Toussaint Twins 🐏🐏

Draw the muse with…

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apple strudel - who was your muse's first crush? do they still have feelings for that person?

baklava - does your muse believe in true love? soulmates?

cannoli - how does your muse express love? how do they act when in love that differs from how they act around others normally?

chouquette - does your muse believe they deserve to be loved? why or why not?

croissant - what is your muse's ideal date?

eclair - do they want to one day be married?

inipit - what qualities do they seek in a partner? describe physical qualities and personality traits?

lattice pie - what kinds of gifts do they like to give to/receive from their partner?

macaron - what do they do after having a fight with their partner?

makmur - what role does forgiveness play?

mille-feuille - do they believe friends can become lovers? if so, when does love transcend from platonic to romantic? if not, why?

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."

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,"

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.

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.

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.

"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."

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?"

"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...