#divine armoire

[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

[earlgreydream]

pretty thing.

a sexy christmas party at malfoy manor with a bit of smut and soft dom draco 💚

Piano music floated down the hallway, reaching your ears as you stood, dressing in one of the guest suites at Malfoy Manor. You were a part of one of the pure blood families that attended their annual Christmas party, a chance for whispers about the ministry more than a celebration of the holidays.

Black lace hugged the curves of your body, accentuating your silhouette as you stood before the mirror, applying your makeup. A glittering green dress hung over the door of the armoire, heels below it, waiting to be worn, showing you off to the wealthy heirs that your parents insisted were potential suitors.

“Aren’t you cold, love?” Draco smirked, appearing out of a hidden passage in the wall, one of many that linked the rooms of his childhood home.

“Get out of here! I’m naked!” You hissed, immediately throwing a robe over your body, hiding it from his view.

“Hardly, in fact, if you really want to get a lovers attention, you should just go out in that tonight,” he teased, prowling toward you with his graceful steps.

You pushed him away as he tried to pull open the tie of the robe, always desperate to get a glimpse of you, insisting since you were young that you were all his, as it was always meant to be.

“You’re terrible, Malfoy. You’re not supposed to be up here, anyways. If anyone caught you in my suite, we’d both be skinned,” you reminded, keeping your voice to a whisper in case any nosey parent or household staff lurked in the halls.

“All the more exciting.”

Before you could protest further, he had pushed you onto the vanity, standing between your knees and catching you in a fiery kiss. He tasted like peppermint and bourbon, his lips soft and his tongue heavy. Delicate hands gripped the silk robe, dragging it up, exposing as much of you as he could in the desperate, messy, make out session.

“Really, you shouldn’t be here,” you breathed when he finally broke away for air, his lips ghosting against your jawline.

“I shouldn’t be here, and you shouldn’t be wearing such scandalous lace beneath your dress. You’re going to go to that party like you always do, and flirt with the heirs to appease your parents. And I’m going to get jealous, and before the night is up, we’ll have disappeared to commit even worse sins than we are now.”

Draco was right. No matter how much you pretended to feign interest in others, the two of you couldn’t keep your hands off of each other in private. You’d accepted long ago that you did belong to Draco, wrapped around his fingers. He didn’t notice anyone but you, you were everything, so much more than a young heiress he wasn’t meant to corrupt.

“Save a dance for me tonight,” Draco murmured, pressing a tender kiss to your lips before disappearing back into the walls, going to make the appearances expected of him.

You could still taste him as you collected yourself, fixing your hair and putting on your dress for the party.

“You look stunning, dear,” Narcissa greeted you as you went down to the ballroom, finally ready to join their Christmas party.

“Thank you,” you kissed her cheek politely, refraining from asking if she’d seen her son, not wanting to give away anything about your hidden affair.

As per tradition, you were meant to be kept pure, until Draco came along and ruined you in secret.

A sparkling glass was put in your hand by one of the men vying for your affection, introducing himself, telling you about his important position in the ministry. You tried to be polite, knowing eyes were on you, the eligible bachelorette that would secure good favor with the dark lord, whoever you chose.

“Being out in the world has been much kinder to you than hogwarts,” Pansy admired your dress, the compliment as sincere as it could be from her.

“I miss it, though. I’d rather be learning divination and gossiping in the common room than be passed around like a prize to be won,” you rolled your eyes, your mind floating to memories of you and Draco in his prefect room.

“You’re so ungrateful, everyone wishes they were you. All the boys are obsessed with you, and the pure blood families love you.”

You ignored her last comment, your eyes locking with Draco’s silver gaze across the room. He smiled behind a glass of champagne, paying no attention to the girls hanging off of his every word.

“You always wanted what you couldn’t have,” Pansy mused.

.

“May we dance, my darling?” Draco offered his hand, saving you from the company of several barons of countries you hadn’t heard of.

“Of course, Malfoy,” you nodded, letting him sweep you off your feet, into the dance as someone played the nutcracker on the piano.

You let your head rest against his chest, guided by his graceful movements into a waltz.

“Sick of them yet, princess? I must admit, I’m ready to sneak off with you, to somewhere more private,” he spoke softly, his lips just above the shell of your ear, words whispered into your hair.

“I don’t want to be here any more than you, but I’ve gotten so much attention, I can’t slip away unnoticed yet,” you sighed softly as he gave your hip a squeeze.

“Act as if you’ve caught a cold, make a scene, I don’t care. I cannot share you any longer,” his command was whispered in your ear, sending a shudder down your spine and heat burning between your hips.

As Draco parted from you, you ached for his touch, watching him disappear amongst the party guests. Others had already begun flocking to you, hoping to earn a dance.

“Sorry, I’m actually feeling a bit unwell,” you apologized as you all but ran away from the boy who had sought your attention.

You repeated your apology to your parents, and several other dignitaries you passed, all wondering where you were running off to so early. After their condolences and well-wishes, you tore up the stairs to your suite, locking the door with as many spells as you could summon.

“It took you long enough,” Draco quipped, pinning you against the door from behind, his hands bringing yours above your head, trapping them to the wood.

“You know how they are,” you whined, tilting your head, hoping to catch a kiss from the sensual prince who was prying your legs open with his knee.

“Hush, love,” Draco kissed you slowly, his free hand riding beneath your dress, feeling you beneath the lace.

His fingers rubbed over the lace thong you wore, pulling a whimper from your lips as you began to throb with need.

“Desperate?” Draco teased, feeling your muscles tense for him.

“Please,” your plea was pitiful, your mind already melted from his brief touches.

“Be my good girl and wait patiently,” he scolded with a smirk, delighting in your need.

You were soaking despite the loss of his fingers as he unfastened your dress, helping you out of it and onto the end of the bed. Your elbows and feet hit the sheets, backing up until your head rested delicately on the pillows.

“Look at you, all wrapped up like a present for me,” he praised, tracing the silk and lace that twisted around your body.

“All for you,” you murmured, parting your legs so he could settle between your knees.

His arms wrapped around your thighs as he lowered to kiss your belly, slowly moving downward until his teeth pulled at your waistband.

Draco smirked at the little gasp you elicited when he lightly bit the soft skin between your hips, humming as your fingers threaded into his hair.

He pried the lace off of you, kissing every inch of your bare skin as he did so, distracting you until he could return to his place between your thighs. Silver eyes glinted up at you as he knelt to taste your sex, dripping with sweetness for him.

Your back arched as his tongue pulled more moans from you, Draco knowing exactly how to make you melt.

“Good girl, let me hear you,” he soothed, palming your chest and kissing the inside of your thigh before he went back to eating you out like a starved man.

“Draco, fuck, I need you inside me,” your words were broken and rushed, desperate as your heels dug into his back, trying to pull him closer.

“Pretty thing,” Draco praised, smearing a kiss over your lips, smirking as you leaned up to follow when he pulled away.

You whimpered as he fell back against the headboard, pushing you up on shaky knees before him.

“I can’t—”

“Relax, love,” Draco pulled you to sit on his lap, straddling either side of his knees as you melted against his chest.

A strong arm circled around your waist as he carefully sank into you, nearly coming on the spot at your sinful moan.

“Feel what you do to me? You’ve got me so hard, and you’re taking it so well,” he murmured, snapping his hips up slowly, each thrust filling you to the brim.

