#damask gown

[discountalien-pancake]

This is the concept for my Zagreus outfit.

Ribbons laid over a piece of black organza to get an idea of the colors. I’m waiting on an order of undyed organza and some beads in suitably fiery warm tones. I also need to dig through my local shop for a tablecloth to use for the slip because somehow i don’t have any appropriate fabric in sufficient yardage.

[thegivenchythree]

backstage Carolina Herrera f/w 2023

[jewellery-box]

VELVET, DAMASK & EMBROIDERED SILK EVENING GOWN, LATE 1880s

AUGUSTA AUCTIONS

[beansprean]

AND THAT'S A WRAP ON WWDITS FILMING...[wails loudly]

I hope these actors know how much they have done for me, specifically. And how many times I have drawn their dumb faces dkjfhk.

Please consider donating to Medical Aid for Palestine! It's what Kayvan would want. :) 🍉🍉🍉🍉🍉🍉

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1. Waist up of Guillermo and Harvey Guillén on a white background with small yellow polka dots. Cursive red and gold script in the top left corner says 'Thank you, Harvey!' Harvey's skin is slightly tanner than Guillermo's, his hair is sun-bleached and curling freely over his forehead, and he is wearing a blue knit crop top and denim overalls. He is hugging Guillermo from behind with his chin on his shoulder, grinning up at the viewer. Guillermo, wearing a white shirt and brown patterned cardigan, is cupping Harvey's hands with his own over his chest and looking at him with a fond smile, cheeks pressed together.

2. Waist up of Nandor and Kayvan Novak on a white background with small yellow polka dots. Cursive red and gold script in the top left corner says 'Thank you, Kayvan!' Kayvan's skin is a rich brown against Nandor's vampire pallor and his half-up hair and slightly longer beard are graying; he is wearing a dangly gold earring in his left ear and is wearing a lime green button up tee with a red watermelon pattern. He has picked Nandor up in a hug with his arms wrapped around his waist. Nandor, wearing a long brown kaftan under a orange diamond-patterned coat with short furred sleeves, has his right hand braced on Kayvan's shoulder and the other wrapped around his back. They are both grinning widely and looking at the viewer.

3. Waist up of Nadja, Nadja doll, and Natasia Demetriou on a white background with small yellow polka dots. Cursive red and gold script in the top left corner says 'Thank you, Natasia!' Natasia is lightly tanned and has chest wavy length hair with bangs, dark brown at the roots with honey brown and blonde highlights throughout. She is wearing a periwinkle skirt and bandeau top with an outer layer of translucent chiffon in the same color, along with poofy off-shoulder chiffon sleeves, several rings, and a thin chain necklace with her name on it. Nadja and Dolly are matching in dark blue v neck gowns with a gold pattern and front buttons, their hair half up in twin horns. Nadja is grinning at the viewer, fangs out, and leaning heavily into Natasia's side, pressing their shoulders together. Dolly sits on their shared shoulder space, perched directly between their heads with her arms around them, smiling up at the viewer. Nadja's right arm is up under Dolly to support her legs. Natasia's right arm is bent upward like one might do to support a perching bird and her left is palming Dolly's knees to keep her in place. She is smiling over at the Nadjas, half bent over from their weight leaning on her.

4. Waist up of Laszlo and Matt Berry on a white background with small yellow polka dots. Cursive red and gold script in the top left corner says 'Thank you, Matt!' Matt is pale (but clearly more alive than Laszlo), with wavy shoulder length hair streaked with gray and a graying beard that has been allowed to grow a bit further past his chin. He is wearing a plain white tee shirt, denim jacket, and silver chain necklace. Laszlo is wearing a red button up dashingly open at the collar under a dark blue waistcoat and lighter blue jacket with a darker damask pattern. They are standing mirrored, back-to-back with their arms crossed and shoulders pressed together, looking back over their shoulders at each other. Matt smiles at his character lazily while Laszlo offers him a mildly salacious smirk.

5. Waist up of Colin Robinson and Mark Proksch on a white background with small yellow polka dots. Cursive red and gold script in the top left corner says 'Thank you, Mark!' Mark is standing facing the viewer with squared shoulders, wearing a blue and white plaid shirt with a chest pocket, only the top button undone. Were it not for the color and a slight shape change to his glasses, you wouldn't be able to tell him from his character. Colin is standing directly behind and to the right of him, wearing a brown v neck sweater over a beige collar and dull red tie. His head is tipped back and his mouth is open in a wide grin, eyes glowing bright blue behind his glasses. Mark glances at him from the corner of his eye with a slightly amused smirk.

6. Waist up of the Guide and Kristen Schaal on a white background with small yellow polka dots. Cursive red and gold script in the top left corner says 'Thank you, Kristen!' Kristen is pale in a human way with chin length curly brown hair and is wearing a loose empire waist black tank top under a translucent yellow chiffon top with a frilled neckline and elbow length balloon sleeves. The Guide is smiling open-mouthed at Kristen and wearing her usual black square cap, jacket, skirt, and gloves. They are back to back, elbows linked together to keep each other close, with Kristen leaning backward into the Guide so she stoops forward slightly. Kristen's far hand flashes a peace sign as she grins over at the Guide, tongue between her teeth. /end ID

[frostedmagnolias]

Scarlet Damask Satin Ball Gown

late 1950s

House of Worth

Kerry Taylor Auctions

[theshinazugawaslut]

𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑲𝑻𝑶𝑩𝑬𝑹 𝑫𝑨𝒀 #𝟐 — 💀🎃 "𝑪𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 & 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒉" 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒌𝒊 𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒂 / 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒙

tw/cw: dubious consent, mentions of attempting suicide

Don't go, don't go, don't go, don't go.

It's the first thing you had learned as a young bumbling girl, back when you'd clutch onto your mother's cold hand tightly and ask in a high, squealing voice about the woods you had found out were strictly forbidden.

"Don't go in there," your mother had said in a hushed tone, "there are awful people in there; ones who will offer you ruby-red apples with the magick of eternity's youth, but you mustn't ever take them, my baby, and if you even manage to get away from the faeries and witches and wolves, then you will reach the ocean infested with all sorts of monsters. You don't wish to be eaten by a half-bird half-fish now, would you?"

So you'd always been wary of the forest, as a little girl to a lady, living a respectful life at the village.

You spent days embroidering satin gowns with arcipluvian birds and cutting sweetheart necklines with a healer's steady hand and stitching diamond-encrusted bodices into tulle skirts; all the uninteresting things that come with being a dressmaker's daughter.

Though tonight, you'd long abandoned the box of jewels and the slim needle that had become a tender muscle in your mind, left them by the melting candle on your bedside.

Your shoulders donned a blood-red cloak made of velvet, your gown glittering under the night sky; you'd stitched it yourself from the spare fabric of a rich woman who often visited your family's little shop in the village. It was a lovely thing and it was your most prized possession: the bodice was nice and fitted, ivory in colour with rose and aureate embellishments, low and tight so that the clear spheres of your breast were nipped with cold; you'd made your skirts wonderfully layered also — a swelling blood red silk underskirt covered with a sheer, glittering gold fabric, with two overskirts in damask patterns, sable and cream and sun-spun.

When you had sewn it, you'd left it hanging in your sparse wardrobe in hopes to wear it on your wedding day.

Now, all that was left was to wear it tonight and walk straight into death; the tangerine glow of the lantern held up in your dainty fingers, lighting the path to the angel of death.

You had never thought your mother would arrange your marriage to the worst man in the village. Your beauty was sought by every boy and man of the village, and you'd hoped your mother would match you to the sweet butcher's boy across the street.

Keigo, his name is; a boy with hair spun off golden sunflowers and eyes that glitter like topaz under moonshine, sharp as a hawk. He gave you candied cherries once, the tart fruit dipped in hardened sugar water, and he'd smiled so shyly after.

Instead, your mother betrothed you to Touya, the eldest son of the village chief. You had wanted to cry as the man's intense, electric-blue eyes blazed flames into your skin as your mother and his father discussed the engagement.

Everyone knew of Touya, the enigmatic eldest son covered in gnarly, mulberry scars and strange silver rings and snow-white hair, rumours circled like wisps of smoke that he had been set alight with fire by a witch as a young boy. Worse, rumours said that the young man dabbled in dark magic.

You wouldn't marry a man like that, which is why you'll die.

In the forest.

(Don't go.)

Your lantern only illuminates the trees in front of you, just a few steps away into certain death. Webs shimmer like meshed steel in front of you as you take a ginger step inside, the slow crunch of a leaf below your boots is the only indicator something exists inside.

Almost immediately inside the forest, something shifts.

You can't tell what it is but it's there.

Red.

Your eyes become deer-like, large and frightened, and you turn around, wanting to head back but you find that the path back... isn't there, just endless forbidden forest.

That can't be.

Something gets stuck in your throat from panic, like a globe of cloth that makes your throat dry.

You keep walking, your legs a lot heavier now, something akin to logs.

The world around you seems to shift, a sepulchre silence heavier than the cloak on your shoulders. The trees held the macabre stench of blood, speckles of fungied moss glistening like wet witch dust on its mottled bark; the branches twist toward the sky like dark, skeletal fingers, reaching for the stars that winked down from a velvet expanse.

The moon is hideous tonight.

A whispering breath, no, a breeze, shifts through the lines of the forest and your body. It sounds old, perhaps a little sad. It beckons you.

In the back of your head, you can hear the sound of children singing.

Ring-a, ring-a rosies-

There's a beat of a drum, somewhere deep in the darkness where your lantern's weak light can't reach. A drum, a drum- A beating heart.

a pocket full of-

Enchantment twists and coils around you like a serpent, why are your eyes so-?

posies!

The phantasmal gas becomes the damp breath of the forest.

