considering how bringing her to a third peak may prove to be a challenge and he has been aching to have her all morning. 

“Yes,” she cries in affirmation, each letter of the word drawn out and louder than the last. “Talk to me.”

Astarion leans over to push her head against the mattress, making the arms that were holding her up slide out from underneath her. “What is there to talk about?”

“Tell me how-“ she interrupts herself with a moan as he reaches around to find her clit again, making her legs part even further beneath him. “Tell me horrible things. Tell me how you’ve been faking and doing all of these nice things just to get me here.”

He pauses his thrusts into her, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling her face upward enough to just barely meet his eyes. “Is that what you think?”

“Yes?” She answers, uncertainty suddenly lining her voice. One simple question, enough to make her doubt the image she has crafted within her mind.

He offers her a smirk, despite the pang of hurt that he feels in his heart. “I’ll tell you horrible things. But I will not lie to you.”

Astarion releases the fistful of her hair, allowing her to slump back toward the mattress before pushing into her again, making her yelp. It’s nearly impossible to try and focus on speaking to her and keeping a rhythm against her clit when the feeling of being inside of her is so intense, so incredible, but he will be damned more than he already is if he does not give her what she asks for. 

“I came to your room that night because I knew the others weren’t satisfying you,” he says first, thinking he’ll start with something relatively tame. Despite his lack of needing to breathe, the words still come out short between hard thrusts into her. “Because none of them can like I do, isn’t that right?”

“You’re jealous,” she says with a breathy laugh, pushing herself back into him. She doesn’t say it like an accusation, rather like something that pleases her.

“Not jealous,” Astarion protests. “Disappointed that the one who belongs to me is being treated improperly.” He squeezes her hip harshly as he claims ownership over her, expecting some kind of denial in response, but Willow moans beneath him. 

“That’s- why we went to prison,” she breathes. A pool of sweat is beginning to form in the small of her back as she meets his hips for each thrust, despite being pinned between him and the bed. He is almost unable to process what she means by those words as her walls squeeze around him, but having to think about something other than trying not to finish too soon is a welcome distraction. She means that they ended up in prison because he does not like watching her be treated improperly - and she would be right. 

“Because you’re mine,” Astarion responds, reaching his hand unoccupied by her clit around to her breast, grasping at the soft skin.

Willow cries out his name as she looks over her shoulder at him, the slightest look of concern overwhelmed by pleasure on her face. “Horrible things,” she repeats, reminding him of her request that this not be a gentle round of lovemaking, complete with the acknowledgments of ownership of each other that they used to enjoy. That she used to enjoy, in particular. It sends an untamable feeling of rage through Astarion’s body to know that even in this position, even splayed under him on her way to a third orgasm by his hand, she will not allow herself the comforts they used to experience together. 

“I would’ve killed those men in the tavern,” he growls, allowing his anger to seep into the punishing pace of his hips against her body. “If only they knew the way you’re only a whore for me.”

“Yes,” she cries again, her back only arching that much harder at his words. “That's right. Your little. Fucking. Whore.” 

“I know all of your dirty little desires,” he continues, pulling her hair roughly again to see her bright, lustful blue eyes meet his gaze again as he looms above her. “How you love to lose control, to let me take you. How desperately you want me to claim you, come inside of you.” 

Willow screams with reckless abandon as he releases her hair, allowing her to slump against the bed, gripping the sheets with white-knuckled fingers. She looks almost feral like this, no trace of that polished charisma as she surrenders herself completely to the feeling.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to own you, fill you?”

She cries out again, a resounding yes leaving her lips repeatedly. The sound of her, the only love he’s ever had, begging for him like this underneath his body is the most beautiful serenade to his ears. 

“Let me feel you come, my treasure, and I’ll give you what you want,” he says, putting incredible effort into sounding like he isn’t about to crumble at the feeling of her. He holds his breath as her body acquiesces to his words, willing himself to hold back as she pulses and pulls around him, the music of her moans continuing to sound from her lips. That sound alone sends pleasure radiating through his body, warning Astarion of his own impending unraveling. 

Every part of his being begs to release, to claim her and bind her to him forever. She’s just agreed to it, after all, while writhing and screaming beneath him.

At the very moment he can tell he won’t last another second, he pulls himself out of her. The loss of her heat and pressure around him makes his climax all the less satisfying, coming undone in ropes all across her back, but he knows it wouldn’t be fair to her to allow her words of passion to guide such a decision. The only thing that overpowers his desire to have her, possess her, now and months ago, is his desire to allow her free will. The thing he’s only just begun to have for himself. 

The room becomes silent as soon as they’re done, aside from Willow’s panting breaths into the sheets where she’s hidden her face. It feels good to have gotten the words out of her, and yet Astarion still feels flooded with guilt. 

Astarion debates two different courses of action in his mind. He could toss her a towel and her dress from last night, expecting her to leave just as she expected of him the last time. That would show her, he thinks, or at least make her feel embarrassed.

Instead, he takes a washcloth from the bathroom to clean her up himself, gently wiping away the evidence of his heated, broken promise, before lying down next to her on the bed. He tucks her hair - still wet from the bath and now likely wet with her salty sweat, too - behind her soft, rounded ear, hoping to coax her to look up from the sheets.

When she does look at him, he isn’t met with the hooded, lust-filled eyes he expects. The distinct appearance of tears line her eyes, instead, even though they are coupled with a half smile. He can only furrow his eyebrows at her in concern before she laughs.

“Thank you for not doing that,” she says softly, “because I’m fucking crazy, and I wanted it.”

Part of him is relieved by the choice that he made, at the sound of her thanks. Part of him wishes she had the same anger in her now as she did the first time. 

She rolls over onto her back, and his eyes shift downward for a moment to her naked body before meeting her eyes again, staring intently at him.

“There are potions we could use,” he says flippantly, touching a lock of hair that splayed out onto the bed when she turned. “I would imagine something like that would not be difficult for me to procure.” 

They both knew this, of course, after the first time, and he could have prepared something knowing they were going out the night before, but he didn’t.

She laughs again, not taking her eyes off of him. “I know. That’s not what I meant.”

The sound of this laugh suddenly brings forth a memory into his mind. It’s a pleasant, musical little laugh meant to distract from when she’s feeling vulnerable, or uncomfortable. The first time an I love you slipped out of her mouth - by accident while she was wishing him luck as they went in separate directions to stop a murderer with multiple targets in Baldurs Gate - she had gasped and followed it with that same, beautiful little laugh. 

I mean, I’ll miss you! she had said.

That’s not what you said.

Okay, fine. I love you. See you later.

“What did you mean?” He asks now, already knowing the answer.

Chapter Text

Willow 

“It’s crazy, like I said,” Willow says with another laugh, propping herself up on an elbow to look Astarion in the eyes. “Let’s just not talk about it.”

“If that is what you wish,” he responds with a sigh. He hops off of the bed for a moment next, only to lie back against the pillows and hold his arms out. “Come. I haven’t forgotten how you love to be held.” 

She wants to resist. She wants to throw on last nights dress and run out of the room, knowing that she’s just said too much. Too much to this man she used to pour her heart out to, used to tell all of her hopes and dreams to distract him from his own nightmares. 

These silk sheets don’t feel like how it used to be to sleep together; the first time was on the forest floor, after all. These walls, albeit barren, feel all too regal for their love that used to be messy, beautiful, feral and perfect. The man in the forest didn’t have to invite her to come cuddle him. He didn’t even want her to, really. She simply did it because it felt natural. 

The way he touches her still feels like that man. The way he kisses and calls her pretty names. Sometimes, in his voice, she catches a glimpse of him, too. When his laugh isn’t forced, or when she catches him off guard. When they were fighting those drunks in the tavern, and kissing in that prison cell - that felt like how they used to love each other. 

Maybe that is exactly what drove them both to this point, anyway. The night in the cell served as the perfect reminder of how they used to be so perfect together, so happy even while fighting off monsters and cultists, even while they thought they were trapped to be inevitably enslaved to the worms squirming within their brains. Selfishly, before Astarion gained his freedom, it was happiest Willow had ever been in her life. 

Ultimately, the desire to be held after her passionate admittances with her face in the mattress wins out against her desire to be embarrassed or even angry. She avoids his smoldering gaze as her head meets his chest, once again hiding her face away.

“Stop doing that,” he says quickly, a gentle hand cupping her chin in an attempt to move her face. “My gods, I don’t think you have ever been so embarrassed over something so little.”

“ Little ?” Willow can’t stop herself from lifting her head to look at him in confusion.

“You said you did not want to talk about it. Have you changed your mind?”

She only glares, not answering him. He has a stupid look on his face, a little whisper of a smirk and a glint in his eye like he has a secret. 

“No more, then. I will only say one thing,” he says, “I may be more agreeable to it than you think.”

“Gods, you’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” 

“Have you not?” He shoots back, the stupid look not leaving his face. “Clearly, we both have. But if you do not want to discuss it, you do not want to discuss it.”

“Well, now I do!” Willow nearly shouts, sitting up to remove herself from the comforts of his arms, which is only making the situation worse. Here, shirtless in the bed, he looks strong and virile and like an absolutely perfect candidate to-

“Let us talk about it, then,” he says, pulling her out of her own thoughts. “It’s your body. Tell me what’s been on your mind.” Astarion looks all too calm for the matter of discussion, and it only makes the heat within Willow grow as it clicks together within her brain how much he must have been thinking about this to appear so relaxed. She wonders for a brief moment if him bringing this up in the heat of the moment was somehow purposeful, but she pushes that thought away quickly; no, he used to say things like that before - things about owning her, filling her with him, because she likes that kind of thing - but they did not mean anything then. Because there was no real possibility of them having children before. 

“That it’s fucking insane, that’s what’s been on my mind,” she answers with an angry chuckle. “That I’m even thinking about asking you to- to- well. I wanted to see how things go, first.”

“So there is a larger plot to this date at the tavern suggestion that went terribly well for us?”

Willow can feel her cheeks flush at the acknowledgement that she, too, has been thinking about this for longer than she is willing to admit. “You say that as if I didn’t wake up in your bed and let you fuck me into it, bastard,” she says, swatting at him with at least some amount of playfulness in an attempt to distract from her own embarrassment. “And yes. I wanted to see if I could actually bear to spend time with the Vampire Ascendant before binding myself to him forever, is that so bad?”

“Forever?” The smug look on his face finally drops, as his mouth gapes and his eyes widen at the word. He snaps himself back into place quickly enough, but Willow sees how the word moves him.

“Yes. I wasn’t just going to ask you to give me a baby and then walk away with it, Astarion,” she says, trying to sound more earnest, given the matter of conversation. “As much as I don’t want to admit it, I… have never loved anyone the way I loved you. And I’d be willing to try again and be your consort or whatever if you can give me the two things I want.” She holds up two little fingers, noticeably shaking, but she keeps them up and keeps her gaze fixed on him.

“As I said, I may be more agreeable to it than you think,” he says after a moment, pulling her shaking hand down with his own steady one, holding her in his grasp. The feeling of his hand is a comfort, but his words have the opposite effect. 

Willow takes a deep, shuddering sigh. “I don’t want you to just be agreeable to it. I want it to be… functional. Happy. That’s why I wasn’t going to bring it up so soon I- I wanted to see if the love is still there. The sex is, obviously, but I’m not sure that we’re going to be on each other like this a couple of centuries into eternity.”

His mouth twitches and Willow can tell he’s holding back commentary about how he definitely thinks he will still be on her like this, so she continues speaking with an even deeper flush to her cheeks. “But since it’s already been brought up, I may as well lay it all out, right? You wanted me to be a vampire, to be yours eternal. I want a family. If we continue this- this reconciliation thing, and we don’t hate each other, I’m willing to give you what you want if I get what I want.” 

It sounds simple enough, saying it like that, as if she isn’t talking about things as massive as having children and swearing herself to him for eternity as a vampire. But it’s not like their relationship has really just begun - she was absolutely ready to spend forever with him a few months ago, if only he had been less of a monster about it. 

“And the second thing you want, that is the marriage, correct?”

“Yes. I just assumed that is much easier given than the other.”

“While I’m not particularly fond of how nearly this is sounding like a business transaction,” he says, rubbing his thumb over her shaking hand that he’s still holding within his. “As I said, I could be agree-" he stops short of saying agreeable again, seemingly catching the glare forming across Willow's face, "I am open to it.”

“Nothing to add?” Willow asks, silently hoping that he doesn’t have anything. Giving up her beating heart surely seems like it should be enough. 

“There are some… specific details we would have to work out, but I have no major additions,” he says coolly.

Willow takes a deep breath out, trying to feel relief over the fact that all of this has been revealed, but there is no weight lifted off of her shoulders. She has absolutely no idea where to go from here. 

She is by no means ready for any of this, right here and right now, so soon after their first encounter back at the Elfsong. There are steps that need to be taken next, but she does not know what those steps are. Right now, the only thing she knows she needs to do is bolt out of this room. 

“We can see how things go on our next date,” she says softly, trying to muster up a smile for him. “I’ve really got to get home. I have a cat to feed.”

“Gods, the cat,” he says, suddenly rolling off of the bed. Willow is a little bit surprised to see him not trying to cajole her into staying longer, but maybe he needs time to think, too. Maybe that is a good thing. 

“Ansur is like my practice run at taking care of a real child,” Willow says with a sigh, getting up after him, “so leaving him by himself all night and into midday is not a great look.” 

Astarion doesn’t say anything for a moment, rifling through his wardrobe while Willow pulls back on the clothes she wore last night, only her undergarments and her dress. When he does speak, he’s presenting her a black coat, obviously something of his own. 

“Well. You would not be doing it alone,” he says, the words coming out so forcefully gentle that it almost looks like it pains him.

Willow isn’t quite sure how he feels about the actual concept of fatherhood, as opposed to the general concept of giving her what she wants so that he can have her forever, but that isn’t something that can likely be pulled out of him within a few minutes of coming clean about her thoughts. So it will have to wait. 

She shrugs on the very comfortable, oversized coat, relieved to have something to cover up the slightly revealing dress for her walk home in the sunlight. Willow barely looks at Astarion as he leads her to the front gates, not touching hands or arms, in complete silence until he pulls her in for one soft, long kiss before she turns away. 

if you would like to see my moodboard for chapters 12-17 (including the dress I imagined Willow wore to the tavern) it’s on tumblr

Chapter Text

Willow

Willow has only just made it back to the Elfsong, breezing past her friends working that day in the tavern to make it up to her room and shutting herself inside of it before the absolute panic over what she has just done sets in.

In the heat of the moment, wishing once again she could have told him that she loves him while they both hit their peaks, she let all of her thoughts slip out of her mind. It was all true, but that doesn’t make it sound any less crazy, and she was really hoping to keep her hand to herself until she fully decided what she wanted to do.

And, well. Nothing can be done about it now.

Ansur waits for her at the door, as expected, for the fish breakfast that she cracks open from his little stash of cans. He mewls excitedly as she plates it and sets it on the floor for him, the horrible scent of tuna making Willow gag but making Ansur purr with delight as he takes his first bites. 

Could she even really take care of an actual person? If she was late to feed her cat his breakfast this morning because she was too busy sleeping with the hot vampire she had supposedly broken up with several months ago, is that some kind of bad omen for what is to come if she decides to do the insane thing she’s been thinking about?

But Astarion - he demonstrated such care in the morning, without asking for anything in return from her. Willow had thrown away all fantasies of him as a parent long before they broke up, not only because she thought it to be impossible, but because he had been so opposed to the way Willow took in the orphaned tiefling girl from the grove while they traversed the shadow-cursed lands. Would he simply be forcing himself to do this to please Willow, or has his heart really, truly grown to have enough room for more than just her?

He could be so good at it. He could be horrible, just as well, but Willow has always chosen to look at his potential for goodness rather than his objectively grey moral compass. He has potential to be just as caring to their children as he has been to her, and to love them even harder.

However, that way of thinking is exactly what landed them in the situation they are now; he said completing the ritual was the right decision, and the only one that gave him total freedom, and Willow agreed to help him do it, only to be asked to minimize herself to a spawn mere hours later. Only for him to ask her to surrender her own freedom.

Willow still wears the jacket Astarion gave her before she scurried out of his home - some expensive piece with heavy embroidery - and now that no one is watching her, she can pull up the collar just to breathe in the scent.

He smells the same as he did before. His skin feels almost the same, just warmer with the heat of his living, beating heart. And despite his best efforts to cover it up, Willow still caught a glimpse of the way his eyes glazed over while his head was between her legs, drifting away until the touch of her hand brought him back; that is him. That is something Willow and Astarion worked on together. 

To be his again. To have a real, whole family. To get everything she has ever wanted, at the cost of becoming a vampire spawn that he, the one person she used to trust the very most, could compel at any time - would it really be so bad?

As the thoughts tumble around in her brain, Willow swings around to pull her flute out of its case.

She must speak to someone.

Shadowheart takes a couple of days to arrive back to Baldurs Gate from Reithwin, where she had been entertaining some of Halsin’s charges for a few days. Willow could nearly burst into tears when she receives the sending spell back that communicates this to her, simply thinking of the children back in the little town. They had loved her stories and performances, and almost made her feel like she was a mother already, for a time.

Aside from her already scheduled work, Willow stays inside her room until her friend can arrive to speak to her. No nights with Felix. No visits to or from Astarion. Only herself and her cat and her journal, scribbling down feelings and poems and songs and trying to keep herself sane until she has someone to talk to.

Willow briefly considers speaking to Lakrissa and Alfira about the whole thing, just because she knows them and they are here, but stops herself each time at the thought of having to explain this entire thing to either of the tiefling queens. That not only is she now essentially back together with the ex boyfriend that she’s said nothing but bad things about since she arrived back in Baldurs Gate, but she is also considering having his babies. They would likely think she is fully insane, and Willow would not be able to argue a otherwise.

When Shadowheart does arrive, Willow is waiting for her on the front steps of the Elfsong even though it’s late into the night, wearing the jacket she was given a couple of days prior to keep warm and for comfort. She taps her feet against the wooden landing as she watches her friend approach, biting her lip to keep herself from screeching anything out until they can find some privacy.

“What is that?” Shadowheart asks immediately, wrinkling her nose as she runs a hand over the embroidered jacket.

“The root of all of my problems,” Willow answers with a laugh, taking Shadowheart’s hand into hers and pulling her inside the tavern and up the stairs, into her room.

Shadowheart throws her bags down onto the floor of Willow’s room before settling into the armchair in the corner. Ansur trots up to greet her, seemingly recognizing the woman who took him in and brought him to Willow, and finding his place in her lap. “So what is it that you had to rush me over here to speak about?”

“I fucked up bad, I think,” Willow answers, pacing in front of the closed door to her room.

“Willow, I can check for you, but it’s been less than a tenday since I’ve seen you last and I’m not sure if I could even tell,” Shadowheart says, her voice strained as if she’s obviously trying to maintain a fake sense of calm.

“Check what?” Willow pauses her pacing and scrunches her face at her friend in confusion.

“Oh,” Shadowheart answers, her face suddenly flushing. “I read that wrong, then.”

“Wow,” Willow says with a sigh, placing her hands on her hips. “You thought I had already gone and done it.” She pauses, but holds a hand up before her friend can speak again. “And you’d almost be right. Now, do you want all of the horrible details, or should I cut right to it?”

“Horrible details, please,” her friend responds with a smirk. “I may not be his biggest fan anymore, but we both enjoyed seeing you get spanked by that priest. Tell me everything.”

Willow nearly cackles at the memory of the Loviatar priest they met when they barely knew each other, before obliging and giving Shadowheart all of the details of what happened merely a few nights ago. How it started innocently enough as a date, how it led to them being arrested, and ultimately, how Willow ended up making a teary-eyed confession in his bed before crawling home to the Elfsong in this jacket.

“One question,” Shadowheart asks once she’s finished recounting the story, eyeing Willow carefully. The bard has begun nearly heaving from embarrassment, tears springing up in her eyes yet again.

“Yes?”

“Have you considered the possibility that you’re just really, really horny?”

Willow scoffs, her mouth gaping at the girl in front of her. “What?”

She shrugs. “You want my advice, right?”

“I suppose, but-“

“But what?” Silence. Shadowheart chuckles. “Okay. My advice is to get the damn potions. They work, and clearly he can afford them,” she gestures to the jacket again, her mouth curling in disgust. “Have sex all you want. And then see if you still want this.”

Willow considers it for a moment, then narrows her eyes. “You know I’ve wanted a family for my entire life.”

“Yes, but are you sure you want it with him?” Shadowheart sighs, exasperated. “I’m only saying, I love you so dearly, but you are one of the most impatient people I have ever met.”

She’s not wrong. It hasn’t been lost on Willow how ridiculous it was to jump from the Hells to Halsin back to Baldurs Gate, and now thinking about, well, this, all within the span of a few months. Willow has been desperately searching for happiness, but in the back of her mind she has been thinking about the ticking clock of time, and she is quite certain that this is what she really wants. 

Willow never felt certain about breaking up with Astarion. Secretly, maybe stupidly, she had hoped that when she came back to him with the rejection of his demand to become a vampire alongside him and began reading the last rites of their relationship, that he would plead or even apologize, say I understand your decision and I love you how you are. But he did not. He stood silent at their funeral until her speech was over, only to begin his own demeaning, screaming obituary in their honor, smashing what was left further into pieces. 

It would be sort of poetic, Willow thinks, if they can claw their way out of the coffin they nailed themselves into so many months ago, just as Astarion did once before. But as much of a sucker for poeticism she is, Willow is not sure if anything could repair the wounds they inflicted upon each other on that dreadful night, even if they make it back above ground. 

“You say that as if you aren’t going to live double or triple as long as I can,” Willow protests, still frowning but no longer able to manage a glare at Shadowheart, reminded that she is the person who was there for her on that night. 

Shadowheart holds up her hands. “Unless-?”

“You say that as if you even like him!”

“I used to like him quite well. My opinion of him now is based solely on how you are acting when you talk about him,” her friend responds evenly. “And right now, you seem confused. Either follow my advice or don’t, Willow. I will be by your side whether you are marrying him or throwing his body into the Chionthar.”

The unexpected suggestion of marrying him or murdering him makes Willow laugh, and stop her rigid pacing to sit on the arm of the chair her friend and her cat are sitting in. “I love you so much,” she says, reaching around Shadowheart for a half hug. 

"Here's what we'll do," her friend says, leaning into the hug, "we'll write him another letter tomorrow. Leave it up to him to decide if he's going to act like a good little husband, or if he's just going to keep doing what he does best and getting you into bed." 

Willow bristles slightly at the words, but decides not to push back at Shadowheart for them. Astarion made it very clear while they were together that his fears, including those around sex, were to remain private. Willow forces a laugh out instead, "Okay. That sounds like a decent idea." 

“Does this mean we can sleep now? And figure out exactly what to do in the morning?” Shadowheart asks, yawning.

“Yes. Yes, perfect,” Willow agrees. She can decide what to do in the morning. For now, she only needs to decide if Shadowheart must know that she’s been sleeping in this jacket, too.

Chapter Text

Astarion

Dear Astarion,

Please take me out on my next night off.

Bring one of those potions you mentioned.

And maybe we can talk details.

Willow

Fucking hells.

The letter from Willow stops Astarion in his tracks, more than the last one did. He was beginning to worry after having such a tumultuous night into morning with her and not hearing back from her for several days. He had made her an offer, and for him to seek her out for an answer before she gave it herself would reek of desperation. That is not to say that he would not have eventually reached that point, maybe after a couple more days, but it would reek, nonetheless. 

If there were anyone around aside from the man serving his breakfast who had delivered the letter - now simply standing by the entryway to the dining room - it would be embarrassing how quickly the words written on the page make him leap from his chair. Her next night off is in three days, of course, and he has absolutely nothing prepared.

There should be no reason to feel so immediately flustered over Willow, he tries to remind himself. After all, he knows her better than anyone else, and she was crying in his bed merely a few mornings ago, unable to keep her cards close to her chest any longer. Seemingly unaware that he brought her to that point purposefully, trying to get it out of her so that he can begin the next part of his ill-conceived plan to get her back. 

Step 1 was to sleep with her again, and he’s done that. On two separate occasions, now. 

Step 2 was to get that confession out of her, once he completed the first step and realized it was lurking just under the surface.

Step 3 is to… well. He’s not sure.

Astarion has never been a planner. He only knows that the outcome that he wants is to have her, here, for eternity. Happily or even slightly begrudgingly, but preferably even more in love with him than she was with the old version of him. With children, if that’s the one thing she wants the most. Parenthood cannot be that difficult, surely.

Willow, however, loves to make him be a planner, because she knows it takes extra effort on his part. Whimsical, off-the-cuff romantic gestures like bringing her gifts have always made her happy, but things that require thought and attention make her even happier. Which is likely why she left the letter so open ended this time, with a simple take me out.

She wants him to work for it.

Astarion has to do something. Something that requires effort, and planning, but no more than a few days of it. Something that will sweep her off of her feet, prove to her that he is better than he was before, better than the weaker man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. 

There is a gnawing desire in his brain, too, that feels the need to do something spectacular for less… gentlemanly purposes. To prove to her that he has the upper hand. He is still in control, despite having agreed to her conditions with absolutely none of his own - which, truthfully, he has been trying to think of any major additions to their agreement aside from her becoming a vampire just to level out the playing field, and has come up with nothing. 

He simply has to figure out how to make all of these pieces fit together into one event, with three days to plan.

Easy.

When the morning of Willow's day off finally arrives, Astarion feels more prepared and self-assured than he ever would have expected when he received the letter. As the hours of the day tick by, however, the feeling of nervousness once again creeps into his brain, gnawing away his confidence like a termite in a cedar chest. 

The words Willow uttered a few days ago - that excited him at the time - he now picks at with his anxious fingers, finding her doubts within them that he did not seem to catch when he was so focused on speaking calmly and evenly. He was trying to play the part of the reasonable patriarch just as much as he was trying to comfort her, and somewhere in his performance, he lost sight of her entirely, until he begins replaying it in his mind as he combs his hair. 

I want it to be... functional. Happy. The implication that their current state is not functional nor happy, which Astarion cannot truthfully make a good argument against, feeling as he is. 

I'm not sure we're going to be on each other like this a couple of centuries into eternity. The thought of it had humored him at the time, knowing that he will likely never get enough of her and that Willow simply does not understand the concept, having only been alive for decades, rather than centuries. But underneath her words is a greater fear; one of distrust. She fears that he will grow bored of her, or she will become one of many. 

She does not yet trust him again, not even close, and the event he has planned for tonight will either likely serve as a reminder of how well he still knows her - well enough to be trusted - or, she may view it as another performance of his, and push herself further away. Again - Astarion cannot make a good argument against the fact that this is a performance, because it most definitely is, but the strengthening of his guarded walls are only a symptom of her distrust. 

Rather than arriving to the Elfsong to pick Willow up by foot, Astarion sends her a carriage, sure to catch eyes as it passes in the lower city to retrieve the bard. He is still mercilessly tugging at his hair with a comb in the mirror until one of the guards informs him of her arrival, and he can only allow himself one more deep, shuddering breath before he slips the mask back on. 

Astarion is able to meet her just as she walks through the front doors, bowing back at the servants and groundskeepers with a hot blush across her cheeks to match the maroon of the dress he had delivered to her earlier this afternoon. He stops in his tracks when she looks up to meet his eyes, making a clear show of admiring her beauty.

“My treasure,” he addresses her, holding out his arms in an offering of embrace as she continues to approach. Astarion is intent on returning to his typical terms of endearment tonight, and more so, returning to treating her as his. After all, she did allow it while they were having sex the last time, and her letter did tell him to be prepared to have more sex and to talk, which he presumes means more discussion on the possibility of having literal, actual children. 

Willow, however, seems to have other ideas. “Astarion,” she responds with a breathy laugh, so casually it could nearly make him scowl. He becomes painfully aware of his entire house of help watching this encounter as Willow takes unhurried steps, and snaps his fingers for them to return to work.

Willow soothes some of his urge to scowl when she finally reaches him and throws her arms around him in a warm hug, but only offers him one short, sweet kiss on his lips before pulling away.

“What?” She asks quietly, clearly seeing some evidence of disappointment on his face. “I am not going to make out with you in front of the elderly woman who delivered my dress this morning, dear. She is very sweet, by the way.”

Astarion’s expression shifts from disappointment to confusion. “Since when have you been concerned with public affection?” He asks, remembering all of the ways they annoyed their friends all those months ago.

Willow sighs, pulling the heat and weight of her arms off of him. “It was a bit different when I thought we were going to die at any moment. And a bit different when I’m drunk,” she adds, heat flooding her cheeks once more.

Right. They were drinking wine for dinner quite often.

Still, the lack of her affectionate terms for him does not go unnoticed. She’s thrown him a dear this time and a darling one of the times before, but those are more casual terms that she throws around even with some of her friends. Astarion longs to hear the return of the more creative names, and hopes that tonight may bring them closer to springing from her lips.

“What have you got planned, then?” She asks, adjusting the bust of her dress that rode up when she hugged him. It’s a longer dress, landing at her mid-calf because Astarion knows how clumsy she can be in something longer and the event for tonight does not call for it, anyway. She’s paired it herself with black, ballet-like flats, which she certainly chose for her own comfort and has no idea how perfect they will be for what he’s chosen to take her to tonight. She has her hair mostly loose again, with the front pieces pulled back just enough to not bother her by getting stuck in her face. One of the things Astarion has always admired about Willow is how she is able to maintain a sense of style and coordination, even when trying to be practical.

“It’s a surprise,” he responds with a smile, pleased with his inspection of her outfit.

She looks up then from her dress to him, a somewhat sheepish smile on her face. “It’s not some all-night soirée, is it? Because,” she looks around the room, taking note of the absence of the housekeepers before turning back to him and reaching a hand up to touch his face, her fingertips slightly chilled. “I believe we have some business to attend to later?”

The look on her face is almost pleading or desperate, which feels slightly out of place for Willow. Her lips are just slightly parted as she awaits his response, and her heart beats the tiniest bit faster with each moment of silence that passes until he breaks it.

“We will have time,” he responds, placing his own hand on her face to match the position of hers. “We have nothing but time,” he adds with a smirk, and leans down to kiss her before he can see the look that crosses her face at that particular choice of words.

Those are the words he has to tell himself when he thinks of her. The thing he has to convince himself of. One day soon she will allow him to turn her, so that the internal clock on her life will stop ticking away at its horrible, unstoppable pace.

She accepts the kiss hungrily, and Astarion can feel the slight hitch of her leg before she straightens it back out to keep her foot flat against the floor. It’s certainly attractive that she has arrived so excited to be touched by him, but this may be the one and only time he has something elaborate planned that requires them to be timely, and he did not leave room in the schedule for her to be this excited.

He pulls away just as soon as a soft moan begins to form in Willow’s throat. She looks back at him with reddened lips that she pushes into a little pout, and he cannot stop himself from thinking of all of the things he would do to her right now if he were not trying to be sweet Astarion for the night. How beautiful she would look on her knees, or in his lap on the throne he has yet to show her. 

That is not part of the plan he came up with, however. Instead, he pouts back at her, running a thumb across her smooth cheek.

“I know, my precious thing,” he croons, “but we must be going. We cannot be late.”

Chapter Text

Willow

Much of the city was destroyed in the war against the Netherbrain, including large portions of the upper city of Baldurs Gate, which Willow was never familiar with before. She is, however, an avid reader of the Baldurs Mouth Gazette, and has kept up with some of the new construction efforts that have been taking place across both sides of the city.

The most fascinating to her, by far, is the newly constructed music hall. It’s been nothing but a mere fascination to her, given that it is being built in the upper city and she’s been keeping herself away from that part of town entirely - definitely not because of one particularly looming palace on the hill - and because Willow herself has never been one to attend the stuffier types of performances such as the ones the music hall may house.

That is, until tonight.

“Astarion,” Willow grips at his knee as their carriage stops in front of the giant building, staring out the window at its guilded entrance.

“Yes?” He says in response, feigning innocence, though she can hear the amusement in his voice.

“Is this where… is this where we’re going? The music hall?” She asks the question even as the door to the carriage is opened for them, right in front of the path leading into the building.

“It appears so,” he says with a smile as he steps out first, before offering a hand to Willow, who cannot seem to get up from her seat.

“I thought it was still under construction?” She asks, as if afraid they are not allowed to even look upon the giant structure right in front of their eyes.

“It is. But parts of it are already open to be enjoyed. Please, Willow,” he begs, creasing his brow at her in an attempt to get her to follow.

She knew this, of course, and has already seen articles about some of the smaller performances given in the hall. But those have been private shows for patriars or by invitation only, not for the public to simply walk in on. And she only sent him that letter… two? Three days ago?

Willow stands and clasps her hand in his with some reluctance, allowing herself to be pulled from the carriage and nearly falling into his arms from her sudden lightheadedness. This is not what she thought it would be. This is not what she and Shadowheart discussed before she wrote that letter.

She put the entirety of this outing in his hands under the distinct impression that he would have a chef make dinner at the palace before whisking her back to the bedroom, or take her to some dumb, fancy restaurant full of upper city snobs that she would hate. She wrote in the part about the potion at Shadowheart's behest, knowing that a single moment of heated, passionate stupidity for Willow and Astarion can lead to lifelong consequences - or at least, an awkward and rushed trip to an apothecary after the fact. 

Maybe you only need to… get him out of your system, Shadowheart had suggested to her, as she peered over Willow’s shoulder as she wrote the letter to Astarion. 

I tried that, Willow had said, pausing and leaning her quill against her face, stuck after only writing his name. I love him too much. 

You haven’t given him a chance to royally screw it up,  her friend said next. Put the pressure on him, Willow. 

As she wrote the letter, forgoing her typical poeticism or hearts dotting her letters, Willow could not help but already feel guilty. Astarion was never a sexual object to her. Their relationship was not built on simple, physical attraction, it was more than that. But when she brought this up to her friend, Shadowheart reminded her that he is the one who rekindled their relationship with an invitation to wear a pretty dress and have sex in her room. That is how he started this, so why should Willow expect any different now? He is the one who tried to minimize her into a spawn all those months ago, so why should Willow feel guilty now? 

Willow added the line about being ready to discuss details after Shadowheart looked away from the page already because, well… if this somehow does go well, that is fully what she intends to do. Willow is nothing if not a hopeless romantic, at the end of the day, and has been running the beautiful possibilities through her brain of what could happen if they can truly rekindle what they once had. Something she thought to be impossible, until this carriage stopped moving. 

Astarion takes her hand into his and walks her into the newly constructed Great Baldurian Music Hall, which still smells of freshly cut cedar as the large wooden doors are opened before them. Though the building is still under construction, it is already absolutely massive, with towering, painted ceilings and halls wide enough that the voices of the men at the front doors echo through them as they greet Willow and Astarion. 

The building is not merely a collection of performance halls, but a museum. The city folk have become somewhat nostalgic post-war, taking the time to construct new monuments and historical sites even where they never existed before. The entrance hall to this building is lined with instruments and artifacts previously owned by famous Baldurian musicians, with golden plaques and bright lights shone on them in their glass encasements.

“This is… incredible,” Willow muses, realizing she’s been completely silent since she left the carriage as she stares at a lute, whose plaque claims once belonged to Milil and was gifted to a Baldurian. It’s hard to know whether or not the stories on the plaques are true, given how some bards can be more prone to fictional storytelling than autobiographical storytelling, but the thought is exciting nonetheless.

She feels Astarion’s presence behind her, and his hands come up to touch her shoulders as he speaks. “Take your time looking, but we do have a performance to catch on the next hour,” he whispers softly, close enough that his breath tickles at the hairs on her head.

“We’re seeing a performance?” Willow responds in a strained whisper back, resisting the urge to spin around and face him as he rubs his thumbs pleasantly into her shoulders. “Who? Who are we seeing?”

“A surprise,” he says, taking on a more teasing tone. “You’ll find out in, hmm, ten minutes?”

Willow can no longer resist the urge to not look at him, and his hands slide off of her shoulders as she turns around. At the entrance doors, she notices others beginning to filter in wearing nice clothing and jewelry, likely for the same performance as them. Her eyes meet Astarion’s a split second later, already fixed on her with smug satisfaction smeared all over his face and gods, she can’t even be annoyed at him for it.

