#Tan Knot Belt | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

chronically-ghosted · 10 months

Note

I always thought the scene from Deadpool was hot where he and Vanessa are having hot sex mixed with food on Thanksgiving.

Maybe that with Joel or Javier P?

Ahhh, anon. this has been stewing in my brain since you sent it. And I know you said thanksgiving, but the line in this happened in, like, a single scene after the thanksgiving one! please forgive my timing!

kiss me ‘till I’m warm

rating: T

Pairing: jaiver peña x f!reader

word count: 1.6K

summary: a very drunk javi has something he wants to share with you.

warnings/tags: mentions of alcohol, drunkenness, one stupid joke, the absurdity of someone drunk off their ass trying to flirt, light kissing on body parts, references to smut, but ultimately this is fluffy as hell

a/n: wishing all of you a great start to your week as december plods along! shout out to the incredible @saradika for the divider!

🤍Masterlist

Javier Peña is a giggly drunk.

Not all the time, mind you, not always. Depends on the liquor, his mood, and what he’s had to eat that day – if anything at all. But given the right circumstances and the stars align, once in a blue moon, Javier blushes and giggles like a fourteen year old with a first crush.

Now, that might come as a surprise to anyone who has seen him lurking around the hallways of the American Embassy, scowling and smelling of stale cigarettes. The women he used to visit would swear up and down that Javier Peña was not a giggly drunk, having seen him knock back a drink or two, or three, or five. Certainly, all the narcos he’d rounded up and captured would be rather offended to hear that about the man who sent them to prison. It would shock them all to hear that, in the end, it was eggnog. Eggnog, the creamy, thick holiday drink that in terms of calories and sugar blew every other frappuccino out of the water – it was eggnog that turned Javier’s world upside down. From frown-set smokestack, to someone who wanders into his girlfriend’s bedroom after her office party and nearly blows his knee out on the bed frame.

“Javier, honey, are you okay?” You scramble towards where he tripped, expecting either blood or for him to be knocked on conscious. But instead, you just see fluff. White fluff. White fluff that proceeds red velvet, more fluff, and then thick dark hair.

Javier stands up, grinning from ear to ear. He stretches his arms wide, his white undershirt thin on his chest. He arches further, revealing a dusting of hair below the hem of his shirt that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. Well, when his pants are buttoned.

“Tada!” he beams. You roll your eyes and he giggles, following you on his hands and knees as you crawl back to your spot by the pillows. You had come in here to get some lotion for your hands and despite your insistence that he does not leave the couch, he stumbled in after you.

“Pero, mi amor,” he pouts when he sits on his knees behind you, “te fuiste.”

“You poor thing,” you frown at him over your shoulder as you rub the lotion into your hands, then your knees. His eyes bob between your tits through your sleep shirt and your circular motions over your skin. You narrow your eyes at him when his mouth goes slack and his eyes dark. “Oh, absolutely not, Javier. You are drunk as a skunk and about two minutes away from passing out.”

He rolls his eyes and leans forward, wobbling slightly as he crawls towards you. “Please?”

“No.”

“¿Por favor?”

“No!”

You frown, suspicious, when he chuckles as he loosely grabs you by the ankles, thumbs pressed in below the knot of bone. His shirt is loose enough you can see down the collar to his tanned chest. It’s not like the idea isn’t enticing, but you’d only seen him this drunk once before after the Christmas party at Steve and Connie’s two years ago. He made the same proposition back then and when he went to lie down on the floor to take his pants off, you looked over the bed to find him passed out, spread eagle and only his belt undone.

“Bien, bien,” he waves his hand in the air, the cotton ball of his Santa hat falling over his eyes, “pero tengo un chiste para ti.”

Another sign that Javier had reached the point of no return: he spoke much more in Spanish and the words blurred together, as if sticking on top of each other.

You eye him with faux annoyance when he uses your legs to pull himself in between your ankles. He kisses the tops of your knees, his palms warm beneath the weight of your calf muscles. Giddy and care-free until he wakes up with a pounding headache, drunk Javier is something you always cherished, because it is one of the few times he can be care-free. Relaxed. You are the only person he lets see him like this and you would protect that vulnerability with everything in your heart.

“Javier.” He hums, his teeth against your knee and dropping lower. His eyes are closed and his breathing’s changed. “I think you had something you wanted to tell me.”

He blinks, open mouth freezing on the bone of your calf. “Right. Yeah. Of course, mi vida.”

That heady, blurred look of desire on his face melts away almost as fast as it came on. He presses the arch of his nose against your other knee, giggling, as he readjusts his feet under him.

“Okay, okay,” he sniffs, sits up, and looks at you with bleary, water-y brown eyes. “Steve told it to me, so if you don’t think it’s funny, it’s his fault.”

You nod and then he taps the inside of your thigh with two fingers.

“If your left leg is Thanksgiving y tu pierna derecha es Navidad,” he outright gropes your other thigh, his slur worsening, mouth full of damp, gummy cotton balls. “Can I visit you entre días festivos?

Javier Peña raises a single eyebrow at you, as if he had been the first one to discover pick up lines, perfected the art of flirting, and discovered he had the ritz to seduce any woman in the world all in one night. His hands tighten in the meat of your inner thighs as he pushes them apart, his chest pressing forward, down, into you. With surprising dexterity and stability, he crawls between your open legs, hands firm as they plant on either side of your head. He’s still wearing that infuriatingly smug grin, his hips rolling forward until you feel the scrape of the teeth of his jeans on your thigh.

“What do you say, baby?” his teeth edge the rim of your ear, “¿p-p-puedo –,”

He full-on snorts in your ear, suddenly overcome with giggles and you jerk away. “Javi!”

You pinch his waist and he flops over on to the other side of the bed, his face turning red as he howls with laughter. His Santa hat pushed up over his forehead, the back of his hair sticking up from where he’s nestled against the pillows, Javier clutches his sides as he rolls back and forth.

You sit up, smiling, and watch the man you love enjoy himself for once. Sure, he could (and did, often) get lost in sex, but this is different. Your mother always said there was something healing about laughter, about feeling safe enough to close your eyes around another person, and Javier had spent far too long with his eyes wide open.

Tears are streaming down his cheeks by the time you pluck the Santa hat off his head and kiss his forehead. Giggles trickling down, he curls onto his side, his bare feet seemingly so large on your covers. You stroke his cheek, your thumb brushing the corner of his mustache, and the last giggle fades to a hum. He closes his eyes, cheeks pink, his head turning ever so slightly towards your touch.

“Do you need some water, baby?”

“Mhm hmm.”

Kissing him on his nose, you slide off the bed and go towards the kitchen. After filling up a glass from the filter, you turn off the lights, check the front door, and close the blinds. But when you come back to your bedroom, the golden light of your bedside lamp the only glow left in the entire apartment, you know instantly he’s already asleep. Javier lies still curled up on his side, his wide shoulders curled in, the white expanse of his t-shirt rising and falling with each breath.

You didn’t know him very well the first time you slept together, but the night he stayed over, all the way until the morning light broke through your shutters, you knew it had been an extraordinary step for him.

Now he sleeps in your bed, unguarded and unburdened, as much as he can.

You put the glass of water on his side of the bed and gently ease him onto his back. His arm slithers over his torso as his shoulder collides with the mattress, his matted hair where the hat sat in a line stiff against his forehead.

In his more morose moments, Javier announced he was getting old. His back hurt, his eyesight was shit, and he swears he spots more and more gray hairs in the mirror every day.

But, when he’s like this, when he’s Javi not Javier, when he’s just yours and no one else’s, he is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

A hand pressed to his warm chest, you lean forward and kiss his cheek.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” you whisper against his skin. He stirs, but doesn’t open his eyes.

Sliding your earrings out of their posts and into the little dish beside your bed, you glance at him one more time before turning off the light. The room is dark, warm, and in the emptiness you can hear him breathing.

The shape of him is more familiar to you than your own, able to trace his profile with nothing but memory, so without searching, as though reaching for a piece of yourself, you intertwine your hand with his.

His fingers twitch and the sound of his breathing slows.

In the absence of every other sense, you are overwhelmed by the weight of his palm in yours, the soothing rock of the rise and fall of his chest, your ears tuned to his every sigh, every noise –

In the absence of everything else, you listen to him inhale –

“Merry Christmas, baby.”

– and exhale.

#merry thanksgiving nonsense 2023 #javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena fluff #javi peña #javier pena #javier pena fanfiction

175 notes · View notes

tangerinebathrobe · 3 months

Text

I'm finally done holy shit. 2.6k words please enjoy

Here's your honorary proof:

anyyyyway soapshippers enjoy. win for the community I hope

A minute. A minute consists of sixty seconds. However you break that down – two lots of thirty seconds, four of fifteen, six of ten, sixty of one, every minute that passed was sixty seconds. In sixty seconds, Tyler could do a lot.

In sixty seconds, Tyler could do something like pour lye into his mixture for soap, or onto someone’s hand following a very personal kiss. He could hit somebody so hard their orbital shattered, or their eardrum burst. He could break somebody’s nose. He could give an order that set fire to a store, or he could drag somebody into the only disabled bathroom stall in a nearby truck stop and lock the door behind him, simultaneously emptying the contents of a small gym bag into the sink. He had found the place a few weeks ago, he said. He’d patched another guy up in here first, maybe himself, evident by the leftover bandages and blood.

In that disabled bathroom stall, with the door locked behind us, Tyler and I looked an unlikely duo. At thirty looking all of fifteen, still scrawny and unbalanced like a boy going through his parent’s break-up, I paled in comparison to him. He had a thin tan line going up over his hip, like a thong, and a body like something from a Calvin Klein ad beneath the loose shirt and khaki pants. It was an uncomfortable reminder of our first chance meeting, him perched in the hand of God as naked as a baby.

