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moonselune · 1 month

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Dark!BG3 | My Doll

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

For: Conqueror!Minthara, MotherSuperior!Shadowheart, God!Gale, Ascended!Astarion, Naturist!Halsin, GrandDuke!Wyll

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

CW: Controlling, manipulation, coercion,

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Conqueror Minthara:

The grand chamber was bathed in the soft glow of opulent chandeliers, their light reflecting off the richly adorned walls and luxurious fabrics that draped the room. The scent of incense and exotic perfumes filled the air, mingling with the muted tones of classical music that played faintly in the background. Minthara’s personal quarters had been transformed into a private salon for the evening, a space that had become a shrine to her taste and power.

You stood at the center of this lavish room, surrounded by a flurry of activity as servants and attendants bustled around you. Minthara herself was a striking figure, her presence commanding attention as she watched with an air of anticipation. Her eyes, dark and gleaming with a mix of authority and affection, never left you as you were transformed into her perfect vision of elegance.

The first outfit was a deep crimson gown, its fabric rich and heavy, adorned with intricate patterns of black embroidery. As you stepped into the dress, the weight of the fabric felt like a reminder of Minthara's control.

The gown’s skirt flared dramatically, brushing against the floor as you moved. The bodice was fitted tightly, emphasizing your form, while a high collar added an air of regal sophistication. The color scheme was unmistakably Minthara’s: red and black, the hues of her dominion.

Minthara stepped forward, her gaze sharp as she inspected you from head to toe. She circled around you, her fingers trailing lightly over the fabric, adjusting and smoothing with practiced precision. Her touch was both intimate and commanding, a constant reminder of her ownership.

“No, no,” Minthara said, her voice a smooth purr of discontent. “This won’t do. It’s missing that certain… finesse.”

With a flick of her wrist, she signaled to her attendants, who quickly began to assist you in changing. The crimson gown was removed, and you were draped in the next ensemble: a black dress with a daring slit that exposed more of your skin than the first. The neckline plunged dramatically, and delicate red beading formed intricate patterns across the fabric. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but Minthara’s approving smile made the discomfort bearable.

Once again, Minthara’s scrutiny was intense. She examined you with a critical eye, her expression a blend of approval and dissatisfaction. “Better,” she murmured, “but still not quite right.”

The process repeated itself, each new outfit showcasing a different aspect of Minthara’s aesthetic. You wore a gown with a high-low hemline, the skirt cascading in layers of black tulle and red silk. Another time, you were adorned in a tailored suit that highlighted your form with its sharp, clean lines and dramatic red accents. Each outfit was more elaborate than the last, each adjustment made to ensure you embodied Minthara’s vision perfectly.

Hours passed, the constant changing of clothes becoming a test of endurance. But you remained calm, accepting each new ensemble with grace, knowing that this was part of your role in her world. Minthara’s delight and satisfaction with each iteration made the process easier to endure.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of fittings and adjustments, Minthara declared that she was satisfied. She clapped her hands, summoning the attendants to finalize your look.

They brought out a final accessory: a bejeweled collar, meticulously crafted with red and black stones that formed a delicate pattern around your neck. At the center of the collar was a pendant engraved with Minthara’s initials, a mark of your complete subjugation to her.

As you looked in the mirror, you saw yourself fully transformed into Minthara’s vision. The reflection was a striking image of her colors and style—red and black. The collar around your neck was a permanent reminder of your place, a symbol of your devotion and submission. Your hair was styled to perfection, complementing the overall look and adding to the aura of elegance and obedience that you now embodied.

Minthara stepped behind you, her fingers gently brushing against your shoulders. She leaned in close, her breath warm against your ear.

“There,” she whispered, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “Now you are truly mine, a perfect reflection of my desires and authority. You look magnificent, my little doll.”

You turned to face her, meeting her gaze in the mirror. Her eyes were alight with a mix of pride and possessiveness. With a final, approving nod, Minthara offered you her arm, guiding you gracefully towards the door.

“Come, my dear,” she said, her tone both commanding and affectionate. “We have a gala to attend, and I want everyone to see just how perfectly you are mine.”

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Mother Superior Shadowheart:

In the opulent, dimly lit chamber of the cloister’s grand tailoring room, Shadowheart was immersed in the meticulous task of curating the perfect uniform for you. The room was adorned with luxurious fabrics and ornate furnishings, reflecting the wealth and power of her position.

