#noble artisans

[genshin-impact-updates]

Chivalrous Shadow, Shrouded in Cloud

"A new resident in the city, you say? Oh, it's Cloud— I mean, Xianyun. Don't be fooled by her usual manner... She's someone you can truly rely on when the going gets tough. If you ever find yourself in trouble, just tell her — I'm sure she'd be willing to help."

— Madame Ping

◆ Name: Xianyun

◆ Title: Passerine Herald

◆ New Resident in Liyue Harbor

◆ Vision: Anemo

◆ Constellation: Grus Serena

Everyone has something to say about Xianyun: "That tall woman with the updone hair," "that bespectacled artisan," or perhaps "that talkative new neighbor." They all say different things, but together they paint a picture of the impression she leaves — of someone who's witty, chatty, warm-hearted, and easy to get along with.

But that's not how Xianyun sees herself. In her own eyes, she's inarticulate, reserved, and unyieldingly proud. Aside from her mastery of mechanics and knack for making all kinds of little trinkets, it's an entirely different image from how others would describe her.

Some curious individuals, seeing how her mannerisms and bearing set her apart from ordinary folk, are convinced that she's a heroine — so they go around trying to uncover her heroic backstory and whether she goes by any other names.

Ask the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor's consultant, and with a wave of his hand, he'd say: "Xianyun? We're not well acquainted, but going by her name, she sounds like a good person."

Ask Madame Ping from Yujing Terrace, and she'd nod and reply: "Xian... Oh, Xianyun? We've crossed paths, yes... She's a good person, you know. Once you've met, you'll find that your days seem to go by much more smoothly."

Ask Ganyu, and she'd nod too: "She is a heroine, but a very discreet one — hence why she's living incognito in Liyue Harbor."

Ask Shenhe, and she'd respond pensively: "Xianyun... Of course, she's a master. Whatever you do, you must not offend her."

As it turns out, such speculations are not wrong. There's far more to Xianyun than meets the eye, but those who know the full story are few indeed. If someone was to address her as "Cloud Retainer"... Well, people would know her instantly, and you'd hear a torrent of praise flow her way: "Who doesn't know Cloud Retainer? Noble, brave, loyal, and wise... A most worthy friend if ever there was one!"

So try asking Xianyun herself then: "Are you a heroine? Surely you're not... an adeptus?"

You catch the new resident just as she's working on her latest invention, her pride and joy — what she calls an "Exquisite Mini Broth Pot." She's too absorbed to take the question seriously, so she simply waves it off as a load of old nonsense and tells you not to bother her while she's busy.

As for what exactly an Exquisite Mini Broth Pot is... No one really knows, other than having been told that it brings out flavors much better than a regular soup pot. Likewise, none would know how profoundly it might impact Liyue Harbor's future gastronomic development. Suffice to say — if Xianyun says it'll be impressive, it'll be impressive alright.

#genshin impact #genshin impact updates #genshin impact news #official #xianyun #cloud retainer #HELLOOOOOO MA'AM

[spider-stark]

PRECIPICE

Aegon II Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary - Forced to attend a stuffy ball, you find yourself hiding beneath a table with Aegon.

Warnings - implied targcest as always

Word Count - 4.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

The delicious aroma of roast mutton is wafting over you as you pass one of the many long serving tables lining the walls of the ballroom. Your gaze drags along the vast spread that has been prepared for tonight; a variety of artisan breads, cooked meats, and candied desserts are laid out upon silver serving dishes. 

As you reach the end of the first table, a pile of lemon cakes snag your attention. Neatly stacked atop an ornate porcelain platter, the cakes are coated in a thin glaze that shimmers in the light. Your mouth instantly begins watering at the sight, your stomach growling in a way that would be deemed improper for a Lady. 

Beside you, holding a plate that has been loaded with mashed potatoes and honeyed chicken, Jace turns his head to cock a brow at you.

“Hungry?” He asks, chuckling softly. 

You suck in a deep breath before forcefully tearing your gaze from the cakes. “Extremely.” 

It takes an enormous amount of will power to turn away from the serving table while still empty-handed, but you somehow manage to do just that. Having hardly even walked a few steps, though, Jace is abandoning his plate to rush after you, softly seizing your wrist to keep you from moving any further. 

“If you’re hungry, then you should eat.” 

His concern is obvious, not only through his tone, but his expression as well. With his furrowed brow and tight-mouthed frown, you’re fairly certain that he’s already considering the consequences of dragging you back to the table and feeding you himself if need be. 

Jace had always been that way—not only with you, but with everyone. He was kind hearted and considerate to fault. 

“I would,” you smile, shaking your head slightly to dismiss his concern, “but I’m afraid that if I do, I might very well pop right on out of this ridiculously tight corset.” 

You wave an idle hand down to your waist, unnaturally cinched by the intricate lacing and boning of the garment beneath your evergreen gown. His eyes follow the motion, tracing along the intense curve, lingering for a moment too long. 

The explanation seems to wash away much of his concern, relieved to know that discomfort was the only reason you had chosen to abstain from the treats being served. Even so, a touch of empathy remains, accompanied by the faintest hint of desire gleaming in his amber gaze. 

Amber—an unusual color for a boy of Velaryon blood. His eyes were one of the many reasons that your mother, the Queen Alicent, felt so confident in labeling Princess Rhaenyra’s boys as bastards behind closed doors. And, if you were being honest with yourself, you knew that there was likely truth to her claims. Your nephews probably were bastards—but you didn’t particularly care. 

Jace was nice to you, and that was all that had ever mattered to you. 

He clears his throat, realizing that he had been gawking at your body for far longer than he should. “It looks uncomfortable,” the words spill out without permission, and you nearly laugh when his eyes go wide. “That didn’t come out right, nothing about it actually looks uncomfortable—it looks stunning! I mean, you look stunning! It’s just that, I don’t know, I imagine that having something squeeze you so tightly might be-” 

“Jace, it’s okay! Truly,” you interrupt his rambling with a soft giggle. “You should know that I’m not so easily offended,” you playfully chide. “Besides, you’re right. It is quite uncomfortable!” 

Actually, quite felt like an enormous understatement. But you didn’t figure that Jace was particularly interested in hearing about how your breasts were aching from being roughly shoved up by the tight garment. 

Jace looses a breath, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Then why bother wearing them? Many noble-women go without corsets. Even my mother hardly ever wears one—she believes they’re vile things that only aid in the objectification of ladies.” 

Your brows rise, agreeing with the claims of your half-sister. But then you let your attention shift to the dais, meeting the rough stare of the reason why you had been forced into the tortuous garb—your mother. 

She’s already watching you when you meet her eye, her lip curled as she sends you a pointed look, silently urging you away from your nephew. It takes a great deal of effort not to shrink beneath the weight of her attention, and you’re beyond grateful for the group of women who shuffle past you towards the dance floor, giving you an excuse to break the hold she has on you. 

“I wear it because my mother wishes for all of her children to look their best,” you answer, shifting your focus back onto Jace. “And who am I to disappoint the Queen?” 

He notes the sudden callousness of your tone, as well as the way you clasp your hands together at your waist, fidgeting with the golden ring on your index finger. He doesn’t bother asking if you’re okay, however, knowing well enough that you were not—and already knowing why, as well. 

You imagine that Jace doesn’t much like your mother; both for her part in the rumors spread about him and his brothers and for the way she has treated his mother. 

It makes you upset in a strange way, a part of you always wishing to defend the Queen, no matter how abhorrent her actions. After all, she was your mother—whether you like it or not—and you knew very well that if someone were to try to hurt you or your siblings, then she would gladly lay her life on the line for you. 

You were thankful for her; even if her protection hurt, even if her maternal love only exists when your life is at stake.  

“Speaking of your siblings,” Jace suddenly notes, veering slightly off-subject as his own stare drifts towards the dais, “how did Aegon manage to weasel his way out of attending tonight?” 

Your brows snap together before letting your head snap back towards the dais, managing to avoid your mother’s nasty stare this time by looking to her right, taking note of each of your siblings. 

Aemond is sat directly by her side, his posture rigid as his eye scans across the room, alert and on-guard as usual. Next to him is Helaena, leisurely picking at her plate of food and mindlessly bobbing her head along to the symphony being played for court musicians. Daeron, who your mother insisted fly Tessarion here from Oldtown so that he might be present for tonight, is sat next to your empty chair, making idle chatter with those around him. 

But Aegon’s chair, sat between yours and Helaena’s, is vacant. 

A knot forms in your stomach when you look back at Aemond, his piercing violet eye catching yours, gleaming with a silent order—find our imbecile brother before he makes a fool of us all. 

You give him a curt nod before looking away, head whirling as you begin searching the crowd around you for any sign of your eldest brother. 

“Simple,” you huff, “he didn’t.” 

Jace hums his understanding as you politely excuse yourself, turning away from him to begin shoving through the throng of people filling the room. 

You decline invitations to dance and spout excuses as to why you can’t stop to chat as you push past noblemen-and-women from various Houses, trying to maintain the pleasant persona your mother favored while still moving fast enough that you might find Aegon before he finds any new ways to publicly bring shame upon the Targaryen name.  

It’s exhausting work—and by the time you have shoved yourself to the other end of the room without finding him, you nearly consider giving up. Your chest hurts and your scalp is itching from being poked and prodded by a dozen or so pins, all of which had been meticulously placed by servants to arrange plaits into a fanciful half-updo. 

In many ways, you look like your mother; with your elaborate hairstyle and green dress, the look is tied together by a pendant of the Seven-Pointed Star dangling from your neck. 

And, in many ways, you hate it. 

Much to the Queen’s dismay, you’ve never much liked the elegant styles preferred by many women at court. No, instead you spent much of your time donning mail with your hair lazily pulled back, joining Aemond for practice in the training yard. 

She hated how unrefined you were, how indelicate you were; fearful for how others at court might view you for it, for how much attention you might draw to yourself. 

You blow out a sigh, resisting the urge to pull all of the pins from your hair as you will yourself to keep walking, to keep looking for Aegon. A table overflowing with carafes of arbor wine and flagons of ale catches your attention, setting off alarm bells in your mind. 

If Aegon were going to choose anywhere to hide at this godsforsaken ball, then it would certainly be in close proximity to the alcohol. 

A cacophony of laughter and clinking goblets surrounds you as you approach, scanning over rows of bottles and skimming the faces of those nearby. Spinning your ring on your finger, you walk along the entire length of the long serving table, disappointed when you reach the end of it and find that your brother is still nowhere in sight. 

Chewing on your cheek, you fight the urge to pour yourself a drink when you notice a carafe of blackberry wine. The plum colored liquid seems to call your name, singing promises of sweet oblivion, an escape from the restless feeling clawing at your chest. 

You’re out of place here in court, and you always have been—you know that, and you worry that everyone around you knows, too. 

Sensical enough to recognize that alcohol would likely just exacerbate your current ill-feelings, you shun the carafe and turn towards the grand entrance. Lifting your chin and squaring your shoulders, you try to appear more composed than you feel as you saunter towards the large wooden doors. 

If Aegon had snuck off with one of the serving girls, then there was a good chance that he was still somewhere in the hall, either flirting or feeling up their skirts. And, if you were wrong, then at least he had provided you with an excuse to slip away from this mess of a ball. 

As you pass by the last serving table, the platters and dishes atop it already thoroughly picked over, you feel someone tug at your dress. You whirl around, a fiery retort already falling off your tongue, fully intending to rip into whoever had found the audacity to touch you without permission—only to find yourself insulting the air. 

There was no one there, at least not close enough to have touched you. 

For a heartbeat you begin to reel, wondering if you’ve started to lose your mind before feeling the sensation again. A sharp tug at the fabric, just by your knee. Your head snaps down towards your dress, covering your mouth before a gasp can slip your lips. 

An arm is peeking out from beneath one of the finely embellished tablecloths, and a well-groomed hand is clutching your skirts. You instantly recognize the hand as Aegon’s, having become intimately familiar with your brother’s touch throughout your life. 

Taking a step closer to the covered table, you try to look natural as you hunch over it slightly to get closer to his level, feigning an interest in a half-eaten roast duck. 

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing, Aegon?!” Your voice is hushed, not quite a whisper, but low enough so that no one other than him might hear. 

Releasing his hold on your skirts, Aegon lifts the tablecloth a little higher, revealing his face. “Get under here,” he tilts his head, motioning for you to join him beneath the table. 

“No!” 

He swiftly presses a finger to his lips in response to your incredulous shout, shushing you. You stiffen, nervously flicking your eyes to each side, checking to ensure that no one had heard you. Fortunately, the courtiers around you appear far too invested in their conversations and drinks to notice how you appear to have shouted at a roast duck. 

Aegon’s lilac eyes are wide, pleading as he shoves the tablecloth up higher, giving you more room to slip beneath it. “Would you just shut up and come?” 

It’s the sheer urgency of his tone that piques your interest, although you wish that it hadn’t. You huff out an annoyed sigh, taking another look around the room before gathering up your skirts and sinking to your knees, crawling underneath the table. 

Once you’ve successfully sat down beside him on the stone floor, he drops the cloth, shielding the two of you from any prying eyes. The material is thin enough that it allows some light to pass through it, very dimly illuminated Aegon’s grinning face, all urgency having suddenly vanished. 

“Welcome,” he almost sounds breathless, the word airy—and utterly unnecessary. 

You can faintly see the rosy coloring of his cheeks, a few messy silver waves tumbling across his face, and you’re immediately willing to bet that he’s extremely buzzed. “What are you doing, Aeg?” 

Your tone is firm, but there’s a certain gentleness to it that was specially reserved for your eldest brother. While you maintain that you love all three of them equally, it’s undeniable that your relationship with Aegon has always been… different. 

He reaches to his side, lifting a carafe from the ground beside him. “Having a party,” he says, raising it towards your face and playfully swirling the garnet colored liquid. 

“I’m unsure if you’re aware,” you motion towards the cloth shrouding you from the bustling ballroom, “but our mother has already planned quite the celebration for tonight—and she likely does not wish for it to be ruined by her drunkard son ducking beneath tables like an imbecile!” 

Aegon pokes his bottom lip out into a pout. “Why must you assume that I am drunk?” 

“Because you’re you,” you drone, cocking your head at him, “and you are always drunk.” 

Rolling his eyes, he sits the carafe down on the ground between you. There are only mere inches separating the two of you, both of you squeezing your limbs close to your body to avoid having a foot peek out from beneath the table. Sitting this close to him, you can smell the sweetness of the arbor red of his breath—as well as the faintest hint of sulfur, a sign that he had clearly gone riding on Sunfyre earlier and had failed at washing off the dragon’s strong scent. 

You take another breath, inhaling the smell of him into your lungs. It was familiar—comfortable, urging your taut muscles to slacken in his presence. 

“And what if I told you that I am sober right now?” 

A snort escapes you, sparing him an incredulous look. “Then I would call you a liar,” you tell him, tapping a finger against the rim of the half-empty carafe. 

His stare drops down towards it, watching as the liquid ripples when you pull your hand back. When he looks back up, he’s wearing a crooked smile that makes your heart flutter. “Mostly sober, then.” 

It’s nearly impossible to stifle your laugh, clamping a hand over your mouth so that you might muffle the sound and prevent passersby from becoming suspicious. The sound only makes his smile grow wider and more genuine, an expression that he graced very few people with. 

“I’ll ask again,” you say, speaking only when you're confident that no more laughter will tumble out. “Why are you down here? If mother finds out then she will be furious and-” 

Aegon tosses his head back, cutting you off with a groan. “Mother will be furious no matter what,” 

Disdain drips from each syllable, thickening the air around you. He didn’t like talking about her much, and you couldn’t blame him for it. Of all your siblings, Aegon had been dealt the worst hand, simply by being born first. He got the brunt of your mothers vile behavior; and you hated that, too. 

“Because,” lazily rolling his neck so that he can look at you again, he answers, “I’d rather spend my night under here,” he flicks a hand up, lazily gesturing around himself, “than be forced to sit through even one more tedious speech from some ancient Lord of gods-know-where!” 

You bite your tongue, holding back another laugh. 

“And,” he continues, nodding in your direction, “I am now saving you from the same mundane fate. You’re welcome.” 

“What makes you think that I needed your saving?” You ask, brows rising. 

Aegon purses his lips, placing a finger against his chin as he feigns contemplation, studying the intricate styling of your hair, the modest long-sleeved gown, and the Star resting against your covered breasts. “Perhaps it was that our mother has you dressed up as though you’re an aspiring Septa.” 

Thinking of the plain women, with their simple gowns and traditional head coverings, you nearly laugh again as you ask, “How many Septa’s do you know that wear corsets and jewelry, brother?” 

“None,” he admits, shoulders lifting into an indolent shrug. “Though, if they looked more like you, then I might finally have a reason to attend prayer. Beautiful women would be more than enough to turn me into a pious man.” 

A warmth creeps up your neck as blood rushes to your cheeks, unsure if his statement was meant as a compliment—was he saying that he found you beautiful? If so, it shouldn’t have been a particularly shocking revelation. After all, Aegon had complimented you before, many times. 

In all fairness, however, most of those times had been when he was thoroughly besotted. He had a habit of sneaking into your rooms and practically draping himself off of you, muttering drunken nonsense about how breathtaking you were. You had never placed much truth in the statements though, assuming that Aegon likely didn’t even recognize who he was speaking to, much less whose bed he had crawled into. 

But even if this was a genuine and mostly sober attempt at complimenting you, the flattery of it doesn’t last nearly long enough. Your own insecurity washes back over you far quicker than you like, reminding you of just how unlike yourself you currently feel. 

“I do not believe that anything would be capable of turning you into a pious man,” you joke, trying and failing to cover up the melancholy that has settled into your bones. “Not even beautiful women.” 

“You could.” 

The answer comes far too quick, spilling from his tongue with an eagerness that even seems to catch him by surprise. 

“Though, I must say, for as exquisite as this dress makes you look,” his hand reaches across the short expanse dividing you, mindlessly running his fingers along the fabric covering your shoulder, “I much prefer the way look in armor—sweaty skin, messy hair, sword in-hand—all of it.” 

Your breath catches in your throat as his touch drifts towards the center of your chest, fingers dragging along the thin chain leading to your pendant, lifting the Star into his palm. He stares at it for a moment before yanking it roughly from your neck, grinning when you yelp. “But this,” he lifts the Seven-Pointed Star slightly, “I absolutely hate.” 

With that, he tosses it from underneath the table, sending it skittering across the floor beyond the tablecloth. 

Your jaw drops open, a hand pressed against the now-sore spot along the back of your neck. Despite yourself, your lips start to curve into a playful smile. You try fighting against it, try pressing them into a firm line, but fail. “Mother will not be happy about that-” 

“She’s never happy,” Aegon interjects. His own expression shifts, the line on his forehead deepening as he says, “Do not let yourself bear her misery. Life is too short—and you deserve more than that.” 

A palpable silence is thickening the air, and your breathing seems to synchronize as you simply stare at one another. 

Slowly, nervously, you say, “I’m not sure what it is that I deserve,” 

“You deserve,” he pauses, lips still parted despite the absence of speech. Then, swallowing back the words that had been building in his throat, he says, “you deserve whatever it is that you want, sister.” 

Your hand falls from your neck into your lap, and you avert your gaze, watching your fingers as they fidget with your ring. “And what if I do not know what I want?” 

Once, you had thought that you wanted a life like Jaces. A happy life, with a mother that knew how to love you and siblings that hadn’t been raised in fear of their half-sister ascending the throne, taught that their very existence was a threat to her power. But, suddenly, you felt as though you were no longer sure. 

Aegon hesitates, watching you carefully. His lilac eyes appear as though they’re searching for something within your own—a hint of recognition, or reciprocation. If he found what he was looking for, then you were unaware. “Then you’ll figure it out,” he sighs, his smile not reaching his eyes. “You have all the time in the world to decide.” 

There is something reassuring about his statement, making it resonate with you in a way that you hadn’t expected. You look up, holding his gaze for a heartbeat, then two, and you almost swear that you can see it—the silent invitation, the plea to delve deeper into his words, to decipher exactly what it was that he was promising you. 

You have all the time in the world—all the time in the world to decide if he might ever be something you want. 

Suddenly you find yourself dancing on the edge of a precipice, chest tightening as you grapple with the idea that, maybe, something more might exist between you and Aegon. 

That, maybe, he had always known who he was complimenting and what bed he was slipping into. 

That, for him, it had always been you. 

“Aegon, I-” 

He shakes his head, cutting you off before you have a chance to say something that he fears you may regret. Then, sliding the carafe between you to the side, he scoots closer. “If you plan on staying under my table,” he teases, clearing his throat, “then we need to do something about your hair.” 

“I thought you said I looked exquisite?” You stay still as he starts toying with the strands, trying to swallow the tumult of your own emotions. 

Aegon’s plucking various pins from your hair, tossing them to the ground. “Yes, but I also said that I prefer your hair when it’s messy. It’s more…” he sucks in a breath, unable to hide the admiration swelling in his chest when he finally exhales, “you.” 

Your cheeks are burning hot, and you’re suddenly very thankful for the lack of light around you. On instinct, you almost tell him how your mother wouldn’t agree—but then you think better of it. 

“You’re… generous.” 

Something about your voice sounds foreign in your ears. You sound nervous—and you’re not used to feeling nervous around Aegon. 

His fingers are combing through the plaits forming your updo, his brow drawn taut, framing his lilac eyes, shining bright with concentration. “Generous,” he snorts softly, nails raking lightly against your scalp as he shakes the strands loose, “I don’t hear that one often.” 

“Well perhaps you’d hear it more if you weren’t such an ass,” you shoot back, slowly trying to slip back into your usual self. 

“Me? An ass?” He’s untangled the final braid, scooting away from you slightly now as he presses a hand to his chest, feigning innocence. “Never.” 

Now falling in loose waves, free of those incessant pins, you brush your hair over your shoulder. “Just earlier I heard you telling Lord Grover that if wisdom were measured in wrinkles that he would be named Grand Maester.” You point out, unable to mask your amusement while recalling the old man’s shocked expression. 

“Is it not true?” Aegon smirks. “The man is nearly seventy, and his age certainly shows.” 

“Lord Grover is only two-and-fifty, brother.” 

His brows shoot up, gaping at you. “Tell me that you’re not serious!” When you nod, confirming that you are, he sucks his teeth. “Wow—how unfortunate. He looks positively dreadful for his age, then. I thought that he surely had one foot in the grave by now.” 

“Aegon!” You rebuke through your own sputtered laughter, shaking your head at his insolence. “See? This is what I was talking about! If you weren’t so crude then you might get more compliments.” 

Swinging his arm back to grab for the carafe, Aegon’s nose scrunches slightly. “Why bother?” He implores, a hint of mischief in his tone. “My crudeness is what you like most about me, is it not? Without it, dear sister, your life would be quite boring.” 

