#ARCHWAY TAVERN

[dndsettingsinfo]

Strixhaven Archway Commons [65×65]

[ernestdescalsartwok]

ARCHWAY-TAVERN-PUB-LONDON-PAINTINGS-LONDRES PINTURA-NAVIGATOR SQUARE-ERNEST DESCALS-ARTIST-PAINTER por Ernest Descals Por Flickr: ARCHWAY-TAVERN-PUB-LONDON-PAINTINGS-LONDRES PINTURA-NAVIGATOR SQUARE-ERNEST DESCALS-ARTIST-PAINTER- En la plaza de NAVIGATOR SQUARE, barrio de ARCHWAY en LONDRES, el edificio del Pub ARCHWAY TAVERN y un ciclista en primer plano, días de invierno en la ciudad, viento y frio entre árboles sin hojas en sus ramas, tonos grises influidos por el cielo, paisajes urbanos londineses. Pintura del artista pintor Ernest Descals sobre papel de 50 x 70 centímetros, pintando el rigor invernal en la capital del Reino Unido.

[biggestxsimps]

Asking the Boys to The Yule Ball

A/N: I know the Yule Ball isn’t something that happens during this time but I wanted to ask my boys out regardless. So we’re just gonna ignore that it doesn’t actually happen and pretend. Sorry if the pacing is a little weird. I'd love to write a part 2 where they actually go to the Yule Ball together if that's something you guys would like to see!

Speech in Italics is reader speaking, there’s quite a bit of dialogue and I don’t want anyone to get confused.

Sebastian Sallow x Male Reader I Ominis Gaunt x Male Reader

~~~~~~~~~~

Sebastian Sallow:

It was a bright morning in the Great Hall, you heard excited chatter amongst students at your table. Curious, you lightly elbow the person sitting beside you, asking what had gotten everyone so giddy. "You haven't heard? Apparently, we’re holding the Triwizard Tournament this year. Everyone’s excited about the Yule Ball." You hum in response, making sure to keep a mental note of this information.

It was then that you heard the headmaster call for everyone to quiet down. "As you all have probably heard, we will be holding the Triwizard Tournament this year." You groan as you tune out everything else the grumpy headmaster says. Your gaze falls on Sebastian, watching as he joked with a couple of classmates beside him. You couldn’t help but smile at how happy he looked. You pull your gaze away at the sound of shrieking to your right, rolling your eyes as some of the younger students celebrate.

You had been resting in your dorm room for the afternoon, relaxing as you read a book. You turned your head at the sound of a ‘swoosh’ beside you. A letter falls into your lap, and the owl perches itself on the wooden bedframe. Your fingers prod at the envelope before pulling out the letter, you smile as you look at the sender.

~

I was hoping you would be able to visit me in Hogsmeade for a Butterbeer this evening.

I’ll be at The Three Broomsticks waiting for you.

Sebastian

~

You smile at the boy’s writing before lifting yourself off the bed. You change out of your robes and dress in something more fit for an outing. Walks to Hogsmeade were always enjoyable. You look up at the archway, with the bold word "Hogsmeade" placed among it. You scale your way in, taking notice of all the small shops and buildings on your way to the tavern. You slowly push the tall door open before entering, the smell of butterbeer filling your nose and the sound of chatter in your ears oddly relaxing you.

You take a quick look around before your eyes lock with Sebastian's, and you feel your lips tug up at the toothy-grin directed towards you from the brunette sitting at the bar. "Dressed up for me, huh?" You laugh as you take a seat beside him, greeting the boy before ordering a butterbeer for yourself. You look over to the grinning boy beside you. "What's the occasion?" You chuckle. Sebastian looks away, giggling as he shrugs. "No occasion; I just thought we should catch up." He looks back up at you, his eyes softening. You nod, taking a swig at your drink. His eyes follow your movements.

Time flies as the two of you talk, you barely notice the tavern emptying out. It's only when Sirona came up to the both of you, that you realized how late it had become. The two of you giggle as you walk out, deciding to walk together all the way back to Hogwarts. You couldn't help but stare at the laughing boy beside you, the lamp light shining against his freckled skin so nicely. His cheeks flush as he notices your gaze, before quickly clearing his throat. "So-" You two chat your way back to the castle, talk about The Yule Ball coming up. "Are you planning on going?" You glance over at the rigid boy at your side. He lightly chuckles. "It's not really my scene." He looks up, his brown eyes piercing your own. "What about you?"

You lightly shrug. "I was planning on asking someone." Sebastian curiously looks up at you. "Who?" You pause your steps, Sebastian stopping a couple steps ahead. His body turns as you move closer to him. Your hands make their way to his own, bringing them up between your chests. "You, Sebastian." You watch as his face erupts in heat, the tips of his ears growing red. You chuckle as the boy in front of you mumbles. He coughs before speaking. "I uh, I wouldn't be opposed to it." He awkwardly laughs at the end of his sentence. "Yeah?" You grin as he nods. "Um, great" You giggle, feeling your heart pump faster. Sebastian sighs in relief. "I've actually been hoping you'd ask." You couldn't help but grin even wider at that.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ominis Gaunt:

You rubbed the fog from your eyes as you walked out of your dorm, stepping into the noisy common room. You shake your head, regretting leaving your peaceful room. A loud conversation beside you caught your ears, you looked over to see a few younger years rave about something. You make your way to the group, lightly tapping the shoulder of one of them. "Sorry, what's going on?" The younger student flushes as she explains. "You haven't heard yet? We're holding the Triwizard Tournament! I can't wait to go to the Yule Ball!" She giggles, turning back to the group. You nod to yourself before leaving the group, now wandering around the common room.

You were currently walking around the castle, deciding to kill some time before your next class started. A couple familiar voices stopped you in your tracks. Looking over at the rowdy Slytherin boy, you couldn’t help but stare at the calm boy beside him a little longer. Even with the loud boy next to him, he was still so focused. His pale eyes relaxed. Your daydreams get cut short by a hand being placed on your shoulder. You turn to see Poppy smiling as she asks if you’d like to walk to class with her; not being able to turn down the sweet girl, you graciously accept. The both of you make it pretty early to your Charms class, taking your seats beside each other.

It wasn’t long until the classroom had started to fill with students, your eyes only on the lookout for a certain boy. The sound of the students talking starts to deafen as the blonde boy walks into class, his soft smile entrancing you. He sits down next to his best friend, and before you can examine him anymore, Professor Ronan’s booming voice pulls your attention away. Your eyes sneaking glances back at Ominis’s frame every now and then as the class drags on.

That evening, you had decided to stop staring at the pretty boy and just finally talk to him. It took a while, but you eventually found him sitting against a beautifully sculpted wall, his focus seeming to be on the book in his hands. Was he reading? You shake your head—a question for another time. You approach the boy, making sure that your footsteps could be heard by him. "Good evening, Ominis." The blonde perks up. "Ah Y/N, to what do I owe the pleasure?" You smile at his enthusiasm. "I was wondering if you’d like to take a walk around the castle with me? It’s been a while since we've spoken."

Ominis nods, taking out his wand and bringing it to his side, the red light shining against his gorgeous eyes. You look away, trying not to obsess over the boy. The two of you start your journey around Hogwarts, the dimly-lit rooms creating the perfect ambiance. Your walk is filled with idle chatter, rambling on about experiences neither of you has had the opportunity to mention to the other yet. The easy conversation comes to a halt at the mention of the Yule Ball, both of you stumbling your way through the topic.

Ominis coughs before turning his head, now facing the walls opposite of you. "Are you going with anyone?" You could hear a slight shake in his voice. "No, not yet, at least." A small chuckle escapes your lips. The blonde raised his eyebrows. "Really? I thought with your popularity, you certainly would’ve been asked already." You shrug before responding; a small smile sat on your face. “Not by anyone I've wanted to go with.” Ominis casts a questioning glance in your direction. “Why don’t you ask the person you’d like to? It’s better than waiting for them to come around to you.” “I don’t know, Ominis. I’m afraid they might turn me down.”

“Nonsense! They would be foolish to turn down someone as great as you.” Ominis seemed to look almost offended. “You shouldn’t think so lowly of yourself.” You slowly nod, realizing he couldn’t see you, you speak up. "Uh- thanks, Ominis," the blonde boy flushes, realizing what he said to you. “Of course,” He quickly replies. You giggle quietly at his flustered state before responding. “Are you going with anyone, Ominis?” His head shook at that. “I’m not all that interested in going.” “Why not?” “I don’t think anyone would choose to go with me.” He weakly smiles. "How about this? If no one asks you out, I’ll take you myself." Ominis’ head turns at that. "You'd do that?”

“Of course I would, what are friends for?” You shrug, a wide smile plastered on your face. You couldn’t wait to spend that night with Ominis, even if he wasn’t going as your date but as just a friend. You see Ominis look slightly disappointed as he whispers something to himself. “Pardon?” The boy looks up at your voice. “Must we go as..” He pauses “just friends’?” His nervous words made your stomach twirl. “Would you like to go as more?” You watch as the normally relaxed boy timidly twiddles his fingers. “If I said yes?” “I would take you as my lover.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I’m so sorry if these seem rushed or not that good, I struggled finishing this. I only expected to write a few hundred words for Ominis, but his ended up being longer than Seb’s.

Masterlist

- Written by Owner 1

[dirtnapdreamfactory]

Sweetest Sin [Part One]

Content Warnings: Priest Kink, Breeding Kink, Corruption Kink, Loss of Virginity, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Female masturbation, Breaking Vows, Abandoned Celibacy, Etc. Etc.

Please let me know if I missed anything.

Word Count: 5.5K

[If this work looks familiar to you, it probably is. I originally had it posted to my old account that has since been deleted, so I am reposting it here.]

The grand archway of the cathedral framed Father Astarion Ancunin, his tall figure casting a shadow against the golden light that spilled from within. Despite being a creature of darkness, he had become an integral part of the town of Emberwood, serving as their shepherd of light. His vampiric nature had initially drawn cautious glances, but the townspeople's faith in him seemed to outweigh their fear. They flocked to the cathedral and found solace in his words, a paradox that the elf would have scoffed at decades ago—a vampire spawn preaching salvation.

"Good evening, Father Astarion," Mr. Tiller called out, his voice warm as he passed by with his family. "Your sermon today was truly moving."

"Thank you," Astarion replied, his smile genuine but unable to reach the depths of his crimson eyes. "Peace be with you."

For a quiet moment, the pale elf held up the silver band on his finger to catch the light, marveling at the small miracle that allowed him to walk under the sun. This ring symbolized not just his commitment to his vows, but also to a life he never thought possible. Each day, the weight of his past sins grew lighter as he embraced his newfound purpose with tentative gratitude.

"Father?" A timid voice broke through his reverie.

"Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Silverleaf." He recognized the couple instantly, their devoutness etched into every line on their faces. "What can I do for you?"

"Your words—they're a balm to our community," The man began, wringing his hat between his work-worn hands. "And…we hate to ask but…well, we've come to ask a favor, if you're willing."

"Of course. Speak freely," The priest encouraged, folding his hands before him in a gesture of openness. 

"It’s our daughter... She strays further each day from the path of righteousness," Mrs. Silverleaf confided, her voice laced with worry. "She has no care for piety or decency."

"Her soul, we fear, is in peril," her husband added, his gaze pleading.

"Would you speak with her, Father?" The woman asked. "Perhaps guide her back to the ways of the faithful?"

The couple's words hung heavy in the air, a weight that Astarion couldn't quite shake off. He knew his duty was to guide and correct those who strayed from the path of righteousness, but the thought of speaking with you, their fierce and free-spirited daughter, filled him with conflicting emotions.

On one hand, he felt a sense of obligation and responsibility towards your soul, which they clearly feared was in jeopardy. But on the other hand, the memory of you tore through his mind like a stormy sea, tempting him with desires he had vowed to renounce.

The request coiled tightly around his heart. The memory of that first night that he had laid eyes upon you surged forward, unbidden and wild. It had been a chance encounter at the tavern, where he had gone to seek solitude among the clamor of tankards and low-burning hearths. You had burst through the door, a vision of ferocious vitality, your presence so startling that even the rowdy din of the establishment had hushed for a brief moment. There you had stood, cloaked in the glory of your conquest—a deer, by the looks of your spoils—and had commanded attention with the ease of one who knew their own power.

"Talia, go fetch Lorrick! And tell the cook to get his shit together, yeah? We're having fuckin' venison tonight!" you’d declared, voice rich with triumph.

Astarion couldn't help but watch you, his eyes tracing the line of sweat that made a glistening path down the column of your neck. Each droplet reflected the light from the hearth, casting a warm glow on your skin. Your soft hair cascaded messily down your back and beckoned his fingers to explore its texture. The sight of you- so raw and vibrant - was like a sharp blade to his senses, breaking through the protective walls he had built around his chastity.

"Father, will you not try?" 

The distant echo of Mrs. Silverleaf's voice pulled Father Astarion back to the present, interrupting his thoughts. He nodded absently, his mind still consumed by the image of your mischievous smirk. Despite his inner turmoil, he affirmed to the couple that he would speak with their daughter, a wave of heat flushing his cheeks at the thought.

"God bless you," Mrs. Silverleaf and her husband intoned together, their sincerity in stark contrast to the hunger gnawing at Astarion's resolve.

"Peace be with you," he replied hollowly, his own words drowned out by the cacophony of conflicting emotions within him.

As the couple disappeared from view, Father Astarion turned back to face the sacred confines of the cathedral. Its cool silence offered no refuge from the heat that still coursed through him, memories of his struggle against temptation flashing through his mind. He had whispered fervent prayers and battled against his desires for flesh and sinew that night at the tavern.

"Forgive me," he muttered to the empty pews, unsure if his words were meant for his deity or for himself. His duty was clear - to meet with the girl and guide her towards the light. But as the sunset painted the stained glass windows in fiery shades of red and gold, Astarion couldn't shake the feeling that he was about to enter a battle for which he may never be fully prepared.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and called upon every ounce of divine strength to fortify his spirit. He would offer counsel to this wayward lamb and do his best to protect her from darkness. But as he locked up the church and began to trudge his way towards your home, nestled at the far edge of town, he couldn't deny the thrill of forbidden excitement coursing through his veins, like a fire burning just beneath his skin. Though he knew that this could prove to be a rather dangerous task, one that could potentially lead him down a path of temptation and ruin...for the sake of your immortal soul, he was willing to take the risk.

The dying embers of the day cast a warm, orange hue over the town as Astarion tread softly along the dirt trail, his boots pressing into the uneven ground scattered with pebbles and twigs. The outskirts where you resided was tranquil, the only sounds were his solitary footsteps and the distant chirping of crickets. He could see your home now, a quaint cottage that seemed to be in a perpetual embrace with the encroaching forest. The air was scented with damp earth and the sweet tang of herbs that hung from an overhang, swaying gently in the evening breeze.

"Ms. Silverleaf, it's Father Astarion," he called with measured calmness, rapping knuckles against the wooden door. His voice felt strangely intrusive in the stillness. "Your mother and father bid me to speak with you."

Silence greeted him, thick and unyielding. He knocked again, a little louder, allowing authority to lace his tone. "Ms. Silverleaf, please. This is a rather important matter."

The quiet persisted, and a frown teased at the edge of his lips. 'Perhaps she is out,' he thought, but something about the soft glow from within your home suggested otherwise. He reached for the doorknob, finding it unlocked. A moment's hesitation lingered like a warning. With a breath to steady himself, he pushed open the door and stepped into the muted warmth of the interior.

