#and i need my emotional support bard

[escapeintothe-book-universe]

I know the Witcher has a million flaws, but they seem to have a lot of very passionate people working on the show. I'll be sad when/if there isn't a next season.

[changeling-droneco]

I finally gave in and started to play afk journey, it’s alright, I used to play a lot of afk arena as a kid so I recognize a lot of the fighters and have some grasp of strategy HOWEVER there is a great injustice being done to me

Where’s my cringefail f tier favorite Angelo?!

[bookshelfpassageway]

Assorted D&D shitposting.

After around 6+ years, my game with Eugene has finally come to a close. It's currently the most active thing rampaging around the walls of my mind. We'll be having an epilogue session soon, and then I will have even bigger feelings, and then probably draw even dumber things

(Original format credit for the second one)

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

Daybreak Ballads

NSFW || Astarion x fem!bard!Tav/reader || ao3 || masterlist

Rating: E, +18 Word Count: +3.5k Warnings: Smut. Orgasm delay. Soft dom!Astarion. Oral+fingering (fem!receiving). PiV sex. Praise kink?

And yet, Astarion did have an undeniably keen eye for beauty and dramatics alike. If he only put a little more of himself into his work, you were convinced people would adore his poetry. He only had to find his intended audience because one thing was clear: as much as you loved Astarion, his poetry simply wasn’t for you. At all.

a/n: This has been in the works for ages and when I wasn't pulling out my own hair over this, it was quite fun to write, I suppose. Special thanks to @tragedybunny , @bardic-inspo and @littlejuicebox for emotional support. The masterful poem at the end has been handmade for Gina. With love. By the pale elf himself.

You’d never said you disliked Astarion’s poetry, let alone that it was bad. When the pale elf had asked for your expert opinion on his poetic endeavours, you’d just assumed it was honesty he’d wanted. So honesty was what you’d given him. 

The form of his poem looked messy, unappealing even; its rhythm was off, contorted by wordy lines that lacked any pleasant flow. Astarion’s motifs were obvious at best and trite at worst, and his rhymes were, well, creative, you supposed. But most of all, Astarion’s pieces left wanting for personality. Where was his wit? His snark? His passion? Where was all the fun?

Try as you might, you just couldn’t see yourself performing Astarion’s ballad—at least that’s what you assumed he’d attempted to write—for your regular audience, not with your flute nor your lyre. It just felt wrong to translate his words into song, forced. You didn’t even need to take a closer look to recognize his work as haphazard, dull, and, worst of all, inauthentic.

And yet, Astarion did have an undeniably keen eye for beauty and dramatics alike. If he only put a little more of himself into his work, you were convinced people would adore his poetry. He only had to find his intended audience because one thing was clear: as much as you loved Astarion, his poetry simply wasn’t for you. At all. That, too, you’d told him. 

To your surprise, Astarion had taken your admittedly harsh review of his work with uncharacteristic grace—suspiciously so, in hindsight, at least. After all, the vampire could be quite…sensitive. That night, though, he’d just nodded along to your blunt words, an almost arrogant smirk tugging at his lips, promising you to compose a piece to your liking one day.

Just for you, Astarion had said with a wink as he’d retrieved his poetry from your hands, the dying campfire reflecting in the ink of his elegant handwriting. Crimson eyes sparkling with mischief as they’d wandered over your body. His tongue had slowly wet his sensuous lips as if in anticipation of...what? 

Just wait and see, darling…

If your brain hadn’t been all clouded by lust earlier tonight, you would’ve noticed that Astarion had been up to something. He’d been throwing you suggestive looks all evening, purring sweet nothings in your ear whenever he’d gotten you alone. Surprised you in your tent when your companions had been sound asleep, the campfire burned low. His hand had practically been glued to the small of your back as he’d guided you to a most charming little clearing, not unlike the one in which you’d first slept with him all those weeks ago. 

That Astarion had kept calling this idyllic, moonlit spot his perfect motif had somehow eluded you as you’d been too preoccupied with the telltale heat gathering between your legs. In fact, you’d followed the vampire like an eager little pup, already wound tight around his little finger. The promise of Astarion’s inviting touches and lingering kisses had lured you right into his honey trap—and how bittersweet it was.

Now, shivering from painfully drawn-out desire and cold morning dew settling on your skin, you could feel that cursed smirk brush against your dripping wet core again—a silent warning. 

Oh, fuck. 

Astarion’s lips closed around your almost painfully swollen clit, sucking at it leisurely as his lower arm pinned your hips against the cold earth as if you were but a sheet of paper threatening to take flight with the next gust of wind. Another gasp echoed from the trees as your left hand clawed at the damp grass underneath you, looking for support but finding little. Your other hand grasped at silver curls with as much success. 

Astarion was rather enjoying himself as your body squirmed under his sinful mouth, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your thigh as he adjusted your trembling leg over his shoulder, opening you up even more for his thorough ministrations. You tossed your head back at the gentle but intoxicating shift of position. His name was stuck in the back of your throat, suffocated by shaky moans as the tip of his tongue brought you ever closer to the edge of release. 

Feeling the coil in your lower belly tighten, your toes curled against the raised scar tissue on Astarion’s back, eliciting but an amused sigh from him before his lips released your wanting nub with one last lingering caress of his tongue. 

You wanted to cry; this was the second time he’d left you hanging somewhere between bliss and frustration.

Shaking from pent-up pleasure, your elbow threatened to slip on the wet grass as you sat up as much as the weight of Astarion’s arm allowed. Through the evaporating clouds of your laboured breath you only just caught a glimpse of Astarion’s crimson eyes gazing up at you from between your thighs; he was all messy curls and unfairly thick eyelashes. Smug smirks turned wicked. 

You swallowed.

“Astarion…” you breathed, not knowing if it was a warning or plea, but before the syllables had faded into the fleeting night, his attention had returned to your cunt once more. The tip of Astarion’s nose grazed your clit. You could feel his cold breath against your burning folds, feeling no different than the gentle breeze of dawn tickling your exposed skin. There was no gentle sensation snaking up your spine when Astarion licked down your slit ever so slowly, and for the first time that night, you truly registered how far you really were from camp. You let out a blissful cry, knowing there was not a soul to hear you but the elf feasting on your cunt. 

The weight from Astarion’s arm shifted from your hips down your side. His hand wandered along your curves, groping the swell of your ass before it wound itself back up your inner thigh. He pushed your legs further apart, opening you up impossibly wide. You let out an excited squeal you would be embarrassed for by morning, but not now, no. For the better part of the night, you’d been a whining, trembling mess under your lover—always painfully close to release and yet no part of Astarion had filled you as of yet. But maybe he’d had enough now. Maybe he would finally deign to push you over the edge, with his fingers or his cock, you didn’t really care anymore as long as he finally let you come undone.

And, indeed, Astarion’s fingers inched closer to your core, though all they did was trace the course of your pulsing femoral artery he could no doubt sense underneath your heated skin. You relaxed a little under his sweet little caresses and wondered dully if he would soon exchange the fruits of your cunt for proper nourishment.

He didn’t. At least not yet.

Without warning, the tip of Astarion’s tongue teased your entrance, driving you wild. Your hips instantly bucked against Astarion’s face as your hand clenched around a fistful of his soft hair. Finally! This was divine, this was— 

Astarion withdrew from you in an instant, ignoring the undignified whine of protest escaping your lips—fuck, you’d been so close! By the self-satisfied look on his face, though, he was well aware of that. For a moment, he studied the heavy rise and fall of your flushed chest, his chin resting right below your navel as you lay beneath him, dumbstruck. His pointer finger still ghosted up and down the inside of your leg, the lazy movement a stark contrast to the blood racing through your veins. 

“Oh, darling, look what you’ve done…” Astarion pouted, his sensuous lips moist with your arousal. “You’ve ruined my rhythm.”

His fingers slowly wandered down, down, down your leg and curled around your ankle before he gently let it glide off his shoulder. With an outrageous nonchalance, he sat back on his knees and considered you. Crimson eyes darted over your feverish skin that glistened with sweat and morning dew. They trailed from your parted lips down your collarbone, through the valley of your breast, until they beheld the mess between your legs with blatant amusement. How you wanted to wipe the stupid smirk off his face; how you wanted him to finally take you.

Behind Astarion’s broad shoulders, you could see the sunrise in the distance; a gentle purple bled into the indigo of night right above the treeline. Day would break soon, but you didn’t have it in you to appreciate twilight when, suddenly, Astarion’s arms came down on each side of your head, eclipsing the waking world around you.

His hips settled against your core as he crawled atop you, habitually making you arch your back against his own growing desire pressing into your belly.

“But don’t you worry,” Astarion purred, clearly delighted as he lowered himself onto you until the silken tip of his nose brushed against yours. “Your body is a well of inspiration to me, my little muse…”

Astarion closed the small distance between you with a heady kiss; your mind went blank as you tasted yourself on his lips, the warmed tongue demanding access to you once more. You opened your mouth to him readily, moaned into the kiss as Astarion’s hands wandered up and down the curves of your body. Your head spun. Nobody—nothing—else could ever make you feel like this, and you cursed yourself when you had to break away from him to fill your inconvenient lungs with air. 

Spit and slick weaved like cobwebs between your parted lips as you beheld Astarion with dazed eyes, breathing hard.

He was perfect. 

From the fading light of the moon reflecting in his serene locks to his kiss-swollen lips that were a sharp instrument of the sweetest temptation. That smirk that promised unforgettable ecstasy, granting it only whenever he wanted. There was no song nor poem you could compose that could ever do Astarion justice, no instrument to capture the intricacies of his soul. He was a masterpiece.

Drunk on his lips, you leaned forward as his fingers continued to run down your middle, along the curve of your ass before taking hold of your thigh again. Your tired legs twitched to wind around Astarion’s hips, wanting to pull him closer to where you needed him most. 

But before you could even move an inch, you found yourself lying flat on your stomach.

Astarion’s arm wound around your waist from behind, roughly pulling your ass up against his lean middle before you could so much as gasp in surprise. Wet grass tickled your cheek as you tried to find your balance, take a puzzled look back at him, but you could only feel him bend over you again, his erection poking your lower back. 

Astarion’s kiss-warmed lips ghosted over your ear, “Now that you’re in proper form, let’s write some poetry, shall we?”

What?

He tossed your messy braid over your shoulder, pressed a wet kiss to the exposed nape of your neck as your knees struggled for support on slippery morning dew. 

“You’ll sing some more for me, won’t you, little songstress?” Astarion breathed against your spine. “I’m sure you’ll make a real show of my newest piece.” 

It took you a moment to process his words. Maybe it was the pebble cutting into the palm of your hand or the day’s first birdsong reaching your ear that lifted the fog in your head, but it finally hit you.

Astarion hadn’t brought you here for a tryst in the dirt, no. You were here because he was writing poetry. Except, this time, you weren’t his critic, but his choice medium. Which could only mean one thing: He rather had taken your criticism of his artistic endeavours to heart, and now you would have to pay the price for your honesty.

“Astarion…” you breathed, quick words of appeasement lost in a moan as he started to grind against you. Suddenly, daybreak felt like an eternity away. 

“Yes, darling?” He asked, the perverse amusement evident in his voice. “How do you like my work so far? Is it to your refined taste this time?” 

Curse the damn elf. You knew what he wanted, what he’d craved all along. What he’d expected from you the moment he’d shared his work with you. And as if you weren’t in a most precarious position already, he really wanted you to say it—praise him and his stupid poetry when he knew how badly your body was aching for him.

Clenching your teeth, you slowly rolled your hips up against his now rock-hard cock. Maybe, if you just got him to fuck you already, you would get away with your pride intact. All of this was embarrassing enough as it was.

Your efforts were repaid with little more than a chuckle, though—and two fingers that started teasing your entrance, carefully dipping into you without even slightly dampening your need.

“Fuck!” You whined into the grass as your hips chased Astarion’s digits, wishing they were his cock instead, filling you as you’d so lusted after all night long.

“What was that?”

Astarion’s movement stopped at once, leaving you empty once again.

“It’s good,” you hissed against the wet ground as tears of frustration threatened to spill from the corners of your eyes. “Your poetry—Astarion, it’s so good, I swear.” 

So much for pride.

“Oh, you think so, little nightingale?” 

You nodded frantically as he bent over you again, nibbling at the shell of your sensitive pointy ear. Astarion chuckled.

“Don’t get me wrong, this means so much coming from an expert artist such as yourself, darling, but I can’t help but wonder whether this is a professional opinion or empty flattery for the sake of indulgence…”  

You could feel his fingers ghost over your clit, knowing he would never touch you without a satisfying answer.

“It’s true—nobody does it quite like you,” you cried, not bothering to specify whether you meant his poetry or his more distinctive talents, and it didn’t really matter. 

Throughout your career, you’d gone looking for inspiration in quite a few beds but never had you written better poetry than in your rather short time together with the pale elf. Astarion was unlike any lover you’d ever taken, nor had you ever cared this deeply for another person whatsoever. 

“Nothing compares to you, Astarion,” you whispered, truthfully. 

“Ah,” Astarion’s fingers slid back into you the moment the words had left your mouth, curling deliciously against your walls—a reward for your generous recognition of his talents, no question. “But I’m sure there’s room for improvement still?”  

Hips moving up against his digits, chasing the sweet friction of his cold skin, you groaned. Fine. If he wanted a damn lesson in poetry, he could have one.

“There always is. What’s the point of art when there’s no growth—ah!”

There was a lewd sound as Astarion pulled his fingers from your core once again, though this time you could feel his body shift behind you. The two fingers that had worked you open so well now gently parted your folds. You let out a low moan as you could finally feel the wet tip of Astarion’s cock teasing your throbbing clit, though it was his lips brushing the back of your neck that really made you shiver.   

“So what would you have me do, little nightingale? Would you have me put more of myself into my work, again?”  

“Yes, gods, please,” you mewled, dragging the syllables out just like you knew he enjoyed. “Put as much of yourself in as you can.”

Astarion tried and failed to cover his quickening breath up with a sharp laugh, finally giving away the strain on his own composure. “Well, you are the expert, aren’t you?”  

The iron grip on your hip was the only thing keeping you from toppling over as Astarion buried himself inside you with one forceful thrust. The entirety of his impressive length stretched you painfully wide, and he only granted you one moment to adjust to the feeling of complete, blissful fullness before he pulled out of you again. Grunting, he repeated the movement, faster each time. His deep groans soon turned into a perfect rhyme to your breathless moans as he fucked you franticly. 

“Like my poetry now, darling?” He hissed, slamming into you over and over again as your hand found Astarion’s in the dewy grass.  

Your fingers wound around his wrist, up his lower arm, grasping for support. Couldn’t he see, feel, hear how much you adored his poetry?

