Can I request Fyodor and reader dancing together at a masquerade ball?
I should be doing chem rn but I saw this and I happen to be listening to BSD playlists… So enjoy some fluff romance.
Kindle the fire with music
Fyodor x Reader (Gn)
Note: I made the reader a bit proper/fancy. Since there wasn’t much detail to this, my mind did wander away, and I immediately thought of the “rivals trying to one-up the other while dancing to avoid suspicion” troupe.
I had way too much fun writing this. It may end up my favorite so far...
Enjoy~
Candlelight, strings being plucked, chandeliers, people dressed in all sorts of gowns and suits surrounding and suffocating. No person went without a mask, concealing their identity. That’s what made these nights so interesting. Those who put effort into finding what was needed won in these situations. You blended in perfectly fine. Standing with your shoulders back, a glass of champagne held within your hand. Fine gloves to keep your fingers off the glass. The mask on your face providing you security tonight.
The chatter of voices among the soft entertainment provided by the musicians drowning away the intent of tonight. You set down the empty champagne glass, sliding your feet across the wooden floor to the center of the masses gathered. The clinquant sunlight dropped in with its last rays, echoing from the hanging crystal. With each step, a strand of that blissful light caught your skin, lighting your figure in eloquence.
Your body grabbed a random partner, grabbing onto the hand and spinning into synchronized movements. All while you whispered and evaluated information. From partner to partner, you chose each with a sly smile, cunning smiles, and sharp twists of the tongue. All until your flow was shifted in a direction you had not set to spin. Pulled towards a male figure, eyes a violet hue hidden beneath his mask. The silver twist of ornate silver wrapped with gold and edges with jewels, oceanic and sunny colors that made the endless depths of his eyes stand out. His hair slicked back the frame of his face, accentuated without hair falling loosely around his face. Despite the regal attire, the snowy-white clothes dipped in purple outlines, supported by a shawl decorated by soft fur leaned over his shoulders, he was recognizable. For his stance held a god-like demeanor, his grin wicked and soulless as he dipped you back. His lips needn’t part to entrap your gaze or capture your mind.
Each step, every new beat, each new look, the two of you engrossed within each other's presence. Not from love or care, but to deceive the other, to play the right cards and extract information from the brain of the other. “So the 'deity' attends. To see you dressed in such a way, attending something so fancy… how oddly new.” His voice spun with surprise, but lacking the emphasis of the emotion became a mere mock. His lips, full and smirking, as you took a step to lead the patterned dance the two of you battled within.
“Ah so 'god' appears. How rare it is to see such a man dressed with care, no longer appearing to have dragged his feet from the depths of the sewers?” Your tone spiked within its compulsive nature. Spite and distaste slipping through your voice. A feigned shock supported by a mere click of your tongue. Fyodor’s lips parted with a chuckle guiding the dance over the floor, his grip pulling you close to his chest.
“It’s usual for God to appear within elegance once a blue moon. Each sad soul begging for redemption with the halls. Hidden by a mask, a sense of false hope and security to their entitled will. Human minds are so easy to pick.” Fyodor's tongue danced on each syllable, humming with an allure meant only for your ears. His tone gentle, but cruel, threatening, but calming. Each step, an etiquette of forgotten grace.
Your smile is folded into a sweet but bitter twist. “Every mortal below the intelligence of a god is bendable, expendable, usable, and pitiable. Who’s to say we are no different aside from our status? If another were to appear, would we fight to see which one is fit to the throne of the heavens? Who is the master, who is the puppet?” Fyodor’s eyes moved from cold embers of amethyst to an intrigued violet, a blooming flower of anticipation. His arms held onto you with a strength that would not give room for mistakes.
“This is all too much fun. Have you still no intention of becoming the deity at my side? Alone we crush the world, devastation benefit of a hundred-year war. Together we could deconstruct and rebuild.” Though his words were warmer than the sun, more tempting than living, the consequences never let you slip.
Though you were the same, you were not. His ideals, a twisted fantasy that could never come to be the truth of this world. A world devoid of all its ability users would be rather hypocritical. The nations simply needed… a push. A rule to connect them, rules and laws, status and wealth. Why get rid of something so beneficial? “Your world has no room for two. Though I suppose if you threw such silly thoughts away, you would have a place by my throne.” Both parties smiled, wicked humor twisting over their lips. Finding information in the smallest of syllables and reactions. The passive expressions having differences no other could detect and crack.
“Ah, so you massacre tonight. Are you sure you're not a deity of hell?” Fyodor’s lips did not fall from his grin. His eyes lowered, softening as your feet followed him further from the center of the room.
“So cruel, but you're a demon yourself. These masks covering the pathetic waists of human space, were you not also planning to kill them all, have them repent?” Fyodor lifted his lips, spread wide across his face in bliss as his hands tightened their hold about your waist.
“Perhaps we hold a truce for the night, my dear?” With a cruel placement of your arms over him, your head dipped in a silent yes.
Following his steps outside the halls of glimmering gold and silhouettes of the blind, with hand in hand, the two of you, demons to the people, but gods to each other and the followers, slipped from the confines of the walls. Your breaths synchronized in your own rhythm, hands moving to the other's mask, sliding it down to enjoy the view of the elaborate treat as the sounds of humble screaming began.
Beneath radiant moonlight, showered in silver, seemingly the focus of the night your bodies pressed close. Lips, known for the crude and snappy remarks snapping together. The sympathy of crackling flames, screaming, and guns, the melody of the last dance you share with the Russian. Moving along the grassy fields until the spiral of sirens progressed to the ending of the piece. Oh, how you’d have loved to hear the sound of his cello along the screams. “Until we meet again, little deity.”
Chuckling to his words, your movements pausing to return the dismissal. “Yes, until we meet again, God.” The sound of the address on the other's lips, a hiss of resentment. Though it was aimed to mock, both of you took the boost of ego before walking separate ways. Leaving your mark on the masquerade.
