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hellinistical · 2 months ago

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in which you're the nude model for an art-collecting Sylus, who is curious about the artistic process, frustrated no one caputures how he sees you, fem.reader, mdni.

tw: pet names. masturbation. sylus watches. wc: 5.74k

A crystal chandelier hung from above, its intricate tiers casting soft, fractured glints over the room’s contents. The furniture was lavish yet somber, every piece carved from dark wood, polished to a gleam, and upholstered in deep hues of midnight blue and black. Ornate gold accents curled in ivy-like patterns along the edges of tables and chairs, catching the faint light.

In one corner, a large canvas rested on an easel, its stark white surface starkly contrasting the shadows around it. The strokes of a paintbrush whispered through the room like secrets being shared.

The artisan Sylus had hired was a picture of silent concentration, his movements precise yet fluid, as though the canvas itself whispered instructions only he could hear. His dark eyes flicked between you and the image taking shape before him, studying every curve, every shadow, with an intensity that made the air feel heavier. The soft strokes of his paintbrush filled the room, each sound deliberate, carrying a sense of reverence for the craft.

Sitting on the edge of a chaise draped in black velvet, the luxurious material soft against your bare skin. A sheet—thin, white, and nearly translucent under the moonlight—was your only covering, clinging to your form in a way that felt both tantalizing and vulnerable. The pose Sylus had requested was anything but modest, and though it made your cheeks flush faintly, the artist’s detached professionalism helped temper the awkwardness.

The moonlight streaming in through the towering windows kissed your skin, making it glow against the deep shadows of the room. Every subtle movement—your breathing, the occasional adjustment of the sheet, the shift of your gaze—seemed amplified in the stillness. The air itself felt charged, as if time held its breath for this moment to unfold.

Sylus reclined in a grand armchair near the far side of the room, his long legs crossed, his sharp features softened only by the faint smirk that played at his lips. A crystal wine glass dangled between his fingers, catching the light like a jewel, its contents dark and rich. His gaze was fixed on you—not with the detached curiosity of the artisan but with something more proprietary, more intrigued. His presence was magnetic, commanding without words, and his silence held the weight of unspoken thoughts.

"Your left arm, miss. Lift it a bit," the artist murmured, his voice low and even, breaking the almost sacred silence. His eyes flicked toward you briefly, assessing, before returning to the canvas with the same calm precision he had exhibited throughout the night.

The simple request made you shift slightly on the chaise, the sheet slipping just enough to expose more of your breast as you adjusted. The movement felt deliberate, every inch of skin bared under the artist’s scrutiny becoming part of his composition. The room seemed to hold its breath as you raised your arm, draping it over the back of the chaise as instructed.

Sylus turned his head toward you, his movements deliberate and unhurried, the sharp angles of his face softened by the faint smile that graced his lips. It was a smile that held both mischief and intrigue, a look that made it impossible to discern where admiration ended and amusement began. The light from the windows gleamed in his eyes, giving them an almost predatory glint.

"A striking composition," he murmured, his voice a rich, low timbre that resonated through the still air. It was a sound that could easily command attention, yet here it felt intimate, as though meant only for you. "Don’t you agree, kitten?"

The question hung in the air, weighted with layers of meaning. His gaze flickered, lingering on the line of your nearly bare breast where the sheet had slipped, the moonlight carving out every subtle curve, the peaks of your nipples. There was something disarming about the way he spoke, his tone both playful and serious, as though he were inviting you into some secret he had yet to share.

The artist didn’t pause in his work, though you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, betraying that even he wasn’t entirely immune to Sylus’s presence. His brush continued its soft strokes, the sound rhythmic and soothing, blending into the charged atmosphere.

You shifted slightly, the faint rustle of the sheet breaking the silence, and met Sylus’s gaze. There was a heat to his expression, tempered by a calculating coolness that left you uncertain of his true intentions. The tension between the three of you felt almost tangible now, the room alive with an energy that seemed to thrum beneath the surface.

"Perhaps," you replied softly, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. "Though I think the artist deserves the credit for that, not me."

Sylus’s smile deepened, his head tilting ever so slightly, as though your response amused him. "Oh, but the canvas is nothing without its muse," he said, lifting his glass in a quiet salute before taking a slow sip. "And you, my dear, are truly one worth painting."

It's quiet again, for just a moment.

Sylus clicked his tongue softly, a sound of contemplation rather than impatience, his gaze flicking back to the canvas. He swirled the wine in his glass absentmindedly, the deep red liquid catching the moonlight like liquid garnet. After a beat, his eyes shifted toward the artist, his expression one of casual command.

"The drape," he said, his voice a low purr that carried easily through the quiet room. He gestured faintly toward the sheet wrapped around you, his fingers barely moving as he spoke. "Perhaps you can take it down?"

The artist paused, his brush hovering above the canvas. His dark eyes darted toward Sylus, then to you, before returning to his work. "If the subject is comfortable," he said cautiously, his tone neutral but his gaze flickering with unspoken questions.

“All the way?” It came out with a foreign nervousness, but you got a nod. All the way.

So with a slow exhale, you nodded back, the movement subtle but enough to signal your consent. The artist, recognizing the shift, approached with a soft swish of his robes. His hands were gentle but deliberate as he reached for the drape, his fingers brushing across your skin as he slowly slid it off. The fabric unfurled, slipping away with a soft rustle, leaving you exposed to the cold touch of the night air and the more unrelenting gaze of Sylus.

There was a subtle shift in the room as the sheet was discarded, the air colder now as it kissed the bare skin of your shoulders, your breasts, your thighs. The artist returned to his easel, his brush resuming its careful strokes, capturing each detail of your form.

Sylus, however, didn’t immediately speak. His eyes, still fixed on you, glistened with something unspoken, something deeper than just admiration for the composition of the moment. He took another sip of wine, the glass held loosely in his hand, his lips curving into a small, satisfied smile.

It wasn’t the first time he had seen you naked—far from it. You had been the subject of the paintings he’d bought countless times before, the air between you thick with desires spoken and unspoken. Those moments had been different—more familiar, more intimate, without the looming weight of expectation. But this… this felt different.

The room, with its heavy shadows and cold moonlight, felt charged in a way it hadn’t before. Sylus’s gaze lingered longer, sharper, as if he were studying you, not just admiring the curve of your body, but absorbing something deeper—something that seemed to pull at the very core of you. The way he watched you now was colder, more assessing, yet still wrapped in that same underlying intrigue.

You could feel the shift in the air, feel the way his eyes didn’t just glance over your skin as before, but carved into it, tracing every inch with the intensity of someone who wasn’t simply enjoying the view—but claiming it, as if you were a work of art he had yet to fully possess. His smile, that quiet, satisfied curve of his lips, held a kind of knowing that unsettled you, despite the familiarity of it all.

There was an unsettling calmness to the way he drank from his glass, every movement deliberate, as though he knew exactly how long he could hold you in this moment, how long he could make you feel exposed, vulnerable, and still expect you to remain calm. There was no rush, no desire to touch you right away. His silence, his steady gaze, was more intimate in a way that made the air heavier, more suffocating.

bared before him, this felt different. This felt like you weren’t just a willing partner, but a subject—a canvas for his deeper curiosity, a part of his game, and you were unsure whether you were winning or losing.

Goosebumps rose on your skin, the sudden chill of the room making every inch of your exposed body feel more vulnerable, more aware. The warmth the drape had provided was gone, and the cool air kissed your skin, making your nipples harden in response. The sensation wasn’t lost on Sylus. You could feel his gaze moving over you, absorbing every detail, and something in the air thickened, carrying the weight of his unspoken thoughts.

He took a slow sip of his wine, his lips curling into a faint, almost predatory smile as he watched you react to the cold. Then, without breaking his gaze, he shifted his attention to the artist.

"I've changed my mind," Sylus said, his voice a smooth drawl, casual yet laced with a subtle command. "Start over."

The artist, still bent over his work, hesitated, his brush pausing mid-air. He glanced up, a brow lifting in silent query as he regarded Sylus. "But sir, we’ve already begun—"

Sylus didn’t even let him finish. "I’ll pay double—no, triple," he said, his voice low and insistent, the words dropping like heavy coins into the silence. "Just do it."

The artist’s hesitation melted away, the promise of such an offer too tempting to ignore. He glanced back at you, his expression unreadable, before setting down his brush. His movements were careful, deliberate, as he began to adjust the canvas slightly, giving you space to move.

