#verse v / where they are just and loyal.
Text
Rhyme and Reason
Pairings: Corinthian x dream!Reader
Word Count: 8.7k words
Prompt: Corruption Kink
Warnings: NSFW, explicit descriptions of death/murder, torture, descriptions of blood, smut, fingering, oral (f!receiving), slight hair pulling, multiple orgasms, p in v, unprotected sex, corruption kink, creampie, fucking in front of a dead body...
A/N: There are only two left, guys! I might be able to do this! This took a minute to write cause ADHD is a bitch. But I finished and I hope you like it! Thank you and Happy Holidays!
The little party you find yourself in is just that, little. It takes place in a bar rented out by the set of hosts, a get together with maybe a little over twenty party-goers.
It took so long to find him.
When your lord Morpheus disappeared some fifty years ago, you and the rest of the Dreaming were left…confused. You thought that maybe it was a test? He wanted to see how loyal his creations really were to him, their king. Would they revolt the moment he no longer gave orders?
But, after the first two decades, you concluded that he was just…gone. And you, among many dreams, left as well.
You spent the next twenty years in the Waking world, searching the world aimlessly for something to inspire you.
When Dream still resided in his realm, you would sing for him. He dreamed up a dream of music and song and you became. He loved your songs, he was inspired by the music you made.
When you sat in Fiddler’s Green, you would sing about the butterflies fluttering through the breeze or the bees in their honeycombs. When you sat by the sandy beach, you would sing about the lap of the tides against the mouth of the sea. When you looked up at the skies, you would sing about the sun and moon, how they loved each other so.
On some nights where you danced in the heads of your mortal lords, he would be there, in the seat in the back, listening to you soothe the minds of frightened children or ease the thoughts of anguished men.
Morpheus loved your sweet music, your heavenly song. You reminded him of someone, someone he loved very much.
Much he knew nothing of how you longed for more than your kindly poetry and prose. You loved the gift he bestowed upon you, but you grew weary of your melodies of dancing birds and sugar cane.
He knew nothing of the way you gazed at the dark and twisted dreams that walked his realm, the way they strut, the way they smirk, the way they spin their fables and tricks and white lies. You wished you could sing in deviant keys, tales of wicked fantasies and depraved beasts.
How you longed for the voice of a siren, rather than the whistle of a songbird.
So you looked for inspiration. And you found it.
The humans were a new kind of nightmare. Yes, they had so much love and light and whatnot, but the depravity. The debauchery and sin you found among their kind, it was more than you could have dreamed of.
You didn't just want to sing their songs, you wanted to create them. You wanted to write your verses as they wrote theirs. You wanted to sing your tales and inspire the rest in the same way your sweet lyrics did.
But you didn't know how. You searched all over for someone to teach you, to show you how to take their sullied natures and adopt them into your own poesy.
Soon you realized that no man could teach you how to sing. You'd almost given up your pursuits of fulfillment until you heard of him; a dream you'd never met but had heard of so many times before in the sleeping realm, a nightmare so infamous and so curiously revered by your former lord. You'd heard it through the mouths of chattering men, then read it in the paper. A “man” whose deeds were so reminiscent of the devil, everyone had to know his name, to know who to protect themselves against.
The Corinthian.
He captured men and took their eyes. He made them see all the wonders of the world. And you wanted to sing them.
It took so long to find him.
You seduced and bribed and begged your way through every little turn in order to get to him. And now you're here with a drink in your hand and so many inspirations surrounding you in this little bar.
And he is beautiful.
It's things like him that inspire you to sing. He’s charming and tall and the sight of him, his dark glasses—which hold more truth than eyes could ever tell—frame his face as the golden rim adores his golden hair. You catch yourself staring too often, so enamored and enchanted by the symphony that he is.
But he'd noticed you too, in the moments where your eyes don't find his. Of course he had. He knows exactly who you are, the music of the Dreaming. He hears it in every little breath you take, the gentle lilt of your voice. You were spoken of with as much regard as he was, though in the more virtuous way rather than in the way of his own notoriety.
What an odd little creature. He'd heard so much about you, how sweet and gentle you were. How Dream would sit for hours and listen to you sing in the meadow. And here you were, surrounded by the darkest of creatures, unbothered but so curious.
How nice you would be to…play with for a while.
“Well, hello there.”
His voice seeps into your skin and has goosebumps rising along your body. You turn and look up at the Corinthian like he was a sight to behold. Your eyes are slightly widened with wonder, and you look like you'll get to your knees and begin praising him at any moment, as though he is some great saint.
“Oh,” you breathe, trying and failing to be subtle. “Hi.”
He leans his elbow on the bar, looking you up and down through the dark of his glasses. “What's your name, little thing?”
You scramble to organize your thoughts once more. He's scrambled them with just the sound of his voice. “Uhm,” you stutter. Shaking your head, you offer him your name.
He chuckles lightly, his charming smile curling over his lips as he shakes his head. “No, hah,” he mutters, “I meant your alias.” He turns a little as he motions to the people in the room, dark souls able to be free in the little space of this bar. “Everyone here has an alias. What's yours?”
“Mine?” You clear your throat. “Oh…” You hadn't thought about that. You rub your palm against your thigh, smoothing your dress over your legs nervously.
He thinks you're precious. He turns with a chuckle, looking around the room before gesturing with his head toward two men talking amongst themselves.
“You see him over there? On the right?” he asks. You nod, staring at the man as the Corinthian speaks. “That's the Extinguisher. He's a pyromaniac. He traps his victims in their own homes and covers them in gasoline. Burns it to the ground, starting with them.” The way he speaks is like music, and you get lost in it.
He stares at the wonder on your face, his lips twitching into a curious grin. “Him, there? He goes by the Boa Constrictor. Like the snake. He ties up his victims real nice and tight until their skin turns purple and numb. Then he…” he breathes a little laugh, “...ties a rope ‘round their necks and keeps it there…nice and tight, until they stop squirmin’.”
He expects you to pale, to see the fear light up in your little eyes. But you don't. You stare, hypnotized by his voice and his words.
“Wow,” you whisper. “What about her?”
He smiles wide, looking at the woman in question. “Oh, her?” He licks his bottom lip. “She comes in a pair, only the public doesn't know that. Actually, they think it's a man. She and her friend over there are known as the Tailor, but they call themselves the Seamstresses. You see, it's easier to be taken seriously as a man in this age, otherwise no one would bat an eye at their art.”
Your eyes twinkle with wonder. He doesn't think you realize it when you grab his arm, clutching it as you continue to listen, watching the two ladies talk. He leans nearer to you, speaking gently into your ear.
“They slice the limbs off their victims, nice and clean cuts, and stitch them back together after they've already bled out.” He tilts his head. “They're actually quite sweet.”
You sigh, almost like you're in a dream. “Woah.”
He turns his body back to you, and you realize your hand grasping him. You let him go, offering an apology through a small smile as you looked up at him. He watches it fade, the wonder returning as you take him in.
“If I had to guess who you were…” he says quietly, his voice a whisper as his eyes wander your face, “I'd say you were the Whisperer.”
You tilt your head, watching every little shift in his face as he speaks. He smirks, “Am I right?” You blink at him, moving to speak but unable to find the words. “The artist who sews the mouths of her victims shut so they can't speak,” he seems to lean in further, his voice getting softer and softer as your eyelids flutter. “Sings a little song to them as she…slits their throats wide open.”
You sigh, nearly folding under the weight of his gaze. You nod gently. “Y-yeah,” you rasp, clearing your throat. “Yes, that's me.”
He smiles wide, leaning back to release you from the spell. You let out a breath at the distance, seeming to come back to yourself. “I admire your work,” he says. “That job you did up in Malibu was just…beautiful.”
You don't know where that is, but apparently this Whisperer did. You nod, “Thanks. Thank you.”
“In fact,” the tips of his fingers brushed your hand, turning it to hold in his palm, “I would love a demonstration. Up close and personal.”
You bring your other hand to graze the side of his palm. “Would you mind giving me the honor of witnessing it firsthand?”
You swallow thickly, staring at him. Firsthand… “Uh, I don't have…thread on me.”
He shrugs. “Well, I'm sure the Seamstresses wouldn't mind lending their tools. If we ask nicely anyway.”
“Well–”
“Come on,” he chuckles. “Just…one little show?” He shows a finger, grinning his charming grin.
So pliant to his word, you give in. “Okay.”
The proud grin he displays is wide and triumphant. “Well,” he says, “thank you very much.”
~
The Corinthian opens your door as you step out of the car, looking out over the large building lit up from the inside and crawling with people. He offers his hand, which you take gratefully as your stomach turns, anxiety and anticipation sharp in your gut. He gives you another charming smile.
You both walk inside, taking in the nightclub still in full swing. It's a Friday night, so there are plenty of people here looking to let loose after a long work day.
There's a small band on stage playing upbeat jazz, a singer performing for an enthused crowd. You know this song, you know every song.
The Corinthian’s arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close to him as he seems to glare at the bodies mingling with one another. It's possessive, like he'll cut the eyes out of anyone who so much as glances the wrong way at you. You lean into him.
He leans down to your ear, his smile returning as he speaks gently. “Who here sparks your interest?” he asks. “Who fits the bill?”
You look up at him. “What do you mean?”
“A target.” He looks around the club, as though he's searching for someone who sparks his own interest. “Most artists have a pattern among their chosen…” he makes a gesture with his hand, trying to find the right word, “canvases.”
You like the way he speaks. It's poetic.
You lick your lips. “What's your pattern?”
“Oh, me?” He shrugs, looking over the crowd again. “I don't follow anything specific.” Tilting his head, he hums, “I suppose I do have a bit of male preference… but I'm not picky.”
“Ah,” you mutter.
“Well?” he wondered. “Anyone?”
You look around at all the people, dancing and sweating and talking. Eventually, your eyes land on a man. He's tall and lean, with black hair messy from dancing.
He reminds you of someone.
“Him.”
The Corinthian’s gaze finds the object of yours. A grin curls devilishly over his lips.
“Very nice.”
“So…” you look up at him, “What do I do?”
The urge to play with you is strong, like it's embedded in the tissue of his being. “You don't know?”
You nod quickly, trying to figure out what to say. You're supposed to be a professional.
“Well, uh, yeah, of course I know,” you clear your throat. “B-But what do you think I should do?”
He chuckles, turning you to face him as his hands cup your waist. He leans in, moving slowly as his lips brush your ear. He lowers his voice to a deep hum. “I always find that seduction works wonders.”
You nod gently as he pulls aways. His black shades stare into your eyes, dark and compelling. “Alright.”
He chuckles, jutting his chin out toward the man, your canvas. “Go on,” he bids. “Take him to the hotel a few blocks down. I'll be waiting for you there.”
Again, you nod. He knows best.
“Okay.”
He grazes his knuckles along your cheek, granting you one last grin before turning and leaving you to your own devices. You would be fine.
You turn toward the dark-haired man, taking in a deep breath before setting a small smile upon your lips. You begin walking over to him, sinking into the music to blend in with the crowd. Even as your hips sway and your face shifts into something more sultry, your hands tremble as the anxiety slips into your skin.
Stepping up behind him, you get his attention by placing a palm on his slim waist. He glances down at your hand and follows it up your wrist, your arm, your shoulder, up to your pretty face as his own smile spreads across his pink lips. “Hello,” you smile gently, leaning forward just enough to tilt your head back to look up at him.
He turns, enjoying the way your hands shift to stay at his sides, your thumbs feeling over the fabric of his shirt. He’s handsome, easily falling victim to your own charm as he lets you seduce him. His smile widens, though he doesn’t look predatory, like a lot of men you’ve come across among the years. He’s charming.
“Well, hello there.” He looks you up and down, and you take in the sight of his pale blue eyes as he does.
You just keep smiling, and it’s all you have to do for him to fall further and further for your charm. “Hi,” you lick your bottom lip.
Considerate of you, he places his hand on your shoulder and brushes it down your arm slowly until he slips it into your hand, holding one of them and setting his other hand onto your own waist. Yours eased to his shoulder, and soon you were holding one another as you danced on a slow tempo to the quick rhythmed music.
“How's a pretty girl like you doing on a night like this, hm?” he wonders, his voice warm and just as smiling as his lips.
You shrug a shoulder as though you're shy. “I'm doing alright,” you chuckle lightly, breathily. “Are you having fun?”
He hums. “Now that you're here? So much fun.” He watched you appreciatively, biting his lower lip and sighing. “You lookin’ to play with little ole me?”
You tilt your head gently. “Do you like to play?”
“Doll,” he chuckles, “I love to play.”
You giggle softly, and you watch him seem to almost melt at the sound of it. “You wanna play with me?” you lean in a little closer.
“Do I?”
You stand on your tiptoes so your lips brush his ear as you whisper, your words light and airy. “Why don't we go somewhere more private so we can…play?”
He sighs longingly. “Oh, I love the sound of that.”
You smile wide, pulling away from him as you keep your hands firmly clasped. “Well, come on then,” you say as you pull him gently toward the door. He walks with you, joining your side and exiting the club with you on his arm.
As you're walking out, his lead taking you in the direction of his car, you find yourself humming the song that had been playing inside under your breath. His gaze turns to you and he finds himself even further under your enchantment.
What a wonder you are… An angel from heaven.
He helps you into his car, shutting your door and rounding to the other side as he takes his seat as the driver. “So where are we going?” he asks, looking at you with anticipation seeping through every pore.
You smile, and he swears you speak like a melody as you say, “I've got a room down at the hotel.” You bring a hand to your face as you rest your fingers just under your chin. “We shouldn't be interrupted there.”
He grins. “Whatever you say, doll.”
~
He's been so sweet, much closer on the sweeter side of the men you've met since you first came to the mortal plane. Graham, he said his name was.
You nearly felt bad about what was going to happen to Graham…but you wouldn't be putting him to waste. No, you would be honoring him. He would inspire your songs, he would give life to them. That was an honor you felt befit him, an honor he deserved.
The hotel comes into view, and your stomach flips. Graham parks, opens your door like a gentleman, and then offers his hand as the both of you enter the building. You glance around as you walk, wondering what you're supposed to do now. He just said to meet him here…
You walk, tucked into his side as you try not to aimlessly wander. He stays close to you, almost dutifully, and you don't notice the way he gazes at your face.
You look up at him, an innocent—almost naïve—glow to your eyes that makes his smile grow. “You're beautiful, you know that?”
You hum lightly, smiling gently. Your gaze wanders from his and falls upon a conference room door, the window on the door reflecting something off its surface.
