Xxnashiraxx - 🍁There's Just No Rest For The Queen Of The Dead🍁

astarion: this party is the perfect opportunity to seduce our leader

adriannu, who started binge drinking six hours ago: HEY WHATS UP EVERYBODY I THINK DOGS SHOULD VOTE

❛ pairing: Astarion/f!Tav; Astarion/f!OC (Ysera) ❛ word count: 2k ┊ ❛ rating: 18+ MDNI ❛ tags/cw: masturbation, piv sex; this is a continuation from the prompt from day 4 (you don't have to have read that one but it gives a little context for this one!)

‣ preview: “Is this what you were thinking about when you were touching yourself? The way it is in those filthy novels you seem so fond of?” he asks. Ysera's nostrils flare, and she stares him down, hips still rocking rhythmically.

“No,” she grits out. “For starters, the men in those stories have much better manners. They don't make their partners do all the work.” She says it with a smirk – an issued challenge – her sharp teeth slightly visible behind the curl of her lips. He recognizes the smug look on her face as the same expression he often throws her way and doesn't know whether to feel proud or flustered by the sight of it reflected back at him.

AO3 ┊ series masterlist

When Ysera slips discreetly out of his tent and leaves him alone, it's perhaps the only time Astarion's been somewhat relieved to see her go. He'd spent far too much effort trying to restrain himself from going any further, but now there's nothing holding him back but his own imagination.

His cock throbs between his legs, so painfully hard that just the slightest bit of friction from his hands as they graze over the front of his ruined trousers has him hissing sharply through his teeth. Astarion wastes no time untying his laces, tugging his pants and underwear down no further than he has to before his cock springs free, the weeping head flush and swollen. It should bring him relief, but instead it only serves to frustrate him further.

He grunts in disappointment when he fists the base of his erection and strokes the shaft; his hand is far too cold to pretend it's her, especially not her soft mouth or her sweet cunt. A few drops of precome drip down his fingers when the head of his cock pushes through the opening he's made with his fist, approximating but not completely recreating the feel of her body.

Gods above.

Astarion begins to lament Ysera's absence. Why had he let her go? Damn his pride; it will do nothing for him now. He contemplates calling to her, to link their minds through their tadpoles and show her what she's done to him. To entice her to return. He's long since memorized every inch of her, but his memory pales in comparison to actually having her here with him.

He knows she would come if he asked her. The haughty smile and teasing words she would likely give him would be well worth the satisfaction he would feel sinking into her, the way she would moan and melt beneath his hands.

But he doesn't. Surely he has more dignity than that. Instead, he steadies himself with a long exhale of breath and wills himself to focus. The smell of her arousal still lingers in the air, the needy cries she had made when she came on his fingers still fresh in his mind. And so he closes his eyes, picturing the way she'd looked splayed across his lap, and pumps himself again.

It's better this time. More believable. The image of Ysera in his mind is eager, shifting to support herself on her hands and knees and offering herself to him. He knows she likes it best from behind, where his cock slides deepest. His hands always fit so nicely around her hips, letting him pull her back against him each time he thrusts into her.

Astarion imagines how good it would feel to push the head of his stiff cock through her slick folds and bury himself inside her just like that, and his fist tightens to mimic the way she always feels wrapped around him. 

The first moan slips past his lips and his mouth falls slack. He feels less tense as pleasure radiates through his body. The Ysera in his mind grinds her hips back against him, whining and calling his name as if he is her only salvation.

He wonders what she's doing now, alone inside her tent. Is she still thinking about him?

The hand on his cock strokes faster, and the precome spilling from the slit slicks his palm. Astarion shifts onto his knees, the new position allowing him to thrust up with quick snaps of his hips. He adjusts the pressure of his hand from time to time, the way her walls often pulse around him when he fucks her.

Oh, yes, that feels wonderful . The way her cunt clenches around him when he angles his hips just so is downright sinful; he loves the piteous little sounds she makes, the way her back bows as she claws at the blankets or digs her nails into the grass. He pictures it all so clearly now.