“You’re an artist,” you panted through open-mouthed gasps, your entire body singing him the song of your desire, though you really doubted that he paid it much mind.

Astarion had buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent greedily. His tongue traced the curve of your collarbone; you could feel his fangs scrape against your tender skin every now and then. He was a fast learner, you noted, dully—Astarion was already losing himself in his passionate work. 

“Have I found my intended audience yet?” He muttered, more to himself than to you, as his knee hooked under your leg, pushing it up until you lay almost flat on the ground.

“What do you want me to do, darling? Write down how divine your cunt is? Have everybody know what sinful music you make when I fuck you?” Astarion let out a choked laugh. “Fuck that! I don’t need an audience, because they only need to take one look at you and recognize you as a work of mine.” 

He wasn’t wrong. You would be deliciously sore when you returned to camp with the scent of your lover lingering on your skin like ink on thick paper. He was already written all over you; you were his creation. Who else could coax such magnificent sounds out of you but him? And who were you, really, to teach him about poetry when all you had to do was offer your body to him? You hadn’t lied when you said Astarion was an artist.  

Your fingernails left little half-moons on his pale arm as he fucked you half senseless. You could feel yourself dissolve deeper into pleasure with every relentless snap of his hips, knowing that this was when Astarion was most himself—buried deep inside you, chasing his own ideas and desires. Enjoying himself. Writing poetry.

You came fast and hard. Astarion gasped as your cunt clenched violently around him, his movement growing increasingly erratic. He breathed incoherent strings of pretty words into your ear, pulled your hips down on his cock with so much urgency it left you reeling far beyond your orgasm. He was close, too. His rhythm faltered as he slipped into a frenzy, cock twitching inside you as he lost himself in his poetry—in you. 

You brought your arm behind you to find Astaron’s sweat-drenched face, cupping his cheek. He groaned as he leaned into your touch. 

“You’re so talented, Astarion,” you said. “Fill me with all you have.” 

That was all it took. With one last grunt, Astarion spilled himself inside you. He continued rolling his hips into you for another moment, his pace slowing before he collapsed on top of you. 

You let the familiar weight of your lover ground you, enjoyed the way his hands wound under you to caress your stomach, your breasts. Astarion pressed a kiss to the crown of your head before gently withdrawing from you. His seed gushed out of you, leaving his signature on the insides of your legs. 

“You really think I have a thing for poetry?” Astarion asked, sheepishly, as he rolled to his side, pulling you with him to rest against his lean chest. “Or does my talent only reach as far as your pleasure?”

The sun had finally risen over the treeline, melting the morning dew from your skin. Drawing lazy circles across his chest, you considered Astarion’s question. 

“Talent means nothing without practice.” 

He hummed, clearly pleased with your answer. “Care to practise with me, then?” 

“Your poetry or my pleasure?” You asked, looking up to search his face.

Eyes closed to the sun above you, Astarion smiled. “It’s all the same with you, isn’t it, little songstress?”  

The pale elf pressed another kiss to your temple, pulled you even closer to him as you chuckled at his words.

“I would be quite honoured, Astarion.” 

The page had been ripped from your journal. It rested neatly folded in half next to your bedroll, elegant handwriting bleeding through the paper. Bards weren’t morning people—it just came with the job. Though, even as sore and sleepy as you felt, you would’ve never missed the note waiting for you to be found upon waking with the sun. You’d been expecting it, after all. With uncoordinated hands, you unfolded the piece of paper.

“Getting drunk on your

Sweet morning dew, nightingale.

Fucking you—such bliss.” 

—A. 

You scoffed at the poem in your hands, carefully folding it again before you reached for a small box filled with similar pieces of paper. You added the poem to the growing collection. There was no talent without practice, and Astarion and you had only just begun.

tag list:

@spacebarbarianweird @bardic-inspo @kawaiiusagichansan @darlingxdragon @herautumnmorningelegance @ayselluna @chonkercatto

[bouncybongfairy]

Not A Peep

Simon (Ghost) Riley x Fem Reader Smut

Summary: You're a medic on Task Force 141 and Ghost finds out you have a thing for him when you get flustered stitching him up. Once you guys get back to the barracks, he fucks your throat under a desk.

Word Count: 1.0k+

Ref Account: @kaionyx

TW: Dom Ghost, Face Fucking, Rough Smut, BJ Under Desk

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

It was easy to separate yourself from all the stories being told while studying to be a combat medic. Tales about women falling for soldiers and then being immortally traumatized from watching the war take its effect on him. Whether it be emotionally or physically, the horror stories were gruesome. One teacher talked about how she had to treat her fiance after he’d been shot in the arm, apparently it fucked her up for a while. In a way, you would mock the fact that anyone would put themselves in that situation. Falling in love with someone with such a high risk job. It seemed like common sense not to put your heart on the line, especially when it could affect your job. 

That was until I met Simon and you started to understand that those wives tales weren’t so far fetched. The two of you didn’t talk much but it always felt like there was so much tension. Constantly making eye contact, becoming flustered and tongue tied whenever he spoke to you. Avoiding him when you could, not liking the feeling of your heart racing when you did. He held so much emotion in his eyes, like he was projecting his thoughts through eye contact. On a recent mission, a bullet brushed past the area above his hip bone; creating a laceration that needed stitches. Barding into the tent and pulling his pants down and shedding his gear.

 Immediately you get on your knees, pulling everything you needed to treat him out of your tactical vest. Looking up just before starting the first stitch, he was already looking down at you. His eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes were narrowed onto you. Blood was running down, trailing down the contour of his v-line. Hands started shaking slightly, especially as he started to moan and curse in pain. Even though you were fully aware his reaction was from discomfort, you couldn’t but imagine if it… wasn’t. 

He was watching you like a hawk, swiveling his head to watch you whenever you grabbed gauze. All hope that he didn’t notice you acting flustered was ditched when you started feeling dizzy, swaying a little. He grabbed your arm to prevent you from falling, your partner taking over. Now back in the barracks, you took a long hot shower. Trying to figure out why you got so in your head, the water began to run cold. Prompting you to get out and get dressed, walking back into your room. Ghost who was stripped of gear, laying back on the bed supporting his weight with his elbows. 

“Do you need me to redress that for you?” you asked, assuming he was waiting to see you about his wound. 

“No. Do you need me to undress you?” he asked, sitting up. 

“I- What?” you asked, taken off guard. 

“Do you. Need me to. Undress you?” he asked slower, like you were too dumb to answer the question. 

“I don’t understand-” you began saying. 

“No no, I saw you today. The way your eyes widened when you were on your knees in front of me. The desperation and neediness was so potent I could practically smell it on you. I could have taken you right there if I wanted, forced myself into your throat. So hot and bothered you couldn’t even do your job, I consume your thoughts. Don’t act like I don’t” he said, backing you against the desk that was in the corner. 

“I don’t-” he interrupted. 

“Wanna say something you regret,” he said, running his thumb over your bottom lip. Dipping it into your mouth, feeling around to see your reaction, “I think it safe to say that if you didn’t want my cock, you wouldn’t be sucking my finger like a whore. Would you?” he asks, you shake your head and in response he gives you a sharp smack on the cheek.

“Would you?” he asks again, giving you a chance to correct your answer. 

“Yes sir,” you say, melting at the way he looked at you. 

“Good girl, get under the desk.” He said, which you did without hesitation. 

He unzipped his fly, struggling for a second to free his member but finally got there. Sitting down in the office chair, rolling into the small space under the desk. Completely trapping you inside the small space. No longer being able to see above his shoulders, not that it mattered when his cock was right in front of you. Every time your lips finally encased his tip, he would use his hand and pull it away. You reach up and try to take his length into your hand. His voice booming through the room as he pulls away a couple inches to look you in the eyes. 

“Put your fucking hand down, you haven’t done anything to deserve it,” he said, scooting back in, using his hand to guide your head down. 

After all the teasing, the feelings of his cock pushing past your lips felt like heaven. Ever since you met him all you could think about was him ravaging you. Using your body for whatever he wanted. A loud groan coming from the back of your throat, his other hand was stroking your cheek. Slowly starting to push your head down further, you gagged which made him chuckle. 

“Fuck, I knew i’d eventually have you gagging around my dick,” he cooed, letting his head fall back. You looked up, now being able to see his exposed jawline. Reaching your hand down and starting to play with yourself. Spreading your wetness around and circling your clit. Moaning as drool and pre-cum started sliding down his shaft. He grabbed your hair and starting to fuck your mouth. His eyes were rolling back, feeling feral hearing the wet slobbering and slapping sounds. There was a knock at the door which made you squeal and try to pull away. 

“Shhhhh!” He hisses before clearing his throat and answering the door. However just before he does, he presses your head down, applying pressure with both hands on the back of your head. Forcing your lips all the way down to the base of his cock. 

“Yeah!” he yelled, Soap opened the door but remained in the doorway. 

“Have you seen y/n? We have training soon,” Soap asked while you were digging your fingernails into his boots, swallowing around his length which hurt slightly.

“Yeah, I think she went to get some fresh air,” Ghost said, stars were forming in your vision. Soap thanked him and promptly exited and Ghost finally let you pull back. Gasping for air and wiping the tears out of your eyes. He moaned as the cold air hit his dick just after getting used to your hot throat. 

“That’s a good girl, just breathe. Yeah, you’re a such a good fucking girl,” he snarled and pulled you back down on you. 

He stood up and balled his fist in your hair, and pinning his hands onto the top of the desk. Essentially locking you into place and he obliterated your throat. Making sure your nose was pressed into his base with every thrust. Not bothering to pull his cock out as he started came. Warm cum flooding down your throat and into your stomach. He pulled out, not wasting any time putting his dick away. You rested your upper body on the now empty chair that sat in front of you. Ghost squatted down and grabbed your wet chin to look up at him before speaking, 

“Firstly, you should thank me for feeding you before training. Secondly, I didn’t make you cum because you left scratch marks on my boot,” he said, walking out of the room.

[schmergo]

My controversial opinions about the current trend of highly minimalist Shakespeare:

I like a minimalist approach to the Bard, but I think it has to be done within certain parameters.

Too many theatres seem to think that either everybody already knows the play and they don’t need to worry about the audience understanding everything OR they assume that nobody cares about Shakespeare and massively cut down everything except the celebrity leading actors’ lines. But if you play your cards right, audiences might actually enjoy other aspects of the play besides the stars!

1. A smaller cast is fine, great even. I’ve heard the estimate that Shakespeare’s plays might have been originally performed by about 15 people. A cast of 11-15 tends to work well in most spaces.

You can do an enjoyable Shakespeare play with 8-10 people (with significant cuts and doubling), but it doesn’t do anything to IMPROVE the theatergoing experience. And under 8 actors? It better be done for comedic effect or highly avant- garde, or it will be incomprehensible to most.

2. If you’re using a lot of doubling/tripling/quadrupling, you need to differentiate characters with costumes. Having everyone wear plain black minimalistic outfits or military uniforms only works if half the actors aren’t playing 5 different people.

As originally staged, Shakespeare’s plays didn’t have much in the way of sets, but costumes did a lot of storytelling. Even if yours are simple and modern, they should tell us something about the characters. The humble Friar Lawrence and the powerful Prince Escalus probably wouldn’t dress the same.

3. Similarly, if you’re doubling, tripling, etc. and significantly abridging the script, do not cut dialogue like “I have disguised myself as a monk!” or “They will never know that I’m secretly Bob!” Otherwise, they might think this is a whole new character they need to keep track of if clothes/accessories are the only signifier for that!

4. Also, try not to cut too many lines that establish a sense of place if you don’t have actual sets. Lines like, “Here we are in the forest” or “We’ve finally reached France!” are Shakespeare’s audience lifelines!

5. If you’re combining small roles to create composite characters, pay attention to those characters’ arcs. For instance, if combining all the minor lords in Macbeth into Ross and Lennox, maybe one starts more naive and the other more jaded, maybe one turns against MacB long before the other.

Don’t assign them lines that don’t make sense for their role, like if Lennox teleports between Scotland and England from scene to scene or if someone reacts with shock to news they already witnessed firsthand in an earlier scene. In general, treat your supporting characters like characters, not just vehicles to move the plot forward for the lead actor’s star turn, even if the lead is played by a celebrity!

6. Relying on voice and facial expressions only to tell the story, absent of sets, costumes, props, ensemble characters, or action scenes only works in a suitably intimate space. I don’t want to sit in the nosebleed seats in a 2,000 seat theatre and see a huge bare stage with only 9 people sitting or standing, emoting to only the first few rows.

Sitting through a play without following the story at all will make lots of people hate Shakespeare who may have otherwise fallen in love with his work after attending your play. “Stripping Shakespeare down to its bare essentials” can be raw and invigorating, just be careful not to remove binding ingredients or the whole recipe falls apart. The text can be tricky enough to comprehend, let alone with next to no visual signifiers to guide them. Work with the text, not against it! So many helpful tools are built into it!

[sailorkamino]

sheltered

relatonships: geraskier x magic!reader [tangled au]

word count: 1.8k

summary: your village believed you to be born cursed and would have killed you, if not for stragobor. you've spent your whole life locked away in a tower but now you've got a chance for freedom in the form of a bard, a witcher, and an pretty horse.

warnings: stragobor, emotionally abusive parent, gaslighting, anti witcher prejudice, death/murder, pre relationship, emotional support dogs

a/n: my first time writing for the witcher! what do you think? i might turn this into a series <3

Spring is coming so you’re making new outfits for your beloved hounds. Which isn’t at all depressing no matter what that one judgemental bird thinks. Anyways you’re using golden yellow fabric for Honeysuckle and cool blue for Periwinkle. As is customary.

Then you sense them. Strangers. You become almost dizzy with fear and excitement. A type of desperation only experienced when you live in a forced solitude. You make your way to the window, desperate for a glance. It’s not like they’ll be able to see you. Your entire tower is invisible to outsiders.

“Hey, look at this tower.”

You choke on air. Your dogs leap from your bed to check on you (still in their winter sweaters.) You hold your breath as two people and a horse step into the clearing. Then you meet yellow cat-like eyes and you’re diving to the floor with a startled noise.

“Careful. Magic.”

One of them is mumbling but it’s drowned out by the sound of your rapid heart. Honeysuckle whines in concern, licking your face. Periwinkle takes a protective stance over both of you, growling out the window.

Father has always told you witchers are bloodthirsty savages. They’ll kill any innocent being for a profit. They know no morals, only violence. When you were born under a black sun your religious village wanted you dead. Father hid you away for protection. You’re not looking to relieve the witch hunt experience.

You mentally poke at the witcher, feeling out his aura. He doesn’t seem particularly beastly. Animals tend to be more shallow than people, all instincts and simple emotions. Surprisingly he doesn’t feel that.