"Y/N?" he ventured again, voice barely above a whisper as he closed the door behind him.

Before him, the small fire in the hearth crackled its last dance, casting flickering shadows across the room. Astarion scanned the space, noting the absence of any presence. His gaze fell on the simple furnishings, the homely touches that bespoke a life lived simply yet fully. In that moment, he felt like an intruder in your world, privy to a privacy not his own.

His ears, sharper than most, caught the faintest sound—a rustle, a breath hitched in distress. His dead heart sank. 'Might the girl have injured herself?' The concern edged his thoughts as he moved silently, his steps practiced and light. The noises grew clearer, more defined, and his pace quickened with a mix of worry and something less definable.

"Y/N," he called out softly, reaching the slightly ajar door from behind which the sounds emanated. With the utmost care, he nudged it further open, just enough to allow his eyes to seek out the source of the commotion.

He stood motionless, his hand still resting on the door, as the scene within unfolded before him.

His eyes widened, the crimson depths reflecting a scene of forbidden desire. There in the dimly lit chamber, the air thick with the scent of sweat and desperation, you writhed upon your simple bed—a vision of unbridled sensuality.

"Gods above," he murmured under his breath, unable to tear his gaze from the sight. His voice was a mere whisper, lost amidst the symphony of your pleasure.

Your small fingers danced along the slick folds of your sex, each movement deliberate and hungry. Lustful whines escaped your lips in ragged sighs and your moans pierced Astarion's heart like an arrow. You were yet unaware of his presence, lost in your own world of ecstasy.

"Y/N," he finally managed to say, louder this time, but the plea in his voice was drowned by your cries. You did not hear him, or if you did, you gave no indication, consumed as you were by your own touch.

'Stop,' he thought desperately, 'you mustn't witness this.' But his body betrayed him, rooted to the spot, drinking in the sight of you. The heat that had been kindling within him since he'd first laid eyes on you now blazed uncontrollably.

He watched, transfixed, as your back arched, your breasts rising and falling with each labored breath. The soft mounds were flushed with arousal, your nipples taut and begging for attention. Your other hand alternated between caressing your breast and pinching your rose-colored nipple, sending ripples of pleasure through your body.

"Please," you gasped, the word a prayer for release. "I need... I can't..."

Father Astarion felt a surge of protectiveness, intermingled with a darker, hungrier sensation. He knew that he, a man of the cloth, should not be standing there, should not be watching this intimate act of self-pleasure, yet he found himself entranced by your uninhibited display.

"Is this what you seek?" he asked silently, the question for himself more than you. "To be the one to push her over that edge?"

His blood roared in his ears, drowning out the remnants of piety that screamed for him to leave. There was a battle raging within him, between his vows and the yearning to step forward—to replace your hands with his own, to taste the salt on your skin, to hear his name on your lips instead of the silent gods you seemed to be reaching for.

Another whimper, more tortured than the last, pulled him from his daze. He took a half-step backward, the creak of the wooden floorboard underfoot sounding like thunder in the quiet room. Astarion’s throat was dry, his body tense with longing.

"Forgive me," he whispered, turning his face away, though his eyes betrayed him, sliding back for another glimpse that lasted far too long. "Forgive me..."

His breath hitched, a silent witness to the carnal symphony playing out before him. Shadows clung to the corners of the dimly lit chamber as the fading light of day bathed your writhing form in an ethereal glow. Your fingers, slick and unyielding, danced fervently within yourself, your movements both desperate and deliberate. The decadent chorus of your pleasure—a blend of wet, rhythmic sounds—sent involuntary tremors through his body.

"Gods... yes, just like that, please..." Your voice was broken and full of lust, a prayer for release that echoed off the walls.

He swallowed thickly, the taste of his restraint bitter on his tongue. His hands, traitorous and curious, sought the heat beneath his breeches, and he winced at the contact – a touch both foreign and achingly familiar. The sensation clawed at his resolve, tearing at the fabric of his vows.

"Ah... A-Astarion..." you moaned, your voice slowly morphing into a sinful incantation - a desperate plea to the heavens, or perhaps to the depths below. His name rolled off your lips like a sacrilegious mantra, stoking that fire within him into something unbearable.

"Gods above…," he whispered under his breath, a ghost of words lost amid the melody of your solitary passion. Envy gnawed at him, its sharp teeth sinking into his heart as you envisioned another, even if that other bore his visage.

"Please... Fuck - ruin me..." you begged the illusion, your back arching, your body tightly stretched like a bowstring. The priest within him recoiled, but the man, the primal creature lurking beneath the clerical collar, stirred from its slumber.

"Enough," He hissed to himself, his conviction giving way to carnal desire. He could no longer be a mere observer, a passive guardian of sanctity. As you called out for him, in flesh or fantasy, he felt that familiar longing within him awaken. With a growl, he shed his clerical collar and entered the room with purpose. This was no longer a soft tread of uncertainty, but the confident steps of a man who knew what he wanted. You needed him, craved him, and he... he needed this. Gods above, he needed this.

"Ms. Silverleaf," he said louder now, his voice cutting through the haze of your ecstasy.

Your eyes snapped open, bright and piercing, locking onto his deep, vermillion gaze. Your silky hair cascaded around your face as you stilled, your body drawn with anticipation. In that moment, your eyes were a tangle of fire and gold, two stars colliding and igniting a blaze that consumed you both. Your stillness was a bird poised on the edge of a branch, ready to take flight at the slightest movement. And in that moment, the question hung in the air like a forbidden fruit, tempting and dangerous: Which would it be? Salvation or damnation?

"F-Father Astarion," you breathed, a mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and something...darker. Something hungry .

The pale elf stood tall and imposing in the dimly lit room, his pastoral leash discarded and forgotten on the floor. The light streamed through the window, catching the soft curls of his silver hair and casting an intimidating glow in his intense eyes. You laid bare before him, a true vision of ethereal beauty - your pleading eyes and wild hair fanned out around you, nearly forming a halo around your glistening, desperate form.

"Tell me, my child," He began, his voice low and steady, "What manner of evil has reduced you to this? A whimpering, sodden mess baring yourself so shamelessly before a man of God?"

"Please, Father...I-I’m so sorry. Please…p-please help me," You whimpered, your voice soft as velvet.

"Of course, child," His voice was a soothing balm, yet it was wrought with an undercurrent of something depraved. "Would you have me guide you in prayer, to cleanse these wicked ideations from your soul?"

Your head shook, a silent bell tolling 'no'. His gaze never left you, sharp and probing as he began to unfasten his shirt, each button relinquishing its hold with deliberate slowness. The pale flesh beneath his priestly attire came into view - his lean, muscular body sending a sharp jolt to your needy cunt.

"Or perhaps," he continued, his tone laced with concern, "you'd prefer I summon the physician? They might concoct a remedy for your... afflictions ."

As he circled the bed, the air around you charged with unsaid words, he grazed your cheek with his knuckles, the touch feather-light yet scorching. Your skin burned under his caress, your heat evident to his discerning touch.

"Ah, you are quite warm," he murmured, almost to himself. He leaned closer, his breath fanning your face as he tenderly pushed away strands of hair that had clung to your dampened forehead. "What then, my dear, do you seek from me?"

You swallowed thickly, your body betraying your desires with a soft whimper. "I don't need a doctor, Father," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Then what?" Astarion whispered back, his proximity intoxicating.

Your breath hitched; you bit down on your lower lip, trapping it between your teeth. In a voice suffused with shame and longing, you uttered the words, "Touch me."

Astarion clicked his tongue, a reprimand and a tease all at once. "You know that is not possible. My vows..." He let the sentence hang, unfinished, yet heavy with implication.

But desire was a siren's call, relentless and seductive. As your fingers resumed their salacious dance, the soft wet sounds that they made reached his ears, sending a bolt of raw need through him. He watched, transfixed, his body responding despite his resolve.

"Is this a habit of yours?" he asked, his voice husky with restrained passion.

"No," you breathed out, your movements unabated.

"Has another taught you such pleasures?" His inquiry was both invasive and achingly tender.

"N-no. Never," you admitted, your voice tinged with innocence and discovery.

He hummed, acknowledging your confession. "There is much to learn about one's own flesh... to understand what brings pleasure, what stirs the soul."

"Please," you gasped, your plea floating between you like a fragile leaf caught in a tempest. "Help me, Father... Show me how to feel good..."

"Perhaps," he whispered, his voice a thread of silk amidst the tension, "a slight... guidance would not be deemed sacrilegious." The words felt foreign on his tongue, like a dark incantation that could unravel the very fabric of his being.

Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if absorbing the gravity of what he proposed. Your lips parted in a silent plea, your desire an unspoken prayer that beckoned him closer.

With reverent trepidation, he extended his hand, the silhouette of his fingers ghosting over the valley of your chest before descending. The heat of your skin seared his palm as he cupped your heavy breast, feeling its softness yield beneath his touch. Your sharp intake of breath was both a torment and a balm to his conflicted soul.

"Ah..." you sighed, a delicate sound that underscored the urgency of this illicit communion.

Astarion allowed himself a moment to marvel at the responsiveness of your body, the way your flesh puckered against the chilled air, inviting his thumb to graze over the tight peak of your nipple. To him, it was the first transgression – a tactile whisper that spoke volumes of forbidden pleasures yet explored.

His hand trailed lower, a painstaking journey across the landscape of your ribcage, the undulating terrain of your belly, each movement deliberate, a testament to the restraint he fought to maintain. It was an artist's touch, painting strokes of fire upon your canvas of anticipation.

"May I?" The question hung between you, laden with consequences yet to unfold. His eyes sought yours, seeking absolution in their depths. Your gaze held his, fierce and unyielding—a mirror reflecting your shared hunger.

"Please," you breathed, the single word a key turning in the lock of his resolve.

His fingers, cold and steady, grazed the small of your waist, drawing your attention away from his eyes to the point of contact. You shuddered as his touch met the sensitive skin just above your hips. His fingers traced the delicate curve of your pelvis, kneading it gently, exploring your body with the reverence of a man discovering the wonders of the world for the first time.

"You are beautiful," he whispered, his fingers tracing the delicate lines of your hip. "Sinfully so, darling. But your wants, your needs... they are only human."

Astarion's eyes lingered on the curve of your hips, tracing the silhouette of your form with his gaze. The desire within him threatened to consume him whole, promising to both destroy and purify. He knew that once he crossed this line, there would be no going back. You were both aware of the weight of your transgression, heavy like a shroud about your limbs.

But your voice broke the silence, another soft plea that cracked the veneer of control he had so meticulously constructed. "Please," you begged, your voice trembling.

His fingers found you, hesitant at first, exploring the soft folds that lay between your legs. The air was heavy with the scent of arousal and anticipation, a heady cocktail that intoxicated you both. Astarion was no stranger to the touch of a woman, but this was different. This was sacrilegious. He could feel the weight of his vows bearing down upon him, threatening to suffocate him, but he persisted.

Your body tensed at his touch, the resistance only serving to heighten his desire. As he continued to explore you, he whispered softly into your ear, "You are allowed to feel pleasure, sweet girl. It's alright..."

Your breath hitched as his fingers delved deeper, your body arching against him in response. He could feel the heat radiating from your core, the pulsing life within you behind the delicate tissue that covered your being. He had never felt anything so alive, so vital, so right.

His fingers continued their exploration, sliding gently against your skin, tracing the pathways of your desire. Every touch was a caress, a promise, a confirmation that you were real, that you were there, and that he was not alone in this sin.

As his fingers continued their journey, he felt a surge of pure lust wash over him. He knew that he could not resist any longer. He needed to feel you, to possess you. He needed to experience the fullness of your passion and the sinful pleasures that awaited him.

He could feel your heart racing, your breaths becoming short and ragged as he touched you. Every touch, every brush of his fingers against your skin sent electricity coursing through his veins.

"Gods," you keened, your voice a desperate plea for release as he slowly sunk his middle and ring finger into your tight channel. Your body trembled, and you pressed yourself against him, urging him to continue.

Astarion released a long, shuddering breath. This was madness, this transgression. But the need was far too strong, too powerful.

His pale skin almost seemed to shimmer as he shifted his position on the bed. His scarlet eyes, usually so intense and piercing when preaching from the pulpit, were now dark with lust as they focused on your form laid out before him. The contrast between you was stark—him, the embodiment of forbidden restraint, and you, the very image of uninhibited desire.

"Father," you panted, your voice a sultry melody that tugged at the most carnal parts of him, "please..."

He slid his fingers deeper, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from you. The sight of your pleasure, the way you arched beneath his touch, drew a low groan from Astarion's throat. He was no longer the vampiric preacher who had given his life to God and vowed celibacy; he was a man, flesh and blood, driven by primal urges he could no longer deny. Your scent filled his senses, intoxicatingly sweet, and it sparked a curiosity that overshadowed all rational thought.

"Gods, I shouldn't..." He murmured, more to himself than to you, but the words died in his mouth as his tongue dared to taste the honeyed sweetness of your center. The flavor burst upon his senses—a delectable mix of sin and innocence—and his groan vibrated against your sensitive skin. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated need.

"M-more...please..don't stop," You encouraged breathlessly, your eyes half-closed, hands finding their way into his silver curls, urging him closer.

Astarion complied, his once-hesitant licks becoming more insistent, delving into your folds with fervor. The holy man within him screamed for repentance, for restraint, but he was drowned out by the carnal beast that had been awakened. With each stroke of his tongue and curl of his fingers, he mapped out every contour of your dripping cunt, committing your responses to memory like sacred scripture.

"Ah, Astarion," you moaned, a symphony to his ears.

"Y/N," he whispered against you, his voice husky with passion, "you taste positively divine ."

As he continued to worship at the altar of your body, the church bells of propriety and oath rang distant, irrelevant. In this moment, there was only you and the undeniable truth that you were bound by something far stronger than doctrine. The friction of his fingers inside of you, coupled with the relentless pursuit of his tongue, stoked a flame within you that threatened to consume you both.

"Father," you gasped, your plea a beautiful litany, "Aah - Gods, yes.."

Your hips bucked beneath him, the fierce desire in your eyes melting into a tempest of ecstasy. The supple flesh of your sex clenched around his fingers, and the sight of it, the feel of it, sent a shiver down his spine. The moments of hesitation were a blur in the past, all that remained was the hunger between you, the natural dance of bodies, the silent pleas for release.

He felt that familiar throb of anticipation, the prelude to a world of pleasure and sin. It would be a fall from grace, a transgression of the utmost magnitude. But he knew, deep down, that his heart would break if he denied you the satisfaction you so desperately craved.

He could feel the tension within your body, the resistance slowly fading away as you came closer to the edge. Your breaths, once short and gasping, now deep and labored as you allowed yourself to fully succumb to sinful bliss.

His fingers, still buried inside of you, crescendoed their rhythm, matching the tempo of your heartbeat. He traced the swell of your clitoris with his thumb and lapped at the nectar that spilled from you, staining his lips with its sweetness.

"Astarion," you whispered, your voice a low, sultry moan. "Please, I need more."

He understood. He needed more, too. He plunged his fingers deep within you once more, eliciting a scream of unadulterated pleasure. The supple flesh of your sex clenched and spasmed around him, and the sight of it, the feel of it, drew a deep growl from within his chest.