I sat on the provided stool and tried very carefully not to pull the daunting red cord hanging from the ceiling.

“Take your shirt off,” Tyler commands.

Okay, I say. Tyler takes a tour of my visible injuries. His gaze lingers on the bone-deep scraze over my shoulder, and the two-finger width cut on my stomach from the concrete floor. In all reality, that would need stitches. Allowing Tyler and a needle anywhere near my abdomen seemed like a bad idea, and so I resigned it to being held together by two pieces of medical tape.

His eyes trace the outline of the bruise map, and he chews over his lip, tonguing the split for all it was worth like a trashy hooker, or like Marla Singer–

Most days after Fight Club, work was bearable. Corporate decomposition in corporate wounds was sped up by corporate maggots that liked the sweet taste of your newly broken rib.

After waking up and spending an hour looking at the flowering bruises spanning from your hips to your chest, you’d contemplate the migrated bone in your knuckle.

Then, you’d put on your only clean shirt and a tie in a half-baked half-windsor knot, only as tight as your broken fingers could pull it. Maybe you’d even wear a belt, if those same fingers could handle fumbling with the clasp.

Lastly, you’d slip your feet into shoes that folded at the back when you put them on, and you’d leave your briefcase at home because there were always pencils at the office, and the reports were always re-printable. They were only half-completed anyway.

However, most nights after Fight Club, you’d find yourself falling as hard as you could into bed with blood still dripping from your mouth.

Choking down your teeth, you’d brew enough water for a packet of Cup-a-Soup and mix it together and drink it as fast as you could to get rid of the taste. Then you’d lay down in bed like a patient on a crash cart and imagine the wires strapped to your body to soothe your throbbing head into oblivion.

Either that, or you sucked it up and sat for a half hour idle outside the bathroom while the designated rookie-of-the-night dug pieces of broken nails and bits of bone out of wounds ready to be wiped with peroxide and sent to Examination Room 1.

If you needed the ER, you’d go alone. If you passed out on the street, too bad – you should have gone sooner. Of course, going two, three nights in a row negated whatever fixing could be done.

Thus provides a causal explanation for why a white button-up was apparently the right choice to wear when Tyler and I went again tonight.

“–Cool, thanks.” Tyler says over his shoulder, watching me undress in the mirror while he himself contemplates the idea. The buttons are harder to convince the lower my fingers get, especially with the distraction of Tyler similarly slipping off his shirt. They seem as captivated as I am.

Once the battle is finally won (though, not the battle of ego, as that would have required all ten fingers in place and functioning, and Tyler not to have stripped right down to his birthday suit), Tyler corners me once again.

“You’ve been bleeding through that shit all day, did you know that?” Tyler says matter-of-factly. “Yeah. I tossed you a clean one in the bag, and it's in the sink, but you need that fucking thing bandaged up, ‘kay?”

Yes, Tyler, I reply. “Cool,” he says. He grins, running his tongue across his teeth. “It does need to be cleaned first, though.”

He lines up the items in the sink. A bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a small bottle of lye powder, a roll of bandages, a clean outfit, and a small box kit with medical thread and needles. They sit lined up like The Beatles.

So? Wait, Tyler. You’re not using hydrogen peroxide on it.

Tyler stares at me expectantly.

Absolutely not. I’m not letting you do that.

“I think,” Tyler says patiently, “You need to consider the idea that getting better is going to hurt a little.”

Tyler, if you open that bottle of peroxide, I’m pulling this goddamn cord.

“By all means, go ahead. But you’ll have to walk to the ER alone once you finally decide it’s bad enough to warrant treatment, and God save you if you collapse on the way there. Then again, God doesn’t really like you. I do. I’ll do it right now. You won’t even feel it.”

Yes I fucking will! It’s hydrogen peroxide!

“Okay, fine. Iodine then.” He says with a shrug. He rifles around in the sink, producing another small bottle. He approaches me like a rescue worker walks towards a stray cat. He gets on his knees in front of me, bottle of iodine and a piece of toilet paper in hand.

The iodine stings a little. Not as badly as hydrogen peroxide would’ve, but it still elicits a hiss every now and then. Tyler is digging his hand into the two-finger cut harder than necessary, but if I whine, he digs them in harder. “You good?” asks Tyler. Yes, I reply, strained. “Cool,” he says. “I’m almost done.”

While he cleans each individual cut of the scraze, Tyler talks to me. I’m not even listening to half of it, just chiming in with the occasional

Yes, Tyler. Thanks, Tyler. Wow, Tyler. That’s So Great.

And it slowly sets in that I am so tired. Tyler also seems to realize this. He stands up to get the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. I scramble to wrap my hands tightly around the cord, like a baby desperate for release from the womb.

Tyler, if you bring that bottle anywhere near my goddamn wounds, I will yank this cord down. I’m not messing with you.

“Oh, I know,” he says. “That’s why I cut it earlier.”

I look up. The cord indeed is no longer attached to its mysterious hole in the ceiling, instead tied to one of the railing supports. It slides down uselessly with a single yank. Tyler advances with the bottle. Tyler, I warn. Tyler!

“They need to be clean before I bandage them, do you understand?” Tyler says, far too easily grappling my hands and winding them up in the cut cord. A devilish grin spread over his face. I shake my head frantically. Tyler leans down over me with his newly retrieved bottle of hydrogen peroxide. “This is going to get all the dirt and shit out. All the nasty shit you don’t want in your body.”

Yeah, and all the healthy tissue too.

He uncaps the bottle and crouches as I lay helplessly, shirtless and bound with my arms above my head. “It’s going to sting a little, ‘kay? Cool.”

Tyler tips the bottle over the two-finger cut.

The feeling of the peroxide burns worse than lye. I know this, because I know that the chemical compounds are different.

H2O2. Two hydrogen atoms, two oxygen atoms – Hydrogen peroxide is incredibly dangerous to wounds. It doesn’t just eat the dead tissue and bacteria, but everything alive, too. That bubbling you see when somebody pours it over their scraped knee? It bubbles when it comes into contact with catalase, an enzyme that the body releases when tissue is damaged. Those little bubbles are oxygen escaping cells on their way to the heart.

NaOH. One sodium atom, one oxygen atom, one hydrogen atom – Lye is used in alkaline cleansers for very, very rich people to rub on their faces, fancy brands like Albolene and Roche-Posay. It’s supposed to be good for you, but in reality it eats your skin alive. It digs into every crevice of available dermal tissue. It eats through subcutaneously, and it really does open up your pores.

Every muscle in my stomach spasms and jolts. My mind is wandering to work.

My boss, Richard Chesler (Regional Manager, Compliance & Liability Division, 39210 North Pennfield Blvd, reachable at (288) 555-0138 or simply by walking into his office – because that office is open at any time, to any of his employees!) had once stapled his hand. They had solved this issue by dabbing a tissue dipped in hydrogen peroxide onto it, and he had been in so much pain he’d almost pissed himself.

I’m sure I have already pissed myself, as Tyler pours a significant helping of peroxide onto my shoulder. It dribbles down my chest in burning streams and catches every tiny wound it can find. I try not to think about how stupid I must look with my hands bound above my head and my pleasantly fitting work pants soaked through with piss. I try not to think of agony –

Ag · o · ny

noun

agony (noun) · agonies (plural noun)

extreme physical or mental suffering:

“He writhed about in agony.”

–Or the fact that Tyler stands triumphantly above me. He resets his fingers one by one, correcting all the migrated knuckles or errant phalanges. Then he perches on the stool and sets about cleaning a scrape on his calf with a small bottle of iodine. I kick my feet and scream as loud as I can. He pays no mind. He lights a cigarette.

Imagine your pain as a white ball of healing light. That’s right, your pain, the pain itself, is a white ball of healing light. Follow it to the door in your heart. Go to your cave, and find your power animal.

I screw my eyes shut. Go to your cave. That’s right, go to your cave. The floor is ice. The penguin is sitting there plainly.

Slide, it utters. Slide.

“Man, are you even listening to me?” Tyler’s voice cuts in and so does the scalding pain of the peroxide. “Don’t tell me you’re doing that stupid pseudo-therapy bullshit again. This is like your hand. You’ve gotta feel it, man!”

You don’t know what it’s like, Tyler! You don’t know how bad this hurts!

Tyler turns around to reveal white, blistered wounds on his back. Once again, he has beaten me to the punch. “Five more minutes, man. Then I’ll bandage you up.” Five more minutes, he tells me, and I tell myself, but I know it’s a lie. Five more minutes won’t change a thing. Slide, I utter.

I feel like Richard Chesler (Regional Manager, Compliance & Liability Division, 39210 North Pennfield Blvd, reachable at (288) 555-0138 or simply by walking into his office – because that office is open at any time, to any of his employees!) with his hand firmly in somebody untrained’s grasp. How did the hydrogen peroxide feel in his stapler wound? How many people in that office heard him screaming and came running?

I’m screaming, but no one hears. No one cares. Tyler certainly doesn’t. Five more minutes. Count back from sixty, five times. Three-hundred seconds.

Five minutes. Five minutes consists of three-hundred seconds. However you break that down - two lots of one-hundred-fifty seconds, four of seventy-five, six of fifty, three-hundred of one, every five minutes that passed were three-hundred seconds. In three-hundred seconds, Tyler could do a lot.

In three-hundred seconds, Tyler could do something like pour lye onto the sizzling peroxide, or onto the bubbling scrapes. He could kick somebody so hard their already broken rib snapped a little further back, or a little further forward. He could break somebody’s finger. He could yell an order to stop crying so damn hard, or he could finally wet a scrap of bandages and start wiping the hydrogen peroxide and lye mixture out of somebody’s wounds.

In the next sixty, he could throw somebody the clean change of clothes from the side of the sink. He could cut their hands loose and he could take his cigarette outside the bathroom. He could sit on the sidewalk and smoke.

