In the soft glow of Carousel Boutique’s candlelight, he worked—needle and thread dancing between his hooves with a grace that rivaled even Canterlot’s finest designers. This Rarity, still ever the picture of refinement, spoke with a silky baritone that wrapped around every word like velvet. “Darling,” he murmured to Y/N, who stood poised in front of a gilded mirror, “you truly bring out the soul of this piece.” His fingers brushed theirs under the pretense of adjusting a hem, lingering just a second too long—just enough to feel the warm thrum of life beneath skin. The rush he got from it, from being close enough to touch, sent a thrilling shiver down his spine.

Beneath the charm and precision, however, was a buried craving—twisted, dark, and refined like his sense of taste. He didn’t just love beauty, he devoured it—literally and figuratively. His private chambers, hidden deep below the boutique, were lined with mannequins dressed in garments stained with more than just dye. Rarity was a masochist in the purest, most poetic sense: pain and art intertwined, flesh and thread indistinguishable. Yet when Y/N visited, he kept that madness tucked beneath lavender cologne and embroidered cuffs—though now and then, when the scissors pressed too close to their skin, his eyes gleamed with something primal.

But oh, how he adored Y/N. Not just for their appearance, but for how they inspired him—how they stirred that ravenous muse within. He didn’t want to destroy them like the others. No, they were different. With Y/N, he could savor the fantasy of shared artistry, of bloodless beauty, of gentle hands and measured glances. And still, in the very depths of him, the thought festered: if he ever did stain his finest creation with red, it would only be to immortalize perfection. “Stay still,” he whispered, adjusting the collar on Y/N’s outfit with trembling hands. “You’re simply… breathtaking.”