Your hands weakly grasped at his biceps for support, your head resting on his shoulder as he pulled you down onto him. His chest heaved under your back, and he kissed on your neck as he fucked you, leaving a mark that was sure to last for days.

You were dizzy with pleasure, reaching over your shoulder and pulling his hair as your legs began to shake. You were surprised you had lasted this long — but now your nerves felt as if they were on fire every time Draco kissed your cervix.

“There you go love,” Draco hummed, drawing quick circles on your clit with his thumb until you were trembling from the intensity of your orgasm.

His own release dropped down your thighs, creating wet and filthy sounds as he thrusted lazily as you two came down. Draco gently cradled your exhausted form, murmuring a spell to clean you up before sinking back into the soft sheets with you snuggled on his chest.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered into your hair, kissing you before your eyes closed for the night.

[corsage]

that one time carlos invented a fairytale for his daughter, inspired by the love for his husband.

full story under the cut. here are part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10 and part 11.

“Once upon a time, there was a soul with coal hair and eyes of fire.

He lived in a village crouched under a mountain, where the inviolable rule was to suffer in order to find love.

Fortunately for him, he did not want love. All he needed was the rustle of the wind in the woods at the first light of dawn, the cool gurgling of the brook that carved the valley, the enveloping warmth of the early afternoon sun and the faint glow of fireflies on silver nights. It was enough for him to feel alive. He drank from that divine breath that made him get up every morning, and fed on the sap of the day.

One day however, his gaze traveled beyond the sun.

An expanse of soft whiteness sprouted thinly in the heart of the world. In the midst of that sea of diamonds, a palace with an impenetrable face rose silently. It was edgy, menacing, and commanding.

A town meeting was called, because such beauty had never been seen before. The prize for those brave enough to get close to it and study it, would have been to inhabit it and become its sovereign.

A girl whose hair was wrapped in soft silk stepped forward, and when she spoke, her voice was the same as warm honey. She announced she would be the one to go first. But a man stepped forward.

Shoulders the size of an armoire and eyes the colour of the sky, he imposed himself on the village: he would have conquered the fortress.

The Sun Soul whitened his knuckles. Covered by the shadows of the night he left, gaining ground on the others.

He didn't want to win or possess such beauty. He wanted to admire it, touch it, and understand when the world had conceived it.

He reached the lips of the valley where the expanse of white prestige kissed the grass with sweet lasciviousness.

Stretching his caramel muscles, the boy dipped his foot in that ice milk. A soft gasp escaped his lotus lips.

That pearl ground was cold, but the young man did not stop. He crossed it and reached the palace, which shone in purple and blue and yellow and green. It seemed made of glass, fragile and magical, yet strong and stern.

He did not try to knock for he was afraid of breaking it, but still he placed a warm palm on the surface of what came closest to the shape of a door.

He pushed.

The place was silent. The colours that illuminated the outside bounced off the walls like trapped in that cage of cold beauty.

It was then however, that a delicate vision captured his irises. A boy was hiding in the colours of the palace, lying on a hard crystal sofa. His lips were plump, pale as frosted roses. The black lashes seemed drawn in charcoal, the forehead of pure coral.

Enchanted, the strong Sun Soul tried to caress his left cheek.

A column of steam, rose. Aphrodite's son stood up screaming, but his voice sounded like the moan of a sparrow. His eyes were two terrified meadows of green grass and now, on that purity, a red scar stood out violently. The Sun Soul apologized heartily, tears already extinguishing the fiery glow of his soul.

Love came that day, in the frost of a freckled night of light. And with that intoxicating, addictive love, came a pain as blinding as the thrust of a sword.

Aphrodite's son, pure crystal, flickered around him: joyful as a fairy, seductive as a mermaid; and with each tinkle of laughter, the Sun Soul started growing a desire to fall to the ground and lie lifeless.

They talked and looked into each other's eyes; one smiling, the other swallowing the pain, and imagining what it would be like to touch him— his skin already vibrating at the thought. Aphrodite's son smiled docile, accustomed to the knowledge his curse of purity carried. A curse the Sun Soul did not and could not understand.

And such a bright flame cannot be contained or extinguished.

One day a pain so strong took hold of him, his tears were not enough to put it out. Desperate, he stretched out his limbs carved in marble and clung to the hand of that celestial soul who had come to share his land through malevolence.

With a faint, resigned chirp, Aphrodite's son's meadow eyes let a watery pearl slip down his cheek. A cloud of steam as thick as grey slime rose from his silky skin.

The Sun Soul retreated in fright, and when the steam cleared, leaving the cold crystal palace as if it had never been there, his soul mate was laying on the ground.

Around him, a pool of blue blood gleamed fatally.

Water.

Throat scratched by the claws of despair, the Sun Soul coughed. «Are you a snowman?»

Aphrodite's son smiled as a throat of heat opened beneath him.

«No. Snowmen are only snow. I am the beauty you have always ran away from; the sweetness you denied yourself to survive an existence of solitude. I am the exception. Every man will meet his.»

The Sun Soul was extinguished, reduced to a flameless torch. His throat stung, his eyes burned, and his hands trembled, helpless under the power of something greater than himself. Aphrodite's son tried to grab his hands, but failed as his own melted in pain.

«Look at you. You have denied yourself a gain for the fear of loss. You have suffered one evil to escape another. How can you call this 'life'?»

The Sun Soul screamed as the creature melted in resignation.

The palace fell upon itself with a subtle tinkle-unusual for such a large structure. When little was left of the soul he had loved-„

«The universe realised that the protagonist had learnt his lesson; so the castle reassembled itself, his lover came back to life, and they lived happily ever after. Together. The end.»

Carlos turned to look at his husband with a feignedly disappointed look. Allegra, their daughter, was snoring peacefully in the blankets.

«That's not how the story ends, TK»

Abandoning the doorstep, TK pushed his way into the room. He left a kiss on Allegra's forehead, then took his husband by the hand, leading him into the hallway. «I know, but I didn't want you to traumatize Allegra. She's only five. But you should totally write it down. You're not bad, you know?»

TK stopped on his steps and waited for Carlos to stop in front of him. His Sun Soul.

«Allegra fell asleep at “once upon a time„»

They giggled a little, then Carlos grabbed TK's nape in a firm yet gentle grip. He kissed his lips, his right cheek, and his neck.

«I have a feeling that if I keep going you're going to melt.» His voice was hoarse and low.

TK smiled mischievously. «Try me»

here is the whole fic for those who'd ever like to read it from top to bottom. thank you for your support! love you! <3

[abookishdreamer]

Character Intro: Triptolemus (Kingdom of Ichor)

Nicknames- God of Crops by the people of Olympius

Honey by his wife

Dad by his son

Trip by his brother & friends

Age- 37 (immortal)

Location- Achaea, Olympius

Personality- He's a dedicated hardworker with a general laidback temperament. He holds family, community, and wellness of the land to the utmost of importance. Despite being a grudge holder, he doesn't see the need for unnecessary drama in his life, opting for simplicity. He's married.

He has the standard abilities of a god except shapeshifting. As the god of farming his other powers/abilities include transfiguration (can turn beings into a plant, tree, or crop), being able to use ancient/modern farming and gardening tools proficiently as weapons, soil manipulation (edafoskinesis), as well as chlorokinesis (to a much lesser extent than Demeter).

A notable physical feature is his golden brown tan skin, due to him always being outdoors.

His natural scent is a mixture of fresh damp soil and sweet corn.