A part of you has always questioned your father's prejudice. You stopped voicing it but the concerns remained. Father hates witchers because they kill beasts. If monsters can be good, why can’t witchers? An old argument resurfaces in your memory.

“Have you listened to a word I’ve said, child?” Father asks angrily. “You cry when a rat dies yet defend butchers.” You look away, embarrassed by his mocking tone.

“This is why you stay in this tower. You’re too naïve for the outside world.”

You wonder if that’s the real reason he keeps you locked away. You’re capable of defending yourself now. So is he really protecting you? Or is he protecting the world? All because you were born under a black sun. Why must you be punished for being different? Why must witchers?

You think of the villagers who looked at a crying orphan and saw a threat. Who saw killing an infant as a lesser evil. You don’t want to be like that. Privately you wonder why your mentor sees compassion as a weakness but you’ve learnt it’s better to agree with him. “Yes father. I’m sorry.”

“No need to fear us. I’m Jaskier the bard, master of the seven liberal arts, and this is my companion, Geralt of Rivia! Could you give us directions to the nearest town?” The colorful man calls out.

Your heart races until you feel dizzy. So this is the butcher. The most beastly and cruel of all the witchers. He’s… underwhelming to say the least. Certainly least nightmarish and more dreamy than you imagined. But you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. You take a calming breath, petting your hounds to ground yourself.

The primal fear inside of you is wrestling with your desire for a real life conversation with a stranger. This could be your chance to hear both sides of what happened in Blaviken. Father always says you’re too naïve but only tells you his point of view. You’re almost sick with nerves when you blurt out rather loudly, “I wouldn't know. I’ve never been in the forest before.”

There’s a long pause and you can sense confusion. Have you already messed up? You don't want them to leave. Well the witcher can go, but the colorful one seems nice. You pop your head back into view, “I don’t leave my tower. I’m sorry. I… like your horse.” Compliments make you friends right?

“Don’t leave or can’t?” A much gruffer voice asks. You shiver. (He didn’t even say thank you for the compliment, how rude.)

“I’m safe here.” The words sound unconvincing to your own ears. You tell yourself it's because of fear. Not because you’re beginning to question them.

“Who says?”

“My father.”

They share a concerned look. You bite your lip in embarrassment. It sounds quite childish when you say it out loud. But you’ve been persecuted before, you aren’t about to let your guard down around a hired killer. So… why are you still talking to him?

Then you notice the brunet’s instrument. What a lovely change of subject. “Is that a lute?”

“It is!”

You’re practically jumping now. Honeysuckle, picking up on your excitement, smacks you with her wagging tail. “I’ve never heard a bard before! Play me something?”

Jaskier goes impossibly sad. You frown, hating the kicked puppy expression. What did you do wrong? Maybe you should just stick to socializing with animals. At least the rats find you charming.

“You’ve never heard music, my dear?”

Your face goes hot, both at the endearment and the pity in his voice. “I have lots of instruments but I don’t think I’m very good. Being self taught and all.”

“Why don’t I come up and give you a lesson? Free of charge!”

Your stomach twists in knots. You don’t know what’s more terrifying. Your new friend coming inside or leaving you to loneliness. You avoid eye contact when you answer. “My father wouldn’t like that.”

“What would you like?” The witcher asks sternly. You freeze. No one has ever cared what you wanted before. Is that concern you sense from him? Sympathy? From a so-called beast? Your silence seems like an answer enough. “So can’t leave,” he concludes.

“Can others enter?” Jaskier asks curiously.

You don’t know why you answer but you do. “Only with a portal. There’s no door.”

“But there’s a window.”

You frown. Obviously there’s a window, you’re talking out of it right now. Maybe your new friend is a little slow.

“Rope?” he proposes to the witcher.

Your mouth drops open. A rope? That’s it? Years of isolation by a warlock solved with a fucking rope? It can’t be that simple. It just can’t be. “My father is very powerful,” you warn. “And he hates witchers.”

“Him and most of the continent,” the man grumbles dryly. For some reason you feel guilty. Years of indoctrination to hate his kind, forgotten in mere minutes. Maybe you really are naïve.

“Who’s your father, dear? Maybe we know him?”

You sincerely hope not. “Stregobor.”

Dead silence. Then a very empathetic “fuck.”

Your stomach sinks. That’s the most emotion you’ve heard in the witcher’s voice so far and it doesn't sound good. Will they judge you for your fathers deeds? Wait, why are you assuming your father’s in the wrong? Since when did he become the bad guy? (Maybe he always has been but you’ve ignored it.)

“Let me guess, you were born during a black sun?” He asks flatly.

You feel as if a rug has been pulled out from under you. The comfort that’s been growing disappears, replaced with icy fear. You don’t even know this man yet you still feel betrayed. “Are you here to kill me?” You ask, slightly wobbly.

He sighs tiredly. Maybe he gets asked that a lot. “No. You aren’t fucking cursed. You were born during an eclipse. A completely natural phenomenon. A bunch of old bastards made up that curse for power and control.”

Your jaw drops, conflicting emotions raging inside of you. If he’s right you’re not cursed, which is great. But it also means your father has betrayed you. Your whole life can’t be a lie. It just can’t. A sinking part of you knows he’s making sense, even wants to believe him, but you desperately ignore it.

“I hurt people,” you confess abruptly.

“I thought you never left this tower?” Jaskier asks.

“When I was a baby.”

The witcher raises an unimpressed brow. “Did Stregobor tell you that?”

You growl in frustration as a strong wind rustles the trees. Jaskier looks around in bewilderment but the witcher holds your steady gaze. Not easily frightened by your show of power or glowing eyes.

“I’ve met a lot of monsters. You’re not one.”

The words you’ve always longed to hear. Uttered by the man you’ve been taught to hate. You take a moment to collect your flurry of emotions before answering. “Funny,” you smile weakly, “I was gonna say the same thing about you, witcher.”

You steady yourself before asking the next question. Knowing it won’t be easy but needing answers. The more you talk to Geralt the more you question what you’ve been taught about witchers. Maybe you don’t want him to be a monster. Maybe you’re so lonely you don’t care if he is.

“Tell me about Blaviken.”

“What?” His voice is somehow gruffer. Face horribly blank and posture rigid.

“Every story has two sides, yet I’ve only heard my father’s.”

He sighs deeply. Then begins. He tells you about Renfri. A princess born under the black sun. Her step mother was looking for a way to get rid of her and the curse was convenient. Stregobor agreed the girl was an evil mutant that must be isolated but her step mother wanted her dead. Together they ruined her life.

Renfri evaded them. She spent years being hunted, until she became the hunter. Eventually she formed a gang of sorts and tracked Stregobor to Blaviken but couldn’t enter his tower. (Apparently the idea of living in a tower forever was very distressing to your father. You don't know if you should laugh or vomit.)

Both Renfri and Stregobor asked Geralt to kill the other but he refused, not wanting to get involved. Although he hated Stregobor he tried to talk the princess out of revenge. It was too late. She threatened to kill townspeople until the warlock came out.

Your heart sinks at the ultimatum. Your father has never been a compassionate man. By the grim look on the witcher’s face he knew it too. In the end Geralt did what Stregobor wanted him to do. Instead of payment or thanks he was branded a butcher.

The fear-shame-grief rolling off of the witcher (definitely not emotionless by the way) is enough to make your eyes sting. Your gaze settles on Jaskier, who’s gone into full sad puppy mode. You have a feeling he’s never heard the full story either. You clear your choked throat.

“You mentioned a rope, good sir?”

[bhaal-battle-beer-bard]

ᘀᘗ нօʟɖ ʍɛ աɨȶɦօʊȶ ɦʊʀȶɨռɢ ʍɛ ᘀᘗ

📸: by @aristenfromwarsaw

➹pairing: Astarion x female Tiefling Durge (my bard Tav Saulus)

➹summary: Astarion gets a little bit carried away while his midnight feast, but Saulus shows him how to take it slow and what other things they can do to spend the night together. A fluff – fest! Pure pure comfort!

➹content/tags: fluff, comfort, romance, emotional support, cuddles, so much cuddles, smuty flirting, bantering

➹idea: based on pinkberrytea’s wonderful headcanon,thx again,made me so happy

➹listening while reading, inspirational song

➹word count: 10,878 ➹ao3

➹dedication: @pinkberrytea thanks for the lovely hc about them, it was the whole inspiration for this, so this one is for you

@aristenfromwarsaw because every time you make a beautiful pic or gif of Saulus&Astarion it inspires me, but most of all it gives me the burning motivation to actually dare to write something about my Tav. Those mindblowing GIFs and other stuff just making me truly create a writing that I can put it into it every time. Hoping my writing deserves containing your creations. Thank you for making my inspiration bearing fruits through your pretty photography! These GIFs really gave me enough motivation, making me start to write this in the first place! 💛🧡💛

@alpydk I've had the feeling lately that you could use some fluff&comfort at the moment. Always remember: You deserve all the fluff&comfort in every aspect!

ɦσℓ∂ ɱε ωเƭɦσµƭ ɦµ૨ƭเɳɠ ɱε - 𝒜𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓃 & 𝒮𝒶𝓊𝓁𝓊𝓈

𝒜 𝒮𝒶𝓊𝓁𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓡𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒

"I don't know if I should see it as another curse, that there is hardly any suitable prey for me to find here in these Shadowlands, or as a blessing. After all, it allows me to drink my favorite drop from your enchanting neck so often," Astarion enthused, his voice as playful as a whole string quartet.

Even if it was a bit lost in Saulus’ deep neck, in which the vampire was already lost in anticipation.

"You know that it doesn't take a shadow curse to satisfy your thirst at me. Whenever necessary," the bard answered him, even though she knew that it was just another one of Astarion's wordy banter.

"Beware darling, we don't want you to become a bloodless degenerate. After all, this operation still needs your brain. As chaotic as it may be, you've come a long way and helped us out with your mouth so far very good... All of us, of course."

Astarion laughed smugly into her neck before he started again to spread kisses on the skin there.

That was the reason why Saulus had a harder time paying attention to his words and flirtatious teasing about her persuasion skills at the moment anyway. The way Astarion drank from her had changed considerably.

A lot had changed since the evening when the pale elf had approached her with a strange expression on his face and said that they had to talk.

They had finished off Yurgir the Orthon, so that Raphael could get more information about the pact that Saulusus had already translated. At least the part that was so cruelly carved into Astarion's back and that she had seen after their first night together.

After the encounter with the blood trader Araj Oblodra, the vampire had revealed to her even more about his past or much more the mental scars and traumas it had left him with.

He wanted to be honest with her from now on. Wanted there to be a "we" a “us” and they were more. They both had to find out what this might look like. Because until before the crash of the nautiloid ship, Astarion had not had the opportunity to decide for himself, to have something for himself.

But if there was a possibility of having a place in his heart, Saulus wanted to seize this opportunity with Astarion. He should think about what he really wanted. She, on the other hand, knew from the beginning that the sharp-tongued elf occupied a place in her heart and her whole mind, which she herself had liked to suppress until now. For what good were feelings and a heart overflowing with love, if one stood alone on the edge of a cliff? Jumping only made sense if you were caught and she didn't want to throw herself into the black, yawning, empty abyss of uncertainty.

Now every moment in which she could simply hold his hand already seemed so precious. Nevertheless, it still had to become clear how real this "we" actually was for both of them. How much of the night was left when the sun rose?

Even if the sun never rose at Moonrise Towers. Not yet.

The vampire's teeth brushed over her neck. Noticeable but not hurtful.

The weight of Astarion's body on her own was just as noticeable.

His skin cool on her own. But the longer they lay together, the warmer it seemed to her.

He took his time, didn't just bite her.

At first, the pale elf had taken off their clothes, because he said they didn't want one of the white clothes to get bloodstains. And when they lay on top of each other in their underwear, he didn't drive his teeth into her neck, but kissed it.

His teeth became more and more noticeable and Saulus curbed her shaky breath and hold it for a moment when finally his sharp fang cut into her skin.

"Careful, darling", he whispered in her ear again.

His right hand slid tenderly from her chest, over her collarbone, to her cheek, where his thumb lingered while his fingers lightly gripped the back of her head to gently hold her.

He held her like a lover, not like an undead animal that satisfied his bloodlust on her.

Finally, Astarion bit.

The tiefling bard sucked the air in a short sharp breath, at the pain that ran through her, grimaced under the pain until... until it stopped. The pain disappeared and she only felt Astarion's weight above her, his mouth on her neck and her beating heart mixed with his now loud breathing, his scent and the slightly blurred tent. It became a little unsteady in front of her eyes. But she perceived only one thing:

Saulus heard Astarion swallow, but much more she heard him moan into her neck. After every sip of her blood, which flowed down his throat like the nectar of life that he represented to all of them in the end, the pale elf expelled the air through his nose so as not to have to take his mouth off her throat.

The bard felt Astarion become heavier on top of her, pressing harder against her and his head burying itself even more in her neck.

A deep rumble slipped from his throat and every swallow that could have tickled her ear was covered with a comforting, louder "Mhhhhhhhh" that accompanied his unsteady, trembling exhalation.

The vampire's right hand drove harder into her hair, slid up to her forehead and briefly gripped the base of her left horn before his fingers buried themselves firmly in her hair.

The elf's weight was getting more and more on her and she felt him rolling his hips against hers.

"Astarion," Saulus tapped his shoulder.

"Ah," he exhaled with a comforting sigh after he had released his mouth from her neck with a slight smacking sound. Satisfied, he pushed the air out of his lungs, licked his lips to absorb every drop of the red.

"Oh darling."

Astarion wasn't done with her yet and his tongue slid over her neck before his lips kissed gently on the bite wound for a moment. After that, he kissed her collarbone and the left side of her neck still unusually stormy and firm.

"Could it be that you enjoy this a little too much?"

Saulus carefully put a hand between them and pushed the vampire back slightly.

"Huh?"

Astarion got up from the bard and sat up and only when she looked down at him demonstratively did he understand what she meant.

"Oh..."

His underwear, which had become a little too tight, showed that his midnight feast had torn him away a bit.

The elf just shrugged his shoulders with a grin: "It's hard not to enjoy it with you, darling. You know, slowing down isn't just quite my style. And your blood is just particularly delicious and aphrodisiac to me."

Astarion could grin as much coquettishly as he wanted and wiggle his leg, but the bard in front of him didn't seem satisfied with the answer. Because she wasn't either. She looked at him in silence for a few seconds before she asked seriously:

"Do you like any of it at all? I mean, we wanted to take it slow so you can figure out what you really want. Isn't it much more due to the consumption of blood from rational beings, no matter who it is?"

