#black chiffon gloves

[devdas5z]

Emilia Danilevskaya

[zoesrepository]

Olga Kurzova

[thewildbelladonna]

Rumours Tour, Calgary, Canada, September 1977.

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ LIKE THE WAY I FUCK ('CAUSE I GET ROUGH) — an undercover mission with your superiors leads to compromised positions (in more ways than one)

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + könig

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, canon-divergence, age difference, slight power imbalance, jealous/possessive behaviour, discussions of violence, tags to be added

// NSFW CONTENT BELOW THE CUT //

Turns out, undercover missions involve a lot more make-up, perfume and dresses than you'd anticipated.

Being a seasoned task force operator, it's been months, if not years since you've been to a party outside of your barracks. Let alone one of this calibre; CEOs, billionaires on Forbes Top 50, politicians.

It's off-putting. 

All of it; it's stressful, and it feels as though your skin's crawling, having so much skin on display, so many eyes on you at once. You feel as though you’re an animal at a zoo, being inspected by families with their snotty-nosed kids.

"Sit-rep, Diamond?"

Swallowing around a dry mouth, you reply to your lieutenant's request through your earpiece, tone low and careful. "All as planned, Lt."

Ghost hums a low sound in reply, and your shoulders loosen slightly from their tense position.

You knew that your superior was already inside, having arrived ten minutes earlier. A small, selfish part of you wished that you'd have arrived with him, if only to see how he cleaned up.

Ghost? In a suit? It's like one of your deepest, most dirty of desires come to life.

Such thoughts that you'd never let leave your lips -- thoughts too likely to wreck your entire career and any opportunity to keep your relationship with the man.

"König?" Is Ghost's next question, although it's just the other man's name alone.

Right.

König.

The other superior featured in your dreams. Thoughts. Wank-material?

Whatever they are, they're becoming all too common, all too realistic, and all too risky.

"Successful entry," König replies, heavily accented voice low and quiet -- he's amongst people.

Your limo comes to a stop outside of the decorated museum, and a suited man opens your door with gloved hands. His upper lip is covered in a well-groomed pencil moustache, and you have to stifle a chuckle. Soap would’ve appreciated it.

With a small smile, you incline your head towards him, lifting up the fabric of your skirt so it doesn't brush against the gravel. It’s so… impractical, and you really can’t help but respect those that dress up like this on a regular basis. Looking down at your outfit, you let out a low breath.

When Gaz and Soap had burst into your room with shit-eating grins and a garment bag, you had just known that your dress was going to be... extravagant at best, and downright sinful at worst.

You were correct, of course.

So, here you are, walking down the red carpet into the building, cameras flashing and paparazzi screaming, in this... dress.

Silky black, strapless, and with crossing lines of fabric across your bare back. Chiffon skirts fall behind you, with a slit rising all the way up to where your thigh meets your hip bone. A gun hides beneath, strapped around your inner thigh, paired with your right, adorning a delicate yet hefty knife.

You look... not at all like a Sergeant on Task Force 141.

You look like a celebrity, one just out of her fans' reach. It's a surreal experience, and the mere thought of your two superiors (crushes) seeing you like this... It's frightening. Maddening. And, maybe, a tad bit exhilarating.

Gaz had insisted on doing your make-up -- having so many sisters made him a fully-fledged artist, apparently. And an artist he was, talented with the brushes of eyeshadow and flicks of eyeliner against your skin.

Soap, for his part, had begged for you to let him do your hair -- but considering his only experience was his mohawk, you were less than lenient. With a huff, he’d let you go to Laswell’s wife with the request, as long as he picked out your jewellery.

And now, hours later, your heels click against the stone tile as you enter the museum.

Soft lighting cascades all of the guests in gentle hues of yellow, laughter and polite mingling surrounding you as you enter the main ballroom, skirts brushing against your legs.

Chandeliers above glisten, a live-band plays beautiful jazz, and servers walk around with trays of champagne and finger foods.

It's nothing like you've ever experienced.

This mission, somehow, terrifies you more than the weight of a sniper in your hand and an order to neutralise.

"Target, six o'clock," Ghost's voice carries through your comms as you take position near the corner of the room. There’s fewer people here, and it allows you a moment to breathe and recalibrate.

Your eyes dart to the direction your lieutenant has supplied, and you catch sight of your target immediately. "Got eyes," you murmur softly, smile on your face as you pretend to fix your hair.

"Affirmative," König answers then.

"I haven't seen you before."

Whipping around to the source of the words, you find yourself face to face with a man who you've seen the face of too many times to count.

"Apologies for startling you," he inclines his head respectfully. He's got a few inches on you -- although you find it hard to consider him tall when you're with your superiors more often than not. His skin is closely-shaved, his blonde hair gelled to the nines -- and a smarmy, trust-fund baby smirk to top it all off.

Extending his hand, he announces, "I'm Phillip. Phillip Graves."

...Graves.

The last name of your target -- the son of your target.

"I'm Louise," you say with a sweet smile, taking his hand and shaking it. Your undercover name was going to have to come into play sooner than you'd hoped. "It's a lovely atmosphere, isn't it?"

"Positive, Diamond?" Ghost's deep voice instantly responds to your subtle codeword.

"Not as lovely as you, I'm sure," Phillip flirts, and you pretend to bat your lashes and hide your face from him.

"Ah... thank you, Sir. You're quite dashing yourself," you meekly reply, giving him a soft smile. 

Men like this were so easily played, you found. Not at all like the military men you were surrounded with on such a constant basis. Not at all like…

You can hear both König and Ghost swear underneath their breaths. Releasing the hold on your bracelet -- the one with the built-in comms button -- you shyly bite at your lower lip.

Phillip’s eyes track the movement, and if not for the stakes of this mission, it'd be almost comical.

"May I have this dance?" He asks, offering his arm for you to take. He’s adorning an obviously wealthy suit, dark blue and silky – and it rubs you in all the wrong ways.

You can hear your heart pound in your ears -- this wasn't the way the mission was supposed to go. But, then again, you didn't get into Task Force 141 by expecting every mission to go as planned.

"I would love to, Sir," you smile, wrapping your hand around his arm, allowing him to escort you to the main dance floor.

Subtly folding your hands together around his arm, you're able to push down the button on your bracelet. "You want us to dance in the middle of everyone? I'm not the best of dance partners..."

Phillip chuckles, but through your inner ear piece, you can hear König report, "Got eyes, Diamant."

Chills run down your spine. Either from this situation or…

Or something else that you're not entirely supposed to -- or allowed to -- feel. Not for those two men, and certainly not for your superiors.

"I'll lead you, darlin’," Phillip leans down to whisper into your ear, his lips brushing against your skin. They’re thin, and chapped against your own skin.

His hand moves to sit at your lower back, just above your ass, and the other moves down your arm to interlace your fingers with his. It's an intimate position, your front pressing against his as he starts to lead you with the beat.

