#metallic satin gloves

[devdas5z]

Fjolla & Naile

[shotmrmiller]

Needs Must III

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

WC: 2.2k

TW: frottage into outercourse, unprotected p in v, squirting, creampie. explicit smut.

18+ MDNI

“Hey, John—” and choke back a yelp when you realize that the person standing in front of you isn’t Johnny, but the one man you haven’t seen in months.

“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Despite your shock, a sound of disgust escapes your lips involuntarily, causing him to chuckle. Ghost walks past you, brushing his bicep with your shoulder, and heads to the living room to take off his leather jacket, placing it on the backrest of your couch— and the gloves follow. You stood behind him, arms crossed, curling your socked toes nervously into the soft fibers of your carpet. 

He leisurely rolls up the silky satin dress shirt sleeves, exposing the intricate tattoos adorning his forearms. Without turning around, he softly says, “C’mere, pet.” His deep baritone voice pulls at your heartstrings because it’s been so long, you missed him more than you’d like to admit. With a deep breath, you attempt to steady your racing heart, your gaze fixed on the ground, and slowly approach him.

“Oh?” and he tips your chin up with his finger, demanding your attention, noticing his amused smile. “Johnny fuck you into submission, er somethin’?” Blood rushes to your cheeks, and you’re unsure if it’s out of embarrassment or anger.

“Don’t look surprised. He’s my best friend.” Spluttering, you heatedly ask, “And what? Y’all just gossip like old hens over ‘work’?” finger quoting the last word. With a cheeky grin, he casually shrugs his shoulders. “Somethin’ like tha’. If you worried, he gave you a glowin’ review,” the grin turns into a slight sneer, “bastard.” 

Ghost gives you a once-over, sweeping his eyes from your feet to your head, and holds your gaze for a second, then murmurs, “Come.” With a gentle yet commanding hold on your wrist, he pulls you towards the bedroom, and you’re reminded of the times he pinned both of your hands onto the bed with his large one— sending a very familiar ache between your legs. He sits you on the edge of the bed, toes his shoes off, and starts to undo the buttons on his shirt, exposing the strong muscles of his chest and his soft, slightly round stomach. He doesn’t even bother removing it fully, instead, he reaches for the waistband of your shorts. You extend your leg out, firmly pressing your dainty foot on his sternum, keeping him in place.

He stills, and you speak before he gets a chance to. “What’re you doing here, Ghost?” His heavy, dark gaze is unwavering, entrancing. “‘M here f’you. You didn’t honestly think tha’ I’d let you keep callin’ Johnny instead o’me?” He encircles your delicate ankle with his long fingers and pushes your leg to the side— the other hand taking the hem of your skirt, dragging it up until it bunches around your waist, and slots himself between your spread thighs. Lips brush against your cheek before moving up to your ear. “What is it? He treat you better than me?” His warm breath sends a shiver down your spine. Instead of waiting for a reply, he catches your earlobe with his teeth, nibbling on it. Your hands promptly fist the sides of his open shirt, mewling at the pinch of his bite. “Hm?” he questions as he grinds his clothed erection against your center. 

You’re lightheaded from the sound of his voice, the heat of his body seeping into your skin, the smell of his cologne— a woody aromatic fragrance, all of it so fucking intoxicating. He delivers a sharp, stinging slap to the side of your thigh, demanding your attention, and it sends a jolt straight to your dripping cunt— making it contract around nothing. “He fuck you better than I have?” You give him a vigorous shake of your head, and a needy moan spills from your mouth as he gives your core a particularly hard thrust, the hard metal of the zipper rubbing against your clit. You begin to grind your hips down onto him and move one hand from his now very crinkled shirt, to hold on to the hairs at the nape of his neck.

“You boutta come all over my trousers, baby?” 

And then his hands are on your waist, firmly keeping you in place. You whine loudly, you were so close— 

“Then why did you stop seeing me?” Your head is so heavily clouded with arousal, drunk off of him that the answers tumble out unwittingly— mind solely focused on getting the friction back where you need it most.

“I wanted you all f’me,” slurring your words, “Guess the hand y’always used to choke me with kept the blood from flowing t’my head—” your rambling is cut off by his mouth slanting over yours, tongues entangling. He swallows all of the salacious noises you let slip, drinks them in, makes them his— makes you his. When he pulls away, you find yourself gasping for air. With a raspy voice, you mumble, “I thought you—” and he silences you with another hungry kiss.

“I only kiss what’s mine.” He hooks his thumbs into the band of your knickers and pulls them off, throwing them somewhere behind his shoulder. He swiftly undoes his trousers and steps out of them along with his boxer shorts. “Let’s play a game of Simon says, pet.” He maneuvered your hands to grab under your thighs, keeping them spread for him. Leaning forward, he leans on one arm, using the other to press the head of his cock on your puffy lips, holding it in place with his thumb. He slowly thrusts up, making sure you feel every ridge and vein against your swollen clit, “And I say, you come f’me, just” thrust “like” thrust “this.” 

You push your hips down when he pulls back, up when he drags his thick cock up, delicious friction on your bundle of nerves. Every roll of his hips gets you closer to your climax, your pussy dripping slick down to your perineum. Your thighs start to tremble in your sweaty hands, body tense. “Oh my god. Ohmy—”  

He shifts his weight from his arm to lean on his elbow, heavy body flush against yours, pressing you into the bed—  fisting your hair and pulling it taut, tilting your face up to his. 

“It’s either my name or none at all.” He punctuates the syllables with his thrusts. “Si - mon.” 

Releasing your thighs, you dig your nails into the sides of his waist, grip tightening at your impending orgasm. Simon grunts a low, gravelly sound. “There they are. My kitten’s sharp claws,” one more thrust, then again, he moans, “Come f’me, baby.” And you tip over the edge. Anything he might’ve said after is completely muted either by the ringing in your ears or the wail that clawed out of your throat. Collapsing, you twitch and shake in Simon’s arms, taking in ragged breaths. 

“You with me?” giving him a weak nod. Slowly, he pulls away, and there’s clear, stringy liquid dripping from his tip connecting to the hood of your pussy. He moves you to lie in the middle of the bed gently, body completely limp, plain dead weight, then walks to your nightstand. “What’s with all the lambskin condoms?” 

A soft, relaxed sigh slips out of you. “Johnny’s allergic to latex, I had no idea. Had to go without one the first time.” Simon lets out a drawn-out hum, then drops the protection back into the drawer. He shrugs off his damp satin shirt, then gets on the bed, crawling over you— covering your body easily with his, and prods his bare cock at your entrance.

“But you’re mine now, aren’t you? Gonna let me take what’s mine?” Swallowing thickly, you look at him, and his eyes are dark, glittering— gaze intense. Maybe you took too long to answer because he starts to slowly push the tip in, and hisses, “You’re mine, only mine. Got it?” and your tight, rippling walls stretch around his invasion. Your breathy moan is cut off when he bottoms out, flared head firmly pressing into your cervix. He’s at a dead end, and he grinds down, almost like he’s trying to push it past that, feeling a deep pinch at the entrance of your womb. The pressure is punishing, incessant, you swear you can feel him in your throat. “Nod if you understand,” he snarls.

You do as he says, no commands, nodding with messy, jerky movements. “Good girl.” He relents, pulling back to sit on his haunches to press one leg into your bed and hook the other over his shoulder. Wordlessly, he sets a fast pace, but his thrusts are shallow, in a staccato rhythm—  and fuck him, because he knows precisely where to hit. Ruthless prodding against your sweet spot, over and over again. It feels like jabs to the underside of your bladder, and every tap makes that feeling sharper, acute. Oh no. Nono— 

You know exactly what’s going to happen. Your eyes glisten with tears, cascading down your cheeks, as the overwhelming sensation takes hold, and with every thrust, it only becomes more concentrated.

“Awh, my poor pet. Feels tha’ good, does it? Look at you, cryin’.” You can't find it in you to be even the slightest bit humiliated because you’re about to lose the last of your sanity, he’s about to break you. You can’t even control the shrill moans Simon all but punches out of you. 

“Oh, I’d recognize tha’ cross-eyed look anywhere.” He chuckles, “C’mon then. Make a mess f’me.” His thrusts are unyielding in his pursuit of what he’s about to make you do.  “Squirt f’me, pretty.” Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your body locks tight, and this time you scream. Liquid warmth floods in between your legs, drenching yourself, your bed, Simon— but you don’t care. There isn’t a single thought in that empty head of yours. 

Simon was languidly thrusting, fucking you through the aftershocks until a wavering breath escapes your lips, mirroring the shaky tremors that are currently rippling through your body. As he leans in, his lips softly caress your face, wiping away any stray tears that remain, and the spit that drooled out of your mouth. “You did so well f’me.” Your eyes widen at the feel of his solid, heavy cock still at full mast inside of you. 

He changes position, this time hooking the other leg over his shoulder, then gives you one soft thrust and you distinctly hiss, oversensitized. Simon presses your knees into you with his body weight, pinning you down fully, with no escape, and loops his arms underneath your torso to grab onto your shoulders— and starts snapping his hips viciously. A merciless pace, each slap of his hips against your ass making your pussy squelch obscenely, and there’s nothing you can do other than take his assault. It is unbelievable, how just seconds before were squirming away from him because of how tender you were, and here you are, about to fall over another mind-numbing edge.

“If you want me to come, then squeeze that tight cunt and wrench it out of me.” He pounded into you harder, the headboard of your bed furiously smacking against the wall that you know there’ll be cracks on it. Crying out, he continuously hits the deepest part of your pussy, and you come undone. Vision darkening, you’re slammed with wave after wave of pleasure, your walls squeezing him so tight, you’re strangling his cock and he makes a choked sound. 

“Oh-of, f-fu-” he lets out a low, drawn-out moan that lasts all four last thrusts— before his hips stutter, and finally still, spurting thick, sticky white ropes of cum into you.

—

The room was echoing with both of your heavy inhales, desperate to fill your lungs with air. It was humid, smelt of sex and body sweat. Simon grunts as he turns to his side, getting off of you, and the sharp gasp of air you intake is comical.

“Am I tha’ heavy, love?” 

You look like you’re tittering on the edge of consciousness, but snort and answer him. “Yes. Obviously. The only thing small about you is your humility.” He gives a belly laugh and leans in to give you one last sweet, tender kiss. 

“Go to sleep, love. I’ll take you out for breakfast tomorrow, maybe meet some of my friends.” 

“You mean Kyle and John? They’re very nice.” He falters because what? But you were already softly snoring. 

Stretching his arm across the nightstand, he swiftly retrieves his phone and a mischievous grin spreads across his face upon seeing a text from Johnny from hours ago.

Ya really answered her text on my phone pretending to be me. Pussywhipped.

You really told her you’re allergic to latex, when you use latex gloves to cook. 

Oof. Fair. 

And you’re gonna explain to me why she knows Gaz n Price.

Jus’ sharin the love, Simon. 

Sucking his teeth, he puts his phone underneath the pillow, and loops an arm around your waist, pulling you to him. With a tender kiss on your sweaty forehead, he drifts off into a peaceful sleep.

A/N: ngl i was fighting for my life? shit had me aroused. oof. im def writing price and kyle into this because 141 til i die. maybe a könig? unsure.

@rookiesbookies KYLE COMIN NEXT

[thesandsofelsweyr]

Could you write fic based off of this img

《 ALSO ON AO3 》

Comments & kudos on ao3 are much appreciated, as are reblogs here on Tumblr! ❤️

The red hot branding iron was inches away from his other cheek when he woke with a choked gasp. His ragged breath was running away from him while his heart pounded like fists against his ribcage. His wide, pale blue eyes blinked frantically, adjusting to the darkness, trying desperately to latch onto something—anything—that didn’t belong in his dank, dark prison cell. A bed, he told himself. His chest rose and fell as if he was running a marathon. He swallowed hard. I’m in a bed. The only bed he’d known in Arkham was the cold, hard, filthy wood floor of his cage. But he could still feel the intense heat radiating off the cruel metal onto his tender, unbranded cheek; the Clown’s maniacal cackle still echoed in his ear. He clawed at his pillow, pulling it over his head as if he could hide from his master, as if he could drown out the grating laugh that would haunt him even after he was rotting away in his grave.

“He’s dead,” he panted as his body shook like a leaf in a hurricane, “he’s dead, he’s dead, I’m free,” he repeated, but icy terror still clutched at his throat as his mind refused to believe the words. The walls of the dark room seemed to close around him, swallowing him back down into the bowels of Arkham Asylum, where his master was waiting to punish him again. He choked back a scream. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, which he screwed shut. “Not again,” he whimpered helplessly. “Please don’t do it again.”

His muscles were as taut as a grappling cable. Cold sweat drenched his entire body. He pulled shuddering knees to his chest, curling into the fetal position, as if he could protect himself from the crowbar in the Clown's lavender-gloved hands. 

A pair of ungloved hands slid beneath the crooks of his arms, and he squealed in terrifying despair.

“Shh,” a voice whispered, as soft as satin, as gentle as a breeze. Then the warmth of an embrace enveloped him, dragging him out of hell.

“I-I’m sorry…” he stammered, sniffling. Warm tears trickled down his cheeks, which flamed red with embarrassment. “I-I didn’t mean to wake you…”

She squeezed him even tighter, curling herself around him, wrapping him up in a cocoon of protection. Her heart beat steadily against his mutilated back, and he grounded himself with the comforting sensation; the reminder that he was needed, that he was loved. 

“It’s okay, baby,” she murmured sleepily. “You’re safe. I’m here…” She placed a tender kiss against his trembling shoulder, and his body relaxed in her arms. “I got you.”

[dollwrites]

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!human!reader, leviathan’s envy, sensory deprivation ( blindfolding ), mentions / suggestions of mindbreak, all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟯 ∣ day thirty-one ( we did it !!! ) [ leviathan + sensory deprivation ( blindfolding ) ]

“Leviathan,” your voice is soft and needy, and your hands reach blindly for him. you could hear his breathing, feel the furious heat of it against your neck, tickling your earlobe, setting all of your hairs on end. “— let me see you. Please.” you choked the plea out, coupled with a stuttering breath. he was so beautiful, you could only imagine how sinful he would look right now, his tight, lean form drenched in sparkling diamonds of sweat. howlite eyes heavily lidded, glowing with desire, and his cherry-stained cheeks fanned by thick, fluttering blonde lashes.

but, there was an obstruction. satin obsidian, a necktie, bandaged around your eyes, keeping your vision dark and abysmal. if you didn’t gaze upon his perfection while he ruined you, you thought you might be driven to madness.

“Leviathan…”

a soft, pleased grunt accompanied by a gust of hot breath fills your ear. “I might get jealous.” he whispered to you. it was half a threat, but there was an inkling of excitement to his words. as if teasing his envy would thrill him, too. “If you see how beautiful I look while I fuck you. Or… If you see other things that only my eyes are meant to see… the way your back winds like a serpent, hips pushing back to take my cock in,” Leviathan lets out a heavy breath, one gloved hand grasping the flare of your hip and pulling you into his rutting. you cry out, feeling his cock feel you to the hilt. your mouth hangs open, strangled pleas dying on your breathless lips, and he moans again. “The way you drool and babble, just for me. Each and every goosebump that raises on your skin as I touch—“ the digits left unveiled by the leather glove are warm to the touch, and gently rub your skin, massaging the beads of your own perspiration into it. “These things that are only meant for me to witness. I don’t even want you to see how I can make you writhe with lust.”

your hands fumble towards him again, over your head. behind you. trying to grasp his horns. you needed something to hold on to, to squeeze. and you knew his horns were extra sensitive the moment his cock slid into you. “F—feels good..!” you gurgle, swatting haplessly towards where you pictured his horns jut upwards towards the sky. you anticipated feeling the antlers against your finger pads, but your desperate grappling is met with nothing but air.

was he angling his head away, keeping his horns just out of your grip?

“You want to please me more.” he mutters, and it his rumbling baritone is laced with a faint amusement. “To make me cry out and cum so quickly. Is it because you can’t handle me? Is my lovemaking too delicious for you? Does my cock make you so weak and desperate?”

a flustered nod, and a helpless babble of his name. it’s enough to curb his desire for praise for the very small moment. your fingers curl, expecting to do so around air, but there’s a faint jingle. cool metal tickles your knuckles, and you realized that you’ve taken the dainty, silver chain connecting his horns in one, weak fist. “N—need… t-this—“ it’s almost nonsensical, blurting out words that are mere pieces of a complete thought that’s been fucked out of you. “Nee—eed you!”

“You’re enjoying yourself immensely. It feels so good, yes? To take my cock deep and hard, push your limits. I’m being so generous to you, pouring so much pleasure- euphoria, into your sensitive, human body that you can hardly contain it all.” Leviathan sighs, nipping at the edge of the blindfold with his sharp canines, tugging ever so slightly, as if teasing that he might take it off. “Your feeble, mortal psyche might break if I’m too magnanimous. How troublesome it is to be delicate with you, when what I really want is to decimate you completely. Ah, I’m jealous that you can be broken so beautifully.”

“T—the blindfold…” you mewl again, leaning back against his deep, slow thrusting. it feels so good that you can only slump against his chest and hang on to the chain. your jaw hangs slack, tongue dangling against your chin. “Please, Leviathan!”

but you hear a soft clicking, his tongue against his teeth as both of his hands now envelop you— careening upwards to encase your breasts against his palms. he squeezes, thumbs and forefingers pinching your sensitive nipples until you let out a pathetic squeak. “Stay in the dark…” he demands, low and sultry, his tongue slithering out to trace his name over your neck and up into your ear, where he huffs, “I’ll get jealous if you witness this glorious destruction with me.”

[starkeyvhs]

kill bill

PAIRING: rafe cameron x dark!fem!kook!reader

SUMMARY: your ex-boyfriend has a new girlfriend, so you take matters in your own hands.