“How did you manage this?”

“Oh, it was easy,” he says, waving a hand before resting it on the curve of her waist. “I’m aware of how our status as heroes did not help us in the slightest on our last excursion, but up here it has been a gift.“ Astarion does not seem to want to elaborate further, his eyes drifting from Willow to the other patrons filtering in from the entrance door, and the answer given is satisfactory enough for her.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and stands on her toes, intent on kissing his cheek. He turns his head back to her just in time to catch it with his lips, however, and squeezes the hand that holds her.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says as he pulls away. “Come. Shall we go find our seats?”

Willow follows him down the hall, as he seems to know exactly where to go, despite none of the other patrons having made it this far yet. The building is clearly still a work in progress, as some corridors are blocked off completely by arcane lock spells with signs about what is to come soon. An entire ward soon to be dedicated to Elvish musical endeavors, a hall that will house enchanted sheet music and another hall for famous performance outfits; Willow giddily reads the sign in front of the latter, thinking briefly that it’s something both her and Astarion could surely enjoy, before trying to quell her excitement by reminding herself of the thoughts she came into this night with.

The performance hall they step into is relatively small for a building of this size, made to fit an intimate crowd of less than a hundred people, if Willow had to guess. Rather than tightly packed theater seats, the room is full of small, round tables with cards indicating which guests take which seat. Once again, Astarion seems to know exactly where to go, leading Willow to one of the tables nearest the stage. Only two cards sit atop the table.

Guest of Honor

Lord Astarion Ancunín

Guest of Honor

Lady Willow

Willow laughs softly at the sight of her card, looking quickly from it to Astarion. He looks back at her with an almost chagrined expression, as if he’s not sure if her reaction is positive or negative yet.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, and his shoulders relax as he pulls out her chair first.

Willow has a last name, and Astarion knows what it is, but also knows very well that she does not lay claim to it if she does not have to. The fact that he remembered this is almost enough to make Willow forget the guest of honor label on the card, until she’s reading it again once she sits down.

“Guest of honor?”

“It’s nothing,” Astarion says, exhaling as he sits himself down. “I’m sure they put those on every card.”

Willow chooses to believe him as she crosses her legs under the table, taking a tentative sip of the water already present at her seat. Astarion clasps his hands together in front of him and straightens out his back, looking from the stage to the ceiling to the back of the room, as if inspecting possible exits or as if he’s nervous. It could be either, but Willow chooses to believe the former, considering all that they have been through. The people Willow saw coming in through the entrance hall follow after them soon enough, quickly filling the small number of seats in the room.

A man approaches the small podium at the front of the stage, and Willow catches him smiling just a little brighter at her and her date than he does at some of the other tables. Odd, but not incredibly out of the ordinary - Astarion is exceptionally beautiful, after all, and evidently well known enough to get them here.

“Welcome, esteemed guests, to the Great Baldurian Music Hall!” He says, and raises his hands up to allow applause. Willow claps her hands together excitedly, only to realize that she is clapping much louder than many of the other people in the room. Upper city folk even clap differently, it seems.

“Allow me to introduce our performer for tonight,” the man continues, gripping the podium in his own excitement. “Making his first appearance ever in Baldurs Gate, and the first flute artist to grace the new Great Music Hall, please welcome Fenian Farthana from Candlekeep.”

Willow covers her gasp with her mouth in shock as the elder Elven man enters from behind the stage curtain, his flute in hand. Fenian Farthana wrote a book on how he defeated a dragon with nothing but the magic he could cast with his very first flute; Willow picked it up from a bookstore when she was a child and it was the very book that made her want to play the flute at all. As an adult who has now fought a dragon - among various other beasts - she can now spot the inaccuracies within Farthana’s story, but still, a tale does not have to be completely true to be aspirational.

Fenian begins with an immediate song, an upbeat tune to no doubt awaken the so far quiet crowd. Willow thinks that even a bard of his age and notoriety who performs for patriars with stuffed purses must prefer a lively crowd over a silent, stuffy one. Her entire body tingles with excitement at seeing him play in person, and her eyes dart to Astarion every so often to see him watching her rather than the performer and to give him a grin of thanks.

Although Willow knows that the book she read in her youth was likely a tall tale, she can still admire and enjoy what a naturally wonderful performer Fenian is. He plays a song, tells the audience a story and performs some kind of trick, then plays another song, and repeats. The music hall serves wine and hors d'oeuvres, and the crowd begins to loosen up and clap louder. Willow thinks they must be getting to the end of the night when the performer in front of them seems to break his routine between songs. The man who introduced him comes back out to the podium, and Fenian takes place just behind him.

“Great Baldurians,” the first man says, taking on a somber tone, “I have come here tonight not only to introduce this incredible performer for you, but to present a very special honor here tonight.” He pauses, allowing the crowd to cheer. The soft clapping returns.

“This music hall has been made possible by many different donors, many of whom have joined us tonight for this special performance. Thank you,” he says, gesturing to several of the tables in the room in particular. “Tonight, we welcome a new name into our hall for his contribution to our construction. Next year, we will be unveiling a brand new history corridor and performance hall, dedicated to the art of the flute!” The man throws his hands into the air and Fenian raises his flute behind him, allowing the crowd to cheer once more.  

Willow feels her heart leap out of her chest. She claps, watching the stage in front of her instead of looking at Astarion, but several of the words the man said send her head spinning. Special honor. A new name into our hall for his contribution. The flute.

As soon as the cheering quells, the man clears his throat to continue. “On behalf of the Great Baldurian Music Hall, we would like to thank one of our greatest heroes, Lord Astarion Ancunín for his very generous donation,” he continues, confirming Willow’s thoughts by motioning to their table. She steals a glance to Astarion then, who nods his head in acknowledgement at the man, confirming that he is the one who has donated a large enough sum for the music hall to construct something entirely new, dedicated to Willow's instrument of choice. Willow is so focused on watching his face and thinking about the gravity of what he has done that she almost misses the last part of the speech. 

“-will be called Willow’s Hall, to honor his fellow savior of the city, who is also honored here tonight.”

Willow’s eyes shoot back to the podium, seeing the man beaming at her just as he was before the show started, now with Fenian Farthana at his side. She can only smile back at them for a moment before she looks back to Astarion, who she catches giving her the biggest smile she has seen on him since the ritual, enough to spot one of his fangs as he watches her expectantly. Willow keeps the smile on her face, and her eyes well with tears as the feelings of guilt overtake her body once more. 

Chapter Text

Astarion

After Astarion received Willow’s letter, he immediately reached out to the chairman of the music hall’s donor committee to see about taking her to a performance. He knows well enough that she would not be dazzled by fancy, upper city eateries or typical patriar fare, but even without ever hearing her mention the new Great Baldurian Music Hall, he knew it would be something she would love to see.

Willow does not simply love playing the flute; when they traveled together, she would ask Astarion to help her carry around the large stack of books she collected that had anything to do with musical history or famous musicians, or any bits of sheet music they found, even if nearly illegible, just because she loves to learn. Then, of course Astarion threw all of those precious finds he carried for her into a pile on their bed in the Elfsong the night it became her bed alone as he bought his own room, which he feels guilty about now. 

I’m sorry, saer, but we do not have anything scheduled for that day, the man had said, wringing his hands as he gave Astarion a tour of the new building. Our next donor performance is in a tenday. 

Well, what would it take? He asked simply, making a point of adjusting one of the sapphire cufflinks adorning his jacket. A new wing?

The man had gaped. Nothing that extravagant, saer, none of our donors have given enough for an entire wing-

Well, what about one of these- Astarion had looked around, and remembered the sign promising the corridor of performance garments. What about a corridor and a performance hall?

The man had stared at him blankly for a moment, his mouth still agape. Excuse me for asking, Lord Ancunin, the man had said, failing the pronunciation of Astarion’s last name, but what is all of this about?

Astarion sighed, and mustered up his best expression of sadness to the man. If you must know, it is for a woman that I love.

The man was incredibly agreeable from that point on, and the donor committee was pleased to make it all happen once he sent over the first stack of coin merely a few hours later. It was expensive, of course, but Astarion has been selling off all of Cazador’s awful paintings and statues, and those alone could cover the corridor. Not to mention the dragon’s trove of gold the monster collected over the centuries of murder, mind control and distasteful business dealings. Willow is well worth it. 

Willow is also usually very easy to read, but not right at this moment. She has tears in her eyes and a strained smile across her face, but for the unlife of him Astarion cannot sort out if she is crying from happiness or some form of devastation. He wants to believe that it must be happiness, she must be overjoyed, but a part of him has been worrying since they arrived here that she may see this as being all too much, or simply trying to buy her love. 

The bard, Fenian, invites Willow up to the stage with him after the announcement, and she allows Astarion to take her shaking hand and lead her up to the podium before returning to his seat. Her makeup is beginning to smear from her tears and her cheeks are incredibly flushed, but she does not seem to realize this as she stands on stage.

“You play the flute, great hero?” Fenian asks her, taking her hand himself.

Willow nods, but the other bard waits for a verbal response from her. “Yes, because of you,” she finally says, her voice still coming out strong despite her tears.

The performer feigns a look of shock, using his free hand to cover his heart. It makes Willow chuckle slightly, and she wipes away at the wetness on her cheeks.

Fenian turns himself and Willow to face the crowd, shifting his hand from hers to her shoulder. Astarion notices that Willow looks less like the practiced performer in this scenario; next to the elder man, who has sharp features and wrinkles under the harsh stage lighting, her soft cheeks and glittering, tearful eyes make her almost look the part of a childlike apprentice. 

“Who is that, that did this for you?” Fenian asks Willow, pointing to Astarion. His heart hammers in his chest as he feels the eyes in the room shift to him, suddenly incredibly aware that he’s done this in front of so many people, and the insane bard has chosen to ask that question. Still, Astarion manages a controlled smile, knowing that appearing charming to any number of the patriars in this room may be useful later. 

Willow laughs, wiping again at her face. Astarion thinks for a moment of all of the things she could say up on the stage to absolve herself of any claim over him. She could call him her friend, or her fellow hero, or crack a joke about how she’s never met him in her life. The latter would be a very Willow thing to do, even when they were together before, but it would sting now. 

“My love,” she answers, and under the bright lights, she cannot hide the deepening of the redness in her cheeks. Astarion, too, can feel heat rushing into his ears, and is thankful for the lack of lights on him and Willow’s human eyesight. 

She has not called him that since before. Surely, her saying it in front of a crowd of people is a step in the right direction. A step toward Astarion hearing it once again from her lips in privacy, and many more times after that.

The crowd awes, and Fenian seems satisfied with his interrogation, giving Willow a hug before allowing her to return to her seat. 

Astarion stands to pull out Willow’s chair, but just before he can, her hands stop him. He meets her eyes, still full of watery tears, as the bard on the stage begins to play what he announces as his final tune. 

“Can we go?” She whispers, knitting her brows together.

“One more song, love - it does not bode well for the guests of honor to leave early,” he whispers in response, pulling her chair out regardless of her suggestion. She shrugs in agreement and settles herself into the seat, neglecting to pull it into the table.

“We can leave just as soon as he bows,” Astarion says, leaning over to speak softly into her ear. He plants a tentative kiss against the back of her head, wondering as he does if even Willow's inferior hearing can catch the harsh slamming of his heart against his chest still. 

“Okay,” she nods in agreement, keeping her eyes on the bard on stage.

The last song is gratuitous, and so is the bow that Fenian takes at the end of it. He thanks the generous Lord once again as Astarion and Willow are beginning to slip toward the door, forcing them to acknowledge him and bow sheepishly themselves. Just as soon as they can escape the prying eyes of the patriars in the room they leave, Willow begins walking as quickly as she can without picking up a jog. 

Astarion is awestruck by the sight of her, seemingly so excited to get back to the palace. He thinks of her before they left for the night, when she asked how long this date was going to take so that they could be together again, bodies flush and whole. Willow remains silent as they step into the carriage and complete the short ride back to his home, and his body buzzes with the anticipation of what must be going through her mind. 

Finally, he must have done something right. He must have planned this all out perfectly, just enough to make her see how much he wants her, needs her to stay with him. How far he is willing to go for her and how much he is willing to give, for her to give him everything in return. 

Willow follows him through the front doors, beyond all the prying eyes of the nighttime staff, and into his bedroom. Astarion has just gotten the door shut and is about to pull the final gift of the night from the pocket of his suit jacket when he turns to see Willow. 

Willow.

Suddenly sobbing, shaking on the bed.

Chapter Text

Willow

Willow cannot quell the sobbing as soon as the door to the bedroom shuts behind Astarion, finally shielded from strangers’ eyes for the night. She takes the shape of a ball atop his bed, holding herself together by her knees as it starts, and not even the fourth sob has ripped through her yet before she feels his hands against her back, just as gently as he laid them on her within the music hall a few hours ago. 

“Willow?” He asks, soft as a feather. “Willow? What’s wrong?”

Willow shakes her head, only muttering “Fuck,” into the sheets, unable to come up with other words for what she’s feeling. Unable to decide if she wants to share them with Astarion, despite them bubbling over like this already.

She had considered asking him to have her taken home to the Elfsong, but she knew that he would ask why, and that would lead to her crying, anyway. At least this way she can be in a more comfortable bed, and if he doesn’t hate her after she says what she needs to say, maybe they can still hold each other.

Eventually, the tears seem to run dry, and Willow props herself up on an arm to face Astarion. His face has looked especially soft and sensitive today, lacking the hardened, brick wall-ishness he’s been sporting since the change, and now she knows why. He was preparing all day for his grand surprise, and Willow can almost believe he was nervous for her reaction to it. Now, he looks at her with concern, deep lines cutting between his eyebrows and at either side of his lips. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks again.

“I’m a horrible person,” Willow says with a laugh, shrugging her shoulders as if it should be obvious.

The crease between his brows deepens. “Why?” He asks, hesitantly.

Willow sighs, pushing her hair behind her ears and finding that some strands are glued to her cheeks from the salty tears.

“I- I underestimated you,” she sniffles, trying to think of what words to say next.

Astarion interrupts with a chuckle before Willow can say anything else. “That’s not something to cry about, darling,” he says, a slight look of smugness crossing over his face until Willow shakes her head at him.

“No. Not just that. I- I went into this thinking, believing that you were going to… mess it up, somehow,” Willow continues. Unsurprisingly, any appearance of smugness is immediately wiped from Astarion’s face, replaced with tightened lips. “After what happened last time, I spoke to… a friend about it, and she thought- I thought, I guess-“

“Shadowheart?” Astarion inquires, interrupting.

Willow nods.

“Just tell me why you’re a horrible person,” he sighs, exasperated. “Tell me what we did wrong, how to fix it next time.”

Willow's mouth gapes, and more tears she did not know she had in her begin springing up behind her eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says, her voice growing hoarse. “I did, Astarion. I showed up tonight thinking- thinking we were just going to sleep together again. Thinking that’s all this was going to be. But it wasn’t, and it’s not. You put so much effort into this, somehow, in a matter of- over three fucking days, and I was only thinking about sleeping with you. Like a fucking monster.” The tears stream down her face again but she does not quite sob, only staring at him as they silently fall once she’s said her piece.

Astarion doesn’t seem to react, at first, that familiar, terrible stoicism lining his jaw. Willow cannot be angry at him for it this time, but cannot resist the urge to fill the silence, either.

“I took us to a stupid tavern in the lower city. You dedicated a fucking performance hall to me. Those are our first dates,” she says, her eyes becoming wild as she realizes the ridiculousness of what she’s saying. “I’m sorry for… whatever I thought, going into this. If you don’t hate me, I promise to take this seriously, Astarion, and to really, really try with you.” 

More silence. Torturous, miserable silence as he stares directly into her eyes, unreadable. Unlike the Elfsong, the palace has no bustling undercurrent of noise below, and no cat snoring in a corner. Complete, utter silence.

“Astarion?” Willow whispers, reaching out for his hand on the bed. He allows it, and his hand feels warm below hers.

“What is it that you want, Willow?” He asks, his voice sharp. The tone catches Willow off guard, making her muscles tense. “Do you want me to be some sex-crazed monster? Or do you want me to be a husband and a father? Or somehow, both?”

“I want you to be you!” Willow snaps, pulling her hand back. He’s not wrong for being frustrated, but the sudden tone is still shocking. “I want us. I’m just- I'm really confused right now, but I know that I still want you.”

He softens the slightest bit at her admitted confusion, the clench in his jaw loosening, but still does not allow any emotion to edge into his face. 

“I will leave, if you want me to,” Willow says quietly.

“No,” he says quickly with a shake of his head.

They sit for another long moment of silence, Willow waiting for him to decide her fate for the night. Clearly, he is thinking, and though she could say more, she is quite worried that any additional word vomit from her mouth could lead to trouble.

“I did not do all of that simply to land you back in my bed,” he says finally, clasping his hands together in his lap. “There is truly a lack of appreciation for the flute in that building.”

That makes Willow laugh, and she smiles knowing that was likely his entire intention. “You’re absolutely right.”

“What good is any of this, if I cannot share it with the one I care for the most?” He ponders, gesturing around the room. Willow feels her heart squeeze within her at the acknowledgement of her still being the one he cares for the most, despite the awful things she has said and thought about him. “No, I do not hate you, and I do not want you to leave." 

"I won't, then," Willow says, this time taking both of her hands to cover his in his lap. Astarion leans forward, his lips parted slightly, and Willow would take it as an invitation if she thought now were an appropriate time for it, but she stays still instead. 

He sighs, seemingly realizing she is not going to say anything else. "Though I did land you back in my bed," he muses.

The implication of his words is enough to make Willow lean forward, herself, but still not enough to pounce. “I haven’t given you a thank you kiss,” she murmurs, close enough that she knows he can feel her breath against his face. “For the incredible night, and the beautiful gesture.”

“Now is as good a time as any,” he whispers back, and Willow closes in.

Her lips meet his with a softness at first, before quickly heating up to a ferocity. He unclasps his hands and they find their way to her face, pulling her against him as he leans his body back against the lush pillows atop the mattress. Everything within Willow wants to simply follow his lead, but the part of her that spent so much time with him before, talking about his fears and discomfort, feels she would be remiss if she did not at least try to check in with him. 

“Are you sure you-“ Willow begins to ask, pulling away from his mouth. She is interrupted by his thumb covering her lips, holding them open as he reaches into the pocket of his jacket.

He holds up a small vial of bright blue liquid, corked just like a regular potion, before setting it down on the bedside table. Willow shudders at the realization, feeling the goosebumps form over her skin, completely of their own accord. All of the thoughts she had been having prior slip away. 

“Though my thoughts were not entirely clouded by lust,” Astarion murmurs, pulling his thumb away to drag it along her jaw, instead, “we have both had something on our minds.”

“Yes,” she says, her wide eyes shifting between him and the table. Somewhere over the course of the night, between the music hall and the dedication and the sobbing, Willow completely forgot what she asked him to do.

His hands run along her body next, cupping and squeezing as they go, until he finally begins pulling at the strings at the back of her dress. “You have an entire day to drink it, though I do have more stowed away,” he says, untying the knot at the top. “I’ve already made sure someone will deliver breakfast to Ansur in the morning,” he pulls the bodice of the dress loose in one swift motion, making Willow gasp as her breasts are suddenly set free of the gown. “So that we may have as much time as we need.” He leans forward, taking one of her nipples into his warm mouth as a moan reverberates from his throat, sending Willow falling forward into him as her body convulses at the touch.

“That makes me feel… like less of a horny bastard,” Willow says between gasps, relieved and amazed at the same time by the attention that went into this particular portion of their night, as well.

Astarion pulls away, tugging at her skin with his teeth as he does. Willow tries to meet his lips but he grasps her hair to hold her back - it seems that has become a favorite move of his since their reconciliation.

“I have a couple requests,” he says, a devilish grin curling up at his lips.

“I suppose you’ve earned them,” Willow chuffs in response, making it clear that she is annoyed by the interruption.

His grin wavers slightly at her teasing, and the grip of his hand tightens. “I worked very, very hard to put all of this together,” he murmurs, his other hand pulling the skirt of her dress aside and traveling up her thigh. “Though I will always have energy for you, I would be thrilled to simply have you do all of the work, at my instruction.”

Willow’s first instinct is to refuse the idea of following his orders, something she has been battling with ever since that night in the Elfsong. She opens her mouth to do just that, but his hand reaches the apex of her thighs and nudges a finger against her clit, making nothing come out but a gasp at first.

He did work very hard, clearly. And what’s the harm, really? She likes to allow him to be in control when it comes to sex. This seems more like a stepping stone, anyway, if she is to at least be the one doing the work, as he says.

“Easy enough,” she responds, closing her eyes at the feeling of his hand and moving her hips against him. His fingers start to edge slightly closer to her entrance, beginning their dance to prepare her for what is to come.

“I’m glad you think so, because I have something else to ask of you,” Astarion continues. Willow’s eyes open as soon as she processes the words, realizing he is suggesting that he has something bigger to ask for.

“Darling,” she says, mustering up a tight smile through the pleasure. Willow bats her eyes and rolls her hips, wishing only for him to finish his requests and take his clothes off. “I’m not sure I can take much more.”

She means it in two ways - first, that she can’t take much more of his hand teasing her, that she needs more and needs it now; second, that having to work that hard for it sounds like a pain after a day spent getting nervous then getting dolled up, excitedly seeing the music hall and then sobbing before she got to this point.

Astarion uses the hand still on the back of her head and pulls her forward again until their foreheads meet, heated breaths mingling together between them. “Do it like you used to, Willow,” he whispers, his voice a near growl, “make love to me.”

Despite his tone of voice, there is a silent plea behind his eyes, so close to her own in this position. The movement of his hand has stopped, leaving Willow with nothing to distract her from his demand.

Once again, her immediate thought is to deny him. After all of the pain and hurt he put her through, all she has wanted to do since they came back together is fight the urge to be romantic and sweet like she had been before. Because he did not deserve it. He had done nothing to deserve it.

But now, it feels as if everything is different. Suddenly all of his kindness doesn’t feel like a cheap trick. The way he put all of this together, the way planned out every little detail, and the way he reacted to Willow’s omission - none of those seem like the actions of a con man, to her.

“Okay,” she whispers back. “I will.”

His hands both push at the same time, one launching her lips against his once more and the other plunging a finger - or two, Willow cannot really tell - inside of her.

“You,” she manages to groan against his lips, complaining despite the agreement they’ve just made. She isn’t sure if he’ll be able to tell what she means by this one word, or if her tone will be enough.

Astarion first responds by inserting another digit, before pulling his mouth back and resting her head against his neck. “You told me once it’s better for you when I do this first,” he says quietly, with a surprising amount of earnestness.

The memory comes flooding back to Willow, of the second or maybe third time they slept together. He was distracted, for reasons she would come to understand later, and was going to give her very little preamble before getting into the act - up against a tree in the forest next to the druid’s grove, no less. She likened this practice to stretching before going for a run. It’s not as necessary now that she has more experience than she had at the time, but it does typically help.

“I was not wrong,” she admits, realizing now that he has followed this rule both times they’ve been together before this, despite Willow herself forgetting about it. “I just want you terribly.”

Astarion moans at the acknowledgement, and she can feel the vibration of it in his neck. He curls his fingers within her as his thumb reaches around to her other sensitive spot, and she can tell what he’s asking for without him having to actually ask. She adjusts herself to offer a breast back into his mouth and he accepts, taking it as an invitation to reach for the other one with his free hand at the same time.

“Coming,” she mutters into his thick hair a moment later, convulsing around his fingers as the pleasure overtakes her body. Before they reunited she had almost forgotten how quickly she unravels when she is wrapped up in him like this, every pleasure spot being touched by him; it is like nothing else. 

Willow tugs him away just as soon as the orgasm wanes, still shaking as she stands from the bed to remove what remains of her dress and her now-soaked underwear. Astarion watches her for a moment before following suit, removing his clothes just as quickly and having Willow’s arms thrown around him just as soon as every bit of fabric is gone.

“How do you want me?” She asks him breathlessly, resisting the urge to lunge for his lips again.

“The one I love, and you hate,” he answers, a sardonic smile across his lips.

Willow rolls her eyes. “I don’t hate it, I simply… prefer other things,” she says with a shrug, before releasing him from her grasp. Her eyes dart downward to his length between them, and she looks sheepishly back up at him. “You have me at your command and you don’t want me to…?” She gives a slight bend of her knees, a suggestion of bending them further. An act she does not mind performing for him, since she has only gotten to do it a nominal number of times. 

“Not tonight,” he says quickly, turning toward the bed to throw himself on top of it. “If I get my way, I will not spill a drop outside of you.”

Heat rushes to Willow’s cheeks as she follows him to the bed, but she cannot stop herself from making her next comment. “My throat is still inside-“

“Willow,” he interrupts, holding up a hand for her to pause pulling herself onto the bed. “I adore that silly, horrible little mouth of yours. Just for tonight, can you-?” He doesn’t finish the sentence, seemingly hoping she will understand, and she does. He wants love, not funny little quips about coming down her throat. 

“I’m sorry,” Willow says quietly, and he puts down his hand. She pulls herself onto the bed next to him, meeting him at eye level with her legs closed without doing anything else. “My love,” she adds softly, watching the way it makes him furrow his brow before pressing her lips to his. She already saw the way he looked at her when she said it on stage earlier.  The way it moves him. 

Without disconnecting their lips, Willow delicately slides one leg over his body, opening herself up across his abdomen. She feels the sudden scratch of his nails digging into her body, from the curve of her waist up her back with need as she grinds herself back and forth across the smooth planes of muscle, teasing him just the tiniest bit more.

Astarion gives her the gentlest push of his hand when he can no longer take it, signaling her to break the kiss and sit herself upright.

“Fast or slow?” She asks, already breathless from thinking of what they are about to do.

“Slowly,” he answers, a smile spreading across his lips as he kneads at her hips with his thumbs. Willow notices that he has been enjoying squeezing her a lot more recently, and she briefly thinks that she would say something silly about it if he had not just asked her not to. 

“If that’s what you want,” she says with a laugh, taking the base of his shaft into her hand and getting into position, “it’s your funeral, however.”

Willow uses her other hand to push her hair back from her face as she begins to lower herself down onto his length, miserably slow. Astarion suddenly props himself up from his position against the pillows to hold her hair back for her, and for reasons she cannot explain, the act of that alone is incredibly arousing.

“Such a gentleman,” she murmurs in a teasing tone, but reaches for the hard planes of his abdomen with her newly freed hand, scratching him with delight. As Willow takes him in deeper she feels his cockhead brush against her favorite spot, and hovers for a moment to rock her hips in that position. He’s so much warmer, she realizes, from the blood flowing through him to the slick that releases from his tip, and they never slowed down enough for her to really feel it before. 

“Such a greedy girl,” Astarion says in response, clearly noticing the delay. He allows it for a moment, before giving her hair a yank. “Take it all, Willow.”

Willow obeys and suddenly drops herself to meet his hips with her center, watching as he throws his head back from pleasure. She repositions her hands to hold on to each of his shoulders with a tight grip as she rocks herself back and forth, once again moving slowly enough to feel every inch. She remembers what he asked her for as their eyes meet and softly presses her lips to his, allowing herself to fully enjoy him in this moment, unlike the times before.

As Astarion kisses Willow back with the same tempo as her rolling hips, it feels as if they are one, perfectly synchronized being. There is no tension in her body as there has been before, when she was so worried about his true intentions with her. And she can never be sure what is going on in his mind, especially not anymore, but his touches feel less reserved than they did in the Elfsong, and less harsh than they when she was pinned against this bed - perfectly balanced.

Willow reluctantly pulls her lips away from his after a long moment, instead hovering her face just above his and cupping a hand against his cheek to look into his fiery eyes. If it were completely up to her, she would stay kissing him, but she knows well enough that he likes to watch her like this.

His reddened lips grow into a small grin as Astarion’s eyes flit between Willow’s face and their bodies colliding between them, both of their abdomens coated in a sheen of sweat. Willow keeps the movement of her hips slow per his request, though they both still gasp for breath.

Despite his grin, Astarion’s eyes give away the fact that he can no longer keep up his Vampire Ascendant facade in this moment. He looks more desperate than he ever did when Willow looked into his eyes atop her bed in the Elfsong; he looks more like him before, even though his body is hotter and more alive than it was then.

Astarion releases a moan as Willow lunges forward for his neck, lavishing him in kisses as she often would before. He does not pull her away, but speaks in between the slow, deep movements of Willow’s hips against him. 

“Make yourself come, my love. I will not last much longer like this,” he whispers against her head, holding her hair still with a firm grip. The desperation in his voice is music to Willow’s ears, enough to make her increase the pace of her body on top of him.

She pulls away from his neck to look into his eyes again, finding that same starry, wide-eyed gaze as before. “I already got mine,” she says, caressing his cheek once more, “let me feel you.”

His head rolls back with a whimper at her words, releasing her hair to have both hands gripping harshly at Willow’s hips. She can feel him throbbing within her, no doubt seconds away from release when he meets her eyes again. “Tell me you want it.”

“Yes,” Willow moans in response, leaning down to envelope his lips into hers while continuing to roll her hips back and forth against him. “ Please.”

He releases with a cry of her name as he slots his face into the crook of her neck, loud and reckless. The feeling of him spilling into her, warm and full, is enough to make Willow come again. “Gods, Astarion,” she cries, her hips grinding frantically, desperately into him, pushing the thick head as deeply as she can manage. She can feel him twitch violently between the pulsing of her orgasm, as if they are completely connected; as if her own body is as forcefully pulling him in as she wants it to. 

He can only gasp in response, his beautiful face drenched with sweat and slathered with a smile as he empties everything he has into her for the first time since before the rite. Willow collapses forward as she rides out the last few waves of pleasure, moaning his name into the middle of his chest until her body relaxes with exhaustion.

“I missed that so much,” is the next thing out of her mouth, as soon as her breath is caught enough to speak. She lifts herself up slightly to look at him, not pulling him out from inside of her still. “I’ve missed you so much.” The words come out close to a whimper, not how she intended them to sound, but they are true. Each time before was different because Willow was still trying to put mental distance between herself and Astarion, not wanting to commit to this relationship once more. 

He pulls her back into his lips, slowly kissing her immediately following the words leaving her mouth. The kiss doesn’t feel sexual in nature, despite their current position, but loving. Gentle rather than harsh, patient as if they have all of the time in the realms. After tonight, Willow knows that she cannot stop herself from falling back into him. Even if this is all an act, or he did all of this for the express purpose of getting her here, it does not matter anymore. 

“I adore you,” Astarion says softly against her lips. “Don’t you ever leave me again.” 

Chapter Text

Astarion

Willow does not cry again after her vulnerable admittances in the bed, but stays on top of Astarion as she recovers from her labored breathing, giving pleased, soft kisses down his neck. It’s an incredible relief to him, who was not entirely sure that there would not be additional tears shed tonight. Willow is very strong, but she is also very prone to tears, regardless of the emotions behind them. 

The feeling of being connected to her like that again, something Astarion has only dreamed of for months, could have brought a weaker man to tears just as well. It feels slightly cheapened by the way he had to be sweet for the entire night and then ask her to show him that kind of love - when he never had to ask her for it before - but the way she did it felt real and beautiful, regardless. Next time, he will not have to ask. 

Astarion is unsure how much time passes until Willow seems to come out of her kissing stupor, suddenly pulling her mouth away from his neck to reach for the bedside table. Her hand returns not with the glass bottle of water that rests there for her already, but with the little blue potion vial. 

“Not yet,” Astarion says gently, touching a hand to her arm. Willow only swishes the liquid around within the tube, eyeing it curiously. “I know you'll want to sleep, but I may have you again in the morning.” 

She looks at it a moment longer before setting it back down, and returning her attention to Astarion with a smile across her face, seemingly unfazed. “Was that good?” She asks, stretching her body out like a cat over top of him with a yawn. 

“Perfect,” Astarion answers with a sigh, “you’ve made my night truly perfect.”

Although he did not expect the uncontrollable sobbing just as soon as they made it back to his home, the night really could not have gone any better. Astarion did not enjoy seeing Willow cry, but that conversation opened up entirely new avenues for him in terms of getting her emotional state back into the realm of his control.

It was not entirely manipulation; she brought the tears upon herself, felt her own guilt for the preconceived ideas she had about this night with him. But the way he went silent before snapping back at her, and then reminded her that she is the one he cares for the most - after all, hasn’t he just proved it? - those were calculated moves, meant to make her slightly more pliable for the conversation they are to have about their future, whenever that will be. If she maintains some of that guilt, she is all the more likely to make concessions where Astarion feels they are necessary. 

Willow settles herself into a sleeping position, sliding off of him only slightly and hooking her leg and her arm around his body as she nuzzles her face into his side. Astarion believes that she’s nearly asleep when she suddenly whispers, quiet as a mouse.

“I don’t plan on it, by the way.”

“Plan on what?” He asks, surprised to hear her speaking again. Astarion wonders briefly if she’s talking about using the potion or not, and his stomach lurches at the thought until she responds again.

“On leaving you. I’m not planning on it.” She says it simply, with no laughter or humor detectable in her sleepy voice.

The feeling within his stomach soothes at her words, and he has to stop himself from allowing his body to completely relax, lest Willow feel how relieved he truly is.

This is everything he wants. 

Astarion rises long before Willow does in the morning, not needing as much rest as she does. He untangles himself from her body as quietly as he can in an effort to not disturb her, so that he may get a head start on the work that needs to be done for the day before filling his morning with more Willow. 

Many unopened letters line his desk, the pile having grown bigger and bigger since he began planning last night’s events. Most will continue to sit unopened, such as the letters he’s been receiving addressed from Melantisa, but Astarion sorts through the envelopes he knows to be from the guests invited to the party he is hosting a couple of tendays from now in his own home. The party that he hastily came up with in an effort to have a reason to contact Willow, and will now hopefully serve as the event where he will introduce many of the upper city patriars to his delectable, talented consort - if he can get her to be agreeable to that term in the next eighteen days or so. If not, he will have to think of something that sounds more regal than lover that she will agree to. 

Astarion smiles slightly at one of the returned invitations, at the realization that the reconciliation with Willow has been moving much faster than even he anticipated. When he sent these letters out, he did not believe he would be opening responses with her already accompanying him to events and falling asleep in his bed. It took some time for them to finally have that night in her room, but just last night she admitted that she has no intentions of leaving him again. It’s far from a promise of eternity, but it’s equally as far from the state they were in that first night. 

Astarion returns to the bedroom before Willow wakes, pulling open the curtains just enough to try and coax her eyes into opening. He takes his clothes off again and slides himself back into the bed, back into the cradle of her embrace, and decides that he will hold her for however long it takes until he is the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes. 

As soon as the sun rises high enough to fall over her closed eyes from the window, she begins to blink and rustle around until she finally turns to look sleepily at Astarion. “Hi,” she says softly, her voice low and cracked from sleep.

“Good morning,” Astarion purrs back to her, placing a kiss at the top of her forehead. She smiles at the touch, and stretches out her limbs in the bed.

“I am so fucking hungry,” she says next, as her stomach growls to match her statement, “I don’t think we ate at all last night, did we?”

“We got a bit distracted,” he says with a chuckle. “Would you like to eat first, or-?” He runs a hand gently over her body, naked still under the sheets. She does not respond to the touch, however, only staring at him with a sleepy smile still on her face.

“I need to eat,” she says with a sigh. “And we need to talk.” The smile wipes away, leaving behind a furrowed brow and a crease across her forehead.

Astarion’s stomach sinks within him at the words, and her denial of his attempt to seduce her. He knows that they need to have a discussion, but he had hoped to please her again beforehand, to get her into that happy, slightly drowsy state that she typically does after a particularly active round of debauchery. “We need to talk? About what, my treasure?” He hopes that the pet name will soften her, or make her roll her eyes, enough to tell him that she doesn’t have anything serious to talk about. But Willow maintains her look of mild concern. 

“Well, I told you we would talk about details this time, didn’t I?” She says, her eyes shifting from his, down at her hands against the bed, only for a moment before she looks toward the door. “But let’s eat, please. That first.”

