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hapan-in-exile · 5 months ago

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It's alright to just admit that I'm the fantasy

A Mandalorian One Shot

Yeah, I know your little secret...

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Reader: You are a courtesan at the Dark Garden, Coruscant’s most prestigious pleasure house. Owned by the crimelord Boss Set’ki and operated by his lieutenant Mistress Anassa, when business meets pleasure, you’re expected to entertain soldiers on the payroll. But there’s one—a Mandalorian you’ve come to know and respect—who’s never taken advantage of your services. Until one day, he asked, What if next time I said yes?

Word Count: ~9K

Pairing: dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI, 18+ only.

Warnings: Roleplay, bondage, blindfold, fingering, oral sex (m+f receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, spanking, hair pulling, choking, biting, protected anal, unprotected piv, rough sex, edging (him), explicit consent, aftercare.

If the above looks super intense, please know I wrote a soft(er) dom Mando—no extreme degradation. Lots of checking in! Lots of praise!

A/N: This is a one-shot set in the same universe as my ongoing Mandalorian fanfic series. It has no bearing on the series plot.

No description of skin, hair, or eye color; no description of age or body shape.

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Tales from the Dark Garden

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian says disinterestedly, sliding the pile of neatly stacked credits into his waiting palm. “Please extend my gratitude to Boss Set’ki for his generous and timely payment.”

You watch him tuck the metallic ingots into one of the leather pouches sewn to his belt—right between the buckle and a string of explosive charges. There’s a dull thunk when the butt of his rifle knocks against the table’s edge as he turns to leave.

It's quite the arsenal. The bounty hunter certainly cast an imposing figure.

It’s a miracle those shoulders made it through the hatch.

You’d heard rumors from the other girls at Dark Garden about the fearsome Mandalorian who visited Mistress Anassa. This just happened to be one of those delightful twists gifted by the universe, where the real thing exceeds expectations. He was terrifying. And sexy as hell.

That first moment when you’d opened the door to see him standing there in full plate Beskar was a shock to the senses that would have reduced a younger you into a stream of inane babbling.

Good thing you had a lot of practice controlling your expression—the demands of professional decorum, after all. It would ruin your Mistress’s reputation if you started drooling over the customers.

The armor suited him. It accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his forearms, and his powerfully muscular thighs. The belt slung low around his tapered waist, and the quilted canvas hinted at the taut abdominals concealed beneath.

All the adrenaline that surged through your body at the sight of his weaponry had immediately transformed into excitement, raw and primal.

This man made you feel…

Sweet gods, divine and merciful.

“Of course,” you smile, leaning forward to place your elbows over the polished tabletop so that your breasts rise enticingly. Lacing your fingers together, you gently rest your chin atop your knuckles. “I will happily deliver your compliments to my master.”

The Beskar gleamed in the candlelight despite an ashy layer of soot. From the state of him, he might have come straight from the lower levels where he’d tracked his quarry. Your eyes linger over the blood splattered across his helmet, sending a shiver of panic down your spine. What sort of violence had this man committed mere hours ago?

Arousal surges within you, fear and wanting intertwined.

The gore and grime are a stark contrast to the lush surroundings. Draped in silk tapestries, with thick woolen rugs and brocade pillows, your shuttle interior was designed to be a sanctuary from the vulgar world outside.

But you suspect the Mandalorian wrapped brutality around him as tightly as the cloak hanging from his neck. It would take a woman of considerable charm to remove either.

Which is why Anassa chose you.

“It is my honor to serve, Master Set’ki,” you reply, rising artfully from your chair and gesturing toward the lounge where you’ve laid out a modest tea service. “And my duty to please.”

The Mandalorian pauses midstep on his way to the door.

“Excuse me?” he asks, curiosity peaked.

Shrugging out of your robe, the silken fabric pools at your feet. You kneel onto the plush carpet before pulling back, sitting on your heels, and reaching for the enameled pot. “My master thought you would enjoy the companionship. A chance to indulge in softer luxuries before you return to the Outer Rim.”

The Mandalorian’s helmet gives away nothing, but you can feel his eyes tracing over you.

Looking up at him through dark lashes, you explain, “The use of this ship—and myself—are yours for the night.”

Despite the layers of cloth and metal, when he folds his arms across his chest, you see the muscles in his back ripple. He looked powerfully, almost aggressively masculine. Like someone who took what he wanted.

And right now, he’s imagining taking you.

The fear is still there, but by now, it had sharpened to anticipation so intense that it ached.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says firmly. Yet, his words did not match his actions. Instead of continuing on his path toward the door, he turns to face you, uncrossing his arms to hold them at his sides.

Is he simply nervous? Sometimes, warriors hardened on the battlefield liked to yield dominance in the bedroom. Maybe you should try throwing him against a wall and climbing him like a tree.

No. If submission were his preference, Anassa would have chosen someone else—Katlin with her barbed whips or Bat’ya with her cruel tongue.

You need to coax him without pushing. The subtle art of persuasion.

Let’s start with coy seduction.

Turning to look at him from over your shoulder, you toss your hair just so, sending shimmering waves down your back. You twist gracefully at the waist until your bodice gapes, revealing the contours of your body.

“Think of it as a reward,” your voice is supple as the velvet cushions surrounding you on the floor. “Someone to take care of you. My only desire is your comfort and pleasure.”

With that, you pour the tea and walk over to him, proferring a cup.

“That is indeed generous,” the Mandalorian cocks his head. “But I usually find more comfort in solitude.”

Yet, again, he makes no attempt to leave, accepting the cup from your hand graciously. Worn leather caresses your skin as your fingers brush against each other, reaching around the warm porcelain. The jaw of his helmet lifts, and you catch a glimpse of bronze skin and coarse black hair while he raises the cup to his lips.

Surprisingly full lips.

What did he mean by offering resistance? Was this a challenge? Some test of your professional acumen?

A skilled courtesan is, above all else, a student of human nature and hidden desires. She must know what her clients want before they speak the words. Before they know it themselves. This Mandalorian wanted to be…tempted.

Timidity would yield nothing.

You arch an eyebrow, “I have never known a man who preferred solitude to my company.” Then, you stare directly into the jet-black surface of his helmet’s visor. Meeting his gaze, you place a delicate hand over his chest plate and fill your voice with honey, “Let tonight be a rare exception to the usual.”

The Beskar feels cool against your palm and the pads of your fingertips. You hadn’t realized how flushed you’d become with your heart beating this fast. The insistent yearning between your thighs matches each pulse coursing through your veins.

“I am here to satisfy your needs. Whatever the Mandalorian desires is his for the taking.”

While the bounty hunter remains stubbornly silent, you can hear his breathing grow shallow through the modulator.

Having made your supplication, you draw back. “If it is tranquility the Mandalorian desires, perhaps I could play the valachord or sing for him?”

“Sing?” he huffs, sounding amused. It’s funny, hearing the smirk on his lips.

Well, at least he’s not completely immune to your charm.

“Pleasure takes many forms,” you say, flashing him a demure smile. “As such, we courtesans are skilled in many arts. I’ve been told my voice is exceedingly lovely. And I know all the Twelve Ballads of Kiergaard.”

You shift onto the edge of a thick cushion to pour yourself some tea. When you raise the cup to your lips, the look of elegant femininity slips—just for a moment, so he can see the earnest hunger filling your gaze. You fix him with your most smoldering stare, “Though I can certainly think of other ways to please you with my mouth.”

The tea tastes bitter on your tongue, but you hardly notice, waiting for his reaction.

The Mandalorian says nothing as he pulls the rifle over his head, settling it against the door frame. He walks over in a slow saunter that makes his hips dip and sway. Slowly, he extends his hand to take your face in his leather fingers, lifting up your chin.

“You want me to fuck your mouth?”

Your breath catches in your throat. A wave of arousal courses through your body, emanating from your clenching belly until it ripples over every surface of your skin, pinching your nipples.

“If the Mandalorian—” but he cuts off whatever beguiling line you intended.

“I thought this was about what I wanted?” he demands.

Suddenly, you’re too flustered to speak, confused by the sudden shift in dynamic. All his polite reticence had been an act. He was done testing you. He wanted to assert dominance.

In answer, you lower your gaze.

“That’s right,” he says cooly, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “You’re remembering what you’re for.” The Mandalorian takes the cup from your hands and tosses it aside. “There’s no more need to talk. Don’t open your mouth unless I tell you.”

Then he reaches down to his belt and unbuckles it.

And to think you worried he’d be too self-conscious for roleplay. This is going to be so good.

“You’re here to give me whatever I want?” he asks, his tone gruff and intimidating.

You don’t look up, just nod.

He laughs, “I’m glad we understand each other.”

With your gaze locked on the floor, you watch the tread of his boots make their way to a lacquer armchair in the corner of the room. His knees splay wide as he leans back in his seat. “Answer my question.”

“Whatever the Mandalorian desires, I will give him.”

“Because tonight, your body is for me.”

It’s not a question, but you find yourself nodding in confirmation.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

You answer truthfully. “That you’re a dangerous man, and I should do my best to please you.”

“Smart girl,” he says in a rough whisper. “But don’t worry, I have no intention of harming you. I’m going to make you come. Then you’ll sing for me, senaar'ika.”

Senaar'ika. Little bird.

Your whole body flushes with heat.

“What do you know about Mandalorian customs?”

When you hesitate, he adds, “You can answer me.”

“I know that it’s a sacrilege to look upon your face. That to touch your helmet, even by accident, is to forfeit my life.”

“Then you’ll understand why I need to tie you down.”

At that, your head snaps up to look at him.

“Or tie you up. I haven’t decided yet.”

Part of you is terrified by the thought of being captive to this man for hours, splayed wide and helpless. The other part of you wishes he’d do it this second.

“You can undress while I make up my mind.”

Obeying his command, you stand and reach behind you for the lacings of your bodice.

This, at least, is an art in which you can make your mistress proud. The trick is to envision it’s a private ritual, something deeply intimate. That you always loosen the silken knots this slowly. That each row of the lacings must be pulled free, one—by—one.

You lift your elbows so that he glimpses the soft curves of your breasts as you move. Slip your right arm from its fitted sleeve, then the left, until you’re certain the dress will fall, cascading over your body like waves caressing the shore.

Only then do you turn, rolling your hips and then your shoulders, displaying your nakedness, before you finally look over to where he’s sitting, as though you’d forgotten anyone was watching.

At some point during your performance, the Mandalorian had leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped together in wrapt attention.

“That was beautifully done,” he murmurs. “You may be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Your heart swells, hearing his admiration—perhaps because it sounds so genuine. Suddenly, all you can think about is how best to please him, the things you’ll do with your lips and fingers.

“I understand the Hapan courtesans from Dark Garden are the most expensive, the most prized companions in all of Coruscant.” The hunter’s voice sinks into a low, husky rasp as he says, “But tonight, I’m not interested in your talents, though I’m sure you have many. This is about what I want to do to you. Tonight, you belong to me.”

It’s just as well he demanded your silence because you can’t speak.

You know he can see you breathing, shallow and fast, from the rise and fall of your breasts. See your pulse thundering against your throat. He’s feeding off your fear, you realize. That’s why he keeps trying to catch you off guard like this. The Mandalorian wanted to shatter your artful calm and see something raw and real in your eyes.

You know you should be afraid—and you are—but you’ve never been more turned on.

So when he gets up from his seat to approach you, you don’t bother hiding the way your whole body trembles in trepidation.

The Mandalorian crouches to pick up the belt from your discarded robe.

“Give me your hands.”

He uses the fabric to tie your wrists together, wrapping the belt around and between them in a complicated knot. Then, his strong hands pull you under one of the lanterns suspended from the ceiling.

Cupping it in his palm, he lifts the glowing orb from its hook to set it down beside the abandoned tea service. The cabin grows dim, like he’s wrapped you in shadows.

That’s when you realize what’s about to happen. Unspooling the cable from his whipcord, he loops it through the empty hook. He’s going to suspend you from the ceiling by your wrists.

The breath coming from your nostrils is so fast now that it’s the only thing you can hear in the close, quiet cabin of your shuttle. But you say nothing. You can’t protest; you can only submit.

After securing your bound wrists to the cord, he inspects the knots.

“Not too tight?”

You release a deep breath and shake your head no.

“You remember the signal?” Mando asks with concern, breaking from the fantasy entirely.

“Yes,” you smile up at him with more confidence than you really feel—trying to ignore the insistent throbbing between your legs.

“You can stop me at any time.”

“I know.”

“Alright,” he says before his voice drops into a rough whisper. “You’re giving me total control. Anything I want is mine.”

Fuck, just hearing him say that makes you ache with need. That same trembling emanates from inside you, fear and arousal, two halves of the same coin. You don’t know precisely what the bounty hunter plans to do to you—and the suspense just makes the fantasy feel more real.

Within seconds, you’ll be tied up, defenseless against him and his desires. The only way to stop him is to say the safe word, and you already know you won’t. You want it too much.

You’ve spent months building up to this—years, really. It’s my choice, you’d told him. It’s different when it’s my choice.

