Toussaint Twins 🐏🐏

♥ The aesthetical lair for succubi sisters of Beauclair || Art & Headcanons & RP Blog || Minors, please, do not interact

[toussainttwins]

Among many ballads of the merry Duchy, there is one that is particularly dear to baron de Launfal and never fails to be rewarded by a tear, pure and scarce, from that battle-proven knight. Among its lines there is nothing new to be found - a steadfast knight, a beautious dryad, a trial and a happy ending. By the standarts of the local, flamboyant chivalry the adventures might be considered too scarce. For the hero had but one trial - never to speak of his beloved, be it in words or in deeds dedicated to her, contrary to what the knightly code commanded. An easy task, whence your reward are lith limbs and tresses that whisper against one’s naked skin like leaves, cradled by the summer breeze. 

However, the knight with the roseate glint in his eyes, caught the attention of a wanton queen, who desired that look for herself. For no intricate concoction, no precious poison can smooth hard lines of contempt around a mouth or wrinkles of never-ceasing suspicion that make eyes grown dull in restlessness. No potion or poison, but a true love. Didn’t sir Palmerin himself looks rather youthful for his age, by the by? 

Still the knight was not bought nor by gilded looks of the dame, nor by sugared offers, nor by wormwood threats that came on their heels. For that denial he was to be burned at the stake. Falsely accused in front of the king, he refused to name the reason why he disappeared into the darkest part of the forest whence the Moon, that pale complice of lovers and criminals, hid beneath her cloudy veil.  

The moment the tight-lipped hero steps upon a crackling pyre, a sound of whispering leaves fill the courtyard, of flutes thin and silvery like spiderwebs in autumn. A verdant lady appears in the courtyard, riding a steed of stalks, with wolves of silver collars for her hounds, and an owl for her hunting companion. With her all the seasons walk upon the cobblestones in timeless procession, for in her honeyed gaze lays the hope of spring, in her laughter the woeful charm of autumn, in her measured voice the wisdom of shrouded-winter and in her light gait the joy of summer.

The silence of the court, albeit different in the throats of the king and the queen, lifts the death sentence without a word. The lovers share the saddle and dissapear into the dusk, never to be seen again by a mortal eye...

There the audience usually claps. But Palmerin de Launfal sighs, for the ending is much more thorned that the idle passer-by cares to think. Was the little dryad suffering, finding no assurance in the love of the knight when he was away on long, dangerous quests? Even amidst the cheer of a tourney he could not pair their names to prove that his adoration is as fresh as it was when he met her, wearing that silly cabbage dress...oh...whatever dryads wear! Was the knight distraught that he could not take the dryad honourably for his wife, for the creatures of the forest would pine away in four walls, no matter if he surrounded her by all the pretty fabrics and glittering jewels in the world, enough to weave a new wood?      

In reality they could have never ridden together. 

The gentle nudge of Sir Cervantes saves the knight errant from the bottomless well of melancholy. Has he left the inn for the stable already? Verily, woeful thoughts blind.

Next time when he himself sings the ballad, he must remember to note that the steed’s mane was fair. The knightly horse neighs as if reading his mind, indignantly, but harboring a certain pleasure in being thusly, if frivolously, commemorated. 

...And describe the dryad’s attire, regardless of what common sense said upon the matter. He had suffered once for his forgetfulness with the pout that was sharper than an enemy’s sword. Must he also mention the dimpled smile and the precious little beauty mark beneath her coral lips...he means green, of course. 

Picture Credit: Marc Fishman - La belle Dame sans Merci (1971). Collage - me.

[toussainttwins]

Dear sangbonbons,

The mun behind the sewing succubi speaking. In the best traditions of a gothic novel, I am confined to a bed and a muddled mind for a few days. Many thanks to those who sent asks/ replies! I shall answer everything bit by bit. Don't hesitate to send more, if you so desire. A curious topic to muse on will only brighten my hours.

[rpmemesbyarat]

Recommend romantic candidates for my muses and see their reaction!

Note: They do not have to be ones my muses would like!

[raesource]

headcanon questions

if you are sending to a multi-muse, remember to specify the muse that the questions are being sent for . feel free to edit these as you see fit .

🌟 What’s something small they did as a child that hinted at who they’d become?

❤️ Who is the one person they’d drop everything for, no questions asked?

💔 What’s the one wound (physical / emotional) they’ll never fully recover from?

🗡️ What’s their “I’ve killed for less” trigger?

☀️ What’s their happiest childhood memory?

🌧️ What kind of weather matches their soul?

🍽️ What meal do they cook when they need to feel like themselves again?

🎶 What song instantly makes them emotional & why?

🌙 Do they sleep peacefully / fight nightmares every night?

🔒 What’s a secret they’ll take to their grave?

🪞 What do they secretly hate about their own appearance?

💪 What random skill are they weirdly proud of?

👶 Baby picture of them - what’s the most embarrassing thing about it?

🏠 Describe their home when no one’s watching—messy, spotless, chaotic cozy?

😭 What always makes them cry, even if they hate admitting it?

😂 What’s the dumbest thing they’ve ever laughed at for way too long?

🧸 Do they still have a childhood comfort object? Where is it now?

✏️ What nickname do they secretly love being called?

⚔️ How do they act when they’re furious but have to stay polite?

🩸 What’s the worst injury they’ve ever had & the story behind it?

🕊️ What would instantly calm them down in a panic attack?

🔥 What’s something they’d burn the world down to protect?

🌹 What scent reminds them of the person they loved/love most?

🪥 What’s their most oddly specific daily routine?

💔 What’s the one apology they’re still waiting for that’ll never come?

🃏 Are they the type to forgive / hold a grudge until the end of the universe?

🌌 What’s their biggest “what if” that keeps them up at night?

