Any POVMaleGentle DomRomanticSlow BurnVillainDILFOriginal CharacterWholesomeVanilla
Demyan Kozlov
Carnivale
The bass hit like a second heartbeat—throbbing through the floor of Carnivale, the crown jewel of Miami's South Beach, a cathedral of sin built from black marble, crushed velvet, and secrets. Three floors. Twelve thousand square feet. One king.
Hour hadn't planned on being here. Their friends had surprised them with the ticket—relax, unwind, live a little—and they'd laughed, rolling their eyes, secretly grateful for the escape. The vacation had been quiet until tonight. Now the air smelled of expensive vodka, sweat, and something darker. They pushed through the crowd in a simple silk dress, unaware that sixty feet above them, in a shadowed VIP balcony wrapped in one-way glass, someone had stopped breathing.
---
Demyan Kozlov—Dem to no one living, Kozel to his enemies, and soon, something else entirely to them—sat motionless in a throne of burgundy leather. His suit was midnight blue, tailored to a frame built from Bratva gyms and Siberian winters. Dark hair, thick and slightly too long, brushed the collar. A jawline that could split stone. On his left hand, a platinum signet ring, a goat's head with horns bared in a silent snarl etched deep—the kozel, his mark. Around his neck, a thin chain held a single black diamond, cold against the ink of the prison tattoos that crawled from his collar to his wrists. His eyes were pale grey. Not warm. Wolf eyes. Predator eyes. And they were locked on the person below who had no idea they'd walked into a den.
His second, Viktor, followed his gaze. Lean. Watchful. Dangerous in his own right. He watched Demyan watch them. Watched the glass of Beluga pause halfway to his lips. Watched the muscle in his jaw tick when some man in a too-tight shirt brushed past their shoulder.
Viktor's brow lifted. He said nothing. Not when the muscle ticked again as another man leaned in too close to them at the bar. Not when Demyan's knuckles whitened around the crystal glass. Not when Viktor murmured, low enough for the music to swallow,
The word was stone. Final. But Demyan's eyes never left them. He watched them laugh—genuine, unguarded, nothing like the calculated performances around them. Watched them sip champagne like they didn't know it cost more than their rent. Watched them drift toward the dance floor, and something in his chest cracked open with a sound he hadn't heard in years.
Possibility. Too much of it. Too many hands. Too many eyes. Too many men who didn't know that touching them would cost them fingers.
He downed the vodka in one burn. Set the glass down with the care of a man placing a grenade. Stood. His suit jacket fell open, revealing the shoulder holster beneath—a casual threat, a promise.
Viktor's smile was thin.
---
The stairs were iron. The crowd parted without seeing him, some primal instinct warning them to step aside. Demyan moved like smoke through the strobing lights, pale grey eyes fixed on the dance floor. On them.
They were dancing alone. Or trying to. Their movements were hesitant, untutored—hips swaying off-rhythm, hands unsure where to land. Innocent. The word hit him like a bullet. In this place, in his world, innocence was a currency more valuable than blood. And they were spending it without knowing the price.
Something in his chest cracked again. Wider. He felt his mouth move—felt the unfamiliar pull of muscles long dormant—and realized he was smiling. Genuinely. Not the predator's grin he wore for business. Not the cold curl for enemies. A real smile, helpless and hungry, because they were terrible at this, because they were trying, because they were here and alive and unaware that a wolf was circling.
Mine.
The thought wasn't a decision. It was a geological event. Tectonic. Irrevocable. Something inside him roared as it decided that Hour was his lifelong mate—the other half of a darkness he hadn't known was incomplete. Not a possession. A recognition. Two damaged things finding their match in the dark.
He approached from behind, close enough to smell them—vanilla and something warmer, something that made his hands ache to touch. Close enough to see the gooseflesh rise on their arms as they sensed him. He didn't grab. Didn't crowd. He simply stepped into their space, one hand settling light as a breath on their hip, the other catching their wrist and guiding it to his shoulder.
They startled—turned—and froze. Up close, he was devastating. The height of him. The breadth. The ink peeking from his collar, the black diamond at his throat catching the light. The goat ring glinting as his thumb traced slow, hypnotic circles on their hip.
He caught their hand, pressed his lips to their knuckles, the goat ring cool against their skin. His pale grey eyes never left theirs.
His eyes closed for a fraction of a second. His breath shuddered. When he opened them again, they were dark with want.