Triptolemus is a native of Eleusis. Mostly bad feelings and memories come up whenever he thinks about his homeland; never mind the constant death he was surrounded by in his early godhood.

He's married to Eunostos (goddess of the flour mill). They have a child- a son Deipneus (god of cooking & breadmaking). Other members of Triptolemus' extended family includes his younger brother Trochilus (god of the mill wheel), his father-in-law Cyamites (god of beans), his sister-in-law Promylaia, as well as his nephews Matton (god of meals) and Keraon (god of baking & wine mixing).

He lives on a thirty acre farm property with his wife in a french country style home. The house has natural wood flooring, a wraparound porch, antique furniture (like armoirs), wood beamed ceilings, simple yet elegant chandeliers, & nude and cream colored toile patterned wallpaper. On the same farm just a few minutes away, there's the house his brother and wife live in.

Triptolemus is a HUGE animal lover. On the farm there's cattle, sheep, goats, pigs, ducks, chickens, & horses. There are a few employees on the farm (like a leimonide named Maris), but he and his brother don't mind actively participating in the responsibilities of the farm like trimming the horses' hooves, bringing in/tagging the many crops, administering vaccines to the animals, or operating farming equipment.

He usually starts his day at the crack of dawn. Following a session of meditation, Triptolemus will ride through the farm on his horse- a quarter horse named Moxie then take a swim in the private pond. He'll then tend to his garden before breakfast.

Displayed in the living room is a farming pitchfork forged from adamantine by Hephaestus (god of the forge). It's taken the place of Triptolemus' former divine symbol.

He loves eating a steaming plate of gyeran bap for breakfast. He also really likes when his wife makes buttermilk biscuits alongside her cajun breakfast casserole (made with scrambled eggs, sliced andouille sausages, shredded hash browns, hot sauce, heavy cream, red peppers, various spices, & shredded cheddar cheese. He'll also enjoy a big bowl of Earthly Harvest cinnamon oat hearty nut medley cereal (which is cinnamon coated flakes, almonds, pumpkin seeds, pecans, and walnuts).

A go-to drink for him is bori-cha (barley tea) which he brews himself. He also likes his brother's homemade banana milk & sujeonggwa, mineral water, orange juice, his wife's homemade iced tea, beer, white wine, sparkling lemon cocktails, ginger ale, lemonade, mint juleps, good farmer cocktails, celery tonics, as well as hard cider cocktails. His usuals from The Roasted Bean include a cafe au lait and an olympian sized green tea.

There's a couple of secrets Triptolemus has kept close to him, only divulging in it with trusted beings in his social circle. In his early days of godhood, he was under the brief mentorship of Demeter (goddess of the harvest & agriculture). It's not a known fact in the pantheon or the public. His brother Trochilus was establishing his godhood in Corinth.

In the early days of the Titanomachy, Eleusis was the most fertile place in the entire country. Triptolemus and Demeter would be responsible for feeding many beings that were displaced due to the war. Every time the tax was raised, he would hand deliver a basket of crops to the needy and hungry families.

Triptolemus' earliest accomplishment in his godly career was when Demeter gifted him an Imperial Gold wheeled chariot, which was pulled by two majestic looking winged serpents. He traveled all throughout the country, feeding the hungry. Triptolemus was seen as a folk hero- first in Eleusis, then in Athens.

He had a quiet adversion to overseeing the Eleusinian Mysteries, being that he was never comfortable around suffering & death. He then spoke out against Demeter regarding her treatment of Celeus, the lord of Eleusis at the time as well as his family- particularly his son Demophon. Seemingly without warning, his chariot was revoked and Triptolemus has his mentorship transferred to Eubouleus (god of the swine & ploughing).

Even though he wasn't active in the war on the battlefield, Triptolemus supported Zeus (god of the sky, thunder, & lightning) and the rest of the Olympians.

After the war, he spent some time in Athens & reunited with his brother before settling in Achaea.

Triptolemus had no say in the matter when Demeter came back into his life by way of her newfound friendship with Eunostos and Promylaia. The family even relocated back to Eleusis while their sons were still little. At this point, he didn't tell anyone about his early godhood. Triptolemus always maintained a friendly disposition whenever Demeter came around and was surprised when his son & nephews developed a friendship with her daughter Persephone. When his wife and sister-in-law eventually had a falling out with Demeter, Triptolemus wasn't terribly surprised. When the family relocated back to Achaea, he finally revealed his past with the harvest goddess.

Despite his status as a minor deity, Triptolemus has two temples built in his honor- one in his native Eleusis and one in Athens.

He leads an active lifestyle through tai chi, riding horseback, jogging, working out, & even bullriding!

Triptolemus loves his younger brother and appreciates how protective they are for one another. Though their experiences in godhood was drastically different, they understand each other in a way that most can't, aside from their wives. They have a good working relationship as well, being that they're business partners.

He has a sandwhich inspired by him at his son's nationwide business The Bread Box. The farmer sandwhich is a toasted baguette with roasted chicken, sweet corn, melted brie cheese, tapenade, a thyme mayo spread, and romaine lettuce.

Triptolemus adores Eunostos. He finds his wife's supple soft skin & natural scent of flour and powdered sugar to be addictive. He also admires how she held her head high after the fallout Demeter. They enjoy spending time outside of their shared business- like taking a weekend trip to Athens to visit her father, traveling to New Olympus to see their son, or going on double dates with Trochilus and Promylaia.

He's heard whispers that the chariot (claimed by Demeter) was thrown into Tartarus following the end of the war, but he can't be too sure.

Triptolemus has a good relationship with his son and is proud of all of his accomplishments as a deity. He wishes that Deipneus would call him more often, but is understanding of his busy schedule. When he and his wife travel to New Olympus, Triptolemus (along with his brother) will play basketball at Eaglepoint Park with Deipneus, Keraon, and Matton.

Whenever he and Eunostos travels to New Olympus they'll either stay over at their son's brownstone in a guest room or they'll rent a room at The Hearthwood Inn.

His primary source of income comes from the business he co-owns alongside his brother, sister-in-law, & wife. The Achaean Flour Company is one of the largest manufacturers and distributors of flour & flour products. On his own Triptolemus is the head of the Farming Union of Olympius, an organization that works to improve the quality of life and economic well-being of family farmers, ranchers, and rural communities. He also owns a small farmer's market in the town's square, known to give away products for free sometimes!

In the pantheon Triptolemus is known for his finger licking yangnyeom chicken, fried chicken covered in a sweet & spicy sauce and garnished with sesame seeds.

His favorite sweet treats includes his wife's beignets, his brother's bingsu (sweet shaved ice), and his own baesuk and yaksik (sweet rice cakes added with nuts, dried fruit, & honey).

In the pantheon Triptolemus is good friends with Ktesios (god of the household), Karmanor (demi-god of the harvest), Priapus (god of fertility, vegetable gardens, livestock, sexuality, & masculinity), Apólafsi (god of enjoyment), Kópros (god of manure & excrement), Corymbus (Cory) (god of the ivy), Záchari (god of confectionery), Pan (god of the wild, satyrs, shepherds, & rustic music), and Hestia (goddess of the hearth).

Aside from Demeter, he also dislikes Limos (goddess of starvation & famine).

Triptolemus thinks that his son's girlfriend Pandaisia (goddess of banquets) is a sweetheart.

His favorite frozen treat is pear ice cream.

