Jaheira X Astele - Blog Posts

Y’all, I drOPPED MY CUPCAKE.

This is why Jaheira won’t let Astele bring sweet rolls into their shared soak.

Current situation: eating a cupcake while taking a bath because I got a massage yesterday and the masseuse beat the shit out of me.

Also wondering whether Jaheira and Astele would be bath girls or shower girls?

I bet Astele would appreciate the quickness of a shower, while Jaheira would be a long, hot bath lover with bath bombs and bath teas and shit like that.

Jaheira would have one of those deep copper bathtubs so the water would stay hotter for longer.

Astele would have a stand-up shower and only soak when Jaheira invited her to bathe together.

I don’t think either would eat cupcakes.

Posting this here because it’s one of my faves and because there’s nothing you can do to stop me!

Sewer Journals

What this fic has:

Jaheira being nosy as hell

Smut (because it’s me and apparently I can’t just write a regular fic - it’s not reeeally dirty like usual tho!!)

Ultra-soft Nine-Fingers Keene (deal with it)

What this fic does not have:

Uhm. Idk. Jaheira showing restraint like she ought to since she’s the High Harper and old as hell

Summary:

“Jaheira let out an amused breath. Sewer journals. It would appear the Underduke kept detailed diaries. Coded details of all past, present, and possibly future Guild business? A clear advantage; knowledge she absolutely must learn. She picked an older red one and opened it to a random page. She had long ago learned the code in which Nine-Fingers wrote her Guild communications, but the code in these pages seemed slightly different. Certain symbols and letters replaced ones that Jaheira knew well. But she was a quick study, always had been.”

Someone desperately needs to take photo mode away from me.

Anyway, take a break from your mental illness to enjoy mine. I’ll warn you, these are poorly done and NSFW.

Jaheira x Nine-Fingers (technically my Tav, but we’re all on tumblr to use our imaginations, right??)

Greenfinch, Green Witch

"You think you're a darkness, Astele. Only a shadow; a ghost in my life—but can't you see you're really the moon? The light that brings me out of that blackness and guides me home?"

I just stared at you after you'd said it, mouth agape, and chose to focus on the gold flecks in your hazelnut eyes instead of saying anything. Because how the fuck was I supposed to answer that, Harper? What the fuck was I supposed to say? You waltzed into my fucking Guildhall, noticebly unholed, then talked to me like I was the love of your fucking life? How the fuck should I have responded, Harper?

Should I have told you that you're the only brightness in my supposedly cold, dead heart? That you're the sun to my moon and the dawn that greets me every morning? What the fuck should I've said to you?

Probably all of those things. But you changed the subject before I could snap my mouth back shut. I don't even remember what you said afterwards - your words were too busy gnawing away at me, hollowing out a hole for them to take root in like you'd just cast a vine spell directly into my chest.

But… none of that matters now. Now I'm trodding along the dusty brown dirt path that leads up to your little cottage in the forest, bag of holding thrown over my shoulder. It's a charming little place, deep within the woods, small and cozy. The walls are covered in thick green vines that twist and twine wild around the cottage, climbing up to the thatched roof to reach towards the rays of sun that barely break through the dense tree canopy. White smoke rises in thick clouds out of the chimney, lush green and purple herb beds line the walk and front of the cottage, and patches of pink, white, and yellow wildflowers sprout here and there.

Grandmother, my sweet Jaheira, my green witch. All green things grow for you and all animals call you friend. I call you my love.

As my feet carry me ever closer and my eyes dart around to take in every ivy covered tree and moss coated rock, I realize I'm quietly singing and wonder how long I've been at it with a shake of my head. It's a tune I'd written for you after the first time we'd kissed:

Amidst the forest green

I seeketh me a rose

Within the sunny brambles

Where the elder oak tree grows—

I meet within the wood

A maiden bright and fair

With eyes of golden honey

And silver gray of hair—

I sayeth to the maiden

You're the most beautiful rose

And I hold her to my breast

Where the elder oak tree grows—

Stupid, I know. Such a silly little thing to have warbled at you. I didn't even sing it to you until a month later, and when I did, you kissed me even sweeter and called me your greenfinch.

I stop to watch a black and gold bumblebee awkwardly dance around one of the pink pops of blooms that lines the path. It buzzes and sways in the air before almost crashing in the middle of a blossom to load its legs up with bright yellow pollen. There weren't bumblebees in the Guildhall. Beer, gnats, liars, and thieves. There was the occasional flower there though - you.

The admission, although mental, makes me chuckle because when the fuck did I start talking like that? Nine-Fingers Keene, ruthless Guildmaster and famous rogue.

Retired.

