#u have to be careful because his nails are so sharp and jagged from him biting on them

[tirasamu]

thinking ab fyodor tilting ur face up towards his with a finger under ur chin

[brayneworms]

can you do one where you edge aki hayakawa? PRETTY PLEEEAASSSEEE WITH ALL THE CHERRIES ONTOP

high & dry

featuring. aki hayakawa x gn!reader

content. MDNI, smut, edging, handjobs + the beginning of a blowjob lol, pet names (honey), gender neutral reader + agab not mentioned, sub!aki + dom!reader, established relationship, cursing, mild pet analogy (it’s me what do you expect)

word count. 1.7k

synopsis. aki has a lesson to learn.

notes. minors don’t interact. found this in my drafts from like january so anon if ur still out there i hope u enjoy smile. i take commissions :3

The thing about Aki is that he doesn't mean to misbehave.

The thing about you is that you've never considered yourself overly strict.

But somehow, somewhere in the muddle of this, this being you two and whatever was becoming of your relationship, both of these factors have been thrust into the spotlight and interrogated. The problem is that Aki is a fighting dog whose leash is fraying more with every day, who rushes into conflict with his heart first and his brain struggling to catch up. The problem is that you care for him, despite the awful inevitability of how badly it will end weighing on your mind.

Aki likes to flirt with death, and you like to keep him safe. These factors, as you might imagine, clash frequently.

So—you either become the screeching, shrewish partner, leaving every night a sour argument where you don't face each other where you sleep. Or you take your frustration out in more productive ways. Because, truly—you don't like to yell at Aki. It makes him grumpy and stonefaced but more than that, it makes him hurt. You can see the flickers of it in his dark blue eyes, some fragment of his childhood that never healed properly, like an old wound that bleeds anew whenever you prod it. Tender and painful as skinned knees.

But this, this works for both of you, you think.

His fingers curl up his work slacks, bunching starched polyester between bitten nails. He's looking anywhere but at you, knelt between his legs, cheeks shaded pink beneath the tumbling bangs of ink-dark hair. "You don't have to," he starts, like he always does, ever the gentleman. It makes him a little twitchy to be given pleasure like it's a gift. It's so sweet that it almost makes you feel bad.

You take him in your hand, half-hard and hot, and he hisses. You have a sneaking suspicion, something that's been blooming for a while now, that you may have been the first person to touch Aki like this. The first time you'd slept together he'd had to mumble the names of all the Devils he had contracts with under his breath to last more than a minute inside you.

There's a wound on his hip the colour of a bloody sunset, jagged like a mountain silhouette. It almost seems to mock you as you stroke him loosely, gathering the pearly beads of pre that bloom at his tip as he gets more and more turned on, more sensitive. His chest shakes ones when he inhales, his hands twisting the fabric of his pants uncomfortably. Your slow, patient pace makes him almost overwhelmed, feeling it wrack out from between his thighs in torturously hot, slow waves, makes his whole body shudder.

Once he's hard, you say, "Tell me about today."

Aki grunts, brows furrowing. His hips cant up, once, a silent plea. But your hand has slowed now, so he tenses his jaw and sighs.

"Found a Devil," he says through gritted teeth. "Some a-abandoned warehouse."

"It gave you this?" You use the hand that was wrapped around his cock to stroke over the nasty gash on his skin, and he makes a wonderful shivery noise—both, you think, at the loss of contact to his hardness and the ghost of sharp pain that echoes from your touch along his wound.

"Yeah," he sighs shakily. He looks down at you now, eyes soft, almost pleading. "Could you—"

"You weren't alone, were you, Aki?" you ask, blinking up at him. You think he's starting to get the game now; blood runs up to colour his cheeks darker and his eyes flit away as though in shame. "Didn't you call for backup?"

"Too far away," he says, gritty with irritation. He feels foolish, sitting on the edge of the bed with his dick out. Still hard, despite you not having touched it for about half a minute. "I had it handled."

"You should've waited," you tell him.

"You're killing my hardon," he tells you flatly. You roll your eyes and pick up where you left off; when your hand wraps around him he lets out a shaky sigh and tips his head back towards the ceiling. You'll never tire of how sensitive he is, responding to every touch like it's the first time; when your hand wraps back around him his thighs clench and spasm all over again, and he makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat.