A string of whimpers tumbles from his own lips, and Astarion imagines Ysera praising him, telling him how good it feels when he fucks her. He's heard it enough times that she might as well be next to him to whisper it in his ear. With his cock as slick as it is, he can almost trick himself into believing it's her cunt he's fucking instead of his hand.

Although he can feel his climax approaching, Astarion purposely slows his thrusts, working himself right to the point of no return before suddenly letting go of his cock. It hangs heavy in the air as he gazes down at himself, twitching slightly. 

His body shudders, hips bucking, searching for the release he so desperately needs. But it doesn't feel quite right. Without her, he knows he won't be satisfied.

Gods above, what has she done to him?

Astarion is too far gone to care about the optics when the tadpole stirs within his brain, and he commands it to search for her among their companions. He’s surprised when her own consciousness crashes like a breaking wave against his own, hunting for him with the same urgency he had sought her out.

Ysera's voice is husky with want when it flits into his mind.

“Astarion?” she asks. He can hear her panting. A spark of heat lances through him as she sinks two fingers inside herself, unknowingly sharing the sensation with him. “Are you–?”

He cuts her off mid sentence. “Yes. Are you?”

“Yes.”

Astarion grants her entry into his mind, and his sight becomes her own. His stomach tightens when he feels his gaze – her own – fall to his cock, still erect between his thighs. Her hunger is unmistakable. Ravenous like a fire that consumes everything in its path.

There is a moment of silence, and then –

“Oh.” She's smug, because of course she is. “Would you… like some help with that?”

She asks so sweetly, but he can hear the thinly veiled want in her voice, the desire that echoes in his mind. 

“Yes,” he groans in resignation. “Very much so.”

“Give me five minutes.”

Ysera makes it to his tent in less than three, practically stumbling headfirst through the canvas flap. She looks a mess with her hair disheveled and her cheeks dusted a rosy pink, and as her nightgown slips off her shoulder his gaze is drawn to the hard peaks of her nipples beneath the fabric.

Their eyes meet in mutual understanding.

“What do you need from m–?”

Astarion cuts Ysera off by grabbing her wrist and roughly pulling her down into his lap. She yelps and straddles his hips. He has no more patience left for the time it would take to articulate how badly he wants to be inside her. She matches his ferocity when he kisses her, tongue running over his fangs when he opens his mouth and lets out a snarl.

Ysera adjusts her hips for him, and Astarion is delighted to find her still naked beneath her nightgown. She bunches the cotton fabric in her hand and lifts the garment so he can position his cock appropriately before sinking down onto the full, hard length of him in a single, blissful movement. The heat of her is exhilarating, her walls still slick with her arousal from her last orgasm.

“Gods,” he hisses, digging his hands into the curve of her waist. That he ever thought his hand could bring him the same pleasure as her body seems so ridiculous now, but when he tries to laugh the only sound that escapes him is far less dignified. 

Ysera leans back on her calves and discards her nightgown, breasts arched enticingly towards Astarion's face as she spears herself on his cock. Her hips undulate and her thighs tremble, and she begins to moan just as sweetly as he knew she would. He’s rough when he grabs her breasts, digging his fingers into the soft flesh and squeezing tightly.

“You should've… told me to stay, stupid,” Ysera scolds him between gasping breaths and shaky moans. Her body rises before slamming back down on his length again and again, driving his cock deep.

“Spare me the lecture,” he snipes back, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t make you leave.”

The scowl on her face only serves to make her all the more attractive, and when she leans in to kiss him again, Astarion grins in satisfaction.

“Is this what you were thinking about when you were touching yourself? The way it is in those filthy novels you seem so fond of?” he asks. Ysera's nostrils flare, and she stares him down, hips still rocking rhythmically.

