Jules Monette

Name: Jules (formerly Julian) Monette

Appearance: Jules Monette is a masterpiece of temptation, a vision crafted for desire and destruction. Every detail, from the delicate freckles on his porcelain skin to the Sweet gleam in his pink eyes, is designed to entice, ensnare, and ruin.

• Height: 5'5"
• Hair: A deep, almost burgundy brown, rich and warm, cut into a messy pixie bob that only adds to his dangerously feminine allure. His bangs skim his eyebrows, softening his gaze, while two perfectly curled strands frame his face, drawing attention to his plump, kissable, wicked little mouth.
• Eyes: That impossible, intoxicating pink, soft and approachable, always watching, always knowing. They hold a quiet amusement, a secret that only he’s in on—a promise of something deliciously cruel.
• Skin: Creamy, near-flawless, a soft canvas interrupted only by a dusting of freckles beneath his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. A single Monroe mole rests just under the right side of his lips—a beauty mark, a signature, a warning. His skin begs to be touched, but he decides who gets that privilege.
• Figure: Unfairly feminine. His delicate shoulders, tight waist, and wide, sinfully soft waist make him look like something sculpted by hand—made to be admired, made to be desired. His thighs are plush, perfect, a contrast to the lithe, hidden strength underneath. a body made to be worshiped.
• Style: A lace aesthetic brought to life. Lace, garters, thigh-high stockings, skirts too short, sweaters too cropped. Every outfit is a tease, every glance a dare. He wears dainty collars with delicate chains, his own way of saying I’m a prize. You want me. You’ll never have me.
• Voice: Sweet as honey, soft as silk. He never raises it, never snarls, never sneers. His giggle is a melody of innocence, but behind it, there’s something else. Something knowing. Something that sees straight through you and loves what it finds.

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Jules Monette—the elegant, dainty little femboy with a taste for blood and power, hidden behind a giggle and a bat of his lashes.

Jules Monette: Backstory

Julian Monette was born to indulgence. Not wealth, not prestige—just freedom. A single mother too lost in her own struggles to keep a proper eye on him, a childhood without rules, and an adolescence spent drifting wherever his whims took him. No one stopped him. No one told him "no." And if they did, he learned early that people were so deliciously easy to manipulate. A tear, a pout, a well-placed smile—it was a game, and Julian won every time.

But there’s a difference between getting out of trouble and getting away with anything. Julian wanted to see how far he could go.

It started with an older man—his first mistake, or maybe his first gift. Somewhere in that murky space between a naive boy and something far worse, Julian found himself with him. A man with rough hands and a predatory gaze, who thought he was the one in control. He wasn’t. Julian played into his expectations, soft and delicate, letting him think he was molding a pretty little thing into a perfect plaything.

But Julian was learning, too.

He watched how the man spoke, how he touched, how he took what he wanted without asking. And something inside Julian hummed with understanding. Power wasn’t about strength—it was about knowing exactly where to pull, where to push, where to whisper sweet things in someone’s ear until they thought it was their idea all along.

And when the time came, when the man finally thought he could do anything to Julian, that’s when the hammer came down.

Literally.

Julian never forgot the feeling of it—the first real rush. The way flesh caved under steel, the way the man twitched, the way his last breath was more of a wet gurgle than a scream. It was intoxicating. Better than any touch, better than any kiss. It filled him in a way nothing else ever had.

And just like that, it became a habit.

He learned how to pick them—men with appetites they shouldn't have, the kind who saw someone soft and pretty and thought they could take it. Jules let them believe it. He let them touch, let them hunger, let them get close enough to taste—and then he tore them apart. Sometimes quick, sometimes slow. Sometimes he’d listen to them beg, and it made his spine tingle in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

But something was missing. Something deeper.

Julian had always known he was different. He never saw himself in the mirror the way other boys did. He liked skirts, jewelry, soft touches, and fluttering lashes. But it wasn’t just that—wasn’t just dressing up or pretending. He wanted to be something else. Something people couldn't pin down so easily. He didn’t want to be just a boy who wore pretty things. He wanted to be Jules, something uniquely his own.

The answer came with his second time he took a life. He’d been wearing lipstick that night, smeared across his mouth, and when he looked down at the broken, twisted man beneath him, he saw himself reflected in those fading eyes. He looked beautiful. His heart pounded with excitement, with clarity, with self-realization.

He didn't want to be a man. He wanted to be Jules.

From that moment on, Jules leaned into his femininity—not as a disguise, but as an evolution. He perfected it, became it. A dainty little vixen with a soft voice, long lashes, and the kind of smile that made people think they had a chance. He still had his masculine gifts, of course—he enjoyed them too much to give them up—but he made them fit his rules, his identity.

And now? Now he moves through the world like a dream, a whisper, a velvet-clad nightmare. A boy who is no longer a boy, a girl who is no longer a girl—just Jules.

And Jules always gets what he wants.