You stood in the center of the room, surrounded by a sea of garments and accessories that Shadowheart had deemed essential for your transformation. The process was more elaborate than you had anticipated, and her patience seemed to stretch as thin as the fabric she was scrutinizing. With each new outfit, you felt like a doll being dressed and undressed for the amusement of its owner.

Shadowheart’s eyes were sharp and discerning as she examined each piece, her expression a mix of contemplation and exacting standards. She would approach you, draping fabrics over your shoulders and adjusting the fit with a practiced hand. The clothing ranged from dark, elegant robes embroidered with intricate patterns to high-collared tunics and flowing skirts, each adorned with symbols of Shar that spoke to her influence and control.

The first few outfits were a blur of material and adjustment. You tried to remain compliant, but the process was exhausting. The layers of heavy fabric and constant changes began to wear on you, and your patience grew thin. As the hours wore on, you found yourself growing restless and defiant, your attempts to express your discomfort evident in your body language and terse replies.

Shadowheart noticed the shift in your demeanor with a frown. Her patience was equally thin, and she was determined to have you fit the perfect vision she had in mind. With a swift, practiced motion, she summoned her magic, her hands glowing with a dark, malevolent light. The room seemed to shiver as she cast her spell, an incantation that infused the air with an aura of command and control.

You felt the magic’s effect almost immediately. A soothing, yet unyielding calm settled over you, dulling your restlessness and rebellious thoughts. It was as if a weight had been lifted, but it had been replaced by a compelling sense of submission and compliance.

Your previously defiant posture softened, and a serene, pliant expression took its place. The resistance that had marked your movements was replaced by an obedient, almost docile demeanor.

Shadowheart observed this transformation with a satisfied smirk. She approached you, her eyes scanning your now receptive form with a critical yet approving gaze. “

There we go,” she said, her voice laced with both authority and satisfaction. “Much better. Now, let’s see how you fare in these last few garments.”

She continued her meticulous work, dressing you in a series of uniforms designed to reflect both your new role and her unyielding control. The garments were tailored to perfection, each piece accentuating your form and adhering to her strict standards. Shadowheart was a master of her craft, ensuring that every detail was flawless.

Each time you grew slightly restless or attempted to voice an opinion, she would subtly adjust her magic, reinforcing your compliance and soothing any rebellious thoughts. The process became smoother as your resistance faded completely, leaving you a willing participant in her vision.

After several hours of rigorous fittings and adjustments, Shadowheart finally declared herself satisfied. She stepped back, her eyes gleaming with a sense of accomplishment as she surveyed you in the final ensemble—a striking combination of dark, elegant fabrics and intricate embroidery that marked you as a perfect reflection of her influence and authority.

“You look marvelous,” Shadowheart said, her tone carrying a blend of satisfaction and possessiveness. “You are now the embodiment of my will and the symbol of our cause, my love."

You nodded, your movements smooth and compliant, a stark contrast to the defiant spirit you had shown earlier. The transformation was complete, and as you gazed at your reflection, you could see the results of Shadowheart’s meticulous efforts—an image that perfectly represented her authority and your newfound role. Shadowheart approached you, her fingers gently brushing against your cheek.

“You have done well,” she said, her voice softening with an almost tender edge. "Come, let the cloister see us in all our glory."

As you followed her lead, the uniform you wore became a second skin, a symbol of your submission and her dominance. The process had been grueling, but the final result was a testament to Shadowheart’s unwavering control and your complete integration into her world.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

God of Ambition Gale:

In the opulent chamber that served as Gale’s domain within his realm, the ambiance was a blend of divine grandeur and meticulous attention to detail. The walls were adorned with shimmering tapestries depicting scenes of grandeur and ambition, and the air was filled with a faint, otherworldly glow that highlighted the majesty of the space. The large, ornate mirror in the center of the room reflected the elaborate setting, its surface gleaming with enchantments.

You stood in the center of the room, dressed in a simple yet elegant attire chosen for this occasion. Gale was preoccupied with perfecting the emblem that would symbolize your role by his side—a symbol that would embody your essence and his divine vision.

His attention to detail bordered on obsessive as he fussed over every aspect of the emblem, his eyes never leaving you as he examined the designs and elements that would represent you.

“Hold still,” Gale instructed with a tone of authority that brooked no argument. “The emblem must capture your essence perfectly. We cannot afford any mistakes.”