Retired and moving into the forest to live with her ancient Druid and retired High Harper girlfriend. I can hear the echoes of laughter that would have filled the Guildhall if anyone other than my Ladies Court would have ever found out. I tried not to love you, I did. But you - you made me fall for you with your smile as soft as light and your skin smelling of moss and fresh rain. How could I not fall head over heels?

Mol, the tiefling that once sought shelter in the Guildhall as a girl has replaced me. She's even smarter and more cunning than me if anyone can believe it. She'll do more than well there. None of that matters to me anymore. Nothing but your enchanting smile matters to me anymore.

Suddenly, I find myself surrounded by a little army of bunnies you've created for yourself. A spy network, I tell myself, as a brown and white spotted one with long, floppy ears rears up on its hind legs to sniff my trousers. I let it take a good, long whiff, and then it's off, racing towards the cottage like I'm here to set you on fire. Maybe I am. I watch the little rabbit run right up to your wooden front door. It turns to face me and looks me right in the eyes while it lifts its little brown back leg and thumps on the door in rapid succession. Tattletale.

But then the door opens and there you are. Your halo of gray hair, left down to be wild and free like your spirit, spills over your shoulders like a waterfall of silver stars.

"Astele," you gasp as if you didn't think I'd come. Of course I'd come for you, Harper. You've got some green witch enchantment on me. That's what I'd told myself all those years, after all, before I finally admitted that your face was the last one I imagine every night before I fall asleep.

My arms are swiftly full of my Jaheira; full of the warmth and brightness of the sun in all its splendor, and when your pillowy lips meet mine there's an eclipse. The yellow moon that is encased in my heart thrums and pounds in my chest, tight against the bones that cage them that ache and shiver only for you.

"You're finally here, my little greenfinch," you ghost against my lips.

How could I resist?

For @ixievee - thank you for the inspiration!

The moon is shy (revised), 2025- mixed media (watercolour and colour pencil) on hand made cold pressed paper.

This painting was inspired by a beautiful photo by @raethanbhanneth.

Some lore: in my sapphic, tumblr ridden soul, the sun and moon are lovers. They get to see each other for only a few hours each day in the quiet hours of dawn and dusk. And when they part, the sun leaves golden kisses on her lovers skin, a tender reminder etched in the freckles on her cheeks. ❤️

Pipe Smoke - Chapter 2

Dawn broke over the city's trees, casting pinks and reds and oranges over their misty green leaves. But no sunlight dare shine through to the dim sewer office where Jaheira hung tightly to Astele's skin, curled against her like a cat seeking shelter from the rain. Eventually, Jaheira exhausted herself of dreams and stirred ever so slightly. The corners of her lips turned up in a grin as she remembered the previous night's events.

It had all started when Astele stole her a yellow orchid from someone's jacket pocket at the Elfsong Tavern. She did it to make Jaheira laugh - to steal something right in front of the High Harper, then present it to her as a gift she couldn't refuse. Astele had said, "Petty theft for a pretty girl," then gently tucked the flower behind Jaheira's ear. She remembered forgetting, if only for a moment, that she was over a century and a half years old and had a house full of children waiting for her down the street. Instead, she had smiled bashfully at the Guildmaster's comment and fluttered her eyelashes like she was twenty-something all over again.

But it wasn't really the flower or even the comment that had brought on the sudden bashfulness. It was knowing that, in a room full of patrons who had flowers stuck in their suit jackets, Astele knew her well enough to steal the yellow orchid. And that was what made Jaheira's heart skip a beat.

Astele stirred underneath her, grunting lightly as she did. She squeezed Jaheira lightly to let her know she was awake, then pressed a sleepy kiss to the top of her gray braids of hair. "You talk in your sleep, Harper," Astele teased, her voice gruff and low.

Jaheira hummed then replied, "And you steal flowers to stick in women's hair so you can get them into your bed."

Astele chuckled, lightly shaking Jaheira as she did. "Worked, didn't it?"

Jaheira softly smacked Astele's side under the blanket, silently chiding her for trying to rile Jaheira up too early in the morning. "What other kinds of trinkets does the Guildmaster give women to lure them back to her lair?" Jaheira shot back with her own brand of teasing.

Astele opened one eye, catching the playful spark in Jaheira's hazelnut eyes. She smirked. “You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” Jaheira replied, her voice was softer than it was before. A part of her still hadn’t fully recovered from the tenderness from the tavern and from the entire night.

Astele exhaled, not ready, but figuring it was better now than never. She turned fully onto her side to face Jaheira, hummed thoughtfully, and began counting on her fingers - the hand with all five of them. “Cinnamon. I’d bring you freshly cured sticks to burn in the evenings, because you said once it reminds you of the groves near Athkatla in late spring.”

