#high coiffure

[gogmstuff]

1770s dress -

Top  1770 Marie-Suzanne Giroust (1734-1772), wife of Alexander Roslin by Alexander Roslin (location ?). From tumblr.com/lenkaastrelenkaa 2048X2616.

Second row  1774 Hedvig Elisabeth Charlotta by Alexander Roslin (Nationalmuseum - Stockholm, Sweden). From Wikimedia.

Third row left  1770s Lady by Alexander Roslin (location ?). From tumblr.com/silverfoxstole; fixes spots & some cracks w Pshop 2048X2576.

Third row right  1777 Jeune femme de qualite by Jean Laurent Mosnier (auctioned by Christie's). From invaluable.com-auction-lot-jean-laurent-mosnier-paris-1743-1744-1808-saint-p-67-c-9e67941402 3157X3164. An early appearance for a zone bodice.

Fourth row left  1779 Adrienne Sophie, Marquise de Montesson by A. St. Aubin. From invaluable.com 2531X3548.

Fourth row right  1779 Louise Emilie, Baroness of Andlau by A. Saint-Aubin. From invalueable.com 22528X3536.

Fifth row  1779 Varvara Golytsyna by Dmitry Grigoryevich Levitsky (auctioned by Sotheby's). From Wikimedia; exposure +15% contrast -20% 1561X2000.

Sixth row  ca. 1775 Duc de Choiseul, his mistress, the Comtesse de Brionne and the Abbé Barthélmy (Getty Museum - Los Angeles, California, USA). From the Google Art Project; increased exposure 981X782.

Seventh row  Antonio Ghidini and his family by Pietro Melchiorre Ferrari (Labirinto della Masone - ). From tumblr.com/history-of-fashion 2048X2833.

[tompettyscontroversiallyyounggf]

Isadore [last name tbd]

[xiaq]

Is it time for a Steddie time travel fix-it AU? (yes)

A03

There’s something wrong with Steve Harrington.

It’s not that Eddie’s watching him. Not that he pays any special attention to him. But the guy is noticeable. He’s the closest thing Hawkins has to royalty: Rich. Star athlete. Attractive. He’s the cliche golden boy of every teen movie with his polos and letterman jacket and vacant, pretty smile as he walks down hallways with his arm around the girl-of-the-week. He’s a predictable staple; a static figure in the horror script that is Eddie’s high school existence.

So when Steve Harrington shows up to school on an otherwise ordinary Wednesday looking and acting really fucking different, Eddie notices.

Well, he doesn’t actually look all that different. The clothes are normal. But his hair is far from its typical careful coiffure, and there’s a frantic energy to him as he shoves his way through the double doors and jogs into the empty hallway.

He doesn’t see Eddie, tucked in the bathroom alcove.

The only people at the school this early are the marching band kids, wrapping up their hellishly early practice, and Eddie, waiting to sell to a tuba player with no concept of how much weed should actually cost. Eddie has no intention of informing him.

Steve Harrington, pacing in front of a segment of lockers, checking his watch, shoving his fingers through his hair, is wildly out-of-place in the bright-lit early-morning hallway.

And then, things get weirder.

Because Robin Buckley exits the band room and they both freeze.

“Fuck,” she says, “are you––”

“Rob,” Steve says, and it's the most gut-wrenching sound Eddie has maybe ever heard in his life.

She throws herself at him and they hug like—Eddie doesn’t even know. Like the people you see on the news from war zones who thought their family had been killed before a miraculous reunion.

“Are you ok?” she asks, voice cracked and carrying in the empty hallway. “I woke up this morning and my mom was just acting like everything was normal and I had to get to practice and I thought maybe it had all been some fucked up dream but even I’m not that creative.” She pushes away from him, tugging up the bottom of his shirt, “what about––are you––?”

He grabs her wrist, shaking his head. “No, I’m fine. I’m completely fine. I’m just…1983 me.”

What the fuck, Eddie thinks.

Well, he’s already been thinking that, but. What does that even mean? What else would he be?

“Are the kids ok?”

What kids?

“I don’t know. I don’t have a walkie or anything anymore it’s all––” Steve gestures, “reset. And if this is ‘83 then they’re all actual children again, El might not even be––and what if they don’t––”

“They have to. I mean, if we do, they have to, right?”

Are they on drugs? Is he on drugs? The blunt he smoked last night shouldn’t cause hallucinations. He pinches himself. Ow.

The band hall doors open again and Eddie shifts further into the alcove as several horn players walk past.

“We can figure things out after school,” Steve murmurs. “We just have to hold it together until then. I don’t know if we’re stuck here or not but if we are––”

“Right. Act normal. Just normal, 16-year-old Robin things. No problem.”

They grab each other again, a tight, desperate, embrace that is not at all normal, Eddie feels it’s important to point out. He didn’t even think that Harrington knew Buckley existed. It’s almost as strange as if Harrington decided to hug Eddie. Inexplicable.

They separate, Robin rubbing at her eyes and Harrington muttering something about not remembering his locker combination. Eddie’s customer arrives before he can decide if he wants to investigate things further.

Focusing in his first period is even more impossible than usual. Focusing on math is tedious enough normally, but when Robin Buckley and Steve Harrington are having some sort of shared nervous breakdown it’s even harder to care about logarithmic functions.

He sees Steve again in the hallway after first period and Eddie will admit he’s actively looking for him now. Steve is talking in hushed tones to Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Beyers of all people. His hair is an absolute wreck, and his posture is…Eddie doesn’t know how to describe it. 'Aggressive' isn’t quite right but it’s close.

And then, like Harrington has some sort of intuition he’s being watched, he glances up and meets Eddie’s eyes.

Eddie doesn’t know why he runs. His fight or flight instincts have been well-honed his 4 years at Hawkins High and there’s something about the feral-ness in Steve’s stance, the completely unfathomable emotion in his eyes, that has Eddie shoving his way around the corner and into the bathroom. He drops his lunchbox into the sink and pushes both hands into his hair with a quietly muttered: “fuck.” He feels like he might be going crazy.

The door opens.

“Eddie,” Steve says.

It sounds strangely similar to the way he’d said “Rob” that morning–full of something Eddie doesn’t understand.

“Harrington,” he says warily.

Steve takes two steps forward and Eddie automatically scrambles backward, running into the wall and bashing his elbow against the paper towel dispenser. Steve has never actually hurt him before, but some of the guys he hangs out with have and—

Steve freezes: both hands out, reaching for nothing.

“You don’t—?”

There’s a question, there, but Eddie has no idea what it is.

“Eddie?” he says again. This time, it’s desperate and Eddie has no idea why.

The only time he’s ever seen someone’s eyes look like this is when he was looking at his own reflection in the church’s bathroom mirror, clinging to the sink at his mother’s funeral.

“Yeah?” Eddie asks. 

Steve’s jaw works. “You don’t remember,” he says blankly.

“Remember what? You’re kinda freaking me out, dude, which is impressive, considering,” he gestures expansively to himself, gives a little shake of his hips so the chains rattle.

Steve doesn’t laugh.

“You don’t remember,” he repeats, more to himself than Eddie. “But you’re ok?”

He’s looking at Eddie’s chest.

“Yes? A-okay. Tip top. Hagan barely touched me yesterday, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

“Tommy hurt you?” Steve says.

Well, shit. The crazy eyes are back. 

“Man, why do you care?”

“Sorry,” Steve says. “I’m sorry, I know this doesn’t make any sense to you, but can I just–”

Eddie lets him approach, this time. Lets him reach out to touch. It’s just one hand, at first, tentative, like Steve is expecting to be rebuffed, palm cupped to the ball of his shoulder over his jacket. “Sorry,” he says again, letting go only to reach for the hem of Eddie’s shirt, “Sorry, I know I probably sound crazy, I just––” he pulls it up, stares at Eddie’s side, and then lets out a hysterical little noise that sounds like a cross between a laugh and a sob.

“You’re ok,” he says.

His fingers are hot on Eddie’s skin, pressed light and shockingly reverent to the space between his hip and rib cage.

“You’re ok,” he repeats. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Hey,” Eddie says, it comes out more breathless than he’d prefer but Steve fucking Harrington has him backed against a wall in a bathroom with his hands up Eddie’s shirt so he thinks a little lack of air is warranted. “Are you ok?”

The fingers on his abdomen flex.

“No,” Steve says. His eyes are wide and fathomless and the look on his face is terrible. “No, I’m not even remotely ok.”

It sounds like a confession. 

Steve lets go of Eddie’s shirt.

He takes a studied step back but then stops, palm still splayed on Eddie’s side, free hand reaching for Eddie’s arm, for his elbow, to cling, like he can’t quite force himself to stop touching; not yet. He’s looking at Eddie like Eddie has broken his heart which doesn’t make any sense because they don’t know each other. They’ve never spoken directly to each other in their lives. So there’s no reason that Steve should be looking at him, like, like––

Like he is.

They’re breathing each other’s second-hand air and Eddie can smell him and there have only been a few times in his life when a boy has looked at Eddie with even half the want that Steve Harrington is looking at him with now. And never, never has a man who looks like Steve Harrington looked at Eddie with anything approaching whatever the hell is on Steve’s face.

“Eddie,” Steve says, and he sounds so lost. 

Eddie’s not proud of it.

He runs away.

He shoves Steve to the side, wrenches open the door, and runs without stopping through the hall, outside, down the sidewalk, and onto the main road. He runs until he has to stop because he can’t breathe and only then does he bend over, hands braced on knees, and look behind him. He almost expects to see Steve has followed him.

He hasn’t. 

Eddie can't decide if he's relieved by that or not. And then he realizes he’s left his entire stash in the lunchbox in the bathroom.

“Fuck,” he hisses, straightening, hands on his head, lungs aching.

“Fuck,” he says again, just for the hell of it.

He has no idea what’s happening.

But what he does know is that something is seriously wrong with Steve Harrington.

Pt2 here.

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 12, 21 mars 1869, Paris. Toilettes de Mme Bréant-Castel, 28. r. Nve. des Pts Champs. Collection of the Rijksmuseum, Netherlands

Robe de dessous en faye vert lumière. Le bord inférieur est garni d'un volant ayant 25 centimètres de hauteur, surmonté d'une ruche chicorée; sur chaque côté cette ruche se sépare, forme un angle droit et remonte jusqu'à la ceinture, de façon à simuler une seconde robe, tandis que le volant représente la robe dessous. Tunique faite avec un crêpe de chine blanc, brodé de fleurs de couleur; la frange du châle sert de garniture à la tunique. Celle-ci est relevée à l'aide de ruches en faye verte de façon à former un très-large pouff par derrière. Ceinture verte se fermant sous un chou assorti. Corsage décolleté en faye vert, recouvert de gaze blanche, et bordé ainsi que les manches courtes de ruches en dentelle. Coiffure de roses thé et roses.

Robe de dessous en pékin rouge à raies satinées, garnie d'un volant coupé en biais ayant 40 centimètres de hauteur. Robe de dessus en cachemire noir brodé, garnie d'une frange noire. Mantelet pareil à la robe, croisé par devant et à revers, fixé par derrière de façon que les pans forment une sorte de tournure assez volumineuse. Le corsage, ouvert, est en cachemire noir. Les manches sont à revers brodés comme ceux du mantelet.

—

Underdress in light green faye. The lower edge is trimmed with a ruffle 25 centimeters high, topped with a chicory ruffle; on each side this ruffle separates, forms a right angle and goes up to the belt, so as to simulate a second dress, while the ruffle represents the dress underneath. Tunic made with white crepe de chine, embroidered with colored flowers; the fringe of the shawl serves as trim for the tunic. This is raised using green faye ruching so as to form a very large pouff from behind. Green belt closing under a matching collar. Low-cut bodice in green faye, covered with white gauze, and edged as well as the short sleeves with lace ruffles. Tea rose and rose hairstyle.