Of course you knew how to dance; you wouldn't have been picked for this role if you couldn't. 

However, you deliberately misstep a few times, just to play into Phillip’s ego -- his desire for control and intelligence. 

"For such a beautiful girl, you sure aren't the smartest," he jests, and it takes everything within you not to just swing your fist and leave him twitching on the dance floor. You could, realistically speaking, but that would cost you all the mission. And you would not let yourself, nor König or Ghost, down.

Instead, you nervously flit your gaze from him, moving in closer to his chest. By his squeeze on your lower back, you know it's the right decision. "I... I'm doing my best, Sir."

You want to crawl out of your own skin at the way you’re feeding into his misogyny, how you’re downplaying your own strengths.

He huffs, a demeaning, cruel thing.

"I want to shoot 'im," you hear Ghost mutter, and you'd be a liar to say that those words in that tone don't make you clench your thighs together as you sway against Phillip.

"Make it a competition, ja?" König quips. There's... irritation -- anger, maybe -- behind his question. It's so unlike the gentle giant of a man, and that fact alone has your breath coming out in a short pant.

Phillip, of course, thinks it's him making you so flushed.

With a vindictive smirk, he spins you, completely throwing you off balance. Maybe a tad too dramatically, you find yourself falling into his arms, giggling a little bit.

...It's worth it to hear Ghost grumble under his breath through the comms.

This whole situation doesn't feel quite real, and you know that their attitudes are nearly definitely due to the stray in plans. That's fine. That's all it can possibly be. It’s all that you’ll allow it to be.

But your mind has never been kind, and your imagination has always had the habit of wandering.

"Let's go get some drinks, hm?" Phillip asks, his hand falling dangerously close to 'inappropriate hand placement' territory.

You shoot him a seductive smile, nodding as he pulls you to the open bar, his arm wrapped tight around your waist, leaving you glued to his side. It’s a possessive position, and you find yourself wishing it was either of your superiors holding you in such a way instead.

"Don't drink anything he offers you," Ghost warns. You almost have the mind to chew him out for not trusting you with something so obvious, but... There's something about such subtle 

protectiveness that only feeds your elementary style crush on the man.

"I would love to," you reply as Graves leads you to the bar, hand only moving lower with every step the two of you take. Fear trickles down your spine, your hands squeezing tightly together at your front.

"Say the word and we get you outta' there, Princess," Ghost quips, sharp and to the point.

With your hands already together, you manage to reply an agreement in Morse code -- quick, successive taps of the communications button.

"Good girl," König replies, just a touch breathy from the quietness of his words.

You manage not to trip on your feet, but it's a close thing.

a small snippet, because i feel really bad for my lack of posts!! life is so insane atm its like a satire.

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

Vesuvia Weekly: What it's like to hold the M6

~ my submission for this week's prompt - have some sappy headcanon drabble ^.^ ~

Julian

The sounds of leather folding and bending and creaking, of a pent up sigh, of a noble, anxious, too-big-for-its-own-good heartbeat fluttering against those thin, bird-like ribs

The smell of - yes, more leather - with a slight hint of sweat and the faded scent of the crushed herbs used to stuff doctor's masks

The feel of a well-worn, weather tested, oversized coat falling around both your frames, a cold set of bony fingers tangling into your hair through protective gloves

The sight of folded black cloth and slightly dulled metal buttons, a pale neck cradling your forehead, auburn stubble shivering over a bobbing adam's apple

The bitter taste of sea-salty lips, self-sacrifice, and coffee

Asra

The sound of an airy chuckle, a curious whisper, a deep, relaxed sigh, a heartbeat that touches your own with every gentle thump

The smell of smoking incense, sparkling spices, and syrupy vanilla, lurking beneath the petrichor of sunny spring rains on the dust of a far-off highway

The feel of a soft shawl on your cheek, sturdy linen body-warmed and slightly rough under your arms, heavy, heated hands running soothing pathways along your spine, cloud soft curls on your ears, a deceptively slight frame

The sight of golden metal and silvery blue stone on smooth skin, the barely-there rise and fall of a body slowly relaxing into yours

The taste of smoky tea, home, and desperate dedication

Nadia

The sound of rustling silks, the quiet clink of bracelets and rings, the hush of long, thick hair falling over chiffon-clad shoulders, a contented, throaty hum, a lofty heartbeat

The smell of jasmine, rose, pepper, and amber, of warm silk and chilled white wine, of flower gardens and powdery cosmetics

The feel of a heavy curtain of hair against your face, body warmth passing quickly through thin, gauzy sleeves wrinkling under your movements, of strong fingers tilting your chin into her collarbone

The sight of glinting gemstones and finely crafted metal, intricate embroidery stitches swirling across lustrous fabric, scalloped hemlines along sculpted shoulders

The taste of spiced fish, wine, and plush, commanding adoration

Muriel

The sound of heavy, rough cloth slowly dragging across itself, breaths hitching deep and slow, a grumble quiet and low enough to shake the earth, a nervous, powerful heartbeat

The smell of myrrh hanging around you like a cloud, of warm fur and chilly forest air, of falling leaves and running water and smoke

The feel of muscle and scruff, of radiating body heat, of massive, calloused palms alternating between gently splaying over your shoulders like blanketing weights and hovering cautiously around your waist in fluttering, feather like touches

The sight of thick, dark hair falling in choppy lengths over stubble and scar tissue, of thick green cloth over sinew

The taste of grilled forage and mead, of healing and steadfastness

Portia

The sound of an excited giggle, springing footsteps and jingling keys, a happy gasp and unstoppable heartbeat, a mischievous secret getting laughed into your ear

The smell of air-drying laundry and soap, hair oil and cocoa butter, fresh bread and sizzling butter and caramelizing berries

The feel of strong forearms, small, calloused hands, the push of energetic bouncing against your shoulder, of hair flying around your face, the plush squish of a no-holds-barred bear hug

The sight of fiery curls spilling over clean, pressed cotton, freckles speckling creamy skin, the occasional grey and white cat hair clinging to black ribbon, the dusk of a happy blush

The taste of yeasty bread, and the comforts of adventure

Lucio

The sounds of nearby dogs panting, a cutlass clanking in its sheath, the mechanical whir and musical hum of an alchemical arm, a confident, snorting chuckle and a devoted heartbeat

The smell of fresh sweat, warm metal, cinnamon alcohol in a journeyman's flask, hair gel and worn cologne

The feel of a padded, quilted vest, the quick rise and fall of an active chest, the slight tilt of a shoulder forever sloped in favor of a heavy arm, the sinewed grip of a warrior's touchstarved fingers and the cool, metallic touch of a careful clawed hand

The sight of sharp collarbones and glinting curved gold, fine flaxen hair at the nape of a snowy neck, crimson cloth and leather straps

The taste of grilled meat, traveler's wine, and new beginnings

[gatabella]

Marlene Dietrich by Edward Steichen, US Vogue, May 1935

Marlene Dietrich, the incomparable, wears Travis Banton dresses - one of lavender chiffon with a ruff of violets and above-the-elbow gloves of lavender lace, one of black tulle in billowing flounces. Her jewels are from Trabert and Hoeffer.

