#place libertine

[blueraconteurs]

re-listening to the tim burgess libs podcast episode and jfc it’s a ride…not only do p+c have about 7 arguments throughout but Peter is clearly furious (and trying poorly to hide it) when tim and carl detail their adventures in Montmartre 😭😭

[loveinthetimeofcoolers]

i know it's not like literal but it makes me laugh when up the bracket's like they said they'd pay me for your address but i was so bold. bro you live with him that's your address

[thetentaclecommander]

This is an 18+ blog. Pretty much anything under the Ao3 archive warnings section, and then some can and will likely be represented here, so no histrionics, plz. I don't have a DNI or 'required reading' but do have 'things' listed at post bottom in case they are like deal breakers or whatever so you cannot say you weren't given advance warning as to my content. *I will not waste my time reading DNIs, strawpages, Carrds or whatever new not on tumblr page. The block button is a great (sex) toy and you are free to use it at will. I sure as hell do.* +++ FAQ Who is this? Hi, I’m TTC

I write Nemesis and Jill boning a lot. For the plot, supposedly. Been doing so forever ago. What are you? An immortal sentient tentacle who moonlights as a jaded fandom old. I can and will out-drink you. What other names have you've gone by? I've lovingly been called That Tentacle and Server Satan. I'm a walking kink-filled perv factory full of bad ideas, hence the names. + What fics do you write? Fic list for the Devil's Saga AU. The Ships in the AU My AO3 + Tags for Blog Navigation Here. + (Con't under the cut for more general info and disclaimers)

Why is...this? Because I want to see more Nemesis/Jill content, and it’s a bitch to find. Also, after years of putting off even joining Tumblr, I wanna share my AU and keep this crack ship alive. Maybe even fanwank on my thoughts about Toll and Onery or even on Jill, the long-suffering bad bitch that Cap keeps forgetting has a compelling storyline right there. But this is mostly just blatant shilling of my AU + What’s your fandoms? Resident Evil. To be clear, I mainly stan RE3: Nemesis, not the remake one. The 1999 one. But in general, I like this goofy series, boulders, nonsense science, bad plot, and all. I do like other stuff that I might occasionally reblog. Could be silly shit like Helluva Boss/Hazbin Hotel or Arcane to heavy shit like BTD. I'm random like that. + Format of each post: A snippet, a link to Ao3. I’ll list any pertinent CWs if needed. My fics tend to be 18+ some of them marked with Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings and DD:DNE (ie unapologetically dark shit cause RE is a survival horror franchise), so keep that in mind. I might drop early snips; I haven’t decided on that yet. + Is Nemmy -ever- nice in your fics? Pffft (well, he’s 'nice' in bursts, as in a burst of tentacles through Brad’s face). In seriousness, in my take on him, he’s complicated, having the ability to be ""kind"", and ""caring"" but is a Tyrant through and through - basically closer to canon. I like canonical villains and I like my monsters monstrous and, at times, barely grasping that human/monster line. Expect infestations and murder. + What is your stance on RE3: Nemesis (1999) and RE3 (2020)? 1. remake Carlos got the glow up omg 2. Jill was sassy in both and I do love og but ngl remake!Jill was so done and I feels her 3. the monsterfucker vibes was mostly immaculate 4. og Nemesis was hotter and scarier. 3make massacred my boy (I don't judge those that like 3make, but maaan my boi T.T) like my biggest gripe along with the cut content was the game missing the point of Nemmy entirely reducing him to an annoying superman jumping nuisance and honestly lessening the N/J shippy vibes for me + Do you do fic requests? RPs? No. I simply don’t have the focus/time to do requests or things outside of my stories. I write what I want when I want. + Do you do DMs or Asks? I just flit in the night and talk when I feel like it. I prefer all convos in the broad daylight on public posts. But I’ll open my Asks. Be stupid, and I’ll simply close them. Capisce? Also if you DM me wastes of time things like 'Hi', 'hello' - the kinda shit ppl mock on dating sites especially with a pretty much blank profile, you'll be blocked. In fact, I block pretty freely as I value my time. + Don't Whine, You Know What I'm About [Disclaimers To Save People Time] This Tentacle posts here: -sex acts that ranges from soft to oh gods please don’t kill me -urk- -tentacle murder/parasitic 'fun'/horrible things occurring -high/low brow story drama (think Gothic Horror-esque) -crack ships mixed in with canon with zero regard about their 'purity' -monsterfucker shit, duh This Tentacle: -believes that fiction does not have the power of a death note over one's actions and believes people are not inherently stupid or unable to understand for themselves what they engage in -holds sex positive/pagan/kink and leather/poly/queer friendly/profic views -is against the -isms and/or -phobias used against others -laughs at killjoy puritans; your hell/churchy-speak means nothing to me a lifelong heathen eldritch egg laying being If you hate any of these you’ll -not- have a fun time with my works. Also, this shouldn't have to be said, but kiddos (under 18) Be not seen or heard as per ye old adult fandom rules. I reject all signal boosting requests/callouts; promotions will be at MY discretion. (More than likely, the answer will be 'no'.) We team SALS/DLDR/YKINMKBYKIOK in these parts. Be freely stupid with your ships; none of it’s real. Fandom is stupid, don’t take it so serious. Also, the murderkink. Gotta have the murderkink and worms. A'ight, Enjoy!

[milfsarahmccool]

hodor’s gay nightclub in belfast just shut down, no one look at me

[yzzart]

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧ DO YOU LOVE WHEN I CALL YOU THAT? .ᐟ

୭˚. ᵎᵎ content warnings: F!reader, 18+, Kenji referring to reader as his wife and being a fucking tease, unprotected sex, dirty talk, praise, teasing, touching, explicit words, explicit content.

Probably, in fact, there were many possibilities, the noises of the bed squeaking against the wall, even though it was made of excellent material, could be heard from outside the room; accompanied by moans, obscene noises and some indecent words. — But who would be able to complain about that?

Inside the room, a dimly lit environment but still showing silhouettes, all the noises and noises mentioned were more intense, powerful and lively, in addition to the sound of flesh struggling against each other; becoming much more than wanton and immoral. — And much tastier.

"I love eating that beautiful pussy." — His warm breath brushes your reddened cheek and is a little wet from thin tears, while you whimper when you feel his thick tip poking that sensitive and delicate spot. — "And you know a lot about that, don't you?" — A question, unanswerable, mixed with a grunt, moan came from Kenji's bold lips.

He dragged his mouth, uttering sinful praises and hoarse hums, along your chin and, at the same time, ran wet, sloppy kisses on your skin and leaned in to admire your reactions and expressions, showing an immense, intense, satisfaction and pleasure, almost becoming exulting; the immense wave of pleasure became agonizing, almost unbearable.

"Is that ok, my love?" — He asked, closing his eyes, for a few seconds, it almost became a growl, something so skittish when he felt your nails being dug into his back. — "Pf, look at those claws…" — Kenji murmured with a hoarse laugh, a shameless smile pulling at his lips, thinking about the thick, reddish lines that will decorate his back later.

"Ken..ji!" — Desperately, the only thing that was going through your mind was his name and nothing else, not even your conscience or notion, even respect for yourself, punctuated your little head. — "Mm, please, please."

"Oh, my beautiful wife." — Moving his mouth to your ears, scraping his teeth on the earlobe, Sato's words came out, satisfyingly, in a fascinating way, more than sensual and so impudent; performing an unsurprising action at the same time so libertine of you. — "Holy shit, damn…?"

Immediately, in a matter of agile and apprehensible seconds, after directing you with that statement, during his rhythm, Kenji felt your warm, inner walls squeezing, possessively, slyly and exaltedly, his cock; more moans, cunning and drawn-out meows came out of your lips, with your nails, eminently, stuck to the older's skin. — He felt your body softer, needier, in shock after his words, which left him intrigued, yearning.

Who could have imagined?

"Ah, you love it when i call you that." — He spoke, seriously, but with a little grace, ecstatic with what he had just felt and witnessed. Kenji's bold tongue flicked across his cheek, the taste of your sweat transferred to his palate, and he placed a soft bite on the apple of your cheek. — "My wife." — Sato moved his hips, moving away from the intimate and erotic contact, keeping the tip at your entrance, and then diving into your pussy again; highlighting a delightful and pleasurable thrust, once again reaching your sensitive spot.

"My beautiful, beautiful wife.

[amourcheol]

the lords who loved me (series masterlist)

g e n r e : smut, fluff, angst, bridgerton! au, regency au! for certain fics -> friends with benefits! au, opposites attract! au, sunshine x grumpy! au, slow burn! au, forbidden love! au, enemies to lovers! au

s u m m a r y : the diamond club of mayfair is the most notorious, sought-after gentlemen's club in london. every member is a figure of great wealth, class or power, but none have such fame as five dear friends, the eligible lords of the ton. each acclaimed lord has their dreams and desires, concerns and anxieties, but all of them have one aspect in common.

every single one of these gentlemen will find their love match—whether they want to or not.

a u t h o r ' s n o t e : this is my first ever series and i’m so so excited to write about bridgerton!! this is something i've been wanting to write since late 2021 :') the storylines are all loosely connected (some more than others) but can still be read separately!! do send an ask/comment if you want to be added to the taglist, and enjoy the journey that's about to come <3

back to masterlist

❝Why learn the complexities of desire all by yourself, when your dearest friend can merely teach you?❞

g e n r e : friends with benefits! au, friends to lovers! au, smut, angst, fluff

s u m m a r y : you think you know everything about your best friend, dashing bachelor lord joshua hong. when you stumble upon his suggestive literature from his recent travels, however, reading even an extract is enough to make you question everything. unsure of your newfound feelings, you turn to your confidante, unaware of just how much knowledge—and experience—he has to offer.

c o n t e n t : best friend! joshua, best friend! soonyoung too, references of real erotic literature from the 1700s because this is not an amourcheol fic without historical accuracy, joshua acts like a man (yikes), soonyoung a true mvp, diamond's member shenanigans mature warnings -> tons of sexual tension, making out, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (regency protection is goofy mb), overstimulation, corruption kink (!!!), body worshipping, mc is horned up, surprising amount of fluff in this

s t a t u s : taken!

❝Because Wonwoo was a wandering soul, and you were the anchor to his lost creativity.❞

g e n r e : writer! au, strangers to lovers! au, opposites attract! au, fluff, angst, smut

s u m m a r y : since his last successful play years ago, lord jeon wonwoo has lost all motivation to write his next masterpiece. hiding himself away in his countryside manor, he expects inspiration to strike. what he does not expect is you, his new spinster neighbour, to storm through his halls, and into his cold, aching heart.

c o n t e n t : writer! wonwoo, landowner! reader, mc is inspired by bathseba everdene from far from the madding crowd, wonwoo has writers block on stereoids, wonwoo is also a class-a loser but it’s okay cause he’s hot, lowkey love triangle with enhypen jake, descriptions of real places in england cause historical accuracy once again, this will be Long because i am an advocate of slow burn, there will be angst, mature warnings -> sexual tension, making out, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, body worship, more tba !!

s t a t u s : eligible.

❝How can one be professional with a partner as scandalous as Lord Kwon Soonyoung?❞

g e n r e : sunshine x grumpy! au, theatre! au, fluff, smut

s u m m a r y : you never believed yourself to be a particularly brilliant actress—that is, until lord kwon soonyoung scouts you for his next theatre production. amongst lessons and overwhelming emotions, you find that acting can be particularly difficult with a carefree scoundrel—especially if you are his next target.

c o n t e n t : theatre actress! reader, entertainer! soonyoung, inspired by the movie the libertine, soonyoung is a certified rake, mc hates (and is horrendously attracted by) it, references to shakespeare and restoration plays, wonwoo being silly, mature warnings -> Sexual Tension, so much Tension, making out, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, edging, soonyoung is such a tease it's crazy, more tba !!

s t a t u s : eligible.

