#but like...the framing...I'm not wrong right

[hivemuthur]

I’ve had a thought. You believe Viktor to be Experienced, right? What would his first time have looked like? This could be a request if you wanna write a one shot. Or just like share your thoughts. I’d be intrigued to see what you come up with if you wrote it out tho 🤔

You do like to throw me curveballs (I love that, thank you). Here is some virgin!Viktor take, he's not exactly super freaky but take it as the origin of Freaktor :')

Humble as I Go

viktorxfem!reader explicit! first time, a bit awkward, a bit sweet. Both Viktor and Reader are virgins! There is no specified age for the sake of legalities, but you can imagine them both young.

word count: 3,8K

author’s note: ok, so I've seen some angry post about condemnation of virgins through HC-ing Viktor as a non-virgin, and what I'm saying here is that I disagree with his infantilization in most virgin!Viktor fics. I was a late bloomer so I am literally nobody to tell people when it's cool to start having sex, it's absolutely irrelevant to your maturity. But having him unable to add 2+2 or being completely oblivious to sex in his 30s IS ableist. For the most part, disabled people know their bodies pretty well because they have to, and I can imagine Viktor being pretty well-read as well, him being curious about life. So no, it's not a punch toward people who didn't have sex yet, it's a punch toward those who see a disabled guy and think 'let's make him pathetic.' @rennethen beta read, thank you as usual! Happy (sort of) Freakday :')

—

Viktor stares at his thighs intently, grateful for a moment to regroup. The fabric around the knees is bulging and thinned out, threads threatening to pull—if not today, then tomorrow, or the day after. It’s also slightly damp, soft beneath his fingers where he’s wiped his sweaty palms while waiting for you to come back from the bathroom.

He’s afraid to get up from where you sat him on the bed—he’d slipped in the puddle that gathered on the pavement in The Fissures on your way home, after you’d muttered that your parents were away. And your house is nice. It’s warm and cozy. It’s full of love, with plenty of things that don’t match finding a place beside one another. A wet stain from his ass on your bedsheets wouldn’t bode well for what you’re both so excited for—and frightened of—all the same.

The door creaks, and then your head peeks out. A ghost of a smile lingers on your mouth, and you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear—and Viktor, oh, he can’t help but smile too. He actually laughs, breathy, nervous and quiet, but welcomes the weight of you settling beside him on the edge of the bed, as if your presence alone repels every doubt.

You don’t say anything at first. Just lean into his side, shoulder brushing his, your palm resting between you. His fingers twitch beneath it. “You okay?” you ask eventually, soft.

Viktor nods once. Then again, slower. “I think so.” A beat. “My hands are sweaty.”

You smile into your knees, arms looping around them. “Mine too.”

That gets a laugh out of both of you, hushed and crackling with nerves. You untangle your limbs first and stretch one leg over the edge of the bed, your knee knocking gently into his. His trousers shift as he moves to look at you more fully, and the suspenders tug awkwardly with the motion.

“I like these,” you say, your finger sliding under one of the straps and letting it snap back lightly against his chest.

“They’re necessary,” he replies. “My trousers are too big. They used to be my father’s.”

You hum like that makes perfect sense, which it does. His whole frame still has the look of someone who hasn’t quite finished growing into himself—elbows and knees a bit too sharp, shoulders a little unsure of their breadth. You reach out and brush his hair back from his forehead, and this time he doesn’t flinch, just watches you with wide, liquid eyes.

“I keep thinking I’ll mess this up somehow,” you admit, quiet.

“You won’t,” he says quickly. “Even if we do it all wrong, it’s still with you.”

That makes your throat ache. You kiss him—small and soft, mouths barely moving, just the warmth of it. When you pull back, Viktor’s eyes are closed, but he’s smiling. Your hands drift to the buttons of his shirt, but hesitate, hovering. “May I?”

He nods. “Yes. Please.”

You undo them slowly. One, then another. His skin is pale where it’s usually hidden, collarbones delicate, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. When you glance up, his eyes are open again, fixed on your face like you’re the most intricate, important thing he’s ever seen.

His hands fumble next, trying to return the favour, but they shake a little and get caught in the hem of your sweater. You both laugh again, leaning forehead to forehead, nerves zinging in the air between you like lightning trapped in glass.

“Wait,” he says, reaching down awkwardly, and peels off his socks like they’ve betrayed him. “I don’t want to wear these for this.”

“They’re not that bad,” you say, but you’re already tugging off your own to match. “There. Even.”

The grin he gives you is crooked and overwhelmed, but he’s glowing with it. There’s no hurry, not really. Just a shared understanding that you’re moving toward something neither of you has ever done, and yet it feels inevitable in the best way.

Your hands find his suspenders and slide them down the slope of his shoulders. The tension in the elastic gives a soft snap, and he flinches, then laughs under his breath. He looks smaller without them, somehow—softer. Less held together.

His trousers sit loose on his hips now, waistband gaping far away from skin and it looks like a second Viktor could fit in them easily. When your fingers find the button, he nods, barely a breath. You undo it, and the fabric slides down, pooling around his ankles with a sigh. You both blink at the sound, then laugh again, quietly—he shrugs, self-conscious.

“See?” he mutters.

“Thank gods for those, huh?” you say, pulling at one of the suspender straps, and Viktor chuckles, air leaving his nose loudly as if he was holding it until now.

You guide him out of the trousers, then pause, eyeing the brace along his leg. “Would you like to—?”

He follows your gaze, then nods, sitting back to unbuckle the straps. “It’s easier like this,” he murmurs, focused on the clasps. “I don’t usually take it off unless I have to.”

“You don’t have to,” you say gently.

“I want to.” His voice is soft, but certain.

You watch as he undoes the last strap and lifts the brace carefully aside. Without it, his leg looks thinner, a little tense—but you only touch his knee, light and reassuring, and his shoulders drop. You lean in to kiss his cheek, and he smiles, just barely.

Then you reach for the hem of his shirt, and he lifts his arms to let you pull it off. It takes a moment to work it over his head—his hair sticks up after, and you smooth it back without thinking. He’s left in his undershirt, but the skin you can see is pale in the light, slender and unevenly freckled. When you run your palms down his arms, he inhales sharply, but doesn’t stop you.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmur, and he ducks his head like he doesn’t believe it, but his smile flickers small and bright.

“You’re not supposed to say that first,” he says. “I was going to say it.”

“You still can.”

He does. Quietly, but steady. “You’re beautiful.”

Then he touches your wrist, tentative, and waits. You nod.

He starts with your sweater, careful with the buttons even though his hands are shaking. You help him with the last one, and then the shirt beneath. His knuckles brush your ribs as he works the fabric off your shoulders. His gaze lingers—not just on your chest, but on all of you, awed.

His fingers trace the waistband of your trousers next, and he looks up again. “Alright?” he asks.

You hum an answer, too full to speak. The zip comes down smoothly. He tugs, slow and a little awkward, and you lift your hips so the fabric can slide off easier. When he gets them halfway down your legs, he stills for a second. Watching your thighs, your knees, your bare skin, as if it’s something rare and precious.

When he finally gets them off, you’re both just… there. Sitting in your underwear, knees bumping, hearts thudding so hard it’s almost funny. You reach for the duvet, tugging it over both of you. Not to hide—just to be close. Wrapped together in the warmth of this.

And then, when you’re ready, you reach again. Gentle. Curious.

“Hi,” you say, and smile.

“Hi,” he echoes, and his gaze never leaves yours.

The covers rest around your hips, pooling softly between you. Viktor’s knees knock against yours again, faint and accidental. Or maybe not. Your fingers graze his, and he turns his palm up, opening it for you.

“I’ve never done this before,” you admit, voice hushed. “Obviously.”

“Me neither.” He huffs a laugh, awkward and fond. “You can probably tell.”

You nudge your shoulder into his. “It’s okay. I think… I’d be scared with anyone else.”

His eyes flicker down, then back up, bright and unblinking. “You’re not scared now?”

You shake your head. “Not with you.”

He exhales like that means the world. Slowly, carefully, he brings a hand to your cheek, thumb barely brushing the skin. “Can I kiss you again?”

You nod, may times, and this kiss is different—shy at first, but it lingers, warmer, his mouth parting when yours does. His hand slides behind your neck. Yours settle over his ribs, thin beneath your palms. The duvet shifts with your closeness, and you both feel it: your bodies pressed together, clothed in breath and nerves.

It changes then—from careful lips to Viktor’s mouth opening a little more, and yours following. The world narrows to the slick, tentative press of tongues. It’s warm, unfamiliar, and clumsy in a way that makes you both stifle little laughs between kisses. His breath tastes like mint and you’re curious when he’s managed to refresh. Yours is all heat. A soft sound slips out of him when you suck gently on his lower lip, and he mirrors it, hesitant but eager.

The sounds are quiet, wet, a shared secret. A rhythm begins to build—just earnest, as if you're both learning at the same pace. His hand slides from the back of your neck to your waist, pulling you in, every touch like a plea for permission. You tip, gently, and both of you laugh as you fall sideways, mouths still pressed together.

Viktor braces himself on one elbow, looking down at you. His curls are a mess. His chest rises and falls in quick little stutters, and your fingers find the hem of his undershirt, then slip beneath. His skin is warm, smooth, and he twitches when you drag your hand along his ribs.

