#lattice heels

[forsworned]

Simon is not the most artistic, nor the most meticulous when it comes to cake decorating, but for you—on your birthday? He's buying all the piping materials, the springform cake pans, and preparing the best-tasting buttercream frosting and cake recipe he can manage after hours of scouring the internet.

He knows you won't be back from the office until 5:30. He had no clue why you had worked on your own birthday, but for this moment in time, he was grateful. He rose quite early to start decorating the loft. Balloons, a deconstructed banner that he put together when he realized that there were no more birthday banners, and a poorly decorated heart-shaped birthday cake with all sorts of vintage lattice patterns.

"Surprise!" He grins as you enter through the front door. Hair a bit mussed up, dark circles framing your eyes, and the collar to your button-down crooked. You're midway through taking off your heel, but your eyes soften at the sight of him standing there with your birthday cake lighting up his face, defusing the sharpness of his features.

"Simon..." You murmur upon approaching him. Your other heel comes off and you slowly shut your eyes as you make a wish before blowing out the candles.

For a moment it's dark. Your vision has not yet adjusted to the murk of the inky living space. His lips are on yours and you melt into his touch. So tender, so sweet—so Simon.

And don't get me started on the way he's so accommodating to you in bed. Not that he already isn't, but he's careful with the way he unbuttons your shirt and unzips your skirt. His fingers work methodically to ensure he doesn't rip your pantyhose. You're breath catches when his index finger curls around the waistband of your thong and you practically beg him to just slip inside of you.

You're too eager to have him fill you up and like the good husband he is, he obliges. Pushing past your sweet, succulent folds. God, you were ready for him.

He's pumping you slowly and deeply as he urges himself into you. Toes are coiling, and back is contorting in pleasure as you swiftly enter into your orgasm. You're panting out heavily as your nails dig into his taut flesh. His blonde lashes flutter to lovingly gaze down at your naked, sweating form.

"Thank you." You susurrate, threading your fingers through bleached sandy blonde hair. His grin only widens as he places a hot kiss to your lips.

"Oh, but that was only the first of many." He breathes over the skin of your neck. Your little 'eep' sends him into a fit of mirth as he readies himself to pleasure you all night long.

[polyo-nym-y]

The Pushy Demon.

————————————————————

Alastor x Female!Reader

[WARNINGS: Al fucks you in the elevator, you’re stubborn and put up a fight despite liking him, rough fuck, manhandling, dubcon??reader says stop but doesn’t really mean it, p in v sex etc etc MDNI!!!NSFW!!!!]

This is unedited so be warned !

I am once again posting a discord inspired prompt. This is for you guys ;3 I hope you enjoy it.

————————————————————

Initially, you thought the Hazbin Hotel was God's last gift to you. You thought he might’ve taken pity on your poor sinful soul. That hopeful thinking died quickly on your very first day there.

Because this was Hell after all and every sinner was doomed to live eternity in agony. And agony is exactly how you’d describe your current situation.

It has been months now that you’ve suffered Alastors attacks. Since day one he seemed to target you as he actively sought you out. He relished every reaction he coaxed out of you with every tease and jab.

But it wasn’t his teasing that actually brought you agony. No, rather so it was the realization that you had grown quite fond of it. You used to groan at his jests and feel nothing but annoyance. But now? Now you felt a blush rising to your cheeks. His mere presence now seemed to wash waves of burning heat over you. You’d sooner double die than give him the satisfaction in knowing your fondness for him, though.

For a while this task was easy as the extermination date drew closer and closer. Alastor kept himself busy and a part of you felt upset that he wasn't making any effort to chase you. You felt like a silly child when your disappointment morphed into jealousy, eyes watching him pour his focus onto others. You knew it was ridiculous to feel envy as he showed more attention to the hotel. Which is exactly why you made an effort to avoid him completely now.

Alastor was perceptive, however, and your obvious avoidance didn't go unnoticed. At first he was amused by it as he watched you hurriedly run from him any time you saw him. But the game was getting old and he was growing bored. So when he heard from Charlie that you weren't feeling well and wouldn't be attending today's lesson, he was more than annoyed.

He sat in the foyer amongst the other residents, his eyes staring at Charlie and Vaggie. He pretended to listen as his talons tapped the arm of the chair rhythmically. He unfortunately found his mind wandering to you as he tuned out the lesson. Knowing well that you were not sick and that this was going to end tonight.

His ears twitched as he heard a faint shuffle across the lobby. His eyes didnt leave Charlie as his shadow looked for him. When he saw you peeking around a corner he had to fight the laugh that wanted to slip out. How cute.

You watched from a distance as they all attended that day's lesson. Your eyes lingered over Alastor as that stupid envy bubbled back up within you, upset that his eyes weren't on you. Disgusted with yourself you quickly turned on your heels and began walking back towards the elevator.

You didnt hear the lesson suddenly stop nor did you hear Alastor curtly excuse himself. You did however hear the familiar clacking of shoes trailing behind you. Instinctively you quickened your strides as you stared at the Elevator door just ahead of you. Surely it wasn't him, you thought, he didn't see you right?

You got your answer when you glanced over your shoulder. Alastors tall figure radiated annoyance as his long legs closed the distance at a terrifying rate. Without even thinking you broke into a sprint as you rushed forward. Your hands fighting against the metal lattice door as it got jammed. But once you finally opened it you stumbled into the brightly lit elevator, hands quickly trying to shove the still jammed door closed. A large black hand shot out as it stopped the cage door from closing, his dark gaze peering through the bars down at you.

“Going up? How perfect! So am I!” His smile widened as his eyes trailed down your throat, watching you swallow that delicious mix of fear and nervousness. He waited for you to drop your hands from the door before he slammed it open roughly. The act earned a flinch from you as you stepped back into the far corner.

Your arms crossed over your chest as you forced your nerves into annoyance. A glare being sent up to him as he cheerfully stepped inside and closed you both in. “I thought you were supposed to be attending today's lesson.”

“And I thought you were sick.”

“I was feeling better… but now I’m feeling worse.”

He pressed the top floor before glancing to his side, to you. You quirked your brow as you watched him look you up and down. “Hm, you do look terrible.”

Your eye twitched as you watched his shit eating grin grow. You bit back the remark you wanted to give him and chose to instead lean into the corner. Your eyes staring at the ground as you tried to ignore him.

The elevator rattled to life after a delay before it began to ascend. Alastor began to hum as he stepped closer to you. Your hands clutched around yourself tighter as you stepped away but Alastor only followed. With your shoulder now pressed against the cold metal wall Alastor made himself comfortable against your other shoulder. His larger body purposefully pressing against you.

Your heart began to race now that you couldn't stop yourself from thinking about him. Feeling the warmth of his body and the tingling static that hung in the air around him. You were contorting trying to avoid his touch, your face pressing into the wall. Alastors hum grew lower as he cocked his head, his deep gaze watching you carefully. With an annoyed groan you pushed yourself from the wall and away from him, shuffling to stand across from him. “UGH- this has to stop!”.

“You’re right, my dear, this does need to stop.”

“Wha-” Before you could even question what he meant the elevator began to stutter. The lights flickered above you as you reached your hands out trying to steady yourself. Suddenly the elevator came to a screeching halt as the lights went out completely, the only thing visible was Alastors glowing eyes.

A shiver ran down your spine when your eyes met his in the dark, the intense look had you frozen in place. He’d snap his fingers “Tch, looks like the elevator broke, how unfortunate.” A chuckle left him as you watched his eyes draw closer, his heels clicking as he took a single step forward. You sucked in a nervous breath as you stepped back, the metal cage rattling behind you.

“Alastor..” you warned as he took another slow step forward. “Turn it back on.”

“Turn what back on? You’re not insinuating that I have anything to do with this, are you?” He feigned offense. “I’m stuck in this predicament just as you are.”

You watched his eyes, the only thing you could see, as he continued to step forward. Stumbling, you felt your way along the wall as you side stepped him just before he caged you in. “Alastor, stay away from me-”.

A growl left him as he turned to follow your figure in the dark. “And why should I?” He hesitated for a moment before his grin widened. His eyes slipped closed and suddenly you were completely bathed in darkness. You swallowed nervously as you tried to make out where he was. The elevator creaked and suddenly you felt hot breath ghost against your ear “I know you’ve been avoiding me. But why is that, mon cher?”

Your hand flew out to smack him but you hit nothing but air. His voice now came from behind you as you felt sharp claws trail up your back and over your shoulders. “Missed me~” He'd laugh darkly as you opened your mouth to yell at him. But once again his actions silenced you as his large hands roughly pushed you forward.

Your hands flew out before you fell face first into the elevators wall, the force of your body had the elevator swaying and creaking. “FUCK- you wanna know why Im avoiding you?? Its because im fucking tired of playing your stupid games!”.

His hands were on you before you could turn around, a firm grip finding its way around your wrists. He pressed his chest against you as he pinned your body against the wall. You squirmed frantically as you tried wrenching your hands free but he only tightened his hold on you. Pressing you so harshly the cold metal began to sting your cheek. “Oh, darling, do you take me as a fool?” He dipped his head as he grazed his lips against your hair, inhaling your scent with a sigh. “You think I dont notice the red that blossoms on your cheeks? Or how your heart races- just as it is now.”

You gritted your teeth, still too stubborn to tell the truth. “Thats because your horrifying- a pushy demon who doesnt fucking know personal space!”

An unhinged laugh rumbled through his chest and into you. “You want to pretend its fear? Fine, then fear me. I’ll be that horrific demon for you.” Without another word he pressed his hips against the plushness of your ass, grinding into you slowly.

Your body tensed as you felt your stomach begin to flip. You tried to fight against him once more, your body thrashing against his. “AL-” Your words died in your throat as he kicked your legs apart, wedging his knee between your legs. One hand kept a tight hold on your left hand whilst his right arm snaked around your waist. He tugged you up onto his thigh and pressed his knee against the wall, your toes barely reaching the ground as he forced a pressure between your legs.

“Hm~?” He hummed a reply as his eyes slipped open once more. He felt your legs tremble and tense as you tried to lift up from his leg. His arm around your waist slithered back to settle on your hip as he grinded you down into him. “What is it, dear? You’ve gone awfully quiet. Too scared to speak?”

“S-Stop-” You choked on your words trying to bite back any moans that dared to slip out. As he grinded you against his thigh you felt the slickness that soaked your panties begin to seep onto his pants. Aimlessly you tried to push at him with your free hand. As if wanting to make a show of how weak you were he let your other hand go. Both of your hands now trying to grab at him from behind you.

“I wont. Plead all you want. I wont stop.” His left hand snaked under your shirt as he tore your bra to allow your breasts to spill out. Sharp talons scratched along sensitive flesh as he pinched and toyed with your hardening nipple. His hand at your hip stopped as it dipped under your waist band. Reaching to slide his fingers between your soaked lips just to bring them back out. “Especially not when you're this wet already.” He made a show of rubbing your fluids across your lips, knowing well you couldn't see how his fingers glistened in the dark. His talons wedged past your lips as he tried to pry your mouth open. When you refused he settled his mouth over the shell of your ear and gave it a bite. His fingers darted in as soon as you gasped, pressing against your tongue ensuring you thoroughly tasted yourself.

Your head began to grow foggy as you felt yourself beginning to relax into the pressure of his thigh. Hips twitching, desperately wanting that friction again. Instead, you bit down onto the fingers that invaded your mouth. A sharp hiss left Alastor as he fish hooked your cheek, yanking you back into his chest. His other hand came to wrap around your throat as he gave a warning squeeze. “HA! You want this to hurt, don't you?”

He continued yanking you back until your neck was craned, forcing you to look up into his glowing eyes. The dark amusement that swam in his red gaze sent a shock wave straight to your core as your thighs tightened around his. Despite every fiber of you screaming to submit, you refused. Your mouth struggling to suction closed with his fingers in your cheek. You tried to muster as much spit as you could as you sputtered up at him, messily spitting up at him and onto your own face.

He didn't say a word as his only reaction was his twitching eye. Slowly he took a deep breath before he removed his fingers from your mouth, knee suddenly slipping out from under you. “You are the most pathetically stubborn thing I have ever met.” With his hold on your throat still he threw you onto the ground like a ragdoll.

You winced at the impact before quickly trying to crawl away from him. “Wh- wait-AH-” his hand wrapped around your ankle and dragged you back to him as he settled on his knees. You held your breath as you stared into his eyes like a moth to a lamp, the sound of his zipper deafening in the small space. You felt him settle between your legs as his hands tore your underwear apart. “Al, wait-” when you tried to sit up his palm pushed you back down by your head as his fingers dug into your cheeks.

“You never listen do you, Mon cher?” he’d purr with a sweet tone that didnt match his rough hands. “You said it yourself. I'm a horrifying pushy demon who knows nothing about personal space, right?” you felt his swollen head swipe up between your lips before he quickly snapped his hips into you. You choked and gasped at the sudden intrusion as he bottomed out in one thrust. His cock twitched inside of you as your cunt fluttered around him. “To think I’m dizzy for a dame like you.” A forced laugh left him before he was pushing your legs open wider.

He was suddenly thrusting into you at a brutal pace as his hands gripped and clawed at your flesh. A desperate mewl left your throat as all of your fight left you, your shaking hips trying to push into each thrust. “A-Alastor- f-fuck-” you moaned out mumbled words. His hands settle on your hips to hold you still.

“Mm-mhm? Are you going to be honest now?” when your hips still tried to fight against him he pulled from you. Your limp body being flipped onto your stomach quickly before he buried himself back into you. One hand kept your hips up whilst his other tangled into your hair, pressing your face down to force your back into an arch.

You could only cry and moan into the floor as your spit pooled below you. Legs shaking as he fucked into your cunt like his afterlife depended on. Each thrust had his heavy balls smacking against your clit, a jolt of electricity sent through you each time as you felt that coil tighten quickly. You tried to nod but his hand against your head made it difficult, but you couldnt manage a real response right now. “Ah-h, theres my good fucking girl.” He’d coo down to you between pants. You swore if honesty was the cost for this? Youd never utter a lie ever again.

His claws dug into your flesh as he rutted into you. The burning pain mixed with your quickly approaching release and you felt like youd die again. Your shaky hand tried to cover your mouth to stifle the erotic sounds you were making. The elevator creaked with every deep thrust, his own movements getting sloppy as he felt you tightly clenching around him.

The lights began to flicker to life just as you began to reach your peak, eyes squeezing shut at the sudden brightness. His hand in your hair yanked your head up from the floor as you felt the elevator stutter before suddenly descending. You felt fear prickle every nerve as a scream ripped from your throat at the feeling of falling rapidly. Your orgasm didnt stop though as your fearful scream turned into a raspy moan, your cunt twitching around Als cock as he buried himself deep into you. A groan leaving him as he reached his own release, his seed spilling into you as he grinded it in deeper.

With a jolt the elevator stopped its sudden descent as the light fully turned on. The small space fell silent as he released his hold on you. Before he could even pull out his head snapped towards the lattice door.

A very shocked and disgusted Husk stood in front of the elevator door. Angel peaked over with a surprised grin. “Holy shit it reeks of sex. No fuckin’ way you and smiles just banged in the elevator!”

All you could do was groan into the ground.

————————————————————

*Dizzy with a dame: 1920s slang ‘to be deeply in love with a woman’.

[cosmal]

𝐈'𝐦 𝐄𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 — 𝐄𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐌𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

summary — your father finds eddie in your room in the middle of something. eddie's a smug bastard.

warnings/tags — fem!afab!reader, she/her pronouns, allusions to sex, angry dad

note — this is super short but this would definitely be eddie if your family didn't let you see boys.

Eddie has his face in your chest and a hand down your pants when your bedroom door flies open. Your raging father on the other side.

You squeal, sitting up and Eddie pulls back. A frown on his face and a did I do something wrong? at the front of his mouth before he clocks your father.

You pull a pillow over your chest and Eddie takes his hand from your sleep shorts, sitting back on his haunches. "Fuck," he curses.

"Who the fuck are you?" Your father looks like he's about one more ragged breath from having a heart attack.

"Dad..."

"I'm Eddie," he smiles, stepping backwards off your bed. Down to his boxers, he stands in front of your father with his hands crossed over his crotch. Adjusting anything that's prominent. You'd laugh if you weren't a little terrified.

He steps inside your room and you move to pull your shirt back over your head.

"I'd shake your hand, sir, but um..." Eddie wriggles his hand in front of him and gestures to you on the bed. You gawp, your eyes almost falling out of your head.

"Right," your father grunts, leaping forward to grab at Eddie. You call Eddie's name, sitting up on your bed as he ducks under his open arms and heads for the doorway. Your father almost falls into your bed.

Holding onto your doorframe, Eddie laughs. "Sorry for meeting you under such circumstances."

Puffing a breath, your dad turns to head for Eddie again, "I'm gonna kill you."

Eddie shoots you a wink, laughing madly as he starts running down your hallway. Your dad starts up again, chasing after him. There's thudding when he stumbles the stairs and you call out, "Dad, stop!"

You stand at your window and watch your father chase after Eddie across your front lawn. Eddie jumps over your bike and loops back around to your front door, your dad hot on his heels.

You hear him ascend the stairs two at a time and watch on as he comes back into your room all puffed and red-faced. He scrambles for his clothes on your floor, picking up his jeans and shirt into a heap in his arms.

"Eddie, what are you fucking doing?' you hiss, shoving his socks into his hands.

"Sorry, babe." He kisses you on the cheek with a loud smack and you can hear your dad coming up the stairs. You slam your door shut. "I'll call you."

"Right," you laugh. "Get out of here."

He kisses you once more when you hear your door open up again. You wish you'd begged harder for a lock when you'd asked the last time.

You turn and push your hands into your dad's chest, "Dad, please stop."

You don't act like you can hold him back but it doesn't matter anyways when Eddie climbs out your window, using your lattice to descend to the grass below him.

You hear Eddie laughing madly until he gets to the end of your street.

[bits-and-babs]

javier peña x tipsy sex 👀

-ˋˏ 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 ˎˊ-

— pairing: Javier Peña x f!Reader

— word count: 1k

— warnings: alcohol consumption, passing mention of Escobar, oral (male receiving), exhibitionism. 18+, or else!

javier peña masterlist I| main masterlist |I follower celebration

The liquor burns your tongue when you set the latticed glass down, tastebuds prickling with the oaky spice and vanilla. Your cheeks tingle, the high points of your face warm beneath the golden lighting on the inside of the bar.

Yep. You’re edging on drunk.

The handsome DEA agent in front of you loosens another button on his shirt. It’s maroon, and his tan stands out like honey against the rich fabric. Javi watches you over the rim of the glass as he takes another sip of the amber liquid.

“… Do you think we’ll get him?” You whisper, your voice sounding breathy to your own ears- pitchy. A whole day of tailing Escobar to result in nothing had left you feeling flayed. Vulnerable.

