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popatochisssp · 5 months

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The Court AU has me DEAD!!! If you’d be willing, what sort of outfits would they wear? I’d love to draw them!

Anon, I had so many tabs open looking up medieval-type fashion and armor, we're talking like 30+, felt super awesome finishing this and closing them all 😌

Anyway--

Sans (Undertale): What’s black and blue and white all over? Why, him of course! His jester’s motley features a black-and-white diamond pattern, offset by bright, rich, royal blue—a mark of his service to the king. He doesn’t wear one of those silly hats, though…because he wears a silly hood instead! Less chance of falling off, you see. When not in costume he tends toward simple tunics, of decent material and often still in blue.

Papyrus (Undertale): Almost never out of full plate armor, even in downtime, he has to dress for the job he wants and that means being a shining metal bastion of knightly glory at all times! …Though he does often remove his helmet and hold it by his sword at his hip, or fasten it to his steed’s side. He’s a very handsome skeleton, it would be cruel to deny the people the chance to see their hero’s face!

Sky (Underswap Sans): Soft blues and yellows, as a squire only lightly armored—greaves and pauldrons, a mail shirt beneath his tunic if he’s expected to go into battle—but he considers even that much armoring to be overkill for what he’s doing. Still, his Captain insists, and it makes his brother feel better, so he takes care protecting himself. He has some nicer finery to wear about court, as a nobleman, but tends simpler for anything that might be dirtied or torn in training.

Paps (Underswap Papyrus): Rich green and earthy browns, his clothing tends to be without ostentation—no embroidery, no gold buckles or buttons, or anything especially elaborate. He may be noble but he’s a scholar and a recluse and prefers not to stand out much. Still, the fabrics of which his clothing is made are always fine, as coarse or stiff materials quite put him off. Mostly cottes—long belted tunics—with the occasional robe over, if it's cold.

Jasper (Underfell Sans): Blacks and browns, sturdy plain clothes which can stand up to considerable wear and tear. Often wears a short diamond-quilted gambeson and some leather armor (vambraces and greaves), but always has a sword belted to his hip and a cloak made of dire-wolf’s fur draped over his shoulders. If ever he should need to acknowledge his denounced family name, he does have some finer clothing stored away somewhere—in red—and a shiny gold signet ring with his family crest on it.

Pyre (Underfell Papyrus): Usually in half plate armor, dark metal heavily scratched and scorched, dents meticulously hammered back out. He also wears a tattered red cape about his shoulders that billows quite majestically behind him when he rides or runs into battle. He will occasionally dress down in laced tunics and breeches, still in red and black, fine but not too fine as to raise suspicion about his heritage. Should all that ever come out, he does have a suit of pristine night-black armor he’s been dying to inherit and a silken cape to pin about it with a golden clasp of the family’s crest.

Mal (Swapfell Sans): Mostly black but flaunts his privilege and royal ties with purple accents wherever possible. Brigandine armor with a fine gold-plated gorget and pauldrons and a few other ornamental trappings—he is the Empress’ personal guard and must in some capacity be as elegant. Very fine doublets and tunics for his (rare) downtime, often with gold threading, but not fond of most jewelries.

Rus (Swapfell Papyrus): Dark colors and crisp whites, noble yet eccentric, he has a lot of fine doublets and other such court-wear but tends not to actually…wear them. He can mostly be found in loose-fitting cottes, baggy sleeves often penned up by leather armlets to keep them out of his paints. He has a fur-hooded cloak for travel or cold weather, but he rarely leaves his rooms, much less the castle, so he doesn’t don it often.

Slate (Horrortale Sans): Dark browns and off-white cream, simple rough-hewn clothing showing signs of wear and occasionally odd stains. He works in the stables, with animals, and being around animals so much makes it difficult to keep clean. He has a somewhat decent dark blue cloak that he’ll wear into town for errands, or in polite company—it has a hood to conceal the great jagged hole in his head that tends to make the squeamish or timid flinch away from him.

Papy (Horrortale Papyrus): Still hasn’t quite shaken the habit to be armored, even when it isn’t necessary, but he’s cut down from full plate to chain mail only, much lighter and easier to move around in—which is vital when hurrying to the training field for an accident, or running to meet a wounded knight at the gates. He wears a simple tabard over his mail, blue with red edging (the Queen’s colors), and keeps a pouch of bandages and other aid supplies belted to his waist instead of a sword.

Ash (Undergloom Sans): The livery of the king’s court, gray and gold, but dyed into fabrics suitable for common folk. He still wears gray when not performing at court, tunics so thickly woven they could pass as a gambeson and often paired with hooded cloaks, but he keeps his golds set aside until needed to keep them in good condition. He takes equal care of his shiny brass sackbut (it’s a horn, with a very funny name but an instrument nonetheless) so it always plays well.

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): Off-white and tan linens, loose and breathable for hot work in the kitchens, sleeves rolled up and pinned at the elbows to keep them from getting in the way. Always an apron about his waist, occasionally with food stains after a long day’s work but these he quickly tends to as soon as he’s able. He has nothing in the way of real finery but tries very hard to make sure what he has is clean and presentable.

Brick (Horrorfell Sans): Fine brocaded doublets of rich red and shining gold thread, as a duke and brother to a king, he does have to dress the part a bit. He wears more jewelry, especially rings, but nearly always still has his dire-wolf fur cloak over his shoulders. When called for executions, he dresses down quite a bit, in simple black cloth with only a leather pauldron over one shoulder to help brace the weight of his axe before he swings.

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): Half plate armor essentially at all times, even formal or polite occasions—he’s the owner of a stolen throne and all too aware that it could be stolen from him the same way he got it. His breastplate is scaled and his pauldrons are elaborately spiked, but it’s all black. The only pop of color on him is his crown, the same worn by Asgore and Undyne, gold and sharp, with rubies inlaid.

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): Chain mail over a finely-made kaftan and beneath a traveling cloak, the latter two with signs of wear from a long journey. His head is notably absent of a crown—left behind in the kingdom he fled—but a new one awaits him soon, of flashing silver and blue stone, depicting the phases of the moon. When fully established in his new kingdom, he may begin dressing as a proper king again, draping himself in the blue and silver finery of the land that sheltered him.

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): Browns, greens, and blacks, he wears light leather armor—really just a breastplate and vambraces—and a thick woolen cloak about his shoulders. He has no need of greaves for his shins, legs lost to an accident in the wilderness, but supplanted by magical prosthetics, living blackened wood provided by his land when he called upon it for aid. …Not that he’s fully accepted that it’s his land, keeping his crown of twisting copper and emerald tucked away in a saddlebag instead of on his brow. Maybe someday…

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): Rich purple and verdant green, amidst a sea of black—he favors very fine fabrics with open lacing at the chest. Still not especially fond of jewelry, but wears considerably more decorative leather braces on forearms, shins, and even the occasional full-chest corset. (He has some chronic pain and the extra pressure and support in certain spots helps.) He wears considerably more plain clothes for knight-training purposes and when traveling wears a black cloak with a cowl that comes down over the hole in his face at a point, as the beak of a raven.

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): Usually in half plate splint mail armor for his patrols along the wall, but favors rusty oranges, brown and black for the tunics and boots and breeches he wears out of it. Often carries a lantern, and always has tinder in a pouch on his hip. Beside his pouch is a war-horn in case an alert would need to be called, loud enough to make everyone come running if it’s ever sounded.

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): A cavalierly styled courtier, at first having made do with graciously lent clothing and now being able to buy his own in a whole variety of rich colors—yellow, blue, magenta, and on. His aim is to look at home in court, which means he must dress as other courtiers do, so he has doublets and fine tunics and many, many fashionable capelets with embroidery and stylish pins, as well as a few equally chic plumed hats. The other courtiers look to him now for the latest fashion trends and he couldn’t be happier.

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): A bit more subdued in style than his brother…though only a bit. He favors black frocks, almost as a cleric would wear, but beneath them, elegant doublets in greens and yellows as vibrant as anything his twin wears, with fine silver filigree work in his buckles and pins and clasps. He’s the pinnacle of restrained class and taste and it’s no wonder at all that the king should respect him so highly if his care in thought is as his care in appearance.

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans): Deep, dark black from head to toe, most prominently a long hooded cloak with two eye-lights glowing in the darkness. He always wears gloves and never lets his hood down, as he’s not especially fond of his metal bones and doesn’t really wish to be seen. It’s difficult to see in the daytime, but at night he’s trailed by faint wisps of ghostly light in all colors of the rainbow, such a strange sight that many a drunkard who’s seen him has poured out their bottle presuming they’d had quite a bit too much.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus): Full plate armor, of course, but as he’s now some sort of spectral entity, it (and he!) glows and is slightly see-through. Being ghostly has washed out his colors quite thoroughly which is unfortunate—mostly all white with hints of silvery blue—but on the up-side he seems able to change his appearance some by will alone, donning or discarding his helmet at will, manifesting a majestic cape for himself out of the ether, and so on. It seems a fair enough trade to him!

Xanth (Ascendswap Sans): A man at court now, he’s donned an eye-patch and abandoned the trappings of prospective knighthood, fully embraced courtier fashion…if a bit ‘eccentrically.’ He favors bright yellows and spring greens, flowing garments of fine cloth layered beneath and over leather vambraces, gorget, and tasset. All these are elaborately, intricately designed and certainly make the similarly intricate gold jewelry (with multicolored gems) that he wears at wrist and neck stand out, but it’s hardly in fashion… Still, the mystic’s thinking is often inscrutable.

Piper (Ascendswap Papyrus): Unlike his brother, very fashionable and eye-catching, in rich amaranths and brilliant turquoises, with even the occasional lavender. He has many fine embroidered doublets, threaded liberally with gold, and wears many pieces of gold jewelry as well—necklaces, bracelets, pins, and brooches. When showing the birds of the crown at court or bidding them on a royal hunt, he wears the livery of the crown-proper—royal purple and gold—and always has a thick leather falconer’s glove on his left hand.

Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans): What’s black and white and red all over? Well, newspapers haven’t been invented yet, so it’s him, of course! He’s no jester so he hasn’t a motley to wear to work, but he is a performer and does dress in the livery of the king, which is red and black. The material is a bit finer than he’s used to, but being that he’s no longer wearing rags and rotting in a hole, he’s quite pleased with it and doesn’t mind the bright colors that help him attract the eyes of many comely nobles at court. Off-duty, he sticks to loose, somewhat open tunics—red still very much preferred.

Tank (Underfell Fruition Papyrus): Laced linen shirts, not especially loosely fitting due to his largeness in the chest and shoulders but he hasn’t burst any seams in awhile so the measurements must be somewhat correct. He’s fond of white and a true connoisseur of red, all shades from dark to very light. He keeps an array of small carpentry tools—hammers, chisels, things for measuring—in a roll on his hip, a dedicated apprentice to the core.

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans): All black, pourpoint armor beneath fine silk doublets but almost disappointingly plain otherwise—no embroidery, no ornament, or stitched pattern, or brocade. Over this he wears a cloak, equally fine and with at least some ostentation, a bit of silver stitched decoration that matches the intimidatingly clawed silver gauntlet he wears upon his left hand—a symbol of his wealth, if not his status. These flashy items are for matters of court only, as he has a much more nondescript hooded cloak and less identifiable sharp implement which he uses for matters of stealth and misdeeds when it is important that he not be recognized.

Hunter (Swapfell Frution Papyrus): A prince in princely attire…mostly. He happily flaunts the color purple but proudly wears it with the black of his old family name, and drapes himself in silk tunics, fine (mostly decorative) pauldrons, capes and capelets. He tends to show off a bit more of his chest than seems appropriate for a man of his station, and seems to wear his elegant silver jewelry in ways such that the eye is drawn there, and…other places, but few question the whims of royalty. His pewter crown is heavy and inelegant and he’s talked much with his brother about how angry people would be if he had it melted and recast into something more stylish.

Kohl (Descendtale Sans): Plain, rough tunics, in black and dark brown. He wears a heavy fur-lined gabardine as it gets quite cold in the dungeons, though it’s uncertain where he managed to get such a nice garment. He keeps a knife on his belt, large and jagged-toothed, and though he hasn’t had need to use it yet, the threat of it tends to keep most prisoners from attempting to bring him harm.

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus): He’s traded in his full plate armor for a comfortably fit leather jerkin, accompanied by matching gauntlets to protect his hands and torso (inasmuch as they need protection, without flesh) from the thorns he trims back every day. He mostly wears black and white and brown, all things closely fit to his body, less they snag overmuch and need to be replaced too often. His clothing is simple but well-suited to his work, and he wears it nicely.

#anonymous #headcanons #court au #undertale #underswap #underfell #swapfell/fellswap #horrortale #undergloom #horrorfell #horrorswap #horrorswapfell #gastertale #transcendtale #ascendswap #underfell fruition #swapfell fruition #descendtale

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brabblesblog · 4 months

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Ch 3: … that we may seek him with thee.