Your legs shift, one sliding against his. The covers slip lower. His free hand trails up your side. Hesitant, at first, but when he finds the curve of your breast and cups it, you gasp—soft and startled and entirely involuntary.

He freezes, then breathes, and you watch his throat move as he murmurs, “I like that sound.”

“Well,” you blush and swallow loudly. “I liked… that.”

His thumb brushes over your nipple through the thin fabric, and the breath that leaves you this time is closer to a moan. His eyes flick to your mouth and linger. Then, shyly, he bends to kiss you again.

You let your fingers drift lower, and wrap them around the hem of his undershirt. He breaks the kiss with a gasp, and lifts his arms in wordless permission. The fabric peels away easily, and when it's off, you pause to look—Viktor’s chest is narrow, ribs visible under pale skin. One of your hands grazes his sternum, and he makes a small, helpless sound in response.

“You’re…” you begin, but it gets lost in a breath. “Beautiful.” His ears go red, and he lowers his head, but he’s smiling.

He mirrors your movement, fingertips brushing the strap of your bra, a question in his eyes. You nod, and reach back to unhook it yourself. When it slips off, Viktor stares like he’s been handed something sacred. His hands hover before he rests one gently against your side, the other cupping you carefully. The sensation makes you shiver, and when his thumb brushes your nipple again—skin to skin this time—you bite your lip.

You tug him back in for a kiss, and while your mouths meet, you shift your hips just enough for your knickers to slide down. You shimmy them off beneath the covers, kicking them away with your toes. He notices. His eyes widen.

“You too,” you whisper, smiling, and he lets out a quiet, nervous laugh.

He pushes his briefs down with both hands, wriggling a little to get them past his hips. They’re snug, but they come off, down to his toes where they tangle, and he has to kick them off. Again, you both let out breathy laughs, pressed forehead to forehead. Now there’s nothing between you. Only skin and heat and everything unknown.

Your palm traces the curve of his shoulder, gliding down his chest, where his heart beats like a second one between you. He mirrors the path, fingers grazing your hip, then your waist, learning you in slow lines and soft breaths. And then, lower.

You hold each other’s gaze when his fingers slip down, brushing through the heat between your legs. The first touch is feather-light, but it makes you tense around the sound it nearly draws from you. His jaw clenches; he swallows, focusing, adjusting, trying again—gentler, more measured.

Your hand finds him in the same moment, wrapping around him with instinct more than knowledge. The sharp breath he lets out doesn’t sound like anything you’ve heard from him before. His hand pauses. He blinks fast, lips parted, stunned by the way your touch makes him falter.

“I—I didn’t know it would feel like that,” he says quietly, wonder bleeding into each word. Your thumb brushes over him and his hips jump. His forehead touches yours, and he whispers, "I might not last that long."

“I don’t mind,” you confess, breath caught.

You’re both still breathing each other in when Viktor shifts, propped on one elbow, looking down at you with flushed cheeks and hesitant eyes. “I… I’ve been reading,” he says, and his voice is so small you almost miss it.

You blink at him, trying not to smile. “Reading?”

He nods. “About this. About how—it might hurt. For you.”

The smile breaks through anyway, teasing, gentle. “Were there diagrams or something?”

The tips of his ears go crimson. “Maybe.”

You laugh under your breath, and it seems to give him courage. His gaze flickers across your face. “Will you let me try something?”

You nod, already breathless at the tenderness in his voice. “Yes.”

His hand glides down your belly, careful and warm, until he’s cupping you again. You’re already soft and slick, the trust between you easing the way, and when the tip of his finger begins to press inside, your body welcomes him with a gasp.

“You’re…” he murmurs, eyes wide in awe. “You’re so soft.”

His voice makes your toes curl. He moves slowly, watching your face the entire time, his brows drawing together in concentration as he slips in deeper, then adds another finger, and you arch at the stretch.

Your hand tightens instinctively around his cock—still warm and heavy in your palm—and the reaction is immediate. Viktor gasps, hips twitching toward you, and then he whimpers, “I beg you, don’t distract me.”

You giggle, trying to find your composure. “Forgive my manners,” you manage, mock-polite, but your voice cracks as his fingers curl just so. “Oh—”

His expression softens into something closer to wonder. “Is that alright?”

You nod, panting. “Yeah. Better than alright.”

“Good,” he says, with so much focus it almost makes you laugh again—if you weren’t so full of feeling. “You’re doing so well.”

“You too,” you whisper, and you mean it. Every moment is something you didn’t know you’d treasure. Every breath from him, every careful touch, feels like something precious.

Viktor’s fingers move again, slowly, curling as if he’s trying to memorise you by feel alone. Your hips twitch, and your head falls back against the pillow, lips parted. It isn’t overwhelming, not yet—but it’s building. Warming. Like a fire catching at the edges.

“I like how you feel,” he says suddenly, shyly, as though he’s admitting something shameful. “Inside. Around me.” Your throat tightens. There’s something about his voice—equal parts reverent and surprised, like he can’t believe you’re letting him do this.

“You can—keep going,” you breathe. “It feels really good.”

His lips brush the ball of your shoulder. “Tell me if it stops feeling good. Please.”

“I will.” You smile, lifting your hand to brush his fringe aside, fingers sweeping through soft hair. “You’re already being perfect.”

That makes him fluster, his fingers faltering for just a moment before resuming. He adds a tiny twist to the motion, and the sound that leaves you is unguarded. “Viktor—”

“I like that sound too,” he says, grinning, and then ducks his head to hide it against your shoulder.

You both giggle quietly, your bodies trembling with nerves and affection and something deeper that you’re only beginning to name. Then, he kisses your neck. “Can I try something else?”

You hum and nod, nearly absent and his thumb shifts to stroke you in slow, tentative circles while his fingers stay deep, coaxing the pleasure higher. You cling to his shoulders, skin hot under your palms. It feels good—careful, considered. It’s not polished or practised, but it’s full of kindness, full of him.

And when your hips roll up without thinking, chasing the rhythm, Viktor breathes a shaky “Yes,” into the hollow beneath your ear, like your response gives him permission to keep going. You feel yourself starting to tighten around him, fluttering.

“Gods,” you whisper. “You’re so good.”

“You too,” he says, kissing your cheek, breath ragged now. “You feel… you feel amazing.” His hand has you, fingers deep, careful, as his thumb circles around you slowly. You can feel yourself tipping—your legs tense, your thighs pressing closer around his palm. It's all so much: the warmth of his body against yours, the way he keeps watching your face like he’s afraid to miss even a flicker of feeling.

Your breath catches. “Viktor—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Let go if you want to.”

One permission is enough for you, and with a soft gasp, you do let go. It rolls through you slowly at first—warmth blooming outward, your muscles clenching around his fingers as your hips jerk. Your breath forms a sound that might be a moan, might be his name. He holds still inside you, except for the slow strokes of his thumb, drawing it out, waiting until your body begins to tremble and soften again. Only then does he carefully slip his hand free.

You’re blinking up at him through the haze, breathless, glowing from within. “You—”

“Did I hurt you?” His brow is furrowed. “Was that alright?”

“It was—” You laugh, dazed. “It was incredible. I think I forgot my name.”

He blushes, his chest rising and falling with shallow breath. You pull him closer, pressing your mouth to his, lazy and grateful. When your hand finds him again, he shudders violently. “You’re so hard,” you murmur against his lips.

He nods, almost sheepish. “Since the beginning.”

Your fingers close around him, and he gasps, hips twitching forward despite himself. He hides his face in the crook of your neck, panting.

“Do you want—?” you begin, but he interrupts with a desperate little sound.

“Gods, yes.” He lifts his head, eyes wide and earnest, “I really, really want to.”

You kiss him again. “Then come here.”

You watch as Viktor reaches behind him, fumbling for where his trousers lay crumpled near the edge of the bed. His hand disappears into the pocket and comes back holding a small, square packet. He blushes when he sees you looking, sheepish. “I, um… thought maybe.”

You smile. “I’m glad you did.” You help him tear it open, hands brushing. There’s a stutter in his breath as he rolls it on, careful and methodical, brows drawn in focus like he’s solving a delicate matter. His fingers tremble.

When he’s done, he looks at you—truly looks. His hair is messy from your hands, lips swollen from your kisses, his whole expression open and tender. “Are you ready?”

You nod, guiding him forward with your hands on his hips, your legs parting to welcome him in. He steadies himself on his forearms, nose brushing yours. “Tell me if I do anything wrong,” he whispers. “I’ve never—”

“You’re perfect,” you whisper back. “I want you.”

He lines himself up, the tip brushing where you're soft and slick. The sensation draws a sharp breath from both of you. And then, slowly, he begins to press inside.

It’s careful, hesitant, and overwhelming—tight and unfamiliar and so incredibly intimate. He gasps, pausing halfway with his eyes fluttering shut. “Oh—God.”

Your hands are on his back, one tracing the line of his spine. “You’re okay,” you whisper. “You’re doing so well.”

He presses the rest of the way in, shallow and shaking, his body curled over yours like he’s trying to disappear into the moment, or maybe into you. For a few seconds, he doesn’t move. He just breathes, and you are grateful for this time to adjust. You feel the warmth of his chest against yours, his heart racing in time with your own.

“It’s—” he starts, then breaks off with a soft, overwhelmed laugh. “You are so good.” You cup his face, unable to say anything. When he finally starts to move, it’s slow and stuttering. He’s trying so hard to hold on, eyes glazed, mouth parted. You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his temple—anchoring him.

