#sebastiansteele

[cancelledsecretsanta]

To: Sebastian Steele Is this ooc or ic?: IC from Ariella What the ho is it?: Half of all the peppermint related orders Ariella got from Tomas’ bakery

@sebastianxsteele

[constantinepayne]

6 + Sebastian

Send me ‘6′ and I’ll write a Six Word Story about your muse!

Frustrated mortician hand picks new clients.

[idriscainwolfe]

6 + Sebastian

Obsessive-shipper finally develops benevolent hobby.

[emorylight]

Text || Semory || The After

sebastiansteele:

Вы нашли себя не хватает ваших формальности снова, свет? Это становится привычкой твоего возобновить случайный, а не продолжать с ложным предлогом чужого превосходства только по названию, по вашему мнению, по крайней мере. I did indulge in your accelerant. You’re aware of my answer to its invitation.

emorylight:

Довольно впечатление на вашего отъезда, Себастьян. A bang, indeed.

Продуманный вас быть обеспокоены моим формальностей, но самонадеянно, тем не менее, чтобы предложить идею превосходства вообще. Название в этом обществе не означает ценность или значение, а не вы должны всех людей быть остро осознает самого субъекта?  I suspected as much.  Are you amenable to the target, or would you be interested in enhancing the proverbial stake by seeking out something new?

[sir-fabian-bishop]

Purgery || Dec. 4th

[The earlier events of December 4th have concluded only partially. Sebastian is aware of the reminders that are already left behind on Bishop’s body. The rope burns that will be reddening his wrists, his waist, in between his thighs and the sensitive and seemingly untouched flesh. However, there is also knowledge that those will fade in time, along with the ache that coincides to their marks.

With the willingness of submissive Attings, even though she was made ignorant of what she was given to deliver, there’s an item that has become the bane of the memory’s existence that makes its way to Fabian Bishop. Placed in an old cigarette pack from his company, it finds its way into the hands of the new owner.

Once the small box is lifted open, the possession is revealed untampered with.]

[Fabian numbly walked back to his villa. He didn't notice how his shirt was on inside-out, leaving the tag that should have been situated at the nape of his neck become noticeable against the front of his collarbone, like a tongue sticking out. His dark blue jacket was draped over his arm, held close to his body like a security blanket. Of course he had never been of the strongest class, but he had prized himself in being firmly cemented into the legion of the intellectuals. Because of his mentality, there was reason to believe that he shouldn't have been so rattled at the moment. He shouldn't be finding it a struggle to put one foot in front of the other. He most certainly should not be so lost in his thoughtless head not to notice the young woman approach him.

It takes him a few belated seconds to construct a type of thin veneer of the normal tightness. He is a Dominant, after all. To not be in control in front of a Submissive is unacceptable. Carefully, he takes the offering, even drawing a vague smile. He has been craving a cigarette since the beginning of his ordeal. In any other normal time, he would have waited until he was in private to show such an uncivilized ravaging, but the senses towards decorum are frayed.

His silver lining snaps in two the moment the lid is bent back, and his fingers out of automatic nature pinch at the unfamiliar and unexpected object.

The vomit that has been brewing in his body since the act he had to witness between Mr. Steele and Payne finally tears through the throat, spilling past the lips and to be propelled on the poor Submissive. His hands drop the package, letting the item tumble out as he rushes a hasty and barely formed apology before his hand clasps around his soured mouth, feeling the temptation for another overhauling as he escapes quickly, unable to keep the strained composure.

He fumbles with the lock of his villa before locking himself in, leaving the gift of remembrance outside, yet branded into his brain. The scarlet hue with some shading from where the edges had dried, known to be from the Assistant of Investor Relations, contrasted to the sticky substance of the beige coloring, sourced from the Tattoo Artist, all against the backdrop of the shredded latex.