❝What could go wrong for an unattainable lady to fool around with an untouchable gentleman?❞

g e n r e : forbidden love! au, rich x (kinda) poor! au, smut, fluff, angst

s u m m a r y : you were the diamond of this season. beautiful, accomplished, and of noble birth, your future was tied to the man who would be successful enough to attain you. when your eyes catch the newly labelled lord chan at your debutante ball, you decide to let curiosity take the lead—and enjoy the consequences that ensue.

c o n t e n t : new money! chan, old money! reader, reader is kinda arrogant(?), chan will fix her though, cheol will be very annoying this fic, sneaking around, mature warnings -> making out, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, multiple sex scenes through a bridgerton-esque montage, chan is crazy cocky but is also a loser because i believe in chan range, more tba !!

s t a t u s : eligible.

❝Keep your lovers close, and your enemies closer. Keep Choi Seungcheol, however, the closest.❞

g e n r e : enemies to lovers! au, exes to lovers! au, angst, smut

s u m m a r y : everyone in the ton was aware of your hatred towards choi seungcheol. when the powerful lord discovers a deep secret, however, he vows to humiliate you for his own pleasure. you decide to indulge him—if only to save yourself. what you failed to consider was that dancing with the devil can only end in ruination.

c o n t e n t : rake! seungcheol, lady! reader, these two hate each other cause too many people are pussies when it comes to e2l, seungcheol is insufferable, so is the mc, slowburn which will want to tear your hair out, painstaking angst which will be rewarded, mature warnings -> making out fuelled by intense hatred, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, edging, overstimulation, dirty talk galore, reader is a brat, more tba !!

s t a t u s : eligible.

[blueraconteurs]

awesome to finally see up the bracket alley in person today although i think a bunch of it got painted over because this was the only part with quite a bit of writing, but it was nice to see it and add my own contributions nonetheless :) made me so happy to see so many love letters and lyrics n stuff, i love this band soooo much <3

[rafesplaymate]

Introducing …

Pimp!Rafe Cameron x Vixen!Reader

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summary: The life of a cold-hearted Pimp and his man-eating Vixen. A libertine and debauchee, both completely sybaritic and in the same line of work. Two people who are one of the same with desires of luxury, wealth, sex and complete uninhibited hedonism.

warnings: prostitution / escorting. smut. substance use. power imbalances. dark themes / adult content.

a/n: yes ik irl pimps are terrible people (i mean it’s rafe) but just hear me out …

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Pimp!Rafe who makes his own version of the Playboy Mansion at Tannyhill. Tired of the stark emptiness that filled the mansion and looking into new business ventures. Quickly recruiting girls and buying the properties across Tannyhill to house his girls. Throwing parties and quickly building clientele through word of mouth to only those he deemed worthy.

Pimp!Rafe who hires mostly pogues who are looking to make a higher income and leave their lifestyles behind. Though he has a bit of kook girls who are more than willing for the fun of it and to up their income as well. He’s picky about who he hires, only desiring the top tier. Having rejected many girls with a stoic expression and flick of his wrist while he mutters a ‘you can go.’ Their eyes filled with tears as they run down the long driveway in embarrassment. Rafe is too cold-hearted to care.

Pimp!Rafe who makes his girls call him ‘master’ and wear gold chokers with the initial ‘R’ around their throats. Reminding his clientele, them and the island who they belonged to.

Pimp!Rafe who never gets shut down because the department is paid off by his hand and some of his best clientele. Indulging in the services his girls provide and protecting his reputation and image.

Pimp!Rafe who protects his girls vehemently and makes sure they’re always well taken care of and protected. Only putting them in place when they disrespect him. He often finds himself tangled within their various limbs on the ‘alaskin king’ he bought to accommodate his girls. His high-desire for sex satisfied completely.

Pimp!Rafe who is basically a libertine, a Don Juan if you will. He never falls for one of his girls and strictly views them as a form of satisfying his needs and supplying his income. His heart too cold to care and his only desire is to feed and satiate his hedonistic lifestyle. Setting rules and clarifying that everything is purely transactional from the start. Although most respect his desires, there are those who’ve tried and failed. So many times, he’s needed to kick girls out and rotate new ones in when they’ve fallen in love with him. Not willing to muddle or mess up his lucrative business.

Pimp!Rafe who only allows high-end clientele and ensures the safety and best interest of his girls by enforcing his excessive power. A sneer automatically setting on his face when someone from the ‘cut’ tries to reel in on his girls.

Pimp!Rafe who is adored by all his girls and excessively spoiled by genuine acts of affectionate to thank him. They do everything for him. Keeping him satisfied for taking care of them so well and suppling them with such great income. How could they not?

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Vixen!Reader who use to be a high end escort in Los Angeles. Specifically around Bel Air, Beverly Hills or Hollywood Hills. The highest playing clientele came from those areas. But WeHo night life was her preference.

Vixen!Reader whose staples are leather, latex, stripper heals, louboutins or stilettos. Chrome Hearts a staple jewelry alongside her valued diamonds and white gold. Versace’s Crystal Noir or Diors Hypnotic Poison always spritzed on her. Leaving a trail of intoxicating seductiveness everywhere she goes. Her fierce gaze always accentuated by either wispy lashes and glitter or a smokey eye that makes her look every bit like the vixen she is. Shimmery nude or pale pink glosses always slathered on her enticing lips.

Vixen!Reader who is a complete party girl. Hedonism runs in her veins. The life of the party, she always captures all eyes on her every where she goes and was the princess of LA’s nightlife. She’s practically a nymphomaniac; so unashamed about sex and nudity. It’s an art form in her eyes. A free spirit of pure shameless sexuality that would leave any conservative ready to throw holy water at her.

Vixen!Reader who is a total maneater. Only focused on her money, looks and internal desire to live the life she wants. She never falls for her clients and cuts them off when they fall for her. She doesn’t date, refusing to be tied down. She loves to mess around and have fun. She’s young, immensely sexy, desirable, making good money. She refuses to waste her best years committed.

Vixen!Reader is a local celebrity; her name infamous across the city and sought out all the time by wealthy men/women or industry celebrities. She’s been the muse of many musicians, writers and artist. Leaving them writing music or poetry about her fierce sexuality, hedonistic lifestyle and immaculate beauty or painting/photographing her gorgeous figure nude. Offered various modeling contracted she’s refused out of desire to keep the raunchy lifestyle she lives private. Satisfied with the influx of cash she makes; never settling for anything less than a rack and even that’s pushing it. She knows her worth. Other girls in the city trying to emulate her style and energy; always failing. She’s unmatched.

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Vixen!Reader eventually leaves LA. Tired of the clientele and negative stagnancy she started to feel in the city. Needing change, looking for new opportunities, people, experiences and more dirty cash. That’s how she finds herself moving to North Carolina, specifically ‘Kildare.’ Wanting to be around a beach environment she always enjoyed in California; yet so far away.

Vixen!Reader who realizes her savings were quickly running low, looking for work that paid her the income she became accustomed too. Hearing about Tannyhill by one of Rafe’s girls who was looking to scout her after being in complete awe seeing her at the market; knowing she’d make a perfect addition to their universe and please Master. Her desire for luxury and hedonism quickly making her accept.

Vixen!Reader who shows up to Tannyhill for the first time showing off her gorgeous figure in a tight black latex dress that barely goes over her ass. Her stunning legs accentuated by black “highness” louboutins; fierce gaze and beautiful eyes accentuated by a black smokey eye. Her sinful lips slathered in shimmery pale pink gloss and body slathered in oil/glitter; making her flawless complexion look so enticing. Vintage Chrome Hearts hanging off her delicate throat, around her wrist and decorating her pretty hands.

Vixen!Reader who walks into Tannyhill with an aura about her that exudes raw sex. Completely enigmatic and formidable, strutting across to the house entrance while other party-goers watch in awe. Ready to assert her reputation the way she did so all over Los Angeles. Quickly and easily succeeding.

Pimp!Rafe who feels that the world has stopped and his peripheral vision gets blurry the moment she steps into his line of sight. Making his body burn with the intense desire to own and dominate. She’s like nothing he’s ever seen on the island, a bewitching woman who he knew from the first glance was meant to be someone to him.

Vixen!Reader who struts up to Pimp!Rafe after being invited to the ‘VIP’ area by the girl recruiting her. Strutting in with a seductive sway of her hips, domineering steps and her gaze burning into his own. Gorgeous lips quirked into a small smirk as she stood confidently in front of him. Hands on both hips while she cocks one to the side. Letting Rafe run his gaze over her unabashedly as his legs spread wider and he adjust himself in his seat.

Pimp!Rafe who pats his lap and motions her over with a flick of his fingers. Draping his arms over the edge of the seat he sat on. Both of them holding eye contact with smirks on their lips and she walked over slowly. Some of the other girls strewn around watching in anticipation, gossiping, doing lines or shots. An energy of pure hedonism.

Vixen!Reader who plops herself with ease in Rafe’s lap, immediately looping her arm around his neck and legs crossing as she automatically runs her manicured nails over his buzzed head. Pimp!Rafe who purrs in satisfaction and shuts his eyes before looking back into her own. Undeniable chemistry and tension immediately fluttering around the area as they stared into each other’s eyes.

Pimp!Rafe who gives Vixen!Reader a soft peck on her lips. With a pinch of her chin, and a smirk on his lips he tells her, “welcome to your new home.” Satisfied with the way her eyes light up and the quick approval. Though she knew before she even came she would secure her position.

Vixen!Reader who rises to the top of the Tannyhill hierarchy very quickly, asserting dominance over the other girls as a former professional. Pleasing Rafe immensely with the huge influx of new clientele and dirty cash she was bringing him in. Not only praised by Rafe but adored by the other girls who view her as powerhouse. Quickly deeming her as the head of the group.

Pimp!Rafe who calls her his “little minx.” A nickname only reserved for her. She’s the only one he’s deemed allowed to call him ‘sir,’ or by his name. Quickly falling for her by the day, yet refusing to let his stone-cold heart thaw. Reminding himself what she was to him and where her position stands. Little did he know she was doing the exact same.

Vixen!Reader and Pimp!Rafe who constantly flirt and banter. Their energies matching each other’s own, chemistry constantly sizzling. Eventually the banter turns into late night talks that last for hours. Soft caresses and intense eye contact. Toeing the line they’ve both drawn. Building a bond they both promised to themselves wouldn’t happen in their line of work.

Vixen!Reader who is the only girl that doesn’t sleep with Rafe. She didn’t do it back in Los Angeles and she refuses to do it now. Her pride and professionalism overtaking her immense desire to fuck on him. Struggling to hold back when they’re inches from each other. She knows once she does her desire for him will increase; too afraid to admit how badly she wants him.

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Vixen!Reader and Pimp!Rafe who realize they’re one of the same. Desires for luxury, wealth, and freedom. Cold-hearted and shut off; domineering and formidable. Dark tendencies and raunchy lifestyles that could never be understood outside of their bond. Confessing the darkest depths of themselves to each other.

Pimp!Rafe who very quickly falls down a dark hole of infatuation, lust, possessiveness and burning desire for Vixen!Reader. His mind convincing him she was made for him, that she found her way here just to be his. That his decisions have led up to them meeting.