[chic-a-gigot]

Le Petit écho de la mode, no. 9, vol. 19, 28 février 1897, Paris. 18. Toilettes de cérémonie. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

(1.) Toilette de mariée en satin. Jupe à traîne ronde, garnie devant d’un volant de mousseline de soie, surmonté d’un cordon de fleurs d’oranger, remontant en quille sur les côtés, corsage froncé devant, croise à partir de la taille garni d’un cordon de fleurs d'oranger terminé par un bouquet. Ceinture drapée. Manches froncées dans toute la longueur, recouvertes du haut par deux volants mousseline de soie, col droit et ruche. Voile de tulle de soie et diadème de fleurs d’oranger, gants suede blanc.

(1.) Satin bridal ensemble. Skirt with round train, trimmed in front with a silk chiffon ruffle, topped with a cord of orange flowers, going up in a keel on the sides, gathered bodice in front, crosses from the waist trimmed with a cord of orange blossoms finished with a bouquet. Draped belt. Full-length gathered sleeves, covered at the top by two silk chiffon ruffles, straight collar and ruffle. Silk tulle veil and orange flower tiara, white suede gloves.

Matér.: 20 m. satin, 2 m. mousseline de soie.

—

(2.) Toilette en bengaline gris nickel et entre-deux dentelle. Jupe ronde, garnie d’entre-deux, disposés en seconde jupe. Corsage blouse froncé à la taille, garni d’entre-deux. Ceinture suissesse en pointe, col droit en velours rubis, collerette de dentelle. Manches garnies d’entre-deux avec petits ballons bien enlevés. Chapeau feutre gris orné dentelle blanche, velours gris, plumes et aigrette blanches.

(2.) Ensemble in nickel gray bengaline and lace insert. Round skirt, garnished with in-betweens, arranged as a second skirt. Blouse bodice gathered at the waist, trimmed with inserts. Swiss point belt, straight collar in ruby velvet, lace collar. Sleeves trimmed with small balloons well removed. Gray felt hat decorated with white lace, gray velvet, white feathers and egret.

Matér. : 15 m. de bengaline, 0m50 velours.

—

(3.) Toilette en moire brodée noire. Jupe ronde unie, montée à fronces derrière. Corsage blouse en bengaline jaune orange en serré daus une haute ceinture-corselet en satin noir, petit figaro très court garni de deux rangs de dentelle. Manches unies avec petit drapé dans le haut, volant au bas. Capote de jais ornée de dentelle et chrysanthèmes.

(3.) Black embroidered moire ensemble. Plain round skirt, gathered with gathers at the back. Blouse bodice in orange-yellow bengaline tightly fitted with a high corselet belt in black satin, very short little figaro trimmed with two rows of lace. Plain sleeves with small drape at the top, ruffle at the bottom. Jet hood decorated with lace and chrysanthemums.

Matér.: 15 m. de moire, 0m50 satin. 5 m. dentelle.

[auroraborealyss]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐋 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐢.

⊹ pairing: morpheus x reader

⊹ summary: you encounter a strange string of coincidences in the forms of old friends

⊹ tags: violence, you don't do well coping with being separated from your husband either, more longing but from reader's perspective this time, established relationship

⊹ warnings: violence, cursing, spoilers for 1.09

⊹ word count: 2671

⊹ previous part: part i.

⊹ up next: part iii

⊹ now playing: thoughts by faime

𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚠, 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎

You wouldn't think a bathroom stop counts as you stopping from running, but the bounty says otherwise.

Your pants are barely up after having taken a piss when the door is kicked open and a hand clutches around your throat. You cry out in pain as your head is slammed against the mirror, carving cracks into the glass. Large fragments break off and fall into the sink next to you, but the piece is just out of reach.

You gasp desperately as you dig your nails into the hunter's hands, but the hunter — a man in his mid forties who you've already narrowly escaped from twice before — learned his lesson from his last attempt and now wears gloves and earmuffs.

You manage to kick his knee, forcing him away from you. But freedom lasts only for a few seconds, and despite your attempt at running away, he grabs your hair and yanks to the floor. He straddles you as he resumes his grip back on your neck, this time with both hands squeezing tight enough that you know it’ll be hard for you to talk for a day or two.

"Bounty...needed...alive..." you choke out.

The hunter scoffs and leans closer to you. "I wanted that bounty the first time I tracked you. Now, this is personal." His grip tightens, and black dots swarm your vision and block him out so all you can hear is his voice in your ear and the stench of cigarettes and bloody. "You hurt my pride, lady Y/N."

Pride. The downfall of all men.

Though the situation doesn't warrant the memory, thoughts of your husband flood you anyways. Perhaps it's because he's always in your thoughts. Or perhaps he's chosen to make this appearance to give you solace from the pain as you black out. For when you open your eyes, you aren't in the dingy gas station bathroom anymore, but a green meadow with trees around and flowers blooming throughout.

Just because you're untouched by Death doesn't mean your memories throughout are vivid or intact. But you remember everything about that day, from the smell in the air — crisp, clean summer air with a fresh breeze that brings around the smell of petals — to the touch of the sun's warmth and your soft, chiffon wedding dress against your skin.

Unlike a dream, you aren't in control. Your body moves according to the memory. You move down the aisle between the three or four rows of seats. At the end of the aisle is a large willow tree, its branches drooping over a white arch where Lucienne stands. She bids you a small smile, which you return with your own, before your eyes shift to him.

Like always, there is a look of adoration in Morpheus' eyes. He looks handsome, having foregone his usual long black coat for a formal suit of that time. He's even managed to tame his messy hair — something Mervyn and Hob must have helped him with. As you get to where he stands, you see his eyes glassy with unshed tears.

"Don't cry, my love," you whisper. You place your palm against his cheek and rub your thumb under his eye. And like always, he leans into your touch, finding comfort in you. He turns his head and press a kiss against your palm — all while not breaking eye contact with you, the coy bastard.

You shake your head and smile.

The memory fast forwards, and suddenly he's saying his vows. He doesn't speak quietly — he has no shame in everyone hearing how much he means to you.

"I vow to always find you, as long as you wait for me. I vow to love you for as long as you let me. And I vow to be your husband until you want me no longer. All I am is yours until you cast me aside. And I beg of you to never."

Thank the gods you had said with your speech first. His speech had rendered you overcome with emotion to do anything else but cup his face and kiss him, both of you sealing your promises of forever with that act.

And both of you had kept your promises to each other. He remained by your side, as you remained by his. Until now.

He, by no fault of his own, disappeared from your side.

And you, also by no fault of your own, disappeared from his side.

A cruel twist of fate. Perhaps the universe restoring balance to the centuries of happiness the two of you lived together. Perhaps that had been enough, and it's time you stop trying to delay the inevitable. Perhaps it's time you stop and succumb to the exhaustion and pain of being with Morpheus.