I get up. Stare into the mirror. Who is this? This imposter with bloodshot eyes, peeling scabs and a five o’clock shadow that screams neglect? I splash water on my face, rinsing away the bubbles of dead cells clinging to my skin. Parts of my genetic information wash away down the drain. Dead parts of my genetic information, but parts nonetheless.

Clean clothes feel like dressing a corpse. Of course, it’s a temporary fix, like a band-aid on a bullet wound, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m moving like autopilot. Maybe I can kick back in my chair and let autopilot do its job. Reach the cruising altitude of 42,000 feet. Wait for the air hostesses to bring me a neatly packed microwave meal that doesn’t taste like anything, kicking just short of inedibly bland.

The air hostesses seem to be doing a good job, because within the next ten minutes, I’m bandaged up and clothed. Clean, but reeking of piss and sweat. Whoever cleans this bathroom will find a pair of urine-soaked pants and boxers in the garbage. If they look underneath that, they will also find a bloodstained shirt belonging to an average corporate everyman. If they even found the pants, that is.

Tyler is not sitting outside on the curb when I walk out in a pair of khakis and a nobody-knows-what-show graphic tee. Looking for Tyler isn’t a way to pass the time. The city’s a blur of gray and monotony. In the distance, people are moving like automatons, each lost in their own personal hell. I wonder if they feel it too. I wonder how they would feel if they had hydrogen peroxide poured onto their softest, weakest parts. I wonder how they would deal with their stomach spasming and cramping as they walk home. I wonder how they would feel losing everything, down to the last drop of dignity.

Losing everything brings you closer to yourself, I suppose. It hasn’t helped me yet, but it brought me closer to Tyler.

Speaking of, Tyler is nowhere to be found. At work, I’m just another cog in the machine, pushing paper and pretending it matters. At work, Tyler is a savior. He saved me from mediocrity. He also saved me from infection.

I pass a car with a book lying in the passenger seat. Something by Friedrich Nietzsche.

I remember from Beyond Good and Evil: “He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster.” Too late, Nietzsche. I’m already there. I wonder if Tyler is, too. Or, I wonder if he feels like one.

The walk back to Paper Street is long. Tyler will be nowhere to be found.

(thanks so much to @soapycatsbath for proofing this about two million times because I cannot shut the actual fuck up. also @jacksprostate for the ability to write the narrator somewhat convincingly and @paperstreetlocal for their stupid fucking instagram stories I love you all and have a good morning. sorry for the yapping.)

#fight club #fight club art #artwork #fight club book #tyler durden #writing #narrator fight club #fanfic #fight club writing #my shitty writing #on writing #writers on tumblr #creative writing

38 notes · View notes

chic-a-gigot · 8 months

Text

La Mode nationale, no. 5, 2 février 1907, Paris. Toilette de visite pour jeune femme. Toilette de visite pour jeune femme ou jeune fille. Bibliothèque nationale de France

Toilette de visite pour jeune femme; jupe de velours souple havane, à plis piqués, sur une petite longueur. Boléro drapé en guipure bise, fermé par une grosse rose en mousseline de soie havane; haute ceinture drapée en panne turquoise, dépassant de panne au col et bracelet au bord du bouffant. Plastron tout en dentelle froncée (voir les dos).

Visiting ensemble for young women; soft tan velvet skirt, with stitched pleats, over a short length. Bolero draped in beige guipure, closed with a large rose in tan silk chiffon; high draped belt in turquoise purlin, protruding from the purlin at the collar and bracelet at the edge of the bouffant. All gathered lace bib (see backs).

Matériaux: 4m,50 de velours en 1m,10; 5 mètres de guipure en laize 1m,25 de panne.

Chapeau de feutre blanc doublé de velours havane; cercle de tulle havane et de satin autour de la calotte. Plumes havane défrisées.

White felt hat lined with tan velvet; circle of tan tulle and satin around the crown. Straightened tan feathers.

—

Toilette de visite pour jeune femme ou jeune fille; drap lavande; jupe corselet ourlée d'un biais piqué; boléro arrondi et découpé sur une chemisette de guipure crème ou lavande. Ce boléro est tout rayé de chevrons de piqûres. Le col est en guipure et les petits revers en panne lavande, de même que la ceinture, le retroussis des poignets; le nœud du corsage est de même nuance. Bande dentelée et piquée sur le bouffant de la manche; poignet assorti.

Visiting ensemble for young women or girls; lavender sheet; corselet skirt hemmed with a pique bias; rounded and cut bolero on a cream or lavender guipure shirt. This bolero is all striped with chevrons of stitching. The collar is guipure and the small lapels are lavender, as are the belt and the turn-up of the cuffs; the bodice knot is the same shade. Serrated and stitched band on the sleeve bouffant; matching wrist.

Matériaux: 7m,50 de drap; 1 mètres de panne.

Chapeau de feutre lavande, orné de velours mousseline et de plumes défrisées, dans la même gamme.

Lavender felt hat, decorated with muslin velvet and relaxed feathers, in the same range.

#La Mode nationale #20th century #1900s #1907 #on this day #February 2 #periodical #fashion #fashion plate #description #bibliothèque nationale de france #dress #gigot

72 notes · View notes

azsazz · 2 years

Text

Structure of the Gods

Modern!Cassian x Reader

Summary: Figure drawing class is normally not something to write home about. But today, the nude model just happens to be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen...and your best friend Feyre knows him.

Warnings: Nudity, sexual themes.

Word Count: 2,382

Notes: Here’s the Cass I promised this weekend. The trifecta is complete! 💙

_________________________________________

“(Y/N)!”

The breath whooshes out of your body for two reasons. One, because you’d stopped so abruptly in the doorway to the drawing room that your best friend, Feyre, had slammed into your back.

And two, because of the fucking God standing before you.

He’s clothed in a robe that you’ve become accustomed to the models wearing for your drawing; the thin, gray cotton stretching over the expanse of his broad shoulders. He’s so tall that it nearly shows his ass – cut short like he’d ordered the incorrect size – and you think that if he turns around you might be able to see the tip of his–

Feyre shoves you forward. You stumble into the room, nearly tripping over your feet because you can’t seem to look away from the hulking figure who’s turning his head at your friend's hiss of your name.

“Cassian?” Feyre’s scold dies on her lips, her tone perking up at the sight of him.

You remember him, of course you do. He’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of and more. Unruly brunet hair that’s been thrown haphazardly into a knot at the back of his head. You wonder if he’s just that effortless that his hair turned out to be that perfect or if it had taken years of practice. Loose strands frame his strong jaw and he tucks a lock behind his ear as he recognizes Feyre, face splitting into a wild grin that makes your knees weak and your heart trip.

“Fey,” he exclaims excitedly, bounding closer. You swallow harshly, heart stuttering at his beauty. The nearer he gets the taller he becomes, towering over the both of you. He doesn’t hesitate to pull your friend into a bear hug, and when he straightens you have to crane your neck back so far it almost hurts. “What are you doing here?”

You clutch your sketchbook tighter to your chest, drinking in the tree of a man before you.

Cassian.

From the front, the robe hardly closes over his tanned chest, large pectorals peeking out from the cloth. You can make out the curve of his body, the slopes leading down to his tight waist where the belt is tied in a lazy knot, like he’s not worried that his bulky muscles will snap it right in half to expose him.

“I’m in this class,” she laughs easily, but there’s a pink tinge to her cheeks, “Although I didn’t know you were going to be a part of it.”

Cassian shrugs easily, winking, “Nothing you haven’t seen before, little one.”

You have to choke back the gasp that crawls its way up your throat, eyes flying wide as you stare at Feyre, who’s shaking her head quickly, stumbling over her response.

Her glance flickers to you and you catch the realization in her eyes. She tucks her arm with yours and tugs you closer as she changes the subject.

“Cassian, this is (Y/N). I think you’ve met before. At Rhys’ last party?”

And those breath-taking hazel eyes slide to you, examining you slowly. It makes your face heat and your grip on your book tightens, palms sweaty.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, a sparkle in those earthy eyes, “I’d never forget a pretty face like that.”

Your cheeks grow hot with an embarrassed blush but you don’t have time to respond, nearly jumping under his heavy gaze when your professor calls for everyone’s attention.

“That’s me,” Cassian grins, flashing perfect teeth, “See you later.”

You release a breath you didn’t know you were holding as you and Feyre scramble to your seats, putting your bag and books down and making your way to get the large drawing pads you keep stowed in the room so you don’t have to lug them around campus three times a week.

“You know him?” you ask, incredulously, passing her her drawing pad and reaching for your own.

Feyre smirks, nudging your shoulder, “Yeah, he’s one of Rhys’ friends. Interested?”

You glance over your shoulder to where he’s speaking with your professor. He’s nearly an entire head taller than the man running the class, explaining how the time will be split – one minute warm ups, a fifteen minute session, and the rest of the two hours will be spent in one pose so you can all work on drawing the full human form.

You’re very interested. Had been when he’d had his tongue shoved down your throat in the middle of the makeshift dance floor is Rhysand’s basement. He’d been called away before things could go further, as the reigning champion of the longest keg-stand he had to keep his crown once Azriel had surprised everyone with a whopping twenty–two seconds, and you hadn’t even been able to snag his number in your haze.

You hadn’t seen him around campus after that no matter how badly you wanted to.

But now, setting up your drawing pad, flipping to an open page as you sit on your bench next to Feyre, you’re about to see much more than you had imagined.

“Slightly,” you shrug at Feyre’s questioning stare. She scoffs, rolling her eyes as she pulls out her charcoal and kneaded eraser.

Your mouth goes dry and you snap your charcoal in half as the robe slips from his tanned shoulders, unveiling the marble statue of a man underneath.