Vixen!Reader who feels exactly the same way. the two quickly growing possessive over one another. Toeing the line they refuse to cross, yearning for each other with fiery passion.

Pimp!Rafe who begins limiting Vixen!Reader’s clientele, assuring its for her safety rather than admit his body burns with blazing jealousy anytime he sees her near another man. She rolls her eyes at the ‘safety’’ excuse. He also stops sleeping with the other girls, preferring to spend his nights locked up in his home office to talk for hours with her instead.

Pimp!Rafe who gets Vixen!Reader a custom white-gold, diamond R.C choker so everyone knows exactly who she belongs too. The difference in design and material from the other girls a physical representation of her status and power in the little universe they live in.

Pimp!Rafe and Vixen!Reader who finally crack and cut into the suffocating tension they’ve built around them. Frantic kisses and confessions of infatuation. Hours of fucking in his office. On the leather couch, on his seat. Over the desk, on top of the desk. Against the window, against the wall. Taking each other apart in the little haven they’ve deemed the office as.

Pimp!Rafe who tells Vixen!Reader she’s his in a way the other girls aren’t. Refusing to admit yet what she is to him. Cutting her clientele to a complete halt and ‘promoting’ her as ‘mistress’ of Tannyhill. Guiding, protecting and taking care of the girls.

Pimp!Rafe who quickly moves Vixen!Reader into Tannyhill from the girls house. Making sure it was empty with no work and parties for a week. Sending away his staff and informing the girls to stay at the property he bought across from Tannyhill where they live.

Vixen!Reader who walked around Tannyhill naked most of the time, during that week. Opting for garters, crotchless panties, thigh-high stockings and either one of her various ‘pleaser’ platforms or ‘highness’ louboutins. Leaving Rafe hard constantly and pounding into her every moment with any chance he got.

Pimp!Rafe and Vixen!Reader who spend the entire week fucking each other’s brains out. Their matching staminas and dark desires being played out over every inch of Tannyhill. Even the luxurious garden. By the end of it their bodies are covered in marks. Both sticky from sweat, saliva and arousal. Rafe’s cum dripping out of both her abused holes and onto the soaked bedsheets of the master bedroom. Both quickly realizing they would never find the type of sex they have between them with anyone else.

Pimp!Rafe and Vixen!Reader who have a knack for substances. Snorting lines over each others bodies, popping pills into each others mouths, pouring champagne or cherry flavored vodka down each others throats. Rolling and blazing after their hours long fuck seshes and falling asleep tangled in each others arms with lines on the night stand, a roach in the ashtray and empty bottles strewn around with their clothes from their hasty undress they haven’t bothered to pick up. Too infatuated with one another.

Pimp!Rafe and Vixen!Reader who lay in bed panting after the latest round. Finally exhausted by the end of the week and tangled in each other’s arms while they mindlessly traced circles on each other’s skin. Soft kisses and sweet nothings whispered in each other’s ears along with soft caresses. Both quickly realizing they belong with one another. It must have been fate that brought them together; practically made for each other and fitting puzzle pieces.

Pimp!Rafe who finally after months of built up tension and a week of passionate love-making; tells Vixen!Reader she’s his woman. His mistress of the manor. She will rule alongside him, the empire he’s built for himself now hers as well. Admitting that his desire for her excels the physical attraction he feels for her. That the connection they have is a taste of hedonistic paradise he’s always yearned for.

Vixen!Reader who’s old desire to never be chained to someone now turned into a desire to only be chained to him. Confessing that never in her life did she think she would find herself in this position, let alone allowing him to be hers. Admitting that she feels that she’s finally found what she had come looking for. She won’t ever let it go.

Pimp!Rafe and Vixen!Reader who’s week ended with the beginning of an intense, passionate, volatile and all consuming relationship. A twisted love story that was only at its start …

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a/n: phew! that was lowkey long … i am so excited to put out this AU while i work on stepfather!rafe. i hope you all enjoy and any feedback is deeply appreciated. also …yall liking this new format i’m trying? i decided to stop being lazy with my work lol. much love, as always!

[rinhaler]

perv!Rin always having a pair of your used panties on him when he goes on away games… 🫶🫶🫶

-🌹

this has been in my inbox for months sorry I am slow <3333 love my man love my pervy boyfriend rinnie mmmmmm

warnings: 18+ MDNI, fem!reader, calls ur pussy she/her, male!masturbation, long distance relationship, perv!rin, panty thief!rin, descriptions of sex and pussy eating.

words: 1.2k

He thinks being apart from you is a challenge. It’s hard, of course, but he makes it a challenge.

There’s an edge to his plays when he’s been without you for so long. He thinks he performs better when he doesn’t even get to hear your voice. When he doesn’t get to hold you, kiss you, feel you, he’s unbeatable.

He’s not a weak man, but he is for you. He’s wrapped around your finger and he knows he’s never felt love like he feels for you. You are his only weakness, but you’re also his strength.

He lies awake at night thinking of you, desperate to call you. His heart races as he thinks about your head resting on his chest whilst playing with your hair, whispering sweet nothings until you fall asleep or can’t take it anymore. You allow him full control over your body when you’re tired, succumbing instantly to the way he gropes and pinches at your supple skin as the pale moonlight bleeds through your windows.

Those moments are the closest thing to heaven, for each of you.

And to be without that for days, weeks, months… it’s plain torture. He wonders if it pains you just as much to be without him, if you miss him nearly as much as he does you. It takes a colossal amount of will power to not pick up the phone and call you.

He can never keep track of time differences when he’s away. Maybe you’re already fast asleep, or maybe you’re out in public with your friends. What good would it do to whine about how desperately he needs you when you can’t give him what he needs?

He’d give just about anything to hear you moan needily down the phone to him. He wants to tell you to touch yourself and lower the phone between your legs so he can hear the way your wetness squelches, drooling profusely as she knows nobody touches her better than he does. Nobody’s fingers are as perfectly thick and able to pummel and rub all of your sensitive places perfectly, so perfect that you unravel in record time.

She knows that it won’t just be once, either, not when he’s mastered the art of making you cream and mess yourself so expertly that he can do it again and again and again.

The sight in his mind of you cumming like that makes him sit upright in his bed, panting heavily as he reaches for his phone. His breath fans across his quickly typing thumbs as he messily writes some frenzied message to you.

He stares down at his writing with a heavy lidded stare, his breathing beginning to slow as he sees what a pitiful string of words he’s combined. Telling you that he misses you and how fucking hard he is. That he hopes you’re at home and you can call because he needs more than anything to get off to the sound of your voice, your mewls, your soaking wet cunt.

But he erases it. All of it. This libertine thinking will make or break him if he allows it to consume him. He doesn’t want to break, he never wants to break.

He turns on the flashlight of his phone as slowly rises from his seat in the middle of his bed, apprehension in his steps as he wanders towards his suitcase. There’s sweat beading at his hairline, a droplet sliding down his temple. It’s on his mind, it’s a targeted endeavour, and still, he’s fighting against it.

This is the compromise.

That’s his train of thought as a glob of saliva bulges down his throat. He drops to the balls of his feet, carefully unzipping a pouch to retrieve an innocuous item he always borrows for these trips away.

He wouldn’t survive if he didn’t.

He wouldn’t win if he didn’t.

Your worn panties are part of a ritual for success. He doesn’t steal the same pair every time. It’s always different. This time, they’re white and lacey. He thinks they might be your favourites, they seem to be the ones you wear the most.

They’re soft, he touches the material carefully. The harsh light of his phone makes it hard to see, really see, the pads of his fingers are his guide. He feels the intricate pattern of the lace detailing as his resolve crumbles faster and faster by the nano second.

And soon, he’s smothering himself with them. He takes an ample inhale, a breath so deep it resounds throughout the room. His breath is shaky as he breathes out the rakish scent of your used panties. His eyes almost fall back into his skull as he feels his cock spurt from your scent alone.

There’s sure the be a stain on his sweats, but he couldn’t possibly care less. He takes them off before walking back to bed, lying comfortably, completely naked, as he looks up at the ceiling.

He continues to breathe in the incomparable fragrance of your worn underwear, his dick getting wetter and wetter as he leaks from his tip like some kind of Pavlovian response. Like it knows the smell of your cunt and what it means. Like it knows it’s about to taste or feel you wrapped around the length until his balls tighten and he floods your insides with his love.

He can barely keep quiet as he tugs and squeezes furiously in a desperate bid to reach his climax. His inhales become sporadic and shorter as he begins to surmount the peak of his reward for having some semblance of restraint. This is restraint. He didn’t text, he didn’t call like he wanted. Like he needed. He settled for his salacious little secret. Your stolen, your borrowed, panties that you made smell so perfect for him.

Just for him.

He wonders, sometimes, if you know of his twisted little habit.

He isn’t sure what he considers more of a turn on. The fact that you’re clueless and he’s been getting away with something so sickeningly perverse for so long. Or that you possibly have known all along, but don’t care. Maybe it turns you on, too, knowing that he needs your help to make it through these long trips. And you help him so effortlessly.

All you need to do is wear panties for him to take, for him to get off like this.

He moans boisterously as the idea of you knowing seems to win the interest of his perversions. He almost suffocates himself with the lace, using it to stifle his raucous undoing. Thick creamy ropes of cum shoot from his cockhead and splash on his tummy. His flexing abs decorated and sparkling, the streetlights illuminating his figure as his toes curl and his breathing begins to stabilise.

He's exhausted, finally. The gnawing unease gone and forgotten as the desire to sleep overrides anything and everything else littering his thoughts. He uses your panties to mop up the sticky cum coating his abs before tossing them aside.

He’ll get them cleaned before he comes home, he always does.

There’s one thought still booming in his mind that is louder than the desire to close his eyes and sleep. He grabs his phone, writing out a shorter, more cohesive message for you to read.

Goodnight princess, I love you x

He can’t hide his smirk when three little dots immediately pop up.

I love you too Rinnie, goodnight x

And with that, he can finally sleep peacefully. But, still, he can’t help but wonder…

Do you know?

© 2024 rinhaler

[titania-sleeps]

Angel Yandere x Nun Reader

mild nsfw, minors DNI pls, mentions of implied somnophilia

• Mikhael believed in the goodness within humans. Even if humans exhibited cruelty, it was as God intended, and everything would go back into place once the human's soul was purified.

• Mikhael thought his logic was sound, and thus lived his life charitably blessing humans. They would soon reach salvation anyway. Ease their suffering, and they would become good once more.

• Mikhael then met you. You were a nun in a convent near the church he frequented. Although you seemed rebellious at times, he knew your heart was pure.

• Mikhael enjoyed following you around. He knew that you couldn't see him anyway. Your daily life was mundane, but he enjoyed the knowledge that there were humans who took their dedication and faith seriously.

• Mikhael found himself drifting around you often. He feared that it would be inappropriate of him, but he convinced himself it was for the purpose of ensuring that your dedication was just. Even if it meant that he would be with you even while you slept.

• Mikhael would watch you sleep at night, gazing upon your moonlit form curiously. You elicited emotions within him that he thought he was far beyond.

• Mikhael eventually found himself craving the pleasures of the flesh as time went on. His body heated around you, and his heart pounded dangerously. It was so foreign to him, to experience the needs that he could only have imagined in the past.

• Mikhael wanted you to taint him. An angel felled by the hands of a human; it would stain your hands and his reputation, yet it would be so delicious. A whiff of your scent has his nails digging into his palms.