You stroke him, more firmly now, with the occasional focus on his tip. It starts to leak over your hand, and Aki makes a quiet, embarrassed grunt at the sight of it. Privately, you don't mind too much—unlike most guys, Aki has the grace to be abashed by it, which is already enough to put him in your good books—but his humiliation is an added bonus you'd happily put up with some less-than-savoury things for.

You're mean, maybe, in the way a bunny thinks their owner is mean for locking them in a hutch each night. But, you know, the owner only does that for the bunny's own safety.

Sometimes, the owner really does know better.

Aki's thighs twitch; you amuse yourself watching the spasm of the muscles play across beneath the smooth, pale skin, thinking absently of how you'd like to get your mouth on that soft flesh inside. "Y/n," he warns, voice catching, breathy. "I—dammit, I'm gonna—"

You make a thoughtful noise, and then release your grip entirely. Aki gapes down at you, eyes snapping open. "What the hell?" he fumes.

"Say that you should have waited for backup," you tell him patiently. Your positions are some perverse subversion of power; he looms over you, strong legs bracketing your face. By all accounts, you're surrounded as you look up at him. But he's the one looking at you like you've shot him in the chest. His brows knit together in frustration.

"Are you fucking joking?" he gapes. "What is this? You—"

"Aki," you say, so softly that it must frighten him because he stops short, looking at you warily. "You know I care about you, so much, yeah?"

"I—" he looks thrown, impossibly lost. "I guess? Yeah."

"Good." You lean your head on his knee, watching how his throat bobs when he looks at you. His thighs twitch almost indecipherably at the contact, erection showing no sign of flagging. "And you know I want to protect you, and keep you safe? I want you to want that, too."

"I..." Aki's voice is taking on a hoarse tinge. "I know... that."

"Then why do you keep throwing yourself in such dangerous situations?" You unspool a nail up the inside of his leg, and he gasps slightly in anticipation. "What are you going to do next time?"

"I—" he cuts himself off, strangled. "I'm going to... call for backup."

Your finger trails to a halt. "You mean that?"

"Yeah," he says, a little frantically. "I will. I swear. Y/n, please—"

You lean forward, brushing your lips against him. Aki moans, eyes widening as his pupils expound until his eyes are less sodalite and more black-hole. You let your tongue flicker out and trace over the head, tasting him, putting your hands on his thighs so you can feel him strain to hold back. Ever the gentleman, Aki hates to lose control and buck into your mouth. It still happens sometimes, of course, because at his heart he's a needy inexperienced hunter and you revel in the punishment of pretty things. It's mean, you know, to goad him where he's a little helpless.

But the owner knows best. You know how to get him to remember his lesson.

You draw back, pressing a final kiss to the head of his cock like tying the ribbon on a giftbox. Aki blinks blearily at you, mouth slack, expression adorably confused as you wipe at your lips with a thumb.

"What—" he croaks.

"I want you to remember what you said, Aki," you tell him sternly. "I can't reward bad behaviour."

You think he's getting it. Box. Rat. Electric shock. Et cetera.

"Wait," he pleads, brows scrunching together in honest-to-god panic. "I'll remember, okay? I told you I would. I won't misbehave."

"And I want to believe you." Your hand draws soothing circles on his knee and it makes his bottom lip quiver slightly. "So... when you show me you're taking your safety seriously, then you'll get a reward."

Aki's mouth hangs open. "You're serious," he croaks with some shattering finality; he shuts his eyes against the blue-dark, whole body shuddering. "You're fucking... what if I just decide to jack off?"

"You can do that," you shrug. "But I think you know what'll happen if you do."

Aki makes a frustrated noise; he glances down at his erection, starting to flag only slightly. He wants you to touch him so badly; all he can think of is your fingers, your mouth, your hair in his fingers. Or, withholding that, he could at least slide his fingers around himself and get himself off, like he used to mostly infrequently before you.

But if he does that, how long will you hold out for? He knows, with a cold sort of dread, that you can hold out much, much longer than him. He's gotten a taste of it and now he can't be satisfied; it's the one area of his life where he totally lacks any semblance of self-control.

So with a devastated whimper, he reaches down and tucks himself gingerly back into his underwear. He's so turned on it almost stings as his briefs tug on his erection, and it's so much worse when he stiffly tugs up his slacks and buttons them again. For a moment after he just sits on the bed, breathing shakily until he's red in the face, trying not to squirm.

You stand up, brush a lock of his hair back, smiling as he leans pathetically into the touch. There's a lukewarm sweat beading on his brow. "I'm so proud of you, honey. I'm going to start dinner, okay? You stay in here and relax. You've had such a hard day."