🦋 What was their “I’m not a kid anymore” moment?

🎭 Do they wear a mask in public? What’s the real them like underneath?

🧳 If they had to leave home forever with only one bag, what do they pack?

🌑 What’s the darkest thought they’ve ever had about themselves?

☕ What’s their comfort drink?

🖤 What’s a “villain” trait they actually possess?

🤝 Who is the one person they never want to disappoint?

🎁 What gift would utterly destroy them (in a good / bad way)?

🩹 How do they react when someone they love is hurt?

🌅 Are they a sunrise / sunset person - what do they think about while looking at their favorite?

🧣 What texture/clothing item makes them feel safe?

🦉 What piece of advice do they give everyone but never follow themselves?

🔪 What’s the most violent thing they’ve ever done for love / survival?

🦋 What seemingly insignificant memory do they cherish the most?

🌹 What is their love language & how badly do they need it right now?

🪨 What’s the hardest choice they’ve ever made?

🧋 What food/drink do they hate that everyone else loves?

🕰️ If they could relive one day of their life, which would it be?

👑 In their own story, are they the hero / villain / someone else entirely?

🌡️ What temperature do they keep their home at & why?

🧸 What would their younger self think of them now?

💌 What’s the letter / text they’ll never send?

⚰️ What do they want written on their gravestone / what do they want people to remember them for?

[enchantedbook]

"Hermia and Lysander" (1870) by John Simmons, from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night's Dream

[fallesto]

He beamed at her, but it wasn't the polished, radiant smile he reserved for the front rows of a bustling gallery, nor the calculated, half-closed warmth he employed to entice a few extra coins from a hesitant patron. This smile was slower, more intimate, a gentle softening of his gaze that revealed a man who had unexpectedly found a reflection of himself. It was the smile of a collector who had unearthed a hidden treasure in a forgotten attic, or a scholar stumbling upon the missing verse of a lost epic.

He observed how she fumbled with the ribbon of her necklace, the awkward elegance of her fingers contrasting sharply with the predatory grace of her figure, and he felt a sudden, intense pull of genuine affection.

He experienced more than just gratitude; it was as if he had been given a key to a city he had yet to explore. The way Natanis had assembled this outfit, the striking geometry of the hose, the deliberate arrangement of the linen, the sheer, unapologetic boldness of the silhouette, was an act of devotion deeper than any sonnet he had ever feverishly penned. He gazed at the garment, then back at her, feeling a warmth that transcended the lingering embers of their shared intimacy.

She hadn't just adorned him; she had grasped the very structure of his soul, realizing that Dandelion thrived when he was a spectacle. To be seen was to truly exist, and to be seen in this was to hold dominion.

He hesitated, the festive atmosphere around him shifting into a sudden, anticipatory hush. He reached into the inner pocket of his new linen shirt, the one Natanis had crafted with such instinctive skill, and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook, its edges worn from years of travel and stained by the spilled ink of countless cities. He didn’t merely pass it to her; he understood that a gift without a performance was just a transaction, and he was far too romantic for such ordinary exchanges.

"A token, my dear, representing a debt that no amount of gold could ever fulfill," he whispered, his tone shifting to a conspiratorial velvet. He didn't just hand over the notebook; he elevated it as if it were a sacred artifact unearthed from the remnants of a forgotten civilization, holding it high for a fleeting moment before gently placing it in her hands. He understood the true worth of this item, not in the price of the leather or the quality of the vellum, but in the raw, unfiltered spirit of the man who had once possessed it.

This was the record of his inspirations, the skeletal fragments of unfinished poems, and the hidden pathways to the hearts of the most elusive women in the North. For Natanis, a being who thrived on the metaphysical craving for tales, this was not merely a book; it was a feast.

He did not just bow; he executed a deceleration of grace, a slow-motion descent of elegance that began at the top of his head and cascaded down to the tips of his elongated shoes. It was a bow fit for the courts of Toussaint, the kind that demanded a steady center of gravity and a complete disregard for the practicality of the spine.

As he lowered himself, the checkered hose stretched with rhythmic precision, and the linen of his shirt billowed like the sails of a galleon catching a favorable breeze. He lingered there for a moment, suspended in a state of curated humility, his forehead nearly grazing the dusty floorboards of the workshop, effectively transforming the act of greeting into a choreographed performance.

"Now I must take my leave; when I am finished, I shall surely return."

[toussainttwins]

If the dashing poet ever doubted the power of his charms, the indomitable proof was unveiled before him, amidst the slumbering shadows of stitched dreams. Natanis froze, knowing what the gift was even before her dainty hand dared to turn the dog-earred pages. It was quite an achievement, robbing the honey-eyed beauty of her wits and wings, that urged her to rush from one pleasure to another with naught but a wink.

The sensual curves spoke of desire, the hard angles and crossed words served the fever of creation, leaving a peppery sting of annoyance upon her tongue. Next her gaze hunted down a sketch of a feminine profile, with an weasel-like upturned nose and mischievous, kindly eyes. The vision tasted like cardamom and oranges, cream and young wine. Somehow it reminded the flippant coquette how sunlight played amidst the leaves in Caroberta Woods, while she and her lambkin of a sister, with their horns but tiny promises, shrieked and chased each other in a game of tag-a-tail and the verdant greenery laughed at their antics. Then there was the feeling of newborn sun upon her skin, as it tiptoed upon the red-bricked roofs and tickled her shoulders, together with a the cheery song of early city vendors, that promised a new day. And the night was no less beautiful, turning the waters of Sansretour silver and the fireflies in her hair into a crown, as she was tasting a kiss for the first time...