WORD COUNT: ~6k

WARNINGS: MAJOR DARK CONTENT WARNING! DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT! murder; blood; gore; reader is extremely possessive over rafe, gaslights him, short tempered, toxic, selfish, gets jealous very easily, physically unable to grieve, very very sick and twisted; they have an extremely toxic relationship; mentions of two ocs; suggestive content (absolutely no smut), reader likes to mark rafe; consumption of alcohol, hardcore drugs and cigarettes; minimal usage of nicknames like babe and baby; reader often exercises her ownership over rafe vocally; rafe chokes reader (but not so much she passes out), locks her in a room; minimal swearing; like one mention of y/n (I tried to avoid it as much as I could); detailed descriptions of a funeral; grieving; I always beta read my fics but if you find any minor grammatical/spelling error please ignore :) + let me know if you think I missed anything (I crossed checked everything twice)

EDITH SPEAKS: I hardcore believe we need more sick and twisted reader instead of the usual sweetheart one (nothing wrong with that, btw!) because it’s so much fun writing a complex female character. I had the time of my life writing this, and I hope you love reading this too <3 please please heed all warnings, this fic is really really dark, and I wouldn’t want anyone to be triggered by the content in any way (the warnings are there for a reason!) please reblog if you liked reading this, and feedback is always appreciated 🥀 massive thank you to my baes raye and zya who heard my brainrot for this fic all the damn time <3 (I love having fic writers besties 🥰)

masterlist / join my taglist / requests / moodboard from my old blog

It’s dark.

For some reason, it feels darker than usual.

Maybe because it’s a new moon, the indigo sky is completely devoid of the pale moonlight, which is usually the source of light at night.

Or maybe, the reason for it feeling darker isn’t literal.

Maybe it’s metaphorical.

Your gaze drops down to your hand, your gloved fingertips digging into the engravings on the handle of the knife, the tips of the nails settling between the grooves. The tip of your index finger is trapped in a curvy groove, your finger repetitively moving up and down, up and down, up and down through the curve.

You take a step back, the sound of the rubble crunching under your feet with a certain wetness echoes in the dark alleyway.

With your free hand, you lift up the hem of your dress, revealing the cover of the knife strapped to your upper thigh by a garter. The length of the dress hides the garter at all times, keeping it completely out of view. You slowly slide the knife back into its covering, letting it still in place, and allowing the dress to cover your thigh back again.

Your gaze begins to trail along your arm, the streaks of blood staining your skin red, matching the deep red of your dress. You flex your fingers under the single streak of street light entering the alleyway, illuminating the dried blood rubbed on your fingertips and knuckles.

Slowly, you let your eyesight travel down more and more, until you’re looking down at your feet.

Your feet stand in a dark pool of blood, almost seeming black in the darkness of the eerie alleyway. With the way only a single street light is responsible for the only light source, it almost seems like a scene from a black and white horror movie.

The metallic smell of blood fills up your nostrils entirely as you take another step back, gently kicking the foot in your way to the side.

“Oh poor Amber…” You mumble softly, taking a step closer to her face and bending down to her level, watching her soulless eyes gazing up at the bricked wall behind you. Her soft, pearly white slip satin dress is flushed with a deep burgundy, the slit through which your knife pierced her porcelain like skin is wide and open, right above her chest.

Your gloved fingertips trail over her cheekbone, so pale and so cold, as you feel the lifelessness under your skin. It’s almost pitiful if you think about it: the way poor Amber could’ve avoided all of this only if she knew to keep her hands off what you own.

She wouldn’t have to experience such a horrible end to her life, stabbed in a hidden alleyway, her dainty arms spread on her sides, her lifeless fingers grasping onto the last bit of memories of his touches, only if she knew better than to attempt to exercise her ownership over something clearly taken by you.

Oh well, you slowly get up from your crouched position, sparing a last glance at her body lying in the pool of her own blood.

Maybe it feels darker than usual because your own hands picked up a knife and drove it straight through the girl’s heart.

Do you regret it?

Absolutely the fuck not.

And why would you, if it means you get to have Rafe Cameron back again?

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

SEVEN MONTHS AGO

The strobe lights flash all around the otherwise dark party mansion, the bass of the loud music thumping in your eardrums. The party is as crowded as it can be, sweaty bodies rubbing up against each other tantalizingly on the dance floor, causing the all too familiar smell of sweat mixed in with weed, alcohol and what not to settle heavily in the building.

There’s so much happening around you, the dance floor if fully occupied, there’s a game of beer pong being played over-enthusiastically at one end, a corner table surrounded by mostly boys busy with their hardcore drugs at another end, the bar right behind you with all the alcohol you can ever need; yet your hardened gaze is fixed on Rafe, and the girl he’s having a conversation with a few feet away from you.

“I’ll be back in a moment, babe,” He had mumbled against your hair, giving your thigh a firm pat before leaving his place next to you at the bar counter. You were confused for a moment as to where he was going suddenly, but then you saw him approach a girl completely unknown to you, give her a hug and get involved in a conversation.

Now, over ten minutes have passed and he still hasn’t left her side. You can’t hear them talk due to the loud music, but you can watch them laugh, the conversation so engaging it’s like they both have forgotten a world outside them exists too.

Your hand resting on your thigh is beginning to press harder against your flesh, your fingers digging into your skin, causing a sharp pain to spread on your skin, but you do nothing to reduce it. Your jaw clenches tightly at the sight of Rafe and the girl, streaks of possessiveness flaring up in every nook and cranny of your soul.

But the moment the girl’s fingers reach out to nudge his arm, you know you have had more than enough.

In a swift movement, you get up from your occupied barstool and make your way over to Rafe.

As you approach Rafe, you reach your hand out for his arm, letting your fingers curl around his bicep to grab his attention. The girl talking to him suddenly stops speaking as she spots you right next to him, and the way your hand is around his arm, your fingers digging into his skin.

“Oh hey babe,” Rafe says, very discreetly trying to get you to loosen his grip on him by moving his arm subtly, but of course, you’re too busy glaring at the girl to even realize the borderline iron tight grip you have on his bicep.

Rafe senses the tension in you — it’s not hard to miss the way it’s oozing off you.

“Oh uh,” he clears his throat, gesturing to the girl. “This is Keely, she moved away two years ago but now she’s visiting the island for–”

“Yeah I don’t care,” you swiftly cut him off, giving his arm a sharp tug and dragging him away from Keely. Before Rafe can even say anything to Keely, you are tugging him away from the crowd, away from the party, leading him up the stairs of the party mansion.

“Where… babe what are you doing?” Rafe asks, his tone incredulous as he tries his best to pry your hands off his arm, but your grip only seems to be getting tighter by the second. He can catch a glimpse of his arm, and the way his skin has started to pinken under your bruising grip.

You don’t say anything, just lead him up the stairs silently. You reach the hallway on the second floor, and the first door you open is an empty bedroom. You push Rafe inside and close the door behind you two, locking it.

“Babe what are you–” Rafe tries to speak, but with another nudge to his shoulders the back of his legs stumble against the edge of the bed and he flops on his back onto the mattress.

You are quick to follow as you get on top of him and sit in his lap, straddling his waist. You look down at him, your palms laying flat against his chest.

Without any words, you dip down and capture his lips in a searing kiss, your lips moving with a fiery fervor against his. Rafe doesn’t even have a moment to process what’s going on, but his body naturally responds to you, his hands coming to grip onto your hips and squeezing them tightly.

“Fuck baby…” he murmurs hoarsely as your lips leave his to trail over his jawline and finding the side of his neck. A sharp gasp escapes his mouth as your teeth suddenly sink into his flesh, your tongue running over the mark to soothe the burning sensation.

Instinctively, Rafe’s grip tightens on your hips, his eyes squeezing close. Your movements are unrelentless, your teeth biting down into whatever patch of skin of his neck you can succumb onto, your tongue running over the marks, and your lips sucking on the skin.

“You’re mine you hear me?” Comes out your voice in a whisper against his skin as you begin to travel over to the other side of his neck, not stopping for even a second to give him a break.

“Yeah yeah I’m yours I’m–” another sharp gasp leaves his lips as your lips find a particularly sensitive spot on his neck right above his pulse point and suck on it. He can feel the bruises beginning to form, bruises so deep he knows they won’t fade soon.

He knows you like to leave marks on him. Since you and him started dating, he was often seen with a bruise or two on the side of his neck, or peeking from under the collar of his shirt on his collarbone. They were always small, and never too dark.

But today? Today he feels you aren’t doing to let a single inch of his skin bare from your marks.

One of your hands slips into his hair and you pull his head back, baring his slender throat to you. You lean down and press your lips to his throat, kissing and sucking on the skin the same way you did to the sides of his neck.

Rafe’s blunt fingertips begin to dig into your hips, his lips parted as heavy exhales escape him.

“Is… is this about Keely?” He breathes, feeling your fingers slightly tighten in his hair, causing him to let out a barely audible whine.

“What if it is?” You mumble against his skin, biting down on his throat which elicits a sharp gasp from him. He writhes a little under you, as if trying to escape you, but you let your full weight fall on Rafe’s waist, making it impossible for him to move.

“Baby she’s…” he pants. “She’s just an old friend… nothing else…”

Your hand on his chest reaches for the top button of his shirt and your fingers pop it open, revealing more skin to you. Your mouth is quick to follow suit, your lips attacking the newly visible skin.

“She needs to know you’re mine,” you mutter against his skin, your voice lowering an octave. “Who the fuck–” you bite down on the skin right under the hollow of his throat, emphasizing your words, causing Rafe’s upper body to buck up involuntarily, “–does she think she is huh? Touching my man that way?”

“T…touching…?” Rafe breathes. “She didn’t… she never touched me–”

“She did,” Your voice is sharp, leaving no room for any argument. Your mouth goes back to its work, your fingers popping the second button open to bare you more skin of his to mark.

“You’re mine, Rafe,” you mutter against his skin, “always.”

Rafe’s breathing speeds up more — if that’s even possible, as he feels the next buttons of his shirt getting unbuttoned too.

“Say it,” comes out your voice, sharp and low. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m–” he breathes, “I’m all yours baby, all yours… always and forever…”

You let your lips curl up into a faint smirk, the movements of your mouth slightly slowing down as you only kiss along the skin of his chest. At the slowing of your pace, Rafe’s fingers begin to loosen their grip on your hips, his short bursts of breathing slowly coming under control.

You slowly lift your head up and sit up in his lap, your fingers slipping out of his hair. You gently trace your fingertips over the sides of his neck, feeling the red, swollen bruises forming on his skin, which you know will only become more pronounced as the time passes. Your fingertips trail down to his chest, feeling the indents in his skin from the bruises and the bite marks. Something about feeling the bruises on his neck and not just seeing them begins to calm down the stoking fire of possessiveness on you.

It’s like you’ve branded him as yours.

“You look so perfect like this baby…” You coo softly, the gentle tracing of your fingertips a sharp contrast to just a few seconds ago when your teeth were on the verge of breaking through his skin. “So beautiful, so perfect, so mine…”

Rafe watches you through half hooded eyes, his breath only beginning to come under his control. He can feel his chest heaving from his heavy breathing and your touch over it, a sharp tingling sensation spreading over his skin wherever your mouth had been.

He can see it; the look of satisfaction in your eyes as if you’ve won a big prize. Your eyes rake over him, taking in all the bruises that stand out against his light skin.

“This… this should be enough to show her that you aren’t up for grabs,” you mumble to yourself quietly, still tracing over the marks and bruises over him.

Rafe shudders under the feeling of your fingertips tracing over his bruises, the skin reddened and getting more and more sensitive with each touch and nip of the air.

“You haven’t got anything to worry about baby…” he says slowly, almost cautiously. “I belong to you, forever,”

Your piercing eyes find his, the eye contact so strong it sends a chill down his spine.

“Yeah, yeah you are,” you mumble softly, before leaning down to let your lips connect to his skin again.

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

FIVE MONTHS AGO

Rafe stands next to the dining table with Wheezie and Sarah as Ward and Rose greet their guests for the night, their noises of greetings and laughter floating over to the three siblings in the dining room. The noise of their chatter only increases as the group approaches the dining table, spotting the three Cameron kids waiting for them.

Next to Ward and Rose are Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, with their daughter Amber. Ward and Mr. Lawrence are the bestest of friends; business wise and casual wise. Their businesses work hand in hand, and their families meet often for dinners and night outs.

Rose politely guides everyone to the dining table and everyone takes a seat, Amber’s seat being right next to Rafe’s.

“Hey Rafe,” she smiles, adjusting in her seat as she takes her purse off and hangs it on the back of her chair.

“Hey,” he says back, his voice quiet as he watches the food being served on the table.

He can feel Amber’s gaze on him; he has always had a hunch that she likes him with the way she looks away with a subtle blush on her cheeks when he catches her staring. Or with how she’s always talking so sweetly to him.

Or maybe his hunch is wrong.

Just like he’s the Kook prince, she’s the Kook princess. She’s known for being an absolute sweetheart, kind to anyone and everyone she meets. Even though she already has millions attached to her name, she’s volunteering at elderly homes, soup kitchens, beach clean ups and what not. She donates to charities whenever she can, and always sponsored them back in their days at the Kook Academy.

Rafe is quiet as the food is served, his plate kept in front of him. Everyone on the table is immersed in chatter, Amber distracted by Sarah and Wheezie, but he’s silent.

He takes small bites of the chicken he’s served, nibbling on the end of his fork as his mind goes to you, and the horrible, horrible fight you both had.

“It’s getting out of hand, y/n! You’re always on my heels, never letting me breathe!” Rafe snaps, trying to create as much distance between you and him.

Your eyes widen, an almost crazy look in them as you walk closer to him. “‘never letting me breathe’ is that so? I care about you Rafe! I love you!” You retort, attempting to reach out for his hand but he pulls back before you can touch him in any sort of way.

Your touch doesn’t feel loving, it feels like a burn to his skin.

“If you loved me, you would believe me that I was out with my friends, not with some girls! You think any girl will approach me when I’ve got these–” he frantically gestures to the marks all over his neck, “–all over my neck? Huh?”

“I leave those marks cause you’re mine!” Your voice comes out as strong, sharp yells now, echoing in the hallway of your house.

“Stop- stop saying that shit! I’m not yours! I don’t want to be yours anymore! You don’t fucking own me!” Rafe spits.

Now, he shouldn’t have said that.

You take another step closer to him, causing his back to hit against a door of a room in the hallway, completely caged by the door behind him and you in front of him.

He can see the look on your face, the way your eye is almost twitching, the way you let out soft pants; he has pissed you off.

“Yes I do,” your voice comes out low, and cold. “Yes, I own you, always and forever.”

“No you don’t!” Rafe snaps back. One of his hands reaches back for the door knob, his fingers curling around the cool metal. “I’m done with this shit! I’m done with you!”

You inch even closer to him, your chest almost touching his, leaving barely any space between you two.

“You think you can let me go this easily, huh?” You sneer, looking him dead in the eye.

Rafe’s hand on the door knob only tightens further, his knuckles almost turning white in the process. He’s done with this, he’s done being controlled by you, done letting you exercise ownership over him, and he’s done being in this loveless relationship.

In a swift movement, Rafe’s free hand comes to wrap around your throat, causing your eyes to widen and your lips to part, a choked gasp escaping you. Your hands reach for his fingers gripping your throat so harshly, feebly attempting to pry his fingers off. But his hold is strong, so strong.

You feel the amount of air in your lungs lessening with each passing second, your movements becoming weaker as the moments pass. You try to speak, anything, try to kick him off, but your body is just getting weaker.

Your tear rimmed eyes meet Rafe’s, whose own cheeks begin to streak with the tears that start to fall down. They aren’t tears of sadness, they’re tears of frustration, because he’s done with this shit.

“I’m done with you, you hear me?” He mutters through his tears, his voice frustrated and shaky. “Done with this entire thing.”

You try to fight back, to argue, to do anything, but nothing works. Rafe’s hand on the door knob pulls the knob down, opening the door. It reveals the store room, and in a single movement, he pushes you inside, a choked gasp leaving you, and he quickly shuts the door and turns the lock.

“Open the fucking door!” Come out your muffled yells from inside, and he can hear you sputtering, trying to catch your breath after being at a loss of it for the past minute.

Your hands bang against the wooden door, the sound loud in the empty hallway.

Rafe steps back from the door, hearing the loud banging on the door, the sound thumping in his ears along with his loud heartbeat.

For a moment, it seems like everything goes silent except the loud banging in his ear, pulsating throughout every nerve in his brain.

This is the first time he ever did anything to defy you, defy your so-called “love” for him.

And god, does he feel… good. Strong. He never knew he would be able to stand up against you. But now, he has you locked in the store room of your own home.

It feels exhilarating.

“Open the fucking door Rafe!” Your voice comes from inside the store room again, zapping Rafe out of his thoughts. He swallows harshly, his arms frozen on his sides as he slowly takes another step back.

With the way you’re banging at the door and are yelling, he can tell you’re getting impatient.

But he’s not going to do anything about it.

He’s done getting pushed around by you.

Taking another step back, he begins to back out of the hallway, ignoring your constant muffled yelling and banging at the door. He can hear you rattling the lock, desperately trying to escape the store room.

He tries his best to push away the sounds of you and your attempts to escape out of his mind as he takes shaky steps back from the hallway, slowly and slowly inching away from you. He takes a deep breath, and finally, turns around, his back to the store room, and he makes his way out of the hallway, approaching the main door of your home.

Without thinking twice, he opens the door and steps out, letting the door slam shut behind him, his mind pushing away the distant voice of yours yelling at him to open the door.

“Rafe? Rafe are you okay?”

Rafe snaps out of his thoughts and looks up from his plate to his side, seeing Amber gently shaking his shoulder. He looks back down to his plate and see he barely ate any of it, just nibbled on the piece of chicken, the veggies lying untouched.

“Uh,” he clears his throat, gently moving his shoulder which causes Amber’s hand to fall back to her side. “Yeah yeah I’m good uh… excuse me,” he politely excuses himself and gets up from his chair, leaving the dining table. Sarah and Wheezie glance at him with concern, but Rose and Ward don’t really seem to give this matter much light.