Just before he brings the carafe to his lips, he inclines his head towards the tablecloth, emphasizing his words. A reminder—that, without him, you would still be out there, sitting miserably amongst your siblings and being forced to dance with Lord’s twice your age. 

There was something more beneath the veil of humor and arrogance, however. A craving that had him tipping the carafe back, hoping that the stinging of the alcohol might numb his gnawing desire for validation—to hear you say that you yes, my life would be boring without you. 

“I suppose you’re right,” the admission has him pausing, the carafe lingering against his bottom lip. “Truth be told, I had never put much thought into it before, but you do have a way of keeping life interesting, Aeg. So, I must agree that, without you, my life would be positively dreadful.” Staring at the ground in-between you, you smile before adding, “After all, who else would be able to convince me to risk our mother’s scorn and crawl beneath a table to drink wine and fix my hair?” 

There’s a slight tremor in his voice when he speaks, trying to mask the warmth swelling in his chest, “You have yet to drink a single drop.” 

“Then I suppose that is the next thing you’ll have to fix,” you say, sticking your hand out towards him, urging him to pass you the carafe. He hands it to you while biting back a grin. 

“Careful,” he warns, “drink too much and you may end up like your drunkard brother.” 

“I don't mind,” You mirror his expression, your own lips curving as you raise the glass upwards, the strong scent of the arbor red stinging your nostrils. “I quite like my drunkard brother.” 

His gaze burns against your flesh as you tilt your head back, allowing the alcohol to slip over your tongue, and you suddenly realize that you are no longer standing on the edge of that precipice. 

You’re falling.

a/n - i was honestly just thinking about jude and cardan hiding under a table in the cruel prince and ended up with this? so yeah, definitely inspired by jurdan content (but y'know... no coup d'etat lmao).

#aegon targaryen imagine #aegon ii targaryen imagine #hotd imagine #hotd #asoiaf #aegon targaryen imagines #aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen #hotd imagines #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon #house of the dragon imagine #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii targaryen fic #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon x you #aegon targaryen one shot #targcest #targcest imagine #aegon ii #hotd aegon #aegon the second #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fic #aegon targaryen

[aphroditelovesu]

Hello. Can you write yandere husband Jaehaerys i Targaryen ?

❝ 🔥 — lady l: I got a little carried away, I'm not going to lie. I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistakes! 💚

❝tw: none, just fluff and soft!yandere.

❝🔥pairing: yandere!jaehaerys i targaryen x female!reader.

Jaehaerys married you before he became King. He had known you for a long time and your house was noble enough that he could marry you without any problems or many complaints and he did so as soon as you were both old enough to do so. He couldn't wait any longer to have you for himself.

Normally he should marry his sister, but he didn't want to. He wanted you. You had known each other since childhood and Jaehaerys knew that he could not marry any other woman but you. Not when he already loved you from that time. And you were perfect for him, not only was your lineage noble and good but you were good for him.

Jaehaerys had made all the right preparations. He had checked your background and was always meticulous about you. He loved you, but he would be King one day and he needed to be careful about his marriage and his future Queen.

He wanted to establish a bond with you, something emotional so that your marriage didn't depend solely on politics. Jaehaerys used to send you letters, telling you stories about the Targaryens and about him. And in return, you were give him letters about yourself and stories that you read in books.

Once the arrangements were made, he was very satisfied. You could become his wife and he your husband. He was eager for you to officially become his. He couldn't wait to start having children with you.

The wedding was grand, as expected of a future King and you looked absolutely stunning. As a future Queen should be.

Handmade, your dress was made with lush fabrics and intricate details, it exuded an aura of romance and tradition. Delicate embroidery adorned your bodice, reminiscent of the patience and skill of dedicated artisans. Your skirt flowed like a dream, with layers of tulle and lace that danced in the wind, while your train dragged along the floor, leaving a trail of stories of eternal love wherever you went.

The wedding night had been good and pleasant for both parties. Jaehaerys delighted in taking you as his wife, in touching you and giving you pleasure while also hoping to impregnate you. The way his kisses were sweet and his fingers touched you left you breathless.

The marriage with Jaehaerys was pleasant and you learned to love your husband despite his possessive and protective behavior. You assumed this was how a husband who loved his wife was supposed to behave, so you didn't mind. You were happy and your husband seemed perfect.

So kind and passionate, there wasn't a day that went by where he wasn't looking at you with heart eyes, his purple eyes sparkling when you caught him looking at you. He loved it even more when your face was red, not knowing what to do with the looks of your husband. So innocent and so his.

You were spoiled and pampered to no end, he doesn't have any kind of financial care to spoil you, you were his wife, nothing more fair than fulfilling all your desires and whims. Everyone must obey your orders without blinking or they will have to deal with Jaehaerys.

Once he became King and you officially received the title Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, you played a large role in his politics. You presided over his council and gave your opinion, to the chagrin of some lords and the delight of your husband who trusted you completely.

You were not only his wife, someone who was only supposed to bear him children, but also an advisor, a Queen, valued by Jaehaerys, collaborating with him in matters of state and being a shrewd mind behind the important decisions of the realm.

Jaehaerys showed his affection in subtle ways sometimes, such as leaving little surprises for you at unexpected times, like flowers in your chambers or gifts made especially for you, showing his affection in subtle and discreet ways.

You took time to travel together, exploring the lands of the Seven Kingdoms, strengthening your bond not only with each other, but with the other Lords, and creating precious memories outside of royal compromises.

Jaeherys was your perfect husband, he put you above everything else and did whatever you wanted. He loves you deeply and just wants you to be happy. He trusts you like no one else and you have all the power over him. Even more so when you get pregnant with your first child.

You have the King on his knees for you whenever you want. He is yours and you are his. He was always yours.

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #house of the dragon #yandere house of the dragon #yandere hotd #hotd #yandere asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #jaehaerys i targaryen #jaehaerys i targaryen x reader #yandere jaehaerys i targaryen #yandere jaehaerys i targaryen x reader #yandere headcanons #headcanons #yandere jaehaerys i targaryen headcanons #yandere a song of ice and fire

[thesimline]

By the 1500s we start to see the broad and square silhouette come into fashion for men. This impressive shape was achieved through the use of over-the-top sleeves, balloon-like pants and overcoats made from layers upon layers of billowing fabric. Wealth and status were communicated through rich fabrics and opulent ornamentation, with some English and French lords even bankrupting themselves to pay for these wardrobes.

You can find more of my historical content here: 1300s ✺ 1400s ✺ 1500s ✺ 1600s

OUTFIT RESOURCES

King: Crown | Hair (Dream Home Decorator) | Facial Hair | Outfit | Right Rings (TSR) | Left Ring

Noble: Hat | Hair | Facial Hair | Ruff (TSR) | Outfit | Sash | Left Ring (TSR) | Hose | Shoes (City Living)

Courtier: Hat | Hair | Facial Hair (Eco Lifestyle) | Cloak | Outfit | Sword

Page: Hair | Outfit | Cloak | Hose | Shoes (City Living)

Bowman: Helmet | Hair (Moschino) | Facial Hair | Outfit | Quill | Shoes

Halberdier: Hat | Hair (TSR) | Facial Hair | Ruff | Top | Pants | Sword & Dagger | Hose | Halberd (TSR) | Shoes (Spa Day)

Clansman: Hat | Hair (Eco Lifestyle) | Beard | Cloak (TSR) | Top (TSR) | Kilt | Shoes (TSR)

Merchant: Hat | Hair | Facial Hair | Outfit | Right Rings (TSR) | Left Ring (TSR) | Belt

Artisan: Hat | Hair (High School Years) | Facial Hair | Coat | Necklace (TSR) | Outfit | Shoes (Get Famous)

Shopkeeper: Hat | Hair | Facial Hair | Necklace | Top | Gloves | Pants | Hose | Shoes (Get To Work)

Citizen: Hat | Hair (retired - direct download) | Facial Hair | Outfit

Workman: Hat | Hair (retired - direct download) | Facial Hair (TSR) | Outfit | Hose (TSR) | Shoes (Base Game)

With thanks to some amazing creators: @simverses @plazasims @natalia-auditore @satterlly @chere-indolente @wiccandove @oydis @notsooldmadcatlady @batsfromwesteros @daylifesims @simsregalia @regina-raven @bobnewbie @ilkup @diosasims @shandir @jools-simming @igorstory @ice-creamforbreakfast @glitterberrysims @imvikai @veigasims @lehgames

#ultimate decades challenge #ts4 decades challenge #ts4 historical #ts4 history challenge #ts4 #ts4 cc cas #the sims 4 #sims 4 decades challenge #ts4 cc #sims 4 history challenge #sims 4 historical #1500s #16th century #ts4 lookbook #sims 4 lookbook #lookbook #tudor #renaissance #historical lookbook

[janearts]

Roisia Lydgate: Character Overview

This is really more of a background introduction to her character, but I'm trying to put as much information in one place for future reference or for anyone who wants to get a better idea of her character. Details underneath the cut!

Meta-Knowledge

Roisia is my Source Hunter from Divinity: Original Sin, but I recreated her in Baldur’s Gate 3 as a way to continue her story albeit in a completely different universe. The story and events of DOS have since become part of her backstory, and tweaked to fit the world of Faerûn.

Name Pronunciation

I’m honestly none too fussed about pronunciation. Her name is an 11th century mediaeval name that would later become “Rose” in Middle English. Roisia is probably meant to be pronounced something like /ɹɔɪːsiːɑ/ (Roy-see-ah) based on other name variants found around the same time. Her nicknames, as given to her by her parents, include: Rose, Rosie, petal, pet, rosebud, bud, so on and so forth.

Personality

Roisia is charming, adventurous, with a voracious curiosity, and a deeply analytical mind. She believes that taking care of the dead and providing a voice for the dead is her life’s calling. She was formerly raised to be a Cleric of Kelemvor, but believes that her god has disowned her since she reanimated her father. She now believes herself to be deemed among the Faithless. She’s compassionate to those in need and is willing to break rules (and the law) to help others. While she is generally a law-abiding citizen, she is dogged in pursuing the whims of her curiosity and will likewise do whatever it takes to solve a puzzle, a mystery, or a murder… or simply answer a question that has occurred to her. She is sociable, prefers when everyone gets along, and will try to talk her way into and out of most situations. This includes charming, reasoning, intimidating, and/or deceiving others to get her desired outcome. Ultimately, she finds solace and comfort in the company of animals, the dead, and books. Her favourite animal is the noble spider, and she breeds and raises some species in her spare time.

Spells and Such

I tried as best I could to replicate Roisia’s DOS character. In DOS, she was classed as a Witch. Witchcraft spells in DOS are a mixture of Necromancy spells and Enchantment spells, and I chose my spells in BG3 to imitate the ones that you get in DOS. As a witch in DOS, Roisia also had the ability to talk to animals and summon a spider. (I cheesed this in BG3 with the Find Familiar spell—technically a Conjuration spell—and having her drink a potion after every long rest.) To be more in keeping with her backstory, I gave her a Guild Artisan background and invested skill points in skills like Medicine.

Backstory

Roisia grew up in Eastway of Baldur’s Gate. Her father worked in the Gray Harbor shipyard as a shipwright and her mother was a Mortarch, running the Eastway Cemetery & Lydgate Funeral Service. She was raised to follow in her mother’s footsteps as a Cleric of Kelemvor, and specifically as a Mortarch, from an early age. She assisted her mother in managing the burial customs and rites for the Lower City’s diverse community (from embalming to ritualistic cannibalism to poisonings), comforting grieving family members of the deceased, and tending to the dead buried in the cemetery.

Her life took an unexpected turn when her father drowned during a sea trial. Grieving for her father, Roisia made her first attempt at Necromancy. She unwittingly used a wish spell in the process and reanimated him as a skeleton. Because it was the wish spell, not her first attempt at a necromantic ritual, that bound the soul of her father to his bones, Roisia is determined to master the School of Necromancy and truly resurrect her father.

She is interrupted in her early studies by the appearance of Eustace, who recruited her into the Source Hunters, an organisation dedicated to eradicating dangerous magic users (like… Necromancers). “We need you,” he said. “… and you need us.” Roisia & Eustace (or Roy & Stacey as they became known to each other) investigated the mysterious murder of a town counsellor and uncovered a Necromantic cult in the process. As they adventured together, Roisia began to develop feelings for Eustace, but as their adventure concluded and they returned to the Source Hunter Academy, Eustace did not return those feelings. Dejected, Roisia left the Source Hunters and returned to her home in Baldur’s Gate.

To “cure” herself of her heartbreak, Roisia drew up a list of lifelong goals for herself. They are:

1. A cemetery or plot of land of her own to oversee. 2. “Tenants”/”Residents” (aka The Deceased) to house and tend to on this land. 3. To master Necromancy such that she can extend indefinitely her own life and the lives of her loved ones. 4. One (1) Spouse (*not of the squeamish variety) 5. Children (*ideally 3-5)

Refocused aggressively on her list, Roisia returned to her duties during the day and her studies during the night. She was abducted by the nautiloid one night while she was off to dig up a new test subject.

Playlist

#BG3 Roisia #Roisia #taggin #tatterings #here you go! #rosecanons #roisiacanons #Spotify

[lunastrophe]

Drow Lore 🕷️ Gender Roles

About gender roles in a Lolth-sworn drow society, based mainly on Drow of the Underdark:

🕷️ Gender Stereotypes - drow females are seen as "stronger, smarter, and more emotionally controlled than males"; males are viewed as "spiritually, intellectually, and physically inferior, useful mainly for physical and skilled labor, and for breeding". A male drow may be seen as superior to a member of any other race, but he is inferior even to a female drow of lower status.

🕷️ Way Of Lolth - Queen of Spiders has, "over the course of drow mythology and history, taken multiple consorts, all of whom have been eventually discarded". It is unclear if this is the cause of Lolth’s opinion of males or a symptom of it, but according to Way of Lolth, female drow are seen as holier and more devoted to the Goddess, and much more worthy to be her servants.

🕷️ Parenting - in a Lolth-sworn drow society, mother has the sole right to decide the fate of her child, including the right to kill it if she deems it weak or incompetent. Drow mothers, especially in noble houses, typically have little to no affection for their children and they rarely raise them (especially their sons) themselves. They usually assign this task to their older daughters or to other females with lower social status.

Male drow generally do not participate in raising children and they are not even permitted to perceive the child they sired as "theirs". Some "weak-minded males might enjoy playing with their spawn," but they are allowed to do it only in presence of female nurses or servants who "keep a watchful eye on them" (Dragon Magazine #298) - most likely to make sure that the male and the child will not get attached to each other too much, and that the child will not be influenced by him in any significant way.

When a male child becomes old enough to start his training as a wizard or a warrior, his mother may appoint his sire as his mentor. Female children are not obliged to treat their sires with respect and they are usually mentored by other females.

🕷️ Career - typically, female drow are trained to be clerics of Lolth and to hold positions of power, especially if they are highborn. Priestesses "interpret and disseminate the will of Lolth, conduct rites and rituals to honor the dark goddess, and technically have the authority to demand anything in her name."

Male drow often hold little power, but not all of them are mere property (even if many females see them as such). Some of the most skilled crafters, warriors, and arcane casters among the drow are male. Since males are constantly at risk of being discarded by their female leaders, only those with skills and abilities that are not easily replaceable can be relatively confident of their positions. This inspires, or maybe rather forces many of them to excel.

Among non-nobles, male and female drow can hold similar roles: they can be household servants, shopkeepers, warriors or artisans, regardless of their gender. "The males tend more toward physical labor and the females toward skilled crafts - not because females are weaker, but because they often have more opportunities to choose their own path than males do - but this is only a tendency, not a societal constant."

For more of my drow lore ramblings, feel free to check my pinned post 🕷️

#drow #drow lore #dnd lore #lolth sworn drow #drow culture #dark elves

[brabblesblog]

Ch 1: Whither is thy beloved gone?

Astarion has ascended, and she has stayed with him. Life in the Crimson Palace isn’t as idyllic as it seems. Is there a chance for their relationship to go back to how it was? Or is it too late for the Ascendant and his consort?

This series is about Ban, my Tav, and the Vampire Ascendant. Will be angst and smut, with sprinkles of fluff.

This fic is a softer take on Ascendant!Astarion and of the changes he undergoes after the rite. Can Ban handle the change, and if a chance came, would she choose to run? And can the Ascendant win her back in time? Inspired by the concept of vampire wives and that IGN interview with Larian that discussed the ascension.

Professionally edited by @editing-by-night

A small scene at breakfast that sets up the situation in the Palace for the past six months.

Read on AO3

Masterlist.

Ban opened her eyes to yet another dawn; a shaft of sunlight peeked through the gap between vermilion curtains, shining on her face. Her hand moved, reaching for the empty space beside her before she stopped herself. There was no need to check - there never was, not for months now.

She made her way out of the gigantic four-poster bed she and her lord sleep in. Her silken robe awaited her, draped over the luxurious couch, and she slipped it on wordlessly. The servants all murmured soft greetings as she passed them on her way to breakfast, but Ban paid them no mind. The days and nights all blended for her, days of meetings and nights of wheedling their way into the high society of Baldur’s Gate. And sex, of course, but even that had become stale to her now. Not that her partner wasn’t a consummate lover - far from it - but the souring of the love she has for him tainted even the most pleasurable of moments.

The doors to the dining room were held open for her, and as she walked in, he looked up. He shot her a wry grin and crossed the room, taking her hand and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. Every morning he did this; it would have made her swoon six months ago.

When he was different. When he was the man she’d loved.

“I had to rise early, love,” he began, as if he didn’t do so every damn morning. “Preparations for renovating the… basement area are finally underway, and I did not want them missing any single detail of what I have planned for it.”

The basement area. The dungeons. He couldn't even bring himself to say the word; he refused any reminder of his past self. If he had his way, people would think he sprang into existence some six months ago. She allowed him to lead her to the ridiculously large table. As always, he was seated at the head and she to his right.

He offered her a tart, which she waved off; it wasn’t as if she could actually enjoy it. Mortal food had been tasteless since she’d turned. Instead she reached for the bottle of blood on the table, warmed just before it was served.

“I’m surprised you even bothered with touching the dungeons,” she said, smiling placidly as her use of the word was rewarded with a glare.

“The basement,” he hissed, “is the most neglected part of the house. It is- never mind.” As expected, Astarion refused any mention of what the basement used to be. “Besides. The artisan guilds are clamoring for space to rent, and as you suggested, I entertained their request.”

It was Ban’s turn to roll her eyes. Astarion was right - she had asked him to focus his attention on not just the patriars, but also the artisan guilds, a calculated decision designed to win more people to their side, to sink their claws deeper into the heart of the city. It made sense to not only win over the very cream of the crop, but also the people slightly below it. At worst, it would be a waste of time and of negligible resources. At best, it would help curtail the surprising resistance the Ascendant had been encountering in his efforts to win over the nobility.

The Szarrs had been a well-known family with noble roots, and so Cazador had the name to match his wealth and status. Astarion Ancunín, however, had no such privilege. Thus, when he’d emerged as the successor to Cazador’s estate, there had been more than a few raised eyebrows. Added to that, Astarion hadn’t had to plan anything in two centuries, so the task of ingratiating them with the city’s gentry had mostly fallen to Ban. Well, the planning and scheming, anyway. The Ascendant acted as the face, charming and manipulating his way through the meetings and parties, while his consort laid out their strategy, playing the perfect lady-wife and hostess.

Plans for a future she'd never desired, but sought for his sake anyway, ambitions and schemes that were all too similar to what her father had groomed her for. It had all come back to her with a distressing effortlessness, the machinations as natural as breathing. She hadn’t seen fit to let Astarion know this, not now. Before the rite, there had been the potential of so much time together that she hadn’t felt any urgency to share the circumstances of her early life with him. After the rite, things had just been... different.

“If it’s for the artisan guilds, then do it,” Ban said, pouring the warmed blood into her glass, taking a sip. “Gods know you need all the support you can get from them, especially considering how tenuous your position has remained with the patriars.”

Astarion scoffed, but didn’t reply to her taunt. Instead he took a long, slow bite of his tart and made an exaggerated gesture of delight, reminding her exactly what she’d been missing out on.

“Well, my treasure, it worked. There will be a ball held a tenday from now, with all the guilds attending.” Pride at managing to pull that off without her aid or knowledge tinged his voice.

Ban narrowed her eyes. All the guilds? Generally she would consider that a significant success, but the fact that she may have to face her family there gave her pause. She took a long pull from her goblet at the thought.

“All the guilds…” she repeated, for a moment not bothering to mask her feelings, her horror bleeding through.

“You’re now reduced to parroting what I say? Pet, I didn’t take you to be so dull,” Astarion sneered, taking the opportunity to strike. He wasn’t stupid; he’d always been aware that things had changed between him and his consort.

It had been a whirlwind of events since he’d ascended. At first, there’d been an overwhelming sense of power, of endless possibilities. He had everything - power, freedom, riches. He had her by his side. The following days had been battle after battle as they’d slowly approached the Netherbrain. There hadn’t been time to reexamine their relationship, other than to realize it was failing. Hells, there had barely been time for him to explore his new abilities.

Then, just as quickly, the brain had been defeated and they were finally alone together. Just the two of them and Cazador’s palace. My palace, he reminded himself. Not his.

They were finally, truly together, the Absolute vanquished at last - it should have been a wondrous time. They should have been happy in each other’s arms, at the start of their shared eternity. But she’d become cold after the rite, a chill that had yet to thaw. She flinched from his touches, from his lips. Her smiles never met her eyes, and all she did was help him lay out plans for his dominion. At night, she yielded to his every desire. Every night he made love to her, as he had been doing since the first night after his ascension. She only played her role, saying the right words, moaning the right way, but he sensed the absence there. None of it ever reached her.

At first, he’d attempted to take whatever emotions she’d shown at face value. She’d seemed to like planning their conquest of Baldur’s Gate, seemed to have taken to heart the words he’d so casually thrown out during their journey, so he’d acted just as enthusiastic about it. She’d seemed to react positively whenever he’d asked for suggestions regarding their schemes; he not being well suited to formulating detailed plans and her proving knowledgeable, he tended to follow her advice. Initially these things had seemed to at least elicit a response in her that wasn't hollowness. As time passed, however, even they had seemed to lose their luster, the emptiness in her eyes becoming more and more prominent.

He had never seen her in silks or in anything expensive throughout their time fighting the Absolute. The moment he’d gotten access to Cazador’s wealth, he’d bought her everything he’d wanted to give her before: gowns, shoes, jewelry. All she had to do was glance at an item once, and it was hers. But the emptiness only grew.