Javier raises a slight eyebrow at you, looking at you with a pointed expression. He doesn’t need to say anything. ‘We have to’.

Your eyes slip down his face, unable to hold his inscrutable gaze. Instead, you follow the curve of his moustache, the way it frames his plush lips. His pointed chin, the column of his neck and the chords that stand pronounced against the thin skin splayed across them.

His open collar exposes his clavicle. It glistens under the low lighting, his sweat sparking a thirst that even copious amounts of alcohol couldn’t whet. It’s like you’re an addict, keening for something you know you shouldn’t have- that was dangerous. But every atom, every molecule, from your neurons to your electrons, screams with need.

You could cry. Javier is practically bursting out of those ridiculously tight jeans. The denim clings to him like a candy wrapper, disguising the sweet beneath yet sticking to its form and teasing you with the view of the delicious insides. He drags his palms over his thighs, and your eyes catch the outline of his half-hard cock when he shifts his hips in the wooden seat he occupies.

Impulse pushes you forward, but Javi is out of his seat first. His strong hand wraps around your wrist, his skin hot and clammy to the touch as he drags you across the bar floor. It’s a daze, the flash of the patrons as they dance or lament at their table over their work, love, secret lives.

Then the door to the bathroom is swinging open, and Javier pulls you inside with little ceremony. He closes the door, spinning you on your heel and pressing his back against the wood to hold the single cubicle entrance closed.

“Hermosa,” he whispers, and it’s almost as though he’s scolding you when he takes hold of your chin in those pretty hands of his, “Stop looking at me with those eyes.”

You swallow thickly, opening your mouth to question. Do you dare? ‘What eyes?’

Javier crushes your lips with his own, yanking your head forward and pressing his lips to yours in a hungry, deft kiss that steals your breath. It’s like feeding a flame oxygen, your arousal blooming through your body and burning hot beneath the stretch of your skin.

A groan leaks from his lips when you taste them with your tongue, savouring the flavour of nicotine and menthol that clings to them. Your hands slip down the front of his body, enjoying the hot waves of pleasure that roll off him when you take his belt into your hands. You undo it quickly, nose bumping his as you trace your tongue over his own. That vanilla spice is back, whiskey coating the inside of his mouth.

Opening his belt, you undo the button that clasps the front of those ridiculous jeans together. You feel his hands leave your waist to offer the same, but you dip to your knees on the tiled bathroom floor. It’s grotty, but the look of complete awe on the office playboy’s face is enough to compensate for you wanting to burn your jeans at the end of this.

“Hermosa-“

Pulling his jeans over his hips, your ears are shocked by the distress in the moan that leaks from your lips. He’s bare beneath the denim, ruddy cock springing free without the confines of boxers. Your mouth waters, looking up at Javi through your lashes as you scrape your nails over the peaks of his hip bones.

God, you take him in your tongue and just hold him there for a minute. The natural, musky scent of him tips you off that ledge, intoxicating you. Javi sighs when the velvet skin of him hits your palate. He sweeps his fingers over the top of your head, kind enough to note it might not be best to push your head onto him, given your inebriated state.

“So fucking pretty, Hermosa. Mhmm?” He whispers softly, his expression so sensual that it arcs up your spine in a blissful buzz that makes you swallow him down, taking him into your mouth and wrapping your lips around him.

He chokes out when the warmth of your mouth envelops him, hand curling into a fist when he rests his forearm against his head. A vein pulses on top of your tongue, salty precum cutting through the sweetness of your whiskeys aftertaste.

You bob your head slowly, tracing the ridges and the head, covering the silky skin with your spit and his own precum. Javi tilts his head back, the crown of his head knocking against the wood with a quiet ‘thud’.

“Hoh- oh shit, that’s so fucking good,” he mumbles, upper lip pulling upwards in a slight snarl as you swallow around him, his eyes rolling back. “Hnnngg, that’s right Baby, taking me so good.”

The praise melts in your stomach, bleeds through your nerve endings and sets them alight all at once- petrol on an already raging fire.

A knock on the door of the bathroom startles neither of you. Instead, you sink your mouth further onto Javier’s cock, his groan of your name even louder when your nose brushes his pubic bone.

“Fu-uuuck, Hermosa. That’s it. That’s it Baby- Hgnn-“

END

[little-emerald-snake]

Smutmas Day 16

“My parents are home!” “Then I guess you’ll have to be quiet.” - Sebastian Sallow X F!MC

🔥NSFW 🔞 MDNI

576 words

Warnings: unprotected p-in-v

Sebastian had crawled up the lattice below her window, pleased that she’d opened up after hearing the smaller raps of his knuckles against the glass pane.

Upon helping him inside and kissing him deeply she whisper-yelled to him. “Why are you here? You can’t be here right now. My parents are home!”

He chuckled softly, pulling her close and walking her backwards toward her bed while placing one hand around her waist and another behind her neck. “Then I guess you’ll have to be quiet, hm?”

The backs of her knees hit her mattress as he carefully lowered her down, climbing on top of her and kissing her passionately.

One of her hands slid its way into his hair while her other went to his chest. His lips worked their way down to her neck, causing her to gasp slightly. He nipped gently which caused her head to tip back.

He made quick work of their clothes, and finally with no layers between them he slotted himself between her legs, biting his lip while sliding inside of her.

He fully bottomed out inside of her, letting out a heavy breath in her ear. She moaned in response and he held his palm over her mouth. “Shh, careful darling. Don’t want your father to come up here and catch me balls deep inside of you, do you?”

She clenched around him, causing him to bite gently into her shoulder to stifle a groan. He thrusted into her, groaning at the tightness gripping around him.

She always felt good but since it had been a while away from each other she was oh so tight around him. He bucked into her, flinching when the bed creaked below them.

She adjusted them a little to the side as breathy moans left her mouth. The squeak disappeared and his teeth left her shoulder. “Oh, Merlin. Your pussy is so fucking tight. I-I’m not gonna last long.”

She sighed in pleasure, reaching between them to roll her finger over the sensitive bud of her clit. She let out a small gasp, tightening around him again. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he held himself up on his elbows, frantically trying to hold himself back from orgasm while plowing his hips into her.

She tipped her head back, eyes rolling back as her heels dug into his lower back. He felt her tighten impossibly around him and groaned as low as he could against her sweat slicked skin. “Gonna fill you so full…”

After coming down from the high they laid in her bed, tangled up in each other till she heard her mothers voice from downstairs calling her for dinner. Her eyes widened as she shot up from bed, frantically throwing on clothes.

She turned to Sebastian who was still laying in her bed, naked under her sheets. He looked up at her with a smirk and she shook her head. “No, you can’t stay up here during dinner. Y-you have to go…”

He shook his head, grinning mischievously. “No I don’t think I will. I think I’ll wait right here and when you’re done eating I’m going to fuck you again. Longer this time, like you deserve.”

She turned very red, throwing on a sweater before leaving her room to head down to dinner. Sebastian crossed his arms behind his head with a wide grin on his face as he relaxed back onto her pillows.

[shirefantasies]

Idk if/what you’re open to writing right now, but can you possibly write something focused on pippin? Maybe fluff or headcannons or oneshots, whatever you want. I’ll put my trust in a fellow pippin girlie 😉❤️

Ahhh I definitely was not when this very first rolled in but barring any more grievous wounds I am always down to write about my beloved 😌

Pie in the Sky- Pippin x F!Hobbit!Reader

(Gif by @lotrcolors! Didn’t see rules about not using them but will take down if they prefer!)

Perfect dough never fails to put a smile on your face. Sticky as it is, even the feeling of it beneath your hands as you knead it is pleasing. Flames to your left tell you the oven is more than ready to receive its eventual bounty. A few rolls beneath your pin and there you have it, a beautiful drape on the tin before the real treasure is stowed away. Twirling in your flighty joy, you turn for the stove, taking up your pot of wonderful sparkling scarlet raspberry filling. Pouring it in, you see you’ve made a bit extra- muffins might just be in your future, too! Last step is cutting the lattice and then your oven is finally presented its trophy.

You already pulled out the right size hourglass when you got your start, so all there is to it is giving it a flip and you’ve got a little time for inventory.

The fishers had a wonderful haul: bright, shiny salmon you had filleted earlier in the afternoon, leaving only the need to coat them in lemon juice and seasoning. Potatoes as well, potatoes fresh as the salmon, though they are to be fried into chips, not grilled. A plate of roasted zucchini and carrot to say you’re getting your vegetables in. Not to mention the pie.

Every voice in your head had told you to just make enough for yourself, but having a visitor is likely enough, is it not? May as well make a bit extra, you think as you reach for a tin of dill weed.

~

Foolhardy, they say. Foolish indeed to leave a pie cooling upon the sill of your hole’s window lest some rapscallion make short work of it. But what is life without a little chance, you ponder as you check up on your treat, glancing out to the passing road…

“Well, that is about as fine a pie as I’ve ever seen! What’s the occasion?”

Peregrin Took. Pippin, just about the whole Shire calls him. Sprightly, smiling, and green-eyed, the young hobbit comes from quite the family. He is the only one you know of so well, though. Oft is he seen alongside his cousin Merry, particularly for goers of the Green Dragon. You are not quite in that guild, though it has been tempting enough of late.

“No occasion, really,” you reply with a smile, glancing up at Pippin through your lashes, “to be honest, I just felt like it.”

“I can see why," he muses, tone dreamy.

"I made extra. Care to join me for supper?" Leaning further upon your sill, you rest your chin upon your hand.

"If you insist," he answers quickly, "then who am I to say no?"

He slips around the remaining perimeter of your yard, disappearing from your view until you hear a knock at your door. At once you abandon your pie, crossing through your kitchen and hall to open it.

"Well, hello there," Pippin jokes with a wide smile, arms outstretched and heels rocking, "fancy meeting you here!"

"Master Took," you play along, waving him in, "what a pleasant surprise! Please, come in."

Hands running over his shoulders faintly, you help him out of his coat, taking notice of how eager he is to strip himself of the extra layers, unwinding the scarf in record speed and glancing around the entry of your home.

"The kitchen is this way," you wave a hand, "Shall we?"

You take the way he practically trips over his feet on the freshly polished floorboards going forward as a yes, holding out a quick hand to steady him, thinking better of it, withdrawing shyly. Leading him to the dining table, you sit him down at the head of it and make for the kitchen to procure all your supper fixings. One by one you set down steaming platters, Pippin's eyes tracking your every movement before landing on the offerings themselves. You hear his stomach rumble as the smell of the first platter of chips fills the room, say nothing but smile and simply compound the feast until his eyes are wide as saucers.

Master Peregrin Took had caught your eye some time ago, from what day you cannot even say, but at that moment and beyond his wide, wonderful smile and lovely singing voice permeate the back of your mind far too often. Often enough, in fact, that you've taken up the peculiar little habit that finally serves you so well, making far more of anything than you need lest you ever are gifted the luck of the Shire's jolliest soul at your door. And as he sits before you, so close your arms brush as they reach for cups and utensils, engrossed in sharing a story his cousin's gardener told him about the Proudfeet's pumpkins, all you can feel is a glow of warmth and satisfaction.

~

"Mmm," Pippin hums in pleasure between forkfuls, "how did I never know what a good cook you are?"

You shrug, suddenly feeling a little shy. "I suppose I never labelled my creations all too well at any festivals."

"Well, if you keep this up," he teases, "I may just have to keep coming to call."

"Be my guest," you wave a hand and smile widely, eyes remaining upon his, "it isn't often I get company."

You barely trust your ears at his next words. "I can hardly believe that! But I'm more than happy to take up the task."

Wit utterly fails you at that, words lost in the fluttering of butterflies filling your entire being and a smile you cannot have hidden for all the gold in the Shire.

~

Pippin greets you by name this time, leaning into your window with eager familiarity. “You wouldn’t happen to be baking, would you?”

“Why, yes,” you smile back even wider, bending down for a moment to collect proof in the form of a steaming yellow cake before you tease, "if you don't mind waiting for it to cool and get frosted I'd be happy to share. Unless you were just hoping I was busy."

Pippin practically runs around to your gate, bringing yet another smile to your lips as you turn from your cake to the strawberries you'd been slicing.

~

“Excellent party, no?”

Glancing up from your tankard, you see Pippin has slid up to your side, leaning an arm casually upon the edge of the table and giving you that easy smile that makes everything within you flutter. His sandy hair is sprinkled with tossed flower petals and falls about his face, which flickers beneath the lanterns set all about. He’d undone his ever-present scarf, this time letting it hang loosely about either side of his neck and down onto a green velvet waistcoat that brings out those eyes of his.

Nothing else but a smile could have broken across your face at such a sight, joy alongside warmth you can luckily blame upon lanterns and the fires on which spits had been roasting and sheer proximity to all the dancing couples whirling by and other hobbits stopping at the table and idly chatting.

“Just grand,” you reply, only aware in post the surefire dreaminess of your expression, “the music's wonderful, everyone is in such cheer, and the spread is great, too! And now I've got fine company as well!"

"As have I," Pippin replies, glancing away from your gaze, then back to it, "and you are so right about it all. I can't wait to dance the night away! And I've just had about the best cookies of my life!"

You giggle at that, fingers tightening around the wooden mug you held. "Oh yes? And what kind were they?"

"Lavender sugar."

"Ah," your eyes light up, "those would be mine! See what I mean about the labeling? Oh, I'm so glad you liked them!"

Seeing as how it's the sole reason you made anything at all for the birthday of someone's aunt you didn't even know too well.

"Liked them?" He leans closer. "I loved them! But enough of that: how would you care for a dance or five?"

Nothing would have gotten your hands off your tankard with greater haste, its base hitting the red tablecloth at your back faster than he could say "South Farthing".

"I would love that," you tell him, and without a moment's hesitation you are swept up into his arms.

Pippin's hold about your waist is tighter than you'd have expected, but you don't complain a mite at the feeling of his hands on your hips, even the twitch of a finger you'd almost suspect to be the beginnings of roaming if you were any more full of yourself. He goes fast with you, something you hadn't doubted for a moment, and you get a thrill from the way he pulls you in so quickly from a twirl, sending you flying into his chest and caught with his other arm each time. Perhaps you aren't so graceful as some of the other, older or more leisurely pairs out on the open grass, but you know as your bare feet struck the soft ground again and again that you would have it no other way.

~

“Oh, now it’s shortbread?”

You put the hand that isn't holding the basket on your hip, fixing the younger hobbit with a look. “Do you want some or not, Marigold dear?”

"Oh, yes," she replies, golden head bobbing and petite hand reaching to loosen the cloth you've wrapped over the bars, "and I will take one for the old Gaffer, too.”

“Oh, he should enjoy them. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, after all.”

“And who else shall?” Marigold muses, fixing you with a positively catlike smile. “How is my advice about a man’s heart going, then, with Mister Peregrin Took?”

Your easy smile melts into something dreamier, grip on your basket relaxing slightly. “Well, all my baking certainly is bringing us together more.”

“And showing him what a good wife you’ll make him, too. He looked very happy there dancing with you at old Violet’s birthday!”

Before you can stop yourself looking a fool, your smile is widening tenfold. “You think so?”

“Oh,” Marigold waves a hand, “you’re incorrigible! Next time you two dance, just lean in for the kiss!”

“Easy for you to say,” you shoot back, crossing your arms and nearly, but not quite, upsetting your shortbread basket, “I could tell you the same about Tolman Cotton.”

Paling then reddening, Marigold gapes at you and sputters. "Now that is quite different! Tolman is a family friend, after all! If I were to- Why, that friendship might-”

“Uh-huh,” you nod in mock sympathy, a sardonic smile upon your lips, “well, then, perhaps you ought to bake him something. After all, a good friend told me the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Marigold grins. “Yours, maybe! Tolman cares much more about a good spot of fishing than all that.”

“Then you come over to sit in my kitchen and make him a new lure while I muse over what Pippin’s favorites might be. I’ve some dyed feathers I could spare.”

“From what?” Marigold asks, tilted head and smile incredulous as you make your way down the lane.

That is all Pippin catches of the conversation, but it is more than enough, he reflects with a brief proud smirk that quickly melts into a wide, dreamy grin as he glances down at the pair of chocolate-covered shortbread bars in his hands. Your grandma had some good ideas, but she’d never get his heart beating like you did.

~

It is not the most common occurrence in the world to hear your bell ring, so to say you shot up from your sewing is an understatement. All but tossing the shirt whose sleeve you’re repairing down, you pad across your planks to the door, mouth widening into an ‘o’ at the sight of Pippin at your door, a bunch of daisies in one hand and a basket slung upon the opposite arm. Today he is wearing a lavender vest; you don't think you've ever seen him wear lavender before, but of course it suits him.

“Hi there,” he said your name, voice lowering, “I thought I could maybe…take you on a picnic.”

“Oh!” You exclaim, habitually glancing down at your dress and feeling a hand shoot up to your hair. “Well, I don’t know if I’m picnic ready, but-”

“You’re as beautiful as ever,” he remarks with a shrug and the most casual smile, as if he’d commented upon the balmy state of the weather.

“Well,” you glance down toward your feet and fiddle with the end of your sleeve, one arm shyly across your chest, “how can I say no to that? Of course I will go, then. Do you need anything for your basket, though? I admit I haven’t made much fresh today, but I can always-”

At that, Pippin shakes his head, curls flying about his smiling face. “This one is my mother’s treat. It’s about time I pay you back, after all.”

“Oh, alright. Because I do have a leftover pie in the-”

“Yes, bring that.”

You giggle as Pippin continues. “Don’t you worry, though- my mother’s cooking is almost as good as yours! Just don’t tell her I said that.” Punctuating his joke with a wink, he extends his arm and beaming, you take it.

~

Pippin leads you down to the bank of a stream and spreads out a blanket you hadn’t noticed him carrying before, probably due to being too occupied looking into those sweet green eyes and fluttering your lashes at any affection that potentially swims within them. The ground is soft already beneath the blanket, making it quite easy to settle upon your little spot across from Pippin and his basket. Water babbles tranquilly at your side by your feet, glistening in the spring sunshine.

Your companion offers quite the spread, for on top of your pie there is cold chicken and hard boiled eggs, sandwiches with salted meat and cress, cheese alongside the end of the sandwich loaf, fresh red raspberries, and turnovers.

“I hope this is enough.”

“Are you joking?” Your eyes light up, glancing from Pippin to the array of food to the sunlight filtering through the greenery at the stream’s edge. “This is perfect. All of it.”

"It had to be," he says, "I wanted our courtship to start off right."

Falling suddenly deaf to the chirping of birds and babbling of stream, you looked up from your sandwich with wide eyes, again seeing Pippin smiling at you like he'd made the most natural conclusion in the world, this time before tilting a fistful of raspberries into his mouth. Blinking, you search for words, failing momentarily in favor of just grinning over the way Peregrin Took never fails in his unwitting quest to always surprise you. Heat creeps to your face, heat beyond even the beating of the sun down to your head.