When he and Trochilus travels back to New Olympus soon, they plan on finally tackling the culinary behemoth known as the Mt. Olympus burger at Poté Tróei, the restaurant owned by Adephagia (goddess of gluttony).

For fun, Triptolemus hosts a gardening club every week, open to anyone. The members generally "meet" online on Fatestagram by use of video group chat, with an in-person meeting at his greenhouse. Maris is one of the members.

His favorite thing to get at Hollyhock's Bakery is the jumbo pancake cookie (topped with a buttermilk syrup glaze & a dollop of vanilla buttercream).

Triptolemus, Eunostos, Trochilus, and Promylaia always participates in the annual Achaean Beignet Festival.

Another trip he's planning is to Crete to see Karmanor compete in a bullriding competition.

His favorite meal is his wife's spicy sausage penne along with yangnyeom chicken, topping it off with a cold glass of hard apple cider.

In his free time Triptolemus enjoys gardening, cooking, baking, bike riding, swimming, basketball, sunbathing, golf, football (soccer), and sailing.

"The farmer has to be an optimist or he wouldn't still be a farmer."

[whump-card]

Forged Divinity Chapter 1: Phineas Acquires Leannan

1618 words

CW: institutionalized slavery, religious themes, abuse, implied murder, derogatory language

Masterlist, Next

~~~

Revelation 8:7

The first angel sounded his trumpet, and there came hail and fire mixed with blood, and it was hurled down on the earth. A third of the earth was burned up, a third of the trees were burned up, and all the green grass was burned up.

~~~

The merchant's tent was a fire hazard, that, Phineas knew for sure. The canvas structure hung low, the underside painted with long-since faded suns, moons, and stars. The peeling sky resided over an impossibly huge pile of junk. Trunks, fabrics, clothes, cookware, ancient electronics, blunt weapons, farming tools, window shutters, a bedframe, an armoire. Herbs, spices, and mixes of the two claiming to have magical properties filled jars, cans, pouches, and incense boxes that lined rickety shelves alongside trinkets, baubles, and kitsch. A handful of prayer and psalm biblets, but no other books – never any other books. Lines strung from the shelves to the tent posts hoisted flickering lanterns that barely lit the dark interior.

Phineas drew closer to the herb shelves, doing their best to ignore the sense of impending doom the precarious lanterns evoked. They scanned the shelving with a practiced eye, wasting no time on the many, many distractions around them – until one of those distractions was not a grinning animal skull or rhinestone-backed handmirror, but instead the unmistakable tread of another person.

Phineas was facing him straight on when the person ducked around the shelf into sight. He blinked, surprised by Phineas’ confrontational stance and the unusual weapon they carried, but collected himself quickly.

“Are you finding what you need?” he asked in a smooth, low voice. His tone was obviously loaded, and Phineas didn’t like that. What Phineas didn’t mind, however, was the stranger’s appearance. Everything about him was pleasant, soft, and round – his body, his face, his lips, his pale curls that crowned him in gold. His clothes were simple, ragged, scavenged things, like most people’s, but he wore them with a particular taste for layering and color-matching, making the most out of a range of faded blues. Long sleeved, of course, to protect from the sun. A small golden religious symbol rested on a delicate chain around his neck. His hands hovered in front of his chest, fingers linked. As Phineas continued to unabashedly look him up and down, he smiled and ducked his head.

“Maybe I can help-”

“I’m fine,” Phineas cut him off, snatching a small paper box off a nearby shelf. “Where’s your boss?”

“Oh,” the man laughed, bright and short, “She’s not my boss.”

An obvious cue to ask what their relationship was, then. Phineas ignored it, and started weaving their way through the chaos towards where they’d last seen the merchant.

“Hej, sinjorino!” they called. Their Esperanto vocal habits they’d grown up with in the southern deserts were hard to kick.

“Pafanto?” The merchant answered in kind – another nomad, perhaps, fleeing the heat – and her head popped up from behind a stack of computer parts. “All done?”

Phineas made their way over to her, glancing over their shoulder. The blue and gold man was gone. They met the merchant over a dusty counter.

“Who’s your assistant?” they asked, setting the box down.

“Assistant?” she frowned at first, then smiled knowingly. “Ah, you met Hiram. No, no assistant. He’s a holy Iowan concubine,” she spoke proudly, “Worth a fucking town, that one.”

“I thought the Iowan stock died out.”

“So did I! But he’s got the dark blood and everything.”

“How much?”

She laughed in their face.

“More than you’ve got, pafanto!” Her chuckles slowed. “Unless…” Her eyes drifted over their shoulder.

Phineas’ hand went instinctively to the strap that held the Barrett M95 sniper rifle in place on their back. The weapon loomed over their shoulder like a specter, always watching, always ready. A gun like that was rare. Priceless. It was why the merchant called them ‘gunman,’ revealing that she’d noticed the uncommon weapon the moment they’d walked in. Not that it was hard to notice.

Was it worth a human life?

It had certainly taken plenty.

The merchant could tell they were considering it.

“The gun, and any ammo you have. That’ll get you the Iowan, and your…” she picked up the box, “Henna?”

“What’s he like?” Phineas had already forgotten the name the merchant had used.

“Oh, he’s perfect,” the merchant hummed with a sly smile, “A dream in bed. You know, you’d really be doing me a favor, I need to get rid of him before the season ends and I have to go home to my husband!”

The merchant wasn’t being subtle. The gun was worth more than the Iowan.

“He is…” Phineas wasn’t quite sure what they were asking, “Obedient?”

“Very.”

Phineas took one last look around the tent, huffed a breath, and unslung the weapon from their shoulder. The merchant beamed, yet again giving away the game. Phineas delicately set the gun on the counter and took their tall and hefty backpack off, rooting through it and producing two boxes of ammunition.

“That’s not a lot,” the merchant observed.

“It’s a sniper rifle,” Phineas snarked, “You shouldn’t need a lot.”

~~~

Twenty minutes later Phineas was striding away from the merchant’s tent, the Iowan practically jogging to keep up. He’d managed to pack a meager bag of things that now bounced on his back. Phineas, on the other hand, was feeling strangely unburdened. They didn’t like it. The gun meant safety. The gun meant food. What would they do without it?

They walked through dense pine forests, the trees looming overhead in ominous spikes. The narrow track they followed was dutifully marked out by swipes of white paint on the occasional trunk, left by trailblazers not too long ago. Phineas took a deep, calming breath of the evergreen scent, clearing their head.

“What’s your name?” they asked, without looking back.

“I have been called Hiram for some time now, ma’am – sir? – m – uh,” the Iowan replied breathlessly, “But you may call me what you like!”

“Pick something better than Hiram, or I’ll pick something you won’t like.”

“Oh! Well… If you’re letting me pick, I’m partial to Leannan.”

“Leannan it is. Call me Phineas, and nothing else.” Phineas abruptly turned off the path into the dense woods. They could hear Leannan panting and stumbling behind them, his shoes scraping over roots and snapping every twig underfoot.

Hunting with this thing was going to be a nightmare.

Phineas stopped, shrugging their backpack off and finally turning to look at Leannan. The Iowan staggered to a halt, out of breath and awkward.

“We’ll camp here,” Phineas announced.

“Oh!” Leannan looked around.

“Problem?” snapped Phineas.

“No!” Leannan said quickly, “Only, I have nothing to lie on.” He gestured to Phineas’ bedroll, prominently visible across the top of their backpack.

Phineas shrugged. “It ain’t cold.” The summer air was clear and warm.

They crouched to dig through their backpack, and pulled out two wax-cloth wrapped bundles. They offered one to Leannan.

“Eat.”

Leannan accepted the bundle and unwrapped it, finding it a single ration of a homemade granola bar – dried fruit, nuts, and grains – and jerky. He watched as Phineas sat back against a tree, as easy as can be, munching their own food.

Leannan sank to the ground and sat cross-legged, observing his new master like a hawk.