He’d attempted to convince himself he couldn’t understand how they had ended up this way, but truthfully it was that he couldn't admit to himself what he knew the root cause to be. That initial confusion had slowly turned into resentment. Deep down, he knew where he’d gone wrong, of course, but really, was leaving the palace such a big deal?

That had been their first major argument. Astarion had come back from a meeting one day to find Ban gone, the servants explaining she’d left the palace to walk around the city. He had refrained from going after her, but he had been worried. What if someone took the Ascendant’s consort as a hostage? What if she roamed too far, and somehow the extension of his powers failed? Then what? The image of her burning in the sun had filled him with an impotent, all-consuming fury. He had told her not to wander!

When she had finally gotten home, her hands full of pastries she had bought for him, he had flown into a fit of rage.

“How dare you sneak off like that, Ban! Without asking! Without me knowing!”

Ban had flinched. She’d held up the pastries. “I bought them to surprise-”

He’d almost shoved them out of her hands, but had stopped himself. Barely. “Have I not told you, pet, not to stray too far? What if you were hurt? What if you burned in the sun?” His eyes had glinted then, the fires of worry mixing with anger.

“You are mine, and I do not like not knowing where my things are.”

She had tried to argue about having the freedom to go where she pleased, but he’d shut her down the moment she’d begun.

“Do I not buy you everything you wish for? Anything you ask? You merely have to give voice to what you desire, and I shall have it procured for you. But you do not leave. Not without my express permission.”

It had only gone downhill from there.

Astarion snapped back from his reverie when he noticed Ban had ignored his verbal barb. He watched her, realizing this was the first genuine shred of emotion he’d seen from her in weeks. Something was bothering her about having the artisan guilds over for a party, and it piqued his interest. His concern too, of course. But he would never admit that. Even to himself.

He sat up straighter, aiming his words carefully. Precisely.

“My little love,” he cooed, “What… exactly is the issue with our soon-to-be guests? I had assumed you would love to have them over, considering it was your idea to reach out to them and form alliances in the first place.”

Ban froze. Her eyes widened as Astarion asked her this question. While he had yet to compel her to do anything, there was no evidence that he couldn't. Perhaps he already had, and she was unaware. Compulsion was the thing she was most terrified of, because the moment he started - the moment he considered it necessary to keep her - would be the moment she’d lose what little of herself she had left.

So she decided to be honest.

“I never told you where I came from, did I?” she said.

He shook his head. “I doubt you had humbler origins than I did, but no. You have not.”

Ban laughed bitterly and braced herself, pouring out another glass of blood.

“I came from one of the guild’s artisan families.”

His eyebrows rose, surprised and rather pleased, despite himself. They hadn’t had an actual conversation that wasn’t about Baldur’s Gate, its people, or their schemes in weeks. He reined in the venom he’d been wielding so often these days, letting his curiosity take over for the time being.

“Which one? Ca-” he bit his lip, “My former master knew a lot of these guilds. They helped maintain the palace and procured items for him. I have never heard of your family name, nor seen it.”

She laughed again, a real one this time, and his eyebrows rose even further, intrigued.

“We dealt in ornate mirrors.” That explained it. Of course Cazador would not have bothered with that.

The Ascendant huffed in response. “Ironic. Well. You’ll be glad to know I have yet to speak to any mirror-makers. I hadn’t decided on what type of mirror I want for our bedroom, or how grandiose it should be. Shall I ask your family?”

The last sentence was less a taunt and more a genuine question. She seemed to dread seeing them, but if she wanted them here - for whatever reason at all - he would be more than happy to oblige her.

In truth, all he really wanted was her happiness, to bask in the glow of her smile again. He just seemed to have lost sight of how to inspire it ever since he became this version of himself.

Ban took it the wrong way, of course, and visibly stiffened.

“I do not want to see them. I-” her voice cut off, hesitant, “I left years ago. They probably don't even know if I’m alive.”

The Ascendant felt an odd twinge in his chest, a familiar but long-forgotten sensation. None of it was visible on his face, however. He smirked. “Very well, pet.”

Astarion leaned over, fingers tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. Crimson eyes bored into Ban with an intensity that only seemed to unnerve her. “And don’t fret about them. The only family you’ll ever need is me.”

Ban had to look away. She couldn’t stare into those eyes and listen to that voice talk about her family. She had always envisioned this conversation to be one where she’d spill all her secrets to him, and he’d hold her, stroke her hair and tell her everything would be alright. That he understood and loved her anyway. But that time had passed, and so had that man she’d loved. What remained of him was a pale specter.

She had often asked herself if he was even the same man. She’d observed him, and with Gale’s assistance had studied books on the matter. In the end she had come to one painful conclusion: he was Astarion. His worst traits turned up and his greatest strengths diminished, but it was undoubtedly him.

There had been one night when he’d seemed like his old self. One night in the past five months that had given her some small glimmer of hope that he hadn’t completely changed.

She had woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of weeping. Astarion had been lying beside her, arms taut, hands clenched into fists, sweat soaking into the sheets. His face a rictus of pain, his cries a mix of unintelligible words and whimpers. She’d instinctively rushed to hold him; he’d woken up at her touch and his eyes had found hers.

They were his eyes.

“You’re okay, you’re here,” she had crooned, the same words she had repeated in the old days. They’d come back like no time had passed; as if he wasn’t what he was now. Like he was just her Astarion.

He had leaned into her touch, head resting on her chest.

“I’m sorry to wake you, darling,” he’d said; his use of her old nickname had almost made her sob. “He… I saw him again. I’d thought this would be over.”

She’d kissed his forehead then, holding him close. His conscious mind may have tried to deny it, but it seemed like his subconscious was still haunted by Cazador. He had clung to her for dear life that night; she had tried to stay awake, to stop time, so that perhaps he would stay that version of himself forever. But in the end, sleep had won, and as she’d drifted off she had heard him say something which she’d attributed to her own imagination.

“Thank you for still being here,” she’d thought he’d whispered against her chest, “I love you.”

They were spoken with such tenderness that she had doubted it was real. In the morning, he’d been gone from her side, already eating breakfast. He’d acted like nothing had happened in the night, and so she’d had her hopes dashed away; fleeting as they were she had still yearned for it to be real, wishing it had lasted longer than those few moments he was in her arms.

Ever since then, she had attempted to catch any glimpse of her Astarion in the Ascendant. There occasionally seemed to be some hint of him, but it was always too quick, too subtle, and after so many months she’d all but given up. Gone were the days when she’d known which of his honeyed words were lies and which were truth; it felt as though she was back in those days in the Grove when she couldn't read him. Even now, as her lord called himself her family, she found herself wincing internally.

On the outside, she offered him a smile.

“Thank you, Astarion. That means a lot.”

The Ascendant smiled, a toothy grin that would have looked at home in a shark’s maw.

“Of course! And we shall be a bigger family, if only you’ll let me-"

“No,” Ban said, and she was firm. This was another argument they’d constantly waged. He wanted to create an army of spawn, claiming that they would keep her company and serve her and their ambitions. He had promised to procure his spawn ethically, from willing subjects, but she had said no, refusing to doom anyone else to the same fate.

His eyes hardened, fingers twitching on her chin, but he let go. She released the breath she had been holding, worried that this would be when he’d hit the end of his rope and force her obedience.

He exhaled. “Fine. You’ll come around, once you’re alone and bored for a decade or so more.”

Astarion pushed away his breakfast. This hadn’t gone the way he’d wanted it to, and to be frank? Every day since that argument about her leaving the house and having her freedom had gone the same way: to barely veiled insults and chilly indifference. He hated it. He hated what they’d become.

At night when he made love to her, he imagined they were back in that clearing where it all began. At dawn, he watched her sleep and pretended they were back in the Shadow-Cursed lands. Fruitless reminiscing, but it was all he had to hold onto. Memories, each holding the ghost of their love, leaving him to wish it back to life.

He brushed those thoughts away. They were the thoughts of a much weaker man, and he was anything but.

But then why did his newly beating heart ache so much whenever they did this venomous song and dance?

#astarion #astarion baldurs gate #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x mc #ascended astarion #astarion fic #astarion x reader #astarion smut #astarion romance #astarion ascended #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 spoilers #astarion angst #ascended astarion x f!tav #astarion x female oc #ascended astarion x tav #astarion x f!tav #astarion x female tav #astarion x you #astarion fanfic

[racefortheironthrone]

Hello, I’ve a part asoiaf part medieval history question. So despite the strict gender roles, we know that women (at least noble women) can enjoy some “male” activities like horse riding and some kinds of hunting (Cat says Arya can have a hunting hawk). Are there any other “male” activities women can partake too without being judged about it, or even encouraged to do so (both in Westeros and real world)?

So as medievalists and historians of gender have pointed out, ASOIAF is far more restrictive for women than actual medieval Europe. I'm actually going to leave aside the situation of noblewoman for a second, because the vast majority of women were not nobles and their experience of gender would be radically different.

What counted as "male activities" for example would vary enormously by location (rural vs. urban) and thus occupation (farmer vs. artisan). Among the peasantry, while men tended to work in the fields and concentrated on cereal-crop production and women tended to do the manifold work of maintaining the home, the reality is that the irregular nature of agricultural labor meant that in times of high demand (especially spring sowing and autumn harvest) it was a matter of survival for every single member of the household to work in the fields. So women absolutely knew how to work a plow, and swing a scythe.

As for the urban worker, while there was also a high degree of gender segregation by occupation and guilds could often be quite misogynistic when it came to trying to masculinize trades (especially those involving higher rates of capital investment), it was also true that the entire household was expected to contribute their labor, so that wives, daughters, collateral female relatives, and female servants picked up the trade alongside their male counterpart. Moreover, as biased towards men as guilds could be, they were even more committed to the principle that guild businesses were family businesses, and so in situations where a master artisan had only daughters or died childless or died with underage heirs, it was absolutely routine for guilds to admit daughters and widows as guild members, indeed usually at the rank of master, all so that the business could remain in the same family. This is why medievalists can point to so many examples of women who worked in skilled trades, often at a high level.

That's what I think GRRM's portrait of medieval society is missing: an entire world of women in business, working elbow-to-elbow with men to make a living.

As for noblewomen, part of the difficulty is that a big part of being a noble was not doing stuff - not working for a living, chiefly - and instead engaging in leisure activities as much as possible. And women were very much a part of those activities (indeed, for many of them the point was to mingle with eligible people of the opposite gender), whether that's feasting, dancing, hunting, hawking, theater and other entertainments, fireworks, tourneys and jousts, etc.

However, women were also engaged in the main "occupations" of the nobility - estate management and politics - way more than GRRM really takes note of. To begin with, as even GRRM acknowledges to some extent, the lady of the house was expected to take an active role in running the house, which meant managing servants, keeping track of accounts payable and receivable, making sure the supplies arrive on time and in the right quality and quantity, keeping an eye on maintenance and repairs (with the help of servants, natch), etc.

Given that even the manor houses of the nobility were units of economic production, the lady of the house would also be responsible for oversight of how the house was doing with its pigs, goats, chickens and pigeons and geese, bees (because beeswax and honey were really important commodities), sheep, and so on, and what kind of figures they were pulling down at the mill and the weir, and so forth.

As medievalists have known for a long time, this list of duties got even longer whenever the lord of the house was away at war or on business, when the lady would be expected to pick up all his work too - which means making sure the rents and taxes get paid, deciding which fields to distribute manpower to and when, dealing with legal disputes in the manorial court, and so on. And if the war came home, the lady of the house was expected to lead the defense of the castle and there are many, many examples of noblewomen who had to organize sieges that lasted months and even years.

However, we also have to consider the impact of inheritance by birth and the inherent randomness of sex at birth - as much as they tried to avoid it, plenty of noble houses ended up with female heirs or in the hands of widows. Most of the time in most countries, women could and did inherit (or at the very least their male children and relatives could inherit through them) titles and fiefdoms, and while their husbands would often take on overlordship de jure uxoris, unmarried women and widows very much exercised their authority as the Lady or Baroness or Countess or whatever, and history is also full of women who were extremely influential in medieval politics and backed up their influence by any means necessary.

#history #medieval history #feudalism #history of gender #westerosi feudalism #westerosi gender roles #asoiaf #asoiaf meta #race for the iron throne #historical analysis

[cirilla-fiona-riannon]

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors.

Blank, ageless, and suspicious blogs will be blocked.

The party was bustling with several guests as they mingled and enjoyed drinks together.

(Where is Emma now?)

She and I were separately entertaining the guests, but the merchants would notice me whenever I occasionally glanced at her.

Merchant: "You still seem to be getting along well with Lady Emma."

Merchant: "Speaking of which, I have an offer that she might like. Would you be interested?"

(These kinds of talks have been increasing lately.)

Silvio: "Alright, if you're so confident, show me."

The person who approached me was a skilled merchant who had gathered together a group of talented tailors.

He spread out before me the design of a gleaming, gem-studded dress.

Merchant: "This is a masterpiece crafted by a skilled artisan."

Merchant: "We also have matching earrings designed to complement the dress."

Merchant: "I think it would suit her."

(It's quite flashy. Back in the day, I might have considered it, but now that I know her preferences...)

Silvio: "Rejected."

Merchant: "Huh?"

Silvio: "It's not about the design. Emma prefers simple dresses."

Silvio: "Having this many gemstones would make her self-conscious."

Silvio: "If you want me to consider buying it, bring something that appears simple at first glance but has intricate, elegant details."

Silvio: "Gemstones are necessary only in moderation. She's already stunning without any extra accessories."

Knowing her preferences, I naturally get enthusiastic about giving orders to the merchant.

(Still, these people don't really understand her.)

(If they observed her usual behavior, they could come up with better proposals.)

As I thought about it, a bitter feeling welled up within me.

(Thinking about it now, I used to do stupid things like this before.)

Silvio: "Well, no matter what dress it is, Emma will be able to pull it off."

Silvio: "Someone as beautiful as her would outshine even the most glamorous dress."

Silvio: "That's why it's pointless for her to dress extravagantly. I mean, who could possibly outshine Emma?"

Merchants: ".........."

Silvio: "What?"

Merchant: "Nothing, we just thought that you truly loved her."

(.............)

(.............)

I suddenly realized the inappropriateness of my previous statement.

(What the hell did I just say?)

(She didn't hear me, right!?)

I nonchalantly scanned the room and made eye contact with Emma, who had been accompanying the noble ladies.

It seemed like she had heard the conversation as a mischievous smile played on her lips.

(I've made a fool of myself.)

Overwhelmed by embarrassment, I grabbed a glass of wine and downed it in one gulp.

(Damn it. Now that it comes to this, I'll humiliate her even more than she humiliated me.)

Silvio: "Now that we've talked about it, I might as well finish the story."

Silvio: "Emma is not just elegant and refined."

Silvio: "There's something more important than money to her, and she has a strong spirit that isn't easily swayed."

Silvio: "She's a cheeky woman who, despite her small stature, takes on even the toughest enemies."

Silvio: "But that's the noblest thing about her."

Silvio: "Despite being a rabbit, she has the ferocity of a beast when she bites back."

Emma: "P-Prince Silvio! How about getting some fresh air for a moment!?"

Unable to endure any longer, Emma took my arm and forcefully led me to the balcony.

Emma: "Doing that in front of those people is so embarrassing!"

Silvio: "It's not a big deal. It's only normal to show affection."

Silvio: "What? You were grinning like an idiot a moment ago, and now you're embarrassed?"

(But the one feeling more embarrassed is me, you idiot.)

(Especially since everything I said was the truth.)

Emma: "Of course I'm embarrassed!"

Silvio: "........."

Emma: "My heart is racing so much right now. I don't think I can go back inside."

Her whispered words sounded so fragile that they seemed to melt into the sea.

I looked at her as the light sea breeze blew and ruffled her hair.

(Her face is bright red, even in the dark.)

Unable to resist, I instinctively sealed her lips and put my hand on her blushing cheek.

Emma: "Prince Silvio! Are you trying to make me even more embarrassed!?"

Silvio: "You say that, but deep down, I know you're happy."

Emma: "Well..."

Emma didn't retort, and her expression suggested she wasn't entirely opposed to it.

(Another reason to fall in love with you.)

Silvio: "We're alone now, so let me have another kiss."

(If I keep getting these cute reactions, I guess it's okay to be a bit more romantic sometimes.)

Taking her silence as consent, I leaned in to capture her lips again.

We enjoyed a kiss that tasted a bit of alcohol in the hidden shadows of the curtain.

#ikemen prince #ikepri silvio #silvio ricci #ikepri #ikepri jp #cybird #ikepri translations

[coralinnii]

being reincarnated into a new world as the bad guy pt.2

feat. Azul, Kalim

note: this is kinda a long post, can be interpreted as gn!reader, reader is different for each character, I might write blurbs cuz I like the villain/ess genre

part 1 part 2 part 3

series masterlist

Did the universe hate you? You pondered your past life choices that may have condemned you into this hopeless situation. You didn’t even like this webtoon you unceremoniously got sent to because the main characters were nothing but self-centered idiots. Worse, you got reincarnated as the lovesick betrothed of the male lead, who was going to have their engagement annulled then be abandoned by your greedy family.

Really, the only reason you even kept reading was for the cool if somewhat dorky count who rose from a nobody to one of the successful business figures in the kingdom…Hey now…

So now you were sitting across from the one and only Azul Ashengrotto as he sized you up with a business smile as his servants prepared refreshments. For as confident as you try to be, the ball in his court and your future cushioned life is dependent on him. At least the twin brothers from that marquis family weren't here.

“So, what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

“I’m going to let you use me”

“Urk—!”

Ah, you should’ve waited until after he finished his tea.

Aside from your love life, you were winning in every other department. You were a high ranking noble as well as a beautiful social butterfly of high society. You weren’t ahead of the trends, you were the trend and since you knew the story of this world, you knew what were hits and misses in the market.

“I can give you want to know in the high social circle, whatever you have me wear or eat with my appraisal, I can make it the biggest trend of the season. All I want is a cut”

As skeptical as Azul was, he couldn’t disagree with your points and he was sure he could spin this partnership in his favor considering you were thought to be a lovesick puppy (hah, he thought). With a lengthy discussion on the contract (a meager 10% cut on your side? Really, Azul?), the two of you shook on it.

With a smile too innocent to be real, you offered “Should we go on a date?”

Oh, you were going to be the death of this man.

Your “dates” were just spending the day in the village disguised, surveying promising businesses, cuisines, and artisans (though a flustered count is also a win in your books). With your insights and Azul’s careful research, high society was eating out of your hands, waiting to see which business would receive his Midas’ touch.

You kept your contributions hidden as you didn’t want your family to monopolize your share and secretly hoped that your family and fiancé would still care for you even without these merits. Perhaps you were more hopeless than you realized.

While your soon-to-be husband was off somewhere without informing you (though you already knew where he was going, and who he was going to), you paid a visit to your favourite restaurant which happens to be owned by your favourite associates. The more you spend time with Azul and inevitably the Leech twins, the more you yearn for a life with this much joy.

“Hey Mandarin fishy” oh, Floyd is lucky he’s so adorable. “Your future hubby is awfully chummy with that little remora” he noted as he casually slung his legs over your own, sounding nonchalant but you could see the flicker of curiosity in his mismatched eyes. “You ain’t scared the love of your life’s gonna run away?”

You knew the story’s coming to its climax as the “love of your life” is messing around with that baron’s daughter. Soon, he will announce the annulment in front of everyone and you will be “abandoned” for his true love.

Your eyes then glanced over to your business partner discussing the logistics of the shipment of jewelry materials with the other marquis heir. Despite your casual nagging, you did admire the genuine effort the bespectacled businessman puts in. However, you could see the twitch towards your direction, curious of your thoughts as well.

“Cute” you hid your smile as you took a sip of your favourite blend of tea (how considerate of Azul), “If a little remora was enough to convince that idiot to make a fool of himself in front of our families, then I’d count it a blessing to be rid of him”

Floyd laughs at your heartless dismissal while even Jade let out a chuckle under his breath. You couldn’t help but smile at the scene before you, at the people you hope to call friends (and maybe more in the future with a certain someone). You saved enough to buy a quaint home in the capital (Azul recommended a home conveniently close to his own) and there were pre-orders of delectable tea that became a hit when a wealthy traveler from a foreign country offered a sample at the restaurant, being well handled by the fair-haired count in front of you, guaranteed to be ready for your next social tea party.

As you notice the subtle quirk of a genuine smile on your diligent business partner, you feel content with confirmation.

You definitely prefer smart men.

No, no, no, no! This can’t be real!

It’s one thing to reincarnate as a servant of a wealthy family, must you be reincarnated as the servant that gets executed for poisoning the oldest son?!

This was the start of the dramatic novel you just finished where you, a new servant of the Asim family, were in love with a greedy relative, who persuaded you to poison the heir to cause turmoil in the mansion. Your younger sibling was sick and your “lover” promised to give you and your sibling a good life if you succeed. Sadly, you knew you were just a scapegoat in their plan.

It hurts even more that the intended recipient of the poison was your bias, the lovable Kalim Al-Asim who doesn’t have a single bad bone in his body. But what could you do? The poison was in your hand and your execution was practically cemented, whether by the hands of the Asim family or by your “beloved”.

Feeling hopeless, you submit yourself in front of Kalim, his father, and his attendants with the vial in hand. You confessed the plan to poison the heir, how that traitor promised to save your sibling if you followed them. You pray that maybe they would banish you and you could run away with your sibling, for however long you could before that relative would eventually eliminate you.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until the fair-headed heir cradled your face in his hands and wiped your tears from your glassy eyes, his own scarlet eyes watery.

“I’ll save you and your family!”

Unable to change Kalim’s decision, your attempt of treason was overlooked, and Kalim even sent the best doctors to see your sibling.

Shoot, this man sure knew how to capture your heart.

Of course, your testament isn’t enough to prosecute the greedy relative so you offered yourself as a poison tester should they attempt the second time. If the story stays on path, that traitor isn’t going to stop anytime soon.

Since then, you worked to prove yourself a devoted servant to the Asim family, especially to Kalim who brings you around to try every cuisine and street food that tickles his fancy. Even Jamil, who was very skeptical of your motives, deemed you harmless (apparently, he decided he could easily disarm you if you do attempt anything).

What made you and Kalim really close (though Kalim was a fairly affectionate man to begin with) was when you offered to help with his studies. You were familiar with certain subjects as they were similar in your old world and having someone around helps the energetic heir to focus. Every time Kalim would call your name with that bright grin of his never fails to bring out a smile of your own.

Your closeness with the oldest son did not go unnoticed. Soon, the traitorous relative came up to you as you were on your way to see Kalim. They gave you a second chance, to kill Kalim then they would forgive you after your failed poisoning attempt. Obviously, you told them to f*ck off stop their plans and leave before you call the guards.