Aki's eyes burn into your back as you turn and leave. It takes every modicum of mental fortitude he has not to throw himself on the ground and beg and sob for you to touch him. The thought of going without is almost painful.

He stares down at the faint bulge in his slacks, gripping his own thigh for support. Wonders about grinding the heel of his hand against it, just for some momentary relief.

Aki shuts his eyes. He doesn't want to misbehave. And he does not touch.

[dalishthunder]

Just wanna say LOVE your writing and geo but also i wanna say I’m very excited for the dualscar fic u mentioned. Loving this amporas love

Awwwww thank you anon!!! For you, I will give a small excerpt of it

“Do you know why I chose you to be my personal attendant?” He asked suddenly, propping himself up just a bit.

“Because you’re not threatened by me.” You replied without hesitation. “And even if I tried anything an ocean surrounds us so there’s nowhere for me to go.”

“Well don’t we have a smarty pants here… Didn’t realize you could talk so much.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.” You muttered under your breath.

Dualscar turned his head to grin at you cheekily, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you under him. “So small.” He murmured. “With such a smart little mouth.”

He was intimidating even on the best of days, but pinned by his weight with his face only inches from your own…. You couldn’t help but swallow thickly as you caught a glimpse of his shark-like teeth.

“Such fragile skin.” His grin widened, teeth so sharp…. So sharp, you could swear you saw serration on the edges. Not the uneven rows of a bull or mako shark… but the perfect even triangles of a great white. The troll bent his head down, tracing his lips along your jaw and down your neck. “I could kill you right now.” His breath was cool against your skin, the bristly hair on his chin scratching against you. “It would be so easy….” He dragged his teeth along the length of your throat, just hard enough for you to feel it.

“… To rip your windpipe right out with my teeth.”

It was all you could do to keep still as he gently bit down, cold sweat covering your skin. No self defense class had prepared you for this. You could feel your limbs trembling as you stared up at the ceiling, view obscured by his bright orange horns.

“Not that I would of course,” He murmured into your neck, chuckling as he pulled back just enough to plant a soft kiss where his teeth had been a moment ago.

You exhaled shakily, and he pressed his lips against your throat again, laughing. “There’s nothing to be scared of… I’m not actually going to hurt you.”

You gave a nervous chuckle, hyper-aware as the prickle of his stubble left your skin as he brought his face back up, pupils blown wide as his eyes met yours, cheeks flushed a deep lilac hue. Your breath hitched in your chest….

Dualscar was a handsome man, Probably one of the most handsome men you had met; Troll or human. High cheekbones, thick black hair, violet eyes framed by golden sclera and long darklashes… even the thin jagged lines that scarred his otherwise perfect face gave him character.

He loomed over you, his weight on your arms was almost unbearably uncomfortable at this point, pins and needles prickling along your veins, as his eyes bored into your own. Until he closed them, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours gently as though testing the waters. You melted against him faster than you would ever care to admit, and you could feel the smile on his lips. His fingerslit fires under your skin as they slid down your arm to your waist and up against the small of your back. How long had it been since you’d felt the comfort of an embrace…?

Passionate. Insistent. Desperate.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as you pulled him closer. You could taste sea salt and his drink, bitter and slightly citrusy, on his lips… So different from what you were used to.

His cool skin was a balm to the heated way he kissed you. You gasped as he groped your ass, claws pricking through the fabric of your pants, taking the opportunity to unceremoniously shove his tongue in your mouth. He absolutely reeked of alcohol but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, getting lost in the cold, foreign feeling as he explored your mouth.

You followed as he retreated, nipping his lower lip before running your tongue along it. He moaned, breath ragged as you dragged your nails along his scalp and behind his fins. You kissed him deeply, hands curling around his horns.

He gabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head, Dualscar’s voice just a low growl in your ear.

“No.”

You whined as he nipped your jaw, lathing over the spot with his cool tongue. His free hand slipping under your shirt, blunted claws scraping against your skin as he kissed along your jawline and back up to your mouth. It was hot and needy.

[fullmoonremus]

Lovers By Chance, Goth By Choice | Snape x OC

{parody fic, based on my immortal :p another thing I found deep in my google drive. thought it deserved to see the light of day. one of my best friends requested this while intoxicated and I just had to write it. don’t take it too seriously lol} 

Warnings: Smexy Themes uwu

Time/Era: Lightning era :)

Word Count: 1.1k shes long ^.^ like snapes dick

Summary: After Arvil Willow Way Urie gets put into detention by Professor Snape, things happen and no one sees it happen </3

Request: Please write a fic where snape kisses me in front Of everyone and doesn’t care who sees. I have like three names and i am GOTH. 

