#silver sable x reader

[thewildwestfrontier]

Silvija Sablinova Route (The Wild West Frontier)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

[lola-writes]

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐈 ║ I. Adonis ║ Marcus Acacius x Hanno's sister!reader

➣ Deliciae Imperii -> Delights of the Empire

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

➣ Chapter II. | Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2,9k

Synopsis: As an esteemed warrior of the Numidian army, your world turns on its axis when you’re taken prisoner by the Romans. Ever since your stealth attack that nearly cost the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius, his life, he appears to have taken a special interest in you. Under his tutelage of swordplay and carnal things, you delve deeper into the heart of the Roman Empire, uncovering its instability, and Acacius’ true intentions with you…

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person, use of y/n, blood, detailed descriptions of violence, terms of endearment (anaticula, Adonis), slavery, Roman history, vomiting, angst, swearing. See series masterlist for full themes & warnings!

Song: Fight for Survival – Klergy

a/n: The original plan was for this to be a oneshot, but in the end it seemed impossible. I've got a lot planned for this story. Hope you stay tuned! 🥰

Anaticula (duckling), Adonis (god of beauty and desire)

Poem by @fairytalesques

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

I am a rose unfurling, winter’s bloom. Poison dripping down my throat and out of my bladed fingers. I spin stars into black holes, drive monsters to extinction in the dead heat of summer. You ever stop to think what life could have been if the poison had been potent? A lifeline in the carnage. A blessing or a curse? The flower is now festering like a disease but with Adonis I’ll be safe, he keeps the antidote. 

The metallic tang of blood, thick and cloying, hung heavy in the humid air, a shroud of death as thick as smoke. It was a symphony of war, conducted by the piercing shrieks of the wounded and the barked commands of the officers. A cacophony that blurred my senses as I moved with deadly precision through a haze of silver and red.

I fought with the savage efficiency of a wild animal, yet my kills were clean and quiet, each motion honed by years of training under Hanno's tutelage. My vision tunneled to a singular, deadly focus – the annhilation of the Roman usurpers by any means necessary. In this moment, I was a force of nature, an instrument of retribution. I would purge the land of their corrupted touch if I were to die trying.

The enemy pressed on, a relentless tide. For every ten I felled, another twenty rose to take their place. Yet somehow, the more I fought, the stronger I became, as though the adrenaline that infiltrated my every tissue contained a potent elixir that invigorated my muscles and dulled their exertion. 

Clashing blades rang in the air. Our two armies mingled near indistinguishably; clanging, crunshing and screaming. It would be difficult to tell friend from foe, if it weren’t for the Romans distinctive galeas, the red fur frilling atop the silver helms like beckoning targets. 

Just then, the crowd parted like clouds from the sun, unveiling a figure descending the battlement steps, a silhouette of lethal grace. Donning a sable breast plate emblazoned by Sol, sprawling across his chest with a douzen golden rays, he moved with the effortless grace of a dancer, his blade a blur of silver death, his countenance molded into a rigid canvas of authority. A retinue of red fringed galeas encircled him, their bodies his shields, their presence a testament to his rank. 

My gaze fixed him through the crowd as the next wave of men in their peculiar-looking helmets came charging at me. I ducked, slicing open the patellas of the first two, making them buckle in the sand. The third I dodged, sidestepping before plunging my blade into his brachial plexus. The fourth I parried, our blades screeching in unison, before I kicked under his flared skirt. There wasn’t much fight left in him after that.      

Jubartha’s words echoed in my mind as I tracked the approaching entourage, “Take out the leader of your enemy, and it matters not how much blood stains your sword.”

He moved fluidly like a windless sea. His spatha whipped around him, trailing shadows in the dust-ridden air, splattering the sand with blood. His expression was a paradox. As though he would not rest until Rome had pocketed another conquest, while simultaneously longing for a different fate entirely.

Crimson trailed around him like crushed punica granatum. None breached the shield of bodies surrounding him, and those who tried did not emerge alive, like prey entering a lion’s den. 

I caught a glimpse of Hanno and Jubartha atop the parapet, fending off the ruthless wave from the assaulting sea. The walls had been breached, our numbers were dwindling. A sense of desperation seized me, a reckless courage driving me forward.  

There was but one choice at my disposal.

I sprinted up the steps of the opposite parapet, scaling the heights with desperate urgency. Ducking behind a wooden pole, I dashed across the platform until I reached its bosom. I leaned out over its edifice, where down below, a second protective roof had been built. I started the climb downward, the splintering wood tearing at my hands like an angry cat. I landed on the roof with a thud and crouched towards the edge. Our men were still charging through the opening of the parapet, but before I knew it, they began to slow, getting knocked back by the shield wall of fearsome Roman guards. I rose to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, adrenaline surging through my bloodstream. My hand found the hilt of my sword and clasped it into place. For what I was about to do, risking becoming unarmed was to invite my doom.

The chaotic shadowy flare of guards flanking the steady shadow of an unyielding assassin grew in the sand below. I filled my lungs, washing out the biting fear of death creeping around the edges. 

A warrior’s oath echoed in my mind: I am Numidia. 

I dipped, toes to the edge. A head of dark and silver emerged below. 

What could go wrong?

I leapt. 

The fall felt decelerated, as if in a dream, and all surrounding noise faded underwater. My feet met his back, and a heavy grunt of startlement escaped him as he fell forward. His body broke my fall, and I rolled with the force of the impact, swiftly regaining my footing as I turned to face him. Dazed for but a second, his face dusted with sand, he grappled for his sword. But before he managed to get a proper grasp of the hilt, I pressed my boot atop his knuckles. He groaned in frustration behind gritted teeth. The next second, my one hand had clasped the knife from my boot, while the other had gathered a fistful of his hair and snatched him backward. 

In the third second, my blade was poised at his throat, ready to claim his life when, for reasons unexplained, the edge paused in his skin. 

In the fourth second, I had met his eyes, and an unfamilliar current passed down my spine. They were big, and brown, and full of contradictions, staring up at me with equal surprise, malice, and admiration. But no fear. His chest was heaving. His hair was a full, tangled mess of black and silver beneath my fingers, textured from the unsettled sand. The strands of silver had leaked into his beard which covered his dark, dirt-and blood-spattered complexion. His nose was sharp, angled like the limb of a bow, and his lips were slightly parted from gnashed teeth. The wound I had inflicted seemed to defy the vision of him I had before me, bleeding red but ichor. 

In the fifth second his resistance faltered, his head growing heavy against me. But before I could savour my victory, a sharp blow clattered my teeth, and suddenly my body was not my own. My vision blurred, my ears buzzed, and my fingers loosened the grip of the knife, no matter how hard I fought against it. 

In the sixth second, I was laying in the sand, grasping for consciousness. I thought I could hear Hanno screaming in the distance, but it was just beneath the surface. Gathering the last ounces of strength I had left I reached for the blade laying inches away. The contours of Adonis hovered over me, as one of the guards kicked my weapon out of reach. My other hand dragged itself to my waist, half-limb, seeking to undo the clasp to my sword.

“Tsk tsk tsk...” Adonis clicked his tongue. I winced as his boot came down on my hand, pressing down. “You have some fight in you, anaticula,” his voice, laced with what I would percieve as… concern, circulated around my head like a distant echo. “Grab her.” The words consumed me, nuzzling my cognisance like a warm blanket, and as I lifted off the ground, I faded into oblivion. 

_

Vae victis. Woe to the vanquished. 

The declaration travelled with me between the realms of my unconsciousness, followed by the distant wails of bereaved mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. 

I awoke to the comforting crackle of the fire we used to cook our supper. The air was thick with the scent of fresh fish, and the vague neigh of my stallion drifted in from outside. I sighed, nuzzling my face into the pillow, and was captivated by the unfamiliar softness of it. Something was different. The ground beneath me seemed to shift and sway, and as I opened my eyes, the pillow under my cheek was foreign to me – vibrant with patterns winding around the fabric like climbing vines.

Reality slowly dawned. I was not home. And the crackle of the fire and the neighing from my stallion was in fact the creaking and squeaking of ship timbers. 

I groaned as a sharp pain lanced through my skull. Everything came back to me. The Roman invasion. The battle. The blow to the head. Adonis … 

My breath stilled when I met his gaze across the room. Clad in the same sable armor and a royal scarlet cape, he was seated at the head of a table bedecked in plates of fish, cheese, fruit and caraffes of wine. He held my stare with a distant look of interest, rolling a purple grape between his fingers before plopping it into his mouth, his jaw clenching and unclenching. 

The throbbing pain pulsed in my temple in tune with my heart as I sat up on the setee. Sludge stuck to my thoughts and it felt as though my center of gravity was off the way the room kept rocking.

“Easy,” came his voice, a low rumble. His chewing ceased, his movements stilled, as if ready to rise in haste.

The ship’s rhythmic rocking intensified, the sound of waves lapping against the hull growing louder. A cold sweat broke out on my brow. My breathing surged and grew ragged, trying to subdue the rolling sense of nausea consuming me. 

But it was futile.

With a violent shudder, I retched, the contents of my stomach emptying onto the wooden planks.

I stared blankly at my mess, a strange blend of satisfaction and shame washing over me. Relishing at the thought of having defiled the ship of the Roman usurpers, I was humbled by doing so in front of the man who I failed to kill. My guts were ready to spill again at the very thought.

His chair creaked against the floor as he rose. I only saw his legs as he approached, dropping to his haunches in front of me – in my vomit, and I recoiled, equally to his sudden advance as to the indignity of it. He moved with intent, the scarlet cape pooled around him, and I could not help but feel intimidated. It was like he didn’t know what he was standing in. Or rather, didn’t care. Furthermore, based off his attire alone, he was too high in station to be on his knees for a commoner like me. Even less, kneeling in a commoner’s bodily fluid. 

He was so cool and calculated, from how he moved to how his gaze settled on mine, though something alive played in his dark brown eyes. Something that could snap at any second. His complexion was still riddled with dried dirt and blood from the battle, and the cut in his neck had leaked down his throat like spilt ink. 

I knew not if it was the sudden uprising of nerves, his closeness, or a result of the blow to my head, but the words slipped past my lips without thought. “You’re a truly terrible commander.” I dried the dribble off my chin with the back of my hand.

A furrow etched between his brows and genuine concern flickered in his eyes, like he was contemplating whether it might be true. “I conquered your city,” he parried.

“I nearly killed you,” I retorted.

A hint of malice clouded his features. “Nearly.” His tone of voice gathered timber; that the word came off as a threat. 

He stared at me. The urge to look away was so strong it itched beneath my skin. He expected me to. Though something foreign and astute made me persevere. Holding eye contact with him felt like a deadly game. But it also evoked a whisper of adrenaline, as warm as spiced wine. 

Finally, his eyes drifted downward to the pool of vomit at his feet. “I’ll have someone clean this up,” he said, before leaning forward and putting his arms around me. 

Adrenaline shot through me like a violent storm, and I pushed him away instinctively. His face was a mask of indifference, and he reached for me again, and this time he didn’t let go, no matter how hard I fought him. He carried me up off the settee as I kicked, squealed, grunted and clawed. My mind raced with the thoughts of what he might do to me. His breast plate was ice cold against my skin, but I was too frantic to notice. I came to my senses once he dropped me down in a chair next to the table. He glared at me, clearly unimpressed by my defiance, before grabbing a plate off the table, methodically filling it with a chaotic assortment.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, breaking off a twig of grapes as a final touch before serving it to me, rounding the table to seat himself.

I simply gaped at him, too bewildered to respond. My chest heaved from exertion, my tense body clutching onto the wood of the chair, trembling slightly from the waning adrenaline spike.

“You need not fear me, anaticula,” he soothed. His voice was a strange blend of velvet and steel, a combination I believed to be uniquely his; calming and unsettling me in equal measure. And despite the ingrained hatred I harbored towards his people, an inexplicable, vexing trust for him began to bloom within me.

“I am General Marcus Acacius,” he boomed, as though I would have trouble hearing him from across the table. Where he came from, I’d wager men stood to attention at the mere mention of him, but I remained indifferent. Belittling him was all the power I had.

His name grew heavy in the air, silence stretching. I’d expected him to explain my fate next. That I would be sold as a slave for men to plunder as they wished, or perhaps executed for having his life at my disposal. Perhaps he’d do it himself.

“What do I call you?” he asked finally.

“Whyever does that matter?” I snapped.

“Is it so strange to wish to know the name of the woman who nearly killed me?” His voice dipped at the very mention of it. 

“I’ll be dead soon enough,” I said with feigned indifference. Acacius stiffened, watching me carefully. “Or if you do not kill me, I’d kill myself before I ever become a slave.” I watched him relax slightly and continue his meal.

“That’s not going to happen,” he muttered inbetween chews.

My gut flared with anticipation, “Which part?” I demanded.

He looked up at me. “What’s your name?” he asked, deliberately ignoring my question. 

“Y/N,” I replied, my voice barely a whisper. 

He repeated my name, the sound rolling off his tongue like honey while he fixed me with his eyes dark like amber. I grew strangely warm and restless, and a sudden urge to flee seized me, a wild beast gnawing at my nerves. 

“Where is my brother?” I blurted out, rather raggedly, a note of desperation creeping in, but as I did, I recalled I had not seen Hanno since the start of the battle. Was he even alive?

“Your brother?” he asked, like the notion I’d have a family was aberrant to him, a fleeting spark of uncertainty passing through his eyes. He swallowed sharply, picking at the salted fish on his plate. “With the other prisoners,” he muttered.

“So,” I began, molding myself out of the rigid posture I had assumed, and leaned forward. “Why am I here?” I asked, casting a disapproving look around his opulent cabin.

He stopped and fixed me with a gaze ice-cold. “For safe keeping,” he said sternly. “You nearly killed me today, Y/N. I wouldn’t want to find out what else you’re capable of.”

Vague images flickered before my eyes – chaos, then darkness. “You talk as if it’s some big feat,” I scoffed.

His eyes, twin pools of lethal venom, bored into me. “I assure you,” he hissed, resting his bracers against the edge of the table, a hint of admonition lingering in his voice, “It is.”

My face heated at the thought of having impressed him, but the word ‘nearly’ was a nettlesome creature.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” I said, the words bitter on my tongue.

Acacius cocked his brows in recognition and poured wine. “Why didn’t you?” he asked, raising the cup to his lips. 

The question caught me off guard, and a bitter taste filled my mouth. I recalled myself hesitating. I had the blade at his throat. I could have ended the battle there and then, declared Numidia victorious against the power of Rome. But I couldn’t do it. 

“I-,” I don’t know, I thought. 

A sharp knock on the door shattered the silence, and a sentry entered the room, bowing slightly. “General Acacius,” he spoke, his voice laced with duty and reverence. “Rome awaits.” 

Chapter II. | Series Masterlist | Chapter III

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[toranesu]

⌗ sub bottom. andrew graves x dom top m. reader — silver sable; section A.

cw. established relationship, post-therapy andrew&ashley (yes, i know they're beyond redemption), body worship, foreplay.

; REN: accidentally posted a draft.. now you'll have to deal with a story split into two parts, lol.

He's done it, now. Andrew Graves has finally, finally found the courage to heal. And he's brought his sister along with him, too. It's been a rough year, attempting to heal in a secluded area where no one would leak their information or spread whispers of their deeds.

Andrew Graves and Ashley Graves are beyond redemption — that's what he's sure of. His sister had dragged him with her, and he had dragged her with him. No one is to blame, he tells himself. But deep down, he wishes he could put the blame on someone else so he wouldn't have to stand this soul rotting guilt. His sister doesn't feel it, he's sure.

He glances at you, the man he had met at a bar one and a half years ago. His source of repentance, his source of change, his source of love. "I don't think we should do this," he murmurs, hands clenching and unclenching on the sheets underneath his head.

Andrew doesn't understand why you're so willing to touch him like this. Sure, you've been dating for almost a year — only starting once his psychiatrist gave him the green flag for it, that is. But your relationship was going fine without having to have sex, he thinks.

Why now? He's asked before. "Don't you want to?" Was the question you responded with. It'd be a lie if he said he's never once thought of it. But he can't. He couldn't. Not after.. not after everything.

"Why not?" Your voice breezes in just barely a whisper, voice only loud enough for Andrew himself to hear. A hand reached out to cup his cheek, thumb grazing against the bone lining across his skin to his jaw. Andrew purses his lips, eyes averting to think of something to say.

Anything. It's fine, he tells himself. I don't deserve this, anyway, he repeats in his head. "I had sex with Ashley," he breathes out, voice cracking as he keeps his gaze away from yours.

"In the last one and a half year?" Your response came gentle and nurturing, eyes never once leaving his face. He bites his lip, turning back to you. "No," he denies, almost defensively. As if trying to convince you, or himself, that he would never do that to you.

"I know," you whispered, thumb reaching to rub against his lower lip in an attempt to get him to stop biting himself. He almost teared up from that simple gesture. "It's gross," Andrew said, referring to the sex he had with his sister; referring to incestual sex.

You raised an eyebrow, pursing your lips into a thin smile. "It is," he frowned at your response, legs folding up to his knees in perplexity. "I'm gross," he clarifies, staring directly into your eyes.

"No," your reply came almost immediate, eyebrows furrowing in negation as your palm gripped his jaw a little tighter. He winced, looking away once more. "Hey, no," you frowned, tilting his face to make him look straight at you. "I never said that."

Andrew bit his lip once more — a tendency whenever he seemed to get frustrated, you noticed. "But you think it," he rasps out, hands laying dumbly on the sides of his head. "And even if you don't, it's true," he mutters just slightly above his breath.

You leaned down to place a kiss to his almost swollen lips, only to receive a knock to the forehead because of Andrew abruptly turning his head to the side. "Dude," your reaction could almost be mistaken for a wail if it weren't for your profound nonchalance.

He stayed silent, which led to an escaped huff out of your lips. "You're not gross, 'Drew," you say in assurance, gaze softening the slightest bit to show your sincerity. "You've done gross things, including fucking your sister," you trailed off, earning eye contact avoidance from Andrew once more.

"But that doesn't mean I think you're gross," you grimace, patting his cheek before taking his hand in your own, intertwining your fingers together beside his laid down head. "It doesn't mean I don't see the effort you've put in and the progress you've made throughout this year," you whisper, trying to search for his gaze.

Andrew's lips quivered, hand almost instinctively squeezing your own, returning the lace of your fingers with his. "That goes for your sister, too," you continue. Damn it. A guy who cares about not only him, but the only family he has, too, despite how fucked up they both truly were. He's truly scored — without deserving it the slightest bit.

His eyebrows furrowed once more, every hint of joy seemingly discarded by his own thoughts the moment they shimmer. "Thanks," he manages to grate out in a hoarse voice, hand weakly squeezing your own.

Your gaze softened, leaning once more to place a kiss to his forehead; which he gracefully accepted, this time. "Of course," you mumble against his skin, free hand brushing the hair out of his face.

"So?" Your voice interrupted whatever thought he was about to have, palm running down towards his cheek and jaw as you lifted your head back up once more. "You up for it?" So caring, he wanted to tease. "Or we can just cuddle and do it another time."

Andrew instantly shook his head. Though he refused to admit, sex with you did seem to often cross his mind. "No," he mutters, free arm reaching out to drape around your shoulder. "I want to," he says.

"No pressure?" The hand still clasping his own squeezes his, and he gives an affirming nod. "Okay," you lean down to envelop his lips in a sultry kiss, palm tracing along the arm draping on your shoulder.

You encapsulated his lips in a senseless frenzy, hands a little clumsy as they undressed his dimly built body. He's been trying to exercise a bit more along with you, after all. All these little things remind you of just how deep your love for him goes.

"I love you," your voice comes out in a weary whisper, hands trailing down his body as your head dipped right onto his barely existent cleavage. He doesn't really understand the things you're into; but if touching him at all makes him happy, then he's got no reason not to be.

His now free arm joined the other, draping around your shoulders as you trailed kisses down his wretched chest. The intrusive thought springs him awake, glancing down at his marked up body of scars and whatnot, yet also decorated in the kisses and marks I've dwelled parts of my love into.

Maybe this was fine, he tells himself. Maybe it was fine to let me kiss him; embrace him like this, despite everything, despite all that he is. Andrew gazes down as you trace kisses down his abdomen, reaching lower as your hands work their way smoothly to pull his pants down.