Underdress in red pekin with satin stripes, trimmed with a bias-cut ruffle measuring 40 centimeters in height. Top dress in embroidered black cashmere, trimmed with black fringe. Mantle similar to the dress, crossed at the front and at the cuff, fixed at the back so that the sides form a sort of rather voluminous turn. The open bodice is in black cashmere. The sleeves have embroidered cuffs like those of the mantlet.

[pouralaura]

reflection

a small helping of psychosexual fluff featuring my Tav (Eris) and the devil she knows.

Her hair is too long, yes – but perhaps the perfect length for this purpose. A murmured incantation coats her hand with sweet-smelling oil, and she slicks her short-but-unruly blue-grey locks back loosely in an imitation of Raphael’s own coiffure. His hissed exhale is audible, and she stifles a grin, softening it into a smirk so very much like the one he often wears.

“Do you like it?”

His jaw clenches and she watches a vein in his neck pulse.

“Yes.”

tags: femdom, roleplay, degradation, very light genderplay, oral sex, mention of pegging, the usual light foot stuff you know me for

Eris had worn her hair much longer when she was younger. Blue locks hung down past her shoulder blades at one time; she'd pull it up into a messy bun or plait it when active. Pain in the ass to maintain, honestly. On her twenty-seventh birthday she’d cut it into a wavy pixie. It suits her, she thinks. Easy, no fuss. Painless in the bath, too – long hair she’d have to tie up to use the boudoir’s vast, gaudy pool, but now she leans her head back comfortably against Raphael’s damp bicep, his arm laid out casually behind her, and doesn’t worry about getting her short hair wet. 

It's verging on too long, now, though. Tickles the nape of her neck in the worst way. Needs to be cut every two months or so, which is annoying, but at least it doesn’t take long to snip back into shape. She’ll do it when she returns to Baldur’s Gate tomorrow after finishing up her weekend stay at the House of Hope.

Eris pecks Raphael on the cheek – cherishing the ensuing slight upward quirk of his mouth – and climbs out of the pool, grabbing a soft towel from nearby to dry off. She’ll spend an hour or two curled up with a book while he lounges and casually carries out some revisioning work.

He pays her no mind as she busies herself with redressing, choosing to spread his other arm along the rim of the pool and lean his head back into a tasseled pillow, eyes closing in contentment. Satisfied as a cat; regal as a king.

Eris doesn't reach for her own tunic. Instead she pulls Raphael’s crisp, clean white shirt from the neat pile of their clothing on the plush chair next to the wardrobe and slides her arms into the sleeves, buttoning it up halfway and wearing nothing underneath. He likes this look on her, of course – what manner of man wouldn’t enjoy seeing his lover in his clothing? A mark of possession; a claim; a deed of ownership. Not that Raphael would ever assume to own her, of course; she’s long refused his offer to make her his consort, and estimates said offer isn’t up for review for at least another few years (lest he incur her wrath).

Something pushes her to pick up and don his doublet, too. With an ego the size of his, certainly he’ll delight in seeing both layers on her form. It's not just for him, either; Raphael’s overwhelming scent, sweet and smoldering, always stirs her – not that she's trying to be a fucking weirdo about it, but it is what it is – and she pulls the thick material closer, inhaling him.

The sloshing sounds of the water alert her to the man's presence nearing her, and Eris soon feels the heated press of his body at her back.

“Well, well. I have to commend you on your choice of attire.”

She leans her head back against his shoulder and smiles. “Perhaps you're rubbing off on me.”

“Oh, I have before, and I will again.” The double meaning in Raphael’s words is clear as he presses his naked hips against her rear and inclines his head to mouth at her neck, moving the high collars on the shirt and doublet out of the way. “I can be very persuasive.”

“Don’t I know it, with that sinful voice of yours. What was the line, again – oh, I remember –”

Eris turns in the devil’s arms to face him. 

“The mouse smiled brightly; it outfoxed the cat!” She pitches her voice a bit lower for the next line, remembering Raphael’s seductive, lilting delivery from their first meeting. “Then down came the claw; and that, love –” 

She leans in to kiss him lightly on the mouth, but he grips her hips with a bit more enthusiasm than she'd been expecting and groans softly at the press of her lips, opening his own underneath them. Eager tongue meets eager tongue and it's clear Eris’s earlier hypothesis on his opinion was well-founded.

“Ohhh,” she purrs as they part. “Do I make a fine enough Archdevil Supreme, devil mine?”

“Second only to the real thing,” he rumbles, sliding a hand beneath his unbuttoned white shirt inside the doublet she now wears to shamelessly grope at her breast.

“Haarlep will be terribly disappointed to hear that.”

“Haarlep isn't here. And what a gift that is.”

“Shall I continue, then? Model the rest of your handsome ensemble?”

“If you must,” he grouses, but his eyes are alight with interest. She knows that look very well.

Eris turns away from him as she slides his trousers on. Of slighter stature than her lover, she finds the waist too large and the legs too long, as expected – but a clean snap of Raphael’s fingers from behind her heralds a quick cinch around her hips and a loss of excess fabric around her ankles. (She’ll remember that the next time she needs something of hers hemmed.)

“How do I look?” she asks slyly, and turns back to find him flushed.

Ah. Well-founded, indeed. Terribly, terribly correct, she was. Marvelous.

“Put on your boots,” he demands. “Complete the picture.”

Eris does exactly that, stepping over to lean against the wardrobe behind her to pull each boot on rather than balance precariously on one foot – as the waves of arousal and tension emanating from him are palpable enough to nearly knock her over. When finished, she straightens and spreads her arms wide in an obscenely Raphael-like gesture of welcome.

“Well?”

For all the words the devil has at his disposal, all seem to fail him now. He still holds his head high, mighty like a king, but the deepening flush spreading down his neck and into the wiry hairs on his chest says more than any words would regardless. His cock had already been stirring against her when he’d pressed his hips to hers before; now it’s full and hard and heavy as he looks Eris up and down.

With forced steadiness, haughty tone more than a little patronizing despite his clear interest, he finally says, “It’s as if I’m looking in a mirror, my dear. Besides the obvious differences.”

Eris smiles, and now she's the one resembling the satisfied cat. “Perhaps another touch, I think –”

Her hair is too long, yes – but perhaps the perfect length for this purpose. A murmured incantation coats her hand with sweet-smelling oil, and she slicks her short-but-unruly blue-grey locks back loosely in an imitation of Raphael’s own coiffure. His hissed exhale is audible, and she stifles a grin, softening it into a smirk so very much like the one he often wears.

“Do you like it?”

His jaw clenches and she watches a vein in his neck pulse.

“Yes.”

Victory.

Eris steps lightly, purposefully over to the ornate bed. Her voice is low again when she speaks after a moment. Smooth. Just like his.

“Then, come here…little mouse.”

As if hypnotized, Raphael comes to her slowly and deliberately. His pretty cock bobs thickly between his legs, flushed nearly as red as his cheeks. Upon reaching her, the devil says nothing, filling the silence with his shallow breaths and hesitant eye contact. Eris reaches out to touch his face, brushing fingertips softly, dangerously over his handsome jawline.

“Tell me how you'll indulge me today.”

Her lover takes a deep breath before responding, only the slightest of wavers discernible in a tone rough with arousal.

“I am yours…Archdevil Supreme.”

Eris’s heart thuds in her chest. 

“Get on your knees.”

And he obeys.

Despite having only just donned Raphael’s attire, Eris lets him undress her again now, noting only the smallest of tremors in his strong, elegant hands. He begins with her boots, pulling each one off gently and placing it to the side. She’d foregone footwraps in the interest of simplicity, so her feet are bared to him quickly – true to form, he lifts each one to his face, breathing in and out, heavy cock beginning to leak between his thighs onto the ornate rug beneath him. Presses his open mouth to each arch in turn, moistening her skin and lapping up the condensing droplets, salty and heady.

But as much as Eris loves to watch him fall apart underneath her heel, now’s not the time. She flexes her foot in his grasp, pushes her sole against his striking nose just hard enough that his head falls back. Sneers.

“There are better uses for your mouth, I think, than chasing your own sick cravings. Perhaps we ought to stuff it with cock.”

She’s not harnessed up right now; isn’t equipped with her pretty polished leather phallus her dangerous darling often desires so dearly; but this isn’t about fucking him. It’s about him worshiping her – as him. A narcissist’s fantasy. A perverse, masturbatory scene. The very flavor of deviance her handsome devil adores.

(She'll put her lovely faux cock down his throat another time, though.)

“Continue undressing me, and then we’ll discuss the terms of our agreement.”

Raphael scrambles to heed her request, unbuttoning his own trousers and pulling them eagerly down over the curves of Eris’s hips. Helps her step out of them so she’s wearing nothing below the waist. So he can see her pretty pink sex.

Bared, she studies him. His eyes are wide, pupils blown as he stares back. Hands clenched into tight fists on his knees. Beautiful cock so hard, so wanting, so desirous of himself and of her in tandem.

“Open.”

Eris slides two fingers onto Raphael’s tongue, pressing further and further back into his throat as he moans around them. Slips the other hand underneath his chin; makes him look up at her while she leisurely explores the inside of his wet mouth.

“A devil’s plaything, aren’t you? So obedient for me, sweet mouse.”

She leans back against the bed and brings her fingertips to her dripping slit, parting her delicate lips for him to see. Traces around her entrance with his saliva, thick between her digits.

“Suck me, girl.”

His mouth is between her legs faster than she can blink. So willing and pliant and needy and serving.

She hoists a knee up onto the bed to give him easier access, and to see his every move more clearly. Watches him reach for his cock. Buries a hand in his hair and yanks his head back. He whines. It’s indecent.

“What makes you think you can attend to your own pleasure? Did I grant you permission?”

“No, Your Grace,” he breathes, face shiny with her slick. “Accept my apologies.”

“Pathetic,” she sneers. “Tell me you won’t touch your cock again.”

“I won't touch my cock again.”

Rare that she can get him to obey so easily. So eagerly. He brats for her, as she does for him. It's how they’ve operated from the beginning – he likes a challenge, likes a fight. 

But, up against himself (in a manner of speaking)? 

Different.

Fascinating.

“Get back to work.”

For Eris, there is nothing like watching her devil chase his indulgence. She thrives on being the one he chooses to delight in; for all the years he's lived, he says, there is no sweeter nectar than that which drips from her honeyed cunt. His self-possessed hunger is unforgiving, and what use would she have, anyway, for forgiveness?

The act of giving oral pleasure is, by nature, a generous thing. But this is not how Raphael usually approaches it. He usually eats at Eris greedily, harsh tongue licking and savoring deeply. Pushes her, overstimulates her to the point of ache, nearly to the point of pain. Usually clutches at her soft hips and pulls her closer still, holds her in place for a sloppy and rampant feast. Usually makes a selfless act into a selfish one, making her pleasure an afterthought even when she’s the one riding his face and he's groaning, whimpering in delight beneath her, trapped so willingly between her thighs.

But now – now, with his own sex-laced tone painting his blue cherry’s words; with his own affectation and mannerism adorning her every move – Raphael is reverent with every stroke of his wicked tongue.

And the comparison, the juxtaposition, is fucked up. There’s a sick sort of pleasure in her gut, a depraved thrill at being worthy of the highest worship only when she’s playing as him. It’s demeaning and debasing for both of them: for him to be so plainly an egomaniac; for her to feel – to be – less than him, less than how he sees himself.

They’re both terribly pathetic, aren’t they?

The thought makes her shiver as the tension builds low in her belly, spurred on by Raphael’s loud and unrestrained sucks and licks at her core. She won’t be long. 

(Never is. But then again, neither is he.)

“Don’t you dare come before I do.” Threat is evident in her tone. She doesn’t expect he’ll last, even with her warning. 

And he doesn’t. Last, that is. Raphael shudders and pauses his ministrations briefly to spill onto the rug between them with a low groan, lips framing a single word, and the sight of him giving in sends a hot throb of arousal through Eris’s every godsdamned nerve. She doesn’t have time to dwell on it though, because he drags two fingers through his release, through the fibers of the carpet, and brings them to join his mouth at the apex of her legs. Slides them inside, lifting a bare thigh with his other hand to rest on his shoulder for leverage, and looks worshipfully up at her with a mouthful of her cunt as he carries her the rest of the way to her end and she comes on his tongue with a soft cry.