A/N: Rawr i <3 prof snape SM! Thx for the request </3 enjoy babey!!!!! WEEEEEEEE

masterlist

Hi. My name is Avril Willow Way Urie and I am goth, incase you couldn’t tell. I LOVE panic! at the disco, Brendon Urie is basically my husband. I’ not related to him no matter how similar our names are but I really wish we were because hes the sexiest man I have ever seen in my life. Anyway, I have short black hair that is cut uneven because it is CURLY and it doesn’t matter. The uneven cut represents my chaotic emotions. You wouldn’t understand them. I am gothic, and NOT a prep. If you call me a prep I will get very angry and flip you off everytime I see you. I love fishnets, like I am wearing today. Today I am wearing a ripped mayday parade shirt with a skirt that has planets all over them. I wear planets because i like space and i am SMART!!!!!!!!1 I have my big platform boots with ripped red fishnets under them. My eyeliner is smudged all over my eyes from crying. I am EMOTIONAL that is why i am emo. My nails are long and sharp just like draco likes. Did I mention I’m dating draco malfoy? Aka the HOTTEST PERSON ALIVE besides brendon urie. (A/N: If you don’t like panic! You are a PREPZ and I dont lik u)

“Miss. Way-Urie I will not have someone talk to me like this. Detention tonight at 8!” Professor Snape screams at the top of his lungs. 

“Omg wtf??? I’m just talking to my super sexy boyfriend Draco! What are you? Jealous?” I smirk, tucking a jagged piece of hair behind my pierced ears. I have 8 piercings in each ear and my tongue also has a stud in it. 

“HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THIS!” Prof snape started crying making his black liquid eyeliner drip down his depressed face. Maybe he was emo like me. Prof are NOT emo tho so idk. My face grew sad and I started crying. This made draco angry. 

Draco was wearing a bleach tie died (A/N: get it? Died because im goffick) MCR shirt and acid washed jeans that were half black and half neon pink. Boyz can wear pink, you kno. It’s ok he’s just very in-touch with his emotions. His hair was pulled into big spikes on top of his head n they were died blue. He wore his red contax which made him luok even more goth.

“DONT SPEAK To MY SUPER SMEXY GIRLFRIEND LIKE THAT YOU TOE!!!!!” DRACO sobs, standing up and pushing me behind him. My big platform leather boots jingled and i almost tripped. 

“DRACO YOU PUSHED ME!” I gasped and started crying harder. Big black striped of makeup stroleld down my face like a galaxy. Im like space remember lol

“I”M SORRY BABY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!” Draco sprinted out of the room but left his chain on the desk. I grabbed it with my long nails and dashed after him. I fount him gasping for air against the piller. 

Herminny Granger came up and shoved me to the ground. She giggled and ran away. Fucking prepz. I put my middle finger up at her. 

~Time skipz to tonight lol~

“I have to go, draco” I gasped, looking depressed. 

“What? Are you inliove with professor snap or something?” draco weaped while singing “im not okay” my mcr. 

“So what if i am?” i said sneakily, closing my closet. I wore a big poofy dress with ripped black material and corset stuff on the front and back. My lips adorned blood read lipstick and my eyes were dead on the inside. I hummed dear maria count me in as i got dressed. Draco turned around so he wouldnt see me change because that is PORN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I pushed draco over so he hit the floor and walked into prof snap’s office. 

“SNAPEY!” I yelled. He was in the corner looking sad and depressed, watching rain fall from the heavens. 

“Oh. hello there.” he ejaculated as his long nose pointed in my direction and i felt tears wheel in my eyes. He stood and pulled off his cloak to reveal a fall out boy t shirt and ripped skinny jeans with doc martens and chains and zippers everywhere. 

I GASPED “YOURE GOFFICK???????” I was stunned and he strutted over, shaking his thick, juicy, greasy ass. 

“Yes, and emo and goth and punk and and alt and and indie and underground and a soundcloud rapper and in love with you.” He towards over my small frame and looked into my dark black and silver with small golden flecks orbs. I gasped and almost fainted. 