Rippling muscles line his body, corded and thick in all of the right places. You can’t help it, staring unabashed because he’s turned away from you, your eyes falling from the inky whorls of tattoos across his shoulders, down through the cavern of the muscle lining his spine, all the way down to his tight ass.

The one minute alarm jars you from your stupor. Feyre notices your blank drawing pad, the crumbled charcoal in the palm of your sweaty hand, laughing under her breath as Cassian changes poses.

You avert your gaze as he turns, quickly rifling through your pencil case for another stick of charcoal.

You can feel his eyes on you as you put the chalk to your paper, and you hardly look away from those glowing eyes as you roughly sketch, trying to relax as much as you can with the obvious tension between the both of you.

The alarm is off again and he’s shifting, putting a foot up on a block and bending over slightly, resting his forearms over his folded knee. Your charcoal slides across your paper in a fluid motion as you draw the curve of his spine, much more confident now that his eyes aren’t watching you work.

After a few more rounds of quick studies there’s a short break where all of the students turn to a fresh page while the professor talks to the model, instructing him on his positioning for the longer fifteen minute focus.

Feyre leans over, a glint in her eyes and an amused smirk on her lips, “We did ten minutes, why do you only have nine drawings?” Her question is innocent but her face is anything but.

“Shut up, Fey,” you grumble, cheeks pinking as you flatten down your paper.

She giggles and then your professor announces the beginning of the fifteen minutes.

You lose yourself in the quiet of the classroom, nothing but the sounds of long strokes or chalk against paper, the scratch of quick sharp lines being drawn in. You have a view of Cassian’s backside again, so it’s much easier for you to focus on your work.

You draw the contours of his muscle, packed on layer upon layer from years of hard work put in, your fingers rubbing in the dark soot to your drawing pad, wishing they were sliding against that perfectly smooth, tanned skin.

It’s easy to draw his form, and you find yourself sketching in his dark ink, pulling out the highlights of the fluorescent lights beaming harshly on his shoulders, drawing the fly away hairs from his bun. You wish he’d take it down so you can draw it cascading over his shoulders and back like you imagined.

The timer rings and the professor calls for a break before the last long drawing. You dust the charcoal from your fingers, admiring the expanse of Cassian’s arms as he tugs on the robe.

Feyre stands to stretch, shooting you a knowing look, which you ignore in favor of digging out your water bottle from your bag, drinking down a much needed sip.

“You like him,” she sing–songs in a low voice to you, a grin on her face.

You’re thankful that Cassian is occupied with the professor, asking questions about how he’ll be posed for the remaining time.

“Can we not do this right now? Please?” you beg, frowning at your friend.

She raises her hands in surrender, “Fine, fine. But might I just say that I think he likes you too.” Her head tilts in his direction and your gaze cuts to where he’s talking to the professor, eyes darting away from yours when you turn.

You bite back a smile and Feyre winks at you.

Cassian lies down for the last session, on an air mattress covered with what you hope is a clean sheet.

Of course, you are sitting right before his…well-equipped package.

He’s huge. Split you open, break your back huge. You can’t stop looking at his cock, the slight curve as it rests against his leg, surprisingly tan and a perfect pink at the tip. And he’s not even hard.

Your professor starts the timer and all time is lost.

You’re in the zone, admiring the sheer side of this man, how he looks while he’s relaxed. Cassian’s eyes are closed and you think he might even be sleeping with how even the rise and fall of his toned chest is.

You take the time to reach out your pencil and measure his length, just like you’d been taught.

Well–equipped indeed.

The timer ends before you know it, and you sit back to admire your work.

Feyre leans over to take a look at what you’ve drawn. “Looks great (Y/N). I can really tell you spent a lot of time on his cock.”

You choke, batting her away as you slam your drawing pad shut. She lets out a full laugh and you can’t help but shake your head at your friend, breaking into a smile of your own.

“Fuck off,” you roll your eyes, standing to put your sketch pad away.

You slide it into its drawer, letting Feyre take her own this time. On your way back to your seat is when Cassian comes up to you, stopping you in your tracks.

The robe is once again on, and he’s holding it shut over his chest like he hadn’t had the time to tie it in his haste to get over to you.

“So, what did you think?” he grins and it makes your heart melt a little.

“About what?” you answer, trying to play it off like you weren’t just staring at his cock for two hours.

His smile falters for a moment before it turns wolfish, smug as hell. He knows you’re playing with him and Mother does he love a good game.

“Been thinking about you the whole time,” he admits, staring down at you with his mesmerizing hazel eyes, “Straddling that fucking bench, it was hard not to think about how you’d look sitting on my cock like that.”

“Really?” you duck your head to hide the blush heating your cheeks, cursing yourself from backing down from his words so easily. “You hardly even looked my way.”

“Couldn’t be getting hard in the middle of the session,” he replies easily, tilting your chin up with his warm fingers, “They wouldn’t ask me back then.”

You purse your lips, “What a shame that would be.”

“Don’t like to share, sweetheart?” he purrs, releasing your chin. “Did you make sure to get my cock the right proportions?”

You roll your eyes in response. “It took about all of five seconds.”

“That’s alright. Some learn better from hands-on experience,” he winks at you, not backing down.

“I can’t draw what I can’t see,” you retort, the comment slipping easily from your lips as you hold his gaze.

“Sweetheart, there’s so much of it I’m not even sure you’d know what to do with it. Need a better view?” He asks, wolfishly.

You scoff, narrowing your eyes at him. You don’t have a response and Cassian raises his brow in challenge as he continues. “Care to find out?”

“As if you would be so lucky.”

“It’s my nickname after all,” he purrs, leaning in closer. His tongue flicks out to lick at his bottom lip.

Feyre appears, startling the both of you apart. “I thought your nickname was Big–”

“Not now, Fey. I think Rhys is waiting for you out front.” Cassian doesn’t break eye contact with you as he speaks. Feyre’s brows furrow and she looks like she’s about to respond but she must think better of it. If Rhys is really outside waiting for her she would much rather be hanging out with him anyway.

“See you Friday, (Y/N). Fuck you, Cass.”

You both wave, his glowing hazel eyes still pinned to yours as she takes her leave.

“So what do you say we skip the rest of our classes and study anatomy at my place?” he offers when Feyre’s gone. He lets the front of his robe slip open an inch further, showing off his impressive chest.

You chew on your lip for a moment. He’s obviously just invited you over to have sex, and you’re far enough ahead in your classes that you could miss one…and he really is so fucking handsome.

“I’d ask if you’re going to put anything on before we leave.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, “I think it would benefit us more if I didn’t. Half of the work is already done.”

“I think enough people have seen you nude today,” you nearly growl at the thought of him striding around campus in his thin robe.

Cassian lets out a hearty laugh that makes your heart hammer in your chest. He repeats the same question he’d asked you earlier, reaching for the neatly folded pile of clothes. “Don’t like to share, sweetheart?”

#cassian #cass x reader #cassian x reader #cassian/reader #cassian/you #art school au #art school cass #acotar #acowar #acomaf #acotarxreader #azsazz

493 notes · View notes

tired-biscuit · 1 year

Note

This is probably flithy af but I can picture General Kiba wanting to hide from a certain someone or something (mostly since he got into a load of trouble). So in a moment of desperation you let him hide underneath your gown, and when that certain someone who wishes to speaks with him comes in, he is nowhere to be seen. However the moment you express that, he begins to eat you out while hiding- 💀

18+ fem!reader // cw: oral (f!receiving), risk of being caught (poor shino, man djisjshshd), mentions of alcohol. royalty AU.

series masterlist

kiba comes barging into the dining room still dressed in his fancier attire that you rarely ever see him wear.

aiming your gaze up at his face that’s progressively blooming with a blush so feverish that it turns him entirely red from one ear to the other, you can immediately tell by just one look alone that he’s drunk as a lord.

his hair is wild. it sticks in various different directions despite the fact that you’ve spent a good ten minutes or so combing through the thick chestnut curls that sit atop his head. it had been done with the sole intention of ridding them of knots and making them look at least semi-presentable, but kiba being kiba, he had fussed about it endlessly, of course.

atop of that, the top three buttons of his white shirt are undone as well; revealing his dark chest hair and the faded scars that adorn his tanned skin with numerous lines of milky white. they stretch across his entire body in various shapes and sizes. it’s like a trip down memory lane.

they’re slashes, the scars. well, most of them are at least. some are consequences of too rash decisions. reminders of too prideful misjudgements that he had gotten back when he’d still only been a young, mindless rookie. green, eager to become a fearsome warrior and yet far too wet behind the ears to fight with a sense of patience like he does now, that he’s older and has more experience under his belt.

other scars meanwhile, are still rather fresh. jagged, irregular lines; cut so deep into the flesh that their ridges are prominent even now, as they’ve healed over.

on more than one occasion, you’ve felt them underneath the tips of your fingers. enemies and opposing soldiers from neighbouring countries seem to have a preference to aim directly for his heart whenever push comes to shove, however nobody besides you has managed to actually graze it beyond surface level so far.

still, even if they aren’t anywhere near to being as deep as the phantom ones you’ve inflicted, they’ve still been etched into him for all eternity. battle wounds that had been gained during the war that he now says he had won just for you. or for your hand in marriage, so to speak.

it’s a sugary lie, you think. there is no way in hell, heaven and earth that he’d conquered an entire war just for the sake of being allowed to bed you and have you writhe underneath him with your big, doe eyes like the innocent virgin you’d once been. even he’s not that dumb... right?

however, now that you think about it, you still have no clue whatsoever about what kind of deal he’d struck with your father back then. what exactly he’d been promised as a reward if he were to lead your country to victory. to be fair, you couldn’t have known because you weren’t allowed to — the great mahogany doors had been sealed shut during the entirety of the meeting, and the guards, who had stubbornly refused at allowing you to listen in on the conversation, weren’t of much help either.