Astarion has ascended, and she has stayed with him. Life in the Crimson Palace isn’t as idyllic as it seems. Is there a chance for their relationship to go back to how it was? Or is it too late for the Ascendant and his consort?

This series is about Ban, my Tav, and the Vampire Ascendant. Will be angst and smut, with sprinkles of fluff.

This fic is a softer take on Ascendant!Astarion and of the changes he undergoes after the rite. Can Ban handle the change, and if a chance came, would she choose to run? And can the Ascendant win her back in time? Inspired by the concept of vampire wives and that IGN interview with Larian that discussed the ascension.

Professionally edited by @editing-by-night

Withers’ party is in full swing. Ban finally learns the truth about her nature, and finds a chance at freedom.

Read on AO3.

Masterlist.

Ban was all dressed up, her doublet a match to Astarion’s. He’d insisted on it.

“I had it especially tailored for you, pet,” he had said, helping her button it up, “so they could see who you’re paired with. Who you belong to.”

She hadn’t fought it. In fact, she hadn’t fought him on much since that night she’d seen into his mind. It had given her a new fear to contend with: since he could show her his thoughts, push them into her brain, then was he able to do the reverse? Were her thoughts being read? She’d always feared being compelled, but the idea of him reading her mind at will was somehow more invasive. As frightened as she was, however, she believed it to be unlikely. When their minds had touched, the feel of his presence had been alien, most certainly not something that would go unnoticed. It had felt rather like the tadpole - a weight in her brain.

So she’d tested it; she’d waited for an opportune moment, finding it in a meeting over the planning for the expansion to the gardens Astarion planned to build. While he’d been deep in conversation about the intended theme of the garden, Ban had stared at her clasped hands and imagined something that if seen, would make him react strongly but not enrage him. She’d shut her eyes, bringing to mind a vivid image of him on his knees, naked and bruised, begging for her touch. She’d focused on Astarion’s voice and posture, ready to pick up any change in his tone or demeanor.

“I’m not sure I’m going for gothic,” Astarion had drawled. “I would highly prefer a more romantic... ambience to it.”

“But, my lord, the rest of the house-“

“I don’t care if it matches!” he’d hissed, making the others flinch.

Nothing. He hadn’t missed a beat, hadn’t seemed to notice anything at all. Ban had exhaled and let the image go, relief flooding her. Her mind was still her sanctuary.

Her plan may yet work.

Seeing everyone together again was wonderful; Ban stared at each and every person, drinking everything in. It had been months since she’d left the confines of the Crimson Palace, and this was a much needed change of scenery.

Behind her, the Ascendant fell back, a goblet of wine in his hand. He’d told her to mingle while he satisfied himself sampling the wines Withers had on tonight’s selection.

She scoffed. He was as likely to be preening as sampling the wines - possibly both at the same time. Either way, he was distracted.

Ban spotted Gale and made a beeline for him, tapping Karlach on the shoulder and beckoning her to join them on the way. They exchanged pleasantries and loudly regaled each other with shallow stories, while slowly moving out of the Ascendant’s earshot.

Eventually, the three of them huddled in a distant corner, hidden behind a boulder.

“What did you find out?” Ban asked Gale, all pretense discarded.

Gale clasped Ban’s hands. “Ban. You have an option to leave. I implore you. Take it.”

He squeezed, bracing himself. “You said he has never compelled you to do anything. Even if you argue. Does that remain true?” As she nodded, he couldn't help the smile that broke across his face.

“Then I must be correct.” He leaned in. “You’re not a spawn, Ban. It’s not that he won’t compel you. He can’t.”

“Oh, goody!” Karlach clapped her hands. “This is perfect!”

Ban stared at them both in silence. He had turned her, had he not? She felt a massive pull towards him and his will, so much so that even as she planned to leave, part of her assumed she’d return to the palace tonight. She opened her mouth to say this, but Gale interrupted before she could.

“He will still hold sway over you. He is still your creator, your... lover," he hesitated. "But that influence is not magical at all. You’re a bride, Ban. If everything you’ve told me is correct - he made you his bride.”

Ban took a moment. A vampire bride… or a spawn he hadn’t compelled yet? She realized, belatedly, that Gale’s theory was likely true. Astarion had fed her his own blood when he’d turned her, encouraged her to drink from him when making love. He had considerable influence over her, but it was never hard to refuse, never hard to be spiteful to him, even in the heights of his rage.

She had never even considered the possibility. She’d always assumed that she’d either escape and have to try to fight his compulsion while hiding from him - Cazador had been able to compel his spawn from a distance; presumably the Ascendant could as well - or that she’d have to let the chance at freedom go by.

But a chance at a future without him, free of the fear of compulsion, that also had some prospect of happiness? It was more than she’d ever expected.

Oh, he’d hunt her down, but if she couldn’t be compelled… there was a chance. He'd definitely retract his extension of Mephistopheles' gifts from her, making her sensitive to sunlight and significantly weaker, but what of it? Better that than to always be living in fear of hearing his voice in her head, of an immutable command to come back to him. To be little more than a slave, forevermore.

Ban braced herself. “Let me try to talk to him one more time.”

“Ban!” Karlach squeezed Ban’s shoulders, as if desperately wanting to shake her. “You have been trying. For months! What makes you think-”

Gale raised a hand to hush the tiefling; he understood. “One more chance, Ban. And then we will have to intervene if you can’t do what must be done.”

Ban nodded, and steeled herself. One last chance, then. For her, for the man he'd been. For their love.

She headed off, marching towards the Ascendant. Astarion’s ears pricked up, his head tilting towards her in his usual, elegant manner as he heard her familiar footsteps.

“And? How have our good friends been without us to guide and protect them?”

He seems to be in a good mood, probably a little buzzed, Ban thought.

“They’re great - everyone seems so happy,” she said, trying to go for the simplest response possible. She shifted uncomfortably, preparing to delve into what she really wished to talk to him about.

Her words seemed to surprise him. He looked away for a moment, considering this information. “Really? Are you sure? I was certain they’d be half dead and begging us to take them back.” He let out a small scoff.

"Well. Miracles never cease." He leaned back, shifting his weight.

“Still, it is good to see them. And good for them to see us, side by side, flourishing.”

She almost choked out a laugh at that. Seriously? He considered what they’d become flourishing?

She tried to stop herself, tried to keep her composure, but utterly failed at the sight of his smug, inebriated smirk.

“Is that what we’re doing? 'Flourishing'?” I want to leave you, you fucking prick, she thought.

He laughed, a false trill of mirth that belied the threat underneath.

“Of course, my darling. Look at us! We share a palace, share power, live lives eternal in each other’s arms. What more could anyone want?” The smile was now more a sneer, daring her to disagree.

She almost yielded out of habit, almost agreed with him as she’d usually done of late. But she remembered Gale’s words and what she’d promised. One last time, and if Astarion refused to listen, he’d have decided for them both.

“Freedom?” she ventured.

That word that he loathed so much now; it was all he’d wanted before. Freedom had led him to become this, a shell of his former self. Ban despised it for what it had driven him to be, but she needed it for herself, too.

“Gods, not this again. I give you wealth, power, pleasure - every decadence that can be afforded to a person? But you’d rather - what - sleep in the dirt again?”

His voice dropped almost to a growl; they were both acutely aware that wasn’t the point. But he’d never, ever, acknowledge exactly what it was she wanted, or why he was so adamantly against giving it.

Give her any scrap of freedom and she would be gone. She would leave him, he’d be alone again, because he could no longer make her happy. And gods, he was trying. Was it really his fault the one thing she wished for was the one thing he could not provide?

He dropped the pretense of civility, the venom creeping into his voice with each word.

“You are my consort, and I will see you living the very best life. Even if you don’t appreciate it.”

He chuckled sardonically. “Why don’t you go and mingle? Have fun with your so-called friends. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

He may not be completely sober but the fury simmering behind those crimson eyes was not dulled by the drink.

Ban sighed, watching him with a soft, melancholic expression. This was it, then. He had sealed their fates. She nodded. “Of course. I’ll be back later.”

She turned away, heading back to Gale and the others, trying not to let tears stream down her face. She could feel Astarion’s eyes boring into her back.

They formulated a plan, involving the rest of the companions in attendance. One by one, they each found a chance to wander over to where the Ascendant lounged lazily, offered him a drink, engaged him in light conversation. None of them had talked to him much after he’d ascended, but they all made sure to ask him about his ambitions, or how he liked Wither’s wine, or how life with Ban had been. Each of them offered a toast to his newfound life, to his power and prestige, and each toast was pompously accepted.

Astarion drank and drank, making the most of his ability to enjoy alcohol. Withers’ wine is sanguine, he noted to himself. He imbibed until he slurred and swayed, leaning on a rock to keep himself up. He was basking in his former companions’ hollow words of praise - of course, he knew they were lies, but what of it? He could still enjoy the pretty falsehoods for what they were: attempts at currying favor with the most powerful vampire to ever walk the land.

I should take a tour. Just to see what the rest are up to. He looked over at his former companions with a haughty, self-satisfied grin. With a thought, he shifted into his bat form, flying low over the other guests, trying to overhear snippets of conversation.

From afar, Ban saw him flying and immediately changed the course of her conversation with Wyll and Halsin, switching to talking about Ulder and steering away from talk of the Ascendant’s parties and which patriars had been invited. The two men noticed Ban’s change in topic and followed her lead.

Astarion flew by, the bat’s wingbeats erratic and his path not very straight.

He flitted around a little more, then landed by his goblet. Hooking his wings around the rim, he drank with little licks. He was too drunk to transform back, so he satisfied himself with more wine; he’d definitely need to ask Withers where this particular vintage came from.

Not too long after that, the goblet fell over and Astarion’s furred body went along with it. He’d toppled over, cuddling the cup, his fur stained with wine, as the drink finally took him. He was out cold.

Gale noticed. So did Ban. Silently, everyone moved.

Astarion slept through it all.

Astarion woke up in a haze of morning light, blinking away the sleep. His vision was blurry, quite unlike the instant focus he usually had. He attempted to sit up, failed, and realized he was looking at wings and claws, not hands. It took another moment to fully grasp he'd passed out as a bat.

He changed back, stretching to his full height as he did. The world snapped into focus; the bright rays of the sun bathed everything in warm light. He saw the camp, heard the sound of birdsong and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. The first word out of his mouth was her name.

“Ban? Ban!” He called out, taking another scan of his surroundings, looking for her. Nothing. Odd. She ought to have picked him up and held him whilst he slept; he was a little miffed to have found himself on the table with the remnants of last night’s drink instead.

He opened his mouth to voice his dissatisfaction when he noticed the utter lack of noise other than the ambient sounds of nature. There was no rustling of shoes on the ground, no voices, not even Ban’s slow breathing, a sound he could pick out anywhere, as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

In fact, no one was here at all, the camp as empty as when they’d left it during their travels. It slowly dawned on him that she’d left, and that the others had probably given her aid. They’d likely slipped away in the night as he slept, left him in the dirt, exposed and vulnerable. Alone.

He gaped dumbly at the empty clearing, his mind simply refusing to wrap itself around this development. The first feeling that bled through the shock was disbelief. Did she not love him, not need him? Was what he provided not enough? Was he not enough? He’d given her every possible luxury - clothes, jewelry, coin, blood, all of it was hers. He’d allowed her free rein of the palace; she’d been free to decorate and remake it as she saw fit. He’d given her the keys to his kingdom, allowed her to run it and rule it in all but name. Most importantly he’d given her himself - he’d satisfied her every night, hadn’t he? He knew of that absence in her, of course, but weren’t his efforts enough?

That incredulity slowly gave way to anger and he screamed in frustration. How dare she leave, after everything he’d done for her! Everything had been for her, had been done with her benefit in mind, her happiness the goal by which he oriented the compass of his life.

After all, hadn’t eternity together been their goal? They’d discussed forever, back in their days in the wild. Admittedly never seriously and largely in jest, but still. Days, nights, every moment in between spent in her arms, finally loved and chosen. Finally accepted for who he was, loved for himself and not what he could provide. He’d finally been seen. He had thought that would be it, an infinite span of years in which to love her and be loved by her.

The pain surged again, but he quickly fought it back with a deep, seething rage. How dare she defy her creator, defy the man who had given her eternity and snatched her away from the jaws of death?

A small voice in the back of his head, painfully smug and tinged with pride in Ban, reminded him that he had defied his own master for freedom. He refused to acknowledge the voice’s point, shoving it and its pathetic speaker deep deep down once again. It wasn’t the same. He was not Cazador. All he wanted, all he worked for, everything - all of it was for her happiness. She simply couldn’t see past her issues, refused to look at the bigger picture - what did it matter if he couldn’t be what he was, when he could give her everything else? Was that a sacrifice too great for their love to bear?