Suddenly, your vision and body became disorientated as you fall to the floor with a sting on your cheek.

“You insolent commoner! You think anyone would care if you get hurt or even die? Don’t make me laugh!”

They slapped you. Your body is shaking from the shock of such sudden violence. You looked up and saw the traitor standing over you with rage as they raised their hand again. You were too slow to stand so you had no choice but close your eyes and grit your teeth as you anticipated the next hit.

Except it never happened.

Instead you were gently lifted to your feet. You turned to see Jamil assisting you to your feet as guards surrounded you and the traitor, with Kalim standing between the two of you.

You have never seen the usually jolly heir like this. His laid-back demeanor was almost non-existent as he kept his weapon pointed at his relative with a glare that seemed deadlier and sharper.

“You…” you've never imagined such an icy tone from your master, even at his worst until now. “You may be family, but I will never forgive you for hurting my precious treasure”

With his command, you saw the traitor pulled away to his awaited fate. Kalim then turned to you and he worriedly rushed to you, cradling your face in his hands to inspect your injury. It’s funny. It’s just like when you first met him.

“Master Kalim, thank you so much” you wanted to say more but honestly, you couldn’t find the words to truly express how much you love this man.

With his show of his signature grin, he replied “Of course, I’ll always save you”

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst imagines #kalim al asim #kalim x reader #azul ashengrotto #azul x reader #villainess au #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader

[spacebarbarianweird]

Hi friend! Dropping by to ask about HC for my fighter Tav!

She’s a human born to a guild family, and ran away from them because they wanted to marry her off.

As a fighter she’s strong and muscular, but feels rather unattractive and masculine.

She also does crafts (guild artisan background) but doesn’t really tell anyone because it doesn’t really fit her fighter persona.

Ok, behold! Hope you won't be dissapointed!

Astarion x f!Fighter!Tav

Your family doesn't come from the Swords Coast.

You come from the Border Kingdoms, a country with much stricter rules.

According to local customs, a woman is a woman. Obedient, submissive, stupid.

Just a commodity to be sold and bought.

Your father, a wealthy merchant, dreams of marrying you off to a noble.

Instead of learning to fight, you learn to dance. Instead of magic, you are taught manners.

And you are punished for not being feminine enough.

But you see the different life in Baldur's Gate.

You see women who are warriors, fighters, sorceresses, pirates.

Everything you dream to be!

Noticing your interest, your mother locks you in the house, forbidding you to go out alone.

And you decide to run away.

You plan it carefully. The Swords Coast is big, you just need to leave Baldur's Gate and disappear among the adventurers.

You find a way to learn how to fight, disguising it as another dance lesson, and how to shoot arrows by lying to your parents that noble women in the Border Kingdoms love casual archery.

You are ready to escape, but on the very day you plan to leave, your father receives news. The royal family has agreed to marry off their youngest son to you.

Your family will also become nobles and be given their own lands.

But your mothers sees your preparations - a travel suit and a sword. She punishes you severely, forcing a wizard to paralyze you till they day you and your family sail back home.

You realize that your life is over. You will be locked in a castle, and you will never be able to walk the roads freely.

Because running away from a rich family is one thing. Running away from a prince is quite another. He will find you.

Worse, he'll get you pregnant, and your life will be over.

You decide it's better to end it al.

You jump into the sea and let the waters take you.

But your will to live proves to be much stronger than you expected, and you manage to stay afloat.

But once you reach the coast, the mindflayers kidnap you.

The tadpole in your brain is creepy and weird, but after meeting the first mercenary who seeks you out, you begin to appreciate this unexpected ally.

You feel strong and free - you can stand for yourself.

You and Astarion have similar fears. And desires.

As soon as you get to Baldur's Gate, your family knows of your arrival.

And so does your "husband."

Powerful mages come after you and, taking advantage of your weakness after removing the tadpole, kidnap you.

Astarion won't let them take you.

Even if he has to start a war against the kingdom to do so.

He goes to the Undedark, begging spawns to help him.

A whole year passes, but he is finally there, ready to enter the castle.

That's where the battle takes place - between the vampires and the knights. 

Astarion finds you, tired, beaten, and drugged. He carries you to the dungeons to the darkness and freedom.

But...

The prince, realizing he can't have you, kills you.

Astarion kills him on the spot, but by the time he carries you to safety, it's too late.

You've lost too much blood. You're dying.

Nothing can help you.

Astarion begs and cries, but there is nothing he can do.

You ask him to drain you. You want to die in his hands.

Astarion agrees.

A masterless spawn, what can he do?

He holds you for a day in his hands before letting you rest in your grave.

But there's something Astarion doesn't know about himself, or vampires in general.

When the master dies, vampires cease to be spawns.

They become true vampires. Very capable of creating their own spawns.

You wake up in your grave, mad with pain and hunger.

You crawl out with a dead heart in your chest, a permament bite mark, a hunger you've never known, and a pair of fangs.

An invisible thread pulls you away, forcing you to face your master. 

To obey his commands.

Several days pass as you reach him - you cannot hunt because your master has not allowed it, you cannot rest before you face him.

Astarion wakes up and sees you - confused, tired, and hungry.

A slave to his will.

And he realizes that he has unleashed 7,000 full-fledged vampires with the same ability to turn mortals into the undead.

He immediately gives you his blood, freeing you.

You belong to him. Forever. And he belongs to you.

It takes you a while to get used to that. You miss the sun, you can't hunt, and the empty mirrors drive you crazy.

Hunger and cold torment you, and sometimes you curse Astarion for not letting you die (as if it were his fault).

You even try to walk into the sunlight to die, but Astarion manages to drag you back.

You finally make peace with yourself and your condition.

Immortal! Able to crawl on the ceiling! Strong! Eerily beautiful! Immune to necrotic damage!

And through you, Astarion makes peace with himself.

Why bother looking for the cure if you can create a vampire guild and force a "protection racket" on the people of Faerun?

You, a terrible vampire woman, strike fear in some distant village!

Him, a dangerous undead, bothering a rich merchant!

Someone needs to rescue these people. It shouldn't bother them a vampire saves them from another vampire.

Sometimes Astarion "hunts" you, sometimes you "hunt" him.

You have the immortality to share with each other, and you are looking forward into the future.

--

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars @marina-and-the-memes @waking-electric @ayselluna @connorsui @asterordinary @darkarchangel96 @locallegume

#spacebarbarian headcanon #dnd elves #high elves #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 astarion #bg3 #astarion romance #astarion bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion headcanon #astarion headcanons #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion x reader #tav x astarion #astarion x f!tav #human tav #dnd human #bg3 tav #dnd fighter #fighter tav

[aspiringwarriorlibrarian]

Given how fucking hardcore Mandalorians are about their Space Christian “there is only one true kind of Mandalorian and it’s my very specific set of criteria that ignores 70% of the population at the bare minimum and mildly contradicts with all of the other 1562 definitions people have in a way that I’ve decided means holy war” nonsense, it just makes me all the more curious to know what in the hell Tarre Vizsla did.

If becoming leader of Mandalore is an uphill climb, Tarre started underground. One of the few things Mandalorians agree on is that Jedi are their enemies. And yet Tarre strolls out of the Jedi Order with a black-bladed lightsaber and not only does he become leader, he becomes so memorable and so revered that his lightsaber becomes the symbol of Mandalorian leadership for a thousand years.

Did he invent beskar? Did he fight his way through an army to climb on that throne and then refuse to budge? Was he just really good at taxation and imports and all that boring stuff that actual government requires and they couldn’t overthrow him without their infrastructure collapsing?

“No Mandalorian warrior will ever accept a Jedi on the throne!”

“Oh, what a shame. I guess I’ll just have to settle for the Mandalorian workers, Mandalorian artisans, Mandalorian merchants, Mandalorian scholars, Mandalorian inventors, and literally every other non-noble who’ve joined me because they’re tired of the Houses breaking their stuff over petty squabbles. Good thing warriors don’t need to eat, right? Cause I’ve also got the Mandalorian farmers and they are really tired of you burning their fields.”

#tarre vizsla #star wars theories

[agent-cupcake]

cry foul

I said I needed a new mouse and @dogveins came through, thank you! They had a very fun prompt and it got away from me a bit.

Pairing: Sylvain Jose Gautier x f!Reader

Synopsis: Your mother recently married Margrave Gautier, dragging you to Gautier territory to live with your new family. Sylvain is much happier about the arrangement than you.

Warnings: explicit smut, noncon, scumbag Sylvain, mind games, nonconsensual sibling pseudo incest

Tags: shy/inexperienced reader, teasing, first time

Word Count: 20.9k

Notes: I would like to credit a local genius who fed me the line, "The way I see it, our parents had a marriage of convenience, so our being siblings is also a matter of convenience." Although I couldn't find a way to use it, it still should be known.

i.

there’s a bad moon rising

Lurking deep within your brain, there existed a memory-mangled quote—something about how bust measurements and makeup did not a woman make, it was the acceptance of harsh realities and knowledge of the rules that governed the adult world which aged a girl out of her childish naivety. The words, found in some etiquette guidebook you read years ago, resurfaced from the depths after your mother sat you down to tell you of her plans.

Harsh reality, put into purely practical, factual terms, was that your mother’s second wedding amounted to little more than a legal document. Its lack of sentimentality and pomp was due in no small part to the lingering scandal that enshrouded the whole ordeal, but also because the widows had no need for any flashy celebration of their loveless union. It was, as your mother explained with cutting efficiency in the same practical, factual terms, a business deal. Her inheritance and trade connections for the safety and prestige of a noble title. Money for power. So, on the seventeenth day of Great Tree Moon, Margrave Matthias Raoul Gautier—twice widowed—married your mother under the watchful eye of the goddess and the binding shackles of law. You wore periwinkle and held very tightly to your bouquet of white lilies, watching a man you had met only a single time before the ceremony become your stepfather. 

Margrave Gautier’s son—the second, the heir, the one who hadn’t been disinherited and cast away as a blight on the family’s name—made no such effort. He didn’t even show up. Nobody mentioned his absence. That was one of the rules that governed the adult world, one of the confusingly paradoxical games of pretend they all participated in. Do not point out unsavory truths, ignore harsh realities and then ignore ignorance itself. 

Before the ink of their signatures could have a chance to dry, preparations were completed to make the trip north. Quickly, as the relatively mild weather could turn at any moment. With all due haste, an antique set of cloth wrapped silver candlesticks, two artisan-carved mahogany side tables, no less than three trunks of fine linens, a collection of leatherbound original books penned by a famed philosopher and scholar you couldn’t name, an ivory keyed piano, and one bleary eyed daughter were all packed up to be transported to Castle Gautier where they would be kept for the foreseeable future. 

“We’ll come back to visit, right?” you asked your mother as the carriage trundled past the border of Rowe territory, having grown bored drawing shapes on the breath-fogged glass window over the wooded scenery. 

“It’s a long journey to make just for a visit,” she said, looking up from the document she was studying intently. 

“But maybe for special occasions?” you asked. “The Goddess’ Ball is coming up.” You didn’t mention that you had promised your friends in advance that you would attend with them, going as a group rather than endure the embarrassment of searching for a gentleman suitor. That was before harsh reality reared its head. 

“I am not entirely sure Count Rowe will host us,” your mother told you bluntly. “He and Matthias aren’t on the best of terms.” 

You slumped down in your seat, sighing. Politics, then. Before the past month, you hadn’t been very aware of Faerghus’s political situation, let alone how fractured it was. The conflict between various lords had something to do with what happened after the Tragedy of Duscur that took the life of King Lambert, although you knew very little beyond that. While your mother’s passion lay firmly in the world of political intrigue, you had very little interest in something so dismal and divisive. 

“You will make new friends,” she told you, a gentle note in her voice. “There will be balls and feasts in the north as well. And you’ll have your stepbrother Sylvain. He’s only a year your senior and Matthias tells me he greatly enjoys art and music. I’m sure you’ll find much to talk about.” 

The mention of your absentee stepbrother who you knew, so far, only through reputation didn’t do much to ease your concerns. There were hundreds of rumors about Sylvain and the way he behaved around women, although you knew better than to bring up unsubstantiated hearsay with your matter-of-fact mother. And maybe it really was just lies, you were well aware that people weren’t above lying. Dishonesty was as much a rule of polite society as proper footwear.

“It will be difficult to adjust, I know,” she said when you didn’t respond, caught up in your own distracted thoughts. “We will be judged harshly, and there will be many people who will reject us for nothing more than from where we came. All we can do is show them that the grace and steadfast dignity of a lady is not a product of lineage. Do you understand?” 

“I do,” you said with another heavy sigh, that half-remembered quote spinning mercilessly in your head. Harsh realities, and the rules of adults. Same games, new rules. 

With the matter settled, your mother returned to her reading and you returned to the window, trying not to think about the new anxieties she had introduced but unable to think of anything else. 

ii.

through thick and thin

Traveling to Gautier territory with a decently sized caravan took nearly an entire fortnight, slowed by a patch of particularly bad roads across the Itha Plains. You got a breath of fear when one of the hulking monsters that prowled the area was spotted, and then a jump of panic when a rippling murmur about bandit activity spread throughout the camp. But nothing came of either, and your journey continued. 

Spring’s slow going snowmelt was nearly as bad as the wintry storms themselves. Ground that had spent the long season frozen began to thaw out into a nasty brownish slush, softening enough for wheels to form dangerous ruts along the road and splattering mud onto your boots. As the new year continued, the days had gotten longer, but with the sun hiding behind the omnipresent angry smear of gray blanketing the skies, it was impossible to enjoy them. People claimed that it was better near the Sreng border because the climate was drier. You doubted it could be too much worse.

Arrival didn’t help, as evidence that you now lived in a fortress surrounded you, completely unlike the city you called home for most of your life. Fortifications surrounded all sides, and military guards were ready for any movement from Sreng forces. Even if it weren’t so cold, the place had a frigid, unapproachable air. The intimidating stonework was very clear in its messaging. You did not belong here.  

From the minute you first arrived in Gautier territory, cold became a permanent fact of life. 

iii.

baa, baa, black sheep

Sleeping here was difficult, howling wind rattled windows and sang frightening songs in the night. Morose, chilled, and tired, you stared with glazed eyes at the unappetizing porridge meant to be your breakfast as it got even colder. The only reason you had yet to get up was a lack of motivation. What else would you be doing? You had asked your mother if she would spend the day with you, but she was busy. Unlike you, she thrived in this environment. While she had always had the inherent power of money and strong mercantile contracts, she had never had the intrinsic political power of a lord. The graceful response would be to feel content to see her taking to the new situation, glad that it gave her a platform to get along with her new husband in an otherwise loveless marriage. 

Mostly you just felt the tragic pulse of self pity. And cold.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or has the goddess finally answered my prayers?” someone asked, surprising you. Looking up, you locked eyes with a man you didn’t recognize. He stood in the doorway with an attractive smile, his red hair a mess and cheeks and nose blushed pink from being outside in the cold, slightly clouded with the steam rising from the bowl he held. “If I had known I had an angel here to greet me, I wouldn’t have kept you waiting so long.”   

The line, cheesy as it was, brought an immediate flush to your face, your brain scrambling as it tried to make sense of what was happening. You looked around the empty dining room, sure that you would see the other girl he was talking to. But there was none. 

“I’m not…” you stammered out, lost as to how to respond. It was flirtatious, wasn’t it? You couldn’t think of how else you would interpret what he said, although the idea of being flirted with was equally as incomprehensible. Worse, the red hair was a dead giveaway for the fact that you were finally face to face with the missing Gautier heir, Sylvain. Your stepbrother. “I think you’re, um, mis-mistaking me for someone else.”

“That’s impossible,” he said, undeterred by your awkward response. “You’re unmistakably beautiful… and unmistakably divine.” He stepped out of the doorway to get closer, allowing you to see him more clearly. If it really was Sylvain, he looked nothing like his father other than the red hair and brown eyes. He was too, for want of a better word, pretty. “What do you think, can you spare some time for a sinner like me?” he asked, taking the seat beside you. “We can talk about love—the goddess’ and otherwise.” 

“I, um, don’t know much about that,” you muttered, buying time by eating a spoonful of the porridge. If it tasted bad while it was hot, it was worse while cold, but it was better than addressing the man sitting next to you.  

“There’s no need to be so shy. I don’t bite,” he said warmly. “Well, unless you want me to. Some girls really like that sort of thing.” That made you choke, glad you had already swallowed the mouthful of gooey sludge pretending to be food as your cheeks blazed and you stared hard at the neatly smoothed tablecloth. He laughed. “Well, well, maybe you’re not as angelic as you look.”

“N-no, that’s not…” You shook your head, desperate to shut down this line of conversation. 

“Hey, no judgment here,” he told you, raising his hands placatingly. 

“You’re Sylvain, aren’t you?” you asked abruptly, unable to look at him as hot embarrassment raged within you. In your periphery, you could see his sparkling smile. 

“Yep. And you’re the daughter of my father’s new wife,” Sylvain said, no question in his voice. “Which makes you my new little sister.” 

You peeked up at him, shocked and unsettled by the happiness in his voice when he said that. “You-you knew?” 

He shrugged. “It wasn’t exactly difficult to deduce. You’re a lot prettier than I thought you’d be though,” Sylvain said. He gave you another once over, some of that smug amusement returning to dance in his eyes. “I was kind of nervous, to be honest. Miklan and I never got along very well, I wasn’t looking forward to this. But I can tell just by looking at you that you’ve got a sensitive, kind heart. I’m the same way, really. I think we might just be kindred spirits.”  

“I. um, don’t really…”

Undeterred by your awkward bumbling, Sylvain picked up from where your sentence dropped. “You’re new to this area, right? I can’t imagine how tough that must be for you. I’d be more than happy to show you around. Maybe we could go for a horseback ride when the weather clears up. I know a few private spots around here where we could really get to know each other better.”

“You don’t have to,” you said awkwardly. 

“No, I want to. Besides, your mother did ask me to keep a close eye on you, make sure you settle in well. I guess that’s kinda a part of the big brother gig.” He grinned. “I think I could get used to that. It’s an honor to have such a cute little sister.” 

A sick lump formed in your throat at the way he twisted your supposed familial ties with that overly friendly tone of voice. You couldn’t tell if he meant anything by it, you didn’t want to believe that he did, but the entire interaction had been so horrifically uncomfortable you didn’t know. 

“I’m not…” Goddess, you couldn’t even say it, choking on your embarrassment. “It’s not like you-you’re actually my… my brother.” 

“Yeah, just legally and technically,” he said dryly.

“Yea—yeah,” you agreed. Just legally and technically. 

Sylvain laughed. Oh. He had been making fun of you. 

Picking up your half empty bowl, you stood up. The chair’s legs complained noisily. “I’m, um, I’m done,” you announced. “So, I’m… going.” 

“But I just got here,” Sylvain said, frowning. “Won’t you stay a little longer? The joy of your company is the only thing that’ll make this edible. Besides, I’d love to get to know my baby sister.”

The term of endearment nearly caused you to drop the bowl, your cheeks hot enough to sizzle. “I-I don’t…” 

“I’m sure you’ve noticed how lonely things get around here, it’s downright depressing sometimes,” Sylvain pushed. “And we’re going to be living together from now on, don’t you want to know a little more about me? Think of it as sibling bonding.” 

Your shoulders wilted. An urgent voice in your head demanded you leave, but you also felt guilty. Maybe you were being too squirrely, especially when he hadn’t actually done anything. Besides, he was the only person in the past week who seemed actually interested in spending time with you, and you couldn’t deny that it was at least a little flattering. 

“Alright,” you mumbled, sitting down. “Just for a bit.” 

Sylvain smiled, and it was sharp. Like he’d won a game you had no idea you were playing. 

iv.

curiosity killed the cat

Traveling to the nearest town took, in fair weather, a half hour on horseback. Longer if you took a coach, and even longer in poor weather. Despite the time it took to get there, you very quickly determined that you liked the town near Castle Gautier. The weather becoming less severe meant that merchants were finally able to make the journey north, so the market was lively enough. It was not nearly as festival-like as the markets you had frequented in the past, but you took what you could get. 

Almost immediately, Sylvain left with a comment about having an important matter to tend to, promising to come find you when he was done and that you should stay in the market area. He’d been told to stay close to you, but considering how awkward you felt around him still, you were more than happy to allow him to do whatever he wanted. 

Feeling a measure of excitement, you fluttered around different shops, searching out clothes that could better withstand the abrasive northern air. It came as a shock to realize that you already had a reputation. Throughout your life, you had been treated well because you had money, but now you had status, and that made your custom infinitely more valuable. Given your mother’s trade, you could hold your own while haggling prices, but the shop owners barely tried to overcharge. You came away with a handsome new green cloak made of thick wool with fur trim, new lace up boots big enough to fit extra insulation, and several thick woolen socks. A good haul, all things considered. 

But then you were left with a problem. With your business done and all the shops in the main market explored, you had nothing to do other than wait for Sylvain to return. Since the sky was the same murky steely color it had been since the sun rose, you couldn’t tell exactly, but you were sure it was getting into the late afternoon. Your toes were ice, and you wanted to be home in time to dine with your mother. 

And still, no Sylvain. 

With no small amount of clear distaste, one of the shopkeepers gave you a tip as to his usual haunts. A bar, restaurant, a gated area that was prepared for planting at the first sign of true spring weather. At first, it was fun to explore the new sights, but the longer you wandered, the harder it became not to notice the rampant poverty. Impoverishment looked different in the north than it did in Rowe territory. Cold, hungry. Most of northern Faerghus’ money followed the trades of military and mining, harsh professions in harsh conditions that created harsh people, readily leaving behind those with dust blackened lungs or crippled limbs. More so than any of your mother’s explanations, it made you understand why Margrave Gautier would opt for a wealthy wife over one with pedigree.  

With no luck at the first few places you looked for him, you were directed to an establishment which had no name, just a depiction of a four leaf clover for a sign. It was a bit unfriendly looking, if you were honest, but you were shivering from the cold and more than a little anxious to find Sylvain. 

Inside proved to be no more welcoming than out, the only difference was that it didn’t reek as aggressively of urine. Nobody greeted you when you entered. In fact, you drew more than a few stares. You had the distinct and sinking feeling that you did not belong. Keeping your head high, you hurried to who you assumed was the proprietor and asked if he’d seen Sylvain. He said nothing until you produced a few coins, and then he nodded to the back. The boards creaked beneath your boots. Everything smelled musty and even with a fire burning, you could practically taste the cold in the air. The back had a short hall with doors, maybe to rent out rooms? Although that was unimportant in comparison to the sight of two people at the very end of it. 