I vow to always find you, as long as you wait for me.

Wait for me.

Morpheus' vow jerks you back to consciousness. Your eyes snap open, staring directly into the hunter who's looking down at you greedily. His mouth is curled into a hideous snarl, and his pride at seeing you weak and defenceless has drawn his head close enough that your noses were nearly touching.

Behold pride, you think as your hands drop from his wrists in feign unconsciousness, the downfall of all men.

You grab onto the sides of his head and dig your thumbs into his eyes. You try not to think about why your muscles memorize the exact amount of pressure and angle to do it so.

The hunter jerks backwards, screaming, his hands flying to his eyes which has begun to bleed. You cough violently as you take in as much air as you can to soothe the fire in your lungs, all the while scrambling to your knees and trying to get away.

A hand grasps onto your ankle.

You're pulled backwards with a scream.

"Where do you think you're going, lady?" the hunter growls. "I'm not done with you yet—"

"Remove your hands from me."

You feel the man go still. His hand falls from your ankle, and you scramble forwards. You don't need to look back to feel the shift in the air, but you do anyway because looking at them is the least you can do.

The man pulls out his saw from his bag. Without hesitation, he places the blade over his wrist and begin to move back and forth. He screams out in pain and begs for relief, but doesn't stop his motions. The hunter looks over at you, eyes glassy with gold that resembles sand, as his hand falls to the floor.

You're out of the bathroom before he begins his other hand. Before Death arrives for him.

You begin to run and don't look back.

Your throat is throbbing.

You touch your throat gingerly, and you don't need a mirror to know that the handprints of that man are visible against your skin. But even as you cough, the motion rough against your raw throat, you don't stop running.

You catch sight of a hotel, and you feel relief as you turn away from the road and bolt up the hill to the building. It'll be easier to hide in one of the man rooms, but the guarantee of people in the hotel was cause for concern. But as long as you keep your mouth shut, all should be fine.

You slow into a walk as you pass a trio of people in the parking lot. Name tags dangle from their chest, one of who is named, The Music Teacher. In the centuries you've been alive, you've never heard such an in-depth and seriously spoken topic about their favourite methods of cooking barbecue and collecting grills.

As you hurry inside, you pass by a sign that reads: CEREAL CONVENTION.

Is cereal that interesting to warrant a convention? you wonder as you scan the lobby. Nothing looks too out of place, apart from more people with name tags. It wasn't weird that there were adults taking part in the convention, but it was weird that there wasn't a single child in sight. A strange familiarity with those two words only made you more uncomfortable.

"Ma'am?" the receptionist calls. "May I help you?"

You tug up your turtleneck before approaching the reception desk and smiling at the receptionist. She visibly relaxes and smiles back, even wider than before.

"Do I know you?" she asks, peering at you curiously like everyone else who looks at you. But no matter how hard they look, they'll never be able to remember just where they remember you. Dreams had a funny way of being that way.

Even if she doesn't remember, her smile changes from being polite to being genuinely friendly, as if her muscles remember that you were a friend.

You motion for a notepad and pen. The receptionist scurries and puts the tools before you.

1 room, 1 night please, you write down.

She doesn't question it. She eagerly nods and asks for your name, which you also write down.

"You already have a room, ma'am," the receptionist informs you.

You raise a brow. A room? You never reserve your hotel rooms ahead. That guarantees someone waiting to kill you when you get there, as you learned a few decades ago in Manila.

The receptionist seems to understand the confusion on your face. "Perhaps you reserved the room for the convention?" she suggested.

But what interest would you have in a cereal convention—

The invitation.

The memory is jarring. Suddenly, you can picture it clearly. You can even feel the parchment between your fingers as you opened it, and the gasp you let out as you dropped the envelope and an eyeball rolled out, the nerve still attached.

The iris was blue, a shade nearly as light as Morpheus'. You knew it was no coincidence.

You take a step back from the receptionist, reeling that you've walked straight into a trap. You're so caught up in trying to figure out a way to get out without alerting anyone that you hear the receptionist's warning too late and your back hit something large and firm.

You spin around, your hand instinctively going to the hilt of the knife hidden underneath your shirt, before freezing in recognition at the man in a green cloak and cane.

"Lady Y/N?" the man gasps, gawking at you.

"Fiddler's Green?"

You've never seen Fiddler's Green personified as a human before, but the warmth that surrounds him in unmistakeable and makes you relax.

He dips his head in a respectful bow as he puts an appropriate amount of distance before you — a law Morpheus decreed in the Dreaming. He had been more possessive back then, especially since it was right after the power transference ceremony. Though you thought it ridiculous, you saw the slight relief it brought him so you allowed it to remain, pretending you still didn't know about it.

The appropriate response to a bow is to return with a small curtsy, but after a century of running, your first response is to run. You have to go before you harm Fiddler's Green. You'd never be able to forgive yourself for hurting someone so important to both you and Morpheus.

But it's because he's so important to Morpheus, and you've always known him so loyal to the Dreaming, that you think about your words carefully before speaking.

"What are you doing here?" you ask hesitantly, your voice still a bit rough from the fight. "Why have you left the Dreaming when you are so vital to it?"

You wait for the gold to appear in his eyes, but it doesn't appear.

"I am not vital to the Dreaming," Fiddler's Green says. "You and lord Morpheus are, and you were both gone. I left to go search for you, but I stayed for the humans. I do worry for the punishment I will receive. I know lord Morpheus has been calling back his other dreams and nightmares, but I wouldn't exchange it for the knowledge I have learned from the people who visit my glades every night."

You soften at the pureness in Fiddler's Green, but something catches your attention.

"My husband? He's free?"

Fiddler's Green looks surprised. "Why, yes, lady Y/N. He's been back for a few months, I believe. You haven't seen him? I thought that was why you were here. I thought perhaps he sent you after us."

You fight back tears of relief at the news that your husband has managed to break himself free from his cage. Your only regret is not being the one to have helped freed him, and you hope he doesn't resent you for that.

But what if he does? What if he thinks you have abandoned him? What if he thinks you've cast him aside? A hundred years, and he never received a visit from you. Now he's been free for months and you have not received a visit from him.

Why had he not come looking for you?

"There is something else you must know, lady Y/N." Fiddler's Green bends to your height. "The Corinthian is here."

You look at him in panic. How was it possible that you, him, and the Corinthian were all in the same place at the same time? You hadn't meant to come to the convention, yet there you were. Fiddler's Green definitely didn't prepared to se you or the Corinthian, which meant he was unaware too. What could be the reason for three pieces of the Dreaming to be near each other?

"I'm here to help Rose Walker find her little brother, Jed," he continues. "I fear both her and the boy are in danger from him."

"Then you must return to the Dreaming and let my husband know," you say without thinking.