Shadows dance at the corners of your vision.

Your senses begin to reel, ethereal and monstrous and real suddenly not all the same.

A tissue! A tissue!

Flickering shapes form and die behind the trees; those shapes try to reach hands towards you, scintillating and fading.

The sound of a child wailing echoes throughout the forest, haunting the glades, and pouring into some desolate space elsewhere.

When did you start crying? Why are you running?

Someone is trying to hush you, the sound a hollow echoing, more like the ballad of a crumbling cathedral, like fingers of shadow snuffing out the lights.

Why did you go?

Don't go.

We all-

Arthritic brambles catch on your dress for a moment, gnarled with age, snapping like bones as your boots slap through the sounds of the night.

Something spidery slips into your mind, nails sinking deep into the goo of your brain. The distorted image of your parents flashes before your eyes, the grotesque form of the sun-haired boy, the sweetness of electric-blue eyes.

Time loses meaning; minutes stretch into hours as you drift between consciousness and the realm of the lost. In this state, the boundaries of your existence waver like the edges of a dream, fraying like the gossamer threads in your gown.

Fall-

The night sky above transforms into a kaleidescope, the stars becoming blurs of light, something sinister flashing in front of your pupils instead.

In that one moment, you live hundreds of lifetimes, the beat of the drum getting louder, the singing even more so. You see it all: flowery childhoods and fantasies of a lover and children with his blue eyes and your tears at his funeral-

Down!

All you can do is shriek as you fall, dress dirtying.

It's silent again.

You look up and you freeze.

A deep pool of glittering, gemstone-blue expanding here, a stream behind it, most likely leading to the seas. It's stunning; glimmering like star gleam, burbling and thrumming like a child blowing bubbles into a cup. It lights up the rest of the forest around you, ripples reflecting across tree bark.

You reach out a hand just to touch, fingertips trembling just about to touch the surface.

A hand encloses around your wrist.

You don't have it in you to shriek a second time as blood-curdling eyes meet yours.

His eyes are red. Vivid, vibrant, violent.

He's simmering with cruel intent, volcanic and about erupt, but he's strangely calm, something hypnotic in his gaze and bluish hair falling in front of his ashy face.

The hand around your wrist is gentle. Thick, long fingers, and a broad, heavy palm; made to destroy, you don't doubt his touch is decaying.

He's half-submerged in water, the upper half of his body all sinewy muscle and the lower half... beneath the blue water, you think you see black swishing around; pulsating like a jellyfish.

"...A human," he murmurs with a heavy tongue, and you can see the gills flare . "So pretty."

Then everything about him changes, that eerie calmness you had caught before disappears as he smiles at the way your mind screams, your eyes bloodshot and terrified.

There;s something rotten in the way he quirks his lips up.

His teeth have the same glint as blood-drenched bones, like flesh ripped out of a body, like hot red swallowing you whole.

"Why are you here, little girl?" he asks, hissing through calcite.

The hand around your delicate wrist tightens.

Run.

Don't.

"I- I- I-" you stammer uselessly. "I- No, I-"

"Shh, 's okay." His other clawed hand comes to touch the plump of your cheek, talons gently tracing soothing patterns. "You don't have to... say a word."

His voice is sultry, soft... It's almost mesmerising.

The fingers on your wrist dance to the back of your hand as he traces the veins there, as if he wants to rip them out and sew himself a tail from them.

He entwines your hands together tenderly.

"Such hardworking hands," he coos, eyes taking in the sight of all the pricks from needling away at dresses. "You need to unwind." His eyes flicker to yours and he gives a half-smile half-smirk, almost genuine. "I can help with that."

His grin is lopsided, those red eyes glimmer, the incandescence of them illusory. "You want to...?"

Your vision becomes hazy, blurring like it did earlier, only this time it's much more relaxing. Like sleep spindles wrapping around your sore joints.

"You missed me, right? You came here all the way to see me, 'm honoured," he murmurs, mouth against your knuckles before pulling back just a little. Another flow. "You came here to see me, right?"

You can't remember now.

Why... did you...?

Why do you feel so disoriented?

"You're the sweetest, you know." The large, gentle hand on your cheek moves to the back of your head, sinking into your hair and bringing you closer to his mouth. You try and shake your head to fight away the warm haze. It's useless. "I've been feeling hungr- Lonely, for so long."

Both his hands cup your jaw now, thumbs caressing the lines he can find on you.

"You're lonely too, right...?" he murmurs and you find yourself nodding along, the gills on his neck flare. "It'd be nice if... you'd join me, here, in the waters." His voice is a whisper now, his mouth inching closer. "I bet you'd like it. My voice is prettier below as well, do you want to hear?"

You blink, frazzled.

The fingers on your face dig in a little harder.

"It'd be nice, you know, listening to beautiful songs with me," he says, "I just adore singing, especially at deaths, it's why everyone calls me Shigaraki. I bet you have a beautiful name, too."

But you don't say it, all you can hear is his name on repeat, like sea froth and foam on the red tip of your tongue.

"Beautiful girls like you deserve pleasure, you know...?" he whispers. "Do you want to...?"

You don't know why you nod.

But he kisses you. It's cold and his teeth gnash against yours, something in it is desperate as his claws make quick work of ruining your beloved dress.

Whatever he does, it keep the oxygen in your lung as he hauls you into the glowing pool that has become duller below it.

He's gorgeous in the water, in all his tentacled glory, and his eyes are burning red to keep the magick of remaining docile on you.

His lower half is the most bizarre thing you'd ever seen: blacker than squid ink at midnight, obsidian veins creeping up on abdomen and then his lower half splitting into eight meaty tentacles.

He grabs you by the throat this time, kissing you with his forked tongue, fangs nipping into the fat of your gasping bottom lip, the other hand holding your head.

You're entirely nude; soft legs floating in the water, virgin cunt exposed, the plump of your ass glimmering. He pulls back, grinning like a warping shadow as his hands touch your swollen breasts.

It all happens at once.

A slimy tentacle wraps around your leg, the other twinning the action, suckling onto your shins and knees and thighs, and he spreads you apart like a starfish, uncaring for how your hips almost shatter from the pressure.

Another tentacles winds itself like a gutless animal around your stomach and squeezes tight enough that all you'd eaten comes gurgling out in a cloud of yellow. The tentacle is large enough to sheathe around your tits, the suckers across the tentacles are like reverberating mouths on your nipples. Within seconds, your nipples are raw and bitten, expanding to twice their size obsenely.

Shigaraki grins as you let out a strangled moan before he shoves a bulky tentacle in your mouth causing your eyes to almost pop out your skull as it goes down into your thoat so that it almost explodes from expanding to fit the thing.

It's gorgeous how sweetly you let him thrust the throbbing tentacle in and out, even sweeter how you scream around it as he doubles down on your sugary pussy and ass.

It hurts so much you can't even feel it inside your stomach, the tentacle on your breasts moving up to squeeze at your throat.

Your stomach convulses from the gruesome size of him, hammering into your womb like a savage barbarian in a brothel. You catch sight of the merman through your tears; his eyes have rolled to the back of his head, mouth hanging open in a vulgar moan, and he was right, he does sound prettier under water.

Your blood is clear in the water as he fucks you, tentacles and sucker clamping and sucking and thrusting on the inside and out.

You're going to die like this, with this monster making you the prettiest human cumdump-

The flames of dark magic suddenly bleed into the waters, severing the tentacles of your captor, the spell breaking and you screech, watching as the monster flails about, blood gushing and staining the pool red as the cut tentacles float.

All you feel is unfamiliar hands holding onto you and swimming out of the waters.

The last thing you remember seeing is electric-blue eyes.

[inkwingart]

This Vietwardian socialite, armed with a letter opener that is sharper than strictly necessary, is prepared to stab the next person who tries her patience. Her gown is inspired by a classic áo dài, but with an Edwardian train and cold-shoulder lace sleeves. The black bobbinet overlay retains the raglan line of an áo dài, combined with a sweetheart neckline. The body panels are linen damask draped over a structured under-bodice, embroidered and beaded with glass jet and cut steel. Rather than traditional trousers, the gown is worn over a frilly black cotton petticoat. The gold bib necklace is inspired by traditional Vietnamese kiềng, particularly the beautiful styles worn by the Hmong, and Art Nouveau enameled jewelry. Her khăn đóng is cloth of gold. She is framed and haloed by pale yellow and pink chrysanthemums.

—

I finally finished this piece!

Do not edit or remove my caption, crop, edit, or repost on any platform.

[threadtalk]

Oh, saints. This dress combines so many things I love in one place!

First of all, we’re in the late 1830s (by my guess), a time of dress transition. You can see the influence of the Romantic with those sleeves, but the hint of later Victorian gowns in the bodice shaping. The particular bodice here is fan-pleated, which is pretty self-explanatory if you look at the way the fabric is both pleated and fanned out. I do adore the result. 

But, ahem, that damask? That color? Purple, always. Of course. For a 200 year old dress, the hue is still so striking. It is not Perkins Purple, however, as it’s two decades too early for that.

The weave? I damn near fell out of my chair looking at it. It’s one of those cases where I wish there were even higher resolutions so I could zoom in and see the stitches. Alas, we are not yet there in terms of technology, so I will instead cope with this.

And then it gets better. Because that silk damask? It’s almost 100 years older than the dress itself. UGH I LOVE IT SO MUCH. Could it have been Spitalfields? Maybe! It’s hard to say because we don’t have the provenance. 

From the Maryland Center for History and Culture.