Fabian barely makes it to his bathroom before he gags, wrenching his body of the very last drop of fluid his stomach can pump before his body is just left convulsing in short rounds with nothing left to purge.]

[sir-fabian-bishop]

Summary || Sebconian

Characters Involved: Fabian Bishop, Constantine Payne, Sebastian Steele

Triggers: Violent smut, bloodplay, knifeplay, lots of words

Summary: To avoid punishment for his outburst, Fabian agrees to meet with Sebastian to face his payment privately and off-the-record. However, the pristine asexual soon regrets the decision. 

There was a straining sound, faint but palpable to the inexperienced ears. Fibers grating against one another from the weight. His weight. The two wrists were united as one, bound above his head with the slight noise being bred between the crevices of the braided ropes. Fabian's bare body mimicked the roughened material, only in the way it was tested, attempting to elongate his bare body so his toes wouldn't have to stretch to reach the floor. If only he could let his feet support him instead of these already aching joints. If only he was taller: a small thought that in its normalcy was treasured in this circumstance of insanity.

The chameleon eyes shut, releasing a muffled sigh against the thin gag. It appeared as only cloth that was threaded between his lips, but he learned quickly. His tongue tried not to wipe against it, having done so already in the hopes that it could be pushed aside to scream for another's attention and rescue, only to be repaid by the hidden needle piercing into the taste buds. It still burned from the small prick, in spite of the way the wet flesh folded around itself, literally attempting to lick the wound.

Blasted. Such a mild word, but for the mind of the civilized man of antiquity, his anguish transferred heavily through the short thought. It would be over soon, however. He clung onto this notion, just as tightly as these thick strands gripped onto his fair flesh. Beyond his wrists, there was one he couldn't allow to enter into his wits. It was violating, wretched, completely detestable to the suffocatingly straight-laced senses. He couldn't dare let it overtake him, for it only took one drop of its poison to tear the hemispheres apart before feasting on the psyche. Though, the reality was inescapable. If there was no mental acceptance, there was physical.

Sebastian Steele appeared to associate many techniques to the Japanese culture. Matanawa was what he said. The word itself was bathed in smoke, and Fabian delved more so into his memory at the needed scent that could potentially calm his fraying nerves. He refused the rest his consciousness could offer him, the ones he buried deeply, contrary to the heightened priority of it versus what should have been seen as the auxiliary. For the first time in his life, Fabian Bishop did not care for words. He didn't care for their meaning that brought upon the action they were describing. He wanted nothing to do with it, and he found solace in artificial ignorance.

It was dark around him. He was hidden for whatever reason and alone. The latter he saw no harm in, preferring it. When the ropes failed to make the slightest sound, the hearing was left to its own devices, buzzing with silence. In their sensitive state, they twitched at the knocks that formed against the front door, followed by leather shoes in their long strides to answer it after a moment.

He heard a voice he knew. A familiarity, at least, even if not enough for the heart to rise any further from his stomach than the lower ribcage. The lean figure was devoid of muscular forms with his strength limited because of his lack of practice. He gathered what he could in an attempt to swing, to have any part of him hit something, anything, that was around him to make noise. Not a single possession was touched, yet the burns to his wrists and unclad flesh were painful enough to cease.

Motions stopping, multi-colored orbs were mostly engulfed by the pupils, watching from the slit before him at the way Constantine Payne stood none the wiser, quipping idly with the older man. Their voices exchange with one another for a few passes. Mr. Steele's nearly guttural tone stops, though. He only continues when Payne's neck is pinned to the polished table, knocking him with such force that if it was glass, it surely would have shattered. Fabian's heart speeds up with worry that he'll be witnessing a murder, unsure now of the limitations for everyone involved. By the time the act is over, the shadows of the mind will be wishing that it had been just that instead of what he deems as too vile to fathom much less be forced into seeing.