• Mikhael needed your touch. Without thinking, he would float down and lay next to you. He would cover his mouth with his hand and breathe gently into the nape of your neck as he let himself grind against you. He prayed for you in whispers and gasps; you would be forgiven for his sins.

• Mikhael grew courage over time. His nightly visits became a daily occurrence. Elation filled him as he finally touched his lips to your supple skin. Angels were not deprived of sin, as it would appear to be, since he seemed so deeply devoured by it.

• Mikhael learned the joys of lust from you. As you slept, he would slip out his cock, an appendage formed by the desires blossoming within him. His form grew more defined as his lust grew; perhaps he would benefit from becoming a demon instead.

• Mikhael would whimper as precum leaked from his head, the tip of his thumb swiping over the opening. He gasped, wondering if being inside you would cure him of his depravity.

• Mikhael never came. He wanted you to be the one to take his first. He wanted your fingers to be the finishing touch. He wanted your words to be the gospel that brings him to climax. He wanted you to devour him, to replace the sin within him with your very being. Only then could he be forgiven, and only then would he be satiated.

• Mikhael continued to follow you around, shame growing as his libertine habits flourished. He would bless you and pray for the men that would accidentally die around you. It was quite unfortunate, how you were unable to interact with a man.

• Mikhael wondered if you were secretly a temptress in disguise, but he couldn't ask you. After all, you couldn't see him.

-----

• You could see him. You were well aware of the angel floating around you. Unlike your fellow brethren, you were unnaturally attuned to supernatural elements around you. You could perceive those that many cannot; religious creatures and beasts of legends from across all cultures seemed to flock to you.

• Joining the convent was a means to avoid the dangerous creatures, but you really didn't think a filial angel would show up at your doorstep.

• You knew that he watched you when you were asleep. It was eerie, the way his eyes roamed your body in lust. Pained lust, you could tell.

• You heard mutterings and stifled moans from him at night. One day, maybe you could entertain him a little more.

• Perhaps it would be a little fun to play around with him. Luckily, you weren't a saint.

i um have a drabble do you guys want it,,,,, (it's a continuation of this)

-> masterlist

[thevampclaudia]

Backstage Pass

Rockstar Lestat de Lioncourt x Fem!Reader

Summary:

“Here,” you said, your voice so low it was almost a whisper, “Lie back and let me fix your makeup, baby.” Slowly, Lestat laid back on the couch, and you positioned yourself on top of him. Still straddling him, you leaned in close with makeup and brushes in hand. You looked down at him through eyes that were heavy-lidded with lust, and he returned your gaze with equally all-consuming need. Your lips were mere centimeters apart and you ached to close the distance, but not yet…no, the show must go on.” A short, smutty fic inspired by the revelation that Lestat was wearing a DRESS (!!!) in the IWTV season 3 promo.

Word count: 2,808

Warnings: MDNI - 18+ only, explicit sex, rough sex, teasing, biting/blood drinking, oral sex, marking, switch!Lestat, unprotected sex, crossdressing, using the Mind Gift during sex, some very mild degradation.

a/n: reader is afab but no description is provided; this is shamelessly inspired by this photo that has lived rent free in my fantasies for YEARS lmao

“Everything okay in there?” You asked, fidgeting nervously on the plush sofa in Lestat’s dressing room. He had gone into the bathroom to change - not like his usual exhibitionist self, you thought as you stifled a grin. At least 5 minutes had passed since he disappeared into the cramped bathroom, and you were beginning to worry just a bit. What worried you most, however, is that for five whole minutes, he had remained completely silent - even more out of character for your beloved silver-tongued exsanguinator.

“Lestat?” You called out as you rapped softly against the bathroom door. Just as you leaned closer to press your ear to the door, it swung open. You leapt back in surprise with a frightened shriek, playing it off with a shaky laugh. Inhaling deeply, you took a moment to collect yourself before turning to face him. “Shit, babe, you scared me-” When you turned, your breath caught in your throat, and your words escaped you - immediately washed away like the tide as you took in the glorious, libertine, fucking hot sight in front of you.

The statuesque blonde vampire stood haughtily in the doorway, looking you up and down. A knowing smile spread across the brat prince’s lips as he watched your cheeks flush just from the sight of him. He stepped closer to you, and you took your sweet time admiring him. You weren’t ashamed to stare, drinking in every intoxicating little detail.

He was all ready for the night’s show, but this time he was trying out a different look than usual. Lestat wore a long, black dress made of sheer fabric that hugged every curve of his perfect body. The dress was sleeveless with a low, plunging neckline that showed just enough of his bare chest to be deliciously obscene. As your gaze traveled down his form, you saw that the dress had two long slits running up each side. They exposed every inch of his sculpted thighs, and your eyes followed this tempting expanse of bare skin all the way back up over his hips, to where his well-defined Adonis belt peeked out from underneath his skirt.

Smoky black eyeliner rimmed his grey-blue eyes, giving them even more definition than usual. It was all too much for you to handle - this maenadic beast before you, commanding every ounce of your attention and holding all your desires right in the palm of his clawed hand. Lestat’s face darkened into a debauched, hungry smile, and he watched in predatory delight as you struggled to form a coherent thought. He knew exactly what he was doing to you, and you almost hated him for it. Almost.

“How do I look?” He practically purred, slinking past you to lie on the couch with long, outstretched legs. You quickly sat beside him, your heart hammering wildly in your chest. Lestat reached out and instantly pulled you closer, placing one hand on your inner thigh with a low chuckle.

“You look fucking…amazing,” you breathed, and  reached up to run your fingers through his long, honey-blonde curls. He leaned into your touch, and you took this as an open invitation to trail your fingertips down his exposed chest. This earned you a heady sigh from him, and you took no small satisfaction in seeing him react to you so shamelessly. Usually he at least tried to feign disinterest for a little bit…after all, he loved a good cat-and-mouse chase. But this was different. His desire was palpable, and it charged the air between you with an irresistible electricity. And then you realized. 

Oh. 

It wasn’t just for you. He liked the outfit too.

“What do you think?” You asked, stroking his hair before groping his bare chest yet again, with more urgency this time. He groaned and let his eyelids flutter shut momentarily, exhaling shakily. “Look, baby,” you urged, tilting his chin up to admire himself in the dressing room mirror, “Look at how fucking pretty you look right now, Lestat.” He did as he was told, never one to turn down an opportunity to gaze at his own reflection. You smiled, enjoying the way he eye-fucked himself so openly. Something about it was always so strangely endearing. Suddenly, he gripped the back of your head roughly, tangling his fingers in your hair dragging you closer to him until your lips met in a frenzied kiss. You settled yourself into his lap, straddling his hips as he slipped his tongue between your parted lips. He pawed at you needily, palming your breasts and letting his hands roam over every inch of your curves. A small moan escaped your lips, and you broke the desperate kiss for just a moment to catch your breath. Lestat whined under his breath the moment you pulled away. When you looked back up at him, you saw both his lipstick and yours now mingled in ruddy smudges on his face and around his lips. You giggled fondly at the sight and smoothed his tousled hair - which he then proceeded to tousle even more - before tenderly wiping away the smudged lipstick from his face.

“Here,” you said, your voice so low it was almost a whisper, “Lie back and let me fix your makeup, baby.” Slowly, Lestat laid back on the couch, studying your every move in silent wonder. You positioned yourself on top of him, still straddling his hips, and you leaned in close with both makeup and brushes in hand. As you looked down at him through eyes that were heavy-lidded with lust, he returned your gaze with an expression of all-consuming need. Your lips were mere centimeters apart and you ached to close the distance, but not yet…no, the show must go on.

You grabbed a tube of rosy pink lipstick from his vanity table and leaned in close, softly dabbing it across his lips - all while never breaking eye contact with him. “Oh, this color is much better for your complexion, amoureux.” You murmured playfully, and he scoffed at you, rolling his eyes. You took his distraction as a chance to skate a free hand down the length of his chest, his torso, slipping under his skirt to cup his groin. He gasped, and you felt his swollen cock twitch.

You let out a delighted groan as you traced your finger along a thin elastic waistband, feeling the sheer fabric of a black lace thong. You caressed him greedily, and felt his bulge straining against the lace. The faintest whimper slipped past his open lips, and he bucked his hips against you. “Please, mon cher, I need you,” he panted, and you grinned as you felt him twitch again.

“But I just fixed your makeup.” You said matter-of-factly. The vampire rolled his eyes once more.

“Putain de merde,” he muttered impatiently, flipping you without warning and pinning you beneath him on the small sofa. You protested, but he quickly shut you up with another urgent kiss, his lips crashing against yours, claiming you. You caressed his hips and cupped his ass in your palms before digging your fingernails into the soft flesh. He whined as he began helplessly grinding against you, tugging at your lower lip between his teeth in frustration. Lestat bit down, drawing blood that he quickly lapped up with a primal, guttural moan. You kissed him again, tasting the traces of your blood on his tongue and shivering.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You tugged at the waistband of his thong, yanking it down his thighs and letting his throbbing, hard cock spring free. You gripped his shaft, stroking up and down his length slowly and running your thumb over the glistening head, smiling to yourself as you felt precum already dripping there. He gasped at the sensation, before grabbing you by your wrists and pinning them above your head with preternatural speed. 

You were completely at his mercy now – he reveled in every second of it. Lestat let out a low growl, and roughly spread your legs apart with his knee. He could already tell how wet you were, and his fangs dropped as he felt the growing heat of your arousal through the crotch of your panties. You blushed as he teased your clit through the damp cotton fabric, coaxing you to moan out his name. Slowly, he pulled your panties down and repositioned himself so his face was between your thighs, hovering eagerly just inches above your dripping cunt. He sighed softly, and you felt the heat of his breath ghosting over your swollen clit. You let out a low moan and reached out to stroke his hair, gently trying to bring him closer. Laughing smugly at your impatience, he leaned in to nuzzle against the thicket of dark curls between your legs, and groaned to himself as he inhaled deeply. “You smell so good, mon coeur, but I bet you taste even better…”

Sighing softly, you spread your legs wider to give Lestat easier access to where you needed him most. You felt the warmth of his breath grazing the bare skin of your thighs and whimpered, eager for more of his touch. Slowly, he pressed a trail of tender kisses along each of your inner thighs — pausing for just a moment to bite down, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh. You felt a surge of pain coursing through you that quickly melted away into stinging pleasure that left you crying out for more. Lestat nuzzled against you again, unable to resist – he needed to taste you, needed to feel you come totally undone beneath the attentive ministrations of his skilled fingers and tongue. 

Finally, after a few moments of unbearable teasing, he got his mouth on you. Lestat’s tongue darted out to taste you, gently lapping at the wetness between your legs. You squirmed at the sensation, moaning loudly as he buried his face in you, desperate to taste every last drop of delicious, hot arousal. He teased you with his tongue before wrapping his lips around your swollen clit, sucking on it and letting out a low hum that sent a jolt of electricity straight through you. Lestat was relentless in his need to devour you. Every little sound of pleasure that slipped from your open, panting mouth, every buck of your hips and every desperate dig of your nails into his back only made him hunger for you more. 

Slowly, he dragged his tongue down, and you felt his nose nudge against your throbbing clit as he began lapping at your entrance. He groaned as he tasted you, burying his face deeper into you with reckless abandon. You felt Lestat’s tongue hungrily snaking between your soaked lips, spreading you open so he could push his tongue inside you and taste you straight from the source. You whined at the feeling of his tongue fucking into you, arching your back and chasing the sensation. He pressed into you deeper and deeper, gently stretching you open, and you gasped in pleasure as his nose rubbed against your clit with every curl of his tongue inside you. Since his mouth was preoccupied, Lestat used the mind gift to praise you, pressing silently into your thoughts. His words were warm and inviting, flooding your mind with pleasure that only intensified every sensation as he thrust his tongue deeper into your cunt. 