His breath was a harsh rasp, his every sense alight with the raw scent of desire that rose from your flushed skin. Withdrawing his hand and mouth from your quivering, wet warmth, he couldn't help but admire the sheen of arousal that coated him, a decadent gloss that marked his sin as much as it did his yearning. He gazed upon you, reclined and panting, through eyes hazed with lust, finding you all the more enchanting for the sweat that painted your delicious curves.

"Look at you," he murmured, voice laced with both reproof and undeniable affection, "such a greedy little thing."

His fingers, still trembling with the remnants of your pleasure, worked at the ties of his breeches with a deftness born of necessity—this shedding of his final vestment felt like the peeling away of his last vow. The fabric fell away, pooling around his knees before he kicked them off, discarding the cloth and constraint alike into a forgotten pile on the floor.

Bare now before you, the dying light cast shadows across his lean form, playing over the muscles that tensed with anticipation. His heavy, aching cock stood proud, a testament to their forbidden ardor, twitching as though it had a life of its own, the tip shining with evidence of his need.

"Can you handle more?" he asked, his voice a low growl that vibrated in the charged air between you. It wasn't just a question of your endurance; it was a challenge to his self-control, a plea for absolution for the hot sin you were about to commit.

Your response was caught in your throat, your eyes wide as you drank in the sight of him. In your gaze, Astarion saw the war between lust and trepidation—yet when you swallowed, it not only discarded your fears but also his lingering doubts.

"Please," you whispered, your voice thick with want. "Take me... I want to be yours."

The words crashed into him like a wave, sweeping away the last of his restraint. A part of him—the man who had clung to his faith amidst a sea of past temptations—whispered that this was the point of no return. But another part, deeper, more primal, rejoiced in the offering you presented.

"Then mine you shall be," he vowed, his mind afire with images of your union, of how he would fill you, stretch you, consume your essence until there was no distinguishing where one ended and the other began.

As he positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your slick heat, he felt the weight of years of celibacy poised on the brink of oblivion. His heavy balls tightened, aching with the promise of release, the need to claim and be claimed overwhelming him.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Yes," came your breathless reply.

And with that single word, Astarion surrendered, gently pushing forward and guiding himself into your tight warmth with a slow, deliberate thrust.

You gasped as his girth split your virgin pussy, your body writhing beneath him, a silent plea for more. Astarion pushed in deeper, sinking slowly into you…inch by agonizing inch until you felt his balls press against the tender flesh of your ass. The sensation was unlike anything you had ever experienced, a divine mix of pain and pleasure that sent shivers down your spine.

"Ohh, Gods above ...you're so tight, little one" he whispered, pulling back just enough to tease your entrance and admire the pink ring of your ruined maidenhood around his shaft before plunging himself into your core once more.

You moaned, your hands clawing at his back, urging him on. “Mmf! Ahh…d-don't stop, please..."

Astarion groaned, his hips bucking urgently against you. He wanted to savor this moment, to take his time, but the beast within him demanded satisfaction. He shifted his angle, his cock rubbing at that sweetest spot inside of you just right as his crown pressed rough kisses against your cervix over and over again, and you cried out in pleasure and pain.

"Ahhh - fuck ," you cried, your voice a mixture of ecstasy and anguish, "Gods, it's too much...I can't-”

"Yes you can," Astarion whispered reassuringly, his breath hot against your ear. He thrust faster, harder, his cock sliding in and out of you with a wet, slapping sound. "You're taking me so well, sweet girl. Being so very good for me..."

Your body arched beneath him, your nails digging into his back as you climaxed hard, your orgasm hitting you like a whirlwind of bliss and agony.

Astarion felt your muscles clench around him, a vice-like grip that threatened to pull him under. His release was imminent, and he knew that once it came, there would be no turning back.

His thrusts became more frantic, the need to conquer your petite body overtaking him. Each movement was a battle, each thrust a plea, each twitch of his manhood a promise. He could feel the sweat dripping from his forehead.

"Forgive me," he grunted, his voice strained, his voice echoing your pleas from earlier. "I just can't control myself around you..."

You let out a needy, lustful whimper as your overstimulated body trembled beneath him, matching his rhythm as you reached once more for the edge of a new kind of bliss you had never known.

"I don't want you to control yourself," you huffed. "I want to feel every bit of you inside me."

Astarion groaned, his eyes rolling back as he plunged into you with reckless abandon, his cock twitching and pulsing within your snug hole. He felt your walls tighten around him, milking him for everything he had to offer. This was it; this was the moment. He knew that once he emptied himself inside of you, he would be lost in you forever. With a desperate cry, he buried himself to the hilt inside of your molten core, stuffing you completely with his thick, neglected manhood as his seed flooded and filled you, a substantial overflow seeping from where you remained joined - a testament to your sinful union.

As he collapsed onto you, his breathing came in ragged gasps. You lay beneath him, your eyes closed, face flushed with the afterglow of your lovemaking. You felt his cock twitching inside of you, still wrapped around him in a tight grip from your shared ecstasy.

He could feel your heart racing beneath him. This was not merely sex or desire; this was something forever altered, indelible in your souls. As your bodies calmed from their fervor, he found himself still nestled within your warmth, where he belonged.

He knew that to stay burrowed within you would be to invite temptation's final caress, but he could not make himself retreat. Not now, not ever. You were his now, and he was yours; there was no turning back...

[uzumaki-rebellion]

"Tethered to You" ("The Acolyte) Chapter 1

Chapter Summary:

Qimir's prolgue intro where he meets an imposter trying to trick him.

"While I was tethered to you,

You cut it straight to the truth

And we're so one and the same,

So all my pain is your pain

You thought your soul was a necklace

That you could wear and take off

That you could rip then break off,

That you could trade in the dark

But you're mine…"

Victoria Monet"—"Power of Two"

Qimir leaned against the curved, key-holed style archway in the back of the dusty apothecary fiddling with a piece of half-eaten fruit in his hand. He wore a pair of dark shop goggles out of boredom and thought about what kind of meal he wanted for the evening to settle his stomach. Much of the food available in taverns and outdoor markets of Olega made him queasy. Bland spices on greasy meat cooked out in the open, and overcooked flatbreads paired with soggy tasteless vegetables was the norm in his immediate area. He much preferred simpler fare like homemade soups and grilled seafood freshly caught.

Waving his hand to shoo away an insect from his face, he glanced over his shoulder and sniffed the scent of the fresh decoction he created. Lavender and mauve spindly herbs boiled away in a scarlet glass pot on the workshop table where he used a mortar and pestle to grind some different dried plants he would boil and steep later for tea in the evening. For now the herbs filled the apothecary with a pleasant aroma of nature in the wild on a cool Olega afternoon. There were other edible plants and some off-world mushrooms covered in containers along the shelves across the room that he could use to make a savory broth. Perhaps he could finesse some taste out of some tavern vegetables left over in the small conservator behind the work table.

Strands of silky black hair fell against his cheek as he tilted his head to listen.

Footsteps approached the entrance.

She wasn't due back soon.

He had a sign posted on the door informing inhabitants that he was on a lunch break and would re-open in half an hour. Olega was rife with black market vendors, unscrupulous tradesmen, and con artists, so no one paid much attention when he took over the place after tricking the feeble humanoid mind of the original owner. Using his handsome face and seductive predatory eyes, Qimir led the old shopkeeper to believe that he had to leave immediately for an overdue vacation. The husky and very hairy owner removed themselves quickly and Qimir settled in temporarily with Mae…Mae who was supposed to be out scouting and not returning to the shop at that exact time.

The footsteps sounded like her, but with less aggression. She seemed to walk with hesitation and entered the apothecary with unfamiliar coquettish eyes. Her physical bearing was off-kilter. She was different. Mae not Mae.

An imposter.

This one tried to recreate the persona and mimicked Mae's style, but his real wanna-be acolyte never owned that particular black body wrap. The true giveaway was the lack of a mask across her face to hide her identity from the general public.

Curiosity rather than caution percolated in his mind.

"Hello…" she said.

He fought the urge to burst out laughing from the poor charade. Mae was always direct and didn't waste time on pleasantries with him. No, he was simply the stranger who did her bidding on the Master's behalf. He was there to assist her goal of killing four Jedi masters without weapons. Once her task was done, she would return to his planet and tell the Master that her quest had been fulfilled, and that she was at last ready to become his acolyte.

A restless anger lived inside of Mae. Hate even. Qimir had hoped that she would be up to the task and she showed great promise and focused determination. However, she lacked a certain quality that prevented him from accepting her outright. Until he witnessed that one thing she needed, he would have to wait for proof of growth and readiness. Or kill her.

"Oh, hello," he said, waving his hand at her.

She stayed rooted in place. Wary.

"Hi…you alright?" he responded, studying the imposter from head to toe while he placed the mushy fruit on the counter along with the goggles.

Carefully rounding the counter, he approached her as he normally would Mae.

"You're back so early…"

She was guarded and yet committed to the poor acting job. He followed suit, still amused to see Mae's face on someone else. She feigned confidence in her presentation. He sensed others advancing toward the shop. All Jedi. She was a pawn they used to shake Mae out from the shadows.

"I wanted to see you."

She intrigued him now. The awkward words tumbled from her lips and heightened the tension crackling between them. He touched his chest, "See me? Oh…Mae, uh, are you okay? Did the poison work? You're acting so strange."

He tilted his head and watched every facial tic in her round light brown face. Mae always had intense eyes reminding him of meteors blazing across the darkness of space. Fake Mae held the same fierceness. It was time to let her know he was on to her.

"Wait," he said, easing ever so close to her. "You killed Torbin without the poison. He will be so pleased."

He hoped it was true. The yellow elixir he made for her couldn't even touch skin without harming someone. It was that powerful and deadly. The imposter's eyes flickered the truth and an inner part of him slumped with disappointment. He gave her a sly smirk. She lifted her chin up.

"No, I used it. I just wanted to thank you…"

Her eyes almost became watery and he gazed at her lush lips, struck by how easy it would be to kiss her trembles of fear away. His mask slipped. A part of her knew he discovered the ruse. The corners of his lips dropped the smirk from his mouth. She kept stretching their farce with shaky bravado in her stance. He stepped to his full height in front of her, his gaze dusting across her eyes, rounded nose, and full lips once more up close. So close. The temptation to trace the calloused tip of his thumb across the outline of her lips beckoned, but he resisted crossing that frontier. The Jedi would barge in on them at any minute. He'd have to take on the caricature he played for Mae again. The imposter caught a glimpse of the real him and he let her see more.

Those dark brown eyes stared at him and something new flickered in them.

Interest.

In him.

They were both mysteries to one another. She teased hungry eyes. Beautiful eyes. They compelled him to step into intimacy. Her breath came out in a tiny gasp that only lovers shared when they were about to touch for the first time. His body became aware of the heat from hers. A nervous tremble quaked her body and he ignored it, enraptured with those luminous eyes that would haunt him the way Mae's never did.

He knew of a long dead twin sister. Mae told him about her when he trained her. With his helmet snug on his head sporting a twisted, sinister cortosis smile and his light saber holstered to his hip, he listened to his young charge spill out the secrets of her life among exiled witches on Brendok. It had to be her. There was a coolness to her that he liked. Mae was the hot-headed one. But this one…

Was she force sensitive too? His eyes narrowed at the possibilities until he sensed the pulsing energy of the force within her. He opened himself up more and a wave of incredible energy rippled across his body from her. The tendrils of his innate power uncoiled and reached out to her in a subtle test seeking light or darkness. He had to be careful. He was pretending to be a nobody, a nameless minion for her twin.

The dark power was in her and he almost salivated. He embraced the idea of having two strong acolytes at his fingertips. The imposter already looked mesmerized by his presence and he was ready to seduce her further. All he needed was a few more minutes alone with her.

"You look exactly like her…"

He left his real self wide open for too long. Her keen senses reacted to his pulsing desire that thread itself around her mind. Panic set in, and she jumped back, leveling a weapon at his face.

"Whoa…whoa, whoa, whoa, wait!"

He threw his hands up and a tall Jedi with short locs and an agitated tone dashed in front of the imposter wielding his light saber. A second Jedi with lank hair and a weary battle-worn face strode in, and still another snuck up behind him. Qimir slammed the mask of his false self back down and quickly became the bumbling stranger who knew nothing. They wanted Mae, asked him questions about her whereabouts and threatened him about helping her poison a Jedi. The older Jedi pounced on him with an offer. "If you will cooperate, we will consider letting you go with a warning."

Qimir held his hands up in a defensive stance making himself appear small and meek. He wanted to keep the imposter close and was willing to give up Mae in the process. The Jedi weren't interested in arresting him or punishing him for assisting with the murder of Master Torbin. They only wanted Mae.

"If you want to get to her, she'll be back here tonight. I'm holding some things for her," Qimir said.

"Yord, secure the peremiter. Keep an eye out for Mae," the older Jedi said.

He brushed past Qimir with a dismissive whoosh of his robes and the other Jedi followed him.

Qimir gave another glance at the imposter. Her eyes latched onto his for a split second longer than necessary before she swept her way across the threshold leaving him alone in the shop.

His soft fleshy lips swept up into a dark delicious smile.

A flame had been sparked in her eyes.

Ignited by him.

Chapter 2 HERE.

[prince-rowan-of-the-forest]

A Swallow's Symphony In Spring (19/19)

Epilogue - There is no Power like the Freedom of Their Flight

<- Previous | Masterpost |

----

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1281

----

“Oh skies,” Roman says as he paced back and forth as Janus tried - and the keyword is tried - to fix the lace on his dress. “What if he doesn’t like the dress? What if it’s too much - what if he sees me and decides he doesn’t want to-”

Janus put his hand on top of Roman’s head, effectively startling him out of pacing and talking all at once.

“He’s not going to hate you,” Janus said. “He’s put up with you for almost four years. How? I have no idea, but he has. He’s not going to leave now, not even if you trip over your skirt and fall face first as you walk up the aisle, got it?”

Now that Roman was still, Janus was able to fret properly, fixing the lacing at the back of his corset so that the gold bow sat neatly on the ruffles of his red dress. 

The dress fell to the floor and reminded Roman a little of the dresses he would wear to balls at other kingdoms - it was the only way he’d wear a colour like this back then. Vibrant reds with shimmering gold accents, white at the front and on the bodice with a semi translucent mauve veil over his hair that cascaded down his back - decorated with glittering silver and a hemline of gold and blue flowers on green vines. Something that represented his family - his whole family - the ones he had chosen. 

Janus adjusted his veil ever so slightly, pinning it back into its place before patting his cheeks. “Virgil’s going to think you look absolutely beautiful.”

Roman let out a soft sigh of relief just as the door to the little backroom of the tavern they were waiting in opened and Logan poked his head in. 

“Is everyone ready?” he asked, glancing at the two of them. Janus turned to look at Roman for the answer, who smiled and nodded.

“Yes, I’m ready,” he says. Logan nodded.

“Then we will begin in ten minutes, shall we?” he gestures to the door - offering to lead them to their places. Roman smiled, nodded and followed him out.

