Slashfic Leather Novels & Stories

Lust is a language even wolves understand. I stood in front of the wardrobe, scanning the dresses like weapons. Nothing worked. I needed armor, not silk. I pulled out a black leather corset that cinched my waist to the kind of hourglass that made men forget their names. I grabbed a short leather skirt that left my legs long and dangerous. Under it, I slid on the thigh holster, a habit that had kept me alive more than once. My boots waited on the floor, heels and hidden blades humming with promise.

Then the house slippers. Then came the leather. They went to a shop that smelled of tanning oil and metal. Fennigan picked out a fitted leather vest--something he said was good for riding and for "stopping a claw if things get rowdy during training. "It made Leela feel tough just holding it. But then, the dynamic changed. Elana's voice seemed to be echoing in Fennigan's head: Anything she wants. They walked into a boutique that smelled of vanilla and money. Leela stopped to look at a delicate gold necklace with a green stone that matched the vines on her bed. She admired it for maybe five seconds.

I got rid of everything when my last relationship ended. I test the strap on my hand and nod. It packs a good sting but is fairly thuddy. When I have a girl trussed up on the St. Andrew’s cross, I need something with length and give. Frowning, I eye the assortment in front of me, ignoring the sound of the crowd in the full room. I enjoy knowing I left Sasha at my mercy. I spy a scarlet flogger, with thin, crisscrossed folds of leather that join together in a sturdy handle. Excellent.

As he brandished the sword, it seemed to hum with power. Like me, Ariana wore clothes that were easy to divest in case she chose to shift into her wolf. However, it looked like hers were made from some form of leather. I was unsure what creature it came from, whether the beast was magical or the leather had been imbued with protective enchantments after the armour had been made.

He gestured to a pair of mannequins at the center of the room, each adorned with intricate suits of armor. Lyra’s armor was a masterpiece, a combination of sleek silver and deep blue. The breastplate was etched with subtle wolf motifs, a nod to her Lycan heritage, and accented with shimmering gemstones that glowed faintly with protective enchantments. The design allowed for flexibility, ensuring that she could move with the grace and speed her wolf demanded.

* her mental brush queried through the bond—wolf to wolf, intimate as shared breath, laced with wry amusement masking the tension coiling in her gut. *Born ready, flame-heir,* I shot back mentally, flashing a feral grin that masked the persistent slither of Reach-whispers at my thoughts’ shadowy edges: *Crown bleeds... variables rewrite... hunger learns.* My own gear echoed hers in Blackwood pack precision: supple dark-grey leathers reinforced with storm-weave filaments that crackled faintly at movement—raven-crest embroidered over the chest glowing subtle alpha-blue—the limiter band snug and secure under my cuff, silver ritual dagger sheathed at hip beside a holstered ley-blade whose hilt h

A sliver of curiosity, sharp and cold, like the edge of a blade pressed to a thawing vein. She stood taller than the others, her shoulders draped in a pelt stitched from wolf hides and something darker—bear, maybe, or human. The scar splitting her lips gleamed in the weak light, a pale thread weaving through weathered skin. Her eyes were flint, sharp enough to spark. “Viktor Frostfang,” she said, her voice grating like rusted chains. “The pack’s favorite ghost.”

The shadow-beasts lunged simultaneously, their mutated muscles bulging beneath dark, nightshade-veined hide. Their jaws snapped with bone-crushing force, echoing off the damp stone walls of the grotto. "Hold the left flank!" Leo roared, stepping into the path of two charging beasts. He swung his heavy runic broadsword in a sweeping horizontal arc. The blade, blazing with radiant platinum light, sliced clean through the lead beast’s dark alchemical armor, severing its shoulder and sending it crashing against the granite wall.

“Is it this one bound with leather made from Human skin? Or the one that’s barely bound and falling apart at the seams?” We look at each other, the answer already clear. “The one that’s falling apart,” I say. “Then the one with the Human leather,” August says, shuddering as he put it down. “Our ancestors were batshit.” I just let out a laugh as I flick through the pages of the one that’s falling apart. The paper is so thin that I can feel some particles sticking to the pads of my fingers. I try to rub it off my jeans, a little disconcerted at how quickly this thing seems to be disintegrating.

The leather was buttery soft and appeared expensive, adorned with a thin chain strap that could be worn over my shoulder or across my body. Standing before the mirror one last time, I barely recognized the woman reflected back at me. The conservative, careful Selene was nowhere to be found. Instead, in her place stood a bold, vibrant woman ready to embrace the night, echoing the whispers of freedom and rebellion I had long suppressed. I felt alive, on the cusp of something entirely new.