#hopefully never again under the same circumstances

[monamoon8]

These are Omar(2) and Salah(5), Bilal's nephews. 8 months ago, they were enjoying the warmth of their home and being pampered by their parents and everyone in the family. The pictures below are from Omar's first birthday. Bilal told me how he was the one who prepared everything for the surprise party. He was,then, so excited to gather the whole family and give Omar a memorable first birthday and bring joy to everybody.

Now, Omar and Salah are going through hardships no child should be experiencing. They are surrounded by rubble and unsanitary conditions wherever they go; not to mention the random bombings that threaten their lives every moment of every day. Omar took his first steps while being displaced in a tent in Rafah. Imagine your baby learning to walk in a refugee camp under the constant buzzing of drones! The children and the whole family had to endure the cold winter and being drenched by rain in their flimsy tent, and now they have to go through the unbearable heat in the same inhumane circumstances. As if all this suffering wasn't enough, the occupation is currently asking everyone in Rafah to evacuate again, even the hospitals!

The survival of Omar, Salah, and the whole family in now more than ever at stake. Bilal has been in Germany for a year or so now. The thought that he might never get to see his beloved nephews again haunts him every day. He humbly asks for your support to help him keep his loved ones safe until he has the chance to reunite with them, hopefully as soon as possible. Please donate any amount you can spare and reblog this post. Every contribution can make a difference and restore the family's hope!

[heaven4lostgirls]

Can you pretty pleaaassse write for regulus black x reader angst

Where they were friends and got along really well and because they're both pureblooded there families arranged marriage for them. But then regulus gets paranoid and starts to think badly of you and thinks that you were only ever nice to him so that your parents would arrange marriage. And he thinks that you hold the same awful pureblood beliefs as both of your parents and he is afraid to say anything about it incase you tell his family that he doesn't really believe that muggles are lesser. Then regulus is quite distant and mean in your marriage and he eventually comes to his senses when he realises how upset you are and how much his distance hurts you and he can hear you crying yourself to sleep

pairing: regulus black x fem!reader

warning: angst, regulus is a bit of a dick but he comes around ! miscommunication (i’m sorry✊)

summary: request above

authors note: hi! sorry this took forever, i’m really bad at keeping up with requests but i hope you enjoy this, i always say im hoping to get back into writing but it’s always touch and go, my mental health isn’t great a lot of the time and uni just piles on so much more, hopefully you guys understand ! 🫶🩷

regulus wasn’t used to people sticking around, he had been abandoned by the only person he ever truly cared about and left to fend for himself. which was why he assumed when news of his engagement to you was announced by his parents, at a shared dinner party for the sacred 28, you two would simply…co-exist. never fully acknowledging the others presence yet acquaintances at best.

what a shock to his system it was when he grew to know what a wonderful person you were, never abrasive or hostile like his parents, never boastful like most of the pureblood families he knew, instead you were the embodiment of everything he never knew he wanted, a calm to the raging angst inside of him he couldn’t quell after sirius had left, and that alone left him scared more than any of his parents threats to present him to the dark lord as a servant.

you two had formed a quick friendship due to the circumstances surrounding your fast paced engagement, you were set to marry next august and your engagement had only been announced in april. regulus had no problem performing his duties to his family, however this one came with little to no reluctance from either of you as feelings of love and respect blossomed from the friendship you two shared.

however, as time passed, regulus could slowly but surely feel his walls he had fought so hard to build up, crack. he couldn’t fathom why someone like you would feel so comfortable around him, how you somehow managed to worm your way under his skin like no one ever could, not even sirius.

except as time flew by, he had somehow found some of that “gryffindor courage” as james potter always declared, to tell you about his feelings, emphasizing that if you wished, he would never bring up again if you did not reciprocate and you two would still move forward together into marriage as friends.

to his surprise, you were much more welcoming to his feelings than expected, you two had shared a small kiss as you leant your forehead against his and claimed “i was just waiting for you to see me.”

since you two were already a couple in the eyes of the public, the only people he had really had to tell was your shared friends. as expected, they all reacted joyfully to the news and you both carried through the rest of your year no longer pretending to be in love, but actually falling into it.

however, at the beginning of your 6th year, you could tell something had shifted between yours and regulus’ dynamic. no longer was he patient and comforting, instead he was judgmental and fast to anger. some part of you knew it had to do with his parents but you didn’t have the heart to push your questions onto him.

as time passed you watched as he distanced himself from you, pushing away your touches, rejecting your offers to hang out, blowing you off when he would eventually agree. you could only handle so much of his behavior before you eventually broke when telling your friends.

“i don’t know what to do anymore, it’s like walking on eggshells whenever he’s around because im scared of him snapping at me for breathing too loud” you vent to your friends as you place your hands on your eyes to try keep the tears at bay.

“how longs this been going on y/n?” pandora asks softly as she shares a concerned look with lily. you blubber out as answer that sounds like “a couple of months” as tears leak past your palms.

“i can’t keep doing this” you emphasize to them both, “and you know i can’t break up with him because we still have to get married-“

“break up?!” lily questions surprised, “you can’t be serious y/n.” she says as she places a hand on your shoulder.

“i think you need to talk to him” pandora says again as she smiles softly at you as you look at her with tear filled eyes.

“…what if he doesn’t want me anymore?” you whisper, too afraid to say it out loud in fear of it coming true.

“oh love” lily coos as she drags you into a small cuddle with her and pandora, “you’re gonna need to ask him to know that y/n” she whispers as she rubs your back.

you sigh heavily and nod before looking at the both of them. “okay” you concede as you try and form some sort of a plan to confront regulus, your anxiety spikes at the thought of him not wanting your relationship anymore, you couldn’t imagine a marriage with the man you loved where his feelings weren’t reciprocated.

the next day, you planned to corner regulus at the library before dinner but as you walked up to his table, you heard the voice of not only regulus, but barty as well.

“reg, you know you’re hurting her by ignoring her” barty says with a sigh as you pause behind a bookshelf near the table to eavesdrop.

“you know better than i, that i can never be with someone who thinks the way she does…its disgusting” regulus says with a sneer but you can hear how disappointed he is by the statement.

disgusting? he thinks i’m…disgusting? what is he even talking about? you don’t think you’ve ever done anything remotely bad enough to be called disgusting.

“how do you know she thinks like them?” barty implores and you hear regulus sigh, “you’ve seen how she acts when the sacred 28 talks about the muggles” he says and you frown, part of being a child of one of the sacred 28 meant you had to act your part, regulus knew that better than anyone else. so why was he suddenly judging you and telling barty about your issues when he couldn’t even give you the time of day?

“i don’t know if i can marry someone like her” regulus says again and your heart drops. someone like her, you repeat in your head, every insecurity you ever worked through, comes back in tenfold from that sentence alone. you stumble on your feet from the flashes of tears and heartache from all your deepest points of sorrow.

you shake your head and straighten your back before reminding yourself, if he wants a true pureblood wife, that’s what i’ll be. quiet, docile,…perfect.

your wedding approaches faster than you can imagine, dress fittings, bridal party dresses and events all pass with a blur. never fully there, you encompass a state of numbness.

regulus and all your friends notice how you slowly fall into the facade you usually have in front of your parents, instead this time, it never breaks in front of them.

regulus waits for you to come to him, to seek his comfort like you have so many times before, but it never comes.

he spends his nights worrying about you, questioning if it’s something he’s done, you’re still sweet and loving to him, just…more hollow than you were before.

you embody the perfect pureblood princess and he couldn’t hate it more, he hears from people around you how you’re not sleeping, always coming to class in a perfect face of makeup everyday when you usually only used skincare, in beautiful dresses for hogsmead days when you used to use comfortable clothes.

he tries to talk to you, to question why you’ve somehow flipped the switch out of nowhere, but they go unanswered.

the day of your wedding, he can see past the makeup, your sunken in eyes and red eyes. he still places a soft smile on his face as you stare passively into the distance, never making eye contact with him while saying your vows.

the distance between the both of you grows larger as he starts to believe that this was the life you truly wanted, a prince and princess, a couple born out of need not out of love, arranged perfectly to fit the narrative of pureblood royalty.

however, one night he falls asleep later than usual and hears you cry into your pillow, small pleas of being good enough for him as your body shakes with small sobs. he resists the urge to reach out to you in fear of you not recieving his touch well.

he lies awake as he hears you say, “i’m not like i was before, please let him love me now, oh merlin please” you whisper with clenched hands and eyes that leak tears. his heart breaks at the thought of you existing to please him.

he had seen how his mother had done the same for his father, how she turned cold and abusive with no comfort and love from her partner, how she pushed her self hatred onto her children. how that pushed her eldest son to run away.

he spends the next week racking his brain for what he could’ve done for you to think that way before he realises that the summer after his 5th year, his parents had implored him never to give you anything more than the bare minimum because nobody could be trusted. he remembers pulling away from you and pushing you away in fear of you using him for his fortune.

the idea that his parents had made him internalize that you would never love him just for him, you were moving into this marriage not because of your shared love but because of necessity. his heart drops out of his chest as he realizes all of this must have translated to you and that he now had a lot to make up for.

he plans out meticulously how to get his wife back and slowly but surely, he does. it starts with small things, a single flower that you had told him once you liked the smell of on your nightstand, a pair of earrings you remarked look beautiful when window shopping. a handwritten letter telling you goodmorning and his favorite things about you in your bag before class.

your initial confusion morphs to anger at the thought of changing yourself all for him to want you to go back to the self he called repulsive. you don’t respond to his initial attempts to woo you, but as weeks and months pass, he doesn’t give up.

he speaks to you, really speaks to you, asking you about your day, how he can help you when you’re not feeling well, what you need whenever he leaves the house, small compliments about your cooking or how the colour of your dress matches your eyes.

you two start sharing small good mornings and good nights when going to bed, which then translates to small hand holding or shared touches between each other. the ice around your heart slowly but surely starts melting whenever he’s around, you quickly become accustomed to his quick kisses on the cheek whenever he leaves the room or house.

he holds you at night as he whispers sweet promises of never letting you down again, grasping your face to look into your eyes whenever he compliments you to let you know how much you mean to him.

your heart is now warm and full at the thought of his presence, no longer a shell of yourself, slowly but surely healing with his sweet actions.

[meownotgood]

as above, so below. / death sworn!viktor x reader, 18+, reader is fem bodied, reader uses gender neutral pronouns (but is referred to as 'farmgirl' once), mild violence / death, occult themes, blasphemy, power imbalance, size difference, fingering, riding, consensual mind control, mild painplay (viktor brands a sigil onto reader), praise kink, too much plot and feelings, death sworn viktor is hot and this is my explanation. happy halloween! word count: 16.5k

read on ao3

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I felt it again. Weight at my shoulder, honed talons digging in. The same pitch black feathers fluttered at the fickle edge of my vision. A hand tightened onto my neck, onto my soul, measuring each foolishly clumsy beat of my heart. As the invocation lost strength, so too did the raven evanesce. 

I am getting closer. Death is taunting me, stringing me along with His cold palm outstretched — because He knows, to any end, I will follow. 

The candle wax from the sigil burned my palm quite deeply. I'll search for some cloth bandages to wrap it in, lest the villagers see the marks and begin their endless chatter. Hopefully the farmgirl will not be too concerned. I must continue to exercise caution; I cannot afford any crucial mistakes, not when I am so close to unveiling the truth. 

They will all understand, in time. Death, under no circumstance should you doubt my steadfast faith. My fealty will guide me, and if it does not, I will gladly become acquainted with the cold jaws of the underworld. 

— V. October 29, 1618. 

— 

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

The simple persistence of your pounding heart is not-so-simple when the air is thick with smoke, when the sky is dark and knotted with storm clouds, and when each heavy, quickened step slams your boots into the earth firmer than before. Running. You have to keep running, faster and further than those who might still be chasing you. 

Sticks and fallen autumn leaves crunch under your feet like the breaking of bones. Your legs ache. Your necklace sways with your steps: thin twine with a small skull fastened on the end, tied deftly between the eye sockets. It thuds against your chest, rivaling every pound of your heart. Thunder booms overhead, the weight of it shuddering through you, promising a bleaker fate. The air runs crisp with coming rainwater. 

You nearly trip over a large fallen log, stopping, gasping, as you hurriedly lift your cape to jump over. Shouts ring out from behind you; This way, in the forest! 

Your jaw tightens. You take the opportunity to discard your lantern, tossing it as hard and as far as you can into the bushes. You stumble into a run again, leaving the light behind. The light of the dull, contained flame, the distant lights of the town, and the threatening flickers of the fading lit torches. 

You are going to die. 

It's contradictory for you, really. For ages, amidst your journaling and your research and your rituals, Death never once scared you. No, it enamored you. 

Where others saw a cruel end, a violent finality, you saw a chance, a hope. A moth emerging from a delicate cocoon; a new form of beginning. Your town would never accept anything they deemed as heresy, but you knew Death was meant to be revered. The Gods of the living quake at the sound of His name, merely because they know they cannot fight. They'll never be strong enough to stop the fate that will one day befall each and every one of them. 

Those Gods no longer watch over you. Their favor was lost the moment Death opened His arms to usher you in. 

You want to curse yourself for acting so foolishly. You shouldn't be afraid. This was the fate you wanted, the fate you accepted. It just wasn't supposed to happen now. Not now, not to you, not to him. 

And there is a very, very strong difference between admiring, between watching the maw of a flytrap open to sever the heads of whoever steps close, and finding yourself waltzing into the snare. 

The thick forest thins into a clearing, adorned with large, ominous structures encased in shadow — and your vision blurs, your ankle catching on a twisted bundle of roots. Thorns scrape your skin. You're just barely able to catch yourself with your hands as you fall, but damp dirt still cakes onto your palms and your knees. You brush some on your cheek, when you clumsily wipe your tears with your knuckle. 

Wind whistles in your ears playfully, mockingly. It led you here, despite knowing you hadn't intended to come back. Of course, this wouldn't be your first visit to the gallows today. The soldiers following at your heels must've been hoping they'd drag you here themselves.

You push yourself back up onto unsteady feet. Reaching up, you pull your hood back over your head, and desperately try to regain your lost breath. Puffs of frigid, wispy air spill from your mouth with each heavy exhale. Your cheeks and your fingertips are freezing. The forest shakes, trees rustling all around you. The gallows are quiet, aside from the creak of old wood, and the sway and subsequent thump of hanging rope. For the first time in ages, you are alone. Really, truly alone. Perhaps the guards have finally lost you. 

This moment of respite does nothing but remind you of everything you've been running from. As the trees rustle and the stormy sky bellows, your feverish mind can't help but repaint the picture you saw here at sundown, just a few hours prior. 

Deep shadows cut into the spaces between the crowds of people. The gallows were frantic. Your clasped hands shook in front of you, your face obscured by the shape of your hood. Rays of dying light framed the display: shades of blood red, vivid orange. Your heart shook your ribs, your vision spun. Your ears rang sharply as the people yelled and chanted. Yet, you refused to look away, as frightened as you were, even as they brought him to the stage. 

You won't turn away, not from this. Not when your throat ached from the sharpness of blood and bile, the executioners cutting through his shackles and shoving him forwards. Even though it was foolish, even though it went against what he told you, your feet stayed rooted to the ground, unable to move if they wanted to. 

You prayed for the first time in years — to the Gods, to Death, to anyone. It didn't matter who, because none of them listened. So you watched, useless and wide-eyed as the guards secured the noose to the structure. As a priest chanted some speech about witchcraft and the Gods and the occult. As his breath caught, his gaze dulled, sparks left him like doused flames and then- and you… 

And you were powerless, as you were from the start, as you always have been. 

Your heart twists: a weak, wilted rose, pathetically curling in on itself. Gently, you reach into the pocket on your cape. Your fingertips feel the crisp, folded edges of the note Viktor left you. It's still there, thankfully. You'd hoped you wouldn't lose it in the chase.

You've no need to read it for another countless time. You can recall what it said by memory. 

It's done. I have tried, but I cannot fight this. 

Swirly, cursive letters filled the small scrap of torn parchment, forming hauntingly familiar handwriting, etched in blood red ink. They blended into scattered, barely-readable puddles, where your tears had already fallen to fill the page. Don't follow… they will search… find you again… I promise. 

I promise. You would never doubt his words, you never have. But it's difficult, it's painful. How are you supposed to believe him, when you already watched him die? 

With a shudder and another meager breath, your legs buckle. You fall to the ground, landing on your knees in a weak, futile heap. Your heart pounds, splintering from within your chest — like clusters of quartz and sharp shards of stained glass. 

None of this feels real. You touch your fingertips to your pinched temple, your mind whirling and pounding with nightmarish intensity. Viktor should be here. He still has so much to accomplish, this wasn't supposed to happen when you aren't ready to lose him. Gods. You miss him so, so much. 

Viktor is — was — your closest friend, your partner and your backbone. You wouldn't doubt if his name was etched into each notch of your spine. Honestly, you would've followed him anywhere, with bloodied hands, or with a bleeding heart. 

You were a farmer. A peasant, tilling the fields in your uncle's farm with pennies as payment. Your parents left nothing for you after they died, no bequests or last wishes, so you accepted the offer your relatives had left you — a free place of residence, in exchange for helping on their farm. 

It was a good deal. Your only deal. But it was plain. It was monotonous. You hated how each day felt the same, blending together until all of it was useless, unimportant, and easily forgotten. You wanted to do more, be more. Constantly, you longed for a day when your uncle would quit scolding you, when your illusory chains weren't so tight, when everyone in your town would stop spouting the same useless drivel, and finally open their eyes to the truth right in front of them. 

Viktor put a blissful end to your cycle of tedium. 

He came to your village from a country you hadn't yet heard of. You learned from the townspeople's gossip that he was an inventor, and a renowned alchemist in his youth. Although his studies are mostly kept private, as of late. A councilman had died not too long ago, falling ill out of nowhere, just for his body to mysteriously go missing. Viktor had come to your little town to go through with his own investigations. 

Once he was finished, it was onto the next village, to follow the thread of unexplained deaths that continued to lead him from region to region. You were the one who convinced him to stay. 

Viktor was intelligent. Far too clever for his own good, really. He was handsome. Captivating. Tousled strands of dark hair framed sharp features, tired eyes, and pretty, perfectly-placed moles. Pale skin accentuated crisp blue veins, rivers of cobalt that ran through his thin arms and delicate hands. Intricate rings with various symbols carved into their shape adorned each of his fingers. 

The first time you met, your gaze darted everywhere, unsure of which detail to focus on. You noticed the cane he kept at his side, the wooden handle carved into the elaborate shape of a raven's skull. His palm ran cold when he shook your hand. And when he spoke, introducing himself in a polite tone, his words fluttered through you like butterfly wings — carrying the lilt of an unfamiliar, smooth, intoxicating accent. 

To say you were smitten was an understatement. 

It was a bit foolish, in hindsight. Your farm work grew neglected, as you spent less time at home, and more days with Viktor. 

Far before you met him, to ease the monotony that riddled your day to day life, you spent a lot of time reading. You studied anything and everything you could find. You searched for solace in the journals about Death that you'd steal from the library, because neither the librarians nor your family approved of you reading them. 

Viktor was studying the same thing, examining Death's grand designs on his own time. Missing bodies, the phenomenon of fallen soldiers rising from the dead, tales of people who'd almost died and claimed they'd caught a glimpse of the underworld — all of it had to mean something. Occurrences like this are far from mere coincidences. 

You thought so too. From then on, you just… clicked. Each fragile moment felt important, every conversation with Viktor felt effortless, it felt freeing. Finally, you had someone who understood you, after ages of detachment, years of speaking to yourself in a journal because no-one cared to listen. 

Viktor read through each and every page of your notes, praising your findings. He excitedly murmured that yes, you've made so much progress, you should be proud. And this is precisely what he needs to take the next step in his research. If your notes were combined with his, surely the both of you could reach a breakthrough. 

And so, you were friends. Partners, even. You admired him, respected him. The both of you were close in age, and it was easy to bond over your shared ideals. Especially when the two of you trusted no-one more than each other. 

You worked together, furthering your research in secret, working on inventions as a front, while performing seances to try to speak with Death yourselves. 

Viktor drowned himself in his work, far more than you could. To a dangerous degree, sometimes. He believed in multiple planes of existence, that the end was merely a beginning. Now, it would seem like Death held more untamed power than he initially thought. Death is planning something, perhaps hoping to gather more followers, or to overthrow the Gods of the living. 

Those who did not worship Him would soon learn to kneel. This was the future Viktor truly sought. 

An end that planned to devour. A glorious future that flipped life on its head, blessing His followers with touches of soft rot and violent warmth. None of it scared him, so it didn't scare you. You trusted Viktor, and wherever he led you, you were prepared to follow. 

He knew his research was forbidden. Those in the village could never know the truth of what he was studying, and he intended to keep it concealed until the time was right. The strange happenings that had been occurring throughout the town already had people on edge. Any death-worshippers or cultists or witches, whatever the council wants to call them, will be dealt with as soon as they're discovered. 

Mercy wouldn't be afforded. Still, it was a risk he was willing to take. 

You both thought you covered your tracks well. Viktor never told anyone what he was studying — not a soul besides you. 

Perhaps it was because the inventions he made would've changed the lives of the less fortunate. The council are as selfish as they are precautious. Perhaps they were suspicious of him from the moment he came here, and if you hadn't convinced him to stay all those years ago, he'd still be alive now. 

Your heart aches, killing you from the inside before anyone else could do it for you. Blades of grass tickle your knees, sharp wind brushes your skin with all the gentleness of a cut from a knife. The trees whisper to the darkened sky, which answers with murmurs of loud, rolling thunder. Faint droplets of rain begin to patter onto your shoulders. Your bones run cold with a deep, freezing chill. 