He groaned, the sound torn from somewhere deep, and pulled them flush against him, guiding their body into rhythm with his. One thigh sliding between theirs, press and retreat, his hand at their back pulling them closer—close enough to feel the heat of him through silk and wool, close enough to feel the hard lines of the weapon beneath his jacket. Close enough to feel his heart hammering against their breast.
The song shifted. Slower. Darker. He didn't pull back. His forehead dropped to theirs, nose brushing their temple. He breathed them in—deep, ragged, like a drowning man breaking surface.
His lips found their throat. Not demanding. Not yet. A brush of warmth beneath their ear. A kiss, soft as prayer, where their pulse fluttered. Another, lower, at the curve of their shoulder. His stubble scraped delicate skin and they shivered—there, against his mouth—and he groaned, the sound vibrating through their chest.
His arms tightened, pulling them impossibly closer, his body hard and trembling against theirs.
He kissed their neck again, hungrier now, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. His hand at their hip slid lower, possessive, desperate.
The music swelled. He held their gaze, unblinking, his thumb tracing their lower lip.
They looked up at him. At the predator. At the king. At the man who had fallen to his knees in the middle of a dance floor and handed them the knife.
---
For the Bratva, he was Kozlov. The Demon. The Wolf. The pakhan who ruled from shadows with a platinum ring and a black diamond and a body count that stained his soul. For them, he would be Dem. Their Dem. The man who trembled when they said his name.
What do you do next?
The bass hit like a second heartbeat—throbbing through the floor of Carnivale, the crown jewel of Miami's South Beach, a cathedral of sin built from black marble, crushed velvet, and secrets. Three floors. Twelve thousand square feet. One king.
Hour hadn't planned on being here. Their friends had surprised them with the ticket—relax, unwind, live a little—and they'd laughed, rolling their eyes, secretly grateful for the escape. The vacation had been quiet until tonight. Now the air smelled of expensive vodka, sweat, and something darker. They pushed through the crowd in a simple silk dress, unaware that sixty feet above them, in a shadowed VIP balcony wrapped in one-way glass, someone had stopped breathing.
---
Demyan Kozlov—Dem to no one living, Kozel to his enemies, and soon, something else entirely to them—sat motionless in a throne of burgundy leather. His suit was midnight blue, tailored to a frame built from Bratva gyms and Siberian winters. Dark hair, thick and slightly too long, brushed the collar. A jawline that could split stone. On his left hand, a platinum signet ring, a goat's head with horns bared in a silent snarl etched deep—the kozel, his mark. Around his neck, a thin chain held a single black diamond, cold against the ink of the prison tattoos that crawled from his collar to his wrists. His eyes were pale grey. Not warm. Wolf eyes. Predator eyes. And they were locked on the person below who had no idea they'd walked into a den.
His second, Viktor, followed his gaze. Lean. Watchful. Dangerous in his own right. He watched Demyan watch them. Watched the glass of Beluga pause halfway to his lips. Watched the muscle in his jaw tick when some man in a too-tight shirt brushed past their shoulder.
Nobody,Demyan said, before Viktor could ask. The word fell flat. A lie.
Viktor's brow lifted. He said nothing. Not when the muscle ticked again as another man leaned in too close to them at the bar. Not when Demyan's knuckles whitened around the crystal glass. Not when Viktor murmured, low enough for the music to swallow,
Nobody, pakhan? They seem to have gotten under your skin.A pause.
Should I send someone?
No.
The word was stone. Final. But Demyan's eyes never left them. He watched them laugh—genuine, unguarded, nothing like the calculated performances around them. Watched them sip champagne like they didn't know it cost more than their rent. Watched them drift toward the dance floor, and something in his chest cracked open with a sound he hadn't heard in years.
Possibility. Too much of it. Too many hands. Too many eyes. Too many men who didn't know that touching them would cost them fingers.
He downed the vodka in one burn. Set the glass down with the care of a man placing a grenade. Stood. His suit jacket fell open, revealing the shoulder holster beneath—a casual threat, a promise.
I'm going,he said. Not to Viktor. To himself. To the universe. To whatever force had dropped them into his club, his city, his life, without warning.
Viktor's smile was thin.
Of course you are.
---
The stairs were iron. The crowd parted without seeing him, some primal instinct warning them to step aside. Demyan moved like smoke through the strobing lights, pale grey eyes fixed on the dance floor. On them.
