An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Happy Kinktober! This one... well you'll see. Written to fill the Voyeurism prompt 💕 Mette von Valancius belongs to @winterscale.
Master van Calox, Heinrix to his loved ones, prided himself on his meticulous planning and principles, his ability to see twelve steps ahead of his opponent no matter the crisis; which left him unable, nay unwilling, to explain how he’d ended up in his current predicament. To admit jealousy was to admit failure, impossible for a man of his stature — he was the damned Lord Inquisitor of the Koronus Expanse — yet he found himself only able to watch, learn, and stew in his turmoil. It wasn’t as if he had reason to feel this way, he knew well that Imogene loved him dearly, and it wasn’t like he didn’t already share her with Marshall Anthar and her xenos pet, but this felt… different, somehow. Insidious. Planned.
Oscar Piastri needs to drive. If it were up to him, he would always be suited up and strapped in, fused with the carbon fiber and rubber, fitted inside the exoskeleton that feels less like a separate machine and more like a proper extension of himself, the real body he was born to inhabit.
The media likes to call him a robot. He isn’t. At least, not in the way they mean it. They mean to say he has no emotions, that he is calm and stoic and unflappable. But that’s not true. He feels things all the time, more than his human body can hold.
Right now, for instance, he feels itchy and hot and furious, his heart pounding like there’s a V6 engine inside his chest, held in neutral and dying to rev. It’s the second weekend of the season, and he won’t race. He won’t even start. Again.
finally posted one of the bit's of my haley/abigail series
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
"I, uh, didn’t expect you to actually show up tonight,” she giggles nervously, terrified underneath her oh so composed exterior.
Abigail scoffs. “After what you challenged me to at the Egg Festival? Not a chance, sunshine.”
Haley pretends her heart hasn’t ascended out of her body and towards Yoba’s Place at hearing that name and giggles again, stomach a cage full of very aggressive butterflies.
---
Or, It's Friday night and Haley is the most disastrous gay ever, because Abigail is in her room.
So ultimately, I don't feel like posting some of the shorter blurbs I do on ao3, not right away anyway, so have this for a treat in the meantime.
Fitted with the nicest velvet suit his measly salary and under the table dealings could afford, Malachi Tamara Coval stepped out of a 1924 Model-T belonging to his longtime confidant, Octavius Phillips; a mixture of gold and silver decorated his neck and fingers, jewels and ornaments standing out against his olive skin as he fixed his cuff-links. The inviting blue carpet rolled out before them led to the entrance of the hottest new joint in the City of Angels, Ambroisie, and once Oc tossed his keys to the valet, they started to enter the club only to be stopped by the bouncer. Malachi didn’t bother with eye contact, his eyes scanning the crowd for a potential meal among the tourists, but given the wave of influence he felt on his subconscious, Oc had it handled. Despite the fact that his friend had clearly lied about their supposed acceptance into the VIP section, they entered anyway thanks to Oc’s quick bit of thinking. The difference between a Tremere and a Toreador could be vast, but these two had found a commonality in their love of the arts and appreciation for music, a rare treat among their kind.
“Here I believed you actually knew someone—” Malachi quietly started in on Octavius the moment they sat at the bar, always the more careful of the two men.
“We do; me!” Oc slyly grinned, winking at their bartender and gesturing for him to come over when he had a moment. “You need to loosen up, Chi-Chi, we’re in America!”
“That we are, my friend, but if you call me Chi-Chi again? I’ll sick a golem on you,” Malachi chastised, clearly unamused by his friends recklessness but charmed all the same. “You’ve a nasty penchant for getting us into trouble, Oc…”
“That was one time in Vienna, one time!” He decried, patting Malachi on the back with his broad hand. “I’ll remind you it was not me who suggested removing my pants.”
“You? Complaining over a sucked cock? Oi vey, Octavius.” He mercilessly teased in return, pointing to the wine selection so that they might change the subject — they didn’t know the company they kept just yet. “What about this Grand Cru from twenty-one?”