By the time you arrived at his study, there was nothing that could be done. The door was busted open, his belongings scattered and toppled. There was no trace of him, nothing but the note he left for you, tucked into a stack of journals on the desk you once shared. 

Shakily, you breathe a slow, uncertain sigh, and you reach up to absently clutch your necklace. It does little to calm your budding nerves. You run your thumb over the notches in the bone, the surface damp with small raindrops: a raven's skull. The necklace was a gift, mimicking the motif that once adorned his cane. A present from Viktor to thank you for all you achieved together. 

So we match, he mentioned, placing the necklace into your palms, just barely brushing your skin with his fingertips. 

Where will you go now? You can't return home, your relatives surely know the guards are after you, and they won't hesitate to turn you in. Viktor hid your involvement as much as he could, but even if the guards only planned to question you, one look through his notes and journals and you would be finished. You can't take that risk. 

You heard that when he was captured, he never denied any of the claims they tossed at him. They were the fools, and they will burn for it, they will die for their single-minded beliefs. Death holds no mercy for those who dare to defy Him. 

But would Death allow a merciful end for his most devoted followers? A small part of you, battered and bruised, foolishly hopes so. 

Wind whips around you, and raindrops pelt your back and your skin. The sky splits with a fervent crash of lightning; your shoulders tense, as you fight the sharp, rabbit-quick beating of your heart. It thumps in your own ears, just as loud as the rock of the trees and the hammering of the rain. You can't stay like this. You have to keep moving, have to keep breathing. 

Once again, it isn't easy. You attempt to rise to your feet, but your legs tremor, unsure if they can carry you any further. 

Your mind wraps around to the same thoughts over and over again. To the gallows, to the pain in your chest, to Viktor. A sinking sensation fills your stomach, a mantra that repeats with the whisper of the wind: you aren't meant to be here. It digs underneath your skin, pleading a command to run, to get out as quickly as you can and not stop until you are far, far, far gone. 

You almost manage to move. You stare down at your knees, blinking, fighting against your misty vision. Your grip tightens on your necklace until your knuckles are aching. The storm echoes around you, tugging at the trees, howling through the gallows. Rain drips down your face to blend with your tears, mercilessly hitting your back to throb against your spine. 

If you were to get up, it would hardly matter. This is it. You have nothing left to return to. No-one left to fight for. You failed him, just as you failed all you believed in. Darkness seeps in, and the moon shimmers, as its crescent dips into the highest point in the sky. 

Perhaps all you can do is wait for the night to take you. 

Though, the darkness does not. Instead, it sparks. 

With your head tilted down, your gaze focused on the ground, you watch the rustle of the earth underneath you. Faint flickers of blue fire start as patient wisps. Curling at your fingertips, hardly allowing themselves to be noticed. Then, all at once, they begin to feed on the thin blades of grass, surging into flames that seek to swallow everything in their path. 

You hurriedly stumble back. You support your weight on your palms, before the fire can reach your knees. The gallows are scorching before you, all of their glory engulfed in a sea of deep blue flame. It defies reason, the sight has your heart lodging into your throat until it's practically choking you; the flames refuse to falter under the rain, causing the wood to creak and decay. 

Ash crumbles down and coats the dirt. A wooden beam at the top of the structure comes crashing down, hitting the ground with a deafeningly loud crack that rivals the resounding boom of thunder. 

Fire, there's so much fire, it's all you can see, all you can breathe in. The wind tosses your fluttering hood from your head. Blue flames ripple at the edges of your vision, reminding you of burning parchment. 

You can't move. There's nothing you can do but watch, listening to the pound of your own heartbeat as the flames continue to surge. Oh, you were wrong, so wrong. Your end was never meant to come at the hands of some insignificant soldiers. Right here, right now is where you'll finally crumble. 

Death has come to take you for himself. Fitting, for the two of you to die here together. 

As the gallows crumble, at the center of the clearing, a sigil inscribes itself into the dirt. It burns in the same shade of deep blue, scrawling a few feet in front of you to a careful, intricate pace. 

It starts at the outer edge, forming a circle encased by runes. They bear resemblance to runes you've studied, but none of them are decipherable. The mark shines brighter when it completes, forming a triangle at its center: the symbol for life at its apex, the symbol for death at its side, and a final, skull-shaped symbol carving into the last point. 

An inferno manifests from the symbol. Thunder splits the sky, the tempest tugs at your clothes and toys with your necklace — but the fire changes, the flames form a shape. A staff rises from the ground, lit by a radiant, glowing crystal, grasped by a large, armored hand. 

Blue smoke wisps ominously from the newly-summoned figure — A man? Is it even a person, could it be Death itself? The occult books you've studied told you that if one were ever to look upon Death, their heart would instantly cease to beat. But yours is still pounding, still knocking at your ribs and making your blood race. 

The sigil calms, giving off a dull glow underneath his boots. His figure is framed with a crimson hooded cape, much like yours. Bulky pillars of armor rest on his shoulders. An eye with a sharp, slit pupil curves from a line of smoke impaled into his back. It flickers over you, regarding you with something all-knowing. 

Surely he stands several feet taller than you, and from this position — you're cowering on the ground, your knees folded like a skittish baby deer's, your eyes wide and your breath catching — he practically towers over you. His staff hums from the weight of what must be unfathomably powerful magic. Panic laces through you, your lungs aching, your throat dry. But your head also spins with intrigue, with eagerness. 

Your research was founded upon hoping an event like this would happen to you. And here it is, a true being of Death, formed right before your eyes. Watching you, sparing you. 

So why, why are you still alive? 

The figure's head tilts. Raindrops, fewer in number, patter onto his head and tap against his armored shoulders. He's clearly gazing down at you. You aren't met with a face, nor with anything human. Instead, you're forced to stare into the intimidating outline of a glowing, skull-shaped mask. 

"I believe," His fingers drum against the length of his staff, and his voice echoes through your mind, drowning out the raging storm, converging with your own racing thoughts, "I urged you not to follow me." 

You freeze. Everything stops, until the skip of your heart in your chest is all you can hear. Your veins run as cold as an icy, frozen river. 

Oh. That's Viktor's voice. 

— 

Time seems to ebb away much faster when you know it has afforded you boundless infinity. 

For six months, I have been Death's herald, and with each passing day, I have felt the veiled web of power within me fester. I do not regret my decision. Flesh was nothing more than a weakness to be shed. But it is gradually growing impossible to tell where Death ends, and I begin. 

Vitality. Depravity. Desire. Every sensation burns within the fire that replaced my heart, forceful and inescapable. 

A part of me does fear the way Death has begun to evolve my mind and my vessel, but I believe my partner understands what I have become. Foolish as they are. 

My previous theories will need to be amended. The mind, the soul, and the body are separate, as well as equal. It is in the palms of another where the pieces that remain of you can truly coalesce. 

— V. Unknown Date, 1619. 

—

The solemn throne room, which once brimmed with beauty and life, now settles under the thick weight of darkness and demise, falling silent in the wake of your destruction. 

Large quartz archways crumble slightly, chunks blown off from powerful, laser-focused blasts of dark magic. Tall, warm columns of stained glass shine in every muted color, reflecting the bright light of the full moon. Grandiose statues and tattered flags line a pathway to a curving staircase, which leads to a noble, black-marble throne. 

Empty suits of armor litter almost every inch of the floor, to the point where you have to delicately step over them to reach the very center of the room. Steel swords and bows remain close by. And on the outer edge of the throne room, cowering in a corner, lies the charred remains of the king's robes, and his chipped, glittering crown. Death has claimed their bodies, along with their souls. The fate they befell here is hardly the worst in store for them. 

You gaze up, examining the intricate paintings laid onto the ceiling. They depict multiple figures. You recognize angels, with muted colors, harps, and fluttery dove wings. At the outer edge, there is the moon and stars, with a metaphorical illustration of Death — a satyr with six arms and four horns, shielding himself from the light. 

Amusing, to think that a handful of angels and a meager army of soldiers could stop what Death planned for them. For you and Viktor, the task was trivial. 

The knights will make strong servants. Lord Death will use them well, to build His steadily growing army. The king, on the other hand, will likely be punished — for ever believing he could escape his own grim fate. 

"Magnificent." A familiar voice lilts into your ears, thick with a smooth accent, echoing through your mind like the ripple of a rock thrown into water. "But of course, our purpose is not yet complete." 

You glance back towards him as Viktor admires the sea of destruction, a low wisp of flame idly twisting around his fingertips, before he casts it away with a flick of his index. The edge of his cape is slightly torn, singed from the aftermath of powerful flames. His staff glows gently, likely regaining the power it expended. 

This new form of his is… imposing. If you were someone who stood in his way, and if you weren't already used to this, the sight of him alone would make you fear for your life. He is tall — large enough that the top of your head barely reaches his chest, and your neck must crane to look up at him properly. And he is strong; his body is constructed from blue smoke and figments of dark magic itself, rendering him immortal, and near impossible to touch. 

Nearly. 

Viktor hums, and the threatening, armored eye that floats above his shoulder flickers, surveying the scene with quiet intensity. Death's Eye, the token that provides him with a great portion of power, and watches over while the both of you carry out Death's bidding. 

"I trust you are pleased with this outcome," Viktor murmurs, his tone cold and practical. "We will travel north next, as you demanded, and continue with further vanquishment. You will be informed when we reach our next target. Until then, Glory to the Underworld."

You nod, slightly nervous, bowing your head and neatly placing your arms behind your back as the eye flickers over you, next. "Yes- Glory to the Underworld." 

Seemingly satisfied, the eye shifts. Smoke dissipates from the line connecting it between Viktor's shoulders. Then, Viktor snaps his fingers, and the eye disappears without a trace. 

"There." Viktor turns towards you, and your gaze is met by his skull-shaped mask: fit with intricate engravings and two small divots, not-quite-eyes lit by twin flames. "We are alone." 

Fear does not course through you, even if it should. Instead, a small smile forms on your lips, pleased and eager, almost smug. As soft as it was on the day you met him. 

Once again, as if you had never once lost each other, Viktor is your ally, your partner. Your closest confidant — and yet, everything has changed. There are some things Death can take, but regardless of His strength and omnipresence, can never return. 

Viktor's form no longer resembles who he once was. The details you'd memorized have been cast aside in favor of a stronger, more formidable chassis. A means to an end, Viktor explained. The body matters less than the mind, and so it only made sense to destroy and rebuild it. This is only fitting, for one of Death's chosen Sworn. 

His voice is the same as you remember, when it lilts smoothly through your system. He still has the same sharp intelligence you once might've found yourself falling for. His memories, thoughts, and ideals are intact. Viktor was quick to reassure you of this, reminding you of the secrets only he would know. Your research would've told you to be wary, your notes reminding you that Death is greedy, and does not give up a soul once He has caged it. 

At some point, you stopped listening to those notions. It matters little to you. Viktor is yours again, until the earth crumbles, until the sky and sun burn out — and really, your meager, loving heart couldn't ask for anything else. 

Death is not an unjust sovereign. And so, in Viktor's own words, when he first reached the underworld, he was offered a choice. 

He was promised a chance at resurrection: a reward for his undying loyalty. But in exchange for power, your research partner would need to swear much, much more. 

He would be given power beyond anything he could dream of, a new body, a chance at revenge. All he must do is agree to complete His bidding, working as Death's right hand. Death would instruct Viktor with building an army, with reaping souls to fuel the underworld's lifeblood. Anyone who stood in the way of His vision must fall. Or, he could refuse, and instead embody what remained of his lost soul, as it gradually withered away into dust. 

It was a simple choice, really. Now, those who opposed Viktor's vision will not just bow to Death. They will also bow to him. 

From there, it would've ended rather simply. Viktor would have taken up Death's mantle, and you- You would be left to time, most likely. Another forgotten soul, drowning amongst the endless sea. 

But Viktor made you a promise, and it was one he did not intend to forget. 

The deal he proposed with Death came with one stipulation. His partner — you — would be spared, and if Death willed it, put to use. You are mortal, sure, but you were as dedicated and talented as he once was. With the assistance of a small fraction of power, you could become a worthy disciple. 

You would have nothing to fear, not ever again, Viktor promised. As long as you knelt close to his heel. 

And so, on that fateful, stormy night, you took Viktor's hand when it was offered to you, and became a fellow servant of the end. You left your town behind — all of them, everyone who had once forsaken you. Your village and the townspeople and your farm, deeply drowned in a sea of blue, fierce flame. 

There was nothing left for you, nothing but this. Besides, you had no doubts. For Death, for Viktor, you would do anything. If Viktor asked you to burn the world to the ground, you would swear to leave it in nothing but ashes. 

Your gaze flickers up from your feet, your thoughts roused as Viktor motions for you to follow with a subtle crook of his finger. And as though you would follow him anywhere, you trail behind with quick, eager steps. 

He leads you over the discarded bodies of the soldiers, guiding you to climb the room's centerpiece: its winding staircase. The long, laced edges of your dress brush your ankles when you carefully grasp and lift it, trying your best not to trip. Viktor leans his weight on his staff, uses it to walk, which is hardly needed, but it's still second nature. 

Your hands clasp in front of you, your dress gently swaying. You watch him set the staff aside, before he takes his rightful seat at the throne. 

He looks like he belongs in a throne, to you. 

For a moment, you fiddle with your thumbs. You glance away, looking at the discarded remnants of the old throne room. 

"That almost seemed too simple," You muse, brows furrowed together slightly. "Will all of humanity be this weak?" 

Viktor leans back. He rests his elbows on the arms of the marble throne, his large legs spread while he clasps his hands together: one armored, almost mechanical. The other delicate, with thin fingers and wispy edges. Soft plumes of mist spill from the gaps between his mask and his tattered hood. 

"Mortals are weak by nature," He explains, assured as ever. His voice echoes, syllables resounding against one another, and his fingers gently tap his own knuckles. "They blind themselves, and then ramble about the truth, without realizing they are still pulling wool over their own eyes. You know this." 

"I do," You murmur, breath catching at the sight of him. Your spine still tingles from the thrill of your victory. "We've seen it countless times." 

"Those men were especially amusing to destroy." Viktor huffs, something between a chuckle and a sigh, and large puffs of cerulean smoke billow from the gaps between his mask. "Men like that impudent king are not even worth the mana. He believed himself to be some form of prophet, only to begin begging to his worthless God once he knew he'd been surpassed." 

Then, Viktor laughs, low and maniacal, as his thighs part more to let him lean back even further. "Pathetic, was it not?" 

With his entire army felled, the king pleaded for someone to save him. Sweat beaded at his forehead, and his panicked eyes shimmered with a spectral glow, reflected in the light of Viktor's staff, pointed right towards him. The Gods did not intervene, like the king swore they would. Death did not lose, like his legion of false mages once prophesied. 

Rather, Viktor merely chuckled, and said nothing, before a single focused thread of magic reduced the man at his feet to dust and bone. 

Your spine shudders sharply. Anticipation settles onto your back, pooling within your core, hot as cinders. 

Thinking to yourself, you allow your gaze to travel across the throne. Old banners, lined with gold thread and embroidered with royal symbols drape beside the tall walls of stained glass. Intricate shapes are carved into the throne's smooth marble. A sun and moon, a cross of swords, and an ouroboros-like depiction of a wolf, and a lamb. 

"He was the same as every king and sovereign we have faced." You take a step forwards, your shoes clicking against the smooth stone floor. "Weak. Witless. Disappointing." 

Viktor watches silently as you approach; your fingertips trace the arm of the throne for a moment, studying the detailed runic engravings. Your gaze glimmers, jeweled and lovely, glittering across him — like prey, teasing the jaws of a predator. A smile crosses your features, one that radiates control. 

"They pretend they are capable of holding the world in their hands-" 

Your voice is kept low; with a palm on his shoulder giving you leverage, you slide into his lap, settling onto his firm thighs — spread as wide as the square throne will allow. 

You're barely whispering, now: "Even though they're toppled as easily as the rest." 

Your body is much, much smaller than his, but sitting in his lap nearly puts you at equal height. Your palms gently brush over the cold pillars of armor on his shoulders. You let your hand press to his chest, tangible and icy. Smoke wisps around your hand — hungry, possessive — as though it seeks to swallow you in. His head tilts, invisible gaze seemingly following your movements, regarding you with a lack of emotion you can't place. 

It would be impossible to tell what he's thinking by sight alone. The Viktor you remember would glance away, or perhaps let his brows furrow. He might coax you with nervous touches, or persuade you to move with careful, logical arguments. 

But this Viktor, frigid and magic-bound, a vessel for ruination — he stays silent, and leans back to offer you more room, his steel-clad hand grasping your side. His touch is as natural as it is unnatural. The clawed fingers of his gauntlet briefly press into your skin through your dress' fabric. His hand settles just above your waist, as though it were meant to be there, with all the familiar gentleness of an angel's winged embrace. 

Your heart stirs, pounding quickly as your body acts before you can think, pliantly leaning into his touch. Your throat feels tense, your skin warm, a newfound taste on your tongue fierce like sweet ichor. For you, it isn't enough. 

So, you press closer. Your long dress drapes over his thighs, smooth black satin against armor and miasma. Your fingertips find the rough edge of his mask, and they trace it with delicate intensity. Viktor's only reaction is to let his large hand travel down, his palm encompassing and squeezing your waist. This time, with a practiced, careful, knowing touch. 

Viktor is the most intelligent, perceptive man you have ever known. And he knows you, enough to make you certain he realizes precisely what you're playing at. 

Your dances always begin like this. You can't help but let a smirk pull at your parted lips. 

"Tell me," You're murmuring, slowly leaning in. Deep blue smoke begins to wisp around your figure, brushing against everything it can touch, but you hardly seem to mind. "Is there anyone who could possibly stand against us? Anyone worthy enough to threaten you- to defy Death's most loyal harbinger?" 

Viktor pauses for a moment, before speaking. 

"Humanity adapts when threatened. There are people to the north, who have begun to use tomes to teach themselves how to wield magic." 

You scoff, "Powerful magic?" 

"No. Not when compared to what we possess." Viktor's masked gaze regards you emptily, as you draw shapes with your fingertips onto the intricate curvature of his shoulders. "They may be difficult, but they will not be impossible. In the end, they'll be slaughtered like the rest. No soul is capable of succeeding against our absolution." 

"Viktor," You coo his name like a nightingale, "Won't Death be proud of us?" 

Of us. The both of you have come so far, from the foolish, loathed scholars you once were. Wouldn't the younger versions of yourselves be proud of how far you've come, of the power the two of you have gained? Or would they despise this, would they cling onto humanity the way you and Viktor have failed to? 

"He will be satisfied," A drag of his hand, gripping and guiding your waist, rocks you much closer to him. "Once the task he sent me to complete is fully accomplished." 

You sigh; his voice blends through you. Burning like light, syllables thick and reverberant. Gods, you can barely focus on his words anymore. 

Leaning forward, unable to stop yourself, your lips press teasing, idle kisses to the firm side of his mask, to fill the empty space left when he quiets once more. With another kiss, brutally warm, you're curling your fingertips into the ice-cold smoke that would be his face, you're gripping the underside of his mask tight. 

Frigidness bites at your fingers. His mask feels rough against your lips. You place playful imprints of promises you wanted to keep, of touches you wanted to inflict before there was this. 

When your lips could have pressed to soft pale skin and star-placed moles. When tender kisses could have led to firm touches, and hands toying where they shouldn't belong. Warm bodies pressing together with the warmth of liquid gold, like they are each other's vice. A time where the vision you had for the future and your studies and the frailty of life mattered less than each other, and — 

Viktor stirs. His free hand glides over the small of your back, making you arch and curve into him, but his armored palm grasps your face, roughly dragging it back. The smirk that beams across your face is wild. 

"Viktor-"

"Stay still." 

His echoing voice is firm — Your breath catches, but you oblige. 

"Dove." He tsks when you're silent, half-amused, faux-annoyed. The familiar pet name makes your heart twist and flutter. "Are you sure you want to do this here? You cannot wait?" 

You breathe a light laugh, your cheeks slightly sore from his stiff, squeezing touch. Gaze flickering, eyes slightly rolling, you hum, "Don't we deserve a reward? To- I don't know, to celebrate our victory?" 

"We?" Viktor chuckles darkly. His hand shifts, armor cold on your skin as he grips the back of your neck like you're a scruffed kitten. "You wish to be rewarded." 

Your head spins. Your whole body shudders, rich with a clear lack of restraint. The difference in power between you is staggering. 

Beneath his fingertips, you can feel the thrum of magic, necromantic and heady, pulsing at your throat. It courses through your mind with strength that aims to conquer. This sort of magic puts the fear of Death way deep in your stomach. Threads of soft smoke flush over your skin. Your veins tingle. The power you were gifted is not like this, not this forceful, not so carnivorous. 

And yet, even as everything within you shudders, instinctually flinching at the violent weight of rot against your skin, all you can believe is that he deserves to own this power. Viktor should satisfy himself with more, with as much as he desires. The two of you have fought for it, and now, you should get to enjoy it. 

For a moment, you think he has you pinned. But your beloved partner blesses you with mercy. 

"We won," He purrs; and there's such delicious contrast, between the mercilessness Death's closest apostle — Viktor, your Viktor — shows your adversaries, and the patience, the earnestness he extends towards you. 

"Those who dared to oppose us are dead. You did excellently, you are growing stronger. You were very, very good. Is this what you wanted to hear?" 

Viktor speaks close to you, allowing you to feel a frigid brush of smoke fanning out over your skin. His voice resounds through your mind and your eardrums. Your hands threaten to shake, each of his words carved especially for you. Only for you. 

"Yes- Vik," Your breath stutters, flowers in your throat budding with hunger, "Please." 

If he was capable, Viktor would certainly be smirking. A confident, assured grin, like the kind he'd flash after his intricate notes resulted in a successful hypothesis. Your heart pounds loud in your ears, his fingers idly curving over your neck, igniting a famine in your chest. Perhaps he knows more than he's letting on. Perhaps he's realized how terribly you've needed this. 