He took several deep breaths, willing himself not to dwell on that thought. Throughout the barrage of emotions, however, one reigned supreme, try as he might to ignore it. Pain.

Yet again, he’d lost everything that mattered. Ascendant or spawn, happiness had always eluded him. The fear of falling under Cazador’s yoke had disappeared with the rite, but now he felt like he'd lost something far more vital than freedom had ever been.

He found that his new, living heart was beating so fast it felt as though it might burst out of his chest. He placed a hand over the frantic pounding, feeling his breaths becoming quick and shallow. Am I dying? He tried to breathe deeply but the air felt too thin. Even though he knew he didn’t really need it, it felt like he was suffocating.

You were never enough, were you, Astarion? Too much baggage. Too much pride. Too much. Too willful, so master loved hearing your screams best. Too beautiful, and so you were his favorite toy to loan out. Too untrustworthy, so you had to seduce the leader of your group. Too weak, so you had to ascend. Too cold, and so she has abandoned you.

Too much of the bad, too little of the good. No one ever liked you - not your master, not your siblings, not your companions.

She did, that small voice he’d spent months trying to ignore tried to argue, but the other, more cruel voice laughed at him.

She loved you when you were weak, when you hid away the parts of yourself you knew she would not like. How does she like you now, when you no longer hide all your hard edges? Does she gasp your name like she did back then, as if it was a prayer? Does she crave your presence? Do her eyes shine when they watch you? Does her heart still soar when you approach?

She discarded you the moment you displeased her. She never loved you.

You have nothing of worth to offer, other than your body, and even that wasn’t enough. You could’ve offered your heart, but even that is a shriveled, rotten thing, despised by its intended owner, thrown back at your feet.

Nothing, Astarion. You were nothing, are nothing, and will always be nothing.

Left to die buried in the dirt, and now left in it again. Don’t be surprised, Astarion. You’ve never deserved any better.

She was gone. All it had taken was six months and a drunken night of false frivolity, and she'd gone from his life. He screamed again, this time in agony.

A thought crossed his mind. What if he took Mephistopheles’ gifts away from her? She’d come back then, surely? She’d be vulnerable right now, traveling in the daytime - she’d suffer as he does. He began to reach for that power, then stopped. The image of her burning in the sun, of her beauty marred by her skin charring, kept his retribution at bay. He wondered - had he made her his spawn, would he have compelled her back into his arms? The idea appealed to him for a fraction of a heartbeat, feeling the briefest pang of regret for not having done it, before he was swamped with nausea, that reviled voice rising up from the depths with a vehement no! The voice met no resistance for the first time since the ritual; if he couldn’t even bear the idea of her burning in the sun, how could he bear breaking her will, just as his had been?

She could break his heart every day, could keep tormenting him forever, but he couldn’t imagine ever inflicting the pain of the sun on her.

Her smile, her laughter, her adoration…he knew these were things he would never, ever see again. Yet he wouldn’t be able to bear knowing these things no longer existed in the world out there, somewhere. Somewhere, she’d still smile, if not for him, then for something else. She’d laugh, and someday she’d give that blinding, wonderful adoration to someone else - they’d bask in its glow as he once had.

He knew he’d lost her but he still longed for her. He saw and heard her in his mind’s eye as she’d been, happy, beautiful, his - the anguish was deep and torturous and it grew, filling all of him, excruciating vines of misery wrapping around his withered heart, thorns sinking in with stabbing pain, restricting its beating as it fought and failed to keep its rhythm-

With the last of his composure fading, he reached for her mind before the panic could drown him entirely, desperation overruling all sense of pride.

Ban.

He felt it. His consort’s mind opened to him, her guard down.

She snapped awake. That alien presence was there. Within it, she could sense his rage, but she also felt the shortness of breath, the racing heartbeat - that immense, all-encompassing panic. It was almost enough to make her want to tell him she’d come back. But what good would that do?

She waited, eyes closed. If Gale was right, she was truly free; if he was not, then the Ascendant would most likely break her will here and now. Or, barring that, he would at least rescind his gifts. She contemplated what an immortal life in the darkness would be like, wondered how long it would take for her to yearn for its warmth the way she knew he had. Ban realized she’d have to brush up on her combat skills once more - without his gifts she’d be weaker, more susceptible to monster hunters; without the constant supply of blood she’d have to hunt as well. But none of these thoughts were conveyed through the link; to him she sent only her silence.

Astarion squeezed his eyes shut. For a moment, the touch of her mind soothed him. She was still there, and his miserable, pathetic heart calmed itself at the contact. A wave of self-loathing rose on the heels of that calm. He ought to be better. Stronger. But his heart had remained the same, try as he might to deny it, and it ached to be parted from her.

I may have power, but it would be nothing without you. You complete me.

He had said those words to her at some point as they’d made love. He hadn’t really meant them at the time; they’d been platitudes he’d known she wanted to hear. Now he fully appreciated the sickening reality of it: that it was true, that it had always been true. His denial of his own feelings had blinded him to it. In rejecting his former self he had also rejected her love, a love he could no longer pretend he didn’t need. In fact, he needed it more than anything else - no luxury, no amount of strength, no amount of lovers, not even power - nothing came close. It was a realization that came too late.

He felt her eyes open, saw her rise from the unfamiliar bed to hold her hand out to the sunlight streaming through the window. She was testing him, and he was elated to feel the wave of relief that flooded her when she realized he hadn't taken away his gifts. He hoped that even given how much she must loathe him, she knew he wouldn’t inflict that hurt on her. Her eyes then focused on the city sprawled below her window, and he realized where he must go.

Waterdeep.

#astarion #astarion baldurs gate #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x tav #bg3 #astarion fic #astarion x mc #bg3 astarion #ascended astarion x f!tav #astarion x female oc #ascended astarion x tav #astarion x f!tav #astarion x female tav #astarion ascended #astarion x you

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a-driftamongopenstars · 6 months

Note

House of hope: but instead of the incubus looking like Raphael it looks like either Tav or Astarion

here is a tiny something for all of you Raphael enjoyers (myself included) :> thank you for the prompt!! p.s. this is following the deal you can make with Harleep; tav also gives them permission to mess around addfgj

"I've always known you to be a fickle creature, Harleep," Raphael drawls, measuring the incubus with a weary gaze, "but I believe that now you have far surpassed your own limits."

Harleep stares at him, that languid gaze, but it does not come from Raphael's own eyes that the incubus so often imitates. No, those are of a familiar face that has been on the devil's mind far too much, far too often.

Tav's eyes, but not their deliciously sharp hostility. A touch of wanton scrutiny, that makes even Raphael forget that those are the eyes of his incubus, and not of his new favourite project.

"There was a thief in your bedroom," Harleep says simply, rolling on their side as Raphael approaches. He feels his wings ease out, his horns weigh down his head, his body relax at the lack of glamour. Everything is as it should be, par for one thing. "They were surprisingly forthcoming, having broken into your House of Hope. They told me all, and I mean all, about your encounters."

Tav's fingers reach for Raphael's doublet, taking off the golden loops from the pearlescent buttons. If he were any lesser devil, he would have felt a precarious flutter in his stomach, but as it is - only curiousity that burns.

"Did you really recite poetry to them?" Harleep leers, sliding the doublet off Raphael's shoulders and casting it aside. That smirk on their lips, simply delectable. And the voice, morphing from his own velvet to Tav's timbre.

"If I must have a weakness," Raphael says, "let it be that. Verses of the would-be poets, stolen from their tongues. Never to see the light of day, but to be recounted in the House of Hope."

"Oh Raphael," the incubus scolds in a sing-song voice, wagging their finger and their tale. They draw their fingertip against the devil's jaw, gaining his attention. He looks into Tav's eyes, unblinking. "I think you have more than one weakness. And it is staring you right in the face."

#baldur's gate 3 #tav x raphael #raphael x harleep #ficlet #driftcreates #how do i even tag this #raphael #harleep

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bisexualiteaa · 3 months

Text

A Dance with the Devil

Pt. 2

CW: SMUT! 18+ Content MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

With a snap of his fingers, the candles nearest the bed were lit, offering quite the intimate atmosphere. “Such a romantic” you said as you both made your way to the lavish bed, standing in front of it. “I certainly try” Raphael replied, making you giggle as he came up to you from behind, hands resting on your shoulders as he kissed your neck, leaving you to shut your eyes and lull your head back with a contented hum at the blissful sensation. “Consider me thoroughly seduced” you added, turning around to face him, your arms looping around his neck as his hands now rested on your waist and hip, pulling you into a much softer, yet still passionate kiss. You moaned quietly into it, the smell of musk, and cherries flooding your nose as his tongue tangled with yours. A passionate fight for dominance as his hands travelled along the valleys and curves of your body, lighting your every nerve ending aflame. Your hands lightly carded through the hair at the base of his neck, bodies pressed against one another once more in carnal need. “I can smell your excitement. You’re as intoxicating as the finest aged whiskey, and as firey all the same” he said, trailing his lips down your neck once more, a moan rising from your throat as he found your most sensitive spot. “Mmm…do continue, perhaps next speak of my beauty” you said teasingly with every intention of rising a reaction from him. You yelped in surprise as you felt him bite down on your sensitive spot of your neck, a most welcomed pain, and a consequence you should have seen coming. “Watch yourself sweetling, lest you press my favor and generosity, for it has bounds even with you” he replied. “Hurtful” you answered with a fake pout. “But if that’s all I need to say to garner that reaction…perhaps I may just have to test my limits now and again” you spoke with a grin, making him chuckle as he bit you once more, making you let out a shameless moan in response. “All you need do, is ask and perhaps I’ll humor you” he replied, making you giggle once more.

“Though I do enjoy that my wife likes to play coy now and again” he said, stepping away and releasing you, making a pathetic whine escape you at the loss of his touch. Your disappointment wouldn’t last long however. “Strip” he demanded, making you grin and bite your lip as you slowly ran your hands along your frame, smoothing up your sides and removing the straps of the dress. You maintained eye contact as you did so, watching his eyes drink you in with a near insatiable hunger as you made a show of yourself. The top portion of your dress slid down your torso, revealing your breasts to the air, showing them in their full glory as your nipples lay perked in excitement. You played with them a little, squeezing them in your hands and massaging them, earning a groan as his hand traveled down to his erection, rubbing it through his trousers as he took much delight in watching you place yourself on display for him. You grinned as you hooked your thumbs into the skirt, sliding it down from your hips and allowing it to fall and the fabric to pool at your feet. He gave a near growl upon the discovery that you pad around your shared home with no underwear on beneath the fine dresses he lavishes you with, finding his clothes to be a major hinderance now. “Good, now undress me” he ordered, watching you saunter to him, your fingers expertly working the buttons to his doublet as you leaned in to kiss him. Your noses brushed together as your breath just barely ghosted his lips, watching him chase after you in your teasing attempt to get him to kiss you. “Such a tease, come here you” he said, his one hand finding your lower back as the other pulled you by the back of the head into a desperate kiss. You giggled then hummed with content into it, shedding him of his doublet, his undershirt, then soon his trousers, leaving him in his leathers. Your fingers hooked into them, pulling them down and freeing his hardened cock, watching as it slapped right below his belly button before throbbing angrily with need. You smiled and bit your lip as you broke for air and to look down at the sight of him, fully stiff and exposed for you. It mattered not how many times you lay before him, how many times you have seen him in such a state of undress, the sight always amazed you. You swore up and down he was a work of art.

“My eyes are up here, sweet thing. Did no one ever teach you it’s rude to stare?” He asked, his fingers coming under your chin to raise it, pointing your attention to him and meeting his gaze. “To stare yes, to admire however is a different thing entirely” you answered, making him smile and for just a moment, you could see a softness peek through. “I admire you like the most marvelous painting upon canvas, or as if you were a sculpture chiseled from the finest stone then granted life” you spoke, trailing kisses down his neck to his chest, your lips pressing softly and warmly against his cherry tinted skin. “I worship you as though I were in the presence of a god, pledging my fealty to you via my mind, body, and soul” you continued, lowering yourself to your knees as if you were about to worship him, laying those same sweet, loving kisses down his stomach, then his hips, then finally up the expanse of his cock. A groan left him at the sensation, a throb against your lips whose cause was a mix between your words and actions. “So good for me. In truth I don’t deserve you. Your love, your praise” he spoke, words you would have never imagined leaving his mouth and the pain in his tone made your heart ache. He was a devil, devils aren’t supposed to hold favor in others, and he was so used to luring pretty, naive things into signing their lives away for his benefit. You weren’t the first to warm his bed by any means, pleasure was part of the game now and again. He didn’t know what to do when faced with true, unbridled kindness and love. Something he’d lacked in receiving from even a young age, much less through the centuries he’s lived. His hand rested on your cheek, causing you to raise your own to it, turning and kissing it with shut eyes. “Nonsense. The fact that you hold any place in your heart for me, is more than I could ask for. I am honored to stand before you and share with you this life you have granted me” you replied, looking up at him with loving, admiring eyes and how it made him so very weak. He granted you material things beyond your imagination, anything you could possibly think of or desire and then some, but when it came to love? The bare minimum was all he knew, and even that was a feat of its own at times. Yet for once in his centuries of life, someone came to him that made him crave that forbidden fruit, that unlocked not only lust, but desire. Deep down all he’s ever wanted since meeting you was to make you happy, and while he might not admit it, he knew it to be true. It was a reality he spent many a night thinking over, writing in his journal about, comprising contract after contract until he made the perfect one that would let him have you.