Amber watches Rafe leave the dining room, adjusting his turtle neck once as he makes his way out to the balcony, closing the wooden door behind himself.

Her eyes remain fixed on the path which Rafe had just followed, every cell of her body itching to follow him.

Just a few seconds later, she excuses herself from the table too and makes her way to the closed door of the balcony.

As the door opens and she steps out, Rafe diverts his attention to the door, a cigarette smoking away in his hand.

“Hey,” Amber says softly, giving him a gentle smile as she lets the door knob slip from her hand, the door closing with a gentle click. She makes her way over to Rafe, standing next to him in front of the balcony railing, her eyes fixing on the cigarette slotted between his fingers.

“Hey,” Rafe says back looking back out at the view from the balcony. His free hand comes to sneak under the turtle neck, scratching the side of his neck. “God this is itchy,” he mumbles under his breath, slightly frustrated.

“It’s too hot for a turtle neck anyway,” Amber says, her brows furrowed. “It must be irritating your skin,”

“Yeah,” Rafe mutters, taking a deep drag of his cigarette and letting out a plume of smoke. He knows better than to take the turtle neck off though, the thought of revealing the dark bruises left by you causes a small shudder to go down his spine — knowing Amber will be extremely concerned and will press on the matter.

Even then, his fingers reach out to itch under the turtle neck again, the material really irritating his skin. He pushes the fabric aside to grant him more skin to itch, but just as he does that, Amber catches the sight of the bruises marked on his skin; and these ones just so happen to be the darkest ones he has.

“Oh my god,” her soft voice comes out laced with concern as she steps closer to him, her fingers wanting to reach out to soothe his skin with her gentle touch. “What happened are you okay? That looks really bad,”

Rafe looks down at her, her frame almost comically smaller than his. He can see the concern etched on her face, her eyebrows furrowed and her lips downturned in a frown.

“I’m… I’m fine,” he mutters, focusing back out at the view from the balcony, taking another hit of his cigarette.

“Are you sure? Cause that looks really bad Rafe,” she murmurs, gently placing a hand on his arm, looking up at him.

The moment she touches her arm, he tenses for a fraction of second, but then immediately relaxes. There is something about her touch that you don’t have; that tenderness and the warmth that has always been missing from your touch. And her voice, it’s gentle. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard you talk to him in such a gentle voice.

“Did someone beat you up?” She asks, her voice soft.

Beat him up? Oh, he wishes.

His mind goes back to you, the way he locked you in the store room. He knows there’s a window in the room, and knowing you, he also knows you definitely escaped from that window.

“No, someone didn’t beat me up,” He says back, his voice losing any edge it may have, taking a completely tender tone. There’s something so soothing about the way she’s talking to him, and it just makes him want to open up to him about anything and everything.

“Someone didn’t beat you up? Then how did you get them?” She asks. God, he thinks. Her concern, her gentleness, her touch… He’s losing himself in it, a little too quickly.

Maybe it’s because he’s been deprived of this gentleness for way too long.

“You won’t believe me if I told you the answer,” he says, his gaze looking down at her to meet her eyes.

“You’re concerning me Rafe, really,” she mutters, her fingers still wrapped around his arm. And Rafe doesn’t want her to let go.

He takes another drag of the cigarette, letting the smoke roll off his lips.

“It’s my girlfriend– but, but I ended things with her today,” he mutters.

He gauges her reaction; her widened eyes, her lips parting twice to say something but no words coming out.

She knows about his girlfriend, well, everyone does, but he didn’t know about this.

“She did this to you?” Amber mutters incredulously. “That’s… that’s kind of crazy,”

“Kind of?” Rafe says amusedly. “It’s very crazy. I was…” he takes a deep breath, looking up from her and back out at the scenery. “I was suffocated with her. I was never able to express myself. She was extremely possessive, always wanting to… mark me as hers a certain way. It was hard to leave her but I did it, I finally did it today,”

Amber’s facial expressions contort to one of slightly relaxed, though the concern is still evident.

“Wow,” she mutters. “I’m very glad you were able to break things off with her, you don’t deserve to be treated this way Rafe, no one does,”

He turns back down to look at her, his eyes sinking into hers. They’re so warm and beautiful, a kind blue just like his. There’s gentleness in her words and the way she’s still holding onto his arm.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, “that… that means a lot to me you know? I’m… I’m just glad I was able to escape her,”

“Yeah,” she says softly, her fingers rubbing small circles on his forearm. It seems more or less like an instinctive movement, as if this is how she always likes to soothe someone.

And damn, is he starved for some gentle loving just like this.

A silence falls over them, Rafe’s eyes not flickering away from hers. She’s looking up at him, her doe eyes wide but extremely comforting, her gentle rubbing on his arm relaxing him to an infinite extent.

As if a gravitation pull exerts it’s force on him, he finds himself leaning closer to her, his eyes now training down over her lips. They’re so soft looking, so full, and he has a very strong urge to taste them.

Amber doesn’t pull back, she’s watching him lean closer, her own body reacting and leaning closer to him. Midway, Rafe’s lips are just a hair’s breadth from hers, and he takes the leap, pressing his lips to hers.

For a moment, no one moves, their lips joined in a gentle press. But then, Amber takes the initiative, gently moving her lips against his.

Rafe responds, his hand which isn’t holding the cigarette coming to gently cup her cheek, his thumb stroking the skin. Her hands reach up to wrap around his neck, the kiss soft, slow and incredibly tender.

Rafe gently pulls back, creating just the slightest distance between him and her. He rests his forehead against hers, his eyes closed as he soaks in the moment.

No words are exchanged between them, but he knows they both feel a mutual understanding.

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

PRESENT

The rain begins to pour down harder, the drops of water on the grassy lawn gleaming under the occasional strike of lightning. Black umbrellas matching the black outfits are put up by almost everyone, covering everyone’s head by the shelter.

Except one.

Rafe is on his knees right next to the coffin, his fingers gripping the edge of it so tightly his knuckles are beginning to turn white. His head bows down to rest on the edge in between his hands, quiet sobs erupting out of his throat. The raindrops trail over his clothes, making him sopping wet, but he doesn’t care – even when he’s been politely asked to get under an umbrella to cover himself.

Everyone knew well about Rafe’s and Amber’s relationship. God, they loved them. Rafe, the Kook prince, and Amber, the Kook princess. Their fathers; bestest of friends. It’s like people could imagine them getting married even when they weren’t of age. The children of the most powerful men of Outer Banks were meant to take over the island together.

But the dreams were shattered like frail glass when Amber’s death was announced. And it wasn’t some untimely death — it was a murder. A clear gash was present at her chest right where she was stabbed.

Police investigations were started, Rafe paid an incessant amount of money to get the best of detectives on the case, but the murderer was good.

Too damn good.

The murderer didn’t leave a single trace of their presence. They were sharp and quick. It was just a flash of lightning, and the knife was driven in Amber’s chest, and she was declared dead.

The investigations started months ago, and even now, any path they take to find out about the murderer is a dead end.

Almost the entire Figure 8 is invited to the funeral; including you.

You stand at the very end of the crowd, black clothes on your body and a black umbrella over your head, protecting you from the rain.

Your eyes scan over the procession, watching the funeral ceremony taking place in the burial ground where Amber’s coffin is meant to be buried. You can hear the quiet sobs from the front, from Amber’s family, her siblings and cousins, her friends, and from Rafe.

Your gaze zeroes on him as a man begins to gently pull Rafe up from his knees and to get him away from the coffin, because it’s time to take the coffin away for the burial. You see Rafe protesting, his hands reaching out to catch a glimpse of Amber; it doesn’t matter if it’s her coffin. He just wants to feel her, one last time, before she leaves his life completely.

His sobs get louder, dry screams erupting from his throat as the coffin gets carried away. Amber’s mother carefully approaches him and takes him in her arms, her own eyes squeezed tightly shut as tears stream down her cheeks.

As time passes, everyone begins to disperse the burial ground, even Amber’s family, except for Rafe. Her family gently pleads with him to leave too, but he refuses. ‘Just five more minutes’ is what he mumbles in his voice hoarse from all his sobbing to Amber’s mother, who squeezes his hand in return and lets him stay.

And now, everyone has left, but you’re still standing in the same position, watching Rafe, who’s sitting on the wet grass, the rain which is now reduced to a drizzle still showering over him.

You carefully make your way over to him and get down on your knees next to him, letting your umbrella cover him too.

He looks up when he realizes he’s not feeling the raindrops fall on him anymore, his teary eyes finding yours. Completely drowned in the whirlpool of his emotions, he didn’t realize you are still there.

It’s silent for a few moments as Rafe sits with him hugging his knees close to his chest, his head resting on them. You sit next to him, making sure to keep him protected from the rain.

“Rafe…” you murmur after a few more moments of utter silence pass over you both. You gently place a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up at you — his bloodshot eyes drooping from tiredness.

Another moment of silence passes by, the space around you filled only with the sound of the raindrops pattering on your umbrella. The rain seems to slow down even more, the gloomy clouds beginning to light up.

You can see Rafe’s facade beginning to crumble, his need to be comforted washing over the need to be alone and away from you, and ever so slowly, he leans closer to you, resting his head on your shoulder.

You let your free arm quickly wrap around his shoulders and you pull him closer, your hand rubbing over his back.

The sobs he had started to bury inside himself start sputtering out, his body squeezing closer to you, every fiber of his being craving comfort as he buries his face in his neck and lets himself go, his tears falling against the skin of your neck.

“Shhh Rafe you’re okay, I’m here, I’m here for you,” you mumble softly in his ear. His hands come to wrap around your frame tightly, as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

You finally have him in your arms again, the only arms he should ever be in, the only arms that should be comforting him, the only arms that should ever hold him.

You lean down and press a soft kiss to his forehead to comfort him more as you repeat soft words to soothe him as much as you can. When Rafe makes no move to pull himself away from you, you slightly tighten your hold around his shoulders and pull him closer to you.

You let him hold you however he desires, and cry how much he wants.

As you keep on rubbing your hand over his back to soothe him, your gaze looks out at the stretch of the burial ground, your eyes following the path along which Amber’s coffin was carried.

You take in a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment as you let the reality of the situation settle in you.

Amber’s out of Rafe’s life, and he is back where he belongs.

A small satisfied smile quirks the corners of your lips all the while Rafe’s face remains tucked in the crook of your neck, his hands holding onto you as if you’re his last lifeline.

Game over, Amber.

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

taglist: @oxpogues4lifexo / @rafedrewandjjs

specific tags for this fic: @ietss / @mileyraes / @ilyrafe / @runningfrom2am / @congratsloserr

@ladyinbl00d / @zyafics / @karmasloverrr / @rafesgiirl

[femmefatalevibe]

Femme Fatale Guide: My Fall Wardrobe Essentials

Pima cotton long-sleeve tees (I like the Supima ones from Everlane for every day)

Contour body suits (I like the Express Bodycon Compression line and Spanx bodysuits in vegan leather/silk)

Silk button downs

Structured cotton button-down

Cashmere sweaters (crewneck, turtleneck, polo neck, etc. – Everlane, Nadaam, and Cuyana are great affordable options)

Zippered knitwear (I like options from Pixie Market, Naadam, COS, Ganni, Helmut Lang, Nanushka, and more)

Black high-waisted tailored trousers (bootcut, flared, and straight leg)

Black high-waisted jeans (straight and bootcut for me!)

Elevated stretch pants (I like the Norma Kamali Boot Pant and Spanx Perfect Pant for this)

Cashmere trouser

Cashmere hoodie

Thick, well-structured black sweatshirt

High-waisted straight-leg leather pants

Long-sleeve black sweater dress

Maxi-length black satin slip dress

Leather/quilted/tweed mini skirt

Long knit skirt (love a co-ord top for this, too)

Perfectly-tailored longline, single-breasted black blazer

Tailored hourglass blazer

Leather blazer

Classic leather moto jacket

Cropped patent leather jacket

Lightweight wool/satin duster coat

Black cotton trench/leather trench coat

Black tweed jacket with elevated hardware

Structured black wool coat

Leather puff jacket

Minimalist white sneakers

Black block-heeled, sleek square-toed/pointy-toe boots

Modern black loafers

Croc-embossed black boot

Black moto/lace-up boot or minimalist platform boot

Stiletto heel, pointy toe black boot (one short and one knee high length to dress up any outfit)

Western-inspired boot

Sleek and sexy black pumps

Structured black tote/shoulder bag

Structured crossbody bag

Small shoulder bag

Novelty/fun top handle bag (beaded, croc-embossed, crystal-embellishments, etc.)

Seamless bras/underwear

Control-top black tights (sheer and opaque)

Comfortable white and black ankle/crew socks

A cashmere, silk, or faux fur everyday scarf

Fingerless gloves

Chunky chain necklaces/bracelets

Delicate gold and silver chains (necklaces and bracelets)

Mixed-metal rings

Diamond-encrusted & cocktail rings

Ear cuffs and threader earrings

High-waisted shapewear shorts

Cashmere or silk loungewear/pajamas

A lace teddy

Cozy slippers

[thecursedprince]

Disney Designer Collection Midnight Masquerade Series: Alice Limited Edition Doll- Alice in Wonderland

Goodness! Alice is fashionably late for her very important date with the The Disney Designer Collection Midnight Masquerade Doll Series. Late because she is dressed to the nines in a wondrous embroidered couture costume with fine metallic detailing and eccentric accessories, including an oversized bow with train, layered tulle underskirts and White Rabbit face mask. It's a dream from which you might never awaken.Magic in the details

Fashionably late, fiercely on point! The Disney Heroes and Villains are here to make an impression. Not even a lost invitation from a royal courier can keep them from attending the show-stopping Midnight Masquerade. They've finally arrived, and they are owning this magical moment. The blend of mystery and moonlight comes to life in this stunningly sophisticated collection. Designed by Disney artists, these dolls are adorned with intricately crafted masks, featuring iconic motifs that capture the innocence of our heroines, along with the dark deeds of our villains. This is an event for fans and collectors alike you won't want to miss. Let the drama begin!

Limited Edition of 4,000

Includes Certificate of Authenticity

Disney Designer Collection Midnight Masquerade Series; Fashionably Late

Alice Collector Doll

Highly detailed

Poseable

Satin dress

Shimmering organza puffed sleeves

Picot trimmed neckline

Black gemstone ''buttons''

Embroidered metallic filigree with hearts and roses on skirt

Ruffled tulle underskirts

Belt with oversized faux seude bow, dual train and satin metallic print lining

Fine lace gloves

Moulded boots

Sculpted White Rabbit hand mask

Finely styled hair

Rooted eyelashes

Hair bow, choker and earrings

Display stand included

Comes in elegant window display packaging with ribbon ties and carry handle

Inspired by Walt Disney's Alice in Wonderland (1951)

Part of the Disney Designer Collection Midnight Masquerade Series; Fashionably Late

The bare necessities

Ages 6+

Polyvinyl chloride (PVC) / acrylonitrile butadiene styrene (ABS plastic) / polypropylene (PP) / polyester

Alice approx. 30.5cm H

Box approx. 42.5cm H x 27.3cm W x 14.6cm D

Imported

Item No. 416147921090

[tadpolesonalgae]

Rhysand x reader: Peacock Feathers[*]

A/N: yeah, I like this one.

Summary: he always has something fun planned for Date Night.

Warnings: heavy voyeurism, heavy exhibitionism, fingering, not wearing seatbelts, sexual tension, 5.2k words

‘The most flamboyant lingerie set you have. Wear it for me.’

You huff at your husband’s minimal description for the dress code of tonight’s date. You rummage through your draws, flinging open the armoire, even the wardrobe in the corner, riffling for something. What did he even mean by flamboyant? Did he want you to strut out into the night cloaked in nothing but some sheer lace and heels? You bite your lip at the idea. It would be just like you husband to arrange something like that.

Flamboyant…flamboyant…

Flamboyant!

You rush back to the armoire, digging through the neatly set clothes, fingers searching for the material until you find what you’re looking for. You hold it up, and nodded. Yes, it would do. It would do quite well, in fact. Now, to find a way to conceal it…

You know he’s taking you out…somewhere. And unless he’s planning on smuggling you in, wrapped in a body bag, then you will need to find a way to hide the finely made lingerie from prying eyes. You sigh at yet another task to fulfil. You’re honestly going to bite Rhys’ cock off if this fails your expectations—for all the trouble he’s putting you through.

Once again, you search through your wardrobe, gazing at the menagerie of gowns and dresses. An array of satin and silk, garish and gaudy, jewels glimmering in the warm lamp light, winking at you temptingly. But no, you would choose something simple, something that would enhance your underclothes. You think about what your husband is likely to adorn himself in. If he asked you for flamboyant…it could be anything. Still, bright pops of colour weren’t really his style, preferring the brush of dark sleeves and silver cuffs than splashes of sparkling yellows or velvety oranges. The most flamboyant you’ve seen him in is a dark red suit, in celebration of a dear brother—and even then it had been so dark the crimson only showed if the light hit from a particular angle.

Having ruled out most options, you figure your best chances are either white or black, if he’s going to dress in a suit. White or black. You scan the wardrobe for anything that would fit with the lingerie. The choice is easy.

————

“Ready, darling?”

You silently move yourself to the top of the curved staircase, taking the one closest to your dressing chambers. Your husband’s eyes sweep over you, glinting with feline satisfaction as he drinks you in. One step at a time, you descend toward him, moving with elegant precision. You keep his eyes the whole while, basking in the heat of his keen gaze, and you wonder if you’ll even make it out the front doors.

A subtle string of rose quartz beads decorate your throat, the white satin of your gown flowing in smooth cascades behind you. The dress slims to your waist, the mini corset accented with small iridescent sequins that decorate the floral jacquard fabric. The heels you’ve selected hold a thin stilt to balance on, platinum lace weaving around your ankles, ensconced with silver thread keeping tiny beads wrapped snuggly against the ties. A single ring adorns your right glove, resting with grounding weight on your thumb. The band is silver, set with a moonstone, tiny amethysts framing it against the creamy silk of your gloves. Beneath the smooth fabric on your left hand lies your wedding ring, a beautiful sapphire welded delicately into the metal.