"I love you, too," he covers his face with one arm, only now realizing he's yet to respond to my three words of affection as your lips just barely grazed too close to his cock.

He wants this, he tells himself. Seeing that small smile on your face as you trail more kisses down his thighs, reaching to his legs only furthering the will to serve himself vulnerable before you. He's never taken it from behind before — never even thought to.

Andrew could remember the awkwardness he had felt while preparing himself; cleaning his ass out, fingering himself to stretch himself even just a little. He had wondered if and how someone like you would even go through touching a body as dirty as his — defiled, dirty, and gross.

But now, having you trace loving kisses, licks, and nibbles all over his skin without leaving an inch of his skin as if you worshipped him.. he's rendered speechless.

He let out a guttural moan as soon as he felt your longest finger coated with a cold substance pressing against his already swollen hole from his careless fingering. "Maybe you should let me stretch you out next time," your chuckle of understanding only left him further embarrassed.

"Be gentle," he wanted to rasp out. But was someone like him truly in any position to make demands? He doesn't think so. Therefore, he bites himself silent.

"Relax," your airy whisper came as soft as comfort, two fingers slowly finding home within his squishy, unintruded walls. "I'm not hurting you, am I, baby?" You rustled beside his ear, placing a kiss to the shell.

He shook his head. "No," Andrew let out a sound akin to both a sigh and a moan. His hands scrambled to reach towards your back, fingers digging into your skin ever so loghtly at the sensitivity of the newly found sensation.

Your fingers grazed against his prostate, and he let out the most delirious moan you never thought could exist. His nails dug into your skin, back arching as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Despite what he says, Andrew is a sucker for physical contact.

( t.b.c. . . . )

[manmuncher777]

Hi, honey! I saw your requests are open…sooooo can I get an extremely intimate nsfw with mean dom!Daemon x wife poc!(or ambiguous appearance if that's easier for you) fem reader in which he has a fixation on reader's breasts. With lots of nipple play, Breast Worship,cockwarming, marking, praise and degradation, love bites(on her breasts); hair pulling, some breastfeeding kink along with some breeding kink, overstimulation, orgasm delay and denial and whatever else you want, please?

Soo sorry this took me so long my love, I don’t really write for Hotd anymore but heres a little Drabble I hope you enjoy ❤️

“D-Daemon!”

“Hush now little one.” The silver haired man murdered from underneath you, a lewd popping sound echoed in the room as he removed your breast from his mouth. The sable skin glinting in the candle light from his saliva

“Don’t make a fuss, or there will be consequences” the statement may be stern, but that mischievous glint in his eyes, and taunt in his tone almost dares you to misbehave.

However you didnt want to risk yourself just yet, doing your best to hold in your noises as his mouth latched onto you once more. What made it ask the more difficult was the fact he had you sat so sweetly on his lap, with his cock buried deep inside your cunt.

Everything in you screamed at you to move, to shift your hips ever so slightly. You were so needy it was hard to fight against your urges. But you knew there would be hell to pay if you did.

Daemons tongue swirled around your nipple, sucking gently on the sensitive skin. His large hands groping at the other in order to not leave it neglected. Your body writhed with pleasure, the tingling amplified by how much he had already edged you this evening. The wetness between your legs was almost sinful, glistening over the dark skin.

The man beneath you was hell bent on bringing you to your breaking point. Gentle groans leaving his chest as he bit the skin of your breast gently, before sucking on it, and pulling away to admire his handy work. Only to return to the flesh in a different spot, repeating himself over and over until you were sure there wasnt a spot left on you he hadn’t claimed.

His teeth grazed over your nipple in a particularly cruel way. A way that had you jolting forward into him, moving your hips.

A pathetic whine leaving your at the feeling of his length shifting inside of you, only to be cut short as you realised what a mistake you made

“Oh my love, I did warn you”

[stayteezdreams]

Scenarios: Halloween Couples Costumes {Ateez}

Scenarios: How Bf!Ateez reacts to you wanting to do a couples costume for Halloween + What you dress up as

Pairings: Hongjoong x Reader; Seonghwa x Reader; Yunho x Reader; Yeosang x Reader; San x Reader; Mingi x Reader; Wooyoung x Reader; Jongho x Reader - All are intended to be Gn!Readers.

A/N: I tried to go with mostly gender neutral costumes or gave an some open ended or mixed options for you to choose your preference from.

Requested by @otakutrash669

Warnings: N/A

Words: 1.2k; short because this is a bonus content post.

Hongjoong: Tim Burton Inspired

Hongjoong was all for wearing a couples costume.

BUT, it ended up being really hard for the two of you to find something you both liked.

The ones you suggested were too goofy for him, the ones he suggested were too hard to find everything for.

Then some were too sexy, or revealing, or wouldn't look they way you wanted.

You were afraid you'd have to scrap the whole idea, but then as you were scrolling through Pinterest, you saw a really cool Tim Burton inspired couples outfit.

The outfits were fairly close to stuff both of you had in your closets.

You showed it to Hongjoong and after thinking on it, he agreed.

So you chose your favorite Tim Burton movie and characters and dressed up together.

You even ended up getting help from a makeup artist friend and the costumes came out 1000x better than you originally imagined.

Seonghwa: Super Hero and Villain

Seonghwa never expected the two of you to NOT do a couples costume. It was one of the go-to thing's he got excited about the second you started dating.

He would be devastated if you said you didn't want to match in some way.

Originally, as Seonghwa was going through another Animal Crossing phase, he suggested you dress up as characters from the game.

But it proved to be a bit difficult. If you went too casual, it would look lazy, if you went realistic, you'd be mistaken as furries.

So, you scraped the idea.

You considered doing Star Wars again, just like the previous year, but you wanted to keep it as a back up just in case you thought of nothing else.

After scouring the internet, you landed on Heroes and Villains.

Something you would enjoy and that could be easily recognized.

Seongwha would play his favorite hero (Spiderman) and you went as your favorite Spiderman Villain (your choice but some options: Venom, Green Goblin, Electro, Black Cat, Silver Sable, Shriek)

Yunho: Disney Characters

"We're gonna do a couples costume right?" You asked and Yunho's eyes lit up as his smile grew.

He nodded in excitement, immediately listing things he had already thought about (he was really excited about this okay?).

You both eventually landed on wanting to do something Disney inspired.

But which characters needed to be rounded down majorly.

You could be a prince/princess (Yunho was willing to be the Princess if you didn't want to), Main character x villain, two side characters, etc.

The options were endless and it almost made it harder to choose.

After various ideas and opinions from others you narrowed it down to a list, before deciding on your favorite.

The narrowed down options were: Prince Phillip and Sleeping Beauty, Kristoff and Anna, Alice and the Mad Hatter /or/ Mad Hatter and Cheshire Cat, Peter Pan and Tinkerbell /or/ Peter Pan and Hook (your choice).

Yeosang: Mystery Inc

When you asked Yeosang to do a couples costume with you, he appeared unaffected by the question as he agreed.

But inside his heart was racing as he was fighting back a bright smile, he loved the idea.

Eventually he started to act noticeably more excited about it as you discussed what to wear.

Neither of you wanted to do something that had a lot of effort, but you didn't want it to appear too lazy.

You also wanted something that would be easily recognizable so you wouldn't have to deal with being asked what you were all the time.

After a few thrown out ideas, you finally decided on being Scooby Doo characters

Your choice of character, but I can definitely see Yeosang being Shaggy, or even Fred if his hair was blonde at the time.

(Plus Yeosang in an ascot would be adorable)

Some of the others also considered joining in as well for it to be a group costume.

San: Fairy Tale Inspired

"San?" "Hmm?" "Can we wear a couples costume to the party?"

San looked over at you bright eyed and nodded happily. He had been dying to ask you to match with him, but he thought you might want to wear something else.

He had also been afraid that you would feel forced to say yes if he asked. So the fact that you asked made him very happy.

It ended up being hard to choose something, and you were running out of time before the party.

Finally, after seeing a cool photo of werewolf makeup, the two of you decided to do Red Riding Hood and The Big Bad Wolf.

As straight forward as you thought it might be, San had a hard time decided which one to be.

San wanted to be both, a bad-ass altered Red Riding Hood Hunter

AND he wanted to be a cool yet sexy (were)wolf.

You played Rock Paper Scissors, and you won so you were able to choose who you wanted to be. Either way San was happy.

Mingi: Till Death Do Us Part

Mingi was the one who first brought up doing a couples costume.

You were all for it, but figured he brought it up because he saw something he wanted to do.

Which made you suspicious.

He admitted that you were right, and pulled up this photo that he wanted to recreate, as well as a bunch more just like it.

You laughed, and agreed. It was nothing over the top, and it was funny and cute.

You figured might get hot wandering around like this, so you decided to have other costumes on underneath to match that you could reveal if you wanted to remove the sheets.

Underneath you decided to dress as a couple who had died on your wedding day.

So even if you took the sheets off, you would still be matching underneath.

Wooyoung: Pokemon

"Should we do a couples costume?" "Can we do a couples costume?"

You ended up asking about it at the same time after you saw an ad for a Halloween movie.

You laughed and agreed readily.

Wooyoung immediately got excited and started throwing out various suggestions but there were so many ideas to choose from,

On a day out, you ended up going to a costume store to get ideas.

When you pointed out the Pokemon section Wooyoung gasped and ran over.

Wooyoung immediately claimed Ash as his costume, but you were more open minded.

Whether you wanted to be Misty (or Brock?), Pikachu, or another fave Pokemon, you had many choices to choose from.

Jongho: Serial Killer and his Victim

When you first asked Jongho to wear a matching costume with you he was a bit reserved.

As much as he loved you, he wasn't sure how he felt about couples costumes.

He wanted to make you happy though, so he agreed.

Wanting him to enjoy it as well, you decided to surprise him with a more fun costume that he might like.

So, one day you plopped down a pile of costumes and fake blood in front of him and he looked at you confused.

Pulling out the Scream mask you tossed it to him before holding up an already bloody and altered shirt and held it up to yourself.

He stared at you for a second before laughing, understanding what you were suggesting.

He nodded in approval as he started to get the costume together.

It was a matching costume, though a bit morbid, but it made him laugh and that was enough for you.

xx

not super detailed or long as this ended up as a Bonus Post for the day!

Taglists:

General Taglist: @otsilliak, @brattybunfornct, @bahng-chrizz, @otakutrash669, @tinyelfperson,

@pinievsev, @teenyfinds, @everythingboutkpop, @shymexican, @stillwjk-channie-lixie,

@alexxavicry

@luckypaintertyphoon, < tag does not work

Ateez Taglists: Everything: @soso59love-blog, @hongjoongsprincess, @thedistractedwriter, @dear-dreamie, @thunderous-wolf,

@briqnne, @hyukssunflower, @dinossaurz, @skz1-4-3, @staytiny2000,

@demonlineslut, @vnessalau, @dancinglikebutterflywings, @tunafishyfishylike

Jongho: @lieutenantn

Seonghwa & Mingi: @ye0nvibezzn

[mushgloomz]

Dead of Night

Joel Miller x F!Reader Series WIP

• an: SCREAM i can’t believe people actually READ the first chapter?? i just wanna say i love y’all and also there will be a smidgen of smut in the next chapter (but between who? oooooh) to get your tastebuds a-tingling. i will confess before we go any further that as i write this i am very much basing additional character’s appearances on my irl friends (with their consent) because i simply cannot imagine faces <3

• chapter warnings: language, weapons mentioned (guns, knives), threats of violence, descriptions of anxiety, mentions of pregnancy/motherhood (not mc), brief mention of drinking

• wc: approx. 2.5k (i told you they’d start getting longer y’all)

Chapter 2: Confrontation

You were on autopilot. Sable sprung into a canter beneath you and carried you toward the pair, rifle not leaving your shoulder. Alex, as expected, had lost all sense of bravado as he followed your lead, dropping back several feet to fumble with his own gun.

As you made your ascent up the valley, the pair before you came into a hazy focus - one considerably smaller than the other, childlike in stature but with a disconcerting stillness in the hands above their head. The larger figure was tall and broad, hands also raised but no higher than waist height; almost definitely armed. “Weapons at your feet where I can see them!”, you echoed as you continued to close the distance. You hoped the fear coursing through your veins wasn’t detectable in your tone.

Two guns and a small switchblade were discarded at the feet of the pair, now entirely in focus before you. Their eyes never left yours as you stood a mere ten feet ahead, rifle still poised and ready in case they decided to try anything. You observed them, taking in their features.

The girl, no older than fifteen years if you had to guess, had mousy brown hair thrown haphazardly into a low ponytail. A scar split her right eyebrow, and her eyes, so dark they almost appeared black, stared right through you. Her clothing was stained and aged; a long-sleeved army-brown undershirt paired with a maroon and white plaid shirt, worn open over the top. Blue denim jeans covered her legs, patched up in certain areas with duct tape. She remained expressionless, which was all the more disconcerting considering her current position at the end of your barrel.

The man’s expression on the other hand was full of contempt as brown eyes bore straight into yours. Loose brown curls peppered with streaks of silver sat atop his head, matching his moustache and patchy facial hair. His face, lined from time, deepest between his brows from what you could only imagine was a lifetime of scowling at people much like yourself.

He’d not uttered a word, remaining tight-lipped the entire time - a part of you wished he would speak; wished he would express some indication of humanity behind his unfaltering gaze. A gaze, you realised, that harbored a concoction of emotion far beyond the film of resentment they currently held. Scar tissue adorned his right temple; his bottom lip split but not swollen, perhaps serving as reminders of hard-earned victories.

“What are you doing here?”, you queried, trying to maintain an authoritative tone despite your now shallow breathing. Why did it feel like you were the one under trial? Hooves crunching on churned earth and debris behind you alerted you to the fact that Alex had finally decided to resume his position as your patrol partner. You’d forgotten he was here to be honest; he’d never been so quiet, so meek and reserved. Your question remained unanswered. You cocked your rifle, swallowing hard, and went to repeat yourself before the girl spoke, nudging the man at her side with her elbow as she hissed.

“Joel, fucking say something man.”

The man, Joel, remained unwavering in his silence, scowl deepening. His eyes never left yours. “I’ll only ask once more before I put one between your eyes, what the fuck are you doing here?”, you breathed, hugging the hilt of the gun to your shoulder and cheek. Any suggestion that you weren’t scared had certainly left, your delivery shaky. In the silence that followed, your index finger creeped slowly toward the trigger.

“Wait… did you say Joel? As in, Tommy’s brother Joel?”

Alex’s voice had returned, catching you off guard as your finger retreated from the trigger to glance ever-so briefly at your partner who had now appeared at your side. Tommy has a brother? Your eyes dart back to the pair, a salt-and-pepper eyebrow now raised in Alex’s direction.

///

The pair walked a few feet ahead of you as Alex explained himself on your way back to the gates of Jackson. It had taken some persuasion on Alex’s part, but you had lowered your gun eventually.

“Essentially, this Joel guy rocks up with the kid, Ellie I think? There’s some big reunion in the square between him and Tommy or whatever, and come the following afternoon, they were gone. Tommy said he was returning her to her family, but clearly he’s fucked that one up…”

Joel peered over his shoulder at Alex, who was all too oblivious to the daggers being thrown his way by the man ahead of him. Apparently, the pair had shown up all but two months before you had. You’d assumed they were father and daughter at first. A pang of concern that left your mouth dry washed over you when you considered the fact that Joel may have been smuggling Ellie, but the teen seemed decidedly at ease in his presence, so the thought didn’t linger for long.

Approaching the wooden gates, a group stood in front of the doors, one holding the same dog that had determined your own fate a few months prior. Tommy stood amongst them, distinct with his dark black hair and double denim getup. He took the dog from its handler and walked toward Joel and Ellie with his usual swagger, pausing to let the animal assess them but never loosening his grip on its leash.

Maybe Joel was his brother after all; Tommy seemed intent on not letting the dog get too close, perhaps out of fear that he’d watch the man be mauled before his very own eyes. The dog settled shortly after its greeting, sitting at Tommy’s heels to indicate that the pair were indeed not infected.

A brief one-armed hug between the two men ensued, followed by a gentle nod to Ellie. The gates were opened after the brief interaction, and you followed the group toward the town square. A huddled mass of bodies hovered around, each person itching to catch a glimpse at the cause of such a commotion. Deja vu clouded your mind temporarily, thoughts flashing back to the crowd of spectators as you made your own entrance just a few months prior. As Joel and Ellie neared, hurried whispers were exchanged between neighbours and friends alike.

“He’s brought her back? I hope she’s okay?”

“Another person to keep an eye on I ‘spose, you heard ‘bout what he used to do to folk like us when he was smugglin’?”

“He’s so far removed from Tommy, there’s not a shred of kindness in that man - you can see it in his eyes.”

You didn’t know what to think as you continued at a measured pace behind the group. What did the Joel character do to people? It was well known that there were no saints amongst us post-outbreak - people did what they had to do in order to survive; what could possibly be so heinous to warrant such a reaction?

Shaking the thought from your head, you glance at Alex who was now deep in a rather animated conversation with Tommy. He flagged you down and beckoned you over to join the two.

“Alex told me about how it all went down out there, glad y’all are alright. Perimeter sweep ought to be done by now anyway, so feel free to go about your day - oh, and Maria asked to speak with you if you wanna head her way.”

Tommy nodded at you as he rounded off his sentence, his voice holding tightly onto the last dregs of a southern twang from his time in Texas. You nod in acknowledgment, throw a quick see ya at Alex, and turn toward the Miller household.

///

It was located at the far end of town, nestled between adjacent homes and facing the town hall. Tommy had always claimed the house’s location was ideal for raising the child Maria was carrying due to the peace and quiet, but you weren’t a fool. You knew well enough it was because Maria, despite being fit to bursting with their unborn baby, was too stubborn and strong-willed to temporarily relieve herself of her position on the town council, and instead had decided to simply minimise the effort required to participate. You often caught her in a near-waddle stepping from her front porch and almost directly into the doors of the town hall.

The house was much larger than your own; not something you begrudged at all, considering the Miller’s status both within the town and as a soon-to-be family unit. White shutters adorned the windows, and a rocking chair rested on the porch - you couldn’t help but envision Maria coaxing a tiny newborn back to sleep whilst gently swaying back and forth whenever you saw it. You’d personally never considered having children; you felt less than capable of taking care of yourself most days, and more to the point, you feared a day would come where you’d have to protect them, and that you would fail. You breached the steps of the porch shortly after curtailing your self-inflicted pity party and rapped your knuckles against the door.

“Door’s open, I’m not getting up again.”

Muffled by layers of wood and brick, Maria’s voice granted you entry as you stepped through the doorway and turned left into the lounge. Maria sat slumped in a plush leather armchair with her back to you, belly swollen to such an extent that you questioned whether she could actually make it another few weeks without physically popping. Her head lulled over the back of the chair, long box braids nearly reaching the paisley rug on the floor beneath. By the disgruntled expression on her face, you could only assume that she too was unsure of how she was supposed to make it five more weeks in this condition.

“Hey doll, thanks for swinging by. Come sit.”

A small smile crept across the woman’s face as you perched on the sofa. You hesitated before asking, “Everything alright? Tommy sent me over, did you know his brother-“

“Joel is the exact reason you’re here right now. Thought I’d fill you in on the essentials since I doubt any of these boys have given you the courtesy.”

Relief washed over you as Maria adjusted herself in her seat, groaning under her breath and leather squeaking, as she positioned herself upright and facing you.

She looked at you with soft eyes, both kindness and reassurance emanating off of her, just like she always did. You were taken under her wing when you had arrived, skittish and afraid, like a puppy that had just been scolded for the first time. She had been the one to ensure your name was added to the fortnightly rotation of therapy sessions hosted by Helen; she had been able to tell you were troubled from her first impression of you, and had acted with nothing but grace and goodwill regardless. You smiled at her and nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“You’re going to hear a lot of things about Joel Miller these coming weeks - some of them will be no more than rumours, but some will be truths. To start, Joel is a dangerous man…”

Oh. This was not where you were expecting this to go. “How so?”, your words tumbling out in an unintended interruption.

