#wildlavenderbunny

[mahkittens]

@wild-lavender-bunny || continued from here

Every message eats away at another piece of his heart. Silas is silent as they play through, one after another, each more desperate than the last. He feels his stomach turn and twist, first in guilt, then in anger, before it eventually unwinds with sorrow. A familiar wave of miserable fatigue washes over him, lowering his shoulders as he puts his face in his hands. Harshly, he scrubs his palms over his eyes. He’s surprised to find they’re wet with tears as he finally comes to the last recording.

“Please answer--I need to know you’re alright.”

The southerner lets go a long, shaky breath. Despite everything, he’s relieved. Sander had never come to him in Persephone, and now Silas knows why. Nobody had told him. Ryan probably went to great lengths to keep everyone, especially Cohen, in the dark. It all makes sense and, despite lingering skepticism and hurt, Cobb is willing to believe it. He’s eager to as he picks up the phone and dials the artist’s number from memory. His heart skips as the line clicks, and his fingers wrap tight around the receiver.

“Sander, it’s Silas.” 

There’s a pause as his mouth goes dry.

“I, uh....I got yer messages. All of ‘em. I’m okay. But, I need tuh’ see you.”

Urgency reaches his tone, “Now.”

[hector-goddamn-rodriguez]

@wild-lavender-bunny || continued from here

Not quite drunk, but happily buzzed, Hector accepts the bottle for another sip. His glass has long been abandoned on the coffee table between them, the ice melted down to tiny, slippery shards. As he drinks, he can taste the remnants of Cohen’s lipstick--waxy and thick on his tongue. This coaxes the disciple’s nose to wrinkle as he swallows harder than he means to.

“Good sex?” He snorts, his tone teasing, “Don’t flatter yourself, you ol’ fruit.”

Passing the bottle back, the actor props his feet up with a languid stretch. He figures he’s going to be here for a while, so he might as well get comfortable.

“Not that I enjoy bein’ the voice a’ reason, but you are gonna have t’make a choice sooner or later.” He quells a belch before it can rise past his stomach.

“Not that I envy your options.”

[mahkittens]

@wild-lavender-bunny asked for a CUTE starter (accepting)

There’s a certain spring in the disciple’s step as he makes his way to the Fleet Hall. He’s even humming as he walks, one hand dipped into his pocket as the other cradles a present for the artist--a single rose, wrapped delicately in gold foil. The southerner had bought it on an impulse, having passed by a cart of flowers for sale on his cigarette break. There was something particularly lush about it--velvety red petals in full bloom, miles deep under the ocean. It reminded him of Cohen’s ruby lips. Four dollars made it his to have, to hold, and to give to his favorite artist.

He hoped more than anything that it would make Sander smile.

Cobb exchanges hellos with a few familiar faces on his way up to Cohen’s office. The door is locked shut, and so the disciple uses his spare key. He fully expects Sander to snap and assume he’s some nosy or incompetent stagehand. Before the artist has a chance, however, Silas makes a show of presenting his gift.

“Special delivery, sugar.”

[mahkittens]

[ possessive ] your muse resting their hand on mine’s leg or the small of their back while they’re sitting beside each other (from wild-lavender-bunny <3)

NON - SEXUAL   ACTS   OF   DOMINANCE (Accepting)

[ possessive ]  your muse resting their hand on mine’s leg or the small of their back while they’re sitting beside each other .

Silas always feels out of place at these banquets. Sat at a table too large to see everyone in attendance, he fiddles anxiously with the napkin in his lap. A thousand conversations whirl around him without including him. For instance, Hector Rodriguez, already drunk, laughs obnoxiously from the seat directly across. Martin Finnegan is at his side, trying his best not to smile at whatever lewd joke the actor has made. They both avoid Cobb’s gaze, content to pretend he isn’t there as they sip their wine and pick at hors d'oeuvres going cold in their neglect.

To his right, Kyle Fitzpatrick drums his fingers madly atop the table. Even here, he’s practicing. Silas is immediately annoyed and mutters for him to ‘knock it off’. The younger disciple does not oblige, instead smirking as his fingers pick up their pace. It isn’t until Cohen, sat to the left, shoots him a look that his hand stills. With a resigning sigh, he exchanges 3/4 timing for his fork.