“Would you like to see the dining room, or eat here for more privacy?” Astarion asks next, trying to maintain softness in his voice. Something is weighing heavily on her mind, and it could be simply the weight of the conversation they need to have, or it could be something else entirely. 

“Here,” Willow answers quickly, “though I would love a tour sometime, when your renovations are done.”

The comment can almost make Astarion wince, knowing very well that the renovations may never be done. Nothing ever seems to look the way that he wants it, which is the only reason why the walls of this bedroom have been left a stark white color. He has tried several colors before leaving it at this, unsure what to try next. 

Instead of thinking too much about it, he leaps up from the bed to send for their breakfast and to root through his closet for something for Willow. Not for her to wear for very long, but something to keep his eyes on her eyes while they talk; he picks a simple, black tunic that will be large enough to cover everything, and brings it to her.

“I take it that we are discussing the terms you mentioned last time?” He asks as she slips the shirt over her head, hiding away her body. He realizes as he looks at her in his clothing once again that she did not bring back the sport coat he let her have last time.

“Not terms,” she says with a slight chuckle, which is enough to lighten the mood a little bit, “maybe… expectations. What we both want out of this.”

“We don’t have to talk about this now,” Astarion says, remaining standing as Willow has to crane her neck upward to look into his eyes.

Willow offers him a half smile. “I want to. I don’t want to have any repeats of last night,” she pauses, her smile turning into a frown. “I’m really, really sorry, Astarion.” 

Obviously, Astarion did not enjoy the implication that she showed up to last night’s date viewing him as nothing more than an object of her desire. What feels worse to him, however, is how concerned she seems to be that she has hurt his delicate little feelings, enough to feel the need to apologize repeatedly like this. He is no longer the weak little vampire spawn she clearly still sees within him. The man who would cry to her about his nightmares - the nightmares he still has - and was so fragile that he was regularly draining her of most of her blood, and then most of her healing spells, too. Willow rarely got to use her favorite spell that she picked up on their journey together, the one that would make their opponent dance uncontrollably and hilariously, because she was so frequently using all of her power to save everyone else, including Astarion. 

He shrugs, trying to appear unbothered despite his frustration. “You already apologized well enough. Just be sure to tell Shadowheart all of the good details, this time.” Astarion cannot help the slight snarl of his mouth at the mention of her name as it crosses his lips, thinking about the way she must have been discussing him with Willow.

Shadowheart used to be his friend, too. The three of them used to drink together around the fire before retiring for the night. Shadowheart was the only person keeping Astarion sane as he waited for Willow to return to consciousness after she nearly died in Reithwin, when she acquired the scar that still adorns her stomach. Shadowheart helped him realize, as he paced around the cursed house of healing and pulled his hair, that he was in love with Willow. 

Just as soon as he and Willow broke up, however, he lost not only Willow, but Shadowheart, as well. 

“I would love for you two to see each other again,” Willow suggests quietly, furrowing her brows together. “What if we invite her to that party? Have her come here? She’s always happy when there’s wine.”

Astarion immediately wants to say no, he does not want that traitor in his home. She has not even bothered to write him once in the time since they stopped speaking, not to check on him or congratulate him on his success. Nothing.

On the other hand, however, he is enticed by the idea of demonstrating to Willow’s best friend how impressive of a partner he truly is. If Willow is still so easily swayed by Shadowheart, it may be a good idea to have her come to the palace to be wooed by his access to fine wines and traveled patriars.

“Invite her, then,” he responds, forcing a smile for Willow. “I would be delighted to see her, as well.”

“Good,” Willow says with a nod, her grin from before returning. “On to the details, then.”

Willow and Astarion’s breakfast is delivered just in time for their conversation, with hot coffee, biscuits, and fruit piled high onto a platter that makes Willow smile even brighter. “You remembered I wanted you to try coffee!” She says excitedly, reaching for a mug just as soon as the tray is placed on the bedside table. She lifts the mug so closely to her face that Astarion worries for a moment that she will burn her little nose in it, but she stops just short and takes a long whiff of the drink.

Astarion stands to take his own mug into his hands, and takes a tentative sip. “That is…” he says, before stopping and trying to process the flavor, “bitter.”

“But isn’t it bitter in a good way?” Willow asks, taking a sip of her own. She looks wonderfully pleased with the coffee, which is enough for Astarion, even if he cannot enjoy it. He has been trying to become accustomed to eating normally again, practicing when he is alone for meetings and parties to come, but even without the horrible thirst for blood, his palate seems to only know how to recognize good from bad when it comes to that particular type of meal. 

“Maybe it’s an acquired taste?” He responds, setting the mug back down on the plate. “You drink, darling, and eat enough so that I may have some of my favorite drink a bit later.”

“That can definitely be arranged,” Willow says in a flirtatious tone, wiggling her lower half around a little bit on the bed. Astarion hands her a biscuit, trying to maintain his sense of composure despite the way she is looking at him and the thoughts that are now running through his brain. She takes a slow, purposeful bite, not taking her eyes off of him as she does. For claiming she only wants to talk, she is surely not looking at him as if she only wants to talk. 

“I would like to hear your… details first,” Astarion says, as he moves across the room to pull up a chair that had been sitting in a corner. He places it directly in front of Willow, only a few steps away from her, and sits himself down. 

“You already know mine,” she says easily, but Astarion can see the redness pooling up below the skin of her cheeks. “Now tell me what you want, other than the thing I already know.”

Astarion does not like this. He wants her to start the conversation, because she is the one who suggested it. On the other hand, he is the one who suggested last time that there are some more specific details that will need to be worked out, so in a way, he brought this upon himself. In the moment, he can only thing of one thing to answer with.

“I don’t want you to see anyone else,” he says first, resisting the urge to look away from her eyes as he says it. The assertion reeks of insecurity, but Astarion’s anger towards the man at the Elfsong is the first thing that came into his mind when he began thinking about the details of their relationship. Willow does not share his anger, and likely sees Felix as a sweet boy, but she never heard any of the things about her from Felix’s mouth as Astarion did when he was a bat in the Elfsong rafters. 

Willow rolls her eyes dramatically. “Obviously,” she says, seemingly amused by the fact that he may think otherwise. She watches him for a moment, her eyes focused on his face curiously before she continues. “In fact, I haven’t so much as kissed anyone else since our… reunion in my room.”

He feels a slight surge of pride over her admittance, even though he had suspected and hoped as much since that night, anyway. She’s only smelled like Astarion, mixed with the lavender soap she uses now, since that night.  Just as quickly as the pridefulness comes, however, he must swallow it back down as something seems to shift in Willow, her lips switching from a satisfied, turned up smirk to a little bit of a frown as she stares at the ceiling in thought. Still, Astarion waits for her to say what is actually running through her mind.

“I want to, um,” she struggles through the sentence, a sure sign that something in her mind has caught her off guard. She seems to consider for another moment before meeting his gaze again, brows furrowed over her thought-filled blue eyes. “I don’t want this to just be an agreement, you know. I haven’t told Felix to fuck off yet, but I fully intend to, if we can… work this out. That’s why I haven’t been with him.”

There she goes, again. Swimming in a sea of emotions in her own mind, begging him to hop in after her and soak through his nice clothes - maybe he should write that metaphor down. Surely she would enjoy it, at a different moment.

“I have not seen anyone else, either,” he says, trying to buy himself time to think.

“Good,” she responds, a tiny flicker of the previous smile crossing her lips. She doesn’t continue speaking, waiting for him to further comment on what she said. Shit.

Making an agreement, he had been fully prepared for. Astarion had run through a list of things in his mind over the last several days; no sleeping with anyone else, to start, since he has never forgiven himself for the way he basically encouraged her to pursue Halsin. She had refused the druid’s offer when she was still with Astarion, but he has an inkling that his insistence to her that he wouldn’t have cared if she slept with him or not may have been what inspired her to fall into him so quickly after the end of their relationship. Because some small part of her still did not want to hurt his feelings, and he had told her that he did not mind her being with him in particular; the words he did not include being as long as you remember who you belong to, and you come back to me every time.

“I’m not the same as I was,” he says simply, noticing as her frown returns from the amount of time he was taking to speak again. “This new relationship of ours would be different, of course. But it need not be an agreement.”

He doesn’t expect her to smile at his words, but he definitely doesn’t expect the deepening of her frown, either. “I know you’re different,” she says quietly. “I know better than anyone else. Probably better than you.”

He scoffs, unable to resist what must be a near scowl forming on his face. “Better than me?”

She nods, still completely convinced. “You’re still you, Astarion. Just different. More powerful, power hungry. But still you,” she pauses, and he could almost swear he sees the little smile again. “And I love you. I did then, I still do now.”

“You-“ he starts to say something, thinking he’s going to curse her for being a liar, but stops short. A simple question could almost slip from the tip of his tongue, instead. Then why did you leave? Why did you walk away, when I wanted to give you eternity? He bites it back. He will show her no weakness.

Willow waits, tucking her feet up onto the bed to cross her legs comfortably. She would appear calm to anyone else, but he can hear her heart banging inside of her chest like a drum.

“And I love you,” he finally says, fighting the defeated sigh that wants to come out right along with it. Loves her. Adores her. Would live for her, kill for her, raze entire cities for her. Felt dead every day without her, despite having regained his beating heart. An absolute obsession; but still, love.

“That’s what I want, then,” she says, the beat of her heart softening but not slowing, from a hammering to a fluttering. “Everything bound in love. Give me children because you love me. Marry me because you love me. And I will be yours forevermore, because I love you.”

Easy. She makes it sound so easy.

There is not a lie that he would not buy from her perfect, mercantile lips, coated in smooth charm and charisma. But the way she says it and the way he can hear her heart catch over the demands leaves no trace of lying at all. She means it. This is what she wants.

Chapter Text

Willow

Astarion’s demeanor shifts completely after Willow admits that she still loves him. She had thought it was obvious that she was still in love with him; enough to allow him back into her heart after breaking it, to admit all of her weaknesses to him on this very bed. Evidently, though, from the way his face went blank when she told him, he did not know.

She gathers herself quickly enough after her little speech to him, realizing that they may now be sitting in awkward silence because she’s just told him, in no uncertain terms, to give her babies and to marry her.

“Not right this second,” she clarifies, her eyes shifting to the little vial still resting on the bedside table after a moment of silence. “We clearly still have some- well, a lot of work to do. But that’s my… desired conclusion, if you will.”

Astarion smiles. It’s an obviously forced smile, but still a smile. “Do you have any ideas of… when?” He asks cautiously, with a forced gentleness.

“When what?”

“Well,” he says with a sigh, almost looking as if he regrets asking already. “When you may allow me to turn you?”

Willow’s body bristles at the question as she thinks about it herself. She has just presented all of this to him on a silver platter, asked him to marry her and give her a family, and the first question from his lips is when he can stop her heart. “Well, I- I don’t know. It would depend, I suppose, on a few different factors. Like how many.”

It would also depend on how long it takes for them to be able to be normal and loving to each other, and for Willow to trust this Astarion enough to give him the power to exercise complete control over her, but Willow chooses what she assumes to be the less contentious of the options.

“How many?” He says it with a chuckle, but his mouth clamps shut when he seems to realize that Willow is not joking. “You want more than one?”

“Well, wouldn’t it be nice for them to have a friend who is also a baby vampire? Or a few?” Willow asks as she lifts her coffee back to her lips, allowing some amount of humor to creep into her voice. The suggestion of a few makes his eyes bulge nearly out of their sockets for a split second, and Willow finds it even more entertaining to make him lose his composure now than she used to, no matter how brief. “And only children are insufferable, Astarion.”

“I’m only concerned with how much time it will take,” Astarion says, sounding exasperated. He stands from his chair and pushes it back to where it was, before running a hand through his hair. 

Willow sips her coffee, tasting it and thinking for a moment about what he means, before feeling her face become hot with anger. “Are you that worried about me getting older?” She demands, setting the mug back down. “I am twenty-six years old, Astarion. If not for the ears people would look at us and wonder if you’re my- my young dad.”

His eyes narrow, but a hint of a smirk curls up on one side of his lips. “I am not concerned with your age, Willow,” he says, slowly walking back toward where she sits on the bed. He pulls close enough to make her tilt her head upwards to look at him, and runs a hand along her jaw, making the tiny hairs stand on end. “Not when you only look more beautiful with each day that passes.”

Under his blood moon eyes, even such an easy compliment can make her heated anger melt away. “What is it, then?” She asks, still searching for the answer despite her voice becoming weak just from his touch.

“I only want to make you stronger,” he whispers, his hand wrapping loosely around her neck. “To protect you.”

“Find another way, then, if you’re so concerned,” Willow says, as she begins to pull at the buttons of his shirt. “I won’t make you wait until I’m grey. Only until I’m ready.”

Astarion gives her a mirthful laugh, shaking his head. “We will discuss this more later,” he says, as he pulls his shirt off the rest of the way for her.

“Sure we will,” Willow smiles back at him, pulling the large shirt he gave her over her own head, leaving only bare skin behind. She takes a confident hand and places it over his pants, gripping only slightly against the growing, not-quite-full bulge she feels just beneath the surface.

“Young enough to have very good knees,” he says softly, a wicked smirk crossing over his face. “I’d like to keep you that way, at least.”

“Is that right? Don’t want me to end up like Gale?” Willow nearly snorts at the face Astarion makes at her saying Gale’s name as she rubs her hand over his erection, and feels the need to quickly apologize by grasping at his hips and pushing him slightly backward as she lowers herself to the floor.

He allows her to pull the rest of his clothing off, throwing it into a pile on the floor as his now fully hardened length looms in front of her. “What would you like me to do?” She asks, taking him into her hand and holding him to her mouth. “It would be a tragedy to allow that potion to go to waste, only to be used once.”

Astarion takes her gruffly by the hair, and her entire body aches at the touch. “My sweet, little love,” he croons, his tone condescending but not unwelcome in this particular position. “There will be plenty to go around. We have quite a lot of time to make up for, after all.”

Willow moans as she takes her first long, slow lick of his length, watching the smile on his face waver as he is taken by pleasure. She teases him, swirling her tongue around the salty arousal of his tip and licking up and down the taut vein on the underside of his cock, until finally closing her mouth around him in one smooth motion.

“Gods, Willow,” he breathes out at the sudden feeling, gripping the roots of her hair more tightly in his hand. Though Willow enjoys giving him pleasure on his own, she cannot help but think of herself a little bit, and wastes no time reaching the hand not holding him in place under to his balls as she takes slow, deep thrusts of him into her mouth. In only a matter of minutes, she feels him tightening within her mouth before tasting his hot, salty finish down the back of her throat, and her core throbs at the thought of how much better that will feel somewhere else.

She pulls him out of her mouth just as soon as he has been spent. “Still not spilling a drop outside of me, see?” Willow says with a chuckle, as he looks down at her with a happy, satisfied gaze.

“And I won’t,” he says, releasing his hand from her hair. Despite being emptied down Willow’s throat, his arousal has only slightly flagged, seemingly ready to go again immediately. Willow wonders briefly if that is somehow a benefit of his ascension, or if it is something that will lessen with time. “Up you go, then,” he adds before she can voice the silly question in her mind, offering out his hands.

Willow takes his offer and pulls herself up off the floor, only to find herself being spun around to face the bed, not Astarion. His hands quickly find their way around her front, his fingers expertly toying with her nipples as he whispers into her ear.

“You were so good for me last night,” he purrs as the feeling of his touch raises gooseflesh all over Willow’s body, “and again this morning, my dearest pet. Now allow me to be good to you.”

“Please do not say pet,” Willow says gently, as she still leans back into his touch. She is testing the waters with her objection, to see how he reacts to setting boundaries. Most of the pet names she adores, and while having sex even some nastier terms are welcomed -- such as after that night in Wyrm’s Rock -- but she has never felt good about being called a pet. That and the wretched consort are off the table, the latter simply because of the way he dangled it in front of her like a prize before they broke up. 

Astarion sighs, so nearly silent that she may not have heard it if his mouth was not still next to her ear. He continues his ministrations with one hand, while the other begins to trail down Willow’s stomach. “My little love, then,” he starts again, and although there is still a bit of condescension to that name, the love part of it balances it out enough for Willow. “How can I be good to you?”

His fingers trail down enough to slide one in between her folds, and he moans into her ear as he rubs a slow rhythm. “This, with my mouth?” He asks, just before licking a trail behind Willow’s ear. She shudders at the feeling, gripping the bed in front of her with a hand for support.

“Or do you want me behind you, just like this?” He asks next, his breath hot against her now-wet neck. “On the bed this time.”

“Fuck,” Willow curses as she whips her head around to capture his smart lips into a kiss, her mouth open and hot against his. He indulges her while he continues the work of his hands, until he chuckles slightly as he pulls only his lips away.

“Like that, then?”

“Yes,” Willow responds quickly, the sound of urgency in her voice. He releases her from his grasp and she scrambles up into the bed, suddenly overcome with desire, more than any of the times before this, somehow.

She realizes as his body hops onto the bed behind her and his hands start to move her into position that the simple acknowledgement of love has made all of the difference. In her room, and after the trip to Wyrm’s Rock prison, they were only fucking. This is different.

Astarion positions her on the bed as they had been while standing, with Willow upright, leaning back against his rock-solid body as he slides the same hand between her legs to circle her clit, and his other hand takes his length to meet it at her entrance. He slots his face into her neck, planting hot kisses behind her ear as she rocks back and forth against him.

“Please,” Willow whimpers, glad for the relief that his hand is giving her but still longing for the feeling of their bodies fully connected.

“Please what?” He responds, his voice teasing but soft. Willow doesn’t respond for a moment, and he offers her a hint. “My precious thing, my darling Willow.”

“Please, Astarion,” she groans back to him, debating in her mind whether or not she wants to follow the order. When he does not give her what she wants, however, she acquiesces out of desperation. “Please, my dove,” Willow cries, her voice cracking over the word she used to call him in their own sweet, private moments. She cannot think for long about why it pains her to say it now even after admitting that they still love each other, because the need her body has for him is immediately met with relief as he slots himself inside of her, releasing an almost animalistic moan at the same time.

He starts out slowly, likely trying to make up for the fact that he forwent his usual preparation with his fingers this time, though it does not matter much to Willow at this moment. The feeling of leaning her body against his like this as he pleases her is intense and incredible, each movement of his hips further grinding his abdomen against her back. Even not facing each other, the caress of his body against hers makes Willow feel just as connected to him as she did last night with their faces pressed together.

“I could have you like this for eternity,” he gasps into her ear as he picks up the pace of his hips, “and never, ever get enough.”

He’s said things like that before, but Willow never thought he could actually mean them. Now, however, he absolutely does mean it, and it sends a warm glow through her entire body to think about. She was silly to ever think for a moment that they could get sick of each other. Not when it feels like this.

Astarion angles himself differently as Willow moans in response to his words, suddenly pummeling the spot just inside of her that makes her legs weak beneath her body. “You say eternity-“ Willow starts to say, before pausing to gasp as the hand not occupying her clit reaches around for a nipple. She falls forward slightly, her hands hitting the bed to hold both of them upright. “But you’re going to make this so fast.”

“Eternity means we can do it again,” he pauses to thrust into that spot, making Willow yelp, “and again,” he does it again, “and again, forever.”

“Bite me,” Willow demands, angling her head upward to catch his lips with her mouth once more despite her request. Astarion kisses her fiercely, the sweet taste of his lips making her smile as she pulls back from him. “Bite me while I come,” she repeats, facing forward again to expose the column of her neck to him.

Instead of going straight for the side of Willow’s neck, Astarion plants kisses down her skin, stopping when he nearly reaches her shoulder and mouthing at the spot as he increases the pace of his thrusts and his hand against her center. Willow lolls her head back as her climax hits her and he sinks his teeth into her skin, his mouth a warm juxtaposition to the freezing cold fangs.

Willow feels a stray droplet of blood falling down her body just before he twitches inside of her, filling her with hot bursts of his seed as he pulls the blood from her spasming body. The heat of his climax is something she is not sure she will ever get enough of; it wasn’t freezing cold before, by any means, but now his entire body burns with living, breathing heat. Life-making heat.

The two of them fall forward on the bed together, Willow comfortably crushed between the sheets and her lover’s sweaty body as she comes back down from her high. She almost feels the need to compliment Astarion for his excellent work, if she did not think his ego was already big enough. His hands abandon their stations and wrap around her body instead as he moans happily into her ear, satisfied. 

My dove. It’s a pet name she came up with early on, born from her referring to him as her silver-haired love, until she realized what a striking resemblance the colors in his hair have to the bird known for being a symbol of love itself. Astarion didn’t care for it at first, probably because he was still showering her in empty, manipulative pet names at the time, but it grew on him. It was the first of the names used for each other that they reserved only for each other, and Willow has never used that one with anyone else. 

The comfort of his arms is pulled away from Willow much too soon, as he gets himself up off of the bed. She rolls over to watch as he walks toward the bathroom, admiring the naked view as he runs the bath. 

This time, she allows him to care for her in the way that he insisted last time, with no arguments against it. Willow and Astarion take their time getting cleaned up, until Willow feels her stomach begin to grumble once more and realizes that it must be afternoon by the time they have finished in the bath.

“I have to work tonight,” she groans as she surveys her messy remnants of clothing from last night, thinking about having to walk back into the Elfsong in the same gown the left in. Not everyone saw her leave, but the tavern owner and Lakrissa both commented on her appearance as she left, and both will likely be present this afternoon, as well.

“Why don’t you take a few more of my clothes?” Astarion asks, still deliciously undressed, but walking to the wardrobe in the room. “You don’t need to bring them back.”

The tone with which he says the words is slightly humored, and Willow feels the embarrassment blossoming in the skin of her face as he turns to look at her with a surreptitious smile. “The coat is mine, now,” she says, trying to sound defiant rather than flustered. “I’ll be expecting matching cuff links next.”

He presents her with the same oversized tunic from earlier, along with a pair of leggings he claims were hemmed too short by the tailor he used to use. They fit well enough on Willow that she’s inclined to believe him, or wonder if he possibly had these here for the express purpose of Willow eventually needing clothing.

Once they are both fully clothed, Willow feels a sense of disappointment over the fact that she now has to leave. She feels a fluttering within her, too, as she eyes the potion still occupying the bedside table, until Astarion seems to notice her gaze and retrieves it.

“Before you leave, I wanted to tell you,” he says, handing off the potion vial, “that this part is your decision.” He straightens his back out, clearly attempting to look serious rather than sexy. “I am ready when you are ready, Willow. Take it or do not take it. But - I will assume that you are taking it, unless you tell me otherwise. I would like to know.”

Willow’s eyes widen with shock as she uncorks the bottle, staring into the bright blue liquid. “Well, I am not ready,” she says with an awkward chuckle, before taking the bottle down in one long sip. It’s unsurprisingly medicinal, but not enough to make her gag like some of the weirder potions she has tried before, such as the one the demanding drow woman in Moonrise Towers made using Willow’s own blood. She still sticks her tongue out for a moment in feigned disgust, buying herself another second to consider the magnitude of what in the hells Astarion has just said.

“We are not ready,” she says next, meeting his gaze again.

Astarion only stares back at her with the same adoration as before, with a furrowed brow of… concern? Or possibly, annoyance?

“When might I see you again?” He asks instead of addressing it, reaching out to run his hand down the length of Willow’s arm.

She shivers at the thought of returning to how they used to be; sleeping next to him every night, waking up to that beautiful face. That was when they were fighting for their lives, of course, and Willow was providing him with his daily allowance of blood, which was as much as she could handle without dying.

But now, they are different. They are both safe, with their own places to stay and work to attend to — whatever it is that Astarion actually does for work, Willow realizes that she is not quite sure and should maybe ask him about it — and really, they have not been back together for that long. Not long at all. 

“Give me two days. After work tonight I would like to tell Felix his nights in my room are well and truly over before he finds out from seeing you with me all the time,” Willow says, watching the little bit of disappointment on his face as she says it. “He’s done nothing to not deserve that.”

“To me, he has,” Astarion grumbles, barely audible as he adjusts his shirt once again. “Fine.”

“And then we can just… see how things go. Planned dates or not,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders. “Come and get me for tea, or to see my shows. Or if you’d just like to see the cat. He’s part of the deal, after all.”

Astarion takes a step forward, his face hovering just above Willow. “I will see you just as soon as the two days are over,” he murmurs, his grumbling annoyance from a moment ago suddenly gone.

Willow closes the gap between their mouths, taking him in slowly one more time before she knows she’s going to walk out the door and start thinking about everything that they’ve just done. About the potential consequences of their promises, and maybe more so about the potential beauty of their future together. About how wonderful it could all be, if only it can actually work out to be that way.

When she pulls away from his warm lips, she finds that familiar wicked, satisfied smile across his face as he takes her hand to lead her out the door. Willow turns down the offer of a carriage in favor of walking, because she always thinks better while walking, and each time she turns her head to look back at the front door of the palace she sees him still there, watching her with a smile until she descends the wall into the lower city.

Suddenly, Willow feels as if it may be a long, long two days ahead of her.

smut in part inspired by this finishing mid bite twitter post by @ darIngpetra (because writers can benefit from pose studies too) 

!!!this is NSFW, beautiful artwork!!!

(link might only work if you have the Twitter/X app)

Chapter Text

Astarion 

As soon as Willow is out of sight, off into the lower city to no doubt spend the next two days thinking and writing and likely chatting with Shadowheart about her thoughts, Astarion turns back into his home to try and find something to distract him from ruminating too much, himself.

He finds his way back to his office as he attempts to not focus on her claims of wanting multiple children. She said something about it being nice for one child to have a friend, or maybe a few, which is more than a couple, and despite his best efforts to not do the math, one plus a few quite easily equals at least four. Astarion has always known that Willow desires a family - or at least he has known since they first met Meli and Mirkon in the druid’s grove - but that is pure, unadulterated insanity.

Even more insane is the fact that Astarion told her that the decision of when is quite literally in her hands as she took the potion. The split second decision to say that was born from the discussion about having a few, when Astarion began to realize that the sooner they meet her requirements, the sooner he can turn her. He must present himself as ready and hope to the gods below that he will be when the time finally comes.

He thought, however, that she would chastise him for it and tell him that it must be a decision they make together, but he realized as he saw the look on her face that it was certainly not a small gesture to her.

Willow is brilliant. Willow is sharp and witty and smarter than most people assume, given her silly nature. But she is incredibly impulsive, and Astarion is not willing to accept the ego-crush of taking back his statement. It is in her hands now. Her impulsive, unpredictable hands. 

The letters piled atop his desk rip open easily with the blade of a dagger as Astarion searches for something entertaining or interesting enough to make him stop doing math. Gale has written him about the difficulty some of his students are having with exams - not interesting enough, and now Astarion is adding up how many years it could take to conceive and produce at least four children.

At least five or six years, right? Surely she would want some amount of recovery time in between. That is not a lot of time when they have eternity, but it is a lot of time he must spend protecting her fragile, human body, and a lot of time for her to decide that she is, in fact, going to get what she wants and run away from him. 

This is the worst thought that Astarion is having, and the one that he keeps trying to push out of his mind. If Willow gets what she wants first - which she must, because only the gods know if it would even be possible for her as a vampire - then she has the ability to leave as soon as Astarion has completed his purpose.

Just as she left him before.

Maybe that has been her plan all along, and she is only trying to fool him by voicing false desires for marriage. Maybe this will be the final nail in the coffin, to her; to fool him with the idea of eternity, to allow him to create life within her when all he has ever been capable of is death, and then rip it all away again.

Out of sheer curiosity and desperation, Astarion begins ripping open the letters addressed from Melantisa - the girl he so stupidly took with him to the Elfsong in an attempt to make Willow jealous - just to see what she may have to write him about. The older couple of letters, dated a mere handful of days after the entire debacle at the tavern, are desperate attempts to get back into Astarion’s good graces.

Dearest Lord Ancunin,

Please forgive me for my bad behavior.

Astarion chuckles as he reads the two letters, full of Melantisa’s sorry excuse for an apology. She tried very hard with them, but she maybe does not realize how well-versed in manipulation Astarion himself is. Her attempts would almost be endearing to him, had she chosen to get off of him the first time he asked on that horrible night in the throne room.

The other letters from her are more recently dated, within the last tenday. Astarion only skims the first couple, which are short requests from Melantisa as to if Astarion could point her in the direction of any other vampires along the Sword Coast. Obviously, he would have ignored these requests, regardless. The final letter, however, piques his interest.

Lord Ancunin,

This will be my last time writing out your stupid name. I thought you may like to know that I have found another vampire in a neighboring city, and I will be sending to them with my request.

My cousin at the Fist told me about you and that bard spending a night in the prison. I was not aware that you were such drunken criminals. Please do not send for me. 

Melantisa 

Astarion snorts, thinking about this girl showing up at the door of a vampire similar to his old master and asking for the gift, just as many people did at the door of this palace during his time as a spawn here. Surely she will end up enslaved as he was, or simply as an afternoon snack. This is nothing, to him. Not when he is about to have everything he wants.

He throws the letters into the bin under his desk, relieved at least to find that they were entertaining enough to take his mind off of the worst of his thoughts, and the mathematics Willow had his head spinning with. Surely he can weasel his way out of that many children. Two is a much more humble, manageable number, and Willow may be in agreement once she actually has to carry them.

Willow’s suggestion that his first concern in waiting to turn her into a vampire would be her age was hilarious. Astarion himself does not look young next to Willow, just as she said, and vampirism could likely solve any issues that arise with her knees, or other human afflictions common with age. He prides himself on the way he was able to redirect the conversation, making her believe that his most significant issue with waiting is his concern for her safety, and not his deep-rooted belief that she will leave him again. 

Willow is more delicate as a mortal than she will be as a vampire, so being concerned for her is not unfounded. Even as a spawn Astarion could have been impaled, starved, deprived, tortured - and he was many of those things, many times - and still live. Willow can be very easily killed. 

Although his new position as the only Vampire Ascendant has yet to bring bloodthirsty enemies to his door, Astarion has no reason to believe that it won’t. People talk, devils talk, and the news of him will spread. Just the same, the news of him taking a mortal lover will spread, as well. No vampire takes a permanent, single mortal lover, and it would not be hard for an adversary to do the math. She is his weakness.

A new thought crosses through Astarion’s mind as he considers this, eyeing the stupid letters from Melantisa once again, where they now sit in the bin. He knows no other vampires along the sword coast, but knows that they exist, from his memories of the former patriarch of this very palace complaining about them. Astarion, the most powerful vampire in all of Faerǔn, has no reason to fear any of the lowly, regular neighboring vampires. They should fear him.

What better way to distract himself from his thoughts than to procure information on these neighboring, lesser vampires? For the moment, Astarion has no reason to believe anyone is going to try and hurt Willow, but it could do no harm to assert his dominance before any get the idea.

This, and the damned party he must continue planning, should be enough to occupy his mind over the next two days.

Chapter Text

Willow

And I will be yours forevermore, because I love you.

Willow cannot help but feel a little bit sick to her stomach over her promises as she wanders the streets of the lower city, touching her fingers to goods that shopkeepers and street peddlers have displayed as she tries to think. There are parents with children shopping, armed guards picking up food before hurrying back toward Wyrm’s Crossing, and sellers shouting about their deals. The bustling noise of other people, of other lives happening around her make her feel a little more grounded to reality, but not enough to make her heart stop hammering within her chest. 

Is this what love is supposed to look like? To continuously make deals and bargains with each other, attempting to make both of them happy and satisfied enough to stay?

She knows more than she knows anything else that she loves Astarion. Love is not a logical thought, it’s simply a feeling that grips her heart, as harshly now as it did all of those days she spent fighting at his side and talking him down from his fears, as different as he is. The mere sight of his face after months apart ripped her wounds open anew, that night she first saw him at the Elfsong. Every touch and every gesture, particularly every action over the course of the last day, have each been a stitch toward sewing her back together. But the way that they are binding themselves to each other now - is that setting them up for disaster and bitterness later? 

Willow imagines that he gives her children. She pictures a miniature version of each of them — a round-faced, dark-haired little girl and a boy with curly, platinum locks — running around the giant house. She can see, almost hear the little girl running into her father’s arms and spinning around in the garden, whimsical laughs echoing from both of their lips, and the image makes hot tears threaten to pour from her eyes. As beautiful as it is, inevitably they will grow up, and even if Willow begs them to stay they may decide to leave of their own accord. What becomes of Willow then? 

She is not afraid of Astarion. He is powerful, and he can do great harm to others but never, ever to her — aside from the accidental dizziness and bruising from his bite early on, before they mastered the art of it. There are only two times Willow can pick out in her mind that she has been genuinely scared of him; the first time they met, when he held a knife to her jugular and, well, when they broke up. Neither of those times did he actually hurt her physically. The second time he only left very deep, jagged emotional scarring — a pain that Willow is now quite sure can only be overcome by being together again. 

She is afraid, however, of losing herself under his looming figure. Right now, she longs for motherhood, but what comes after?

After with Astarion means eternity, not simply another few decades. Comedic remarks about her knees aside, as a vampire she could still have the youthfulness to return to her life as a bard after the child rearing comes to a natural end, if that is what she wants. But what does he expect from her? Her life will be tied to his for eternity as his spawn, so it has to be something she thinks about. He claims he could give her the ability to walk in the sun as he does, but could he, or would he ever take it away, should she make a decision he disagrees with? 

Willow shudders at the idea of him she conjured in her head when she thought of him while away, in Avernus or Reithwin. She was sure that by the time she came back to Baldurs Gate he would have a harem of lovers, a horde of spawn around him to make him forget that they were ever in love. And he hasn’t done that — yet. Eternity is a long time, and Willow’s brain can spiral with doubts about whether or not she could entertain him for all of it, be enough for him for all of it. She has never thought of herself as being terribly strict, and she would have been thrilled to watch him be taken by Halsin had he been up to it at the time of the druid’s proposition, but on the other hand, she had a lot of feelings when it came to seeing him with that girl at the— 

“Aye, are you going to buy that?” A woman snaps at her, pulling Willow out of her thoughts. She looks up from the velvet dress she has been rubbing between her fingers for far too long to see the irritated shopkeeper staring her down, and feels her cheeks flush with heat.

Willow yanks the dress up from its display and brings it to the woman, pulling out her coin purse to pay. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit distracted,” she says to the shopkeeper.

The woman is silent for a moment as she accepts Willow’s coins, her eyes scanning her up and down until she appears to have an epiphany. “You’re that bard girl,” she says, pleased with herself as she begins carefully folding the dress. “I’m so sorry for snapping at you, dear. You must have a lot on your mind.”

Willow’s face scrunches in confusion. It is not uncommon for people to identify her as one of the Elfsong bards, or as a war hero out in public, but the additional comment from the woman is strange. “What do you mean?”

The woman laughs, handing Willow her new purchase and her change. “Saw you in the Gazette this morning. Gods, are you a lucky one.”

Willow accepts the dress from her hands, even more confused at the mention of the Baldurs Mouth Gazette. She almost asks the woman if she has a copy, but now she can only think of running back to the safety of her room and hiding her face away. “Thank you.”

“A handsome one, he is. And he’s just inherited that big palace on the hill,” the woman outstretches her arms, dramatizing the size of the mansion. “Anyway, enjoy your day, young lady. You’d better come show me the ring when you get it.” 

Willow returns the shopkeeper’s beaming smile with a more cautious one before turning away, walking out of the small storefront she doesn’t even remember wandering into when she had been so lost in her thoughts. The garment she picked is red and velvet and screams Astarion, no doubt what drove her there in the first place. Maybe he’ll like to see it on her. 

She makes a beeline for the Elfsong tavern next, only stopping to purchase some comfort foods for herself and fish for Ansur from a vendor. She will stow herself away until it’s time to perform, and hope to the gods above that she can have conversations with her friends and with Felix about Astarion before the Gazette starts the conversation for her.

No one else reads it daily, right?

Except Willow. She does. Just not today.

Willow is able to keep the incessant thoughts at bay for the rest of the afternoon, by way of practicing for her performance tonight and scribbling down notes for melodies she makes up with her desperate, shaking fingers. It has been a long time since she played the same day after being made dizzy by Astarion’s dietary needs — though she used to have to do it all the time — so she can tell herself that the practicing is only done to make sure she can handle it. Not to keep herself from falling apart. 