“He’s killed people. Lots of them. Not just infected, not just ‘bad guys’ - all in the name of protecting his own. I can’t sit here and say that all of it was unjust, but that young girl with him? She wasn’t meant to return to Jackson. I don’t know what’s occurred since they’ve been gone, but I can only guess that Joel had something to do with it being the pair of them that came back today.”

Her words hung in the air, pungent as she condemned the actions of a man that had committed the same sins as yourself. Your stomach knotted with unease, breath hitching in your throat. Would you receive the same scrutiny, the same level of disdain, if you were to reveal your own actions? “So… don’t engage?”, you offer, attempting to break the uneasy silence you had allowed to fall between the both of you.

“Joel is a complex man. He’s blunt and he’s withdrawn, but he’s not an inherently bad person. I… I just can’t sit here and condone the extent of his past actions, and I can’t offer reassurance that he’s a changed man either. I’d advise a wide berth, but I know there’s no changing the will of others.”

Maria shoots a playful wink in your direction as the last words leave her mouth. You catch it with a small smirk, acknowledging her hint to your own previous disagreements - after all, you had been a massive pain in the ass for the woman.

“Thank you Maria, I really do appreciate the heads up. Now, I best return my rifle before someone accuses me of stealing it again; you take it easy okay?”, the smile on Maria’s face mirroring your own as you took to your feet, planting a peck on her cheek before heading toward the door.

You stood on the porch and collected yourself for a time; replenishing your lungs with air that your anxiety had denied you during your chat. Despite her best efforts, Maria’s warning had left you with more questions than answers. Taking off in the direction of the armory, you decided your current conundrum would be best resolved with company and a drink in hand; the town’s bar practically calling your name.

[sleekervae]

Wicked Games ❅ 27

Masterlist

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x socialite!fem!reader

Summary: sable goes missing

Warnings: angst, allusions to violence, scenes of struggle, claustrophobia, cages, rats

Word Count: 4,007

The evening air buzzed with excitement as the Capitol prepared for another extravagant gala, the kind that only seemed to heighten the anticipation for the Hunger Games. Banners adorned with vibrant colors billowed against the backdrop of the setting sun, casting an enchanting glow over the streets. In the heart of it all, Coriolanus stood before a gilded mirror, adjusting the lapels of his tailored suit, the fabric shimmering as if woven from threads of power and prestige.

Tonight’s event would showcase the tributes, a reminder of the Capitol's unyielding grip over the districts. He could almost feel the electric energy of the crowd, the whispers of excitement that would ripple through the hall as the tributes paraded before the elite. Yet, amidst the lavish decorations and the murmurs of anticipation, a sense of unease lingered in the air, particularly in the confines of their home.

He turned to find Sable seated on the edge of the bed, her fingers absently tracing the fabric of her dress. It was a stunning creation, a blend of chilled bluish-silver that accentuated her figure, yet she wore it with a tension that seemed out of place amidst the glamour. Coriolanus noticed her distant gaze as he adjusted his tie, the way her thoughts seemed to drift far beyond the walls of their elegant home.

“Sable,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with concern, “are you sure you don’t want to come with me? It’s an important event, and you know how much the Capitol loves a united front.”

She looked up, her eyes reflecting a blend of defiance and uncertainty. “I appreciate that, Coriolanus, but I think I’d rather stay behind for this one. Witnessing the tributes… it’s a spectacle, yes, but... you know my thoughts, anyhow.”

A knot formed in his stomach, not just from her unease but from the image it might project. “You know how it looks if you’re not by my side, right?” he said, trying to mask his apprehension with a light tone. “I’ll be the new president, and I need you with me, Sable.”

She smiled softly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I promise I’ll join you for the rest of the evening’s festivities. Just give me a little time.”

He hesitated, the weight of her words hanging between them. Deep down, he admired her resolve, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this choice could be seen as a slight to the Capitol’s expectations. Yet, he also recognized the flicker of independence in her gaze—a trait he had fallen for.

As he adjusted his tie, Sable rose gracefully, stepping toward him with a determined look in her eyes. “Let me help you with that,” she said, her voice soft yet firm. She reached up, her fingers deftly working the fabric into place, her touch sending a shiver of awareness down his spine. The intimacy of the moment contrasted sharply with the grand event awaiting them.

“Alright,” he relented, forcing a reassuring smile. “I’ll see you later, then. Just…” tell her you love her, tell her you love -- "Take care of yourself."

As Sable stepped back, a fleeting expression crossed her face—an amalgamation of determination and worry. The sight of her, poised yet conflicted, stirred something within him. He hated to leave her, but he didn't want to start an argument with her, either. She would see the value in these appearances eventually, she had to, she just needed time to adjust to everything.

With that, Coriolanus stepped out to join the beginning festivities, leaving Sable alone with her thoughts as the door clicked shut behind him. The sounds of the gala began to filter through the floors below, an alluring mix of laughter and music, yet Sable remained untouched by the excitement. Just outside her window lay the courtyard, the vast expanse where the tributes would be on full display, just days away from their final moments. Sable, unwilling to watch the parade, pulled the curtain over the window, blocking out the spectacle that was yet to come...

That had been four hours ago, and Coriolanus found himself amidst the Capitol’s elite in the opulent banquet hall, the air thick with the scent of lavish food and expensive perfumes. The grand chandelier overhead glittered like a constellation, casting a warm glow over the sea of extravagant gowns and tailored suits. Laughter and chatter enveloped him, yet the sound felt distant, as if he were observing the festivities through a fogged glass.

He had just wrapped the tributes’ display, a spectacle that elicited both cheers and hushed whispers from the crowd. The tributes had walked the stage, their faces a mix of fear and determination, their fate hanging precariously in the balance. While Coriolanus had performed his role with practiced ease, a part of him felt unmoored, as if the vibrant atmosphere around him was somehow disconnected from his reality.

Sable. Her absence was palpable, an echo that reverberated through the glamour surrounding him. He had expected her to join him shortly after the tributes had showcased themselves, her warmth a necessary balm to the sharp edges of the evening. Instead, time had stretched on, and she remained nowhere to be found. A slight frown creased his brow as he scanned the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of her familiar figure gliding through the crowd.

“Coriolanus! Come, join us!” a voice called, pulling him back into the present. A fellow Capitolite, draped in a kaleidoscope of colors, waved him over, oblivious to the turmoil brewing inside him. He plastered on a smile, nodding in acknowledgment but feeling the pull of unease settle heavier in his chest.

He excused himself from the group, moving deeper into the throng of guests, each step an effort to quell the rising tide of anxiety. The night, meant to be a celebration of unity and spectacle, felt increasingly surreal without Sable by his side. He should have insisted she join him, should have recognized the weight this event carried for her. The thought of her alone, grappling with her feelings about the tributes and their grim reality, gnawed at him.

As the clock on the wall ticked steadily, Coriolanus felt the first stirrings of panic. He sought out the nearest service door, hoping to slip into the quieter hallways and perhaps find her before the evening slipped further into chaos. But before he could make his way through the crowd, a sudden commotion drew his attention—a cluster of guests murmuring excitedly, pointing toward the entrance.

His heart raced as he turned to see who had arrived, wondering if it could be her. But as the crowd parted, revealing yet another affluent couple making their grand entrance, a deep sense of dread washed over him. Where was Sable?

With a newfound determination, Coriolanus navigated through the sea of vibrant gowns and suits, each step propelling him closer to her, to the familiar spark that made this extravagant world feel a little less overwhelming. He would find her, no matter what it took.

He eventually spotted Garrison perched at a table adorned with glittering glassware. Garrison’s meticulous demeanor stood in stark contrast to the wild revelry of the gala, and Coriolanus felt a flicker of relief wash over him at the sight of someone grounded amidst the chaos.

“Garrison!” he called, making his way over, weaving through clusters of laughter and conversation. “Have you seen Sable?”

Garrison looked up from his glass of wine, his brow furrowing slightly at the question. “Not tonight, Coriolanus. I assumed she would be here by now. Is everything alright?”

A knot tightened in Coriolanus's stomach. “No, I just—she was supposed to join me after the display, but she’s running late. I thought perhaps she’d come down with someone or gotten caught up with the other guests. Or maybe she has nothing to wear--?”

Garrison scoffed, "Sable Hanover not having something to wear?" he voice of teasing, but the look on Coriolanus' face told him it wasn't the time to joke, “It's a large event, and Sable is known for her unique perspective on things,” Garrison replied, his tone measured and calm, though his gaze flickered with concern. “Maybe she just needed a moment to gather herself. This evening can be overwhelming, not just for the tributes.”

“Overwhelming doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Coriolanus muttered, his frustration rising. He took a breath to steady himself, aware that Garrison’s perspective was pragmatic, but he couldn’t shake the sense of unease. “Can you check with the staff? I need to know if she’s still upstairs.”

“Of course,” Garrison said, setting down his glass and rising with purpose. “I’ll inquire with the attendants and see if I can locate her. Try to enjoy yourself in the meantime; you don’t want to give anyone a reason to gossip about the new president being too distracted.”

Coriolanus nodded, though the thought of idle gossip felt trivial compared to his concern for Sable. As Garrison moved away to gather information, he found himself scanning the room once more, hoping for a glimpse of her familiar silhouette.

Minutes passed, each one stretching longer than the last, the glittering scene around him now feeling like a suffocating cage. He shifted on his feet, torn between the responsibilities of his new role and the urge to find his girl.

Finally, Garrison reappeared, his usual composure marred by an unusual tightness around his mouth. He approached Coriolanus, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder as he leaned in, speaking in a hushed tone.

“Sir… I must speak with you privately,” Garrison murmured, his tone low and urgent.

Coriolanus’s stomach clenched. He gave a brisk nod, following Garrison to the edge of the ballroom, where the noise dimmed just enough to hear his advisor’s next words.

“The staff searched the upper floors and… they found signs of a struggle in your quarters.”

A cold wave washed over Coriolanus, his fingers curling into fists as he tried to keep his expression neutral. “What do you mean, a struggle?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Broken glass, overturned furniture—clear signs of a fight. But she wasn’t there, Coriolanus,” Garrison said, his voice soft but firm. “She’s gone.”

The words struck Coriolanus like a physical blow. For a moment, the bustling crowd and their gleaming finery, the music and laughter—all of it seemed to fade away, leaving him in a void of icy dread. He looked at Garrison, his face stony yet betraying the fear gnawing at him.

“Have you notified the security team?” Coriolanus demanded, his voice cold and controlled despite the panic threatening to break through.

Garrison nodded, the gravity of the situation settling between them. “They’re conducting a search across the estate grounds as we speak. I wanted to inform you as soon as I received the news.”

Coriolanus’s mind raced, his usual confidence shaken as he processed the implications. Sable—spirited, resolute Sable—had been taken from their very home, in the heart of the Capitol, where she should have been safest.

A surge of fury ignited in Coriolanus, propelling him into motion before Garrison could say another word. He turned sharply, pushing through the throngs of Capitol elite with single-minded purpose, his thoughts fixed only on reaching his quarters.

“Coriolanus!” Garrison’s voice was a strained whisper as he followed closely behind. “This isn’t wise. You need to stay here—keep up appearances. People will notice if you leave.”

Coriolanus barely spared him a glance, his eyes dark with barely-contained rage. “Let them notice,” he said, his tone cold, final. “If someone’s taken her, Garrison, I won’t just stand here sipping wine while security fumbles for answers. I’m going upstairs.”

Garrison fell silent, recognizing the steel in Coriolanus’s gaze, yet he pressed on, lowering his voice urgently. “You’re the president! These people are watching, waiting to judge any sign of weakness. A spectacle won’t help Sable!”

But Coriolanus was done listening. He shoved past the doors, his measured steps turning into long strides as he headed for the bedroom. He reached the top of the staircase, a haunting silence greeted him, thick and oppressive compared to the revelry that echoed from the banquet hall below. The corridor leading to their private chambers stretched ahead, dimly lit and eerily undisturbed, yet each step forward revealed hints of the violence that had unfolded.

The first sign was the overturned vase, its broken shards glittering in the faint light as if mocking him. A little farther down, a streak of something dark marred the polished floor—a smear of dirt or blood, he couldn’t tell which. The decorative console table by the wall was knocked askew, a few papers strewn across the floor, ripped and crumpled as if someone had grabbed onto them in desperation.

His heart pounded louder with every step as he approached the doors to their chambers. When he entered, the state of the room sent an icy shock through him.

The bed was rumpled and askew, the blankets hanging haphazardly over the edge, one of the pillows lying across the floor. A delicate glass bottle lay shattered near the vanity, its faint scent of Sable’s favorite perfume lingering in the air, a maddening reminder of her absence. The mirror above the dresser was cracked, a spiderweb of fractures radiating from the center—another silent testament to a struggle.

Near the window, he spotted the curtain ripped to shreds, as if she’d been torn from it mid-struggle. But what caught his eye most was a faint set of smudges on the floor near the entrance, streaked as though someone had been dragged.

Every detail painted a grim picture, filling Coriolanus with a volatile mix of dread and fury. He clenched his fists, his mind reeling as he imagined her fighting, resisting—yet ultimately overpowered. The festivities were so loud downstairs, nobody would have heard the commotion. Not the smashing, nor her screams for help. The Capitol’s finest security, the supposedly impenetrable fortress of their home, had failed her, failed him.

Garrison appeared in the doorway, his face pale but composed. “They’re combing the perimeter, and I’ve doubled the guards at every exit,” he murmured. “But if they got her out before the party, we may need to extend our search.”

Coriolanus turned to Garrison, his expression hardening. “Stop the party. I want this place cleared of all guests immediately,” he commanded, his voice low but laced with an unmistakable authority. “No one leaves without being thoroughly questioned. And get all the security footage you can.”

Garrison’s eyes widened slightly but he gave a swift nod, already beginning to make his way back down to execute the order. The festivities, once the height of celebration, were about to end abruptly, and Coriolanus didn’t care how the Capitol elites would react. Rumors could spread, reputations could be questioned, but none of it mattered compared to what had been taken from him tonight.

“And, Garrison,” Coriolanus added as his advisor paused in the doorway, “notify her family. I want them informed immediately, though spare them any gruesome details. Let them know I’ll be personally overseeing every effort to bring her back.”

Garrison hesitated a moment, the gravity of the situation pressing upon him, before bowing his head. “Understood, sir.”

As he watched Garrison disappear down the hall, Coriolanus clenched his fists, anger simmering beneath his exterior. He’d spent his life building control, shaping his world around calculated choices and measured actions. But now, with Sable ripped from that world, something far darker was stirring inside him—a desperation and fury he could barely contain.

“Kidnapped?!” Phillip’s voice roared through the Hanover family’s opulent living room, a blend of disbelief and fury painting his features. He stood rigid, fists clenched at his sides as he glared at Garrison. “How in the hell did this happen? There’s security everywhere in the Capitol—how could someone make off with my daughter?”

Eleanor’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror, while Seline stood frozen beside her, tears welling in her eyes. “What do you mean ‘kidnapped’? Is she hurt? Where is she?”

Garrison held up his hands, trying to calm the escalating panic. “I don’t have all the details yet, Mrs. Hanover, but we’re working on it. We’ve mobilized the Peace Keepers and are conducting a thorough search of the estate and surrounding areas. Coriolanus is—”

“Coriolanus?!” Phillip cut in, disbelief morphing into indignation. “He’s the new president, for God’s sake! How could he let this happen? He’s supposed to be protecting our children!”

“Phillip,” Eleanor whispered, her voice quaking, “that’s not helping. We need to focus on finding her.”

Seline's voice finally broke through, quaking with fear. “What if they want something from us? What if they hurt her?” Her eyes darted between her parents, desperately seeking comfort, yet finding none.

"They may send us a ransom!" Eleanor gasped, "Phillip, what if they send us one of her fingers?"

“Enough!” Phillip roared, cutting through the suffocating tension. “This is no time for fear. We need a plan, and we need it now. I want every available resource directed towards finding Sable. She deserves better than this.”

Garrison nodded, swallowing hard at the gravity of the situation. “I’ll coordinate with Coriolanus to ensure every lead is followed. We won’t rest until she’s found.”

Phillip’s disbelief hardened into a mocking glare as he shook his head. “Coordinate with Coriolanus? Really? You think he’s going to get us anywhere? This is his fault, you know! He’s the one who let this happen right under his nose. A new president, all the pomp and circumstance, and he can’t even keep his own girlfriend safe?”

His words hung heavy in the air, the weight of his accusation fueling the tension. Eleanor's face paled, but she couldn’t find the words to defend Coriolanus, caught between the instinct to protect her daughter and the desire to believe in the man who had swept Sable off her feet.

“What are we doing standing around?” Phillip continued, his voice rising. “This is a complete failure of leadership. I don’t care about any social appearances—if he can’t handle this, then we need to take matters into our own hands!” His anger surged like a tide, drowning out the flickering hope that Sable might still be found safely.

“Phillip, please!” Eleanor pleaded, her voice barely a whisper, but he was too lost in his rage to hear her.

“Where’s the accountability?” he spat, pacing the room. “How can we trust someone like him to protect our family when he can’t even protect his own? I want action—now!”

Seline watched her father, fear tightening her chest, the reality of the situation washing over her like cold water. As the atmosphere thickened with desperation, Phillip’s words echoed in her mind, feeding her own doubt. Would they really be able to find Sable in time?

The hood was yanked away, and Sable squinted against the dim light, her heart hammering against her ribs. As her eyes adjusted, she saw shadows shifting around her, lines coming into view. She was in a cage, a large dog cage. But what sent ice flooding her veins was Volumnia Gaul, seated in the corner, a cruel smile on her lips.

“Sable,” Volumnia cooed, her voice smooth and venomous. “It’s been far too long. I trust my handlers were… gentle.”

Sable scrambled back in her cage, gripping the crossing bars behind her. "What do you want?” she demanded, forcing her voice to stay steady. “You can’t keep me here! My family—"

“Your family’s fortune mean nothing here,” Volumnia interrupted with a scoff, stepping forward with a sinister glint in her eye. “What I want is something much more… entertaining.”

Sable’s gaze darted to the door, looking for any way out. “Please, Volumnia,” she tried, desperation seeping into her words. “Whatever you need, I can help. Just let me go!”

“Oh, Sable,” Volumnia laughed, a low, mocking sound. “You’ll be here a while. After all, I do have plans for you.” She leaned closer, her smile sharpening. “Do you remember the last time you were in my lab? You were so curious, poking around in places you shouldn’t have been. I warned you to stay away, didn’t I?”

Sable’s stomach clenched as a hazy memory surfaced—a younger version of herself, intrigued and terrified by the strange sights in Volumnia’s lab, until a jar tipped, and chaos erupted. Volumnia had set her punishment without mercy, releasing a swarm of rats into the room, their bites tearing into her skin as she screamed.

“Ah, yes,” Volumnia said, savoring Sable’s growing horror. “The rats. I remember how you screamed as they crawled over you, biting at your skin.”

Sable forced herself to stand, though her legs trembled. “You’re sick.”

Volumnia smirked, a spark of amusement in her eyes. “Says the girl who killed five people. Who orchestrated all of this... for a man.” She gestured behind her, and with a flourish, pulled aside a tattered blanket to reveal another cage teeming with rats, their eyes gleaming in the dim light like dozens of tiny, menacing stars.

Sable’s breath caught in her throat as she watched the rats writhe and claw, their teeth glinting sharp in the half-light. Fear washed over her, mixing with the painful memory of their bites.

“Oh, Sable,” Volumnia said, her tone mocking and gleeful. “It’s feeding time.”

Volumnia reached out, tossing a small metal lighter into Sable’s cage, the clink echoing in the tense silence. “You might want that. They’re more afraid of fire than you.”

Sable’s fingers closed around the lighter, her hands trembling. Volumnia walked to the rats’ cage with deliberate slowness, and with one swift flick of her wrist, she threw open the door. The rats poured out in a chaotic swarm, clawing and scrabbling toward her cage in their rush. They raced over the bars, their tiny bodies skittering across the metal above her, some even pausing to sniff or scratch at the cage’s openings.

Sable’s instincts screamed at her to back away, but there was nowhere to go. She huddled near the edge of the cage, every nerve on high alert, watching as the rats surged forward, stopping just short of the food Volumnia had laid out on the floor. Her eyes remained locked on them, feeling the cold reality of their threat sink in as they gnawed and fought, each sharp sound drilling deeper into her growing panic.