Your eyes catch on the silhouette of such a familiar man. You walk over, pulling Graham with you as you push the door open.
“Thought we were going up to your room, doll?” he wonders. You pull him into the dark conference room, glancing around for your new mentor and finding nothing but shadows.
You turn back to Graham, thinking on your feet as you give him a smile. “I…just couldn't wait that long,” you chuckle lightly. You step forward, your hands on his chest.
He smiles, pushing the door closed behind him with his foot and turning the lock as he looks down at you with a smile. “Sounds good to me,” he grins.
He holds your body close, wrapping you up in his arms. Your smile falls as he leans in closer, and when his lips brush yours, you can't help but push him away with the gentle push of your fingertips.
He seems concerned as he takes you in, holding his hands up enough to show he isn't going to hurt you. “What's the matter?”
In the corner of your eyes, you catch a shadow. Your gaze lands on the Corinthian, hidden in the dark space behind Graham with a finger held up to his curling lips, and your breath hitches in a small gasp.
You watch him silently, watching as his hands gesture toward the both of you. He just nods, urging you on.
You look back at Graham, his eyes still just as concerned as before. You remember to smile, stepping back toward him as you slowly set your hands on his shoulders. “Nothing,” you whisper. You kiss him, and he takes a moment to allow you space before his hands fall to your waist again. His lips are soft, comforting.
Tilting your head, your eyes creak open to see the Corinthian again. He smiles reassuringly, lifting his hand to cover his eyes. After receiving your confused look, he just gives another encouraging gesture. You figure, he knows best.
Pulling away again, you keep your hands on his shoulders. Graham opens his eyes, watching you smile up at him. “Close your eyes?” you ask gently.
He chuckles, amused, “Why?”
You bat your lashes, a subtle but rapid blink that makes him pliant to you. “Trust me?” Your voice is gentle and small, a whisper he has nor reason to doubt.
He just sighs and laughs, shaking his head as he brings hand to cover his eyes, peeking at you teasingly before hiding behind his palm again. You look to the Corinthian for more instruction.
He raises his finger to tap his throat. You watch his other hand come up, balling into a tight fist. He punches his palm soundlessly. And you understand.
You place your gaze upon Graham once more. His pretty face, his messy black hair, his pink lips, his closed eyes hiding pale blue rings around his pupils. You clench your fist, feeling the tightness in your fingers, the strain of the skin over your knuckles.
You take in a deep bracing breath, and he's still waiting patiently for you. Patient, gentle, good.
And you strike him hard in his throat, your fist colliding with his Adam’s apple as his eyes bulge from his skull. He tries to gasp at the sudden impact, the sound barely coming out in a painful wheeze as he raises his hands to his throat.
He looks at you, his eyes wide with shock and confusion. His mouth is open wide as he gapes, trying so hard to speak, to breathe, to figure out why.
You hadn't even realized it when the Corinthian moved, his hands landing heavily over Graham’s shoulders as he wheezes and gasps, making the most dreadful sounds in an attempt to breathe.
“Hello, there,” he grins, Graham’s eyes finding him and bulging. When did he get there?
His gaping mouth tries to form a word, and the Corinthian tilts his head to hear it before chuckling lightly. “Don't try to speak. You'll find it hurts more.”
He pulls a chair from the large conference table and sits him roughly down onto it. Graham doesn't try to bolt, the door is locked and he isn't confident in his ability to get out of here with the Corinthian as your apparent partner. He tries to speak, to negotiate, but he can't get any sound past senseless croaks.
The Corinthian joins your side, wrapping an arm possessively around your waist as you stare at the man you'd doomed. Doomed. That's a nice word.
He opens up his jacket, reaching in an inside pocket as he pulls out the silver needle and red thread he'd procured from the Seamstresses.
“Now, beautiful,” he says, handing it over to you, “why don't you take this while I help you out a little?” You look at the tools he offers, blink a couple of times before picking it up.
His crooked finger brushes under your chin before he turns away toward your friend again. He rounds to another chair, which he pulls from its spot tucked at the table, a duffle bag you hadn't noticed before sitting in the seat. In the bag is rope, strong rope he uses to tie Graham to the chair as he kneels behind him.
You glance at the needle. “What do I do with it?”
He looks up at you as he wraps the rope around the back of the chair and his chest and ignores Graham’s struggles. He says it like it's obvious. “You'll sew his mouth shut.”
Graham struggles against the rope, but to no avail. The Corinthian makes a tight knot, looking at him with a warning in his tone. “I suggest you be nice and good for her or…” he smiles, his hands on his shoulders as his lips brush the shell of his ear, “I'll just have to intervene. And you don't want that.”
Graham goes completely still, sweating and crying now. The tears roll down his cheeks and he gives you a desperate look.
You realize your hands are shaking, like the first time you even stepped foot toward him.
“I…” you mutter, staring at the needle.
The Corinthian’s smile remains unchanged, encouraging. “Come on,” he says as he stands, walking over toward you once more. “Don't be shy.”
The anxiety curls in your stomach, shakes in your hands. You take a step back, turning to him timidly as you don't meet his eyes. “I'm… I'm not her,” you say, struggling to get the words out as the nerves eat away at you. “I lied… I'm not the Whisperer. I'm just…some dream… I'm just a dream.”
He laughs, and you watch him as the confusion sinks into the features of your face. Graham is out of both your minds as you stare at him.
“Well, I know that.” He chuckles, stepping into your space as he grabs your free hand, cradling it in his palm. “But you're not just any dream, are you? You're Aria. One of Morpheus’ special dreams, his little song.”
Irritation rises in your belly and you shake your head, stepping back and letting go of his hand. “I'm not Aria,” you bite. “Not anymore. I hate that name.”
He raises a brow. “Do you now?” His smirk is devilish. “Who are you then?”
You stare at him, offering the name you'd take thirty years ago when you left the Dreaming for the first time, your new name with its new rhythm and rhyme. The Corinthian repeats it back to you, tasting it on his tongue like honey.
You take your bottom lip between your teeth, another step taking you away from him. “But I'm not the Whisperer.”
He shrugs. “‘Course you're not. I made her up.” You watch him, surprise in every crevice of your face. He reaches out and takes your hands, pulling you close again as he watches you, the look I'm his eyes almost predatory as he lowers his voice for you to hear. His words seep into your skin.
“But you want to be, don't you?” He smiles, “I can see it in your eyes, you wanna be more than Dream's ‘little song’, don't ya?”
Graham watches, feeling his vocal chords easing in the slightest bit. He still can't speak, can't scream, can't get any sound out but a whisper so quiet, he still can't be heard.
“You want to be something not so sweet,” he continues. “You wanna sing something other than Kumbaya, holding hands with your neighbors and bein’ all nice and happy.”
Your lip twitches at the mention of that song, a campfire song that felt like a pinnacle of your distaste for the music you've been forced to sing. “I hate Kumbaya,” you mumble.
He chuckles. “Don't we all?” He brushes his knuckles along your cheekbone, smoothing down to rest underneath your chin. “You can be so much more than that. I know it. You can leave behind all that sweetness, and become like me. Remake yourself in your own image.”
He raises your hand, still cupping the needle and thread in your palm. “All you have to do…” he gently pushes your palm toward your body, separating each word as he does, “...is take the needle.”
He takes a step back, giving you space to think.
You look down at your palm, contemplating. This is it. This is your chance to become more than a little songbird. You could become better. You could fulfill your own hopes and dreams and become a better version of you.
Your fingers curl over your palm.
Your eyes turn on Graham, and fear flashes across his face. You take the first step toward him, then another, and he begins to squirm in his chair as you do. The Corinthian tuts, walking toward him as he places his hands on his shoulders to keep him down, still.
He smiles, a dark and wicked smile. “There you go,” he encourages. “Do it. Become more than that sweet little dream. Do what you want to do, not what you were made to.”
You take the string of thread and punch it between your thumb and forefinger, stilling your breath completely as your slightly shaky hands work to thread the needle. It takes a moment for you to get it through the eye, letting out a relieved sigh when you do.
Graham keeps squirming, despite the uselessness. You stand in front of him. “Take a seat,” the Corinthian says. “It'll be easier.”
You set your free hand on his shoulder, lowering yourself onto his lap as you straddle him. His mouth forms a word, the slightest whisper tearing painfully from his throat as it did. Please. Please. Please.
He casts a desperate, pleasing gaze upon you, his life in your hands—the hands of the beautiful siren who had forsaken him. You watch him with an unwavering gaze, the anxiety and anticipation curling your brows.
He is so good. So genuinely good. The kind of good that stares at your face and calls you beautiful. The kind that keeps calling you beautiful until you no longer have the capacity not to believe it. He's the kind of good that holds you when you're sad, wipes away your tears when you cry. The kind of good that makes you feel better about living in such a cruel world.
And you want to feel bad about taking his life away, about taking the rhythm of his heartbeat away.
But you can't, and you don't. And honestly, a rage and desperation flares within you as you stare at him. Because he is good. And that's just the problem, isn't it?
For so long, all of your songs have been so good. Songs about dancing birds and twinkling stars and buzzing bees. Songs about hope and love and care and whatever else. And you're sick of it.
You were only drawn to him because he's good.
You need something new, something a little fiercer than the blazing sun in the sky, something a little darker than the moonless night. You need inspiration.
And he could give it to you. The Corinthian would help.
You begin to move your hands toward his face, and Graham desperately tries to move away. You sigh, looking up at the Corinthian. He understands immediately.
Taking Graham’s face in his hands, he holds his head still and his jaw securely closed. He bears his teeth like a frightened animal, breathing quickly as whispers of protest strain in his crushed vocal chords.
You use one hand to hold his lips closed. The Corinthian nods along with you. “Just at the corner. Right there.” You slide your pinched fingers over to the left corner of his lips. “Very good. Now just…push it in…”
You position the needle, holding there for a long time as you internalize taking this step. All you have to do…is push it in.
The needle pierces his flesh, sinking into his skin as he screams silently, held still as a statue by the Corinthian, as though his strength is nothing to him.
The sharp end comes out on the other side of his bottom lip, and you pull it all the way through as the red thread becomes redder with the blood staining it. You pull until you have enough length, tying the end off with steadier hands.
“Very good,” the Corinthian praises. “See? You're a natural.”
He takes in his success, his great triumph. Dream's little song…nothing more now than the outlines of a nightmare waiting to be filled in with a little more color. He almost feels drunk off the sight of you, straddling this man as you continue to pierce him with your needle and sew his lips shut, tight, taking away the one thing you were made to do.
Sing.
Such a sweet little bird you are now, a corrupted and twisted little dream in the hands of a wicked nightmare.
He watches you thread the needle through his flesh as Graham continues to cry and try and try and try to scream, to have someone hear him, save him from the pain and torture. But you're all alone in here, locked inside this room with nothing but the night…
As you focus, you find yourself easing into the task. Pinching and piercing and pulling and repeating. You smile, calm as a melody comes to mind.
You hum it, lower and slower than the original speed. The Corinthian watches, in awe of you as you continue to work. He almost swears the rhythm of Graham’s silent breaths and cries begin to form to the rhythm of your song.
“Say ‘Night-ie night’ and kiss me,” you whisper, leaning forward to kiss the tip of Graham’s nose. “Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me.”
You poke the needle through the end of his lip, piercing the far right corner slowly, calmly. “While I'm alone and blue as can be…” You tie the end of the knot, singing a little slower as you do. “Dream a little dream of…me.”
You lean forward and cut the thread with your teeth, taking in the sight of your good work. The Corinthian lets Graham go, and he just sits there, still sobbing, his face wet with tears and blood and sweat.
“Look at that,” the Corinthian admires, laughing deep in his throat as he sets his hands on your shoulders and shakes his head. “Beautiful.”
You stare at him, taking in the sight before you. The Corinthian’s hands fall to your waist, and his head rests at the crook of your neck. Graham’s eyes struggle to stay open, his vision blurry with tears and the adrenaline and pain crashing down and making it hard to find the will to stay conscious.
“Look at all your hard work,” the Corinthian hums, the sound of your song still playing in his mind. “How does it feel?”
You look at him. His dark blood is crimson as it stains his shirt. His messy black hair is only worse now, his pale blue eyes brighter and paler as his pupils grow to the size of a coin.
He looks beautiful, you think.
“Different.”
The tip of his nose brushes underneath your ear. “Do you want to finish it off?”
You nod gently.
The Corinthian fishes a sharp blade from the inside of his jacket. He takes your hand and wraps it around the handle, gripping it tight and helping to guide you.
“Right…” he moves the tip of the blade to press against Graham’s straining neck. He presses it right under his chin, starting from the far right, opposite the needle, “...here.”
“Here?” you ask as he lets go, keeping the blade steady.
He nods. “Right there.”
You lift your other hand to hold the back of his neck steady. Graham watches, terrified. You stare him dead in the eyes, unblinking, unwavering.
You carve the blade into his throat and slice. All the way across, you take your time in slowly slitting his throat. You only blink as the blood sprays out of his sliced arteries and spray all over your face and neck. It keeps spraying and keeps spraying, coming in spurts as he chokes on his blood, gurgling and coughing.
You continue to stare at him, even as you've finished even after he has died and the light has left his eyes and the songs have left his soul. His eyes are bulgy and he's drenched in blood. Butchered.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a dark hand reaching out to Graham. You want to turn, to see her take him, to watch as he is swept away in the hands of Death to his afterlife. But you don't. Watching Graham, you see the flickers of hope in his eyes die out as the life leaves him and replaces it with emptiness. A momentary silence is filled with the gentle flap of wings.
The Corinthian comes back to mind as he pulls you back enough to see the whole of your work. He shakes his head in admiration, smiling wide.
“Your first one,” he says.
“My first one.”
“How does it feel?”
His hands on your hips pull you back against his body. You lean into him. “Different.”
He chuckles lightly, one of his hands moving from your waist in favor of sliding up the length of your body to wrap around your throat, resting there as he holds you securely. His other hand slides down your arm and takes the knife from your hand.
“I think you liked it,” he hums in your ear, dropping his knife on the table with a clatter and holding your neck tighter. “Having his life in your hands?”
You swallow thickly, staring at the dripping blood as the crimson on your face dries. “I–”
“Say it,” he cuts you off, his lips right by your ear, his teeth nipping at the lobe. “You loved it. You loved silencing him.”
He feels your shallow breaths beneath his palm. Still dazed, you say, “I–”
“Say it.”
You take in a slow breath, filling your lungs before you admit it, the curling in your stomach gone and replaced by the chills along your skin. “I loved it,” you sigh. “I loved silencing him.”