Pippin, it seems, takes your silence as a form of denial. All but dropping the plated slice of pie in his hand, he wipes one set of fingers off on the edge of a napkin before waving both hands hastily back and forth.

"Unless I heard your conversation with Marigold wrong. I just got so excited thinking that we could be everything I'd dreamed of and that what you were doing was working. Not that you needed to do it because I already thought you were the prettiest thing I've ever seen and why am I saying all this?"

"Because you're cute," you gush, heart still flip-flopping at his words, at the way the sunlight dances off the curves of his sheepishly smiling cheeks, "and you're always managing to find new ways to steal my heart."

"Me?" His voice is so quiet it's all but a whisper of joy. "You think I'm... Well, I think you're just sweet as this pie here. No, sweeter. Besides finding new ways to steal your heart, might I find new ways to kiss you?"

"Smooth," you tease, shaking your head playfully, gleefully, "you might indeed."

If Pippin is thinking anything you made was sweet, not a single delight you could have whipped up in your kitchen stands a chance against the feeling of his lips on yours, dancing lightly against them in the springtime breeze.

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @kilibaggins @mossthebogwitch @ibabblealot @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin @letmelickyoureyeballs @mossyskinn @wordbunch @tiny-and-witchy @th3-st4r-gur1 @fleurdemiel-145 @mistresskayla-blog1 | Reply/Message/Ask to join 💕

[wilted3sunflowers]

White Pearl: SOLD Is she just as perfect as all of white's court is supposed to be?

Pink Pearl: Sold Is that smile innocent or malicious?

Blue Pearl: SOLD Professional and Elegant.

Yellow pearl: Sold A radiant Pearl but maybe she shines too bright. First come first serve I take payment over paypal

Design Notes: Obviously these pearls are all based to be one under each court and some leaning in for the court type more than others. I wanted them all to feature the same pattern a you can see on the main article of clothing. For Pink Pearl she's obviously modeled after a flower and a jester much how pink diamond herself was. I even took her to lean into a more devious and malicious side similar to eyeball and past pink diamond's actions could be. even her arms could be read as small stalks and little pollen balls from an upside down flower. The legwarmers helped stop with the full blank space on the bottom half and she gets to be the only one with a separate patterned article instead of just a bulk piece of cloth. Also another thing to note is the midrise bottoms she wears to also match with white pearl's high rise pants.

White Pearl was the first on designed for her silhouette and the hardest part being figuring out her hair- that which ended up being shaped after i got the other pearls designs down further so she ended up with two buns as a compliment to blue having one bun. Last minute in the designing process I added White to have sunglasses both for the nod to 'cool white diamond' court but also to contrast the 'brilliant shine' of yellow as if she's the sun so that those two can mirror while pink and blue have cheek details together

Originally blue pearl was not going to have a cold shoulder open much less a bow in the back. However it got trimmed down so that there will be more visual similarities to White Pearl's cold shoulder and a bow in the back like almost faux shoulder pads in a silhouette look. In the end she kind of ended up looking the most different than what I originally intended for her. Yellow Pearl is the only one of the four to have technically three different patterns going on for her. One the main pattern of course, then three stripes on her shirt and then a lattice of the combined pant and boots of a gradient. Showing she wants a lot, and likely is doing too much. Fitting a bit well into the militaristic but still seeming like a too ornate look, she has metal cuffs- there small blunt spikes and also on the back of her heels instead of long and sharper more piercing type of spikes. No matter what though, she carries the signia of the diamonds intensely. Another thing to note is how blue pearl has a mini dress and that yellow pearl has low rise pants that both almost line up in where they stop

[jamdoughnutmagician]

A Slice Of Life (Waitress AU) Part 2

Doctor!Steve Harrington x Waitress!Reader

<- Previous part Next part ->

Warnings: Steve is a sweet guy in this, and Billy continues to be a horrible husband. Brief mentions/descriptions of sex.

Word Count:2,158

*dividers by @saradika-graphics

Masterlist // Steve Harrington Masterlist

Quickly you rush into work, the time on your watch already ticking into your shift. You’re running late.

You push through the diner doors, and sure enough Hopper is there to greet you, with a stern expression set on his features. His moustache sitting over his lips pressed into a thin line.

“You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”

“Cut me some slack, Hop, the bus was late.” you huff as you try your best to straighten yourself out.

“Why don’t that husband of yours buy you a car or something?”

“Because he doesn't want me going anywhere.” you scoff, pushing past him to the back room to get changed into your waitressing uniform.

As you step out of the room, Nancy is there to catch your eye.

“How did you get on at the doctors this morning?” 

“Well, I’m definitely pregnant, if that’s what you’re asking.” you laugh to yourself. “It was a new doctor. A man. He’s taken over since Doctor Bloom retired.”

“Ooh a man? Was he cute?” she joked, nudging you with her elbow.

Nancy watched as the heat bloomed on your face, your eyes not meeting hers.

“Oh, okay so he was definitely cute.” she gathers from your embarrassed expression. “Is he single?”

“Nance!” you gently slap at her arm, you’d been friends with Nancy for too long for her not to know when you liked someone. “Okay, he was kinda cute, I guess. Didn’t see any ring on his finger either.” 

“Hey, could you do me a huge favour?” 

“Sure, what’s up Nance?”

“Can you serve Joyce today? She’s in her usual seat by the window. I don’t know if I have the energy to face her this early in the morning.”

“Sounds like someone's got a guilty conscience? You poke at your friend.

“Just because you know I’m sleeping with her son, does not give you the right to hold it over me. She smiles, narrowing her eyes at you. “Joyce. Table 7. Please.” she begs.

“Alright, alright. I got it. No need to get your panties in a bunch.”

“Darling, you’re an absolute angel.” she says with a pat on your shoulder as she whizzes off to tend to the other guests sitting at their tables.

Coffee pot in hand you make your way over to Joyce’s table where she’s sat by herself, reading over a glossy magazine.

“Good morning, Joyce.” you smile brightly, filling up her coffee mug. “What can I get for you today?”

“This is my pie diner, you know?” she starts her usual morning ramble. “Jim likes to think he runs things here, but this is my place. I own it. It’s my name on the deeds, and it’s my name above the door.”

“I know Joyce,” you nod as you listen to her, suddenly feeling un-easy sick feeling settling in the pit of your stomach. You suppress it as best you can for now, to take her order. “So, what’ll it be today huh?”

There it was again, that nauseous feeling creeping up your throat, the kind that leaves a bad taste in your mouth. That couldn’t be morning sickness already, could it?

“I’ll have a slice of the “Midnight Mulberry” pie please, and a glass of water with ice when you get the chance, Hon.”

Midnight Mulberry. A dark chocolate pie shell filled with sharp black mulberries and blackberries, the sharpness offset by the dollop of fresh cream served on top of the chocolate lattice work on the top of the pie.  

“Alright, got it, one slice of Midnight Mulberry coming right up.” you say jotting down her order on your notepad quickly before turning on your heels to rush off to the bathroom.

“Wait a moment, before you skedaddle off, let me read you my horoscope.” she says, her eyes looking back to the magazine in her hands. 

“Libra, smooth sailing today as Mars enters your inner circle, whatever the hell that means. The ones you love will listen carefully to you today, just make sure you’re careful with what you say.” she finishes as she puts her magazine down “do you want to hear your horoscope, darling?”

“You know what, I’m a Libra too, the same as you. If you’ll excuse me I feel like I’m going to be sick.” your words rush out as you hot-foot it to the bathroom stalls in the back of the diner.

After you had emptied the contents of your stomach into the toilet bowl, and washed your mouth out with water from the tap, you head back out onto the diner floor to collect Joyce’s order and bring it to her table.

“Here you go, one slice of Midnight Mulberry and a glass of water.” you smile, placing her pie down in front of her.

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” she asks all-too-knowingly.

You shush her, not wanting anyone else around to hear her.

“I remember when I was pregnant with Jonathan, I could barely keep any food down for the first few months, nearly every smell made me sick, it was awful.” she sips from her glass of her water. “When are you due?”

“Shh, Joyce, I can’t have Hopper hearing you or I’ll lose my job. I’m trying to save enough money so I can get away from my husband, but you’ve got to promise me that you won’t say anything about this baby, okay?”

“What baby?” she smiles at you with a wink. 

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Sitting next to Robin in her small, run-down car as she gives you a lift home, because apparently Billy had been too busy at work to pick you up, although the background chatter from the bar he would frequent after work told you otherwise. However, any thoughts of your husband are elsewhere, as you mindlessly watch as the hazy sunset breezes past your window.

“Billy has no idea that you're pregnant, does he?” Robin says softly, breaking the comfortable silence. 

“No, he doesn’t. And I'm never going to tell him. I’m just going to run away.”

“How much money have you got saved up?”

“Not much, about $1,000, and I can save up a bit more before the big pie bake-off.”

“And how much is the prize money?” she asks, her fingers gently tapping a rhythm on the steering wheel.

“$25,000.” you reply with a grin curving across your lips.

“Wow. So what pie were you thinking of baking?”

“I’m not sure yet. I was thinking of baking one of my more unusual pies. Y’know, the kind where you don’t think the ingredients are going to work together, but then they do.”

“You know what you could do with that prize money though,” Robin says, her eyes briefly flicking over to you.

“What’s that Rob?”

“You could open up your own pie shop.”

“C’mon Rob, that’s crazy talk.” you scoff with a playful laugh at your friend’s suggestion.

“No, I’m serious, you totally could. "The Pie Palace’’ I can just see the sign in my mind!” she laughs, her freckled cheeks round and rosy.

The morning comes and you find yourself sitting on the bench a block away from your house, waiting for the bus to take you to work. Closing your eyes, you allow yourself to think about the life growing inside of you, and what your life might look like with a baby in the picture.

Baby’s screaming its head off in the middle of the night pie.

New York style cheesecake base, brandy-brushed filled with pecans warmly spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg.

“Hello.” comes a voice from beside you. “Mind if I sit?” 

It’s your Doctor, Doctor Harrington.

“Sure, go ahead.” you gesture to the empty space on the bench beside you.

He sits down in comfortable silence next to you.

“So what’s a doctor doing catching the bus, huh? Thought you’d have some big fancy car or something” 

He chuckles, a gentle rumbling laugh that illuminates his face with a bright smile.

“Oh no, I do have a big fancy car,” he jokes with that charming smile. “..it’s just having a few problems at the moment. Friend of mine who runs an auto shop downtown is looking after it for me.”

“So, do you live far from the Doctor’s Practice?” you ask, the flow of conversation between you 

“Uh, no, not too far. I live over on Ashmore Road.” 

“Oh, it’s nice over there.”

“Yeah it’s nice. Lotta trees, which is good, uh, y’know, if you like trees. I mean who doesn’t like trees?” he stumbles over his words with an adorably nervous cadence.

“Trees are good.” you smile back, nodding to him.

“So, you’re a waitress then?” he asks, as he gestures at your blue and white waitress's dress.

“I am. I work in a little diner just off I70, Byer’s Pie Diner.”

“I’ve never been there. Is it..is it good?”

“Yes, it’s very good. We make all the pies there fresh. Breakfast pies, dinner pies, twenty-seven different varieties of pie, and a new house special that I create every day.” you smile. “I was actually just inventing a new one in my head when you walked up.”

“So, that peach and raspberry pie that you brought me, you made it?” He asks, sitting up a bit straighter and turning his body towards you.

“Indeed I did. Peaches In Paradise Pie.” 

“That was quite possibly the best pie that I have ever tasted in my life.” he says, his bright smile somehow feeling even more brighter than before. “I mean, that pie was like, life-changingly good, that’s how good it was. You could win contests with stuff like that, I’m serious.”

You delight in his praises, smiling to yourself at the kind words of this man.

“Well thank you very much.”

There’s a beat of silence that falls between you both before Steve speaks again.

“Y’know, when I was a kid, I used to go to this diner all the time after school, I had this insane crush on this waitress that worked there, her name was Margaret but everyone called her Peggy. She’d always wear her little uniform, and she was just so damn adorable, ” he admits shyly. “Of course I was just a dumb kid and didn’t realise that she would never see me in the same way that I saw her, but I don’t know, when I saw you sitting here, you just reminded me of her.”

“Wow, that is quite the thing to say.”

“Sorry, I guess in a round-about way I was just trying to pay you a compliment.” he blushes. 

“No, it was a nice thing to hear, thank you. No-one ever really notices me in that way.”

“Well, I suppose someone must’ve noticed you in that way, or you wouldn’t be in the condition you’re in.” he says, his head vaguely nodding towards your stomach.

“Ah, yes, you mean my husband.” you nod, you’re brought back to reality, suddenly all too aware that you’re a married woman flirting with a handsome man. If Billy only knew what you were doing, his hand would be stinging your skin in an instant. 

The bus rolls up to the bus stop.

“Here’s my bus. It was nice talking to you, Doctor Harrington.”

“If there’s ever anything you need, anything at all, don’t hesitate to call, and please, call me Steve.” he smiles as he waves you off as you get on the bus.

“Please, Honey, you know I can make you feel real good.” Billy pleads as he mouths at your neck, trailing sloppy kisses into the crook of your neck that only served to make your skin crawl. “It’s been at least a month since I last felt you, and you know a man like me has needs.”

“Billy please, I don’t feel even the littlest bit sexy right now.”

“Honey, you have never been more sexy to me.” his raspy voice gravelled out. “I mean, call me crazy, but your tits are looking a lot bigger than before. Not that I’m complainin’ about that, of course.” he chuckles, his wandering hands grazing over your chest, feeling up the swell of your breast. 

You fight against the shudder that wants to run down your spine.

“You’re probably just imagining things Billy.”

“Honey, please, you’re killing me here, I gotta be with you.”

 You lay back in the bed, totally out of it as Billy holds himself above you, chasing his own high, sloppily rolling his hips into you whilst he huffs out groaning moans, before flopping down in bed next to you.

“That was so good, Honey.” he groaned once before turning his back to you and falling asleep without a single thought about your pleasure, but that was your husband. Uncaring and selfish. 

Lying back, your eyes cast up to the ceiling, you think about how different your life might have been if you’d never met Billy Hargrove. 

@penguinsandpotterheads @paybacksawitch @mrsjellymunson @seatnights @ali-r3n @potatobeanpies

[saltyfears]

I’ve always liked Uni’s design but I never got around to drawing her until now! For those who don’t know Uni is a Korean Vocaloid that released in 2017 but there’s not many songs or drawings with her compared to most other vocaloids so I decided to make this :3

This drawing took a lot out of me lmfao drawing hands/arms/heels in perspective is my sworn enemy

Shout out to the CSP morph tool for making the pattern on the skirt possible 🙏

[ID: a digital illustration of the vocaloid Uni singing into a microphone and looking forward in bright, vivid colors. Behind her is a beige background decorated with lattice patterns, a dotted square pattern, and dark blue stars. In the corner her name is written in Hangul in hot pink. End ID.]

[azureashes]

Bless Me Father, For I Have Sinned

MDNI 18 +

TW: Religious Trauma, Religious Themes, Heavy Fingering, Throat fingering, Priest!Sukuna, gullible Reader, religious manipulation, internalized misogyny, CULTS, oh and cheating! (I forgot about the cheating cuz dude doesn't even get an honorable mention)

This is probably going to be a multichap, as a lot of things have yet to be addressed in this first chapter. Also Sukuna is potentially TOO soft in this first chapter, but he's luring her in first so you know... something, something, honey, vinegar.

Inspired by THIS artwork and THIS playlist.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

“I’m going to teach you something about submission, sweetheart,” there was that familiar, sinful voice in your ear. “And after these…” he paused as if glancing at a clock, “eight and a half minutes, you’re going to understand something about it that you didn’t before.” 

Rain pelted the glass window panes of the gray buildings with their colored awnings that blurred at the edges of your vision as you swept down the cobblestone street. Lights were blinking out on both sides of the road as the quaint little shops closed up for the night, leaving you increasingly shrouded in darkness. 

Gasping for breath, you turned where you stood, taking in your surroundings with a mounting sense of despair. At the end of the road, your eyes caught on a proud building that towered above all others in the square. 

A towering edifice of gothic elegance, the church stood with its grand arch soaring into a pointed dome, its dark stone facade gleaming in the rain. Round windows adorned with intricate lattice designs glowed with an ethereal light. Nearby, ivy and dark, lush foliage clung to the walls, and twisted trees framed the entrance, their leaves glistening with raindrops. An ancient oak door stood ajar, warm candlelight flickering from within, casting a golden glow that beckoned you inside, both inviting and ominous, as if whispering secrets of the human soul to those who dared to approach.

You swallowed thickly, craving the warmth you hoped to find within. Your feet moved as if compelled by some unnatural force, and before you could consciously make the decision, you found yourself stepping over the threshold of the ancient building. You stepped into the narthex, where maroon carpeting and gleaming mahogany furniture greeted her. 

Catching your breath, you took in the long crimson aisle runner that ran along the length of the nave, leading up to the altar. The altar itself was dominated by a crucifix in such a deep shade of mahogany it seems to waver between red and black. In fact, most of the ornamentation of the sacred area reflected scenes of biblical tales so gruesome and violent that the excessive scenes of bloodshed left an almost pulsing, ethereal red dominating your vision. 

There was the reredos, adorned with haunting imagery of saintly martyrdom. You recognized each of them with practiced ease. The central panel depicted Saint Agatha with her severed breasts on a platter, her serene face juxtaposed against the brutality of her martyrdom. To either side, scenes of Saint Lucy with her eyes on a plate and Saint Philomen, with arrows piercing her body and chains constricting her limbs. 

There was no romanticization of their scenes of martyrdom in the manner you were accustomed to. Their sacrifices were made apparent in graphic detail and their blood seemed to glow almost hauntingly. Saint Lucy’s eyeless face was turned towards the viewer, as were the other two saints, almost in judgment. Almost as if they were saying something. Reminding you of something. 

With a shiver, you turned from the gruesome imagery towards the font of holy water. Swallowing thickly and struggling to regulate your breathing, you dipped your fingers into the water - shuddering inexplicably as you did so - and made the sign of the cross on yourself with a practiced hand. 

Then you made your way down the aisle, your black, court heels muffled against the plush runner as you approached, your eyes taking in the black candelabras, the gory visions of Ezekiel depicted on the stained glass windows, the many candles glowing ethereally in impossibly tall candlesticks, many adorned with reliefs of further scenes of martyrdom, depicted once more in such graphic detail that you could not help but stare. You were taken aback that the many relics and artworks depicted mainly women. Female saints and martyrs. Women in worship. You were hard-pressed to find even one man depicted within the church, but could oddly find none. 

In addition to the strange adornment, the ominous silence of the church set the hairs at the nape of your neck on end. It was not the usual, hallowed calm you were accustomed to, but the tense silence that followed a gunshot, or the suffocating stillness after the last gasp of death. 