by the time it’d been done and over with and the doors had at long last been pushed open, you’d chickened out. had hidden behind a corner and hadn’t dared toss even the shortest of glances at who would — unknowingly, to you — soon become your future husband, whilst intently listening to his heavy footsteps and the dreadful clinking of weaponry to follow.

husband.

you’d never associated the term with a brute like him until just recently, even though the reason as to why he wanted to become one in the first place remains an enigma for you.

perhaps the mere idea of being able to have you whenever he’d please, to possess the chance of fathering children with blue blood running through their veins instead of his common one, and to climb up the social ladder with such profound ease are the reasons as to why. after all, they are all more than good enough to persuade a man into risk. to fuel him with motivation all until he’s sliced through enough enemies with his sword that he’s proclaimed a winner. to give him a driving force sufficient enough to blindly head into warfare and win.

or perhaps, deep down, he’s just lonely. perhaps he needs a warm body to wrap his arms around because he’s gotten sick of the cold ones that he’s ruthlessly slayed over the years. perhaps he needs a tender touch and kiss to the cheek every now and then instead of a war cry and carnage. a ‘welcome home’, followed by a warm meal. children that joyfully run up to him whenever he sets foot through the front door and who he cherishes so much, not because of the blue in their blood, but because of the red that is all him, him, him.

nevertheless, the union has been set in stone no matter the reason. and yet, a small, cleverly hidden part of you continues to remain hopeful that it is the second one that is true; that the more sympathetic side of him, which you’re patiently uncovering layer after layer, is actually genuine. that what he whispers into your ear at night, saying how much he appreciates you and how lovely you are to him, is not merely a mistruth used just so that he can bury himself deep inside you until your nails are scratching at the faded remnants of those exact scars, but that his heart is actually slowly growing fonder of you just like yours is of him.

you know that he’s no knight in shining armor, no prince that will pick up your fallen handkerchief and bow down before you when he reaches out to hand it back. you’re well aware of that because you’ve seen him train plenty of times now and have seen the way he fights; how he acts during and after it. you’ve seen the deadly, almost feral look in his eyes. the muscle that’s been pulled taut. the brutal strength.

if he’s absolutely lethal whenever he’s merely practicing, you don’t even dare imagine what he’s actually like out there — on the field, facing actual enemies. covered in blood and grime, fighting tooth and nail. until there’s no man left in him, only beast.

still, you can’t help but hope that there’s more to him than that. it’s all you can do, really.

well, sort of.

“why, hello there, princess.”

gods, the teasing little nickname, which just so happens to be your official title at the same time — how he manages to make it not sound like that, you have no clue — rolls off his tongue in a prominent slur and makes you look up at him with a soft tilt of your head.

he’s standing beside the door, leaning back and pressing one shoulder against the wood for extra support. judging by the big, complacent grin that forms on his face as soon as your eyes meet, as well as his somewhat hunched, relaxed posture, you realize that he’s actually way more under the influence than you’d thought initially.

you’re supposed to remain perfectly stoic like the noble woman you are, however the sight of him trying to stand straight and failing is almost too entertaining to watch, despite how odd it is to see him act so vulnerable out in the open.

it’s considered a cherished rarity, so it’s no wonder that you can’t help but indulge in it a little. relaxing your face, you allow your brows to raise so high up that they could reach your hairline if they wanted to.

perfect.

brief silence lingers as you both take a second to assess each other. however, when you finally open your mouth to ask him what sort of nonsense he’s gotten into this time, he just gives you a wink, and just like that: he’s gone. crouching and slipping underneath the table you’re sitting at — no wait, he’s actually crawling underneath it.

your brows knit tightly together instead as you try to peer under it, intently listening to the little snickers he keeps letting out. is it possible that he’s pulling you in on some twisted joke, or…?

“what in heaven’s name are you—”

“shh!” he shushes you immediately, and then bam! — he groans when he slams the top of his head against the table on accident. that must have hurt. “for fuck’s sake, woman! keep quiet; i’m hiding!”

his answer makes you sigh, deeply. the childish antics that are unfolding before you are causing you to feel pure exasperation after the long night you’ve just endured in your father’s castle. rubbing one temple, you indulge him by using a significantly lower tone to mutter, “and from who are you hiding, if i may ask?”

“shino,” he answers simply before yet another boyish chuckle makes his voice crack. the sound makes your heart clench. you try not to focus on it too much because it just makes you hope all the more intensely. neither of you had a decent shot at being kids. “he is out to get me.”

your voice rises higher in pitch this time as you say, “wh-what; out to get you…? what on earth would cause him to do that?”

“shh!” he shushes you once more, and when you peek underneath the table for a second time, his brown eyes are twinkling with mischievous delight despite the glaze of booze obscuring it from view. his grin is crooked and lazy as he presses a finger to his lips and crudely whispers, “i think i can hear him coming over here… whatever you do, don’t tell him where i am. understood?”

“why?” you inquire, giving him a pointed look.

“because,” he says matter-of-factly and with an eye roll that you’d never believe he’s executed unless you’d have seen it for yourself, “i simply do not wish to deal with the lecture he’s surely planning to throw my way tonight.”

“lecture?”

“he tends to nag me to the goddamn bone whenever i step out of line.” which is quite often.

you stare at him in silence for a quick moment before asking, “and what am i supposed to say if he starts wondering where you are?”

kiba shrugs. “just make something up.”

“i can’t lie!” you immediately hiss in protest, frowning. it even causes a snobby upturn of your nose to appear, which he surprisingly finds to be highly amusing and cute. especially as you part your pouty lips to mutter, as if in shame, “it’s sin.”

“i’m sure god will forgive you if you do it just this one time,” he responds smoothly even if the sentence comes off in a tipsy sort of mumble. the wording of it makes rapid heat begin to sear your face. especially as he takes both of your hands into his own, gives you the same pleading stare that your childhood dog had given you on so many occasions during dinner every evening, and adds, “lie for me this one time, princess. i beg you.”

so used to him being covered in scars and whatnot, you fail to notice the fresh bruising that covers the knuckles of his right hand and that definitely wasn’t there before you’d left.

silence settles between you once more. it’s calm this time. comforting and safe. broken only by the sound of a kiss being pressed to your left hand where the wedding ring resides. it tempts you to soften your gaze. tempts you to lose a defeated breath as you run your fingers through his hair that makes him look more like a heathen than anything else, and to gently tug at the roots, too.

watching him as he angles his head further into your touch without any sort of hesitance that normally stops him from enjoying affections like these, he really looks like he could start purring any second now. if it weren’t bad for his health, perhaps you could get used to this version of him. alcohol melts down the walls that he insists on keeping around himself. turns him gooey and soft. trusting.

“well?” he asks whilst kissing the center of your palm that you had just been using to caress his cheek. the tingle of warmth his lips leave behind even through the glove you’re wearing turns the drumming of your pulse a bit quicker.

“…oh, fine. i will try, but i am not making any sort of promises that it will actually work.” your eyes narrow even if your heart is beating so fast now that you can barely breathe properly. damn him and his big brown eyes for real this time. he can be such a womanizer whenever he wants to be. “but just so you know, it’s pointless anyway. he will see you underneath the table as soon as he steps into the room.”

his lips break into yet another grin as he looks at you and shakes his head. “no, he won’t.”

you quirk a brow, angling your head to one side. “what do you mean by th— oh! hey!”

urging you to keep quiet again with one more sharp shush as soon as you let out a small noise of surprise, you now feel him try to squeeze his burly body underneath the multiple skirts of the fancy, and gigantic, ball gown that you’ve decided to wear for the party you just came back from.

the fabric rustles as he keeps pushing up one layer after the other, creasing the smoothness of the dress that your handmaiden had spent ages perfecting just so that it would look striking and even more importantly; that it would impress the other guests.

not that it matters, but it worked. all night, you’d been receiving compliments and repetitive glances. turns of heads. bows. curtsies. even the tiara, that had been sitting atop your head until just recently, had been paired with the dress and the jewels so well that you’d even invoked some gasps as soon as you had entered the ballroom.

your husband doesn’t really seem to care about such things, though. pearls, diamonds, gems, they are all just mere trinkets to him. to be fair, he’d given you a nod of approval when he’d laid eyes on you whilst you were receiving your finishing touches, but to him, you are still prettiest right after taking a bath.

when you’re naked in more ways than one, your soft skin still gleaming with the water droplets that you’d missed whilst wiping dry. when you’re pure, raw, vulnerable. defenseless, with no fancy clothes, heavy jewellery — with the exception of the ring that matches his own — or complicated hairstyles to hide behind.

when you’re not even a princess, per se. just you.

though, he does like to fuck you senseless whenever you’re wearing nothing else but the crown… but that’s a story for another time.

the thought is broken by the way he makes you jump in your seat when you feel his warm hands rest on top your thighs all of a sudden. clearly startled that he’s managed to reach all the way to your wretched undergarments, you are just about to start fussing and kicking him out from underneath your dress, when the door swings open and in comes strutting nobody else but the military advisor himself; shino aburame.

desperately switching from fight mode to trying to keep your cool amidst all the chaos you’ve definitely not signed up to be a part of at a late hour like this; it’s hard not to scoff in frustration at the man that stands just a small distance away from you, now.

shino stands with his chin held high in the air and his expression schooled into his signaturely impassive one that makes him look like he’s almost bored with the fact to see you sitting there, with your spotless silverware and little plate of untouched dessert that you’d skipped eating at the party.

staring at him, you simply can’t comprehend how someone so aloof can manage to make even the most neutral expression look sassy. if you weren’t raised to be such a lady, you would certainly make him know that the mere sight of him annoys you to a certain degree.

after all, after the entire ‘disturbance’ ordeal that went down in your husband’s study just a few months ago — amongst other things — you still have yet to grow a liking towards the everlastingly bland advisor.