As soon as you realized that it was Sylvain and that he wasn’t alone, you ducked away, heart racing. All of your panic seemed to be for nothing though, they were too busy to notice you. It was any wonder you hadn’t noticed the loud, messy sound of kissing before you rounded the corner. Although, if you hadn’t seen a quick flash of them in the act, you might have been confused as to what was causing all of the breathing and moaning and sucking noises. Certainly no kissing you’d ever observed sounded like that. Understanding what, exactly, you had stumbled upon made you cringe and flush hotly, the notion that you should give them privacy conflicting with your desire to go home.

Suddenly, Sylvain groaned, a low noise that you felt as much as you heard. It made your breath catch, the muscles of your thighs clenching unintentionally. 

“Not here,” he admonished breathlessly. 

“We can get a room,” you heard the woman say, her voice husky.

“I’d love to, gorgeous,” he said. “But I’ve gotta take my sister home before it gets too late.” That startled you, feeling a flash of worry that he’d seen you. But if had, there was no way he’d keep going with this.

“Aren’t I more important? Fuck your sister,” the woman responded. 

Sylvain laughed. 

“What?” she demanded. That clearly wasn’t the response she wanted.  

“No, nothing,” Sylvain said awkwardly, clearing his throat. “I really do have to go. Next time though, I promise.” 

“You always say next time,” the woman told him, pouty.  

“I mean it,” Sylvain said, his voice lowered to convey its sincerity. “Do you really think I’d lie to you, baby? You know you’re the only girl for me.” 

At first you thought they might be done, but then you heard her muffled moan and realized they were kissing again. Fabric shuffled. Something thunked dully against the wall. You knew you shouldn’t have been listening like this, that it was wrong and disgusting and disturbing and terrible, but you couldn’t move. A darkly curious part of you wanted to know what they were doing that would make sounds like that, although the thought of knowing profoundly disgusted you. 

When they finally stopped, muttering something you couldn’t make out, you only had a few moments to think of what to do before you heard footsteps. And, really, in all of your flustered embarrassment, you had even less time. 

The woman emerged first, smoothing her blond hair with a passive expression that didn’t give any hint to what you just heard. She didn’t see you, sauntering out the door with a farewell to the proprietor you had given money to. While you didn’t get a good look at her face, you got more than enough time to see her curvaceous figure. 

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to spy on people?” Sylvain asked, surprising you into jumping, letting out a little squeak. And then you looked at him, and the embarrassment returned in full force. He ran a hand through his messy hair, doing nothing to tame it, and licked his red, slightly swollen lips. You very pointedly did not watch either movement, your breathing too fast as you tried to come up with a valid excuse.  

“I was… I didn’t mean… I came to find you, ah-and…” 

“Just out of curiosity, how much did you hear?” he asked.

“Nothing!”  you said quickly, eyebrows shooting up. 

“Right, I bet you’re going to tell me you only just got here,” he said, obviously toying with you. He knew you were lying, but if you admitted it now, that’d only make it worse.

“I did,” you agreed, choosing what you hoped was the lesser of two evils.  “I, um, I’m done shopping so I wanted to let you know I’m ready to leave.” 

“I’m pretty sure I told you to stay there and wait for me to come back,” Sylvain said. He looked around the bar, surveying the unfriendly faces that were pointedly not staring at you. “This side of town isn’t exactly welcoming.” 

Had he told you that? You couldn’t remember. “I’m… sorry.”

“If something happened to you, it’d be my fault, you know,” Sylvain said, looking down at you. He was close enough that you could smell his cologne as well as the woman’s perfume. An overwhelming scent.  “I’m sure you’re used to just doing whatever you want, right? But now that it’s my responsibility to look out for you, I expect you to listen to me.”     

He spoke down to you like an adult to a child which, although irritating in its own way, only worsened the embarrassment of being chastised. “I’m sorry,” you said again, staring hard at his chest to avoid his gaze. “But you don’t, um… I can look out for myself. We’re basically the same age.”  

“Doesn’t matter,” Sylvain said. “I’m your big brother, so it’s up to me to keep you safe.” 

None of this would have been an issue if he hadn’t left to spend time with his girlfriend, but you didn’t want to point that out and risk dragging out this uncomfortable conversation. “Okay,” you agreed, hoping that’d be the end of it. 

You flinched when Sylvain tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Promise that you’ll listen to me from now on,” he said. 

You breathed out shakily, too overwhelmed to do anything other than obediently agree. “I pr-promise.” 

“If you don’t,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking upward slightly, “I’ll definitely be forced to punish you.” 

Your mouth opened, but you didn’t say anything. How were you supposed to respond when you couldn't even figure out what he meant by that? Your insides twisted into a riotous state, but your head was pretty solidly empty of any coherent thought. 

Suddenly, just as quickly as it came, Sylvain’s darker mood disappeared into a big grin and let your chin drop. “Hah, you totally fell for that! I got worried it was too corny, but I guess not,” he said with a laugh, ruffling your hair affectionately. “That face was priceless. You’re way too gullible.” 

“What?” you asked, beyond being confused and still trying to piece together a rational thought.

“I was just messing with you,” Sylvain said. “I mean, who would actually say something like that?” 

“Oh… yeah,” you said, trying desperately to laugh with him. 

“Come on,” Sylvain said, fixing his clothes as he turned towards the door, “let’s go home.” 

You followed his lead out into the cold towards the coach, chewing on your lip in a state between embarrassment and a sickened sense of conflict. With each crunching step, the silence grew ever more daunting. He said it was a joke, so you shouldn’t have cared. You didn’t care. You weren’t even sure why you reacted the way you did, your stomach dropping out helplessly. Sylvain helped you into the carriage in the most gentlemanly fashion, following behind and shutting the door. It was entirely quiet in the cab save for muffled noises from outside. You had no idea what to say, and you couldn’t figure out what Sylvain was thinking.  

All you could think about was the word punish and the sound of him groaning that first time. Such an honest, guttural response to pleasure. In some ways, it would have been less intimate to catch him in a state of undress. Of course, that only invited the idea of shirtless Sylvain into your head and you knew your cheeks were burning but you couldn’t think of anything else to distract yourself. He was your stepbrother. It didn’t matter that you weren’t related and that he was a man and around your age and attractive, to even slightly entertain these thoughts was condemnable. 

“Your girlfriend is very beautiful,” you told him, latching onto the first safe thought you could  manage.

“My… what?” Sylvain asked. 

“The—that girl,” you said, your eyebrows furrowing with nervous confusion. 

“Oh! Yeah, right,” he said, nodding in comprehension. “I wouldn’t say she’s my girlfriend or anything. We’ve been out a few times. You know how it is. I just wanted a good time, but she wants more.” 

If that was the case, he had done a very poor job of expressing that to her. But saying so would only reveal that you had been listening, so you just nodded like you understood. “Yeah. That’s, um, frustrating.” 

“Speaking of which, is there a mark on my neck?” Sylvain asked, pulling down his collar enough to reveal the ivory pale column of skin marked halfway down with an angry red splotch. 

“There’s a red spot,” you said, frowning. “Does it hurt?”  

“What? No. I asked her not to leave a mark, but some girls get possessive like that.” He sighed, clearly disgusted with the idea, rubbing his neck. 

You didn’t know what he meant, but you figured it was probably better not to ask if it had to do with the girl who was not his girlfriend that you were still pretending you hadn’t heard him kissing. You didn’t want to know. 

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you,” Sylvain said knowingly, smiling again. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, unable to look at him. 

“No, I-I do,” you lied.

“Uh-huh,” he agreed doubtfully. “And a sweet girl like you would never lie to her big brother, would she?” 

You exhaled harshly, bowing your head even more in the hopes he couldn’t see your expression as shame and guilt and disgust swirled through you in quick succession. Knowing filthy things wasn’t becoming of a lady, let alone one who had spent so little time around men. It was far outside the scope of what was appropriate, or even what you wanted to know. But it didn’t help the terrible feeling that you were less than compared to him, childishly ignorant. At least he didn’t push it. 

“By the by, that cloak looks lovely on you,” Sylvain said after a moment.

“Thank you,” you said on a reactive impulse, caught off guard by the sudden praise but happy to change subjects. And it was very pretty, even if more muted in comparison to what you usually wore.

“I bet you were really popular with all the guys before you came here. I wonder how many hearts you broke when you left.” He paused, grinning. “Then again, their loss is my gain, right?” 

And just like that, things were awkward again. “I didn’t… I-I wasn’t… Like that.” 

“What?” Sylvain asked, his eyes wide with shock. “There’s no way a pretty girl like you didn’t have men throwing themselves at your feet.”

The idea was laughable, but you had no idea how to tell him that you were too awkward, too easily flustered, to really attract or even want that sort of attention. As your interactions with Sylvain had proven, it was too embarrassing to be worthwhile. “I’ve never… never thought too much about that sort of thing.” 

Sylvain stared you down for a second as if trying to see if you’d crack, but you were telling the truth this time. “Hah. You’re pretty lucky, you know that?” he asked. “Being able to live without that sort of attention and pressure, I guess money doesn’t draw people in the same way as a title or Crest. Or maybe your mother just spoiled you too much.” 

“I don’t know,” you responded slowly, unsure of where he was going with this. Once again, it seemed like Sylvain’s ever-shifting mood had taken a darker turn. Or maybe it was another joke?

“I get it, though,” he said, leaning back. “As your doting big brother, I’d like to spoil you too, you know?” 

No, you didn’t. And you were fairly confident that it was another one of the things you didn’t want to know. But you had already done enough to embarrass yourself, so you ducked your head in an attempt to hide your face and became very interested in the bleak landscape passing outside the window.

v.

rounding the bend

“May I talk to you?” you asked, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot in front of your mother’s desk, practically wringing your hands in an attempt to not seem jittery. You weren’t sure what you meant to tell her, it wasn’t as if you had some massive piece of evidence that you could bring out to say that Sylvain made you uncomfortable. All you wanted was advice, or maybe to have her moderate a bit. Unfortunately, there never seemed to be a good time for the conversation. 

You wouldn’t say anything at all if it weren’t for the fact that the teasing was getting to be too overwhelming. Sylvain always seemed to be standing too close, or his hand happened to be in a place to brush your thigh beneath the table, or he leaned in to speak intimately close to your ear—you didn't know what to do. She said to have grace and dignity, but there was no graceful way to blush, and no dignified way to stammar out basic words when he said something that embarrassed you terribly.

“What is it?” she asked, distractedly looking up at you. Always distracted. For most of your life, she had been a rather unapproachable figure, always consumed with her work, never as sensitive to your feelings as you would wish. But it had gotten worse here, or perhaps you were just more acutely aware of the isolation. 

“It’s just… I was wondering if we could talk?” 

She shuffled some papers, her attention clearly split. “Talk about what?” 

“Talk, um… It’s about Sylvain, I—” you cut yourself off at the sound of footsteps. All the fine hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as you jumped, looking over your shoulder even though you knew who it was, could feel it.

“Did somebody say my name?” 

Of course, of course, of course. You looked quickly at your mother and back at him, forcing a smile. “Ye-yeah, I was… wondering if she knew where you were.” 

“What a coincidence, I was just looking for you,” Sylvain said with a grin. You couldn’t tell from his expression if he had known, somehow, what you were about to say of it really was the world’s most unlucky coincidence. “I was thinking we could go to town for lunch, I know a place that makes food that almost has flavor to it.” 

Your mother was paying a little more attention now, looking up at the two of you. “I take it you’re getting along well?” 

Sylvain wrapped his arm around you before you could respond, squishing you against him affectionately. All you could smell was cologne, as well as the headier scent of Sylvain himself, a musky, manly smell. “Yep. You raised a truly wonderful daughter, although that’s not surprising for a woman as amazing and beautiful as you. How my father managed to find such perfect girls to bring home is beyond me, I guess the old man still has some taste left.” 

“I, um, I’m not feeling very well, actually,” you said softly, ducking out from under Sylvain’s arm. “I think I might go lay down. Sorry."

“Sure, no big deal," Sylvain said with a wink. "Next time, okay? I'll hold you to it."

You nodded, swallowing hard. "I'll see you both tonight."

"Ooo, about that, I've got plans tonight," Sylvain said. "If that's okay with the lady of the house, of course." 

Your mother smiled wryly. As if she had any say in what he did or didn’t do. Not even his own father could contain the lawless whirlwind that was Sylvain. 

"I’ll see you tomorrow then, Sylvain," you said as you made a hasty retreat. His eyes weighed heavily on your back, even when you left his direct line of sight. Sylvain knew what you had been about to say, what you were worried about. It was in the same deft, sneaky way he knew when he could tease you with nobody seeing, or what sort of comment would make your breath hiccup. 

But then, a part of your brain whispered, he was such an overt, abrasive flirt. He had no qualms about public trysts or scandals. You could be wrong about everything, wrong that there was some insidious intent behind his actions, and wrong that he would have time or desire to play such twisted mind games. You could be misremembering things, or fooling yourself into finding some deeper meaning out of your own sick perversions. After all, you could still clearly remember the sound of him groaning in pleasure while kissing that woman, your brain refused to let go of it. If it was you who conjured these sick fantasies, if it were your mind that assumed depravity where there was none, what did you do then? How did you overcome such sin?

Goddess save you.

vi.

jumping at shadows

Ghosts weren’t real. 

Probably. 

But if they were real, they would live in Castle Gautier. The place creaked and groaned constantly, strange noises following you, surrounding you. And it was cold. Being ill had only been an excuse earlier, but there was some truth there. Because it was so cold. Horribly cold, the kind that made you feel sick all the way in your bones, a clammy sort of congestion that resisted even the warmest of fires. 

Those two things were the war that kept you up far past your bedtime. Stupidly, you had left your favorite blanket in the library earlier when you had been reading and enjoying Sylvain's absence. Not only your favorite, but the warmest. Sleeping without it had proved impossible, but the idea of leaving your bedroom was nearly unbearable because you feared what you would find should you venture into the creepy, freezing hallways. There was a time, however, when the chill became genuinely unbearable. If you caught a cold or something, it would only make your situation in the eternally freezing Castle Gautier that much more miserable. 

Ghosts weren’t real. So you bundled up in your warmest housecoat and set out, holding a candle high and telling yourself you weren’t afraid. You couldn’t be hurt by that which did not exist.

How could a place be so dark? Not an absence of light, but void of it. Wherever your candle’s flickering illumination didn’t touch was eaten by the ravenous shadows. You had just made your way down the steps into the high ceiling atrium connecting the various wings when you heard what sounded like heavy, echoing footsteps. From where, you couldn’t tell. From who, you also couldn’t tell. If the dark had been a problem in the blocky square halls connecting the bedrooms, it was an overt menace here where there was more space to fill. But ghosts weren’t real. Fear froze you all the same, your straining eyes darting from side to side in a vain hope to see past the dark and wondering if you should just turn back now. 

But you’d come this far and the things you feared were childish. More than likely, you had heard the footsteps of the guards that remained on constant vigil. Cursing your cowardice, you found the guts to reach the library, focusing only on what was directly in front of you as you retrieved your blanket and returned to the main hall. It was quiet now. Eerily still. But…

But. 

Was there a sound? The wind, certainly. It howled right outside the walls, a threatening and mournful wail. Footsteps? You couldn’t tell. Chills covering your body, you looked around in an attempt to see beyond the encroaching darkness, but you still couldn’t see anything, it was impenetrable. If ghosts were real, that’s where they’d hide. You knew that for a fact. But they weren’t real.  

“Is someone there?” you called, your voice faint. More scraping. Footsteps, definitely footsteps. You couldn’t even tell where they were coming from, the sound echoed off of the tall ceiling. You weren’t scared. Ghosts weren’t real. “Hello?” 

“Boo!” 

The single word, spoken from behind you, induced the scream that had been building up in your chest, but a hand clapped over your mouth before the sound made it very far. You dropped your blanket and the candle holder, snuffing out your only source of light. Hot wax splattered your slippered feet. You thrashed, panicking, but your attacker kept you pinned against them, unable to turn around. 

Somewhere, emerging from the raw panic of fear, you realized that it couldn’t have been a ghost if you were being held by a fully corporeal figure. And then you realized that the air puffing against your ear was laughter, and the chest rumbling against your back was making a familiar sound. 

“I didn’t think you would freak out like that,” Sylvain said, still chuckling. All of the adrenaline pumping terror through your veins dissolved into anger as you made sense of everything, furious tears pricking in your eyes as you tried to wrestle out of his grip. “Hey, calm down. It’s just me,” he told you sweetly, rocking you back and forth. “I didn’t mean to scare you so much, honestly. Please don’t be mad.” 

When you stopped struggling so recklessly, Sylvain uncovered your mouth, that arm winding around your waist to hold you against him instead. 

“Let me go,” you said, pushing at his arms, still upset enough about being scared to sound angry.

“Can’t a guy have a minute to comfort his sweet baby sister?” Sylvain asked. Despite the soothing tenor of his voice, one of his hands pushed beneath your housecoat to press against your nearly bare chest. It froze you solid, the rest of your fear and anger turning to dread and confusion.

“Wha-what are you doing?” you asked, your voice slightly too high with stress. 

“Your heart is really racing,” Sylvain said, his voice slurring a little, rumbling in his chest. Was he drunk? “It reminds me of when we hunt small game. Their little hearts have to work so much harder. Especially when they’re scared. It makes me feel kinda bad, you know?” 

At his mentioning it, you could almost feel your heart beating against his large palm. Being compared to small prey didn’t at all help your nerves and embarrassment. While improbable, if anyone were to shine a light on the two of you at that moment, you knew what it would look like. The word was incest, and it didn’t matter that you weren’t actually related because—as Sylvain himself had stated—you were legally and technically family.  

“Let me go,” you told him, pushing against his arms with increasing distress. Sylvain didn’t budge, nuzzling against the side of your head. The air of his breath made you shiver. He smelled like pipe smoke and spice, his clothes cold from being outside. 

“Does this make you uncomfortable?” he asked. 

Yes, of course it did. But you felt as if that would be the wrong answer, or at least the one he was waiting for, the one he would tease you about. “Please, just…” You pushed at him again, trying to squirm away to no avail. Even if you were strong, which you knew you weren’t, Sylvain had the might of a Crest bearer who had been trained to wield weapons since childhood. It was a lost cause. When you whined, trying to worm your way out of his grip, Sylvain’s breath caught, his arms tightening. That really only made it worse, you struggled harder.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he said, his voice a bit lower. He laughed again, but it was breathless. “To be honest, I didn’t think that you were so shameless. Not that I mind, I wondered if all of this wide-eyed innocence was an act.”

You froze, realizing that you had inadvertently been grinding against him. Even you knew enough to understand the immoral implications of that act. “No, that’s not-”

“Hey, don’t stop on my account,” Sylvain said, pulling you even closer. “I’m glad you’re finally warming up to your big brother like this.”

“Let me go, please,” you whined, pushing pathetically at his arms as your distress mounted. “This is wrong.”

Sylvain sighed, maybe responding to the threat of tears in your voice. “Hey, I was just teasing,” he said, finally releasing. “I don’t think anybody could fake this level of naivety.”

You sniffed, putting a few paces of space between the two of you and fixing your housecoat with jerky movements. He couldn’t possibly see very much of you through the unyielding darkness, but the feeling of exposure pressed insistently against you, a filthy weight. 

“I‘m not naïve,” you argued softly, embarrassed that he would think to apply a word with such childish connotations to you. Sure, you didn’t have his experience, but that wasn’t a bad thing. 

“That wasn’t an insult,” Sylvain said. “The opposite, actually. I think it’s pretty cute.”

“I…um…”  

“Anyway,” Sylvain continued, gracefully saving you from stammering out a response you didn’t have. “Why are you up so late? Isn’t it past your bedtime?”  

At least now the darkness worked in your favor; he couldn’t see your embarrassment. There wasn’t much of an age difference between the two of you, yet he was talking like you were a child. Again. “I left my blanket down here,” you muttered, stooping over to collect what you had dropped. It was difficult to find the candle in the dark, your fingers trailing over droplets of dried wax before finding what you wanted. You hauled the blanket over your shoulder and set the candle back into the holder, unsure what you could do about the mess. 

“You know, if you’re having a hard time staying warm,” Sylvain said, “I’ve got something that might help you in my room.”

“Do you have extra blankets?” you asked doubtfully as you stood up, squinting through the dark as if that would help you see him better. 

“No, but I’ve got a better way of staving off the cold,” Sylvain said. 

You heard the sound of a match being struck, and he held out the flame. You let Sylvain light the candle, getting a better look at him in its flickering glow and muttering your thanks. He didn’t look drunk. His shadowed eyes looked plenty lucid, that smile making your breath catch. Everything about that look and his low, teasing tone of voice warned you not to ask. After what he’d done, you really should have been running back to your room and locking the door behind you. But you didn’t. 

“How?” you asked.

“I’ve been told I make for an excellent source of heat for chilly nights like these,” he said. “If you come into my room, I’d be happy to keep you warm.” 

You stared at him in disbelief, waiting for the other shoe to drop. All you got was silence. “Are you… joking?” you finally asked.

Sylvain laughed, a casual, relaxed sound. “Ah, you’re too much,” he told you fondly. Then, sighing, his smile dropped. “You really have no idea what it does to a guy, do you? I swear, I try to restrain myself, but sometimes I can’t help it.”

“I-I wish you wouldn’t,” you said.

“Is that why you lied about being sick today?” 

“I wasn’t… I didn’t lie.”

“Really? Maybe next time I’ll cancel my plans so I can stay home and take care of you,” Sylvain said. “That’s what brothers do, right? I’m sure I can make you comfortable.” 

“I… um…” you stopped, exhaling slowly. “It’s okay, I’m feeling better now. But I should… I should go to bed, I’m very tired.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Sylvain agreed, his little smile not fading. “You better hurry, before the boogeyman catches you out of bed so late. Who knows what he might do to a cute girl like you.”

“Goodnight, Sylvain,” you said softly, watching him warily for a moment before turning around and ascending the stairs, the light wavering with your shaking hand.

Shut into the sanctuary of your room, you put a hand over your heart and felt it beating, pounding against your ribcage and then against your palm. Threatening to burst right out of your chest, to run off like scared prey. 

vii.

a wolf in sheep’s clothing

“You were a pretty big hit tonight,” Sylvain said on the way up to your rooms. His was further down the hall, so it couldn’t be avoided that you’d walk together. Your thoughts on the subject of your overly friendly stepbrother were impossible to make sense of, but your discomfort remained. The other night had crossed a line, you thought, but he hadn’t mentioned it. And maybe he had been drunk, and maybe you were tired enough to be misremembering, and maybe—

But you couldn’t help the unease that crawled through you whenever he was around. 

"Everyone was really nice," you agreed, looking at the floor to avoid accidentally meeting his eye.

“Especially the guys, right?" Sylvain teased, his voice friendly enough, but not entirely. Or you were reading into it out of nerves. He had been perfectly pleasant all night, after all. 

