#arisen x phaesus

[bearlytolerant]

masquerade

[wokestone]

Your ex-lover/sugarbaby ghosted you, you and your rebound kinda cursed her with amnesia (nbd, you were going to safely extract her from the work camp after and hide her from your rebound, but that kinda fell through when she escaped on the back of a griffin day 1), and suddenly she appears at this masquerade not remembering you in the slightest but seems drawn to the familiar scent of your cologne. wyd?

[bearlytolerant]

Sticking to the shadows of the stone walls, she slinks along the hallway, avoiding the sconce's warm glow. Ahead she spots two guards, so she hurries off to her right, slipping inside of the magistrate's office and quietly closing the door. Pressing her ear to the heavy wood, she listens as the soldier’s muffled voices grow louder. She can’t quite make out the gossip before the volume recedes and their footsteps are a far off echo. Hand on the doorknob, it’s cold to the touch and ice crystals form. The shimmering frozen fractals lace up her fingers and wrap around her wrist to form a chilling cuff. Inwardly she curses before glancing over her shoulder.

Once again she finds herself in the presence of the Battahli dignitary. Not that she’s complaining.

“Well, well. It seems our paths coincide once more, Arisen.”

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: DD2, Pairing: Arisen x Phaesus, Ch rating: M, AO3

Chapter 3 Excerpt:

A satisfying crunch and Gwyn savors the sweet of her apple, juice dripping down her chin. Grasped tightly in her hand, she rests it in her lap, careful to avoid dribbling onto the pages of the tome opened there as well. She swipes at her chin, chewing paused.

She swallows. “What do you think this means? It says: each fragmented soul contains fading power, that when combined, cannot create a whole soul renewed, but rather a stronger bond for the power to be drawn from.” She glances at Killian, her faithful (and most favorite) pawn who is drawing in his journal and not listening at all. “It sounds straightforward, I suppose. But is it saying that combined fragmented souls can be a continual strengthened power source or that combined they provide a singular use of an incredibly strong power source?”

Rook ceases herb collection and stands next to her, casting a shadow over the words her eyes keep rereading. Her head aches and the words are all starting to blur together anyway. She glances up at him. His hands are on his hips and he bites at his lower lip, brow furrowed in concentration. But this level of questioning is clearly out of his area of expertise.

“Methinks we should ask someone with more knowledge on such things. Such as an experienced sorcerer.” He runs a hand through his mop of dark brown hair before scratching at his scruff.

Gwyn sighs. She can’t think of a single soul—alive anyway. No, she takes that back. The only one that springs to mind that might have knowledge is the man she borrowed the book from in the first place. She should’ve thought to at least ask where she could send him a letter. Waldhar might be able to explain or at least point her in the direction of another sorcerer. She could potentially scour the rift for a pawn able to pass on knowledge of all else fails. Any of those options are certainly be worth a try. Unfortunately, uncovering tome meanings will have to be put off until the morrow.

[bearlytolerant]

He is tired of the talk. The playful power exchanges that slip off her tongue. As her mouth stills, words silenced, he urges himself upward, stretching that small distance between them to meet her unwavering gaze.

And he thinks of her. Only her.

Thumb barely brushing her chin, he bridges the gap between them. Her lips are soft, and his kiss is almost chaste. A hesitant separation, his eyes roam her face with uncertainty. Hands curling up into the collar of his robes, she shoves him back down onto the chair before straddling his lap. She attempts to remove her jewelry but he covers her hand with his own.

“Leave it.”

A smile pulls at her lips and gently she combs through his hair with those cool metal claws and nips at the nape of his neck. A groan slips free and she softy rasps, “do that again.”

Tagging whoever sees this and wants to share ☺️

[bearlytolerant]

mwah

[bearlytolerant]

will you stay?

[bearlytolerant]

“I can only imagine what’s brought you back here.”

[bearlytolerant]

“you understand me as no one else can.”

