Knives were not meant to be such tempting objects.
You knew this. It made total sense for a blade and handle to be put together, and none at all for the combination to arouse such appreciation in you.
Yet you found yourself riveted despite yourself, glance darting back to the beautiful sight of smooth silver blade effortlessly scoring a path through vivid, hyper-saturated yellow.
A gentle but repeated prodding at your side jolted you from your thoughts and you turned towards the disturbance, eyes sliding away from the knife’s graceful path only when the angle of your neck made it impossible to remain there.
The fleeting grasps you’d gotten at sleep showed when the rising sun prickled at your eyes, drawing a few stinging tears and another, harsher, ache that had nothing to do with the light. Carefully, you rolled over, trying not to disturb the covers, and looked at Natalya’s back.
The covers had slipped down, exposing one shoulder and a slanting window of her pale back, trailing strands of silvery hair slipping down her skin. Asleep, she seemed so fragile; without the daggers and steel of her flashing eyes, the cruel curve of her lower lip that sharpened with anger, Natalya was a vision of vulnerability, the angles of her b
“I’m home,” you called as the door closed behind you, the click of the latch both satisfying and disturbing; if you could only be free behind locked doors, what sort of freedom was it really?
A sad echo of your voice was the only response you received; concern crept into your system as you dropped your bag and kicked your shoes off, met only by the sound of silence.
Your footsteps were quieter than the irrational pounding of your heart as you slowly delved further into your house, checking each room. With each door that opened to an empty room, a fist of apprehension tightened aro
“Okay, okay,” you breathed out shakily, ankles wobbling as you stepped into the rink, goosebumps prickling on your skin as the cold air above the ice hit you. You let go of the rail and pushed off into a somewhat smooth glide, breathing deeply as the feeling of weightlessness floated over you.
Your lips stretched into a smile as you gained speed, your laps around the rink blowing your hair back and brushing past your neck with a chilly kiss. Pop music echoed off the high rafters as you wove around the other skaters, debating whether or not to try some fancier footwork; it was open rink time, so it wasn’t like you
The coffeeshop door chimed open, you glanced up, and suddenly you were sixteen again—young, naïve, and reckless, falling into striking claret eyes without any care in the world. A ghost of his voice, half memory and all low, sultry contentment, curled up your spine and settled in your skull, warm and quiet:
That whisper was all it took; memories bubbled to the surface of your mind, flashes of the past bursting before you in vivid color and sound. And then Gilbert turned away, silvery hair gleaming as your shared gaze was broken, and you sat alone once again.
Natalya was waiting for you when you got home; her silvery hair flowed loose at her waist, the hem of her favourite dark blue dress hanging perfectly at her knees as she greeted you in her usual reserved way, her delicate features so still they could have been of ice.
You were sure to close the door behind you and check that the windows were all covered before pressing your lips to Natalya’s forehead, taking a moment to preserve the feel of her soft skin against yours and her pulse in harmony with your own. As you pulled away, feeling both relieved and hellishly guilty, Natalya regarded you quizzically. Bemusedly, she asked,
The slap of paper on wood was audible as you stared at what was printed there on the glossy surface: you, laughing with Natalya, hands clasped and fingers entwined, bodies far closer than the boundary of platonic relations allowed. The man in black before you shuffled the sheets outward and more images appeared: the two of you sitting in the small café you had thought was so secret, bodies curled into one another’s like cats; a closer shot of your heads, your lips millimetres from Natalya’s, palm resting on the curve of her cheek.
The final picture, slapped down almost victoriously by the government official, sear
There was once a kingdom bordered by mist and mountains, lush with forests and crystalline rivers that twined over the land like trails of tears dripping down porcelain cheeks. This kingdom was ruled by a gracious king and queen, but when malicious forces too powerful for mortal rulers to counter threatened the realm, the true guardians of the kingdom came forth.
Sister fairies, each with their own unique powers and sacred connection to the soul of the universe itself, protected the kingdom. Their presence could be felt throughout the realm; it was evident in the vibrancy of the flowers and the sweet iciness of the water that flowed as lifebl
The possibilities of how your daughters would react whirled in your head incessantly, striking against the inside of your skull like mallets pounding out fear from a mine of terror. Amelia would be angry, you knew it; fury would rise from her and she’d storm away before you could console her at all. She’d always clung to her independence, the stubborn child even as the world shaped her to fit the likings of men. Madeline’s response was harder for you to predict; you could see your younger daughter being silently deflated by the news, the invisible wings that held her poetic, sweet soul so high above the earth abruptly
The bar was calmly mundane, all clinking glasses and the soft rush of chatter, but its back room was another world. Through that door in the corner, hidden by carefully cast shadow and the corner of the bar, lay a separate realm of tinted lights and soaring music that seemed too loud to be hidden just by the door. It was in this oddly otherworldly world that you met Abel Mogens for the first time—as well as where you would leave him for the last time.
You had found out about the “secret room” from a friend, who had heard about it from someone she met at one of Amsterdam’s many coffee shops. Given the chain t
You went to see Arthur immediately after being forced to down a meal of porridge the following morning; the thick creaminess had no flavour to you and you swallowed it quickly, anxious to see how Arthur had fared the night. Your steps only slowed a few steps away from his door, sudden dread clinging to your heels and pulling them back down to the ground like stale treacle.