"Of course I like it. And there's no question about it with you," the elf assured her and straightened his back. He seemed to have noticed that he couldn't even smile away the topic quickly. Saulus was preoccupied with the whole thing. Everything he had said to her. She wanted to learn how to treat him in a new way. That this remained beautiful between them and never reminded him of anything from back then, as it had been with Araj.

"I've told you that before," Astarion added and raised his eyebrow a little. He probably believed that she didn't know this anymore.

Yes, he had told her it was different with her. Their nights had meaning and that he had been attracted to her, that she was beautiful. Nevertheless, his first impulse had been to use his body as a kind of pledge, to instinctively deceive her... What if he instinctively did something again that he didn't really want to do?

Emotionally, he had pushed her away so far, attracted her body. Now they wanted to do it differently. But just because you wanted it didn't mean it would work. Astarion had sounded so sure that night, desperate to tell her the truth, at any cost. No matter what it meant, she should know the truth. See how he really was. And at the same time, he had never sounded more insecure, so unsure and unkowing of what he actually wanted.

"Wait, let me fix this first" The pale elf reached for a handkerchief that he had carefully laid out beforehand and carefully pressed it onto the bard's bite wound before he took the Amulet of Silvanus, which lay next to it, in his hand.

"Te absolvo", Astarion spoke the spell of the Lesser Restoration and the wound had closed when he wiped the handkerchief over her neck again and then took it away. The blood loss had been compensated for and the dizziness had vanished and thus a conversation was more decent.

"Well, when I say it's different with you, I mean it. Drinking your blood is also unlike any other," the elf continued after he had sat back down, "being with you feels very different. It's beautiful. But I just thought if we slow down in the future, I won't act again... instinctive. I don't know what else someone wants in a relationship. So far, no one has ever wanted anything else from me. Always just own myself and use my body for their pleasure or advantage. I wasn't good for more."

A deep sigh escaped his throat and he looked down at the floor, "I wish it was easier that I could just be with you the way I want to. Without... without these feelings of my life so far."

"Can I make it easier for you somehow? Would you rather stay in distance from me?"

"These horns look quite cute and you can use them well to hold onto, but sometimes they seem a bit too heavy for your head," Astarion mocked and tapped her forehead and the cheeky rogue had returned to him, "otherwise you could think better and not spend time with dumb false fantasies. You took my words a little too seriously a few days ago or didn't understand them properly."

"Astarion... don't overdo it with your cheekiness," grumbled the tiefling like a hissing kitten and the elf just laughed amused, at the stubborn face she pulled. It was actually more endearing than intimidating. Even though he knew that it might not be a good idea to irritate her unconscious before going to bed, he was still sure that her conscious was so fond of her that nothing would happen to him.

Or?

The vampire leaned towards her and his ruby eyes sparkled cat-like as always, as if he wanted to jump. His lips against her ear did the rest, not to mention his murmuring voice:

"But darling, so far I've only ever gotten the impression that you enjoy my cheekiness very much. Not to mention..."

Her fingertips on his lips silenced him and Astarion blinked confusedly and was suddenly no longer a cat, but more the deer in the bright light. Saulus had leaned back and looked at him with a crooked smile and shook her head.

Grinning, Astarion took her hand from his mouth and nodded.

She didn't want to get involved in his games. He couldn't avoid a moment of honesty.

Why did she care so much about how she treated him and how he felt?

He would not necessarily have suspected this from someone who always seemed as carefree, nonchalant and cocky as Saulus. She had looked like fun. But with both of them, the fun seemed to have won over to seriousness. Only Astarion would have thought that his confession would change more in him and not in her. But her sincerity towards him seemed to have been correctly assessed by him from the beginning.

Someone who shined all over her face when she laughed and was thus amused by their common puns and her own sayings, recognized when someone only smiled with their mouth and not also with their eyes.  

And Saulus had made it more than clear to him that it wasn't his looks and body that attracted her, but his mouth that interested her. The rest was a bonus. A wonderful bonus. But until now... it had always been the other way around. His presence had only been tolerated because of his looks or his words because of the promise of what his body could do.

"You seem to have taken my words a little too seriously. I didn't think you would," Astarion spoke before he made it clear again so that his little sorrowful little bracket could understand it: "No, I don't want any distance from you, actually not in any respect."

The vampire twisted his mouth a little and fished for the right words to explain it to her: "But don't you know that feeling that sticks to you? Even for a long time afterwards with people who have nothing to do with it? Have you never slept with someone before and regretted it afterwards?"

"Hmm... I do not know. Possibly, yes. I... I can't remember what happened before the crash," the Tiefling sighed deeply as Astarion looked at her expectantly with his head tilted.

"Sometimes I see it clearly in front of me: me on the stage of the tavern and above my scrolls. And then there's just this red curtain and this red noise in my ears. It all blurs as if it had never been real, but it also shows nothing of what should be real."

She shook her head resolutely with her black and red hair. "Never mind. Explain it to me, Astarion."

"I want to be with you in this physical way, feel and touch you. It has nothing to do with the fact that I don't want it and don't enjoy it. It's just... me and my body remember all the times with others that I didn't like. Of the bad touches that you didn't really want and then put up with. This sometimes only comes up in retrospect. I want to be with you in a different way than with the people before. Nevertheless... I don't know anything else than that. And I don't want to reel off my same scheme with you anymore, I'm afraid to do that. Because then I think of...", Astarion grimaced.

Saulus knew this expression from him. He always stepped on Astarion's face when he talked about his life with Cazador so far and didn't really want to put it in his mouth anymore. On the one hand, the pale elf wanted to forget it, but on the other hand, it never let him go. He himself could not let go yet. If it hadn't been until the second Cazador had taken his last breath. Even after that, Saulus wasn't sure if Astarion could let go. With Cazador, the pain and injustice would not be buried.

"I just want to learn to be with you – in any way I can – and free from bad thoughts about the past."

The bard smiled at him. They were nice words from Astarion. Honest words. She appreciated it very much when he could be like that to her. As much as she appreciated his exaggerated appearance and sarcasm, sometimes it made her angry when the vampire almost obsessively covered up every spark of serious thoughts and feelings.

Saulus wanted to give Astarion what he wanted. That was hard for her when she had to think around a thousand corners to see what he really needed for his peace of mind. Because very often people don't want what's good for them. And Saulus couldn't stand it if she did something that would really make Astarion angry or sad.

The vampire lowered his gaze and sighed slightly, "But maybe that's only possible when he's dead once and for all... for good."

Warm hands were suddenly on his and Astarion looked into the friendly smiling face of the bard, who had sat knee to knee, very close to him.

"You weren't touched the way you really would have liked and, above all, always with the aim of sex and not getting emotionally close to you."

Taking by force.

Saulus carefully put her arms around Astarion and pulled him into her warm embrace. He felt how she gave him time to relax and let his own body flow into her gentle form.

"Then just tell me how you would like to be touched, so that your heart feels me," her words glided gently and warmly over his neck with her breath, to which her living presence was so close at the moment that she only needed to whisper softly.

"I... I...", Astarion faltered and his gaze wandered restlessly through the tent, while in reality his eyes were turned inwards and searched within him for an answer, "... I don't know."

The blazing Tiefling eyes looked at him after Saulus had leaned back a little to see his now slightly cramped face covered with gloom. He was telling the truth when he looked like that.

"You're the first to hold me without hurting me."

The eyes with the small flames looked at him in astonishment. Saulus was surprised by his words... at least as much as they stung in her chest.

Astarion was honest with her. But there was also a lot of bitterness and darkness in his eyes, with which he had spoken the words.

"Just like you would be the first to care for what I want. You're the first to want to know what I want, what I really want."

It cost the elf’s self-control not to drop the topic immediately with a sarcastic line. Especially with the expression on the bard's face. This depressed compassion... Astarion was too bitter inside and therefore couldn't decide whether he should be grateful for it or whether he should hate it.

She shouldn't feel pity for him... but on the other side, she should. Astarion wanted for others to understand his pain, to see how the world for him was the last 200 hundred years. The problem was, that in his opinion, they would never ever understand. He was alone there, no one came to save him, like he once already said to Saulus.

No heroes, no blades, no nothing.

The vampire felt the bard's face nuzzling into neck. He literally felt the loving smile on her lips. Her arms held him very close to her again. Warm and protective, although he was actually bigger and stronger than her. Even though Astarion didn't feel that way.

Saulus held him close to her, as if she wanted the hearts of both of them to melt together. Perhaps his cold, undead heart would then warm up.

Astarion closed his eyes and lowered his head. He also felt her closeness and the warmth of her cuddly body.

It was quiet. It was silent. It was beautiful.

The rogue only heard her very soft breathing, the nature around the tent and the pounding of Saulus’ heart. At that moment there were only the two of them. He could breathe her life into his lungs, which she exuded lovingly. The scent of lily, jasmine, blackberry emanating from her hair enveloped his nose benevolently. The taste of lilac, pomegranate, cocoa, gooseberries and grapes of her skin was still on his tongue and impregnated his lungs with her perfume like the air he breathes. Her essence dug under his skin, into his insides and probably for a long time into his heart. Saulus had smiled her way into his heart. Radiant as the sunshine. Laughed and cuddled like daylight on his skin.

Her head kept rubbing against his neck like a cat, brushing his skin with her forehead and nose as if she wanted to bury herself even further in it. His arms pressed her closer to him more instinctively. As if he could show her the true thoughts of his heart with it, if only she were close enough to it. Astarion would have crawled into her if that were possible. Because when he opened his mouth... then at some point it came back, this panicked untouched fuss. It meant survival for him.

Even though he saw now that she and her blood meant life to him and apparently... she seemed to wouldn't let him go again neither.

Slowly, very slowly, they leaned back a little to be able to look at each other again.

"I want this. I want you. Until now, every day of my life was just... simply not mine. You keep going and going... you just don't know how to stop", explained Astarion with lowered voice.

Saulus nodded knowingly.

"I have an idea", she smiled with the friendly smile that had Astarion made believe that she might be naïve and that made him falling for her more and more, "what if we find out together what you like. If you want to. We don't have to of course, we just can be together like... friends. No touching."

"No don't go away. I want to be near you. It feels nice," Astarion snapped immediately.

A gentle smile settled on the Tiefling's lips in response.

"But promise me to let me know, when it stops feeling nice. It is ok. We both have to learn. "

Astarion nodded and looked at her almost expectantly. In fact, he was curious to see what she would do, what she could think of his liking and bringing them closer.

It was not an easy task for him to learn to feel his body again and to discover it for himself after all the years of abuse and torture. The pale elf was grateful that Saulus was willing to walk this path so patiently with him.

The silverhead sat down quite comfortably and leaned back on the cushions. Saulus was very close to him, so close that he not only smelled her perfume, but also perceived her soft breath and literally heard the beat of her heart.

"Just tell me, give me sign, when you don't like it. Don't perform no longer. No more. Ever."

"Oh darling, but I am so good at performing", grinned Astarion like a shark.

"Leave performances to me as bard," she joked back.

"Oh dear, but I am so much better at performing."

She openend her mouth in shock about that burn and then they laughed together. The Tiefling loved his sassy cheeky punchlines. They understood the sarcastic exchange of blows for what it was.

"Let me try this..." The two then pushed the jokes aside and Saulus gently put her hand against Astarion's cheek before her fingers danced filigree to his left ear. The tips of her fingers then breathed the hint of a touch against the delicate skin on the helix of his pointed auricle.

Saulus noticed Astarion holding his breath for a moment, while her fingers continued to stroke delicately down to his Antitragus and finally lovingly caressed his earlobe.

The elf closed his eyelids and sealed his ruby vampire eyes behind them. His shoulders sank back a little further, but he didn't move his head an inch.

Her index finger gently ran back the pointed arc of Astarion's ear helix, while her thumb and middle finger followed the same path and gently stroked the skin.

Finally, her fingers continued to dance over the tip of his ear behind the crus helicis over the tragus, then tenderly stroking the arch of the antitragus and tragus at the same time. From there, her delicate fingertips glided to the inner smaller arch of the anthelix and lovingly and caressingly traced its shape.

Astarion giggled briefly and shrugged his shoulders "That tickles"

"Is it good?"

"Yes, you can endure it. It's not entirely bad," he shrugged his shoulders and wrinkled his nose playfully unaffected.

"Oh... well then" Saulus took her hand away and leaned back a little.

"Hey!" Astarion opened his eyes wide and looked at her in protest. “No! Where are you going? Don't stop!" he grumbled immediately.

Grinning to herself, she shook her head briefly: "Good."

The elf immediately posed again and closed his eyes again and Saulus continued to stroke the thin skin of the scapha of his auricle with her fingertips.

Astarion's face visibly relaxed, and the Tiefling could see his lips curling and twitching when she touched a particularly tender spot. The breath of the vampire with the white curls was calm, very careful and when he exhaled he sometimes sighed a little relaxed.

Lovingly and gently, her fingers glided again and again over the shape of his ear: downwards and upwards - the fingertips or the sides of her fingers as if they were dancing on the surges of waves or playing the strings of one of her instruments, making them sound caressively.

As quietly as possible, the bard slid to his right side to give the same attention to Astarion's right ear.

Under faltering quiet breaths of Astarion, the Tiefling bard tenderly stroked from his ear slowly down to his neck. The flames of her eyes had fallen on the bite marks on Astarion's neck.

Another trace of his past. Another scar he wore. Scars that he himself never saw in the mirror. But... did they hurt him when he touched them? Because they hurt his soul?

Saulus wanted Astarion's body to belong only to him from now on. Only him alone. No memories of anything or anyone else. He should be free. Free to live. Free to feel.

Her fingers wrote a poem on his skin. Astarion sensed that. He could not understand and read the words, but he felt them. He felt her touch of silk, in his ears and the beats of his heart a sound of an unsung song, and on his lips the memories of the taste of champagne, strawberries, honey, cinnamon, and grape lemonade.

The words of a poem that he didn't need to understand, then the words of her caressing fingers caressing the contours of his neck, excitingly touching his carotid artery, that was a language Astarion understood best.

Her fingers deliberately danced to the bite marks on the right side of his throat to caress them attentively and massage them gently. Astarion twitched very briefly and hold is breath for a second, but when the Tiefling's lips rested on the skin of his neck, a short pleasant shiver ran over his entire skin.

Saulus’ lips lovingly rested on his bite wounds and began to kiss them tenderly.

Gentle so gentle.

Again and again her full, warm lips lay on the marks... the marks of his death and possessions. With the wonderful little sound of separating skin, her soft lips parted from his pale elf skin. Short cold and then again the wonderful warmth of her kisses.

All of a sudden, the bite wounds were no longer marks of possession, they were simply a part of his throat that was given wonderful attention.