You did as instructed, feeling a mixture of apprehension and patience as Gale maneuvered you into various positions. He adjusted your posture, making minute corrections with an almost artistic precision. His fingers traced delicate patterns in the air, and his gaze was intense, as if he were trying to extract the very soul of your being.

Gale’s attention to detail was meticulous. He moved around you, occasionally stepping back to assess how you appeared from different angles. His eyes flickered with a blend of concentration and creative fervor as he compared the emblem’s design against your form. He muttered to himself, adjusting the insignia’s elements and ensuring they harmonized perfectly with your presence.

At one point, he repositioned you with a gentle but firm touch, guiding you into a new stance.

“No, no,” he murmured, his frustration evident. “Your posture needs to reflect the ambition we’re channeling. Stand taller, and hold your gaze with conviction. We need to capture the essence of your power and my divine influence.”

You complied, striving to embody the posture and poise he desired. The process felt almost like being sculpted, with Gale as both the artist and critic. His scrutiny was intense, and his corrections were precise. He adjusted the fabric of your attire, smoothed out imaginary wrinkles, and reoriented you to align with his vision.

Time seemed to stretch as Gale continued his work, his focus unwavering. He made several adjustments to the emblem, testing different designs and placements until he found the one that resonated with his divine sense of perfection. Each adjustment was accompanied by a thoughtful hum or a quiet exclamation of frustration when something didn’t meet his exacting standards.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Gale stepped back with a satisfied smile. He took in the final result, his eyes gleaming with the pride of a creator who had achieved his vision.

“There,” he said, his voice filled with a mix of triumph and relief. “That is it. The emblem is perfect. It captures your essence and embodies the ambition we both strive for.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror, observing the emblem’s intricate design—a symbol of your role beside Gale, reflecting both his divine nature and your connection to him. The emblem glowed subtly, an ethereal representation of your union with the God of Ambition and your place as his muse.

Gale approached you, his demeanor softening as he gazed at you with an affectionate pride. He reached out, his hand gently cupping your face in a gesture of tender affection.

“Thank you for enduring this process,” he said. “Your patience and poise have made this moment truly perfect.”

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Ascended Astarion:

The lavish chamber was a stark contrast to the anxiety that churned within you. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, and a grand chandelier cast a warm, golden light over the room. Astarion had spared no expense, the luxury surrounding you only amplifying your unease. This was the fourth tailor he had summoned, the others having met a grim fate for their perceived failures.

You stood in the center of the room, feeling like a mannequin as the tailor’s assistants fussed over you, taking measurements, adjusting fabrics, and pinning samples of the latest creation.

Astarion, lounging nearby with a glass of fine wine in hand, watched with a critical eye. His presence was as commanding as ever, his pale skin glowing in the candlelight, his crimson eyes tracking every movement.

The tailor worked in nervous silence, his hands trembling slightly as he presented the latest outfit for Astarion’s approval. It was a finely crafted piece, the fabric shimmering with a subtle, ethereal glow that hinted at the magic woven into its threads. But as soon as the tailor held it up for inspection, Astarion’s expression darkened.

“What is this?” Astarion’s voice was cold, his displeasure evident. He set his wine glass down with a deliberate clink, rising from his seat with a fluid grace that belied the menace in his movements.

The tailor stammered, his fear palpable. “M-my lord, I thought—”

“You thought?” Astarion interrupted, his tone laced with disdain. “You thought you could present such a pedestrian creation and pass it off as worthy of my beloved?”

You flinched at the edge in his voice, knowing what was to come. Your nerves were already frayed from the endless fittings and the constant fussing. You had tried to remain patient, but the compulsion he had placed on you was wearing thin.

Astarion turned to you, his gaze softening for a moment as he noticed your discomfort.

“Ah, my dear, I can see you’re growing restless,” he said, reaching out to gently caress your cheek. His touch was tender, yet he reimposed the compulsion with force. “But we must ensure that everything is perfect. You deserve nothing less.”

You nodded slightly, feeling the magic of his compulsion tighten around you, forcing you to remain still. The anxiety gnawed at you, but there was nothing you could do but comply. Astarion’s attention snapped back to the tailor.

“This will not do,” he declared, his voice cold once more. Before the tailor could react, Astarion moved with blinding speed, his hand flashing out to grasp the man’s throat.