“I don’t know,” you said with a noncommittal shrug.

"Don't tell me you didn't notice,” Sylvain said, feigning surprise. “Viscount Braley’s eyes almost popped out of his head.” His amused tone died off into a sigh. “Not that I blame them, but it feels pretty weird to have other guys looking at your little sister like that. I always thought it was a huge overreaction when the brother of a girl I was dating threatened to fight me, but I’m starting to get it.” 

“It wasn’t like that,” you said.

“All I’m saying is that it’s a good thing you have me around to keep them in check. I hate to think what those jerks would do if you didn’t have anyone watching over you… And speaking of that,” he continued, his tone lightening, “did I mention how beautiful you look tonight?” 

After everything else he had said, the praise shouldn’t have been so potent. But it was, and your face responded in kind, blood rushing to your cheeks and ears in a blatant signpost of your feelings. 

“Thank you. You-you look nice too,” you said, trying to deflect. It wasn’t a lie, either, although you were certain Sylvain knew how good he looked in the red suitcoat. The scarlet hair should have made for an overbearing combination, but the rich velvet’s shade was dark enough to look nothing less than devastatingly handsome.   

“You think?” he asked with a cocky smile. “I was the best looking guy there, wasn’t I?” 

You blinked, uncertain of how you were meant to answer that. If you were to be transparently honest, Sylvain was the best looking of them all. He had something other men lacked. Despite his friendly features and noble polish, Sylvain’s sparkling brown eyes held a visceral kind of thrill, an excitement playing on the edge of danger. Even the women who scorned him—and there were more than a few of those—couldn’t help but stare enviously when you arrived together. But you couldn’t admit that openly to yourself, let alone to him. 

“Um…” 

“Wait,” Sylvain said, his smile dropping, “you’re not interested in someone else, are you? There were a lot of eligible noblemen there.”

“It wasn’t… it’s not like that,” you said, balking at the insinuation. It wasn’t true, but it shouldn’t have mattered if it were. He was your stepbrother, not your husband or keeper. Seeing him in that way would be, at best, incredibly weird. 

“Sure, sure,” Sylvain allowed with an ironic nonchalance, shrugging. 

As it so often happened with him, you didn’t know what to say to that. Explaining would just make it worse. Arriving at your door came with a sigh of relief. 

“Um… Goodnight, Sylvain,” you said, twisting the knob.  

“Yeah, goodnight,” he said, his expression still unreadably impassive in a way you didn't like. 

There was nothing for you to do about that, so you gave him a final nod and opened your door to slip inside, nudging it shut behind you. But it didn’t close. 

“Just one more thing,” Sylvain said. The shiny leather toe of a man’s dress boot was wedged between door and frame, quickly followed by the rest of him. You stumbled back, eyeing him warily as he closed the door behind himself with a creak of old wood and the metal click. “Don’t worry, I know it was an exciting night and you’re probably tired,” he told you with a soothing voice, hands raised innocently. “I’ll be quick.”  

“Do you need something?” you asked, your heart racing so fast you almost worried he would be able to hear it. 

"No, it—hey, calm down, okay?” Sylvain said, clearly trying to placate you. “It’s just something that’s been bothering me for a while, but I didn’t want to bring it up before and embarrass you.”

Your shoulders raised protectively, your hands raising to nervously pull your hair over your shoulders to hide their trembling. “What is it?” 

“Come here,” Sylvain said, holding his hand out invitingly. 

“Tell me first,” you said, drawing further into yourself. 

Sylvain sighed impatiently, stepping forward and grabbing you before you could move away. You yelped as he twisted you around, pushing you back against the door. The impact wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but it knocked your breath away. He crowded in so close that your chests almost touched. When you tried to force him off, to wiggle away, Sylvain entwined your fingers together to pin that hand by your head, his other arm braced against the door to cage you in. And then all of your fighting stilled when he pushed his knee between your legs. It was a position so suggestive you really didn’t think there was any way to mistake its profane meaning. 

“What are you doing?” you asked, testing his hold on your hand with a final surge of all your strength. He didn’t falter, not even a little. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Sylvain said, so earnestly you could almost believe him. “Do you remember when we went to town and that girl left a mark on my neck?” 

“I…. Yeah,” you said, hoping that going along with it would make it release you faster. 

“And then you lied, saying you knew what it was. Do you remember that?” 

“I wasn’t lying,” you said with a rapid shake of your head.

He snorted. “Yeah, you were, and I think this is pretty important knowledge now that you’re going out with other guys. I can’t let my baby sister get taken advantage of just because she doesn’t know any better.” Sylvain brushed your hair away from your neck, which was exposed in full due to the scooped neckline of your dress. You flinched away from the touch, but there was nowhere to go. 

“Stop,” you begged, pushing at him again. He ignored you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you up, adjusting his stance so he could get at your neck. 

“I guess you could say that this is how people mark their territory,” Sylvain explained, his breath brushing against your jaw, down the sensitive skin of your neck, his lips close enough that you could feel them move. “It’s a pretty possessive thing to do.” You whimpered when Sylvain licked the spot above your fluttering pulse, shivered at the nervously electrified sensation it caused. “See?” he asked, pleased with your reaction. “It feels kinda good, right?” 

“N-no,” you told him, trying desperately to push him away. Sylvain, again, ignored you, his lips ghosting further down to the juncture of neck and shoulder. He kissed the spot there once, his tongue dragging across the flesh. Your breath shuddered, your entire body shaking hard against his. Another kiss, and then his mouth opened enough to suck against the skin. Gently, at first, and then not so gently, teeth joining tongue to add to the sensation. You writhed against him in an attempt to escape the pain, whimpering softly despite your best efforts to endure it in silence. Sylvain groaned, his mouth working harder against the skin, definitely enough to leave a mark. 

"Sylvain…” Your whining attempt to stop him only made Sylvain more intent. He pushed you harder against the door, his hand squeezing yours painfully, his knee drawing up to firmly grind you against his muscular thigh. There were layers of fabric separating your sensitive core from the pressure, but it didn’t stop the regretful, sickening pleasure. You mewled, a terrible little noise you couldn't swallow back. Pain shouldn’t have been pleasurable in any way, but the feeling of his mouth on your neck had your body writhing, unintentionally and gracelessly grinding yourself against his thigh. 

Finally, his mouth left your skin with a slick pop, a sensation nearly as powerful as the act itself. Release was followed by flare of heat and goosebumps in a liquidy bloom from where he’d marked you. “There,” Sylvain said, leaning back to get a look at his work with a satisfied expression. “And now you know.” His finger traced along the mark, his expression twisting slightly with regret. “Sorry. I may have been a bit too rough, but it’ll fade. Just be sure to keep it covered up until then.” His lips quirked into a teasing smirk, his eyes half lidded. “You wouldn’t want anyone to know that you let your big brother give you a hickey, right?”

You nodded slowly, your bottom lip trembling with the force of despair and disgust the comment inspired within you. 

Sylvain’s eyes tracked the motion, the playful expression slipping. Then he exhaled harshly, looking away. “Yeah, okay. I should, uh, I should leave. Now.” With a final squeeze of your hand, he peeled his body away from yours and took a few steps back, letting you clumsily stumble away from him with your hand covering your neck. Sylvain’s cheeks were flushed, another shade of fetching rose to add to the red and white blur that became of him as your eyes filled with tears.

“Goodnight,” he said as he opened your door. “And, hey, if you get cold or can’t sleep, I don’t lock my door.” 

You nodded, just wanting Sylvain to leave. With a final once over that made your skin crawl, he did. When you were sure he was an appropriate distance down the hall, you rushed to your door and locked it, bracing yourself against it as if he were going to return and attempt to batter it down. The mark on your neck throbbed in time with your heartbeat. When you traced it with your fingertips, you could feel the intentions of his teeth. 

For a moment, you considered telling your mother, begging her to step in. But then Sylvain’s question came to mind—You wouldn’t want anyone to know that you let your big brother give you a hickey, right? No. Absolutely not. And given how little fight you actually put up, certainly not enough to have evidence of your attempt to stop him, you weren’t sure it was believable if you tried to tell her you didn’t want it. Really, you could barely believe it yourself considering the hollow ache that had sparked up between your legs, a needful thrum that begged satisfaction. 

Being an adult, shedding childish innocence, meant cynical recognition of the real world. In the real world, you had secrets drenched in shame, a heart beating with the frantic speed of prey, a hickey on your neck from your stepbrother, and a fragile position in a court that barely accepted your presence with a family that could easily ruin you if they learned of this. These were the adult games with their high stakes and rigid rules. Hide that which was unsavory and claim ignorance of your sick secrets. And then, to maintain the game of pretend that people called the status quo, ignore ignorance itself. 

viii.

face the music

All dressed up for your first county ball in Gautier territory—a tradition for the young, available ladies and lords with titles or enough wealth—you looked your very best. Being so awkward, you liked to think that clothes would work for you where your clumsy social skills did not. It was harder to dwell on your reflected image now, your eyes kept anxiously returning to the high neck. Stylish, yes, but also necessary. Your skin was still stained with an ugly, healing bruise right where your neck met shoulder, faded from the days that had passed but dark enough to need covering. Remembering that night made you feel sick. Thinking of Sylvain made you feel dirty. What right did you have to play the demure girl wishing only to dance and mingle when you were tainted? Those thoughts, the ones that had kept you mostly hidden away in your room for the past few days, filled you with tumultuous disgust and shame, tears threateningly pricking at the corner of your kohl-lined eyes.

Forcing those emotions down so as to not ruin all of the work you had put into looking nice, you turned away from the mirror, your long skirt flaring as you twirled. It was fine. You looked good. Dancing was fun. The dinner the other night had gone well before he ruined it, the dance would too. It helped that Sylvain had made it clear that he wouldn’t be attending, saying that he was likely to get accosted by unhappy exes if he tried. 

After going downstairs, you preened beneath your mother’s hard-won attention and affection. These days, the two of you sometimes felt like strangers, but she had an affinity for clothes much like your own, admiring the gown sent in from Fhirdiad dressmakers and fixing strands of errant hairs. Considering your age and the event, it wasn’t proper for her to be your chaperone as she might have otherwise, but she was worried. There was a sense of dark comedy in the knowledge that you were likely safer at a ball than in your own home, the type of cruel joke that only Sylvain might find actually funny. 

Eventually, wrapped in a fashionable capelet that matched your ensemble, you were escorted by the Gautier’s coachman to the carriage, settling in for the ride. You signaled to leave with a few raps on the ceiling, but before it could, the cab jostled, the door opening. You watched with wide-eyed dread as Sylvain climbed in, closing the door behind him and settling in the opposite seat in a whirl of his fluttering cloak and the rich scent of cologne. 

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“I should be the one asking that, you almost left without me,” Sylvain said, tapping the ceiling to tell the coach to take off. The horses jolted into action, the cab jostling as the wheels were pulled out of their muddy ruts. 

“What do you mean?” you asked, holding out half a hope that this was one of his not so funny jokes. 

“We’re going to the ball, aren’t we?” 

“Bu-but… You said you weren’t.” 

“Only because I didn’t realize you wanted to,” Sylvain said. “If you had told me, I wouldn’t have made other plans. Luckily, I was already dressed to go out when I heard you leaving. Your mother was so relieved. She really worries about you, you know that?” 

You gaped at him in utter disbelief, all thoughts of having a nice night out torn into tatters. “You didn’t have to-to do that,” you told him. 

“I can’t just let some opportunistic creep take advantage of my sweet baby sister’s innocence.” 

Hearing Sylvain say that felt like a slap in the face. The bruise on your neck throbbed dully, the memory of his thigh between your legs making them clamp together. “I don’t need a chaperone,” you said in as even of a voice as you could, your hands clenched into fists on your lap. “It’s a dance, I’ll be surrounded by people.” 

“And if you’re dancing with a guy and his hand happens to drift a bit too far down your back? Or if he lures you away from the ball with a cheesy line?” Sylvain asked, raising an eyebrow. “Come on, we both know you don’t have it in you to make him back off.” 

Of all the embarrassing reactions to have, tears pricked at your eyes, shame burning your cheeks. 

“But,” Sylvain continued, either ignoring your reaction or pretending he didn’t see it. “Nobody’s going to try anything as long as I’m there, so it won’t matter.” 

“Nobody would do that anyway,” you muttered, wanting desperately to sound strong but unable to speak any louder for fear of your voice trembling. 

“You really think so?” Sylvain asked, raising an eyebrow. “In that case, I’m doing you a favor here. Maybe you haven’t realized it yet, but now that your mother’s married into the Gautier family, you’re one of the most eligible girls in the Kingdom. Not to mention your beauty. It’s a potent combination. If men aren’t looking exploit your money or title, its because they’re too busy wondering what they can say or do to fuck you.”  

The vulgarity made you cringe back into your seat, your shoulders curled up as if to protect yourself. You stared at your shoes, trying to will away your blush, to stamp down your embarrassment. “Stop.” 

Sylvain laughed. “Don’t be so embarrassed. You’ll have to figure these things out eventually. And as your big brother, it’s kind of my job to teach you stuff, right? Like the other night-”

“Don’t!” you told him, your voice louder in panic, a horribly sick feeling of guilt and revulsion and shame crushing you from the inside out. “Just… just stop.”

“Wait, are you… mad at me?” Sylvain asked, sounding genuinely confused. 

“I… I am,” you told him, having to settle for a whisper to hide the tremble in your voice. Speaking was dangerous, you were having a hard time fighting the tears. “The other night… that was too much, I…”  

“Oh, come on,” Sylvain said, rolling his eyes. “I know you liked it, you were basically humping my thigh.” 

“I wasn’t!” 

Sylvain gave you a flat look, his thick eyelashes casting shadows over his cheekbones. “Next you’re going to tell me that it wasn't you who was moaning, right?” 

“I couldn’t help it,” you said, your voice even softer, almost inaudible.

“Yeah, because it felt good.”

You shook your head, trying desperately to steady yourself. 

“But what I really want to know is if you touched yourself after I left,” Sylvain said, breezing right through your distress, his brown eyes alight in the warm lamp light. 

You just stared at him, feeling your dupe heart pound against your ribs, against the structured bodice of your dress, your lungs desperately trying to inflate against its confines. 

Sylvain’s head tilted thoughtfully. “Huh. Now that I think of it, you probably don’t even know what I mean,” he said, scooting forward. The cab, while luxurious, lacked space. With his annoyingly long legs, the two of you couldn’t even sit directly across from one another without his knees pressing into yours. So when Sylvain grabbed you by the thighs to pull you towards him, you couldn’t escape; there was nowhere to go.

“Stop!” you protested, trying to squirm away. The way he pulled you forward caused your skirt to ride up over your knees, the layers of fabric getting wedged beneath you. 

“Shh, don’t you think you should be a little more quiet?” he asked, wedging his leg between yours to pry them apart. “Unless you want to get caught.” That dreadful threat made him smile. 

“Please stop,” you said in a hushed voice, pushing at him. “I don’t—” Sylvain cut you off by flipping your skirt up enough to get his hand beneath, his palm sliding across your knee and inwards, his calloused fingertips skimming your ticklishly sensitive inner thigh right above the garters which held your stockings in place. 

“Relax,” Sylvain said in a voice that might have been comforting if his eyes weren’t so dark, if they weren’t so obscenely fixated between your legs. “I’m going to show you something. You’ll like it, I promise.” 

Being looked at so intimately was almost the worst of it all, self-conscious embarrassment hitting you in a wave of panicked heat. It was a petty, shameful feeling, but you’d seen several of the girls Sylvain had been intimate with and you hated to compare yourself to others, but it was impossible to not be acutely aware of what you lacked in comparison to them. Desperate to escape his gaze, your back bowed in an attempt to displace his grip, your hands shoving your skirt down to hide. 

Sylvain’s solution was to grab your hips and drag you down almost flat onto the seat, sliding forward enough to support your lower half on his lap with your legs spread on either side of his torso. The position was absurdly awkward in the cramped conditions, but it made it harder for you to fight and gave him easier access.  

“These are adorable,” Sylvain said, flipping your skirt all the way over your waist in a puff of pettiskirts to look at your panties, his thumb grazing the delicate little bow with a warm smile. “You didn’t wear them for me, did you?” 

“N-no. That’s not… I didn’t,” you babbled, your voice tight with distress. Your underwear wasn’t meant to be sexual, nobody was supposed to see it. The garments were nice because you liked the lace and the bows, but now it just felt filthy. Even when you got your arms beneath you, you lacked the leverage to squirm away from him, all it did was spare your neck. “Please ss-stop, Sylvain.” 

“I’m going to be gentle, don’t worry. Girls are really delicate,” Sylvain said, twisting his wrist to run his fingers over the seat of your panties, applying the slightest amounts of pressure. Your eyes went wide, your free hand giving up on trying covering yourself to grab his wrist so he couldn’t do that. Not because it hurt, but you almost wished it did. That’d be better than the knee jerk feeling of pleasure that followed his touch. He smiled. “You have to be gentle, you know? Do a little exploration, figure out what she likes.” 

His long index finger pushed between the outer lips of your pussy, digging the fabric right against your entrance. Your hips jumped against his hand, your thighs tensing with an attempt to close, obstructed by his torso. And he was watching it all, devouring your reactions with those too-perceptive eyes. Stopping him had proven impossible, you opted to cover your face instead, trying to shut it all out.  

“Most guys are way too selfish,” Sylvain continued, his voice increasingly smug as his finger dragged upward, using the fabric as added friction as he drew a lazy circle around your clit. “They don’t want to take the time to know what a girl really needs.”

You whimpered, turning your head away and biting your lip to hide your reaction. Sylvain paused for a moment, spreading your outer lips to give him better access to your swelling clit. All of this through the thin fabric of your fancy underwear, adding a level of removed friction that was driving you wild. 

By the point he was rubbing your clit in earnest, adding more pressure and focusing on the spots that made your hips jerk and thighs twitch, you couldn’t hide the noises you were making. Your entire body was pulled painfully tense, writhing in his lap.  

“Let me see your face, cutie,” Sylvain said.

“Nn-no,” you whined, your voice muffled through your hand, although you couldn’t say what it was that you were rejecting. You didn’t understand at all why, despite every attempt you made to ignore it, his touch felt so good. There was too much stimulation, and your hips kept jerking forward like you wanted more. Worse, you could feel the way your pussy clenched hungrily around nothing, a strange and empty ache. 

“Okay, that’s fine,” Sylvain said, continuing his torment as if it was something casual, something he didn’t even have to think about. “Since this is just a demonstration, I won’t get worked up about it. But when we do this for real, you’re going to do everything I tell you to do, okay?” 

A breathless, helpless keen left your mouth. A sound that was meant to be a rejection, although didn’t count for much when your clit was pulsing beneath his fingers as more and more blood rushed between your legs, tension building beneath every drag of his fingers. 

“I mean it,” Sylvain said. “I expect my sweet little sister to listen to me while I’m fucking her, otherwise I might just have to take you over my knee or something.” 

You made a sound like he’d punched you, almost, your hand dropping to look at Sylvain with some disturbing combination of lust and horror—feelings that had no synergy with your body’s reaction. The twitch of your hips, the anxiously empty tightening of your cunt, the drop of heat and swirling dark lust that only intensified the building pleasure. 

Sylvain laughed. “I knew that would turn you on,” he said smugly, his fingers abandoning your needy clit and returning to your entrance, pressing the fabric between the tense muscles so it could absorb more of your wet arousal. The stimulation drew a sharp keen out of your throat and his laughter cut off. “Fuck, that’s…”

You shook your head. “That’s not…” Not true? It was. You knew it was, he knew it was, all of the same and disgust and despair and self-hatred in the world didn’t make it any less true. “Please… stop.” 

“Fine, fine,” Sylvain agreed warmly, his hand retreating from between your legs. “I think we’re about to be there anyway.” Considering you had been the one to ask him to stop, it was sickening that you would mourn the loss, loathing the feeling of empty need thudding dully between your legs, an unfulfilled ache that made you squirm. “Ah, we do have a slight problem though. There’s no way you can wear these,” he said regretfully, pulling at the inside seam of your panties. “They’re soaked.” 

You quickly pushed your skirt down, awkwardly pulling yourself back into your own seat. Sylvain stopped you, holding your leg in place. 

“It’s fine,” you said, unable to meet his eye, pulling hard to free your leg. 

“No, it’s not,” Sylvain told you, emphasizing the words like you were too dumb to understand. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold onto them for you until we get home.” 

“But then I won’t have…” you trailed off, flushing as you realized what should have been obvious. Instead you shook your head, unable to look at him directly. “No, I-I won’t.” Sylvain still didn’t release you as the coach pulled alongside the curb, the noise of horses and voices becoming more distinct on the other side, light slanting in through the edges of the drawn curtains. You tugged against him again, desperate to get out of the compromising position. 

“Either you give them to me, or I’ll get them myself,” Sylvain said playfully, like this was a game. “I wonder what the footman would think if he saw that.” 

“You wouldn’t,” you said with fresh horror. Sylvain’s eyes didn’t falter, daring you to call his bluff. The sickening thing was that you couldn’t tell if he would or wouldn’t, only that he wasn’t the one that would be exposed. 

“Fine,” you said, averting your gaze and blinking hard. He released you. Before you could think too hard about it, you pushed your panties down your hips under the cover of your skirt, over your knees and to your ankles. They were, as he said, soaked. Grimacing in disgust, you held them out. 

“I don’t get why you’re so mad, you’re the one who got this wet for your big brother,” Sylvain said, waving them towards you. 

You winced at the taunt, but otherwise ignored him, quickly arranging your skirts back into place with shaking hands. At least it was a long dress. Shame dyed your cheeks in bright heat and you knew he was looking at you as he sniffed and pocketed your panties, you could feel the phantom weight of his touch lingering between your legs, the wrongness of your skirts inner layer rubbing directly against your bare skin, but acknowledging any of it would certainly tip you over the edge. 

The footman opened the door and you hoped to the goddess that you didn’t look as wrecked as you felt, forcing a smile and accepting his help out of the carriage. Sylvain pulled on a pair of gloves as he joined you. In the limelights, his smile shone brilliantly, his hair luminously outlined to a scarlet blaze. Giving no indication of what had just happened, Sylvain held out his arm, his self satisfied umber eyes promising every moral peril you could imagine. And then some.   

“Shall we?” 

ix.

in for a penny

“Did you have a good time?” Sylvain asked as the coach trundled away from the curb, his tone perfectly normal for such a banal question. That did nothing for the sinking dread. Although you had been able to pretend that nothing had happened for most of the evening, that didn’t make it true. Ignorance was a rule in the game of pretend, but harsh reality would always collect its due acknowledgement. 

