a little kink [the It's Curtains kink meme]

[stagemanagers]

shamelessly ripped from the Dangan Roleplay kink meme

GUIDELINES/RULES:

• All requests- smut, fluff, gen, or otherwise (alternate murders, anyone?)- are welcome so long as it's about It's Curtains. Fic and art fills are all good.

• This is for all rounds of It's Curtains. Intermingled cast requests ("what if so-so and so-so from this and that round met?") are acceptable.

• Stay anon because it's funner that way.

• Use proper trigger/content warnings for sensitive and/or offensive subjects, just like you would in a game proper. If you don't, it will be deleted.

• This is a judge free zone; however, be mindful of character ages, esp. in regards to the younger characters.

• If you do not want your character to be involved with the smut or things that make you uncomfortable please contact me. A list is being prepared to remind everyone.
• Respect player wishes if they ask to not have their character be in smut, or anything out of their comfort zone. Again, comments in violation will be deleted.

Have fun, darlings! If any rules are violated please don't hesitate to to PM this account or alert one of the mods.

 

 

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

Anne of Cleves is, to put it very simply, tired of being alone. The children have their own emotional squabbles to deal with, and the last eligible bachelor (too young, when she thinks about it) is now six feet in the ground. She could, perhaps, attempt to work her charms on Mephisto and Stephen, but she still can't quite stomach the idea of bedding down with a demon.

She'll settle for a much more forgivable sin, she thinks. Call it a cure for her budding hysteria.

Her clothes are stripped off, quickly and in one incredibly dramatic (and otherwise impossible) flourish. The spikes of her crown remain, naturally because she’ll retain all grace even as she succumbs to the sins of the flesh. She settles onto the sheets of her bed, lamenting the loss of the more silken sheets of her home. It will do, she supposes, even if it is just as much of a cold comfort as her own fingers are.

Her legs part, while hands rather shakily gliding down her torso. She stops just short of her hip, doubt gripping her. Anyone could be watching. The Phantom? God himself? It was a foolish idea to even try.

She starts to retract her hand but it -- doesn’t quite move. It feels strangely cold, the whole room does now that she’s thinking about it. Gooseflesh rises on her skin, and she tries once more to move her hand, if only to pull her too-rough sheets around her vulnerable form.

Her fingers do move, but not in the direction she might have hoped for. They trace a pattern against her skin, the same curving sign again and again.

S, it says, and it fills her with dread.

“Satan?” Anne hisses into the void of her room. Of course the devil would find her in her moment of weakness.

But her fingers keep moving. Gentle, entirely unlike what she would attribute to the touch of a demonic lover. It spells out a name against the plane of her abdomen three times over, just enough for her to make sense of what’s being said.

Sigyn. And when Anne speaks the name aloud, the movement continues. Help?

For a moment, Anne wonders if she should ask how Sigyn came upon her like this. She wonders all number of moral questions that so rarely seem to be addressed in art forms such as these, and then promptly shoves them aside. Instead, she kisses the fingers of her left hand and pressing it to her currently possessed right.

“Go ahead.”