The tailor gasped, his eyes wide with terror as Astarion lifted him off the ground with ease.

“I will not tolerate mediocrity,” Astarion hissed, his fangs gleaming in the dim light. With a swift, effortless motion, he snapped the tailor’s neck, letting the lifeless body drop to the floor.

You swallowed hard, the sight of yet another death turning your stomach. This was the fourth tailor he had killed, all in his relentless pursuit of perfection for you. You felt a mix of horror and resignation, knowing that this was the reality you lived in, a reality shaped by Astarion’s obsession with you.

Astarion turned to one of his servants, who had been standing silently by the door, awaiting orders.

“Bring in the next one,” he commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. The servant bowed and hurried out of the room, leaving you alone with Astarion and the body of the tailor. You glanced at Astarion, who was already smoothing his hair back into place, his demeanor calm once more.

He noticed your gaze and smiled, though there was a hint of something darker in his eyes.

“Don’t worry, darling,” he said, his tone almost soothing. “We’ll find the right one soon. I promise.”

You forced a small smile, knowing that there was no other choice. Astarion’s devotion to you was absolute, but it came at a cost—a cost you were forced to bear as he sought to mold you into his vision of perfection.

As the door opened again, and the next tailor was ushered in, you braced yourself for another round of fittings, knowing that you would remain still and compliant, just as Astarion wished.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Naturist Halsin:

The sun had barely risen when you found yourself in the grove, surrounded by the soft chirping of birds and the gentle rustle of leaves. The scent of fresh earth filled your senses as you knelt beside a wounded fawn, carefully tending to its injuries. The little creature’s eyes reflected a trust that warmed your heart, even as the dull ache from your own wounds reminded you of the previous day’s events.

Halsin had insisted you rest, but staying cooped up inside felt suffocating. You needed this—needed the quiet, the peace, the distraction of caring for the injured animals that had always been your solace.

As you gently applied a salve to the fawn’s leg, a shadow fell over you. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air grew heavier with Halsin’s presence, his towering form casting a long shadow over you and the garden.

“What are you doing out here?” His voice was low, a mixture of concern and frustration, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

You continued your work, trying to ignore the tension that had suddenly filled the space between you.

“I’m just helping,” you replied, keeping your voice steady. “The animals need me.”

“They can wait,” Halsin said, his tone firm. He stepped closer, and you could feel his gaze boring into you. “You’re supposed to be resting. You were hurt.”

You clenched your jaw, frustration bubbling up inside you. “I’m fine, Halsin. I don’t need to be coddled like a child.”

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with a gentleness that belied the strength behind it. He pulled you to your feet, towering over you as he looked down with a mix of concern and stern authority.

“You’re not invincible,” he said, his voice softer now, but no less commanding. “You need to take care of yourself.”

“I am taking care of myself,” you argued, trying to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened just enough to keep you from moving.

Halsin’s eyes flashed with an intensity, and you knew you were treading dangerous ground. He had always been protective, but since the incident, that protectiveness had grown into something else—something more controlling, more suffocating. He was treating you like a porcelain doll, terrified that you would shatter at the slightest bump.

“You’re acting like a child,” he said, his voice laced with frustration. “You’re hurt, and you’re out here risking further injury because you refuse to listen.”

“I’m not a child, Halsin,” you shot back, your own temper flaring. “I can take care of myself, and I don’t need you hovering over me every second.”

He sighed, the sound heavy with exasperation, and released your wrist. For a moment, you thought he might relent, but then he cupped your face in his large hands, forcing you to look up at him. His expression was stern, and the intensity in his eyes made your heart skip a beat.

“You will rest,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “And you will do as I say. I won’t lose you because you’re too stubborn to take care of yourself.”

The authority in his tone was undeniable, and you felt a surge of defiance rise within you. But just as quickly, it was smothered by the reality of your situation. Halsin wasn’t someone you could easily defy. He was strong, powerful, and his protectiveness—however suffocating—came from a place of genuine care. You knew that resisting him would only lead to him tightening his control over you further. With a reluctant sigh, you nodded, your shoulders sagging in resignation.

“Fine,” you muttered, the fight draining out of you. “I’ll rest.”

Halsin’s expression softened, and he pulled you into a gentle embrace.

“Thank you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice filled with relief. “I just want to keep you safe.”