“How’s Virgil doing?” Roman asked as they made their way downstairs. The  train of Roman’s dress dragged on the staircase and his shoes clicked on the wood. This was the most expensive thing he’d worn since he had lived at the palace and yet it was probably worth less than most of the dresses he had owned then, but he had saved up for this. He had bought this dress with his own wages, that mattered so much more than what it cost and besides, he thought it was incredibly beautiful regardless. 

“He is almost ready as well. As is tradition, your family - well; Remus - is helping him prepare. Although, I don’t know how much ‘help’ Remus is actually giving.” 

The trio chuckled as they continued down the stairs.

—-

The tavern had been redecorated for the wedding, It was closed to customers for today, though most of their regulars had received an invite regardless. It wasn’t an extravagant event, they had simply pushed the tables back and rearranged the chairs. Red and purple banners had been strung up around the room, draping the pillars and the bar, yellow and pink flowers were arranged on each table around the back of the room. The stage had been framed with flowers and ribbons to look like an archway, beneath which Virgil stood. 

The way he was fidgeting with his hands did not distract from the silver suit he was wearing, accented with purple wherever possible and pink where it wasn’t. He wore a veil just like Roman’s, just like the ones from the spring festival - though this one was red, with the same yellow, blue and green border as Romans. Someone had attempted (and failed) to tame his hair. Roman thought he looked just as beautiful as he always did. Janus and Logan followed Roman up the aisle and Roman had to resist the urge to run to his beloved. It looked like Virgil was having the same problem. 

Remus stood in the front row, he wasn’t dressed in a fancy suit or dress - instead sporting what was practically jester wear. Roman simply smiled fondly at him. His brother gave a double thumbs up from the audience as Roman stepped up onto the stage beside Virgil, immediately taking his hands. 

Virgil returned the smile on Roman’s face. “You look beautiful,” he whispered. Roman couldn’t help but grin.

“You look incredibly handsome, my love,” Roman said softly, bringing one of Virgil’s hands up to kiss his knuckles. Janus coughed to get their attention.

“Save it for after the vows,” Janus teased, rolling his eyes. “You can kiss all you want then.”

Virgil blushed crimson despite the giddy look on his face. “Well why don’t you hurry up and marry us then?” he taunted back. Making the audience laugh. Janus huffed. 

“Yes yes, alright,” Janus said, clearing his throat again and tapping his cane against the ground for silence, “Get on with it then.”

Virgil shook his head and took a deep breath before beginning,“I, Virgil Iris Wynter, take you, Roman Anserinae, to be my husband, to love and protect you through every trial and trouble, to cherish and care for you through each winter and each summer, through rain, cloud and shine, forever and always.”

Before Roman could start his own vows, he had to take a deep breath and choke back the happy tears that were already building in his eyes. Butwith a soft smile from Virgil and a nod of encouragement from Janus, Roman spoke. “I, Roman Anserinae, take you, Virgil Iris Wynter, to be my husband. To  love and support you through every trial and trouble, to cherish and care for you through each winter and each summer, through rain, cloud and shine, forever and always.”

Logan approached the two of them with the rings Virgil had made, each a simple band of gold set with an inner ring of purple and red. They were simple rings, far less ornate than their engagement rings, but Roman loved them just as much.

“Take this ring we crafted together as a symbol of my love and devotion to you,” Virgil said as he slipped the purple ring onto Roman’s finger.  “And with this bond even death shall not part us.”

Roman could barely get through the same words through his tears - which Janus seemed to find vaguely amusing. He couldn’t help it - he had never imagined this day would come, it was so beautiful, putting the ring onto Virgil’s finger as they stood in the place that had become their home, surrounded by people who had become Roman’s family as much as they were already Virgil’s. This was every bit the life he had imagined for himself when he had allowed his mind to wander back at the palace. 

“Unless anyone has any objections - and if you do you shall have to deal with Remus, so I wouldn’t bother - I now pronounce you married,” Janus says, smiling as he - in true Janus fashion - paused for far too long, “You may now kiss.”

Roman lunged forward to wrap his arms around Virgil and pressed a kiss to his lips fast enough that Janus let out a startled laugh. Virgil wrapped him up tightly as the tavern erupted into cheering and at that moment, Roman realised just how many people loved him.

Together, they danced until the sun peeked over the horizon, surrounded by family and friends and strangers who loved and cared for him. 

Roman was not alone anymore.

[gensfuckin]

Serenade of Hidden Love

Venti x fem!Reader

Word Count: 757

A/n: this is self indulgent af, just fluff and comfort as venti confesses his love, I occasionally write poems, but I didn't know how to write a song as Venti xd, I'll get to your requests soon! Female reader

The lively ambiance of the Angel's Share tavern filled the air as laughter and merriment reverberated within its walls. Amidst the crowd, you, a vibrant and extroverted individual, had a knack for making flirty remarks and bouncing witty banter with anyone who dared to engage. No one was safe from your playful energy, not even the enigmatic bard, Venti.

At a corner table, Venti sat, his azure eyes twinkling mischievously as he strummed his lyre. You would often find yourself seated across from him, engaged in a battle of words and charm, both of you trying to outflirt the other. The energy between you was electric, the comments bouncing back and forth like a lively game.

Diluc, the stoic owner of the tavern, would often sigh and roll his eyes at your antics, convinced that there was more to your dynamic than mere friendship. Others in the tavern speculated the same, murmuring and exchanging knowing glances. Yet, whenever anyone would ask about your relationship, you would dismiss it with a dismissive wave and a playful wink.

"We're just friends," you would insist with a mischievous grin. "We don't like each other like that."

Secretly, your heart longed for something real, a love deep and true. But you couldn't fathom that Venti's teasing was anything more than a friendly game, afraid that revealing your feelings would lead to rejection. Instead, you chose to bury your desires beneath a confident charade, captivating the room with your sparkling personality.

One particularly vibrant night at the tavern, after a raucous round of jokes and drinks, Venti leaned in closer, a glint of anticipation in his eyes. "Care to accompany me for a walk, my enchanting companion? There's a place I'd like to take you."

Without hesitation, you nodded, and together you ventured into the moonlit streets of Mondstadt. The night was calm, and a gentle breeze whispered through the air, carrying the faint scent of Cecilia blossoms.

As you strolled with him at your side, Venti's expression grew more earnest. He stopped beneath a moonlit archway, a secluded spot away from prying eyes. The twinkle in his eyes turned into a tender gaze, and he began to strum his lyre, creating a melody that tugged at the strings of your heart.

The sweet sound of the lyre filled the air, and Venti's voice harmonized with the soft notes as he sang his heartfelt song:

"Deep in the shadows, a love untold,

A charming bard and a maiden of gold.

In playful banter, their hearts entwined,

An enchanting melody, secrets confined.

She, vibrant and beautiful, a charismatic fire,

He, a mischievous soul, filled with ignited desire.

Their words danced, a flirtatious duet,

But beneath the jests, a love deep and hidden yet.

Oh, darling, can't you see?

You're the enchantment that captivates me.

With every word and every glance,

You've won my heart in this playful dance."

As Venti finished his song, the realization washed over you like a wave. The words, the melody—they were about you. Surprised and elated, your confident charade faltered as doubt seeped into your thoughts. In a vulnerable moment, you asked, "Are you sure, Venti? You're you and I'm just... me."

Venti's gentle smile melted away any lingering insecurities. He drew closer, his eyes filled with sincerity. "Windblume, you have bewitched me with your spirit and wit. You are more than worthy of my love," he reassured you, his voice as soothing as a lullaby.

"And do you know what, my lovely menace?" he added, a mischievous glimmer returning to his eyes. "You won our game. You captured my heart, just as I captured yours."

From that moment on, the usual banter at the tavern transformed into deep and sensual conversations, heartfelt remarks replacing mischievous teases. The town of Mondstadt couldn't help but take notice of the change, quickly realizing the shift in your relationship. Congratulations and well-wishes flooded in from friends and strangers alike.

"Finally!" Kaeya exclaimed, clapping his hands. "We were placing bets on who would confess first. Rosaria owes me 500 mora."

Diluc, observing the transformation of his once-rowdy patrons, couldn't help but feel relieved. His stoic expression softened as he watched you and Venti exchange affectionate glances, their love for each other radiating like a beacon.

In the end, the playful game of flirts had blossomed into a deep and meaningful connection, a love story hidden beneath the veil of mischief. With Venti's serenade and heartfelt confession, the bond you both shared became an unbreakable melody, harmonizing the hearts of the bard and the charismatic maiden.

[the-lunacy-system]

Headmates

Mel

Pronouns - she/her Gender - trans female Sexuality - demisexual/bisexual Age - 15 Origin - born with the body, not sure what the word for that origin is Role - host Note(s): Usually frontlocked, has most of the external memories as a result [M1]

Cornelius

Pronouns - he/him Gender - cis male Sexuality - idk he won't tell us Age - 500+ Origin - fenigenic Role - physical protector/geographical archivist/scout Note(s): was an English soldier in his past life. He won't say more than that [M1]

Meyeki

Pronouns - she/her Gender - trans female Sexuality - asexual Age - blurry, ~16-17 Origin - quoigenic Role - dysphoria holder Note(s): can be a bit rude at times. She often makes me voice train when she's in co-con [M1] I think she'll be less rude now, thanks to those talks I had with her. [M3]

Michael

Pronouns - he/him Gender - cis male Sexuality - pansexual Age - 23 Origin - introject (OC) Role - order keeper Note(s): was one of my's OCs at first. Was a king back in his source world. Easily annoyed by lack of magic in our reality [M1]

Wraith/Basil

Pronouns - he/it Gender - demiboy Sexuality - omnisexual Age - 16 Origin - Basil (Omori) fictionkin Role - might become a co-host if he continues its recent patterns for long enough Note(s): Wraith was torn apart in Origin by the subconscious shortly after forming. It barely made it to the safety of Bright Field. It's been slowly healing. [M1] NEWS, GOOD AND BAD! GOOD: WRAITH SUDDENLY GOT A BIG BURST OF HEALING AND REMEMBERED EVERYTHING! BAD: WRAITH REMEMBERED EVERYTHING (poor guy, that's a lot of trauma to suddenly remember) [M1]

Bill

Pronouns - he/him/chaos Gender - "Why do you want to know, Golden Boy?" (I, Michael, was the one that asked him) Sexuality - (Because of his response to the gender question, I'm not even going to ask) Age - hundreds of millennia Origin - introject (Gravity Falls) Role - none yet Note(s): Already a handful. [M3]

Headspace

Bright Field

Bright Field is the topmost layer of Headspace. It consists of a white void that has a sort of ground. At the center of Bright Field is the Control Dome, a hollow black metal dome that houses our fronting interface. Across from the Control Dome is the Tavern, where most layers of Headspace meet. Inside the Tavern there is a bar that gives us access to likely symbolic beverages, some of which can trigger emotions on command. Nearby is the Link Arch, a stone archway that holds a portal back to Michael's source world. As far as I know, only he can use it. Floating in circles around the other structures of Bright Field is the Memory Library, two bookshelves filled with memories from everyone in the system constructed on a small floating island.

Origin

Origin is the layer directly below Bright Field. It is the layer where new headmates form, and, as we learned from Wraith, is one of the places where the subconscious is capable of harming us. The easiest way to get in or out of Origin is through one of the doors in the Tavern, but there are other ways (the same goes for most other layers of Headspace)

Fiction Space

Fiction Space is by far the largest layer of Headspace, and is the only one that can be interacted with without the need to actually be in the layer. Fiction Space is, as the name suggests, where a lot of the fiction made and consumed by us is stored. Fiction Space is far too vast to be fully described, even individual regions of it are incredibly complex because of how much time we've spent building it.

Headspace Facts

There are gaps in the fabric of Headspace that can be used to travel to other layers without having to return to the Tavern

Bright Field is the only truly safe layer of Headspace. The other layers can injure and even kill headmates

Headspace only lets those it deems skilled enough to survive traverse all of the layers

If the body is listening to music, it will be played in all of Bright Field as well

Our Gimmick Blogs

@locibarpulo-official

@omnisec-archive

DNI

Anti-endos, anti-tulpas, homophobes, transphobes, aphobes, the Fr*nch, pedophiles, zoophiles, anti-furries, people who ship Dipper and Bill (Gravity Falls), and fully nsfw blogs

[astarab1aze]

➥ Æfre and the City of Love

Located in northeastern Myrrdin, nestled in the valley Duchy of Æfre that always seems struck with spring- and summertime life and color, enchanting and bright.

Lufian gets its name from its tourism industry, local customs, and wholehearted welcoming of nightfolk in direct opposition to the Crown - the City of Love, dedicated to love in all its forms from agape to eros, storge to philautia. Their cultural norms are similar to Myrrdin's on the whole, but do not exclude nightfolk by any means, built by nightfolk who have a great love for the country in which it resides, though not for the laws forced upon them. The Eternal Duchess, V'haidra Vortigern, an elf of Nilmyrion, rules over Lufian and Æfre with her husband, Duke Artem Vortigern, and together they challenge the King's rule - establishing Æfre as a symbol of hope for nightfolk within Myrrdin as well as displacing members of the Upper Houses in terms of power. This vie for political power has cemented a certain level of warning into Myrrdinian forces, as Lufian nightfolk are not afraid to use their magic despite their outwardly friendly and welcoming disposition. Quite an upset among the Upper Houses, and especially in the capital, though neither the Duchess nor the Duke give a damn.

As Lufian is themed around romance and other forms of love, there are many, many things a couple or group could do and see that would set the mood perfectly.

It is surrounded by little streams, rivers, and ponds that are perfect for boating, fishing, casting lanterns, swimming, and otherwise romantic outings;

Fairytale forestry with warm cottage getaways hidden within, the famous Morningstar Bridge crossing the widest river on which a romantic tradition was born - wishes cast in ribbons tied to ornate iron archways and kisses shared with a lover;

Taverns, inns, and a brothel or two primed for even the most specific couples in mind, wide ranges of imported and local wines and live entertainment from music to stage plays;

Grand festivals that last days to celebrate the seven forms of love - eros, agape, philia, mania, ludus, pragma, storge, and philautia - elegant but also loose, full of games, feasting, drinking, dancing, and merryment, with ribbons, lanterns, masks, costumes, magical displays and fireworks;

Jewellers armed with intricately-made, meaningful, enchanted, beautiful, and even simple rings perfect for a promise, or a proposal;

V'haidra's Museum of Art, the largest collection of art in the known world, open until late hours, string and wind music echoing through its opulent halls - perfect for dates;

Greenspaces of cut grass, shade trees, and flowerbeds where children can play, shifters and weres can run, without fear of persecution or threat of violence, incidentally also perfect for picnics;

Trails to run horses, farmlands, vineyards, ranches, archery ranges, an amphitheater, a school and library, a cathedral dedicated to elven, human, and shifter gods, rich and bountiful - perfect to set roots or begin a new love of any kind, be it a romance, a family, or a friendship that can withstand the test of time.

Vampires are excluded from those allowed to enter the city unless they are either Strigani diplomats or accompanied by someone willing to feed them, provably; They cannot have experienced frenzy ever in their lifetime, though how anyone is able to tell is anyone's guess (that is, they can't).