Tonight, she wears a long-sleeved dress with a high neckline, meant to cover her bite mark and make her look the part of a well and truly taken woman to Felix, who has made no secret of his adoration for that particular part of her body. Not that simply covering up has ever kept him from approaching her before, but Willow hopes it may have some subconscious effect on him when she actually breaks the news. 

As Willow approaches the bar, Felix does not greet her in his usual manner. He still hands her a mug of mead and offers her a small, controlled smile, but no flirtatious comments or hand touches before the start of her show. The tavern is exceptionally busy tonight, with patrons slapping down coin at the bar and hollering Willow’s name, so she chalks it up to that before she begins her usual routine. 

The comfort that could not be found on her walk around the lower city earlier can be found in Willow’s performance. Though it is possible that the room is extra full tonight because of the article in the Gazette, the whistles and applause are too loud for Willow to hear any names other than her own. In this space, she is only Willow, the Bravest Bard in Baldurs Gate!, not the other half of the newest (as far as they know), most heroic couple on the sword coast. All of the screams she wishes she could release exit through her flute in the form of screaming high notes as her boots tap the wooden floor with each step to keep tempo. 

Astarion is powerful, but so is Willow, when she can make herself feel like it. She forgot it sometimes when she became more of a bonafide healer than a fighter, but her performers’ appeal to people and fiends alike is the only thing that kept them alive, sometimes. In this, she is confident. 

However, just as it always does, the comfort of performing comes to an end once Willow takes her last bow, despite taking a couple more requests at the end of her performance than she usually does as the overnight bard glares at her from a corner for stealing the coin that could have been his from those extra few songs.

Felix does not come to Willow with a glass of water at the end of her show, which is not particularly strange, since he only does that when he plans on asking to come back up to her room. Instead, Willow approaches him at his seat at the bar where he has been sitting since the end of his shift, sipping on a beer.

“Felix?” She says softly as she approaches, not wanting to startle him.

He jumps slightly anyway, turning his head. “Hmm?”

“Do you have a minute?”

Felix rolls his eyes as he returns to his mug, and Willow realizes that he has never made such a face at her.

“Felix?” She says again, leaning against the bar to face him.

“I’m not your boyfriend, Wills,” he says, his words slurring together. He’s drunk. Or at least, tipsy. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m ‘appy for you.” He smiles, but his eyes are bleary and bloodshot.

“What are you talking about?” Willow asks, though she already knows.

The man tending the bar, Felix’s friend who has clearly been listening, slides a copy of the Baldurs Mouth Gazette across the sticky top of the bar.

Baldurs Gate Heroes In Love: New Performance Hall to be Built Next Year

“Oh,” Willow says as she finally reads the headline. The stupid, obvious headline lacking in whimsy — really? That’s all they could come up with? She scans the article next, reading the interview one of the chairmen of the music hall did with the Mouth about the dedication. She had assumed it was not Astarion who broke the news to the rag, but it’s nice to still have confirmation.

Lord Ancunin came to me and said he needed to do this for the woman that he loves, Chairman Merryfoot told Lens, our journalist. It was such a beautiful gesture. The Great Music Hall cannot wait to unveil this dedication to our heroic bard, as soon as next year.

“It’s fine, Wills,” Felix says, pushing the paper further towards her. “I jus’ didn’t know you wanted somethin’ so serious. I could ‘ave-“ he pauses, shaking his head, “well, don’t matter anymore.”

“Can we still be friends, Felix?” Willow asks, feeling tears prick at her eyes for reasons she cannot explain right at this moment.

Felix snorts. “Sure. Not tonight. But come tomorrow.” He holds up his beer before taking another sip, signaling to Willow that he’s ready to end this conversation.

Willow snatches the paper off of the sticky bar top before heading back up to her room, and some of the tears are allowed to slowly escape from her eyes. She realizes what they are from as soon as she crosses the threshold, and finds privacy once more.

Relief.

Willow sleeps well through the night, nervous but content with the results of her night with Astarion and the conversation with Felix. It does not feel as if her world is falling apart, as it did this morning as her brain swirled on her walk back home. It feels as if maybe it is all falling together. 

In the morning, Willow throws up her hair and gets herself half-dressed for breakfast, expecting to continue basking in those feelings of relief while she tries to get things done today. She definitely needs to journal, and then maybe go out and do some more useful shopping than she did when her mind was scrambled. She’s considering stopping to see Carm at Carm’s Garms, checking what else might be available that screams Astarion like that little velvet dress so that she can throw herself into this life like the performer she is, when something catches her eye as she opens the door into the hallway. 

Any amount of relief Willow was able to achieve is short lived, as she feels her blood run cold at the sight. 

A rat. A dead fucking rat left in front of her door.

Chapter Text

Willow

A rat. A dead fucking rat left in front of her door.

Willow peers up and down the hallway, finding no other morning gifts for any of the Elfsong patrons on her same floor. Her entire body begins shaking with shock and fear, staring back down at the putrid, limp creature. This was purposeful.

Her first instinct is to continue her path downstairs into the tavern, but her stomach no longer wants for breakfast. With each step she takes down the hall, and each creak underfoot as she descends the staircase, she is on the hunt for who or what did this, and why.

“Alan!” Willow calls as soon as she reaches the kitchen on the main floor, finding the owner of the tavern in the back washing dishes.

The man looks back at her so sleepily she wonders if he’s just woken up, or if he’s simply been cleaning all night. “Morning, Willow,” he says with a sigh. As soon as Willow gets close enough to him that he can spot the shaking of her body, his eyes widen, pushing away the sleepiness. “Is something wrong?”

“Someone left a dead rat on my doorstep, Alan,” Willow says, trying to keep her voice under control through her shakiness. She crosses her arms in front of her chest, not to appear combative but to simply hold herself together.

“Why would anyone do that?” He asks, dropping the dishes he had been scrubbing back into the steaming water of the sink.

“I don’t know!” Willow responds, shaking her head. Her own eyes widen as she considers the events of last night, and she looks to the ceiling before looking back to Alan. “I ended… whatever it was with Felix last night, but I thought he took it well-“

“Felix was taken home by his roommates,” Alan grumbles, as if still angry just thinking about it. “I did not realize that was why he was drinking himself to the point of throwing up on my floor. But it could not have been him.”

“Then— then who would have done it?” Willow stutters. She feels relieved by the fact that it could not have been Felix — trying not to think too hard about the fact that he got drunk like that because of her — but not any more reassured about the fact that someone left a dead rat at her door.

Alan seems to have something cross his mind, as he opens his mouth to speak, before shutting it again.

“What?” Willow demands, taking on a sharp tone. “Tell me.”

He sighs. “The article, in the Gazette,” he says, before sighing and leaning himself against the sink, as if surrendering to this being a longer conversation than he had wished. “I figured it would make a few of the patrons upset, but I never would have thought something like this would happen.”

“Upset? Over what?” Willow asks, crinkling her face in confusion.

Alan clears his throat as his eyes dart to the floor, clearly feeling uncomfortable. “Part of your… appeal, Willow, to some of the people that come to the Elfsong is… well, that you are available, so to speak.”

Willow’s mouth gapes open, trying to process what the tavern owner is saying. “But I’m not— I’m not selling my body, Alan, I’m playing music.”

He holds a hand up as he shrugs. “I know. But that may not be how all of them see it.”

“So you think a patron left a dead rat on my doorstep because they realized they can’t sleep with me?” Willow asks, trying to process how ridiculous such a thing sounds. 

Alan shrugs again. “That would be my first thought. Some old bloke jealous of what they saw in the Gazette.”

Willow shakes her head, as if trying to shake off the entire idea that this is even happening. But the next moment she is still standing in the kitchen talking to Alan about the rat, and her head is now spinning from the vehemence with which she shook it, so it is all decidedly real.

“Can I move rooms?” She asks next, trying to think of some kind of solution.

Alan cringes uncomfortably. “The only rooms I’ve got available for the next tenday are the short term ones without any bath, and I don’t think you want those.”

Willow shudders at the idea of the rooms the most drunk patrons use, with no bath to clean themselves up in after they do whatever they are doing in there. “What do I do, then?”

“Wait for the news to blow over,” he says, turning back to the sink full of dishes. “You still had excellent turnout last night. Let’s just hope that whoever was angry enough to leave that present for you will stop coming,” he pauses, chuckling a little bit before adding, “Maybe have your fellow hero stay with you for a while. He’s a bit scarier than you.”

“Scary?” Willow asks, but Alan only shrugs again as he continues washing dishes. Astarion can be scary, sure, but for Alan to call him that? “Fine, then. I’ll figure something out. But if I start finding rats every morning, we will have a problem.”

“Sure,” Alan says nonchalantly, still not looking up from the dishes.

Willow groans as she turns away from him, stopping to take some biscuits and coffee from a tray in the kitchen before going back up to her room, where the dead creature still lies in front of room 68. If it were not so putrid and rotted, she would consider allowing Ansur to take care of it for her, but she picks up a rag from her room and wraps the little rat in it before taking it to the bin downstairs, so as not to stink up her own room.

She considers sending for Shadowheart or Astarion immediately, once again feeling as if she must speak to someone right now. Willow liked living on her own at first, but is now finding it quite miserable to have to send for someone every time she has a problem or simply wants to talk to anyone other than her cat. Ansur is precious, but he is no Tara when it comes to making conversation, even if Willow deigns to cast a speak with animals spell out of desperation. At the end of the day, he is merely a kitten Shadowheart found on the street and not the best to look for counsel from. 

When she and her companions all traveled together there was always someone to talk to, even before the development of her relationship with Astarion and even after that was over. When she needed advice on a spell, she had Gale; when she wanted an outside opinion on a melody, Volo was somehow — annoyingly, often times — always with them; and for general friendship needs, she had Shadowheart, Karlach, hells, she had any of them except for Astarion after the fact. She lived on her own before she was abducted by the nautiloid, but now she does not know how she ever managed it.

She pushes the thought out of her head for now, deciding that she will try not to make a big deal out of this and simply bring it up to Astarion tomorrow, when he promised to come and see her anyway.

After all, it probably was just an angry patron of the Elfsong, right? Willow knows well enough, especially after that night out with Astarion at an entirely different tavern, how some people within the city view her performing. Not everyone in the city is happy with the more modern skirt lengths Willow tends to wear, particularly for her shows. Alan must be on to something, if he seemed so confident that that is all it was. Some drunken man, upset that his favorite bard that he thought was a temptress that he had a chance of sleeping with has been suddenly thrust into a very public relationship.

Willow scans the article in the Gazette again, marveling at how this could even qualify as news to the reporters at Baldurs Mouth. The same reporters who once threatened to publish a horrible piece about Willow and her friends when they killed a shapechanger posing as Dribbles the clown, now hailing herself and Astarion as heroes, and writing about them as if they are local celebrities. It’s unreal.

Yesterday’s Gazette does not seem to have any other interesting bits within it, and as Willow skims through the boring articles it begins to make more sense why they chose that story as front page news. It must have been a slow day, it seems, with the other main articles being a drawn-out piece about an event being held by the church of the Wavemother and an interview with Figaro Facemaker about tailoring, of all things. She can only think of one person who would be interested in reading about another man’s thoughts on tailoring, and he does not regularly read the Gazette, last she knew.

Willow resigns herself to spending the rest of the day alone, flipping through the newspaper and different books and hoping that Astarion will break his promise and show up early. He doesn’t, of course, because he’s been trying so hard to please her, something Willow has been swiveling between feeling good about and feeling guilty for as she glazes over the words on the pages in front of her eyes rather than actually reading them.

Maybe the Astarion she saw within the music hall is the real Astarion. Maybe his time away from her has made him sweeter, though it’s hard to believe that when they were still arguing with each other so vehemently on that first night they slept together again. Or maybe it’s not the real him, and he is simply boarding himself up for her, much like he did when they first met and he thought he needed to seduce Willow for his own safety.

She liked the real Astarion better, at that time. His horrible humor, his dislike of some of the others’ penchant for getting sidetracked. They butted heads over Willow’s need to protect the children in the grove, sure, but they agreed on nearly everything else; he didn’t want to be a hero at the beginning, and neither did she. It made her wonder why he ever felt the need to seduce her like that. She would have given him her blood, regardless. She would have fallen for him, regardless, with that rogueish smile he gave her more than anyone else. 

Willow never cared that Astarion was manipulating her at the beginning of their relationship, because it ended up with him falling for her, anyway. Is it possible, then, that the same thing could happen this time, if he truly is putting on an act once again? That he could trick himself into being a good partner, a good father by way of his own manipulation tactics?

If she is willing to give up her beating heart, why should she feel guilty over the fact that she thinks he’s not being his full, slightly diabolical self? She wouldn’t be her full self as his spawn, either. If her inkling about him faking niceties is correct, then she would be whoever he wants her to be as his spawn. Wonderfully obedient.

Willow would be a spawn, but she would have every other thing she wants. Right now in particular, she finds herself distracting her mind from the rat with thoughts of Astarion being next to her. Even before he reached godlike amounts of power, she always felt safer next to him. Willow is not weak compared to the average person — as further proven by the recent tavern brawl — but she is a performer who happens to be able to cast spells, not a trained fighter and definitely not a quick, incredibly strong vampire. Though… she could be.

Thoughts of Astarion. Thoughts of the future. Willow began swirling them around in her brain to distract from her worries about the gift left at her door, but now they only seem to be making everything worse. Her life has not been simple since the day she was snatched up by that nautiloid tentacle, and she cannot help but catastrophize everything. She wants to believe it was simply an angry patron of the Elfsong, but that explanation sounds too easy to be true. 

Regardless, Willow falls asleep eventually, alone and scared.

Chapter Text

Astarion

In the absence of Willow, Astarion throws himself into his party planning as well as his new intentions with obtaining information on other vampires that reside along the Sword Coast. For someone who has lived for over two centuries, he is finding it rather difficult to distract himself for a mere couple of days, and he has been struggling with keeping himself and his thoughts away from her ever since they reunited. He hopes that he occupies her brain as much as she dances around his, while she writes and performs at the Elfsong. 

On the first afternoon after she leaves, Astarion wracks his brain for the best way to quickly find names and locations of other covens, and he remembers a single name; enough to search through the more useful journals and directories he has not destroyed within the study until he can find what he needs for a sending spell, and has one of the servants request a bit of time. She shows up, of course, at the most inopportune of times -- in the middle of Astarion being fitted for a new suit jacket for the party to come. 

He can hear the rapping of the fist against the door from the drawing room, and as he begins to piece himself together he can then hear the guards shouting after her as she barges through them. Typical vampire behavior.

Marceline, a tall, vampiric woman of Elven descent meets Astarion in the middle of the long foyer, evidently deciding for herself where she was going to meet him for the meeting he invited her to. She served as an advisor of sorts to Cazador for as long as Astarion can recall, though he is not sure exactly why. She was always gruff and cold with the former master, which is the only reason why he has deigned to invite her back into this palace. That, and he has never seen her with a mindless vampire spawn on her arm like Cazador’s other colleagues would bring along with them. She comes alone.

“Marceline,” Astarion purrs with all of the reverence he can muster, offering to take her hand as she crosses through the palace. She declines the offer, keeping her arms crossed over a thick book she holds against her chest. Astarion thinks briefly that Willow would laugh at the sight of this woman, with her long, dark hair and dark makeup lining her eyes and lips -- she's like a storybook vampire, she would likely say, and she would be right. 

“I am assuming you have called me here for a reason,” Marceline says with a sigh, her voice echoing as she walks through the remainder of the foyer. It almost feels as if Astarion is following her as she strides to the dining room. “And I am assuming Cazador Szarr is dead?”

Astarion swallows back the bile in his throat, withholding the growl he would have uttered with anyone else who would dare to speak that name within his home. “Yes,” he says simply instead, answering both questions. 

The woman suddenly reaches for Astarion’s hand, touching it for only a brief second before he snatches it away. She looks back at him with a small, surprising smile across her lips as she continues to walk. “The Vampire Ascendant,” she says, just before Astarion pushes the door open to the dining room. “He always talked about it. What a wicked spawn you were.”

Astarion tries not to allow the look of befuddlement to cross his face, but she must sense it somehow. How did this woman know the intimate details of the ritual? When not even the spawn living within this wretched place knew of it, or the disgusting secrets lurking just below? 

“No time for answering questions,” she says as she makes herself comfortable at the large dining table, where a goblet of wine already waits for her. “What is it that you have called upon me for?”

“Information,” Astarion says gruffly, taking his own goblet of wine into his hand but not drinking it. He does not sit, either, merely leaning against the table.

“Obviously,” Marceline responds, but there is a distinct lack of annoyance in her tone. She brings her cup to her lips but does not yet sip, placing both elbows on the table in a way that pushes the bosom of her dress up higher. No, this woman is trying to appear flirtatious. “Information on what, exactly?”

The shift in her demeanor is disarming, and uncomfortable. It is obvious that it came from her sudden discovery of Astarion’s Ascended features, and likely a thirst for power on her part. He has to resist the urge to tell her off or become suddenly cold to her, knowing that the information in the little book she was hugging to her chest is likely incredibly important to him.

Astarion waves his free hand around in an attempt to appear more childish, hoping that will turn her heated gaze off of him without making her upset. “Certainly you know of the other vampire patriarchs of the Sword Coast?”

The woman smiles, fangs glinting in the harsh overhead lighting. “Certainly I do.”

Astarion tries to hurry through the conversation, and tries to avoid the red fire of her eyes on him as she describes some of the most powerful vampiric creatures across Faerûn; quite suddenly, he finds himself missing the blue of Willow’s eyes, as she does not stare at him like this. Even while hovering over top of him or caged beneath him, Willow’s eyes are never filled with such a hunger as this woman stares at Astarion with, burning into him as so many eyes have before. The clock on the wall ticks away ever so slowly as Marceline seems to pontificate for ages on each figure.

The information she shares is helpful, of course. Astarion eventually sits to begin taking notes on the different names, their locations, how to reach them and any other details that seem like they may become relevant. The woman begins to prattle on about less important details like family trees and histories — interestingly, excluding all information about her own — as the time edges closer to daybreak, and Astarion stands from his seat once more. 

“I appreciate your counsel, Marceline,” he drawls, offering out a hand for her to stand with, as well. She takes the hand, gripping it with exceptional force, and Astarion can feel her attempting to tug her toward him as she stands. “I would imagine you must be going before the sun rises,” he adds, not allowing his body to be moved by her. 

“You are incredibly strong,” she muses, seemingly unabashed by her failure. “Please, feel free to call on me whenever you are in need of counsel. But do know, Vampire Ascendant,” she steps ever closer to him, her lips nearly touching his ear, “I do not work for free. And I do not require gold.”

Astarion laughs uncomfortably, stepping back from her and releasing her hand. She does not want to let go, and he has to nearly shake her off. “What was he paying you with? I do not recall ever being your courtesan.” He can no longer hide the disgust in his voice, now that she has made herself quite clear.

Marceline maintains the smile on her face, a wretched little grin. “I have a preference for power, and I asked for the strongest. You must not have been, at the time,” she shrugs as she begins to walk toward the door, as if this conversation means little to her. “You are different now.”

“Different enough to kill you right here,” Astarion seethes before she can reach the door, debating in his mind whether or not to lunge for her. She’s a vampire, sure, but he is undoubtedly stronger than her. The most disarming thing about her is that he is unsure where all of this unmoved confidence comes from, as she stares back at him with a smirk. 

“And lose the best source of information you have?” She asks, pausing as she touches the door leading out of the dining room. “An interesting choice.”

It’s a mistake, maybe, but Astarion allows Marceline to walk away, before falling into a dining room chair to try and keep himself together. Memories of being used as a pet run through his mind — not for this woman in particular, since he evidently did not suit her needs, but it was a common practice nonetheless. What does a wealthy patriar offer another wealthy patriar in return for a favor? Usually more gold, since they never seem to be sick of it, but oftentimes Cazador would encounter someone who did not want for gold. They wanted for one of his pets, knowing that they could never say no. 

Do not call me pet.

He would never impose this onto Willow. He would never make her suffer the way that he suffered. The way that he was forced to have sex with people he never wanted to touch, forced to lead people he would have maybe liked to spend time with back to this very palace to what he believed to be their death that very night, only to find out later that they sat starved and miserable for years, decades, some of them over a century.

Until that night.

The night that he gained his freedom, thought he gained everything he had ever wanted, only to have Willow crush it all so soon afterward. Briefly, he wonders how this encounter may have gone differently if Willow had never walked away from him in the first place — would she have been at his side, teeth barred at the heat of this woman’s gaze? Or would she be waiting for his return, in their room that would be a sanctuary rather than a hollow shell with blank walls, ready to show him comfort? He would not show her his weaknesses, and he would not ever cry in front of her again, but her presence would be better than the emptiness he feels now, alone at this table. 

Astarion stands to peer out of one of the front windows, watching as Marceline snaps at one of the guards at the door as she enters the carriage called for her. As the morning light shines across her long, raven black hair, Astarion suddenly stops his habitual breathing. 

She is not burned in the sun. 

Chapter Text

Astarion

Astarion keeps his word on seeing Willow just as soon as the two days are over, arriving to the Elfsong the morning of the third day since he’s seen her with a humble bouquet of freshly-picked roses in tow. He feels nervous again, just as he did before their silly date to the tavern and before his big reveal about the music hall, and it is still an awful feeling. 

He has not rested well since the encounter with Marceline in his home, which is not helping matters, either. Astarion quickly switched from trying not to think about Willow to only thinking about her, just to keep the other thoughts at bay. The image of her bright smile when she opens the door for him has run through his mind several times over the last day, and he pictures it again as he taps his knuckles to the hollowed wood a couple of times.

It’s rather late into the morning, which Astarion did purposefully to allow her to sleep in after working last night. He’s ever-familiar with her routines and preferences, and her greatest preference is for a solid amount of sleep. Still, when Willow opens the door, her hair is unbrushed and messy and she wears a blue, cotton nightgown she must have worn to bed, telling from the creases across the fabric. 

Her eyes dart from Astarion down to the floor briefly, before returning to him with a look of… relief, maybe, across her face. It isn’t a frown, but it also is not the beaming smile he had pictured on her. “Hi,” she says casually, before stepping aside to allow him into the room. Despite how calm she tries to make her voice sound, the beat of her heart betrays her with its hard and fast pounding. 

Astarion crosses the threshold and allows Willow to close the door before presenting her with the flowers from behind his back, which makes an exhausted — not elated — smile appear on her face. “Beautiful,” she sighs as she admires the flowers, “thank you.”

“Is something troubling you, my darling?” He asks as she sticks her nose into the roses for a long, dramatic sniff of them. 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she says, though she does not meet his eyes, still staring into the flowers. “I’ve barely slept, so I’m not sure how much fun I will be today.”

“Tell me what it is,” he insists, taking the bouquet from her nose and placing it on her nightstand, where the flowers he sent her after their first night together are still lying, now wilted.

“I can’t put them in a vase, because of Ansur,” she says quickly, before Astarion even thinks to wonder why she would have left them sitting there. “He knocks everything over.”

Astarion feels a warmness within him at the realization that she was concerned for his feelings about the flowers. “I am not worried about that,” he says, maintaining the crease of concern between his brows as he turns back to Willow. “What has you losing sleep?”

Astarion’s first thought is that Willow is having doubts about their reconciliation, and that’s why she seems less than delighted to see him. No big, toothy smile for him, no kiss, no warm hug. His heart grips within his chest at the thought of it, unsure if he actually wants to know, should that be the truth. But she still has the wilted flowers, and that is enough to keep his eyes on her, waiting for a response. 

She sighs with defeat before hopping onto her bed to sit, her cat following right after her to rub his head against her leg and beg for scratches, which Willow fails to provide as she clasps her hands together. “Someone left a dead rat at my doorstep the night after I left your house.”

“A rat?” Astarion balks, his eyes bulging at her statement.

Willow nods. “Alan says it was probably some patron angry about that article in the Gazette about us—“

“What?” Astarion looks around the room, knowing Willow typically gets her copy of the Baldurs Mouth rag to read through herself. He finds it lying on the floor next to the bed and snatches up the paper. On the front page, he finds an illustration of the giant music hall, followed by a dramatically stylized title script. 

Baldurs Gate Heroes In Love: New Performance Hall to be Built Next Year

Astarion only scans the article within the newspaper, enough to know that the chairman of the music hall used his donation as an opportunity to garner attention off of their two names. Surely now every rich patriarch in the upper city is going to be inquiring about making a donation that large to impress their own wife and feed their own ego, to line the chairman’s pockets. The bastard. He drops the paper back to the floor, uninterested in whatever else it may hold, and meets Willow’s eyes again.

“Why did you not send for me?” Astarion asks immediately, feeling anger blooming within his chest despite the exhausted look on her face. He tries to quell the feelings of heat within him with a deep breath, but his thoughts about the chairman, and whoever did this, and Willow deciding she was better off not telling him about it all build up to a crescendo of outrage that he cannot quite contain. “Someone left a dead animal outside your door — that is a threat, Willow — and you did not tell me?”

Willow’s tired worry quickly evaporates from her face, confusion taking its place. “It happened yesterday, and I knew you were coming today—“

“They could have hurt you,” Astarion interrupts, stepping toward Willow enough to touch her cheek with a hand. He is gentle despite the growing anger within him, and Willow’s expression softens immediately as he knew it would. “Have you any idea who would have done such a thing?”

Willow shakes her head, gently enough to not move his hand from her face. “I thought maybe Felix because it was after I talked to him, but Alan said there’s no way. Guess he drank himself nearly to death that night.”

That answers one contentious question Astarion was anticipating asking her today. Good.

“He thinks someone — a fan — got mad that I’m not available anymore,” she grumbles, looking clearly still upset over the idea of it. “Stupidest shit I’ve ever heard of. I don’t know a single other bard dealing with any of this.”

“Well,” Astarion says tentatively, knowing how delicate she likely is right now, “I do not know another bard — or anyone, for that matter — as beautiful as you are.”

She smiles slightly, but her face is still forlorn. “Well, thank you, but that doesn’t exactly make me feel better about the entire thing.”

“Did Alan have any suggestions?”

Willow’s little smile quickly turns back into a frown. An angry one, at that. “No. He doesn’t even have any rooms I can move to. He suggested that I send for you to stay with me,” she rolls her eyes, as if it’s a ridiculous suggestion. Astarion only stares back at her, waiting for his thoughts to register within her brain.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says as soon as she seems to realize what he’s thinking. “I’m not helpless.”

“Then why could you not sleep?” He asks, sliding his hand off of her face to run it through his own hair. Like this — in her oversized nightgown, with her messy hair — she looks quite helpless. And Willow is not typically one to not be able to sleep. She is very good at sleeping. 

“I was just—“ she stops, slumping her shoulders and looking to her cat rather than Astarion, reaching a hand under Ansur’s chin to give him the scratch he has been begging for. “Afraid,” she says with a sigh. 

Something burns within Astarion’s stomach, an instinctual or almost feral need to find whatever is causing this fear and rip it into pieces. Maybe he cannot contain his own thoughts, his own nightmares that have begun to plague his reverie once again, but he can surely bring her peace. That, and he has no real desire to be alone by himself at night right now, either. 

“I can stay with you,” he says quietly, watching her give attention to the cat, “until the Gazette publishes something to take their minds off of it.”

“Okay,” Willow says easily, looking back up at Astarion. In the couple of seconds she looked away from him, something must have shifted within her mind, because she says it with a sudden amount of ease.

She says it so easily, Astarion cannot stop himself from voicing his next proposal as soon as it comes to his mind.

“Even better,” he says, stepping closer to her still, enough to slot his knee in between her legs hanging off of the bed, “you could stay with me.”  

“While I do love your bed, it would be a bit silly to bring a bunch of my things over there when I have to work here most nights for the next tenday, anyway,” Willow responds, clearly not catching the implication of what he is trying to say.

“You could move all of your things,” Astarion says softly, “and not move them back.”

Willow’s eyes widen with shock, clearly not having anticipated this suggestion, despite how obvious it seems to Astarion. A dead animal left at her door is a clear threat to her safety, no matter who did it. Astarion has more power than he ever has, and a giant, empty house with guards posted at every door. Standing with her like this only serves as a reminder of how they practically lived together once before already within this very building, so it does not seem like a giant leap to him; it feels like returning to what is right. 

Willow’s heart thumps heavily within her chest, drowning out the sound of the purring cat next to her, at least to Astarion’s ears. He counts the beats but he cannot be sure how many seconds pass, as his own heart beats just as quickly.

“That is… much too soon,” she finally says.

“When we were just discussing having children?” He asks her with a laugh, trying not to sound as frustrated as he is.

“We’re not ready for that, either,” Willow says, growing combative once again. Although Astarion is relieved to find that she still feels this way, despite his regretful choice of words the last time they spoke, he is still irritated by her insistence that it’s because of some fault in their relationship. “We have a lot to work on, Astarion. We haven’t even discussed all of the things we said to each other that night.”

The sweet disposition Astarion had been trying to maintain on his face dissipates. She says it as if it should be obvious that they are going to need to rehash the horrible night that she left him. The horrible things they both said, loud enough that they received multiple noise complaints from other occupants of the Elfsong. He has absolutely no desire to talk about that night with her.

What he really wants to do is pick her up and carry her home himself, despite her protests. He could have servants come get her things and her cat, make her feel comfortable in the home that she truly belongs in rather than this miserable and now dangerous tavern. She clearly does not know what she needs.

For now, however, he chooses peace. “Fine, then. It was only a suggestion,” he says, returning to the normal, level voice he uses with Willow. “But I will stay with you until things… blow over. At your performances and at night, at the very least.”

“That’s fine by me, then,” she says with a sigh. To Astarion’s surprise, she wraps her arms around him and pulls him in for some kind of weird hug, with her face pressed into his abdomen. He runs his own hands through her messy hair and down her back, touching the warm skin beneath her loose nightgown. “I’m glad you came,” she says after a while, her voice muffled by their embrace, “I kept thinking of doing a sending spell, but I don’t want to rely on you for everything.”

The tight coil of anger he did not know he had been holding within his stomach — so full of nervousness and instinctual needs as it is, the stupid thing — this entire time loosens at her words. She did think about sending for him, but she did not want to be a bother?

A new kind of anger — more so a frustration — builds within Astarion at the thought of it; what has he done to make her think that protecting her, or simply listening to her would be a pain for him? Did he not pull out the knots in her hair as he knows she hates to do it? Did he not only just donate a very large sum of money to the music hall, so that she may have an entire corridor full of flute history to explore when it is done, named after her to boot? What more must he do?

Astarion pulls away from her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Once again, for her, he chooses calmness. “Is that not part of the… deal?” He asks, looking into her eyes. Deal is likely not a better word than agreement, but she does not comment on it. “To do this together?”

“I suppose,” Willow responds, quiet as she stares back at him in thought.

“If you need anything, want anything,” Astarion continues, slowly lowering himself to the floor to take on the appearance of a kneeling, hopeless man, “you only need to ask.”

Willow’s heart begins beating harder as he kneels to the ground so as not to have her staring up at him, and Astarion quickly realizes what must be crossing her mind as her cheeks flush a deep pink. He wonders what she would say if he did choose to ask her that question at this strange moment, on the floor of her room in the Elfsong while she wears nothing but a nightgown.

Much too soon, she just said, however, so he pushes the thought out of his brain just as quickly as it came.

“Okay,” Willow says softly, nodding her head. “Stay with me, then. Keep the dead rats away.”

As he stares into her eyes from his place on the floor, wondering where he has gone wrong to lead to her denial to living with him, an idea begins to blossom within Astarion’s brain; a new way to protect her, and to keep her near him always. A new distraction from his own nightmares. 

Chapter Text

Willow

Instead of questioning or arguing with Astarion on his claims that he will give her anything and everything she wants, Willow instead chooses to accept his company with open arms and enjoy spending the day with him — because she is tired and wants to feel safe. She tried her best to deny to him how unsafe the creature left at her door made her feel, but the truth must have been unfortunately present on her face.

She tossed around the entire night, jumping at every creak of the wooden floor outside of her door. The Elfsong is an old tavern, and that means there were many creaks throughout the night that woke her. She must have looked absolutely disheveled when Astarion showed up, beautiful and put together in a tailored ensemble with roses in his hands.

After he suggested that she move in with him, the idea of him simply staying with her as Alan had suggested suddenly seems such a minuscule thing to accept. A practice run to see how they would really do at being together every night as they were once before.

Willow gets dressed soon after she agrees to have him stay, and they go out for breakfast to a restaurant in the lower city before walking around town and talking about the parts of their past that don’t hurt. They walk by the Blushing Mermaid, reminiscing on their hunt for the undercover hag who was holding a young girl hostage in her stomach, and Astarion fondly remembers how he ripped the hag open after they successfully retrieved the girl. They walk down by the docks, to the little outlook that they walked across once before, when they were different.

Seeing his hair in the bright sunlight like this makes Willow consider pulling out the dove nickname a couple of times, but each time the thought comes she withholds it from him. Something about it still feels unnatural. Maybe in part because he does not seem as gentle as a dove as he did before — at least, to her he was gentle as a dove. Even the movement of his body now is more rigid, each glance in her direction more controlled than that starstruck gaze she used to catch on his face before. As brief as it was — only appearing in the time between when he confessed he had been manipulating her at the beginning of their relationship, until the night of the ritual — it was beautiful. He was real, and fully present, or so she thought at the time.

At the outlook by the docks before everything changed, Willow had suddenly swung around and asked for a kiss and he had obliged her with a slow, gentle touch of his lips. This time, at the same outlook, Willow asks for a kiss in the same way and finds herself being hoisted up onto the railing and parting her legs for his warm body, to be devoured in front of a couple of unsuspecting fisherman down the way. It’s undeniably nice, but it’s different.

Outside of that kiss, Astarion acts the part of a proper near-patriar strolling the lower city. He’s gentlemanly, opening doors and buying every little trinket Willow takes a second glance at until she decides to stop taking second glances at things entirely. He glowers at people that run into them or beg for coin, but he always did that before, anyway.

Eventually, however, Astarion says that he has some important work that he must tend to, and they decide to separate for the few hours before Willow must work at the Elfsong. She does not ask what the important work is, because she is too relieved at the thought of having some small amount of time to try and process her emotions.

“I will return soon, my treasure,” he says as he holds her hand inside the doors of the tavern, just before planting a quick, chaste kiss on Willow’s lips.

“See you later,” Willow responds, releasing his hand to allow him to turn away. She watches him walk out of the Elfsong and into the street, and has just turned around herself when she finds two pairs of glowing, tiefling eyes on her already.

Lakrissa looks as if she’s holding in a laugh as Willow approaches, while Alfira stands with her arms loosely crossed on her abdomen. Willow feels her entire body prickle with heat under their gaze, growing hotter the closer she gets.

“So,” Lakrissa says, tightening the serving apron tied around her waist, “I thought you hated him?”

“She said,” Alfira interjects before any words can cross Willow’s lips, “and I quote, I am completely done with that bastard vampire — did you not, Willow?”

Willow opens her mouth to deny the claim, but shuts it again as the night she first arrived in the Elfsong comes back into her memory. She celebrated with the two tiefling queens that night after cutting her deal to live here for free so long as she performs as the Bravest Bard in Baldurs Gate!, and became so drunk throughout the night that she called Astarion many more names than bastard vampire. Willow had cursed the palace on the hill, howling like a wolf on the roof of the Elfsong as she tried to feel good about her decision to return to Baldurs Gate.

“I’m-“ Willow says, thinking she is going to protest, but stopping herself. She sighs instead, throwing herself into one of the chairs at the empty table Lakrissa is leaning against. “You caught me.”

“I can probably expect Felix’s quick drink pouring on nights you perform to be over, then?” Lakrissa asks, keeping her tone light despite Willow assuming that this was going to immediately turn into an interrogation. “He’s always been faster when it’s you dancing around.”

“He’d better not come after me, next,” Alfira interjects.

“Go on, you two, you can tell me that I’m making a poor decision,” Willow groans, for once in her life annoyed with the way this conversation has remained humorous rather than serious. She is simply waiting for the hammer to fall, knowing exactly what terrible things she has previously said about Astarion to these two.