“Yes,” you whisper breathlessly.

Then he pulls down on the whipcord, and your arms lift above your head.

For one panicked moment, you think he’s going to haul you entirely off the ground, but your feet remain on the floor, bearing your weight. You remind yourself that this is his domain. He knows how to bind, what the body can withstand.

And for now, the tension feels manageable. Slack enough so you don’t feel the strain in your joints; taut enough so you can grip the cord to steady yourself.

Yet you remain utterly helpless, unable to turn your head or move without losing your balance.

He takes a few steps back, leather boots creaking, and you watch as the Mandalorian strips his gloves off before removing the Beskar from his arms and chest. The fabric underneath outlines every contour of his powerfully muscular body.

Though not as graceful as your tradecraft, he certainly knows how to build anticipation. Each time his hands grip, pull, and tug, your stomach clenches.

Soon, you feel volatile, ready to explode, waiting for him to touch you. When he finally does—when you feel the tip of his calloused finger tracing over the length of your spine, it burns through you, down to your core, so hot your cheeks flush scarlet.

“It’s a good thing we have all night,” he murmurs. “There’s a lot I want to do with you.”

As he circles, the view plate sweeps up and down your body as though inspecting some prize captured in a snare. All you can do is stand there on display, completely exposed, until he makes a satisfied sound, a hummm that vibrates through the modulator. The hunter, pleased to discover what he’s caught.

“I feel deeply honored to receive you as my reward,” the Mandalorian sounds eager, standing behind you, voice full of hunger. “Now spread your legs.”

The breath catches in your throat, hearing that tight ache—the same raw yearning to match your own. You want to obey.

But there’s no give to the whipcord. The bindings on your wrist pull tighter the farther your feet draw apart. Though you can still balance, your shoulders start to burn from the stretch. Slowly, you rise onto tiptoes. But not fast enough—

Wrapping an arm around your waist, the Mandalorian lifts you from the floor.

“Wider,” he commands, gripping you roughly by the knee to pry open your thighs with his other hand. You have to bite back a scream. By now, you’re so wound up that just the sensation—the air cool against your wet center, his powerful chest pressed against your back, his fingers digging into your skin makes you drunk with lust.

“You’re so wet already, senaar'ika. It’s slicking down your thighs,” the Mandalorian groans, breath warm against the back of your neck. His hand gripping your knee slides upward between your legs, tracing toward the heat of your skin. “No wonder you were begging me to fuck you.”

His fingers part and probe—massaging in slow, firm circles that spiral until you’re panting. Every stroke sends pleasure pulsing through you, and you can’t stop yourself from whimpering.

“You like it when I use my hand?” he asks, voice maddeningly calm. Only the persistent throbbing against your hip, matching each beat of his heart, betrays his arousal. When you release a sigh in desperate delight, he says, “Maybe this is how I should start.”

And fuck, if Mando doesn’t knows exactly where to touch you—how much to bear down and how fast to go.

“Mmmph,” a moan of deep satisfaction escapes his lips as he thrusts two fingers inside you, sending a gush of wetness welling against his palm. He pushes them in and out, obviously relishing the obscene squelching sound.

Wait! When did he take off his helmet?

No. No, this is forbidden. This is dangerous.

You couldn’t move your head to look at him even if you wanted to, but your eyes shut tightly just the same. The fear of seeing his face, the dire consequences, amplify every panicked thought running through your mind, heightening every sensation—his fingers curling, his thumb pressing down over your clit.

Your breaths come sharp and shallow now. All the blood in your body rushing between your legs. The stimulation is almost too much to bear, the excitement and panic roiling within you—the Mandalorian dipping his fingers inside, slipping them out to circle and stroke. Drawing a wet line between your cunt over and over.

Desire ripples through you in waves. Your body tightens, muscles clenching. Your bound hands keep straining in their futile urge to grab his wrist, your knees fighting against him to shut tight around his thrusting fingers.

You’re close now. So close, you’re on the brink.

He kisses the back of your neck, “Don’t worry. I’m going to take good care of you.”

“Aaangh!” That’s when he presses harder, circles faster, and you come, “Haaa-aah!”

Your orgasm crashes through you in a tidal wave that upends gravity. You cry out desperately with all the air left in your lungs—the relentless pounding of your heartbeat against your eardrums making you dizzy.

“Haa-aah! Aaah!”

Losing equilibrium, you sway, and the bindings pull painfully around your wrists. You’re at the limits of your flexibility, fighting to keep your balance before the Mandalorian’s muscular arm tightens around your waist, until he’s bearing enough of your weight to keep you upright.

“I’ve got you,” he says gently, pressing a tender kiss over your head. “Stand up. Come on. Legs spread. You know what I want.”

You shift on your heels, testing your unsteady knees. “I can’t—” but your words break off into a gasp when he clasps his hand around your throat, warm and sticky with your come.

“Shhhh,” he whispers against your temple. “I told you not to open your mouth unless I said so.”

His tone is soft, and he kisses you tenderly again through a tangle of damp hair, your forehead glistening with sweat. But his fingers grip tighter in warning.

“Don’t speak unless you’re begging me for more.”

You nod once in understanding.

“Smart girl,” he says, and without the helmet on, you can hear the wry grin on his lips. “I’m glad we understand each other. It’s going to make everything so much easier. But just to be sure—”

His wide palm fans out from your waist, gliding down your body to slip over the curve of your buttocks.

Then he brings it down in a sharp smack that echoes through the quiet cabin. Hearing that slap, feeling the sting on your skin, the burning heat that radiates from his handprint—shakes you from the hazy lust.

It’s not enough to want to obey.

“I’m going to take good care of you, senaar'ika. But you have to do as you’re told.”

While he’s playing a role, the pain is very real. Yet this fantasy is about your powerlessness. Whatever the Mandalorian wants to do to you, you have to take it. Yes, the pain is undeniable—but the adrenaline?—it sharpens the hunger.

When you finally regain your balance and tilt your pelvis forward at just the right angle, your ass brushes against his straining erection, and he groans, a low vibration you feel through his chest. Arousal arcs through you, and you gasp responsively. Even now, as your body tingles numbly in the aftermath of climax, your cunt still aches, longing to be full of him.

With his entire body sealed against you, you feel the firm pressure swelling against your ass. It throbs, heat radiating through the canvas flight suit. The coarse fabric is rough, rubbing over your slapped skin.

“You feel that?” he whispers, grinding the entire length of his cock against you. “That’s what you’re going to take for me.”

Holy fuck, he’s huge. Thick, too. Your mind reels at the impossibility; can you really fit him inside you?

“You’re going to take it all,” the bounty hunter huffs, as if he’d heard your thoughts. “You’re going to come with my cock buried in your ass.”

Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!

It’s something you’ve talked about, something you said you wanted and prepared for, but….you’ve never had anyone this big up your ass before. He’s going to tear you apart.

“Are you scared? Because trust me, I’m going to make you ready. You’re going to beg me for it. Then you’ll come so hard with my cock in your ass, nothing else will ever feel as good.”

The hormones that suddenly surge through your body make arousal indistinguishable from panic. You should be so afraid, and yet, you want this. Under the fear, you’re still full of need, urgent, and emphatic.

“After that, if you’re lucky, then I’ll fuck your mouth.”

Shit! Shit, that’s…you try to banish away the shame washing over you. He’s going to claim your body in every way imaginable, use you filthy—and it feels like you shouldn’t want this. But you do.

“Don’t worry,” he sighs, voice sounding softer now, gentle. “I’m not going to rush this. First, I want to explore your beautiful body.”

You feel the cold Beskar plates against the backs of your thighs and shiver.

His hands slide outward along your shoulder blades, curving down and around just enough for his fingers to lightly brush the sides of your breasts. Then, the Mandalorian’s arms circle you, reaching up to grasp them in both hands. Arousal rekindles as he kneads and squeezes, pressing them together tightly. Igniting as he tugs and pinches.

And when your nipples are so tender you whine, “Mmmph!” he soothes them in his wide palms.

“You—are—so—beautiful,” he moans, kissing the curve of your jaw.

Behind you, his lips trail soft, open-mouth kisses down the back of your neck, between your shoulders, along your spine, and lower, until he drops to one knee. His hands trace over your ribcage, your sides, the indentation of your waist, and the flare of your hips.

The pads of his fingertips are coarse but tender.

“Look at you. Legs spread. Open and wet for me. When I dream of you, this is what I’ll see.”

Then he crouches between your knees to press lighter, softer kisses up the inside of your thighs, teasing you until you grow desperate with anticipation. “Haa!” you gasp, already panting.

Spirals of arousal coil through you, so dizzying you have to grip the whipcord for balance.

Soon, you’re lost to anything but the desire for him to taste you. That he’s risked so much by removing his helmet is the only thing keeping you from breaking position, regardless of the punishment. That’s how much you long to tilt your hips and rub yourself against his mouth.

Don’t speak unless you’re begging me for more. Would he like it if you begged?

“Please,” you whimper, voice full of desperation.

He groans in satisfaction before making one long sweep of his tongue, right through the very center of your urgent longing. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes!”

“I like hearing you beg.” Then his lips press firmly between your thighs, enfolding you in his warm, wet mouth.

Okay, wow, he’s good at this. He’s really, really good at this.

The Mandalorian’s tongue searches for your clit, stroking and circling in a rhythm that drags you back to the brink almost instantly. But slowly, agonizingly slowly, to hold you at the edge of pleasure—like he could do this, keep you suspended there—forever.

“Show me how much you want it,” he says, hot breath tickling against your delicate skin.

If you could bury your fingers in his hair, you would. Instead, you shift all of your weight onto one leg, using what remains of your equilibrium to drape the other over his shoulder, feeling the rough stubble of his beard and the shell of his ear press against the inside of your thigh.

Helping you balance, one strong hand grips you by the hipbone while the other slips over your knee before guiding his mouth between the sopping wet folds of your cunt.

You tense every muscle, digging your heel into his sinewy back to try to keep him there. Right there!

He rewards you by lapping faster—and then, when you cry out, speeding up even more. “Sing for me, senaar'ika.”

Every throb of pleasure ripples through your body from your nipples to your scalp, all the way down to your toes, until you can’t help yourself from rocking your hips, increasing the pressure just a little more. You feel each bob and turn of his head as he keeps at it, caressing you in spirals as a long, luscious wave of ecstasy swells inside you.

Mando’s fingers tighten around your thigh to hold you in place. He keeps going, maintaining his rhythm so that you can ride each cresting surge. It builds low, climbing and arcing higher, and when it finally overwhelms you, when you let go, and it rushes through you—you do sing. You cry out in one long wail that lasts the length and breadth of your climax.

Your body goes limp once the orgasm fades, and just like last time, the Mandalorian is the only source of strength to keep you upright. Hands clutching your hips, he pulls back to place a wet, sticky kiss low on your belly, then says, “We’re not done yet, little dove. Not nearly done yet.”

Gods in heaven, how much more of this can you take? You’d love nothing better than to sink to the floor in post-orgasmic bliss…but his cock is still in his pants.

Too afraid to look down, you feel his body shifting between your knees and wonder, what next? Should you offer to reciprocate? Fuck, you want to. Right now, you want him in your mouth so badly that it’s all you can do not to beg for it.

Your lips part, the words ready on your tongue—

When suddenly, he lifts you by the back of your thighs, settling you on top of his shoulders. You barely have time to gasp, to grip the braided cable between your hands—to think—before he buries his face between your thighs again.

“Oh, gods!” you gasp. “Oh, haah…!”

The tension in the whipcord keeps you from falling backward, but you feel precariously weightless sitting on his shoulders. Reeling, overstimulated from your last orgasm, you instinctively try to writhe away from the press of his wet tongue, his hot mouth, the coarse hair of his beard, and nearly lose your balance.

Mando steadies you, wrapping his arms around your lower back, ass braced against his thick biceps as he works, tongue parting the soft creases of your cunt to find your sore, throbbing clit.

This time, he holds nothing back, laving and shaking his head until your vision starts to blur; the pleasure is so intense it’s blinding.

Oh shit! Merciful gods, this might break you. It’s too much. Too much. But you can’t move. Caged in his arms, you have to take what he gives. It feels so good.

You don’t think it can get any better until he starts to suck. After that, you can’t think about anything anymore. Your mind is just blank. Static. White noise.

Fuck! You’re at the brink again—so fucking close—your heartbeat is thundering against your ribs. The muscles of your inner thighs lock, clenching around his jaw. Your body is poised right there. Right there! That exhilarating moment before—

And at that's when the Mandalorian slips a finger, slick with your come, inside your ass.

The sensation kindles alarm, and your entire body tenses in response. All your instincts awaken in primal fear to remind you just how vulnerable you are.

Okay! It's okay! Just relax.

In answer, his other hand begins sweeping up and down your thigh, caressing and soothing the tension away.

That’s right. You have to relax. He’s doing this for you, to make you ready. Right now, your pleasure is the only thing that matters. Focus on his tongue circling your clit, his finger gently caressing millions of tiny nerve endings.

