#oc: ylva ennestros

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Wherever you're from, clearly they don't teach manners!

Astarion approves.

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The daughter of Sharalei Ennestros — confidante and longtime companion of the Bhaalspawn — and her much-detested and much-loved paramour, Edwin Odesseiron, Ylva's path was paved for her from her first step. She was a studious child, one who showed great promise in the art of evocation, though her mentor often remarked upon her sullen attitude. Given her parentage and their penchant for stubborn rebellion and distaste for the chains of expectation, it was no surprise when she forged her own way, striking out from her studies to follow her heart, even though her heart led her across the fresh dirt of her lover's grave.

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i'm working on a big intro edit for her like mavra's, but. i have screenshots. this is me holding her up for you to perceive her. she's not happy about it, but that's okay. as you can see, she's not happy about most things.

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kinktober day 4 : waxplay. volotramp’s bg3 kinktober prompts. ship : ylva ennestros x astarion ancunín. rating : explicit. words : 2555.

The Elfsong Tavern had not been quiet enough. Their camp in the Lower City, not private enough. She refused to use her family’s home for a meeting with such intention behind it. And so, Ylva Ennestros did her very best to find a more suitable locale. The search proved to be an excellent distraction from the imminent cataclysm, stretching out over a fraught tenday while they continued their slow trek throughout Baldur’s Gate.

On the outside, the Lily House was an inn not unlike the Elfsong. Bards plied their talents at all hours, though with much more success than what was on offer at the latter establishment. 

A Waterdhavian chef and his pâtissièr husband manned kitchens that supplied the inn’s patrons with all manner of delights – from platters overflowing with sugared fruits and freshly baked desserts that flaked at the touch to trays of fresh oysters that were both spicy and unbelievably tart. And, in speaking to the men and women housed there, you’d believe that the beds were no more than clouds lined with sleeping powder.

The most interesting thing about the Lily House was due to the inn’s elusive proprietor – the chef’s elder brother, a mage of some renown. While the beds were not enchanted to encourage deep and restful sleep, the walls and flooring were. 

Once the door to the room was shut and gently locked, all noise inside was of your own making.

“Exceedingly clever,” Astarion murmured upon entering. “Though perhaps a touch unsafe.”

Ylva responded with naught more than a hum at first as she let down her hair and set her satchel on the vanity that stood across from the massive, somewhat gaudily appointed bed. She considered his thought, not needing further clarification. The pockets of magic were a novel idea – perfect for their intended purpose, but dangerous if used in other ways.

“Would you rather I find some other inn?” she asked, tipping a raised brow in his direction. “Or is the Lily passable for you, my lord?”

Astarion tched. Sometimes, he sounded more like Lae’zel than himself when responding to sarcasm, especially from his lover. He busied himself with unbuttoning the stiff brocade of his shirt to reveal the silken cream layer beneath. The fabric clung to the curve of his waist. 

Ylva caught herself staring over her shoulder, unable to use the vanity’s mirror for more subtle ogling. She pressed her lips together and turned back to the heavy bag she’d been carrying.

“Truly, if you would rather –”

“Hush.”

Her laugh was a light thing, though louder than it might have been in the Elfsong or back at camp. No one shouted for her to quiet. No one sent back a mocking laugh in response. Testing the magic was unnecessary, but there was nothing wrong with taking precautions.

Three tall candlesticks and a tinderbox, newly purchased.

One after the other, she set each of them down, though was slow in reaching for the tinderbox. What sorcerer could not conjure a mote of flame for lighting candles? 

A poor one, she thought. Or, more appropriately, a harlot in a silenced room.

Behind her, Astarion chuckled. The sound was warmer than her own by a mile, and when he approached, the chuckle turned into a laugh. His tapered fingers slipped across the curve of her waist as he pulled himself nearer to her, chin perching atop her head.

“I recognize the candles,” he said, softly, and Ylva squirmed on her feet, tilting away from the bruising point of his chin. He kept her still with a tightening grip. “Pristine white wax, flecked with gold – you pocketed them from the Temple of Waukeen. I’m almost proud.”

Ylva brushed her fingertips over one of the candles’s unburnt wicks. “I bought them.”

Astarion bent his head down, one arm sliding to curl around her ribs to keep her stable as he reached over her to pick up the tinderbox.

“And does my pretty little mage know how to use this?”

Admitting to her deficiencies proved difficult, not with parents like her own and such a treacherous upbringing. Ylva’s red mouth puckered into a frustrated kiss, and she folded her arms above the one Astarion left encircled around her. There was only one way to turn this table.