Neither of them say anything for a moment. The sounds of the handful of patrons currently occupying the tavern and the clanging in the kitchen to fill the air, until Alfira speaks up. “I think you should do whatever makes you happy, Willow,” she says with a shrug.

Willow musters up a small smile, relieved for a moment to not be questioned, but confused. “Oh. Well, I appreciate that.”

“I didn’t mean anything by that,” Lakrissa adds, adjusting her apron yet again. “I am actually hoping someone else will take up Felix. Not like it was going to work out between the two of you. He’s not the sharpest.”

The three of them try to laugh quietly at Lakrissa’s comment, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. “There wasn’t much talking going on,” Willow admits with a snort, though she realizes as she says it that many of her conversations with Astarion since their reunion have lead to them having sex. They may talk more than she and Felix did, but if she subtracts all of the bickering and arguing, would it really add up to that much more?

Willow realizes, too, that the weight she has been carrying of wondering how her friends will view this reconciliation has been heavy. It’s undoubtedly a little embarrassing to be found going back to the person she swore she would not ever go back to, despite the fact that Willow knows how badly her heart was really hurting as she said those things. She drank so much on that night with the two tiefling girls because of her pain, which stabbed at her heart each time she saw that palace on the hill and thought of Astarion. The palace he now wants her to live inside of.

Maybe, if Alfira and Lakrissa are reacting this way, Willow’s companions will feel similarly. Though she need not worry about them too much at the moment, considering how unlikely it is that she will see most of them any time soon — aside from Shadowheart or possibly Jaheira, if the druid woman ever decides to come back home again.

“Do you know anything about why Alan is running around like a madman?” Alfira asks Willow, breaking her out of the train of thought she was lost in. “He’s been scrambling all day to get two extra door guards for your show tonight, and now he’s back there wondering why they’re behind on dishes.”

Willow recounts the story of the rat to the two other women, who stare back at her with a disgusted curiosity. Lakrissa reaches out a hand to rub Alfira’s arm as she expresses worry for her own safety, but Willow tries to soothe them both with Alan’s words, despite how it appears that even he does not seem to trust his gut all that much.

“Hopefully just temporary security measures,” Willow finds herself saying, more for herself than for the others. Willow does not believe that the other two women could be in any real danger; she has a sneaking suspicion that this has more to do with her than it does with the Elfsong in general.

“And what are you doing to keep yourself safe?” Lakrissa asks her, still gripping Alfira’s arm.

Willow smiles. “I’ve got a bit of an expert rodent catcher staying with me, actually.”

“That’s right, you’ve got a cat!” Alfira says with wide eyes, looking from Willow to Lakrissa. That is not what Willow meant, but she does not correct her. “We should get a cat!”

“Lakrissa!” A familiar voice suddenly booms from the kitchen, enough to make all three of the chatting woman jump in place. Their boss. “If you have time to stand around, you have time to-“

“Coming!” Lakrissa groans, rolling her eyes before pulling herself away from Alfira and Willow. “See you later, then.”

Willow takes the interruption as an opportunity to excuse herself, hugging Alfira before retreating to her room upstairs. She throws herself against her bed, knowing that she needs to think more than she needs to practice tonight.

Astarion asked her to move into his home. Not only asked her, but implied that it was a fairly obvious thing that she should be doing. And, the problem is, it makes sense. But the other problem is, none of this makes sense.

On the one hand, it does not feel like they are rushing into things, because they already knew each other and loved each other before. Hours before the ritual Astarion could have asked Willow if she would spend the rest of her life living with him, sleeping next to him, and the answer would have been a resounding, excited yes. That may have been too soon in some peoples’ eyes, but Willow could accept that. She’s a musician, an artist; she’s made to be a hopeless romantic.

On the other hand, Astarion himself acknowledged only a few days ago that this new relationship of theirs is different than the one they had before. He is obviously quite different. If it is different, and it is new, then this is entirely insane. Willow has not been counting the days since they got back together, but the party he invited her to is still more than a tenday away, so that math is really not on her side.

For now, Willow decides, she will make no rash decisions while she is still feeling so conflicted. Besides, the two of them cannot even talk for very long without arguing or having sex. That is Willow’s next goal for this relationship — to make sure that they can talk to each other without doing either of those things. She would like to think that this morning was a good start, but it is also quite likely that if those fishermen had not been present near the docks, well… something probably would have transpired beyond kissing.

Before the defeat of the Netherbrain, and before Willow and Astarion broke up, Willow would take it upon herself after an especially difficult day to cheer the group up at night with a performance. Early on in their journey her companions did not agree on a lot of things, but all of them loved music.

Some of Willow’s fondest memories of Astarion in the before come from these nights spent playing music for everyone; he, of course, after their relationship became known to the others, was her biggest fan. Maybe only secondary to Lae’zel, who has a surprisingly strong adoration for live music.

Willow would wear the silly little bardic outfit Volo gifted her when they saved his life from the goblins, because she thought it must look the part just a bit more than her armor or her night clothes did. She would stand on a rock or sit on a bench if she was feeling particularly tired, and play requests from the others on her flute until the mood at their campsite was the slightest bit lighter. Even if she was exhausted, even if she absolutely did not want to, she did it because she knew it would make the following day better for everyone. And always at the end of it, Astarion would shower her in complimentary words before they retired for the night.

He has this bright look in his eyes when he watches her perform; he had it then and he has it now, as he returns to the Elfsong in the evening to watch her show again. He is present the entire time, never allowing her to feel like she is simply background music. Back then, it made Willow feel seen and cared for, warm from the inside out; now, it makes her feel all of those things still, and it makes her feel safe inside this place that has felt so uncomfortable to her over the last couple of days.

Astarion sits in the same corner he sat in on the night of the tryst in her room, his eyes locked on Willow each time she looks to him as she dances around the tavern floor. He could take on any of the patrons in this place tonight, if they happened to be the overly enthusiastic culprit. She has nothing to worry about.

Willow makes no effort to hide the way she glides over to him as soon as she’s done, with not a single care in the realms that there is no Felix bringing her water or alcohol. Not when Astarion is here. Not when the entire room already knows they belong to each other again, thanks to the nosey reporters at the Baldurs Mouth Gazette.

Astarion stands as Willow approaches, holding out a hand for her to take as soon as she is close enough. “I could not take my eyes off of you,” he says, his voice low, “my glimmering jewel.”

“That’s a new one,” Willow says with a small laugh, taking his hand and pulling him toward the staircase with her. “I like it. Love it, even.”

For tonight, Willow leads Astarion to her room with the intention of talking, about anything and everything that will not lead to an argument. The mere sound of his voice and a sweet, complimentary little pet name has already set her body aglow, however, and the other form of conversation derailment may be unavoidable.

for your potential viewing pleasure:

a Willow/Astarion sketch rendition of that one Madison Beer BeReal meme (I’m an older gen z but still a gen z ok) inspired by the little flashback in this chapter. Thank you to prldeofthecoast on twt for bringing it to life!

some pics of my Willow from the game

Chapter Text

Astarion

After the events that transpired over the two days apart — Astarion’s awful encounter and Willow’s threatening rodent — Astarion shows up to the Elfsong to spend the night with Willow with the intention of drowning himself in her. He throws on the charm immediately, knowing he likely does not need to do so to get her to offer him a distraction, but falling into old habits regardless.

“This is a bit familiar, isn’t it?” She says with a laugh, bringing her flute to her nightstand to clean it just as she did on that first evening they spent together again. “Shall I start yelling at you?”

She seems more relaxed than she did earlier in the day, as if something has wiped away her worries over the gift left at her doorstep. Astarion smiles to himself, because it must be because he has actually kept his promise to stay with her.

“I much prefer you screaming for me,” he responds as he scoops up the cat, quickly quelling Ansur’s hissing by scratching the spot on his chin Astarion has seen Willow make him happy with before. He is easy to please, it seems, because it does not matter that it is Astarion’s hand scratching him rather than Willow’s.

Right on time, there is a knock on the door and Willow jumps as Astarion opens it for one of the servants from his home. He realizes as the man enters that a surprise drop-off was maybe not a good idea when Willow still may be on edge about people — or things — coming to her door, but it is a bit too late to fix it. Willow’s eyes dart around the room for the cat as the door hangs open, and Astarion smirks back at her as he continues to soothe the small creature. That worry, at least, he could predict.

Lewis quickly sets a heavy wooden trunk down against one of the walls in the room before darting out silently, closing the door behind him just as he was instructed earlier in the day. Willow attempts to wave at the man before he leaves, but he keeps his head down, also as instructed. Astarion was not sure what kind of state they would be in when he arrived.

“You need such a large piece of luggage for a few days?” Willow questions, eyeing the task the man had come into the room to complete. “We used to make do with much less.”

Astarion drops Ansur back down on the floor gently, watching the cat approach the trunk just ahead of him to take a tentative sniff. “I did not bring only clothes and a dagger, my darling,” he says slowly, his voice purposefully low. He pulls a small, silver key out of his breast pocket to unlatch the trunk and swings the top open, then steps back to allow her to take a look as soon as her flute is sufficiently put away.

Several of the blue potion vials line the top of the trunk, strapped to the lid where the designers of the piece surely intended there to be silverware or small toiletries. Most of the body of the trunk is filled with Astarion’s own clothes, neatly folded and sorted into outfits already, but a small portion has been dedicated to a different type of garment.

“Well. You are not fighting those sex-crazed monster allegations much tonight, hmm?” Willow’s tone is humored, but she says it in a near whisper as she stares wide-eyed at the items in the trunk. Something seems to snap her out of it after a second, because her eyes suddenly dart to Astarion. “I’m sorry,” she says quickly.

“It was funny,” he responds with a shrug, though he does not laugh. Most nights, he likely could have at least offered her a fake laugh, but tonight he is only glad he does not cringe.

Willow steps toward Astarion, before kneeling to the ground in front of the piece of luggage. She looks up at him before looking back to the trunk, and the sight of her in that pose again sends a shiver down his spine. He cannot help but think that she looks so good like this, on her knees in front of him.

Her pale hands rifle through the more interesting garments for a moment, first pulling out a silken chemise, followed by a matching lace set with snaps and ribbons that make her furrow her brow in confusion. “You could have just said you think my underwear is ugly,” she says with a quiet chuckle, inspecting the tiny bits of clothing.

“Well. It is,” Astarion admits.

She stops rifling when she seems to find something of particular interest, her cheeks flushing a deep red as she slowly pulls out a long, velvet rope. The same shade of red as her cheeks are becoming.

“Is that of interest to you?” He asks, unable to discern from her face whether she is simply humored by it or truly aroused at the thought of using it.

“Well, yes,” she says, hesitation in her voice. She lowers the rope to her knees against the ground, and looks back up to Astarion. She takes a deep breath before speaking, and it sends his heart pounding, knowing she has something she thinks is important to say. “The thing is, I— well, I was just thinking earlier today that we need to spend more time talking.”

“Talking?” Astarion scoffs, unable to keep his face straight and smoldering any longer. “We have done a great amount of talking.”

“A great amount of deal-brokering,” she clarifies, “and yet I don’t even know what you do for work?” Willow shrugs her shoulders dramatically, as if it’s ridiculous that she does not know.

Astarion laughs, and for longer than he should. Long enough that Willow bundles up the bit of rope and slaps it against his ankle, though it only feels soft.

Truthfully? He has no idea what he is doing. He has been trying to establish himself, trying to make the patriars of the city with long-standing family names accept him and fear him, but he only looks like an upstart to them. And after that encounter with Marceline, and her suggestion of what he may do to pay her back for her counsel, Astarion does not feel like much of a towering, threatening figure.

“I would not call it work,” he says, holding out the palms of his hands to her. “I am the Vampire Ascendant, my love.” He says it with all of the gravitas he can muster, despite his own uncertainty.

“Right. And what do you do?” She asks, chuckling a bit herself.

“I meet with patriars. I hold parties and events. I woo and intimidate, all of those things,” he says, trailing off so as not to get himself into too many specifics.

Willow seems unconvinced, but she gives the rope a dull snap against her palm regardless. “Fine, then. You answered a question. We can play.”

“I have no interest in play,” he responds, bending over to pry the rope from her hands, “I have an interest in watching your legs shake while you perform tomorrow.”

“Who says we cannot do both?” Willow stretches her neck out, just barely able to touch her nose to his in his currently bent position. “Everything has been too serious for me, lately. I can be serious and sexy for you again come tomorrow, but just for tonight — can we be fun?”

Astarion pauses. He had not realized that the way he was presenting sex was with such seriousness, but now that she mentions it, he flashes back to each time since their reconciliation. The arguing, then Astarion pushing Willow to reveal her real intentions, and then the lovemaking he insisted be serious. Willow is right. They deserve to have some fun.

“What would be fun for you, then?” Astarion asks her, holding a piece of the velvet rope taut between his hands. Willow still sits on her knees, decidedly not changing into any of the other items he has brought over for her. Those can wait for a different time.

Willow leans back on her hands and stares at the ceiling, thinking it over for a moment while he plays with the rope in his hands. They’ve never used rope before, or any outside toys, for that matter, so that in itself is exciting for him. Something must occur to her, however, because her eyes light up as she meets his gaze once again.

“You can… climb on walls and ceilings and things now, right?” She asks tentatively, a hint of a smile curling at one corner of her lips.

“You want to have sex on the ceiling?” Astarion immediately concludes from her question and the look on her face, and Willow bursts into a fit of laughter, doubling over herself on the floor. Her inability to hide when she finds something funny does not detract from her coquettishness; in fact, the sight of her gasping for air almost makes him need her even more.

“Is that possible?” She asks between her giggles. “That would be so hilarious and scary and— and— it would definitely take my mind off of everything else.”

“You cannot walk on the ceiling,” Astarion clarifies, watching her with a strange amount of curiosity. She seems to take a few deep breaths to calm the laughter that overcame her, until the only evidence that remains of it is her heaving chest and the smile on her face. “Not as mortal as you are.”

“But you are incredibly strong, are you not?” Willow asks with a shrug. She stands up from the floor, then, and reaches for the rope in his hands. “I am offering complete control to you. Tie my hands. Carry me up. And we do it in the air just for fun.”

Astarion sighs, seeing clearly on her face that she is already set on doing this, for whatever reason. “I do not think this will be comfortable. Least of all for you.”

“If it’s terrible, we can switch to the normal way,” she suggests. Willow takes the rope and throws it onto the bed, before reaching her arms around his neck. The tips of her fingers are chilled, but her touch is still soft and comforting as one hand knits into his hair and the other drops lazily against the top of his back. “Let’s warm up a bit and see if I change my mind.”

He already knows she is not going to change her mind, but he takes the invitation to lift her into his arms and kiss her, open-mouthed and hungry. She has a point, that doing something so ridiculous could take both of their minds off of the things they do not want to be thinking about. Even at her merely suggesting this idea, he forgot for a moment about the rat and the vampire woman. He remembers now, however, as he thinks it over in his head, and he reaches under Willow’s skirt to find a new distraction, gripping at the soft flesh of her ass as she wraps her legs around his waist.

He trails his lips down her neck, and suddenly he has an excellent idea for how to warm her up next. Astarion drops her back down to the floor, finding her pouting back at him as he pulls away.

“Naked,” he demands, gesturing to her dress. To his surprise, she follows the order immediately, pulling the dress off over her head and following it with her undergarments until she stands in front of him, perfectly bare and perfectly obedient. “Good girl,” he rewards her, “now turn around.”

Willow takes easily to the gruff handling of her arms as he ties the velvet rope around her wrists behind her back, giggling as he does. “Thank you for getting such a soft rope,” she says, wiggling her hands around to test it. “I always carried some of that regular rope when we traveled just in case, but that would not have been as nice.”

Astarion pauses with his hands on her waist, looking down at her curiously. “You never mentioned anything about wanting to use rope before.”

“Well, I didn’t think being so creative was on the table before,” she says, her voice a little quieter and less humored. “I never suggested anything. I left it all up to you.”

Too many memories flood into his mind at this revelation. Instead of trying to hold onto any specific one of them, Astarion turns Willow around, and lifts her into his arms once more. This time, he carries her to the far wall that separates them from the corridor, and slams her body against it just enough to knock the wind out of her.

“That’s what I want,” she says with a laugh, “but do try to go easy on the limbs tied behind my back, please?”

He forgot about her not being able to move those, in the moment. Instead of apologizing with words, Astarion slides her up on the wall, showing off his ability to carry her as she desires. The walls in the Elfsong are not tall enough for him to do any wall-climbing just yet, but it seems to excite her nonetheless as Willow hooks her legs around his neck.

Even with her heated center merely inches away from his face, when Astarion looks up Willow is staring wide-eyed beyond his face, surely to the floor far below her. “You promise not to drop me, right?”

“Willow,” he says her name because he knows it will draw her eyes back to his, and it does, “you are so very light to me now that I do not think my arms could ever tire of carrying you.”

It’s a half-truth. She is very light, with his newfound strength. But climbing up to the ceiling may be pushing the limits a little bit, and he won’t know until they try. He only knows that telling her she can be carried so easily will make her smile.

“That’s really kind of hot,” she says with a laugh, shifting her arms behind her enough that Astarion notices. A very typical, very predictable Willow move in that moment would have been to take his hair into her hands and shove his face into her, and gods does he wish she could do it right now. Being told to shut up and please her is only acceptable when it is Willow.

“Since you cannot use your hands,” he murmurs, just before running his tongue slowly against the skin of her inner thigh. Willow moans already, a tiny whimper from her lips as her face shifts from humored to wanton neediness. “…I do expect you to tell me what a good lover I am with your mouth, my little songbird.”

“There are other people on this—“ Willow pauses her protesting as he licks again, just close enough to get a taste of her slick arousal, “—floor, so I can’t be that loud.”

“I know somewhere you can sing for me as loud as you would like,” Astarion whispers, looking up at Willow with hooded eyes as his mouth hovers over her slit. “But no matter.”

Before she can respond, he slips his tongue between the soft lips between her legs, hoping that she’ll still be able to think about the statement as she mewls and sings for him. At his home they could both yell and moan as loud as they would ever need, with no need to worry about Alan getting complaints downstairs. Astarion does not think that could be the final piece needed to convince her, but maybe it will whittle away at her, at least.

Willow’s hips buck against him, forcing Astarion to maintain a tight grip on her body to keep her above him. He lazily works the flat of his tongue against her while she chases deeper pleasure, and he knows what she wants him to do, if only she ask for it.

“‘starion,” she only sighs at first, unable to speak his entire name, much less a full sentence.

He pulls back, finding her eyes above him, “hmm?”

“Please,” Willow whimpers, a deep crease between her eyebrows.

“Sing for me,” he repeats, grasping tighter at her hip with one hand while the other travels upward to her breasts, kneading at her skin and making her throw her head backward against the wall.

Willow groans, but a telltale laugh cuts through her feigned irritation. “Harder, please?” She begs, changing the pitch of her voice to something so ragged Astarion can feel goosebumps forming all across his arms. “It feels so good when you— when you use your lips.”

He gives her an approving moan as he follows her directions, finding her spot and pursing his lips around her. She sighs and rolls her hips into him, seemingly not caring about her arms dragging against the wall as she does. He’s always thought she must like a bit of pain, being as into having herself drained of blood during sex as she is.

It is not horribly easy to hold her up against the wall while her arms are tied behind her back, as she wobbles and grinds herself into his mouth, but it is satisfying. For her to give him complete control is for her to give him her complete trust, and that is what Astarion wants from her.

Willow throws her head back against the wall again, making Astarion peer up at her face, across the smooth and soft mounds of her body. Her mouth gapes open and her eyes are screwed shut while her head is tilted back, until she looks down again and opens them, grinning when she finds his eyes staring back at her. “Touch me,” she gasps out, nodding to the hand still only cupping one of her breasts, “make me come.”

His fingers only have to dance over her hardened nipple to make her shiver, and a moment later Willow is moaning wildly above him as she reaches her peak, pushed against the wall. It takes everything within him not to burst at the mere sound of her as his length presses tightly up against the wall too, begging for friction; begging for her.

Astarion crawls up over Willow as soon as she’s done, covering her heaving lips with his own to let her taste herself on his mouth. With one arm, he scoops her up by her knees as he begins to travel upward, and then onto the ceiling as planned.

Laughter bursts forward from her lips as Willow’s loose hair falls into his face, likely at the realization that they are really, truly on the ceiling. Once he feels secure enough in his positioning, Astarion pulls back enough to look at her face, where tears are springing into her eyes from the laughter.

“This is ridiculous,” she says, craning her neck backward to see him, since she cannot use her arms. “Why did I think this and the rope on the same night—?”

“That is a very good question,” Astarion says in agreement, as he begins to pull at the buttons of his own clothing, realizing she cannot. The sound of laughter cannot be held back from his own voice at the sight of her, and the fact that they are doing this at all.

“Well. The rope will get more use, I’m sure. This, on the other hand,” she says, biting her lip just before she rests her head against his chest. “Maybe not again until I can climb on ceilings, too.”

Astarion pauses the unbuttoning of his trousers, staring into the roots of her hair and listening to the sounds of her breathing. He only pauses for a moment before continuing, but he makes it long enough for her to notice that her acknowledgement that she will become immortal for him stops him in his tracks. That it means something.

“Will it feel different?” She asks, angling her head upward again.

“Will what feel different?”

“Us,” she says simply, attempting to shift her body through wiggling. Astarion pulls her up himself, using one arm again to bring her face to his, their noses touching. “This. When I’m undead,” she clarifies. “Will I be cold on the inside, just like the outside? Maybe… not as good for you?”

He thinks she must be implying, whether she knows it or not, that he feels better than he did before now that he has a beating heart. And she’s worried, then, that he will not enjoy her as much when she becomes what he was — except, she will not be exactly what he was. She will be different. She simply will not know it.

“I do not ever want to see doubt cast upon your face,” he croons, rubbing his face against hers as he uses his free hand to rub his cockhead between her legs, where she is incredibly hot. “You will always be good for me. You will always be mine.”

Willow kisses him once, softly, before placing her face against his once more. “Let’s do it, then. On the ceiling,” she says, giving him permission to slide in between her soaked folds, to be surrounded by that impeccable warmth.

Getting into a rhythm on the ceiling is a bit complicated, but Willow’s laugh against his lips is a great help as he sorts it out. He can really only spare one hand for movement, needing his feet and his other hand to keep them both up safely, and Astarion finds that placing it on the small of her back works the best. There, she can grasp at his hand with her tied hands, squeezing him harshly with every sharp thrust into her, as he directs the movement of her body against his. Once they do get into a rhythm this way, it’s almost exhilarating — he has her on top of him, as he likes, under his complete control, as he also likes, while Willow is giddily squealing and yelping between her moans with excitement over the fact that her silly idea is working. It’s brilliant.

“I’m actually—“ Willow laughs, and she bucks her hips against his of her own accord, taken by pleasure, “very close?”

At the mere acknowledgment, Astarion feels his arousal growing within him. He did not consider much about her proposition, and one thing he definitely did not consider is that he has never actively had an orgasm while trying to maintain his grip on a ceiling. And the only thing he knows right now is that if Willow is going to come, there is no way they are going to make it back down before he does.

Quickly, he moves them across the ceiling until they are hovering over her bed. Just in case, he tells himself, as he presses his lips to Willow’s neck. He grasps one of her tied hands with his, intertwining their fingers and squeezing harshly as he mouths at her neck, and she comes completely undone on top of him.

“Astarion,” she moans into his ear, suddenly empty of the laughter and only overwhelmed with pleasure. He feels her lips on his ear a second later, as soft as a feather grazing the pointed tip, but it’s enough. He grips her hand so forcefully for a split second he worries he could break it as his own orgasm rips through him, pumping her full of him as her greedy walls continue to pulse around his length.

He does not immediately lose his grip on the ceiling as he loses himself in her, and they remain in the air as the only sound in the room becomes Willow’s labored breathing. The knot Astarion tied was simple enough that he can untie it with one hand, releasing her arms to allow her to wrap them around him as she does. He thinks for a brief second that she could fall asleep like this, until she starts laughing again.

“Oh, Gods,” she giggles, squeezing him tightly into a hug, “that was insane. We are insane.”

Astarion only shakes his head and rolls his eyes in response before suggesting that they make their way to the ground, but he thinks that she must be right. They are both insane, and that is precisely why they are meant to be together for eternity. 

He has only just gotten them safely back into Willow’s bed, kicking his clothes off as he carries her with spend dripping down his legs, when Willow begins kissing him again.

“You enjoyed that?” He asks her, with an exasperated sigh despite the fact that he’s quite amused by all of this.

“Yes,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “What’s the point,” she pauses in between her words to kiss him, intertwining her fingers in his hair, “of being with the Vampire Ascendant,” she pauses again to engage him in a particularly heated exchange with her mouth before pulling away again, her eyes bright, “if we can’t do shit like that?”

She continues on kissing him for a couple of minutes and Astarion thinks nothing of it, happy to be lost in the distraction of her mouth, until she seems to realize something and suddenly stops to look at him. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” He asks in response, snappier than he would have liked, because he is caught off guard.

“I don’t only like you because you’re a… new kind of all-powerful vampire,” she says, her face slightly reddening. “What I said, it kind of sounded like that’s what I meant. But I loved you before the ritual and I’d love you even if you were just like me. Just absolutely regular, I think.”

He knows that she means well, to be correcting herself like this. He knows that it is born from conversations they would have before, when he was more sensitive about his sense of self and his worthiness next to her. It’s cute. And right now, the reminder that she is not interested in him solely for power is very sweet — but not what he needs most in this moment.

“So many words, Willow,” Astarion purrs instead, pushing her hair back from her face with his hand. It’s so soft, and she is so soft. She looks at him with a reverence now that she would never have given him even a tenday ago. Likely undeserved, but he’s selfish and he will take it all the same, just as he will take another distraction from her lips. “When you can simply show me how you love me, instead.”

Willow smiles, and he pushes her head downward.

Chapter Text

Willow

In the morning, the feeling of warm sunlight creeping in through the windows and the sound of Ansur purring in the bed begins to rouse Willow from her sleep. The cat’s purr is loud and slightly gruff, despite his tiny size, and reverberates across the mattress. It isn’t unusual for Willow to wake up with Ansur next to her, but it still always feels like a treat when it happens, after becoming accustomed to sleeping alone. Willow doesn’t yet open her eyes, hoping that the soothing sounds of the cat will help her get a couple more hours of rest. Last night was fun, but has left her body incredibly sore.

“Sweet baby,” she coos to the cat, reaching out blindly to try and touch him, noting pain in the movement of the joints in her arm. “What’s made my baby so happy today?”

Instead of finding the cat, Willow’s hand finds another soft, warm hand atop the cat’s body. “We’ve made friends,” Astarion says softly as Willow opens her eyes to see him.

The sight is enough to make her heart flutter in her chest, flying beyond the heaviness of sleep. Despite his agreement to stay with her, Willow had assumed that he would simply check her door for something horrible when he woke from his reverie and leave in the early morning. After all, she likes to sleep in much later than he would ever need to. 

And yet here he is, practically glowing in the early morning sunlight that creeps in from the open window across the room, bright enough to feel warm against her skin and bright enough to shine through Astarion’s only slightly disheveled hair. His hand seems to have been petting the cat, who has settled his body into the vampire’s lap with his belly turned upward in bliss. Astarion is half covered by the sheets, but appears to still be naked as he was last night.

“Look at my little baby,” Willow whispers, scratching at Ansur’s head and trying to hide the flush in her cheeks by tilting her head downward, away from the claret eyes that are focused on her. Astarion’s fingers twitch as Willow pulls her hand away, but quickly return to petting the cat softly.

After considering it for a moment — and giving her face time to cool from feeling embarrassed over baby-talking the cat in front of Astarion — Willow scoots closer to the two of them in her bed. She settles her head against Astarion’s thigh as a pillow, and curls the rest of her body in towards the heat of him, nearly mimicking the positioning of the cat. “I thought you’d be gone,” she says quietly, not looking up at him. “Don’t you have… lordly duties to attend to?”

He chuckles. “My view right here is quite worth the consequences of missing my morning plans.”

Willow closes her eyes, and feels the soft touch of a hand rubbing her head as she falls back into her slumber. For a moment, it feels like this whole thing could be just another dream. This situation is not too far off from some of the maladaptive yet picturesque scenes that have run through her tired brain before in an attempt to get herself back to sleep. Usually, however, those thoughts are not coupled with the feeling of his warm body and his hands. 

When she wakes again, the three of them are still together in her bed. Willow wonders if it would be such a horrible thing to wake up like this all the time, in an even softer bed with silk sheets. The proposition that she turned down only the day before looms heavily over her head, knowing how wonderful it would be — at least, at first. Astarion would likely make living with him into a walking daydream at first. 

“It’s nearly midday, my love,” the voice above her says quietly, clearly not fooled by Willow’s attempt to pretend she is still sleeping as thoughts run through her head. She rolls over to meet his gaze, staring down at her with his full attention just as he was earlier in the morning.

“Your fault,” she responds with a half-lidded smirk. “You know how much I like to sleep.”

For a moment, she could convince herself that they are existing in the before. In the Elfsong, staying up and sleeping in later than they should, his amused gaze meeting her when she finally did rise — he didn’t need all of that sleep, but he would always wait for her anyway, allowing them to share the blame.

But Ansur is here, and Willow and Astarion are both different. Before does not exist. 

“I’m growing quite fond of your new baby,” he says, drawing out the word she used for the cat when she woke earlier. “You’re quite precious when you talk to him.”

Willow feels her face redden at the comment. She hadn’t known he was there when she slipped into the baby-talk she uses for the cat when alone — not until he revealed himself. “Like I said before, he’s sort of a practice run for real parenting, don’t you think?”

“You say that as if you weren’t parenting those kids in the grove, and that little girl who let herself into our camp in Rivington,” Astarion says with a forced laugh. “You cannot say no to a cute thing in need.” Despite his laugh, he says it with a slight tinge of indignation. He never wanted to take in that little girl, Yenna. Nor did he want to take in Arabella. And maybe they shouldn’t have, considering some of the goings-on of their campsite, but the girls likely would have died without them.

“And that’s how I ended up with you, isn’t it?” She asks, reaching up to run a hand gently across his cheek. Astarion must read something deeper into her words, because he smirks back at her, satisfied.

“With me, are you?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” She asks in response. “My little damsel in distress, oh, gods please save me from those little brain things—“

“Stop,” Astarion demands, one of his hands shifting so quickly to Willow’s neck that it takes her breath away with surprise. His smirk is still present, however, which is enough of a clue for her that he is feeling playful rather than insulted over her reminder of how they met.

This is one of those moments that Willow realizes could slip so easily into sex, rather than continuing to simply talk to each other. Though the feeling of his hand on her neck is enticing, she resists the desire her body feels for Astarion.

“You like cats, then?” She asks, her eyes darting back toward Ansur, who is still purring away.

“I like this cat,” he responds, his voice even. “So far, at least.”

“How would you feel about… more animals?”

“Gods,” Astarion scoffs, removing his hand from her neck as he says it, “you intend to turn my home into a circus, don’t you?”

“You are the one who suggested I live with you!” Willow says with a snort. “There are so many stray cats on the streets of Baldurs Gate, and you have so much room. I’m bound to take some home with me. Is that a dealbreaker?”

“No,” he responds immediately, though he does not look happy about it. He returns his hand to Ansur for a moment, his face sharp in an angry, yet beautiful snarl until he speaks again. “Was it not you who said, only last night, that we need to talk rather than do more deal-brokering?”

Willow frowns. “I did. But I was merely asking about getting more cats — I did not think it was that serious?” She chews her lip as Astarion only stares down at the cat, trying to read his mind without actually casting any spells for it. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” she says in a whisper, nearly inaudible.

“I enjoyed the levity of last night,” Astarion responds, his eyes flickering to Willow briefly. “If we could keep it that way.” Suddenly, his hand is traveling back to Willow’s neck, down her chest until he reaches the peak of one of her breasts. His thumb rolls slowly, smoothly over the nipple, in the same simple motion that brought Willow to her first orgasm last night — what ended up being the first of many, as they did very little talking after the expedition to the ceiling. Her body tingles, alight with arousal, but she grasps his wrist with her hand to stop the motion.

“We cannot just fuck our way into fixing this,” Willow protests, laughing under her breath over how obvious and ridiculous this move from him feels. “Look at me.”

He does, and she could almost swear she sees a genuine pout upon his lips before he snaps himself back to a smolder. Still, he does not speak, and he holds his hand in the same place where Willow grasped at him to stop.

“I love you,” she says, with an angry, growling undertone to her voice. It’s only the second time she has said it to him since their reconciliation, and it’s enough to soften the look on his face the tiniest bit. “I know that you are different. I know it, Astarion. And if you are really, truly that needy for it we can have each other every single night that you’re here. I’m needy for it, too,” she cups her hand over his in affirmation, squeezing around her own softened skin. “But we used to talk without arguing. About stupid shit, like if my hair was brown or red, or whose blood we would drink in the camp.”

He gives a slight smile, at least, and Willow hopes it is from replaying the memories in his mind as she does. His answer to the blood question — one that he posed in the first place — was obvious, considering he did choose Willow. Willow had said either him or Shadowheart, because she was not sure at the time if she wanted to fight the annoyingly mysterious cleric or sleep with her — and to her surprise, of course, she ended up becoming her best friend.

“Blood is red. Your hair is brown,” he had said about her hair, sitting on watch with Willow to keep her company after drinking her blood.

She remembers it well. It was a few nights after he successfully seduced her — if you can even call it that, when she wanted him anyway — and he was playing his part well by the fire. She knew about the scars, but little else of what he had gone through by Cazador’s hands or compulsion. She had no idea how afraid he was, while he was smiling and joking around with her.

Willow’s heart nearly stops as the thought crosses her mind. That was not all him, either. It was an illusion of him.

She’s been wondering since that night at the music hall — or really, before that when he cared for her in the bath — if this is a façade of him, too. She has tried to make herself uncaring, tried to insist that it does not matter, but Willow now feels tears prick in her eyes at the thought of it. This is not fair. Not for either of them.

“Can you tell me the truth?” She asks now, not moving from her spot with her head in his lap. It almost seems silly to ask such a serious question in this position, but it keeps the tears within her eyes and Astarion looks more vulnerable like this, anyway. It makes it less easy for him to angle himself away.

“When have I lied to you?” He asks, accusation in his tone. “In recent times,” he adds, his eyes shifting away from hers for a moment.

“You’ve been very different to me than you were on that first night,” Willow continues, taking his non-answer as a yes. “How do I know you’re not just… making this all up, for me? Like you did before?”

“That night was different because I did not know that eternity was still on the table,” he says with a sigh.

“So if I didn’t agree to become a vampire,” Willow says, “you would go back to whoever that was?” 

He laughs, and the tears sting further in Willow’s eyes at his lack of seriousness. “I am only one person, despite what you may think.” 

“I’m trying to have a real conversation with you,” Willow protests to him, unable to hide the croak from her voice. The tears feel stupid, but she feels physically unable to hold them back. “We need to talk about all of this if we want to move forward.” 

Astarion’s jaw clenches and he looks away, though there is a lack of the expected harsh anger lining his face. When his eyes return to hers, he has an almost pleading look on his face. “My darling Willow,” he says, emphasizing the term of endearment, “I am not opposed to continuing this conversation. However, I think it may be better continued in a bath?”

Willow cannot help but scrunch her nose and frown at him in confusion, wondering for a moment if it’s possible that she smells bad. She narrows her eyes at him as the thoughts process, becoming certain that this is another ploy at arousing her to end the argument. “Stop that.”

“Please,” he says, removing his suggestive hand from her body and gently lifting the sheet that holds Ansur from his so that he can slide out from under it, removing Willow’s thigh-pillow in the process, as well. The loss of both his hand and his body underneath her feels almost offensive to Willow, as a distinct chill overtakes her skin.

Without waiting for a response, Astarion runs the bathwater, waiting until it comes out from the tap with steam just as Willow prefers. It does look very enticing. And he did say they can continue this conversation.