“You taste divine, mon amour. You’re so beautiful like this, letting me claim you and taste what’s mine…such a good girl for me, that’s it, just lie there and take it…so perfect…all mine…”

That praise was your undoing – a few more strokes of his tongue was all it took to leave you trembling and crying out in overwhelming ecstasy. You were practically vibrating beneath him, but he didn’t stop - instead, he went right back to lapping fervently at your sensitive clit. Reaching down, you gripped a fistful of Lestat’s hair as you rode out your orgasm, grinding against his tongue until you were too overstimulated to take anymore.

You sighed deeply, watching fondly as Lestat gazed up at you from between your legs. His lips and chin were glistening, soaked, and he kissed his way up your body to press his mouth against yours. You tasted yourself on him with a ragged groan as he slipped his tongue into your mouth, kissing you deeply. He stroked your hair, moving his hands down to cup your breasts and roam slowly over every inch of your curves. He took his time exploring and worshipping your body, reminding you of just how beautiful he found you with every kiss, bite, and reverent caress.

But Lestat was growing impatient. He slid one hand between your legs, rubbing your soaked pussy and using the wetness left on his fingers to slick up his aching cock. He gripped your hips hard enough to leave a mark, pulling you flush against him, and you gasped as he rubbed the head of his cock against your opening. Lestat held you close, finally entering you with one long, deep thrust. “Fuck!” You cried out, and you felt yourself stretching around him.

He nuzzled against the crook of your neck, teasing the sensitive skin there with little kisses and nips that he soothed with an eager tongue. He thrust into you slowly at first, savoring your warmth and wetness before gradually increasing his rhythm. As he pushed himself deeper into your aching cunt, you felt him moan against your neck. His fangs grazed your delicate skin, sending a sick thrill through your core. Suddenly, he bit down, nearly pushing you over the edge. He fucked you savagely, and the cramped room filled with a vulgar symphony of moans and obscenities. Lestat made an indecent slurping sound as he drank deeply of you, and it was almost too much to bear. When he had his fill, he lapped at the fresh bite mark with his tongue, long and torturously slow licks that threatened to push you over the edge. Your thighs began to tremble as you crept closer to the brink of another orgasm.

“That’s it, mon cher, give up that tough facade.” He goaded, with a sudden, deep thrust that made you throw your head back and scream. “I know what seeing me dressed like this does to you. I could see it all over your face,” Another achingly deep thrust, “I knew I could break you.” That was all it took. His words, his voice, his eyes on you…his hands holding you down so helplessly….that dress…and the way he rolled his hips into you, fucking you like he was determined to ruin you for anyone else. You came again, hard, crying out his name and quivering as wave after wave of bliss racked through your body until you were spent. He kept going, only slowing his pace slightly. In and out, in and out, again and again. He released his grip on your wrists, and you tangled one hand in his long hair, using the other to drag your fingernails down his back. You felt him shiver at the sensation, and he let out a long, low groan. You tightened your hold on his hair, and he buried his face in your neck. He breathed deeply, trying to muffle the needy whimpers that betrayed just how close to coming he was.

Lestat’s brow furrowed, and he swore under his breath as you clenched yourself around his cock. In and out, in and out, he tried to keep going, but it was too much - he was barely holding on. He clung on to your hips desperately, fucking harder and faster until finally, at the very last moment, he pulled his cock out of you with a profane, wet sound. Shamelessly, all while maintaining eye contact with you, he stroked himself to completion into the damp crotch of your panties.

“Keep these on for the entire show,” he growled in your ear, trailing kisses along the crook of your neck and across your jawline before gripping your chin in his hand, forcing you to look directly at him, “And don’t you dare change, mon coeur. I’ll know.”

“SHOWTIME, MR. DE LIONCOURT!” You heard his stage manager yell from outside the dressing room. His makeup and hair were utterly wrecked; anyone who saw him would immediately guess what had just occurred in this cramped little room. You both laughed, and he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead before flashing you a devastating smile as he bounded out the door, making his way to the stage. “This isn’t over!” He called over his shoulder, always determined to have the last word. You took a moment to compose yourself, smoothing your hair and quickly fixing your makeup before running to take your seat in the audience just as the stage lights came up.

Read on Ao3 here.

[muiitoloko]

Brazen

Summary: She broke into his suite like a shadow in silk and left him shaking with fury and something far worse: longing.

Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Shooting, blood, theft.

Author's Notes: I just want to start by thanking everyone for the sweet comments and messages, they really mean the world to me! I’m currently going through a major creative block, and, honestly, being on my period seems to make it even worse 😅 But all the love and encouragement from you guys have really lifted my spirits. So, as "His American Thief" won the poll, here’s the third chapter! "Difficult Woman" came in second place with a ton of votes, and I’m almost done with that chapter too, so expect it soon! Just a heads up, though – it’s mostly just a lot of sex between the reader and Karl 😅

First, Second and Third part here.

Also read on Ao3

When Judge Turpin awoke the next morning, the light from the window was far too bright, and the pain that greeted him as he shifted on the mattress was enough to make him grit his teeth until his jaw ached. The laudanum had worn off, leaving behind only the bitter ache of bruised ribs, an aching spine, and a pounding headache born of humiliation and obsession.

It took him a moment to gather his wits, to blink against the morning haze and let the stiffness fade just enough for coherent thought. Then it hit him.

Three things, in rapid, horrifying succession.

One: he’d had a very vivid dream. A dream so painfully real that he could still feel the warmth of your skin on his fingertips. In it, you had been in his room—his room!—dressed like some libertine’s pet, wrapped in a scandalously tight camisole that bared more than it covered, your breasts nearly spilling over the neckline like some harlot waiting for coin. You had sat beside his bed like a vision conjured from fever and madness, mocking him with your grin and those damned eyes.

Two: the room—his suite, the finest in the Franklin Hotel—was in utter disarray. The desk drawers had been pulled open and left ajar, the wardrobe partially ransacked, his cloak flung carelessly over a chair as if tossed there by someone else. The carpet bore faint indentations of small boots. Female boots. Not a maid. Not staff.

He sat up, wincing, hand pressed to his ribs, his breath catching in a strangled growl.

Three: if that dream had been real… if you had actually come into his room… He reached for the drawer beside his bed. Empty.

The ring drawer—his drawer. Gone.

All six of them. His signet ring. His ruby crest. The polished garnet he wore to trials. The black enamel mourning band. The thick gold band gifted by the Chancellor. And worst of all—

“The Turpin ring,” he whispered, cold dread hollowing his chest. “No…”

It was the most precious. A thick silver band bearing the family’s coat of arms, passed from father to son since the reign of Queen Anne. He wore it to every sentencing. Every hanging. It was his birthright.

And now it was gone.

“BEADLE!” Turpin’s bellow roared through the walls like a thunderclap. “BEADLE BAMFORD!”

There was a muffled crash in the hallway—porcelain breaking, no doubt, as Beadle dropped whatever was in his hands—and seconds later the door burst open. Bamford stumbled in, his coat still half-buttoned, a bit of jam clinging to the corner of his mouth.

“My lord! I—”

“Where were you last night?” Turpin snarled, hauling himself upright with a pained grunt. “Where were you while she—that vixen—slipped into my chambers and robbed me blind?!”

Beadle paled. “Robbed—what? No one said anything, I didn’t know you had a visitor—”

“Visitor?” Turpin barked, hazel eyes blazing with fury. “You think I invited her in? That I sent for her like some weak-willed libertine craving a bit of skirt? She came on her own! Slipped past your useless eyes and stole from me again!”

Beadle stared in horror as Turpin jabbed a finger toward the empty drawer.

“She took my rings, Bamford,” he hissed. “All six. Including the family signet. That ring is worth more than your entire miserable bloodline!”

“I—I heard nothing, sir!” Beadle stammered. “If she was here, she must’ve come after I left for supper—if I’d heard a sound, I swear to God I would’ve come running—”

“You would’ve tripped over your own boots and pissed yourself, no doubt!” Turpin snapped, his voice cracking with rage. “You left me here drugged, exposed, half-naked—and now she’s gone again! Gone! And with my legacy on her thieving little fingers!”

Beadle made a desperate noise, glancing at the ransacked room. “I-I’ll make inquiries, sir—at once—I’ll alert the pawnbrokers, speak to the jewelers, question every market stall from here to the docks—”

“You’ll do more than inquire!” Turpin roared, struggling to his feet. “You’ll find her, Bamford! I want her caught. I want her chained to this bed where I can see her every filthy breath! She belongs here! With me!” He staggered, his injured leg giving out slightly, but he caught himself on the desk and growled.

Beadle stepped back instinctively. “Yes, my lord! Of course!”

“Find her,” Turpin repeated, lower now, more dangerous. “Find the pawn shops. Find the fences. She has my rings. That signet bears the Turpin crest—if it’s spotted, I want word within the hour.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And when you find her…” His voice dropped to a rasp, cruel and cold. “You bring her back to me.”

Beadle swallowed thickly. “Yes, sir.” He bolted from the room, coat flapping, already shouting for the carriage to be readied.

Turpin stood amidst the chaos of his suite, one hand braced on the desk, the other twitching with rage.

“She’s mine,” he muttered to the empty room. “She’s mine. And when I get her back—when she’s tied to this bed—I’ll see to it that she never steals anything again… except perhaps her own breath.”

And then, as if her laughter still echoed in the air, Judge Richard Turpin let out a snarl so savage it silenced even the morning birds.

The little pawnshop on Bleecker Street was dim and cluttered, its walls lined with clocks that didn’t tick and shelves that sagged under the weight of forgotten silverware, chipped porcelain, and the sorrow of the desperate. You had chosen it carefully—not the most reputable, not the cleanest, but quiet. A place that wouldn’t ask too many questions if you played the part well.

And oh, you were playing it to perfection.

You stood before the counter, draped in a plain black dress borrowed from an actress friend, a faded mourning veil tucked primly over your head. Your eyes were red—not from weeping, but from the smarting smoke of a candle you’d held too close before stepping inside. In your gloved hands rested a velvet pouch, and your voice trembled like a breeze in winter.

“I just…” you choked softly, glancing down at the rings now splayed upon the counter like tiny corpses. “He passed not a fortnight ago, and there’s naught left but these. My darling husband. Taken from me so cruelly…” You pressed a hand to your chest as if to still a heaving heart. “Why, why couldn’t he have left me something more than trinkets and heartbreak?”

The pawnbroker—an elderly man with spectacles perched low on his nose and tobacco-stained fingers—cleared his throat with a soft harrumph. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” he said awkwardly, eyeing the rings with a mixture of interest and suspicion. “A tragedy indeed… yes…”

You took the handkerchief you’d brought—folded neatly, edges singed ever so slightly from your earlier candle trick—and pressed it delicately to your face. A sharp sniff. A muffled sob. Just enough to make your shoulders tremble.

“Oh,” you whimpered. “He was such a good man…”

The pawnbroker cleared his throat, clearly unsure what to do with your display of grief.

“Yes, well… these are, ah… quite fine pieces,” he muttered, adjusting his spectacles and leaning forward to examine the rings. His fingers moved with practiced ease, brushing across gold, silver, enamel.

You peeked from behind your veil, watching as he turned one of them over with particular interest—a simple black band, the sheen dulled from years of wear.