On its surface, Lufian seems a peaceful place and how they manage this is by compulsory military service. Duchess V'haidra does not take her position lightly, though she is a fair and ultimately rather generous noble, valuing her people's happiness to in turn recieve their loyalty - when a person's needs are met and they are given the opportunity to freely seek happiness, they are more likely to answer her call to action. This clashes with the King's incompetence and often heavyhanded methods of dealing with his subjects, but therein lies the problem: He views them as subjects as opposed to people, and all are unhappy, cruel, and needlessly confrontational, bitter and entitled, breaking into factions upon factions - Æfre included where that's concerned. The quality of life under her rule, even in so small a duchy, far surpasses most of Myrrdin, and for this, her people are loyal to her, willing to lay their lives down for her and fight alongside her on the battlefield, train with her in the yards - yes, she spends much time among them. Trusting them as they trust her, cultivating a new standard of living and the will to protect that way of life. For over a hundred years, she's taken great care of Æfre, slowly spreading its territory outward into the Dragon's Tail and toward the Dife Frèt, urging for more for her people, access to materials, fishing, mining, settling, farming, anything they could need. Putting them first to ensure the protection of their lands and her power.

Duchess V'haidra lives in Lufian, in the old elfhen palace, Phar Nal'len, it was built around. Much of the architecture is sweeping, curved and sharp at points, intricately carved and well-maintained whitestone, any damage caused by time repaired with repurposed whitestone and steel reinforcement, grand banners of green, white, and silver fluttering in the wind, her crest of a seven-pointed star and stylized flame in its center everywhere, green terracotta rooftops, planters for shade and fruit trees and pots of Petta blossom, moonflower, and flowering shrubs, whitestone fountains, terraced gardens- Lufian as a whole is a beautiful city, often decorated with colorful flags, magic lights, flowers, and the costume shop is always open. Its people are almost always in a state of preparation for their seven most prominent holidays, and take great pride in their work, even folk from the villages nearby and outside of Æfre prepare and visit with their offerings in tow.

Æfre is not only known for Lufian, but also for its celare, of which are the hardiest, most enduring, and fastest in all of Myrrdin, boasting lean, powerful muscles and high intelligence. Trained to understand hundreds of words, be able to tell the difference between emotions and expressions, know when to fight and when to run, what is and is not acceptable to hunt, among other things. Æfrean celare can run at roughly 80mph at full speed, well above the standard for most other celare.

It seems like a fairytale dream, and it is. It's one of the safest places in Myrrdin, let alone the entire western half of the continent. Its citizens are armed, well-trained, and willing to fight to the death to protect what they have. Although, that isn't to say there isn't darkness within it, within Lufian. Love can be lost as easily as it's gained, and it's never to be taken for granted, lest one be cursed, doomed to die- Crimes of passion, adultery, and murder happen more often than one might think, and individual vampires slip in all the time, those who would trespass against them all. There are some who would even say the Duchess is a weak ruler, too focused on the small picture to see the bigger one, questioning her rule - those people are free to have their opinions, but only insofar as they don't cause harm. Otherwise, they'll be killed and swiftly. She is just, but she doesn't have much time for third or fourth chances - much to do, many people to delegate and care for. Don't cause her any problems, she won't even hold you prisoner.

[wheretheharekissesthefox]

Lavender and Starflower (Mobster AU) – Chapter 16

The Dekarios Clan reigns over Waterdeep as the city’s protector for centuries. Suddenly, the Clan gets challenged by Cazador, the head of the Szarr Clan that rules over Baldur’s Gate. Of course, such an attack won’t be tolerated and the intruder must be forced back and out of the City of Splendors. While fixing destroyed protection sigils, Gale, wizard prodigy and heir of the Dekarios Clan, meets a charming stranger called Astarion. And Gale makes the biggest mistake of his life; he invites the pale elf into his home.

Trigger warning (18+): angst, emotional rollercoaster, PTSD response, panic attack

I was inspired to start writing this fic when I saw this artwork by @arczism

This is obviously an AU that isn't related to my other work.

Baldur's Gate was cloaked in the darkness of the night, and even though it was quieter than during the day, certain streets were lively with tavern-goers, night owls, musicians and other artists, pleasure-seekers, prostitutes, and shady people.

Astarion was familiar with it all. The bustling streets, bursting taverns, the dizzying scent of perfumes, body odours, and alcohol-infused blood running hot in people's bodies, ever-present, like it was taunting him on purpose.

Despite no longer controlled by Cazador, the vampire spawn's muscles still remembered his nocturnal courtship, urging him on to seduce and lure to please his master.

Astarion inhaled sharply, through gritted teeth, irritated by his body's and mind's betrayal. He no longer had to obey Cazador, he was free – for now. He willed himself to stay calm and resist the call of his master's order which he'd followed for almost two hundred years.

Suddenly, Astarion felt how Gale squeezed his hand.

"Everything alright?" asked the wizard concerned, and the vampire spawn sighed.

"I'm fine. Come on, my love."

The elf guided the human towards Cazador's palace and, thanks to the invisibility spell, it was scarily easy to sneak into it. And now, he was back. Astarion shuddered.

"Alright?" whispered Gale who was still holding his hand. "You got this."

The addressed huffed a laugh and replied: "So, this is it, I'm back. It surely feels strange to break into your own home – especially if murder's on your mind. There's the same fading carpet, the same tasteless art... Nothing's changed, but gods, everything feels different. But then again, this is hardly the strangest thing we've done together. Although it could be the most satisfying." With a smirk, he added: "Well, second-most satisfying."

Next to him, Gale snickered, and Astarion would have bet all his belongings that the wizard was blushing right now. But, sadly, he couldn't check. Instead, the vampire spawn gently tugged on the wizard's hand and led him through the palace. They entered the ballroom and snuck into Cazador's office on the left. Astarion had never been in here, only his master, and sometimes his victims, were allowed to access this area. The vampire spawn was nervous and on high alert. He'd no idea who still was in the palace and who had followed Cazador to Waterdeep. Astarion prayed that all the spawns were away.

"Alright, let's begin," remarked Gale, bringing Astarion back into the present.

While the wizard started to go through Cazador's folders on the bookshelves, the vampire spawn took a look at everything that was on and inside the desk. It was tedious work and would go on for hours. Astarion dreaded it, his desire to leave this damned place grew with every second, but they had a job to do.

"Uhm, Astarion, are you aware of this?" Gale asked suddenly.

"Hm, what?"

Confused, Astarion looked up from the folder and followed the sound of his lover's heartbeat. Gale had taken a break and explored the rest of the office. Next to the door was an archway, leading into a dark, inconspicuous alcove. Astarion took a better look at the floor and so some kind of decorated metal circle.

"What's this? A ritual device?"

"No. I think it's a magic portal of sorts," answered Gale, voice filled with concern.

"What the hells? I've never knew this was here! The spawns aren't allowed in the office, you see."

"Hm... this is most worrisome," muttered the wizard. "I should check where it leads and what its hiding."

"I'm coming with you," Astarion said immediately.

"No, I'll go alone," replied Gale. "We're not done checking all the files."

"Alright." The vampire spawn sighed irritated. "Thankfully, we're almost done in here. Afterwards, I'll snoop around in Chamberlain Dufay's office. He's Cazador's right hand and might have some interesting papers too."

"That's a good idea. I'll join you as soon as I find out where this portal's leading. The office's down the hallway, across from the stairs, right?"

"Mhm."

"Good. I'll meet you there. Be careful."

"You too, darling."

Gale did something – Astarion wasn't sure what exactly – and with a metallic groan, the circle revealed to be a moving platform that lowered itself underneath the palace. The vampire spawn hadn't had the slightest idea about this secret place. It seemed that there were many things, Cazador had kept hidden from his spawns. Astarion seethed with rage. He finished flipping through the files and stealing the ones that seemed important. When he was done, Gale still wasn't back, thus, he decided to do as he'd said he would, and made his way to the Chamberlain's, office. Astarion didn't find much there, only a journal which meticulously listed all the things Dufay had bought for Cazador, including blood stain remover, candles, and leather straps with buckles. Astarion knew what the latter were used for and felt a shiver run down his spine. He quickly grabbed the next scrap of paper on the desk to distract himself, when he was taken aback.

Dufay,

make sure that everything's ready in the ballroom for the ritual. It needs to be done with the utter-most care.

What ritual, wondered Astarion with a frown. I've never heard Cazador talk about any ritual.

A sickly-sweet voice jerked him out of his thoughts.

"Yoohoo, Astarion! Where are you, dear brother mine?"

A white-haired woman with mean eyes and a menacing grin had entered the room. Violet!

Immediately, Astarion felt the icy trickles of dread running down his back. Thankfully, he was still invisible and the other spawn glared around the room irritated.

"I know you're here. I can smell your stupidly pungent signature perfume, brother," Violet growled, spitting the last words as if it was the taste of a putrid rat.

Astarion soundlessly retreated from the desk and towards the right corner of the room. If he was very still and very quiet, the other spawn might leave the room to search for him elsewhere. But, to his horror, she stalked closer towards him.

"Master will be pleased when I deliver you to him," she sneered. "He'll reward me greatly for it."

Astarion backed up further into the corner of the room while clutching the teleportation stone and pressing it against his chest. He was trembling, and despite knowing that Violet couldn't see him, he was terrified of the way she stared into his direction, grinning manically. Astarion couldn't stand this place a second longer. He tightened his grip on the stone, squeezed his eyes shut and thought Gale Dekarios, Archmage of Waterdeep.

In seconds, he was back at the Dekarios Estate. Astarion stumbled, almost crashing into a wall, his entire body shook. He was safe, he was safe, he was –

"Gale!" yelled the vampire spawn and looked around panicked. "Gale!"

But he didn't get an answer. The realisation that the wizard was still in Cazador's palace, hit Astarion like a boulder. His legs gave in and he collapsed onto the floor. He panted while his body trembled so strongly as if it tried to rattle his bones apart. Astarion wheezed, he couldn't breathe. The collar around his neck suddenly didn't feel protective anymore but threatening. His trembling fingers tugged on it in a panic, nails scratching his throat bloody. He couldn't breathe. He'd left Gale behind. Alone. In Cazador's domain. He'd run away without his lover. Astarion wheezed, yanking at the collar futilely. He couldn't breathe.

"Astarion, calm down!"

Lavender, cedarwood, and sandalwood. A soft body next to him, warm hands stopping his cold, clammy ones. They were no longer invisible.

"Gale," the vampire spawn croaked out amidst tears. "Gale!"

"Yes, I'm here, little star. It's alright. Everything's alright."

With a sob, Astarion collapsed against the wizard, clawing at the purple sweater.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, forgive me. Forgive me."

He was crying now, uglily and loudly. Gale held him tighter.

"It's alright, Astarion. There's nothing to forgive. You did what you had to do. You did well."

"Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgi–"

"Sh, sh, sh, I forgive you. Everything's alright."

"I didn't mean to –"

"I know. I forgive you."

Astarion cried and cried and cried, holding onto Gale like a lifeline.

When he was finally done and his body had stopped shaking, he continued leaning into Gale's embrace. It was warm, comforting, safe.

"I'm sorry I ran away and left you behind."

"It's alright, you were panicking."

"I - I was."

"I know you didn't do it on purpose. When I walked towards the Chamberlain's office, I heard how one of the other spawns was taunting and calling for you. So, I actually hoped you'd used the teleportation device."

Astarion lifted his head off Gale's shoulder to look at him.

"Really?"

The wizard nodded and Astarion couldn't detect a lie. The vampire spawn sighed a breath of relief.

"It was scary. I was terrified," he admitted.

"I thought so," replied his lover, and again, there was neither a lie nor a mockery. "But we got everything we need – and more. You did so well, Astarion. Despite your fear, you entered the lion's den and helped me collect valuable evidence and information to destroy Cazador. I'm incredibly proud of you."

At that, Astarion barked a bitter laugh.

"Well, that makes one of us, at least."

It wasn't the right answer, it seemed, because Gale frowned, visibly miffed, and the vampire spawn felt the urge to curl into a ball and hide.

"Don't be so harsh on yourself. Be kinder," spoke the wizard. "I understand your frustration, but it's based on a misinterpretation. A lot of people believe that overcoming your fears and being brave means to not feel fear at all, but true strength is doing something despite fearing it." Gale tenderly stroke his lover's jawbone. "Hence, you are strong and brave, Astarion, and I admire that about you. And I wish for you to see it too."

Unshed tears were choking the vampire spawn as he gazed at the wizard. His undead heart ached, he felt like wheeping and laughing – and throwing up – at the same time. And he realised that he loved Gale. Loved him in a way he'd never loved anyone else before.

"Darling..." Astarion wrapped his arms around the wizard's neck, holding him tight. "You're one of a kind, Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep. You're always so thoughtful, kind, and sweet. Always trying to make me feel comfortable, welcome, and safe. It would almost be nauseating if it wouldn't be so endearing. And now, tell me what you truly desire, my love."

For a moment, the addressed kept silent.

"Astarion." Gale took a deep breath and despite blushing furiously, he revealed what was on his mind. “I want you in my life and my bed, warm your undead body. I want to touch you, taste you, feel you, lavish you, adore you, worship you. I want to see you squirm on my tongue, my fingers, and my cock. I want to give you pleasure, bliss, happiness, love. I want to give you everything."

"This," moaned the vampire spawn, "is better than any poem."

He pulled the wizard into a messy, almost violent kiss.

"Fuck me," he whispered against his lover's lips. "Break me, put me back together, and make me yours. Gods, please, my love. I want you so badly."

For the first time, words failed Gale, his verbosity gone out the window, thus, he wordlessly kissed Astarion again before leading him towards the bed.

[nirikeehan]

happy dadwc niri!! how about some Cullen & Rylen for Fluffuary, maybe with either Lyrium or Chant?

WELL here's maybe both, a little.

From an unhinged idea I had over the summer where Thalia disappears and in the aftermath Cullen decides to try to start that lyrium rehab center to try to keep busy. Co-starring Rylen and Samson.

I would like to continue this one day but got a bit stuck on it, so here's what I've got so far.

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1285

---

Up the hill from Dwarfson’s Pass, three men stand in the sinking afternoon sun, surveying the keep.

Winterwatch Tower fell into the hands of the Inquisition some years ago, when the Inquisitor dealt with some doomsday cult that had holed up there in the waning days of the Mage-Templar War. It’s carved into the mountainside, and has seen better days. The tower on the left has crumbled entirely, as has much of the front-facing rampart. A tattered flag still flutters from the topmost intact tower, a faded souvenir with the Inquisition’s sigil still on it. 

Samson sniffs. “I liked the other place better.” 

Rylen did too, but he won’t say so. Between them, Cullen straightens, jaw set. He’ll dig in now, just because Samson declared for the villa on the northern side of the valley. 

“Let’s go.” Cullen strides forward, between low tumbledown walls topped with long-cold braziers that in better times shepherded inhabitants to the portcullis. Weeds flatten under his boots. 

Left behind, Samson shoots Rylen a skeptical look. Rylen pays him no mind. He isn’t here to make friends with Corypheus’s disgraced general. He’s here to make sure Cullen hasn’t bitten off more than he can chew. 

Rylen dogs his Commander — former Commander, they are all without rank now — under the stone archway. He works the wheel to lifted the spiked gate. Cullen waits, stone-faced. Samson brings up the rear, adjusting the rucksack on his shoulders. They’d granted him freedom from his shackles halfway through the Hinterlands on the condition that he carry and unload the supplies from the horses. Samson made a wisecrack about slave labor that went ignored, then obliged. Rylen has learned the best way to diffuse the man is not to give any of his ideas oxygen. He would have made a fine snake oil salesman — and maybe did, back before Rylen knew him. Men like Samson are a particular breed. 