“No,” she grits out. “For starters, the men in those stories have much better manners. They don't make their partners do all the work.” She says it with a smirk – an issued challenge – her sharp teeth slightly visible behind the curl of her lips. He recognizes the smug look on her face as the same expression he often throws her way and doesn't know whether to feel proud or flustered by the sight of it reflected back at him.

Astarion tightens his hold on Ysera's waist and growls as he surges forward, pressing her into his bedroll as her back hits the ground and the breath leaves her lungs. Her body sings as her magic flares within her like a wild beast, and Astarion's skin tingles where it makes contact with her. Her eyes are a tempest of gold and amber.

He loves seeing her like this, almost feral as she struggles to contain her power. The way he makes her lose herself so effortlessly, so unlike her typical polite, demure demeanor.

“If you wanted a proper fuck, sweetheart,” Astarion purrs, “you only had to ask.”

“I’m asking now, ” she grumbles. “So give it to me.”

She's still so tight when he angles his hips and slams himself back inside her, the lewd slap of skin-on-skin punctuating each of his brutal thrusts. They're both through exchanging words, staring intensely into each other's eyes as he fucks her the way they've both been craving – the way they should have been if only they weren’t both so stubborn. 

Her walls constrict around him in the same cadence of her thrumming pulse, and Astarion adjusts his pace to match it. It's dark inside the tent but he can still see the way her eyes flicker, leaving his face only to watch the way their hips join as his cock disappears inside her body. It's clear by the way she's moaning and begging for more that she's long given up on keeping their little rendezvous a secret.

When Ysera's pupils suddenly go wide, Astarion knows she's about to come. With his fingers gripping her hips tight enough to bruise, she screams his name and her back arches high off the ground. Her tail thrashes as she loses control over her body. Astarion groans, and his cock erupts inside her spasming cunt. He pulls out just in time to paint her belly with what's left of his come, fixated by the way it glistens on her skin, milky white and translucent.

Astarion drags his fingers through the spend on her belly, and Ysera's mouth is already open for him when he guides them to her lips. She licks them clean, tongue swirling around the soft pads. He removes them from her mouth with a wet pop, crouching low to kiss her once again.

“Oh dear,” he murmurs against her mouth, capturing her lips in a slow, sensual kiss. “It seems I’ve gone and spoiled you again, haven’t I?”

“you’re a writer, can you explain your process?” yes. first, i panic. then i procrastinate. then, in a fit of productivity at 3 a.m., i create chaos.

House Rules

And now for something completely different, lol. Here’s a Nine-Fingers character study I did for the BG3 Women’s Wrongs zine (it’s not my zine piece, that will be something else).

Rating: Mature for canon-typical violence Word Count: 1700

AO3 link

***

Today will be a heavy day. Not a bad one, not a long one. Heavy. The unique sort of heavy that comes with defending one’s legacy.

Nine-Fingers Keene flexes the remaining fingers of her hands and glances down at the missing pinky on her left. It’s no matter. She has done what needs to be done before. She will do it again.

The one-eyed man who took her finger when she was but a girl continues to live out his days blind and fingerless himself, plagued by drug-induced nightmares. But she is not ungenerous. He is fed and housed as he suffers his elven lifespan’s worth of terrors.

She clenches her fist. No one takes from Nine-Fingers and walks away unscathed.

Contrary to popular belief, violence is not typically Astele’s first choice. Avoiding it is how she keeps the Gate’s criminal machine in motion, how she maintains her empire under the heel of the Fist and the Harpers. What’s a bit of dirty dealing so long as a leash is kept on violent crime? Indiscriminate murder is messy, it’s chaotic. It’s a weakness. Dead people can’t be properly extorted, after all.

Imagine the creeping roots of her rage lighting up when she digs up the culprit behind the recent spree of serial killings and arson throughout the Lower City.

Nine-Fingers keeps her eyes on her communications, sifting through the recent letters on her desk. Without looking up, she addresses her bodyguard.

“Ferrona,” she says, voice even.

“Saer?” comes the automatic response from the female dwarf at her side.