he hasn’t exactly made any effort to apologize for what he’d said in your presence, but to be fair, you haven’t exactly seeked him out for it either.

of course, there is still plenty of time to do so, you suppose. things can change. perhaps you’ll make peace at some point and the entire thing will clear out on its own. who knows what the future may bring?

still, you don’t look exactly pleased as you watch him quickly scan the room, left to right, then right to left. you notice the way he pays extra attention to the curtains that frame the big windows and the possible hiding spaces that may be in the room. how his gaze lingers on every nook and cranny that would perhaps, just maybe, be able to conceal a big, burly man in the shape of his superior.

by the time his dark, coal-coloured eyes finally land upon you, you’re resembling a statue at the table from how hard you’re focusing on staying completely still. your body is tense, spine ramrod straight, fork clutched in a gloved fist that’s so tight it looks awfully unlady like. if somebody were to paint a picture of a frightened fawn, you’d be the perfect source of inspiration for it.

exchanging looks with him, you hope that mr. aburame takes your tense posture as a sign of nervosity that’s been invoked because of him, and not because your drunken idiot of a husband — who’s still hiding underneath your dress, mind you — is now stroking your thighs with his thick fingers and has his face pressed so close to your most private parts that you can feel his warm exhales even through the soft linen of your braies.

he’s just so close to your—

“i apologize for bursting in here completely unannounced, my lady,” shino drawls in that indifferent tone that makes you wonder if he’s reading everything he says from some invisible text nobody else but him can see. “i was not aware there was someone in the room.”

“it’s quite all right,” you reply a little bit too fast, trying so hard to keep your voice steady in both pitch and pace. “you needn’t worry about it.”

gods damn your husband. curse him. kill him. the little spark of jealousy that he feels in his heart whenever someone calls you ‘my lady’ coaxes him to press a careful kiss right at the apex of your thighs. goosebumps form over your entire body as the shiver rushes through you in response to the affection, however much to your good fortune, most of them are hidden by the dress and the silken gloves that reach all the way up to your elbows.

he lingers there. applies steady pressure to your clit with his lips and dampens the linen with his warm saliva until it’s sticking to your pussy, exposing the little button of nerves even further. the fabric silences his laggard ministrations, you’re that lucky at least, but if you aren’t able to keep yourself in-check for long enough—

oh, fucking hell. the sole of your shoe lifts and presses against his thigh in warning as you attempt to close your legs and keep him at bay. he’s kneeling before you like a sinner would before a god, his pants stretching at the top of his legs, but as if he’s adamant to keep you suffering for as long as possible, you feel his scorching hot hand wrap around your bare calf instead. feel how he runs it up and down as he strokes you in the most devilish ways possible whilst he noses his way even further between your thighs.

fighting to keep your breathing calm because you just can’t shake him off no matter how much weight you apply to your foot that’s still positioned on his thigh, you realize that this man is an outright incarnation of sin. he’s an incubus. a demon.

“well… i think it’s better if i head out, then,” shino says, and all of a sudden you remember that he’s still standing there, and that you are, in fact, not alone in the room and are probably looking utterly foolish; panting like that. “so that i can leave you to your food, and all that.”

“mm, yes,” is all you can manage. blinking slowly, it’s impossible to keep your vision focused. your eyes insist on rolling back into the inside of your skull, but if you could only last just a while longer, you might not even need to lie and burden yourself with even more sin. “i think… i think that’d be a wise idea indeed, advisor.”

you watch him cross the room with a laggard turn of your head that follows every single one of his movements. he’s still dressed in his fancier clothes as well; the outfit perfectly tailored to suit his firm, lean stature, his shoes clean.

he’s just about to exit the room and you’re just about to finally relax and be alone with your nymphomaniac of a spouse, when shino whips his head to the side and lingers by the door just like his superior had done only moments prior.

“before i go; do you by any chance know where your husband might have gone?”

why yes, dear advisor, he’s right here in the room with us; hiding under my dress, licking me right through my underwear.

“no,” the lie falls from your lips like it’s pure instinct, but it tastes acidic. it’s like you’ve just sank your teeth into an exceptionally sour lemon. “i can’t say i’ve seen him ever since we came back from the party, so sadly i have no clue on his current whereabouts.”

“ah,” shino says before he takes one step further out the door and rests his hand on the frame of it. “well, if you do end up seeing him, please be so kind as to tell him that i need to speak with him. urgently.”

“of course,” you nearly sigh out whilst your toes curl in your pretty shoes. the linen is so wet with saliva and arousal now that kiba’s breaths feel cool instead of warm. your underwear must be borderline see-through from how many times he’s ran his tongue across your sticky, clothed slit. when he presses the point of it at your most sensitive spot again and starts making little circles, it’s good enough to make you want to let out a wanton moan.

the urge to whimper and mewl is strong, but you manage to suppress it by biting into the inside of your cheek hard enough that it draws blood. still, curiosity manages to get the best of you as you look at shino and ask, “though, if i may intrude just a little, what exactly is it that you wish to speak to him about?”

you expect a secretive, non-explanatory answer like ‘nothing that needs to worry you, my lady’ or perhaps, ‘it’s confidental; military related’, however shino pleasantly surprises you when he lets out an exasperated sigh of his own and bluntly says, “he got into a fight with one of the guests just before we left.”

oh.

“pa-pardon?” the stutter rolls off your tongue both because you’re taken aback and because you’re being pleasured. come to think of it, you distinctly do remember kiba disappearing the last couple of minutes before you’d gone home together, as well as him returning with a rather feral grin sitting on his face and sweat coating his brow, but you’d have never thought—

“yes,” shino replies with the subtlest twitch of lips. “he’d, uh… broken a certain young lord’s nose with his fist.”

you blink. “which young lord?”

“lord uchiha.”

“i see.”

kiba’s grip around your calf tightens at the name in an almost protective manner. you can feel the bluntness of his nails digging into your flesh so harshly, causing hints of pinching pain, that it makes you drop your fork with a soft thud when it lands on the rich red table cloth.

he’s got his whole mouth pressed tightly against the soaked softness of your cunt. it’s like the adrenaline spurs him on. like the jealousy and possessiveness and the endless urge to protect you all convince him to take even more risks than usual. the sweetness of your slick, which he can fucking smell the scent of, now, drives him so wild that he’s become utterly careless. if you don’t watch out, he’s going to tear right through your underwear to get to you, no matter if the sounds of shredding fabric will quite likely be percepted by his trusty advisor.

bringing your hand close to your chest, you ask, “why?”

“to play the role of a knight in shining armor or to defend his lady’s honor, what do i know what happens inside that head of his,” shino utters, and you’re not entirely sure if he’s impressed or not with how dispassionate his tone sounds. with a small jerk of his chin, he gestures to you as he adds, “apparently lord uchiha had some rather tasteless things to say about your… union. this made my superior take matters into his own hands, which has consequently left me to deal with a rather sticky situation. i doubt lord uchiha will simply forget about this entire ordeal.”

something stirs within your heart at that.

sticky, indeed.

“thank you,” is all you reply with because the man underneath your dress, your knight in shining armor, is nearly feasting upon you by now. “that will be all.”

but it’s not all, because as soon as shino steps out and closes the door behind him, leaving you alone at long last; your legs are parting all on their own, welcoming your husband in as your thighs hug the sides of his head and squeeze with appreciation.

he tears your undergarments to shreds just like you’d expected him to before he immediately digs in. it’s messy and hot and desperate, the way he slurps and licks at your cunt. it makes you lean back against the backrest of your chair and makes him groan out the filthiest of curses just because of how dazed he is getting from it.

if you keep tasting so sweet, he’s going to have to end up fucking you on top of the dining table. with your legs propped on top of his broad shoulders and your tits pushing further out of your tight corset because of the force of each thrust that he’ll ram straight into your dripping wet hole, which he now feels fluttering around his tongue.

yeah, right on top of the table.

just like the dessert you are.

#biscuit’s royalty au #biscuit drabbles #kiba smut #naruto smut

176 notes · View notes

himbos-hotline · 22 days

Text

He drops the chair, listens to how it clatters as it bounces against the canvas and Adam swears under his breath. Hangman tugs at the knot in the belt and the whisper of leather against Cole's self tanned skin is the loudest sound in the arena, it hits Adams ears louder than the screaming of the crowd and his own racing heartbeat. The belt clatters to the floor at Cole's crossed feet and Adam watches as she reaches for it. Pain rushes from between his legs and Adam drops to his knees in front of her. They're eye to eye for what feels like hours, just reading each other's open, drained expressions before Cole stands up and shoves sharp nails into Adam's eyes.

#fic preveiw #mouse writes sometimes #reblogs and nice replies are appreciated

11 notes · View notes

addisonroad · 2 years

Text

Shop Women's Stylish Leather Belt

Buy ladies' genuine leather belts online at Addison Road. Here you get a large collection of thin belts, waist knot belts, cotton woven belts and plus size belts. All these belts show the Australian lifestyle – Fun, freedom, and fashion. You can add some extra style to your outfit; take a look at our wide range of women's belts. Give a fresh feel for your favorite looks by adding structure and style to dresses and relaxed-fit rompers with corset belts. Call us at (02) 9564 0588 and visit: https://gfycat.com/tidyfrayedcapybara

2 notes · View notes

radiantteacup · 1 year

Note

hiii! congrats on 100!! can i request Beidou or Dehya with a preferably AFAB reader? any letters will work! :D

✧.*Orgasm, vulgar language, mentions of rough sex, vaginal fingering, wlw, semi-public sex, quickies, pet names

༊*·˚ I really hope you like this anon! <3

˗ˏˋFeaturing ´ˎ˗ Beidou, Deyha (separate)

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Beidou

I feel like Beidou is experienced in sexual endeavors. For sure the type to have a girl in every region. She has had her fair share of fun, but you're special. You're the one she wants a life with; unlike the other girls she used to keep around, she treats you with the utmost care. She takes her time with you, she knows every stretch of your body.