“This one,” he said, voice softer now, “is a mourning ring. Black enamel, silver band, early Georgian make. The inscription… let’s see…”

You stiffened but said nothing. Couldn’t say anything. You couldn’t read, not a letter—but you weren’t about to confess that now. You just tilted your head, eyes watery, feigning polite interest as the man held the ring closer to the light.

“Anne Turpin,” he read aloud, squinting. “Beloved mother. This would’ve been commissioned after her passing. Must’ve meant quite a lot to the man who wore it.”

Your breath caught.

Anne Turpin. Beloved mother.

Your heart lurched painfully in your chest. That ring—it wasn’t for show. He’d worn it in mourning. For his mother. And you had stolen it. Torn it from the drawer like it was nothing. You thought of Turpin’s bruised face, his rasping voice confessing sins through laudanum haze. The way he’d spoken of shame. Of family. Of grief.

Oh God, you hadn't stolen from a judge that night.

You’d stolen from a son.

Before the guilt could settle too deeply, the bell above the door jingled. You flinched. A man entered, unbothered, the sort who didn’t belong in a place of pawning and secrets. He had ruddy cheeks, a rounded frame, and a coat a little too fine for the filth of the city. His eyes swept over the room—and then landed on you.

“Ah! Good morning, madam,” he said with a nod and doffed his hat politely. “My condolences.”

You blinked, disoriented. He thought you were truly in mourning. You nodded once, grateful for the cover.

The pawnbroker straightened behind the counter. “What can I do for you, sir?”

The man gave an apologetic smile. “Beadle Bamford. I come on behalf of his lordship, Judge Richard Turpin. There was a theft last evening—rings, six in total, of significant value. His lordship has reason to believe the thief may attempt to pawn them today.”

Your throat seized. You coughed sharply into the handkerchief—too sharply.

Neither man turned.

The pawnbroker furrowed his brow. “What sort of rings?”

Beadle, with no sense of urgency, reached into his coat for a small, crumpled sheet of notes. “Let’s see… black mourning ring, silver ring, yes, but most importantly the Turpin family signet. Heavy, gold, engraved with the family’s coat of arms. That one’s the most recognizable.”

Your eyes flicked to the ring on the counter.

No. No, no, no.

“Turpin crest?” the pawnbroker murmured, already glancing down toward the rings on the counter.

You didn’t wait. “Thank you for your time,” you blurted, sweeping the remaining rings into your pouch. Your voice cracked with feigned emotion. “But I… I can’t bear to part with them after all. Forgive me. I must go.”

Beadle looked up at the movement and froze. His eyes landed squarely on your hand.

That ring.

Recognition struck him like a slap.

“Wait—!” he shouted, voice rising. “Wait just a moment—!”

You turned, seized by instinct, and slapped him across the face so hard. The sound rang through the shop like a gunshot.

Beadle stumbled backward with a strangled squawk, clutching his cheek. You were already at the door.

“Stop her!” he bellowed. “She’s got the Turpin crest! She’s the thief—GET HER!”

But you were out the door, boots pounding the cobblestones, veil flying free behind you like a banner of war. The satchel bounced against your hip, heavy with rings, your heart thundering as footsteps thundered behind.

Beadle Bamford, bless his useless legs, tried his best. But you were fast. You had always been, and this time, you knew what you were running from. Because this wasn't just about stolen rings anymore. It was about stolen names and stolen pasts.

And the promise in Turpin’s eyes when he’d whispered: “You are mine.”

The sound of hurried footsteps clattered up the wooden stairs of the Franklin Hotel, followed by the unmistakable creak of polished boots on the landing. Beadle Bamford—red in the face, sweat dampening his collar—rushed down the corridor, not even pausing to straighten his coat. He reached the door to Room Sixteen and rapped once, twice, urgently—

Then barged in without waiting for a reply.

“My lord—!”

He stopped short, his hand still on the doorframe, breath catching at the sight before him.

Judge Turpin, bruised and swaddled in blankets like a wounded lion, sat upright in bed—but not alone. A young woman, plainly dressed in a servant’s apron and simple linen gown, was perched delicately on his lap. She was laughing—laughing!—at something he had just murmured into her ear. Her hand held a small porcelain spoon, hovering near Turpin’s mouth, while his hand rested on her hip with an ease Beadle had never seen in the man.

Turpin’s one good eye flicked toward the door, darkening with irritation. “Bamford,” he snapped, his baritone dry as old paper, “do you make it a habit to intrude upon private moments like a stable boy who’s never seen a pair of stockings?”

Beadle flushed violently. “Forgive me, my lord, but—”

“Speak outside,” Turpin growled, lifting a hand as though dismissing a gnat. “I am recovering, as you can clearly see. Return once I’m done.”

“I saw her,” Beadle blurted, breathless. “The thief. Just now. At the Bleecker Street pawnshop.”

The effect was instantaneous.

Turpin’s hand dropped from the girl’s hip as if her skin had scalded him. The weight in his chest shifted, something tight and ravenous crackling to life behind his hazel eyes. Without a word, he shoved the girl off his lap with a swift jerk of his good arm, sending her stumbling backward with a squeak and a clatter of the spoon on the floor.

“Out,” he barked.

“My lord?” she gasped, flustered, but his face was already turned from her.

“Out, I said!”

She fled, skirts rustling as she scurried from the room like a frightened rabbit. The door snapped shut behind her.

Turpin turned to Beadle, eyes gleaming. “Speak,” he growled. “Now.”

Beadle straightened, still panting from the run. “She was there, my lord. Dressed in mourning like some pathetic widow—veil and all. She tried to sell the rings. The signet one, too—your mother’s ring. I saw it with my own eyes!”

Turpin was already rising, stiff with pain, groaning as his ribs protested. “Did you catch her?”

“No, my lord—she recognized me, or perhaps she recognized the name. She fled before I could grab her.” Beadle swallowed. “But—I saw her face. Clear as day.”

Turpin froze mid-step, his body heavy with fury and exhaustion. He turned slowly, his lip curled in contempt. “And what use is a face if she’s not in irons at my feet, Beadle?”

Beadle winced. “I—I tried, sir. She ran like the very devil was at her heels. She slapped me! Loud enough to rattle the glass—”

“You let her touch you?”

Beadle flushed again. “I—yes, my lord. But—now that I know what she looks like, it will be easier to find her again. I’ve seen her—properly this time. I can describe her to every constable, every informant, every bootblack in the city if you wish. We’ll have her, sir. It’s only a matter of time.”

Turpin said nothing for a long moment. His breath came hard through his nose, his chest rising and falling beneath his half-buttoned shirt. His hair was damp with sweat. But the silence was not still; it seethed.

And then he spoke. “She touched you?”

Beadle flinched. “My lord, it was nothing—just a slap. A startled reaction, I’m sure. She was trying to flee—”

“She touched you,” Turpin growled again, his hazel eyes sharp and bright with a fevered gleam. “She put her hands on you.”

Beadle took a half-step back. “Sir, I—”

“You can’t be touched by her.” Turpin’s voice rose, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “No one can. Not you, not any man. Do you understand me?” He advanced, slow and deliberate. “She is not for touching. She is not yours to be touched by. Her hands are mine.”

“My lord—”

“Mine!” Turpin snapped, the word exploding from his chest. His hands were shaking now, curled into fists at his sides. “Only I can feel her. Only I can bruise her wrists when she fights me, only I can twist that wicked mouth until she begs.”

Beadle swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “It was a slap, sir. Nothing more.”

Turpin turned away from him as if he hadn’t spoken, stalking to the window like a storm barely held at bay. His long fingers gripped the sill, and for a moment, he said nothing—just stared at the gray blur of the city beyond the glass.

“A widow,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “That’s how she was dressed?”

Beadle nodded slowly, wary. “Yes, sir. Black veil. Gloves. Tears and all. She nearly convinced me she was a grieving wife.”

Turpin closed his eyes.

Of course she would. She was clever. Disguises came easily to women like her—those who lived off the edges of society, slipping between the cracks like mist. She knew now that he was pursuing her. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

“She’ll be more careful,” Turpin murmured, eyes still shut. “She’ll vanish again. Change her face. Her voice. She knows I’m behind her now.”

He opened his eyes, slow and deliberate. “We’ll not find her again by coin alone.”

Beadle shifted uncomfortably. “Then what shall we do?”

Turpin turned his head, his expression composed now—cold, regal, deadly. “Leave me,” he said. “Have the maid return.”

Beadle bowed, quickly, awkwardly, and slipped from the room with the haste of a man escaping floodwaters.

Moments later, the door opened once more. The maid stepped in, tentative and pale, her apron freshly pressed, her hair tucked neatly behind her ears.

“My lord,” she said softly, avoiding his eyes. “You sent for me?”

Turpin, already seated once more in the high-backed chair near the fire, gave a small, imperious gesture toward the table. “Bring the tray. Feed me.”

She obeyed without question, moving to the dresser where the half-eaten dish still sat, cooled slightly but untouched since the interruption.

He watched her movements carefully. Not because he saw her—but because, in his mind’s eye, she had become you.

As she returned with the plate and the spoon, he leaned back in the chair, letting his head rest against the carved wood.

“Slower,” he said, voice low. “Smaller bites.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The spoon reached his lips. He opened his mouth, accepting the food like a man expecting to be worshipped. She was trembling slightly—nerves, perhaps. He didn’t care. He pretended it was you. You, with that infuriating smirk replaced by quiet obedience. You, veiled in black, kneeling at his feet, feeding him with a reverent hand as if to say, I’m yours.

He closed his eyes.

He imagined you in that mourning dress again, except this time with your lips pressed to the back of his hand in silence. Your smirk gone. Your shoulders bare. Your knees on the rug beside his chair, gaze lifted only when permitted.

You would touch no other man. That right was his.

And one day, he swore by the blood in his veins and the bruises on his pride—you would be feeding him for real.

You would be his.

The mourning dress hung like a shadow on your arm as you made your way up the narrow stair to Ivy’s attic flat, the scent of old rouge and candle wax clinging to the folds. You rapped on the door with your knuckles—three short, two long—and waited.

Ivy opened it moments later, her copper curls unbound and wild, a smudge of charcoal still clinging to her jaw. “Well, look what the cat coughed up,” she said with a grin. “Come to return my widow’s weeds, or just hiding from your latest mess?”

“A bit of both,” you muttered, slipping inside and dropping the bundle onto her chaise. “I’m done playing ghost.”

She raised a brow. “You managed it then? Old man fall for it?”

You hesitated. “Not exactly.”

That earned you a look. Ivy crossed her arms and leaned back against the vanity. “Do tell.”

So you did. You told her everything—well, almost. Not the part where you snuck into his hotel room. Not the part where he kissed your hand. And certainly not the part where you nearly believed him when he said he’d marry you. But the rest—the pawnshop, the clerk, the ring—you laid it out piece by piece like a confession.

Ivy’s expression shifted the moment you mentioned the mourning ring.

“You what?”

You winced. “I didn’t know what it was at first—looked like any other black band. Thought it was just fashionable.”

“That was a mourning ring?” Her voice had dropped an octave. “For his mother?”

You nodded sheepishly. “It had her name engraved. Anne Turpin.”

Ivy recoiled as if you’d slapped her. “God’s teeth, girl. You stole from a grave.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic—”

“I’m not,” she snapped. “Mourning rings aren’t trinkets. They’re sacred. They’re worn in grief, in blood. You took the one thing he used to mourn the dead and you tried to sell it?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Your heart gave a nervous little thud.