“I certainly won’t last,” he confesses, voice breaking. “You feel so—”

“It’s okay.” Your hand slides to the nape of his neck, thumb brushing his hair. “I don’t mind.”

His hips rock a little faster, the rhythm unsteady but full of feeling. Each thrust draws a soft whimper from him, a breathy moan from you. He buries his face against your shoulder, breath heavy. When he comes, it’s with a quiet gasp, his whole body tensing and then melting against you. He clings, arms tight around you like he’s afraid to let go.

You lie there, tangled together in the hush that follows. Eventually, he lifts his head, eyes searching yours. “Did I…?”

You smile and kiss him. “You were wonderful.”

He exhales, dazed and a little teary. “You make me feel like I could do anything.”

“You can,” you say suddenly all serious and Viktor blushes differently this time. His face blushes and his ears, but you are certain his heart does too. He rolls of you, limbs lose and boneless, and pulls you close, arms wrapping snugly around your shoulders until there is space big enough only for you to breathe each other in. Legs tangled and fingers twisted in another’s hair you lay sunken in the sheets. The room quiets around you, and neither of you knows if this was so big only because you don’t know any bigger—but you choose to take it as it is: humbling.

[abby-s-phillips]

Fangirl

Boyfriend!Hawks x Reader

Summary: You had been a Hawks fangirl for as long as you could remember. You certainly never expected to be dating the #2 Pro Hero. What happens when he finds out your secret?

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 631

You were sprawled across Keigo's couch, waiting for him to get home. Which naturally, meant doom scrolling through your TikTok account. Because Keigo wasn't home, you knew it was the perfect opportunity to safely to check your Hawks fan page.

It was silly, really. Hawks had been your favorite Pro Hero since he made his debut, and you had started the fan page a few years back as a fun hobby. You had never dreamed that you would actually be dating Hawks. But now? Your account had amassed over 1 million followers. You couldn't just delete it. You had to give the people what they wanted.

You open your For You Page, and as expected, you are immediately flooded with Hawks edits. You watch an especially good one—a clip of him emerging from some rubble, feathers falling in front of his face. You couldn't help but giggle, because little did they know. Hawks could control every one of his feathers, and he would sometimes do the whole 'falling feather' bit just to be dramatic when he knew the cameras were rolling.

Then, there were the Hawks hater pages. You didn't like to admit it, but you were a little bit of a keyboard warrior. Someone comes after Hawks? You are in their comments, making them regret their existence. Especially now, considering he was your boyfriend (although you kept your identity carefully hidden).

You scroll through a few more edits, giggling and reposting. You're so caught up in what you were doing that you don't even notice Keigo walk in.

"Having fun over there?" he gives you a lazy smirk, leaning against the door frame.

You startle slightly, and you quickly try to shove your phone under a pillow. Wrong move. Within a matter of seconds, Keigo snatches up your phone is on the other side of the room in one, swift movement.

"Hey! Give it back!" you lunge at him, but he holds the phone out of your reach.

"What's this?" he asks teasingly, and then you see his eyes widen in shock. Once the realization sets in, a grin spreads from ear to ear.

"Hawks In HD? This is you?" he asks, looking far too smug as he turns the screen towards you.

"Keigo—" you groan, your face already heating up.

"Oh this is gold, baby bird," he chuckles, "Who knew you were such a fangirl?"

"It's not funny!" you whine, still trying to grab the phone from his hands.

"Oh I beg to differ," he laughs, his eyes darting across the screen again, "He could throw me off a rooftop and I would thank him? Damn. That's some next-level dedication."

You launch a pillow at him.

"Woah, no need to get violent," he cackles, putting his hands up in mock innocence, "I'm flattered that you go to bat for me too."

"Although...tsk tsk, baby bird," he ruffles your hair, "You probably shouldn't threaten to dox people just for insulting my outfit."

"Wasn't gonna actually do it..." you grumble quietly.

Keigo plops down next to you on the couch, the smirk never leaving his face.

"My girlfriend...the owner of my #1 fan page," he sighs, setting your phone on the coffee table, "I should have known with all those 'exclusive' photos."

"I hate you," you mutter flatly.

"Nah," he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to him, "Clearly you love me."

You groan, but you hug him back.

"And hey," he winks, "If you ever want to shoot some more 'exclusive' content, just let me know. Gotta give the fans what they want, right?"

He flexes his arms and puffs out his wings a little extra.

"You're ridiculous," you flick him on the head, but you can't help but laugh, resting your head against his shoulder.

[lilangelbud]

I saw your story about a perverted dad who fucks his wife and communicates with his daughter so that she does not fondle herself.

I had a monstrous thought. Let's say a story where the Father is a Yandere, and is obsessed with his wife, kidnapped her many years ago. They had a daughter - an exact copy of her mother. Now he is obsessed with both of them. And he has... A big libido.

I'm afraid the rest of the story doesn't involve SFW-content😅

I tried my best with this one. Hopefully it is what you imagined!

The house was always too quiet, a heavy silence that clung to the walls like a second skin. She sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers brushing against the lace of her nightgown, a gift she hadn’t asked for. It was too delicate, too her, and it made her skin crawl. Across the room, the mirror reflected her face—her mother’s face—and she hated it.

The door creaked open, and she didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Him. His presence was suffocating, a weight she couldn’t escape. He stood there, leaning against the frame, his eyes dark, hungry. She could feel them on her, tracing the curve of her shoulders, the dip of her waist. Like a predator.

“You look so much like her,” he said, his voice low, gravelly. It sent a shiver down her spine, one she couldn’t suppress. He stepped closer, his boots thudding softly against the hardwood floor. “It’s uncanny. Almost like she’s standing right here.”

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. Don’t look at him. Don’t give him the satisfaction. But she could feel him behind her now, his breath warm against the back of her neck. She stiffened, her body betraying her with a tremble.

“Does it scare you?” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. “How much I love you? How much I love both of you?”

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “I’m not my mother,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. It was the wrong thing to say. She knew it the moment the words left her lips.

His hand snapped out, gripping her chin and forcing her to look at him. His eyes burned with a fire that made her stomach churn. “No,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “You’re not. But you’re close enough.”

She tried to pull away, but his grip was iron. He leaned in, his lips hovering just above hers. “You’re mine,” he growled. “Both of you. And I’ll never let you go.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a drum of fear and anger. “You can’t keep us here forever,” she said, her voice shaking.

He smiled—a cruel, twisted thing. “Watch me.”

She flinched as his hand slid down her arm, his fingers tracing the curve of her elbow, the softness of her wrist. He was everywhere, his touch invasive, possessive. She could feel his desire pressing against her, a tangible thing that made her skin crawl.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Don’t—”

He cut her off with a kiss, hard and demanding. She tried to push him away, but he was too strong. His hands were everywhere, pulling at her nightgown, gripping her hips, forcing her closer. She could feel his need, his hunger, and it terrified her.

“You belong to me,” he murmured against her lips. “Both of you. Always.”

She closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks. She hated him. She hated how he made her feel—small, powerless, trapped. But there was something else, something deeper, darker. A part of her that responded to his touch, that craved his attention. It disgusted her.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching her face. “You can fight me all you want,” he said, his voice soft now, almost tender. “But deep down, you know the truth. You’re mine. You always have been.”

She shook her head, her tears falling faster. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he interrupted, his voice firm. He leaned in again, his lips brushing hers. “And I’ll prove it to you.”

She gasped as his hand slid under her nightgown, his fingers trailing up her thigh. She tried to twist away, but he held her tighter, his grip unyielding.

“Stop,” she pleaded, her voice barely a whisper. But he didn’t listen. He never did.

His lips found her neck, his teeth grazing her skin. She shuddered, a mix of fear and something else—something she didn’t want to acknowledge. His hands were everywhere, touching, exploring, claiming. She was drowning in him, in his desire, his obsession.

“You’re mine,” he repeated, his voice a low growl. “Always.”

She closed her eyes, her body trembling. She hated him. She hated herself. But most of all, she hated the part of her that wanted him to never stop.

Her breath hitched as he pushed her back onto the bed, the lace of her nightgown tearing under his grasp. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and yet there was a flicker of something she couldn’t quite place. Fear, yes, but also a reluctant awareness of the heat radiating from his body as he loomed over her. His dark eyes burned with a hunger that made her stomach tighten.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his gravelly voice thick with want. His hands slid down her sides, gripping her hips with a possessiveness that left her trembling. “Just like her. Just like your mother.”

She turned her head away, but he caught her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Look at me,” he commanded, and despite herself, she obeyed. His lips crashed onto hers, hard and demanding, and she felt his tongue push past her lips, claiming her mouth as his own. She tried to resist, but her body betrayed her, a soft moan escaping as his hands roamed lower.

He pulled back, a smirk playing on his lips as he noticed the flush spreading across her cheeks. “You want this too,” he said, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine. “I know you do.”

Before she could protest, he yanked the remains of her nightgown off, tossing it aside. His eyes roamed over her naked form, and she felt exposed, not just physically, but emotionally. He leaned down, his lips trailing down her neck, his teeth nipping at her skin as he moved lower. She gasped as his mouth found her breast, his tongue swirling around her nipple before taking it into his mouth, sucking hard.

Her hands clenched the sheets, her body arching into his touch despite herself. She hated him. She hated the way he made her feel. But as his hand slid between her legs, her hips jerked upward, a strangled cry escaping her lips. He chuckled darkly, his fingers teasing her slick folds.