"Coy, aren't you? Asking so nicely." Viktor guides his opposite, magic-worn palm down your back, tracing where the ridges of your spine would sit. 

Your eyelids flutter, and you're sure it doesn't go unnoticed. You force yourself to breathe deeply, your lungs filled with the warm scent of him: of flame, and ash. 

"When we were Death's mere students, you were often receptive to positive feedback." He continues; his hand maneuvers, pressing his index finger underneath your chin to direct it. "But you were never this insatiable." 

The encompassing lilt to his tone tells you it isn't an insult. No, it sounds like raw, fierce fascination. 

"There wasn't time, we came so close to our goals and- and it just wasn't-" You cut yourself off with a quiet, barely-there gasp when Viktor's hand begins to carefully trail over your neck. Gentle at first, until you're reaching up, placing your much smaller palm over his own, guiding him to squeeze. 

"I just missed you." 

"I never left your side," Viktor counters, matching your gluttony when his thumb swipes over your pulse, the sharp, clawed digit grazing your skin. "I suppose this is what you missed." 

His touch? His voice? The threads of magic that form his figure brushing against your flesh, the divine press of your weak, mortal shape to his? 

Either way, he's right. 

Your blood pumps pleasantly, every facet of your willing gaze focused on him; on the magic swirling through his body, on his death-shaped mask as Viktor's vessel silently examines you. Vision blurring, you relax, allowing your veins to tingle and your head to go hazy. Your arms fall limp, and into his lap. 

The feeling of his hand around your neck makes you shudder with risk. It reminds you of the warmth that courses through your body in the heat of battle, of the delight when you're in the eye of an ongoing conquest. Of the dumb thrills that came when you were young and stupid, when you pushed the boundaries of your research, performing messy seances, unafraid to put your lives on the line. 

Now, all of your life belongs solely to him. 

Yes, you missed this. You missed Vik so badly when you thought you lost him — and oh, having him now makes you feel like you could do anything. You could rule together, if that's what he wanted. Viktor could destroy everything, and you would still follow at his side. An endless, fervent part of you wants to be powerless, because Viktor's hands wouldn't falter if they held your life. They wouldn't hesitate to press against you, with all of the pressure and heat of the sun. Or, they would bend you into submission, until you'd no longer have the need to think. 

Trust and desire make two halves of one whole — your desire speaks in echoes of his name, in every shape. And your trust burns like a suffocating flame in your chest, begging to be made his. 

"You're quivering," Viktor notes, although his touch doesn't waver, doesn't loosen. "Tell me what you are wanting. Your lips can still form words, use them." 

"Need you," You're sputtering, the lightest smile pulling at your cheeks, a playful contrast to the sternness in his tone. Finally, you take a nice deep breath, as his grip moves down the column of your throat to rest over the apex of your chest. "I want you, Vik- right here. Or would you prefer me to beg?" 

Your palms shift up to grip his shoulders again — your gaze on his, pleading, heavy. Your body presses closer, ever-so slightly. It's enough to force Viktor to take a low, deep breath. One that forms smoke, defies reason, choking him with desperation and destruction. With a potency that aims to devour. 

Viktor isn't the man you remember, you knew this when you first swore to join his cause. You would never forsake him, even if Death took him to heights you could not reach. Even if Death sought to become him, in a sickeningly beautiful way, in a way that warrants forbidden deals and dark magic and shallow graves. 

Gods, you would have done it all over again. 

You would've made the same mistakes, walked the same doomed path if it meant he would still return to you, just like this. Stronger. With ambition. Without the need for the pain or the hesitation that came with his previous body and past life. 

You've always found Death to be beautiful. Gentle like the slow wilt of deep petals, resolute like the soft cradling of a final embrace. When your village left you forsaken, the demise you glorified rose to save you. Viktor saved you. Death should be taken with palms outstretched. With an obedient body, ready to be reshaped. With a willing soul, with reverence, with worship — and this is exactly what you need, what you've sought to do. 

Death has always been a knife at your back, Viktor just knows how to guide the blade and twist it deeper. 

"Groveling is unbecoming. Exceptionally so, for the partner of Death's herald." Viktor's voice briefly wavers as he expends something of a sigh. "And it would hardly be necessary. I am already aching to take you." 

You grin, clearly pleased. Your fingertips trace up, gliding over the jagged curves of the armor on his chest. "Eager? Thought I was the insatiable one." 

Viktor, unshaken and controlled, avoids your question entirely. He holds your chin with his unarmored hand. His fingers are delicate, their edges foggy with faint smoke. 

His voice is a low rumble, resounding through every edge of your mind. 

"Do you trust me?" 

Yes, of course I trust you. You've spoken and penned and drowned in those words, countless times before. The relationship you once shared, whatever it meant, was built on trust. The two of you need nothing but your faith and one another. You trust Viktor's ideals. His judgment. His touch. You've never trusted anyone more. 

For Death, you would offer your life, you would embrace every sin, if it meant you'd be offered a knife to save you from the dark. For Viktor, you would become the knife, fighting for his heartbeat over your own, condemning the world and every soul on its surface if he told you it needed to be done. 

And for both, tied together, dangerously one, you'd gladly plunge the dagger of trust into your own chest. 

"I do," You nod shallowly, your gaze unwavering. "Don't hold back. Want you to be rough." 

Thin, glowing flames meet your eyes from beneath Viktor's mask. Carefully, he presses the thick, ice-cold end of his thumb to your pouty bottom lip, foreign sensations sending sparks through you like dying stars. 

Viktor taps your lip gently. "Open your mouth." 

If this was a dance, a carefully performed pirouette at the center of the dimly lit throne room, like countless royals have likely done before you, this would be the moment where you would have been held, and dipped down. Spun in front of everyone, with nothing to be done but brace onto his shoulder, hold on tightly, and follow. The rhythm would heighten, and you'd be left entirely at his mercy. 

Following his instruction, your lips part gently, slowly. Your eyes flicker across his face, never leaving where you're imagining his own gaze to be. His thumb eases in, and just barely presses against the end of your tongue. 

The first thing you taste is smoke. Ashen and ghostly, rich and familiar. It's like breathing air for the very first time. Magic thrums from the fuzzy edges that form his shape; tasteless, but strong, thudding through you like the weight of a panging heartbeat, melting into your veins like dark, lush blood. You swear your senses are washed out in crimson, as he waits for you to lick a thick, hot stripe onto the end of his thumb. Your gaze goes soft and eager then, silently pleading for more. 

To your brief disappointment, he drags his thumb from your mouth, unaffected when you whine. Then, to your delight, Viktor offers you his index, his middle, and his ring. He presses all three fingers to your lips, where you gladly accept, allowing him to shove them into your throat. 

"There," He murmurs, the slightest hint of satisfaction heavy on his tone. Cold, his fingers are cold against your teeth and your tongue when you struggle to suck on them. "You have such a precious, pliant mouth." 

Your only response is a muffled, pathetic hum. One hand finds his wrist, the other settles weakly onto his shoulder. He knows there's no way for you to reply, no option for a rebuttal to form when your pretty mouth is stuffed full. And with more strings of carefully constructed praises, he takes full advantage. 

"You are terribly obedient. Every command, stage by stage, piece by piece, you follow without strife." 

Viktor's fingers press in a bit deeper, making you grip his wrist much tighter. Tears bud at your lashes, your breath sharpens as you fail to stifle a whimper. 

"When Death instructs you to kill, you rend the flesh of whomever He chooses. When I compel you to heel, you settle at my feet." 

At his feet, near his side, in his lap, wherever Viktor wants you — because you are so, remarkably good. 

When you moan softly, threatening to choke, your thighs shifting in a pitiful attempt to rub them together, he drags his fingers back to give you a chance to breathe; a small act of kindness. Your breath catches, heavy and forceful. Your lips glisten with shiny drool. Slowly, once you're ready, he pushes them back in, and settles into a deep, steady pace, languidly fucking your mouth with his fingers. 

You're sure you'll never reach heaven. Not after everything you've done and sworn to do. But as your eyelids flutter, and your legs grow weak, your mouth sufficiently used, you swear this is the closest you'll get. 

"Death does not regret His choice to select you," Viktor assures, cold and composed. "He knows you are His perfect, loyal little disciple. He will be pleased with what you have done here, as am I." 

His fingers are pulled from your mouth slowly, offering you time to gasp and adjust. He holds your chin, taps his fingers against your cheek to make your skin slick with your own spit. A damp, desperate mess still wets your face, and he quickly brushes away the tears that still cling to your lashes with his thumb. Your heart tremors, the gesture all too tender. 

"Vik," You sputter, "Touch me." 

Now, it's his turn to listen. 

Viktor leans back against the throne, getting comfortable. Your grip steadies on his broad shoulders to keep yourself still, your fingers digging into the strong, bone-like frame of his armor. 

A hand finds your waist, trailing down. He pushes up the end of your dress, allowing his touch to carefully brush your thigh. Mere fingertips trace your soft skin; cold as ice, thrumming with magic that ricochets through you like lightning. He finds the blade you routinely keep strapped to your leg. His palm grazes the leather sleeve, and examines the labyrinth of engravings carved into the hilt. 

It's slow, teasing. Effortlessly calculated. Your dress bunches around your hips. Then, once you're drawn to panting breaths and shuddering sighs, he reaches up. With delicate motions, so gentle they contradict his very existence, he pulls at the strings of your corset, helping to untie them until it is loose. 

Your heart shakes your chest. Each light, purposeful touch of his hand against your spine has you reeling. Removing your dress is a swift process, from there. 

It unties as simply as the corset. You rush to pull the smooth satin from your limbs, and adjust to let it fall to the stone floor in a heap. 

Almost fully bare, you settle back into his lap, the cool air of the empty room brushing your skin. Pitch black armor frames his thighs, rough against your own graceful legs. The crow-skull necklace you keep close to your heart sways, tapping against your chest when you shift to get comfortable. Viktor presses a palm to the small of your back to ease you into position — spectral and hazy, settling against smooth, perfect skin. 

Low light envelops you, filtered through stained glass. It frames every curve, each of your blemishes and marks. Your whole figure shakes, forced on instinct to arch into his body, then his touch. Viktor's palm trails from your side to your waist, gentle, tenderly analytical. 

"Look at you," He murmurs, "You are a pleasure to admire." 

Everything within you melts, your body hazy and warm. His hand slowly trails your back, and your clenched jaw finally relaxes. 

"Viktor…" Your gaze is sparkly, you're clearly high on his words. "I asked you to be rough, remember?" 

Gentle fingers tap your skin, the way they would tap against his cane or his desk when he's lost in thought, but he continues with a non-response: "Come here." 

A palm squeezes your waist, guiding you forwards. Your arms wrap around him as you prop yourself up on his lap, knees splayed out over his large thighs. Your lungs practically ache with the weight of the heavy breaths you take in. 

His fingertips trace fiery touches onto your inner thigh. Knowing touches, because he expects the way you whine. He holds you tightly to keep you still once your legs struggle to hold your weight. You swallow, your veins set alight with a violent sense of need. 

"Patience. We can work our way up," He decides; his voice ripples within you deeply, rich with his accent, rumbling with an unearthly echo. Like a hand at your ankle, dragging you down into dark, murky, endless water. 

And you let him take you. 

You stay still as his hand moves, like a tamed pet, until his palm is brushing your stomach, making the knot in your core wind itself even tighter. Until practiced fingertips are gliding beneath the hem of your lace underwear, pressing between your weak legs, finding your waiting, needy entrance — 

Viktor scoffs. He lets go of a dark, deliberate chuckle, one that makes vapor billow from his figure. "But it would seem you do not need it. You are filthy." 

Your forehead falls, leaning against his own — against his mask — and you grip onto his shoulders, tight enough to make your knuckles ache. Wisps of magic brush your face, swirling around you, delighting in your exhilaration. And you are, you're a mess, your arousal wet and dripping as it gets his fingers slick; his middle and ring, this time. 

Despite his instruction, Viktor makes it so difficult to be patient. It takes everything in you not to press against him. Not to feed into your gnawing desperation, bucking your hips into his fingers and grinding on them until they're truly soaked. 

"I- Please-" You choke, barely able to breathe, "Want more…" 

"Is that so? You're in need of more?" Viktor parrots, only slightly mocking with his tone. "Selfish indulgence is rather effective at making mortals forget their place." 

Before your lips can even stumble out a yes, please, his fingers are altering their approach. Slick and determined, they find your swollen clit, flicking over it precisely; he's so close, it's so much. Your body aches, filled so thickly with desire it nearly hurts. Ecstasy licks at your bones, ravenous and all-consuming. 

When you jolt, stuttering through a moan, Viktor's free palm holds your shoulder to steady you. Your hands find the hood of his cloak and grip it tight. They ball up the crimson fabric, long nails digging in. 

Slow, easy circles onto your sensitive clit are all you're given. His palm begins to trace down once you're steady, exploring your collarbones. Brushing further still, to briefly fiddle with the necklace he gave you. 

The twine sits around your neck loosely, partially frayed. The skull has grown worn, faint notches now present on its surface. It's a soft, persistent reminder. You feel it tap against you when he lets it go, only for his large palm to splay itself over your chest, armor cool against your skin. 

You gasp, sounding overly shaky. "Vik-"

"Your poor heart is pounding," He interrupts, hand measuring each tender beat. Quickened and needy, as your heart thuds in your eardrums. "Letting go would prove so simple. So gratifying. You want your mind to be blank, so you might let yourself act on nothing but dumb desire. As all pathetic humans do." 

It would be easy — grinding against his cold, magic-woven fingers. Giving in to the throbbing, enthralling sensations while you pleaded for him to offer you more, to show you mercy. Clearly, Viktor has you exactly where he wants you. 

"If you must be reminded," Viktor continues; his newfound rhythm is practically merciless, his touch teasing your clit until you whine, just to drift to your entrance — warm and wet and waiting, but he doesn't press in. You aren't given what you want. Instead, he observes you silently, perhaps content to watch you struggle. He allows you to shudder, to whimper, your back arching as sparks weigh heavy in the curves of your spine. 

"You are in no position to make demands." 

"I'm not demanding," You gasp out, heavy sighs following the syllables. A faint and eager smile pulls at your cheeks. You know it's a game you'll lose, but it's exciting to play, all the same. "I'm begging." 

Viktor hesitates, savoring those words. The laugh that lilts into your ears is downright maniacal. 

"Tch, greedy thing," He scoffs. His fingertips press into your sweet, sensitive clit firmly, with all of the practiced precision you've been craving. "And here I thought you might finally be taught some restraint. You won't be satisfied until I fill you." 

Thankfully, he doesn't make you wait. 

Viktor shifts, dragging you a bit closer on his lap, running his middle digit over your entrance until you're a shivering, fragile mess. Like porcelain, you could break at any moment — but the press of his finger inside you, filling you, finally giving you a hint of blissful reprieve, feels as though you're being placed back together. 

Pleasure rolls over your body like a wave, crashing, drowning. His touch is cool, laced with dark matter. Pulsing with a strong thrum of energy that you can feel so intensely when he's inside you. Strands upon surges of Death's magic, within you, becoming part of you. Eating away at what remains of your soul until you are pierced, much like a rabbit struck with an arrow — delightedly, brutally his. Your vision goes fuzzy once his finger starts to pump. In and then out, to a slow pace, enveloping you in crests of white foam. 

"Viktor…" You murmur his name, broken and weak, and he drinks it in like fine wine; swallows it whole, reduces it to cinders. "Oh- Feels s-so fucking good-" 

You're quivering, from just one finger. Two would likely force you to break. 

"Foolish little lamb." Viktor delights in your subsequent shudder. Always so responsive to his voice, as if he'd given you a command. "Toying with Death, giving themselves, their body, their life. Their unshakable devotion." 

Still, Viktor drags the digit from you; your body falls into him, limp and small. You lean your head against his form, struggling to catch your breath. And at last, he gives you two — his middle, his ring, pressing inside you, filling you deliciously. 

"Death is- oh, fuck…" Your voice tremors, desperate, lovely-toned. Your cheek presses into his chest, wisps of magic pouring over your skin. "Death is my great savior, worthy of- hah- violent worship…" 

His fingers curl. They nudge your velvet walls, pressing a perfect tender spot within you, divine enough to make you wish this moment would last an eternity. "But I'm yours, Vik," You stammer, "Only yours." 

Flames flicker in your core, devouring you in their wildfire — and Viktor sighs, exhaling some soft, dreamy sound. He doesn't relent. He fucks you on his fingers until you're dripping onto him, to the echo of sloppy, wet squelches, your whines and each sinful noise reverberating through the large throne room. 

Your eyes flutter closed. You try to focus on the searing pleasure, getting lost in his touch, in the familiarity of him. Fleetingly, you imagine his face, whatever you still remember of it. His thick brows would be pinched, lips twitched up into a confident smirk. Honeyed eyes washed over with lust, while strands of his hair form a mess in his face, soft when your fingers run through. 

"Vik-" You tense, whining weakly. "I'm close…" 

The hand that reaches for you is ice cold. Gentle, at first, when smoke-filled fingers thread through your hair. Then, deliciously rough when they grab, dragging you back to make you face him. Viktor's expression can no longer waver. There are no eyes for you to stare into — and nothing to sate you, but the fire-filled depths of Death's herald, the end's abyss. 

And oh, how that excites you. 

"Do not let go," Viktor commands, although he punctuates it with a practiced caress of his fingers against your sweet spot. "I know you are capable." 

"No, no…" You're sobbing; you try to shake your head, but he keeps your face in a tight hold. "I can't- no, please, please…" 

You know Viktor, and even though you can't see the glint in his gaze, you can feel each determined press, pumping to a pace that has you throbbing. Gods, his stupidly delicate hands, his long fingers, somehow feeling even longer when they're filling you down to his knuckles. Your heart pounds, forcing your ribs to ache. You grind your teeth together, your jaw relaxing slightly when his thumb traces your shaky bottom lip. 

Viktor has you on the edge of shattering — but you will break when he demands it, or you will not break at all. 

"Missed you, f-fuck, oh, Vik-" Melting, you're going to melt as you stammer on, searching for some sort of foothold, anything to grasp onto. You shut your eyes tight enough to paint spots in the darkness of your vision. "Wanted this for so long, and when you were gone, when I tho-thought I lost you…" 

Another press, another persuasion; his fingers sheathe inside you until you're stretched around their thickness, a shuddery moan punched from your lungs. They crook and spread experimentally; he isn't even trying to make you cum, and yet it still feels so, so good. His free palm drifts down, and he lightly holds your neck, grounding you. 

"You will not lose me. We are destined to bring humanity to its knees, you and I." Viktor taps your neck, feeling your pulse — blissful, mortal, a sensation he's long since lost. "Fools will attempt to stand in our way, but they will be smothered in the ashes of their forebears. We will have what remains of mankind at our feet." 

"Yes, yes-" You can barely discern what it is you're begging for. His touch, his voice, perhaps for your release. Anything coherent dissolves in your mouth, until you're spitting up scattered petals of moans and whines — "V-Viktor, please…"

"Shh. We will not become severed, dove. Not ever again," Viktor hums, his tone rumbling through you, fiercely euphoric. "As I was dying, left to crumble in the underworld, I only thought of crawling my way back to you." 

Viktor made you a promise. For you, any will would be done. 

For you, the weight of Death and the wrath of the Gods would be worth it. All of this would mean something, something more than power. More than the gnawing ache to forget himself. 

When you were human, every moment meant so much. You had the nerve to put your lives on the line, but neither of you had the guts to admit this temporary life was much sweeter spent beside one another. The accidental touches, the brushes of hands, the glances that lingered. Days spent talking to each other through research notes, colliding with the nights you spent alone, counting and categorizing stars — it must've been important enough to hold onto. Soft words led to softer touches, and the need to just be close. At one point, you would have done anything to feel this, to feel him. 

And you're there, you're right there. 

Pleasure buds within you — a sea of stars, on the edge of imploding. But Viktor is always several steps ahead. 

The precipice you've been craving doesn't reach you, because instead, his fingers are carefully easing from your aching cunt, leaving you to throb around nothing. Your head instantly spins in endless circles. Everything is hazy, to the point where you can't decide where your ecstasy begins or ends, or heightens or fades; all you know is it wasn't enough. You almost cum, empty and teased, just from the fading stimulation mixed with the lack of it. 

But almost isn't what you need. 

You're given several moments to breathe. When you finally raise your head from his chest, his palm slipping from your neck to leave it bare, you're met with the same blank, Death-shaped visage. The only sign of a crack in Viktor's composure is the soft smoke that pours from the gaps in his mask, curling around your figure in spirals. 

"Breathe," Viktor instructs. His palm searches for your back, caressing gently, cooling your heated skin. "How do you feel?"

"Good." Your lungs are aching. Your voice is weak, shaking more than intended when it leaves your lungs. But even more palpable in your veins than the desire, is your warm, steadfast trust. "I can keep going." 

"Is this how you want me? Resting in my lap? Or perhaps on your knees?" 

"Like this," You murmur, certain of yourself. "I need you, all of you." 

All of him, and all of Death. Every fragment of his present and future, and the pact he forged to bind them. Whatever Viktor has become, you will embrace it. You'll let it haunt you, let it own you. 

Your partner cups your face in a frigid, ghostly palm, his touch light, barely tangible. Cold like frozen water and stagnant skin. You give in, allowing your expression to soften. 

Countless souls have been felled this way, by his hands, every adversary made to tremble at his feet. This is what he was made for. What he fought and studied and died for. To destroy. And you still lean into his touch, as though it aims to save you. 

From then on, you're hurrying, desperate, lifting your weakened legs to shrug off your underwear and toss it aside. Viktor brushes his thumb over your cheek once more before he lets go. He rolls his shoulders back lazily, while your hands move — a palm pressed to his chest, to his side, anywhere you can still touch. Another hand eagerly removing his loosely-fastened armor, before tugging at his loincloth to reveal his lap. 