The second the words leave your mouth, gold fills Fiddler's Green's eyes. He straightens and turns on his heel, and despite telling him to stop, he marches out of the hotel without another glance back, leaving you alone with your whispered apology going unheard.

Shit, you think. You try to dismiss your worries by entrusting Fiddler's Green's safety to Morpheus. He would be safer in the Dreaming than here with the Corinthian and no Morpheus.

You grab the piece of paper he had been holding. It's a missing poster for Jed Walker, and contains a picture of him with an older girl — Rose Walker, you presume.

If two mortals were being preyed on by a nightmare, then it was part of your responsibility as lady of the Dreaming to protect them. Morpheus can deal with the Corinthian. You just have to trust he'll come.

Of course he'll come, you think as you pocket the poster. I'm his wife.

In the corner of your eye, you catch sight of a man in a beige suit. There's something charmingly offputting about the man even from a distance — something you've only seen another man possess before.

You head in his direction immediately, only to be stopped by a man with the name tag Fun Land.

"Only guests are allowed in the convention."

"I think—"

"Guests only."

You eye him irritatedly. You glance at the extra name tags on the table, one of which you recognize coldly. Slowly, you look back up at Fun Land, then at the other convention attendees who are also wearing name tags. The conversations you manage to overhear are still talking about collecting. Only now, you're starting to understand what this fucking convention's really about.

"Can you check if I'm on the list?" you ask tightly.

"You're a guest?" he asks dubiously. "Name?"

"Whispers."

His eyes widen. You don't entertain the excitement in his voice as he apologizes and starts to ramble about how he was a fan. You snatch your name tag from his trembling grasp, his palm slightly sweaty, before starting your search for the Walkers in the basement, where you also coincidentally saw the man in the beige suit head down.

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ…

You push Jed behind you.

He grips onto the back of your shirt, trembling in fear as you and him both look at the Corinthian and the man being stabbed to death by two others behind him.

Even with those dark shades on in the dimly lit room, you know the Corinthian is looking at you. You can feel his stare raking you up and down, taking every inch of you greedily. His tongue darts out to lick his lips.

It has been a century since he last saw you, after all. An entire century since he stopped you from entering the basement of Rodrick Burgess and freeing your husband when you were right outside the door, and instead put a bounty on your head.

"Hello, my lady," the Corinthian says, his honey-like drawl drawing shivers from you as always. He dips his head in a bow — more mocking than respectful. He takes a step towards you, and you take three back. "I've missed you."

ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇᴅ…

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗆 𝗂 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐-𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋?

𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗂 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗒𝗈𝗎! 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍'𝗌 𝗎𝗉𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗈 𝗂 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇!

╰┈➤ 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵!

╰┈➤ 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘧!

𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 @aurorarevenclaw1927, @hueanhdang

𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 @justviktormlolm, @amirahroronoa, @sunna-fangirls, @mrs-captainsteverogers, @absbdbshhs, @urbanbts, @theamuz, @ac-procrastinator-13, @thegreatestsandwich, @julegrav009-blog, @harrypotter55, @blossomedfloweroflove, @lestaikkeullsokka, @thetrashypanda423, @ponyboys-sunsets, @izzicle, @dilfsandtherapy, @mischiefmanaged71, @grippleback-galaxy, @cynic-spirit, @thecrazytealady, @violet-19999, @junobutbored, @avanisbored, @redskull199987, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @ladymoon666, @celestialceremonials, @mm2305, @ttae-yong, @thegreatestsandwich, @notabotiswear, @boofy1998, @crimsonsabbath, @megumimind, @itsnanabun, @spygrrl99, @regulusblacksimpsblog, @maverey, @storm4433, @writerinlearning, @lokigirlszendaya, @thesadvampire, @thestarsanctuary, @floreoo, @pinkpunkdynamite, @jesllianaquilesrolon, @aegeanblues, @anjimimimoo, @imaginativefanatic, @book-place, @littlemoistcarrot, @lorosette, @wondermia69, @commanderfreethatdust

𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌, 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎!

[wazzappp]

I am a woman of weak will with no excuse for this @moosemonstrous thank you for being my most trusted enabler advisor and @cicada-candy thank you for your encouragement <3

WOE. GHOST RIDER MAGICAL GIRL AU HELLFIRE GALA FITS BE UPON YE.

Ok so the first genre is High fashion/Familiar themed!

Robbie is in something edgy and asymmetrical. Lots of variations in texture with solid, glitter and mesh areas. A fun grungy makeup style that I thought would suit him well. The more solid areas have a snakeskin texture that I'm not sure came through in the image export sorry lol. Delicate silver pieces help to balance out the harshness of the general aesthetic of the dress. Overall tried to mimic the slithering motion of a snake with the twisting pattern of his dress materials and made it a little more obvious with the snake bracelet.

Danny's focuses on layered sheer materials. Lots of feather and wing embroidery to connect him to his familiar. Nice silver chain around the waist to give the dress some shape and structure and help separate the top and bottom areas. Leg slit to create some interest so things aren't too symmetrical and boring (also you have moose to thank for the boob window lmao). A fun little wing pendant for the back detail ties it together pretty well I think.

JOHNNYYYYYYYYYY pulled a LOT of Avril Lavigne vibes and I'm honestly not sure why. I guess I just really wanted to see in some 'trashy' Y2K fashion (trashy in quotation marks cause I think it's COOL actually) and she's the first person that came into mind. Fur at the top of the dress contrasts with the shiny/glitter material on the rest of it. White tips on the ends of his boots and gloves because of Zaradogs lil sock feet <3. A fun ponytail with some black chain necklaces finishes everything pretty well.

FRANK. DIFFICULT AS ALWAYS. HAD to include fur I had to connect him to Cat-stle somehow. Other than that his look is very Matrix inspired. Very slick and fairly practical. SPIKY ass boots and a fun laceup back add some detail to the otherwise very simple fit. Some mesh areas on the jacket also include just a little bit of variation in texture.

BALLROOM LOOKS!! We getting FANCY.

Something light and fun for Robbie with LOTS of gradient chiffon. A more solid waist wrap to help eccentuate a more solid shape for the more drifting ends of the dress. I'm a sucker for sheer sleeves brother I have no excuse.

EEEEEE PRINCESS DANNY COMING THROUGH!! I LOVE how this one came out! Fun off the shoulder moment with gloves to make sure his arms don't look too plain. Faux silver corset that dissolves into layers of sheer glittery material to form a full length ballgown with lots of nice volume.

JOHNNY YOU GAVE ME TROUBLE. Wanted to include lots of geometric shapes (moose and I looked at QUITE A FEW reference images) so I was able to fit that in with the tessellation patterns on the sleeves and mesh sides, as well as the triangular shape of the top area of the dress. Tried not to overdo the gold glitter by limiting it to a strip down the middle with longer black panels on the sides.

Frank with a VERY classic look I'm a sucker for a square top. He's also got the fun mesh sleeves, this time with some lace patterns. Layered skirt with a bit of volume and glitter ends (I'm a SUCKER for glitter ends). Vibrant red top to show off his signature color with some ribbing to mimic a corset.