[colettebronte]

Kinktober 2024: Corsetry

Taglist Form

Bridgerton Masterlist

Ao3 Link

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Post argument, while trying to prove a point, some enjoyment is had

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: 18+ Warnings for corsetry and a touch of objectification. Minors DNI. I will put this up on Ao3 so please do not repost my work elsewhere

Author’s Note: So despite my saying I would not be doing Kinktober this year, Pinterest thought otherwise by sending me the VERY intriguing and as it turns out, inspiring pics you see in the story art. Thank you as always to @fayes-fics for betaing

You lead him into the bedroom by the hand. Although the lamps have been dimmed, the items you placed on the bed stand out against the red damask bed sheets, neatly laid out before you in black lace-embellished gold fabric and boning. Beside it lies the accompanying ribbons done in matching gold silk and black lace.

The Viscount stares down at them and swallows visibly before looking at you, eyes wide. He clears his throat before saying quietly. “Surely you knew I was joking.”

You merely raise an eyebrow. “Were you, My Lord?”

He sighs and scrubs a hand across his face.  “Truly My Lady, I meant no offense when I said that surely it was no mean thing to wear a corset for a prolonged amount of time.”

You huff out a laugh. “Well then, I suppose all is well as long as you meant no offense.”

The Viscount narrows his eyes at your obvious sarcasm and throws his hands up in the air. “My Lady, What would you have me do?”

You take a step closer to him and gesture to the bed. “You are an intelligent man, Lord Bridgerton. Surely you can guess.” You run a hand down the exposed part of his chest, not covered by his dressing gown.

He gazes down at the bed again. In a near whisper he asks, “Do you suppose it will fit?”

You smile softly. “It will, My Lord. I procured your measurements from your tailor. And the ties can be adjusted if it is too tight. You lean in closer to press your body against his and add, “But I am confident I got it right.” You look up at him expectantly and after a moment, he steps back and undoes the sash of his dressing gown, letting the robe fall to the floor in a pool of elegant fabric behind him. He now stands before you bare from his shoulders to midriff, his lower half covered by thin, soft sleep pants.

You step back to admire him, enjoying as he flushes red at your attention. He fidgets, seemingly unsure of where to place his hands. You take pity on him and lead him once more by the hand to the foot of the bed, placing his hands on opposite ends of the elegant, carved wood footboard.

“You may grab onto this for purchase should you need to, Pet,” you tell him. He nods and then you pick up the corset in one black lace-gloved hand and the corset laces in the other. 

The Viscount gasps as the fabric lays against his skin while you lightly pull the lacing through the eyelets. When it’s secured loosely around his waist, you run a hand across his bare shoulders. The Viscount’s breath quickens as he grips the wood under his hands.

You take a few minutes to adjust the corset, making sure it rests properly against his body. When you are happy with the alignment, you catch his eye in the mirror that hangs above your headboard. “Shall we begin in earnest, Pet?”

The Viscount nods but then says, “Yes please, My Lady.”

That is all you need to hear. You pull the first row of lace taut and then begin to speak casually. “Now Pet, seeing as you are a novice to wearing a corset, please allow me to give you some advice.” 

You pull the second and third row through their respective eyelets, pausing to adjust the boning at The Viscount’s sides as you go. The man before you groans as the corset tightens around him, but makes no objections, so you continue to speak.

“If a corset is made to the proper measurements, which I assure you, this one is, it should feel comfortably taut once fully laced.” You pause as The Viscount grunts when you get to the fifth row, before adjusting the boning again and continuing to both lace and talk. “But it’s always a good idea to take shallow breaths at first, until you adjust to the feeling of being fully corseted.”

He nods but says nothing in response, just leaning forward, adjusting his feet to get a better stance as you continue to lace him into the corset.

By the time you reach the tenth row, his breathing is steady, as if mesmerized by your movements behind him. “You’re doing so well Pet,” You murmur into his ear.

In the mirror, you see a small, grateful smile reflected back to you.

“We’re almost done; just two more rows and then the final pull,” you inform him.

The Viscount draws himself up to his full height and you finish pulling the lacing through the last eyelets and then making final adjustments on the boning at his front and sides; you give a final pull, securing the lacing in a neat bow at the base of his back.

You move away to give him as long as he needs to adjust to the feeling of being fully corseted. As he breathes, feeling along his stomach and sides, you take the time to admire your handiwork. You can see you had truly gotten the measurements right as it rests perfectly against his body, elegant black and gold lace silk and boning molding to his powerful body perfectly. His pectorals pulled taut together at the top, giving way to a perfect taper all the way down his waist. The boning at the bottom stops to rest at the top of his iliac furrows, just visible at the top of his sleep pants.

He takes a few steps toward you, at last relaxing his shoulders and reaching out a hand in your direction. Slowly, you lead him over to the large gilt-framed mirror that rests against the wall, nearly floor-to-ceiling.

Wide-eyed, he stares at himself, running his hands up and down his body, turning this way and that, clearly admiring his reflection. You notice his breathing becomes deeper with each passing minute.

You step up behind him, placing your arms around his waist. “You look beautiful.”

The Viscount turns in your arms, and softly says, “Thank you, My Lady.”

You cock your head to the side. “For what, Pet?”

Lord Bridgerton ducks his head, remorseful. “For teaching me two very valuable lessons.”

You furrow your brow, confused. “Two lessons? I was aiming for just one.”

He releases you to once again study himself in the mirror. “First, you have taught me that it certainly is not easy to get into, let alone wear a corset.”

You nod. “Just as I intended, Pet. And what was the second lesson?”

Your husband sighs. “I promise you, My Lady, I shall never make fun of your Steampunk cosplays ever again.” He takes a deep breath and then asks, “And if you wouldn’t mind, perhaps the next time you go to a con, could I come too?”

You catch his eye once more in the mirror. “With or without a corset costume, My Love?”

He runs his hands across his body, fingers skittering down his abs. “Most definitely with a corset.”

Your answering smile matches his, reflected back to you in the mirror.

taglist: @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @faye-tale @cosmiclove330 @abridgerton @fiction-is-life @kmc1989 @alexandrainlove @ietss @multi-fandom-lover7667 @turtle-cant-communicate @liliac-dreamer @hottytoddyhistory @queenofmean14

[celtigxr]

THE PINK DREAD - CH. 22 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: It's Maiden's Day. The Royal Conclave has officially begun with guests from all four corners of the Realm gathering into the Grand Hall for the first Ball of the season, where all the Maidens will be presented. Word Count: 5651 CHAPTER WARNINGS: Misogyny. Religious themes.

Series tags: Aemond x Plus size!OfC, Aegon x Plus size!OfC, Celtigar!ofc, Plot with Smut, mdni 18+, Aemond End Game, Angst, Comedy, The Dragons Don't Dance, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers.

Credits: Lace Banner by Aquazero, pearl divider by Pommecita

Maiden’s Day had begun shortly after the arrival of the King and Queen. The last three days were a flurry of last minute preparations. All the unwed ladies of the Realm were being prepared to don their white gowns, displaying their virtue on their sleeve, so they may all crowd inside the Great Sept atop of Visenya’s Hill and pay tribute to the Maiden. 

In the Celtigar apartments, bodies milled in and out of the room with tailors and seamstresses alike. Valeana already had a dress made for herself, which she had done moons ago for Maiden’s Day. Though, at the time, she believed it would have been celebrated at Claw Isle, like it was every year for the past decade. Her sisters were a different story; their dresses were commissioned prior to the funeral, and they were now rushed to adjust days before the event. In comparison, they were plainer than Valeana’s, who had the time to stitch out every detail, but they were still lovely and extravagant, as all Celtigar women were known for.

Floris’ was a shockingly pearl white gown with a modest boatneck neckline, and tight wrist length sleeves. The neck, arms, and hemline adorned with the same damask embroidery stitched into it, with small quartz crystals polished into teardrops dangling along her neckline. Her hair was pulled away from her face, parted down the middle, flowing down her back with only a single braid woven down the middle. Any stray hair would have been held back by her crescent white hood that had a white veil hiding her brown tresses. 

Shyla’s was an alabaster white, with a scoop neckline to accentuate her beautiful neck, and capped sleeves. She had more of an empire waistline, allowing the skirt to flow freely with its light tulle curtains. There was less detail in hers, but there were pearls woven into the skirt sporadically, like white stars on a canvas of clouds. Lastly, she wore lace gloves, a matching pearl choker with a ruby at the center, and unlike Floris, all her hair was piled up, topped with an albino peacock feather. 

With her extra free time, Valeana was able to put her full attention on the dress she had promised Queen Alicent she would make. She had already presented the queen days prior to her departure with sketches of her designs, and Alicent had only responded with requests for minor changes. She did not wish to be scandalous, but she did want to make a statement. The design she chose would be tedious, but Val enjoyed the challenge. Rosy, her ever loyal handmaiden, was always there to assist with her mistress’ work. She had helped many times in the past, which has aided Valeana greatly when it came to multiple gowns for multiple occasions… Which she would likely need these next couple of moons. 

She had a lot of work ahead of her, particularly her own gown for the Creature’s Ball. She had no ideas for herself, and that made it all the more difficult to start. Her hands moved along the soft fabrics that her mother had brought over from Claw Isle and bought in King’s Landing market places. All colours of the rainbow were presented before her, in various shades and saturations. From brilliant cobalt blues, to muted lavenders, to rose blush reds, to even unflattering palettes such as mustard yellow, mourning black, burlap sack brown, and salmon pink.

Maiden’s Day started painstakingly early as everyone got ready, aside from the men who did not need to don their formal attire until later, just before the ball. Valeana strapped in her more formal prosthetic, the one she affectionately called “Ser An-toe-knee Woodsby”, who had a wedged heel to accommodate the height of her wedged shoe. She always preferred this prosthetic over “Lady Footlyn”, it was more elegant, and walking in it felt more natural, but the caveat was that it wasn’t as worn in as she would have liked, and it would always have to be worn with a wedge shoe on her other foot. The increased height made it more difficult for her to stand for hours now that her right foot was made to bear the brunt of her weight on the balls of her feet. Still, she loved the way it made her hips sway side to side. 