Ivy stepped closer, lowering her voice. “There are stories, you know. Old stories. About thieves who stole mourning jewelry and went mad. One girl woke screaming every night until her hair turned white. Another swore she saw the dead woman’s face in every mirror she passed.”

You rolled your eyes, though your stomach tightened. “Oh please—”

“She drowned,” Ivy said flatly. “Found her in the river with her mouth open and black enamel under her nails.”

That gave you pause.

Ivy’s voice softened. “You don’t mess with mourning rings, love. Not unless you’re ready to live with the dead.”

You glanced toward the pouch of stolen goods on the chair. That ring sat somewhere at the bottom—small, unassuming. Heavy now, like guilt pressed into gold.

“You really think I’ll be haunted?”

“I think,” Ivy said carefully, “if that ring meant anything to him—if it really belonged to his mother—then her spirit might not be all that fond of you.”

You swallowed. “She’s dead, Ivy.”

“So’s every ghost,” Ivy said.

Silence stretched.

You crossed the room and picked up the pouch, feeling its weight anew.

“What should I do?” you asked quietly.

Ivy met your eyes. “Return it.”

You looked at her, alarmed. “Return it? To him?”

“Leave it. In his room, at the church, on his doorstep—I don’t care. But put it back where it belongs. Or you’ll never sleep sound again.”

You clutched the pouch tighter. Return it.

You weren't afraid of men like Richard Turpin, but ghosts? You weren't so sure.

The streets of New York were quiet at that hour, the gaslights flickering faintly against the damp cobblestones as fog slithered between alleyways like a living thing. You moved swiftly beneath the shroud of your new disguise—a madam this time, with rouge-painted cheeks, a low-cut bodice, and a heavy velvet cloak that swept the pavement like spilled ink. You had rented a room at the Franklin under a false name, flashed a pouch of silver coins with a lazy smile, and left the clerk flustered and half in love.

But you hadn’t come for comfort.

You’d come to return a ring. Your boots made no sound as you crept down the corridor to the second floor, past the familiar door: Room Sixteen. A brass number, a polished knob, the faint creak of old wood beneath your step. You pressed your ear to the door, breath held.

Silence. A rustle. A deep breath. Then—nothing.

Asleep, you thought. Good.

You eased the door open slowly, every movement careful. The hinges groaned the faintest protest, but you slipped inside like smoke, closing it behind you.

Turpin lay in the bed, sprawled as always like some wounded bear in a robe—shirt loose, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His hair, damp from sleep, curled slightly at the temples. The fire had gone out. Only moonlight lit the room.

You crossed to the dresser, hand trembling as you fished into your bag. The mourning ring lay warm in your palm. You stared at it. Anne Turpin. Beloved mother.

You reached forward.

“I knew it,” came a low voice from the bed.

You froze.

Turpin turned his head toward you, one eye still bruised but sharp with awareness. His lips curled faintly. “You’ve got the manners of a ghost, but the smell of lavender oil gave you away.”

He sat up slowly, like a storm gathering strength, the sheet sliding down his chest. “Come to steal more, or just to torture me?”

You leapt back, heart pounding, and pulled the pistol from beneath your cloak, cocking it with a sharp, deliberate click.

“Stay where you are,” you said coldly. “I’m not here to kill you.”

Turpin blinked at the weapon, then arched a brow. “A pistol?” His baritone dipped into something smug. “Really?”

“I came,” you said through your teeth, “to return this.” You threw the mourning ring toward the bed, and it landed with a soft clink on the coverlet.

“I don’t want to be haunted by your mother’s ghost.”

Turpin blinked at the ring, stunned for just a moment—long enough.

You began backing toward the balcony.

But he surged forward, growling, “BEADLE!”

Panic flared in your chest.

“BEADLE BAMFORD!”

Turpin staggered to his feet, roaring for his lackey like a man possessed. The thundering of footsteps echoed in the hallway—

And then the door burst open. Beadle stumbled in, panting, wild-eyed.

You raised the pistol. “One more step and I shoot!”

Beadle froze, staring between you and the judge, his hand halfway to his belt.

Turpin scoffed, voice low and amused. “You won’t fire that. You’re a thief, not a killer.”

You smiled coldly. Then you pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked like thunder. Beadle screamed as the bullet tore through his leg. He collapsed, clutching his thigh, blood already seeping through his fingers as he writhed on the floor.

Turpin flinched violently, eyes wide with genuine shock. “You mad little bitch—!”

But you were already at the balcony. Without hesitation, you leapt over the rail.

Turpin was already in motion—barefoot, half-dressed, the linen of his nightshirt flapping behind him like the train of a maddened ghost. He shoved Beadle’s groaning, bleeding form aside with no more ceremony than one might give to a fallen lamp and stormed toward the railing, the cold night air biting at his flushed skin.

“Blasted girl—!” he barked, eyes scanning the alley below.

And there you were. Flat on your back in the filth, your skirt tangled around your legs, one boot half-off. You looked up at him, utterly unbothered—your cheeks flushed, your hair a wild mess of curls, and a grin on your lips so brazen it made his already bruised pride ache anew.

“You mad little beast,” he growled, leaning over the railing. “You could have broken your neck.”

You propped herself up on her elbows and winked. “But I didn’t.”

“You might have died.”

“Would’ve died free,” you said with a shrug. “Better than rotting in your silk-wrapped cage, Judge.”

“You reckless, thieving hellion,” Turpin snapped, his baritone echoing in the stone alleyway. “I will have you. One way or another.”

You only laughed and pushed herself upright, brushing dirt from your skirts. “We’ll see about that, you old lunatic.”

His nostrils flared. “Give it back!”

“What?”

“My ring!” he bellowed. “The Turpin signet—my family crest—you brazen little hound, you still have it!”

You paused, then raised your brows, lips curling into a wicked smirk. “Oh, this old thing?”

Your fingers dipped into the pouch tied at your waist. You fished out the ring and held it aloft between two fingers, letting the moonlight catch the silver. Then, without ceremony, you reared back—and threw it.

It struck him dead between the eyes.

Turpin recoiled with a snarl, one hand flying to his forehead. “GOD’S BLOODY TEETH!”

"You're welcome!" you called sweetly, and then turned on your heel and bolted down the alley, your laughter trailing behind like the hem of a taunting gown.

Turpin gripped the railing, hazel eyes narrowing. “THIEF!”

Your voice echoed from the rooftops. “Catch me if you can, darling!”

“You’ll be mine!” he howled, voice cracking with rage and something dangerously close to adoration. “Do you hear me? Mine! You’ll wear my ring, you thieving little witch!”

Your laughter echoed until it faded into the night.

And for a moment, all was still—save the wind, and the soft gurgling of Beadle groaning below.

Then Turpin... laughed. Low at first. Then louder. Rich, unhinged, a sound that scraped from deep in his chest and rang down the alley like a church bell gone mad.

He clutched the railing, blood running down his temple where the ring had struck him, and laughed until tears burned in his eyes.

Behind him, Beadle wheezed. “My lord… please… I’m losing a fair amount of blood…”

Turpin didn’t even turn. “She hit me with it, Bamford. The signet! Right in the bloody head!” He cackled again, pressing a hand to his forehead with manic glee. “She’s perfect!”

Beadle whimpered faintly from the floor. “She shot me.”

Turpin chuckled darkly, hazel eyes still fixed on the alley beyond. “And one day,” he murmured, voice dropping into something soft and terrifying, “she’ll kneel. In my courtroom… or in my bed. But she’ll kneel.”

And with that, Judge Richard Turpin straightened, blood streaking down his brow, his grin sharp and wolfish in the moonlight.

[kidasthings]

Noa and Mae: A Taboo Affair?

Hi, there! Kida checking in again with yet another controversy - you've been warned.

I see a lot of people on Tumblr and Reddit pointing out that a Noa/Mae (#NoMae?) pairing would be at best controversial, at worst beastiality.

I mean, he IS a CGI ape, right?

Not so fast.

I'd like to break down a few points, if I Mae (pun intended!), and address this argument. I'll be using a few of the comments I've seen on the web already to do so, on the part of the dissenters to the pairing.

1st Argument: "Planet of the Apes wouldn't show a kiss between a human and an ape. Ew."

Reply: Oh, they already have, my friend. Not in the full-blown sense, but they definitely did film Zira and Taylor kissing lips to muzzle in 1968. You can view that lovely bit here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gEp7yunwVF8

I apologize in advance for impinging on your delicate simian sensibilities. #sorrynotsorry

2nd Argument: "Why would they even depict a human/ape couple? Humans and apes can't even reproduce in the franchise."

Reply: They can't? News to me. There was a Hum-Ape written into the early scripts and screen tests for Beneath the Planet of the Apes in 1970. Seems the Planet of the Apes franchise truly thought it was worth exploring back then. You can read all about that little guy right here: https://planetoftheapes.fandom.com/wiki/Hum-Ape

Aww, just look at that adorable lack of face-fur!

3rd Argument: "The audience of today isn't ready for that kind of thing."

Reply: And the audience in the 1960's/early 1970's was? I didn't know we became even more conservative 50+ years later. I'll be sure to adjust my high neckline and clutch my pearls in absolute horror at the thought of all of those deviant libertines living before me. Excuse me, I must go confront my parents about this.

BUT, before I do, I do want to point out we seemed to accept an on-screen kiss between Goliath (a gargoyle) and Elisa (a human) during a certain Disney children's cartoon show in the 1990's - anyone remember that?

Disgusting. I bet his breath smelled like rancid pigeon.

Additionally, we have more recent films such as Avatar, The Shape of Water - which won 4 Academy Awards, including best picture (not bad for a human and a fish-man pairing), and Beauty and the Beast.

And hey, if a living monster is not your thing, you could always opt for Warm Bodies. Think female human and male zombie. Necrophilia, anyone?

4th Argument: "Okay, fine, I see your point on the Taylor/Zira thing. But that only worked out because it was a human in a monkey suit, and we all sort of knew that. It didn't make it so strange. As for the other films you listed, well, those creatures don't actually exist so it's out of the realm of true possibility anyway. Noa is depicted as a real chimp, and him getting with Mae just makes it hit too close to home for comfort."

Reply: #Ishetho? Let's take a good look at what a "real chimp" looks like:

He's so damn Chimpy.

Okay, now let's look at our leading man--er, ape:

Looks like Chimpy had a love-child with Owen Teague. #shudder

As you can see, the two are pretty different. Chimpy has a true muzzle and a mouth that curves around it. Noa has a flatter, human face with an actual nose bridge and wider-spaced eyes.

And the EYES. My god. If you don't see the humanity in those baby-blues you might want to get checked for psychopathy. Besides that, Chimpy lacks eye-whites and has rounder eyes than Noa. Additionally, that pronounced brow ridge on Chimpy has thunder clouds gathering beneath it. Don't get me started on the ear comparison between the two, I'm sure it goes without saying!

Anyway, I think it can be safely stated that no chimp alive on this earth looks like Noa. He's too physically humanized to resemble an actual chimpanzee of the typical zoo variety. Thus, I would place him safely in the category of fish-man, the tall, blue cat creatures from Avatar, and those barbaric blue aliens that keep cropping up on certain ice planets in books #ifyouknowwhatImean.

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

All that said, everyone can ship what they want. If you want Noa playing house with Caesar, never mind that trifling little timeline issue, you go with your fine self and write that fanfiction. Create an account on DeviantArt.com and fill it with their anthropomorphic babies who eventually grow up to be the first ape astronauts. Someone out there is going to love it and eat it up, I promise you.