As she removes the sheets from her body to begrudgingly get herself into the bath, Willow has a horrifying realization about why he was so insistent that she get into the bath. She had assumed that the slight wetness she felt on her legs was from, well, being around him, because that tends to happen.

On the sheets, in the place where she had been sleeping, is a bright, red stain of blood.

Oh.

That is why.

Chapter Text

Astarion

It was not his intention to embarrass Willow by making her get up out of bed. Astarion’s original plan for the morning had been to wake Willow up early with breakfast, and then slip out to try and conduct his own investigation on this entire rat situation. When he came out of reverie, however, the scent of blood was obvious and strong, and when he did the mathematics in his head from the last time he was aware of, several months ago — why is she always having him do mathematics? — it made absolute sense. She has always been rather on time, after all.

Instead of leaving, he stayed with her, even knowing how late her body makes her want to sleep in when she’s in this state. She woke up adorably, speaking to her ragged little cat like a mother to a child, precious enough to almost make him want to dump out all of those little potions in the chest he brought — almost, but not quite — and then she… became very distraught.

He was not going to interrupt her, either, until the tears sprung into her eyes. That is when he realized it had become all too serious, and he had a relatively easy route available to him to put a stop to it entirely. She’s emotional. She’s pained — probably? She should forget about all of it and let him take care of her.

She would likely despise him if she knew he was having these thoughts, when she used to fight off shadow-cursed creatures and cultists while in this same condition. She would complain to him and Shadowheart about it the entire time, but she did it all the same. But there are no tadpoles in their brains, and no way for her to know his thoughts.

As soon as her eyes make contact with the mark on the bed, Willow’s face falls into a frown as she turns to look at Astarion. “Fuck,” she says simply, before she starts pulling at the sheets. The cat tips his ears back as Willow tugs at the sheet that he is lying on top of, and she seems to give up in favor of keeping the baby happy.

“That’s so fucking embarrassing,” she says next, hugging her arms to her chest as she crosses the room to retrieve her hairbrush.

“You know I’m quite fine with it,” Astarion says, stepping into the steaming bath himself to try and entice her into joining faster. The little wooden tubs at the Elfsong do not hold heat as well as the tub in his own home does — he remembered that well enough on that first night here with Willow when it went tepid before they could finish their second round.

“I’m not talking about the blood,” Willow answers as she quickly runs the brush through her hair, impatiently stepping toward the bath. “I’m talking about the fact that I woke up and started fighting with you and crying, and now I don’t know if that’s real or just… that.”

The frustration is clear on her face, as she can’t even make eye contact with Astarion while speaking. Her lips are pursed and every muscle in her face appears to be stiff as she thinks it over. Astarion prays to the gods below — not really, but he would if he did pray — that she will go with the latter, regardless of the fact that she was making relatively good points. Maybe especially because of the fact that she was making good points.

Astarion does not know which parts of him are real. Even after reconnecting with Willow last night, something he thought would cure him, he has felt like a ghost outside of himself ever since the encounter with Marceline. Every glance in his direction not from Willow has felt like a threat, and every person present in the tavern below last night could have been an adversary. It has served as an awful reminder that while he is not the spawn he once was, he has also not been completely rid of all of the nightmares that haunt him. But if he is not that vampire spawn, and he is not yet free of the afflictions that cursed that vampire spawn — who is he, now?

Is he a sweet, gentle, caring person, an ideal husband to Willow and father to her theoretical, non-feline children? That is the person he presented himself as on that night at the music hall, and it felt good at the time, but today he is not sure he could manage the same level of perfection he displayed that night. Or is that a person he made up for her, and all he can be is this scheming, narcissistic god of a man who he will need to present himself as to Marceline and the vampire patriarchs she gave him information for? To maintain control?

The most important thing, at the end of the day, is maintaining control.

Willow slips into the bath, shivering as she does so, and folds her legs so she can hide every bit of her body aside from her face in the cloudy, steamy water. “At least we know the potions work,” she says sheepishly, finally making eye contact with Astarion. Those big, blue eyes, pulling him back to focus on her.

“Yes,” he agrees, offering her what he hopes is a believable smirk. They are already touching limbs under the water, given how small the tub is, but he pulls closer to her and touches his thumbs to her cheeks, rolling out her nervousness. “And you can be rid of this… affliction, for a time, whenever you would like.”

“You’re the worst,” Willow responds with a chuckle, seemingly taking it as a joke. “That is incredibly tempting right now, you know. But—“

“Things to work on,” Astarion interrupts, “I’m aware. Now, would you like to continue the conversation?”

He does not intend to be so short with her and regrets the way the words come out immediately afterward, but something about the discussion of working on things makes him feel endlessly frustrated still. On the one hand, Astarion is by no means ready for Willow to be rid of this affliction, as he put it a moment ago. He was just barely beginning to enjoy that child Willow allowed into their camp by the time they all separated, and she was not a crying baby. On the other, he desperately wants it to be so; for her to be well and truly full of him, claimed by him, as he said to her that morning after they were sent to Wyrm’s Rock. That morning that was about a tenday and a half ago, now that he thinks about it, which makes the timing of today all the more interesting. 

Maybe that would fix the aimlessness he feels within him, he wonders. Willow could still choose to leave him, but it would make her much less likely to. If he can have one ounce of certainty in his life beyond his powers it would be to have her, bound to him in every way until she will allow him to make her immortal. 

Willow sighs, the grin that was lingering from her laugh turning into a forlorn kind of smile. “It can wait. You were right, and I was right, yesterday. We don’t need to be so serious all of the time. We can just have fun for a while.”

Astarion’s heart squeezes within him with relief. He does not have to answer the question he does not know the answer to. What a beautiful gift menstruation is this morning.

“I’m not horribly opposed to the idea of more cats,” Astarion says after a pause. That was the question she had asked in the first place, before he tried to steer them away from talking at all and then Willow veered them completely into argumentative territory. He knows it will make her happy to answer it now. “We will have plenty of help, after all.”

“I’d love a dog, too,” she suggests, seemingly further pushing at his circus boundary lines. “Scratch is a free roaming dog, but he spends most of his time in Reithwin. The children love dogs.”

“Why did you leave Reithwin?” Astarion asks her before he can stop himself, the words simply falling out of his mouth. He has been wondering since he first heard she was back, because he truly thought she would be gone from him for good. Big, handsome Halsin and the cartloads of children in his care; the once-beautiful forest healing and growing back, creating a new city.

Willow’s face falls, her lips turning down into a small pout. Astarion rights himself quickly, giving her his best smirk. “It’s only a question, not another argument,” he says dismissively.

“It just felt like something was missing,” she responds with a shrug, looking down into the water of the tub.

Suddenly, the smirk on Astarion’s face feels genuine, despite how disappointed Willow seems to be about the question. He tilts her head back up with a finger to her chin, her eyes meeting his once again.

“It was nice,” she says, her voice soft as he holds her face. “I helped with the children. Told them bedtime stories and played them music. They made for adorable crowds. And watching the trees grow their leaves back, and flowers grow where there had only been darkness before. It was magical.”

She’s dancing around the explanation of something missing, and Astarion debates within his own mind whether or not to pursue it. If she admits it, the tears may spring forth from her eyes again, and neither of them really want that, least of all him.

He knows what was missing. He felt the same, the entire time she was gone. He feels it still, every night she is absent from his side. And yet, Astarion’s newly beating heart squeezes at what she will admit; he is certain that the druid was a formidable partner, most certainly pleasing her at night and impressing her with his ability to care for their wards, all the while being surrounded by the beauty of regrowing nature, and Willow still chose to return to Baldurs Gate. Willow still chose to return to Astarion. Because some part of her knows that she belongs with him, belongs to him, no matter how far she may have strayed. And now he will be sure that she will never stray again. 

Instead of making Willow answer the question, he kisses her — not enough to suggest that he is trying to have sex with her again, but enough to change the subject, and it must work as she pulls away from him with a smile on her face.

“What shall we do today, then?” He asks her with a sigh, still holding her chin with his hand. The water in the bath has begun to cool, and Willow does not seem to mind, but Astarion is still not accustomed to the feeling of cold water against his warm skin. “I could grow quite fond of walking around the city in the sun, talking, so long as it’s with you.”

“Maybe a bit less walking today,” Willow responds, a bit of a chagrined expression crossing her face as she glances back down to the water. That answers the question that had run through his mind about pain. Quite suddenly Astarion finds himself regretting his roughness last night, as much as she desired it. “How are the parks in the upper city? Do they have nice benches?”

Astarion grins, readying himself for a day of sitting with her and talking about nothing. “My treasure, they have excellent benches.”

Chapter Text

Willow 

The first couple of days of having Astarion stay with Willow at the Elfsong go by without a hitch — no more strange presents left at the door, no more threats. They repeat roughly the same schedule they started on the first day; time together in the morning, going their separate ways for a few hours before coming back together at Willow’s nightly show. Willow insists on having some time apart from each other, just to check in with herself and make sure that she feels the same about Astarion even when not staring into his eyes or feeling his touch on her skin. Tonight is to be the first night that Willow does not have work to attend to, and they’ve been throwing around the idea of going out, but first and foremost, Willow wanted to sleep in.

Breaking her out of her comfortable slumber, Willow wakes to the feeling of Astarion gently shaking her shoulder, a near sneer on his face when she finally comes to.

“There is someone outside your door,” he whispers, already pulling himself out of the bed. “They’ve been pacing.” Lithe and silent as a cat, he begins pulling on clothes, seemingly readying himself to face the adversary on the other side of the door.

Willow is bare under her sheets, and hugs them closer to her body while she watches him cross the room to the door. She’s not terrified, necessarily; mostly she is tired from how late they were up last night and would like to get this over with so that she can sleep again, even if that means Astarion must kill someone and hide them away in her room for now.

Astarion keeps his eyes on Willow as he approaches the door, his ears and the muscles of his face twitching with each movement he hears or whatever else he can catch with his vampiric senses. He’s quite cute like this, Willow thinks, and more roguish than he typically looks now, so much that it could almost make her blush.

A few steps away from the door, however, his entire demeanor shifts. His face drops into a casual — maybe disappointed, or annoyed — look, and he shakes his head before he turns around and opens the door.

Willow realizes from the gasp that follows that Shadowheart is beyond the door, and Willow has slept way beyond when they were supposed to meet this morning for their regularly scheduled session. Her cheeks fill immediately with heat even before the half-elf pushes past Astarion, and it takes everything within her not to throw the sheets over her entire head at the widening of Shadowheart’s eyes as they meet hers.

“Well. I suppose I should not have been so worried about you,” Shadowheart says, her exasperation evident in her tone. “After Alfira told me about the dead animal left at your door, I was getting ready to break through when you didn’t show up.”

“I’m so sorry!” Willow apologizes sheepishly, her eyes darting between Shadowheart’s angry eyes and Astarion’s annoying little grin sitting across his face right now. Of course he’s absolutely thrilled that she caught them together with Willow completely fucking naked. Maybe she should start making a habit of throwing on a nightgown before falling asleep. 

“Lovely to see you, Shadowheart,” he finally says, after a too-long moment of silence. Willow’s friend spins around to look at him, her anger not lessening.

“The pleasure is all mine!” She responds in an obviously sarcastic tone. “I would imagine you are the reason Willow forgot about her friend this morning?” 

“Shadow—“ Willow protests, sitting up with the sheets still pulled tightly against her body. Not that it matters that much — it’s not like Shadowheart has never seen her naked in the river before — but it feels embarrassing in this moment.

“We have a lot of talking to do,” Shadowheart interrupts her, some of her anger lessening as she speaks only to Willow. “I’ll give you a few minutes to get dressed. And I really mean a few minutes.”

At that, Shadowheart turns and walks back out the door, shutting it behind herself without making eye contact with Astarion again. The slam of the wooden door leaves behind silence for a moment as Astarion stares after her, seemingly in thought, but when he looks back to Willow he has a smirk on his face again.

“That was nice, wasn’t it?” He asks, before stepping back toward the bed.

“Oh, it was lovely,” Willow agrees, pulling the sheets away from herself. “Obviously you two will get on incredibly well again this time around, my best friend and my…” she scrunches her nose, unsure how to finish the sentence.

Astarion tsks, positioning himself between her knees on the side of the bed. Obviously trying to challenge Shadowheart’s demand that she only take a few minutes, but Willow will have none of it.

“What? I don’t suppose you want to be called my boyfriend, do you?”

Just as expected, Astarion rolls his eyes. “We must come up with something better,” he says quietly, “we cannot have these tavern-dwellers believing you could belong to anyone else.” Astarion runs a gentle hand down Willow’s neck as he speaks, emphasizing his claim of ownership over her. Most times she would shoot something silly back at him for saying something so bold, but words fail her for a moment under his heated gaze. She wants to throw herself back against the bed, Shadowheart downstairs be damned, and forget about any of those little potions on the nightstand. 

Except, not really, not yet — that’s just something she thinks about when she’s feeling particularly excited. 

“You’ll have to think about it while we’re apart today,” Willow says instead, trying to maintain a semblance of calm despite her heart now hammering out of her chest. “No pet, no consort. I’m open to other ideas.”

Astarion frowns at the word consort, and Willow realizes that he must have been hoping in the back of his mind that one was still on the table. That frown is enough to douse her arousal out, and she stands up to offer him a chaste little kiss before getting herself dressed to see her friend downstairs.

“What’s so wrong with consort?” He asks after a moment, as if he had been pondering asking it at all. “That is not a derogatory term.”

Willow turns away from him as she slips on her bra and begins tying up the laces, not wanting him to see the snarl on her face as she thinks about her response. “It’s not the term itself,” she says with a sigh, “rather what it makes me… think about.”

Willow can hear the word in her head even now in the tone he had used directly after the ritual. The way the pitch of his voice changed so drastically, so immediately — that was the first sign to her that he was becoming a different person than he had been before.

My consort; as he asked her to stop the beat of her heart, to become a spawn he can control.

My consort; as he refused to have a real conversation about what transpired beneath the palace, instead insisting on fantasizing about their future as make-believe monarchs, with an emphasis on their rule and no regard for their relationship. 

He made it so easy to make fun of him while drunk with Shadowheart or the tieflings, didn’t he? My precious consort. 

“Something else, then,” Astarion concedes, and Willow can feel his presence approaching behind her as she rifles through her dresser for something to throw over her head. She shakes off the thoughts that had just been running through her mind, or tries to, as she pulls on a dark blue tunic and a pair of leggings next, covering herself completely before turning to look at him again.

He has this horrible look in his eyes. A glittering, silent apology graces his beautiful face, but she knows it will not cross his lips.

“You’re as smart as you are handsome,” Willow says, choosing to lay the complimentary words down thick before she knows she’s going to step out the door, “I know you’ll come up with something good to tame the tavern dwellers.”

Here in her room, with the bright, early afternoon light shining in from the open windows, Willow knows they stare at each other in silent recognition. Things unsaid, things said months ago but not yet to be rehashed.

I love you, she thinks, but she does not say. She pulls him in for a kiss instead, touching her hands to his cheeks, warmed by the sun. Loving him is maybe the worst thing she’s ever done for her moral compass, considering what they had to do to be able to feel the touch of the sun on that skin. But it cannot be stopped.

“And, let me make sure I’m understanding all of this correctly —“ Shadowheart has been patient with Willow, giving her time to explain all of the details of what she has missed since the two of them last spoke. She’s sipped through two goblets of wine in the meantime and not given much away with her face, but her voice now is very clearly tinged with some kind of maddened confusion. “You had a really special moment together, and I’ll admit, it seems like it was very sweet. You ended up in the Gazette, so now everyone knows about this and you’ve broken it off with Felix. And just like that, he’s asked you to live with him?” Shadowheart pauses and Willow opens her mouth to speak, but her friend holds up her hand. “Oh! And I almost forgot — you thought he might be proposing, and you thought you would say yes?”

Willow can only offer a grimace at Shadowheart’s repetition of the words that overflowed from her mouth as the dam broke while she told her story. She has not given his kneeling much more thought since it happened, but while she was pouring her heart out with her friend, sipping down her own tall mugs of mead just to keep her belly warm, some things just… came out.

“In your defense, it’s been a little more than a tenday since I saw you last,” Shadowheart says with a shrug, not taking her piercing green eyes off of Willow, “since we got thrown off by the emergency meeting last time. But not that much more.”

“I know I sound crazy,” Willow admits, shaking her head. “But I don’t want to keep punishing him.”

“Patience is not a punishment. Especially not for an immortal being,” Shadowheart chuffs, finally giving Willow a break by looking away, toward the door into the tavern. “You were patient with him. Took you almost dying to figure out he cared for you before.” Shadowheart cannot look at her as she says this because she would know; she is the one who healed Willow after she nearly died, and kept her unconscious to ease the pain. Shadowheart is the one who comforted Astarion at that time, and Willow will never know for certain what omissions were made while she was unable to hear them.

While that did lead to Astarion admitting his feelings for Willow a short time later, she never heard an I love you back until the ritual. He threw it out that night like it was a gift, with a wicked smile on his face because he knew it would make her lose all sense. Merely a few days ago he said it so easily again, like it meant nothing, and Willow still picked it up like a starved animal finding scraps.

She knows he loves her. He loved her then, even if he never could say it. Now he can say it, but maybe he doesn’t know exactly how. But can anyone really blame him for that, after everything?

“The only thing he wants from me is to make me a vampire,” Willow says decisively, planting her index finger against the table to signal that she means it. “That I will make him wait for. But I’m tired, Shadowheart—“ she cuts herself off, feeling the lump forming in her own throat.

Shadowheart’s eyes return to Willow, her face softening slightly at the break in her friend’s voice. At the sight of her, Willow decides to spit out everything that’s on her mind. What has been on her mind since the music hall, and the rat, and Felix, and the potions, and waking up next to him every day. 

“I’m tired of being alone in this stupid place. Of having to send for you every time I need to talk to someone,” Willow feels the sting of tears pricking in her eyes, and looks to the ceiling to hold them back. “He is the only person I want, willing to give me everything I’ve ever wanted, Shadowheart. I know you think I’m silly but I— I don’t think I’ve ever felt more certain about anything in my entire life.”

Shadowheart is silent for a moment, only reaching out a hand to take Willow’s across the table, clasping their fingers together in comfort. Willow sniffles back the tears until she feels more composed, enough to use her free hand to chug back the rest of her mead and slam it back down to the table, signaling to the server that she’s ready for another.

She may as well drink now, she thinks, if she may be surrendering the ability to do so in the near future.

“I don’t think you’re silly,” her friend finally whispers, squeezing their hands together. Her own eyes are sparkling; a sign that she may have been brought to tears, herself, were she not so well-trained for so many years to hold them back. “I understand it. I won’t stop you.”

“There has to be a but to that statement, right?” Willow asks, a slight air of playfulness entering her tone despite her tearful eyes.

Shadowheart nods. “Of course there is,” she says, continuing to hold Willow’s hand. “I won’t stop you. But I will be here if something goes wrong — or, I will be a sending spell away,” she adds with a slight flush of her cheeks, as they both laugh about how she is never really here in Baldurs Gate.

Shadowheart pulls closer as the laughter subsides, lowering her voice to a near whisper. The tavern isn’t quiet at this time of night, so they haven’t been concerned about their conversation being overheard at this table in the corner, but Willow leans forward the same as her friend does with the expectation that she has something important to say.

“As long as you’re sure,” she whispers, her eyes searching Willow’s. “I think you’re sharp as a blade, Willow, but once you’re six vampire children deep and immortal it’s going to be a bit hard to run off when you get bored.” Shadowheart grimaces as she says it, squeezing their hands together once more.

Willow knows she should be hurt by the comment. She should probably react angrily, or argue against the fact that she ran away from her home to Baldurs Gate — pre-tadpole — to the Hells and to Reithwin out of boredom, searching for something to satisfy her.

But it’s true. She did do those things. She left her family home at a young age because she wanted to explore and play her music, and ended up in Baldurs Gate. She was out performing in the street in the middle of the night when she was snatched up by a nautiloid tentacle. And after they saved Faerûn, she did not hop around necessarily out of boredom, but because she felt the constant pull back to Baldurs Gate and back to him.

The number of days she has been back together with Astarion may be rather short, but this was around the time she began slowly packing her bags to leave Reithwin and practicing how she was going to explain to Halsin that she felt nature simply must be pulling her in a different direction — he took it very well, thank the gods. Now, she only feels the need to be pulled further into Astarion. Covered in him, absorbed in him.

Instead of reacting angrily, Willow gives her friend a slight smile. “Well, one thing about life with Astarion is that I’m quite sure it could never be boring,” she says, sighing as she thinks about the sheer number of things that have happened only over the course of the last few tendays. “And you should have seen his face when I suggested four.”

Shadowheart rolls her eyes. “Such a master at getting yourself out of uncomfortable conversations, aren’t you?”

“That was not my intention,” Willow says in her own defense, trying to become serious again. “Thank you, really. I know… how I can be,” she says, shrugging slightly at her own acknowledgment as she tries to hold back a laugh. “And we’re not there yet. I’ve told him that much, quite a few times. I want to be absolutely certain.”

“Good,” Shadowheart says, and finally releases the grip their hands have on each other. When they pull apart, both of their hands have lost some color from the force they were holding each other with, and Willow wiggles her fingers to try and regain some of the stopped blood.

“Knowing myself, I could be absolutely certain by this afternoon,” Willow adds with a chuckle as she shakes her hand under the table, picking up her mug of mead with the other as she does. “But luckily those little potions you recommended give me an entire day to change my mind.”

“I saw the collection of them while I was in your room,” Shadowheart responds, feigning a gag before she takes a sip from her goblet. Willow’s face prickles with heat at the realization that Astarion’s trunk of treasures has been left open since he arrived, leaving the contents on full display for her friend. “I’m glad you’re having fun, at least.”

“We’re having a lot of fun. I missed him,” Willow admits. She watches Shadowheart’s face as she drinks her wine, considering the mood of conversation for a moment before posing her next question and hoping that the beverage will make her to amiable to it. “Will you come to the party, then? Spend some proper time with him?” Willow had mentioned it in passing as they were talking and the fact that Astarion agreed to Shadowheart being a guest, but had been too hurried through her storytelling to get a response.

“Oh, I am coming to the party,” Shadowheart says, “and I will expect very fine and ample amounts of wine. As for talking to him…” she shrugs, “we will see. But I would do just about anything for my favorite bard.”

Shadowheart’s acceptance puts some of Willow’s uneasy feelings to rest, knowing that she at least feels comfortable enough with Astarion to deign entering his home for a party and plans on drinking heavily while there. Shadowheart would not do such a thing if she felt unsafe or unwelcome.

“Well,” Willow says with a sigh, pushing her hefty mug away, “I suppose we can call that good on that conversation. What have you got for me?”

Shadowheart smiles sneakily, swirling her wine around in her goblet. “I’ll have you know, I went and spent a few days visiting Nocturne in secret,” she says in a whisper, “defying the Lady and all. And it felt very good.”

Willow leans in to the table again, this time not for her own tearful little secrets, but just to catch up with her friend.

Chapter Text

Astarion

As much as he desperately wants to, Astarion does not snoop in on Willow’s conversation with Shadowheart. Instead, he paces within her room, rereading the silly article about them within the Baldurs Mouth Gazette as well as an interview with Figaro on tailoring within the same issue, all the while wondering what the two women are discussing. The cat, Ansur, follows Astarion as he paces, begging to be petted, but Astarion ignores him in favor of his brooding.

Obviously, Shadowheart and Willow are discussing him. At least for the first part of their conversation. As several hours pass, Astarion assumes the conversation must shift at some point — but how can he be sure? How does he know that Shadowheart is not down there sowing seeds of doubt into Willow’s mind for hours, and she is going to come back up here and lose all of the progress they have made with some giant argument?

Everything changed after the ritual, in regards to their friends’ opinions on Astarion. Relationships poisoned first by their jealousy of his immense power, then by their undying devotion to Willow. Astarion can admit at least to himself that he hurt Willow, but she hurt him, too. And that is precisely why he does not want to relive the argument they had that night; the one Willow keeps insisting that they must exhume before they can move this relationship forward beyond the point of their previous one.

The cat meows as he nudges at Astarion’s ankle again, and this time Astarion lowers himself to the floor to give in to the creature’s demands. Surely the cat has earned it, with the way he has been begging for hours. Ansur purrs and chatters as he gives him the scratches on his chin he knows he wanted, and suddenly, Astarion has an idea.

Willow, predictably, keeps her spellbook tucked within her nightstand, just under a myriad of journals that Astarion decides to not look through for now. Speak with animals is one of the first spells listed within it, unsurprisingly — along with dancing lights and the spell that makes people laugh so hard they cannot move; just a couple of her favorites — and Astarion is able to cast it easily from there, before turning to face the begging cat.

“Ansur?” He says hesitantly, greeting the little creature as if he is a person.

“You talk to me!” The cat responds excitedly, somehow realizing that the spell has been cast. “The tall man talks to me!”

And just like that, Astarion realizes he has made a mistake.

He had thought, stupidly, that having a conversation with this creature would be similar to how himself and Willow spoke to the cats at the Last Light Inn or Moonrise Towers — she’s always had a love for cats, in retrospect. This cat, however, is a kitten, with the sound of his childishness already incredibly evident in his voice.

“Love you,” Ansur says enthusiastically, nudging his face against Astarion’s now-frozen hand. “More scratches, please.”

Unable to respond, Astarion listens to the kitten’s request, earning an even more aggressive purr from the small animal.

“Good at scratches,” Ansur says, leaning so hard into Astarion’s nails that he’s sure it must hurt.

“Do you, um,” Astarion hesitates, trying to think of a simple question to ask this apparently very simple creature. “Do you know who left the rat outside the door?”

“No,” Ansur says immediately, not opening his eyes from the enjoyment of the scratches. “Mommy does not let me outside. Mommy did not let me eat it.”

Astarion smiles to himself slightly as he continues to pet the cat, realizing that Willow must be referring to herself as that name to Ansur if the clearly clueless little thing is using it. Of course she would do that, considering how much she craves the real thing.

“Does your mummy say anything about Astarion?” He asks next. If the cat were sharp enough to be likely to share any of these questions with Willow, he would not ask this one. But he is quite sure that Ansur cannot hold that intellectual of a conversation.

“She loves ‘starion. Sings songs about you,” the cat responds as he flips over onto his back, revealing a tiny white spot on his belly. Somehow, Astarion had not considered the fact that the cat would know he is Astarion, despite how many times Willow has said his name within this room. “We love you.”

Absentmindedly, happy with the cat’s response, Astarion reaches to pet the exposed belly, and Ansur launches his teeth into Astarion’s hand. Before he can make any attempt to escape the cat’s teeth, his next move is to begin pummeling him with the sharpened claws on his back feet.

“Ansur,” Astarion hisses, trying to remain calm with the cat in case he wants to ask more questions. But the little claws and the tiny teeth hurt.

“Play!” The cat cheers, his voice muffled while his mouth is full of pale skin.

“No play,” Astarion says firmly, gently trying to pry his hand out of the cat’s mouth. The claws dig deeper, and Ansur’s raven-black ears tip back at him.

“Play!” Ansur’s demand sounds more gruff, and Astarion stops the movement of his fingers. There is no way to get this cat off of his sleeve without ripping anything, or probably hurting the poor thing. He resigns himself to being stuck like this, but the sound of Ansur’s begging for play quickly becomes unbearable.

“We can play if you let go,” Astarion grumbles.

“Bite is play,” the cat responds, the words muffled as he bites down harder on the vampire’s hand.

Astarion turns back to look at Willow’s spellbook with the cat stuck onto his sleeve, scanning over the page for a way to end the speak with animals spell. This has gotten him absolutely nowhere, and he has no interest in spending the rest of his time alone up here waiting for Willow listening to the cat demand more play. Astarion flips to the next page of the spellbook, only to find a healing spell on the immediate page afterward, with no indication of how to end speak with animals.

Astarion is just beginning to wonder how he is going to explain to Willow why he had to throw her bothersome cat out the window when he hears the familiar sound of her laughter, somewhere down the hall. There is no point in trying to hide the fact that he took her spellbook and spoke to the cat, so he simply waits on the floor for her while she fumbles with her keys outside the unlocked door.

“No, I’ve got it,” he hears Willow say just outside, “I’ll see you at the party, okay?”

“Just don’t—“ whatever Shadowheart says is muffled by the sound of Willow dropping her keys to the floor, followed by more of their laughter. Shadowheart takes heavy, clearly tipsy steps away down the hall as the door finally swings open.

“Astarion,” Willow calls as she stumbles in, definitely a bit drunk from her time with Shadowheart. Not enough to be falling over, but enough that she leans against the door as soon as she closes it.

“Mommy!” Ansur cheers, finally releasing Astarion’s hand from his mouth as soon as Willow enters the room.

“Were you playing with my cat?” Willow asks, giggling as Ansur scrambles across the floor to greet her, nails scratching into the wood as he cannot seem to retract them.

“I was not trying to,” Astarion grumbles. “Do you know how to turn this off?” Astarion can still hear Ansur yelling things at Willow as the cat stretches on her leg to greet her, thrilled to have her back.

“You can’t,” Willow says with a shrug, and a half-lidded smile. “They are just like children, love. They need to tire themselves out.”

“I mean the speak with animals,” Astarion clarifies, exasperated.

Willow’s eyes widen, looking from Ansur’s shouting little face to Astarion. “Gods,” she says, doubling over with laughter. “You can hear him right now?”

Astarion sighs, realizing both that Willow must only be hearing his regular cat noises right now — given that she did not cast speak with animals — and that she has spoken to him before and knows what Astarion must be hearing.

“Hells, Astarion,” she says as she laughs, ruffling the cat’s ears with her hand. “You can’t just turn the spell off. You’re going to be stuck hearing him until this time tomorrow when it fades.”

“You’re kidding,” he responds, unable to laugh the way that she is.

Willow shakes her head, and scoops Ansur up into her arms. “Mommy loves ‘starion,” the cat says, and Astarion wishes that Willow’s drunken ears could hear more than a simple meow so he could see how red her face would become.

“What did you ask him?” Willow croaks out as the laughter subsides, wiping a tear from her eye as she rocks the cat back and forth.

Astarion sighs again, realizing how stupid it seems that he asked this cat anything, knowing now how clueless he is. “If he saw who left the rat.”

Willow stops her rocking, shifting her bleary eyes to Astarion. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

“Well, he didn’t,” Astarion says quickly, getting himself up from the floor and brushing the cat hair off of himself. Willow’s jovial demeanor drops slightly, seemingly having thought Astarion would have gotten somewhere by asking the cat. She is evidently still worried about whoever left the rat, despite having done a good job of pretending over the last several days that she is no longer concerned.

Astarion steps toward her, touching her arm as she continues to pet the cat. “Good scratches,” Ansur says quietly, his head lolling as if he could fall asleep in this position.

“I had plans for us, tonight,” Astarion murmurs to Willow, “that did not involve hearing his commentary when we get back to your room.”

“I have the night off,” Willow responds, turning her head to face him, “and I could be convinced to wake up in silk sheets.”

The cat protests being left alone for the night, but Astarion ignores the sound of him by leaning in to kiss Willow, tasting the heady mead on her lips. The cat makes an annoyed hmmph noise — Astarion wonders what that must sound like without the speak with animals magic active — at being squished between them, before weaseling his way out of Willow’s grasp and jumping to the floor.

“Let’s wait until we can get to those silk sheets,” Astarion says as he pulls away from her, suddenly aware of her inebriation once again as she nearly tumbles into him. “And until you’re a little less drunk.”

Willow grins back, clearly aware of her own state. “A nap, then.”

Willow sleeps a bit more before allowing Astarion to take her out for the night, gratifying him with her beauty across the city and to another performance at the music hall before spending a night at his home, where there are no animals for him to hear because of the wretched little spell. No mention is made of her conversation with Shadowheart, and nothing about Willow’s demeanor has noticeably shifted, apart from maybe appearing a bit happier than usual — though that could be from the absence of the bleeding she has been dealing with for the past several days. He does not address it.

He continues to spend nights by her side, even after her heart stops racing every time she opens the door out of her room. He is certain that eventually she will tell him that this arrangement is no longer necessary, that it must have been a one-time thing due to the article in the Gazette, but she doesn’t.

Astarion himself has suspicions of who may have left the dead animal at her door, but chooses to believe that it must have been Felix — despite Willow’s insistence that it couldn’t have been, as the boy even greets him now when Astarion approaches the bar — or some angry Elfsong patron. Still, in the back of his mind, he cannot help but think of what a coincidence it is that he began searching for information on other vampires in the area only a day before someone left a rat — a stereotypical vampire summon, and the animal Cazador used to torture him with — at her door.

He did not say anything to Marceline about his human lover. She would only know if she reads the Gazette, and why would a vampire be reading the Gazette? Astarion doesn’t, except for when he was stuck pacing in Willow’s room. Then, it was only a cure for boredom.

Then again, Marceline is quite obviously not a regular vampire. Astarion has not thought much more about seeing her in the sun, given all of the other distractions that have come up in the time since then, but it was very, very strange. There is no other Vampire Ascendant, obviously, but there are legends and rumors of things that exist to allow vampires to walk in the sun. On their travels, Gale suggested that a highly skilled mage may be able to craft something to help protect Astarion from the sun, or that enchanted items may already exist to do so, only needing to be found. Could Marceline have found a way to protect herself? Without the need to sacrifice any lives?

This morning, the Baldurs Mouth Gazette is sitting in its place on Willow’s bedside table, and Astarion scoops it up just to get himself to stop thinking. They are reporting on nothing important; a jeweler in the upper city is having their grand reopening in a few days, finally having recovered from the fall of the Netherbrain, and the Flaming Fist is celebrating four months since the battle by giving children a tour of Wyrm’s Rock.

Four months.

Four months since that awful day that Astarion and the girl sleeping soundly next to him, along with all of their companions, saved the entirely of the Sword Coast before going their separate ways on the docks. Before he cursed at her and disappeared into the sunlight, free from the burning pain despite having no tadpole in his brain, but fresh with a brand new kind of pain that would only really settle in that night, alone in the palace.

When Willow and Astarion first broke up, it was amicable enough for him to stay within their group and he still saw her every single day. He kept a watchful eye on her in fights — though she rarely needed help — and snuck into her room to watch her sleep, strange as it was. She was still his. Always his.

The days without seeing her were long and horrible, in comparison. He tried to forget about her, tried to find the same kind of attraction to other people by means of having sex, but thought of her constantly. He would come out of trance in the middle of the night, panting from a horrible nightmare and reach for her across the sheets as he had when they lived together in the Elfsong, only to find emptiness. Maybe that is part of the reason why her rejection to living with him still stings, and he will stay here as long as he can. With her, so far, he has had no nightmares, and if he did he would have her body to hold.

Astarion drops the Baldurs Mouth Gazette back onto her nightstand, and settles back into the bed to face Willow as she sleeps. Usually he wouldn’t dare wake her, but his thoughts will not stop racing, and he cannot help but to nudge at her shoulder.

“Something wrong?” She mutters, rolling over to her side to face Astarion. Her eyes do not quite open.

“Nothing,” he whispers quickly, running his hand down her arm. “We have a party to prepare for tonight.”

She gives him a small curl of her lip into a smile, and her eyes flutter enough to catch a glimpse of blue, but she cannot keep them open. “I nearly forgot that was today.” Willow rolls back over and yawns, before sitting herself upward.

She has not been participating too much in the final details of the party, insistent as she has been on them having some amount of time apart from each other most days. But Willow has seen the names of the guests that have responded, gawked at some of them and squealed excitedly for others, such as a couple of well-known musicians from the upper city; at most of the names, however, she has yawned.

Astarion considered inviting some of the vampires he has gathered enough information on to reach out to as a means of introducing himself in person in the most lavish way possible, but decided against it since he is weary of the bloodlust some of these other wretches may have, with Willow in attendance.

“It’s been an entire month, then,” Willow says, looking over her shoulder at Astarion. She still has that sneaky little smile across her face, as if she’s quite satisfied with her observation. “Since you tricked me into putting on that dress.”

“I think you knew quite well what you were getting yourself into,” Astarion scoffs, reaching for her arm with his hand and attempting to tug her back down into the bed. She shrugs him off, wrinkling her nose in response.