You swallow so hard your eardrums crackle. You should be used to the sight of him — fat, dripping, incandescent. His cock radiates in shades of azure, definite and physical when you drag the pad of your finger from base to tip, despite the wisps of phantom flame that ripple over your hand like clouds. It has your heart lodging in your throat, pounding hard. 

You place both hands on his shoulders and lift, to which he grazes your waist with his palm, carefully helping you find your position. Not grabbing, not pulling. You can dictate the pace, he silently offers. So, you take your time, breathing first, waiting for your gaze to refocus and steady. The difference in size in between you is already making your head fucking whirl. 

Viktor was always tall, but his current form is formidable, bulky. In his lap like this, with his large hand dwarfing your waist, you must look small. You could easily be broken, pressed into any position. Could be held, or lifted, or shoved down while you're fucked. So weak and mortal and useless, when compared to his massive frame. So desperate, tossing your morality aside, so you can melt at the hands of a revenant, one of Death's all-powerful Sworn. 

And yet, it's his gentleness that truly kills you. 

Shifting, you lean into him on shuddery legs, trusting him to hold your weight. You move, until the tip of his cock can brush your entrance, soft like a kiss. You're already throbbing, already needy. The breath you suck in through half-gritted teeth is sharp enough to slice your lungs. 

"Pretty little dove. I have you," Viktor coos, his voice echoing through your mind like a shout into a wishing well. "There is no obligation to push your limits. We have infinite time." 

You nod. But you want to push them. 

You reach for his palm, pulling it from your waist to guide it up, up. It glides over your stomach, feels the space between your ribs, and settles against the very center of your chest when you press it there. His fingers are cool, still slick with your arousal. 

"Viktor…" You take a nice, deep breath. One he can feel, from the movement of your lungs to the skip of your heartbeat. 

Deathly familiar, you know exactly what you want, exactly what you're asking for. Perfectly in sync, indulging in the same sin, biting into the same piercing sweetness of the apple — this is where your dance completes. 

Your breath hitches as you finally sink down onto him; the thick head of his cock stretches you first, getting you used to the ache. It grants you a thick sense of pleasure, after you were deprived of what you truly needed. And you need to feel more. 

You hold onto him tighter, nails digging into his armor, while you ease down enough to take half of him. And oh, you're so full. Sufficiently stretched, throbbing around his thickness so eagerly, perfect for him and his shape. Magic thrums from Viktor's palm. The slightest tremor is present in his fingers as he leans back into the throne, breathing something of a pleasured sigh. Onto your chest, onto your skin like a brand, with your necklace pushed aside, he wills a symbol to inscribe. 

It burns into your skin with waves of rich, delightful pain. A circular shape is formed first, branching into the middle: a triangle, a skull over your heart, a seven-pointed star. 

Your mind goes woozy. You glance down, unsure if you want to watch the mark as it comes into shape, beneath Viktor's practiced fingertips, or if your gaze should stay stuck on the weak blue glow bulging your stomach, Viktor's length nestled half-way inside you. 

The mark completes, and you're no longer given a choice. 

Energy surges through you instantly, claiming every inch of your mind that it can. Intense, alive, and effervescent, the sigil starts strong, before the magic tapers out into a weak lull, like a storm fading into faint drops of rain. You drown, before you're able to breathe. Death magic carries sensations you're acquainted with, but it's entirely different to have it used on you. The force of its manipulation is directly controlled by the wielder, and Viktor has specifically chosen to apply little pressure. 

It feels like him. Thrums with pulses of him, flooding your chest with repetitions of his name, enveloping you just as intensely as the feeling of him inside you. Dark energy laces through your system. You are one, on this plane and the next, for a moment. The symbol scorches deep into your skin, proving you are his. Your head is woozy, your sensations heightened. 

You could break away, could fight the weak threads of baleful power that threaten to wrap around your neck. But with a deep, dizzy breath, you decide to let yourself succumb. 

Holding onto him weakly, your eyes roll back before they flutter closed. Pleasure runs rampant in your blood; you can only act on instinct. Every sensation blurs and melds, cold against warm, his body joined with yours — but your warmth is winning. Heat wraps around you, tightens on your limbs and spills into your organs. When your body becomes flush with his, filling you with all of him, you feel full, feel him throb inside you, like a heartbeat's substitute. 

Viktor trails his fingertips over the intricate angles of the scar, perfectly placed on your pretty skin, all-consuming. 

"You are-" He shudders, "Exquisite." 

He fills you so, so good. 

You can feel so much of him, pressed within you deeply. Fuck, he's so deep you feel like you can taste him, so big it has your lungs barely functioning. 

His name is in your heart, surrounding you like an embrace — in your veins like a sickness. The tender, bright, tangible version of him works into your every breath, some form of lingering energy, reminding you of the soft touches you always wanted. Soft skin, firm bone, a warm soul. But the power he's been given, the power he has over you lacks gentleness. It prods into your edges, blood-soaked and destructive. 

The swollen head of him nudges your sweet spot with every slight shift. To the point where you wouldn't have to move, you could just grind oh-so gently, and still find a smooth, soft release. Your mind is reeling, far too dizzy. 

"Eyes open." 

Viktor grasps your face, and you feel your veins surge. The mark on your chest glows, resonating with strength, with the instruction you've been given. It coaxes you. Persuades you in his voice to listen — your eyes will open for him. And they do. 

"Perfect," He praises. Your limbs tremor slightly, your lips parted as you gasp, eyelids drooping. He admires the lust in your gaze, pupils blown like new moons. "Very, very good." 

And the weight of his control forces itself into your mind without doubt, has you believing and telling yourself you are perfect, you are pliant, you are good. 

With the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears, you can barely find your focus. Everything in you is strung tight, entranced and desperate. You're so weak, and it's so intense; you'd do anything to feel him thrust into you once, to hear the way he'd purr and scoff when you would fall apart just from that. 

Your eyes flutter, but your gaze doesn't move. It can't, not when you're allowing yourself to be swallowed by the sigil. Giving permission to have your throat caught in Death's — in Viktor's — sharpened jaws. You feel his palm move before you see it, his fingertips roaming every inch of you like it's something he owns, leaving trails of breathy smoke in his wake. 

Clearly, Viktor's composure is just fine. Even when you're tight around him like the world's sweetest vice, even when pleasure has returned within him to an unfathomable intensity, he has no need to waver. But you? 

As strong and as towering as a herald of Death could possibly be, and as weak and human as you are, you weren't built to take this much. 

Viktor believes differently. 

"Gods, you're fucking warm," He murmurs. There's an edge to his tone, from the echo of his words to the thickness of his accent that makes his voice sound terribly, brokenly human. "You were made for this. For me." 

His palm brushes over you softly, down your chest and to your waist, gripping there to steady your figure. You breathe in deeply, and Viktor caresses your skin with his thumb, in an attempt to ease your obvious tension. The sigil thrums, weakens. Loosens its hold to offer you a chance to escape. A chance you refuse to take. 

"Are you overwhelmed?" Viktor reasons; softness spills into you, so lovesick you'd almost forgotten what it could feel like. It is your softness, it has your name on it. "Or have we not yet found the limit of your resolve?" 

You shudder. "Not- ah-" It's hard to form words, when you're weak and cock-drunk and stuffed full of him, "I can- I can take it, want more, Vik…" 

"Excellent." Viktor leans back, settling comfortably into the throne. Flames flicker from beneath his mask, and you imagine how his gaze might drink you in. Admiring your small form as your chest gently heaves, like prey, when compared to him. Like a delicate little rabbit. "Take it, then. Take what you need from me." 

You've no need to hesitate. 

You start with slow grinds, your hands steadying on his broad shoulders, your weight braced against him. Your movements are faint. You keep him buried inside you down to the hilt, your arousal a glossy, wet mess on the base of his cock — but even so, every rock and pulse and spark of pleasure is relentless. 

The strength of the rune in your chest swallows you and you let it, allowing its influence to make you selfish; Viktor's heart tells you to take what is yours, to not stop. You listen. You circle your hips, and breathe a pathetic whine as his length learns every inch of you, while he watches you grind on him — like the pathetic thing you are. 

It's addictive, to watch you use him. Viktor grips your waist hard, tight enough to leave indentations of his touch, to hide the shudder in his fingertips. You're fluttering around him, and he doesn't even have to touch you. 

But when he does, trailing his hand up to your side and over your stomach, with all of the softness of someone who knows you, who has already long since memorized your shape — you sob, your bottom lip quivering. You are Death's perfect servant, Viktor's muse, delicate for him, only for him. 

"Viktor…" You're cooing, your voice breaking with another soft roll of your hips; are you the only one left who still remembers that name? "Want to- wanna kiss you…" 

He isn't sure if it's an empty plea, but still, Viktor presses his thumb to your mouth. Your lips are deathly soft, your breath foggy against him as you pant and breathe him in.

You litter the pad of his thumb with kiss after kiss. Your gaze is heavy, your tongue is wet and warm. His thumb smears your own saliva over your kiss-swollen lips. This tenderness is a form of devotion he isn't meant to feel, but you make it oh-so effortless. 

His palm drifts down to hold your chin. Your breath fans over the expanse of his mask, your bodies close. The mark hums, asking for entry. 

As you grind against him, slow and steady to tease the edge of your release, you wait for it to unfold you. Like a flower, like hands gently brushing your pages. Easily molded, your mind opens to him, desperation and all. He feels the same pleasure as you, a mosaic of sparks and perfect warmth bridging from your body to his. He drowns in your thoughts, as vividly as if he were dreaming them. 

He syncs with the pound of your heart, sees thin limbs entangled, touches pressed to pallid skin and pretty moles. His own reflection was almost something he'd forgotten. Your spine curls, and a soft whine is pulled from your mouth to vibrate against his thumb. You shift, taking half of him inside you, before you sink back down to fuck yourself on him. Pure, raw bliss drips through you like honey. 

And your thoughts reconvene. You imagine his touch, on your cheek, on your neck, on your thighs. The power that answers to him shudders within you in turn, as strong as the rot you can feel when you touch him; the end's form of devotion. 

You picture the throne room. The soldiers, easily felled. The king, humiliated. A soft touch, as you wiped the blood that still clung to his hands: crimson like roses. A firm, desperate jolt as you recall the way Viktor's adversaries would fight, would plead, would demonstrate how weak and pathetic they are, before Viktor effortlessly disposed of them all. 

Oh. You are sweet. 

Viktor laughs. He grasps your face, tilts it towards him. 

"I see nothing has changed since the day we met," He coos, sounding almost adoring, "You are still reckless. Ambitious. Obsessive." 

You gasp; tugging at your chest, you can feel every pull of the sigil, every press and caress of his phantom shape to your thoughts. You steady your palms on his chest as you lift, then grind, bouncing yourself on his lap, your soft skin rhythmically colliding with his firm armor. 

"Yes- hah, Vik-" Your throat is tight, your hands shake and grip him as hard as you can manage. "Love watching you win." 

The thought of it all, the thrill of the triumph, the devotion that comes with Death's praises and sacrificing souls — 

"Did it excite you?" Viktor trails his palm down your neck, fingertips searching for your quickened pulse. "Witnessing an army of fools perish, as Death claimed their pitiful souls? Watching me crush them?" 

It enamored you. 

From the moment you met him, you knew Viktor was right. All of this power finally at his fingertips, Death noticing his vision and granting him a rightful place at his side — it was only a matter of time. This is what you have always wanted, for Viktor to win. 

Perhaps you are his only remaining tie to humanity. Perhaps you, as a mortal, are no better than the rest. You'd submit if he asked you to, you'd give yourself to him, worship him. Just as the countless souls he's reaped have done before you. 

"Death will- He will be fed-" You're stuttering; your breath is sharp, beads of sweat forming to drip down your skin. "I'd never forsake Him, for- for as long as I live…" 

You grind against Viktor hard, desperate, collapsing, growing soft like a rose unfurling in sunlight. Leaning against his chest, you can only rely on clumsy bucks of your hips as you splinter, as you threaten to break, every tight thread within you inches away from being untied. 

"They'll all p-pay… they'll all fall at your feet… kiss the ground you walk on, fucking- beg for mercy…" Your voice is weak, and you're close, so close. "Please please please…" 

Viktor presses his cold palm to your chest, to the mark, forcing it to thrum with more strength than ever. Controlling, instructing, gripping your heart in two hands. His voice resounds through your mind with the weight of a knife to your chest. 

Fall apart for me. 

And you fall — fast, hard, instantly. 

The carnal force of the command, the surging fire of the spell that binds you, all of it pales in comparison to your blistering, syrup-rich high. 

Every edge to your precipice is forceful. You sigh through broken moans, grinding against him desperately to ride out each wave, gushing and fluttering around him. Your muscles tense in turn, before they fall limp. Strings of half-moans and bitten swears leave your lips, so slurred they could be mistaken for incantations. 

Your breathing becomes slow, hazy. You lean your arms on his shoulders, your head on his chest; his body, your anchor. Even in the wake of your high, you're still fluttering around his length, warm and twitching and needy. 

"Look at you." Viktor's voice takes several moments to register, and it takes you even longer to finally lift your head. You grow lost in the smoke that surrounds you, the coolness of his figure brushing over your skin, as soft as a breath. 

"You are stunning," He decides. His head tilts slightly to examine you, his index finding its place underneath your delicate chin. "Dangerously so." 

You whine weakly. Your thoughts are becoming dangerous. Despite still attempting to catch your breath, your gaze stays locked on where his would be, and you circle your hips on his still-hard cock — a silent plea for more. Aftershocks of pleasure ripple through your system. Your thighs are weak, shaking. They're barely able to hold your weight, and Viktor thankfully braces his armored hand on your side, clawed fingers digging in sharply. 

"Though, I believe we have reached a misunderstanding." Viktor caresses the mark on your chest, examining each individual scar, carved in his image. "Your fealty is exceptionally admirable. But you do not belong to Death. Every inch of you is mine." 

Those words sink into your stomach like a stone thrown into water. Your mind, your body, your end would be at his hand, you're sure of it. You could never ask for any other fate. 

He tightens his hand on your waist, and he takes back control. 

If it's more you want, more is what he's going to give. 

Viktor has every right to call you ambitious, but the word is certainly more suited for him. He was always driven, drowning himself in his studies, no matter the risk. Researching life's great departure was a talent for him, but he didn't achieve it overnight. He does not let obstacles stand in his way. There is nothing he can't surpass, no-one who could best him, no soul that could sway him from his conviction. Death admired that about him, as do you. 

There is something to Viktor that needs to improve, that longs to put adversaries in their place, that is always searching for a way to be better, to do better. To push limits, wherever they might stand. 

And the way Viktor fucks you drips with nothing short of ambition. 

There's nothing for you to do but hold onto him tight, as he drags you up and down on his cock with relative ease. Your voice splinters, your breathing rough and forceful. Every thrust bullies your sweet, oversensitive cunt, to the point where you are limp and weightless, entirely at his mercy. If you weren't used to your partner's tenacity, if you didn't know Viktor, you might've whimpered, might've pleaded through the overstimulated sparks in your core that you can't cum again. 

If only. 

Countless sensations envelop you; the frigid chill of his body, the warmth of your skin, the fluttering of your walls around him, used and still-desperate. You cover your mouth with your palm, although it does little to stifle your noise. Nor does it quiet the echoing in your ears, reverberated each time he eases deep inside you — slick, wet, filthy. 

It hardly matters to you how wrong it is to fuck him here. This throne room was once sacred, torn paintings and burnt flags and stained glass pictures surrounding you, depicting holy symbols. Meant to imply the Gods of the living are watching over. 

Part of you hopes they'd turn their divine gazes away from this, so they wouldn't see you falling apart. So they couldn't judge the way you envelop every inch of one another, your breath hot and your thighs spread as you give yourself to Death's all-powerful herald, taking all of him in turn. 

Viktor chuckles, a laugh that still shakes him for several moments afterwards. Twin flames watch as you bounce for him, your chest expanding and contracting, hair a mess in your face, eyes glossy like a doll's. 

"Ha… That stupid, useless, insignificant king," Viktor's tone sharpens, as though his teeth are gritting. A firm thrust into you makes you whine and arch further into him. "Do you think he's watching, gazing at us from his dark prison in the depths of the underworld, as we make a mockery of his throne? As we fuck each other like animals, after easily felling his entire squadron, with hardly even a lifted finger?" 

You can't help but sob. 

"Don't st-stop," You're hardly able to reply, hardly able to form words, let alone coherent thoughts. Not when Viktor is fucking up into you to his own brutal, steady pace, complying with your words before he's even heard them — not stopping, leaving you barely any room to breathe. 

"Please," You plead, "Viktor…" 

"Yes, tell them who you belong to." His voice pounds into your mind, with the force of a hammer and a nail, rich and commanding, terribly familiar. "Tell Lord Death and the Gods of the living exactly who is destined to rule over them all." 

Sparks surge up your spine with a vengeance nearly as strong as his own. 

"You, Viktor," You're begging, sobbing. Your words are thick with devotion, like they're words of worship, as if they could be prayers. "I'm yours… yours, yours, yours…" 

You hardly expect the full-body shiver that courses through him, putting his frame off-kilter, briefly bringing clumsiness to his pace. Your forehead leans against his chest, your spine arches. Your hands shakily glide over the tangible parts of his figure. His palm finds the curve of your waist that just begs to be held, gripping you tight. With composure. 

"If I could kiss you," Fuck, his voice is soft, reminiscent of a past life; his hips roll into you and you can no longer breathe, can't even think. "I would let my mouth memorize yours." Viktor presses his cold, smoke-ridden fingertips into your side — "I would want us to devour one another, until we are part of the same flame. I-" A sigh, a resounding whine from your own lips, "I could long for centuries to feel you beneath my ribs, like a second soul." 

Your heart pounds, shaking your chest, getting stuck in your throat. 

He's never considered returning to a human vessel, it'd have too many limitations, but when he looks at you, he wants nothing more than to touch you. To feel you without layers of finality in between, to dig his fingertips into your ribs and feel your heart beating, to burn himself on you like you're a pyre. Such desires are useless, distracting, human. And yet, and yet — 

"Vik-" You manage, "Harder." 

You want him harder, rougher, more. Your thighs ache, but you try to rock your body against his in feverish unison, meeting each press inside you with your own grind into him. 

With a broken moan, your eyes flutter shut. You are perfect, so otherworldly, so beautiful when you're at his mercy. Each soft stretch of what remains of him echoes with your name, consumes him and begs to take you, to claim you, to ruin you. Viktor groans, puffs of smoke expelling from beneath his cloak to settle on your skin, thick and humid. 

You take all of him, until you're full, until your bodies are one; the tremor to your thighs and the break of your voice tells him you're almost there. 

"Close," You pant, "Gonna cum for you-" 

"Beg for it." Viktor's words slur slightly, but they're tender, they're assured. They're desperate. "Tell me how much you need me." 

Oh, and you don't even need to be commanded. 

"Need you, Vik, need you so much-" You meet where his gaze would be with wide, doe-eyes, with fluttery lashes and faint tear drops. "Need you more than Death, need you more than breathing-" 

The room teeters around you, everything dizzy, your limbs weak. You only need a little more, one more spark, one last wave. Another grind of your hips to his, another press of his cock right where you need him, more friction and pressure lacing together until they're left to build, and build. 

"Viktor… Viktor, I'm-" 

You beg his name, chanting it like it's precious. Breathing it like a prayer, pleading to him like he is divine. Broken sighs and gasps hammer at your lungs. The world could burn out, could turn to ash in his wake, and this, and he would be all that matters. 

Flickering, his flame heart stirs; possessiveness takes over, as strong as teeth at his neck. For once, his soul — or the lack thereof — shines. He finds your cheek, holds it carefully, brushes his thumb over your skin with enough tenderness to make you ache. You are his, only his. 

Neither Viktor nor yourself can ever truly die, bound to servitude by the pact made to save you. So this, tender and hungry, is how you will reach the end. 

You blend into one another with fuzzy edges and tender grinds and soft gasps — becoming two halves of one whole. Heaven and the underworld, darkness and light, perfect reflections. Entwined divinely, with beautiful finality. 

Your body shudders, heat lacing through your every crevice. In the moment where you cum together, you can't feel anything but the pulse of him within you, can't see anything but hazy lines and smoke. Blue wisps surrounding you, within you. The azure glow in your stomach burns bright, before it gradually lessens. 

Breathing hard, you lean against him. Small against his shape, blissfully weak. Viktor doesn't attempt to move you, but he carefully works his hand in between you. His palm glides over your chest, presses to the center. The magic dampens, leaving your veins, and loosening its grip on your heart. Only the mark is left behind, his cool touch helping to alleviate the pain. 

"Little lamb…That's enough." Viktor's voice sounds sore, almost, not exactly human but reminiscent of the rough sharpness of wind. He trails his fingertips over the scar on your skin as he comes back to himself, before drifting down to hold your waist. "You've done so well." 

It takes you a few minutes longer to fully catch your breath, and even so, your heart pounds quickly and softly. You lift, and he helps you pull yourself off of him, adjusts so you can find a more comfortable position on his lap. Your arms find his shoulders, embracing him in something of a hug. Leaning into his much larger body, you let his touch and the mist envelop you like a grave. 

"You should rest," Viktor reasons, "Today was extensive. If you stay awake any longer, I'll be carrying you tomorrow." 

The throne room is empty and quiet. You grumble, but you don't protest when he grasps your face and lifts it to look at you. 

Your cheek leans into his touch, your eyelids heavy. "We're going north, right? Gods, it's gonna be cold." 

"Oh, you'll be fine. I'm sure you still remember how to conjure a flame." 