The youngest's hand flies up, grasping to the ebony locks with the blunt end of his palm pressured against the corner of the jaw. Mr. Steele's face rises only vaguely, denying the hold at the cost of ripping some of the hairs from his scalp while the rest escape. In response, the fingers squeeze around the throat and even beneath the black jacket, the muscles of the upper arm can be seen shifting. It's a struggle not to gag from the victim before his determination to join has his legs wrapping around the waist, prying him off until there's another noise of impact from Sebastian's back crashing to the hardwood floor.

Eyes of the unknown captive have widened with the jet discs expanded even wider until there's barely any traces of color at all. They reflect clearly how Constantine's show of bronze is countered by the eldest's own prowess, flipping him over to reverse their positions, cracking the skull to return the favor. It's not enough to have the brunet's spine being weighed on, though. He's flipped again before there can be another exchange, now lying on his stomach with the chin propping the chiseled face up. The click of the pocket knife reverberates throughout the open space, cascading mostly against Fabian's ears as he can't help but watch in his numbness.

With one hand flattened between the shoulder blades, keeping him down, the quickened work of the blade slices the back of the jeans, following the path of the natural separation of the body. From the tightness of skin around blue eyes and the way his fingers throw themselves against the other's wrist to cast it back, it's clear he has been cut but the severity is unknown. Sebastian makes a remark, the tone casual, and surprisingly a retort from the one he's holding a knife to is from a coquettish sense, joking and somehow expecting of this fate. He releases the arm, rising up to snatch the nape of the neck to drag Mr. Steele down, biting at the lower lip until it bursts once he's within proximity.

The Dominant that is strung up feels his stomach churning, nausea sweeping over him. His head is light, spinning, but he's paralyzed from the way his mind is shutting down to save what little part of him remains able to keep consciousness. The hedonists continue with their dance, seeing Payne's pocket being trifled through before the long fingers have a packet between them.

"Planning ahead, serf?" is heard without a breath out of place. For such a heavy smoker and the vigorous exercise he's just accomplished, the control of his lungs would be seen as outstanding if Fabian wasn't on the verge of heaving.

It takes every bit of control that the shortest of the three has not to follow the wants of his body. He's jerked forward from his own digestive system, but he rejects what they greet the back of his throat with. 'It will conclude momentarily' is his chant.

It doesn't come to fruition.

With each measured thrust Sebastian gives, there's an expanding tear to the thin latex, allowing a sensation of minimal smoothness to be eroded into the scraping and shredding flesh, particularly where Payne has met metal from him instead of only his flesh. Torso of the one being thrown into is hauled up by both forearms.

"Choose."

The concept is lost on Fabian, knowing nothing even if he could distance himself enough from his personal feelings to focus. Constantine, however, seems to understand.

"Right," he speaks through gritted teeth, knowing already before speaking his 'partner'--in the looses sense of the word--will follow through with the opposite side than what is stated, confirmed by the crack of his shoulder's joint from his left side. The agent of the Crowne bites his tongue, silencing his vocal chords with a long and steady breath. In spite of blocking as much of the pain as he can, there's pleasure that trickles through the veins that cannot be denied.

This act repeats itself with only the change of using the legs instead of the arms, along with the side that is spoken being actually taken instead of swapped for the remaining option. The youngest will have to pop the limbs back into their sockets once they're finished, going through the medical routine he has trained for not only in the agency but through his personal choice of education.

It's expected that Sebastian Steele will be ruthless in the physical contact. His guest knew this long before agreeing to arrive. However, what is not planned for are the details surrounding his tactics, and the man so heavily endowed in psychological knowledge believes that even the other he's studying and being studied by adapts, decides, and follows through in a moment's notice while avoiding an impulsive blindness. Because of that, even the one with the hollow circle tattooed on his arm knows only his method for a few fleeting seconds before snapping his body to it.