#bg3 smut #bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #bg3 #raphael x tav #raphael x reader #raphael #raphael smut

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 5 months

Text

It's WIP Wednesday and after two weeks off I'm back with a little bit of Semper Eadem, for all your Elizabethan!Cassian needs. Writing is going incredibly slowly atm because getting three B&BT chapters out in three weeks last month really has me feeling a little burnt out. Cassian in a ruff with a pearl earring and velvet Tudor bonnet though.... well that might just fix everything 😍

Merciful God, have pity on her soul. His doublet was the deep red of Burgundian wine, shot through with silver buttons in the centre of his broad chest, and for one foolish and ill-advised moment Nesta let her eyes wander, following that path of silver to where his doublet met his breeches. God have mercy, indeed. Seated atop his horse, the privateer beside her cleared his throat and Nesta hauled her gaze back up— up to a level far more befitting a lady of the queen’s household. She took in, instead, the slashed sleeves of his doublet that split to reveal a crisp white shirt sitting beneath, and the dark cloak draped effortlessly over his shoulders. A delicate ruff rose from his collar and just barely grazed the edge of his jaw, and oh, lord— this man was beautiful. A velvet bonnet was balanced at a damn near rakish angle atop his curls, and as he brought his stallion into a trot beside her, the feather adorning it shivered in the breeze. Beneath his unflinching gaze, Nesta felt herself shiver too. “Feeling cold, my lady?” Damn him. She cleared her throat, and refused to take note of the way several of those curls escaped his bonnet and lay tangled above his ruff, right against the bare skin of his neck. “Master Cassian,” she said flatly, looking decidedly straight ahead, to where the Queen and Leicester spoke in whispers. “Can I help you?” He grinned. “Back to Master, are we?” “Would you have me call you something else?” “Oh sweetheart,” he said, dropping his voice so low it was almost sinful, “I’d have you call me several things.”

#wip wednesday #semper eadem

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flowercrown-bard · 2 years

Text

Ridiculous or Grumpy

I’m tipsy and tired and khalea’s comment on the Roach fic made me laugh so here you go with a silly little sequel

“Don’t you look pretty today, Pegasus,” Jaskier cooed, as he stroked down the white stripe of the horse’s nose.

The rhythmic sound of Geralt sharpening his swords stopped. When Jaskier turned to look at him, Geralt was staring at him with a grimace.

“What did you just call her?”

“Pegasus,” Jaskier said lightly, never taking his attention away from the horse.

“That’s not her name.”

“False, that’s not the name you gave her,” Jaskier corrected. “But since she liked me before you, I claim the right to name her.”

“We’re not naming her Pegasus,” Geralt insisted.

“Well, I’m not calling her Roach.” Jaskier put his hands on his hips and jutted his chin out defiantly. “She’s far too pretty and nice to have such a name. Besides, since she likes me, she obviously has good taste. Which means - “ at this, he lifted a finger triumphantly, pointing it at Geralt’s nose, “- that she knows better than to react to a name like Roach.”

Geralt frowned, though the expression looked more like fond exasperation than actual irritation.

“You never had a problem calling my old horse Roach.”

“Exactly. Your old Roach. This lovely lady is ours. You said so yourself. No take-backs.”

Geralt put the sword and whetstone down to cross his arms. “I also said she was our Roach.”

The horse snorted and pushed her nose in between the pair, clearly demanding more pets.

“Alright then,” Jaskier said. “How about she chooses what she’d like to be called.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, rolling his eyes, “She’s a horse.”

“So? You always talk to her anyways. What’s the difference in letting her choose her own name?”

“And how would she do that?”

“Easy,” Jaskier spread his arms wide. “You stand over there,” he gestured to the far end of the field. “And I stand here and we both call her by the name we think would suit her best. Whoever she goes to first gets to pick the name.”

“Fine,” Geralt said, lips twitching. “But you’re not going to wear your doublet.” He paused, giving Jaskier a once-over. “Or these breeches.”

“Excuse me?” Jaskier nearly choked on his own spit at Geralt’s words.

“I know you keep treats for her in your pockets and ridiculously puffy sleeves. I’m not risking you cheating.”

Jaskier shot Geralt a dirty look, muttering something about cheating and simply using all of his advantages to make people like him. Despite his grumbling, he shrugged off the doublet.

“You know,” he said, as he untangled his arms from the sleeves gracelessly, “if you wanted to get me out of my clothes, you could have just said so. But it’s always ‘this colour is too flashy’ or ‘it’s summer, why are you wearing a doublet’ or ‘you have treats in your sleeves’ with you.”

He dropped his doublet to the ground carelessly and opened the top buttons of his chemise for good measure. “You know you could show some solidarity and get rid of your shirt too.”

“Jaskier.”

“What?” Jaskier gave him his most innocent look, as he fumbled with the laces of his trousers. “Who guarantees me that you don’t keep treats for Pegasus in your sleeves?” He paused, cocking his head to the side. “Well, maybe not your sleeves. There’s barely enough space for your bicep in there, I don’t know how you would hide anything else in them- but the point still stands.”

“Fine.” Geralt rolled his eyes again and began tugging off his shirt. “But only because it’s hot and I just want to get this over with.”

“Sure,” Jaskier agreed. “You being so ready to undress has nothing to do with you wanting to show off a bit for your dearest bard.”

Geralt only grunted, the sound muffled by his shirt.

Immediately, Jaskier’s eyes went to Geralt’s chest and roamed over his muscles. His gaze wandered lower.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I’m actually pretty sure that you’ve got a treat hidden in your trousers. You should take them off as well.”

That, apparently, was the horse’s cue to decide that she’d had enough of the bard’s nonsense. She snorted right in his face, turned around and walked away. From anyone else, Jaskier would have appreciated the bit of privacy, but in this moment, the horse trotting away from them was the last thing he wanted.

“Hey!” He called out, as the mare galloped merrily away, back in the direction of the farm where they had just bought her. “Hey, Pegasus, come back!” “Roach!” Geralt called. He thrust his hand out to cast Axii, but his arm got stuck in one of the sleeves.

“Pegasus!” Utterly undignified, Jaskier ran after her. Or rather, he tried, but as it turned out, it was rather hard to chase a horse, when your trousers were around her knees. He nearly fell over after two hops.

The horse didn’t seem to care. She threw her head neighing and it almost sounded like she was laughing at them.

“Arsehole,” Jaskier hissed. “She really does take after you, Geralt.”

“I don’t know,” Geralt said, as he finally freed himself from his shirt. “Her voice is about as lovely as yours. And she definitely is as dramatic as you.”

“The audacity!” Jaskier squawked. He shimmied out of his trousers and flung them at Geralt’s face. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Roach neighed again, making him reconsider. “Er, maybe we should catch her before we continue this debate?” he asked.

Geralt grunted his assent.

“We could just call her both names,” Geralt offered with a shrug. “Pegasus when she’s acting like a certain ridiculous bard...”

“...and Roach, when she’s all grumpy,” Jaskier agreed.

Half-naked, Geralt and Jaskier took chase, each one trying to coax the horse to come back to them.

“Roach, come back!” Jaskier caled, at the same time as Geralt shouted, “Come here, Pegasus!”

#my nonsense #geraskier #geralt #jaskier #roach #pegasus #inspired by a comment #fic #ficlet #my writing #witcher #the witcher #just silliness

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ghostinthelibrarywrites · 1 year

Note

yennskier and 27 please 🌻

27. Fixing their hair/clothes just before they run out the door

Here's some post-season 2 softness! Geralt doesn't appear, but you can assume there's some background Geraskefer going on.

“Fuckity fucking buttons,” Jaskier grumbles under his breath. “Who the fuck decided that buying a doublet with a million tiny buttons was a good idea?”

No one answers, because Geralt and Ciri are out hunting some beastie or another. But if Geralt was here, he would surely point out that it was Jaskier who commissioned this doublet from one of the finest tailors in Oxenfurt months ago. And it’s a marvelous piece of craftsmanship—periwinkle silk with deep blue embroidery and rows of tiny pearlescent buttons fastening up the front and the sleeves.

It’s just that post-fire fucker, Jaskier’s fingers, which still get numb and tingly at inconvenient times, aren’t quite up to the task. They fumble over the delicate buttons and he keeps fastening them up wrong, then having to redo it.

Sometimes, being the Continent’s most fashionable bard is a burden.

Yet again, Jaskier realizes that he’s fastened the last three buttons up wrong, leaving an awkward gap and making a terrible mess of things. Breathing hard through his teeth, he accepts that this may be too monumental a task for one man. He slips out of the room he and Geralt are sharing—looking around to ensure that no one sees him in such a slovenly state—before knocking on the door of Yennefer and Ciri’s room.

“What, bardling?” Yennefer calls through the door.

Jaskier sighs. “I need your help.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done. You’re far beyond help.”

“I haven’t even told you what the problem was!”

“You don’t need to.”

“Yennefer.” He lets a whine creep into his voice, because he knows it will make her roll her eyes. “Please.”

There’s a longer-than-necessary pause, undoubtedly while she finishes her glass of virgin’s blood and tucks away her cloven hooves, before Yennefer opens the door and scowls up at him. “What is it?”

Jaskier gestures to himself. “I can’t get the buttons to cooperate and I told the innkeep I’d sing for our suppers tonight. I can’t do that looking like this.”

She arches one eyebrow, but steps backwards to let him into her room. “You normally don't object to walking around with your doublet hanging open."

“Yes, but we’re trying to keep a low profile and we can hardly do that if every maiden in the village falls swooning at the sight of my hirsute chest.”

“Yes, a low profile.” Yennefer looks him over pointedly. “I’m sure dressing like the Passiflora’s finest in a Koviri backwater won’t draw any attention.”

Jaskier takes in her black lace gown. “What about dressing like the witch that locked the fairytale princess in the tower?”

She snorts and bats his hands away, undoing several buttons deftly before beginning to refasten him. He can feel the warmth of her hands through the thin, silky fabric of his chemise. For a moment, he loses himself in watching her nimble fingers work. She has such small, pretty hands. He would think them delicate, if not for the fact that he’s seen her snap a man’s spine with a flick of one of those lovely fingers.

It’s not until she looks up at him in annoyance that he realizes she said something. “Yes?”

“Your fingers are still bothering you?” she asks.

“Occasionally,” Jaskier says with a shrug. “The pads of my thumb and forefinger just get a bit numb sometimes. It doesn’t get in my way too much, only when dealing with absurdly tiny buttons.”

“That shouldn’t still be happening.”

“Geralt took me to a real hack of a healer, the stingy fucker.”

Yennefer pinches him through the doublet, which he deserves. He whines pathetically, because he knows it will make her happy.

“I’ll mix you up another salve tonight.” She fastens up the buttons at his throat, her fingers so close he can’t resist dipping his chin to kiss them. She flicks his nose in retaliation. “Try to actually use this one for its intended purpose.”

“It’s not my fault you put the last salve next to my tea! Accidents happen.”

“Only to you,” she says as she buttons up the last button and steps back.

Jaskier tugs at his collar, grimacing. “Well, you don’t need to button me all the way up. We wouldn’t want to deprive the lovely ladies of Kovir of all my charms. There are so few charms to be had in Kovir.”

Yennefer makes a disgusted noise, but unbuttons the top three buttons of his doublet. “That’s as far as I’m going. The lovely ladies of Kovir should be spared the sight of your nipples. This damn kingdom has enough problems.”

“If you want to keep my nipples all to yourself, Yennefer, you only have to ask.”

Yennefer tips her head back and guffaws. “I think that ship has sailed, given how low you normally keep your doublets open.”

“You’re right. If nothing else, Geralt might object.”

She rolls her eyes at him as she buttons up his sleeves. When she’s done, she steps back. “Alright, you’re perfectly fit to play in a dusty Koviri tavern to a room full of uninterested drunks.”

“Sweet words of encouragement like that soothe the poet’s soul.” Jaskier clasps his hands to his chest.

“Go play your set, bardling.” Her lips curl into a smile. “And do let me know if you need help unbuttoning yourself after your performance.”

