Chapter Text
You had expected the fight with Orin to be brutal. But even now, with the changeling finally defeated and you and your battered companions floating out of the sewers of Baldur’s Gate on a purloined raft, you struggle to fight back the sense of complete overwhelm. Your eyes fall to Karlach, fussing like an elder sister over Lae’zel as she lay unconscious on the cracked driftwood. Orin had badly gutted the githyanki during her capture. Patching her up with potions and spells only did so much—she needs rest and time to heal.
The early evening sun blinds you as the raft emerges into the open air. You look up to find your party drifting inexplicably toward the beaches just south of Wrym’s Rock Fortress.
Bewilderment washes over you. “How did we come out at Wyrm’s Crossing?”
Astarion flicks an accusing wrist in your direction. “You’re the pirate. I thought you were navigating this dingy little dinghy.”
“Smuggler. There’s a difference. And I am navigating. At least I was.” Your years of trafficking jewels, both counterfeit and authentic, through the city ports had granted you automatic captain status of the raft, and you’d sailed contraband in and out of Baldur’s Gate more times than you could count. But you had always worked alone. Never before had you attempted to drift the darkened labyrinth of city sewers with such precious cargo. You’d never had to make such a journey while preoccupied with the fate of your friends.
“I know the battle with Orin was difficult.” Wyll prods at the destroyed leather armor dangling precariously off of your torso, the casualty of a particularly heinous blow from Orin’s clawed fist. “But now is no time to get distracted. We have the two netherstones Gortash needs. As soon as we set foot into Wyrm’s Rock Fortress with them in our possession, his steel watch will descend upon us like metallic locusts.”
“He’s right. Don’t expect that bastard to keep to his end of the bargain.” Karlach grits her teeth as flames lick at her shoulders. “We have what he wants, and he’ll take it as soon as he learns Orin’s dead.”
Your determined shake of the head at last pries the sense of overwhelm free. It’s time to protect your companions. “We can’t let that happen. Let’s lay low in Wyrm’s Crossing while Lae’zel rests, then head back into the sewers to avoid the fortress. We’ll sneak back into the city right under Gortash’s nose.”
“A rather well-fortified nose,” Astarion remarks, gazing up at the fortress. He and Wyll jump into the water as the little boat drifts into the shallows, pulling the rest of you onto the sandy banks.
Abandoning the raft on the shores of Wyrm’s Crossing, you help Karlach scoop Lae’zel into her arms, wary of her wounds. As you hop down onto the beach, your leather armor finally gives way and collapses onto the sand, tearing most of your shirt asunder in the process.
You find yourself standing on the beach in nothing but your corset, boots, and trousers, with a sorry scrap of shirt dangling uselessly from your neck. A flush automatically reddens your bosom, before you release a resigned sigh and tear the rest of the shredded fabric away. You crouch to pick up your bag off of the destroyed armor, only a single healing potion and the netherstones contained inside. Slinging the strap across your chest for a small shred of protection, you boldly meet the gazes of your companions.
Wyll averts his eyes like the gentleman he is, while Astarion grins lasciviously at you. It’s nothing the vampire hasn’t seen before.
“Shall we abscond to Sharess’s Caress, then?” he asks with a toothy smile. “Your attire will fit right in at the brothel.”
You narrow annoyed eyes at him. “You jest, but the flophouse is bound to be full, and the bondage bedchamber still lies empty after the ‘librarian’s’ unfortunate demise. I’m certain Mamzell Amira will allow us to stay there. But if I hear a single crack about me being one of the concubines working there, you’ll find a wooden stake between your ribs.” You lift your chin and puff out your inadequately attired chest, then march off up the cliff, leading the way through Wyrm’s Crossing.
Only a few odd looks are cast your way as you roam the streets in your delicates—the brothel just down the lane dulls the sight of the prominent cleavage you normally hide behind your armor. Yet gooseflesh rises on the back of your neck, as if you feel the eyes of the very fortress itself are watching you. The fortress, or the ever-observant Archduke within.
As you suspected, Mamzell Amira allows your companions to stay in the room of the departed courtesan. Wyll and Karlach carry Lae’zel upstairs, while Astarion lingers beside you as you beg Mamzell Amira for some undamaged clothes.
“The outfits I keep lying around aren’t the kind you’re used to.” She bends to rummage through a chest underneath the front counter. “Only the finest dancer’s costumes, of course. It’s yours as long as you don’t sneer at the cut.” She rises, setting a fabric bundle of lilac and gold ribbons on the counter.
You lift the stringy fabric and hold it up to your chest with a tinkle of the attached bells. “This covers even less than my unmentionables.”