AFTER PARTY DRESSES. Fuckin. Euphoria lookin ass dresses. Idk man I just love these kinds of dresses and thought I would go ham at the end for one final nonsense fun look.

[nom-central]

Voretober D16 & 17- Sweet Drink

As you approached the bakery, the scent of chocolate was the first thing to hit your senses. Spellbound Delights...you had heard plenty of things about this bakery. The pastries and desserts here were to die for, certain treats were imbued with magic that could help you out during the day, and the owner was actually made of the very desserts she baked. Related to that, you've heard from some...hungrier sorts, that she's a delicious challenge no one's succeeded in bagging yet.

You weren't here for anything like that, though.

Entering the bakery, you found it decorated for Halloween in purples and oranges. The chocolatey smell was almost overpowering in here, with its source being the witchy-looking woman behind the counter. Her large hat looked as though it was sprinkled with powdered sugar, and a large strawberry slice sat atop of it as some sort of accessory. Her dress was a deep brown and accented with the same dusting of white, and it all smelled very sugary. You noted her long black hair wasn't hair at all, but long strands of melty chocolate...you guessed what you heard was true. She was watching you look around with an amused smile, resting her head in her hands.

"Hey, sugarplum~ Welcome to Spellbound Delights! Anything I can get you?" Chiffon's smile was about as sweet as she is.

Pulled back to attention, you nod and look over the display case and menu. The pastries looked good, but you didn't know she did drinks now too! These milkshakes looked and sounded good, though you didn't understand what these ingredients were....you didn't have food allergies, so you'd be fine! Ideally... Your attention seemed to linger on a shake that looked like a pastel version of the night sky. Pointing it out to her, her smile seems to fall a bit.

"Oh, you'd like that one...? It's a great milkshake, but it's only popular with...certain customers, if you know what I mean. I can make it for you without the enhancements, if you're sure..."

The look in her eyes tells you all you need to know about it. You tell her you want the drink, and the enhancements were exactly what you had in mind. She tilted her head, thinking it over for a moment, before her face lights up. "Oh, I see! You're...ehehe, I don't get too many like you~ Here, it'll be on the house!"

Chiffon disappeared to the back all too happily, and was quick to reappear with a glittering milkshake and a big smile. "It's a bit small, sorry about that! But you know, nobody ever gets to finish these..." She sets down the cup in front of you, and you take a sip to taste it. It somehow tastes like your favorite dessert despite the ingredients...is that a part of the magic? Without realizing it you've sucked down about half of the drink, earning a chuckle from the witch. Maybe that's enough of that...you set the shake down, wondering when it'd take effect. A coolness was spreading through your body, but you figured that was just because it was cold.

However, in the blink of an eye, your world is suddenly so much bigger. It doesn't take long for some black high-heeled boots to step into your vision, and a gloved hand to gently lift you up. "I didn't think you'd drink it so quickly, goodness that worked fast! But you're good enough to eat now, ehehe...if you've got any friends like you, tell them to swing by sometime, got it? I'd love for more willing treats to stop in~!"

Before you can react, she pops you into her mouth! There's a pleased hum that echoes around you, she must like how you taste...or made it so you'd taste even better. You went limp against her tongue, letting her swirl you around in her mouth, coating you in sticky dark saliva. Her mouth was warm and felt almost spongy like a cake, but being made of food didn't make it hard for her to swallow you in one gulp.

The trip down Chiffon's throat felt like forever, but it was a comfortable trip into her stomach. You plopped down into a thick pool of some kind of thick, almost fudgy frosting. Her stomach was hot, making the pool sludgy, and you felt more like you were in a mud bath than in a stomach. Some contented sounds from above told you that you were a fine snack for the witch, coupled with the happy sounding burbles from her stomach. You were happy, and you didn't even mind the chocolate stains your clothes were inevitably going to get. Maybe you'll visit again with friends, at her request...

[devdas5z]

Xie Keyin

[soulless-computerbug]

Hi Scrolly. I saw your sensory thing and was wondering what you thought for Masky, Hoodie, and Sally? Hope work is less boring!

Ooo i havent had a chance to talk much about sally!

Tim:

Fiery red sunsets over highway signs and bridges. Dusty motel rooms and pressed stale sheets, clean white lines and navy blue quilts messed up under flat pillows. The burn of the vodka stirred into your soda, the pleasant warmth that settles in your stomach afterwards. Cigarette smoke mingling with early morning fog, blue hour and hazy clouds painted on the horizon line. The smell of gunpowder and the flashbang of a hunter's gun, the screams and crunch of grass and underbrush as you run aimlessly, panicked and startled like a deer. Predators chasing close on heel, burning static blooming in your face, behind your eyes and nose. Overtaken, blacking out, and feeling someone else's blood fill your veins and move your hands.

Brian:

Cold steel, silver, titanium. Rings and circles and holes and loops of black metal, coils of fence wire, spiraling endlessly inwards and inescapable. The roar of a motor, the hum of the engine under your feet, wind through your hair and whipping tears from your eyes. Slammed stops at signs, at crossroads, at little moments of hesitation you shame yourself for still finding and hitting. Thick itchy wool gloves, splintered old wood in your palms, the nauseating scratch of brick and mortar under your nails. Absence and brain fog, like trying to tread through wet sand and slurried mud. Waking up with the taste of mold and blood thick on your tongue. Resigning yourself to forget it once again, it wasn't your mouth that bit anyways.

Sally:

Midnight tv static, sheer lacy curtains barely swaying in the still air. Soft fluffy carpet over old creaking floorboards, thin socks and excited shushes. Cotton and chiffon, bright summer days and clean white laundry on the clothesline, shading small white daisies in the grass. Mud on the hem of your dress, the cuffs of your pants, wood chips prickling under your feet as you sit with your friends by the swings. The smell of breakfast tea and the sweet taste of cherry jam, the crunch of a fresh green grape and scrunching up your nose at the seeds inside. Catching a moth in your little hands and being awed at the dusty soft touch of its wingbeats against your skin. The way laughter bubbles in your chest and spills out like water from your lungs, bubbles of soap that cast rainbows against the peeling white walls.

[the-king-and-the-druidess]

Merlin barely looked back at the dead woman left lying in the glade. The last High Priestess fell by his hand, and he felt only emptiness. He and Arthur went away as her spirit was gone to the other side. It's over.

Morgana has had dreams of death, blood, and doom. But this dream is not like that. It's mysterious and strangely soothing. She walks through the misty forest, dry leaves crunch under her blue silk slippers' soles, black twigs cling to the white chiffon of her sheer sleeves. There is no other way, there is only mist and a road.

"Keep moving." She says to herself. It will be far better than stopping and doing nothing.