He drinks in the dusty red of your lips, matte in their texture and slightly dulled to not pull away from the rest of you. Divine. Enchanting. Refined. Perfectly attuned to him, having not gone too over the top when he’d requested flamboyance. Keeping in mind that you were a pair and would be seen together.

“You look positively delicious,” Rhys purrs as you reach the bottom of the staircase, gliding over to him. You give him a sultry smile, one that has heat shooting straight between his legs. He’s brought back to the Soirée last month, when you’d been sat on your knees between his thighs, dark rouge lipstick blurred at the edges of your mouth, perfect replicas stamped on his cock from where you’d kissed up and down the length of him until he couldn’t take it any more. He remembers how you’d swiped at the smudged tint, glaring up at him teasingly, “why is it whenever you take me out somewhere I always end up with my makeup out of place?”

Then there had been the masquerade party the month before, where you’d been set on keeping those damned masks on, hiding the beauty of your face from him. You’d insisted the anonymity had been thrilling, given a dark edge to the experience. It was this in particular that had him thinking. Turning over different venues and activities until he’s found one he believed would be pleasingly satisfying to your slightly sinister tastes.

“I could say the same about you, husband.” He looks ravishing. Charmingly debonair in his black suit, complete with smooth bow tie and crisp white shirt. Not a crease to be found. A kerchief makes a soft triangle atop his breast pocket, complete with a peacock feather decorating the smooth lapel of his jacket. “I don’t suppose you plan on informing me of tonight’s venue?” You inquire, settling a palm over his heart as you lean against him.

His hand raises to your jaw, tilting your lips toward his. “And ruin the surprise at the last minute? I think not.” He presses his lips to your own, coming away vaguely rosey from the rouge staining your mouth. You pout, fingers circling over his chest, “you like watching me squirm, don’t you? How cruel you are, truly. I cannot fathom—” you press another kiss to his lips, “—why I ever married you.” He offers you a feline grin, “maybe you enjoy the tension. The edge.” His fingers grip your hips, pulling you against him.

You’re pleased when his eyes darken as he feels the pattern of something thin beneath the satin. “What did you choose?” His voice has dropped, roughening and you suppress a shiver at the timbre. You peer up at him innocently, “and spoil the surprise at the last second? I think not.” Your teasing spurs him on, fingers deftly catching on the low collar of your dress, moving to pull it from your skin so he can catch a glimpse of what lies beneath.

Rhys gets as far as bringing a wash of cool air down your front before you’re jabbing two fingers into his chest—down his sternum. “Ah, ah, ah, husband.” You push him back, preventing him from peering down your top. “Leave something for dessert,” you chastise, a low growl sounding in the back of his throat. Pleasure sings beneath your skin at your husband’s antics.

Your fingers waltz upward, delicately hooking beneath his perfectly wrapped bow tie, pulling him downward toward your mouth. “Wouldn’t want to spoil your appetite now, would we?”

“I assure you my appetite is depthless when it comes to you, wife.” His fingers latch onto your own, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. You flush with pleasure, “shameless flirt.”

“Promiscuous madam.”

You raise a single, neatly groomed brow, “a madam?” You echo, then press against his chest, allowing him to feel the soft plushness of your breasts. “And what’s a refined gentleman like you doing in the arms of a lady of the night, hm?”

He growls, grip tightening on you possessively. “She’s taken something from me. Something very precious. Plucked it straight from my chest, weaving her sinful fingers between the bones of my ribs.” His mouth brushes over your own, an erotic caress of his lips. “I fear the day she returns it, for the pain it will bring.”

Your eyes dip as they follow their quiet movement. “I took yours as payment for my own.” You whisper back, “I am merely human, and cannot survive without it.” His arm snakes around your lower back, forehead pressing to your own, sharing in the intimacy. “You took mine first, Rhys.” He releases a soft breath at his name on your lips. “It’s only fair.”

He laughs softly against your mouth, and you keen beneath the sound, pushing up onto your tiptoes, desperate for another taste—

“Shall we?”

He’s pulled back, leaving your chest cold, heat warming between your legs. Your husband holds out an arm, waiting for you to latch onto him, arrogantly expecting. You gift him a saccharine smile, already planning how to overthrow him for the evening, “lead the way.”

————

The lamplights reflect in the puddles as it drizzles. Already you can make out the faint wisps of fog rolling through the dark streets.

“What’s on your mind, darling?”

You turn, propping your chin on your hand as you gaze at him before straightening, looking ahead. “I was thinking whether you’d enjoy the silk of my hands or the velvet of tongue.” You glance at him sidelong, pleased when he stiffens. You could swear you see his demeanour shift to match the darkness of the night. “Do you think it wise to begin this dance so early?” He drawls. You return your gaze to peering through the chauffeurs window, watching them cut through traffic. “That is true,” you contemplate, “it is usually your role to insist on foreplay.”

You turn in your seat, catching the dark glint in his violet eyes. You offer a coy smile, enjoying rilling him up before the event has even begun. He leans over, across the space between you, mouth lowering to brush the shell of your ear, “did you follow my orders for tonight?” You swallow as he pulls back to look at you, shifting to be beside you, the powerful lines of his body pressing to your own shape. “Are you so desperate to see me in my underthings?” A serpentine smile twists the edges of your rouge mouth, “I chose an appropriate set. I think it will appeal to your tastes.”

Again, his eyes dip to that teasing window of your chest, dress cut low enough to reveal mouth-watering skin, but not enough for him to catch a glimpse. No matter, he’ll find out soon enough.

Rhysand straightens, reaching to his pocket, “I forgot to give you this, for the night.” He retrieves a headband, accented with a single peacock feather at it’s crest, set with clear jewel you believe to be a diamond. “Put it on for me?” Your heart beat increases at the deftness of your husbands fingers, brushing strands of hair from your cheeks before setting the circlet atop your brow. “Perfect,” he murmurs, and you wonder if he meant to say it aloud.

His thumb brushes beneath your lashes as he stares into your eyes. You lean into the touch, indulging in the heat of his large palm over your jaw. He looks as though he’s considering kissing you, eyes dipping lower, a deep hunger roiling in their depths. “Go on,” you encourage, shifting your body to face his as your arms snake over his shoulders.

But the chauffeur pulls up a driveway, bringing the vehicle to a stand still.

Your husband pulls away with a grin, “enjoy.”

————

The red windmill.

An interesting name.

He’d guided you to the entrance, your silk encased hand gripping the satin hem of your dress to keep it from dragging on the floor. When the receptionist had asked for a name to place for the reservation, he’d given it over, and then the two of you had been escorted to a private suite. The server had shown you around, where things were, and then left you alone, together.

When the door clicks, you turn to Rhys. “Care to reveal your secrets now, sir?” His lips quirk as he settles in a large armchair, a deep red to match the atmosphere of the chamber, lit by warm lights and accented with blacks, reds and oranges. His legs spread as he gets comfortable, facing you. “Every garment you remove, I’ll let you in on a little more,” he purrs, readying himself for the show you’ll give him.

You roll your eyes, but pull the glove from your left hand, wedding band glinting in the light. He raises a brow at the small movement. “I didn’t take you for a coward,” he taunts, but you simply peer down at your nails, examining them. “Secret, please.” His mouth neutralises into an unreadable line, “we’re here for entertainment.” You roll your eyes again, “obviously.” He grins, silently ordering you to remove another item of clothing.

Teasingly, you remove the other glove, staring him down from across the room as you perch on the arm of the chair opposite him. You drop the silk onto the cushion, the pure white an erotic contrast to the dark colours shrouding the suite. “Both your voyeuristic and exhibitionistic tendencies will be satiated.” You blink, then narrow you eyes at the man. “Have you brought be to a sex club, Rhysand?” He chuckles at the use of his full name—you only use it when displeased with him. “Rhys, you haven’t,” you gasp, “what if someone sees?” Sometimes you really could strangle your husband.

But then he stands from his reclined position, prowling forward, hands wrapping firmly around your waist as his shadow swallows you. “Isn’t that the point?” He purrs, your spine arching against him. “Don’t you delight in their attention? Revel in it?” Heat flushes your cheeks at your husband’s accuracy. “I know how you like being perceived as an object of desire. Isn’t that why you didn’t bat a single, pretty eyelash when I made my request for the night?”

His hands glide up, tracing over your breasts until they cup your jaw, “I’ll ravish you in front of the whole world if it pleases you.”

“But a sex club!” You hiss, making him laugh. “Am I laughing, Rhys?” You snap, making him calm himself.

“I give you my word, it’s nothing as disreputable as a sex club,” he purrs, but the lilt in his voice suggests a loophole. “Why don’t you remove that dress of yours so you can get to the big reveal, hm?”

He steps away, allowing you to stand. To proceed with the show. You huff, turning your back to him as you begin slowly unslotting the tiny satin cushions from their holes. One at a time. Piece by piece.

Gradually, the smooth material begins its descent off the slope of your shoulders. His mouth dries as he finds the thin, platinum straps that loop atop your arms. The satin slowly gives way, showing off the latch of the brassiere you’ve donned. Pure, glittering white. He swallows as the gown lowers over your waist, caressing the intimate skin of your waist; hips.

The dress pools at the poised set of your heel adorned feet, the silver ensconced lace matching the delicious underthings you’ve selected. His breath catches as you glance at him over one shoulder, giving him a partially concealed view of your beautiful face. Your slim fingers waltz over the skin of your arm, trailing down as your eyes follow teasingly. The other hand is wrapped over your hip, playing with the thin band of your underwear: matching lace that clings to the plump curve of your rear.

“Turn around, darling. Let me see you.” His voice sounds rougher; more strained.

Ever so slowly, you step out of the waves of satin, turning to reveal yourself to him.

A low groan sounds at the back of his throat as he slips two fingers beneath the collar of his shirt, apparently in need of some cooler air. You smirk as you begin prowling closer, stopping only when you’re positioned between his muscled thighs.

Your husband enjoys himself as he drinks you down, eyes dragging so slowly over every fine detail, and you swear you can see the plans in his mind fading back to dust. He wets his lower lip, gaze darkening as he imagines where you’d enjoy being touched, whether you would prefer his fingers or his mouth over your perky nipples. Whether you’ll insist on keeping your lingerie intact, or whether you’ll be so desperate as he is by the night’s end that you won’t care about it being hastily removed. Strewn across the rouge carpet.

Sequins and pale glass beads are woven to the brocade fabric, indentations of peacock feathers shimmering in the light, iridescent thread glimmering. Tiny sets of diamond are dotted at the base of the brassiere, looping around your back and over your shoulders. Strings of pearls dangle from the base of the lingerie, hanging in crescent circles like ribs made of moonstone—reconnecting at the clasp. The underwear matches perfectly, accented with the same glittering platinums, silver embossed feathers curling over your hips.

“You’re divine,” he breathes, violet eyes reflecting your warm light. His hands reverently pull you closer, your own settling on the corded muscle of his shoulders as he places a kiss to your navel. “Divine,” he whispers, shakily. Your husband looks up at you, your fingers weaving through his blue-black hair, so soft to the touch. He keens at your touch, revelling in the press of the pads of your fingers, feather-light as you trace the sharp cleft of his cheek.

“What’s the big secret, husband?” You murmur, hooking one leg over his thigh as you slide into his lap. He moves for your mouth, lips parting, eyes sliding closed but you set a firm hand on his chest. “Now, now, Rhys. Behave.” He groans softly at the command, eyelids lazing open to look at you. Lust and hunger dance intimately, barely hidden in the now indigo hue of his irises. Your fingers settle either side of his chin, tilting his jaw toward you, his pupils dilated and burning.

“It’s your turn, Rhys,” you whisper alluringly, hips winding over his. He stifles another groan, “wicked, wicked woman.” A thrill of excitement brushes down your spine at his pained tone. His strong arms snake around your waist, clutching you to his body, hand settling between your shoulder blades, indulging in the drag of your breasts. He grips your ass, pulling you tight to his hips, feeling the prominent outline of something delicious between your thighs—against your stomach.

“Come on, now,” you chide, mouth dancing over his own, a sensual caress of breath. “Make good on your word, husband.” A strained sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest, eyes flicking up to yours. He swallows, and you trace the roll of his throat. Then both his hands drop to your ass, hauling you against him as he stands, your thighs wrapping snuggly around his hips. “Rhys…?” Your tones shifts to irritation and he chuckles.

Your husband moves fluidly through the suite room, opening a door the server hadn’t shown you. You try to turn but he presses your face to his shoulder, hiding the view from you. All you’re able to make out is the general volume of people, but it’s a bit far away, as if from a lower floor. Music rolls up to your ears, fiery, rhythmic, and you want to set your heels to the floor, if only to spin with your husband to the syncopated melody.

“Rhys? What is that?” Your husband sets you down on what feels like a balcony, his grip loosening, allowing you to peer about. “Look for yourself,” he smirks, stepping back a little. Your thighs tighten around him, tugging him back to your chest harshly as you take in your surroundings.

He’s seated you precariously on what is indeed a balcony, thick mahogany supporting you. Large, champagne coloured chandeliers hang from the ornate ceiling, light refracting through the glass diamonds, casting their golden glow throughout the hall. You’re on the highest floor, the room is cavernous compared to the booth he’d taken you to. Below, people chatter and make merry, dressed finely in anything from night robes to stunning silk dresses to flimsy underthings with a fan of feathers haloing their heads like crowns. A menagerie of fluidly colours: purples to yellow, stripes of pink and cream, splashes of oranges and greens, the glittering sparkle of sequins and jewels gleaming in the low light.

At the front of the hall lies what appears to be a small orchestra, and you zone in on the figure at the forefront of the music, just ahead of the elderly conductor. He’s playing what might be an accordion of some kind, the music frenetic, a frenzied tango of notes. “Is that a squeezebox?” You peer closer, still wrapped tightly around Rhys’ hips. He peers with you, “I believe that’s a copy of a French Flutina. Popular in the 19th century.”

You listen closer to the music, trying to place it. Your husband smiles as recognition sparkles in your eyes, “Libertango, Astor Piazzolla.” He nods, hand cupping your cheek, “indeed.” Your hold relaxes on him a little, allowing you more leeway to watch the crowd. His mouth drops to your throat, kissing a slow trail from your collar bones to your jaw. Your breathing deepens, then catches. His lips lift into a smile over your neck, “see anything interesting?” Then he receives a light smack to his shoulder, “Rhysand!” You scold, fuming, “it is a sex club!”

Sure enough, he can make out the groping hands on the floor below, the bent over bodies, the kneeling legs, the harsh snap of hips. All while the musicians play on. A symphony of pleasure singing through the room, a harmony of moans for accompaniment. “They prefer the term massage parlour. The clientele are free to engage with other participants in whatever way they wish. No one here is paid to do anything.”

Your raise a brow sceptically, “you’ve done your research, husband.”

“Only the best for my wife.” Your lower body tingles at the title. “I hope you know I refuse to step foot in that…pleasure hall. These heels are white. And very dear.”

He laughs against your skin, “why do you think I reserved a private room for us, my darling?”

You pout at the cunning man. “How obnoxiously sly of you,” you remark. “I’m always ten steps ahead of you, dear,” he murmurs over your lips, giving you a serpentine grin before twisting you round, so your back is pressed against his broad chest. “Rhys!” You squeak, hands flying for something to grip onto, feet weaving through the wooden beams withstanding the balcony railing.

“Enjoy yourself,” he drawls, opening his mouth over the unmarked skin of your neck, pressing hot, wet kisses to you. You moan softly. All those people, indulging beneath you, hardly an idea of what’s happening above them. “Relax,” he instructs, nipping at the pearled lobe of your ear. You whine. “You try relaxing with the potential of falling to your death,” you manage, even as his arm tightens around your stomach, letting you know you’re safe with him. “You know that, should you fall, I would plummet with you,” he whispers against your skin, drawing a bark of laughter from your throat, the rose quartz beads ringing at the sound. “I would have preferred reassurance you would not let me drop, Rhys,” you snap playfully.

“That too.”

You huff a laugh that turns into a hitch as his hand cups you through the finely woven lace. A moan slips from your lips as heat warms your skin, his fingers deftly rubbing over the apex of your thighs. “Rhys…” He kisses your jaw, “look below you. All those people revelling in one another, taking what they want until they’re drunk on pleasure.” Your breathing becomes shallow.

“Any one of them could look up—some already might’ve—see you spread out on the balcony, with my hand between your thighs.” You preen against him, melting into his warmth as his fingers dip lower, oscillating over your entrance. He pushes the damp silk to the side, scooping up your slick on his middle and forth finger before raising it to his lips, groaning at your taste. You release a sultry laugh at your husband’s actions, spreading your legs a little wider, “take more, if you want.”

Rhysand growls at the invitation, gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at the people below. “How many people do you think are watching you right now, huh?” You. Not us. You. “How many people do you think have seen how you’re dressed—how you’re acting—and hoped to themselves you’ll be gracing their mouths later?” The heel of his palm presses to the top of your thighs, rubbing gently as his fingers circle you, before pushing in. “How many people down there, do you think, are pleasuring themselves to you?”

Your back arches against him, his clever fingers curling and dragging against your walls. You swallow, desperate to find your words, “I…I don’t know…” you manage, and his teeth nip at your throat, biting lightly. “Have a look, darling. Seek them out.” You moan, trying to follow his orders, but the light is fairly minimal, and the bodies are fading to an erotic dance of shadows. “Can’t do it?” He drawls, pressing his fingers deeper, up to his knuckles.

He laughs darkly beside your ear, “down near the front, a little away from the cellist.” You follow his directions, landing on a figure with their head raised, pleasuring themself. “Beside the third exit on the ground floor, wearing red.” Again you follow, finding a figure strewn over a table, gazing upward. “The floor below is, opposite.” You moan loudly, the sound getting wisped away in the music.