Volumnia watched her, pleased. “Consider this a little reunion,” she said with a smirk, “with some old friends.”

Sable felt a rat’s tiny claw brush her fingers through the bars, and instinct took over. She jumped, a scream escaping her throat, and pressed herself hard against the back of the cage, clutching the lighter with whitening knuckles. She forced herself to remain still, fighting against the fear clawing at her throat.

“You’re insane,” she choked out, glaring at Volumnia. “You can’t keep me like this! Coriolanus will—”

“What? Come storming in to save his damsel?” Volumnia mocked, tilting her head. “Your prince isn’t coming, dear. Just think of this as a lesson in humility.”

Sable shivered as a rat sniffed near her fingers, her heart pounding harder as she realized how utterly trapped she was. The sharp scent of the rodents, the sound of their teeth gnashing against the food, the darkness that pressed around her—all of it formed a nightmarish prison that twisted and contorted around her mind.

“Well,” Volumnia said, straightening. “I’ll leave you to your new companions. Do enjoy their company, Sable. They’re rather… lively.”

With that, she turned and strode to the door, her mocking laughter echoing through the room as she locked it behind her. Sable was left alone, surrounded by the scurrying rats, Volumnia’s twisted words, and the unforgiving darkness that had begun to feel like a second skin.

Desperation clawed at her, urging her to keep fighting, but as the rats’ eyes glittered back at her, she knew her only chance was to hold on—and pray that somehow, help would come.

[violettduchess]

Yay! I'm excited for this idea of yours!! Could I ask for Silvio + Vampire/Detective (either works!) + Fluff? I felt like Pirate was too obvious 😂😌

A/N: We talked about this and the request changed a wee bit. So here is your Silvio, a vampire MC and something spicy! I hope you enjoy it my sweet @xbalayage 💜

Silvio x female vampire Reader

WC: 2.7 k

It is a night of gleaming silver stars and a sharp sliver of moon. The ancient manor, hidden within the protective shadows of the forest, stands regal, with its seven gables and heavy velvet curtains. Inside, its occupants yawn, rising to greet the darkness, readying themselves for an evening of meetings, treaties and hopefully, revelry. 

You’re in the banquet room, watching the others eat merely for the pleasure of it. None of them actually needs food. Mortal cuisine is appealing every now and then but it’s been so long since you were human, you hardly ever feel the need to indulge in such nostalgia. 

Although…..maybe indulging would be better than….this. Lifting the crystal goblet to your lips, you tell yourself it won’t be that bad. Just give it a chance. This time the blood substitute given to all the vampires attending the gathering could actually taste good. You tilt it upwards and the cool, thickly-clotted, crimson liquid creeps down the glass in fits and stops, crossing the line of your red lips and coating your tongue.

Your body heaves and your throat closes in a gag. A full body shudder runs through your limbs from the top of your head to the tips of your toes in their black boots.

Ugh, enough of this.

The goblet is set down in one violent motion, clanging as it hits the polished onyx of the banquet table. Ignoring the curious gazes of other clan members, you push your chair away and flounce from the extravagant dining room in a flash of dark satin and black leather.

“Still revolting,” you mutter to yourself as you storm through the manor, down hallways lined with oversized, dour portraits of vampire nobility, lush carpeting absorbing the fall of your heels. In a cloud of indignation you fume all the way back to your guest suite where you throw open the ornate wooden door……

…..to find Silvio lounging on your bed, sipping a glass of the vile liquid you just rejected while thumbing through your black, leather-bound notebook.

“What the hell are you doing here?” 

He glances up, not one ounce of shame on his extraordinarily handsome face. 

“You told me I should read your notes on all the other clan members. So I’m readin’ ‘em.”

“Oh for fucks sake, I didn’t mean break into my room and take over my bed.” 

You’ve known Silvio Ricci for so long. A century ago, you worked together to broker a trade deal/ peace agreement between the Benitoite vampire clans and those of your native Rhodolite. Its massive success ensured that you have been working together ever since. 

He sits up, stretching out his long body, his impossibly blue eyes still scanning your notebook.

“You got the better room. And you keep annoyin’ me about learnin’ more about these Jadean vamp clans so-” He stops talking when he notices you lifting your velvet travel cloak from the armchair it had been draped over.

“What do you think you’re doin’? “

The dark cloak falls over your shoulders, settling with a soft, satisfying whoosh around you. Turning, you view your reflection in the mirrored front of the wardrobe, smoothing down the front of your elegant, sable blouse.

“I’m going out for a real drink.” A pat to your hair and then you spin on your heel, already feeling that prickling thrill that rushes through you at the beginning of any hunt.

But when you face the door to the bedroom, Silvio is there, blocking your exit. He must have shadow-jumped, moving in seconds from one place to another, using the shadows of the bedroom as conduits. Your notebook is facedown on the brocade carpet, abandoned.

“You’re not goin’ out there.” 

Despite the height of your boots, you’re still forced to tip your head up in order to meet his gaze. You forget how tall he is sometimes. His moonlight hair falls forward, the tips brushing the tops of his slanted cheekbones, a celestial curtain behind which his ocean eyes burn bright.

Your brow arches in question as you force yourself to look into all that endless blue. 

“The hell I’m not. Silvio. Move.”

“No fuckin’ way.” His jaw tightens, the words spit out through clenched teeth.

No, don’t throttle him yet. You draw a patient breath. “Why not?”

He rolls his eyes with a huff that tells you how very idiotic he finds that question and your fingers curl inwards, red nails pressing into the palms of your hands. Maybe time to throttle him?

“You know the woods outside this place are crawlin’ with Slayers, just lookin’ for a prize.”

A soft hiss escapes you. Fucking Vampire Slayers. They know the clans meet once a year and somehow they always find out exactly where that is. It makes arrivals and departures especially challenging and not every vampire survives it.

But you are not every vampire.

You fasten your cloak with one hand, the large rose-shaped ruby of your signet ring twinkling in the wan candlelight. “I’m a big girl, Silvio. I can handle myself.”

He growls as he shakes his head. “Stop being so fuckin’ stupid. Just drink the substitute for a few days and feed once we’re outta here.”

What is going on? Why does it even matter to him whether or not you take the risk of going out into the night?

"Silvio…..what the fuck? So I want to find some real blood. So it may be a bit dangerous. Who cares?!" Your voice is sharp with frustration, bright with an annoyance ready to ignite into anger.

"I do!! I fucking care!"

Silvio's words are torn from his throat by raw emotion, swift and fierce. Something in his eyes flashes, the piercing shine of a lighthouse beacon skimming the unknown darkness of the sea. His cheeks are uncharacteristically flushed, as if he’s embarrassed himself with his own outburst. 

You’re stunned into silence. You can hardly breathe. All you feel right now is the atomic fallout of a heart suddenly blown to pieces by the most unexpected, shocking wave of desire. The world as you know it, have known it for ages, tilts, breaks into a million tiny pieces as you move towards him. Your hand slides over the rich silk of his shirt where you feel his heartbeat thunder against your palm. This is Silvio Ricci. He’s the most aggravating man you have ever known. Arrogant. Commanding. Excessive.

Your hand slides up, gripping the nape of his neck, your gaze never leaving his.

So many hours of correspondence. So many days over so many decades in each other’s company. And while you always had to admit that he was attractive, never had you felt the need to know what his mouth feels like under yours, to find out what sounds he makes when he surrenders to you, to hear the rasp of exhausted desire in his voice as it stutters your name.

And yet…..here, on a night when you expected to be battling enemies for a drink of fresh blood, here you are, your blood practically singing in your veins as you stare into his eyes, now dark as the sea in winter.

“Silvio…..” His name slips from your lips, unbidden, a whisper rounded by yearning.

It is oil to the smoldering heat in his veins. His strong hands reach for you, pull you against him as he dips his head to capture your mouth with his. You gasp at the feel of the strong lines of his body, how well they fit against yours. And you gasp at the feel of his lips, his tongue. Hesitation dies, burned to ash by lust. His fingers press into you, greedy, almost needy. His mouth is demanding, hardly giving you a moment to adjust before he moves, head tilting from one side to another, tongue demanding access over and over. He kisses you as if he is drowning man and you are oxygen, as if you are the lifeblood essential to all vampires. You feel the sharp scrape of his teeth against your lips, the way his skin grows warmer under the hand that still grips his neck.

With a throaty growl, you jerk out of his arms, stepping back. He hisses, taking a step toward you. He can’t drink in the sight of you fast enough. Your electric gaze, your lips, red and kiss-swollen, the graceful movement of your hand as you unhook your cloak in a single motion. It falls to the carpet soundlessly.

And then, with vampiric speed, you are back in his arms and he’s lifting you, carrying you to the bed he had been lazily lounging on not that long ago. He lays you down on your back, one hand reaching down to brush away several locks of hair that have fallen across your neck and shoulders. His gaze follows his own fingers as they brush over your skin as if entranced by the sight, as if he can’t believe that he’s actually touching you. When you reach up and take his hand, he blinks, his cheeks flushing as if he’s been caught doing something too private, too intimate. He lowers his body, burying his heated face in the curve where neck meets your shoulder. Your fingers slide through his moon-spun hair and the aesthetic of your sharp, crimson nails dragging through all that silver pleases you deeply. 

“I knew it,” he murmurs, his nimble fingers somehow already nearly finished undoing the front lacing of your blouse. “I knew you wanted me.” His tongue traces each new expanse of skin as it is revealed. But the blouse only opens so far. He curses the innocent piece of clothing, impatiently grabbing the hem and pulls it over your head.

“You are such an idiot,” you gasp, fingers curling inward of their own accord as he leaves a string of heated kisses down your abdomen, his eager fingers already skimming over the waistband of your leather pants. 

He lifts his head, pushing himself up with one hand, his eyes as bright as twin stars. His fingers pause and it is torture. 

“There’s no shame in it, ya know. Lots of people want me. You probably wanted me for centuries, huh.”

Oh this jerk, this ridiculous, infuriating, beautiful vampire jerk.

You tilt your head, your hands roaming over the luxurious material of his sleeves. A corner of your mind pulsing with want wonders if he would mind you tearing it to shreds. Ah but he needs to be taught a lesson for such arrogant talk. Using your supernatural strength and speed, you roll, easily flipping him onto his back, pinning him down with one hand even as you straddle him invitingly.

“You’re the one who wouldn’t let me leave. Who told me….what was it? How much you care. And then started kissing me like the world is ending.” You run your thumb over his lips, slowly enough to feel the way they tremble.

His breath hitches in his throat and you watch, fascinated and oddly turned on by how red his cheeks suddenly glow. Who knew he blushed so easily? He looks away, brow scrunched in irritation even as his hands slide over the curve of your hips, over the leather that is molded to your form, holding you firmly in place against him.

“The fuck you talkin’ about…,” he mutters before reaching up for you, pulling you back down towards him. “Shuddup and let's get back to how much you want me.” 

You pause, your lips scant centimeters away from his. “I believe the evidence of how much you want me is much…..clearer.” You roll your hips against his, demonstratively and there is no denying the hard truth of your words.

He groans, shaking his head and the world tilts again as he flips your positions, covering you with the lean, muscular length of his body. The bed groans at all this gymnastics.

Your pants join your discarded blouse and travel cloak in a forlorn heap on the floor. How he managed that between kisses that leave you dizzy and aching and fighting for air is a mystery for the ages.

You’ve managed to wrangle him out of most of his clothing, without tearing anything, when suddenly you grow still, your eyes closing as a wave of true, overwhelming dizziness crashes over you. Silvio feels the way your body stiffens and freezes, his hand growing still on the inside of your thigh. He raises his disheveled head from the line of red marks he was leaving along your lower stomach.

“You ok?” 

You blink, trying to clear the sloshing in your head.

“I….I think I’m just hungry.” You try to smile, to lighten the violent shift in mood. “I was trying to go get something to eat when you so….expertly distracted me.”

He scrambles into a sitting position and then carefully, almost tenderly, reaches down to help you sit up as well, propping you up against the pillows.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t had a drink since we got here?” The paleness of your face, the way you’re holding yourself is answer enough. “The fuck?? We’ve been here a week! You ain’t really that stupid, are ya?”

You wince at his justified admonishment and he sighs heavily. He reaches down, grabbing a handful of his own billowy white shirt from off the floor and pulls it over your head, covering the body he had so eagerly uncovered just moments ago. The sight of you in his shirt has him swallowing, a tangle of complicated emotions tumbling through him.

Standing, he crosses the room in nothing but his silken braies, heading for the table next to the dresser and even through your light-headedness you can’t help but admire the lean cut of his body. He reaches for the crystal decanter, the one filled every evening for all attendees with fresh blood substitute, the one you have ignored for days despite how often they refresh it. The liquid flows from the lip of the decanter into the intricate glass that has lived untouched on that same table and with a determined set to his jaw, he strolls back to you, lowering himself to the edge of the bed. He shoves the glass in your direction, his expression a scowl draped in the embarrassment of caring.

“I know you can’t stand this shit but you ain’t gonna be able to handle all the things I’m wanna do to you unless you got some strength in ya. So stop actin’ like a stubborn jackass and-”

You yank the glass from his hand and, your gaze never leaving his, knock down the contents in one long swallow. You almost manage to hide your revulsion. 

Silvio takes the glass from you, his fingers brushing yours, softly, like small flames licking at your skin. He grins slowly and any lingering feeling of disgust is incinerated by the sudden desire that flares through your body.

“Ya want me that bad, huh?”

The blood substitute has renewed you, has sparks exploding like tiny supernovas through the pathways of your veins. You feel reborn, a phoenix bursting from the ashes in a fiery explosion of wings and want. You move faster than a human eye could see, too fast for his own enhanced vision. One moment he’s grinning at you, licking his lips like a cat that’s caught the canary and the next he’s pinned beneath you again, looking up into a face bright with eagerness, eyes glowing with satisfaction.

And when your fangs slowly protract, it’s all he can do to stop himself from taking you then and there.

“The lady is still hungry,” he rasps as your hands slide over his chest, your strong fingers curling around the hard muscles of his shoulders, sharp red nails biting pleasurably into his skin. 

You lower yourself down, tracing the shape of his ear with your tongue, fangs scraping the delicate skin. Beneath your body, you feel the tremor of lust that rolls through him and you smile, the apex predator clutching its prey within possessive talons as you whisper in a voice raw with yearning, “The lady is absolutely…..famished.”

Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @portrait-ninja @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @mastering-procrastinating @namine-somebodies-nobody @queen-dahlia @nightghoul381 @bubblexly @ozalysss

[tsuiioku]

— 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝖉𝖊𝖛𝖔𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓.

this is a sequel! read the first part here.

pairing: fyodor dostoevsky x fem!reader

content warnings: child abuse, childhood trauma, discussions of class disparity, embezzlement, alcohol, panic attacks, implied/referenced attempted drugging, implied/referenced loss of parents

author's note: i'm back! first, if you want to get updates surrounding this series, follow me here on twitter. and if you want to listen to some music while you read, might i suggest looking at some of my spotify playlists? enjoy!

would you like to see more? fill out the taglist or comment under this post.

It's funny, isn't it — to find similarities in two lives that seem to contrast on the surface, only to find matching melodies written throughout their pages. You know what they say. Don't judge a book by its cover.

An infiltration mission concludes with a realization. They smile at one another, knowing that they were never truly alone.

Unlike the everyday citizens of the bustling city of Yokohama, forced to chip away at their lives in their dismal office jobs, the affluent elite escaped into the idyllic countryside of its borders, seeking refuge from the watchful gazes of their employees and underlings while indulging in their superfluous, leisurely pursuits. Nestled amid the lush, green forests, an opulent estate stood, its pristine white concrete contrasting with the muted vegetation. Majestic frosted glass doors glistened in the warm embrace of the midday sun, beckoning visitors along a sprawling cobblestone pathway that stretched across the well-manicured lawn, where sleek limousines inched their way toward the entrance. Delicate planter boxes adorned with vibrant blooms scatter petals onto guests, adding an enchanting touch of natural elegance to the festive gathering.

Each one of these blue bloods was dressed in their finest brunch clothes — ladies swathed in flowy calf-length dresses that bounced with each step, gentlemen coated in strapping two-piece suits as their waxed loafers clopped behind them. Rumors whistled betwixt the lips of each cluster, tittle-tattling about the latest paltry fling or dalliance of the week. People glided in and out of each room, sipping on fine champagnes and rich wines, giving into debauched pleasures without thought of consequence. They slipped into conversations with ease, not bothering to remember names but feigning knowledge of other's affairs all the same.

A man entered through the threshold, eyes flickering from person to person. No one paid him any mind, unknowingly allowing the serpent with a silver tongue to slip inside, masquerading as a witless bachelor amongst a sea of dozens. The unforeseen mask of death entered the party without a second thought, his intentions concealed behind a manufactured smile. It only shifted when he looked towards his companion, a woman who stared with dazed, wistful eyes as she froze upon stone steps.

"Моя милая."

(Name) barely stirred from her thoughts, a distant hum on her lips as he guided her inside. They floated like specters across the shining floors, becoming the prime subject of whispers as they gave the room a once-over. Fyodor could not help the way his eyes drifted towards the form of his companion, who remained unsuspecting to his gaze while at his side, arm-in-arm, as she tuned into the conversations around them. She had slipped herself into an alluring, satin sable dress that was curled around her calves, swaying with each step, and was sinched to create a silhouette of empyrean grace and charm — a divine treasure escorted by her devout attendant, not that he would allow her to know that.

He paid special concern to the tension lined underneath the textiles of her dress, kneading at the taut muscles as he settled a reassuring hand against the small of her back, watching with keen eyes as she melted with each stir of his fingers — she was both in her element and yet not at the same time. But he had to admit; she was a sight for sore eyes amongst the vibrant, ostentatious heirs and heiresses that continued to babble on and on. It was hard to imagine her comfortable in a setting like this, though he was well aware she attended these types of gatherings when she was raised as a socialite in Moscow. Not that she particularly wanted to.

They locked eyes, and she found herself unable to contain the hitch of her breath at the sight of his tempting, devilish smirk as he teased the curled cherubic ringlets of her styled hair between two fingers. He leaned closer, his warm breath prickling the shell of her ear, a tremor rattling her spine as she remained a stiffened statue, the only indication of life being the heat that radiated off her skin. He reveled in the subtle details of her face as if he were admiring a Renaissance painting — the way her pupils bloomed as she subconsciously toyed with her lips.

"Не забудьте пройти мимо за́ла," he whispered in hushed breaths, pulling away before she leaned too far into him, withdrawing himself.

She whirred out a deafened whistle, imperceivably stretching her limbs as she answered with a silent nod, fleeing from his carnivorous grasp as she willfully threw herself into the throng of equally ravenous guests, who were prepared to gorge on her body as if she were an unsuspecting, innocent lamb — the main course for the event. But she was already equipped with the mental tools to deal with such stifles.

Another mission. They had snuck into the estate of the illustrious Amaterasu family, which maintained a myriad of associates with the officials of both Japan and Yokohama's governments respectfully. To her, it was no shock to uncover that these nouveau riche elites had achieved their financial status through devious and shrewd methods. They were associated with several embezzlement schemes that funneled donations from public works projects into their personal bank accounts, which unashamedly reflected in the luster of their décor. It was almost impressive — they were close to rivaling the Port Mafia with their connections. In the last couple of weeks, the Rats had steadily scrounged up intel about the household, pinpointing the brunch event as a prime opportunity, manufacturing invitations to slip in and string them up with a noose created by their own secrets — and (Name), with her background, was the best choice for the job.

She glided into conversations with a practiced ease, moving across the entry hall with fluid grace, her laughter both enchanting and unattainable as she remained an undetected outsider. (Name) nodded at their queries, careful not to allow her own name to escape her as she dodged their prying questions. No matter the setting, whether in Moscow or Japan, socialites were always the nosiest people in the room. Her twisted smile quivered, finding an air of amusement in their meager attempts to squeeze out the truth. She had plenty of experience avoiding this type of attention as the black sheep of her family, accustomed to much more animosity than prodding from meager-minded gossipmongers. And through each word that left her lips, she only emboldened herself as an entrancing enigma — she hoped it would draw forth the curiosity of one particular member of the party.