“Yes, but you’ll look less like a lustful vagrant ready to flash her bobbies for a head of fish.” She gestures to your sad little corset. “Just put it on for now and we’ll send someone to Carm’s Garm’s for you in the morning. It’s more comfortable than it looks.”
You sigh in resignation, ducking into the coat room behind the counter to change. It’s difficult to figure out how to properly put on the outfit, as it appears more intended to be taken off. Thin strands of fabric that barely cover your chest tie together in a bow between your breasts, while matching ribbons wind between your thighs and tie at your hips in a poor excuse for small clothes. The majority of the outfit is saved for falls of sheer fabric dangling from your hips and wrists. There is a veil meant to cover your face, but you tuck it into the straps above your collarbone for some shred of modesty.
Throwing back the curtain, you emerge fully attired as a busty exotic dancer. You glare daggers at Astarion’s pleased grin.
“There’s more clothing hanging from my wrists than actually covering my goodies,” you complain.
“And it fits as if you were born to wear it,” he leers. For a man who asked to be mere friends to avoid objectification, he shows surprisingly little interest in returning the courtesy.
“How do the girls protect themselves in these things?” You smooth down the sheer fabric on your hips. “There’s nowhere to hide a weapon.”
“With this, dearie.” Mamzell Amira places a small wooden box on the counter and produces a long pin, a filigreed wing decorating the end. She pins it into the strap on your collar bone, blending it in with the gold ribbon. “One prick and the john is paralyzed in moments.”
“Very efficient.” You touch the little gold wing, ensuring its placement doesn’t lead to you paralyzing yourself.
“Shall we join our companions?” Astarion offers his arm as if he were a gentleman.
You let out a huff and stomp ahead of him, bells clinging and streams of useless fabric trailing after you.
Once safely hidden away in the brothel bedchamber, Wyll valiantly struggles to maintain eye contact. You only catch his eye drifting southward to your décolletage once as your party discusses the next moves. The brothel will be the safe house for the night, then it’s back in to the sewers before dawn to meet up with the rest of your companions at the Elfsong Tavern. From there, you’ll devise a hiding place for the netherstones, and take the next steps to rescue Wyll’s father from the Iron Throne.
As you finalize your plans, a commotion sounds outside, with cheers and shouts coming from down the street. “What’s going on?” you ask.
Astarion darts to the window and peers out. He looks back at you, even paler than usual. “He’s here. Gortash is heading down the street with a legion of steel watch.”
“What?” You rush to his side and poke your head out the window. It was just as Astarion said. A black figure stepping off the drawbridge like a smudge of ash, flanked by at least five mechanical knights. His advance is slow, pausing to talk with the common folk bowing and scraping for him. You fly away from the window and fling open the door on the other side of the room, casting your gaze toward the south span checkpoint. Steel watch are swarming through the gate, approaching the building from both sides. You’re greatly outnumbered.
You hastily slam the door and return to Astarion at the window. “We’re trapped. We can’t fight our way out of this.”
“Why not?” Karlach leaps to her feet. “I’ll take him on right now. Let his army try and stop me.”
“He’s got a veritable parade of steel watch with him.” Astarion waves his arm out the window. “I don’t much fancy getting flattened by enormous broadswords, but you go right on ahead. I think we’re better off hiding.”
You peek back out the window at the approaching Archduke. He’s stopped to talk with a vendor, but his head is turned, and you could swear he’s looking directly at you. You duck your head back inside the window, an icy chill trickling down your neck.
“Hiding sounds good,” you say. “At least until we can sneak our way out of here.” You see poor Lae’zel’s form lying on the bed. Rest will be a while off yet for her.
Wyll crosses his arms. “Not all of us are creatures of the night that can blend into the shadows. Gortash is bound to search every inch of this place for both us and the stones.”
You steeple your fingers and put them to your lips in thought. “Hide in Raphael’s room. I doubt Gortash would go in there.”
He steps back in surprise. “He’s worse than Gortash!”
“But we aren’t currently hiding the very thing he wants. Not yet.” Your hands rub together anxiously as you try to play out the scenario in your mind. “Just… pretend you’re there to bargain. Get him talking about himself and he’ll ramble on long enough for me to get Gortash to leave.”
“You’re not hiding with us?” Karlach asks, doing a double take.
“I can hide in plain sight on the stage. I’m already dressed the part.” You hold your hands out in presentation. “If I can lure him away from his steel watch, I’ll keep him distracted long enough for you all to climb down the cliffs and slip back into the caverns leading to the sewers.”
“Keep him distracted how?” Wyll asks.