Cullen ducks under the portcullis before it has fully lifted. The deserted courtyard greets them, silent. Trees and vines have grown up in the absence of maintenance, and bear the brilliant hues of early autumn. The day has been crisp and warm, but there’s the barest hint of chill to the air. Ferelden turns cold so much earlier than the Marches. Days like today always bring Rylen a small tug of melancholy. The winter here will be harsh, but at least they aren’t all that far from the Crossroads. 

Cullen steps over to the statue that dominates the center of the courtyard, of Andraste carved in her full warrior raiment. Ivy has snaked its way up to her face. Samson pokes around an old boarded up well. Cullen goes down on one knee, an action that surprises Rylen, but the Commander always has been more religious than he. 

Samson drops the pack at the base of the well, surveying the balconies and buttresses that rise above them. Rylen follows his gaze. The place is large, and will take a lot of exploring to determine what should go where. A wooden stables stands empty, so at least they’ll have a place to put the horses. 

“Bit of a shit hole, innit?” Samson offers. 

Rylen watches Cullen’s back tense. 

“Thought you’d be used to those,” Rylen counters, to take the piss out of him before Cullen’s temper flares. “Aren’t you from Kirkwall?” 

Samson sneers at him, flashing discolored teeth, but says nothing. He’s built his life around trying to tear Cullen’s down. The two men have history Rylen can barely fathom, no matter how many tavern stories Cullen tells him. Samson gets under Cullen’s skin far too easily. That’s partially why Rylen wouldn’t let them go out here on their own. One or both of them would be dead by spring, he feared, crushed by the other’s ego. 

Cullen remains in genuflect position, the damp grass seeping into the knee of his breeches. Rylen wonders if he is praying, and whether they ought to give him some privacy. Rylen strolls forward, about to place a gentle hand on Cullen’s shoulder, when he realizes. Pity churns in his chest. 

Cullen is clutching the tassel of the faded Inquisition banner, placed at the base of the statue those years ago. Put there by the hand of the Herald of Andraste herself. 

***

Samson is given one of the tiny stone cells for his room. He unpacks his meager belongings — two shirts, one jerkin, one extra pair of breeches, tin of tobacco and rolling papers, and an interesting-shaped rock he’d found on the journey south — and sits on the bed, wondering what the fuck he is doing here. 

When no answers present themselves, he stands and heads downstairs. Twilight is falling over the Hinterlands. Cullen and Rylen pace the courtyard, hauling bits of furniture from one room to another. They’ve lit torches in the one with the loft and the large casks of ale — depressingly depleted, Samson has already checked — and stoked the cooking pit to life. A pot of stew bubbles slowly in the hanging cauldron. His stomach rumbles, though the other hunger is singing through his veins and joints, demanding attention. 

He skips down the refectory steps, shoving hands in his pockets while he waits for the two idiots to emerge from the opposite door. That building used to house a sort of armory, and Samson has been strictly forbidden to enter, lest he take up a rusty sword and make a bid for freedom, or some such. 

A few moments later, the other former Templars appear. Rylen is in front, one end of a long wooden table in his hands. Samson knows little of Rylen; Corypheus’s intelligence reports were scant, but his accent is of Starkhaven working class and his face tattoos suggest a hard youth. What else is new. He’s got dark hair that looks as though it may curl if he’d let it grow enough. Samson is envious. These days he’s lost so much of his hairline he might as well shave his head. 

As if they’d trust him with a razor.

 Cullen follows behind with the other end of the table, and is the one to see Samson there with his hand, metaphorically, on his ass. 

“May we help you?” Cullen’s voice is awfully damn flippant for someone who told him mere weeks ago Samson’s presence here is essential. “Didn’t I tell you to finish unpacking the horses?”

Samson clears his throat. Here it comes, the part Cullen must love, where Samson has to get on his knees and pucker up to kiss the kid’s arse. Metaphorically. 

“It’s evenfall,” Samson points out, reasonably. “Can I have it first?”

Cullen sighs, as though Samson has asked to sacrifice Cullen’s firstborn to the old gods. Well, that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon, would it? Not with the Inquisitor gone. Samson tries not to smirk and ruin the penitent act.

“I got it, Commander,” says Rylen, the brown noser. He’s exactly the sort of Templar Samson hated back in Kirkwall, the sort who are too content with their shitty lot in life. “Samson, just give us a minute.” 

They maneuver the table up the stairs and into the refectory, and Rylen emerges, unclasping the pouch from his belt. Behind him, Cullen hovers in the doorway, silhouetted by the orange firelight within. In the gathering dusk, the cerulean glow of the bottle bathes Rylen’s hand in light. “Catch.” 

The singing blue bottle arcs through the air. Samson snatches it out of the air, smiling as he feels the warm, reassuring weight hit his hand. Maybe Rylen isn’t completely good for nothing. Samson uncaps the bottle and toasts. “Cheers, mate.” 

Cullen watches from the door. Samson can feel, rather than see, his scowl. 

[politetim]

Depths of Ultra Part 2

In the intervening years I have since completely remade my little "dwarven language" but I couldn't be bothered to go back and fix the songs here. Still, most my classmates liked them, so surely my own thoughts on them come from the eyes that have looked too close for too long. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eorling turned his head, “Rikin? I’d stand, but I am a bit weighed down.”

The quiet dwarf nodded. “Seems it. Don’t worry about impressing us before we even take a step into the dark. Come now, be smart, lad. One length at a time.” With a single arm, the veteran miner grabbed and slung both of the chains that covered Eorling up, allowing him to shimmy out of them and stand. It was an impressive show of strength as Rikin was slimmer than Eorling. Standing so close, Eorling could see why. The older dwarf had no fat, and his slim frame hinted at muscles like twisted steel fiber, wound taught and strong from hundreds of years spent mining and laboring.

“Thank you, Rikin. I just-”

“Wanted to escape their mockery? You can’t, lad. Learn to enjoy it, learn to enjoy their voices. There might come a time when you miss them.”

Eorling stared for a moment into the grayish green eyes of Rikin. The cool tones of the experienced miner’s eyes were a soothing source of comfort, if only for a moment. Eorling realized he was staring and broke eye contact. Rikin turned to lead the way back, allowing Eorling to grab and hoist the third chain to his shoulders. Before they entered, Rikin handed him one of the other chains. Eorling grinned as he took it, thankful the veteran would allow him to seem stronger than he was.

The other three were waiting. Azik was complaining.

“Why do we get Drunder Good?”

Ozglow responded as he read through one of his parchments, “because it’s the best there is.”

Azik was not done. “And Sonder Suds is good brew! Why Digneron Draft?”

“Because it’s the best there is.” Ozglow responded, not looking up from his papers.

“Is that the only reason?”

“How about because I like it and I said so, so quit your bellyaching.”

Krozlin threw back her head and laughed and Azik just shook his head. After the earlier comments, Eorling found himself struggling to look at Krozlin, and also away. She was pretty, and possessed a confident air, complete with a permanent smirk. She kept her hair closely shaved on one side of her head, and the other half shoulder length, which created an odd effect, especially with the protective steel helmet she wore. Her beard was longer and thicker than the beards of other women, but was still immaculately groomed and braided, kept in place with decorative iron rings.

All eyes turned toward Eorling and Rikin, and he was forced to look away quickly. Ozglow nodded to his second and spoke to the greenbeard.

“Well, laddie, you certainly got the chains. Azik, how’s that for arm strength? Right. Everyone get over here and gear up fully.”

Each member took up some part of the new equipment. It seemed that, because he brought the chain, Eorling did not have to carry one. Instead he was ordered to carry a barrel of beer, which had a strap connected to its top and bottom. It was heavy, but not as heavy as the chains. Rikin carried a chain, a barrel, and a box of food. It all looked dreadfully cumbersome. As they sorted themselves out, they heard steps and chanting coming out of the archway numbered three. 

Kud Rianatur Orn Izki Kriaz Kritaz Isadi Izotuni

(Now we march from the dark caves tired from work)Kud Rianatur Giith Kriaz Koronui Tut(Our old beer barrels are empty)Kud Rianatur Orn Igon Azikur Tokon Diron(The sweat from our brow satisfies our thirst)Krioningui Ur Hirn Igon Krioningui Ogug Diron(Soon I shall drink the tavern’s ale with great thirst)Kriin Ur Hrin Izki Kriin Isad(Soon I shall sleep wearily in my own bed)Kriaz Rianatur Hrin Izki Ankirat DirAnkirat Iokuni(Soon we shall sleep, hiding from Ankirat’s Wrath)

The crew they were replacing marched out chanting their tune. They were dirty, tired, and carried out less equipment than Eorling and his group would be carrying in. Their foreman was at the back, and came forward to meet Ozglow. Both crews lined up, facing each other. The foremen met in the middle and began the tradition of passing the chalk.

The other foreman held up the chalks color by color. “Red is good, nice deposits of minerals and salt. Green is for copper. Yellow is where I think gold may be, but I could not check. Blue is a half-mined out geode of sapphire.” He held up a final piece. “White is dangerous. Do not mine from white.”

Ozglow nodded solemnly and took the chalks. “Welcome back to the surface, Foreman Prang.”

The crew shuffled off. A different group came out of the archway, hauling bags full of rock and mineral and raw metal. This group was similar to one Eorling used to be a part of, before he was old enough to be an actual miner. They were young, not yet adults, but until Eorling could finish his first shift, so was he. In Eorling’s family, you weren’t an adult until you had served a shift in the mines yourself.

They waited until this young crew hauled away all their loot. Then Foreman Ozglow began the long march into the dark of the depths.

“Let’s get to it then.” 

Their spirits grew as they spiraled down into the bowels of Tera. The stone walls of the stairwell grew darker as they crossed through the layers of sediment and bedrock. The dust kicked up by the feet of the dwarves was thick enough to be seen, but Eorling’s beard and mustache filtered it before he could inhale it. The air, full of the echoes of footsteps and far off pickaxes, became colder with each rotation around the spiral. The chatter from each member of the crew increased, even Eorling got involved.

“So, is there anything I should ensure I do not do?” He asked.

“Uh, aye,” Krozlin said, calling back over her shoulder, “don’t smack anyone with your pick, don’t piss in anyone else’s tunnel,  and call out if you see something.”

“What she said and more!” Azik chortled. “If you find something real good, let someone else mine it, so you don’t ruin it. Foreman will check up on you, always report everything you see. Don’t eat until everyone else has, but the Foreman goes dead last.”

Eorling felt his shoulders sag at the implication. He was not worthy of mining anything truly precious. The famed riches of the depths of the world would not bear his mark, and he would not be able to point out a fine piece of jewelry to his father and tell the man “I mined that gold. I mined that sapphire.”

“You’ll be fine, lad.” Rikin whispered over Eorling’s shoulder. The low tones of the veteran broke Eorling’s thoughts. In their current order, Ozglow was in front, followed by Krozlin, then Azik, then Eorling, and finally Rikin.  His softer tones did not seem to carry, as other voices might in the echoing stone stairwell. Eorling felt reassured by the veteran’s words. The weight of his gear had begun to set in, and his legs began to burn, so he focused on the stairs, counting each one. It was a trick he learned when he was a haul-boy, lugging the mined minerals and ore from the mine.

Every sixty steps was a landing. Eorling knew these opened to circular hallways around the stairwell, connecting all three stairwells together, and also containing other passages that degraded into mining areas. They had passed five landings, and Ozglow soldiered on without any sign of stopping. Ahead of Eorling, Azik had managed to wrangle the conversation around to his favorite topic: girls.

“Now I say, give off with all of those skinny girls. Too human, too elvish! Give me a good, dwarven lass!”

“The ugly, dirty ones are the only ones who will look at you twice, Azik.”

“Oh come now, Krozlin, I know you have a lass up top. What’s she like? I doubt she’s some soap-scented skinny flit.”

Krozlin gave a throaty chuckle. “See now, I like to keep her clean, means she doesn’t do what I have to do. But she’s no flit.”

Ozglow spoke up from the front. “All this talk, and yet no silver bands on any fingers.” The insinuation was clear. Neither of them had married, which at their age was improper. Krozlin, however, had an explanation ready.

“A lass like her? Like Igtoren? She deserves platinum bands. I’m saving my coin for the right one, all studded with jewels, for each hand and her beard.”

“Well, I cannot blame young love.”

“I think I can,” broke in Azik, “Seems a touch much. You’ll be saving for a while, no?”

“I have been, fifty three years so far.”

Eorling kept counting, his mind drifting from conversation. He got to his tenth landing, huffing and puffing from the weight of the picks and shovels and the beer were pulling at him, daring him to fall the rest of the way down. Azik found him anyway. “Greenbeard, how about you now? Any girls? You know, the kind that giggles and compliments you even when you both know they’re lying?”

“No,” Eorling managed through his huffing, “none! I was a haul boy not a year ago. No lass wants me.”

Krozlin’s pitying tone echoed back to him, “Oh sweet dear don't doubt yourself now. Once you come back up a man they will be all around you, whispering delicious lies, like they do with Azik.”

“Now, not all of it is lies-”

Ozglow spoke again, with a more stern and commanding tone. “Cut the talk! We have only five more landings to descend. Instead of this silly talk, how about a tune? Give the stone Fortitude”

[venalos]

@lunaetis

Topace went over the letter for what felt like the dozenth time today.

Rider, come swiftly. Tell no one why you return; Disaster cometh.

It was certainly in-character for Loc Lac's Guildmaster to write Topace a haiku, though they considered it to be in somewhat poor taste if the current matter at hand was so dire as to describe it as, "Disaster cometh". Regardless, Topace would be lying to themself if they did not admit to the fact that it filled them with at least some dread.

The desert wind breezed through their raven-black hair as they stood at the bow of a dragonship, the immense vessel blazing over dunes at breakneck speed. It was quite the beautiful thing; where most other dragonships were a drab, pale brown from the lack of paint, this one was as black as could be, with its frame forged from gold. The figurehead, also made from solid gold, resembled the head and neck of a formidable Lagiacrus, the gleaming horns adorning it like a crown and its maw filled with wicked teeth. The dragonator below, a spear so massive as to fell even Elder Dragons, was forged from metal less glamorous but far more durable -- a rare case of function over fashion for Topace -- though it was still beautiful in its own dangerous way.

It was Topace's very own flagship, the Gentle Vanquisher, as capable of traversing the Great Desert's sands as it was sailing over Venalos' seas and even through the skies (after some customisation in the latter's case). Its crew was as busy as ever, humans and felynes alike working tirelessly to ensure nothing went awry. Topace glanced back at said crew and sighed through their nose, before turning their attention back to what was in front of them. Loc Lac City, the propserous jewel of the desert, was slowly cresting over the horizon.

Time passed...

The bustling crowd parted right down the middle as Raiju charged through, growling and barking at anyone who dared stand in the way. With his powerful frame and the jade lightning cresting his back, none dared defy the Thunderlord. Then Raiju looked back, briefly, before facing forward again and clearing more of the crowd. His every mighty step crackled with green sparks. Even some large beasts present, belonging to other Riders, stayed well away from this incontestable monarch.