“You woke me up. Now we’re going to get up,” she says.

Willow has been quite strict about spending some time apart from each other each day, but has also been firm in her commitment to talking and spending time together with their clothes on, with the exception of when they retire for the evening. Astarion enjoys taking her out, admittedly — the mere sight of the two of them together catches eyes everywhere they go — but the more time they spend talking, the more likely it is for someone to accidentally bring up their past or their months of separation, which can quickly become unbearable.

Before Astarion can muster up a response, Willow pulls herself out of bed and crosses the room to the desk, where their collection of little potion vials sit in a clasped box that they obtained after the unexpected visit from Shadowheart, just in case anyone else decides to pop in and Willow must preserve what is left of her image of purity — her little joke, not his. She makes a point of staring at him as she downs one and he rolls his eyes, as if they do not have several more in the very box she snatched that one from.

She looks at the vial in her hand as soon as she pulls it from her lips, now empty. “Do we know if these lose effectiveness if you use them too much for too long?”

“I am certain the herbalist would have mentioned something if that were the case,” Astarion responds quickly, skirting around the question slightly since that was not something he thought to ask.

Willow chuckles lightly, setting the little vial down. “Maybe they think you’ve got many lovers,” she shrugs. The smile on her face fades only a moment later, almost unnoticed by Astarion as she turns away to search for clothing.

He hesitates, not wanting to bring up the question he has on his mind this morning in particular; Astarion has a few extra things planned for Willow, beyond having her perform at his little party and look pretty on his arm, and does not want to do anything to upset her.

“Do you wish to stop using them?” He asks as she slips on her undergarments, deciding against his better judgement that he may as well pose the question now and get it over with. Willow freezes in place, her stays only half-tied by her fingers.

“No,” she says after a brief moment of silence, looking back down to the delicate strings as she finishes tying them off. “It was only a question. Pretty typical for alchemical items to lose some of their effect on the body if taken on a regular basis, I thought.”

“Those are herbal, my little love. A bit different,” Astarion corrects her quietly, trying to soften it with the term of endearment for her. She knows the difference between that and a strange potion made of ground-up mephit wings. There is something else going on in her mind, but if she does not want to share it, he is going to try not to push her. Again, in favor of what he has planned for her for later.

“Oh. Right,” is all she says, shrugging and making brief eye contact before she turns back around to rifle through her clothing in silence.

“Don’t worry so much about your clothes. You’ll be changing, anyway,” Astarion says flippantly as he stands up, trying to change the subject. Willow does not respond as he walks to the window, surveying the street below her room within the tavern. He has high hopes that they will not be waking to this view, in this place for much longer, and that the party tonight will be the push that Willow needs to make it happen.

When he turns around to look at Willow again she is fully dressed, complete with the suit coat he gave her when she first walked back to the Elfsong from his home. It almost fits like a dress over her leggings, completely hiding the tunic underneath, and stuck on her face is a humored expression completely different from the one that occupied it before.

“I’m ready, then,” she says, looking briefly down at the coat and tugging at the hem. “Let’s throw a big party.”

Chapter Text

Astarion

In spite of the strange start to their morning, Astarion sticks to the plan he has already set in place for the day leading up to the party. The surprises he has for Willow have been coming together right under her nose over the course of the last tenday, and will continue happening right under her nose as the final preparations for the event tonight take place in Astarion’s home.

First, Astarion sent a letter out to their old friend Gale; both with an invitation to tonight’s soirée and a request for help with a particular gift. Gale then sent Astarion off to a different wizard in Baldurs Gate with more of an expertise in the enchantment of items, and Astarion realized he should have dressed himself down when he went to visit said wizard because he is quite sure that the ginger-haired little witch robbed him for Willow’s gift — though, most things seem like robbery when one is used to simply nicking items from shopkeepers. Astarion does not see himself as above stealing now, by any means, but it is much harder to do when he is having things special ordered and handmade, such as with this gift.

After inviting Gale, Astarion considers inviting some of their other companions for Willow’s sake, but ultimately decides that having the wizard and Shadowheart at the event will be more than enough. Gale is innocent enough; he was never too judgmental of Astarion, given that he searched the Chionthar for the Crown of Karsus and had to be convinced by the others to not become a god to spite his goddess. But some of the others did not support Astarion’s completion of the ritual at all, and he cannot risk them making a scene at his soirée or trying to change Willow’s mind. Not when they have been doing so well together.

The air is cold on the short carriage ride from the Elfsong to the palace, calming some of the heat that builds underneath Astarion’s skin in anticipation of tonight. It isn’t overwhelming, and he isn’t red or sweating — he checked, since he is still horribly enamored with being able to see his own reflection — but it is such a strange feeling, coupled with an erratic heartbeat. He does not know how Willow has lived with her racing heart for so long, but it makes him feel better to hear it when he slips his hand around her upper thigh on the seat of the carriage.

The palace is bustling with many more people than usual; hired help to make the night go smoothly. Armed guards wait at the doors, opening the front portcullis for Astarion and Willow as soon as the carriage approaches. The smell of food from the kitchen spreads all throughout the halls as they walk to the ballroom, with chefs preparing hors d’oeuvres for the party guests. Another set of guards will be waiting at the ballroom doors during the party tonight, but for now they stand wide open as the help passes in and out of them hurriedly.

“This looks way different,” Willow says in awe as they enter the ballroom, her eyes panning up and down from the high ceiling to the servants still working on polishing the floor.

It has been updated, to say the very least. The horrific wallpaper that once lined the vast ballroom has been ripped down, revealing real stone underneath, which has been cleaned and repaired in places that needed it. New stone carvings of bats and dragons, complimented by delicate golden detailing adorn the once-plain pillars. Astarion made sure to have the windows washed early this morning to allow the sun to shine in at its fullest, and the rays grace the wooden floors now brighter than they have in centuries.

The bright sun will not last for long during the party itself, but it will dance across the room long enough to dispel any rumors that may remain of this palace being occupied by vampires. Astarion may still have red eyes and fangs, but he has several new tricks that the vampire patriarch before him never had that just may allow him further into the upper city’s upper echelons than he ever reached.

“Well, last time you saw this room I believe it was covered in blood and guts,” Astarion responds, allowing the distaste of the memory to creep into his voice as he pictures the bodies of Cazador’s summons and the servants that were willing to die for him.

“Remember when I cast hold beast on that mouthy one?” Willow says, nudging him with her elbow as she points to one corner of the room. Truthfully, Astarion struggles to recall much more than little flashbulb memories of the hours prior to the ritual, but once she says it, he can remember this one.

The werewolf summon had taken Astarion by surprise, as he had never seen his former master have such a thing in the house. The charmed guards, the servants carrying daggers, the rats and the bats were all typical — but the giant, talking werewolf trying to keep Astarion from snooping around his own home?

Willow, who must have sensed something within him as she was never more than two feet away from Astarion on that day — aside from when Cazador forced them apart, and even then Willow teleported to him within moments; she was a wicked spell caster inside these walls — dominated the beast immediately, holding the creature in place with her musical magic while Astarion took it down and the others took on the smaller foes, all guarding the entrance to the wretched temple below.

“I remember it,” he says now, the disgust in his voice dissipating as he puts an arm around her and pulls her body closely into his as they continue to walk, not allowing her to see the smile forming across his face.

He knew before that day that he needed to have her in his life for eternity, but her actions within these walls are without a doubt what have made him so hopelessly needy for her. She gave him everything; the sun, the end to endless hunger, power. Everything except her own life. And they are working on that, now.

They approach a small stage on one side of the ballroom; four circular, wooden levels in tiers like a cake, with room for Willow to twirl and steps for her to bound up and down if she wishes. This was not originally part of the plan for the remodeling of the ballroom, but somehow, Astarion was able to put it within a perfect viewing distance from the throne.

“Of course, you can run around as you like to do,” Astarion murmurs to Willow, gesturing with his free hand to the stage. “But I would like all of the guests to see you.”

“All of this for one little party?” Willow asks, and he can feel her tilting her head upward to look at him, but he keeps looking ahead at the stage.

“You will entertain at many of my parties,” he says, tugging her closer again.

“That’s true,” Willow laughs, leaning into the touch. “I suppose it could work for private performances, as well?”

“You are full of good ideas,” Astarion responds with a sigh, though his anticipation of the party is too overwhelming at the moment for any imaginations of Willow dancing for him on this stage to really cause excitement. Later, he will have to think about it again.

The throne is the next stop on their stroll through the ballroom, though the towering, gold-plated monstrosity has surely already caught Willow’s eye. It is much different than the small, uncomfortable-looking chair that used to sit in the same spot. Much like the rest of the room, it is dripping with gold, with white velvet adorning the plush, cushioned seat. It is big enough to fit a larger person than the old one could, or perhaps, a Lord and his consort.

“Can I sit on it?” She asks immediately, cocking her head to the side.

It is not lost on Astarion that this throne served as a place to bring people back to his home — notably, Melantisa — when he could not bear to have them in his bed. He feels a distinct urge, then, to have Willow on it, and to cover up those wretched memories. But not like this.

“Later, my treasure,” he croons in response, pressing his lips against the top of her head. “In front of everyone.”

He can feel Willow stiffen within his embrace before she even says anything, sucking air into her lungs in preparation. “I do not want to sit in your lap in front of all of those people,” she says, with little emotion to her voice. No annoyance, or detectable frustration; no playfulness, either.

“Why?”

“Because, it’s…” Willow shakes her head, “demeaning, Astarion. I like those things when it’s just us, but not in front of so many people.”

“How is it demeaning?” He asks, unable to hide his own frustration. The hand at her waist snakes around to her abdomen, pressing flatly against the space between her belly button and the apex of her thighs. “To lay claim to you in front of a ballroom full of people?”

Willow yanks the hand away, pulling herself out of his grasp. She does not move far, merely a few inches, but Astarion’s body immediately feels cold at the loss of her touch. “There are better ways of doing that,” she insists, her eyes wide now that he can see them. “I am not opposed to sitting in your lap when we’re alone together, but I will not do it in front of everyone. Dealbreaker?”

“What?” Astarion balks at her, confused.

“Is that a dealbreaker?” She asks again, slightly rephrasing the question.

“No,” he responds immediately, shaking his head both to reaffirm his answer and in complete exasperation. They stare at each other for a moment, silent seconds passing as Willow’s expression softens and the tension leaves her shoulders, until Astarion sighs. “After the party, then.”

Willow doesn’t say anything, but raises her eyebrows in question.

“You, in your dress, in my lap,” he clarifies, motioning toward her body. “Or without the dress — it’s really no matter.”

Willow offers him a small smile, and a tiny roll of her eyes. “Fine. It had better be worth the wait.”

The way her attitude shifts so quickly back to normal could nearly give Astarion whiplash, and for the second time today. This morning after she became so strange about the potions, and now with the throne; both questions having to do with the future of their relationship. On any other day it may not bother him, since their dynamic together has always been chaotic, but today of all days, Astarion wishes only for reassurance.

Willow returns to his side, gripping his arm with her hands in what he supposes is an effort to show that she is fine with his answers, even though it does not really feel fine. They leave the servants to complete the work on the ballroom, which was the only portion of the palace Astarion really intended on showing Willow on this tiny tour. There is not much else to show — just empty rooms, serving no purpose now that only one person lives here — and Astarion leads Willow down a long hallway to the room where she will be getting ready for the party.

“Can you behave yourself for a few hours?” He asks her, walking slowly down the hall as Willow stops to look at paintings that were picked simply because Astarion enjoyed their color schemes, and did not want the walls to be completely barren.

“Are you leaving me by myself?”

“With the tailor and the hairdresser.”

“Oh,” he can feel as Willow’s shoulders slump slightly at the realization that it is now time to get ready, but she does not protest. “I think I can.”

“That sounds incredibly reassuring, darling.”

At the end of the hall, Astarion stops, turning Willow with her shoulders to face him. “Once they have you ready, you will come meet me in the bedroom,” he whispers, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “So that I may see you before anyone else.”

Willow launches herself on her toes to kiss him, and is met with absolutely no protest as he accepts her warm mouth against his. It’s soft and short as she pulls away a second later, but gives him a minuscule amount of the reassurance he wants.

“See you later,” she says, a crooked little smirk across her face, clearly happy with her surprise kiss being successful. It’s hard to maintain any sort of frustration towards her when she acts and looks like that all of the time.

“Be good,” Astarion responds pointedly, holding up a finger to her.

He begins to turn from her, intent on his final list of tasks that must be completed while Willow is taken care of in that room. His final fitting was already completed yesterday, and he will have no problems dressing himself — Willow, on the other hand, has some rather complicated strings on her gown that she needs an extra hand for anyway — but that will not take long. Seeing his own hairdresser will not take long, either. It’s the pacing and preparing himself that is most likely to take up his time.

“Hey,” Willow whispers before he can quite turn all the way around from her, pulling his attention completely back. “I love you,” she says simply, hugging her arms around herself before she turns around to walk into the room.

The feeling of familiarity twists within Astarion’s stomach; how often she would do this before, saying those words so casually and expecting nothing in return. She needed nothing from that weak little spawn but to be held and kissed, to have him laugh at her jokes and watch her with reverence while she played her music. He never said those words back to her in earnest, and she never cared. For someone who spends so much time writing in little journals, words seem to mean very little to her. It was always the actions that counted.

Every scrap of him wants to give in to the need to call after her and say it back, knowing that every utterance of it from his mouth has been out of the sheer fear of her seeing that weakened man again. That shell that he was, and still has the mangled scars to remind her of every time her nails scratch or her legs hitch around his back.

He does love her. The words simply do not feel genuine when they leave his lips, knowing how unceremoniously he has thrown them out before. He did not throw love around casually in the way that Willow does, with lightness and joy behind it, but with fear. A last resort to get someone to follow him back to the palace, with three little words that they may have never heard from a lover before. And with Willow, before the ritual, part of him always wondered if he was leading her to her doom in this same palace, too.

He will show her how he loves her. He will prove it to her with actions, not words. And for now, he will simply watch her round the corner into the room wearing his coat, knowing that when he sees her again, he is going to do something. He only needs to decide now whether or not he is going to follow through with his original plan.

Chapter Text

Willow

The room Astarion has stowed Willow away in would be a great space to play music in. The heavy curtains and rugs, albeit dusty from the room clearly not ever being used, provide just the right amount of a sound barrier to make the moments of silence between herself, the tailor and the hairdresser absolutely deafening, and Willow can only think how nice it would be to have some music to distract her from the invisible mental breakdown she is currently having.

She stands on a small pedestal in front of a huge, full-length mirror, as the tailor from last tenday makes final alterations to her beautiful gown while an annoyed woman does Willow’s hair — she is not sure if the hairdresser is annoyed only by the tailor getting in her way or by the thickness and length of Willow’s hair as she attempts to tame it, but she is definitely annoyed, and allows it to show through the way she allows pins to poke at Willow’s scalp. Willow cannot even be that bothered by it, because her mind is completely occupied by swirling, spiraling thoughts.

She is not sure what compelled her to ask Astarion about the efficacy of using those potions long term this morning, but when he told her what she already knew — that the herbal ingredients are not likely to suddenly lose their potency — she could not help but feel disappointed. At the same time, if she tries to imagine herself with child right now, staring at her still-flat abdomen in the mirror she feels a fluttering within her stomach that does not feel entirely light and magical. She almost feels sick.

“Do you want the corset tighter?” The tailor asks, clearly seeing the way Willow is eyeing her reflection. The older woman looks at her with thin lips pulled taut, her brows furrowed. “Much tighter and you won’t be able to breathe, dearie.”

“No, no,” Willow says quickly, trying to muster up a soft smile in her reflection. “Just got lost in thought.”

The woman sighs, nodding her head as she returns to the hemming she was doing on one of the sleeves. “Very good.” She does not say anything else for a moment, her eyes shifting slightly to the hairdresser, who has not uttered a single word since she introduced herself to Willow. “You are a very beautiful girl. You needn’t be ashamed of anything.”

“I’m—“ Willow begins to protest, but stops herself short. Why else would she have been staring so intently at her reflection? It’s likely easier to pretend she is frustrated by the softness of her body that has come with the comforts of staying in one place than it is to explain the thoughts actually running through her mind. “Thank you,” she says instead, nodding curtly at the tailor.

Willow is not typically sensitive about her body, and definitely not to the extent of forcing herself tighter into a corset. This dress is regal and modest, and it covers the scar on her abdomen, which is the only thing she can think of that she would be trying to hide from others, only because she does not want to answer questions about it. It’s simply hard to stare in thought at anything else when her body is the item on display in this mirror in front of her, and when the idea of it changing has been so high on her mind lately.

The tailor must somehow understand that something is going on in Willow’s mind, or maybe she has just become bored with the silence, because she keeps speaking. “Lord Astarion is one of my newer clients, but one of my favorites,” the woman says with a smile, looking just beyond Willow in the mirror as if she’s replaying memories within her head as she says it. “He has such an eye already, he can practically do my job for me.”

Willow smiles back at her, making the woman doing her makeup clear her throat as she does something with Willow’s eyebrows. Willow straightens her face back out in response. “He does,” is all she says in agreement, trying not to move her mouth too much.

“I was not sure about the blue of the gown,” the woman adds, her eyes shifting back toward Willow, “being so light for such a formal event, but after seeing those eyes — ah! He was absolutely right. I have not seen the jewels he picked for you yet, but he even told me to be sure that these sleeves do not get caught on any large rings. He’s very thoughtful. They must be very extravagant.”

The tailor rambles on about her inspirations and Astarion’s instructions, and Willow tries to keep her face unmoving while the other woman finishes working on her face. This type of treatment is completely foreign to her, but not horrible, and she could maybe even see herself growing to like it in the future when she is more comfortable. And maybe if her hairdresser in the future is more like the tailor, willing to be chatty to fill the silence — though Willow cannot see herself telling Astarion to dismiss this poor woman simply because she is quiet and displeased by the yapping. Astarion would do that, for her.

“What do you think?” The silent woman finishes her work first, holding a hand mirror up to Willow’s face to show her all sides of herself. Her voice is flat, but she seems to be waiting for a real answer, moving the mirror around to a different angle every couple of seconds.

Willow was so focused on the sight of her body in the mirror, she barely looked at her own face. Her cheeks have been painted a deep, yet somehow natural-looking red; her eyes given a much more dramatic liner than she has ever been able to manage. The woman tosses the portion of Willow’s curled hair that is not pinned back over her shoulders, yanking away a strand that sticks to her dark, glossy lipstick and sighing as she pulls the mirror back. “Well?”

“You’ve done an incredible job,” Willow says, trying to find the words to describe what she sees without outright calling herself beautiful. But she is beautiful. Willow herself has never used such deep red colors on her face, but coupled with her long, dark hair, if she pretends for a moment she does not have pale blue eyes she would really think she looks the part of Astarion’s vampiric partner. “Thank you.”

The woman manages a half smile, and hands a little black tube off to Willow. “This is for the lips,” she says, “it’s likely to smudge.”

“Oh, I actually don’t have much of a problem with that,” Willow responds with a quiet laugh, “with the flute, you don’t touch your lips to it too mu—“

The woman snorts, pushing the tube further into Willow’s hand. It’s the most expression she has seen on her face in all of the hours they have been in this room together, so Willow can only stop her talking and smile in response.

“Have fun,” is all she says when her laughter subsides, before turning around and walking out of the room.

Willow, finally able to speak and show expressions with her face, looks to the tailor with befuddlement before returning her eyes to herself in the mirror. “Strange.”

The woman clears her throat, straightening out Willow’s dramatic sleeves to make sure that they do not quite reach her fingers. “She was not talking about smudging it on the flute, dearie. Though I think that red would be a fine color on Lord Astarion, should you choose to share.”

Were her cheeks not already painted red, surely they would deepen at the realization of what the hairdresser was actually talking about. “I didn’t know what he told the two of you,” Willow says, her voice slightly gravely from her own embarrassment, “about me.”

The woman stops her fiddling with the gown for a moment, staring at Willow straight on with a humored smile. “How long have you been together?”

Willow is taken aback by the question, looking at the painting on the wall beyond the woman for a moment as she tries to come up with an answer. It’s a green meadow with a river running through it, and the style of painting makes it look dreamy with fog. Much like the river that runs near the Emerald Grove, where Willow thought her relationship with Astarion first started, only to find out later he didn’t really care for her at that time.

Maybe their relationship started in the shadow-cursed lands, when he finally admitted to manipulating her and to having real feelings for her? But then they broke up a while later in Baldurs Gate, after the ritual. Telling this woman that they have only been together for a month feels silly and untrue, but not accounting for their time apart also feels like a lie, and Willow does not feel like she can lie to this woman.

“It’s complicated,” Willow says as her gaze returns to the tailor, whose smile wavers a bit at the response.

“Well, in any case,” she says, placing a hand on Willow’s shoulder, “a man like that does not have all of this done for a bard at a party.” She winks as her hand falls away, returning to adjusting the gown. “We assumed he must have bigger plans for you, dearie.”

Willow finds through conversation alone with the tailor that her name is Agnes, and she is sweet enough to offer Willow a hug before they go their separate ways, claiming excitedly that she cannot wait to fit her again. That little gesture makes the feeling in Willow’s stomach a bit lighter; to know that one thing in her future with Astarion is surely going to be easy and nice, at least for the remainder of Agnes’ human lifespan. Willow is trying not to think about human lifespans too much. 

One of the servants leads Willow back down to the main bedroom once she is ready, where she will presumably adorn herself in her jewelry and see Astarion before the party actually begins. Through the tall windows in the halls she can see the sun beginning to say it’s farewell across the sky, signaling that the day is reaching its end and the party will soon start.

The bedroom is empty when Willow reaches it, shutting the door behind her. As expected, there is a box waiting for her atop the bedsheets with jewels that match her gown. A thin necklace adorned with what Willow is absolutely certain are diamonds, followed by large, sapphire earrings. Absent from the box, however, are any rings.

Willow’s hands shake as she fumbles with the earrings first, dropping one of them on the floor before she can get it secured into the hole in her ear. He did not tell her to wear any rings this morning, and he did not give her any. She supposes he could be bringing some when he comes to see her now before the party, but with the way this entire thing has been planned out so perfectly, that seems utterly strange.

She did think, and she did say out loud during that conversation with Shadowheart that she would say yes if he proposed to her. And just this morning she was lost in her own thoughts about wanting to start trying to create their family now, and looking back that question must have made it so obvious to him. Why, then, are her hands shaking so violently at the thought of it being so imminent?

When she looks at herself in the mirror in this room, Willow sees the same girl she saw in the mirror down the hall. The same girl she has seen in every reflection over the course of the last several months or years, whether that was in Reithwin, or in the little pocket compact she carried with her in the Hells, or in whatever glimpses she could catch of her mangled self as she and her companions traveled the Sword Coast in search of a cure to the tadpoles within their heads, with no idea they were to become heroes. The same girl who had to leave all of those places and all of those people, eventually, because she never felt like she fit perfectly with any of them. Except with Astarion, until he changed.

Willow never wanted to separate herself from Astarion before. She never got sick of talking to him, holding him or being held by him, even fighting off fiends with him, as much as she hated to do that in general. What had started as a purely sexual relationship transformed into something so much more intimate once he finally came clean about manipulating her for protection. She knows she would have spent the rest of her life with him, had that horrible night below this very palace never happened. Or at the very least, she thinks she knows. 

To abandon him again now would break his heart, and hers. But to commit to all of this — to say yes and to give him a child — and then rip it away would be the most evil, most vile decision her fickle heart has ever made.

As soon as both of the earrings are fastened into her ears, Willow hears the lightest rapping of a fist against the door. “Come in,” she calls, her voice coming out choked, despite the girl in the mirror trying to put on a brave face. The presence enters, and she knows it’s him before her eyes even leave her own reflection in the mirror, only from the feeling of being in the same room together.

“Willow,” he says quietly, the sound of awe in his voice. She turns to look at him, taking in the sight of his gaping mouth first — as it’s such a rare sight on him, now — before absorbing the rest of him; his hair is even more perfectly styled than usual, with not a single strand out of place, and he wears a suit in a dark blue color that she knows will compliment the baby blue he picked for her, with stark white detailing and underclothes. Embroidered dragons trail down his sleeves, but somehow do not look overpowering or distracting on someone already as beautiful as him. And yet, he is looking at her with surprise in his dark eyes, holding out his arms as he steps toward her.

“You look incredible,” he whispers, and touches his hands to her shoulders as soon as he is close enough to reach her. Suddenly Willow feels shy, looking briefly down to her gown as if to see for herself what all of the excitement is about before finding his eyes again.

“All thanks to you,” she responds, trying to muster up some sense of her normal self in her voice. “And two very hardworking women.”

The surprised look on his face shifts to a satisfied smile, as he continues to absorb Willow with his eyes. She wishes that he would not stare at her so intently, but he must be enjoying the fact that he can afford to dress himself like he does and put Willow in clothes like this, too. She always knew that he cared greatly for what he wore while they traveled together — as demonstrated by him turning down armor if it was ugly, even if it would offer him more protection than whatever he had — but he was never given the means that the former owner of this giant house kept to himself. With that on her mind Willow allows him to take her in like this, until he catches her hands with his.

“Why are you shaking?” He asks, holding their hands together between their two bodies.

“I’m a bit nervous,” Willow responds quickly, looking him in the eyes to appear truthful. Nervousness is the truth, but not for what she is about to claim it’s for. “I’m about to perform for so many people, after all.”

One of Astarion’s eyebrows quirks upward. “That is not like you.”

“Well, it’s a bit different than an old tavern full of drunk people,” she insists.

He laughs, allowing their hands to drop back down to their sides, but Willow crosses hers across her abdomen instead. “Many of them will be quite drunk, darling. You overestimate them.”

Astarion steps away from her, then, briefly adjusting his sport coat in the mirror before he moves to the bed. He sits on the edge of it, leaning against one of the posts of the canopy top, and sets his gaze on Willow as he motions to the unoccupied spot next to him.

“Shouldn’t we be heading to the ballroom to greet everyone?” Willow asks, not moving from her current position. Her heart skips within her chest, betraying her.

“Sit,” he commands, unmoving as he waits for her. Willow begrudgingly releases her stiffened arms, crossing the floor to the bed until she can throw herself down next to him, not quite close enough to touch.

He does not kneel. He does not awkwardly clear his throat like he used to do when he was nervous, or remind her how much he adores her. Astarion smirks at Willow as he pulls something from his pocket, before opening his palm to reveal a ring.

Willow’s ears buzz at the sight of his hand, as the only sound in the room becomes her ragged breathing. Atop a golden band lie two large stones; one a glimmering opal, the other a deep, dark sapphire. He takes Willow’s hand and opens it to drop the ring into her palm, allowing her fingers to close around it.

“This is enchanted,” Willow realizes, looking only at her hand and feeling the ring instead of meeting Astarion’s gaze. It’s hefty from the size of the stones, but there’s another, unmistakeable feeling to it, too; powerful magic radiating off of it, though Willow cannot quite place it.

“It is,” Astarion says, as he reaches into his pocket again. He pulls out another ring, then — a smaller band with only an opal and no sapphire, radiating the same kind of energy. “Do you remember those rings we found in Reithwin?”

Willow frowns at the thought of it. They had found a set of enchanted rings in Reithwin that had a warding bond attached to them — since the two of them were always holding up the rest of the group with their pilfering of items — but had decided not to wear them quite quickly after a few bad encounters. Neither of them quite had the strength necessary to make use of them, and after they broke up Willow gifted the rings to Karlach and Wyll.

“These have the same kind of warding,” Astarion says, clearly seeing the look on Willow’s face, “for your protection. This time, they are less atrociously scuffed, and I am much stronger.” He pauses, a satisfied little grin crossing over his face as he seems to think about it.

“I would like for you to wear this, tonight,” he continues, “and to continue to wear it, until we get it done… officially,” he waves his hand not holding the other ring, passively, “to prevent anyone from getting any ideas about your availability to them.”

Willow gulps. Clearly this idea has come from a good place, from wanting to keep her safe, but the way he has presented it is so… disappointing. She does not know whether to be angry or to cry, and in this moment all she can do is laugh. She bursts into laughter so loud that it wipes the smile off of Astarion’s face, switching to a near-glower.

“Get it done?” She repeats through her fits of laughter, unable to look at him through the tears springing in her eyes either from the intensity of her uncomfortable giggles or because she really, actually is very upset. “That’s how you’re talking about— about marrying me?”

“Willow,” Astarion protests, holding his hand to her shoulder to steady her as soon as she admits why she’s laughing. At least that seems to lessen the anger on his face.

Willow takes several deep breaths, and as her laughter quiets the sniffling tears become more evident. She still holds the ring in her hands; it’s undeniably beautiful, and must have cost a small fortune for him to have it made so specifically and be enchanted. If it were presented any other way, Willow likely would have been in tears for a better reason.

“I did not mean it like that, Willow,” Astarion says, rubbing his hand on her shoulder. “I only meant that this is temporary.”

She wipes some of the tears from her face, considering for a moment whether or not she wants to ask the question on her mind. It already appears that the damage has been done, however, since she could not keep the laughter at bay, so she decides that she may as well.

“Why don’t you just… do it? Ask me, then?”

Chapter Text

Astarion

Astarion could feel rage before, when his body was cold and his heart did not beat. He felt it all the time, in fact; why would he not have felt rage, given the life he lived? He was practically bursting at the seams with it, even after being freed from two centuries of constant torture by way of getting a tadpole stuck into his brain on a nautiloid.

Rage — or even simple anger — feels different, however, when his entire body heats up with flames and his heart pounds like a drum within him. It almost feels like a high he cannot come down from, or a fever he cannot free himself from when he gets into it.

Willow’s question about why he has not simply asked her to marry him triggers feelings of immense rage.

With her, he tries to control it; even that day after they first reconciled in her room and yelled at each other, that was the closest he has gotten to losing his control with her. But this?

Of course proposing crossed his mind. In fact, that was his original plan. The rings he obtained are perfect, and he has already expressed to her that he will marry her. Her reaction to him asking her to live with him, however, as well as what she said only a few hours ago at the throne made him throw the entire idea of it out the window. This seemed like a safe way to grant her protection — both through the warding bond and through making it obvious that she is his — without pushing too hard at her invisible boundaries.

Evidently, the boundary line has silently shifted.

Frustration that has been building within Astarion since that moment beside the throne reaches a crescendo as he stares at her fist, closed around the ring. Who is she to accuse him of making their relationship into an agreement, when she has not allowed it to move forward in a way that feels natural? Who is she to now laugh at him and then cry like a child when he cannot read her mind to know that she has suddenly found herself ready for more?

Immediately, Astarion cannot help but scoff. “You are the one who said I was suggesting things too soon, Willow,” he seethes, removing the hand that had been rubbing her shoulder for comfort.

She opens her mouth to speak, then stops. A furrow forms between her eyebrows, as if she — the creator of the secret rulebook herself — is confused. She is taking too long to answer, and Astarion has to speak again, unable to withhold the vitriol that seeks to spill over from his lips.

“Did you change your mind? Like when you changed your mind about only wanting to have sex with me?”

“Astarion!” Willow nearly shouts his name, clearly wanting to put a stop to his anger so badly that it is making her feel angry, too.

“I know you did not want this to be an agreement, Willow,” he continues, his voice icy cold, “but I need you to tell me what you want.” Astarion pauses for a moment, hesitating to pull out the words stuck within his mind. He does not purposefully discuss any of the before with her — or with anyone, for that matter — and especially not any of the time he spent enslaved. It makes his skin crawl to remember, and it makes him feel small next to her rather than like her great protector.

At the same time, he knows that it weakens her. Willow loves to think about and talk about the before, when their problems were so large — Netherbrain-sized — that the issues in their relationship pre-ritual seemed absolutely minuscule, and she could pretend that they did not exist at all. She forgets that he used to drink so much of her blood that she became reliant on potions and Shadowheart’s healing, or that he would wake her up in the middle of the night fearing for his life. She forgets the evenings that she longed for his body and he could not share it with her, haunted by his own thoughts. In her mind, and every time she talks about how things were before, it was perfect.

“I spent over two hundred years performing one-night-only seductions,” he whispers, leaning in closer to Willow and watching as her lips form a sharp frown, “so I am sorry, Willow, if I have been bad at reading whatever cues you have given me. Maybe the common boy at the tavern would be a better option for you.”

“Astarion,” she repeats, this time softer. Suddenly she is the great protector, wrapping his fragile broken pieces in her softness as her hands reach for his and he does not pull them back. She is warm and gentle, unknowing that he purposefully brought himself to this uncomfortable space within his own mind just to sway her. “I’m sorry, too. But this isn’t fair.”

“What do you mean, this isn’t fair?” He shoots back at her, taken aback by her claim. He had thought for a brief moment that their argument was over as she took his hands, and he does not pull them away even now because of how comforting they feel, but feels another pang of anger within him at her words.

“I wouldn’t expect you to know that my feelings have changed,” she says, her voice weak, “but you know me, Astarion. You know how important these things are to me; you can’t just throw around these rings like they’re nothing.” Willow strips one hand away from his for a brief moment to wipe away at her eyes, before returning her fingers to his knuckles with the warm wetness of her tears.

“I know it’s hard for you to be vulnerable, for you to show weakness or whatever it is,” she says, some amount of anger still creeping into her tearful words, “but do you know how hard it was for me to admit in the first place that I still dreamt of marrying you after you broke my heart? That what I want, more than my own beating heart and— and self will is to have a family, with you? Do you think admitting all of that was fucking easy?”

Willow stares at him as Astarion’s burning rage suddenly dissipates, overcome with shock. His blood nearly feels as if it runs cold again at the feeling her words instill in him, that he did read the situation wrong.

Not many ceremonial things matter to Willow. She did not need to be properly romanced before sleeping with Astarion, nor did she ever really hold his manipulative behaviors against him. She worships no deities, attends no services. But Astarion knows that the idea of getting married means something to her. Completing that ceremony, to Willow, means binding herself to Astarion more than becoming a vampire does. It means forever.

“I know it isn’t,” Astarion says, trying to recover from this realization as best he can without losing control of the entire conversation.

“I need you to be able to show me more than just adoration and anger,” Willow says, stopping him before he can say anything else. She grimaces, closing her eyes for a second before looking at Astarion again. “I’m sorry. We’ve come so far since a month ago — honestly, so far since last tenday, when you asked me to live here,” she says with a slight chuckle, “I can understand your… confusion.”

Astarion attempts to straighten his back, his mind clearing enough to form a coherent sentence to ask Willow as she pauses to allow him to speak. “What changed?”

Willow looks down at their hands to hide her tiny smile as she shakes her head, and the soft scent of lavender perfume wafts off of her hair as she does. “I don’t know. It seems silly to think that much has changed at all, but I feel so much more sure,” she squeezes his hands as she says the final word, and the touch could nearly make a whimper exit Astarion’s lips, had they not been shut. The ring presses against the outside of his hand, the sharp edges of the prongs that hold the stones digging into his skin. Willow looks up at him, then, blue eyes glimmering through her eyelashes. “I’m sorry, about the stupid cues. We just don’t really talk about those things like we used to.”

It feels good, almost; the implication that she forgets about the mangled scars he still rarely allows her to see, or the weakness that lurks underneath. Reminding her of this part of him is no doubt a double-edged sword, as Willow will be expecting him to allow her to see it more often, but for now it has made her more understanding of his frustration. Astarion will deal with the consequences later.

“What do you want?” Astarion asks, his voice soft. “Because I cannot keep guessing and getting it wrong.”

“What I want,” Willow says, an almost shy appearance overtaking her typically confident demeanor, “is you. And I’ve been a bit confused about the rest, to be honest.” She sighs, her eyes flitting back downward to the ring pressed between their hands for a moment before returning to look at him.

Astarion cannot resist the urge to close the gap between them, separating their hands and allowing the ring to drop into Willow’s lap. He threads his fingers through her hair at the back of her head despite the pins that poke at him as he does so, holding her face only a feather’s breadth away from his own. “Tell me anything you want, and I will give it to you.”