You considered turning around and walking right back out, but hesitated. You wanted something different. A new light shed on old beliefs. Some way out of the impossible cage you had been born into. You could not always run from things that varied from the norm that oppressed you. 

With a grim expression, you made your way further into the church. Dim candlelight flickered at the edge of your vision and you made towards it, relieved to have found the confessional. It, too, was constructed of the deepest shade of ebony, and stood invitingly in a corner of the area, just before the sacristy beyond which priests prepared for services or otherwise spent their time. 

Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the small chamber door that led to the penitent’s side of the confessional and stepped inside. The overpowering smell of incense surrounded you as soon as you let the door fall shut behind you. It smelled strongly of roses, with a sweetness that could make one sick, but beneath that floral scent, something acrid, almost sulfuric, burned your nostrils. 

 A kneeler awaited you in the center of the small space, covered with cushioned velvet just at the foot of the confessional grate. At two corners of the room you noted an odd gap between the wall and floor. Almost as if they weren’t quite connected. In fact, with every step you took, it seemed the floor moved ever so slightly with your weight. Was the confessional not set directly on the ground?

You frowned and admonished yourself for the way you had been judging the church ever since you had entered it. Who were you to judge over a house of God? What gave you the audacity, or the right?

Ashamed, you moved towards the confessional grate and interlocked your fingers, kneeling with humility and lowering your head as you struggled to sort out your thoughts. You were suddenly acutely aware of the rain dripping down your hair onto the confessional floor and down the back of your neck. The wafting incense made it hard to think straight, bringing deeply buried feelings dangerously close to the surface. 

“Bless me father” you said, your voice demure - if not downright miserable - “for I have sinned.” You got the words out with difficulty, the pain in your heart overpowering you anew, as the warmth of the confessional started to become stifling, the rain on your skin feeling almost sticky. 

“ Welcome , my child,” the answer was a smooth purr, deep and dark and sinfully enticing. You started in surprise. You had never known a priest to sound like that. “What brings you to me today?” The words that followed did nothing to relieve the unholy effect his dark baritone had had on you and you flushed, deeply ashamed. 

Recentering yourself, you focused inward. On your pain, your torment, your sense of estrangement. “I’m struggling with…” what sin was it? What could describe your inability to fall into line? “...pride,” you finished finally. 

“I feel guilty about wanting to be seen,” tears pooled unbidden in your eyes, you tried to blink them away but new ones replaced them faster than you could rid yourself of them. Taking a deep, shuddering breath you lowered your forehead against your clasped hands. The tears dripped slowly down the length of your nose, you were helpless to stop them. You took a deep, tormented breath and continued.  

“I feel guilty about wanting to be loved and cherished.” You choked the words out on a low, hushed sob, “I feel guilty about…” but no more words would come as emotion overwhelmed you. Your family. Their expectations. Drowning beneath them. Always less than, less than, less than… Less than your brothers, less than your father, less than your fiancé. Why could you not be happy with less? Why could you not be like your mother, blank-faced and passive and content? Why did you want to be adulated and adored like your brother? Why were you only loved when you lowered your head, when you made yourself small, when you reduced yourself to nothing? Why could you not be happy that way? 

You thought of your fiancé, of the bruises that ached, still, on your shoulder blade, on your arms, on your thighs… 

Why could you not submit?

The incense was choking you, you couldn’t think, you couldn’t breathe. You sucked in one breath after another, but they did not seem to fill your lungs as image after image replayed in your mind. Your fiancé’s leer, your father’s frown of disapproval, your brother’s smirk… Your professor’s effusive disappointment as you dropped out of college, your boss’s concern as you quit your job… the blank face that looked back at you in the mirror every morning when you awoke. 

Why had your obedience not brought your contentment?

You lost sense of your surroundings as you fought for breath, fought to get a handle on your tears. You fell from the kneeler with a clatter as you scrambled backwards, towards the wall as you clutched at your chest, wheezing, trying to get your lungs to take in air - or to expel it. You weren’t sure which they were supposed to be doing. 

The small, cramped confessional seemed to be spinning around you as the incense only further dulled your senses. You were going to faint here. And it was going to end up in the news. And your family would be humiliated. And it would all be your fault.

Everything, everything, everything. You were to blame for all of it. Because you were cursed. You could only be good by fighting every natural instinct you had. By destroying yourself. It was the only way to prevent your existence from tainting your loved ones, from harming them, because you were…

The door to the confessional swung outward and your eyes caught on the man - no, the priest - beyond. He towered over you, his hulking figure filling out the small door frame until he flooded your vision. His body was powerful, well-muscled even through his robes, his eyes were piercing and perceptive, as if they saw right through you - to the very center of your core. He wore a shock of pink hair, black at the roots and there were deep shadows on his face, or were those black markings? You couldn’t tell. He was devastatingly handsome all the same, and seemed far too young to be a priest.

“ Well ,” again, that smooth baritone that made you feel so very small - but in a way that you found yourself liking. A way that made you feel almost safe. “You’re quite a sight.” There was amusement in his eyes as he beheld you, even in your predicament. 

“Now, now…” his voice was distant, but oddly comforting. It had a hypnotic quality to it, a reassuring one. “Breathe.”

“Slowly now,” he admonished gently. And you did as he asked, sucking in one shuddering breath before releasing it shakily. Again. Again. Again. Slowly, sensation returned and your vision cleared along with your awareness that the handsome priest - whose handsome face matched his body in every way - had crossed over to your side of the confessional. It was little wonder, given the way you had nearly collapsed but it was embarrassing nonetheless. 

You chanced another glance at him, but he continued to observe you silently. It took you a moment to realize that he was waiting for you to continue. To hear what you wished to say. And wanting to be heard was strange and foreign. Your tongue tied itself up in knots as he stood there, looking down on you. There was something different about him, something… if not divine, then certainly supernatural. 

It was not at all the same, making your confession to his face, there was no longer the sense of anonymity that you liked to hide behind. But instead, a sense of connection and vulnerability that grounded you unexpectedly. 

Reflecting on the pain that had driven you to this place, it all seemed to center on one singular axis. Your own inability to comply with the wishes of those who held the reins of your life in their hands. Although you knew that was what your faith asked of you, you found yourself rebelling and resenting your lot in life again and again. And every time, it invited conflict and pain into your world. Every time you ended up hurting those you cared for. 

“Why can I not obey?” the tears streamed down your face. You had only ever wanted to be good. Only ever wanted to do good by those you cared for. Only ever wanted to be loved. “Why can I not submit? Why can’t I be good ?”

The strange priest lowered himself towards you, his wrists resting loosely on his knees as he sat back on his haunches. “Submitting is not so very hard,” he murmured, his voice casting its now-familiar spell on you. “I could teach you.” 

There was a look in his eye that seemed to swallow you up, seemed to burn you alive. This priest knew something. Something that would help you make sense of everything. Maybe he could save you. Maybe he could help you learn to be at peace with yourself. 

He reached out towards you and as his hand drew closer, you realized with a sudden jolt how inappropriate this encounter was. How wrong it was for him to join you on the penitent’s side in this intimate space that barely had room for one. How untoward it was for him to be reaching out to touch you. 

But you had spent your whole life wishing someone would cross beyond your walls, spent all your years wanting to be touched and seen. And with the way he was looking at you, with the utmost confidence, with an overpowering self-assurance, you could not help but want the distance between you to shrink into nothingness. 

“Submitting to someone,” he purred, his outstretched fingers grazing your cheek, sending a thrill through you. “Should come naturally. It shouldn’t have to be forced. Do you understand?” 

You were beginning to. The way his voice washed over you, the way his gaze set you alight with the intoxication of being truly seen, you thought you could vaguely understand what he meant. You nodded, even as the sheen of tears in your eyes reflected the surrounding candlelight, even as your cheeks glistened with their wetness. 

“There now,” his lips curved into a half-smile even as his eyes narrowed, but he did not remove his hand, continuing his gentle caress. “Isn’t that better?”

���I’m cursed,” you choked out in a hushed whisper. “I’m the evil one.”

A spark of something went through his scarlet eyes. As if he had been playing with you up until this point, the way you might play with a stray kitten on the street but now something had shifted. But he recovered, and the fingers that had been trekking lazily up along the side of your face moved to cup your cheek. 

“Is that so?” there was something dark in his voice. Something curious. Something angry. 

“I only bring them grief,” you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out the disinhibiting effects of the overpowering incense. Trying to stop yourself from leaning into his palm. Nuzzling it. Kissing it. 

“I can not contain myself. I can not be humble and obey. I can not be as they want me to be. As our faith requires me to be .” You shuddered at the admission, your internal torment causing your shoulders to hunch over as if you wished to cave in on yourself. “I have prayed every day, wept every night…” 

You lift your tortured gaze, awash anew with fresh tears, to his contemplative crimson irises. Red? His eyes were red? Why had you not noticed before? Or was that merely the glow of the many candles reflecting all the red furnishings in the church?

You suck in a deep breath and despite yourself, you reach out to hold onto his wrist, as if begging him not to remove his hand. “Please…” you plead, your voice wavering, “Can you save me?” 

It was wrong, you knew. For no one person could bring salvation. You would need to find it yourself, through prayer, through the scripture, through acts of penance… But he didn’t seem like a normal priest. You dared to hope.

His hand moved further back, his fingers digging into your wet hair, his hold curving around the back of your neck, lifting your gaze up higher as he kneeled between your legs, crushing the pleats on your long, gray skirt. His eyes skirted over you then and a fire flamed to life on your skin wherever those eyes lingered. On your white blouse buttoned up to the very top, the leather belt with a golden buckle that hugged your waist. The pearls at your ears, the thin chain around your neck. Your gleaming watch, your designer purse, the band on the fourth finger of your left hand. 

“But of course I can,” his breath whispered over your lips as he spoke and a sense of almost crushing relief swept through you, making you shiver. He could save you? You could be saved? There was a way to find peace with your situation without abandoning your faith?

His thumb caressed your cheek, prompting you to open your eyes again and he continued, that dark voice sending low vibrations through you. You knew something was wrong about this scenario, knew that you should not be so close to him, knew that there was nothing priestly about this arrangement. But you could not bring yourself to care, for in mere minutes, he had given you more hope than you had had in decades. 

He was different, but you needed different. You craved different. 

“I can save you,” he repeated, drawing your thoughts back to the present moment. To his face lingering a breath above yours. “But I will need a token of your loyalty.” 

“A token?”

Perhaps you should have known then, that priests did not operate with tokens. That they did not strike deals. That there was, in fact, a very different manner of creature that promised impossible things and demanded exorbitant payment. 

But there was nothing you would not give in that moment. “What? What can I…” the incense in the chamber with you was heady, perhaps even intoxicating. The pink mist wafting between your faces made it impossible to consider what the right course of action was. 

The priest glanced at your hand, resting on the floor beside you and you turned to look at it as well. “My ring…?” you stammered, and lifted your hand without a second thought to remove the ring. You could claim to have lost it, your family could easily afford another. Your fiancé would be angry, but it would not be worth breaking up with you over. 

“Not the ring,” Sukuna dismissed with a click of his tongue. “Your request is quite unique, I’m sure you know. The manner of service you require is not something an ordinary priest could offer you, yes?”

Eyes wide, you nodded in understanding. Of course a ring could not pay for your salvation. “Then what…?”

The thumb that had been grazing over your cheek now moved towards your lips, brushing along the length of your lower lip once, twice, in slow, languorous motions as if feeling every groove and every inch of skin. 

“Give me your time.” There was a sense of finality within the demand, a sense of foreboding. But it only served to heighten your delirious sense of hope. After all, a payment made brought you that much closer to the end you hoped to achieve, didn’t it?

“H- how much?” you wondered, not sure at all how you would be able to give him your time. Would he ask for years? The rest of your life? Would you wake up from a coma when he had taken the time he asked of you? 

“Ten minutes,” was the cool answer, his eyes still wandering over you, taking in the sight of you like a project in the making. 

“Ten minutes?” you repeated dumbly. Well, that was nothing. That was neither years, nor a lifetime, nor anything of consequence. 

“Consider it a down payment,” he smiled at you again, that strange, self-assured smile that felt like a sticky trap you did not mind wandering into.

“Yes!” you replied breathlessly, not even waiting to think about it. Ten minutes of your life to be at peace, to be loved, to stop being the evil that brought anger and resentment wherever you went? You would have given him ten years if he had asked for them.

Somewhere in the distance, a thud sounded as the church doors slammed shut and locked themselves from within. A grin split the priest’s lips, revealing sharp canines. “Very well then,” he said smoothly, a self-satisfied expression on his features. “These next ten minutes,” the thumb that had been tracing your lips stiled suddenly, before moving between them and entering your mouth without warning. “Belong to me. ”

You choked on a gasp as his thumb idled past your teeth briefly and then pressed down on your tongue. Wide eyes flew towards his own, but his eyes were hooded, his face impassive as he observed you. 

“Ten minutes,” he reminded you. 

So that was what he had meant. Why had you thought he meant some sort of fairytale exchange of life forces and power? Why had you assumed your interaction had had some touch of the supernatural? 

Perhaps you had better run. Maybe you had gotten yourself wrapped up in something way out of your depth. 

“You will need to learn ,” he intoned, as his other hand moved towards your collar. “To obey.” The first button of your blouse popped open beneath his fingers, as ready and willing as you had been when swearing your time to him. 

“To submit.” 

Your own words came back to you, and with them, the sense of hysteria that had accompanied them. You despised the words. Obedience and submission. They filled you with a blinding rage, a murderous fury. And to hear them repeated back to you now reminded you of how impossible they were. How hateful.

As his left hand continued its journey down the front of your blouse, each button falling open at his touch with practiced ease, you blinked away tears and tried to swallow the saliva that was pooling in your mouth but found that you could not. 

“Mm-mm-mm,” he shook his head, “that will not do.” He moved in closer, his thumb shifting in your mouth as he did so, almost massaging your tongue. 

When his lips were right at your ear, he spoke again, “submission is the easiest thing, little one.” 

You wanted to believe him, but conflicting emotions rioted in your stomach. Your fiancé, your angry family, your misery - and the hope that he could change everything. In exchange for these ten minutes. 

His left hand cupped your breast and your eyes fell shut at the touch as a gasp escaped your throat. The sensation was intoxicating. Nerve endings sang with pleasure. His hands were so big and warm, his touch addictive. You found yourself arching your back despite yourself as you allowed the sea of sensation to sweep you away. 

“I’m going to teach you something about submission, sweetheart,” there was that familiar, sinful voice in your ear. “And after these…” he paused as if glancing at a clock, “eight and a half minutes, you’re going to understand something about it that you didn’t before.” Then his teeth were on the curve of your ear nipping at them with surprising tenderness, his tongue following all the way down to your earlobe before his mouth ventured further, his teeth finding the vein that pulsed at the side of your neck. His tongue marked the length of it before his mouth closed in on it, teeth biting into your skin as he sucked at the soft and supple flesh. 

What was he…? You couldn’t think. You didn’t want to. 

His other hand had shifted to your right breast now, repeating its ministrations, sending shivers through your body. An index finger journeyed lazily between the two mounds, hooking into the front of your bra and tugging it down until your breasts sprang free. The sudden rush of cold air made your nipples perk up, as if begging his attention and he complied, first kneading your breasts with increased force, always pushing just an inch past what you were willing to accept at that moment. Enough to keep you on edge, not enough to make you push him away. He pinched your nipples and toyed with them until helpless mewls escaped your mouth, muffled by his thumb. You could feel him smile against your neck.

How much time was left? You didn’t know. You weren’t sure what you were hoping for… a swift end to this encounter or that time would somehow stretch out for you, extending this moment eternally. 

He drew back slightly and you opened your eyes as if summoned by him. 

“Open your mouth,” there was none of the coaxing tenderness he had shown you earlier. This was a command, unyielding and expectant. 

You obeyed unthinkingly and watched as he cocked his head to the side, his gaze fixed on the inside of your mouth. It was so odd, and you felt terribly self-conscious, but you could not bring yourself to think too clearly while his other hand was still working its magic on you. 

Instead of his thumb, he now inserted two fingers into your mouth. His left hand paused briefly, to smooth your blouse from your shoulders, and the touch of his hand running along your upper arm, though chaste, sent a shiver down your spine. 

“Suck.” A simple, unmistakable order.

Your cheeks burned in humiliation, your mind clearing a bit now that his left hand had busied itself with your clothing. You wanted to say something, to push him off and pull on your clothing and storm out of the so-called church. But on the other hand… you wanted to know what would happen if you did as he asked. You wanted to know what was waiting for you at the end of this encounter. 

You wanted his eyes to light up with approval when you pushed past your own inhibitions. 

So you closed your lips around his thick fingers, and you sucked. They tasted of salt, of the incense that surrounded you, and they tasted of sin. You closed your eyes, relishing the taste of him, even as his fingers inched towards the back of your throat. 

His left hand, meanwhile, meandered down the length of your leg reaching for the hem of your skirt, but you hardly took notice until it had slipped underneath it and smoothed its way up your inner thigh. 

Then your eyes shot open in shock and dread. You gave him a pleading look but he only shook his head with a small smirk. “Ten minutes, we agreed.” Clicking his tongue as if disappointed, he added, “Or are you calling off our deal?”

Before you could answer his fingers inched further towards the back of your throat, and tears burned at the edges of your vision as you tried not to gag. He grinned down at you, positively relishing your conflicted expression and the satisfaction on his face made you forget all about your own discomfort. You licked at his fingers, sucking them in deeper, trying to prove to him how compliant you could be – and then his left hand found the juncture of your thighs. 

A thick, lazy finger idled up your slit through your damp underwear and you shivered. Saliva spilled from the sides of your mouth as your jaw went slack at the sensation. Fuck ten minutes. You wanted everything. 

As if hearing your thoughts, he pulled your panties to the side and buried his fingers into your hot, wet folds. Slicking up and down along your slit.

“My,” he chuckled, “isn’t this easy?”

You could only whimper in response, as the fingers of his right hand teased down your throat, backing off ever so slightly, only to plunge back down again. You gagged, despite yourself, and your body shivered in response. He allowed you to recover momentarily, only to then continue his ministrations undisturbed. 

His fingers found your clitoris, tracing lazy circles around it, stoking a fire of sensation until you wanted to weep with need. Your hands reached out unthinkingly, to hold him, to feel him and they came to rest on his shoulders. Ten minutes, he had said. Surely, that time was almost up. He wasn’t going to leave you hanging, was he? You focused on his fingers again, on sucking on them the way he had told you to. If you did what he said, he would reward you, wouldn’t he?