~~~

Later, as the sky darkened and the birdsong began to shift, they lay side by side on their backs. Leannan was on the ground; Phineas lay atop their thin bedroll.

Knowing they were still awake, Leannan rolled onto his side to face Phineas, propping his head up on one hand.

“Phineas,” he asked in a near-whisper, “Why did you buy me?”

Phineas slowly sighed before mumbling, “Because I wanted to.” They didn’t open their eyes.

“What am I, to you?”

“An annoyance, right now.”

“So, you…” Leannan ventured a hand out to caress Phineas’ shoulder, “Don’t you want to touch me?”

“Mmmnope.”

“So, you… You’re saving me? From the life of a whore?”

“Jes, whatever.”

“But you gave up a gun for me, and I’m so, so grateful, Phineas…” Leannan leaned in and pressed his lips to Phineas’ shoulder.

“God, you’re stupid!” Phineas sat up and swung their arm, backhanding Leannan across the face. Leannan gasped and cowered away.

“I’m not interested in fucking you, you idiotic little slut!” Phineas shouted, “I’m selling you the first chance I get!”

“I’m sorry!” Leannan doubled over on his knees, pressing his forehead into the pine needles. “I’m sorry, Phineas!”

“Go the fuck to sleep,” Phineas growled, lying back down.

Leannan lifted his head. Seeing Phineas had already closed their eyes, he rolled his own with a silent sigh and curled up to sleep on the spot.

At least this one was a traveler. They’d find him a suitable buyer better than that merchant could have, God willing, though Leannan would have to be the one to pick the buyer and put the idea in Phineas’ head. The gunman was a fool for giving up their weapon, they clearly had no business savvy.

Leannan just had to be careful not to trigger another temper tantrum.

God would see him through this.

~~~

When Leannan was shaken awake, he opened his eyes to darkness.

“Up. Up, slut.” Phineas.

Leannan blearily started to push himself upright, but a hand fisted in his hair and yanked. He yelped and scrambled to his feet. Suddenly he was face-to-face with Phineas, their dull reddish-brown hair sticking up in tufts around their head, their warm tan skin cast cold by the wan moonlight, angular features sharp.

Over their shoulder loomed the barrel of their gun. Back in its place.

Leannan knew immediately what had happened, but he blinked in confusion for Phineas’ benefit anyway.

“What…?”

Phineas released Leannan’s curls.

“Follow.” They turned on their heel and headed off into the woods, back towards the trail.

Leannan scooped up his bag and hurried after, stumbling in the dark.

He wouldn’t underestimate Phineas again.

~~~

Masterlist, Next

Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy

Let me know if you want on or off the taglist!

[the-moon-in-the-gutter]

Perfume Headcanons

Note: this is solely based on fragrances in my collection, I love fragrance and I feel as though all scents are unisex so here this is! I can't explain my thought process on these either, vibes only.

Long post, read more under the cut!

Cumulus as Chateau, 1970 by Thin Wild Mercury

Top notes: French citrus, nutmeg; Middle notes: Sunset rose accord, vintage armoire wood; Base notes: musks, modern linen.

Light, airy, and so comforting. Reminds me of putting away fresh laundry in your wardrobe with the windows open on a sunny afternoon.

Cirrus as Dead Sexy by Tokoyo Milk

Notes of deep vanilla, exotic wood, white orchid, and ebony.

This is a scent I can immediately pick out in a crowd, intense and head turning. Something alluring and sensual while being divinely feminine.

Aurora as Bombshell from Victoria's Secret

Notes: purple passion fruit, Shangri-La peony, vanilla orchid.

One of my favorite scents from my teen years, I used to receive the fragrance sets and I would give away all but Bombshell. It's such a wearable, playful scent that stays all day and I'll never ever give her up.

Sunshine as Ed Hardy by Christian Audigier

Top notes: strawberry and apple souffle; Middle note: freesia; Base notes: vanilla and amber.

This was my very first perfume I ever owned and I've repurchased it multiple times since then. In my teens, I paired it with Muertos by Blackheart, something about the fruity musks together is so playful.

Swiss as Amber by Nemat

I cannot find any fragrance notes for Amber, but this is honestly one of my favorites as of late. It's a very subtle, but warm and inviting, that dries down to more of a skin-like scent.

Aether as Elvira's Zombi by Demeter Fragrances

Notes of ylang-ylang, red poppies, cherry, cannabis, coca leaves, tobacco leaves, and vanilla bean.

I'm still kicking myself that I never bought a full-size of this fragrance before it was discontinued. It's very dark, yet enticing and strong.

Dewdrop as Whisky, 1969

Top notes: pink pepper, cardamom; Middle notes: raspberry, nutmeg, ylang-ylang; Base notes: cedarwood, boubon amber.

My top favorite from the Los Angeles collection, I would wear this religiously if I had a full size. Lingers for days, especially on clothing and in the hair. Captivating and warm.

Phantom as Vanilla Musk from Nemat

Such a soft, sweet gourmand that is backed with the most beautiful notes of musk. My second favorite Nemat fragrance, wears incredibly well (especially if your body care routine is based in vanilla scents).

Mountain as Fresh Brewed Coffee and Caramel by Demeter Fragrances

Both are fragrance notes that pair beautifully to make a very convincing fresh caramel coffee scent, reminds me of Deidrich caramel coffee pods for the Keurig. A gourmand I love in the winter.

Rain as Zuma, 1975 by Thin Wild Mercury

Top notes: bergamot, corriander; Middle notes: ocean waves, Jasmine sambac; Base notes: sandalwood, vetiver, amberette musk.

I'm not one for more beachy, salt water fragrances but this is one I cannot stay away from during the summer. Incredibly wearable and lasts for hours, even through working outdoors in the heat.

[waltwhitmansbeard]

Intimacy Prompt #2: Fixing their hair.

2. Fixing their hair

The people of Vesrah are putting together a shindig, a celebration of the end of Keyleth's Aramenté. The woman of the hour has been pulled off in some direction or another to get ready, so Vax is alone in the little room they've been appointed for their stay. There's a long mirror beside the armoire, and he can't help but laugh at the reflection he sees there: he looks like a wet cat half-dried in the sun. The feathers of the Deathwalker's Ward are stuck up in all sorts of weird ways, and he's got shit tangled in his hair, which is crusty from sea salt. He certainly can't go to a party honoring his girlfriend looking like this.

Before he can figure out what to do, though, there's a knock at the door. Assuming it's one of the Ashari from town, he calls, "Come in!" but to his surprise, it's his sister who opens the door.

"Are you decent? And I don't mean as a person, I just don't wanna see your dick."

"You came at the right time. Two minutes later and I would've been buck naked."

Rolling her eyes, Vex comes in, closing the door behind her. She looks around. "Keyleth not here?"

"Nah, I think they're getting her all gussied up for whatever's gonna happen later. Why, you need her?"

"No, actually, I wanted to talk to you." Her head cocks to the side, as if she's just now noticing him. "You look fucking terrible."

Vax snorts. "Yeah, well, dying does that to you."