“I don’t know.” You rush to the door to make sure the way is clear. Thinking on your feet will have to do, because your sudden plan doesn’t stretch far into the future. “I’ll offer him a private dance, perhaps. My face will be covered by the veil.”
“That’s practically transparent as glass.” Astarion flips up said veil currently resting on your chest. “If he happens to take a closer inspection he’ll have you in an instant.”
You click your tongue. “The Chosen of Tyranny is looking to move his last pawn into place to win the game. I doubt I’ll even catch his attention. I just need to catch him alone. He’s hardly a threat without his automatons. Now let’s move. Time is short.”
Your companions fly into action. Karlach and Wyll carry Lae’zel out the door and head to Raphael’s room. You wait until they’re inside to shut the door of your current quarters.
“What about the stones?” Astarion asks. “You don’t have enough clothing to hide them, and your satchel gives you away.”
You swallow. You’re an experienced enough smuggler to know the best hiding place for contraband when all out of options. You’ll have to stuff the netherstones up your nether regions.
“Quick,” you say, holding out a hand. “Give me a vial of oil. I’m going to need a lubricant.”
***
By the time Gortash strides into Sharess’s Caress, you’re up on the stage wearing the veil over your face. It had been a very long time since you’d had to smuggle something in your ‘emergency compartment’ and you’d forgotten how to difficult it was to move while doing so. Your dancing is awkward and stiff because of it, so you stand behind Queen Rhol, the usual dancer, and wiggle with your thighs clamped firmly together. It may be the best snake impression you’ve ever done.
You only catch glimpses of Gortash’s dark leather through the curtains, but it’s clearly him. His steel watch wait outside, unable to fit through the front door. Only a single faithful Iron Fist accompanies his lord while he makes an inspection of the brothel.
If you weren’t seeing him with your own eyes, you wouldn't believe the archduke had come himself. It would be all too easy to send a lackey or a swarm of watch in his place, yet there he is. From what you’d discovered of how he conducted business, he had fingers in every pie in the city, so perhaps surprise shouldn’t be your first sensation.
He parts the curtains and enters the little theater, clearly searching for what he wants. That doesn’t appear to be the dancers, as his eyes don’t linger on the stage for long. He prowls the room like a panther, holding up his fist as if it were guiding him.
But as he draws closer, you’re aware of another sensation. A dull hum emanating from the netherstones, tucked right into an area they shouldn’t be humming against. You nearly stumble from the feeling, but correct yourself before anyone notices.
Or so you thought.
Gortash is watching the stage more intently now, fist still raised, the back of his hand pointed squarely at you. And you realize, much too late, that he’s able to sense your scurried away netherstones with his own. The hum in your nether regions is calling to him, and you’re dressed like a proper invitation.
He breaks out into laughter and claps heartily at your performance. “Where did you learn to dance like that, Prism-Bearer?” he calls up to you. “You writhe like a worm.”
The music stops and the other dancer bows off the stage, leaving you alone, frozen in the limelight.
“…I was trying to imitate a snake, actually.” The jig is up, and you lift your veil. “Much more dignified.”
“Yes.” He grins up at you, taking in the entirety of your outfit. “This is all very… dignified.”
You huff and hop down off the stage, trying not to wince as the netherstones shift in place. They’re still resonating with a subtle vibration, making it difficult to stay focused.
The Iron Fist grabs you by the shoulders, and you shout in surprise, spinning and slamming your palm up into his nose.
He roars in anger as a stream of red trickles from his nose. “You little wretch!” he snarls, unsheathing his sword.
“Enough, Consul. I need this one unharmed.” Gortash stops his guard, clearly amused at the immediate damage you caused. He turns to you, his smile all polite confidence. “I thought we might have a private audience to discuss Orin’s defeat.”
You shake your hand out with a nod. “I’m staying in the bondage room upstairs. We can parley there.”
“Not what I’d originally had in mind, but I’m amenable.”
“The parley or the bondage?” you ask, making your way towards the stairs.
Gortash follows just a touch too closely behind you. “I’m game for either.”
Is the Archduke of Baldur’s Gate flirting with you? You recall a wealthy older woman’s journal you’d plundered from the counting house vault, detailing the thrills of a young Enver Gortash’s burly embrace. The man clearly isn’t above using his body to get what he wants.
And at the moment, what he wants is firmly stuffed up your lady bits.
You may be able to seduce your way out of this. It would certainly give your companions time to escape, and you were well accustomed to the practice when smuggling valuable cargo.
“Are you going to reveal why you didn’t come to me after slaying Orin?” he asks as you let him into the bedchamber. “I had thought I’d spelled out the benefits of an alliance perfectly well.”