But he slides up so seamlessly, so deep inside you, the pressure pools in your abdomen, and you gasp, “Oh, gods!” again.

Don’t resist the sensation—yield to it. Work with it. Take what you need.

Pulling on the whipcord for leverage, you thrust your hips against his mouth. He groans in encouragement, responding by sucking harder, licking faster—and then, spearing his tongue inside you.

Okay, yes. Yes! Gods, yes! You have never come so soon after your last orgasm, but he’s going to get you there.

That’s when he adds a second finger.

You feel it stretch you, but your body doesn’t resist this time. And when he starts working them back and forth in rhythm with the thrusting of his tongue, it starts to feel so good. So good.

Each rut of his tongue and stroke of his fingers sends heat coursing through you, so flushed now that your skin seems to be on fire. Your hair clings to your sweaty cheeks. But nothing is as hot as his breath between your thighs.

So you move faster, rubbing yourself against the raw stubble of his chin, the tip of his nose, drowning him in your cunt. All the while, he increases the pressure of his fingers just a little more, massaging inside you.

You start to shake, the muscles in your legs trembling, as the Mandalorian twists his hand, rolls his wrist, and you feel the brush of his knuckles against the tender skin of your asshole.

Then, he sucks your clit between his teeth, and you come in a burst of ecstasy so sharp it makes you scream. There’s a second when your vision goes entirely white—like staring into a bright sun—and your heart thumps so hard you hear the blood rushing in your ears.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your stomach.

His fingers gently slip out of you so he can grasp you by the ribcage with both hands, bracing you as you shudder through the ricocheting aftermath of your orgasm.

“You taste like heaven.”

He would know. His face, his hands, his neck, and shoulders are all covered in your come.

“I told you I’d take care of you,” Mando’s broad hands stroke the length of your back, and the sound of his voice melts away any lingering doubts. He knows when to be gentle and when to be rough. You can trust him with this.

When the bounty hunter ducks his head out from between your thighs, you think you’ll have to stand up again, get back into position. And you know you’ll be punished—but you can’t. You’re shaking too much for that.

It doesn’t matter. Your feet never touch the floor. Bending you at the waist, he slings you over one broad, muscular shoulder, so that you dangle limp and dizzy, upside down as he steps into a lunge to lift you both off the ground. Tearing your wrists free from the whipcord at last, your arms fall numbly behind him, blood rushing back into your digits.

Draped over his shoulder like a hunter’s prize, he strides across the cabin toward the bed.

Perhaps you’re delirious—you must be after three orgasms. Or maybe it’s because your fingers are so desperate to find new life. But when you look up (or is it down?) to see his perfectly sculpted ass outlined in dark gray canvas about a foot from your face…weak as you are, you can’t stop yourself from reaching for it. Your hand stretches lower until you feel its firm contours press satisfyingly against your palm. And gods help you, but you squeeze. Hard.

The Mandalorian chuckles, a deep booming laugh that has your knees jostling against his chest. You’re breaking from the submissive fantasy, but maybe he won’t—

“I knew you wanted it,” he laughs, voice full of triumph as—fingers splayed wide, he slaps his hand down over your ass cheek—the exact same spot as last time—so hard the sting brings tears to your eyes.

Fuck! Your jaw drops. The pain sharpens all of your senses, bringing everything into focus. Your thighs squeeze together, cunt clenching against the sensation. Fuck that stings. Right. He’s back in the role. Time to be rough.

“You’ve wanted my cock inside you since the moment I stepped through that door. Haven’t you?”

When he tosses you onto the bed, you fall onto the mattress, flat on your belly. But before you can get to your hands beneath you, he presses a knee down between your shoulder blades to keep you from moving.

“You want to beg me some more, senaar'ika?”

The silk belt of your robe slips over your eyes, and he lashes it tightly behind your head.

“Tell me!” he demands, like he’s making you confess to something.

“Yes,” you whisper into the sheets, words muffled by the bedding.

“Yes, what?”

“I want your cock.”

“Where?” he asks, and the sound of him tugging down his zipper fills your ears.

“In—inside me,” you gulp. “I want your cock inside me.”

You hear him tearing open the condom wrapper, “That’s right. Beg me to fuck you.”

“Please—”

Then he’s on top of you, hands pressing into the mattress on either side of your face, his knee lifting from your back to part your thighs, his massive weight pinning you underneath him.

Reaching between your naked bodies, he wraps a hand around the base of his shaft to rub the swollen head of his cock along the cleft of your ass, back and forth, slicking the entrance before he pushes inside you.

You cry out in shock.

So does he.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, that’s so tight! Haa, haa!”

Leaning forward, he places a soft kiss atop your head, pausing with just the first few inches of him inside, letting your body stretch to fit him.

“You okay?” he whispers quietly against your cheek, his face damp with sweat.

When you nod, he begins tracing his tongue over your earlobe, kissing your jaw and the corner of your mouth. His beard is still drenched with your come.

“This feels amazing,” his breath is hot in your ear. “Just this. You're gripping me so tight.”

You’re tempted to stop here, to say the safe word. And you trust Mando to stop; you know he would. That’s why he’s reminding you. And this does feel amazing, his body enfolding you, the rub of his bare skin over yours, the feeling of every firm muscle pressing into your soft curves—the pressure inside you.

But you want this. You want all of him.

“More,” you moan.

The aching burn is so intense as his enormous cock plunges deeper inside you—slowly, but without ceasing. “Oh fuck!” he gasps. “Fuuuuck, that feels so good. Almost, ha-aah…almost. It’s almost in.”

The burn as he opens you—the way the entire universe narrows to this bodily sensation, until you perceive nothing but its fantastic pressure—only anal sex does this for you. But its so hard to trust someone to be careful, to make you feel safe in spite of being so vulnerable and powerless. Mando does that.

“I’m going to start, haah…I’m going to start moving, okay?” he says, panting from arousal and restraint.

Adjusting his weight onto his elbows, he rolls his hips gently, strokes building. There’s so much lubricant on the condom; each shallow thrust is frictionless, but you’re still trembling like one of the strings of your valachord.

“Haah, you feel so good. So—nnngh—so fucking good!” Threading his fingers through your hair, his forehead drops against your neck, and the heat from each ragged breath spills over your shoulders. “Anngh!”

Then he starts fucking you in earnest. He pushes deeper now, pulling out further to feel the grip of your asshole squeeze up and down the length of his shaft. Already, you feel arousal peaking within you with each long, slow stroke.

Mando’s width and length stretches you, makes you burn. And you moan, fingers twining in the sheets as the pleasure becomes indistinguishable from the pain.

“You like this?” his voice is teasing again, getting back into the role.

“Mm-hmm,” you moan, unable to form words.

It’s like you can’t feel anything but him moving inside you, pleasure surging in ebbs and flows, like a tidal current. It’s hard to describe. The barrier between your cunt and anus is so thin you feel him everywhere. It burns, this inner blazing heat.

It’s a sweet agony, like the handprint on your ass, making everything tingle with sensitivity, amplifying every sensation. Even the pressure of the mattress against your clit is enough to send a thrill through you.

“Is this the biggest cock you’ve ever taken?”

You cry out in torment and desire as he shoves into you harder this time, and your whole body bends and turns in a desperate effort to accept every inch.

“Yes,” you want to sob into the mattress. It aches. It’s so fucking good you could scream.

“You’re taking it so good,” he whispers as he sinks in even deeper. “That’s it.”

And he’s finally all the way inside you now, so deep that when he starts thrusting, you feel the slap of his sac against the dip of your cunt. Each stroke presses you harder against the mattress—hitting you where it feels best inside and out.

And strong, so strong he pushes your body upward on the bed.

“I want to fuck you like this all night.” His voice is tight with strain—just barely holding on, waiting for you.

But he’s not moving fast enough for you to come.

“More,” you whimper into the damp folds of silk.

Mando pushes in again, burying himself balls-deep inside you before whispering against your shoulder, “What's that?”

You need more. “I need more…I need—”

“You worried I won’t fuck you hard enough?” he laughs, plunges in deep, and bites the soft flesh of your shoulder. It’s not enough to break the skin—but you cry out from the painfully sweet ache of it.

“Beg me, senaar'ika,” he says, sitting back on his heels, filling his lungs with each heaving breath. “Tell me what I want to hear.”

But this time, you don’t want to obey. You don’t want to say please. You want to find out exactly how hard the Mandalorian can give it to you. If you want to come with him, you need more, and you know how to get it.

You turn your head so he can see the jut of your chin, fill your voice with challenge and say, “Gods above, shut up and fuck—me—harder.”

The bounty hunter scoffs in shocked bemusement.

His arm hooks around your elbows, pinning them behind you, “You’ll regret that, little dove.”

Then he yanks back on your arms, pulling you off the bed, and against his chest. Your ass presses into the bowl of his hips, thighs sealed against his. His other hand slides up your stomach and between your breasts to clasp around your throat. A touch that means possession.

The Mandalorian owns you now, and he knows it.

Mando slams into you, and you want to cry out—but you stifle it somehow. You don’t want him to stop. You’re so wound up that tears well against your eyelids, dampening the blindfold. It scares you how much you want this. Gods help you, but you do. You fucking love it.

His thrusts remain slow at first. Deliberate. Punishing. Yes, punish me! His pelvis clashes against your buttocks like the snap of a paddle. But the tempo increases as he starts to get into it. Soon, he pumps into you so hard that it makes your breasts bounce, and your entire body starts to sweat. Your hair swings around your face, tendrils sticking to your neck, your flushed cheeks and forehead.

He never loosens his grip. Your shoulders start to ache from being pulled back so far—your throat throbs against his palm—and yet you want nothing more than the slap of his body, the feel of his cock filling you. It’s like he’s reaching to the core of your very being with every thrust.

Yes, you think, fuck me. Make me take it.

The bounty hunter’s hand tightens around your throat—unconsciously, you think—because of how close he is. Each ragged breath vibrates against your back. You can still breathe, but his grip keeps you dizzy and light-headed.

A sharp thrust, and your arousal climbs. Another, and it goes higher. Mando bucks and bucks, and the world behind your eyelids becomes bright and sparkly around the edges. Sensation shivers upward through you, strengthening by the moment.

The climax builds from somewhere deep inside you, and you sink into it with every thrust, slipping deeper into pure instinctive sensation, until it claims your whole body in white-hot ecstasy. When you come, the desperation in your wordless cries transforms into a feral scream as you fall forward, tumbling back onto the sheets when he releases you.

The silk feels so cool and smooth against your feverish cheeks.

“Haah, aah! I knew you’d love it,” he groans triumphantly. “Nnngh!”

But he’s almost at the brink himself—his body contracting, abdominals clenching. That’s when he pulls out, denying himself release.

The mattress dips and creeks as he climbs off you, and off the bed.

“I’m not done with you yet, senaar'ika.”

You hear the snap of latex when he removes the condom.

What next? You’re limp and dizzy, lying sprawled across the covers. Will he make me come so hard I pass out? Fuck me until I can't walk straight? You shouldn’t want that as much as you do, but complete surrender can feel so sweet.

“I can do this all night,” Mando pants.

Then, he lunges across the bed and grabs your ankles so tightly you feel the press of his thumb dig into your bones as he drags you down the mattress, until your legs dangle off the side. The tips of your toes brush against the floor.

“You thought you could push me?” His voice has lowered almost to a growl. “But that’s not how this works. You belong to me.”

He pushes your thighs apart roughly, then clutches your hair and tugs back hard enough to bring renewed tears to your eyes. Bent over the edge of the mattress like this in front of him, you feel his other hand seize you by the hip, and with that, he shoves the whole thick length of his cock inside you.

“Aaah!” you cry out as he starts thrusting faster. His fist in your hair tightens as he pumps into you, and already you know you’re going to come again. How is that even possible?

“That’s right,” he pants. “You know you have to take it, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

Yes, make me take it. Gods help you, but you fucking love it. There’s nothing you love more than the slap of his body, the feel of his cock. “Yes!”

"Because you're mine. Mine to fuck."

"Yours... I'm yours."

Mando fucks you so hard and so fast. Your ass would not have been able to take this. Shallow rapid thrusts until, growling, he rams his full length into you. Then he’s pumping inside you again and again. By now, the shame you think you should feel at being taken like this—held down by your hair and fucked with every ounce of strength in his body, every bit of force he can put into it—has been eclipsed by the pleasure surging within you.

Every single goddamned stroke of the Mandalorian’s cock sets you on fire. A wildfire so hot it consumes you, burns you down to nothing. You press your face into the mattress and feel the tears welling in your eyes spill down your cheeks, pooling against the sheets.

The only sounds in the cabin are his guttural grunts of pleasure and the slap of your bodies against each other. Just hearing it turns you on even more.

He’s moving faster now, and you’re nothing but heat. Pleasure tightens, blazing inside you.

Mando fucks you, and fucks you, and then you’re coming again, clenching around his cock. "Fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Holy shit...!"

"Mmmph, you like that, don't you?"