[lisa-and-shadow]

Gwyn's pawns watching her walk into the palace:

we who are gathered here are naught but nameless nobles

[bearlytolerant]

Made Phaesus/Gwyn and Quil/Gwyn with this adorable kissing picrew.

Tagging @ellstersmash @fangbangerghoul @lisa-and-shadow @arisenreborn @linashirou @soloavengers @brinehater @riftstone-of-the-calm @thevikingwoman @myreia @roguelioness and anyone else that wants to make a couple! I’d love to see! (No obligation ofc though to any of you).

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Dragon’s Dogma 2

Pairing: Phaesus x Arisen

Chapter Rating: E (explicit smut content)

AO3

Chapter 5 excerpt:

Phaesus

He is not one to lie in grass and dirt, serpent he might be, but Gwyn is there nestled amongst the moon glossed flowers with stars in her eyes.

“Would you care to join me?” She asks.

“I am no stranger to dirtied hands but to lie in the grass like some—some—”

“Cur? Wastrel? Heathen?”

“I was going to say worm but any of those will do.”

“I know. The ground is certainly beneath you, surely.” She smiles at that, overly pleased with herself. “But if you get dirty, I will draw you a bath, my lord. Scrub behind your ears even.”

The prospect of that appeals to him more than she realizes and he pushes aside the disdain for the ground and finds himself lying next to her, staring up at the dark, starlit canopy.

Another pleased grin and she points. “See that smattering of stars there to your right?” She speaks an elvish word that he doesn’t know. “The dragon,” she translates.

He squints and tries to piece some sort of imagined picture with a line connecting stars in his head but he simply doesn’t see anything. Let alone a dragon.

“My childhood memories are filled with my father, pulling me up the ladder to the rooftop of our home. The sights stretched on as we kept watch over the goats, defending them from wolves and singing them lullabies until eyes grew heavy. Whilst they slept, we would take to stargazing. And I believe, if my memory serves me correctly, that pocket of stars is the dragon. But, in all honesty, I could never really see what he saw.”

This makes him smile, brief and fleeting. “Lovely story, but I see no dragon.”

“Really? No dragon at all? Fie, I must’ve pointed out the wrong ones. Oh well. I suppose that family tradition started and ended with me.” She chuckles to herself. “What of you? Do you recall any fond childhood memories?”

Phaesus sighs, pausing as Gwyn focuses her gaze on him. Tucks an arm behind his head. He has not thought of his childhood in what feels like eons, let alone memories he is fond of. Every one of them feels tinged with touches of sadness. Broken memories. Broken bodies. Heat and flame and fear but he dives past all of that, pulling his father’s smiling face from the debris of reveries.

[bearlytolerant]

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Dragon’s Dogma 2

Pairing: Arisen/Phaesus

Chapter Rating: Mature

AO3

Figures spin in an array of silks. Donning masks feathered or scaled or embellished in some format or another. Fancy birds and beasts alike. And her eyes watch from the shadowed corner of the room.

Blonde hair. Braided bun. Blue plumed mask.

Blonde. Braided. Blue.

The description plays on repeat for her target of a delivered letter. A noblewoman—Lady Henrietta—who can be swayed to the side of the arisen. To her side. Not that she cares for her position or any side swaying (unless it’s in reference to a pretty woman) but she cares for Ser Brant and Regentkin Sven and they are the ones pulling all the strings. Someone always is. She’d made an attempt at convincing Brant to let a pawn go in her stead but it failed. Miserably. So she resigns herself to playing puppet. At least she can don a pretty dress, drink and dance. Besides, their hard work on her behalf should be rewarded, no? And it’s not like it’s a difficult assignment. She might even be best suited for it, her whole life spent knowing the subtle details of each of her goats to call them by name. These nobles are just goats.

More masqueraders filter through the doorway and something new plays on the violin, soft and sensual. Half the candles are blown out, casting a warm, moody glow on cheeks unshadowed. Roses in a vast array of pinks and reds fill vases around the room, and the sweet fragrance cannot drown out the scent of sweat and sex that permeates the air.