You adjusted yourself carefully, the movement slow and deliberate as you turned to face Sylus, your body fully exposed to his gaze. There was a quiet tension in the room, and as you caught his eyes, you let him feast on the sight of you, the weight of his stare making every nerve in your body aware of the vulnerability in the moment.

A playful, teasing smile tugged at the corner of your lips, as you broke the heavy silence with your words. "You have a pose in mind?" you asked, the tone light and joking, an attempt to mask the deeper undercurrent of discomfort that flickered beneath your playful facade.

But Sylus’s smile didn’t falter. There was no humor in his eyes, only a quiet certainty. He leaned forward slightly, setting his wine glass down with an almost imperceptible clink, his gaze flickering over your form once more, taking in the details with the precision of someone who knew exactly what he wanted.

Sylus’s gaze flickered briefly to the artist, and then returned to you, his expression unreadable for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was smooth, calculated, as though he were savoring every word.

"Yes," he replied, the single word carrying an unspoken command. "I want her standing, one foot forward, a slight arch to her back. Her left hand should rest on her hip, just like that—" He gestured with a flick of his fingers, guiding you into the position, his eyes tracing the lines of your body. "And the right arm raised, but not too high. Let the hand hang loosely, fingers extended like you’re reaching for something, but not quite grasping it. Your head tilted just slightly, eyes meeting the artist’s—no, mine. I want the focus on you."

He paused for a moment, taking in the effect of his words, before his lips curled into a half-smile.

"And don’t move," he added, his voice commanding now, an undertone of dark satisfaction threading through his tone. "I want the tension in your body to be alive."

The artist’s brow furrowed briefly, but the offer of triple pay quickly silenced any objections. He nodded, refocusing on his canvas, preparing for the shift in the scene. Sylus remained seated, watching you with that same sharp, patient gaze, every inch of him fully aware of the game he was playing.

You felt the weight of the pose, the challenge of holding it just right, the pressure of both Sylus’s and the artist’s eyes on you.

***

It was some time before the artist finally set his brush down, the silence in the room thick with concentration. Finally, when the last stroke was added and the artist stepped back with a deep exhale, you were free to move. The tension in your body snapped as you lowered your arm, the muscles protesting the sudden shift. You stood, stretching, the relief palpable as you reached above your head, feeling the pull in your shoulders and spine.

Yet Sylus himself seemed completely at ease. As a matter of face, he seemed unfazed by the passage of time. He was calm, almost serene, his attention fixated on the painting leaning against the wall as it dried. His expression was one of quiet satisfaction, but there was something deeper in his eyes, a kind of quiet hunger that lingered as he took in the image before him.

There, captured in oils on stretched animal skin, was you—your body immortalized in vivid detail. Every curve, every line, every inch of your exposed form was perfectly rendered, the colors rich and deep, almost alive under the low light of the room. The moonlight slanted across the canvas, highlighting your body in a way that made the image seem as though it were still in motion, as if the moment Sylus had captured would never truly end.

Your body, perfectly nude, stared back at you from the canvas—more than just a reflection, more than just a piece of art. It was an interpretation of you, crafted by Sylus’s intent, the artist’s skill, and the silence of the room.

You could feel the weight of the gaze upon you—his eyes not just on the painting, but on you, seeing the connection between the two. The moment stretched on, thick with a kind of power. He didn’t speak immediately, but there was a slight, knowing smile tugging at his lips. His fingers toyed with the wine glass in his hand, almost absently.

"You look... perfect," he murmured, his voice still smooth, but with an edge of something darker, something more satisfied. "Captured perfectly. What do you think?"

His eyes flickered back to you, measuring your reaction as if he expected something more, something to acknowledge the work of art that now existed between the two of you.

You stood there, staring at the painting, but in truth, you didn’t know what to think. It felt surreal, this image of you—perfectly captured, immortalized in oils. The canvas seemed to breathe in the dim light, the shadows and highlights playing across it like a mirror of the tension that still lingered in the room. You could still feel Sylus’s eyes on you, but your mind couldn’t settle on any one thought about the painting itself.

Instead, you turned your gaze back to him, meeting his eyes with a question in your heart that had been swirling for some time now. "Why was this important to you?" you asked, curiosity lacing your voice, though there was an undercurrent of something more: a quiet need to understand what had driven him to orchestrate such a scene.

Sylus didn’t immediately respond, his fingers pausing on the glass of wine as he studied you, his gaze unwavering. For a long moment, it felt like the room itself held its breath. His lips curved into that familiar, enigmatic smile, but this time, there was a softness to it, a kind of distance that had always been absent before.

He glanced at the painting, then back at you, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Why?" he echoed, as if testing the question on his tongue. "Isn’t it obvious?"

You waited for him to elaborate, but instead, he took another sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving you. The silence between you stretched, thick with an unspoken weight, and you couldn’t help but feel that you weren’t just asking about the painting. You were asking about everything—the game he played, the tension that existed between the two of you, the fascination he seemed to hold.

Finally, he set his glass down, his voice lower, almost contemplative. "Because you’re more than just a person to me," he said, his gaze softening slightly, though there was still a sharp edge to it. "You’re a... presence. Something I want to understand, to capture, in every way." He took a slow step closer, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he added, almost too casually, "And because one should preserve what they cherish, shouldn't they?"

Sylus’s voice, low and deliberate, seemed to echo around the room, weaving itself into the very fabric of the space.

You paused, the implications of his statement sinking in slowly. The way he looked at you—like something to be preserved, something he had every intention of holding onto—sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t the first time he’d made it clear he valued you, but this was different. There was a possessiveness in his tone, a quiet claim, one that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

"Preserve what you cherish," you repeated softly, the words tasting strange in your mouth. You couldn’t help but wonder what exactly he saw when he looked at you—what he truly valued, and if it was you, or the version of you he’d crafted in his mind, captured forever in oil and paint.

You met his gaze again, studying him, trying to discern if he meant the words as something more than just the artist’s admiration. There was a subtle shift in his posture as he watched you, something more predatory, more certain, as if he was waiting for a reaction, for you to acknowledge this deeper layer of his affection, his obsession.

The silence stretched between you, but it was charged, full of unspoken promises and unanswered questions. He hadn't said it outright, but you knew the implication, the undercurrent of possession that ran through his words. Sylus wasn't just capturing your form on canvas—he was capturing you, and perhaps, in a way, he always had been.

“Mr. Sylus?” “I don’t think cherish is the right word.”

Before you could fully process the weight of his words, Sylus was in front of you, closing the distance in two long strides. His movements were swift yet deliberate, as though he had been holding back until this very moment.

His hands came up to cup your face, warm and firm against your skin, tilting your head just so. And then his lips met yours—demanding, yet tender, with a fervor that left no room for doubt. The kiss wasn’t just a meeting of lips; it was an unspoken declaration, a culmination of everything unsaid between you.

The room seemed to shrink around you, the world outside fading into irrelevance as the cold air and ache in your body melted away under his touch. His thumbs brushed against your cheeks, a contrast to the intensity of the kiss, grounding you in a moment that felt both overwhelming and inevitable.

Sylus kissed you like he was sealing something—his claim, his admiration, his need—all of it poured into the way his lips moved against yours. And despite the whirlwind of emotions coursing through you, you found yourself unable to resist, your body responding instinctively to the fire he ignited within you.

When he finally pulled back, it was only slightly, his face still close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. His eyes, now softer but still burning with intensity, searched yours, as if daring you to question what had just transpired.

"Tell me," he murmured, his voice low and rough, "that you didn’t feel that, too."

"Mr. Sylus—" you began, your voice hesitant, unsure of where this sudden shift was leading.

"Just a moment," he interrupted, his tone calm but firm, cutting through the air like a blade.

He stepped back, his hands leaving your face, though the warmth of his touch lingered on your skin. His eyes moved over you, deliberate and unhurried, as if committing every detail of you to memory all over again. Then, just as quickly, his gaze flicked to the portrait leaning against the wall before returning to you.

"The bed," he said simply, his voice carrying the same commanding edge as before.

You blinked, caught off guard. "Pardon?"

"Get on the bed, please," he repeated, his tone soft but leaving no room for argument. There was no malice in his words, no urgency, only a quiet determination that made it clear he wasn’t asking out of whimsy.