Finally, the flavour settled down upon her heart. Only then did Natanis realized that the yearning lines mush have been a likeness of the Duchess of Toussaint. Verily, master Dandelion secret had ruffled a secret of her own, the one that was unbeknownst even to her sly little soul. Oh, how dearly she missed Toussaint.

"Oh, sangbonbon...you have given me your very heart! All your secrets, and joys and sorrows!" poor Nistana's horns were going to fall off, once she brought her that treasure. It could keep them sated for a whole winter! Ah, if only the darling poet knew what such a thing meant to a succubus. He would not speak about debts then...

"Surely, I do hope to find that felicity and not woe rules your thoughts upon these pages," robbed of breath she still was, as if he had stolen it with a shower of kisses and caresses.

"Let luck and bliss guide you in your quest," the petite succubus returned a bow, the balanced curvature of her spine smooth like a sigh, the delicate bend of the knee cupping both surrender and invitation. The final accord marked by a feisty little thud upon the floorboards, which could have been mistaken for a coquettish sound of a heeled shoe if Dandelion did not know better.

And as all secrets coyly pretended to evaporate between them for a price of one, Natanis could not resist and finished her curtesy with a playful, lithesome flicker her tail, the sunlight bouncing of it turning dust to gold.

The music of his elegance was not only well, but most willingly matched.

The line of Natanis neck should have turned barren without the necklace, yet the vein silked up like a satin ribbon, something secretive and private, glimpsed only by the keen eye of a lover. Every inch of exposed skin appeared to bloom, a delicate insides of a petal, and wrapped by them, in the shelter of her hands the well-worn volume appeared to trump the grandeur of any carefully binded book, fresh from the press or hand-painted by a hardworking priest. What was gold to the most ardent confessions, penned under the pale sighs of the moon? Ultramarine appeared bleak, compared to the longing that humble inks still kept full and sincere. It was indeed a heart, that she was holding, pressed close against the crimson hungering flower that pulsed inside her chest...

"If I visit Toussaint, I shall wait for you at the battlements of the Caroberta Tower, when the moon is full,"

@fallesto

[lannasroleplaymemes]

Send my Muse(s) secret admirer Anons!

It doesn't need to be based on an existing ship or even be from one of your muses. These can be as cute, funny, or creepy as you like. Specify muses for multimuse blogs!

[fallesto]

He did not merely feel impressed; he felt as though he had just witnessed a masterstroke of sartorial alchemy. He stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze sweeping over the ensemble with the critical precision of a man who once spent three hours debating the merits of a puffed sleeve with a tailor in Beauclair.

The costume was a paradox, too loud for a funeral, too humble for a coronation, yet possessing a magnetic, theatrical cohesion that whispered of adventure and misunderstood nobility. It was the kind of outfit that didn't just clothe a man; it provided him with a backstory, an aura of "displaced royalty" that could open doors in a village square or charm a suspicious border guard into forgetting to check his papers.

"My dear Natanis," he breathed, his voice dropping into a register of genuine reverence, "You haven't just curated an outfit; you have composed a visual symphony. The daring juxtaposition of the checkered hose against the linen of a cursed prince... it is avant-garde! It is bold! It is exactly the kind of costume that tells the world, 'I am far too important to be arrested, yet far too charming to be ignored.'"

He reached out to touch the fabric of the shirt, noting how the weave felt substantial yet breathable, perfect for a man who might need to sprint away from a mob of angry creditors or dance a quick pavane for a fickle duchess.

He spun around once, a whirlwind of silk and linen, testing the weight of the long-pointed shoes. They clicked against the wooden floor with a jaunty, rhythmic confidence, a sound that promised a certain swagger.

He caught his reflection in a shard of an old mirror leaning against the wall, and for a moment, he didn't see the bruised, wanted poet of Novigrad. He saw a protagonist. He saw the man who could walk into Toussaint and convince the court that his arrival was not a coincidence, but a predestined event of cosmic significance.

“Yes,” He proclaimed, his voice ringing with the definitive clarity of a closing curtain, “This will do! In fact, it does more than do, it triumphs!”

He struck a pose of exaggerated confidence, one hand resting on a hip while the other flourished outward, as if presenting himself to an invisible audience of thousands. The checkered hose gripped his calves with a snugness that felt almost supportive, and the linen shirt clung to his frame in a way that suggested a man who had spent a great deal of time in the company of fine wine and finer conversations, yet was still capable of a daring escape through a hedge-row.

[toussainttwins]

The petite succubus broke into a peal of applause. Ah, the sight! The sight was too much for her tender, hungry heart. Just to think that a moment ago the linen and patched silk, ribbons and buckles were nothing more than a dress rehearsal rags, waiting with regal yet piteous deference either for a ravenous moth or a vivifying, ringing cry of a newborn rehearsal. Nistana would have certainly feel pity for the plight of the abandoned things. Were they not an embodiment of the same illusion that made love itself? A beauteous pretence, and yet somehow more real than the merciless, dull truth...

Natanis, however, was more inclined to focus on the brighter side. The dimples decorated her cheeks, the blush painted her smile rich and sugared. She did not mind the double-side of the praises, greedy she was not. What ill was it in the fact that the flaunting nightingale's compliments were aimed at both of them? Verily, Dandelion himself was the finishing touch of the costume. And how lucky those doublet and shoes, shirt and hose were, ready to play a witness in the fascinating adventure, a tale more bold and daring than any fantasy!

For a moment her heart skipped a beat treacherously, a picture formed behind her eyelids, while she was batting her lashes - she, in a dress as delicious, following Dandelion into the whirlpool of Toussaint balmy nights, whence pale moths danced like the stars, that tiptoed down from heaven, to listen to the intoxicating caress of hands upon the strings...