Her large ivory gown was pulled over her head, and pooled at her feet with its scalloped hemline. Out of the three dresses, Valeana’s was the only one with colour. Maroon embroidered roses were designed in the grand width of the gown, standing tall on their stems like an award winning rose garden. The same pattern was centered on her bodice, the bud of the rose centered between the width of her breast, and the bottom of the stem ending at the ‘V’ shape at her waistline. Her biceps had the same design as well, although more subtle, taking the snug shape of her arm until it got to her elbow where it flared out in delicate lace. Then, as always in Celtigar fashion, pearls decorated the dress all over, accentuating lines to give it more texture. 

Valeana’s hair took the most amount of time. As long and thick as it was, it took two handmaids to tend to it. They pulled and pinned until it became a single large braid, the knots loosened elegantly, and decorated with sprigs of baby’s breath. Mother wanted it to be put up, but Valeana argued that the weight of her hair would cramp her neck. 

Wheelhouse after wheelhouse left the Red Keep that morning. When they reached Visenya’s Hill, it was crowded with carriages, horses, and women in white. Hundreds of maidens gathered into the Great Sept, leaving behind their mothers, their aunts, their fathers, and other guardians behind. 

Only maidens were allowed to fill the halls of the Great Sept that day. 

In silence, Valeana and her sisters entered the massive structure. It had been a decade since she last saw it and it never ceased to amaze her. The domed ceilings were so high that you could hear a whisper of a prayer from the other side of the Sept. Her eyes roamed around, looking at unfamiliar faces of women and girls alike. From girls as young as three, to spinster women as old as 60. If you were never married, and never laid with a man, you were here to worship and honour at the feet of the Maiden. 

She did not see Ellyn and Wylla in the crowd of white, and she ended up losing her sisters in the shuffle of the crowd. Not wanting to waste time on finding her people, she decided to take place in the first empty space she could. She immediately spotted one on a pew next to a young woman in a frost white gown, hair a beautiful red orange that was laid in waves down her back and plaited into a crown adorning her head. She was on the robust side, with rounded cheeks, a wide waistline, and soft arms. She reminded Valeana a lot of her former younger self, but admittedly this young girl was far more prettier, more vibrant. 

“Do you mind…?” Valeana asks the girl in a whisper. No one dared to raise their voices while the Septas filtered through the crowd with vulture-like awareness. Every once in a while, they would ring a bell when someone was being too loud. 

The girl looked up with surprised sapphire blue eyes, then she relaxed with a kind smile, “No, not at all.” 

Valeana settled in beside her, and took a look around to see if she could spot her sisters, or her two only friends, Wylla and Ellyn. 

“Looking for someone?” The girl next to her asks. 

“Lost my sisters in the crowd,” she admitted. “Trying to spot my friends, but… with everyone wearing white, they all blend in together.”

The girl softly chuckled, then quickly covered her mouth, “Same thing happened to me, but with my cousins. I have no sisters, just too many brothers.” 

Valeana smiled in response, “Who are your cousins?”

“They are Lord Tyrell’s daughters,” she answered simply, then extended her hand. “My name is Lady Catelyn by the way. Catelyn Redwyne. But you can call me Cat, everyone does.” 

Valeana took it and they both shook gently, “Lady Valeana Celtigar.” 

The mention of her name caused the young girl’s brows to raise and her mouth to gape a bit, “You’re Valeana Celtigar?”

The octave of her voice was loud enough for a Septa to sharply bring a bell in their direction. The two girls looked over before hunching down and continuing their whispers. 

“Erm, yes. How do you know me?”

“Your name is spoken all over the pavilions,” Cat whispered in haste as she took a glance around to make sure no one was listening. “They say King Viserys’ two eldest sons are fighting over your hand.”

A deep blush stained her cheeks, “That isn’t… That’s not what is happening at all. Are people really talking about me? I haven’t even left the Keep since I arrived.”

Cat nodded eagerly, “It is all the ladies are talking about. That and your… uhm, many drunken exploits with men.”

“What!?”

The bell rang next to her ear, jostling her in her seat. When she turned around, a Septa was glaring at her with a twisted puckered face. Slowly Valeana turned back around. 

“It was one time,” she immediately corrected. “And I was in the company of women.”

“Well, whatever the truth of it is,” Cat started, a little smile at the corner of her lip, “You are creating quite a stir in the Realm. It has caused a divide between the ladies.”

“What do you mean?”

“Half the women wish to end you, and the other half wish to be you. Either way, all here are green with envy.”

“And which half are you, Lady Cat?”

She smiled sweetly, folding her arms on her lap demurely, “I am a fan of great romances, and therefore, a fan of you. It reminds me much of this novel I read whilst living in Highgarden. It is about a woman from the North forced to marry a Dornish prince, but fell in love with his brother. But she ended up falling for her betrothed too, after some time. It was quite riveting.” 

Valeana’s face was fully pink at this point, from outrage over this news, to flattery over Cat’s praise. At this odd book that sounded far too familiar for her liking. She cleared her throat, “And–and what happened… in the end?”

Catelyn sucked in her lips sheepishly, “Oh, I dare not say. Not here, not on Maiden’s Day.”

Valeana shot a look at the giant statue of the Maiden, whose feet they all circled. Then she looked back at the Redwyne girl, “Whisper it into my ear.”

Tentatively, Cat leaned over and cupped her hand over Valeana’s ear, “They both became her lovers. Often at the same time.” 

If it was possible, Valeana’s face went pinker. Her eyes glanced back at the Maiden, green eyes filled with religious guilt. 

Maiden, forgive me for my thoughts. She thought, swallowing thickly. 

The Great Hall was near its capacity with the collection of noble families that crowded it. Hundreds if not a full thousand people mulled around, mostly men as half the population of their guests were making their way towards the Red Keep from the Great Sept. Aemond lurked in the fringes of the hall, eye moving along to each faceless body, trying to identify who belonged to which family. He spotted Lord Borros immediately; he was an easy character to pick out from the crowd, and it was not because of his size. He was loud and tended to take up as much space as possible. Along with him, he found Jason Lannister, their Lord Treasurer’s twin brother. Lord Tyrell and his Dornish wife, the Redwyne brothers, the Starks, the Freys, and even the Greyjoys were in attendance.

Aemond knew that most would not stay longer than the length of the Tourney; it was not just wives that these bachelors looked for, but titles and knighthoods, of which the King promised. But there were many bachelors indeed, easily identifiable by their attire. 

The maidens wore white, and so did the un-affixed men, save for the widowers. The young men and boys that had not married once wore various shades of white doublets and jerkins. Their breeches are generally a darker colour, and a formal cloak of their house colours framed their bodies. 

Aemond abhorred the colour white on him, but at the very least the dark forest green of his cloak gave him the depth of darkness that he preferred. The lapels and stitching of his satin jerkin carried the same green, and in the same shade of white, dragons were embroidered onto his shoulders and the bottom near his hips. His cloak hung on a gold chain clutched in the jaws of two dragons at his shoulders. His eyepatch was the only black piece of clothing on him; it was his most formal one, with swirly switching in the leather. The strap this time was tucked under his hair and under the shell of his ear on one side, giving room for the golden circlet above his brow, showing his status as a prince of the realm. Lastly, part of his hair was intricately woven into a series of plaits that collected into a fishtail braid that went down the center of his head, the length of the rest of his hair fanned over his back like a sheet of silk. The process of which was irksome, as Aemond absolutely loathed anyone but himself and his mother to touch his hair. 

His eye fell onto Aegon, who wore similar garb, but held more gold than green on his doublet. His hair was only half pulled back into a small twisted plait on the back of his head, and the circlet that rested on his brow had emeralds encrusted around the gold rim. He kept himself busy with socializing, as that was what Aegon was known for. He surrounded himself with the team of Redwyne brothers, laughing loudly over goblets of wine, likely made from their wineries. 

Aemond moved his attention away from him, landing onto his uncle who was on the other side of the hall, keeping to the fringes just like him. Daemon wore black, whether by a personal preference or to convey the fact that he was still in mourning. It was likely the former of the two, knowing his uncle’s reputation. Daemon’s cloak was black as well, though the inside was blood red, making the Rogue Prince look like the Black Dread in human form. 

And of course, Daemon was looking directly at him.

Aemond kept his eye on him, refusing to move it an inch. 

It was always so strange to him that he and his uncle had not formally met at Leana's funeral, and even after the incident, no regard was spared. Daemon lurked in the shadows while his mother screamed for justice over Aemond’s eye, and not once did the Lord of Flea Bottom say a word about him claiming his late wife’s dragon. It wasn’t until only a couple days ago that they had even locked eyes with each other, after Valeana and Jacaerys greeted each other. 

It was bizarre. Like looking into a mirror that showed him his future. 

The staring contest broke when Daemon was joined by his step sons, oblivious to Aemond’s spectre on the other side of the Great Hall. Both men wore identical garb, save for their colouring. As heir to the heir, Jace wore a red cloak, draped over one shoulder, being held on by a silver dragon’s claw. His brother wore a muted aquamarine one, and his doublet had the image of the seahorse woven into patterns at his breast. With Lord Corlys still abed with no indication of survival, Luke’s choice of colours was a clear statement that he was the heir to Driftmark… But anyone with eyes knew the title belonged to Lord Vaemond Velayron. 

The doors to the main entrance opened with the blaring of trumpets announcing the arrival of the maidens. A hush went through the crowd as all men, and married and widowed women flanked the sides in order to make room for the ladies that would be presented. The first, of course, was Princess Helaena, who was dressed resplendently in a true white gown with a train that followed behind her. Her hair unbound, with a crown of white flowers upon her head. Her dress had little crystals woven into the hems and linings, and the shape of butterflies could be seen in the fine embroidery. Her sleeves were long and billowy, flowing into her skirts and covering her arms and hands completely. 