In the booth he’s talking about, a woman is bent over the railing, her petite breasts exposed to the air—to the audience below—while an older gentleman stands behind her, and you can see how her body is pushed forward with each snap of his hips. Her lips are parted, and were the room silent you’re sure she would be moaning as you are. Her eyes are hooded, but watching you, watching as your husband’s fingers push into you, how your back arches.

He does something wicked with his digits, and you gasp, head tipping backward onto his shoulder as he presses against your clit. “Rhys…” you moan out, feeling so high already, practically weightless, as if you could fly away. “Easy,” he orders, arms tightening around you as your hips buck. “Not tipping over that edge just yet.” The possibility has your heart rate increasing, adrenaline thrumming beneath your skin, buzzing at your fingertips.

Your eyes return to the couple on the lower floor. “Do you think she’s an escort?” You manage, noting her scandalous clothing and exquisite gems adorning her throat and wrists. “Does it please you to fantasise about their outside lives, hm? Create a story for them, to get off to?” You moan at his words, nodding your head. “What do you think she’s thinking right now?” His fingers fuck into you harder, keeping their pace though the pressure increases over your clit. “I—…” you can’t manage anything: it’s so overwhelming.

“I think she’s wondering how you taste, what it would be like to have her fingers burying into you like this,” he punctuates his words with a flick of his wrist, digits dragging against that glorious spot inside you. “I bet she’s wishing you were coming on her tongue instead.”

You whimper, nails digging into the banister as you draw nearer and nearer. “Maybe she’s fantasising about you, what your story is. Perhaps she’s winding a filthy tale in her head of you being stolen away by a dark stranger, auctioned off to the highest bidder for your virginity.” You pant heavily, delighting in the wet squelching coming from between your thighs, proof of your arousal for your husband. At some point, dancers had appeared onstage, dressed in thinner and even skimpier clothing than you. Jewels, gems, and peacock feathers waltzing across the skene.

“Perhaps she’s creating a story of a failed marriage, love abandoned, so you’ve left to seek out some real pleasure, from someone who will treat this cunt right.” You whimper, so close to unravelling from his silver-tipped tongue. He’s always been quick on his feet when it comes to this, perfectly attuned to the darker parts of your mind, the more private thoughts you have. “Perhaps she’s telling herself you’re nothing but a dirty whore, trying to scrape together a penny or two by selling your pretty pussy.”

You suck in a sharp breath of air as your high hits you, fully seizing your body as you tighten wildly around his fingers, grinding your hips against his hand as he pulls you through the euphoria. “That’s it,” he encourages, “show everyone what a filthy whore you are.” Your cunt is still fluttering around his steadily moving fingers. The hot breath from his mouth brushes over your ear, fanning across your neck, “you’re no better than a prostitute, are you?” He whispers, circling your clit slowly, working you down.

You pant heavily as your heart beat begins to even out in the aftermath. You swallow as his fingers drag out of your slick heat, coated in glossiness that shines in the low light. “Open.” You hardly have time to follow the command before the pads of his middle and forth finger are sliding over your mouth, like an obscene lip gloss. He pushes them in, against your tongue so you can taste your own arousal. His hips buck against your ass.

“So good, aren’t you. My good, little wife.” You whine at the title, and he helps you down from the balcony—carefully. He spins you around, pulling you tight to his hips, pinning you to the railing. “Think you’re all warmed up for me now? Or do you need some time to cool off?” He taunts. You buck against him, “I can take you.”

He chuckles at your enthusiasm but his eyes flick to the stage, filled with dancing song girls. “Looks like some of the entertainment is starting,” he drawls, giving you a light pat on the ass before he’s guiding you to a chair. Your legs give out when he pushes you, collapsing into the soft cushions. “Why don’t we resume after this brief intermission, hm? I’ll fetch us some refreshments.”

When you look like you’re about to stand to follow after him, he sends you a look over his shoulder. Promising more. “All I want you wearing is those gloves when I return.” His eyes darken as they drag over your body, male satisfaction glinting in his sharp gaze as he notes the slick glossing your thighs. “After all, you were so keen on finding out whether I would like your silk or velvet more.”

Heat flushes your cheeks at the reminder, excitement zipping beneath your skin. Your eyes dip to his hips, “do you think you’re appropriate?” You smirk, noting the obvious outline of his cock, your tongue wetting your lower lip. He mirrors your grin, “think I should send you out there in my stead?” He drawls, sparking arousal in the pit of your tummy. “Maybe a dark stranger will whisk me away, auction me off to the highest bidder.”

“Precisely why I will be getting refreshments,” he smirks. “I’ll knock thrice, slowly, when I return.”

“Maybe I should lock you out. Make you wait like you’re doing to me,” you drawl, watching lazily from your half reclined position. His laugh is a lovers caress between your legs, “if you have the heart to.”

“It’s your heart,” you remind him, smiling.

“Exactly.”

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020

[razbunz]

V A M P

Sephiroth x Fem!reader CW: Blood and light gore, A teaspoon of smut, Petnames (Angel, Doll, ect) , Fangs used as an aphrodisiac, Sephiroth is OOC, takes place mid 1800s, slight angst, 6k WC.

It's desolate on the streets, no surprise from the recent stormy April weather. You can hope it's going to boost the flowering process in your garden. Just enough for some early daffodils to sprout from their buds into full flowers, for sweet smelling roses to travel with each draft. 

Even as a creaking stagecoach slows to a stop in front of your house.

“Madame!” A voice breaks up your thinking, you look at the man who calls for you, He has short jet-black hair that compliments his striking green eyes- they shine with the little sun that peaks through the clouds.

“Ah! Monsieur!” You bow your head and fix your posture “Need some assistance?” you inquire.

“Nothing but a letter for me to deliver ma’am.” He retrieves an envelope from his back pocket, it's dotted with a gold and green wax stamp.

“Why thank you.” Courteously thanking him, taking the letter cautiously and flipping it a few times over searching for a name; but there's nothing.

“Can I help you with anything else though Sir?” You ask as he shakes his head and offers a respectful bow. Giving you his name- Zack Fair.

“Thank you Mr Fair, see you around.” You wave gently as he turns to the wagon.

You close the front gate and enter your house looking for a letter opener, the glint of metal catching your eyes, going over to slit the letter open.

Oddly eager to see what's inside- you can hope for payments from your last event! But it's unlikely. Instead you're met with neat cursive written on crisp paper and reads…

Dear Ms L/N, I appreciate the floral centerpieces you made for us a few months back, Though the flowers are wilted my mind is still stuck on you. No dame I've seen has shun as bright and vibrant as you, With your smile and wit I have fallen. In love with your nurturing care towards others and the way you hold yourself. I acknowledge that you own the Wespritz Grove, so humbly I ask of you to join me at DawnField Castle for this next week.

Spend it by my side and perhaps you can see if palace life is befitting of you. As I can hope.

On April 23 I will send Zack to retrieve you, Please pack what you need to be comfortable- Though I assure you I will have most estentails.

-Sincerely S.

What? You can hardly believe you read it correctly. Questions run rampant throughout your head. What if he’s old and hideous? Or he just wants an heir? You shiver at the thought, But you’d be a fool to not give whoever they are, a chance. 

After all, you've briefly been past DawnField before, And nothing life threatening was mentioned.

Even if April 23d is only two days from arrival.

Waking up on that dewy morning is stomach wrenching, your head spins and twirls with every nauseating thought that passes through. So you try to keep yourself busy with dusting and pruning your flowers.

Ding ding

The door buzzes with life, you freeze up and carefully peak through the door jam. It's Zack, wearing a gray frock- his satchel gone in favor of a green pocket square.

“Are you prepared?” Zack asks and offers you his hand, It's gloved in a soft satin fabric. 

You look around once more- picking up your small suitcase.

“I suppose so.” A nod in confirmation is all you get before he leads you outside into the crisp morning air. Where a carriage rests outside the cobblestone street- He takes your bag and steps up into the Coach box, lifting you up inside the carriage where lush velvet seats meet you. 

He tells the driver to take off and the horses are set.

For hours you look listlessly outside, Peaking over wooden bridges to gaze at the rushing waters underneath and the trunks of trees.

Until the path becomes rocky and strewn with pebbles, and tall steeples of a palace grow from the ground. Seeing it from here makes you imagine how big it is once your feet hit the floor.

Clinking chains and aching wood is enough of a realization to peer out the windows to view the outer castle grounds.

Hash footsteps fill your ears, you reach for the door but Zack gets there before you, swinging it open to the cooler mountain air.

“Let me do that m’lady.” He gives a soft smile comforting your racing heartbeat.

Stepping down on the hard gravel it crunches beneath your feet.

You could never imagine that a castle would ever be this big. 

It towers over you with panes of meticulously crafted stained glass, it depicts an angel holding up a rising star.  Two giant oak panels serve as doors engraved with paisley swirls.

Doormen hold them open closing with a boom as Zack leads you in. High ceilings painted like the Sistine Chapel decorated with tiny cherubs and sirens line the marble pillars which hoist the ceiling up. 

You could have only dreamed of seeing this as an adolescent.

Large decorative paintings adorne the weathered walls, many depict vast nature scenes though many fade into desolate towns.

With him opening a lighter door in front of you, light green walls and a large canopy bed with tulle drapes is what you're met with. It smells dusty like the rooms never been opened.

“His highness has invited you to dinner, do join. Though if you need anything ring the bell- it'll bring someone to assist you.” He nods and turns away, not before you stop him.

“Do you need something?” he asks, tilting his head.

“No I- thank you.” You fumble with your words, he seems worried as you say it. 

“Don't mention it.” as he leaves with haste.

Sudden, is the only way you can describe his exit. 

Your bag is dropped off shortly later and you unpack the few clothes you have, A small tea dress and some other more worn ones. You wish you had something better to present yourself in- to the King? Lord? Someone with money and power whatever he is, it'd be for the best to look nice.

Knock… Knock… You scramble up from your bed to answer the door,

“Hello Madame, I'm Miss Davenshaw- Your personal maid. I’ll be here to help you throughout the week.” She curtsies even when you stand awkwardly at her.

“Umm much appreciated.” You attempt to form a shaky curtsy back. 

“No need.” she shakes her hands in front of her. 

You move out of the way for her to enter your room, she bustles past and goes straight to the large wardrobe in the wall.

Whipping it open to reveal dresses of different lengths, fabrics and colors are sitting in the closet. Unlike the room they smell new, and fresh. 

“Ahh there it is, He's requested for you to wear the emerald one, All your options are open though.” Miss Davenshaw hands it to you. 

It's gorgeous, decadent emerald silk that almost melts in your hands. It's a color that only appears in your Zinnia’s. Never in cloth.

“Does it suit your fancy?” she asks and wipes her hands down on her skirt awaiting your response.

“It's absolutely gorgeous.” you let out a soft chuckle, and look over the fabric once more.

“Then let's get it on?” she ensures and once you nod she starts to assist you getting you out of your road clothes.

To your surprise dress fits perfectly, It holds and hugs your curves and doesn't scrunch up much when you sit down. Once you're in your dress with a little bit of hair tasseling she leads you to the dining room. 

Arriving at the dining room the doors are locked with Zack standing guard out front, he greets you with a nod and looks you up and down, Quickly- as if it's a crime to look at you.

You bite the inside of your cheek, wondering if you don't look enough to be meeting whoever rules this castle.

He opens the doors, taking you into the space. Just like many rooms of the castle you've seen everything is fit, well for a king. A huge center table with a glistening candelabra lights up the room, while through the windows you can view the mountains off in the distance.

Someone sits at the end, it feels like a mile away. 

He pulls out his chair walking up to you- gesturing for Zack to leave. You almost don't want him too. Shockingly, the person who approaches you is young. And let out a smirk with the small cursty you give him.

Long silky hair that sways with each movement he makes, with bangs that cover some of his face- and as he stands in front of you his deep green eyes meet yours. They watch your hands twitch and the goosebumps that raise on your arms.

“Relax.” a cold hand covers your shaking one. 

“I apologize for the wait, I had business matters to take care of.”  He straightens his collars and looks back down at you. “I am Sephiroth, Lord of the castle, writer of the letter.” You look up at him, towering over you- it’s hard to muster an answer when he looks at you like that.

“Oh, it was very sweet… thank you.” You attempt to compose yourself.

“Sit with me?” he gestures to the table, walking to one end where you match him at the other.

Sitting down you adjust the dress, waiting patiently for him to begin to eat the food in front of him.

“Go ahead, I'm not hungry.” He reassures you as you open the cloche to eat the lean meat inside, it looks like venison. Bloody but delightfully warm- enough to keep you seated.

Sitting across from you he asks you questions, along the lines of ‘How was the trip?’ or ‘I hope this all accommodates you.’

Sephiroth is kinder than you thought, He's patient and unbelievably attractive.

When you finish your plate, you see Sephiroth approaching you,  he adjusts his gray vest and offers his hand out. You reach your hand out- his skin frigid and places a gentle kiss onto the top of your hand. It makes your cheeks heat up. You hope he can't tell in the candlelight

“Will you let me escort you back for the night?” His face is still so close to you, he smells like jasmine. 

“Please?” you pout up at him, begging without words. He takes your arm into his and walks you up the stairs infront of your door where he lets you go. 

“Au revoir che’rie” And waves you off as you enter the room. Hastily,you ring the bell for Davenshaw to undress you.

Once she leaves though the castle is eerie and dark, windows once bright in the day are now shadowed over with tall pine branches that curve and crack with the wind outside.

The entire place, once dark, has a sense of uncanniness. The oil lamp in the room is still going strong, and its light comforts you as you let down your hair.

You blow out the lamp and crawl into the sheets, the smooth cold fabric is easily recognizable as silk, you almost laugh to yourself imagining how much sheets cost.

It makes it easy to fall asleep.

*

Sunlight seeps through the flimsy curtains, without a doubt they are only there for decoration. Standing on the stone floors sends shivers up your spine, at least the ones near the windows are warm with the sun's grace. You don't believe anyone is up, at least not if they had a choice. Shimmying on a pale yellow tea dress, with little frills on the sleeves and hard buttons you place outside.

Closing the door with a soft thud, the castle sprawls out before you. Unlike night, it's much more homey. 

“Miss!” a shout echoes from down the hall, and you whip around to see a lady running after you. She carries a nude pair of flats as she sprints toward you. “I'm sorry to disturb you but I was sent for you this morning!” She explains as she attempts to catch her breath. “I'm just here to chaperone you around the castle, DawnField is much larger once you're inside I assure.” You tuck on the pair of flats she offers. You wait for her to fill her lungs before you continue walking, to join you it's best to be on good terms.

“I didn't know I needed a guide, sorry” you apologize to her. 

“It's okay! He just wants to make sure you're safe. And since you're a guest it's my job to give you some direction, no?”  She confirms.

Normally, walking around aimlessly isn't something you do, but given this morning. You cant help but see what the day could bring.

The girl explains a lot of the doors you go past, lots of them being spare bedrooms how many could you need? You ponder to guess- I mean there's even an indoor flour mill.

One room though that catches your attention is the library, you've never really had the opportunity to visit one. 

“Can we go there?” You ask.

“To the library?” She questions back to you “We can go.” she opens up the doors revealing endless shelves of books, reading seems like the perfect thing to do to pass some time.

You scrounge around looking for any novel to catch your eyes. A light rosette color with a faded gold lettering seems to be today's pick, you take it over to a tiny alcove with a daybed inside, laying down on the cushy fabric and adjusting the pillows.

“Can you read?” the girl asks you, while an innocent question it reminds you of what outsiders of the palace must appear as.

“That I can.” You chide and open the book.

‘Tales of the supernatural, Chapter one: Undead creatures.’ 

Pages after pages you read, clocks ringing with the hourly reminder of times passage. By the time you look up from your book it's 10 o’clock, sun is fully out.

Heavy footsteps take you out of your thinking.

“There you are!” a familiar man approaches you, its Zack with another guard by his side “His Majesty was wondering where you two ran off too.” Something about his voice sounds anxious, his fingertips twitch against his halberd.

You profusely apologize, “I wasn't trying to cause any trouble, what do you need Mr Fair?” you sit up dog-earring the page.

“You are invited to eat breakfast with the palace, if you are hungry?” The guard next to him moves forward, offering a hand. You take it and he helps you up. 

“I'd love that.”

All three lead you into a dayroom, a different area than where you ate dinner prior, increasing your questioning of how big is the castle really? The room is full of people who you haven't seen yet. As they follow you with their eyes, it's difficult to believe you're different from any of them.

In the midst of the people you spot Sephiroth, wearing simple dress pants and an overcoat. From where you stand you dont think there's a shirt underneath. 

He gestures you over, a maid pulling up a chair on the other side of the table. You're closer than last night- maybe only 4 feet apart. Upon sitting, conversations return to normal, and the room less tense. 

“How did you sleep?” He smiles, leaning in to ask.

“Rather well, Thank you.” You take a plate passed to you.

“Is everything to your liking so far?” He takes a sip of juice from his glass.

“It's a beautiful castle you have, Your majesty everything is so pristine~”  The castle is truly dreamy, if you're ignoring it at night…But you're not going to mention that.

“This makes me wonderfly happy to hear.” he claps his hands together and leans back into his chair. His skin almost glows in the sunlight, he still appears sickly pale though.

“Not trying to intrude, but are you not hungry?”  All he has is a glass of juice.

“Oh no, I ate with a merchant earlier, a ‘good deal always comes out of a meal’ is something I live by.” You laugh at his joking manner.

“I just want to see that you're alright, No harm meant but you're quite pale-”

His nails clink against the glass “No harm done, it's hard to catch some sun when I'm cooped up all day in here.”

He suddenly lights up “Speaking of going outside, we have a garden on the grounds! If you'd join me on a walk after breakfast…I'd be delighted.” His voice is honey smooth, dripping with elegance and charm.

“There's gardens!?” You ask, sitting upright and listening with full attention.