Nine-Fingers picks up a sheet of parchment and shifts it to another pile. “Fetch Laurel and Gilly. We’ve business to discuss.”

The dwarf nods her head in acknowledgement of her order and leaves the room.

When she’s alone, Nine-Fingers removes the hand crossbow she keeps strapped under her desk and lays it out in plain view. Then she opens a drawer to retrieve several bolts and a vial. She rolls the vial between her palms, stirring up the contents inside, and pulls the cork. Unhurriedly, she dips each bolt in turn and lays them out.

Moments later, Ferrona returns with the requested Guild members. A beautiful young tiefling wizard, ambitious and brilliant. A dark-skinned half-elf wrapped in black leather, hood and mask obscuring her face. Both members of the Lady’s Court, Nine-Fingers’ personal inner circle.

Astele rises from her seat and puts her hands behind her back as she comes around to meet her confidants. Her eyes pass over them and land on Ferrona. Nine-Fingers gives her a nod.

“You may leave us,” she says. “This is a sensitive matter.”

Ferrona’s jaw clenches as if her instinct is to argue, but she does not dare. Though her purpose is protecting her guildmaster to the death, her charge is no helpless figurehead. The guard has her order. She leaves, the door creaking shut behind her.

“Gilly, if you wouldn’t mind keeping out curious ears?” Nine-Fingers says, addressing the ranger.

The leather-clad woman traces a rune in the air, murmuring a spell that silences the area closest to the doors. As she does, Nine-Fingers picks up her crossbow and bolts from the table, casual and calm as can be. She loads a bolt and turns, taking aim for the humanoid target dummy in the corner.

“Another blaze in the Lower City last night,” Nine-Fingers says. She fires a bolt and it pierces squarely through the dummy’s head. “The Fist are sniffing around. Our people were able to move the body before they got there this time, but tensions are wearing thin.”

She fires another bolt and it lands right next to the first.

“I fear we may be looking at a raid soon,” she says as she loads a third bolt, turning back to the others. She raises her head to look at them. “Don’t suppose either of you have good news for me?”

Immediately, Gilly’s eyes narrow. They shift in Laurel’s direction.

Laurel, on the other hand, smiles brightly and speaks, her voice like trilling birdsong. “There’s been a new lead just this morning, I heard. A little Lightfoot halfling who fancies himself a vigilante has been targeting people currently paying dues to The Guild. Trying to cut off sources of our funding or reroute them to his own cause, if I were to guess.”

Nine-Fingers lets the hand crossbow dangle from her fingers at her side. “A good guess it is,” she says. “Funny thing, though. A Lightfoot halfling stopped by my office earlier, and my, did he have such a story to tell. He suspected his partner was about to betray him.”

The expression on Laurel’s pretty face has barely gone from confidence to realization when Nine-Fingers aims her weapon at the floor and fires a bolt directly through the tiefling’s foot. It pierces clean through her cloth shoe and embeds itself into the worn wooden floorboards underneath.

Realization turns to pain, but before it can turn to an incantation, Nine-Fingers shoves her bodily in the chest so she falls over backward directly into the edge of Gilly’s Silence spell. Without a word and needing no order, Gilly immediately draws her short sword and points it at Laurel’s throat, a clear warning should she try to move. A display of loyalty her leader knew to expect.

No emotion clouds Nine-Fingers’ face as she sets the crossbow on the desk and peers down at Laurel. She squats so they’re at eye level and gives a disappointed sigh.

“Every primary school-aged magical brat knows how to cast a fire bolt,” she says. “So you can imagine my frustration trying to narrow down exactly which wizard was aiding that halfling arsehole in finding folk who keep us on payroll. Thank you very much for confirming it. He’s out testing the poison traps now.”

From the floor, Laurel gesticulates, clearly attempting speech, but the spell steals her voice.