“Kiss me,” Willow whispers, close enough that he can taste the cherry-dark stain on her lips even before he meets her demand, pressing himself into her softened mouth. He is gentle, at first; mindful of the way she moves against him as her body relaxes into the kiss, her heartbeat pounding even faster than it had been as her hands touch his cheeks in their familiar positioning. She’s always done that, just to hold him closer.

Astarion pulls his lips back from her just as soon as she does, only centimeters away from each other again. “More?”

“Yes,” she sighs, pushing forward to kiss a part of his cheek not covered by her own hands in protest.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, “use your words.”

For a moment, silence. Astarion’s own heart hammers within him, wondering if this was the wrong decision. He is not typically the one to ask for words rather than physical touch — that’s Willow’s job, to pull Astarion back in when he is trying to escape an important conversation. 

“Kiss me as hard as you love me,” Willow responds finally, a tiny whisper as her eyes bore into his.

Astarion cannot help but exhale a tiny laugh before closing his mouth over hers, pushing her back onto the bed below them and caging her body beneath his. Instinctively his hands shift to grasp at her waist and the small of her back, pulling her closer into him still.

To kiss her as hard as he loves her would be to absorb her, devour her with his mouth; to have dominion over her in bed as an allusion to the way he needs to be the most powerful, most important person in her life. This is a request from her he can fulfill, as his tongue easily wins the battle for dominance and Willow surrenders all of herself to him, if only for a few moments.

It feels wicked, almost, to know her so well. To know that she does not need to hear the words from his lips if he can simply show her like this, no matter how much of a disappointment his surprise had been for her. But he can, and he will, repair that disappointment in time.

Sooner than he would like Astarion feels one of her hands move from his cheek to suddenly push at one of his shoulders, and Willow moans even as she signals for him to pause.

“Tell me something,” Willow says, a suddenly earnest look in her eyes despite the clear arousal.

“What?”

“Tell me it will only be me,” she says, her voice weakened and strained, as if it’s hurting her to say it. “I know I won’t be the only spawn, or maybe not even your only lover, eventually—“

“Willow,” Astarion begins to protest, loosening his grip on her body.

“But let me be the only one to wear a ring, the only one to carry your children, please just tell me that.”

Her pleading voice is lined with fear, the kind that has been sitting and simmering for a long time before she has finally expressed it to him. She has no regard for the lipstick smeared across her mouth now — and surely his, as a result — or for maintaining an upper hand; she simply needs to hear it.

Astarion has not even had time to consider the thoughts she has clearly been having, painting a picture with her demands. He has been so busy trying to get her back, trying to win her promise of eternity, that he has not had a free moment to consider the possibility that their relationship may change in the future. A million little puzzle pieces fit together as he processes her words; Willow may be impulsive, but her decision to stay with him is not built simply on his sweet little promises and ability to please her. She has been thinking about this to an extent that it pains her. That is why she has been so uncertain.

In truth, Astarion has no idea what promises he can make. There are two monsters that fight within him, day and night: the Vampire Ascendant, the powerful beast who must raise hordes of spawn, must become more than what his master ever was; and the weaker man, the vampire spawn, who would love nothing more than to hide away with Willow, the first person who ever cared, for eternity. He wants to give her what she wants. He wants to give her everything. But he is the Ascendant, and who is to say that the beast will not require more?

Underlining her demand, however, is a sneaky little provision that the Ascendant fiend quickly finds while he wracks his brain; she only wants him to say it — she is not even demanding that he mean it, only say it.

“You are the only one,” he whispers back to her, looking into her eyes as he says it before allowing his mouth to graze against her jawline, down her neck. Maybe he cannot tell her exactly how he feels, but he can show her. He can make love to her in the finest way he knows how. His most practiced form of communication, with her.

“I will make you the most beautiful mother,” he says next, pulling away to search her eyes again, “and no one else.” He runs a gentle hand through Willow’s hair and she whimpers, weakened further by his words and fragile to his touch. This, at least, he absolutely believes to be true. What she has asked for is an insanity that no other person, especially no vampire spawn would likely have the gall to even suggest. She will be the only one.

Astarion reaches for her hand next, her fingers still barren of any rings. The one they held between them lies somewhere between their bodies, lost from Astarion’s grasp when he fell over onto Willow. “Legally speaking,” he says in a lighter tone, laying on humor rather than seduction, “I can truly only marry once.”

Willow does not quite laugh, but exhales air from her nose in place of it. Most times she would appreciate a bit of levity, but it appears that right now is not one of those times.

“You may have my name, if you want it,” Astarion murmurs, deciding quickly to return to seriousness. He hovers just above Willow, gently placing his forehead against hers and listening to the sound of her breath. It’s a bit staggered, unsurprisingly, as her heart beats erratically within her chest. “No one else will have it.” He has to think for a moment whether or not he wants to say the next words or not, as his own heart picks up a strange pace within him at the thought. “It would sound beautiful, wouldn’t it? Lady Willow Ancunín?”

Willow’s face immediately deepens with heat, and for another second Astarion wonders if he’s just said the wrong thing. She has always been sensitive about her family name, and he assumed she would be thrilled to get rid of it in place of a new one. One that belongs to no one but Astarion, as far as anyone knows now.

Just as quickly as the fear fills him, however, it is quelled as Willow’s free hand finds purchase in the hair at the back of his head, pulling him into her lips, which glow even hotter than her reddened face. Without thinking Astarion allows his body to relax against her, relieved to have her like this. Instead of performing any tricks with his hands or opening her legs further he only melts into her lips, their bodies molding together here on this bed though fully clothed.

At this moment, there is no need to ever want for a lover outside of Willow. She is all-encompassing, the perfectly soft match to his rigidity. She is his first, his only taste of true freedom; his love both selfless and selfish in equal measure. She is more than a trophy or a symbol, but she is, all the same. He must have her. The beast cannot rest until he has her.

Her legs open for him of their own accord, one of them hooking around the back of his knee and pulling him ever closer. Astarion rolls his hips against her, searching for the heat he knows is between her thighs though he cannot feel it underneath the layers of her gown. In the back of his mind he has already accepted being horribly late to the party in favor of ruining her makeup, as he becomes overwhelmed with the need to please her and satisfy the heat within himself. The thought of his arousal dripping down her legs as she performs, a secret for only the two of them to know, could drive him into an absolute frenzy.

When she pulls back, their labored breaths mingle between them and Astarion quickly finds her eyes, searching for a glimpse of anger, or fear, or anything that he may have done wrong. Instead, he finds a gentle smile across her face, staring back at him with hooded eyes.

“I cannot let you ruin the lovely hair and makeup that woman did for me,” Willow says, a tiny laugh behind her eyes. “So the rest of this must wait until after the party.”

Astarion is taken aback by her not addressing what he said before she kissed him. He supposes she must be satisfied with his answer if that was her reaction, but the entire point of this argument was to get her to be more clear with him. Skirting their way out of seriousness with physical affection is a common practice for the two of them, but it has clearly not been working in his favor lately.

“What do you think?” He asks, his voice so quiet and weak he wants to punish himself for it.

“I think…” Willow sighs, blowing air into his face, “that sounds very nice, indeed.” She smiles, without showing any teeth. There is clearly something she is not saying.

“What is it?” Astarion demands, not pulling himself off of her quite yet.

“I’ll wear that ring,” Willow whispers, uncertainty lining her voice, “and we can tell everyone we’re… engaged, betrothed, what have you. But just for me— just for us, I’d like to still have a little surprise proposal.”

“You think I would not have guessed as much?” He scoffs, finally allowing himself to get off from on top of her, feeling the loss of her warm body. She looks only slightly disheveled, in a coquettish kind of way. “I did pull off that music hall soirée all on my own, if you remember.”

Willow accepts the hand extended to her, and Astarion pulls her up from the bed with ease. “You’re right,” she agrees, straightening out her gown, “I’ll expect to be in tears again.” She pauses, looking down at the floor. “The tears that were good, I mean.”

As Willow adjusts one of the sleeves of her gown, the ring tumbles free from the fabric and onto the floor. Astarion takes the opportunity to kneel to reach for it, presenting it to Willow as soon as it is within his grasp once again.

“You have lipstick all over your face,” she laughs, and yet she holds out her left hand with her fingers spread.

“Willow,” Astarion says, ignoring the fact that he can feel the sticky lip stain on his face and holding the ring up to her, “this is not your proposal.”

“Right,” she says with a nod, wiggling her fingers.

“But if I were to propose to you, with a ring quite like this one—“

“This ring is perfect,” she interrupts, her voice cracking slightly despite how silly the entire interaction seems.

“—what would you say?”

“Well, that would ruin the surprise of it all, wouldn’t it?” She says, though the look on her face leaves Astarion still quite certain of her answer. “But I love you, Astarion.”

For a moment, all he can do is stare at her. So full of love despite his inability to say the words back to her, so willing to be vulnerable despite how horrible it feels each time Astarion attempts to give the tiniest fraction of vulnerability to her in return. Ready to wear this ring, ready to promise to marry him if only he had gotten the words right. The future mother of his children, however many of them she wants to have, because he knows now as he kneels before her that he is very likely to give her anything and everything that she wants.

He slips the hefty ring onto her finger, marveling as he does at how perfect it looks. Astarion was not sure about the dual stones until he saw the finished work, but the colors work so beautifully against Willow’s skin. From his pocket he pulls out his own matching ring as he stands up to meet her at eye level again, slipping it onto his finger.

“I have another—“ he begins, intent on explaining the purpose of the dual stones, but Willow cuts him off once again, this time with a kiss.

if you would like to view the moodboard for the party chapters, it’s on my tumblr! 

Chapter Text

Willow

“That is the tiniest sending stone I have ever seen,” Willow murmurs as she cleans her own lip stain off of Astarion’s face, hurriedly trying to repair the damage the two of them have caused to their appearances before they must greet their guests in the ballroom. After his not-proposal, there was much kissing done by Willow and explaining done by Astarion about the significance of the stones, until one of the chambermaids finally knocked on the door to inform them that they are now late to their own party.

The matching opals on the rings, he says, serve as sending stones — fairly rare little magical items used to communicate between two people with a matching set. Willow, of course, can perform sending spells so long as she has access to her flute, but the rings allow Astarion to send her a message back immediately, should he need to. Willow almost did not notice the tiny face visible in the stone when she first saw the ring, but it is there, ready to be used.

“Practical and beautiful,” Astarion responds, “no need to carry around an obnoxiously large rock.”

“As if the ring itself is not obnoxiously large,” Willow says with a laugh as she dabs once more around his lips, seeing no traces of her red lip stain, spare maybe on his actual lips, which are possibly a bit darker than they were previously. “I think I’ve got it all.”

He takes her left hand in his, holding it into the light still coming in from the window to watch the stones sparkle. On Willow’s slender hand, the jewels look massive. “My intention was to make it visible from across a ballroom, or a tavern.”

The sickness that Willow had felt in her stomach earlier has all but disappeared, replaced by a warm fluttering as she looks at the grin on his face. Sure, they have not gotten to the real proposal yet, and they have not yet talked about the night they ended their previous relationship as Willow intends to do before saying any vows, but they have been chipping away at it.

Projecting her own confusion onto Astarion was undoubtedly wrong, and Willow knew it to be true as soon as he pointed it out to her. Just as she did on the night of the music hall dedication, she allowed her thoughts of him to become clouded by the idea that he has been faking niceties for her, despite the fact that they have gone an entire month without any proof of that being true.

Of course, it still could be true. But even if it is, Willow is more confident now in her ability to whittle away at the mask he wears, given all of the other progress they have made; talking and laughing together more, having fun with sex rather than arguing while he is inside her, him accepting her boundaries with relative ease. There is always more talking that they can do, more rehashing of old wounds, but Willow is happy with where they are.

There is no time for them to talk about anything now, anyway, as the party guests await their presence in the ballroom. More than anything they are likely awaiting his presence, but Willow will be their performer as soon as night falls.

A small woman in a dress the same shade as Willow’s, but a much simpler design waits outside the room to take her flute, to carry it carefully to the ballroom for her. It seems a strange thing to do to Willow, but makes a small amount of sense as Astarion meticulously adjusts the positioning of Willow’s arms before they make their way down the hallway, taking her right arm in his left, no doubt so that she can have her shiny left hand free. He straightens himself out, putting his shoulders back and tipping up his chin before gazing down at Willow with a tiny hint of that grin from moments ago as they step forward together.

A small amount of sunlight still permeates the long halls through the high-vaulted windows, giving Willow some amount of relief that they cannot be that late to their own party. Astarion’s party. Willow is grateful for the false blush already on her cheeks as she realizes that she is already thinking in terms of us and ours, whether that is something that has slowly been happening unbeknownst to her or if she has been subconsciously emboldened by the giant ring on her finger.

The heavy doors leading into the ballroom are held open already as they approach, and the chattering noise of all of the guests spills out into the hallway before Willow can even get close enough to make out any specific faces at all. From afar, they all just look like blobs of flesh, loudly speaking and clinking wine glasses. As they get closer, however, she can begin to make out some faces; a few of them recognizable from the first performance at the music hall, and a few that she can even place names to from the second performance they recently attended, when she was a bit less awestruck by the entire thing. Willow’s eyes dart around for a specific blonde ponytail, and she is surprised to find Shadowheart with her hair down — albeit half of it pulled back — as she speaks to some man Willow cannot quite make out, angled away from them.

Bodies swarm them as Astarion welcomes his guests, people of all kinds coming to shake the hand that is not holding onto Willow. It feels like ages go by before they can actually reach Shadowheart, though Astarion seems to be trying to make his way there as best he can, keeping the welcoming conversations as brief as possible while still being cordial.

A few steps away from her friend Willow is finally able to catch a glimpse of the man she is speaking to, and the entire room seems to stop for a moment as she recognizes Gale for the first time since the fall of the Netherbrain, donned in a purple sweater vest ensemble and black slacks, his hair just as wild yet charming as it had been when they traveled together.

“Gale of Waterdeep!” Willow cannot help but exclaim, looking from Gale to Astarion with her mouth agape. Astarion releases her arm from his grip — maybe a bit begrudgingly, as he is still being swarmed by a couple of elderly upper city folk who smell way too strongly of perfume — and Willow lunges for the wizard in front of her, enveloping him in a hug as soon as she can reach him.

“Willow the bard!” Gale cheers back, returning her hug in kind. It feels a bit strange to hug him, as it is something Willow has never done before, but after going so long without seeing him it feels like the only appropriate reaction. Gale is warm and he smells like timber and coffee somehow, as if he made a perfume out of the essence of a professor’s office. He squeezes Willow into the hug for what feels like ages but also not long enough as the chatter continues around them and Shadowheart gleefully places a hand on Willow’s shoulder before they all pull away.

“What brings you back to the Gate?” Willow asks breathlessly, her eyes flitting between her two friends as if she cannot believe that they are in front of her.

“Well, a certain elf sent me an invitation I could not decline,” Gale responds dramatically, waving a hand toward Astarion, who seems to be currently stuck in a rousing conversation about shrubbery with a man wearing a metal breastplate over his suit. “He said he managed to get you to perform tonight!” Gale seems absolutely shocked by this revelation, and by the reddening of Shadowheart’s face as she takes a sip of her wine Willow can tell that she has purposefully withheld Willow’s little secret from the wizard, probably hoping to see how he will react when Willow tells him, herself.

“That I will be,” Willow says awkwardly, holding her hands up to mimic holding her flute, which must still be in the hands of the chambermaid. Unsurprisingly, as soon as her hands come up, Gale’s eyes widen at the sight of the absolutely massive ring on Willow’s left hand.

“Is that an enchantment I feel?” He asks immediately, holding out his hand. Obviously he is requesting to touch the ring, and Willow does not want to let him touch it, but she places her hand within his regardless.

“That is huge,” Shadowheart says quietly, as not even she had been aware of its existence beforehand.

Gale’s eyes drift back up to Willow after inspecting the ring, staring at her blankly for a moment. “Willow,” he says finally, no clear emotions detectable on his face, “have you and Astarion—?”

His question is interrupted by the vampire himself finally joining them, calling out to Gale and extending his hand just as soon as he is within reach.

“I see you’ve found my surprise guest,” Astarion murmurs to Willow as he firmly grips the other man’s hand, seemingly paying no mind to the way he was only just holding Willow’s hand in his. “Shadowheart,” he says as he reaches out to kiss her knuckles, “always a pleasure.”

When he finishes his introductions he settles his left arm tightly around Willow’s waist, his hand landing on the front of her dress, just above the tulle skirting. If Willow would have known Gale would be here they could have maybe had a conversation about this first, but — well, if she is going to be sporting this very large ring, Willow is going to have to quickly get over any lingering doubts she has about how her friends and companions are going to feel about this relationship.

“I had no idea the enchantment you wrote me about was for Willow,” Gale says, returning to the topic they had been discussing prior to the interruption. He never has been one for letting things go.

“It was a surprise,” Astarion responds. Although there is a smile on his face, Willow can tell how stiff it is by the way it does not quite meet his eyes. It maybe isn’t Gale’s fault entirely, rather how stressful this entire event could be for him, but the tone of conversation surely isn’t helping.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Willow asks, holding her hand out again and moving her fingers to allow the jewels to catch in the light of the overhead chandeliers. “We started speaking again when Astarion came to one of my performances at the Elfsong. Distance really does make the heart grow fonder, sometimes,” she sighs, looking dramatically to Astarion.

It’s a bit of a performance, but it’s not too unlike something she would really say before one of the songs she would play as they all got ready to retire for the night at camp. It makes one side of Astarion’s mouth crook into a real smile, as he recognizes exactly what she’s doing. Gale is a wonderful friend, and incredibly intelligent, but Willow does not give a single shit about his opinion on her relationship right now. That is Shadowheart’s domain, if anything.

“I knew that enchantress would do excellent work,” Gale responds, glazing over the relationship aspect entirely in favor of complimenting the ring.

“She better have,” Astarion chuffs, glancing back to Willow, “when Willow gets on stage I must tell you how much she charged for that ring.”

“Surely a tidy sum,” Gale says with a chuckle and a knowing shake of his head to Astarion. If there is one thing the two of them have always been able to get along on, it is a shared love for some of the finer things in life, and Willow is relieved for this shift in conversation.

“You look wonderful, Willow,” Shadowheart says to her quietly, finally breaking her bout of silence since Gale’s first notice of the jewelry. “Both of you do,” she adds, offering Astarion a slight shrug, “and I love what you’ve done with the place, Astarion.”

Despite having received compliments on the remodeling already by several guests — Willow overheard some of the comments about the gilded pillars and statues — this one in particular from Shadowheart seems to catch him off guard. “Thank you,” he says, sounding almost shocked. His eyes drift back to Willow for a moment, but instead of getting another crooked smile, she sees what could be a sad look on his face for a moment before he returns his gaze to Shadowheart. “I had to find something to distract myself with in those months without Willow by my side. The gardens are truly my favorite part of the estate; we will have to have you come again after the summer solstice next year…”

Astarion slips back into entertainer mode, which is relieving to Willow because she knows she is about to get up on stage for a performance that will likely drag longer than hers at the Elfsong, with slow songs and more appropriate twirling and dancing. Still, that glance in her direction and his comment about finding distractions seemed absolutely genuine, despite him never admitting the same to Willow.

It makes a horrible amount of sense. Things have noticeably changed within the palace even since the first time she came here; paint colors and paintings on walls, frames on the paintings, door knobs switching between simple and ornate depending on the room, some of them missing entirely as they strolled through the hallway a few hours ago. The walls within his bedroom, always a stark white. And yet, in the time he has been spending nights with Willow since the rat incident, he has only begrudgingly chosen to part from her to work on the final details of this evening.

Within her mind when they reunited, Willow conjured an image of Astarion as being obsessed with the idea of having her back as a power play. Since then he has made it quite clear that she is more than that to him, but she never stopped to think that during their time apart he may have missed her just as desperately as she missed him. Lonely in the night, reaching for other bodies not as a means of actual pleasure or to make the other person jealous — not entirely, at least — but just to pretend to feel that touch again. Bored during the day with no one to tell all of their most ridiculous little thoughts and jokes to; no one sitting at that table in the corner to watch Willow perform and then shower her with compliments, no matter the fact that she played nearly all the same songs as the night before. He missed it too, just as much as she did.

“Love?” Astarion turning his head to look at Willow, who had been staring at him with her complete attention as he spoke to the others, finally pulls her out of her own thoughts. He smiles, seemingly realizing that she had been lost in thought, and shakes his head at her. “It’s time for you to get up there.”

“Oh,” Willow says sheepishly, turning to look back at her friends. “I’ll catch up later then, okay? I won’t be more than an hour, so don’t let Shadowheart get too drunk,” she says to Gale before pointedly looking at the girl in question, who is swishing her wine around in her goblet.

“What? Not my fault that he has so many different kinds for me to try,” she says, shrugging her shoulders before she takes another sip.

Willow turns back to Astarion before she takes any steps, quickly closing the space between them to wrap him in a hug. He doesn’t quite stagger, but he takes in a sharp enough inhale that she can tell he was not expecting it.

“Do you mind if I give you a big kiss in front of all of these people?” She whispers, barely audible but enough for his sharp hearing to catch. His response does not come in the form of saying anything back to her, but in the feeling of a strong hand at the back of her head, threading expertly through her hair despite the intricate pinning as his lips meet hers in a warm embrace. It feels like a moment out of a children’s storybook to Willow; to be in a crowded ballroom, wearing an ornate gown and being kissed with such care, so slowly and sweetly by the only person she has ever loved. The moment lasts long enough that she can hear Gale awkwardly shuffling his feet a few paces away from them, but it doesn’t feel like enough. She could do this forever. Maybe she will do this forever.

When Astarion pulls away from her — because Willow wouldn’t have — reality comes back very suddenly, as what feel like a million pairs of eyes are on them within this giant, now eerily quiet room. A blush that might be noticeable even through her makeup spreads across her cheeks as Willow nods again at her friends, before stepping toward the stage where the same girl from before stands waiting, Willow’s flute in her hands.

Performing for a room full of wealthy Baldurians is not as horribly nerve-wracking as Willow tried to make Astarion believe earlier in the day, when her hands were shaking in anticipation of what she thought to be a proposal. It’s quite easy, in fact, as while many of the guests are enraptured by the music, just as many are too busy chatting with other patriars as equally jeweled as they are to even notice Willow at all. She can’t really blame all of them, either, because while the pieces she has chosen for tonight are beautiful to her, they are less exciting than anything she plays in the Elfsong.

Instead of focusing on the audience at all, Willow instead chooses to enjoy the ambience of the ballroom and the stage built just for her as she plays her instrument. A venue like this is entirely new to her, the closest she has ever come to it before being the small concerts held for parents when she was a child in school. Some of the older people in the crowd now look at her with the same reverence she remembers other children’s parents looking at them with, despite the fact that the music being played at that time was much different. Willow never had those eyes on her when she was a child, and all she had was the same feeling she has now; the quickening of her heartbeat as she completes a successful run up the scale into her high note, and the goose flesh that forms over her body as she holds it, and holds it for measure after measure, letting the flute cut through all of the other sounds in the room.

The crowd claps quietly after the first song, and a low whistle from Shadowheart reaches Willow’s ears as she bows. She mouths a quick thank you and finds Astarion’s eyes, locked on her for a moment until he is pulled away again by the never-ending number of guests needing to speak to him. Willow thinks nothing of it, however, as she slowly steps down from the stage for the next song, which will lend itself to graceful little twirls in her gown.

Chapter Text

Astarion

“So, Astarion — how did you manage to mend that bridge?” Gale immediately begins his line of questioning as Willow steps away to the stage, ignoring the bodies around them vying for Astarion’s attention. He had hoped that Willow’s previous diversion was enough to avoid this type of conversation entirely, but Gale and Shadowheart both now stare at him with rapt attention.

Astarion fakes a laugh, pulling a goblet of wine from a passing waiter. “Like Willow said, darling! We realized we could not be apart from each other.”

Shadowheart’s glare is immediate and foul, and to Astarion’s surprise she does not reach for another goblet when she hands off her empty one. “Gale?” She says, turning to the wizard, “Do you mind if I speak with Lord Astarion alone for a moment?”

Gale’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t protest. “Well, I suppose I could use a brief visit to the restroom. Astarion?”

“Out the doors and to the left, first door on the right,” he answers quickly, not looking away from Shadowheart.

Gale strolls away from them, slowly making his way through the bodies that fill the ballroom. Shadowheart’s eyes finally return to Astarion and her glare — which she has lessened for Gale — returns.

“Do you have a problem, love?” Astarion asks, placing a hand over his heart at her gaze.

“You proposed to her?” Shadowheart whispers, at least conscious of all of the people around them. Astarion still glances around the room, not wanting to cause a scene at the largest party he has had since taking over the palace.

“Do you mind? Dancing with me if you’re going to interrogate me?” Astarion whispers back to her, holding out his arms. To his surprise, she accepts, placing her hands on his shoulders.

Astarion moves with Shadowheart to the center of the room, which is cleared of bodies for dancing. He won’t do anything too complex, knowing she wants to angrily whisper at him, but their movements will at least distract the other guests from any words that may come out of her lips.

“I intend to marry Willow, if that is your concern,” Astarion says, trying to maintain his sense of calm as he returns to Shadowheart’s question.

“Before or after you turn her into a spawn?” She asks in response, smiling despite the question as they drift past another dancing couple. For being so quick to change her mood after Willow walked away, she is being surprisingly understanding of Astarion having an image to maintain; though, maybe that is more to protect the image of her current friend than it is for Astarion, her former friend.

“Before,” he answers quickly, knowing there is no sense in trying to lie or play coy with this girl. Even if Willow somehow hasn’t already told her everything and she isn’t simply playing dumb, Willow is likely to tell her everything eventually.

“Good,” she responds, her glare softening slightly. “I’m a bit suspicious of how quickly this is all happening, though.”

Astarion scoffs, unable to hold it back. “Willow and I were together for several months before our separation. As you know.”

“And I knew you well enough to know how tumultuous that was, all the same,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Do you think she’s going to leave you again if you can’t turn her fast enough?”

The question nearly makes Astarion stumble over Shadowheart’s feet, but he catches himself, merely stepping on her toes, instead. “Ow!” She complains, digging her nails into his shoulders.

“My apologies,” he says, choosing to respond to her little cry before her question. He doesn’t want to answer the question at all.

The answer, of course, is yes. He is scared of her leaving him again before he has a chance to turn her into his immortal lover, somewhere over the course of the several years it will take for them to have their children; the first dependent upon when she decides they have made enough progress to warrant it.

“Willow could choose to leave at any time, if she feels the need to,” he says instead, avoiding the question about fear entirely. “I’ve never held her captive.”

“You say that, until you have compulsion,” Shadowheart says, though there is a strange lack of anger in her voice; she almost sounds more curious about it.

“I am not compelling her now, am I?”

Shadowheart sighs, shaking her head. “Listen, Astarion, I don’t want to have problems with you.”

“Perfect. I have no problems with you,” Astarion responds with a grin, despite knowing there is more to her statement. She narrows her eyes.

“Just promise me you’ll—“

“Lord Astarion, I’m very sorry to interrupt,” one of the guards stops Shadowheart mid-sentence, running up to greet them as Willow’s song is coming to a close.

“Then why are you interrupting?” Astarion asks through gritted teeth, letting go of Shadowheart’s body.

“A woman, she let herself in,” he says, gesturing vaguely towards the door.

“Gods,” Astarion scoffs, shaking his head as he looks back at Shadowheart. “I am very sorry, love, but I must attend to this—“

Before he can turn away, Shadowheart grips him by his shirt cuff with a surprising amount of force, pulling Astarion back into her heated gaze. That Sharran intimidation training is still heavily ingrained in her, evidently, as even several inches taller than her Astarion can be made to feel small.

“Promise me she will be happy,” she seethes, “or gods help me, Astarion, I will stake your heart myself.”

He only stares at her for a second, his face surely blank as the guard turns back to face the both of them. “Saer?” The man asks in a small voice, proving that he, too, is intimidated by Shadowheart in this form.

“Promise,” she repeats.

“Promise,” Astarion says, and she releases his shirt cuff to allow him to walk away. It feels almost as if time slows completely in the second it takes him to turn away from her, this angry woman who used to be his friend, his confidant, and now only seems to care for Willow’s emotions. Maybe he would not be so desperate to lock Willow back into his life so immediately if he still had a friendship like that. Astarion cannot allow himself to dwell on this for too long, however, as when he finally gets himself turned around, the sight of the woman at the door replaces his feelings of sadness with anger.

Every interruption to enjoying Willow’s performance is annoying, but the realization that the uninvited guest barging in beyond the door guards is Marceline could nearly set Astarion as ablaze with rage as Karlach when she would pop one of those awful soul coins into her engine of a heart. Gods, she was incredible, and horrifying, and Astarion is grateful for a moment that she is in Avernus and not acting as Willow’s protective friend on the surface.

The slow, tranquil song Willow is playing as Astarion crosses the room to meet the unwelcome guest feels wholly inappropriate, but he tries to allow the notes to soothe him, both from the encounter with Shadowheart and whatever kind of conversation he is about to have. He imagines her fingers dancing across the instrument with accuracy as the notes change, and how she does so even while dancing and swinging around. How somehow she managed to do so on that first night she saw him again, when he could hear her heart racing across the tavern. He may never tell her this, but there is a lot that he could likely stand to learn from her ability to simply keep performing.

Before he can speak, Marceline pleads with him as soon as they are within earshot of each other. “I did bring a guest, dear, if you do not mind allowing him in.” Waiting on the other side of the threshold is a man Astarion does not recognize, but waves in regardless, not wanting to cause a scene in the entryway with so many guests already in attendance. As soon as the man approaches he realizes that he, too, is a vampire, pale skin luminous under the complimentary lighting of the ballroom.

The two vampires crashing his party are dressed as if that is exactly what they came here to do; they did not come across his home randomly in regular clothes, but are adorned in finery and jewels befitting of the occasion they were not invited to. Somehow, Marceline knew this party was happening. She smiles at Astarion as she approaches, brushing off the guards following her as she says something about knowing the host and pulling her guest along with her.

“What in the nine hells are you doing here?” Astarion seethes under his breath to Marceline, trying to maintain his sense of calm to all of the other guests enjoying Willow’s performance.

Marceline guffaws, holding a dramatic hand over her heart. “My dear, I had assumed my invitation was lost in the mail?” She holds Astarion’s gaze for a moment, confident and unmoved before turning to her male companion. “I wanted to introduce you to Lord Cenric.”

Upon hearing the name, Astarion immediately recognizes him as one of the coven patriarchs Marceline provided him information for when he first saw her. One that Astarion sent a letter to, attempting to gain an audience with to solidify his image of dominance, and never heard back from.

“A pleasure,” Cenric replies, holding out his hand in offer to Astarion. He takes it, rigidly shaking the cold, undead hand, despite the feeling of disgust within him at being so close to Marceline. When Astarion pulls away from the handshake, the other man holds on for a second too long, seemingly gripping at his skin as he does.

“What a lovely bard you have for tonight,” Marceline muses, her eyes fixated on Astarion just as they were at his dinner table at their previous meeting. Her hunger burns the same as it did before, this time coupled with a devilish grin across her face.

“Isn’t she?” Astarion responds, his words coming out like daggers despite the pride behind them. To hear Marceline acknowledge Willow feels like an overstepping of boundaries, or a collision of the two parts of his life that must not be allowed to meet. Not like this, at least.

“Is she spoken for?” Lord Cenric asks, barring his fangs slightly as he does. The unabashed question takes Astarion by surprise for a moment; he has never been around other vampires as anything more than a spawn until recently, and the idea of asking if a person at a party may be available to drink from like this is a bit unnerving. Especially because Willow is the person in question. “She is not from an important family, is she?” Cenric further pushes the question, his eyes following Willow’s dancing figure.

“She is spoken for,” Astarion finally responds, his voice low with anger. Certainly Lord Cenric, so willing to say something obviously vulgar at Astarion’s party, has plenty of poorly-treated concubines at home to entertain him tonight.

“Haven’t you heard, Cenric?” Marceline says with a laugh, keeping her eyes on Astarion despite claiming to be speaking to Cenric. “Lord Astarion is so smitten he dedicated a wing at the new music hall to that bard.”

It was not an entire wing, but Astarion fails to correct her as Cenric’s eyebrows shoot up nearly into his hairline. It should feel good to have that night at the music hall, that was a massive success for Astarion and Willow’s relationship, recognized and flaunted in front of this other vampire, but instead Astarion’s blood runs cold at the realization that Marceline has seen the article in the Baldurs Mouth Gazette.

The strange woman only shared some of her information with Astarion when she came to his home; only the tip of the iceberg of biographies and secrets that she has on vampires and patriars across the coast. She has a way of gaining information that makes Astarion feel sick to his stomach, and he should have known she would weasel her way here.

“She’s quite… living, isn’t she?” Lord Cenric muses, still unable to keep his hungry eyes off of Willow.

“For the time being,” Astarion says, unable to quickly come up with anything better to say. “But she is very well behaved, as you can see.”

Willow would punch him in the gut if she heard him say that. Luckily, she is across the room and completely distracted, and will never have to know.

“It certainly appears that way,” Cenric responds, with so much sliminess in his voice Astarion wonders if he does it on purpose or if that simply comes naturally after centuries of behaving like this. “I would like to borrow her for a dance, when she is finished.”

Astarion grits his teeth, nodding rather than allowing something horrible to slip past his lips. The thought of anyone else with their hands on her is quite frankly unsettling, but a vampire is an even worse thought. He knows, however, that a dance can simply be a dance, and allowing the more charismatic of the two of them to charm this man may win his favor without needing Marceline’s help.

The two vampires pay Astarion his compliments on the ballroom and the performance, not allowing enough silence to pass for him to make his escape. It feels like a waste of Willow’s music to spend this time arguing with Shadowheart and listening to these two, but he attempts to calm himself by replaying her promise of more performances to come within his mind. Maybe she can perform for him tonight, too, to take his mind off of all of this.

As Willow takes her final bow on the stage, Astarion straightens out his back, choosing not to respond to whatever conversation Marceline and her awful companion are attempting to engage him in. Blue eyes find his from across the ballroom, and as soon as the pianist hired for the rest of the night begins playing, Willow makes a beeline straight for him.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Astarion says to the vampires as she approaches, adjusting his collar as the rage roiling within him is slightly doused with the excitement of speaking to Willow again.

“Please, introduce us to the bard,” Cenric insists, a nasty tone in his voice that reminds Astarion of the hungry gaze occupying his face merely moments ago. “Do not be so selfish, Lord Astarion.”

Willow takes small steps, still managing to appear graceful as she slightly hikes up the skirt of her gown as she moves, and as soon as she can see Astarion again through the crowd she picks up her pace. A look of confusion reaches her face as she seems to register the two people Astarion is standing with — decidedly not Shadowheart and Gale, who are now chatting with the couple that owns one of the upper city’s best book shops — but she still lunges for him when she is close enough, not caring who sees her wrap her arms around him in a hug. This and the kiss in front of everyone earlier have been hugely gratifying to Astarion, and he takes the opportunity to make a show of her affection to the people around them by spinning her around before setting her feet back down to the floor.

“I knew you would be wonderful, but you never cease to amaze me,” he says loud enough for her and everyone around to hear, earning a small amount of quiet secondary applause for Willow as her cheeks flush pink.

Her eyes shift between him and the two vampires standing next to him, and she raises her eyebrows slightly. “I will be happy to perform any time for such considerate guests.”

The words sound foreign out of Willow’s lips, but it’s clear to him that she is trying to be cordial in front of Marceline and Cenric, in case they are important people. Astarion longs for their previous tadpole connection so that he can recount everything they have said so far back to her, but then he remembers his previous encounter with Marceline, and thanks the gods below that Willow does not need to know about his moment of weakness afterwards.

Cenric clears his throat, and Astarion has to withhold an eye roll as he introduces the two vampires. “Willow, this is Marceline and Cenric.”

“Lord Cenric,” the man corrects him, reaching out a hand for Willow. She accepts it, likely thinking he is going to give her a simple handshake, but he brings her fingers to his lips and kisses the skin next to her glimmering ring. “How extravagant,” he muses, his eyes shifting to Astarion.

“Thank you,” Willow responds, taking the hand back just as soon as he will release it. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”