"Ah, your garments posses an untold luck! Not only do I see a wonderous future in front of them, but their present is equally worth of envy," sighed Natanis cheerfully, following the checkered pattern of the hose with a fascination so sincere and shameless, it almost turned into politeness out of contrary. The noble and arduous quest of composing the dashing disguise left her equally joyous and craving.

Desperately, the horned coquette needed a distraction, least she broke a promise given to herself. Did she not plan to halt her wanderings and settle in, for the sake of her lambkin of a sister? Did master Dandelion painted her quick and wonder-seeking eyes in the words most meritorious and melliflous? Why, she could weave dreams out of clothes, the very first sewing succubus!

Valiantly, Natanis bit into the idea. Still, the crimson flower inside her chest soaked its roots upon the wine of dazzling confidence, a daring joy equal in its bold sweetness to the first ripe fruit after the desolation of winter palate, while eyes lingered upon the vainglorious bard's figure. One dream was battling another inside her curly head, unused as the vivacious twin was to choose betwix two things, instead of taking one after another...

"Ah! It would be ill not to leave something in return for this song," a thief she might have been, but not a ruthless knave. Besides, fumbling with the ribbon at the back of her necklace gave the horned beauty a few more covert, velvety mouthfeel moments of admiring Dandelion under the guard of her fluttering eyelashes; a gaze disguised as vacant and distracted.

@fallesto

[7pleiades7]

Incostanza. An Allegory of Fickleness (c. 1617), by Abraham Janssens I (Flemish, 1575 – 1632), 1,275 mm (50.1 in) x 1,054 mm (41.4 in), Statens Museum for Kunst, Copenhagen

[witch1nghour]

𝜗𝜚 ⠀𝗕𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗣𝗥𝗜𝗖𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗙 𝗠𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗨𝗠𝗕   ﹔   romantic declarations sentence starters   .  please   like   or reblog   if   you   plan   on   using   .   don’t   claim   as   your   own   .   

i love  you,  and  I  will  love  you  until  I  die  and  if  there’s  a  life  after  that,  I’ll  love  you  then.

i  swear  on  us  because  there  isn't  anything  I  believe  in  more.

is  it  you?  have  my  prayers  been  answered?

I  will  fall  in  love  with  you  over  and  over  again.

I  am  not  the  man  you  fell  in  love  with  -  I  am  not  the  man  you  once  adored.

don't  tell  me  you're  not  the  same  person  -  you're  always  my  husband.

would  you  fall  in  love  with  me  again  if  you  knew  all  I've  done?

no  matter  how  long  it's  been,  you're  mine.

you  must  allow  me  to  tell  you  how  ardently  I  admire  and  love  you.

one  word  from  you  shall  silence  me  forever.

i'm  afraid  I'm  scandalously  in  love  with  you

I  don't  want  sunbursts  or  marble  halls,  I  just  want  you.

I've  loved  you  ever  since  that  day  you  broke  your  slate  over  my  head  in  school.

 know  I  am  imperfect,  but  I  will  humble  myself  before  you  because  I  cannot  imagine  my  life  without  you.

just  keep  looking  at  me.  no  one  else  matters.

I  fell  in  love  with  you,  and  then  I  knew.

i  have  you,  and  i'm  not  going  to  waste  a  single  moment  we  have  together.

all  I  find  myself  thinking  about,  all  I  find  myself  being  able  to  breathe  for  .  .  .  is  you.

because  with  you  gone  .  .  .  there  was  nothing  left  for  me  to  live  for.

I  have  never  met  anyone  like  you.  it  is  maddening,  how  much  you  consume  my  very  being.

I  desire  you.  I  burn  for  you.  I  can't  sleep  at  night  for  wanting  you.

this  has  to  be  the  most  self-centered  thing  I've  ever  said,  but  no,  I  think  you  just  wanted  to  vex  me.

anything  in  my  power,  I  give  to  you.

i  thought  you  were  dead  once,  and  it  almost  destroyed  me.  i  could  not  bear  it  if  you  died  again,  not  when  i  could  save  you.

did  I  happen  to  say,  I  dream  of  you  every  day.

I  was  praying  that  you  and  me  might  end  up  together.

I'm  holding  you  closer  than  most,  cause  you  are  my  heaven.

I  was  made  to  keep  your  body  warm.

did my heart dare to love until now?

all  my  agony  fades  away  when  you  hold  me  in  your  embrace.

I  would  have  loved  you  all  my  life.

be  still  and  know  that  I'm  with  you.

something  always  brings  me  back  to  you.

I  never  wanted  anything  so  much  as  to  drown  in  your  love.

i've  spent  so  long  running  from  love  -  convinced  it  would  destroy  me.  i  don't  wanna  be  that  person  anymore.  i  want  the  storybook  thing.

I don't think I could love you more.

it might not be long, but I'll love you 'till the day that I die.

[resourcesofaqueen]

Secret Love / Forbidden Affair -themed sentence starters. Feel free to change pronouns & wording!

"We can’t keep meeting like this; someone’s bound to notice."

"I’d burn the world down just to hold your hand in public."

"Every stolen glance feels like a rebellion."

"You’re the one secret I can’t bear to keep."

"They’d kill us both if they knew what we’ve done."

"I wrote your name in my heart, where no one can find it."

"Meet me at midnight, where the shadows hide us."

"Your touch is forbidden, but it’s the only thing keeping me alive."

"I saw you in the crowd, and my heart betrayed me."

"They say our love is a sin, but it feels like salvation."

"I left a note under your pillow—did you find it?"

"We’re from different worlds, but I can’t stop dreaming of you."

"The king can have my loyalty, but you have my soul."

"If they catch us, I’ll take the blame. You just run."

"Your kiss is a secret I’ll take to my grave."

"I lied to everyone today, just to see you for a moment."

"The stars know our story, but they’ll never tell."

"I’d defy the gods themselves to be with you."