“You’re very clever,” Nine-Fingers continues. “But you’re not that clever. Your first mistake was assuming working your way onto my Court would make me complacent. Your second was stealing from me. Your third was making an absurd bloody spectacle of the whole ordeal because you like to watch things burn.”

Nine-Fingers leans in closer, right to the edge of the spell.

“The Gate does not burn unless I will it,” she whispers.

Laurel struggles to pull her foot from where it's pinned, but her movements turn sluggish, her blinks heavy. She attempts a somatic spell and her hands refuse to make the correct shapes before they collapse onto the floor at her sides. Nine-Fingers waits until all her muscles give up on her, leaving her lying helpless on her back with her eyes full of loathing.

Astele flicks her hand at Gilly. “Drop the spell.”

Gilly does, waving the magic away in an instant.

Nine-Fingers wraps her hand around the bolt stuck through Laurel’s foot and yanks it out, throwing it aside. Laurel gurgles, incapable of forming words.

“Paralytic poisons do come in handy, don’t they?” Nine-Fingers stands and walks around the immobile woman, taking another vial from her belt and shaking its violently pink contents. She shows it to Laurel. “You know what this is? Of course you do. In lieu of a proper interview, I think we’ll just have a poke around.”

The guildmaster uncorks the Potion of Mind-Reading and throws it back, pocketing the empty vial. She maintains eye contact with the traitor and invades her mind, the concoction amplifying her ability to pry apart anyone’s secrets. Laurel resists – and does a good job of it, too – but Nine-Fingers’ will is stronger. Always has been, always will be. She can allow for nothing else.

The tiefling’s memories are flame and chaos, hubris and cruelty. So bright, so pretty, so talented. She thought it would give her the entire world. She thought it would win her control of The Guild, in time.

Nine-Fingers tuts aloud. “A pity, honestly, that such a rising star should fall. But some youthful mistakes are permanent, aren’t they, pet?”

She snaps her wrist and a hand dagger slips into her palm from a hidden holster along her arm. Nine-Fingers twirls it once and points it at the woman. “Magic was never my strong suit, you know. Seems that it’s no longer yours, either.”

Beyond the door in the great hall, thieves and assassins perk up at the sound of strangled screams, their eyes roaming to their leader’s chamber. When the screams go quiet and the door opens, no one pretends they weren’t listening in. Nine-Fingers stands in the open doorframe, wiping bright red blood from her hands with a handkerchief. She cleans her blade and wraps it all in a neat little package.

When she moves forward toward the railing to address her crew below, she nods at Ferrona and tilts her head back to the room. The guard answers the call immediately and exits a moment later leading a tiefling wizard bound by hands burned down to the bone, blood streaming from her disfigured mouth. Laurel tries to spit, but she can only drool. The smell of burnt flesh fills the air.

“Do not treat her fingers,” Nine-Fingers says over her shoulder. “They will heal as they are. The Temple of Ilmater will find shelter for this poor victim of the latest shakedown and arson.”

She reaches the balcony and tosses the bloodied package over the side so it falls in the mud below. As she places her hands on the railing, she watches a group of Guild denizens fight over it. The victor raises the package in the air and unfolds it to show the bloody hand dagger and a miserable lump of flesh – a wizard’s tongue.

All eyes are on Nine-Fingers. She lets the silence stretch.

“I am in the market for a new wizard,” she calls, her voice echoing throughout the Guild Hall. “Feel free to put forth a name. A finder’s fee for a successful appointment. Any attempt at trickery will cost an eye.”

There are murmurings throughout the space, a low buzz of fear and awe.

Nine-Fingers turns and walks back to her office, rubbing her thumb over the stump of her left pinky. The weight of leadership is heavy, but she bears it by choice.

As she passes Gilly, she says, “Inform your Fist contact that the issue has been rectified. There will be no more fires.” The ranger nods and takes her leave, silent as shadow. Word will spread by nightfall.

Astele turns once more to admire the empire she’s built. Then she shuts her door.

No one upsets her Guild’s order and keeps their tongue.