The way he stood, the way he watched you, made your breath catch. You weren’t sure if it was the lingering tension from the kiss or the intensity of his gaze, but something about the moment made your heart race. He wasn’t just commanding your presence; he was asking for your trust, for your surrender to whatever vision he had in his mind.

And despite everything—your hesitation, the ache in your muscles, the chill in the air—you found yourself moving toward the bed, drawn by the magnetic pull of his words, of him.

"Have you any idea how many paintings I've collected at this point?" Sylus asked, his voice calm yet layered with something deeper, something sharper.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he didn’t give you the chance. As his hands moved to loosen his tie, slipping it free in one smooth motion, he answered his own question.

"Hundreds," he said, his tone carrying an almost casual air, though his gaze never left you. "Hundreds of models, hundreds of hours. Each one a study in beauty, in form, in fleeting perfection." He let the tie drop onto a nearby chair, his attention entirely on you now.

"But you," he continued, stepping closer, his voice softening in a way that made the words feel intimate, confessional. "I've had dozens made of you—every detail, every angle, every nuance of your being."

You felt your breath hitch as his words washed over you, the weight of them settling heavily in the pit of your stomach.

"And yet," he said, his lips curving into a faint, almost rueful smile, "no one has gotten it right."

The room seemed to close in as he spoke, the air charged with the tension of his admission. He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, his touch light but electric.

"You’re simply perfect," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper now. "And I will not stop until it’s captured, until it’s immortalized exactly as it should be."

"And I would be a fool," Sylus continued, his voice low and deliberate, "to think that perhaps you do it on purpose, but no..."

His movements were slow, calculated, as he climbed onto the bed, his presence suddenly overwhelming. He loomed over you, his dark eyes searching yours before they dropped to your hand, which he took gently but firmly in his own.

Sylus turned your wrist over, inspecting the delicate lines and curves of your skin with the same intensity he had given the canvas earlier. His thumb brushed over the inside of your wrist, where your pulse beat steadily beneath the surface, and his lips quirked into a faint, knowing smile.

"They miss the finer details," he murmured, almost to himself. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, holding your gaze for a moment before he leaned down.

The warmth of his breath brushed against your skin as his lips ghosted over your wrist, a touch so light it sent shivers down your spine. The sensation was maddening, a deliberate tease that left you frozen in place, caught between anticipation and uncertainty.

"They capture the shape," he whispered, his lips hovering close, "but never the soul. Never this." His words were reverent, his tone almost worshipful, as though he were addressing something sacred.

"Never what?" The words escaped your lips, soft as a baby's breath, barely more than a whisper.

Sylus’s gaze flicked up to meet yours, dark and smoldering, as though your question had stirred something within him. For a moment, he didn’t answer, his thumb still idly tracing patterns along the inside of your wrist, his lips hovering so close to your skin that you could feel their warmth.

"Never you," he finally murmured, his voice low and velvety, thick with conviction. "They capture an imitation, a shadow, a shell of what you are. But the essence of you, the way your light bends in the darkness, the way your skin warms to my touch, the way your soul fills a room without saying a word..."

He paused, as if searching for words worthy of what he wanted to convey, his grip on your wrist tightening ever so slightly.

"They’ll never get that," he continued, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke, sending a shiver racing through you.

"They try," he continues, his lips brushing faintly against your skin as he speaks, "to recreate you. To distill everything that you are into paint and canvas. But how can they? They don’t know the way your pulse quickens." His thumb presses lightly against your wrist, as if to prove his point.

"They don’t know the curve of your lips when you smile, the way your eyes light up when you're defiant, or the softness of your breath when you're still." His other hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

"They don’t know this," he repeats, his lips finally pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your wrist, as though sealing the moment in time.

"I adore you. I don't think you understand." Sylus's voice is low, the words slipping out with a quiet intensity that sends a shiver through your spine. His red eyes lock onto yours, unblinking, as if trying to pull something from within you—something deeper, something that perhaps even you haven’t fully realized yet.

There’s a sharpness to his gaze now, a hunger that flickers beneath the surface, but it's tempered with something else—something softer, almost tender, as though he’s offering you a truth he’s kept hidden for far too long.

His hand stays on your wrist, his touch gentle yet possessive, as if he’s anchoring you to the moment, to the declaration he’s just made.

"You don’t understand," he repeats, his voice laced with both frustration and affection. "You don’t see how you consume me."

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Every inch of you, every movement, every breath—it's all mine, in a way no one else could ever claim." His words are heady, thick with desire and something deeper—something that feels like it could swallow you whole.

His gaze flickers back to your face, his eyes drinking in every detail. "I adore you," he says again, this time with an almost reverent finality. "You are everything."

His hand moves slowly, almost tentatively, to your throat, wrapping around it lightly. The contact sends a shiver down your spine, a mix of tension and vulnerability that courses through you. For a moment, it feels almost like a threat—powerful, electrifying, and yet, strangely intimate.

The grip is not harsh, not suffocating, but it carries an undeniable presence—like a whisper of danger beneath the surface. And then, just as quickly, he lets it go, releasing the hold with a slow, deliberate motion.

Sylus's eyes search yours, as though he’s looking for something deeper, something that can explain the inexplicable pull between you. His gaze softens slightly, a subtle shift that hints at something beyond the intensity of the moment—perhaps a need to connect in a way that’s almost impossible to articulate.

"I can make you understand," he says, his voice tinged with a mix of challenge and vulnerability, "in ways you’ve never felt before."

"I just don’t understand how they never see this," Sylus murmurs, his lips grazing your wrist as he speaks, the soft touch sending a wave of heat through your body. His voice holds a mix of frustration and admiration, as if the rest of the world has missed something so painfully obvious to him.

The sensation of his lips against your skin lingers for a moment longer than it should, a whisper of warmth that contrasts sharply with the coldness of the room.

Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he lets go of your arm, letting it fall gently to your thighs. The space between you feels heavier now, filled with the unspoken words hanging in the air, but his gaze never wavers, still locked onto you with an intensity that is both unsettling and magnetic.

You can feel the weight of his attention as he waits, as if he’s daring you to make the next move, to acknowledge the depth of what he’s said and what’s between you. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to speak again, but for a moment, the silence stretches, thick and taut.

Your mouth goes dry at his confession, your heart pounding in your chest as the weight of his words settles in. Your face flushes, warmth creeping across your skin, and the tips of your fingers tingle with nervous energy. The air between you seems to thicken, charged with a silent tension as his words echo in your mind.

“Adore me, huh?” you ask, your voice slightly unsteady, but a trace of defiance running through it.

“Of course,” he replies, his tone firm yet tinged with something like amusement.

A daring idea blossoms in your mind, and without a second thought, you push yourself up, leaning back on your arms, feeling the strain of your muscles as you shift your position. You bring your foot to Sylus’s chin, gently but firmly tilting his head up, forcing him to meet your gaze.

"Why don’t you paint me then?" you challenge, your voice barely a whisper, but the words are thick with intent. "Paint me how you see me."

Your eyes lock onto his, daring him to follow through, to capture you in a way he’s never been able to before. The room seems to hold its breath, waiting for his next move, for the tension to either break or build to something more.

You hold his gaze, unwavering, knowing that this moment is different—there’s something in the air, in his expression, in the silence, that makes this more than just a game.

Sylus's gaze darkens as he locks eyes with you, his lips curling into a slow, wicked smile. The words that follow are laced with heat and something possessive, a raw honesty that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Show me how.”

Show him how?

He answers before you even thought to ask.

“Touch yourself,”

“Touch myself?” “Yes.”

He sits up, giving you the space to do so. You look at him, incredulous.

“Go on, sweetheart.”

You don’t know how, but you find yourself leaning back against the headboard of the bed.

Touch yourself.

Okay, yeah.

You could do that.

You open your legs, bringing a hand down to your cunt.

His eyes don’t leave your hand, not as you bring it up to your lips, sucking on them, and not as you bring your wet fingers back to your cunt, moving in slow circles.

The cold air was still cold, and you didn’t know where else to look. Not as you dipped your fingers between your lips, not as your head tilted back.

Your free hand went to your breast, rolling the nipple between your fingers. Your cheeks burned, knowing he wouldn’t look away. You close your legs around your wrist, but he clears his throat.

Open them back up.

So you do.

Your clit is sensitve as you play with it, soft breaths turning into quiet pants. Feeling yourself getting wetter, you added a third finger to the mix, beginning to pump them in and out.