Jaheira raised an eyebrow. She had said that—years ago. Once. In passing on a night that she'd lost to Lady Lockjaw at cards. She hadn’t even remembered it until now.

Astele continued, her voice lazy and soft. “Honeyed figs from a stall near the Temple of Ilmater. You always buy them for the little ones, but you take one for yourself thinking no one notices."

She furrowed her brow and she thought of even more. "Lemon tea. Strong, sweet. A steaming mug with a touch of honey. The kind no one else in your house drinks except you.”

Jaheira stared, unable to process the list Astele was rattling off. All the things she loved that she didn't think anyone ever noticed.

“Green ink,” Astele went on, ticking yet another finger. “You only ever write in green ink and you hoard those little glass jars like they're made of gold.”

A laugh choked out of Jaheira before she could help it, sharp and surprised. “I do not hoard them," she exclaimed.

“Ten in your desk. Three hidden behind the books in your study. Don’t lie to a professional thief, Jaheira.” Astele laughed herself and added, "There's probably more down in your sanctuary, too. If I had to guess, I'd say… six more little bottles all hidden in crates."

It wasnt a guess at all and Jaheira knew it. The High Harper covered her face with one hand, feeling a rush of warmth washing up her throat and over her cheeks. “Gods, you are insufferable!”

“I know.” Astele caught and held her gaze, sky blue meeting earthy hazel. “You also like rainy days when you don’t have to be out in the wet mess. You fall asleep to the patter of raindrops and gentle rush of wind. Thunder scares you if it's too loud, but you love to watch lightening crackle against the black sky of night. You hate it when people eat while standing, and Rion does it just to annoy you. You keep your boots polished even if you're going out into the wilds or a grove out of respect for nature. You double-knot Fig's cloaks because you don’t trust her to do it right.” Her voice then dropped to a whisper. “You mourn in silence. And when you love something, you never say it out loud. You just… guard it. With everything you have and everything you are.”

The silence after that was long, heavy with all the things Jaheira could not admit, but felt deep in her heart. “You just happen to know all of that?” Jaheira asked, her voice hoarse.

“I watched over the years,” Astele said simply. “Listened. You don’t talk much about yourself, so I learned by paying attention.”

Jaheira propped herself up a bit to face her fully, brushing silver hair behind her ear. “But… why?

Astele hesitated, her eyes flicking away for the barest moment before coming right back. “Because I didn’t know how to tell you I loved you,” she said in a voice barely audible. “So I memorized you instead.”

Pipe Smoke

It was the pipe smoke that roused her from a deep slumber. After the rush of soft hands and velvet lips, gentle gasps and shaking hips. After words said at least five years overdue, perhaps even longer. It was after the simple rustling of leaves had turned into a tempest of sweat and flame and arching release. It was the pipe smoke that roused her.

The night had been slow and sweet; reverent even. Holy. Both of them taking turns being cleric and goddess, intent on heavenly worship of the other. It was the type of delicate lovemaking she had gotten used to once upon a time, and not something she thought she’d ever feel again. Warmth and life crept back into her tired bones, stirring them to shiver and hum, stirring her chest to rise and fall, breaths coming in rapid successive gasps twice, no, thrice, in one night.

It had felt like home.

And maybe that’s why she said it, mumbled it under her still ragged breath whilst halfway dreaming. “Smoke in the study, Khalid.”

The smell of an old long leaf, a tobacco antique even to her, lingered, then lazily mellowed into nothingness. Her breathing settled back into an even rhythm when no new smoke flooded her dreams. Suddenly, she was being gently pulled by a strong, yet wiry arm. She twisted her body against warm, pink flesh, her cheek finding a new place to rest atop a soft, broad shoulder. The smell and feel was so similar and so, so safe. She curled into it, smiling. A soft sigh escaped her lips in response to a whispered comment she couldn’t quite hear.

— —

That experience was… different. Not at all what she was used to. Her line of work didn’t leave room for softness, kindness, gentle touches, or fluttering kisses in the aftermath of a storm. She was used to the feeling of her dark-haired kingpin’s sharp dagger trailing down her spine after a victorious coup, or a quick nightcap with a golden-haired lady after a stressful day of negotiations - her court wasn’t there just for fucking protection, after all.

And she was used to being in control.

Every order obeyed, every enemy quaking in fear of her vicious wrath, every kingpin and guild member falling neatly in line lest they meet an undesirable fate either at her own hand or upon her command. She wasn’t used to subservience. Or giving into temptation. Or whispering sweet lover’s words in the heat of passion - she wasn’t sure she was used to passion. But she was used to being the one calling the shots.