Her heels clicked with each stride as she scaled the grand staircase, ghosting past oodles of guests sampling their bubbling beverages, leaning toward one other in a vain attempt to hide their unabashed whispers. The blinding spotlight wasn't new to her, but embracing it was a feeling she would need to get used to. There was such a powerful sentiment in captivating the attention of dozens, and instead of retreating from the brilliant light into the comfort of the shadows, standing proud and tall.

Her eyes drifted to the steps, recalling the marble stairwell she climbed as a girl. Each element of this house was a strange picture of perfection, like it remained completely unlived in. It unnerved her — there were no dents or scratches that could depict the elements of a family home. Even within the suffocation of her childhood manor, the outside stranger knew it was lived in. The walls steamed with stories of generations past, tales of triumph and tragedy. Her own story lingered in the mold that set in those foundations. She frowned. It was so much easier for these families to hide their greed and vanity behind the blank canvas of their homes, but it signified one thing. They were also so much easier to manipulate.

"Excuse me!"

Perfect timing.

The swift footsteps of a tiny, guileless woman approached with a mission in mind. She had crimped charcoal hair that was pinned near the back of her neck and was swaddled in a dress that could trap heat. Her winding, animated grin grabbed the attention of every man she passed — at least to the average eye. (Name) watched each turned head as they eyed her glitzy, loud gown, practically licking their lips at the shameless declaration of wealth. She also caught the imperceptible downturn through the corners of the young woman's overdrawn lipstick, a small smile appearing on her own face as she recognized her.

The infamous sole child and heiress to the Amaterasu fortune — Amaterasu Kana. Even if she had not been debriefed before the mission, (Name) would've had to have been living under a rock not to recognize her. She was frequently featured on the front pages of Yokohama newspapers, photographed shaking the hands of bureaucrats and cutting the ribbons of upstart foundations. Though (Name) knew that most of the money that was donated to those charity events suspiciously disappeared into the pockets of its organizers.

(Name) bowed her head, purposefully concealing her expression. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Amaterasu."

"The pleasure is all mine." Goosebumps crawled across her arms despite the sleeves that worked to warm her body — Kana had the intonation of a shrill songbird, and (Name) had to withhold a wince as if she was the sole audience for a children's recorder concert, except without the endearment of childish passion. And much like a child, the small heiress rang on like an unrelenting church bell, prodding (Name)'s mind with a complete lack of shame as she bombarded her with a breakneck amount of questions. She would make an impressive detective if it weren't for her brazenness. Wealthy socialites always did this, but she was one of the worst (Name) had experienced by far.

Out of the corner of her eyes, (Name) spotted two of the heiress' bodyguards, dressed in black from head to toe, mumbling into their earpieces. If she had to guess, they were most likely searching into her background as their mistress attempted to distract her — not that they would be able to find anything. Fyodor guaranteed that their backgrounds had been wiped across the continent, besides their obvious national origins, erasing and stealing records until nothing remained.

"I must say, dear — you look lovely. Like a sparkling jewel," Kana interjected, tugging at the skirt of (Name)'s dress. "And this fabric is divine. You must recommend me your tailor."

"You are quite lovely as well." (Name) beamed at the woman, a rhapsodic thrill tremoring through her nerves at the envious lilt in Kana's tone. She lifted at the ruffles of her skirt with her gloved hand, a disappointed pout exaggerated by the furrow of her brows. "I'm afraid the dress was a present. I am unaware of its original designer."

It was a half-truth; the dress was a gift. However, the designer was not a famous one who completed commissions across the country. (Name) had been unaware that a familiar casino manager designed clothes until he approached her with a timid smile and an offer — becoming his experimental model in exchange for the products. Sigma already had a tasteful eye for fashion, but she had only then realized that he had created his own outfits himself, hiding his talent behind a wall of mediocrity and humility.

CLING!

A hushed commotion halted their bleak conversation, murmurs rushing through the agitated room as both of the women peered their heads around other partygoers. Another woman had apparently tripped over her own two feet while she descended the stairs, tumbling into a man beside her and accidentally splashing champagne on her white dress, the rest smashed with glass shards as it hit the ground. She blushed, apologizing profusely as the man helped her to her feet, only for him to respond with a judgemental sneer as he turned back to his discussion, leaving the poor woman stuttering as tears welled in her eyes. (Name) frowned as the girl limped away, her foot twisted at an odd angle, practically feeling her pain reflecting from memories many years ago.

"Quite a hideous little thing, now, isn't she?" an insidious, slithering voice whispered into her ear, making her skin crawl.

She couldn't allow a sliver of that internal empathy to appear on her face, lucky that no one caught the shallow breaths she took in as she compelled herself to remain stationary, resisting the urge to walk over and assist the girl. The elites would eat her alive if she showed even a hint of compassion — be as lifeless and perfect as a statue. (Name) hummed at Kana's insulting sneer in mock agreement, eyeing the woman as she was forced to link arms with her.

"Come now." Kana pulled on her arm, squeezing it with a bruise-inducing grip. "I must introduce you to some of my colleagues. There are some fine-looking gentlemen amongst them."

(Name) nodded with a hum but lost her breath and forgot her place as she paused at the border of the second-floor balcony, gazing over the opulent guests until she spotted the familiar face of her companion conversing with a group of well-groomed gentlemen. No one besides her knew that the man had no ancestral experience with affluence and riches, his charm allowing him to blend in with ease, enticing the people that surrounded him with faux allure as he feigned interest in their daily struggles. She wanted to roll her eyes — it took years for her to absorb a facade of stoicism, but he was practically the master of that craft.

However, there was one part of this mission that bothered her.

In many cases, she would've been accompanied by one of her subordinates, acting solely as a precautionary aid — and likely a human shield — in case the mission went awry. However, instead of a member of the countless contenders that she had considered and submitted to Fyodor to review for the task, she was met with the looming silhouette of the Demon himself sitting inside their rented limousine, a deliberate gleam in the narrowed cavern of his eyes. She had paused but didn't bother to ask about the altered plan. He would never tell her, hiding the truth behind a variety of well-thought-out excuses.

At least she wasn't paired up with Ivan again. A shiver ran down her spine. The man was obsessed with Fyodor and in turn, was equally as obsessed with her.

Nevermind that. In truth, she was delighted that Fyodor had chosen to accompany her today. But a part of her couldn't help but notice certain small aspects of his attire, particularly in the way his suit ever-so-slightly opened to expose the pale, blank canvas of his neck, unprotected from prying eyes by the lack of his signature ushanka. Her gaze traveled further down, ogling at the way the clothes were tailored against his lean body, unused to the sight of him outside of his normal button-ups and coat. And without a second beat, he glanced up at her, vibrant irises boring into her soul, a huff of amused air blowing out of his lips before he held her in a somnolent stupor.

That stupid, handsome bastard. She couldn't help but smile.

"Are you interested in that man down there?" Kana broke through the trance, forcing the pair of partners-in-crime to look away.

(Name) merely hummed, not too bothered that she was caught staring. "I apologize. I must've zoned out."

Kana blatantly ignored her questionable explanation, looking through the crowd until she spotted Fyodor. "He is quite appealing to the eye." A smirk curled up on her lips, one that made (Name)'s stomach roll. She eyed the heiress with a dissecting glare, arms tense as her jaw clenched. "Couldn't say I recognize him. Perhaps I should introduce myself once we return."

"Shall we?" Kana batted her eyelashes up at (Name), remaining blissfully unaware of the way the other woman's fists clenched at her sides.

She grinned through gritted teeth, releasing a tense cloud of electrified air. "I'd be delighted."

A modern lounge room stood within the heart of the mansion, exuding a further air of extravagance. It blended styles of both contemporary design and classic luxury, adorned with sleek block-like furniture and plush geometric textiles. Large, panoramic windows stretched from floor to ceiling, providing an unyielding view of the lush outdoor gardens and the vast stagnant pool to each observer.

Guests shuffled in and out of the room, holding their fragile cocktails that were stirred and crafted by an expert mixologist — and (Name) knew immediately that she had made it to the true center of wealth. These weren't only people who flaunted their riches; they held a manner of sophistication and generational duty with each stiffened motion of their bodies. Conversations intentionally touched on in-depth topics, opening the door to global investments and brandishing several philanthropic endeavors. Fortunes were discussed amidst sips of aged wine, and business deals passed between shaken hands and tipsy laughter. Her father would've been delighted to know his daughter was able to achieve a level of finite poise and refinement, much to her chagrin. She had never cared about such things, but old mannerisms seemed to die hard.

One spotless, shining grand piano settled in the corner of the room, attached to a dignified middle-aged pianist who played countless classical compositions, flipping through his repertoire with skilled agility — but she could recognize the lust for money that radiated in every crescendo, his shifting gaze eyeing the fat cats as they came and went. Softened melodies emanated from ivory keys, an ignored background to conversations. (Name) zeroed in on the sound, her hands cramping at a familiar tune, massaging her aching palms as he rendered each stiffened note. She sighed, shaking herself out of her reminiscence as she refocused her attention on her one-sided, lackluster conversation with the Amaterasu heiress that clung to her side.

"Each one of my governesses claims that I'm a reborn genius. From Einstein to Newton, their compliments never cease to make me blush."

(Name) bristled her shoulders, adverting herself away from Kana's boastful grin. "I can certainly understand why. You are absolutely impossible to underestimate."

Kana's cheeks reddened with demure delight, hiding part of her face with a wave of her hand as the backhanded meaning of the insult fell on deafened ears. "You are far too kind, dear."

(Name) disregarded the murmurs of the bashful woman as they glided into the center of the crowd. Kana attracted most of the initial attention from partygoers, much to (Name)'s relief and luck — she was a wealth magnet. It opened up the best opportunity for her to analyze each guest, combing through them to capture the perfect moment. She almost felt bad for the man she chose to push as she wormed out of the rabble, constructing a domino effect as he knocked over several others.

She didn't feel too bad, considering he was attempting to slip a familiar substance into the drink of a woman who remained obliviously chatting beside him.

Through a series of unfortunate missteps and collisions that she couldn't have calculated better in any other circumstance — a misplaced foot here, an inadvertent push there — a chain reaction was set off at a moment's notice. Several of the other guests lost place of their footing, glasses of fine champagnes and pungent wines flying in beautiful arches into the air, perilously headed towards the pristine ivory furniture. Shrieks of dismay cried out as many were splashed in the following seconds, soaked in sticky alcohol as they griped and groaned.

And in that unforgiving spotlight, gawked at by all, was Amaterasu Kana herself, bathed in a mixture of red and beige. She shook like an irate pomeranian puppy, snarling at anyone who attempted to console her as she screamed in outrage, stomping her heals against broken glass as attendants swarmed her, trying to ease their mistress through their attempts to rectify the pastel fabrics of her dress, but it was entirely in vain. It was absolutely ruined. (Name) smirked, releasing a mischievous chuckle as she slipped down a lone, umbrageous hallway while a high-pitched shriek wore at the foundations of the house.

She shuffled down the hall, approaching an intimidatingly large door. It wasn't a surprise that it seemed to be locked as she fiddled with the handle, but that wasn't a problem. She reached into her hair, pulling out a slender, metal hairpin from amongst her styled tresses. With a smile on her face, she funneled years of experience in breaking into her stepmother's study, her younger self carefully prying apart the rusting lock to snatch a few rare novellas into her current situation. She summoned a deep breath, bending the pin with one end shaped as a hook, the other remaining to act as a tension wrench. It slipped into the keyhole, and she applied an expert amount of pressure, listening with her ear pressed against the wood as she engaged with the tumblers inside. Her delicate movements felt like it took hours, careful not to allow the stressor of time to affect her judgment, and she let out a huff once she heard a familiar click, the mechanism surrendering as the entrance was left ajar.

The office was quite frigid compared to the warmth of the rest of the manor and seemed to rot like a bleeding heart in the foundations of its furniture. She muffled a cough, the air thick with the scent of aged paper, tall bookshelves lining the walls with volumes that encompassed decades of knowledge. The desk held a myriad of scars from its countless years of use, her hands brushing the dust on its worn top as her eyes scrounged through the scattered documents. And that was when she spotted it — a couple of bank numbers and a list of recent transactions between the family and those so-called charities.

Money may be enticing in itself, but to the rich, blackmail is worth its weight in gold.

She scoured the room, a flickering light catching her eye from its place high in an upper corner — a surveillance camera. But she wasn't the least bit worried. The entire feed was currently being filtered into the headquarters of the Rats, monitored by someone at every hour, and completely disconnected from the major security unit of the estate. She snatched the papers, carefully folding them and slipping them inside a pocket enclosed by a zipper hidden underneath the folds of her dress — bless Sigma and his never-ending ingenuity.

Her cunning hands fiddled with the window latch, cracking it open with tactful consideration. She bundled the skirt of her outfit into her arm as she clamored out onto a dormer, shutting it with a click and a snap behind her. Adrenaline empowered her muscles, an experienced skip in her steps once she removed her heels to race across panels, ducking underneath windows before climbing up to the roof of an outstretched hallway, relieved that the office was positioned away from the prying eyes of outside stragglers — most likely on purpose. She relished in the brush of comforting misty spring air as it caressed her exposed skin and fluttered betwixt the fabric of her dress, a stark contrast to the unforgiving winters of her homeland, using her energy to balance from one point to another carefully. And with a thud, she slipped through a sunroof into a claustrophobic entryway, landing like a cat.

She frowned, scanning the space. Fyodor had only told her where they were supposed to meet, but he never specified exactly what type of room it was. She braced a hand against an ornate wooden door, prying it open with a huff.

Her mouth gaped as she entered upon a verdant landscape, bathed in the mellow midday sun. Its grandeur was unmatched by any other element of the estate, an oasis of life and vibrancy. The glass walls, kissed by the sun's golden rays, glistened with a radiant luster — an invitation to all who adventured it. Its sheer size was awe-inspiring, a lush tapestry of luminance. Sunlight filtered in between cracks in the canopy, creating patterns of blossoming vitality as she gazed at rows of assorted plants, ranging from towering trees to delicate orchids. She was partially saddened to see that no one chose to traverse through its stone pathways, breathing in a deep breath as she closed her eyes, listening to the deafened beauty of nature, even if it was encapsulated in such a finite space.

Her feet pattered against the foliate corridors created through flora, pausing to look upon the radiance of a noble, granite gazebo. It wasn't the structure itself that caught her eye but the object inside. Underneath the dappled shade of its roof was a breathtaking, anachronistic piano, standing as a testament to time. The instrument, with its darkened, polished wood and ornately carved legs, remained as a silent guardian of past melodies. Its keys, weathered with age, held a timeless allure. Its wooden lid, left open ajar, revealed an ancient interior, an intricate trove of resonant strings and felt hammers tuned to perfection.

Her aching hands loosened as her dread transformed into nostalgic longing, eyes sparkling as she found herself mindlessly drifting to perch on the piano bench, arms floating above the keys with euphoric anticipation. The greenhouse went silent with her first keystroke, hearkening attention toward the woman at its heart, who caressed the instrument in the delicate folds of her fingers. With every passing sound, she melded into a statuesque mold, back straightened, and muscles strained as she gritted her teeth, a familiar melody rousing the granite columns. Each crescendo is intentional; each note is intentional. Her face faltered as her hand tumbled with a cramp, the noise coming out sharp.

SMACK!

A metal ruler smacked against her throbbing wrists, which were now smaller and thinner.

"Again," a sharp, cacophonous voice pressured from behind, forcing the tiny girl to straighten like a stick out of dread. A decrepit woman dressed from collar to ankle in billowed clothes as black as midnight — the widowed Akilina Kozakov, her governess — towered over (Name) with a striking gaze, lips pursed tight into a perpetual snarl. The child formerly adored music; faint memories of ancient melodies and creaking lullabies whispered into her ears as a babe as she was held in the arms of her late mother. But that was only until she turned five and was pushed into taking lessons.

She had previously revered the piano with wonder, tuning into the barrage of pianists that entered her home, dollar signs illuminated in their eyes as they sat to play for guests during gatherings. Through the shadows, she would remain hidden behind the wooden banisters as she hummed along to the tune with a shallow smile, tapping the softened skin of her fingers onto the floor. But they only remained bruised and calloused — she would've never imagined something that could sound so freeing could restrain her in her place on the ground.

Play perfectly, not passionately — that was the Yeliseyev motto.

She suppressed the exuberance of mellifluous spirit in her mind, the action becoming easier with each passing lesson — the passion seemed to dissolve from between her fingers whenever her hands floated above the keys. With every scream and slap, she felt the love she had for the euphonious instrument dissipate, muscles locked in a tense position, the only emotion surviving being never-ending dread. Like a grizzled falcon, her governess eyed her subtle motions, repetitively smacking the ruler against her palm to the tempo.

(Name)’s hunger-ridden body trembled as she approached the keys once more, picking up from the previous section that she had messed up, swallowing her saliva as she forced herself to play. She blinked back tears amidst shallow breaths, rocking with nausea as the room spun around her, shivering as illustrations of her ancestors stared at her from above, bounding closer and closer. Her eyes dug into her hands — too light, too heavy, too fast, too slow, too loud, too soft, too—!

SMACK!

Her knuckles pulsated with immense pain, and she choked down a cry. No one would permit her sobs, so she remained still.

"Ms. Yeliseyeva!"

"I'm so sorry, teacher. I—" Ms. Kozakov silenced her with the slap of the ruler against the lid of the piano, running the straightened edge amongst the dozens of scratches in its wooden top. (Name) withered into herself as a daisy shuddered by a blizzard, sniffling into clothes that overwhelmed her body, the hems surpassing her arms and legs as they rolled down more with each motion.

"Be quiet."

The woman crossed her arms with a humph, her sleeves swaying like bat wings. "Your older brothers were brilliant pianists when they were your age, even while multitasking their other studies and the affairs of the estate."

(Name) wobbled in the ginormous piano seat, breathing between gritted teeth as she bit back a sob. The comparisons had been a tiresome charade, paralleling her to brothers she would never relate to. She was nothing like them, who were born with a silver spoon nestled inside their mouths, the handle cradled by tender hands. They were beloved. Each of her brothers received praise and affection for their efforts, while she was expected to be their equal with none of the benefits. It wasn't a challenge to turn them into perfect, charming young heirs — it is easy to be perfect when you are loved beyond reason, but it is so difficult to be perfect when your flaws are pointed out with every struggle and strife.

(Name) did not miss the repulsed sneer on her governess’s face, knowing that it was hardly a fraction of the disgust the woman felt towards her. No one enjoyed acknowledging the aristocratic lineage of (Name)'s paternal line, but it was rarely ignored in conversation — sometimes, she wished it was. (Name) often found herself preoccupied with daydreams, basking in thoughts of daily grandeur — a life spent far from the eyes of the bustling city and into the lush forests of the Russian countryside, cradled in unrelenting adoration as she nuzzled into the warm embrace of her mother. Perhaps they would've planted a garden, the flowers bursting into full bloom with unmatched vibrancy as they occupied their days relishing life's simple pleasures. They didn't need anyone else as long as they had one another. But that was only a fantasy, only to remain in her mind as she tossed and turned at night.

"You are only expected to be perfect." Ms. Kozakov broke from her thoughts with a sharp kick to her shin, her pointed heels breaking the skin. "Perfect is the least you can be, and yet you are not."

(Name) bobbed her head only to feel another familiar smack against her spine. "Sit like a lady, Ms. Yeliseyeva. Not a penniless pauper. Play from that measure again."

So she took a deep breath, preparing herself to leap back into the fray.

Every key she flattened underneath her fingertips unlocked another fragmented mirror of her memories and, with them, the sorrow and anguish she had tried to bury beneath vivacious smiles and whispered assurances. The melody, originally composed to be smooth as a lake's shining surface, gradually grew more intense, reflecting the resurgence of her emotions. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, hands moving with a sense of purpose like a mouse scurrying into its hole, racing away from the shadows of her nostalgia. Perfection — those aristocrats always expected perfection from her. She was primarily too focused on the composition of her measures to relish in an end product. To the members of the Moscow elite, it did not matter if a song itself was beautiful as long as the instrumentalist was a pretty little possession for them to pocket. Pain intertwined with each chord as she tremoured through the bars. The gazebo echoed with rushes of raw despair and fleeting flashes of hope before it silenced in one sweeping motion, as if her past haunted the buzzing air into submission, weakening the plants as they remained stationary at their roots. Exhaustion overwhelmed her; the woman wiping her eyes and removing her gloves, only to find her palms pooled with sweat in every crevice, trembling with each breath.