You stood there, trapped in his embrace, feeling a mixture of emotions—frustration, resignation, and a flicker of something you couldn’t quite name. It was easier to give in, to let him protect you, even if it meant surrendering a little more of your freedom. The alternative was a struggle you weren’t sure you could win.

As he held you close, you wondered how much of yourself you would lose in the process of keeping the peace.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Grand Duke Wyll:

The grand chamber was bathed in soft, golden light as the sun filtered through the tall windows, casting a warm glow over the ornate furnishings and rich tapestries. The scent of oil paint and fresh flowers hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of the perfume you wore. In the center of the room, you sat perched on a velvet chaise, your posture rigid, as the painter worked diligently at his easel, his brush gliding across the canvas with practiced precision.

Wyll stood beside you, his gaze critical as he observed the progress of the portrait. His sharp eyes missed nothing, and you could feel his presence like a weight on your shoulders, even though he had yet to say a word. The painter, a nervous-looking man with a thin mustache and trembling hands, kept glancing at Wyll, clearly anxious under the scrutiny of the Grand Duke.

“Hmm,” Wyll finally murmured, stepping closer to you. His fingers brushed your cheek lightly before he tilted your chin slightly upwards, adjusting the angle of your head. “You’re looking a bit too stern, my dear. Try softening your expression.”

You obliged, relaxing the tension in your face and offering a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. You knew that Wyll was enjoying this—reveling in the control he had over every detail of the portrait, and by extension, over you. It wasn’t the first time he had treated you like a doll, something to be posed and positioned just as he liked. But today, there was a particular gleam in his eye, a playful edge to his actions that made it clear he was having fun with it.

“No, no, this won’t do,” he muttered, stopping to adjust the drape of the fabric around your shoulders.

The gown you wore was exquisite, made of the finest silk and embroidered with delicate patterns of gold thread. But it wasn’t quite right for the image he wanted to create.

“Perhaps something more regal,” he mused aloud, turning to the servants who stood waiting in the corner. “Bring out the crimson velvet. I want something that matches their hair, something that will make them stand out even more.”

The painter hesitated, his brush still in mid-air as he watched the scene unfold. You caught his eye, offering him a reassuring smile, even as you resigned yourself to another round of adjustments. You could see the unease in his expression, the way he bit his lip as he glanced between you and Wyll, but he remained silent. No one dared to contradict the Grand Duke, especially not when he was in one of these moods.

The servants quickly brought out a new gown, a rich crimson velvet with intricate gold embroidery. Wyll personally helped you out of the first gown, his touch lingering on your skin as he peeled away the fabric. He took his time, his movements slow and deliberate, as though savoring the moment. Once you were dressed in the new gown, he stepped back to admire his handiwork, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Much better,” he declared, his tone laced with approval. “Now, let’s try this again.”

You returned to your position on the chaise, feeling the heavy weight of the velvet gown settle around you. The painter began anew, his brush moving quickly to capture the new look. Wyll, however, wasn’t done. He continued to fuss over every detail—the angle of your head, the position of your hands, the way the light caught your hair. Each time he made an adjustment, you complied, holding your pose as still as you could, though the strain was beginning to wear on you.

But you could see the joy in Wyll’s eyes, the way he seemed to relish in this exercise of power and control. There was a playfulness to it, a lightheartedness that you hadn’t seen in him for some time. So, despite the growing discomfort, you decided to indulge him. Just this once, you would let him have his fun.

Finally, after what felt like hours of repositioning and adjustments, Wyll seemed satisfied. He stepped back, folding his arms across his chest as he studied the portrait taking shape on the canvas. The painter’s hand was steady now, the initial nervousness replaced by a focused determination to get everything just right.

“Perfect,” Wyll murmured, his voice soft with admiration. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re perfect, my love.”

You smiled up at him, though your muscles ached from holding the pose for so long.

“As long as you’re happy,” you replied, your voice tinged with a forced mix of amusement and affection. He chuckled, a warm, rich sound that filled the room.

“More than happy,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve made this portrait something truly special.”

As the painter continued his work, Wyll remained by your side, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. You knew that this was more than just a portrait to him—it was a reflection of his power, his control, and the deep bond between you. And for today, you were content to let him have that.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

So sorry to the nonnie that asked for this one, your ask got eaten by my inbox :((

But it is here now !!! Hope you guys enjoyed it - Seluney xox

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