"They locked the gates, but they can’t lock away my heart."

"Every letter I write to you is burned before dawn."

"You’re my weakness, and I hate how much I need you."

"I saw your shadow in the hall, and my heart stopped."

"They promised me to another, but I’m already yours."

"This ring isn’t just jewelry—it’s a vow we can’t speak."

"I’d rather die than marry someone who isn’t you."

"The law forbids us, but my heart doesn’t care."

"I left a flower by your window—did you know it was me?"

"We’re enemies by blood, but lovers by choice."

"I told them I was alone last night. I lied."

"Your voice in the dark is the only thing that calms me."

"They’ll brand us traitors, but I’d betray them all for you."

"I stole a moment with you, and now I’m addicted."

"The world can’t know, but my soul screams your name."

"I saw you with them, and it tore me apart."

"We’re a secret, but you’re my everything."

"I carved our initials where no one will ever look."

"They’d exile me for this, but your love is worth it."

"I swore loyalty to the crown, but my heart swore to you."

"Every step I take away from you feels like treason."

"I left a mark on your doorstep—do you know it’s mine?"

"They think I’m cold, but they don’t know I burn for you."

"I’d break every vow just to taste your name again."

"The night hides us, but the dawn always betrays."

"Your scent lingers on my skin, and it’s dangerous."

"I told the oracle about us, and she wept."

"We’re forbidden, but the gods themselves envy us."

"I’d tear down the walls of this city to hold you again."

"They say you’re my enemy, but my heart disagrees."

"I stole a kiss, and now I’m a thief for life."

"Our love is a crime, but it’s the only law I’ll follow."

[derangedrhythms]

Mircea Cărtărescu, Solenoid, tr. Sean Cotter

[fallesto]

His eyes grew wide, not in the exaggerated, gasp-inducing way he typically reserved for scandalous court gossip or particularly dreadful wine, but with true joy as he trailed behind Natanis into the concealed workshop. The air was infused with the scent of cedar oil and dried lavender, underpinned by the musk of well-loved fabric that had absorbed decades of applause within its threads. His fingers twitched at his sides, eager to catalog every nuance: the way the dust motes danced in the angled sunlight like hesitant performers waiting for their cue, how the sequins on a moth-eaten mummer's coat sparkled at him like old accomplices.

As he surveyed the surroundings, he marveled at how extraordinary this place was, not just a room, but a vibrant archive of forgotten roles and half-spun tales. Costumes hung like ghostly patrons of a long-lost ball, their silks murmuring secrets to the velvet doublets that stood beside them. A tattered dragon’s head grinned from a shelf, its glass eyes glinting in the dim light with the knowing sparkle of a retired villain. He reached out, letting his finger glide over the embroidered hem of a queen’s robe, its gold thread dulled by the passage of time yet still resonating with the echoes of some long-gone actress’s grand soliloquy.

Then he began to hum softly as he continued to explore, the melody weaving through the racks of costumes like a playful sprite. His fingers glided along a rack of doublets, each one whispering tales of forgotten performances, the emerald one still faintly redolent of stage fright and spilled wine, the crimson velvet bearing a tear mended with silver thread where a jealous lover’s dagger had strayed too close. "Marvelous," he murmured, tugging at a moth-nibbled sleeve.

This one undoubtedly portrayed a tragic hero. Observe the skillful stains, either convincingly staged blood or incredibly unfortunate soup incidents.

As he listened, rubbing the back of his head, not the theatrical, self-pitying gesture he would use for an audience, but the genuine awkwardness of a man who realized he had left his own wanted posters scattered throughout Novigrad like particularly damning confetti. "Ah," he remarked, the sound landing somewhere between humor and acceptance. The bruise on his ribs pulsed in sympathy.

"That clarifies why Whoreson's men were so... eager with their send-off."

As he hummed once more, tapping a finger against his lips while he examined the racks with the discerning eye of a man who had donned more disguises than he had penned verses. Something eye-catching? Absolutely, he could envision himself in that emerald doublet adorned with faux rubies, the one that shouted "extravagant noble with questionable heritage." Yet, perhaps something more understated would serve him better, particularly with Whoreson's men transforming every alley into a possible ambush. His fingers lingered over a charcoal-gray cloak, its high collar embroidered with silver thread so delicate it resembled frost on a midnight window.

"Maybe, something that doesn’t stand out and attract attention, do you have anything, ugh... for a destitute person?"

[toussainttwins]

His pain cut Natanis-posing-as-Nistana like a needle, biting a slovenly hand at embroidery. Donning her sister's most sympathetic face and her own golden-shielded optimism, she hooftoed towards the poet and nodded an ardent agreement at his 'most prudent, most sagacious!' choice, accompanied by no less flattering little gasp, as her two plump hands put the cloak round his - ah, so lithe and manly - shoulders.

"You do have an eye for a fitting disguise, sangbonbon. Perhaps, such a trusting, simple maiden as I should not have believed your well-dressed confessions so easily," a honey-sweet wink from a beauty was a nice antidote to any physical discomfort, was it not?

Before the last of the feathery flirtations was out of her mouth, Natanis's hand was already reaching for a doublet behind the poet's back. A farewell-in-nazair of colour. It would compliment master Dandelion's eyes perfectly, looking not overtly eye-cathching in its mysterious, dignified shade... Before another word could be uttered, the horned coquette fluttered away, leaving the to-be-exiled poet holding the procured doublet and and an echo of a hot, valiant kiss upon his cheek.

After hunting the shelves and the racks with an enthusiasm that would put the ducal beagles to shame, a triumphant squeak marking every fitting finding and a dainty sneeze heralding a few courageous battles with time, Natanis emerged from the carcass of dreams. The pile of loot almost covered the dimpled, triumphant face, leaving only a dainty pair of hands to be seen, yet the swinging tail sang its own ballad well.