“What about draco?” my voice shaked as he started singing death of a bachelor by my favorite band, the hot panic1

“Forget about that dog poop bag. You are all i need please marry me and become Avril Willow Way Urie Snape.” His mouth covered mine and i moaned into his lips. His tongue fought mine for dominance and his long ring covered hand found my ass. I gasped as he squeezed me and looked at his neck. 

“Is that a stick and poke of a safety pin snapey?” I twirl his long, emo black, greesy hair inbetween my fingers. 

“It symbolizes my hate for the patriarchy and my love for you” 

JUST THEN DRACO WALKED IN AND PUNCHED SNAPE

“SHES MINE GRANDPA!” he yelled, throwing me over his shoulder! I moaned at the feeling and sobbed to be let down. He set me down and looked into my dead orbs with his blood red orbs. He was sobbing

“Snapes your gpa?” i groaned

“No” draco said back

“Oh” i winked

“But youre still mine” draco twerked 

“No thanks. I love snap now”

Draco screamed and ran into the wall while hermiomy recorded and ronuld farted in response. Everyone in the hall started laughing. 

“NO STOP I LOVE HIM!” I wheezed, throwing myself onto the floor in a big heap

Then I stood up and decided i had to go. The end

[ncthingstars]

𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 .

1. What does your muse smell like?

like the earth. like the dust that piles up in unoccupied cargo bays. they smell like the synthehol from a shuttle’s replicator, and the freshly imported tube grubs from ferenginar. clean laundry, rumpled after a day or two’s wear. they smell like latinum, or perhaps that’s just the air around them. 

2. What do your muse’s hands feel like?

soft, unusually so, though not so strange if you know why. her skin are smooth, unweathered by neither age nor hard physical labor. her grip is strong; a handshake lends itself to firm skin-on-skin contact. her nails are short, not sharp enough to scratch, but sometimes rough and jagged from being bitten and picked at.

3. What does your muse usually eat in a day?

pel enjoys supplementing his diet with non-ferengi foods. of course, tube grubs are a regular part of his diet, and he loves ferengi crabs when he can get them, but klingon gagh is a regular meal, bajoran mapa bread, vulcan gespar for breakfast, and human pasta of all varieties. during the time he spent on the transport ship, he ate a lot of andorian fast food.

4. Does your muse have a good singing voice?

they’re not necessarily a bad vocalist, but they don’t sing very often, and their voice is mostly untrained and undisciplined. they can’t keep pitch very accurately, and their singing is tentative and wavering. that doesn’t stop them from humming our even singing aloud when they’re alone, however. 

5. Does your muse have any bad habits or nervous ticks?

she picks at her nails, and has to keep them filed down as a result. she’ll fiddle with her prosthetic lobes as a nervous tick, which has gotten her into trouble more than once because it comes across as strange — but she can’t feel it, so it’s easy to poke and pull on them. 

6. What does your muse usually look like / wear?

when in public, he wears his prosthetic lobes and multiple layers in order to make his frame seem bulkier and mask his chest somewhat. he doesn’t care too much for fine clothing, but can usually be seen in some multi-piece suit for business deals. when he’s not working, pel prefers to wear loose pants and oversized tops ( x x x x ). he wears boots with a thick sole and a bit of a heel to give him added height, since he is on the short side by ferengi standards. after leaving ds9, he buys a binder from a caitian shop, and he wears it whenever he’s in public. sometimes, on more dysphoric days, he wears it at home too.

7. Is your muse affectionate?  How much?  How so?

very much so. they’re wary around strangers, but they’re big on physical camaraderie — slaps on the back, arms around shoulders or waists, small touches of affirmation, etc. and when they’re comfortable with someone, pel enjoys getting in close, holding hands, huddling together or even full-on cuddling. of course receiving oo-mox is nice too, but it has to be with someone they trust implicitly, because they don’t have any sensation on their prosthetic ears, so they would have to be willing to remove them. they would probably perform oo-mox for the right person, but they’ve never been in that situation. 

8. What position does your muse sleep in?

pel sleeps on her side, usually at least partly curled up, and hugging a pillow. they need space though, because they do tend to stretch and sprawl out in the middle of the night.

9. Could you hear your muse in the hallway from another room?

absolutely. he’s learned to speak loudly — he has to. not everyone can hear as well as the ferengi, after all. pel likes to be the loudest person in the room, but only when doing business. otherwise, he’s quiet softspoken.