This wouldn’t do. You wouldn't be able to get yourself off like this, with him watching.

So you shut your eyes, trying to pretend he wasn’t there. Pinching your clit, you sucked in a breath. Oh, fuck.

Sylus, however, wasn’t doing much better. His pants were tight, cock strained against his underwear. But he wouldn’t do anything. This was all for you.

“Sylus,” it comes out airy, and your fingers just arent enough, “Can’t you help me?” “Help you? Darling, you’re supposed to show me how to paint, not the other way around.”

Damn him.

“I can’t,” “You can. Get on with it.”

You curl your fingers, and oh, your eyes flutter. The hand that was on your tit goes to help the other, your cunt greedy for the attention as your hips start to buck. Pulling your hand out for a brienf moment, you wipe the wetness off on your thighs, feeling your clit throb as you slow the pace down once again.

Your stomach had butterflies. The fact that this man had wanted you in such a way…

It was nice to have a loyal patron.

His red eyes on you, that smooth voice always appreciative, and lord, those hands- that nose- that stupid smirk..

Your toes curl, and you say his name.

So close, so close, so close-

His hand is on your wrist, pulling it up, your high stolen.

“Marvelous.”

Eyes opening, you look at him, chest heaving.

“I, haa, I wasn’t done.” The corners of his lips turn upwards. He brings your fingers to his lips, tasting them. He hums in approval.

“I’ve seen enough. I’ve learned.”

Oh, damn him.

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satinestales · 2 months ago

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❝law one❞ | armand x fem!reader

pairing: armand x fem!reader

summary: A few weeks ago, you began an unlikely friendship with an odd American with passion for photography. One night, he saved you from a drunken man, revealing his true nature as a vampire. Now, you're left with two choices: face death or meet the leader of the French vampire coven—alone.

warnings: armand is a warning himself, sexual tension, mind control, mind reading, armand projecting, mentions of murder, violence, reader isn't a good person, english is not my native language

a/n: this could also work as a short series. should i?

It wasn’t so much the truth about vampires being real, or the memory of Louis killing a man and draining him dry in front of you, that scared you. It was the reputation and the stories surrounding the owner of the Théâtre des Vampires—what Louis called the ancient leader of the French vampire coven—coming to interrogate you and decide whether you had the right to live.

You sat in your cold room, the moonlight casting silvery patterns on the worn wooden floor, waiting on your old couch for the man to enter. For two hours, though, the only sounds were the steady rhythm of your heartbeat and the faint echoes of Louis bickering with his daughter, Claudia—or so you had been told.

You weren’t afraid of death or whatever hid beyond it. What truly terrified you was the not knowing—the weight of not knowing what to expect. This Armand, the so-called Maître, wasn’t just another figure from Louis’ dark world. He was a name wrapped in whispers, the leader of the French coven, an ancient predator whose age stretched beyond your comprehension. The thought of him—a creature who had outlived centuries, who had walked through history itself—coming to meet you was something you couldn’t possibly be prepared for. It wasn’t fear of his fangs or his powers that made you shiver. It was the thought of standing before him, alone, under the gaze of someone who had seen and survived it all.

You were so lost in your thoughts and fear that you didn't even notice the sudden stillness in the room. The bickering between Louis and Claudia had stopped. They were both silent. He was here—right behind the curtains. You could only make out his shadow, towering over Louis as he whispered something to him. Your heart began racing faster and louder in your chest as you froze, unsure of how to act when he finally entered.

You watched as the shadows of Louis and Claudia moved, fading away and leaving him standing alone at the center. For a long moment, he remained motionless, an unsettling calm filling up the space. Then, with calculated slowness, he reached for the curtains, pulling them wide open, and there he was.

He looked like an angel—no, you quickly corrected yourself, a devil. No angel could compare to the beauty of the devil. His presence was effortlessly commanding, an unspoken ancient power unmistakable in every breath he took. His dark, curly hair framed a face sculpted with the precision of an artisan—high cheekbones and a sharp jawline softened only by the fullness of his lips, which he pressed together in silent contemplation. His piercing yellow eyes locked onto you, seeing through you as if they were stripping you bare. The moonlight danced on his dark brown skin, illuminating a beauty that felt impossibly timeless. Every movement, every breath, every shift of his gaze seemed intentional—as if the world itself paused to welcome his grace. He stood there, a figure from some ancient dream, and for a moment, you could hardly breathe under the weight of his presence.

You sat there, unsure whether to speak or remain silent. He was quiet for what felt like an eternity, though only a few minutes passed. His eyes seemed to strip you bare, his head tilting as if trying to read you. And maybe he was. What was the human mind to the powers of an ancient vampire? You imagined it was like looking through glass—clear and translucent. A wave of shame and embarrassment washed over you, thinking of what he might have seen in your memories.

In perfect sync with your rising anxiety, a smile crept across his face. But it wasn’t the kind of smile one gives a friend to offer comfort. No, it was the kind that sent shivers down your spine, making you feel utterly humiliated. And he hadn’t even said a word yet.

"Armand," he spoke, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. It was sweet but commanding, your body tense like it was waiting for his command to breathe. His gaze slowly drifted from your eyes to your neck, lingering there for a moment before dropping to your hands, which you clenched tightly in your lap. You hadn’t realized you’d been digging your nails into your skin, drawing blood, the small beads of red unnoticed by you but not by him.

"I was told, repeatedly by Louis, that I should let you live." His voice was quiet, but it felt like a thunderclap in your chest. He studied your face, like a predator watching his prey, savoring the anxiety radiating from you. He enjoyed your fear. "But tell me," his eyes darkened, narrowing, "what makes you so special, so unique, that I shouldn't tear you apart right here, right now?"

Each word of his felt like a tightening noose around your throat, his gaze cutting into your skin. The room felt smaller, suffocating like time stopped. Over your heart, you couldn't even hear the ticking of the clock anymore.

You didn’t dare speak, not sure if you could form words, or if he'd even let you. Every part of you screamed to escape, but your body was frozen.

"You can't speak?" he asked, his voice sharp, eyebrows raised as the silence stretched between you. The seconds felt like hours, each one heavier than the last, and your throat tightened.

A flush of humiliation washed over you, and you could feel your face burn, wishing more than anything that you could disappear into the floor. If only you could move.

With a soft, almost knowing nod, he took off his coat, folding it carefully before placing it on the table beside him. The simple motion felt deliberate, as though he was setting the stage for something more.

"I remember you." His voice was firm, cutting through the air as he moved past the table, coming to stand directly in front of you. He towered over you, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. He leaned casually against the desk, every movement calculated, controlled. "Louis spoke highly of you, so I wanted to see for myself. That was a few weeks ago. I didn't think he'd let you live this long."

"Louis is a good man. He would never hurt me." The words tumbled out before you could stop them, a protective instinct kicking in. The sudden urge to defend Louis caught you off guard, and as soon as you spoke those words, you regretted them.

Armand’s head tilted slightly, his lips curling into a small smirk as he finally heard your voice. There was something about the way he listened—did he enjoy it? Did your voice soothe him in some way?

You shook the thought away, trying to regain control of your mind, but it was too late. Armand had already caught it. The faintest flicker of something dark passed across his eyes, and you could almost feel him savoring your vulnerability.

"He is," Armand agreed. You could be wrapped in layers of blankets, draped in thick clothing, and still feel so exposed in his presence. Was it him, his power, or was it simply you that made you feel this way? Did he use his ancient powers to make you feel naked and bare? You wondered if he had this effect on everyone or if it was just you. Could he manipulate you with his powers, or was this all your own doing? The idea of being bare in front of him sent a shiver through you—both terrifying and exciting at the same time.

"But he is a vampire. And you... you're nothing but a human. Not even an exceptional one, dare I say." He smirked, his gaze shifting from you to the window. It was a dark night, the only light coming from the moon.

"You don't know me." You shook your head, straightening your back, trying to regain your composure. "You can read minds, yes? Because you hold that power, you think you understand them. But thoughts do not define a person. Actions do. You speak so highly of yourself, so certain of your superiority, making people tremble at your presence. Yes, it works, but it speaks volumes about you. The way you carry yourself, the choices you make, the way you treat others—that defines who you truly are. Not your powers. Not your age. So you can take your ancient, pretentious powers and shove them up your ass. If you want to kill me, kill me. But don't pretend you're the one who gets to decide my worth just because you're older than the goddess in the night sky."