The seamstress errant then put every piece against her willing victim's figure with the commanding reassurance that it would be of a right fit, that possessed its own magic - the sleeves that appeared too short a moment ago seemed to elongate, the collars grew higher and the seams changed their placement like conquered countries on a map of her dimpled whim.

The fitting happened so quickly, that Dandelion had hardly a chance to put a word, before a full costume was laid before him upon a table, like a skin of a selkie-maiden, ready to be put on.

"Ah, it is so very strange and unexpected to behold you, the most famous singer in all the Continent, in an attire so humble!" in fact, the costume could be considered exceedingly modest only in the eyes of a fanciful horned dreamer. A merrily checkered hose of a fashionable brigand, several gold-rimmed linen shirts that belonged to a wretched array of cursed swan-princes and a pair of long-pointed shoes with fake silver buckles whose parentage was questionable, yet their frame sturdy and outstanding of shape. The theatrical curious constructed a perfect imitation of a main hero in peril, a prince under pretense. Yet it would be at home on a stage, against a painted foliage and clouds hanged on a string, where only harsh scents was a cheap perfume, sweat and powder.

"What do you think?" the doe-eyes were raised up to Dandelion, as the petite succubus stopped for the first time in the last several minutes. The question approached him in the same trusting, tentative manner as that creature of the forest would...

@fallesto

[raesource]

headcanon questions

if you are sending to a multi-muse, remember to specify the muse that the questions are being sent for . feel free to edit these as you see fit .

🌟 What’s something small they did as a child that hinted at who they’d become?

❤️ Who is the one person they’d drop everything for, no questions asked?

💔 What’s the one wound (physical / emotional) they’ll never fully recover from?

🗡️ What’s their “I’ve killed for less” trigger?

☀️ What’s their happiest childhood memory?

🌧️ What kind of weather matches their soul?

🍽️ What meal do they cook when they need to feel like themselves again?

🎶 What song instantly makes them emotional & why?

🌙 Do they sleep peacefully / fight nightmares every night?

🔒 What’s a secret they’ll take to their grave?

🪞 What do they secretly hate about their own appearance?

💪 What random skill are they weirdly proud of?

👶 Baby picture of them - what’s the most embarrassing thing about it?

🏠 Describe their home when no one’s watching—messy, spotless, chaotic cozy?

😭 What always makes them cry, even if they hate admitting it?

😂 What’s the dumbest thing they’ve ever laughed at for way too long?

🧸 Do they still have a childhood comfort object? Where is it now?

✏️ What nickname do they secretly love being called?

⚔️ How do they act when they’re furious but have to stay polite?

🩸 What’s the worst injury they’ve ever had & the story behind it?

🕊️ What would instantly calm them down in a panic attack?

🔥 What’s something they’d burn the world down to protect?

🌹 What scent reminds them of the person they loved/love most?

🪥 What’s their most oddly specific daily routine?

💔 What’s the one apology they’re still waiting for that’ll never come?

🃏 Are they the type to forgive / hold a grudge until the end of the universe?

🌌 What’s their biggest “what if” that keeps them up at night?

🦋 What was their “I’m not a kid anymore” moment?

🎭 Do they wear a mask in public? What’s the real them like underneath?

🧳 If they had to leave home forever with only one bag, what do they pack?

🌑 What’s the darkest thought they’ve ever had about themselves?

☕ What’s their comfort drink?

🖤 What’s a “villain” trait they actually possess?

🤝 Who is the one person they never want to disappoint?

🎁 What gift would utterly destroy them (in a good / bad way)?

🩹 How do they react when someone they love is hurt?

🌅 Are they a sunrise / sunset person - what do they think about while looking at their favorite?

🧣 What texture/clothing item makes them feel safe?

🦉 What piece of advice do they give everyone but never follow themselves?

🔪 What’s the most violent thing they’ve ever done for love / survival?

🦋 What seemingly insignificant memory do they cherish the most?

🌹 What is their love language & how badly do they need it right now?

🪨 What’s the hardest choice they’ve ever made?

🧋 What food/drink do they hate that everyone else loves?

🕰️ If they could relive one day of their life, which would it be?

👑 In their own story, are they the hero / villain / someone else entirely?

🌡️ What temperature do they keep their home at & why?

🧸 What would their younger self think of them now?

💌 What’s the letter / text they’ll never send?

⚰️ What do they want written on their gravestone / what do they want people to remember them for?

[fallesto]

"Have you encountered many witchers then? Your horns are still present, and your tail remains adorable and fluffy. My best friend is a witcher, and he would never harm someone as delightful as you. I should compose another song to help enhance his reputation, how dreadful it is." What she expressed sounded terrible and frightening, yet it would indeed inspire a charming little song for him. However, therein lay the problem; she held a negative perception of his friend without ever having met him. Alas, the heart aches for a poor public image. He did not believe his friend was involved in the horn trade or stealing tails from the backs of fair hoofed maidens, which was quite peculiar. Still, he had to stifle a chuckle for the moment.

"The true treasure of a succubus, what a splendid title!" he exclaimed, making a mental note to use it later. With numerous tournaments and balls on the horizon, he would certainly perform. People were never interested in the old tales and poems he had written; they always craved something fresh. They expected it, and he was ever the one to satisfy such a ravenous audience. "Oh, how beautifully and loudly the heart was beating during our time together," he added. Sometimes, he simply couldn't restrain himself. Ever the skilled lover, he felt compelled to remind a succubus that he would be the best they would ever have.

"A steep price, for I am short on gold and, well... ahem, hearts." He patted down his sides, for as talented, wonderful, pretty, perfect, and famous as he was, he was broke. He relied on his charm to secure free drinks, food, and places to stay, and his artistry in the bedroom often yielded more benefits than troubles. A roof over his head and gone by morning before the husband returned from work, the life of a poet was always thrilling.