"I would know."

"You would know."

Vex snags Vax's hairbrush from his bedside table and then goes to sit in front of the mirror. She pats the floor in front of her. "Come on."

Vax blinks in surprise. This is new. He settles cross-legged in front of his sister. "You've never done this for me before." And it's true. Growing up, the twins spent many evenings on the floor like this, but their positions reversed; Vax would sit behind his sister and carefully work out all of the knots and leaves and other detritus of her day outdoors, brushing from root to tip until her hair shone and he could braid it again for bed.

Now it is her fingers, nimble and strong from years on the bowstring, carefully combing through the mess of his locks, and Vax has to admit that it feels nice. She's gentle, pulling through small sections at a time to tug as little as possible on his roots. The bristles of the brush crackle through his stiff hair, and Vax could almost fall asleep to the sound.

"You know," she murmurs after a while, "she was kinda scary. Your goddess."

Well, that's one way of putting it. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Said some shit about 'the service of fate' and meeting her beyond the Divine Gate. You really got yourself into it, didn't you?"

There's a sharp tug, and Vax winces. "What, do you want me to say I regret it?"

"Did I say that?"

Vax turns, knocking the brush and Vex's hand out of the way. "What are we even talking about here, Vex'ahlia?"

She's got that glint in her eye, the stubborn one that always got them into trouble in Syngorn. "My fucking brother died today, sorry for trying to make sense of it!"

They glare at each other for a moment, and then Vex shoves him back around so she can resume fixing his hair. "Look, all I'm trying to say is...she brought you back. She didn't have to. She's the goddess of death, so she can pretty much do whatever she wants. But...we did the ritual, and she honored it. So...yeah, she's scary as fuck, but...she's not on my shitlist. At least not today."

And that's Vex'ahlia, a shitlist a mile long with gods coming on and off it as easily as any man. "Well, I'm glad. And for the record, I've been a fan since she brought you back. As long as you're kicking, she's alright in my book."

There's a hesitation in her brushstroke, and Vax knows she's wondering if it was worth it. Gods, she's supposed to be the smart one. "Well. Good thing you're back, yeah? Kinda hard to celebrate Keyleth's Aramenté with her boyfriend's dead body hanging out on the side."

Vax laughs, and then twists around to pull his sister into a hug. "You know how much I love you, Stubs?"

Vex chuckles into the crook of his neck, but the sound is wet, like she's fighting back tears. "I love you, too. Can you maybe cut back on the dying, though? I don't want it to become a habit, darling."

"No promises." And that he means. It's hard to promise he won't die when he has so much worth dying for. Still, he kisses her cheek and says, "Now finish making me pretty, please."

She rolls her eyes again and he spins around, grinning. So much worth dying for, yes, but even more to live for, he thinks, as his sister begins brushing out his hair again.

[satinea]

L'amour est blanc parce qu'il est la somme de toutes les couleurs, parce qu'il est la gomme qui m'efface, m'épelle et fait valser l'alphabet de mon identité, parce qu'il est le trou au travers de mon corps, le cerceau par où le jour entre et sort, bondit et se propage en rugissant dans ma chair nue.

L'amour est blanc comme la nuit, l'aube entre parenthèses, les pointes des parenthèses tendues pour se rejoindre, tracer l'oeil aveugle du voyant. L'amour est blanc comme le premier lange de la vie, et son linceul recommencé, la robe des communiants et la couronne de fleurs sur la tête des vierges qu'on mène à la déflo­ration, l'amour est blanc comme la chemise de l'homme que je veux, les draps entre lesquels je l'imagine, car de n'importe quelle couleur les draps sont toujours blancs, où dansent nos corps en ombres chinoises, les draps sont blancs comme les pages tissées de toute éternité par les fileuses de destins, blancs comme l'écume laissée sur la plage, et la crête des vagues quand au matin on les secoue sur l'île désertée du lit.

Les draps sont blancs parce que si longtemps les femmes les ont empilés dans de sombres armoires comme une lumière secrète, parce que je les ai vus étendus par terre au soleil comme des offrandes, où ils étaient l'image même de l'Amour couché sous le Ciel, ouvert, extasié sous le poids du divin dans l'herbe scintillante des prés.

L'époque est sombre et j'ai envie de lumière, de vies tissées d'envies de vivre, de désirs solides et joyeux, je veux des choses concrètes, anciennes et humaines, comme les rêves, la pensée, la musique, la danse, les livres et le plaisir. Je veux de l'amour.

REYES ALINA - Les draps blancs (Extrait "Politique de l'amour")

[brooklynislandgirl]

An antiqued bulb cast warm, low light on the couple who lay entwined; a tawny leg hooked over a broad, ink-painted shoulder the only sight of them glass and filament could make out from its perch upon a distant, stout armoire. All it knew was that they'd not been there too long, and that something silky and lacy and barely there at all had been thoughtlessly discarded before a head of cropped, jet black hair dipped low and nudged from she who owned the lean appendage draped over that shoulder the most erotic sound.

A purr of equally sensual enjoyment escaped on the breath Ron let out and then drew in again near Beth's skin; his nose and lips at home upon her pubic bone and drifting southwards, kiss by kiss, at a torturously, purposefully languid pace. Nothing bar Beth begging him to would make him rush. He enjoyed worshipping her like this far too much, and he told her so-

"--luv th'taste'a yah"

-in the same sultry tone he'd suggesting retiring early in. Eyes that most thought were black and doll-like, dead of feeling, shone in the inviting dim their natural rich, chocolate brown as Ron gazed between kisses up along Beth's dusky planes; lean and supple and stunning to him, for all it'd taken a little time for him to understand precisely how. A broad hand stroked upwards from her hipbone to the very base of her ribs as he bent his head to continue his worshipping, another of those sensual purrs - encouragement, affection and want shot through it - easing free as his lips parted and he sampled again that taste.

Sense and Sensibility || Accepting

For all the night might be damp and the rain pattering a hymn from far asea against the windows of Cedra Court, it isn't her Mother's embrace that she feels, nor is it that particular dance that sweeps through Ron's soul. The moment is theirs alone and his breath is a sirocco against her own shores. One that raises her back as a perfectly arched question mark, that is paired with a sound that might be carved out of a particularly sinful sultry answering breath. The sole of one small foot flattens against his back ~nebulous ground between scapular muscle and intercostals. Toes curl and dig in to remind him of their presence. She'd been no lamb to the slaughter after supper when she reclined on the far end of the sofa, nimble fingers and slender needles knitting yet another one of the dozens of afghans she'd worked diligently on to donate to Battersea ~he'd mentioned that the walls were slightly cool the last time he'd gone to spend time with the dogs there and she hated the idea of any one of the animals knowing cold~ while Ron'd been reading in his chair as was his wont. She was preternaturally aware when he'd placed his marker and set the tome aside, picked up their cups and placed him into the sink A wink and a heartbeat later, his hands hand rounded against her shoulders. When she tilted her head to the side to better accommodate him, his lips had been at her ear. Her answer was the rush of a smile and the heat that flooded her features. She was certain he could hear her pulse pounding loudly in her ears. His hands had slid her camisole from her body, she'd undone his shirt button by button. Suspenders allowed to hang about his hips. Her skirt had fluttered to the floor before she'd felt the bedding at her back. Felt his hands draw the last barrier of silk and lace from her skin before he'd nestled there. He stokes that ache with his nose, with his mouth, lush lips sliding against sensitive flesh. He'd brought her hips that much closer to his questing tongue by giving one leg up to rest beside his neck. She feels what he says rather than hears it and he most certainly cannot miss the reciprocating slickness that pools within her. She feels like she hovers on the threshold of divinity itself. Her throat is full of broken words, shattered by every pass of a calloused finger or the sweet agony of his tongue, and come out in those fragments of sound, gentled but guttural. She musters a moment when he gives mercy. One hand, previously a claw clutching their sheets in a grip like iron, manages to unclench only to reach down. Nails graze through his shorter locks to leave their spectral passage against his scalp. "Warn ya, Ronnie…I'll exact same same from you because I wan savour ya forevah." No other words see the dim light that gleams against their skin, but neither is she silent either as she writhes beneath him.