“Why of course, no castle is a castle without a garden, Darling.” He takes another sip. “And I'm sure one as familiar with plants as you are, might even be impressed.”

“That could be plausible.” You smile at him, enjoying the rest of your plate in a comfortable silence.

After breakfast, many servants retreat to their tasks while maids clean up whatever mess left behind, having someone do your dishes in front of you is different.

sephiroth waits for you under a large engraved oak arch, if you look closely the engravings are flowers, Angrec flowers…Maybe the gardens have some.

“Ready?” he awaits your reply, staying a step behind him even as your lead outside. Two guards stand mere steps behind you as well, so quiet you didn't notice them until they opened up outer doors.

“Sir, your coat?” one offers a long black coat, and Sephiroth takes it instantly.

“And one for the lady.” Sephiroth requests moments later “It looks blustery.” One guard goes away to fetch Miss Davenshaw.

The guard returns with a white cotton jacket, complementing your dress. You thank the guard as he helps put it on.  Sephiroth takes your hand as he leads you down the marble stairs, he wouldn't want to risk you falling of course.

Giant cypress trees make a wall of evergreens, smaller boxwood shrubs lining the path. 

Moving past the wall of trees, it opens up into what you can only assume is acres of land.

In the front are flowering roses, in the back you can imagine an orchard from the way workers are climbing up trees and shaking the branches.

“Thoughts?” he asks.

You wouldn't know how to even begin to explain to him the beauty of his gardens, not when you can smell the fruiting pomegranates from afar, not when you feel the chilled wind against your skin. And definitely not as he gently lifts up the furred hood of your jacket as you shiver, his fingers swiping against your cheek ever so slightly.

“Captivating.” you breathe into the morning air, turning just in time to see his mouth twitch up in a smile.

“I am overjoyed to hear this.” He claps his hands together, the guards behind you coming to attention.  Sephiroth ushers one over going to whisper a few words to him before both of them leave, and suddenly it's just the two of you left alone in the garden.

“I- where are they going?” you watch as they walk away.

Sephiroth speaks up “I'd just like some time for us, me and you. Unless that's a problem?” quirking an eyebrow he asks, focusing on your face.

“Nono, no problem, I was just wondering.” You stare at the ground, clicking your flats against the soil.

“Then you'll come with?” his eyes glisten with hope, meeting you soft gaze when you whisper a yes. He leads you through the garden through each row of blooming flowers to bushels of fruiting berries. 

“Is the castle your familys?” you ask looking at the ivory pillars supporting large potted ivies, large white feathers engraved in the smooth stone, you rub your fingers over it- feeling how with each cut it dips under your fingertips.

“It is.” he pauses to think “Why do you ask?” 

“Everything has a sense of cohesiveness, of royalty. All of the paintings I've seen are all gorgeous If I can add.” you continue to walk.

He nods “I appreciate that, But what about you?” A brush against your lower back guides you closer to him, his touch is soft- addicting. You clear your throat after his gesture.

“Well, what of me?”

“I want to know all about you, everything and anything that I can, your quite… what's the word?” he rubs his temple “Intriguing.” You beam at his complement, humming thinking of where to start.

“Hmmmm, Well when I was young I used to play with the earthworms when my mother asked for my help in the garden.” you scoff at yourself, looking up to Sephiroth for his reaction.

“She said it was ‘unbefitting’ of a young lady, that didn't stop me from laying them on a rock and naming them though.” you sigh at your reminiscing.

“That's oddly adorable” he chuckles “I can still see some of that in you today.” 

“Is that right?” you question him, all while he nods and smiles. 

He lets you go on with your tales, some recent, some old. He comments on them and laughs along with you as if you are old friends.

He's surprisingly easy to talk to, not once does he talk of his rank or power.

Right now, you're just two people on a walk.

Before you know it you're on the other side of the garden, laughing with him.

He leads you into the wooden building in front of you, he ushers you inside- and for the first time you're walking in front of him.

A neigh and trotting in the back confirm the smells of hay and dirt, they have stables.

“My Liege! What do you need?” A stablehand approaches him, bowing.

“Two of our finest horses, and a saddle for the lady.”  The stablehand bows before going to get what's asked.

Sephiroth shows you around the barn in the meantime, introducing you to the exterior staff.

He picks up a small pair of riding gloves, taking your hands in his- buttoning them securely onto yours. He lifts your now gloved hands and kisses the backs of them.

“Comfy?” He grins and lets them go, You can only nod dumbfoundedly. It doesn’t help that he chuckles at it either.

Luckily the stablehand comes in time to prevent you from an untimely death.

“I’ve brought Beau and Hazel sir, with a saddle for her.” The stablehand bows at you as well,

You thank him with a smile.

Sephiroth approaches a woodsy colored horse combing through his mane whispering his name. The horse whinnies at him and trots in place, he appears happy.

Sephiroth turns to you offering Hazels bridle to you, you take it albeit confused.

“Sir?” You attempt to gain his attention

“Yes?” He responds by turning towards you.

“I've never ridden before, I don't really even know how.” you rub the back of your neck.

“Oh that's no issue.” He brushes off  “I’ll give you a steady hand, if you need it.” he assures you. 

One of the stablehands helps you onto hazel, showing you where to put your feet on the stirrups, sitting there anxiously as Sephiroth switches to his riding gear.

“Are you ready to depart?” He hoists himself on the horse, taking the reins with confidence and sitting up straight.

“Now or never, I guess.” You try to imitate his posture and attitude, as many equestrians believe horses smell fear. 

Sephiroth leaves the stable first, and you attempt to follow after him. The horse is jumpy, jolting at you taking the reins. You hope it’ll understand your inexperience. Later down the path he waits for you, giving a few pointers to be more comfortable in the saddle.

“Is that an improvement?” he notes, watching you keenly as you roll your shoulders.

“Definitely better.” you remark and gently kick the horse to get it to move. Hazel and Beau stick by each other even as you try to guide them away.

Sephiroth guides down a winding woodsy path, only small strips of sun peaking through the canopy. Chittering of chipmunks and other small creatures can be heard underneath Sephiroth's low whistling. He whistles a tune that you've never heard of, and he hums some parts. And as the air gains a chill to it a stream pops into view.

You both dismount from your horses, staying behind Sephiroth like a lost puppy.  He keeps walking alongside the river, something silvery in his hand, it's a knife. You stay a little further back, silent.

“Are you okay? You're rather quiet.” he mentions as he digs through some brush.

“I'm just wondering why we’re down here. It's getting dark.” You look through the forest, you don't want to imagine what creatures might wander the woods.

Like some of the ones you read about- like a zombie, or even a wraith! His voice loops you back into reality.

“Oh, I didn't say?” he chuckles and shakes his head “ We are collecting water chestnuts for tonight's dinner.” The release of tension in the air is palpable and suddenly you feel like a fool.

“If you want you can help me, I have a spare knife in my saddlebag” he points to Beau.

You jog over there to fetch the knife, rubbing off the sticky rust-red substance on it.

“Glady.” and you go the opposite way of him, moving along the water looking for bushels of stalky leaves. Almost immediately you find some, digging it up with the flat end of your knife.

“These right?” You lift a bunch of them up for him to see. He squints before shouting a yes, moving towards you.

“Those are perfect, It takes me plenty of time to even find small ones.” He sheathes his knife 

“Though I suppose I am working with an expert.”  He winks at you and takes the bushel from your hand.

“Well,I wouldn't-” you attempt to defend yourself.

“Don't sell yourself short darling.” He claps his hands to cut you off. “No need to humble yourself around me, please.” You nod slowly, trying to make sense of what he's said, but his words are crystal clear. 

Grabbing the leather sheath for your knife you attempt to slide it in, but it catches one of the seams, slitting your palm open. You nurse your hand to your chest while inspecting the damage 

“Are you alright?” he comes up to you, gently taking your injured hand into his.

“It's just a little cut, it's not deep.” You try and fail to assure him. Sephiroth digs through his pocket, fetching a tiny handkerchief, Wrapping it over your palm tightly- his teeth digging into his lip to where it draws blood.

“Is that better?” He rubs the top of your hand- looking at you intensely as you move it with caution, nodding moments later.

The crimson seeps into the white fabric, staining it red. He turns away from you, gripping the reins to Beau until his knuckles are white.

“I think we should call it a night.” he barks out, there's no room for suggestions. You shuffle onto your saddle wondering if you did any wrong.

The ride to the castle is eerily silent, and once you arrive Zack hustles you to your room, where you're quickly dressed for dinner as another washes your face.

By the time your sat and served at the tables, he's not there.

“Zack?” you raise a question to him.

“Madame, what is needed?” he bows slightly. 

“Where is Sep-” 

“He is feeling ill.” Zack interrupts you, letting the servers aside to place down your entree.

The doors slam with an echo,Only two guards guard the entrances.

It's silent.

Every bite you take seems to echo, the meal is warm and tastes amazing. But it's different from before. Either way you finish up the stew and let someone in armor bring you back to your room. Your seamstress undresses you quickly with no words spoken.

Once she leaves you slump down in your beds burying your face into a pillow.

You didn't mean to fall asleep especially before bathing, but you do.

When you do wake up it’s too the sound of glass shattering next to your room. You peek outside the door to look at the commotion, but nothing is broken at all.

Remembering you didn’t take a bath yesterday you ring your bell for Ms Davenshaw to run a bath for you. The bath smells of lavender and warms your skin as she helps find an outfit for you.

She pulls from the wardrobe a lacy lilac dress with puffy sleeves.

Your day goes by rather slowly, mostly full of dragging your chaperone from the library to the garden, plenty of ways to waste time in a castle this large.

Sephiroth isn’t present again when dinner rolls around. You try to act cordial about it but it’s frustrating.

By now the dark night outside your window and a flickering oil lamp you sit and fiddle around with the corners of your bedding.

Tip tap

You pause, looking outside.

Scratch

You stumble towards the window holding a blanket to your body as makeshift armor, grabbing the dying oil lamp for comfort.

Holding the lamp to the window it shows nothing but the tall evergreens outside.

You pace around the room, listening keenly for each groan the wind seems to travel with. By now it’s not the wind that’s in pain.

Without a second thought you race into the hallway feet barren to the cold stone.

You follow the sound to a wall, to a wing you’ve never entered. Ignoring your more coherent thoughts you push the doors open and walk up the stairs lined with foreign rugs and the walls hung with extravagant tapestries that go ceiling to floor.

A giant chandelier made of silver and emeralds gives it a green lighting.

This must be where Sephiroth stays, right? If he’s in pain an attempt to help is better than none at all.

Entering his room it’s even more apparent that it’s his, Feathers of every creature imaginable are interwoven to create a canopy that covers the ceiling.

His bed is messy with blankets strewn everywhere, Your eyes travel to the floor where his clothes are doused in blood so much that it sticks to the floor.

Scratch marks are splintered into the golden wallpaper.

“Sephiroth?”  You call out for him, hoping for a response.

“Leave.” His voice rocks you to your core.

“Where are you? Let me help you.” You beg him, looking around the room.

“Just go.” He repeats, this time with more vigor. You stand still reaching out to where you hear his voice.

In a blink of an eye he appears in front of you, his dress shirt open and legs covered in the same baggy fabric. “I need you to leave.” His body shivers and he’s deathly pale, blood covers his mouth where two white fangs stick out- eyes slitted and pupils red.

You fall back at the sight, you would know if he was a monster!

“I didn’t need you to see me like this.” He gestures towards himself.

His nails are clawed from this angle, inhumane.

He looks you up and down staring at your face- his pupils dilate at the sight. 

“I just need you to help me.” He takes a breath “Help me Angel, please.” a whine leaves his throat, his nails gentle closing into the fat of your cheek, blood drips down his face with his skin sheened with a cool sweat. His shirt clinging to his chiseled body.Every atom in you begs to scream and run, but you don’t. He holds you in place and you nod, giving up to the vampire in front of you.

He lifts you onto the bed with him easily, lifting you onto his lap and brushing away any hair restricting his view of you.

“You're such a sweet girl.” you grimace at the feeling of his tongue tasting your skin.

“So smart yet so naive.” He huffs “Gorgeous.” He peppers kisses on your collarbone and neck.

“Will it hurt?” you ask, trying to fight off the warmth his tongue offers your body.

“Only for a second, my sweet girl.” He assures you as his teeth graze your skin.

“Promise?” a childish wish you ask upon him for reassurance.

“Of course darling, I promise the world to you.” He whispers into your skin  a puff of air blows over your skin, creating goosebumps in its wake.

“Relax for me, okay?” His voice is honeyed with hunger and bite, fangs glistening in the warm light.

He splays one hand over your stomach pinning you to his chest, while the other rubs over your inner thigh. And then he bites, everything in your body erupts into flames. Charring your skin and bones in an unstoppable fire- one that isn't real. 

“Shhhh shhhh, you're okay- it’s over now okay?” He gingerly laps up the warm blood seeping out of you, moaning at the taste. He sinks them once more into you, egging a whine from your limp body. It feels good.

You rut against him experimentally, gasping at the feeling it draws from you. Soon you're grinding on his thigh with no shame, biting your lip to quell any loose moans. 

Until you feel a large hand rub against your clothed cunt pulling your panties to the side, fingers slipping into your wetness. You freeze up breathing heavily at the foreign feeling as they curl up into you. Rolling your hips into his hands meeting his slow pace, moaning unabashedly as his thumb rubs the letter S onto your puffy clit.

He groans as you clutch onto him, breathing a low- “Make yourself feel good for me,Angel.” into your skin. Waves of pleasure continue to build up inside you, tears glistening on the corners of your eyes. His fingers rhythmically curl and scissor inside you- bringing you closer and closer to the edge. A pleased hum leaves him “Let go, let go for me.” he whispers to you.

It's all it takes for you to climax, releasing on his thigh with a sharp cry of his name.

He's all that you can think of, as he rubs your back in comfort.

Your eyes are hazed over in pleasure where only his name enters your mind,Sephiroth, Sephiroth, Sephi-

Too far gone to realize it's your neediness that's etched into the words spoken around the room. Everything spins slowly, drooping into his arms as if you're drunk. Though only one is drinking, it's your consciousness that slips.

Everything hurts… 

Is what you realize when you come to your senses, You can hardly move without feeling aching soreness. Opening your eyes shows Sephiroth clung to your almost bare body- your face burns red in shame. You try to shake away from his grasp “don't go, please.” His voice is soft but hoarse with the morning wakeup.

You avoid looking at the bloodbath on your right shoulder, taking every ounce of energy you have left to not gag. Even when you know it's yours.

“My dear- what have I done?!” he reaches out to hold your face, but retracts as his blood covered hands reach his vision. Cries of frustration echo in the room as he throws on whatever robe he could find. You try to follow him out but he gives you a harsh look, surprisingly the sheets are mostly undamaged which you're sure when he returns he’ll be thankful for.

Soft padded steps reenter the room, long white hair following the figure that comes into view.

“They are heating up a bath for you, they know as much as I told them.” His voice is curt, leaving no room for any questions. “You can leave now.”

He points towards the hall.

Arguing feels pointless against him, everything is nothing at once- Biting your lip is the easiest option. Miss Davenshaw escorts you outside as she covers you with an oversized sleeping dress, The blinds are closed in the hall leaving everything in a darkened veil, No words are spoken as she undresses you for bathing.

Warm water rolls over your skin loosening the blood stuck onto it with each scrub, By the time you exit the water the scent of lavender is what fills your senses now.

Zack drags you to your room and tells you to eat and rest, standing guard outside your room.

The heavy cloud of sleep over your eyes ushers you into your bed, sleep comes easy.

Upon Waking up you find that it's dark outside- ringing eerily similar to last night. 

A knock comes from your door creaking open to show green eyes meeting yours, but it's not Zack, Zack doesn't soften his eyes when he looks at you, and those eyes don't plead with you to let him in. And it works- your resolve crumbling as you let out a shy nod.

“I'm sorry, so sorry my dear.” he shuts the door quietly behind him, taking your hands into him. It's gentle, sincere. “They didn't tell me you’d be here, I promise I'm not here to harm.” he lets out an airy laugh “I want to apologize…tremendously for everything. If you desire to leave I cannot and will not stop you- Just don't lead the mobs back to me though I suppose I can't stop that either.” He shakes his head.

“I don't want to leave here, leave you.” You urge him.

“I am a monster, a beast that hides away for a reason, I shouldn't have ever brought you into this.” He furrows his brows and sighs.

“I- not to me.” you beg him to listen to you.

“Then you're wrong.” He finalizes and rolls his shoulders “Why don't you see what I am?” His voice is cracked,outlined in pain.

He takes off his jacket, black inky feathers falling from the coat he grimaces and in a blink of an eye black covers your vision. Feathers fall from every angle in the room, covering the floor in them. Sephiroth looks away as you scan his body and the wing that's sprouted from his skin.

There are droplets of blood where the wing came from, he hisses as you touch the line but lets you do so anyway.

Fangs peek out from his pursed lips, as him nails dig into the coats fabric-

“I told you.” he shakes his head and tucks his wing into his body using his hands to preen away any loose feathers.

“You didn't tell me.” you argue “You didn't tell me that the man I see in front of me is the same caring and beautiful man I've met over the last few days.” only breathing is heard in the silence.

“Not a monster, that's the last thing you are.” you put your hand by your side. “That's how I view you.” He looks at you with a gaze full of mixed emotions, and shakes his head.

“You're stubborn, and a little naive. Both traits I've happened to fall for-” he scoffs and beckons you closer. He wraps his wing around you suddenly, pushing you closer to his tall frame. “I was taught to not reserve the same fate as others before me. But with someone like you it has become difficult to not make another ‘mistake’ as many would say.” he looks down at you, cheeks flushing a light red. “If I ask you to stay though… would you?” his wing twitches and lets you go.

“I-” you can think of the rumors and speculations when your garden grows over, its unchanging. 

“I would.” His wing instantly pushes you to his chest, an arm wrapping around your waist, You find your lips parting themselves.