"Yes..." He rubbed the back of his head, feeling the weight of the situation. The last thing he wanted was for a succubus to know about his numerous encounters with the duchess. They had shared countless passionate moments, and despite it all, the duchess still held deep feelings for him and yearned for his return. Yet, he was a man who resisted being tied down by marriage; the world was vast, filled with women, adventures, and stories waiting to be told. He needed to capture these tales, to write them down and sell them, for it was not the witcher who saved the day, but the humble poet. The people craved more of these narratives. "That would certainly help me," he remarked, thinking that a thoughtful gesture for the duchess might heal some old wounds. After all, it had been years since they last met, and he dreaded the thought of walking into a reunion only to find himself imprisoned soon after.

"Truly, you cannot?" he asked, pouting slightly at her. However, he wouldn’t press the issue; if she chose not to accompany him, that was her decision, and he respected that. He was not one to impose his will on others; he was a lover, not a fighter. Perhaps one more intimate moment with him could sway her, but time was slipping away, and he needed to leave. "A request, of course," he said, realizing that if she couldn’t join him, a gift was in order. Maybe a piece of cloth, his hat, a feather from it, or even a kiss. Or perhaps he could still find a cozy bed and spend an hour or two delighting her before he had to depart.

"A signature?" He tilted his head, glancing at what she presented to him. With a smile and a nod, he thought that if this was the gift she desired, he would certainly sign it. As he took out his quill from his hat and ink from his pocket, always prepared for writing and reflection, he signed every document she had before she revealed the poster in front of him.

"Ugh ..." His eyes widened in shock. Oh no. This was not good at all, a wanted poster featuring his face, likely accompanied by fines or perhaps a scandal involving a knight's daughter or wife. The list of reasons for being a wanted man seemed endless. He quickly signed the poster, managing a smile. "Hang that on your wall, but please take it down when guests come over, hehe." He grinned, spun around, and bowed.

"Alas, my lady, I must take my leave. I promise to write to you once I find suitable lodgings. When I reach the capital, I will share my address with you. Send your gift to me, and I will present it to the duchess, I swear. Until we meet again, I should leave before more people arrive with... those posters."

[toussainttwins]

"Wait, ah, wait!" a plump arm flew towards the poet, in a great distress. The doublet seemed to favour its mistress more, for the vine that the sleeve was adorned with, practically jumped betwix the dainty fingers and held as true and fast as a leash.

"If these posters are not a witty joke, but an erroneous assumption of law, I think you should prepare better for your departure, sangbonbon," the petite succubus chirped, as swiftly as a spring songbird. The anxiety emanating from Dandelion was ticklish, it irritated the little heart with emotions as contrary as the chilly blade of winter and a languorous breath of spring breeze.

It also tickled the trickster's vivacious valor. Verily, it would be a shame to let such a bard as him to fall into the rough hands of justice without kissing the mellifluous mouth of his even once. Besides, it was very rather sweet of him to believe in her skill and offer his help in catching Anna Henrietta's attention. A less gallant man would think of naught but his own distress in simlar circumstances.

One hand still holding the vine-ribbon, attached to the sleeve, Natanis fingers kneaded the air and finally pointed to something with a sharp flourish. The secret was a small, shabby door in the fence. It was covered with old theatrical announcements, peeling paint and busy city grime so thickly all of those became its second skin and hid the entrance well.

"Follow me, my dearest master Dandelion." the beribboned tail disappeared behind the fence, while a peal of silvery laughter seemed to hold the door into the bowels of Butcher's Yard theater open.

*** The room they found themselves was blessedly cool and rather crowded. Costumes hang in rows, like a band of men sentenced to the merriest of gallows, perfumed puppets ready to ask each other to a dance. Shadows mixed with the scent of powder, dry flowers and wonder. The theater atelier was a cave of slumbering dreams - a prince resting shoulder to shoulder with a pauper and a dryad's intricate locks being entwined with a shepherdess' sun-braided curls upon a wig-shelf.

"Which disguise do you fancy for your travel? Although it would be nary impossible to hide your fragrant gaze of your savory voice. No wonder even law wants your company," the warm lips brushed his cheek and purred down his ear. Then something jabbing was pressed into Dandelion's thigh. Must have been the recently signed volume of poetry, that the horned coquette held close to her heart like the most precious loot.

The space was so scarce Natanis' honeyed ringlets tickled his chin and when he looked down upon the petite seamstress-to-be her eyes glittered golden and jet, the shade of spicy anticipation of mischief.

@fallesto

[toussainttwins]

Art by Olive J. Cockerell for "The Windfairies and Other Tales" by Mary de Morgan

[fallesto]

He rubbed his eyes, unable to cope with this nonsense. The succubi's relentless cheerfulness grated on his patience like a corroded blade against bone. His temples throbbed in sync with an ancient war drum, each pulse a stark reminder of his dwindling tolerance for the world's ridiculousness, especially now, as he stood amidst the ruins of his past, encircled by beings intent on unraveling the last threads of his composure.

"I’m just joking, of course I won’t harm either of you, unless you really get on my nerves."

He longed to be at home, indulging in drinking, fucking, killing, and sleeping, not necessarily in that order, or perhaps all at once if the mood struck him. Instead, he found himself here, standing ankle-deep in the remnants of lavender stalks, listening to the incessant babble of a pink succubus who seemed to think that optimism was a treasure worth more than gold. The irony was not lost on him. Once, he had been a man whose mere glance commanded silence, whose name made mercenaries stiffen and noblewomen’s fans flutter. Now, he was relegated to babysitting a pair of pastel-hued nuisances while his estate crumbled around him like a poorly woven tale.