He smiles triumphantly. “I know you did,” he chuckles. “Now look at you. A new person, a new dream.” His smile widens and his hand tightens. “You're just like me.”
“Just like you.”
“A nightmare.” His lips graze the shell of your ear.
“A nightmare.”
You lean into him with a slight moan when his lips press against your neck, kissing it with insistent lips and insistent teeth. “Just like you,” you whisper, like the repeating lyrics of a song.
“Just like me.”
Your eyes flutter at the way his teeth nip at your flesh. “A nightmare.”
“A nightmare.” He turns you around in his arms, moving you so your back presses against the table. His lips crash down on yours, swallowing you whole as they do. He can taste the blood staining your lips. You melt against him, weak and wanting as his body presses flush against yours. He bends you back against the table, laying you down as his lips trail down to the skin of your neck, kissing and biting and sucking.
“Look at you,” he breathes. “A corrupted little dream.”
Corrupted. You like that word.
“Corinthian,” you moan, bringing your arms up as your hands wrap around the back of his head and keep him close to you.
“My little dream,” he scoffs, his hands gripping your body tightly.
You go to speak, but he cuts you off. He laughs wickedly. “But you're not a dream, are you? And you're not a nightmare.”
“Cor–”
“You're just a little whore, aren't you?” he smirks, riding your shirt up as his hand slips under it. “A little whore who wants to be something else.”
You moan. “A whore.”
His face is inches from yours again as he speaks quietly, his voice low and rough and dangerous. “You thought I wouldn't know what you were when I saw you?” he questions, finding it amusing. “You thought I wouldn't know you were just a dream trying to be something she isn't?”
Your breath has picked up, heavy as your head spins. “I–”
He's not having it. He silences you again, holding your throat still as he makes you look at him, as he makes sure you can't look away. “Let me show you what you are,” he breathes. “Then I'll rebuild you into something you can be.”
Enchanted by him and his words, you breathe deeply. “Show me what I am,” you echo.
He nods, “That's right.”
“What I can be.”
“Good girl,” he praises. He attacks your mouth once more. It's a bruising kiss as he wraps you up in him. His hand grips your neck tightly, constricting your breath a bit as he does. With one hand, he rips your dress from your body and lets it fall to the ground in rags. You gasp as he does it, your body now exposed to the chilly air as you're left in nothing but your undergarments.
He hums deeply as he looks over you. He smiles. “Dream had it right with this body,” he says, running his hand over your skin and listening to the way you moan.
He hooks his finger around the waistband of your panties, pulling them roughly down your legs to reveal yourself to him. “Look at you,” he breathes as he smooths his hand over your mound. “You're so pretty, aren't you?”
You moan when his long middle finger sinks inside of you, sliding between your damp folds. He's surprised by how wet you are, though he supposes he shouldn't be.
You immediately clamp down around his finger, and he lets out a long sigh. “Such a tight little thing.”
Your legs move to close at the intrusion, not new to the feeling but still not quite used to it either. He just forces them apart, keeping you spread wide for him as he does. “Don't you hide yourself from me,” he says, thrusting a second finger inside of you as you moan at the stretch.
He pumps his fingers in and out of you, collecting the gathering wetness as he watches you through his dark glasses, admires the way your body responds to him.
Your hips meet his hands as he keeps touching you, eager to feel more of him as your shallow breaths continue to pass between your lips. When he pulls his hand from you, you whimper at the loss, clenching around nothing in an attempt to feel him again.
You watch as he sets his fingers on his tongue, closing his mouth around them and suckling with a deep hum. He caresses your name with his lips as he looks down at you. “You're delicious, sweetheart,” he says, and your body keens into his touch.
His hand around your throat tightens as he bends down so his face is hardly separated from yours. “I bet you'd just love to feel my mouth on you, hm?”
You nod quickly, “Please.”
He laughs darkly, kissing you roughly and letting his mouth trail down your body—down, down, down until his mouth ghosts over your fluttering pussy.
Your back arches when you feel his hot mouth against you. His tongue laps against your folds and he suckles around you, tasting the sweetness of your nectar. His tongue flattens against you as he begins to lick you up.
His hand loosens around your throat before ultimately letting go to hold your grinding hips down. Your mouth falls open and you give into him, tangling your fingers in his hair and encouraging his mouth against you.
He laps at your pussy like you're the finest wine. He can taste the virtue that pulsed in your veins, and he can taste the darkness beginning to replace it. His tongue delves inside of you, his lips wrapping around your throbbing clit and suckling gently.
The pleasure jolts through your body like a fire, and you’re entirely willing to let it consume you. You want to feel its burning flames lick at your flesh, searing it from bone to turn you to ash and create something new out of the remains.
The Corinthian sinks three fingers into you after a while, pumping them in and out as you enjoy the delicious stretch with closed eyes, moaning and grinding. He looks up at you, looking for your eyes and finding them hooded.
You mewl when he pulls away from you. “No, no, no,” he says. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. You gotta watch me make you mine.”
You do as you're told, opening your eyes and doing your best to keep them that way. He praises you with another “good girl” before he's wrapping his lips around you again.
He enjoys every second immensely, tasting the sweet nectar of your arousal as he coaxes it from you, taking the grinding of your hips every time he curls his fingers or sucks on your clit.
You moan his name as you feel the rise in your stomach tightening with an oncoming pleasure. You clench around his fingers, your clit pulses against his tongue. You've forgotten all about Graham's body slumped in his bindings, you'd forgotten the blood staining your face and neck. It's all the Corinthian.
You throw your head back roughly and gasp when you cum, your head spinning as the back of it smacks against the table. Your thighs tremble and shake as he refuses to let up, sinking his tongue deeper inside. Your moans almost sound like tiny cries as you grind your hips into his mouth.
He licks his lips, tasting you on his tongue with an immense amount of appreciation. "You're fucking delicious, baby,” he hums, smirking dangerously.
He sits up to his full height once more, his hand finding its place around your throat as he bends down to kiss you again. The taste of yourself on his tongue is intoxicating.
His lips smack as he pulls away from you. Without a word, he flips you onto your stomach atop the table. He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing it roughly. The breath is forced from your lungs as your chest presses against the table.
The Corinthian tangles his hand in your hair as he roughly pulls your head up, making you look up as your eyes fall on Graham.
“Look at him,” he hums. “Look at all that good work.”
You do. You take in the sight of him with a new set of eyes. The red thread keep his lips shut tight. He'd made such wonderful sounds when you'd sewn them. You'd taken his song and added it to your own, his fear and his desperation had been the perfect addition to your symphony.
His blood soaks his clothes, as well as your face, what was once crimson now darker from being exposed to the air. You can still hear the way he choked, the way he gasped for air that wouldn't come.
His skin was so pale, his eyes that were once a pale blue now cloudy and grey with the mask of death. His once pink lips are just as grey. You can still see the smile they made, the words they spoke. The things he could sing.
You could still hear him singing.
You moan when the Corinthian’s hand presses between your slick folds again. He smiles, another dark chuckle slipping from his lips. “There you go,” he says. “Nice and slick for me. Be a good girl and say please.”
You let out an airy breath, mumbling a tiny whisper of, “Please.”
But he isn't convinced as he groans and shakes his head. “No, you can do better than that, sweetheart. Now I'm not going to give you what you need until you say please.”
Desperate and needy, you let out another breathy moan. “Please,” you whine again, louder this time as your words form into a melody. “I need you. I need you to make me yours.”
He's drunk off your obedience, the way you gave into him so easily from the start. He inclines his head, satisfied. “Good girl.”
The jingle of his belt buckle fills your ears with its gentle ring. Your pussy flutters when you feel the tip of him press against your folds. “Please,” you whisper again.
You let out a long breath when he buries himself to the hilt inside of your hot cunt. A rough groan falls from his lips, the tip of his cock pressing deep inside of you as you lose your breath.
You grip the table, allowing the pleasure to fill you as he holds your hips tight. You moan at the stretch of him inside you.
The Corinthian lets out a deep breath, steadying himself as he pulls out just barely to the tip before roughly thrusting back into. You moan loudly, your head dizzy with the feeling blossoming inside of you.
He doesn't allow you a slow build. He doesn't give you the privilege of easing you into the monstrous nature of his love. Instead, he holds you steady as he fucks into your tight pussy, snapping his hips in and out of you without sparing a second for you to adjust to him.
He grunts and groans behind you as he uses you to his need. He feeds off your moans, their song-like nature filling the air and seeming to hypnotize him into wanting even more of you, into needing even more of you.
The sound of his hips smacking against your ass fills the room. It joins your moans and his dark grunts, blending together perfectly.
“Listen to you,” he grunts. “You're my little song now.”
You can no longer think straight, your head spinning with pleasure, with the sound of Graham's singing in your head, with the sound of flapping wings.
You watch Graham as if through rose-colored glasses, the pleasure mixing with the sight of him creating something you've never felt before as you continue to moan meekly.
And, for a moment, you think of Dream.
As a melody plays in the back of your brain, a new melody you've never heard before, you think about how much you want to show Dream.
But he abandoned you. And, before that, he'd created you as a sweet dream that could never know anything other than harmony. And you hated him for that.
So, as you watch the blood drip from his sealed lips, you smile and give into the Corinthian completely. His fingers press to your clit, and you shudder as you feel yourself getting so close, so close to falling apart and forever becoming the Corinthian’s song…ready to leave Sweet Dream behind forever.
The pressure builds as his speed on your clit does as well. You clench around his cock, your head light and your moans scratching your throat. “Corinthian,” you whine. “I'm so close.”
His hips snap into yours a little harder. “I bet you are,” he huffs. “Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll make you nice and full.”
The pleasure rises within you until you can’t hold it in anymore. With a thrust of his hips and a circle of his finger, you fall apart. Your whole body shudders as you let out a loud, breathy moan as it all comes crashing down. You give in to the Corinthian’s symphony of death.
A rough groan, bordering on a growl, erupts from his throat as he shoves his cock as deep inside you. He gives in to the squeeze of your cunt and cums, grinding his hips so deep as he fills you to the brim.
And with one last thrust, with his cum buried in your fluttering pussy, he claims you as his. He lets go of your hair, pulling out of you with a heavy sigh.
You whimper at the loss of him, laying on the table as your legs shake.
The Corinthian’s arms wrap around you, picking you up and pulling you to stand as he embraces you in another kiss. You lean into him, letting his lips meld against yours.
He looks over your face, the new clarity in your eyes. He smiles.
“Sing me a song, sweetheart.”
And you do. You sing a song of a dying promise, the sounds of the symphony you'd just created allowing you to sing a melody of broken hope and shattered dreams.
You sing for a long time as the Corinthian listens to you, enchanted by your song, by your new dream.
Now, you belonged to him.
The Sandman taglist: @poetic-fiasco @the-nerdy-goddess @life-on-needs @fanreader @jamiethenerdymonster @sarahbullet235 @majestyjade @melinoe-the-rat @katsukis1wife @sugakookieswithacupoftae16 @hatterripper31 @kplatzman @kmc1989
The Corinthian taglist: @waitingformysandman @honey-im-hotdog @saltysasque @anotherblackreader
Tag yourself here...
#corinthian#the corinthian#corinthian x reader#corinthian x you#corinthian smut#corinthian fanfic#corinthian fanfiction#fanfiction#fanfic#the sandman#the sandman fanfic#the sandman fanfiction#reader insert#female reader#10 days of smutmas
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A list of current verses on this blog. The list doesn't include AUs that are exclusively built between other muns and me, so these are more generic verses that might be used for interactions.
i. main verse: default verse for interactions. Jade's time in nrc from year 1 through year 3. His year 4 has yet to be decided, I might build that area of his verse if there's interest in interactions.
ii. college verse: Jade graduates from nrc and decides to pursue higher education on the surface. He joined STEM, majoring in Information Security. It's something that comes in handy when he's exploring his UM.
iii. modern verse: Follows main verse and college verse. After graduation from college Jade finds a job on the surface and he might work in various fields depending on how the plotting goes, but by default he's mastered dream engineering (via his UM) and works as a master thief/hacker of sorts. One important information to note is that Jade is technologically daft mainly in his main verse, but college and years on land helped him understand human technology better rather than the obsolete tech used by the Coral Sea. Compared to his main verse, Jade's knowledge of modern technology has greatly advanced.
vi. adult verse: Takes place ten years after main verse, and follows the canon of main verse only. Jade takes over as the Leech family's heir. Depending on the timeline, he's either his Father's secretary/second-in-charge/aide, or post being disowned by Antonio, Jade runs his own mafia organization named Rapture and is both his own father's greatest nemesis and enemy. This verse is headcanon-heavy, just a note. It follows my hcs of the long history the Leech family played in the history of Mafias in the Coral Sea.
v. reincarnation au: Follows all the canon of all the above verses, but it's thousands of years since. Takes place in an alternate reality where Jade reincarnates into the human Jeremiah who works at a body art parlour as a student who does piercings. This verse is affiliated with @fireandfae's Malleus and @jinanreona's Leona.
Unaffiliated with canon verses:
vi. gamer au: Doesn't follow any of the canon-compliant verses. Jade is raised by a single mother, Julliet, who was a gamer since she was a teenager but passed away from cancer when Jade was fifteen. Juliet left Jade her game account in Glory, and her extensive knowledge of the game as well as her unique skill set. In her memory, Jade pursued a career in e-sports and joined one of the teams who competed for the Global Glory Competition. Affiliated with @lunaetis' Eden.
vii. genshin au: Jade is a "failed" experiment by iL Dottore. Made from his own DNA, Jade possesses memories of Zandik, but it's important to note that Jade is not Zandik himself. At some point, Jade is transferred to serve as Arlecchino's aide. He runs errands for her and is only loyal to her. Affiliated with @allogens's Arlecchino.
#𖦹 ⋆꙳ ⁄ ooc.#// if any of new'old mutuals want to interact with these verses#// feel free to#// if theyre listed here they're open to interactions#// affiliated simply means that the world in that verse is built around a mutual's headcanons that might or might not be related to Jade#// but it's not required to follow or interact with affiliates to interact with these verses#long post cw
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What is DK's relationship with Dread Kong like?
Ask Muse about Relationships
// ohboy-
Well, Dread Kong is originally from the game Jungle Beat where DK goes around and uh...beats the shit out of leaders of different jungle territories and then they all (join, comrade) at the end.
So the idea is that these different fruit tribes are actually defectors from the original jungle kingdom that have had it with how things are run, or they're just greedy (who knows).