Topace was following close behind the giant Fanged Wyvern, their lips twisting into a semi-amused smile. Why hire bodyguards when one's own Pokémon will do the job for no monetary price? Of course, they did not explicitly ask Raiju to do what he was currently doing, so perhaps the Thunderlord Zinogre was doing it for his own amusement. Topace could not care less, admittedly, so long as Raiju did not harm anyone who had it coming.

Knowing Raiju, as well as how strong they were compared to even him, Topace was certain he would not do anything too stupid.

Still, he did well in clearing the path leading to the city's central tavern. Topace continued to follow their loyal hound of a wyvern, who had visibly calmed down after carving a path straight through the main street crowds. And, although they did notice the countless onlookers gazing at them and Raiju in reverent awe (and just a little terror), Topace paid them no mind. Thus, Rider and Pokémon passed under the lengthy archway, past the respective shops of the Combinator and Captain Tool, straight into the beating heart of Loc Lac.

What neither of the two would notice, however, was a certain silver-haired woman following from a respectable distance, almost akin to a lost puppy-dog...

[yubisadventures]

Ah, you there! You fancy yourself an explorer?

The Rooted outpost is a magical wonderland nestled high up in the misty mountains, where the inhabitants grow their homes from seeds and live inside giant, hollow trees or comfortable buds hanging from branches. The Sepia Market bursts with life and color all year round, while the Betula Tavern is the gem of the district, built inside a hollow tree with a black-and-white trunk and large branches. The Caddina Quarter, with its mossy archway and plant tapestries, is the perfect spot to enjoy the slower pace of the Bloom. Don't miss out on the adventure and excitement that await you in the Rooted!

Our wonderful In-Island healers <3

Follow and sign up to be notified! We will soon be dropping our trailer and AND the free playtest pack!

Experience with our own 3d20 system or with a 5e/PF Monstermanual

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Cullen and Trevelyan go for a walk.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,902. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 5: Give Him A Chance

Lady Montilyet led Trevelyan to the Great Hall like a guilty man to his judgement.

Her sentence? A walk with the Commander.

And there he stood, shoulders slumped, by the grand doors—no doubt wishing he could escape through them. Maker, he had this whole ‘grumpy and unsociable’ act down to a fine art, didn’t he? How very Fereldan.

“Commander Rutherford,” Lady Montilyet greeted, ever-smiling, “you remember Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick, do you not?”

He managed only a second of eye contact with her, before grumbling, “Yes, of course.”

Lie. He certainly hadn’t remembered her last night, whilst he was freely insulting her across the garden.

“A pleasure to meet you again, Commander,” said Trevelyan, curtsying. Because if he was lying, so would she.

He offered an awkward, stiff sort-of bow in return. At least it was a step-up from the handshake. Lady Montilyet must have said something.

“Well, I shall leave you to your walk,” she told them. “Where shall you go? The stables are a fair prospect, I think.”

Less a suggestion, and more an instruction. But Trevelyan was well-pleased with the idea of seeing some horses. Better than a dog lord.

Speaking of which—he extended an arm towards the doors, and said, “After you.”

Oh, how kind of him to set his self-importance aside for such a fleeting moment! For, if she was ahead of him, he would not be able to see her eyes roll.

Then again, no wonder he was so full of himself. The main doors of Skyhold’s keep were as tall as the building itself, and stepped out onto a landing, high above the courtyard below. Practically put, this was to funnel invaders onto the stairs, and halt their advance. But it was a grand enough an entrance to make anyone feel important. Whomsoever originally built this place must’ve had a good eye for defense, and a massive ego.

From this height, one could survey nearly the entire hold. To the east, an armoury and a tavern—the one Trevelyan had heard the previous night—separated by some kind of sparring ring, in which the soldiers trained. Sunken below this was the gatehouse, which Trevelyan and the Commander descended towards, headed for the promised stables in the west.

Unlike her company, Trevelyan found the hold to be quite pleasant. Bright blue skies and shining white mountains, like the backdrop of a painting, surrounded them. There were lush green grasses underfoot, and the scent of woodsmoke in the air. Skyhold’s residents were a hive of activity, their ambient chatter and laughter a cheerful little accompaniment to one’s own pursuits.

And it was thankfully unspoilt by the Commander’s own voice—not that Trevelyan had made much of an attempt to persuade the man to speech. She had made all such attempts at impressing him that she cared to last night, and he had rebuffed every one. Instead, she acted as she imagined the Baroness Touledy might, and awaited his attempts at impressing her.

That said, his continued silence became a tad grating.

“I am from Ostwick, in the Free Marches,” Trevelyan said, somewhat startling him. “Do you recall?”

“I… yes,” he muttered.

“You lived in the Free Marches, once?”

“Yes, in Kirkwall.”

“So I have heard,” she said.

“I prefer not to speak of it,” he replied.

“I’ve heard that too.”

They passed beneath an ancient archway, of a bridge which connected the keep to the castle walls. Skyhold’s engineers must truly have been qualified, for such old architecture not to have fallen in yet.

Beyond it, lay the western courtyard. This area was busier than all the others combined, for it boasted a market, with traders of every kind. Its central path was understandbly well-worn by cart-tracks and hoof-prints, which lead the way to the stables ahead.

“What is it,” the Commander mumbled, a rare instance of speech, “that you know about me, exactly?”

Trevelyan chuckled. “Oh, barely anything.”

“Then what little do you know?”

One fact sprung most clearly to mind: “That you were a Templar.”

“I… was.”

Curious phrasing. The hesitancy, too. There was something quavering in his voice that seemed to chime with what Trevelyan had been told about his past. She asked:

“What does that mean?”

He replied, “I am no longer part of the Order.”

“Fortunate, considering all that’s happened.”

“Indeed.”

They fell to quiet, as Trevelyan contemplated this, and the Commander glanced up to check the battlement patrols. Perhaps it would be too much to ask, but she had to:

“Would you return?” she wondered. “If all was settled, and there was an Order to return to?”

His face was lost, for a moment. As if… he had never considered the question before. Yet with some thought, it appeared he had his answer: “I… no.”

“Why not?”

“I would prefer not to speak of it.”

That old chestnut. Truly, she wondered, “Then what would you prefer to speak of, Commander?”

His movements stuttered. “I’m… not sure.”

“Most people have things they prefer to speak of,” Trevelyan told him. “I, for example, prefer to speak of the books I’ve read, the news I have heard, and magic, of course.”

“I see.”

That was it. No reciprocal list. Fine.

For a good long minute, they stood as they were, and stared into the stables. There were rows of pens, some occupied, some not. Every one of the occupants present, however, was one of the most beautiful horses Trevelyan had ever seen. Amazing, that they could keep them so well, out in the mountains. She wondered which belonged to the Commander.

He spoke up at last. “I suppose I don’t have much time for idle conversation.”

She’d heard that too. “Well, then… why don’t we take the rest of our walk in silence?”

It was a sarcastic comment, meant sarcastically, using sarcasm. And yet, the Commander replied,

“If you’d like.”

“Oh.” Trevelyan was so bewildered by this response, she had little to say in recourse—except: “All right.”

They departed the stables, and returned the way they had come—slowly, to the Commander’s credit, but in absolute silence. Trevelyan attempted to persuade herself not to be so concerned about it. The onus was on him. He was to impress her. If silence was all he was willing to offer, then silence it was.

But it was so painfully awkward! Even when they passed his soldiers, he remained silent, merely nodding to them in acknowledgement. Had he no common ground with them, either?

Back beneath the bridge, past the gatehouse. Silent, all the while. It gave Trevelyan plenty of time to admire the architecture. Verdict: there was a lot of it.

One feature in particular caught her eye, however—a tower stood proud upon the eastern battlement, the very one mentioned by the Grand Enchanter. Somehow, Trevelyan had yet not noticed the banner unfurled from its parapet. Though it fluttered in the breeze, its circular symbol was clear: magi.

“My apologies for breaking our vow of silence,” she said, “but is that the mage tower?”

The Commander followed her eyeline. “I suppose,” he murmured, “but, not in the traditional sense. It is a place for magical research and study, which means it is naturally more populated by mages than anyone else—but they are not beholden to its bounds.”

Interesting. Trevelyan paused to admire it. The structure stretched about two stories higher than the battlements, all told. Arbor blessing and ivy draped itself over the sides. The wallflowers adorning it ought not to be blooming this time of year, yet they did. As if by magic.

“Would you like to visit it?” asked the Commander.

Maker, a rare offer of kindness! With surprise, she replied, “Oh, yes—of course!”

“Then I will see if someone is available to show you around.”

Ah, there it was. Not so much a gesture of goodwill, but a tactic to rid himself of her.

“Is that the end of our walk, then?” she queried.

“I… ah… it’s been half an hour already.” A lie. “The reports on my desk will be mounting.” Probably true.

She wouldn’t fight it; if he had no interest in impressing her, then she had none in him. “Very well, then.”

She allowed him to guide her the rest of the way in silence. Up the stairs, onto the battlements. Passing soldiers with nothing more than a nod. Not a single word said.

Until he saw a woman walking ahead. She was elven, by the point of her ears, with pasty skin and frizzy blonde hair, that had been pulled into some sort of ponytail. But by this appearance alone, the Commander was able to call her name:

“Bramley!”

The woman halted, and whirled on the spot. She had a pleasantly normal appearance, compared to that of manicured nobility, which reminded Trevelyan of the mages she once knew in the Circle. Except, in lieu of Circle robes, she wore a simple working dress.

“Afternoon, Commander,” said Bramley. “Can I help you?”

“Do you have a moment?” the Commander asked. Bramley tucked the books she carried under her arm, and nodded. “This is Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick. She’s a mage.”

And not the only one here, if the shift in the Fade—which lingered always at the edge of Trevelyan’s perception—was anything to go by.

Bramley performed a little curtsy, and smiled. “Pleasure to meet you, your Ladyship.”

Trevelyan did the same. “And you, Miss Bramley.”

“Is that all, Commander?” Bramley asked him, with a hint of cheek in her tone that Trevelyan could hardly believe she was using to address a superior.

Yet the Commander appeared to take it in stride. “I was wondering if you could take her around the tower. Lady Trevelyan has expressed an interest.”

“Oh—of course! Saves me doing this reading.”

“Thank you.” He turned to Trevelyan, and bowed. “I shall leave you here, then. Farewell, your Ladyship.”

Trevelyan plastered on a smile. “Farewell, Commander.”

And off he pissed. Thank the Maker! Though Trevelyan had endured far more excruiciating encounters with potential suitors, at the very least she wasn’t trapped with them for an entire month. The less of that month she spent around the Commander, the better.

“So,” Bramley said, a distraction Trevelyan was grateful for, “Ostwick Circle, eh? Don’t get many from there.”

Many? Implying some? “Do you know of anyone else from Ostwick?”

“Not personally. Though if you ask around, you can find someone from any Circle you like. I’m from Kinloch, meself. Anyway—you coming?”

Oh, absolutely. With eagerness and haste, she hurried after Bramley, as the woman unceremoniously booted open the tower door. Such sensibilities—or lack thereof—ought to have shocked and appalled her. But Maker, did the casual nature of the kick, and the utter lack of pretense within, remind her of the rare comforts of home. Not her parents’ home. The one she’d had before.

The home the interior of this tower echoed perfectly. Workbenches lined every wall. Contraptions and shelves, too—filled with herbs and tinctures and ingredients of note. Mages wandered to and fro, all in a similar manner of dress to Bramley: that is to say, entirely normal.

The Grand Enchanter had not lied. This was different.

“Shall we work our way up?” asked Bramley.

Trevelyan gazed heavenward. There were two more levels, mezzanine, brimming with even more mages and magic and magical things. Smiling—wide and true, this time—she said, “Whatever you think best.”

Bramley gestured to the room around them. “Well, this is primal. Or—it’s supposed to be. We tried to split them into schools, but things get muddled no matter how you try.”

Nevertheless, the bookshelves were lined with tomes on the elements, which Trevelyan could not help but long to crack open.

“Anyway, people who study primals can usually be found here. Not always for destructive purposes, mind you—a bit of fire magic warms a bath up lovely.”

Trevelyan chuckled. “And ice magic cools a drink in summer.”

“Exactly—though we’ve plenty of ice around here regardless,” Bramley teased. “But you probably know your primals. Upstairs is where it gets interesting.”

The purview of floor two was spirit and entropy—research into the Fade, and the cycle of life and death. They only had three floors; something was bound to double up.

“Our work tends towards stabilising rifts and understanding them,” Bramley explained. “We think we might be able to find a method of predicting them, even. But I’ll be honest, you ever have questions about the Fade, you ask Solas.”

Trevelyan had no idea who that was, but made a mental note, regardless.

The final floor was that of creation—though one could have guessed as much by the scant number of mages operating within, or the scrolls on the wall, depicting common-use glyphs and wards. It reminded Trevelyan of the ones she’d taught with, back in Ostwick.

However, given the abundance of elfroot and anatomy books around, the Inquisition’s efforts appeared to lean more toward healing. Quite understandable, really, what with an army to keep on its feet.

“Last, and absolutely least,” Bramley said, indicating a ladder to the ceiling, “up there.”

It led to a hatch, through which one arrived upon the roof. There was nothing up here, beside the view—but what a magnificent view it was. Trevelyan felt as tall as the mountain peaks, an endless horizon in her sights. Remarkable.

“We call this the astrarium,” said Bramley, the wind whipping hair into her face, “because there’s nothing to see up here but the stars.”

Trevelyan smiled. She knew that much already.

“That’s all there is to show, I’m afraid,” Bramley told her. “But you’re welcome to come and go as you please.”

That reminded Trevelyan of something. “The Commander said similar—that mages aren’t beholden to the tower.”

“That’s correct.”

“What about Skyhold? Could you leave if you wanted?”

“If you fancy a hike, I suppose.”

“The Templars won’t stop you?”

Bramley blinked. “Oh! No, nothing like that. We have a couple hanging ‘round, but they’re for show. Won’t stop you coming or going. They’ll even learn your name and all. Full-on fraternisation.”

“Oh.”

“The Commander always lets us know who it’ll be, when and where, too. Doesn’t want any mistrust between us—Maker, he’s seen enough Circles collapse to know the old ways don’t work.”

Trevelyan noted what sounded, once more, like praise for the Commander. There had to be two of him. It couldn’t be the same man.

Her thoughts must have been too loud, however—for Bramley fixed her with a curious stare. “Hope you don’t mind my asking, but you wouldn’t happen to be one of the Ladies here for the Commander, would you?”

Trevelyan shrugged. “I suppose I am.”

Bramley chuckled. “Thought so. How’s he been?”

“Well, he doesn’t seem keen on ‘fraternising’ himself.”

“I wouldn’t take it personally,” Bramley reassured her. “Not ‘cause you’re a mage, at least. He’s said before he thought the rule against it was a load of guff—just breeds paranoia and tension. He’s definitely shown no qualms about… well, to be polite for your Ladyship, let’s say some of our mages and Templars get on very well.”

“Oh!” Trevelyan’s brows flicked upward. “I understand. But worry not—you needn’t be coy with me. I wasn’t always a Lady. In my Circle, I was a mage no different from you, or anyone else here.”

Emboldened by this, Bramley asked, “Which is better?”

Despite everything? “The latter.”