Jaskier finds himself grinning stupidly. “And yet another maiden finds herself swooning before—”

“Get out before you talk too much and I take back my offer.”

“Leaving now.” Jaskier backs towards the door. “Thank you, Yennefer. You’re a jewel of generosity, as always.”

She waves a dismissive hand, but she’s still smiling.

If Jaskier has an extra spring in his step for the rest of the night, well, who can blame him?

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

#the witcher #yennskier #yenskier #jaskier x yennefer #jaskier/yennefer #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #ghost's writing #prompt fills

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zeciex · 6 months

Text

A Vow of Blood - 23

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 23: A Woman's Shame

AO3 - Masterlist

(TW: Attempted Rape)

In the following days, Daenera kept herself occupied, intentionally avoiding encounters with Aemond. The incident in the throne room had been impulsive and risky, a dangerous game of passion that could have exposed them both.

However, it seemed that luck was on their side, as no rumors or whispers reached her ears through the usual channels. Tris Caswell’s gatherings of gossiping ladies, the conversation among the servants, and even Joyce, who was always well-informed, remained oblivious to the incident.

Daenera couldn’t shake off the caution and unease the weight upon her. It had been a foolish thing to do. And the feeling only intensified when Joyce made a disapproving sound when she had brewed herself more moontea. No words were exchanged, but the unspoken judgment lingered heavily in the air.

Searching for her misplaced notebook, Daenera entered one of the sitting rooms within the Keep, where she had joined Tris for tea the day before. The room was adorned with carved furniture, elegant tapestries, and a collection of books. She scanned the space meticulously, hoping to find her precious notebook that contained her poultice recipes.

“Did you enjoy your ride on a dragon?” Aegon’s voice grated on Daenera’s ears, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand. She turned to look at him, finding him leaning against the table with a cup of wine in hand. The first buttons of his doublet were unfastened, and one was even missing. From his disheveled appearance, she presumed he was already deep in his cups.

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion coloring her gaze as she tried to discern his intentions. “It was kind of your brother to fly me back to the Dragonpit.”

Aegon’s mischievous smile only grew wider, his amusement evident as if he held the upper hand, privy to all her secrets and desires. It made her skin prickle. It wasn’t the same as his brother’s smile; it felt more akin to a boy setting fire to a cat just to watch it burn.

“He did little more than fly you back, did he not?” The accusation hung between them.

“I do not like what you’re implying,” Daenera said dryly.

He responded with an upside-down smile, shaking his head and shrugging nonchalantly. “Am I wrong?”

“I am not in the mood for your theatrics, Aegon,” Daenera retorted coolly, dismissing him by turning around and focusing her gaze on the floor, hoping to conjure the presence of her book so that she may leave.

“They say the first time riding a dragon it is like mounting the world,” Aegon continued, undeterred by the sharp glare Daenera shot his way. “Did it feel like mounting the world to you?”

“It felt windy,” Daenera replied, choosing to feign ignorance of the underlying meaning behind his words.

Aegon laughed. “I will be sure to tell him that.”

“What do you want, Aegon?” Daenera cut to the chase, not wanting to prolong this conversation any further.

“Well, I want you to answer my questions, of course…” Aegon pushed himself off the table and made his way to the other end where Daenera stood, his head tilting curiously. “Was that your first time?”

“No, I’ve ridden with my mother on Syrax before,” Daenera lied, attempting to deflect his torying. Aegon exuded the scent of wine and sweat, his hair hanging limply and greasy around his face. He looked tired, she observed, and dangerously bored.

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Your insinuation is insulting and preposterous.”

“Not as preposterous, I presume, as it is for you to think that no one has noticed,” Aegon retorted, leaning in closer to her and sniffing as if he were some dog. Daenera instinctively leaned away, ready to shove him away by the face. Aegon straightened up again, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Definitely spoiled.”

Daenera grimaced and snarled, her disdain evident. “You’re disgusting.”

“I admit, I am insulted that you chose my unskilled brother above me,” Aegon said, his voice dipping low.

“Does it really surprise you that someone would choose anyone above you?” Daenera shot back, her annoyance seeping into her words. “No woman in her right mind would choose to lay with you. No one knows where you’ve been and what disease you could have caught.”

“So you admit it?” Aegon’s voice carried a dangerous edge.

Daenera glared at him with exasperation. “I have nothing to admit to. I am unspoiled.”

Aegon leaned closer, his eyes glinting with provocation. “How long do you think it will take for people to notice? I mean, it’s not far-fetched for two Targaryens… Well, a Targaryen and a dragonseed, to be found in inappropriate circumstances.”

“It does not interest me to feed into your conjecture, uncle,” Daenera retorted, her voice tinged with warning. “And I suggest you keep your imaginings to yourself, should you find yourself in worse circumstances.

Her threat hung heavy in the air, a clear indication that she would make him regret his words if he continued down this path. But Aegon had never been good at listening to warnings.

“There’s an easy way to prove you are right,” Aegon taunted, raising an eyebrow and taking a sip of his wine. “I promise to be gentle… or rough, if that is what you enjoy. I won’t judge.”

“I am not bedding you or anyone else,” Daenera stated firmly, her cheeks flushing with indignation and shame. She despised the way Aegon looked at her, with seductive eyes and a cruel amusement burning within them.

“I won’t tell my brother if that’s what concerns you,” Aegon added, his tone oozing with smugness. “I can keep a secret.”

He could not. Given the chance, he would exploit any vulnerability and delight in causing torment. Aegon had a talent for it, and would persistently probe at a wound until it bled, relishing in the suffering he inflicted.

“What concerns me is your level of delusion. What makes you think I’d ever agree to lay with you?” Daenera scoffed at him. “I wouldn’t come close to your disease-ridden, shriveled up cock with a ten-foot pole.”

A muscle twitched in Aegon’s right eye, his anger barely contained. “You know, it’s so easy to ruin a girl's reputation…”

“No one would believe you,” Daenera shot back, her words sharp and insulting. “That’s what happens when you’re a disappointment to the family. Your mother is the only thing that holds any semblance of your reputation and respectability together.”

Aegon’s gaze fixated on a spot on the floor, his eyes growing distant as his expression seemed to darken. “Hm…”

Daenera took his silence as the end of the conversation and turned, but as she attempted to walk away, Aegon grabbed her wrist painfully. Without warning, he slammed her against the table with a jarring impact, the sharp edge digging into her hips. The suddenness of the atack left her breathless and disoriented, and she slammed her hands down on the table, trying to stabilize herself.

His hand gripped around the nape of her neck, holding her in a vice-like grip.

Daenera’s heart pounded in her chest, a mix of fear and anger flooding her veins. She struggled against his hold, trying to free herself from his iron grip, but Aegon was unrelenting.

The weight of Aegon’s body pressed down on her, trapping her beneath him against the unforgiving table. The treat in his voice sent shivers down her spine.

“Since you believe me a monster, I might as well prove you right. My reputation can hardly get any worse, yours however…”

“Aegon, stop this at once!” Daenera’s voice trembled with desperation and fear. She swallowed thickly, trying to regain her composure.

“Oh, my dear niece, I relish the challenge,” Aegon hissed into her ear, tightening his grip on her neck. “You will do best to keep this a secret, unless you’re willing to ruin your own reputation.”

Daenera’s pleas fell on deaf ears as Aegon persisted in his disturbing pursuit of the truth. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision as she desperately fought against his overpowering hold. Her nails scraped against the table, her attempts to break free growing increasingly desperate.

The sheer terror coursing through her veins made it difficult to find her voice, but she managed to muster enough strength to cry out, “Aegon, please! Stop this!”

“I simply wish to know if you’ve fucked my brother,” Aegon persisted, seemingly impervious to her pleas. “And since you refuse to disclose the truth, I shall uncover it on my own.”

Daenera’s entire body trembled as she kicked her legs and thrashed against his grip, her primal instinct for self-perseveration taking over.

The air grew thick with fear and tension as Aegon hitched up her skirts, his actions invading her personal space. Daenera fought back with every ounce of strength she possessed, her breaths coming in rapid bursts. She continued to implore him to release her, her voice trembling with a mixture of panic and anger.

Dread filled her body as Aegon’s hand grazed the skin of her inner thigh, the touch sending an icy shiver of revulsion through her. Her attempts to reach for the small dagger hidden in her skirt proved futile as she remained trapped against the table, the edge digging into her hips with bruising force. Tears pricked in her eyes, lungs raw with panic. The pain intensified as Aegon’s grip on the back of her neck tightened, causing her head to throb with each forceful push downwards towards the table top.

“Stop, Aegon!” She cried out, the desperation she felt evident in her voice. She despised how weak she sounded.

“I only aim to prove that you are as much of a whore as your mother.” Aegon’s laughter only fueled her fury, his words slicing through her like a blade. His hand slid higher, grabbing at the flesh of her inner thigh, pinching at it.

The revulsion surged within her, coiling in the pit of her stomach. The back of her throat throbbed from the force with which she suppressed her tears, her lashes sticking together as pearls of water clung to them. Daenera’s trembling lips were pressed tightly together, her teeth biting down hard to stifle herself.

Closing her eyes, Daenera uttered a desperate prayer to whatever higher power might be listening, hoping for deliverance from this moment. And, in that moment, whatever it was, the gods or some mysterious force, her pleas were answered.

Suddenly, Aegon was gone, leaving Daenera trembling and exposed. The reason he had touched felt cold and violated, and Daenera hastily adjusted her skirts, trying to regain a semblance of dignity. Though he hadn’t gone further, the violation she felt lingered, staining her soul with a sense of dirtiness and wrongness.

“Have you lost your damned mind?” Aemond spat at his brother, his voice dripping with anger as he hurled him across the room. Aegon crashed into a heavy cabinet before falling to the ground, groaning in pain.

“Ah, fuck…” Aegon moaned, clutching his side and rolling on the floor. He glanced up at his brother, a mixture of pain and amusement in his eyes. “We were just having a bit of fun, brother.”

“A bit of fun?” Aemond’s voice echoed with barely contained fury. His hands clenched tightly at his sides, the urge to unleash his wrath evident. “Do you even comprehend the consequences if anyone else had caught you?”

Daenera retrieved the dagger from her skirts, her ears ringing with shock and the sound of her blood rushing through her veins. Her head pounded and she still felt Aegon’s touch on her skin. Without fully processing Aemond’s words, she instinctively moved towards Aegon, fully intent on punishing him.

“Oh, ooh!” Aegon exclaimed with maniacal amusement, pointing at Daenera and her dagger.

Aemond swiftly stepped in front of her, blocking her path to Aegon. His face was etched with a stern and resolute expression, while Daenera’s eyes burned with a vindictive fury. He had laid his hands on her, and she was determined to make him pay dearly.

“Step aside,” she demanded, her grip on the dagger tightening.

“I can’t,” Aemond answered firmly, his resolve unwavering, unable to let his brother come to harm, no matter how much he might deserve it.

“I will have his damned cock for this,” Daenera growled, her grip on the dagger tightening with enough force to turn her knuckles white. She was determined to make him pay, starting with cutting off his cock before shoving it so far up his corrupted ass that he could taste the consequences of his own debauchery. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t choke on it. Or maybe he would. She was willing to find out.

Aegon laughed from the floor, lying back down as if completely unconcerned by her fury. Of course, why would he be concerned when he could hide behind his brother for protection?

“And I was just about to give it to you, sweet niece,” Aegon taunted, his words dripping with sarcasm, “when my dear brother so rudely interrupted us.”

“Shut up, Aegon,” Aemond hissed, his voice laced with warning, silently urging his brother to keep quiet and allow him to rectify the mess he had created.

“Move, Aemond,” Daenera demanded once again, her voice barely containing her rage. Aegon couldn’t simply get away with laying his hands on her. He might be a prince, but she wasn’t just some common born servant, she was a princess.

“My brother is a drunken fool,” Aemond declared, his voice carrying a practiced coldness.

Daenera felt a surge of frustration and helplessness wash over her. Aemond’s words were like a cold, hard slap to the face, a reminder of where his loyalties lied. Aemond would remain between them, an obstacle on the path of seeking justice. The realization settled heavily in her chest, a mix of both anger and disappointment.

“I bid you forgive him. He is blinded by wine and devoid of any sense, it seems,” Aemond elaborated, the lie hanging in the air between them.

“Yes, forgive my insolence, princess. I am a drunken fool,” Aegon cackled from the floor, his mocking tone doing nothing to alleviate the princess's seething anger.

“He doesn’t deserve your protection,” Daenera retorted, her gaze fixed solely on Aemond.