She knows his feelings for her match hers for him. She’s not stupid. The two of them wouldn’t be as they are if anything were different.

The single word on his lips was her name – as it always is – and she’d be an idiot to acknowledge it. He – they both – are too proud to speak of love, too stubborn to admit pride as a greater weakness than emotion.

This is enough, though, she thinks, as they curl into bed after another quick dip in the bath, after what feels like a thousand kisses she presses to his mouth. Raphael with furrowed brow, a draft and quill pen on his lap, spectacles on the tip of his nose; Eris with that book she’d promised herself earlier, too-long hair mussed in her usual style tickling the devil’s bare skin where her head rests on his shoulder.

This is enough for them.

[cuffmeinblack]

Silk and Lace

Ominis Gaunt x Sebastian Sallow

Tags: explicit | Dominis | maid! Sebastian | roleplay | gagging | anal sex

3.9k words

Summary: Sebastian's teasing plants an idea in Ominis' head for a night of indulgent roleplay; and he isn't one to do things by halves.

ao3 link

A/n: It's maid Sebastian round two, this time with our lovely Ominis, and he's wearing the dress that altered my brain chemistry. Another smut fic inspired by Krabat. I'm sure it won't be the last.

Ominis ran his fingers over the delicate silk that clung to every crevice of his lithe frame. It had been made for him, quite literally. Finding a dressmaker with the required discretion for such a commission has been challenging. He daren’t use his family connections, begrudgingly though he might have for other favours; those particular craftsmen were bound to his father and not to him. No, this ensemble had required a talented hand from a less reputable source. A man who had clad the elite in sumptuous garments not usually discussed in polite society; one who understood and shared Ominis' particular proclivities.

Sebastian would be pleased.

Ominis had been told that the silk was a pleasing colour that brought out the jewel-like quality of his eyes and contrasted with the iridescence of his fair skin. Whatever that meant. He was simply pleased that the slits that parted the fabric sat high enough as to enable freedom of movement. His fingertips skimmed the seam, almost to his waist. Ludicrously high and infinitely alluring, he was sure. The neckline was a little more demure, though he was assured it gave the garment just the right balance of sophistication and down-right seductiveness. 

The underwear left little to the imagination with its high legs and skimpy straps, but hugged him comfortably. The dressmaker had even been so kind as to suggest accessories; Ominis had opted for silk gloves held up with buckles that sat cold against his biceps, and a pair of French stilettos. The most uncomfortable pair of torture devices he'd yet encountered, but they did a fantastic job of accentuating his calves that dipped under his wandering fingertips. They also gave him extra height. He felt…powerful.

Every inch of him was shaved and oiled, his hair styled in his perfected coiffure. All he needed now was his beloved, who awaited him in their living room. Rife with anticipation, Ominis stood with surprising grace and poise considering the teetering heights he'd now obtained. Heels clicking on the parquet, he made his way through their shared home. He didn't need his wand; this route was one he'd made hundreds of times before. Whilst he knew what awaited him his veins still thrummed with excitement, his pounding heart growing stronger with every click and clack of his approach.

The idea had been born from a throwaway comment from Sebastian, referring to Ominis as the lady of the house. Merely because Ominis was the only one with any sort of domestic intuition—left to Sebastian, no doubt their affairs would be in disarray. He'd prickled and spat back a scathing retort.

“What does that make you, Sebastian? The staff?”

Sebastian had chuckled and let his voice drop into that altogether too silky baritone; the one he used when trying to coax Ominis into bed. 

“If that's what the lady so desires.”

Ominis recalled the moment fondly and the corners of his mouth tugged into a smile. The cheek of him. As his fingers clasped the ridged brass doorknob, he hesitated to let his face fall into one of haughty indifference before twisting his hand. No sooner had Ominis pushed the door open and taken a single step inside than Sebastian had answered his entrance with his usual lack of decorum.

“Fucking hell.”

“Language, Sebastian. That is precisely why you hold the role of servant in this house.”

Ominis approached the source of the outburst; the leather sofa that sat opposite the fireplace. He moved slowly, purposely elongating his limbs with every step, holding his chin high and chest proud. He could only imagine what Sebastian’s expression must look like, but the low groan that filtered through the sound of crackling flames told Ominis all he needed to know. He perched on the cushion, letting the silk fall to one side to expose his legs; there was no use in being demure when it was clear what they both desired. Ominis found an unexpected obstacle when rearranging himself; warm, firm and as smooth as his own skin now lay.

“Feet on the furniture?” Ominis tutted.

“I've been waiting a while. It was worth the wait, though.”

Sebastian's calloused hands gripped Ominis' thigh and he swatted it away with a sharp rap on his knuckles. Ominis was nothing if not fastidious when it came to maintaining their roles during play.

“Let me…ah.”

He ran his hand up Sebastian's leg, expecting but never finding the hem of his outfit. Only when he skimmed the unmistakeable bulge of his manhood did he find the frilly lace.

“Well now, this is wildly inappropriate.”

“I’m not here to muck out the fireplace, Ominis.”

“Au contraire,” he purred mockingly. “I expect this room to be thoroughly dusted before we move to the bedroom.”

“I can't tell if you're serious or not, Ominis.”

“Deadly.”

Ominis allowed himself a chuckle as Sebastian groaned and grumbled off his comfortable perch. The perfect opportunity to sample the delights of his exposed figure presented itself as soon as he stood upright, leaving Ominis free to slip his hand beneath the obscenely short skirt.

“My, my,” Ominis hummed as he was met with yet more bare skin, hot to the touch.

“Easy access,” Sebastian commented.

The cotton wasn't as luxurious as Ominis' skirt, fitting with their respective parts. However, the lace trim and flouncy design made Ominis' imagination run wild, with the removable apron tied in a neat bow of particular interest as he fingered the fabric.

“Is the lady of the house pleased?” Sebastian drawled.

“Immensely. Now, do be an obedient little maid and pick up that feather duster. I shan't be kept waiting much longer.”

-

The request was bordering on absurdity, but how could Sebastian say no when asked by Ominis in that dress with that demanding tone? It was enough to make his cock twitch underneath his ruffled skirt. Sebastian picked up the feather duster, his mind occupied with other lewd thoughts about how the implement could be used. How long would Ominis tease him for, he wondered? Granted, they had all night, but he'd hoped that the majority would be spent with their bodies entangled and not removing cobwebs from the cornicing.

Ominis followed him in his towering heels, the already slender and elongated frame made even more so. Sebastian had never appreciated his legs quite as much as the moment Ominis perched against the writing desk. He knew exactly what he was doing, leaning back on his silk-enrobed hands, back slightly arched. He even lifted a leg onto the chair revealing yet more of that delicious ivory skin. So high was that slit that Sebastian could see the galaxy of beauty marks that flecked his hip bone.

Sebastian was salivating.

“Feet on the furniture?” he said, echoing Ominis' earlier complaint.

“Awfully rude of you to comment on such things. Especially when you've yet to finish your cleaning.”

Sebastian hummed in feigned annoyance and returned to dusting, always keeping his eyes on Ominis. He almost cleared the mantle of ornaments he was so distracted, prompting a knowing chuckle from the blond. Sebastian was sure his legs had spread further since he sat on the edge of the mahogany. The glint of a buckle caught Sebastian’s eye and drew his gaze. Sebastian might have forgone undergarments altogether, but Ominis had opted for something more tangible and somehow much more alluring. He caught a peek of black lace underneath that shimmering green dress and felt his manhood swell.

The tedium of dusting whilst Ominis sat so tantalisingly within reach was sheer torture, and entirely the point. By the time Sebastian could get his hands on Ominis, no doubt he would be begging for his touch. In the meantime, Ominis provided a constant stream of criticism meant only to rile him up, whilst following him around the room. 

“I want that bookcase spotless, Sebastian,” Ominis said whilst slipping his hand so far up the inseam of his legs he grazed his balls.

Sebastian groaned and almost fell off his precarious perch, the small wooden stool wobbling as his legs almost gave way. He grumbled indignantly and stepped off of the step, using the sturdy bookcase to steady himself. His head was already dizzy and Ominis had barely touched him.

“It's done. I've dusted the whole damned room.”

Ominis merely hummed in assent and continued fondling his tight balls, his cock now fully erect and throbbing for attention. 

“Have you done the light fixture?”

“Oh come on, Ominis…”

“Your pathetic whinging won't get you anywhere.”

With that scathing remark, Ominis traced the curve of Sebastian's leg to slip a finger between his cheeks. Ominis' digit probed and circled his hole and Sebastian let him, bending forward slightly to allow him access like a bitch in heat, moaning all the while.

“Please, Ominis,” he gasped as a knuckle grazed his right ring.

“Now he says please. You could have had my cock inside you half an hour ago if you'd just asked nicely, Sebastian.”

“You’re a git…ah!”

Ominis' finger delved further inside Sebastian, gently stroking in rhythm to the gentle caress of his thigh. Sebastian slumped against the bookcase, dislodging Ominis’ careful arrangement of the myriad texts. Somewhere behind him, amongst his heavy breathing and low moans he heard the blond tutting as a hardback fell to the floor.

“Can’t get the staff these days,” Ominis chuckled, pressing himself into Sebastian’s back.

Now he could feel what Ominis wouldn’t divulge with words; that he was just as aroused as Sebastian himself. Beneath the thin layers of silk and lace, his stiffness strained against the pretty lingerie and pressed hard into Sebastian’s behind. 

“I’ll enjoy peeling this off of you.”

Ominis’ sultry voice slithered down Sebastian’s ear to ignite a burning desire in his chest, his stomach, his groin. His entire body seemed to tingle and ache whilst Ominis continued his probing, teasing increasingly broken whines from his mouth. The time for shame had passed, and Sebastian let his desperation spill forth. Only vaguely aware of what Ominis’ other hand was doing, he felt a change in pressure around his waist, sometime after Ominis had inserted a second finger.

The sounds that clawed their way out of his throat were borderline obscene, and he felt for their neighbours. A jumbled series of expletives amongst his pathetic keening were all he could manage as Ominis began stretching him and his lips finally met his neck. Those soft, perfect lips that Sebastian dreamed about so often. Ominis’ mouth might have been Sebastian’s favourite part of him; capable of such witticisms, yet such obscenities. Not only was he adept with language, but he certainly knew how to put that silver tongue to use in other ways.

“Let’s move this to the bedroom, shall we?” Ominis suggested, a whisper against his ear.

Oh thank Merlin.

Sebastian was about ready to start grovelling. He groaned as Ominis removed his fingers and left his neck with a gentle nip at the skin. The click of heels indicated Ominis’ departure, and he knew he was meant to follow obediently. That he did, mesmerised by his lover’s movements; every inch of him dripping in elegance. So transfixed he was on the shapeliness of his tight little waist, Sebastian almost missed the fact that he had his apron balled up in his fist. His blood raged to think of what plans he had for the ridiculous cotton accessory—Ominis always had a motive, in every little thing he did. The removal had been carefully considered.

Case in point, their bedroom had been prepared beforehand. Whilst Sebastian had been busying himself lounging on the sofa, Ominis had set the scene for their night of passion. Far from the harsh light of the living room, that which greeted Sebastian as he stepped into the bedroom was soothing. The amber glow of the candles warmed Ominis’ skin, the silk that hugged his musculature to perfection now shimmered in the gently flickering light. Dare he say, the man standing before him looked ethereal in his beauty.

“Are you staring, Sebastian?”