A huge oak tree grows in a glade in the middle of the forest. Its gnarled branches, green with wet thick moss, are lost in the sky that does not exist; only mist does. A neat pyramid of round flat stones is stacked under the oak, and a beautiful sword is stuck in the ground next to the pyramid, a sword whose blade is like the watery moonlight. One small metal fragment is missing. A raven-haired young man dressed all in black is sitting next. His curly head lowered down. When he hears Morgana's footsteps, he raises his pale face and looks at her. She sees the silvery mist in his big sorrowful eyes. He is not able to see her. The "who are you?" melts on her scarlet lips unspoken.

Because at this moment, Morgana realises that she will always love this man, all of her life. She will seek for him, will wait, will cry when he betrays her and everything, will forgive him. He is the one. She sits down next to him on the withered yellow grass. Silent west wind blows through it, comes up and caresses their hair. What difference does it make who he was or who he will be when he is the one who will share death with her. Still not looking at Morgana, the black knight finds her hand and squeezes it tightly; his is clad in a black leather glove. He won't let her go anymore.

Morgana pulled back the blankets and lied down in her bed. It was cool and smelling of lavender. She looked up at the welcoming blue stars in the stained glass windows and fell asleep.

[ofstormsandsaints]

Fashion in the Demon World

Now, now, before we start I'd like to make a small introduction.

The four clans, like any ethnic group, have their own customs and criteria on what is fashionable and aesthetically pleasing to their senses.

like everywhere else, the climatic conditions influence a lot their fashion.

the images chosen here are not an accurate depiction of what I'm describing, at all. I prefer to keep it vague and leave it to your imagination :). I simply choose pretty pictures because...because pretty is good.

also, I want to mention that I wrote this headcanon, inspired by @nutaella-kookie 's own headcanons on the demon world. The way she envisions the dl lore is incredibly interesting and I thank her for giving us a piece of her mind on so many topics.

therefore, I will link @nutaella-kookie 's work whenever I use it because we ought to give credit to creators.

that being said, here we go, starting with our long teeth misogynistic bastards <3

the bat (vampire) clan

first of all, I headcanon that vampires have the most connections with the mortal realm. When you arrive in the demon world, you're greeted by its eerie big forest. Its path leads you to two big roads: the road towards the vampire territory and the one guiding you on the winding Vibora lands.

So the vampire clan benefited from the access to textiles from the human world which helped their textile industry to grow extremely fast. In addition to their own resources.

With the abundance and diversity of fabrics, the special access to Vibora's trade routes for jeweller's craft and in the inspiration taken from human fashion through the centuries, led to one thing :

being extra.

leather gloves, lacy corsets, smooth-like silk blouses, goddamn cloaks lined with velvet, all that in those rich, dark shades of blue, burgundy or raven black... They do live in their neo-victorian-dark-fantasy-Hot Topic-aesthetic and they're proud of it.

They appreciate some of the cliché vampire representation. Not all of it, but they do live up to the Volturi aesthetics-

Also, I can imagine that up the time they were alive (physically and psychologically speaking), because of how different their wardrobes and colour palette were, the three wives had drawn attention on their fashion sense.

Some women would be intrigued by Cordelia's scandalous and sensual clothing style, somewhat inspired by her Vibora origins with those heavy jewels and revealing cuts. An antique seductress.

Others would aspire to look like Beatrix. Sweet B. and her mature, aristocratic look. The elderly tend to favour her modesty but we don't ask for their opinion here

Finally Christa and her pale dresses matching her snowy features, the transluscent chiffon of her veils, the roses, the white lilies and the sweet peas, the delicately laced neckline. Purity adored and abused.

the vibora clan

here we have the most open-minded clan.

they believe in the gender neutrality of clothes slay-

Imagine Oberyn Martell from Game of Thrones and the whole aesthetic surrounding the land of Essos.

They're desert people for the most part, contrary to vampires who have a balmier weather, viboras need lighter fabric. The trade with the vampire clan allow them to have all the cotton, linen, taffeta, chambray they need.

As mentioned before, they like revealing cuts, on men and women

Breathable and practical clothes... and an indecent amount of jewellery.

Vibora jewellers are the best at their craft in the entire demon world. It's indisputable. Thus, the Vibora fashion is essential made of seductive cuts, organza veils and gilded body chains.

How do you recognise a vibora? By ear.

with the golden chains, the long diamond earrings, the delicate bracelets embedded in emeralds, garnets or amethysts, it all glides smoothly on the silk of their clothes, making them hiss softly as they slide next to you.

We could imagine the snake has an important place in their fashion but they don't like to overuse it. Instead, they display some references in the colours, or in their collars, made of jewels, reminescent of the head of a cobra.

the adler clan

Adler's tailors are one of the best in the demon world.

They may be pompous ass but god they look good.

Dignified posture, straight, clean cuts and always dressed according to the sky's colours.

Their clothes are obviously adapted to their wings, made so that the fabric would not tear at the first wing flap. It is breathable, practical, solid, form-fitting, light, protective, and super elegant. With fine embroidery details, vests lined with silver, collars not too tight but that do not let the wind enter and possibly inflate the tunic.

Dude, they do dominate the game.

They wear boots and closed shoes most of the time because you don't want them to fall mid-flight.

But that is on their day-to-day fashion.

During festivities, they do keep the clean and lean silhouettes but they indulge in more eccentricity with accents of gold and silver, gilded feathers, and thinly shaped gems on women's clothes. They also who show more of their back, their nape, and their shoulders.

But no matter the situation, they need to be able to fly.

So like Edna said: no capes.

the wolf clan

last but not least: Shin's true family nah c'mon, let's leave him alone for a bit.

war outfits.

As stated by @nutaella-kookie , they live in the west part of the demon world, in very flat lands, suffering from the harsh weather conditions (suffocating summers but stupidly humid and cold winters) and because of their military defeats, their wealth and resources are now...lacking. To give an example: the poorest Adler citizen is probably wealthier than the most powerful wolf of the pack.

When living in plateaus, boots are a must-have.

They became experts in tanning and they could sell their leather at a very good price if the vampires didn't replace them on the market with their products and the leathers from the human world.

They also have good furriers whose products are quite demanded in the Adler mountains.

The wolves need warm, strong and fire-proof fabrics (as they hate fires).

The silhouettes are generally loose-fitting; tunic shirts and pants inspired by the Russian rubakha.

They wear an overcoat inspired either by the Mongolian deel or by the (Russian) kaftan, worn with a large sash made of leather. At least, they have at their disposition a variety of pigments to dye their clothes according to their classes.

The King/Queen and their mate are the only ones allowed to wear precious materials (ironically, they prefer silver to gold.) Otherwise, the other wolves wear bronze or brass.

Even in celebrations or for reunions between the four clans, the Wolf clan will always appear in a martial outfit. The meeting could be peaceful, they want to look prepared to fight, no matter what. They don't trust anyone anymore.

Have a nice day folks

more vampire clan inspo

more vibora clan inspo

more adler clan inspo

more wolf clan inspo

[saitama-division]

Evening descended upon the city of Saitama, as the previously pristine azure sky turned into a faded celadon blue.