It was painfully obvious how nervous and fretful she was. She slowly descended down the wide staircase, eyes flickering around the crowd as her eyes shone with a glossiness of unease. Helaena was not good with crowds, and here she was on display for the entire Kingdom. Aemond made a step towards her, intent on collecting her from her personal hell, but his mother beat him to it. She swiftly cut through the crowd that parted and bowed for her. Upon reaching Helaena, she took her hand and silently pulled her through the crowd towards the head table where the royal family would be seated. 

After that was settled, the gently bred ladies were introduced to the room three to four at a time. There were the Four Storms, the Baratheon sisters, then Jason Lannister’s girls, and so forth. After a lady Redwyne and her Tyrell cousins were introduced, the names of Floris, Valeana and Shyla were announced, and Aemond snapped to attention. 

“Lady Floris Grafton, Lady Valeana Celtigar, and Lady Shyla Celtigar,” the announcer’s voice echoed in the hall. Aemond’s eye swept around for a moment, noticing some of the women whispering to each other as they craned their necks to watch the three girls descend down the stairs.

Aemond tried to appear impartial, but his body moved without his consent. He stepped in between bodies, forcing them to part with his shoulder. When people craned to see who had been cutting through them, they jumped aside. Had Aemond been paying attention to his surroundings, he would have noticed he was not the only one that filtered through the bodies to get closer. Apart from him, there were three others.

Valeana had her hands clutched in her gown, chin down on her clavicle as she watched her steps down the stairs. Her hair practically glowed in the midday sun that shone through the skylight and stained glass windows, giving her a halo of dust particles dancing around in the air about her head. Aemond has never seen her in white before, at least not from head to toe. She was radiant, like a star on earth. 

A divine creature descended from the Seventh Heaven. 

The Maiden in flesh and bone.

His eye trained on her every movement, his vision a tunnel and she was the light at the end of it. She was the only thing that existed in that room, in that world. Once she reached the ground, her eyes lifted and like a magnetic force they immediately found him. 

There was a ringing in his ear as he became deaf to everything and everyone around him. They were suspended in time the moment their eyes locked onto each other. Aemond’s lips parted as the breath was quite literally stolen from his lungs, and his life flashed before his eyes. All moments in time that he shared with her, as far back as babes. 

Squeals of laughter and delight as they played in the rain and mud, and then ran through the corridor tracking dirt on the flagstone, being chased by two irate Septas. Sitting back to back in a copper tub as the same two women scrubbed them down to their bones. 

Wrestling over the last lemon tart on their shared platter underneath the Heart Tree, getting tangled in the roots as they tugged at each other’s hair and pinched each other’s arms. They always ended up splitting it in the end when Valeana tapped out, huffing in disappointment and ignition. 

Their “discreet and secretive” sleep overs they would have under a large desk in the royal library. Sharing a large pillow and blanket as he practiced his Valyrian to her until she fell asleep on his shoulder. Maester Artos would always find them, barking loud enough to wake them in a startle, causing their heads to bump into each other.

Her face lighting up whenever he presented her with menial gifts, such as shiny rocks, seashells, flowers, or rusted jewelry found on the beaches of Blackwater Rush. She would always make something out of them; pendants, earrings, or unconventionally sewn in an embroidery loop, woven in her art for eternity. 

She running to him in tears after the Greyjoy boy kept on pinching and slapping her behind whenever she had her back turned. He had taken his handkerchief and dried her tears and smoothed down her hair, vowing that he will never let him touch her again. 

And then lastly when his father told him he would be marrying her, his best friend. And his one and only weakness. His pride and fear consumed him then, but now…

Now, as he watched her turn away, her hand poised out to grasp the hand of her elder brother, he was consumed by a new type of fear. The fear of losing her completely, of which his pride now would not allow. 

Valeana Celtigar belonged to him. 

As time took motion once more, the chorus of music and chatter filled his eardrums. Aemond was returned to reality, left to stare at her back as Clement brought his Valeana over to the side, where the rest of her family waited. Aemond forced himself to turn away before he could do anything rash in front of quite literally all of the Realm. 

The first dance of the ball was to begin shortly after the mingling of guests, and it would be followed by the feast, and a parade of fools and entertainers. Aemond intended to reach Valeana before the dance could begin, before Aegon or Jacaerys could reach her. He cut through the crowd in long strides, hyper aware of the eyes of his father, mother, sister, and rogue uncle upon him as he narrowed the space between himself and the Celtigars. However, before he could even get within yards of them, his path was intercepted by Lord Borros and the eager brown eyes of Maris Baratheon. 

“Prince Aemond,” The Stormlord greeted, his smile calculated and false. It didn’t reach his dark eyes, which assessed him with keen suspicion. “I thought you might have lost my beautiful daughter in the crowd, and so I personally escorted her to you.”

Maris looked up at her father in gratitude before back at Aemond, “I told my father it was my wish to take my first dance with you, Prince Aemond. If it pleases you.”

The reality of his decisions of the past few weeks weighed heavily on his shoulders in that instant. Since that moment in the corridor with Valeana the other day, he had forgotten he had shown personal interest in Maris Baratheon. By now Borros  surely was already fixated on the idea of betrothal, else he would not be here carting his daughter to him like a sacrificial lamb. More likely than not, the Stormlord surely had talked to the King about it already, which presented more problems. Had this been a week ago, Aemond would have only hesitated for a moment before bending to duty, should it have been the will of his father and mother. Both of which he knew were against it for some vague reason, given the lecture that was given to both him and Aegon the night of their return.

His eyes flickered above their heads where he could just about make out Valeana, standing partially behind the body of a girl with red hair and a round, plush face. Aegon and Jace crowded them, effectively snuffing out his chance at claiming Val’s first dance.

Aemond’s jaw was tense when he looked back down at Maris, but he forced himself to smile, just enough to make him look convincing. 

“It would please me greatly, Lady Maris,” he extended his hand to her, which she took with a bright smile and casted a look to her father over her shoulder. 

Lord Borros hummed satisfyingly, “Wise choice, my Prince. Next to my little Floris, she is the best dancer at Storm’s End. Beauty, brains, and grace!”

“Father! Please!” Maris chided, taking her place at Aemond’s side. Too close for comfort. Too close for him to look detached.

Separating himself from Maris now was going to be a challenge. The last thing he needed was contention with Borros Baratheon, when in the future his mother and grandsire may need his loyalty.

Aegon was well into his cups before the maidens arrived for the ball, and that was simply due to his nature. A man who quickly found friends among strangers, Aegon was by all accounts a social butterfly, and an avid social drinker. When the maidens started to enter the Great Hall, he leaned against a large pillar casually next to Redwyne brothers, as the four of them each judged every girl that walked in. 

“Ah, Cassandra Baratheon,” Aegon turned to the three men, “Beautiful, but a bore. She complains about every bloody thing.”

“That is unfortunate,” Cleyton, the eldest, tutted. “I like tall women.”

Aegon scrunched up his nose at that, “Do you really? Not for me. I like them short… easier to align their nose with my cock.”

The men laughed and turned back to the parade of women. Jason Lannister’s daughters came in after, hair like spun wheat and looking like clones of each other. 

“I’d take them all, one at a time, or all together, really,” Ser Cedric, the second son, giggled into his cup while his younger brother slapped him in his arm. 

“Such a pig, Cedric. A greedy pig,” Colin chided, earning him an incredulous look from Cedric. 

“You’re one to talk, baby brother. You were ogling the widows like a hunger panged hound.”

Cleyton leaned into Aegon’s shoulder, “He likes older women.”

Aegon’s shoulders shook with a soft laugh, “I do not blame him. Older women often make the most eager sluts.”

“Lady Wylla Stark, Lady Barba Bolton, and Lysara Karstark.” 

“Oh, now she is a work of art,” Cedric stepped forward, his hand gesturing to the raven haired woman descending the stairs. “I always thought Northern women were large, hairy and had beards. Thank the Seven I’m wrong.” 

“I’d be careful with that one,” Aegon said thoughtfully. “She will emasculate you with her eyes alone.” 

Cedric smirked widely, “Sounds like my kind of woman, then. I enjoy a good hunt every once in a while, you know?”

Cleyton snorted, shaking his head, “You forget she’s a Stark; a direwolf. She’s the hunter… And you are a pretty boy with a long stick and shiny hair that you spend too much time on.” 

The boys laughed, even Aegon, as Cedric shook his vibrant mane away from his face haughtily, “Thank you for calling me pretty, brother. You know how it gets me hard.” 

“Good gods,” Colin sighed embarrassingly into his palm. 

Then the doors opened to three women, two tall and willowy with dark brown to black hair in coiled curls and thin braids, and the third a shorter girl in an empire waistline dress and bright orange hair tumbling about her shoulders. Clearly a chubby one, even with the cut of her dress that tried to shield her unwanted curves. 

“Oh, that is simply not fair,” Aegon tutted, “You don’t pair up the thoroughbreds with the mule.” 

“Oi, careful now,” Cleyton rebuked while Cedric made a sharp hissing sound through his teeth before covering his grin with his fist. 

“That’s our sister, my Prince,” Colin quickly added. 

Aegon grimaced, sucking at his teeth as he casted a look over to his new mates, “Sorry. What I mean to say is: Your sister is very lovely.”

The girls were introduced as Lady Sharis and Malora Tyrell, and Lady Catelyn Redwyne, first cousins likely from their mother’s side of the family. 

“Lovely, sure,” Cedric snorted in his cup, earning him a quick whack from his elder brother upside the head. 