The silence had obviously been a giveaway, and Sebastian chuckled quietly before pouncing. Fuck the roles and their little game; Sebastian had waited hours. He pressed his lips against Ominis’ before the blond could object, hands grasping greedily at those exposed hips and skimpy lingerie. Oh, how he’d like to rip that particular garment off with his teeth. Ominis appeared to allow the advance, a breathy sigh slithering into Sebastian’s open mouth. Soon their tongues entangled, a sweet relief to be caressed by those soft, moistened lips. He slid his hands over every inch of Ominis’ delectable body in reach, and once he’d explored it all, he dropped to his knees as if in worship.

“Tsk, so eager,” Ominis teased. 

His dishevelled hair and flushed skin almost broke the illusion of his cool façade, until Ominis regained his composure in a flash. 

“Don’t pretend you weren’t enjoying yourself,” Sebastian replied.

Ominis’ retort never came, instead he perched on the edge of their quilted bed and beckoned Sebastian over. Before Sebastian could clamber over him and claim his prize, his chest was impaled by a sharp patent leather heel. The shoe dug into his flesh, almost bruising his ribcage in the process. Lucky, then, that he was so distracted with the seductive look on Ominis’ face, and the view this particular obstacle afforded him. With his leg raised, Sebastian saw everything underneath that elegant dress of his. Milky white skin travelled from foot to thigh, seemingly forever, until it reached the crease of his hip. There, Sebastian just about lost his mind.

The flash of lace had been a prelude to this…this work of art. The lingerie disappeared between his cheeks; truth be told, there was barely anything of it. The lace was decadent, finished in gold and he was sure (unless he was actually quite mad) that it depicted entwined snakes. How fitting, Sebastian mused. Of course, his focus wasn’t really on the details of the underwear, more how Ominis’ impressive cock looked squeezed into it. Perhaps he’d been contained at one point, but now fully erect, his length spilled from the top to reveal his plump, pink head.

“Gods, you look magnificent,” Sebastian sighed.

Ominis dug his heel in further, drawing another pained groan from Sebastian’s mouth, and he once again dropped to the floor in submission.

“Tell me again,” Ominis prompted.

“You…look…magnificent…”

Sebastian punctuated each word with a kiss to Ominis’ silky smooth leg, tracing the contour of his shin to his knee and inner thigh. There he hesitated only slightly, asking silent permission. Ominis gave it in the form of parting his legs and Sebastian felt his cock harden even more, if that were even possible. He trailed his lips to that crevice he enjoyed; to the sensitive skin just next to Ominis’ hard length, he bestowed a gentle kiss. Slowly he pushed the jade silk away to really get a view of him in all his glory, saliva pooling in his mouth as he pressed his lips firmly to the lace-clad shaft.

“Let me suck your cock, Ominis. Please.”

Ominis smirked ever so slightly at the plea then laced his fingers through Sebastian’s fluffy brunet mane.

“How could I resist such an enticing offer?”

A little pressure from the base of his skull guided Sebastian back to Ominis’ lap as the blond leaned back on the bed, head flung back in anticipation. Sebastian merely groaned and rolled his hips against thin air before getting to work. He licked a firm stripe up the length of that delicious cock, the lace rough against his tongue. With a dexterity that surprised him given his lustful intoxication, he clamped his teeth around the delicate band holding the whole ensemble up and tugged. It didn’t take much for the lingerie to fall away with the aid of Ominis’ rising hips. His lover chuckled, turning swiftly into a soft moan the second Sebastian enveloped his cock in his mouth’s warmth.

Pulse racing and head swimming, he revelled in the taste of him, merely licking and kissing the swollen tip for a long while. When he sensed Ominis’ impatience, he moved on, taking him deeper, deeper, deeper. Sebastian stroked himself as his tongue swirled around Ominis’ cock with each bob of his head, salacious moans filling the room amongst heavy breaths. The cacophony was exhilarating, but not loud enough to completely mask the rhythmic rustle of fabric or wet squelching of his slickened palm.

“I can hear you, Sebastian. If you want to come all that badly I’ll be the one to do it.”

Sebastian hummed a reply that no, he wasn’t ready quite yet. Wrapping his hand now glistening with his own arousal around Ominis’ shaft he began to suck him off in earnest. He moved his hand in time to his mouth, hollowing his cheeks to draw increasingly ragged moans from Ominis’ lips as the pressure built. Deeper he took him, until he felt the tight ring of muscle in his throat protest. Ominis appeared nonplussed by Sebastian's struggle, his thin fingers forcing his head to steady with a searing pain to his scalp.

“S-Sebastian…”

His composure finally broken, Ominis cried Sebastian's name as if the heavens themselves could hear him. When he finally relinquished his grip, Sebastian spluttered and gasped for breath, eyes glazed with unshed tears. If he hadn't been before, he was certainly desperate to be ravaged now.

“On the bed,” his demand came whilst Sebastian was still coughing.

Ominis' dexterous fingers made short work of Sebastian's ensemble whilst he busied himself with the delicate buttons around the blond’s neckline. When the dress finally fell away and they knelt facing each other naked, Sebastian thought that perhaps there was a God. No matter how many times he laid eyes on Ominis' form, he never failed to be rendered speechless. Even so, Ominis had a well thought out plan for that apron he'd stolen. Sebastian watched as he folded the fabric around itself, holding out the cotton ties with a deadpan expression.

“Be a good boy and put this in your mouth.”

“You want to gag me? After all your moaning and begging whilst I sucked you off?” Sebastian scoffed.

Ominis’ face pinched into a frown.

“Certainly. You make a poor servant so far, Sebastian. Do make it up to me, won't you?”

Sebastian grinned like a young lad in a sweet shop but kept up the pretense of indignation, huffing for Ominis’ benefit. He took the apron and bit down on the cotton, the uncomfortable sensation of cloth against his teeth not enough to rid him of the mounting excitement that went straight to his neglected cock. He tied it as Ominis' hands covered his own, pulling the ties just that little bit tighter until he was satisfied. Saliva pooled on the fabric. Sebastian waited.

“On your knees for me tonight, my love.”

Sebastian didn't need telling twice; he scrambled on the bed to position himself, gently squeezing his cock as he waited for Ominis. The blond's fingers found his half-prepped hole easily enough, this time sliding in his digits with extra lubrication that warmed and tingled pleasantly.

“Come on, hurry up,” Sebastian had tried to say, only producing a glob of spit and garbled protest.

Ominis laughed and took his sweet time, curling his fingers to make Sebastian whine against his gag. When finally Ominis was satisfied, Sebastian breathed a sigh of anticipatory relief and pressed his face into the bed sheets. Ominis finally lined his cock up with his entrance and pushed firmly and decisively, and Sebastian swore that the moment was the best of his life. As if he'd been waiting years to be filled so satisfyingly, every nerve ending seemed set ablaze. He gripped the sheets until his knuckles whitened as he felt the press of Ominis' balls against his cheeks. A hard smack to his behind nearly sent him over the edge of his sanity.

“More, please…fuck, you feel so good,” Sebastian once again tried to say.

There was little point to his begging but he did it anyway; he had a suspicion Ominis liked it so. He groaned louder still once Ominis started to roll his hips, his own gasping sighs adding to Sebastian's pleasure. He did so love to hear Ominis in the throes of passion; his usually composed demeanour crumbling with every touch, every thrust. The sultry voice behind him filled the room as Sebastian reeled with pleasure, only vaguely aware of the words spoken 

“I have to say…I miss you moaning my name…but at least I don't have to…endure the utter filth that pours out of your mouth.”

Sebastian’s muffled reply was muted by a hard thrust and increase in tempo that made fresh tears well in his eyes. He was approaching the point of being unable to speak, unable to move, merely able to whine whilst Ominis pounded him into the bed. That sweet spot inside him was endlessly caressed with every stroke until he was only a mess of limbs, a toy for Ominis' pleasure. Sebastian was close to his climax, the constant stimulation altogether too much to bear any longer; he needed an outlet for the agonisingly sweet tension pooled inside him.

“Close already?” Ominis breathed against his neck.

Wandering hands travelled over Sebastian's burning skin, arriving at his weeping cock. Ominis held him, unmoving, only the pummelling from behind providing any sort of friction into that palm. Sebastian whined again, head fuzzy and desperation growing. The cotton in his mouth was saturated with drool and tears alike by this point. An utter mess of Ominis' making.

“Please…,” he begged once again, the tone more than indicative of what he desired.

“Such a little slut, Sebastian…”

That had done it. Sebastian cried out as he reached his peak and orgasm exploded. Ripping through his body like wildfire, his limbs convulsed under the sheer pleasure, only vaguely aware that Ominis was still fucking him senseless through it all. He'd collapsed onto the bed with his sensitive cock trapped beneath him, now leaking all over their very expensive quilt. Merlin knows how many bodily fluids this bed has already seen. 

Sebastian finally fell limp after a while, breathless and whimpering as Ominis stayed buried deep inside him. The blond was still rock hard, thin fingers grabbing handfuls of freckled flesh and soft lips sending shivers down Sebastian's spine. Ominis might have been muttering praises in his ear, or maybe he was merely imagining it in the post-orgasm haze. He certainly felt his lover's weight on top of him, and the warm embrace that made him smile against his fabric binding.

Once Sebastian's breath had steadied, he felt Ominis shift and prompt him to turn. The release of pressure from his hole made him groan, Ominis’ heavy cock falling against his hip as he twisted on the bed. Finally, Sebastian could see the product of their lovemaking. He adored Ominis' flushed skin and the strands of hair falling over his opalescent eyes. He was simply the most beautiful thing he had ever and would ever lay eyes upon.

Ominis smiled softly with a hint of seduction. Oh, he was far from done. When the blond's hands travelled to his face to finger the apron's tie, Sebastian grabbed Ominis' wrist to stop him. He wasn't finished quite yet, either.

[thebadgerclan]

Return

Pairing: Nikolai Lantsov x reader

Summary: The Prince’s return to Ravka..

Smut!

The messenger had flagged your carriage down as you traveled on the backroads, headed towards the sanctuary your husband had prepared.  “His Highness has returned,” the harried woman said, easing her horse to a halt.  “The Sun Summoner is with him, and they will be joining you at the Spinning Wheel.”  You straightened in your seat, immediately interested.  Nikolai had been away for nearly a month and a half, outsourcing his efforts to bring Alina Starkov to the Crown.  And now he was home, in East Ravka.

“Oh, how wonderful!” your mother-in-law said.  “When is he expected to arrive?”  “Soon, moya tsaritsa,” the messenger replied.  “He and Miss Starkov set off shortly after landing.  I was instructed to find and notify you before continuing on to the Spinning Wheel.”  “I’m going with you,” you said, gathering your skirts and throwing open the carriage door.  “Y/N!” Tatiana cried.  “Y/N, you needn’t…”

You tuned her out, jumping from the carriage and unhitching one of the seven horses.  Two of your escorts came to your side, still atop their own mounts, and you frowned.  “Going to try and make me stay?” you asked, and they shook their heads.  “No, moya tsarevna, but we cannot allow a Lantsov bride to travel alone.”  One dismounted and came to your side, sinking to a knee to allow you to mount the horse you’d chosen.

With a wicked grin, you swung a leg over the animal’s back; refusing to ride side-saddle as your mother-in-law would prefer, and kicked the horse into a gallop.  The guards hurried to tail you, but you didn’t care.  Nikolai was home, he was here, and soon, you’d be in his arms again.  You hated it when he left, when you were left in Ravka with no one but Tatiana for company.  But there were jobs that only Sturmhond could do, and then, there were jobs that Sturmhond deemed too dangerous for Hellcat to accompany him on.

You rounded the bend in the road, the stone facade of the Spinning Wheel coming into view.  It was a beautiful place, made all the more beautiful by the sight of your beloved husband standing before the steps.  “Nikolai!” you called, and the Prince whirled around.  When he saw you, bounding towards him atop a borrowed steed, hair coming undone from the coiffure your maids had put in before your departure, Nikolai broke out into a massive smile.

The horse had barely slowed to a canter when you dismounted, miraculously managing not to break your ankles, and then you were running to your husband.  Nikolai caught you as you leapt into his arms, kissing you deeply.  Your legs wound around his waist, your arms around his neck, hands threading through his hair.  “My love,” he said, nuzzling his nose against your neck.  “I missed you so much.”