His hand slips from your cheek, and you grasp it carefully, placing a faint kiss onto his knuckle; still shaped like you remember. 

"Will you rest with me?" 

This form does not require rest, or sleep. Really, it wasn't meant to indulge in anything mortal. Perhaps it would be against Death's wishes to do so. Viktor's research once determined that a form like this would be detached from reality. Conjurations of Death do not have souls; they trade them, in exchange for a better body. They lack empathy, emotion, understanding. The basis of Death's strength sacrifices everything in exchange for irreversibility. Nothing else should matter. But — 

"Yes," Viktor answers, "Of course." 

— 

Death's opposition dwindles. 

It is uninteresting, truly. The earth is becoming barren, as more and more souls convene with his army in the underworld. Death has shown me visions. He is planning to soon take full control of this plane, to come with soldiers and deathriders to claim the last of the mortals. 

I believe our approach should be grander. This abundance of souls could be used as more than mere meat puppets. Death might disagree. But power, not the strength you gained on a whim, but the leverage you have grasped for yourself is a fierce, funny thing. 

My partner is one step ahead, because they already understand this concept. I have watched the darkness in their gaze grow, day by day. Yet, their light never falters, when they are looking at me. I am grateful to have them at my side. 

Our last adversary was difficult, but they felled them all on their own. They were the one to plunge their dagger into the fool's heart, returning his soul to the ground.

More will follow. Perhaps mortals. Perhaps Death's army. It matters not. Not to us. 

For dust they are, and to dust, they all shall return. 

— V. Unknown Date, 1619. 

[circe69]

𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐓𝐇 (FEM!READER X SIMON RILEY)

wc: 1.7 - genre: suggestive fluff - narrative: you get snowed in with ghost and a none-working heater. GASP. whatever shall you do to stay warm? muahahah. - warnings: makeout at the end, again, suggestive, other than that nothing.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

"Ghost, Ghost do you copy? Over."

A male's voice booms through your partner's radio, cutting through the loud silence of the blizzard blowing your ears out.

Ghost pressed down on a button after muttering not-so-quiet curses, "Yeah, copy, out." His voice was angry, like it always was, probably upset at the fact that he was stuck with one of the newest trainees, a woman who knew how to shoot but not necessarily where to aim.

"Y/N, you coming?" He demanded over his shoulder. "Yeah, right behind you Lieutenant."

You were slightly terrified, Ghost was the one you didn't want to be stuck with ever, especially stuck with in a snowstorm. The two of you trekked up a giant hill and awaited Captain Price's further instructions, if the signal would even allow.

"Good. There's a safe house up over the hill. It's a log cabin, not in perfect condition by any means, but it'll keep you warm. Over." Price's voice came through staticky, barely comprehensive, but Ghost understood every word.

He sighed, "Roger that." He stayed quiet for a while before asking you, without even turning around, "You hear all that?" You had to swallow to moisten your dry throat before speaking up. "Yes sir." Snow was stuck in your boots, making you yearn for any sort of warm comfort. The weather was unpredictable, meaning neither of you were prepared to be snowed on. You prayed the cabin had hot water and a large supply of soft blankets.

As you neared the house, it was almost pretty. Despite the water damage and evasive vines covering the sides, the snow almost made it seem fairytale-like, from a movie or something. Ghost shook the snow off his boots on the last step and you did the same, trying to act like you knew what you were doing, but you ended up stubbing your toe and silently groaning under your breath.

Entering the cabin, it wasn't any warmer than it was outside. You started to interject but Ghost stopped you mid-sentence, "Don't get your panties in a twist, I need to turn on the AC."

Your jaw still agape at his comment, you watched him throw off his backpack and gear on the nearest couch and storm back outside. While he hopefully fixed the air conditioning, you took it upon yourself to check the place, opening and closing doors, cabinets, turning on the water and smiling at how hot it was. Opening a closet close to the kitchen, you found it to be stocked with pillows and fuzzy duvets, quilts, and towels. You'd never been so excited to see sheets.

Ghost opened the screen door and slammed it, maybe he thought it was easier than just getting your attention by saying your name, "Bad news."

Oh great. "What?"

He sighed before continuing, "AC won't work. Stupid Price must be having himself a ball back at headquarters, laughing with Soap about how bloody freezing we'll be." His sentences turned into mumbles as he walked over to the kitchen sink and turned on the water. He almost groaned at the feeling, and you felt your cheeks flush at the sound.

You said nothing in response but looked back to the closet and chose which blanket, or blankets, you'd wrap around yourself. You reached up to grab a quilt from the top shelf, but when you pulled on it, maybe 5 more came down with it. A few fast footsteps came up behind you, and you felt a presence behind you as they fell on top of you.

You screamed in surprise and turned around to see Ghost was standing with his arms up, trying to support the 20 pounds in blankets. It looked like maybe he tried to catch them, but it didn't work.

Ghost had essentially created a giant tent for you. His body towered over you, and his arms outstretched almost reached the ceiling. You started to belly laugh at the circumstances, but you quieted down when Ghost stayed frustratingly quiet. "What're you laughing about? It's not funny." His statement just made you laugh more, now you were clenching your stomach and bent over, laughing your head off. Ghost's accent was always increasingly stronger when he was angry. You absolutely loved it.

He almost started to smile; you swear you saw it, but before you got a glimpse of his teeth, he got out from under the blankets and left you alone, the weight almost knocking you to the floor. You heard a snicker as he left.

"I'm gonna take a shower, Y/N, feel free to do whatever." You hummed in response, exhausted from folding and putting the blankets back up on the top shelf.

As you heard the water run, you couldn't help but let your mind wander. Sure, I mean, this wasn't the best circumstance you could be in, but maybe Ghost wasn't as awful as you thought. He was definitely attractive and had a sense of humor that he just didn't know how to use, but it was perfect. As you almost smiled to yourself just thinking about it, you heard a banging on the wall, coming from the shower. You jumped in your seat at the noise, and didn't even stand up before you heard Ghost yell, "Hey, get me a towel would ya?" Goodness, he was loud. You could visibly see birds fly away at his screaming.

"Yeah, yeah!" You yelled back, returning to the closet and prepared yourself to open it. Grabbing a white, scratchy towel, you closed the door and made your way to the bathroom, you had to walk through a bedroom to get there. Stepping over Ghost's clothes made your breath accelerate, he'd just left them scattered across the floor.

You knocked on the bathroom door, "Come in," was the only response you got. It was gruff, demanding. You'd be scared not to. Steam poured out as you opened the door, not sure where to look and where not to.

"Here," you said quietly, your brain feeling fuzzy at the thought of Ghost in the shower. You saw his arm outstretch from behind the curtain, wet fingers ready to grip the towel. You stared at them for a minute before his hand flexed, signaling you to give it to him. After handing him the towel, "Thanks," was all he said.

You didn't know what to say, so you stumbled on your words as you spoke, "Is the water hot at least?"

Ghost laughed deeply, making your stomach churn, "Smoking." You chuckled awkwardly before bolting out of the bathroom, unable to make any more small talk that close to his naked body. How could anyone?

You heard the water turn off and climbed under your covers on the rickety couch, if Ghost were to come out, you'd pretend you were asleep and had been for a while. You could hear his bare feet pad across the hardwood floor, his clothes being slid on and all the yawns and quiet groans escaping his mouth.

He opened the bedroom door and your eyes slammed shut. "Oi."

You said nothing, but you could sense him getting closer to the couch. "I know you're not asleep, there's no way anyone could on that thing."

One eye blinked open to find Ghost's face hovering over yours from behind the couch. His wet hair dripped onto your face, and he hesitatingly wiped it off with his fingers. "Sorry 'bout that," he whispered.

"S' fine," you whispered back, shamelessly staring at every part of his face.

"Let me sleep here. You already complain about your back all the time. Don't need anymore."

You rolled your eyes and closed them again before turning over on your pillow, your back now facing him. "No way, I was here first."

He scoffed, "Unbelievable. I'm trying to be a gentleman."

Ghost started to walk away before you rolled your eyes once more and jumped up from the couch, making a run for the bedroom with a pillow under your arm. "What the-," Ghost said as you ran past him. You jumped on the bed and immediately sighed when you pulled the covers up, "It's freezing, it'd be stupid not take advantage of human warmth. It's like, the only thing we're good for."

Ghost cocked an eyebrow and slowly walked to the other side of the bed with his arms crossed over his huge chest. "The only thing, huh?" He got underneath the covers carefully after shutting the last lamp off, and you shivered as his skin brushed against yours.

"Ghost, you're freezing!" Your teeth chattered for dramatic effect, and he placed a hand on the back of your neck just to make you squeal. You did just that, giggling and trying to peel his freezing hand away but it was no use; he plastered his other hand on the other side of your head to hold himself up as his hand warmed up from your skin.

"I guess you're right, warmth is the only thing you got going f' ya, isn't it?" He teased, and you slapped his arm. "How dare you." You whispered.

His arm rested on your bare waist, even though it took a long time for it to get there. Ghost was never good with women, touch, admiration of any kind, but he'd be willing to embarrass himself for you. You squirmed slightly at the feeling, but allowed yourself to scooch closer to him, taking his touch as words in and of itself. Come closer. Touch me back.

Your hand slowly made its way up his bicep, squeezing every so often at the muscle. His eyes were low and hooded as they watched you watch him, feel him. Once you looked up at him, your arms now wrapped around his neck, you could feel his breath on your mouth; that's how close your faces were. You watched his lips, open and close, his tongue licked his bottom one, and that was all you needed.

You took ahold of him, putting your lips on his. It was slow at first, careful, gentle. Until your hands drifted up his neck and into his hair, tugging lightly, and it elicited a soft groan from him. You opened your mouth, and Ghost followed after you. Now he was greedy, hungry, starving. His tongue swept across your lips first before making contact with your own tongue. You broke from the kiss, slightly panting and lips swollen. You suddenly realized how hot it had gotten, and so had Ghost.

"See? Human warmth." You said into Ghost's neck after burying yourself into him. You felt his jaw flex, most likely from a smirk, and he pulled the covers up over both of you. "Whatever."

[bythepen98]

Doodles || Hawks

Loosely based on "A Gilded Cage is Still a Cage" by @cuspidgoddess (great work! I enjoyed it)

[Long; tldr at the bottom] Thoughts while I drew this, and disclaimer: I'm no author, just someone who can't shut up sometimes when inspired

Family LoV and complicated relationship with the HPSC. Not quite bashing like in the fic, but still shady and contributed to Keigo's lack of self-worth and tendency to keep a tight leash on his more mutant instincts until Tokoyami and the league encouraged him out of it.

Dabi spoils him and calls him pretty bird. At this point, it's a dabihawks headcanon that I'm sticking to.

searched google: "do hawks mate for life?" Answer: if conditions allow, then yes. OKAY THEN. Noted

It's hard to say what the future will hold what with Keigo's life being a complete mess, but he's willing to latch on to Dabi for as long as he's allowed to. Forever, preferably. If the way he melts into putty under Dabi's hands instead of flinching away from it is any indication. Tokoyami being the first person he allowed himself giving physical affection to and that was more of a paternal connection than the fluttery feeling he gets whenever he thinks of Dabi's blue, blue eyes.

Been enchanted with him since the early days when they've first met and Dabi finally looked at him with a less wary/hostile gaze. When the moonlight glinted onto his staples just right (blame his bird fueled fascination with shiny things), and the low, albeit sarcastic croon of acknowledgement from the man, he was completely gone. The chirp -with a pathetically pinning lilt to it- that rose out of him in response was embarrassing but worth it when it made Dabi chuckle.

He'd totally understand if Dabi woke up one day and decided he was more trouble than it was worth though. No, really. He'd probably cry and hopefully not pluck too many of his feathers again out of stress but he'll live. He's made of sterner stuff, been trained to handle sterner stuff. It's fine.

His handlers have always commented on how troublesome he was when they thought he couldn't hear him. The league told him they were lying though, that he was perfect just as he is and, obvious and ironic circumstances aside, made a great hero, but surely there was a kernel of truth to it? Not all of it could be lies.

Someday, he doesn't know when, but someday for sure, the growing affection he can see in Dabi's eyes will fade away and would be laced with annoyance the way some of the few, nicer handlers had during his brief time with them training pre-debut. It's inevitable.

Maybe Dabi would get annoyed with his constant chirping, trills and whistles. Maybe he'll get tired of seeing his bedroom cluttered with trinkets Keigo would collect, his closet with a significant amount of clothes missing and said clothes occupying the bed, arranged in a way that soothed Keigo's brain but probably disgruntled and looked like a mess to Dabi even if he didn't show it. Maybe he'll get tired of lugging him around and then tell him to use his legs or wings when both are perfectly functioning and aren't there for decoration. Keigo just can't help that he likes being carried around sometimes. Dabi indulges it but surely, he'll eventually reach his limit? Maybe he'll scratch Dabi's sensitive skin by accident too many times with his talons and stupid inability to NOT grip on things whenever he's excited or stressed and get a face full of flames for it. Honestly, he's surprised it hasn't happened yet considering how the man acts with other people.

Dabi's gentleness with him? Probably a fluke that wouldn't last. He figures he just looks too pathetic to get angry at. He figures the rest of the league view him similarly too and indulges him the same way one would indulge a stray, enough to feed it and keep it warm a few times but will ultimately move on to live their lives. Never mind that he's there to "spy" on them when he's doing a trash job at it. They probably already know but indulge him anyway out of pity. Whatever it is, Keigo is still grateful with the attentiveness and care they've showed him so far but will back away once he sees that he's overstayed his welcome.

At least he still has Tokoyami by his side who looks up to him and sees him like an older brother, maybe even a parent. Enhanced because of the mutant bird traits they share and the loneliness Tokoyami would see hidden underneath Keigo's smile.

Sometimes Tokoyami is swept up by Keigo's cheerful public persona when they're both out patrolling the streets and being bombarded by people, admittedly gets annoyed by it when sweet, doting Keigo turns into Hawks and makes him run after the hero like the early days of his internship when they weren't as close and misunderstandings were everywhere. But then he'd remember the sad tilt to his expression and the crushing hug before leaving with a red feather tucked into his pocket whenever they have to separate at any length of time. His own loneliness at not having anyone to welcome him back home making his and Dark Shadow's heart hurt.

Tokoyami still doesn't know what to make of Keigo's relationship with the league, dreads the aftermath of it all really if it turns sour (Dark Shadow is more optimistic than him and calls him out for his paranoia), but he'll always be in Keigo's corner. Just give him a few more years and he'll be strong enough to protect Keigo against any villain or hspc-shaped threats on his own and from the shadows, although he'll grudgingly allow Dabi to get a few hits in since it seems like he'll be a more permanent fixture in their life if the man has anything to say about it.

tldr: ooc fluff, LoV as family. not quite HPSC bashing but close, Birdbros, or in this au, more of a parental connection between Keigo and Tokoyami because *instincts*. Google says that hawks mate for life if the condition allows it and Keigo just so happened to find said mate in Dabi, a Dabi who spoils him, calls him pretty and likes to run his fingers through his feathers. HOWEVER, Keigo is sad, insecure and blind to the idea that whatever he has with Dabi (and the league) will last and will continue to latch on to them until he feels like it's no longer welcomed. -insert unreliable narrator angst fest here- Jokes on him because Dabi would gladly burn the whole world for him if he asked but is curbing the idea because Keigo still wants to save people and his pseudo son Tokoyami is a fledgling hero. Dabi's youngest brother is also a fledging hero but he'd really like not to think about that too much.

[daengtokki]

I’d love to read about Seungmin taking care of you while you’re sick. I know he’d be so sweet and loving 🥰

Kim Seungmin/gn!reader

wc: 1.1k

rating: fluff

Day 3 of Seungmin's birthday oneshot countdown!

A crash echoing in from the kitchen wakes you from your doze, and you groan so loudly you’re afraid he hears it. What could he have possibly dropped? All he was doing was grabbing the painkillers. He’s trying his best. He doesn’t even have to be here right now.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t get the drawer open, something was stuck inside…uh, here ya go.” His clenched fist hovers over you, and he drops two capsules in your palm. “Are they the right ones?”

And the migraine is just making you more sensitive. Having him with you while you’re feeling under the weather is brand new. "Yeah, thank you."

“Oh, you need a drink”

“No, I have my water”

He stops and turns back to you, a shy smile stuck on his face. This isn’t the first time, or the second time he’s been here, but it’s never for very long, and never overnight. And he doesn’t have to take time away from his own busy schedule for you, ever—you’ve told him that countless times. But now it’s late and Seungmin is still at your apartment, comfortable in his shorts and sweatshirt and his warm socks. You don’t think you’ve ever been more attracted to him than you are right now.

“I’ll be right back”

He spins and heads back to the kitchen, and you listen carefully to try to figure out what he’s doing. The faucet, the cabinet doors opening and closing, and the clink of cups, or mugs…he must be making tea. Eventually, the scent drifts into the bedroom—spicy and sweet. Seungmin returns with a mug in each hand, and he’s taking his time, being as careful as possible as he sets them on the bedside table.

“I’m not sure if it really works, but I saw it when I stopped at the store on the way here. If it just tastes good, I guess that’s okay, too.”

The pounding in your head becomes unbearable, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut. “What is it?” You whisper, trying not to sound too irritable.

“How bad is the pain…one to ten?” Seungmin carefully sits on the edge of the bed, your mug of tea in his cupped hands.

It does smell nice. “Uh…a seven, maybe.”

“It’s supposed to help with headaches”

“Oh, you’re so sweet. Come over here”

“Yeah?” You nod again, and he nods back. “Okay.”

This is also brand new, sharing a bed. It’s a shame the first time has to be under these circumstances, but you’ll take him any way you can get him. The original plan was to have dinner, but after a few subtle hints, you managed to turn it into a late dinner and a sleepover. The migraine ruined it, but Seungmin still insisted on coming over, even if all you did was stay in bed and put up with him.

“It’s okay if you don’t like it. It’s very gingery.”

“It smells good.” You take a sip, and it’s not too hot, so you take a bigger one. “Thank you.”

Seungmin keeps a careful distance on top of the blankets—too much distance, but he’s going to treat you like this migraine could break you at any moment. You have to look at him through squinted eyes, try to smile and let him know you’ll be okay if he gets closer. You’ll be okay if he touches you.

“The lights...I forgot to turn the lights down.” He’s up and headed for the kitchen again. The light clicks off. Back in the bedroom, he flicks the light switch on the wall, so now the only glow is from the hallway light spilling in through the cracked door. “That’s better.”

“Much better. Six.”

Back on the bed, same distance. He nervously rubs his thighs, and his knees.

“You look cute in your pjs. Is this what you usually wear to bed?”

The pink on his cheeks rises slowly, and ends at the tips of his ears. You don’t think it was that odd of a question, but Seungmin is clearly a little flustered. Hopefully it wasn’t too much.

“I’m sorry, too personal?” You laugh. It’s not—you know he isn’t that sensitive, but he ended up being much more shy than you expected.

Idol Seungmin is a different person. Seungmin with his fellow members is also a different person. Your version of him, at least so far, is quiet, a little unsure, and not always confident in his actions.

“No, it’s not,” he smiles. “I don’t wear this much to bed, usually, but that didn’t seem appropriate tonight.”

“Well, if you get warm…”

“I’ll take off my socks.” He wiggles his toes and moves himself closer.

It hurts your head, but you let yourself laugh. Seungmin is funny, and he knows it. You’ll indulge him every time. “Is that a promise?”

This is different. It’s not the same as your closeness on the couch, or in the back of the car—this is your bed, and it doesn’t get more cozy and intimate than this. When you let your pounding head rest on his shoulder, his cheek lands on you. Something finally gives, and he seems to relax. You’re not sure what you did, but he shifts again, and you feel his soft lips press against your forehead. “Four.”

“If I could kiss away the pain, I would,” he says under his breath.

“Can you try?”

Whether he’s ready or not, you wrap your arms around him and bring him closer. But he does the same. Seungmin squeezes, but not too tightly, and places another kiss on your forehead, on your temple, and down your cheek. Wherever he can reach.

“I think it’s working”

Seungmin keeps going, “it’s a good thing I came over,” and finally makes it to your lips. He kisses very cautiously, and not nearly long enough when he pulls away to look at you.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, just checking”

“I’m good…three and a half.” The strong fingers kneading into the back of your neck is the same move from his last visit. “That feels nice.” Hopefully, his next move is also the same as before.

“Does it? It’s not too much?”

You shake your head and close your eyes, and his lips press against yours again. This time he stays. His tongue slides across your mouth to gain access, and you let him in.

“Three," you somehow manage to get it out between his kisses, “two…”

[3liza]

growing up with a severely executive dysfunctional parent really prepared me for the internet brain rot and COVID derangement in everyone around me because he never ever remembered anything I told him either and I spent my entire childhood learning to patiently explain things over and over and changing the tone and presentation a little bit each time to keep him from getting bored and hopefully finding the magic combination of seasonings to make it actually stick in his brain this time. every single week on my discord someone who we like and is a valued member of the server! not a stranger or new guy! will ask a question we have been answering exactly the same way for four years and hasn't bothered to 1. pay attention any of those other times 2. run a perfunctory search. and wants it explained again but this time directly to themselves. we're all guilty of this and it's because actually looking things up that are more complex than word definitions or phone numbers is risky to do without checking with a half dozen people to see if they can spot AI writing or logical fallacies or bias etc. of course people who work in offices are already familiar with this and have always spent 80% of their time on this because coworkers as a class of people do not learn how to operate printers ever and will not read emails under any circumstances

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Would you be willing to write something with MXES where the reader wears the mask and sees MXES but isn’t afraid of them, and maybe Helpy is urging the reader to run, or deactivate the system but they’re curious about this big scary bunny… hopefully no animatronics get called to the scene if their interaction…

-glitch phone

"Erm, I'd advise that you RUN away from the Entity. You should not approach it under any circumstances!"