“Yeah, it was fun,” you told him. Your hands were shaking. The air was cold, and too thin. “I’m really tired though, so I’m gonna rest. If that’s okay with you.” 

“Sure, of course,” Sylvain said, no indication of deception on his face as he dimmed the lamps in their fancy sconces. “It’s pretty late.”

You bit your lip, sickened nerves twisting in your stomach. The uncomfortable breeze between your legs had haunted you the entire night, but now that you were alone with him again, it was all you could think about. 

“May I… have them back?” you asked quietly, staring at your hands folded in your lap. 

“I told you,” he said, “when we get home.” 

The idea of arguing occurred to you, but you worried about where that would go. Every thought of yours that included Sylvain was heavy with horror and desire, you didn’t want to try and figure it out beyond those awful, shameful feelings. You just wanted the night to be over, and to never look Sylvain in the eye again. But, for the time being, it was enough to rest your head against the side with your eyes closed and think about anything and everything that wasn’t what he had done earlier. 

You must have dozed off in some capacity, or at least fallen into that state between wakefulness and sleep that left you only vaguely aware of the world, because it seemed like very little time had passed when Sylvain was nudging you awake. You blinked, sluggishly accepting his help out of the carriage. The estate was mostly dark, of course. Your mother and Margrave went to sleep at a reasonable hour. However, since you and Sylvain were still expected back, there were enough lights that you didn’t have to navigate upstairs in the dark. 

With every step, your anxiety grew. Would he try something again? The mark on your neck thumped dully and you resisted the urge to touch it, knowing he would see. Keeping your breathing evened out was difficult and by the time you reached your door, your entire body was wound tight as a spring. 

“Goodnight, Sylvain,” you said, facing your door, your heart racing as you waited for him to continue past you to his own room. 

“Sure, goodnight,” Sylvain said, not so much as pausing. You exhaled, watching him go with your hand on the knob, ready to rush inside and close the door before he could break in. He looked curiously over his shoulder. “Didn’t you want these back?” he asked, holding up his hand. Your panties hung from his pointer finger like a little flag, swinging as he walked. 

You blushed, compulsively looking either way in fear that someone would stumble upon the scene. At the same time, you hesitated at the idea of engaging with Sylvain anymore for the night, ready to count it as a lost cause. You would never wear them again anyway. 

“You’re really not at all concerned about what I might do with them?” Sylvain asked, sounding surprised. He was almost to his door. “That’s pretty kinky of you, baby sis. Not that I mind. Goodnight.” 

“Wait,” you called, breaking down at the last minute and trotting down the hall. Sylvain didn’t stop, opening his door and going into his room. The door was heavy enough to shut most of the way, but he didn’t close it behind him. It rested uncertainly against the frame, an obvious invitation. You pushed your way in, but stopped at the threshold, refusing to go any further. “Sylvain, wait, you-you said you would give them back.” 

“They’re all yours,” he said, holding them out without looking at you, loosening his cravat to put it on the dresser. 

Despite it being only down the hall, you had never seen Sylvain’s room. It was much grander than your own. Warmer, since most of it was arranged around the fireplace which already burned with an inviting little fire. A few chairs, tables, the dresser, and a large bed filled out the rest, as well as layered rugs and furs on the floor. The smell was more inviting than you wanted to admit, a mixture of Sylvain’s cologne and the soap used for laundry and smoke and something deeper, muskier. It was a strange realization that you had never been inside a man’s room. You didn’t really want to make a habit of it now. 

“Are you going to come get them or not?” Sylvain asked, giving you a sideways look. 

Knowing he was playing with you but unable to see any way around it, you approached him, meaning to snatch them away quickly and retreat. But Sylvain didn’t stop you, letting you take the ruined garment and withdraw. 

“What?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at your surprised expression. “I told you I’d give them back.” He paused, setting his cufflinks on the dresser. “But while you’re here, why don’t you sit down? I’d love to do a little more sibling bonding. We could pick up where we left off, there are a few more things I’d love to teach you.” 

“I don’t… want…” you said stiltedly, your stomach lurching at the reminder of earlier. You should have said no, and made it clear that you absolutely didn’t want that, but instead you ducked your head. “Um… Goodnight.” Embarrassed and uncomfortable, you turned around and went to the door, catching it from closing all the way. 

In a way, it wasn’t a surprise when the doorknob was pulled from your grip, the door slammed shut by a big hand that came from behind you. Surprise made you yelp, stumbling to the side to get away from him and avoid a repeat of last time. Unfortunately, the only ‘away’ was further into his room. Backing up, your foot caught on the rug, sending you stumbling awkwardly against one of the tables. 

“Why are you acting so weird?” Sylvain asked, giving you an absurdly innocent sideways frown. “Are you upset or something?” 

“No,” you said, righting yourself. “I-I just want to go to bed.”

“It can’t be something I did,” he said, ignoring you. “Right?” 

Your only response to that was a little laugh, but it sounded more like you were sobbing because it wasn’t funny and the fact that you couldn’t leave was making it difficult to breathe. There was no way he didn’t know what he was doing. You needed to get control of yourself. Crying in front of Sylvain, on top of everything else, would be too embarrassing. 

Staring hard at the rug beneath your feet and blinking fast, you tried to get a full breath. In, and out. “I’d rather ta-talk tomorrow.” 

“Oh, well, that’s fine,” Sylvain said. His shiny dancing shoes slowly entered your vision, compelling you to look up at his approach. “I bet you’re pretty worn out from all the dancing, huh? It’s okay. I’m not really in the mood for talking either.” He sounded innocent, but his expression was anything but. You could only guess what he meant.

“I-I just…” you stammered, moving to the side in the hopes he’d let you slip past and leave.  

“You just…?” Sylvain repeated with a smile, grabbing you around the waist to pin you between him and the table. “Come on, whatever you want to say, say it.”  

“Nn-no, no—do-don’t,” you said, pushing against his chest. You let the panties drop out of your hand, choosing to fight his hold with all the frantic insistence of a trapped animal. At this point, you didn’t care if you hurt him, you just needed to get away. 

Surprised by the reaction, Sylvain caught your wrists. “Woah, what is going on with you?” he asked. The table’s edge dug painfully into your back, but you didn’t let that stop you from thrashing around in an attempt to break his grip.

“You know,” you told him, looking everywhere that wasn’t Sylvain’s eyes. “Let me…me go—oh.”

“Is this because of earlier?” he asked. “That was just a joke, you know that, right? I didn’t think it would make you this upset.”  

While his words might have made you doubt yourself, at least a little, Sylvain couldn’t contain his look of amusement. That’s what it was. Not concerned, not confused, not playful. For the first time, Sylvain truly looked mean. He knew how upset you were, but it didn’t convince him to let up. He was only doubling down. You whined, intensifying your efforts to break his hold. The way you were thrashing had the table groaning, the clutter on it knocking around, but you didn’t care about the noise, or the pain of its sharp lip biting into your lower back, or anything. All you wanted was to be as far away from him as possible. 

And it wasn’t working. Sylvain’s grip on your wrists hadn’t loosened, his body remained flush against yours. 

“Le-let me go,” you demanded again, breathing hard enough that your head spun with an awful mixture of panic and exertion. 

“No, you almost have it,” he said, not bothering to hide his smile.

Your eyebrows furrowed, heat quickly rising to your face as humiliation washed over you anew. Fighting was futile, you had never been able to so much as break his hold on you before. All it did was tire you out. Sylvain didn’t even have to try to overpower you, it was that easy for him. This whole situation felt so dramatic, so intense, but it was nothing to Sylvain. A diversion at best, a game that you were only making worse by reacting like this.

Going limp, you buried your face against his chest, hoping to hide your blushing cheeks, to hide the way you were still valiantly fighting off tears. 

“Is that it?” Sylvain asked. 

“You… win,” you said, your voice half muffled and defeated.

“If I won, what’s my prize?” he teased, releasing your wrists. You made a noncommittal sound in response, hoping the pathetic display would be the thing to make him give up. “Actually… nevermind, I know what I want.” When you didn’t play along, Sylvain pulled you away from his chest to look at you. His hand was unnervingly gentle in the way it cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing under your bottom lip. “Aren’t you going to ask what I want?” 

“What?” you asked trepidatiously, knowing that he’d tell you regardless.

“It’s not that bad,” Sylvain told you, his eyes widening imploringly. “A kiss from my beautiful sister, that’s all.” 

Goddess save you. 

“I-I can’t,” you told him, shaking your head, your nervous eyes fluttering from his eyes to his lips and back again.

“I’ll be your first, right?” Sylvain asked, glee shining through in his gaze. “Don’t worry, it’s easy, just follow my lead.”

You stammered out a few attempts at rejection as he threaded a hand in your hair, your breathing picking up even more. “I-I don’t…” Sylvain ignored you. “Do-don’t think—” The contact of his lips meeting yours was jarring. You didn’t know what to do, but Sylvain didn’t seem concerned. He was gentle at first, tilting your head to make the fit better, trying to tempt you into moving with him slowly. Feeling his tongue run along the seam of your lips made you turn your face away regardless of the pressure on your scalp, the wet wrongness of it already bordering the obscene.  

“We… we can’t,” you got out, fighting your labored breathing. “Sylvain, this isn’t funny. It-it’s incest.” 

"Yeah, I didn’t think I’d be into it either,” he said, his chest puffing with a short laugh. 

Before you could argue, Sylvain used his grip on your hair to tilt your head again, dragging you back into another kiss. This time, your lips were already parted for him, and he didn’t hesitate before pushing his tongue into your mouth. Your brain shorted out, you had no idea how you were meant to respond. You could barely breathe. The sensation of him exploring your mouth was upsetting and gross in its perversion, but it also wasn’t. The raw, animal intimacy of such an act appealed to the darkest parts of yourself, the part that whimpered and moaned when he threatened to spank you. Sylvain groaned, a low sound deep in his chest, and you melted a little, shivering in his arms. 

Still, you weren’t distracted enough by the kiss to ignore Sylvain lifting your skirt and pettiskirts with fistfuls of fabric until he could sneak his hand beneath, but there wasn’t much you could do to stop that either. Tugging on his hair only got a little growl out of him, and trying to pull against his arm directly did nothing. Ultimately, all you could do to protect yourself was tense up, your thighs pressing together so tightly the muscles quivered. Sylvain bit your lip as a diversion, using his foot to widen your stance and then his knee, getting enough space for his hand to land flat between your legs. The light slap wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but the jolt of pressure made you cry out weakly, a sound he eagerly swallowed. When his middle finger curled between your outer lips, dragging lightly right over your entrance, you whined.

Sylvain pulled back from the kiss, his brown eyes glowing. “If I had known you’d get this wet just from a few kisses, I could have saved myself a lot of time.” 

You exhaled, the air trembling with the rest of you. “You-you said you wanted just a…a kiss.”

“Did I?” Sylvain asked. Without warning, his middle finger pressed harder, getting past the resistant muscles of your entrance and deeper, all the way into your pussy. There was no resistance, his finger easily slipping in from how wet you were. You gasped harshly, your posture going rigidly straight at the feeling of your inner walls clamping down around the intrusion. “I already left you unsatisfied earlier, what kind of terrible big brother would I be to ignore you in your time of need again?”

“I-I don’t… I’m dizzy,” you said weakly, clutching at him with shaking hands. “I ca-can’t…” 

“Hey, don’t worry, I get it,” he told you, saccharinely sweet. “We can take things slow. That’s what you need, right? I’ll take care of you.” Sylvain pulled his hand away, letting your skirt drop. Relief was short lived as he dragged you away from the edge of the table, walking the four or so paces backwards until he could sit on the bed. Even though you stood a head taller than him while he sat, you were no less trapped, kept in place between his legs with his grip on your hips. 

“How do you get this off anyway?” Sylvain asked, pinching at the fabric of your dress. Your stomach dropped. 

“Nn-” 

“Oh, nevermind.” He turned you away from him in an awkward stumble, undoing the clasp at the very top of the dress's high neck and working down. “Got it.” 

“Wa-ait,” you complained, trying to twist back around to stop him. Sylvain wasn’t deterred. He was incredibly efficient in getting it undone, likely from experience. 

“Girl’s clothes are too restrictive, that’s probably why you’re having problems breathing,” Sylvain told you in a very matter-of-fact tone. Even with your struggling, he had the bodice peeled down in basically no time. The rest of the dress followed suit, pooling at your feet. “Heh. If I left marks on you like this, you’d be mad, but you’re fine when your dress does it,” he said, trailing a finger down one of the lines imprinted into your skin by the dress. You shivered involuntarily. 

“It’s not the sa-wait, don’t—” Sylvain ignored your objection, undoing the hooks on your bustier with the same easy efficiency. 

“It can’t be comfortable,” he argued, turning you back towards him. Since he’d already taken your panties, the bustier you clutched to your chest was basically all that you had left to keep yourself covered. “Let me see,” Sylvain demanded, grabbing the front of the bustier to pull it away from you. “I’m not going to tease you, I just want to see what my cute little sister’s been hiding under all those pretty dresses.” 

“No, please,” you begged, holding fast onto the garment. But Sylvain won, of course, casting it aside. He grabbed your wrists when you tried to cover yourself, his fingers overlapping. Inescapable. 

Directly level with your breasts, Sylvain could see exactly how far down your embarrassed flush delved. He could see the way your nipples tightened in response to the temperature difference, and the mark he’d left on your neck, and the way your chest heaved as you fought for air, and the imprinted lines left by your clothes. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to escape the weight of his eyes as they devoured you. 

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about,” Sylvain said, dragging you a little closer. “I mean it. You’re beautiful.” You could hear the smile in his voice, even with your eyes closed, the praise doing very little to make you feel better. “Aw, that made you blush more. You know, sometimes the whole innocent thing can be a turn off, but it’s part of what I love about you.” 

That word made your eyes open in shock, and probably dread. 

“What?” Sylvain asked, his head tilting with perfectly knowing innocence. “Isn’t it natural for a brother to love his sister?”

You opened your mouth, and then closed it. Your arms twitched in an attempt to hide your body from him, and then your shoulders curled when you couldn’t. There was no sense to be made in his expression, or understanding of his words. It was just confusion, and disgust, and fear, and the dark, sinking sense that made your thighs clench even tighter. Sylvain watched your reaction for a moment before scooting back, dragging you down against him. 

“Hey, wha—” 

“No, just trust me,” Sylvain said, pulling more forcefully.

You collapsed against him, half kneeling on the bed and half leaning on him for support. It was awkward, but Sylvain didn’t really seem to care as his lips closed around one of your nipples. An actual cry left your mouth, almost a shout of surprise. And then the sensation struck, even more intense than the feeling of him sucking the bruise onto your neck. Unable to handle the new pleasure, your back arched, trying to get away. Sylvain made a noise in his throat, forcefully pulling you back into place and rewarding your escape attempt with the sharp threat of teeth. 

Whimpering and shaking, you didn’t know what to do other than accept it, your hands holding fast to his shoulders for support. You wanted to press your thighs together and relieve some of the needy ache, but that would upset your already precarious balance. It was torturous, both the way his teeth played with your nipple and the way it stoked your desire. Eventually, Sylvain pulled away with a slick sound, leaving your nipple painfully stiff and red. 

“Aren’t you going to say it back?” he asked, his voice low and soft, his eyes fixed intently on yours from below. Warm brown had become dangerously dark in the low light, framed by those thick lashes. His hand snuck down between your legs, trailing over the top of your garters before the fingers dragged up. You trembled, your breathing picking up further. 

“Sylvain, I-I…” You wanted to tell him to stop, to let you go, but it was pointless. This was the culmination of something you had known all along, something you had known for a while now. This was going to happen no matter what you did, an inevitability. These interactions were all, in some twisted way, a game. Just not the kind you thought, and not the kind you had a chance of winning. 

“Come on, don’t you love your big brother?” Sylvain asked, his breath brushing against your breast as he moved to your other nipple. Higher still, his fingers traced across your slit, teasing the sensitive flesh as you squirmed and whined. He made an amused sound at that, pushing past your outer lips to find your clit. Even the slight pressure made you twitch, your hands tightening on his shoulders. “You can admit it,” he continued to tease, so unconcerned with the catastrophic build of emotions you were being overwhelmed by. “There’s nothing wrong with loving your family. Believe me, it could be worse.” 

You whimpered, shaking your head in rejection. But you couldn’t ignore him. If you thought the pleasure was intense when he rubbed your clit through the fabric of your panties, it was nothing compared to this. And then he took your nipple into his mouth, forgoing the pretense of anything other than the mean biting and harsh sucking that had you tossing your head back, unable to stifle your moans. 

He wasn’t taking his time and trying to build you up, he was tossing you directly into the mindless daze of passion. Sylvain’s calloused fingers added an extra edge of friction, the direct contact borderline excessive. You cried out when he bit down, your hips rocking against his hand in an attempt to grind against his fingers. Even when you focused on the motion, you couldn’t stop your body from moving, no more than you make your hands stop shaking. Just like earlier, the dark, insidious ball of tension was forming, your pussy squeezing around nothing.

“You’re still too shy to say it, huh?” Sylvain asked, his breath ghosting over your painfully sensitive nipple. “I guess it is a little embarrassing that you’d be so desperate for your big brother. I’m barely doing anything and you’re this worked up.”

“You’re not… not my…”  

Sylvain didn’t argue, he just added more pressure against your clit, wrapping his hot mouth around your nipple. The scrape of his teeth was no longer a threat, but provocation. Dark pleasure shot down to your core with each bite, urging you to madness. You gasped and mewled, lurching against him at the sudden onslaught. You couldn’t help it. Shaking, needy. Desperate. Everything within you ached for release. Breathing had become difficult, it was any wonder you hadn’t either fallen or simply passed out. 

It would be nice to say you didn’t know any better, but you did. It just didn’t seem as important as getting off, as embracing the hot rush as you came, your clit pulsing against his fingers and hips jerking in some crude beat, your heart jumping within your chest as you pushed it forward, begging him to use his teeth, to suck harder. And it was good. Better than good, overwhelmingly wonderful, a cascade of raw, perfect sensation. For that little moment of pure insanity, you were convinced you did love Sylvain, filled with pleasure and affection. 

But then that thought hiccuped, and you gasped, trying to get away as the moment of perfection faded and your body rejected any more. Sylvain let you go, his wet lips stretching into a smile as he looked up at you. 

“You should thank your big brother for letting you come,” he said.

Panting and hot, it took a moment for your brain to catch up with what just happened. What you had done. You made a noise in the back of your throat, hiding your face behind your hand as the shame set in.

“Heh, or not,” he said dryly. That was basically the only warning you got before he grabbed you, pulling you into his lap. It was awkward, not helped by the way you constantly squirmed, muttering a string of ignored objections. Sylvain caught your ankle with his own, your other leg on the bed, leaving your legs wide open. You tried to lean away, but Sylvain pulled you against his chest. 

“What’re-” 

“I want to see your face, you’re so expressive,” Sylvain said, his fingers making their way back between your legs to tease around your entrance. “You know, it’s like getting a show before the main course… it’s the least you can do to pay me back for being so patient with you.” 

“Stop,” you said, unsure if you should have been more concerned with your face or your nudity. Being so close to Sylvain, being able to smell him, to feel his body heat, had quickly become overwhelming. And now that your skin was flushed, sensitive and shiny with sweat, the fabric of his clothes was abrasively stimulating. 

“Stop… what?”

“You know-ah—” You cut off with a high-pitched, panicked moan. Sylvain happily watched the way your eyes opened wide with surprise as he pushed two fingers into you, you didn’t think to look away as he drove his fingers as deep as he could. Your pussy immediately clamped down hard around the intrusion. He laughed fondly, you could almost believe the sound was one of adoration. 

“Wow, you’re really wet,” Sylvain said. “Listen to this.” He pulled his fingers out slowly, working against the way your inner walls attempted to pull him deeper, only thrusting back in at the last moment with an undeniably filthy squish. Letting out a helpless little noise, you twitched against him like a fly in a spider’s web, well and truly caught. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you want to get fucked by your brother.”

“Don’t… be mean,” you begged, clinging to the front of his shirt.

“What? I’m not being mean,” Sylvain said. A moment later, he hummed thoughtfully. “I could be, if that’s what you want. We both know how much you like it.”  

“I don’t!”

“I guess it’s just coincidental that you got tighter just now, huh?” 

You didn’t know if that was true, but it hadn’t been intentional. Sylvain was easily turning your body against you, your pussy sucking on his fingers as they pulled out despite every rational part of you that knew it was wrong.

“What do you think would be worse—if I didn’t let you come again for the rest of the night-” Slowly now, he worked his fingers back in, curling and scissoring them in a way that made you moan despite yourself, your free leg kicking pathetically. “Or if I tried to figure out how many times I can make you come before tomorrow morning.” His fingers thrust in harder, faster, filthily dragging across your inner walls. You jerked against him in a desperate spasm, your eyes squeezing shut. 

Was he asking you? You couldn’t answer that, you weren’t even sure you understood the question. 

“You would think,” Sylvain continued, “that it’s better to have too many than not enough, right? Especially for a spoiled brat like you.” His fingers hadn’t stilled, already picking up pace, eagerly feeding your desire for more, building you back up. “But I’ve heard that it can be really uncomfortable.” Sylvain’s fingers twisted within you, curling up against a spot that made you shake, whimpering and gasping. “I guess we could try them both, you can tell me which one is worse.” 

“You ca-can’t,” you said breathlessly, your lower lip wobbling. You weren’t even sure what you were talking about, far more conflicted by the fact that you were going to come again than by the idea of whatever he was proposing. But it was mean, even if you didn’t understand.   

“Sure I can,” Sylvain said. “It’s not like you can stop me.”

“Syl-l-vain…” 

“Hey, I was just kidding,” he told you. “I’ve already got plans for tonight. Since it’s your first time, it should be special.”  

At this point, he was outright fucking you with his fingers, keeping you from trying to squirm away from his hand by holding you against his chest. Each thrust was unbearably sloppy sounding, the clap of skin on skin as lewd as the wet squish. The way his palm ground against your clit only added to the growing tension, the inescapable blaze of pleasure. Since you were trapped in place, there was nothing you could do to stop him from getting rougher. 

“It’s too-too much,” you said, unable to escape the assault no matter how you twisted. It just got worse when you moved, when you could feel how hard he was going.  

“Nah, you’re fine,” Sylvain said, his chest rumbling against you. As if to prove that, he slowed for a moment, adding in a third finger. Your pussy accepted it eagerly, but you whined, unable to do anything other than cling to him as you adjusted to the added stretch. “You’ll take whatever your big brother gives you, right?” His words were vile, but they drifted up into your head and your inner walls squeezed his fingers as they thrust and twisted and curled. Too rough, but it didn’t matter,

A moan hiccuped out of you, a sound you couldn’t recall having made ever in your life. Sylvain groaned. 