“He is my brother,” Aemond replied firmly, unforgivingly. “He bears the title of a prince, he’s the son of the King. It would be preferable if he behaved in a manner befitting this position,” Aemond sneered back at his brother, then turned his eye back to Daenera before continuing, “But that does not alter the situation. You cannot take justice into your own hands.” “What will you have me do then?” Daenera challenged, her voice filled with frustration. “Should I bring it to your mother’s attention? She would protect him as you are.”

Aegon scoffed, pushing himself to sit against the bookshelf.

“Or should I bring it to the King?” Daenera threatened, knowing that Viserys, at the very least, would take her accusation seriously and perhaps even take action. If Viserys held enough sentiment for his son not to behead him immediately, he would surely send him to the Wall. Yet, even then, Viserys might succumb to the influence of Queen Alicent, who would do anything to evade justice.

“You and I both know that nothing would come of it,” Aemond replied, her tone casual, as if going through the motions. “Continuing on this path would be ill-advised. If you become subject to unfavorable gossip, it may hinder your chances of securing a suitable husband. Ser Aran Blackwood could potentially be an option then, or perhaps a life dedicated to the Faith would be more fitting for you.”

This was the moment she had been waiting for ever since he took her maidenhead. He had finally resorted to using his power against her, threatening to destroy any potential future she could have.

Daenera’s mind raced, contemplating her next move. The temptation to defy Aemond’s warning was strong, to reach out to her mother, to Daemon, and seek their support in seeking justice. But Aemond’s words lingered in her mind, warning her of the potential damage it could cause to her own reputation.

“If I fall, I will take you down with me,” Daenera sneered through gritted teeth, her words venomous. She forcefully slid the dagger into the folds of her skirt, its presence no longer a comfort but a reminder of her powerlessness. Without sparing Aegon a second glance, she pivoted on her heels.

Aegon’s taunting jeering came to an abrupt halt as Aemond delivered a swift kick to silence him. The sound of a groan echoed through the room, momentarily breaking the tense atmosphere.

Queen Alicent’s entrance only added to the spectacle, her concerned frown highlighting the unsettling scene before her.

Daenera’s eyes, red-rimmed and filled with fury and judgment, met Queen Alicent’s gaze with a piercing intensity.

“Teach your son the meaning of no,” Daenera declared, voice dripping with disdain.

With that final statement, she turned on her heels, the rustle of her skirts marking her departure from the scene. Anger and weariness coursed through her veins as she retreated.

Frustration twisted Aemond’s features as he swiftly sidestepped to evade Aegon’s grasp on his boots. He resented the fact he had to protect his foolish brother but it was his duty. He couldn’t allow Daenera to carry out her revenge, no matter how justified they may have seemed. Aegon was his brother, and he had the responsibility to shield him from harm. His actions protected not only Aegon but also their mother, Helaena, and the twins.

However, Aemond’s restraint only held so long, and his anger towards his brother boiled within his chest, threatening to consume any remaining patience he had left.

Had he not warned Aegon of the consequences? How could his brother be so stupid?! Did he not understand that it wasn’t just his life he risked?

The door swung shut behind their mother, her sharp gaze dissecting the scene before her. A wave of disapproval radiated from her as she moved swiftly across the floor, her eyes narrowed with anger and concern.

“What is this?” Alicent demanded, her voice cutting through the air like a sharpened blade. Her eyes flickered accusingly between her two sons.

Aegon ran a hand through his tousled hair, a feeble attempt to appear somewhat repentant. His face held a childlike sheepishness, a pitiful facade he hoped would appease his mother. Aemond remained still, his face carved in stone.

“We were only having a bit of fun, mother,” Aegon offered in a weak attempt to downplay the severity of the situation. He shot this brother a pointed look, silently try to compel his cooperation. The unspoken demand hung heavily in the air.

“Aemond?” Alicent demanded.

Aemond’s gaze shifted back to Alicent, his expression remaining stoic and indifferent despite the torrent of emotions raging within him. There were countless truths he could have revealed in that moment. He could have exposed Aegon’s shameful actions, how he had pinned down and assaulted Daenera. The mere thought tightened around his stomach like a fist. He could have divulged how Aegon, as the first born and the future King of Westeros, was single-handedly unraveling all of their efforts and ambitions.

Yet, he chose not to speak those truths.

“We were only having fun,” Aemond repeated, his tone steady and controlled, concealing the anger bubbling beneath the surface.

Aegon pushed himself up from the ground, slapping Aemond on the shoulder in a display of feigned affection. The tension in the room grew palpable as Alicent refused to accept their explanation at face value. She seized Aegon’s face, her fingers digging into the flesh of his cheeks, forcing him to purse his lips in an ugly grimace. Her eyes bore into his, searching for the truth she knew he was withholding.

“Tell me the truth of it,” Alicent demanded, her voice edged with accusation.

Aegon attempted to wave his mother’s hand away, trying to dismiss her probing gaze. “Why must you always assume I am lying?”

“Because I know you,” Alicent responded firmly, her grip tightening. “And I am no fool. The princess left in a wretched state, and if you do not confess the truth, I will have no choice but to assume the worst.”

Aemond clenched his jaw as he watched his brother squirm in their mothers grasp. Aegon finally managed to free himself, running his tongue over the inside of his cheek to alleviate the pain. It was a small price to pay.

“I was only jesting,” Aegon claimed, his words laced with a veneer of nonchalance. “I merely wanted to ascertain whether she followed in her mother’s footsteps.”

Aemond remained the pillar of restraint and control, gritting his teeth as he witnessed the unfolding scene. Alicent, on the other hand, struggled to contain her fury. She had firsthand knowledge of Aegon’s capacity for reckless behavior. It was only days ago that she had to dismiss a servant girl due to his inappropriate advances. But what he had done now was far more dangerous than mere misconduct with a servant. It could have dire consequences for their family, for everything she had sacrificed for.

In a swift motion, Alicent slapped Aegon across the face, the sound echoing through the room. Her actions conveyed her disbelief and the gravity of the situation. What if their actions reached the ears of the King? Rhaenyra and Daemon would surely call for their heads.

Aegon winched, his hand instinctively moving to his reddened cheek, his eyes wide and wet. He looked like a child then.

“Do you have any inkling of the peril you’ve put us in?” Alicent hissed, her fury burning in her eyes and her teeth bared. Unable to stand still, she paced the floor, her anger palpable. “Do you hold so little regard for our lives? Are you truly willing to squander everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve sacrificed for! What if she goes to the King?”

“She won’t,” Aemond interjected, his voice steady and reassuring.

The contrast between her two sons was stark and undeniable. One embodied everything Alicent needed him to be–the protector, the dutiful son, the dedicated soclar. Aemond was honorable, courageous, and everything she wished Aegon could become. Aegon, her firstborn and the one who should inherit his father’s throne, had become her greatest disappointment and vulnerability. She longed for him to rise above his reckless impulses and understand the purpose she had dedicated years to. After all, it was to protect him that she was doing this.

Life had never been fair, and this situation served as a bitter reminder of the fact.

“How can you be so certain?” Alicent questioned sharply.

“He’s sleeping with her,” Aegon interjected, a twisted grimace marring his face. He couldn’t help but drag his brother down on his level, to tarnish his reputation.

Aemond, however, dismissed his brother’s claim with a wave of his hand, choosing not to acknowledge it. “She knows it would be her word against his. And I advise you, brother, to keep your imaginings to yourself. Spreading lies would only further complicate matters.”

“It is not a lie,” Aegon insisted, meeting his mother’s gaze with defiance.

Alicent fixed him with a stern look. “Listen to your brother, Aegon. You are already in enough trouble. Do not besmirch your brother’s honor with baseless accusations.”

Aegon’s jaw worked as realized that his mother would not believe him, and he fixed his gaze on the floor.

“You bring shame upon our family, and I will not tolerate it, especially while the princess is here,” Alicent continued, her tone laced with frustration. “She is already causing enough trouble with her political machinations, rallying support for her mother’s claim and interfering with governance of the kingdom. I will not have my son contributing to the chaos.”

Aegon sneered, a vindictive thought seeming to cross his mind. “Ruining her honor would serve as a fitting consequence. It would send her back to Dragonstone in shame, and perhaps she would remain unwed for a very long time as well.”

“And you believe that ruining your brother’s honor is worth such consequences? Ruining your own in the process? Where is the sense, Aegon?” Alicent’s voice rang out with scorn and disappointment.

Despite Aegon’s troublesome reputation, she had always shielded him from the worst of it, hoping he would come to realize the efforts she had made on his behalf.

“It was merely a passing thought, mother,” Aegonr replied, casually picking at his nails. “Or perhaps you should consider marrying Aemond to Daenera.”

Aemond’s eye snapped to his brother with a piercing glare. Marry the bastard? The notion seemed absurd. They were too incompatible, destined to clash and bring each other misery. He only wanted to use her, ruin her.

“Aemond has spent time with the princess, hasn’t he, brother?” Aegon continued, refusing to let go of his insinuation. “You took her riding on Vhagar.”

Aemond’s indignation burned within his chest as he met his brother's goading expression with an steely resolve. “The princess lost her horse. I didn’t want to leave her stranded in the middle of a field and have her walk back to King’s Landing.”

Alicent frowned. “Where was her servant?”

Aemond gave a half-hearted shrug, not caring to elaborate on what had happened.

“You’ve been staring at her,” Aegon persisted like the child he was, trying to get his brother into trouble.

“Would you have me pluck out my remaining eye?” Aemond drawled with little care to his brother's answer.

“I would gladly assist you with that, brother.”

“Enough,” Alicent interected, rubbing her temples in frustration. “There will be no mutilations, and there will be no marriages. Put these thoughts out of your minds.”

#aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x oc #hotd fanfic #aemond smut #A Vow of Blood

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cy-lindric · 1 year

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hi! i hope you're doing well!

i really loved your 17th century outfit, and i was wondering: what would you call the blue jacket? like the name of that garment as a component of historical fashion? i want to make something similar in a textiles class, but im having trouble looking for patterns without the garment's name 😅 if you made the garment yourself, do you have any pointers as to where i could find a good pattern (for historical accuracy)?

thank you for your time even if you dont end up answering!

ps i love your art soso much, esp sundown <33

Hello ! This type of split buttoned up cape is called a casaque/cassock (I know that word describes a lot of different types of garments, especially religious habits and some types of eastern european clothing, but in the context of 17th century western fashion afaik that's how it's called).

I actually used a pre-made pattern for that one because I was running out of time, it's from Reconstructing History , you can find it as paper and pdf. I do enjoy the cut of most of their patterns whenever I don't feel like drafting something entirely or I need a starting base.

Originally, my main reference was this piece from the Germanische National Museum. The catalogue has a lot of views including a top view that was very useful. In the end, I liked the "winged" version from the pattern (wings being the shoulder pieces often also found on doublets of that era), so I went with that.

Posting this publicly in case anyone's curious ! Hope that helps !

#replies #clerichs-xi

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morwynlefay · 23 days

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i recently made this doublet and these two collars

the doublet is roughly made after a mid 16th century design, its made out of black and navy wool with a warm gray linen lining and has self fabric buttons

i had started the ruff over a year ago but only got so far as to start attatching the lace onto body but now i decided to finish it and i did it in less then day

then i was feeling super motivated and wanted do some more small projects and i managed to find some white fabric in my stash and so i made a quick falling band.

i will probably make a new one soon though as this one doesn’tfall as smoothly over the shoulders as i’d like it to

#medieval #fantasy #character art #character design #costume design #costuming #cosplay #16th century #renaissance #pilgrim vibes #doublet #historical fashion #history #sewing

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brabblesblog · 1 month

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𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Ch 7: He showed me his scars, and in return he let me pretend that I had none

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

An adventurous evening leads to renewed intimacy.

Professionally edited by @editing-by-night

Read on AO3.

Masterlist

Full image on twitter.

Getting to the bedroom was easier now; Ban shrugged off her shirt and rushed for the bed the moment she was inside the room. Her husband followed suit, hands flying across the buttons of his doublet. He didn’t manage to get it all the way off in his rush, crawling up the bed after her, a hand reaching for her waist and pinning her down underneath him.

He stared down at her, hair falling in a slightly unruly mess, eyes raking over her body with an eager, hungry gaze. Ban reached out, grasping the lapels of his doublet, moving to push it off his shoulders.

“Eager, aren’t we, darling?” he teased, but he removed it anyway, tossing it aside before replacing his hands on either side of her body, pressing her into the bed. Hovering over her like this he seemed almost threatening, the slight part of his lips showing off the tips of his fangs, reminiscent of a wildcat, lithe and graceful and dangerous.

“More than eager,” she quipped in response, slightly distracted. Her mind flitted back to Roderich; seeing her father again had brought to light how he still could make her feel inadequate, as if everything she had done these past years without him didn’t matter at all, as if she was that naive girl again, needing his approval and his love.