“I hoped that you might,” she said, pulling at his hand to give herself room enough to turn and peer up at him with the same big brown eyes he had a confessed weakness for. “Won’t you?”

Silence.

Astarion’s thin mouth thinned farther. Then, he rolled his eyes.

“Since all of this was my idea,” he said, sending a sweep of his arm out towards the room around them, “I will light them for you.” 

Stepping away from her, Astarion plucked up the shining steel case of the tinderbox.

“I would enjoy this even more if the candles were stolen, for what it’s worth,” he continued, flicking a stray silver curl out of his eyes before opening the case and setting about his work. She knew that he enjoyed being watched, and so, Ylva watched him with a newfound intensity, one hand poised on his shoulder and her nose tucked down closer than she should have been to the tinderbox. “From a temple, no less? Ecstasy.”

Ylva stuffed down the feeling of failure that rose in her belly. “I hope you will enjoy it, even if the candles aren’t misbegotten.”

This time, Astarion’s voice was quieter. Warmer. More genuine. Less biting. “I will.”

Inside of the box was a stack of miniscule, rectangular parchment, a length of steel, and a bit of flint. He situated a left of parchment atop the candle’s wick before taking up the flint and steel, striking them together three times before a spark worthy of catching landed upon the bit of paper. Leaning in, he coerced the spark into a flame with a few puffs of breath.

The first candle’s wick caught quickly. Astarion dropped the parchment onto a silver platter meant for jewelry, watching as the paper curled and blackened with candlelight flickering in the rich carmine of his eyes. His skin did not hold the luminance of a living creature, but the fire’s glow brought a foreign warmth to his features that left Ylva breathless. It shoved aside the gnawing, defenseless feeling that being without her magic kindled inside of her, replacing every sharp edge with hunger that spilled through every inch of her.

For as long as they’d been together, they often landed upon things they wanted to try while discussing sex, and despite Ylva’s virginity, she’d compiled a long list of interests during her forty-six years. He swallowed up every lurid mental image, every picture she painted in his mind. And she did the same.

Every thought, every desire, she committed to memory, including the use of candle wax against skin. That one in particular had captured her imagination.

Ylva had not forgotten.

Once the fire was extinguished, Astarion lifted the first candle to use its flame to light the second and third.

“There,” he said once all three of the candles were burning, needlessly dusting off his hands as he turned towards her. “Shall we prepare in the meantime?”

“We shall.”

The passing minutes were used to properly undress each other, much as they had countless times in camp. 

Astarion shed his undershirt with ease, pulling the garment up over his curly head and casting it aside without a thought. Ylva worked open the buttons on his trousers; she peered up at him while she worked, while he unpinned her hair and truly let her thick, coal-black mane free. 

By the time his trousers pooled on the floor around his feet, the pale skin of his chest had been spoiled with the evidence of a half-dozen red kisses.

He carefully unlaced the ruffled collar she wore, tasting the damp skin beneath as it dropped to the floor. The silver symbol of Mystra sewn into the fabric clattered against the wooden floor. His mouth moved along the curve of her throat as he reached blindly for the laces at the back of her bodice, finding each of them with a careful hand as she preened and stretched and sighed for him. 

Freed from the stiff grip of her bodice, the golden cloth of her dress spilled differently around her body, clinging to the soft underside of her belly and her more-than-generous backside. Astarion did not bother keeping his hands to himself, not when the act was meant to be reverent. Would there ever be a better time to worship her? Alone, far from the others, with the familiar scent of burning temple candles carried on every breath?

His hands sank against her flesh, against her gown, tucking her dress into the delicious little roll between her stomach and her thighs. Then, he brought those very hands back around, pulling her an inch closer to him by her hips, fingertips digging at the plush curve of her ass.

“Might I have a nibble?” Astarion’s words rumbled against the ivory pillar of her throat. “Just one… before we begin?”

Ylva’s unfortunate response was a breathless, “After.”  

And then, even more quietly, with her red lips pressed to the point of his ear, “Once I am able to clean you, sweetling. Then, you may feed from me.”

She heard Astarion swallow, felt his fangs as he sighed against her throat.

The rest of their clothing was discarded in a flurry of movement following the near-promise. They pulled and tugged and kissed and whispered affectionate nonsense until they stood together, soaked in the light of the candles and the waning sunset just outside of the curtained window. Ylva’s fingertips brushed the raised scarring on Astarion’s back as he busied himself with brushing the undersides of her heavy breasts, lifting them, thumbing against the peak of her nipples.