A gloved hand knocked on the door to the Miyuki residence.

No longer surprised, Sayaka made a beeline for the front door and was met with a young woman with bright red hair.

“Miyuki,” Shian Meizono said, her voice curt. “Happy Birthday. I’m up here for yet another hunt. Thought I’d stop by while I’m here and send in something for you.”

She pulled a palm-sized chiffon-pink box from her giant duffel bag. She quickly took Sayaka’s hand and placed the box in her palm.

“You know, since you’ve helped me out a number of times on my hunts. And speaking of ‘hunt,’ I should get going. Okay, bye now.”

Before Sayaka could respond, Shian had turned the other way and headed for her black sports car and drove off.

Bewildered by how short the greeting was, Sayaka carefully opened the box and pulled out what was inside.

It was a gorgeous pink bottle of perfume, the cap shaped into a beautiful mermaid curled into a ball with her back against a crescent moon.

Sayaka peered at the labels on the back of the box, reading the contents to herself.

‘Forever Blooming Flower’

‘Top notes: Watermelon, Convallaria majalis, Jasmine, Tea.’

‘Middle notes: Gardenia, Daffodils, Cantaloupe’

‘Base notes: Grass, Bellflower, Vetiver’

“Um...” Sayaka blinked, confused as she watch the vehicle drive off into the upcoming night before slowly closing the door. While Sayaka had met all sorts of people, especially since entering the Division Rap Battles, it was still quite something that she had yet to get used to but it did make the brunette happy that people from other divisions and some she hadn’t met before were taking the time out of their days to wish her a happy birthday or give her a gift. Speaking of, she looked at the bottle of perfume the mysterious redhead woman gave her and smiled, taking off the cap and spraying a small amount, she hummed at the delightful scent that filled her senses. “How lovely.” She smiled.

Thank you for the gift!

[darthmaulification]

I loved your sugardaddy death maul dribbles n headcannons 😔👌🏻 will you make more in the future?? I’d love to see more tbh 😩💖💖💖

LOLZ sorry for being so inactive gamers, i’ve been doing a lot in my IRL life. 😅 this has been sitting in my inbox for a lil while, and since then sugar daddy maul has been haunting me. 💗

i totally want to write more, especially a full length thing, but it’s honestly a lot of twiddling my thumbs and twirling a lock of hair around my finger waiting for inspiration to write to strike LMAO 💀💀

i did write these two mini drabbles to tide us all over until then though!! enjoy!!

(18+ and as gn!reader as possible!! also the second drabble got a tad dark whoops)

clothes shopping

“Wonderful.” The compliment is spoken in a tone often reserved for the midnight hours and glasses of champagne. Maul continues in that same sultry purr, “Positively radiant.”

Red satin and shimmering chiffon drape over your body like a crimson waterfall. The robes are form-fitting in all the right places, breathable and flowy where needed. Gilded armbands hold the fabric up while gold bracelets around your wrists keep a loose sleeve on your arms. Your feet are bare, aside from a couple toe rings and pearl anklets.

And, as always, the thin gold chain with its single ruby eye sparkles around your neck.

You meet Maul’s gaze in the shop mirror. behind you, he stands tall, one arm behind his back, one hand at his chin— contemplative, mulling over his thoughts and the sight of you in the gorgeous robes and jewelry he picked out, appraising. With a smirk and approving hum, Maul’s expression shifts into one of utmost satisfaction.

“You look delectable, my pet.” He says, voice as smooth as honey and just as addictive. He places his gloved leather palms firm on your hips, squeezing, a hot iron grip— a promise. His touch is like heaven on fire, and the positive attention has you preening. A smile pulls your lips upwards, then Maul brings one hand up to your neck and a single finger hooks around your choker.

“Let us retire to my quarters, shall we?”

-

arm candy

It’s not the first time that your presence has been accosted in such a manner, but that doesn’t make it any less upsetting. The words levied at you burn your mind, swirling around your thoughts like a vicious storm. Deep down, you know it's nothing to be ashamed of— as you’re content and happy with your life— but your chosen... profession has a stigma that nips close at its heels.

Just another common whore, all desperate and spread-legs, for a man’s attention. You going to warm my bed too, sweetheart?

The Zabrak who had spit that at you was not your Zabrak. He was some sneering, tight-lipped Iridonian Zabrak, with dull beige skin and minimal tattoos. Your Dathomirian Zabrak, with his masterful body art, would never say such a thing to you— Least not without your explicit consent.

The room's at a complete hush. Dead silence. Next to you, where Maul sits in his throne, you can practically feel the fire of his wrath searing the air. Cheeks burning with embarrassment, you continue to stare at your folded hands in your lap.

In your peripheral, Maul snarls and rises abruptly. His voice comes out in a deadly hiss, “What did you say?”

The words slice the stiff and unmoving atmosphere, and you look up just in time to see the Iridonian's haughty visage practically crumbles. He makes eye contact with you— fear written plain on his face— and you look away, at Maul.

He stands tall, fists clenched at his sides, his jaw muscles tense. A vicious snarl tugs his face into one that screams danger— a cobra coiled and braced to strike. His eyes are blistering, volcanic eruptions. Maul’s saberstaff hangs at his hip, sheathed, but waiting.

"I-I...! I meant no-no— Please forgive me.” The Iridonian stammers through a desperate plea for his life, taking several steps back, unknowingly bumping into the two black-armored Mandalorian guards who appear like harbingers of death behind him. He yelps when they sieze his arms, cries out in pain when one of the two kicks his knee out from under him. The beige Zabrak falls to the floor with a thunk!, held aloft by the iron grips on his upper arms.

“Please! I’m sorry! I beg of you!” You watch as the Iridonian begins to openly weep, sniveling in the face of his demise like the coward he is. Maul glances to you and clears his throat, gaining your attention. Though his expression is still furious, and his hackles raised and stern— His eyes are soft for you.

“It’s your call, my darling pet.” Maul says in a low rumble, and everything the other man said to you melts away. You give Maul a small smile, fiddling with the ruby on your choker, and although you’ve never considered yourself a vengeful person— You’re allowed to send a message here.

“I think he’d quite like being locked away for a little while, my Lord.” You reply, and Maul grins wolfishly, flicking his wrist. At once, the Mandalorians heave the prisoner into the grasp and without wasting a second, march out of the room. The sounds of the Iridonians pleads and screams disappear the second the doors close.

Maul steps closer to you, a dangerous grin on his face, and his gloved hand lays firm on the base of your neck. His thumb rubs circles on your skin, and you lean into his touch. Maul’s index finger loops around your choker just as his other hand rises to cradle your chin in his palm. He turns your head to look up at him, and you’re gone to his honeyed gaze.

“Fantastic decision, my pet.” He purrs, akin to a satisfied lion and just as regal. Then, in an action that’s quite rare combined with the praise, Maul leans down and plants a kiss to your lips.