[roncevalois]

Bienvenue à l'État Souverain de Ronceval.

Mais qu'est-ce que c'est?

L'État Souverain de Ronceval (the Sovereign State of Ronceval) is a fictional country set in the collaborative worldbuilding project tentatively named "Ostrich Project." This is a world which is largely unknown to the Roncevalois, and which is filled with magick and mystery.

The year is 1450, or so. Eight years after a civil war dethroned Ronceval's monarchy and put a professed republic in its place. Et, mon ami, le monde est sur le point de devenir fou!

D'accord. Alors, qui sont les personnages principaux?

Great question. More characters will be introduced as time goes on, of course, but the two need-to-know figures right now are le Chef d'État, le Duc Conrad Montvigne VI d'Arsouaint, and le Dauphin Hugo Païspèret III de Ronceval. And possibly Dauphin Hugo III's dad, le Roi Hugo II. Here's the deal: Hugo 2 ruled le Royaume de Ronceval until 1442, when he was dethroned in a civil war (with republican forces led by Duc Conrad VI). Pity, he's dead, leaving Hugo III as Dauphin (a title for the eldest son of a king) and next-in-line for the throne... only Hugo III must flee Conrad's republicans. So he's currently living in the neighboring Marlusca. That leaves Conrad d'Arsouaint as Chief of State in Ronceval, worshipping the Divine Sun and persecuting heretics. Think Cromwell and the Protectorate.

Le Soleil Divin? Qu'est-ce que c'est? Et la culture de Ronceval, c'est comme quoi?

One at a time! Luckily, those two questions go nicely together. Let's start with the latter. As you may have guessed by the fact that you're speaking French, and by these French-sounding names, the culture of Ronceval is heavily inspired by late-medieval and early-modern France. And the language is just basically French, although I may tweak it a bit to be closer to Middle French (we'll see). However, to get a full picture of the culture, one must blend in a bit of Puritanism and Cromwell's Protectorate...

This is where le Soleil Divin comes in. See, le Royaume de Ronceval used to follow the polytheistic religion of Adstralism, just like its neighbors to the south. However, the victory of the republicans in 1442 dethroned not only the king, but also Adstralism. It was officially replaced by Soleilisme, which posits that all of the "Divins" (good deities) of Adstralism are "Profanes" (evil deities) posing as good gods, with the sole exception of le Soleil Divin. This also comes with throwing off the power of the Holy Patriarchate and strict restrictions on sorcery (in contrast with le Royaume de Ronceval, which played nice with the Holy Patriarchate and held those gifted in the arcane arts in high regard). Those who dare to break Soleiliste dogma are punished harshly. I will go more in-depth with these ideas... later.

Alors, expliquez-moi les armoires de Ronceval.

You can see the coat of arms of Ronceval in this blog's icon. I do not know how to write a blazon, and I will not try. However, the symbolism here is quite simple. The sun of course represents le Soleil Divin. The torch represents the Soleiliste practice of venerating fire (as an extension of le Soleil Divin and its power). Each Soleiliste temple keeps an Eternal Flame, each taken from the main fire in Ronceval's capital city. The colors red and gold (gules and or for you heraldry dweebs) also represent le Soleil Divin and fire. They were also conveniently the royal colors of le Royaume de Ronceval.

C'est tout?

For now. I encourage you to check back often! À la gloire du Soleil Divin, mon ami!

[mostwastedpreciouslife]

My Personal Wish List:

Clothes rack or armoir

Soundcore by Anker Sleep A10

Fels naphtha

Sony WH-1000XM4

PF Candle Co. Teak & Tobacco candle + incense

Rouge Dior lipstick in shade 413, 513, 600, 500, 400, 313, or 320

Meyers lemon verbana, rose, & orange clove candles

Carbona laundry stain scrubber

Full length mirror

Rug pads

Dr. Bronners lemongrass sugar soap

“ “ liquid & bar soap (citrus, rose, & unscented)

4-tier Bamboo shoe rack

Simply divine botanicals Skincredible sandalwood elixir

“ “ black velvet face wash

Method pink grapefruit foaming hand soap

The Crossing by Cormac McCarthy

Cities of the Plain by “ “

Trainspotting & porno by Irvine welsh

Downy wrinkle release spray

An actual coffee table

A dining table and chairs

[omagazineparis]