And if it were up to Astarion, she would never have been able to stop.

He felt only her and he felt only the wonderful tenderness. The shiver and the pulses of electricity that she sent through his skin, his nerves, his whole body.

Warmth seemed to flood through him, as if her lips would breathe life into him with every kiss on his neck, on his bite marks, her life and new life for him.

The elf did not open his eyes once.

Even after Saulus had finished and looked at him expectantly, it took a few moments for Astarion to open his eyes again. A slight smile could be seen on his lips.

"I think this is something I like", he said.

"You think?"

"I am pretty sure. But don't imagine anything about the two of us, I..."

Again, the implied fingertips of Saulus on his lips silenced him. Her hand fell down, over his shoulders to his back, where she ran her hands up the ridges of his scars, over those lines of infernal letters. Carved into his skin forever.

Saulus looked at it perplex and wondering.

"What is it?", Astarion wanted to know.

"Nothing," the Tiefling quickly shook her head, knowing that it would only make him angry.

"What about my back?" the Vampire didn't let go.

"Please don't be mad at me," Saulus sighed and was already preparing to got scolded "but sometimes I just forget that the scars are there. I know you, on the other hand, you never will forget."

She already avoided his gaze: "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry," he said after a while and the bard dared to raise her head again, looked surprised into red vampire eyes.

"You're the only one of us who can see these scars, and yet they never cease to surprise you. And yes, I will never forget that they are there. I always feel it. Now the question is whether I attach too much importance to them or you too little."

A slight shadow had returned to his face. His scars continued to be a painful issue. Just as everything that had some kind of meaning to do with Cazador was painful. But Astarion hadn't shut her out this time.

The bard's Tiefling eyes looked at the scars on Astarion's back for a moment, but there was no pity, no regret or anything else in her eyes and the vampire recognized that too. He wrinkled his brow questioningly.

"Lie on your stomach," she said so suddenly that Astarion still couldn't follow her.

"I begging you pardon? What for?"

"I want to try that you might get a different relationship to your scars. You feel them differently... just feel your body again. Would you like that?"

"And what do you have in mind, Darling?" asked the silverhead after he had already laid down on his stomach and blinked up at Saulus in anticipation.

"Do you prefer it warm or cool?", Saulus’ question left Astarion no less surprised.

"Hmm... well, aince my own body is always very cold, I would prefer warm, I would think," he answered her honestly calculated and the vampire continued to watch with a puzzled look as the bard began to rummage in her utensils.

"Relax, make yourself comfortable," he heard her say in his direction and so Astarion snuggled up in the pillows and blankets and just waited.

The bard returned with brushes, her ink and paint. In addition, candles and bowls - all of which she set up next to Astarion.

The elf with the white curly head understood more or less what she was up to.

"Would it be okay for you if I traced the lines? Maybe then you can perceive them a little differently. Associate something nice with it."

"So far, you've been right. Let's try it."

The head with the silver hair now rested on his folded arms. The lit candle lingered under the bowl into which Saulus dripped her writing ink from the vial before her hand hovered selectively over her brushes.

"Say right away if you don't like it."

"I'm not that fragile, my Sweet."

"I know that you are not a rose in the rain, bending until too many raindrops smash it and scatter all its petals into the storm. Nevertheless, I want to take care of you."

"Is someone poetic again and writes the next ballad in her head? When you write about me, give due credit to my fabulousness, yes? I mean, when you look so good, it's worth a few songs."

Saulus rolled her eyes: "Astarion... I hope you don't really believe that your appearance is your only quality. Because honestly, for someone who doesn't have a mirror image, he should concentrate on something else."

"Are you getting cheeky again?"

"Excuse me, but being cheeky is my quality if you drive me to do it," the Tiefling grinned challengingly all over her face.

"All right, maybe I really overdid it and annoyed you too much. Don't let yourself be disturbed. Keep going. I'll let you know if it doesn't feel good."

The slender bard fingers with the sharpened Tiefling nails reached for the brushes. She deliberately chose a brush with scrutinizing eyes and its soft hair soon nestled against Astarion's neck, his shoulder blades and on to his back, where she first began to stroke the lines of his scars with the velvet brush hair.

The pale elf was still shivering with delicate tingling and tickling. His whole scalp seemed pleasantly stimulated, down to his hind head and finally along the neck and upper spine to his muscular shoulder area.

The fine brush hairs breathed an extraordinary feeling on the smooth ivory skin, which immediately turned into exciting waves and tingling. As if you were being massaged with pure cashmere on your bare skin. So exquisite.

"Is that good?" the bard asked.

"Mhm," the white-haired high elf nodded, only resting his head on his hands.

The brush now dipped into the warmed writing ink and then found its tip again on Astarion's skin. The infernal letters were now neatly repainted by Saulus, point by point, stroke by stroke, line by line.

The tickling brush tip with the warm ink on his cool skin felt like a gentle electrostatic discharge. The feeling was not limited to the passages of the infernal letters that Saulus warmly traced. No, the sensation of the wave flooded Astarion's whole body.

"Mhhhhmmm," Astarion sighed pleasantly in between and turned his head a little, "Is that what you do in hell? Is that some exotic infernal sex technique you got from there?" he teased her again with his playful voice.

"You know very well that I have never been to hell. The lineage of devils and demons is so long ago. Even if I did, I can hardly remember anything and seem to belong somewhere else when I listen to the little cryptic that Sceleritas Fel tells. As we know from Karlach, the smell of hell doesn't leave you so easily."

"Sceleritas?" Astarion grimaced questioningly.

"The butler I told you about."

"Ah. The little bloodthirsty butler who whispers murder in your ear. But you don't seem to be afraid of him or hate him."

"No, I actually think he's quite funny with his hat and the way he talks."

"It's funny that no one but you have seen him yet, darling." A crooked grin adorned Astarion's lips and he revealed his fangs. "Really, sometimes you could almost think you're making him up him like an imaginary friend."

"Nobody saw me kill the bard either, and yet it happened," Saulus answers matter-of-factly but a little stiffly. The thing with Alfira hung over her and no one should think that she was a bloodthirsty lunatic. Something was going on, but she didn't know what because the damn butler didn't spit out a useful word.

“Oh, I’ve seen how you can easily take out an entire bandit camp in one fight. It's more than just real how great you are with the crossbows. But instead of talking about what seems more realistic, tell me what secret tiefling sex practices you have hidden from me so far. What else are you hiding up your sleeve?"

"Astarion!", Saulus reprimanded him playfully and laughed, "Stop it! Otherwise, I'll smudge the ink."

So the pale elf just enjoyed the brushstrokes with the warm writing ink again and actually began to feel his back differently somehow. At first it had been a little strange, but only the first few seconds. But after that he had relaxed, relaxed his head, followed his body, because the skin on his back had immediately liked the caressing, gentle strokes.

So Astarion perceived only Saulus, her closeness, her touches.

The warmth in the tent and the flickering and the scent of the candles.

"Does it bother you?" Astarion asked suddenly.

"What?"

"That my body is so cold..."

"No. When we're together, you don't feel cold, I think. If so, then pleasant. And even if... Maybe I have a flame of Avernus in me after all and I'm warm enough for both of us."

Saulus smiled lovingly down at him before she rewrote the infernal pact again with complete concentration. Because for her it was that: writing.

Just as she had been able to read it from the beginning. Read what Astarion hadn't seen and didn't know what it actually was.

"Cazador made you all believe that it was a poem, you told me," Saulus said after a while in the middle of it, continuing to trace the lines on Astarion's back with precision, as if she were being paid for it, "how about... if I really write a poem on your back. You know, to symbolically paint over it, rewrite it..."

"I can follow your great theatrical bardic logic, darling. Go ahead... if you want to write a poem about me to pour out your heart and confess your infinite love for me, don't force yourself. But if you write about me, then also mention my beauty properly," Astarion concluded in a speech as theatrically emphasized as always. A stage actor had been lost in him. He just couldn't resist to tease Saulus again.

She didn't like him making jokes about love. But Saulus knew what was meant. And unfortunately Astarion was right: she liked it when he teased her and made fun of her. Saulus lived for sarcastic verbal battles.

"Of course Astarion, don't worry. You don't expect the sunset to admire you back."

"Ha exactly," he grinned contentedly like the sunset until he noticed that she might not have complimented him after all. "Hey wait!", his face grimaced gremlin like "Am I the sunset or you with your writing?"

The vampire clicked his tongue and his eyes sparkled cat-like again: "Cheeky little pupp!" It was more a praise than a reprimand from his mouth.

Thus rolled off his tongue, everything was praise for Saulus.

The man purred like a cat and his voice was ecstasy turned into words.

Saulus smiled, which Astarion of course couldn't see. She had already written poems and ballads about him. All safely stored in her bard book. Tightly closed and a secret to herself. She wouldn't put it on his nose.

Especially after some of her scrolls of poetry that she had written for bard competitions she had always participated in disappeared after Volo came to the camp...

"Done," Saulus put the last point to conclude the paragraph of the infernal pact. But it wasn't anymore. She hadn't really read it either. She had rather painted for herself. She had looked at Astarion. His back. His scars. What they meant to him. What he felt, had felt.

And always just the hope that he could now feel something different.

Warmth.

Caressing touch.

Gentle guidance.

"Oh...", Astarion needed a while before he moved again and lifted his head up.

"Have you fallen into a meditative trance?" asked Saulus.

"I relaxed."

"So it was okay? Did it feel good?"

"I already said that I am open to your exotic little Tiefling secrets," the vampire grinned.

"Stop the teasing, Astarion!", laughed the bard about the incorrigible rogue.

"Give me a moment, before I clean you up, alright?"

So the vampiric elf made himself comfortable again, while the bard put her utensils back to her writing stuff. Then she soaked a cloth with water and slowly wiped the ink off Astarion's back again and then carefully patted him dry with a towel.

A giggle suddenly escaped the white-haired vampire's throat as Saulus’ nails lightly hit his sides and he rolled around on his back.

"Wait... there are still a few drops," Saulus said and grinned from ear to ear, trying to keep a laugh to herself.

The bard gently wiped the last drops of water from Astarion's skin that had run from his sides to his belly, while the white curly head giggled softly again under the gentle touches behind pressed lips.

"You squeal at least as much as the owlbear cub when you tickle its tummy."

"Pah! Not at all," snorted the elf.

"I'm sorry, of course not." The grin on her lips, which was difficult to suppress, took the credibility out of her words. Saulus briefly tucked a strand of black hair with red interwoven streaks behind her ear, before she bent down and breathed an apologetic kiss on Astarion's belly button.

Astarion's lips pressed together in tension as Saulus suddenly slid down and lay down between his legs. With an incredible timidity, her hands rested at the sides of his hips and rested on his pale, smooth skin.

Astarion's smooth, flawless elf skin. A skin that Saulus had often admired.

Because Astarion was everything she wasn't.

He was a High elf, she was a Tiefling... somewhere a descent from the depths of the hells and in reality... maybe even worse.

But she didn't think of that. That didn't count.

It only counted the present. Only him.

Astarion and her lips on his skin.

He sucked in the air sharply as her head sank below his belly button onto his silky soft skin. Lips that nestled just as softly on it left a warm and gentle kiss on it.

That was all that Saulus did all evening:

She touched him with such care, tenderness, velvety caressing.

Fondling, kissing.

It was never there in any way to arouse him or stimulate him further.

Only tender caresses.

Tensely and attentively, he watched as the bard leisurely loosened her lips in order to deliberately press them back onto his skin a centimetre away, so that no spot remained unkissed. Her filigree fingers always lay exactly next to where her lips had been before. An interplay as if she were composing a song on his skin again, which probably only she really understood. Because Astarion could only feel it.

Felt her kisses and delicate fingers breathe a blanket of silk onto his pale, smooth skin. It was so incredibly gentle and Saulus really made an effort because every one of her elegant movements was made conscious.

Astarion saw it when she returned to his navel and kissed down, how carefully she took care not to go too far with her head and lips.

And she kissed herself again up to his sides and her hands lay with graceful fingers, with pointed nails so gently to his sides that it glided like a gentle breeze. Her lips warm on his skin, her thumbs stroking softly his skin.

It was all so harmless.

Tame.

Good-natured.

Sensitive.

Careful. Affectionate. Tender.

All words Astarion did not know in his life.

He had always been an attentive, intimate lover, yes. But only to... well....the outcome was known.

But nothing had been peaceful and velvety like Saulus’ touch. Nevertheless, so intense and electrifying. Her lips kissing a trace just below his belly button and her hands following them like the moon following the sund.

Her fingers felt like the feathers of angelic wings. How could these hands, which had literally torn another bard to shreds in an unconscious trance, be so gentle and loving? It seemed almost unreal to Astarion when he thought about it. But it was so, and for him she was always much more his angel than a violent devil. Even if he wasn't stupid enough that he didn't know that you had to keep an eye on dark tendencies. Especially when dark inclinations were accompanied by strange, invisible butlers.

It was all a bit unreal how he watched her in her tender actions and tried not to be overwhelmed by this pleasant feeling.

A smile upon her face, a gentle brush against his brow and soft kiss on his forehead – and the Tiefling bard and the pale rogue with the undead eyes sat together like the night began.

She had finished her "spoiling program" and Saulus had very much hoped to have read all his signs and body language correctly, so she could only rely on him to be honest with her.

That Astarion had really liked it and that he would have told her if it hadn't been like that. She had to be able to rely on it. Because the thought that it was different... it really made Saulus sick inside.

He laughed at her because she his words too seriously? Well, just the thought that she could be like one of his victims, people he despised and had therefore seduced and taken with him, he had endured, yes that really turned her stomach.

That Astarion would ever again do something he didn't want, that he thought as little of himself as he had spoken of himself in the night, that he should have just bitten the blood merchant for the potion. She didn't want to hear that and never wanted to see the expression on his face again. But she didn't want to see any lies on his face either. She loves his theatricality. But not the overplaying and lying. And she had noticed relatively early on that something was going on with him that he was hiding, but she had ignored it because she had trusted that he would talk to her.

Saulus looked at him suddenly unusually serious, after they sat together again.

"I assume that you will be honest with me in the future. I understand that sometimes you don't know what you really want and what is good for you. I try to understand what is good for you so that I can avoid unpleasant things right away. 'Cause hurting you in any way is absolutely the last thing I want. I never want to be the reason you feel uncomfortable. I couldn't stand that."

"My my, look who is all lovey-dovey with me," Astarion's lips pulled up in a mocking manner and his eyes flashed under his sharp-tongued comment.

"Keep up talking like that and I'll think about it again and take it back," Saulus grumbled angrily and grimaced so that her Tiefling eyes sparkled grumpily under her horns.

"Haha, that's nothing you can take back, Darling," the pale elf just laughed and was visibly enjoying himself.