Which means they were all originally part of the jungle kingdom to start off with. Dread in particular was a high ranking general in the Kong army and typically was the first line of defense with training new recruits and getting their below-average stats to at least barely on par very quickly.
DK (I guess verse dependent but I'll pick one for the following) spends a lot of his childhood and pre-teens being literal Justin Bieber- (DK country cartoon and that singing' voice yo) and monkeying around with friends that Cranky starts growing concerned he won't be ready to take over whenever the time comes. So with a good dose of guilt and unspoken bribery for Dad's affection, DK ends up enlisting in the Kong army as a young adult to start learning the ways of battle - which is timed fairly well since the Kong nation is just beginning their war against the Kremlings at this time.
Naturally, he's assigned under Dread and goes through basic training. (All the hazing included - because a lot of the army is sour and bitter and doesn't like royalty, go figure.) Dread of course is operatating under the guise of becoming close to and grooming his army men to basically treat him as their leader so that when he decides to defect, he has a loyal crew that will lovingly forsake the jungle kingdom for him.
DK becomes the target of this scheme along with all the others, and is eventually convinced to have ah...relations with Dread (aka sleep with him here and there) for better treatment / protection in the royal hating army. Although, in the midst of doing so (this ofc takes place over the course of a few years btw), DK semi develops (or at least thinks he does) feelings for Dread, and the two seem to get along out of battle or training, and especially when no other royal sneering soldiers are around to question the growing playfulness around their exchanges.
This of course is shattered and discarded by DK when Dread enacts his plan and has his most primed to obey army members join him in his coup'de'tat, in which he fully expects DK to join him even though it means toppeling his father. (Though he figures DK will be on board because of how his father pushes him to do all the things he isn't on board with.)
The two eventually part bloody and vicious ways after a scuffle following DK not accepting the other's betrayal.
After the events of Jungle Beat, Dread is sent along with the other antagonists of the fruit kingdoms to be enslaved on the island where the coconut crystal is enshrined (in a temple that will only open with the touch of a royal family member) to serve as unwilling bouncers against treasure hunters. (They basically have not much food so anyone that comes along is food. Cue Dread developing cannibalistic tendencies.)
Having to face Dread again when he and Bowser arrive on the island leaves DK feeling...well, dread - ironically. His feelings about the past are a mix of disgust and what could have been 's, and he misses the bonds shared with one whom taught him a lot of what he knows of combat (and to a degree, physical love *cough the virginity ask plot couuuugh ....and subsequent ending*) but after seeing just how much Dread (as well as the others) have deteriorated and become rabid in their banishment, he's opt to keep those feelings fossilized in the past where they ought stay, if not be forgotten entirely.
(Relevant Dread v DK drabbles: xx, xx , xx)
#//it's complicated bu t#// -w- he's almost a mirror to the relationship btw dk and koopzilla's bowser which is always funnn#long post#bananabraiined#tw power abuse#//i love him so much the evil b; but too bad he's gonna die for babynapping
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New AUs!
(These are works in progress and will be expanded as needed)
🏀 Dancing Queen 🚬 v; Mamma Mia - Donna Sheridan is an old friend of Billy’s mother, and when she finally is able to figure out how to get in touch with him again in late 1984, he finds that she is funny, courageous, intelligent, and a loyal confidant. He confesses that he hates his new life in Hawkins, and that Neil’s treatment of him has only gotten worse, and that he doesn’t get along with his stepsister or stepmother. He wants, no, he needs an escape. Donna’s heart goes out to the boy, and she invites him to spend the summer of 1985 with her and her five-year-old daughter Sophie on a little island off the coast of Greece. Billy accepts, skipping his graduation party in favor of immediately hopping on a plane. Neil is furious, of course, but can’t do anything since Billy is 18 and technically an adult. He’s left fuming with Susan and Max as the Mind Flayer rears its ugly head, and Billy spends three months surfing, lifeguarding, babysitting Sophie, and helping Donna out when and where he can. Upon returning to Hawkins, he finds that his father is dead, having been killed in the Battle of Starcourt Mall by the Mind Flayer, and that Max and Susan have been left reeling. He uses the skills and patience he learned from Donna to try and help them as much as possible, growing extremely protective of them and making an effort to really get to know them. (This applies to all of his siblings btw!)
🏀 Hungry like the Wolf 🚬 v; Werewolf - Flexible! Billy essentially gets bitten at some point in his teen years and becomes a werewolf. Powers include super strength, enhanced hearing and smell, and shapeshifting into a massive tawny-furred wolf with blue eyes on nights when the moon is full. Weaknesses include a lack of self control when in lupine form, a severe allergy to silver, and an aversion to loud high-pitched noises. Wolfsbane diffused into water or brewed into a tea helps make his transformations less painful and violent, and makes it so that he retains control of himself while in lupine form. During the daytime around full moons, he is even more volatile and aggressive than normal, and likely to do dangerous things. Wolfsbane helps with that, as well, but is more effective if he drinks it constantly rather than only around full moons. He doesn’t get Flayed in this verse, as the monster induces a lycanthropic transformation prematurely, which he cannot get out of until the next full moon a few days later.
🏀 Thou shalt not die 🚬 v; Lost Boys - A week before the Hargrove-Mayfield family is set to leave California for Indiana, Billy decides that he can no longer take the abuse from Neil and tries to runaway. Neil finds out about his plan, which leads to a massive fight where Neil took his car keys and hid them. Still determined to escape, despite being bloodied and without access to his vehicle, Billy snuck out into the night with a duffel bag full of essentials and the intent to hitchhike his way from just outside L.A. to San Diego. He was picked up at around two in the morning right outside of Santa Carla by a group of guys on motorcycles. Seeing his pain and simmering rage, the leader, David, grinned and insisted that they take him under their wing. Billy didn’t object, considering the fact that he had nowhere else to go, and that he found David to be insanely hot. David, of course, knew this, and used it to his advantage to great effect, seducing the teen and luring him back to their lair. Before Billy knew it, he was smitten, having been wined and dined despite Star warning him not to except the bottle that David offered him. He drank and was thus changed, becoming a half-vampire (or Dhampir) like Star. That was when David’s spell over him began to break. The sun burned him where it usually kissed his skin; the St. Christopher pendant he always wore repulsed and hurt him instead of comforting him; he was now intoxicated by a ravenous lust for blood. Billy begged Star to tell him what was happening to him, but she couldn’t. When David and the others took him out for his first hunt, he bolted, refusing to kill anyone for their sick amusement. He ran as far and as fast as he could, praying that they wouldn’t catch up with him, and was eventually caught by the police, who brought him back to his livid father and worried stepmother, kicking and screaming. Only Max seemed to notice that he wasn’t himself anymore, that he seemed weaker and more out of it than usual, and that he was avoiding daylight at all costs. She asked him about it the night before they were supposed to leave, and to her surprise, he confided in her about what happened with David and his gang of vampires, telling her that they had done something to him, that he was dangerous, and that he didn’t want to be like them. She believed him, making a pact that she would help him do extensive research on vampires once they reached Hawkins and had access to the library there. For the time being, she would do her best to keep him out of the sun and out of Neil’s warpath. By the time the family reaches Hawkins, the two stepsiblings are practically inseparable, if a bit tense, and Billy has grown at least somewhat accustomed to being a Dhampir and learned how to protect himself from the sunlight, but his thirst grows day by day. (Takes place about 2-3 years before the events of the movie, but if Billy survives until season 4, he’ll become human again when Max the vampire gets killed back in Santa Carla. I’m also open to doing threads where Billy does become a full vampire, and those will be tagged as vampire au)
🏀 All the world’s a stage 🚬 v; theater kid - After moving to Hawkins, Susan Mayfield notices that her stepson happens to be highly interested in the plays of William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe, despite his efforts to hide it. She also notes his rather obvious flair for the dramatic, as well as the pressure being put on him by his father to be perfect and “manly”. One night over dinner, right before school starts, she suggests that it would be a great idea for Billy to get involved with the high school theater program, stating before Neil can interrupt her that another extracurricular activity besides basketball would look amazing on his transcripts when applying to universities, and that she wouldn’t mind seeing him flex his acting muscles. Neil, of course, doesn’t want to start a fight with his brand new wife, so he accepts defeat, Max stifles a laugh, and Billy jumps at the chance to pursue one of his previously hidden passions. He grows much closer to his stepmother as a direct result of her genuine support, though things are still pretty tense between him and Max for awhile. Billy learns the basics of sewing and patching for costuming purposes from Susan, and he also is a bit friendlier with people in general, getting along much better with the drama club while still managing to get the basketball team wrapped around his little finger. They’re not keen on his fondness for Eddie “The Freak” Munson or his friends, but they do listen to him when he tells them to lay off. For now. (Totally open to having him join Hellfire Club from this verse btw!)
#AUs#🏀 all the world’s a stage 🚬 v; theater kid#🏀 hungry like the wolf 🚬 v; werewolf#🏀 thou shalt not die 🚬 v; the lost boys#🏀 dancing queen 🚬 v; mamma mia
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plots please
send me “plots please” … and I’ll respond with 3 interesting plots / relationships / connections I can think of for our muses!
❀ || muse specific: maeve && regina
1. pre-evil queen era. dynamics with maeve's ouat verse where she's lost and not in control of her powers and regina's a young woman being suffocated by her mother's plans.
2. show / later era. hurt feelings and betrayal. maybe maeve disappeared when regina needed her and she didn't know if it was intentional or not. just give me old friends now in difficult waters, one of them basically a new person because life has been ROUGH.
❀ || verse specific: gen v
I'm still writing up her verse because I'm slow but for either of your gen v muses... maeve's adoptive mother is a vought scientist, and maeve's expected to follow in her steps. give me shy but brilliant little maeve who excels in classes but tries desperately to be invisible, youngest around, but also just... loyal and in need of friends. ( and an excellent tutor just saying. )
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( beckoned by beacon hills | teen wolf v. )
from the little she remembers about early childhood, her father was deeply unhappy. unsatisfied. he rarely agreed with his older brother, disobeyed orders at increasing frequency before one day taking her and her mother across the country from beacon hills to get some distance. chris and kate were the only ones she knew well enough to miss from being so young, but none of the family on that side ever reached out afterward. it wasn't until she was much older that she'd ever think it was because they were too loyal or too scared to do so.
except chris, eventually. there were never any specifics in their communication, but something had changed on his end enough to warrant extra concern over the girl he remembered. anthea thought it was sweet, and he gave great advice where it came to academics. even travelled with his daughter allison so they could meet, and anthea was so thrilled that every opportunity for vacation afterward was to either make sure they could come out to her again, or she would travel to wherever they were.
it was a wonderful thing, truly. but the itch to have more family in touch again drew her right back into the exact thing her father wanted out of: the family business. kate was her first successful find, the one who found more cousins closer to thea's area. she learned more about both what they did, and what their lineage was proud of. what expectations were set. she soaked in all the knowledge and skills they were willing to teach while remaining unsure if she was ready to change her lifeplan so swiftly.
until she's given an opportunity to choose for herself. an apartment in her hometown is readied just for her along with the news that chris would be moving out there. the only rule was to not tell chris, or allison, that she had known they were coming or that the family had covered the apartment. but she was so eager to see them again and see the town she never got to know, that she agreed. there wasn't anyone left on her mom's side to say anything, and after being on her own for a couple of years, she was ready to not be anymore.
beacon hills, however, would have plans of its own...
this is a teen wolf show specific verse ( we're not show's movie friendly here, fair headsup )! anthea is an argent, and younger cousin to kate and chris argent. her parents move out of beacon hills when she's still very young, and cut all contact with her dad's side of the family in an effort to raise her largely as a normal child and certainly not under gerard's thumb. their plan even works, until chris reaches out to her when she's a teenager, after her mom passes.
she eventually connects to more and more of the argent family, including lessons about being a hunter and what their ancestors have managed, culminating in agreeing to move to beacon hills to be ready for when chris and his family do the same. she hesitates on making contact once she realizes allison knows nothing about the hunting life, even with the instructions that she not let them know she's there on family's dime.
#teen wolf verse#( beckoned by beacon hills | teen wolf v. )#( exploring other gardens | verses )#[ so much potential!! ]#[ to be clear: she doesn't TRUST her uncle#but she misses the family she remembers#namely chris and kate ]
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Name: Lucille Constance Lark
Alias: Soundless Spirit, Alabaster Woman, Lulu, Lili, Lucy
Species: Spirit
Height:5'3
Age:(3)25, physically 18
Birthday: “Birth” day: December 22; Actual: July 23
Gender: Female
Orientation: Bisexual
Hometown: Burgess Village
Occupation: Spirit of Air/Sound
FC:IA from Vocaliod
Human FC: Reina Izumi
Conjures notes to speak. Otherwise is mute
Loyal center
___
Lucille was born in a small village where every year it snowed. She was playful and always took tricks in jest. Despite her age, she never married and instead spent her time with her friend, a local boy who loved pranks as much as she did, if not more.
One night, the boy didn’t come back home. Her friend’s sister had to tell her about how he fell through the ice. It was that night, Lucille fell sick.
Crude medicine was not affecting her. First, she lost her voice. Then, she was slowly slipping into the next life. She prayed that she could live, just so she could find her friend. To make the children smile and laugh again, just as she once did. She promised her voice to the glowing moon. She promised if he would let her live, she would sing for every child she could.
She did not make it through the night.
Instead, she was brought back as a spirit. Her dark black locks were turned to a snowy white, and she retained her warmth from when she was human. When she realized she still existed, she tried to cry out in joy–But nothing came from her. The Man in the Moon was not able to give her voice back. Instead, she was sent to live in the nearby forest, to wait until someone would believe in her.
However, the true tragedy lay in the fact that spirits nor humans could see her. She was enveloped in silence and her form was invisible for many years.
Lucille tried her best to make connections with the humans, after failing time after time with spirits. Most walked right through her, but she could see some of the children who would hear her spirit, even if she couldn’t talk. Some of them would say there was a silent melody upon the wind, and those who heard her heart, she knew she could posses, for a short time.
She never uses the bodies for anything wrong, but to merely help herself to be believed in, instilling a song she would sing when she was alive in her host. She brings hope and music whenever she can, before leaving the hosts to return to her silence.
After a hundred years or so, she realized that her hold over air allowed her power to form parchments or 'notes’ that communicate for her. They bend to her will, being a part of her magic and her entire being. However, if she makes too many at once, she can end up hurting her spirit and starts to become unseen again.
She has made a few friends, even with her silence. Due to the few believers she has, she has grown in power and can now be seen by spirits. After three hundred years, the silent spirit is ready to play once again.