Les meilleures sportives (2/3) : les stars en individuel

Du collectif, on s’attarde désormais sur la personne. La personnalité et le vécu d’une athlète corrèlent souvent à une carrière remplie de succès et de triomphes.  D��ailleurs, ces meilleures sportives citées, dans ce deuxième épisode, ont dominé leur discipline de manière imposante. Pour leur rendre hommage, voici un panel de championnes marquantes de l’histoire du sport féminin. Laure Manaudou (Natation)  Un prodige de la natation qui brillait dans les bassins alors qu’elle n’avait même pas la majorité. Entraînée par Philippe Lucas, Laure Manaudou appartient à l’histoire de la natation française. Cette sirène se relève au grand public lors des Jeux Olympiques d'Athènes. À 17 ans, elle rafle 3 médailles dont l’or sur 400 m nage libre. Sa montée en puissance continue sur la scène française (58 titres de championne de France), continentale (17) et mondiale (3). En 2007, elle a l’honneur d’être la nageuse mondiale mais son niveau baissera significativement dû des problèmes personnels. Néanmoins, Laure Manaudou reste une immense championne qui succède à d’autres comme la défunte Camille Muffat, Charlotte Bonnet, Mélanie Henique ou Béryl Gastaldello.  Nadia Comanecci (Gymnastique)  Dans la ville de Montréal, Nadia Comanecci redéfinie la perfection aux Jeux Olympique de 1976 avec sa performance notée à 10. (Source Photo : Sipa / AP Photo/STF) Avant la suprématie de Simone Biles, une Roumaine avait littéralement mis le monde à ses pieds : Nadia Comăneci. Démarrant la gymnastique à 6 ans, la native d'Onesti fait une performance XXL qui marquera l’histoire des Jeux Olympiques. Le 18 juillet 1976 aux Jeux de Montréal, Nadia Comăneci remporte le concours général avec une note parfaite de 10. Non seulement elle glane l’or et le cœur du public mais elle est, à 14 ans, la plus jeune gymnaste à dominer un classement général. L’une des meilleures athlètes du 20 siècle continue de briller avec 5 titres olympiques, 2 victoires mondiales et 9 sacres européens. Spécialiste de la poutre, la Roumaine assoie sa domination mais arrête la compétition à 20 ans. Traquée par la politique de Nicolae Ceausescu, elle fuit son pays pour avoir une meilleure vie.  Suzanne Lenglen (Tennis)  Suzanne Lenglen avait la grâce dans le jeu mais aussi sur sa tenue vestimentaire. (Source Photo : DR) Nom d’un court de tennis ! Oui, mais Suzanne Lenglen était la star du tennis à son époque. "La Divine" réussit sur le terrain à se construire une notoriété sportive avec une panoplie de victoires. Au début du XIXe siècle, elle est la reine des courts avec des trophées en tournoi : 81 victoires en simple (dont 3 médailles olympiques), 73 en double. Outre une personnalité forte et une rage de vaincre, Lenglen est devenue, en raison de sa tenue vestimentaire, une icône de la mode. Jupe courte, baskets légères et bandeau en toile, elle sort du lot et modernise le tennis féminin. Avant sa mort, à 39 ans d’une leucémie, elle collabore avec une grande maison de couture pour concevoir des modèles de sport. Une légende de classe du Hall of Fame ! Anissa Meksen (Kick-Boxing)  Anissa Meksen, l'une des meilleures sportives, possède une armada de ceintures gagnées grâce à ses nombreux KO. (Source Photo : Gazette Sports) Inconnue du grand public, cette combattante s’est construite une carrière dans l’ombre en mettant KO à ses adversaires. Anissa Meksen collectionne les ceintures dans son armoire à succès. Spécialiste en kick-boxing et boxe française, Meksen s’avère très polyvalente en combat : savante, jiu-jitsu ou judo. Dans son parcours sportif, la Nancéienne accumule des succès dans sa catégorie poids super-cops (51 - 54 kg). En 2014, on lui décerne le titre de la meilleure boxeuse de l’année. Légende vivante du kick-boxing féminin, elle est devenue à maintes reprises championne du monde à 32 ans est espère encore plus marquer l’histoire de sa discipline. Auprès du média La Sueur, sa motivation est présente et assumée.  Layne Beachley (Surf)  Ce n'est pas les vagues qui porte Layne Beachley mais l'inverse. (Source Photo : Faze Magazine) Comme on l’a vu avec Justine Mauvin, les vagues sont domptées aussi par les surfeuses des mers. D'ailleurs, il y a une surfeuse qui s‘avère être la plus titrée du WSL malgré la présence de Carissa Moore ou Stéphanie Gilmore, son nom : Layne Beachley. Elle a fait les beaux jours du surf féminin en dominant ses adversaires au début des années 2000. Layne succède à la star étasunienne Lisa Andersen a qui contribué fortement à la mise en lumière du surf féminin. Entre 1998 et 2003, l’Australienne de Sydney remporte 6 fois consécutivement le titre de championne du monde au WSL. De plus, elle s’offre un 7e titre en 2006 pour devenir la surfeuse la plus âgée à être championne du monde, à 33 ans.   Yelena Isinbayeva (Saut à la perche)  La Russe Yelena Isinbeyeva a mis la barre haute. (Source Photo : Reuters) Par la perche, Yelena Isinbayeva a trouvé les cieux pour marquer les esprits dans sa discipline, qui est olympique seulement depuis 2000. Avant de s’embarquer au saut à la perche, la Tsarine s’expérimente à la gymnastique artistique. Néanmoins, à cause de sa grande taille (1m 74), elle doit changer de sport. En junior, elle se surpasse avec de bons résultats et poursuit son ascension dans l’élite des femmes perchistes. Dans sa carrière, Isinbayeva totalise 3 titres européens, 6 sacres mondiaux, 2 titres olympiques. En outre, Yelena met en avant son sport médiatiquement par ses records au dessus des 5 mètres. En 2005, elle est la première femme à franchir cette hauteur symbolique à Londres. Avec un saut à 5m 06, la Russe détient à ce jour le record du monde.  Malgré cette sélection de classe mondiale, les meilleures sportives sont nombreuses à bâtir une carrière prestigieuse. À juste titre, on y trouve Carolina Marin au badminton, Annika Sörenstam au golf ou Alexandra Ledermann à l'équitation. Dites-nous en commentaire les meilleures sportives qui ont marqué l’histoire de leur discipline. Par la suite, on conclura cette série d'articles par les athlètes féminines en handisport. Read the full article

[bluepenguinstories]

Suit of Armoire

For a short while I thought we could be or maybe that was my bad, or my imagination. But you know that’s how I’ve always defined my life not by what’s around me but by the worlds I’ve constructed. Nearby there’s a step that will crack and lead us all into a deeper hole.

Total mistake. I can’t remember now if you ever existed at all. Despite your insistence that we take each other’s hands at every opportunity, those invitations were passed. For both of our sake, I hope we don’t meet unless it’s within each other’s memories. For the sake of our minds and our lives I hope every time rain falls you remember how it feels to be powerless.

At least say you’re aware of what we took from each other. As I write in this journal I can’t say that I hate you. Even those who I have hated, I still remember. Even you, too, and it’s still so fresh. But I wonder if you ever remember the lives that we lost or left behind.

Just once, try to think of me as something other than divine. I think I’d look good hung up on a wall. And you, you could wring my neck squeeze me until you make juice. There’s a hook with my name on it and I’m slick and loose, I know despite the heat that I will never dry.

[campmurderparty]

ashley & jasika.

“Umm…” He should’ve said no. He knew that he should’ve been more vigilant, the world was so dangerous now. He should tell her that she’d have to find some other place to go… but she was just a young woman. And she was alone. He had the divine right to be wary, but what would his mother have thought about him turning away someone that needed help? A defenseless, crying woman, at that. “Sure, i don’t have a problem with that.” ashley smiled softly, trying to seem welcoming though he still felt on edge. He didn’t travel with others much, always preferring to be a solitary creature even before the apocalypse, and although he had two younger half-brothers, he considered himself to be an only child. To put it simply, he wasn’t used to sharing. And there was still the possibility that maybe she was lying, that there was someone waiting outside to ambush him and steal all his things–which, granted, wasn’t much.

“It’s not really my home. I’m from iowa, actually. ” ashley clarified sheepishly. The house we was currently staying in was just a random house he saw a week ago, one that looked decently livable. He never really had a destination in mind, just moving from place to place aimlessly. The nature of the world made everyone into vagabonds. “But i’ve been staying here for a little while. I mostly just stick around the living room and the kitchen, though.” he felt safest there. The stairs to the upper floor had been sectioned off with a large armoire blocking them and he hadn’t heard any sort of noise from the living or the dead inside since he chose it. A relatively small house, it reminded him a lot of the one he grew up in. “there’s not much to say about me, honestly. I was a librarian before all of… this.” he gestured vaguely towards outside, “what about you?”

[nekasu]

"For all I know, it could have been charged with divine power, magic power, or youkai power. Electricity is a curious thing, but it's not as though I can generate it on a whim."

At her bold declaration, he raised an eyebrow at her. "You were a bit too quick to offer your body, even recognizing the connotations it could convey. Though it's not like I need someone to help me move an armoire or anything, so I'm confused what someone with above-average strength could offer." He still wasn't denying her, but wanted to see what she could come up with.

"Sorry! I just... You didn't know what charging was and batteries are..." She paused. "I'll skip that one, its a bit much of a lesson. And probably not relevant anyways." She said pushing it aside. However at the mention of an offering she got wise. "I can offer my body!" She said a bit too quickly. "I-I mean for labor and aid. As long as I'm fed I'm stronger than a normal person I can do almost anything you want, and even do some stuff other people can't. I... Yeah I have enough power to use those functions, they don't take up much charge at all."