“That sounds mighty fine, Malachi, but I have my eyes on a stellar little treat myself…” Oc trailed off and Malachi’s gaze followed his toward the back of the room.
“Twice damned,” Malachi breathed, feeling his undead heart in his throat for the first time in what felt like a century; the beauty before him stunning and sedating his sharper intellect.
The dame was taller than any woman he’d ever seen, long, elegant legs and a viridescent gaze trained on him over the man she was addressing. Those eyes seemed to stare right through him, and he found himself leaning forward in his seat as he let his lips curl into a sultry little smile for her benefit. Her cheeks flushed ever so slightly, imperceptible to the human eye, but with his keen senses he could hear every trembling beat of her heart — as well as the angered heavy breathing of her companion. Their argument seemed inconsequential, but when the man reached for her face to force her to look at him, Malachi frowned and began to stand up, but it was the determined look in her eye that had him crossing the room towards the center stage instead of to intervene. Even though common sense told him she’d be just fine in a club full of this many people, he still felt uneasy leaving her completely alone. Taking a seat at one of the more private booths, he motioned for Octavius to join him from the bar, and while the two got comfortable for the show ahead, Malachi kept his eye on her.
As the stage lights went out, he looked away for only a moment to look over before returning his gaze to where she’d just been; the man had disappeared as well, going to sit at the bar with a foul grimace on his face. Excellent. Returning his focus to the stage, he was absolutely stunned to find her there in glistening golds and deep blues, the fit of the dress pressing her breasts together in a way that immediately caught Malachi’s fragile attention. When he found the courage to move his eyes, he came face to face with her tanned skin as she splayed herself across his lap, singing some song or another into her microphone but he was too entranced with her heartbeat to care. Lively, she was, lovelier still, and he ran his nose up her neck, inhaling her natural musk alongside the distinct mix of honey, incense, and rose in her perfume. As her free hand settled on the cream of his undershirt, he felt the weight of every gaze in the room falling under her spell. Was she—?
“My dressing room, fifteen minutes,” She murmured sweetly in his ear, so low that her mic didn’t pick up her words, but it certainly registered his sharp inhale to the amusement of the other patrons.
To his credit, Malachi seemed unfazed, but Octavius’s knowing gaze erased any pretense of hiding the shift in his posture and his pants. He shot the man a soft glare, waving him away as he watched her dance away from him, a swing to her step that he wished he could follow after despite the crowded room. Returning to his drink, he waited for her song to end before sliding across the seat toward Octavius, his eyes dark and focused in a way Octavius hadn’t seen in decades.
“The Lady has invited me back to her dressing room, ya mind entertaining yourself?” Malachi weakly offered, not missing the waggle of Octavius’ eyebrows as he stood from the booth.
“I’ll be at the bar, mon cheri, do not be late.” Octavius’s hand smoothed down Malachi’s back before he walked away, intimate for friends but not at all telling of their relationship in such mixed company.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Greetings my loves! Another Pre-Canon fic upon ye. If you haven't already, I highly recommend reading the work previous to this one to provide necessary context. 😘
"Think deeply, for time is of the essence. If you agree to this exchange, allow Master van Calox to escort you to the Governess so that she may secure you all passage to our Blackship. Have Imogene bring anything she feels she may need, anything sentimental that she’d like to keep from her old life before she begins anew." -- Xavier Calcazar
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Remember when I said I was going to not post my series till everything was done? Well I lied because I have the poster's urge first and foremost. Please mind the tags, and I hope you enjoy. ☺️
Far too many moons had passed since the Inquisition’s last visit to the pleasure world of Askelphion Secundus, and Lady Beatrix Levine el Abdul, who employed Imogene’s family and governed the world itself, had invited Imogene el Zuhrai along to join the festivities as a formal court maiden. Old enough to begin a courtship, it is no surprise when a certain Interrogator makes his way to her side and begins to weave his tale...