“Not as much as I missed you,” you replied, urging his lips back to yours.  “Nikolai, Saints, never leave me for that long again.”  “I won’t, my darling.”  After several more minutes of being kissed and cooed at by your husband, he set you down but kept his arms around you.  The Sun Summoner was here as well, watching you and Nikolai from a respectful distance.  “Miss Starkov,” Nikolai said, leading you towards her.  “May I introduce my wife, Y/N Lantsov.  My darling, meet Alina Starkov.”

“It’s a pleasure,” you said, and Alina reciprocated, after which Nikolai led the three of you into the Spinning Wheel.  Alina was quickly met by her friends from the Little Palace and shepherded away, leaving you and your husband alone.  “Are your rooms here the same as they were the last time you brought me here?” you asked, and Nikolai nodded.  “They are.”  “Good.”

You took his hand and tugged him though the corridors, turning and smiling at him every few steps.  Nikolai followed you eagerly, and when you arrived at his rooms, ushered him inside, and locked the door, his smile widened.  “What’s this, darling?” he teased, happily letting you push him against the wall.  Your husband let his head fall back against the door with a soft thunk as you kissed his neck, hands working to unfasten his jacket.

“This,” you responded, pushing his jacket from his shoulders.  “Is your wife showing you how much she missed you.”  Nikolai smirked, letting you mouth at his neck for a moment longer before he moved: planting his hands on your shoulders and spinning you around, pressing you against the door.  “Oh, my sweet darling,” he crooned, sucking at your pulse point.  “You seem to have it confused.  It’s my job as your doting, beloved husband to show you how much I missed you.”

He pulled you into his chest so he could unfasten the back of your gown, and Nikolai pushed the fabric to pool at your feet.  Now only in your stays and bloomers, your husband kissed his way down your chest and abdomen, looking up at you through his lashes.  When he was kneeling before you, Nikolai tugged your bloomers down as well, lifting a leg over his shoulder.

“Can I taste you, sweet girl?” he asked, kissing your inner thigh.  “Yes, Kolya, please.”  “As my bride commands.”  He lowered his head, licking a broad stripe over your cunt, making you cry out with pleasure.  Your husband ate you out with practiced precision, one hand splayed over your lower abdomen to keep you steady, the other stroking up and down your thigh.  “Fuck, Nikolai, right there!”

He complied, suckling gently on your clit, and you keened, legs trembling.  You reached downward and threaded your hands through Nikolai’s hair, tugging him closer.  “That’s it, lovely.  Ride my face.”  With his permission, you ground your hips against your husband’s face, eyes fluttering shut, breathy moans leaving your mouth.  “Nikolai, I’m close, please baby, don’t stop!”

A mere moment later, you were coming, crying your husband’s name.  Nikolai gave you one last lick before rising, hooking your leg around his waist and lifting you into his arms.  “I don’t have time to ravish you properly,” Nikolai said, hooking your other leg around his waist as well.  “That’ll come later.  But Y/N, I need to fuck you.  Please, darling, can I fuck you?”  A fresh wave of arousal washed over you, and you nodded, kissing him hungrily.  “Please.”

Nikolai reached to unfasten his trousers and pushed them down enough to free his cock.  When he gently pushed into you, you both moaned rather loudly, and your husband kissed you deeply.  “Fuck, you feel so good,” he praised, and after a moment, he began thrusting, bouncing you on his cock.  It was fast and hard, and after a month and a half apart, it was just what you needed.

You’d tried to get yourself off while Nikolai was away, but you never managed to get yourself there.  And if you did, it felt lacking, wrong in your husband’s absence.  But now he was here, and he was fucking you within an inch of your life.  “My love,” he grunted, nipping at your earlobe.  “Fuck, do you know how many nights I had to bite my lip while thinking of you?  How damn hard it was to get anything done when I was thinking of this hot, wet cunt?”

His words made you clench around his length, and Nikolai moaned.  “Y/N, Saints, I don’t think I can last.  Are you close, sweetheart?”  Your lead lolled back against the door, but you managed to nod.  “Mhmm,” you whimpered, the position allowing his pubic bone to rub against your clit every time he bottomed out.  “Nikolai, yes, please!”  He only lasted another minute before he was coming, his face pressed to your neck, moaning your name.  Nikolai rubbed your clit until you finished, shuddering in his arms.

Your husband carried you to the bed and gently set you down, kissing you gently as he pulled out of you.  “Later,” he said, peppering your face with kisses.  “I’ll spend hours worshiping you, make up for lost time.  But I have to attend to things here, for now.”  Nikolai crossed the room and began dressing in a fresh uniform, and on slightly shaky legs, you followed.  “If you think I’m leaving your side for even a second, you’re delusional, Sobachka.”

If anyone noticed that you were in an entirely different gown, that your hair had been hastily swept into a new updo, or that a love bite was slowly darkening on your neck, no one said anything.  Nikolai greeted his family when they arrived and showed them to their rooms before meeting Alina and her tracker in the War Room.  When he’d had time to craft the proposition he made her, you didn’t know, but it shocked you as much as it shocked her.  

Alina Starkov would lead the Second Army in exchange for fealty sworn to the Crown.  She would become a member of the Royal Household, given a symbolic crown, act as a bridge between the Lantsovs and the Grisha.  If she agreed, that is.  Understandably, she needed time to think, and your Nikolai was willing to give it to her.  Especially if it meant he could spend that time with you.

He had dinner sent to your rooms, where it was forgotten only a few bites in.  Nikolai made good on his promise to ravish and worship you; spending a half hour between your thighs before fucking you slowly, whispering sweet nothings in your ear the entire time.  Afterwards, you were cradled reverently against his chest, your husband’s arms around you, keeping you close.  A fire was burning in the hearth, and candles were lit, giving the room a soft orange glow, and you snuggled closer to Nikolai beneath the forest green sheets.

“I love you,” Nikolai whispered, kissing your forehead.  “I love you so much, my sweet Y/N.”  “I love you too, Nikolai.  I missed you so much.”  “I know, my darling, I missed you too.  In fact, I–”  There was a knock at the door, and your husband paused.  “Who in the name of Saints?”  He eased you from his arms and pulled on a robe, padding over to the door and opening it.

It was Alina, clothed in a dressing gown of her own.  “Miss Starkov,” your husband said, strategically positioning himself between you and the door.  “I’ve made my decision,” she said, and Nikolai nodded.  “As delighted as I am to hear that, could this not have waited until morning?  I’ve just returned from a month and a half away from my wife, and as delightful as your company is, I’d much rather spend the evening with her.”

Slight irritation had crept into his voice, and Alina stepped back.  “Right, I..uh…sorry.  I’ll…talk to you tomorrow.”  She turned and retreated back down the hall, and Nikolai shut the door.  “Nikolai,” you said, propping yourself up on your elbows.  “Did you have to be short with her?”  Your husband sighed, shrugging his robe off, leaving him gloriously nude.  “I’d be short with anyone who interrupts time with my darling wife, even a living Saint.”

Nikolai slid back into bed and pulled you into his arms, kissing you soundly.  “Now, where were we?”  You sighed into the kiss, sucking in a gasp when your husband brought a hand between your legs.  “Ahh, there we are.”  He would apologize to Alina for his snippiness in the morning, but for now, he would ravish and worship his wife.

[vibratingskull]

Well if we are doing Thrass...I humbly request: First date with Thrass! Any way you want to do it.

Thrass is on the dating market guys! Come try your chance with the sweetest chiss in the Chaos!

beautiful art by the amazing @thrawns-backrest

Thrass xF!reader

Tag: first date, Thrawn being casually aroace (in my fic? who knew?), Thrass is kind of a goofball, fluff

You breathe through your nose, reassuring your grip on your purse straps in your hands. You raise your head lightly to observe passersby. 

Chiss... 

Haughty and regal.  

Barely giving a glance to little you, all alone lying against the street light. You fidget your thumbs, suddenly second-guessing your dress with colorful flowers... Is too much or too little? Are your heels too high? Is your stocking elegant or scandalous? Does your perfume smell good or just reek? Does your coiffure  enhance your features as you hoped or does it make you look goofy? 

It’s your first date with him, and you want to appear at your best to impress him! 

You bite the nail of your thumb, looking around for him. 

He is late. 

What if he never comes? 

What if he forgot about you? 

What if he sets you up? 

What if- 

“(Y/n)’(F/n)! There you are!” 

You spin in surprise to discover Mitth’ras’safis approaching with a tranquil pace, raising his hand to you in a greeting. He wears the traditional tunic of his rank, long, elegant, and distinguished. His long hair is impeccably braided. 

“Mister Mitth’ras’safis!” You slightly bow to him in your excitation and confusion.  

You are so relieved he is here! You press your lips in a thin line as he winces. 

“It’s Mitth’ras’safis.” He corrects, “But please, call me Thrass, it will be easier for your vocal cords.” 

 “Alright, mister... Thrass.” You nod hurriedly. 

“Just Thrass please.”  

“But you’re a Syndic of the Mitth!” 

“Today I did not come to you as a Syndic but as a simple man.” He retorts, “I am merely an ordinary Chiss.”  

You nod again, slower, feeling your cheek heating up dangerously and it worsens when you remember the Chiss can see warmth on your skin. 

“Then please, call me (Y/n).” You propose back. 

“(Y/n)...” He tries your name, his chin in his fingers, testing how your name rolls on his tongue, “It has an exotic sound to it.” 

He seems to like it. 

He tilts his head with a gentle smile. 

“Should we go?” He invites. 

You walk alongside one another in silence. You hold on desperately to your purse, trying to calm down your beating heart. You feel yourself sweating with too much tension. You give a side glance to Mitth’ra... 

Thrass. 

He seems relaxed and calm, a little smile floating on his lips as he looks straight ahead of you both. You’re clearly on two different planets! You gently press a hand against your heart. 

You never thought he would accept such rendezvous with you! You are only human after all... 

You remember your meeting with him, and how dismissive and distrusting he was. You had the misfortune to mispronounce his full name and he took it very personally! Commander Thrawn tried to mediate the situation but you kept fumbling your poor Cheuhn and Thrass finally left with a terrible first impression of you and you were utterly terrified you might have doomed any future relationships between humans and Chiss! 

When you’ve been judged civilized enough to be released in Chiss society, the Mitth family received the responsibility of “taking care” of you, because the Chiss who found and rescued you was Commander Mitth’raw’nuruodo. You have been brought to the Mitth homestead and once again you crossed paths with Mitth’ras’safis and with Thrawn’s support you took the time to apologize for any wrongdoing you might have done towards him in proper Cheuhn this time. 

He kept his expression closed and neutral, politely listening to you trying hard to not mangle any words and don’t inadvertently insult anyone’s mother in this difficult language. He stopped you by raising his hand and sighed. He apologized for his harsh demeanor and bad attitude and extended his hand to you. Your gaze traveled back and forth between his hand and face, unsure before tentatively taking it and shaking it with relief.  

The Mitth’s Patriarch, Thooraki, chose a job for you, appointing you as aid to syndics of the family. 

 All of them. 

So whenever a syndic needed a file, a datacylinder, or just a cup of caccoleaf it was your job to run everywhere in the building to find it. Mitth’ras’safis didn’t deprive himself of your services and frequently asked for your help. 

He just was... nicer to you than the rest of the Syndics. 

As much because it was his personality than because you were friends with his brother, or rather you held on to Thrawn as a buoy in the open sea and he, strangely, let it happen. Commander Thrawn was the one who saved your life from the neverending dark and cold of the Universe and was, by far, the most welcoming and open-minded of all the Chiss you encountered until now.  

Thrawn was curious about you. You were the only representative of a new species, the only intel he had about this entirely new part of the Chaos and he strategically kept his relationship with you nice and polite. Desperate, you imprinted on him, asking him advice and opinions on everything and he let it happen, patiently, courteously. 