The more Saulus grimaced and looked like a cross between a stubborn cat and a baby goat, the more Astarion had to laugh smugly. He found her angry face only wonderful. Nay, if she did not aim a crossbow at one, or pluck her lyra strings to let loose a malicious spell, he would find her angry face only dearest.

Even though he had a hard time trusting, he could hardly believe that this woman would ever hurt him. Someone who had a fit of laughter when someone received a real insult, but had half tears in her eyes when he didn't want to cuddle with her and the owlbear, because the cub disturbed his meditation with his whistling at night.

"Astarion, I'm serious! I just want to take care of you and I also want you to take more care of yourself. It goes without saying that I want to protect you from injury in battle. But even so, I want to protect you from unpleasant things if I can. But I can only do that if you are honest with me and I know how you feel, how you really feel. Vulnerability is not a weakness," Saulus’ words became more and more vigorous and you could see that alone in her determined, dogged expression. She was damn serious and talked herself into a bit of a rage, because she believed that Astarion just didn't want to understand her. It wasn't a joke for her.

None of that.

She didn't find anything funny about it when it came to the things that depressed Astarion. And they did. Except that after his confession, the vampire immediately put his mask back over it.

"I just want to protect you from unpleasant things, whether physical or emotional. No matter from whom, no matter how. Because that's what you do, for people that you...care for."

Saulus bit her lip hard.

She had talked herself a little too much into a rage.

She almost said 'for people that you love'. She was just able to pause.

To speak of love now would definitely be too early, she knew that. That would overwhelm Astarion.

But since his confession and his question if she really wanted to try to have something like a decent relationship with him, he had opened the floodgates for her own feelings, which she had apparently closed so carefully.

Since Astarion had seen nothing in them but a little fun, she hadn't let it mean anything more to her. At least that's what she had said to herself. Perhaps she had lied to herself more than the vampire had lied to her, if she believed this herself. She had simply ignored as long as Astarion was around every day that it was his smile that she secretly got up for every morning.

After all, she had only been waiting to end this loose game after he had spoken to her. And you could only immediately and willingly commit yourself to someone if you were already in love with him. And she has been since the first moment.

Now that she knew that her feelings were not unrequited, they were not just loitering around somewhere in her heart and in the form of songs and poems. No, Saulus was well aware that she would do anything for Astarion. Absolutely everything. Because he meant so much to her.

"Keep spoiling me like this and I don't know how to return the favor," smiled the rogue mischievously.

"Since when have you been so selfless? Besides, I've told you before that you don't have to return the favor if I do something for you. I don't expect anything in return, that's not why I do it.”

"Oh... so you are always at my service without getting anything in return? Watch out, otherwise I'll become even more self-indulgent."

He winked and before the bard had any retaliation ready, Astarion carefully pulled Saulus by her hand to him.

"Come here..."

Saulus was about to say something and opened her mouth to counter Astarion's endless sarcasm of the evening, but when he pulled her towards him and spread his arms, she silenced.

Gently and kindly, the vampire embraced her in his arms. Astarion was always cold and yet Astarion was always warm.

The bard was probably almost as surprised as the vampire himself, a few days earlier when she hugged him during their conversation to show him without words that he was important to her.

It surprised her, because at that very moment it seemed to her, as if Astarion had forgotten what a hug was all these years ago. As if he had to learn how to do it again. After her initial surprise, Saulus snuggled into the hollow of his neck.

She felt him and inhaled his scent of bergamot, rosemary and brandy.

She stroked his skin with her nose and took everything from him deep inside her.

A hug could often be more heartfelt and intimate than sex. It was what you wanted much more, to be close to your partner.

Their hearts were close together. Astarion's undead vampire heart, which worked in its own way. In every sense.

Full of pain, hate, grief, envy, sadness, anger and yet still carrying the spark of hope and love within it. Still fighting. Always fighting. Always beating.

Next to it was Saulus’ heart, somehow forged in the fires of Avernus between Asmodeus and Zariel and perhaps even more between love, songs, flowers, blood and wine. Her head was as full of holes as it was full of songs.

All the touches...touches, caresses that didn't hurt. Nobody held him by force. Nobody held him close even though Astarion just wanted to get away, pressed him to the ground with a weight that he didn't want to feel.

No, he held Saulus close to him. Wanted to feel her body, her warmth, her closeness. He wanted to be held by her. Closer. Closer. Tighter.

It didn't hurt. It felt good.

It pushed away all the thoughts, all the memories of unpleasant touches.

Suddenly there was only her.

Her tender, loving, patient touches.

She was the first to hold him and touch him without hurting him and Astarion noticed that he wanted her to never let go.

“I may not be very seriously going through life: Laughing, joking, giggling, making love”, started Saulus to explain herself very sincerely to him, “but believe me, I will do and won't do anything for you. When you understand. Just say the word and I will burn down this world to ashes or lock myself up in a cage.” Blazing flames in the true Tiefling eyes of Saulus.

Not flames of Avernus, flames of sincerity. Her heart close to his chest, his beating yet undead heart. Brought back to life. More alive than ever, since he had known her. His cold hand on her warm dusk-gray cheek.

Nothing but truth in her expression.

She might actually burn the world down for him, or throw herself into the darkness…just to protect him. From others. Or from herself.

“Oh my dear, that we won’t my darling. Won’t we? If so, it is me that will lock you up in a cage.”

His charming voice whispered from his throat and was perhaps worse than any spell could have been. Confusing and possessing the mind forever.

“You worry about what you would be willing to do for me? That it makes you angry that someone could hurt me? Well, my cute little lamb, I'll only start to worry about that when you stop making hold to help and adopting every gnome that comes along."

"Tell me... what's it with you and gnomes?" Saulus raised a thin eyebrow and tilted her head. "Something happened, didn't it? I mean, this isn't the first time you've said something like that. Admit it... you don't like them because you had to bend down so low to seduce them and it made your knees hurt!"

Astarion had overdone the teasing for this evening and Saulus had finally had enough of not giving him a counterattack. After all, they both lived for taunting arguments. But they preferred it when they could fool others together. (Gale in particular had had to endure that many times)

"How dare you?!" Astarion stuck his chin up in the air insulted and piqued about her gnome comment. “Someone should wash out that dirty mouth of yours thoroughly.”

“Oh yes? And who should have the means to do that?”

“I know exactly how to handle bad girls, my dear,” the elf whispered in his seductive voice that was no less sweet than honey. His red eyes sparkled like an ocean of rubies, but also like a wild cat in the night. His lips now much closer to her face and her ears, his dashing smile on his elf face literally cut the tension to shreds again.

“Do I want to know?”

“Well…it depends…it depends on what you like and what you don’t like. But knowing you…you’re open to anything. Your fabulous screams should still be ringing in the ears of the priest of Loviatar,” purred Astarion.

"Or..." Saulus interjected and the Tiefling snuggled into Astarion's neck again, the tip of her nose caressing his skin, "...or we carry on with this."

The cold vampire was the warmest thing there was for her. The tent in the middle of the shadow cursed land like an enclave of light, love and warmth of heart. As if the light could shine from there into the whole world. Well, at least it illuminated Saulus' whole soul.

Finally, she laid her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed, her arms around him.

"I really like that," she just had to whisper.

"Me too," Astarion whispered back, his crimson eyes resting behind his lids with long eyelashes. His white curls rested against Saulus' head with black hair that was interspersed with red strands, making it look more violet.

Astarion didn't need his eyes to see her in front of him. Her silhouette was already burned into his mind's eye. A beautiful memory that hopefully nothing could take away from him. With his arms around her shoulders, he pulled her close to him and he just had to feel her.

Her closeness.

Her warmth.

Her affection.

All the love she showed him.

Patience.

Attention.

Her laughter.

Her nonsense. Her voice. Her music.

Her life.

Her life that she let him drink. Willingly offered.

The tenderness of her hands and even more so of her eyes. Her lips, when she sometimes said such incredibly lovable and sweet things that he couldn't believe how someone so cute and naive could still exist...or then again be so cheeky.

It was hard for Astarion to see that he deserved all of this.

200 years in the dirt.

Torture, dirt and humiliation.

Pure hatred. A circle of violence and hatred.

And suddenly he was lying here in the tent with this Tiefling bard, cuddled up together. Heart to heart. Holding her hand and not really knowing what to do with it.

With himself.

With her.

With all of this and the feelings.

So much had happened, so much in such a short time. That's how it was for all of them. Astarion was used to people always expecting things from him. But Saulus...she didn't expect anything that he couldn't give her. For her it was okay to just see what the next day brought.

So Astarion just held Saulus in his arms and let her hold him tight. Head to head.

Dream to dream.

Uncertain future to uncertain future.

Shoulder to shoulder.

Unsteady undead heart to unsteady pulsating heart.

"We should try to get some restful sleep anyway," the Tiefling remarked.

"Which is a difficult thing in these lands anyway..." sighed Astarion and the white-haired elf stretched, slid down and began to stretch on the bard's lap almost like a cat, "...with all the strange noises echoing through the darkness, nightmares are the only thing that nestle in your head."

The vampire snuggled his head into Saulus' lap, his eyes already closed again, muttering his words to himself and the bard didn't know whether he just liked to complain or whether he meant it seriously. Because Astarion seemed pretty sleepy to her, the way he had snuggled up next to her.

But...she didn't like the word nightmare. "How should someone get a good night's sleep or find a meditative trance that way," he continued to grumble.

"But..." suddenly one of the ruby-red eyes opened again with a crooked grin, "...maybe you have something up your Tiefling sleeve to calm my head and mind."

A knowing laugh accompanied Saulus' fingertips, which tapped over his forehead to his temples, then cheeks and finally carefully stroked his head, which Astarion snuggled contentedly against her.

Just as her hands carefully played around his white curls, a very quiet melodious humming gradually danced around his pointed elf ears. A melody slipped from the bard's throat and the humming made her chest vibrate gently.

As she stroked Astarion's forehead with her fingertips, lost in thought, and occasionally very carefully ran her fingers through the roots of his curly hair, her head and vocal cords remembered Alfira's song. The hummed Weeping Dawn glided through the tent.

"Are you humming The Weeping Dawn?" the elf asked in disbelief.

"Oh, I'm sorry..." he pulled her out of his thoughts and Saulus stopped immediately, "but it really is a catchy tune."

"Is that the real reason why you killed Alfira? Because you were jealous that she wrote such a beautiful song? Even if only with your help... and my present inspiring beauty of a muse, of course..." Astarion joked, grinning provocatively across his face.

"Definitely not! At least not consciously. I mean, it was an accident..." Saulus protested, but immediately pulled a face like a bear that had been caught with its paw in a jar of honey. Unlike Astarion, she didn't find what had happened funny at all.

“You sing much more beautifully than she did anyway,” Astarion shrugged his shoulders casually, snuggled up again and wrinkled his nose as a sign that he didn’t really care. Or that he wanted her to believe that.

“You think my singing is beautiful?” the Tiefling asked almost in disbelief.

"Which isn't difficult, after all she sang terribly. And yes, I think you sing very beautifully," Astarion whispered just loud enough for both of them to hear, but quiet enough for him to deny it again if she asked.

Saulus didn't mind his constant sarcasm. That was their way of dealing with each other.

A happy smile spread from her lips across her whole face at his compliment.

“Sometimes I remember a life as a bard. Music and performances.

It seems at least as real as it seems like a mirage.

And then there's this red carnage in my head and then emptiness. Nothing but blackness."

"Oh oh little love... You don't have to act even more mysterious because of me, I already like you," Astarion joked in his typical tone of voice for these kind sayings.

“We’ll find out more at some point.”

The elf snuggled back into her lap and found his perfect “meditation hollow” again.

“Sing me one of your songs instead, I’m sure I like them better anyway,” Astarion murmured with his eyes already closed.

“I don’t know. I think she did a perfect job with the song. She didn’t even need our help, the words were inside her the whole time,” Saulus had nothing but admiration for The Weeping Dawn.

“I want to hear one of your songs,” the vampire’s voice from her lap sounded a little clearer than before. His tone had become more nuanced. It might only have been half an octave lower, but it betrayed Saulus sincerity and he moved away from his banter, where you never knew how much of it was just for show and how much was actually meant.

“Gladly,” a gentle smile played around her lips. Her fingertips gently stroked Astarion's forehead and the Tiefling saw his lips and the tips of his nose curl briefly and he exhaled relaxedly. Her eyes wandered over the pale skin of his face, over bite marks on his neck.

The lids with the light eyelashes relaxed over his animalistic, crimson vampire eyes. A soft, melodic humming came from the bard's throat and remained behind closed lips.

And while her eyes looked at each of his curls, her fingers played between them as delicately as if they were the strings of her lyre. Saulus followed the wavy curve of his hair while she stroked his curls soothingly, as she had previously stroked the arches and curves of his pointed ears. Humming, she stroked Astarion's hair as if she wanted to play a duet with the waves of the sea.

The scent of the candle and her warm ink, paired with Astarion's own note, began to change. Saulus saw Astarion in her memory in the moonlight, his hair shimmering like silver, just like his words, even if the next morning they seemed like a deceptive dream that had disappeared into the halo. Her nose remembered the scent of leaves kissed awake by the bright morning sun. The rays of the sun that seemed to taste of her colors of orange and red. As if the forest had returned to her tent.

Her lips opened and Saulus began to sing the words to the melody:

„Follow me into the forest of honey golden lies

Your words like cinnamon but underneath there is a fire

Golden Dawn or is it an inferno?

Golden words blazing fire into my heart

Holding you is like holding onto a flame

Flames burning high

They say you can’t hold a flame

But what if we be both burning bright

With flames reaching the sky?

Nothing left than ashes there will be

For me all right, with you I will ever be

Dancing to oblivion into the midnight mess

The world it can forget about us

But our spark will never end

This hand will never get tired of reaching for the flames

Because holding you is all I ever will

Our flames burning high to the sky

Honey dawn

I am tasting on your lips

Forever dancing, forever burning

Sunrise of honey and cinnamon

Is it a golden dawn of your lies?

Or the start of our golden age?”

📷: aristenfromwarsaw

➹ a/n: I've been sitting on it since September.

But you know how I am: I have the dialogue and narrative perfectly in my head, but if I don't write it down right away and think I'll remember it later...of course I won't remember it later.

And if something gets lost, I get so frustrated that I don't do it at all.

And some of you know certain reasons that have come between writing 😅😵‍💫😅

As always, I am dying to know exactly what you think about it. 😬🫣😁

Even though this is supposed to be my pure hug&fluff fest fanfic, I still added a touch of head drama and worked on Astarion's trauma. Don't ask what's wrong with so many of us authors. Whenever I just want to write cuddly fics, my head screams while I'm writing "But how are they supposed to be happy and in love if they aren't first full of fear and doubting love and questioning everything? You can't be happy if you weren't unhappy before!" I don't know why that happens 😅 Readers, let me know what you think. Pure lovey dovey or emotional ballast and processing including good?