“I'll forever cherish you my love, I promise.” He leans down closer to your face, brushing your hair away from your lips. And as the feeling of sharp fangs dig into your lips, you smile.

Finis.

A/N- This was for shits and giggles at first, clearly that changed. If you enjoyed it support my ao3! Thank you, Razzy <3

[zoe-oneesama]

Kwami Swap Master Post

Marinette:

Cat: Maotif (Lady Noire Variant), Original Design Fox: Huli Rouge Turtle: Bi Xi Bee: Marigold (original post), Marigold redesign, Marigold Chinese, first sighting Butterfly: Mariposa Peacock: Plumette, Belle Blue, Belle Blue with Chloe Snake: Serpentine Dragon: Snapdragon Horse: Yili Monkey: Surili Rabbit: Lucky Rabbit Mouse: Multimouse redesign, chibi Pig: Piglette Tiger: Báihŭ

Adrien:

Ladybug: Original Design Fox: Malin Rouge Turtle: Michelangelo Bee: Buzzy Bee Butterfly: Ombre Snake: Aspik Redesign Dragon: Dracon Pig: Hogwash

Alya:

Ladybug: Ladybird, Heroes Day, first sighting Turtle: Koki Marina, hair options, first sighting Bee: Myèl Jaune, first version

Nino:

Cat: Cat Scratch Fox: Fox Trot, first sighting

Chloe:

Ladybug: Scarlet Lady, Heroes Day, first sighting Cat: Chartreux Butterfly: Monarch Peacock: Blue Blood Rabbit: Satine Random Sketches

Lila:

Ladybug: Harlequin Coccibella and Bella Stella, Bella Stella, Harlequin Fox: Good Fox Volpina Bee: Miele and Regina Butterfly: Farfalla Rabbit: Leprotta Good and Evil Mouse: Multi Topi Rooster: Fenice Pig: Good and Evil (unnamed) Dog: Cucciola Ox: Dominataur Goat: Caprascuro

Sabrina:

Cat: Bob Cat Fox: Kit Bee: Andrena, first sighting Peacock: Mystique Mouse: Comousiner Rooster: Favorelle Dog: Miss Hound redesign, Original Design Phalène Ox: Blue Belle Goat: Chevron

Luka:

Cat: Cat Sith Fox: Zorro Turtle: Heavy Metal Bee: Aristaeus Snake: Viperion Redesign Rabbit: Hoppollo

Kagami:

Ladybug: Lady Tentou Cat: Kuro Neko, first sighting Fox: Kitsune, many chibis Turtle: Kame Verte, many chibis Bee: Mistubachi, first version, many chibis Dragon: Ryuko redesign, first version, many chibis

Mylene:

Ladybug: Lady Beetle Mouse: Polymouse Redesign, Original Design Sourette Rooster: Gold Wing Dog: Ultimutt Ox: Buckaroo Goat: Brebisou

Ivan:

Cat: Wild Cat Bee: Killer Bee Mouse: Rat Trap Rooster: Spring Chicken Dog: Bull Terror Ox: Minotaurox Redesign Goat: Battering Ram

Nathaniel:

Cat: Picatso Fox: (currently nameless) Mouse: Microdent Rooster: Caladrius Dog: Painted Dog Ox: Battle Bison Goat: Caprikid Redesign

Rose:

Ladybug: Dotted Lady Fox: Foxy Bee: Bumble Bee, first sighting Rabbit: Bun Bun Pig: Original Design Miss Piggy Tiger: Unnamed

Juleka:

Cat: Panthera Noir Bee: Yellow Swarm Peacock: Sweet Pea Pig: Unnamed Tiger: Purple Tigress Resign, Chibi, Original Design Tigresse

Max:

Ladybug: Spotted Guard Bee: Yellow Guard Horse: Pegasus redesign

Kim:

Cat: Hell Cat Bee: Roi Abeille

Alix:

Ladybug: Beetle Bug

Gabriel:

Cat: Black Plague

Nathalie:

Fox: Jackal

Jagged Stone:

Bee: Sting

Aurore:

Fox: many chibis Turtle: Shellegant, many chibis Bee: Miss Sting, many chibis Dragon: Pleut Blue, many chibis Rabbit: Lapin Royal

Ondine:

Turtle: Tortue Marina

Marc:

Mouse: Tiny Mouse Rooster: Rooster Bold Redesign Dog: Furmidable Ox: Oxenfree Goat: Goat Gruff

Zoé:

Ladybug: Coccecilia Cat: Dandy Lion Fox: Fox Glove Turtle: Shellonia Butterfly: Gladiolus Peacock: Poinciana Snake: Hydra Gea Dragon: Drakanthus Horse: Peony Trail Monkey: Simia Rabbit: Cotton Tail Mouse: Rodendron Rooster: Chick Pea Pig: Pigsqueek Tiger: (unnamed) Dog: (unnamed) Ox: Moobloom Goat: Fauna

Emilie:

Butterfly: Unnamed

Very Old Season 1 Kwami Swaps Compiled for Marinette, Adrien, Nino, Alya, Chloe, and Lila

[devdas5z]

[rodolfoparras]

Thinking about Price having a rather hefty ring collection. | 18+, MINORS DNI

One thing about Price is that he’s known for his love for cigars. However something that’s less known about him is his love for rings.

Rightfully so, since he never wears them, at least not while on active duty. Reason being that he fears he’ll break them while out on missions or that he’ll even unnecessarily hurt himself while wearing them.

But once he’s back home- hands free from the confinement of blood caked gloves and palms clean off of any remainments of gun powder and and what not- he puts them on.

He’s got a whole satin blue jewelry box back home where he stores all of them. Rings - big as small, clunky as dainty, colorful as plain, engraved or blanks, lay snug inside of it. None of that is cheap stuff either, it’s clear he’s invested some hefty money into them.

He likes to wear many at once, never one to hold back once he can wear them as much as he wants.

You’d watch him early in the morning, eyes still heavy with sleep, in nothing but his shirt and wrapped up in his sheets as he sits in front of his dresser and rearranges the rings on his fingers meticulously.

You’d watch them glimmer under the moonlight as he stands at the balcony and takes steady drags of his cigars, reminding you of how expensive they really are.

You’d watch them become part of his nervous habits, fingers on the rings, twisting and turning the jewelry while he’s feeling antsy or contemplating something.

You’d watch the way he’d meticulously take them off, one by one, if he has to use his hands to eat food. He’d set them to the side, neatly putting each and every one of them on a napkin at the table only to put them on again once he’s finished eating.

Hell the man loves them so much, he sets some time aside every day just to clean and polish them. He even refuses to sleep or shower with them on- claiming it’ll damage the look of them (as if he doesn’t go out his way to ensure the rings are durable before he purchases them)

Nonetheless it was clear that the captain had a thing for rings and you didn’t mind this interest of his except for one thing. He doesn’t wear them while the two of you are having sex. You weren’t annoyed with the fact that you’d be lying in bed, pants and underwear pulled to your knees, panting and waiting as he took all the time in the world to take off his rings. No, you minded the fact that he didn’t keep them on.

See Price makes sure not to wear them while the two of you are having sex in fear that he’ll end up hurting you in some way. Besides, he doesn’t really see the appeal in pulling himself out of bed just to clean them after the two of you are done with things.

But you can’t help but wish that he’d keep them on, wish to feel the cold metal graze naked skin, have them leave marks on your body as you rolled around in the sheets with him, or even better taste them in your mouth while he’s got you pinned down or even better - have him keep them on while he thrusted his fingers into your aching hole.

So one night when things are getting hot and heavy, he realizes he’s still wearing his rings and goes to take them off. But before he can do so you quickly grab onto him and tell him “keep them on?”

Price’s fear about using rings in bed quickly dissipate once he realizes how much you enjoy the rings leaving imprints on your body, how much he enjoys seeing which cold metal will have goosebumps rising on your searing skin, he even enjoys seeing how well your mouth or even your hole can polish the metal compared to the rags he’s got.

After that night he keeps a red satin box next to the blue one, filled with rings that’s only used for special occasions like these.

[wifetomegatron]

a study in metal and silk. mtmte imagines.

I think there's just something about the stark contrast between fabric and metal that makes me feral. The sharp, striking counterpoint of sentio metallico against human skin. It makes me lightheaded to think of the gentle brushes and soft strokes exchanged between cybertronians and their humans lovers — how painfully tender these titans try to be with hands that have most likely torn ships apart.

Fort Max holding your coat up and letting you glide one arm in after the other, cashmere wool against cyberium — and to think that when in oil form, it has the chance of poisoning you. Yet welded into his armor, the metal was ( what you claimed ) your favorite thing about him. You'd pepper kisses along his servos, feather-light and playful, against each finger to thank him for being such a gentlemech. He was always at a loss when it came to your soft gestures as if his hands hadn't been bloodied and torn and scathed with energon. Yet he doesn't have the strength to protest when you lay your cheek against his palm, which was big enough to cover your entire head, even with his mass displaced.

First Aid helping his beloved into their shirt, your eyes barely open as the sunlight hits you square in the face. You wanted to ask him why he had opened the curtains this early in the morning, on a Sunday too, but you can't seem to focus on anything else but his servos. The bed creaked and dipped on his side, the mattress straining under his weight even if you've lined it with a layer of metal below. He looks funny against the pristine blankets, and despite his reputation for a set of steady hands, they were still bulky and square. So he takes his time looping the buttons into their respective holes, and you rest your forehead against his shoulder, already lulling back to sleep. Your heartbeat was a strange, distant sound against the humming of his spark.

Minimus slowly eased his human out of their ballet slippers, untying the ribbons one by one: careful, patient, servos already soothing the irritated skin. The pink satin looks alien against his grip, out of place. And yet he handles them with care, knowing how much you prize them. His mouth ghosts over your knee, trailing down as he massages your ankle. He's saying something about not pushing yourself too hard, and you want to call him out for being a hypocrite, but it's impossible to speak when you're drowning in the sensation of his touch as it brushes over the hem of your skirt. So you sit in silence; admiring, watching, as he continues to give you a lecture (lovingly, of course).

Rodimus, adjusting you as you cling onto his back, arms looped around his neck as he grips both of your thighs on either side of his waist. He gives you a playful squeeze, and you laugh into his jugular cables, high heels — black leather and polymer — dangling off your fingers as he piggybacks you back home. He tells you that you should've gone with the more practical choice, and you tease him about sounding like his co-captain. Relishing in the subtle thrum of his frame against your chest, slumping forward to press your lips against his cheek — smooth, unbending, yet warm to the touch. Different from your perception of what metal feels like, you have to remind yourself living metal is far from cold. 

Ratchet sliding your gloves over your hands, the article of clothing an inconvenient little thing to a Cybertronian. And yet, for you, they help keep the cold out — especially when insulated by wool. The golden brooch by the ends of each wrist glinted under the streetlamp. Above, snowflakes danced in the light, a choreographed ballet conducted by the gentle wind. You tell him you feel warmer already, yet the medic doesn't seem convinced, holding your arms and lifting your fingers to his intake. He ex-vents, once, twice, the air warm enough for you to feel past the fabric. He then lays your palms across his chest and scoffs, pulling you flush against him. Ratchet says that if you were cold, you should've said it ages ago.

(suggestive, mdni!)

Megatron kneeling before you, servos dextrous as they give your stockings an experimental tug upwards, before rolling them down to your knee in one fluid movement. He hovers his intake over your inner thigh, the stiff arch of his helm, dipping against the curve of your skin. Your breathing quickened, and he seemed to hear this, already moving to undo the other leg. He holds you like you'll break any second. As if you were a porcelain doll, a thing of glass. You tell him that you can be malleable. That you can learn to bend and embrace him — and he seems drunk at the thought. He pushed the straps of your chemise, thin and flimsy, down each shoulder. Easing you back on the bed. And the fabric pooled around your waist to reveal your chest, silk moving like water against the seams of his plating.

[sleepy-steve]

(pray) ‘til i go blind

wc: 4k // rating: M // cw: language // tags: modern au, metal burlesque performer eddie munson, audience participant steve harrington, very blasphemous song lyrics (see ao3 link for other tags)

♡ read on ao3 ♡ or below the cut ♡

Steve sees Eddie staring right at him, eyes dark as sin and ringed by even darker makeup. And that beautiful, cheeky smirk in full force as he slowly lowers himself down to a crouch. Steve meets Eddie’s eyes and feels the air disappear from his lungs. He's mesmerised. "And you would too if this sexy devil caught your eye..." He holds a hand out to Steve, and Steve can do nothing else but take it and be pulled up to the stage.

song referenced is Rev 22:20 (Don’t Shoot The Messenger Version) by Puscifer (one of my personal favourite filthy dance songs).

It was one thing to be an audience member. To sit in the crowd and clap or cheer when appropriate. These were all things Steve could do, and if it meant an evening spent with his best friend, he was more than happy to do it. (And if he saw some boobs in the process, he was also happy with that.) 

It was Robin’s absolute insistence that he would enjoy tonight’s burlesque show in particular, despite his general ambivalence toward the production as a whole, that gave him pause. The music didn’t really do anything for him, though he could appreciate the performances. And sure, he liked seeing beautiful women dance as much as the next dude. Why was she so convinced he would like this show more than any other? With no answers to his wondering, he sat comfortably, enjoyed his drinks, and tried to be a model audience member.

What was less in his comfort zone was sitting at a table right up front, basically right under each performer’s nose. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy the view, but he did wonder about how the performers might feel having him gawking from behind his glasses right up at them from such a close distance. Throughout the night, both Steve and Robin are among a few selected for some level of performer interaction. Dancers waving their fluffy feather fans in their faces, tossing clothing garments at them, trailing their hands over arms and shoulders, and in one case, a cute redheaded performer allowing her long satin glove to be shakily pulled off by Robin.

After a brief break, the emcee announces the fifth and final dancer of the evening. Steve finds himself a little disappointed, having had more fun than he originally thought. But he joins the audience in applauding for the next performer.

The stage goes dark. He hears the faint tapping of someone stepping on stage. Slightly different to the previous performers, less snappy. Different shoes. A beat of silence, before a red spotlight flashes on. On the stage, a figure stands with their arms raised and crossed above their head. Curls hang around their shoulders, different to the perfectly pinned and sprayed curls of the previous dancers. This hair is wild.

A beat kicks in. It's heavy and dark, reverberating in the floors. The figure lowers their arms, wrists twisting and gloved fingers snapping on the beat. A female voice sings a harmony and the figure turns in time with it, facing the audience, additional warm spotlights flashing on, and a jolt runs through Steve.

It's a man. Probably one of the most beautiful men he's ever seen. Wearing ripped jeans and what looks to be a leather jacket, the man is running a gloved hand across his chest, touch featherlight. The voice sings again, moaning almost, and the dancer—Eddie, Steve belatedly recalls the emcee introducing him as—slowly pulls the jacket open, revealing a loose black tank top. He runs a hand up his tattooed neck and back down his chest. The audience cheers, a few low whoops coming from the back.

Another moaning vocal. With a cheeky grin that makes Steve's heart skip, Eddie lets the jacket fall down to his elbows, revealing even more tattoos on his shoulders and arms. His gloved hands trail down to his hips, and on the last harmony, he moves his hips back in a slow half-circle.

"Don't be aroused," a male voice croons in the music. "By my confession..."

Eddie looks out at the audience, who are captivated by the way he owns the stage. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Steve notes that Eddie has barely done anything at all, yet the audience is completely transfixed by him. He takes a few slow, confident steps, searching the crowd below him.

"Unless you don't give a good goddamn about redemption..." Standing up tall, Eddie lets his jacket drop to the ground behind him, the audience cheering as he does. The gloves reach to just below his elbow, and the tattoos disappear beneath them. Steve imagines what his hands might look like—how they might feel—the realisation that he's not really thought about another man's hands before quickly shoved to the back of his mind.

"I know Christ is comin', and so am I..." Leaving the jacket behind, Eddie walks again, stopping right in front of Steve and Robin's table. Steve glances at Robin, partially excited and partially fearful, only to see her with a grin that says exactly what he knows she's thinking right now: I was right.

Looking back up, Steve sees Eddie staring right at him, eyes dark as sin and ringed by even darker makeup. And that beautiful, cheeky smirk in full force as he slowly lowers himself down to a crouch, ripped jeans opening further to reveal even more tattoos. Steve meets Eddie’s eyes and feels the air disappear from his lungs. He's mesmerised.

"And you would too if this sexy devil caught your eye..."

He holds a hand out to Steve, and Steve can do nothing else but take it and be pulled up to the stage. The audience cheers—though none louder than Robin—as Steve is guided by Eddie, and led to a chair that he did not see before. As Steve sits facing the audience, Eddie leans down to his ear and whispers, "Is it okay if I touch you?"

Steve looks at him in surprise and nods quickly. This close, Steve can see the two nostril piercings, and the silver ball nestled in the scoop of his cupid bow. It's unbelievably hot.

"Anywhere?" Eddie clarifies, letting his gloved hand run up Steve's arm to his shoulder. Steve nods again, trying hard not to think about what anywhere could mean—what he absolutely wants it to mean. Eddie winks at him, smirk back in place on his plush lips, and moves behind Steve, hands running over his shoulders, down and across his chest. He leans over from behind, wild curls tickling Steve's neck. Wanting to reach out and touch so badly, Steve keeps his hands firmly clasped in his lap, trying to behave. Flicking his hair behind him, Eddie tips Steve’s head gently to the side, exposing his neck. Steve feels warm breath on his skin, and then the drag of teeth and lips along the length of his neck and holy shit. Feeling hot everywhere, Steve takes a shuddering inhale. Sliding his gloved hands off Steve’s head, Eddie walks around again, this time in front of the chair.

He drops, crashing to his knees at the edge of the stage as the music ramps up. "Pray! 'Til I go blind..." The audience cheers as the vocals scream.

"Pray!" Eddie rolls his head, curls flicking around him in a wide arc, long tattooed neck stretched and exposed before his hair settles around him again. "'Cause nobody ever survives..."