And Thrass heard about it. 

Thrawn must have come to him at the end of their respective day, telling how the weird alien human came back to him crying once again because she switched another file again today. 

Which surprised Thrass because he never saw you cry during the day. He only saw you trying your best all day long, but apparently you took the habit of calling Thrawn each evening to vent. 

Which also means somehow Thrawn gave you his personal code to call him, and that point was terribly interesting to Thrass... 

Thrawn doesn’t trust easily. 

So if he gave you a direct channel to him, he must have studied you thoroughly and judged you trustworthy enough. And whomever Thrawn trusts, Thrass is inclined to trust in return. 

It’s the point when Thrass started to look at you more and pick up your little quirks and habits, the way you click your pen when you're nervous, the way you push a strand of hair behind your ear when you’re intently listening to someone, the little “oh!” you let escape when you understand something new... 

And slowly, oh so slowly, Thrass started to relax with you. Being more patient, taking time to explain to you why he needed this file or this one when he asked you to retrieve it, while the other syndics just barked at you to find them chop chop! He saluted you when you crossed paths in the corridor and you bowed to him respectfully and, in all honestly, a little afraid. He chatted with you during caccoleaf breaks, helping you around when he found you overwhelmed while trying to sort data. 

You always apologized profusely, feeling like a dead weight as he helped you carry data-cylinders into the storage room. He politely said it was nothing and got on his way, letting you finish your tasks. 

And today, here you are! 

On your first date! Together! 

Thrass’ glance slides towards you and he gently smiles at you, making your heart race even quicker.  

“Here we are!” He finally announces. 

You stop and observe the imposing building in front of you. For the date he proposed you both come up with an activity, and you choose a play. 

He is so refined and distinguished it was the only activity worthy of him you could come up with. He let you choose the play and the theater and had the role of guiding you across Csaplar.  

The building is tall and large, with glass walls and geometrical oddities as angles. You open your purse to take out the ticket you printed, give his one to Thrass, and enter. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

“(Y/n)’(F/n) speaks highly of you” Thrawn once said to him during one of their Tactica games, during one of his too rare days back at Csilla. 

The two brothers where sitting at their favorite bistro, a nice glass of alcohol each and a platter full of different canapes next to the board. 

“Does she now?” Thrass responded, taking a sip of alcohol, letting it burn his throat and tongue so deliciously. 

“Yes. I hear a lot about you through her.” 

“Are you telling me I do not catch up enough with you, my brother?” Thrass teased Thrawn. 

“Sometimes she cries when she speaks to me at night, but she always says you magically appear out of nowhere to help her on her feet and move on with her day.” 

“I just want the work to get down, simple as that.” He chuckled, trying to understand where Thrawn was getting at. 

Thrass took his stingfly and made it cross the board to place it next to his groundlion as Thrawn gaze was lost in the game, thinking 5 steps ahead in his strategy, making his drink twirl in his glass. Thrass contemplated his move one last time, tapped his clock to validate, and threw a tomato canape in his mouth, satisfied with his new Tactica level. 

“I suspect... She thinks about you quite a lot.” Thrawn announced with his legendary tact, attacking his flank with his lion. 

Thrass swallowed his canape the wrong way. 

“Come again?” He coughed. 

Thrawn raised his head, looking straight into his red eyes, serious like he had never before. 

“You never noticed?” 

“How would I have? My head is buried in my files and the only times I go out is for political meetings... Or to meet you.”  

“How curious.” Thrawn tilted his head, not understanding, “You are usually better than me for understanding those things.” 

“Exactly. It most probably means you misunderstood her.” Thrass patted his lips with a handkerchief in a soothing manner. 

“She expressed herself in quite explicit terms.” Thrawn insisted, peacefully sipping his drink as Thrass got more and more distraught, “She left little to interpretation.” 

“How explicit?” Thrass asked a little afraid.  

Thrawn shakes his head, sorry. 

“It is not in my rights to report her words. She should speak her truth herself.”  

Thrass sniffed, putting his handkerchief in the pocket of his tunic. 

“So what? The human as a little fling, what is it to me?” 

Thrawn tilted his head again, squinting his bright red eyes at his older brother. 

“I thought you appreciated her in return?” He let Thrass know. 

Thrass remained silent, eyes round with surprise and mouth agape. 

“What in tarnation... Where did that idea come from?” Thrass finally asked. 

“It is a general sentiment you give off. The more times pass, the more her name leaves your mouth, you also hold yourself differently when you speak about her, you appear more... relaxed.” 

By reflex Thrass corrected his position, straightening his back and raising his head high like the Syndicure theatrics teached him. 

“I do not speak of her that much.” He counters. 

“Maybe not so much, but more than before. And your tone is considerably softer, and your eyes...” 

“What about my eyes?” Thrass asked with a warning in his voice. 

“I just noticed they glow brighter when we speak about her.” Thrawn explains patiently. 

Thrass gulped, his throat was going dry. 

Thrawn is a master at reading body language. He undercovers entire secrets with a single glance, stripping souls naked before him. 

What exactly did he think he saw in Thrass? Because there is no way he was smitten with the alien! Alright she was very hard-working, diligent, and pleasant to be around, her enthusiasm was enjoyable in the tight offices of the Syndicure. Thrass was even ready to admit her little panicked gasps when she realized she lost something on her way was endearing. 

Daresay cute. 

But to go such length as to say he was into her? Utterly ridiculous! 

Thrass opened his mouth to shut down Thrawn definitively but his throat tightened around his rebuttal, stifling any words in his vocal cords, leaving his mouth simply open and completely mute. 

He cannot explicitly deny his brother’s claims! Something was preventing him from speaking the truth! 

The undeniable truth that he was, in fact, not enamored by the human woman. 

Because that is the only truth. 

Obviously... 

“Like you said, I am not good with those matters.” Thrawn continued, swallowing a cheese canape, “But I know you, my brother. I know how you act towards things you love, and how your voice fluctuates when speaking of people close to your heart. And I simply thought I saw it on you with her.” 

Thrawn was obviously trying to smooth the angles with Thrass to not offend him, but Thrass was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t even notice how his brother was contorting his words to preserve his honor. 

Thrass pressed his hand against his mouth, taking support on his elbow on the table, his mind spinning at 100 miles per hour. 

Why can’t he just say the simple words ‘I am not in love with her’? 

Coud he be...? 

No. 

Ridiculous. 

Thrawn looked at his brother, febrile on his seat. 

“Why not go on a date with her?” He finally asked. 

Thrass raised his head to look at Thrawn, is attention piqued. 

“Why would I do that?”  

“Because you obviously have a soft spot for her. Why not give it a try?” 

“She is an alien.” 

“And you are an alien to her, it did not stop her from falling for you.” 

Thrass raised his hand to stop him. 

“I am flattered she thinks so highly of me. But she is an alien, and I am a Chiss! Those things do not happen.” 

Thrawn appeared more and more confused. 

“I do not remember any laws forbidding it?” 

“It is not about laws, Thrawn. It is about morality.” 

Thrawn looked at me the weirdest he ever did. 

“How living your love being against moral laws?” 

For a fleeting second Thrass forgot he was talking to Thrawn. Any other Chiss would agree with Thrass at that moment. 

But not Thrawn. 

Thrawn would never understand... 

“You speak of love but you know nothing about it.” As those words left Thrass's mouth he regretted them immediately. 

Thrawn seemed to close back over himself, a single line of discontentment crossing his forehead. 

“Thrawn, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Thrass immediately presented his excuses. 

Thrawn took another canape to eat, his throat’s mucles contracting under his frustration. 

“No, you are right.” He said, “This is a sentiment foreign to me. But I know when I witness it, and I witness it in you, my brother. And I would be mournful if you missed a chance to find your other half in life.” 

“You are quite a romantic I realize.” Thrass couldn’t help but grin lightly at Thrawn’s choice of words. 

“What I am trying to say is: give her a chance Thrass. You might come one day to regret not trying. You have nothing to lose in the end.”  

Thrass slowly relaxed, pondering his options. It’s true, in the end, he had nothing to lose. He will not die to spend an afternoon with (Y/n)’(F/n)... 

He could even know where he stands with her, why he couldn’t word the simple truth. 

“You seem supportive of her.” Thrass investigated. 

Thrawn shrugged. 

“I got to know her during her stay on my ship on the UAG. She is honest and with a good nature. Like you.” 

“You trust her.” 

“Indeed I do. She is not a threat to the Ascendancy and I never felt an ounce of violence or darkness emmanating from her.” 

“You know what? You are right.” Thrass let out, like transfigured. 

Thrawn stopped mid-movement of drinking, not expecting such a drastic change of attitude in such a short time. Thrass didn’t lose a second and took out his comm, typing rapidly. 

“Sent! ”  

And Thrass seized his Nightbringer on the board and took Thrawn’s lion. Thrawn remained silent, fixated on his brother, completely lost. 

“Like you I hate uncertainty.” Thrass explained, “The sooner I meet her, the sooner I will be in the picture. Are you happy?” 

Thrawn contemplated his older brother, trying to make sense of that last minute. 

“I simply thought you could be a good match.” 

“We will learn it soon enough!”  

------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

You exit the theater absolutely exhausted, your brain scrambled. It was a classical play, as you hoped, but consequently with classical Cheuhn. 

And you didn’t understand a single line! 

You learned the entire Wikipedia pages about it as about the theater you came in to info dump Thrass and impress him but you didn’t understood a single word. You spent the whole play typing feverishly on your questis to translate the lines in common Cheuhn while Thrass tried really, really hard not to explode laughing. But he mastered the neutral face of the politician man long ago, he simply didn’t control the trembling of the rest of his body. 

Thrass sighs, satisfied under the artificial sun of Csaplar. 

“It was a really good play” 

You sniff, sad to not have enjoyed the play as you hoped you would. 

“I am really glad you liked it.” You respond. 

“A bit too didactic to my liking, but nice nonetheless.” 

You turn your head to him, eyebrows raised in a silent question. 

“We studied this play at school, I already knew it.” 

You open your mouth in shock and suddenly your body slumps, completely demoralized. 

“I am sorry Thrass... I just thought-” 

You cannot finish your sentence that Thrass explodes laughing in the middle of the street, hands on his knees. You look at him absolutely dumbfounded by his reaction. 

“What?” 

He tries to stop laughing, to no avail. 

“I am sorry! You appeared so distraught back inside, you were trying so hard to follow the play!” He manages to say between two fits of laugh. He coughs to force it to stop, “Hum! I am sorry (Y/n), but it was really endearing seeing you try so hard.” 

You purse your lips, embarrassed. You saw him casually cover his mouth, hiding behind a relaxed position, his legs crossed and his elbow on the armchair, trying to not look in your direction to not explode in the middle of the play. 

He straightnens his back, raising back up with one hand on his stomach and a big smile on his face. 

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah... It’s been a while since I laughed like that! Thank you (Y/n), it was very much needed.” 

You readjust your purse straps on your shoulder, trying to put up a front. 

“You’re welcome.” You mumble, cursing the heat spreading to your cheeks. 

He wipes the tears off his cheeks. 

“Come on! We need to take a tube car for my activity.” 

He starts to walk away from the theater in the Tube car station’s direction and you begrudgingly follow, ashamed and disgraced by his reaction, measuring how much of a fool you must be in his eyes now... 

Thrass instantly notices you’re not walking next to him and turns to you, a simple smile on his face, detailing your expression. 

“I am sorry (Y/n), I shouldn’t have laughed at your efforts.” He says softly, “I am glad you took an interest in our culture to try to take on such a classical piece. If you wish I could break it down with you later and explain its cultural significance to you.” 

You raise your head to meet his gaze. 

“You would?’  

“Of course. Come with me now...” And he gently takes your hand to guide you to the station. 

------------------------------------------------------------- 

You squirm, uncomfortable but trying your very hard to not show it. Next to you Thrass takes another sip of his tea, appearing fully at ease. 