Did I mention I think I'm back? New Year, New Me, all that jazz? Anyway uh, start of a handjob ahead, minor details about a corpse.
Having always been convinced that Death was not the end, Malachi Coval tipped his head to the side with the kind of submission reserved for a lamb to slaughter, his dark eyes closed as he prepared to take his final breath. The only signal that Odette had come into his personal space was the tip of her nose skimming up his throat; not a breath, not a sound, nary a whisper. His body trembled from a fear that was not his own, an innate prey drive in the face of a true predator animal. When he cautiously opened his eyes, he nearly recoiled at just how close she was, the scent of her violet-vanilla perfume barely masking the Death that danced below it. Her smile was soft, familiar as she cupped his face between her corpse-adjacent hands and soothingly brushed his high cheekbones.
“Breathe, Malachi, for you are safe here with us,” Odie murmured, her voice taking on an odd quality the longer she spoke, a tenderness he’d only recognized in his mother before. “Oh, my childe… how proud I am for the Kindred you will become…”
He’d always found her beautiful, but this close he could pick out the individual gradients of her striking hazel eyes, the softening of her crow’s feet as she ran a hand down his bare chest. Embarrassed at how his body reacted to her touch after so long without the feeling of another, Malachi turned his head away from her intense gaze and caught Octavius’ in the mirror across the room. The older man watched on from the shadows, a cigar in his teeth and a glass of O-negative in the other, amused, but firmly entranced by the scene before him. There would be no escape from their eyes tonight, it seemed, so he could only accept his current predicament and allow Odette to unbuckle his belt with precision, her eyes remaining forward even as her lips quirked into a light smile.
“Nothing to be nervous about, Chi-Chi,” She all but cooed as she freed him from his trousers, his twitching cock warm against her cold fingers as she began to stroke him. “That’s it… relax for me…”
“Mistress, I—” He choked, the unexpected contact nearly made his knees buckle and all he could do to settle himself was a hand at her waist, gripping like his life depended on it — and maybe it did.
“Shhh, Malachi… trust that I know what I’m doing.”
Tagged by the forever lovely @lamortwrites and I'm lightly tagging @eregar @winterscale @quaksi and @arach-tinilith with no pressure 💕
“I need to secure the Dynasty,” Rogue Trader Imogene Reyniel von Valancius el Zuhrai had said. “The father of my child needs to be someone I can trust, someone who will put their life above all else, including my own.”
“Lord Captain—” Her Seneschal had attempted to deflect, to remind her of his lowborn status, but she had continued on unfazed.
“Meet me in my chambers after your shift, Seneschal. There is much I’d like to discuss with you.”
Several hours had passed since then, which left Abelard to nervously adjust his gloves and coat as he fidgeted in front of her private quarters like a young, tepid boy instead of the staunch Navy man that he’d become. Pathetic. Mustering the courage to march into the battle ahead, Abelard politely knocked before entering, taking his time and keeping his eyes low to the floor as he entered Imogene’s bedroom as he’d been asked. Barely a few paces in and she made herself known with a soft clearing of her throat, smiling kindly at him when his eyes snapped to hers, nearly tripping over himself when he took notice of what she wore. Dark blue silk fell over her warm brown skin like water, accentuating the suppleness of her breasts and hips as she crawled to the front of the bed, and the beading surrounding her waist was intricate in a way he’d like to run his hands over, given the opportunity.
“Here I thought fornification would be something that would put you at ease; you’re well practiced after all,” Imogene rasped, melodic and sultry as she leaned forward on her bed to address him properly. “At ease, Seneschal, here we are friends, not colleagues.”
“Friends don’t make requests like you do, Lord Captain, and it has been…” Abelard avoided her eyes for a split second, a faint pink tinging his cheeks and ears. “Quite some time since I’ve last partaken.”
The weight of his words hung in the moment, and Imogene fixed him with an unreadable expression before sliding out of bed to stand before him. She stood three inches taller than him, something she loved to lord over him during their petty arguments on the bridge or on Dargonus.