Tagged by:  @sampati​​ (ty ty for enabling my love for pel)

Tagging: @guttersniper​ @quantumstarpaths​ @lostmojave​ @pluresque​ (julian or soji), @anarcalina​ (anyone u want!), @storytelers​​ (keiko), && ANYONE ELSE SEEING THIS <3

[archivesdiveronarpg]

Congratulations, NAY! You’ve been accepted for the role of VOLUMNIA (with a faceclaim change to Eva Green). Nay, your application was such a joy to read - every line further solidified why you’re so perfect for the role of Volumnia and how much you just get her. You nailed her mannerisms and her voice in the interview, but your para sample astounded us was where we were completely floored. It’s such a simple scene, Viv eating at her parents’ table alone, but the very premise of it speaks volumes about the Viv before and after the death of her parents and the development in between. We know she’s in good hands. Congratulations, Nay!  Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

                                    ��                                        WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | nay.

Age | nineteen.

Preferred Pronouns | she / her.

Activity Level | well, right now, I’m going through a bunch of end-of-semester shit, so I would put myself as a solid 7/10 — meaning: replies every other day. my activity tends to be at its peak on the weekend, but summer always gives me time to kick it up a notch.

Timezone | GM+5.

In Character

Character | Volumnia; Vivianne Agnes Sloane; I’d love a FC change to Eva Green.

What drew you to this character? | I think how immediately I was drawn to Vivianne has everything to do with my truly horrible addiction to unfathomable, morally ambiguous characters that would be so easy to dislike if only they weren’t so easy to empathise with – and really, that’s just a sign of a well-written character, isn’t it? when it comes to Vivianne, I am totally hooked on the complexities of her character; how there is layer upon layer upon layer of all of these intricacies that knit together to create her, that make her the fierce woman that she is.

there is this juxtaposition of strength and softness with her, that makes her so appealing: the way that she is jagged like the serrated edges of a blade wielded unflinchingly, and still possesses softness reminiscent of a pool of melted wax. I really enjoy how Vivianne is no one thing?? I just really see her as a convolution of things; she is a one-woman performance, but every time the crimson velvet of the theatre curtains find themselves drawn, the audience ( and there is no doubt: there is always an audience, and Vivianne Sloane misses nothing and no one ) does not know just what they will be met with. on one hand, she rocks this magnificent woman-king aesthetic, the sort of bullet of a woman who reminds one of that one line in that quote that goes, “All gods who receive homage are cruel.” on the other, she is a woman who makes calculated decisions, who seems to represent the essence of simplicity, almost paradoxically, with the steady head to make choices that must be made. and what’s so incredible is that there is no one without the other. she is everything at once!!!! it all exists within her. isn’t that amazing?

Vivianne has this – really human story. she has a story, and a past, and it shapes who she is. but it, at the same time, does not dictate it. that’s one of my favourite parts about her. I love the way that ruthlessness and an inherent standard of fairness exists with her. how she is endlessly principled, and it doesn’t have to make her someone who is a likable person, but she is someone who is worthy of the position she holds with the Capulets. Vivianne earns everything that she has, because she has been on her own for a very, very long time. no one has ever really taken care of her, you know? she does that herself. and she takes care of others, and just because she does it in ways that are not outwardly tender does not make that protection she offers any less significant. I love how much she is capable of. and I really love how what cripples her is what she doesn’t let show – there are things; they are just too well-concealed to be used. Vivianne is someone who exercises such a precise amount of control, and it’s all because she learned how to exercise it at a very young age. it is her who chooses how wear it: she wears it like armour.

basically, I am a sucker for her backstory. and I just really wanted to be the one who writes the rest of it.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

H A U N T I N G | of course, probably totally unsurprisingly, what I really want to explore more than anything is Vivianne and Cyrus. I want them face to face, him in front of her with what she did to him in his eyes, and I want her to have to face it. Vivianne makes choices, and not a single one is made without thought and strategy and it is due to this that she stands by hers – but to leave him, abandon her own flesh and blood, who had no one in the world but her, is the hardest she has ever made. I want how Vivianne would react to that. would she regret it, when she must face that she happened to him as her parents happened to her? would she stand by this choice of hers, too? can they go back? how would they move forward? would her ruin come at his hands? would she try to strike back? i’m already flailing!!!!!!