He brought you to an entirely new neighborhood. You walked in cobbled streets for an hour after the tube car, he generously asked if he could take your high heels to make it easier for you and you daringly said no. 

You lasted 15 minutes before your heels started to poor blood and you had to stop at a pharmacy to dress you. 

“Again, I am sorry.” You said pitifully. 

Again he tried very hard not to laugh. 

“It’s all right (Y/n).” He responded with a smile threatening to stretch his lips. 

You finished the route with your shoes in hand, band-aids covering your heels. The cobblestone was warm to your skin and smooth, without asperities that could slash your feet. Thrass walked next to you, hands clasped behind his back, explaining to you the intricacies of the architectural style of that neighborhood. 

It is apparently a perfect reproduction of the “old city” of Csaplar underground full of wooden structures and buildings. 

You entered a small building to change into a kimono and enter a salon opening on an inner courtyard garden with a pound and large trees. Two rooms away you could hear traditional Chiss music, giving the place an elegant and serene atmosphere.  

You imitated Thrass, sitting on his heels in front of a woman in the same position. The tea ceremony  lasted more than two hours, in the exact same position, unmoving.  

It was difficult for you, but you held on, you embarassed yourself enough before Thrass for today. 

Once the woman finished preparing tea she rose on her knee to pour it in your cups. You both bowed down deeply to her, thanking her. She disapeared, leaving you two alone to savor your hot tea. 

You sigh deeply, trying to keep the numbing sensation of your legs in check as you sip your tea. You desperately want to unfold your legs but greet your teeth. 

“It is delicious, isn’t it?” Thrass finally asks, visibly satisfied by his tea. 

“Yes!” You nod eagerly, “It has a lot of flavor!” You try your best to not let your pain reach your tone. That’s not really a success. 

“I always loved tea ceremonies... They are peaceful and meditative.” 

“Thrawn told me that.” You smile, laying down your hands with your cup on your legs, “He told me you introduced him to proper tea art for his 29th Starday!” You reveal, too happy to find common ground with Thrass thanks to his brother. 

“Ah, he remembers this day then.” He notes with a little grin, “I never saw someone hold this position as well as him. I always left with terrible pain in my legs.” He winks at you. 

You flush and let your gaze fall on your cup to not meet his inquisitive red eyes. 

“I always thought that tea ceremonies are telltales of characters.” He tells you pensively, his eyes detailing the scenery of the garden. 

“Really?”  

“Indeed. They put your patience to the test, and require good etiquette and politeness, good taste and culture. I can tell a lot of things about someone by how they sit on their heels and wait for their tea.” 

You gulp, suddenly apprehensive. Is your attitude correct, is your demeanor polite and dignified enough for such a place? 

“You did good, do not worry.” He reassures without even looking at you. He just knew the questions gnawing at your reason. 

“Phew... I am relieved.” You sigh, letting your shoulders fall. 

“Careful, the ceremony isn’t finished yet.” He lets you know. 

You immediately straighten your back and stiffen your shoulders, on edge once again. Thrass cannot help but chuckle once again. 

“I appreciate you, (Y/n). You make me laugh, I like that.” 

You turn to him, in surprise but full of hope. 

“Really?” You cannot contain your enthusiasm. 

He nods peacefully, taking another sip, slowly savoring his drink.  

“Yes. You work hard and are mindful of people around you, you're driven by your will to learn... Those are really important qualities, and I appreciate them in my entourage.” 

You purse your lips for a split second. 

“Would you not like me if I failed at the ceremony?” 

“I never dated someone who failed at the ceremony.” He reveals, “I discovered that I am incompatible with such characters.” 

You nod slowly, feeling like you almost fucked up! 

“And your brother likes me!” You add, trying to smooth your portrait even more. 

Thrass puts his cup down, laying his hands on his legs. 

“Yes. That is another good point in your favor.” He concedes, “Thrawn is another excellent judge of persona, and he deemed you trustworthy wich is why I accepted the idea of this date with you.” 

Thrawn played matchmaker? 

Did he... 

You flush terribly, wich doesn’t escape Thrass. 

“Is something wrong?” He worries. 

“Did he... Did he reveal to you what I told him about you?” You ask, barely able to look in his direction. 

“No, he did not.” He reassures you, “He told me it wasn’t in his right to do so and that he should let you express yourself.” 

You sigh, relieved. 

“Do you wish to speak to me about it?” 

You start but calm down. 

“No... I am not yet ready to reveal it.” You admit. 

It is too soon for your heart to admit your love to Thrass, you would go into cardiac arrest! 

“It is quite all right. We will have plenty of other times together for you to tell me...” He smiled softly. 

Full of promises. 

@bluechiss @thrawnalani @justanothersadperson93 @al-astakbar@thrawnspetgoose @readinglistfics @elise2174 @debonaire-princess @twilekchiss @pencil-urchin @ineedazeezee @mssbridgerton @dance-like-russia-isnt-watching @Cortisolcosplay @obbicrystaleo @germie2037

[marzipanandminutiae]

Sorry to bring L****e W***n back into your consciousness but I just saw a tiktok cut of it and I noticed even the men's costuming is awful? Usually men get away with it but seriously it's giving "found this in the discounted wallmart Halloween costumes, didn't even have the good grace to iron it first". It looks BAD. It doesn't fit the actors! It's creased! It doesn't feel period, it feels cheap and dull and I'm not even that much of a historical dress buff but I immediately noticed how off it is. I think it's interesting how in most period pieces, women's costuming is often lacking or downright nonsensical, but men's seems to get reasonable accuracy (to the untrained eye at least!)

That movie winning an Oscar was a crime. No joke. The voters must have been high.

What really makes it extra-awful for me is how much the designers smarmed in interviews about "authenticity" and then produced...ThatTM. I might have been able to grin and bear it if they never claimed their costumes were accurate, but. They did. Like, they said their Flyaways R Us hairdos were "more authentic than coiffures" because hairspray didn't exist yet. Which. First of all, the hell do you mean by "coiffures?" Do you mean hair put up as smoothly and neatly as possible? Like, what women and girls over ~age 16 ACTUALLY DID BACK THEN? BECAUSE HAIRSPRAY DIDN'T EXIST, BUT HAIR FIXATIVES CERTAINLY DID, AND ANYWAY WHEN YOU AREN'T WASHING YOUR HAIR EVERY DAY IT BECOMES EASIER TO KEEP IT SMOO-

[Marzi.exe has encountered a problem and needs to reload]

But yes, while men's fashion is often also gotten wrong in movies, it does feel like the lion's share of the need to look Appealing to Modern Audiences falls on the ladies. Both annoying; the latter just makes me Harrumph more on a personal level.

Harrumph.

[enbycrip]

ID: a black and white photo and caption from a newspaper showing a young white trans man with light hair wearing a tweed jacket and high collar smiling at a young white woman in a pale dress as he brushes her mid-length dark hair. She is smiling at him from the slightly complex angle as he brushes her hair. The photo is faded and not great quality but their faces are clear.

The headline over the photo is “Here’s How I Used To Do It!”

The caption below reads “An expert at women's coiffures although not a hairdresser, Zdenek Koubek proves himself as he combs the locks of Cinda Glenn, New York night club beauty. Koubek knows all about coiffures from experience, since they were of concern to him when he was the foremost girl athlete of Czechoslovakia, prior to a sex-change.”

Zdenek Koubek was born in Paskov, Czechoslovakia (at the time) in December 1913, one of eight siblings, and competed as an athlete. With minimal formal training, he began running at age 17, decided to pursue it formally aged 19, and broke two world records at the 1934 world olympics.

Because queer and gender-diverse history is complex, I’m genuinely unsure if Zdenek was intersex. He seems to have been pretty gender-nonconforming when read as a woman in his early life and seems to have retired from athletics because he was harassed by people wanting him to undergo invasive “gender checks” after his gold medals at the 1934 Olympics.

Apparently the current obsession with “defining gender in sport” has roots back to the 1930s. Athletes competing in female athletics have been forced to undergo a variety of examinations for the purpose of declaring them “female enough”. They seem to have never been pleasant, appropriate, or anything other than invasive and dehumanising, and they seem to have always focused on a) defining gender by physicality b) defined that physicality in fairly arbitrary ways that are actually incredibly difficult to relate to anything objective, despite a veneer of scientific objectivity.

I can entirely see why the threat of such harassment would have caused Zdenek to decide an athletic or adjacent career wasn’t worth undergoing it, whether he personally believed himself to be intersex or whether we would recognise him as such today. The term “intersex” has many definitions, and is often challenged by medical professionals if it could potentially cover too many people - e.g. medical professionals have repeatedly challenged the term when used by AFAB people with PCOS, which can cause fertility issues, hirstutism etc, purely on the grounds of “that would make around 10% of women intersex”. Zdenek simply publicly stated “I was wrongly assigned as female at birth” without giving any other details - as he had *every* right to. Some historians have characterised him as intersex based on this, and others simply as trans; he appears, very reasonably, to have preferred to preserve his privacy on the details.

Zdenek went on a lecture tour of the US talking about his life and transitioned in 1936. At the time of this photo, he was pursuing a career in cabaret in the US. He seems to have been reasonably successful but never settled there, returning home and marrying a cis woman with whom he lived happily for the rest of his life, dying in Prague aged 72 in 1986.

He joined a local rugby team along with his brother Jaroslov after WWII and seems to have been an enthusiastic amateur player. I hope he got a lot of joy out of it, which he does seem to have.

Like so many queer and trans histories, Zdenek’s is somewhat obscured because so much of what has been written about him is always skewed by the writer’s own perspectives about gender and transness. Including the drive to impose a false binary on trans experience - which I as a nonbinary person know is certainly not universally present.

There are, of course, *absolutely* trans people who always have a strong feeling of gender equating to “knowing they are a boy/girl from an early age”, and I in no way wish to erase them or their experiences, but it must also be noted and acknowledged there are plenty of us with different experiences. There are people like me who feel “wrong” in our assigned gender from pretty early in life, all the way down to having quite strong dysphoria in puberty and afterwards, but don’t strongly ID as the “opposite” binary gender either. There are people who rub along fine in their assigned gender, or who have many issues with it but don’t know what they equate to, until they have some experience presenting otherwise and suddenly experience strong gender euphoria for the first time in their lives. There are people who never feel anything much at all about gender and only ever do any identifying purely as a matter of convenience because a very binary society requires it.

Cis people seem to find the “always knew/born in the wrong body” narrative the easiest to relate to, and I can only assume that is because it is the narrative that allows them to challenge our society’s gender-essentialist, binarist worldview the *least*. It is considerably easier, and requires much less thought and critical attention, to say “I guess sometimes the occasional person is just mistakenly assigned to the wrong category” than to question those categories, why they exist, what they actually are, how they are imposed, and whether they actually mean anything at all in an objective sense.

I have no idea where Zdenek fell on any of this, or if his experience was very different in another way.

I posted this to, as ever, note that we are not a new phenomenon. Trans people are part of human history. We have always existed. We have always contributed. The way the society we lived in perceived us *and* how the societies our stories have passed through perceived us affect how our stories are told today, and those things can make it complex to uncover the lived experience of the trans person behind all of that. Queer and trans history must always be about acknowledging those facts and uncertainties while doing our best to find out as much as possible about the actual lived experiences of our siblings in the past.

[otherworldseekers]

Something's Gotta Give chapter 7 scene 1

OMG! An update! Remember, this picks up from the Gold Saucer date. Previous scene here.

Something's Gotta Give Masterpost

It was very late, or very very early indeed, when Severia and Nero walked together down the long hall that led to their guest rooms. Arms linked and carrying her shoes in her other hand, Severia leaned her head drowsily against Nero’s shoulder. If she had been clear-headed she might have been horrified to see herself acting so familiar with the man who, just hours ago, she had been furious at. But just at that moment she felt blissfully relaxed and comfortable and the irony quite escaped her. 