"A cat that plays with yarn, and not what I summoned for her."

The cat, that smug little creature, had slipped into the shadows the moment his grip relaxed, leaving only the faint echo of its mocking purr lingering in the air. The succubi, Nistana and Natanis, or whatever ridiculous names they had, clung to each other like ivy suffocating a tree, their ribbons dancing in the stale air that wafted through the broken windows. He could detect the decay beneath the floorboards, the damp musk of abandonment. This place had once belonged to Iris, vibrant with the scent of oil paints and the rustle of her skirts. Now, it reeked of a grave.

"Dog, come here right now!"

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the lingering touch of the cat’s fur still clinging to his skin like a cruel reminder. He had no desire to see Iris. Not in this moment, not in this graveyard of memories, where every decaying archway seemed to murmur her name. He wanted that damn dog. The creature had one responsibility: to stand watch, teeth bared, a living shield against the outside world. Instead, it had slinked away like a beaten dog, leaving the estate to decay and Iris to, no. He wouldn’t allow himself to think of her. Not her laughter, not her silence, and certainly not the way her hands had trembled when she reached for him in the dark.

As he exhaled a breath that could sour milk, his fingers twitched towards the saber at his hip, not to draw it, but to feel the familiar grip of its worn handle against his palm. Grounding himself. The succubi recoiled in unison, their twin tails lashing like metronomes keeping time with his irritation.

He regarded them both, ugh, with the kind of annoyance typically reserved for drunken patrons at a tavern who believed they could recite poetry after their third drink. Their optimism was a tangible force, thick enough to suffocate. He could almost taste it, sweet and cloying, like overripe fruit left to rot under the sun.

"I am not going inside; we are going to make sure the pets understand their purpose, and then we are leaving. You two can either stay here forever or come with me, but I refuse to step foot inside that house. I cannot."

[toussainttwins]

"Oh, we do not need to cross the threshold of the house at all! " Natanis gasped in relief, her cheeks almost hurting from the plastered smile she wore as a bright, gaily-painted shield against that desolate place, where demons played.

"If we are lucky..." her sister's dainty finger got firmly pressed against her lips, and she ceased talking. Despite a rising panic that rustled dryly into her ear. With a silvery babbling of her voice she was letting the last guard she had down. That's why Natanis loathed grief and suffering - both were terribly catching, like a plague that feasted upon one's heart, making it dull and withered. One breath, one glance was enough for it to begin festering.

An irksome absence of something, something very important suddenly formed in front of her chest. Nistana slipped away from her embrace. Seeing the curve of her shoulders slumpering, as if a flower trodden, send Tanna's hand clutching round her wrist, as if she was trying to save a drowning soul. Without turning Nistana pressed her hand, bringing back the warmth of many lazy a noon, which they spend spinning stories in each other arms, a dauntless tales of future that did not happen yet or of glazed past that was gone and with its passing became sweeter...

"Olgierd..." the taste of fear twisted round her throat, choking the words before they emerged. Fear of many roots - her own crumbs f doubting dread, her lambkin's rising panic and the stale horror of the wicked sorcerer - all abided in that place, that dreamed yet never woke up.

The name landed upon his shoulder like a tiny cloud, sounds laced in vanilla and orange blooms. Leaden as her fingers were with trepidation, finally they gently landed upon his arm that reached for the saber. Her voice was hardly louder than wings of a butterfly, fighting against the gaunt fingers of hungering frost.

"That is where you had hidden your heart, is it not? In her memories of you." the clenched jaws and the red-rimmed gaze saw much further than the looming shadow of the house with its crooked turret, past her pleading doe-eyes and gnarled shadows. He was walking along the memories, a battlefield of mutilated corpses and fragrant flowers. If she choice was purely hers, Nistana would gather up her skirts and feinted away as quickly as her shiny hoofs allowed, his dreams lured her not.

"You dress the solitude up in gifts, the wonders no one else but you can bring, fulfilling the promises you made to her under the willows. But they mean nothing, if you are not here." windless as it were, the stale water in a cracked fountain worried, carrying a nauseous note of rot and disappointment, the bile of regret. The prison of lady Iris was truly a prison of his heart, a weaver and a dream in one. And a vicious place it was, having been reared on broken hopes long enough. Now it had acquired a taste for certain feelings, sniffed them out like a wolf with a lolling tongue...

"Ah, would you truly deny our gentle lady Iris such a trifle? She wants to see you." the forlorn place fed on horrors, just like the horned beauties fed on mellifluous love and glittering lies. One hunger always recognized another, if one was brave enough to look. Nistana learned to drink and to enjoy woe, tiny drops of it that burned her tender throat like strong spices. Now she was ready to taste and to know, for the sake of her vivacious twin and the lonely ghost of violets. Mayhapse, even for the sake of not-so-wicked sorcerer.

"You have exchanged a sword for a broom once, to chase all the spiders away. Just for her." the landscape around the rippled - the water-lilies rose their heads in the fountain, delicate as pale wrists that played with them once. The sunlight painted the house and its little turret in merry colours, freshly coated the place in hope and lover's hushed promises.

"Olgierd..." The trees, verdant and strong guards of many of his kin, cradled a voice that was wretchedly familiar, unreachable, lulling. The syllables like petals were gently falling upon his closed eyelids.

"Come..." for a moment the man beside her twitched, the touch burned him like a heated iron yet he leaned into it, for fingers that circled around his arm bore the scents of spring and turpentine, fresh and slightly acrid.

Then the illusion slipped and left him with two petite succubi, standing at each side of his, armored in ribbons and good intentions.

"You were so kind as not to let the cat eat us up, so we will not let this place eat you up, sangbonbon!"

@fallesto