Sure enough, as soon as you redoubled your efforts, he plunged the fingers of his left hand into your warm cavern. It was a tight fit. Your fiancé had only ever entered you the one time you wanted desperately to forget. But this was nothing like that. There was no painful friction, no panic. You were positively boneless. Pudding in his hands. He slipped in and out of you easily, as if your core welcomed him. As if he were quite at home. Even as his thick fingers stretched you out, you cherished the discomfort. The feeling of your walls stretching for him, accommodating him. His practiced fingers slid against your inner walls, exploring you thoroughly until they found a spongy patch of flesh that had you moaning against the fingers that were now knuckle deep in your throat. 

He turned his head to the side, again, as if looking at a clock somewhere you couldn’t see. And in that brief moment, completely at the mercy of his hands, all pride and dignity forgotten - time stood still for one brief moment as you took in his side profile, illuminated by distant candlelight. His sharp nose, his bold jawline, his expressive, powerful eyes. And then the moment passed and his gaze returned to you, and again, you felt like a morsel in the jaws of a powerful predator. The sensation was positively thrilling. 

All idleness and teasing forgotten, he doubled his pace. His fingers slamming in and out of you with something bordering on cruelty – or it would have bordered on cruelty, if it wasn’t making you see stars. You wanted to say something, to moan, to scream, but his right hand fucked your throat at an identical pace and you felt entirely like an animal spitroasted over a fire. 

“There now,” he hummed, breathless, eyes gleaming at the sight of you so undone, “you’re almost there.” 

Your body felt rattled with the force of his thrusts and you pulled up your knees without quite knowing why, wanting to feel him more deeply. Your eyes shut as the feeling he had been weaving over you intensified to the point of being painful. Something powerful was building up, ready to engulf you, ready to destroy you. 

And you would so love to be destroyed by his hands. 

“ Good girl ,” he murmured into your ear as you clung to his chest, positively delirious with pleasure. His voice, that voice , that you would likely never get used to, settled over you like the most wicked of magic. The two words swept over you like an unbreakable spell. You sucked in three quick breaths in succession, and then you came undone. Moaning against his hand, you trembled from head to toe as waves of pleasure crashed through you mercilessly. And even then he did not stop, still burying his fingers into you, only to pull them out and slam them back in, fucking you through your orgasm until it bordered on torture, until your walls clung to him as desperately as your fingers clung to his robes. Liquid gushed from you, dirtying your skirt and pooling on the confessional floor. Only then did he remove both of his hands and settled back to observe you, panting through your orgasm, spittle dribbling from your lips.

You fell back against the wall, your eyes fluttering closed as you fought for breath. Your hands hung limply at your sides, and one knee was still drawn to your chest as your other leg stretched out at an odd angle. 

Your throat ached, but you missed the taste of him already. Your body sang with happiness, endorphins rushing through you. You had never felt so alive. 

“Heh,” he eased back slightly, and ran a hand through his hair. The sight of him was intoxicating. The small smirk, the mischief in his eyes, the proud cheekbones. You couldn’t tell if he had used the hand that had been halfway down your throat or the other one, but by the looks of it, he didn’t care either way. 

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, willing yourself to regain some composure. On trembling hands, you pulled away from the wall and struggled to straighten out your appearance, avoiding his gaze. You tugged the hem of your skirt back down over your knees and winced as you felt the wetness between your thighs. Your fingers fluttered towards your blouse, fumbling in your haste to button yourself up again as shame washed over you. What had you done? 

You glanced at the ring gleaming on your finger as your fingers flew over the buttons of your blouse. You needed to put this to rights. You needed to do something to dispel the awkwardness that lingered in the air.

You cleared your throat, chancing another glance at him as you smoothed your hair back behind your ears. Open amusement danced across his features at your discomfort and a blush burned across your cheeks. 

“Right, well…” you glanced at the fluids that had gathered on the confessional floor and winced, reaching for your bag. “I’ll clean that up.”

“Leave it,” he dismissed lazily, and you abandoned your fruitless search for a tissue or a disinfectant wipe. 

He squatted before you, still, an elbow resting on his knee, his chin resting on his knuckles as he watched you flounder in embarrassment. 

“ What have we learned ?” was the question he posed. The tone of his voice, like a teacher speaking with a prized student, had you tripping over yourself, wanting to deliver the right answer even though you weren’t quite certain you had understood the question.

You paused, suddenly brought back to the heat of the moment that had passed between you. The ten minutes that had turned your world on its head. 

“Learned…?” 

I’m going to teach you something about submission, sweetheart… you’re going to understand something about it that you didn’t before…

You bit your lip, flushing even more deeply as you recalled his earlier words. What had you learned? There was no denying that you had submitted to him, been driven to obey him. Even going so far as to want to prove your obedience… You cringed. It was embarrassing. 

But he did not seem to look down on you for it, even as he went on observing you amiably. Enjoying the expressions that flashed across your features as your mind rioted, dashing from one train of thought to another until they inevitably crashed. 

Submitting to him hadn’t required conscious thought. It hadn’t required effort. It was the simplest thing, like a base instinct written into your DNA.

You glanced up at him again, his smirk widening as he saw the realization dawn on your face. 

“It’s… not hard,” you admitted in a nervous whisper.

“Come again?” You couldn’t tell if he was teasing you or not. Teasing you seemed to be his default state. 

You cleared your throat. “It wasn’t hard,” you repeated, louder this time. 

“Not hard?” he tutted, “I think you can do better than that.”

You swallowed, glancing over his shoulder where still no one had appeared. Was there anyone else in this church at all? You thought about what the two of you had done, how loud you had been and embarrassment threatened to overwhelm you. 

“It was easy,” you confessed finally. “It felt…” you closed your eyes, recalling the sensation, the moment you had chosen to put all thoughts aside and put your trust in him. “Natural,” you concluded finally, confused even as you said it. 

“And why was that?” he prompted, not yet letting up. 

You bit your lower lip, missing the way the priest’s eyes darted towards your mouth as you did so, and contemplated what could possibly have been different about this particular moment, that made it so easy to yield to this strange priest whereas giving even an inch to the men in your life felt like dragging a knife through your veins. 

Now it was your turn to consider him, cocking your head to the side as you took him in. He was strong. Physically, mentally. Confident. Whatever happened, he looked like he could handle the fallout. From the moment you had met, he had given you his complete and utter attention. Listened to you. Taken your concerns seriously… 

It was him. He was different. 

You averted your gaze, then. Not knowing what to make of that information.

“I suppose it depends on the man.” By the time you realized you had spoken aloud, it was too late. Your face burned all the way up to your ears, utterly mortified. 

“Hmm,” the priest hummed, finally rising to his full height and holding out a hand to help you to your feet as well. “Surely, our Lord and Savior would not require you to submit to and obey an unworthy man, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Again, that seductive voice, saying things you had always longed to hear. 

“But aren’t we meant to obey… the men in our lives?” Confusion furrowed your brow as you dusted off your skirt, neatly sidestepping the wet floor as he led you out of the confessional, the loose floorboards creaking under your weight as he did so. 

“I think…” the crimson-eyed priest purred, sinful temptation in his voice, “if you were meant to obey them, then you would want to, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you have a natural inclination to obey the ones you were meant to obey?” 

You froze, your gaze entranced by his proud lips as he spoke. You had never felt a natural inclination to follow anyone. Not until today. 

“But I…” you lowered your gaze. You were going back to your family, to your fiancé. If anything, this realization only made things more difficult. You left your protest unspoken as he led you back the way you had come, down the nave and towards the church doors. 

“Fret not,” he smiled, bringing the knuckles of your hand up to his lips and pressing a brief kiss to them. “I did agree to save you, didn’t I?” 

You blinked, and then nodded slowly, daring to hope. He had said he would save you. This was only the beginning. Surely, by the time he was through with you, you would have no more doubts. 

“Come to the service on Sunday,” he lifted the latch and opened the church door, revealing that the rain had stopped and gentle moonlight glistened on the wet pavestones.

“I go to church with my parents on Sundays,” your brow furrowed as you turned towards him, reluctant to leave his presence for reasons you could not explain, even to yourself. There was no possible way to explain to your parents why you were suddenly visiting a different church. 

“So you do,” he agreed smoothly, as his hand found the small of your back. “But this Sunday, you’re coming here.” 

There it was again. That inexplicable pull. The desire to do as he asked, the certainty that it would be worth it.

Your eyes sought his, wondering what lingered in their depths, even as a raised brow dared you to deny him. You should probably feel guilty about what had happened, but you could not summon the emotion. Nothing about it felt impure. He was helping you understand the tenets of your faith, wasn’t he? And you did feel like you understood things a little better now. Far from feeling guilty, all you felt was an overwhelming sense of relief, an intoxicating feeling of not being alone. 

“I’ll be here,” you promised, although you did not quite know how you would manage it. 

You turned towards the steps, not wanting to outstay your welcome, and floated down the three short steps to the main road, acutely aware of his eyes on you. You hesitated on the last step, and turned back towards him suddenly, where he stood shrouded in the shadows, limned in the light of the candles behind him. 

“What’s your name… Father?” You added the proper address as an afterthought, almost having forgotten that he was a priest.

A small smirk curled at the corner of his lips, likely because of your late addition, and when he spoke, the name washed over you, settling in your heart like a key turning in a lock. 

“Ryomen Sukuna.” 

[owlespresso]

lavender haze. vere. tags: fem!reader, alcohol, vere being himself, not 18+

The Haze is a domed Eden, straddled comfortably on the border between Hightown and the Amaryllis District, coddled between stained glass lanterns and columns of stark ivory, sat in the midst of a sprawling patch of multi-tiered gardens. Lavender curtains of wisteria layer this verdant paradise into its different sections. The stone gardens and artfully arranged hedge sculptures and various water features each a sight to be seen on their own.

You enter from the east. To your left, a triangular cut of land rises between two merging brooks. Perched upon that jutting ledge is a gazebo surrounded by pale roses and fresh foxglove, vines strewn along strips of lattice fence, affixed to the gazebo’s bottom half. As picturesque a place to meet as any, but Vere has commanded your company indoors.

Up ahead looms the Haze, a series of seven, octagonal towers of varying heights. Each one is domed, stonework lovingly etched and painted, shaped into candy-colored spirals. Hooded windows of stained glass prod out in even rows. Buttresses and arches link the towers, alongside skywalks which hover stories above ground height. It’s a mess of a building, a decadent spectacle which intrigues and befuddles the eye. Bricks and ceramics layer the towers in different patterns, a stain of vibrant color against Eridia’s greys and whites. It’s still smaller than the Senobium, built so that it remains comfortably tucked into the spire’s grand shadow most of the day. On purpose, you would assume. 

A group of guards, clad in tight black and red uniforms roam the premises, prowling along the various plazas in duos and trios. Two of them eye you as you approach, as discerning as the towering doors they stand watch over.

“Hold it,” the one to the left snaps as you ascend the final step. Your brow wrinkles. They don’t turn away patrons, Vere had told you. That’s the receptionist’s job. “You stink of the road. And you don’t look like you can afford the flat fee. Scram.”

Your face rumples into a sour frown.

“I was invited.” you inform them flatly. And you most certainly do not smell—not after an hour with Leander’s fancy soaps. “And the man who invited me doesn’t like to wait.” 

That seems to give them pause. The Haze’s clients are all come from places of great wealth and power—from some of the Senobium’s finest sages to the old nobility of Eiridia’s founding clans. Holding up any one of their guests could hold dire consequences for those responsible. 

“If I’m late, I’m going to have to tell him why. And I would hate for anything to happen to two find guards just trying to do their jobs.” you press, resting your hands on your hips, cocking your head to the side. Your lips remain twisted into an impatient frown, boot tapping staccato against the white marble. The difficult guard’s face contorts with righteous offense, cheeks flushing pink. The leather of his glove squeaks as his fist tightens ‘round the staff of his steel polearm.

“As if any of our clients would want the company of some filthy little street urchin,” he snaps, voice rolling down the ivory steps and into the gardens below. 

“Keep your voice down, goddamn you!” the other guard hisses quietly, brown eyes blown wide. “Or Vernal’ll have both our heads—”

At his coworker’s prompting, the ornery guard seems to settle down temper kept at bay by the threat of this “Vernal’s” wrath. Regardless, he still looks at you with obvious contempt, clearly unmoved by your vague threats.

“We aren’t letting you in,” he repeats. “I don’t care who you say invited you—not unless you have an actual, physical invitation or the madam’s personal seal on your person. Now, scram. Before we have to—”

“What seems to be the problem, here?” a familiar voice drawls from behind the guards. The doors haven’t been opened. Vere seems to slide from the shadow cast over the building’s entrance, heels clicking against the pale marble. His head tilts as he drags his prying gaze over the scene, lingering on you for a mere moment before turning to the guard so insistent on denying you entry. Both of the sentries have whirled to face him, both suddenly wrought with tension. Their spines have gone ramrod stiff, shoulders squared as he prowls forward.

“Just another tourist, sir,” the guard says, barely keeping the shake out of his voice. “And she was just about to leave—”

“Really? That’s a shame, considering I invited her here,” Vere says, flat and frankly unamused. The color drains from the guard’s face, and any satisfaction you could feel in the moment is cooled by the frigid, heavy feeling that settles over the vicinity. The lingering humidity so typical to Eridia’s climate has been sucked from the air, the cold hanging heavy like morning fog. “I hoped the madam’s esteemed employees wouldn’t be dimwitted enough to lie to me. I’ll have to have a chat with her about the gutter trash she decides to hire.” he croons, oozing condescension and disappointment. 

“My apologies, sir,” the man bows his head. You can practically hear the restrained outrage in his voice. It won’t be enough to satisfy Vere, you know immediately. He should be groveling on his hands and knees for forgiveness if he hopes to keep his life. 

“How dare you even speak to me,” Vere begins coldly, cutting him off without hesitation, “After harassing my esteemed guest. You were hoping to shake her down for some extra coin, weren’t you? I’ve heard rumors about the guards here, but I didn’t think you would actually be this stupid. Consider yourself fired—” Vere snaps, fangs bared and eyes alight with visible animosity. The otherworldly pink glints, catching the sun’s last rays. Behind you, you’re sure the gardens look resplendent, dyed in that warm, golden light. 

The guard looks up at that, eyes wide and wild, unsuppressed panic written across his pale visage. “B-but sir, I had no way of knowing—”

A clawed hand shoots out, fingers fixed in a crushing grip around the man’s windpipe. Nothing about Vere’s lithe build belies the unearthly strength he levies, a forceful reminder of what he so unabashedly is—of what you’ll attempt to unleash over the following weeks or months.

The guard squirms and chokes. His hands fly to Vere’s wrist, legs feebly kicking. His struggles are rewarded by an even more crushing grip. As his bones creak and his trachea crumples, you can't help the morbid curiosity that you observe with—the strange sense of awe that comes with Vere attacking your antagonizer with such little hesitation—

The remaining guard stays frozen in place, helpless but to watch in silence as his coworker’s air is stripped from his lungs.

—Surely, Vere isn’t doing this for your sake, for some feeble, twisted notion of chivalry. He’s probably just annoyed at being spoken back to, by someone he views as so incredibly beneath him. Yet still—

Vere inspects his free hand, looking over his perfect manicure with placid interest. A faint wrinkle to his brow is all that potentially belies his agitation. The guard is getting purple in the face.

—And where do you fall, on the totem pole? Will he do the same to you if you get into a disagreement? Based on the interactions you’ve had thus far, you don’t think so. You hope not. You are in possession of something he desperately wants. And you like to think you’re clever enough to avoid the beast’s bite. You have to be. To fail is to sup on nightshade and the noxious shadows which compose him, to impale yourself on the razor ivory and sable of his maw.

A resounding splash sounds from behind you. Something’s been tossed into one of the streams close to the very base of the stairs. When you look at Vere, the stubborn guard is no longer there. There’s a small, red splatter on Vere’s cheek. His long, pink tongue slithers out from between plush, painted lips to lick it up. The remaining guard stands still as stone at his post, unreadable gaze fixed straight ahead.

“I would have just brought you with me had I known the employees were so eager to shake down unsuspecting customers.” Vere says with a put-out sigh, before turning to the remaining guard.

“Tell me,” Vere leers into the poor man’s personal space, sharp teeth flashing. “How many times has he tried that on other people? How many times have you just stood there and watched?” His voice dipped from sanguine sweet into a low, gravely snarl—a noise no mortal would be able to make. The guard, much to his credit, does not stammer or wither away or begin to beg for his life. 

“This is the first time we’ve been posted together—” he begins, but Vere steps away with another, dismissive scoff.

“Booooring,” he says. He glances at you, motioning you forward. “Stop gawping and come on. We’ve already wasted enough time.”

Not eager to test his already dwindled patience, you hastily bounce up the steps. Perhaps, if you were younger and braver and stupider, you would have been embarrassed at how readily you scrambled after him. 

“Sorry for the trouble,” you apologize, because he’s still in a shitty mood and your blood is not hot enough to make you forget the ease with which he can dispatch a man. 

“And what, my little morsel, are you apologizing for?” Vere’s eyes crinkle with teasing mirth, the tip of a fang prodding his lower lip. How many have stared down that maw just before being swallowed whole? Countless, surely. “You don’t have to grovel—but feel free to. It’s almost cute.” All wrath and rancor is left forgotten as he turns on his heel. The sheer fabric of his sleeves sways with the motion, glistening underneath the sun’s dying rays. Like a hound commanded, you are at his heels, head lowered. You can’t even look at the remaining guard, but Vere has no such trouble.

“Keep up the good work,” he says, a sneer in his voice. Will the man have to haul his coworker from the water with his own two hands? Or do they have people for that?

“Are you going to get in trouble?” you inquire, stepping through the threshold.

“Me? Get in trouble? Perish the thought,” “No one’s going to miss a single guard—not even the madame. Especially not one that acts like that. All of his coworkers probably hated him, anyway. We did them a favor.” he rattles on. He leads you past the entry point, to the second floor. You spare a glance down the rounded corridor. An overpowering flowery scent blows in your direction, making your nose crinkle. Translucent, pearly curtains, more like veils, flutter from rounded doorways. There are sounds, too, giggles and breathy moans, which makes your ears burn hot, despite already knowing this venue’s many, many purposes.

“Hurry up,” Vere scolds over his shoulder, and you don’t need to be told twice, hastening your strides. “Like I was saying—no one cares if a random guard or two goes missing. That’s why they all wear the same thing.”

“The sages who come here to get their dicks wet are the only reason this place hasn’t been demolished yet. They could commit murder in broad daylight and management wouldn’t say a word.” He rattles on, deeply sardonic. The kind of bitterness that could only come from someone with long-lived experience. There’s a graveyard’s worth of skeletons in the Senobium’s closet. You wonder how many he is responsible for.

“A murder in broad daylight.” you repeat dryly. 