Your voice trembled with a mixture of anger and fear, but inside, you could feel the tension. You had no idea how far you were pushing him, but part of you didn't care.

His gaze was fixed on you again, but this time, it was darker—deeper. Not yellow, not orange. Pitch black. No light from the moon could reflect on them. Not even the brightest star could break through that abyss. You expected him to strike, to lunge forward and tear apart your throat with his fangs. But instead, he stood still. His gaze alone was enough to make every inch of your skin crawl.

"Two years ago, a boy moved in across from your house, with his sick, aging mother," he said, his voice low, like the rustling of wind through dead leaves. Your stomach dropped. Not this. Not this memory. "He developed a crush on you. Came over every day just to see you."

"Stop," you whispered, eyes shut, trying desperately to push the memory out, to silence his voice. But it was useless. His words, like tendrils, wormed their way into your mind.

"One night, he came over with your favorite flowers, asking you for a walk under the moonlight. You said no, but he wouldn’t leave. You stabbed him with your scissors, your anger overtaking you as he collapsed to the ground. Your first thought? How his blood ruined the flowers."

His gaze didn’t move. It was as if he were reading you, page by page, every flicker of your emotions, every hesitation, every fear laid bare before him. Your thoughts had become his plaything, and you were powerless to stop it.

"You threw the body in a dumpster and lied to his mother about it. Two months later, she took her own life in her son's room," he said quickly, ignoring your desperate pleas to stop.

"A year later, you fucked a man twice your age because his wife moved away and you needed rent money." His words sliced through you like a cold blade, laying bare your flaws, your actions. Thoughts don’t define a person, he reminded you. Actions do. And you were rotten to the core. Your reflection, your past, it was all being recited back to you with brutal precision.

"Are you still worthy of life?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper, his eyes dark with satisfaction. He tilted his head, savoring your torment. "Will you fuck your way out of this one too?"

Before you even had time to process his words, rage took over. Without thinking, you lunged at him, mind clouded with pure fury. You knew you didn’t stand a chance, but for a split second, you wanted to scar that perfect, god-sculpted face of his.

In an instant, your body slammed against the wall, feet dangling in the air as Armand’s grip tightened around your throat. His nails dug into your skin, suffocating any attempt at a breath as he held you effortlessly, his gaze never leaving your face.

"How dare you speak of the goodness of a man when you," he paused, his voice cold and venomous, his face so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin. His nose nearly brushed against yours. The worst part was that, despite everything, your body responded to the proximity. Even in the midst of the violence, something in you craved it.

"You, you little, useless thing," he continued, his voice low and mocking, "you have none of it in your soul. You manipulate and take. You lie and bargain. You took an innocent life because you were annoyed. You bartered with desire for warmth." He laughed in your face, cruel and taunting, as you struggled to breathe. Your hands clung to his, your legs growing weak as the air drained from your lungs.

"Even now, you're fighting to give in," he whispered, his lips brushing your ear. Then, without warning, he dropped his head to your neck. You felt the cold scrape of his fangs against your skin. "Does your body crave violence? Do you thrive in it? You've never known a gentle touch, so why wouldn't you?"

His grip tightened, his nails digging into your skin, and the world around you blurred. Your thoughts became clouded, your body trembling, both in fear and an unwilling desire you couldn’t control.

"Fuck you," you managed, the words tasting bitter in your mouth. But before you could even finish, you felt the excruciating sting of his fangs sinking into your skin. Pain and pleasure collided in a sickening rush. He held you there, feeding on your terror, until the last of your strength slipped away.

The last thing your human tongue remembered was the honey-sweet taste of his blood.

#iwtv armand fic #armand x reader #armand fic #armand iwtv #armand #interview with the vampire #iwtv s2 #iwtv #amc iwtv #assad zaman

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thecommandertable · 1 year ago

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Lost Caverns of Ixalan Artisan Set Review: Part 1

Which common and uncommon cards in Lost Caverns of Ixalan might make their way into your Artisan Commander decks? Part 1 will cover the monocolor cards, and Part 2 will cover the multicolor and artifact cards. Let's take a look:

White

Manglehorn is an existing card but doesn't see much play in Artisan. Making your opponents' artifacts enter tapped has a larger impact in regular EDH where it hits mana rocks like Grim Monolith and Mana Vault, not to mention slowing down big treasure makers like Dockside Extortionist and Smothering Tithe. In all, I don't expect to see too much of Dauntless Dismantler in Artisan games.

Blue

An upgrade over Supreme Will, which sees some play. Putting the extra cards into the graveyard instead of the bottom of the library is relevant for spells decks with payoffs that count the number of instants/sorceries in the graveyard: Crackling Drake, Gandalf's Sanction, Rise from the Tides, etc.

Black

The closest comparison is to Infernal Grasp. Bitter Triumph can hit planeswalkers, but there aren't very many of those in Artisan. The larger difference is the flexibility in the additional cost: when you don't want to pay life you can discard a card instead and vice versa. Some decks, such as reanimator, want discard outlets anyway. I expect to see Bitter Triumph at similar rates as Infernal Grasp and Go For the Throat.

A Deadly Dispute that creates a Map token instead of a Treasure. A lot of decks that run Deadly Dispute will want this card too: Juri, Gut, Thalisse, etc.

This card's pretty interesting. It has shades of Deadly Wanderings to it, except that it only needs you to attack with a single creature instead of controlling only one creature, which is a pretty significant difference. Obviously, you'll want to put this in a deck that can attack with a single large creature. This card's not worth running over a card like Ancient Craving if you're not going to profit off the front side. I'm thinking something like Yargle or Rael Rilsa.

Ichor Wellspring is played in lots of decks that like to sacrifice artifacts. Mephitic Draught is essentially a second copy for black decks.

This card's not far from Doomed Necromancer, which has always struck me as a rare that's ripe for a downshift. The finality counter and sorcery speed are a bit of a bummer, but Soulcoil Viper is something to consider when building Barrowin of Clan Undurr, or if/when they downshift Alesha, who Smiles at Death (fingers crossed)

Any self-mill deck that can easily get four or more permanent cards into its graveyard will like this little guy. Deathtouch means you will often be able to find someone to attack who doesn't want to block, and in a pinch you can leave it back to dissuade a big creature from attacking you.

Red

I'll talk about Caparocti Sunborn when I get to the multicolor cards, but yeah, if you plan on discovering a lot, this card seems deece.

It's a red Prying Blade except: A) it's indestructible, B) it gives an extra point of toughness, and C) gives you the treasure on attack, not when it hits an opponent. Overall that's pretty good.

This card looks excellent in an artifact-heavy deck. It can provide creatures haste in a pinch on its front side, but flipping it shouldn't be very hard, in which case it turns into a land with a very powerful activated ability. Even if you never use that second ability, it's still a card that ramps you.

It's going to be fairly difficult to trigger descend every turn, even in decks that go out of their way to sacrifice stuff. Keep in mind that tokens are not cards, so sacrificing treasures or Eldrazi Spawn tokens or whatever won't trigger this. That said, getting just two or three treasures out of a two-mana creature is pretty good, and it has two relevant creature types.

Sunshot Militia is yet another creature that goes infinite with Malcolm, Keen-Eyed Navigator and a way to turn it into a pirate. Aside from that, it's still a card with a ton of potential. It works great with Curiosity effects, for one thing. But any deck that has lots of stuff hanging around, be it treasure tokens, food tokens, equipment, or dispensable creature tokens could use Sunshot Militia to deal good chunks of damage at low cost.

Great for my Syr Carah deck.

Green

Ok so a lot of these dinosaur payoffs I'm skipping over because the red-green signpost dinosaur legendary doesn't look very compelling as a commander- I'll get to it in Part 2- but Earthshaker Dreadmaw is a house.

This card reminds me of Afiya Grove, which not only is a rare but also on the reserved list. And Explorer's Cache is... better? It enters with one fewer counters on it, but gives you a lot more control over when you dole out the counter (a big mark against Afiya Grove is that you have to give the +1/+1 counter to an opponent's creature if you don't control any creatures), and of course, it recoups counters if your creatures die. I'd put Explorer's Cache into any deck that has a lot of +1/+1 counter synergies and proliferate. It also works very well with Kami of Whispered Hopes.