And it was only in the wake of her calamitous concert that she noticed the pair of blinding tyrian eyes that stared at her from a distance, partially hidden behind a bundle of flourishing greenery.

"You play."

If she did not know any better, she would say his voice had escaped him in almost complete silence, a contrast to his constant assuredness and self-confidence. It wasn't a question. He knew that she played — she had mentioned it in passing conversations many years prior. But he hadn't realized that she truly played. She smiled at him, a melancholic smile that held a world of sorrows.

"I do."

His eyes softened their everlasting, piercing gaze as he stepped underneath the shade of the gazebo, eyeing the stains of tear streaks that sparkled as they cascaded her puffed cheeks, welling into pools of anguish. He withheld the urge to wipe them away, brushing back the ghosts that clouded her flourishing spirit, experiencing a sense of empathy that his words could never manage to capture properly. But he also couldn't help but notice the sputter in her fingers as they morbidly danced across the keys, elegance and grace summed in a single keystroke — imperfectly seraphic. He sighed, an amused quirk on his lips as her finger prodded one of the higher notes.

FLICK.

Small, calloused fingers flipped between bins of dusted and peeling record sleeves, a strangely inscrutable, world-weary expression drawn onto the face of such a young man.

"What're you looking for today, Федя?" a gentle voice broke into the muted atmosphere of his foraging. The adolescent, scrawny form of a teenage Fyodor didn't bother to turn around, regarding (Name) with a pointed look as she stood on her tip-toes, perusing into the bin from above his shoulder. They were currently nestled inside an old record store, which was run by a sweet, older gentleman who doted on both of them without restraint or care, slipping them small candies and allowing them free-range of his collections — they had proven to be remarkably responsible for their ages.

The devilish pair had crept away from their weekly church service while families and their associates indulged in lunch, knowing neither would receive even a crumb. They burrowed into the thin fabric of their coats, traveling arm-in-arm through back alleys and sidewalks as they scaled the Yakimanka district. It had become a frequent rendezvous point for them whenever they had the time to escape, sorting the containers of the store's collection as they hummed to the classics, reveling in a brief absence of thought or toil as they repeated the same task over and over.

"I need to find a Bach piece," he muttered, slipping the aforementioned record out from between the others. (Name) stared at the grime-coated cover, grimacing, but chose not to speak on it any further as they continued to browse. The orphanage had some of their more talented children partake in a youth orchestra directly funded by the church — and Fyodor, with his quick skills and sharp mind, picked up on several stringed instruments throughout his transition period from his childhood home. She had only learned about his melodious gift when they had run into each other at a charity banquet — or rather, she had spotted him there. If she hadn't been too embarrassed to approach the stage and draw attention to herself, one judgemental scowl from her father would've been enough to hold her back. He was formerly dressed in the finest the clergy could afford, which was surprisingly a lot, but somehow still remained so out of place. She had basically gawked at him the entire night and prayed he never noticed.

She was unable to pinpoint the exact reason she watched him for so long, entranced. Perhaps it was because of the way he played — so perfect, yet somehow strained. The entire orchestra seemed to be tuned to prime excellence, at least in the eyes of an outsider or an ordinary socialite, untrained in the art of true music. But the weariness was evident, each member slaving over the notes on the staff, mastered chords blaring between half-wrapped bruised and blistered fingers.

She abandoned those macabre thoughts, her hands exploring a section of more recent records, grand Tchaikovsky compositions, and brilliant Chopin arrangements reflecting the overcast sun on each rivet of their silvery surfaces. One sparkled in the faded beams of midday, the vivid palette of the sleeve clashing with the doleful paint of the store's walls. (Name) tugged the ravenette by the edge of his jacket without a word, guiding him along into the cozy lounge area stationed in the back, which rouged from the light of an ancient, crafted glass lamp — and underneath that was an arenaceous record player. She plopped down onto the floor, striking the boy with a knowing smile as she patted the spot beside her, slipping the disk out of the sleeve and delicately settling it on top of the platter. Fyodor sat carefully beside her, ensuring he didn't stumble due to his weak constitution, watching as (Name) settled the tone arm on top of the record, their expressions completely contrasting as it spun to life.

"It's a 1942 Steinway," a soft-toned adult voice shattered his reminiscence, her face cleared of tears as she caressed the lacquered surface of the piano with maternal care. "I haven't seen one of these since a spring exhibition at the Naoumov's family estate. We didn't even have one."

He smirked, crossing his arms as his eyes trailed across the piano's reflective ebony veneer, having an equal appreciation for the splendorous ivories. "You know your instrument, милая."

She huffed, an amused quirk to her brow. "Of course I do." Wavering fingers tampered with the black keys, creating a dissonant chord. "The piano is such a lovely instrument. So versatile, despite being so stationary."

"My father preferred—" she started before cutting herself off with a frown, chewing on her bottom lip. "Never mind what he preferred. It doesn't matter."

Serenity enveloped the greenhouse, a calm hush settling over both of them. (Name) spun her head with a dazed hum as leather footfalls echoed closer, clasping Fyodor's outstretched hand as he helped her to her feet, ushering her outside through an unlatched window panel, noting her entranced stare at the gazebo as it grew smaller and smaller.

(Name) strutted through the expansive, narrow halls of the underground facility, a skip in her step as she practically danced in her swath of comfortable pajamas — the rest of the Rats had fled from the base to return to their civilian lives and homes, letting her release the precipice of her jubilation and energies. The mission had been a smashing success, with the Amaterasu family begging on their hands and knees for the evidence of the transactions to be erased. Fyodor drained their accounts as they bumbled sob stories on the other line, watching with amusement as all of their "hard-earned money" filtered down the drain and into the Rats' den. It was their fault, anyway.

But never mind that. Even through the exhaustion they both had faced in the events of the day, Fyodor had invited (Name) away from their routine twilight tea, emploring her to meet him in a spare room in the base's lower levels. She rubbed her arms with a shiver as the air became colder with each step, eyes sparkling as a door, identical to every other one, beckoned her with silent promises of mystery and allure.

With the tap of her signature knock, she twisted the knob, opening the door wide after a moment of silence. Her eyes squinted, adjusting the blurred shapes that stood stagnant in the dismal candlelight, filling her body with the smoky scent of jasmine. But once she could finally make everything out, a gasp involuntarily tumbled from her lips.

In the dead center of the room, surrounded by mirrors that enclosed the space as it reflected over and over, was a proud and tall but incredibly familiar grand piano. She remained standing in the doorway, lips pulled into indescribable awe, before being broken from her trance as wooden legs scraped against the tiled floors. Her gaze adverted to the other corner, where Fyodor was sitting on his chair, resting his signature cello between his feet as his eyes traveled across her face, reading her like a book.

That stupid, handsome bastard.

She shut the door behind her with a click, swiftly inspecting the instrument as she lifted the lid in disbelief. Every key and every string was identical to the piano from the gazebo. WIth her foot, she tapped at the pedals underneath it, raising her eyes from the floor to the man in front of her, one question remaining on her mind.

"...why?"

She knew from experience that there was no point in inquiring about the how or what of the piano's alarmingly sudden presence. He would never answer, and she was honestly too mindblown with the idea of such a large object being carefully snuck inside — without her knowledge, to add — to consider the process. She hoped that, at the very least, he would reply to that one question, even if it was in his own roundabout sort of way.

"It's about time we have our duet, don't you think, любимая?"

He chuckled at the obvious excitement in her eyes as she ignored his loose-ended answer, her body practically beaming as she plopped onto the piano bench with a sweet giggle. Her fingers experimentally thrummed to the end of the keys, masterfully creating a simple scale without looking down. He followed in her stead, gliding his bow across the cello strings, already aware that they had been perfectly tuned. And then he looked up.

"Rachmaninoff's Sonata in G Minor."

The same record from the little shop in Moscow. She smiled. He had remembered all this time.

"Andante."

Her hands raised, as did his bow.

"Ты некомпетентное дерьмо—!"

His adolescent body couldn't even muster a flinch as one of the orchestra attendants struck down onto the neck of a woodwind player with a thin metal rod — the comedic shriek of a piccolo almost sounded humourous, if not for the pained groan that followed from the instrumentalist's lips, wincing as a bruise bloomed on their skin. The tension was thick enough to slice through with a knife. For weeks, they had been the subject of the relentless regime marshaled by their conductor, a man who reigned a reputation for being, as the elite delicately referred to it, "strict." Their sugarcoating was a laughable understatement. He was a tall, imposing man whose brow was eternally furrowed, wielding his authority over the children like a dictator. His baton raised once more, prepared to unleash a storm of fury upon the trembling orchestra. There was no room for error, no grace for a missed note or a falter in tempo.

They had to be perfect.

The opening bars of Bach's St. Matthew's Passion flooded the room in a cacophony; the once expressive piece transformed into a living nightmare. The conductor's harsh movements pushed the orchestra to the brink, racing across the measures without care to the straining children, their fingers cramped as they attempted in vain to keep up. His eyes filled with a venomous mixture of disdain and rage, singling out individuals and humiliating them with a single glance.

"Громче, Достоевский!"

The nape of his neck bruised shades of violet and vermillion, mistakes met with a torrent of spinning insults, some of the more sensitive members sobbing silently in their seats. That despotic conductor would wave his baton, signaling for an attendant to strike at the offending musician with their metal rods, partially stained crimson from broken skin. It dragged on for hours, the music background to the relentless assault on their spirits. Most were only struggling to make money to take home to their families, not having a choice if they wanted to eat the next day — child-labor laws didn't extend to musical groups associated with the church. The children knew they were being taken advantage of, but they didn't have a choice.

Fyodor hid the prologue to his insidious thoughts through a carefully crafted glare, willing the conductor to drop dead from his eyes alone — he could easily kill him with a single touch, but not yet. It wasn't the right moment, people would see. But the man would pay in due time for his sins, corrupting such youthful passion, funneling it into a lifeless musical machine.

The conductor lifted his baton once more, the orchestra members tensing as they straightened their backs to play. Perfect. That was all they needed to be. Absolutely perfect. The beaconing image of the results of the elites' generosity, who watched each child with eyes of feigned sympathy. Only one gaze ever stood out amongst the rest.

"Федя?"

The timid whisper of that childhood nickname cut into his memories, lifting his eyes from staring at his trembling hands towards his effervescent sweetheart, forcing him away from the pain with a small, empathetic smile — that same benevolent smile. Their wounds were identical in multiple ways, and she'd never let him forget that. He wasn't alone anymore; neither of them were — they would play together, unburdened by the narrow judgment of people who no longer mattered. She tapped her foot to an unheard rhythm, brow perked up with child-like wonderment.

"Ready?"

In their years together, they had found harmony in a profound and transcendent symphony, the intertwining melodies of two hearts creating a masterpiece of shared experiences — from clinging to one another on a weak window dormer, one a daughter beatified with the warmth of life and the other a son burdened with the frost of death, only loved by parents that had long departed from the surface of the living world, to cross the continent, hand-in-hand as they faced each new day with no fear, knowing they could surpass every challenge if they remained side-by-side. They had become a complex but wonderfully synchronized composition. And in this refrain, as they entered the next section, there was no need for a conductor at the reigns, easily harmonizing with empathy only shared between the two, seeking to comprehend their hopes, dreams, and fears through the other's lens. Melodies of lifelong laughter rang clear and true, circling a lightness into their lives that could be found nowhere else.

In their grand composition, harmony did not mean an absence of discord — that is not the way life is, but instead a divine interplay of differences and similarities. Like contrasting, dissonant notes, they retroactively complemented one another, enhancing their strengths while compensating for their weaknesses. It was no static composition but a work of living, breathing art, evolving and blossoming with each passing day. Notes were fed by the warmth and care that filled each rest and the tenderness that arose as they allowed each other to shine in the solos.

In their duet, they had found the transformative power that allowed two kindred souls to intertwine, and whenever they played in truly perfect accord, appearance no longer mattered, instead producing a deeply fulfilling lifelong bond that neither of them could've possibly imagined.

The Demon smiled at his divine treasure, forever devoted as she awaited his que. "For you, моя милая. Always."

(моя) милая = (my) dear не забудьте пройти мимо за́ла. = don't forget to pass by the reception room. федя = fedya любимая = darling ты некомпетентное дерьмо—! = you incompetent shit—! громче, достоевский! = louder, dostoevsky!

TAGLIST: @hypocritic-trash-baby @imhandicapableofmath @seisitive @hauntedsol @ruru-kiss @ishqani @kotysluny @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @aqigglewigglewoo

© MUSAMORA 2023 — do not repost or modify my works for any reason. do not steal graphics w/o explicit permission. reblogs are appreciated.

[authorchariot]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ corps d'œuvre

rating: explicit ❤️

fandom: in secret (2013)

pairing: laurent leclaire x m!reader

word count: 5.6k+

content warning(s): none

tags: body worship, dirty talk, masturbation (kinda), not beta read, objectification, pov second person, praise kink, seduction, sexual tension, strangers to lovers, teasing

summary: when you invite the handsome laurent to pose for a new painting, he doesn't expect the studio to become an altar. or himself, a beast made holy. but beneath the oil paint and canvas lies something far less sacred: desire; raw and consuming

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The delicate chime of the bell above the door rings like a silver whisper as Laurent steps into the narrow art supply shop nestled along the Rue de l'Université. The air is steeped in a heady perfume of linseed oil, aged canvas and the powdered sweetness of crushed pigment; a scent he knows intimately, one that conjures memories of long hours bent over canvas, chasing the elusive muse of inspiration.

His gaze wanders down the familiar aisles, more out of habit than necessity. He had come seeking sable brushes, perhaps a fresh tube of ultramarine—nothing urgent. And yet, his eyes halt. They catch. They linger.

You are here.

Not in passing, not a flicker of motion vanishing just as he arrives, not the rustle of a coat brushing out the door while he stands, too late to speak. No, you are here, wholly present — serene and unhurried — as though the moment has been waiting patiently for the two of you to find it.

You stand with one hand lifted delicately, reaching for a row of glass jars; cadmium yellow, alizarin crimson, phthalo green. The golden light of the afternoon pours in through the tall windows, draping itself over your shoulders, bathing you in a radiance that seems spun from the sun itself. You do not merely stand in that light; you are woven into it.

Laurent's breath catches in his lungs.

He has seen you before. More than once. In cafés, head bent over a sketchbook, your pencil dancing across the page as though channeling something divine. In the long hallways of the college, your hands dusted with chalk, the scent of turpentine clinging faintly to your skin. And yet, he has never dared approach. You were always just out of reach, like the suggestion of a face behind a fogged window, the final stroke that refuses to appear no matter how he coaxes it from the brush.

He has painted you already — unknowingly, perhaps — but faithfully. In half-finished portraits and imagined figures, in the curve of a neck or the gentle bend of a wrist. You are the echo in his colour palette, the ghost of your gaze haunting every canvas. And now, here you are, turning a jar of cobalt blue in your fingers as if it contains something precious, something unspeakably rare.

Laurent remains at the door a moment too long. He does not know whether to retreat or advance. His heart thumps against his ribs with a nervous intensity unbecoming of a man grown and yet there it is; his composure slipping like sand through an hourglass. Foolish, he scolds himself. He is not a boy. And he has wooed his fair share of beauties.

Still, there is something in the way you carry yourself — graceful, untroubled, as though the world waits for you rather than the other way around — that makes him feel as if he is seeing the embodiment of something sacred.

You hum softly to yourself, a tune like wind through willow branches, and your hand drifts lazily along the shelf, stirring dust motes in your wake. He moves closer, feigning interest in the sketchbooks on the lower shelf, though his eyes betray him again and again, drawn helplessly to you. And you remain; rooted, radiant, untouched by haste.

He cannot bear it a moment longer.

"Excuse me." He says at last, his voice barely above a murmur. But in the hush of the shop, it echoes like a gunshot. He has never been this close to you and the scent of your perfume — rosemary, clary sage and cedarwood — strikes him, almost forcing every thought from his head. "Do you mind if I ask what colours you're looking for?" And you turn to face him, your attention making his palms clammy.

"Oh, none in particular." You reply with a polite smile, drawing his breath away.

"Really? You look like you're searching for something specific." Dark eyes drift down to your hands, noting the long, slender fingers stained slightly with paint. He watches the way your lips, pink and pillowy, curl slightly before you peer back up at him coyly.

"Actually, I am looking for something. Well, someone, I should say." And his heart skips a beat. Perhaps he should not be so hopeful yet the way you look at him...

"Oh?" He asks, feigning calmness. "And who might that be?"

"You, oddly enough." You respond and he blinks, taken aback. He has so yearned for this moment, it feels like a dream, but he never expected you to be so...direct. His lips part as he releases a breath he was unaware he was holding.

"Me?" He swallows thickly. Of course, if he had seen you in Paris, you must have seen him as well, the both of you just missing each other in busy, rain-slick streets and in this very art supply shop, catching glimpses of each other between the shelves. "You were looking for me?" He asks, voice lowering.

"Indeed." You say simply. Your smile falters as your expression becomes one of concentration and professionalism. "You see, I'm starting a new piece and I'm in need of a model." You tell him and you see the way his shoulders sag slightly, perhaps in disappointment. Still, it seems to intrigue him all the same.

"A model? You want me to pose for you?" He has seen your work before; displayed on the walls of the vast corridors of the Parisian art college, a most prestigious honour and one only gifted to the most talented of artists. You seem to specialise in portraits, particularly of religious figures, usually saints. His favourite of yours has always been a portrait of Saint Sebastian, featuring a young man, naked — save for a scrap of cloth covering his nethers — being impaled with arrows, crimson dripping down his pale, lithe body. He had never felt attraction to men before then, not until he gazed upon the lean, graceful body of your Saint Sebastian. And then he saw the creator and he was smitten. Laurent has always admired your work from afar but never imagined being the subject of it.

"Yes, I've been commissioned to do a piece of Saint Foutin." You tell him and he raises a brow, intrigued.

"Saint Foutin? The saint of...?"

"A phallic saint, you see, so a saint of virility and vigour, yes." Your confirmation draws a soft chuckle from him.

"I see. And you think I would be a suitable model for such a piece?" He asks, a hint of flirtation in his voice, though you remain steadfast.

"Indeed." You run a hand through your hair, the strands shimmering in the light from the tall windows. "You see, my peers at the college, though talented, would not fit this role. The men are so...delicate and effeminate. And, though I find nothing wrong with such men, for Saint Foutin, I need a model who is strong, stocky, robust. A model with some...substance." A rush of pride washes over Laurent and he puffs out his chest slightly, realising that he has been chosen for his rugged, masculine physique.

"You flatter me." He gushes but your face remains stoic.

"That wasn't my intention, Monsieur...?" You reply flatly and he seems to deflate some, clearing his throat bashfully.

"LeClaire. Laurent LeClaire." He introduces himself with a subtle bow of his head. He has no need of your introduction as he has heard your name whispered about the halls of the college and written on plaques beneath your works. "I merely meant that your description flatters my physique. It's not often one's—"

"Are you available this evening?" You interrupt him gently.

"Yes. Why?" Your professional demeanour is throwing him off-balance. He simply cannot tell if you are attracted to him or merely in need of a model.

"I have a small atelier in my apartment. I'd like you to pose for some preliminary sketches, perhaps a vague outline of my vision. Would that be reasonable?"

"That sounds reasonable." He nods, trying to keep his voice steady. "What time should I arrive?" He hopes his voice and haste to agree does not betray his eagerness. He so wants to be professional but your proximity and the thought of posing for you are stirring something within him.

"Eight o'clock, perhaps? I paint predominantly by candlelight, you see." You inform him and he nods again, remembering the soft glow that highlights the figures you paint.

"Very...intimate. Is it proper for a gentleman to visit a young artist's apartment after dark?" He asks, full lips curving into a slight, wry grin. Still, you do not react.

"Should it not be?" You reply, earning yourself another soft chuckle for him as his mild attempt at flirtation, once again, falls flat.

"No, no, of course not."

"Oh, and bring a bottle of your favourite wine. I find it's the little comforts that keep my models focused." You tell him.