“So wet already,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “You can’t hide it from me, darling.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the sensations, but it was impossible. His fingers slid inside her, and she bit down on her lip to stifle a moan. He pumped them in and out, his thumb circling her clit, and she felt herself teetering on the edge, her body betraying her every thought.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Let go for me.”

Her resistance crumbled as she climaxed, her body convulsing under his touch. He withdrew his fingers, and she opened her eyes to see him licking them clean, his gaze never leaving hers. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat through her, and she turned her head away, ashamed.

But he wasn’t done. He unbuckled his belt, the sound of it hitting the floor echoing in the silence. She froze as he pushed her legs apart, his hard length pressing against her entrance. “You’re mine,” he growled, and with one swift thrust, he was inside her.

She gasped, her nails digging into his back as he began to move, each thrust deeper than the last. His movements were rough, possessive, and she felt herself being pulled along, her body responding despite her mind’s protests. He gripped her hips, pulling her closer, and she could feel every inch of him as he filled her.

“You’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice strained with pleasure. “So perfect.”

She hated how good it felt, how her body clung to him, yearning for more. His pace quickened, and she felt herself building towards another climax, her breath coming in short gasps. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a bruising kiss, and she moaned into his mouth, her hips meeting his thrusts.

When he finally came, he buried himself deep inside her, his growl of satisfaction reverberating through her entire being. He stayed there for a moment, his breath hot against her neck, before pulling out. She felt empty, both physically and emotionally, as he stood up, leaving her lying there, exposed and trembling.

He turned towards the door, and her heart sank as she realized what was about to happen. “Wait,” she whispered, but he didn’t stop. The door creaked open, and her mother stood there, her eyes wide with fear and something else—something that made her stomach churn.

He grabbed her mother by the wrist, pulling her into the room. “Come here,” he said, his voice low and commanding. Her mother hesitated, but one look from him had her obeying, her steps faltering as she approached the bed.

Her daughter watched in horrified fascination as he pushed her mother onto the bed, his hands already tearing at her clothes. He kissed her hard, his hands roaming over her body, and she felt a pang of jealousy she couldn’t explain. Her mother’s eyes met hers, filled with shame and resignation, and she looked away, unable to bear the sight.

He undressed her mother with the same possessive urgency he had shown her, and soon she lay naked beneath him, her body trembling as he positioned himself between her legs. He thrust into her mother with the same roughness he had shown her, and she felt a mix of disgust and arousal as she watched.

Her mother’s moans filled the room, and she turned her head away, her hands clutching the sheets. She hated him. She hated her mother. But most of all, she hated the part of her that wanted to be the one he was fucking.

When it was over, he stood up, his chest heaving with exertion. He looked down at them, a satisfied smile on his lips. “You both belong to me,” he said, his voice echoing in the silence. “Forever.”

Her mother reached for her, tears streaming down her face, but she pulled away, her heart aching. She felt dirty, used, and yet there was a part of her that craved his touch, his attention. She hated herself for it.

He left the room, the sound of his footsteps fading into the distance. She lay there, her body still humming with the aftershocks of what had just happened, and she knew one thing for certain: she would never be free of him.

[lov3lybarista]

ᴄʜ. 5 ᴘɪɴᴋ.

Wattpad:lov3lybarista Pairing: Thomas Shelby x OC Warnings: the plot thickens! Not a warning, I'm just excited to get this story rolling Word Count: 3.6k+ Masterlist.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ Song: CHIHIRO by Billie Eilish

May 3rd, 1923, somewhere outside Birmingham, United Kingdom.

Thomas Shelby only needed to say: "If Dr. Hassan is not doing it, then it's not getting done."

And that had halted all pushback from her clinic. He scoffed at first when a younger apprentice had the audacity to even merely suggest he would be more "comfortable" with someone else. He almost strangled the poor man. Thomas didn't care if it wasn't typical that the doctor drew blood—he was close to spilling it if it wasn't her drawing his.

So now he sat again in the private exam room, his sleeves rolled up and his cigarette case turning in his hand as he tried to fight back the need to light one up just to see that little brow furrow she did when she was frustrated with him. The room smelled like antiseptic and amber—her doing, of course—and the curtains had been changed to a deep cream color that made it feel more like a hotel than a clinic. He respected it. He hated it. It unnerved him and calmed him all in one sitting.

Then the door clicked. He looked up.

And then he nearly fucking died.

Because she had walked in already being the softest thing in his life and now she looked like it. Clipboard in hand, hair half tied up into a loose hold, the rest tumbling down her back in those thick black silk waves.

She was wearing pink.

Not the sterile kind or the loud kind—no—this was soft, blooming, devastating, and dangerous all in one pretty silk blouse.

Her lips were painted a gentle mauve, the rose tinting her pale cheeks seemed more flushed today, was it the sun or was it cause of his eyes? He didn't know, he could barely breathe as he took her in, to the way her rose-colored silk was tucked neatly into a high-waisted cream skirt, the soft click of her dainty heels.

And the worst part, the most painful part— she didn't know. She had no clue that she stood there looking like she was made to ruin men without even trying, that she was ruining him this very moment.

She was reading something on his chart, her brows furrowed in concentration as she breathed out soft words to herself. Then when she glanced up to see him staring at her like he had just been hit hard in the ribs, she froze.

"What?"

He only stared.

Her eyes widened a bit, "did...I forget something?"

"You're wearing pink," he said, his voice low.

Her gaze dropped to her blouse like she had forgotten what she had on. She looked up at him with genuine confusion. "Yes?"

His lips parted but didn't form any words right away, he just ran a hand down his jaw like he was trying to compose himself from pouncing on her.

"What's wrong, Thomas?"

"You walked in wearing that," he began, nodding slightly at her like she was a weapon, "and you expect me to sit still?"

It was her turn to part her lips with no reply. She looked down at herself again, like the pink she was wearing was just pink—like it wasn't the softest fucking thing he had seen in years. And that's what kept making it all worse. She didn't even know what she was doing to him.

He let out a slow breath, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Draw the blood," he spoke finally, "before I change my mind."

And she did. But her hands weren't as steady as they always were.

She tied the tourniquet around his arm with practiced ease. Her touch was always like that; gentle, brushing, efficient, impersonal. Except it never felt impersonal, nothing did with her.

He had to look away─at the window, at the door, anywhere but the dip of her pale neck or how those long thick lashes framed her thoughtful eyes.

"I see you still have that nurse," he began, his voice slightly raspy, "the one with the hair bun that could kill a man."

She paused only a bit, a smile ghosting her lips as the needle slid gently into his vein.

He glanced at her, the amusement catching up with him, "swear to God, I thought she was about to frisk me when I walked in this time."

That had done it for her.

She laughed.

Not the usual quiet smile he earned, not the soft hum of amusement she gave when he flirted with her. A real, genuine, and too-sweet laugh.

A pretty sound that bubbled in her chest and escaped her mouth like she hadn't done it in a long, long time.

And it changed everything. It changed the way the sun that seeped through the window felt on his skin, it changed the way his too-tight knot at his tie loosened, it changed the way she completely softened in his eyes.

He blinked at her for a moment, stunned completely. And then something even more rare happened. He smiled─a real, eye-crinkling smile that made his cheeks hurt like the muscles in his face were finally being used in a way they had forgotten long ago.

"You're laughing now," he continues, his smile playing through his voice, "but wait until she finds out I've been skipping the morning pills here and there. She'll hang me by my toes in the foyer."

Dalia shook her head, her words lost to the sweet sound of her giggle, "You deserve it."

That sweet, pretty laugh.

"I shouldn't laugh," she murmurs, the smile still stretching her full lips, "She's been with me since I first opened the clinic."

"And she hates me like I've been there since the first day," he muttered, his burning gaze not leaving the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled.

"She hates everyone," she replied, her smile still there, "but especially men who don't stay on their medication schedule."

That made him grin again─crooked, boyish.

"You've got a dangerous laugh, Dr. Hassan," he said lowly.

That made her pause, her brow raising at him.

"Makes me forget I'm bleeding," he continued.

Her smile faltered─a flicker of something deeper passing in the soft breath she let out through her parted lips before she collected herself as she bandaged him.

"Then we'll keep it rare," she whispered.

But the damage has already been done. Because here she was, the woman in pretty pink, laughing like the world hadn't tried to ruin her.

And it made him feel for one singular impossible moment that it hadn't ruined him either.

And now? That laugh was his favorite sound.

The room fell silent again, except now it glowed with something that had to do with the way his heart skipped a beat when she entered the room and how her hair fell in bouncy jet-black waves around her hips.

She continued to organize and label quietly, and without turning she spoke to him again, "We need to address your sleep."

He watched her as she moved, how tiny her waist was, how he wondered why she wore that damn corset every day when he was sure he could wrap both of his hands around her waist without it.

"Do you still have those nightmares?"

He didn't answer.

She finally turned to meet his eyes, "I have something I want to try with you," she spoke, "a sleep study. But we need to sit down and talk about it so you understand what it entails."

That was his moment, and he'd be damned if he didn't snatch it. So he stood, slowly pulling his coat as he asked: "Late lunch, then?"

She paused, blinking those long lashes at him in slow, deep thought. And then she nodded. "You're my only patient today."

"I know." it was by his design, of course.

She shook her head softly as they walked through the door he held open for her, her eyes avoiding his for a second like she didn't want to admit she liked that he made sure he was the only one.