Ignoring Helpi's constant warnings of danger, curiosity overtook and and all instincts to flee as you walked close to M.X.E.S, still wearing the security mask. You weren't all that scared of it, instead wanting to have a better look.

The tall and sinister-looking black hare just stared down at you, tilting its head. It, too, was curious about your intentions.

While its purpose was to stop you from tampering with the parent node behind you, it couldn't help but wonder why you turned away from your task the second you felt its presence.

For whatever reason...you weren't freaking out despite it sending Monty after you once before.

You barely got away without getting your ankles bitten off by that feral gator!

You knew very well it could summon him again, but you weren't scared at all.

Pocketing the Faz Wrench, you stopped and waved your hand, awkwardly smiling at the entity. "Hello, there." You spoke, surprised by the brief disappearance of its usual grin, as though your actions confused it entirely.

But it then waved back, before disappearing into a cluster of glitches, vanishing from your sight altogether.

Suddenly, you heard an awful static noise and turned around to see it now mere inches from your face, its grin returning and looking wider than ever.

You winced slightly as you felt another migraine coming on...no thanks to you wearing the mask for so long.

Yet besides that...you didn't scream or flinch.

M.X.E.S thought for sure that little scare would've intimidated you enough to back away from the node. Maybe then it wouldn't have to call an animatronic to your location, and you'll leave the Pizzaplex's systems alone.

It's grown unusually protective over them, even though you were authorized to use the mask and access the AR world.

For a few moments, you had an intense staring contest, unsure of who was going to do what.

But you only became further fascinated by this creature the longer you gazed upon it. You had no clue which one of your coworkers designed it, but...they sure did a hell of a job making it look so real despite being a simulation.

Then you wondered something...and it was something you hoped to try.

And wanted to try something.

Helpi kept babbling inside your brain that making direct contact with the Entity would likely result in "death and dismemberment", adding the company wasn't responsible for that should it happen. You just rolled your eyes, knowing he didn't need to remind you of that shitty excuse of a "policy".

Instead, you slowly reached out to M.X.E.S' face, surprised when your hand rested on its muzzle. You could feel cold steel, fur, wiring, and static buzzing beneath your fingertips.

Although it couldn't see it, your eyes were wide in awe, and you had a huge smile that nearly rivaled the one on the mask.

This entity was solid. It was a creature you could actually touch, now that you were both on the same plane of existence.

Its eyes widened, yet it didn't react violently or fearfully...it simply remained perfectly still, allowing your hands to roam and pet it.

"Oh wow..haha.." You laughed softly, bringing both hands to the sides of its jaw. "Didn't expect you to be so soft and cuddly. You take after Bonnie well, huh?"

M.X.E.S isn't sure what overcame its programming in that moment, but...it began to like your touch.

It's never known gentle hands, not even from its own maker, until now.

That alone caused it to abandon its current directive as its shoulders relaxed, closing its eyes with content. Then it leaned its head down slightly so you could gently rub its ears--which were also made of metal and fur and static.

Shrinking its size down a bit enabled you to fully cradle its head in your arms, and you smiled, looking over at the glowing blue bunny node that stared back at you.

Meanwhile, Helpi had gone radio silent, much to your relief. That little bear probably crashed because this scenario was so unexpected, so unusual that he simply couldn't compute.

You silently chuckled at that thought, deciding that you'll stay like this for a little while.

The parent node didn't really need maintenance, anyways.

[fanficgirl429]

Returning Home

Prompt: Y/N returns home for Iceman’s funeral and runs into her ex, Bradley Bradshaw. 

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: sex

------

It had been nearly five years since Y/N had stepped foot in Fightertown. It held a lot of good memories but there were also memories that she had tried to erase.

The moment she had learned that Iceman had passed, she dropped what she was doing and booked a flight to her hometown. Ice had helped her father out in more than one way and she couldn’t imagine missing the funeral.

Her return flight was merely hours after the funeral ended- she had decided that she didn’t want to stay any longer than she needed.

Her boyfriend had offered to accompany her but she told him to stay home- she would only be gone for two days. Although he had looked slightly offended, he eventually agreed to stay.

Y/N and her father had just left the wake and after much protesting from her dad, she had agreed to one drink at the Hard Deck.

“Maverick!” Penny called, walking towards the father and daughter duo. “How are you doing?”

She pulled him in for a quick hug before looking over at Y/N. “Y/N! It’s so nice to see you again. Your dad has been sure to keep me up to date on how you have been doing.”

“It’s nice to see you too!” Y/N replied. The last time she had seen Penny was five years ago. At the time she had no idea in just a few years Penny would be dating her dad.

“I wish it was under other circumstances but I’m glad you’re here nonetheless.”

Penny walked behind the bar and handed Maverick his favorite beer. “What can I get you?” she asked Y/N.

“Oh water is fine,” Y/N said. “I want to be conscious for my flight.”

Penny laughed and filled up a clear plastic cup with water. She glanced around the bar, surprised to find that not much had changed. The piano was still in the exact same spot as well as the classic jukebox.

Memories flooded her head as she remembered standing around the piano singing with her friends and trying to find the perfect song to play on the jukebox.

“How’s Jack doing?” Penny asked, referring to Y/N’s boyfriend of just over a year.

“He’s doing good. He just got a huge job promotion yesterday,” Y/N told her, smiling.

“That’s wonderful. Hopefully I can meet him soon.”

Y/N agreed and looked over at her father. “How is Top Gun going?”

“It’s going ok. Some people aren’t too keen on my teaching strategies,” he told her, picking at the label on his bottle.

Y/N nodded all to familiar with her father’s flying antics. “Did I tell you that Bradley is there as well?”

Bradley was Y/N’s ex boyfriend. They had been together for nearly 4 years before she had decided to end things.

Y/N looked over at Maverick, eyes wide. “N-no you didn’t. How is he doing?”

Maverick shrugged. “Well he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Well you did really hurt him,” Y/N said, taking a sip of her water.

Right after they had broken up, Y/N had learned that her father had pulled Bradley’s papers to stop him from flying. Of course, Bradley had been pissed and stopped talking to Maverick. Her dad had reached out numerous times to him to apologize but Bradley had never responded.

Y/N looked around at the numerous people at the bar. There were a few couples sitting at tables and nursing their drinks. She had learned from her dad that pilots from Top Gun often came to the Hard Deck to blow off some steam. After learning the news about Bradley being back in town, she hoped that he wouldn’t show up.

Y/N looked over at her dad, who had a scowl etched across his face. He was watching a group of young pilots who had just walked in.  

“That’s about half of my class right there,” he said, nodding in the pilot's directions. “If they bother you, let me know.”

Y/N’s eyes wandered over to a tall blonde who was rather good looking. Next to him, stood another pilot- this one all too familiar. Tall, brown hair, brown eyes, and a mustache (that was new). Bradley Bradshaw. Y/N’s ex boyfriend.

Things between the two of them had not ended well. Their relationship had been rocky for a while and after a big argument which resulted in the two of them not speaking for days, Y/N had decided to end it. It was one of the hardest decisions that she had ever had to make. Their lives were going in two different directions and they had both been young.

Bradley’s eyes locked with hers and he gave her a small smile. She smiled back, thoughts racing through her head. Should I go say hi? Should I wait and see if he’ll come over? Maybe he’ll come say hi to my dad as an excuse to come see me?

Minutes ticked by and neither of them made any attempt to talk to each other. Growing restless, Y/N excused herself and walked towards the restroom. She quickly glanced over at Bradley, who was currently talking to a female pilot. A small bit of jealously hit Y/N. Shaking it off, she walked into the bathroom to have a moment to herself.

Y/N took a deep breath before stepping out of the bathroom. Her plan was to pay her tab and then leave and get ready to go home.

Bradley was leaning against the wall, arms folded against his chest, as if waiting for Y/N to come out of the bathroom.

“Y/N, can we talk?” he said.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Y/N told him and began to walk away.

His hand gently wrapped around her arm, pulling her back towards him. Her heart skipped a beat from his touch as she looked at him.

“What do you want Bradley?” Y/N asked.

Bradley sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I-I’m not sure. I just wanted to talk to you.”

Y/N let out a laugh. “It’s been five years, Bradley. You could have just picked up the phone if you wanted to talk that badly.”

“Would you have answered?”

Y/N shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. I was really angry with you.”

“Clearly. You left town.”

“I had to. I think if I would have seen you again, I would have come running back to you but we were so bad for each other at the time. I think that maybe if we were older and had our lives figured out a bit more we could have made it work.”

Bradley’s eyes went wide at Y/N’s honesty but he knew that she was right. Timing was everything.

“There hasn’t been a day gone by that I haven’t thought about you. I know that it has been years but when I said that you were the one meant for me, I truly meant it. I still think that you’re meant for me,” he told her.

Deep down Y/N knew that he was right. She thought about him at least once a day. The question of did she make the right decision was also constantly on her mind. Sure, she loved Jake but it was different than when she was with Bradley. She thought that maybe it was because Bradley was her first true love but after seeing him now, she knew it was because she was still in love with him.

Slowly reaching out, he laced his fingers with hers and pulled her closer to him. She quickly glanced around to make sure there were no prying eyes. Luckily the bathrooms were in the back and they would be able to hear if anyone was coming down the short hallway.

Y/N wrapped her arms around Bradley’s waist as he hugged her tightly. He was more toned than she remembered but she wasn’t complaining. He still smelled exactly the way that he used to and when he held her, it felt like it was just the two of them.

Slowly, Bradley leaned down and placed his lips against Y/N’s. Together their lips moved in sync, almost as if no time had passed between them. His tongue slipped into her mouth, tangling with hers.

Bradley’s hands moved down to Y/N hips and gently pushed back her so that her back was pressed against the wall. His thumb slipped underneath the hem of her shirt and made slow circles against her hip. Goosebumps rose in their wake as she remembered exactly what Bradley’s touch did to her.

A dull ache began to form between her legs and she squeezed her thighs together, hoping to make it go away but knew that it wouldn’t.

Bradley’s body was pressed up against hers and she could his erection pressing against her stomach. Reaching down, she gently squeezed him through his jeans and he let out a low moan, pulling away from her.

“Fuck Y/N,” Bradley breathed. “I want you so fucking much.”

Without pausing to think about the consequences, Y/N grabbed Bradley’s hand and pulled him towards the womans one person bathroom.

“Are you sure?” Bradley asked, hesitantly.

“Yea.”

When the door was closed and locked behind them, Bradley reached down and pulled Y/N’s t shirt over head, revealing her black lacy bra. She gave herself a silent applause as she was thankful she had chosen her good bra as opposed to her old beat up one.

Bradley eye’s went wide as he started at her in awe of her body. It was better than he had remembered. He pulled her back against him and locked his lips back to hers. This time the kiss was full of need and lust.

HIs fingers toyed with the waistband of her jeans before unbuttoning and unzipping them. He slipped his hand down to her core and ran his fingers along the outside of her underwear before pushing the material aside.

Y/N let out a moan as his fingers found her sensitive spot and began to rub against it. Closing her eyes, Y/N let the sensation take over her body. Her breathing picked up speed as she felt herself reach her climax.

Bradley placed a hand over her mouth as she cried out, reaching her high.

After a moment, Y/N opened her eyes to find Bradley smirking. She playfully hit him in the arm and he let out a laugh.

He leaned down and gave her a quick kiss before unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them down along with his black boxer briefs.

Precum had already formed on his length and Y/  reached out and ran her thumb along the tip. Bradley sucked in a deep breath as she wrapped her hand along his length and slowly moved it up and down.

“I’m gonna come now if you don’t stop,” Bradley warned as he placed a large hand on top of hers. “And I want to come inside of you.”

Y/N removed her hand and reached down and unbuttoned her jeans and slid them down along with her underwear down to her knees.

Bradley placed his hands on her waist and turned her around, facing away from him. She reached out and placed her hands against the wall to steady herself. Bradley ran his length along her core, teasing her.

“Bradley,” Y/N whined as he pressed a finger against her sensitive spot.

Bradley lined himself up with Y/N’s core and slowly pushed into her. She let out a small gasp from the feeling before he pulled out and pushed back into her. He began to move his body slowly against hers.

One his hands gripped her shoulder, well the other one held onto her waist, keeping her steady. Y/N’s hands were still placed against the wall as she kept herself steady.

The small bathroom was filled with the sound of heavy breathing and occasional sounds from the other side of the door, reminding the two of them where they were. Somehow no one had knocked on the door yet.

A knot began to form in Y/N’s stomach as she climbed closer and closer to the edge. Shew knew that Bradley was close because he began to move quicker against her.

WIthin moments, her walls clenched around him as he released into her. The two of them stood still for a moment, catching their breath.

When Y/N was ready, she stood up and Bradley pulled out of her, wrapping his arms around her waist, holding her against him. Her legs were wobbly as she held onto him, not wanting him to let go. It felt right when his arms were wrapped around her but then reality hit.  

Y/N pulled away from Bradley, feeling her face turn a deep shade of red.

“Oh my god,” she said quietly, reaching down and pulling up her underwear and pants.

“Y/N, whats wrong?” Bradley asked.

“I-um-I have a boyfriend,” she told him, scrambling to pull her shirt on.

Bradley stood in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders. “I meant everything that I said earlier. I want to be with you but if you don’t want to be or if you need time, I respect that.”

At this point, Y/N wanted nothing more than to be with Bradley but she hated the thought of letting Jake go, however she knew that she had to. What she had with Bradley was too strong to resist.

“I’ll call you in a few days,” she told him, kissing him quickly before leaving the tiny bathroom.

She was terrified about what was going to happen but also could not wait to see what the future held with Bradley.

[porcelainseashore]

Coffee & Secrets (6)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Rookie Cop! Leon x Barista! Fem! Reader

Summary: As a cozy coffee shop owner in Raccoon City, you’re no stranger to visitors seeking comfort, quiet, and warmth. When a rookie officer named Leon finds a kindred spirit in you, it sets in motion a chain of events that forever changes the course of your lives. An alternate universe set in Resident Evil 2 Remake and inspired by the game Coffee Talk.

Content & Warnings: Canon divergence, coffee shops, romance, slow burn, strangers to lovers, idiots in love, fluff, slice of life, swearing

Author's Note: We’re nearing the end of this series! Thank you to everyone on here for your support, especially in the comments and reblogs. This will probably be my last Leon fic for a while. Sometimes it felt like I was writing into the void and it was a little disheartening, but I started to realise that I need a change of scenery and explore writing through other fandoms.

AO3 Link

Chapter 6: Full Circle

“Am I looking at the new Chief of Police?” 

You cracked a grin as Marvin graced your shop clad in his shiny new outfit and badge that made him look almost regal. Gold stripes and stars lined the cuffs and epaulets of his navy blue jacket. He removed his elegantly embroidered peaked cap, tucking it under his arm as he rubbed his buzz cut. And there he was again, the same old Marvin that you knew.

“You sure are.” He winked, reflecting your grin before a minor shadow loomed over his face. “Can’t say the circumstances I got promoted in were the most pleasant though.”

Laying your hand on his shoulder, you gave it a firm, supportive squeeze. “Everyone knows you deserve this, Marv. You’ll do great.”

“Aww, look what you’ve done! Making me cry all over my nice suit like that,” he emitted a low chuckle, his voice cracking up as he patted your hand. Wiping away a stray tear from his waterline, he cleared his throat and pulled up a chair at the counter.

“So, what can I get for the man of the hour?”

“You know me, I’m a creature of habit,” he affirmed.

You caught the drift, your hands already busying themselves as if they had a mind of their own. “Something gingery.”

The kettle whistled as steam rushed through its spout. Taking it off the stove, you poured it over a mixture of the fresh ginger and turmeric root you had diced up. You allowed it to steep for a while before adding in the jasmine tea leaves. Finally, you strained it into a tea cup garnished with the flower petals.

“Your celebratory drink—Golden Dawn.”

“I can already tell I’m gonna love it.” Marvin lifted the cup to his lips, blowing on it lightly before drinking it sip by sip. 

“Nice music too,” he added, bobbing his head along to one of the tunes on the stereo. “This what you kids listen to these days?”

Over the next hour, you engaged in lighthearted chatter until it came to the never ending squabble of who would pay—or not. As always, you won, telling the older man to accept the gift and enjoy some quality time with his wife and daughters.

As Marvin prepared to leave, Ben and Claire coincidentally came through the door. All three of them stopped dead in their tracks, tensing up as they eyed each other awkwardly. 

It was Ben who broke the silence, extending his hand as he said, “Congratulations, Branagh. I mean it.” 

And he truly did. There was not a note of insincerity in the man’s tone.

At this, Marvin smiled, giving Ben a cordial handshake. “Thanks, Bertolucci. Guess I’ll be seeing you around, though hopefully not on my case,” he joked. 

That elicited a roar of laughter from Ben. “I go where the story leads me, Chief.”

“You really are the devil in disguise,” Marvin noted wryly. “Well, I’mma head off, so have a good evening.”

“Bertolucci. Redfield,” he acknowledged, tipping his cap to the two before giving you a final wave as he exited the shop.

“Drinks on me,” Ben declared, smacking the counter table with his palm.

You raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t a bar have been a better choice?”

“Yeah, we’re headed there after,” he confirmed. “Just had to patronize the place that fueled all my sleepless nights first.”

“I read the article by the way,” you mentioned in passing as you got to work. “It was very well-written and fair.”

“Facts, you can’t go wrong with facts,” he clarified. “I don’t sensationalize.”

“You could’ve been scathing, but you didn’t. That’s an active choice,” you pointed out.

The article had identified several instances of corruption and gross misconduct that the previous chief had been involved in, but in a relatively neutral tone. It also ended on a more positive and optimistic note, creating hope for the future of the RPD.

“Heh, well,” he shrugged, pressing against the bridge of his spectacles as he gave you a coy smile. “Maybe I am getting soft.”

Turning to Claire, he noted, “You’re quiet today, Red. You should be celebrating, kid.”

“Mmm,” she responded with mild disinterest, though you could see her glancing at the shop’s entrance every now and then.

“I didn’t have shot glasses, so I used your favorite—espresso cups,” you teased, placing the two orders on the table. “These should make good pre-drinks.”

“What’s in it?” Ben asked skeptically, unused to anything other than his trusty coffee.

“Let’s just say a combination of lemon, olive oil and cinnamon. I added some other flavorings to make it more palatable,” you explained. “Prevents hangovers.”

Swirling the liquid, he pinched his lips together and remarked, “Guess it wouldn’t hurt. Bet it’s got one of those hippy names too?”

“Grandma’s Cure.”

“Hah! That’s a good one!” he exclaimed, taking a swig from his demitasse.

There was a short pause before he gave his verdict, “Hmm! Not bad… not bad at all.”

However, Claire still left hers untouched and her mind appeared to be elsewhere.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked out of concern.

Claire shook herself out of her thoughts, stumbling over her words, “Y-yeah, shit, I’m sorry.”

Consuming the drink as quickly as possible, she thumped the cup back onto the counter, cleaning her mouth with the back of her hand. Fortuitously, your next customer who came through the door appeared to be the one she was looking for.

“Leon?”

The young officer froze, swallowing nervously as he stared at her. “Claire.”

You and Ben exchanged looks as you tilted your head in the direction of the exit, indicating to him to give them some space. He nodded discreetly in response, understanding what you were getting at.

Immediately, he stood up with a grunt and clapped Claire on the back. “Alright, Red, I’ll make a headstart first and you can join me at Jack’s Bar when you’re ready.”

With that, he placed some cash on the table, casually saluting you before making his way out.

Claire wasted no time getting to the crux of the matter. “That anonymous tip—it was you, wasn’t it?”

Slumping down on the seat beside her, Leon conceded, “Yeah, you got me.”

“I shouldn’t have pressured you into it, I’m sorry,” she blurted out.

“No, you wanted to do the right thing,” he sympathized. “I was so caught up in an ideal that never existed, I forgot about that.”

“It was decent of you to get Bertolucci to hold off on publishing the article until Irons stepped down,” he continued. “At least it was less of a blow to the department as a whole.”

“Still, the way I treated you was uncalled for,” she argued. “You’re a good friend, Leon, I…” her voice cracked.

“Sometimes, people say things because they’re hurt,” he mentioned, giving you a knowing look. 

You smiled back, acknowledging the very same advice you had given him when you first met.

“Pals?” He stuck out his palm.

“What are you, twelve?” she scoffed. Breaking into a dazzling grin, she grasped his hand as though they were sealing a pact. “Pals.”

“Care for another?” you offered, presenting the drinks you had crafted up on the side.

Claire’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t mind if we do.”

Sherry arrived soon after, instantly taking to the redhead like an older sister. Eventually, Claire went off to join Ben, promising to return for a proper goodbye before leaving to finish her semester.

“How was school?” you asked, scooping yet another dollop of whipped cream into Sherry’s drink upon her instructions. She could be quite assertive when she wanted to be.

“Good…” she hummed. “Made a friend.”

“That’s awesome!” Leon commended.

“Oh, and no one dares to touch me, ’cause I told them you’ll kick their ass,” she added.

“Wait, what?” he guffawed, but she suddenly had the urge to use the bathroom and scurried off.

“Impossible,” he huffed as you snickered.

Leaning on your elbows over the counter, you addressed him, “Not that I don’t ask you this every day, but anything new with you?”

“Well, apart from the stuff with Claire and the RPD, it turned out that the background checks on the suspicious lady in red came up clean,” he reported.

“Wow, Kevin must be pissed.”

“You don’t say. Wesker kinda just lets her through too. The whole thing just screams trouble to me,” he admitted. “Guess you win some, you lose some.”

“Anyway, speaking of Kevin, he told me to pass you this.” Chucking a folded letter on the table, his icy blue eyes watched you like a hawk as an unreadable expression formed on his face.