"Smart. Most artists starve their models." He murmurs before hesitating for a moment. "Do I need to dress a certain way?" He watches your face carefully but you remain deadpan.

"No, it is a nude piece I've been commissioned for, you understand, so it matters not what you arrive in; it will be coming off." You say bluntly.

"I see." His cheeks are flushed ever so slightly and you have noticed a slight hitch in his breath despite his apparent calmness. He feels a familiar stirring in his trousers. "So I should just...arrive and undress straight away?"

"No, no. I'll let you get comfortable in my atelier first. I also have a screen you can undress behind and a robe to wear, should you need it." Your tone is precise and sure, almost clinical in nature, and he finds himself wholly intrigued.

"Most would be flustered, asking a man to undress in their apartment." He states.

"Whatever for? You wouldn't be the first." You tell him though you allow your eyes to betray a hint of hunger that boils beneath your cool façade. He notices though says nothing. You are clearly very serious about your art though there is an intense yet unspoken sexuality about your person and about your work.

Pulling out a small book, you scrawl your address onto a page before tearing it out and handing it to him. "Here, this should help you find your way." His fingers brush yours for a moment longer than necessary as he takes the paper from you. He notices how much larger his hands are; the hands of a working man. Where yours are slender and delicate, his are heavy and strong. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders how delicate and graceful the rest of your body is, beneath the pressed suit.

"Until eight, then."

The streets are wet with rain, gas-lamps giving off dim, watery light, guiding the way to your modest apartment. It has rained since the meeting in the art supplies shop so the air is thick with the scent of worn cobblestones and wet earth. The air is close, humid, and an unwitting omen of the night to come.

Laurent arrives at your apartment at precisely eight o'clock. The door is unlocked and, after a moment's hesitation, he lets himself in, the sight of dozens of flickering candles stopping him mid-step. He blinks before remembering himself and closing the door behind him, drinking in the richly intimate ambience. The Bordeaux under his arm seems superfluous now, a mere mortal offering amidst such ethereal beauty.

You turn on your heel, stripped down to a more comfortable rendition of your previous suit. Your shirt gapes open slightly, giving him a glimpse of for bare chest beneath, and your suspenders hang loosely around your knees, still attached to the waistband of your trousers. You seem to glow in the candlelight and he suddenly feels so very blessed, as if walking into a temple.

"Ah, there you are. Punctual. I appreciate that." You tell him.

"A trait drilled into me since childhood." He murmurs, setting down the bottle of wine on a nearby console table. He notes the appearance of your atelier; a worn stool with a sketchpad resting atop it, various props he has seen in your displayed works, a bowl of fresh fruit on top of a cabinet of various mismatched glasses and teacups, canvases of unfinished paintings propped up against the wall in the corner and, as you mentioned, an ornate privacy screen with a silk robe draped over it.

"Please, pour yourself a glass of wine and settle in before we get to work." You gesture to the cabinet before you turn back to organising your supplies, moving your stool by a sturdy-looking dining table, scattered with a few loose pages but otherwise clear.

Laurent fetches a glass from the cabinet and pours himself a generous glass of wine, unbuttoning his shirt-collar unconsciously. You seem to be treating him as you would any other model; professionally and with a form of detached care. Unknowingly, he finds it endearing and attractive that you have such deep respect for your models' comfort.

You move your sketchpad to the dining table and seat yourself on the stool, gazing at him from across the way. "Monsieur LeClaire, you are an artist as well, aren't you?" You ask conversationally and he takes a long sip of his wine.

"An amateur at best." He admits with a small smile, unintentionally drawing attention to the fullness of his lips. "Though I dabble in watercolours when the mood takes me." Setting the glass down, he moves closer, stepping into your workspace. You hum in consideration.

"If you were painting a representation of male fertility, how would you have your model pose, do you think?" You ask curiously though he cannot help but feel as if this is some form of test. He freezes. His mind immediately goes to the obvious; a man standing proudly, his erection on display, though he answers professionally.

"I suppose I would have him standing, legs slightly parted. Hands relaxed by his sides." He answers hesitantly. There is a moment of silence where he simply watches for your reaction. Finally, you hum once more, clearly unconvinced by such a dull and unadventurous answer.

"I see..."

"What?" The word comes out almost defensively. "What would you do?" His voice drops an octave, his tone challenging. "As the artist, what pose would you find most accurate? Most...evocative?" You pause for another moment before peering up at him.

"Monsieur LeClaire, how long can you maintain an erection?" You ask bluntly and he stiffens visibly.

"Excuse me?" He manages to sputter, recollecting himself. "Are you asking that for...artistic purposes?"

"Yes, of course." He runs a finger under his collar, suddenly feeling warm, as if his skin may be pulled too tightly across his bones.

"I can...maintain myself for quite some time." He replies and you nod.

"Ah, good." You stand from your stool and gesture to the dining table. "I intend to have you standing on here so I might capture you from below." He follows your movements, dark eyes tracking you predatorily.

"From below, you say? And what position do you envision for this...evocation of male fertility?" Unconsciously, his voice lowers further to an almost sensual purr.

"Well..." Your hands find his wrists, gently guiding his limbs where you would like them. You seem like a sculptor, moulding him into position. One hand is placed over the front of his trousers, where he stirs beneath the thick fabric. "One hand around the manhood..." You murmur, mainly to yourself, before moving his other arm, bending it at the elbow and raising his hand to his face, tilted back, as if to hold something. "And the other like this. Holding an apple, perhaps. With your head angled down toward me." Laurent now finds himself in a pose that feels both classical and incredibly erotic; like Adam in the Garden of Eden.

"Like this?"

"Yes. I may make some minor changes but that was the thought for composition." You assure him, your eyes assessing his body critically. You treat him as though he is a piece of marble; beautiful though not alive. He stiffens slightly, his mind racing.

"May I ask you something?" Your eyes flick up to meet his own, as if you are seeing the man, not the angel you hope to see in the marble. "Do you see me as a man or as a statue? As a subject or an object?" Dark eyes bore into your own. The question hangs heavy between you, laden with intense implication. "Because, right now, I feel more like a piece of art than a person."

"Is it not possible to be both? A mortal man and a beauty immortalised?" You respond and he considers this for a moment.

"I suppose it is." He admits quietly. "But it's a strange feeling, to be both the subject and the object. The man and the marble."

"Do you resent me for taking such an objective stance of you, Monsieur?" You ask, your voice almost a whisper. His breath catches at your sudden, low tone.

"Resent you? No. I find it intriguing." He holds your heated gaze for a moment longer before you speak again.

"Would you like to undress?"

"Yes." He rasps out, reaching up to unbutton his shirt. "You ask such things as if asking if I want a glass of water." And that pulls a soft laugh from you as you gesture to the privacy screen.

"Please, feel free to undress and hang up your close behind the screen." He obeys, stepping out of sight. In the shadows, his movements are economical, efficient. He strips off his shoes, his waistcoat, his shirt, his trousers, his socks and undergarments...

When he finally steps out again, Laurent is completely and gloriously nude, draping his clothes neatly over the screen. Your eyes drift dow to notice that he is already swollen and needy, much to your delight; his manhood standing at attention and bobbing slightly with every movement. "Are you...eager to model, Monsieur?" You ask, the slightest hint of teasing in your voice, and he flushes slightly, averting his gaze. You gesture to the dining table. "Well then, should we start?"

Stepping up onto the table, he gains his balance and you place your glasses on the bridge of your nose. "Take up the pose we discussed earlier, if you please." He moves to replicate the pose; one hand curved up toward his face as if to hold something, his broad shoulders pulled back and his head tilted down slightly to look at you, though his other hand rests on his abdomen, almost fearful to touch himself. It does not go unnoticed. "One hand around yourself, please. Oh. And..." You turn to pull a ripe, ruby-red apple from the fruit bowl, offering it up to him, as if he were some sort of deity. He takes it, cradling it in his hand as the other hesitantly wraps around his erection, gripping it loosely. The pose is both innocent and obscene; a nude man holding an apple, his other hand wrapped around his aching cock.

"Better?" The question come out breathier than he intended.

"Much. Thank you." You pick up a stick of charcoal and begin sketching.

He maintains the pose, barely breathing. The cool air in the room kisses his skin, making his nipples tighten and stiffen. He watches your charcoal move across the page, creating lines that represent his form in long, swooping strokes. The lines are loose but enough of them form a good approximation of his pose. The act of being captured in such a position is surprisingly erotic in a way he has never experienced before.

Dark curls fall over his forehead and his fingers involuntarily tighten around the base of his manhood as he watches your glasses slip down your nose slightly. "Very good..." You murmur distantly, occasionally looking up at him, your brows knitted in concentration. The silence in the room is broken only by the odd crackle of a candle flame and the scratching of your charcoal on the page. He finds himself throbbing but does not move his hand, keeping it wrapped around himself, as instructed. "I thought you would be the perfect model for this... I'm glad I was correct." Because, indeed, he seems to embody the presence of a phallic saint; stocky and virile with dark curls and dark eyes that shine in the candlelight, his nipples stiff and his cock aching to be touched. Your praise only serves to make his skin prickle further with desire.

He swells under the pointed looks you cast toward his erection, growing thicker and harder in his hand. He feels a bead of moisture form at the tip, threatening to spill out. "Strong... Virile... Like a Percheron stallion..." You mumble and his hand tightens around his shaft, his knuckles paling. He has never been compared to a beast before, let along such a powerful one. But he likes it. He feels wild, untamed.

The bead of pearlescent precum slowly slides down the crown of his length and he captures his lip between his teeth, unsure if he should wipe it away or let it drip. He can hardly think clearly, never having felt so exposed, so vulnerable, and yet so empowered. The pearl of moisture rolls from his slit and slowly drips to the table, between his feet, in a long, shimmering, stringy trail. You hum in approval and the intensity of your gaze only serves to make his cock throb more insistently. Another bead forms at the tip, his body responding to your scrutiny with an almost primal need. "What is rousing you so much, Monsieur LeClaire?" You ask absentmindedly.

"Your gaze." He admits, his voice hoarse. "The way you look at me, the way you describe me. It makes me feel...powerful, masculine. And your concentration, your focus on me..." He trails off as you look up at him, finding his gaze and capturing it with your own. "You're not looking at me like a lover or even a man. You're studying me, analysing my form, my proportions..." You let his admission hang in the air before you break the silence once more.

"Should I stop?"

"No." He says quickly, his hand tightening further on his manhood. "Don't stop. I... I like it. I like being your subject." A slight grin curls at the very corners of your lips before it vanishes.

"I see. But it looks almost...painful." You note and he hisses through gritted teeth as yet another pearl of preejaculate forms at the tip of the engorged head. He aches, feeling as if he may burst.

"It is."

"Would you like to ease some of the pressure? It would be bad practice, if I were to keep you in such a state." You tell him, your voice carrying the slightest teasing tone.

"Bad practice." He repeats, voice strained and rough. "So kind of you to consider my comfort. But, yes, I think... I think I need to relieve...some of the pressure." His tone is short, clipped, as if trying not to say too much. Another long string of sticky moisture falls from the crown of his cock, adding to the small, glistening pool on the surface of the dining table. "May I?"

"Yes, of course, but please try to move as little as possible as I'm still sketching." You tell him and he swallows hard. You know exactly what you are doing, forcing him to grant himself only fleeting touches in order to keep himself from coming apart completely under the weight of his own lust.

Instead of stroking, he merely squeezes in a slow, steady rhythm, slowly rubbing his thumb along the swollen crown, trying to ease the tension without actually moving his hand. "Thank you..." You murmur softly though, by the intonation, it could almost be praise again. Well done or good boy spring to mind and he shudders at the thought, his knees almost buckling at the implication. "I suppose that's a drawback of being such a...fine, potent thing."

"Indeed..." You continue sketching, capturing the fluid movement of his steadily leaking cock, making sure to outline the pearly trails that form as another drop oozes down to fall between his feet. The composition feels like the viewer is a worshipper of Saint Foutin; almost daring to lean in to catch one of the sweet droplets on their tongue and receive a blessing from him. Meanwhile, your words wash over Laurent in a sensual caress, his hand moving in slow, deliberate motions, barely there but just enough to keep the ache ay bay without reaching climax.

Finally, you break the silence again.

"How are you fairing, Monsieur?" You ask and he decides to be honest.

"Barely holding on." He admits breathlessly.

"Are you feeling exposed perhaps? Vulnerable?"

"Yes." He murmurs. "Never have I felt so bare, so utterly...laid open."

"Would it make you feel more comfortable if I were to bare myself as well?" You ask, your true intentions peeking out slightly from your façade. Dark eyes find yours as he considers your proposition.

"Would you?"

"If you think it would help." You respond and he nods, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"Please." The word is a prayer, filled with eagerness and longing. He so desperately wants to see you, to share this vulnerability with you.

Placing down your charcoal and pad, you stand and begin easily unbuttoning your shirt and trousers, laying them over a nearby armchair before ridding yourself of your underthings. You stand confidently, clearly comfortable in your own skin. Your skin glows in the warm candlelight and you ruffle your hair, taking a moment to loosen your limbs after so long hunched over your sketchpad. You are also erect already, your manhood stiff between your thighs, leaving glistening trails on your skin.

"Is that better?" You ask coyly and his mouth goes dry as he drinks in the sight of you, his cock only throbbing harder as his gaze drifts over you.

"Yes..." He whispers, his self-control slipping. There is a glint in your eye that challenges him; testing how far you may stretch his restraint before he snaps. You step closer to the table on which he stands, gazing up at him like the statue of David, your hands collected on the edge of the counter as your eyes wander across his body.

"Such a large, unapologetic creature..." You purr, simply watching him, and his body trembles with the effort of maintaining his position under your scrutiny, his muscles quivering as he fights the urge to touch you, to grab you, to throw you down onto the table and bury himself inside you. Your words send shivers down his spine. "How many women have ridden you, marvellous beast? Do you prefer fillies or mares?" You tease, resting your head on your palm as you regard him with such casual appreciation. "How many men have taken you for a ride, hm? Did you show them what it truly means to be a purebred or did you simply lay back and let them take the reins?" His breath comes in ragged gasps as you speak, your words painting vivid images in his mind.

"Too many to count." He admits gruffly, his voice thick with lust. "Both fillies and mares have had their turn. And men..."

"Yes?"

"Men have had their turn as well. But I never let them take the reins completely. I always make sure they know who's in control." He fights the urge to stroke himself as you lean back, your body soft and delicate in the dim, flickering light of the candles.

"Have you ever been taken in hand by an experienced jockey?" You ask and his pupils swallow up the irises, his eyes almost entirely dark with arousal. You are pushing him farther and farther.

"A few times. Men who knew how to handle a...stallion like me." He swallows hard as you reach out, trailing your fingertips along his bare ankle. The slightest touch makes his entire body tense as more and more droplets of pre collect in the puddle between his feet.

"Did they insist on controlling you, Monsieur LeClaire?" You ask and he groans, his breathing growing more and more laboured.

"Yes... They held my legs open, wrapped their hands around my neck and fucked me like the beast I am." His hips jerk slightly as your fingers dance along his shin, leaving trails of heat in your wake.

"Well, I'm not here to control you." You assure him and his eyes meet yours, intense and questioning.

"Then what are you here for?" Because you certainly are not here to simply have him model for you. "To...merely admire?" He hopes not. God, he hopes not. Your fingers drift over his knee and up onto his thigh, corded with strong muscle beneath the skin.

"I want to see you run wild and free, Monsieur LeClaire." You tell him, gazing up at him through dark lashes.

"You want a display? You want me to throw my head back and rear up?"

"Yes, I want to see that unfettered, primal energy that lays dormant within you. When I first saw you, I thought 'this is a man enslaved by society, forced to keep his true nature at bay'. Would you say that was accurate?" Your fingertips touch his inner thighs and he lets out a sound that is close to a snarl.

"Too accurate." He admits, his body coiling like a spring ready to snap. "I've spent my life playing the gentleman. But inside... Inside, I'm an animal."

"Yes..." Your voice is nothing but pure encouragement as you reach up to cup his full, heavy sac in the palm of your hand. He lets out a shuddering breath through his teeth, his jaw set tight.

"I'm ready to mount something..." He mutters. "Do you know how hard it is for a man like me to keep this beast inside himself?"

"Mm... Something so wild and...hungry." You lightly squeeze his sac and his eyes threaten to roll back in his head.

"Starving." He corrects. "Always starving... Waiting for a strong hand to finally free me."

Slowly, you draw your hand away and sit back on the stool.

"Come down to me."

Laurent doesn't hesitate, his body moving with a fluid grace that belies his size. He steps down from the makeshift platform, his cock bobbing heavily between his legs. His eyes are dark and intense, filled with a pure, raw hunger that pulls the breath from your lungs. Still, you regard him, looking over his body critically. "Mm. Perhaps you aren't the stallion I initially took you for..." You murmur softly.

"What do you mean?" He snaps, his ego slightly bruised. He thought he was the epitome of masculine desire; graceful yet strong.

"I think you may be more of a bull, seeing red; rearing back and ready to charge."

"A bull." he repeats, tasting the word on his tongue. He is not sure if he like the comparison. A stallion is sleek, powerful and elegant. A bull, however, is simply...brutal. "And what's wrong with that?" He asks, low and challenging.

"Nothing. Nothing at all." You assure him, drawing slow patterns on his abdomen with your fingertips. "If I invite you to my bedroom, will you gore me, I wonder..." His eyes burn into you, dark curls hanging in front of his face in a mane of wild, black locks.

"Are you frightened?"

"No, it excites me." You admit before biting your lip, your voice a low murmur, as if revealing a grand secret. "What if I told you that all of this — the painting, the commission, the modelling — was all a ploy to get you here?" You ask and his eyes narrow to slits.

"You planned this? You set out to seduce me? Used art as an excuse to get me alone and naked?" It sounds almost accusatory. You take no offence.

"Perhaps I wanted to look over the prize I'd caught before I took you to bed."

"The prize." He echoes, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. His ego swells at being considered such but also stirs a primal possessiveness within him. "And did you like what you saw? Did you approve of your prize?" And you lean in to whisper in his ear, your breath warm on his skin.

"I'm very pleased with what I caught." His hands shoot out to grab ahold of your waist pulling you close and letting you feel the heat of his manhood pressed against your own.

"Do you know what happens to a man when he's caught by someone like you?"

"What?"

"He becomes their possession." He huffs, large hands roaming up from your waist to your ribcage possessively. "He loses his free will, his sense of self-preservation. He becomes...tame."

"No, no, Laurent." You breathe against his collarbone. The sound of his name on your lips almost drives him mad. "I don't want you tame, I want you wild and dangerous. I want to introduce you to my college friends as a gentleman and an artist and, when they look away, I want you to pin me to every possible surface and take me as you see fit; I would hold the leash but I would let you run amok."

"You want a gentleman by day and a beast by night." He translates.

"Yes."

"Then that is exactly what you'll have." And you smile in satisfaction, threading your fingers into his own.

"Then I shall take you to bed and you can show me what it means to be charged by a raging bull."

taglist: @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

[theshakykid]

En Route (Peter Parker X Reader)

PART 7

Summary: Peter Parker is aboard the Argo III, the world’s biggest passenger ship. He was sent by Tony Stark to strike a deal with Silver Sable, a wealthy businesswoman. But Stark’s deal will have to wait, as Peter has set his eyes on something- or someone - else.

“Mr. Parker.”

The voice was unmistakably commanding and cold. Peter stiffened and turned around slowly, his eyes widening as he saw Silver Sable standing at the end of the hallway. Her platinum hair caught the warm light of the corridor, and her eyes held a piercing intensity that seemed to pin him in place.

“Oh, Miss Sablinova,” Peter said, trying to straighten himself up and wipe the nervous look off his face.

She stepped closer, her gaze unwavering as she studied him. Peter couldn’t tell if she was amused or annoyed. “Quite the interesting time to be wandering the ship.”

“I was just—uh, getting some air,” Peter stammered, trying to regain his composure. He felt uncomfortably warm in his casual clothes, especially with Silver Sable looking at him like she could see right through him.

“Well,” Silver Sable said, a slight smirk curling on her lips, “since you’re here, Mr. Parker, I think it’s time we had a conversation about business.” She glanced briefly at the closed door of (Y/N)’s room and then back at Peter. “Unless, of course, you have other priorities.”