They walked down the clinic hall together, his hands adjusting her ivory wool coat around her shoulders as he helped her get it on. Nurses passed by then, smiling politely and casting quick, curious glances.

And then─they passed her. The nurse that Thomas had joked about earlier, her hair bun still lethal and her clipboard pressed to her chest like a warrior's shield. Dalia slowed, only slightly, and the nurse offered half of a nod and smile before disappearing down the hall.

But Thomas saw it. He saw the slightest tug at her lips which she then pursed together to keep from spreading.

May 3rd, 1923, Edgbaston, Birmingham, United Kingdom.

Of course, there were no exceptions to the area he took her. The nice part of Birmingham, he always wanted nice things for her. The part of town with gaslit alleyways and polished stores, the kind of place where the restaurants wore silence and jazz like jewelry.

Thomas walked by her side, hand brushing her back in a way he hoped chivalry covered up for that possessive ache he held whenever he had others around her.

He didn't wait to be seated, he had his table ready in his head. In the back, away from view. Dim lighting with scented candles and soft linen folded napkins.

And she said nothing when he pulled out her chair for her, his breath on the curve of her throat as he tucked her in snuggly against the table. She simply stared at him with that soft quiet gaze he could never get used to─like she already knew what he was trying to give her and didn't need to question why.

He sat close, his chair pulled too near to her side to be professional. But he didn't care, just draped his coat behind him as he watched her drink from the cup of water.

"Put that down, Thomas," she said softly when he reached for his cigarette case.

And he did, giving her that small cheeky grin he reserved only for her when she scolded him like that.

"I want to try this sleep study," she began, her finger tracing the rim of the cup, "it's not medication. Not yet. It's something therapeutic, gentle exposure."

He didn't answer right away, his eyes tracing her nail as it moved against the curve of the glass, "Sounds like therapy."

"It is."

He tilted his head, "I don't believe in therapy."

"You believe in me."

That made him look away, just for a moment. When he looked back at her again, his eyes traced the curve of her bottom lip.

"I do."

And that was the only reason why any medication she gave him could work.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The sun had just begun to retreat as they left. The sky was caught in that golden hour between two times of day, where the shadows stretched long against the pavement and his eyes turned a warmer shade of blue. His coat caught in the wind and her heels clicked lightly on the stone.

She laughed again at something he dryly said, soft and quick, her head tilted slightly in as she let him see her like that. And then she stopped, her eyes catching on something up ahead.

A black cat sat perched on the flat top of the restaurant gate, lying against the warmed stone, watching them with half-lidded green eyes like it knew something they didn't.

"Oh," she breathed, her hand already unwrapping the white paper around her turkey sandwich that she had refused to waste at the restaurant.

And when she crouched slowly, Thomas held her hand to steady her as her heels balanced on the cobblestone.

The fabric of her coat pooled around her like fog settling on land, and the cat began to lazily walk over when it saw her break apart the meat and set it on the wrapper.

Thomas knelt beside her, his hand still in hers, his gaze never once leaving the way her brown eyes reflected the sun like honey did.

She smiled, still blissfully watching the cat eat, "looks like mine," she said softly, "always sulking and lazy."

And he believed her. He would believe anything she said in that honeyed voice of hers.

He helped her up when the cat had finished eating, staring up at them as its pink tongue darted to lick around its mouth.

"Come on," she says, "let's walk. You need the fresh air. We can talk more about your sleep." Her voice was almost playful as if she wasn't the same woman who once held a scalpel like a soldier wielded a rifle in battle.

And he did, not because he needed air, not because he needed to fix his sleep, but because he needed her.

The sky glowed a soft ombre of orange and pink around them─the light soaking into the buildings, into her skin, into the dark expanse of her hair. He walked beside her, their hands brushing when the path narrowed or the crowd thickened.

The cat followed. Quiet, and loyal, its tail high and trailing at their feet like it had belonged to them forever.

They wandered the market the way people in love did when they both knew but wouldn't admit it. People noticed him as the stalls whirled by; fabric, bread, a fiddle playing somewhere in the crowd. People always noticed him.

But this time it was different.

It wasn't about the man dressed in all black wandering like a warning of death, it wasn't about the gun at his side, it wasn't about the blood that stained his hands. It was about the way he looked at her.

Thomas Shelby: soft. Thomas Shelby: following. Thomas Shelby: in love.

Some smiled like they couldn't believe it, others stared like he had just grown another head, but no one dared interrupt.

She paused suddenly, her steps faltering as she tilted her head at a stall nearby. And when he followed her gaze, he knew the bad feeling he had deep in his gut finally conjured to reality.

Dalia stood in front of a Gypsy stall, nothing grand, just old fabric and hanging herbs and talismans, a dark-haired woman seated inside watching them with shadowed eyes.

"Have you ever had a tea reading?" Dalia asked him as she stepped forward, her eyes still on the stall.

Thomas didn't answer. Not right away. Because something inside him burned.

His people.

He knew what sort of things they dealt in, what they saw when no one else did, what they whispered into the shadows of the night as herbs burned and cards were set out.

And this woman with the wrinkled hands and beaded hair wasn't anything but a danger in his eyes.

He touched gently at her arm, his voice low, "Let's keep walking."

He began to guide her away but she turned a bit, still had that look of curiosity dancing in her eyes, but something else lingered there.

Then she tilted her head up at him, her lashes fluttering as brown met blue. And then she pouted. Just a soft, subtle pout of her bottom lips, the kind of look that would make him stab anyone else but on her it was lethal.

Unexpected, elegant, sweet.

"You never let me have any fun, Mr. Shelby."

Thomas blinked.

Her eyes were glittering, playful, and mischievous as she stared up at him. And he was stunned silent. Because this wasn't the surgeon who had held him together, this wasn't the woman who met his eyes fearlessly when he showed up on her doorstep. This was her; effortless and as sweet as spring dusk.

His lips twitched into a smile he couldn't fight down, "Fun?"

"I wanted to see how the leaves would swirl in my favor," she mumbled dramatically, her eyes rolling as she huffed and turned her body away from him slightly, "but no...no fortunes, no spells. Just more walking around with the grumpiest man in England."

Thomas laughed. He actually laughed. Because her little pout, her gentle tease, her soft whine, the way the pink of her blouse shifted like it had never known stiffness─all of it was so disarming he didn't stand a single chance.

And so he reached out, pulling her back to his side as he laced their fingers together and spoke in that dry, low tone: "Fine. Let's get your bloody tea reading."

She smiled, slow and soft and pleased.

And Thomas Shelby─war-torn and cursed and broken─held the hand of a woman in pink who pouted like a girl and still made him feel like he was a man who deserved something good.

The cat followed them as they walked into the stall, tail high and a silent witness to something looming ahead. Something much more devastating than seeing her in pink.

The air felt more still like it had been waiting for her to enter. The old woman didn't smile, she didn't move, just nodded once like she had known Dalia would return. Thomas's jaw shifted a bit, his body practically shielding her side.

"You're sure?" He muttered.

"Yes," she said gently, offering him that small smile that always undid him.

He didn't move, nor did he speak. He watched as she sat on the old carved chair, her legs elegantly crossed and her hands resting neatly in her lap. He stood behind her like a shadow, his abdomen pressing against her back like he was anchoring them together. She didn't pull away, not even when his hand clenched the edge of the chair's backrest like he would use it as a weapon if he had to.

The cat curled beside his shoes, its tail flicking as it settled like it was waiting for something to happen.

The old woman finally moved to pour tea from a small brass kettle into a delicate chipped porcelain cup, her eyes turning more foggy behind the rising steam.

No one spoke as Dalia accepted the tea and took a single sip, not a single breath was let out as the woman took the cup and turned it in her hand. Once. Twice.

Her brows pinched in concentration. Then she turned the cup again. Thomas leaned closer, his breath just above her head.

And then she finally spoke:

"Something ancient is following you."

Dalia didn't move. Thomas didn't either save for his hand that tightened on the chair.

"It has sharp teeth and a name that no one speaks aloud."

Dalia's voice was steady, but hushed now, "What name?"

The woman's sharp gaze snapped up to her. Then past her right at Thomas.

"You already know it."

His breathing stopped for half a second. Dalia felt the shift behind her. The woman turned the cup once more, her face hovering above it now as she glared at the leaves.

"It wants fire, wants to watch it all burn."

She paused for only a moment, "It wants to be remembered."

Dalia's posture held straight, but Thomas could feel the tension in her shoulders. She asked then, softly, "Will it get what it wants?"

The woman looked up. Then spoke calmly: "Only if the man behind you stays."

Thomas inhaled sharply. Dalia then craned her neck up to look up at him, and he was already watching her. He was already waiting, his face unreadable but his eyes were burning.

Thomas simply just helped her up, adjusting her coat around her shoulders without being asked. The cat followed.

And together─the woman in pink and the man in black, the doctor and the gangster─they walked away.

And behind them, the gypsy woman had whispered something under her breath that only the cat heard.

The market was nearly empty now, the sky had gone a deep lavender color and the wind picked up as it trailed the ends of her long hair the same way his coat flapped here and there.

Thomas opened the back door of the car for her, the driver already waiting. But she didn't step in right away.

Instead, she turned towards the little black shadow that had followed them since they left the restaurant, faithfully curled at Thomas's shoes and watching her with wide green eyes like it had chosen her before she even noticed it.