(One bard was harmed during this playthrough...sorry as always Alfira 😅)

[hello-ello-ello]

MAGGOTS UNITE!

Movement name: Maggotism

News reporter: @cawdra

Press reports:

Maggot revolution:

Leader: @patoslover

Known revolutionaries: @lxvenderjewel @garnetgoose0-0 @ivory--raven

Lawsuit:

Lawsuit establisher: @howmanyholesinswisscheese

Case helper: @an-ace-on-the-case

Lawsuit endorser: @eybefioro

Devil's advocate cum Court Fool: @samlikeslawnchairs (SUCK IT SAM'S MIDDLE SCHOOL COUNSELLOR)

Maggot union:

Motto: WE ALL DESERVE AN HONEST MAGGOT'S DAY'S WAGES FOR AN HONEST MAGGOT'S DAY'S WORK

President: @sounds-void-fishy

President's emotional support cat: @apollos-dodgeball-target

Secretary: @dandelionchaos

Union notes:

Official Song: Unioning is hungry work (sung to the tune of Hozier's take me to church)

Official Bard: @koboldkatalyst

Official logo: FISHFLOPS

Songstress and Gartic phone rep: @lxvenderjewel

Snacks committee: @ivory--raven (head), @just-a-bloody-bagel

Official Diplomat: @random-doctor-on-the-internet

Official Cheshire Cat: @voids-ideas

Official bagel: @just-a-bloody-bagel

Other Instigators, insurrectionists, revolutionaries, union members, bewildered witnesses and general chaos-maggots: @queermarzipan @thearoacemess, @goodomensduh @soleilpirate @prettycottagequeer @the-beard-of-edward-teach @empressumbreon @harbinger-of-existential-dread @im-sorry--what , @robinprinceofchaos et. al. (make yourself known if you should be in the list, or if you want a different role, this is a living document)

Union Demands:

1. Snacks (we now have @just-a-bloody-bagel and Eccles cakes from mod @orpiknight)

2. Asmi takes proper care of himself so Tommy can scarper

3. Francois be the mascot of our discord server something something (we don't want to displace Dissapointment)

4. Infinite Hugs (and chocolate malt milkshakes)

5. Ability to speak (void and moot now lockdown is over)

6. Financial compensation (still needs figuring out: @garnetgoose0-0 and @arkytiorlecter bring up valid logistical points )

7. Bragging rights

8. Maggot summer camp

9. Granddyke for president of the galaxy 2024

10. MORE CATS!

EDITED AT SOME O'CLOCK IN SOME TIMEZONE

[circyexistforcontent]

Sagau with a mitsuri like god?

SAGAU: WITH A LOVING GOD READER

❀ synopsis: the god of teyvat is finally looking for a consort, and Zhongli just so happens to be the chosen candidate. What will be Xiao's response to this epiphany?

❀ notes: I wanna make headcanons about demon slayer soon, probably once I am done watching the swordsmith village arc. Also this is a bit rushed because I just want to post something before I study for days on end with exams coming by. pls, this is Xiao and Zhongli centered because I'm making my way to Liyue BABY-

❀ pronouns: they/them

Stories about your strength and benevolence have been shared all around Teyvat. How you have fought countless outer gods and purified multiple worlds from corruption were shared with kids and studied by historians to understand more about your past. But of course, you acolytes are the ones who know just how deep your love runs for your people.

One of them was Xiao. Xiao was one of your followers who got to know you personally, ever since you manage to defeat the tyrant who took control of him. He swore loyalty to you and stood by your side ever since. Small talk was common, and though you have to initiate and carry out the conversation, it was still pleasant.

He makes sure to check that the food you were consuming was safe and not poisoned (as if poison would affect you in any way), and he pressures the cooks to ensure you are only served the best gourmet food. Most of your acolytes know how protective Xiao can be for you so they stay out of your way as much as possible, only communicating with you through gifts and letters that are present in your shrine.

Only a selected few acolytes that can talk to you are the archons. Mostly because Xiao knows he can't defeat them even if he tried, and he wouldn't be a fool to try and intimidate them. He respects the Geo Archon, he can tell he was a very devoted follower of yours and he respects his values. His least favored archon was the Anemo God, though it's more of indifference than dislike.

While he does enjoy the bard's musical talent, all he has ever done is push you away from your work and distract you with little escapades. He has confronted Venti about it multiple times and all he did was shrug off the commotion and skip away.

May Celestia help anyone daring to approach you after you made an announcement that you are finding a consort. They have to go past Xiao first if they want to go to you. He would be supportive of Zhongli being your consort, but something felt off when he proposed the idea to Xiao. He isn't very educated in the ways of feelings, but he can sometimes tell when the emotions are good or bad.

He knows Zhongli is more than worthy to be standing beside you. He should be proud that his Master has found someone like Zhongli, but...why does his heart tell him otherwise? He does his best to shove it down when he watches him hand you a bouquet of qingxins, every time you hold his hand and kiss his face, every time you feed each other Xiangling's latest dish. He doesn't understand, why isn't he happy for the both of you?

Is the problem in him? Why is he like this? He projects his anger towards hilichurl camps before he is left alone to reflect on his feelings. He usually feels like this when he senses something bad is going to happen...is it because the Geo Archon is hiding something? Was something going to happen on the day of the wedding?

Yes, that must be it. The wedding is going to be sabotaged. Or! Or! The wedding must be a scheme to put you in danger. He needs to find a way to postpone the wedding date to find out whats causing him to feel uneasy.

So now it's mostly just him trying to convince you that you don't need to rush the wedding process, while you just sit there for hours straight waiting for him to finish.

[abyssalaerlocke]

Wondering why I got less horny/romantic for the Bunker from Hell au, when I'm clearly still into it, designing the full bunker and playing with the sims

But first I gave up powerful magic, like devils with plane shift, that would make a bunker obsolete

Then Sims pried dragonborn Durge from my fingers, and I fully went in on the human au

And the human au definitely has its own appeals — I love human Raph cuddles, love the twisted daddy kink of professor Raph. Love Haarlep being just a horny and affectionate classmate/peer. And there's something softer about human Durge to draw Tav in emotionally.

But, I dunno, it lacks a certain edge without the monster fuckery. Dragonborn Durge wasn't a doctor with emotionally warm bedside manner. He was emotionally neutral/distant, did the motions of what needed to be done, and tongue fucked Tav into their bed.

Part of my issue with human Durge is I don't see an emotional romantic closeness with Gortash forming, because human Durge takes up that emotional space. With dragonborn Durge, Gortash is the one Tav cuddles with after a roll in the hay with them both (just for fun/stress relief in the bunker), the one they chat with in bed — affectionate, supportive, getting to know each other.

I suppose this au, along with restricted magic, could offer some balance between them?

Raphael who is a cambion, but has always lived as human in human culture. A bit of a dangerous edge from his heritage, but not as bad as devil Raph. He's still a professor, maybe even a professor of music who was a celebrity bard (retired from the career, but still recognised and regarded as a sex icon, especially by his generation) 😏

Haarlep is still an incubus, living a human life after taking Raphael's human form and styling it into their own look. Probably from Raphael's days as a young superstar, fucking around. Maybe Mephistopheles still sent them to spy, or maybe they're a random incubus that lives there and is just trying to go to college, and fuck their professor/classmates. Once they're in the bunker they start letting their incubus freak flag fly, tail out and all that, because they're hungry/horny, away from so many prying eyes, with fewer people to feed on

Durge is, of course, dragonborn. Might go for something like Cybergate, but less megalomaniac. Durgetash are living as just some dudes with unscrupulous morals, with Gortash facing down liver failure that he can't resolve with magic

[nerdallwritey]

before I spam you with reblogs (because I think its criminal that your writing doesn't get as much attention as it deserves) I just want to say BEAUTY AND THE BARD HAS CAPTIVATED ME!! I'll be waiting on bated breath for the next addition but please take your time. your characterisation of astarion, the bard (who is far more likeable than a lot of reader inserts), and ALL of the cast is impeccable. it's such a fun and lovely piece of writing, as soon as I read the first chapter last night I couldn't put it down (I genuinely stayed awake all night and was 15 minutes late to work). thank you so much for your beautiful addition to the bg3 fanfic community. I actually cant sing your praises enough. the writing is so expertly and carefully crafted and I feel honoured to have found it ❤

YOU ARE FAR TOO KIND OMG. Literally kicking my feet and twirling my hair while reading this message 🥰

I'm still in the process of planning part 7, but I'm really excited to start writing about Astarion acting like a freak after realizing he's in love! He's an idiot, your honor. He doesn't know what to do with Big Emotions!

Thank you for saying that about the bard, I know she can be a bit overly goofy, but I'm having fun writing her, so I'm glad you're having fun reading her! Not enough silly bards, I feel! They don't all need to be focused on music or poetry or art! Some are performers who just like to entertain! I think that's her specialty.

You're so sweet, I hope you didn't get in too much trouble for being late to work!! I applaud your patience for how long every part is 😅 Apologies for my love of yapping.

Thank YOU for reading my goofy little series, I'm having a blast writing it, and this community that I've found myself in is SO sweet and supportive. I'm honored to have you as a reader and I can't thank you enough for your kind words and support!! Part 7 is on the way 🫡

[lace4forest]

The Legend of Zelda Forgotten Songs

We've recently been drawing on Stream, so we ended up making a Legend of Zelda AU. (I'll post the stream vods on my channel later)

Basically Din and Farore decide to mess with Nayru, and shuffled the Triforce pieces.

Anyway! Zelda, the Hero of Songs, needs to search for the Forgotten Songs lost to Hyrule, to bring light back to the Kingdom. She teams up with Link the bard and the two travel together. The Scholar King Ganondorf of the Gorudo is trying to take over the Kingdom of Hyrule and bring silence and darkness to keep the Kingdom under his control.

The Nicknames Zelda - Song (Songs) Link - Lute Ganondorf - Cacophony

Rabbit hole time!

Zelda is the Hero of Songs. She has the Hero's Spirit, and was given the Triforce of Courage!

Zelda is a menace to society. Yes. She fights in this dress, and she is GOOD AT IT. Her "Roll" is a little jump and spin. She also is a very physical character, she doesn't use a lot of magic Items, and don't let her looking frail fool you, she is very strong. (Yes Zelda has the Master Sword)

Link has been nicknamed Lute. He isn't fully Hylian, he is only half! The other half is Siren! He is a Bard. He also has the Triforce of Power! (Think of Zelda 2 btw) So the Northern Palace? Everyone remember that place? Yeah, Link's house is on the beach north of there, he has a cute little beach house, and also has an under water one (Because Siren/mer fun stuff)

Now Link here is a little Uncanny, right? Well, literally EVERYONE in town think's that. That's why he lives out by himself on the beach. He does go into town and play music for money, and he's really good! (Because Siren) and people ALWAYS PAY HIM- (Because SIREN) He doesn't do anything bad tbh. Lastly, Link uses the magic Items here, he is also holding onto the Interments and sheet music they get from the Dungeons! (Looking for the Forgotten Songs of old to save Hyrule)

Now, Link and Zelda are besties, Zelda was traveling past his house, and she just wanted to see who lived there, met Link, liked his weird vibes (Literally all her guards were like NOOOOO SIREN BOY- But Zelda doesn't know) Also, Zelda gave Link Anxiety. (Zelda "No Fear" Hero of Songs traveling with the Siren Bard Link the Lute player)

OH! One last thing, Zelda doesn't know Link is half Siren. She just knows he has funky vibes and she likes the funky vibes. Someone (Villager) will be like "That is a Monster" and Zelda will be like "THAT IS MY BEST FRIEND" (Holds Link's face) "NOW SAY SORRY TO HIM" Villager - "....sorry" Zelda doesn't care.

(another link thing, sorry, that hair? that short hair? Yeah, No. That's an under cut, he has long hair, its just brained and stuffed into the hat)

LASTLY we have Ganondorf! He is cousins with Zelda, and he holds the Triforce of Wisdom! Ganondorf want's to take Hyrule, and he knows he is right behind Zelda for the throne, so all he needs to do is Kill Zelda! (He tried to just hire a guy to shoot her with a cross bow, the guy shot, Zelda cause the arrow, AND THREW IT BACK- NO BOW- and Killed that man.) Ganondorf had to think a little outside the box. His list of Priorities goes 1) Kill Zelda, 2) Kill Link and 3) Take over Hyrule.

Now, Ganondorf here is SMART. (Nicknamed Cacophony) Ganondorf and Zelda are Cousins, and they are pretty close. Their relationship is VERY complicated. Like - Someone talking crap about Zelda in front of Ganondorf "HOW DARE YOU SAY THOSE THINGS!" Person - "That is your Mortal Enemy!" Ganon - "THAT IS MY COUSIN!" (Zelda does the same thing)

Link and Ganondorf also have a complex relationship, they have an emotional support group for talking about the crazy things Zelda did and the two just need a moment to reassure they are normal and it's just Zelda being weird.

Also Ganondorf is a magic user in this AU. He tries to outsmart his opponents when need be. And in this game he is fighting Zelda and Link, who share a single braincell. (I love those two so much oh my gosh XD)

The Dungeon's in the game would be actually kinda hard, relying on your ability to remember things and a LOT of Puzzles. The beginning you can just switch between Link and Zelda to figure stuff out, one being in another room and yelling the answers to the other type of thing. But as the game goes on (After Dungeon 3) Link will become unable to get into the Dungeon without Zelda finding the Interment inside and summoning him inside. (There will also be a Dungeon where you do mainly play as Link in, it's the water temple.)

Now, Dungeon's 1 through 6 you can get Link inside to help, but less and less. By Dungeon 7 Link is unable to be summoned inside. Again, you would need the Dungeon Item to summon Link, BUT Ganondorf is SMART. He figured this out, and went and TOOK THE ITEMS OUT- They are now in other Dungeons (You may find 2 Items inside one dungeon) You might need to return to a Dungeon for a Door you were unable to unlock with a new Item/song/sheet music.

But During Dungeon 7, when Zelda leaves she can tell a fight happened, the area is destroyed, and Link is nowhere to be seen. Ganondorf and his men ambushed Link, and Kidnapped him. (Along with all your stuff.) Zelda heads to Dungeon 8, learning that Link is somewhere inside.

(Our reasoning on why Link get's Kidnapped- "WELL ZELDA GETS KIDNAPPED ALL THE TIME! IT'S LINK'S TURN!")