Poison Dart Frog looks like a decent mana dork/rattlesnake card. Pretty nice that it can block a creature with flying, then tap to help pay for its own deathtouch ability. That said, I wouldn't run a two-drop mana dork if I don't need the mana fixing; if I just want to ramp, I'd go with Llanowar Elves/Elvish Mystic/Fyndhorn Elves instead.

This is the biggest, baddest green mana sink we've gotten in Artisan. Previously the best was probably Centaur Glade. Sachi decks will be able to use this, and maybe(?) Rishkar and/or Tatyova decks. If you're making infinite mana with something like Devoted Druid + Vizier of Remedies, I'd recommend putting that mana into something like Goblin Cannon for the win; as cool as turning all your lands into 7/7s is, you have a limited supply of them, and they don't have trample-- you don't want to pass the turn only to have them all destroyed by a Slaughter the Strong or Kirtar's Wrath.

Alright, that's all the monocolor cards! See Part 2 for multicolor and artifact cards!

#artisan commander #lost caverns of ixalan

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echoes-of-courage · 9 months ago

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Happy pride month

Archive

#echoes of courage #links meet au #loz au #legend of zelda #eoc artisan #eoc commander #highkey spent the entire day’s worth of freetime on this

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thebiscuitlabryinth · 1 year ago

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"...We're two sides of the same coin, aren't we?"

The whispered confession falls clumsily out of Pure Vanilla's mouth, almost dragged out, bitterly sweet and strange on his tongue. The words are addressed to his own stained candy glass visage, spilling tendrils of bright blue light across the Solarium of Unity despite the almost suffocating darkness invading the rest of the space.

He knows this isn't really the Solarium of Unity, and he knows he isn't just speaking to a window. The lurking shadows, thick like molasses and blinking every once in a while, give that away. Even if it didn't, there is a haziness here that exists only in dreams, and a lack of the deep tiredness that has been plaguing him as of late.

"Oh, are you finally ready to admit that?" Sure enough, Shadow Milk Cookie's voice comes from all sides, far too cheerful. The candy glass melts and warps before him, the blues darkening until Shadow Milk stands in his place, far more detailed than the artisan silhouette he replaced. His grin is mocking as he looks down at Pure Vanilla, who cannot help but feel uncomfortable at the sight of their appearances blurring together like that, even though he had been expecting something along those lines. "Too bad though – you can't admit something that's wrong!"

"Huh?" It catches Pure Vanilla by surprise. It had been difficult emotionally, but logically straightforward to admit they were two sides of the same coin. He couldn't imagine how that could be wrong, and acting upon an old habit from his student days, he finds himself frantically unravelling that conclusion in his head again to figure out the issue.

Shadow Milk doesn't give him the chance, tutting as he shakes his head in mock disappointment. "You must have a brain in there, can't you use it?" He laments theatrically, contorting himself into an odd shape against the edge of the window pane. Then, again barreling on before Pure Vanilla can reply, "Look, think of it like this. To say we're two sides of the same coin means that we have similarities, even if we are otherwise opposites. That is true to an extent, but it makes our differences sound way more clear cut than they actually are. It may be easier for you to believe, but we aren't really opposites. That would imply I am not whole, and I can assure you, Soul Jam aside, I am just as I always was!"

Ah, so it's a matter of wording. Pure Vanilla isn't sure why he is entertaining this - no, it's because he doesn't want to give Shadow Milk the satisfaction of turning away from the truth. Even now, Shadow Milk's eyes squint cheekily at him, daring him to try and end the conversation.

"Then... we are made of the same components in a different composition." Pure Vanilla tries, a little frustrated with his own hesitance, but it is difficult to tell how Shadow Milk wants him to answer when he isn't making it blatantly obvious.

"So close!" Shadow Milk sighs dramatically as he snaps his head to the side so sharply it makes Pure Vanilla wince, imagining the cracks that would cause on any other Cookie. "But you're relying on technicalities. It's much simpler than that."

It dawns on Pure Vanilla, then, exactly what Shadow Milk is aiming for, the realisation making his insides crawl. He doesn't have to say it, not really, but he isn't sure what Shadow Milk will do if he doesn't, and he unfortunately doesn't have the ability to wake himself up on command.

So he takes a deep breath, fidgeting with his staff as he says, even less than a whisper yet twice as loud. "We're... We're the same. Is that what you wanted me to say?"

"Ding-ding-ding!" Shadow Milk trills, suddenly reaching through the candy glass to grip the window frame and lurching forward across the threshold, leaving a mess of shattered glass behind his head like a halo. It startles Pure Vanilla, who instinctively shifts his foot back, only to be instantly locked in place as the reaching shadows soldify around his legs, its eyes winking up at him playfully. His grip on his staff tightens, willing it to shed its light, the beginnings of panic stirring within him at the restraint. The staff does, but the shadows seem to eat the light without a problem.

Pure Vanilla is so distracted by the shadows that he doesn't notice Shadow Milk's hands until they grab his face. His heart jumps in alarm, and his eyes dart up to find half of Shadow Milk leaning down out of the window, far too close. He is grinning at him, wide and self-satisfied, and his hands are cold and harsh. "See, I knew you had a working brain! Yes, the right answer is that we are one and the same."

He pinches and pulls at his cheeks, and Pure Vanilla tries to cringe away, tries to manuver his staff between them. It doesn't work, if only because hands emerge from the darkness to anchor his staff too.

"But that isn't true." Pure Vanilla mumbles when he isn't able to wiggle his way out and Shadow Milk still shows no signs of stopping, hoping the argument will make him lose interest in his face. "I admit that there are similarities between us, but we aren't really the same."

Shadow Milk pauses, his grip tightening until it borders on pain, and for a moment, Pure Vanilla thinks he may have miscalculated.

But then Shadow Milk snickers to himself, releasing his face entirely and pulling back, his hands resting lightly over Pure Vanilla's shoulders. The brush of weight keeps Pure Vanilla from relaxing, but it is a bit of added distance, at least.

"Aren't we? Well, you are the biggest liar, so I should have expected you would lie to yourself too." Shadow Milk hums, almost sounding delighted at this turn in conversation. It unnerves Pure Vanilla, because he had assumed his disagreement would annoy him.

Instead, Shadow Milk smirks, his many eyes glinting gleefully at him. "Listen carefully, Vani, because here's the truth." He says, his voice dipping into a wicked purr that seems to shudder through Pure Vanilla's whole body. "All the things you hate that I have done, you have the capability of doing too. After all, you've already used people for your own gain, haven't you?" Shadow Milk leans closer with a condescending lilt to his words, shifting his hands so he can wrap his arms loosely over his shoulders, and Pure Vanilla freezes under the touch. "Oh, I know you think it was necessary, but you still sent those naive, tiny Cookies off to carry out your errands for you, regardless of the dangers. That's only a few steps behind what I've done, you know, making people dance to my tune. The only difference between us is severity and time."

The words sink heavily to Pure Vanilla's stomach, not quite true but not quite not true, and he feels a little lightheaded, fingers twitching against his staff. Maybe it's because of that, or maybe it's because of his discomfort from the close proximity, but he finds himself distracted by the way Shadow Milk is talking. He carries his usual air of showmanship, but it is nowhere near as exaggerated as during his brief takeover of the Faerie Kingdom. With his insistence of specificity, his mention of technicalities, his structured method of explaining things, he almost sounds like a–

"We are the same," Shadow Milk repeats, tilting his head to the side, the glow of his eyes burning holes through Pure Vanilla, "and one day, you'll end up just like me."

A scholar.

That makes sense – at some point, his virtue had been Knowledge, and nobody seeks it out as fervently as a scholar – but it still feels like a surprise. Pure Vanilla had always known that Shadow Milk was different, once, but only in the sense that the fact existed in the back of his mind.

"No rebuttal, hmm? Are you ready to accept that?" Shadow Milk asks smugly, slightly impatient with Pure Vanilla's lack of response, but mostly watching him expectantly, as if waiting for a bomb to go off.

Pure Vanilla has never thought about what Shadow Milk might have been like, before he became like this. There was no reason to even consider it. But now, he can't help but wonder, because while he cannot imagine this chaotic, brutal Beast, this great unknown evil, as anything else – Shadow Milk still carries echoes from a past life that he doesn't seem to notice enough to hide with his lies.

"...If we are the same," Pure Vanilla finally scrapes his thoughts together enough to reply, carefully, "then doesn't that make the opposite possible too? That, one day, you will become like me and return to the light?"