She picked it up, wrapping it in her coat like petals around a night cloud and Thomas said nothing, he just watched as the cat purred in her arms like it belonged there.

"My girl will love you," she murmured.

Thomas raised an eyebrow, "Your girl?"

"My cat."

She said it simply as if that explained everything. And somehow it did. He didn't argue─he could never say no to her, he simply just helped her into the car and slid into the backseat next to her because something in him told him that she shouldn't be alone right now. That she needed to be held.

So he didn't ask as the car began to drive off, he just simply tucked her into his side, one arm wrapped around her shoulder as her body leaned into his without resistance, her head settling against his chest as the cat's purrs filled the silence.

And the silence wasn't cold. It was protective, as if he held her tight enough, close enough, that whatever had been awakened in that stall might forget it ever saw her.

As the car moved out of the cobbled streets into the fading violet of the evening, Thomas Shelby held the woman he could never quite leave alone─not out of possession or need─but out of fear.

Out of fear that something older than both of them from his own cursed past had just noticed she existed.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

taglist: @moonbeamott

authors note: the story is going to get soooo good! the plot is finally moving along and im so excited to write out the next crazy chapters. thanks for reading! also taglist and dms are always open if anyone wants to be added or just simply chat :)

[falling-star-cygnus]

Soul Eater DBD fic, now that i've actually fleshed out their weapon forms [here] and have some.. vague semblance of a plot.

SUMMARY: "He is a weapon, and I am a weapon. What do you suppose is going to happen if we enroll in that- poor excuse of an education establishment?" Edwin and Charles are two weapons on a time crunch to turn the former into a death scythe. Should Death catch them, they'll be separated and sorted off to different meisters. Should someone from the DWMA catch them... well.. it's not exactly safe for a kishin to be flouncing around with weapons looking for a power-up anyway, now is it?

ao3 fic: here chapter two: here as always, please leave a comment or reblog if you enjoyed!!! your hopefully dear author craves a chat over tea <3 <3 <3

The Beginning: A Bud Back in Bloom

Edwin was running. 

He didn’t know where, he didn’t know how, but there had to be somewhere. Some bloody break he could catch- or haven he could reach- before.. before that thing caught up.  Whatever reason he had been set free from- from the kishin, or whatever cosmic joke someone was playing on his life [his afterlife?] it would not go to waste.

He just had to- he had to..

The lights stretched and flickered behind him, into long spidery legs fit to drag him back to hell. 

Edwin ran. 

Something was wrong with his soul. And his other form too- he thinks- he knows? 

It’s unreachable to him at this moment, his other half, perhaps lost forever as penance for taking his fleshy- weak, weak, it’s far too weak- body back.

That's.. well- that's not ideal. In different circumstances it would certainly be heartbreaking- to a lose a part of himself so vital. And that will most likely hit him later, when he's done running for his new lease on life.

Right now, it's just an annoyance.

Edwin would be the first to admit his lack of physical prowess- his delicate frame was one of the many reasons his bullies targeted him- but he wasn't incapable.

Not as a sabre. Never as a sabre, he assumes. Though that was a rather small pool to gather data from too.

Resonance was tricky when you spend so long in [somewhat self-imposed] isolation.

But apparently unwilling absorption was not.

He can still feel those boys' hands on his arms, the itchy cloth on his wrists and their laughs and chants of "Mary-Ann, Mary-Ann" as they shoved him forward.

Minor kishin, apparently. A joke for a weapon of his caliber.

MINOR HIS ASS.

Sa'al might've been- maybe- but the witch he'd been traded to had not. Nor had the kishin he'd been fed to.

Edwin can feel his feet begin to shred on stone tiles, can feel the moon boring down on him with it's big bloody grin [literally bloody- this time] from it's low hang in the starless sky.

And it feels so real. Painfully, amazingly, terribly, beautifully real.

He's not just his soul anymore. Not set loose and chased and torn apart and stitched anew but alive.

It tears a laugh out of him.

Hysterical- delirious- perhaps. Yes.

The lights flicker again.

Edwin runs, and runs, and runs until the sun comes up- until the bones of his feet are clacking on the old wood of some dusty bookshop's attic.

And he laughs.

Finally, the weapon [former weapon? new kishin?] thinks to himself, watching his hell skitter past from the safe side of the window- away from the rising sun's laugh, finally..

I'm free.

._._._._.

But there was still something wrong with his soul.

Days later, maybe closer to a week and a half if he's generous, Edwin finds himself clothed in soft, comfortable clothes. A courtesy of the sweet book shop's owner, despite the floors he had dirtied with blood and bits of flesh.

They're not particularly modern- not from what he's seen on the people who walk by the quaint, slightly yellow windows- but perhaps that's what makes them so appealing to him.

Seventy years, he'd been told. Edwin spent seventy years playing cat and mouse with that kishin.

Compared to that, this temporary haven he's found among old pages is.. charming.

And the bookshop owner, a softer man with a veritable cloud of white hair atop his head, is equally so. Mr. Fell, as he had requested to be called.

Perhaps a bit too soft a man, considering he's letting... whatever it is that Edwin now was stay in his attic.

"You're welcome to stay here as long as you'd like." he'd said, "for you will be safe here as long as you wish."

Cryptic words, admittedly, but none less true. So far, at least. Hopefully for as long as he dared to push his luck.

And, occasionally, a boy with a mop of curly hair would wander in while Edwin hid busied himself in a corner.

He looked almost devastatingly handsome- though loud and bright and athletic, if a bit too lean around the middle.

A bit too much like the type to terrorize people like Edwin.

The boy was always polite to Mr. Fell, however, and treated the old books much the same whenever he came by. And when his eyes, so large and soft like that of a woodland creature, landed upon the Edwardian [or so he learned his era of time was called] he had offered a wave.

Edwin pretended not to notice- pretended his ears didn't burn red at being caught ogling.

To his credit, mystery boy had taken it in stride and not attempted to start up a conversation. Though perhaps he would have, had the sun not been sobbing itself to sleep.

Most intriguing.. it had not so much as frowned in these past eleven cycles.

The next time the sun blessed boy had come in, around 16 hours later, he was sporting a bruise upon his cheek and limp in his gait.

Edwin didn't see him again after that.

What he did start to see were spiders.

Lots.

And lots.

Of spiders.

Maybe they had always been there, lurking when he wasn't looking, but now that there wasn't something better to focus on- well... they were everywhere.

Not the same breed, nor size, but the same thing. Dreadful, little, 8-legged fuc-

"Edwin?"

The boy straightens, turns towards the door, "Yes, Mr. Fell?"

stmmp.

It scurries back into the shadows.

"I'm heading out for the night," the kind man says, coat neatly strewn over his shoulders, "Will you be alright?"

"As I always am, Mr. Fell."

While the words themself might sound curt, at least in this day and age, Mr. Fell simply nods at him gently- his smile as genuine as ever- and takes his leave.

Quiet falls over the brittle pages.

And then the scurrying starts back up.

One little menace, oh so bold, is brazen enough to crawl it's way up to his elbow- to raise one leg to his covered inner arm.

thud.

But this borrowed armchair is not a waterspout.

And he will not tolerate this taunting.

Edwin's anger brews and snarls into something truly ugly, something that makes this quaint little refuge look coated in sickly green, and makes the shadows look like long grasping legs.

"Leave. Me. Alone," he hisses, to the now quivering little arachnid.

Though his weapon form remains unreachable to him, even now, the delicate exoskeleton of a scared spider is hardly a match for the souls of his boot. Nor the curve of his gloved fist.

So they do- they scurry back into whatever hidey-hells they'd crawled out of. But it's not enough to calm whatever's biting at his core- demanding to be let out and seen and listened to. No, it only grows more feral.

He wants them to perish. To never show their beady eyed faces to him again.

His skin feels like it's tearing in the open along his brow- as the figures in this haunted book shop grow sharper and more distinct- as his anger grows.

How dare these little things feel any right-

CRASH!

Edwin blinks and goes very, very still.

The sickly green light fades away like water over a fire- like a blanket over a lamp. It's quiet. Just the lantern beside him, and the wind outside.

And the shuffling of heavy limbs.

Whatever's making that noise is above him- in the attic.

So, like anyone would when staying somewhere for practically no cost, he stands up. He takes the lantern from the table beside him.

And he ventures up the staircase.

Where he finds the boy the sun wept for- shivering, cold, and wet.

"Wh-who's there?" his teeth click together, nearly biting into his too heavy tongue.

Something unfurls, something soft, in Edwin's chest. He should've suspected as much. In the... now 25 days he's been free, there was nothing in this store that would harm him.

Those woodland eyes lock onto his own mossy ones- with just the barest hint of foggy recognition.

"You're the boy from before.." he chatters out, so so very softly, "What do you want?"

He almost resembles the chortling moon now.. Edwin thinks to himself, as he takes in the sickly pallor of the once warm-toned other. Who was valiantly trying to put up a defiant front.

He sort of just looked like a puppy left in the rain..

"You're the boy with the bruise on his cheek," the Edwardian parrots back at him, taking careful steps forward to gently set the lantern down closer, "Here.. this should offer you at least a little more warmth."

The sun knighted boy winces, "You saw that, did you?"

"I did," he admits, "Though I apologize for not returning your greeting. Rest assured..."

There was nothing in this bookshop that could hurt him anymore- not spiders, not things that go bump in the night, nor any other bedtime story told to misbehaving children.