It was not long after that the Celtigar sisters were introduced to the crowd. The mere appearance of Valeana was enough to sober Aegon, but only to then get drunk at her visage after. 

“Oh, ho, ho,” Cedric dog whistles and nudges Aegon’s arm, “That’s her then? The Celtigar girl that’s gotten the Princes of the Realm all in a tizzy. Now I can see what the fuss is all about. It’s the only bloody thing Cat, Shar and Mal can ever bleedin’ talk about.”

Aegon grinned, eyes still glued onto Valeana as she descended down the stairs slowly, her sisters trailing ahead of her at a faster pace. 

“The whispers have reached the pavilions then?” Aegon’s eyebrow raised, not paying them a minute of his attention. His teeth grazed his bottom lip as his eyes drank in every inch of her. Her neck, her hair, her bosoms and her cinched waistline. He felt a stir in his loins and the overwhelming desire to taint her white dress by deflowering her took over his senses. 

Her maidenhead will be his. 

He stopped listening to the Redwyne brothers; their prattle was background noise to him as he swallowed the remains of his goblet and quickly shoved it into one of the boys’ empty palms. 

“Excuse me,” he pushed himself from the column, eyes trained on Valeana as she parted from her family to go converse with none other than Catelyn Redwyne, of all people.

As he made his way through the milling bodies, in the corner of his eye he could see another filtering through towards the same destination. His eyes caught his nephew’s, and with a dual glance back at Valeana, the race was on. The two princes cut through the crowd, causing curious looks and shocked whispers at the sight.

“Seven Hells,” Valeana startled when she turned around just in time to see the brown and silver haired princes all but collide with each other. Overwhelmed by the sudden attention, she put Catelyn in front of her to shield her. The redheaded girl did not seem to complain. 

“Good Maiden’s Day, Lady Valeana,” Aegon greeted first, a knowing smile upon his face. “You look resplendent today.”

“Thank you, my Prince,” Val curtsied stiffly. 

“I dare say she always looks resplendent,” Jace smiled, his hands folded neatly in front of him, “But, you do look exceptionally more today, Lady Valeana. White suits you.” 

Aegon sent him a withering look. 

Catelyn turned to Valeana, all wide eyed and gleaming with barely concealed excitement. Aegon didn’t see, but she mouthed: “Three princes?!”

Valeana’s eyes widened slightly at her before returning her attention to the men in front of her, “Prince Aegon, Prince Jacaerys, this is my new friend, Lady Catelyn Redwyne.”

“But, please call me Cat. Everyone does.” 

“Ah, yes, I was just acquainting myself with your brothers,” Aegon bobbed on his feet and smiled politely at her. “Lively lads, them. It is true what they say about the Redwynes; they can drink anyone under the table and still walk in a straight line. A talent I someday wish to have.”

Cat giggled, then gave a soft snort, which caused her to blush heavily and cover her mouth, “Oh! Oh, dear, that was embarrassing.”

Aegon hummed amusingly, smile still donned, “Aren’t you a darling. If I can make a lady laugh to the point of snorting, then I have succeeded in life.”

The four of their heads perked up at the sound of lutes and drums, signalling that the first dance was about to begin. Aegon turned back around, eyes finding Valeana’s His mouth opened, ready to ask her for a dance, but Jace was quicker and his request left no room for refusal. 

“I promised Lady Ursula that you would be the first I asked to dance, Lady Valeana,” Jace stepped forward with an extended hand, his smile charming, “I hope you do not do me a disservice by forcing me to break that promise.” 

Valeana swallowed, looking at Aegon briefly with pained eyes, and then back at Jace. The corners of her lips tugged upward, twitching as she tried to keep a polite face. 

“Well, I would never wish to disappoint my mother,” she placed her hand in his, and he gently pulled her into his orbit. 

Aegon glowered silently, nostrils flared as his finger curled into fists. Jace gave him a smug look of triumph, the end of his lips turning into an insufferable smirk before returning his baseborn brown eyes onto Valeana. She gave Aegon one last look before she disappeared onto the dance floor. 

“Strong bastard,” Aegon hissed, forgetting he was not alone. 

Catelyn laugh-snorted again, then promptly covered her mouth, eyes wide with realization. “Oh no, I should not have laughed at that.”

Aegon’s mood significantly shifted; his smile broadened as he turned to her. “Oh, but I am glad you did,” he tilted his head and offered her his hand. “May I have your first dance, Lady Cat?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE SNEAK PEAK He hummed, his eyes glancing down to the floor where her feet were hidden behind the hem of her dress, and then back up.  “I didn’t see you dancing.” She couldn’t help her eyes from narrowing, “You were watching me?” There was a faint smile there, one that she could not decide if she liked or not. Though what he said after did make her toes tingle and her face feel hot.  “Always.” 

Notes: Oh, where do I begin. You finally get to meet my other babies. If it wasn't obvious already, the heroine for Aegon's Spin Off story has been introduce, along with her brothers and cousins. They party hard at the Arbor, what can I say. I havent decided yet if I'll wait until the end of TPD to post his story yet, but I will warn you guys, that there will be a mia moment of no updates for probably two weeks as I try to work on both of them simultaneously. I've only written the prologue, and I need to make sure I get the timeline right. But that will probably not happen until sometime in November.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel

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Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

[khywren]

❛ pairing: Astarion/f!Tav; Astarion/f!OC (Ysera) ❛ word count: 4.3k ┊ ❛ rating: 18+ MDNI ❛ tags/cw: piv sex, fingering, established relationship, porn with feelings, soft Astarion

‣ preview: Astarion watches the way her face lights up as she speaks about him, affection for her warring with the disappointment he feels that she doesn't extend that same kindness to herself, that she either cannot or does not see herself the way he does. It's a feeling he's all too familiar with. He knows the way those kind of thoughts can fester. If he does nothing else tonight, it will be to ensure that she never has cause to doubt herself like this again.

AO3┊ kinktober 2024 masterlist

Ysera's never been to a fancy ball before. Wyll himself had dropped by their home the week prior at the behest of his father, inviting both her and Astarion to the High Hall to celebrate the one year anniversary of the fall of the Netherbrain. “A most regal affair,” he had called it, a night full of celebration, dancing, and feasting.

Ysera had gladly accepted Wyll’s invitation, realizing only after she had taken a cursory glance at her wardrobe that she had nothing appropriate to wear to the celebration. Astarion had balked when she'd suggested they pay a visit to Figaro to commission something, insisting that he would much rather do it himself (by which he meant properly) than pay the haughty dwarf even a single copper for his services. 

With less than a week before the ball, Astarion had already finished his own ensemble. The jacket alone featured a damask motif embossed into the fabric and hand-embroidered embellishments of gold and silver, both of which would be sure to turn more than a few heads.

Her own gown would be its twin, and although Ysera would have been just as happy in something far less ostentatious, the thought of playing the part of a wealthy noblewoman for the evening did fill her with at least a little excitement. As a child, she'd often daydreamed about what it might be like to live in a fancy palace and spend her days entertaining various lords and ladies, and this was perhaps the closest she'd ever come to fulfilling that childhood dream.

Presently, Astarion kneels before Ysera and busies himself with her gown, measuring and marking as he goes. His brows are knit in concentration, mouth pressed into a thin, taut line. Ysera feels almost swallowed by the amount of lace, tulle, and other fabrics, struggling to see Astarion at all over the voluminous skirts that flow down to her ankles. Her feet hurt from standing for so long, but Astarion had insisted it would be easier for him to properly hem and make adjustments to the garment if she was actually wearing it rather than fussing with it on a mannequin.

Ysera glances sidelong at the mirror beside her, golden eyes tracing the outline of her gown and the intricate details Astarion has embroidered across the bodice, made of the same embroidered fabric as his jacket. The gold and silver thread he's used to accent the dark fabric glimmers in the candlelight, a sea of shimmering stars across a sky of midnight black. The bodice displays just enough of her chest to be tasteful and tapers at her waist, accentuating her curves. The skirts allow her plenty of movement – the only request she had made – almost too full but certainly appropriate for such a high-class celebration.

She should be pleased to wear something so lovely, and yet…

As her eyes drift from the gown to her reflection, her expression sours. Lovely as it is, it only serves to highlight her own imperfections: her face, plain by comparison, the scars that mar her cheek and neck, as well as the other various blemishes that are suddenly glaringly apparent. Her waist and hips have filled in somewhat during the past few months, and her body has lost much of the lean, toned muscle she had acquired while traveling across Faerûn with Astarion and the rest of her companions. The skirts of her gown thankfully conceal most of her lower half, but that doesn't stop her from feeling self-conscious.

The thought occurs to her that maybe Astarion had styled it that way on purpose, to draw attention away from the less appealing parts of her body, but she refuses to entertain such an absurd thought for any longer than necessary.

And it is an absurd thought, isn't it?

The more she looks at herself, the less she likes what she sees. With a soft sigh, she turns her head away, but she can't help but frown. Her own appearance had never been anything of much importance for most of her life. Some of her previous partners had been rather attractive, but none of them had been nearly as handsome as Astarion. And at any rate, most of them had been nothing more than a one-night affair, where looks were largely irrelevant once the lights were out.

Astarion is the only man who's ever made her want to feel pretty. A shame that she hasn't lived up to her own expectations. What must he think when he looks at her? Is he disappointed?

As if he's read her thoughts, Astarion glances up at her, and their eyes meet briefly before she looks away. She prays he hasn't noticed something is off, but to her dismay he clears his throat to get her attention.

“What's the matter, darling?” Astarion asks. His expression softens when her face falls. “Do you not like the gown?”

Ysera shakes her head quietly.

“No,” she replies, her own voice sounding foreign as it comes out small and timid. She tries to smile at him but she can tell by his reaction her face is anything but happy.