"Yes! Yes, please! Don't stop...please don't stop!"

"Haa-aah, I knew you'd beg me for it."

You come so hard that consciousness is nothing but white light, white noise. Your cry is muffled by the sheets and blankets, but you wail it out anyway, unable to hold back.

“Yes,” he whispers as he pistons even faster than before, his hand on your hip gripping tighter. “Fuck, yes—yes!”

The Mandalorian groans as he throbs inside you. He goes tense, makes an animal sound that seems to come from low in his belly, and slams into you one more time.

Then he’s pulling you off the bed and onto your knees. You feel his wet cock press against your face. "Be good for me," his voice is hardly more than a whisper, trembling with need. “Open your mouth.”

His fist in your hair doesn’t leave you much choice. You open, and Mando pushes inside. "You're going to swallow all of it."

It’s all you can do to take him in, to brace your palms against his thighs. You taste your come slick around his cock as it slides between your lips. He’s so huge that you can barely use your tongue, but you bob your head, doing your best as he thrusts, shallow and then deep.

The Mandalorian's grip takes control, sometimes pushing no more than the head of his cock into your mouth, and you suck, hallowing your cheeks—then shoving into your throat, making you choke and gag around him.

It doesn’t take long.

"Haa-aah! Aah!"

He shouts out, and then he comes, filling your mouth with each hot pulsing spurt. You swallow it down, every drop, the sensation of him throbbing between your lips, almost lost in the spasms of pleasure still echoing through you.

The Mandalorian pulls out then. The fingers buried in your hair release their grip. Pausing one long moment to regain his breath, he brushes the sweat-soaked hair from your cheeks.

“You have no idea how beautiful you look right now.”

Really? Blindfolded. Flushed and sweaty, legs tangled beneath you, slumped against the bed frame?

But the honest tenderness in his voice has you pressing a hand to your chest.

His cock is still half-hard, nuzzled against your cheek, and there’s a second when you’re tempted to pull him down to slide back onto it. But…you’ve reached your limits.

And the Mandalorian is in no better shape. You hear him collapse onto his knees beside you on the floor, crawling over on his hands and knees to reach for something. His helmet, maybe?

But it’s not his Beskar.

Gently, he drapes the soft folds of your robe over your shoulders and gathers you in his arms. He leans back, sitting propped against the bed, settling you onto his lap. You let your head fall against his chest and delight when he rests his chin atop your head.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you manage to form words. “Just give me a second. I’m…melting.”

That makes him chuckle, and for a while, you both stay like that, laughing, breathing hard, barely able to move.

“I wasn’t too rough?”

“No! No, you were perfect. I loved it. It’s like—like you read my mind from that night we met. It was everything I wanted. You took such good care of me.”

His voice remains concerned. “But you’re shaking all over?” and his arms wrap tighter around you.

“It was just so intense.”

“Here,” he says pressing a cup of tea into your hands, then lifting it to your lips when your fingers tremble too much to grip it tight enough. Fatherhood has softened him.

“Are you?” you ask timidly.

“Am I what?”

“Are you okay?” You feel strangely shy in front of a man who just fucked you senseless. “I mean, was it okay that I asked you to do this? Are you okay with being—with what we did?”

“It was amazing,” he sighs, kissing your temple.

But that doesn’t really answer your question.

Honestly, this is the part you were most afraid of…that it would change everything. That no matter how good the sex had or hadn’t been, you thought, afterward, he’d lose respect for you, and it wouldn’t be worth it.

You don’t want his judgment or pity for needing this.

But there's no contempt in his voice. He doesn’t sound righteous. Or cold, or callous. And he doesn’t seem intent on sneaking out to leave you alone in regret.

“Before, I was worried that I might hurt you…and that was hard to balance against my instinct to protect you," the Mandalorian says thoughtfully. "But you made more than enough noise to let me know how much you enjoyed it.”

“Oh gods,” you laugh, clapping a hand over your mouth, absolutely mortified.

“That was the best part,” Mando lifts your hand from your face, tilting your chin up to kiss your nose, then your lips, not shying away like some men do, after they've come in your mouth. So you part your lips and feel the brush of his tongue against yours. His fingers wrap around your neck, deepening the kiss, and pulling you closer.

It’s not the unbridled passion from before–it’s tenderness and longing. Two lonely hearts finding shelter in a precious moment of fragile intimacy.

“I was just surprised, given…”

“Some of my clients never touch me. Some have hurt me—said horrific things. Most are rich businessmen,” you shrug. “Nervous about cheating on their wives. Regardless—given what they pay, they all expect a performance...

So it’s nice to let someone else put in the work,” your lips tug into a sly grin. “Seriously, five times? And your dom talk is shockingly good! The growling is very hot!” Guess it's true what they say about the quiet ones. "Now I get why Anassa keeps offering you a job."

"She told you that?" He scoffs.

"Hmm, she likes to tease me about having a crush on the Mandalorian."

Nestled into the crook of his arm, you feel the rumble of renewed laughter building in his chest.

"She told me I could keep the armor on."

You reach a hand behind you to stroke his jaw and bury your fingers in his hair. "I'm glad you didn't."

Mando's head turns in your grasp to place a soft kiss against your palm.

“And you don’t think differently of me for…wanting this?”

"I know the difference between fantasy and reality," then he leans forward to stroke your earlobe with the tip of his nose. "And I bet I could make you scream just as loud, taking you soft and sweet."

Now why does that make you blush redder than your slapped ass?

“Maybe next time, we can switch roles. Then I’ll understand better why you like it.”

Next time? You love that! He’s already thinking about the future.

Your brow arches, “Maybe I'll tie you up—borrow one of Katlin's whips to smack that tight ass of yours.”

“Oh, yeah?”

There are no words for the wicked anticipation in Mando’s voice.

Next time...

****************

Read Part 2!!!

Thanks for reading

#mando smut #din djarin smut #the mandalorian smut #star wars smut #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #mando x reader #mando x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #the mandalorian x reader #mandalorian smut

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rhysdarbinizedarby · 1 year ago

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We open on sexy swashbuckling STEDE then very quickly we see the reality of STEDE working at Spanish Jackie’s for a place to sleep. We made his dashing sash from a gorgeous brocade fabric with brass fringe detail. If you look closely at his Maitre de look you’ll notice his neckerchief is made of the very same brocade and fringe but broken down to buggary! STEDES sexy pirate shirt was reminiscent of a mills and boon cover. I made sure to incorporate sashes and ties and collars that could billow romantically in the wind. @annadeacon76 cut the most perfect blouse pattern for @rhysiedarby that hit all the romantic notes. I’ll discuss his towel boy look shortly and the inspiration behind Captain Zhengs crew (read here)

Source: Gypsy Tailor on instagram

#rhys darby #ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd s2 spoilers #ofmd bts #behind the scenes #costume #romantic stede #maitre stede #towel boy

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ourflagmeansbts · 11 months ago

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Source (Season 2 - October 7th 2023)

gypsytaylor: STEDE COSTUME DETAILS.. We open on sexy swashbuckling STEDE then very quickly we see the reality of STEDE working at Spanish Jackie’s for a place to sleep. We made his dashing sash from a gorgeous brocade fabric with brass fringe detail. If you look closely at his Maitre de look you’ll notice his neckerchief is made of the very same brocade and fringe but broken down to buggary! STEDES sexy pirate shirt was reminiscent of a mills and boon cover. I made sure to incorporate sashes and ties and collars that could billow romantically in the wind. @annadeacon76 cut the most perfect blouse pattern for @rhysiedarby that hit all the romantic notes. I’ll discuss his towel boy look shortly and the inspiration behind Captain Zhengs crew

#ofmd #ofmd bts #our flag means death bts #our flag means death #s2 #costume #gypsytaylor #2023

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jaynovz · 9 months ago

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Hey y'all could you help me out with something--

Various examples:

[image description: Three photos of different styles of double-breasted jacket. The first is a U.S. Navy Admiral uniform, the second is a military marching jacket with shoulders and rope brocade, the third is Anne Hathaway from Twelfth Night in a gentleman's garb. /End desc]

#polls #Tumblr polls #costuming #thoughts #double-breasted jackets

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pretty-dianxia · 2 years ago

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ULTIMATE TGCF SEXYMAN

MEET THE PARTICIPANTS!!

Venerable of empty words (amorphous eldritch, good with dirty talk, the perfect company for the monster fuckers.)

Heaven's eye (likes outdoor activities, very spiritual, reads a lot, a leader and an extrovert, perfect man for the CEO AU lovers.)

Chicken soup man (he hot, he sexy, he buff, and he a good cook.)

Ke Mo (troubled man, dark backstory, he just wants to avenge his friends, he is persistent and clingy af.)

Bai Jing - Brocade Immortal (the jealous type, a himbo, strong and protective, great style, his biggest turn on is nerdy talk.)

#天官赐福 #heaven official's blessing #tian guan ci fu #tgcf #venerable of empty words #heaven's eye #chicken soup man #ke mo #brocade immortal #bai jing #hualian

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terrible-eel · 1 year ago

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"Astarion and Gale finally have a chance to have some time alone together and figure out a few sexy work-arounds to Astarion's touch repulsion"

Because I've been completely obsessed with bloodweave recently I thought I might as well get some of their cursed romance out of my head. I think I might turn this into a longer thing eventually.

Astarion walked down a small trail behind the encampment. The moon pierced the forest canopy, cascading over the dewy grass. He smiled to himself, watching it move gently in the wind.

“It looks like puddles of moonlight,” he thought fondly, stepping through the pale blue ripples, feeling the icy dew soak into his clothes.

The air out in the wilderness made him feel light and peaceful again. There was a rightness in the underbrush and little rivers that he would scarcely allow himself to feel in the company of others, but on the way to Gale's tent he was content with a solitary embrace of what the night had to offer… Which made approaching the tent all the more solemn.

Astarion began to roll the sleeves of his tunic shirt absently as he thought, an age old tell of his nerves.

He and Gale had been exchanging glances and small flirtations where they could manage as their camp grew larger with refugees. Neither of them felt comfortable letting any of their companions know of their affairs, sexual or otherwise, and it had left them exchanging letters and subtle conversations during the rare moments when they could find each other.

Fortunately, forming a more permanent settlement while they waited out the conflicts had allowed them the opportunity to meet up again. Gale had taken his tent far into the woods, using some excuse or another. Nobody paid him any mind, just as they paid Astarion no mind as he made his way out into the forest "for a hunt."

"Gale? It's me!" Astarion called from a few paces away.

Gale threw open the flap of his tent quickly upon hearing Astarion's voice.

Astarion’s heart skipped a beat, shock clear on his face. He quickly forced his jaw to shut but still stared with brows raised at Gale.

Astarion felt so underdressed for the occasion in his jodhpurs and old tunic. He didn’t even consider fastening a belt this time, but Gale was carrying himself beautifully in a fitted top he had never seen before. It was a deep enchanting purple, almost black, and though it was a long sleeved garment, there were expertly tailored openings revealing his collarbones and shoulders. Gale’s olive skin in the firelight was almost more than Astarion could take, but he made himself absorb the rest. Around his neck hung a long silver chain and turquoise pendant, which allowed his eyes to trail down to his pants. Beautiful purple brocade ran up the sides of the black fabric. He also took note that he was barefoot.

“Well, the least I can do is take my boots off before entering,” Astarion thought in embarrassment.

“Come in, Astarion,” Gale said with a knowing smirk, inviting the vampire in.

“You look lovely,” said Astarion, glancing up as he pulled his boots off, hoping Gale didn’t notice his shame.

“I’m glad you think so, I’ve been meaning to show these garments to you, I figured you may be interested in their design.” Gale boasted, clearly proud of himself for drawing such a reaction from Astarion.

Astarion smirked. “Well I’m clearly interested in the form they’re designed for.” To that Gale turned quickly away, moving further into the tent.

It was a modest thing from the outside, but Astarion was just as taken aback as usual when he walked in. It was much bigger on the inside, giving the appearance of a private study. Bookshelves lined the walls between things in jars and bottles. Astarion barely understood most of it, but he was familiar with a few things here and there. Of course there was a desk and a million half written papers thrown about, but in the middle of the room was a comfortable sitting area with large ornate pillows and furs over beautifully woven woolen rugs to keep the cold out.

The bed lay unattended in the corner. Astarion half wondered when Gale ever actually slept before a bone chilling sensation encompassed his body. Gale had taken him in his arms. The scratching of his beard felt like spiders. The light touch on his back burned like ice water.

And then the kiss. At first it warmed him to the other feelings. Astarion allowed himself to settle into the entanglement, trying to ignore the shivers like nails scraping against iron. Gale's mouth was warm and welcoming. Astarion tried to remind himself of how much he wanted it. How many weeks he had spent crafting letters of what he hoped they would do together; about their plans after their return to Baldur's Gate. He had even been so bold as to suggest they stay together in Gale's home in Waterdeep.

Astarion was desperate for a life where an embrace from Gale meant something romantic. He wanted the sunlight to rouse both of them from their dreams and to be able to cuddle into his shoulder as dawn sang sweet birdsongs.