"I shan't hurt you."

And there was nothing that would hurt this boy now, either. Not while Edwin was here.

[ciel-phantomhives-world]

From the way, I interpreted Sebastian's character development, I figured out that Real Ciel and especially Undertaker humbled this dude a lot.

UpTo the murder arc, he looked quite arrogant, high and mighty, as if nothing or nobody could scare or defeat him (although Grelle might have worried him a tad bit at the beginning). But Campania arc, however, proved him and us, readers, wrong. Undertaker seemed unstoppable and undefeatable. With his death scythe, he could perhaps destroy Sebastian, if he actually wanted to. We don't know how much strong undertaker really is, yet, I believe. Maybe undertaker would become weaker if someone were to somehow take his death scythe away but that still didn't happen yet.

Then in the school arc, Sebastian allowed undertaker to just flee. I mean, I do get why he did what he did but I felt like part of him was somewhat intimidated to actually fight undertaker for real and that maybe he was glad that undertaker ran away, lol 😂. (They could chase undertaker after he made sure that undertaker couldn't get OCiel right?)

I'm aware that we also don't know that how much power can Sebastian have if he's in his 'true form', that's why I can't necessarily say that he's weaker than undertaker but it's just the vibe he gives that makes me feel like he's scared or uncomfortable. He even said something like how he never wants to run into undertaker again, back in the Campania arc. It makes me feel like he got PTSD because of undertaker XD. So, for the first time, ever since the Campania arc, it seemed like Sebastian realized that he can't always use his fancy, aesthetical butler way to defeat his master's foes elegantly and that there are some real, dangerous threats out there that might not even be after his master BUT AFTER HIMSELF (for some reason).

Now, I don't think that he's scared of RCiel who is just a bizarre doll. We didn't get to see that much of anything with Sebastian and RCiel but from the little moments that I did see, I thought that Sebastian looked anxious or worried. His pathetic ass just looked so defeated when RCiel was exposing everything (along with Tanaka) while his master looked so helpless. I don't blame Sebastian though. What could he possibly do in that situation? There was no going back and nobody saw it coming. He can't lie about anything, anyway.

It's just that one moment where Sebastian was just taking shit and going along with the arrest and everything... Well, it felt like Sebastian hit rock bottom or something. He could at least say that his master is not Sirius and that they were being framed (that was true anyway) but he seemed like he was so done with everything that whatever happened to him or his master at that moment, didn't matter to him. Idk. Then RCiel, most probably, killed Agni who was somebody that Sebastian looked up to. He just looked so broken after all that chaos. No longer did he look that much arrogant or cool or flawless but he looked quite vulnerable and sad. That was the moment when he realized that trying to fight Undertaker and RCiel with forks was not the answer. And ever since then, Sebastian started to act much differently than before. Like the way he reached out to this stranger in chapter 214, then how he didn't even try to disguise himself and his master (although that depends on what kind of strategy OCiel have to infiltrate the hotel).

Present Sebastian didn't appear much as soon as the side missions arcs started but still whenever I see him, I get a much different, humble type of vibe from him compared to the earlier chapters. Hope that answers your question ;).

he's so human in this new chapter it's crazy

[booasaur]

Monarch: Legacy of Monsters - 1x04

[markantonys]

first they jumpscared me with a floofy-haired white boy who turned out to be rand in disguise and not gawyn, and THEN they showed galad without gawyn. mean and evil!!!!

[magiclwritings]

Julius shot to his feet at the man's words. His glass of wine shattering on the floor but the sound didn't reach his ears. Mostly because of how enraged the prince had become at the simple action of his father's wizard. He'd given him a direct order and he'd been disregarded as if the command had never left his lips. Perhaps that was his own ego but he realized he wasn't upset for himself but rather for Iggy. He thought of this man before himself. Not that that would have been odd but not knowing him and nearly being at one another's necks for the better part of the day didn't sound like the sort of behavior to illicit this sort of reaction on the injustices being administered to him.

The feel of rage filling every part of him was enough to send the prince into a full on fit. What sort of fit he couldn't be sure of but he'd never cared for that man, now? He detested every fiber of his being and he found himself hoping that what Iggy had eluded to was still true. "I'll be sure to have a matching one for you tomorrow. Can't have any mishaps." He shouted as the coward of a man left. Though Julius did note that he saw a slight shiver. And if nothing else that was enough to draw a slight smile. He may have only been the prince but he'd developed a reputation of following through on his promises. His father may trust him but Julius had no reason to before and even less now.

His attention whipped back to Iggy upon hearing his voice and he was at his side nearly as fast. Whatever that blasted thing was he hated it, it seemed to suck all of the life out of him. While he wasn't entirely sure he was opposed to the less cranky version of Iggy, it wasn't right. The magic was his and it shouldn't have been taken from him in such a manner. Especially because of who he was. And it was in that moment that he realized what Iggy had meant from the moment they laid eyes on each other. And how he was the crown. He is the crown and the embodiment of hope for the people he ruled. He had thought of Iggy as his property and not a person. It was only because of that that he knew there was more to what he'd been trying to say before. There wasn't time to dwell on that. The prince had his arms around Iggy and he hoisted him into the seat he'd just occupied.

Julius crouched down in front of him, feeling sick at the sight of the gold now wrapped around his throat. It felt hideous, wrong. Whatever was in that thing was unnatural and itching to get out of there. He brought his hand up to touch the metal but something stopped him and instead his gaze found Iggy's. He didn't know what to say. There truly wasn't anything that would have made it better or even manageable but this was ridiculous. To ask to see that mark didn't sit right with him and if this was the price for it then he'd have to find a way to share it. They were a pair now, weren't they? Wouldn't his father insist he only be allowed what his ally is?

"I'm fairly certain he hates himself as much as the rest of us." That wasn't an exaggeration and if it were, Julius had hoped it to be true. He settled with letting his hand come to rest just ever so softly against Iggy's chest. He seemed okay, breathing was stable and he was conscience but he was different. "I wish we would have had more time to discuss this before ..." He directed their focus onto something else, something that he could at least do something about. The prince exhaled heavily and he brought his hands to his face, cupping both cheeks as he looked up at him. The curls on his brow framed his eyes in such a way Julius was certain they had to be rare sort of stone one only finds in their dreams. "What does that do? Do you know?" He was certain the man did from his reaction when it was first presented but he wasn't entirely sure of what the confinement this thing offered meant for him and, well, them at that moment.

He watched from the room's far end as the prince stepped up in his defense. Ignatius allowed it, if only to see how far Julius would take it, and he wasn’t disappointed. The prince was quick-witted and commanding with his words. In another life, where Iggy wasn’t here to do what needed to be done, they could have been powerful rulers. But he couldn’t allow himself to fall under the prince’s charms. He may be willing to defend Ignatius now, but things would change once he genuinely saw the power he could wield through his wizard. Humans have always been greedy, and Julius would be the same. 

Grabbing the wine and a goblet, Ignatius made his way over to the prince. He poured the wine for Julius, handing the now-filled goblet off to the prince. He felt their bond grow warm with approval due to their closeness and the small act of care Ignatius showed the prince by doing something for him. It was as irritating as it was soothing. He set the wine down and stood behind Julius, his hand resting on the chair's frame, his fingertips gently brushing the prince’s clothing. 

The King’s wizard watched the two of them closely. He was surprised how they orbited each other so quickly upon meeting. The history of the mating bond must be more accurate than they ever realized, which meant his work was more important now. The wizard and the King were the only ones who knew the true prophecy of how wizards came to be and how humans came into power in the beautiful country they promised to protect from the greed of magic. Now that the mating bond was activated and here, it was all the more important to fight for their world. Time was running out. 

He opened the box and turned it so the prince and his wizard could see what was inside. “No,” the prince’s wizard hissed, stepping back from the prince. 

“It’s straightforward and very necessary,” He explained, eyes flickering back towards the prince. He allowed the prince’s wizard to have his moment; his back was turned from them as he processed. “It has been centuries since we’ve seen a mating mark, and we must take precautions. Your father and I agree.” He paused, gesturing to the golden collar in the box. “Will suffice for now. It will neutralize your wizard’s magic until the bond is cemented. Only then will we allow it to come off. By then, we will have received word from the Academy regarding your wizard’s studies, and we can test his abilities.”

Iggy had tuned the King’s wizard out. After seeing the collar, he didn’t need any additional information. He already knew what it was. Victor had warned him of this; they had planned for this to happen. Fighting it would only lead to more distrust between him and the council members. And while he hated being vulnerable and without magic, there wasn’t a way out of this that painted him in a good light. The more significant concern was the magical wards he had to protect his mind from others. He couldn’t hide his memories or thoughts from the wizard’s magic without his magic. He dug deep into his pockets, procuring a bundle of herbs. A parting gift from Victor. Before their attention was back on him, he mouthed an incantation and stuck the herbs in his mouth. He chewed slowly, feeling the magic course through his body. 

He didn’t try to hold on to his memories. He let them go. Gone from his mind was ever meeting Victor, training with the rebels, and his mission, his life. It was almost a relief to be a blank slate, no longer worrying about living a double life or having the burden of the rebellion on his shoulders. Iggy turned to face the room; he stepped back to Julius’ side. The prince’s face was furrowed with fury, and Iggy’s heart warmed at the notion. His prince was truly a fighter, a natural protector, and they were each other’s. He was lucky to be fated to such a man. “I’ve complied with every directive since I’ve arrived. I don’t see the need for this. Shouldn’t I get to prove myself to the crown before my very being is withheld from me?” 