“I love it. It's just…” She hesitates out of embarrassment. Finally, she admits to him, “I feel like it might be wasted on someone like me.”

A frown furrows Astarion's brow. He gets to his feet and sets his tools aside, turning his full attention to her. The troubled way he looks at her makes Ysera feel guilty, and she chews absently on her bottom lip.

“What do you mean?” he presses. Astarion's voice is heavy, not with anger or disappointment, but with concern. He takes her hands in his own, leveling a glance at her that she's reluctant to return. She doesn't want to look into his eyes, to see the pain she knows she'll find there. He waits patiently, smoothing his thumbs over the back of her hands.

Talk to me.

“It's beautiful,” Ysera concedes glancing down at his handiwork. Astarion's talents have grown significantly in the past months, and this gown in particular may be his best work yet. But then again, he pays no expense when it comes to her. It's obvious he intends her to make a statement at the ball, one way or another.

“It’s a gown fit for a patriar’s daughter.” She expects him to preen beneath her praise, but his expression remains troubled. Ysera sighs again.

 “And I'm just… well, me.”

Plain. Ordinary. Certainly not worthy of such splendor, even if she is one of the famed heroes who saved the city. She hadn't chosen any of it, of course; she was simply a random victim plucked off of the streets who happened to luck her way into survival.

Astarion tenses and tugs her off the stepstool she's been standing on for the past hour, and her bare feet brush against the floor as she tumbles into his arms, where he catches her. He still hasn't finished fitting her bodice, and the fabric almost slips off her body before Ysera gathers it up and holds her arms around herself to preserve her modesty.

Astarion's eyes widen slightly as if in surprise before narrowing again. She knows he isn't pleased with her assessment.

“When have I ever given you the impression that you were anything short of perfect?”

Ysera's chest tightens at the strained tone in his voice; it's clear he blames himself for her lack of confidence, and she hates the way that makes her feel more than anything. 

“Never,” she assures him. He's been nothing but supportive since the night he first confessed his feelings for her – longer than that, if she really thinks about it. “But you're obligated to –”

Astarion cuts her off with a vehement shake of his head, his frown deepening. She lets him spin her around so they're both facing the mirror, but her attention is trained on Astarion as he stands behind her. 

“I am not obligated to do anything, Ysera.” She can't see his face, but it's easy enough to make a guess about how stern he must look by the sound of his voice. It's a tone that brokers no room for rebuttal.

“Do you remember the night I asked you to be my mirror?”

“Of course,” Ysera says. It's one of her fondest memories, one of the first times he trusted her enough to let the mask slip, if only for a moment. The way he had asked her opinion of him so earnestly, the sadness and longing in his eyes making her second guess everything she thought she knew about him.

Recalling what she'd said to him is effortless. “I remember telling you how much I loved your eyes,” Ysera says. “Your smile. The way you laugh when you tell a particularly awful joke.” Her reflection smiles back at her, beaming as she thinks about everything she loves about him. The list is much longer now then it had been back then, and she takes the time to properly admire every entry she's mentally catalogued during their time together.

Astarion watches the way her face lights up as she speaks about him, affection for her warring with the disappointment he feels that she doesn't extend that same kindness to herself, that she either cannot or does not see herself the way he does.

It's a feeling he's all too familiar with. He knows the way those kind of thoughts can fester. If he does nothing else tonight, it will be to ensure that she never has cause to doubt herself like this again.

With a resigned sigh, Astarion admits to her, “Did you know that at the time, I was convinced that you were simply telling me what I wanted to hear? You wouldn't have been the first person to do so, after all.”

Ysera's mouth opens to refute his words, but a firm squeeze on her shoulder convinces her to listen to whatever else he has to say.

“But the first time I saw myself through your eyes – truly saw myself – I knew then that I had been wrong.”

She had done more than simply tell Astarion what she thought of him that night. With his permission, she had used their tadpoles to let him look through her eyes, to see himself for the first time in two hundred years. Once he had processed exactly what it was he was looking at, had studied every inch of his face and nearly turned away in revulsion, he had felt it: Ysera's affection for him, undeniable and so sincere that he hadn't known what to do with it at the time. He was a monster, and yet she had looked at him without a trace of fear or hatred in her heart.

“Of course you were,” Ysera says in protest. “You're –”

Astarion clicks his tongue in disapproval and shakes his head.

“Shh,” he scolds her, not unkindly. His arms wrap around her waist from behind as he molds his body to hers, chest flat against her back. He rests his chin on her shoulder. The fabric of her gown bunches beneath his arms, but without his reflection she can't see the tender way he holds her as she stares at herself in the mirror.

“This isn't about me, love,” he murmurs, sensing her distress. It's not the first time he's wished they were still tadpoled, this time so he could show her just how perfectly she fits in his embrace.

Astarion presses a chaste kiss to her cheek.

“Now… would you like to know what I see when I look at you?”

Ysera’s breath hitches, and she considers his offer.

“Yes,” she breathes, after a time, voice hardly above a whisper. She cranes her head to look at him, but he gently guides her attention back to her reflection, insistent that she does not look away. It pains him that she still thinks so little of herself after all this time.

“I see a woman who is kind and resilient,” he tells her, “who isn't afraid to throw herself head first into danger to protect the people she cares about.” The ribbon holding back her hair comes free with a quick tug, and her pink tresses spill over her shoulders and frame her face.

Astarion continues: “I see someone who was dealt an extraordinarily bad hand but kept fighting, despite the odds against her. And most importantly… I see someone who is loved.”

There are tears welling in her eyes when Ysera turns in his arms. She lets go of the dress, and without the additional support the loose fabric falls gracefully to her feet in a pool of inky black, leaving her in nothing but her underthings as she takes Astarion's face in her hands and kisses him. His mouth yields effortlessly to her, opening enough so that she can sweep her tongue between his lips and show him just how grateful she is for his kindness. He kisses her back, slow and soft.

“Don't sell yourself short, darling,” Astarion says, capturing her chin between his thumb and forefinger when they part for breath. His eyes are a deep, dazzling red, half-lidded and full of longing. “I won't hear another word of it.”

Ysera blinks away her tears and looks up at him. She can't help the grin that spreads across her face, the way her heart seizes in her chest as his words finally begin to sink in. Oh, how she loves him.

“Thank you, Astarion.”

“Oh,” Astarion says with a huff of laughter, fangs gleaming as he throws her a playful smile. He scoops her into his arms and sets her on the edge of his work table amongst the array of sketches and bolts of fabric scattered across the polished surface. “You thought I was finished?”

Ysera's face grows hot beneath his scrutiny. She should be cold, dressed in so little clothing, but the way Astarion looks at her makes her whole body feel warm and tingly. 

“I haven't even told you about those striking golden eyes of yours,” Astarion murmurs, “and the way they blaze more brightly than the sun.” He cups her face with his hand, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the jagged scar beneath her eye. “Or your scars that remind me of how strong you are.” He can see the effect that particular compliment has on her almost immediately. Ysera leans into his gentle touch, the coolness of his skin, and sighs.

“And here…” He presses his fingertip between her covered breasts, dragging it slowly down her stays. Ysera flushes a deep red and squirms in embarrassment.

Astarion laughs in amusement. “Your heart , love,” he says, rolling his eyes dramatically. “What did you think I meant?”

She pouts at him, but it's all for show. He loves to tease her, and she makes it so easy for him. After a moment, Astarion places his broad hands on either side of her ribcage and slowly drags them down her body. Ysera shivers as gooseflesh blooms in their wake. His eyes have darkened slightly, and when the candlelight catches them she sees shades of black interspersed between ruby reds.

Astarion's fingers sink into the soft swell of her hips, tender but possessive. She bites back a noise but can't completely conceal the soft moan that escapes her lips.

“Those gorgeous hips of yours,” Astarion says now, “so perfect for digging my hands into when I kiss you.” To substantiate his claims, he dips his head to capture her mouth in a searing kiss, tongue pressing against the seam of her lips before she opens for him. He hums in approval, kissing her with a slow, purposeful intensity as his tongue explores her mouth, savoring the taste of her.

He pulls away just as Ysera's eyes flutter closed, leaving her breathless and panting slightly. Astarion's gaze lingers on her face a moment longer before trailing downward, admiring every inch of her body before halting between her legs. Ysera follows his line of sight and flushes again when she realizes where he's looking.

Astarion's voice is low and playful when he says, “And don't even get me started on your –”

Ysera swats at him before he can finish, too embarrassed to hear him say the words. “Astarion!”

The corner of his mouth quirks upwards, brows raised. She laughs softly and gives him an apologetic glance. 

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Her tail twirls happily, not a trace of her earlier uncertainty still present in her expression. Like a wilting flower exposed to sunlight after languishing in the darkness, Astarion's affirmations have breathed new life into her.

She really is beautiful. And he would very much like to kiss her again.

So he does. This time there is more passion in his movements, and she slips a hand into his hair as her ankles lock behind the small of his back to pull him closer. 

With one hand still anchored on her hip, Astarion takes her other hand and guides it between his legs. Her breath catches when she feels his hardening erection, the outline of it stiff beneath his trousers. He breaks the kiss and keeps his face close to hers, close enough for her to hear the growl in his voice.

“Do you see what you do to me, Ysera?” he says to her. “How badly I want you? How much I need you?” She brushes her hand over his clothed cock and exhales another sigh. Her golden eyes are wide, pupils blown as she looks up at him and nods quietly. 

“My beautiful girl,” Astarion says, and it's somehow this above all his other praises that makes her heart flutter. Her hands lift to the buttons on his waistcoat at the same time he reaches behind her back to unbind her breasts, and in only a few short moments they've undressed each other completely. Ysera's eyes are everywhere: his sculpted torso, his nimble hands; the perfect angles of his face, and of course his cock, now fully hard and eager for her.