Peter’s cheeks flushed, and he felt a jolt of panic. Did she know? How could she know? He shook his head quickly. “No, no. I’m ready. Let’s talk business.”

“Good,” she replied curtly. She turned on her heel and gestured for Peter to follow her down the hallway. He swallowed hard and quickly fell into step behind her, trying to shake off the lingering heat in his face.

They walked in silence until they reached a quieter section of the ship, a private lounge overlooking the vast ocean. Silver Sable stopped by the window and gazed out, her expression unreadable.

“Mr. Stark sent you here to strike a deal on his behalf,” she began without preamble. “But it seems that Mr. Stark’s trust in your abilities may have been misplaced.”

Peter felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He wanted to protest, to defend himself, but something in Silver Sable’s tone told him to stay quiet and listen.

“You see,” she continued, “my organization had nothing to do with the loss of Stark Industries’ shipments. That was the result of opportunistic criminals trying to disrupt our operations. But regardless of whose fault it was, I’m here to offer a solution.”

She turned to face him, her eyes sharp. “In exchange for your company’s latest technological developments, we are willing to replace the missing shipments and ensure the security of all future deliveries.”

Peter blinked, trying to keep up. “You want our tech?” he asked, suddenly feeling a lot more out of his depth than he already did. “But Stark Industries—”

“Mr. Stark’s technology is already of great interest to certain parties,” Silver Sable interrupted, her voice smooth but firm. “This would be a mutually beneficial arrangement. Your company gets its shipments, and we receive exclusive access to select advancements.”

Peter opened his mouth to respond but hesitated. This wasn’t the straightforward deal Tony had briefed him on. Silver Sable was adding a new twist, and he didn’t know how to play this. But she was waiting for an answer, her eyes narrowing slightly as the silence stretched on.

“I—I’m not authorized to make that call,” Peter admitted, trying to sound more professional. “But I can pass this along to Mr. Stark and—”

“Mr. Parker,” she interrupted, her voice cold and cutting. “You are here as Mr. Stark’s representative. I need a decision, and I need it soon.”

Peter felt his pulse quicken. “I understand, but I still need to clear this with him.”

Silver Sable’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Peter braced himself for a harsh rebuke. But instead, she nodded once, sharply.

“Very well,” she said. “Contact him. Tell him what I have proposed, and make it clear that time is of the essence. I will only wait so long for his response.”

Peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I’ll—um—get on that right away.”

“See that you do,” she replied. She turned back to the window, signaling that the conversation was over. “And, Mr. Parker,” she added without turning around, “if you’re going to represent Stark Industries, you may want to present yourself with a bit more… composure.”

Peter felt his face heat up again, realizing that she probably noticed his earlier state of disarray. He muttered an awkward “Yes, ma’am” before backing away and making a quick exit. As he walked briskly back toward his room, his mind was a storm of emotions—embarrassment, relief, and a newfound sense of urgency.

He needed to call Tony. Now.

As he dialed the number, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dark window. For a moment, it seemed like there was a shadowy figure standing behind him in the glass—a trick of the light, maybe, or just his tired mind playing tricks.

He turned quickly, but the room was empty. Peter’s heart hammered in his chest as he stared into the shadows, half-expecting someone to step out.

Nothing. Just his overactive imagination. Or was it?

Peter shook off the chill creeping up his spine and focused on the call. He needed to get Tony up to speed on Silver Sable’s proposal and the unsettling vibe of this ship.

[greyjoy-girl]

Quiet Shores: Chapter Two

Summary: When Theon Greyjoy is forced into a political marriage with a girl from the outer reaches of the Iron Islands, it’s meant to be a punishment. She’s a Farwynd, from the strangest house in the Iron Islands. She's rumored to be half-human, a witch, a creature from the sea. Behind closed doors, she's not what he'd expected. She's no witch, just a girl with strange dreams. But outside their chambers, something darker is rising, and the storm on the horizons may just drown them both.

Pairing: Theon Greyjoy x Farwynd!Reader

Warnings: General Ironborn attitudes towards women

Length: 1.3k words

Notes: I have lots of theories for Ironborn culture, my lore document goes crazy.

Masterlist

PREVIOUS PART || NEXT PART

━─━────༺Chapter Two༻────━─━

Lordsport, 298 AC

Theon had spent the week drunk, not that that was particularly unusual, but this time, he had a purpose.

He drank like he was trying to forget something that hadn’t even happened yet.

He’d fucked a fisherman’s daughter behind the kennels. Two shipgirls by the breakwater. A man with long hair and no questions, when the moon was sickle-thin and Theon needed to be anything but still. It didn’t matter who it was, as long as they helped him pass the night, keep his mind off the future.

He’d fought three men in the Great Keep’s yard. One of them, a Wynch boy, had started it. “Your witch-wife arrives soon,” he’d called out, laughing. Theon broke his nose. The other two hadn’t done anything, he’d just started swinging.

He didn’t remember much of the feasting, only that he’d sloshed down too much wine and laughed too loud at nothing. He’d woken up on the floor, his face in a half-burned hearth and vomit on his boots.

 Now, he stands at the docks of Lordsport, the wind cutting through his coat. Wishing he was still drunk, or anywhere but here.

He looks every inch the Iron Prince, and he’d dressed for it. A dark wool tunic with weld thread tracing golden sea serpents, the pattern stretching from his wrist to his shoulder. On top of it, a sable cloak, black and heavy, taken from a corpse on a burning ship, now lined with fur and fastened with a hammered kraken brooch. His belt is wide and studded, a silver dagger hanging at his side, sheathed in oiled leather.

His hair is long, braids and twists running through it, tipped with seaglass beads, bone fragments, and old coins. One braid holds a shard of antler, another, a knotted lock of hair too light to be his own.

He looks like something carved from the cliffs: Powerful, sharp and cruel.

But still, the salt in his mouth tastes like dread.

Beside him, captains murmur. Aeron Damphair, his dour uncle, a piece of driftwood on two legs, watches the tide as if it owes him something. To his left, a boy in leather coughs and says nothing more.

The sea curls, pale and choppy. Out of nowhere, the Farwynd ship appears, not on the horizon, but jutting out from behind the rock-shoulder of a jagged outcrop, sails like pale skin, hull covered in old, bone carved runes. It looks like it had been grown, not built.

Theon narrows his eyes.

As it docks, he notices her retinue. Three men, all salt-bitten and long-haired. Farwynd men, he assumes by the look of them. All salt-bitten and long-haired, wearing cloaks of grey that hang like wet flags. One of them, older, her uncle Yohn holds a staff shaped like a walrus tusk. He watches the gathering like he’s bored already.

Then, she steps off the ship.

Barefoot. Soaked to the skin. Not shivering.

Her sealskin cloak hangs heavy on her shoulders, dripping brine. Beneath it, grey linen, salt-warped and clinging. Her hair is long, wet, and tangled, hanging from her scalp like seaweed.

Theon’s first thought was: She looks drowned.

His second: Good.

He forces a grin, tight, mean, and sharp enough to draw blood. “Your prince welcomes you,” he says, loud enough for his men to hear. “Must’ve dragged her through a net to get her here, Dagmer.”

Scattered, unsure laughter from his men follows.

“Maybe we should throw her back. Might catch something better next time.”

More sneers. Dagmer shifts his weight uncertainly. Aeron says nothing at all.

Theon steps forward, boots clacking against the dock. He gives the girl a once-over, lips still curled in his cruel smile.

“Take off the cloak,” he says, voice loud and careless. “Let the captains see what prize Balon has netted me.”

She doesn’t move. Seawater keeps dripping from the hem of her coat.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice full of barely masked venom. “Shy?”

She looks at him. Steady, not defiant. Just watching.

“You want them to laugh,” she says, voice quiet and odd in its cadence, the faintest drawl of Lonely Light in the words. “I don’t think it matters what I do.”

Her uncle shifts behind her, tightening his grip on the staff.

Theon’s jaw clenches. He turns, sharply, boots cracking against the dock, laughing like none of it matters. The wind snaps like it’s correcting him.

═══════════════

Pyke, 300 AC

You’ve stopped counting the hours, but you know it’s been three days bacause the storms haven’t left. They’d rolled in from nowhere, mere hours after your ship docked. The halls in Pyke smell like wet stone and smoke. Your chamber smells worse. You’d cracked a window once, just to feel the air, but the wind just carried in the smell of sea rot and something unfamiliar, something older.

They say the wedding must wait until the skies clear. The Storm God must not be invited in to a binding, they say, lest he stay. You want to ask what happens if it never stops raining. You don’t.

Your chamber is small, with thick walls but no warmth. The fire smokes even when it burns right. You’ve tried to set up little things, pieces of driftwood from home, a pouch of salt and thread, but they don’t feel right. The driftwood splinters when you rub your thumb along it. The salt clumps. The thread frays too early, or maybe you tied it wrong. Maybe it was wrong before you left.

You’ve seen Theon once. At a dinner in the Great Hall, the fire dying fast casting men in shadows. He’d ignored you, mostly, more interested in the wine in his goblet. He wore beads in his braids and a cloak that looked like it cost a kingdom When he did look at you, it was with a curled lip. Not amused, just bored. Like he had already decided you were beneath him.

You sat beside your uncle who said nothing through the whole meal. Balon Greyjoy spoke plenty. He spoke through meat chewing and wine-swallowing with a voice that dragged like rope. He did not look at you. He looked through you.

The table creaked as he leaned forward. “Only daughter of the line,” he’d said. “No sons, no cousins. No one else worth sending. Just this.”

No one laughed. Uncle Yohn clenched his staff.

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and glanced at Theon, sharp and disgusted. “If you can stomach it, boy, put a child in it quick. Least then it’ll have a use.”

Your skin went hot. Then cold. You couldn’t lift your head, couldn’t look at any of them. You didn’t understand why they hated you. Why they all looked at you like some joke no one wanted to explain. You’d worn the right clothes. You hadn’t spoken out of turn. You hadn’t done anything strange, you hadn’t even brought your bone beads.

You felt every bit of food scrape across your throat as you swallowed. It all tasted like ash.

Across the table, Theon drank instead of answering. His eyes flicked toward you, for a second, then looked away.

That had been two nights ago. No one had sent for you since. The thrall girl who brings your food leaves it without a word. Once, she’d made a sign with her fingers at the door before she left. You didn’t know what it meant, but she hadn’t come back the next morning. Someone else took the tray.

This evening, the sky went gold for one strange moment, before the clouds rolled back in. You were standing at the window when it happened, watching the sea. There was a gull floating in the surf below, dead, wings outstretched. You’d watched longer than you meant to. When you turned, there were footsteps outside your door. They’d stopped, but no one knocked.

═══════════════

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[honey-minded-hivemind]

Sliding in for the sixth 🐉Wings of Fire aus' names lists are...

The ❄IceWings🦭!

The X-Men Members:

• Charles Xavier/Professor Xavier: Chill

• Ororo Munroe/Storm: Snowstorm

• Logan Howlett/Wolverine: Wolverine

• Scott Summers/Cyclops: Cirrus

• Jean Grey/Marvel Girl/Phoenix: Gray

• Hank McCoy/Beast: Hailstorm

• Anne-Marie/Rogue: Alabaster

• Remy LeBeau/Gambit: Lemming

• Kitty Pryde/Shadowcat: Periwinkle

• Kurt Wagner/Nightcrawler: Walrus

• Jubilation Lee/Jubilee: Lynx

• Evan Daniels/Spyke: Everest

• Bobby Drake/Iceman: Boreal

• Piotr Rasputin/Colossus: Cumulus

• Illyana Rasputin/Magik: Icicle

• Rahne Sinclair/Wolfsbane: Reindeer

• Samuel "Sam" Guthrie/Cannonball: Gust

• Roberto da Costa/Sunspot: Caribou

• Danielle "Dani" Moonstar/Mirage: Moonstone

• Laura Kinney/Wolverine 2.0: Howlite

• Tabitha "Tabby" Smith/Boom-Boom: Ptarmigan

The Brotherhood:

• Erik Lehnsherr/Magnus/Magneto: Ermine

• Raven Darkholme/Mystique: Diamond

• Victor Creed/Sabretooth: Sable

• Pietro Maximoff/Quicksilver: Silver

• Wanda Maximoff/Scarlet Witch: Sleet

• Mortymer Tonybee/Todd Tolanksy/Toad: Tern

• Fred "Freddy" Dukes/Blob: Firn

• Lance Alvers/Avalanche: Altus

• St. John Allerdyce/Pyro: Permafrost

(Quite the chilling amount, eh? 😊Here's something to cool off with...)

• Reader/Bby: Wolf, Snow Leopard, Snowy Owl, Puffin, Beluga, Moose, Vole, Taiga, Quartz, Nacre, Blizzard, Flurry, Squall, Iceberg, Igloo, Floe, Frost, Freeze, Frigid, Polar, Stratus, Nimbus...

[the-fiction-witch]

The last Inn P2

Media IRL X Fantasy (DnD Inspired)

Character Thomas Brodie Sangster (Elf)

Couple Thomas x Reader (Taven girl)

Rating Sad + Sweet

Concept Room at the Inn

I unloaded the last of the cargo I had been carrying even if I was getting harsh intense looks. But I finished up and took my silver getting back on my cart. Even though I had kept my hood up they all knew what I was and all where weary. I made sure to hurry out the little town unable to escape the harsh eyes of the townsfolk who had all come out to what me go pitchforks and swords on hand to threaten me in case I so much as straied from the allowed pathway I held my breath as you could hear a pin drop. They all wanted me gone as soon as possible and frankly I knew it would be a fate worse then death if I staid. As I headed out I saw a little girl In Front of her house with her family and she dropped her little ragdoll into the road and began to weep so I quickly stopped the cart before the wheels would run over it jumping down into the mud picking up the little doll giving it a brush and a clean before I crotched down to her level and offered her back her doll but her father pushed her behind him and her mother putting a knife to my neck

"Take another step I'll have your head."

I gulped but got up "I was just trying to help" I said but he snatched the doll from me

"We don't want your help go on Get!'

I climbed back on the cart and got out of there as quickly as I could but that didn't much help me as I travelled down the road and saw the sign I sighed it had been this the whole way and now would be the whole way back too just a hundred more places that would give me the same reaction. It was horrible my only way to avoid it to go over the east River and go the long way though the marshes but that would take weeks and it would be cold rainy and I'd come out of it caked in dirt but then it hit me I grabbed my bag from the cart and dug around until I grabbed it "yes!" I grabbed the blue crystal holding it tight as I whispered in the location dropping it and smashing it with my foot and when I looked up I was there just at the stables of the little Inn and it's water wheel. Immediately I felt at peace. I left my horse and cart in the sables as usual and headed inside finding it rather empty but that was usually for this early many of the chairs still up on the tables and she stood in her little grey dress sweeping humming her little tune

"We're closed till ten I'm afraid' she says not bothering to look up

"I know, just not really sure that applies to me" I chuckled pulling my hood down and she looked up

"Tommy!' she squealed dropping the broom and bolting across the inn jumping to hug me

"Y/n!" immediately I tightened my arms around her giving her a little spin

"I missed you"

"I missed you too" I told her

"Tea?"

"Only if your making"

"Of course come on" she smiled rushing to the back to make some tea, I felt so happy here so warm and cosy just being back here again. I always found my way back here planning trips and work around the idea that I'd always be coming back here, the inn was one of the few places outside of Hentalin and dracous that I could stay for as long as I needed without fear, it was always safe here for me y/n made sure of it, she was always so kind to me, sweet, understanding and forgiving something I found quite rare in people. She always spoke to me and made me breakfast in the mornings I'd stay in the inn. And as I had been visiting so much we formed a strong friendship. We'd sit in the inn and talk for hours long after the bar itself closed, I'd help her tidy up and she even showed me how to do a couple of drinks for when she gets busy I adored it here at the inn it just felt like home. We sat and talked about were I'd be, what I'd been up to and all the things we'd missed since I last saw her.

"What in earth were you doing going to poloin"

"I had Cargo I had to drop off. Guy paid me half a tone of silver to cart a bunk of desert fruits"

"Still you should know better then to go to poloin it's dangerous" she says filling my tea

"It was just in the outskirts, and I crystal travelled back so I wouldn't get in any trouble"

"Alright" she says "You know how I worry"

"I know, you don't have to worry about me"

"don't tell me what to worry about"

"Alright, sorry"

"It's fine" she smiled "So shall I make your normal room up?"

"if you don't mind"

"of course not, come on you can make the bed up"

[edenspoem]

loser!ellie x coolgirl!reader series moodboard + teaser

summary; mirror, mirror, on the floral print flaying wall, which bitch is the coolest cunt of them all? body blazing like a fireball in your sable and silver studded belts, bending all seeking eyes of jackson to your attention. lights, camera, fucking action. one pair of ripe virescent eyes can't seem to tug off your roved walk. blooming prune pupils that peel back skin and enlarge at every appearance you make. a girl aloof as can be, the williams' chick seemed, is shortly contorted to falsehood. she wants you, and she needs you horrifically bad.

can't put more than 10 imgs so it's pretty limited 😭

series name; two peculiar swans

chapter list; (to be updated)

-vol I. be my druidess

-vol II. stay out of my dreams

-vol III. vernal organs

-vol IV. waste of life

series headcanons

series chapter content

⋆ . plus a small excerpt cause I'm just so benevolent 🤍 ⏬️

Jackson, Wyoming. A commune of lumber, liberation and love. A town cradled in the grassy basin bounded by age old mountains in every direction meets a girl of express caliber. The cold steel bullet-bearing maiden aptly named as you, coming onto this community as a new girl next door.

A month ago, you were shelling out cartridges of ammo in defense of your now demolished home settlement – splayed thick with debris and carcasses. An artist could paint a likeness of hell with all the blood spilt. You fled by dusk at the last bullet fired, the concluding body thudding to the sapped floor. You fought for your damnable life. Briny blood split from your chapped, torn lips dripping like red ruby strings and staining like watercolor. It oozed out of a blade induced gash, thanks to some sons of bitches ambushing you. Sucking that throbbing bottom lip inwards, it mixes the bitterness with your bland saliva, noting the crackled flesh sharp on your tongue and the familiar taste of battered skin – no need to fret over. 'Wipe it off and tread on', you reiterated over the blank fizzing inside your head like a scrawled message. Time is rotting. Carry on. Bring all you got, motherfucking raiders.

[kurtty-drabbles]

Hello there mun !

Let me see if I remember this correctly : I do think Azazel had a sorrowful face after doing that to Abyss. Nothing to write home about but it's noticeable.

Now, while Azazel being part of the Dark X-Men was completely self serving as he is still amoral, still using people, just wanted to leave the island before Fall of X and was after the protection it granted him during FoX as part of his deal with Madelyne Pryor to become associates,

The fact Azazel still spent his time during Krakoa's FoX, the worst time for Mutants in all of the era, being a team player, working on rescuing Mutants on a planetary scale since Orchis is actively kidnapping and killing them from NYC to Madripoor, consciously or unconsciously rescuing his boss, his teammate and Gambit from an eternal prison (I remember a fellow reader mentioning that Azazel talked more to Remy LeBeau in this brief mini than Nightcrawler did during all of Krakoa and it has been hard to overlook) and even killing Orchis' dark magic expert before he himself got unceremoniously killed off while Nightcrawler was busy pretending to be Spider-Man to have fun, banging Silver Sable on top of a skyscraper, wallowing alone in self pity for the umpteenth time in the era, letting an armed unsound and dangerous Mystique go away on two separate occasions after attacking humans and only really moving his ass after getting his origins retconned will never not be funny to me

Especially because Azazel and Nightcrawler are both located in the same city

And both of the minis they're in are happening around the same time as Dark X-Men specifically references an event which unfolded during Uncanny Spider-Man.

Hi nonny.

Can we all agree how this makes Azazel better? I know this is not intentional on any writer part and for sure someone may point out "on in the next issue, Azazel pillage a village, look how he is evil" and grant, I expect this to happen.

But even if he kills a village...there something better than Kurt and the X-Men bc at very least...he is honest. Azazel is not posing as a hero.

Meanwhile, Kurt gave no fuck to his poor brother and no one cares how the school for mutants was destroyed by prof X himself to make room for....Krakoa.

I really hate krakoa.

I wanted Utopia and Genosha back.