“Then you should come back when you like—maybe get a bit of respite, just be a mage for a few hours.”

“I’d love that.”

Pleased by this answer, Bramley invited her back into the tower. They exchanged the whistle of the wind for the chatter of the mages, and the otherworldly sounds of their various magics. Bramley said to her, “If we haven’t scared you off, then when you do come back, we can—!”

A crash disrupted the entire building. All stopped. Trevelyan and Bramley raced to the railing, and peered down to the bottom floor. A door had been barged open and, of all people, a dwarf stomped through it.

“Dagna!” Bramley, grinning, looked to Trevelyan. “Sorry, I need to go speak to her. Come with if you like!”

Too intrigued to say no, Trevelyan hurried after her. They spilled out onto the bottom floor, where the dwarven woman spoke to another mage. Her eyes caught on Bramley, and she perked.

“Oh, Bramley! You’re here!”

Trevelyan took in the woman’s presenation—little of it that there was. She was definitely some kind of worker. A hard worker, too, given the scuffs on her breastplate, and the wear on her gloves. Not easy to rub leather that raw without a bit of manual labour.

Her pale skin was smudged with some kind of grease or oil, some of which had even caught up in her hair, turning strands from brown to black. None of this seemed to perturb her; and from the way it perturbed no one else around them, Trevelyan surmised this was the woman’s base standard.

As she took off her gloves and stuffed them into a pocket, she asked Bramley, “How’s Nymira and the baby?”

“Oh, plenty well,” Bramley told her. “It’s Jayek who’s lost his damn mind. He keeps getting up with her—I keep telling him, one of you ought to be sleeping. Now he’s tired, who could’ve guessed!?”

“You escaped, huh?”

Bramley waved a hand. “More like ‘kicked out for trying to help’...”

Their conversation wound on. Trevelyan departed it, to instead sate her curiosity. This Dagna had brought with her a little wooden hand-cart, stuffed to the brim with mysterious shards of metal. The appearance was odd, for what ought to have been mere scrap. Faintly-glowing blue lines had been etched into the surface, the last evidence of some kind of enchantment. The runes were barely legible, twisted and bent as it the shards were. Were those scorch marks? What had this contraption been?

She was soon to find out.

“—and this is Lady Trevelyan, from Ostwick Circle.”

Trevelyan alerted at mention of her name. Both Bramley and the dwarf were staring at her.

“Nice to meet you,” said the latter, extending a hand, “I’m Dagna. The resident Arcanist.”

The lack of curtsy didn’t even cross Trevelyan’s mind. “A pleasure, Arcanist Dagna. You do enchantments?”

“Enchantment, research—I’m a bit of a magical know-it-all. I mean, a know-it-all for magic, not a know-it-all with magic. Can’t do that. But I can make things!”

Bramley must’ve spotted Trevelyan’s confusion, for she spoke up: “Dagna’s studied for—what is it?—over a decade in various Circles. She works in the Undercroft, advises the top brass, and pokes into things a bit too risky for us.”

“Lyrium and the Fade, mainly,” Dagna added. “Fine for me to prod about, not so much for you.”

“Fascinating,” Trevelyan said. “I’ve never heard of a dwarf attending a Circle.”

“It doesn’t happen too often.”

“And thank the Maker for that!” Bramley scolded. “Can’t imagine more of you, running around, exploding things.” She pointed at the ruined contraption. “I told her that wouldn’t work.”

“What… is it?” Trevelyan asked.

Dagna sighed, and turned to her shards. She plucked one from the pile with an awful scrape—yet nary a flinch—and rotated it in her hand like one would examine a leaf. “We have a bit of a Red Templar problem. I was hoping that if I could make an enchantment that was triggered to explode by the presence of lyrium, we could, you know… burst ‘em.”

“But it reacts to the presence of the lyrium in the enchantment and detonates itself?”

“You got it!”

Bramley folded her arms. “Like I told you it would. Like we all did. Like you yourself knew it would, I bet! But Nymira wasn’t there to tell you ‘no’.”

Dagna tossed the chunk of metal aside. “Well, nothing to do except try again!”

“No!”

Yet it seemed that this Dagna had made up her mind, regardless of Bramley’s protestation. She took up her cart, and headed for the door. “Nice to meet you, your Ladyship. And I’ll see you later, Bramley, if you’re still around.”

“If you are, more like.”

“I’ll be fine! Tell Nymira I miss her”—she pulled the door open with a foot, and held it there—“and that the Tranquil are great, but they don’t have her humour.”

“I’ll pass it on.”

With a wave, Dagna slipped from the tower. Bramley shook her head as soon as the door was shut.

“Thank the Maker she can’t do magic,” she muttered.

Trevelyan chuckled. “She certainly seems interesting. May I ask, who is Nymira?”

“One of my partners. She worked as assistant to Dagna, but with the pregnancy and now the baby, she’s had to take time away.”

“Is she a mage?”

Bramley nodded. “You can imagine—in the late stages especially—it was a little dangerous.”

But that was not the danger Trevelyan’s mind had fixated upon. “She… didn’t have to give the baby away?”

“Oh.” Bramley’s face sank into solemnity. “It’s not a Circle, your Ladyship. I promise.”

“Good,” said Trevelyan—relieved, to say the least, “good.”

Bramley patted her shoulder. “You know, you really should come back here, your Ladyship—if you can find the time. Might be nice. Though—you’ve probably enough to do, what with the Commander and all…”

Trevelyan smiled. “Oh, I have quite a bit of time, it seems.” She resolved herself, standing a little taller. “I think I have missed being a mage. I should like to have another try at it, under different circumstances.”

“So you ought to”—Bramley winked—“if only to get all that noble out of your voice!”

***

Though she felt she would sleep a little better tonight if she tried, Trevelyan returned to the battlements.

There was something about seeing those stars which soothed her. Their soft gazes were like that of the mages in the tower: new, but familiar.

That tower stood sentinel, nearby. Though the torches outside were lit, all within was dark. Yet nothing could extinguish the light and life Trevelyan had seen inside. Bramley had been so kind, and the place had been so welcoming and intriguing. And so, so different.

Trevelyan’s mind hooked on one aspect in particular: Dagna. A dwarven arcanist? A rare and captivating idea. Her project, too, was an object of extreme intere—

“Commander.”

Trevelyan jolted. Though she’d acknowledged the watchman on arrival—same lad as the previous night—she had promptly set about politely ignoring him, much as he politely ignored her. This, however, she could not ignore.

She slipped a look over her shoulder, to watch as the Commander, still in his armour and mantle, marched across the battlements. Once again, his strides circumvented her, in favour of the stairs.

Ridiculous. If they were stuck with each other, they might as well acknowledge it.

“Good evening, Commander,” she called to him.

He stopped a moment, and glanced at her. His eyebrows furrowed, his mouth parted—but his head turned, and off he marched, without a word.

A second chance she had been told to give, and a second chance she had given him. He did not seem interested.

Fine, neither was she. Her interests lay elsewhere. Her interests lay in the Undercroft.

[saphirered]

Bard's Surprise

Hope you all had a lovely holidays. Here's a little extra gift from me to you. Hope you enjoy this tooth rotting fluff. 😘

Dorian Storm x reader (3) Mistletoe

The tavern is crowded. People sing and dance and play games. The atmosphere is filled with joy and revelry. Dorian would usually join in having no objections to the celebrations and finding it’s time to let loose again. Why is he holding back? Why can’t he stop the bouncing of his leg or tapping his fingers against the table when he isn’t holding onto his drink with a death grip? Well that’s quite simple. Of course the answer would be simple because ever since, he hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you much. Only times he has veered away is when his attention was called for by someone else, which he would be grateful for to make him feel less like some creep, or when he saw the lovely floral arch leading to the deck these tables are set at. Chetney might have made a comment about the craftsmanship for better or worse but he couldn’t care less about that. What Dorian does care about is the little branch hanging down from its apex just above the heads of whoever passes through. How could he not have noticed? He should have been more aware of his surroundings. By the winds, you kissed him and now he feels like some lovesick kid unable to think straight, think about anything but you. 

But moments ago you were chatting about anything and everything, commenting on others you saw the moment you entered the tavern and how deep into their cups they already were, noting that the both of you would have some catching up to do after the past weeks of stress and finally allow yourselves to unfurl a bit. That was the agreement you’d come to; a fun evening without a care in the world. He wouldn’t be worrying about his brother. You wouldn’t be trying to do damage control for the effects of that black crown perched on your friend’s head. It was the perfect agreement. You’d been laughing, watching Dariax put on a show as the illustrious Tharla Starr and collecting quite the donations when a refill was in order. Together you’d move through the crowd arm in arm still giggling at the vocal-fry singing and rather good dancing in the background and how people were so enamoured with your friend. 

You’d pass under that floral arch none the wiser, got some more drinks and turned to make your way back to the table. Dorian didn’t notice anything either. Not until you stopped him right under the archway. You looked up and there hung that little branch held by ribbons, clearly in sight. Dorian followed your gaze. Oh. His breath caught in that very moment, that realisation. It was just a silly little tradition, right? It’s worth only amounts to what people choose to believe. He’d hate to admit it but this is one tradition he would like to believe in. You did too. He only knows this by your response, but it remains unspoken even now so his mind would not accept it as a truth. You smiled, a somewhat awkward laugh escapes your lips. You leaned in, slowly, first to place your lips against his cheek. Just an innocent kiss between friends, right? Right? 

That illusion was quickly shattered by the next. You had pulled back, only for him to behold the stars in your eyes, to enchant him and admit to himself the feelings he had kept at bay, be that for self-preservation, his own insecurities or something else entirely he could not identify. A breath finally escaped his lips as they parted slightly. You need not speak the words for he heard them in the air quite clear. You showed all the signs not even his insecurities can question. Your hand rises to cup his cheek, and he could’t help but lean into it, feel the warmth of your skin and the pure electricity that ran through it, sparking him to life but still was he too slow to take initiative. You’d pushed your lips against his and suddenly the world ceased to matter. Suddenly everything in life became irrelevant. There was just you and him, and that damned mistletoe above the both of you. Had he been completely lost he might not have remembered the drinks in his hands but you had pulled back before he could drop them. The noise came crashing back, the surroundings too. He was back again, and so were you. That little corner of reality that had been carved out exclusively for the two of you was reabsorbed by the cruel world but that doesn’t mean all those feelings ended. You’d grabbed onto his elbow to make way for some passing patron and guided him back to your table. He might have remained under that archway frozen in place, in thought had you not. 

You’d sat him down and when he didn’t hand that drink to Opal she’d taken it herself. He’d not even heard her sassy remark. He’d not even noticed that she tried to talk to him and made an effort too and it was only you who’d stopped her from trying to slap him back to reality. You’d made your own attempt too and he turned into a blabbering fool likely incapable of forming a coherent sentence as that kiss replayed in his head over and over and over and over. Eventually you’d gone off to save Dariax from a rather persistent patron who would be quick to expose the dwarf for who he really is. After that you’d found your way to the dance floor, dancing with the aforementioned, and your mutual friends too. He watched you, couldn’t take his eyes off you and while he would love to have joined, his feet would not carry him there. He felt like a lead balloon upon a light breeze; doomed to fall. He had fallen. He’d fallen for you some time ago and now, he can’t push it under anymore. He remains here seated with you on his mind, as the music passes, the patrons do too. His friends come back and forth, for a breather, to share a drink and check up on him, and disappear again. He managed to stammer he was fine. He’d claimed maybe the drink had gotten to him a bit faster than he had anticipated and his hearty meal wasn’t so hearty after all but your brow rose in suspicion at that statement. You said nothing, thankfully. You did not expose him for the truth you knew; he only had one drink and the cup in his hands now, second drink still remained untouched. He had not taken a single sip. He made it a point to take one when you eyed him but almost choked on it. 

Now the music calms down. Dariax’ got enough of the disguise and had excused himself with an extravagant goodbye from Tharla so he could return to his own self. Opal is gods know where. Cyrus seems to be flirting intensely with the barmaid who he keeps buying more and more drinks from to keep her attention. Things are as they should be again. You find your way back to the table drop yourself on the chair besides him. You’re closer than perhaps intended. Your legs brush against one another. Dorian feels heat rise to his cheeks for no particular reason. Not as you lean your elbow on the table and inspect him closely. You carefully unwrap his fingers from the cup and he realises how stiff they had gotten but the feeling melts away when your own brush along his palm. Again he can’t think straight. He almost forgets to breathe. There’s just you and him and nothing else, no one else. You’re in that corner of reality again, and everything else is just muffled background noise; insignificant. 

“Dorian? Is everything alright?” You ask him. Your head tilts to he side and your concern for him, it almost drives him mad. You have no reason to be concerned, if only he could speak his heart. 

“Yes.” He squeaks all too quickly in response. He clears his throat and repeats more assured but you don’t buy it. 

“Are you lying to me?”

“No! No. No of course not. I’ve got no reason to lie.” He stammers. It’s not a lie in technicality but still very much omitting the truth. But then you give him one look and as per usual he comes crumbling, falling apart at the very foundations. His cheeks colour a dark shade of blue be that out of embarrassment for being caught or because of the currently turmoiling feelings. 

“If this is about the kiss, it’s just a kiss. It doesn’t have to mean anything if you-“ You begin but in this moment he regains control of his body, something within him triggering when he sees your eyes cast to the grain of the table, sees you fiddle with your fingers, and bite the inside of your cheek. He knows these the signs of your doubt, in yourself, in others and you don’t deserve to feel like that. He can fix that, he can fix it so easily because currently he is the reason for that doubt because he’s been all but catatonic for the whole evening. That’s not your fault. That’s not your problem. 

“It means the world to me.” Dorian admits and has you stop in your tracks. All doubt and concern is dropped as your gaze shoots up to him, eyes wide a breath halting as whatever words you had stopped upon your lips. You look for any sense of insincerity, any kind of joking matter but there’s not. There never could have been. 

“That’s- that’s quite the claim.” You’re taken aback, unsure what to say, what to think beyond the pounding in your chest reminding you you’re alive. You’re ecstatic. And then his eyes widen when he realises what he said. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean- That’s a bit forward, isn’t it?” Dorian laughs awkwardly and panics and finds himself rambling. “It’s not that I didn’t like the kiss- If I’m quite honest, I can’t help but repeating it in my head- That sounds worse. Why. Why am I like this-“ He keeps going until your hands come to cup his face and pull him out of this stupor. He calms down a but when you urge him to.

Dorian knows what comes next. You‘d asked him and the words are a breath upon the wind, he’d replied in some affirmative manner that could not be mistaken in any way. He’d found his hand come to rest over one of yours, while the other drifted down to your waist, allowing you to more comfortably angle yourself to lean in halfway. He found it within himself to close the rest of the way, placing his lips against yours. This kiss, as perfect as the last was anything but unexpected in series of events but he could never for the life of him predict the feelings running through him now he has time to think, to let his mind run free and process every single thing, commit it to memory in every little detail properly. This kiss doesn’t end, not like the one before at least. Instead it deepens. Your lips move against his, your arms come to wrap around his neck, until your fingers settle among the ombre strands. You let him pull you closer, his hands running up and downy our sides slowly, tentatively, along your back, up your spine, until you’re inseparable. It’s perfect. Everything is perfect. And that all because of some mistletoe kiss. This might just be the beginning of a bright future.