Ylva exhaled slowly before grasping onto him, her toes curling against the bunched leg of his trousers beneath her feet. Enough time had passed since lighting the candles. There would be enough wax for the intended purpose. More than enough, really.

“Mm, such sweet hesitation,” Astarion said, softly, with a glimmer of amusement behind the curl of his pretty mouth. “Is the lady nervous?”

She could have bitten him. 

Of course she was nervous. They’d lain together frequently since the events of Cazador’s tampered ascension, since their long night in the cemetery, but never with so much planning, with so much discussion. Her nerves prickled as she remembered how dreamily he spoke of the things he wished to do with her, the worry that she might disappoint him clawing up the back of her throat.

She felt foolishly inexperienced when she confessed, “I don’t want to make a mess of things.”

“Darling,” he laughed. The sound was light, almost disbelieving, and he reached up from her hips to cup at her full cheeks. “A mess is partly the point.”

Partly.

Ylva shut her eyes and took a deep breath. She exhaled worry as much as warm air. He knew what she meant and was being purposefully obtuse, but his confidence in her was what mattered. He spoke in a way that said, You have nothing to be worried about.

When her eyes opened again, they were the same rich brown, but they were sharper, more severe.

“Lay down then,” she said rather than asking. “Kneel at the foot of the bed.”

Excitement sparkled across Astarion’s face. He whipped around in the direction of said bed, curls bouncing, hand giving hers a parting squeeze before he did just that. Taking instruction from a loving mouth was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He did not tug at those restraints, did not gnash his teeth at the pain or pleasure that followed. She had proven herself different a thousand times in the span of what was effectively a single thread in the tapestry of his life. Hours, days, even weeks hardly mattered to him.

He could not remember the last time moments were memorable, not before her.

Ylva picked up the first of the candles. She carried it carefully to avoid spilling any of the needed wax, thumbing over the wide base of the stick as she stood beside him, watching with dark eyes as Astarion stretched over the foot of the bed, his back arched and hips lifted. 

He was such a narrow thing – all flesh and bone, all sinewy muscle. Every twitch of anticipation, she could see. Every exhilarated twitch. His hands flexed in the bedding, tendons and blue veins standing out against his pale knuckles as he gripped tighter and tighter. When he looked back at her, the rich red of his eyes had been nearly overwhelmed by the black of his pupils. Only the light of the candle’s fire caused them to contract.

“Turn your face,” Ylva admonished him, as gently as she could with such a heat kindled in her belly. “I do not want you to watch.”

Astarion listened, though the sigh that followed was a fitful one.

“Yes, of course, but hurry.”

Ylva waited. 

Ylva watched. 

Above his tailbone, above his quivering muscles and powder-white skin, Ylva tipped the candle just far enough. Gold-flecked wax dripped from the melted well at the center of the candlestick, falling through the air for a tense second, before landing precisely where she intended. The flame flickered in time with the broken gasp that stole from Astarion’s throat on impact. 

The wax did not splash. Instead, it landed like a molten teardrop on his skin before sliding along the curve of his ass, falling and falling until the wax cooled and hardened.

Even only one drop in, awe joined determination in Ylva’s heavy-lidded eyes.

“Fu…”

Astarion’s shoulders went taut as he twisted his hands deeper into the bedding. His head bowed. The second dribble of wax brought not a gasp out of him, but a whimpered moan that forced Ylva to pinch her thighs together, a flush trailing down from her mottled cheeks to her chest.

She did not relent, not with the show that was unfurling in front of her eyes, not with the way Astarion’s body trembled and shook with excitement, with pain, with pleasure as each subsequent trail of cooling wax joined the last.

Light caught the gold flecks in the wax, adding a glow to his deathly pallor that thrilled her.

“You look beautiful,” Ylva whispered. She crouched beside him once she reached for the second candle, using her free hand to brush a comforting touch over the trembling curve of his ass as she waited and waited and waited. Astarion’s hips swayed forward in response, his growing erection rubbing uselessly against the bed. “How does it feel?”

The only word that rose properly to the man’s lips was a ruined, “Bliss.”

She poured. Astarion whined sharply, his fists curling even more tightly into the blanket. He’d tear it in two, if he wasn’t careful. But she didn’t want him careful; she wanted him lost in the pleasure she gave him.

“How sweet.” Her fingertips brushed down the length of his opposite thigh. “Would you like more?”

Astarion exhaled shakily. He shifted on his knees, hips swaying back, closer to her.

“Yes.”

Ylva watched his expression relax in profile. “How much?” she asked.

“Until the light burns out.”