The wizard’s gaze flickered over to him, and Iggy noted the slight shake of his head. The man snapped his fingers, and Ignatius fell to his knees. His limbs felt overloaded, and gravity pulled him down to the floor. He fought against the magic but couldn’t move his arms to cast. “No,” the man said, leaning forward and picking up the collar. Iggy felt the moment it activated, hand it ummed to life with magic. It flew from the wizard’s hand, quick as lightning, and latched onto his neck, clicking into place. Iggy felt his magic slip away, hide deep within himself. He couldn’t feel it, couldn’t call out to it. It was like his limb had been cut off. Like he had lost half of himself. He whimpered, falling entirely to the floor, wrapping his arms around his chest. 

The wizard stood, bowing profoundly before the prince. “Now that that is done, the King has scheduled the council for a meeting in the morning to discuss the next steps. He wanted me to ensure you both were present.” And he left, stepping over Iggy’s curled body before exiting the room. 

“Julius,” Iggy whimpered from the ground. Weakly, he reached up, catching the arm of the chair. He pulled himself up, taking a moment to rest his forehead against the side of the chair. Iggy inhaled slowly, trying to breathe around the hollowness in his chest. He knew he couldn’t stand right away, knew his legs would give out. So he stayed put, breathing in and out until the nausea subsided. “I hate that man.”

[thanatologie]

even if it doesn't like...shake my overall thoughts on the whole thing (like bruh do you realize how fucking unhinged it is to begin with), playing through the lich path has me reframing a lot with like...firsthand experience (amanda's crusade for playing/watching/reading a thing yourself because it is different continues), not least of which is the argument before tearstone island.

like, yeah, okay, this is bog standard for either version, right. in the mortal path he's working himself up to give rook an out, but in the lich path...

and you know a lot of the...actual gut punch here is strictly in his voice because he doesn't have a face, how it frames things - you can read it all day long and still not know that he's clearly meandering to a topic that's gonna go over like the hindenburg, because that's not a statement, that turns up at the end when he says stay back a ways, there's a lot of hesitance in it.

like rook's already squaring up for it.

buddy you're in the wrong genre to have that work and with the wrong kind of hero, and your logic is actually pretty shitty, but honestly it's not like emmrich runs on logic to begin with, he feels things real big, overthinks everything, makes assumptions.

also let's take a moment to appreciate the i'll be far more difficult to kill bit. oh, so you're saying lichdom wasn't the complete cure all for that whole dying thing. (i mean, we knew that in the beginning, right, we all knew that.) but i just think it's interesting that he upsold it as the fix-all when i'm pretty sure lichdom has some heavy limitations on it.

sidebar: the ethereal reverb his voice takes on gives me the shivers for some reason. like if nothing else you'd hope his voice would at least stay the same, and it doesn't. nothing does.

gee, idk, rook, maybe it's because emmrich's fear of death was never addressed in actuality and now you get to be the lucky winner of emmrich trying to wrap you in bubble wrap because he's terrified you'll die.

should have brought back manfred.

like, you know, maybe you should have entered that into your lichdom spreadsheet, i guess, but like. honestly what did he think would happen??? like of course he is, and as big as he feels things, of course he'd carry it forever, whether he went a wayward path or not, like. sincerely, what did he think was going to happen? they'd live happily ever after forever and ever?

i think it's interesting that this is the choice for:

like this is where i once again wonder wtf rook was even thinking because like again: when has this man ever not been Like That about anything. ever. in the entire time you've known him.

this in particular kills me, part of me thinks he'd expected some detachment on his part, on things like all those things he's feels so deeply to be dulled. well, he chose poorly if that's the case, because he has an absolute bear of a time even making eye contact during this whole conversation, he keeps looking at the floor.

i mean i don't know what else to say about this that i haven't already said, but it's true. emmrich would explode if he tried to hold things in, up to and including his well ackshuallys.

also, this guy's still not over his parents, he'll probably never get over manfred completely (i mean he and manfred spent twenty years together, you don't just get over that), so uh. i sincerely doubt he's going to be able to honor that one. just saying.

and see, we almost ended this on a good note. we almost did it. this is a fairly reasonable request, i think, on emmrich's part. it's a world away from maybe hang back because i'm invincible or some shit, it's a reasonable thing to ask someone you love to be careful.

aaaand rook ruins it.

i mean...he has a point? like, hey, we're gonna go try to kill literal gods tomorrow, could you please at least try to be careful a little? is not something you get your dander up over.

rook, buddy. pal. friendo. he was like this when you signed on to this two man rowing team, what makes you think he's going to change now? expecting him to, when - again - you're going up against literal gods is maybe being kind of...i don't know. insensitive? jerkish? when you knew he was like this?

should have resurrected manfred.

honestly in this version of the whole fight thing i'm actually glad to see emmrich get a little annoyed about it here tbh, because he's been showing his belly since rook walked in. like the first part, yeah, you can't ask someone to hang back like that in something like this, but tempering it to a reasonable request and still getting shit for it?

nah, mans is correct in his exasperation. i, too, am exasperated with rook right now because emmrich is not being the unreasonable one.

sure, rook's correct here. absolutely, emmrich has transferred that fear of death to them 100%. but you know what? is not helpful or productive? being like this. it's basically the equivalent of stomping your foot because you got told no. but i appreciate that you can tell rook immediately absolutely regrets saying it.

thiskillstheskeleton.jpg

if this man could still burst into tears he'd absolutely be bursting into tears at this point like!!!! that hurt him.

the ending, the we should get ready thing, is still bog standard i think for all versions of this fight except you know!!! at this point there's no manfred to ask him what's going on and for him to be tetchy with, johanna's keeping her mouth shut, and it's just emmrich. in an otherwise empty room, left to sit with it and stew.

it's funny because the mortal argument puts me mostly squarely on rook's side, he's being ridiculous. like he's literally trying to break up with them because he's scared they maybe don't see it as forever after the way he does instead of using his fucking words.

but this one...man, i feel sorry for him. like, yeah, he came out the gate wrong, knew it was gonna be the wrong thing to say but said it anyway, and then tempered it and got his head bitten off for it.

[moe-broey]

Fellas can you take this somewhere else. Maybe. Just not in the fucking halls. Thanks 🫡

I couldn't resist drawing out these tags I wrote on a dif post LMFAO

Moe just has...... SO many problems.......

Close-ups of my fave shots!

The elusive Líf...

[jazzzzzzhands]

HOLY SHIT I HAVE OVER 3K FOLLOWERS

oh hi hello!! the rare bit of talking i do on here!!

i'm not sure how to celebrate! i'm not used to being! Visable!!

Im normally very under-the-radar, so to see i even have fans!!

well its all been very exciting!!

But thank you!! I'm glad to see so many of us

LOVE LOVE LOVE Wally!!

(and also dont mind my random reblogs of other fandoms and aesthetic)

I'm currently prepping art for MUCH later dates!

taking things slowly right now!

but still here, still in love with Wally! as we all are!!

I hope everyone remembers to take care of your

Body and Mind and Soul!

[softichill]

Wait wait okay why are we suddenly blaming Gwen for this?

[llatimeria]

[two bluesky posts from Trung Le Capecchi-Nguyên, @trungles.bsky.social -

I want more people to consider what art means to them without the pressure to impress. How does your hand like to mark a curve? Where does it apply pressure and where does it release? What sorts of shapes are you drawn to? Do you hold your breath when you draw a delicate straight line?

Believe it or not, the practice is the point. And that whole process is muddied by how artists need to cater to the stunted tastes of companies who don’t give a shit about the process or the artist. And you need to eat! I get it! But you gotta take a step back and reconsider what your art is to you.]

[halodwolf]

i hate this time of year because i can be in a totally ok mood at work but then i come home and spiral like nobody's business. like what is wrong with me. i was fine an hour ago when i left work why i am thinking about trauma right now. grrrrr

[general-du-vallon]

I like the episode where porthos finds his father. Sort of. Aramis going off to be romantic hero to the girls used to annoy me but I quite liked it this time. He's always off after the next something. Treville being all stubborn i used to think was wrong but actually, maybe he was right, maybe Porthos did have to find out things for himself, and treville letting him go off and be angry I guess?

The scene where porthos asks treville if he kidnapped him and his mum and hen treville says yes, and doesn't get it all straight because him and porthos are twisted about in belgard's lies is interesting. Treville can't just out and say it cus anything he says gets twisted up and incorrected. But then he asks porthos to trust him and porthos makes a tiny noise of distress and look like he's crying it is super sad. Then he storms off and crashes the door good for him.

It's funny. Aramis is angry at once, then off he goes after the women, crashing into the house. d'Artagnan manages like ten minutes in the room before the auction before he is begging to murder someone. Athos is slow, he takes his time over things and gathers facts, but he gets mad too, and he's persistant, always asking treville about porthos. And then he's the one who at the end cuts through all the bullshit 'is porthos in danger?' and off they go to the rescue. Nice.

Aramis and Porthos shoud've got some more nice scenes in. The beggining is so nice for them and then they barely see each other till their little thing at the end over the uniform. Porthos's 'It's bigger than yours' to athos is hilarious tho. like, is he making a dick joke? I think he's making a dick joke, but that could just be the poeple I hang around with.