In his unpredictability, Constantine is left devoid of his inner presence so close to reaching his release. The inflammation of his body is in the beginning stages, and without the distraction, it is brought slamming to the forefront of the senses. Adrenaline pumps through him, knowing that it's the only natural property that strays him from being wracked with the disease of agony. There are only so many times he can bite his tongue, after all. However, he doesn't need to wait long before something else can literally grab him.

The raven-haired man has his arm hooked around the blue-eyed creature's throat, a touch he's returning to but with a vengeance, bending his spine back while the cusp of his calves are weighed against by knees. Against even the dislocation of his left shoulder, both of his hands reach back to yank at the figure that was moments ago inside of him, jerking the owner forward and to have him crash into him. There's a wrenching given, shooting a spark through the joint as penance, but Sebastian gives only an articulate sentence to breathe into the exposed ear as though he's immune.

The zipper nestled between the folds of a pair of jeans are tracked down sharply by the free hand, shoving aside the layers that protect the youngest to reveal the engorged shape. There's no time to theorize what will happen next, only glancing down in time to hear a metallic spring and see the glint of silver that's already dyed in his blood before the sensitive nerves twitch at its touch. Plush lips separate, snatching at the reins of his lungs.

It's in the quickest instance, the crevice of time that compounds thoughts into a solitary strand of a psyche's cry, does Constantine think of the strangest type of thought towards what could happen to him if Sebastian's fingers make the faintest move against him. The thought is one of retribution. A toll-road that he must pay for the sins of being an accomplice in a crime that spear-headed into his newest patient's safety--those that are attached to the interrogation of Idris Cain Wolfe.

Fortunately, Constantine Payne is not a religious man. The thought dissipates as quickly as it's born, and returning to the moment, his hand grabs around the spine of the blade, snapping it against one of the dominant's fingers before the body flings back to try to buck him off. In spite of the persistent nature that has the eldest refusing to relinquish his position, it's enough for the neck to be traded for the left arm, throwing the guest of the villa down once more.

Every muscle tenses at the all too familiar intrusion, but the voice breathes life into the typical sarcasm, determined to conquer the other as a contact even via this price of proving himself. He allows his body to work on his behalf in the continuation, but the vision of the onlooker is fading. The scene blackens in hazed multi-colored orbs that are out of sight to at least one other occupant of this defiled structure, and Fabian's consciousness is lost out of the mind's own mercy.

[emorylight]

In regards to the other three attendees, I don't recall specifying that your interest was solely directed to me, even if there is a concentrated amount. You're informed that if there is an invite to your latest adventure in the form of an orgy, it will be declined. Do you believe that I was assisting you? There are rumors that your mentality is disturbed, and now you've fueled them with the return of your infatuation. Well done, Light. Out of curiosity, is your pool still reflecting your future?

You may want to revisit our recent conversation, as it appears that you have half-forgotten what was exchanged.  You stated that I served dinner and associated that with courting, implying that I have ulterior motives toward you, a proverbial bubble of yours in which I had to gently burst.  An orgy is an ineffective means of networking, especially considering the lack of quality at the estates as of late.  You may want to start filtering and analyzing all the hearsay on site, as misinformation on certain individuals can prove to be fatal.  

You are a terrible fortuneteller, Mr. Steele.

[emorylight]

Tsk, Light. You served dinner and are already speaking of courting. I wasn't aware how dire the situation was with the submissive clan that you were expecting me to reciprocate. If one message sent to you is enough for your mind to wander, no wonder you've grown to be anti-social. The interactions must have been too overwhelming for you to bear.

Yes, Mr. Steele.  You are absolutely correct in that I did serve dinner.  However, please be reminded that the same dinner was served to three other individuals in addition to you.  And need I mention that you actually  assisted me with this dinner in a rather uncharacteristically helpful manner?  I did not need to ask you to reciprocate, as you have so selflessly volunteered in spite of your vehement denial of the apparent.  It is rather endearing, really.  And Mr. Steele?  It is creepy to stalk.  Peeping Tom does not become you.