“Broad daylight. Not sunset,” Vere points out helpfully. “The Senobium can do whatever they want, wherever they want, to whoever they want. This place isn’t any different from the rest of the city, even if the window dressing is nice. And as an esteemed asset to the Senobium, their authority naturally extends to me… And even if it didn’t, what could they possibly do?”

The conversation moves. Vere leads you up flight after flight of stairs, until you stop bothering to keep track. You’ve already leaped into the lion’s mouth. There’s no point in counting your steps or turns. Did he have to climb down all this way just to meet you at the doors? Suddenly, you find his ire more comprehensible. Your legs feel leaden by the time he leads you from the stairs, through an arched doorway. A current of air, thick with magic, ripples over you as you pass. A warding spell, you realize a moment later. Only select people can enter this chamber.

The chamber itself is massive, a circular room with a glass skylight, the soft shine of the stars flooding the room. The moon’s pale face peers down through the glass, shining off the marble floors. A circular bed sits on a platform up against the wall. The rest of the furniture is just as fine, all carved wood and black velvet. A bottle of… something sits atop an elm table at the room's center. It’s rounded with a suspiciously tall neck. Vere snatches it up, pours it into two crystalline glasses which sit next to said bottle. It’s a pearlescent, amethyst fluid. Curls of white and silver churn amongst the pale purple, the liquid covered in a glittery sheen. 

“Here,” he holds out a glass. The fraction of a second you spend hesitating makes him roll his eyes and scoff. “What reason would I have to poison my new and incredibly useful little friend? Don’t be stupid.”

You take the glass begrudgingly, because you’ve seen what his displeasure looks like. The body crumpled in the fountain sticks at the forefront of your memory. It could have been you. It still could be. He knocks back the whole glass, swallowing its glittery contents in one, smooth go. You watch the rhythmic bob of his throat, the elegant line of his neck pulsing with each swallow. 

“Happy now?” he drawls, frosted with forced sugar, like he’s talking a child into taking their medicine. The condescension is grating, but you fend the feeling off. You’ll earn more flies with honey than with vinegar.

Yet, you have to wonder, how would he eat you if he grew bored, or decided this arrangement isn’t worth the trouble? Would he swallow you whole, or sever you into smaller cuts, morsels to dip in honey and savor over time? What are you in your most consumable form?

You tilt your head back and drink deep of the draught. Thicker than water, not as viscous as you feared, or cloying like syrup. Sweet in a way that somehow makes your eyes water. It coats and clings to your tongue. You blink the tears out of your eyes. Vere laughs. You’re glad he finds it funny.

“Delicious,” you deadpan, licking furiously at the roof of your mouth in hopes of scrubbing the taste. You’re quietly glad for something else to focus on, because you feel hopelessly out of place amongst the soft silks

When you turn to look at him, he’s lounged atop the elevated mattress, sheer silk parting to give you an unobstructed view of his stomach and chest—all lithe muscle framed by the silvery chains which drape from his collar. You take care not to let your gaze wander, no matter how tempting. The long lines of his legs are just in your periphery, one bent and folded atop a thick, bunched thigh. His chin is propped in the palm of his hand, roguish smirk curled onto fittingly fox-like features. He’s looking at you, eyes two pinpricks of luminescent pink. Unnatural in their vividity, their glow.

You look down at your feet, at the floor, at the table. Anywhere but into those prying eyes. “What?” 

“You look so lost, poor thing.” Vere coos. “Come,” you take a single step towards him. “Oh! But be a dear and bring another glass with you.

And so you do. Unfaltering and unquestioning. Hopefully, if you’re compliant enough, you can finally get some answers to your burning queries. It all ends with you flat on your back, staring up at the ceiling. He’s still on his side, only a few centimeters away. It doesn’t bother you as much as you thought it would.

“Why did you call me here?” you stare up at the myriad stars, an endless trail of them emblazoned across the dark, dark sky. If there ever was proof of a god, it’s hanging right above your heads.

“Do you really have to ask? I went through the trouble of inviting you and getting you inside just so we could be alone,” he purrs, an insinuation in his voice. One of his hands splays over your hip, fingers curling possessively into the thick fabric of your trousers. You squint at him, flat and unimpressed, ignoring the gnawing unease which eats at you. It’s been a constant, enduring feeling, crushing at the sides of your wearied brain since you entered this city. Yet, Vere brings it front and center, alongside a heady heat you don’t care to examine too closely. You school your expression into one of near perfect neutrality, ignoring the weight of his hand until he breaks, rolling his eyes as he rolls onto his back. Long waves of russet fan around his head like a lion’s mane, feathery tips of several strands teasing your upper arm.

“Because I wanted to get you drunk and pick your brain.” Vere replies, almost boredly. 

“Hm. If you have questions, you can just ask.”

“You play your cards close too close to your chest for me to just up and ask you.” he says dryly. “Remember your first night here? You cowered when I so much as looked you in the eyes. Thought you were going to piss yourself.”

You frown. “Not true. Keep in mind that you stole from, grabbed and threatened me only hours before.”

“Didn’t stop you from following me into a dark alley after,” Vere chimes, the corners of his smile a little tight, a little too smug for your liking.

“Because you were the only honest person in the room. I knew you wouldn’t give me any bullshit.” you reasoned.

“And is that all it takes? You’re a cheap date, darling,” Vere purrs. You open our mouth to once again protest, but he continues. “You have a shitty sense of self-preservation, which means I’ll have to keep a close eye on you. Be good and listen to everything I say from now on, if you want to stay out of trouble.”

The encroaching haze blankets the edge of your good sense and sharp wit, yet another reason as to why you seldom imbibe. Even so, you only had one drink. Whatever he bullied you into drinking was no joke.

“Did you invite me here just to bully me?” you mumbled, on the edge of a complaint. Your foundations are fracturing. You observe the destruction of your carefully crafted countenance as though you are a distant spectator. Your oak spillars splinter, cracks spider-webbing up your brick walls. You’re left to flounder about in the debris, but it’s not as alarming as you assumed it would be. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but you can’t bring yourself to reach that fever pitch of fear.

“Oh,. please. I haven’t even started bullying you yet,” Vere clicks his tongue, chiding.

“Well. You’ve already tried to shake me down with my own roomkey. That’s kind of like… stealing my lunch money… I should have tattled to Leander.”

“Ew, no. That slime doesn’t deserve any more excuses to talk to me,” Vere reaches over to his nightstand and gulps down another dose of amethyst bliss, arching his back and raising his arms above his head in one, serpentine stretch. “We have to move you out of that shithole as soon as possible. I don’t trust that freak.”

“Me neither,” you muse, realizing it aloud, in that very moment. “Who gives out free food and board to someone they just met like that? He said I didn’t owe him anything, but—”

“He could take that back at any time. And what could you do about it?” Vere finishes for you, looking at you with an unreadable expression, pink eyes calm and flat. “Tell him ‘no’? On his turf? Full of his drooling goons? They practically run that part of the city. He could find you no matter where you hide or who you pretend to be.” Vere murmurs. You tilt your head to look at him. You glance down at his lips and swallow. That gets him to smile, smug and mischievous. No more of that monotone dread, that sense of being evaluated, the feeling of being sized up like a meal.

“Why are you helping me?” Vere asks after a long moment of silence. You blink at him. “I was surprised when you decided to take me up on my offer.”

“You said you can get rid of my curse,” you regard him carefully, ruminating over each word. Or maybe it’s the substance. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, thoughts slow and sticky like summer haze.

“Bullshit. You wanted nothing to do with me even after I made that offer, and I have no doubt that slobbering beast Leander made you a similar one. Did he promise?” Vere’s voice dips into something sugary sweet and mocking, a mean edge to his smile now. “Did he hold your hand, look right into your eyes when he said it? Was he on his knees? That’s one of his favorite places to be. Really, it’s the only place he’s of any use.” Vere pries and rattles on. The small space between you feels cold, all of the sudden. Still, you are not sobered. “Why not cozy up to him? Or that fucking doctor, because I just know he offered.” His tail comes to lay over your thigh. You look at it through hardly open eyes.

Something seizes the underside of your jaw. It takes you a moment to realize that it’s Vere’s hand. His nails bite into your cheek as he forces your attention upwards, into the dark maw of his gaze. Your hands, which have flown to his wrist on sheer instinct, freeze.

“I don’t know,” you begin, words falling out of your mouth in a current, previous caution utterly forgotten in the face of animal fear. “You’re dangerous—but you’re honest—and I don’t know why you were locked up or what’ll happen when you get free, but I also don’t really care.”

“You don’t care?” Vere inquires, lips curling into another smile. He looks relentlessly amused. “What if I told you… that I plan to eat every man, woman and child I see after I get out? I’ve been hungry for that kind of flesh since before you ever dreamed of coming to Eridia. Eating off the same menu for centuries will do that to you. And they won’t stand a prayer, you know. Do you really not care?”

“I probably should, but I think… I realized I can’t worry about everyone, especially people I don’t know. I’m not Leander. I’m not delusional enough to think I can save everyone.” Your pulse rings slow in your ears. It’s grounding, somehow. 

Vere releases you, the tight warmth of his hand gone with him. If you were sober, perhaps you would be mortified at how much you miss it.

“You can’t play nanny to every poor sod that comes crawling up to you on the street.” Vere observes airily. “I suppose that’s a start.”

“Gee,” you say.

“Oh, please. Don’t pout,” he tuts, tapping you on the nose. He’s closer now, pressed right up against your side. “Human morality is the first hurdle to realizing our goals.” he drawls, lifting himself over you as he continues. His knees dip into the mattress on either side of your hips, eyes go bright through the lavender haze which permeates the room. “You’ve mounted it with flying colors. Now, do I need to throw in a little extra something to get you to stop moping? I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, but you’ve been such a good—”

He rattles on, voice falling to the wayside as his plump lips run absentmindedly along your jaw. Your world becomes that single, molten point of contact. Your head tilts to the side, eyelids dipping low as he whispers his filth into your skin. Little pinpricks of pleasure wind straight down your spine, throbbing pleasure building between your thighs. 

The tips of his hair tickle your exposed skin, where your shirt has ridden up to expose a sliver of stomach. Belly-up, you realize idly, close enough for him to dig straight into your soft center.

“Surmounted,” you mumble groggily.

“Pardon?” Vere asks, looking up at you with one eye. His face is half-pressed into the column of your throat. A fang peeks out from between his lips. There’s a pleasant numbness settled at the back of your skull, a silvery sense of weightlessness. Whatever you were worried about before has been washed away by that dreamy lavender, that pearlescent hue which even now veils your vision.

“Before—you said I mounted it. But you, uhm, meant to say. Surmounted.”

Vere reaches out and pinches your cheek. “You have me in your lap and that’s what you’re thinking about?” He settles atop of you, chest-to-chest, one cheek gracefully perched atop his palm. “I don’t know if I should be offended or worried. That brain of yours isn’t smoothing out, is it? Your skull isn’t getting soft?”

“I’m drunk,” you remind him, still coherent enough to try and inch away from his hand, nose wrinkling. You stretch your neck until the muscles creak in protest, smooshing the back of your head into the pillow.

His finger freezes a centimeter above you, and he laughs. “You are, aren't you? Forgot about all that.” 

“You’re the one who made me drink,” you grumble.

“Ah, ah, ah, I didn’t make you do anything. I simply offered my honored guest a refreshing beverage, like any half-decent host would,” Vere tuts. “Trying to blame my good manners for your sloppiness? You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m not really cute,” you hum, reaching over to gently toy with his hair.

“Don’t be dense,” Vere coos, pressing his finger against the tip of your nose. Your eyes cross to look at it. He snorts, privy to some sort of irony beyond your current ken. His hair gleams like… rubies under the watery light. It’s soft as it looks, silken and smooth where it washes over the sheets in tides of russet. 

He sighs, “I could swallow you whole here and now and you couldn’t do a single thing to stop me.” he says, wistful.

“I know, but I would taste like—like that weird nut stuff the Wick makes.”

“Nut stuff? Now you’ve caught my attention,” he purrs in a way that even drunk, you know spells trouble.

“I don’t mean anything—dirty. Y’know, the stuff they put on the counter. It tastes bad,” you stammer. You blink several times in succession, as though it’ll make your thoughts less syrupy. The world still blurs at the edges of your vision. You’re thinking through a layer of cotton.

“Of course it tastes bad, it’s free,” Vere retorts. “Nothing worth anything comes for free. Not in this shithole.” You hum in consideration. His bushy tail is still behind him, rested off to the side, next to your thigh. You don’t dare touch it, even though you’ve already touched his hair. 

He radiates warmth, and you find yourself lulled by it in combination with the downy soft mattress at your back. You make a small sound, nestling closer to the heat, to the craven beast with nary a peep of protest. Perhaps being devoured is a far better fate than you initially thought. Because it’ll at least be warm inside. Warm like the breath which fans over your cheek.

“Got to come here for free,” you mumble in the last throes of consciousness. There’s a pause.

“Well, aren’t you sweet,” he says, voice dripping with fond condescension. He says something else, and something else. Vere, you get the sense, sometimes talks more for himself than he does for others. But you can’t say you mind, because you say so little. And what a wonderful ability, to be able to spin such incredible weaves of conversation out of thin air. Not that you’ll ever tell him as much.

Soft lips press to the space above your brow. In the dark, a small voice whispers. “You’ll pay your dues later.”

---

Run, the fawn within you, weak and knobby-kneed, beseeches. Its cries go unheeded.

[the-hinky-panda]

The Winter Series: Part I

Title: The Winter Series

Pairing: Aramis x OFC (written as a reader)

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Aramis is making good on his promise to God to become a monk. At least he's trying to make good on that promise. But you burst on the scene, a French spy from across the border of Spain with all sorts of temptations to lead him astray.

Taglist: @bullet-prooflove @kmc1989, @trublu2u, @nsr-15

It’s been two months since Aramis has arrived at the monastery and he’s beginning to think that this is a monumental mistake. The first month he threw himself into this new life. First one to prayers, helping in the kitchens, studying scriptures outside and enjoying the birdsong, tending the small garden. He felt at peace, confident in his decision to be here. 

That feeling doesn’t last as he enters into the second month. The birds are grating on his nerves. The fresh air is irritating to his nose. The prayers are repetitive and his mind wanders more and more. To the war, to his friends…to the Queen, to his son. He longs for the feel of his sword in his hand, the smooth grip of his pistol, the excitement of the fight. At least he had felt useful as a Musketeer, actively righting the world’s wrongs instead of just praying for things to change. 

That is why when the Abbot asked for someone to pick up supplies from the town below the monastery, Aramis was the first one to volunteer. It wasn’t exciting at all, just a collection of vegetables, eggs, and grain but it gave him an opportunity to see the bustling life of the common man. The village wasn’t far from a port town close to the Spanish border. The marketplace was better supplied than most given that proximity to a port, so it was always fascinating to see the handmade trinkets or foods that would never make it up to Paris. 

“Stop her!” 

Every instinct as a trained soldier flares to life at the shout that echoes across the marketplace. Aramis sees the culprit fleeing, ducking around vendors, before making a sprint to an old stone church. Three men follow close at your heels and Aramis joins in the chase before he remembers this isn’t his business any more. But that hesitation only lasts a moment before he makes his way to the back door of the church. Where else is he going to find a bit of excitement? Certainly not back at the monastery delivering food. Besides, you could be in need of help and what kind of monk would that make him if he didn’t offer help to those in need? 

When he comes through the back door, he sees four men now, armed with pistols and swords. They’re dressed in plain clothes, Spanish clothes, but their movements are most certainly that of soldiers. He stays hidden behind the table of candles, half of which are lit when he sees the confessional box on the other side of the sanctuary. A confessional that has a tip of a cloak peeking out from under the curtain. 

The door opens and two more men come in and start conversing in Spanish at the back. He catches phrases, I saw her come in here, Not too many places to hide, Confessional…

Aramis goes around the back of the dias and is able to reach the priest’s side of the confessional. So far, he can’t see any priest on that side of the box and there’s no whispered conversations happening. He takes the opportunity and slips into the confessional, quietly closing the door behind him. He hears a sharp intake of breath from the other side but there are no other sounds. You must be sitting as still as death to warrant not so much as a creak from the old wood bench. With a deep breath, he pulls back the slider that reveals the latticed window into your side of the box. 

“Your cloak is peeking out from under the curtain.” 

He hears the soft rustle of fabric as you pull it into the confessional. “Thank you. Uh, forgive me Father for I have sinned-” 

“I’m sure you have but that’s not why I’m here.” He can’t see much of your features but he can see your eyes, wide with surprise and a color caught between blue and gray. 

“You’re not a priest?” 

How to answer that question. “I’m afraid that’s a bit complicated at the moment but I can assure you that I’m not the one to give you absolution for your sins. There are six men, Spanish from the looks of it, out in the vestibule. Why are they here?” 

“You’re a soldier.” 

“In another lifetime. But I can still help you.” 

You take half a heartbeat to answer. “Do you know the innkeeper here, Jean Luc Moreau?” 

“I’m fairly new, I don’t know anyone yet.” 

“I was supposed to meet him but when I went by the inn, it was filled with Spanish,” you pause, “visitors.” 

“Soldiers.” You don’t say anything and that silence tells Aramis everything he needs to know. “You’re a French spy.” 

“I just need to wait for them to leave so I can deliver the letters to Moreau. He has someone who’s going to take them back to Paris but they’re not arriving until tomorrow afternoon.” 

“So we have some time to hide you.” Aramis starts planning an escape route but the sound of the Spanish soldiers outside the confessional interrupt him. “Stay in here, no matter what.” 

He steps out of the confessional and greets the soldiers that are circling the confessional. “Greetings, gentlemen. I’m afraid I’m the only Priest available at the moment, so if you would please just take a seat, we will be done momentarily.” 

“We’re not here for forgiveness,” the largest of the group says in heavily accented French. “We’re looking for a runaway.” 

“Ah, I’m afraid we haven’t had any children arrive-” 

“Not a child,” another man says, tall and blade thin. “A woman. Her father is in high standing, she was betrothed to a nobleman. We fear she may have gotten nervous about the marriage.” 

Aramis lays a hand over his heart. “I shouldn’t reveal anything about a parishioner’s confession, but I can assure you the lady currently in there is already married. And not much of a lady.” 

“We would like to wait to make sure it is not our master’s daughter, if you don’t mind.” 

“Of course,” Aramis bows respectfully. There’s little he can do facing down six Spanish soldiers with no weapons other than his hands. He’ll have to rely on his brain then and hopefully some luck. As he goes back around to the priest’s entrance of the confessional, he runs into one of the priests. He immediately puts a finger to his mouth and the priest’s surprise turns quickly to understanding. Aramis tells him quickly about your plight and the need to get you to safety. He nods, telling Aramis to stay there safely out of sight of the six men who are now sitting in the pews. When he returns, he has a set of nun’s robes and he unlatches a false door that opens the confessor’s side of the box. 