Astarion seemed to notice the way her thoughts changed; his face softened and a hand cupped her cheek. “If you’d rather chat than play, I’d be amenable to that,” he murmured. “I’m quite certain there are a fair amount of… thoughts on your mind, given what just occurred.”

“You’re not wrong,” she admitted. “But it can wait.”

Astarion finally leaned down to kiss her, warm lips pressing against her own, his tongue slipping in to tangle with hers. The soft puffs of his breath felt nice, its heat ghosting over her face like a caress, derailing most of her thoughts.

A soft sigh, and she kissed him back, her own arms wrapping around him to pull him down to her. As she did, she felt the rough bumps of the scars on his back; he made no indication he was bothered by her touching them, too busy settling on his elbows to get closer to her.

Ban’s mind wandered a little at that, at these reminders of her husband’s previous life. He was worthy of more than she currently gave, deserved a love that would cherish and trust him as he has worked so hard to do for her. Knowing this, however, did not make it easy, and she moved a hand to grip his hair, tugging his silver curls with just the right amount of tension.

In time, she promised herself. Telling him of her past was the first step of many; Ban knew opening herself up fully required much more.

Astarion broke the kiss, eyes refocusing on her face. He looked a little dazed; she wasn’t sure if it was the kiss or the hand fisted in his hair, but he was gorgeous like this. He blinked twice, scanning her features, seemingly sensing very little of her inner turmoil. As he’d gotten better at reading her she’d also gotten better at hiding her deeper emotions - probably not too well, she figured, knowing he still sensed something’s being obscured, but enough that he wasn’t certain, and enough that he didn’t try to pry.

In her musing, she missed the fact that he’d seen and he knows, that he was just playing along with her wishes, his heart yet again taking the hit to keep her blissfully unaware. She missed that he knew she didn’t quite trust him the way he did her, that his hold on her heart was incomplete and slippery, that he knew she was aware of what he needed and yet could not - would not - give it, except for small crumbs that he had to fight for. Missed that he was exhausted, hurting, and always holding back the urge to lash out because he couldn’t bear to do that to her again, didn’t want to ever let that side out again, not when it came to her.

Ban loosened the fist gripping Astarion’s hair, pushing back the stray strands falling across his face. He smiled, an achingly beautiful thing, and leaned back down to press more kisses against her neck.

“I’d rather do this. We… we can talk another time,” she managed, hoping he’d accept. She felt him stiffen for a heartbeat, and then he nodded, lips continuing their path along her collarbone.

“So… you mentioned sucking my cock, did you not?” He pressed his body flush against hers, grinding his hips playfully; Ban noticed he still kept his face hidden away, tucked against her neck, and frowned

“I did, yes, although… are you alright?” she asked, a hand absently slipping under his trousers to cup his ass. This only seemed to encourage the delicious grinding; he sped up, small pants escaping his parted lips.

For a moment the only sound he made was his breathing as he seemingly considered his answer. “Mostly,” he admitted, “but it needn’t be a concern at this moment.” Lifting himself slightly off her, he shifted his weight onto one elbow, reaching down to slowly unto the laces of his trousers.

“I… I am trying,” she muttered, a little hesitantly. It wasn’t easy, she wanted to tell him. He’d always been a contradictory thing to her: a source of comfort, yes, but also the cause of so much pain; their months of being in that horrible parody of a relationship had tarnished her trust in him. Her avoidant and rather aloof nature was a learned habit, mostly from her family but also from him - one she was trying to undo, but was still struggling with.

She didn’t want to tell him that his recent stunt with the mirror hadn’t helped matters, either. Forgiving him was one thing - trusting him wholly was another.

A grunt answered her as he finally gave up on the one-handed attempt to undress; he rolled away to quickly remove the rest of his clothing by the side of the bed. As he did his eyes met hers, and for once he didn't hide, allowing the walls to lower briefly.

“It hasn’t escaped my notice, Ban,” he replied, “and I can wait. But I, too, would rather do this.” His voice was quiet, all playfulness gone for the moment; he stepped out of his trousers, looking down as his cock bobbed, not quite hard anymore but most of the way there. Long, elegant fingers wrapped around the length and he stroked himself languidly.

When he looked up again it was with wide doe eyes, a look which he used to devastating effect when he wished to, but this time there was no hint of guile in it. He half-smiled at her, one side of his mouth curling upwards. “I suppose I can endure anything, as long as you still love me.”

Torn, she only managed a choked garble of words, then cleared her throat. “Astarion, gods. Of course I do. My love for you has never changed.” She was a little worried about that but pushed it aside for now; they’d both agreed the conversation could come after.

Astarion looked at her pensively, her words seemingly mollifying him. He clambered back onto the bed, settling in front of her crossed legs, his half-smile growing into a full smirk as he slipped back into their little game. “Since you’ve been so kind as to let me take charge, love, I want you to do as I say. Lay back and spread your legs. I want to see you.”

Surprised, she did as he asked, propping herself on the pillows and leaning back. The moment she spread her legs he laid on his stomach, sliding between them. The sight was mouthwatering, and, well… some other parts, too.

He paused, tilting his head towards her inner thigh, running a hand over the smooth, unmarked skin. Muscles twitched expectantly under his touch, and Ban shifted nervously. “Astarion,” she began. “We haven’t done this in a while. Just be…” she trailed off, not wanting him to realize the extent of the anxiety she still felt.

Astarion nodded, solemn. “I shan’t push too far; and should you feel the need, you have only to say the word.” One last look to confirm they were both alright and ready, then he pressed a soft kiss on the spot his hand was kneading, lips pressing gently and then slowly transitioning into slow suction. Half-lidded eyes looked up at her as he did; Ban fought the urge to tell him to suck somewhere else, but she didn’t stop her hips from jerking, thrusting towards his head.

He laughed darkly, a hand reaching up to pinch a nipple. He was rewarded with a low gasp and tutted disapprovingly when she tried to tilt her hips towards his face again. “Patience. You do know what happens when you misbehave.”

“I am not mis-” the rest of her words were swallowed up in a whine as he bit into the meat of her thigh, a firm nip that drew some blood. He didn’t waste it, latching on and suckling, drinking what little flowed. The other hand lingered on her nipple for a bit, then slid down, grasping her waist. The large, warm palm pressed against Ban’s skin made her squirm, wanting that heat and that mouth on her aching core.

“You said something, my sweet?” Astarion teased, licking up the last of the blood. His tongue traced one last, long stripe then drifted up to mouth at the seam of her inner thigh; hand following alongside. Ban groaned, the heat almost too much, too close and yet still so far away.

“Astarion, gods,” Ban hissed. She knew what he wanted, for her to succumb and plead and show some vulnerability for once. When they’d done this in the Shadow-Cursed lands, when he’d used his fingers and tongue and words to drive her wild it was much easier; a lot of that had been lost after the rite. It had still felt good, that had never changed; but the slow degradation of their relationship had tainted it. Now, however, she wanted to give it to him, so very badly - it just didn’t come as naturally as it used to.

Astarion smiled again, this time with a lot less heat, more sincere than anything else. “No gods,” he murmured, “only you and me.”

She couldn’t help but appreciate his effort; getting her to show more vulnerability within the confines of sex might be the best way to ease her into it outside of the bedroom. With the way he’d coaxed her into telling him what she wanted on the throne and again earlier today, she thought he had the right idea; it felt a lot easier to let her walls down when he was between her legs.

The hand not on her thigh spread her open as he leaned in; he blew gently on her, the sheer warmth of his breath sending shivers down her spine. “Tell me what you desire, darling,” he drawled, darling growled out in a lower timbre.

“Why? Will you give it?” She asked, and his eyes flicked over to her face.

“If you ask very, very nicely,” he countered, “perhaps I’ll feel merciful.” He made it a point to hover over where she wanted him most, eyes locked onto hers. Ban shifted, propping herself up on her elbows to get a better view.

“I am not-” she cut off with a strangled gasp as he admonished her with a none-too-gentle flick of his index finger against her clit. The pleasure was electric, coursing through her with a mix of surprise and pain that caught her completely off guard. She sighed, giving in. “Fine. Fine. I need your mouth on me. Please.”

Astarion tilted his head with feigned inquisitiveness, then flicked the tip of his tongue against her clit, keeping her spread open for him, a feast ready for the taking. He licked her entrance in one slow, teasing motion. She bucked her hips in an effort to get more friction, but he kept her firmly pinned against the bed. He’d positioned the arm being used to spread her open so that his elbow pressed down on her thigh, and the fingers of his free hand dug into the other.

“Delicious,” he whispered, eyelids fluttering shut for a moment. “It would taste better, however, were I to hear you beg for it.”

Ban almost started to get mad, considered telling him to knock it off. It wasn’t that she wasn’t enjoying herself, because gods, she was. They hadn’t done this in forever, and the part of her that wanted to supplicate at his feet missed those times and longed to do it again. But the niggling distrust was still there, ugly and sitting on her chest, an ever-demanding presence. She refused to let it gain ground, and shoved it aside.

She took a slow, deep breath, watching him. He’d opened his eyes again, patiently waiting; a small dribble of her blood lingered at the side of his mouth and he absently licked at it. She saw the hesitation behind the playful role he’d assumed, his need to do right by her evident.

“Astarion,” she finally conceded, “please. I need you to lick me, touch me. Love me.”

His eyes brightened at that, and for a second he almost looked shy. “Why of course, darling,” he began; there was a pregnant pause where he considered his next words, which ended with a quick, vehement whisper of “I love you.” Then just as fast he slid back into his seductive role, eyes shuttering.

With that, he finally gave in, shifting so that his elbows supported him as he leaned forward to press his lips where she desired them. Fingers held her lips open, his tongue laving long, wet licks against her entrance. Her hands sought something to grab, settling on a pillow behind her.

“Astarion-” she called out, but he was too lost in his task to pay attention; she could feel his warm lips wrapping around her clit, mouthing and suckling gently. A moan escaped her and she reached out with one hand, grasping the curls falling over his forehead, trying to catch his attention.

He looked up, his pupils so dilated the crimson of his eyes was reduced to a thin line, but his mouth didn't stop moving. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, a quick move that said don’t tell me to stop, I’m enjoying this, and he closed his eyes again. As if to emphasize his point his tongue began flicking against her too; the suction combined with the brush of his tongue eliminated all other thoughts in her head.

“Thank you,” she gasped out, and Astarion paused once more, this time with brows furrowed in confusion. Do better, Ban, she berated herself. Sighing again, she forced the next words out.

“This… is helpful. Just… thank you.” It’s not enough, and she resolved to say more later. She felt a rush of affection when she saw his eyes crinkle up in a small smile; that alone made it easier. She’d do better. For him.

For now, she let herself get lost in the feeling of his tongue swirling around her clit, in the cool silk cradling her bare body, the strain of having her legs pushed apart, in the- oh, the glorious feel of him slipping a finger in - in the pleasure of it all. Astarion’s attentiveness to her body and her needs and wants was so obvious, so reverent. He’d learned it all from their time together, and he adores her, so damned much, and she was determined to give it back in kind-

He didn’t breathe, didn't pause, fingers and mouth working, the other hand deftly lifting one leg over his shoulder, allowing him better access. Ban leaned forward, trying to see and mostly failing; he was too deeply buried in her cunt to even catch a glimpse of anything other than a mess of white curls and closed eyes. She could hear him moan amongst the obscene sounds of his fingers and tongue, his cheek resting against the thigh hitched over him.

“Astarion,” she whimpered, feeling him slip a second finger in and start pumping harder; the groan that escaped her was completely involuntary. She gripped the pillow tighter, covering her mouth to stifle her cries, the silk encasing it luxurious against her face. Her hips bucked wantonly, rolling without much thought, seeking more of Astarion, as if it were possible. She wanted, needed the wet heat of his tongue, those fingers slamming against her spot, could feel her climax building, faster and harder and closer and please-

Astarion stilled abruptly, pulling away with a smug look; its effect a little dampened by how devastatingly aroused he looked, as though he was mere seconds away from losing control and ravaging her. He drew in a breath to speak. “You do look cute when you’re all needy like this,” he purred, licking his lips; his entire mouth and chin were drenched and Ban fought the urge to tug him close and taste herself on him. “I do feel that I need… a little more incentive to finish you off, however.”

“Incentive,” she breathed, peering over the pillow she’d now brought in front of her. She was about to protest when he pushed his fingers in again, drawing out a loud, desperate “gods!” from her.

“Don’t cover your mouth, darling; I do so like hearing you.” He snatched the pillow in one move, throwing it aside. “Now, tell me how badly you want me, Ban, and I’ll let you come.” The fingers inside her still moved, albeit slowly, dragging out the pleasure, keeping her in place - captive to the near-overwhelming need to come and the knowledge that only his mouth would suffice.

Ban scowled a little, but it was weak; she exhaled. “You know how much I want you.” Those words were punished by another nip on her thigh and a low growl.

“Say it.”