F I S S U R  E S | sometimes, there are cracks in the cave wall that let light in. and in Vivianne’s world, that crack is for Juliana. and it is Juliana who is that light. Juliana that is a soft spot. no, Vivianne does not wear it, and let’s it lie concealed in the depths of her person, where all ofl the truest things about her lie. I want to see that; I want to see that tenderness that she could not give Cyrus blossom inside of Vivianne. I want to know what a heart like hers is like when it feels for another person. I want to see why Juliana, and not Cyrus. I want to see, more than anything, if she were to make a choice between the two – who would she choose then? would she be able to live with that choice?

B L A D E | Vivianne is a weapon in Cosimo’s arsenal who wields a lot of power. and she is in possession of it because she is capable. where she is, and what she is, is all something that she has earned – not in tears, but in sweat and blood, and the latter not always her own. I want to toy with Vivianne’s sway in the Capulets’ army. I want to play with the command she has. the differences between who she is at heart, and how that translates into her work. I want her to have to make a sacrifice that is hard for her to make. I want maybe for her to make a call that goes wrong, that makes her lose some of that respect and that power. I want something to challenge her, to catch her off-guard because it comes out of left-field. for her who appears indestructible to perhaps have to show that she is, in fact, no such thing.

In Depth

What is your favorite place in Verona?

The quirked corner of her mouth is a caustic thing, disappearing just as quickly as it appeared, in the span of a fleeting moment. It parted to exhale a plume of smoke, and let the words be lost in it: “The empty ones,” Vivianne answered. The words were dry; there was no humour to be found, though. It was the truth. The basement of the Cathedral was where she would choose to go. In its cold draftiness of a place of holiness, she chooses to sit now and again – by herself, with the sins she chooses to make humming where they are tucked behind the hard shell of her breastbone.

Aloud, she said, “To prefer a place over all others requires an attachment of sentiment, and to no end –” another drag; an unflinching gaze, “– for buildings were so easy to crumble, so why bother to expend sentiment on that which could give nothing back? And on another note, it is not the place that matters, but the view.”

What does your typical day look like?

Vivianne’s lashes lowered and rose once more, the dark fan of them as apathetic in motion as it was languid. “Typical?” At once, it was a question, but not. “I don’t care for that word.” She answered the question of it herself. How did she spend her days? As she had lived most of her adult life: doing what it was that she needed to. She woke at first light, if not earlier; she bathed, with water cold, and rousing from the hallowed depths of her mind; she ate breakfast, in the kitchen, standing, and never at a table; and then she did her job. And she did it impeccably. And there was nothing that was fucking typical when it came to her job.

Would she offer this to another? It mattered not if it would give nothing away that could harm her in any manner; she did not care to answer it, any more than she cared for that word. She turned her face away, offering no more.

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

War was – an unholy thing. There was too much blood spilled, too little room for clemency, for it to be any other way. Perhaps that was why Vivianne found herself so well-suited for it. After all, had she not always had so many sins to beg forgiveness for? She uttered no apologies now. The slant of her mouth was as cruel as her gaze was cold; in that moment, she could have shown the asker of the question what she thought of it. A blade in the name of Capulet drawn, and any blood spilled for that name the crimson that she would bear, drying on those ruthless palms. How many lives had those hands taken? Many. But Alvise’s was not one of them. The woman’s chin canted, sharp as the words that came for her mouth: “It is a necessary thing, brought to our door, and to be won.” There was no room for arguments, and were that not the case, there raged a darkness that lurked beneath the waxiness of Vivianne’s flesh that would terrify the urge right out of them. She looked like the monster she was. And she did not forget: It was Cosimo Capulet’s hand that fed her. “There is no Helen to wage a war for; this is about honour. And for that, I would do what I must.“ Honour, she understood.

In-Character Para Sample:

TITLE: closure;

Utensils clanked against the plate in the quiet of the room, the sound of it obscene in more ways than one. Vivianne almost smiled into her sip of the glass of brandy, that she had filled to the brim, poured straight from a bottle that her father had kept locked in his study; the one room in the house that no one, not even his wife, was allowed to stroll into. She did not like the taste of it, thinking that it did not mix well with the taste of the stew – but the burn was satisfactory, at least. Fitting, for the occasion.

The dining-room was quiet, for the first time since she had been sat at the wooden, lace-tablecloth-laden table that took up the majority of the space in it. Real quiet; not the sort that was claimed as such, unjustly, so constantly ( and ironically ) intruded-upon it found itself by the incessant insistence of need for it. And the reason for it was simple: for the first time since she had been sat at this very table, Vivianne Sloane ate completely alone. Moreover, she dared to do it, sitting at the head of the table where her father had once sat, and her gaze remained, as it had done from the very moment her rear had settled into the chair with its velvet cushion at the seat, stuck on the one where sheusually sat.