"Why can't it just be like that now?" Astarion lamented as something crept into his mind. Books. Shelves like Cazador's. His study. Cazador taking notes. Astarion lay bound and watching him from a table-

Astarion pulled away quickly. Gale didn't try to hold him as he left his embrace. Gale had watched Astarion lose himself before and responded immediately with a loud distraction, hoping to pull him back to the present.

"Astarion! Let's start over, alright? You step outside now." Gale ushered Astarion back out of the tent.

The sudden feeling of icy dew on his bare feet and the soft smell of pine trees began to bring Astarion back to his senses. Gale hurried away and returned with two cups of hot chocolate he seemed to have had sitting for a while.

“He must have prepared that for me,” Astarion thought with a flutter in his chest that he prayed would not turn to guilt.

Gale swung one flap of the tent up and stood at the threshold.

"Let's start over, " he said again brightly. "Hello Astarion! Welcome to my room. I've made a drink for you- oh hells how long has it been cold- '' A purple glow came from his hand and the drink began to steam. "No matter, there you are." He placed the cup in Astarion's hand. The warm ceramic had grooves pressed in by some potter’s hand. Astarion began to trace the marks, feeling a sense of calm at the gentleness of the handcrafted object.

Astarion loved to watch Gale be charming. Perhaps the wizard didn’t know it, but whenever he began to show even a hint of what was on his mind, Astarion was charmed.

"Now, my dear, would you like to come in? I've added a little space since it will be the two of us. I wasn't sure if you would want your drink sweet, but I took the liberty of guessing you would. You do seem to have a sweet tooth."

Astarion finally smiled. "You're not wrong in that," he said, tasting the drink. "Oh, this is quite good. You really shouldn't have, sweetheart. Too many nice things and I might think you're flirting with me."

Gale smiled back with all the warmth he could manage. "There he is. Gods, I really need to stop approaching him so aggressively," Gale silently berated himself before speaking out loud:

"Well we couldn't have that now, could we. I suppose these biscuits I picked up at the market will be much too sweet and suggestive then. I will have to have them for myself," Gale said, opening his palm and pulling a small ginger jar to himself with his magic. Astarion intercepted it and tucked the jar under his arm, forcing Gale to release his hold before the thing shot out of Astarion’s grasp.

"No way you're retracting your sweets from me," Astarion chided, flopping down on Gale's many pillows. "I'll be eating all of them myself now," he said, making a valiant effort to do so.

Gale took a seat next to him. "Fine, I surrender. It's more fun watching you eat them anyway... I do love to see you satisfied."

Astarion lounged on his side and propped himself up on an elbow enough to look up at Gale. "I'm sorry for my behavior. It's just one of those days, it seems."

Inwardly, Astarion lamented. "I don't deserve someone so gentle. Look at him. I need to get myself under control. This is what he's been waiting for. I can't go back on every promise I've made. I need to stop behaving like a ridiculous child.-"

Astarion was pulled from his thoughts by Gale's gentle fingers running through his hair. His big warm hand was such a surprising and wonderful sensation. He leaned into the touch as he drank his cocoa.

"I'm so thankful I can see him happy like this," Gale thought, watching the man's expression soften as he settled down. "This is how I always want to see him. Just content and smiling. Maybe I'm going insane, focusing so hard on another's happiness again, but it feels different this time, I think. Astarion has been thinking of me as well. His little handmade gifts. His tending to my affliction. Rage towards our enemies as he comes to my aid... No. I know he's different." Gale wondered at Astarion as he leaned down to place a kiss on his forehead.

To Astarion these things finally felt right, but he knew that they would only go on for so long before the expectations would arise. He leaned onto Gale's lap, hoping to savor the affection before everything went sour.

"How would you like to have me," Astarion blurted out before he could catch himself.

"I'm sorry?" Gale asked, pulling his hand away.

"We had talked about this, why did I have to say that-"

"Remember we had-" Gale began.

Astarion sat up to face Gale directly.

"Talked about that, yes, I recall. I'm sorry. Look, frankly this is a situation we have both been anticipating, and with that anticipation there must be some expectation, no?" Astarion’s voice broke. He sounded more meek than he liked.

Gale pondered for a moment before responding: "Hm. I suppose… perhaps there is a bit too much of that. I myself am finding it difficult to know whether I'm going to be satisfactory for you. I had offered you the option to fuck me again in that letter…" Gale hesitated, and Astarion reached out and placed a hand over his, maintaining a reassuring grip until the man was able to continue. "Truth be told, you're the only man I had ever allowed to bed me at all, let alone in that way. I have no real reference with which to compare my own performance, I fear I am likely inadequate."

"Oh love, no, there's nothing to compare. I'm here because what I feel for you makes everyone else irrelevant to me." Astarion placed his cup and jar of sweets down on the floor and began to stand, bringing Gale to his feet along with him. He guided Gale into his arms, holding his left hand in his right, and pressed his body to Gale’s, swaying a little as if dancing with the man.

Astarion continued, “Let's just be here together now, in each other's arms, free of expectations," he whispered, feeling Gale lean into his shoulder. "You're wonderful in bed, but more than that, you're my treasure. You're who I want to spend my days with, as well as my nights. That's by far more important. I want nothing more from you than your love."

Gale's shoulders tensed and his face began to feel very hot on Astarion's collarbone. It was rare for Gale to become shy about anything, but Astarion was managing to find more and more ways to elicit the response recently. Together they tiptoed around the concept of love as they danced in silence.

"Alright. No expectations." Said Gale as he wrapped his arm around Astarion. "You have such a small waist. It just fits so perfectly in my hand."

"Hmm, perhaps it was made for your hand then," Astarion purred into his ear. "To hold, to caress, to scratch as I am inside you..."

Astarion could feel Gale's hand curling around the fabric of his shirt as Gale hid his face again. This time Astarion peeked down to see Gale's olive skin turning a deep crimson.

Astarion carried on, "There's my blush. Does my mage wish to feel me again?"

Gale's breath hitched in his throat, a delicious sound to Astarion. He had to have a taste of those lips. This time Gale's mouth tasted like chocolate. Warm and soft, his tongue coaxing Astarion for his kiss to go deeper, Astarion gladly moved in, eliciting a moan from Gale that made Astarion's body tense with arousal.

Gale's hand traced up Astarion's back and he felt that cold shivering malice run through him again. Slime like a snail's trail. Icy, dripping liquid. It was beginning to feel awful again. Slowly, Astarion began to pull away once more, taking a few steps back.

"What is it? You can tell me. Is it something I did?" Gale's voice was purely concerned. Astarion could tell consciously that he didn't want to hurt him, but the feeling was impossible to explain.

"It's not you, it's just…" Astarion looked down at the ground, hating that he couldn't bear to look Gale in the eye. He knew how pathetic he must have looked, but the idea of facing Gale was an even worse prospect than whatever the man thought of him at that point.

"It's just that tonight isn't really working for me…" Darling was usually the rest of his sentence, when these kinds of things came up; some flirtation to ease the tension, something to mask his worries a little, but all of that was gone. All that remained was hesitation and too much fear.

Gale felt an ache in his heart as he watched Astarion pull away. He hated to see that enchanting confidence be swallowed up by an anguish someone else had put there. Gale approached Astarion, reaching out and quickly drawing away when he saw the elf curl into himself.

"That's absolutely fine, Astarion. Another time, perhaps?" Gale took a step to the side where Astarion was staring off to, trying to at least meet Astarion's eyes.

"If he can see my sincerity, perhaps he would at least take comfort in the fact that everything is alright at the moment." Gale thought hopefully.

Astarion flashed him a glance through his lashes. When he saw Gale's worried expression, he turned on his heels, running both hands through his own hair in exasperation.

"Agh it's nothing so serious, it's not that I'm truly uninterested! Gods, I'd happily be fucking you right now! It's just the idea of sensation; the pressure of bodies is repulsing me, and of course it's happening now of all times! Right when we finally have time alone together, after so long. And then there's the hunger, I haven't fed properly in two days! This unpleasant mess-" Gale cut him off before he could continue.

"Might I interject with a solution -what you're going through is a relatable experience, if I'm being completely honest. It's not something I am taking lightly, I assure you. I may know at least a little of what touch repulsion may mean to you, is what I mean to say-"

Gale's voice, the notes of confidence and comfort, filled Astarion's ears like the low hum of a song. He could feel his jaw relax and his shoulders drop. Gale continued.

"There were points where an overabundance of affection from my goddess would become too much. Whenever I had experienced these awful, skin-crawling sensations, nothing my lover could do was a comfort to me. Contact was simply unbearable. And I believed that was that. That I was this untouchable, unlovable mess. To think I would be useless to her as a lover filled me with dread- well it didn’t help that she berated me for my performance issues, but it wasn’t that I was uninterested. It was just too much and too often. And the expectations she had for my performance…well perhaps her expectations were uniquely high as well. The more time I spend with you the more I understand the amount she would take from me while giving nothing in return."

Gale's words struck Astarion.

"So he truly does understand. He has nothing to gain by telling me this point of weakness…then why? Is he simply attempting to comfort me?" Astarion turned away from Gale and smiled. "He's too soft. The fool. So much more tender than he should be."

But the thought of intimacy; the thought that someone would want to share so much vulnerability with him just so he felt less alone in his needs, soothed his anxieties almost instantly. A blush rose in Astarion’s cheeks. Meanwhile, Gale had continued.

"However, there are very simple ways around things so pedestrian as physical contact with a body- that is, if you're still interested in something sexual, we needn't-"

This time it was Astarion's turn to interrupt.

He turned back to face Gale, this time locking eyes with hungry intensity. He wanted to savor Gale's next words. "I'm all ears," Astarion said in a low voice.

The sultry tone caught Gale off guard.

"Fuck. Don't give me that look," Gale thought as he felt a wave of arousal run down his abdomen.

Astarion could see more color rush to Gale's cheeks, a blush deepening over the human's neck. His heartbeat quickened in Astarion's ears, his scent filled his nostrils.

Gale struggled to keep his composure as a predatory shift overtook Astarion. As attractive as the idea of being taken by Astarion's instincts was in theory, he knew that Astarion had no true desire for intimacy past his vampiric needs, so he continued.

"Just because I can't touch you, doesn't mean I can't give you pleasure," Gale said with an eyebrow raised. Astarion bowed his head, peeking up hungrily. The posture of a beast on the prowl… And Gale could sense he had just become the prey.

"Is that so…" Astarion asked, taking a step towards Gale, who swallowed hard, attempting to move past the erotic focus Astarion had on him. "Then show me what you have in mind."

Another step and they were only a foot apart. Gale wanted to reach out and kiss him, to comfort him with touch, but he only smiled and kept his hands at his sides.

"Are you sure you want this?" Gale asked, searching Astarion's face for an honest answer. A smile crept up the corner of the elf's mouth and he raised his brow as if to suggest he continue.

"Then get on your knees." Gale instructed with more authority than Astarion thought he had in him. Astarion obeyed, curious where this would go.

"My abilities are not to be overlooked. Behold-" Gale raised his right hand, bending it at the elbow, pointing two fingers up and twisting his wrist to the side. A glowing purple ribbon fluttered into existence. Astarion watched the thing wrap itself gently around his wrists.

"Why is everything he does so beautiful?" Astarion thought as he let the ribbons draw his arms gently behind his back until he was secured in comfort.

Before he could think further, a sensation of pure pleasure ran up his arms, tingling and exciting but not overwhelming. It was enough for a soft moan to escape his lips. Then another stroke of pleasure, this time stronger, pulsing down to his groin so fast he thrust his head back in a gasp, and there he saw that Gale was standing directly over him now.

"This is better than I expected." Gale thought, admiring Astarion's body, watching how his heavy breaths escaped moist lips. Astarion was his now, finally, after so many nights of laying awake knowing that he was off with someone else, knowing that he was feeding on someone else's blood... No. Not this time. Now it was he who would be available for Astarion.

"I'm the one who's going to provide for you. I'll be the one who sustains you and makes you feel like this, more than anyone else. I’ve waited my turn."

As he spoke, the waves of pleasure grew in intensity. It was better than the touch of light fingernails on Astarion's skin, it was as if he was made of nothing but liquid pleasure. Gale was inside of every nerve in his body. Gale was going to take him over completely.

Astarion couldn't help but let his back arch, couldn't stop himself from gasping, couldn't stop the tight confinement of his erection pressing hard against his pants. Gale's words felt like they were burrowing down inside of him, erotic for their content but also hypnotic, like a spell was being sung into his heart. But it wasn't mind control. This was something so much more gentle. It was as if Gale was somehow cradling his joints, caressing his lungs, nurturing this feeling of pleasure; enveloping him in something Astarion could only guess was love.

"I'll be the one coursing through your veins from now on." Gale said as that magnetic hypnotism only increased in Astarion. Gale reached for the knife at his side and sliced a deep cut down his palm, spilling his blood onto Astarion's face. It dripped down his cheek and pooled between his lips.