“That good, huh?” Sylvain asked indulgently. You buried your face against his neck, holding onto him tight for fear of falling apart. 

“I’m… I-I…” 

“You… What?” Sylvain teased. “You’re going to come, aren’t you? I can feel how hard you’re squeezing me, how wet you are…. Yeah, go on. Come all over your big brother’s hand.”

And you did. Whimpering and holding onto him as if your life depended on it, recklessly tossed over the edge by his relentless fingers. The pleasure buzzed through you in a feverish frenzy, different than before. Lower, intense. Your shaking stopped as your body seized. Every breath you took smelled like Sylvain, his body firm and hot against yours. And you knew you were mumbling his name, begging him to keep going, to work you through it. Sylvain was either laughing or groaning and you didn’t care, it just sweetened the high. 

When you reached down to stop him, he pulled his fingers out, trailing them up to swipe across your clit. That made you whimper, hips twitching. Sylvain did it again, chuckling at your attempt to pull away. 

“Aren’t you going to thank me?” he asked. 

You hid your face against his chest instead. Sweaty and ashamed and disgusted, you didn’t want to be there anymore. Or anywhere, really. 

Sylvain grabbed your chin to make you look at him, his fingers smearing evidence of your arousal across your skin. “If you’re too embarrassed to say it, I’ll accept a kiss instead.” 

You looked from his bright eyes to his flushed lips, considering your options. Of the two, kissing would probably be less humiliating. Slightly. 

You nodded and he released your chin, leaving you to take the initiative. Nervously, not meeting his eyes, you ducked forward, your fingertips grazing his cheek. You meant for it to be quick and chaste, but Sylvain had other plans. He caught you, his fingers digging into your hair to tilt your head and keep you there as he licked your lips apart. He kissed you wetly, almost like he was trying to devour you, to claim you. It didn’t matter that you weren’t meeting it, he seemed satisfied enough to take. 

When you whimpered, you felt his hips push upward, the hard press of his erection searing through the layer of clothes. Your whimper became a whine and he groaned, his hands groping your chest, your waist, grinding you against his lap. 

At the point you worried you would pass out from the lack of air, Sylvain pulled back, muttering something like “Hold onto me,” directly against your lips. Breathless and confused, you didn’t get what he meant until you were on your back, Sylvain having rolled above you. The shift didn’t seem to faze him, his lips finding yours again. It was a short kiss, distracted. 

“Since it’s your first time,” Sylvain said, pulling back to cast his jacket onto the floor. The entire front of his shirt was wrinkled by your hands, bearing a wet spot on his shoulder that was either drool or tears. “I’d like to do things traditionally, you know?” The belt came next, the leather tongue pulled free and discarded noisily. He was undressing. 

You squirmed, covering your chest. With the way he was straddling you, it was impossible to get away, but you averted your eyes. 

“You’re not going to watch? Usually girls can’t wait to get to this part,” Sylvain said, “Or… oh, I get it, you’re too embarrassed. It’s not that weird, you know. We are family.” His shirt dropped, you could see the pale expanse of his torso out of the corner of your eye. And you couldn’t help it; you looked. 

Sylvain’s strength was as aesthetically intimidating as it was physically intimidating, and he was every bit as attractive as you might have feared for it. He knew how appealing he was too, looking down at you with that wolfish grin as he undid the button on his pants. Taking them off gave you a moment that you could have gotten away, but you didn’t. You didn’t even think about it. 

There was no denying that Sylvain was one of the most handsome men you’d ever met. You didn’t think anyone could top the perfectly etched lines of muscle, his skin marked here and there with pale scars. Perfect arms to perfect abs to a trail of dark hair that, despite yourself, drew your eyes lower. 

Something in your brain clicked off at the sight of his cock. You weren’t sure if you had been in denial or simply not thought that far ahead, but your pussy squeezed tightly around nothing and you understood what he meant by ‘first time’. Sylvain basked beneath your attention, his hand dropping to casually stroke himself, the flushed red head bobbing with the motion.  

“When you look at me like that, I have a hard time believing you’re as innocent as you pretend to be.” 

“You’re not going to… We’re not… I’ve never b-been with… anyone.”

“That’s pretty obvious.” 

“I have to-to wai—” You squealed when he grabbed your ankle, pulling the leg straight until you fell into a splay in front of him. Sylvain’s eyes fixed hungrily between your legs, his tongue peeking out to swipe across his bottom lip as he continued to stroke his cock. You twitched, trying to pull back, your hands dropping to cover yourself. That made his attention shift up to your face. 

“I can’t let any other guy have you first,” Sylvain said. “I mean, you’re my little sister.” You whined in distress, trying to wiggle away, but he grabbed your other ankle, sliding between your legs. “Don’t act like you don’t want this as bad as I do.” Two of his fingers slipped into your pussy, the whine you let out easily proving his point. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby.” 

Sylvain pulled away, leaning down to readjust your torso. You exhaled harshly, shaking as uncertainty returned in full force. This was profane. Disturbingly wrong.

“Don’t cover yourself up, okay?” Sylvain told you, prying your arms away from covering your chest and pinning them to the bed. “Otherwise… I dunno, I’ll leave your nipples so sore you won’t even be able to wear a shirt for a few days, let alone one of those cute dresses.” He was grinning like it was a joke. Just like all of this was a joke. “Then again, you’d probably like that.”

Maybe you answered, maybe you didn’t, Sylvain didn’t seem to care as he adjusted your position, his attention focused on lining himself up. It took a few tries before the blunt tip of his cock caught on your hole, just testing the muscles there before the head popped in. A little sound left your mouth, like you were surprised by the feeling. Part of you marveled at it, in utter disbelief that this was real. That this could possibly happen, that things would descend so far that you would land here. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Sylvain hissed, slowly rolling his hips to ease you into it. You barely recognized his voice. Maybe because of how honest he sounded, the words mean and forceful. He exhaled loudly, pushing the backs of your thighs as he sat up. Your knees were almost touching your chest, and he loomed above you. Without the cover of his body, you were fully exposed to his hungry gaze, and Sylvain did nothing to disguise the ravenous lust in his eyes. Your arms twitched, desperate to cover your chest or hide your face. 

“Sylvain?” You meant to be asking for comfort or help or for him to stop or for this to all be revealed as some massive joke played on you, you wanted to beg him to make this make sense. But your voice sounded too high, too breathy. It sounded like a plea for more. 

Sylvain groaned as he selfishly thrust all the way in, pulling your hips down at the same time. The unexpected violence hurt, you could feel how deep he was going, how your pussy had to stretch around him. But your body, the traitorous thing that it was, just took it. With how wet he’d made you, how ready you were in the first place, your doubt now didn’t matter. Even the pain wasn’t enough for you to ignore the indescribably hot weight. His cock filled you entirely, reaching places his fingers hadn’t. 

“Look how well you take your big brother’s cock,” Sylvain said, taking your legs to put them on his shoulders instead. He rolled his hips and your mouth fell open with a moan, your body straining beneath him. Deep. He was incomprehensibly deep. “What does it feel like?” Sylvain punctuated the question with a thrust. Too hard, doing nothing to ease you into it now. Your objection sounded like a moan though, and then again when he didn’t stop. The slap of skin was painfully crude, although not as bad as the desperate cries you couldn’t keep down. Your fingers twisted into the sheets to keep your arms from instinctively covering your tits as they bounced with the harsh rhythm he was keeping.  

“Too… too hard,” you told him, staring at his perfect chest because you couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Does it hurt?” Sylvain asked, twisting your hips back and forth. It made his cock grind against your g-spot and you whimpered, your back arching like a bridge between him and the bed.

“It—ah…”

“Does it feel good?” He did again. You couldn’t think, all you could focus on was that growing tension within you, the heat, the delicious build of pleasure. Now that you knew what it was, chasing it was that much easier, some perverted seal broken by his touch.  

“Mmm…” 

“Yeah, I’m making you feel good,” Sylvain said, managing to sound cocky even while breathless and mercilessly fucking you. “Say it.”

“You make me feel…feel really… good.” 

“Say how good it feels to get fucked by your brother.” 

You squinted up at him, that disgusted panic returning. Even now, flushed with exertion and in a half-mad frenzied rut, Sylvain looked amused by your distress, eagerly waiting to see what you’d do. Squeezing your eyes shut, you shook your head. “I-I-I can’t.” 

Sylvain grunted. His hand left your hip to draw downwards, and you hoped he was going to touch your clit. Instead, he pressed his palm down flat against your pelvis, right above where you could feel the weight of him entering you. The added pressure made you spasm, your eyes popping open to meet his mirthful gaze. “You’re so easy,” Sylvain told you, like it was funny. “Don’t you want to come?” 

Your body kept twitching, your hips pathetically trying to meet his. It was filthy and shameful, but you did. You desperately did. “Please,” you begged. 

“Sure. All you’ve gotta do is say it,” Sylvain said, adding a little more pressure, making your cunt squeeze him even tighter. That made it easier for him to hit your g-spot, your legs mindlessly kicking against him every time, your mind frazzled past decency. “Come on, you’re leaking all over me. I know how bad you want it.”

You whined, shame and need warring within you. A losing battle from the start. “It feels…so good,” you gasped out, your eyes squeezed shut, your fingers clawing at his sheets to keep from covering your face. “To get-to get… fucked by my… my brother.” 

Sylvain moaned, his other hand digging bruises into your thigh. You whimpered, back arching desperately. “What a disgusting sister I got stuck with,” he got out breathlessly. 

“Please,” you begged, ignoring the humiliation in your shameless chase of satisfaction. 

“Say that you wanna come on your brother’s cock,” Sylvain demanded, his words losing coherency as fast as you were. It occurred to you, somewhere in the very back where you had abandoned your sanity, that this was making him feel good too. The idea that you gave him pleasure made you whimper, peeking up at his expression with the submissive supplication of prey. 

“I wanna… wanna come… on my… my…” A particularly hard thrust cut you off, an overwhelming starburst of raw sensation shaking through you. Violent pleasure. Sylvain muttered encouragement, his big hand pressing down a little harder. He thrust a little harder, a little deeper, and you could have sworn you felt it against his palm as well. “I wanna come on my brother’s cock, please,” you begged, nearly incoherent. 

“Yeah, I know,” Sylvain told you, grabbing your hips again to change the angle until you were wailing, your cunt clamping like a vice around him. You could feel yourself approaching that precipice, so desperate for release. A few more hard thrusts, his cock driving hypnotically deep into your dripping pussy each time, deep enough you felt like you could feel him poking his own hand, and you were gone. The paroxysm of pleasure following that wet snap had your body straining and mouth helplessly agape with a silent cry, your body completely malleable for him to use, helpless to do anything other than feel.

“Fuck, that was hot…” Sylvain muttered as you came down, slowing down and pulling out of you with a terribly slick sound. The loss made your pussy clamp down around nothing. Mourning the loss, you couldn’t help but look at his cock. Flushed and hard and glossy. It was difficult to believe it had fit inside of you. “I guess now I know how to make you do what I say.” 

You blinked up at him, your eyebrows arching inwards uncertainly, the emotion caught in a strange haze of heat. Insecurity finally found a place in your empty mind and you tried to pull away, covering your chest. 

“What did I say?” Sylvain asked, slapping your hands away and pinching your abused nipples. You whined, your body unintentionally arching into the pain. He grabbed your thighs instead, pushing back until you were practically bent in half, his body curling over yours so he could set your legs around his waist.

“What are you…”

“Hold onto me,” Sylvain demanded. He hauled you up so you could throw your arms around his neck, wrapping his own beneath you like a hug. 

With your faces so close, you could see how blown his pupils were. Any traces of Sylvain’s playful mask were wiped from his face, replaced by something feral and dark. One of his arms pulled back to align his cock with your entrance again. Starved eyes watched your expression as he slowly sank back into you, right to the hilt. You moaned breathlessly.

“Say it again,” Sylvain told you, his voice low and intense. Your mouth opened and closed, trying to figure out what he meant, what he wanted. Sylvain punished you with a hard thrust, resting more of his weight onto you, enveloping your body with the suffocating embrace. You could only cling tighter to him, entirely at his mercy. “How good it feels,” Sylvain prompted you, his voice unnervingly flat for how breathless it was. “Tell me.” 

You shuddered, a reaction he must have felt considering he was all but laying on top of you. “It… it feelss-” you broke off with a moan as Sylvain’s hips rolled. The position changed the angle, new pleasure tempting you, curling up in your core. “Goddess, it feels so-so good… Sylvain.” 

“Come on,” he said, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. You didn’t think it was physically possible to be any closer with a human being, even your cheeks were pressed together. Regardless of the sweat or the heat, Sylvain held you flush against him as he worked back up to the rough pace of before, his cock impossibly deep within you. So heavy, so full, your oversensitized pussy squeezing him with the same fervor you had in holding onto his shoulders. “You know what I want.”

Asking you to think while your brain was so overcome with lust and need was cruel of him, trying to recall anything would have been difficult for you in that moment. But your silence earned you a collection of hard, mean thrusts that made you really wail. “It feels… so good,” you said loudly in a desperate attempt to make him stop being so rough, the words stuttering with each hard thrust. “So good to-to get… get fucked by… by my brother.” 

Crushed against his chest, you could feel Sylvain groan, feel the way his hips stuttered. “You’re really… really disgusting, you know that?” he asked with a cruel kind of affection, holding onto you tighter and ignoring the way you whined. 

Doing what he wanted hadn’t made him slow down. The sound of skin slapping and the bed creaking filled the room. Sylvain fucked you without any regard given to the theater or how you were responding, ignoring the way your body unintentionally jolted and twitched with every thrust. It sounded mean, sloppy. And yet you held onto him with such ferocity that your arms and thighs quaked, moaning as he mouthed at your jaw, and then to your neck, leaving kisses and bites across whatever flesh he could reach. 

You didn’t realize you were going to come again until you were already tensing up, squeezing Sylvain with something like panic, trembling and weak as pleasure shuddered through you. He cursed, his arms flexing around you so you couldn’t move as his thrusts became uneven. You felt every noise Sylvain made—every groan, every grunt, every growl—right in your core, making your pussy weakly flutter around him despite how sore the muscles had become, milking him through his orgasm. Breathing hard, his heart racing, Sylvain twitched inside of you, his cock buried deep into your cunt save for a few sharp, shallow thrusts before he stilled entirely.

Then it was just breathing, heat. You could feel that the tension had gone out of Sylvain, his hold on you loosened. Enough, at least, that he could look into your eyes as you sluggishly blinked up at him.

“How are we feeling, gorgeous?” he asked, winded and exhilarated, his red cheeks a match for your own. 

You mumbled something incoherent, even to your own ears. 

“Yeah?” Sylvain asked indulgently. “You know… you can let go, if you want. If you don’t want to, that’s fine, but I’m gonna need a minute before I can do that again.” 

Blinking slowly, you released him, dropping onto the bed. Sylvain rolled onto his side, pulling out of you. Like an unstopped bottle, a mixture of your wet arousal and his cum spilled out of your pussy, slicking your inner thighs and staining the sheets with evidence of your depravity. That was very, incredibly, horribly wrong, but your disgust fizzled out before amounting to anything, your brain buzzing on to abstract thoughts. A song they played earlier that night at the ball, the fire’s cheerful crackling, the wind tapping on the window like an unwanted guest. Friends you hadn’t written in too long, a party in Fhirdiad your mother had promised to take you to, the stray cat that hung around the grounds. Anything that wasn’t this, that wasn’t tainted by the icy sickness of shame.

“Are you crying?” Sylvain asked. 

Were you?  

“Come here,” Sylvain said with a frown, dragging you to lay against him. Both of you were sweaty and filthy, and the hand he used to caress your face smelled like sex, but he clearly didn’t care. His expression was pinched with concern, his eyes warm. “Don’t get all worked up about this, okay? It’s not like you can change it now.” 

Cold dread wrung your heart in a vice, reality threatening to tumble through. You hid your face against Sylvain’s chest, squeezing your eyes shut to try and shut it all out. No, you couldn’t change it. Even if you pretended, even if you feigned ignorance, even if you left this cold, terrible place, you couldn’t take it back. 

Sylvain wrapped his arm around you, his fingers trailing lightly across your spine. “It’s not a big deal,” he said, his voice rumbling against you. “This was going to happen at some time, you’re lucky your first time was with a guy who wanted to make it special.” 

You sniffed, wishing you could shut his voice out. 

“I mean it,” Sylvain told you, pulling your face up to look at him. “One day, you’re going to be unhappily married to some jerk who doesn’t care about anything other than your mother’s money and you’ll come crawling back into my bed, begging your big brother to take care of you.” A smirk played at the corner of his mouth as he leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing yours. “But don’t worry, I will. Family should always come first.”

#sylvain jose gautier #fe sylvain #sylvain jose gautier x reader #fe sylvain x reader #fe3h #fire emblem three houses #my writing #not sfw #tw.noncon #tw.incest

[alecodys]

who are you?

after two-ish months i finished the reference sheet for the bg3 au! originally i was gonna draw EVERYONES weapons, not just amy and sammy's, but after finishing sammy's warhammer i went 'fuck that' and decided against it. some super basic info is under the cut.

amy; high half-elf storm sorcerer w/ the entertainer background

sammy; high half-elf oath of vengeance paladin w/ the entertainer background

beardo; asmodeus tiefling bard w/ the sage background

dave; human barbarian w/ the dark urge background (in this case its not like bg3 but instead dnd. hes not a bhaalspawn)

ella; seldarine drow nature domain cleric of eilistraee w/ the noble background

jasmine; wood elf ranger (bounty hunter + wasteland wanderer: fire) w/ the outlander background

leonard; high elf wizard w/ the folk hero background

max; lightfoot halfling rogue w/ the criminal background

rodney; half-orc oath of devotion paladin w/ the outlander background

scarlett; drow half-elf great old one warlock w/ the charlatan background

shawn; bronze dragonborn archfey warlock w/ the soldier background

sky; githyanki fighter (duelling) w/ the outlander background

sugar; half-orc barbarian w/ the entertainer background

topher; deep gnome rogue w/ the guild artisan background

#total drama #tadbrain au #td #tdpi #td amy #td sammy #td beardo #td dave #td ella #td jasmine #td leonard #td max #td rodney #td scarlett #td shawn #td sky #td sugar #td topher

[mysteryshoptls]

R Riddle Rosehearts Masquerade Voice Lines

Summon Line: Leave the cultural exchange formalities to me. I shall show you how properly a representative of this school should hold themselves.

Groooovy!!: There's no need to worry about your dancing. And that's all because I am your partner.

Home: We should respond to their warm welcome with polite decorum.

Swap Looks: Now, shall we dance?

Home Idle 1: We've only just met, however... Rollo-senpai seems to be a diligent person. I understand why he holds the title of Student Council President.

Home Idle 2: They say that this outfit is the City of Flowers' finest attire. The fine embroidery is beautiful. I can sense the dedication of the artisan who made it.

Home Idle 3: It has been some time since I've attended a social event. Fufu, I mustn't become overly excited here. I shall have to make sure I relax some.

Home Idle - Login: No matter what attire I wear, I will always be me. I shall endeavor to act as befitting the Heartslabyul Dorm Leader.

Home Tap 1: It seems the students of Noble Bell College were intimidated by Malleus-senpai's presence. His dignity is befitting a representative of our school.

Home Tap 2: If Cater were here, I'm sure he'd constantly be pulling out his smart phone. I can just picture him now, taking dozens of pictures of the Bell of Salvation from all sorts of different angles.

Home Tap 3: Noble Bell College is a school with a distinguished history. I can understand their commitment to honor long-standing traditions.

Home Tap 4: I did my own research on the City of Flowers before I arrived, but once I actually started exploring, I noticed some differences. So this is what it means to actually travel.

Home Tap 5: I'm not very used to festivals... Much less one taking place in another land. How should I enjoy myself properly?

Requested by Anonymous.

#twisted wonderland #twst #riddle rosehearts #twst riddle #twst translation #twst glorious masquerade #mention: rollo #mention: malleus

[lunastrophe]

Hello! I adore your blog and how much work you've put into it. As someone who is new to dnd/bg3, the drow have been my favorite race and culture. I wanted to ask if you had any insights to half-drow and how they fit into drow culture. I know there general stereotype is that they are not treated well, but I wanted to get your take on it :)

Hello! I suppose that the main problem with half-drow is, they are too often being mentioned in context of typical Lolth-sworn drow culture - but not often enough seen through different lenses 🙂

🕷️ Lolth-sworn drow, especially those living in heavily Lolth-oriented communities and cities like Menzoberranzan, tend to see non-drow as inferior - and they do not support interbreeding between drow and humans or surface elves.

Having a half-drow child would be most likely seen as something shameful to a Lolth-sworn drow, especially to a female - or even as something dangerous to the entire family (danger of losing the favour of Lolth).

There is a high chance that a half-drow child in a Lolth-sworn community would be killed or abandoned shortly after being born. Or sold into slavery, ultimately ending up as a slave, a serf, an outcast... or as a sacrifice.

Some more talented and ambitious half-drow could probably build a different life for themselves, though, depending on their skills and inclinations - even in a Lolth-sworn drow city. They could become artisans, mercenaries or merchants, for example, more or less independent. But they would not be allowed to rise to the very top of the society.

Although...

🕷️ In Menzoberranzan, it was rumoured "...that at some point in the distant past, the females of House Ousstyl had interbred with humans." House Ousstyl was a minor noble house - its members denied the rumours, of course.

Still, such stories may suggest that even in a Lolth-sworn drow society, half-drow were not necessarily seen as outcasts - at least in some cases and in the past. Matron Mother of the House Ousstyl "...was tall and, for a dark elf, extraordinarily rawboned. Her jaw was too square, and her ears, insufficiently pointed." So it is quite possible that even if she was not a half-drow, she might have some half-drow ancestors.

There are also drow cultures that do not follow the Way of Lolth, for example:

🕷️ Among drow who worship Vhaeraun, half-drow were typically at least tolerated and not necessarily looked down upon: "Vhaeraun was not averse to a little human blood in his followers." (E. Cunningham, Daughter of the Drow).

In Vhaeraunan communities, half-drow with surface elven blood could also be found: "children of such unions tended to breed toward drow." They seemed to be perceived as more promising than half-drow, half-humans.

🕷️ Among Eilistraean drow, I imagine that a half-drow child would be welcomed and treated as an equal - and after growing up, free to choose any profession.

So, life of a half-drow in a drow community does not need to be stereotypically miserable. Still, I suppose that even among "neutral" or "good" drow, a half-drow might be sometimes looked at with a dose of pity (shorter lifespan, lack of some natural drow abilities).

#drow #dnd lore #drow lore #lolth sworn drow #drow culture #dark elves #seldarine drow #half drow