Gwyn manages to spot a woman matching the description she’s searching for. But the blue of her dress is caught up in a twirl on the dance floor, the same blue plumes of her mask taking flight before she can even peel herself off the pillar. With slumped shoulders, she sighs and mindlessly adjusts her own scaled black mask. Patience is almost too steep a price for paragonal virtue.

A shiver runs up her spine and she averts her gaze from the dancers to scan the dim-lit recesses between the marbled columns nearby. Her eyes land on a tall figure, dressed in black with mask to match, hands clasped behind his back. The gold accents on both mask and robe gleam when the flickering flame catches the metallic just so. His attire is different. Not Vermundian in style but more Battahli, and she wonders what a noble from the neighboring country is doing here. Surely events such as these exist in his own courts and ballrooms. Does he just want to bask in the revelries of Vermundian customs or is he on a mission, much the same as she? A half smirk tugs at those lips, eyes never leaving her and his bearded jawline is accentuated by the candle’s half-light. Like a moth to his flame, she floats over to him.

He’s not quite as tall as her up close. And not everything is black. The habit beneath the robes is a deep shade of purple and a thick, wine red cord is tied about his waist. All of it is luxurious garb, the kind only befitting nobles and she wonders what title he carries back home.

His eyes remain fixated on her. More often her chest than any other feature. She can’t say she wouldn’t do the same if she were him. But isn’t that what these little masquerades are about? They say it’s to celebrate The (false) Sovran but everyone knows what those celebrations entail. Unadulterated lust and stolen moments of forbidden fornication disguised as dancing. She smooths her hands down her corset, his eyes never straying from her body. At least he carries no false pretenses about his desires. She determines she likes him already and closes the small gap between them.

A tilt of his head and his eyes flick back up to hers with a pleased hum. “Why, you’re—”

His voice is like a hypnotic rumble carried on smoke laden clouds. Or velvet sheets caressing the skin just before that first light of dawn peeks through the curtains. A voice she associates with satiated desire coupled with possession and she wants to be his tonight. She just knows with that deep decadent tone and alluring cadence that he’s the type to talk you through an orgasm and if not, she’ll take enjoyment from hearing that voice of his relinquish a moan while threading her fingers through his raven colored locks. Raising a brow in piqued interest, she hopes he continues speaking.

“No, pay me no mind.”

“A senseless request when you have caught my attention and are all that consumes my mind now.”

A small smirk but her bold attempt at flirting is not enough to make him blush. He unfolds his arms from behind his back, dispersing the tension of his haughty posture with a roll of his wrist. “We who are gathered here are naught but nameless nobles. Twould be uncouth to inquire after another’s identity.”

She wants to laugh. Ask how many times he’s rehearsed such an alliterative line or if he’s the type to succumb to such formalities. But the way he turns each word into goosebumps on her arms has her trading her almost-laugh in for fire running through her veins. She no longer even cares about his name. Would it be uncouth if she skipped banter altogether and went straight to sex in the corridor? Does she care if it was? She surmises she aught to at least dance with him first.

“All such speak of identity aside, might I ask you to dance?”

“I would be a fool to deny you.”

“You would indeed, my lord.” He offers a small bow before taking the lead.

Fingers cool to the touch, hers interlock with his until they find a place amongst the other masked dancers. Somehow her memory serves her for once when she recalls the required four-steps and turn for this particular dance but her mind wanders. One-two steps and he’s too far away. The third and the fourth, brings him back and she wants him closer. Wants him to stay. Desires his fingers skimming along her skin, playing her like the violin, her sighs harmonizing with his.

“You seem distracted,” he says when they rejoin, fingers interlocking with hers, raising their arms into the air as they slowly circle one another. His lips, thin and yet so alluring, are so close. Too close. Not close enough.

“Are you not?”