At first Astarion recoiled, expecting the burning acrid taste to make him retch, but somehow, past the initial sour taste, past the burning in his heart as he swallowed, there was something sweet. Something like a fresh plum, just picked from its tree. He had never been so aroused from blood. His eyes rolled back for a moment and then he shut them hard. The blood kept coming.

The drops were like rain falling down inside of him, coating his throat, suffocating him. His head rattled like thunder. Shadows and rainstorms and dark fields. He lapped at the dripping wound. His tongue thrusted out, seeking the cut. It felt like he was finally satiated after starving for years. He drank and moaned and allowed the blood to pool down his face. It was the dripping caress of a lost lover; the answer to some divine mystery he had contemplated for that year in the dark.

He licked at Gale's hand until the ache in his pants was too much.

Astarion finally opened his eyes to see Gale's expression. The man was looking down at him with brows knit, the soft sheen of sweat at his temples, his mouth ever so slightly open. Astarion had to give him a teasing smile.

"Will you be the one to provide me some more now? Will you satisfy me?" Astarion nipped gently at Gale's pinky. "Will you fill me up like this every night?"

"Fuck, Astarion," Gale said in a low voice, biting down on his lower lip.

With his free hand repeating the same waving gesture, Astarion could feel the strings of his pants be undone. His nakedness instantly met with an unexpected wave of pleasure like something was running from the tip down the entire shaft, drawing out thrusts from Astarion as invisible motions pumped him at a tantalizingly slow speed. Gale raised his bleeding hand and squeezed more onto Astarion's face as he arched into his thrusts.

"That's it. Let me take you completely," Gale breathed as he watched Astarion's eyes widen.

He looked like he was begging for more, and with each plea, Gale quickened the pace, feeling his magic inside Astarion, pressing hard into his prostate until his moans became gasps. The feeling was dizzying but Gale began to support Astarion, commanding his magic to hold the elf up as he played with his body.

Astarion could feel this invisible force pressing into him, wrapping tightly around his thighs and neck, gliding down his body lightly enough to make him squirm. He shivered in pleasure. Astarion could barely lick his lips as the blood spilled down his throat. His moans were almost inaudible whimpers.

Gale’s voice was breathy with desire as he spoke. "Gods, you are impossibly beautiful,” he said, savoring the way Astarion's whole body began shaking as the sensations became unbearably intense.

“Now, come for me.” Gale’s voice filled Astarion’s mind until he felt himself lose control. With a sharp breath hitched in his throat, Astarion began to come as commanded, and the force that held him pushed the orgasm further and further until Astarion finally let out a gasp and his body relaxed, spent and exhausted.

Gale lowered him down gently so he could sit on his knees, still shaking, breathing heavy. The ribbon that bound him still gave him light pulses of pleasure.

Astarion didn't want the ribbons off yet. To be held by something so pure was blissful. It was Gale's intent, wrapped in his hands. He gripped the ribbons hard and looked up at Gale again.

“Take off your clothes,” Astarion said hungerly.

“Are you sure? But you had said-” Gale was cut off by Astarion’s voice, dripping with lust. “I said take them off. I want to feel your cock down my throat.”

“Are you sure?” Gale repeated with some hesitation.

“Darling, I’ve never been more sure of anything.” Astarion waited on his knees, pants down at his ankles, Gale’s blood beginning to crust along his neck. He was exactly where he wanted to be. The warmth of Gale’s blood was bringing him clarity like he had never imagined. There was nothing in the world but this room and this man in front of him, who’s muscles moved under soft skin, who’s arms rose above his head as he removed his shirt, whose pants came down tantalizingly slowly as he undid small knots at his hips, revealing a full and beautiful erection.

“Now come here, my doll, you can touch me now. I want to feel your hands as I take you.”

Gale looked away in shame. His modesty only served to attract Astarion further to him. He could feel his own dick begin to harden as he watched the crimson blush rise in Gale’s exposed chest. Gale reached out a hand and brushed Astarion’s bloody, sweaty hair from his face. He took Astarion’s cheeks lightly in his hands.

The two men held each other’s gaze for a moment. Both could feel their stomachs flutter with anticipation.

“Oh gods he’s perfect. I can’t be without him. I need him,” Astarion thought in wonder.

“How can this be happening? I’ve never needed someone so badly in my life. I need to be with him,” Gale thought with adoration.

Astarion slowly opened his mouth and leaned forward. Gale gently moved Astarion’s head, guiding his dick straight into the elf’s mouth, and then pulling back a little again, slowly back and forth, coaxing a moan from deep in Astarion’s throat. The sensation made Gale shiver.

Astarion moved down the shaft, taking him even deeper until Gale could feel the back of his throat. Gale’s hands gripped hard in Astarion’s hair as Astarion began lightly sucking and licking. Gale began to lose more and more control, soft moans escaped his lips which he threw a hand up to silence, but the grip in Astarion’s hair only tightened as he felt Astarion begin to lick at the base and back up to the tip, lapping at the precum he couldn’t repress. And again Astarion took him in his mouth, this time almost completely.

“Wait, I don’t want to choke you-” Gale breathed. He could feel Astarion’s mouth curl into a smile around him.

Astarion pulled away for a moment to say “my love, I don’t need to breathe. I’m dead.”

“Ah-but-” Before Gale could protest, Astarion’s mouth slid quickly around him again, this time even further. Gale watched Astarions eyes begin to tear up as his throat was impossibly filled. He could hear Astarion’s moans, feel Astarion choking, yet he continued that sucking pressure, moving even deeper. Gale couldn’t help it, he took Astarion’s head in both hands and began to thrust into him. The deeper he went, the harder he thrusted, the harder the moans from Astarion.

“Ah! Fuck! The sounds you make!” Gale exclaimed over the choking sounds of Astarion around his cock.

Gale pressed even harder, until all Astarion could do was whimper. That was enough to send Gale over the edge. He shuddered, letting himself thrust deep into Astarion’s throat, filling the elf’s mouth with cum. Astarion continued to suck through his orgasm, finally opening his mouth to release him, gasping as he tried to breathe through the cum that had begun to leak from his nose and throat.

“Gods! I’m sorry!” Gale cried as he released the ribbon tying Astarion's wrists and summoned a handkerchief which Astarion gladly took. Gale leaned down, trying to hold Astarion’s shoulders, but Astarion waved him off as he cleared his airways.

“Are you alright? What have I -” A sharp laugh cut through Gale’s fretting.

“Hush, Gale! Hah, you’re ridiculous.” Astarion giggled between coughs.

“That was fun for me, see?” Astarion gestured casually to the cum running down his leg. “It only took having you in my mouth to make me finish again. You have no idea what that does to me.” The deep purr of his voice made another shiver run through Gale.

“Can I please hold you, Astarion?” Gale asked.

“Yes you may, my love.” Astarion replied with a chuckle.

Astarion found himself in Gales' embrace faster than he anticipated. It was a fierce hug that held more passion than he was expecting. "I'm sorry. I was afraid I went too far." Gale mumbled into his neck. Astarion softened at the kindness, slowly allowing himself to return the embrace.

Astarion wiggled loose to look at Gale, who wore an expression of uncertainty, so he offered a reassuring smile. "Gods," Astarion complained with mock drama. "I feel I must have woken the whole forest, let alone the camp." Gale smiled back at that. They both couldn't help but laugh.

"I think we're fine. I have enough paranoia to put a little soundproofing around us," Gale said as lightly as he could.

A blush was returning to Gale’s cheeks. His bashful demeanor made Astarion's chest ache with adoration.

Gale asked with some hesitation: "What did you think? Did you like it?"

Astarion blinked. Beyond the surprise, there was this tender bubbling in his chest which he didn’t anticipate. “He’s too soft,” Astarion thought. But his judgment was gone, replaced with a deep admiration for the man’s kindness.

Astarion let his expression soften. He let that feeling wash over him; let the affection show through his eyes. More than anything he wanted Gale to know what he meant to him.

“You’ve done something for me like no one else has, Gale. You’ve seen me. Of course it was uniquely amazing, but more than that, you knew just who I was going in, and you chose to do that. More than satisfied, I’d say I’m charmed. I’ve never known anyone like you.” Astarion placed a hand on Gale’s cheek as the man's eyes widened a little at his words. “I think this is the first time I’m actually in love.”

Gale wrapped Astarion in his arms and tightly squeezed until Astarion collapsed helplessly, unsure what exactly it meant, until into Astarion’s hair he heard Gale whisper: “I love you too.”

#bloodweave #Astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #bg3 gale #Bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #gale x astarion #gale/astarion #bg3 fic #bloodweave fic

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bethanysnow · 2 years ago

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Three in Company

Joseph Quinn X Reader X Jamie Campbell Bower

Slow Burn! Minors DUI, (Y/A = your age) (F/A = Future age)

TAGS: @etherealglimmer @munsonslilbunnie @depressedstressedlemonzest @munsonmoonshine86

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“Your Majesty we’ve come to discuss a very important matter- oh take your legs off the arm of the throne! A lady sits properly” The tall blond scolds the young lady sitting in front of him.

“No- Bower I will not adjust how I sit to please you. No one else is here” Motioning to the basically empty room. Besides some servants who scurry about in corners of the room it is just her and the Chamberlain after all. “What matter is so important you must interrupt me and my grape eating” Lifting a bowl of grapes off her stomach to show him. Her eyes gave way that she was amused and teasing her poor Chamberlain was a loved pastime.

“We have to talk about the men who you could marry. This is of great importance I assure you-” Taking the deepest bow “-Your Majesty~” Looking up at her with a wink. She laughs and motions for a servant to bring up a chair.

“Go on then,” motioning him to sit next to her.

“Very well,-” Stamping the end of his cane onto the marble floor the doors open at the end of the great hall. Men in festive court attire walk forward with portraits of varying sizes and one with a cart filled with boxes.

“What’s that?” Pointing to the cart, piled a mile high with boxes and bags and things in pretty packaging making the Queen’s eyes sparkle.

“Some of the gentlemen with their portraits have sent you gifts, my lady. Onward!” Stamping his cane twice as the men unveil the first portrait.

The men in the portraits all seemed rather dull, some were too old and not in the sexy silver fox way, but in the ‘this is your uncle’ way. Some were literal children.

Till they got to one…

“Who is this?” She asks looking at the next portrait as the fabric is tossed away.

“Joseph Quinn, Duke of France, he actually is English, cousins with some Prince but was given that title by Henry the IV. He has sent with him…mmh” Looking over his paper with all the names and correlating packages. “Nothing- just the portrait”

The Queen getting up from the throne steps down the stairs and up to the portrait. Looking very closely at the figure in the painting. Taking in his appearance. Curly brown hair, soft eyes, oval face, he isn’t some striking beauty with a jawline and cheekbones and angular expressions. In a blue and white brocade suit, a slight smile, crinkles around the eyes that make it seem genuine. Like he was proud to get his portrait taken. The signature of the artist says that while not some well known name the artist did a very good job at capturing his likeness. While some are covering up their blemishes and imperfections, it didn’t seem like that with this gentleman. He stood tall and present in the frame, a hand resting on the back of a chair and the other on the hilt of a sword. He seemed lovely.

“Do you know him?” her majesty asks, turning to face the chamberlain.

“No, but I’ve heard stories, he fought alongside the French in fact saved the King’s life from an assassination, he is a diplomat, quiet fellow, haven’t heard anything bad about him persay. People say he’s kind.”

The young lady stood looking him up and down

“What do you think Mr. Bower? Would we look nice together?” Facing him on the platform with the portrait above her.

“Why does that matter?” He asks in reply with a cocked brow.

��Because when our portrait is painted together I don’t want to look like a fool who’s picked a ugly man. Then we will have ugly children” sarcastically replied

“Given that notion your majesty I might as well throw my hat into the ring” He muses shuffling through papers.

“Yes yes, the lord blessed you with beauty that much is true. Not so much with intelligence though~” She giggled teasing her friend. “How old is he?”

“29? I believe? Old enough to be your brother” Mr. Bower said under his breath, slightly hoping to persuade the Queen into making a different decision.

“I am Y/A, turning F/A, I think being 29 just means he’s not some immature boy. He’s a gentleman or should be. I pick him”

“Are you sure your Majesty? You pick a Duke of France over Princes and various other nobles? There are still many to choose from.” Sir Bower said with a sort of perturbed expression. Not only was this particular Duke well known to be one of the people, he was seen as a soft hearted. Which Chamberlain Bower knew to be one of her Majesty's only weaknesses.

“I pick him” She stated again going back to sit on her throne. Her mind was made up. Whoever this Joseph Quinn, Duke of France was…he was going to be her husband.

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And so the race had begun, a letter from Astruador was sent to France demanding the Duke’s presence at once. The Chamberlain had assigned to the Ladies in Waiting and the Master of Ceremonies to start the planning process for Mr. Quinns arrival. The court was a buzz at the idea of the arrival of a suitor for their Queen. Her Majesty would be dressed in the highest of garb, a large banquet would be needed for all of the members of the court and anyone he brings with him. He would be placed at the right hand of Her Majesty and given the Royal Coat of Arms as someone who will now be a part of Astruadors legacy.