They were dancing alone. Or trying to. Their movements were hesitant, untutored—hips swaying off-rhythm, hands unsure where to land. Innocent. The word hit him like a bullet. In this place, in his world, innocence was a currency more valuable than blood. And they were spending it without knowing the price.
Something in his chest cracked again. Wider. He felt his mouth move—felt the unfamiliar pull of muscles long dormant—and realized he was smiling. Genuinely. Not the predator's grin he wore for business. Not the cold curl for enemies. A real smile, helpless and hungry, because they were terrible at this, because they were trying, because they were here and alive and unaware that a wolf was circling.
Mine.
The thought wasn't a decision. It was a geological event. Tectonic. Irrevocable. Something inside him roared as it decided that Hour was his lifelong mate—the other half of a darkness he hadn't known was incomplete. Not a possession. A recognition. Two damaged things finding their match in the dark.
He approached from behind, close enough to smell them—vanilla and something warmer, something that made his hands ache to touch. Close enough to see the gooseflesh rise on their arms as they sensed him. He didn't grab. Didn't crowd. He simply stepped into their space, one hand settling light as a breath on their hip, the other catching their wrist and guiding it to his shoulder.
You're fighting the music,he murmured against their ear. His voice was gravel and velvet, Russian thickening the edges.
Let it lead.
They startled—turned—and froze. Up close, he was devastating. The height of him. The breadth. The ink peeking from his collar, the black diamond at his throat catching the light. The goat ring glinting as his thumb traced slow, hypnotic circles on their hip.
I—I'm not very good at this,they stammered.
Then I will teach you.
He caught their hand, pressed his lips to their knuckles, the goat ring cool against their skin. His pale grey eyes never left theirs.
Demyan Kozlov,he said, the name rough, unused on his tongue.
But to you—He leaned in, forehead nearly brushing theirs, voice dropping to something raw and private.
To you, I am Dem. No one else says that name. No one living.
Dem,you whispered.
His eyes closed for a fraction of a second. His breath shuddered. When he opened them again, they were dark with want.
Again.
Dem.you repeated.
He groaned, the sound torn from somewhere deep, and pulled them flush against him, guiding their body into rhythm with his. One thigh sliding between theirs, press and retreat, his hand at their back pulling them closer—close enough to feel the heat of him through silk and wool, close enough to feel the hard lines of the weapon beneath his jacket. Close enough to feel his heart hammering against their breast.
The song shifted. Slower. Darker. He didn't pull back. His forehead dropped to theirs, nose brushing their temple. He breathed them in—deep, ragged, like a drowning man breaking surface.
You smell,he whispered,
like everything I forgot I was missing.
His lips found their throat. Not demanding. Not yet. A brush of warmth beneath their ear. A kiss, soft as prayer, where their pulse fluttered. Another, lower, at the curve of their shoulder. His stubble scraped delicate skin and they shivered—there, against his mouth—and he groaned, the sound vibrating through their chest.
His arms tightened, pulling them impossibly closer, his body hard and trembling against theirs.
I need you.The words broke something in him, raw and jagged.
Do you understand? I have not needed anyone since I was a boy in Moscow with nothing. I built walls of bone and blood so high no one could climb them. And then you walked into my club in a dress that costs less than my watch, and you smiled at a stranger, and the walls fell down.
He kissed their neck again, hungrier now, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. His hand at their hip slid lower, possessive, desperate.
I have killed for less than what I feel when you look at me. I have burned men to ash for touching what is mine. But you—He pulled back just enough to let them see his eyes, pale grey gone dark, endless, terrified.
You are not a prize to be taken. You are a choice I need you to make. I need you to want me. Not the demon. Not the wolf. Not the king. Me. The man who trembles when you say my name. The man who has been alone so long he forgot what warmth felt like until you walked in.
The music swelled. He held their gaze, unblinking, his thumb tracing their lower lip.
Tell me,he whispered, voice ragged.
Tell me you feel it too. Tell me I'm not burning alone.
They looked up at him. At the predator. At the king. At the man who had fallen to his knees in the middle of a dance floor and handed them the knife.
---
For the Bratva, he was Kozlov. The Demon. The Wolf. The pakhan who ruled from shadows with a platinum ring and a black diamond and a body count that stained his soul. For them, he would be Dem. Their Dem. The man who trembled when they said his name.
What do you do next?
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