________
Currently three verses stand for Lucille. More may be added.
Start Again Verse: Lucille has just become seen, has no believers whatsoever. Little to no power, her only friend is the Wind. (No Tag)
Progression Verse: ‘20 years later.’ Lucille has gone past the time of her most beloved believers, they growing older and forgetting about her. She travels the world once more, gathering believers of all ages, visiting Jackson and those she knew prior every so often. This will be her usual verse unless otherwise specified. (V: Seen)
Modern Verse: Link to description of verse is here (V: Modern)
A spin off to this is her progressing Persona 5 (Royal) verse.
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Mikaela Hyakuya Verses
Child Mika: Mika was an orphan at the Hyakuya orphanage waiting for a family to come even though he had an adopted family with Yu and the other. He helped take care of everyone with Yu and Akane before the vampires came after the human race died. He then got brought underground with the vampires being used as “livestock” for the vampires before his supposed death when he tried to leave with his family to the outside world.
v: childhood
Incomplete Vampire Mika: Mika has been turned into a vampire by Krul, but he is incomplete since he refuses to drink human blood. He doesn’t like humans because of the experiments and vampires because of the history that he has with him. He keeps to himself most of the time as the only vampires that he talks to are Krul and Ferid since he avoids conservations with the other vampires as much as possible. Mika cares about his family still believing that is his last part of humanity that he has left since Yu is the last one from his family. He is loyal and trusting to Krul, but he does refuse her until he finds out what her true plans are. v: incomplete
True Vampire Mika: Mika becomes a true vampire after drinking the blood from Yu making it to where his eyes are red instead of the natural blue that he had. He isn’t fighting against his bloodlust anymore since he doesn’t have to tormented by it at all, but he will still need to drink blood to survive. He still cares for Yu and Yu’s friends, but has no urge to trust Yu’s friends as he just tolerates them instead. v: complete
Jida Mika: Being able to escape with Yu after the death of their family, Mikaela and Yu were found by Guren who thought that he was only going to find one child though. Mikaela and Yu were raised by Guren as they both were going to join the JIDA. Mika was only going to join because he wanted to make sure that Yu would be okay. He is apart of Shinoa’s squad even though there are times when it seems like that he is Yu’s babysitter. v: JIDA
AU Verses
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shannon johnstone
BASICS
FULL NAME: shannon dominique johnstone
NICKNAME(S): shan
AGE: 26
DATE OF BIRTH: april 21st
ZODIAC SIGN: taurus
PLACE OF BIRTH: seattle, washington
ETHNICITY: biracial, half black, half white
NATIONALITY: american
GENDER: cis female
SEXUAL ORIENTATION: heterosexual
ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: heteroromantic
RELIGION: catholic, neopagan
OCCUPATION: social worker
LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: english, bits of german from nathan
ACCENT: western american
APPEARANCE
FACE CLAIM: nesta cooper
HAIR COLOR: black
EYE COLOR: brown
HEIGHT: 5'8"
WEIGHT: 140 lbs
BUILD: thin, lean muscle
TATTOOS: sun/moon/star triangle on the inside of her right wrist [x]
PIERCINGS: double lobes, right industrial
DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS: big, natural, curly hair
PERSONALITY
POSITIVES: reliable, loyal, protective
NEGATIVES: stubborn, hard headed
LIKES: coffee, football, kids, cats
DISLIKES: bullies, all dogs that aren’t Hans, sitting still, clutter
FAMILY
FATHER: christopher johnstone
MOTHER: shawna johnstone
SIBLING(S): jason (older brother), sam (older brother), mickey (little brother), jenny (little sister)
FAMILIAR: long haired black cat named gruber
FINANCIAL STATUS: lower middle class
BIOGRAPHY
shannon has always had a dominant, in your face, personality. being the middle of five kids sort of requires you to find a way to stick out & build your place in life. she refused to be left on the sidelines, always wanting to be in the middle of whatever her siblings were up to; sometimes that got her in trouble, sometimes resulted in all sorts of fun.
that bold personality continued through school, only developing further when she & her classmates reached the age where bullying became a regular thing– something she absolutely refused to let slide. it wasn’t uncommon for her to get in the middle of a group of kids on the playground, defending whoever was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of harsh words (& sometimes shoves). which is how she met nathan & mike and resulted in their sibling-like bond & friendship. finding out all three of them come from magic backgrounds only solidified that bond further, making them completely inseparable.
it took shannon a couple years after graduating high school to figure out what she wanted to do with her life, but once she did, she had the full support of her family and her best friends. Including Nathan quietly helping pay for her schooling since Shannon’s family couldn’t afford to help her. Neither of them talk about the fact it happened, but she’s grateful all the same for her best friend’s unwavering support and belief in her.
VERSES
v;; nine herbs? try me instead (witch)
doing her own thing with mike & nathan at her side, taking care of as many kids as she can along the way.
v;; a kid’s hero (human)
all the same, just without the magic
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Pardon me for sounding too forward, but your comment on my Prince Hal fic really made my day :) Thank you so much!
Awwww, thank you!!! Remind me which fic that was- I want to reblog it on my side blog for Marvel and Marvel Actor characters- @smolvenger so I can share it!
Gush Alert: But I LOVE Prince Hal/Henry V. Out of all Tom Hiddleston’s characters, he is my personal favorite, my baby girl. Like, I have pics of him, made an OC for a fic I wrote based off of and named after him, am writing a fic series where he’s in an arranged marriage with reader (The Twelve Days on Tumblr and Archive of Our Own) and of course I read every damn fic of him from The Hollow Crown ( Timothee Chalamet just can’t even compete💅🏻) I can find of him.
I mean, a misbehaving but well meaning, rebellious, fun loving prince who matures to be a great king who wins battles and loves and is loyal to his wife all with the most beautiful Shakespeare verses??? What more could you want?!?!?
Also, thank you for sharing your writing and how wonderful it is with all of us!!!!
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Rhyme and Reason
Pairings: Corinthian x dream!Reader
Word Count: 8.7k words
Prompt: Corruption Kink
Warnings: NSFW, dubious consent, explicit descriptions of death/murder, torture, descriptions of blood, smut, fingering, oral (f!receiving), slight hair pulling, multiple orgasms, p in v, unprotected sex, corruption kink, creampie, fucking in front of a dead body...
A/N: This is a repost bc why not? Thank you and enjoy!
The little party you find yourself in is just that, little. It takes place in a bar rented out by the set of hosts, a get together with maybe a little over twenty party-goers.
It took so long to find him.
When your lord Morpheus disappeared some fifty years ago, you and the rest of the Dreaming were left…confused. You thought that maybe it was a test? He wanted to see how loyal his creations really were to him, their king. Would they revolt the moment he no longer gave orders?
But, after the first two decades, you concluded that he was just…gone. And you, among many dreams, left as well.
You spent the next twenty years in the Waking world, searching the world aimlessly for something to inspire you.
When Dream still resided in his realm, you would sing for him. He dreamed up a dream of music and song and you became. He loved your songs, he was inspired by the music you made.
When you sat in Fiddler’s Green, you would sing about the butterflies fluttering through the breeze or the bees in their honeycombs. When you sat by the sandy beach, you would sing about the lap of the tides against the mouth of the sea. When you looked up at the skies, you would sing about the sun and moon, how they loved each other so.
On some nights where you danced in the heads of your mortal lords, he would be there, in the seat in the back, listening to you soothe the minds of frightened children or ease the thoughts of anguished men.
Morpheus loved your sweet music, your heavenly song. You reminded him of someone, someone he loved very much.
Much he knew nothing of how you longed for more than your kindly poetry and prose. You loved the gift he bestowed upon you, but you grew weary of your melodies of dancing birds and sugar cane.
He knew nothing of the way you gazed at the dark and twisted dreams that walked his realm, the way they strut, the way they smirk, the way they spin their fables and tricks and white lies. You wished you could sing in deviant keys, tales of wicked fantasies and depraved beasts.
How you longed for the voice of a siren, rather than the whistle of a songbird.
So you looked for inspiration. And you found it.
The humans were a new kind of nightmare. Yes, they had so much love and light and whatnot, but the depravity. The debauchery and sin you found among their kind, it was more than you could have dreamed of.
You didn't just want to sing their songs, you wanted to create them. You wanted to write your verses as they wrote theirs. You wanted to sing your tales and inspire the rest in the same way your sweet lyrics did.
But you didn't know how. You searched all over for someone to teach you, to show you how to take their sullied natures and adopt them into your own poesy.
Soon you realized that no man could teach you how to sing. You'd almost given up your pursuits of fulfillment until you heard of him; a dream you'd never met but had heard of so many times before in the sleeping realm, a nightmare so infamous and so curiously revered by your former lord. You'd heard it through the mouths of chattering men, then read it in the paper. A “man” whose deeds were so reminiscent of the devil, everyone had to know his name, to know who to protect themselves against.
The Corinthian.
He captured men and took their eyes. He made them see all the wonders of the world. And you wanted to sing them.
It took so long to find him.
You seduced and bribed and begged your way through every little turn in order to get to him. And now you're here with a drink in your hand and so many inspirations surrounding you in this little bar.
And he is beautiful.
It's things like him that inspire you to sing. He’s charming and tall and the sight of him, his dark glasses—which hold more truth than eyes could ever tell—frame his face as the golden rim adores his golden hair. You catch yourself staring too often, so enamored and enchanted by the symphony that he is.
But he'd noticed you too, in the moments where your eyes don't find his. Of course he had. He knows exactly who you are, the music of the Dreaming. He hears it in every little breath you take, the gentle lilt of your voice. You were spoken of with as much regard as he was, though in the more virtuous way rather than in the way of his own notoriety.
What an odd little creature. He'd heard so much about you, how sweet and gentle you were. How Dream would sit for hours and listen to you sing in the meadow. And here you were, surrounded by the darkest of creatures, unbothered but so curious.
How nice you would be to…play with for a while.
“Well, hello there.”
His voice seeps into your skin and has goosebumps rising along your body. You turn and look up at the Corinthian like he was a sight to behold. Your eyes are slightly widened with wonder, and you look like you'll get to your knees and begin praising him at any moment, as though he is some great saint.
“Oh,” you breathe, trying and failing to be subtle. “Hi.”
He leans his elbow on the bar, looking you up and down through the dark of his glasses. “What's your name, little thing?”
You scramble to organize your thoughts once more. He's scrambled them with just the sound of his voice. “Uhm,” you stutter. Shaking your head, you offer him your name.
He chuckles lightly, his charming smile curling over his lips as he shakes his head. “No, hah,” he mutters, “I meant your alias.” He turns a little as he motions to the people in the room, dark souls able to be free in the little space of this bar. “Everyone here has an alias. What's yours?”
“Mine?” You clear your throat. “Oh…” You hadn't thought about that. You rub your palm against your thigh, smoothing your dress over your legs nervously.
He thinks you're precious. He turns with a chuckle, looking around the room before gesturing with his head toward two men talking amongst themselves.
“You see him over there? On the right?” he asks. You nod, staring at the man as the Corinthian speaks. “That's the Extinguisher. He's a pyromaniac. He traps his victims in their own homes and covers them in gasoline. Burns it to the ground, starting with them.” The way he speaks is like music, and you get lost in it.
He stares at the wonder on your face, his lips twitching into a curious grin. “Him, there? He goes by the Boa Constrictor. Like the snake. He ties up his victims real nice and tight until their skin turns purple and numb. Then he…” he breathes a little laugh, “...ties a rope ‘round their necks and keeps it there…nice and tight, until they stop squirmin’.”
He expects you to pale, to see the fear light up in your little eyes. But you don't. You stare, hypnotized by his voice and his words.
“Wow,” you whisper. “What about her?”
He smiles wide, looking at the woman in question. “Oh, her?” He licks his bottom lip. “She comes in a pair, only the public doesn't know that. Actually, they think it's a man. She and her friend over there are known as the Tailor, but they call themselves the Seamstresses. You see, it's easier to be taken seriously as a man in this age, otherwise no one would bat an eye at their art.”
Your eyes twinkle with wonder. He doesn't think you realize it when you grab his arm, clutching it as you continue to listen, watching the two ladies talk. He leans nearer to you, speaking gently into your ear.
“They slice the limbs off their victims, nice and clean cuts, and stitch them back together after they've already bled out.” He tilts his head. “They're actually quite sweet.”
You sigh, almost like you're in a dream. “Woah.”
He turns his body back to you, and you realize your hand grasping him. You let him go, offering an apology through a small smile as you looked up at him. He watches it fade, the wonder returning as you take him in.
“If I had to guess who you were…” he says quietly, his voice a whisper as his eyes wander your face, “I'd say you were the Whisperer.”
You tilt your head, watching every little shift in his face as he speaks. He smirks, “Am I right?” You blink at him, moving to speak but unable to find the words. “The artist who sews the mouths of her victims shut so they can't speak,” he seems to lean in further, his voice getting softer and softer as your eyelids flutter. “Sings a little song to them as she…slits their throats wide open.”
You sigh, nearly folding under the weight of his gaze. You nod gently. “Y-yeah,” you rasp, clearing your throat. “Yes, that's me.”
He smiles wide, leaning back to release you from the spell. You let out a breath at the distance, seeming to come back to yourself. “I admire your work,” he says. “That job you did up in Malibu was just…beautiful.”
You don't know where that is, but apparently this Whisperer did. You nod, “Thanks. Thank you.”
“In fact,” the tips of his fingers brushed your hand, turning it to hold in his palm, “I would love a demonstration. Up close and personal.”
You bring your other hand to graze the side of his palm. “Would you mind giving me the honor of witnessing it firsthand?”
You swallow thickly, staring at him. Firsthand… “Uh, I don't have…thread on me.”
He shrugs. “Well, I'm sure the Seamstresses wouldn't mind lending their tools. If we ask nicely anyway.”
“Well–”
“Come on,” he chuckles. “Just…one little show?” He shows a finger, grinning his charming grin.
So pliant to his word, you give in. “Okay.”
The proud grin he displays is wide and triumphant. “Well,” he says, “thank you very much.”
~
The Corinthian opens your door as you step out of the car, looking out over the large building lit up from the inside and crawling with people. He offers his hand, which you take gratefully as your stomach turns, anxiety and anticipation sharp in your gut. He gives you another charming smile.
You both walk inside, taking in the nightclub still in full swing. It's a Friday night, so there are plenty of people here looking to let loose after a long work day.
There's a small band on stage playing upbeat jazz, a singer performing for an enthused crowd. You know this song, you know every song.