Shadow Milk blinks once, his face falling blank. He blinks again, all of his eyes in quick succession.

And then he throws his head back and laughs, the movement jostling Pure Vanilla in the process with his arms still firmly around his shoulders. It sounds unhinged, ricocheting across the room, but it is openly amused. It makes Pure Vanilla antsy, especially with how it rings in his ears like an explosion from their closeness.

He wonders if Shadow Milk's laugh was different, before everything. It must have been. He wonders what it sounded like, and immediately realises that he's being ridiculous. The realisation that a before exists seems to have opened the floodgates in his mind, and now thoughts of hypotheticals can't help flitting in.

"You say such silly, silly things." Shadow Milk bites out offhandedly as his laughter winds down, the lingering remnants still dancing on his tongue. Without warning, he pulls Pure Vanilla even closer, the darkness that had been keeping him in place swirling and shoving him forward. Pure Vanilla gasps, the sound catching in his throat, and one of his hands fly off his staff to reach for something to steady himself on. It finds an edge of shattered candy glass, flinching back and falling down to scrabble against its smooth, intact surface.

Shadow Milk is giggling at him and Pure Vanilla is mortified, horribly so. They are far, far too close, Shadow Milk's face taking up the near entirety of his vision and their upper bodies almost pressed together. It feels claustrophobic, which should be impossible in such a wide, open space.

Shadow Milk makes matters worse by pressing their foreheads together, the gesture weirdly tender and doing nothing to make Pure Vanilla any calmer. His bright blue eyes look directly through him, dissecting him piece by piece.

"Why don't you cut down the Silver Tree and find out?" Shadow Milk coos, his voice overlapping with the Light of Truth's in a deeply unsettling way. His presence is overwhelming.

Pure Vanilla's eyes flicker downwards to escape his piercing gaze, and finds their chests so close that their Soul Jams are overlapping. Overlapping, and not touching, because Shadow Milk's Soul Jam seems to fizzle out of existence where the other makes contact with it, as if it were an illusion. Behind it is an empty space, black as the abyss. With the way they are lined up now, it is obvious that Pure Vanilla's Soul Jam would fit perfectly into the crevice with a little turning. He knew that already, but it still feels strange to see it.

Pure Vanilla sighs, a long, thin, shuddering sound. "...You didn't truly believe that would work, did you?"

In the edge of his vision, Shadow Milk smiles tauntingly, all teeth, but he doesn't say a word.

And Pure Vanilla wakes up, off kilter, exhausted and oddly cold.

[next]

#sm flirting: hey wanna debate the fluidity of ur identity and morality and have a crisis? wanna make out over it?#if ur confused dw i was confused writing this too. sm strikes me as the type to say the most convulted stuff for funsies #also he is scheming. idk what exactly but he certainly is!!#and poor pv is just along for the ride #pure vanilla cookie #shadow milk cookie #shadowvanilla #vanilla milkshake #echo paradox au #the biscuit library

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meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender · 5 months ago

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Deity! 141 AU HCs

A/N: Just some ramblings about the 141 as deities in my poly AU

(18+ only)

Please comment and reblog!

Captain John Price

God of the East Woods, who is represented by winter. He is known for his leadership skills, analytical abilities, and good faith in his men.

As he is known for leadership skills, he is known as the god most worshiped by leaders who seek guidance in their ability to command others. He is also known for being the one sought out by outcasts who are looking for community. He’ll help you find your way, don’t you worry. You belong somewhere; we just have to find where.

Contrary to popular belief, John does not participate in assisting those who force their command over others. He believes in leading by example and earning the privilege of leadership.

He is most closely associated with cold metal, with his altar decorated in winter wreaths, warm spices, and delicate metalwork.

Kyle Garrick

God of the North Woods, represented by Spring and water. He is courageous, knowledgeable in the social and environmental climate, and can foresee the cause and effects of many actions on the battlefield.

He is worshiped by those beginning new endeavors. As the youngest and newest god (which, how new can ancient beings really be?), myths range from his grand displays of courage to self-doubt. His stories paint imagery of humbleness and of an eager learner. To those seeking new starts, he is the perfect divine being to guide you to ask questions and be courageous in the midst of change.

Kyle, while known best for being the god of changes, is also the patron of mystics for his foreseeing abilities (and beauticians. He likes his skincare and pretty things). As the foreseeing one, he knows all the outcomes and can assist divination practitioners in seeking knowledge of the future.

Just because Kyle can help doesn’t mean he will. Many fortune-tellers have reported trickery and confusion trying to get answers from him. He likes his jokes and finds seeing humans guessing about the future amusing. Won’t they find out eventually?

His altar is decorated with bowls of water representing spring rain and winds. As spring flowers bloom, they are also decorated upon his altar. The seed of each planted crop is represented on the altar as a blessing for a productive sowing season.

Johnny McTavish

The god of summer and of the southlands. McTavish is known for quick, fiery actions mirrored by a thunderstorm's quick turn or a wildfire's spark.

While he might have fiery emotions, the god is methodological in his delivery of quick actions. For this reason, if you need help finding passion, McTavish is the god for you. He is the patron of athletes and artisans who harness passion into practice and dedication to their craft.

The god of summer is precise! If you seek his help, be specific and think about what you need versus what you want. His help will come on his timing, but it’ll be exactly what you asked for. He finds it funny when mortals get upset by this. Usually, if he is going to be helpful to the mortals, it is on his terms and conditions, and you’ll know by a sudden splash of warmth on your skin or by the way events just so happen to align that it could only be the work of a god.

His altar is decorated with an always-lit candle. There are summer fruits in bowls and an icon of a thunderbolt descending from the sky to represent his passions.

The one they call “Ghost”

The god of the south and autumn season, mortals know the least about him. His mythology is sparse, usually featuring him as a supporting character in someone else’s myth (usually Johnny’s) with a dry sense of humor.

He is the god of the ground that is transitioning into hibernation, the god of intelligence, knowing when to take ground and when to give ground. He is the wisdom gained from remembering the bones and dust from whence you came. He is the patron of the elderly and wise, of those who understand the power of listening before speaking to the aged ideals that came before you.

Hidden by shadows of the unknown, protected by the bones of the dying, Ghost is not a death god, but he represents the bridge between mortals and the spiritual, helping those who are dying.

Ghost is not a god you call upon lightly. He will make you search your shadows, forcing you to gaze upon those fearsome things that hide in all mortal souls. If you ask to see the divine, he will show you it when you are ready. But it will not look pretty or neat or holy. It will be sacred in its raw, awesome terror, a power unleashed that mortals cannot grasp.

Ghost’s alter typically has a buck skull on it- the first buck killed of the season. Black and grey altar cloths are laid beneath the walnut bowls holding the nuts and acorns offered to the god.

Once upon a time, there were four gods. Together, they took turns helping the mortals. But what spirit connects them all, centering their efforts? Of what clear mission banner do they unite under? To whom is the focal point of life’s great mysteries? It had always been assumed human mortals as a collective to be that focal point. But the myths do not end with the death of the old. They continue and will grow with the next generations and generations next.

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kiame-sama · 2 years ago

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Omega Marechi (Yandere!Upper-Moons x Omega!Reader x Yandere!Muzan)

Warnings; yandere, multiple yandere, stalking, mention of violence, mention of social imbalance, my abo au (less than 1000 omegas world wide and omegas are a commodity of sorts), omega reader, abo social ladder, abo societal structure, unfair situations, instinct manipulation, kidnapping, threat of murder, blood, violence, mention of human consumption, demons, female bodied reader, female reader pronouns (let me know if y'all want a male version).