This was not an experiment with sentimentality – not really. And there was nothing here, were she capable of it, to be nostalgic about. It was at once terribly simple, and nothing of the sort. The face was this: Vivianne sat at her father’s place, which would never again be his place, for the dead belonged in the ground, and she did it for the principal of the thing. Her actions were free of the burden of the shame that belonged in this room. They were not ones born of something as thoroughly useless and irritating as vengeance through sheer pettiness; she was not sure it was vengeance at all. Rather, it was something else entirely. It didn’t feel particularly important to identify what it was that her actions were demonstrative of. It was the necessity felt for it to be done, then, that took precedence.

      Those who did not know her parents, but cared to say so anyway, for death was a tricky thing that tended to bring out a fear of mortality in people, and that made them do foolish things – well, such had been the case at the funeral ceremony that morning. For that, tears had rolled down pale cheeks, staining the flesh momentarily, unlike the scars that they’re words had left on her innards with every syllable that had dug into her over the years. That had gouged tenderness from her, mostly in this very room. It was Vivianne who knew them; their sinful daughter, to whom they had known themselves with clarity that she had never asked for. Was she to be grateful for that? She did not know. But all the same, it was through this that she bid them farewell.

                                      God fucking bless them.

Her features did not contort to betray her emotions, as they were not accustomed to doing so. It was clad in a passive mask of indifference that she wore, merely surveyed from the other side of the fence she had always been on – and truthfully, it was not one that felt affected. Whether she had been wearing it as armour for so long that it had made a home of her, it could be. Vivianne did not question it, either way.

She chewed her meat, and more of it than she would have been allowed to, for stout girls were not particularly marriageable. Took in wretched mouthfuls of her father’s brandy. And God, ( andyes, she would take the lord’s name in vain ) Vivianne revelled in it. She revelled in all that she did, that she was not supposed to do – and in the moment of it, just as it felt right to do, the girl opened the box in the corner of her mind, and she scooped out the memories and looked at them, recognised them as one did the reflection in the mirror. Her hands stayed steady. Her expression unfeeling.

             The Lord does not approve of cruel little girls.

             The words sat heavily at the base of her skull. The pressure of it insisting, as it always did, as the burden of shame must do, telling her to bow her head down to it. Go pliant. Beg for forgiveness – for forgiveness that would not come. That never had. That they could not tell her to beg for any longer.

    ��         Vivianne wouldn’t.

              Instead, she straightened the curve of her spine, refusing to hunch. Lifted her chin, defiant. And she drowned those words with another gulp of the drink, swilling it inside of her mouth before she swallowed it. Another sin. One that was a sin if she committed it, but not them. When there was no more food left in her plate, she crossed the knife and fork, one atop another, in the middle of it. She scooted the chair back, letting it drag noisily against the floor. Stood up, and turned away from the seat she would never put herself in again. Turned away, and left the room.

Lights on. Ghosts festering.

Extras:

HEADCANONS.

ONE: The only makeup that Vivianne wears every day is eye-makeup; a slash of kohl on the rims of her eyes, and a slash of eyeliner. Lipstick is reserved for special occasions – it is not a part of her regular look.

TWO: Similarly, her clothes tend to lurk on the simple side of things, as well. When it comes to colour, Vivianne enjoys a lack of it – more than anything else, she tends to dress in white. The ivory of saints, for the woman with the heart of darkness. Her wardrobe is dictated not by her preferences, however, but rather by whatever allows her to blend easily into her surroundings.

THREE: Though it is not that Vivianne does not drink at all, so much as the case remains that she chooses not to do so around people. When she is out and about, she prefers to be in full-possession of her mental faculties, aware that there is responsibility to be taken and control to be kept hold of, and she is not likely to tamper with the level of her control for the sake of something as preposterous as a stupor.However, on a similar note, her agreeing to drink with someone is a show of trust – and trust is not a thing Vivianne Sloane gives out freely. It is with Cosimo, at least, that she allows herself a drink now and again.

FOUR: When she finds herself unable to sleep, Vivianne shows a great liking for hot chocolate. She makes it well, and it is perhaps one of the only sweet things that she can tolerate, not possessing much of a sweet-tooth to begin with.

FIVE: She smokes too much. Almost constantly.