The Corinthian’s arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close to him as he seems to glare at the bodies mingling with one another. It's possessive, like he'll cut the eyes out of anyone who so much as glances the wrong way at you. You lean into him.
He leans down to your ear, his smile returning as he speaks gently. “Who here sparks your interest?” he asks. “Who fits the bill?”
You look up at him. “What do you mean?”
“A target.” He looks around the club, as though he's searching for someone who sparks his own interest. “Most artists have a pattern among their chosen…” he makes a gesture with his hand, trying to find the right word, “canvases.”
You like the way he speaks. It's poetic.
You lick your lips. “What's your pattern?”
“Oh, me?” He shrugs, looking over the crowd again. “I don't follow anything specific.” Tilting his head, he hums, “I suppose I do have a bit of male preference… but I'm not picky.”
“Ah,” you mutter.
“Well?” he wondered. “Anyone?”
You look around at all the people, dancing and sweating and talking. Eventually, your eyes land on a man. He's tall and lean, with black hair messy from dancing.
He reminds you of someone.
“Him.”
The Corinthian’s gaze finds the object of yours. A grin curls devilishly over his lips.
“Very nice.”
“So…” you look up at him, “What do I do?”
The urge to play with you is strong, like it's embedded in the tissue of his being. “You don't know?”
You nod quickly, trying to figure out what to say. You're supposed to be a professional.
“Well, uh, yeah, of course I know,” you clear your throat. “B-But what do you think I should do?”
He chuckles, turning you to face him as his hands cup your waist. He leans in, moving slowly as his lips brush your ear. He lowers his voice to a deep hum. “I always find that seduction works wonders.”
You nod gently as he pulls aways. His black shades stare into your eyes, dark and compelling. “Alright.”
He chuckles, jutting his chin out toward the man, your canvas. “Go on,” he bids. “Take him to the hotel a few blocks down. I'll be waiting for you there.”
Again, you nod. He knows best.
“Okay.”
He grazes his knuckles along your cheek, granting you one last grin before turning and leaving you to your own devices. You would be fine.
You turn toward the dark-haired man, taking in a deep breath before setting a small smile upon your lips. You begin walking over to him, sinking into the music to blend in with the crowd. Even as your hips sway and your face shifts into something more sultry, your hands tremble as the anxiety slips into your skin.
Stepping up behind him, you get his attention by placing a palm on his slim waist. He glances down at your hand and follows it up your wrist, your arm, your shoulder, up to your pretty face as his own smile spreads across his pink lips. “Hello,” you smile gently, leaning forward just enough to tilt your head back to look up at him.
He turns, enjoying the way your hands shift to stay at his sides, your thumbs feeling over the fabric of his shirt. He’s handsome, easily falling victim to your own charm as he lets you seduce him. His smile widens, though he doesn’t look predatory, like a lot of men you’ve come across among the years. He’s charming.
“Well, hello there.” He looks you up and down, and you take in the sight of his pale blue eyes as he does.
You just keep smiling, and it’s all you have to do for him to fall further and further for your charm. “Hi,” you lick your bottom lip.
Considerate of you, he places his hand on your shoulder and brushes it down your arm slowly until he slips it into your hand, holding one of them and setting his other hand onto your own waist. Yours eased to his shoulder, and soon you were holding one another as you danced on a slow tempo to the quick rhythmed music.
“How's a pretty girl like you doing on a night like this, hm?” he wonders, his voice warm and just as smiling as his lips.
You shrug a shoulder as though you're shy. “I'm doing alright,” you chuckle lightly, breathily. “Are you having fun?”
He hums. “Now that you're here? So much fun.” He watched you appreciatively, biting his lower lip and sighing. “You lookin’ to play with little ole me?”
You tilt your head gently. “Do you like to play?”
“Doll,” he chuckles, “I love to play.”
You giggle softly, and you watch him seem to almost melt at the sound of it. “You wanna play with me?” you lean in a little closer.
“Do I?”
You stand on your tiptoes so your lips brush his ear as you whisper, your words light and airy. “Why don't we go somewhere more private so we can…play?”
He sighs longingly. “Oh, I love the sound of that.”
You smile wide, pulling away from him as you keep your hands firmly clasped. “Well, come on then,” you say as you pull him gently toward the door. He walks with you, joining your side and exiting the club with you on his arm.
As you're walking out, his lead taking you in the direction of his car, you find yourself humming the song that had been playing inside under your breath. His gaze turns to you and he finds himself even further under your enchantment.
What a wonder you are… An angel from heaven.
He helps you into his car, shutting your door and rounding to the other side as he takes his seat as the driver. “So where are we going?” he asks, looking at you with anticipation seeping through every pore.
You smile, and he swears you speak like a melody as you say, “I've got a room down at the hotel.” You bring a hand to your face as you rest your fingers just under your chin. “We shouldn't be interrupted there.”
He grins. “Whatever you say, doll.”
~
He's been so sweet, much closer on the sweeter side of the men you've met since you first came to the mortal plane. Graham, he said his name was.
You nearly felt bad about what was going to happen to Graham…but you wouldn't be putting him to waste. No, you would be honoring him. He would inspire your songs, he would give life to them. That was an honor you felt befit him, an honor he deserved.
The hotel comes into view, and your stomach flips. Graham parks, opens your door like a gentleman, and then offers his hand as the both of you enter the building. You glance around as you walk, wondering what you're supposed to do now. He just said to meet him here…
You walk, tucked into his side as you try not to aimlessly wander. He stays close to you, almost dutifully, and you don't notice the way he gazes at your face.
You look up at him, an innocent—almost naïve—glow to your eyes that makes his smile grow. “You're beautiful, you know that?”
You hum lightly, smiling gently. Your gaze wanders from his and falls upon a conference room door, the window on the door reflecting something off its surface.
Your eyes catch on the silhouette of such a familiar man. You walk over, pulling Graham with you as you push the door open.
“Thought we were going up to your room, doll?” he wonders. You pull him into the dark conference room, glancing around for your new mentor and finding nothing but shadows.
You turn back to Graham, thinking on your feet as you give him a smile. “I…just couldn't wait that long,” you chuckle lightly. You step forward, your hands on his chest.
He smiles, pushing the door closed behind him with his foot and turning the lock as he looks down at you with a smile. “Sounds good to me,” he grins.
He holds your body close, wrapping you up in his arms. Your smile falls as he leans in closer, and when his lips brush yours, you can't help but push him away with the gentle push of your fingertips.
He seems concerned as he takes you in, holding his hands up enough to show he isn't going to hurt you. “What's the matter?”
In the corner of your eyes, you catch a shadow. Your gaze lands on the Corinthian, hidden in the dark space behind Graham with a finger held up to his curling lips, and your breath hitches in a small gasp.
You watch him silently, watching as his hands gesture toward the both of you. He just nods, urging you on.
You look back at Graham, his eyes still just as concerned as before. You remember to smile, stepping back toward him as you slowly set your hands on his shoulders. “Nothing,” you whisper. You kiss him, and he takes a moment to allow you space before his hands fall to your waist again. His lips are soft, comforting.
Tilting your head, your eyes creak open to see the Corinthian again. He smiles reassuringly, lifting his hand to cover his eyes. After receiving your confused look, he just gives another encouraging gesture. You figure, he knows best.
Pulling away again, you keep your hands on his shoulders. Graham opens his eyes, watching you smile up at him. “Close your eyes?” you ask gently.
He chuckles, amused, “Why?”
You bat your lashes, a subtle but rapid blink that makes him pliant to you. “Trust me?” Your voice is gentle and small, a whisper he has nor reason to doubt.
He just sighs and laughs, shaking his head as he brings hand to cover his eyes, peeking at you teasingly before hiding behind his palm again. You look to the Corinthian for more instruction.
He raises his finger to tap his throat. You watch his other hand come up, balling into a tight fist. He punches his palm soundlessly. And you understand.
You place your gaze upon Graham once more. His pretty face, his messy black hair, his pink lips, his closed eyes hiding pale blue rings around his pupils. You clench your fist, feeling the tightness in your fingers, the strain of the skin over your knuckles.
You take in a deep bracing breath, and he's still waiting patiently for you. Patient, gentle, good.
And you strike him hard in his throat, your fist colliding with his Adam’s apple as his eyes bulge from his skull. He tries to gasp at the sudden impact, the sound barely coming out in a painful wheeze as he raises his hands to his throat.
He looks at you, his eyes wide with shock and confusion. His mouth is open wide as he gapes, trying so hard to speak, to breathe, to figure out why.
You hadn't even realized it when the Corinthian moved, his hands landing heavily over Graham’s shoulders as he wheezes and gasps, making the most dreadful sounds in an attempt to breathe.
“Hello, there,” he grins, Graham’s eyes finding him and bulging. When did he get there?
His gaping mouth tries to form a word, and the Corinthian tilts his head to hear it before chuckling lightly. “Don't try to speak. You'll find it hurts more.”
He pulls a chair from the large conference table and sits him roughly down onto it. Graham doesn't try to bolt, the door is locked and he isn't confident in his ability to get out of here with the Corinthian as your apparent partner. He tries to speak, to negotiate, but he can't get any sound past senseless croaks.
The Corinthian joins your side, wrapping an arm possessively around your waist as you stare at the man you'd doomed. Doomed. That's a nice word.
He opens up his jacket, reaching in an inside pocket as he pulls out the silver needle and red thread he'd procured from the Seamstresses.
“Now, beautiful,” he says, handing it over to you, “why don't you take this while I help you out a little?” You look at the tools he offers, blink a couple of times before picking it up.
His crooked finger brushes under your chin before he turns away toward your friend again. He rounds to another chair, which he pulls from its spot tucked at the table, a duffle bag you hadn't noticed before sitting in the seat. In the bag is rope, strong rope he uses to tie Graham to the chair as he kneels behind him.
You glance at the needle. “What do I do with it?”
He looks up at you as he wraps the rope around the back of the chair and his chest and ignores Graham’s struggles. He says it like it's obvious. “You'll sew his mouth shut.”
Graham struggles against the rope, but to no avail. The Corinthian makes a tight knot, looking at him with a warning in his tone. “I suggest you be nice and good for her or…” he smiles, his hands on his shoulders as his lips brush the shell of his ear, “I'll just have to intervene. And you don't want that.”
Graham goes completely still, sweating and crying now. The tears roll down his cheeks and he gives you a desperate look.
You realize your hands are shaking, like the first time you even stepped foot toward him.
“I…” you mutter, staring at the needle.
The Corinthian’s smile remains unchanged, encouraging. “Come on,” he says as he stands, walking over toward you once more. “Don't be shy.”
The anxiety curls in your stomach, shakes in your hands. You take a step back, turning to him timidly as you don't meet his eyes. “I'm… I'm not her,” you say, struggling to get the words out as the nerves eat away at you. “I lied… I'm not the Whisperer. I'm just…some dream… I'm just a dream.”
He laughs, and you watch him as the confusion sinks into the features of your face. Graham is out of both your minds as you stare at him.
“Well, I know that.” He chuckles, stepping into your space as he grabs your free hand, cradling it in his palm. “But you're not just any dream, are you? You're Aria. One of Morpheus’ special dreams, his little song.”
Irritation rises in your belly and you shake your head, stepping back and letting go of his hand. “I'm not Aria,” you bite. “Not anymore. I hate that name.”
He raises a brow. “Do you now?” His smirk is devilish. “Who are you then?”
You stare at him, offering the name you'd take thirty years ago when you left the Dreaming for the first time, your new name with its new rhythm and rhyme. The Corinthian repeats it back to you, tasting it on his tongue like honey.
You take your bottom lip between your teeth, another step taking you away from him. “But I'm not the Whisperer.”
He shrugs. “‘Course you're not. I made her up.” You watch him, surprise in every crevice of your face. He reaches out and takes your hands, pulling you close again as he watches you, the look I'm his eyes almost predatory as he lowers his voice for you to hear. His words seep into your skin.
“But you want to be, don't you?” He smiles, “I can see it in your eyes, you wanna be more than Dream's ‘little song’, don't ya?”
Graham watches, feeling his vocal chords easing in the slightest bit. He still can't speak, can't scream, can't get any sound out but a whisper so quiet, he still can't be heard.
“You want to be something not so sweet,” he continues. “You wanna sing something other than Kumbaya, holding hands with your neighbors and bein’ all nice and happy.”
Your lip twitches at the mention of that song, a campfire song that felt like a pinnacle of your distaste for the music you've been forced to sing. “I hate Kumbaya,” you mumble.
He chuckles. “Don't we all?” He brushes his knuckles along your cheekbone, smoothing down to rest underneath your chin. “You can be so much more than that. I know it. You can leave behind all that sweetness, and become like me. Remake yourself in your own image.”
He raises your hand, still cupping the needle and thread in your palm. “All you have to do…” he gently pushes your palm toward your body, separating each word as he does, “...is take the needle.”
He takes a step back, giving you space to think.
You look down at your palm, contemplating. This is it. This is your chance to become more than a little songbird. You could become better. You could fulfill your own hopes and dreams and become a better version of you.
Your fingers curl over your palm.
Your eyes turn on Graham, and fear flashes across his face. You take the first step toward him, then another, and he begins to squirm in his chair as you do. The Corinthian tuts, walking toward him as he places his hands on his shoulders to keep him down, still.
He smiles, a dark and wicked smile. “There you go,” he encourages. “Do it. Become more than that sweet little dream. Do what you want to do, not what you were made to.”
You take the string of thread and punch it between your thumb and forefinger, stilling your breath completely as your slightly shaky hands work to thread the needle. It takes a moment for you to get it through the eye, letting out a relieved sigh when you do.
Graham keeps squirming, despite the uselessness. You stand in front of him. “Take a seat,” the Corinthian says. “It'll be easier.”
You set your free hand on his shoulder, lowering yourself onto his lap as you straddle him. His mouth forms a word, the slightest whisper tearing painfully from his throat as it did. Please. Please. Please.
He casts a desperate, pleasing gaze upon you, his life in your hands—the hands of the beautiful siren who had forsaken him. You watch him with an unwavering gaze, the anxiety and anticipation curling your brows.
He is so good. So genuinely good. The kind of good that stares at your face and calls you beautiful. The kind that keeps calling you beautiful until you no longer have the capacity not to believe it. He's the kind of good that holds you when you're sad, wipes away your tears when you cry. The kind of good that makes you feel better about living in such a cruel world.
And you want to feel bad about taking his life away, about taking the rhythm of his heartbeat away.
But you can't, and you don't. And honestly, a rage and desperation flares within you as you stare at him. Because he is good. And that's just the problem, isn't it?