(It's a personal headcannon of mine that omegas are short & chubby, so very soft and squishy)

(Also, let me know if y'all want a continuation of this, I have a certain idea involving stockades I have been interested in trying out)

~~~~~~~~

Deep within the winding surfaces and ever changing interior of a fortress wreathed in darkness, demons began to gather. Though they were few in number, each demon had their own impressive strengths and abilities that set them apart from the many other members of their brood. Even with their combined presence and strength, their master stood above them in every way possible.

The king of demons, he who sired every other demon, stood watching his upper ranked generals as they gathered beneath him. Short dark hair seemed to swallow all light in the inky abyssal color, bright red eyes glinting like lit lanterns on the darkest of nights. His fair skin unblemished and so smooth it could be mistaken for the marble of a true artisan's finest work. Truly a vision of a true apex alpha with the beauty of a divine being.

The six generals that gathered were supposed to be without company and solely focused on their sire, yet one was not alone. Next to the top general of the king's army was a large rectangular box shape that was draped in heavy fabrics to conceal what may be held within. The fabrics seemed to be soaked in a heavy perfume mixed with the hint of an unusually appealing scent that taunted the senses.

"What have you brought, Kokushibou?"

The deep and commanding voice of the demon king rumbled out with a tint of curiosity in his tone. Where he expected quite a bit from his upper moons, even he had to admit that the actions of his top general were odd. It was not often that the upper moons did something that surprised him- and usually was met with a swift reprimand- but his curiosity had been peaked by the abnormal behavior.

Without saying a word, Kokushibou gripped the heavy fabric and quickly pulled it away, revealing what had been concealed. Beneath the cloth lay an iron cage- much like what an exotic beast would be transported in- with blankets lining the bottom of the cage for cushion. The cage itself wasn't very interesting when compared to what lay within.

Laying bound in the iron cage was a woman, her (h/c) locks strewn around her head and her (s/c) flesh looked incredibly plush and no doubt was soft to the touch. A delicate and fine silk kimono wrapped around her bound form, even that which held her was made of the expensive materials. Her eyes were covered in a long silk ribbon, mouth held shut by an intricate golden muzzle, her arms cuffed together with similarly intricate cuffs in front of her and lower legs cuffed together.

A woman- no matter how decorated- wasn't much to crow about, but the pungent scent that had been smothered by the perfumes was now free and quickly reached those nearby. There was a visible change in the way the other upper moons stood, their nostrils flaring and eyes fixed on the soft woman as they contemplated what she was. The scent reached Muzan last, but he knew immediately what was being presented to him, though he could scantly believe what his senses were telling him.

"No," Douma started, his multi colored eyes wide in disbelief, "that's impossible. Omegas aren't real! It must be a trick."

"Looks real to me. Smells real too. Actually," Akaza sniffed, looking curiously at the bound female, "she smells like a marechi."

A soft whimper came from within the cage, the female inside moving and seemingly trying to pull away from her binds. The muzzle secured on her kept her from speaking and muffled her sounds as she responded to the voices around her. Blindly she turned her head towards the sound of Akaza speaking, seemingly trying to understand where she was and who she was with.

"She was being transported as cargo on a train. From her scent, it was made clear to me that she is an Omega and a marechi. She has no mating marks present on her body. The humans transporting her were on their way to deliver her to slayers, a gift from a small village of fools."

Muzan silently descended from where he had been standing above the upper moons, approaching the cage curiously. The other demons watched in interest as their sire crouched, observing the bound female that had been presented to him. He had not encountered an omega, even in his long life, so seeing such a rare and unusual being in a cage was surreal. Truly, he had thought omegas were just another myth created by humans.

He reached a finger between the bars, his sharp nail gently scraping over the exposed neck of the omega. Naturally, she responded with a fearful sound at the feeling of something sharp against her neck, trying to writhe away from the sensation. The obvious fear was accompanied by an intense scent that prodded at their minds to defend the soft woman from whatever may be causing her distress.

Muzan observed the struggling of the delicacy he had been presented with, red eyes gleaming and unwavering. After a moment of simply watching the omega struggle, he reached his hands forward to grip the cage bars. With one flex, the metal groaned beneath his hands, crumpling like sand and bending out of shape. One of his hands held the cage still as he ripped the bar off of the cage, pulling out several more until he could access the omega.

The loud sound of the metal bending and crushing had clearly upset the omega who let out a muffled scream into the muzzle, body twisting and writhing to escape the frightening sound and its source. Another scream escaped her as one of Muazan's hands gripped the back of the her kimono, dragging her out of the remnants of the cage. A sharp scent made him freeze, the taunting ambrosia of marechi blood filled his nostrils as he moved to examine the omega.

Sitting on her cheek was the smallest of cuts, blood slowly beading along the line of the slice. Within the second Muzan noticed the small injury, a greedy mouth formed along his hand. The elongated tongue quickly stretching out and slowly laving over the gathered blood with an apparent groan of satisfaction rumbling in his chest from the taste.

His pleasured sound only seemed to frighten the omega more, whimpering out and beginning to cry from the terror. It was understandable, she had been in the cage for an unknown time and now was listening to the sound of an unknown assailant flavor her blood. With a quick motion the blindfold was pulled away, revealing (e/c) eyes that were filled with delicate tears and horror.

Her gaze became fixed on the bright red eyes of the predator in front of her, body falling completely still. Much like the way an injured fawn would freeze upon seeing the open jaws of a bear. The body of the soft omega seemed to curl in on itself, as if she were trying to seem as small as possible all without looking away.

He lifted his free hand towards her and gripped her ornate metal muzzle despite her frightened sounds and slow shaking of her head back and forth. She cringed and closed her eyes tightly as his hand gripped the clasp of the muzzle that held it on.

For a moment, things seemed to stand still in baited anticipation of what the demon king would do next. All upper moons keenly awaited their sire's next move as it would determine the fate of the omega they all were interested in. Wanting to get their hands on her if he allowed her to live, or wanting a piece of her if he chose to consume her.

A soft click of metal could be heard in the profound silence as the clasp of the muzzle was disconnected.

~~0~~

You warily watched the frightening man remove the muzzle you wore, seeing how hungrily he looked at you the entire time. He seemed to be contemplating you, much like many others would when first coming into contact with you. The man- or monster, would be more accurate- suddenly grinned, hand gripping your neck and slowly lifting you up.

Even with how you struggled, the man seemed to have no problem holding you until he was fully standing. His expression became more fierce as the veins in his face became more pronounced, tongue slowly dragging over his lips. After a moment he lowered you so your feet were on the ground, no longer holding you off the ground but still holding you in place.

"You are a truly unfortunate human. Luckily for you, I intend to keep you for the time being. You staying alive or not will be determined by your actions."

~~~~~~~~

You had been taken to a large ornate bed that no doubt belonged to the demonic alpha that broke your chains but left your cuffs. From the way he stared at you, you felt like you were being appraised much in the way one would appraise a meal. A yelp escaping your lips as you were thrown down on the soft surface.

In seconds you felt the silk that held your clothing together rip open, the ornate kimono falling open. Your body was completely left exposed to the intense gaze of the man, you had been dressed for meeting several new mates who were top members of the demon slayers. Instead it seemed the demons found you and decided to keep you for the time being.

Part of you was terrified to fight back as you didn't wish to anger the demon that took you to bed. Based off of his scent, you knew you were dealing with an alpha of great strength and willpower. The alpha himself seeming to be above other alphas that you had caught the scents of whenever one would pass through your village. He was clearly the one others answered to as they had gotten out of his way rather quickly when he decided to drag you to his chambers.

You tried to keep your thighs pressed together to give yourself some kind of protection, but the demon was quick to pry them open. His gaze was intense and you felt your body warm in response to how he stared at your exposed figure. A whimper from you seemed to break the trance he was in as his eyes flicked up to look at you for several seconds.

"And still, you are afraid. Tell me, Omega, did the humans you lived amongst even give you a name, or have you always been Omega?"

"My name," you struggled to keep the fear out of your voice as you answered the alpha demon, "it's (Y/n), (L/n)(Y/n)."

"(Y/n)? I am Kibutsuji Muzan, king of demons. You have gained my attention, (Y/n), quite dangerous indeed. I expect you to be an obedient omega, understand?"

"Ye-yes, I understand, Alpha."

"Good."

You whined softly as one of his hands came up to palm your soft chest as if appraising it like fruit. His bright red eyes gleaming in interest as he observed you trying to sit still for him and let him continue what he wanted. Clearly you were a high tier omega as you were so obedient and did exactly what the alpha told you to do.

The village you grew up in must have trained you to be a good omega, taking the word of an alpha as law. In any case, he was quite pleased to have such a treasure in his grasp. He vaguely considered keeping the omega for himself, but he knew the way the upper moons stared, even Akaza showed clear interest.

An omega would certainly be a unique reward and incentive to push the upper moons further. Beyond just that, using the unique human omega sent could throw off the slayers in such a way there would be no one left to stand against the demon king.

#kiame-sama #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #reader insert #tw yandere #yandere kny #kny yandere #yandere upper moons #yandere muzan #tw abo #abo #abo au #my abo au #tw kidnapping

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