The way her eyes rove hungrily over his body stirs something deep inside him. He wants her – gods, does he ever want her – but he can be patient. For her, he can do anything, will do anything.

Ysera's legs part with only a little coaxing as Astarion slips between them, their bodies flush together as he positions himself in such a way that her head rests comfortably on his shoulder. When her vision focuses, Ysera sees he's purposely positioned her to watch herself in the mirror she had been so hesitant to look into before – to see how she looks at the peak of her pleasure.

Without Astarion’s reflection to interfere, her full body is on display, and she stares anxiously at herself as Astarion commands, “Don't look away, my love.”

She swallows and nods, composure broken the moment Astarion's hand works its way between her thighs and his fingers part her folds. A sharp gasp tears itself from her throat when he brushes past her entrance, gathering her arousal and spreading it along the path he traces to her clit. As his fingers spread her open, Ysera struggles not to squeeze her eyes shut, whimpering when he teases the bundle of nerves with gentle passes of his dexterous fingers. He is gentle and patient, pleasuring her for the sake of her own enjoyment over his own.

Ysera's hands settle around his back and she clings tightly to him. Astarion has her moaning incoherently before long, but she keeps her eyes trained ahead, even though her vision swims. The hand not currently occupied between her legs traces the curve of her spine, his blunt nails dragging a path down her back as she arches into him.

“Are you watching, Ysera?”

Ysera murmurs the closest thing she can to a “yes,” fascinated by the way her body accommodates the two fingers he begins to press into her dripping cunt. Her thighs tremble as he sheathes them inside her and caresses the spot inside her that ignites every nerve ending in her body with pleasure. The sounds she makes are music to his ears.

Ysera watches as Astarion pumps his fingers inside her, dragging soft whimpers from her throat each time he pulls out before pressing in deep once again. He is silent but for the occasional groan when her walls clench around his fingers, careful not to distract her from her reflection. Each time he spreads her open she can see the arousal gathered between her thighs, how eager her body is for more of him.

Only someone as intimately familiar with her body and its needs as Astarion is could bring her this much pleasure. He remembers what she likes because he loves her, because she is important. Because he wants her to enjoy every second of their time together.

“I am not obligated to do anything,” he had said.

Ysera's heart constricts in her chest before fluttering beneath her ribs like a caged bird. He knows she's finally beginning to understand.

“That’s my girl,” Astarion purrs. “Are you ready for me? I want you to see how stunning you look when I'm inside you.”

“Uh-huh.”

As soon as she gives her consent, Astarion pulls away from her, just enough to line his cock up with her entrance as he spreads her arousal over his length. Her mouth falls open as he slips his fingers over her tongue, letting her taste herself before he kisses her again. Ysera's eyes fly open as he pushes himself inside. Her body barely has to adjust to the intrusion, the combination of her wetness and his earlier efforts more than enough to make it easy for him to sink himself to the hilt.

Astarion meets her gaze briefly before she looks over his shoulder once more. Her body rocks in time with his thrusts as he fucks into her and messages her breasts in his hands. It's much easier for her to abandon her intrusive thoughts when he's lavishing so much enthusiastic attention on her, reassuring her that his praises are far more than just empty words.

His cock stretches her wide each time his hips roll forward, burying himself inside her inviting heat. There is no urgency to his rhythm, and she can feel every inch of his cock that much more precisely as he makes love to her – and that's what it is, for there are no other words to describe how gently he holds her, how focused he is on pouring his passion into every thrust of his hips, every open-mouthed kiss he places across her neck.

“Look how well you take me, Ysera,” he groans into her ear. “We were made for this – for each other.”

How could it be anything but true? She can see the evidence of it herself, there in the mirror, how her body molds to him, his precome and her own slick glistening between her parted thighs as he makes her feel so complete. Her face is contorted in pleasure, slicked with sweat, hair damp and clinging to her shoulders. 

When Astarion releases her to place one hand on her hip, her breasts bounce freely between their bodies. His other hand grips her chin, averting her gaze back to his face. 

“Do you understand now?” he pants. Astarion looks at her with a strange sort of reverence, his gaze soft and intense all at once. 

“Yes,” Ysera breathes. “Yes, Astarion.” Flawed though she may be, that is why he loves and admires her – not in spite of her imperfections but because of them. There is no one else like her, no one who even comes close. And if ever she should doubt herself again, this night will be the only reminder she needs that her fears are completely unfounded.

“I'm sorry,” she apologizes, throwing her legs around his back and tightening the grip of her arms around him. Astarion sighs and offers her an affectionate smile before shaking his head.

“Hush, darling,” he says. “You've nothing to apologize for. I've lived long enough without a reflection that I know how easy it can be to lose sight of yourself. My only regret is that I didn't notice sooner.”

Astarion slots his mouth against hers as they share a tender kiss, and Ysera's hands rise to cup Astarion's face as he begins to move faster, their soft moans muffled in the infinitesimally small space between them. His cock rubs against that sensitive spot inside her, building her pleasure to a blissful crescendo. Each of her moans is swallowed by Astarion's hungry kisses, the hand on her chin sliding into her hair to keep her close.

Their eyes lock in the final moments before she comes undone, hands threading through Astarion's soft white curls as she gasps his name like a prayer. He follows her with a groan, emptying himself inside her as they both ride out their orgasms together.

In the silence that follows, Astarion rests his forehead against hers, reveling in their closeness and the familiar sound of her heart as it calms its wild pace.

“I love you,” she says.

Astarion smirks at her through his fangs.

“I know.”

Ysera exhales loudly, and Astarion can feel the crease in her brow as she pouts at him. Her tail slips behind his back, and she gives him a good whack. “Stubborn man. Wonderful. Terribly handsome. But still stubborn.”

Astarion laughs to himself in satisfaction and presses an apologetic kiss to the tip of her nose.

“I love you too, darling.”

[mintywolf]

Her unsteady glance about herself doesn’t catch on a blue damask evening gown, but everything is only a blur of unfocused shapes and bright colors. She draws in a stuttering gasp, and then another, as gradually her surroundings begin to resolve themselves into a bewilderingly comfortable living room and the oddest assortment of people she has ever seen. ... They all look worn and bone-weary, but alive with expectant joy. They are all staring at her intently. They are strangers. -- 33 years ago Matilda made a dying pact in the arms of her murderer. Now that pact lies sundered by a lightning strike, and her soul with it. Waking again in the arms of loving strangers who seem to regard her as family, she tries to put together the pieces of the life she can't remember and what she means to the people around her.

Remember Us, a story about memory (and its loss), fake marriage, real marriage, family, home, the passage of time, resurrection, and ears, is now complete!

(I never did manage to finish all the chapter illustrations I had planned to do but here are a few. Maybe more in the future!)

[simulatedstyles]

Louis-XV-Inspired Robe De Cour

A Maxis-Match Formal Court Gown

Hello my sweeties! I'm so proud to release this gown for all of your 18th-century saves. This has been in my WIP folder for so SO long, and after a bit of a hiatus from creating, I'm so happy I could finish it for you! This gown was inspired by the many portraits of King Louis XV's daughters in their formal court attire.

As usual, I've created different overlay accessories to maximize your customization options in-game. Through different combos of gown color and overlays, there are literally over 100 billion unique looks for this dress... 🤯 I cannot WAIT to see what you can come up with!

Here's What You Get:

70 Swatches in @anachrosims Georgian & Federal Palette

BGC

Teen-Elder, Female-Frame, Disabled For Random

Includes all LODs, morphs, shadow map, specular, normal map, & custom thumbnails

Mesh & Textures entirely from scratch!

* Disclaimer: given the sheer size of this mesh, along with the detailing of the sleeves, this content is much higher-poly than my previous content! (16k to be exact, but still lower-poly than some other alpha cc) ** Disclaimer 2: true to historical accuracy, the skirt is quite large on this gown! I've done my best with sims' arm placement, but please expect some clipping now and then.

70 swatches each in matching palette

All located in Facial Piercings category of Head Accessories

Only compatible with Robe De Cour

When using these overlays, the original swatch color chosen for the full body outfit remains as the main color of the bodice and train. You can then fully layer these overlays for different combinations of bodice detail color, bow color, petticoat color, bodice/train damask pattern, and/or petticoat damask pattern.

Download either the Individual Package Files or Merged Package File

[jewellery-box]

Green silk damask gown from the 1740s

Fashion Museum Bath

[pyat-pree]

« Four burly slaves hurried forward, bearing between them a great cedar chest bound in bronze. When she opened it, she found piles of the finest velvets and damasks the Free Cities could produce … and resting on top, nestled in the soft cloth, three huge eggs. […]

The khal's bloodriders offered her the traditional three weapons, and splendid weapons they were. Haggo gave her a great leather whip with a silver handle, Cohollo a magnificent arakh chased in gold, and Qotho a double-curved dragonbone bow taller than she was. […]

Other gifts she was given in plenty by other Dothraki: slippers and jewels and silver rings for her hair, medallion belts and painted vests and soft furs, sandsilks and jars of scent, needles and feathers and tiny bottles of purple glass, and a gown made from the skin of a thousand mice. » AGOT Dany II

Dothraki wedding presents!!! I love everything that makes the world feel vast and populated and lived in. This is a bit outside of my wheelhouse, but i had a lot of fun coming up with these designs <3

[frostedmagnolias]

A beaded aubergine silk gown

c. 1880

“aubergine damask shot silk, woven with swirling dark blue, red, and yellow designs, the bodice trimmed with multicoloured seed beads and red glass beads in an ornate design, with navy blue bow detail and cuffs, lined in navy blue faille, with full skirt pleated to rear and train”

Kerry Taylor Auctions