In unspoken accord, when they reached the door to Severia’s room they paused and turned to each other, both reluctant to end the evening. She leaned back against the door and tilted her head to look up at him, her pulse quickening at the sight of his loosened collar, the stray hairs from his no longer immaculate coiffure hanging over his forehead. Her body was sending her signals she didn’t quite know how to interpret. She’d spent the past few hours in his arms, but their contact had been limited to the forms of the dance, and right now she felt that it wasn’t enough. 

Nero took one of her hands and raised it to his lips. “I trust your evening proved to be more pleasant than you anticipated,” he said with an easy smile. 

Gods, what an understatement. “It was lovely,” she admitted. It was the single most wonderful night of my life. “And I… thank you.”

Nero tucked a loose lock of hair behind her horn and let his fingers linger along her jaw. “It’s a pity we were interrupted earlier on the balcony. There was one more technique I wanted to teach you.”

Severia felt her pulse quicken, but tried not to show her interest too obviously. “Oh? What kind of technique?”

“Instead of telling you,” Nero said with a smirk, “wouldn’t it be more fun if I showed you?”

Severia’s breath hitched as the hand that had been holding hers snaked around her waist and pulled her body against his. The heat radiating from him ignited a similar warmth within her. Her arms seemed to loop around his neck of their own volition, her hands itching to dig into his hair and leave it even more disheveled. Then his mouth covered hers and as before she was taken aback by how perfect his lips felt. How dangerously close she was to losing herself in his kiss. 

His lips coaxed hers apart and she opened for him, only a little surprised when his tongue slipped into her mouth. The true surprise was how much she liked it. The feel of his tongue against hers, the taste of him, the low moan he released when she responded in kind. That moan sent something unfamiliar and indescribable thrilling through her abdomen. And she liked that too. 

Feeling him begin to pull back, Severia’s hands fisted in his hair. “Don’t stop,” she whispered, their mouths still just a hairsbreadth apart. There was the brief flash of a grin before their lips connected again. 

Nero’s hands drifted down and gripped her curves, lifting her up and pressing her against the wall, nesting himself between her thighs. His kisses had become hungrier, needier, leaving her panting for breath. And then his lips slid away from hers to move slowly down her neck. She felt his tongue against her scales, sending bolts of sensation throughout her body, and gasped out his name. Without conscious thought, her legs wrapped around his waist, causing him to hum against her neck in appreciation. 

“Severia,” he murmured between kisses along her collar bone. “I want you. Let me stay with you tonight.” He trailed a finger tantalizingly between her breasts. 

“Yes,” she moaned as her head fell back against the wall, her eyes closed. For the first time in her life, her entire body coursed with desire and she wanted to give in to it, wanted to have it completely and utterly satisfied.

Nero’s hand found the high slit of her dress and the warm skin of her thigh. He traced the lace hem of her small clothes, ran a finger along the fabric between her legs. It was too much.

Severia’s eyes flew open. Clarity poured into her like ice down her back. She could not do this. For all their play acting, they were not just Severia and Nero. She was the Warrior of Light. And he was Nero tol Scaeva. 

“W-wait.”

Nero removed his hand, but wasn’t ready to give up. “Let me make love to you, Severia,” he pleaded. “Let me give you pleasure such as you’ve never had before.”

“I- I don’t know,” she whispered. A part of her wanted it, oh how she wanted it. But there were so many reasons that it was a bad idea. She still could not trust him. If only… If only…

Gently, she pushed him away, her feet coming to rest on the floor again. She needed to breathe. And think. She needed to know the truth. Looking up him with eyes full of trepidation, she asked, “What is it that you really want, Nero? Do you want me… Or do you want Allagan power?” 

The implication was clear. He couldn’t have both.

“Is that really…” But he looked into her eyes and saw that look of determination he had so often admired. She would not let this go. 

Nero ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t know what to say. His desire for her felt overpowering, but he had spent a lifetime chasing Allagan power. If he couldn’t have both… If he didn’t choose… Would he be condemned to have neither? Stricken with uncertainty, he turned his face away from her. It was answer enough.

Severia exhaled her held breath, heavy with disappointment. Her hand fumbled toward the door knob behind her. “Goodnight, Nero.” She managed to get the door open just enough to slip through and shut it before he could react, leaving him alone in the hallway.

[gogmstuff]

Back to the 1760s, the height of engageantes (from top to bottom) -

ca. 1762 Lady in a Pink Silk Dress by Allan Ramsay (Yale Center for British Art, Yale University - New Haven, Connecticut, USA). From artuk.org 998X1200.

ca. 1762 Woman in Blue (previously known as 'Miss Edgar') by Thomas Gainsborough (Ipswich Borough Council Collection, specific location ? - Ipswich, Suffolk, UK). From artuk.org 1542X1928.

1765-1770 Sophie Charlotte von Haus née von Bennigsen by Johann Georg Ziesenis (Saarland Museum - Saarbrücken, Saarland, Germany). From tumblr.com/lenkaastrelenkaa 732X958.

Lady by Giuseppe Baldrighi (location ?). From tumblr.com/lenkaastrelenkaa; fixed spots w Pshop 1195X1388.

Rosalie Levasseur by Louis Michel van Loo (location ?). From the lost gallery's photostream on flickr; blurred background & fixed spots elsewhere w Pshop 1564X1928.

1769 Madame Francois Buron by Jacques-Louis David (location ?). From tumblr.com/catherinedefrance; fixed cracks & some spots w Pshop 843X1022.

[tompettyscontroversiallyyounggf]

the cold hard truth is that the best Dragon Age fic has always been Fenris-centric, those are just the facts and no, I do not know why

[chicinsilk]

US Vogue April 15, 1964

Givenchy Haute Couture Collection Spring/Summer 1964.

Baroness Fiona von Thyssen wears a chiffon evening dress; slightly high waist, with a full skirt and shorter at the front. Givenchy showed, throughout its collection, Mancini's evening slippers in the same fabrics as the dresses. Alexandre Coiffure.

Givenchy Collection Haute Couture Printemps/Été 1964.

Baronne Fiona von Thyssen porte une robe du soir en mousseline; taille légèrement haute, avec une jupe toute en mouvement et plus courte devant. Givenchy a montré, tout au long de sa collection, les pantoufles du soir de Mancini dans les mêmes tissus que les robes. Alexandre Coiffure.

Photo Bert Stern vogue archive

[chic-a-gigot]

Le Petit écho de la mode, no. 5, vol. 22, 4 février 1900, Paris. 1. Coiffure moulin à vent. Modèle de M. Siffrin-Berlandier, 8, boulevard Malesherbes, Paris. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Les cheveux très flous, très ondulés, sont ornés de perles fines; une agrafe orne également le milieu du devant. Comme coiffure, un petit fond rond très élevé en carton léger ou mousseline recouvert de pétales de roses, ailes formées par des bandes de satin entourées de perles blanches.

The very fuzzy, very wavy hair is decorated with fine pearls; a clasp also adorns the center front. As a headdress, a small, very high round background in light cardboard or muslin covered with rose petals, wings formed by strips of satin surrounded by white pearls.

[storyofmychoices]

The Reign of a Short King

[Mal Volari x Daenarya Masterlist] [Mal’s Orphanage]

Pairings: Mal Volari x Daenarya (F!OC) ; Tyril Starfury x Maiele* (*Maiele belongs to @lilyoffandoms) Book: Blades of Light and Shadow Word Count: ~750 Rating: Teen (just to be safe)

Synopsis: Mal is very insistent that a half inch makes all the difference.

A/N: This silly drabble was inspired by a comment by @dr-colossal-pita about Mal using his hair to increase his height, and my wanting to reconcile Mal being short even though in book 1 he is mentioned as "tall". Also, I know realistically they wouldn't use the US measuring system but this story works better when using 1/2 inches.

Mal and Daenarya stood near the garden wall in their backyard, a heated argument unfolding.

"You know, I'm 5 foot 8 and a half inches," Mal insisted, peering down at her. 

Mischief danced in her eyes as she chuckled, shaking her head. "You're dreaming, Mr. Magnificent. You're only feeling tall next to me,” Daenarya teased, nudging him gently.

"By the gods, I swear I am 5 foot 8 and a half!" Mal stood a little straighter to emphasize his point.

Her head tilted to the side in amusement, brushing back his beautiful mane. "I'll humor you, but just so you know, your hair doesn't count if that's where you're getting that extra half." 

Mal took a step back, feigning indignation. His fingers raked through his hair as he brushed his hair back methodically. "I would never count my hair." He shook his head, offended she'd even say such a thing. "I am 5 foot 8 and a half inches!"

"Okay," she nodded in agreement, her smile spreading across her face. She pressed a kiss on her cheek. "If you say so."

Mal puffed his chest and held his head as high as possible "I'm glad you've come to see my side of things." He offered his arm to her.

"If you say so," she repeated, accepting his gesture as they headed back to where their friends were gathered. 

"And if we were counting my hair, then, I'd be at least 5 foot 9 inches", maybe 5 foot 9 and a half!" He boasted proudly.

Daenarya chuckled, "Here we go again."

"Here we go again?" Maiele moved to join them. "What trouble are you two starting now?" 

"Did you know that Mal is 5 foot 8 and a half inches, but if you count his hair, he might even be 5 foot 9 and a half!" Sarcasm dripped in every word. 

"Huh," Maiele pondered thoughtfully, casually resting his arm on Mal's head. Despite Mal's attempts to squirm away, the elf’s tall and strong stature held him there. After another moment of consideration, a smirk spread on his lips. "You wish!"

A rumble of laughter rose in his throat as his hands tousled Mal's hair, messing up his perfect coiffure. With a playful wink to Daenarya, Maiele sauntered off back to Tyril, whose lip curled up ever so slightly despite his efforts to hide his amusement at Mal's despair. 

Flustered, Mal sputtered something in response, but his words were lost as Daenarya gently touched his face and gave him a light kiss.

"You're still my short king," she whispered. Her thumb caressed over his jaw, the coarse hair of his beard tickling her. 

Mal couldn't help but relax and smile at her touch. "You know, initially, you thought I was tall."

Daenarya couldn't help but remember that night so long ago. "What can I say? It was dark, and I had a few drinks before this handsome rogue barreled into me—"

"I barreled into you?" He interrupted.

"That's how I remember it," she continued, batting her eyelashes. "There I was minding my own business, when you, this smug adventure. bumped into me, this innocent country girl."

A smirk pulled on his lips, his brow arching. "You're many things, Kit, but innocent isn't one of them!" He shook his head in amusement. "How does that change my height?"

"As I was trying to explain," she smirked. She held her hand in front of her as if drawing his attention to an imaginary scene unfolding. "This beautiful adventurer with great hair bumps into me. It's a dark street; I was a little tipsy—"

"You're a little tipsy now? I thought you were innocent?" He chuckled in amusement, enjoying her embellished tale. "Besides, I've seen you drink; you weren't even a little tipsy."

Her face flushed. "Ugh, fine! I may or may not have been a little distracted by your chest hair... I mean who wears a V-neck while adventuring? Besides, you've seen what I had to work with in Riverbend. You were a welcomed step up. I was clearly preoccupied with other thoughts."

"And you want me to believe you were the innocent one?" His brow arched. "And, I repeat, how does that change my height?"

"Well, your head was up from there, so— tall...er?" Her smile widened, knowing her thoughts went far beyond his alluring chest. "Let's agree to agree. You agree that I was innocent the night we met, and I'll agree that you're 5 foot 8 inches...and a half!"

"I think I can support that agreement." He drew her into his arms, enveloping her completely. "Shall we seal it with a kiss?"

"Mmhmm," she hummed, "now you're talking." 

Mal closed the gap, guiding her into a deepening kiss. 

Daenarya smiled into his embrace, her fingers crossed behind his back. This certainly wouldn't be the last time she teased him about that half-inch.

A/N#2: Originally, I had Mal at 5'10" but somehow I kept lowering it and now we're at 5'8". I mean if Ironman can be 5'8", my short king can to!

Again, Maiele belongs to @lilyoffandoms and he is Daenayra's best friend (for any new readers)

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this playful adventure.