For so long, all of your songs have been so good. Songs about dancing birds and twinkling stars and buzzing bees. Songs about hope and love and care and whatever else. And you're sick of it.
You were only drawn to him because he's good.
You need something new, something a little fiercer than the blazing sun in the sky, something a little darker than the moonless night. You need inspiration.
And he could give it to you. The Corinthian would help.
You begin to move your hands toward his face, and Graham desperately tries to move away. You sigh, looking up at the Corinthian. He understands immediately.
Taking Graham’s face in his hands, he holds his head still and his jaw securely closed. He bears his teeth like a frightened animal, breathing quickly as whispers of protest strain in his crushed vocal chords.
You use one hand to hold his lips closed. The Corinthian nods along with you. “Just at the corner. Right there.” You slide your pinched fingers over to the left corner of his lips. “Very good. Now just…push it in…”
You position the needle, holding there for a long time as you internalize taking this step. All you have to do…is push it in.
The needle pierces his flesh, sinking into his skin as he screams silently, held still as a statue by the Corinthian, as though his strength is nothing to him.
The sharp end comes out on the other side of his bottom lip, and you pull it all the way through as the red thread becomes redder with the blood staining it. You pull until you have enough length, tying the end off with steadier hands.
“Very good,” the Corinthian praises. “See? You're a natural.”
He takes in his success, his great triumph. Dream's little song…nothing more now than the outlines of a nightmare waiting to be filled in with a little more color. He almost feels drunk off the sight of you, straddling this man as you continue to pierce him with your needle and sew his lips shut, tight, taking away the one thing you were made to do.
Sing.
Such a sweet little bird you are now, a corrupted and twisted little dream in the hands of a wicked nightmare.
He watches you thread the needle through his flesh as Graham continues to cry and try and try and try to scream, to have someone hear him, save him from the pain and torture. But you're all alone in here, locked inside this room with nothing but the night…
As you focus, you find yourself easing into the task. Pinching and piercing and pulling and repeating. You smile, calm as a melody comes to mind.
You hum it, lower and slower than the original speed. The Corinthian watches, in awe of you as you continue to work. He almost swears the rhythm of Graham’s silent breaths and cries begin to form to the rhythm of your song.
“Say ‘Night-ie night’ and kiss me,” you whisper, leaning forward to kiss the tip of Graham’s nose. “Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me.”
You poke the needle through the end of his lip, piercing the far right corner slowly, calmly. “While I'm alone and blue as can be…” You tie the end of the knot, singing a little slower as you do. “Dream a little dream of…me.”
You lean forward and cut the thread with your teeth, taking in the sight of your good work. The Corinthian lets Graham go, and he just sits there, still sobbing, his face wet with tears and blood and sweat.
“Look at that,” the Corinthian admires, laughing deep in his throat as he sets his hands on your shoulders and shakes his head. “Beautiful.”
You stare at him, taking in the sight before you. The Corinthian’s hands fall to your waist, and his head rests at the crook of your neck. Graham’s eyes struggle to stay open, his vision blurry with tears and the adrenaline and pain crashing down and making it hard to find the will to stay conscious.
“Look at all your hard work,” the Corinthian hums, the sound of your song still playing in his mind. “How does it feel?”
You look at him. His dark blood is crimson as it stains his shirt. His messy black hair is only worse now, his pale blue eyes brighter and paler as his pupils grow to the size of a coin.
He looks beautiful, you think.
“Different.”
The tip of his nose brushes underneath your ear. “Do you want to finish it off?”
You nod gently.
The Corinthian fishes a sharp blade from the inside of his jacket. He takes your hand and wraps it around the handle, gripping it tight and helping to guide you.
“Right…” he moves the tip of the blade to press against Graham’s straining neck. He presses it right under his chin, starting from the far right, opposite the needle, “...here.”
“Here?” you ask as he lets go, keeping the blade steady.
He nods. “Right there.”
You lift your other hand to hold the back of his neck steady. Graham watches, terrified. You stare him dead in the eyes, unblinking, unwavering.
You carve the blade into his throat and slice. All the way across, you take your time in slowly slitting his throat. You only blink as the blood sprays out of his sliced arteries and spray all over your face and neck. It keeps spraying and keeps spraying, coming in spurts as he chokes on his blood, gurgling and coughing.
You continue to stare at him, even as you've finished even after he has died and the light has left his eyes and the songs have left his soul. His eyes are bulgy and he's drenched in blood. Butchered.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a dark hand reaching out to Graham. You want to turn, to see her take him, to watch as he is swept away in the hands of Death to his afterlife. But you don't. Watching Graham, you see the flickers of hope in his eyes die out as the life leaves him and replaces it with emptiness. A momentary silence is filled with the gentle flap of wings.
The Corinthian comes back to mind as he pulls you back enough to see the whole of your work. He shakes his head in admiration, smiling wide.
“Your first one,” he says.
“My first one.”
“How does it feel?”
His hands on your hips pull you back against his body. You lean into him. “Different.”
He chuckles lightly, one of his hands moving from your waist in favor of sliding up the length of your body to wrap around your throat, resting there as he holds you securely. His other hand slides down your arm and takes the knife from your hand.
“I think you liked it,” he hums in your ear, dropping his knife on the table with a clatter and holding your neck tighter. “Having his life in your hands?”
You swallow thickly, staring at the dripping blood as the crimson on your face dries. “I–”
“Say it,” he cuts you off, his lips right by your ear, his teeth nipping at the lobe. “You loved it. You loved silencing him.”
He feels your shallow breaths beneath his palm. Still dazed, you say, “I–”
“Say it.”
You take in a slow breath, filling your lungs before you admit it, the curling in your stomach gone and replaced by the chills along your skin. “I loved it,” you sigh. “I loved silencing him.”
He smiles triumphantly. “I know you did,” he chuckles. “Now look at you. A new person, a new dream.” His smile widens and his hand tightens. “You're just like me.”
“Just like you.”
“A nightmare.” His lips graze the shell of your ear.
“A nightmare.”
You lean into him with a slight moan when his lips press against your neck, kissing it with insistent lips and insistent teeth. “Just like you,” you whisper, like the repeating lyrics of a song.
“Just like me.”
Your eyes flutter at the way his teeth nip at your flesh. “A nightmare.”
“A nightmare.” He turns you around in his arms, moving you so your back presses against the table. His lips crash down on yours, swallowing you whole as they do. He can taste the blood staining your lips. You melt against him, weak and wanting as his body presses flush against yours. He bends you back against the table, laying you down as his lips trail down to the skin of your neck, kissing and biting and sucking.
“Look at you,” he breathes. “A corrupted little dream.”
Corrupted. You like that word.
“Corinthian,” you moan, bringing your arms up as your hands wrap around the back of his head and keep him close to you.
“My little dream,” he scoffs, his hands gripping your body tightly.
You go to speak, but he cuts you off. He laughs wickedly. “But you're not a dream, are you? And you're not a nightmare.”
“Cor–”
“You're just a little whore, aren't you?” he smirks, riding your shirt up as his hand slips under it. “A little whore who wants to be something else.”
You moan. “A whore.”
His face is inches from yours again as he speaks quietly, his voice low and rough and dangerous. “You thought I wouldn't know what you were when I saw you?” he questions, finding it amusing. “You thought I wouldn't know you were just a dream trying to be something she isn't?”
Your breath has picked up, heavy as your head spins. “I–”
He's not having it. He silences you again, holding your throat still as he makes you look at him, as he makes sure you can't look away. “Let me show you what you are,” he breathes. “Then I'll rebuild you into something you can be.”
Enchanted by him and his words, you breathe deeply. “Show me what I am,” you echo.
He nods, “That's right.”
“What I can be.”
“Good girl,” he praises. He attacks your mouth once more. It's a bruising kiss as he wraps you up in him. His hand grips your neck tightly, constricting your breath a bit as he does. With one hand, he rips your dress from your body and lets it fall to the ground in rags. You gasp as he does it, your body now exposed to the chilly air as you're left in nothing but your undergarments.
He hums deeply as he looks over you. He smiles. “Dream had it right with this body,” he says, running his hand over your skin and listening to the way you moan.
He hooks his finger around the waistband of your panties, pulling them roughly down your legs to reveal yourself to him. “Look at you,” he breathes as he smooths his hand over your mound. “You're so pretty, aren't you?”
You moan when his long middle finger sinks inside of you, sliding between your damp folds. He's surprised by how wet you are, though he supposes he shouldn't be.
You immediately clamp down around his finger, and he lets out a long sigh. “Such a tight little thing.”
Your legs move to close at the intrusion, not new to the feeling but still not quite used to it either. He just forces them apart, keeping you spread wide for him as he does. “Don't you hide yourself from me,” he says, thrusting a second finger inside of you as you moan at the stretch.
He pumps his fingers in and out of you, collecting the gathering wetness as he watches you through his dark glasses, admires the way your body responds to him.
Your hips meet his hands as he keeps touching you, eager to feel more of him as your shallow breaths continue to pass between your lips. When he pulls his hand from you, you whimper at the loss, clenching around nothing in an attempt to feel him again.
You watch as he sets his fingers on his tongue, closing his mouth around them and suckling with a deep hum. He caresses your name with his lips as he looks down at you. “You're delicious, sweetheart,” he says, and your body keens into his touch.
His hand around your throat tightens as he bends down so his face is hardly separated from yours. “I bet you'd just love to feel my mouth on you, hm?”
You nod quickly, “Please.”
He laughs darkly, kissing you roughly and letting his mouth trail down your body—down, down, down until his mouth ghosts over your fluttering pussy.
Your back arches when you feel his hot mouth against you. His tongue laps against your folds and he suckles around you, tasting the sweetness of your nectar. His tongue flattens against you as he begins to lick you up.
His hand loosens around your throat before ultimately letting go to hold your grinding hips down. Your mouth falls open and you give into him, tangling your fingers in his hair and encouraging his mouth against you.
He laps at your pussy like you're the finest wine. He can taste the virtue that pulsed in your veins, and he can taste the darkness beginning to replace it. His tongue delves inside of you, his lips wrapping around your throbbing clit and suckling gently.
The pleasure jolts through your body like a fire, and you’re entirely willing to let it consume you. You want to feel its burning flames lick at your flesh, searing it from bone to turn you to ash and create something new out of the remains.
The Corinthian sinks three fingers into you after a while, pumping them in and out as you enjoy the delicious stretch with closed eyes, moaning and grinding. He looks up at you, looking for your eyes and finding them hooded.
You mewl when he pulls away from you. “No, no, no,” he says. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. You gotta watch me make you mine.”
You do as you're told, opening your eyes and doing your best to keep them that way. He praises you with another “good girl” before he's wrapping his lips around you again.
He enjoys every second immensely, tasting the sweet nectar of your arousal as he coaxes it from you, taking the grinding of your hips every time he curls his fingers or sucks on your clit.
You moan his name as you feel the rise in your stomach tightening with an oncoming pleasure. You clench around his fingers, your clit pulses against his tongue. You've forgotten all about Graham's body slumped in his bindings, you'd forgotten the blood staining your face and neck. It's all the Corinthian.
You throw your head back roughly and gasp when you cum, your head spinning as the back of it smacks against the table. Your thighs tremble and shake as he refuses to let up, sinking his tongue deeper inside. Your moans almost sound like tiny cries as you grind your hips into his mouth.
He licks his lips, tasting you on his tongue with an immense amount of appreciation. "You're fucking delicious, baby,” he hums, smirking dangerously.
He sits up to his full height once more, his hand finding its place around your throat as he bends down to kiss you again. The taste of yourself on his tongue is intoxicating.
His lips smack as he pulls away from you. Without a word, he flips you onto your stomach atop the table. He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing it roughly. The breath is forced from your lungs as your chest presses against the table.
The Corinthian tangles his hand in your hair as he roughly pulls your head up, making you look up as your eyes fall on Graham.
“Look at him,” he hums. “Look at all that good work.”
You do. You take in the sight of him with a new set of eyes. The red thread keep his lips shut tight. He'd made such wonderful sounds when you'd sewn them. You'd taken his song and added it to your own, his fear and his desperation had been the perfect addition to your symphony.
His blood soaks his clothes, as well as your face, what was once crimson now darker from being exposed to the air. You can still hear the way he choked, the way he gasped for air that wouldn't come.
His skin was so pale, his eyes that were once a pale blue now cloudy and grey with the mask of death. His once pink lips are just as grey. You can still see the smile they made, the words they spoke. The things he could sing.
You could still hear him singing.
You moan when the Corinthian’s hand presses between your slick folds again. He smiles, another dark chuckle slipping from his lips. “There you go,” he says. “Nice and slick for me. Be a good girl and say please.”
You let out an airy breath, mumbling a tiny whisper of, “Please.”
But he isn't convinced as he groans and shakes his head. “No, you can do better than that, sweetheart. Now I'm not going to give you what you need until you say please.”
Desperate and needy, you let out another breathy moan. “Please,” you whine again, louder this time as your words form into a melody. “I need you. I need you to make me yours.”
He's drunk off your obedience, the way you gave into him so easily from the start. He inclines his head, satisfied. “Good girl.”
The jingle of his belt buckle fills your ears with its gentle ring. Your pussy flutters when you feel the tip of him press against your folds. “Please,” you whisper again.
You let out a long breath when he buries himself to the hilt inside of your hot cunt. A rough groan falls from his lips, the tip of his cock pressing deep inside of you as you lose your breath.
You grip the table, allowing the pleasure to fill you as he holds your hips tight. You moan at the stretch of him inside you.
The Corinthian lets out a deep breath, steadying himself as he pulls out just barely to the tip before roughly thrusting back into. You moan loudly, your head dizzy with the feeling blossoming inside of you.
He doesn't allow you a slow build. He doesn't give you the privilege of easing you into the monstrous nature of his love. Instead, he holds you steady as he fucks into your tight pussy, snapping his hips in and out of you without sparing a second for you to adjust to him.
He grunts and groans behind you as he uses you to his need. He feeds off your moans, their song-like nature filling the air and seeming to hypnotize him into wanting even more of you, into needing even more of you.
The sound of his hips smacking against your ass fills the room. It joins your moans and his dark grunts, blending together perfectly.
“Listen to you,” he grunts. “You're my little song now.”
You can no longer think straight, your head spinning with pleasure, with the sound of Graham's singing in your head, with the sound of flapping wings.
You watch Graham as if through rose-colored glasses, the pleasure mixing with the sight of him creating something you've never felt before as you continue to moan meekly.
And, for a moment, you think of Dream.