“Huh, looks like everyone’s doing the rounds today,” you muttered, opening the paper to read its contents.

A telephone number was written down in bold black marker, followed by a “CALL ME ;)”

Your shoulders trembled as you burst out laughing, shaking your head in disbelief. That guy had some nerve for pulling off such a stunt, unless…

“You gonna?” Leon quizzed, and you swore you could sense a hint of jealousy in his voice.

“Whaddya think?” you smirked, closing the gap as your nose nudged against his.

His eyes fluttered, and he sucked in a sharp breath. You felt his lips barely graze yours until—

“So… are you, like, boyfriend and girlfriend?”

All at once, you were back at square one, Leon having hastily distanced himself away from you as Sherry stared at the two of you inquisitively.

“Yes—no. I mean, no?” Leon stuttered, his cheeks burning crimson as he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

You let out a frustrated sigh, deciding to leave them to their devices for the moment while you counted stock in the cabinets. At some point, Sherry wanted to go home and Leon took it upon himself to drive her back.

As you said your good nights, to your surprise, Leon wrapped his arms around your waist, dragging you in for a spontaneous embrace. “We’ll talk about this soon—about us,” he whispered into your hair.

Soon could not come soon enough.

Dividers by @cafekitsune

[towriteloveontheirarms]

Thanks for doing this (modern!Aegon II Targaryen x reader, past Jason Lannister x reader)

synopsis: What are the odds of running into your ex at a random bar in King´s Landing on a random friday night? Well, apparently the odds are higher than you thought.

warnings: mentions of alcohol and drinking, Jason being a prick

word count: 1.8k

a/n: I am still working on requests and outlining my first series, but I wanted to put out something in the meantime. I´m sorry requests are taking so long. Any way, I hope y´all like this nonetheless. <3

What are the odds of running into your ex at a random bar in King´s Landing on a random friday night? Too many people to count in this goddamn city and you had to end up next to your ex- boyfriend, your ex-boyfriend who wasn’t even living in this goddamn city. How did he even get here?! You would have asked if you hadn’t wanted to avoid any form of conversation so badly. Looking the other way, you impatiently waited for the barkeeper to give you your drink so you could leave for the back of the bar, where you’d hopefully meet some of your friends. Unfortunately, you found yourself addressed in a posh voice only a moment later.

“What a pleasant coincidence to meet you here!” Jason Lannister had obviously recognized you and was now moving in for a kiss to each cheek.

You gave him an awkward smile. The two of you hadn’t had the healthiest of relationships, followed by a messy break-up, and you had sincerely hoped to never see Jason again when he moved back to Casterly rock.

Accordingly unenthusiastic was your reaction to his attempts at making small talk, which he didn’t seem to mind, placing a hand on your arm and going on about his vacation plans. He was in King´s landing on vacation, staying in some expensive hotel, for three weeks, one of which was already over, and considering prolonging his stay.

His breath was hitting your face, smelling of the cigarettes he’d already smoked when you’d been dating, making you shift away uncomfortably.

“No, we were not. You didn’t give a shit about my wishes and feelings.” You deadpanned.

“Some nights I wonder what would be if we had not split up. We were good together.” His hand had slipped from your arm to settle on your thigh. You grabbed it and put it back onto the counter.

“Don’t lie to me. I loved you.” He reached out to brush a strand of hair out of your face, causing you to flinch away.

Instead of taking the hint Jason softly stroked down your temple, letting his fingers linger at the bare skin of your neck above the thin strap of your dress.

Under other circumstances, had anyone else, any random stranger gotten this close to you and touched you like this, you’d told them to fuck off, and maybe even punched them in the face if necessary, but with Jason it was different. Too many memories were being washed up to the surface. Some pleasant, many not so much.

Memories of soft touches like these, growing harsher the more you became filled with lust.

Come on, get me off.

Of course I care about you.

Memories of the same hands that’d held onto you scrolling through a phone, eyes fixed on the screen more often than not.

Memories of words whispered into your ear after every fight, after every make-out-session, at the end of every rushed phone call.

I love you.

Abruptly, you grabbed Jason´s wrist and again pushed his hand onto the bars countertop.

“Stop that.” you insist harshly.

“Why? You’ve always liked it when I touched your neck.” Gods how you wanted to wipe that smug smile off his face.

“I don’t want you to touch me anymore, Jason. We’re done. We’ve been done for three years now, get a grip.”

“No. I’ve moved on.”

Jason leaned in again, smiling charmingly like a shark. “We could go again. You’ve gotten hotter.”

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. “And who is the lucky one?”

You opened your mouth to tell him that it was none of his business when a deep, smooth voice beat you to it.

The stranger leaned in for a hug, whispering into your ear. “You looked like you could use some help. Don’t worry, I got you.”

“Hey babe. Sorry, I’m late, Arryk almost burned down our kitchen.” Both Jason and you turned around to the speaker, a muscular, pale man with short hair of an even paler blonde than Jasons.

Aegon pulled back and turned towards Jason, keeping one of his hands resting protectively on the small of your back.

You felt like a stone had been lifted from your chest, may the seven bless this man. Smiling, you reciprocated the hug. “Hey, nuha jorrāelza. It’s alright.”

“Keep your hands off my girlfriend, will you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Jason Lannister.” He sounded like he had tasted something foul but couldn’t spit it out anymore, pointedly passing over Aegon’s challenge.

Jason looked the other up and down, taking in his bulk, obviously considering his chances in case the situation escalated. Jason was a bit taller than Aegon, but Aegon was decidedly more muscular and had an air of badass on him that Jason´s based-on-money confidence just couldn’t match.

“Aegon Targaryen. I’d say ‘pleasure to meet you’ but my mother taught me not to lie.” Aegon scowled.

You nodded, that was the perfect excuse to ditch your ex.

Then he directed his attention back to you. “The others are outside having a smoke, you wanna check in with them?”

“Bye, Jason.”

The chilly night air of King´s landing hit the two of you when you stepped outside, a welcome contrast to the stuffiness inside the bar. Aegon let go of your waist as soon as you were out of Jason´s sight, but kept up the protective demeanor.

“Are you alright? He didn’t do anything real bad, did he?”

“Don’t worry, no need to explain yourself. It happens.” He smiled at you, a warm glint in his lilac eyes.

You gave him a wry smile and a nod. “No, I’m fine. Thank you. I’m not normally that… helpless… That was my ex and… yeah…”

“What’s your name, by the way?” You felt your cheeks heat up. Right. You quickly tell him your name. “Alright. Do you wanna leave here? Want me to call you a cab or something?”

“No, actually, I’d like to go back inside. I’m not going to let that jackass of an ex-boyfriend ruin my friday night. Would you care to accompany me? In case he tries something again?”

He sounded genuinely concerned, it made your heart jump. If you were being saved from Jason by a kind, handsome stranger, you'd absolutely use the chance for a flirt. And maybe even more? You grinned.

Aegon gave you a look, then smiled. “Alright.”

Aegon nodded and offered you his arm, which you happily took. By now the bar had gotten fuller, people were filling up all of the booths along the walls and some had begun to dance in the free space towards the back.

“Do you want a drink?” You felt Aegon’s breath brush your ear as he leaned in so he’d be heard over the music. It was a nice sensation.

You shook your head though. “Later, let’s dance!”

“Thanks for doing this.” Your voice is so quiet it's barely audible over the music.

You were not only drop-dead gorgeous but also an amazing dancer as Aegon would soon realize. The two of you were moving perfectly in tune with the music, hips swaying, a wide grin on your face, and your eyes on Aegon. It was almost hypnotic, the mischievous spark in your gaze that pulled him in. Then the beat dropped and you broke out the raddest dance moves he’d ever seen in his life. You knew he was staring but he just couldn’t help himself. That was impressive. You obviously noticed, and laughed, raising an eyebrow and dancing up on him. Aegon shot you a smirk and a wink, leaning in and placing his hands on your hips. Your hands travelled up his arms, coming to a rest behind his neck.

His is as well. “Pleasure.”

Jason Lannister was annoyed. He’d been watching his ex and her new boyfriend dance for the last hour or so (don’t you even think about calling him pathetic!) and while he definitely wasn’t jealous, the two of them did seem to have an awful lot of fun together. They were alternating between ridiculous breakdance battles and basically dry-humping each other like horny teenagers, taking up the center of the dancefloor where people had formed a circle around them.

“Look me in the eye or otherwise we’ll have seven years of bad sex, don’t you know the saying?”

By the time the couple returned to the bar, Jason was sipping his fourth Solero, still watching them from across. The new guy had a hand resting on your lower back, holding you close, while you were laughing at something he’d said.

Picking up their drinks, they clinked glasses.

“Can’t risk that, can we?” they laughed at each other as they sipped their drinks. Your eyes were sparkling bright enough for Jason to notice from his spot, in a way they never had when the two of them had been together. Aegon was smiling like someone from a toothpaste commercial, teeth bright against his flushed skin. Jason rolled his eyes. He caught you shooting him a smug glance, then whispering to your boyfriend, who laughed and pulled you closer. You bit your lip, glancing down into your glass, and Jason knew that if he’d been closer, he would have been able to see the other’s blush.

When Aegon tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, Jason downed the rest of his drink and left. He should have gone on vacation to the Riverlands. Or Essos.

You stayed at the bar until long after your ex had left, talking about life and the world, and taking dance breaks again and again. It was the wee hours of the morning when you stood at the subway station, about to finally part ways.

“Thank you for helping me out, Egg.”

He smiled and pulled out his phone. “No problem, really. ‘Twas a pleasure. Can I have your number?”

“What?”

“Yes. Definitely.” The phone screen was putting a strange blueish lighting to your face as you saved your number into Aegon´s phone. You looked up and grinned.

“Huh?” Aegon felt his cheeks heat up from having been caught staring.

He went to take his phone from you, but ended up grabbing your hand instead. You were standing way too close. This is awkward, he thought, but didn’t let go.

He looked up to find you staring at him. At his lips, to be exact. Aegon swiped his tongue over them reflexively. “You know…”

Whatever he’d been about to say was cut off by a pair of soft lips being pressed to his. The kiss was warm and sweet, tasting slightly of the liquor you’d had earlier. Aegon used his free hand, the one that wasn’t still awkwardly holding yours and the phone, to pull you in a little closer, placing it gently at your waist. He could feel you smile against his lips before deepening the kiss.

When you pulled back, you were both slightly out of breath and smiling like idiots. A subway entered the station, making a whole bunch of noise.

You looked up. “That one’s mine.”

“I’ll try.” You grinned, stepping back. “Call me!”

Aegon nodded, biting his lower lip. “Get home safe.”

“I will!” He assures you and then the subway doors close behind you.

[wordsarelife]

so my idea was that reader never had her first kiss and is very inexperienced. they‘re all making fun if her but in a loving way. but lockwood decides to rescue her and teach / practise with her.

—london boy

pairing: anthony lockwood x fem!reader

summary: lockwood and y/n finish a study about what defines the greatness of a kiss

warnings: kissing ig

note: this was so fun to write!! such a good idea, I hope I did it justice!!

"yeah" Lucy laughed "but that wasn't the weirdest thing, when he kissed me, he had so much spit in his mouth, I nearly had to throw up"

"ew" George exclaimed, the rest of the table irrupting into similar sounds at the story of Lucy's horrible date

"I hate it when people do that" Lockwood agreed and you grew quiet. you had never kissed anyone, so it wasn't like you would now what should and shouldn't be done while kissing.

you found it some what embarrassing, but at the same time you had only turned sixteen, you had all the time in the world to kiss dozen of people. you internal monologue, had totally occupied from listening to the conversation and now all eyes had turned to you

"what is it?" you raised your brows. you sensed the growing reservation from your friends

"nothing" exclaimed Lockwood quickly, but you didn't buy into it

"we just wondered if you had ever kissed someone before" George said. Lockwood threw an angry look in his direction and Lucy admonished him loudly

"what?" you asked, startled by the sudden question

"well" said George "we all had a fair share of relationships, but we never saw you with anybody.. that begs the question" George left the rest of sentence unfinished, due to the kick he received from Lockwood under the table.

"oh" you looked down in shame "well, in that case I guess you're right"

"its nothing to be ashamed of" muttered Lucy. you looked up and send her a grateful smile

"it's a bit funny. but in a good way" George send you a smile "hopefully you will never have to kiss such a douchebag like Lucy, with a mouth full spit, there are enough of them in this world"

you all broke into laughter, the tense atmosphere suddenly blown away by you guys falling into your usual comfort.

an hour later, you were cleaning up the kitchen, when there was a soft knock at the kitchen door. you turned around and were met with Lockwood

"hey" you smiled "you know you don't have to knock, right? this is still your house"

"I didn't want to startle you" he walked into the room and sat down at the table

"I just finished" you sat down beside him "its quite late, we should go to bed"

he had taken your hand and stopped you from standing up

"wait" he muttered and watched as you sank back in your seat again "what you said earlier, was that true?"

"what? that I've never been kissed? do you think I would lie, because I like to feel embarrassed all the time? it's bad enough already, I don't need you to make fun of me"

"I would never, and there's nothing to be embarrassed of, a few less douchebags you have kissed, what does it matter?"

you just shrugged

"not every kiss is awesome. some of them are bad. so bad even, that you later regret them" he smiled reassuringly "maybe you avoided a few of them"

"this might sound stupid" you breathed "but are there bad and good kisses or just bad and good kissers?"

"well, what's the difference?" Lockwood smiled

"I presume there's a big one" you said "the difference is noticeable wether you measure the quality of a kiss by the circumstances or more by the person giving them. statistically-" you were interrupted the moment Lockwood suddenly leaned forward and plastered a chaste kiss onto your lips

"wha-?" your eyes turned big

"that was a good kiss for example" he said lowly "and just for measurement purposes" he leant forward again and repeated his action, this time leaving his lips a few seconds longer

"yeah" you breathed confused "those were pretty good"

"I think I understand what you meant now" he said "is it the kiss or is it the person giving the kiss"

"yeah" you nodded, leaning forward and kissing him again "I think it's the person giving the kiss" Lockwood shrugged and you smiled

"well, maybe there's another possibility we haven't thought about yet"

"is there?"

"yeah, what if it's the length of a kiss?" you planted a short and chaste kiss onto his mouth

"yeah, what if the quality is defined by time rather than skill?" Lockwoods hand wandered to rest on your cheek. he pulled your face forward slowly, connecting your lips.

it was in that moment you realised that kissing was much more easier than you had initially thought. it was a lot like falling asleep. all the time it didn't happen, you would worry and think, but when it finally did, it just happened, you knew what you had to do suddenly

your hands went into his hair, his hand was still resting on your cheek, the other gliding down towards your waist and pulling you off your chair and into his lap. his lips were soft, not that you had anything to compare them too, but still. you opened your mouth slightly, his tongue slipping inside.

you slowly broke the kiss, leaning your forehead against his and smiling. you stayed like that for a few minutes.

"do you think those are enough kisses to determine a measurement?"

Lockwood shook his head. "we still have to find out if quantity stands above quality"

you stood up from his lap. "I think quality's more important" you giggled, watching his face fall dramatically

"well, only one way to find out" he laughed, chasing you up the stairs.

the next morning George and Lucy would complain about having heard you two giggle all night.

you would send a conspiratorial look in Lockwoods direction, having continued your study up in his room

you were no longer the only one in the house who had not been kissed. and you had Lockwood to thank for that. although he had gotten quiet angry when you had suggested to expand the study by testing out different kissing partners.

he was much more keen on him being the only one you were kissing. well, let's just say, it's not like you minded...

[hauntedrabbit]

Little Vere imagine

Content warnings: blood, gore, angsty, Vere being a little shit to MC even though their passed out, Vere and MC in an established relationship

Word count: 1.5k

Out of all the nightmares you had while being here, this one would have been the last one you could have ever wished to come true.

In front of you stood Vere. Claws, teeth, everything he could’ve possibly used as a weapon at the ready. And behind him stood 6 Senobium clerics, all with one intention in mind.

To command him to kill you.

Of course you never did anything wrong, right? You did what you could to get into the giant tower to hopefully find something to rid of this wretched curse, but unfortunately, you failed miserably. The only good thing that came out of it was you and Vere becoming something more special, more intimate, more loving than any relationship you’ve ever had the blessing of being in.

But that same lover was the one standing in front of you, his tail fluffed up and still between his legs. And if you looked any closer, you can see that he was visibly shaking, ears pointed down as he focuses every part of his body on resisting the command, refusing to give into the thought of harming you.

But before you could speak, a cleric shouts at him, obviously irritated by his refusal. “Vere! What the hell are you waiting on? Kill them already!”

Vere lets out a short growl, growing angrier by the second. He knew what the consequences would be if the Senobium knew he had a special someone. But then again they always assumed a monster like him could never be capable of feeling something as powerful as love.

Vere looks at you again. Anger, fear, frustration, regret can all be seen in his eyes, he doesn’t want to hurt you, he can’t hurt you.

But you stared right back at him with an expression that was far too calm considering the situation.

“It’s okay, I should’ve known this was coming, what would happen if I affiliated with you.”

Vere’s eyes widened a bit more, surely you didn’t mean that? After all the time you spent together, you knew he loved you, right?

But in the midst of his panic, a strong, painful burst of magic shot through his body, causing him to stumble. The clerics were becoming increasingly impatient.

“Do we have to take care of this for you? Surely you understand that the punishment for resisting a command is a lot more severe than you think.”

Vere stood back up fully, turning to send a very deadly glare at the group before turning back to you, but this time, you weren’t even looking at him now.

But before he could drown in his own anger, his instincts took over.

Within an instant, he was on top of you, hand wrapped around your neck and claws digging into your skin brutally. He could see the blood flowing from your body, of course under any other circumstances he would’ve thought it was beauty reincarnated. But this time, all he wanted to do was do everything in his power to stop it.

As his claws dig deeper, and his free hand takes ahold of your left arm to pin it to the ground preventing you from moving, you suddenly reach up, and grasp on tightly to the collar around his neck.

You squeeze the chain as tightly as possible, mumbling something that fell deaf to Vere’s ears.

Vere looks down at your hand, wondering what could you possibly be doing. A part of him getting increasingly upset as you say nothing directly to him, seemingly not paying attention to the fact that he was destroying your wind pipe.

A small beam of black begins to tangle itself around your hand and the collar. But as its shape becomes larger, beams of white start forming, assumingely resisting whatever spell this was.

But somehow, someway, the incantation that you had used, proved to be stronger.

Vere suddenly felt as if a huge weight was lifted off of him. He looked down slowly, using the hand that was pinning your left arm to reach up and touch the place where the collar was. Or where it should’ve been.

Then he looked up, the collar was now resting in your hand, broken where the locks originally were placed. You stared back at him, breath shallow and shaky.

Vere could only stare right back at you, emotions frantic and desperate to understand what happened. “What…have you done?”

Your lips, slowly but painfully raised into a small smile, carefully reaching your hand up to place it gently on his chest. “Give them…..hell.”

And those were the last words you managed to utter before falling into unconsciousness.

The clerics heard it all, obviously pissed off by the fact that you were still alive.

“I’m assuming we haven’t beaten it into you enough that the direct order we gave wasn’t followed through?”

Vere’s ears shot up at the sound of their voice, but he didn’t turn around at all to truly acknowledge their presence.

Standing up to his full height, he was completely still, not muttering a word whatsoever.

The clerics watched as the shadows around them grew bigger, the air suddenly felt more suffocating, and the area around them laced with the feeling of nothing but pure rage.

“I think, someone needs a reminder, of who I am.”

And finally, Vere turned around. And the clerics got their answer as to why he hadn’t been listening.

“The collar!-“ the clerics words were cut off. I mean, it’s not like they would’ve been able to say anything else without a head to do the speaking.

What followed was nothing sort of pure carnage. The screaming, the blood, the fear in their eyes. Vere took pleasure in it all.

It must have been at least, ten minutes since Vere unleashed almost every bit of resentment built up over the course of centuries onto the clerics. Sure, they were only workers and weren’t the ones to actually imprison him. But they still worked for the Senobium, in his eyes he had every right to take his anger out on them.

Vere eventually is able to catch his breath, but this time, it felt a little more relaxed, now that the collar was finally off of him.

Wiping some of the blood of his hands, he walks back over to your body. And now that the adrenaline from the all the killing he just did was wearing off, a bit of panic rises in his chest.

He crouches down, using two of his fingers to press it against the side of your throat.

The pulse was faint, but it was still there.

He then picked you up, paying no attention to the blood that was currently splattered all across his body.

“My love, if you wanted to release me from that wretched thing so badly, you should’ve done so much earlier.” Even though you were completely unconscious, he still managed to find time to tease you.

He then begins his walk towards the clinic owned by the doctor he loathed so much. As much as he would’ve preferred healing you himself, this was no injury that could be fixed with some bandages and a kiss where it hurt. Also, Vere needed to figure out how you managed to break the collar, the enchantment on that thing dated back all the way back to when he was first imprisoned, you must’ve done something you shouldn’t have.

But alas, he was now free. Free to do whatever he pleased, without answering to no one.