At the head of the table is Andrew Ryan, the artist’s guest of honor. Despite the painstaking effort poured into the evening’s affair, the ‘great man’ appears bored. Inconvenienced, even. His food sits abandoned on his plate, his attention fixed instead to the glass of whiskey sweating between his fingers. Cobb watches as Ryan steals sips between pleasantries with Sander, each and every one more forced than the last. To the southerner’s chagrin, Cohen seems oblivious to the other man’s complete indifference. He goes on gushing, laughing, and gesticulating with flirtatious flair that drives Silas’ temperature up. Without thinking, the disciple’s hand finds Cohen’s thigh beneath the table.

“Oh!” Sander smooths over his surprise with another charming laugh. His eyes don’t leave Andrew as his hand comes to rest atop Silas’. The disciple feels their fingers slip together before Cohen gives a gentle squeeze. Cobb isn’t sure if it’s meant to reassure him, or to warn him not to interfere. Either way, the southerner’s hand doesn’t move from its spot until Sander rises from his seat, glass raised in toast of Rapture’s wondrous founder.

“To Andrew Ryan. Cheers!” 

Everyone but Silas echos the sentiment in a merry chorus. That’s what it takes for the artist’s eyes turn to him. They search him impatiently for an explanation. 

“Cheers,” Cobb mutters unapologetically, and without lifting his glass. 

[hector-goddamn-rodriguez]

Do you have any controversial headcanons that go against what is generally accepted by the fandom? Do you incorporate this into writing your muse or keep it to yourself?

Yeah, here’s a hot take: Sander Cohen’s gay paSS IT ON.(Already answered here)

[mahkittens]

@wild-lavender-bunny

Another masquerade ball makes for another night wasted. Silas is sulking freely about it as he sequesters himself near the bar, nursing a bourbon he’s barely touched, pouting beneath the beak of his mask. He’s not much of a drinker, but there’s nothing else to do here. The extravagance of it all is already tedious, wearing thinly on his nerves. He feels stifled by his suit, and vastly out of place among the other guests. Wealthy fans of Cohen. Investors. Critics. This is one big show for them, and the disciple’s mandatory attendance is simply aggravating. 

The southerner’s eyes wander the room in vain search of a familiar face. Or rather, mask. There’s no sign of his fellow disciples, which brings more relief than worry. If anything, he’s jealous of their absence. If only he’d been so bold.

His gaze eventually settles on Sander way across the banquet hall. The man’s utterly surrounded, being fawned over at every turn. The artist doesn’t seem to mind as he schmoozes easily, seamlessly, with everyone he passes. Silas scoffs and takes a long sip of his drink. The bourbon’s burn distracts from the envy stinging him--so much so that he drains the glass.

As he turns to fetch a refill, Cobb’s surprised to find the artist suddenly at his side. He says nothing at first, only glancing sidelong as he accepts his drink with a nod and mumbled thanks. 

“So,” he mutters after a sip, “Can I go home yet?”

[hector-goddamn-rodriguez]

@wild-lavender-bunny | continued from here

A chesire grin sprawls across the disciple's face. He’s pleased with himself, and the reaction to his gift. Hector then accepts the shot with the hum, and takes it down with familiar ease. Absinthe isn’t his poison of choice, but it delights his senses nonetheless as he swipes a hand over his lips.

“Mm.”

Without bothering to take of his shoes, the actor stumbles from the foyer into the artist’s living room, wavering past the grand piano and dropping to lounge on the couch. A long sigh escapes him as he sprawls out, making himself completely comfortable. Once settled, he bats his lashes  and pats the edge of the sofa, inviting Sander to join him.

“C’mere you ol’ fruit,” he snorts, “I’ve got another present for ya.”

[mahkittens]

@wild-lavender-bunny

Silas is busy in the studio, tinkering on his own with the mix of of an upcoming single, when his phone starts to buzz against his hip. It’s the dozenth time in an hour that he’s been called, and by the same, insufferable man. A small huff escapes him as he narrows his eyes, intent on ignoring it. But, as it has the last twelve times, Cohen’s efforts steal his focus and stoke a helpless sense of curiosity.

“Fer Christ’s sake...”

Knowing full well what a terrible idea it is, Silas fishes out the device from his pocket to check the caller ID. For half a second, he believes it could be Dax. He’s not as disappointed as he ought to be when he sees Sander’s name on screen instead, flashing in big, bold white letters. Cobb chews his lip as his thumb hovers over the ‘accept call’ button. Nothing good can come of this.

“Alright, fine.”

With reluctance, Silas places the phone to his ear. 

“What do you want? I’m busy an’ yer botherin’ me.”