You close the door behind him and turn around, unsure of where to put your hands. You settle for your hips. “I thought it best if I lay low for the night.”
“Typically, you want to draw less attention to yourself when hiding.” He gestures to your dancer’s outfit. “I can’t imagine a more eye-catching ensemble.”
You sigh and brush past him, reaching for a carafe of wine on the sideboard and pouring out a goblet. “I assumed no one would be looking for me on the stage.” You gulp down a long swig of wine, eager for the alcohol to take quick effect.
“Difficult not to with that squirming little performance.” Gortash pours a goblet of his own and takes a deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving yours. “But it was the stones themselves that gave you away. They resonate with my own.”
“Yes, I… figured that out.” You run your fingers along your brow, a fine sheen of sweat beginning to form. It’s impossible not to feel worked up as the stones throb within you, and your ability to think straight is beginning to fray.
Gortash sets his goblet down, his wine mostly untouched. “I know you have them. Unless you want me to search beneath what precious little clothing you have left, I suggest you hand them over.”
You down the rest of your drink, setting your own goblet beside his before you defiantly meet his gaze. “I swallowed them.”
His smile widens, but his eyes give nothing away. In an instant, his hand is at your throat, the gold filigrees of his gauntlet pressing cold shapes into your skin. He doesn’t squeeze, but a scowl has made itself known on his face. You sense that he’s waiting to see how you’ll respond.
You keep your hands by your side, not yet ready to declare war. “Just because I’m unarmed doesn’t mean I can’t fight back, Your Most Eminent Grace.”
His scowl melts back into a smile once again. “As you’ve so clearly demonstrated.” He releases your neck but doesn’t lower his hand, turning his palm around to let his netherstone rest against your throat.
Gortash lets his hand trail slowly down between your breasts, pausing to pull free the bow of ribbons there. He shakes the garment as it falls loose, finding no stones slipping free. “Nothing in the bodice. Well, clearly not nothing.” He smirks at you before continuing the path of his hand, letting it come to rest on your belly.
“No stones in here.” He taps the back of his gauntlet against your bare skin. “They are close, though. Lower.”
You try to steady your breathing as his gauntlet stops just above your sex. His bejeweled hand is so close it feels as if your whole body is vibrating.
He raises his eyes to your face in astonishment as he realizes where you’ve stashed them. “You wouldn’t. Unless…” He studies you with a speculative gaze. “You wanted me to search there.”
He uses the gauntlet to grip the fabric at your waist and pull you closer, your nose nearly colliding with his. His eyes remain fixed on yours as he unties the ribbons, letting the garment fall away until you’re left bare from the waist down. His ungloved hand comes up and cups your mound, his middle finger carefully running along your seam.
You fight to keep your voice from coming out completely breathless. “I’d known you had your fingers in every business in the city, but this is ridiculous.”
His finger at last parts your folds and slips inside, not making it far before coming into contact with the stones. “Ah, there we are. A bit of a tight fit, isn’t it?”
You shrug, at a complete loss as to how you found yourself in this situation. “Seemed a shame to waste the space.”
“So this is why your dancing was so terrible. Didn’t want anything to slip out.” He taps a stone, sending it reverberating.
The gasp of pleasure you are unable to hold back is met with a satisfied smirk.
“Shall I crawl up and retrieve them for you?” he asks.
You glare at him. This is not how your parley was meant to go. You clench down with your inner muscles, pinching his fingers between the stones.
Gortash hisses and pulls his hand away. “I hadn’t realized you had teeth.”
You can’t help your pleased grin. “I do like to bite.”
“Evidently so.” He places a pair of fingers against the netherstone on his gauntlet, and the entire glove disappears in a flash of purple magic.
“What?” You gape at him incredulously. You had the stones stuffed up your nethers all this time and they came equipped with an off switch. “I didn’t know it was possible to just hide them away like that.”
“You wouldn’t be in this predicament if you had, and for that, I am grateful,” he replies, taking off his coat.
“What are you doing?” you ask.
He folds up the coat and tosses it onto the bed. “Going to make use of a thicker appendage.”
“You can’t—” You pause. He absolutely can, and your body is quite obviously ready for him to. You’d promised your companions a distraction, and this would do as good as any. But there are logistical problems to sort through first. “Your ‘thicker appendage’ will ensure the stones won’t ever come back out. We’ll all be dead because the keys to controlling the Absolute will have disappeared up my clam.”
“You’d better remove them yourself, then.” He leans back on the bed to pull off his boots.
“But then you’ll have them. That’s a much bigger negotiation.”