So when her - lover? Ally? Frenemy? Mumbled about smoking in the study, she scoffed. An eyebrow raised slowly at being called the name of a dead husband. Either she’d done a good job, or the old crone was finally losing her fucking mind. She scoffed, yet she found herself sitting down her tinderbox, letting the tobacco she had just lit die out, then working her fingers to empty out the bowl even though she was in her own fucking office.

She thought about a quip. A wry comment lay on the tip of her tongue and she opened her mouth to say it. Then she shut it. Instead of flinging a well crafted and very witty insult, she rose from her chair, shed the oversized tunic she had thrown on, and slid back into her bed. Her strong arm pulled the other woman on top of her, waking her just enough so she could twist to rest her head upon her new pillow’s broad shoulder.

“You’re lucky you’re only half a Harper, grandmother,” she whispered into a mess of gray hair.

The only response she received was in the form of a soft sigh.

💚Jaheira x Astele: 19 Fingers FanFic Contest💚

Vote for your favourite fic!

So I made a drawing, and these AMAZING yet mysterious writers brought it to life! Thank you so much!

Now it's time to determine the winners!

Take a break, read some great fics, and vote for the one you love most.

The entries:

⚔️ Stay

https://bit.ly/STAYfic

⚔️ Jaheira and Astele ⚔️ 🌹

https://bit.ly/JaheiraXAstele

⚔️ Stakeout

https://bit.ly/STAKEOUT

⚔️ Sweetness captures honeybees in time

https://bit.ly/SWEETNESSfic

💚Vote here https://bit.ly/JAstele💚

🏆 Prizes:

The two top-voted writers will win an A4 print of the 19 Fingers drawing + a choice of one Jaheira A5 print.

Two runner-ups will each receive an A5 Jaheira print.

DEADLINE for voting: 4th May (7 days)

💜 Thank you so much for your support - it means the world, really!

Izz

(Vote sharing link is https://bit.ly/JAstele)

My Girlfriend and Her 27 Daggers (aka 19 Fingers)

I am not a fan of 'do gardening to relax' cause of reasons, but I thought rendering every single element would be a nice meditative experience.

The rest of the daggers are there somewhere.

37 hours, Procreate, lots of questioning my sanity over background details

If you see a lineart mistake, no you don’t.

My thanks go to @ octavia_tav on X for Jahehe reference and the @ misshighharper (Jake?) for the inspiring meme about knives and also @ graciescribbles for the gentle push

AH-mazing!

She is quiet. Sharp tongue stilled. The noises she makes are soft and contented, never mind how Jaheira’s teeth scrape, how the bruises bloom. When Jaheira’s mouth moves lower, her breath hitches, her fingers tangling in Jaheira’s braids, and still she does not speak. “What?” Jaheira raises her head. “None of the Guildmaster’s trademark quick wit?” “A good commander knows when to shut the fuck up and do what needs doing,” Astele breathes, “and I am a good. Fucking. Commander.”

have had this sequel planned since i wrote the first fic :") very happy to finally finish it!

“Don’t get mad if I fall asleep on you” for Jaheira/NF

Jaheira’s curled up on Astele’s bed—not wildshaped, not surreptitious, just Jaheira. She smiles like this isn’t something novel and also fucking insane. This isn’t what they do. She shows up late at night sometimes, sure, but not late at night when she’s got adventurers to herd, tucked up at the Elfsong doing whatever other insane charity work needs their attention. She doesn’t have time for things like this.

She’s not wearing her fuck-me lingerie, and it is psychologically damaging for Astele to realize that they’ve been doing this for enough time that she can tell how Jaheira’s feeling based on what she’s worn to bed. Fuck-me lingerie—pretty self-explanatory. Green adventuring leathers—business only, and she’s usually paired them with a grim expression that’s nothing like the drowsy smile Astele sees now.

She’s wearing a smile. A smile, and a soft, summer-green blouse with gauzy sleeves, clearly designed for relaxation, possibly at least fifty years out of style. On anyone else, it would look absurd. Jaheira can’t look absurd to Astele.

“Don’t get mad if I fall asleep on you,” Astele says, shoulders up. “Been a hell of a day even with the Stone Lord gone. And there’s worse coming.”

“I know,” says Jaheira. She stretches out her legs on the bed and pats the spot next to her.

Astele sits down.

Jaheira touches her face. “You do look tired,” she observes, but not in the usual tone of voice. A different one.

“Is this because we’re all going to fucking die?”

“Perhaps.” Jaheira’s fingers brush her cheek. No one else in the world is allowed to touch Astele like that, she decides, and then realizes there’s an else in that sentence. “Perhaps I just missed you.”