Your fingers intertwined, feeling around the papery thin scabs at their bases where Arthur’s rings had cut through; his desperate, rasping voice echoed in your head again and you felt the familiar rush in your chest that had bade you to rise and come to Ar
Ramsey had refused the gifts, all of them. He’d turned down the money and turned deaf ears to all offers of promotion…he’d even shut the door in the face of his patron. Yet it had all been in vain.
Natalya Ardeyev was dead and rotting in a grave far deeper than six feet, and Dr. Ramsey Atkins had put her there. The operation had been risky by nature (and at best); any sane doctor would have burnt their name from the books at the mere suggestion—but with the Brothers always watching and waiting, even that choice had been taken away. They had come to his home to deliver the order; the rapid knocks on his door
He was not human.
To forget that was to become prey already limp in the jaws of its hunter—yet already your grip on the whip was weakening, his fingers gently loosening yours and taking the control into those slender, wickedly clever hands.
I am yours to command.
Your eyes closed for a second, the darkness taking shape behind your eyelids and unfurling into shapes with no name; your fingers clenched on air, blood boiling under the incandescent lines of the contract seal branded onto your body and soul. Not for the first time, the thought that contract seals branded a demon’s human much like a slaughterhouse
It wasn’t a question of would Grell ever love you, it was a question of would the heavens ever fall and knock the red reaper on the head hard enough to completely change all that embodied Grell Sutcliff. That was, unquestionably, the only way the long-dreamt of relationship could ever bloom into existence.
And if that came, even you weren’t sure if you would still be able to ever love Grell without guilt.
A sudden singing of your name alerted you to Grell’s presence and you forced a smile onto your lips, greeting the flamboyant Shinigami with a casual grin.
“Well, speak of the devil,” you
He was too handsome, and too out-of-place to be familiar, yet he was. There was something that brought your mind to him like a bee to the sweetest poison in the world. You knew he was dangerous—how could you not? There were unspoken perils laced into the lines of his body, sinuous against the feline grace in his muscles. His skin was reddened, but not flushed; he carried the signs of a newcomer, still unaccustomed to the somnolent heat of Dorne.
You watched, nearly breathless, as his head turned, eyes searching the crowded marketplace for something or someone. He was like a hawk, you thought, with a fine-cut profile and a hunterR
Surprisingly, nothing more was said about Madeline’s midnight rendezvous; Arthur only smiled at you when you pointedly mentioned the Russian emissary and his sons, his expression implying that he knew of the meeting, but was choosing to overlook it. After that semi-discussion, you had kept a close eye on all news spreading in the kingdom, breath held anxiously, but the topic that seemed to be dominating your people was the growing possibility of war, not anything regarding Madeline or the Russian party of envoys, despite the latter’s dramatic exit from your lands, the promise of an alliance should one be needed ringing heavy
It all started with an apple.
A shiny, juicy, crisp apple the colour of the sun’s blood as it spills over the horizon; that fruit was the only reason you were doing something as stupid as climbing a stone wall twenty meters high in the middle of the night. A grunt escaped your tightly clamped lips as you finally pulled yourself over the edge and perched, panting, atop the wall that was supposed to keep you safe.
The journey was hell, but the view was heaven; up here, the air was free from the thick smog that suffocated the town below. You tipped your head back, inhaling the fresh scent of grass—real blades of vivi
An Heir (King!EnglandxQueen!ReaderxServant!France)
It started in a kingdom ruled by a just, noble king and his loving, faithful queen. Two princesses gave them unmatched joy, and life for the royal family was an exultant one, as if from a fairytale—but that all changed when pirates landed on their shores.
Your lower lip trembled uncontrollably, despite your best efforts to quell its shaking, as Arthur walked slowly towards you, the thunderous expression on his face more frightening than any yelling or swearing he might have done.
He had changed since the pirates had first attacked; your kind, gracious Arthur had been torn apart by the battles he had fought and the things
You were clothed in blood. Stunning scarlet with undertones of crimson, shimmering and glistening like stars under the light of a thousand incandescent crystals as the music swept on, taking the deliciously claret masterpiece with it. Skirts swirled out with a skirl of the flutes, revealing elaborate underskirts of rich burgundy lace and satin to match the slippers that flashed out from behind curtains of silk to wink beguilingly with enticing ruby eyes.
A vision in red, as if painted with the sap of mortal veins; you were a forbidden dream whose slender fingers, adorned with delicate sanguine rings, beckoned to fools who longed t
It was really quite astonishing how loud two men could get—two men that were certainly regarded as being calm, collected, and perhaps most importantly, impossible to fluster. Then again, you seemed to have done quite a good job at that—not that you actually were aware of the effect you had on both Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade. No, they had taken pains to avoid that, although each was now wishing (perhaps subconsciously) that he hadn’t.
“…what bloody evidence?!” Lestrade’s exclamation was more irritated than you had heard in a while, including all the times that Sherlock had stopped by to
Spot. Spin. Spot. Spin. Spot—
“Stop, stop, stop!”
The irritated voice of your director broke into your balanced trance and you halted in the middle of a perfectly constructed pirouette, slapping your foot back down onto the wooden floor. Suddenly breathless, you wiped a few sweaty strands of rebellious hair back from your forehead and looked at the artistic director of the Bolshoi Ballet Company inquiringly.
Exasperated, hooded teal eyes flicked away from yours as Sergei Filin sighed and muttered something in Russian before turning to you again and saying in thickly accented English, “You’re to