Deyha

Like Beidou, before you, I feel like she didn't have anything serious with anyone. However, unlike Beidou, I don't think she was with very many people. She's a busy person, chasing the cash and thrill kept her busy. When she did give herself the occasional break though, she wasn't the type to seek out sexual experiences, but if a pretty little thing approached her first, she'd indulge. She knows enough to have you shaking with pleasure anytime you're beneath her.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Beidou

Beidou is a big fan of quickies, especially risky ones.

She's fingering you in the room next to her crew's barracks. The loud sound of squelching fills the room where she has you bent over her desk. The door is unlocked, and if any of her subordinates overheard you two and came to check it out, you'd be screwed. You have a hand covering your mouth, trying to muffle the loud moans that threaten to spill from your lips. You can feel the knot in your stomach building and you know you're going to cum soon, but she doesn't let up, only ramming her fingers into you faster. " Come on baby, you got it." Her sultry voice has you moaning louder, but before you can respond the sound of a fist knocking on the door has your blood running cold. "Captain Beidou?"

Deyha

Deyha doesn't care for quickies as much. She prefers to take her time with you, memorizing everything that makes you tick. That being said, if you rile her up enough she might just indulge you.

You and Deyha had been on a mission out in the desert, the heat making glistening beads of sweat drip down her body. You couldn't help but admire how good she looked, panting after defeating another fungi, her tanned skin shimmering beneath the sun's warm rays. You approach her quietly, hoping she doesn't catch on to your mischievous intentions. You slip your hands over her exposed stomach just beneath her belt, pressing a wet kiss to her neck. "Mm, you look so good baby," you hum softly in her ear. "Not here baby, we're in the middle of the desert," she chuckles. Her hands slide over your own, trying to pry them from her skin. However when you begin sucking hickeys into her neck, hands sliding beneath the waistband of her pants, she concedes. She tugs you behind a rather large rock, pining you to the rough surface. "Alright then, we'll have to be quick, princess."

#genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin smut #genshin x you #Deyha x reader #Deyha smut #Deyha fluff #Deyha imagines #Beidou x reader #beidou smut #beidou genshin impact #Beidou imagines #Beidou fluff

76 notes · View notes

julieeeeette · 4 months

Text

the one where taehyung sees a girl from his dream

Pairing: Taehyung x mystery girl

Word Count: 1,034

Rating: PG-13

He nestled his face into his pillow as he became aware of the dream he was having. It was a nice dream too.

He was wearing a light tan suit and riding a bicycle with a bouquet of flowers through the cobblestone streets of Paris with the Eiffel Tower in the background. The sky was a soft, powdery blue with only a few, wispy clouds in the sky.

There was a girl sitting at a table in front of Cafe du Trocadero, sipping on a coffee while her hair whipped in the gentle breeze. He couldn’t see her face at the angle she sat, but his heart began to race as her long flowy skirt was caught in the wind when she turned. He saw the book she was reading with its red ribbon bookmark, the glint of a slender gold bracelet, the hint of a smile.

A weight collapsed on him before he could see her eyes, hauling him up to consciousness with a disparaged groan.

“Wake up, Taehyung!”

He should have known it was Hobi. No one else would wake him up like this.

For a brief moment, he wished the group had gotten a hotel instead of an AirBNB so it would have been harder for them to wake him.

“Why?” He inhaled deeply, covering his closed eyes with the back of his arm, trying desperately to hold on to the dream girl. “It’s too early, Hobi.”

His friend rolled off of him, rising up to sit on his heels. “Namjoon won tickets to Disneyland!”

Taehyung blinked.

Disneyland?

Weren’t they a little old to be going there without their own kids?

He glanced open at the door Hoseok had swung open to see Jungkook race by, a wide smile on his face.

Looking back at Hoseok, even he was excited.

“It’s Dapper Day!” Hobi sang, tugging on Taehyung’s arm. “You can wear one of your suits and look all fancy.”

He tried to imagine himself on The Tower of Terror in a suit but didn’t want to be a downer.He’d already put an outfit together in his mind anyway.

“Yeah, okay.” He sat up and stretched, rolling his head until his neck cracked. He hunched his shoulders and yawned with a nod. “Okay. Let me shower.’

Hoseok leapt off his bed with a smile. “We’re leaving in an hour.”

“Hour and a half.” Namjoon corrected as he passed the door with his clothes in his arm. “Yoongi’s whining.”

“I am not!” A deep voice protested a moment before Yoongi walked past the door with his shoulders sagging. “I’m too old for this.”

“I’m not.” Jin cackled as he walked the other way, already dressed in a pale gold button down with red pants. He wore a gold belt and a matching gold watch.

When had he gotten those?

Taehyung shook his head and scooted out of his bed as Hoseok left the room, closing the door behind him as he went.

He showered quickly and dressed in a simple white button down shirt, a pair of khakis, and a dark green waistcoat.

He picked out a gold silk tie and turned the collar of his shirt up, starting on a knot once then untying and restarting again a few times before he got it.

A knock came as he carefully adjusted the knot until it was tightened.

“Yes?”

The door opened and Namjoon stuck his head in, adjusting his black rimmed glasses. “Almost ready?”

“Yes. Just finished.”

Taehyung followed his friend down the hallway and to the door where they pulled on their shoes alongside the rest of their friend group.

The ride to the amusement park went faster than he’d anticipated.

They really should let Yoongi drive more often.

They walked into the park and quickly narrowed down what the first ride would be through a series of rock paper scissors.

They shared a laugh when Jimin drooped dramatically when he lost to Yoongi then slung his arm around his friend’s shoulder as they walked down a lane towards the ride.

The wind billowed through Taehyung’s hair, reminding him of his dream for a moment.

He paused to enjoy it and sighed as he looked over at a small cafe.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw a woman sitting at a table with her face concealed by a book with a red ribbon bookmark. The wind caught her skirt, ruffling the violet fabric gently.

“Come on Tae.” Jungkook grabbed his wrist and pulled him away just as she had begun to look over at him.

“Did you see her?” Taehyung twisted to look over his shoulder at the woman, his honey blond hair getting into his face, obscuring her as she accepted a cup of coffee from the waiter.

“See who?” Jungkook looked behind them before urging his friend along when he realized how far ahead the group had gotten. “Come on! We’re gonna get left behind.”

He had no choice but to hurry along to catch up.

Maybe, he thought, he hoped, he might get to see her later. But what would he say? He didn’t live in Paris. His French wasn’t even that good.

He swallowed hard and came to an abrupt halt behind Jin when they queued up in line.

He tried to yank his mind from the idea of her. He tried to engage his logical side, but his romantic side was too enamored with the idea of meeting the woman he’d seen in his dream on such a lovely vacation.

The group stepped inside the building and progressed steadily words the ride.

He told himself he’d be perfectly content just knowing she existed. He’d be beside himself if he could see her face.

He followed Jungkook to a seat and yanked the harness down.

He’d talk to her if they happened to run into each other. Even if it was just a simple greeting.

“You look nervous.” Jungkook laughed, pinching his cheek. “You’re all red.”

He breathed a laugh as the attendant checked their restraints. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Jungkook went to ask something, but was cut off by the ride beginning, taking them into a dark tunnel.

#bts #bts fic #taehyung #taehyung fic #taehyung x oc #possible series #bts disney princes #taehyung disney prince

14 notes · View notes

kultofathena · 1 year

Text

Ádám Bodorics – Beham Messer with Ring Hilt and Brass Frame Boxwood Grip

This Beham style Messer by specialist swordsmith Ádám Bodorics is a wonderfully agile sword in the hand that strikes with velocity and power – its wide and well-tempered blade bites deeply and its thin profile along the main cutting portion of the blade passes through a target with little drag and resistance – a truly fierce performer in a scrap of a melee! The thick ring at the hilt gives impressive protection to the entire hand from even notably larger weapons and the grip is a unique composite with the thick tang riveted and embedded between two halves of smoothly polished boxwood which is framed in strips of finely worked brass. The wood grip halves may look cracked, but they are actually created from a deliberate reconstruction of smaller pieces with strong and colored bonding filler in order to give the grip a unique theme and appearance that is perfectly apt to the troubled times of early 16th century Germany.

The sword is matched with scabbard of well-carved wood which is wrapped in linen for a binding to aid in durability which is then finished with overlaid tight leather with a compartment for a matching byknife which is included. Integrated and knotted to the scabbard is a thick sword belt with an adjustable buckle for wear. Below is Ádám’s own words on his unique creation offered here:

Messers take a huge variety of form and construction. This piece is based on a 1540 woodcut by Hans Sebald Beham with a subtle Memento Mori theme. In the 16th century, knifelike sidearms undergo several changes, one of them being the increasing regularity of hidden tangs. Illustrations from the period sometimes show rather complex grip shapes that would be complicated with a full-tang construction, but a hidden or a frame tang makes them much more trivial. Hans Sebald Beham often shows interesting grip shapes even in a bucolic setting, and it’s one of his woodcuts I based this piece on.

The straight and nimble blade is ground from 51crv4 (6150) high-carbon steel and is heat-treated to 50-52 HrC. It is optimized for cutting and slashing. It has plenty of distal taper and a wide fuller along it’s length. The cross has a gentle S-shape and a sidering instead of a Nagel. It is still affixed to the blade with a rivet o make sure it’s not mistaken for a sword or falchion or storta. The finials of the cross echo the trilobate design of the grip. The real tang of the blade reaches to about two-thirds of the grip. A thin steel plate was cut to the intended shape of the grip with a brass strip formed and soldered along it’s edges. The grip panels sit on the edges of the frame with the cavity between the panels and the tang filled with adhesive following the style of surviving frame-tang sidearms.