It’s the first clear sight Aramis has had of you. You’re dressed in simple clothing, no jewelry. Your dark hair is braided and coiled at the base of your neck and your eyes, still that odd coloration, are even larger without the lattice barrier between you two. You’re scared, but your mouth is pressed in a firm line. It’s not your first tight spot, Aramis bets, but it’s definitely an alarming one nonetheless. The priest hands you the nun’s clothes. 

“Dress in these and leave your clothes in the confessional,” he whispers to you. “I’ll have one of the sisters wear your clothes out of here.” 

“You have a way for us to exit?” Aramis asks. 

“Yes,” the priest answers. “Take her up to the monastery with you. Dressed as one of our sisters, no one will say anything.” 

“Thank you, Father,” you say as you take the robes. 

Aramis touches the Priest’s arm. “Yes, thank you.” 

He closes the door so you can change privately. “Mademoiselle Sartre is a friend to our parish and this town. See that she remains safe.” 

“I will.” 

The hidden door opens again and you appear now in the simple nun robes. The priest points to the side hallway and Aramis pulls his hood up over his head. The two of you hurry through the side hallway and open the back door to the church, bringing you directly into the graveyard. Aramis lightly touches your elbow. 

“Keep your head down, leave the watchfulness to me.” 

“Alright.” 

Thankfully the food order had already been acquired so making their way back to the horse and wagon is a quick and efficient process. He helps you up into the front seat before climbing up himself. 

“Take a pass by the inn on the way out of town.”  

He nods and turns the horse in that direction. The innkeeper, Moreau, is standing outside the door feigning interest in the shoppers passing by. When his eyes land on the cart, you lay a hand on your heart. He responds similarly. 

“Do you want me to stop?” 

“No, keep going.” You turn your eyes forward again and Moreau goes back inside the tavern. “He knows I’ll return tomorrow. Besides, I don’t want to put him in danger of having the documents with the Spanish soldiers still around.” 

“Understandable. I’ll return with you tomorrow just in case our Spanish friends are still in town.” 

“That’s not necessary. I don’t want to put you in any more danger than I already have.” 

“I do have to say,” Aramis gives the town one last glance over his shoulder to make sure no one is following them, “today was a nice jolt of excitement.” 

You give him a smile, albeit a slight one. “You are the strangest monk I’ve ever come across.” 

“You will find no argument from me.” 

[hcdragonwrites]

Apple Blossoms (@journey-to-the-au What if AU fic)

A cute Haarini and Wukong fic that I’ve been dying to push out. God I love this pairing so much. Please ENJOY!

“How long do you think it will take?” Bajie, third disciple, was leaned against the monastery wall a frown furrowing his snout. The pig had just wanted Wukong settle their Master into an alcove in the room, set away from any windows or doorways. Of course Trip had asked Wukong to go begging for fruits- even though the monastery had given them a hearty course of noodles and steamed buns from the kitchens. Wukong had obliged his master, bowing low before seeking out her and asking her if she wanted anything.

“What do you mean?” Wujing was tending to some clothing, working a needle through the ripped and broken stitching along the edge of the fabric. The river demon didn’t seem to have a care in the world as the Stone Monkey leapt from the window and out into the afternoon light beyond.

“Come on Wujing!” Bajie stated exasperated. “ You can’t be blind to what’s going on…” he motioned with his hands to the open window where their brother had gone out and the silver form of Haarini who brought over the scrolls Tripitaka had requested from the monastery archives.

Wujing looked up from his stitching when Bajie have him a kick in his leg and blinked. It took him a moment between looking out the latticed window and to the silver simian beside their master to piece together what was bothering Bajie so much.

“Oh you mean between Wukong and Miss Haarini?” Wujing asked. He didn’t quite see the point his brother was trying to make.

“Yes. The ape is practically head over heels for her and he doesn’t have a clue!” Bajie fumed. He watched Haarini help lay out stones to hold the old and crumbling scroll open, setting a small red candle nearby so Tripitaka could read the fading letters with little strain. Bajie liked to think he was an expert on love and courtship. He had experience - albeit mostly rejections but he would never admit they were failures, just wrong girl wrong time scenarios- and had an eye to see that when Wukong looked at Haarini he had all the tenderness in the world.

“I think the young Miss is also in love with him.” Wujing commented softly. He was almost done fixing the hole in his spare trousers. Bajie whirled off the wall and gripped the river demons shoulders and gave such a violent shake as to send the needle flying out of his hand.

“So you see it too?!” Bajie ground his teeth. If he was a fire demon, steam would have been coming from between his teeth. “Why doesn’t Wukong come out with it and just say it?! It’s infuriating.”

“Infuriating that he’s clueless ?” Wujing bent down to feel for his needle, staying calm even though some of the stitching from his hard work had come undone. “Or is infuriating because Bajie is jealous that our brother has someone interested in him?”

The sly taunt pricked the pig just as Wujing found his needle again- only to loose it as his brother grabbed his shoulders and shook again.

“Wujing! I had a wife remember.” Bajie huffed. “ If anyone knows romance it would be me!”

“Keeping your wife locked up while your in-laws called you a monster?” Wujing pushed his brother off him and caught his needle up again.

“I plowed their fields! I harvested their crops! They should be thankful for such a good Son-in-law!” Crowed the ex marshal. Haarini peaked around at them from her place beside Tripitaka. They were making such a noise about marriage and the pat exploits of Bajie she couldn’t help but listen in.

“Tell that to your ex wife.” Haarini heard that and immediately turned back to the scriptures Tripitaka was gently explaining. Whatever the two brothers were talking about- she wanted nothing to do with.

“Why doesn’t he just say it?!” Bajie reiterated, setting himself back down and against the wall.

“Say what?” Wujing was already engrossed in his work again, having forgotten what point his brother was trying to get to.

“That he loves her Brother! That he is doting on her like a moon eyed dawn after its mother!” It was adorable to see the very cheeky and very sly monkey stumble over his own feet in the presence of a girl. It would give Bajie satisfaction- if it didn’t confound him that this monkey had gained the amour and fluttering lashes of a lady!! “He practically tangled tails with her at every moment!”

“Maybe Wukong doesn’t really understand why he loves her… or what he may be feeling.” Wujing observed.

“What do you mean Wujing? Are you hinting that … Wukong may Never have … felt love before?” The thought seemed so sudden, so alien to Bajies mind that he recoiled from it. Bajie had loved almost since the moment he could conceptualized the thought. There were a lot of pretty women in the courts of Heaven and across the cosmos. I mean… they were women! Pretty dainty things with lips and curves and they all smelled wonderful! To think Wukong had never felt love.. never trysted with another …

“He’s felt love.” Wujing amended. With a pull and tug, the thread came free of its binding in a nice stitch. The hole was mended. “I just don’t think he’s ever had a crush.”

Wukong traipsed through the grove of apple trees, smiling softly to himself. His basket was full of fruit from seven different mountaintops now. He had oranges, cherries, plums, peaches, strawberries, mangos and apples. An assortment of fruits he had to beg and somersault across ranges and deserts for, to hop and skip rivers and oceans just to get across.

Wukong wouldn’t range so far for several reasons. One was his master had a terrible stroke of misfortune that always plagued him to no end whenever the monkey was gone. One would think after so many kidnappings and snatchings, trickings and plyings with sly words, that his other brothers would become more observant right ? Wrong! Wujing could be depended upon, bless him. But Bajie? Sometimes Wukong wanted to peel those pig ears off his head and wipe that grin from his snout in frustration.

When it came down to seeing glamour Wukong was the best. No demon could hide from his discerning eye. His Master knew this- and still would be swayed my Bajies words to disbelieve the Sage.

Bajie had talked his Master into saving demonic women who could pluck the very souls from bodies. The pig had made arguments against Wukongs cautions when it came to a platter of fruits that smelled too sweet or tea that looked just a bit to colorful. And the third disciple ? He had a terrible and scary habit of falling asleep at any and all hours. Ba Longma, their second brother and disciple, had had to wake the pig on more occasions then not.

So the rest of Wukongs reasons? They solely fell on Bajies shoulders. The blame for Wukongs paranoia was at the pigs feet. However that had changed when she came to join them.

Haarini.

She was a flash of silver white fur that had taken him by surprise, knife held to his throat and her teeth flashing. “Who are you?” Had been hissed from a face full of violence and fear.

I am someone completely confused and surprised. Had been Wukongs first thoughts.

Wukong had knives, polestars, maces, bats, clubs, swords, halbergs, quarterstaves, fans, morningstars, greatswords, axes, arrows, tekko, butterfly swords, falchions, rapiers, katana, Dadao and all things sharp or meant for killing pointed at him along the journey. The people wielding them had been mortal and demon alike.

However none of them had been monkey. It was like … looking into the past. She resembled nothing of his people, nothing of his mountain. She wasnt him, had never been him.

Yet the fear… the tremble… Haarini had been in a state when she came to the group. It had taken communicating and gentle coaxing by all to get her to ease. And when she did ? She promptly fell to sleep like a stone being dropped in water. Wukong felt a smidge of something within him beginning to grow white hot. An ember of a feeling he had not been aware of missing.

He had been king of Flower Fruit Mountain longe before he had been imprisoned beneath the Five Phases mountain. Though he hadn’t acted kingly in quite a long time, Wukong felt himself beginning to slip back into that mantel.

Was he bossing anyone around and giving orders and such? No. Being a king was a bit more then that. Besides Bajie would probably disregard him as he always did if given an order. No this was the other side of Wukong that had been seen in glimpses and flashes, like a white Hart in the woods.

This was the part he had always at his core had been: loving. Caring. Compassionate. Wukong wanted the best for his people. He had been driven across the sea to find in in Sabhuti and learn of the art of eternal life. The monkey had cultivated himself for years- all in the name of seeing his people live long and happy lives. To forever live.

Wukong had seen what death did. It took the joy from the living, took a person they loved - wether it be mate or child, mother or sibling- and left nothing but the frozen form from whence their soul inhabited. A husk of the bright flicker that had been before. Wukong had seen his fair share of tears from his people when the first of their troop had died, heart giving out in the middle of festivities and livelihood.

He had tasted the tears of his people as they had buried the elder, the first death Wukong had seen so naturally snatched in the prime spark of life, thrown petals onto the body. Wukong had experienced his first burial. He had seen the mourning.

That sorrow had been a thorn in his foot, a bite from a bug he could not ignore. He worried at it, picked at it. Would he suffer the same fate? But if he did- who would be left to protect the little children,the elder mothers, the stubborn adolescents, from the things that prowled and saw them as nothing more then Monkeys?

They were more then Monkeys. Each of his people had a name. The elder, Sunrise, had been the first name etched into the stone monkeys heart. Wukong refused to forget his smile, the way he called the loudest in the halls during feasts, or how he liked to tell the little ones ghost stories and make the mothers box him about the ears.

Wukong had made a determination, a declaration to himself. That would be the last needless death.

He had not been able to fulfil it completely.

Wukongs own need to secure safety had lead to his rise in power, which had lead to Heavens notice of him. This had lead to the first incidence of scorn and contempt by immortals Wukong had ever experienced. From Humanity? He had learned in his time with Sabhuti that bot all the disciples there looked at him with fondness.

They were mortal men, unaccustomed to the long days of merriment and joviality that Sun Wukong had created in his mountain. Their time was fleeting in Wukongs mind- like grains of sand racing to the bottom of the glass. Wukong wanted to stop his own pell mell fall into that same trap- and had succeeded.

From immortals however ? Beings he had given respect to - as much as he could while also giving them a bit of cheek and teasing for that was his way, to tease and to teach- and had been full of wisdom to him?

They had treated him nothing like his people. Nothing like Sabhuti. Contempt and belittlement had been slung at him.

So of course he had reacted.

That had been more then Five hundred years go. Ages since he had last seen his people, the children, the elders of his mountain.

Flashes of his old self, of the caring free loving monkey king from before had been slow to come forward. Yes he was still a cheeky and conniving trickster. But the playful care ? The kind he would use to tease the children of the mountain into trying new things, or to encourage his generals into learning new maneuvers ? That came in rare flashes in the most secluded moments with Tripitaka, when his master was not breathing down his neck about the importance of every life.

The importance of every life is moot if your being picked out of some upstart demons teeth.

However… Haarini had woken something Wukong was not expecting to awake until he was home and back on his mountain. Care.

Wukong set the basket down in the dew speckled grass, humming as he leapt into the tree above. The cloud cover here was beautiful - frosted in the dying light of the sun and cold crisp scent of winter winds. Wukong was in a place that had longer winters and shorter summers, where the breath of winter was always a step from the door. But for right now the summer was warm enough to fight the chill winds.

Up among the twisting branches, blossoms and apples hung. The smell was soft and fragrant and numerous. The blossoms were small, delicate little things. Bees late to their hives still flitted over them. Wukong picked the best branches and gave them a fast snap. They came away like toothpicks, the blossoms hardly disturbed.

Wukong hoped down setting the branches in the top of the basket. His smile was soft. Warmth settled in his body as he placed the little cloth back over his findings. Then with a breath he spun away, up and over clouds in a somersault that sent him into the air and beyond.

Wukong was soon back at the monastery. The rooftile beneath his feet was still warm from the sun. Night had fallen fully, the blanket of stars in full display. Cicada’s and cricket song flooded the night. The monastery’s paper lanterns gave off a amber honey glow, the fluttering of moths casting large then life shadows across their surfaces.

Below the tiled roof came the comforting murmurs of conversation. Candlelight spilled from the latticed window below. Wukong could hear Bajie and Wujing arguing and the gentle tones of Haarini and Tripitaka in polite conversation. He pulled a bit of fur from his coat and blew, creating a woven basket. Wukong separated the fruits for his master and the little treats he had gathered for Haarini. There was a bit of honeycomb he had snatched, the apple blossom branches, the best Mangos and a few rich and juicy strawberries.

Once that was settled, Wuong felt his fur itch. The urge overcame him and he set to grooming- settling his orange and reddish fur back into place. Ears immaculate, clothes without a speck of dust, tail looking less poofy then before. Once his body stopped itching so terribly, Wukong rapped his knuckles against the latticework and gave a happy hoot. There was a silence then Haarini returned the greeting, musical voice answering his in greeting.

The frame was opened and Haarini stuck her head out, yellow eyes flashing in friendship.

“What are you doing out here? You can just come in.”

“I want to give you something.” Wukong waited eagerly at the edge of roof. He was leaning down looking at her, hands holding the tiles. Everything was cast in a sort of upside down view, the room beyond the window a mess of jumbled shapes. Except Haarini. The simians silvered fur was like a second moon in the light as she quirked a brow at him.

“And that cant be done inside?”

“Not with Bajie.” He peered a bit further and into the room. The third disciple was carrying on about his ex wife and how he was a great husband. Rubbish. He may have done the work of seven people and then some but he had kidnapped his wife first off. That was something no father in law would enjoy. Or mortal women.

“The pig will only ruin it!” Wukong decided to use his secret weapon- he pressed his face close to hers, blinking to make his eyes grow large. “Please Haarini it will be a good surprise.”

Haarini blinked then laughed, snorting in a way that set Wukongs spine to rippling in the most beautiful way. He loved seeing her delight. The Sage would become the greatest jester in all the heavens if he got to hear her soft laughter.

Wukong passed the basket through the window, the one containing the majority of the fruit “Here take the fruits to Shifu and then come back to the window.”

Haarini took the basket and disappeared from sight. With her gone the itching began again in Wukongs fur. He had to resist turning to it and grooming by biting a fang into his lip. It felt like ages bur it was merely moments before she reappeared. The silver monkey was back at the window looking up. Wukong offered her a hand and pulled her up.

He didn’t let go and neither did she. Haarini leaned in looking at the identical basket covered in cloth and back to his golden eyes. Wukong took that moment to try and regain some of his thoughts back. Her smell was in his nose, her hands were soft in his. The way the dim starlight caught in her fur and danced across it like an Arctic crest of permafrost… she was so beautiful.

He could get lost in those eyes… warm like nectar and soft in the light…

“You are eager to show me what you have.” She spun and now was holding both of his hands. She looked up at him, a smirk on her face. “It better not be a trick.”

“No trick. Just close your eyes.”

“Wukong if you put a frog on my head..”

“It was one time! One!”

“One too many!” Her laughter echoed again. Wukong felt his ears melt in the sound of it. He was egged on now, entranced and encouraged by her mirth. A bit of the old King slide out from that place beneath the mountain of memory. He laughed back, allowing that play to prance upon his soul.

“But the frog had the same color eyes as you- it was a comparison” He teased and clucked. The words had their desired effect.

“You cheeky furbag!” Haarini called, smacking his shoulder in mock battle. Wukong felt none of the slaps but felt the little free spark in his heart flair to a flame.

“I am no cheek!” Wukong said with all the mischief.

“You are full of yourself and you know it.” Haarini teased. “Is this why you didn’t want to go down with Bajie?”

“Bajie likes my good humour! He would laugh at my jokes all the time before you came along.” Wukong puffed. He crossed his legs and gently coaxed Haarini down beside him.

“Possibly because you threatened him with a smack between the eyes.” She gestured to his ear where he hid his staff and mimed pummelling someone on the head.

“All in jest. I promise!” He pressed a hand to his heart as she glared at him. He felt a prickle of worry, just a smidge, as he motioned again.

“No frogs just close your eyes. Please?” Baby eyes engaged once more, trying to coax her not to be suspicious.

Haarini reached up and tugged on his ear in play.

“Alright. But if what you give me moves, I will shove it down into your gullet.”

“I dont doubt that.”

He waited until she had closed her eyes. He tested it by waving first his hand then his tail in front of her nose. Her face remained impassive, calm. The Sage had to shake himself bodily to get moving. She just was so pretty in the starlight — it should be criminal to shine without stars.

Wukong turned back to the basket and set to work. He quickly took the branches and easily wove them together. He only lost a few petals from the precious flowers. The scent smelled wonderful, crisp and clear. Wukong felt his tail twitching in excited flutters. He almsot giggled and ruined the surprise. Then Wukong turned and, with delicate care, set the crown of branches and blossoms onto her brow.

“Wukong wha—“ she was a bit startled, opening an eye as the cheeky King sprinkled the last of the apple blossom petals onto her.

“Behold! The flower Queen!” Wukong gave a regal bow, hands swooping back and out as his forehead practically kissed the tiled roof. “All hail the queen of spring!”

“You made me a crown out of blossoms?” Haarini gently ran a hand up and over the little branches that Wukong had woven together. The pale pinkish white petals gave off the softest smell and made her fur look lustrous.

“I couldn’t get you a bouquet.” Wukong chuffed smugly - and with a little bit of mirth. “Those are in the cities and the last time i got you one you nearly bit my fingers.”

“Wukong,” Haarini reproached, “You didn’t get me them-you stole them.”

“I acquisitioned them!”

“You stole them!”

Wukong smirked down on her. And unfurled his hand.