Though taciturn, the desire that burns behind his own dark eyes, reveals a satisfactory answer.

A catch of breath and his eyes don’t leave her as she steps back, spins and then they trade partners. Another four-steps that she must focus on or else be tripped up, and she loses sight of him with the next twirl. The music comes to an end. The crowd claps, pressed in tight together. She stretches on tip-toes and searches above the crowd. Spies his robe slipping smoothly away toward the fringes and she follows, almost forgetting the whole reason she’s at this masquerade.

A collision. A gasp. And wine is spilled down the front of her bodice but she spots that braided, blonde and blue and remembers the letter. Squeezing past the clumsy, wine-spilling noble, she reroutes herself, trailing after the blue dress.

A hand gently wraps around her wrist from the shadows and she’s pulled away from her pursuit.

“There you are.”

“My lord, I hardly think I was lost. You are the one who left and are in need of searching out.”

“Am I?”

She grants him an easy smile, taking in his form. “Indeed. Though, you are found now.”

A hum of acknowledgment and he folds his arms across his chest.

“I regret that I must leave you for a moment but I have need to speak with a friend. But after, if it would please you, I would relish in the opportunity to share another dance.”

“I was thinking we could share in a moment more—private.”

“I believe there is a storage—”

He interrupts, lips almost against her ear as he says, “let us reconvene when the clock strikes the next hour.”

She nods. Searches out Lady Henrietta. It’s all hush hush and a secret exchange gone well before Gwyn is almost sprinting around the outer hallway, blotting away the wet spot of spilled wine on her black dress with a kerchief she stole from a man in a Beastren mask.

She will definitely be early.

Heart racing as the clock tolls the new hour, Gwyn readjusts her position on a forgotten desk littered with old, dusty books buried in the ballroom's storage closet behind a room divider. Remembering to breathe, she quells her nervous excitement. But it all shatters when the door creaks open and the gentle hum of a spell is cast. She marks down another certainty. But is he a mage or sorcerer? Or some combination of the two? She resigns herself to thinking it doesn’t matter.

“I presume you found your way easily enough?” She hopes it’s her masked tryst and not a guard she’s speaking to.

“Indeed,” he answers and her momentary worry dissipates.

“You did lock the door, yes?” Though, she can make the assumption easily enough if he felt the need to use magic.

Rounding the room divider, she takes in his handsome form and it’s a shame she can’t peel off that mask and those robes to reveal all of what’s underneath. To see what face that growl of a voice comes from. But his mouth will have to do as he inches closer and she tugs the wine colored cord around his waist. He nearly loses balance, but braces himself, palms on either side of her. Cupping his chin in her hand, she captures his dark brown gaze and slowly inches toward him, breath on his lips.

“Yes. And we shall remain uninterrupted for a few hours,” he says.

“Hours?”

He closes the gap between them, lips pressing against hers in a surprisingly gentle way and her fingers crawl along his jawline and slip to the back of his neck where she twirls a dark lock around her finger. Heart thudding wildly, she releases all of her pent up tension with a tug of his hair. A soft, pleasant gasp and she smiles against him. Deepens the kiss with a slant of her lips and flick of her tongue, she yanks him even closer. But he breaks away with a coy smile.

“Time is needed for a fruitful and thorough experience.”

“Thorough hmm?”

“Might I inquire of you?

“Go on.”

“How well,” he reaches down, hooking his fingers under the hem of her dress, thumbs sliding across her thighs, as he slowly shuffles the fabric upward, bunching it around her hips, “do you follow instruction?”

She expects a grin but only seriousness lingers in his gaze. “I suppose it depends upon who is instructing and if they are worthy of my obedience or not.”

“Hmm,” he says thoughtfully, inching to his knees. A press of his lips against her inner thigh and his eyes flick back up to hers. “I shall make myself worthy then.”

[bearlytolerant]

I’m so very close.

[bearlytolerant]

I am so very close