And it was all thanks to you, his most precious treasure.

~~~~~~~

Leander finished getting ready, securing his pendent on his coat before making his way down the stares of the Wet Wick. It was oddly quiet this morning, lacking in the usual sounds of people talking as they walk down the street and others flooding the bar of the Wet Wick for a quick drink.

As he walked towards the door, he’s caught off guard by the sight of people crowding around a single area in the street. People mumbling about whatever that was going on and others reeling back in disgust at the sight. What happened?

Once Leander manages to get outside, what he see’s is truly nothing short of nauseating.

Six bodies all hung up like Christmas lights on some rope that was tied in between two buildings, their heads, obviously having been ripped off but still, somehow there. But when you looked closer, it looks as if whoever had done this put their heads on the wrong bodies, like it was some sort of cruel art project.

Leander continues to stare in disbelief, surely who ever could have done this was nothing but a maniac.

But unfortunately, Leander knew exactly who would’ve committed such a gruesome act. And he also knew that if he wanted any sort of peace with that person. He was going to have to do a lot of pleading.

If only Ais were here to help.

Authors note: this was inspired by me seeing post about wishing to see Vere absolutely lose it while protecting MC

[alexanderwales]

Pitchposting: Bad Detectives

content warning: bdsm, sexual violence, suicide, murder, police

Pitchposting is when you write about a thing that you're not going to write to exorcise the demons.

I was a big fan of the Hannibal TV show, partly because it was a bit silly. I'm worried that the thing I'm going to describe here will feel like a riff on that, but hopefully it's just an influence. The actual core of the idea came while watching Presumed Innocent.

The book follows two detectives who hunt serial killers. I'm not sure I care all that much about actual serial killers or the actual people who hunt them, though I have read a few nonfiction books from former FBI people, mostly to make sure I understand the perspective of government employees and how their process of self-mythologizing goes (for a different book). This book takes place in one of those worlds where there are a ton of serial killers, they're clever and artistic and tortured, and they're caught by looking at their signatures and through careful psychoanalysis rather than security cameras, fingerprints, and other features of the national security panopticon.

Our male lead is scruffy and tightly clenched. He's a loner. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, it's insightful and poignant. He's weird, but not in a way that maps well to any actual diagnosis. He's extremely good at getting inside the head of serial killers, understanding their patterns, knowing the things that will give them away, how they'll inevitably slip up or be caught. To the extent we get his inner thoughts, he is absolutely fucked in the head: the only reason you wouldn't call him a serial killer is that he's never actually killed anyone, and the only reason he hasn't done it is because it's wrong. He instead satisfies his urges through his job with the FBI, which allows him access to tons and tons of photographs and the chance to visit crime scenes, to talk to serial killers, to confront his darkness over and over, flirting with it. Maybe there's actually some question whether he has killed someone, and in what circumstances, if he's an Ethical Serial Killer of some kind. You can smell the frustrated impulses on him.

Our female lead is carefully put together and very cold. She's a loner. She doesn't talk much, but when she does, she's sad and distant. She's weird in a way that doesn't map to any diagnosis. She's fastidious. She has eight of the exact same suit and three pairs of the same shoes. She's extremely good at getting in the heads of serial killers, which again, is the main way that serial killers are caught in this world rather than, I don't know, loads of interviews, tip lines, etc. She is absolutely fucked in the head: she's drawn to killers like a moth to flame. She is, essentially, prey incarnate, a lamb who would willingly lie down to be brutalized by the lion. The only reason she hasn't been killed is that she has a sense of self-preservation and thinks that killing and hurting people is wrong. She satisfies her urges through her work, which gets her access to serial killers, lets her interview them, lets her see the crime scenes and imagine herself in them, etc.

I think for the purposes of pitchposting, we could stop there. Obviously we have two completely insane people in a very high-stress high-stakes job who happen to match each other in a way that no human ever actually does. They have these private inner lives that they cannot, under any circumstances, share with other people, but the central tension is that if they did share with each other, they would find that they're a perfect fit.

The scene that's been kicking around in my head is the two of them trying to recreate a crime scene together, with her in the role of victim and him in the role of perpetrator. They're in their work clothes, conservatively dressed, both playing the part of professional, and each actually thinking while they're playing it cool "wow, this is so hot, god I wish this were real".

It's basically this, as a fucked up psycosexual erotic thriller/romance:

I think as far as this core relationship goes, it's pretty solid. Both have a dark secret, their dark secrets complement each other, there's plenty of reason for both of them to misunderstand the other (because both would naturally assume that the other is repulsed rather than attracted).

But at the end of the line, I'm not sure what an ending would look like for the two of them. He's not just a sadist, he has a hunger for murder, and his whole character orientation has been around trying to satisfy those urges in other ways that don't quite work. And she's not just a masochist, she has erotic suicidality, which I might have just coined (but probably did not). The ending that their internal drives are pointing at is with him as a killer and her dead. That would be a very daring ending, and I'm not sure what it would mean ... but I also don't know what ending would work better, or even what the themes of this book would be, other than just "look at these two freaks". (And of course the audience for the book is people who see themselves in one or the other of these two freaks. I'm using "freaks" affectionately here.)

The main problem is that this is all sort of gross. Hannibal steered away from sexual violence, one major notable exception aside, vaguely implying it sometimes but often using murder as a stand-in for sex. I thought the show worked best when it was the most divorced from reality, when it was being serious about its camp. The serial murders are works of art, things of beauty, dark and horrible but also aesthetic and neatly planned.

Maybe you can do that here. Maybe serial killers in this world have absolutely no interest in sexual violence of any kind. Maybe our protagonists are vaguely sexless themselves, and when they're acting out murders together the sex stuff exists only in the mind of the reader. And then when they do have sex, if they do, then that's a stand-in for murder. This is less gross than, e.g. having sexually violent crimes that sexually excite our protagonist, at least in my opinion, maybe because that would be less divorced from reality.

A woman with an interest in getting raped is ... I mean, there are real women like that out there, ones who have that fantasy and ones who actually would want to make that fantasy a reality in some way. But a woman who thinks it's hot to be ritually stabbed fifty-two times in the stomach is less real, and her dark desire is more clearly a stand-in for other dark desires, whatever repressed urge our audience feels, or sees in others, or how we understand ourselves and our thoughts. Easier to do the mapping when it's clear that we're not mapping to anything substantially real. (Knowing humans, I am sure that there probably is someone out there with vivid fantasies about basically anything, but if I wrote the story it would be with "this is not literally about dismemberment, decapitation, vivisection, bondage, stabbing, etc." in mind.)

I think having the serial killers be over the top also helps to take you out some of what tends to be a icky about true crime. It becomes clear that this is a fantasy, that it's exploring something in our brains, rather than doing the typical procedural thing of "ripped from the headlines". These would be killers with their own weird fucked up demons they let free, artists, rather than the serial killers we get in the real world, who are mostly impulse idiots. I think it's easy to not be exploitative if you're completely divorcing yourself from reality.

I think I'm the wrong person to write this, which makes it perfect for a pitchpost. I enjoyed Hannibal, but it seems like an exhausting thing to write, and trying to strike the right balance for both main characters seems tough and like an ongoing battle I'd be fighting with every word. There'd be a risk of teetering over into grimderp shock value at every turn.

I'm trying, right now, to think about a way to have that same dynamic I like without it being some sex-murder thing, and I'm coming up blank. Two people who are serious professionals with a dark secret whose careers are ostensibly about stopping that thing ... you know, maybe just set the story in a repressive society where the things they think are horrible and would offend the other are things we maybe find a little boring or everyday, though this loses you the aspect of "our desires would literally destroy us". So I don't think it would be quite the same, but I'd be more likely to write it, rather than wallowing in the sexy murdersphere.

[adhd-fandom-hyperfocus]

✧₊⁺ Dance with Me ✧₊⁺

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x OC (Astraea)

A drabble from Wisdom In The Stars

Author's Note: I am aware that there was a xenos in 40k already called Nephilim. Astraea is not from that species, merely, they just happen to have the same name.

Quick pro quo on drabbles in this work:

This is all very self-indulgent and I will not apologize. If the Grimdark can be extra, so can I!

Bobby G's love interest is a xenos of my making, so they are as long-lived as him, but not a perpetual.

Again mad self-indulgent. Oozing copium by the ton

Rowboat Guillotine deserves a happy life and some damn peace

So many Primarchs are going to be back in some drabbles. Again no fucks given

Proofread? Never heard of her

Warnings: G-Money has some very slight nsfw thought at the end. Very slight. That's it.

18+ Minors DNI

★。------ ＼｜／------。★

To ally with Xenos, was a heretical thing, no matter the circumstances. No matter how much they needed that help. Guilliman knew the practical approach was swiftly dealing with those who opposed him. However, this might have been a push against the church too hard. Roboute was prepared for a bloody response. Yet, Astraea refused such things. Refused to just cut them all down to ensure ease. While she seemed as disgusted by the ecclesiarchy as him, she seemed to pity them more than anything. Something Roboute felt was far worse.

So to smooth things out, She and some of her people, diplomats, historians, and entertainers, attended a gathering to celebrate this new alliance, and hopefully, an even better Imperium as they set off to help their cut-off brothers and sisters. Roboute suspected some of her Seraphem and Maidens of Valor were among those attending. Hiding among them should things go poorly.

He could not express enough that Astraea agreeing to have this alliance look like her people were offering to serve under the Imperium made things easier, and he was forever thankful. Once he would have forced this kind of thing. Xenos as equals? A morbid thought. But now? A thinly veiled lie to keep the peace. One her people willingly were taking the short end for.

How in the time he had spent with her, traveling back to Terra, and planning all that is happening and to come, she swayed his mind like nothing ever could. Like a spell she was weaving, and he still felt she might be. How her opinion so quickly grew to carry more and more weight. Or how his eyes started to yern to gaze upon her. Her ability to rule, but stay humble. To honor he duty but find time to be selfish; it was a skill he was never allowed to have.

She made him look inward, something he dared not do. Roboute always feared what he might learn about himself. What truths lay there waiting to be found. But she had shown him hers, and the image of what she forsook for the weaker image before him, still haunted his mind. There were things greater than chaos and they cared not for what was beneath them.

Roboute Guilliman listened idly to some nobles about how Astraea's people's ships translated into real space and in such time. He oped this proved without words, that an alliance was better than them being an enemy. They thought the Imperium had impressive tech? These people made all of man still look like cave dwellers at times. But among the crowd of dull faces and nameless people of petty importance, he saw her enter.

No call of her arrival, nothing. Just her moving ever so gracefully among the sea of sycophants. All her people were catching eyes. They were taller than baseline humans, and their eyes both drew people in and made them uneasy. But her, oh Throne her...

She was resplendent, the beauty of a thousand stars captured in a mortal body. The terrifying beauty, the savage grace. How the fabric of her dress moved and clung so rightly to her, draped in the right ways to extenuate what Roboute Guilliman was gazing upon was the manifesting of terrible beauty in the real.

The thin fabric of the palest blue, shimmering so slightly as if some of the stars that made her fell upon her dress. Delicate silver chains hung from her with gemstones, some looking as if galaxies rested in them. Perhaps there was? The crown upon her head was like a sunburst and the way the lighting caught it was just as awe-inspiring.

Oh normally he would find such decadence too much. Obscene even; reminding him too much of Fulgrim. But her? It was a show of what was condensed inside that soul; heavenly beauty. All of them did. Moving with a unnatural grace and motions of a soul not used to it's body. Their luminous attire catching the eye of all.

As music played it became an interesting spectical of the Nephilium dancing to Terran music, in their many cultural ways; followed my humans over taking the floor and dancing. Like they were waves taking turns to move upon the shore. Though some humans did arrive with the Nephilium, a bridge between as it were. It would seem some human colonies were lost during the Age of Strife and some were saved from breeding planets. Something The Lord Regnant did not know existed. Something when he could, he planned to deal with personally.

“Odd, I thought the Lord Regent would be swarming with people, or at least out partaking in the the festivities. After all it is for your name, yes? Your impending victory.”

Astraea's voice even among all this noise was a calm river, who's waters when they touched his eardrums lulled him into a sense of ease. Oh the power she weaved by just existing. Just like a god, he thought dangerously. He hadn't noticed the noble that was rambling at him had left; he gotten so lost in his own head.

“They are all afraid of me,” Roboute answered, “Afraid of me, and too awestruck to dare approach me without need.” he knew the micro hint of sadness in his voice that was unavoidable was picked up on by her. Nothing seemed to pass by her notice, not even the slightest change of breathing, how a heart beat. The micro expressions of being a creature of feelings. All were laid bare before her, and the other methuselah. Roboute wondered if among those in attendance there were others. Astraea done well to keep the others a secret for now.

While deep down he felt alone, tired of being put so high up none dared to even look upon him; he was almost glad. It meant there was less of him hearing the putrid spew of their false religion and deification of him.

“And I do not dance.” he added.

Astraea craned a brow, “Do not dance, or do not know how?”

Roboute scoffed and feigned some level of offense, “My lady I will have you know I am the son of Konor Guilliman. I know how to dance, and all the pleasantries one is expected to have when at a gathering such as this,” he gestured to himself, “however, I do not know if you noticed, but my size compared to baseline humans is rather great...I always felt awkward dancing.”

It was hard to dance when your partner was eye level with your crotch. He only tried to dance a few times before he decided he rather face hoards of green skins than that embarrassment again. He wasn't as graceful or charismatic as Sanguinius, or Horus, as much as he hated to think of the latter. So he would start rambling about how dances were not made for one of his size and prattle on about upcoming laws. He would bore his partner to death so they would leave him.

There was a soft touch on his hand. So gentle and delicate he almost didn't notice it, “This is like in your human books, where the heroine or hero take their love interests hand and dance. And they do so like no one is watching.” Astraea said with such an even tone, it made the statement more amusing.

Like she wasn't fully aware what she said, but he knew better.

“Lady Astraea are you asking me to dance?” Guilliman smiled fondly, looking at her hand in his. It was so much smaller, yet held so much more power; he couldn't explain why, but it made his hearts pound.

“I am, is that not clear? We can dance however we like, as awkward as we like. I can show you some dances of my people, then you can blame the awkwardness on being diplomatic.” she offered.

Roboute knelt down and kissed her hand, “My Lady it would be my honor to share a dance with you. But tell me,” he spoke low now, “Am I your love interest in this book?”

His eyes widened with shock, was Astraea blushing? Had he managed to crack the ever cool demeanor of the Methuselah of Undoing? The Great Wakener? Now this was an accomplishment he would hold close to his chest for a while to come he thought.

“I do not know? Is my flirting working? This is how humans flirt, yes? If it is not I would prefer you act as if none of this happened. As I promised I would not manipulate your mind, so I will not make you forget. But believe it or not, I have not learned in my long years to handle rejection of this kind.”

Though he words were in the same steady cadence she always had, the red on her cheeks was spreading, betraying the mask of otherworldlyness. It gave her a more...human look.

“You are flirting?” Guilliman was genuinely surprised.

Yes, he had read how he was described in some records, seen the many statues. Heard whispers of those who thought his ears wouldn't hear. But if he found these things to be true, he was not so certain. And no one to his knowledge ever flirted with him. Too afraid, or figured he was beyond them. What was this bubbling feeling in his chest? Was his hearts okay? It couldn't be magic. The primarch would give credit, that Astraea seemed to hold her word true, and did not interfere with his mind or anyone's in the Imperium unless he asked. Perhaps, it was effects from his battles with his traitor brothers?

“Like I said only if it is working. I do not wish to shame us both.”

Roboute smiled, and decided to take the lead, bringing them both out onto the floor. Oh how the whispers went wild. Like sharp hissing of a pit of snakes. But he tuned them out; he had to if he wanted to enjoy this fleeting moment. This little blip in his life for himself.

“I did not know you could be embarrassed.” he continued as he turned to face her and take her other hand.

“You have not answered me.” was her only response.

“I cannot right answer right now, I am afraid. I will be honest, I am not ready for the answer I want to give.” it was an honest answer. It was not the one he wanted to give, but he would not lie. Couldn't lie. And Thorne he wanted to be a little selfish.

Astraea smiled and bowed her head, “Well, it is not a no.”

“Exactly, so this dance...” he asked, they were now out on the floor, and eyes were upon them. Glaring and judging. Picking apart every move, every expression. It must be driving them all mad to see this xenos had him truly smiling. Had their demigod belittling himself human novelties and joys.

“All you do is try to compliment the move you think I am about to do, and I do the same for you. It is a dance many young couples do, and eventually it just becomes their dance. It becomes ever more graceful as they grow together.”

That was such a beautiful idea, and this allowed him to use his brain for something more creative, yet still just as strategic. He had to guess her move, as it was happening and make sure he could match it in kind with a good gesture. Make the dance beautiful and uniquely theirs. Oh this was more exciting then just repeating the same steps as everyone else.

“Very well, let us begin.”

Perhaps he should be a bit more surprised how easily his mind switched from all the theoreticals and practicals thinking of running an Imperium, and war strategies, to figuring out every possible move he could guess she could make while they danced, when he only had one hand, when he had move. When she moved to the left or right. The sacred geometry of it all, their movements poetry being written. Co authors of book of secrets and hidden truths. How she wheeled and pun and he glided across the floor.

It was as if they were dancing among the stars, just them, in one glorious harmony. He felt light as air, weightless.

Her smile and how she hummed to the score that played. It kept him there in rapture. He wanted to be close to her; closer. Close in a way he couldn't describe. Like if souls were real, he wanted his to melt with hers. To touch someone in a way he never had before. He wanted to be inside her.

The last thought sent a cold chill down his spine, and Fulgrim's cruel words burned into his mind again. How everything he did, everything he felt, he would have to worry that it was bringing him one step closer. Suddenly he felt ill, disgusted with himself. But the score ended then. Everything crashed around him. Sounds returned and suddenly it was all too loud and he didn't want all these eyes on him.

Roboute bowed awkwardly, Astraea looked at him with worry, “Guilliman? Did I offend you somehow?”

“No,” he shook his head, his tone weak, “Just...excuse me. I need air.” was all he chose to say before leaving her standing there alone.

[adventuringblind]

Enemy Territory

George Russel x Horner!Reader

Genre: angst

Request: nope and I have nothing else to do so here ya go. I’m in the mood for angst. Give me saddest, angsty, hurt/comfort ideas. I’m so ready.

Summary: you and George have been managing a relationship below the radar. Both of you just want to spend time together and hopefully avoid the drama of the rivalry. When you have to go behind enemy lines to give something back to George, everything falls apart.

Warnings: Angry Toto, Angry Christian, toxic behaviors, mentions of sex, alcohol consumption

Notes: written in second person. I feel that Princess George needs some love… so I write angst. We’re not gonna talk about it.

Masterlist

You and George had met under interesting circumstances. You didn’t normally go with Max to the after race parties that happened fairly often, but you’d decided to this time.

For as long as you two had been friends, you’d never noticed how Max tends to go overboard with his alcohol. His cheeks were flushed by the first hour.

It was at this party that you met George. Well, officially met him. You’d seen each other in passing but never took the time to introduce yourself to him. Especially since in your fathers eyes he is the enemy.

Oddly enough, he was sober. Maybe a light buzz at the most from slowly sipping his drink. He found a spot next to her and stared at Lando and Charles in exasperation. “I take it your the designated driver tonight.” She asked him. Trying to make light of the current situation.

“Unfortunately yes. I normally wouldn’t be upset about it, but those two are going hard on the drink.” George explains. His lips twisting into a frown.

“I feel you, I have to drag Max out of here eventually.”

George sucked in a breath. “I am so sorry. Want to be sober together then?”

“Why not”

You’re spent your night talking to George. Turns out you two get along well. Not that you didn’t think you would. You’d liked him for awhile. Something about the way he carries himself is oddly attractive.

He offered his car to you and Max. With two of you helping the intoxicated boys inside, it would go by faster.

And he was right. It didn’t take long with both of you dragged the boys to bed. Their hotel key cards left with a note. Water and aspirin in the bedside table.

It took you about an hour to get them all back safe. Both if you sighing in relief. You walked George back out to his car, assuming you two would part ways.

“You know, we never got to have fun.” George smirked

Then you found yourself in George’s hotel room. His lips attached to your as soon as you stepped through the door.

The sensation was strange, but in a good way. You were both sober meaning he wasn’t doing this impulsively. So you kissed back. Your fathers opinion not mattering in this moment.

“I know we technically just met, but we’ve been around each other for years now. I think your gorgeous and you’re so gently to everyone. I don’t care if we go any further but I needed to tell you before I exploded or something.” He let out a nervous laugh. His hand finding the back of his neck.

You respond by kissing him again, pulling away, and smiling. “I feel the same.”

“Wait really? I always thought that you hated me.”

“No my dad has a distaste for Mercedes. But he’s not here. And what about Toto?”

The exasperated expression from earlier makes a reappearance. “Honestly, is basically the same over there. But I’m feeling a bit rebellious.”

~

Your secret relationship with George had been going great. It was nice having something that was just for the two of you.

Disguised contact names, hidden messages, gifts at each others hotel room doors. It was your and you loved it.

You spent the night in George’s hotel room majority of the time now. Coming and going through back entrances early in the morning.

That’s how Max caught you.

You’d been leaving your hotel to head over to his. It was late so you weren’t expecting to much foot traffic. Least of all Max.

“Where are you off too?” His voice came from behind you. You jump and brace a hand in your chest.

“Good grief Max, don’t scare me like that!”

He just smirked. “Tell me who it is. And before you say no one! I’ve known you since we were teenagers and your dad may not see it but I certainly do.”

“Promise you won’t be mad?” The anxiety flowing through your veins now made you hug yourself.

“I could never.” He placed his hands in your shoulders. A gesture to hopefully comfort her.

“I’ve been dating George Russell for about six months now.”

Shock passed through Max’s eyes but then they settled into a gentleness. “George is a great guy.”

Your face lit up when he didn’t react poorly. “Your not upset that I’m dating a Mercedes driver.”

“No, that would be stupid. Just don’t tell them our secrets.” He winked at you causing you both to laugh.

~

Max teased you and George, but he also helped you out. He covered for you if you wanted to see George before a race. He once helped you cover a mildly visible hickey. He even drove you to see him if it was late under the guise of snack runs.

George in the other hand, was struggling under the ever observant eyes of Toto Wolff. Toto questioned him about his personal life already, but he’d started doing it every time they were in the same room now.

He loves you and he’s not ready to give up, but he also is terrified of losing his job.

Much to your and Max’s disappointment, Christian was also catching on. Not as strongly as Toto, but he knew you and Max were handing something from him.