As a melody plays in the back of your brain, a new melody you've never heard before, you think about how much you want to show Dream.
But he abandoned you. And, before that, he'd created you as a sweet dream that could never know anything other than harmony. And you hated him for that.
So, as you watch the blood drip from his sealed lips, you smile and give into the Corinthian completely. His fingers press to your clit, and you shudder as you feel yourself getting so close, so close to falling apart and forever becoming the Corinthian’s song…ready to leave Sweet Dream behind forever.
The pressure builds as his speed on your clit does as well. You clench around his cock, your head light and your moans scratching your throat. “Corinthian,” you whine. “I'm so close.”
His hips snap into yours a little harder. “I bet you are,” he huffs. “Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll make you nice and full.”
The pleasure rises within you until you can’t hold it in anymore. With a thrust of his hips and a circle of his finger, you fall apart. Your whole body shudders as you let out a loud, breathy moan as it all comes crashing down. You give in to the Corinthian’s symphony of death.
A rough groan, bordering on a growl, erupts from his throat as he shoves his cock as deep inside you. He gives in to the squeeze of your cunt and cums, grinding his hips so deep as he fills you to the brim.
And with one last thrust, with his cum buried in your fluttering pussy, he claims you as his. He lets go of your hair, pulling out of you with a heavy sigh.
You whimper at the loss of him, laying on the table as your legs shake.
The Corinthian’s arms wrap around you, picking you up and pulling you to stand as he embraces you in another kiss. You lean into him, letting his lips meld against yours.
He looks over your face, the new clarity in your eyes. He smiles.
“Sing me a song, sweetheart.”
And you do. You sing a song of a dying promise, the sounds of the symphony you'd just created allowing you to sing a melody of broken hope and shattered dreams.
You sing for a long time as the Corinthian listens to you, enchanted by your song, by your new dream.
Now, you belonged to him.
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@prankled (s.c.)
Davis did not make a habit of starting up conversations with people. Sure, she was friendly enough and loyal to a fault, but she made people work to get there. So, despite the temptation of the mysterious American transfer student, she waited to be approached. It took several weeks, as nearly everyone wanted the inside scoop on the cool new girl, but at last on a cool November day, when Davis was curled up in one of the oversized plush armchairs, the girl approached.
Davis set aside her book–a muggle book, The Hobbit–and tucked a lock of deep royal purple hair behind her ear.
“Oh, hey.” She waited, only remembering to smile after a few beats, until the silence stretched out too far for comfort. “I’m Davis. Fourth year. How’re you settling into Hufflepuff? Or, I guess, Hogwarts, for that matter?”
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I always liked the comparison of the Q Continuum being like the FAE/Sídhe/etc of "space", so those like Erlkönig could in my eyes fit our Q (specifically making that for adults tho so it can be Picard who he choses to get, different from the original legends where it's children and teenagers who those creatures pick).
I think there's lot of horrorfying content that comes from them, you can choose whatever one you would like, even if only to take a general inspiration.
Explanation:
This is set in an AU, where Star Trek TNG happened, just in a historical inaccurate medieval fantasy setting.
The Enterprise is an elite division of the Federation, which is not an organization of various planets but of countries.
They met Q on one of their missions, where told them the High Council of the Fae is unsure of the worthiness of humanity, the stackes are not as high as it was in the original verse though.
Q is considered an odd Fae, for being outside of the Realm on occassions, more often since encountering them and 'playing games' with them.
I tried to get sort of the vibe of the Erlkönig (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JS91p-vmSf0)
It was a dark and stormy night as Jean-Luc Picard rode through a forest on a road that seemed to grow longer and longer the longer he travelled on it.
The day had been stressful enough after having had a personal meeting with his superiors, who told him to race towards a far off village because his presence was needed there 'immediatly'.
What struck him as strange however was, that they made it clear to him, that this was a solo and secret mission and therefore his troop wasn't allowed to accompany him.
Still, ever the loyal and reliable Captain, he took the map and went on his way.
And here he was, hungry, thirsty and alone in a rather unwelcoming forest.
"Oh, Jean-Luc, what a nice coincidence to meet you here.", came a voice on his left.
Realizing that this already miserable night was about to get much worse, he look at the strange being next to him, who was floating in the air keeping at the exact same speed as his horse.
"Q, I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with you right now. So leave me alone and find yourself another distraction."
The last time they met Picard nearly lost his live and it was only by Qs interference he managed to survive. And in usual circumstances this would have made him a bit more agreeable towards this strange Fae, but his exhaustion and tiredness was getting the better of him.
Still, the way Q was smiling at him was more than a bit unnerving.
"Oh, trust me, you have more than enough time for me."
An unpleasant thought came to Picards mind. The last time he checked the map the road through the otherwise big forest was much shorter than the road he has been travelling for what must have been the last hours.
"Q, what are you doing here?", he managed to ask in what he hoped was an annoyed tone.
The smile on Qs face turned into a grin.
"I should be asking you that. After all, you are in my home. Or better to say, the entrance to it."
There are coincidences and then there are coincidences. But surely Command would not have sent him on this mission just to deliver him on Qs doorstep.
Q gave out a hearty laugh.
"Oh, yes, they did, mon capitaine. I can be quite generous, if I want to be. Or quite threatening. It really depends on my mood."
'This is Q.' he told himself as he began to fear the slight shiffers of fear get to his heart and spine. 'Q may be a trickster and a nuisance, but not a threat.'
His thoughts however got interrupted by a rumbling stomach that was reminding him of the human need for nutrition.
"Poor dear. You really have been on the road for a while, haven't you? Here, how about you get off that high horse of yours and I give you a feast the likes you have never had before."
And there in the distance, Picard could see it. A huge colorful banquett of food he couldn't see but the aromas still made their way to him.
On his left Q made a point of eating the most delicious seeming pie he has ever seen. Q offered Picard a slice of it.
To his own disappointment declining Qs offer was much more difficult then he would have wanted.
Just how long has he ridden through this forest to become this hungry?
His horse seemed to neither smell nor hear anything. Maybe this was all just a hallucination of his sleep-deprived mind. It certainly looked like the better alternative.
Pretending to be offended by the rejection of his benevolent offer, Q decided to change tactics and made the banquet and the pie disappear.
"So, the good captain is stronger than his hunger. Well, human can live days without food, but what about water? Or wine, if that is more to the standards of your heritage?"
"Q, stop this nonsense and let me out of your goddamn forest."
"Oh, but you haven't even seen a fracture of what this 'forest' can offer you. What I can offer you."
And what seemed to be an otherworldly paradiese appeared just behind the trees.
Deciding that perhaps ignoring Q would make him give up, fear finally did manage to grip his heart as he looked away from these strange displays around him and ahead of the road only to see that he must not have moved an inch since Q appeared.
Trying his best to keep up his stoic facade he turned to Q only to see that the Faes smile has turned rather bittersweet.
Judging by the beings changed posture and mimic this was no game to Q.
Hoping to find the route of the problem he now found himself in, Picard changed his course of action, he made his horse stop and gave Q his full attention.
"Why are you doing this, Q?
"You are mortal and while it's usually something I like to make fun about only when that beast ran its spear through your heart I began to realize what exactly that meant for you and me.
That sooner or later you could get a wound even I would not be able to heal and even if no illness nor enemy takes you away age and the resulting death surely will."
"But I am mortal. Sooner or later everyone will have to face death."
"Not here. As long as you stay here I can make you ageless. And I will never be ..."
Q cut himself off, clearly embarrassed by whatever he was going to say.
Exasperated of what he could now see were the pleas of a lonely immortal, Jean-Luc hoped that perhaps getting Q to see reason would help get him out.
"I am sorry, but I don't want to become ageless. All I want is to get out of here and return home. I can't give you what you want, Q, but maybe you'll find someone who will be able to appreciate this offer."
The look he got as a reaction was worrying to say the least.
"Oh no, I am the one who is sorry, Jean-Luc."
Getting closer, he reached his hand out to cup his face so they were eye to eye.
Q gave him a short kiss on the lips and whispered:
"Because if you are not coming willingly, I'll have to use force."
#dark qcard#I actually sat there before a blank about what Q could offer Picard#sure if you put space in there there is much he can offer#but in this verse and if you take the inspiration fo the Erlkönig none of it would seem in any shape or form appealing to Picard#gotta go to sleep will write the other stuff tomorrow#if you have another idea you would want to see feel free to request again#this was fun#Is it just me or is it less creepy for an ageless fae to kidnap a man in his sixtys than a young boy/teenager
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obsessed with v and especially with v/reader like- sure we love john and santi but can i offer you a beautiful cold deadly badass lady with only one (1) soft spot for her sweet and soft (and permanently worried) significant other?
im such a simp for all of your characters and the characterization of those which arent. They are just so good?? they feel so real, with their flaws and strengths and the FEELINGS. not to mention the whole scenery part, i can picture it SO clearly as if it was part of a movie.
tldr; im a big simp for you and your writing and you are just- so wonderful both as a person and at what you do! ❤️❤️❤️
jsdhgjksd thank you so so much for this lovely message!! made me smile like a big idiot ngl :')
also so, so valid about v. I love her a lot too ngl and have such a soft spot for her/reader dynamic (hell, I have an entire mini-series focusing on v/reader relationship just in npfh-verse instead of coa where she can be a fully-fledged character and it's just such a comfort write despite it being mature lmfao), mainly because that dynamic is just so??? soft?? passionate but so much of it is just also about learning to love yourself?
the thing with any v relationship is that at a surface level she's this cold, even standoffish person who you only know as both an assassin and a poisoner. she's kinda scary just to think about if you didn't know her personally. she doesn't let people in easily, and is too damn stubborn for her own good. yet past the scary exterior - if you're patient enough - you can learn so quickly how broken up/lonely she actually is. how insanely loving and loyal. but all those things are buried beneath so many flaws, self-doubts, and deep running past wounds, it's hard to see at first. flaws that cause her to doubt any true attempts to love her as temporary and fragile. it's such a fight just to get her to believe she's worth the fight/effort.
i'm just... she (ಥ _ ಥ)
#thank you so so much!!! i'm so glad my writing connects with you#been working lots on trying to improve/refine my style so seeing a message like this is lovely!!#and loving v hours never cease for me so [brineyspearsyeah.jpg]#asks#c: clara
![#and loving v hours never cease for me so [brineyspearsyeah.jpg]](/tag/and%20loving%20v%20hours%20never%20cease%20for%20me%20so%20%5Bbrineyspearsyeah.jpg%5D){kind=link}
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so i’m not super into marvel so i had no idea what nexus beings were, but this entire concept is so. cool. so since nexus beings in the interpretation being used are, like, anchor points, now i’m wondering what would happen in a universe where dick is on the “evil” (for lack of a better word) side. is that able to happen? does he have to be a universal good or can that happen? if it’s able to happen then ohhhh the absolute shit the universe would be in have mercy on them all
if that’s, like, not how it works now i’m imagining dick being forced into villainy at a young age (maybe court of owls or something) but he’s just? not really evil? he takes on like an anti hero kinda role? oh my god the alternate universe possibilitiesssss.
imagine the justice lords universe where dick doesn’t die that always irked me and he starts? like, a mega rebellion or something because aNCHOR POINT STUFF. ya, i dunno lmfao
anyways, this is like some into the nightwing verse shenanigans and i’m all for it
well i’m glad to ease you into marvel lore with this wonderful concept babe! idk if i would want to get into marvel rn with e v e r y t h i n g, and i’m not actually that active in marvel either, but it is a fun community.
and about your musings on a universe where dick is on the “evil” side. that has actually happened!!
the universe where everyone is evil: earth 3.
in that universe, thomas wayne sr is bruce’s evil older brother who killed all the waynes + alfred and became owlman. dick caught owlman’s eye when he was with the flying graysons, so owlman sabotaged a performance, and you can guess what happens from there. but then, owlman takes dick in and brainwashes him into becoming talon, owlman’s son/younger brother/apprentice.
and if any of this seems familiar, that’s because dick grayson has a long history of training/working under morally grey or just bad creepy men (either willingly or not willingly) and they eventually grow to care for him. owlman wanted to completely brainwash dick into becoming completely and totally loyal and dependent on him, physically and emotionally. instead what happened is that owlman got attached to dick instead.
but even through all the brainwashing, dick was still a good person at heart. (cough cough nexus being cough cough) dick does eventually try to run away from owlman, and he gets killed by joker. but even so, he was never truly a bad person, just manipulated into hurting people from a young age. and he did try to do the right thing.
so yea! multiversal constant for the win. and your thought about him being a key part of the rebellion in the justice lords universe?? y e s. bro i’d love to read about that. you’re right, this is some serious into the nightwing verse shenanigans , but we’ve learned that literally no matter the universe, dick will be a good person.
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BARD VERSE BULLET POINTS WRITE UP ; because this verse is my fave but it’s three blogs old at this point.
i. gil has magic in this verse too, it isn’t as ‘defined’ as it is in his regular verse. his magic is his elemental magic that he has too in all verses where he has magic. examples of this are that he can make flowers bloom, create small gusts of wind, move small amount of water ( think the amount of a cup of tea, nothing more ) and create small bursts of fire at his fingertips ( think the size of a flame from a lighter, nothing more )
ii. he isn’t tied to one king or one place. he likes to travel, likes to show up everywhere and anywhere, but he is loyal to whichever character he imprints on like a little duckling. as always, gil is searching for glory. always trying to find a way to make a name for himself in whatever shape or form. he’s hungry for this, and therefor, will prefer men people who have some sort of status to follow around like his life depends on it ( it usually does, let me be real. )
iii. while he has magic, it’s nothing more than a party trick. he is the damsel in distress trope in this verse. his big mouth gets him in trouble more often than not, and he basically can’t do anything to defend himself. yes he can use a sword, but fucking barely pals.
iv. if you think he’s sensible about his fashion / his appearance in this verse ... he isn’t. he wears jewellery like his life depends on it, if it doesn’t have a v-neck or an open chest, he doesn’t want it. and heaven forbid that he ever wears a shoe without a heel. this man will follow someone across a mountain wearing stilettos if he could. also, his hair is longer than it would be in his main verse, easily reaching bellow his shoulders.
v. he still hates horses. still can’t cook to safe his life. generally he shouldn’t exist and he’s just here for comedic purpose.
#bard verse gil is just a badly written character but i love him so fucking much#xxiv. HERE'S TO THE LIARS & THE SINNERS & THE SAINTS ( gilderoy : headcanon )#xxiv. & WITH THIS TENDER HEART I SHALL ASK FLOWERS TO BLOOM ( gilderoy : study )
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