For the points above, this is about Noa and Mae. They've got something, something tangible. Whether or not it becomes canon is yet to be seen.

For now, it lives on in our minds. With our inner eye, we can see it just fine.

[medusas-daughter]

I think every country should make their version of ghosts. I wanna see a French Libertine Era Noblewoman squabble with a Monk from the Middle Ages. I want to see a Spanish Conquistador spend eternity trapped with Muslim Andalusien. I want to see a Renaissance alleged artist pretend to have known the Medicis personally and have one sided beef with Botticelli. I want to see the ghost of Anastasia Romanov the daughter of the last tsar turn out to be the ghost of her handmaid pretending to be Anastasia this whole time and they only find out because the human who can see ghosts visits the place where the Romanovs were killed and meets the ghost of the real Anastasia and shenanigans occur. Please please please let this become a worldwide thing. Let this cross over to Asia and Latin America and Africa and lead me to hyper fixate on histories of countries I had never looked up before and dive into the rabbit hole and find fun and silliness in history

[arinzeture]

“We are not in a democracy, we are in a revolution,”

“If we have to say it loud and clear here, we are not in a democracy, we are in a popular, progressive revolution."

“Everyone needs to understand this. It's even more surprising that those who are supposed to be intellectuals, who have been to school, can imagine that a country can develop in democracy, that's false. It's not possible to name a single country that has developed in democracy. Democracy is only the end result. We must necessarily go through a revolution, and we are indeed in a revolution. For those who haven’t yet understood this, we’re still saying it loud and clear."

“We will continue to play our role of communicating, explaining, and making people understand what our revolution is. So this question of democracy or libertinism of action or expression has no place. As much as you think you are free to speak and act, the other is also free to speak and act, and there we end up with a society of disorder.”

~ Captain Ibrahim Traore told the people of Burkina Faso in a televised speech.

[marielle555]

Astarion's past as a magistrate and Astarion's scenes from EA.

“Who needs morals when you have good hair?” Astarion.

“Two hundred years ago, Astarion was a corrupt elite of Baldur’s Gate with a taste for power and a hunger for eternal life. It wasn’t long before these desires became a nightmarish reality. Transformed into the vampire spawn of a sadistic master, Astarion was kept as a slave to lure fresh noble blood to the palace of Cazador – all while subsisting on the putrid blood of rats. Astarion’s design is inspired by his story of indentured servitude and told through scar tissue and rogue garb. His leather armour still boasts the fine golden embroidery of high society, an aesthetic inspired by 18th-century libertines and European rock stars of the early ‘90s – two subcultures that echo Astarion’s desire to live a life without restraint. But beneath this costume is a constant reminder of the centuries spent enslaved, in the form of a poem carved into his flesh by his vampire lord.”

The first lines of the artbook tell us that our beloved vampire in the past belonged to the corrupt elite of Baldur and craved power and eternal life. And his desire for eternal life was fulfilled, but in a horrible, twisted form - in the form of his worst nightmare - Astarion became the spawn of the sadistic Kazador. In the final of Sun King (Astarion Origins), Astarion recalls how he judged the fates of others in the past. Now in the game we can learn very little about Astarion's past, although it is known that Astarion was a Magistrate. And references to his past are present in several scenes:

References to Astarion's Past as a Magistrate - BG3

The first mention of Astarion being a magistrate we can hear is if we ask Astarion to tell us about himself (“Tell me about yourself”), Astarion replies, “Oh, what's to tell? I'm a magistrate back in the city - it's all rather tedious.”

After a closer encounter (after the bite), we can also ask: “You must remember your life before that?” “I was a magistrate, working to keep the peace in Baldur's Gate. Imprisoning trouble makers, that kind of thing.” And he adds bitterly: “I can't remember much, truth be told. Centuries of torment will do that to you.”

And if you imagine what Astarion experienced during his years of slavery to Cazador, you can understand, why his past life became something distant for him, why many of his memories are lost. Also according to DnD lore, once a person is converted to a spawn, some of the memory of a person's past life is erased. That said, it's hard to say with that, how much Astarion even wants to tell Tav about his past. “Why do you insist on exhuming the past?” - Astarion sounds tense in this line, somewhat angry, he is distrustful and suspicious.

Three lines in the game in which Astarion talks about what happened to him on that fateful night when Cazador found him:

"I was attacked. A gang of vagrants, a tribe of wandering 'Gur', took issue with a ruling I'd made.”

“They beat me to death's door when Cazador appeared. He chased them off and offered to save me. To give me eternal life."

"Not him, no. A gang of thugs attacked me, angry about a ruling that I'd handed down as magistrate."

The reason the Gur gang attacked and nearly killed Astarion was because of his decision that Astarion made as a magistrate. The reason why the elf noble magistrate was in unsafe parts of the city, where he could be attacked by the Gur gang (this could hardly happen in the Upper City or in a safe neighborhood guarded by guards), and why Cazador happened to be around at the right time and place, is left out of the picture. Astarion also mentions that he had his own “history” with the Gur: “The point is I have history with these barbarians. Cazador's sending a message.” And most likely, this “story” with Gur had to do with the very decision that Astarion once made as a magistrate, and that caused Gur to hate him. Cazador may well have sent him such a “message” as well, and Astarion thinks so. (“My old master sent that vagabond after me.”) He is confident that more thugs will come after him, and we learn with him much later (when we meet Gur in Act 3) that the Gur are looking for their children.

“A Selunite necklace, if I'm any judge. And I am.” - Astarion's banter when finding the Selunite Necklace. Another reference to his past. Doing Wyll's quest (to find Ansur) you can get Astarion's opinion as a judge when we solve the “punishing the thief” puzzle.

In Astarion Origins, during his conversation with Wyll, Astarion also tells Wyll about his past as a magistrate (“I was a magistrate once, I could see if you missed any loopholes in your contract.”), offering to help Wyll find some loopholes in his contract with Mizora.

By the way, this shows that Astarion's legal experience did not disappear anywhere and remained with him. And Astarion had definitely studied the terms of the deal with Mephistopheles regarding the Ascension ritual, which was so important to him (Raphael's tale, the description of the ritual in The Necromancy of Thay, the Vellioth's scrolls - he had three sources of information during this time), and he knew exactly what he was doing. Those who claim that “Astarion found out about the ritual five minutes before it started”, or that Astarion is a silly scared kid, who just this second suddenly decided to do the ritual out of fear, simply don't know the game's plot well.

Final of the Sun King (Astarion Origins). Narrator's line:

“It’s been a long time since you’ve stood in judgement over others, holding their lives in your hands. But after everything you’ve done, doesn’t this feel right?”

In this finale, Astarion seems to reclaim his past self, only becoming much stronger, more powerful, and more majestic… His story began as a magistrate, he aspired to the top, fell, went through hell, broke free, took revenge, and rose again, only now to a much higher peak. This looks like the fulfillment of his wishes and the victorious conclusion of his story. And Ascended Astarion in the epilogue also says, “I'm who I always wanted to be. I have everything I ever wanted.”

In Astarion's Character Sheets, his backstory is told as follows:

“Astarion prowled the night as a vampire spawn for centuries, forced to follow the orders of his sadistic Master, Cazador: Seduce every fool with a pulse, and lure them back to my lair. Free for now, he will do anything to keep his life in the light. He can see but one way to ensure his liberty for good: become many times more powerful than his old abuser even could dream of being.

His body is forever tainted by the intricate, patterned scarring Cazador carved upon his back, and the elder vampire seems set on sending waves of hunters seeking to capture his lost spawn.”

Personal Traits:

“Astarion drips with charm before everyone he meets. How much of it is an act, even he himself isn’t sure of any more”.

Ideals:

“Freedom almost tastes finer than blood, and Astarion will do everything he can to secure it”.

Flaws:

“While he has hoiled seduction down to a fine art, and can quickly win over almost anyone, keeping and trusting a new-found ally is another challenge altogether”.

Sure, I would have liked to see more of Astarion's backstory revealed within the game, but that's not going to be realized. For me, as a fan of this game, the biggest regret was the Astarion scenes from EA, which were made and were in EA, but they were not included in the game after release, now you can only see some of Astarion's banters from those scenes. For example, Astarion's nightmare can now only be seen in his Origin, and in EA we could talk to him about it. In those scenes Astarion was revealing himself wonderfully, he was bright, expressive and very emotional. But, fortunately, the authors of youtube channels, who went through the game in EA, saved his scenes, and we can still admire Astarion in them and have a deeper look at his character.

Astarion about the "little death" (Early Access patch 4):

“Astarion often uttered the phrase "Little death" and I started looking for information about this expression and I came across a quote in which for me it is still the essence of the relationship with him.

The French expression for orgasm, la petite mort ("little death"), implies an orgasmic loss of oneself that destroys the pain of separateness — the lonely Self disappears into the resulting We." © AlexKhodja (channel Arts&Games).

Also, the “little death” scene complements Astarion's line at the Tiefling party: “Not at all! I was hoping for companionship and - well, maybe a little death. Figuratively speaking.”

“Who needs morals when you have good hair?” (Astarion and Gale monster hunter conversation):

Astarion's comment on Goblin Sazza:

Astarion doesn't suffer weak minded fools - (Patch 4) Fisherman Conversation:

"Sweetie, you can't murder 'vermin'":

Astarion wants to stay and party with the goblins! - Patch 4 Baldur's Gate 3 Early Access:

I managed to catch a shot of Astarion looking frustrated at having to search for some druid instead of having fun at the party:

And then those satisfied, sly eyes:

Astarion about slaves of myconids [Baldur's Gate 3] [Early Access] [Patch 5]:

Astarion Comments on Mayrina's Situation (Astarion just has an adorable laugh in this scene):

A collection of Astarion's heavy emotional reactions - when he's angry or scared, but it's so strong, it's just impossible to watch indifferently:

It's heart wrenching and makes me want to comfort him as soon as possible, but it's such a strong and impressive range of emotions that it just knocks you off your feet. It's hard to understand why most of these dialog lines were removed in the release version. Neil played incredibly well, Astarion is so alive that watching these scenes you feel fear, when you see his fear, and pain for him, when you see his pure rage. When Tav insults Astarion, he responds (2.51): “There has to be a way you know what, separates us from animals, - choice. I choose to travel with you, a dog would do it on instant to fulfill, a need. Disrespect me again and I won't choose to kill you. I'll do it on instinct to fulfill my need to hear you scream”. And what a huge contrast to that practically devastated, emotionally repressed Astarion, who on the “path of redemption” in the graveyard scene dutifully accepts insults from his “partner,” replying, “I will endeavor to please” or “If it has, it might be for the best” with his head down.

Astarion was a deeply traumatized person, but he was strong, and he knew how to snap back. And he could bite. He was not one to give up easily. And it was all the more valuable to earn his trust and the opportunity for Tav to become a close person to him. It's a pity, if Larian decided to “soften” such a magnificently evil character by not including his strong and vivid emotional reactions in the release version. It would have been much better, in my opinion, to reveal his softer side by enriching the roleplay and adding those lines and actions for Tav that would have helped Astarion feel better and start to trust Tav more, an emotional, multifaceted and complex character is a true diamond for any game, capable of making you fall in love and bond with him. Of course, they did a lot of good things in the release version too, in particular I really like Astarion's appearance in the game, all the little wrinkles on his face that make him even more alive and real.

I think Astarion's EA scenes are an important part of his story too, and thanks for having them. I'd certainly like to see a director's version or a gold edition that includes them, but it's unlikely to come true. These scenes added and deepened Astarion's character for me in many ways, and allowed me to understand him even better.