In the meantime, the palace would be cleaned, polished, and dressed for the upcoming soon-to-be King. While the palace was not in disrepair, it was becoming more dusty from ill use, her majesty wasn't one for parties or large sessions of court. Astruador since the passing of the late King and Queen was put under a spell of mourning. Everyone dripped in black and the sadness went on for 4 years. Till rumors of a formal introduction of their daughter were to be announced. Those black clothes changed to white, yellow, and pink. The colours of the Astruadorian flag. Since the public announcement of Her Majesty, it was then assumed she would become Empress. As her Father was King till his coronation after his own wedding, making him become the Emperor King.

A week had elapsed since the request of the Duke's presence and Her Majesty was starting to get nervous. While she never fully believed in love at first sight, it did cause her to wonder what was taking him so long. No letter back, no note, it left much to the imagination. Did he find her portrait not worthy of being a bride? She knew she wasn’t some beautiful flower like her mother, or the rest of European royalty. She was plain, stout, and had hair that never did what she wanted. She could be dressed in jewels and still be a step away from a chambermaid. Picking at her nails, looking out her window onto the Rose Garden. It was beautiful in the spring, filled with reds, pinks, yellows, and whites. She never dared go into it since the passing of her mother. Her parents were symbolically buried in a stone chapel on the property surrounded by roses. Now it was only to start wondering what her mother would say. ‘Don’t look so sour, he will come. In time dear all things will work themselves out’. The late Empress's voice floats through her head only to be interrupted by a page boy walking in.

“Your Majesty there is a letter from the Duke of France!”

#Three in company #works by me #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn x plus size reader #jamie x reader x joseph #jamie campbell bower #jamie campbell x reader #jamie campbell bower x plus size reader

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elegyworks · 1 year ago

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Hi again!! This month's male outfit is a layered jacket+shirt and sexy leather pants! The pants have metadata so that the bottoms of them are hidden when you have knee length boots on, vanilla or otherwise. I added metadata to make them functional with the boots from my Fitzwilliam set - just make sure the Griffin set has higher priority if you want to use them both! I also included a bulgeless option, and it uses separate textures/is separately baked to look as good as possible. :)

Shirts: ⁍ Four texture options for the jacket: a patterned silk; brocade; leather; and wool ⁍ Multiple dye options, in light, true, or dark options, as well as with gold detail options

Pants: ⁍ Metadata for boot functionality ⁍ Multiple dye options, in light, true, and dark ⁍ Designed to be used with or without a shirt ⁍ Bulgeless & non-bulgeless versions available

Public 12/30/23! Patreon Website

#elegyworks #ffxiv

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bigasswritingmagnet · 1 year ago

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Whatever it is People Go Away For Ch 7

Rating: M Fandom: What We Do in the Shadows Summary:

Did you ever see the 2006 romcom smash hit The Holiday, with Jack Black and Kate Winslet? This is that, but with vampires. Except they're human. Laszlo is a musician who can't remember how to make things for himself. Guillermo has a cheating ex-boyfriend he can't let go of. They both need a break from their lives, and swapping houses with a stranger sounds like just the ticket.

AO3 link

“Now,” Nadja said, hiking up her skirts to get her underwear on, “we must do something about your clothes.”

Laszlo looked down at himself, in his usual dark jeans and collared shirt.

“You only popped a few buttons.”

Nadja frowned.

“Laszlo, I can tell you are very smart so stop thinking like an idiot. Look at you, and look at me. I look like a sexy mistress of the night born in ancient Greece several hundred years ago. You look like you are late to give a presentation on how many paperclips it takes to build a cubicle. Which of us belongs in this night club?”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Finish putting your dick away and follow me. We will find you an appropriate outfit.”

Nadja took him to a clothing shop. It was small, looking squeezed between the two much larger buildings on either side. And yet, somehow, you couldn’t fail to notice it. The sign over the door said The Barony in curly red letters, underlined by a twirling measuring tape tailing a golden pair of scissors.

There was a musical jangling of a bell overhead when Nadja pushed open the door, and Laszlo stepped back in time by at least two hundred years. The walls were lined with bolts of fabric and lace and brocade dangling across the shelves, soaking up the sound. Mannequins were dressed in decadent, gorgeous outfits that he’d only ever seen in history books and museums.

A curtain twitched and a man emerged. Tall, thin, with long-white blonde hair, dressed in a sumptuous red coat with the most intricate embroidery Laszlo had ever seen. When he saw Nadja, his face lit up, his mouth twisting into an almost avuncular smile. He stretched out his arms, impossibly long fingers unfurling like the fanning of a peacock’s tail.

“Nadja,” he crooned, and Laszlo immediately scratched the ‘avuncular’ descriptor. There was nothing even tangentially familial about that hug.

“Afanas, this is Laszlo. He will be performing at my club tonight, and he needs to be properly attired.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Afanas said, dryly. He circled Laszlo, humming critically. Then, with no words but a twitch of his elegant fingers, he glided back behind the curtain. Here there was a changing room in one corner, next to an angled mirror, and everywhere neat stacks and hanging racks of clothing. Afanas plucked a few items from their homes and dropped them unceremoniously in Laszlo’s arms.

“Go forth,” he said, mildly, gesturing in a wide sweep for Laszlo to enter the changing room. With only a brief uncertain look at Nadja, Laszlo went forth.

The door was not very thick, and anyway didn’t entirely reach the floor or ceiling, so Laszlo could very easily hear when Afanas whispered. “He does not seem your usual type.”

“I promise, he is not as boring as he looks. Very good at following instructions.”

“Really? Intriguing. How is he on his knees?”

Laszlo immediately focused on getting dressed, doing his best to tune out the conversation discussing him as if he was breeding stock at the county fair, lest it cause interference with the fit of the trousers.

The cravat was giving him a bit of trouble, so he turned to check in the mirror. And saw–and he was–the clothes were–

He felt…harpsichord, with violin accompaniment, woodwind section alto only. Four-four time–no, three-quarters, a waltz, but a quick one, the kind where you couldn’t think, only move. No crescendo, but a soaring finish that ended sharply rather than fading to quiet.

A song you could listen to every day, every damn day, over and over and never be sick of it.

But he didn’t like the cut of the jacket. It was too trim at the waist, he wanted something straighter. And he didn’t want the coat buttons to be so bright; he wanted the coat to be the accessory, not the statement piece, he wanted to wear it with different waistcoats that had patterns and colors and when had he ever thought the phrase “statement piece” in his fucking life?

When had he ever thought about what he was wearing beyond “it fits and it won’t embarrass me in public”? When had he ever cared enough to have an opinion?

When had he ever cared at all?

“Laszlo, are you alive in there?” Nadja called, cutting through the maelstrom. Laszlo tied the cravat with shaking fingers, breathing hard, blinking away the heat in his eyes.

“Just a moment.” He stepped out from the changing room. “Little trouble with the cravat,” he said.

“Aha!” Afanas said, eyes lighting up. “ Now I see it.”

Nadja nodded approvingly.

“Much better. What do you think?”

“I look like me,” Laszlo said, and was as horrified to hear the words as he was the wobble in his voice. He tried to flee back into the changing room–what he thought he was going to go when he got in there, he wasn’t sure, but away and out of sight was all that mattered.

Nadja caught his wrist in a grip like a vice, but her voice was casual when she spoke.

“Afanas, perhaps another outfit to try?”

“Of course,” he said, as if nothing had happened or was happening.

Laszlo muttered something about the buttons, but wasn’t sure if anyone heard him. Only when Afanas had glided from the room did he feel a fingertip under his chin, tilting his head up. He kept his eyes averted, not wanting to see her expression.

“Tell me, ó fílate ,” she said. “And do not say ‘nothing’,” she added sternly.

His throat was too tight, he could barely breathe let alone say anything.

“Laszlo,” she said. “I will not find it funny. I will not think less of you. Speak.”

“Have you ever recognized yourself in the mirror?” Laszlo asked. “Looked at yourself and actually seen you, not…not someone else? Yes, that’s me, that’s what I look like. That’s who I am.”

“Yes,” Nadja said.

“I haven’t,” Laszlo said, barely more than a whisper, and forced himself to raise his eyes. There was no pity, no laughter, no derision, not even exasperation.

“Agapité,” was all she said, when she wrapped her arms around him.

Three hours later, Laszlo stepped out of the store in a canary yellow waistcoat, a long dark overcoat, fitted trousers, button shoes, and holding a top hat in his hand.

“I think I just spent more money on clothing than I have the entirety of my life put together.”

“How would you know? You signed the receipt with your eyes closed.” Nadja adjusted his cravat and smoothed her hands over the waistcoat. “Worth it, I think.”

“Very much so. What time do we need to be at the club?”

“I need to be there at 6, you go on at 8.”

Laszlo checked his watch–maybe he should buy a pocket watch–and nodded. Then he twirled the top hat and set it on his head.

“Well then, my darling, we had best be off.” He offered Nadja his arm. She took it, giggling, and led the way back towards the club.

For the first time in years, Laszlo couldn’t wait for the performance to begin.

#wwdits #laszlo cravensworth #nadja of antipaxos #baron afanas #nadja x laszlo #i GOTTA remember to post my stuff on here lmao

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justforbooks · 9 months ago

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Roberto Cavalli

Italian fashion designer who used exotic animal prints, embossed leather and distressed denim to create his flamboyant clothes

As Italian fashion went global in the later 20th century, it diverged into two schools: the sensuous, soft in silhouette and touch, and the boldly sexual, flamboyant to the eye. The first, and lasting, head of the sexy school was Roberto Cavalli, who has died aged 83.

The material bases for both schools were the nation’s specialist textiles and leather firms: for Cavalli, they delivered figured and lamé leathers, garments printed after sewing so that no seams interrupted a design, and many fabrics with his emphatic prints. These featured animal-skin motifs, Renaissance and Baroque brocades, or, natural-world details derived from his digital photographs.

His aesthetic was hectic, blingy, and sold across classes and cultures: those from palazzos could don it ironically, while those for whom it was streetwear appreciated Cavalli’s celebration of blatant heterosexuality.

From the late 1990s, he expanded worldwide through clothes, shoes and accessories for women, men and children to homewares, perfume, a credit card, and cafes – in his native Florence, he bought the exclusive Caffè Giacosa and Cavalli’ed it.

He sailed the Mediterranean in his purple yacht, and was mobbed in his Manhattan store, but his emotional core locale remained Florence. His mother, Marcella, was the daughter of a painter, Giuseppe Rossi; his father, Giorgio Cavalli, a mining engineer, was shot in 1944 with 91 other civilians by German soldiers in reprisal for a partisan attack.

Postwar, Marcella scrambled by as a coal dealer, then as a dressmaker who hand painted her creations. The boy’s childhood was hard – he stuttered – but after much pleading, he studied at Florence’s Istituto d’Arte (1957-60), although never sat his final examination.

Instead, he earned money. His mother’s painted dresses inspired him to widen the idea to a mechanical process. He travelled to study Como’s many high-end textile firms, and began to print ready-to-wear sweaters for Mariuccia Mandelli of Krizia, who shared his fancy for simulated wild-beast pelts, and then for Hermès. Soon he had a studio, employees, a longed-for Ferrari and enough money to impress the banker father of Silvanella Giannoni; Cavalli claimed it was to win her hand he had achieved so much this young. They married in 1964, and had two children, Tommaso and Cristina, before divorcing in 1974.

Cavalli’s breakthrough to his own clientele came in 1969, when he gatecrashed a party for the shoe designer Mario Valentino, and mentioned to him that he could print on leather. He couldn’t, but the next day worked out a technique using supple glove kid, and returned with samples. Cavalli showed his new wares, sewn into garments, at the Paris Salon du Prêt-à-Porter in 1970. People gawped, but did not buy.

What did sell was his next inspiration. At that time, only brutal wear and laundering faded, abraded and distressed denim – the big industry that would become stone- and sand-washing, bleaching and shredding denim had not been invented – and any embellishments were crude. Cavalli ordered a container of dirty worn-out jeans from a US prison, and washed, cut and patchworked the pieces with leather and printed textiles for a collection shown in the Pitti Palace in 1972. The arte povera materials had been collaged with Italian craft skill and an artist’s eye, and appealed to the well-heeled in the last phase of Boho-hippy-rock-chick chic.

Cavalli went retail with his designs through boutiques, opening the first, Limbo, in St Tropez, and built up an international following. As a high-living celebrity, and a divorcee with loud enthusiasm for beautiful women, he was a judge at the 1977 Miss Universe pageant, where he did not vote for Miss Austria, Eva Düringer, 18, to win, as he wanted her for himself. After finishing her education, she followed him to Florence, where they married in 1980; she became his model, business manager, and mother of Robert, Rachele and Daniele. They divorced in 2010.