He dropped more petals onto her upturned face. The petals brushed over her nose and lips and Haarini breathed in the pollen.

This elicited the cutest sneeze The Great Sage Equal To Heaven had ever heard. Wukongs eyes blew out as she rubbed at her nose. “Oh my…”

Of course poor Haarini was unaware of the fawning King. She simply rubbed at her snout, trying to gain some composure. The petals had spread their pollen right into her face and nose, setting her to a few more sneezing fits.

A few more adorable honks that had Wukong all but fallen into himself in the urge not to suddenly grab her. It was just so … cute!

Haarini grumbled about the unfair advantages he had, specifically the one where she had no petals to throw at his smirking face when she had been right in the argument all along.

“Wukong my nose is streaming do you have a—“ her eyes had cleared enough to notice how close Wukong had gotten. He was less then a handspan away. He was laying on his belly, feet kicked up over his back, tail curled in a crescent.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Cute.” Wukongs head rested on his two hands as he peered up at her.

“What?” Haarini felt her ears beginning to burn, her fur itching all over as this monkey looked at her like she was the moon and stars and heaven come all to earth. Her heart gave a leap and her emotions were off and running. She had never had anyone admire her like that- had never had someone jest and play and look with such golden eyes into her face …

“Super cuuuute!” Wukong called again, reaching out to tap her now blushing face with the pad of a thumb. Haarini felt steam leave her ears and her fur curl. That heartbeat earlier ? It was racing- galloping- full sprinting like an Arabian horse over the desert dunes.

Seeing him looking at me like that …. I want to —

“Stop it, it was a sneeze!” She slapped at his face, feeling the thoughts of her heart beginning to overwhelm her. Haarini had had bachelors court her. She had had bachelorettes try and weave flowers into her fur. None had ever tempted her eye or caught her heart. There had been handsome ones, kind ones, ambitious ones. As the next matriarch of her troop, Haarini had felt a pressure to perform- to love and to tryst as her mother wanted and secure a successor to the bloodline.

Love had not come into the equation of it.

She had never expected to find it here, leagues away from everything she knew and loved, in the form of a monkey whos eyes glowed like the desert sun, whos laugh made her bones shake in pleasure and whos hands held the gentleset touches. A warrior such as he touched with the softness of day blending to twilight. Subtle and gentle.

Like he was now against her face, holding her in his palm and she, leaning in like she belonged there.

“The most adorable sneeze ever!” Wukong chortled as Haarini regained her independence from her lovesick heart and growled. She gathered some of the fallen petals up.

“Lets see how you like petals in your face!” Haarini pressed them into Wukongs face just as the simian had opened his mouth. The poor King was set on a fit of coughing and sneezing that had Haarini in stitches- but also rubbing his back and apologizing. Wukong returned the favour however as he grabbed her and tugged her back down and into him.

Haarini valiantly struggled under the wrestling. It was like fighting to pin and flip a mountain. She could try all she wanted but each time she got some headway over the King he would simply topped her back onto him. Then under him.

They both lay on the tile for a moment, Haarini catching her breath as she laughed and Wukong hardly breathing as he stared down at her. She was flushed a darker shade- from exertion or laughter he could not tell- and it added a undertone that had him staring into her.

Each time I look at her its like seeing her for the first time. My mind just cant give her an accurate shape.

Maybe one day I can ask an artist to paint her portrait. I never want to forget her smile.

Wukong flopped onto his side beside Haarini, fingering a bit of her crown.

“You are so cute covered in flowers.”

“Shut up-“ her breathes came out a bit faster but with no serious reprimand in them. Wukong felt a bit of a thrill. He had won. “I hope you have more then flowers for me.”

“Of course.”

Under the starlight, in the casting of apple blossoms and the smell of ripe mango and strawberries, the two sat. Enjoying each others company long into the night- past when the cicadas stopped their singing, past when the sky began to grow warm like milk tea in the turning of the day. Haarini talked and teased to Wukong and Wukong listened and teased back. They didn’t realize they were leaning into and upon each other, tails curled and wrapped like vines. When eventually Haarini fell asleep, it was Wukong who curled about her. He grew in size just enough to shelter her from whatever wind came upon them. He slept light, the seeping warmth from the roof tiles lending a heat to wherever they pressed into. Bellies full of fruit and hearts full of one another, the bight passed in peaceful companionship.

A companionship blossoming into the petals of love.

[taybatwo2]

Vampire Heart Draculaura Review Part 4 of 4

In this final part of my review, I’ll be comparing her a bit more to some other Monster High vampires.

Including my G1 Elissabat (who really needs her hair de-glued) and I’ve had her hair “restyled” like that ever since I got her just because I liked how she wore it up in the flashbacks in “Frights, Camera, Action.” The picture above has mini-dress Draculaura with Elissabat, the true Vampire Queen. Luckily she’s pretty cool with this Draculaura playing dress up, as long as she gets to try on her outfit too.

Also, I had never undressed my Eissabat before and didn’t know these were two separate pieces!

And here is she is!!! I kept her puff purple sleeves to make it fit more with her color scheme. It’s not a bad look at all and I would have loved to have seen a true Vampire Queen Eissabat Collector doll.

Something like this, but even more dramatic. Give her some large vampire wings, layers of bows and bats and deep purples, a better looking tiara to house the vampire’s heart than what she wore in the movie, the works!

I think her boots look better under the dress than Draculaura’s though.

Her purples and large bell skirt gown are also kinda reminding me of this collector Barbie:

The true Vampire Queen….

….and now

Jump scare!

I wanted to compare G2’s hair play Draculaura (my favorite of my G2 Draculaura) due to the light pink steaks in her hair (as I thought it was the same light pink Saran) and her “darker face-up.” Turns out, it is actually a shade darker than Vampire Heart Draculaura’s and her makeup is not as dark as I remembered.

The difference in these dolls are night day, so onto something a bit closer.

Draculaura’s 50 dollar Amazon Exclusive collector doll vs Amazon’s Exclusive Collector 90/100 dollar doll.

I never thought I’d say this, but I actually way prefer the new doll over the old one in every way except for the lack of diary in the current release.

I was actually never a huge fan of the Collector Draculaura’s eyes (they look better far away and look like they were designed by Tim Burton) or her extra long body (I did like the chest articulation though, but thought an ever TALLER Draculaura looked odd), and prefer the new face up and eyelashes on the newer doll.

It does look like they have that same really light pink Saran.

They both have crumby stands that don’t hold the doll very well (at least Collector Draculaura’s is beautifully detailed).

And surprisingly non of these lace/lattice patterns were present on Vampire Heart’s Draculaura’s skirt. The embroidery on Collector Draculaura is still unmatched though, and she’s still an extremely lovely doll.

Buuuuut, she surprisingly has more in common with Haunte Couture Draculaura than Vampire Heart’s and visa versa.

She’s like the in between of Vampire Heart’s and Haunte Couture (similar colors to Vampire Heart’s, buuuut the same layered skirt with bat wing edges, heel/sole to her shoes, and a cape that attaches to her wrists…and I guess hats and rooted eyelashes that Haunt Couture has).

Well, Draculaura likes to reuse and update pieces of her wardrobe from her long life.

“Come play with us Vampire Heart Draculaura.” For fun, I compared OG Draculaura (whose hair has been degreased with LA’s Totally Awesome, but she just needs to be retro-brighted and I haven’t had time to do that).

She has the much skinner eyes of the OG Draculaura than the more “show accurate” Creeproduction Draculaura, but has the darker pink skin tone of the Creeproduction.

Well, I think that’s everyone, let’s get you to the Vampire Heart ball, or whatever ball your vampires are celebrating this week.

Huh. Looks like Valentine has offered to dance with you Draculaura. I wonder if he’s reformed in this timeline too….

Wait, now the famous movie star -and nothing else- Elissabat wants to dance with you instead. I’m sure Lord Stoker will be glad at all the attention you’re receiving….such a graceful model Vampi-

Tripped over Fangelica….it looks like she’s in this timeline too…

Anyways, all bow down to the Vampire Queen, the most beautiful of Monster High’s Skullector’s dolls (to date and my opinion).

….seriously I really want a diary to go with her…stop leaving those out Mattel!!

[quinloki]

Birthday Request Event

"It's my birthday and I'll write what I want to \o/"

Gift Details ♥ Reader: AFAB GN Character: Charlotte Katakuri Kink: #1 - Merinthophilia Prompt: Birthday Captain's Choice Gift Giver: @mewiyev

Summary: It's taken years to build up trust with Katakuri, but now you can give your beloved the TLC he desires. With about 500ft of main sail rigging rope.

Content Notes: submissive Katakuri, bondage, soft dom reader, drool, non-penetrative sex, size difference, 18+ only

This birthday party is 18+, consensual unless explicitly stated otherwise, and BYOB

( I was very much inspired by this art by Mew - no less - but you're gonna need to prove you're old enough to see it https://twitter.com/nsfmxw/status/1668804754825158660 ♥ )

The ropes used to bind Katakuri were better suited to main sail rigging than what you’d generally use for bondage, but given the size difference, they worked well. Your impressively sized partner had tied himself up to a certain extent, and acquiesced when you ordered him around for the rest.

Now he was on display for you, ropes crossing his broad chest in a lattice harness pattern, arms bound behind his back. The black rope was beautiful against his skin, letting his tattoos peek from behind the dark color. Blood rushed through his cheeks and chest, as he sat on his heels, knees spread wide.

It had taken more than a couple years for the two of you to reach this level of intimacy. He was hesitant to be anything other than the Perfect Charlotte, even after you had been together for some time. Candid conversation from you had helped wear down the walls, and eventually you had been providing him with an outlet he didn’t know he needed.

The ropes couldn’t hope to hold him if he truly desired to be free, but the restriction they provided was enough. Enough to make his breath come out hot and rough while the custom bit kept his mouth forced open.

The gag had been the real show of trust from him, and you knew it. Not only did it stop him from hiding his mouth, but it kept him from trying to keep his image up despite the ropes.

It’s hard to look stoic and in control when you’re drooling down your own chin and onto your chest.

You knew how much the setup affected him. His massive cock had been hard and twitching for the past twenty minutes as you’d added the last few feet of rope, pulling him into his current position. The soft grunts that passed the bit prompted you to kiss him as you finished tying him up, and the soft acknowledgements of the sounds made him twitch and flinch.

Standing in front of him, catching his gaze with your own, you begin to strip. Your movements are fluid, but slow and pointed. You’re teasing him as you slowly discard each item, using a single finger to pull your socks off, and then turning around to play coy as you removed your pants. The approving grunt makes you smile as you walk over to him.

Usually you’d talk to him, touching his body, teasing the lines of his tattoos with your fingers and mouth. Reveling in every twitch and grunt, but tonight you had something else in mind.

Pouring oil onto his cock you begin to coat the twitching member. You’re rougher than usual, pressing your body against him and pumping him against yourself with your hands.

His whole body shivers from the initial pleasure and you can hear the thick ropes groaning against his strength. His voice tumbles from his mouth like wet gravel, full of heat and desire that rumbles in his chest as much as it fills the room. Precum bubbles up from his tip, almost enough to make you wonder if he didn’t just nearly orgasm.

“Kata, my love, don’t cum yet.” You chide gently, even though you don’t ease up on your actions, causing more of the thick liquid to pool and dribble.

“Don’t cum until I give you permission my sweet,” You lean down and lick his tip and hear a garbled swear nearly shatter in his throat. “Kind,” you suck the tip and squeeze his shaft and hear his skin squeak against the tile floor as he jerks. “Gentle, Ka~ta~kuuuu~ri.”

You punctuated each syllable of his name by swirling your tongue around his tip.

He curls forward at the action, hunched over and looking at you with pleading eyes. Your name falls from his lips in broken pieces, followed by a shivering plea.

“Awww, struggling already, my love?” You tease, stepping forward enough to smear the drool on his chin across his jaw before licking along his bottom lip. “My handsome Kata is so beautiful like this. In all the ways no one else ever gets to see.” You purr.

Grabbing onto the rope harness to steady yourself you straddle his lap, rubbing your ass against the base of his cock. The position puts you almost at face level with Katakuri, even as he straightens up a little to help balance you. You put your weight on his thighs, keeping yourself balanced with the rope harness he’s wearing, and begin to grind your hips along his length.

“What a – mmm – good boy you are.” You purr, running your fingers through his short hair before you caress the side of his cheek. You move your hips in longer strokes, squeezing your thighs together and enjoying the shivers of pleasure as his twitchy, veiny, hot shaft teases your clit and folds so sweetly.

“You won’t cum, hngh…” Your fingers tighten on the harness, pressing yourself into the ropes crossing his abs as you push your hips out to his leaking tip. “Not without me, right?”

He shakes his head, his breath almost coming out in growls as his hips shift to match your movements, pressing himself into your slit more. He’s been on edge since he started lacing himself into the initial harness, and now, almost an hour later he almost needs haki to keep himself under control.

Your voice, your touch, the way you caress him as though he’s delicate, the soft purr in your words as you take control of his body. It sinks into his bones the way the resistance from the ropes sends shivers through his core. He’d pull the world apart at the behest of that gentle purr.

“Ah, Kata!” You cry, the pleasure building in you as you tighten your thighs against his slick cock. The thick veins are perfect as far as you’re concerned. Your arms tremble as you loose your hold on the harness and grab his chest.

“C-Cum!” You demand, your voice filled with pleasure and exertion. “Cum for me, Kata.” You purr the words, lips and teeth teasing one sensitive nipple as your hand stretches to tease the other.

Kata’s rough, panting growls shatter into gravel-laden whimpers as his body bucks into your thighs with less control than he had a moment ago. The ropes groan and dig into his skin as his body tenses rock hard against you. The sounds of his orgasm are enough to push you over your own edge, and you soak his cock in your pleasure as you hear the thick rush of his cum splatter against the cold tile floor.

“Haa… haa -fuck.” You swear, working to catch your breath as you lean into him while he sinks back down onto his heels. You stand on his thighs so you can remove the bit, kissing him along the line of his jaw tenderly.

“Good job.” You say, praising him, as he shifts and kisses you sweetly.

Check out the event - requests are accepted until 7/31/2023 EST

[six-costume-refs]

Costume Updates: 2023 West End Cast Change

A few notes before I start: - Kayleigh McKnight (Seymour) is currently injured. Gabriella Stylianou (alt A/S) is temporarily performing in her place, including in the preview footage. - As a general rule of thumb, Six has slowly been standardizing the costumes for both US and UK. Most of that has been changes to the UK system/style to make them more in line with the US changes initially made for Broadway (a few changes have made their way to the US from the UK though). There's been a steady rollout of updates over the period post-lockdowns, but with this cast change most of the major holdouts have been changed at once. I'll get to that in a moment. - Obviously it's very early in the run and we haven't seen all the costumes yet, particularly for alts. I'll continue to update as we do.

Costumes (credits below) - Nikki Bentley's Aragon costume has had a few construction changes to be more in line with the US costumes. No major design differences, though. Not sure on maker yet. - Thảo Therése Nguyễn has the darker green which has been standardized for the last few UK casts. Not sure on maker yet. - Gabriella was previously with Norwegian Cruise Lines as part of Bliss 2.0, but as expected she did get a new costume. Her corset is in the US style/design rather than the UK style (info here, here). I'm not sure who made it and very much wondering if the corset only could be a US-make, but don't have enough information yet to know if that could be the case. I'm also waiting to see what Kayleigh's looks like. - Reca Oakley (Cleves) is another former NCL queen, but as expected she also did get a new costume. It was made by Paul Aspinall. - Inez Budd's Howard skirt has been changed to the US-style construction. This has smaller panels (rather than the old NCL/UK style; post here). However, unlike the US skirts, the vertical stud lines still go all the way to the bottom hem. Per usual, it was made by Ella Dancewear. - Janiq Charles is a standard Parr style, made by Ashleigh Cherry Costumes per usual. - Otherwise, the costumes seem to be in line with all recent UK standardization. - The alts' costumes should match the changes made for these principals.

Wigs/HMU - Nikki Bentley has an auburn tone with a side part and doesn't seem to have bleached/ombre highlights. Curled bob, a little longer than some we've seen in the past. It's a full wig. - Thảo has dark roots with a silvery-toned bleached wig. It's a long wig rather than some of the recent bobs. It's a full wig. - Gabriella has a side part and darker, honey blonde tone. It's pretty mid-range for Seymour wigs but is shorter than some of the recent UK. It's a full wig. - Janiq Charles has the curls pulled over to the side. It's a full wig. - Otherwise, the principal wigs are pretty standard. - No pictures of Naomi Alade in costume yet, but I am expecting her to have braids for all or most of her roles. - We've also seen quite a bit of the makeup so far, which I'll make a post about in the coming days.

Boots @lightleckrereins already made posts about a lot of this (here, here) but for easy access: - The cast seems to be standardized to a shorter heel than prior casts, like the shorter heel Chlöe Hart and Natalie Pilkington both got later in the 22-23 UK Tour run. - They've introduced the double height boots that the US productions have had for a few years now (explanation of the difference here). However, they're still sticking to the regular UK-style boot body with crystals rather than switching to the US-style lattice and studs. Right now it looks like Nikki Bentley (Aragon) and Janiq Charles (Parr) have the double height, while Reca Oakley (Cleves) has the regular Cleves thigh highs and everyone else seems to have regular single height. Of course, that post includes Gabriella Stylianou rather than Kayleigh McKnight so no good look at Kayleigh or other alts yet. - All the boots seem to have interchangeable straps. We first saw these with the US and then UK alts - it allows them to have one pair of boots with a monochrome silver heel and then just trade out their straps depending on which costume they're wearing. This is the first time we've seen that for principals; Sofia talked more about why this change might be happening in the post I linked at the start of this section.

Alt costumes - We've seen a silver alt costume in progress that should be for Meg Dixon-Brasil. (Made by Paul Aspinall per usual) - We've also seen part of a pink alt costume. It could feasibly be either Natalie Pilkington's or it could be one for Hannah Lowther. Judging from Hannah's makeup, she does seem to have their standard makeup pieces for pink alt. - Naomi Alade has orange palette and glitter, so she presumably has the orange alt costume. - We still don't know what costume Natalie Pilkington will have. She has her old principal Seymour/Parr and pink alt system from the 2022-23 UK Tour, and during the 2021-22 UK Tour she had a black alt costume that was a mishmash of old and new pieces. I'm expecting that she'll wear a black alt costume (either entirely or mostly new), but it's possible that she reuses her old pink alt instead (it has been a while since she's worn black alt and most of it was already old). I talked in more depth about some of those possibilities here.

-------------------------- First row for each queen: junka_0.0 Second row for each queen: elliexboleyn (Nikki and Reca), cassie.zhao_ (Thảo), mattstacel (Gabriella, Janiq), Georgia.ccooper (Inez), Boots: crystalledbyjane