Arms crossed over the front of his body, and gripping at the bottom of his tank top—which from this close view, Steve thinks may actually be a cut up band tee—Eddie cocks his head, teasing the audience. Waiting for them to cheer louder. He pulls it up a few inches, no doubt showing off more tattoos on his belly, if the ones on his back were anything to go off. The audience screams, encouraging him to take it off.

"Saviours and saints, devils and heathens alike, she'll eat you alive..."

The music slows back down, and Eddie drops his shirt back down. Steve lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Jesus, since when was he so ramped up about another man taking his shirt off? He doesn't have much time to think about it, because Eddie has turned himself around to face Steve, grin that borders on evil with glee on his face. Steve feels his eyes widen.

"Jesus is risen, it's no surprise..." He drags himself close to Steve, kneeling before him, a hand on each of his knees, pushing Steve's legs open. Steve swallows as the gloved hands trail up and down his thighs, before resting back on his knees.

"Even he would martyr his mama to ride to hell between those thighs..." Eddie leans forward, swinging his hair in a figure-eight, face dangerously close to Steve's crotch, and holy shit, Steve thinks he may lose his entire mind. Leaning back again, Eddie gives him a quick look as if to ask, all good? Steve gives a faint nod. Eddie smiles up at him, a genuine and very sweet smile, before shifting back from Steve, pulling himself up off his calves.

"If I gotta sin to see her again, then I'm gonna lie, lie, lie!" Eddie swings his arms across his body, head swinging and hair flicking in time with the words, in a way that would be almost thrashing were he not so purposeful and smooth with it.

He then lowers himself backward, back arched as the top of his head taps the stage, knees still bent beneath him. Steve faintly thinks it looks uncomfortable, but has no time to ponder on it because Eddie is running those gloved hands up his arched chest, pulling the tank top up and up, showing off his tattooed abdomen. The shirt bunches just below his chest, hands continuing up to glide and grab at his own neck, silver chain gripped and pulled taut at his throat.

"Gladly now please suck me dry..." Steve watches unblinkingly as Eddie opens his mouth, slowly pushing two gloved fingers inside, letting them drag back out over his tongue. Mouth watering at the sight, Steve thinks about what else Eddie’s mouth and tongue might be capable of.

Steve snaps out of it quickly, because Eddie has pulled back up, standing with a thump of his combat boots, stepping to the side of Steve's chair so he's side-on with the audience now. He stands with his right arm outstretched toward Steve and one finger raised on the other hand. Steve notices the smirk back in place.

"Pray! 'Til I go blind..." Eddie shoves the finger into the opening of the glove below his elbow, before pulling it out slowly. He raises two fingers this time.

"Pray! 'Cause nobody ever survives..." He shoves two fingers into the glove opening this time, self satisfied look on his face as the audience screams and cheers. Eddie raises three fingers. Steve thinks he may pass away in the chair.

"Prayin' to stay in her arms just until I can die a little longer..." He shoves the three fingers into the glove, using them to push down the leather in time with the music. When the glove is mostly bunched around his wrist, Eddie pulls at the middle finger, dragging the fabric off of his hand slowly, letting it stretch back out. Once it leaves his hand, he flicks it off into the audience to wild cheers, just in time for the music to slow down again.

Eddie turns to Steve now, a look of absolute mischief on his face. With his now bare hand—Steve was right, the tattoos do continue all the way down to his hands—he pulls lightly at the middle finger of the other glove, loosening it slightly. He then leans forward, bending at the hips with a sinful smile, hand held aloft near Steve's mouth, and says, "Bite it."

Steve leans in, taking the fingertip of the leather glove between his teeth and slowly pulls back. The glove barely shifts, Eddie’s hand pulled close to Steve's face.

"My pulse has been rising, my temples are pounding..." Eddie pulls back slightly, jerking his arm softly but acting as though it's taking much more effort. He runs his free hand up his chest, to his neck, as though the act of having his glove pulled off is turning him on.

"The pressure is so overwhelming and building..." The music is starting to build up again, Eddie’s movements growing more erratic along with it. He pulls and pulls, arm slowly being revealed, mouth hanging open like he's panting and eyes hooded as he looks to the audience, his free hand dragging back down his chest.

As the music reaches its peak again, Eddie lets his hand free of the glove—which swings back down to Steve's sweater with a soft tap—chest heaving with the false exertion of it. Steve is stunned, glove fingertip still between his teeth, unsure what he's meant to do with it, and unsure why this is one of the hottest things he's ever participated in.

Eddie now faces the audience, looking down, back up at them, and down again. His hand is at his jeans, teasingly pulling at the fly, his other hand raised to his ear, as though he can't hear the deafening cheers of the audience. When they've reached a loud enough volume to satisfy him, he yanks open the button and zipper, letting the denim hang open. It's not until Eddie turns back to Steve that he sees the black lace now revealed beneath the denim. It sends a bolt of electricity through Steve, jaw dropped slightly, glove now in his lap.

With another cheeky grin, Eddie turns, Steve realising quickly what the man intends. He shoves the glove into his own jeans pocket just as Eddie settles himself on Steve's lap, back against Steve's chest. Grabbing Steve's hands, he settles them on his hips, head hanging back over Steve's shoulder, lips dangerously close to Steve's neck. As Eddie runs his hands up his own chest, pulling at the shirt again, Steve's breath hitches in his throat, and he could swear Eddie is holding back a laugh.

The music is wild as Eddie pulls his shirt higher, body rolling slowly against Steve's, his ass pressing into Steve's crotch with each roll. Eddie sits up slightly, giving just enough space to pull the loose tank over his head, finally revealing the rest of his tattooed chest—and fuck, the guy is covered from the neck down it looks like—and more importantly, a lacy black bra. Steve tries not to grip any tighter to Eddie’s hips as he flings the shirt into the audience.

Laying back down to Steve's chest, he grabs Steve's hands and guides them up, letting them run over his hot skin, fingers trailing over the man’s ribs, up to the lacy black bra. Feeling the smooth metal of Eddie’s nipple piercings makes Steve feel hot all over, not at all helped by the man's fluid body rolls against him. Eddie continues to move his hands though, finally guiding Steve's fingers to the little clasp at the centre of his chest. With trembling fingers, Steve fiddles with the clasp until it comes undone. Continuing the rolls and not-so fake panting—now that it's right by Steve’s ear, he can hear the little huffs of breath—Eddie keeps a grasp on Steve's wrists, keeping Steve's hands firmly over his chest.

The music begins to fade, and Eddie releases Steve's hands, standing up quickly. The open lace bra slips down to his hands, to uproarious applause and cheering from the audience. Eddie pulls at the straps and slingshots it into the audience with a clear laugh that Steve can hear from his chair. The music has stopped, and the crowd continues their cheering. Eddie takes a deep bow, then stands with devil horns raised on both hands.

He turns to Steve with that same genuine smile from earlier in the show, taking his hand and pulling him up to standing. Eddie gestures to Steve with both arms outstretched, as though showcasing him. The audience continues their cheers, and Steve's face grows so hot, he's surprised his glasses haven't started fogging up.

All too soon, the emcee is thanking everyone for coming to the show and Eddie is taking Steve's hand to help him off the stage with another wink and cheeky smile. Steve only says a very quiet "thank you" before Eddie has released his hand and started walking off backstage.

Then Robin is all over him, chattering excitedly about how cool the whole thing was and that she tried to film as much of it as she could but she thinks she might have missed some because she was so into the performance that her phone fell away from them.

"See?! I told you that you'd love this!" She laughs, grabbing his arms. Steve is still a bit starstruck, but Robin misreads it. "Hey, are you good? Was it too much for you?"

"No, no, Robs, it was great," Steve says, a little sadly. "I'm just, uh. Never gonna see him again, am I?"

"Who? Eddie?" Robin asks.

Steve only gives her a sheepish look, embarrassed to have even admitted his fear of not seeing Eddie again.

Raising a brow at him, Robin looks pointedly down at his pants. "Uh, you might just, Stevie." Steve follows her gaze with a frown.

He still has the leather glove in his pocket.

Steve looks back to her, wide eyed with nerves. Robin just snorts at him, patting him on the arm. “Come on, dingus. Let’s grab another drink, maybe your new friend will come looking for his glove.”

They settle in at the bar, Robin laughing as she makes Steve watch the video of him on stage, looking flustered as hell. His face burns with more embarrassment, but she asserts how proud she is of him for doing something like this. With another drink in his system, he’s able to find the humour in it. If nothing else, it’s a crazy story he’ll get to tell his friends about.

A low husky voice in Steve’s ear makes him jump. “I believe you have something of mine, sweetheart.”

Steve turns on his barstool to see Eddie standing behind him, shirt back on and jeans buttoned back up. Most of the eye makeup is gone, but smudges of black still line his lashes, making his dark eyes seem even bigger. From his periphery, he notices that Robin has dutifully stayed facing the bar. Pulling the glove out of his pocket, he bashfully hands it over. “Uh, sorry about that,” Steve says, other hand going to the back of his neck. “I think I just panicked about what to do with it.”

Eddie takes it back with a smile, shoving it into his own pocket. “No problem, at least you didn’t try to take off with it. You wouldn’t believe the amount of clothes I lose to audience theft.”

“I can imagine,” Steve laughs.

“Yeah, I mean, the staff do a great job at collecting my things from the audience, but some people are sneaky, y’know?” Eddie kind of rambles a bit, hands twirling and gesturing with his words. It’s super cute, Steve realises, a grin growing on his face as he forgets to actually respond.

Humming, Eddie nods, probably thrown by Steve’s lack of response. “So! Did you have fun? I’ve been told I can go a little… overboard, sometimes.”

Steve chuckles nervously, hand automatically brushing through his hair. “Not overboard at all, but it was my first time doing anything like that. Definitely had, uh, a good time.” He can feel his cheeks heating again.

The charming persona comes over Eddie again, as he leans in with a smirk. “Well, you were a great audience participant,” he says, like it’s a secret he’s sharing. Steve can see a very faint dusting of freckles across Eddie’s nose and Christ, could this guy get any hotter?

Smile growing bigger and cheeks growing hotter, Steve just manages a quiet “thanks” and what the hell?! Steve knows how to flirt, he knows how to respond when he’s being flirted with. But something about Eddie, with his tattoos and his piercings and his cheeky smiles… it’s all just turning Steve into a puddle. The silence stretches between them, growing almost awkward, as they look at each other. From his side, Steve can sense Robin practically vibrating next to him. He can only imagine that she’s losing her mind over the tension between them. Or his stupidity. Maybe both.

Playing with his hair—pulling slightly on a curl by his shoulder—Eddie clears his throat. “Well, I, uh. Better get back to the, y’know. Packing up. Backstage.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “Um, it was lovely to meet you…?”

Steve blinks at the sudden change in conversation. “Steve!” He says, feeling slightly panicked. He holds his hand out and immediately thinks he must look like a massive idiot.

Eddie smiles at him, almost… resigned? “Eddie,” he says, gesturing to himself before taking Steve’s hand. “Lovely to meet you… Steve.” Eddie says his name like it’s fucking reverent. Steve feels his soul about to leave his body.

“You too,” Steve says, not wanting to let go. They finally let their hands fall away, Eddie taking two slow steps backwards—eyes still locked on Steve’s—before turning. Robin immediately jabs Steve in the ribs with her sharp elbow, making him gasp in pain.

“Unless!” Steve calls out, not even completely sure where he’s going with it.

Eddie looks over his shoulder, not quite turning back to him. “Unless…?”

“Would you, uh, like a drink, maybe?” God, even Steve can hear how pathetic he sounds.

With a grin that’s… actually quite shy, Eddie pulls a lock of his hair across his face. “Yeah… I’d like that,” he says, voice soft.

Steve goes home with Eddie’s number in his phone and a date planned for the next night.

immediately post-show, backstage:

Eddie flies into the dressing room and dramatically flops down across the beat up old armchair with a sigh.

“Great show tonight, Eddie!” Vickie is sitting at the mirror, all her belongings packed up. “The audience was going crazy!”

Letting out a hum that turns into a groan, Eddie rests his forearm over his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, turning to him on her stool.

“Vickieeee…” Eddie whines. “My beloved Victoria—”

“Not my name.”

“I’m in love!” Eddie cries, letting his head hang back over the armrest.

Vickie snorts. “God, dare I ask with whom?”

Eddie whines again, a loud moan coming from deep in his soul. He sighs again. “Soft swoopy hair… big, beautiful hazel eyes and glasses… moles like a constellation on his skin… Vickie, he can’t be real. He just can’t be. No one should look that good in a yellow sweater.”

“Yellow…?” Vickie trails off before gasping and leaping to the floor by Eddie’s head. “Your audience participant?! No. Eddie. Edward. Say it isn’t so!”

Holding both hands over his face, Eddie lets out another wallowing moan, before opening his fingers to reveal one eye. “I… bit him.”

Gasping, Vickie slaps the floor with both hands. “You didn’t!”

“I did!” Eddie wails, covering his face again.

“Oh my god!” Vickie laughs.

“Hey, Eddie.” Gareth walks in, holding a small bundle of black fabric. “Great show tonight. We got almost everything back, but we’re missing… one glove. Sorry, man.”

“Thanks, Gareth,” Eddie says miserably. Gareth drops the pile of clothes on the armchair and heads back out with a two-finger salute.

Vickie turns to him with light in her eyes. “Eddie, Eddie, look at me.” She shakes his arm until he turns his forlorn gaze to her. “Mister Yellow Sweater has your glove.” 

Eddie just looks at her, his brain processing too slowly.

“Go!” she cries, pulling him up. “Go and find him, he’s probably still here!”

“What? No!” Eddie lets himself go limp and heavy against her pulls. “Just leave me to my yearning for what will never be.”

“Eddie, I swear to god,” she says with effort, finally pulling him up. “Get out there and find your man. And your glove.”

Groaning loudly, Eddie stands up and finds his shirt in the pile. “Fine. If only to get my glove back, I’ll go and find Mister Perfect Hair.”

[goonssquadd]

🔹🔷🔹Introducing the incredible Trucy Wright! 🔹🔷🔹

This cosplay was such a labor of love for me. I spent about four years start to finish (and honestly there’s still small things I’m going to be changing and adding). She’s finally wearable and I couldn’t be happier with how she turned out.

Here’s a run down on the costume:

Dress: patterned by me. Features princess seams and a diamond neckline that connects to a necklace that holds it up like a halter strap. Each button is a vintage shank button that I put two colors of blue crystal beads into (more pics of everything will come later). There’s a vintage metal toothed invisible zip down the back.

Cape: patterned by me. Features 11 double sided diamonds with card suits on them. Each card suit was machine appliquéd on each side (meaning I did 21 diamonds total 😭). Each diamond has a beaded ribbon trim across the top on the outside and a jingle bell on the bottom. Fabric is a lovely crepe satin.

Purse: blue and white cow leather sourced from theleatherguy.org. I was very particular about the bag being genuine leather and not pleather because I have ethical thoughts against pleather. The lining is blue diamond patterned cotton and the hardware comes from an old purse my grandma was going to throw away

Wig: arda wig in the style eowyn. This is one of my first times styling an anime wig and I’m really happy with it

Accessories: I got a buckram top hat base from hats by leko online. I then followed a tutorial online for how to cover it in the same blue crepe satin as the cape. If anyone wants more details on that lmk ^-^. scarf and gloves from Amazon. Earrings are the same vintage shank buttons I’ve made into earrings.

A couple extra pics for reading this far :D

[letters-unsending]

No. 36

/////

Sick Supervillian and his henchman

////

“I am in your debt.”

“You are.” Henchman thumbed the next page of their book. The paper was warped, yellow against Henchman’s satin gloves, and the spine and thready bowels of the book spilled into their supporting hand, whose grip alone kept the novel together. It was one of the few books Henchman had found in the safe house and they’d read it over thrice.

The first time, they’d whispered the passages at Supervillain’s bedside. Over the boil of his fever, Supervillain heard only rolling vowels and consonants, delivered hoarsely, broken by the bruising around Henchman’s throat.

“You may request anything of me and I will do my best to deliver, when I am well enough.” Supervillain propped himself up against his headboard, wincing at the brittleness of his arms and the smarting pull of stitches around his stomach. Henchman watched him over the top of their book. They never disguised their scrutiny, their gaze as sharp as a needlepoint as they assessed his trembling wrists and knotted jaw.

“Your empire has fallen. There is little you can give me that has not already been taken from you,” Henchman sighed, setting down their book on the nightstand. They pulled out a thumb-sized cylinder of dark metal and pressed the pulsing, blue end into Supervillain’s neck. As they read the device’s information, they continued, “and your power may never return fully. Even your body struggles to overcome this poison.”

Supervillain twitched as Henchman ran the device up his neck to the gully of skin between his jaw and ear. The metal burned cold.

“I will recover,” Supervillain vowed, “and I will regrow my empire. I will take back everything from those who have betrayed me.”

Henchman flicked a button on a device. Supervillain yelped as something pierced his skin.

“Focus on staying on staying alive for now.” Henchman frowned at the device’s display before placing in back in its drawer. “We’ll discuss a reward once you’re healthy again.”

Supervillain watched as Henchman curled back into their chair and settled a hand atop their book. They stretched their fingers around over its crumbling cover, but did not pick it up. Instead, they stared down the bedroom door—built of reinforced iron and chewed at the edges by rust—and breathed full, long breaths.

“Henchman.”

As Henchman turned toward him, Supervillain reached out and placed his hand over Henchman’s. Their gloves were soft, silky, and the skin beneath them warm, but their tendons were strung taught, tightening as their fingers clenched around the edge of the book. And Supervillain did not need to look up to know their gaze was sharp, searching and just as tense.

“Read to me,” Supervillain whispered.

“Of course.” Henchman replied, even quieter.

Henchman pulled their hand out from beneath Supervillain’s and took the book with them. They pushed its half-broken spine in, cradled it’s stained pages and wondered how many times they would read it before it finally broke.