Now Dungeon 8. Ganondorf is Smart. Zelda and Link Share a SINGLE Braincell. Each room is one of three things. 1) A previous Mini Boss (Link Dungeon 8(?) in Link's Awakening) 2) A Puzzle to get a key or something (Normal Dungeon stuff) OR 3) A Puzzle from a previous Dungeon, but the hint isn't in the Dungeon and Link isn't here to yell the answers for you.

So you will have to do one of three things for those rooms, Look up a guide online, Have a good memory and know what to do, Or go back to the Dungeon it was in, and write it down.

But if you leave you'll have to restart/run through the Dungeon again! AND THIS ONE DOESN'T HAVE A MAP- HAHAHA-

WELCOME TO DUNGEON 8 HELL.

We wanted to create the hardest/funnest Dungeon. (Ganondorf is SMART, HE WANT'S ZELDA DEAD.)

Also, Ganondorf convinces the King to send Gaurds after Zelda and Link. (Kinda like Lttp, but instead of "YOU KIDNAPPED THE PRINCESS" It's more like "Zelda Please, You Need To Come Home!" and Zelda is like "GANONDORF IS EVIL" "No HE ISN'T!" "HIS VIBES ARE RANK!")

I might draw some short comics of them later tbh! (I think it's fun to make stories with everyone on stream, it was good, 10/10 will draw on stream again XD)

If you have any questions, just ask.

[redwayfarers]

THEN AND NOW: NIKA PERSEIS

I was tagged by @greyyourwarden, ty for the tag friend!

tagging: @lynxden, @battleonthebigbridge, @bunsandstuff, @janzoo, @thevikingwoman, @emotional-support-carbuncle and @amalthea-felsblood! and anyone else who wants to be included ofc

June 2023

these were some of my first gposes of nika! i was not aware there was a lipstick color so he walked around with a god-awful shade of lipstick before i realized i could remove it. makeup just isn't nika. og eye colors were slightly different too! baby fashion not withstanding of course. he was never white in my head but at some point, i felt the need to redesign some and give him a different, darker skin tone, and i was patiently waiting for the free arr fantastia to do it!

we will not speak of my class/job struggles before i'd picked up bard. i hate baby arcanist.

October 2024

here is my boy now! in his signature color, without highlights (he cuts his hair off in heavensward and never redyes it) and with a lot more fashion sense and skins, as well as his new, darker skin tone. also, there are hats now. and halatali yellow you will always be famous to me !!!

minor changes include me making him a lil taller, adding the scar on his right cheek, and also fixing his eye colors a bit (same colors, different shades) that are truer to my vision of him :)

[ladyannemarie5]

Jaskier: the emotional support bard for EVERYONE

Well, remember my "Things we learned/confirmed about our bard in Vol. 2" post? You can see it here.

I haven't stopped thinking about point #16 (He's the emotional support bard for EVERYONE (Geralt, Yennefer, Ciri and even Dara) but who the hell is my baby's emotional support?) and after many sleepless nights I finally got around to it to write something about it.

So here you have 2k words of hurt/angst for my beautiful bard. Because he needs to vent to someone and I love a Geralt writhing in pain and guilt :D

-------------

Geralt is truly grateful to have Jaskier in his life. Having him is the true blessing. 

The bard is always by his side, with a soft and understanding smile on his face, with the right words that will give shelter to their hearts and a joke to lighten the mood.

He knows just the right combination of words to make Yennefer smile sincerely. He knows what song to sing for Ciri after her nightmares. He knows what to say to elves who have lost their homes and families to always keep them hopeful.

And of course, Jaskier is always sincere about his emotions, the things he likes, the things he dislikes.

Jaskier is colorful, loud, colorful and true with his feelings.

That's why Geralt is at a loss for what to do when he hears Radovid comforting his bard. 

Geralt was about to tell them both to gather by the fire to continue the party after saying goodnight to Ciri. The party in the forest was in full swing when both lovebirds decided to step away from the spotlight and spend some time alone. 

"How are you, lark?" asks Radovid.

"I'm perfect, my prince. All things are finally flowing properly" replies the bard cheerfully.

There is silence for a moment, Geralt sneaking up on the pair, not wanting to abruptly interrupt their moment.

"I could see how your hands shook as we approached the fire, I also noticed that you didn't play your usual notes on your lute, and of course, you tried to sing the dirtiest songs in your repertoire only to have your friends tell you to stop singing in front of the girl" the prince murmurs softly and Geralt stops his steps altogether. 

"Well, I wouldn't want a witcher and his sorceress to cut little Jaskier for singing obscenities in front of his daughter. You should thank me for stopping, I know how much you enjoy little Jaskier."

A silence follows, Geralt thinks the matter is settled, that Jaskier is fine. 

"And now you're evading the issue" replies the prince in a tone Geralt can't detect. "You said you weren't afraid of the fire anymore but you sat in the farthest place from the campfire, you didn't have your twitch with the strings and I know you only do that when you don't want to want to keep playing the lute and I also know you only sing your dirtiest songs when you want to make people uncomfortable and make them stop asking you for songs.

I ask you again, how are you?"

Jaskier doesn't respond. Geralt holds his breath and frowns in the darkness.

Jaskier isn't acting weird, it's just Jaskier being Jaskier, Geralt thinks. His bard is always happy, in fact he is surprised that he always smells like honeysuckle and lavender all the time because humans always have a wide variety of smells about them. Sadness, anger, joy, satisfaction, and more and more, but Jaskier always smells of happiness, and several (many) times of lust. Radovid believes that just by knowing Jaskier for a few years he is already able to read him backwards and forwards. Like him

Jaskier doesn't say anything for several minutes and for a second, it seems like the conversation has stopped there, maybe he'll start cracking a joke about how being the most famous bard on the continent is taking its toll on him or maybe he'll comment that Radovid isn't giving him any enough attention.

If there's one thing everyone who knows Jaskier personally knows, it's that the bard is...

"I'm tired "

And Geralt's heart stops. Because he has never heard the bard speak in that tone. Not even when they had walked miles and miles for hours, not when they had spent days and days sleeping outside instead of an inn, not even when Geralt apologized after the mountain. It's not the kind of physical exhaustion that Jaskier always brags about, it's the exhaustion that comes from his soul.

A soft sound is heard and the witcher must not have special mutations to know that the prince has gotten closer to the poet “Dear heart, it is me. "You know you don't need to pretend to be someone you're not with me."

More silence. More doubts.

And then, like a dam that has broken, Geralt smells for the first time the bitter aroma of rotting dandelions: Jaskier's sadness.

"I feel so lonely." Jaskier sighs, an exhausted, desperate sigh.

And then the sobs come.

Geralt can imagine the prince holding Jaskier in his arms because the poet's voice sounds muffled and sobbing.

Jaskier talks about how he has always felt sad and alone since he was a child. How sometimes he is not able to remember his childhood because his mind has blocked everything bad to protect him. He talks about how music saved his life, how sometimes it's not enough and he just forces himself to make it enough.

Geralt thinks about the times Jaskier didn't sleep or eat because he stayed to write in his notebook, how he took his lute and held it to his chest saying that the muses were blessing him with inspiration. He now wonders how much was real and how much was the bard breaking.

The bard tells the prince how scared he was when he first toured the continent, fearing that he would have to crawl back to his parents to survive. The happiness of being able to find Geralt and follow him. The sadness of being rejected over and over again by the only person who was his lighthouse at that moment. The panic attacks he suffered when he woke up and Geralt was already gone. The tremors in his legs when he ran to the next town to catch up with the witcher and the fake smiles he had shown when pretending that their reunion was accidental.

Geralt remembers a time, in Temeria, when he found Jaskier drinking beer in a tavern and how his leg kept moving, up and down over and over again. How Jaskier told him it was the emotion that the red-haired waitress caused him. He tries to remember how many miles Jaskier had to walk by himself.

Jaskier tells him how devastated he was when Geralt left him. Because he knows that 20 years are nothing for a witcher but they were half of his human life. He tells him that he returned to Geralt because he missed him and is his best friend, the person he has the most faith in, but he doesn't think he can trust him again, not like before. Because he had been his only friend, his only constant after leaving and being disowned by his own family, because he had given him his youth, voice and friendship for decades and yet Geralt had left him. And his heart is so broken that he can't put another patch on it or will be useless forever.

He tells him how ashamed he is of his human condition. Because he's surrounded by gods who can set the world on fire literally and figuratively, he clings so hard to being someone magnificent like them, but sometimes he's so exhausting that the very breath escapes him. He tells that every time they make a joke about being weak, worthless or just being left behind he gets it because they remind him of his family, but now it has become a dull ache that builds up in his heart and he knows it's wrong, but now has gotten used to it.

Geralt doesn't even have a specific memory, but he knows that he has a lot to think about.

The poet talks about nightmares about being burned, about being left behind for being a mere human. Because he knows that he is only a second in the infinite life of the people he loves, that he is nothing more than a thorn in the hearts of the people he considers his family. Because they will live long, wonderful lives and the memory of him will one day be erased from their minds, and sometimes it's okay, but other times it feels like it burns his soul to know that he means nothing to anyone.

He tells Radovid that he is so afraid that he will leave him too. Because he knows that he can be a lot and feel so much that he is used to being left aside, but he doesn't believe he can bear Radovid's rejection and he doesn't believe can bear to say goodbye to the prince he has fallen in love with like never before. He tells him how much loves him, how fervent his love is, but Radovid is a prince, the representation of the gods on earth, the man who has armies and subjects and men and women at his disposal; and he’s a simple bard, with scars from torture and a lute on his back. Jaskier opens up and talks out loud about how scared he was when he met him, because he always jokes about being heartbroken, like every good poet, but he never talks about the fear of not being enough again.

He talks about his resentment and envy of others. He was always the bard of comfort for everyone, always the shoulder to cry on and complain about, always the perfect man to put down and feel good about yourself. Jaskier, the man who always smiles. Jaskier, the man of a thousand words. Always the bard Dandelion.

He says that has no right to cry and complain about his pain, because there are elves out there who have lost their homes, their family, and their lives. Because just a few steps from him, there is a girl who lost her parents, her grandparents and her entire home in the flames. There is a sorceress who was sold by her father, who was undone and remade countless times. Because he has traveled with the man with the purest and noblest heart on the continent, that he has suffered for decades without complaint. Because there is a prince trapped in a viper's nest next to him. He has no right to cry because he is exhausted.

But sometimes it's so hard to stay smiling. Sometimes the curtain must be lowered, sometimes his lips also get tired of saying words of encouragement without any in return, his arms are also tired of holding and not being held, his heart sometimes gets tired of loving without being loved.

Sometimes he just wants to sleep and not wake up again.

Jaskier talks and talks and talks. But for the first time, he's not about the best color for his doublet, but instead he mutters about the insecurities he hides behind those colors. For the first time, Geralt doesn't tune out Jaskier's inane, meaningless chatter and actually listens, hears the tremor in his voice, smells the pain in the air, feels every sob rumbling in his chest. And he wonders how he never saw it, how he always took his friend for granted.

It seems that Jaskier's words are exhausted, because all that remains is a deafening silence and the aroma of salt from tears not shed for years.

“You are not alone, lark,” the prince murmurs, soft and determined. “You have me, Geralt, Ciri and Yennefer. We are your family. We are yours. And I'm sorry you feel that way, because it was never our intention to burden you with our burdens. Because we love you. You are the light of our lives, and the only reason we all have a family. Jaskier, you are my lark, my heart and my soul. I love you more than anything, Jaskier. You can always come to me to listen to you, to cry or simply to be by your side, the way you want me, all the time you want me.”

Jaskier sobs again and Geralt can imagine Radovid holding him tighter, closer, because it's something the witcher wants to do.

Geralt walks away silently with only the thoughts of him.

He returns to the bonfire that miraculously continues to burn, with no Yennefer and Ciri in sight.

Geralt sits in his place. He thinks about everything he has learned from the bard in 1 hour and has been missing for 24 years. He wonders how much of what he sees in Jaskier is him and not his mask. He questions why he never asked Jaskier how he is.

Then he hears footsteps coming out of the forest. He feels Yenn sit silently to the right of him and then Ciri to the left of him. Everyone heard, everyone felt their bard break.

No one says anything, as if the bard had taken away their words. He probably did it. So the three of them sit together until they decide to go to sleep, always in silence.

The next morning, the 3 find a note from Radovid saying that he and Jaskier will take some time together. That they will soon find them.

The witcher, the sorceress and the princess shed tears together and then wait anxiously for their bard. Their lark.

[erme-maererme]

following this i need to say that durge obviously balances astarion out when it comes to long-term planning, but i'd like to also add some detail on how i see this ability of theirs and what kind of a leader they are.

durge is a cult leader, not a commander of an army and not a politician in the sense that they would not be good at organizing things like cities and states and gaining the support of citizens and stuff. their interpersonal skills are way above average, but they'd make a poor manager, if that makes sense. they find strict organization and discipline boring, their goal is just to get people to do whatever they want, not to establish structure. i'm looking at that high charisma of canon storm sorcerer durge and also my bard+sorcerer durge here. they're an excellent manipulator, there's that intimidation proficiency, so basically their scheming mainly consists of identifying people that can be useful to them/the party and convincing them to do what they want, ensuring that they're an ally for the future etc. durge is a people person, even if it's at times lethal for the people in question.

that's also why our murderous amnesiac becomes a reluctant leader of the group, they manage to resolve conflicts between party members, use their strengths well and more importantly they just usually go with the ideas that the others offer. i think in-game durge is in a lot of pain all the time and trying to figure out what is wrong with them (the urge), so they don't have much space in their head to make plans and scheme, they just go along with what the others think they need to do, while giving it the air that the party came up with these brilliant plans together, so no one would feel salty about things and bother them further. i don't think they notice until at least moonrise that they're the de facto leader of this group, even though they don't really discuss this hieararchy.

additionally, the pre orin lobotomy durge must have planned at participated in a lot of murders on their own or with a small group of other cultists, the bhaalists, as they appear in act3, favour stealth and disguises and there's that invisibility cloak sceleritas gives them back, which also hints in this direction. overall, it makes sense to assume that this type of planning is much like an instict to durge and that they're used to having such numbers with them as the party can be, so their coordination tips would come into use.

+ in contrast with what i wrote about astarion in the previous post (him being effective in crisis), durge would not be particularly good at this, as in any situation that might make them lose control over their mind. the more overwhelmed by some negative emotions they're the harder it is for them to keep the urge in check (and being overwhelmed by some sort of happiness is not fully accessible to them due to the urge beginning to push them even harder towards destroying the source of that joy, so it wouldn't be distracting them from serving bhaal). so if durge panics they end up either killing everybody or immediately leaving and isolating themself so they would not kill everybody.