“Keep the stones for today.” He pulls his shirt off over his head, leaving his already scruffy hair almost charmingly mussed. “Right now, I’m more interested in feeling those tight little muscles of yours wrapped around my cock.”
You scoff, both disbelief and excitement warring for dominance within you. “And then what? That hardly solves the debate of our fragile alliance.”
“Allow me to demonstrate how we need not be enemies.” He walks towards you with a swagger in his step, supremely confident in what would happen next. “Consider this an exercise in allyship. We can discuss our relationship afterwards, like a pair of civilized tyrants.”
“I’m not the Bane worshiper here,” you say.
“Perhaps not.” He draws the loose bodice off of your shoulders, leaving you naked before him. “But in a few moments I’ll have you worshiping his chosen.”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “You’re awfully cocksure.”
“Where do you think all my confidence comes from?” His trousers at last come down.
You’d dealt with enough rare jewels to know that it wasn’t always the size that matters—often it was the cut or the clarity. But sometimes, when the size of a stone was so impressive, you couldn’t help but let out a low whistle.
And Gortash has you pursing your lips.
This was a deal you were prepared to strike. “Turn around,” you say.
He crossed his arms impatiently. “While I don’t see where you could be hiding a knife to plunge into my back—”
“Yanking a pair of stones out of my nether regions in front of an Archduke is not a memory I want to form,” you say, cutting him off. “Besides, I can’t imagine either of us will enjoy this without some small measure of trust.”
“Very well.” He turns around, granting you your privacy. You retrieve your bodice and set it on the sideboard before embarking on your undignified fishing trip.
As soon as you have them out and wrapped up in your bodice, you find his arms snaking around your waist, fondling your breasts as the hard length of his body is pressed up against your backside.
“Now bend over,” he growls in your ear. “And allow me to extend to you a very large measure of my trust.”
You do as he commands, placing one hand on the sideboard and the other over the wrapped up stones. He claims your hips in a firm grip, and then he’s inside you with one quick thrust, forcing a small moan from your lips. Gortash fills you more fully than the stones did and is far more likely to get the job done.
He sets a determined rhythm, hard and fast, but not uncomfortably so. The stones had prepared you so well that it’s not long before you find yourself coming undone. You release a soft cry as you climax, feeling yourself so impossibly full and wet that your mind fills with noise.
“You see what we can accomplish when we work together?” Gortash says, before returning his attention to his work.
With at least one orgasm out of the way, your mind clears enough to remember the pin stuffed into your bodice, tucked right beneath your hand. You carefully retrieve the tiny weapon, and bide your time as Gortash has his way with you. His fingers reach around to push your buttons, managing to draw another climax out of you before long. He chases you over the edge to his own release with a hearty groan.
The perfect moment for you to prick the pin unnoticed into his thigh.
You watch him from over your shoulder as he pulls out of you. “I don’t suppose you want to give me your stone?” you ask.
“And why would I—” He stumbles back a step. “Oh.” His quickly unfocusing eyes find yours, accompanied by a strangely appreciative grin. “And I thought I’d performed a thorough cavity search.” He collapses to the ground, his head falling at the foot of the bed.
You work quickly, dressing again in the dancer’s outfit, putting the stones back in your satchel, and flinging the strap over your head. Your eyes land on Gortash’s paralyzed form as you take a step towards the window and you hesitate. He had turned around when you asked him to, at least.
Draping his coat over a chair, you fling back the covers of the bed. You move back to Gortash, slipping your arms around his chest and hauling his body onto the bed with a mighty heave. You arrange him on the bed and place him under the covers, leaving him unexposed to whoever may discover him in this state.
“Wouldn’t want the archduke to be caught in a compromising position,” you tell him. You lean over him on the bed for one last moment. On impulse, you give him a peck on the lips, stealing at least one kiss from this little rendezvous.
“Thank you for the trust.” You climb off of him and open the window, looking back with a smile. “I’m sure our stones will be reunited soon enough.”
You climb out the window, and down the building, scaling a bramble of vines to lower yourself onto the cliff side below. Astarion is waiting for you in the twilight.
“Did you kill him?” he asks excitedly. “Did you get his stone?”
You shake your head, thoughts still swimming with what did happen between you and Gortash. “He magicked it away before I could use the pin. We’ll have to confront him after taking out his resources.”
Astarion gaped in bewilderment at you. “Then why did you leave him alive?”
A nonchalant shrug rolls off your shoulder. “He hasn’t tried to kill me, yet. Seemed unfair to make the first attempt.”
“When will you learn not to play fair?” the vampire asks, tutting at you.
You give him a playful pat on the cheek. “When I learn to listen to the pointy-fanged devil on my shoulder.”