That voice demanded to be obeyed but she could still see the hidden plea behind it, subtle as it was. “Astarion.” Ban fisted her hand in the sheets, preparing for what he was about to do. “I love you. Only ever you. Now… please. I’m begging you. Please let me come.”

It wasn’t so hard to say, she found; the desperate need in her overriding her stubborn pride. He smiled, a devilishly toothy one that sharpened his features, wordlessly diving back between her legs. His hand reached up, guiding her fingers to her clit, a wordless instruction she obeyed without hesitation.

Astarion lapped at her, tongue swirling - the sensation was absolutely decadent - slipping two fingers inside her and fucking her as she rubbed her clit. Hot, deliberate breaths warmed her skin and made both her desire and her wetness pool - for once she was glad he no longer ran cold. The throaty moans he made as he generously laved her with his tongue, his attention, all of it… it was almost enough to push her over the edge.

Her back arched, mind wandering to when they’d first met, and how she’d longed to know how his mouth would feel on her clit, how his tongue would feel, from that very first day. He’d always been like a waking dream to her - at times a nightmare - but still always the object of her desire, of her love. That she could have this now, every single day if she wanted, that she need only ask and he would gladly dive between her legs and worship her exactly where she wanted it and make her come again and again with unrelenting dedication if she demanded it... The joy of it was overwhelming.

Those long fingers moved deep inside her, teasing out her pleasure bit by bit, each pass making her thighs tremble. The warmth of that talented tongue sliding around her entrance, then flicking up to lick at the underside of her clit while her fingers rubbed as well was glorious and beautiful and he is hers forevermore and he loves her so, so much and sometimes he still alarms her but-

No. Not here, not now. She pushed that thought aside, bringing her mind back into the moment. She focused first on the heat of his breaths, the delightful stretching when he inserted a third finger and thrusted, then on the delicate slide of her own fingers, speeding up now that she was almost at the edge. Her world narrowed down to the wonderful push-pull of his fingers and the rapidly blossoming fire in her belly and his needy growls and his tongue caressing her most intimate spots, the vibration and the stretching and the thrusting and the licking and the rubbing and the heat just godsdamned perfect-

She screamed, biting down on her hand in a feeble attempt to stifle her cry. Astarion only powered on, fingers thrusting fast, tongue lapping at every last inch of her like a man starved. He let her ride his face through her orgasm, moaning as her hips thrusted to press against him, thighs squeezing his head between them, his other hand digging into her twitching leg. When she finally came down from her high, he gave her clit one last, hard, suck. She squirmed, planting a foot on his shoulder, gently trying to push him off.

He finally pulled away, smiling softly as he sat up and wiped the evidence of her pleasure from his face, licking the fingers that had just been inside her. There was a small dot of moisture on the silk sheet where his precum had soaked in. He was hard, had probably been grinding into the bed this entire time, Ban realized, and that mental image made her mouth water.

“I wouldn’t mind doing that every day, darling,” he purred. Having you come all over my face is divine.”

“I think you definitely enjoyed yourself,” she quipped, nodding at his erection. Astarion looked down at himself, as though he’d just noticed he was hard. He placed a finger on the tip, pulling it away to reveal a trailing string of precum. A wry grin crossed his face.

“Well, now that it’s my turn… I want to see those pretty little lips wrapped around my cock.”

Ban swallowed. Gods. She’d definitely missed this.

“Ban.” Astarion raised an eyebrow, stern. “I need a resounding yes before we proceed.”

She found her mouth opening before her brain could catch up. “Gods, love. Yes.”

Astarion left the bed, sauntering to the wall facing the half-closed windows. The gardens lay below, a rather fetching sight normally; he completely ignores it, his eyes only for Ban. He watched her approach as he leaned back a little to lounge against the wall, crossing his arms and giving her an insolent smirk. He shifted so that he was comfortable, spreading his legs slightly.

“Kneel.” The command was firm and brooked no argument.

She did so without a word, eyes locked onto his. Salivating at the view, her fingers reached up to trace his hipbone delicately, heart racing in eager anticipation.

The sight of her on her knees, that hungry look on her face, for him, sent a thrum of heat through his body.

“Two taps here if you need to stop.” He demonstrated, tapping two of his fingers against the hard planes of his stomach; she nodded, licking her lips. He barely stifled a groan at the surge of anticipation that slammed into him at the sight.

Cool fingers wrapped around his cock, a thumb playfully swiping at the slowly forming liquid at the tip; the sensation made him jerk. He was suddenly painfully aware that he was far closer than he thought, a small huff of frustration slipping out at the realization that all that grinding on the bed as he ate her out may have worked a little too well. He slid a hand into her hair, angling her head slightly.

“Don’t dither; suck,” he snapped, hips shifting closer to her face, fingers tightening in her hair. So far this attempt at being more aggressive had been successful and he did feel elated and relieved; he knew however that this part may potentially be its undoing.

But she didn’t stop, nor did she immediately listen, because of course. Instead she licked a stripe from his balls to the head of his cock, sending a low thrill of arousal through him. He gave a firm tug on her hair in warning before parting his legs a little more, the need quickly overriding his worry. His free hand reached down to grip her shoulder as her fingers stroked his shaft, lips hovering over him There was a quick kiss to the bottom of his cockhead before she finally took him between her lips; the groan that escaped him was one of desperation.

The hand on her head tightened, grasping the braids as promised; he chuckled a little, amused. She shifted closer to him and he roughly pulled her down onto him, encouraging her to hurry up and oh- the thought dissolved as Ban swallowed the rest of his length down. He gasped quietly, purring out a soft “My sweet, yes.”

He could feel the softness of her mouth and the ridges of her throat as his tip hit the back. She swallowed around him, the undulating motion causing his hips to thrust forwards, the muscles of his stomach flexing. Astarion fixed his gaze on the sight before him, the hand in her hair pushing her head down to grind her lips around his base.

Her answering smile was everything, even if it wasn’t much of a smile with his cock in her mouth, really - more like a crinkling of the eyes than anything else. Her hands gripped his hips as she moved only slightly, teasingly, the motions punctuated by the loud, sloppy sounds he thought she was likely making on purpose; she then moaned, that sound sincere but deliberate.

And gods, if that wasn’t the best sound in the world.

Astarion groaned; hips rolling in time with her mouth, chasing her lips as she pulled away, settling back as she took him back in. A thought flitted through his hazy mind: I’m supposed to be taking charge. He slid his other hand into her hair, applying a bit more force, holding her in place with both hands so she couldn’t pull back at all. He thrusted in and out of her mouth, fucking her with increasing abandon. There were no words, just the loud, debauched sounds of their union and his increasingly loud moans. He pulled most of the way out, admiring the glistening of her saliva all over his cock, the dazed, lust-filled gaze she leveled at him, pupils blown wide and her lips still parted, just for him. He brought his hips forward in one long motion, sinking himself down her throat, watching her eyes close as she moaned. Astarion felt her hands grip his ass as he fucked her mouth, nails digging into his flesh in that glorious mix of pleasure and pain.

There she was, his beautiful love, mouth ready and willing for him, her perfect, petite breasts swaying with his every thrust, unbreathing so he needn’t stop taking his pleasure. Magnificent.

He was close, teetering on the precipice of his peak; the feeling of complete abandon, of her soft, wet mouth, of her trust so intoxicating he knew holding back would soon be impossible. He couldn’t help himself, pushing her down even further, a silent demand for more; not that he was being quiet at all, the whimpers and gasps and groans that escaped him now wanton and needy.

Her eyes locked onto his and she inched closer between his legs to allow him even deeper, angling to take more of him, her throat tightening and her tongue swiping across his length. Astarion squeezed his eyes shut, his toes curling as his hips stuttered, losing their rhythm. He repositioned one leg, angling his hips to thrust harder and deeper, wanting every single inch of him down her throat when he came. Close, so damn close but he tried to hold on just a little more-

“Swallow,” he growled out. “All of it.” His eyes flicked open, blown-out and hazy with lust, wanting to see.

She met his eyes, her own still glassy and lust-ridden, one hand drifting down to massage his balls. That pushed him over the edge; Astarion felt his orgasm slam into him, his cock pulsing in her mouth. He shuddered hard, his back arching against the wall, head thrown back, crying out as his climax overwhelmed him. She swallowed down all he had to give, and he could feel everything - his come hot as it hit her cooler flesh, her mouth and throat clenching around him as she swallowed, her tongue curling around the underside of his cock as it spasmed over and over again, so much come that he wondered if it would ever stop. He shivered as the sensations slowly faded, fingers trembling as he sank more of his weight against the wall and released his grip on her hair.

Ban sucked her way back up his length, the flat of her tongue lapping the last of his spend from his tip, teasing out one last agonized whine from him as it briefly became too much. He breathed hard, eyes fixed on her, not quite sure what to say. A quip about fucking her mouth would have seemed appropriate, but was quickly discarded. We’re not quite there yet. Instead he caressed her hair gently, realizing exactly what she wanted to hear. “Good girl.”

She looked up at him, smug and satisfied, glowing from the praise. His body moved before his mind could register it, pulling her up in an embrace.

Ban burrowed into the crook of his neck, feeling his ragged breathing begin to slow as he recovered. The body pressed against her own was slick with sweat, his heart still racing. She lifted her head to press a kiss on his cheek.

“Come here,” she said, tugging his arm and leading him back to their bed. He followed her, body so loose as to seem boneless. As they settled in he immediately wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, as if unwilling to be parted for even a moment. She found this wonderfully amusing and extremely endearing, her own hands running through his sweat-damp curls, causing some to fall over his closed eyes.

In this moment there was little room for anything other than him, her Astarion, who’d suffered so much and who she’d almost lost - who’d clawed his way back inch by painful inch. For her.

She reflected on how far he’d come, from completely closed off, to guarded, to slowly letting his walls down, to beautiful nights spent in each other’s arms under the stars. Even the hurdle of his ascension had not completely ruined their love - he’d fought his way back from the brink for her, from the icy callousness he’d been swallowed by after the rite to this, willingly soft and pliant and resting in her arms.

“I love you,” Ban murmured.

She watched him open his eyes, the crimson orbs impossibly tender. He exhaled once, a smile coming alive on his beautiful face.

“I love you too.” He murmured quietly.

His eyes scanned her face, as if worried. She quickly tried to reassure him.

“I very much enjoyed it,” her voice was emphatic. “Every single second of it. I did miss it. I missed you.”

The anxiety in his eyes recedes, his brows untangling and his smile widening.

“That’s wonderful to know,” he brushed the hair from his forehead as he spoke. “I admit I found myself worrying, at moments-”

“I would have let you know.” she promised, wanting to end that train of thought. Still, she sensed some discomfort. “Is there something you need, love?”

Astarion nodded. He looked away, thoughts drifting back on the earlier conversation, hands tightening on her muscled limbs. “There need not be anything more, for now.” The stabbing feeling in his chest told him it wasn’t quite fine, but he wanted to try to make it so.

She shook her head, face buried where his heart felt like it was bleeding out. “Astarion, I… I am trying, as I said. It’s just that earlier… was a bit of a setback for me.”

A soft sigh escaped him as the realization hit. Of course. It probably also didn’t help that her father was so much like him, an unfortunate fact that ate at him, but that he felt powerless to fix. Her words helped, of course, but still.

“Thank you, though,” she added, and his head whipped down to look at her in surprise. She smiled, a painfully shy thing. “Your idea - making me tell you what I want, you being rougher and more aggressive - it helps a lot.”

There was comfort there, at least.

“I am grateful,” Astarion managed. “As for everything else…” he trails off.

“I am sorry,” she offered. “I swear I will get there. I just need-”

“Time.” He knew he shouldn’t resent her for it, for problems partially caused by him, but he did all the same.

He resented how easy she had it, that she could just choose whether to open herself up to him or not, without consequence; that she still didn’t trust him fully. Yes, he’d made mistakes, but hadn’t he been behaving, giving her everything she needed and demanded, forcing himself open at her whim? And was that truly the key to her heart - acting like an obedient pup? Did she enjoy that he couldn’t leave her or even be mad at her, not that he ever wanted to - no, of course not!

It just hurt, a dull ache with every heartbeat.

As painful as it was, however, Astarion brushed these wounds away once more. He did see her trying, saw her opening up like a flower blooming in springtime; it was simply that he wished it were faster, that he could bask in its beauty sooner.

For her to trust him he had to trust her in turn, to have faith in her love for him. That, he felt, was a far easier goal than making her open up - it was something he had already been doing, after all, entrusting her with his heart.

He merely hoped she wouldn't keep crushing it in her hands forever.

If you would like to see more of these two and their story, consider reading my other entries in the series "If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there."

I am happy to announce that 'Whither is thy beloved gone?' is getting professionally edited as well. I shall keep everyone abreast of when these changes go live. Thank you!

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