The byknife is hand-forged and ground from 80crv2 with integrated bolsters and a forge-welded mild steel tang. The grip panels are affixed by glue and tubular brass rivets of increasing diameter. The grip panels are boxwood, buxus sempervirens. These pieces were hand-picked to highlight the effects of the blight eradicating old growth, namely the aggressive checking from quick drying following rapid defoliation and the cloudy dark discolorations. There is evidence for boxwood’s continuous use for over two millennia, but as specimens large enough for larger carvings take an immense amount of time to grow, preventive culling or neglect of infected trees both make it near-impossible for this material to stay for long. To me, using these specific slabs was like erecting a gravestone, removing the need for any overt Memento Mori or Totentanz motifs.

The scabbard has a wooden core, linen wrapping and a vegetable tanned leather wrap with an integrated subsheath for the byknife. It is dyed a light brown and is undecorated to keep the attention on the hilt of the Messer. There is a belt threaded into two slits in the back of the sheath, crossing over to either side.

33 notes · View notes

brokerkisser · 1 year

Text

Gold Coin/Trigger Happy - Skylanders Phighting au

(click for better view & image id under keep reading) I'll also add on legendary & spring variant designs when I have ideas for those.

IMAGE ID : First image is Gold Coin drawn as a bloxy robloxian it has a paper white skin tone and it's color is a browny red It's horns are shaped like pointed bunny ears that point backwards with a smaller pair of horns under it's face has a brown marking across it's eyes with a mischeivous look on it's face with it's fangs and tongue poking out of it's mouth Gold coin is wearing a cowboy hat that sits betwen the gap of it's horns the cowboy hat has a gold coin emblem on the front it also has a orange torso and legs it's torso has a small star to the right that's half covered by the vest it wears with a belt with a coin buckle it has a pair of gloves and boots on the glove cuffs are clipped with the same coin emblem on the back of it's vest is the Cloud Scape symbol a simple cloud behind a floating island it's gear is a dual pair of golden revolvers the revolvers are stylized and blocky with a large barrel and handle with a small circle with a star at the top of the handle at the hammer Second image is Double Dare Gold coin it's redish orange in color it's wearing a tan helmet with red orange lines and orange visor with a tan full body suit that has red lines and orange shoes with a pair of tan gloves with red orange lining and orange tassels on the side the body suit is undone on the top with a knot revealing it's chest and a single curly chest hair on it's back is a knee length cape that's a dark red orange underneath with a tan and orange outlined front that has a gear design it's gear is a dual pair of golden cannon barrel looking guns that have red and orange detailing with a gear attached to the back and a ring of fire at the front and a small star keychain dangling Third image is a info sheet that has a small doodled portrait of gold coin to the top left with it's catch phrase under it " No Gold, No Glory! " the info text reads Name: Gold Coin Nickname: Trigger Happy Race/Species: Demon Age: 42 Pronouns: It/Its Mirror nouns Faction/Region: Cloud Scape Class/Job: Part time super charger and phighter full time cow boy Height: 3'2, 97 cm Gear: a image of it's dual golden revolvers next are a row of sliders reading Nice Neutral Mean Nice is hightlighted Brave Middle Cowardly Brave is highlighted Silly Neither Serious silly is highlighted Honest Mix of both Liar mix of both is highlighted Famous Average Off the grid average is highlighted Questions: " Any Notable friends or relatives? " Generally refers to many phighters as an ally. Gold Coin respects a fair worker A good friend to playground & theives den. Lightly weary of Lost temple, but it's chill While concerned and untrusting all of blackrock, It respects Hyperlaser's work Gold Coin refers to Hyperlaser as a fellow worker, and does have an interest in helping the man out " How about enemies? " While not very knowledgable, Subspace and Medkit give it bad vibes. Not enemies by any major means for medkit at least Gold Coin has no trust in Subspace, It's weary and neutral on Medkit. It does not like or trust Biografts at all It finds Biografts facisinating but their use and creation are not it's fancy " Are they good at their job? and do they like it? " Gold coin spent many years training, so it's quite good at it's jobs as both a gunslinger and supercharger It never takes it's job that seriously, always having fun roleplaying as some sort of sheriff or stunt devil Gold Coin is also well versed in phighting gear and machinery, It often tinkers around with engineering Health: 200 Shield/defense: 30 m1 pew pew guns m2 golden charge, hold down m2 to charge up a laser shot Q Lucky Sheriff's Coin Flip, RNG self status boost, Tails - slow debuff, Heads - Damage buff E Pot 'o gold - throws a pot of gold at enemies, short blast radius, slows down enemy Ult Golden machine gun Activates a golden turret machine gun, short radius blast when activated

#I FUCKING LVOE TRIGGER HAPYYY MY PRECIOUS SONNN #and yes yes there will be more of these bc i love skylanders <3 #Gold Coin(Trigger Happy)#PhightlandersAU #phighting #phighting!#skylanders #phighting oc #roblox oc

32 notes · View notes

krenenbaker · 1 year

Text

Dorm-inspired Outfits (from my Closet)

A few months ago, I put together a few things from my closet based on the different twst dorms. I posted them to Reddit, but now, they shall also have a home here on Tumblr :) But I'll also add a bit more info on the inspirations behind my use of the various pieces here, just for fun. Also, pardon the socks; I didn't bother picking shoes to go with the outfits. I'll describe what shoes I would wear with each look, though!

Also, uhh... body reveal? Before showing my cosplay (whenever it is that I finish it lol)

Heartslabyul

For this outfit, I wanted to feature the clashing patterns and fabrics of the dorm uniforms, while also incorporating an Alice in Wonderland-esque aesthetic. I used a yellow fabric belt, similar to the yellow sash of the dorm uniform, and added a scarf with a rose pattern and the same colour scheme as the rest of the outfit. I also retained my watch (which I really should have switched out for one of my analogue watches, but... oh well) and my "Save The Bees" bracelet, since it seemed to fit with the theme and I wear it on basically a daily basis, so...

I would pair this look with these white socks and my saddle oxfords.

Savanaclaw

With the Savanaclaw outfit, I wanted an active and somewhat more masc look. I tried to stay true to the warm colour scheme, and reference the leather vest of the dorm uniform using the sleeveless flannel I had. I also kept my watch and bracelet for this outfit, but I added two necklaces - one with a celtic knot pendant, and one with a piece of quartz, though if I had a tooth or bone necklace, I would have used that instead.

I would wear my brown leather boots with this outfit.

Octavinelle

This outfit is one of the closest to how I normally dress. The dress is black with lavender flowers, with a gather in the skirt on the left side, giving the heavy material more movement - it just feels "Octavinelle". I added a braided belt with a silvery buckle to give a little more definition, and a pearlescent pink and purple necklace, along with white gloves. I also wore my cream coat over my shoulders as a coat-cape, à la Azul Ashengrotto.

I would not wear socks with this, but instead stockings and my black and white pumps.

Scarabia

I wanted to follow the colour scheme and ~vibe~ of the dorm and its uniform for this Scarabia-inspired outfit. The floral skirt may seem to be an odd choice, but the deep orange of the flowers and the satin material seemed to fit with Scarabia. I also added more jewellery - multiple rings, and two necklaces, all golden in colour - to complete the look.

I would probably wear either my tan scandals, or white ankle socks and my heeled leather oxfords with this outfit.

Pomefiore

I felt like Pomefiore needed a classic, powerful look - what better way to do that than with a black pencil skirt? That, I paired with a sheer blouse with satin cuffs, and a (mostly) purple, high-necked, sleeveless knit. The orange, cream, and golden stripes in the knit also reflect the gold detailing of the Pomefiore dorm uniform.

I definitely wouldn't wear socks with this - it's another job for the black and white pumps, or maybe even my black heeled boots, depending on the vibe.

Ignihyde

Ignihyde just SCREAMED for the use of my CrankGameplays "Soft Boi" shirt. It's light blue, plus it's gamer merch - the perfect combo. Add in some black jeans, headphones, and a blue and white scarf in the pocket, and Ignihyde is complete!

I'd wear either my pink skate shoes, or maybe my brown leather boots with this one, I think.

Diasomnia

Finally, Diasomnia. I simply needed to use my green turtleneck with this one, but I knew I had to use black for the rest of the outfit. So, black trousers and a black cardigan (again, over the shoulders) were the other components I used, as well as a black braided belt - both to add a little texture, as well as a hint of silver, as is featured in the Diasomnia dorm uniform as well.

I'd wear black socks and my black heeled boots with this outfit.

And with that, we're complete! Let me know your thoughts - did I capture the spirits of the dorms in these outfits? :)

(I didn't include Ramshackle, but I could also make an outfit for that at some point, which I may do later)

#krenenbaker's :)#twisted wonderland #twst #krenenbaker's creations #I'm very happy with how some of these turned out - mainly the ones similar to my normal style #I also was wearing my binder for half of these (if you were wondering why my body shape was a bit different in some images from others).#also the Save The Bees bracelet is one of my favourite accessories #I got it at a show I went to so it has both a sentiment I agree with and fond memories attached to it too :)#I also could wear my brown leather boots with Pomefiore I guess since Rook wears freaking TIMBERLANDS (not with his dorm uniform but STILL)#(but I wouldn't. it would look weird... sorry Rook)#I also wish I would've done a different pose for Scarabia but I wanted to show off the jewellery and that was the best I could come up with #I need Vil to give me some of his modelling talent #or a lesson on how to do it maybe #I dunno #either would work #just teach me how to pose in a way that is a. somewhat comfortable and b. maybe won't make me feel so... weird looking back at the pictures #I really do relate to Azul.#anyways... thanks for looking at my outfits! and reading my tags if you got this far too ♡

23 notes · View notes