Cavalli retained close control of the manufacture of his clothes, proud of the skills used, and disapproved of licensing deals and production off-shoring in Italian fashion as it internationalised at the end of the 70s. He resented the 80s fashion preference for what he called “minimalism”, but was more accurately a temporary supremacy for the sensuous school, exemplified by Giorgio Armani’s unstructured tailoring for women, plus a desire to moderate overt sexiness.

The Cavalli label retained clients – rock doesn’t give up on its own – yet he stopped showing his collection, and in 1993 intended to close the factory and beg union help to re-employ its workers.

He was persuaded to a comeback show at Milan Fashion Week, and attributed his triumphant second career afterwards to his inspiration to add Lycra to denim to create stretch jeans. (Not a new idea – Irene Sharaff had denim experimentally woven with Lycra for the dancers’ jeans in West Side Story, 1961.) Cavalli personally distressed a pair, printed a snake entwining a leg, and displayed them on the perfect rear of his favourite model, Naomi Campbell.

During Cavalli’s years of retreat, Gianni Versace had taken over much of the remaining custom for Italian-originated sexiness, but Versace designs, especially his prints, had a mad Roman emperor stridency never seen in the work of Cavalli, whose leopards and tigers were for cuddling and stroking, not gladiatorial combat.

Even before Versace’s death in 1997, Cavalli was in the ascendant again, in demand on red carpets, on stage on Jennifer Lopez, Beyoncé, Christina Aguilera, and on screen – a giraffe-skin print – on Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City: he opened boutiques and cafes around the world for his sex-is-fun, Latin-culture-orientated, clothes that suited the mood of excess is success. He was the first Italian designer to create a collection for H&M, a sell-out in 2007. His company closed in 2014, but was relaunched a year later, with little input from Cavalli himself.

In 2002, tax police inspected Cavalli’s extravagant house and estate outside Florence, including the purple helicopter he piloted, and charged him with evasion for claiming expenses for the property as work premises rather than a private home. Cavalli was found guilty and sentenced to 14 months jail, but a superior court annulled the verdict.

A son, called Giorgio after his father, was born to his partner, Sandra Nilsson, a model, in 2023. She and his six children survive him.

🔔 Roberto Cavalli, designer, born 15 November 1940; died 12 April 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #Roberto Cavalli #in memoriam

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mumms-the-word · 10 months ago

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A Macabre Masquerade - Ch. 2

Ch. 2 - Getting Ready

Characters: Tavs (multiple), Gale, Astarion, Karlach, Wyll, Lae'zel, Shadowheart, Halsin, Minthara + other OCs Plot: One year after defeating the Netherbrain and saving the city, Dani and Gale receive a mysterious invitation to a masquerade ball. The invitation specifically invites them to participate as the Heroes of Baldur's Gate. However, when they get there, they soon realize they aren't the only Heroes of Baldur's Gate that got invited. A/N: Designing outfits for Dani and Gale ended up being so hard for me, but I can't wait to show off some descriptions of other Tavs/Durges/Companions when they get to the party. Should I post my inspiration pics? Maybe~

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | BG3 Masterlist | AO3

Dani was just putting the final touches of her outfit together, sliding a few gold filigree rings onto her horns until they fit snuggly, when she saw Gale step into view in the reflection of her full-length mirror. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and pressed a kiss to her cheek before resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Nearly ready, my love?” he asked.

“I think so.” She glanced over her reflection quickly in the mirror before turning and bringing Gale to stand side by side with her, her arm linked in his. “What do you think? Are we fit to be seen by high society?”

He tilted his head, studying their reflections, and she in turn gave them both another lingering once-over. She was dressed in an elegant sleeveless midnight gown embroidered with golden swirls along the bodice and a pattern of gold embroidered feathers twisting and curling upward from the hem of her skirt. She felt sexy with her low plunging neckline, nearly to her navel, showing a tantalizing hint of the curve of her breasts. Her back was mostly bared as well, though she had draped a silky gold wrap around her shoulders in anticipation of the night chill. The blue fabric of the dress was soft and draped easily from her hips, weighed down by the elaborate embroidery. It was easily the fanciest and most expensive dress she owned, even having spent the last year filling her closet with finery to wear to dinners with patriars and celebrations for newly restored buildings in the city. She felt almost overdressed, like she were playing pretend with a costume on a stage.

But then again, it was a masquerade. Everyone would be dressing up and pretending to be someone else for a bit.

Gale, in comparison, looked more than at home in his well-tailored attire, consisting of a dark high-necked shirt buttoned all the way up, an open midnight brocade coat that fell halfway down his calves, and dark trousers to match. Warm golden embroidery shimmered along the edges of his coat and around the buttons of his purple waistcoat, and he had added a sash that crossed from shoulder to hip and around his waist in the same purple shade. He’d tied back sections of his hair into a little bun at the back, fastened with a bit of purple ribbon, the tails trailing down, and he’d swapped his silver earring of Mystra’s eight-pointed star for a gold feather charm that matched all of Dani’s gold jewelry for the night. Dani wore the other feather earring as one of her many earrings. He looked like a prince in a fairy book, especially when his expression shifted to one filled with love as he gazed at her in the mirror.

“You certainly do,” he said in response to her question, turning to kiss her cheek again. “You look absolutely stunning.”

She pursed her lips at her reflection, reaching up to pull some of her two-toned hair over her shoulder. She’d styled her hair a little differently, going with a high ponytail that left her waving, slightly curling locks cascading down her back, but kept her usual fringe pieces to frame her face, freshly dyed a pale, icy blue. She did feel beautiful, but she couldn’t shake the silly notion that she’d blink and it would all disappear.

She knew that it wouldn’t, of course. She was there when they tried on these outfits in Figaro’s elegant shop and she remembered watching Gale hand over a hefty bag of coin to pay for them. She was there when they’d trusted the custom tailoring to her mother, as the dress needed altering to accommodate Dani’s tail and Gale wanted the jacket a bit more fitted (plus it gave them an excuse to visit her mother). So there was no denying the dress on her body was more than a figment of her imagination. It was just taking some getting used to.

“You do know how to go all out, dressing for a fancy patriar party,” Dani said, smoothing her hands down her skirt. “This is fancier than my wedding dress.”

“You don’t dislike it, do you?” Gale asked, pulling back to look at her, expression suddenly concerned. “You should have said—“

“No! No, I love it. Hells, I look like a princess.” She fidgeted with her wrap, not being used to it. She didn’t like it covering her shoulders but she felt matronly with it limply draped around her arms. She was half tempted to just toss it to the side or tie it in a sash around her waist. “Is this how people dress all the time in Waterdeep? City of Splendours and all that?”

“Only if you’re of a particularly fortunate class,” Gale said. “Though among wizards it’s not unusual to see someone charm their outfit or cast a lingering illusion to make their shabby robes look better than they are. The Blackstaff Ball could be positively insufferable with apprentices and alumni trying to outshine one another with elaborate illusions.”

“Oh?” Dani grinned and tilted her head. “That sounds fun. Would we have passed muster at a Blackstaff Ball?”

“As we are now? Absolutely. But there’s nothing wrong with adding a bit of sparkle to an already stunning visage, is there?” He chuckled, but his eyes drifted back toward the mirror, lingering on both of them. He looked almost…wistful. His mind a thousand miles away.

Dani felt a pang of guilt, all too familiar. For an entire year she and Gale had lived in Baldur’s Gate, working to rebuild the city out of all the destruction the Netherbrain and a hoard of mind flayers and dragons had caused. She was fiercely proud of their work, especially Gale’s role in navigating the reconstruction efforts. He'd been indispensable. His verbosity, charm, and intelligence were essential to all the schmoozing, wheeling, and dealing they’d had to do with patriars, the upper ranks of the Flaming Fist, guild masters, and even civilians themselves. But every now and again, like now, a tiny bit of doubt and guilt would worm its way into her head, chiding her for stealing Gale away from the city that was his home. Even as he settled comfortably in Baldur’s Gate and spoke of establishing a small wizarding school or they spoke excitedly of their next book idea, she couldn’t completely ignore her doubts.

Baldur’s Gate was her home. It was the city that made her. But Waterdeep was his, and it was the city that made him. Yes, he had been the one to suggest he move to Baldur’s Gate when he proposed, but…had she been too selfish, asking him to stay with her?

She pushed the doubts aside for now. If she let herself linger on them too long, she would convince herself that she wasn’t worthy of him. That she wasn’t worthy of anyone, really. And she couldn’t let herself go down that slippery slope just yet. She wanted to be selfish just a tiny bit longer.

She turned and looped her arms around his neck, kissing just at the corner of his mouth, a sweet hint to wake him from his reveries. “Then why not add a bit of extra sparkle, just for us?” she asked, hoping to cheer him up. “A bit of dazzle. A touch of magic.”

He smiled and wrapped an arm around her, turning his head to kiss her properly. “You don’t need any extra sparkle, my love,” he said. “Not when you’re already perfect.”

She giggled and shook her head. “You and your words. We both know I’m not perfect. So go on, then. Indulge me.” She stepped out of his embrace and did a little spin. “Make me look as beautiful as I might appear at a Blackstaff Ball.”

“You already look more beautiful than most at a Blackstaff Ball,” he said, but he put a hand to his chin, clearly thinking through possibilities. She smiled and waited, curious to see what he might come up with. Sure enough, after a second’s thought, his eyes lit up as he landed on an idea.

“Hold still,” he said. He held up a hand, palm toward her, and murmured an incantation.

She didn’t catch the words he whispered, but she felt the pull of magic. She’d become far more attuned to it after living with Gale for a year, though she still preferred to cast her spells via music. She closed her eyes, feeling the threads of magic shift around her until the spell seemed complete. When she opened her eyes again, turning toward the mirror, she gasped with delight.

Gale had turned her wrap from a drape of gold silk to a cascade of gold feathers, glimmering with metallic beauty. She ran her hand down the feathers and found them soft and flexible, but not downy like real bird feathers. An artist’s rendition, a craftsman’s interpretation of feathers, sculpted in flattened gold. They shifted easily as she adjusted the wrap over her shoulders and held out her arms, admiring how it made her look like she had wings.

“You do know how to impress a girl, darling,” she said, grinning and taking his face in her hands for a big kiss. “Now I really feel like a princess in a fairy story. How long until my little spell lasts? Until midnight? Am I expected to scurry home before I start molting golden feathers?”

He chuckled again, looping his arms comfortably around her waist. “No scurrying necessary. Your feathers will last a full twenty-hours. I should hate to embarrass you by letting the illusion fall too early.”

“You’re the best,” she said, kissing him again. “But what about you? Don’t you need a bit of dazzle?”

“Why should I, when I will have you on my arm, my love?”

“Oh stop it,” she laughed, pushing playfully at his shoulder. “You can think of something, surely.”

“Well…I did have one or two ideas,” he admitted, giving her an all-too-familiar grin that was both sheepish and smug.

“Well, go on then. Show off for me and then let’s get going.” She stepped back to give him room and gestured for him to get on with it.

He shook his head slightly, amused, but then passed a hand over his clothes. He murmured another spell and she watched as the embroidery of his brocade coat, the slightly bluer threads that made up a bland repeating floral pattern against the darker blue of the fabric, shifted and re-threaded into a new pattern. When the spell was complete, the fabric of his coat had gone from a standard floral brocade to a pattern of embroidered feathers, faintly blue against a midnight-dark background. As she watched, the feathers seemed to shift and glimmer faintly, as if moved by a faint puff of air. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable unless you happened to let your gaze linger, but the overall effect was enchanting.

“There,” he said, turning to glance in the mirror. He gave his reflection a self-satisfied nod. “Now we match. Birds of a feather and all that.”

“I love it,” Dani said, wrapping her arms around his arm and resting her chin on his shoulder. “We’ll be the envy of the entire masquerade.”

“Speaking of, we’ll be late if we don’t hurry.”

“Late? We’re the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. The party doesn’t start until we arrive.”

“I’ll leave you to tell that to the doorman or whoever bars us from entry when we arrive after the appointed time, my love. You always were the more charming of the two of us.”

He adjusted her hold on his arm so that he was escorting her properly, her hands nestled in the crook of his elbow. As she straightened up and met his warm brown eyes, she found him gazing fondly, lovingly, his smile gentle. Despite his warning about the time, his eyes never moved from her face, slowly taking in every detail of her appearance. Her hair, her earrings, the decorations on her horns, her makeup, all of it.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured. “Like a dream.”

She ought to be used to his words, but something about the way his gaze lingered, the tenderness in his expression, it made her flush as though this were the first time he’d ever said such things. She was at a loss for words, wanting to say the same back but thinking that it might trivialize the moment if she did.

At her silence, he leaned in for a slow, sweet kiss. She let her eyelids flutter closed, melting into the kiss, until at last he pulled away with a soft-spoken, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she whispered.

“Ready?”

She took a deep breath and nodded, giving his arm a little squeeze. Her heart fluttered with sudden excitement. A masked ball! And they looked gorgeous. It really did feel like a dream.

“Ready.”

#bg3 #my fic #oc #bg3 fic #bg3 fanfic #dani #meridan zavrai #gale #gale dekarios

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